12315	----	Team. SHANTY THE BLACKSMITH; A TALE OF OTHER TIMES BY MRS. SHERWOOD. 1852. SHANTY THE BLACKSMITH. * * * * * It was during the last century, and before the spirit of revolution had effected any change in the manners of our forefathers, that the events took place, which are about to be recorded in this little volume. At that period there existed in the wild border country, which lies between England and Scotland, an ancient castle, of which only one tower, a few chambers in the main building, certain offices enclosed in high buttressed walls, and sundry out-houses hanging as it were on those walls, yet remained. This castle had once been encircled by a moat which had been suffered to dry itself up, though still the little stream which used to fill it when the dams were in repair, murmured and meandered at the bottom of the hollow, and fed the roots of many a water plant and many a tree whose nature delights in dank and swampy soils. The verdure, however, which encircled this ancient edifice, added greatly to the beauty, when seen over the extent of waste and wild in which it stood. There can be no doubt but that the ancient possessors of this castle, which, from the single remaining barrier, and the name of the family, was called Dymock's tower, had been no other than strong and dangerous free-booters, living on the plunder of the neighbouring kingdom of Scotland. Every one knows that a vast extent of land, waste or at best but rudely cultivated, had once belonged to the Lords of Dymock; but within a few years this family had fallen from affluence, and were at length so much reduced, that the present possessor could hardly support himself in any thing like the state in which he deemed it necessary for his father's son to live. Mr. Dymock was nearly thirty years of age, at the time our history commences; he had been brought up by an indolent father, and an aunt in whom no great trusts had been vested, until he entered his teens, at which time he was sent to Edinburgh to attend the classes in the college; and there, being a quick and clever young man, though without any foundation of early discipline, or good teaching, and without much plain judgment or common sense, he distinguished himself as a sort of genius. One of the most common defects in the minds of those who are not early subjected to regular discipline is, that they have no perseverance; they begin one thing, and another thing, but never carry anything on to any purpose, and this was exactly the case with Mr. Dymock. Whilst he was in Edinburgh he had thought that he would become an author; some injudicious persons told him that he might succeed in that way, and he began several poems, and two plays, and he wrote parts of several treatises on Mathematics, and Physics, and Natural History; the very titles of these works sound clever, but they were never finished. Dymock was nearly thirty when his father died; and when he came to reside in the tower, his mind turned altogether to a new object, and that was cultivating the ground, and the wild commons and wastes all around him: and if he had set to work in a rational way he might have done something, but before he began the work he must needs invent a plough, which was to do wonderful things, and, accordingly, he set to work, not only to invent this plough, but to make it himself, or rather to put it together himself, with the help of a carpenter and blacksmith in the neighbourhood. But before we introduce the old blacksmith, who is a very principal person in our story, we must describe the way in which Mr. Dymock lived in his tower. His aunt, Mrs. Margaret Dymock, was his housekeeper, and so careful had she always been, for she had kept house for her brother, the late laird, that the neighbours said she had half-starved herself, in order to keep up some little show of old hospitality. In truth, the poor lady was marvellously thin, and as sallow and gaunt as she was thin. Some old lady who had stood for her at the font, in the reign of Charles the Second, had, at her death, left her all her clothes, and these had been sent to Dymock's tower in several large chests. Mrs. Margaret was accordingly provided for, for life, with the addition of a little homespun linen, and stockings of her own knitting; but, as she held it a mighty piece of extravagance to alter a handsome dress, she wore her godmother's clothes in the fashion in which she found them, and prided herself not a little in having silks for every season of the year. Large hoops were worn in those days, and long ruffles, and sacks short and long, and stomachers, and hoods, and sundry other conceits, now never thought of; but Mrs. Margaret thought that all these things had a genteel appearance, and showed that those who bought them and those who inherited them had not come of nothing. Mrs. Margaret, however, never put any of these fine things on, till she had performed her household duties, looked into every hole and corner in the offices, overlooked the stores, visited the larder, scullery and hen-yard, weighed what her three maids had spun the day before, skimmed the milk with her own hands, gathered up the candle ends, and cut the cabbage for the brose; all which being done, and the servants' dinner seen to, and it must be confessed, it was seldom that they had a very sumptuous regale, she dressed herself as a lady should be dressed, and sate down to her darning, which was her principal work, in the oval window in the chief room in the castle. Darning, we say, was her principal work, because there was scarcely an article in the house which she did not darn occasionally, from the floor-cloth to her own best laces, and, as money was seldom forthcoming for renewing any of the finer articles in the house capable of being darned, no one can say what would have been the consequence, if Mrs. Margaret had been divested of this darning propensity. How the old lady subsisted herself is hardly known, for it often happened that the dinner she contrived for her nephew, was barely sufficient for him, and although on these occasions she always managed to seem to be eating, yet had Mr. Dymock had his eyes about him, he could not but have seen that she must often have risen from the table, after having known little more than the odour of the viands. Nothing, however, which has been said of Mrs. Margaret Dymock goes against that which might be said with truth, that there was a fund of kindness in the heart of the venerable spinster, though it was sometimes choked up and counteracted by her desire to make a greater appearance than the family means would allow. Besides the three maids in the kitchen, there were a man and a boy without doors, two or three lean cows, a flock of sheep which were half starved on the moor, a great dog, and sundry pigs and fowls living at large about the tower; and, to crown our description, it must be added, that all the domestic arrangements which were beyond the sphere of Mrs. Margaret were as ill managed as those within her sphere were capitally well conducted; however, as Mr. Dymock said to her one day when she ventured to expostulate with him on this subject, "Only have a little patience, my good aunt, when I have completed what I am now about, for instance my plough, you will see how I will arrange every thing. I cannot suffer these petty attentions and petty reforms to occupy me just now; what I intend to do will be done in a large way; I mean not only to repair but to restore the castle, to throw the whole of my lands to the north into a sheep-walk, to plant the higher points, and to convert the south lands into arable. But my first object is the plough, and that must be attended to, before everything else; the wood-work is all complete, but a little alteration must be made in the coulter, and after all, I apprehend I must do it myself, as old Shanty is as stupid as his own hammer." Mrs. Margaret hinted that every man had not the ingenuity of her nephew; adding, however, that old Shanty was as worthy and God-fearing a man as any on the moor. "I do not deny it," replied Mr. Dymock, "but what has worth and God-fearing to do with my plough. I have been trying in vain to make him understand what I want done, and am come to the resolution of going myself, taking off my coat, and working with him; I should make a better blacksmith in a week, than he has in forty years." Mrs. Margaret lifted up her hands and eyes, and then fetching a deep sigh, "That I should have lived to hear that," she exclaimed; "the last representative of the house of Dymock proposing to work at a blacksmith's forge!" "And why not? Mrs. Margaret," replied the nephew, "does a gentleman lower himself when he works merely for recreation, and not for sordid pelf; you have heard of Peter the Great?" "Bless me, nephew," replied the spinster, bridling, "where do you think my ears have been all my life, if I never heard of Peter the Great!" "You know then, that he worked with his own hands at a blacksmith's forge," returned the nephew. "I know no such thing," said Mrs. Margaret, "and if the Romans say so, I account it only another of their many lies; and I wonder they are not ashamed to invent tales so derogotary to the honour of him they call their head!" "Pshaw!" said the laird; "I am not speaking of the Pope, but of the Czar of all the Russias!" "Well! well! Dymock;" returned Mrs. Margaret, "I only wish that I could persuade you from committing this derogation. However, if you must needs work with Shanty, let me beg you to put on one of your old shirts; for the sparks will be sure to fly, and there will be no end of darning the small burns." "Be assured aunt," said Mr. Dymock, "that I shall do nothing by halves; if I work with Shanty, I shall put on a leathern apron, and tuck up my sleeves." "All this does not suit my notions," replied Mrs. Margaret: but her nephew had risen to leave her, and there was an end to the argument. As Mr. Dymock had told his aunt; so he did: he went to Shanty's forge, he dressed himself like the old master himself, and set fairly to work, to learn the mysteries of the trade; mysteries which, however, as far as Shanty knew them, were not very deep. [Illustration: He went to Shantys Forge _See Page 14_] There has not often been a more ill-arranged and unsettled mind than that of Mr. Dymock; his delight was in anything new, and for a few days he would pursue this novelty with such eagerness, that during the time he seemed to forget every thing else. It was a delicate job, and yet one requiring strength which was needed for the plough. Shanty had told the laird at once, that it was beyond his own skill or strength, seeing that he was old and feeble, "and as to your doing it, sir," he said, "who cannot yet shape a horse-shoe! you must serve longer than a week, before you get that much knowledge of the craft; there is no royal way to learning, and even for the making of a horse-shoe a 'prenticeship must be served, and I mistake me very much if you don't tire before seven days service are over, let alone as many years." But, Mr. Dymock had as yet served only two days, when one evening a young man, a dark, athletic, bold-looking youth, entered the blacksmith's shed. It was an evening in autumn, and the shed was far from any house; Dymock's tower was the nearest, and the sun was already so low that the old keep with its many mouldering walls, and out-buildings, was seen from the shed, standing in high relief against the golden sky. As the young man entered, looking boldly about him, Shanty asked him what he wanted. "I want a horse-shoe," he replied. "A horse-shoe!" returned the blacksmith, "and where's your horse?" "I has no other horse than Adam's mare," he replied; "I rides no other, but I want a horse-shoe." "You are a pretty fellow," returned Shanty "to want a horse-shoe, and to have never a horse to wear him." "Did you never hear of no other use for a horse-shoe, besides protecting a horse's hoof?" replied the youth. "I have," returned the blacksmith, "I have heard fools say, that neither witch nor warlock can cross a threshold that has a horse-shoe nailed over it. But mind I tell you, it must be a cast shoe." "Well" said the young man, "suppose that I am plagued with one of them witches; and suppose that I should have bethought me of the horse-shoe, what would you think of me then? What may that be which you are now shaping; why may it not serve my turn as well as another? so let me have it, and you shall have its worth down on the nail." "Did not I tell you," said Shanty, sullenly, "that it must be a cast shoe that must keep off a witch; every fool allows that." "Well," said the young man, looking about him, "have you never a cast shoe?" "No," replied Shanty, "I have none here fit for your turn." "I am not particular," returned the young man, "about the shoe being an old one; there is as much virtue, to my thinking, in a new one; so let me have that you are about." "You shall have none of my handiworks, I tell you," said Shanty, decidedly, "for none of your heathenish fancies and follies. The time was when I lent myself to these sort of follies, but, thank my God, I have learned to cast away, aye, and to condemn such degrading thoughts as these. Believe me, young man, that if God is on your side, neither witch nor warlock, or worse than either, could ever hurt you." "Well," said the young man, "if you will not make me one, will you let me make one for myself?" "Are you a smith?" said Mr. Dymock, before Shanty could reply. "Am I a smith?" answered the young man; "I promise you, I should think little of myself if I was not as much above him, (pointing to Shanty, who was hammering at his horse-shoe, with his back towards him,) as the sun is brighter than the stars." Shanty took no notice of this piece of insolence; but Mr. Dymock having asked the stranger a few more questions, proceeded to show him the job he wanted done to his plough, and from one thing to another, the young man undertook to accomplish it in a few hours, if the master of the shed would permit. Shanty did by no means seem pleased, and yet could not refuse to oblige Mr. Dymock; he, however, remarked, that if the coulter was destroyed, it was no odds to him. The young stranger, however, soon made it appear that he was no mean hand at the work of a blacksmith; he had not only strength, but skill and ingenuity, and in a short time had so deeply engaged the attention of Dymock by his suggestions of improvements to this same plough, that the young laird saw none but him, and allowed the evening to close in, and the darkness of night to cover the heath, whilst still engaged in talking to the stranger, and hearkening to his ingenious comments on the machinery of the plough. In the meantime, although the sun had set in golden glory, dark and dense clouds had covered the heavens, the wind had risen and whistled dismally over the moor, and a shower of mingled rain and sleet blew into the shed, one side of which was open to the air. It was in the midst of this shower, that a tall gaunt female, covered with a ragged cloak, and having one child slung on her back, and another much older in her hand, presented herself at the door of the shed, and speaking in a broad northern dialect, asked permission to shelter herself and her bairns, for a little space in the corner of the hut. Neither Dymock nor the young man paid her any regard, or seemed to see her, but Shanty made her welcome, and pointing to a bench which was within the glow of the fire of the forge, though out of harm's way of sparks or strokes, the woman came in, and having with the expertness of long use, slung the child from her back into her arms, she sate down, laying the little one across her knee, whilst the eldest of the two children dropped on the bare earth with which the shed was floored, and began nibbling a huge crust which the mother put into his hand. In the meantime, work went on as before the woman had come in, nor was a word spoken, till Shanty, looking up from the horse-shoe which he was hammering, remarked in his own mind, that he wondered that the little one stretched on the woman's knee, was not awakened and frightened by the noise of the forge; but there the creature lies, he thought, as if it had neither sense or hearing. When this strange thought suggested itself, the old man dropped his hammer, and fixing his eye on the infant, he seemed to ask himself these questions,--What, if the child should be dead? would a living child, drop as that did from the back of the woman on her lap, like a lump of clay, nor move, nor utter a moan, when thrown across its mother's lap? Urged then by anxiety, he left his anvil, approached the woman, and stood awhile gazing at the child, though unable for some minutes to satisfy himself, or to put away the horrible fear that he might perchance be looking at a body without life. Mr. Dymock was acting the part of bellows-blower, in order to assist some work which the young stranger was carrying on in the fire. The lad who generally performed this service for Shanty, had got permission for a few hours, to visit his mother over the Border, Mr. Dymock having told him in all kindness that he would blow for him if needs must. But the fitful light--the alternate glow and comparative darkness which accompanied and kept time with the motion of the bellows, made it almost impossible for the old man to satisfy himself concerning his horrible imagination. He saw that the infant who lay so still on the woman's lap, was as much as two years of age; that, like the woman, it had dark hair, and that its complexion was olive; and thus he was put out in his first notion, that the child might perchance be a stolen one. But the bellows had filled and exhausted themselves many times before his mind was set at rest with regard to his first fearful thought; at length, however, the child moved its arm, and uttered a low moan, though without rousing itself from its sleep; on which Shanty, being satisfied, turned back to his block and his horse-shoe, and another half-hour or more passed, during which the tempest subsided, the clouds broke and began to disappear, and the stars to come forth one by one, pointing out the direction of the heavens to the experienced eye of the night-walking traveller. The woman observing this, arose, and taking the sleeping babe in her arms whilst the other child clung to her cloak, she thanked the blacksmith for the convenience of the shelter which he had given her; when he, with the courtesy of one who, though poor and lowly, had been admitted to high conference with his Redeemer, invited her to stay longer--all night if she pleased,--regretting only that he had nothing to offer her but a bed of straw, and a sup of sowens for the little ones. "For which," she replied, "I thank you; what can any one give more than what he has. But time is precious to me, this night I must be over the Border; mind me, however, I shall remember you, and mayhap may call again." So saying, she passed out of the shed, almost as much disregarded by Dymock in her going out, as she had been in coming in. And now, for another hour, the strokes of the hammers of old Shanty and the young stranger might have been heard far over the moor in the stillness of the night, for the wind had entirely died away, and the fitful glare of the forge, still shone as a beacon over the heath. At length, however, the job which the stranger had undertaken was finished, and Dymock, having given him a silver piece, the only one in his pocket, the young man took his leave, saying as he went out, and whilst he tossed the silver in his hand,--"Well, if I have not got what I came for, I have got that which is as good, and in return for your civility, old gentleman," he added, addressing Shanty, "I give you a piece of advice; nail the horse-shoe, which you would not spare to me, over your own door, for I tell you, that you are in no small danger of being over-reached by the very warlock, who has haunted my steps for many a day." So saying, he went gaily, and with quick step, out of the shed, and his figure soon disappeared in a ravine or hollow of the moor. In the mean time, Dymock and Shanty stood at the door. The former being full of excitement, respecting the wonderful sagacity of the singular stranger, and the other being impatient to see the master off, as he wanted to shut up his shed, and to retire to the little chamber within, which served him for sleeping apartment, kitchen, and store-room, not to say study, for our worthy Shanty never slept without studying the Holy Word of God. But whilst these two were standing, as we said, at the door, suddenly, a low moan reached their ears, as coming from their left, where the roof of the shed being lengthened out, afforded shelter for any carts, or even, on occasion, waggons, which might be brought there, for such repairs as Shanty could give them. At that time, there was only one single cart in the shed, and the cry seemed to come from the direction of this cart. Dymock and Shanty were both startled at the cry, and stood in silence for a minute or more, to ascertain if it were repeated. Another low moan presently ensued, and then a full outcry, as of a terrified child. Dymock and Shanty looked at each other, and Shanty said, "It is the beggar woman. She is still skulking about, I will be bound; hark!" he added, "listen! she will be stilling the child, she's got under the cart." But the child continued to screech, and there was neither threat nor blandishment used to still the cries. Dymock seemed to be so thoroughly astounded, that he could not stir, but Shanty going in, presently returned with a lighted lanthorn, and an iron crow-bar in his hand; "and now," he said, "Mr. Dymock, we shall see to this noise," and they both turned into the out-building, expecting to have to encounter the tall beggar, and with her perhaps, a gang of vagrants. They, however, saw only the infant of two years' old, who had lain like a thing dead on the woman's lap, though not dead, as Shanty had feared, but stupified with hollands, the very breath of the baby smelling of the spirit when Dymock lifted it out of the cart and brought it into the interior shed. Shanty did not return, till he had investigated every hole and corner of his domain, with the crow-bar in one hand, and the lanthorn in the other. The baby had ceased to cry, when brought into the shed, and feeling itself in the arms of a fellow-creature, had yielded to the influence of the liquor, and had fallen again into a dead sleep, dropping back on the bosom of Mr. Dymock. "They are all off," said Shanty, as he entered the house, "and have left us this present. We have had need, as that young rogue said, of the horse-shoe over our door. We have been over-reached for once; that little one is stolen goods, be sure, Mr. Dymock,--some great man's child for aught we know,--the wicked woman will not call again very soon, as she promised, and what are we to do with the child? Had my poor wife been living, it might have done, but she is better off! What can I do with it?" "I must take it up to the Tower," said Mr. Dymock, "and see if my aunt Margaret will take to it, and if she will not, why, then there are charity schools, and poor-houses to be had recourse to; yet I don't fear her kind heart." "Nor I neither, Mr. Dymock," said Shanty, and the old man drew near to the child, and holding up his lanthorn to the sleeping baby, he said, "What like is it? Gipsy, or Jew? one or the other; those features, if they were washed, might not disgrace Sarah or Rachel." "The mouth and the form of the face are Grecian," said Dymock, "but the bust is oriental." Shanty looked hard at his patron, as trying to understand what he meant by _oriental_ and _Grecian;_ and then repeated his question, "Gipsy or Jew, Mr. Dymock? for I am sure the little creature is not of our northern breed." "We shall see by and bye," said Dymock, "the question is, what is to be done now? I am afraid that aunt Margaret will look prim and stately if I carry the little one up to the Tower; however, I see not what else to do. Who is afraid? But put your fire out, Shanty, and come with us. You shall carry the bantling, and I will take the lanthorn. Mayhap, aunt Margaret may think this arrangement the more genteel of the two. So let it be." And it was so; old Shanty turned into child-keeper, and the Laird into lanthorn-carrier, and the party directed their steps towards the Tower, and much talk had they by the way. Now, as we have said before, there was a fund of kindness in the heart of Mrs. Margaret Dymock, which kindness is often more consistent than some people suppose, with attention to economy, especially when that economy is needful; and moreover, she had lately lost a favourite cat, which had been, as she said, quite a daughter to her. Therefore the place of pet happened to be vacant just at that time, which was much in favour of the forlorn child's interests. Dymock had taken Shanty with him into the parlour, in which Mrs. Margaret sat at her darning; and he had suggested to the old man, that he might just as well tell the story himself for his aunt's information, and account for the presence of the infant; and, in his own words, Mrs. Margaret took all very well, and even did not hint that if her nephew had been in his own parlour, instead of being in a place where vagrants were sheltered, he would at all events have been out of this scrape. But the little one had awoke, and had begun to weep, and the old lady's heart was touched, so she called one of the maids, and told her to feed the babe and put it to sleep; after which, having ordered that Shanty should be regaled with the bladebone of a shoulder of mutton, she withdrew to her room to think what was next to be done. The result of Mrs. Margaret's thoughts were, that come what might, the child must be taken care of for a few days, and must be washed and clothed; and, as the worthy lady had ever had the habit of laying by, in certain chests and boxes piled on each other in her large bed-room, all the old garments of the family not judged fitting for the wear of cottagers, she had nothing more to do than, by the removal of half-a-dozen trunks, to get at a deal box, which contained the frocks, and robes, and other garments which her nephew had discarded when he put on jacket and trousers. From these she selected one of the smallest suits, and they might have been seen airing at the kitchen fire by six o'clock that morning. Hot water and soap were next put in requisition, and as soon as the baby awoke, she was submitted to such an operation by the kitchen fire, as it would appear she had not experienced for a long time. The little creature was terribly frightened when soused in the water, and screeched in a pitiful manner; the tears running from her eyes, and the whole of her small person being in a violent tremor. The maids, however, made a thorough job of it, and scoured the foundling from head to foot. At length Mrs. Margaret, who sat by, directing the storm, with a sheet across her lap and towels in her hand, pronounced the ablution as being complete, and the babe was lifted from the tub, held a moment to drip, and then set on the lap of the lady, and now the babe seemed to find instant relief. The little creature was no sooner placed on Mrs. Margaret's knee, than, by some strange and unknown association, she seemed to think that she had found an old friend,--some faintly remembered nurse or mother,--whom she had met again in Mrs. Dymock, and quivering with delight, she sprang on her feet on the lady's lap, and grasped her neck in her arms, pressing her little ruby lips upon her cheek; and on one of the maids approaching again with some of her clothes, she strained her arms more closely round Mrs. Margaret, and perfectly danced on her lap with terror lest she should be taken away from her. "Lord help the innocent babe!" said the old lady, "what is come to her?" and Mrs. Margaret's eyes were full of tears; but the good lady then soothed and carressed the babe, and instructed her to sit down on her knees, whilst she directed the servant to assist in dressing her. But no, no, it would not do; no one was to touch her but Mrs. Margaret; and the old lady, drawing herself up, at length said,--"Well, Janet, we must give way, I suppose; it seems that I am to be the favourite; there is something in my physiognomy which has taken the child's fancy; come, hand me the clothes, I must try my skill in dressing this capricious little dame." Mrs. Margaret was evidently pleased by the poor orphan's preference, and whilst she was dressing the infant, there was time to discover that the little child was a perfect beauty in her way; the form of her face being oval, the features exquisite, the eyes soft, yet sparkling, and the lips delicately formed. The hair, of raven black, was clustered and curling, and the head set on the shoulders in a way worthy of the daughters of kings; but the servants pointed out on the arm of the infant, a peculiar mark which was not natural, but which had evidently been burnt therein. One said it was a fan, and another a feather; but Mrs. Margaret augured vast things from it, pronouncing that the child surely belonged to some great person, and that no one could say what might be the consequence of kindness shown to such a child. As soon as Mr. Dymock came down into the breakfast-room, Mrs. Margaret came swimming in with the child in her arms, exclaiming, "A pretty piece of work you have done for me, nephew! I am under a fine servitude now;" and she primmed up her mouth, but her eye laughed,--"little Miss here, chooses to be waited on by me, and me only; and here I am, with nothing to do but to attend on my lady." "Little Miss," said Mr. Dymock, "what little Miss? who have you got there?" "Neither more nor less," replied Mrs. Margaret, "than your foundling." "Impossible!" said Mr. Dymock: "Why, what have you done to her?" "Merely washed, combed, and dressed her," said Mrs. Margaret; "give me credit, nephew, and tell me what I have brought out by my diligence." "You have brought out a brilliant from an unfinished stone," exclaimed Mr. Dymock; "that is a beautiful child; I shall have extreme delight in making as much of that fine mind, as you have done with that beautiful exterior." "Then you do not think of putting her in a foundling hospital or a workhouse, nephew, as you proposed last night?" said Mrs. Margaret, with a smile. "It would be a folly," replied the nephew, "to degrade such a creature as that;" and he attempted to kiss the baby; but, swift as thought, she had turned her face away, and was clinging to Mrs. Margaret. The old lady primmed up again with much complacency, "Did I not tell you, nephew, how it was," she said, "nothing will do but Aunt Margaret. Well, I suppose I must give her my poor pussy's corner in my bed. But now her back is turned to you, Dymock, observe the singular mark on her shoulder, and tell me what it is?" Mr. Dymock saw this mark with amazement:--He saw that it was no natural mark; and at length, though not till after he had examined it many times, he made it out, or fancied he had done so, to be a branch of a palm tree. From the first he had made up his mind that this was a Jewish child; and, following the idea of the palm-tree, and tracing the word in a Hebrew lexicon,--for he was a Hebrew scholar, though not a deep one,--he found that Tamar was the Hebrew for a palm tree. "And Tamar it shall be," he said; "this maid of Judah, this daughter of Zion shall be called Tamar;" and he carried his point, although Mrs. Margaret made many objections, saying it was not a Christian name, and therefore not proper for a child who was to be brought up as a Christian. However, as Mr. Dymock had given up his whim of learning the business of a smith since the adventure which has been so fully related, and had forgotten the proposed experiment of turning up the whole moor round the Tower with his new-fangled plough,--that plough having ceased to be an object of desire to him as soon as it was completed,--she thought it best to give way to this whim of giving the child so strange a name, and actually stood herself at the font, as principal sponsor for little Tamar. Thus, the orphan was provided with a happy home; nor, as Mrs. Margaret said, did she ever miss the child's little bite and sup. After a few days, the babe would condescend to leave Mrs. Margaret, when required to go to the servants. She would even, when directed so to do, steal across the floor, and accept a seat on Mr. Dymock's knee, and gradually she got very fond of him. Nor was her affection unrequited; he had formed a theory about her,--and it was not a selfish theory, for he never expected to gain anything by her,--but he believed that she was of noble but unfortunate Jewish parentage, and he built this theory on the singular grace and beauty of her person. At all events, he never doubted but that she was a Jewess; and he talked of it, and thought of it, till he was entirely convinced that it was so, and had convinced his aunt also, and established the persuasion in the minds of most persons about him. If Mr. Dymock was not a genius, he had all the weaknesses commonly attributed to genius, and, in consequence, was as useless a being as ever cumbered the ground; yet, he was generally loved, and no one loved him more than Tamar did, after she had got over her first baby fear of him. But Mrs. Margaret, who had no pretensions to genius, was the real benefactor of this child, and as far as the lady was concerned in bringing her up, performed the part of a truly affectionate mother. Her first effort was made to bring the will of the child, which was a lofty one, under subjection to her own; and the next, to give her habits of industry and self-denial. She told her that whatever she might hear respecting her supposed parentage, she was merely a child without pretentions, and protected from motives of love, and of love only; that her protectors were poor, and ever likely to remain so, and that what God required of her, was that when able, she should assist them as they had assisted her in helpless infancy. As to religion, Mrs. Margaret taught her what she herself knew and believed; but her views were dark and incomplete, she saw not half as much of the great mystery of salvation, as had been revealed to Shanty in his hut; yet, the desire of doing right in the sight of God, had been imparted to her, and this desire was a fixed principle, and did not appear to be affected by her want of knowledge. As to forms, Mrs. Margaret had her own, and she was very attentive to them, but she had very small opportunity of public worship, as there was no church within some miles of the Tower. In the meantime, whilst the old lady went plodding on in her own quiet way, teaching the little girl all she knew herself, Mr. Dymock was planning great things by way of instruction for Tamar. He was to teach her to read her native language, as he called the Hebrew, and to give her various accomplishments, for he had dipped into innumerable branches, not only of the sciences, but of the arts; and as he happened to have met with a mind in Tamar which was as rapid as his own, though far more plodding and persevering, the style of teaching which he gave her, produced far richer fruit than could possibly have been expected. But as Rome was not built in a day, neither must it be supposed that good Mrs. Margaret had not many a laborious, if not weary hour before her part of the care necessary to the well-rearing of the child, was so complete that the worthy woman might sit down and expect a small return; for, as she was wont to say, the child could not be made, for years after she could hold a needle, to understand that the threads should not be pulled as tight in darning as in hem stitch, and this, she would say, was unaccountable, considering how docile the child was in other matters; and, what was worst of all, was this,--that the little girl, who was as wild and fleet, when set at liberty, as a gazelle of the mountains, added not unseldom to the necessity of darning, until Mrs. Margaret bethought herself of a homespun dress in which Tamar was permitted to run and career during all hours of recreation in the morning, provided she would sit quietly with the old lady in an afternoon, dressed like a pretty miss, in the venerable silks and muslins which were cut down for her use when no longer capable of being worn by Mrs. Margaret. By this arrangement Tamar gained health during one part of the day, and a due and proper behaviour at another; and, as her attachment to Mrs. Margaret continued to grow with her growth, many and sweet to memory in after-life were the hours she spent in childhood, seated on a stool at the lady's feet, whilst she received lessons of needlework, and heard the many tales which the old lady had to relate. Mrs. Margaret having led a life without adventures, had made up their deficiency by being a most graphic recorder of the histories of others; Scheherazade herself was not a more amusing story-teller; and if the Arabian Princess had recourse to genii, talismans, and monsters, to adorn her narratives, neither was Mrs. Dymock without her marvellous apparatus; for she had her ghosts, her good people, her dwarfs, and dreadful visions of second sight, wherewith to embellish her histories. There was a piety too, a reference in all she said to the pleasure and will of a reconciled God, which added great charms to her narratives, and rendered them peculiarly interesting to the little girl. Whilst Tamar was under her seventh year, she never rambled beyond the moat alone; but being seven years old, and without fear, she extended her excursions, and not unseldom ran as far as Shanty's shed. The old man had always taken credit to him self for the part he had had in the prosperity of the little girl, and Mrs. Margaret did not fail to tell her how she had first come to the Tower in Shanty's arms; on these occasions the child used to say,--"then I must love him, must not I ma'am?" And being told she must, she did so, that is, she encouraged the feeling; and on a Sunday when he was washed and had his best coat on, she used to climb upon his knees, for she always asked leave to visit him on that day if he did not come up to the Tower, as he often did, to ask for her, and being on his knees she used to repeat to him what she had been learning during the week. He was very much pleased, when she first read a chapter in the Bible, and then it was that he first opened out to her some of his ideas on religion; which were much clearer and brighter than either Mrs. Margaret's or her nephew's. How this poor and solitary old man had obtained these notions does not appear; he could not have told the process himself, though, as he afterwards told Tamar, all the rest he knew, had seemed to come to him, through the clearing and manifestation of one passage of Scripture, and this passage was COL. iii. 11. "But Christ is all." "This passage," said the old man, "stuck by me for many days. I was made to turn it about and about, in my own mind, and to hammer it every way, till at length, I was made to receive it, in its fulness. Christ I became persuaded, is not all to one sort of men, and not all to another sort, nor all at one time of a man's life, and not all at another; nor all in one circumstance of need, and not all in another; nor all to the saints and not all to the sinner; nor all in the hour of joy, and not all in the hour of retribution; being ready and able to supply one want, and unwilling to supply another. For," as he would add, "does a man want righteousness? there it is laid for him in Christ; does he want merit? there is the treasure full and brimming over; does he want rest and peace? they are also provided for him; does he want faith? there also is faith prepared for him; but the times and the seasons, these are not given to him to know; and, if confusion and every evil work now prevail, Christ being all, he will bring order out of confusion, when the fulness of the time shall come. "And so," continued the old man, "when it was given me to see and accept this one passage first, in its completeness, all other parts of Scripture seemed to fall at once into their places; and the prophecies; the beautiful prophecies of future peace and joy to the earth, of the destruction of death and of hell, all opened out to me, as being hidden and shut up in Christ,--for Christ is all; and as I desired the treasure, so I was drawn more and more towards Him who keeps the treasure, and all this," he would add, "was done for me, through no deserts or deservings of my own; for till this light was vouchsafed me, I was as other unregenerate men, living only to myself, and for myself; and more than this," he would say, "were it the Divine will to withdraw the light, I should turn again to be dead and hard, as iron on the cold anvil." In this way, Shanty often used to talk to Mrs. Margaret, and after a while to Tamar; but the old lady for many years remained incapable of entering so entirely as he could wish, into his views of the sufficiency of the Redeemer. She could not give up entirely her notions of the need of some works, not as evidences of the salvation of an individual, but as means of ensuring that salvation, and accordingly she never met with Shanty for many years, without hinting at this discrepancy in their opinions, which hints seldom failed of bringing forward an argument. When Tamar was about nine years old, Mr. Dymock gave her a dog. Of this creature she was very fond, and always accustomed it to accompany her in her excursions around the Tower. There was on the moor, not many hundred paces from the Tower, a heap of blocks of granite, some of which bore evidence of having been cut with a chisel; but these were almost entirely grown over with saxifrages and other wild plants. The country people seldom resorted to this place, because they accounted it uncanny, and Mrs. Margaret had several wild tales to tell about it, which greatly interested Tamar. She said, that in the times of papal power, there had been a monastery there, and in that place a covenanter had been murdered; hence, it had been pulled down to the ground, and all the unholy timbers and symbols of idolatry burnt; "and still," she added, "to this day, uncanny objects are seen in that place, and wailings as of souls in woe have also been heard coming from thence; and I myself have heard them. Nay, so short a time ago as the night or two before you, Tamar, were brought a baby to this house, a light was seen there, and unearthly voices heard as coming from thence." Of course after this, it could not be thought that Tamar should approach this place quite alone, though she often desired to do so; had not Mrs. Margaret told her these stories, she probably might never have had this desire, but there is a principle in human nature, which hankers after the thing forbidden; hence, as St. Paul says, "By the law is the knowledge of sin." We are not defending human nature, which is indefensible, but merely stating facts. Tamar had much desire to visit this mysterious place; and so it happened one day, when she had her dog with her, and the sun was shining, and all about her bright and gay, that she climbed up the little green knoll, and pushing her way through many brambles, furze bushes, and dwarf shrubs, she found herself in the centre of the huge heaps of stones and rubbish, of which she had hitherto seen only the summits, from the windows of the Tower. But being arrived there, she came to a stand, to look about her, when her dog, to whom Dymock had given the poetical name of Sappho, began to prick up her ears, and snuff as if she scented something more than ordinary, and the next minute, she dashed forward, made her way through certain bushes, and disappeared. Tamar called aloud; a hollow echo re-sounded her voice, but no dog appeared;--again she called,--again she heard the echo, and again she was silent; but she was by no means a timid child; she had been too much accustomed to be alone,--too much used to explore old corners, of which there were multitudes about the Tower, occupied only by owls and bats. She therefore went forward to the place where Sappho had disappeared, and forcing aside the shrubs, she saw before her a low, arched door-way, which, had she understood architecture, she would have known, from the carvings about the posts and lintel, to have been Norman. She was surprised, indeed, but thinking only of her dog, she called again, and was perfectly amazed at the long, hollow, and deep sound, of the reverberation. She stood still again, holding the bushes aside, and was aware of a rush of damp vapour, blowing in her face. Sappho, she called again, and the next minute heard an impatient bark, or yelp, from the animal, and another sound, low, deep and muttering, which she could not comprehend. She was now getting much alarmed and dropping the boughs, took to flight, and she had scarcely cleared the rubbish, when Sappho came scouring after her, jumping upon her as if glad to see her again. She patted her head, saying "My poor Sappho, what have you seen in that dark place? I wish you had a tongue to tell me." Tamar immediately returned to the Tower, and hastened to tell her adventure to Mrs. Margaret. "Oh!" said the old lady, "is it so? that reminds me of what I heard my father say, many and many is the year gone by, that there was an old tradition of a secret passage underground from the Monastery to the Tower; but he never knew where the passage came into the Tower. But be it which way it might, it must needs have passed under the moat." "How strange!" said Tamar; "but when that passage was made, it could not have been secret; many people must have known it, and I wonder, then, how it could have been so entirely forgotten." "Who shall say how things were done in those days," said Mrs. Margaret; "those times long past, when things uncanny had more power than they have now? But it is not good to talk of such things," added the lady; "and now, Tamar, let that which you have seen to-day never again be mentioned by you; for, as sure as the master should hear of it, he would be for looking into the cavern, and, Heaven knows what he might stir up, if he were to disturb such things as might be found there. I only wish that that the mischief may not be already done!" But no mischief did occur, at least for a long time, from this mysterious quarter. Tamar did not again visit the place; and in a short time thought no more of the matter. The happy days of childhood were passing away with Tamar, and sorrow was coming on her patrons, from a quarter which poor Mrs. Margaret had long darkly anticipated; but whilst these heavy clouds were hanging over the house of Dymock, a few, though not very important events intervened. Mr. Dymock, by fits and snatches, had given such lessons to Tamar as had enabled her to proceed, by her own exertions, in several branches of knowledge quite out of the sphere of Mrs. Margaret. Amongst these was the history of the Jews, carried on in connection between the New and Old Testament, and afterwards in Christian times, and to these he added certain crude views of prophecy; for he was resolved that Tamar was a Jewess, and he had talked himself into the belief that she was of some distinguished family. It is no difficult matter to impress young persons with ideas of their own importance; and none are more liable to receive such impressions, than those who, like Tamar, are in the dark respecting their origin. The point on which Mr. Dymock failed in his interpretations of prophecy, is not unfrequently mistaken, even in this more enlightened age. He never considered or understood, that all prophecy is delivered in figurative language; every prophecy in the Old Testament having first a literal and incomplete fulfilment, the complete and spiritual fulfilment being future. He did not see that the Jews, according to the flesh, were types of the Spiritual Israel; that David was the emblem of the Saviour; and that the universal kingdom promised to the seed of David, was no other than the kingdom of Christ, into which all the children of God will be gathered together as into one fold under one Shepherd. Not seeing this, he anticipated a period of earthly triumph for the Jews, such as an ambitious, worldly man might anticipate with delight; and he so filled the mind of his young pupil with these notions of the superiority of her race, that it is a miracle that he did not utterly ruin her. As it was, she counted herself greatly superior to all about her, and was much hurt and offended when old Shanty represented the simple truth to her, telling her, that even were she the lineal descendant of Solomon himself, she could have no other privilege than that of the lowest Gentile who has obtained a new birth-right in the Saviour of mankind; "for," said he, "under the Gospel dispensation there is no difference between the Jew and the Greek,--the same Lord over all, is rich unto all that call upon him," Rom. x. 12. It did not, however, suit Tamar to adopt these truths at the present time; and as Shanty could not succeed with her, he took the liberty of speaking to Mr. Dymock on the subject. "Why do you fill the young girl's mind, Dymock," said he, "with such fancies as you do? But, leaving her alone, let us speak of the Jews in general. They that wish them well should not fill them up with notions of a birth-right which they have forfeited, and thus confirm them in the very same pride which led them to crucify the Lord of Glory. What is a Jew more than another man? for he is not a Jew which is one outwardly; neither is that circumcision which is outward in the flesh; but he is a Jew which is one inwardly, and circumcision is that of the heart, in the spirit, and not in the letter, whose praise is not of men but of God." Rom. ii. 28, 29. Mr. Dymock would not listen to honest Shanty on this subject, much as he respected him; and, indeed, the poor Laird was at this time deeply oppressed with other matters. He had, in his various speculations, so entirely neglected his own affairs for some years past, that poverty, nay actual penury, was staring in his face. He had formerly mortgaged, by little and little, most of his lands, and nothing now remained to make money of, but the Castle itself and a few acres around it, with the exception only of a cottage and a small field, hitherto occupied by a labourer, which lay in a kind of hollow on the side of the knoll, where the entrance of the secret cavern was. This cottage was as remote from Dymock's Tower in one way, as Shanty's shed was in another; although the three dwellings formed together a sort of equilateral triangle. Mr. Dymock long suspected that this labourer had done his share to waste his substance; and once or twice it had occurred to him, that if he left the Castle he might retire to the cottage. But yet, to part with the Castle, could he find a purchaser, would, he feared, be death to Mrs. Margaret, and how would Tamar bear it?--this glorious Maid of Judah, as he was wont to call her,--this palm tree of Zion, this daughter of David,--the very fine person, and very superior air of Tamar having confirmed him in the impression of her noble birth. It was whilst these heavy thoughts respecting what must be done in the management of his affairs dwelt on his mind, that the same man who had finished the unfortunate plough appeared again in Shanty's shed. The old man recognized him immediately, although fourteen years had much changed his appearance, and he at once charged him with having had some concern with the woman who left the child. The well-acted astonishment of the vagrant, for such he was, silenced Shanty, though it did not convince him that he was mistaken in his conjecture. However, the old man, changing his mode of attack, and regretting that he had put the stranger on his guard by giving him so home a thrust, pretended to be convinced, and entered into easy conversation with him; amongst other things asking him if perchance he knew of any one who wanted to purchase an estate? "Aye!" said the vagrant, to whom as we small have the pleasure of introducing him again, we think it may be well to give the name of Harefoot,--"Aye! old gentleman, and might one ask where this estate of yours may be?" "It is of no consequence," replied Shanty, "I answer no questions, as not being empowered so to do. At all events, however, the estate is not far from hence, and it is a magnificent place, I promise you, More's the pity, that those who have owned it for some hundreds of years, should be compelled to part with it." Other matters were then introduced, and Shanty endeavoured to wind about Harefoot, but with little success; for, deep as he thought himself, he had one deeper to deal with. In truth, poor Shanty was but a babe in cunning, and the vagrant departed, without having dropped a single hint which could be taken hold of respecting Tamar. In the meantime troubles were pressing upon poor Dymock, the interest of moneys lent on the motgage was not forthcoming, and the Laird having no better friend (and as to a sincerer he needed none,) than poor Shanty, used from day to day to go down to the shed, to open his heart to the old man. Shanty had long advised his patron to tell his situation to Mrs. Margaret, and to advertise the sale of the castle, but Dymock's pride had not yet so far submitted itself, as to enable him to make so public a confession of the downfall of the family, as an advertisement would do. "I cannot open my heart to my aunt, Shanty," he said, "she, poor creature, has devoted her whole life to keeping up the dignity of the house; how, then, will she bear to see the whole labour of her life annihilated?" "The sooner she knows of what is coming the better," returned Shanty, "if she is not prepared, the blow when it comes, will go nigh utterly to overpower her," and the old man proposed to go himself, to open the matter to her. "You shall, Shanty, you shall," said the Laird, "but wait a little, wait a little, we may hear of a purchaser for the castle, and when such a one is found, then you shall speak to my aunt." "But first," said Shanty, "let me prepare your adopted one, let me open the matter to her; she is of an age, in which she ought to think and act no longer as a child; it is now fourteen years since I carried her up in my arms to Dymock's Tower, and though the young girl is too much filled up with pride, yet I fear not but that she is a jewel, which will shine brighter, when rubbed under the wheel of adversity; allowing what I hope, that there is a jewel under that crust of pride." "Pride!" repeated Dymock, flying off into the region of romance, "and if a daughter of Zion, a shoot from the Cedar of Lebanon, is not to carry her head high, who is to do so? the fate of her race may indeed follow her, and she may be brought down, to sit in the dust, but still even in the dust, she may yet boast her glorious origin." Shanty raised his hands and eyes, "Lord help you! Dymock," he said, "but you are clean demented. I verily believe, that the child is nothing mere than the offspring of a begging gipsy, and that if her mother had been hanged, she would only have met with her deserts." Discussions of this kind were constantly taking place between Shanty and Dymock, and it was in the very midst of one these arguments, that the rare appearance of a hired chaise,--a job and pair, as Shanty called it, appeared coming over the moor, directly to the shed, and so quick was the approach, that the Laird and the blacksmith had by no means finished their conjectures respecting this phenomenon, before the equipage came to a stand, in the front of the hut. As the carriage stopped, a spare, sallow, severe looking old gentlemen, put his head out of the window, and calling to the post boy, in a sharp, querulous tone, asked if he were quite sure that he was right? "Not sure that this is old Shanty's hut; Shanty of Dymock's Moor," replied the post-boy, in a broad Northern accent; "ask me if I don't know my own mother's son, though she never had but one bairn." Dymock and Shanty no sooner heard the voice of the boy, than they both recognized him, and stepping forward, they went up to the carriage and offered to assist the old gentleman to alight; he received their civilities with very little courtesy. However, he got out of the carriage, and giving himself a shake, and a sort of twist, which caused the lappets of his coat to expand, like the fan-tail of a pigeon, he asked, if the place was Dymock's Moor, and if the old man he saw before him, was one called Shanty of the Moor? The blacksmith declared himself to be that same person, "and this gentlemen," he added, pointing to Dymock, whose every day dress, by the bye, did not savor much of the Laird, "This gentleman is Dymock himself." "Ah, is it so," said the stranger, "my business then is with him, show me where I can converse with him." "I have no parlour to offer you," said Shanty; "to my shed, however, such as it is, I make you welcome." No gracious notice was taken by the stranger of the offer, but without preamble or ceremony, he told his errand to Mr. Dymock. "I hear," he said, "that you wish to sell your Tower, and the lands which surround it; if after looking at it, and finding that it suits me, you will agree to let me have it, I will pay you down in moneys, to the just and due amount of the value thereof, but first I must see it." "It stands there, Sir," said Shanty, seeing that Mr. Dymock's heart was too full to permit him to speak; "it stands there, Sir, and is as noble an object as my eye ever fell upon. The Tower," continued the old man, "at this minute, lies directly under the only dark cloud now in the heavens; nevertheless, a slanting ray from the westering sun now falls on its highest turret; look on, Sir, and say wherever have you seen a grander object?" The old gentleman uttered an impatient pish, and said, "Old man, your travels must needs have lain in small compass, if you think much of yon heap of stones and rubbish." The Laird's choler was rising, and he would infallibly have told the stranger to have walked himself off, if Shanty had not pulled him by the sleeve, and, stepping before the stranger, said something in a soothing way, which should enhance the dignity of the Tower and encourage the pretended purchaser. "I must see it, I must see it," returned the old gentleman, "not as now mixed up with the clouds, but I must examine it, see its capabilities, and know precisely what it is worth, and how it can be secured to me and my heirs for ever." It was warm work which poor Shanty now had to do; between the irritated seller and the testy buyer, he had never been in a hotter place before his own forge, and there was wind enough stirring in all reason, without help of bellows, for the Laird puffed and groaned and uttered half sentences, and wished himself dead, on one side of the old blacksmith, whilst the stranger went on as calmly, coolly, and deliberately, with his bargain, on the other side, as if he were dealing with creatures utterly without feeling. Shanty turned first to one, and then to another; nodding and winking to Dymock to keep quiet on one side, whilst he continued to vaunt the merits of the purchase on the other. At length, on a somewhat more than usually testy remark of the stranger reaching the ears of the Laird, he burst by Shanty and had already uttered these words, "Let me hear no more of this, I am a gentleman, and abominate the paltry consideration of pounds, shillings, and pence;" when Shanty forcibly seizing his arm, turned him fairly round, whispering, "Go, and for the sake of common sense, hold your tongue, leave the matter to me, let me bargain for you; go and tell Mrs. Margaret that we are coming, and make what tale you will to her, to explain our unceremonious visit; you had better have told her all before." The Laird informed Shanty that there was no need of going up to the Tower to inform his aunt, as she and Tamar were gone that day over the border to visit a friend; but added he, "I take your offer, Shanty, make the bargain for me if you can, and I shall not appear till I am wanted to sign and seal," and away marched the Laird nor was he forthcoming again for some hours. After he was gone, Shanty begged leave to have a few minutes given him for washing his hands and face and making himself decent, and then walked up with the testy old gentlemen to the castle. Little as Shanty knew of the great and grand world, yet his heart misgave him, lest the ruinous state of the castle, (although the Tower itself stood in its ancient and undilapidated strength,) should so entirely disgust the stranger that he should at once renounce all ideas of the purchase; he was therefore much pleased when the old gentleman, having gone grumbling and muttering into every room and every outhouse, crying, it is naught! it is naught! as buyers generally do, bade Shanty tell the Laird that he was going to the nearest town, that he should be there till the business was settled, that he would give the fair valuation for the estate, and that the payment should be prompt. Shanty was, indeed astonished; he was all amazement, nor did he recover himself, till he saw the old gentleman walk away, and get into his carriage which was waiting on the other side of the moat, it not being particularly convenient, on account of the total deficiency of anything like a bridge or passable road? to bring a carriage larger than a wheel-barrow up to the castle. Dymock returned to the shed, when he, from some place of observation on the moor, saw that the carriage had reached the high road, and there, having been told all that had passed, the poor gentleman (who, by the bye, was not half pleased with the idea of the honours of Dymock falling into the hands of such a purchaser,) informed Shanty that he must prepare to go with him the next day to Hexham, where the stranger had appointed to meet him. "I go with you!" exclaimed Shanty, "was ever so strange a conceit." "I shall be fleeced, shorn, ruined," implied Mr. Dymock, "if I go to make a bargain, without a grain of common sense in my company." "True," returned Shanty, "your worship is right; but how are we to go? I have plenty of horse-shoes by me, but neither you, nor I Laird, I fear could find any four legs to wear them." "We must e'en walk then," said Dymock, "nay, I would gladly carry you on my back, rather than descend to the meanness of driving a bargain with a testy old fellow like that; by the bye, Shanty, what does he call himself?" "Salmon," replied Shanty, "and I mistake if he has not a touch of the foreigner on his tongue." "You will accompany me, then Shanty," said the Laird. "I will," he replied, "if this evening you will open the business out to Mrs. Margaret." "It cannot be Shanty," replied Dymock chuckling, "for she does not expect to be back over the border till to-morrow, and when to-morrow is over and we know what we are about, then you shall tell her all." "Dymock," said Shanty, "you are hard upon me, when you have a morsel to swallow that is too tough for you, you put it into my mouth; but," added the old man kindly, "there is not much that I would refuse to do for your father's son." The sun had not yet risen over the moor, when Dymock and Shanty, both arrayed in their best, set off for Hexham, where they found the crabbed old gentlemen, still in the humour of making the purchase, though he abused the place in language at once rude and petulant; his offer, however, was, as Shanty compelled Dymock to see, a very fair one, though the more sensible and wary blacksmith could not persuade his friend to beware of trusting anything to the honour of Mr. Salmon. Dymock's estate had been deeply mortgaged, the sale was made subject to the mortgages, and the purchaser was bound to pay the mortgagee the mortgage moneys, after which there was small surplus coming to poor Dymock. This small surplus was, however, paid down on the signing of the papers; still, however, there was an additional payment to take place soon after possession. This payment was, it was supposed, to be for fixtures and other articles, which were to be left on the premises, and it was not to be asked till Mr. Salmon had been resident a few weeks. The amount was between five and six hundred pounds, and was in fact all that Dymock would have to depend upon besides his cottage, his field, a right of shooting on the moor, and fishing in a lake which belonged to the estate, and about twenty pounds a year which appertained to Mrs. Margaret, from which it was supposed she had made some savings. Shanty had succeeded in forcing the Laird to listen to the dictates of prudence, and to act with sufficient caution, till it came to what he called the dirty part of the work, to wit, the valuation of small articles, and then was the blood of the Dymocks all up; nor would he hear of requiring a bond for the payment of this last sum, such a document, in fact, as should bind the purchaser down to payment without dispute. He contented himself only with such a note from the old man as ought he asserted to be quite sufficient, and it was utterly useless for Shanty to expostulate. The Laird had got on his high horse and was prancing and capering beyond all the controul of his honest friend, whilst Mr. Salmon, no doubt, laughed in his sleeve, and only lamented that he had not known Dymock better from the first, for in that case he would have used his cunning to have obtained a better bargain of the castle and lands. It was not one nor two visits to Hexham which completed these arrangements; however Mr. Dymock, after the first visit, no longer refused to permit Shanty to open out every thing to his aunt, and to prepare her to descend into a cottage, on an income of forty or fifty pounds a year. Mrs. Margaret bore the information better than Shanty had expected; she had long anticipated some such blow, and her piety enabled her to bear it with cheerfulness. "I now," she said, "know the worst, and I see not wherefore, though I am a Dymock, I should not be happy in a cottage, I am only sorry for Tamar; poor Tamar! what will become of her?" "Oh mother! dear mother!" said Tamar weeping, "why are you sorry for me, cannot I go with you? surely you would not part from me;" and she fell weeping on Mrs. Margaret's bosom. "Never before! oh, never before," cried Mrs. Margaret, "did I feel my poverty as I do now." "Mother dear! oh mother dear! had I thousands of pounds, I would devote them all to you, and to my dear protector." "God helping you, or God working in you Tamar," said Shanty, rubbing his rough hand across his eyes, "but never boast of what you will do, dear child; boasting does not suit the condition of humanity." "Oh! that I could now find my father," she replied, "and if I could find him a rich man, what a comfort it would be; what would I give now," she added, "to find a rich father!" Mrs. Margaret kissed her child, and wept with her, calling her a dear, affectionate, grateful creature; but Shanty made no remark respecting Tamar's gratitude; he had it in his mind to speak to her when alone, and he very soon found the opportunity he wished. It was on the next Sunday that he met Tamar walking on the moor, and it was then that he thus addressed her, "I was sorry damsel," he said, "to hear you speak as you did to Mrs. Margaret the other day, making a profession of what you would do for her if you were rich, and yet never offering her that which you have to give her." "What have I to give her?" asked Tamar. "Much," replied the old man; "much, very much. You have strength, and activity, and affection to give her. With forty pounds a-year, a house, and a little field, which is all your adopted parents will have, can they, think you, keep a servant? Will not the very closest care be necessary, and should not one who is young, and faithful, and attached, rejoice to serve her benefactors at such time as this, and to render their fall as easy as possible; and where, I ask you, Tamar, should they find such service as you can render them?" They were walking side by side, the old man and the beautiful girl, among the heather of the moor; and he was looking up kindly and animatedly to her,--for he was a remarkably short, thick-set man,--but she was looking down on the ground, whilst a bitter struggle was passing in her mind. She had been filled up by her guardian with wild fancies of her own greatness, which was hereafter to be made manifest; and it would have been too strong for unaided nature, to bring herself to submit to such drudgeries as duty seemed now to require of her; her bright-brown cheek was flushed with the inward contest, and her bosom seemed to be almost swelled to suffocation. But the assistance required was not withheld in the hour of need, and Shanty was soon made aware of the change of feelings which was suddenly imparted to the orphan by the change of the expression of her countenance; the tears had already filled her eyes, when she turned to her old friend, and thanked him for his reproof, expressing her conviction, that his advice was that of a true Christian, and begging him always to tell her, in like manner, when he saw that she was going wrong. A more general discussion on the subject of true religion then followed, and Shanty assured Tamar, that all high notions of self, whether of birth, talents, or riches, were unpleasing in the sight of God, and utterly inconsistent with that view of salvation by Christ, which is independent of all human merit. Such was the nature of the lessons given by the old man to Tamar. His language was, however, broad, and full of north-country phrases, so much so, as to have rendered them inexplicable to one who had not been accustomed to the Border dialect. From that day, however, through the divine mercy, the heart of Tamar was given to the duties which she saw before her, and all her activity was presently put into requisition; for Mr. Salmon had given notice, that he should take possession of Dymock's Tower as soon as it could be got ready for him, and he also sent persons to make the preparations which he required. These preparations were of a most singular nature; his object appeared neither to be the beautifying of the old place, or even the rendering it more comfortable, for he neither sent new furniture, nor ordered the restoration of any of the dilapidated chambers or courts. But he ordered the moat to be repaired, so that it could be filled and kept full, and he directed that a light draw-bridge should also be erected. The walls of the inner courts were also to be put to rights, and new gates added. There was a great laugh in the country respecting this unknown humourist; and some said he was preparing for a siege, and others going to set up for a modern Rob Roy, and Castle-Dymock was to be his head-quarters. The greater part of the furniture, and all the fixtures, were to be paid for by the money for which the Laird had Mr. Salmon's memorandum; and they who knew their condition, said that the things had been brought to a good market, as little of the furniture would have been worth the carriage across the moor. Nothing at present, therefore, remained for the aunt and the nephew to do, but to remove to the cottage as soon as it should be ready to receive them. This humble habitation was situated in a small nook or vale of the moor called Heatherdale. A little fresh-water spring ran through it, coming in at the higher end of the valley, and going out through a natural cleft in a block of granite at the other end. There were many tall trees scattered on the banks within the dell; and the place was so sheltered, that many a plant would flourish in the garden on the south side of the house, which could hardly be kept alive in any other situation in the country. The cottage was an old, black, timbered and thatched edifice, and had four rooms of considerable dimensions, two above and two below, with a porch in the front, overgrown with briony and another hardy creeper. As soon as this tenement was vacated, and the Laird's intention of inhabiting it known, the ancient tenants of the family all manifested their affection by using their several crafts in repairing the cottage, and setting the house to rights,--one mended the thatch, another repaired the wood-work, a third white-washed the walls, another mended the paling, and old Shanty did any little job in his way which might be required. The labours of love never hang long on hand, and though the old tenant had gone out only at Lady-day, the hawthorn had scarcely blossomed when the affectionate people pronounced the work complete. Poor Dymock had become very restless when he saw the changes which were going on at the Tower; but when there was no longer an excuse to be found for delaying the removal, he gave way altogether, or rather, we should say, made a cut and run, and went off to botanize the lakes in Westmoreland, with a knapsack on his back, and a guinea in his pocket. Before he went, however, he had opened his heart to his daughter Tamar, saying, "I now take leave, dear child, of the life of a gentleman; henceforward I must content myself with the corner of a kitchen ingle; and this, truly, is a berth," he added, "too good for a cumberer of the ground, such as I am." He said this as he passed through the gate of the court, giving his adopted one time only to snatch his hand and kiss it, and he was gone beyond her hearing before she could relieve her heart with a burst of tears. After a while, however, she dried them up, and began to busy her mind in thinking what she could do to render the cottage comfortable for her beloved guardian; and having at length formed her plan, she ran to Mrs. Margaret, and asked her permission to take the arrangement of their new house. "Let me," said she, "see all the things put in their places; you and I, dear aunt Margaret, will have to ourselves a kitchen as neat as a palace, and we will make a study of the inner room for Mr. Dymock." "What!" said the old lady, "and give up our parlour?" "Dear mother," replied the young girl carelessly, "if there is to be no maid but poor Tamar, why should not the kitchen be the happiest place, for her own dear mother? You shall have your chair in the corner, between the window and the fire-place, and your little work-table by it, and then you can direct me without moving from your needle. Oh! dear, aunt Margaret," she added, "I am beginning to think that we shall be happier in the cottage, than we have been in the Castle; we shall have fewer cares, and shall have a pleasure in putting our small means to the best. Do not the scatterings of the flock, aunt Margaret, make us as warm hose as the prime of the fleece?" "That may be doubted child," replied the old lady with a smile, "but go young creature, take your way; I believe ere yet you have done, that you, with your sunny smile, will cheat me into contentment before I know what I am about; but mind, my lovely one," she added, "I will tell you how it is. I have been led to see how God in his displeasure,--displeasure, I say, on account of the pride of ancestry and station, which I have hitherto persisted in cherishing,--how God, I repeat, in his displeasure has remembered mercy, and, in taking away that which is worthless, has left me that which is most precious, even you my bright one." The old lady then kissed Tamar, and gave her the permission she required, to arrange the cottage according to her own fancy. When the day of removal actually arrived, being the day after the Laird had walked himself off, the neighbours, with Shanty at their head, came to assist. Tamar had determined upon having the room within the kitchen, for her beloved father by adoption; a village artist having understood her pious wish, had stained the walls of light grey, and painted the frame of the casement window of the same colour. Tamar had prepared a curtain of some light drapery for the window; a well-darned carpet covered the floor, the Laird's bookcases occupied one entire end of the room opposite the window, the wonted table of the old study at the Tower was placed in the centre of the floor, and was covered with its usual cloth, a somewhat tarnished baize, with a border worked in crewels by Mrs. Margaret in days gone by. In the centre of this table the inkstand was placed, and on the opposite wall, a venerable time-piece, asserted, with what truth we presume not to say, to be nearly as old as the clock sent by Haroun Al Raschid to the emperor Charlemagne. A few high-backed chairs, certain strange chimney ornaments, and other little matters dear to the Laird, finished the furniture of this room, and Tamar perfectly laughed with joy, when, having seen all done, she became aware that this small apartment was in fact more comfortable than the cold, wide, many-drafted study in the Tower. Those who were with her caught the merry infection and laughed too, and Shanty said, "But dear one, whilst you thus rejoice in your own contrivances, have you not a word of praise to give to Him, who has spread such glories as no human skill could create, beyond yon little window?" The old man then opened the casement, and showed the sweet and peaceful scene which there presented itself; for the cottage was enclosed in a small dell, the green sides of which seemed to shut out all the world, enclosing within their narrow limits, a running brook, and hives of bees, and many fragrant flowers. Tamar was equally successful, and equally well pleased with her arrangements in other parts of the cottage; the kitchen opened on one side to a little flower garden, on the other to the small yard, where Mrs. Margaret intended to keep her poultry, and the whole domain was encompassed by the small green field, which made up the extent of the dell, and was the only bit of land left to the representative of the house of Dymock. But Mrs. Margaret had reckoned that the land would keep a little favourite cow, and with this object Tamar had taken great pains to learn to milk. When all was ready, Mrs. Margaret with many tears took leave of Dymock's Tower; she had not seen the process of preparation in the cottage, and was therefore perfectly astonished when she entered the house. Tamar received her with tears of tenderness, and the worthy lady having examined all the arrangements, blessed her adopted one, and confessed that they had all in that place that man really required. Neither did she or Tamar find that they had more to do than was agreeable; if they had no servants to wait upon them, they had no servants to disarrange their house. They had engaged an old cottager on the moor to give them an hour's work every evening, and for this they paid him with a stoup of milk, or some other small product of their dairy; money they had not to spare, and this he knew,--nor did he require any; he would have given his aid to the fallen family for nothing, had it been asked of him. In wild and thinly peopled countries, there is more of neighbourly affection,--more of private kindness and sympathy than in crowded cities. Man is a finite creature; he cannot take into his heart many objects at once, and such, indeed, is the narrowness of his comprehension, that he cannot even conceive how the love of an infinite being can be generally exercised through creation. It is from this incapacity that religious people, at least too many of them, labour so sedulously as they do to instil the notion of the particularity of the work of salvation, making it almost to appear, that the Almighty Father brings beings into existence, merely to make them miserable,--but we are wandering from our story. Aunt Margaret and Tamar had been at the cottage a fortnight before Dymock returned; Tamar saw him first coming down the glen, looking wearied, dispirited and shabby. She ran out to meet her adopted father, and sprang into his arms; his eyes were filled with tears, and her bright smiles caused those eyes to overflow. She took his hand, she brought him in, she set him a chair, and Mrs. Margaret kissing him, said "Come Dymock brighten up, and thank your God for a happy home." Dymock sighed, Tamar took his heavy knapsack from him, and placed before him bread and butter, and cheese, and a stoup of excellent beer. "Eat, dear father," she said, "and then you shall go to bed, (for it was late in the evening,) and to-morrow you will see what a sweet place this is;" but poor Dymock could not rally that night. Tamar had always slept with Mrs. Margaret, and the best room of the two above stairs had been prepared for Dymock, Mrs. Margaret having found a place under the rafters for her innumerable boxes. The poor Laird slept well, and when he awoke the sun was shining into his room, and aunt Margaret had arranged his clean clothes at the foot of his bed; he arose in better spirits, and dressing himself, he went down; he found Tamar in the kitchen, and she, without speaking, took his hand and led him to his study. The poor gentleman could not bear this: he saw the sacrifice his aunt had made for him, and the exertions also which Tamar must have made to produce this result, and he fairly wept; but this burst of agitation being over, he embraced his adopted child, and expressed his earnest hope that henceforward he might be enabled to live more closely with his God. But the mind of Dymock was not a well balanced one; he could not live without a scheme, and he had scarcely been two days in the cottage, when he re-aimed at the ideas which he had formerly indulged of becoming an author, and of obtaining both fame and money by his writings. Mrs. Margaret was fretted when she was made aware of this plan, and sent Tamar to Shanty, to ask him to talk him out of the fancy, and to persuade him to adopt some employment, if it were only digging in his garden, which might bring in something; but Shanty sent Tamar back to Mrs. Margaret to tell her that she ought to be thankful that there was anything found which would keep the Laird easy and quiet, and out of the way of spending the little which he had left. Poor Dymock, therefore, was not disturbed in his attempts at authorship, and there he used to sit in his study with slip-shod feet, an embroidered dressing gown, which Mrs. Margaret had quilted from an old curtain, and a sort of turban twisted about his head, paying no manner of attention to hours or seasons. As Mrs. Margaret only allowed him certain inches of candle, he could not sit up all night as geniuses ought to be permitted to do; but then he would arise with the lark and set to work, before any of the labourers on the moor were in motion. In vain did Mrs. Margaret complain and expostulate; she even in her trouble sent Tamar again to Shanty to request him to plead with the Laird, and beg him to allow himself to enjoy his regular rest; but in this case when she required Shanty's aid, she had reckoned without her host. "Go back to Mrs. Margaret, damsel," he said, "go and tell the lady that as long as she can keep the Laird from work by candle light, so long no harm is done, and if instead of murmuring at this early rising, fair child, you will take example by him, and leave your bed at the same time that your hear him go down, you will do well. He that lies in bed gives a daily opportunity to his servants, if he has any to serve him, to do mischief before he is up, and she that rises with the sun and goes straight forward, like an arrow in its course, in the path of her duties, shall find fewer thorns and more roses in that path, than those who indulge in ease. Through divine mercy," continued the old man, "our own exertions are not needed for the assurance of our salvation, but sloth and carelessness tend to penury and misery, in this present life; and there is no sloth more ruinous to health and property than that of wasting the precious morning hours in bed." Tamar was not deaf to the pleadings of Shanty; she began immediately to rise with the first crowing of the cock, and thus obtained so much time for her business, that she could then afford herself some for reading. Mrs. Margaret took also to rise early, so that instead of breakfasting as formerly at eight o'clock, the family took that meal at seven; but the Laird often managed to have such bright and valuable thoughts just at breakfast time, that for the sake of posterity, as he was wont to say, he could by no means endanger the loss of them by suffering such a common place interruption as that of breakfast, such an every day and vulgar concern. On these occasions Tamar always took in his coffee and toast, and set it before him, and she generally had the pleasure of finding that he took what she brought him, though he seldom appeared to be aware either of her entrance or her exit, Mrs. Margaret invariably exclaiming when Tamar reported her reception in the study, "Lord help him! see what it is to be a genius!" In the meantime, the moat around Dymock's Tower was repaired and filled up, or was fast filling up; the draw-bridge was in its place, and the gates and walls restored; and as the neighbours said, the Tower wanted nothing but men and provisions to enable it to stand a siege. At length, all being pronounced ready, though no interior repairing had taken place, the new possessor arrived, bringing with him two servants, an old man and an old woman, and many heavy packages, which were stowed in a cart, and lifted out by himself and his man-servant, whom he called Jacob. This being done, he and his people were heard of no more, or rather seen no more, being such close housekeepers, that they admitted no one over the moat, though the man Jacob, rode to the nearest market every week on the horse which had dragged the baggage, to bring what was required, which, it was said, was not much more than was necessary to keep the bodies and souls of three people together. Numerous and strange were the speculations made by all people on the moor upon these new tenants of Dymock's Tower, and Shanty's shed was a principal scene of these speculations. Various were the reproaches which were cast on the strangers, and no name was too bad for them. "Our old Laird," one remarked, "was worth ten thousand such. As long as he had a crust, he would divide it with any one that wanted it. Mark but his behaviour to the poor orphan, who is now become the finest girl, notwithstanding her dark skin, in all the country round." Then followed speculations on the parentage of Tamar, and old Shanty asserted that he believed her to be nothing more or less than the daughter of the gipsy hag who had laid her at his door. Some said she was much to good to be the child of a gipsy; and then Shanty asserted, that the grace of God could counteract not only the nature of a child of a vagrant of the worst description, but even that of such vagrant himself; the Spirit of God being quick and powerful, and sharper than a two-edged sword. Shanty was a sort of oracle amongst his simple neighbours, and what he said was not often disputed to his face; nevertheless, there was not an individual on the moor who knew Tamar, who did not believe her to be a princess in disguise or something very wonderful; and, at the bottom of her heart, poor Tamar still indulged this same belief, though she did not now, as formerly express it. It was in the month of June, very soon after, Mr. Salmon had arrived at the Tower, and before Dymock, who was a woful procrastinator, had gone to demand the last payment, that Tamar, who was extraordinarily light and active, had undertaken to walk to the next village to procure some necessaries; she had three miles to go over the moor, nor could she go till after dinner. Her way lay by Shanty's shed; and Mrs. Margaret admonished her, if anything detained her, to call on Shanty, and ask him to walk over the remainder of the moor with her on her return. When she came down from preparing herself for this walk, all gay and blooming with youth and health, and having a basket on her arm, she met Dymock in the little garden. "Whither away? beautiful Maid of Judah," said the genius. "My bright-eyed Tamar," he added, "I have been thinking of a poem, and if I can but express my ideas, it will be the means of lifting up my family again from the destitution into which it has fallen. My subject is the restoration of Jerusalem in the latter days, and the lifting up of the daughters of Zion from the dust. The captives of Israel now are hewers of wood and carriers of water; but the time will come when the hands that now wear the manacles of servitude shall be comely with rows of jewels." "If no daughter of Judah," replied Tamar, "wears heavier manacles than I do, dear father, they may bear them with light hearts;" and, as she passed quickly by her adopted father, she snatched his hand and kissed it, and soon she disappeared beyond the boundary of the glen. Tamar reached the village in so short a time, and did her errands so quickly, that having some hours of light before her, she thought she would try another way of return, over a small bridge, which in fact spanned the very water-course which ran through her glen; but being arrived at this bridge, to her surprise she found it broken down. It was only a single plank, and the wood had rotted and given way. The brook was too wide and deep in that place to permit her to cross it, and the consequence was, that she must needs go round more than a mile; and, what added to her embarrassment, the evening, which had been fine, was beginning to cloud over, the darkness of the sky hastening the approach of the dusk. She had now farther to walk than she had when in the village; and, added to the threatenings of the clouds, there were frequent flashings of pale lightning, and remote murmurings of thunder. But Tamar was not easily alarmed; she had been brought up independently, and already had she recovered the direct path from the village to Shanty's shed, when suddenly a tall figure of a female arose, as it were, out of the broom and gorse, and stepped in the direction in which she was going, walking by her side for a few paces without speaking a word. The figure was that of a gipsy, and the garments, as Tamar glanced fearfully at them as they floated in a line with her steps, bespoke a variety of wretchedness scarcely consistent with the proud and elastic march of her who wore them. Whilst Tamar felt a vague sense of terror stealing over her, the woman spoke, addressing her without ceremony, saying, "So you have been driven to come this way at last; have you been so daintily reared that you cannot wade a burn which has scarcely depth enough to cover the pebbles in its channel. Look you," she added, raising her arm, and pointing her finger,--"see you yon rising ground to the left of those fir trees on the edge of the moor,--from the summit of that height the sea is visible, and I must, ere many hours, be upon those waters, in such a bark as you delicately-bred dames would not confide in on a summer's day on Ulswater Mere." Whilst the woman spoke, Tamar looked to her and then from her, but not a word did she utter. "Do you mind me?" said the gipsy; "I have known you long, aye very long. You were very small when I brought you to this place. I did well for you then. Are you grateful?" Tamar now did turn and look at her, and looked eagerly, and carefully, and intently on her dark and weather-beaten countenance. "Ah!" said the gipsy, whilst a smile of scorn distorted her lip,--"so you will demean yourself now to look upon me; and you would like to know what I could tell you?" "Indeed, indeed, I would!" exclaimed Tamar, all flushed and trembling. "Oh, in pity, in mercy tell me who I am and who are my parents?--if they still live; if I have any chance or--hope of seeing them?" "One is no more," replied the gipsy. "She from whom I took you lies in the earth on Norwood Common. I stretched the corpse myself,--it was a bonny corpse." Tamar fetched a deep, a very deep sigh. "Does my father live?" she asked. "Your father!" repeated the gipsy, with a malignant laugh,--"your father!" Tamar became more and more agitated; but excessive feeling made her appear almost insensible. With great effort she repeated,--"Does my father live?" "He does," replied the woman, with a malignant smile, "and shall I tell you where and how?--shut up, confined in a strong-hold, caught like a vile animal in a trap. Do you understand me, Tamar? I think they call you Tamar." "What!" said the poor girl, gasping for breath, "is my father a convicted felon?" "I used no such words," replied the gipsy; "but I told you that he lies shut up; and he is watched and guarded, too, I tell you." "Then he has forfeited his liberty," said Tamar; "he has committed some dreadful crime. Tell me, Oh! tell me, what is it?" The gipsy laughed, and her laugh was a frightful one. "What!" she said, "are you disappointed?--is the blight come over you? has the black fog shut out all the bright visions which the foolish Laird created in your fancy? Go, child!" she said, "go and tell him what I have told you, and see whether he will continue to cherish and flatter the offspring of our vagrant race." "He will," replied Tamar; "but tell me, only tell me, what is that mark burnt upon my shoulder?" "Your father branded you," she answered, "as we do all our children, lest in our many wanderings we should lose sight of our own, and not know them again; but come," she added, "the night draws on, darkness is stealing over the welkin; you are for the shed; there is your pole-star; see you the fitful glare of the forge?--I am for another direction; fare-you-well." "Stay, stay," said Tamar, seizing her arm, "Oh, tell me more! tell me more! My father, if I have a living father, I owe him a duty,--where is he? Tell me where he is, for the love of heaven tell me?" The woman shook her off,--"Go, fool," she said, "you know enough; or stay," she added, in her turn seizing Tamar's arm,--"if you like it better, leave those Dymocks and come with me, and you shall be one with us, and live with us, and eat with us and drink with us." "No! no!" said Tamar, with a piercing shriek, disengaging herself from the gipsy, and running with the swiftness of a hare, towards the friendly hovel. Old Shanty was alone, when, all pale and trembling, Tamar entered the shed, and sunk, half fainting, on the very bench on which the gipsy had sate on the eventful night in which she had brought her to the hovel fourteen years before. Shanty was terrified, for he had a paternal feeling for Tamar; he ceased immediately from his hammering, and sitting himself by her on the bench, he rested not until she had told him every thing which had happened; and when she had done so,--"Tamar," he said, "I am not surprised; I never thought you any thing else than the child of a vagrant, nor had you ever any ground for thinking otherwise. There are many imaginations," added the pious old man, "which attend our nature, which must be destroyed before we can enter into that perfect union with the Son, which will render us one with the Father, and will insure our happiness when God shall be all in all, and when all that is foretold in prophecy respecting this present earth shall be completed. Sin," continued the old man, "is neither more nor less than the non-conformity of the will of the creature with that of the Creator; and when the will of every child of Adam is brought into unison with the divine pleasure, then, as far our race is concerned, there will be an end of sin; and, in particular cases, Tamar, as regarding individuals in the present and past days, each one is happy, not as far as he indulges the imaginations suggested by his own depraved nature, but as far as he is content to be what his God would have him to be, as indicated by the circumstances and arrangements of things about him." It was marvellous (or rather would have been so to a stranger,) to hear this poor old dusky blacksmith, speaking and reasoning as he did; but who shall limit or set bounds to the power of the Lord the Spirit in enlightening the mind, independently as it were, of human ministry, or at least of any other ministry than that which teaches and promulgates the mere letter of Scripture? Tamar's mind was at that time fully prepared to receive all that Shanty said to her, and, insensibly to themselves, they were presently led almost to forget the information given by the gipsy, (which in fact left Tamar just as it had found her,) whilst new thoughts were opening to them; and the young girl was brought to see, that in her late anxiety to render the kind friends who had adopted her, comfortable as to outward circumstances, she had failed in using her filial influence to draw their attention to thoughts of religion. Shanty put on his coat, and walked with her over the rest of the moor, nor did he leave Heatherdale (where Mrs. Margaret insisted that he should sup,) until he had opened out to the Laird and his aunt the whole history of Tamar's rencounter with the gipsy. It was curious to observe the effect of this story on the minds of the two auditors. Mrs. Margaret embraced Tamar with tears, saying, "Methinks I am rejoiced that there is no one likely to claim my precious one from me;" whilst the Laird exclaimed, "I am not in the least convinced. The gipsy has no doubt some scheme of her own in view. She is afraid of being found out, and transported for child-stealing; but I wish I could see her, to tell her that I no more believe my palm-tree to have sprung from the briers of the Egyptian wilderness, than that I am not at this moment the Laird of Dymock." "Lord help you, nephew!" said Mrs. Margaret, "if poor dear Tamar's noble birth has not more substantial foundation than your lairdship, I believe that she must be content as she is,--the adopted daughter of a poor spinster, who has nothing to leave behind her but a few bales of old clothes." "Contented, my mother," said Tamar, bursting into tears, "could I be contented if taken from you?" Thus the affair of the gipsy passed off. The Laird, indeed, talked of raising the country to catch the randy quean; but all these resolutions were speedily forgotten, and no result ensued from this alarm, but that which Almighty power produced from it in the mind of Tamar, by making her more anxious to draw the minds of her patrons to religion. After this, for several weeks things went on much as usual on Dymock's moor. The inhabitants of the Tower were so still and quiet, that unless a thin curl of smoke had now and then been seen rising from the kitchen chimney, all the occupants might have been supposed to have been in a state of enchantment. Jacob, however, the dwarfish, deformed serving-man, did cross the moat at intervals, and came back laden with food; but he was so surly and short, that it was impossible to get a word of information from him, respecting that which was going on within the moat. Whilst Dymock scribbled, his aunt darned, Shanty hammered, and Tamar formed the delight and comfort of all the three last mentioned elders. But some settlement was necessarily to be made respecting Mr. Salmon's last payment, which had run up, with certain fixtures and old pictures, for which there was no room in the cottage, to nearly six hundred pounds, and after much pressing and persuading on the part of Mrs. Margaret, the Laird was at length worked up to the point of putting on his very best clothes, and going one morning to the Tower. He had boasted that he would not appear but as the Laird of Dymock in Dymock castle; therefore, though the weather was warm, he assumed his only remains of handsome apparel, viz, a cloak or mantle of blue cloth and with a hat, which was none of the best shape, on his head, he walked to the edge of the moat, and there stood awhile calling aloud. At length Jacob appeared on the other side, and knowing the Laird, he turned the bridge, over which Dymock walked with sullen pride. "I would see your master, where is he?" said the Laird, as soon as he got into the court. The eye of the dwarf directed that of Dymock to the window of a small room in a higher part of the keep, and the Laird, without waiting further permission, walked forward into the Tower. It gave him pain to see all the old and well remembered objects again; but it also gave him pleasure to find everything in its place as he had left it--even the very dust on the mouldings and cornices, which had remained undisturbed through the reign of Mrs. Margaret, from the absolute impossibility of reaching the lofty site of these depositions, was still there. Not an article of new furniture was added, while the old furniture looked more miserable and scanty, on account of some of the best pieces having been taken out to fill the cottage. Dymock walked through the old circular hall, the ground-floor of the Tower, and went up the stairs to the room where Mrs. Margaret used to sit and darn in solitary state; there was the oriel window, which hanging over the moat, commanded a glorious view on three sides. Dymock walked up to this window, and stood in the oriel, endeavouring, if possible, to understand what the feelings of his ancestors might have been, when they could look from thence, and call all the lands their own as far as the border, without counting many broader and fairer fields, in the southern direction. Whilst waiting there in deep and melancholy mood, suddenly his eye fell on the airy figure of Tamar standing on the opposite side of the moat, and looking up to him; as soon as she caught his eye, she kissed her hand and waved it to him, and well he could comprehend the sparkling smile which accompanied this motion, though he was too far off to see it. "And art thou not fair Maid of Judah," said the affectionate genius, "worth to me all the broad lands of my fathers? Could they purchase for me such love as thine? Art thou not the little ewe lamb of the poor man?--but none shall ever have thee from me my daughter, but one entirely worthy of thee?" Scarcely had Dymock returned the courtesy of Tamar, before Jacob, who had run to the top of the Tower before him, came to tell him that his master was ready to see him, and Dymock, who needed no guide, soon found himself at the head of several more rounds of stairs, which got narrower as they ascended,--and in front of a narrow door well studded with knobs of iron. Within this door was a room, which in time past had been used for security, either for prisoners, treasures, or other purposes,--tradition said not what,--but it still had every requisite of strength, the narrow windows being provided with stauncheons of iron, and the walls covered with strong wainscotting, in one side of which were sliding pannels opening into a closet. The secret of these pannels was known only to Dymock, and he, when he sold the castle, had revealed it to Mr. Salmon, vaunting the great service of which this secret closet, had been, in keeping plate and other valuables, though he acknowledged, poor man, that he had never made any great use of this mysterious conservatory. It seems that Mr. Salmon had appropriated this same room to his especial use; his bed, which in the French taste was covered with a tent-like tester, occupied one nook, and the curtains, as well as the floor-cloth, were of very rich, but tarnished and threadbare materials. Several ponderous tomes in vellum emblazoned with gold, were placed on a ledge of the wall near the bed; a square table, a trunk strongly clamped with brass, and an old fashioned easy chair, completed the furniture. And now for the first time Dymock saw Mr. Salmon in his deshabille. The old gentleman had laid aside his coat, probably that it might be spared unnecessary wear and tear; he wore a claret coloured waistcoat with large flaps, on which were apparent certain tarnished remains of embroidery; his lower extremities, as far as the knees, were encased in a texture the colour of which had once been pepper and salt, and from the knee downwards he wore a pair of home-manufactured, grey worsted stockings, which proved that his housekeeper was by no means inferior to Mrs. Margaret in her darning talents, though we must do the Laird's aunt the justice to assert, that she never darned stockings with more than three different colours. His slippers, both sole and upper part, had evidently at one time formed a covering of a floor, though what the original pattern and colours had been, could not now be made out. With all this quaintness of attire, the old man had the general appearance of neatness and cleanliness, and had it not been for the expression of his countenance, would have been far from ill-looking. He received Dymock with a sort of quiet civility, not unlike that which a cat assumes when she is aware of a mouse, and yet does not perceive that the moment is come to pounce upon it. Dymock drew near to the table, and accosted Mr. Salmon with his usual courteous, yet careless manner, and having apologized for coming at all on such an errand, wishing that there was no such thing as money in the world, he presented the inconclusive and inefficient memorandum, which the old gentleman had given him, "trusting, as he said, that it would be no inconvenience for him to pay what he conceived would be a mere trifle to him." Mr. Salmon had, it seems, forgotten to ask Dymock to sit down; indeed, there was no chair in the room but that occupied by his own person; however, he took his own note from the Laird's hands, and having examined it, he said, "But Mr. Dymock, there are conditions,--the memorandum is conditional, and I understand thereby, that I undertake to pay such and such moneys for such and such articles." "Well Sir, and have you not these articles in possession?" asked Dymock; have I removed a single item, which I told you on the honour of a gentleman should be yours on such and such conditions, and did you not tell me that you would pay me a certain sum, on entering into possession of these articles?" "What I did say, Sir," replied the old man, "is one thing; or rather what you choose to assert that I did say, and what is written here is another thing." "Sir!" replied Dymock, "Sir! do you give me the lie?--direct or indirect, I will not bear it; I, a son of the house of Dymock, to be thus bearded in my own Tower, to be told that what I choose to assert may not be true; that I am, in fact, a deceiver,--a sharper,--one that would prevaricate for sordid pelf!" What more the worthy man added, our history does not say, but that he added much cannot be disputed, and that he poured forth in high and honourable indignation, many sentiments which would have done credit both to the gentleman and the Christian. [Illustration: See Page 123] In the meantime the old man had drawn a huge bunch of keys from his pocket, and had deliberately opened the trunk before mentioned, at the top of which were sundry yellow canvass bags of specie; he next fitted a pair of spectacles on his nose, and then raising the cover of the table, he drew out a drawer containing a pair of scales, and began to weigh his guineas, as if to make a show of that of which he had none,--honesty; and the Laird having spent his indignation, was become quiet, and stood looking on, in a somewhat indolent and slouching attitude, making no question but that his honourable reasonings had prevailed, and that Mr. Salmon was about, without further hesitation, to pay him the five hundred and ninety-four pounds, ten shillings, and sixpence, which were his just due. Whilst Salmon went on with this process of weighing, which he did with perfect _sang-froid_, he began to mutter, "Five hundred and ninety-four pounds, ten shillings, and six-pence; too much, too much by half, for worm-eaten bed-steads and chairs, darned curtains and faded portraits; but Mr. Dymock, to show you that I am a man of honour, I will pay you at this moment four hundred pounds in the King's gold, and the remainder, that is, the one hundred and ninety-four pounds, ten shillings, and six-pence, shall be put to arbitration; we will go over each item, you and I, and a friend of each, and we will examine every article together, and if it is decided that the things are worth the moneys, well and good, it shall be so, and I will forthwith pay down the residue, though not compelled so to do by bond or signature." Again the hot blood of the Dymocks rose to the brow of the Laird; by an amazing effort of prudence and presence of mind, however, he caught up Salmon's note from the table, a motion which made the old man start, look up, and turn yellow, and then whisking round on his heel, with an expression of sovereign contempt, the Laird turned out of the room, exclaiming, "I scorn to address another word to thee, old deceiver; I shake the dust of thy floor from my foot; I shall send those to talk with thee, whose business it is to deal with deceivers;" and thus he quitted the chamber, drawing the door after him with a force which made every chamber in the Tower reverberate. In descending the spiral stairs, he came to a narrow window, which overlooked the moat, and from thence he saw Tamar lingering on the other side thereof. He stood a moment and she called to him; her words were these,--"Have you sped?" in reply to which, protruding his head through the narrow aperture, he said: "No! the man's a low and despicable deceiver," adding other terms which were by no means measured by the rules of prudence or even courtesy; these words were not, however, lost on Tamar, and by what she then heard, she was induced to take a measure which had she deliberated longer thereon, she might not have ventured upon. Dymock having spent his breath and his indignation through the window, to the disturbance of sundry bats and daws, which resided in the roof of the Tower, was become so calm that he made the rest of his descent in his usually tranquil and sluggish style, and even before he had crossed the court towards the draw-bridge, he had made up his mind to get Shanty to settle this knotty business, feeling that the old blacksmith would have been the proper person to have done it from the first. Jacob, the ugly, ill-conditioned serving-man, was waiting to turn the light bridge, and had Dymock looked upon him, he would have seen that there was triumph on the features of this deformed animal, for Jacob was in all his master's secrets; he knew that he meant to cheat the Laird, and he being Salmon's foster brother, already counted upon his master's riches as his own. Salmon's constitution was failing rapidly, and Jacob, therefore, soon hoped to gather in his golden harvest. Jacob too, hated every creature about him, and his hatred being inherited from his parents, was likely to be coeval with his life. The cause of this hatred will be seen in the sequel; but Jacob had no sooner turned the bridge and fixed it against the opposite bank, than Tamar springing from behind a cluster of bushes, jumped lightly on the boards, and the next moment she was with Dymock and Jacob on the inner side of the moat, under the tower. Jacob had started back, as if he had seen a spectre, at the appearance of the blooming, sparkling Tamar, who came forward without hat or other head dress, her raven tresses floating in the breeze. "Why are you here, my daughter?" said Dymock. "Do not restrain me, dear father," she answered, "you have not sped you say, only permit me to try my skill;" and then turning suddenly to Jacob, she drew herself up, as Dymock would have said, like a daughter of kings, and added, "show me to your master, I have business with him; go and tell him that I am here, and that I would see him." "And who are you?" asked Jacob, not insolently as was his wont, but as if under the impression of some kind of awe; "who shall I say you are?" Dymock was about to answer; but Tamar placed her hand playfully on his lips, and took no other notice of the question of the serving man, but by repeating her command. "What are you doing,--what do you propose to do, Tamar?" said the Laird. Tamar was fully aware that she had power to cause her patron at any time, to yield to her caprices; and she now used this power, as women know so well how to effect these things--not by reason--or persuasion, but by those playful manoeuvrings, which used in an evil cause have wrought the ruin of many a more steadfast character than Dymock. "I have a thought dear father," she said, "a wish, a fancy, a mere whim, and you shall not oppose me: only remain where you are; keep guard upon the bridge, I shall not be absent long, only tell me how it has happened that your errand here has failed, and you," she added, addressing Jacob, "go to your master and tell him I am here." "Why do you stand?" she added, stamping her little foot with impatience; "why do you not obey me?" and her dark eyes flashed and sparkled, "go and tell your master that I wish to see him." "And who must I tell him that you are?" he asked. "My name has been mentioned in your presence," she replied, "and if you did not hear it the fault is your own; it will not be told again." "Are you the daughter of this gentleman?" asked Jacob. "You have heard what he called me," she answered, "go and deliver my message." Whilst Jacob was gone, for go he did, at the young girl's bidding, Dymock told Tamar all that had taken place in Mr. Salmon's room, and Tamar confessed her wish to be permitted to speak to the old gentleman herself. Dymock was glad that any one should undertake this business, provided he could be relieved from it, and he promised Tamar that he would stand by the bridge and watch for her till her return. "Then I will myself go up to the Tower and demand admission:" so saying, she ran from Dymock, coursed rapidly through the various courts, and swift as the wind ascended the stairs, meeting no one in her way. She found the door of Salmon's chamber ajar, and pushing it open, she entered, and stood before Salmon, Jacob, and Rebecca (the old woman before mentioned as having come with Mr. Salmon to the Tower;) these three were all deep in consultation, Mr. Salmon being still seated where the Laird had left him. As Tamar burst upon them in all the light of youth; of beauty, and of conscious rectitude in the cause for which she came, the three remained fixed as statues, Jacob and Rebecca in shrinking attitudes, their eyes set fearfully upon her, their faces gathering paleness as they gazed; whilst Salmon flushed to the brow, his eyes distended and his mouth half open. The young girl advanced near to the centre of the room and casting a glance around her, in which might be read an expression of contempt quite free from fear, she said, "I am come by authority to receive the just dues of the late possessor of this place, and I require the sum to be told into my hand, and this I require in the name of Him who rules on high, and who will assuredly take cognizance of any act of fraud used towards a good and honourable man." "And who? and who?" said Salmon, his teeth actually chattering "who are you? and whence come you?" "I come from the Laird of Dymock," she answered, "and in his name I demand his rights!" "You, you," said Salmon, "you are his daughter?" "That remains to be told," replied Tamar, "what or who I am, is nothing to you, nor to you, nor you," she added, looking at Jacob and Rebecca, her eye being arrested for a minute on each, by the singular expression which passed over their countenances. "Give me the Laird's dues and you shall hear no more from me," she said, "never again will I come to trouble your dulness; but, if you deny it to me, you shall never rest from me;--no, no, I will haunt you day and night," and getting hotter as she continued to speak, "you shall have no rest from me, neither moat nor stone walls shall keep me out." She was thinking at that moment of the secret passage by which she fancied she might get into the Tower, if at this time she did not succeed; it was a wild and girlish scheme, and whether practicable or not, she had no time to think. As she uttered these last words, Salmon rose slowly from his seat, pushed his chair from behind him and stepped back, a livid paleness covering his features whilst he exclaimed: "Are you in life? or are you a terrible vision of my fancy? Jacob,--Rebecca,--do you see it too--Ah! you look pale, as those who see the dead--is it not so?" The terror now expressed in the three countenances, was rapidly extending to the heart of Tamar. What can all this mean, she thought, what is there about me that thus appals them: it is their own guilt that renders them fearful; but why should I fear? now is the moment for strength of heart, and may heaven grant it to me. Having strength given her; she again demanded the just due of her guardian. "It would be better to give it," muttered Jacob; and Rebecca at the same time screached out, "In the name of our father Abraham, give her what she asks, master,--and let her go,--let her go to her father,--to him that has reared her, and yet disowns her,--let her go to him; or like the daughters of Moab she will bring a curse on our house." "Hold your tongue, you old fool," said Jacob, "what do you know of her, and of him who was once Laird of Dymock? But, master," he added "pay the girl what she asks, and I will go down and get back your note, and once for all we will shut our doors upon these people." "But I would know," said Salmon, "I would know whence that girl has those eyes, which are bright as the bride of Solomon,--as Rachel's," he added, "they are such as hers." "Go to," said Jacob, "what folly is this, tell the money to the girl, and let her go." "Jacob! Jacob!" exclaimed Salmon, "I am ruined, undone, I shall come to beggary,--five hundred and ninty-four pounds, ten shillings and sixpence," and the teeth of the old man began to chatter, terror and dotage and cunning, seeming to be striving within him for the mastery and altogether depriving him of the power of acting. Jacob muttered one or two indistinct imprecations, then approaching the table himself, he told the gold from the bags with the facility of a money-changer, whilst Tamar stood calmly watching him; but the serving man finding the weight too great for her, he exchanged much of the gold, for Bank of England notes, which he took out of the same trunk, and then delivering the sum into Tamar's hands; "There young woman, go," he said, "and never again disturb my master with your presence." Whilst this was going on, Salmon had kept his eyes fixed on Tamar, and once or twice had gasped as if for breath; at length he said, "And you are Dymock's daughter, damsel, but you are not like your father's people,--are they not Nazarenes; tell me what was she who bore you?" "Beshrew you," exclaimed Jacob, "what is all this to you," and roughly seizing Tamar by the arm, he drew her out of the room, saying, "you have all you want, go down to your father, and let us see you no more." The young girl almost doubted as she descended the stairs, but that still she was over-reached, and if so, that Dymock would not perhaps find it out till it might be too late; she therefore, hearing Jacob behind her, ran with all her might, and coming to the place where Dymock stood, she called to him to follow her, and ran directly to Shanty's shed; Dymock proceeded after her a few yards behind, and Jacob still farther in the rear, crying "Laird, stop! stop! Mr. Dymock! give us your release, here is a paper for you to sign." Fortunately, Tamar found Shanty alone in his shed, and taking him into his inner room, she caused him to count and examine the money and thus was he occupied when Dymock and Jacob came in. Tamar went back to the outer room of the shed; but Shanty remained within, and when he found that all was right, Mr. Dymock gave his release. Jacob returned to the Tower, and old Shanty trotted off to Hexham, to put the money in a place of security; nor did he fail in his object, so that before he slept, the Laird had the satisfaction to think that this dirty work was all completed, and that without his having in the least soiled his own hands in the process. As to the mystery of Tamar's having been enabled to effect what he could not do, he soon settled that matter in his own mind, for, thought he, "if I the Laird of Dymock could never refuse a favour asked me by this maid of Judah, how could inferior minds be expected to withstand her influence?"--the poor Laird not considering that the very inferiority and coarseness of such minds as he attributed to Salmon and Jacob, would have prevented them from feeling that influence, which he had found so powerful. But they had felt something, which certainly belonged to Tamar, and had yielded to that something; nor could Tamar herself, when she reflected upon that scene in the Tower, at all comprehend how she had excited such emotions as she witnessed there; neither could Shanty, nor Mrs. Margaret help her out. Again for another month, all went on in its usual routine; all was quiet at Dymock's Tower, and darning, writing, and hammering, continued to be the order of the day with Mrs. Margaret, the Laird, and Shanty, whilst Tamar was all gay and happy in the fulfilment of many active duties, rising with the lark, and brushing the dew from the frequent herbs which encompassed her dwelling. It was all summer with her then, nor did she spoil the present by anticipation of the severities of a wintery day, for the work of grace was going on with her, and though her natural temper was lofty and violent, as appeared by her manner to Jacob on the occasion lately described, yet there was a higher principle imparted, which rendered these out-breakings every day more rare. We have said before, that Mrs. Margaret had a favourite cow, named by her mistress, Brindle, from the colours of her coat. Tamar had learned to milk Brindle, and this was always her first work. One morning in the beginning of August, it happened, or rather, was so ordered by Providence, that the Laird was constrained through the extreme activity of his imagination, which had prevented him from sleeping after midnight, to arise and go down to his study in order to put these valuable suggestions on paper. It was, however, still so dark when he descended into his study, that he was compelled to sit down awhile in his great chair, to await the break of day; and there that happened to him, which might as well have happened in bed,--that is he fell asleep, and slept soundly for some hours. All this, however, had not been done so quietly, but that he had awakened his sister and Tamar, who slept in the adjoining room; the consequence of which was, that Tamar got up and dressed herself, and having ascertained the situation of the Laird, and informed Mrs. Margaret that all was well in that quarter, she descended again into the kitchen, and proceeded to open the house-door. The shades of night were as yet not dispersed, although the morning faintly dawned on the horizon; but the air was soft, fragrant, and elastic, and as it filled the chest of Tamar, it seemed to inspire her with that sort of feeling, which makes young things whirl, and prance, and run, and leap, and perform all those antics which seem to speak of naught but folly to all the sober and discreet elders, who have forgotten that they were ever young. Almost intoxicated with this feeling inspired by the morning air, Tamar bounded from the step of the door, and ran a considerable way, first along the bottom of the glen, and then in a parallel line on the green side thereof; suddenly coming to a stand, she looked for Brindle, and could not at first discern her; a minute afterwards, however, she saw her at the higher end of the glen, just where it opened on the moor, and where it had hitherto been protected from the inroads of the sheep, or other creatures feeding on the common, by a rail and gate. This rail and gate had wanted a little repair for several weeks, the Laird having promised to give it that repair; and he was well able so to have done, having at one time of his life worked several months with the village carpenter. But the good man had not fulfilled his promise, and it had only been the evening before that Tamar had tied up the gate with what came nearest to her hand, namely, certain tendrils of a creeper which hung thereabouts from the rock that formed the chasm by which the valley was approached in that direction. These tendrils she had twisted together so as to form a band, never supposing that Brindle, though a young and female creature, could possibly be sufficiently capricious to leave her usual fragrant pasturage, in order to pull and nibble this withering band. But, however, so it was, as Tamar asserted, for there when she came up to the place, the band was broken, the gate forced open, and Brindle walking quietly forward through the narrow gully towards the moor. Tamar being come to the gate, stopped there, and called Brindle, who knew Tamar as well as she knew her own calf. But the animal had snuffed the air of liberty which came pouring down the little pass, from the open moor, and she walked deliberately on with that air which seemed to say,--"I hear your voice, but I am not coming." Tamar was provoked; had it been a human creature who was thus acting she might perhaps have recollected that it is not good to give way to anger; as it was, she made no such reflection, but exclaiming in strong terms against the creature, she began to run, knowing that if Brindle once got on the moor it would probably cost her many a weary step before she could get her back again. In measure however, as she quickened her pace, so did Brindle, and in a few minutes the truant animal had reached the open moor and began to career away in high style, as if rejoicing in the trouble she was giving. But even on the open moor it was yet very dusk; the dawn was hardly visible on the summits of the distant hills, and where there were woods or valleys the blackness was unbroken. Tamar stood almost in despair, when she found that the animal had reached the open ground; but whilst watching how she could get round her, so as to turn her back, the creature rather slackened her pace, and began to browze the short grass among the heather. Tamar now slowly advancing was taking a compass to come towards her head, when she, perceiving her, turned directly round, and trotted on straightforward to the knoll, which was at most not half a quarter of a mile from the dingle; Tamar followed her, but could not reach her till she had pushed her way in among the trees and bushes, and when Tamar reached the place, she found her quietly feeding in the green area, surrounded by the ruins. The light was still very imperfect, and Tamar was standing half hid by the bushes and huge blocks of granite, doubting whether she should not leave the cow there whilst she ran back to call the Laird to assist her, when suddenly she was startled by the sound of voices. She drew closer behind the block, and remained perfectly still, and ceased to think of the cow, so great was her amazement to find persons in a place, generally deserted by the country people, under the impression that things were there which should not be spoken of. She then also remembered her adventure with Sappho, and what Mrs. Margaret had told her of the concealed passage; and now recollecting that secret passage, she was aware that she stood not very far from the mysterious door-way. All these thoughts crowded to her mind, but perfect quiet was needful at the moment. As the disk of the sun approached the horizon, the light was rapidly increasing; the dawn in those higher latitudes is however long, but those who knew the signs of the morning were aware that it would soon terminate, and that they whose deeds feared the light had no time to lose. Tamar accordingly heard low voices, speaking, as it were in the mouth of the cavern, and then a voice of one without the cavern--of one as in the act of departing, saying distinctly, "twelve then at midnight!" The answer from within did not reach Tamar's ears, at least, she heard only an indistinct murmur, but the voice without again came clear to her, and the words were to this effect, "I will not fail; I will take care that he shall be in no condition to return;" the answer was again lost to Tamar, and probably some question, but the reply to this question was clear. "It is his day to go,--the garrison can't live without provision,--if he don't go to-day, we must skulk another twenty-four hours,--we must not venture with him, there will be murder!" then followed several sentences in such broad slang, as Tamar could not comprehend, though she thought she understood the tendency of these words, which were mixed with oaths and terms so brutal, that her blood ran cold in thinking of them; "Caught in his own snare,--he will sink in his own dyke,--we have him now, pelf and all." After this, Tamar heard parting steps, and various low rumbling noises as if proceeding from under ground; then all was still, and no farther sound was heard by her, but the rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, and the cropping of the herb by the incisors of Brindle. In the mean time the morning broke, the light of day was restored, and Tamar creeping gently from her hiding-place, left Brindle, whilst she ran back to the cottage. She had not gone far, before she met the labourer who was accustomed to assist her in the care of the garden. She told him that the cow had strayed to the knoll, and that she had seen her enter among the trees; and he undertook, with his dog, to drive her back to the glen, though, he said, he would on no account go up on the knoll, but his dog would drive her down, and he would see her home. "And why not go on to the knoll?" said Tamar. The man replied, that the place was known to be uncanny, and that not only strange noises, but strange sights had been seen there. "Lately?" asked Tamar, "have they been seen and heard lately?" The poor man could not assert that they had, and Tamar was not going to tell him what she had seen and heard. No! this mystery was to be left for the consideration of Dymock and Shanty, and she was anxious to know if their thoughts agreed with hers. When she arrived at the cottage, and the labourer had brought back Brindle, and fastened the gate, and Tamar had milked her cow, and done her usual services, she went to Dymock who was just awake, and brought him out to breakfast with Mrs. Margaret, "You shall not say any thing about posterity, and the benefits which you are doing to them by recording your thoughts, this morning, sir," she said, "but you shall hear what I have to tell you, and I will not tell you, but in the presence of Mrs. Margaret." When Dymock heard what Tamar had to say, he was at first quite amazed, for it seems, that if he had ever heard of the secret passage he had forgotten it, and Mrs. Margaret had had her reasons, for not stirring up his recollections; but when he was made acquainted with this fact, and had put together all that Tamar had related, he made the same reflections which she had done, and said that he had no doubt, but that these ruins had been the rendezvous of vagrants for years, and that there was now a plan to rob Mr. Salmon, through the means of the secret passage. He went further, for he had no lack of imagination, and proceeded to conjecture, that it was through the manoeuvreing of these very vagrants, that the old curmudgeon had been brought to Dymock's Tower, and following the connexion, he began to put together the appearance of the young blacksmith, the gipsy who had left Tamar at Shanty's, her second appearance and rapid disappearance, the coming of Mr. Salmon, his supposed riches, his strange whim of shutting himself up, and every other extraordinary circumstance, in a jumble even more inexplicable and confusing, than any of his previous speculations upon these events,--and when he had so done he put on his hat, and declared that he must go forthwith to Shanty. "To see," said Tamar, "what he can hammer out of it all, but something must and ought to be done to put Mr. Salmon on his guard, for otherwise, assuredly he will be robbed this night." "And perhaps murdered," exclaimed Mrs. Margaret; "but go, brother, be quick, and let us have Shanty's advice." "And I," said Tamar, after the Laird was departed, "will go to the Tower, and if possible get admittance. I will stop the going off of Jacob." Mrs. Margaret expostulated with her, but all her pleadings came to this,--that she should send a neighbour to watch for Tamar on the side of the moat, the young girl having assured her kind protectress, that she had nothing to fear for her, and that as the Laird was proverbially a procrastinator, he might let half the day pass, before he had settled what was to be done. Poor Mrs. Margaret was all tremor and agitation; at the bottom of her heart, she did not like to be left in the cottage, so near a gang of thieves as she felt herself to be; she was not, however, a selfish character, and after some tears, she kissed Tamar and bade her go, watching her the whole way through the glen, as if she were parting with her for years. The light step of the young girl, soon brought her to the edge of the moat, and she arrived, as it was ordered by Providence, at a very convenient time, for she met Rebecca on the moor, the old woman having just parted from Jacob, whose figure was still to be seen jogging along the heath. The first words of Tamar were to entreat Rebecca to call Jacob back, and when she found that she was speaking to one who chose to lend a deaf ear, she raised her own voice, but with equal ill success; turning then again to Rebecca, she saw that she was hastening to the bridge, on which she followed her, and was standing with her under the Tower, before the old woman could recollect herself. The creature looked yellow with spite, as she addressed the young maiden with many bitter expressions, asking her what she did there, and bidding her to be gone. "I am come," replied Tamar, "to see your master, and I will see him." "It is what you never shall again," replied the dame; "he has never been himself since he last saw you." "How is that?" said Tamar; "What did I do, but press him to act as an honourable man, but of this I am resolved," she added, "that I will now see him again," and as she spoke, she proceeded through the postern into the courts, still passing on towards the principal door of the Tower, Rebecca following her, and pouring upon her no measured abuse. Tamar, however, remarked, that the old woman lowered her voice as they advanced nearer the house, on which she raised her own tones, and said, "I must, and will see Mr. Salmon, it is a matter of life and death I come upon;--life and death I repeat, and if you or your master, have any thing on your minds or consciences, you will do well to hear what I have to tell you; a few hours hence and it will be too late." "In that case," said Rebecca, looking at one angry and terrified, "come with me, and I will hear you." "No," exclaimed Tamar, speaking loud, "I will see your master, my errand is to him," and at the same instant, the quick eye of the young girl, observed the face of Salmon peering through a loop-hole, fitted with a casement, which gave light to a closet near the entrance. Encouraged by this she spoke again, and still louder than before, saying, "See him I will, and from me alone, shall he hear the news I am come to tell." The next minute she heard the casement open, and saw the head of the old man obtruded from thence, and she heard a querulous, broken voice, asking what was the matter? Tamar stepped back a few paces, in order that she might have a clearer view of the speaker, and then looking up, she said, "I am come Mr. Salmon as a friend, and only as a friend, to warn you of a danger which threatens you,--hear me, and you may be saved,--but if you refuse to hear me, I tell you, that you may be a ghastly livid corpse before the morning." "Rebecca, Rebecca!" cried the old man, "Rebecca, I say, speak to her," and his voice faltered, the accents becoming puling. "Hear her not," said the dame, "she is a deceiver, she is come to get money out of you." "And heaven knows," cried Mr. Salmon, "that she is then coming to gather fruit from a barren tree. Money, indeed! and where am I to find money, even for her,--though she come in such a guise, as would wring the last drop of the heart's blood?" "Tush!" said Rebecca, "you are rambling and dreaming again;" but the old man heard her not, he had left the lattice, and in a few seconds he appeared within the passage. During this interval, Rebecca had not been quiet, for she had seized the arm of Tamar, and the young girl had shaken her off with some difficulty, and not without saying, "Your unwillingness to permit me to speak to your master, old woman, goes against you, but it shall not avail you, speak to him I will," and the contest between Tamar and the old woman was still proceeding, when Salmon appeared in the passage. Tamar instantly sprang to meet him, and seeing that his step was feeble and tottering, she supported him to a chair, in a small parlour which opened into the passage, and there, standing in the midst of the floor between him and Rebecca, she told her errand; nor was she interrupted until she had told all, the old man looking as if her recital had turned him into stone, and the old woman expressing a degree of terror, which at least cleared her in Tamar's mind, of the guilt of being connected with the thieves of the secret passage. As soon as the young girl had finished, the old miser broke out in the most bitter and helpless lamentations. "My jewels!--my silver!--my moneys!" he exclaimed, "Oh my moneys!--my moneys! Tell me, tell me damsel, what I can do? Call Jacob. Where is Jacob? Oh, my moneys!--my jewels!" "Peace, good sir! peace!" said Tamar, "we will befriend you, we will assist you, we will protect you; the Laird is an honourable man, he will protect you. I have known him long, long,--since I was a baby; and he would perish before he would wrong any one, or see another wronged." "The Laird did you say," asked Salmon, "your father; he is your father damsel is he not?" "I have no other," replied Tamar, "I never knew another. Why do you ask me?" "Because," said Rebecca, "he is doting, and thinks more of other people's concerns than his own." "Has he ever lost a daughter?" asked Tamar. "He lost a wife in her youth," answered the old woman, "and he was almost in his dotage when he married her, and he fancies because you have black hair, that you resemble her; but there is no more likeness between you two, than there is between a hooded crow and a raven." "There is more though, there is much more though," muttered the old man, "and Jacob saw it too, and owned that he did." "The fool!" repeated Rebecca, "the fool! did I not tell him that he was feeding your poor mind with follies; tell me, how should this poor girl be like your wife?" The old man shook his head, and answered, "Because, he that made them both, fashioned them to be so; and Rebecca, I have been thinking that had my daughter lived, had Jessica lived till now, she would have been just such a one." "Preserve you in your senses, master," exclaimed Rebecca, "such as they are, they are better than none; but had your daughter lived, she would have been as unlike this damsel as you ever were to your bright browed wife. Why you are short and shrivelled, so was your daughter; your features are sharp, and so were hers; she was ever a poor pining thing, and when I laid her in her grave beside her mother, it was a corpse to frighten one; it was well for you, as I ever told you, that she died as soon." "Yet had she lived, I might have had a thing to love," replied the old man; and then, looking at Tamar, he added, "They tell me you are the Laird's daughter,--is it so, fair maid?" Rebecca again interrupted him. "What folly is this," she said, raising her voice almost to a shriek, "how know you but that, whilst you are questioning the damsel, your chests and coffers are in the hands of robbers; your money, I tell you, is in danger: your gold, your oft-told gold. You were not wont to be so careless of your gold; up and look after it. You will be reduced to beg your bread from those you hate; arise, be strong. Where are your keys? Give them to the damsel; she is young and active; she will swiftly remove the treasure out of the way. Can you not trust her? See you not the fair guise in which she comes? Can you suspect a creature who looks like your wife, like Rachel? Is not her tale well framed; and are you, or are you not deceived by her fair seemings? She is the daughter of a beggar, and she knows herself to be such; and there is no doubt but that she has her ends to answer by giving this alarm." The old man had arisen; he looked hither and thither; he felt for his keys, which were hanging at his girdle; and then, falling back into his chair, he uttered one deep groan and became insensible, his whole complexion turning to a livid paleness. "He is dying!" exclaimed Tamar, holding him up in his chair, from which he would have otherwise fallen. "He is dying, the poor old man is dying; bring water, anything." "He has often been in this way since he came here," replied Rebecca. "We have thought that he has had a stroke; he is not the man he was a few months since; and had I known how it would be, it is strange but I would have found means to hinder his coming." "If he were ever so before," said Tamar "why did you work him up, and talk to him, as you did, about his daughter; but, fetch some water," she added. "I shall not leave him with you," answered Rebecca. "Nor shall I abandon him to your tender mercies," replied Tamar, "whilst he is in this condition. I am not his daughter, it is true,--but he is a feeble old man, and I will befriend him if I can." The old gentleman at this moment fell forward with such weight, that Tamar ran from behind him, and dropping down on her knees, received his head on her shoulder, then, putting one arm round him, she was glad to hear a long, deep sigh, the prelude of his returning to partial consciousness; and as he opened his eyes, he said,--"Ah, Rachel, is it you? You have been gone a long time." Tamar was at that moment alone with the old man. Rebecca had heard voices at a distance, and she had run to pull up the bridge. "I am not your Rachel, venerable Sir," she said; "but the adopted daughter of the Laird of Dymock," and she gently laid his head back. "Then why do you come to me like her?" said the old man. "That is wrong, it is very cruel; it is tormenting me before my time. I have not hurt you, and I will give you more gold if you will not do this again." "You rave, Sir," said Tamar. "Who do you take me for?" "A dream," he answered. "I have been dreaming again;" and he raised himself, shook his head, rubbed his hands across his eyes, and looked as usual; but before he could add another word, Dymock and Shanty entered the parlour. Rebecca had been too late in preventing their crossing the bridge, and they with some difficulty made the old gentleman understand that if he had any valuables, they must ascertain whether the place in which they were kept was any way approachable by the cavern. They also told him that they had taken means to have the exterior mouth of the cavern upon the knoll, stopped up, after the gang were in it; that they had provided a considerable force for this purpose; and that they should bring in men within the Tower to seize the depredators. Dymock then requested Tamar to return to Mrs. Margaret, and remain quietly with her; and when she was gone, the bridge was drawn up, and she went back to the cottage. She had much to tell Mrs. Margaret, and long, very long,--after they had discussed many times the singular scene between Salmon, Rebecca, and Tamar, and spoken of what might be the plans of Dymock and Shanty for securing the Tower,--did the remainder of the day appear to them. Several times they climbed to the edge of the glen, to observe if aught was stirring; but all was still as usual. There stood the old Tower in solemn, silent unconsciousness of what might soon pass within it; and there was the knoll, looking as green and fresh as it was ever wont to do. At sun-set Tamar and Mrs. Margaret again visited this post of observation, and again after they had supped at eight o'clock. They then returned and shut their doors; they made up their fires; and whilst Tamar plied her needle, Mrs. Margaret told many ancient tales and dismal predictions of secret murders, corpse-candles, and visions of second-sight, after which, as midnight approached, they became more restless and anxious respecting their friends, wondering what they would do, and expressing their hopes, or their fears, in dark sentences, such as these:--"We trust no blood may be shed!--if there should be blood!--if Dymock or poor Shanty should be hurt!" Again, they turned to form many conjectures, and put many things together:--"Was Mr. Salmon connected with the gipsies who had brought Tamar to the moor?--Was it this gang that proposed robbing him?--Was the young blacksmith called Harefoot connected with the gipsy?--Had he persuaded Salmon to bring his treasures there, in order that he might pilfer them?--And lastly, wherefore was Mr. Salmon so affected both times he had seen Tamar?" Here, indeed, was a subject for conjecture, which lasted some hours, and beguiled the sense of anxiety. At length the morning began to dawn on that long night, and Tamar went out to milk Brindle, whose caprices had, in fact, the day before, been the first mover in all this confusion. Cows must be milked, even were the master of the family dying; and Tamar wished to have this task over before any message should come from the Tower; and scarcely had she returned to the cottage, when the lad who administered the wind to Shanty's forge, came running with such haste, that, to use his own words,--"he had no more breath left for speaking than a broken bellows." "For the love of prince Charles," he said, "can you give us any provender, Mrs. Margaret? It is cold work watching all night, with neither food nor drink, save one bottle of whiskey among ten of us, and scarce a dry crust." "But what have you done?" asked Tamar. "We have nabbed them," replied the boy. "There were four of them, besides an old woman who was taken in the cave, and they are in the Tower till we can get the magistrates here, and proper hands to see them off. They came like rats from under ground. My master had made out where to expect them, in one of the cellars, behind the great hogshead which used to be filled at the birth of the heir, and emptied at his coming of age. So we were ready in the cellar, and nabbed three of them there, and the other, who was hindmost, and the woman, were taken as they ran out the other way; and there they are in the strong-hold, that is, the four men, but the woman is up above; and it is pitiful to hear how she howls and cries, and calls for the Laird; but he fell asleep as soon as he knew all was safe, and we have not the heart to disturb him." "Well," said Mrs. Margaret, "I am most thankful that all is over without bloodshed, and my nephew asleep. No wonder, as he has not slept since twelve in the morning of yesterday." "Excepting in his chair," said Tamar. "But the provender, mistress," said the young man. "Here," replied Tamar; "lift this pail on your head, and take this loaf, and I will follow with what else I can find." "Nay, Tamar," said Mrs. Margaret, "You would not go where there is such a number of men and no woman, but that old witch Rebecca." "I am not afraid of going where my father is," replied Tamar; "but I must see that woman. I should know her immediately. I am convinced that she is the very person who brought me to Shanty's shed. She hinted at some connexion with me. Oh, horrible! may it not be possible that I may have near relations among these miserable men who are shut up in the strong-hold of the Tower?" As Tamar said these words, she burst into tears, and sunk upon the bosom of Mrs. Margaret, who, kissing her tenderly, said, "Child of my affections, of this be assured, that nothing shall separate you from me. My heart, methinks, clings more and more to you; and oh, my Tamar! that which I seem most to fear is that you should be claimed by any one who may have a right to take you from me." This was a sort of assurance at that moment requisite to the poor girl; and such, indeed, was the interest which Mrs. Margaret felt in ascertaining if this really were the woman who had brought Tamar to Shanty's, that she put on her hood and cloak, and having filled a basket from the larder, she locked the cottage door, and went with Tamar to the Tower. It was barely light when they crossed the moat, for the bridge was not drawn; and when they entered the inner-court, they found many of the peasants seated in a circle, dipping portions of the loaf in Brindle's pail. "Welcome! welcome! to your own place, Mrs. Margaret Dymock!" said one of them, "and here," he added, dipping a cup into the pail, "I drink to the restoration of the rightful heir and the good old family, and to your house-keeping, Mrs. Margaret; for things are done now in another style to what they were in your time." A general shout seconded this sentiment, and Mrs. Margaret, curtseying, and then pluming herself, answered, "I thank you, my friends, and flatter myself, that had my power been equal to my will, no hungry person should ever have departed from Dymock's Tower." The ladies were then obliged to stand and hear the whole history of the night's exploit,--told almost in as many ways as there were tongues to tell it; and whilst these relations were going forward, the sun had fairly risen above the horizon, and was gilding the jagged battlements of the Tower. Shanty was not with the party in the court, but he suddenly appeared in the door-way of the Tower. He seemed in haste and high excitement, and was about to call to any one who would hear him first, when his eye fell on Tamar and Mrs. Margaret. "Oh, there you are," he said; "I was looking for one of swift foot to bring you here. Come up this moment; you are required to be present at the confession of the gipsy wife, who is now willing to tell all, on condition that we give her her liberty. Whether this can be allowed or not, we doubt; though she did not make herself busy with the rest, but was caught as she tried to escape by the knoll." "Oh! spare her, if possible," said Tamar, "or let her escape, if you can do nothing else to save her; I beseech you spare her!" Shanty made no reply, but led the way to an upper room of the Tower, which had in old time, when there were any stores to keep, (a case which had not occurred for some years,) been occupied as a strong-hold for groceries, and other articles of the same description; and there, besides the prisoner, who stood sullenly leaning against the wall, with her arms folded, sat Dymock and Salmon,--the Laird looking all importance, his lips being compressed and his arms folded,--and old Salmon, being little better in appearance than a _caput mortuum_, so entirely was the poor creature overpowered by the rapid changes in the scenes which were enacting before him. Shanty had met Rebecca running down the stairs as he was bringing up Mrs. Margaret, and he had seized her and brought her in, saying, "Now old lady, as we are coming to a clearance, it might be just as well to burn out your dross among the rest; or may be," he added, "you may perhaps answer to the lumps of lime-stone in the furnace, not of much good in yourself, but of some service to help the smelting of that which is better,--so come along, old lady; my mind misgives me, that you have had more to do in making up this queer affair than you would have it supposed." The more Rebecca resisted, the more determined was Shanty; neither did he quit his hold of the old woman, until the whole party had entered the room, the door being shut, and his back set against it, where he kept his place, like a bar of iron in a stanchion. Chairs had been set for Mrs. Margaret and Tamar, and when they were seated Dymock informed the prisoner that she might speak. Tamar had instantly recognized her; so had Shanty; and both were violently agitated, especially the former, when she began to speak. We will not give her story exactly in her own words; for she used many terms, which, from the mixture of gipsy slang and broad Border dialect, would not be generally understood; but, being translated, her narrative stood as follows:-- She was, it seems, of gipsy blood, and had no fixed habitation, but many hiding places, one of which was the cavern or passage connected with Dymock's Tower. Another of her haunts was Norwood Common, which, every one knows, is near London, and there was a sort of head-quarters of the gang, though, as was their custom, they seldom committed depredations near their quarters. She said, that, one day being on the common, she came in front of an old, black and white house, (which was taken down not many years afterwards;) in the front thereof was a garden, and a green lawn carefully trimmed, and in that garden on a seat sat an old lady, a tall and comely dame, she said, and she was playing with a little child, who might have been a year and-a-half old. The gipsy, it seems, had asked charity through the open iron railing of the garden; and the lady had risen and approached the railing, bringing the child with her, and putting the money into the infant's hand to pass it through the railing. The vagrant had then observed the dress and ornaments of the child, that she had a necklace of coral, clasped with some sparkling stone, golden clasps in her shoes, much rich lace about her cap, and above all, golden bracelets of curious workmanship on her wrists. "She had not," said Rebecca; "she never wore those ornaments excepting on festival days." The vagrant took no notice of this remark of Rebecca's; but Shanty gave the old servant a piercing look, whilst all others present, with the exception of Salmon, felt almost fainting with impatience; but Salmon's mind seemed for the moment in such a state of obtuseness, as disabled him from catching hold of the link which was leading to that which was to interest him as much as, or even more than, any one present. The gipsy went on to say, that her cupidity was so much excited by these ornaments, that she fixed her eye immediately on the family, and resolved, if possible, to get possession of the child. She first inquired respecting the family, and learned, that the house was occupied by a widow lady, who had with her an only daughter, a married woman; that the child she had seen belonged to that daughter; and that the husband was abroad, and was a Jew, supposed to be immensely rich. "I knew it," said Dymock, turning round and snapping his fingers; "I hammered it out, Master Shanty, sooner than you did; I knew the physiognomy of a daughter of Zion at the very first glance; you, too, must never talk again of your penetration, Aunt Margaret," and the good man actually danced about the room; but Shanty on one side, and Aunt Margaret on the other, seized him by an arm, and forced him again upon his chair, entreating him to be still; whilst Salmon roused himself in his seat, shook off, or tried to shake off his confusion, and fixed his eyes stedfastly on the vagrant. The woman then went on to describe the means by which she had got a sort of footing in this house; how she first discovered the back-door, and under what pretences she invited the servants to enter into a sort of concert with her for their mutual emolument, they bartering hare-skins, kitchen grease, cold meat, &c., for lace, tapes, thread, ballads, and other small matters. "The thieves?" cried Salmon; but no one noticed him. "There were only two servants in the house," said the gipsy; "there might be others, but I saw them not, and one of those now stands here;" and she fixed her eagle eye on Rebecca; "the other is Jacob." "Jacob and Rebecca!" exclaimed Salmon; "it was my house, then, that you were robbing, and my servants whom you were tampering with." "Go on," said Dymock to the vagrant, whose story then proceeded to this effect:-- She had visited the offices of this house several times; when, coming one evening by appointment of the servants, with some view to bartering the master's goods with her own wares, she found the family in terrible alarm, she had come as she said, just at the crisis in which a soul had parted, and it was the soul of that same old lady who had been playing with the infant on the grass-plot. Rebecca was wailing and groaning in the kitchen, for she needed help to streak the corpse, and the family had lived so close and solitary, that she knew of no one at hand to whom to apply, and she feared that the dead would become stark and cold, before she could find help; Jacob was not within, he had gone to London, to fetch a Doctor of their own creed, and was not likely to be back for some time. "And why? said I," continued the vagrant, "why, said I, should I not do for this service as well as another? for many and many had been the corpse which I had streaked; so she accepted my offer, and took me up to the chamber of death, and I streaked the body, and a noble corpse it was. The dame had been a comely one, as tall as that lady," pointing to Dymock's aunt, "and not unlike her." "Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Margaret, smiling, "I understand it now;" but Dymock bade her be silent, and the vagrant went on. "So," said she, "when I had streaked the body, I said to Rebecca we must have a silver plate, for pewter will not answer the purpose." "What for?" said she. "'To fill with salt,' I answered, 'and set upon the breast.' "So she fetched me a silver plate half filled with salt, and I laid it on the corpse; 'and now,' I said, 'we must have rue and marjoram, run down and get me some;' and then I frightened her, poor fool as she was, by telling her that by the limpness of the hand of the corpse, I augured another death very soon in the house." "When I told this to Rebecca, the creature was so frightened, that away she ran, leaving me in the room with the body. Swift as thought," continued the woman, "I caught the silver dish, and was running down stairs,--it was gloaming--when I saw a door open opposite the chamber of death, and there, in the glimmering, I saw the child of the family asleep in a little crib. She had on her usual dress, with the ornaments I spoke of, and seemed to have fallen asleep before her time, as she was not undressed. I caught her up, asleep as she was, and the next moment I was out in the yard, and across the court, and through the back-door, and away over the common, and to where I knew that none would follow me, but they of my people, who would help my flight." "And the child with you," said Salmon, "did you take the child?" "More I will not tell," added the woman; "no, nor more shall any tortures force from me, unless you bind yourselves not to prosecute me,--unless you promise me my liberty." "I have told you," said the Laird, "that if you tell every thing you shall be free,--do you question my truth?" "No, Dymock," said the vagrant; "I know you to be a man of truth, and in that dependence you shall hear all." "I stripped the child of her gaudery, I wrapped her in rags, and I slung her on my back; but I did her no harm, and many a weary mile I bore her, till I came to the moor; and then, because she was a burden, and because the brand on her shoulder would assuredly identify her, if suspicion fell on me for having stolen her, I left her in the old blacksmith's shed, and there she found a better father than you would have made her; for what are you but a wicked Jew, with a heart as hard as the gold you love." The fixed, and almost stone-like attitude in which the old man stood for some moments after his understanding had admitted the information given by the vagrant, so drew the attention of all present, that there was not a sound heard in the room, every one apprehending that the next moment they should see him drop down dead, nor did any one know what was best to do next; but this moment of terror was terminated by the old man's sinking on his knees, clasping his hands, and lifting his eyes, and breaking out in a short but solemn act of thanksgiving, and then turning his head without rising, as it were looking for his daughter, she sprang toward him, and threw her arms about him, whilst he still knelt. It would be difficult to describe the scene which followed: Dymock began to caper and exult, Mrs. Margaret to weep, Rebecca to utter imprecations, and Shanty to sing and whistle, as he was wont to do when hammering in his shed, and the vagrant to dare the old Jewess to deny any thing which she had said. When Dymock had assisted Tamar to lift her father into the chair, and when the old man had wept plentifully, he was again anxious to examine the case more closely; and a discussion followed, in which many things were explained and cleared up on both sides, though it was found necessary for this end, to promise Rebecca that she should be forgiven, and no vengeance taken upon her, if she should confess her part of the history. This discussion lasted long, and the substance of what was then opened to Tamar and her paternal friends was this:--Mr. Salmon was, it seems, a Polish Jew, extremely rich, and evidently very parsimonious; he had had mercantile concerns in London, and had there married, when nearly fifty years of age, a beautiful young Jewess, whose mother he had greatly benefitted, when in the most deplorable circumstances. With this lady he had gone abroad, and it was very evident that he had been a severe and jealous husband. She had brought him a daughter soon after her marriage. This child was born in Poland, Rebecca was her nurse; but Mrs. Salmon, falling into bad health immediately after the birth of the child, she implored her husband to permit her to return to England, and to her mother. Salmon saw that she was not happy with him; and the strange suspicion seized him, as there was little tie between him and his wife, that in case his own child died, she might palm another upon him,--to prevent which, he branded the babe with the figure of a palm branch, and sent her home, with Rebecca and Jacob, who were both Jews, to watch her; though there was no need, as Rachel was a simple, harmless creature. She was also in very bad health when she reached England, and scarcely survived her mother three days, and during that time hardly asked for her child; and the artful servants had contrived to make their master believe that the baby had proved a sickly deformed creature, and had died, and been buried in the coffin with its mother. Salmon was in Poland when all these horrors occurred, and there Jacob and Rebecca found him; and having now no other object, he devoted himself entirely to amassing riches, passing from one state of covetousness to another, till at length he began to fall into the dotage of avarice, which consists in laying up money for the sake of laying up, and delighting in the view of hoards of gold and precious things. With this madness in his mind, he turned much of his property into jewels, and returning to England, he began to look about for a safe place wherein he might deposit his treasures. But, as a Jew, he could not possess land; he therefore passed the form of naturalization, and whilst looking about for a situation in which he might dwell in safety, his character and circumstances became in part known to the gipsies, (who, amongst other thieves, always have their eyes on those who are supposed to carry valuables about them,) and the man called Harefoot, formed the plan of getting him and his treasures into Dymock's Tower. This Harefoot was the nephew of the woman who had brought Tamar to Shanty's; and the old miser, being tempted by the moat, and other circumstances of the place, fell into the snare which had been thus skillfully laid for him. It was not till after Salmon had come to the Tower, that the connection between Salmon and Tamar was discovered by the old woman; and it was at this time that she contrived to meet Tamar, and to convey the notion to her, that she was of a gipsy family; fearing lest she should, by any means, be led to an explanation with Salmon, before her nephew and his gang had made sure of the treasure. Harefoot had supposed that he and his gang were the only persons who knew of the secret passage; and the reason why they had not made the attempt of robbing Salmon by that passage sooner, was simply this, that Harefoot, having been detected in some small offence in some distant county, had been confined several weeks in a house of correction, from which he had not been set free many days before he came to the moor, and took upon himself the conduct of the plot for robbing Salmon. What Jacob and Rebecca's plans were did not appear, or wherefore they had not only fallen in with, but promoted the settlement of their master in the Tower; but that their object was a selfish one cannot be doubted. Had other confirmation been wanting, after the mark on Tamar's shoulder had been acknowledged, the vagrant added it, by producing a clasp of one armlet, which she had retained, and carried about with her in a leathern bag, amongst sundry other heterogeneous relics; and she accounted for having preserved it, from the fear she had of exposing a cypher wrought on a precious stone, which might, she thought, lead to detection. A dreadful hue and cry in the court below, soon after this disturbed the conference. All seemed confusion and uproar; Dymock and Shanty rushed down stairs, and aunt Margaret and Tamar ran out to the window in the nearest passage; there they learnt that the prisoners had broken the bars of their dungeon, swam the moat, and fled; and the ladies could see the peasants in pursuit, scouring over the moor, whilst those they were pursuing were scarcely visible. "I am glad of it," said Tamar, "I should rejoice in their escape, they will trouble us no more; and oh, my dear mother, I would not, that one sad heart, should now mix itself with our joyful ones!" Mrs. Margaret and Tamar stood at the window till they saw the pursuers turning back to the castle, some of them not being sorry in their hearts, at the escape of the rogues, but the most remarkable part of the story was, that whilst they had all been thus engaged, the woman had also made off, and, though probably not in company with her, that most excellent and faithful creature Rebecca, neither of whom were ever heard of again. And now none were left, but those who hoped to live and die in each other's company, but these were soon joined by the magistrates and legal powers, who had been summoned from the nearest town, together with people from all quarters, who flocked to hear and learn what was going forward; and here was an opportunity not to be lost by Dymock and Shanty, of telling the wonderful tale, and old Salmon having been recruited with some small nourishment, administered by Mrs. Margaret, presented his daughter to the whole assembly, and being admonished by Shanty, placed in her hands before them, the deed of transfer of the lands and castle of Dymock, which in fact to him, was but a drop in the ocean of his wealth. As she received this deed, she fell on one knee, and kissed her venerable father's hand, after which he raised and embraced her, paternal affection and paternal pride acting like the genial warmth of the sun, in thawing the frost of his heart and frame. She had whispered something whilst he kissed her, and as his answer had been favourable, she turned to Dymock, and now bending on both knees, she placed the deed in his hands, her sweet face at the same time being all moist with gushing tears, falling upon her adopted father's hand. Shanty in his apron and unshorn chin, explained to those about, what had been done; for they, that is the Laird, Aunt Margaret, Salmon, and Tamar, were standing on the elevated platform, at the door of the Tower: and then arose such shouts and acclamations from one and all, as made the whole castle ring again, and one voice in particular arose above the rest, crying, "Our Laird has got his own again, and blessing be on her who gave it him." "Rather bless Him," cried Shanty, "who has thus brought order out of confussion, to Him be the glory given in every present happiness, as in all that we are assured of in the future." As there were no means of regaling those present at that time, and as Mr. Salmon was then too confused to do that which he ought to have done, in rewarding those who had defended him, most of them being poor people, they were dismissed with an invitation to a future meeting at the Tower; two or three gentlemen, friends of Dymock, only being left. Much consultation then ensued, whilst Mrs. Margaret bestirred herself, to procure female assistance, and to provide the best meal, which could be had at a short notice. During this conference with the Laird and his friends, all of whom were honourable men, Mr. Salmon was induced to consent to have his treasures, his bonds, his notes and bills, consigned to such keeping as was judged most safe; neither, could these matters be settled, without a journey to town, in which Dymock accompanied him, together with a legal friend of the latter of known respectability. We do not enter into the particulars of this journey, but merely say, that Mr. Salmon in the joy, and we may add, thankfulness of recovering his child, not only permitted himself to be advised, but whilst in town made his will, by which, he left all he possessed to his daughter, and this being concluded to the satisfaction of all concerned, he returned to Dymock's Tower, laden with presents for Mrs. Margaret. Neither were Shanty's services overlooked; the cottage and land appertaining thereunto, were to be his for life, free from rent and dues, together with twenty pounds a year, in consideration of his never-varying kindness to Tamar. The old man wept, when told of what was done for him, and himself went the next day to Morpeth, to bring from thence a sister, nearly as old as himself, who was living there in hard service. And here the memorandum from which this story is derived, becomes less particular in the details. It speaks of Mr. Salmon after the various exertions he had made, (these exertions having been as it was supposed succeeded by a stroke,) sinking almost immediately into a state nearly childish, during which, however, it was a very great delight to Tamar, to perceive in the very midst of this intellectual ruin an awakening to things spiritual; so that it would seem, as if the things hidden from him in the days of human prudence and wisdom, were now made manifest to him, in the period of almost second childishness. Tamar had been enabled to imbibe the purest Christian principles, in her early youth, for which, humanly speaking, she owed much to Shanty, and she now with the assistance of the kind old man, laboured incessantly, to bring her father to the Messiah of the Christians, as the only hope and rest of his soul; and she had reason before her father died, to hope that her labours had not been without fruit. As to worldly pelf, she had it in rich abundance, but she could have little personal enjoyment of it whilst shut up with her aged father in Dymock's Tower, yet she had exquisite delight in humouring therewith, the fancies of Dymock, and administering to the more sober and benevolent plans of Mrs. Margaret; for this lady's principal delight was, to assist the needy, and her only earthly or worldly caprice, that of restoring the Tower and its environs, and furnishing, to what she conceived had been its state, in the, perhaps, imaginary days of the exaltation of the Dymocks. A splendid feast in the halls of Dymock's Tower, is also spoken of, as having taken place, soon after the return of the Laird from London, from which, not a creature dwelling on the moor was absent, when Salmon directed Tamar to reward those persons who had assisted him in his greatest need, and when Mrs. Margaret added numbers of coats and garments to those that were destitute. Dymock in his joy of heart, caused the plough to be brought forward, and fixed upon a table in the hall, for every one to see that day, Mrs. Margaret having been obliged to acknowledge, that it was this same plough, which had turned up the vein of gold, in which all present were rejoicing. With the notice of this feast the history terminates, and here the writer concludes with a single sentiment,--that although a work of kindness wrought in the fear of God, as imparted by the Lord, the Spirit--seldom produces such a manifest reward, as it did in the case of Mrs. Margaret and her nephew, for the race is not always to the swift, nor the burthen to the strong, yet, even under this present imperfect dispensation, there is a peace above all price, accompanying every act, which draws a creature out of self, to administer to the necessities of others, whenever these acts are performed in faith, and with a continual reference to the pleasure of God, and without view to heaping up merits, which is a principle entirely adverse to anything like a correct knowledge of salvation by the Lord the Saviour. 
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19852	----	Transcribed from the 1831 edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org THE GIPSIES' ADVOCATE; OR, OBSERVATIONS ON THE ORIGIN, CHARACTER, MANNERS, AND HABITS OF The English Gipsies: TO WHICH ARE ADDED, MANY INTERESTING ANECDOTES, ON THE SUCCESS THAT HAS ATTENDED THE PLANS OF SEVERAL BENEVOLENT INDIVIDUALS, WHO ANXIOUSLY DESIRE THEIR CONVERSION TO GOD. BY JAMES CRABB, AUTHOR OF "THE PENITENT MAGDALEN." "The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which is lost." "Let that mind be in you which was in Christ Jesus." LONDON: SEELEY, FLEET STREET; WESTLEY AND DAVIS, AVE-MARIA-LANE; HATCHARD, PICCADILLY; LINDSAY AND CO., SOUTH STREET, ANDREW STREET, EDINBURGH; COLLINS, GLASGOW; WAKEMAN, DUBLIN, WILSON AND SON, YORK. 1831. BAKER AND SON, PRINTERS, SOUTHAMPTON. TO THE JUDGES, MAGISTRATES, AND Ministers of Christ, AS THE ORGANS OF PUBLIC JUSTICE, AND REVEALED TRUTH, THE GIPSIES' ADVOCATE IS MOST RESPECTFULLY AND SINCERELY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. The Author of the following pages has been urged by numerous friends, and more particularly by his own conscience, to present to the Christian Public a brief account of the people called Gipsies, now wandering in Britain. This, to many readers, may appear inexpedient; as Grellman and Hoyland have written largely on this neglected part of the human family. But it should be recollected, that there are thousands of respectable and intelligent christians, who never have read, and never may read either of the above authors. The writer of the present work is partly indebted for the sympathies he feels, and which he wishes to awaken in others toward these miserable wanderers, to various authors who have written on them, but more particularly to Grellman and Hoyland, who, in addition to the facts which came under their own immediate notice, have published the observations of travellers and others interested in the history of this people. A list of these authors may be seen in the Appendix. But his knowledge of this people does not entirely depend on the testimony of others, having had the opportunity of closely examining for himself their habits and character in familiar visits to their tents, and by allowing his door to be free of access to all those encamped near Southampton, when they have needed his help and advice. Thus has he gained a general knowledge of their vicious habits, their comparative virtues, and their unhappy modes of life, which he hopes the following pages will fully prove, and be the means of placing their character in the light of truth, and of correcting various mistakes respecting them, which have given rise to many unjust and injurious prejudices against them. The Author could have enlarged the present work very considerably, had he detailed all the facts with which he is well acquainted. His object, however, was to furnish a work which should be concise and cheap, that he might be the means of exciting among his countrymen an energetic benevolence toward this despised people; for it cannot be denied that many thousands of them have never given the condition of the Gipsies a single thought. Such a work is now presented to the public. Whether the author has succeeded, will be best known to those persons who have the most correct and extensive information relative to the unhappy race in question. Should he be the honoured instrument of exciting in any breasts the same feelings of pity, mercy, love and zeal for these poor English heathens, as is felt and carried into useful plans for the heathens abroad, by christians of all denominations; he will then be certain that, by the blessing of the Redeemer, the confidence of the Gipsies will be gained, and, that they will be led to that Saviour, who has said, _Whosoever cometh unto me_, _I will in no wise cast him out_. CHAP. I. On the Origin of the Gipsies. Of the Origin of these wanderers of the human race, the learned are not agreed; for we have no authentic records of their first emigrations. Some suppose them to be the descendants of Israel, and many others, that they are of Egyptian origin. But the evidence adduced in confirmation of these opinions appears very inconclusive. We cannot discover more than fifty Hebrew words in the language they speak, and they have not a ceremony peculiar to the Hebrew nation. They have not a word of Coptic, and but few of Persian derivation. And they are deemed as strangers in Egypt at the present time. They are now found in many countries of Europe, Asia, and Africa, in all of which they speak a language _peculiar to themselves_. On the continent of America alone are there none of them found. Grellman informs us that there were great numbers in Lorraine, and that they dwelt in its forests, before the French Revolution of 1790. He supposes that there are no less than 700,000 in the world, and that the greatest numbers are found in Europe. Throughout the countries they inhabit, they have kept themselves a distinct race of people in every possible way. They never visit the Norman Isles; and it is said by the natives of Ireland, that their numbers are small in that country. Hoyland informs us, that many counties in Scotland are free of them, while they wander about in other districts of that country, as in England. He has also informed us, sec. 6, of a colony which resides during the winter months at Kirk Yetholm in the county of Roxburgh. {10} Sir Thomas Brown, in his work entitled "VULGAR ERRORS," says, that they were seen first in Germany, in the year 1409. In 1418, they were found in Switzerland; and in 1422, in Italy. They appeared in France, on the 17th August, 1427. It is remarkable that, when they first came into Europe, they were black, and that the women were still blacker than the men. From Grellman we learn, that "in Hungary, there are 50,000; in Spain, 60,000; and that they are innumerable in Constantinople." It appears from the statute of the 22nd of Henry VIII, made against this people, that they must at that time have been in England some years, and must have increased much in number, and in crime. In the 27th of that reign, a law was made against the importation of such persons, subjecting the importer to 40_l_ penalty. In that reign also they were considered so dangerous to the morals and comfort of the country, that many of them were sent back to Calais. Yet in the reign of Elizabeth, they were estimated at 10,000. {11a} Dr Walsh says, that the Gipsies in Turkey, like the Jews, are distinguishable by indelible personal marks, dark eyes, brown complexion, and black hair; and by unalterable moral qualities, an aversion to labour, and a propensity to petty thefts. {11b} The celebrated traveller, Dr Daniel Clarke, speaks of great numbers of Gipsies in Persia, who are much encouraged by the Tartars. Formerly, and particularly on the Continent, they had their counts, lords, and dukes; but these were titles without either power or riches. The English Gipsies were formerly accustomed to denominate an aged man and woman among them, as their king and queen; but this is a political distinction which has not been recognized by them for many years. If we suppose the Gipsies to have been heathens before they came into this country, their separation from pagan degradation and cruelty, has been attended with many advantages to themselves. They have seen neither the superstitions of idolatry, nor the unnatural cruelties of heathenism. They are not destitute of those sympathies and attachments which would adorn the most polished circles. In demonstration of this, we have only to make ourselves acquainted with the fervour and tenderness of their conjugal, parental, and filial sensibilities,--and the great care they take of all who are aged, infirm, and blind, among them. Were these highly interesting qualities sanctified by pure religion, they would exhibit much of the beauty and loveliness of the christian character. I am aware that an opinion is general, that they are cruel to their children; but it may be questioned if ebullitions of passion are more frequent among them, in reference to their children, than among other classes of society; and when these ebullitions, which are not lasting, are over--their conduct toward their children is most affectionate. The attachment of Gipsy children to their parents is equally vivid and admirable; it grows with their years, and strengthens even as their connections increase. {12} And indeed the affection that sisters and brothers have one for the other is very great. A short time since, the little sister of a Gipsy youth seventeen years of age, was taken ill with a fever, when his mind became exceedingly distressed, and he gave way to excessive grief and weeping. Those who suppose these wanderers of mankind to be of Hindostanee or Suder origin, have much the best proof on their side. A real Gipsy has a countenance, eye, mouth, hands, ancle, and quickness of manners, strongly indicative of Hindoo origin. This is more particularly the case with the females. Nor is the above mere assertion. The testimony of the most intelligent travellers, many of whom have long resided in India, fully supports this opinion. And, indeed, persons who have not travelled on the Asiatic Continent, but who have seen natives of Hindostan, have been surprised at the similarity of manners and features existing between them and the Gipsies. The Author of this work once met with a Hindoo woman, and was astonished at the great resemblance she bore in countenance and manners to the female Gipsy of his own country. The Hindoo Suder delights in horses, tinkering, music, and fortune telling; so does the Gipsy. The Suder tribes of the same part of the Asiatic Continent, are wanderers, dwelling chiefly in wretched mud-huts. When they remove from one place to another, they carry with them their scanty property. The English Gipsies imitate these erratic tribes in this particular. They wander from place to place, and carry their small tents with them, which consist of a few bent sticks, and a blanket. {14} The Suders in the East eat the flesh of nearly every unclean creature; nor are they careful that the flesh of such creatures should not be putrid. How exactly do the Gipsies imitate them in this abhorrent choice of food! They have been in the habit of eating many kinds of brutes, not even excepting dogs and cats; and when pressed by hunger, have sought after the most putrid carrion. It has been a common saying among them--_that which God kills_, _is better than that killed by man_. But of late years, with a few exceptions, they have much improved in this respect; for they now eat neither dogs nor cats, and but seldom seek after carrion. But in winter they will dress and eat snails, hedge-hogs, and other creatures not generally dressed for food. But the strongest evidence of their Hindoo origin is the great resemblance their own language bears to the Hindostanee. The following Vocabulary is taken from Grellman, Hoyland, and Captain Richardson. The first of these respectable authors declares, that twelve out of thirty words of the Gipsies' language, are either purely Hindostanee, or nearly related to it. The following list of words are among those which bear the greatest resemblance to that language. _Gipsy_. _Hindostanee_. _English_. Ick, Ek, Ek, One. Duj, Doj, Du, Two. Trin, Tri, Tin, Three. Schtar, Star, Tschar, Four. Pantsch, Pansch, Pansch, Five. Tschowe, Sshow, Tscho, Six. Efta, Hefta, Sat, Seven. Ochto, Aute, Eight. Desch, Des, Des, Ten. Bisch, Bis, Bis Twenty. Diwes, Diw, Day. Ratti, Ratch, Night. Cham, Cam, Tschanct The sun. Panj, Panj, Water. Sonnikey, Suna, Gold. Rup, Ruppa, Silver. Bal, Bal, The hair. Aok, Awk, The eye. Kan, Kawn, The ear. Mui, Mu, The mouth. Dant, Dant, A tooth. Sunjo, Sunnj, The hearing. Sunj, Sunkh, The smell. Sik, Tschik, The taste. Tschater, Tschater, A tent. Rajah, Raja, The prince. Baro, Bura, Great. Kalo, Kala, Black. Grea, Gorra, Horse. Ker, Gurr, House. Pawnee, Paniee, Brook, drink, water. Bebee, Beebe, Aunt. Bouropanee, Bura-panee, Ocean, wave. Rattie, Rat, Dark night, Dad, Dada, Father. Mutchee, Muchee, Fish. This language, called by themselves Slang, or Gibberish, invented, as they think, by their forefathers for secret purposes, is not merely the language of _one_, or a _few _of these wandering tribes, which are found in the European Nations; but is adopted by the vast numbers who inhabit the earth. One of our reformed Gipsies, while in the army, was with his regiment at Portsmouth, and being on garrison duty with an invalid soldier, he was surprised to hear some words of the Gipsy language unintentionally uttered by him, who was a German. On enquiring how he understood this language, the German replied, that he was of Gipsy origin, and that it was spoken by this race in every part of his native land, for purposes of secrecy. {16} A well known nobleman, who had resided many years in India, taking shelter under a tree during a storm in this country, near a camp of Gipsies, was astonished to hear them use several words he well knew were Hindostanee; and going up to them, he found them able to converse with him in that language. Not long ago, a Missionary from India, who was well acquainted with the language of Hindostan, was at the Author's house when a Gipsy was present; and, after a conversation which he had with her, he declared, that, her people must once have known the Hindostanee language _well_. Indeed Gipsies have often expressed surprise when words have been read to them out of the Hindostanee vocabulary. Lord Teignmouth once said to a young Gipsy woman in Hindostanee, _Tue burra tschur_, that is, _Thou a great thief_. She immediately replied; No--_I am not a thief_--_I live by fortune telling_. It can be no matter of surprise that this language, as spoken among this people, is generally corrupted, when we consider, that, for many centuries, they have known nothing of elementary science, and have been strangers to books and letters. Perhaps the secrecy necessary to effect many of their designs, has been the greatest means of preserving its scanty remains among them. But an attempt to prove that they are _not_ of Hindoo origin, because they do not speak the Hindostanee with perfect correctness, would be as absurd as to declare, that, our Gipsies are not natives of England, because they speak very incorrect English. The few words that follow, and which occurred in some conversations the Author had with the most intelligent of the Gipsies he has met, prove how incorrectly they speak _our_ language; and yet it would be worse than folly to attempt to prove that they are not natives of England. Expencival _for_ expensive. Cide _for_ decide. Device _for_ advice. Dixen _for_ dictionary. {18} Ealfully _for_ equally. Indistructed _for_ instructed. Gemmem _for_ gentleman. Dauntment _for_ daunted. Spiteliness _for_ spitefulness. Hawcus Paccus _for_ Habeas Corpus. Increach _for_ increase. Commist _for_ submit. Brand, in his observations on POPULAR ANTIQUITIES, is of opinion that the first Gipsies fled from Asia, when the cruel Timur Beg ravaged India, with a view to proselyte the heathen to the Mohammedan religion; at which time about 500,000 human beings were butchered by him. Some suppose, that, soon after this time, many who escaped the sword of this human fury, came into Europe through Egypt; and on this account were called, in English, GIPSIES. Although there is not the least reason whatever to suppose the Gipsies to have had an Egyptian origin, and although, as we have asserted in a former page, they are strangers in that land of wonders to the present day; yet it appears possible to me, that Egypt may have had something to do with their present appellation. And allowing that the supposition is well founded, which ascribes to them a passage through Egypt into European nations, it is very likely they found their way to that place under the following circumstances. In the years 1408 and 1409, Timur Beg ravaged India, to make, as has already been observed, proselytes to the Mohammedan delusion, when he put hundreds of thousands of its inhabitants to the sword. It is very rational to suppose, that numbers of those who had the happiness not to be overtaken by an army so dreadful, on account of the cruelties it perpetrated, should save their lives by flying from their native land, to become wandering strangers in another. Now if we assert that the Gipsies were of the Suder cast of Asiatic Indians, and that they found their way from Hindostan into other and remote countries when Timur Beg spread around him terrors so dreadful, it is natural to ask, why did not some of the other casts of India accompany them? This objection has no weight at all when we consider the hatred and contempt poured upon the Suder by all the other casts of India. The Bramins, Tschechteries, and Beis, were as safe, though menaced with destruction by Timur Beg, as they would have been along with the Suder tribes, seeking a retreat from their enemy in lands where he would not be likely to follow them. Besides, the other casts, from time immemorial, have looked on their country as especially given them of God; and they would as soon have suffered death, as leave it. The Suders had not these prepossessions for their native soil. They were a degraded people--a people looked on as the lowest of the human race; and, with an army seeking their destruction, they had every motive to leave, and none to stay in Hindostan. It cannot be determined by what track the forefathers of the Gipsies found their way from Hindostan to the countries of Europe. But it may be presumed that they passed over the southern Persian deserts of Sigiston, Makran and Kirman, along the Persian Gulph to the mouth of the Euphrates, thence to Bassora into the deserts of Arabia, and thence into Egypt by the Isthmus of Suez. It is a fact not unworthy a place in these remarks on the origin of this people, that they do not like to be called Gipsies, unless by those persons whom they have reason to consider their real friends. This probably arises from two causes of great distress to them--_Gipsies are suspected and hated as the perpetrators of all crime_--_and they are almost universally prosecuted as vagrants_. Is it to be wondered at, that to strangers, they do not like to acknowledge themselves as Gipsies? I think not. We will conclude our remarks on the origin of these erratic sons of Adam, by adding the testimony of Col. Herriot, read before the Royal Asiatic Society, Sir George Staunton in the chair. That gentleman, giving an account of the Zingaree of India, says, that this class of people are frequently met with in that part of Hindostan which is watered by the Ganges, as well as the Malwa, Guzerat, and the Decan: they are called Nath, or Benia; the first term signifying a _rogue_--and the second a _dancer_, or _tumbler_. And the same gentleman cites various authorities in demonstration of the resemblance between these Gipsies and their neglected brethren in Europe. Nor does he think that the English Gipsies are so degraded as is generally supposed; in support of which he mentions some instances of good feeling displayed by them under his own observation, while in Hampshire. CHAP. II. Observations on the Character, Manners, and Habits of the English Gipsies. The origin of this people is by no means of so much importance as the knowledge of their present character, manners and habits, with the view to the devising of proper plans for the improvement of their condition, and their conversion to christianity: for to any one who desires to love his neigbour as himself, their origin will be but a secondary consideration. Fifty years ago the Gipsies had their regular journeys, and often remained one or two months in a place, when they worked at their trades. And as access to different towns was more difficult than at the present day, partly from the badness of the roads and partly from the paucity of carriers, they were considered by the peasantry, and by small farmers, of whom there were great numbers in those days, as very useful branches of the human family; I mean the industrious and better part of them. At that period they usually encamped in the farmers' fields, or slept in their barns; and not being subject to the _driving system_, as they now are, they seldom robbed hedges; for their fires were replenished with dead-wood procured, without any risk of fines or imprisonments, from decayed trees and wooded banks. And it is proper to suppose, that, at such a time, their outrages and depredations were very few. It has already been stated that the Gipsies are very numerous, amounting to about 700,000. It is supposed that there are about 18,000 in this kingdom. But be they less or more, we ought never to forget--that they are branches of the same family with ourselves--that they are capable of being fitted for all the duties and enjoyments of life--and, what is better than all, that they are redeemed by the same Saviour, may partake of the same salvation, and be prepared for the same state of immortal bliss, from whence flows to the universal church of Christ, that peace which the world cannot take from her. Their condition, therefore, at once commands our sympathies, energies, prayers, and benevolence. Gipsies in general are of a tawny or brown colour; but this is not wholly hereditary. The chief cause is probably the lowness of their habits; for they very seldom wash their persons, or the clothes they wear, their linen excepted. Their alternate exposures to cold and heat, and the smoke surrounding their small camps, perpetually tend to increase those characteristics of complexion and feature by which they are at present distinguishable. It is not often that a Gipsy is seen well-dressed, even when they possess costly apparel; but their women are fond of finery. They are much delighted with broad lace, large ear-drops, a variety of rings, and glaring colours; and, when they possess the means, shew how great a share they have of that foolish vanity, which is said to be inherent in females, and which leads many, destitute of the faith, and hope, and love, and humility of the gospel, into utter ruin. A remarkable instance of the love of costly attire in a female Gipsy, is well known to the writer. The woman alluded to, obtained _a very large sum of money_ from three maiden ladies, pledging that it should be doubled by her art in conjuration. She then decamped to another district, where she bought a blood-horse, a black beaver hat, a new side-saddle and bridle, a silver-mounted whip, and figured away in her ill-obtained finery at the fairs. It is not easy to imagine the disappointment and resentment of the covetous and credulous ladies, whom she had so easily duped. Nor indeed are the males of this people less addicted to the love of gay clothing, if it suited their interests to exhibit it. An orphan, only ten years of age, taken from actual starvation last winter, and who was fed and clothed, and had every care taken of him, would not remain with those who wished him well, and who had been his friends; but returned to the camp from which he had been taken, saying, that he _would be a Gipsy_, _and would wear silver buttons on his coat_, _and have topped boots_; and when asked how he would get them, he replied--_by catching rats_. Some Gipsies try to excel others in the possession of silver buttons. They will sometimes give as much as fifteen pounds for a set. The females too spend many pounds on weighty gold rings for their fingers. The Author has by him, belonging to a Gipsy, three massy rings soldered together, and with a half sovereign on the top, which serves instead of a brilliant stone. We pity a vain Gipsy whose eyes are taken, and whose heart delights in such vulgar pomp. Are not those equally pitiable, who estimate themselves only by the gaiety, singularity, or costliness of their apparel? The Saviour has given us a rule by which we may judge persons in reference to their dress, as well as in other ostensibilities of character--_by their fruits ye shall know them_. The Gipsies are not strangers to pawn-brokers shops; but they do not visit these places for the same purposes as the vitiated poor of our trading towns. A pawnshop is their bank. When they acquire property illegally, as by stealing, swindling, or fortune-telling, they purchase valuable plate, and sometimes in the same hour pledge it for safety. Such property they have in store against days of adversity and trouble, which on account of their dishonest habits, often overtake them. Should one of their families stand before a Judge of his country, charged with a crime which is likely to cost him his life, or to transport him, every article of value is sacrificed to save him from death, or apprehended banishment. In such cases they generally retain a Counsellor to plead for the brother in adversity. At other times they carry their plate about with them, and when visited by friends, they bring out from dirty bags, a silver tea-pot, and a cream-jug and spoons of the same metal. Their plate is by no means paltry. Of course considerable property in plate is not very generally possessed by them. The Gipsies of this country are very punctual in paying their debts. All the Shop-keepers, with whom they deal in these parts, have declared, that they are some of their best and most honest customers. For the payment of a debt which is owing to one of their own people, the time and place are appointed by them, and should the debtor disappoint the creditor, he is liable by their law of honour to pay double the amount he owes; and he must pay it by personal servitude, if he cannot with money, if he wish to be considered by his friends honest and respectable. They call this law _pizharris_. There are few of these unhappy people that can either read or write. Yet a regular and frequent correspondence is kept up between the members of families who have had the least advantage of the sort; and those who have had no advantages whatever, correspond through the kindness of friends who write for them. Numerous are the letters which they receive from their relatives in New South Wales, to which Colony so many hundreds of this unsettled race have been transported. Their letters are usually left at one particular post-office, in the districts where they travel; and should such letters not be called for during a long period, they are usually kept by the post-master, who is sure they will be claimed, sooner or later. A long journey will be no impediment, when a letter is expected; for a Gipsy will travel any distance to obtain an expected favour of the kind. They are never heard to complain of the heavy expense of postage. We have already observed that there are many genuine features of humanity in the character of this degraded and despised people. Their constantly retaining an affectionate remembrance of their deceased relatives, affords a striking proof of this statement. And their attachment to the horse, donkey, rings, snuffbox, silver-spoons, and all things, except the clothes, of the deceased relatives, is very strong. With such articles they will never part, except in the greatest distress; and then they only pledge some of them, which are redeemed as soon as they possess the means. Most families visit the graves of their near relatives, once in the year; generally about the time of Christmas. Then the depository of the dead becomes a rallying spot for the living; for there they renew their attachments and sympathies, and give and receive assurances of continued good will. At such periods however they are too often addicted to feasting and intemperance. The graves of the deceased of this people, are usually kept in very good order in the various Church yards where they lie interred. This is done by the Sextons, for which they are annually remunerated. Sometimes large sums of money are expended on the erection of head-stones; and in one instance a monument was erected in the County of Wilts at considerable cost. It is not very long since, that the parents of a deceased Gipsy child, whom they loved very much, paid a great sum to have it buried in the Church. The Gipsies have a singular custom of burning all the clothes belonging to any one among them deceased, with the straw, litter, &c, of his tent. Whether this be from fear of infection, or from superstition, the Author has not been able to learn. Perhaps both unite in the continuation of a custom which must be attended with some loss to them. {28} Seldom do these mysterious sons and daughters of Adam unite themselves in the holy obligations of marriage, after the form of the Established Church of our land. Nor, indeed, for so sacred a union, have they _any ceremony at all_. The parents on each side are consulted on such occasions, and if their consent be obtained, the parties become, after their custom, _husband and wife_. Should the parents object, like the thoughtless and imprudent persons in higher life, who flee to Gretna Green, the Gipsy lovers also escape from their parents to another district. When the couple are again met by the friends of the female, they take her from her protector; but if it appear that he has treated her kindly, and is likely to continue to do so, they restore her to him, and all objections and animosities are forgotten. As it seldom happens that they now stay more than a few days in one place, the Gipsy, his wife, and each of their children, may severally belong to different parishes. This is an objection to their ultimate settlement in any one place. It will be some time before this objection can be removed: not till the present generation of Gipsies has passed away, and their posterity cease to make the wilderness their homes, choosing a parish for a permanent place of settlement. It may naturally be expected that these inhabitants of the field and forest, the lane and the moor, are not without a knowledge of the medicinal qualities of certain herbs. In all slight disorders they have recourse to these remedies, and frequently use the inner bark of the elm, star-in-the-earth, parsley, pellitory-in-the-wall, and wormwood. They are not subject to the numerous disorders and fevers common in large towns; but in some instances they are visited with that dreadful scourge of the British nation, the Typhus fever, which spreads through their little camp, and becomes fatal to some of its families. The small-pox and measles are disorders they very much dread; but they are not more disposed to rheumatic affections than those who live in houses. It is a fact, however, that ought not to be passed over here, that when they leave their tents to settle in towns, they are generally ill for a time. The children of one family that wintered with us in 1831, were nearly all attacked with fever that threatened their lives. This may be occasioned by their taking all at once to regular habits, and the renunciation of that exercise to which they have been so long accustomed, with some disposing qualities in their change of diet and the atmosphere of a thickly populated town. This people often live to a considerable age, many instances of which are well known. In his tent at Launton, Oxfordshire, died in the year 1830, more than a hundred years of age, James Smith, called by some, the King of the Gipsies. By his tribe he was looked up to with the greatest respect and veneration. His remains were followed to the grave by his widow, who is herself more than a hundred years old, and by many of his children, grand-children, great grand-children, and other relatives; and by several individuals of other tribes. At the funeral his widow tore her hair, uttered the most frantic exclamations, and begged to be allowed to throw herself on the coffin, that she might be buried with her husband. The religion of the Redeemer would have taught her to say, _The Lord gave_, _and the Lord hath taken away_; _blessed be the name of the Lord_. A woman of the name of B--- lived to the reputed age of a hundred and twenty years, and up to that age was accustomed to sing her song very gaily. Many events in the life of this woman were very remarkable. In her youth she was a noted swindler. At one time she got a large sum of money, and other valuable effects, from a lady; for which and other offences, she was condemned to die. A petition was presented to George the Third, to use the Gipsy's own expression, who told the author, _just after he had set __up business_, that is, begun to reign, and he attended to its prayer. The sentence was reversed, and her life was consequently spared. But, poor woman, she repented not of her sins; for she taught her daughter to commit the same crimes for which she had been condemned; so that her delivery from condemnation led to no salutary reformation. The mutual attachment which subsists between the nominal husband and wife, is so truly sincere, that instances of infidelity, on either side, occur but seldom. They are known strictly to avoid all conversation of an unchaste kind in their camps, except among the most degraded of them; and instances of young females having children, before they pledge themselves to those they love, are rare. This purity of morals, among a people living as they do, speaks much in their favour. The anxiety of a Gipsy parent to preserve the purity of the morals of a daughter, is strongly portrayed in the following fact. The author wished to engage as a servant the daughter of a Gipsy who was desirous of quitting her vagrant life; but her mother strongly objected for some time; and when pressed for the reason of such objection, she named the danger she would be in a town, far from a mother's eye. It would be well if all others felt for their children as did this unlettered Gipsy. After having promised that the morals of the child should be watched over, she was confided to his care. And the author has known a Gipsy parent correct with stripes a grown daughter, for mentioning what a profligate person had talked about. The following is an instance of conjugal attachment. A poor woman, whose eldest child is now under the care of the Society for the improvement of the Gipsies, being near her confinement, came into the neighbourhood of Southampton, to be with her friends, who are reformed, during the time. This not taking place so soon as she expected, and having promised to meet her husband at a distance on a certain day, he not daring to shew himself in Hampshire, she determined on going to him; and having mounted her donkey, set off with her little family. She had a distance of nearly fifty miles to travel, and happily reached the desired spot, where she met her husband before her confinement took place. The good people at Warminster, near which place she was, afforded her kind and needful assistance; and one well-disposed lady became God-mother to the babe, who was a fine little girl; the grateful mother pledging that, at a proper age, she should be given up to Christians to be educated. Before this woman left Southampton, referring to many kind attentions shewn her by the charitable of that place, she was heard to say, _Well_--_I did not think any one would take such trouble for me_! Professing to be church people whenever they speak of religion, the Gipsies generally have their children baptized at the church near which they are born, partly because they think it right, and partly, perhaps chiefly, to secure the knowledge of the parish to which the child belongs; for every illegitimate child is parishioner in the parish in which it happens to be born. They will sometimes apply to the parish officers for something toward the support of a child, which they call _settling the baby_. The sponsors at baptism are generally branches of the same family, and they speak of their God-children with pleasure, who in return manifest a high feeling of respect for them, and superstitiously ask their blessing on old Christmas-days, when in company with them. It is worthy of remark that all the better sort of Gipsies teach their children the LORD'S PRAYER. The anxiety evidenced by some parish officers to prevent these families from settling in their districts, has occasionally led the Gipsies to act unjustifiably by menacing them with the settlement of a number of their families; but this, from their perpetual wandering, need never be feared. Happy would it be for the Gipsies as a people, if these civil officers did encourage them to stay longer in their neighbourhood; for they then might be induced to commence and persevere in honest, industrious and regular habits. Not long ago thirty-five Gipsies came to a parish in Hampshire, to which they belonged, and demanded of the overseers ten pounds, declaring that, if that sum were not given them, they would remain there. Seven pounds were advanced, and they soon left the place. CHAP. III. The Character, Manners and Habits of the English Gipsies, continued. From the mode of living among the Gipsies, the parents are often necessitated to leave their tents in the morning, and seldom return to them before night. Their children are then left in or about their solitary camps, having many times no adult with them; the elder children then have the care of the younger. Those who are old enough gather wood for fuel; nor is stealing it thought a crime. By the culpable neglect of the parents in this respect, the children are often exposed to accidents by fire; and melancholy instances of children being burnt and scalded to death, are not unfrequent. The author knows one poor woman, two of whose children have thus lost their lives, during her absence from her tent, at different periods: and very lately a child was scalded to death in the parish where the author writes. The Gipsies are not very regular in attending to the calls of appetite and hunger. Their principal meal is supper, and their food is supplied in proportion to the success they have had through the day; or, to use their own words, _the luck they have met with_. Like the poor of the land through which they wander, they are fond of tea, drinking it at every meal. When times are hard with them, they use English herbs, of which they generally carry a stock, such as agrimony, ground-ivy, wild mint, and the root of a herb called spice-herb. The trades they follow are generally chair-mending, knife-grinding, tinkering, and basket-making, the wood for which they mostly steal. Some of them sell hardware, brushes, corks, &c.; but in general, neither old nor young among them, do much that can be called labour. And it is lamentable that the greatest part of the little they do earn, is laid by to spend at their festivals; for like many tribes of uncivilized Indians, they mostly make their women support their families, who generally do it by swindling and fortune-telling. Their baskets introduce them to the servants of families, of whom they beg victuals, to whom they sell trifling wares, and tell their fortunes, which indeed is their principal aim, as it is their greatest source of gain. They have been awkwardly fixed, both servants and the Gipsy fortune-teller, when the lady of the house has unexpectedly gone into the kitchen and surprised them while thus employed; and sometimes, to avoid detection, the obnoxious party has been hurried into a closet, or butler's pantry, where there has been much plate. Few are aware of the losses that have attended the conduct of unprincipled servants in this, as in other respects. It may be hoped that few families would knowingly look over conduct so improper, so dangerous. Many of these idle soothsayers endeavour to persuade the people whom they delude, that the power to foretell future events, is granted to them from heaven, to enable them to get bread for their families. It would be well were the prognostications of these women encouraged only among servants; but this is not the case. They are often invited into gay and fashionable circles, whom they amuse, if, by the information possessed by the parties, they are not cunning enough to deceive. They are well paid, and are thus encouraged in their iniquity by those who ought to know, and _teach them_ better. But it is astonishing how many _respectable_ people are led away with the artful flattery of such visitors. They forget that the Gipsy fortune-teller has often made herself acquainted with their connexions, business, and future prospects, and consider not that God commits not his secrets to the wicked and profane. They use not the reason heaven has given them, and are therefore more easily led astray by these crafty deceivers. They generally prophesy good. Knowing the readiest way to deceive, to a young lady they describe a handsome gentleman, as one she may be assured will be her "husband." To a youth they promise a pretty lady, with a large fortune. And thus suiting their deluding speeches to the age, circumstances, anticipations and prospects of those who employ them, they seldom fail to please their vanity, and often gain a rich reward for their fraud. They suit their incantations, or their pretended means of gaining knowledge, to their employers. Two female servants went into the camp of some Gipsies near Southampton, to have their fortunes told by one well known to the author, and a great professor of the art. On observing them to appear like persons in service, she said to a companion, _I shall not get my books or cards for them_; _they are but tenants_. And calling for a frying-pan, she ordered them to fill it with water, and hold their faces over it. This being done, she proceeded to flatter and to promise them great things, for which she was paid 1_s_ 6_d_ each. This is called the frying-pan fortune. But it ought to be remembered that all fortune-telling is quite as contemptible. These artful pretenders to a knowledge of future events, generally discover who are in possession of property; and if they be superstitious and covetous, they contrive to persuade them there is a lucky stone in their house, and that, if they will entrust to them, _all_, or a _part of their money_, they will double and treble it. Sorry is the author to say that they often gain their point. Tradesmen have been known to sell their goods at a considerable loss, hoping to have the money doubled to them by the supposed power of these wicked females, who daringly promise to multiply the blessings of Providence. If the fortune-teller cannot succeed in obtaining a large sum at first, from such credulous dupes, she commences with a small one; and then pretending it to be too insignificant for the planets to work upon, she soon gets it doubled, and when she has succeeded in getting all she can, she decamps with her booty, leaving her mortified victims to the just punishment of disappointment and shame, who are afraid of making their losses known, lest they should be exposed to the ridicule they deserve. Parties in Gloucestershire, Dorsetshire, and Hampshire, have been robbed in this manner of considerable sums, even as much as three and four hundred pounds, the greatest part of which has been spent in Hampshire. A young lady in Gloucestershire allowed herself to be deluded by a Gipsy woman of artful and insinuating address, to a very great extent. This lady admired a young gentleman, and the Gipsy promised that he would return her love. The lady gave her all the plate in the house, and a gold chain and locket, with no other security than a vain promise that they should be restored at a given period. As might be expected, the wicked woman was soon off with her booty, and the lady was obliged to expose her folly. The property being too much to lose, the woman was pursued, and overtaken. She was found washing her clothes in a Gipsy camp, with the gold chain about her neck. She was taken up; but on restoring the articles, was allowed to escape. The same woman afterwards persuaded a gentleman's groom, that she could put him in possession of a great sum of money, if he would first deposit with her, all he then had. He gave her five pounds and his watch, and borrowed for her ten more of two of his friends. She engaged to meet him at midnight in a certain place a mile from the town where he lived, and that he there should dig up out of the ground a silver pot full of gold, covered with a clean napkin. He went with his pick-axe and shovel at the appointed time to the supposed lucky spot, having his confidence strengthened by a dream he happened to have about money, which he considered a favourable omen of the wealth he was soon to receive. Of course he met no Gipsy; she had fled another way with the property she had so wickedly obtained. While waiting her arrival, a hare started suddenly from its resting place, and so alarmed him, that he as suddenly took to his heels and made no stop till he reached his master's house, where he awoke his fellow servants and told to them his disaster. This woman, who made so many dupes, rode a good horse, and dressed both gaily and expensively. One of her saddles cost 30 pounds. It was literally studded with silver; for she carried on it the emblems of her profession wrought in that metal; namely, a half-moon, seven stars, and the rising sun. Poor woman! _her_ sun is now nearly set. Her sins have found her out. She has been in great distress on account of a son, who was transported for robbery; but has never thought of seeking, as a penitent, refuge in the God of mercy; for seeing one of her reformed companions reading the New Testament, she exclaimed, _That book will make you crazy_, at the same time calling her a fool for burning her fortune-telling book. Her condition is now truly wretched; for her ill-gotten gains are all fled, and she is dragging out a miserable existence, refusing still to seek the mercy of God, and despising those who have made him their refuge. Another woman, whom the author would also call a _bad_ Gipsy, who likewise practised similar deceptions, having persuaded a person to put his notes and money in a wrapper and lock it up in a box, she obtained the liberty of seeing it in his presence, that she might pronounce certain words over it; and although narrowly watched, she contrived to steal it, and to convey into the box a parcel similar in appearance, but which on examination, contained only a bundle of rubbish. This money amounted to several hundred pounds. She was immediately pursued and taken with the whole amount about her person. She was also allowed to escape justice, because the covetous old man neither wished to expose himself, nor waste his money in a prosecution. The daughter of this woman has followed the same evil and infamous practices; and the crime has descended to her through several generations. Many circumstances like the above are hid to prevent the shame that would assuredly follow their exposure. But the day of Christ will exhibit both these deceivers and their dupes, who are equally heinous in the sight of God. It were well if such characters had paid more attention to the words of the apostle Paul--_And having food and raiment_, _let us therewith be content_. _They that will be rich_, _fall into temptation_, _and a snare_, _and into many foolish and hurtful lusts_, _which drown men in destruction_. _The love of money is the root of all __evil_; _which_, _while some have coveted after_, _they have erred from the faith_, _and pierced themselves through with many sorrows_. Not to mention many other facts with which the author is acquainted, and which he would relate, were he not likely thereby too much to enlarge his work, he will conclude this chapter with observing, that, thankfulness to Almighty God, for the blessings we enjoy, less anxiety about future events, and more confidence in what God has revealed in his word and providence, would leave no room for the encouragement of Gipsy fortune-tellers, and their craft would soon be discontinued. CHAP. IV. The Character, Manners, and Habits of the English Gipsies, continued. Among this poor and destitute people, instances of great guilt, depravity and misery are too common; nor can it be otherwise expected, while they are destitute of the knowledge of salvation in a crucified and ascended Saviour. One poor Gipsy, who had wandered in a state of wretchedness, bordering on despair, for nearly forty years, had not in all that time, _heard of the Name which is above every name_; _for there is salvation in no other_; till in his last days some Christian directed him to the Bible, as a book that tells poor sinners the way to God. He gave a woman a guinea to read its pages to him; and he remunerated another woman, who read to him the book of Common Prayer. The last few years of his life were marked by strong conviction of sin. His children thought he must have been a murderer. They often saw him under the hedges at prayer. In his last moments he received comfort through a pious minister, who visited him in his tent, and made him acquainted with the promises of the gospel. A similar instance has been related by a clergyman known to the author; nor should the interview of GEORGE THE THIRD with a poor Gipsy woman, be forgotten; for a brighter example of condescending kindness is not furnished in the history of kings. This gracious monarch became the minister of instruction and comfort to a dying Gipsy, to whom he was drawn by the cries of her children, and saw her expire cheered by the view of that redemption he had set before her. But how few are there of the tens of thousands of Gipsies, who have died in Britain, that, whether living or dying, have been visited by the minister or his people! The father of three orphan children lately taken under the Care of the Southampton Committee for the improvement of the Gipsies, had lived an atheist, but such he could not die. He had often declared there was no God; but before his death, he called one of his sons to him and said--_I have always said there was no God_, _but now I know there is_; _I see him now_. He attempted to pray, but knew not how! And many other Gipsies have been so afraid of God, that they dreaded to be alone. It is a fact not generally known, that the Gipsies of this country have not much knowledge of one another's tribes, or clans, and are very particular to keep to their own. Nor will those who style themselves respectable, allow their children to marry into the more depraved clans. The following are a few of the family names of the Gipsies of this country:--Williams, Jones, Plunkett, Cooper, Glover, Carew (descendants of the famous Bamfield Moore Carew), Loversedge, Mansfield, Martin, Light, Lee, Barnett, Boswell, Carter, Buckland, Lovell, Corrie, Bosvill, Eyres, Smalls, Draper, Fletcher, Taylor, Broadway, Baker, Smith, Buckly, Blewett, Scamp, and Stanley. Of the last-named family there are more than two hundred, most of whom are known to the author, and are the most ancient clans in this part of England. It is a well-authenticated fact, that many persons pass for Gipsies who are not. Such persons having done something to exclude them from society, join themselves to this people, and marrying into their clans, become the means of leading them to crimes they would not have thought of, but for their connection with such wicked people. Coining money and forging notes are, however, crimes which cannot be justly attributed to them. Indeed it has been too much the custom to impute to them a great number of crimes of which they either never were guilty, or which could only be committed by an inconsiderable portion of their race; and they have often suffered the penalty of the law, when they have not in the least deserved it. They have been talked of by the public, and prosecuted by the authorities, as the perpetrators of every vice and wickedness alike shocking to civil and savage life. Nor is this to be wondered at, living as they do, so remote from observation and the walks of common life. Whoever has read Grellman's Dissertation on the Continental Gipsies, and supposes that those of England are equally immoral and vicious, will be found greatly mistaken. The former are a banditti of robbers, without natural affection, living with each other almost like brutes, and scarcely knowing, and assuredly never caring about the existence of God; some of them are even counted cannibals. The Gipsies of this country are altogether different; for monstrous crimes are seldom heard of among them. The author is not aware of any of them being convicted of house-breaking, or high-way robbery. Seldom are they guilty of sheep-stealing, or robbing henroosts. {45} Nor can they be justly charged with stealing children; this is the work of worthless beggars who often commit far greater crimes than the Gipsies. They avoid poaching, knowing that the sporting gentlemen would be severe against them, and that they would not be permitted to remain in the lanes and commons near villages. They sometimes take osiers from the banks and coppices of the farmer, of which they make their baskets; and occasionally have been known to steal a sheep, but never when they have had any thing to eat, or money to buy it with; for according to a proverb they have among themselves, _they despise those who risk their necks for their bellies_. The author however recollects a transgression of the sort in the county of Hants. Eight Gipsy men united in stealing four sheep: four were chosen by lot for the purpose. They sharpened their knives, rode to the field, perpetrated the act, and before day-break brought to their camp the sheep they had engaged to steal; and, before the evening of the same day, they were thirty miles distant. But when pressed by hunger, they have been known to take a worse method than this. For as the farmers seldom deny them a sheep that has died in the field, if they apply for it, _so many_ were found dead in this way, that a certain farmer suspected the Gipsies of occasioning their deaths. He therefore caused one of these animals to be opened, and discovered a piece of wool in its throat, with which it had been suffocated. The Gipsies, who had no objection to creatures that die in their blood, had killed all these sheep in the above manner. Horse-stealing is one of their principal crimes, and at this they are very dextrous. When disposed to steal a horse, they select one a few miles from their tent, and make arrangements for disposing of it at a considerable distance, to which place they will convey it in a night. An old and infirm man has been known to ride a stolen horse nearly fifty miles in that time. They pass through bye-lanes, well known to them, and thus avoid turnpikes and escape detection. Unless they are taught better principles than at present they possess, and unless those on whom they impose, use their understandings, it is to be feared that swindling also will long continue among them; for they are so ingenious in avoiding detection. When likely to be discovered, a change of dress enables them to remove with safety to any distance. Instances of this kind have been innumerable. But as it is the aim of this book to solicit a better feeling towards them, rather than expose them to the continuation of censure, the writer will not enter into further detail in reference to their crimes, than barely to shew the great evils into which they have been led by many of those in high life, who have long encouraged them in the savage practice of prize-fighting. Pugilism has been the disgrace of our land, and our nobility and gentry have not been ashamed to patronize it. Not long ago a fight took place in this county which will be a lasting disgrace to the neighbourhood. One of the pugilists, a Gipsy, in the pride of his heart, said during the fight, that he _never would be beaten so long as he had life_. The poor wretch fought till not a feature of his countenance could be seen, his head and face being swollen to a frightful size, and his eyes quite closed. He attempted to tear them open that he might see his antagonist; and was at last taken off the stage. Not satisfied with this brutal scene, the spectators offered a purse of ten guineas for another battle. This golden bait caught the eye of another Gipsy, who, but a few months before, had ruptured a blood-vessel in fighting. Throwing up his hat on the stage, the sign of challenge, he was soon met with a fellow as degraded as himself, but with much more strength and activity. He was three times laid prostrate at the feet of his antagonist, and was taken away almost lifeless. His conqueror put a half-crown into his hand as he was carried off, saying, it was a little something for him to drink. About three months after this, the author saw this poor Gipsy in his tent, in the last stage of a consumption; but he was without any marks of true penitence. Surely the way of wickedness is full of misery! What a disgrace is this demoralizing mode of amusement to our country! Degrading to the greatest degree, it is nevertheless pursued with avidity by all classes of people; and large bets are often depending on these brutal exercises. Gentlemen, noblemen, and even ladies, are, on such occasions, mixed with the most degraded part of the community. In the instance referred to it is said, that fifty pounds were taken by admitting carriages into the field in which the fight took place. Where were the peace-officers at this time? Perhaps some of them spectators of the horrid scene! Verily our men of rank and fortune are guilty in encouraging these shocking practices; and they are little better than murderers, who goad their fellow-men on to fight by the offer of money. Such persons are frequently instruments of sending sinners, the most unprepared, into the presence of a righteous God. What an account will they have to give when they meet the victims of their amusement at the bar of Christ! The Gipsies often fight with each other at fairs, and other places where they meet in great numbers. This is their way of settling old grudges; but so soon as one yields, the quarrel is made up, and they repair to a public house to renew their friendship. This forgiving spirit is a pleasing trait in their character. CHAP. V. Further Account of the English Gipsies. It has been the lot of Gipsies in all countries to be despised, persecuted, hated, and have the vilest things said about them. In many cases they have too much merited the odium which they have experienced in continental Europe; but certainly they are not deserving of universal and unqualified contempt and hatred in this nation. The dislike they have to rule and order has led many of them to maim themselves by cutting off a finger, that they might not serve in either the army or the navy: and I believe there is one instance known, of some Gipsies murdering a witness who was to appear against some of their people for horse-stealing: the persons who were guilty of the deed have been summoned to the bar of Christ, and in their last moments exclaimed with horror and despair, "Murder, murder." But these circumstances do not stamp their race without exception as infamous monsters in wickedness. Not many years since several of their men were hung in different places for stealing fourteen horses near Bristol, who experienced the truth of that scripture, _be sure your sins will find you out_. Indeed there is not a family among them that has not to mourn over the loss of some relative for the commission of this crime. But even in this respect their guilt has been much over-rated; for in many cases it is to be feared they have suffered innocently. There was formerly a reward of 40_l_ to those who gave information of offenders, on their being capitally convicted. Those of the lower orders, therefore, who were destitute of principle, had a great temptation before them to swear falsely in reference to Gipsies; and of which it is known they sometimes availed themselves, knowing that few would befriend them. For the sake of the above sum, vulgarly, but too justly called _blood-money_, they perjured themselves, and were much more wicked than the people they accused. But the Gipsies were thought to be universally depraved, and no one thought it worth his while to investigate their innocence. Let us be thankful that many at the present day look upon them with better feelings. Very lately one of these vile informers swore to having seen a Gipsy man on a horse that had been stolen; and although it came out on the trial, that it was night when he observed him, and that he had never seen him before, which ought to have rendered his evidence invalid, the prisoner was convicted and condemned to die. His life was afterwards spared by other facts having been discovered and made known to the judge, after he had left the city. The Gipsies in this country have for centuries been accused of child-stealing; and therefore it is not to be wondered at, that, when children have been missing, the Gipsies should be taxed with having stolen them. About thirty years since, some parents who had lost a child, applied to a man at Portsmouth, well known in those days, by the name of Payne, or Pine, as an astrologer, wishing to know from him what was become of it. He told them _to search the Gipsy tents for twenty miles round_. The distressed parents employed constables, who made diligent search in every direction to that distance, but to no purpose; the child was not to be found in their camps. It was however soon afterwards discovered, drowned in one of its father's pits, who was a tanner. Thus was this pretended astrologer exposed to the ridicule of those who but a short time before foolishly looked on him as an oracle. On another occasion the same accusation was brought against the Gipsies, and proved to be false. The child of a widow at Portsmouth was lost, and after every search was made on board the ships in the harbour, and at Spithead, and the ponds dragged in the neighbourhood, to no effect, it was concluded that the Gipsies had stolen him. The boy was found a few years afterwards, at Kingston-upon-Thames, apprenticed to a chimney sweeper. He had been enticed away by a person who had given him sweet-meats; but not by a Gipsy. I may be allowed here to say a word about this boy's mother. She was a good and pious woman, and had known great trials. Her husband was drowned in her presence but a short time before she lost her son in the mysterious way mentioned; and before he was heard of, she was removed to the enjoyment of a better world. Her death was a very happy one, for it took place while she was engaged in public worship. _Many are the afflictions of the righteous_, _but the Lord delivereth them out of them all_. Instances have been known of house-breakers leaving some of their stolen goods near the tents of the Gipsies; and these being picked up by the children, and found upon them, have been the cause of much unjust suffering among them. The grandfather of three little orphans now under the care of the Southampton Committee, was charged with stealing a horse, and was condemned and executed; although the farmer of whom he bought it, came forward and swore to the horse being the same which he had sold him. His evidence was rejected on account of some slight mistake in the description he gave of it. When under the gallows, the frantic Gipsy exclaimed--_Oh God_, _if thou dost not deliver me_, _I will not believe there is a God_! The following anecdote will prove the frequent oppression of this people. Not many years since, a collector of taxes in a country town, said he had been robbed of fifty pounds by a Gipsy; and being soon after at Blandford in Dorsetshire, he fixed on a female Gipsy, as the person who robbed him in company with two others, and said she was in man's clothes at the time. They were taken up and kept in custody for some days; and had not a farmer voluntarily come forward, and proved that they were many miles distant when the robbery was said to be perpetrated, they would have been tried for their lives, and probably hanged. The woman was the wife of Wm. Stanley, (who was in custody with her,) who now reads the Scriptures in the Gipsy tents near Southampton. Their wicked accuser was afterwards convicted of a crime for which he was condemned to die, when he confessed that he had not been robbed at the time referred to, but had himself spent the whole of the sum in question. Another Gipsy of the name of Stanley was lately indicted at Winchester, for house-breaking, and had not his friends at great expense proved an _alibi_, it is likely he might have been executed. And in this way have they been suspected and persecuted ever since the days of Henry the Eighth. They have been hunted like wild beasts; their property has been taken from them; themselves have been frequently imprisoned, and in many cases their lives taken, or what to many of them would be much worse, they have been transported to another part of the world, for ever divided from their families and friends. In the days of Judge Hale, thirteen of these unhappy beings were hanged at Bury St Edmonds, for no other cause than that they were Gipsies; and at that time it was death without benefit of clergy, for any one to live among them for a month. Even in later days two of the most industrious of this people have had a small pony and two donkeys taken away merely on suspicion that they were stolen. They were apprehended and carried before a magistrate, to whom they proved that the animals were their own, and that they had legally obtained them. The cattle were then pounded for trespassing on the common, and if their oppressed owners had not had money to defray the expenses, one of the animals must have been sold for that purpose. Not long ago, one of the Gipsies was suspected of having stolen lead from a gentleman's house. His cart was searched, but no lead being found in his possession, he was imprisoned for three months, for living under the hedges as a vagrant; and his horse, which was worth thirteen pounds, was sold to meet the demands of the constables. And another Gipsy, who had two horses in his possession, was suspected of having stolen them, but he proved that they were legally his property. He was committed for three months as a vagrant, and one of his horses was sold to defray the expenses of his apprehension, examination, &c. While writing this part of the GIPSIES' ADVOCATE, the author knows that a poor, aged, industrious woman, with whom he has been long acquainted, had her donkey taken from her, and that a man with four witnesses swore that it was his property. The poor woman told a simple, artless tale to the magistrates, and was not fully committed. She was allowed two days to bring forward the person of whom she bought it. Conscious of her innocence, she was willing to risk a prison if she could recover her donkey, and establish her character. After a great deal of trouble and expense in dispatching messengers to bring forward her witnesses, she succeeded in obtaining them. They had no sooner made their appearance than the accuser and his witnesses fled, and left the donkey to the right owner, the poor, accused and injured woman. It cannot be expected that oppression will ever reform this people, or cure them of their wandering habits. Far more likely is it to confirm them in their vagrant propensities. And as their numbers do not decrease, oppression will only render them the dread of one part of their fellow-creatures, while it will make them the objects of scorn and obloquy to others. It is the earnest wish of the author that milder measures may be pursued in reference to the Gipsies. To endeavour to improve their morals, and instruct them in the principles of religion, will, under the divine blessing, turn to better account than the hateful and oppressive policy so long adopted. CHAP. VI. Further Account of the English Gipsies. Many persons are of opinion in reference to the Gipsies, that, if all the parishes were alike severe in forcing them from their retreats, they would soon find their way into towns. But if this were the case, what advantage would they derive from it? In large towns, in their present ignorant and depraved state, would they not be still more wicked? They would change their condition only from bad to worse, unless they were treated better than they now are, and could be properly employed; but from the prejudice that exists among all classes of men against them, this is not likely to be the case: they would not be employed by any, while other persons could be got. At a hop plantation, so lately as 1830, Gipsies were not allowed to pick hops in some grounds, while persons as unsettled and undeserving, were engaged for that purpose. Had this been a parochial arrangement to benefit the poor of their own neighbourhood, who were out of employ, it were not blameable. If they were driven to settle in towns, and could not, generally speaking, obtain employment, it might soon become necessary to remove all their children to their own parishes; a measure not only very unhappy in itself, but one to which the Gipsies would never submit. Sooner would they die than suffer their children to go to the parish workhouses. The severe and unchristian-like treatment they meet with from many, only obliges them to travel further, and often drives them to commit greater depredations. When driven by the constables from their station, they retire to a more solitary place in another parish, and there remain till they are again detected, and again mercilessly driven away. But this severity does not accomplish the end it has in view; their numbers remain the same, and they retain the same dislike to the crowded haunts of man. For they only visit towns in small parties, offering trifling wares for sale, or telling fortunes; and this is done to gain a present support. In this neighbourhood there was lately a sweeping of the commons and lanes of the Gipsy families. Their horses and donkeys were driven off, and the sum of 3 pounds 5_s_ levied on them as a fine to pay the constables for thus afflicting them. In one tent during this distressing affair, there was found an unburied child, that had been scalded to death, its parents not having money to defray the expenses of its interment. The constables declared that it would make any heart ache to see the anguish the poor people were in, when thus inhumanly driven from their resting places; but, said they, _We were obliged to do our duty_. To the credit of these men, thirteen in number, it should be mentioned, that, with only one exception, they returned the fines to the people; and one of them, who is a carpenter, offered a coffin for the unburied child, should the parish be unwilling to bury it. In this instance of their affliction and grief, the propensity to accuse these poor creatures was strongly marked by a report charging them with having dug a grave on the common in which to bury it; a circumstance very far from their feelings and general habits. The fact was, some person had been digging holes in search of gravel, and these poor creatures pitched their tent just by one of them. It was supposed by many in this neighbourhood, that the poor wretches thus driven away, were gone out of the country; but this was not the case. They had only retired to more lonely places in smaller parties, and were all seen again a few days after at a neighbouring fair. This circumstance is sufficient to prove that they are not to be reclaimed by prosecutions and fines. It is therefore high time the people of England should adopt more merciful measures towards them in endeavouring to bring them into a more civilized state. The money spent in sustaining prosecutions against them, if properly applied, would accomplish this great and benevolent work. And without flattering any of its members, the author thinks the Committee at Southampton have discovered plans, wholly different to those usually adopted, which may prove much more effectual in accomplishing their reformation; for by these plans being put in prudent operation, many have already ceased to make the lanes and commons their home; and their minds are becoming enlightened and their characters religious. In concluding this chapter it may not be improper to remark, that, bad as may be the character of any of our fellow-creatures, it is very lamentable that they should suffer for crimes of which individually they are not guilty. Let us hope that, in reference to this people, unjust executions have ceased; that people will be careful in giving evidence which involves the rights, liberties, and lives of their fellow-creatures, though belonging to the unhappy tribes of Gipsies; and above all, let us hope, that such measures will be pursued by the good and benevolent of this highly favoured land, as will place them in situations where they will learn to fear God, and support themselves honestly in the sight of all men. CHAP. VII. Of the formation of the Southampton Committee, and the success that has attended its endeavours. Although the Gipsies, on account of their unsettled habits, their disposition to evil practices, and that ignorance of true religion, which is inseparably connected with a life remote from all the forms of external worship, and from the influence of religious society, may be said to be in a most lamentably wretched state; yet is their condition not desperate. They are rational beings, and have many feelings honourable to human nature. They are not as the heathens of other countries, addicted to any system of idolatry; and what is of infinite encouragement, they inhabit a land of Bibles and of Christian ministers; and, although at present, they derive so little benefit from these advantages, there are many of them willing to receive instruction. The following details, to which I gladly turn, will shew that, when _patient_ and _persevering_ means are used, Gipsies may be brought to know God; and no body of people were ever yet converted to Christianity without means. The following circumstances gave rise to the idea of forming a society for the improvement of this people. In March, 1827, during the Lent Assizes, the author was in Winchester, and wishing to speak with the sheriff's chaplain, he went to the court for that purpose. He happened to enter just as the judge was passing sentence of death on two unhappy men. To one he held out the hope of mercy; but to the other, _a poor Gipsy_, who was convicted of horse-stealing, he said, _no hope could be given_. The young man, for he was but a youth, immediately fell on his knees, and with uplifted hands and eyes, apparently unconscious of any persons being present but the judge and himself, addressed him as follows: "_Oh_! _my Lord_, _save my life_!" The judge replied, "_No_; _you can have no mercy in this world_: _I and my brother judges have come to the determination to execute horse-stealers_, _especially Gipsies_, _because of the increase of the crime_." The suppliant, still on his knees, entreated--"_Do_, _my Lord Judge_, _save my life_! _do_, _for God's sake_, _for my wife's sake_, _for my baby's sake_!" "_No_," replied the judge, "_I cannot_: _you should have thought of your wife and children before_." He then ordered him to be taken away, and the poor fellow was _rudely dragged_ from his earthly judge. It is hoped, as a penitent sinner, he obtained the more needful mercy of God, through the abounding grace of Christ. After this scene, the author could not remain in court. As he returned, he found the mournful intelligence had been communicated to some Gipsies who had been waiting without, anxious to learn the fate of their companion. They seemed distracted. On the outside of the court, seated on the ground, appeared an old woman, and a very young one, and with them two children, the eldest three years, and the other an infant but fourteen days old. The former sat by its mother's side, alike unconscious of her bitter agonies, and of her father's despair. The old woman held the infant tenderly in her arms, and endeavoured to comfort its weeping mother, soon to be a widow under circumstances the most melancholy. _My dear_, _don't cry_, said she, _remember you have this dear little baby_. Impelled by the sympathies of pity and a sense of duty, the author spoke to them on the evil of sin, and expressed his hope that the melancholy event would prove a warning to them, and to all their people. The poor man was executed about a fortnight after his condemnation. This sad scene, together with Hoyland's Survey of the Gipsies, which the author read about this time, combined to make a deep impression on his mind, and awaken an earnest desire which has never since decreased, to assist and improve this greatly neglected people. The more he contemplated their condition and necessities, the difficulties in the way of their reformation continued to lessen, and his hope of success, in case any thing could be done for them, became more and more confirmed. He could not forget the poor young widow whom he had seen in such deep distress at Winchester, and was led to resolve, if he should meet her again, to offer to provide for her children. Some weeks elapsed before he could hear any thing of her, till one day he saw the old woman sitting on the ground at the entrance of Southampton, with the widow's infant on her knee. "Where is your daughter?" he inquired. "Sir," she replied, "She is my niece; she is gone into the town." "Will you desire her to call at my house?" "I will, sir," said the poor old woman, to whom the author gave his address. In about an hour after this conversation, the widow and her aunt appeared. After inviting them to sit down, he addressed the young woman thus:--"My good woman, you are now a poor widow, and I wished to see you, to tell you that I would be your friend. I will take your children, if you will let me have them, and be a father to them, and educate them; and, when old enough to work, will have them taught some honest trade." "Thank you, sir," said she; "but I don't like to part with my children. The chaplain at the prison offered to take my oldest, and to send her to London to be taken care of; but I could not often see her there." I replied, "I commend you for not parting with her, unless you could occasionally see her; for I suppose you love your children dearly." "Oh! yes, sir," said the widow. The old aunt also added, "Our people set great store by their children." "Well," I replied, "I do not wish you to determine on this business hastily; it is a weighty one. You had better take a fortnight for consideration, and then give me a second call." How improbable did it then appear that this interview would ultimately lead to so much good to many of her people! When the fortnight expired, the widow and her aunt again appeared, when the following conversation took place. "I am glad you are come again," said their friend. "Yes," replied the widow, "and I will now let you have my Betsy;" and the aunt immediately added, pointing to one of her grand-children, "I will let you have my little _deary_, if you will take care of her. Her father," continued she, "was condemned to die, but is transported for life, and her mother now lives with another man." The proposal was readily accepted; and three days after, these two children were brought washed very clean, and dressed in their best clothes. It was promised the women, that they should see their children whenever they chose, and all parties were pleased. The eldest of these children was six years of age; the widow's little daughter, only three. The first day they amused themselves with running up and down stairs, and through the rooms of the house. But when put to bed at night, they cried for two hours, saying that the house would fall upon them. They had never spent a day in a house before, and were at night like birds that had been decoyed, and then robbed of their liberty. A few kisses and some promises at length quieted them, and they went to sleep. After remaining with the author three days, they were removed to one of the Infants' Schools, where they were often visited by the widow and her aunt. Soon after this the eldest girl was taken ill. A medical gentleman attended her at the tent, a little way from the town, whither her grandmother had begged to remove her for change of air. But the sickness of this child _was unto death_. She was a lovely and affectionate girl, notwithstanding the disadvantages under which she had necessarily laboured. When on her bed, in the tent, suffering much pain, she was asked by a gentleman, "Although you love Mr Crabb so much, would you rather live with him, or die, and go to Jesus?" She answered, "I would rather die and go to Jesus." Her death very much affected her grandmother. She would not leave the corpse, which she often affectionately embraced, till persuaded she would endanger her own life. This appeared a melancholy event to all who wished well to the Gipsies in the neighbourhood of Southampton. For the widow, fearing her child would become ill and die too, immediately removed her from the school. And many of the Gipsy people treated the women with great contempt, for giving up their children; and the prospects of doing them lasting good, became very much beclouded. It was however represented to them, that God was doing all things for the best, and their spirits were soothed; and in consequence, the little fatherless girl was again brought to the school. After this event, the women remained a considerable time in the neighbourhood, waiting to see if the little one, again given up to the author, would be kindly treated. By this detention they were often brought into the company of good people, whose kindness gained their confidence. They began to listen to invitations to settle in the town, and finally determined on doing so. Even the _old_ woman, who had lived under hedges for fifty years, and who had declared but a short time before, that she would not leave her tent for a palace, now gladly occupied a house; this greatly encouraged their friends, who well knew that it was not a small sacrifice, for a Gipsy to give up what is thought by them to be their liberty. A short time before these women removed from under the hedges, the sister of the unhappy man who had been executed, came out of Dorsetshire with her three children, on her way to Surry, where she had been accustomed to go to hop-picking. Encamping under the same hedge with the widow and her aunt, she was seen by the author in one of his visits to them. He found them one evening about six o'clock at dinner, and took his seat near them; and while they were regaling themselves with broiled meat, potatoes, and tea, the following interesting conversation took place. "Sir," said the widow, "this is my sister and her children." No one could have introduced this woman and her little ones with more easy simplicity than she did, while, by the smile on her swarthy countenance, she exhibited real heartfelt pleasure. "I am glad to see you, my good woman;" said the author, "are these your children?" "Yes, sir," replied she, very cheerfully. "And where are you going?" "I am going into Surry, sir." "Have you not many difficulties to trouble you in your way of life?" "Yes, sir," answered she. The author continued, "I wish you would let me have your children to provide for and educate." "Not I, indeed," she replied sharply; "others may part with their children, if they like, but I will never part with mine." "Well, my good woman, the offer to educate them has done no harm: let me hope it will do good. I would have you recollect that you have now a proposal made you of bettering their present and future condition. You and I must soon meet at the judgment-seat of Christ, to give an account of this meeting; and you know that I can do better for your little ones than you can." She was silent. The author then addressed these people and left the tents. The next day he visited the camp again, when the widow woman said, "Sir, my sister was so _cut up_ (putting her hand to her heart), with what you said last night, that she could not eat any more, and declared she felt as she never had done before; and she has determined to come and live with us at Michaelmas." What was still better, in consequence of what was said to this poor stranger, she did not go to the races, although she had stopped near Southampton for that purpose. From this time endeavours were made to confirm the woman's intentions to stay at Southampton, and to place her children with the other. She was asked, why she would not stay at Southampton then? "Why, to tell you the truth," said she, "for it's no use to tell a lie about that, I don't want to bring my children to you, like vagabonds; and as we shall earn a good _bit_ of money at hopping, I shall buy them some clothes; and then, if you will take me a room at Michaelmas, I will surely return and live in Southampton, and my children shall go to school; but I will never give them up entirely." She continued with her sister till the house which had been taken for the latter was ready; during which time a gentleman from Ireland, then living near the encampment, had her children every day to his house, and taught them to read. The remembrance of him will be precious to them for ever. She came on the day appointed, and her children were put to the Infants' School, where they have continued ever since, clean and respectable, and very diligent in their learning. They often explain the Scriptures to their mother. One of them has long been a monitor in the school. May she continue a credit to the institution in which she has been so far educated. Although the mother of these children is not yet decidedly pious, she is very much improved. She is now able to read her Testament with tolerable ease, takes great pleasure in receiving instruction, and we hope is deeply impressed with the importance of personal religion. She attends public worship diligently, and loves Christians, whom she once hated. She weeps with abhorrence over past crimes, and says she would rather have her hands cut off, than do as she has done. For more than twelve months after living at Southampton, she continued occasionally to tell fortunes for the gain it brought her. But a remarkable dream led her to see the wickedness of this practice; for it so terrified her that she rose from her bed, lighted a fire, and burnt the book in which she had pretended to see the fortune of others. Large sums of money had been offered her for this volume; but, though in extreme poverty, she determined to make any sacrifice, rather than enrich herself by its sale. She dreamed that she was at the adult school, where she regularly attended, and, that while she was reading her Testament, it changed into a book of divination, and she began to tell the fortune of the lady who was teaching her; and while thus employed, she thought she heard awful thunderings, and the sound of trumpets; after which a tremendous tempest ensued, during which she fancied herself in an extensive plain, exposed to all the fury of the storm. She then thought the day of judgment was come, and that she was summoned to render up her account. She awoke in great terror, and as soon as she had a little recovered herself, arose and followed the example of those we read of in the Acts of the Apostles:--_And many of them which also used curious arts_, _brought their books together_, _and burned them before all men_; _and they counted the price of them_, _and found fifty thousand pieces silver_. Acts xix. 19. When relating this dream to a lady, she was asked whether she had formerly been in the habit of seeking by any means, the aid of the devil, in order to know future events; it having been asserted that many of the Gipsies had done so. She informed the lady that she never had done so, and that she thought none of her people had any thing to do with him, otherwise than by giving themselves up to do wickedly. The devil tempted them to do still worse; as those who neglect to seek to God for help, must of course be under the power of the wicked one. CHAP. VIII. Of the plans pursued by the Southampton Committee, and the success which has attended them, continued. Sixteen reformed Gipsies are now living at Southampton, one of whom is the aged Gipsy whose history has been published by a lady. {72} There are also her brother and four of his children, her sister, who has been a wanderer for more than fifty years, and her daughter, three orphans, and a boy who has been given up to the Committee by his mother, a woman and her three children, and the young woman before mentioned, who has, since her reformation, lost her two children by the measles. In addition to those who have retired from a wandering life, and are pursuing habits of honest industry, three other families, whose united number is sixteen, begged the privilege of wintering with us in the beginning of 1831. These Gipsies regularly attended divine service twice on a Sunday, and on the work-day evenings the adults went to school to learn to read. The children were placed at one of the Infants' Schools. The prospects of doing one of the families lasting good, are rather dark, as they are grown old and hardened in crime; but the condition of the others is more encouraging. The children, who would gladly have stayed longer with us, were sickly; and it is apprehended, had not this been the case, the parents would have continued longer, that they might have gone to school. Two women, mother and daughter, in one family, are much interested in the worship of God, and already begin to feel the value of their souls; and both regret that they are under the necessity of submitting to the arbitrary will of the father. One of them declared that she could never more act as a Gipsy, and with weeping eyes she said, that, she feared she never should be pardoned, or saved. When directed to go to Jesus, she replied, she knew not how to go to him. In three days they will leave us, and it will be a painful separation. It was very gratifying to the author to see so many Gipsies attend the house of God, and he frequently recollected with pleasure, that promise of holy Scripture, _For as the rain cometh down_, _and the snow from heaven_, _and returneth not thither_, _but watereth the earth_, _and maketh it bring forth and bud_, _that it may give seed to the sower_, _and bread to the eater_: _so shall my word be that goeth forth of my mouth_: _it shall not return unto me void_, _but it shall accomplish that which I please_, _and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I send it_. _For ye shall go out with joy_, _and be led forth with peace_; _the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing_, _and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands_. _Instead of the thorn shall come up the __fur tree_, _and instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle tree_: _and it stall be to the Lord for a name_, _for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off_. Six of the children are at an Infants' School at Southampton, and three others attend a charity school; and another is learning to be a coach wheelwright. This youth has behaved so well in his situation, that he has been advanced by his master to a higher branch in the business. His fellow-workmen, who at first disliked him for being a Gipsy, have subscribed money to assist him in the purchase of additional tools, to which the foreman added five shillings, and the master _one pound_. This is a most encouraging circumstance. The aged man who has been so many years reformed, is a basket maker. He often visits his brethren in their tents, under the direction of the Committee, to give advice and instruction. His sister, lately reclaimed, takes care of the six Gipsy children, and is become very serious and industrious; and though in the decline of life, she receives but one shilling per week from the Committee. Two instances of the gratitude of this woman ought not to be omitted. The author's horse having strayed from the field, a sovereign was offered to any one who would bring it back to him. Several persons sought for it in vain. This old Gipsy woman was sent in quest of it, and in two days returned with the horse. Of course she was offered the sovereign that had been named as a reward; but she refused to take it, saying, she owed the author more than that; yea, all that she had, for the comfort she was then enjoying. This was the language of an honest and grateful heart. On being compelled to take it, she bought herself some garments for the winter. On another occasion, when she was coming from some place which she had visited, and was detained on the road longer than she had expected, she became penniless; yet would she not beg, lest it might be looked on as one step towards turning back to habits she had entirely abandoned. She assured the author that she would rather have starved than return to her old trade of begging; and besides, added she, "the people know that I am one of your reformed Gipsies, and I will never bring a reproach upon my best friends." The young widow was taught to make shoes; but becoming depressed in spirits after the death of her children, she has been placed in service. And another young Gipsy woman has also obtained a situation as a servant. But while the Committee has had to rejoice over the success that has attended its efforts, it has also experienced great and manifold disappointments. But its members are not discouraged, and it is hoped they never will be. One young woman stayed with the Committee a month, and then ran away. She was lamentably ignorant, and could never be brought to work. {75} Another very promising in temper and habits, stayed in a family three months, and then left them to live again with her parents, who encouraged her to believe that she would be married to one of her clan. It may be hoped the knowledge she gained while in service may be useful to her at some future time. She is not, cannot be happy, and is sorry that she left her service and her friends. The father and mother have promised to stay in Southampton through the next winter, which they will be encouraged to do, with the hope of gaining instruction in the truths of religion. A woman, her four sons, and their grandmother, {76} joined the family of reformed Gipsies for a short time, and we had considerable hopes of them all, the two eldest boys excepted, who refused to work, and who grew much more vicious than when under the hedges. Their father had formerly been sentenced to death, but by the interest of a friend, the sentence was changed to fourteen years' hard labour on board the hulks at Portsmouth, nearly nine of which had expired at the time his family came under the direction of the Committee. His wife intimating that if they were to apply for his release, it might be granted, and that then he might govern the boys, and make them work, his liberty was obtained. But within three days afterwards, he declared he would not constrain any of his children to labour; they might do it or not, as they pleased. And, in the course of the week, he took them all away and went to Brighton. A lady then staying at that place, and who had known this family at Southampton, sent to the place where the Gipsies usually encamp, hoping to recall some of them to a sense of their duty, but was informed that the whole of the party had set off a few days before. Early on the following morning, a Gipsy called at the house of this lady, and offered to tell the fortunes of the servants. She was asked if she knew the woman who was enquired for the preceding day? She replied, that _she was the very person_. On hearing by whose servant she was addressed, she became almost speechless with shame, and said, _I would rather have met the king_. On recovering, she expressed great delight and gratitude that she was not forgotten by the lady, and declared she had been very unhappy since she had left Southampton, and that the sin of fortune-telling greatly distressed her mind; but that she knew not how to support her family without it. They had undergone many hardships. The little boys, she said, had frequently amused themselves with trying to spell the different things about their tent, and were often wishing for their Southampton fire. The next morning she brought them to see their kind benefactress. The youngest of them, a fine promising boy, both as to talent and disposition, was overjoyed at the meeting; his little eyes were filled with tears, and he could scarcely speak. He and his brother were immediately provided with clothing, and sent to the School of Industry; where, in addition to the religious instruction given them, they were taught reading, writing, arithmetic, digging, &c. Their master has been much pleased with their progress. The mother was afterwards induced to stay at Brighton, being allowed a small sum weekly. She has been taught to read by some kind friends, and many hopes are entertained of her conversion to God. A letter has lately been received, which gives a very interesting account of her increase in knowledge and improvement in morals. A very promising Gipsy youth, who was placed with a coach-maker in Southampton, after working some time, cut his hand, and then relinquished his employment, to wander with his father, who is a rat-catcher. But it is hoped that he, as well as others of his brethren who have returned to their former courses, will be brought back, or find some other desirable and permanent abode; that what has been done by this society may not ultimately be lost. Indeed, while writing this, I am happy to be able to state, that the morals of this young man appear very correct, and that he has, by constant application, learned to read tolerably well since he left Southampton. He supports himself by selling brushes, lines, and corks, but talks very seriously of giving up his wandering habits to return to us again. Among the reclaimed Gipsies are three women who were notorious fortune-tellers, and who doubtless have done much injury to the morals of society. They are now very promising; and there is a fair prospect of their children being saved from much sin and misery, as they are placed at Infants' Schools, where they are gradually acquiring useful scriptural knowledge, and correctness of habits; in which, if they persevere, by the grace of the Redeemer, their present and everlasting welfare will be secured. Such examples of success amply repay the Committee for the trouble and expense already bestowed on the Gipsies; and it is hoped its members will be stimulated to every exertion in their power by the good done to those in a state of reformation and improvement, that the whole wandering race may be led into the right way. CHAP. IX. Of the plans pursued by the Southampton Committee, and the success which has attended them, continued. A gipsy woman, of whose reformation we have already taken some notice, having gone to solicit the assistance of the parish to which one of her children belonged, met with many difficulties and troubles. She was not at this time destitute of the knowledge of religion. She had learned to read, and had become acquainted with the Scriptures, at an adult school, and by attending at a place of worship; and these instructions were not thrown away on her; for although she was frequently invited to eat and drink in the tents of the Gipsies on her journey, she conscientiously refused, fearing that what they were partaking of might not be honestly obtained. She informed them that her Testament had taught her better habits than those she had formerly known. Her children helped to keep alive her religious impressions. They often talked to her about the school from which she had taken them, of their lessons, and the observations of the master and mistress, on different parts of the Scriptures, and at other times they catechised each other on the objects that presented themselves on the road, in the same way they had been used to in the Infants' Schools; to which they often begged their mother to let them return. These circumstances, she has since said, made her so miserable that she felt she _could not live as she had done_. Some time after this, she made a visit to a parish in which another of her children was born, near Basingstoke. She entered the cottage of an old couple who sold fruit, &c. Tea being proposed, the old woman expressed her surprise that she had not seen her visitor for so long a time, saying she was glad she was come, as she wanted her to tell her many things, meaning future events. She mentioned a great deal that another Gipsy woman had told her, on which the reformed one exclaimed--_Don't believe her_, _dame_. _It is all lies_. _She knows no more about it than you do_. _If you trust to what she says_, _you will be deceived_. The old woman was still more surprised, and asked _how she_, who had so often told their fortunes, and had promised them such good luck, could be so much altered? The woman taking her Testament from her bosom, replied, "I have learned from this blessed book, and from my kind friends, _that all liars shall have their portion in the lake that burneth with brimstone and fire_; and rather than tell fortunes again, I would starve." She then opened her book and began reading a chapter, endeavouring to explain as she read, at which her host and hostess began to weep. She told them that though she knew she had been a great sinner, and was one still, yet she never had felt so happy as then. The old woman observed, that _she_ could not say _she was happy_, and wished to know what she must do to feel happy. The Gipsy replied, you must leave off selling on Sundays, and go to a place of worship, and learn to read the Testament, and to pray, and _then_ you will become happy. This poor Gipsy woman, who was so anxious to instruct those she had many times deceived, was soon after taken sick, at which time her distress of soul was very great; and she then said, were she to die, her _soul could not go to heaven_. Many were her temptations, while in great poverty, to renew the practice of fortune-telling. Several genteel parties have visited her, and sometimes offered her gold, tempting her to begin again the sins she had for ever given up; but, much to her credit, she at all times resolutely refused all such unholy gain. At one time some very gay young women called on her, desiring to have their fortunes told. Her Testament lay on the table, which she had but a short time before been reading, and pointing to it, she said--_That book_, _and that only_, _will tell your fortunes_; _for it is God's book_; _it is his own word_. She reproved them for their sin, and said, the Bible had told her, _all unrighteousness is sin_. They then requested she would not tell any one that they had called upon her. She replied--_Oh_! _you fear man more than God_! A few days since, this reformed woman was sweeping the pavement in front of her house, when two female servants came up, enquiring for the house of the fortune-teller; mourning over them for their folly, she said--_My dears_, _she cannot tell your fortunes_. _I have been a professed fortune-teller_, _and have deceived hundreds_. She succeeded in persuading them to go home. At a meeting of Gipsies held at a gentleman's house, Jan. 1830, the youngest child of this woman said to her mother, _Mammy_, _who be all these folks_? The mother replied, _They are Gipsies_. _Was_ I _ever like 'em_? asked the child. _Yes_, said the mother, _you was once a poor little Gipsy without stockings and shoes_, _and glad to beg a halfpenny of any body_. It is a circumstance not to be lamented, that the condition even of a little child, has been so much bettered by the exertions of the Committee. In addition to the encouragement afforded us by this woman, giving up with so much decision the practice of fortune-telling, the author must not forget to mention an instance of her forbearance of temper under provocation and outrage. She had, when a vagrant, a quarrel with some of her ignorant people of another tribe. Meeting with them after her reformation, she was severely beaten by them, and had her ear-drops torn from her ears, while they contemptuously called her _Methodist_. When asked, why she did not bring her persecutors to justice, she replied, _How can I be forgiven_, _if I do not forgive_? _That is what my Testament tells me_. The young widow we have before mentioned, continued to tell fortunes for some time after we had taken her children; but it pleased the Holy Spirit to awaken her conscience, and to shew her the wickedness of such crimes, by which she was led to true repentance and reformation of character. After the death of both the children of this interesting individual, she went into the service of a kind and pious lady in London. For this situation she was prepared by one of equal benevolence in Southampton, who had her for some time in her own house for that purpose. She continued in this situation till the lady's death, and has since been in other service, where she has conducted herself so well as to prove she is become a sincere servant of Christ. CHAP. X. Some Remarks on the Sin of Fortune-telling. The author will be pardoned, he is willing to hope, by the kind reader, if he digress in one or two paragraphs in this part of his work, purposely to expose the great wickedness of prognostication and fortune-telling; as the whole is not only unsound, foolish, absurd and false, but is most peremptorily forbidden in the Scriptures. In the law of Moses it is commanded, that there should not be found among the people, any that used divination, or that was an observer of the times, or that was an enchanter: Deut. xiii. 10. In the prophecies of Malachi, the Lord has declared--_Thou shalt have no more soothsayers_: Mal. v. 12. Balaam and Balak were cursed of the Lord of Hosts; the former for using enchantments, and the latter for employing Balaam in this wicked work. _Woe to them that devise iniquity_: Micah, ii. 1. Those who employ unhappy Gipsy women, should think on the portion of the liar; Rev. xxi. 8: for the person who tempts another to utter falsehood by offering rewards, is equally guilty before God. _A companion of fools shall be destroyed_: Prov. xiii. 20. _Though hand join in hand_, in sin, _the wicked shall not go unpunished_: Prov. xvi. 5. _The destruction of the transgressors and the sinners shall be together_: Isai. i. 28. It may be safely affirmed that the sin of those persons, who trifle with Gipsy women in having their fortunes told by them, nearly resembles that of the first king of Israel; who, by consulting, in his trouble, a wicked woman, who pretended to supernatural power, filled up the measure of those sins, by which he lost the protection of heaven, his crown, and his life, and by which he involved his family in the most ruinous calamity. Reader, have you encouraged any of these people in such crimes? If you have so far forgotten yourselves, the commands of God, and the curse that awaits you and those who deceive themselves the same way; reflect, before it be too late, on the evil into which you have willingly, wilfully, and without the least reasonable excuse, fallen, and on the guilt that must of necessity attach to your consciences thereby. Should you never meet those you encouraged to sin in this world, and therefore never have an opportunity of warning them of their danger, yet must you meet at the bar of Christ; and if then loaded with the weight of the sin in question, how awful will be your condition! Yourself and a fellow creature turned out for ever from God, and heaven, and hope! You may find mercy _now_, if you, by faith in the Redeemer, _seek for it_; and who can tell but if you sincerely pray for those you led into sin, but that the mercy of which you part take, may find out them! May it even be so, to your everlasting comfort! Some have supposed that this contemptible practice was first introduced into Europe by the Gipsies: but such persons are greatly mistaken. In the dark ages of superstition, in which this wandering people came to our part of the world, prognostication and fortune-telling were carried on to an infinite extent; and so enraged were the deceivers of those days against the Gipsies, that they proclaimed they knew nothing of the _art_; that they were deceivers and impostors. It were well if the Gipsies were _now_ the only persons addicted to such wickedness; but this is not the case; for it is well known that almost every town is cursed with an astrological, magical, or slight-of-hand fortune-teller. There are two now in Southampton; and their wretched abodes are visited not only by vain and ignorant servants, but often by those who belong to the higher circles, and not unfrequently by those who drive their carriages. To conclude this chapter, it may be safely said, that the sort of wickedness in question, is not only forbidden in the Scriptures, and will add much to the guilt of an impenitent death; but that it is calculated to give us the most airy anticipations, or oppress us with the most unreasonable despair. _Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof_; why should we then afflict ourselves about ill-fortune in future years? If we _seek_, as the first great object of life, _the kingdom of heaven_, _all _[necessary] _things shall be added_. And why should we deceive ourselves with gay and splendid expectations? _Riches make themselves wings and soon fly away_. CHAP. XI. Plans suggested to the pious and benevolent for promoting a Reformation among the Gipsies. As no event happens without a cause, so no good is accomplished without means. It is in the power of man as an instrument, frequently to make his fellow-creatures either happy or miserable. And it may safely be asserted, that much of the ignorance, depravity, and consequent misery found in the world, are occasioned by the want of a united and persevering application of the energies of Christians, to the reformation of the most debased classes of Society. This backwardness to perform that which is good, with respect to our fellow men, must be accounted for, by the want of faith in God's word, and the little influence we allow the religion of the Saviour to have on our own hearts. It may also be occasioned by the strong evidences we have of the corruption of human nature, and the little good we see attend the labours of others: and we are often likewise discouraged because our own efforts fail. On these accounts, how often do we sigh for opportunities of doing good, whilst we neglect the openings of Providence in little things, which would frequently lead to the accomplishment of most important usefulness. Dr Johnson used to say, "He who waits to do a great deal of good at once, will never do any." Good is done by degrees. However small in proportion the benefit which follows _individual attempts_ to do good, a great deal may thus be accomplished by perseverance, even in the midst of discouragements and disappointments. The first missionaries who visited England, had to contend with all the frightful cruelties of savage life, and the more horrid rites of Druidical worship. But now, though much wickedness abounds in England, it is, in a religious point of view, the paradise of the earth. May all those who wish to diffuse the genuine influences of Christianity among the poor Gipsies, imitate the example of the adorable Saviour, who _made himself of no reputation_, that he might enlighten the most ignorant, and impart happiness to the most miserable. It will not be denied that the Gipsies are capable of feeling the influence, and appreciating the worth of the Gospel: and no one will doubt that the earlier the plans are adopted for their improvement, the sooner will this desirable work be accomplished. The reader is requested to pay particular attention to the following suggestions. The establishment of an Institution to supply instruction to the Gipsies by regular Ministers, or Missionaries, would be of but little use. Indeed such a measure could scarcely be carried into effect. For the Gipsies, beside associating in very small companies, are perpetually driven from place to place. To supply them, therefore, with regular instruction, a preacher would be necessary to every family; who would condescend to their mode of life, travel when they travelled, rest when they rested, and be content with the ground and straw for his bed, and a blanket tent for his covering! All this would subject them to great personal inconvenience, and at the same time be very expensive and highly improper. Neither would it be possible for ministers to be appointed occasionally and alternately to visit the Gipsies in different counties. For it might often happen that, before intelligence could be forwarded to those appointed to give them instruction, they might be removed by a peace officer, or have set out on a journey of several miles distance. Benevolent, zealous, and prudent persons may do much by visiting the camps near towns; and the most suitable parts of the day for promoting this object, are morning and evening. But the most simple and easy plans of instruction should invariably be adopted. To those persons who are afraid of visiting the Gipsies, lest they should be insulted, abused, and robbed, the author may be allowed to say that they have not the least grounds for such fears. In Scotland this fear is quite as general among the religious people as it is in England; and in that country the inhabitants are even afraid to prosecute them for their depredations and crimes. In England ladies are frequently known to visit their camps singly, when more than a mile from towns, and to sit and read and converse with them for a considerable time, with the greatest confidence and safety. There is not the least prospect of doing them good, by forcing instruction upon them. About the year 1748, the Empress Theresa attempted the improvement of the Gipsies in Germany, by taking away, by force, all their children of a certain age, in order to educate and protect them; but such an unnatural and arbitrary mode of benevolence, defeated its own object; and this is not to be wondered at: the souls of the free resist every effort of compulsion, whether the object be good or bad. Compulsatory instruction, therefore, would do no good among the Gipsies. But they are easily won by kindness, and whoever wishes really to benefit them, must convince them that this is his intention, by patiently bearing with the unpleasing parts of their characters, and by a willingness to lessen their distresses so far as it is in his power. Such kindness will never be lost upon them. Nor would the author recommend their being encouraged to live in Towns, except they are truly desirous of leading a new life, as it is almost certain that their morals would be greatly corrupted thereby: and they would be capable of more extensive injury to society, should they take to their wandering habits again. A correspondent of a friend of the author, has just communicated the following particulars, which prove the truth of the above remarks. There is in the neighbourhood of Harz, at Nordausen, a colony of Gipsies, to whom a Missionary has been sent from Berlin. His last letter speaks very favourably of their disposition to receive the word of life. The manner of his introduction to them was by no means likely to ensure him a favourable reception. "Here," said the person who brought him among them, "you have a Missionary, who is come to convert you; now mind and be converted, or you shall go to prison." The effect this foolish speech produced on the Gipsies may be easily imagined, and likewise how useless it rendered the situation of the Missionary who desired to labour among them. They took to flight whenever they saw him approach, and thus, humanly speaking, there appeared not the least prospect of success, as the seed of the word could not so much as be sown. But HE, who alone is able to turn the heart, mercifully looked upon the work, and directed him to the right means effectually to bring it about. The Gipsies were obliged to cultivate the land on which they were permitted to reside; but being quite ignorant of agriculture, they were at a loss how to proceed. The missionary undertook himself to give them advice and assistance in the work. Seeing the success that attended his labours, they began to be much more diligent in the cultivation of their grounds, while their confidence daily increased in their missionary, and they became more accessible and willing to be taught. At last they asked him for what reason the people at Berlin had sent him among them? and when he told them, they were overpowered with gratitude, and melted into tears. Their attachment to him and the friends who had sent him, became stronger and stronger. In some cases, it may be true, the conquest of their prejudices against the missionary, might proceed from the advantages they reaped by attending to his advice; and this is much to their credit, and is a most desirable improvement. It is hoped they will soon be led to attend sincerely to his religious instructions. A gentleman resident in one of the towns of Hampshire, was agreeably surprised one sabbath morning, by seeing a number of Gipsies at public worship; and on being induced to converse with them, was pleased to find that they regularly attended divine service at Southampton, and other places. He directed them to move their tents into a more commodious situation in one of his own fields. This unusual act of kindness, which however required no great sacrifice on his part, made so deep an impression on the hearts of this people, as is not likely to be forgotten: they will speak of his kindness as long as they live. This, as well as the instances we have mentioned already in this work, and many more which we may not notice, shew that we are not without opportunities of observing their gratitude for those favours that have been bestowed upon them. They receive with willingness one of their own people, who is now a reformed and pious character, living at Southampton, and whom we have named in a former page. They now rejoice, too, in the assurance that a great number of good Christians pity and love them, and are seeking to promote their present and everlasting happiness. It is therefore much to be wished, that committees of ladies or gentlemen were formed in every town in the kingdom, and their attention directed to this neglected class of British subjects. An active person might be found in every place, to act under the sanction of such committees, who should visit their tents, instruct them in the Scriptures, and pray with and for them (the latter he should never neglect) by which means he would gain their confidence, and would always be looked on as a friend. Such a person should not be ashamed to speak kindly to them when he meets them in the street, or on the road. Indeed at all times he should converse with them plainly and affectionately about the great love of the Redeemer, in coming into this our world, to suffer and die for guilty sinners, of whom they make a number. But all the labour should not be confined to one person. Every member of these committees should be alive to this good work; as also all Christians, and especially ministers. But should there not be sufficient energy and benevolence in all towns to form a committee, two or three who are well disposed to the object, may unite together and accomplish a great deal. And should there not be found more than one person thus benevolently disposed, let not that one be discouraged. The single talent must not be neglected, should it be only the power to give a cup of cold water, or to speak one word about the water of life to a necessitous and perishing Gipsy; for it may not, cannot be in vain. Reader, are you doing what you can in this humble way? It may be, you would rather ascend the pulpit and preach to well-informed Christians, or visit the ignorant in your own town! This is well; but the other should not be left undone. The wanderers in the wilderness are not to be forgotten; the outcasts of society are to be sought after. Let us imitate our adorable Redeemer, _who went about doing good_, and who sought those who were not the least desirous of finding him. As an encouragement to British Christians, who are alive to the happiness of the Gipsies, they should know that there are many among them desirous of a new mode of life, as will appear by an application lately made to the author. "_Bristol_, _Oct._ 11_th_, 1830. "My dear Sir, "I am unwilling to let a parcel go to Southampton, without sending you a line to give you a little information respecting H---, of whom I made enquiry if she had called on the friends to whom I directed her? This was done by her; but she could obtain no employment. Both H--- and her husband conduct themselves in a very satisfactory manner. A young lady, I hope, will employ her soon; and, perhaps, in time she may get into regular work; but at present, she gets very little, and it is very necessary that the man should have employment. The cork trade is now over; (he used to sell corks.) They can have the loan of a donkey for two months for nothing, and that being the case, I told H--- to look out for a small cart, which I desired her to hire for a week, and sell coals and potatoes in small quantities. {97} I have felt fearful lest you should think me too busy; but necessity has compelled me to do something, or they must have almost _starved_; and I cannot bear the thought of their wanting bread; knowing it must be a great temptation for them to return to their old habits. The man appears much altered for the better. He said one day, when they wanted food, that he would rather beg than oblige his wife to return to fortune-telling. H--- tells me that her husband and she live happily, and that they have had words but once since they left their vagrant life. I am also happy to discover in her pleasing evidences of honesty, as she pays her weekly rent often before it is due, when she has money, fearing that she may spend it in food. Job, their son, has no work, but I hope that he will be able to help his father. Do, my dear Mr Crabb, pray for this little branch of your family. I have received two pounds for your Infants' Schools, from Mr ---, and would send it now, but I have been obliged to expend a considerable part of it on these poor Gipsies. Do write to me when you can, and give me advice respecting this poor family." The author must remark that, since the above letter was received, others also have been sent from two ladies in that neighbourhood, which give the Southampton committee great pleasure. The following are extracts. "I have seen Mr ---, and have had a pleasing interview with Miss ---, relating to the poor wanderers you wrote to me about. I have had the man and woman at my house. After having heard H--- read, I told her 'that the leprosy she had been reading of, represented the evil of our sinful heart; that we were born with it; that it prevailed in every part of the soul; and that we had lived always under its influence.' She exclaimed, _dear me_! _ I never heard the like of that before_! _now it seems good for me to know this_. She wept much. When I told her of the love of Christ, she appeared struck with her own extreme ingratitude. Her expressions were so simple and full of pathos, that my heart was quite overcome. She ran out of the room for her husband, and on her return, said, "ah! _do talk_ to my poor husband, just what you said to me." I found him not so interesting, but desirous of leaving his wandering life for ever, and get employment if possible. They have made some flower baskets for me; and hoping they may obtain orders for more, I have recommended them to my friends. I have heard of another family, consisting of fourteen souls, who encamp on Bedminster Down, and there by God's help, I intend to send a minister of Jesus, to try what can be done for them. There is also another family expected, who have a house of _their own_ at Bedminster, and who winter there. Should the Lord bless our humble endeavours, we must have a regular Committee, and set about our work in a workman-like manner; nothing short of a Colony will satisfy me. I intend to introduce this interesting subject at a party this evening, and hope the Lord will open the hearts of his people, to do good to those poor benighted wanderers." The author has also just received from a clergyman in Scotland, a most interesting account of a colony of Gipsies in that country, where, I am happy to observe, they do not seem so much hunted as in England. And as the severity of their winters drive them into houses for three months, during that season, there is offered a fair opportunity to both ministers and kindly disposed Christians to do them good. The letter alluded to is most gladly inserted with the view to encourage the Christian denominations of England to imitate the benevolence, zeal, and industry of their much respected brethren the Scotch. "_Yetholm Hall_, _Dec._ 11_th_, 1830. "My dear Sir, "Through the report of the Society for ameliorating the condition of that unfortunate race, the Gipsies, I am acquainted with your name, and with your benevolent exertions in their behalf. As the minister of a parish in which perhaps the largest colony of this people in Scotland reside, and naturally, therefore, very much interested in any plan that promises to improve their condition, I take the liberty of writing you; not so much for the purpose of answering the numerous queries subjoined to the report, as of requesting your advice and opinion, with regard to what plan might be adopted for the improvement of the colony, placed, in some degree, under my care and superintendence. I have but lately been called to the ministerial office, and appointed to the pastoral care of this parish; and previous to the period of my appointment, I had no opportunity of being acquainted with the character and habits of the Gipsies. Your longer acquaintance with this people, and experience, may suggest to me some useful hints on the subject, should you take the trouble to notice this letter. The number of Gipsies in the parish of Yetholm is about 100. You are no doubt already in some degree acquainted with the Gipsies of Kirk Yetholm, from the interesting notices furnished by Mr Smith, of Kelso, and published in HOYLAND'S SURVEY, and in one of the earliest numbers of Blackwood's Magazine. And his account of them is substantially correct to this day. It would appear that the Gipsy population of this place is fluctuating. In 1798, there were only 59. In 1818, when Mr Smith wrote, there were 109. In 1830, there are 100. And in a few years more, this number may be considerably diminished or increased. The greater part of them are "muggers," or "potters," who carry earthen-ware about the country for sale. There are two horn spoon makers; all the others are abroad from their head quarters, of Kirk Yetholm, from eight to nine months in the year. The history of some of the individuals and families of the clan, would furnish something very interesting. One of the family of the Taa's is still denominated the "King." The number of children belonging to each family is generally large. There may be thirty children under twelve years of age. The parents express themselves very anxious that their children should be educated, and are willing, for this purpose, to leave them at home all the summer; and farther, that they should be trained to some occupation different from their own. Many of the parents declare, that they would willingly remain at home, could they be supplied with constant employment. Of late, the greater number of them have occasionally attended church, and some of them continue to attend most regularly when at home. A considerable number of the younger children also, when at home, attend our Sabbath School. I have likewise assisted the parents to send most of their children to the Day School: still, however, these children are at home scarcely three months in the depth of winter. Several families have not returned yet. Their education, therefore, even were they sent regularly to school, during this time, would be very limited. And besides, by attending the parents to the country, they contract an attachment to their loose, wandering life, which must tend to perpetuate the peculiarities of the tribe. A few weeks ago I was requested by Dr Baird, the Principal of the University, and one of the ministers of Edinburgh, to write out a pretty full account of these my parishioners. This I have done. The account, however, was written so hastily, that I had not time even to correspond with you on the subject, before doing so, as my object in writing to you was chiefly to propose some plan which might be adopted for their improvement, on which you might give me some useful information. In this account, I have proposed that a fund or subscription should be raised for the purpose of keeping the children at home during those months their parents are traversing the country, for paying their school wages, and, if possible, for giving a salary to a teacher to superintend their education, and that a small additional sum be occasionally in readiness for paying an apprentice-fee with the boys. This account may probably be published. I am in hopes, also, that the Principal will interest himself in the cause. Should the account be published, the proof-sheet may be sent down to me, ere long, in which case I should wish to hear from you before that time, as I may have then an opportunity of supplying any hint, or otherwise altering the plan proposed, from your kind communication. The sum which I conceived would be required for the purpose was about a hundred pounds per annum. Mr B---, of Killau, with whom, I believe, we both have the pleasure of being acquainted, has more than once wished me to open a correspondence with you on this subject. He also is interested in the cause, and promises to use his influence with others. I think he told me that some more detailed account of your plan was published, or preparing for the press, in which various alterations and improvements had been made. This was an additional reason for my wishing to hear from you, before submitting to the people of Scotland any plan on the subject. I should wish to know how the cause prospers with you, and what number you have at present under your care. I am extremely interested for this unfortunate people, and any information therefore with regard to what is doing elsewhere, would be acceptable. May He prosper the cause, whose blessing alone can render our labours effectual! I remain, my dear Sir, With much respect and esteem, Yours truly, JOHN BAIRD. "P. S.--I have just received a letter from Principal Baird, informing me that my account of the Gipsies of Kirk Yetholm, will be published, and a proof for correction be sent to me shortly. It will be published in a new statistical account of Scotland, which will ensure for it a very extensive circulation, especially among the ministers of the established church of Scotland." Another letter relating to the Gipsies of Yetholm, has been received from the same clergyman, extracts of which may be seen in the Appendix. CHAP. XII. Plans suggested to the pious and benevolent, for promoting a Reformation among the Gipsies, continued. It is usual, in Southampton, for a few pence to be given to a child who informs any of the members of the Committee when a family of Gipsies begin to erect their tents on the common, that they may immediately be visited by our Reader. This may be done elsewhere. It may be well, too, to buy a basket, or any other article they may honestly have to dispose of, when opportunity offers; but it is not well to bestow money on them, unless in sickness or want. When their wives are confined, a favourable opportunity offers to bring into action the sympathies of compassion in other females; and what gratitude would such an instance of tenderness beget! These poor women have frequently been heard to exclaim, while tears filled their eyes, _How kind_, _how good to us_! for favours very much less! The author has seldom met with instances of ingratitude, though he is obliged to record one. He was interested in the reformation of a Gipsy family that encamped, a short time since, about five miles from Southampton, whom he visited early on a Monday morning. Reaching the camp, accompanied by the old Gipsy he has often mentioned in the course of this work, he said to them, "Since you would not come to see me, I am come to see you." The camp, consisting of eight persons, gave him a cordial reception, the husband excepted, who said, he did not want his company. "You certainly do not mean what you say," said his friend; to which he ungratefully replied, "I never speak words without meaning." In a good-natured way he was questioned as to the truth of his being a Gipsy, accompanied with the remark, that Gipsies were seldom ungrateful for the favours which were shown them. In half an hour after, he left the camp very angrily. This man had been released from many years' imprisonment, through the author's intercession; but having associated with thieves so long, the worst principles of his heart were drawn forth. Before he left the camp, he said he had no care about his children, but to feed and clothe them. "Then you only treat your children as a man does his dogs and pigs." He replied, that "such treatment was good enough." This is a common sentiment; for the generality of parents have no further care about their children than to feed and clothe them. Such persons are not perhaps aware how nearly they come to that dreadful state of mind and heart, of which this ungrateful Gipsy so wickedly boasted. After he had left the party, those who remained attended to conversation and prayer, when one of the women wept bitterly on account of her sin of fortune-telling. The author has since been informed that this poor man expresses his sorrow for his uncalled-for behaviour. The plans adopted in Southampton, for the conversion of the Gipsies in Hampshire, are now generally known among their people. Not long ago, an old woman brought four orphans of a deceased relative from a great distance, in order to place them under the care of the Committee. On this occasion the old woman thus addressed the author. "Are you Mr Crabb?" Being told, yes, she continued--"Mr Chas. Stanley, a Gipsey, desired me to bring you these poor orphans." The author being assured that they were orphans, promised, after some conversation, to visit their tent the following day. He did so, and never can he forget the distressing scene he then witnessed. It was winter, and the weather was unusually cold, there being much snow on the ground. The tent, which was only covered with a _ragged_ blanket, was pitched on the lee side of a _small_ hawthorn bush. The children had stolen a few _green_ sticks from the hedges, but they would not burn. _There was no straw_ in the tent, and only one blanket to lay betwixt six children and the frozen ground, with nothing to cover them. The youngest of these children was three, and the eldest, seventeen years old. In addition to this wretchedness, the smaller children were nearly naked. The youngest was squatted on the ground, her little feet and legs bare, and gnawing a frozen turnip, which had been stolen from an adjoining field. None of them had tasted bread for more than a day. The moment they saw their visitor, the little ones repeatedly shouted, "Here is the _gemman come for us_!" Some money was given to the oldest sister to buy bread with, at which their joy was greatly increased. Straw was also provided for them to sleep on, four were measured for clothes, and, after a few days, they were placed under the care of one of our reformed Gipsies. The youngest child died, however, a short time after, in consequence of having been so neglected in infancy. The children were cleanly washed and newly clothed, before they were removed from the common. Perhaps they had never been thoroughly washed before. The oldest sister would not give up her wandering habits; and the oldest boy chose to go back to the camp again; so that the Committee had soon only three of them in charge. And these were so filthy in their habits for a long time, that it was very disagreeable to be near them. It is hoped that, though they have lost their earthly parents, they may be led, through this event, to God their heavenly Father. These children were soon baptized, and two of them are improving at one of the Infants' Schools. A short account of their parents may not be out of place here. The mother was a great fortune-teller and swindler. She once robbed a poor shepherd in Dorsetshire of twenty pounds, by promising to fill his box with money. Their father was a most depraved character. Their life and practices are well described in the language of the Apostle, _Let us eat and drink_, _for to morrow we die_. 1 Cor. xv. 32. The man was the buffoon of their company, and became more depraved every year. They often had a great deal of money, which was, no doubt, obtained through dishonest means. On one occasion, he and many other Gipsies, entered the parlour of a small public house on the borders of Hants, when emptying the contents of a dirty purse into an half-pint cup, he nearly filled it with sovereigns; and declared, they would not leave the house, till they had spent it all. His wife, at this time, who was intoxicated, was robbed of all the money she had got from the poor credulous shepherd, excepting one pound. The same man once put 150 sovereigns into his kettle, to treat himself with what he called, _gold water_, for his tea; a piece of folly and wickedness only equalled by a fact with which the author is well acquainted, when an old man had his gold put under his pillow, and often shown to him, when he was dying. We need not wonder, therefore, that the children of this Gipsy couple should be so ignorant, depraved, and destitute. For money that is ill-gotten, and squandered in extravagance, entails a double curse on the parties concerned. But to return to the subject of this chapter. To visit the Gipsies in their tents is of great importance. Clergymen of the Establishment, dissenting ministers, and home missionaries, have at various times done this, and conversed freely with them on the Christian religion; and it has _not been in vain_. Indeed, nothing that is done, through Jesus Christ, purposely to please God, and benefit the wretched, can fail to produce a good effect. The Rev. Messrs Hyatt and Cobbin, who were deputed by the Home Missionary Society, to visit many parts of England, to enquire into the condition of this people, had no doubt, but that much good may be done among them, if proper means are pursued. It has many times been proved, that to attempt to raise them in society, without the influence of religious instruction, would be improper. They have not sufficient principles of honesty, nor purity of conduct, till they are taught those principles, and changed, by religion. One, among several instances, may be named. A young female Gipsy, remarkable for the beauty of her person, was much noticed by a lady of rank. She was made to sit many times for her portrait, was introduced into the drawing-room, and became of consequence as one of the family. She might have done well, had she not given up all her prospects by running away with a Gipsy youth, for whom she had an attachment, and with whom she has ever since lived in great misery. If less attention had been paid to her beauty, and more to the cultivation of right principles, she might now have been reformed, religious, and happy. To those who wish to forward the instruction of the children of these wanderers, which is of vast importance, the use of tins with letters and monosyllables stamped upon them, is recommended. A little ink or paint will be necessary to make the letters visible. This plan would save much expense, and render elementary books unnecessary. They could not be torn, as books generally are. The pieces thrown away by the tinman, if the corners were taken off, would answer every purpose. To induce those children, who cannot be got from the tent, to learn from these tins, the visitor might promise them an old garment, or some other trifle. Should the Gipsies conduct themselves properly, when thus visited, a little willow-wood may be given them to encourage them in industry, and forward the manufactory of baskets. And it might be well were a small piece of ground devoted to the growth of willows, in neighbourhoods frequented by them, on purpose to encourage them thereby. It might be adviseable, too, to give them testimonials on a card, of good conduct, when about to remove to another district, which might serve as an introduction to benevolent persons, and those interested in their welfare in other places; and this means would effectually prevent all imposition, keep up the attention of the good among them, and would constantly bring them before the notice of christian society. Such kindness would be felt by the Gipsies, and, in time, might produce a good effect. This method has been attended to by the Southampton Committee. The great object that Christians should have in view, should be to instruct them in the blessed truths of the Christian religion, imbue them with a happy sense of honesty and morality, and then reclaim them wholly from their unsettled and wandering habits; for until they have some knowledge of religion, and some anxiety to reform, they would only be worse by being brought constantly before the bad examples that would be set them in towns. Of course, such a change _cannot be fully accomplished in the present generation_; it cannot be expected. But their conversion to God will wholly be accomplished in time, if all Christians do their duty, depending on the influence of the Holy Spirit. From what has been said in this chapter, it will appear, that, visiting their tents to pray for, and instruct them, teaching such children to read as cannot get to public schools, and prevailing on all who are able to do so, to attend public worship; are the principal things to be attempted, in this great and good undertaking. Those Christians who wish for opportunities of doing good to the Gipsies in and about London, will find many of them in the suburbs in the months of April, May, and June, when they generally find work in the market gardens. In the months of July and August they move into Sussex and Kent, and are engaged in the harvest. And in the month of September, _great numbers_ of them are to be found in the hop-districts of Kent, Sussex and Surry, where they find employment. During the winter, many of them settle in London, Westminster, Bristol, and other large towns, when a good opportunity is presented for teaching, both to the children and adults of this class, the elements of reading, and the principles of true religion. For the information of those who may wish to visit the Gipsies in London and Bristol, during the winter, the author thinks it his duty to name the streets where they generally reside. Tottenham-court Road; Battle Bridge; Paddington; Bolton Street; Church Lane; Church Street; Kent Street, Borough; New Street; White Street; Banbridge Street; Shore-ditch; Tothill-fields; and Tunbridge Street. In Bristol they are principally found in Saint Phillip's, Newfoundland Street, Bedminster, and at the March and September fairs. At the Ascot and Epsom races, they may be met in large numbers; and if a benevolent, kind, and zealous minister of Christ were to visit them at their encampments at these seasons, and explain to them the facts, doctrines, and blessings of the Gospel, much good might be done. The morning would be the happiest time to visit these Gipsies, as they are too often at races, inebriated before night. It is presumed little could be said to profit them in a state of intoxication, and many of the women are then employed either in swindling or fortune-telling. Should the sympathies of the British public be efficiently directed to the Gipsies of this country, it may call forth the zeal of other nations to improve their still more degraded condition on the Continent, where more than half a million of them wander, ignorant as the heathens of all that is necessary to salvation. Those of this country loudly call upon us for instruction, which may easily be given them. Let all who have either time, money, or ability, give a helping hand; and, above all, assist by their unfeigned and earnest prayers. It may be very advisable to pray publicly for them in places of worship, and at the family altar, after visiting them in the highways and hedges. It might impress those of them who attend, with a grateful sense of the gracious care of God, and lead Christian congregations to think more of them, and to do more for them. May the merciful God of heaven and of earth, hasten the happy period, when the Gipsies of this, and of all other countries, shall embrace, and love, and be obedient to the Gospel of the gracious Redeemer! CHAP. XIII. Further Account of encouraging interviews with Gipsies, and interesting Correspondence. The author laments that he has passed so many years of his life wholly careless of the Gipsies of this country. Having travelled many times through England, he has had frequent opportunities of seeing them. But, till now, he looked on their conversion as a hopeless case, and nearly wholly neglected them. He has already stated the manner his attention was first roused to consider their condition and necessities more particularly, and he reflects with pleasure on the kindness of Providence in leading him to witness those events which called for sympathy towards them; and on the mercy of God so apparent in blessing the labours of himself and others in their behalf. The late Rev. Legh Richmond felt a deep interest in the conversion of this people. To awaken the sympathies and energies of his countrymen to that subject, he composed the following hymn on their behalf. THE GIPSIES' PETITION. Oh! ye who have tasted of mercy and love, And shared in the blessings of pardoning grace; Let us the kind fruits of your tenderness prove, And pity, oh! pity the poor Gipsy race For long have we wandered, neglected and wild, Esteemed by all people as wretched and base; Nor once on our darkness has light ever smiled; Then pity, oh! pity the poor Gipsy race. Like you, we have lost that pure gem, which, when lost, Not the mines of Golconda {115} can ever replace; To redeem it the blood of a Saviour it cost: Then pity, oh! pity the poor Gipsy race. Like us, you were wild in the sight of your God; But he looked, and he loved, and he pitied your case; The Redeemer has cleansed you in streams of his blood; Then pity, oh! pity the poor Gipsy race. Ye, who have found mercy, that mercy display; Ye sons of adoption, your origin trace; And then sure you cannot your face turn away, But will pity and pray for the poor Gipsy race; That we may form part of that numerous throng, Redeemed from destruction by infinite grace; And mingle with you in the heavenly song; Then pity, oh! pity the poor Gipsy race. It has been the custom of the author to have a yearly meeting of the Gipsies at his own house, which is then open to all their families. Here, early in the year 1830, those who were in the lanes and on the common near Southampton, met many of their kind and religious friends, who are interested in their happiness. The morning was agreeably spent in a religious service, conducted for their spiritual benefit; after which some attention was paid to their temporal wants. Forty-eight of them, all nearly related to each other, who were at that time assembled in the neighbourhood to renew their family friendships, attended on this occasion, and were much pleased with the services in which they engaged. Different portions of the Scriptures were read and expounded to them, after which they had a plain and familiar address. It was a pleasure to meet these people at a throne of grace. After partaking of bread and cheese and ale, during which they conducted themselves very properly, a blanket was presented to the proprietor of each tent, a pair of stockings to every individual, and a quantity of calico for changes for the children. There were thirteen reformed Gipsies among them, who spent the rest of the day in reading the Scriptures to their brethren at their own houses. These people expressed themselves very gratefully. One of the families, of whom the mother could read, begged a bible. Some weeks after this bible had been given, the family was visited in its tent, when this copy of the Holy Scriptures was shewn to him, who observed many of the pages doubled down to mark the passages with which the reader had been impressed. The father of the family said--"I will never rest till I can read that book through." This poor man now attends divine service whenever he has an opportunity, although he strongly opposed, at one time, the reading of the Scriptures in his tent. A lady, who was present at this meeting, asked one of the reformed Gipsies, how she had felt herself on that morning? She replied--"I never was so happy;" and, after a short silence, continued--"The dinner we had last year, was much better than that we had to-day, as it was roast beef and plum-pudding; but what I heard then, of the minister's address, was only the word of man to me; but to-day, it has been the word of God; I am sure it has." Although it may be feared, that to many Gipsies then present, the reading of the Scriptures, and the familiar address, were only as _the words of man_, yet is there reason to hope they understood it, and that they will benefit thereby. This woman had an only surviving brother who was killed in fighting, and whose death was instantaneous. She was exceedingly distressed, and observed, in reference to this awful circumstance, "I should not have thought of his soul after death, at one time; but now I can read my Testament, I am sure that none can go to heaven but those who are born again." And she made an observation, too, of the utmost importance, shewing the great necessity there is for the Gipsies to be taught to read. _My being able to read myself_, said she, _has a great deal more effect upon me_, _than it would if another read it to me_, _and I could not read_; _for now_ I AM SURE IT IS IN THE BOOK. She carries her Testament in her pocket when she goes a journey, and reads it to her former companions, when she meets them on the road; and if they express any wonder at the change that has taken place, she refers them to the Scriptures as the cause, and her kind friends at Southampton, as the instruments. The following circumstance lately occurred, and will shew the improvement that has taken place in her daughters. One of them had been sent by her mother to receive the weekly sum allowed her. On receiving the money, she said, "This is twopence too much, sir." Being accustomed now and then to give her a few pence towards buying a Testament, she was told to keep it for that purpose. "I thank you," said she, "I have got a Testament, now, and mother has given her's to my next sister, since she has had a bible; and my youngest sister had a Testament given her at the Sunday School: but one of us is saving money to buy a hymn-book with; I will give _her_ the twopence." This incident, trifling as it may seem to some, will not fail to gratify others, whose hearts are anxiously desirous of improving the Gipsies. In the autumn of 1830, the author felt a strong desire to visit Farnham, where were, at that time, thousands of poor people assembled to pick hops, among whom were many Gipsies. Stanley was sent a few days before to make known his intentions of preaching to them on the evening of a fixed day. While at Farnham, Stanley ate, drank, and slept in some of their camps, by which he gained their confidence and affection. During the author's stay he accompanied Stanley to various hop-plantations, where great numbers of the most wretched part of the community are employed in the hopping season. Great numbers of tracts were distributed among them, while the author entered into many free and familiar conversations with them. Many were found very much depraved; but none were more depraved among the Gipsies, than many of the other class; for they were blasphemers of God and his religion. One man, like many of old, stirred up the people to reject and despise the truth. He said, "No one would get any thing by praying to God;" and, "if people wanted bread on a Sunday, it would be better for them to steal a mess of potatoes, and wood to cook them with, than go to church." Some of the poor shuddered at his boldness, and contempt of God's law. With much impudence he declared, "that he knew a man who put his dough into the oven on a Sunday without heating it, and then went to church to pray that God would bake it for him; but that the fool was disappointed." The minister said to him--"You know that you have told a wilful lie. You never knew such a man. There is not one of these little children will believe you." He appeared confounded at this unexpected rebuke. May this sinner repent and be saved! Among the hop-pickers of Farnham were many Gipsies the visitors had long known; and their smiling faces spoke the gladness of their hearts and the warmth of their gratitude, when they were noticed by their friends affectionately and kindly; nor had they forgotten the favours that had been shewn them at Southampton. Those of the Gipsies who were not acquainted with the object the author had in view, in paying them a visit, were much alarmed when enquiries were made for the Gipsies in the hop-grounds; supposing they were pursued by the magistrates. One youth told Stanley, that he knew not whether to run, or stay where he was; but recollecting to have been _in no spray lately_, he resolved on staying. When Stanley spoke to him in his own language, and introduced the minister, all his fears vanished. The Gipsies were astonished that any one should travel forty miles to see them. Their public meeting was after the labours of the day, near one of the hop-grounds, about half an hour after sun-set. A few small candles gave light to a small tenement, used as a lodging place for the hop-gatherers, where the congregation was accommodated. A few of the inhabitants of Farnham, and some of the female Gipsies, who were much delighted to mingle with them in the worship of God, were put inside, and the men, with such women and children as could not get in, stood outside, the place being very much too small for so great a number of people. The preacher stood on the threshold of the door and addressed the people, of whom those without could only be seen now and then, as an adjacent wood fire cast at intervals upon them an intermitting light. The Rev. Mr Johnson kindly attended, and assisted in the devotional part of the service; and some of his congregation obligingly assisted in the singing. On this occasion the Gospel of Christ was addressed to many who had never before heard an exposition of the blessed word of God. The sermon was from Psalm lxxxvi. 5. After service the Gipsies were exhorted to seek for opportunities of attending the house of God; to beg of some minister a bible for every tent; and to ask every one who may come near them to read certain of its pages to them. During the address, many of _their crimes_ were enlarged upon, and their dread of, and liability to punishment for them in this world; and they were urged to call on the God of all compassion and mercy, for help and for forgiveness, by that all-powerful motive, that he will never be inattentive to the prayers of the most helpless, wretched, and guilty sinner, when presented to God by faith in our only mediator, Jesus Christ. Stanley, who, after the service, accompanied the Gipsies to their tents, found that the sermon afforded conversation for the whole evening. One of them said, "The minister has told us every thing, as though he had lived with us." Another observed, "If it be all true what the gentleman has said, not a Gipsy can be saved." A third exhorted his children "never to say bad words again." The little creature replied--"Then I hope my _grandfer_ (grandfather) will never swear any more." Many of them talked of the evils of fortune-telling, and some resolved on going to Southampton, to see the reformed Gipsies. During the stay of the minister in that neighbourhood, eighty of them were visited, among whom was a dying woman, who very gladly received instruction, and heard prayer. A minister, in the neighbourhood, had been asked to visit her, but had neglected to do so. The author must not forget to acknowledge the kindness of the farmers who assisted him in the distribution of tracts, &c. &c., and who solicited that some might be left them for that purpose. This visit afforded an opportunity to contradict many false reports of the treatment with which the Gipsy children had met in the Infants' Schools at Southampton. It was said that they were all confined, and would at a future period be transported. This shews how easily people who deceive others, are imposed on themselves. The following letter was addressed to the author by a Gipsy woman when she was in great trouble of mind. It is presented to the reader just as it was received, and may be found interesting to the friends of their cause. "Sir, "I Hope you will Excuse Me for Riun These few Lines too you, I did Not Now where To Cend to My Sister, I Have Been very Il and my Familee. My Children Ave Had The Measils, They are Got Well from That. I am Sorry to hinform you I Have Had A Shockin Accedent To my Little Girl, She was Burnd to Death. I Give My Luv To My Son Job. Plese to Give My Luv to My Sister Paishince, and Hur Childern. Plese to Give My Luv To My Ant Pheny, and Plese to Lett Me Now How My Cuzin James doos Go on, Plese to Lett Me Now How My Unkil Charls and His Famly Is. Wm Duff Gives His Best Rispecs To All. Plese To Tel My Sister too Anser This Letter By Returne of Post. I Am So unappy in My Mind Till I Do Hear From Er. Dear Sister, I Have Mett With so Much Trubel Sinc I Saw you Last, That I Am Sorre To inform you. Plese to Tel my Child from Me To Bee A Good Boy, and Think Imself Wel off Wher He Is. My Distris and My Trubel Makes Me Think More of My Sister. Ples To Direct the Letter To Be Left At The Post Offis, for Haryett Duff, Till Caulld for, in Bristil. Plese To Give My Luv To My Son Job. So No More At Prezint from your Umble Sarvint. Plese God I Am Coming To See You Some time This Munth. "My Littel Girl Met The Accedent Wednesday, April 23, 1828." The following letter, too, refers to the writer of the above. _Bristol_, _August_, 1830. "My dear Sir, "As I know that you are deeply interested in every circumstance relating to the Gipsies, I trouble you with the following anecdote. In the month of January last, when walking in the city of Bristol, I met a Gipsy woman, who accosted me with the usual salutation of her race, "Shall I tell you your fortune?" I enquired her name, and then said, "You well know that you are not able to tell me my fortune; and I am sorry to see you carrying on such deception." I then endeavoured to speak to her about the importance of considering her eternal welfare, and of seeking the salvation which is in Christ Jesus; at the same time pointing out the certain condemnation she was bringing upon herself, by willingly following the _multitude to do evil_, even carrying _a lie in her right hand_. She urged that her trade (which she acknowledged to be built on deceit and falsehood) was her only support; and that she must starve if she followed my advice. I reminded her that she would be like Dives, if she gained the whole world and lost her own soul; but that were she indeed to honour God, by giving up her wicked trade, because she knew that it was displeasing to him, he would never suffer her to want any good thing. After much more conversation, she assured me that she would never tell fortunes again, and would discontinue her evil habits of life. I told her that I could not allow her to make to me any promise of the kind; for she did not know her wickedness, nor the power which could alone prevent her from committing sin. I again besought her to avail herself of the means of instruction within her power. Before leaving the city, I commended her to the care of some pious friends, who were interested in my account of her, and who kindly promised not to lose sight of her. Since that time I have received very pleasing accounts from them respecting her. They have purchased materials in order that she may be able to support herself by basket-making, which she has begun; and I trust she has relinquished her former trade. She is making progress in reading, and constantly attends the preaching of the Gospel. I hope also that she is really in earnest for the welfare of her soul. I earnestly wish that every one would take an interest in the same; and I should be much rejoiced if the circumstance which I have just mentioned, should be the means of encouraging any one to notice those Gipsies with whom they may occasionally meet, and to exert themselves in saving them from their present degraded condition. "I am, my dear Sir, "Yours respectfully, * * * * * _Wm. Stanley's Letter to the Author_. "Hon. Sir, "As you wish me to give you some account of the Gipsies, I gladly comply with your request. I am a poor individual of that wandering race, called Gipsies; yet, by the mercies of God, I was _rescued_ from that wandering life. In my _youthful days_ I entered into the Wiltshire militia, when it pleased God to bring me under the preaching of the Gospel at Exeter; and it was the means of awakening my conscience. _From that time I have often been led to bepity the sad state of the people whereof I made a part_. I have given them the best instruction that lay in my power, and by reading the Scriptures to them; but with very little visible effect for many years. Neither did I think, till lately, that there were any of them in the world, that cared for their souls, till the year 1827; when I was quite _overcome with love to God_, _to find that the Lord had put it into the hearts of his dear people at Southampton_, _to pity them in their forlorn condition_; and now wonder not if I am at a loss for words to speak the feeling of my heart; for, since that time I have seen _seventeen or eighteen_; _nay_, _from twenty to thirty_; _nay_, _from forty to fifty attend divine worship_; and _add_ to this the many happy hours I have spent with them in their tents near Southampton, in reading and praying with them; and some of them that six months ago would not stay in their camp on my approach to them, but would go away swearing, will now receive me gladly, and produce a Bible or a Testament, which _had_ been given to them, and desire me to read it to them, saying, this book was given to me by our dear friends in Southampton. But, _dreadful to relate_, I find some children, _from three years old to fifteen_, who never _said a prayer to their God_; who never heard any one pray, and who _was_ never in a church or chapel, nor have heard of the name of Christ, but in blaspheming; and these are the inhabitants of England! Oh, England! England! they are living and dying without God: no wonder if they draw down the divine vengeance of Heaven on the land! "Many of these poor _ignorant mortals_ do not know that they are doing wrong by fortune-telling; and being informed that it is displeasing to God, and ruinous to their own souls, they will say, it is _of no service for me to give attendance to religion_, for I am forced to ruin my soul for every morsel of bread I eat; but if God spares my life I will leave it off as soon as I can; while others who are both ignorant and hardened in their crimes, have told me it was the gift of God to them, by which they were to gain their living. Surely they call _darkness light_! Many of my people who join in talk with me, declare, that if the Bible which I read to them be true, there cannot be many saved. But they say that a reformation is needful, and this is promised by them; and I am in great hopes that the time is at hand. Oh, Lord! work for thine own glory, and stir up the minds of thy people in all parts of the land, that they may help forward this good work amongst these poor wanderers! "Their ignorance and their crimes seem to have increased of late years. When I was a boy, I well recollect their parting expressions, which _was_ so common amongst them--_Artmee Devillesty_, which is--_God bless you_. But now it is _truly awful_; it is _darkness itself_, _for they now ask God to send them good luck_ in their crimes. I _myself_ thought for many years, _till __I heard the Gospel_, _that God was like some great gentleman_, _living at a great distance from us_; but I had not a thought that he was every where present to notice the conduct of his creatures, or to hear prayer. The ignorance of _my people_ is a loud call to Christians to assist; and, blessed be God, they find that assistance in Southampton. The Bible has often been taken away from Southampton in the Gipsies' pack, and I have seen it when they have returned, preserved with a great deal of care, and produced for me to read, with great delight on their part. "Surely this blessed book will not be idle, but will do _wonders_ amongst them, _through God's grace_. I see the effects already; do you say, how? I answer, _Was it ever known_, _till now_, that Gipsies assembled on the sabbath day on the common and in the lanes for divine worship? Did you ever see them come to town on a sabbath day in such great numbers as they now do, when encamping near Southampton? Some of the most ignorant of them are now learning to read the Scriptures. This is the beginning of good days. Oh! the good this will do to _my people at large_! Nothing of importance took place in their camp all last summer, _and I almost fainted under the discouragement_; but of late _it shows another face_; and I make no doubt but it will spread, and I shall soon see greater things than these. I am, hon. Sir, Your most obliged and humble Servant, WILLIAM STANLEY." "P. S.--On examining the different _branches of my family_, I find upwards of 200 of us in different parts of England." This poor man, when a soldier, and in the habit of attending divine service, as a part of his duty, often heard his comrades speak of the text, on their return to the barracks. He one day made up his mind to bring home the text also, the next time he went to church. He heard with attention, and when he returned to the barracks, he said, "I've got the text now." "What is it, Stanley?" he was asked by a comrade, when he answered, "The 19th day of the month, and the 95th Psalm." When relating this to the author, he added, "I had the mortification to be laughed at by all my comrades who witnessed my ignorance." Do not many professing Christians come away from the house of God as ignorant as this poor Gipsy? Or if they have been taught to know and remember the text, it is all they attend to. This man's mind did not long remain in this dark state. After the above event he learned to read, and one day, taking up a Testament from the barracks' table, he read a portion of it, (for so he expressed himself) _The sublimity of the language struck his mind with astonishment_, and he said, _I will buy that book if I can_. His comrade asked him three halfpence for it; and he was glad of his purchase; although the Testament was very much torn. The Holy Scriptures were scarce in those days, a copy of which could seldom be bought by the poor; nor, indeed, would the word of life have been useful to them, as not one in a hundred could read. Soon after this, he was invited to attend a Wesleyan chapel in Exeter, where a funeral sermon was to be preached by the Rev. Wm. Aver. The text was, _Let me die the death of the righteous_, _and let my last end be like his_. While the minister was describing the happiness of the righteous, divine light shone upon his soul, he felt that _he_ was not that character, and that there was no prospect of his dying happily, unless he possessed it. This sermon was the means of his conversion. CHAP. XIV. Interesting particulars of the Gipsies, related by a Clergyman. The following account is selected from a tract published in York, in 1822, detailing several interesting visits that a Yorkshire clergyman made to some of the camps of that wandering and neglected people. Were the author of the little book known, application would have been made to him, for permission to reprint these extracts. But it is hoped he will excuse the liberty taken, as the design is to _induce other clergymen and ministers to go and do likewise_. This clergyman, having fallen in with a gang of Gipsies on the road, who were travelling to their place of encampment, addressed a young female among them, and found her not ignorant of religion. "How," said the clergyman, "did you obtain the knowledge of religion?" "Sir," answered she, "in the depth of winter, the men folks only travel; the women and children belonging to my family and party, always live in the town. In those seasons I have gone with some of our relatives, who live there, and are religious people, to the worship of God: in that way I have learned these things." "This was a practical comment on the text which says, _The entrance of the word giveth light_; _it giveth __understanding to the simple_. After giving her some suitable advice, and with it his benediction, he left her; but not without hopeful expectations that the seeds of grace were sown in her heart. "He next overtook the grandmother and several of her grandchildren. She was pleased at his noticing her, and answered his enquiries with modesty and propriety. She corroborated what her daughter had said, and in her answers discovered not only an acquaintance with the general truths of the Gospel, but a feeling sense of their importance. She said, 'I love to go to church, and do go _now_, sir, when I can; but do not always meet with the right doctrines: my prayers I offer up night and morning, under the hedge. I hope God Almighty hears my prayers.' The clergyman observed, that sincere prayer was acceptable to God any where, equally under the hedge, as in the parlour, or in the church. When arrived at their camp, he promised them a Bible, as they had none, and directed some of the party to call at the friend's house in the neighbourhood where he was staying. Soon after his return thither, a knock was heard at the door, when it was announced, 'Two Gipsies, sir, are come for a Bible.' On going out, he found in the hall the young man who could read, and a younger brother, a fine boy of about fourteen years of age." The gentleman who wrote the account, adds as follows:-- "Their countenances were very animated and expressive; there seemed to be a ray of heavenly brightness resting upon them; and while I gave them a charge how to read the sacred gift, they were much affected: the boy, in particular, listened with eager attention, fixing his eyes first on me, then on the Bible. After I had inscribed their names in the title-page, they departed with my blessing; and what is better--with the blessing of God." At another part of the year, this clergyman returned to the same spot where he had before been so delightfully engaged in attempting to benefit the poor Gipsies. He found out another camp, and thus writes of them. "On my approach to the camp (where was a group of nearly naked children,) the Gipsy girls rose up, and, in a modest and respectful manner, answered my questions; while the little swarthy group of children gathered around me. To one of these girls I said, 'How is it that you bear such a wandering and exposed life?' In reply, she said, 'Sir, it is _use_; _use_ is second nature.' 'But have you any religion? Do you think about God, about judgment, and eternity? Do you know how to pray?' She answered, 'I say my prayers, sir, night and morning.' I then said, 'can any of your people read?' 'Yes, sir,' she replied, 'one of our men that is not here, can read very well.' 'Have you a Bible among you?' 'No, sir; we should be thankful for one, sir.'" On leaving the camp, the clergyman promised to call on them again, when the other part of the family should be returned from the town, where they were gone to vend their wares. "On my return to the encampment," says he, "I was met by two men who came out to greet me. I asked them kindly of their names. They informed me it was Bosvill. The women and children were now collected around me. I inquired who among them could read. Captain Bosvill, for so I called him, answered me, 'My wife, sir, can read any thing in English.' I was glad to hear this, and asked them if they had any books. Bosvill went to a package and brought forth his stock, fragments of an old Testament, and an old spelling-book. 'And what use do you make of your spelling book?' asked I. 'My wife,' replied Bosvill, 'when she has time, teaches the children their letters.' I now shewed them the Bible I had in my pocket, saying, that as it was so holy and blessed a book, it ought not to be given in an indifferent and common manner; and asked, if I were to ride over in the evening to give it them, and to explain to them its use, whether they would be all together to hear me. 'Yes, yes;' was the reply, from many voices. I appointed seven o'clock for the purpose. I then distributed amongst them some tracts, containing passages for every day in the week, and also the tract of Short Sermons; for which they were very thankful. I told them that I intended to give them a Bible in the evening, a book which few of them had ever seen, and which fewer understood. I was pleased with the modesty of their deportment, and with their eagerness for instruction. Surely they are a people whose hearts the Lord has prepared for the reception of his word. "At the hour appointed, I put the Bible in my pocket, and rode again to the camp. The evening was particularly fine: the sun, hidden behind some thick fleecy clouds, had thrown around a mild and pleasing tint; the birds were every where singing their evening song; the ploughman was 'whistling o'er the lea;' and nature, after the labours of the day, was preparing for her wonted rest. It was a fit time for meditation, prayer, and praise. Such an evening, perhaps, as that which led the patriarch of old to meditation, when he lifted up his eyes and saw the returning servants of his father bringing home his future wife. As I drew near to the camp, I began to revolve in my mind the best way of making them acquainted with the importance of the most essential doctrines contained in the holy book I was about to give them. On my arrival, I found that I had been long expected. The men, however, were not there; they were gone to water a horse, which they had lent all the day to a farmer; but a tawny girl ran with great speed, barefooted, and brought them to the camp. I now dismounted, and gave my horse, with my stick, to the care of one of the men. The family circle was formed into an irregular circle round some pale embers, some of them sitting cross-legged on the grass, and others standing. I placed myself so as to have the women and children chiefly before me. The woman who could read, was seated opposite me: the men, the tents, and the package to the right; while the horses and asses belonging to the tribe, were quietly grazing at a short distance in the lane. All was solemn stillness; all was attentive expectation. As I took from my pocket the Bible, the eyes of the whole company were instantly fixed upon it. This book, said I, which I bring you, is the book of God; it is sent from heaven to make poor miserable and dying man happy. I then spoke a short time on God; on creation; how God created man upright; how he was once happy in paradise; the way in which he sinned, and broke the law of his Maker, and became guilty, polluted, and exposed to death and hell; that to save men from this dreadful state, God devised a plan of mercy; that he sent his Son, and the Scriptures of truth, which shew unto us the way of salvation. This was something of the outline of my lecture; but I added the responsibility of men to read the book, and to seek to understand it. I solemnly charged them, by the sacred book itself, and by the account which they, at the day of judgment, must give to God for it, to make the most sacred and constant use of it, by reading it together daily in their camp. In the course of my discourse, I stopped, and said,--'Now do you understand what I say?' Captain Bosvill's wife replied, 'We understand you, sir; but we have not the same words which you have.' In conclusion, I spoke of the coming judgment, when they and all men must stand and be judged at the righteous bar of God. The Bible was then delivered to the care of the captain of the gang, and of his wife, the woman who could read. "Now, I said, let us all kneel down on the grass, and pray for God's blessing with this holy book. Instantly a female brought from her tent a small piece of carpet, and spread it before me on the grass, for me to kneel upon; and then all kneeling down, I prayed that the minds of these miserable outcasts of society might be enlightened, to discover the exceeding sinfulness of sin, and the blessedness and efficiency of the Saviour; that the sacred book given them through the influence of the Holy Ghost, might lead them into the way of righteousness, and finally guide them to everlasting life. When we rose from our knees, gratitude was seen in every countenance, and expressed by every tongue. '_God bless you_, _sir_; _thank you_, _sir_;' echoed throughout the camp." The next evening this clergyman went again to the camp, when one of the Gipsies came to meet him, and informed him of the arrival of some of their relatives. "I shook hands with them," says the clergyman, "and asked of their welfare. Never was a king received with a more hearty welcome, or with greater attention and respect. "As I was expected, the utmost order, cleanliness, and quiet, prevailed throughout the camp; and all were dressed in their best clothes to receive me. The arrangement of my congregation was much the same as the preceding evening. I spoke to them of the blessed Jesus; his birth, his ministry, his death, passion, and grace; and his glory at his second coming _in the clouds of heaven_, _to judge the world in righteousness_. I spoke also of death, and of the immortality of the soul. "I had not proceeded far in my lecture, before several farmers and passengers, some on horse back, and others on foot, joined my congregation. "Before concluding my address, I said, 'It may seem singular to some of you that a stranger should interest himself on your behalf in the way I have done; and it might be expected that I should give some reasons for doing as I have. My chief reason is a sense of duty. Gipsies have long been neglected, and left to perish in their sins; but Gipsies have souls equally precious as others, and of equal price in the sight of God. Who, I asked, cares for the souls of Gipsies? who uses means for their instruction in righteousness? Yet must it be equally our duty to care for them, and to endeavour their conversion and happiness, as to plan societies, obtain subscriptions, and send out missionaries to the heathen.' "I said, moreover, that, 'supposing, when I first saw your camp, I had rode by you on the other side, and taken no notice of you, nor felt an interest in your welfare; and after that, had met you at the bar of judgment; what would have been the language with which you might have addressed me at that awful period? Might you not have charged the misery of your eternal condemnation upon me, and said, The curse we are doomed to bear, thoughtless man, might, perchance, have been prevented by you? You saw us when riding by our camp lying in ignorance, and unbelief: you might have rode up to us, and imparted instruction to our perishing souls; because to you were committed the oracles of God, and you knew the way to heaven. But, no, _cruel man_, our state excited in you no compassion, or desire for our salvation. In your conduct there was no imitation of your Lord and Master. Go, cruel man, and if heaven you enter, let your felicity be embittered by the recollection of neglect to the Gipsy wanderers, whom Providence had placed in your way, that you might direct them to God, but which you neglected.' In conclusion, I again referred to the holy Bible, which I had given them; and again repeated the way to use it. After which I said, Now we will conclude with prayer, as we did last evening. Immediately the same female who before brought the carpet, again spread it, with great civility, for me to kneel upon; and again I offered up a solemn prayer for the salvation of these lost and perishing mortals. The greatest seriousness and awe rested upon the assembly. Surely the prayer was registered in heaven, and shall, in time not far distant, be answered.--Come, and take these heathens for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession.--When I proposed to take leave of my swarthy flock, it was not without feelings of attachment on both sides. I had observed several of them much affected under my discourse, and now they manifested it more openly. As I shook hands with them, I said, 'You see, I did not come among you to give you money. I considered religious instruction of the most value; therefore I have endeavoured to impart it.' 'Sir,' replied several, 'we did not want your money; your instruction is better to us than money; and we thank you for coming.' The camp now resounded with voices, saying, 'Thank you, sir; God bless you, sir;' and every countenance seemed to glow with gratitude. The young branches of the family seemed to think a great honour and blessing had been conferred upon them. "As I mounted my pony to come away, I observed one of the females, a fine young woman about twenty-five years of age, the same that brought the carpet from the package, and spread on the grass for me to kneel upon, to retire from the rest. She walked slowly near to the hedge, and appeared evidently much distressed. Her expressive eyes were lifted up to heaven, while the big tears rolling down her cheeks, were wiped away with her long black tresses. I thought--Here, surely, are some of the first fruits!--Thus did the woman, who was a sinner, weep, and with her hair wipe away the tears from the feet of her Saviour. May those tears be as acceptable to God: may the same Redeemer bid her go in peace! Her conduct attracted the notice of her family, and she was asked the reason of her sorrow. At first she could scarcely speak; but at length exclaimed, 'Oh! I am a sinner!' Then lifting up her eyes to heaven, she wept aloud, and again wiped away the falling tears with her hair. 'But did you not know that before? we are all sinners. What have you done to cause you so much distress?' She made no reply, but shook her head and wept." The author of the GIPSIES' ADVOCATE, who, for the encouragement of his readers, has embodied the above interesting paragraphs in his work, sincerely hopes and prays that all ministers of Christ will, ere long, be led to imitate this clergyman in his benevolent and Christian attempts to benefit by the influence of religion and the word of God, the lost, and ignorant, and miserable, and perishing among mankind. CHAP. XV. Interesting visits to Gipsy camps, including an Anecdote of his late beloved MAJESTY, GEORGE THE THIRD. The following account is extracted from the Home Missionary Magazine for June, 1823. _March_, 1823. "Sir, "If the following facts should afford any encouragement to the benevolent intentions of the Home Missionary Society, which has, for one of its objects, the improvement of the state of the _poor Gipsies_, my end in relating them will be amply answered. "On Saturday evening, in the month of October, the narrator followed several Gipsy families. Being arrived at the place of their encampment, his first object was to gain their confidence. This was accomplished; after which, to amuse their unexpected visitant, they shewed forth their night diversions in music and dancing; likewise the means by which they obtained their livelihood, such as tinkering, fortune-telling, and conjuring. That the narrator might be satisfied whether he had obtained their confidence or not, he represented his dangerous situation, in the midst of which, they all with one voice cried, 'Sir, we would kiss your feet, rather than hurt you!' After manifesting a confidence in return, the master of this formidable gang, about forty in number, was challenged by the narrator for a conjuring match. The challenge was instantly accepted. The Gipsies placed themselves in the circular form, and both being in the middle, commenced with their conjuring powers to the best advantage. At last the narrator proposed the making of something out of nothing. This proposal was accepted. A stone which never existed, was to be created, and appear in a certain form in the middle of a circle made on the turf. The master of the gang commenced, and after much stamping with his foot, and the narrator warmly exhorting him to cry aloud; like the roaring of a lion, he endeavoured to call forth nonentity into existence. Asking him if he could do it? he answered, 'I am not strong enough.' They were all asked the same question, which received the same answer. The narrator commenced. Every eye was fixed upon him, eager to behold this unheard-of exploit; but (and not to be wondered at,) he failed!--telling them, he possessed no more power to _create_ than themselves. Perceiving the thought of insufficiency pervading their minds, he thus spoke:--"Now, if you have not power to create a poor little stone, and if I have not power either; what must that power be, which made the whole world out of nothing?--men, women, and children! that power I call God Almighty." The night's diversion having received a change, the golden moment was eagerly seized to impress on their minds the infinite power, holiness, and justice of their Creator. This being done, the origin of sin, and the immortality of the soul, were, in the second place, impressed on their minds. Then followed the awful effects of sin, and the soul's eternal punishment in hell, because of offending this great God, whose holiness could not look on sin, and whose justice would punish it. Representing the soul's eternal punishment by the wrath of an incensed God, never did the preacher before witness such an effect; the poor Gipsies, with tremulous voice, crying, '_Did you ever hear the like_! _ What ever shall we do_?' These expressions gave new energies to the preacher, and still brighter hopes of a good effect. Going on with the awful representation, and in the act of turning, as if to leave them, he bade them the long farewell. 'Never, never more to meet till we meet in hell! Oh! what a dreadful thing it is, my fellow-sinners, that we have to part in this world with the thought of meeting in an eternal world of pains, never to see God! never to see heaven! never to see any thing to comfort our poor souls! Oh! we are lost, lost, poor souls, we are lost for ever!--farewell!' In the act of leaving them, these poor creatures cried, 'Not yet, Sir, not yet.' Now was the glorious moment come, which the preacher eagerly anticipated of proclaiming the glad tidings of salvation through a crucified Saviour. Asking how long they would stand to hear the way of escape from the wrath to come, they instantly lifted up their voices, answering, 'All night, Sir, all night.' Then the preacher, without much persuasion, exhibited a Saviour, in all his sufferings, merits, death, and glory. They were sorry that such a good being should suffer so much; but the preacher took care to show the absolute necessity of his sufferings. Their manner bespoke an imperfect idea of a substitute. This was soon made clear to their understandings by comparisons, when the master of the gang cried, 'I see it, I see it!' He was asked what he saw? 'I see Jesus Christ getting between us and God, and satisfying our great God's justice by dying instead of us.' This truly made the preacher's heart glad, seeing the great plan of salvation was so clearly understood by those who declared (although in a land of light,) they never heard of Jesus Christ before. "The preacher sang the hymn:-- "How condescending, and how kind Was God's eternal Son, &c," and then ended with prayer. They solicited him to return on the sabbath morning; he did so, and, as he hopes, under the influence of the Holy Spirit. The master gratefully accepted of a bible; for though the Gipsies could not read, a little boy was among them, who was not a Gipsy, that could read remarkably well, having been taught at a Sunday school at Hastings, in Sussex. They all joyfully anticipated the pleasure of going to the Rev. J. Carter's Chapel, of Braintree, in the afternoon, but met with a disappointment, arising from an unexpected decampment. About one month after, in the latter end of November, two Gipsy women called on the narrator, earnestly entreating him to go and preach to them, which they called conversation. Asking the reason, why they entreated this favour? their answer was, 'We have heard much about your conversation, sir, and we should like to hear it. Come, do come, and we will be all ready to receive you.' Asking who they were that told them of the conversation just mentioned, they said, 'some of our people, Sir, that you were with about a month since. They told us a great deal about your conversation, and we should so much like to hear it. Oh! sir, do come to us poor creatures, for we have an invitation for you, if you would condescend to take it, to meet with the Gipsies on Christmas day.' That night, the narrator walked a few miles to their camp, and in their smoky tent preached Jesus Christ the only way of salvation, to these poor, despised, neglected creatures. After being with them two hours and a half, he bade them farewell, and going behind a hedge, anxious to know what effect the new unheard of doctrines would produce on their minds, he listened for a short time. In the midst of conversation with each other, one of them said, 'Well, I know this, if I could get a house near where that gentleman lives, and could live by my business, I would send all my children to that school there, and hear him as long as ever I could live.' While they were conversing about Adam and Eve, and the evil effects of sinning against God; one of the women said, 'However, you see, all the punishment that us women get, is sorrow and pains in child-bearing.' 'Stop, stop,' says one of the men, 'that won't do, Ann, that won't do. If sorrow and pains in child-bearing be all the punishment that women are to have, what punishment must those women have that do not bear children? You are quite wrong, Ann; you women are as bad as _us_.' This led on to a further discovery, and the conversation among themselves was truly interesting. "One of the children telling a lie, the mother touched it on the head, saying, 'What are you telling lies about? Have you forgotten what the gentleman said to night? You will go to hell, if you tell any more lies. Let me never hear you tell another, you bad lad, for God will not take you to heaven.' "These, and several remarks about Jesus Christ, afforded no small pleasure to the preacher, and he hopes that these facts will afford no small encouragement to the Home Missionary Society. "Your very humble Servant, "J. H. C." Before the author relates one of the most extraordinary anecdotes with which he is acquainted, one, of which a King and a dying Gipsy are the characters, he will relate another interesting account of a visit to a Gipsy camp, which will, it is hoped, prove that such visits are not in vain, when made in dependence on the Divine blessing. A Gipsy, in great distress of mind, and with weeping eyes, came to inform him of one of their people, who was in great anguish of mind, and entreated him to visit them at the camp, which was several miles distant. The request was gladly complied with. On arriving at the tent, he found a woman sitting in a melancholy attitude on the ground; and distress and anguish were strongly marked in her countenance. She appeared quite indifferent to any thing that was said; and kept herself apparently engaged with the sticks and brands around the fire near the mouth of the tent. The man also appeared very melancholy. We learned that the cause of their distress was jealousy on the part of the man, who was called her husband. The circumstance which gave rise to those unhappy feelings had taken place several years before; yet the poor man has been so unhappy, that he has often intended to destroy both himself and his wife; and not many days before this visit to the camp, he had threatened to execute his purpose. The author talked and prayed with him, and exhorted him to look to God for strength and grace. Their repeated conversations were made useful to him, and those miserable feelings were subdued, and he now lives happily with the woman he had before hated, even to an intention of murder. This is another evidence, although a distressing one, that a want of chastity is evil in their sight. "A king of England, of happy memory, who loved his people and his God, better than kings in general are wont to do, occasionally took the exercise of hunting. Being out one day for this purpose, the chase lay through the shrubs of the forest. The stag had been hard run; and, to escape the dogs, had crossed the river in a deep part. As the dogs could not be brought to follow, it became necessary, in order to come up with it, to make a circuitous route along the banks of the river, through some thick and troublesome underwood. The roughness of the ground, the long grass and frequent thickets, gave opportunity for the sportsmen to separate from each other; each one endeavouring to make the best and speediest route he could. Before they had reached the end of the forest, the king's horse manifested signs of fatigue and uneasiness; so much so, that his Majesty resolved upon yielding the pleasures of the chase to those of compassion for his horse. With this view, he turned down the first avenue in the forest, and determined on riding gently to the oaks, there to wait for some of his attendants. His Majesty had only proceeded a few yards, when, instead of the cry of the hounds, he fancied he heard the cry of human distress. As he rode forward, he heard it more distinctly. 'Oh, my mother! my mother! God pity and bless my poor mother!' The curiosity and kindness of the king led him instantly to the spot. It was a little green plot on one side of the forest, where was spread on the grass, under a branching oak, a little pallet, half covered with a kind of tent; and a basket or two, with some packs, lay on the ground at a few paces distant from the tent. Near to the root of the tree he observed a little swarthy girl, about eight years of age, on her knees, praying, while her little black eyes ran down with tears. Distress of any kind was always relieved by his Majesty, for he had a heart which melted at 'human woe;' nor was it unaffected on this occasion. And now he inquired, 'What, my child, is the cause of your weeping? For what do you pray?' The little creature at first started, then rose from her knees, and pointing to the tent, said, 'Oh, sir! my dying mother!' 'What?' said his Majesty, dismounting, and fastening his horse up to the branches of the oak, 'what, my child? tell me all about it.' The little creature now led the King to the tent:--there lay, partly covered, a middle-aged female Gipsy, in the last stages of a decline, and in the last moments of life. She turned her dying eyes expressively to the royal visitor, then looked up to heaven; but not a word did she utter; the organs of speech had ceased their office; _the silver cord was loosed_, _and the wheel broken at the cistern_. The little girl then wept aloud, and, stooping down, wiped the dying sweat from her mother's face. The King, much affected, asked the child her name, and of her family; and how long her mother had been ill. Just at that moment another Gipsy girl, much older, came, out of breath, to the spot. She had been at the town of W---, and had brought some medicine for her dying mother. Observing a stranger, she modestly courtsied, and, hastening to her mother, knelt down by her side, kissed her pallid lips, and burst into tears. 'What, my dear child,' said his Majesty, 'can be done for you?' 'Oh, sir!' she replied, 'my dying mother wanted a religious person to teach her, and to pray with her, before she died. I ran all the way before it was light this morning to W---, and asked for a minister, _but no one could I get to come with me to pray with my dear mother_!' The dying woman seemed sensible of what her daughter was saying, and her countenance was much agitated. The air was again rent with the cries of the distressed daughters. The King, full of kindness, instantly endeavoured to comfort them: he said, 'I am a minister, and God has sent me to instruct and comfort your mother.' He then sat down on a pack, by the side of the pallet, and taking the hand of the dying Gipsy, discoursed on the demerit of sin, and the nature of redemption. He then pointed her to Christ, the all sufficient Saviour. While the King was doing this, the poor creature seemed to gather consolation and hope: her eyes sparkled with brightness, and her countenance became animated. She looked up; she smiled; but it was the last smile; it was the glimmering of expiring nature. As the expression of peace, however, remained strong in her countenance, it was not till some little time had elapsed, that they perceived the struggling spirit had left mortality. "It was at this moment that some of his Majesty's attendants, who had missed him at the chase, and who had been riding through the forest in search of him, rode up, and found the King comforting the afflicted Gipsies. It was an affecting sight, and worthy of everlasting record in the annals of kings. "His Majesty now rose up, put some gold into the hands of the afflicted girls, promised them his protection, and bade them look to heaven. He then wiped the tears from his eyes, and mounted his horse. His attendants, greatly affected, stood in silent admiration. Lord L--- was now going to speak, when his Majesty, turning to the Gipsies, and pointing to the breathless corpse, and to the weeping girls, said, with strong emotion, 'Who, my lord, who, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto these?'" CHAP. XVI. Further interesting Correspondence. "Dear Sir, "In answer to your inquiries, I have to say, that within my knowledge, little or nothing has as yet been accomplished for the Gipsies. The Home Missionaries have frequently paid flying visits to their camps, and prayed, read, preached and distributed tracts. In all cases they have been treated with much respect, and their labour has been repaid with the most sincere marks of gratitude. But I never met with very warm support in carrying on this object, but was often exposed to some sarcastical insinuations or sardonic smiles from those who thought the attempt to ameliorate the condition of the Gipsies, only Quixotic. "I think their wandering life is one very great impediment in the way of improving the Gipsy tribes, and yet they are so attached to it, that, when taken into families, as servants, they will not stay. Nor can any good be done to their children; for, like all wild people, the parents are attached to them to a fault; so that they cannot allow them to be absent from them even to enjoy the instruction of a school, suspecting that such a separation might end in their final disunion. "Were a distinct society formed to effect a reformation among the Gipsies, many of the nobility, and other classes of the higher orders, would no doubt subscribe. There is a feeling among them on the subject, and many times the formation of a society has been on the tapis. The Gipsies are singularly attached to the Establishment, and many of them are married at the parish churches; and it is a pity the episcopalian body have not taken them up. There is a prejudice against them which I think is unfounded; but I cannot enter into details in a mere letter. People look on them as vagabonds, and _they_ seem shy in return; and hence they continue a kind of outcast body in a civilized country. "If any further steps are taken, and if I can in any way assist in promoting your good object, you may command my services. "I am, dear sir, respectfully yours, "I. COBBIN." _Extracts from the Letter of a Clergyman's Lady_. "Sir, "My best thanks are due to you for your compliance with my request; and, in return, I beg to assure you, that I consider your answer to my friend's objection, as quite satisfactory and efficient. I rejoice to hear that God has been pleased to bless the endeavours and earnest exertion of the Scripture-readers (to the Gipsies) with success. To behold sixteen, and afterwards twenty-one Gipsies voluntarily attending Divine worship, must have conveyed feelings of heartfelt gratitude to the heart of every Christian, and at the same time encourage him to persevere in earnest prayer to the Father of mercies, to pour his holy Spirit into their souls, that they might become the true and faithful followers of the Redeemer. You say you would be glad to receive any intelligence respecting this interesting people; by which I am led to suppose that an account of an interview which I had with some of them, may not be unacceptable; an interview that was highly pleasing and satisfactory, as I found them less ignorant of spiritual concerns, and to possess better qualities, than I had imagined. "Having sent for two women, (the heads of the camps) I received them in a cottage in the town of ---, and after allowing them some refreshment, proceeded to put the different questions to them that are inserted in the Observer. They told me that their family, altogether, consisted of eighteen persons, who travelled about the country in three camps; that the men found it difficult to obtain regular employment; that sometimes, during the winter, they made cabbage-nets, and mended culinary utensils; that in the summer, men and women were occasionally employed in making hay, &c. These women appeared very destitute of necessary clothing, which they said they found great difficulty in obtaining. They appeared careful to speak the truth, alleging that it hurt their consciences to speak otherwise. On the question being put to them, whether they appropriated to themselves the property of those near whom they encamped? they candidly confessed that they sometimes took a little straw, hay, and sticks; but no fowls or any other live-stock. They shewed a very affectionate disposition and warm feelings towards their children. The eldest of them assured me, that if any in their camp became orphans, she considered herself more bound to provide for them than her own, as the former needed it the more, being destitute. She did not object to their gaining instruction, if it came in the way, and she wished to be read to herself, and appeared to take much pleasure in listening to my explanations of the important doctrines of religion. They said that none of their party could read, but that they were sometimes visited by a relative who was a good scholar. She said, too, that she always kept in her possession a _godly book_, for the purpose of asking, as opportunity offered, a traveller to read to them. She assured me, too, (which I rather doubted,) that they constantly attended Divine worship, when encamped near enough to churches; that they send for the nearest clergyman _to preach_ to the dying, and that they never omit having their babes _full christened_, excepting in cases of sickness, when the child is only baptized: and should such child die, they obtain the services of a parochial clergyman to inter it. They said, thinking, no doubt, to please me, that they did not like the Ranters, but that they thought well of the _church folks_. I fear that, though they had a general knowledge of the Supreme Being, they were sadly ignorant of the most important point of Christianity, namely, the all-sufficient sacrifice that was made for the whole world. While I expatiated to them on the day of judgment and the final doom of man, displaying the extreme and exquisite happiness of the righteous part of the human family, and the dreadful misery of the wicked, the younger of them, who appeared indisposed, was considerably agitated. They then said, that they were not in the habit of swearing, but occasionally did so, though they were aware it was very wicked. When travelling, they told me that they avoid breaking the sabbath; and that they visit all places included in the district through which they wander, three times per year, from which plan they seldom deviate. I inquired if they would like to settle in cottages, and gain their livelihood by industry. They replied, that _if house-rent_, _clothes_, _food_, _and all other necessaries were found them_, they would; but that they would not settle on any other condition. "I am desirous of obtaining your opinion respecting the plan I have lately formed to benefit this people; for, should you approve of it, it will be carried into immediate execution. I thought it would be very advantageous to offer an adequate remuneration to a pious person who would devote every half-day to reading and explaining the Scriptures to the old, and teaching the young to read. I was aware that it would be difficult to obtain one, who, while he would teach the young to read, and explain the Scriptures to the aged, would be wise enough to give wholesome advice to every case of mental distress, and be gifted to guide the first steps of those who are disposed to be good, in the way of Christian godliness. After much anxiety and many attempts, I at length succeeded in meeting with a person most disinterestedly pious; one who was willing to accede to any proposal to benefit his fellow-creatures. He appears to attach little importance to himself, but to have much confidence in God, in reference to his exertions. He is really desirous to promote the immortal interests of the poor people to whom his attention has been directed, and is pious, zealous and intelligent. He, however, cannot devote himself to this work more than three days per week. He will visit all Gipsy camps for seven or eight miles round. "Some clear, forcible, simple, religious tracts, such as are likely to instruct and awaken, with the Scriptures, would, perhaps, be of service. I shall hold out rewards of clothes and books to those of whom I hear the best accounts, and shall endeavour to meet them, a few at a time, in a cottage, at least once per year. Will you let me know whether you think I am doing right?" _Extracts of a Letter from a man of plain_, _but pious character_, _addressed to the Southampton Committee_. "Gentlemen, "It is natural for me to suppose that you expect, by this period, to hear something of the success that has attended my labours on the common among the people called Gipsies. I visit them three or four times a-week, besides going among them on sabbath days. I go from tent to tent, and talk to them on religious subjects, read and explain the word of God to them, so far as I am able, and pray with them. At such times they thankfully receive what I humbly communicate to them, and often, with tears and gratitude, wonder that I should think of them in their poor degraded state. I hope some of them may be brought to the knowledge of God." After some other pleasing details, this humble person concludes his letter thus: "With regard to the children, I meet with here and there _one_ among them that can read, but it is very little. These children, however, are desirous, I may say very desirous to have some little books. To such I have given books, till I have none left. I could have given away, where desired, and with the prospect of knowing they might be useful, many more, had I possessed them. Upon the whole I think there is cause for much encouragement. "I am, gentlemen, your humble servant, "* * * * *" A clergyman, a most valuable correspondent, observes, while addressing the Committee, through the author: "In speaking to the Gipsies on the road side, and offering a tract, I have never but once met with impertinence. It is probable that the individual had been impertinently treated, first, by people called Christians. "Dr More has well said, with respect to the Jews, 'If Christians had believed and acted like Christians, it would have been a miracle if the Jews had not been converted.' "This observation is equally applicable to the Gipsies of England; for, if Christian denominations did their duty, they would cease to be Gipsies." CHAP. XVII. Concluding Remarks. Had the author availed himself of all the facts relating to the addresses which have been given in different places by clergymen, home missionaries, and other ministers, and published all the letters of an interesting nature addressed to himself and the Southampton Committee, in reference to the Gipsies, together with the gratitude they have shown for such Christian attentions, it might have gratified many readers; but these pages would thereby have been increased to too great a number. But, before concluding this little work, he desires to impress upon the reader, the necessity there is of engaging in the great work of the conversion of the poor Gipsies. Why do not all ministers, and all good people unite in it? May we not conclude that they do not feel the value of their souls as they ought, if they do not perform all that is in their power for this end? Both ministers and their congregations are too lukewarm. We are discouraged by difficulties under the influence of unbelief, and we often say, How can these things be accomplished? Every Christian is called by his Saviour to attempt the instruction of his fellow-creatures; and no common excuse, such as business, poverty, a want of time, acknowledged ignorance, and a want of talent, can justify us in neglecting the attempt to speak a word of advice, or reproof, or promise, to our fellow-creatures. This is the duty of every Christian, and if done in faith, Almighty God will bless the effort. To the magistrates the author would make a most ardent appeal on behalf of the despised members of the Gipsy family. Most respectfully and most earnestly does he entreat them to pity their destitute condition, when brought before them as vagrants, and from which they have been so often made to suffer; for, sooner would the wild creatures of the forest be tamed, than those branches of the human family be brought, through coercion, to dwell in houses and follow trades, who were born under the hedges, and have, through life, made unfrequented solitudes their homes. Much better would it be for the magistrates to encourage the education of their children, with the view to improve and reform the rising generation. The author hopes and prays that they may. _Blessed are the merciful_, _for they shall obtain mercy_. If we all felt the importance and necessity of discharging our Christian duties as the sailor and the soldier do in their different stations, no difficulties would deter us; but God expects every _Christian_ to do his duty. A celebrated commander once called his officers together, and said, "We must carry such a garrison." The officers said, "It is impossible; the attempt would be vain." The general replied, "It can, and must be done, for I have the order in my pocket." Oh! ye ministers of Christ! you have the order lying on your table, and in your desks, at this moment; read it in the Bible:--_Go ye into the highways and hedges_, _and compel them to come in_, _that my house may be filled_. Luke xiv. 23. The duty is ours: have we done it? Have we done it as opportunities have presented themselves? Have we done it as we ought? Yea, more; have we sought for opportunities to instruct souls? Our adorable Master did so. He came from heaven to earth, to seek and to save them who were lost. Private Christians! you also have your order from the high throne of heaven, in your houses, perhaps unnoticed; or, it may be, you have not rightly interpreted these orders to their full extent. Others may have acted the coward's part, and thrown these orders aside. Would a soldier or a sailor thus serve his king and country? If you saw your countrymen perishing on your shores by shipwreck, or likely to be destroyed by fire, would you not be anxious to assist both the virtuous and the wicked? Gipsies are perishing around you; hear their cries, ere they are plunged into eternity; and attend to these orders from the King of Kings:-- _Thou shalt not avenge_, _nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people_; _but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself_. Leviticus, xix. 18. _The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be as one born amongst you_, _and thou shalt love him as thyself_; xxxiv. 5. _Beware of hardness of heart toward thy poor brother_. Deut. vii. 15, 9. _Be ye therefore __merciful_, _as your Father who is in heaven is merciful_. Luke vi. 36. _For he raiseth up the poor out of the dust and lifteth the needy out of the dunghill_. Psalm cxiii. 7. _Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you_, _do ye even so to them_; _for this is the law and the prophets_. Matt. vii. 12. _Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself_. Matt. xix. 19. And who is thy neighbour? Read the parable of the Good Samaritan, and _Go and do likewise_. Luke x. 15. The author will finally conclude by observing, that England will have a great deal to answer for in reference to the Gipsies of past generations. For, from a very moderate calculation that he has made, 150,000 of these outcasts have passed into the eternal world, uninformed, unacquainted with God, since they came to this country. May the present, and succeeding generations, be wiser than the past! APPENDIX. Since the GIPSIES' ADVOCATE was put to press, the author, as might naturally be expected on a subject so interesting as the conversion of the Gipsies, has had many other pleasing communications. From his Bristol correspondents he has been favoured with several of delightful interest, in reference to a small colony in that neighbourhood; and these state that several of the Gipsies not only begin to evidence an aversion to their former life, but increase in seriousness, and in habits of industry. And happy is he to say, that several influential Christians of that city are growing in the interest they manifest to these outcasts of society; for they are endeavouring to improve every opportunity of affording them instruction. It is with peculiar pleasure too, the author learns, that the students of the Baptist Academy of the above-named city, are not dead to the affecting necessities of this poor people. Some of the students of that academy spent the whole of one day in endeavouring to find one of their large encampments, of which they had had some previous information, and spent the evening in giving such instruction as appeared to them to be the best calculated to enlighten and reform the people to whom they were so anxious to do good; some of them occupying themselves with the children, and others with the adults. May their example have its due influence on surrounding Christians! The author must not forget to mention here, that he has been apprised by the clergyman in Scotland, whose letter forms so interesting a part of the ninth chapter, that the account he mentioned to him, as gaining insertion in a statistical publication, has not been published, he believes, in consequence of the death of the gentleman who had interested himself for its insertion in the work referred to; but that he hopes it may meet the public eye in a short time. And now, having redeemed the pledge which he gave his friends about twelve months since; having furnished them with a history of the Gipsies, such a one as he hopes will be beneficial to the race, whose conduct, condition, and necessities it narrates; he will conclude by thanking those kind friends who have unintentionally contributed to the interest of these pages, and by asking the continuation of their favours, with a view to give increasing interest to an intended second edition. He would not forget publicly to solicit, likewise, the correspondence of ladies and gentlemen who may be in possession of facts or plans likely to interest the public towards the Gipsies. The author now commits these pages to the all-influential blessing of God, earnestly praying that these poor, hard-faring wanderers, whose character he has endeavoured to delineate, may be speedily rescued from their present forlorn condition, and, that they may eventually be conducted to the mansions of eternal bliss, where neither storm nor tempest shall any longer afflict them, but where they shall join with the ransomed of the Lord, in ascribing _blessing_, _and honour_, _and glory_, _and power_, _unto him that sitteth upon the throne_, _and unto the Lamb for ever and ever_. THE END. LIST OF AUTHORS WHO HAVE WRITTEN ON THE GIPSIES. H. M. G. GRELLMAN'S DISSERTATION ON THE GIPSIES. Translated by M. Rapier. HOYLAND'S SURVEY OF THE GIPSIES. TWISS'S TRAVELS IN SPAIN. SWINBURNE'S TRAVELS IN ITALY. DR C. D. CLARK'S TRAVELS IN RUSSIA. CAPT. DAVID RICHARDSON. Referred to in the seventh volume of _Asiatic Researches_. SIR THOMAS BROWN'S VULGAR ERRORS. While these are the leading authors, whose works are either composed in, or translated into English, it may impress us with the importance by which the Gipsies have been viewed, to know, that nearly 200 have written about them in other languages. ERRATA. Page Line 31, 24, _For_ 'would be in a town,' _read_, 'would be in, in a town.' 55, 30, _For_ 'dispatching,' _read_, 'despatching.' BAKER AND SON, PRINTERS, SOUTHAMPTON. Footnotes: {10} See a late account of this Colony in a subsequent page. {11a} See Hoyland, pages 78, 79, and 80. {11b} We should not forget that the grace of God can change their hearts and morals. The facts contained in this book are very encouraging examples of the power of divine grace upon the heart and character of the Gipsy people. The reader would do well to turn to the following scriptures--Isaiah, XI. 6, 7, 8, 9. 1 Cor. VI. 9, 10, 11. {12} Children, after grown up to men and women, have an affection for their parents somewhat childish. A young Gipsey man known to the author, when his mother stays longer from the camp than usual, expresses his anxiety for her return, by saying--_Where is my mum_? _I wish my mum would come home_. {14} Some of those Gipsies who have families, and a little property, provide themselves with a cart, or waggon, as most convenient for a warehouse for their goods, and more comfortable than a tent to dwell in during winter. {16} "Should any be inclined to doubt, which I scarcely suppose possible, the identity of the Gipsy or Cingari, and Hindostanee languages, still it will be acknowledged as no uninteresting subject, that tribes wandering through the mountains of Nubia, or the plains of Romania, have conversed for centuries in a dialect precisely similar to that spoken at this day, by the obscure, despised, and wretched people in England, whose language has been considered as a fabricated gibberish, and confounded with a cant in use among thieves and beggars; and whose persons have been, till within the period of the last year, an object of the persecution, instead of the protection of our laws."--Extract from a letter of William Marsden, Esq. addressed to Sir Joseph Banks, F. R. S., and read to the Society of Antiquaries in London, 1785. {18} "The gentleman spoke dixen to me," said a Gipsy to the Author; that is, long hard words. {28} May not this be a proof of their Hindostanee origin? There is this difference, however--the clothes, &c. of the deceased Gipsy, are burnt instead of his body! {45} One Gipsy, I believe, has been convicted of having some stolen poultry in his tent; but he had received it from the thief. No other fact of the sort has come to my knowledge. {72} Sold by Seeley, and by Westley and Co, London; Clark, Bristol; Binns, Bath; and Lindsay and Co, Edinburgh. {75} I ought to say perhaps, that though this young and ignorant woman ran away, she did not go with any thing that was not her own; for she left behind her a bonnet that had been lent her, while she had nothing more on her head than a piece of cloth. {76} The latter was the daughter of the dying Gipsy, an account of whom may be seen in the tract numbered 803, and published by the Tract Society. {97} The friends of this good cause at Bristol, now think that manual labour is far more conducive to their conversion than hawking any article whatever: the above plan is therefore totally abandoned for labour. {115} A district in East India celebrated for diamonds. 
45663	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 45663-h.htm or 45663-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45663/45663-h/45663-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45663/45663-h.zip) _Five minutes later these two joyful gypsies started away in a covered wagon._ (Page 233) NAN OF THE GYPSIES by GRACE MAY NORTH The Saalfield Publishing Company Akron, Ohio New York Copyright MCMXXVI The Saalfield Publishing Company Made in the United States of America CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Gypsy Nan. 3 II. The Garden-all-aglow. 10 III. Good-bye Little Tirol. 17 IV. Nan Escapes. 24 V. Nan Revisits the Garden. 30 VI. Only a Gypsy-girl. 35 VII. Civilizing Gypsy Nan. 42 VIII. Nan's Punishment. 50 IX. The Lad Next Door. 56 X. "Lady Red Bird." 65 XI. The Doctor Takes a Hand. 73 XII. A Pleasant Call. 77 XIII. Mysterious Revelations. 85 XIV. The Mountain Ride. 93 XV. Sudden Changes. 103 XVI. School Girls. 110 XVII. Old Memories Revived. 115 XVIII. A Gypsy Camp. 123 XIX. An Enemy. 127 XX. Nan Disappointed. 133 XXI. The Power of Loving-kindness. 137 XXII. The Contest Recital. 143 XXIII. A Joyous Invitation. 147 XXIV. Nan's First Masquerade. 154 XXV. Nan's Decision. 161 XXVI. Nan's Eighteenth Birthday. 168 XXVII. Nan's Sudden Responsibility. 175 XXVIII. The Valedictorian. 179 XXIX. Faithful Friends. 183 XXX. Nan as Housekeeper. 190 XXXI. Nan's Problem. 194 XXXII. Surprising Things Happen. 201 XXXIII. The Thanksgiving Ride. 205 XXXIV. A Happy Surprise. 210 XXXV. An Unexpected Arrival. 220 XXXVI. Nan's Trousseau. 224 XXXVII. Nan's Wedding. 231 NAN OF THE GYPSIES CHAPTER I. GYPSY NAN. One glorious autumn day, when the pale mellow gold of the sunshine softened the ruggedness of the encircling mountains and lay caressingly on the gnarled live oaks, on the sky-reaching eucalyptus, and on the red-berried pepper trees, a tinkling of bells was heard on the long highway that led into the little garden village of San Seritos, half asleep by the gleaming blue Pacific. A gypsy caravan, consisting of three covered wagons drawn by teams of six mules, and followed by a string of horses, drew to one side of the road and stopped. A band of nut-brown, fox-like children scrambled down and began to race about, the older ones gathering sticks for the camp fire which they knew would soon be needed. Four men, aquiline nosed, and with black hair hanging in ringlets to their shoulders, and as many women, gaudily dressed, with red and yellow silk handkerchiefs wound about their heads, prepared to make camp for the night. It was a fittingly picturesque spot for a clump of gnarled live oaks grew about a spring of clear, cold water, which, fed from some hidden source, was never dry. A quarter of a mile away lay the first of the beautiful estates and homes of Spanish architecture, for which San Seritos was far famed. One of the gypsy women paused at her task to shade her eyes and gaze back over the highway as though expecting someone. A mis-shapen goblin-like boy tugged on her sleeve, and with a wistful expression in his dark eyes, he whispered, "Manna Lou, Nan hasn't run away again, has she?" "I don' no," the gypsy answered, drearily. "Maybe yes and maybe not." A moment later, when the woman had returned to her task, there was a screaming of delight among the fox-like children, and Tirol, the mis-shapen boy, cried in a thrill glad voice, "Here she comes, Manna Lou! Here comes Gypsy Nan." Toward them down the mountain drive, galloping on a spirited mottled pony, rode a beautiful young girl of thirteen, her long black hair, straight to her shoulders, suddenly broke into a riot of ringlets and hung to her waist. Her gown and headdress were as bright as maple leaves in Autumn, and her dark brown eyes were laughing with merriment and mischief. As she sprang from her pony, the gypsy children leaped upon her, uttering animal-like cries of joy, but Tirol, hobbling to her side, caught her warm brown hand in his thin claw-like one and looked up at her with adoration in his hungering black eyes as he said: "I was 'fraid, Sister Nan, 'fraid you had gone again, and maybe this time for good." The gypsy girl knelt impulsively and caught the mis-shapen boy in her arms, and her eyes flashed as she said passionately: "Little Tirol, Nan will never, never go for good as long as you need her to protect you from that wicked Anselo Spico. I hate him, hate him, because he abuses a poor boy who can't grow strong and defend himself, but he won't strike you again, little Tirol, unless he strikes me first." "Hush!" warningly whispered Cyra, a small gypsy girl. "Here comes Spico. He's been ahead to look over the village." It was evident by the suspending work in the camp that the approaching horseman was someone of importance in their midst. A Romany rye was he, dressed in blue corduroy with a scarlet sash at his waist and a soft scarlet ribbon knotted about his broad brimmed felt hat. His dark, handsome face, which, when in repose had an expression of either vanity or cruelty, was smiling as he dismounted from his spirited black horse. Gypsy Nan, who had been standing in the shadow of a live oak with protecting arms about the goblin-like Tirol breathed a sigh of relief, for the hated Spico was evidently in the best of spirits. He called gayly after the tall gypsy lad who was leading his horse away: "Soobli, where is Mizella, your queen? Call her forth, I have good news to tell." While he was talking the curtains of the largest van were pushed apart, an old hag-like gypsy appeared, and, with much groaning, made her way down the wooden steps to the ground. There she leaned heavily on a cane, and hobbling toward her son, asked eagerly: "What's the pickings like to be, Spico? Is it a rich gorigo town?" "Rich, Mother Mizella?" the handsome young rye repeated. "The gorigo around here has his pockets lined with gold and will spend it freely if he is amused. You women dress in your gayest and start out tomorrow with your tambourines. You will gather in much money with your fortune telling and we men in the village will not be idle." Then, going to the camp fire, over which a small pig was being roasted, he asked, looking around sharply. "Where is leicheen Nan? If she has run away again, I'll--" "No, no, Nan hasn't run away," the gypsy woman, Manna Lou, hastened to say. "She's here, Spico. Come Nan, dearie," she called pleadingly. "Come and speak pleasant." The girl, with a defiant flashing of her dark eyes, stepped out of the shadow of a low-branching live oak and stood in the full light of the camp fire. "Leicheen Nan," the Romany rye said, and his words were a command, "tomorrow you will go to the village and dance at the gorigo inn. You have idled long enough." It was the gypsy woman, Manna Lou, who replied. "Not yet, Spico," she implored in a wheedling tone--"Nan is only a little gothlin. Wait until she is grown." Before the angered young rye could answer, Mizella hobbled to the camp fire and snarled angrily: "I am queen. My word is law. That good-for-nothing leicheen Nan shall do as my son says." The girl stepped back into the shadow, her heart rebellious. She said nothing, but she was determined that she would not obey. The men then sat about the fire and were served by the women, who, with the children afterwards ate what was left. The moon came up, and Nan, nymph-like, danced up a grassy hill back of the camp. A throng of wild, fox-like little children scrambled up after her. "A story. Tell us a story, Nanny," they called. The girl paused, turned and seeing the crippled Tirol struggling to climb the hill, she ran back, lifted him to her strong young shoulder and carried him to the top of the knoll. There they all sat together, many bright black eyes watching while Nan told them a story. A fanciful tale it was of how a gypsy princess had been cruelly treated by a wicked man like Anselo Spico. How he had shut the princess and six other gypsy girls, who had defied him, in a van without horses and had let it roll down a cliff road into the sea. "But they were not drowned, for the spirits of the sea-spray carried them up to the sky, and any clear night you can see that gypsy princess and the six gypsy girls dancing in their bright crimson and gold shawls and you call it the sun-set." Tirol, always the most intense of Nan's listeners leaned forward and asked in a low whisper: "What did the sea-spray spirits do to--to that wicked Romany rye?" "That night," the gypsy girl said in a low voice of mystery, "he went to the top of a cliff to make sure the van had gone into the sea, and it had, for it lay broken in the surf. Then the sea-spray spirits lifted a wave as high as a hill and it swept over the cliff and that wicked Romany rye was seen no more." Tirol's black eyes glowed in the moonlight and his frail hand was trembling as Nan took it to lift him again to her shoulder. "Steal back soft-like, so he won't know we left camp," she warned. Crouching low, the file of little fox-like children crept back of trees and brush until the vans were reached, then darted between the flaps and crawled, without undressing, into their bunk-like beds, all but Nan and Tirol. The gypsy girl felt smothered if she slept in the van. CHAPTER II. THE GARDEN-ALL-AGLOW. Before day break, Gypsy Nan awakened the goblin-like boy. Rolled in blankets they had slept in the shelter of the live oak trees and close to the warm coals of the camp fire. "Come Tirol," she whispered, glancing at the wagons, to see if anyone was astir, "we must go now, for Nan isn't going to dance at the inn for the gorigo. And you must come, too, else that wicked Anselo Spico will make you stand on a corner and beg, making money out of your poor little bent body that's always a-hurting you." With many backward glances the two children stole away to where the mules and ponies were corralled. After carefully lifting the frail boy to the back of the mottled horse, Binnie, Nan mounted, and together they galloped down the coast highway. The last star had faded, the grey in the East was brightening, and then suddenly the sun, in a burst of glory appeared and the sky and sea flamed rose and amethyst. The dark eyes of the girl glowed with appreciation and joy, and she started singing a wild, glad song to a melody of her own creating. They had gone perhaps a mile from camp and away from the town when Nan suddenly drew rein and listened. She heard the beating of hoofs behind them, but the riders were hidden by the curve in the road. Whirling her pony's head she turned down into a canyon that led to the shore. There she concealed her horse and with Tirol she lay close to the sand. Two horsemen passed on the highway, and, as she had surmised, one was Anselo Spico. She thought they were hunting for her but she was mistaken. In the village the Romany rye had heard of a rich gorigo whose horses were of the finest breed and whose stables were but slightly guarded, and it was to inspect this place that they were going. True, Mizella's son had noticed Nan's absence that morning but he knew that she would return and he was planning a cruel punishment which he would administer for her defiance and disobedience. Nan remained in hiding until she could no longer hear the beating of the hoofs, then she said gaily--"Look Tirol, the sand is hard on the beach. I'll lift you up again, dearie, and we'll ride along by the sea." The boy laughed happily as they rode, so close to the waves that now and then one broke about the pony's feet, and the girl laughed, too, for it is easy to forget troubles when one is young. They soon came to a beautiful estate where the park-like grounds reached the edge of the gleaming white sand, but it was surrounded by a hedge so high that even on the small horse's back the children could not see over it. "Tirol," Nan exclaimed, "no one could find us here, and so close up to this high hedge, we'll have our breakfast." Leaping from the pony the girl, with tender compassion, carefully lifted down the mis-shapen boy, then opening a bundle tied in a red handkerchief, she gave him a thick slice of brown bread and a piece of roasted pig, which she had stored away the evening before. "Look! Look!" cried the boy, clapping his claw-like hands. "The birds are begging, Nanny, let Tirol feed them." Like a white cloud shining in the sun the sea gulls winged down from the sky. Gypsy Nan leaped to her feet and ran with outstretched arms to greet them, and the white birds fearlessly circled about her as she tossed crumbs into the air, and one, braver than the others lighted on Tirol's outstretched hand and pecked at his breakfast. When at last this merry feast was over, the sea gulls flew away, and Nan called merrily, "Tirol, maybe there's something beautiful behind the hedge that's so high. Let's go through it, shall we?" The deformed boy nodded. Many an exciting adventure he and Nan had when they ran away. But the gypsy children found that the hedge was as dense as it was high, and though it was glowing with small crimson flowers, it was also bristling with thorns and nowhere was there space enough for them to break through. Suddenly Nan, who had danced ahead, gave a little cry of delight. "Here's the gate, Tirol!" she called. "It opens on the beach." Eagerly the girl lifted the latch and to her joy the gate swung open. She leaped within and the boy followed her. Then for one breathless moment Gypsy Nan stood with clasped hands and eyes aglow, as she gazed about her. Never before had she seen so wonderful a garden. There were masses of crysanthemums, golden in the sunlight, and, too, there were banks of flaming scarlet. In the midst of it all, glistening white in the sunshine, was a group of marble nymphs, evidently having a joyous time sporting in the fern-encircled pool, while a flashing of rainbow colors showered about them from the fountain. A mockingbird sang in the pepper tree near the house but there was no other sound. "Let's find the gorigo lady that lives here," Nan whispered. "Maybe she'd let me tell her fortune. Anselo Spico won't be so angry if we take back a silver dollar." Up the flowered path, the gypsy children went, but, though Nan fearlessly lifted the heavy wrought iron knocker on the door nearest the garden and on the one at the side, there was no response. Returning to the garden, the girl stooped and passionately kissed a glowing yellow crysanthemum. "Nan loves you! Nan loves you bright, beautiful flower!" she said in a low tense voice, "Nan would like to keep you." "If you're wantin' it, why don't you take it?" t Tirol asked. "Spico an' the rest, they always take what they want when they can get it easy." The girl turned upon the small boy as she said almost fiercely. "Haven't I told you time and again that 'tisn't honest to steal? Don't matter who does it, 'tisn't right, Tirol. Manna Lou said my mother wouldn't love me if I stole or lied. An' I won't steal! I won't lie! I won't." Many a time Nan had been well beaten because she would not do these things which so often Anselo Spico had commanded. Then, noting how the small boy shrank away as if frightened, the girl knelt and held him close in a passionate embrace. "Tirol!" she implored, "Little Tirol, don't be scared of Nan. 'Twasn't you she was fierce at. 'Twas him as makes every-body and all the little ones lie and steal. All the little ones that don't _dare_ not because he would beat them." The girl felt Tirol's frail body trembling in her clasp. "There, there, dearie. You needn't be afraid. Anselo Spico don't _dare_ to beat you. He knows if he did, I'd kill him." Then there was one of the changes of mood that were so frequently with Nan. Kissing Tirol, she danced away, flinging her body in wild graceful movements. Up one path she went, and down another. Catching up the tambourine which always hung at her belt, she shook it, singing snatches of song until she was quite tired out. Then, sinking down on a marble bench, she held Tirol close and gazed up at the windows of the house. One after another she scanned but no face appeared. Had the proud, haughty owner of that house been at home, she would have felt that her grounds were being polluted by the presence of a gypsy. Suddenly Nan sprang up and held out her hand for the frail claw-like one of the mis-shapen boy. "No need to wait any longer. There's no lady here to get a dollar from for telling her fortune,--an' I'm glad, glad! Fortunes are just lies! I hate telling fortunes!" Down the path they went toward the little gate in the high hedge which opened out upon the beach. Turning, before she closed it, the girl waved her free hand and called joyfully. "Good-bye flowers of gold, Nan's coming back some day." CHAPTER III. GOOD-BYE LITTLE TIROL. The gypsy children returned toward the camp just as the sun was setting. "Aren't you 'fraid that Spico'll strike us?" the goblin-like boy asked, holding close to Nan as the small, mottled pony galloped along the coast road. "No; I'm not scared," Nan said. "If he strikes us, we'll run away for good." "Could we go back and live in that garden?" "I don't know where we'd go. Somewheres! Maybe up there." Nan pointed and the boy glanced at the encircling mountains where the canyons were darkening. Surely they would be well hidden there. They were close enough now to see the smoke curling up from the camp fire near the clump of live oaks. Leaving the small horse in the rope corral with the others, the children approached the wagons, keeping hidden behind bushes as best they could. Nan wanted to see who was about the fire before she made her presence known. The one whom she dreaded was not there and so she boldly walked into the circle of the light, leading Tirol. Then she spoke the gypsies' word of greeting: "Sarishan, Manna Lou." "Leicheen Nan, dearie, how troubled my heart has been about you," the gypsy woman said. "You ran away. I thought forever." "Where is Anselo Spico?" the girl inquired. "He hasn't come yet. Mizella's been asking this hour back. He said at high sun he'd be here sure, more than likely he's been--" "Hark!" Nan whispered, putting a protecting arm about the boy. "Hide, quick, Tirol, here he comes." But only one horseman appeared, galloping through the dusk, and that one was Vestor, who had ridden away with the Romany rye that morning. His dark face told them nothing and yet they knew that he had much to tell. They gathered about him, but before he could speak, the old queen pushed her way to the front. "Where's my son?" she demanded. "In jail for tryin' to steal a rich gorigo's horse." Then Vestor added mysteriously. "But he'll join us afore dawn, I'm tellin' you! Break camp at once," he commanded. "We're to wait for Spico in a mountain canyon on t'other side of town. I know where 'tis. I'll ride the leader." The supper was hastily eaten, the fire beaten out, the mules and horses watered and hitched. Just as the moon rose over the sea, the gypsy caravan began moving slowly down the coast highway. Nan, riding on her mottled pony, sincerely wished that Anselo Spico would not escape, but he always did, as she knew only too well. Two hours later the caravan stopped on a lonely mountain road and drew to one side. Half an hour later everyone was asleep, but in the middle of the night Nan was awakened by a familiar voice. Anselo Spico had returned. Long before daybreak the gypsy caravan was once more under way. The jolting of the wagon of Manna Lou roused the girl. She climbed from her berth and looked in the one lower to see if all was well with little Tirol. Two big black eyes gazed out at her and one of the claw-like hands reached toward her. Nan took it lovingly. "Little Tirol," she said, "you aren't feeling well." The goblin-like boy shook his head as he replied: "A crooked back hurts, Sister Nan. It hurts all the time." "I know--I know dearie!" the girl said tenderly gathering the little fellow close in her arms. "Wait, Nan will bring you some breakfast." But the boy turned away and wearily closed his eyes. The caravan had stopped long enough to make a fire and prepare the morning coffee. Soon Manna Lou entered the wagon. "Go out, Nan darling," she said. "Don't fear Spico. He only thinks of getting across the border in safety." The girl beckoned to the gypsy woman and said in a low voice, "Little Tirol's not so well. We'd ought to stop at the next town and fetch a doctor." "Poor little Tirol," the gypsy woman said kindly. "You'll be lonely, Nan, to have him go, but if the gorigo is right, if there is a heaven, then little Tirol'll be happier, for there's been no harm in him here. And there can't be anyone so cruel as Anselo Spico's been." Nan clenched her hands and frowned. Manna Lou continued. "Perhaps his own mother Zitha will be there waiting, and she'll take care of him. Before she died, she gave me little Tirol and begged me to keep watch over him and I've done my best." Impulsively Nan put her arms about the gypsy woman as she said, "Manna Lou, how good, how kind you are! You've been just like a mother to little Tirol and me, too. Some day you're going to tell me who my own mother was, aren't you, Manna Lou?" "Yes, leicheen Nan. When you're eighteen, then I'm going to tell you. I promised faithful I wouldn't tell before that." As the morning wore on, it was plain to the watchers that little Tirol was very ill and when at noon the caravan stopped, Nan, leaping from the wagon of Manna Lou confronted Anselo Spico as she said courageously: "Little Tirol is like to die. We've got to stop at that town down there into the valley and fetch a doctor." "Got to?" sneered the dark handsome man, then he smiled wickedly. "Since when is leicheen Nan the queen of this tribe that she gives commands? What we've got to do is cross over the border into Mexico before the gorigo police gets track of us." He turned away and Nan with indignation and pity in her heart, went back to the wagon. As she sat by the berth, holding Tirol's hot hand, she determined that as soon as the village was reached she herself would ride ahead and find a doctor. Manna Lou had tried all of the herbs, but nothing of which the gypsies knew could help the goblin-like boy or quiet his cruel pain. It was mid-afternoon when Nan saw that the winding downward road was leading into a valley town. It would take the slow moving caravan at least an hour to reach the village, while Nan, on her pony, could gallop there very quickly. Not far below was a dense grouping of live oak trees. She would slip among them on Binnie and then, out of sight of the caravan, she would gallop across the fields to the town. "Manna Lou," the girl said softly that she need not awaken the sleeping Tirol, "I'm going for a little ride." "That's nice, dearie," the kind gypsy woman replied. "It will do you good. The sunshine is warm and cheery." It was a rough road and the caravan was moving slowly. Many of the fox-like gypsy children were running alongside, and Nan joined them. She wanted to be sure where Anselo Spico was riding. As she had hoped, he was on the driver's seat of Queen Mizella's wagon which was always in the lead. Running back, she was about to mount her pony when she heard her name called softly. Turning, she saw Manna Lou beckoning to her. Springing to the home wagon, she went inside. "What is it, Manna Lou?" she asked. "You look so strange." "We thought little Tirol was asleep all this time, and so he _was_, but it's the kind of sleep that you don't waken from. Maybe he's in the gorigo heaven now with Zitha, his mother." The girl felt awed. "Why, Manna Lou," she whispered, "little Tirol looks happier than I ever saw him before. See how sweetly he's smiling." "Yes, dearie, he is happier, for his poor, crooked back was always hurting him, but he was a brave little fellow, cheerful and uncomplaining." The caravan stopped and Manna Lou went out to tell the others what had happened. The gypsy girl, alone with the boy who had so loved her, knelt by his side and kissing him tenderly, she said: "Little Tirol, darling, Nan has staid here and put up with the cruelty of Angelo Spico, just to be taking care of you, but now that you aren't needing Nan any more, she's going far away. Good-bye, dearie." * * * * * * * * That night while the caravan was moving at a slow pace over the moonlit road and all save the drivers were asleep, Nan, slipped out of Manna Lou's wagon, leaped to the back of Binnie and galloped back by the way they had come. CHAPTER IV. NAN ESCAPES. All night long Gypsy Nan, on the back of her small horse Binnie climbed the steep mountain road, a full moon far over her head transforming everything about her to shimmering silver. A bundle tied in a beautiful shawl of scarlet and gold contained all that belonged to her and food enough to last for several days. Nan was on the ridge of a mountain road when the sun rose, and to her joy saw the village of San Seritos lying in the valley below, and beyond was the gleaming blue sea. She drew rein and gazed ahead wondering where she should go, when her ears, trained to notice all of nature's sounds, heard the startled cry of some little ground animal. Dismounting, she bent over the place from which the sound had come and saw an evil-eyed rattle-snake about to spring upon a squirrel that seemed powerless to get away. Nan, whose heart was always filled with pity for creatures that were weak and helpless, threw a rock at the snake which glided into the underbrush. Then she lifted the squirrel, feeling its heart pounding against her hand. She carried the little thing across the road and placed it on an overhanging limb of a live oak tree. "There now! Nan's given you a chance to get away from the snake. That's what Anselo Spico is, a rattle-snake, an' I'm trying to get away." She was about to mount on her pony when she again paused and listened intently. This time she heard the galloping of a horse. Peering through the trees, back of her, she saw a black pony and its rider fairly plunging down the rough road on the opposite side of the canyon she had just crossed. In half an hour, perhaps less, that horse and rider would reach the spot where she was standing. Nan's fears were realized. She was being pursued. The rider she knew even at that distance, to be Vestor, a cruel man who would do anything his master Anselo Spico commanded. Where could she hide? It would have been easier if she had been alone, but it would not be a simple matter to conceal the pony. Mounting, the girl raced ahead. A turn in the mountain road brought her to a ranch. It was so very early that no one was astir. Riding in and trusting to fate to protect her, she went at once to a great barn and seeing a stack of hay in one corner, she wedged her pony back of it and stood, scarcely breathing, waiting for, she knew not what, to happen. But, although the moments dragged into an hour, no one came. At last, unable to endure the suspense longer, the girl slipped from her hiding-place, and, keeping close to the wall of the old barn she sidled slowly toward a wide door. She heard voices not far away. "You ain't seen nothing of a black-haired wench in a yellar an' red dress?" It was Vestor speaking and it was quite evident that he was snarling angry. Nan peered through a knot-hole, her heart beating tempestuously. The gypsy's gimlet-like black eyes were keeping a sharp lookout all about him as he talked. The rancher's back was toward the girl. He, at first, quietly replied, but when Vestor took a step toward the barn, saying he'd take a look around himself, the brawny rancher caught his arm, whirled him about and pointed toward the road. "I'll have none of _your_ kind prowlin' about _my_ place. You'd lake a look, all right, but I reckon you'd take everything else that wa'n't held down wi' a ton of rock. "I know the thievin', lying lot of you. I'd as soon shoot one of you down as I would a skunk, an' sooner, if 'twant for the law upholding of you, though gosh knows why it does." Then, as Vestor kept looking intently at the open barn door, the rancher, infuriated by the man's doggedly remaining when he had been told to be off, sprang toward a wagon, snatched a whip and began to lash the gypsy about the legs. With cries of pain, Vestor turned an ugly visage toward the rancher, but meeting only determination and equal hatred, he thought better of his attempt to spring at him, turned, went to his black pony, mounted it and rode rapidly back the way he had come. He didn't want to be too far behind the caravan fearing that the gorigo police might take _him_ up and put him in jail on Anselo's offense. The rancher stood perfectly still for sometime after the gypsy had ridden away, then he also turned and looked toward the barn. Nan had at once sidled to her place back of the hay stack and so she did not see that he slowly walked that way. Stopping in the door he listened intently. Then shrugging his shoulders, he went into the house to his breakfast. Half an hour later he again sauntered to the barn door. "Gal," he called. "Hi, there, you gypsy gal! That black soul'd critter's gone this long while. Don't be afeard to come out. Ma's waitin' to give you some breakfast." Surely Nan could trust a voice so kindly. Timidly she appeared, leading the pony who was munching a mouthful of hay. The rancher smiled at the girl in a way to set her fears at rest, at least as far as he was concerned, but once out in the open she glanced around wildly.--"Where is he? Where's that Vestor gone? Will he be back?" For answer, the rancher motioned the girl to follow him. He led her to a high peak back of the barn. "You kin see from here to all sides," he said: "You lie low, sort of, behind that big rock an' keep watchin'. The scoundrel rode off that a-way. If he keep's a goin', you'll see him soon. If he turned back, well, I'll let out the dogs." Nan did as she had been told and from that high position, she soon saw, far across the canyon, riding rapidly to the south, the black pony bearing the man she feared. She rose greatly relieved. "He's gone sure enough, Vestor has." Then, suspiciously she turned toward the man. "How did you know where I was?" "I saw you go in," the rancher told her, "an' I was settin' outside waitin for you to come out with whatever 'twas, you'd gone in to steal." A dark red mantled the girl's face, and she said in a low voice. "I don't steal an' I don't lie, but he does." She jerked her head in the direction Vestor had taken. "So do the rest, mostly, but, they don't all. Manna Lou don't steal and she don't lie. She fetched me up not to." The girl's dark eyes looked into the penetrating grey eyes of the rancher with such a direct gaze that he believed her. A woman appeared on the back porch and called to them. "Fetch the gal in for a bite of breakfast if she ain't too wild like." "Thanks, but I don't want any breakfast," Nan said. Then, noting that Binnie was still chewing on the hay he had pulled from the stack, she added,--"I haven't any money, or I'd pay for what he's had. I couldn't keep him from eating it." "Of course you couldn't, gal," the rancher said kindly. Then, as he saw that the girl was determined to mount her pony and ride away, he asked--"Where are you going to? I don't have to ask _what_ you're running away from? I _know_ that purty well." The girl shook her head and without a smile, she again said "Thanks." Then, quite unexpectedly, for the man had seen her make no sign, the pony broke into a run and she was gone. CHAPTER V. NAN REVISITS THE GARDEN. For half an hour Nan rode, bent low in her saddle possibly with the thought that she would be less noticeable. Each time that the winding road brought her to an open place where she could see across the valley, she drew rein and gazed steadily at the ribbon-like trail which appeared, was lost to sight, and re-appeared for many miles to the south. At last what she sought was seen, a horseman so small because of the distance that he appeared no larger than a toy going rapidly away. Sitting erect, the girl gazed down in the other direction and saw the garden city of San Seritos between the mountains and the sea. "Ho, Binnie!" she cried, her black eyes glowing. "I know where we'll go.--Back to that beach place where the flowers of gold are." And then, in the glory of the still early morning, with her black hair flying back of her, the girl in the red and yellow dress galloped down to the highway and rode around the village, that no-one might see her and arrest her because she was a gypsy. There were but few astir at so early an hour, but the sun was high in the heavens when at last she reached the little ravine that led down to the sea. This time she breakfasted alone in the shadow of the high hedge, and the shining white birds did not come. "Perhaps they only came for little Tirol," she thought. Then springing up, she stretched her arms toward the gleaming blue sky as she said: "I do want little Tirol to be happy." This was an impulse and not a prayer, for the gypsies had no religion, and Nan knew nothing really of the heaven of the gorigo. Then, telling Binnie to wait for her she opened the gate and entered the garden. The masses of golden and scarlet bloom, the glistening of many colors in the fountain, the joyous song of birds in the red-berried pepper trees fascinated the gypsy girl, and she danced about like some wild thing, up and down the garden paths, pausing now and then to press her cheek passionately against a big yellow crysanthemum that stood nearly as tall as she, and to it she would murmur lovingly in strange Romany words. She was following a path which she and Tirol had not found, suddenly she paused and listened. She had heard voices, and peering through the low hanging branches of an ornamental tree, she saw a pretty cottage by the side of great iron gates that stood ajar. Here lived the head gardener and his little family. A buxum, kindly faced young woman was talking to a small girl of seven. "Now, Bertha, watch Bobbie careful," she was saying. "Mammy is going up to the big house. The grand ladies is comin' home today an' every-thin' must be spic and ready." Nan darted deeper among the shrubs and bushes for the young woman passed so close that she could have touched her. The gypsy girl remained in hiding and watched the small children who looked strange to her with their flaxen hair and pink cheeks used as she was to the dark-eyed, black-haired, fox-like little gypsies. The baby boy was a chubby laughing two-year-old, "Birdie," as he called his sister, played with him for a time on the grass in front of their cottage. At last, wearying of this, she said--"Now Bobby, you sit right still like a mouse while Birdie goes and fetches out her dollie." Springing up, the little girl ran indoors. A second later a butterfly darted past the wee boy. Gurgling in delight, he scrambled to his feet and toddled uncertainly after it. Out through the partly-open iron gates he went, and then, tripping, he sprawled in the dust of the roadway. At that same instant Nan heard the chugging of an oncoming machine and leaping from her hiding place, she darted through the gates and into the road. A big touring car was swerving around a corner. The frightened baby, after trying to scramble to his feet, had fallen again. Nan, seizing him, hurled him to the soft grass by the roadside. Then she fell and the machine passed over her. The "grand ladies" had returned. The car stopped almost instantly, and the chauffeur lifted the limp form of the gypsy girl in his arms. "I don't think she's dead, Miss Barrington," he said, "and if you ladies wish I'll take her right to the county hospital as quickly as I can." The older woman spoke coldly. "No, I would not consider that I was doing my duty if I sent her to the county hospital. You may carry her into the house, Martin, and then procure a physician at once." "But, Miss Barrington, she's nothing but a gypsy, and yours the proudest family in all San Seritos or anywhere for that," the man said, with the freedom of an old servant. Then, it was that the other lady spoke, and in her voice was the warmth of pity and compassion. "Of course we'll take the poor child into our home," she said. "She may be only a gypsy girl, but no greater thing can anyone do than risk his own life for another." And so the seemingly lifeless Gypsy Nan was carried into the mansion-like home which stood in the garden-all-aglow that she had so loved. CHAPTER VI. ONLY A GYPSY-GIRL. When at last the girl opened her eyes, she looked about her in half dazed wonder. Where could she be? In a room so beautiful that she thought perhaps it was the gorigo heaven. The walls were the blue of the sky, and the draperies were the gold of the sun, while the wide windows framed glowing pictures of the sea and the garden. For the first time in her roaming life, Nan was in a luxurious bed. Hearing the faint rustle of leaves at her side, she turned her head and saw a grey-haired, kindly faced woman, who was gowned in a soft silvery cashmere; a bow of pink fastened the creamy lace mantle about her shoulders. It was Miss Dahlia Barrington, who was reading a large book. Hearing a movement from the bed, she looked up with a loving smile, and closing the book, she placed it on a table and bent over the wondering eyed girl. "Where am I, lady?" Nan asked. "You are in the Barrington Manor, dear. My sister's home and mine. Do you not recall what happened?" "Yes, lady, was the little boy hurt, lady?" "Indeed not, thanks to you," Miss Dahlia said. "Tell me your name, dear, that I may know what to call you." The girl's dark eyes grew wistful and she looked for a moment out toward the sea. Then she said in a very low voice. "I don't know my name, only just Nan." It was then she remembered that her race was scorned by the white gorigo, and, trying to rise, she added, "I must go now, lady. I must go back to Manna Lou. I'm only a gypsy. You won't want me here." "Only a gypsy?" the little woman said gently, as she covered the brown hand lovingly with her own frail white one. "Dearie, you are just as much a child of God as I am or Miss Barrington is, or indeed, any-one." Nan could not understand the words, for they were strange to her, but she could understand the loving caress, and, being weary, she again closed her eyes, but a few moments later she was aroused by a cold, unloving voice that was saying: "Yes, doctor, I understand that she is a gypsy, and that probably she will steal everything that she can lay her hands on, but I will have things locked up when she is strong enough to be about. I consider that she was sent here by Providence, and that it is therefore my duty to keep the little heathen and try to civilize and Christianize her." It was the older Miss Barrington who was speaking. Nan, who had never stolen even a flower, was keenly hurt, and she determined to run away as soon as ever she could. * * * * * * * * The chimes of the great clock in the lower hall were musically telling the midnight hour when the girl, seemingly strengthened by her determined resolve, sat up in bed and listened intently. She had heard a noise beyond the garden hedge, and her heart leaped joyously. It was Binnie, her mottled pony, calling to her. All day long he had been waiting for her. "I'm coming, Binnie darling," the gypsy girl whispered. Then, climbing from the bed, she dressed quickly, and, fearing that if she opened the door she might be heard, she climbed through the window and on a vine covered trellis descended to the garden. How beautiful it was in the moonlight, she thought, but she dared not pause. Down the path she sped and out at the gate in the hedge. Binnie, overjoyed at seeing his mistress, whinnied again. Gypsy Nan gave the small horse an impulsive hug as she whispered: "Binnie dearie, be quiet or some one will hear you. We must go away now, far, far away." The pony, seemingly to understand, trotted along on the hard sand with the gypsy girl clinging to his back, for the strength, which had seemed to come to her when she determined to run away, was gone and she felt weak and dazed. A few moments later she slipped from the pony's back and lay unconscious on the sand while the faithful Binnie stood guard over her. It was not until the next afternoon that she again opened her eyes and found herself once more in the beautiful blue and gold room and at her bedside sat the gentle Miss Dahlia gazing at her with an expression of mingled sorrow and loving tenderness. "Little Nan," she said, when she saw that the girl had awakened, "Why did you run away from me?" "Not from you, lady, from the other one, who called me thief." Miss Dahlia glanced quickly toward the door as she said softly, "Dearie, my sister, Miss Barrington, has had many disappointments, and she seems to have lost faith in the world, but I am sure that she means to be kind." Then the little lady added with a sigh, "I had so hoped you would want to stay with me, for I am very lonely now that Cherise is gone. She was nearly your age and this was her room, Shall I tell you about her?" "Yes, lady." Miss Dahlia clasped the brown hand lovingly as she began. "Long ago I had a twin brother, whom I dearly loved, but he married a very beautiful girl, who sang at concerts, and my sister, Miss Barrington, who sometimes seems unjust, would not receive her into our home, and my brother, who was deeply hurt, never communicated with us again. Many years passed and then one day a little girl of ten came to our door with a letter. She said that her name was Cherise and that her father and mother were dead. It was my dear brother's child. My sister, Miss Barrington was in the city where she spends many of the autumn months, and so I kept the little thing and told no one about her. Those were indeed happy days for me. This room, which had dark furniture and draperies, I had decorated in blue and gold just for her, and how she loved it. With her golden curls and sweet blue eyes she looked like a fairy in her very own bower. "Little Nan, you can't know what a joy Cherise was to me. We spent long hours together in the garden with our books, for I would allow no one else to teach her, but, when she was fourteen, her spirits slipped away and left me alone. I thought when you came that perhaps Cherise had led you here that I might have someone to love. I do wish you would stay, at least for a while." Nan looked into the wistful, loving face and then she turned to gaze out of the window. She was silent for so long that Miss Dahlia was sure that she would say no, but when the gypsy girl spoke, she said: "I'll stay until the gold flowers fade out there in the garden." "Thank you, dearie," and then impulsively the little lady added: "Try to love me, Nan, and I am sure that we will be happy together." The days that followed were hard ones for the gypsy girl, who felt as a wild bird must when it is first imprisoned in a cage, and her heart was often rebellious. "But I'll keep my word," she thought, "I'll stay till the gold flowers fade." The elder Miss Barrington began at once to try to civilize Nan, and the result was not very satisfactory. CHAPTER VII. CIVILIZING GYPSY NAN. The first day that Nan was strong enough to sit up Miss Barrington entered the room, followed by a maid, who was carrying a large box. The gypsy girl was seated by one of the windows, wrapped in a woolly blue robe that belonged to Miss Dahlia. "Anne!" the cold voice was saying, "that is the name I have decided to call you. Nan is altogether too frivolous for a Christian girl, and that is what I expect you to become. In order that you may cease to look like a heathen as soon as possible, I have had your gypsy toggery stored in the attic and I have purchased for you dresses that are quiet and ladylike." Then turning to the maid, she said: "Marie, you may open the box and spread the contents on the bed." There were two dresses. One was a dark brown wool, made in the plainest fashion, and the other was a dull blue. Nan's eyes flashed. "I won't wear those ugly things!" she cried. "You have no right to take my own beautiful dress from me." Miss Barrington drew her self up haughtily as she replied coldly,-- "You will wear the dresses that I provide, or you will remain in your room. It is my duty, I assure you, not my pleasure, to try to change your heathen ways." So saying Miss Barrington departed. As soon as they were alone Miss Dahlia went over to the side of Nan's chair, and smoothing the dark hair with a loving hand, she said, pleadingly: "Dearie, wear them just for a time. My sister will soon be going to the city and you shall have something pretty." Then, since the girl's eyes were still rebellious, the little lady opened a drawer and taking out a box she gave it to Nan. "Those ribbons and trinklets belonged to Cherise. She would be glad to have you wear them." The box contained many hair ribbons, some of soft hues and others of warm, glowing colors. Too, there was a slender gold chain with a lovely locket of pearls forming a flower. "Oh, how pretty, pretty!" the gypsy girl murmured, and then instinctively wanting to say thank you, and not knowing how, she kissed the wrinkled cheek of the dear old lady. That was the beginning of happy times for these two. When Nan was able to be out in the garden, she had her first reading lesson, and how pleased she was when at last she could read a simple fairy tale quite by herself from the beginning to the end. The elder Miss Barrington, who was interested in culture clubs, was luckily away much of the time, but one day something happened which made that proud lady deeply regret that she had tried to civilize a heathen gypsy. It was Sunday and the two ladies were ready to start for church. Nan was to have accompanied them. A neat tailored suit had been provided for her Sunday wear, a pair of kid gloves and a blue sailor hat. That morning when the gypsy girl went up to her room, she found a maid there who informed her that she was to dress at once as the ladies would start for St. Martin's-by-the-sea in half an hour. When she was alone, Nan put on the garment that was so strange to her and the queer stiff hat. She stood looking in the long mirror and her eyes flashed. She would not wear that ugly head dress. She was not a gorigo and she would not dress like one. She heard someone ascending the stairs, and, believing it to be Miss Barrington coming to command that she go to church with them, Nan darted out into the corridor and opening the first door that she came to, she entered a dark hall where she had never been before. A flight of wooden stairs was there and ever so quietly she stole up, and, opening another door at the top, she entered the attic. Then she stood still and listened. She heard faint voices far below. Evidently Miss Barrington was looking for her. Nan glanced about to see where she would hide if anyone came up the stairs but no one did, and soon she heard an automobile going down the drive. Darting to a small window, to her relief, she saw that both ladies were on their way to church. Then suddenly she remembered something! She had given her word to dear Miss Dahlia that she would attend the morning service and she had never before broken a promise, but she could not, she would not wear that ugly suit and that stiff round hat. As she turned from the window, a flash of color caught her eye. There was an old trunk near and a bit of scarlet protruded from beneath the cover. With a cry of joy, Nan leaped to the spot and lifted the lid. Just as she had hoped, it was her own beautiful dress. Gathering it lovingly in her arms, she started down the attic stairs, tiptoeing quietly lest she attract the attention of a maid. Once in her room, she locked the door and joyously dressed in the old way, a yellow silk handkerchief wound about her flowing dark hair, and the gorgeous crimson and gold shawl draped about her shoulders. No one saw the gypsy girl as she stole from the back door and into the garden-all-aglow. She picked a big, curly-yellow crysanthemum (for Miss Dahlia had told her to gather them whenever she wished) and she fastened it in the shawl. Then mounting her pony, she galloped down the highway. She was going to attend the morning services at the little stone church, St. Martin's-by-the-sea. At the solemn moment when all heads were bowed in prayer, Nan reached the picturesque, ivy covered stone church and stood gazing wonderingly in at the open door. Never before had this child of nature been in the portal of a church, and she felt strangely awed by the silence and wondered why the people knelt and were so still. Nan had never heard of prayer to an unseen God. Her first impulse was to steal out again and gallop away up the mountain road where birds were singing, the sun glowing on red pepper berries, and everything was joyous. The gypsy girl could understand Nature's way of giving praise to its creator, but she had promised Miss Dahlia that she would attend the morning service, and so she would stay. Gazing over the bowed heads with joy she recognized one of them. Her beloved Miss Dahlia and the dreaded Miss Ursula occupied the Barrington pew, which was near the chancel. Tiptoeing down the aisle, she reached the pew just as the congregation rose to respond to a chanted prayer. Unfortunately Miss Ursula sat on the outside, and there was not room for Nan. She stood still and gazed about helplessly. A small boy in front of Miss Barrington had turned, and seeing Nan, he tugged on his mother's sleeve and whispered: "Look, Mummie, here's a real gypsy in our church." Miss Ursula turned also, and when she beheld Nan in that "heathen costume," her face became a deep scarlet, and the expression in her eyes was not one that should have been inspired by her recent devotions. "Go home at once." she said, in a low voice, "and remain in your room until I return." Nan left the church. She was glad, glad to be once more out in the sunshine. She did not want to know the God of the gorigo if He dwelt in that dreary, sunless place. As she galloped down the coast highway, how she wished that she might ride up into the mountains and never return. Then she thought of Miss Dahlia. Just for a fleeting moment she had caught that dear little lady's glance when Miss Barrington was dismissing her, and Nan was almost sure that Miss Dahlia's sweet grey eyes had twinkled. "I will only have to stay until the gold blossoms fade," the girl thought a little later, as she wandered about the garden paths peering into the curly yellow crysanthemums, wondering how much longer they would last. With a sigh, Nan went indoors and up to her room. Undressing, she placed the gown that she so loved in a bureau drawer, and then, to please Miss Dahlia she put on the simple blue cashmere and sat with folded hands waiting to hear in what manner she was to be punished. CHAPTER VIII. NAN'S PUNISHMENT. Half an hour later Nan heard the automobile returning and she sighed resignedly. The gypsy girl's heart was rebellious, yet she would bear with it a little longer for Miss Dahlia's sake. The door was opening, but Nan, with folded hands still gazed out of the window. A severe voice spoke: "Anne, when I enter the room, I wish you to rise." "Yes, lady," was the listless reply as the girl arose. "And one thing more. I do not wish you to call me 'lady' in that gypsy fashion. If you wish to say Lady Ursula, you may do so. My English ancestry entitles me to that name." Miss Barrington and Miss Dahlia then seated themselves, but Nan remained standing. "Why don't you sit down?" the former asked impatiently. "Sister," a gentle voice interceded, "Nan can't know our parlor manners, when she has been brought up in the big out-of-doors." "She will soon have the opportunity to learn them, however," Miss Barrington said coldly, "for I have decided, since this morning's performance, to place Anne in a convent school. I find the task of Christianizing and civilizing a heathen more than I care to undertake." "Oh, Sister Ursula, don't send Nan away," the other little lady implored. "Let me teach her. I will do so gladly." "You!" The tone was scornful. "Do you suppose that you can succeed where I fail? No indeed, Anne shall tomorrow depart for a convent school which is connected with our church." Then rising, she added: "We will now descend to the dining room and we will consider the subject closed." Had the proud Miss Barrington glanced at the girl who was keeping so still, she might have seen a gleam in the dark eyes which showed that her spirit was not yet broken. As they went down the wide stairway, Miss Dahlia slipped her hand over the brown one that hung listlessly at the girl's side. Nan understood that it was an assurance of the little lady's love, and her heart responded with sudden warmth. * * * * * * * * All that afternoon Nan sat in a sheltered corner of the garden with a beautiful story that she was trying to read, but her thoughts were continually planning and plotting. She could not and would not be sent to a convent school. She was only staying to keep her promise to Miss Dahlia, but now that Miss Ursula was sending her away, she was freed from that promise. Just then a maid appeared, saying: "Miss Barrington wishes to see you in the library at once. She's got a telegram from somewhere and she's all upset about it." When Nan entered the stately library, she saw Miss Barrington standing near Miss Dahlia's chair, and the younger woman was saying: "But, Sister Ursula, it would be of no use for me to go. I know nothing of law and of things like that." "I am quite aware of the fact," the older woman said, "and I had no intention whatever of requesting you to go, but it is most inconvenient for me to spend several months in the East just at this time. I am president of the Society for Civic Improvements, and an active and influential member in many other clubs, as you know." Then, noting that Nan had entered the room, she turned toward her as she said coldly: "Anne, I shall be obliged to leave for New York on the early morning train. A wealthy aunt has passed away, leaving a large fortune to my sister and myself, but unfortunately, the will is to be contested, which necessitates the presence of an heir who has some knowledge of legal matters. I may be away for several months, and so I will have to leave you in my sister's care, trusting that she will see the advisability of sending you to a convent school as soon as a suitable wardrobe can be prepared. That is all! You may now retire." It had been hard for Nan to quietly listen to this glorious and astounding news. She did glance for one second at Miss Dahlia, and she was sure that she saw a happy light in those sweet grey eyes. The next morning the household was astir at a very early hour, and at nine o'clock the automobile returned from the station and Miss Dahlia was in it alone. Nan joyously ran across the lawn and caught the outstretched hands of the little lady. "Oh, Miss Dahlia," the girl implored, "you aren't going to send me to a convent, are you? Because, if you do, I am going to run away." "No, indeed, dearie," Miss Dahlia replied, as she sat on a marble bench near the fountain, and drew the girl down beside her. Then she laughed as Nan had never heard her laugh before. There was real joy in it. "Dearie," she said, "I begged my sister to permit me to do what I could to try to civilize you while she is away, and, because her mind was so much occupied with other and weightier matters, she gave her consent, but she made me promise that you would attend service with me wearing proper clothes, and that I would teach you to sew and also lady-like manners." "Oh, Miss Dahlia, I, will civilize fast enough for you, because I love you," the girl said, impulsively, as she pressed a wrinkled hand to her flush brown cheek. "And I love you, Nan, you don't know how dearly, and you needn't civilize too much, if you don't want to. I love you just as you are. I am going to engage masters to come and teach you piano, singing and the harp or violin as you prefer." The girl's dark eyes glowed happily as she exclaimed, "Oh, Miss Dahlia, how I love music; everything, every-where that sings; the brook, the bird, the wind in the trees! How glad I will be to learn to make music as they do." Two wonderful weeks passed. A little French lady came to teach Nan languages, for which she had a remarkable aptitude, and when she began to sing as sweetly and naturally as the wood birds, Miss Dahlia was indeed delighted, and in the long evenings she taught the gypsy girl the songs that she used to sing. Too, there had been a shopping expedition to the village, and Nan had chosen a soft cashmere dress, the color of ripe cherries with the sun shining on them. At the beginning of the third week something happened which was destined to do much toward civilizing Nan. CHAPTER IX. THE LAD NEXT DOOR. It was Saturday and lessons were over for the week. Of tutors and music masters there would be none all that glorious day. Miss Dahlia had awakened with a headache. Nan slipped into the darkened room and asked tenderly if there was something that she could do to help. "No, dearie," the little lady replied, "I will just rest awhile. Go for a ride on Binnie if you wish. I will try to be down so that you need not have luncheon alone." A few moments later the girl emerged from a vine-hung side entrance and stood looking about. She wore her cherry red dress and the yellow silk handkerchief, with its dangles, was about her head. In her hand she held a book, "Ivanhoe." Miss Dahlia had been reading it aloud the night before, and the gypsy girl was eager to continue the story. She would find a sheltered spot, she thought, and try to read it, although, as she well knew, many of the words were long and hard. The Barrington estate contained several acres. Nan had never crossed to the high hedge that bounded it on the farther side from town. Great old trees lured her and wondering what lay beyond the hedge, she started tramping in that direction singing a warbling song without words. A great old pepper tree with its glowing red berries stood on the Barrington side, and Nan, gazing up, saw one wide branch curving in a way that would make of it a comfortable seat. Scrambling up, she was soon perched there. Then she peered through the thick foliage, trying to see what might be in the grounds beyond. It was another picturesque home of Spanish architecture similar to the Barrington's with glowing gardens and artistic groupings of shrubbery and trees. There was no sign of life about the place, and then Nan recalled having heard Miss Ursula say that it was the home of Mrs. Warren Widdemere a beautiful young widow possessing great wealth, who was traveling in Europe trying to forget her recent bereavement. Mrs. Widdemere had a son who was in a military academy, and so, in all probability the place was unoccupied, the girl thought, as she opened her book, and began slowly and yet with increasing interest, to read. Half an hour later she became conscious that there were voices near, and on the other side of the hedge. Glancing through the sheltering green, she beheld a woman in nurse's uniform who was pushing a wheeled chair, in which sat a boy of about 16. His face was pale and his expression listless; almost discouraged, Nan thought. As they neared the tree, a bell rang from the house, and the nurse, leaving the chair, started up the garden path. "Don't hurry back," the boy called languidly. "This place will do for my sunbath as well as any other." Then he leaned back, and, closing his eyes, he sighed wearily. Nan, prompted by pity and a desire to be friendly, broke a cluster of pepper berries and tossed them toward the chair. They fell lightly on the boy's folded hands. He opened his eyes and looked about, but he saw no one. "Poor, poor boy!" Nan thought with a rush of tenderness. The gypsy girl always had the same pity when she saw anything that was wounded, and it was this tenderness in her nature that had compelled her to remain in the caravan for so long to protect the little cripple Tirol. The sick lad, believing that a cluster of pepper berries had but fallen of its own accord once more leaned back and closed his eyes, but he opened them almost instantly and again looked about. From somewhere overhead he heard a sweet warbling bird-song. "Perhaps a mocking bird," he was thinking when the note changed to that of a meadowlark. Gazing steadily at the tree ahead of him, he saw a gleam of red and then a laughing face peering between the branches. "I see you! Whoever you are, come down!" His querulous voice held a command. "Indeed sir. I don't have to," was the merry reply. "I am a bird with red and gold feathers and I shall remain in my tree." The boy smiled. It was the first time that he had been interested in the five months since his father had died. "I can see the glimmer of your plumage through the leaves," he called. Then changing his tone, he said pleadingly, "Lady Bird won't you please come down?" Nan dropped lightly to the ground on the Widdemere side of the hedge. The lad looked at the beautiful dark-skinned maiden, and then, little dreaming that he was speaking the truth, he said, "Why, Lady Bird, your dress makes you look like a gypsy." "I am one!" the girl replied. "My name is Gypsy Nan. I am staying with the Barrington's for a time." Then her dark eyes twinkled merrily as she confided. "Miss Ursula Barrington is trying to civilize me, but she had to go away, and oh I am so glad! It isn't a bit nice to be civilized, is it?" The boy laughed. "I know that I wouldn't be if I could help myself," he said. "I've always wished that I had been born a wild Indian or a pirate or something interesting." Nan seated herself on a stump that would soon be covered with vines. "I don't wonder you are sick," she said with renewed sympathy. "I would be smothered, I know, if I had to live all of the time in houses with so much velvet, and portieres shutting out the wind and the sun. Tell me what is your name?" "I am Robert Widdemere," he replied, and then a shadow crept into the eyes that for a moment had been gleaming with amusement as he added: "I'm never going to be well again. The doctor does not know what is the matter with me; no one does, but I can't eat, and so I might as well hurry up and die." The girl looked steadily at the lad for a moment and then she said, "Robert Widdermere, you ought to have more courage than that. Of course you'll die if you're just going to weakly give up. I don't believe that you're sick at all. I think you have been too much civilized. Now I'll tell you what you do. Eat all you can, and get strong fast, and then we will ride horseback over the mountains and I'll run you a race on the coast highway." "That would be great!" the boy exclaimed and again his eyes glowed with a new eagerness. The girl sprang up. "Hark!" she said, "the old mission bells are telling that it is noon. I must go or Miss Dahlia will be waiting lunch. "Good-bye, Robert Widdemere, I'll come again." The lad watched the gleam of red disappearing through a gate in the hedge which he had pointed out. Then a new determination awakened in his heart. Perhaps it was cowardly to give up and die, just because he was so lonesome, so lonesome for the dad who had been the dearest pal a boy could ever have. Robert's father had died five months before and his mother, a rather frivolous young widow, who had always cared more for society than for her home, had placed her sixteen-year-old son in a military academy and had departed for Paris to try to forget her loss in the gay life of that city, but Robert had been unable to forget, and day after day he had grieved for that father who had been his pal ever since he could first remember. These two had been often alone as the wife and mother had spent much time at week-end house-parties in the country places of her wealthy friends. No wonder was it that the boy felt that he had lost his all. At last, worn with the grief which he kept hidden in his heart, his health had broken and a cablegram from his mother had bidden him go with a nurse to their California home at San Seritos, adding, that if he did not recover in one month, she would return to the States, but since it was only the beginning of the gay season in Paris, she did hope that he would endeavor to get well as soon as possible. The lad had read the message with a lack of interest and to the attending physician he had said: "Kindly cable my mother to remain in France as I am much better, but that I shall stay in California for the winter." The kindly doctor wondered at the message. He had but recently come to San Seritos and he did not understand the cause, as the old physician whose place he had taken, would have understood it. Robert Widdemere, without the loving tenderness of a mother to help him bear his great loneliness, did not care to live until he met Gypsy Nan. When she had looked at him so reprovingly with those dark eyes that could be so serious or dancingly merry, and had said that it was cowardly for him to give up so weakly he had decided that she was right. He ought to want to live to carry out some of the splendid things that his father had begun if for nothing else, but now there was something else! He wanted to get strong soon that he might ride horseback with Nan over the mountains. When Miss Squeers returned to push the wheeled chair and its usually listless occupant back to the house she was surprised to note that he looked up with a welcoming smile. "Nurse," he said, "do you know, I am actually hungry. Don't give me broth tonight. I want some regular things to eat, beefsteak and mashed potatoes." A query over the wire brought a speedy reply from the physician: "Give the lad whatever he asks for and note the result." The next day Doctor Wainridge called and the lad asked: "Doctor, is there any real reason why I cannot walk?" "None whatever, son, that I know of," the gentleman replied, "except that you have been too weak to stand, but if you continue with the menu that you ordered last night, you will soon be able to enter the Marathon races. There is nothing physically wrong with you, lad. I decided that you had made up your mind that you did not care to get well." The boy looked around and finding that they were alone, he confided, "I did feel that way, doctor, but now I wish to get well soon, and be a pirate or a gypsy or something uncivilized." "Great!" the doctor said, as he arose to go. On his way home he wondered what had aroused Robert's interest in life, but neither he nor the nurse could guess. CHAPTER X. "LADY RED BIRD." Again it was Saturday. Every day during the past week Robert had walked, only a few steps at first, but each day going a little farther. Too, each afternoon he had eagerly watched at the pepper tree for the appearance of his Lady Red Bird, but she had not come. "Perhaps she only comes on Saturday," he thought as he sat alone in his wheeled chair waiting and watching. Suddenly a rose hurled over the hedge and fell on his book. "Oho, Lady Red Bird," he called joyously. "I can't see you, but I know that you are there. Please come over on this side." The gate opened ever so little and Nan peered through. Then skipping in front of him, she cried, with her dark eyes aglow, "Why, Robert Widdemere, you don't look like the same boy. What have you done? You look almost well." "I am," the lad replied, smiling radiantly. "I am going to be well enough to ride up the mountain road with you on Thanksgiving morning, and then I will surely have something to be thankful for." Gypsy Nan clapped her hands. "And we'll ride a race on the hard sand close to the sea." "Great!" ejaculated the lad. "That will be two weeks from to-day. I'll have to order my portion of beefsteak and mashed potatoes doubled, I guess." Then he added with a merry twinkle, "Promise me that you'll wear the gypsy-looking dress." "Oh, I will," Nan cried, "for I love it." Then she added, "Robert Widdemere, you don't believe that I am truly a gypsy, do you?" The lad shook his head and his brown eyes were laughing. "Why, of course not Lady Red Bird! Gypsies are interesting enough, in their way, but they are not like you. They are thieves--" The girl sprang up from the stump on which she had been seated, and her eyes flashed. "They are not all thieves, Robert Widdemere," she cried, "and many of them are just as good and kind as gorigo could be. Manna Lou was a beautiful young gypsy woman long ago, when I first remember her, and she could have had a much happier life if she had hot chosen of her own free will to care for that poor little cripple boy Tirol, and for the motherless Nan. I wish I had not run away from the caravan now. I hate the gorigo, who always call my people thieves!" Then turning to the amazed and speechless lad, she inquired with flashing eyes, "Are there no thieves among your people? Indeed there are, but they are not _all_ called thieves! My Manna Lou taught me not to steal, and I have never taken even a flower that did not belong to me. I'm going back, Robert Widdemere! I'm going back to Manna Lou." The girl burst into a passion of tears as she turned toward the gate. The lad, deeply touched, forgetting his weakness, was at her side and placing a hand on her arm, he implored, "Oh Lady Red Bird, forgive me. I see now how wrong it is to condemn a whole race because of the few. Promise me that you won't go back. It is knowing you that has helped me to get well, and if you go away, I will be lonelier than ever." The boy had returned to his chair and he looked suddenly pale and tired. Nan's heart was touched, and she said, "Robert Widdemere, now that you know I am really a gypsy, do you still care for my friendship?" "I care more to be your friend, than for anything else in the whole world," the lad said sincerely. "Then I'll not go back to the caravan," she promised, a smile flashing through the tears. "Goodbye, Robert Widdemere. I'll come again tomorrow." These two little dreamed that the nurse, Miss Squeers, hidden behind a clump of shrubbery, had seen and heard all that had passed, nor could they know that upon returning to the house, she had at once written to the lad's mother. When on the day following, Nan returned to the little gate in the hedge, Robert Widdemere was not seen. The nurse, having overheard the planned meeting had ordered the horses hitched to the easiest carriage and had insisted that the lad accompany her on a drive. He was restless when he realized that they were not to return at the hour he had expected his Lady Red Bird to visit him, and indeed, when at last, they did turn into the long winding drive leading to his handsome home, he was so worn and weary from having fretted because he had been forced to do something he did not wish to do, that he had a fever and had to go at once to bed. Miss Squeers sent for the doctor and drawing him aside, she confided all she had found out. If she had expected an ally, she was greatly disappointed. "That's great!" Doctor Wainridge exclaimed, his kindly face shining. "Nothing could be better. A tonic is powerless compared to a lad's interest in a lassie. But if he was so much better only yesterday, because of this friendship, what has caused the set-back?" Miss Squeer's thin lips were pressed together in a hard line. "Doctor Wainridge, you evidently do not realize that this young person is a real gypsy. You wouldn't have doubted it if you could have seen her black eyes flash yesterday when Robert Widdemere spoke disparagingly of the race." The physician looked interested, and somewhat amused. "Indeed, I could imagine it!" he said with assurance. "I had a gypsy boy for a patient once and a fiery tempered lad, he was, but I liked him. The fact is, I admire much about their life, not everything of course. They do a little too much horse trading, and sometimes they even trade without the owners being aware of it." At that he laughed, appearing not to notice that a ramrod could not be standing stiffer or more erect than was Miss Squeers. He continued as though amused at the memory. "It was down south when I was practicing there. One of the southern colonels had a thoroughbred horse. He boasted about it on all occasions, but when the gypsies came and passed they had traded an old boney nag with the colonel. He found it in the paddock where his prize racer had been locked in securely the night before." "Well," Miss Squeers snapped, "I hope you are not upholding such conduct." The good-natured physician shook his head, but his eyes were still twinkling. "No, indeed not!" he said emphatically. "That manner of horse trading is not to be condoned in the slightest degree." "Trading?" With biting sarcasm Miss Squeers spoke the word. "Stealing, you mean. That's what they all are, thieves and liars." Then with a self-righteous expression on her drawn, white face, the woman continued: "Mrs. Widdemere puts her entire trust in _my_ judgment and until she comes to relieve me, I shall not permit her son to again speak to that gypsy girl." The doctor narrowed his eyes, gazing thoughtfully at the speaker. When she paused he exclaimed "Good Lord, Miss Squeers, what possible harm could a girl of thirteen or fourteen do a sixteen year old boy? I have heard the story of the protege of the Misses Barrington. Indeed it has been rumored about that she is very beautiful and rarely talented. My wife is well acquainted with the woman who is instructing the girl on the harp and she has only enthusiastic praise for the gifts with which she has been endowed. Nature is the mother of us all, and is no respector of persons." "Then you advise me to permit this friendship to continue even though I _know_ it would greatly displease Mrs. Widdemere who is among the proudest of proud women?" The doctor thoughtfully twirled the heavy charm on his watch chain. "If we have to choose between losing our patient and displeasing a vain mother, I prefer the latter. You can see for yourself that the boy has had a set-back. This is most discouraging to me. And, as his physician, I shall have to ask, as long as I have the case, and the boy's mother cabled me to take it, that he be given his freedom in the matter. Do not again force him to go for a drive with you unless it is his wish to do so. I will call again tomorrow." The nurse watched him go with a steely expression in her sharp green-blue eyes. Next she walked to a calender and marked on it the probable day when she might expect a response to the letter she had written Mrs. Widdemere. Then she went upstairs and found her patient tossing restlessly. After all, she decided it might be better for her to follow the doctor's orders. She would not have long to wait for orders from one higher in authority. CHAPTER XI. THE DOCTOR TAKES A HAND. Doctor Wainridge had done a little thinking on his own part and he arrived at the Widdemere home early the next morning. Finding that the boy was in a listless state, from which he had been aroused only by his interest in his new friend, the physician, after dismissing the nurse, sat down by the bed-side and took the thin hand in his own. "Robert, lad," he began in a low voice that could not possibly be overheard by an intentional or unintentional eavesdropper, "I hear that you have made the acquaintance of that little gypsy lady who is staying next door." The boy looked up with almost startled inquiry. He had not supposed that their meeting had been observed. Then a hard expression shadowed his eyes. "Huh, I might have known that sly cat would pry around. I suppose she told you." The good-natured doctor wanted to laugh aloud. He quite agreed with the boy's description of the nurse, but, of course, it would not be ethical to permit the patient to know this and so he said, assuming an expression of professional interest merely: "Miss Squeers mentioned it to me, Robert, and of course, in her capacity as nurse, she feels, in the absence of your mother, that she should try, if possible, to influence you against a friendship that your mother might not wish you to make." The boy's eyes flashed and he drew himself to a sitting posture. "Doctor Wainridge," he said vehemently, "how can I ever get well if I am kept a prisoner with a jailor whom I hate, hate, hate! Can't you dismiss Miss Squeers from my case and just look after me yourself. Gee whiz, Doctor Wainridge, aren't there servants enough around this place to make me some broth and give me a bath." The doctor glanced at the closed door and put his fingers on his lips as a suggestion that the boy speak in a lower voice. "I cannot dismiss Miss Squeers," he said, "because in your mother's cable to me she asked that she be called, but, of course, as you know, a doctor's orders must be carried out, and so I now order, that, until your mother dismisses _me_, you are to see as much of the little gypsy girl as possible, if you find her companionship amusing. You are merely children and as such need young companionship." Then, after feeling the lad's pulse and taking his temperature, he said loud and cheerily, "Well, Robert Widdemere, you feel pretty well I judge. Fever's all gone and you look rested." "There wasn't anything the matter with me yesterday only I was mad, mad clear through." The boy cast a vindictive glance at the closed door on the other side of which they could both visualize a wrathful nurse, trying, if possible, to hear the conference she had been barred from. Then the boy confessed. "It was this way, Doctor Wainridge, that nice girl, Lady Red Bird, the one next door, told me that she would come back to the hedge yesterday afternoon to ask how I was getting on, and that nurse must have heard, for she took me driving and kept me away until I was so angry that it wore me all out, and I had a fever. Now, what worries me is, will Lady Red Bird ever come back again? It isn't a bit likely that she will. Girls have too much pride to chase after a fellow, if he isn't there when he says he will be. She'll think I'm a cad. I just know she won't come again, and I wouldn't blame her if she didn't." "Neither would I blame her, Robert," the doctor agreed. "Now, laddie, listen to me. If you will rest all this morning and eat a good lunch and not be wrathful at your nurse whatever she may say or do, I'll come over this afternoon and take you to call on your new friend. I've been planning for ever so long to drop in and see Miss Dahlia. I've been their family physician more years than I like to remember. Well, sonny, how does, that plan strike you." The boy looked up brightly. "Bully," he ejaculated. Then anxiously he inquired, "Shall you tell the nurse?" "I'll tell her to get you ready for a drive as I shall call for you at two. Then I will let Miss Dahlia know that I am to call on her at two-thirty and would like to meet her protêge." The old doctor was indeed pleased to see how quickly his suggestion brightened the lad's face. Reaching out a thin hand, he took the big brown one as he said; "Doc, you're a trump! I needn't feel that I haven't a friend when you're at the wheel. Now I'm going to rest hard until noon." CHAPTER XII. A PLEASANT CALL. Miss Squeers found it hard to follow orders that were so against her own judgment. She well knew Mrs. Widdemere, for had she not been in that home during the illness of Robert's father and had she not found his mother a woman after her own heart! "If a person is born an aristocrat," the nurse told herself, "she ought to act like one and be haughty and proud. How would a peacock look trying to put herself on a social footing with a pullet?" All the time that she was assisting Robert Widdemere to dress for the drive that he was to take with Doctor Wainridge, the woman's thin colorless lips grew tighter and thinner. The physician had not told where he was going to take their patient, but she knew, as well as if she had been able to hear through the closed door. She consoled herself with the knowledge that her turn to triumph would come in time. They did not know, however much they might suspect it, that she had written the mother all that she knew of this disgraceful friendship. Doctor Wainridge would be peremptorially dismissed, of that Miss Squeers was certain. For that matter the doctor was sure of the same thing, but what he hoped was that his patient should by that time be so far along on the road to recovery that he would not be harmed by his mother's anger or subsequent action. That Mrs. Widdemere would forbid the friendship, he well knew. But his office, at present, was to help the lad to rouse himself from the indifferent stupor into which he had fallen since his father's death. The doctor arrived at two, and for half an hour they drove about the picturesque country lane on either side of which were the vast estates of the wealthy dwellers of the far famed foot-hill section. At length they left the highway and turned into the drive leading to the Barrington home. The physician was saying:--"I was up in the big city when it all happened and so another doctor was called when the accident occured. I am referring to the accident which brought the gypsy girl into the home where I presume she is to remain." Then he laughed. "It is well for the girl that the haughty older sister has gone away for an indefinite stay for she had undertaken, so the story goes, to civilize and Christianize this little heathen." The boy nodded. "Lady Red Bird told me. She said she was just ready to run away because they were going to put her in a convent school, when a telegram came and Miss Ursula Barrington left at once for the East." As they neared the house, they saw a very pretty sight. The girl of whom they had been talking, looking more then ever like a gypsy in the costume she had worn when she had first arrived, was dancing up and down the paths of the glowing garden shaking her tambourine, as she had danced on that never-to-be-forgotten day when she had been there with little Tirol. Nearby on a bench the younger Miss Barrington sat with her lace crochet now and then dropping it to her lap to smile at the girl. Suddenly she called. "Nan, dearie, the company has come." The girl dropped to a marble bench, but a side glance toward the drive showed her that both the doctor and the boy had witnessed her performance. "I don't care, Miss Dahlia," she said, tossing her dark hair back and out of her eyes, "I put this dress on purposely that Robert Widdemere might see I'm not ashamed that I am a gypsy. I'm proud, proud, proud because I belong to Manna Lou." "Of course you are, dearie," the gentle little woman rose and advanced to greet the newcomers. "Doctor Wainridge," she said, "I'm so glad that you have come to meet our dear adopted daughter. It was a real regret to me that you were out of town at the time of the accident, if something which results in great joy and happiness can be called by so formidable a name. And this," she held out a slender white hand toward the glowing girl, "is our Nan." The doctor, whose broad-brimmed black felt was under one arm, shook hands with Miss Dahlia and then with the girl. Turning, he beamed on the lad as he said, "Surely, Miss Barrington, you remember this boy, although you may not have seen him recently." "Indeed I do! Robert, how you have grown." Then noting his pale face, she said with kindly solicitude, "You are not yet strong. Shall we go into the house? Would it not be more comfortable there?" But the doctor, after glancing at his watch replied: "I fear that I cannot remain today, as I have other patients to see, but if you are willing to entertain your young neighbor, I will return for him in just one hour." Robert's face brightened. "That's great of you, doctor, to leave me in so pleasant a place." Then turning to Miss Dahlia who was looking at him pityingly, he confessed. "I'm bored to death at home with that specter of a nurse watching over me for all the world like a vulture swinging around the head of some poor creature that it expects is soon to die." The doctor had been glancing about. There was a summer house near in which there were comfortably cushioned rustic chairs and a table. It was where Miss Dahlia and Nan had their daily lessons. "That would be a pleasant place for you children to go for a real visit, isn't it?" he suggested. Miss Dahlia nodded smilingly and Nan led the way to the summer house. Miss Dahlia then walked at the doctor's side toward his car as she wished to ask his advice about her headaches. "Isn't he a great sport?" Robert looked after his friend and ally admiringly, then he blurted out:--"Lady Red Bird, that sly cat of a nurse was trying to keep us apart. That's why I wasn't at the gate in the hedge yesterday. If I'd been strong enough I would have walked over here when I reached home and explained, but I was lots worse." The lad glanced anxiously into the flushed face of the girl. He feared she was hurt with him. "I say, Miss Nan, you'll forgive my not being there. I wouldn't be such a cad, if I could help it. You know that, don't you?" He was greatly relieved with the reply which was, "I wasn't there myself, Robert Widdemere. Miss Dahlia had one of her headaches and was so sick I didn't wan't to leave her. I was sure you would understand." Then, quickly changing the subject, she added. "This is a real comfortable chair. It's where Miss Dahlia sits when she teaches me to read. Oh, I love reading," she exclaimed, "and stories. I used to make them up out of my head to tell Little Tirol and the other children. Little wild foxes I called them." There was a sudden far away wistful expression in the girl's dark eyes as she gazed out of the vine-hung door of the summer house, and the lad watching her, wondered that he had ever doubted that she was truly a gypsy. Surely, in that costume, there could be no question about it. He said gently, "Lady Red Bird, I believe you sometimes wish you could go back to the old life." She turned wide startled eyes toward him as she replied in a tense voice, "I'm going back when the black dragon comes again. I won't stay here with her. I won't be civilized for her. She doesn't love me like Miss Dahlia does." "But doesn't the wild gypsy life lure you?" the boy leaned forward interested. "I always imagine it as romantic and carefree." Again the girl looked at him startled, then replied in a low voice. "Would you think it was romantic to have to do everything that a cruel, black-hearted Anselo Spico and his demon mother said to do? Would you call it being carefree when you were thrashed till the blood came if you wouldn't dance at the gorigo inns? "I staid till little Tirol died. Anselo Spico had to beat me first, before he could get at that poor little cripple. I staid to take little Tirol's beatings, but when he was dead, I ran away and came here." Robert Widdemere hardly knew what to say. "Lady Red Bird, I thought you told me you were proud of being a gypsy and that you loved the life." There was an instant change and springing up she flung her arms wide with almost a wistful cry--"I love living out in the open, with only the starry sky for a roof, and the branches of trees swaying, swaying over my head when I sleep. I love to ride on my pony Binnie away, away, away, to feel my hair blowing in the wind and to have nothing to do but live." Robert sighed. "I'd like right well to be that kind of a gypsy," he said. "I'd like to wander away, away, away from nurses and houses and routine studies." Miss Dahlia appeared in the door and she was followed by a maid with a tray. "I thought you children might like a tea party," she said, "and if you do not mind, I will join you." The hour was soon up and the doctor bore away a very thoughtful lad. "Lady Red Bird _is_ a real gypsy," he was thinking, "and I don't believe she will civilize." CHAPTER XIII. MYSTERIOUS REVELATIONS. That was the beginning of a series of visits. Sometimes these two planned to meet on the beach and always Nan wore her gypsy dress. Somehow she was determined that her new friend should not forget who she really was. A week had passed and they were becoming well acquainted. Being constantly questioned about her past life, Nan had told many stories of the gypsies and adventures. They were sitting in the sun on the sand one morning and Nan was being especially thoughtful. "A penny for your thoughts, Lady Red Bird?" the boy asked. "I was wondering where I will find the caravan when I run away." She looked up, a strange eagerness in her expressive dark eyes. "I must find them when I am eighteen for Manna Lou is to tell me then about my own mother." Hesitatingly the boy suggested: "Would you be greatly disappointed if she were to tell you that you are not a real gypsy?" He almost feared that she would flare at him wrathfully as she had that first time, when he had scoffed at the idea of her being one. But instead, she turned toward him dark eyes in which there was the light of a simple conviction. "There is no question about that. I asked Manna Lou, and she said--'It is real gypsy blood that has given you that dark skin Leichen Nan.' But more, she would not tell. Manna Lou _never_ lied." The boy leaned forward eagerly. "But she promised to tell you more when you were eighteen?" "Yes." "Then there _is_ something to tell." "Yes. But I _am_ a gypsy." The boy smiled. "I believe you would be disappointed if you found that you were not." "But I am! Manna Lou said so. Manna Lou does not lie." It was always like arguing in a circle. From whatever point they started, they swung back to that same statement which was final in the mind of the girl. Suddenly the boy asked; "Have you always lived in California?" "Oh no, no!" Nan replied. "We fled from Rumania. That is my country. There are many gypsies in that land across the sea. Manna Lou said there are more than 200,000 gypsies." One word had attracted and held the attention of the lad. "Lady Red Bird, why did you say 'fled?' Did your band _have_ to leave Rumania?" She gleamed at him quickly, suspiciously. Then she replied dully, "I don't know. I suppose so! Anselo Spico and his queen mother Mizella, they do wrong things. They steal--" she paused, and the boy put in suggestively: "Do they steal white children?" Scornfully the girl flung back. "No, never! Horses here in this country, but over there it was more--I never knew, something that made Anselo Spico afraid. We traveled day and night." The boy said nothing but sat poking at the sand with a stick. It looked very mysterious to him. "You don't know what that Spico, or whatever it is you call him; you don't know what crime he had committed that he left your native country so suddenly?" The girl shook her head. "And we didn't stop in the East where we landed, but we came right on and on and on till we reached California." The boy was thinking aloud. "It seems strange to me that the authorities where the boats stop would permit wandering bands of gypsies to land in this country without knowing what they come for, or why they are leaving their own native land." "What do you mean, authorities? What are they?" The girl was plainly perplexed. "Why when a big vessel arrives at Castle Garden in New York, every passenger has been given a permit to land from Ellis Island where they first stop. Oh, there's a lot of red tape before anyone can come ashore, and I should think a whole band of gypsies would have considerable difficulty passing the examiners, that is what I mean by authorities." Still the girl looked at him blankly as one who did not understand. "We landed in the night on a lonely marshy shore. Florida they called it. The sailing barge that brought us across the sea left before daybreak, and when the sun came up we were in our caravans riding across a flat lonely country. We saw very few people because we slept days and passed through the villages at night. The gorigo police sometimes followed us to see that we kept going until we were out of the town but nobody stopped us. Then, for weeks and weeks we were crossing the wide sandy desert. We camped a long time in the Rocky Mountains. I never did understand that, I mean why we seemed to be hiding. I thought maybe Anselo Spico had stolen something and we were waiting until it would be safe to go on, but I heard Vestor report one night, when he came back from town that there had been no mail from Rumania and so I supposed that we had been waiting there long enough for Anselo Spico to write someone in Rumania and that we were waiting for the reply. At last it came and the message in that letter angered him terribly. He seized a whip and began to lash poor little Tirol. I threw myself on the child and he began to beat me. It was his Queen Mother Mizella, who stopped him by saying. I never forgot the words though they meant nothing to me. 'Bedone with that! You're like to kill her as may line your purse yet.' He snarled an answer, but he let us both alone after that or at least he never beat me again." Robert Widdemere was more than ever convinced that Nan had been stolen as a child and that the gypsies were hoping someday to receive a rich reward for her, but what he could not understand was why, if that were true, it had been so long in coming. If she had own relations in Rumania, they surely would have been glad to pay the ransom money as soon as they found the whereabouts of the child. But of his thoughts, he said nothing. After a few moments, he asked; "What did you do next, Lady Red Bird?" "Our caravan left the mountains and we traveled slowly westward. Manna Lou was kinder to me than ever before, and she taught me to play on a banjo which she said had belonged to my father. She did not know much about it, but I was so glad, glad to have it." The girl's face darkened. "That was the last mean thing Anselo Spico did to me. He found me playing the banjo, and it seemed to anger him, or some memory was called up by it that he did. Anyhow he seized it and smashed it to pieces on a rock. How I've hated him ever since!" Again there was one of the swift changes, and Nan turned toward the boy a face softened and beautified with tender memories. "My father played before the Queen of Rumania once and received a medal. Manna Lou told me." The boy was indeed puzzled. "It's all a mystery and I'm afraid I won't be able to fathom it," he told himself. "And now I am to be a musician, and I shall play before a queen," the girl leaped to her feet and was dancing about on the hard sand, startling to flight a flock of shining winged white-gulls that circled in the air over the sea. The boy also rose and feeling much stronger, he tried to dance, but was soon out of breath and laughingly sank back on the sand higher up where it was dry and warm. "What I need," he said to himself, "is a costume to match Lady Red Bird's. Then I will be able to dance with her." The idea pleased him, and he thought of it, smiling to himself. At last the hour came for their parting. "Remember our agreement. Tomorrow will be Thanksgiving and we are to go for a horseback ride." Then catching both hands of the girl, the boy looked into her laughing eyes as he said with sincere earnestness. "If I have indeed regained my strength, I have no one to thank but Lady Red Bird." "Oh, yes you have. It was Doctor Wainridge who brought you here. You must thank him as well." "And also dear gentle Miss Dahlia," the lad concluded, "Good-bye until tomorrow." CHAPTER XIV. THE MOUNTAIN RIDE. Thanksgiving came and at the appointed hour Nan was waiting at the beach gate when she saw a gypsy riding toward her. Nan's first thought was one of terror, for the approaching horseman looked as Anselo Spico had when arrayed in his best, a blue velvet corduroy suit, a scarlet silk sash and a wide felt hat edged with bright dangles. "Oh, Robert Widdemere!" Nan cried, when she saw who it really was. "You looked so like Anselo Spico as you rode along by the sea, that I was about to run and hide. Where did you get that costume?" "At a shop in town where one may procure whatever one wishes for a masquerade," the laughing lad replied as he leaped to the ground and made a deep, swinging bow with his gay hat. "I like it, Lady Red Bird," he enthusiastically declared, "and I do believe that I will purchase this outfit. Won't we create a stir in the countryside as we ride together down the Coast Highway." Nan laughed joyously. "It becomes you, Robert Widdemere," she said. It was hard for the girl to believe that the handsome, flushed youth at her side was the same pale sickly lad whom she had first met less than a month before. During that time these two had become well acquainted, taking short walks together and reading Ivanhoe while they rested. Miss Dahlia found that her pupil was making remarkable progress under her new tutor, moreover she liked the youth with his frank, good-looking face and she was glad to have Nan companied by someone near her own age. Miss Dahlia appeared at the beach gate to see them off on their long planned ride and she called after them, "Robert, lad, be sure to come back and share our Thanksgiving dinner." "Thank you, Miss Dahlia, I would like to," the youth replied doffing his hat. Then the little lady watched them ride away and turn up the mountain road. In her heart there was a strange misgiving that she could not understand. "What if her sister, Miss Ursula, should suddenly return," she thought. Then indeed would Miss Dahlia be censored for having permitted Nan to again assume the raiment of a heathen. Never before had Nan seemed more charming to the lad than she did on that glorious morning when side by side they rode up a narrow canon road leading toward the mountains. "See, Nan," the young philosopher called, "life is full of contrasts. Now we are in a blaze of warmth and sunlight, and, not a stone's throw ahead of us, is the darkness and dampness of the canon, where the pine trees stand so solemn and still, like sentinels guarding the mysteries that lie beyond." The girl drew rein and gazed with big dark eyes at the boy. During the past month she had learned his many moods. In a serious voice she said. "I sometimes wonder how we dare go on, since we do not know the trail that is just ahead. I don't mean here," she lifted one hand from her horse's head and pointed toward the high walled canon in front of them. "I mean, I wonder how we dare go along life's trail when it is, so often, as though we are blind-folded." The boy's face brightened. "Nan," he said, with a note of tenderness in his voice which the girl always noticed when he spoke of his father. "Did I ever tell you how my father loved the writings of Henry Van Dyke? It didn't matter what they were about, fishing, or hiking, or philosophising. My father felt that they were kin, because they both so loved the great out-of-doors. Just now, when you wondered how we dare go ahead when we cannot know what awaits us on life's trail, I happened to recall a few lines which Dad so often used to recite. They are from Van Dyke's poem called 'God of the Open Air.'" The boy gazed at the girl as though he were sure of her appreciation of all he was saying. "It is a long poem and a beautiful one. I'll read it to you someday, but the part I have in mind tells just that how everything in nature has, planted deep in its being, a trust that the Power that created it will also care for it and guide it well. This is it: "By the faith that the wild flowers show when they bloom unbidden; By the calm of the river's flow to a goal that is hidden. By the strength of the tree that clings to its deep foundation, By the courage of bird's light wings on the long migration (Wonderful spirit of trust that abides in Nature's breast.) Teach me how to confide, and live my life, and rest." "It is very beautiful," Nan said in a low voice and then, starting their horses, they entered the shadow of the mountain walls and slowly began the ascent. The trail became so narrow that they had to ride single file for a long time. Each was quietly thinking, but at last they reached a wide place where the mountain brook formed a pool and at the girl's suggestion they dismounted to get a drink of the clear cold water. "How peaceful and still it is here," Nan said as she sat on a moss covered rock, and, folding her hands, listened to the murmuring sounds of trickling water, rustling leaves, and soughing of the soft breeze in the pines. Robert, standing with his arms folded, had been gazing far down the trail which they had just climbed, but chancing to glance at the girl he saw a troubled expression in her dark beautiful face. Sitting on a rock near her, the boy leaned forward as he asked eagerly. "Nan, you aren't longing for the old life, are you?" She turned toward him with a smile that put his fears at rest. "Not that, Robert Widdemere. I was wondering if I dare ask you a question?" "Why Lady Red Bird, of course you may. I will answer it gladly." The boy little dreamed how hard a question it was to be. For another moment the girl was silent, watching the water that barely moved in the pool at her feet. Then in a very low voice she said;--"We gypsies do not believe in a God." Although unprepared for this statement, the lad replied by asking, "What then do your people believe gave life to all this?" He waved an arm about to include all nature. "They believe that there are unseen spirits in streams and woods that can harm them, if they will. Sometimes, when a storm destroyed our camp, we tried to appease the wrath of the spirit of the tempest with rites and charms. That was all. Manna Lou had heard of the gorigo God, and often she told little Tirol and me about that one great Power, but if we asked questions, she would sadly reply 'Who can know?'" "Manna Lou was right in one way, Lady Red Bird, we cannot know, perhaps, but deep in the soul of each one of us has been implanted a faith and trust just as the poem tells. I do know that some Power, which I call God, brought me here and so sure I can trust that same Power to care for me and guide me if I have faith and trust." There was a sudden brightening of the girl's face, "Oh, Robert Widdemere," she said, "I am so glad I asked you. I understand now better how it is, I, also, shall trust and have faith." She arose and mounted on her pony and they began climbing the steeper trail which led to the summit of the low mountain. At last they rode out into the sunlight, and, dismounting, stood on the peak of the trail. Such beauty of scene as there was everywhere about them. Beyond the coast range, across a wide valley, there was still a higher and a more rugged mountain range and beyond that, in the far distance, a third, the peaks of which were scarcely visible in the haze and clouds. Then they turned toward the sea, which, from that high point could be seen far beyond the horizon that they had every day on the beach. "Lady Red Bird," the boy laughed, "you will think me very dull today, I fear, but I can't help philosophising a bit at times. I was just thinking that when troubles crowd around us, it would be a wonderful thing, if, in our thoughts, we could climb to a high place and look down at them, we would find that, after all, they were not very large nor very important." "Things do look small, surely," the girl said. "See the town nestling down there. The church steeple seems very little from here." "I see the pepper tree where we first met," the lad turned and took the girl's hand. "I shall always think of you as my Lady Red Bird," he told her. Hand in hand they continued to stand as brother and sister might. "And I see our marble fountain glistening in the sun," Nan declared. Suddenly the boy's clasp in the girl's hand tightened. "Look, quick," he said pointing downward, "there is a limousine turning from the highroad up into our drive. Who do you suppose is coming to call?" "Perhaps it is your doctor," Nan suggested. The lad laughed. "No indeed. For one thing he rides in an open run-about, and for another, he told me that since I had made up my mind to get well, he would have nothing more to do with me. There are enough truly sick people he said, who need his attention." "Then, who can it be?" Nan persisted, but the lad merrily declared that he knew not and cared not. After gazing for a moment at the girl who was still looking down at the highway he exclaimed with mingled earnestness and enthusiasm. "Nan, you don't know how much it means to me, to have a sister like you, a friend, or a pal, the name doesn't matter. You're going to fill the place, in a way, that Dad held, and truly he was the finest man that ever trod the earth. Often he said to me 'Son, when you give your word, stand by it. I would rather have my boy honest and dependable, than have him president,' and I'm going to try, Nan, to become just such a man as was my father." The girl's gaze had left the road and she looked straight into the clear blue-grey eyes of the boy at her side. "I am glad, Robert Widdemere," she said, "for I could never be proud of a friend whose word could not be depended upon." The boy caught both of the girl's hands in his as he said, "Nan, listen to me, you have no older brothers to take care of you, and as long as I shall live, I want you to think of me as one to whom you can always come. It doesn't matter who tries to separate us, Nan, no one ever shall, I give you my word." Tears sprang to the eyes of the girl, but that she need not show the depth of her emotion, she called laughingly, "Robert Widdemere, it is time that we were returning, for even before we left, the turkey had gone into the oven and we must not keep Miss Dahlia waiting." "Right you are!" the lad gaily replied as again they started down the trail, "although a month ago it would not have seemed possible, I am truly ravenously hungry." Down the mountain road they went, these two who so enjoyed each other's companionship, little dreaming who they would find at the end of the trail. CHAPTER XV. SUDDEN CHANGES. Leaving their ponies at the stables, the two hand in hand walked along the path in the glowing garden. "I'm glad the yellow crysanthemums are at their loveliest now," the girl cried. "I'm going to gather an armful to put on the table that we may have one more thing to be thankful for." "Good, I'll help you!" the boy broke a curling-petaled beauty. "Nan, these shall be our friendship flowers. They seem so like you, so bright and colorful; joyful within themselves, and radiating it on all who pass." When the girl's arms were heaped with the big curling, glowing blossoms, the lad suddenly cried; "Lady Red Bird, I completely forgot something very important." "What?" the girl turned toward him to inquire. "This!" he took from his pocket a folding kodak, "I wanted to take a picture of you at the top of the trail and I never thought of it until now. Please stand still, there, just where you are, with the fountain back of you and the crysanthemums all around you. Don't look so serious, Nan. Laugh won't you? There, I snapped it and you had not even smiled. You had such a sad far away look. What were you thinking." "I just happened to think of Little Tirol and how I hope it is all true, that there is a God to care for him and give him another body, one without pain." "Dear sister," the boy said, "you do have such strange and unexpected thoughts. How did you happen to think of Little Tirol now?" "Perhaps it was because I remembered that day only two months ago, when he and I first came to the garden. The yellow flowers were just beginning to bloom and I wanted one so. I hoped he knows now that I can gather them, a great armful if I wish." Then the girl skipped toward the house, as she called merrily: "If you were ravenously hungry on the mountain trail, what must you be now, I hope we are not late." "There is someone watching us from a front window," the boy said. "I saw a curtain move. Miss Dahlia would not do that, would she, Nan?" "I hardly think so. It was probably the maid; though I can't think what she would be doing in the front room when it must be almost time to serve dinner." Robert Widdemere paused a moment at the vine hung outside portal to speak with an old gardener whom he had known since his little boyhood. Nan, singing her joyous bird song without words, climbed the stairs to the library and before she had reached the door she called happily, "Oh Miss Dahlia, Robert Widdemere and I have had such a glorious ride up the mountain road, and too, we climbed to the very summit. Isn't it wonderful--" she got no farther, for having entered the library she realized that the fashionably dressed stranger standing there was not the little woman whom she so loved. "Oh, pardon me!" the gypsy girl said. "I thought you were Miss Dahlia." "Here I am, dearie," a trembling voice called as that little lady appeared from the dinning room. "I was needed for one moment in the kitchen," she explained, then turning toward the stranger she said almost defiantly, "Mrs. Widdemere, this is my dearly loved protege, Nan Barrington. Nan, Robert's mother has returned unexpectedly from France." "Yes, and at great inconvenience to myself, I can assure you, to forbid my son associating with a common gypsy girl." Miss Dahlia drew herself up proudly, and never before had she so closely resembled Miss Ursula. "Mrs. Widdemere," she said, "kindly remember that you are in my home, and that you are speaking of my protege." At that moment Robert appeared and was puzzled to see Miss Dahlia standing with a protecting arm about Nan, and the proud angry tone of her voice, he had never before heard. Then he saw the other woman with a sneering smile on her vain, pretty face, and he understood all. "Mother," he said, "did you not receive the message that I sent you? Did I not tell you that you need not return to the States, that my health was recovered?" "Yes," Mrs. Widdemere replied coldly, "and now I understand why you did not return to the school where I had placed you. You, a Widdemere, neglecting your education that you might associate with one of a class far beneath you; but I forbid you, from this day, ever again speaking to this gypsy girl." Nan's eyes flashed, but she replied proudly, "Mrs. Widdemere, you do not need to command. I myself shall never again speak to one of your kind," then turning, she left the library. A few moments later, when Robert and his mother were gone, Miss Dahlia went to the girl's room and found her lying on her bed sobbing as though her heart would break. "You see, Miss Dahlia," she said, "there's no use trying to make a lady of me. I'm merely a gypsy and I'll only bring sorrow to you." The little woman sat by the couch and tenderly smoothing the dark hair, she said: "Little girl, you are all I have to love in the world. My sister is too occupied with many things to be my companion. It grieves me deeply to have you so hurt, but I have thought out a plan, dearie, by which this may all be prevented in the future. Tomorrow morning, early, you and I are going away to a little town in the East which was my childhood home." Nan's sobs grew less and she passionately kissed the hand that carressed her. The little lady continued:--"I will legally adopt you, and then, truly, will your name be Nan Barrington. After that I am going to send you to the Pine Crest Seminary, which is conducted by a dear schoolmate of mine, Mrs. Dorsey. I want you to permit me to select your wardrobe, which shall be like that of other girls, and no one there will dream that you are a gypsy, for many there are who have dark hair and eyes and an olive complexion. Will you do all this for me, Nan darling, because I love you?" Nan's arms were about the little woman as she said, "How good you are to me, how kind! I'll try again to be a lady for your sake, and I hope that in time I'll be able to repay you for all that you do for me." That afternoon was spent in packing and the next morning, soon after sunrise, Miss Dahlia and Nan were driven away, but they did not leave a forwarding address. * * * * * * * * Robert Widdemere lifted the heavy iron knocker of the Barrington home about nine o'clock. He wanted to ask Miss Dahlia's pardon, and to tell Nan, that although he was about to return to the Military Academy to please his mother, he would never forget the promise he had made on the mountain, that he would always be her brother and her friend. When Robert learned that Nan was gone and that he had no way of communicating with her, he felt that again a great loss had come into his life. CHAPTER XVI. SCHOOL GIRLS. Several years have passed since that day in California when Nan Barrington and Robert Widdemere had parted so sadly and neither had heard ought of the other in all that time. Nan, in a home-like girls' school near Boston, The Pine Crest Seminary, had blossomed into as charming a young lady as even Miss Ursula could desire, and that proud woman, who had changed little with the years, often gazed at the beautiful dark girl, silently wondering if it might be possible that Nan was not a real gypsy after all. True to her promise to the dear Miss Dahlia, Nan had worn quiet colors like the other gorigo maidens, and, during the three and a half years that she had been at the school, nothing had occurred that would even suggest the roving life of her childhood, but unfortunately an hour was approaching when that suspicion would be aroused. The Miss Barringtons remained during the winter months in Boston, but they frequently visited the school, and, during the summer, they took Nan with them to their cabin on the rocky and picturesque coast of Maine. One Saturday afternoon Miss Dahlia was seated in the little reception room at the school and a maid had gone in search of the girl. First she referred to a chart in the corridor, which told where each of the forty pupils should be at that hour, and then, going to the music room, she tapped on the door. The sweet strains of a harp drifted out to her, and she tapped again. "Come in," a singing voice called, and the door opened. "Miss Nan, it's your aunt, Miss Barrington, who is waiting to see you." "Oh, I thank you, Marie!" the happy girl exclaimed, then, springing up from the seat by her beautiful golden instrument, she said happily to the friend who was standing near: "Phyllis do come with me and meet my Aunt. I am always telling her about you, but you have been so occupied with one task or another that I have never had the opportunity to have you two meet each other." Then as she covered her harp, she continued: "My Aunt Dahlia believes you to be as beautiful as a nymph and as joyous as a lark." Then whirling and catching both hands of her friend, Nan cried, "And when Aunt Dahlia really sees you, what do you suppose she will think?" "That I'm a frumpy old grumpy, I suppose," Phyllis laughingly replied. "Indeed not!" Nan declared. "You're the most beautiful creature that Nature ever fashioned with sunshine for hair, bits of June sky for eyes, the grace of a lily and--" "Nan, do stop! I'll think that you are making fun of me, and all this time your Aunt Dahlia waits above. Come let us go. I am eager to meet her." These two girls had been room-mates and most intimate friends since Phyllis came to the school at the beginning of the year. No two girls could be more unlike as Nan had said. She was like October night, and her friend was like a glad June day. "Aunt Dahlia, dearie," Nan exclaimed a few moments later, as she embraced the older lady, "here at last is my room-mate, Phyllis. You are the two whom I most love, and I have so wanted you to know each other." "And you look just exactly as I knew you would from all our Nan has told me about you. Just as sweet and pretty." Miss Dahlia's kind face did not reveal that she was even a day older than she had been that Thanksgiving nearly four years before. Nan asked about Miss Barrington, the elder and was told, that, as usual, she was busy with clubs of many kinds. "We are very unlike, my sister, and I," the little lady explained to Phyllis, "I like a quiet home life, Ursula is never happier than when she is addressing a large audience of women, and it does not in the least fluster her if there are men among them, on weighty questions of the day. Yes, we are very unlike." "I am glad that you are." Nan nestled lovingly close to the little old lady. "Not but that I greatly admire and truly do care for Aunt Ursula. She has been very kind to me since she began to like me." Nan laughed, then stopped as though she had been about to say something she ought not, as indeed she had been. She had nearly said that her Aunt Ursula had started to really like her when she felt that the girl had been properly civilized and Christianized, for, ever since the talk she had had with Robert Widdemere, Nan had really tried in every way to accept the religion of the gorigo. "Aunt Dahlia," she suddenly exclaimed, "what do you suppose is going to happen? The music master has offered a medal of gold to the one of us whose rendering of a certain piece, which he has selected, shall please him the most at our coming recital. Phyllis is trying for it on the violin; Muriel Metcalf and I on the harp, and Esther Willis on the piano. I do hope you and Aunt Ursula will be able to come." "Nothing but illness could keep me away," Miss Dahlia said as she rose to go. CHAPTER XVII. OLD MEMORIES REVIVED. The two girls with arms about each other stood on the front veranda watching as Miss Dahlia was being driven along the circling drive. Nan knew that she would turn and wave at the gate. A moment later she saw the fluttering of a small white handkerchief. The girls waved their hands, then turned indoors and climbed the wide, softly carpeted stairway and entered the room which they shared together. It was a strange room for each girl had decked her half of it as best suited her taste. On one side the birds' eye maple furniture was made even daintier with blue and white ruffled coverings. There was a crinkly blue and white bedspread with pillow shams to match, while on the dresser there was an array of dainty ivory and blue toilet articles, two ivory frames containing the photographs of Phyllis' father and mother, and a small book bound in blue leather in which she wrote the events of every day. There were a few forget-me-nots in a slender, silver glass vase, and indeed, everything on that side of the room suggested the dainty little maid who occupied it. But very unlike was the side occupied by the gypsy girl. Boughs of pine with the cones on were banked in one corner. Her toilet set was ebony showing off startlingly on the bureau cover which was a glowing red. There were photographs of Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Ursula in silver band frames, gifts to her from the aunts themselves, but on the walls there were pictures of wild canon places, long grey roads that seemed to lure one to follow, pools in quiet meadowy places, and a printed poem beginning-- "Oh, to be free as the wind is free! The vagabond life is the life for me." But the crowning touch was the gorgeous crimson and gold shawl with its long fringe mingled with black threads that was spread over her bed. Every girl who came into their room admired it, many asked questions about how it came into Nan's possession, but to one and all the gypsy girl gave some laughing reply, and as each and every explanation was different, they knew that she was inventing stories to amuse them. Indeed, Nan was often called upon, when storms kept the girls within doors, to invent tales for their entertainment as they sat about the great stone fireplace in the recreation hall, and the more thrilling the tales were, the more pleased her audience. Sometimes Nan recalled another group, to whom she had, in the long ago, so often told stories. Little dark, fox-like creatures with their unkempt hair hanging about their faces. How eagerly they had followed Nan's every word. Poor little neglected things! Nan often longed to be able to do something for them all, to give them a chance to make something of themselves as she had been given a chance. But would they want it? Had she not rebelled at first when Miss Ursula tried to civilize and Christianize her? Having entered their room, the gypsy girl went at once to the wide window and looked out across the school grounds where the trees and shrubs were still leafless. "Dearie," she said, "Spring is in the air and calling us to come out. I don't want to practice now. Suppose we climb to the top of Little Pine Hill that looks down on the highway." "But I ought to study my French verbs." Phyllis hesitated-- "French verbs on Saturday?" Nan protested, "When a merry breeze waits to run us a race!" The fair maiden laughingly donned her wraps and a few moments later these two were tramping across the fields, and then more slowly they began climbing the path that led over the little hill. There they stood side by side gazing down at the winding highway which, a short distance beyond, was entirely hidden by a bend and a massing of great old pines. "Aren't bends in the road interesting?" Nan said. "One never knows what may appear next. Let's guess what it will be, and see who is nearest right." "Very well," Phyllis replied, "I'll guess that it's the little Wharton girl out horse-back riding with her escort. She passes almost every afternoon at about this hour." "And I'll guess that it will be a motoring party from Boston in a handsome limousine," Nan replied. Then hand in hand these two girls stood intently watching the bend in the road. Several moments passed and Nan's attention had been attracted skyward by the flight of a bird, when she heard Phyllis' astonished exclamation: "We were both wrong, Nan! Will you look? I never saw such a queer equipage as the one which is coming. A covered wagon drawn by black horses and there is another following it and still another. How very curious! Did you ever see anything like it?" Phyllis was so intently watching the approaching wagons that she did not notice the almost frightened expression that had appeared in the dark eyes of the girl she so loved, but after a moment Nan was able to say quite calmly, "Why, yes, Joy, I have seen a gypsy caravan before. In California where it is always summer, they often pass the Barrington home in San Seritos." Then she added, "I'm going back to the school now." Her friend looked at her anxiously, "Why dear," she said, "do you feel faint or ill?" Nan shook her head and remarked lightly, with an attempt at gaiety: "Maybe my conscience is troubling me because I'm keeping you from the French verbs." They returned to the school, and although Phyllis said nothing, she was convinced that the sight of the gypsy caravan had in some way affected Nan. The truth was that the gypsy girl's emotions had been varied and conflicting. Her first impulse had been to run and hide, as though she feared that she might be discovered and claimed, but, a second thought assured her that this could not be the caravan of Queen Mizella and her cruel son Anselo Spico, for had she not left them in far-away California? And yet, as she gazed intently at the wagon in the lead, again came the chilling thought that it was strangely familiar, and then she recalled a memoried picture of one evening around the camp fire when Anselo had expressed a desire to some day return to Rumania, and, to do so, they would have to come to the Eastern States. Then another emotion rushed to the heart of the watching girl. She remembered with tenderness the long years of loving devotion that Manna Lou had given her. She wondered if that kind gypsy woman had missed her when she ran away. Tears rushed to her eyes as she thought how selfish she had been. She should have tried long ago to let Manna Lou know that all was well with her. Then it was that Nan decided to go close to the highway, and, from a hiding place watch the caravan as it passed, but she wanted to go alone. If it should be the band of Queen Mizella, then Nan would try in some way to communicate with Manna Lou. With this determination in her heart, she had suggested to return to school. Phyllis who was really glad to have an opportunity to study her French verbs, went back willingly, but she glanced often at the dark face of the friend she so loved. She could not understand why Nan had suddenly lost her merry mood and had become so quiet and thoughtful. Luckily for the gypsy girl's plan, the French teacher, Madame Reznor, delayed Phyllis in the lower corridor, and Nan, leaving them, hurried to her room. Taking from the closet a long, dark cloak with a hood-cape, she slipped it on, and looking cautiously about the upper corridor to be sure that she was unobserved, she tripped lightly down the back stairs and out at the basement door. She heard a gong ringing in the school, and she was glad, for it was calling all the pupils to the study hall, and there would be no one to spy upon her actions. But she was mistaken, for two of the girls who had been for a cross-country hike were returning, and one of them, Muriel Metcalf, chanced to glance in that direction just as Nan crouched behind the hedge that bordered the school grounds on the highway. "Daisy Wells," Muriel exclaimed, "how queerly Nan Barrington is acting. Let's watch her and see what she is going to do." This they did, standing behind a spreading pine tree. CHAPTER XVIII. A GYPSY CAMP. Several moments Nan Barrington waited crouching behind the hedge, but the caravan did not come, nor did she hear the rattle and rumble of approaching wagons. Perhaps after all they had passed while she was indoors. Disappointed, the girl arose, and was about to return to the school when she heard voices that seemed to come from a small grove beyond the seminary grounds. Hurrying along in the shelter of the hedge, Nan reached a small side gate, and, hidden, she looked up the highway. She saw that the gypsies had drawn to one side of the road and were preparing to make camp for the night. They were so near that she could plainly hear what they were saying and see the faces that were strange to her. Muriel Metcalf and Daisy Wells were more puzzled than before. "What do you suppose it is that Nan sees?" Muriel whispered. "She surely is much excited about something. Come, let's run to the tree that's nearest the hedge and then we will know." This they did, watching Nan intently, to be sure that they were not observed, but the gypsy girl looked only at the camp wondering what she should do. At last, assured that she had nothing to fear, and longing, if possible, to hear some word of Manna Lou, who had mothered her through the first fourteen years of her life, she drew her cloak more closely about her, and, opening the gate, she went over to the camp fire. How familiar it all seemed. There were the same little fox-like children scampering about gathering wood, and tears rushed to Nan's eyes as she remembered, how in the long ago, those other children had always run to meet her with arms outstretched when she returned to camp on her Binnie, but these children paid her little heed, for often fine young ladies come to have their fortunes told. A kindly-faced gypsy woman, who was bending over the fire, looked up as she said, "Ah, pretty leicheen, have you come to cross my palm with silver? A wonderful future awaits you, dearie. I can tell that from your eyes." Then to the amazement of all within hearing, Nan replied in the Romany language. The gypsy woman held out her arms with evident joy as she said in her own tongue, "So, pretty leicheen, you are one of us! Tell me, dearie, how did it happen? Was your mother a gypsy and your father, perhaps a gorigo?" "My mother was a gypsy," the girl replied, "but she has long been dead and I have been adopted by a kind gorigo lady, two of them, and I am attending this school." Other gypsy women gathered about and they urged Nan to remain with them for the evening meal, but she said that she would be missed from the school if she were not there for dinner. "But there is much that I want to ask you," the girl said, "and if I possibly can, I will return after dark." "Come, come, dearie leicheen," the gypsy women urged, "We will be glad to have you." Then, as it was late, Nan hurried away. The twilight was deepening and though she passed close to their hiding place, she did not see the two girls who had been spying upon her. When she was gone, Muriel exclaimed, "Daisy Wells, did you hear her? She spoke the gypsy language." "Yes," her friend replied. "I have always thought that there was something strange about Nan Barrington and now I know what it is. She is a gypsy." "If that is true, one of us will leave this school," Muriel said haughtily, "for my mother would not permit me to associate with a common gypsy." CHAPTER XIX. AN ENEMY. During the dinner hour Phyllis glanced often at her dearest friend wondering, almost troubled, at the change that had so recently come over her. Across the wide refectory, two other pairs of eyes were also watching Nan and in the proud face of Muriel Metcalf there was a sneering expression. "How guilty Nan Barrington acts," she said softly to the girl at her side. "She dreads having the truth found out, I suppose," Daisy Wells replied, "but probably we are the only ones who know it and of course we would not tell." Muriel's pale blue eyes turned toward her friend and her brows were lifted questioningly, as she inquired:--"Indeed? Who said that we would not tell?" "I will not," Daisy replied quietly. "My mother has told me to ask myself two questions before repeating something that might hurt another. First, is it kind; second, is it necessary? So, Muriel, why tell, since it is neither kind nor necessary?" Daisy's natural impulses were always good, but she often seemed to be easily led by her less conscientious friend, Muriel Metcalf. "Oh well, you may side with her if you prefer," the other said with a shrug of her shoulders, "but I shall watch her closely tonight and see what she does. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she went back to the gypsy camp, and, as for telling, I shall do as I think best about that." To herself Muriel added, "If Nan Barrington wins the gold medal at the recital contest next Saturday, it shall be known all over the school before night that she is only a gypsy." Wisely, she said nothing of this to Daisy Wells, whose sense of justice, she knew, would scorn such an act of jealousy. Nan was planning, as soon as she left the dining hall, to go at once to the office of Mrs. Dorsey and ask permission to go out of grounds, and, since she was an honor student, she knew the request would be granted without question. As the girls were sauntering through the corridors after dinner in groups of two and three, Phyllis exclaimed:-- "Well, Nan dear, the wonderful night has arrived at last," and then when her friend's dark eyes were turned toward her questioningly, she added merrily, "Nan Barrington, do you mean to tell me that you have forgotten what we are to do tonight? Why only this morning you said how glad you were that the day had at last arrived." Then it was that Nan recalled the long-planned and much-anticipated theatre party. Madame Reznor was to chaperone her class in dramatics that they might see a noted actor in a Shakespearian play which they were studying. Since the appearance of the gypsy caravan, she had forgotten all else. What should she do? Nan, who had never told a lie, could not say that she was ill or that she did not want to go. "Come, dear," Phyllis was saying, "I will help you dress as we are to start in half an hour. The rest of us dressed before dinner, but though I hunted everywhere, I could not find you." Nan permitted herself to be led to their room and mechanically she let down her long dark hair. Suddenly the thought came to her that she would awaken at dawn and slip out to the camp and then she could ask her gypsy friends if they knew aught of her Manna Lou. Half an hour later, trying to assume a spirit of merriment that she might not mar the joyousness of the others, Nan climbed into the waiting car that was to take them to the city. Muriel watched her go, then turning to Daisy Wells, she said, "Now, you and I are going down to the gypsy camp and find out what it was that Nan Barrington said when she was talking in that queer language." The other girl looked up from the problem that she was trying to solve, as she replied, "No Muriel, I am not going. I promised little Janet that I would help her with her sums tonight. She has been ill and is eager to catch up with her class, and, moreover, I have no desire to spy upon actions of a schoolmate." "Oh, indeed!" Muriel said with a toss of her head and then she added sarcastically, "Aren't you afraid that you will soon be sprouting wings? It seems to me that you have become a saint very suddenly." Daisy had arisen and was gathering up her books and papers as she quietly replied, "No, Muriel, I am not pretending to be better than anyone else, but I like Nan Barrington, no one could help liking her, she is so kind and generous, and I do not in the least care what her ancestry may be. Yes, Janet dear, I'm coming right away," she added to the frail little girl who had appeared in the doorway. Muriel, left alone, put on a long cloak, and, winding a scarf about her head, she went out. Well she knew that it was against the rules to go beyond the seminary grounds at night, but she did not care. Something was all wrong in the heart of Muriel Metcalf, and that something was jealousy which was rapidly becoming hatred. She had so wanted to win the medal of gold, but she knew that Nan Barrington had practiced far more conscientiously. Vaguely Muriel thought that, perhaps, if she could find out something against Nan, she might have her barred from the coming contest. Having reached the gate in the hedge, Muriel peered through, and saw, in the light of the camp fire, the gypsies sitting close about it, for the night was cold. When the girl approached, one of the gypsy women rose and called in greeting, "Ha, pretty leicheen, I feared you were not coming." Then, as the firelight fell on the face of the girl, she added truly disappointed, "but you are not the same. Could she not come, the other little girl?" "No," Muriel replied. "She wished me to say that she had to go into the city." Then eager to obtain the information for which she had come, she added hurriedly, "Nan Barrington tells me that she too, is a gypsy." "Yes, the pretty leicheen is one of us." Then, in a wheedling voice, the gypsy woman said, "Let me tell your fortune, dearie. Cross my palm with silver. I see much happiness for you, but it is far off. First there is trouble. You are trying to harm someone who is your friend, someone who is to do much to help you. You should not do this." Muriel's eyes flashed as she said haughtily. "I did not come here to have my fortune told. Thanks to you I have learned what I wished to know." Then, without another word, she walked rapidly toward the side gate, but her heart was indeed troubled; she could not understand why, or would not, and it was late before she fell asleep. Too, it was late when Phyllis and Nan Barrington returned to their room and Nan's last conscious thought was that she wanted to waken before daybreak that she might visit the gypsy camp. CHAPTER XX. NAN DISAPPOINTED. In spite of her resolve to waken before dawn, Nan did not open her eyes until the sunlight was flooding in at the wide bow window. Springing up, she began at once to dress quietly, and then, with a last glance at Phyllis who seemed to be sleeping she left the room, but her friend had opened her eyes in time to see Nan stealing out so silently. However, this was not unusual, for the gypsy girl, who in her childhood had always been up to greet the dawn, often went to the top of Little Pine Hill to watch the sunrise and to remember many things, and so since it was still too early to dress, Phyllis nestled back for another few moments of slumber. Meanwhile Nan, with the dark cloak wrapped snugly about her, for the morning air was tinglingly cold, hurried across the wide grounds and down to the hedge near the highway, but she paused at the gate and gazed, not at the caravan as she had hoped, but at the charred remains of the camp fire. Her gypsy friends were gone! Truly disappointed, she was about to return when she saw something white pinned to a great pine tree, and wondering what it could be, she slipped through the gate and looked at it more closely. It was a piece of folded wrapping paper addressed to "The Pretty Leicheen." She was sure that it was intended for her. The kind gypsy woman had left some message. Opening it, she read: "We could not wait, dearie. We must be in the next town by noon. A girl from the school came to us last night. She tries to harm you. If you are not happy, come to us. We will be there until tomorrow, Queen Luella." Nan folded the paper again and placed it in her pocket. Then she stood looking down the highway, shining in the sun, and there were many emotions in her heart, but she was most conscious of a loneliness, for once more she had lost a possible opportunity of hearing about her dear Manna Lou. If only she had Binnie, she could gallop after the caravan and soon overtake it, but the pony, that had been her comrade in those other days, was still at San Seritos. Then, with a sigh, she turned back and slowly crossed the school grounds. Happening to slip her hand into the pocket of her coat, she touched the folded paper and then she remembered the message that it contained. What could Queen Luella have meant? She, Nan Barrington, had an enemy? Nan wished harm to no one and she always tried to be kind, then why should there be someone wishing to harm her? "Well, early bird," Phyllis sang out as Nan entered their room, "what did you capture this morning? Wet feet, for one thing." "Right you are," the gypsy girl gaily replied as she threw off the long wrap and sat on a low stool to change her shoes. The cloak fell over a chair and from the pocket a paper fluttered to the floor near Phyllis. Nan hurriedly reached for it and tearing it into small bits, she tossed the pieces into a waste basket. Her friend was indeed puzzled. It was so unlike her room-mate to have secrets. What could it all mean? She wondered as she gazed into the mirror and brushed her long, sunlit hair. Phyllis felt a desire to go to her friend and put her arms about her and beg to be allowed to help if anything had gone wrong, but she did not for she well knew that Nan would tell her if it were something that she wished to share. The gypsy girl said suddenly after several moments of deep thought, "do you think that I have an enemy in this school?" "An enemy? _You_, Nan? No indeed! Everyone loves you! How could they help it? You are always doing nice things for the girls and I never heard you say an unkind word about anyone, so how could you have an enemy?" Phyllis was amazed at the suggestion. Nan rose and laughingly embraced her friend. "Well," she merrily declared, "it is quite evident that you, at least, are not that enemy. Don't think anything more about it. I was sure that I did not have one. Good! There's the breakfast bell." But, try as she might to forget, she could not, and during the morning meal, Nan's glance roamed from one face to another as she wondered who among the pupils of Pine Crest Seminary had, the night before, visited the gypsy camp. CHAPTER XXI. THE POWER OF LOVING-KINDNESS. The next afternoon at four, Nan went down to the music room as it was her hour to practice on the harp, Muriel Metcalf having been there the hour preceding. Before opening the door, Nan listened to be sure that the other young harpist had finished, and, as she heard no sound within, she decided that Muriel had gone, but, upon opening the door, she saw the other girl seated by a table, her head on her arms and her shoulders shaken with sobs. Muriel sprang up when she heard the door close and in her pale blue eyes there was an expression of hatred when she saw who had entered the room. "Dear, what has happened?" Nan Barrington exclaimed with her ever-ready sympathy. Then, putting a loving arm about the girl, she added: "Is there something that I can do to help?" "No, there isn't!" Muriel flung out. "You'll probably be glad when you hear what has happened. That horrid old Professor Bentz told me that if I did not have this week's lesson perfect, he would no longer teach me on the harp. I suppose I am stupid, but I just can't, can't get it, and tomorrow is the day that he comes. I wouldn't care for myself, but my father will be heart-broken. He had a little sister, who played on the harp, and she died. Dad just idolized her, the way he does me. He kept the harp and he is so eager to have me play upon it. I just can't bear to disappoint him." For the moment Muriel seemed to have forgotten to whom she was talking. "Nor shall you," Nan said quietly. "Is this your free hour, Muriel?" "Yes," was the reply. "Why?" "I thought perhaps you would like to stay while I practice. Our lesson is hard this week, but I might be able to help you. Would you like to stay?" Muriel hardly knew how to reply. Judging others by her own selfish standard, she had supposed that Nan would be glad if she were barred from the coming recital, but instead, the gypsy girl was offering to help her master that part which had seemed to her most difficult. "Thank you, I will stay," she heard herself saying, and then she sat quietly near while Nan played the lesson through from beginning to the end. "Now, Muriel," the harpist said, with her friendly smile, "will you play it for me, and then I can better tell which part is your stumbling block?" Patiently Nan showed the other girl how to correct her mistakes, until, at length, a gong rang in the corridor calling them to the study hall. Springing up, the gypsy girl exclaimed: "You did splendidly, Muriel! If I could help you just once more before your lesson, I think that Professor Bentz would have no fault to find with you." Then she added kindly, "You really have talent, dear, but you haven't practiced very faithfully of late. If you wish, I will come with you to the music room this evening during our recreation hour and we can go over it once again." "Thank you! I would like to come," Muriel replied, but oh, what a strangely troubled feeling there was in her heart as she remembered the words of the gypsy woman: "You are trying to harm someone, who will do much to help you." That evening at 7 o'clock the two girls were again in the music room and Muriel played the piece through so well that Nan exclaimed with real enthusiasm, "Dearie, you did that beautifully, especially the part where it seems as though a restless spirit is yearning to be forgiven for something. Really, Muriel, the tears came into my eyes, for you played it with true feeling." Then to the gypsy girl's surprise the little harpist began to sob. "Oh, Nan, I do want to be forgiven for something. You've been so kind to help me and I've been so horrid and mean to you." "Why, Muriel, you have never been horrid or mean to me." "Oh, yes, I have. Only yesterday I was planning to do something that I thought would turn the girls all against you. I was jealous, I suppose, because Professor Bentz always holds you up as a model. Then I overheard you talking to the gypsies and that night I visited their camp and found out that you were one of them, and so I decided that if you won the gold medal I would tell every one in the school about it. There now, don't you call that being mean and horrid?" Nan's joyous laugh rang out, and she gaily exclaimed:--"Oho, so you are the enemy I have been looking for?" Then she added, with sudden seriousness: "My dear Muriel, I am not ashamed because I am a gypsy, and I would gladly have proclaimed it from the top of Little Pine Hill if I had not promised Miss Barrington that I would not." "And you're going to forgive me?" Muriel asked, although she knew the answer before it was spoken. "There is nothing to forgive. Hark! Someone is coming. Who do you suppose that it is?" There was a merry rapping on the door, and then it was opened, revealing two maidens. There was an expression of surprise on the pretty face of the younger girl, but it was Phyllis who exclaimed, "Well, Nan, here you are. I have hunted for you high and low. I just met Daisy in the corridor and she was searching for Muriel." Then, glancing from one expressive face to the other, she added: "What has happened? You girls look as though you had a secret." "So we have," Nan laughingly replied. "I was just going to tell Muriel a story and if you girls will come in and be seated, you too, may hear it." Phyllis, wondering what it all might mean, listened with increasing interest as Nan told about the caravan of Queen Mizella and about the loving kindness of Manna Lou to the little crippled boy, Tirol, and to the little orphan girl whose mother had died so long ago. "I didn't know that there were such good, unselfish women among the gypsies," Phyllis declared, "but, Nan, why are you telling us this story?" "Because I am the orphaned girl," was the quiet reply. "You!" Phyllis exclaimed. "Now I know why you are so wonderful and why you seem to understand the songs of the birds and feel such a comradeship for the trees and sky and all out-of-doors." "Then you don't love me any the less?" the question was asked in half seriousness. "Nan, what do I care who your ancestors are?" Phyllis declared. "It is you whom I love." "Hark!" the gypsy girl said with lifted finger. "The chapel bell is calling us to evening prayer." And then, as she and Muriel were the last to leave the room, she kissed the younger girl as she whispered, "Good night, dear little friend." CHAPTER XXII. THE CONTEST RECITAL. The day of the contest dawned gloriously. During the night pink and golden crocuses had blossomed on the seminary grounds and each bush and tree was a haze of silvery green. In the mid-afternoon two girls stood at an open library window. They were Muriel and Nan and they were waiting their turn at the recital. In the study hall beyond many parents and friends were gathered and with the teachers and pupils of the seminary, they were listening with pride and pleasure to the rendering of solos on violin and piano, while at one side of the platform, a golden harp stood waiting. "Daisy Wells is playing now," Muriel said, "Are you nervous Nan?" "No dearie." Then the older girl exclaimed joyfully, "Do look in the lilac bush! The first robin has come, and now he is going to sing for us. He surely would win the medal if he were to enter the contest." Muriel looked up at the other maiden and slipping an arm about her, she said impulsively, "I love you." Then, before the gypsy girl could reply, the younger harpist was called. "Oh Nan," she said in a sudden panic of fear. "Think of your father, dearie and just play for him." How calming that suggestion had been, and, while she played, Muriel was thinking of the twilight hours when her father had lifted her to his knee, and, holding her close, had told her of that other little girl whom he had so loved, and how lonely his boyhood had been when that little sister had died, and, how like her, Muriel was. "It will be a happy day for me, little daughter, when I hear you play as she did on the harp," he had often said. When the last sweet notes were stilled, there were tears in many eyes, for Muriel, forgetting all others, had played alone for her father. Professor Bentz was amazed and delighted. "I knew she had talent," he said to Mrs. Dorsey, the principal of the school, "but I did not know that she could play like that." When the recital was over, it was to Muriel that the medal of gold was awarded. "Oh Nan, I ought not to take it. You have done it all!" There was a happy light in the eyes of the gypsy girl as she stooped and kissed her little friend. "You played wonderfully dearie!" she said. Just at that moment a maid appeared in the library door, where the performers had gathered. "Miss Muriel," she called, "there is a gentleman here to see you." "It's father!" the little girl cried with eyes aglow. "I do believe that he came for the recital." And she was right. Mr. Metcalf was standing in the small reception room and he caught his little daughter in his arms and held her close for a moment without speaking. He said in a choking voice: "My dream is fulfilled. You play the harp, Muriel, as my sister did." Then he told her that he had long planned to visit her at the school and had timed that visit so that he might be present at the recital without her knowing it. "I think I must have known it, somehow," the happy little girl said, "for I was playing only for you." And Nan Barrington, who had done so much to help Muriel, felt that the winning of the love of her little "enemy" was far more to be desired than the winning of the medal of gold. CHAPTER XXIII. A JOYOUS INVITATION. A month had passed and the orchard back of the school was a bower of pink and white blooms, while oriole, robin and meadow lark made the fragrant sunlit air joyous with song. Gypsy Nan stood at the open window of their room gazing out over the treetops to the highway, and how she yearned for her pony Binnie. She longed to gallop away, away--where, she cared little. Then she thought of the happy ride she and Robert Widdemere had taken three years before, and, sitting down on the window seat, with her chin resting on one hand, she fell to musing of those other days. Again she was a little girl, clad in a cherry red dress and seated in the boughs of the far-away pepper tree which stood on the edge of the Barrington estate in San Seritos. She recalled the sad, pale invalid boy in the wheeled chair, and she smiled as she remembered his surprise when a cluster of pepper berries had dropped on his listlessly folded hands. What splendid friends those two became the weeks that followed, and then there had been that last morning on the mountain top when he had promised that he would always be her friend, come what might. Little had they dreamed that years would pass, and that neither would know what had become of the other. How she would like to see Robert Widdemere. He would be taller and broader, with a dignity of carriage which he surely would have acquired after three years' training in a military academy. How good looking he had been that long ago Thanksgiving morning when he had worn the gypsy costume! At this point Nan's revery was interrupted by Phyllis, who fairly danced into the room. She held an open letter and she gaily exclaimed: "Nan darling, you never could guess what you and I are going to do." "It must be a happy something, by the way you are shining." "Oh, it is the most exciting thing that ever happened in all my life," the other girl exclaimed joyously as she sat on the window seat facing her friend. "It's an invitation that came in this letter, and Mrs. Dorsey has granted us both permission to accept." Nan's dark eyes were wide with wonder. "Am I invited to go somewhere?" she asked. "Please don't keep me guessing about it any longer. Do tell me where." "Well, then, I'll have to begin at the beginning. You have often heard me speak of my cousins the Dorchesters." Nan nodded. "They have been in Florida all winter," she continued, "but now they have returned and have opened up their city home and the tenth of May will be Peggy's birthday and we are invited to her party. It will be on Saturday night, but Mrs. Dorsey said that we need not return to Pine Crest until the following day--and oh, I forgot to tell you! It's a masquerade and we must begin at once to think what costumes we will wear. I have the sweetest May Queen dress! I might wear that with a wreath of apple blossoms in my hair." "Joy, that would just suit you, but pray what shall I wear?" "Oh, Nan, do wear your red and gold gypsy dress. You look just beautiful in that. Say that you will to please me," Phyllis pleaded. "Very well; to please you and also to please myself. I would just love to have an excuse to wear that wonderful shawl that once long ago belonged to my beautiful mother." There was always a wistful expression in the dark eyes when Nan spoke of the mother whom she had never known. "Was your mother--" Phyllis hesitated. Nan turned clear eyes toward her friend. "Was she a gypsy, do you mean? Dearie, I don't in the least mind talking about it. Ask me anything that you wish. The only part that I regret is that I cannot answer anything with real knowledge. I have always supposed that my mother was the one of my parents who was a gypsy. That is what I told Queen Luella, but afterwards, in thinking it over, I wondered if it might not have been my father, or perhaps they both belonged to the band of Queen Mizella, I was not to be told until I was eighteen." After a thoughtful moment Phyllis ventured: "Nan, would you feel very badly if you were to discover that you are not a real gypsy at all; that perhaps your mother for some reason had given you into the keeping of Manna Lou and had died before she returned to claim you? You might have been a Rumanian princess and the throne might have been threatened and it was necessary to hide you." Nan's merry laughter pealed out. "Phyllis, you are trying to steal my thunder, making up exciting tales as you go along. Now you know, dearie, that I have won fame, if not fortune, by improvising impossible fiction, and I do not want to relinquish, even to you, the laurels I have won." Phyllis watching the glowing dark face asked another question. "What do the real Rumanians look like. I mean the ones that are not gypsies. Aren't they very dark and beautiful just as you are?" Nan sprang to her feet and made a sweeping curtsy as she exclaimed dramatically:--"Would that everyone had eyes like yours. But truly, dear," the gypsy girl dropped back into her deep easy chair, "I know no more of the Rumanians than you do. Just what we have learned in our illustrated book on 'Men and Manners of Many Lands.'" "But you haven't answered my question," the fair girl persisted. "Would you be dissappointed if some day it should be discovered that you are white and--." Again Nan laughingly interrupted, making an effort to look in the mirror without rising. "Goodness, am I black?" Then, before Phyllis could remonstrate, Nan continued; "I thought I was just a nice brown or--" Her friend sprang up and kissed her lovingly, then perched on the arm of the chair, she exclaimed warmly: "You have the most velvety smooth olive complexion. Many American girls have one similar, but not nearly as nice, and now, since you do not want to answer my question, we will change the subject." Nan, nestled lovingly against her friend. "Indeed I shall answer your question. I would be very, very sorry if I were to suddenly learn that I am not at all a gypsy. I would feel--well as though I were a stranger to myself or as though my past was a dream from which I had been rudely awakened. I wouldn't know how to begin to live as somebody quite different." Then, as a bell rang and Phyllis arose, Nan concluded: "But we need have no fear of such a sudden transforming, for I _know_ I am a gypsy. Manna Lou never told a lie and she said time and again that the only part of my story that she would or could tell me was that I am one of their own band." Impulsively Phyllis kissed her friend. "If being a gypsy is what makes you so adorable, I wish we had more of your band in our midst." Then after hastily tidying and washing in their very own wee lavatory, arm in arm the two girls went down to the dining hall again, chatting happily about the week-end treat that was in store for them. CHAPTER XXIV. NAN'S FIRST MASQUERADE. The home of the Dorchesters was brilliantly lighted and the little hostess Peggy, who represented a rose fairy, was exquisitely gowned in filmy pink. Her small black mask hung over her shoulder and she was arranging a huge basket of apple blossom sprays in the library when Phyllis, looking like a very lovely May Queen, entered the room. Peggy whirled around and holding out both hands, she kissed her cousin impulsively as she exclaimed: "Oh, I'm so glad that you could come. It's just ages since I saw you last, and ever so many things have happened. Tomorrow morning we'll have a talkfast and gossip for hours, but do tell me who is the room-mate that you asked if you might bring. I just saw her a minute as you came in, but I thought that she was very beautiful, dark like a Spanish of French girl, isn't she?" Then, without waiting for an answer, impetuous Peggy hurried on as a new thought presented itself. "Phyllis you never could guess who is coming tonight. One of our boy cousins whom we haven't seen in just ever so long, but there, I ought not to be calling him a boy, he's so big and good-looking? His mother is staying with us and she talks about her wonderful son all of the time. She plans to have him make a most eligible marriage, but he doesn't seem to care for girls at all. Oh, here comes your friend! Isn't that gypsy costume fascinating?" Nan Barrington was presented to the little hostess and to her mother, who appeared at that moment to assist in receiving, and then the guests began to arrive. Phyllis and Nan retreated to a seat beneath a bank of palms and not far from the hidden musicians. They had on their masks and Nan, who had never before attended a real party of any kind, was interested in all that she saw. Suddenly she caught her friend's hand as she said softly, "Phyllis, will you look at the young man who is just entering! Who do you suppose he is?" "Why, he has on a gypsy costume! That's rather strange, isn't it? Wouldn't it be amusing, Nan, if he should ask you to dance? There are to be no personal introductions, you know. Only close friends of Aunt Lucy's and Peg's are invited, and so, of course, that in itself is sufficient introduction." While Phyllis had been talking a youth dressed as a knight had approached and asked her to join the promenade with him, and so, for a moment Nan was left alone. She did not mind and she sat smiling as she thought how like a play it all was when suddenly she heard someone saying, "Lady Gypsy, will you promenade with me?" Nan sprang to her feet and held out both hands impulsively: "Robert!" she said. "I thought of you the moment that I saw that costume but it isn't the one that you wore so long ago and I never dreamed that it could be you, but your voice--I'm not mistaken in it, am I?" For answer the lad tore off his mask and looked down at the girl with an expression of radiant joy. "Lady Red Bird," the lad exclaimed as he led her back of the sheltering palms, "for three years I have tried and tried to find you. Did you think that I had broken the promise that I made to you high on the mountain? Indeed I have not, and I never will break it. Please remove your mask. I want to know what my sister-comrade looks like after all these years." "Robert, I wish to speak with you." It was the voice of his mother calling softly from an open door near. The lad although deploring the interruption, was too courteous to not heed his mother's request. Hurriedly he said: "I will be back directly. I have so much to tell you and so very, very much that I want to learn about you." He was leading the gypsy girl back to her seat beneath the palm. When he was gone Nan suddenly remembered that in her surprise and joy at finding her old-time comrade she had completely forgotten the promise that she had made his mother three years before on Thanksgiving day. Mrs. Widdemere had then forbidden Robert to ever again speak to the gypsy girl, but before the indignant lad had time to reply, it was Nan who had said: "You need not be troubled, Mrs. Widdemere, for I shall never again speak to one of your kind." Unconsciously she had broken that promise many times, for was not her dearly loved room-mate this woman's niece? Too, even now she had been speaking to her son. Rising, she decided that she must go away somewhere and think what would be the honorable thing for her to do, Just then she saw Phyllis approaching with her partner and, hurrying toward them, she said, "Phyllis, may I speak with you alone for a moment?" Her friend, excusing herself, led the way into a small reception room and closed the door. "What is it, Nan? You look as though something very unusual had happened." The gypsy girl's cheeks were burning and it was plainly evident that she was much excited. "Phyllis," she said hurriedly, "don't ask me to explain now. Please help me to get away at once. Can't I call a taxi and go to Aunt Dahlia? Something has happened and I will tell you all about it to-morrow. Don't worry dear, but I must go." Phyllis believing that her dearest friend was about to be seriously ill, hastened to comply with her wishes. First she explained this fear to Peggy's mother, who at once called their chauffeur and directed him to take Nan to the Barrington residence. It was not late and Miss Barrington and her younger sister. Miss Dahlia, were seated in the library reading when the girl entered. They were indeed surprised, for Nan had called on them not two hours before when she had first arrived in town. "Dearie," Miss Dahlia exclaimed, rising and going toward the girl with outstretched hands "what is it? Are you ill?" "No, not ill, but troubled in spirit," Nan said with a forlorn little laugh. Then she sat on a stool near the two old ladies and told all that had happened. Miss Ursula drew herself up proudly as she said, "Sister Dahlia, why did you not tell me this before? I did not know that Anne had been so humiliated. I shall certainly inform Mrs. Widdemere that a girl whom the Barringtons are proud to adopt as their own is quite worthy to be her son's companion. Anne, if you wish I will return with you to the party. Mrs. Dorchester and I were school-mates long ago." "No, thank you," Nan replied rather wistfully, "I would rather not go back." Meanwhile Robert, having left his mother, who merely wished to introduce him to an heiress, returned to find the seat beneath the palms unoccupied. Nan was gone and though he stood with folded arms and watched the passing dancers, he did not see her. At last he sought the little hostess and inquired what had become of the guest disguised as a gypsy. CHAPTER XXV. NAN'S DECISION. Miss Barrington, who had learned to love Nan as dearly as had her sister, Miss Dahlia, looked admiringly at the beautiful girl, who, having removed her gypsy costume, was clad in a clinging simple white voile. "Anne," she said, "will you play for us? The piano has not been touched in many a day." And so Nan, always glad to please these two, played and sang the selections chosen by the elderly ladies. Suddenly the telephone rang and a maid appeared. "Miss Barrington," she said. Nan ceased playing, and, to her surprise, she heard Miss Ursula replying to someone over the wire, "Yes indeed, you may come. We shall be glad to have you." For some unaccountable reason Nan's heart began to beat rapidly. Could it be Robert who was coming? She wondered as she resumed her playing, but her fingers went at random and then, before it seemed possible, the door bell rang and a moment later Robert in his military uniform, entered the room. He was gladly welcomed by the two old ladies who had known him since he wore knickerbockers and then when Nan went forward and held out her hand as she said in her frank friendly way, "Robert, forgive me for disappearing, but I suddenly remembered that I had promised your mother that I would never again speak to one of her kind, and I do sincerely wish to keep my promises." "But, Miss Barrington," the lad appealed to the elderly woman, "should one keep a hastily made promise when there is no justice in it? I am sure that my father would approve of my friendship with Nan, and though I regret my mother's attitude, I do not think that I should be influenced by it. If you and Miss Dahlia will grant me permission to be Nan's comrade once more, I will promise to care for her as I would wish another to care for a sister of mine." They were seated about the wide hearth for the evenings were cool. "Robert Widdemere," Miss Ursula said, "if Anne wishes your friendship, we will welcome you into our home whenever you desire to come. We wish Anne to remain at the Pine Crest seminary until June. We are then going to our cottage on the coast of Maine until October, when we will return to San Seritos for the winter." The lad's eyes were glowing. "How I would like to go back there," he said, then, turning to the girl, he added, laughingly, "I suppose Lady Red Bird is too grown now to climb the pepper tree." "I suppose so," Nan replied merrily. "That is one of the penalties of being civilized." Soon the lad rose reluctantly. "I promised Cousin Peggy that I would return for the supper dance at ten o'clock," he said, "and to keep that promise I must leave at once. But, Nan, you have not yet told me that you care to have my friendship." The girl looked thoughtfully into the fire a moment and then replied slowly, "Robert Widdemere, I do want your friendship, but I would be happier if I might have it with your mother's consent." "Then you shall," the boy replied. In the meanwhile Peggy had sought Phyllis. "I don't in the least understand what is happening," she said. "First your friend, disguised as a gypsy, leaves in a panic, then Cousin Robert insists on knowing where she has gone and follows her, and when his mother heard about it, she became so angry that she went at once to her room and bade us tell Robert to come to her the moment he returns. What can it all mean?" "It's just as much a mystery to me, Peg," Phyllis said. "But there comes Robert now. Perhaps he will explain." * * * * * * * * The interview that Robert Widdemere had with his mother on his return from the Barrington home was not a pleasant one for either of them but in the end Robert had said firmly but gently, "I feel sure that my father would approve of my friendship with Nan and, moreover, next summer I will be 21 and I shall consider myself old enough then to choose my own companions. My dad must have expected me to possess good judgment in some degree or his request would not have been that I assume the reins of his business on my 21st birthday." Then, going to the indignant woman, he put his arm about her as he said lovingly, "Mother, dear, I want you to tell me that you are willing that I may be Nan Barrington's friend." "It is a great disappointment," Mrs. Widdemere said, "but, since you are soon to be financially independent of me, I suppose that I might as well give my consent. However, do not expect me to receive that gypsy girl into my home as an equal, for I shall not." * * * * * * * * The next morning Phyllis and her cousin Robert visited the Barrington home and an hour later the lad accompanied the girls to the station where they were to take the train for Pine Crest. Robert had told Nan that he had won his mother's consent to their friendship but he did not tell how reluctantly that consent had been given. The next day the lad returned to the Military Academy where in another month he would complete his training, but each week he and Nan exchanged letters telling of the simple though pleasant experiences of their school life. Nan and Phyllis were to graduate in June and they were happily busy from dawn till dark. It had been the custom for many years at the Pine Crest Seminary for the pupils to make their own graduating dresses by hand. These were to be of dainty white organdie and the two girls, with their classmates, spent many pleasant hours sewing in one room and another. Tongues flew as fast as the needles while each young seamstress told what she hoped the summer and even the future would hold for her. Nan was often thoughtfully silent these last days of school. One twilight Phyllis found her standing alone at their open window watching the early stars come out. "What are you thinking, dear?" she asked. "I was wondering about my own mother," Nan replied. "Next week I will be eighteen and then it was that Manna Lou planned telling me who I am, I never could understand why she did not tell me before, but she said that she had promised, and now, that I might know, I am too far away." "Perhaps your mother was a sister of Manna Lou," her friend suggested. "Perhaps, but come dear," Nan added in a brighter tone, "we are due even now at French Conversation." Nan did not speak again of the mystery of her birth, but she often wondered about it as her eighteenth birthday neared and she longed to know more of her own mother, who must have loved her so dearly. CHAPTER XXVI. NAN'S EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY. Nan Barrington's eighteenth birthday dawned gloriously and as soon as they were dressed Phyllis disappeared to return a moment later with an armful of wonderful red roses. "It's a happy birthday greeting from a cousin of mine," she laughingly told the surprised girl. "Oh, are they from Peggy Dorchester?" Nan exclaimed as she took them. Her friend's eyes twinkled. "No," she said "this cousin's name is not Peg. Guess again." Nan's dark eyes were glowing above the beautiful bouquet. "Oh, then they are from Robert. How kind of him to remember my birthday." Lovingly she arranged the fragrant roses in a large green jar and, selecting a bud, she placed it in her friend's belt and fastened another at her own. Then slipping her arm about Phyllis and chatting happily, they went down the broad front stairway to the refectory. When they were returning, half an hour later, Mrs. Dorsey was in the corridor and she smiled lovingly in response to the girls' morning greeting. "Anne," she said, "this is your eighteenth birthday, is it not? Can you spare a few moments for a visit with me?" Nan's face brightened. "Oh yes, indeed, Mrs. Dorsey," she replied. Phyllis went on to the library and the gypsy girl entered the office with the kindly principal. "Be seated, dear," Mrs. Dorsey said. "I have long planned having this visit with you and now that you are soon to leave us, I must no longer delay. Miss Dahlia Barrington, who, as you know, was a schoolmate of mine, told me how you chanced to come into their lives. Miss Dahlia is very proud of you and Miss Ursula is also. I, too, am proud of your splendid accomplishments, Anne. I feel that you have made much progress in the three years that you have been with us and I deeply regret that you are about to graduate. I know nothing of your plans for the future but, if the time ever comes when you wish to be self-supporting, I will be glad to give you a position as a teacher of languages and music for the younger pupils." "Oh, Mrs. Dorsey!" Nan exclaimed gratefully, "how very kind of you to make me such an offer. If Miss Dahlia will permit me to do so, I will gladly start teaching the little ones at the beginning of the fall term. I have hoped that I might find some way to repay my benefactors, for, of course, I have been a great expense to them." Mrs. Dorsey smiled and, as she stood, Nan also arose. "I shall indeed be glad to have you with us, Anne," the kind woman said as she kissed the girl on each cheek, then she added brightly. "Happy birthday, dear, and may each coming year find you as unspoiled and lovable as you are today." Nan flushed happily at this praise and then she sought Phyllis to tell her the wonderful news. "You, a teacher!" her friend cried in dismay. "Oh Nan, I did so want you to go to college with me next year. Your aunts are very rich, I am sure, and I just know that they will not think of permitting you to earn your own living." Nan stood looking thoughtfully out of the open library window. "I would rather be independent," she declared. Then, noting her friend's dismal expression, she laughingly caught her hands as she said, "Well, we won't decide the matter, now. I'll talk it over with Aunt Dahlia when she comes." The two girls spent a happy morning together and in the afternoon Nan said, "I wonder why Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Ursula do not come. They wrote that they would be here early and take us both for a long drive." Another half hour passed and then there was a knock at the door. Nan sprang up joyously. "It's Marie to tell me that my dear aunts have arrived." It was indeed Marie, who held out a yellow envelope as she said, "This telegram just came, Miss Anne. Mrs. Dorsey isn't in, so I thought I'd better bring it right up to you." When the door had again closed, Nan turned toward her friend with startled eyes. "Oh Phyllis," she said fearfully, "do you suppose that Aunt Dahlia is ill?" Then, tearing open the yellow envelope, the two girls read the few words that the message contained. "Miss Ursula Barrington died last night. Miss Dahlia wishes you to come at once." The signature was that of a stranger. "Aunt Ursula dead!" Nan repeated in dazed uncomprehension. "It can't be. It must be a mistake, for only day before yesterday I received a long letter from her and she wrote that she was feeling unusually well." "I fear that it cannot be a mistake," her friend said tenderly, "but you must be brave and strong, Nan, for your Aunt Dahlia will need you to comfort her." "You are right, Phyllis, I will go to her at once. Have I time to get the three o'clock train?" "I think so, dear. You pack what we will need in your satchel and I will go and ask Patrick to bring around the school bus." "Why, Phyllis, are you going with me? Mrs. Dorsey is not here to ask." "I know Mrs. Dorsey would wish me to go with you. I would not think of permitting you to go alone." A few hours later these two girls entered the city home of the Barringtons. The lower hall seemed strangely silent, and at once they ascended the stairway to Miss Dahlia's room. They found her sitting there alone and when they entered she hurried toward the girl whom she so loved. "Oh Nan darling," she said with tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. "I can't understand it. I can't believe that it has really happened. It was all so sudden." The young girl held the feebled old lady in a close embrace, then leading her to a wide lounge, she sat beside her, taking the frail hands in her strong ones. "Dear Aunt Dahlia," she said, "tell me what has happened. Has Aunt Ursula been ill?" "No, not at all. Yesterday morning a business-like looking envelope was in the mail for her. She took it at once to her study and remained there until noon, continually writing, and when at last she came to lunch, she looked worn and haggard, but when I asked her if she felt ill, she said no, and then she did something very unusual for her. She kissed me, saying in an almost pitying tone, 'Poor little sister Dahlia.' "Directly after lunch she returned to her study and continued writing. In the afternoon she sent Dorcas to the postbox with several letters. Last night we sat by the fireplace reading when suddenly her book slipped to the floor. I looked up and saw that she seemed to be asleep. This was so very unusual that I tried to waken her, but could not. "The doctor whom I had Dorcas summon, said that my sister must have had some great and sudden shock. What it could have been, I do not know. I searched in her desk for that business-like envelope, but it was gone." Then leaning against the girl, she added, "Oh, Nan darling, how thankful I am that you came to us so long ago. If I did not have you, I would now be all alone in the world." The girl kissed the little old lady tenderly as she said, "Dear Aunt Dahlia, I, too, am thankful." Half an hour later Nan went to her own room and on her desk she saw a large envelope addressed, "To my beloved niece, Anne Barrington." The writing was Miss Ursula's. CHAPTER XXVII. NAN'S SUDDEN RESPONSIBILITY. With a rapidly-beating heart Nan sat at her desk and opened the large envelope in which there was a letter and another envelope that was evidently the one to which Miss Dahlia had referred as businesslike. "My dear Anne," the girl read, "I am prostrated with grief today and you will not wonder when I tell you that I was wrongly advised by one whom I considered a trustworthy friend, and I invested, not only my own fortune but also Sister Dahlia's in securities that I am now informed are absolutely worthless. "I did this, I assure you, with my sister's permission, for, as you know, she had great faith in my business ability and good judgment. The result is that we are suddenly reduced to straitened circumstances which will necessitate an entire change in our mode of living. "I am indeed glad that our Anne has been able to complete the course of studies at Pine Crest Seminary before this calamity befell us. There is one other thing which in this hour of humiliation and grief is a consolation to me, and that is that our home in San Seritos is in no way effected. It is in my sister's name and cannot be taken from her." A blot followed and then with an evidently shaking hand had been written: "Anne, a sharp pain in my heart warns me that I must cease writing for awhile and rest. I had intended mailing this letter to you, but, remembering that it would reach you on your eighteenth birthday and shadow the happiness which is rightfully yours at that time, I have decided to place it on your desk and when you come on Sunday, you and I will retire to your room and discuss the matter. "As you know, my dear Anne, it is difficult for me to express in words the emotions that I may feel, but I want you to know how proud I am of the little girl who came to us three years ago. You have brought a new happiness into my life and I must confess, that, though my original thought was merely to Christianize one whom I called a heathen, I myself have become more sympathetic and loving, more truly a Christian. "Good night, Anne. If I should be taken away before my dear sister Dahlia, I will go with far greater willingness knowing that you will care for her and comfort her as long as she shall live. "Your loving, Aunt Ursula." The postscript had evidently been written much later. The writing was easily legible. "Anne, another of those sharp heart attacks warns me that I would better place in your care the money that we have on hand. I sent Dorcas to the bank this afternoon to draw it out and I have locked it in my desk; the key I am enclosing. There will be sufficient to care for you and sister Dahlia for at least a year; after that I am sure that my brave Anne will find a way." * * * * * * * * Phyllis quietly entered the room a few moments later and saw Nan seated at her desk, her head on her arms. "Oh, Phyllis," she sobbed, as her friend sat beside her and tried to comfort her, "how Aunt Ursula must have suffered. If only I had been here. Perhaps if we had talked it over together, it might have been a help to her." Nan then gave the letter to Phyllis to read, and after a thoughtful moment, added, "I must be worthy of the trust that splendid woman has placed in me. How glad I am that I will be able to teach. I shall not tell Aunt Dahlia of the financial loss until it is necessary. She is very frail and it might be more than she could stand. Come dear, let us go to her. I do not want to leave her alone." A week later Nan returned to Pine Crest Seminary and Miss Dahlia was with her. Mrs. Dorsey had at once visited the Barrington home and had insisted that her old friend share her pleasant apartment at the school until Nan had successfully passed the final examinations and had received her diploma. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE VALEDICTORIAN. A few days before the closing exercises at Pine Crest Seminary, Phyllis entered their room and exclaimed jubilantly to the girl who was seated at the writing desk. "Nan Barrington, you never can guess who passed with the highest marks and is to be chosen class valedictorian." The other girl looked up brightly. "It was Phyllis Dorchester, I do believe," she declared. "No, indeed. That guess is far afield. The successful maiden is Anne Barrington. There, now, what do you think of that? Mrs. Dorsey just told me and I simply couldn't walk upstairs demurely, I was so eager to tell you. How proud I will be at the closing exercises to see my room-mate standing before a crowded assembly room reading her graduating essay on 'Comrading With Nature.' It's poetry in prose, Nan, and I am glad that you are to read it." "But I will not be here for the closing exercises, and so if that essay is read, you will have to do it for me." "Nan Barrington! Not be here, and the closing exercises less than a week away! Why, where are you going?" "Sit down and I will tell you. I would love to stay, as you well know, if I had only my own wishes to consider, but each day Aunt Dahlia seems to grow more frail. Naturally Mrs. Dorsey and I have been much occupied and Aunt Dahlia has often been left alone with her sorrow in a strange apartment. Each time that I go to her, she clings to me as a frightened child would, and over and over again she tells me that she knows she will be strong again as soon as we are back in the gardens at San Seritos, then she always ends by asking in a pathetic tone, 'Nan, do you think that we will be able to go tomorrow?' and today my answer was 'yes, Aunt Dahlia, we will go tomorrow.'" Phyllis reached for her friend's hand and held it in a sympathetic clasp and tears sprang to her eyes. She knew what a sacrifice Nan was making, for they had often talked of the happy time they would have at their graduation. "How disappointed Robert will be," Phyllis said at last, "but, dear, of course it is right that you should go. How I do wish that I might go with you, but Mother and Dad and I are leaving for England in another month. However, if you remain in California, do not be surprised next winter to see me appearing, bag and baggage." Nan smiled lovingly at her friend. "No one could be more welcome," she said, then she added thoughtfully, "I have indeed a difficult problem to solve for I want to live as economically as we possibly can and yet not disclose to poor Aunt Dahlia the truth concerning the lost fortune." Phyllis sprang to her feet and kissed her friend on the forehead, as she exclaimed, "And you will be able to do it, Nan darling, I'm sure of that! Now I must depart, and you must finish that letter if it is to go on the next mail." When Nan was alone, she continued writing until several sheets of note paper had been covered. She was telling her comrade all that had happened and explaining why she would not be able to attend her own graduating party. Two days later the letter reached Robert Widdemere, and, after reading it, he sat for a long time gazing thoughtfully into space. In another month he would be of age and master of his own actions and possessed of a goodly income. He sprang to his feet at the call of a bugle summoning him to drill, but in his heart there was a firm resolve. CHAPTER XXIX. FAITHFUL FRIENDS. A week had passed and it was nearing the end of June when Miss Dahlia and Nan arrived at the little station of San Seritos. They found Mr. Sperry, the gardener, waiting to take them home in the Barrington car, which had the family coat of arms emblazoned on the door. Nan had written a long letter to this faithful servant and his kindly wife, telling of Miss Ursula's death and also informing them that Miss Dahlia had but little money left, and, would be obliged to dispense with the services of so expert a gardener as Mr. Sperry. Nan had then added that since Miss Dahlia was very frail, she thought best not to tell her of the changed financial conditions, but if Mr. Sperry would accept a position elsewhere, Miss Dahlia would suppose that to be the reason he was leaving her service. When Mr. Sperry read this letter to his wife, he removed his spectacles and wiped them as he said, "Nell, Miss Dahlia is one of God's good women if there ever was one. Mind you the time little Bobsy had diphtheria and you couldn't get a nurse? You'd have died yourself with the care of it all if it hadn't been for that blessed woman coming right down here and staying quarantined in this lodge house where there weren't any comforts such as she had been used to, and now, that she's in trouble, it isn't likely we're going to desert her. No, sir, not us! The Baxters have been at me this month past to work on their place half time, and I'll do it. Then we can raise our own vegetables and plenty for Miss Dahlia besides, in the kitchen garden here and she'll never know but what Miss Nan is paying us a salary regular, just as we always had." "You are right, Samuel," Mrs. Sperry said wiping her eyes with the corner of her blue apron. "We're not the sort to be forgetting past kindness. I'll go up to the big house this minute with Bertha and we'll air it out and have Miss Dahlia's room cheerful and waiting for her." And so when Mr. Sperry saw Nan assisting Miss Barrington to the platform, he hurried forward, and, snatching off his cap, he took the hand the little lady held out to him. It was hard for him to steady his voice as he said, "Miss Dahlia, it's good to see your kind face again. It's been lonesome having the big house closed for so long and it's glad I am to have it opened." Tears rolled down the wrinkled cheeks of the little old lady. This home-coming was hard, for, during the last two years Miss Ursula had been much changed, more of a loving sister and a comrade. When they reached the house, Mrs. Sperry was on the veranda and Bertha, now a tall girl of eleven, was standing shyly at her mother's side. The doors were wide open, and Nan, glancing in, saw that there were bowls of ferns and flowers in the hall and library. As she greeted Mrs. Sperry, she said softly, "It was very kind of you to do all this." Then the girl assisted Miss Dahlia up the wide front stairs. The gardener's wife called after them "when you've laid off your wraps come down to the dining room. It's nearly noon and I thought you might be hungry after traveling so far." "Thank you, Mrs. Sperry, we will," Nan replied, and tears sprang to her eyes as she thought how loyal these kind people were and with no hope of remuneration. Later, while they were eating the appetizing luncheon which the gardener's wife was serving, Miss Dahlia asked, "Mrs. Sperry, will you see about hiring maids and a cook for us as soon as possible?" The woman glanced at Nan questioningly and that girl hurried to say: "Oh, Aunt Dahlia dear, please don't let's have any just yet. I do want to learn to keep house and the best way to learn, you know, is really to do it. Don't you think so, Mrs. Sperry?" "Indeed I do, Miss Nan," that little woman replied with enthusiasm, "and I'll be right handy by, whenever you need help extra, for cleaning days and the like." Miss Dahlia smiled. "Well dearie," she said, "you may try for a week or so, but at the end of that time, I'm pretty sure that you will be glad to hire a cook and at least one maid." The next morning, when Miss Dahlia awakened, it was to see a smiling lassie in a pretty ruffled white apron approaching her bedside with a tray on which was a cup of steaming coffee and a covered plate of delicately browned toast. "Top o' the morning to you, Aunt Dahlia," the girl laughingly called as she brought a wash cloth and towel and then a dainty lavender dressing jacket and cap. A few minutes later when the pleased little old lady was sitting up among comfortably placed pillows, Nan with arms akimbo, inquired, "Is there anything more ye'll be afther wantin' this mornin', Miss Barrington?" "Oh, Nan darling," the little woman replied brightly, "I truly did think that I wouldn't be able to get on without Norah, but I believe that after all my new maid is going to prove a much handier young person. Have you breakfasted, my dear?" "That I have, Aunt Dahlia, and my head is as full of delightful plans as a Christmas pudding is of plums, but first I wish to ask if I may have your permission to play the game just as I wish." "Indeed you have it without the asking. Get all the amusement that you can get of the experiment, but, Nan dearie, don't you think that you would better reconsider and have at least one house maid?" The girl shook her head and her dark eyes danced merrily as she again returned to Norah's brogue. "And is it discharging me, ye are, on the very fust day of me service wid ye? Arrah, and oi'll not be goin' till ye've given me a fair two weeks' triol." Miss Dahlia smiled happily. What a comfort this gypsy girl was to her. Then suddenly the little woman realized that she had not thought of Nan as a gypsy for a long time. It did not seem possible that this loving and lovable girl could be the same little wild waif who had climbed out of an upper window nearly four years ago because she did not want to be civilized. When the tray was ready to be carried away, the audacious maid stooped and kissed the smiling face of the little old lady as she inquired, "Will ye dress now, or will ye be staying' in bed for the mornin', Miss Dahlia?" "I'd like to remain in bed, dearie, if you are sure that you don't need me to help you around the house. It was a long journey across the continent and now that we are _really_ home it seems so nice to just rest and look out of the window at the garden and the sea." "Good! I'm glad!" Nan exclaimed as she drew the downy quilt over the frail shoulders. "Perhaps you'll return to dreamland awhile. Now, don't forget that you have granted me permission to carry out my plans in my own sweet way." When Nan was gone, the little old lady, resting luxuriously, wondered what her dear child might be planning, and then, truly weary, she again fell into a refreshing slumber. Meanwhile Nan had donned her riding habit and, having visited the barn, she found her Binnie in fine trim. The small horse whinnied joyfully when he beheld his mistress, and Nan, putting her arms about him, caressed him lovingly. Two years before she had written Mrs. Sperry, telling her to permit the children to ride Binnie, and so the small horse had had many a merry canter and had not been lonely. Saddling and mounting her mottled pony, Nan rode down the circling drive to the lodge house. She was about to carry out a plan, which was merely another way to economize and not let Miss Dahlia recognize it as such. CHAPTER XXX. NAN AS HOUSEKEEPER. "Good morning, Mrs. Sperry," Nan called as she drew rein at the door of the lodge. "Could Bertha go up to the house and stay until I have cantered into town and back? Miss Dahlia is still in bed and I have a few purchases to make." Then Nan told her new plan and the gardener's wife replied, "Bertha and Bobsy are in school. They take their lunch and stay all day and my husband works over at Baxters' now till mid-afternoon, so I'll take my basket of darning and go right up to be near Miss Dahlia if she should call." "Thank you, Mrs. Sperry, I won't be gone long and you'll find my room just flooded with sunshine." An hour later Nan returned and soon thereafter a delivery wagon left a bundle at the kitchen door. Mrs. Sperry declared that she could stay all the morning just as well as not. Miss Dahlia did not awaken. Now and then Mrs. Sperry heard the tapping of a hammer from the ground floor where the kitchen and maid's dining room were and she wondered what Miss Dahlia would think of the new plan. At about noon, Nan tiptoed upstairs and the gardener's wife looked up with a welcoming smile. "I'm on the last hole in the last stocking," she said softly. "I'm so glad to have them all done." Then she added, "Is the new plan finished?" The girl nodded. "I do hope Aunt Dahlia will like it," she said. "Nan, dearie," a sweet voice called from the next room, and Mrs. Sperry taking her basket of darned stockings, nodded goodbye and tiptoed away while the girl went to answer the call. "I've had such a restful sleep, dear," the little old lady said, "and now I'll dress and help you prepare our lunch. Really, Nan, I shall enjoy being allowed to go into a kitchen again. You know when I was a girl it was considered both proper and fashionable for a young lady to learn how to cook that she might direct her servants intelligently, if for no other reason, and many times I've wished I might slip down, when the cook was away, and see if I could still make some of the things as my dear mother taught me, but Sister Ursula did not approve. She said one of the maids might see me and think that I was queer." Nan laughed. "What fun we will have, Aunt Dahlia," she declared as she assisted the little old lady to dress, "for, if you will, I would like to have you teach me to cook as your mother taught you." Then, when they were ready to go down stairs, Miss Dahlia said with almost girlish eagerness, "This afternoon we'll go up in the attic. There's a box somewhere up there which is filled with books, and in one of them my mother kept her tried recipes." Nan led the way past the cold, formal dining room, with its polished table and high-backed carved chairs. The little old lay shuddered as she glanced in. "It will be hard to get used to having Sister Ursula's place always vacant," she said. "I knew it would, dear Aunt Dahlia," the girl replied, as she put an arm about the little lady, "and that's why I have planned to have our dining room somewhere else." They had reached the ground floor and the girl opened a door. Miss Dahlia glanced in and then she exclaimed with real pleasure, "Nan, how charmingly you have arranged this little room!" It had formerly been the maids' dining room. It was on a level with the ground. The wide windows opened upon the garden, a lilac bush, close to the house was fragrant with bloom, and a mocking bird, somewhere near, was singing joyously. But it was the inside which had been transformed as though by magic. Nan had scrubbed the creamy walls and woodwork and had hung blue and white draperies at the sunny windows, while at one side stood a high long basket-box of drooping ferns. The table was daintily set with blue bird dishes which Nan had used in boarding school when she had a spread for her friends. There were only two chairs, and, since Miss Ursula had never dined in this room, the loneliness of one gone could not be so keenly felt. "Be seated, my lady," the merry girl said as she drew out the chair that faced the garden. "You are now to partake of the very first meal that your new cook has ever prepared." Miss Dahlia was delighted with the dainty luncheon. Nan chatted joyously, although whenever she was alone, she pondered deeply on how to solve the serious problem that was confronting them. CHAPTER XXXI. NAN'S PROBLEM. That morning when Nan had been in the village of San Seritos, she deposited in the bank the money which Miss Ursula had left in her keeping. The interest from the few thousand dollars would be sufficient, the girl thought, to provide comforts and even some luxuries for Miss Dahlia, but the necessities Nan wished to earn, knowing that if they used the principal, it would soon be necessary to tell Miss Dahlia of the lost fortune, and the home which the little old lady so dearly loved, would have to be sold. Before leaving Pine Crest Nan had talked the matter over with Mrs. Dorsey and that kindly woman had written a letter telling whoever might be interested that in her opinion Nan Barrington was competent to teach the younger children all of the required studies, as well as languages and the harp. The girl was confident that she could obtain a position as governess but that would necessitate hiring a maid or leaving Miss Dahlia alone, and neither of these things did she wish to do. A week had passed when one morning Nan sitting on the sunny veranda reading the paper chanced to see in the want column something which she thought that she would like to investigate. Miss Dahlia was still asleep and Mrs. Sperry gladly took her sewing up to the big house while Nan rode away on Binnie. She had not far to go, for a quarter of a mile down the coast highway was a group of picturesque bungalows about a small hotel called Miracielo. Here each summer wealthy folk from the inland country came and took up their abode. This year it chanced that there were many young children among the tourists, and Mrs. Welton, manager of the exclusive hotel, had advertised for someone who would both instruct and entertain the little guests. Nan was admitted to Mrs. Welton's reception room and almost immediately a pleasant woman of refinement appeared and graciously welcomed the visitor. Nan explained her mission and showed the letter from Mrs. Dorsey. "This is indeed interesting," Mrs. Welton exclaimed. "My niece, Daisy Wells, attends that school and in her letters she has often mentioned Nan Barrington." Then the kindly woman hesitated as though not quite certain that she ought to voice the thought that had come to her. Finally she said: "You will pardon me, I know, for mentioning a matter so personal, but I have always understood that your aunt possessed great wealth. Will she be willing that you entertain these little ones?" Nan, after a moment's thought, decided to tell Mrs. Welton the whole truth and that good woman was much impressed in favor of the girl who was trying in every way to keep the frail Miss Dahlia Barrington from a knowledge of the loss. "It would not be possible for me to come each day to Miracielo," Nan said, "but we have such a delightful rustic house in our garden; do you suppose, Mrs. Welton, that the children might come there each afternoon if I can persuade Aunt Dahlia to think favorably of my plan?" "I do indeed," the pleased woman smilingly agreed. "That is the time when many of my guests desire to rest, and they would be glad to have the children away. If their mothers consent, I can send the little ones to you in our car every day." Nan arose, her dark eyes glowing. "I thank you Mrs. Welton," she said, "and tomorrow I will let you know if I have won my aunt's consent to the plan." That afternoon the gypsy girl broached the subject of the little class almost timidly, and her aunt said lovingly, "But, Nan, darling, don't you realize that all I have is also yours? You do not need to earn money." "Dear Aunt Dahlia," the girl replied with sudden tears in her eyes, "I well know that whatever you have, you wish to share with me, but truly I would just love to try teaching for a short time." "My Nan seems to wish to make many experiments," the little old lady said merrily. "Is not housekeeping enough?" Then, noting an expression of disappointment in the face of the girl, she added, "Bring your flock of children to our garden, if you wish dearie, I, too, will enjoy having them here." And so, the very next afternoon a dozen boys and girls, the oldest not seven, appeared, and though, for a time, some of them seemed shy, Nan soon won their confidence and had them merrily romping on a velvety stretch of lawn which she had chosen for a playground. Then when they were weary, they went into the vine-covered rustic house, and, sitting about the long table, they played quiet games that were both instructive and amusing. After receiving her first week's check, Nan visited the town and purchased books and materials that would assist her in teaching and entertaining her little "guests." Happy times Miss Dahlia and Nan had in the long evenings as they sat in the cheerfully lighted library reading these books, and then they would try to weave a pattern from gaily colored wools or bright strips of paper according to the instructions. The next day that particular pattern would be the one that Nan would show the children how to make. One afternoon Miss Dahlia wandered out to the rustic house during this rest period, and, sitting at one end of the table she assisted a darling five-year-old to make a paper mat of glowing colors. "See, Miss Nan," the little fairy called joyously when the task was done, "see my pitty mat! May I take it home to show muvver?" "Yes indeed, dearies, you may all take home whatever you make," their young teacher told them. "I wish we could make doggies or elphunts," one small boy said. And that night Miss Dahlia and Nan hunted through the books for instructions on "elphunt" making, but failed to find them. Then Nan, not wishing to disappoint the little lad, brought forth scissors and cardboard and after many amusing failures, at last cut out a figure which Miss Dahlia laughingly assured the artist could be recognized as an "elphunt" at a single glance. They then cut out a dozen that the children might each have a pattern. The little boy was delighted because his suggestion had been followed. Nan showed them how to make their card-board animals stand, and soon they had a long procession of rather queerly shaped "elphunts" and dogs all the way down the length of the table. The pleased children clapped their hands gleefully, and one little girl looked up with laughing eyes as she said: "Miss Nan, it's as nice as a party every day, isn't it?" Sometimes the older girl, watching these children of the rich as they romped about on the velvety lawn, recalled another picture of the long ago. A group of dark-haired, dark-skinned, fox-like little creatures scrambling and rolling over each other as puppies do, but, when Nan had appeared, they had left their play and raced to meet her with outstretched arms. How she would like to see them all again. Nan's life was happy but uneventful. The beautiful sunny, summery days passed and Nan's little class never wearied of the "Party-school." Then all at once unexpected and surprising, events followed close, one after another. CHAPTER XXXII. SURPRISING THINGS HAPPEN. It was Autumn once more. The children with their parents had returned to inland homes and the garden no longer echoed with their shouts and laughter. Mrs. Welton had told Nan that the winter tourists from the snowy East would arrive in January and that she would re-engage her at that time if she cared to continue her little class, which the eager girl gladly consented to do. The remuneration had been excellent, and, during the intervening months, Nan planned keeping happily busy with sewing and home-making. The garden was again glowing with yellow chrysanthemums as it had been on that long ago day when the gypsy girl and the little lad Tirol had first found the beach gate and the home which Nan had little dreamed was to be her own. During the summer there had been many letters from Phyllis who was traveling abroad and from Robert Widdemere. Upon leaving the military academy, the lad's first desire had been to cross the continent at once, but, when he found many tasks waiting in his father's office, he believed that he ought not to start on a pleasure trip until these had been in some measure accomplished and it was November before he decided that he could start on the long planned journey. When he told his mother of his decision, she announced that she intended accompanying him and remaining during the winter at their San Seritos home. This was a keen disappointment to the lad, who believed that his mother merely wished to try to prevent, if she could, his friendship with Nan Barrington, but Robert was too fine a lad to be discourteous, and so, on a blustery day, they left the East, and, in less than a week, they arrived in the garden village of San Seritos that was basking in the sunshine under a blue cloudless sky. An hour later, Robert leaped over the little gate in the hedge and raced like a schoolboy across the wide velvety lawns of the Barrington estate. He saw Nan and dear Miss Dahlia in the garden. At his joyous shout, they both looked up and beheld approaching them a tall lad who was jubilantly waving his cap. "It's Robert Widdemere!" Nan said, and then, as he came up and greeted them, she added, "But only yesterday I had a letter from you and in it you said nothing about coming." "I wanted to surprise you, Lady Red Bird," the lad exclaimed. "Isn't it grand and glorious, Nan, to be once more in this wonderful country. I wish we could start right now for a ride up the mountains." "I couldn't go today," the gypsy girl laughingly told him, "for I have something baking in the oven and it cannot be left." "I could tend to it," Miss Dahlia said, but Nan shook her head. "It's a surprise for tomorrow," she merrily declared, "and I don't want even you, Aunt Dahlia, to know what it is." Then turning happy eyes toward the lad, she said, "Think of it, Robert Widdemere, tomorrow will be Thanksgiving day and five years since you and I rode to the mountain top." "Nan, comrade," the boy said eagerly, "let's take that ride again tomorrow, dressed gypsy-wise as we were before, shall we?" "As you wish, Robert Widdemere," Nan laughingly replied. "Thanksgiving seems to be a fateful day for us." A happy hour the young people spent together. Robert wished to hear all that happened and when Nan protested that she had written every least little thing, he declared that it had all been so interesting, it would bear repeating. Suddenly the girl sprang up, holding out both hands as she exclaimed, "Robert, I shall have to ask you to come at some other time. I must look after that something which is baking for tomorrow." The lad caught the hands as he said, "Good-bye, then, I'll reappear at about ten." CHAPTER XXXIII. THE THANKSGIVING RIDE. Thanksgiving morning dawned gloriously, and as Nan stood at her open window looking at the garden, all aglow, at the gleaming blue sky and sea, listening the while to the joyous song of a mocking bird in a pepper tree near, she thought how truly thankful she was that Fate had guided her to this wonderful place on that long ago Autumn day. Miss Dahlia, who with the passing months had regained her strength, surprised the gypsy girl by appearing in the kitchen before that maiden had time to prepare the usual breakfast tray. "Oh Nan darling," the little woman said as she held out both hands. "I am so thankful, so thankful today that I have you. Think how dreary even this beautiful world would be if I were alone in it." The girl, with sudden tears in her eyes, kissed the little old lady lovingly as she replied, "I am the one who is most grateful. No mother could have been kinder to an own child than you have been to me." Then, brushing away a tear from the wrinkled cheeks, she laughingly added, "One might think that we were bemoaning some calamity instead of rejoicing because we have each other." Merrily assuming Norah's dialect, to make the little old lady smile, Nan said, with arms akimbo, "Miss Dahlia, will ye be havin' some cream of wheat with thick yellow cream on it? Bobsy was just this minute after lavin' it." And so it was a happy breakfast after all, and then, at ten o'clock Robert appeared dressed in gypsy fashion, and Nan, in her old costume of crimson and gold, the color of Autumn leaves in the sunshine, rode away with him on her pony Binnie. The lad seemed to be exuberantly happy, as side by side, the two horses picked their way up the rough mountain road. When at last they could ride no further, they dismounted and the lad turning to the girl said with tender solicitude, "Nan, every time that I glanced back without speaking, I caught a sad or troubled expression in your face. Won't you let me share whatever it is that causes you new anxiety?" The girl flashed a radiant smile as she said self-rebukingly. "Truly, Robert, I have no real sorrow. But I am thoughtful, I must confess, and quite without willing it, I assure you. It is as though a thought comes to me from somewhere from someone else to me." Then, knowing that she was not making herself clearly understood, she asked abruptly, "Robert, do you believe in mental telepathy." The lad nodded. "I do indeed," he said. "Several of us cadets at school tried the thing out and the results were positively uncanny." Then with a questioning glance at the dark girl, "Why, Nan, do you believe that you are receiving a telepathic communication?" "Oh, I really don't know that I mean anything half as high sounding as all that. But what I do know is this. It doesn't matter where my thoughts may start, they always wind up with wondering where Manna Lou is. I am continually asking myself a question which I cannot answer. "Will Manna Lou be remembering that I am now eighteen; indeed almost nineteen, and will she try to locate me that she may keep her long-ago-made promise to my mother?" The lad looked into the dark eyes that were lifted to his. "Nan dear," he said very gently, "would you be greatly disappointed if this Manna Lou should find you and if the tale she has to reveal, should prove to be that you are not a gypsy girl at all." This was very like the question he had asked her in the long ago. Her answer had not changed. Clearly she looked back at him. "Robert Widdemere," she said unhesitatingly, "all these years I have believed my mother to be a gypsy, and I have loved her as one. It would be very hard for me to change the picture, O the beautiful, beautiful picture I have in my heart of her!" The lad, gazing into the glowing face could not resist saying, "Lady Red Bird, it is you who are beautiful." But Nan, unlike many other girls, was not confused by so direct a compliment. She replied simply. "I hope I am like my mother." The lad could wait no longer to tell the dream which had made his summer bright with hope. "Nan," he cried, "nearly four years ago we stood on this very rock looking down over the valley and I asked you to let me be your brother-comrade." Then, taking both of her hands, his voice trembling with earnestness, he continued. "And now, Nan, I have brought you here to this same spot to ask you to be my wife." Then, as she did not at once reply, Robert hurried on, "I know now that I loved you, even then, but we were too young to understand." "Thank you, Robert Widdemere!" the girl replied. "I too care for you, but I could not marry you without your mother's consent." And with that answer, the lad had to be content. After a moment's silence, Nan caught his arm and pointed to the highway far below them. "Robert," she said, "years ago as we stood here, we saw a strange car entering your grounds and in it was your mother who separated us for so long; and today, a strange car is entering the Barrington grounds. Who do you suppose has come to pay us a visit?" "No one who can separate us again, Nan comrade," the lad said earnestly, "for no living creature can." CHAPTER XXXIV. A HAPPY SURPRISE. The gardener's boy came on a run to take Binnie when Nan Barrington dismounted, and then the girl holding out her hand to her companion said, "Good-bye, Robert Widdemere. I would ask you to dine with us since it is Thanksgiving, but I know that it is right that you should be with your mother." "But I'll be over by mid-afternoon, Nan," the lad earnestly replied, "and I shall ask you again the same question that I did this morning, but it will be with my mother's consent. Good-bye, dear, brave comrade." As Nan turned into the house, she noticed a handsome car standing in the drive. For the moment, she had forgotten the visitor about whom they had wondered. Her heart was heavy with dread. What if it were someone who had come to tell Miss Dahlia about her lost fortune. As she entered the wide hall, Miss Dahlia appeared in the library door and beckoned to her, and so the beautiful girl, dressed in crimson and gold, her cheeks flushed, her dark eyes glowing, accompanied her aunt, who seemed very much excited about something. A tall, elegant gentleman was standing near the hearth. "Monsieur Alecsandri," the little lady said, "this is the gypsy girl for whom you are searching. This is my Nan." Unheeded the tears rolled down the wrinkled cheeks of Miss Dahlia as the stranger, with evident emotion, stepped forward, and held out both hands to the wondering girl, "And so you are Elenan, my dear sister's little daughter." Nan looked, not only amazed, but distressed. "Oh, sir," she cried, "you are not a gypsy. My mother, wasn't she a gypsy after all?" Tears sprang to her dark eyes and the hand which Miss Dahlia held was trembling. The gentleman seemed surprised, but the little old lady explained, "Our Nan has been picturing her mother and father all these years as gypsies, and it is hard for her to change her thought about them." The man advanced and took the girl's hands, and looking down at her earnestly, he said sincerely: "I am glad to find that you are not ashamed of your father's people, for he truly was a gypsy. He was Manna Lou's only brother. Now, if we may all be seated I will tell you the story. Your mother was born in a grey stone chateau overlooking the Danube River. Our father died when she was very young and our mother soon followed and so my orphaned little sister was left to my care. I thought that I was doing my best for her when I had her instructed in languages and arts, and then, just as she was budding into a charming and cultivated young womanhood, I had her betrothed to a descendant of Prince Couza. "Other Rumanian young ladies envied my sister the social position which this alliance would give her, but Elenan begged me not to coerce her to marry a man whom she did not love. I was stern and unrelenting. All too late I learned that my sister loved Romola, a gypsy musician who was so rarely gifted that as a boy he had often played at the court for the king and queen. From them he had received many favors. He was placed in a monastery school to be educated, and, at his request, his younger sister Manna Lou was placed in a convent where she learned many things that other girls of her race never knew, but when they were old enough to do as they wished, gypsy fashion, they returned to the roaming life which was all that their ancestors had ever known. "Often, Romola played the small harp he had fashioned in the court of Prince Couza, and it was there my sister met him. They loved each other dearly and were secretly married. I was away in another part of the country at the time, and, when I returned they had been gone for a fortnight. I searched everywhere for the gypsy band to which Romola belonged, but no one knew where it had gone." The gentleman looked thoughtfully at the girl for a moment and then he continued: "I never fully abandoned the search, but, not knowing that they had come to America, I followed clues that led nowhere. I now know what happened. The son of Queen Mizella, fearing arrest for some misdeed, crossed the ocean to America and with them was my sister disguised as a gypsy. "But on the voyage over your father Romola sickened and died. My poor sister was heart-broken and lived only long enough to give birth to a daughter, whom she left in the care of Manna Lou. She asked that kind gypsy woman to bring you up as one of her own band until you were eighteen. Then as your mother knew, you would inherit her share of the Alecsandri estate, and she asked Manna Lou, if it were possible when you reached that age to take you back to Rumania and to me. This, of course, the faithful gypsy woman could not do, but, with her band, she returned last summer and came to tell me the story. I had long grieved over my sister's loss not knowing to what desperation I had driven her, and so I at once set sail for America in search of her child. All that Manna Lou could tell me was that you had left the caravan near San Seritos, in California. When I arrived here and made inquiries, I learned that a gypsy girl had been adopted five years ago by Miss Barrington, and now, my quest is ended. I have found my sister's little girl." Before Nan could reply. Miss Dahlia, glancing out of the window, exclaimed: "Nan, darling, Robert Widdemere is coming, and his mother is with him." The girl sprang up. "Aunt Dahlia, Monsieur Alecsandri, if you will excuse me, I will admit Mrs. Widdemere and Robert. I would rather meet them alone." And so, before the lad had time to lift the heavy carved knocker, the door was opened by Nan. After a rather formal greeting, she led them into a small reception room. It was hard for her to understand why Mrs. Widdemere had come, and she still felt dazed because of all she had so suddenly learned of her own dear mother. "Won't you be seated?" the girl heard herself saying. Then to her surprise, Mrs. Widdemere, who had always so disliked her, took both of her hands, as she said "Miss Barrington, can you ever forgive me for the unkind way that I have treated you? My son has been telling me what a splendid, brave girl you are, and when I compare with you the one I wanted him to marry, how sadly she is found wanting. Only yesterday I received a letter telling me that she had left her mother, who is in deep sorrow, to accompany a party of gay friends on a pleasure trip to Europe. You cannot think how glad I am that my son did not heed my wishes in this matter." Nan listened to this outburst, as one who could hardly comprehend, and for a moment she did not reply. Then she asked slowly, "Mrs. Widdemere, do I understand that you are now willing that your son should marry a gypsy girl?" "Oh, Miss Barrington, Nan, what matters one's ancestry when the descendants of noble families are themselves so often ignoble? I have been a vain, foolish woman, but I know that true worth counts more than all else. If you can't forgive me, because I wish it, then try to forgive me for the sake of my son." Tears gathered in the dark eyes of the girl, as she said, "Mrs. Widdemere, first I had a kind gypsy-aunt, Manna Lou, then two dear adopted aunts and no one could have been more loving than they, but now, at last, I am to have someone whom I can call 'mother.'" "Thank you dear," the woman said, "I shall try to deserve so lovely and lovable a daughter. Robert, my son, you and I are much to be congratulated." The lad, who had been standing quietly near, leaped forward and catching the hands of the girl whom he loved, he said joyously. "Nan, darling, let's have our wedding tomorrow out under the pepper tree." The girl smiled happily, and then, suddenly remembering the waiting visitor, she said, "Mrs. Widdemere, I would like you and Robert to meet my uncle, who has just arrived from Rumania." "A Rumanian gypsy," the lady was thinking, as she followed the girl. "That country is full of them." A moment later, after greeting Miss Dahlia, she saw an elegant gentleman approaching and heard Nan saying, "Mrs. Widdemere, may I present my uncle, Monsieur Alecsandri?" "Your uncle, Nan?" that lady exclaimed. "Surely this gentleman is not a gypsy." "No, indeed, madame, I am not, but I am proud to be the uncle of this little gypsy girl." He placed his hand lovingly on the dark head. "Elenan is my sister's child, but her father was Romola, one of the handsomest and most talented of gypsies." Then, that Robert and his mother might clearly understand, the story was retold from the beginning. The lad leaped forward, his hands outheld. "Oh Nan," he cried, "how glad you are that after all you are a real gypsy." Then he thought of something and turning toward the gentleman, he said in his frank, winning way. "Monsieur, Nan and I were to have been married soon. May we have your consent?" The foreigner, although surprised and perhaps disappointed if he had hoped his sister's daughter would return with him, was most gracious. "If the very kind woman with whom I find our Elenan has given her permission, I also give mine." There were sudden tears in the gentle eyes of the older woman. She had known of course, that some day these two would wed, but now, how could she live without Nan? Her hesitation was barely noticeable, then she said bravely. "I shall be proud, indeed, to have Robert Widdemere for a nephew." Nan, noting the quivering lips, took her benefactress by the hand as she said brightly; "Oh, Aunt Dahlia, what do you think? I forgot our Thanksgiving dinner." "But I didn't forget it!" that little lady quite herself again replied. "Mrs. Sperry has been in our kitchen all of the morning, and here she comes now to announce that dinner is ready for us and our three most welcomed guests." Nan's cup of joy seemed full to the over-flowing but the day held for her still another happiness. CHAPTER XXXV. AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. On Thanksgiving afternoon Robert again said, "Nan, comrade, can't we be married tomorrow out under our very own pepper tree." "Son," Mrs. Widdemere smilingly protested, "what an uncivilized suggestion for you to make." "That's the very reason why I wish it," the lad replied. "Five years ago Nan and I met out under that tree and we both declared that we wanted to be uncivilized. I remember that I was pining to be a wild Indian or a pirate, but instead, we have both spent the intervening years in polishing our manners and intellects." Then turning to the girl, he pleaded, "Lady Red Bird, let me have my own way just this once, and then you may have your own way forever after." Nan laughed happily. "But Robert," she said, "ought there not to be a trousseau before one is married?" "Elenan." It was Monsieur Alecsandri who was speaking. "I was so confident I would find you, that I brought a trunk full of garments that were your dear mother's. It was the trousseau which I had provided for her when I betrothed her to a descendant of Prince Couza. The gowns are the loveliest that I could procure, but they were never worn." "Oh, Uncle Basil." (He had asked the girl to call him by his Christian name.) "How glad I shall be to have them." "But, Nan comrade," Robert repeated, "you have not yet said that I may plan our wedding and our trip away." The girl looked at the lad who was seated on the lounge at her side and said brightly, "Robert, you plan it all and let it be a surprise for me." Nan noticed that during the hour that followed Robert glanced at his watch and several times walked toward the window and gazed out toward the highway. "Why are you so restless, son?" his mother had just inquired, when wheels were heard in the drive, and soon after the call of the heavy iron knocker resounded through the house. Robert half arose, but sank back to the lounge when he saw Mrs. Sperry going to the front door. "Who can it be?" Little Miss Dahlia was quite in a flutter, but Nan had heard a voice inquiring if Miss Anne Barrington was at home? With a cry of joy Nan sprang forward and held the newcomer in a long and loving embrace. "Phyllis, I can't believe that it is you!" she cried as she stood back to survey the pretty, laughing face of her dearest friend. "Why, it seems too much like a story book to be really true." Then she led the newcomer into the library where she was gladly welcomed by all who knew her and introduced by Nan to "my uncle, Monsieur Alecsandri." Phyllis, who never had believed that her room-mate was really a gypsy, took the arrival of an aristocratic uncle quite as a matter of course, and when they were all seated, Nan, still curious, exclaimed: "Do tell me how you happened to know that it was time to come to my wedding." Phyllis looked up at Robert with a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes. "Shall I tell?" she asked. "I'll tell," that lad replied. "Last week I wired my fair cousin to board a train at once for the West if she wished to attend our wedding which I hoped would be solemnized on Thanksgiving day." "Robert! How could you invite a guest to our wedding before you had asked me to marry you?" Nan laughingly declared. "It was rather presumptuous," the lad confessed, "but all's well that ends well." Monsieur Alecsandri accepted Miss Barrington's invitation to remain in her home, and Phyllis spent the night with Nan, for they had much to talk about. The latter maiden often fell to wondering what Robert's surprising plan was for their wedding. CHAPTER XXXVI. NAN'S TROUSSEAU. The wedding day dawned gloriously. The two girls were up early and as soon as they were dressed, Nan drew her friend to the wide open window and they looked out at the garden, where masses of yellow chrysanthemums were glowing in the sunlight. Beyond, the wide silvery beach was glistening, and, over the gleaming blue water a flock of shining white sea gulls dipped and circled. Silently the two girls stood with arms about each other, and, in memory, Nan was again in the long ago. She was watching two children dressed in gypsy garb as they stood near the rushing, singing fountain. One was a dark, eager-eyed girl of thirteen, and the other was a mis-shapen, goblin-like boy of ten. Tirol, dear little Tirol. How he had loved her, how he had clung to her! Tears gathered in the girl's eyes as she thought of the little fellow and she hoped that, somehow he might know what a happy day this was to be for his dear Sister Nan. "Look yonder!" Phyllis laughingly exclaimed, "Here comes a mounted messenger at full speed." "It's Bobsy, the gardener's son," Nan said. "He has been for an early ride on my Binnie." The boy, chancing to see the two girls at the upper window, waved a letter, and, believing that he wished to give it to them, they went downstairs and out on the veranda. The boy's freckled face was beaming. "Mr. Robert sent this over," he said jubilantly, "and he gave me a five dollar gold piece toward my new bicycle." Then away the boy galloped to tell this astounding news to his mother, while Nan opened the letter and read: "Good morning to you, Lady Red Bird. Can you believe it? This is our wedding day! I want to shout and sing, but I have much to do before that most wonderful of all hours, today at high noon. "Since you promised that I might plan everything, I am asking my Nan to be dressed in gypsy fashion. Then your kinsfolk and my kinsfolk are to meet under the pepper tree as the bells of the old mission tell the hour of noon. Last night as I went through the hedge, I told our tree the great honor that was to befall it, and this morning the birds in it are singing a riotous song of joy, and I am sure that the pepper berries are redder than ever before. "Then, at two o'clock will come the real surprise and the beginning of our joyous journey. Nan comrade, may I prove worthy of you! "Your "Robert." After breakfast Aunt Dahlia, Phyllis and Nan were wondering what the bride would wear for a wedding gown, when Monsieur Alecsandri returned from the station, whither he had gone at an early hour. A few moments later an expressman brought a trunk which was carried to Nan's room. Then her uncle Basil smilingly handed her a key as he said: "Elenan, do me the honor of wearing one of the gowns that were prepared for your mother's wedding." Nan was indeed puzzled to know how she could please her uncle Basil, and yet keep her promise to Robert. When the trunk was opened and the garments which it contained had been spread about on bed, lounge and chairs, Nan turned to the older lady, her dark eyes aglow as she said, "Aunt Dahlia, dear, did you ever see fabrics more beautiful?" "This one is especially lovely," the little lady said as she smoothed the folds of a soft, white silk. "I wish you would try it on, dearie." And then, when the girl stood arrayed in the gown, Phyllis exclaimed, "Nan, that surely was made for your wedding dress." "But, Phyllis, you are forgetting Robert's request." "No, I am not," the other maid laughingly replied. Then for a moment she looked about the room thoughtfully. Spying the gorgeous scarlet and gold shawl, which in the long ago Manna Lou had given the girl, she took it and threw one fringed corner over Nan's left shoulder, fastening it in front at the belt. Then, winding it about her waist, another point hung panelwise to the bottom of her skirt. The spangled yellow silk handkerchief was twined about the dark hair, and the picture reflected in the mirror was truly a beautiful one. "Tres charmante!" Phyllis exclaimed jubilantly. "Now, let me see, there should be something old and something new, something borrowed and something blue. The dress is new, to us anyway; that gorgeous shawl is old. I'll loan you a handkerchief with a yellow and crimson border, and now, what shall you wear that is blue?" Miss Dahlia slipped from the room to return a moment later with a velvet box which she handed to the girl she so loved. "My mother gave it to me when I was eighteen," the little lady said, "and I want to give it to my Nan on her wedding day." The dark head and the fair bent eagerly over the box and when the cover was removed, the two girls uttered exclamations of joy. "Oh, how lovely, lovely!" Phyllis cried as she lifted a sapphire necklace and clasped it about the throat of the happy Nan. A busy morning was spent by the two girls, and, as it neared noon, Nan resplendently arrayed, looked up at Phyllis as she said, "I wonder where Aunt Dahlia is. She hasn't been here for half an hour past. Perhaps she is in her room. Wait dear, and I will see." Miss Barrington's door was closed. Nan, after tapping, softly opened it. Miss Dahlia, with folded hands, was seated by the wide window gazing out at the sea and in her sweet grey eyes there was such a wistful loneliness. She looked up, as the girl entered, and smiled faintly, then her lips quivered and the tears came. "Oh, Aunt Dahlia, darling! How selfish I have been!" Nan cried, as heedless of her white silk dress, she knelt by the little woman and put her arms lovingly about her. "I never thought! Perhaps you didn't want me to get married. But it isn't too late, Aunt Dahlia, if you do not wish it." "Dear little girl," the old lady said tenderly, "of course I want you to be married. If I had searched the world over, I could not have chosen a lad whom I would like better. It is I who am selfish. I was fearing that Robert would take you away, and I don't want to lose my Nan." "Lose me, Aunt Dahlia? Do you think that I would let you lose me? You are dearer to me than all the world, and where I go, you shall go, but we will always come back, won't we dearie, back to our garden-all-aglow where we have been so happy. Hark, the first stroke of the mission bells is telling that it is noon, and we must not be late at our very own wedding. Yes, Phyllis we are coming." Monsieur Alecsandri was waiting for them in the library. Together they started along the flower bordered path toward the pepper tree, and Nan's wedding music was the joyous song of the birds. CHAPTER XXXVII. NAN'S WEDDING. The ceremony was a simple one, but the solemnity, which Mrs. Widdemere feared would be absent, seemed to be enhanced by the peaceful beauty of the surroundings. All was hushed, not a bird sang nor a breeze stirred as reverently the two, arrayed as gypsies spoke the sacred words that made them man and wife. Then, when the rector from St. Martin's-by-the-Sea had kissed the bride and congratulated the radiant Robert, he departed, leaving the kinsfolk alone. Nan turned first of all toward the little old lady in the silvery grey gown, who was smiling through tears, and she said joyously, "Aunt Dahlia darling, instead of losing your gypsy girl you have gained a gypsy boy." Then going to Mrs. Widdemere, Nan kissed her affectionately and said very softly, "Mother." Then turning to Monsieur Alecsandri she asked gayly, "Uncle Basil, what do you think of your nephew? Is he not a good looking Romany rye?" That stately gentleman shook hands with Robert as he replied: "In Rumania there is not one who can excel him in manliness, and I know that he will care for my dear sister's little girl as I would wish her cared for. I am indeed thankful, Elenan, that I arrived in time for your wedding. This afternoon I shall start on my homeward journey, hoping that in another year my niece and nephew, Mrs. Widdemere and Miss Barrington, will honor me with a long visit." Then he added earnestly, "Elenan, always remember that your mother's birthplace on the Danube River is as much your home as it is mine." Then Mrs. Widdemere invited them through the gate in the hedge and, to their surprise, there on the other side, still under the spreading branches of the great old pepper tree, was a bare board table on which an appetizing lunch was spread gypsy-wise. It was one o'clock when the feast was over. Robert, for a moment alone with Nan, said softly, "Little wife, put on that old gypsy dress now, for at two we will start on our trip away for a fortnight." The girl looked up with a radiant smile as she said, "It shall be done, my husband." The intervening hour was a busy one, for Monsieur Alecsandri took his departure, and then Nan, with the help of Phyllis, packed the few things she would need. Hearing a soft footfall back of her, the gypsy girl whirled about and caught Miss Barrington in her arms and held her in a long, loving embrace. "I'm so happy, Aunt Dahlia, so happy," she said, "and just think what I would have missed from my life if you had not wanted to keep that wild little gothlin five years ago. I would never have had you to love, nor my best friend," the girl hesitated, and then with laughing eyes she added, "nor my husband." "Hark!" Phyllis said. "I hear tinkling bells outside. What can it be?" "It's a gypsy van," Nan cried joyfully, "and Robert is driving. That is the surprise and surely a delightful one." Five minutes later these two joyful gypsies started away in a covered wagon, two horses in the lead, and Binnie, and Robert's saddle horse, Firefly, trailing behind. Phyllis was to remain with Aunt Dahlia during the fortnight and together they stood on the veranda waving until the gypsy van had turned into the highway. Nan looked up at the driver as she said happily, "Robert, this is a wonderful surprise." Then she added with sudden wistfulness, "I wish Manna Lou might have been at our wedding, but Uncle Basil promised to tell her all about it and give her my grateful love." They were slowly ascending the mountain road, and, when they reached the ridge, Robert drew to one side and stopped. "Nan comrade," he said, "I want to climb to the top, for, somehow, it seems as though that peak must be our shrine for thanksgiving." Then, when they reached the boulder where they had stood twice before, the lad took both of the girl's hands and looking into the dark glowing eyes, he said, "Elenan may be a fine Rumanian lady, if she wishes, but the comrade whom I love and always shall love is my dear, brave little wife, Gypsy Nan." Then together, hand in hand, they went down the trail and soon the tinkling of bells was heard as the gypsy van slowly crossed over the ridge and down another mountain road, where, at sunset, these two would make camp in a picturesque canyon called Happy Valley. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: A Table of Contents was added for the convenience of the reader. Obvious typographical errors were corrected without note. Inconsistent proper names were made consistent. Non-standard spellings and dialect were left unchanged. 
18400	----	Transcribed from the 1901 Hodder and Stoughton edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org ISOPEL BERNERS BY GEORGE BORROW _The History of certain doings in a Staffordshire Dingle, July, 1825: An Episode in the Autobiography of George Borrow_. THE TEXT EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION & NOTES BY THOMAS SECCOMBE AUTHOR OF "THE AGE OF JOHNSON" ASSISTANT EDITOR OF THE DICTIONARY OF NATIONAL BIOGRAPHY LONDON: HODDER AND STOUGHTON 27 PATERNOSTER ROW 1901 _Printed by Hazell_, _Watson & Viney_, _Ld_., _London and Aylesbury_. INTRODUCTION. I. The last century was yet in its infancy when the author of _The Romany Rye_ first saw the light in the sleepy little East Anglian township of East Dereham, in the county distinguished by Borrow as the one in which the people eat the best dumplings in the world and speak the purest English. "Pretty quiet D[ereham]" was the retreat in those days of a Lady Bountiful in the person of Dame Eleanor Fenn, relict of the worthy editor of the _Paston Letters_. It is better known in literary history as the last resting-place of a sad and unquiet spirit, escaped from a world in which it had known nought but sorrow, of "England's sweetest and most pious bard," William Cowper. But Destiny was weaving a robuster thread to connect East Dereham with literature, for George Borrow {1} was born there on July 5th, 1803, and, nomad though he was, the place was always dear to his heart as his earliest home. In 1816, after ramblings far and wide both in Ireland and in Scotland, the Borrows settled in Norwich, where George was schooled under a master whose name at least is still familiar to English youth, Dr. Valpy (brother of Dr. Richard Valpy). Among his schoolfellows at the grammar school were Rajah Brooke and Dr. James Martineau. George Borrow, a hardened truant from his earliest teens, was once horsed, to undergo a flogging, on the back of James Martineau, and he never afterwards took kindly to the philosophy of that remarkable man. We are glad to know that Edward Valpy's ferule was weak, though his scholarship was strong. Stories were current that even in those days George used to haunt the gipsy tents on that Mousehold Heath which lives eternally in the breezy canvases of "Old Crome," and that he went so far as to stain his face with walnut-juice to the right Egyptian hue. "Are you suffering from jaundice, Borrow," asked the Doctor, "or is it merely dirt?" While at Norwich, too, he was greatly influenced in the direction of linguistics by the English "pocket Goethe," William Taylor, the head of a clan known as the Taylors of Norwich, to distinguish them from a race in which the principle of heredity was even more strikingly developed--the Taylors of Ongar. In February 1824 his father, the gallant Captain Thomas Borrow, died, and his articles in the firm of a Norwich solicitor having determined, George went to London to commence literary man, in the old sense of the servitude, under the well-known bookseller-publisher, Sir Richard Phillipps. In Grub Street he translated and compiled galore, but when the trees began to shoot in 1825 he broke his chain and escaped to the country, to the dingle, and to Isopel Berners. To dwell upon the bare outlines of Borrow's early career would be a superfluously dull proceeding. We shall only add a few names and dates to the framework, supplied with a fidelity that is rare in much more formal works of autobiography, in the pages of _Lavengro_. From the same pages we may detach just a few of the earlier influences which went to make up the rare and complex individuality of the writer. Borrow's father, a fine old soldier, in revealing his son's youthful idiosyncrasy, projects a clear mental image of his own habit of mind. "The boy had the impertinence to say the classics were much over-valued, and amongst other things that some horrid fellow or other, some Welshman, I think (thank God it was not an Irishman), was a better poet than Ovid. {2} That a boy of his years should entertain an opinion of his own, I mean one which militates against all established authority, is astonishing. As well might a raw recruit pretend to offer an unfavourable opinion on the manual and platoon exercise. The idea is preposterous; the lad is too independent by half." Borrow's account of his father's death is a highly affecting piece of English. The ironical humour blent with pathos in his picture of this ill-rewarded old disciplinarian (who combined a tenderness of heart with a fondness for military metaphor that frequently reminds one of "My Uncle Toby"), the details of the ailments and the portents that attended his infantile career, and, above all, the glimpses of the wandering military life from barrack to barrack and from garrison to garrison, inevitably remind the reader of the childish reminiscences of Laurence Sterne, a writer to whom it may thus early be said that George Borrow paid no small amount of unconscious homage. A homage of another sort, fully recognised and declared, was that paid to the great work of Defoe, and to the spirit of strange and romantic enterprise which it aroused in its reader. After _Robinson Crusoe_ there played across the disk of his youthful memory a number of weird and hairy figures never to be effaced. A strange old herbalist and snake-killer with a skin cap first whetted his appetite for the captivating confidences of roadside vagrants, and the acquaintanceship serves as an introduction to the scene of the gipsy encampment, where the young Sapengro or serpent charmer was first claimed as brother by Jasper Petulengro. The picture of the encampment may serve as an example of Borrovian prose, nervous, unembarrassed, and graphic. One day it happened, being on my rambles, I entered a green lane which I had never seen before. At first it was rather narrow, but as I advanced it became considerably wider. In the middle was a drift-way with deep ruts, but right and left was a space carpeted with a sward of trefoil and clover. There was no lack of trees, chiefly ancient oaks, which, flinging out their arms from either side, nearly formed a canopy and afforded a pleasing shelter from the rays of the sun, which was burning fiercely above. Suddenly a group of objects attracted my attention. Beneath one of the largest of the trees, upon the grass, was a kind of low tent or booth, from the top of which a thin smoke was curling. Beside it stood a couple of light carts, whilst two or three lean horses or ponies were cropping the herbage which was growing nigh. . . . As a pendant to the landscape take a Flemish interior. The home of the Borrows had been removed in the meantime, in accordance with the roving traditions of the family, from Norman Cross to Edinburgh and from Edinburgh to Clonmel. And to the school I went [at Clonmel], where I read the Latin tongue and the Greek letters with a nice old clergyman who sat behind a black oaken desk with a huge Elzevir Flaccus before him, in a long gloomy kind of hall with a broken stone floor, the roof festooned with cobwebs, the walls considerably dilapidated and covered over with stray figures in hieroglyphics evidently produced by the application of a burnt stick. In Ireland, too, he made the acquaintance of the gossoon Murtagh, who taught him Irish in return for a pack of cards. In the course of his wanderings with his father's regiment he develops into a well-grown and well-favoured lad, a shrewd walker and a bold rider. "People may talk of first love--it is a very agreeable event, I dare say--but give me the flush, the triumph, and glorious sweat of a first ride." {5} At Norwich he learns modern languages from an old _emigre_, a true disciple of the _ancien cour_, who sets Boileau high above Dante; and some misty German metaphysics from the Norwich philosopher, who consistently seeks a solace in smoke from the troubles of life. His father had already noted his tendency to fly off at a tangent which was strikingly exhibited in the lawyer's office, where "within the womb of a lofty deal desk," when he should have been imbibing Blackstone and transcribing legal documents, he was studying Monsieur Vidocq and translating the Welsh bard Ab Gwilym; he was consigning his legal career to an early grave when he wrote this elegy on the worthy attorney his master. He has long since sunk to his place in a respectable vault, in the aisle of a very respectable church, whilst an exceedingly respectable marble slab against the neighbouring wall tells on a Sunday some eye wandering from its prayer-book that his dust lies below. To secure such respectabilities in death he passed a most respectable life, a more respectable-looking individual never was seen. In the meantime as a sequel to his questionings on the subjects of reality and truth, the Author was asking himself "What is death?" and the query serves as a prelude to the first of the many breezy dialogues with that gipsy cousin-german to Autolycus, Jasper Petulengro. "What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?" "My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in the old song of Pharaoh . . . when a man dies he is cast into the earth and his wife and child sorrow over him. If he has neither wife nor child, then his father and mother, I suppose; and if he is quite alone in the world, why, then he is cast into the earth and there is an end of the matter." "And do you think that is the end of man?" "There's an end of him, brother, more's the pity." "Why do you say so?" "Life is sweet, brother." "Do you think so?" "Think so! there's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother: who would wish to die?" "I would wish to die." "You talk like a gorgio--which is the same as talking like a fool; were you a Romany chal you would talk wiser. Wish to die, indeed! a Romany chal would wish to live for ever." "In sickness, Jasper?" "There's the sun and stars, brother." "In blindness, Jasper?" "There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that I would gladly live for ever. Daeta, we'll now go to the tents and put on the gloves, and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother." Leaving Norwich and his legal trammels, a few weeks after his father's death, in 1824, Lavengro reaches London--the scene of Grub Street struggles not greatly relaxed in severity since the days of Newbery, Gardener and Christopher Smart. As the genius of Hawthorne was cooped up and enslaved for the American "Peter Parley," so that of Borrow was hag- ridden by a bookseller publisher of an even worse type, the radical alderman and philanthropic sweater, Sir Richard Phillipps. For this stony-hearted faddist he covered reams of paper with printers' copy; and we are told that the kind of compilation that he liked (and probably executed) best was that of _Newgate Lives and Trials_. He had well-nigh reached the end of his tether when he had the conversation with Phillipps's head factotum, Taggart, which we cite below and recommend feelingly to the consideration of every literary aspirant. Sordid and commonplace enough are the details; simple and free from every kind of inflation the language in which they are narrated. Yet how picturesque are these vignettes of London life! How vivid and yet how strange are the figures that animate them! The harsh literary impresario with his "drug in the market," who seems to have stalked straight out of Smollett, {8} the gnarled old applewoman, with every wrinkle shown, on her stall upon London Bridge, the grasping Armenian merchant who softened at the sound of his native tongue, the giddy young spendthrift Francis Ardry and the confiding young creature who had permitted him to hire her a very handsome floor in the West End, the gipsies and thimble-riggers in Greenwich Park--what moving and lifelike figures are these, stippled in with a seeming absence of art, yet as strange and as rare as a Night in Bagdad, a chapter of Balzac, or the most fantastic scene in the _New Arabian Nights_. This brief recapitulation--in which it has been possible but just to touch upon a few of the inner springs of Borrow's life as revealed in the autobiographical _Lavengro_--brings us once again to that spring day in 1825--May 20th--when the author disposed of an unidentifiable manuscript for the sumptuous equivalent of 20 pounds. On May 22nd, after little more than a year's residence in London, he abandons the city. From London he proceeds to Amesbury, in Wiltshire, which he reaches on May 23rd; visits Stonehenge, the Roman Camp of Old Sarum and Salisbury; on May 26th he leaves Salisbury, and (after an encounter with the long-lost son of the old applewoman, returned from Botany Bay), strikes north-west. On the 30th he has been walking four days in a northerly direction, when he arrives at the inn where the maid Jenny refreshes him at the pump, and he meets the author with whom he passes the night. On the 31st he purchases the horse and cart of Jack Slingsby, whom he had previously seen but once, at Tamworth, many years ago when he was little more than a child. On June 1st he makes the first practical experience of a vagrant's life, and passes the night in the open air in a Shropshire dell; on June 5th he is visited by Leonora Herne, the grandchild of the old "brimstone hag" who was jealous of the cordiality with which the young stranger had been received by the Petulengroes and initiated in the secrets of their gipsy tribe. Three days later, betrayed to the old woman by Leonora, he is drabbed (_i.e_. poisoned) with the manricli or doctored cake of Mrs. Herne; his life is in imminent danger, but he is saved by the opportune arrival of Peter Williams. He passes Sunday, June 12th, with the Welsh preacher and his wife Winifred; on the 21st he departs with his itinerant hosts to the Welsh border. Before entering Wales, however, he turns back with Ambrose ("Jasper") Petulengro and settles with his own stock-in-trade as tinker and blacksmith at the foot of the dingle hard by Mumper's Lane, near Willenhall, in Staffordshire; here at the end of June 1825 takes place the classical encounter between the philologer and the flaming tinman--all this, is it not related in _Lavengro_, and substantiated with much hard labour of facts and dates by Dr. W. I. Knapp in his exhaustive biography of George Borrow? The allurement of his genius is such that the etymologist shall leave his roots and the philologer his Maeso-Gothic to take to the highway and dwell in the dingle with "Don Jorge." Lavengro's triumph over the flaming tinman is the prelude to what Professor Saintsbury justly calls "the miraculous episode of Ysopel Berners," and the narrative of the author's life is thence continued, with many digressions, but with a remarkable fidelity to fact as far as the main issue is concerned, until the narrative, though not the life- story of the author, abruptly terminates at Horncastle, in August 1825. There follows what is spoken of as the veiled period of Borrow's life, from 1826 to 1833. The years in which we drift are generally veiled from posterity. The system of psychometry carried to such perfection by Obermann and Amiel could at no time have been exactly congenial to Borrow, who spoke of himself at this period as "digging holes in the sand and filling them up again." Roughly speaking, the years appear to have been spent comparatively uneventfully, for the most part in Norfolk. In December 1832 he walked to London to interview the British and Foreign Bible Society, covering a hundred and twelve miles in twenty-seven hours on less than sixpennyworth of food and drink. He was thirty years old at the time, and the achievement was the pride of his remaining years. Six months later, on the strength of his linguistic attainments, he managed to get on the paid staff of the Society, to the bewilderment of Norwich "friends," who were inclined to be ironical on the subject of the transformation of the chum of hanged Thurtell and the disciple of godless Billy Taylor into a Bible missionary. In July 1833, then, Borrow sets out on his Eastern travels as the accredited agent of the Bible Society, goes to St. Petersburg, "the finest city in the world," and obtains the Russian imprimatur for a Manchu version of that suspicious novelty, the Bible. He carried this scheme into execution to the general satisfaction, and he returns to London in 1837; then to the south of Europe, whence he reappears, larger than life and twice as natural, in his masterly autobiographical romance of _The Bible in Spain_, the work which made his name, which was sold by thousands, which was eagerly acclaimed as an invaluable addition to "Sunday" literature, and pirated in a generous spirit of emulation by American publishers. We are now come to the circumstance of the composition of _Lavengro_. _The Bible in Spain_, when it appeared in 1843, implied a wonderful background to the Author's experience, a career diversified by all kinds of wild adventures, "sorcery, Jews, Gentiles, rambles," gipsies, prisons,--what you will. {12} The personal element in the book--so suggestive of mystery and romance--excited the strongest curiosity. Apart from this, however, the reading public of 1843 were not unnaturally startled by a book which seemed to profess to be a good, serious, missionary work, but for which it was manifest that _Gil Blas_ and not Bishop Heber had been taken as a model. Not that any single comparison of the kind can convey the least idea of the complex idiosyncrasy of such a work. There is a substratum of _Guide Book_ and _Gil Blas_, no doubt, but there are unmistakable streaks of Defoe, of Dumas, and of Dickens, with all his native prejudices and insular predilections strong upon him. A narrative so wide awake amidst a vagrant population of questionable morals and alien race suggests an affinity with _Hajji Baba_ (a close kinsman, we conceive, of the Borrovian picaro). But, above all, as one follows the author through the mazes of his book, one is conscious of two strangely assorted figures, never far from the itinerant's side, and always ready to improve the occasion if a shadow of an opportunity be afforded. One, who is prolific of philological chippings, might be compared to a semblance of Max Muller; while the other, alternately denouncing the wickedness and deriding the toothlessness of a grim Giant Pope, may be likened, at a distance, to John Bunyan. About the whole--to conclude--is an atmosphere, not too pronounced, of the _Newgate Calendar_, and a few patches of sawdust from the Prize Ring. May not people well have wondered (the good pious English folk to whom _Luck_ is a scandal, as the Bible Society's secretary wrote to Borrow),--what manner of man is this, this muleteer-missionary, this natural man with a pen in the hand of a prize-fighter, but of a prize-fighter who is afflicted with the fads of a philologer--and a pedant at that? The surprise may be compared to what that of a previous generation would have been, had it seen Johnson and Boswell and Baretti all fused into one man. The incongruity is heightened by familiarity with Borrow's tall, blonde, Scandinavian figure, and the reader is reminded of those roving Northmen of the days of simple mediaeval devotion, who were wont to signalise their conversion from heathen darkness by a Mediterranean venture, combining the characters of a piratical cruise and a pious pilgrimage. That Curiosity exaggerated and was a marvel-monger we shall attempt to demonstrate. But, in the meantime, it was there, and it was very strong. As for Borrow, he was prepared to derive stimulus from it just as long as it maintained the unquestioning attitude of Jasper Petulengro when he expressed the sentiments of gipsydom in the well-worn "Lor', brother, how learned you are!" In February 1843 Borrow wrote to Murray that he had begun his _Life_--a "kind of biography in the Robinson Crusoe style,"--and was determined that it should surpass anything that he had already written. It had been contemplated, he added, for some months already, as a possible sequel to the _Bible in Spain_ if that proved successful. Hitherto, he wrote, the public had said "Good" (to his _Gypsies of Spain_, 1841), "Better" (to the _Bible in Spain_), and he wanted it, when No. 3 appeared, to say "Best." Five years rapidly passed away, until, in the summer of 1848, the book was announced as about to appear shortly, under the title of _Lavengro: An Autobiography_, which was soon changed to _Life: a Drama_. The difficulty of writing a book which should have "no humbug in it," proved, as may well be supposed, immense, and would in any case be quite sufficient to account for the long period of gestation. His perplexities may have often been very near akin to those ascribed to the superstitious author in the sixty-fifth chapter of _Lavengro_; his desire to be original sadly cramping the powers of his mind, his fastidiousness being so great that he invariably rejected whatever ideas he did not consider to be legitimately his own. As a substitute for the usual padding of humbug, sycophancy and second-hand ideas, he bethought himself of philology, and he set himself to spring fragments of philological instruction (often far from sound) upon his reader in the most unexpected places, that his ingenuity could devise. He then began to base hopes upon the book in proportion to its originality. At the last moment, however, the Author grew querulous about his work, distrustful of the reception that would be given to it, and even as to the advisability of producing it at all. Much yet remained to be done, but for a long time he refused, not only to forward new copy to Albemarle Street, but even to revise the proofs of that which he had already written, and it required all the dunning that Murray and the printer Woodfall dare apply before _Lavengro_ with its altered sub-title (for at the last moment Borrow grew afraid of openly avowing his identity with the speaking likeness which he had created) could be announced as "just ready" in the _Athenaeum_ of Dec. 14th, 1850. _Lavengro; the Scholar_, _the Gypsy_, _the Priest_, eventually appeared in three volumes on Feb. 7th, 1851. The autobiographical _Lavengro_ stopped short in July 1825, at the conclusion of the hundredth chapter, with an abruptness worthy of the _Sentimental Journey_. The Author had succeeded in extending the area of mystery, but not in satisfying the public. Borrow's confidences were so very different in complexion from those which the critics seemed to have expected, that they were taken aback and declared to the public almost with one accord that the writer's eccentricities had developed into mannerisms, that his theories of life were political manifestoes, that his dialects were gibberish, and his defiance of the orthodox canons of autobiography scarcely less than an outrage upon the public taste. From the general public came a fusillade of requests to solve the prevailing mystery of the book. Was it fact or fiction?--or, if fact and fiction were blended, in what proportions? Borrow ought to have been prepared for a question so natural in the mouths of literary busy-bodies at any time, and especially at a time when partisan spirit was rampant, and the vitality of the lampoon as a factor in politics so far from extinct. To show his contempt alike for the critical verdict and the popular curiosity, after a quarrel, or at least a sharp coolness with John Murray, he published in two volumes, in May 1857, _The Romany Rye_, which carries on the story of _Lavengro_ for just about a month further, namely, down towards the end of August 1825, and there again stops dead. Whether we regard coherence or the rate of progress, no more attempt at amendment is perceptible than can be discerned in the later as compared with the earlier volumes of _Tristram Shandy_. The peculiarities of the earlier volume are, indeed, here accentuated, while the Author had evidently only been confirmed by the lapse of years in the political philosophy to which he had already given expression. At the end was printed an appendix (a sort of _catalogue raisonne_ of Borrovian prejudices), satirising with unmeasured bitterness the critics of _Lavengro_. The resumption of a story after an interval of over six years, with appendages so extravagant, whether we regard their tenor or their length, and with an indifference so sublime to the popular desire that he should get along with his personal narrative, was hardly calculated to conciliate critical opinion; but it had one capital effect. It drew from Whitwell Elwin, himself a Norfolk man, and a literary critic of the widest grasp and knowledge, this remarkable testimony: that far from exaggerating such incidents as were drawn from his own experience (not a few, as he himself could verify), Borrow's descriptions were rather _within the truth than beyond it_. "However picturesquely they may be drawn, the lines are invariably those of nature. . . . There can be no doubt that the larger part, and possibly the whole of the work, is a narrative of actual occurrences." Here, then, is the heart of the mystery, or of the mystery that is apparent; the phenomenon is due primarily to the fact that Borrow's book is so abnormally true as regards the matter, while in manner of presentation it is so strikingly original. There are superficial traces, no doubt, of not a few writers of the eighteenth century. In some of his effects Borrow reproduces Sterne: essentially Sternean, for instance, is the interview between the youthful author and the experienced Mr. Taggart. "Well, young gentleman," said Taggart to me one morning when we chanced to be alone, a few days after the affair of cancelling, "how do you like authorship?" "I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I am engaged in," said I. "What do you call authorship?" said Taggart. "I scarcely know," said I; "that is, I can scarcely express what I think it." "Shall I help you out?" said Taggart, turning round his chair, and looking at me. "If you like," said I. "To write something grand," said Taggart, taking snuff; "to be stared at--lifted on people's shoulders." "Well," said I, "that is something like it." Taggart took snuff. "Well," said he, "why don't you write something grand?" "I have," said I. "What?" said Taggart. "Why," said I, "there are those ballads." Taggart took snuff. "And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym." Taggart took snuff again. "You seem to be very fond of snuff," said I, looking at him angrily. Taggart tapped his box. "Have you taken it long?" "Three-and-twenty years." "What snuff do you take?" "Universal Mixture." "And you find it of use?" Taggart tapped his box. "In what respect?" said I. "In many--there is nothing like it to get a man through; but for snuff I should scarcely be where I am now." "Have you been long here?" "Three-and-twenty years." "Dear me," said I; "and snuff brought you through? Give me a pinch--pah, I don't like it," and I sneezed. "Take another pinch," said Taggart. "No," said I; "I don't like snuff." "Then you will never do for authorship; at least for this kind." "So I begin to think. What shall I do?" Taggart took snuff. "You were talking of a great work. What shall it be?" Taggart took snuff. "Do you think I could write one?" Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap; he did not, however. "It would require time," said I, with half a sigh. Taggart tapped his box. "A great deal of time. I really think that my ballads--" Taggart took snuff. "If published, would do me credit. I'll make an effort, and offer them to some other publisher." Taggart took a double quantity of snuff. Equally Sterne-like is the conclusion to a chapter: "Italy--what was I going to say about Italy?" Less superficial is the influence of Cervantes and his successors of the Picaresque school, down to the last and most representative of them in England, namely Defoe and Smollett. Profoundest of all, perhaps, is the influence of Defoe, of whose powers of intense realisation, exhibited in the best parts of _Robinson Crusoe_, we get a fine counterpart amid the outcasts in Mumper's Lane. Bound up with the truthfulness and originality of the Author is that strange absence of sycophancy, which we may flatter ourselves is no exceptional thing, but which is in reality a very rare phenomenon in literature. Apart from this independence of character which he so justly prized, and a monomania or two, such as his devotion to philology or detestation of popery, Borrow's mental peculiarities are not by any means so extravagant as has been supposed. His tastes were for the most part not unusual, though they might be assorted in a somewhat uncommon manner. He was a thorough sportsman in the best sense, but he combined with his sporting zeal an instinctive hatred of gambling, of bad language, and of tyranny or cruelty in any form. He entertained a love for the horse in the stable without bowing down to worship the stage-coachmen, the jockeys, and other ignoble heroes of "horsey" life. He loved his country and "the quiet, unpretending Church of England." He was ready to exalt the obsolescent fisticuffs and the "strong ale of Old England," but he was not blind either to the drunkenness or to the overbearing brutality which he had reason to fear might be held to disfigure the character of the swilling and prize-fighting sections among his compatriots. {20a} Borrow was a master of whim; but it is easy to exaggerate his eccentricity. As a traveller who met with adventures upon the roads of Britain he was surpassed by a dozen writers that could be named, and in our own day--to mention one--by that truly eccentric being "The Druid." {20b} The Druid had a special affinity with Borrow, in regard to his kindness for an old applewoman. His applewoman kept a stall in the Strand to which the Druid was a constant visitor, mainly for the purpose of having a chat and borrowing and repaying small sums, rarely exceeding one shilling. As an author, again, Borrow was as jealous as one of Thackeray's heroines; he could hardly bear to hear a contemporary book praised. Whim, if you will, but scarcely an example of literary eccentricity. Borrow developed a delightful faculty for adventure upon the high road, but such a faculty was far less singular than his gift--akin to the greatest painter's power of suggesting atmosphere--of investing each scene and incident with a separate and distinct air of uncompromising reality. Many persons may have had the advantage of hearing conversation as brilliant or as wise as that of the dinner at Dilly's: what is distinctive of genius is the power to convey the general feeling of the interlocutors, to suggest a dramatic effect, an artistic whole, as Boswell does, by the cumulative effect of infinitesimal factors. The triumph in each case is one not of opportunities but of the subtlest literary sense. Similarly, Borrow's fixed ideas had little that was really exceptional or peculiar about them. His hatred of mumbo-jumbo and priestcraft was but a part of his steady love of freedom and sincerity. His linguistic mania had less of a philological basis than he would have us believe. Impatience that Babel should act as a barrier between kindred souls, an insatiable curiosity, prompted by the knowledge that the language of minorities was in nine cases out of ten the direct route to the heart of the secret of folks that puzzled him--such were the motives that stimulated a hunger for strange vocabularies, not in itself abnormal. The colloquial faculty which he undoubtedly possessed--for we are told by Taylor that when barely eighteen he already knew English, Welsh, Irish, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, German, Danish, French, Italian, and Portuguese--rarely goes with philological depth any more than with idiomatic purity. Borrow learnt some languages to translate, many to speak imperfectly. {22} But as a comparative philologist, with claims to scientific equipment, his _Targum_, with its boasted versions from thirty languages or dialects, pales considerably before the almost contemporary _Philological Grammar_, based upon a comparison of over sixty tongues, by the Dorset poet William Barnes, who, like Borrow himself, was a self-taught man. To mention but two more English contemporaries of Borrow, there was Thomas Watts, of the British Museum, who could read nearly fifty languages, including Chinese; and Canon Cook, the editor of the _Speaker's Commentary_, who claimed acquaintance with fifty-four. It is commonly said of Cardinal Mezzofanti that he could speak thirty and understand sixty. It is quite plain from the pages of _Lavengro_ itself that Borrow did not share Gregory XVI.'s high estimate of the Cardinal's mental qualifications, unrivalled linguist though he was. That a "word-master" so abnormal is apt to be deficient in logical sense seems to have been Borrow's deliberate opinion (with a saving clause as to exceptions), and I have often thought that it must have been Shakespeare's too, for does he not ascribe a command of tongues to the man who is perhaps the most consummate idiot in the whole range of Shakespearean portraiture? MARIA. That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it yesterday, and of a foolish knight that you brought in here to be her wooer. SIR TOBY BELCH. Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek? MARIA. Ay, he. SIR TOBY. He's as tall a man as any in Illyria. MARIA. What's that to the purpose? SIR TOBY. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. MARIA. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats: he's a very fool and a prodigal. SIR TOBY. Fie that you'll say so! He plays o' the viol de gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word for word, without book. The extraordinary linguistic gifts of a Mezzofanti were not, it is true, concentrated in Borrow (whose powers in this direction have been magnified), but they were sufficiently prominent in him to have a determining effect upon his mind. Thus he was distinguished less for broad views than for an extraordinary faculty for detail; when he attempts to generalise we are likelier to get a flood of inconsequent prejudices than a steady flow of reasoned opinions. We can frequently study an author with good effect through the medium of his literary admirations; we have already noticed a few of Borrow's predilections in real life. With regard to literature, his predilections (or more particularly what Zola would call his _haines_) were fully as protestant and as thorough. His indifference to the literature of his own time might be termed brutal; his intellectual self-sufficiency was worthy of a Macaulay or of a Donne. A fellow-denouncer of snobs, he made Thackeray very uncomfortable by his contemptuous ignorance of _The Snob Papers_, and even of the name of the periodical in which they were appearing. Concerning Keats he once asked, "Have they not been trying to resuscitate him?" When Miss Strickland wanted to send him her Lives, he broke out: "For God's sake don't, madam; I should not know where to put them or what to do with them." Scott's _Woodstock_ he picked up more than once and incontinently threw down as "trashy." As a general rule he judged a modern author by his prejudices. If these differed by a hair's breadth from his own he damned the whole of his work. He had to his credit a vast fund of quaint out-of-the-way reading; not to be acquainted with this was dense unpardonable ignorance: what he had not read was scarcely knowledge. He was not what one could fairly call unread in the classical authors, for in a survey of his reviewers he compared himself complacently enough with Cervantes, Bunyan and Le Sage. He had the utmost suspicion of literary models; to try to be like somebody else was the too popular literary precept that he held in the greatest abhorrence. The gravity of his prescription of Wordsworth as a specific in cases of chronic insomnia is probably due rather to the thorough sincerity of his view than to any conscious subtlety of humour. He disliked Scott especially for his easy tolerance of Jacobites and Papists, {25} while he distrusted his portraits, those portraits of the rougher people which may have frequently been over-praised by Scott's admirers. We most of us love Scott, it is a fact, beyond the power of nice discrimination. As to the verisimilitude of a portrait such as that of Meg Merrilies we must allow Borrow to be a most competent critic, but we are at a loss to sympathise with his failure to appreciate studies of such lifelike fidelity as Edie Ochiltree and Andrew Fairservice, whose views anent "the muckle hure that sitteth on seven hills, as if ane wasna braid eneugh for her auld hinder end," had so much that was in sympathy with Borrow's own. Of all such prejudices and peculiarities, no less than of his gifts, Borrow was ridiculously proud. In certain respects he was as vainly, querulously, and childishly assertive as Goldsmith himself; while in the haughty self-isolation with which he eschewed the society of people with endowments as great or even greater than his own, he was quite the opposite of "poor Goldy." If the latter had regarded his interlocutors straight in the eyes with a look that told them he was prepared to knock them down at a moment's notice upon the least provocation, we should probably have heard less of his absurdities. A man who even in his old age could walk off with E. J. Trelawny {27a} under his arm (as Mr. Watts- Dunton assures us Borrow could) was certainly not one to be trifled with. Borrow's absolute unconventionality was of course an offence to many; to Englishmen, who were dreaming in the fifties of a kind of industrial millennium, with Cobden as the prophet and Macaulay as the preacher of a new gospel of commercial prosperity and universal peace and progress, Borrow's pre-railroad prejudices and low tastes appeared obscurantist, dark, squalid, unintelligible. {27b} He ran out his books upon a line directly counter to the literary current of the day, and, naturally enough, the critical billow broke over him. Hazlitt's proposition--so readily accepted by the smug generation of his day--that London was the only place in which the child could grow up completely into the man--would have appeared the most perverse kind of nonsense to Borrow. The complexity of a modern type, such as that of a big organiser of industrial labour, did not impress him. He esteemed the primitive above the economic man, and was apt to judge a human being rather as Robinson Crusoe might have done than in the spirit of a juryman at an Industrial Exhibition. Again, his feeling for nature was intimate rather than enthusiastic, at a time when people still looked for a good deal of pretty Glover-like composition in their landscapes. One of the most original traits of Borrow's genius was the care and obstinacy with which he defended his practical, vigorous and alert personality against the allurements of word-painting, of Nature and of Reverie. He could respond to the thrill of natural beauty, he could enjoy his mood when it veritably came upon him, just as he could enjoy a tankard of old ale or linger to gaze upon a sympathetic face; but he refused to pamper such feelings, still more to simulate them; he refused to allow himself to become the creature of literary or poetic ecstasy; he refused to indulge in the fashionable debauch of dilettante melancholy. He wrote about his life quite naturally, "as if there were nothing in it." Another and closely allied cause of perplexity and discontent to the literary connoisseurs was Borrow's lack of style. By style, in the generation of Macaulay and Carlyle, of Dickens and George Eliot, was implied something recondite--a wealth of metaphor, imagery, allusion, colour and perfume--a palette, a pounce-box, an optical instrument, a sounding-board, a musical box, anything rather than a living tongue. To a later race of stylists, who have gone as far as Samoa and beyond in the quest of exotic perfumery, Borrow would have said simply, in the words of old Montaigne, "To smell, though well, is to stink,"--"Malo, quam bene olere, nil olere." Borrow, in fact, by a right instinct went back to the straightforward manner of Swift and Defoe, Smollett and Cobbett, whose vigorous prose he specially admired; and he found his choice ill appreciated by critics whose sense of style demanded that a clear glass window should be studded with bull's-eyes. To his distinctions of being a poet well-nigh incapable of verse, and a humourist with marvellously little pathos, Borrow thus added one which we are inclined to regard as the greatest of all--that of being a great nineteenth-century prose-writer without a style. Though he did not elaborate, or strive to attain to the cultism or polite style of contemporary genius, Borrow seems to have written with some difficulty (or at any rate a lack of facility), and, impervious as he was to criticism, he retained in his prose a number of small faults that he might easily have got rid of. His manner of introducing his generalities and conclusions is often either superfluous, or lame and clumsy. Despite his natural eloquence, his fondness for the apostrophe is excessive; he preserved an irritating habit of parading such words as _eclat_, _penchant_ and _monticle_, and persisted in saying "of a verity," and using the word "individual" in the sense of person. Such blemishes are microscopic enough. It was not such trifles as these that proved stumbling-blocks to the "men of blood and foam," as he called his critics. Of the generality of the critics of that day it would probably be well within the mark to aver that their equipment was more solid, and their competence more assured than that of their successors; {30} it would be safe to assert that their self-sufficiency was also decidedly more pronounced. Now for reasons which we have endeavoured to explain, the equanimity of the critical reviewers was considerably ruffled by _Lavengro_. Perplexed by its calling itself an autobiography, they were at the same time discontented both with its subject-matter and its style. To a not altogether misplaced curiosity on the part of the public as to Borrow's antecedents, the author of the _Bible in Spain_ had responded by _Lavengro_, which he fully meant to be (what it indeed was) a masterpiece. Yet public and critics were agreed in failing to see the matter in this light. As the reader will probably have deduced from the foregoing pages, the trouble was mainly due to the following causes. First, baffled curiosity. Secondly, a dislike for Borrow's prejudices. Thirdly, a disgust at his philistinism in refusing to bow down and worship the regnant idols of 'taste.' Fourthly, the total absence in Borrow of the sentimentality for which the soul of the normal Englishman yearns. Fifthly, disappointment at not finding the critic's due from an accepted author in quotable passages of picturesque prose. These views are appropriately summed up through the medium of the pure and scentless taste of the _Athenaeum_. The varied contents of _Lavengro_ are here easily reduced to one denomination--'balderdash,' for the emission of which the _Athenaeum_ critic proceeds (in the interests, of course, of the highest gentility), to give George Borrow a good scolding. How sadly removed was such procedure from Borrow's own ideal of reviewing, as set forth in the very volume under consideration! Such operations should always, he held, be conducted in a spirit worthy of an editor of Quintilian, in a gentlemanly, Oxford-like manner. No vituperation! No insinuations! Occasionally a word of admonition, but gently expressed as an Oxford M.A. might have expressed it. Some one had ventured to call the _Bible in Spain_ a grotesque book, but the utterance had been drowned in the chorus of acclamation. Now Borrow complained that he had had the honour of being rancorously abused by every unmanly scoundrel, every sycophantic lacquey, and every political and religious renegade in the kingdom. His fury was that of an angry bull tormented by a swarm of gnats. His worst passions were aroused; his most violent prejudices confirmed. His literary zeal, never extremely alert, was sensibly diminished. This last result at least was a calamity. Nevertheless the great end had, in the main, already been accomplished. Borrow had broken through the tameness of the regulation literary memoir, and had shown the naked footprint on the sand. The 'great unknown' had gone down beneath his associations, his acquirements and his adventures, and had to a large extent revealed _himself_--a primitive man, with his breast by no means wholly rid of the instincts of the wild beast, grappling with the problem of a complex humanity: an epitome of the eternal struggle which alone gives savour to the wearisome process of "civilisation." For the conventional man of the lapidary phrase and the pious memoir (corrected by the maiden sister and the family divine), Borrow dared to substitute the _genus homo_ of natural history. Perhaps it was only to be expected that, like the discoveries of another Du Chaillu, his revelations should be received with a howl of incredulity. Almost alone, as far as we can discover, among the critics of the day Emile Montegut realised _to the full_ the true greatness, the originality, the abiding quality and interest of Borrow's work. Writing in September 1857 upon "Le Gentilhomme Bohemien" (an essay which appears in his _Ecrivains Modernes de l'Angleterre_, between studies on "Mistress Browning" and Alfred Tennyson), Montegut remarks of Borrow's "humoristic Odyssey":-- "Unfinished and fragmentary, these writings can dispense with a conclusion, for they have an intrinsic value, and each page bears the impress of reality. The critic who has to give his impressions of one of Borrow's books is in much the same case as a critic who had to give his impressions in turn of the different parts of _Gil Blas_ as they successively appeared. The work is incomplete, but each several part is excellent and can be appreciated by itself. Borrow has resuscitated a literary form which had been many years abandoned, and he has resuscitated it in no artificial manner--as a rhythmical form is rehabilitated, or as a dilettante re-establishes for a moment the vogue of the roundel or the virelay--but quite naturally as the inevitable setting for a picture which has to include the actors and the observations of the author's vagabond life. To a clear and unprejudiced mind, observation of the life of the common folk and, above all, of the itinerant population and of their equivocal moral code, of necessity and invariably, compels resort to the form and manner of the _novela picaresca_. "The huge sensational romance [Sue], the creaking machinery of melodrama [Boucicault], with which it has been attempted in our own day to portray certain tableaux of the life of the people, only succeed, owing to the extravagance of their construction, in demonstrating the complete ignorance on the part of the writers of the subject which they pretend to describe. Borrow has not of set purpose adopted the picaresque form: search his pages where you will, you will find not a trace of such an intention. He has rediscovered the picaresque method, as it were instinctively, by the mere fact of his having to express sentiments of a certain description; he has indeed rediscovered it by the same process which led Cervantes and Hurtado de Mendoza to invent it--by virtue of that necessity which always enables genius to give the most appropriate clothing to its conceptions. To attain this result, however, it is necessary that genius should not be thrown off its balance by deliberate ambition, or too much preoccupied by the immediate desire to succeed. By his conformity to all these conditions, Borrow has become, without giving a thought to such purpose, the Quevedo and the Mendoza of modern England." Beyond all this there is quite another and perhaps an even more potent reason why the critics of a later generation have felt constrained to place this work of Borrow's upon a higher pedestal than their predecessors did. As within the four angles of a painting there is nothing more difficult to confine than sunlight and atmosphere, so in literature is it a task of the highest achievement to compass the wind on the heath, the sunshine and the rain. We know the dark background, the mystery and the awe of the forest, how powerfully they are suggested to us by some old writers and some modern ones, such as Spenser and Fouque, by the author of _The Pathfinder_ and Thoreau; the scent of the soil, once again, in rain and in shine, is it not conveyed to us with an astonishing distinctness, that is the product of a literary endowment of the rarest order, by such writers as Izaak Walton and Robert Burns, and among recent writers in varying degrees by Richard Jefferies and by Barnes, by T. E. Brown and Thomas Hardy? And then there is the kindred touch, hardly if at all less rare, which evokes for us the camaraderie and blithe spirit of the highway: the winding road, the flashing stream, the bordering coppice, the view from the crest, the twinkling lights at nightfall from the sheltering inn. Traceable in a long line of our most cherished writers, from Chaucer and Lithgow and Nash, Defoe and Fielding, and Hazlitt and Holcroft, the fascination of the road that these writers have tried to communicate, has never perhaps been expressed with a nicer discernment than in the _Confessions_ of Rousseau, that inveterate pedestrian who walked Europe to the rhythm of ideas as epoch-making as any that have ever emanated from the mind of man. "La chose que je regrette le plus" (writes Rousseau) "dans les details de ma vie dont j'ai perdu la memoire, est de n'avoir pas fait des journaux de mes voyages. Jamais je n'ai tant pense, tant existe, tant vecu, tant ete moi, si j'ose ainsi dire, que dans ceux que j'ai faits seul et a pied. La marche a quelque chose qui anime et avive mes idees: je ne puis presque penser quand je reste en place; il faut que mon corps soit en branle pour y mettre mon esprit. La vue de la campagne, la succession des aspects agreables, le grand air, le grand appetit, la bonne sante que je gagne en marchant, la liberte du cabaret, l'eloignement de tout ce qui me fait sentir ma dependance, de tout ce qui me rappelle a ma situation: tout cela degage mon ame." It is a possession in a rare degree of this wonderful open-air quality as a writer that constrains us in our generation to condone any offences against the mint and anise and cummin decrees of literary infallibility that Borrow may have from time to time committed. And when it is realised, in addition, what a unique knowledge he possessed of the daily life, the traditions, the folk-lore, and the dialects of the strange races of vagrants, forming such a picturesque element in the life of the road, the documentary value, as apart from the literary interest of Borrow's work, becomes more and more manifest. _Lavengro_ is not a book, it is true, to open sesame to the first comer, or to yield up one tithe of its charm upon a first acquaintance. Yet, in spite of the "foaming vipers," as Borrow styles his critics, _Lavengro's_ roots have already struck deep into the soil of English literature, as Dr. Hake predicted that they would. {37} We know something about the dim retreating Arcady from Dr. Jessopp, we know something of the old farmers and tranters and woodlanders from Hardy, something of late Georgian London from Dickens, something of the old Lancashire mill-hands from Mrs. Gaskell, and something of provincial town-life in the forties and fifties from George Eliot. It has fallen to Borrow to hold up the mirror to wild Nature on the roadside and the heath. "The personages in these inimitable books are not merely snap-shots, they are living pictures; and, more than that, the people are moving about amid fluttering leaves and flickering sunlight and waves of shadow and rippling brooks. One neither misses the colours of the landscapes nor the very sounds of the voices. Moreover, the characters, though we feel that they have never come within the range of our experience, yet did actually live and move and talk as they are represented; and we know, too, that such characters have passed away from our earth--improved off the face of it. And we regret, in spite of ourselves, that these gypsies are gone. The rogues will never come back! A feeling of disappointment is apt to come over us as we read, and we are ready to stop and ask angrily, 'Why can't we drop in among the tents, and see an Ursula or a Pakomovna, and have our fortunes told as of yore?' And we know that it cannot be, and that the Romany Rye is a being who lived and moved in a different age from ours, as different as the age of Hector and Achilles, when warriors fought in their chariots round the walls of Troy, and the long-haired Achaians hurled their spears and stole one another's horses in the darkness, and kings made long speeches armed to the teeth, and ran away with other kings' wives or multiplied their own. We go on to confess to ourselves that we must be content with hearing about all the strange experience of the Romany Rye at second-hand, and since it must be so, we shall do well to surrender ourselves to such a magician as this and make the best of it." {38} After the publication of the _Romany Rye_ in 1857, Borrow made one more contribution to Belles Lettres in the book called _Wild Wales_, issued in three volumes in 1862. It commemorates a journey made in the summer of 1854, while its heroic championship of the Bardic literature recalls the earlier enthusiasm for Ab Gwilym. If after his return from Spain a definite sphere of activity abroad could have been allotted to Borrow (by preference in the East, as he himself desired), we might have had from his pen contributions to the study of Eastern life that would have added lustre to a group of writers already brilliantly represented in England by Curzon and Kinglake, Lane and Morier, Palgrave and Burton. With Burton's love of roving adventure, of strange tongues, and of anthropology in its widest sense, the author of the _Bible in Spain_ had many points in common. As it was, the later years of Borrow's life were spent somewhat moodily, and with some of the mystery of Swift's or of Rousseau's, at Oulton, near Lowestoft, whence, at Christmas 1874, he sent a message to the neighbouring hermit, Edward Fitzgerald at Woodbridge, in the vain hope of eliciting a visit. {39a} His wife, who had been won with her widow's jointure and dower during the flush of his missionary successes in 1840, died at the end of January 1869, {39b} and on July 26th, 1881, after years spent in a strange seclusion at Oulton, tended latterly by his step-daughter Henrietta, George Borrow was found dead in his bed, dying as he had lived, alone. Not long after his death, which took place when he was seventy-eight, Borrow's Oulton home was pulled down. All that now remains to mark the spot where it once stood are the old summer-house in which he wrote _Lavengro_, and the ragged fir-trees that sighed the requiem of his last hours. Without appealing to "the shires," but in the Eastern counties alone, he has been commemorated since his death by such writers as Henry Dutt, and Whitwell Elwin, by Egmont Hake, by Theodore Watts-Dunton, and by Dr. Jessopp. And now ere the close of the century {40} it has fallen to the lot of yet another East Anglian to place a small stone upon the cairn of George Borrow. II. The two books _Lavengro_ and _Romany Rye_ are in reality one work, an unfinished autobiography, commenced upon a moderate and quite feasible scale; but after about a third of the ground is covered the scale is enormously increased, the narrative, encumbered by a vast amount of detail, makes less and less progress, and finally stops short, without any obvious, but rather a lame and impotent conclusion, at chapter xlvii. of the _Romany Rye_, or chapter cxlvii. of the work considered as one whole. The disproportion of the scale will be sufficiently indicated when we point out that the first twenty-two years of the author's life are treated pretty equally in fifty-seven chapters (i. to lvii.). The remaining ninety chapters (lviii. to cxlvii.) are wholly taken up by the incidents of less than four months, the four summer months of 1825. The first twenty-two years of the author's life are far from commonplace. The interest is well sustained, but is seldom intense,--at no point is the author's memory sufficiently teeming to cause an overflow; but with the conclusion of his sojourn in London, May 22nd, 1825, commences an itinerant life, the novelty of which graves every incident in the most vivid possible manner upon the writer's recollection. With his emancipation from town life a new graphic impulse is developed. Borrow seizes a new palette and sets to work with fresher colours upon a stupendous canvas. This canvas may be described as taking the form of a triptych. In the first compartment we have the first sensations of the roadfarer's life and some minor adventures: a visit to Stonehenge; the strange meeting with a returned convict, who turns out to be the old applewoman's son; the vignette of the hostelry, with the figures of the huge fat landlord and the handmaid Jenny; the visit to the stranger gentleman who protects himself by "touching" against evil chance; the interview with the Rev. Mr. Platitude, and the bargain struck with the travelling tinker, Jack Slingsby, whose stock-in-trade and profession the writer determines to adopt. Then comes the word-master's detection in his new sphere of life by the malignant gipsy godmother, Mrs. Herne, from whose remorseless attempt to poison him he is rescued by the kindly hearted Welsh preacher Peter Williams and his wife Winifred. In requital he manages to relieve the good man of a portion of the load of superstitious terror by which he is burdened. This section of the narrative is terminated by a graphic description of his renewal of associateship with his old friend Jasper Petulengro, the satisfaction he gives that worthy for having been the innocent cause of Mrs. Herne's death, and his decision to pitch his tent in the dingle. Chapters lviii. to lxxxii. are taken up with the foregoing incidents, which lead up to the central episode of the autobiography, the settlement in the dingle, with which the reader is here presented. This episode, forming the second panel in the detailed scheme, occupies chapters lxxxiii. to cxvi., but it is bisected near the middle by the termination of _Lavengro_ at chapter c. The two parts are united now for the first time, and are given a prominent setting in relief from the rest of the narrative. The third compartment of the triptych, which occupies chapters cxvii. to cxlvii. (that is, chapters xvii. to xlvii. of the _Romany Rye_), is devoted to what we may call the horse-dealing episode. After the loss of Isopel Berners, the Romany Rye, as the author-hero is now termed, consoles himself by the purchase of a splendid horse, to obtain which he consents, much against his will, to accept a loan of 50 pounds from Jasper Petulengro, the product of that worthy's labours in the prize ring. He travels across England with the horse, meeting with adventures by the way, narrating them to others, and obtaining some curious autobiographical narratives in return. Finally he reaches Horncastle, and sells the animal at the horse fair there for 150 pounds. Here, in August 1825, the narrative of his life abruptly ends. {43} It must not be supposed by any means that the interest of Borrow's two autobiographical volumes is concentrated in the last eighteen chapters of _Lavengro_ and the first sixteen chapters of the _Romany Rye_. The quality of continuity is, it is true, best preserved in the dingle episode. Artistically the Brynhildic figure of Isopel serves as the best relief that could be found for Borrow's own "Titanic self." There is undoubtedly a feeling of unity here which is hardly to be felt in any other part of the Borrovian "Odyssey." It is nevertheless true that, taken as a whole, a marked characteristic of the two volumes is the evenness with which the charms are scattered hither and thither betwixt the four covers. Attractive, therefore, as the Isopel Berners episode unquestionably is, and convenient as it is to the reader to have it detached for him in its unity, its perusal must not be taken for a moment to absolve the lover of good literature from traversing chapter by chapter, canto by canto, the whole of the Borrevian epic. It is outside the dingle that he will have to look for the faithfully described bewilderment of the old applewoman after the loss of her book, and for the compassionate delineation of the old man with the bees and the donkey who gave the young Rye to drink of mead at his cottage, and was unashamed at having shed tears on the road. The most heroic of the pugilistic encounters takes place, it is true, in the thick of the dingle, but it is elsewhere that the reader will have to look for the description of the memorable thrashing inflicted upon the bullying stage-coachman by the "elderly individual" who followed the craft of engraving, and learnt fisticuffs from Sergeant Broughton. In the same neighbourhood he will find the admirable vignette of the old man who could read the inscription on Chinese crockery pots, but could not tell what's o'clock, and the life narratives of the jockey and of the inexpert thimble-rigger, Murtagh, who was imprisoned three years for interrupting the Pope's game at picquet, but finally won his way by card-sharping to the very threshold of the Cardinalate. In the second half of the _Romany Rye_, too, he will find the noble apostrophes to youth, and ale, and England, "the true country for adventures," which he will compare, as examples of Borrovian eloquence, with the stirring description of embattled England in the third chapter of _Lavengro_, or the apostrophe to the Irish cob and the Author's first ride in chapter thirteen. Borrow's is a wonderful book for one to lose one's _way_ in, among the dense undergrowth, but it is a still grander book for the reader to lose _himself_ in. In the dingle, best of all, he can "forget his own troublesome personality as completely as if he were in the depths of the ancient forest along with Gurth and Wamba." Labyrinthine, however, as the autobiography may at first sight appear, the true lover of Borrow will soon have little difficulty in finding the patteran or gypsy trail (for indeed the Romany element runs persistently as a chorus-thread through the whole of the autobiographical writings), which serves as a clue to the delights of which his work is so rich a storehouse. The question that really exercises Borrovians most is the relative merit of stories and sections of the narrative--the comparative excellence of the early 'life' in _Lavengro_ and of the later detached episodes in the _Romany Rye_. Most are in some sort of agreement as to the supremacy of the dingle episode, which has this advantage: Borrow is always at his best when dealing with strange beings and abnormal experiences. When he is describing ordinary mortals he treats them with coldness as mere strangers. The commonplace town-dwellers seldom arouse his sympathy, never kindle his enthusiasm. He is quite another being when we wander by his side within the bounds of his enchanted dingle. This history of certain doings in a Staffordshire dingle, during the month of July 1825, begins with a battle-royal, which places Borrow high amongst the narrators of human conflicts from the days of the Iliad to those of Pierce Egan; yet the chapters that set forth this episode of the dingle are less concerned with the "gestes" than with the sayings of its occupants. Rare, indeed, are the dramatic dialogues amid the sylvan surroundings of the tree-crowned hollow, that surpass in interest even the vivid details of the memorable fray between the flaming tinman and the pugilistic philologer. Pre-eminent amongst the dialogues are those between the male occupant of the dingle and the popish propagandist, known as the man in black. More fascinating still, perhaps, are the word- master's conversations with Jasper; most wonderful of all, in the opinion of many, is his logomachy with Ursula under the thorn bush. We shall not readily forget Jasper's complaints that all the 'old-fashioned, good-tempered constables' are going to be set aside, or his gloomy anticipations of the iron roads in which people are to 'thunder along in vehicles pushed forward by fire and smoke.' As for his comparison of the gypsies to cuckoos, the roguish charring fellows, for whom every one has a bad word, yet whom every one is glad to greet once again when the spring comes round, or Ursula's exposition of gypsy love and marriage beneath the hedge,--these are Borrow at his best, as he is most familiar to us, in the open air among gypsies. With the popish emissary it is otherwise: his portrait is the creation of Borrow's most studied hatred. Yet it must be admitted that the man in black is a triumph of complex characterisation. A joyous liver and an unscrupulous libertine, sceptical as Voltaire, as atheistic as a German professor, as practical as a Jew banker, as subtle as a Jesuit, he has as many ways of converting the folks among whom he is thrown as Panurge had of eating the corn in ear. For the simple and credulous--crosses and beads; for the hard-hearted and venal--material considerations; for the cultured and educated--a fine tissue of epigrams and anthropology; for the ladies--flattery and badinage. A spiritual ancestor of Anatole France's marvellous full-length figure of Jerome Coignard, Borrow's conception takes us back first to Rabelais and secondly to the seventeenth-century conviction of the profound Machiavellism of Jesuitry. The man in black and Jasper are great, but the master attraction of the region that we are to traverse is admittedly Isopel Berners. It will perhaps be observed that our heroine makes her appearance on the stage rather more in the fashion of Molly Seagrim than of that other engaging Amazon of romance, Diana Vernon, whose "long hair streaming in the wind" forms one single point of resemblance to our fair Isopel. In other respects, certainly no two heroines could be more dissimilar. Unaided even by the slightest assistance from the graphic arts, the difficulty of picturing the lineaments of this muscular beauty, as she first burst on the sight of our autobiographer upon the declivity of the dingle, may be freely confessed, ere an attempt is made to describe her. We know, however, on the testimony of a sincere admirer, that she was over six feet high, with loose-flowing, flaxen hair; that she wore a tight bodice and a skirt of blue, to match the colour of her eyes; and that eighteen summers had passed over her head since she first saw the light in the great house of Long Melford, a nursery in which she learnt to fear God and take her own part, and a place the very name of which she came to regard as a synonym for a strong right arm. Borrow's first impression of her was one of immensity; she was big enough, he said, to have been born in a church; almost simultaneously, he observed her affinity to those Scandinavian divinities to which he assigned the first place in the pantheon of his affections. She reminded him, indeed, of the legendary Ingeborg, queen of Norway. It is remarkable, and well worth noticing, that the impression that she produced was instantaneous. Our wanderer had never been impressed in any similar fashion by any of the gypsy women with whom he was brought into contact, though, as many a legend and ballad can attest, such women have often exerted extraordinary attraction over Englishmen of pure blood. But it is evident that his physical admiration was reserved for a tall blonde of the Scandinavian type, to which he gave the name of a Brynhilde. Hence, notwithstanding his love of the economics of gypsy life, his gypsy women are for the most part no more than scenic characters; they clothe and beautify the scene, but they have little dramatic force about them. And when he comes to delineate a heroine, Isopel Berners, she is physically the very opposite of a Romany chi. Fewer words will suffice to describe Isopel's first impressions of her future partner in the dingle. She unmistakably regarded him as a chaffing fellow who was not quite right in his head; and there is reason for believing, that, though she came to entertain a genuine regard for the young 'squire,' her opinions as to the condition of his brain underwent no sensible modification. She herself is fairly explicit on this subject: she seems indeed to have arrived at the deliberate conviction that, if not abnormally selfish, he was at any rate fundamentally mad; and there was perhaps a germ of truth in the conclusion, sufficient at any rate to colour Lombroso's theory of the inherent madness of men of genius. One of the testimonies that we have as to Borrow's later life at Oulton is to the effect that he got bewildered at times and fancied himself Wodin; but the substratum of sanity is strongly exhibited in the remedy which he himself applied. "What do you think I do when I get bewildered after this fashion? I go out to the sty and listen to the grunting of the pigs until I get back to myself." {49} Of Isopel's history we know extremely little, save what she herself tells us. Her father was an officer who was killed in a naval action before he could fulfil the promise of marriage he had made to her mother, a small milliner, who died in the workhouse at Long Melford within three months of the effort of giving birth to an amazon so large and so fierce and so well able to take her own part as Isopel. At fourteen this fine specimen of workhouse upbringing was placed in service, from which she emancipated herself by knocking down her mistress. After two years more at the "large house" she was once more apprenticed; and this time knocked down her master in return for an affront. A second return to the workhouse appearing inadvisable, she traversed the highways of England in various capacities, and became acquainted with some of those remarkable though obscure characters who travelled the roads of our country at that period. A sense of loneliness drove her among unworthy travelling companions, such as the flying tinker and grey Moll, in whose society she breaks upon our notice. Some of the vagrants with whom she came into contact had occasionally attempted to lay violent hands upon her person and effects, but had been invariably humbled by her without the aid of either justice or constable. Of her specific exploits as a bruiser we hear of at least two near Dover. Once, the cart she and her old mistress travelled with was stopped by two sailors, who would have robbed and stripped the owners. "Let me get down," she exclaimed simply, and so saying she got down, and fought with them both until they turned round and ran away. On another occasion, while combing out her long hair beneath a hedge, she was insulted by a jockey. Starting up, though her hair was unbound, she promptly gave him what he characterised as "a most confounded whopping," and "the only drubbing I ever had in my life; and lor, how with her right hand she fibbed me while she held me round the neck with her left arm! I was soon glad to beg her pardon on my knees, which she gave me in a moment when she saw me in that condition, being the most placable creature in the world, and not only her pardon but one of the hairs which I longed for, which I put through a shilling for purposes of pleasant deception at country fairs." The hair with the shilling attached to it eventually became a treasured possession of the Romany Rye. Rude as some of these characteristics may appear, we are left in no manner of doubt as to the essential nobility, befitting her name, of Miss Berners--her character and bearing. Her carriage, especially of the neck and shoulders, reminded the postilion of the Marchioness of ---; and he took her unhesitatingly for a young lady of high rank and distinction, who had temporarily left her friends, and was travelling in the direction of Gretna Green with the fortunate Rye. The word-master, in disabusing the postilion of this idea, gave utterance to the conviction that he might search the world in vain for a nature more heroic and devoted. Like a lady of the highest quality, the beauteous queen of the dingle was subject to the vapours and to occasional fits of inexplicable weeping; but as a general rule she shared with Borrow himself a proud contempt for that mad puppy gentility, and her predominant characteristic, like his, was the simplicity that puzzled by reason of its directness and its purity. {52} That these qualities were not unaccompanied by a considerable amount of hauteur, is shown by her uncompromising rejection of the ceremonial advances made to her by that accomplished courtier, the man in black. "Lovely virgin," said he, with a graceful bow and stretching out his hand, "allow me to salute your fingers." "I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers," said Belle. "I did not presume to request to shake hands with you," said the man in black. "I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the extremities of your two forefingers." "I never permit anything of the kind," said Belle. "I do not approve of such unmanly ways." His importunity is rebuked more forcibly upon another occasion, when the nymph bids the priest with asperity to "hold his mumping gibberish." The striking beauty of Belle, especially that of her blue eyes and flaxen hair, and the impressiveness of her demeanour, calm and proud, which compelled the similitude to a serious and queenly heroine, such as 'Queen Theresa of Hungary, or Brynhilda, the Valkyrie, the beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer,' is emphasised by the contrast drawn between her and the handsome brunette Mrs. Petulengro, who is for the nonce subjugated by Isopel's beauty, and craves the privilege of acting as her tire-woman. Alas, as is so often the case in life, Lavengro and the reader are only just beginning to realise the beauty and the value of the "bellissima," as the man in black calls her, when she is on the point of sinking beneath our horizon, passing away like the brief music of an aubade. Rapidly, much too rapidly, do we approach that summer dawn when Belle, dressed neatly and plainly, her hair no longer plaited in Romany fashion or floating in the wind, but secured by a comb, uncovered no longer, but wearing a bonnet, her features very pale, allowed her cold hand to be wrung--it was for the last time--by the unconscious Rye. The latter ascended to the plain and thence looked down towards the dingle. "Isopel Berners stood at the mouth, the beams of the early morning sun shone full on her noble face and figure. I waved my hands towards her, she slowly lifted up her right arm; I turned away, and never saw Isopel Berners again." Hardly less forlorn is the reader than the philologist when the latter arrives back at the dingle, after a visit to the tavern two miles away, to find that the tardily recognised treasure is lost to him for ever,--resolved at length, too late, to give over teasing Belle by pretending to teach her Armenian, determined, when the need is past, to regularise his "uncertificated" relations with the glorious damozel, and resigned, when concession is fruitless, to sink those objections to America which Belle had disavowed, but which he had been proud to share with disbanded soldiers, sextons, and excisemen. To this decision his tortuous conferences with Jasper, and his frank soliloquy in the dingle, had bent him fully forty-eight hours before Belle's ultimate departure, unwilling though he was to incur the yoke of matrimony. "I figured myself in America" (says he, in his reverie over the charcoal fire), "in an immense forest, clearing the land destined by my exertions to become a fruitful and smiling plain. Methought I heard the crash of the huge trees as they fell beneath my axe; and then I bethought me that a man was intended to marry--I ought to marry; and if I married, where was I likely to be more happy as a husband and a father, than in America, engaged in tilling the ground? I fancied myself in America engaged in tilling the ground, assisted by an enormous progeny--well, why not marry and go and till the ground in America? I was young, and youth was the time to marry in and to labour in; I had the use of all my faculties; my eyes, it is true, were rather dull from early study, but I could see tolerably well with them and they were not bleared. I felt my arms and thighs and teeth--they were strong and sound enough; so now was the time to labour, to marry, eat strong flesh, and beget strong children--the power of doing all this would pass away with youth, which was terribly transitory. I bethought me that a time would come when my eyes would be bleared and perhaps sightless; my arms and thighs strengthless and sapless; when my teeth would shake in my jaws, even supposing they did not drop out. No going a-wooing then, no labouring, no eating strong flesh and begetting lusty children then; and I bethought me how, when all this should be, I should bewail the days of my youth as misspent, provided I had not in them founded for myself a home, and begotten strong children to take care of me in the days when I could not take care of myself; and thinking of these things I became sadder and sadder, and stared vacantly upon the fire until my eyes closed in a doze." It is significant that upon his return from the dream that followed this reverie, the would-be colonist blew upon the embers and filled and heated the kettle, that he might be able to welcome Isopel with a cup of the beverage that she loved. It was the newly awakened Benedick brushing his hat in the morning; but unhappily his conversion was not so complete as Benedick's. Love-making and Armenian do not go together, and in the colloquy that ensued, Belle could not feel assured that the man who proposed to conjugate the verb "to love" in Armenian, was master of his intentions in plain English. It was even so. The man of tongues lacked speech wherewith to make manifest his passion; the vocabulary of the word- master was insufficient to convince the workhouse girl of one of the plainest meanings a man can well have. From the banter of the man of learning the queen of the dingle sought refuge in a precipitate flight. Almost simultaneously the word-master, albeit with reluctance, decided that it was high time to give over his "mocking and scoffing." When he returned with this resolve to the dingle, Isopel Berners had quitted it, never to return. Yet ever and anon that splendid and pathetic figure will cross the sky line of his mental vision--and of ours. "Then the image of Isopel Berners came into my mind," and the thought "how I had lost her for ever, and how happy I might have been with her in the New World." DWELLERS IN THE DINGLE, AND SOME OTHERS. MEN. LAVENGRO, _the autobiographer_, _scholar and philologist_ (Lavengro=_word- master_); _known among the road-faring folk as the Romany rye_, _or young squire turned gypsy_. JASPER PETULENGRO, _a Romany kral or tribal chief_, _horse-dealer and blacksmith_ (petulengro=_lord of the horseshoe_). "_The Gypsy_." FRASER, _a popish emissary or propagandist_, _known as the_ "_man in black_." "_The Priest_." TAWNO CHIKNO, _the little one_, _so called on account of his immense size_; _the_ "_Antinous of the dusky people_;" _a great horseman and_ JASPER'S _brother-in-law_. SYLVESTER, _another brother-in-law_, _an ill-conditioned fellow_, "_the Lazarus of the Romany tribe_." BLACK _or_ BLAZING JOHN BOSVILLE (_Anselo Herne_), "_the flaming tinman_" _a_ "_half-in-half_" _itinerant tinker and bruiser_. CATCHPOLE, _the landlord of a small inn_, _two miles from the Dingle_, _and not far from Willenhall in Staffordshire_. MR. HUNTER, _a radical_, _who wears a snuff-coloured coat and frequents the inn above named_. _A postilion_, _whose headquarters are The Swan_, _Stafford_. WOMEN. ISOPEL _or_ BELLE BERNERS, _the beauteous queen of the Dingle_. GREY MOLL, _wife of_ BOSVILLE, _the flying tinker_. _A niece of the landlord of the inn_. _The three daughters of Mrs. Herne_:-- PAKOMOVNA, (MRS.) PETULENGRO, MIKAILIA, (MRS.) CHIKNO. URSULA, _widow of_ LAUNCELOT LOVELL, _who subsequently marries_ SYLVESTER. ANIMALS. AMBROL (_in gypsy_=_a pear_), LAVENGRO'S _little gry or pony_. TRAVELLER, _a donkey_ (_gypsy_, _mailla_), _belonging to_ ISOPEL BERNERS. THE SCENE _is laid under the greenwood tree_, _in the height of an English summer_. THE DINGLE _is a deep_, _wooded_, _and consequently somewhat gloomy_, _hollow in the middle of a very large_, _desolate field_. _The shelving sides of the hollow are overgrown with trees and bushes. A belt of sallows crowns the circular edge of the small crater_. _At the lowest part of the Dingle are discovered a stone and a fire of charcoal_, _from which spot a winding path ascends to_ "_the plain_." _On either side of the fire is a small encampment. One consists of a small pony cart and a small hut-shaped tent_, _occupied by the word-master_. _On the other side is erected a kind of tent_, _consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpaulin_, _quite impenetrable to rain; hard by stands a small donkey-cart_. _This is_ "_the tabernacle_" _of_ ISOPEL BERNERS. _A short distance off_, _near a spring of clear water_, _is the encampment of the Romany chals and chies--the Petulengres and their small clan_. THE PLACE _is about five miles from Willenhall in Staffordshire_. THE TIME _is July_ 1825. CHAPTER I--THE SCHOLAR SAYS GOOD-BYE TO THE GYPSY, AND PITCHES HIS TENT IN THE DINGLE. [In May 1825 our autobiographer, known among the gypsies as the word-master, decided to leave London, and travelled, partly on foot and partly by coach, to Amesbury; and then, after two days at Salisbury, struck northwards. A few days later, in a small beer-house, he met a tinker and his wife; the tinker was greatly depressed, having recently been intimidated by a rival, one Bosville, "the flaming tinman," and forced by threats to quit the road. The word-master, who meditated passing the summer as an amateur vagrant, and had some 15 or 16 pounds in his pocket, conceived the idea of buying the pony-cart, the implements and the beat of the tinker, one Jack Slingsby, whose face he remembered having seen some ten years before. "I want a home and work," he said to the tinker. "As for a home, I suppose I can contrive to make a home out of your tent and cart; and as for work, I must learn to be a tinker; it would not be hard for one of my trade to be a tinker: what better can I do?" "What about the naming tinman?" said the tinker. "Oh, don't be afraid on my account," said the word-master: "if I were to meet him, I could easily manage him one way or the other: I know all kinds of strange words and names, and, as I told you before, I sometimes hit people when they put me out." He accordingly purchases Slingsby's property, and further invests in a waggoner's frock. To the pony he gives the name of Ambrol, which signifies in gypsy a pear. He spends a first night under the hedge in a drizzling rain, and then spends two or three days in endeavouring to teach himself the mysteries of his new trade. While living in this solitary way he is detected by Mrs. Herne, an old gypsy woman, "one of the hairy ones," as she terms herself, who carried "a good deal of devil's tinder" about with her, and had a bitter grudge against the word- master. She hated him for having wormed himself, as she fancied, into the confidence of the gypsies and learned their language. She regarded him further, as the cause of differences between herself and her sons-in- law--as an apple of discord in the Romany camp. She employed her grandchild, Leonora, to open relations in a friendly way with Lavengro, and then to persuade him to eat of a "drabbed" of poisoned cake. Lavengro was grievously sick, but was saved in the nick of time by the appearance upon the scene of a Welsh preacher, Peter Williams, and his wife--two good souls who wandered over all Wales and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine, and doing all the good they could. They never slept beneath a roof, unless the weather was very severe. The preacher had a heavy burden upon his mind, to wit, "the sin against the Holy Ghost," committed when he was but a lad. Lavengro journeys for several days with the preacher and his wife, assuring the former that in common with most other boys he himself, when of tender years, had committed twenty such sins and felt no uneasiness about them. The young man's conversation had the effect of greatly lightening the despair of the old preacher. The latter begged the word- master to accompany him into Wales. On the border, however, Lavengro encountered a gypsy pal of his youthful days, Jasper Petulengro, and turned back with him. Mr. Petulengro informs him of the end of his old enemy, Mrs. Herne. Baffled in her designs against the stranger, the old woman had hanged herself. "You observe, brother," said Petulengro, springing from his horse, "there is a point at present between us. There can be no doubt that you are the cause of Mrs. Herne's death--innocently, you will say, but still the cause. Now I shouldn't like it to be known that I went up and down the country with a pal who was the cause of my mother-in-law's death: that is to say, unless he gave me satisfaction." So they fell to with their naked fists on a broad strip of grass in the shade under some lofty trees. In half an hour's time Lavengro's face was covered with blood, whereupon Mr. Petulengro exclaimed, "Put your hands down, brother: I'm satisfied; blood has been shed, which is all that can be expected for an old woman who carried so much brimstone about with her as Mrs. Herne."] So we resumed our route, Mr. Petulengro sitting sideways on his horse, and I driving my little pony-cart; and when we had proceeded about three miles, we came to a small public-house, which bore the sign of the "Silent Woman," where we stopped to refresh our cattle and ourselves; and as we sat over our bread and ale, it came to pass that Mr. Petulengro asked me various questions, and amongst others, how I intended to dispose of myself. I told him that I did not know; whereupon, with considerable frankness, he invited me to his camp, and told me that if I chose to settle down amongst them, and become a Rommany chal, {61} I should have his wife's sister, Ursula, who was still unmarried, and occasionally talked of me. I declined his offer, assigning as a reason the recent death of Mrs. Herne, of which I was the cause, although innocent. "A pretty life I should lead with those two," said I, "when they came to know it." "Pooh," said Mr. Petulengro, "they will never know it. I shan't blab, and as for Leonora, that girl has a head on her shoulder's." "Unlike the woman in the sign," said I, "whose head is cut off. You speak nonsense, Mr. Petulengro: as long as a woman has a head on her shoulders she'll talk,--but, leaving women out of the case, it is impossible to keep anything a secret; an old master of mine told me so long ago. I have moreover another reason for declining your offer. I am at present not disposed for society. I am become fond of solitude. I wish I could find some quiet place to which I could retire to hold communion with my own thoughts, and practise, if I thought fit, either of my trades." "What trades?" said Mr. Petulengro. "Why, the one which I have lately been engaged in, or my original one, which I confess I should like better, that of a kaulomescro." {62} "Ah, I have frequently heard you talk of making horseshoes," said Mr. Petulengro. "I, however, never saw you make one, and no one else that I am aware, I don't believe. Come, brother, don't be angry,--it's quite possible that you may have done things which neither I nor any one else has seen you do, and that such things may some day or other come to light, as you say nothing can be kept secret. Be that, however, as it may, pay the reckoning, and let us be going. I think I can advise you to just such a kind of place as you seem to want." "And how do you know that I have got wherewithal to pay the reckoning?" I demanded. "Brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "I was just now looking in your face, which exhibited the very look of a person conscious of the possession of property; there was nothing hungry or sneaking in it. Pay the reckoning, brother." And when we were once more upon the road Mr. Petulengro began to talk of the place which he conceived would serve me as a retreat under present circumstances. "I tell you frankly, brother, that it is a queer kind of place, and I am not very fond of pitching my tent in it, it is so surprisingly dreary. It is a deep dingle in the midst of a large field, on an estate about which there has been a lawsuit for some years past. I daresay you will be quiet enough, for the nearest town is five miles distant, and there are only a few huts and hedge public-houses in the neighbourhood. Brother, I am fond of solitude myself, but not that kind of solitude: I like a quiet heath, where I can pitch my house, but I always like to have a gay stirring place not far off, where the women can pen dukkerin, {63a} and I myself can sell or buy a horse, if needful--such a place as the Chong Gav. {63b} I never feel so merry as when there, brother, or on the heath above it, where I taught you Rommany." Shortly after this discourse we reached a milestone, and a few yards from the milestone, on the left hand, was a cross-road. Thereupon Mr. Petulengro said, "Brother, my path lies to the left; if you choose to go with me to my camp, good; if not, Chal Devlehi." {63c} But I again refused Mr. Petulengro's invitation, and, shaking him by the hand, proceeded forward alone, and about ten miles farther on I reached the town of which he had spoken, and following certain directions which he had given, discovered, though not without some difficulty, the dingle which he had mentioned. It was a deep hollow in the midst of a wide field, the shelving sides were overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt of sallows surrounded it on the top, a steep winding path led down into the depths, practicable, however, for a light cart, like mine; at the bottom was an open space, and there I pitched my tent, and there I contrived to put up my forge, "I will here ply the trade of kaulomescro," {64} said I. CHAPTER II--THE SHOEING OF AMBROL. It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical about a forge. I am not singular in this opinion: various individuals have assured me that they never pass by one, even in the midst of a crowded town, without experiencing sensations which they can scarcely define, but which are highly pleasurable. I have a decided penchant for forges, especially rural ones placed in some quaint quiet spot--a dingle, for example, which is a poetical place, or at a meeting of four roads, which is still more so; for how many a superstition--and superstition is the soul of poetry--is connected with these cross roads! I love to light upon such a one, especially after nightfall, as everything about a forge tells to most advantage at night; the hammer sounds more solemnly in the stillness, the glowing particles scattered by the stroke sparkle with more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty visage of the sastramescro, {65a} half in shadow, and half illumined by the red and partial blaze of the forge, looks more mysterious and strange. On such occasions I draw in my horse's rein, and, seated in the saddle, endeavour to associate with the picture before me--in itself a picture of romance--whatever of the wild and wonderful I have read of in books, or have seen with mine own eyes in connection with forges. I believe the life of any blacksmith, especially a rural one, would afford materials for a highly poetical history. I do not speak unadvisedly, having the honour to be free of the forge, and therefore fully competent to give an opinion as to what might be made out of the forge by some dextrous hand. Certainly, the strangest and most entertaining life ever written is that of a blacksmith of the olden north, a certain Volundr, or Velint, {65b} who lived in woods and thickets, made keen swords,--so keen, indeed, that if placed by a running stream, they would fairly divide an object, however slight, which was borne against them by the water--and who eventually married a king's daughter, by whom he had a son, who was as bold a knight as his father was a cunning blacksmith. I never see a forge at night, when seated on the back of my horse at the bottom of a dark lane, but I somehow or other associate it with the exploits of this extraordinary fellow, with many other extraordinary things, amongst which, as I have hinted before, are particular passages of my own life, one or two of which I shall perhaps relate to the reader. I never associate Vulcan and his Cyclops with the idea of a forge. These gentry would be the very last people in the world to flit across my mind whilst gazing at the forge from the bottom of the dark lane. The truth is, they are highly unpoetical fellows, as well they may be, connected as they are with Grecian mythology. At the very mention of their names the forge burns dull and dim, as if snowballs had been suddenly flung into it; the only remedy is to ply the bellows, an operation which I now hasten to perform. I am in the dingle making a horseshoe. Having no other horses on whose hoofs I could exercise my art, I made my first essay on those of my own horse, if that could be called horse which horse was none, being only a pony. Perhaps if I had sought all England I should scarcely have found an animal more in need of the kind offices of the smith. On three of his feet there were no shoes at all, and on the fourth only a remnant of one, on which account his hoofs were sadly broken and lacerated by his late journeys over the hard and flinty roads. "You belonged to a tinker before," said I, addressing the animal, "but now you belong to a smith. It is said that the household of the shoemaker invariably go worse shod than that of any other craft. That may be the case of those who make shoes of leather, but it shan't be said of the household of him who makes shoes of iron; at any rate, it shan't be said of mine. I tell you what, my gry, {67a} whilst you continue with me, you shall both be better shod, and better fed, than you were with your late master." I am in the dingle making a petul; {67b} and I must here observe, that whilst I am making a horseshoe, the reader need not be surprised if I speak occasionally in the language of the lord of the horseshoe--Mr. Petulengro. I have for some time past been plying the peshota, or bellows, endeavouring to raise up the yag, or fire, in my primitive forge. The angar, or coals, are now burning fiercely, casting forth sparks and long vagescoe chipes, or tongues of flame; a small bar of sastra, or iron, is lying in the fire, to the length of ten or twelve inches, and so far it is hot, very hot, exceeding hot, brother. And now you see me prala, snatch the bar of iron, and place the heated end of it upon the covantza, or anvil, and forthwith I commence cooring {67c} the sastra as hard as if I had been just engaged by a master at the rate of dui caulor, or two shillings a day, brother; and when I have beaten the iron till it is nearly cool, and my arm tired, I place it again in the angar, and begin again to rouse the fire with the pudomengro, which signifies the blowing thing, and is another and more common word for bellows, and whilst thus employed I sing a gypsy song, the sound of which is wonderfully in unison with the hoarse moaning of the pudamengro, and ere the song is finished, the iron is again hot and malleable. Behold, I place it once more on the covantza, and recommence hammering; and now I am somewhat at fault: I am in want of assistance; I want you, brother, or some one else, to take the bar out of my hand and support it upon the covantza, whilst I, applying a chinomescro, or kind of chisel, to the heated iron, cut off with a lusty stroke or two of the shukaro baro, or big hammer, as much as is required for the petul. But having no one to help me, I go on hammering till I have fairly knocked off as much as I want, and then I place the piece in the fire, and again apply the bellows, and take up the song where I left it off; and when I have finished the song, I take out the iron, but this time with my plaistra, or pincers, and then I recommence hammering, turning the iron round and round with my pincers: and now I bend the iron, and lo, and behold, it has assumed something the outline of a petul. I am not going to enter into farther details with respect to the process--it was rather a wearisome one. I had to contend with various disadvantages: my forge was a rude one, my tools might have been better; I was in want of one or two highly necessary implements, but, above all, manual dexterity. Though free of the forge, I had not practised the albeytarian art for very many years, never since--but stay, it is not my intention to tell the reader, at least in this place, how and when I became a blacksmith. There was one thing, however, which stood me in good stead in my labour, the same thing which through life has ever been of incalculable utility to me, and has not unfrequently supplied the place of friends, money, and many other things of almost equal importance--iron perseverance, without which all the advantages of time and circumstances are of very little avail in any undertaking. I was determined to make a horseshoe, and a good one, in spite of every obstacle--ay, in spite o' dukkerin. At the end of four days, during which I had fashioned and re-fashioned the thing at least fifty times, I had made a petul such as no master of the craft need have been ashamed of; with the second shoe I had less difficulty, and, by the time I had made the fourth, I would have scorned to take off my hat to the best smith in Cheshire. But I had not yet shod my little gry; {69a} this I proceeded now to do. After having first well pared the hoofs with my churi, {69b} I applied each petul hot, glowing hot to the pindro. {69c} Oh, how the hoofs hissed; and, oh, the pleasant pungent odour which diffused itself through the dingle, an odour good for an ailing spirit! I shoed the little horse bravely--merely pricked him once, slightly with a cafi, {69d} for doing which, I remember, he kicked me down; I was not disconcerted, however, but, getting up, promised to be more cautious in future; and having finished the operation, I filed the hoof well with the rin baro; {69e} then dismissed him to graze amongst the trees, and, putting my smaller tools into the muchtar, {69f} I sat down on my stone, and, supporting my arm upon my knee, leaned my head upon my hand. Heaviness had come over me. CHAPTER III--THE DARK HOUR COMES UPON LAVENGRO AND HIS SOUL IS HEAVY WITHIN HIM. Heaviness had suddenly come over me, heaviness of heart, and of body also. I had accomplished the task which I had imposed upon myself, and now that nothing more remained to do, my energies suddenly deserted me, and I felt without strength and without hope. Several causes, perhaps, co-operated to bring about the state in which I then felt myself. It is not improbable that my energies had been overstrained during the work, the progress of which I have attempted to describe; and everyone is aware that the results of overstrained energies are feebleness and lassitude--want of nourishment might likewise have something to do with it. During my sojourn in the dingle, my food had been of the simplest and most unsatisfying description, by no means calculated to support the exertion which the labour I had been engaged upon required; it had consisted of coarse oaten cakes and hard cheese, and for beverage I had been indebted to a neighbouring pit, in which, in the heat of the day, I frequently saw, not golden or silver fish, but frogs and eftes swimming about. I am, however, inclined to believe that Mrs. Herne's cake had quite as much to do with the matter as insufficient nourishment. I had never entirely recovered from the effects of its poison, but had occasionally, especially at night, been visited by a grinding pain in the stomach, and my whole body had been suffused with cold sweat; and indeed these memorials of the drow {71} have never entirely disappeared--even at the present time they display themselves in my system, especially after much fatigue of body and excitement of mind. So there I sat in the dingle upon my stone, nerveless and hopeless, by whatever cause or causes that state had been produced--there I sat with my head leaning upon my hand, and so I continued a long, long time. At last I lifted my head from my hand, and began to cast anxious, unquiet looks about the dingle--the entire hollow was now enveloped in deep shade--I cast my eyes up; there was a golden gleam on the tops of the trees which grew towards the upper parts of the dingle; but lower down, all was gloom and twilight--yet, when I first sat down on my stone, the sun was right above the dingle, illuminating all its depths by the rays which it cast perpendicularly down--so I must have sat a long, long time upon my stone. And now, once more, I rested my head upon my hand, but almost instantly lifted it again in a kind of fear, and began looking at the objects before me--the forge, the tools, the branches of the trees, endeavouring to follow their rows, till they were lost in the darkness of the dingle. And now I found my right hand grasping convulsively three forefingers of the left, first collectively, and then successively, wringing them till the joints cracked; then I became quiet, but not for long. Suddenly I started up, and could scarcely repress the shriek which was rising to my lips. Was it possible? Yes, all too certain: the evil one was upon me; the inscrutable horror which I had felt in my boyhood had once more taken possession of me. I had thought that it had forsaken me; that it would never visit me again; that I had outgrown it; that I might almost bid defiance to it; and I had even begun to think of it without horror, as we are in the habit of doing of horrors of which we conceive we run no danger; and lo! when least thought of, it had seized me again. Every moment I felt it gathering force, and making me more wholly its own. What should I do?--resist, of course; and I did resist. I grasped, I tore, and strove to fling it from me; but of what avail were my efforts? I could only have got rid of it by getting rid of myself: it was a part of myself, or rather it was all myself. I rushed amongst the trees, and struck at them with my bare fists, and dashed my head against them, but I felt no pain. How could I feel pain with that horror upon me! and then I flung myself on the ground, gnawed the earth, and swallowed it; and then I looked round: it was almost total darkness in the dingle, and the darkness added to my horror. I could no longer stay there; up I rose from the ground, and attempted to escape; at the bottom of the winding path which led up the acclivity I fell over something which was lying on the ground; the something moved, and gave a kind of whine. It was my little horse, which had made that place its lair--my little horse, my only companion and friend, in that now awful solitude. I reached the mouth of the dingle; the sun was just sinking in the far west, behind me; the fields were flooded with his last gleams. How beautiful everything looked in the last gleams of the sun! I felt relieved for a moment; I was no longer in the horrid dingle; in another minute the sun was gone, and a big cloud occupied the place where he had been; in a little time it was almost as dark as it had previously been in the open part of the dingle. My horror increased; what was I to do!--it was of no use fighting against the horror--that I saw; the more I fought against it, the stronger it became. What should I do? say my prayers? Ah! why not? So I knelt down under the hedge, and said, "Our Father"; but that was of no use; and now I could no longer repress cries; the horror was too great to be borne. What should I do: run to the nearest town or village, and request the assistance of my fellow-men? No! that I was ashamed to do; notwithstanding the horror was upon me, I was ashamed to do that. I knew they would consider me a maniac if I went screaming amongst them; and I did not wish to be considered a maniac. Moreover, I knew that I was not a maniac for I possessed all my reasoning powers, only the horror was upon me--the screaming horror! But how were indifferent people to distinguish between madness and this screaming horror? So I thought and reasoned; and at last I determined not to go amongst my fellow-men, whatever the result might be. I went to the mouth of the dingle, and there, placing myself on my knees, I again said the Lord's Prayer; but it was of no use; praying seemed to have no effect over the horror; the unutterable fear appeared rather to increase than diminish; and I again uttered wild cries, so loud that I was apprehensive they would be heard by some chance passenger on the neighbouring road; I, therefore, went deeper into the dingle; I sat down with my back against a thorn bush; the thorns entered my flesh; and when I felt them, I pressed harder against the bush; I thought the pain of the flesh might in some degree counteract the mental agony; presently I felt them no longer; the power of the mental horror was so great that it was impossible, with that upon me, to feel any pain from the thorns. I continued in this posture a long time, undergoing what I cannot describe, and would not attempt if I were able. Several times I was on the point of starting up and rushing anywhere; but I restrained myself, for I knew I could not escape from myself, so why should I not remain in the dingle? So I thought and said to myself, for my reasoning powers were still uninjured. At last it appeared to me that the horror was not so strong, not quite so strong upon me. Was it possible that it was relaxing its grasp, releasing its prey? O what a mercy! but it could not be--and yet I looked up to heaven, and clasped my hands, and said, "Our Father." I said no more; I was too agitated; and now I was almost sure that the horror had done its worst. After a little time I arose, and staggered down yet farther into the dingle. I again found my little horse on the same spot as before. I put my hand to his mouth; he licked my hand. I flung myself down by him and put my arms round his neck; the creature whinnied, and appeared to sympathize with me; what a comfort to have any one, even a dumb brute, to sympathize with me at such a moment! I clung to my little horse, as if for safety and protection. I laid my head on his neck, and felt almost calm; presently the fear returned, but not so wild as before; it subsided, came again, again subsided; then drowsiness came over me, and at last I fell asleep, my head supported on the neck of the little horse. I awoke; it was dark, dark night--not a star was to be seen--but I felt no fear, the horror had left me. I arose from the side of the little horse, and went into my tent, lay down, and again went to sleep. I awoke in the morning weak and sore, and shuddering at the remembrance of what I had gone through on the preceding day. The sun was shining brightly, but it had not yet risen high enough to show its head above the trees which fenced the eastern side of the dingle, on which account the dingle was wet and dank, from the dews of the night. I kindled my fire, and, after sitting by it for some time to warm my frame, I took some of the coarse food which I have already mentioned; notwithstanding my late struggle, and the coarseness of the fare, I ate with appetite. My provisions had by this time been very much diminished, and I saw that it would be speedily necessary, in the event of my continuing to reside in the dingle, to lay in a fresh store. After my meal I went to the pit, and filled a can with water, which I brought to the dingle, and then again sat down on my stone. I considered what I should next do: it was necessary to do something, or my life in this solitude would be unsupportable. What should I do? rouse up my forge and fashion a horseshoe; but I wanted nerve and heart for such an employment; moreover, I had no motive for fatiguing myself in this manner; my own horse was shod, no other was at hand, and it is hard to work for the sake of working. What should I do? read? Yes, but I had no other book than the Bible which the Welsh Methodist had given me: well, why not read the Bible? I was once fond of reading the Bible; ay, but those days were long gone by. However, I did not see what else I could do on the present occasion--so I determined to read the Bible--it was in Welsh; at any rate it might amuse me, so I took the Bible out of the sack, in which it was lying in the cart, and began to read at the place where I chanced to open it. I opened it at the part where the history of Saul commences. At first I read with indifference, but after some time my attention was riveted. And no wonder: I had come to the visitations of Saul, those dark moments of his, when he did and said such unaccountable things; it almost appeared to me that I was reading of myself; I, too, had my visitations, dark as ever his were. O, how I sympathized with Saul, the tall dark man! I had read his life before, but it had made no impression on me; it had never occurred to me that I was like him, but I now sympathized with Saul, for my own dark hour was but recently passed, and, perhaps, would soon return again; the dark hour came frequently on Saul. Time wore away; I finished the book of Saul, and, closing the volume, returned it to its place. I then returned to my seat on the stone, and thought of what I had read, and what I had lately undergone. All at once I thought I felt well-known sensations--a cramping of the breast, and a tingling of the soles of the feet--they were what I had felt on the preceding day; they were the forerunners of the fear. I sat motionless on my stone; the sensations passed away, and the fear came not. Darkness was now coming again over the earth; the dingle was again in deep shade. I roused the fire with the breath of the bellows, and sat looking at the cheerful glow; it was cheering and comforting. My little horse came now and lay down on the ground beside the forge; I was not quite deserted. I again ate some of the coarse food, and drank plentifully of the water which I had fetched in the morning. I then put fresh fuel on the fire, and sat for a long time looking on the blaze; I then went into my tent. I awoke, on my own calculation, about midnight--it was pitch dark, and there was much fear upon me. CHAPTER IV.--A CLASSICAL ENCOUNTER--LONG MELFORD TO THE RESCUE. Two mornings after the period to which I have brought the reader in the preceding chapter, I sat by my fire at the bottom of the dingle. I had just breakfasted, and had finished the last morsel of food which I had brought with me to that solitude. "What shall I now do?" said I to myself: "shall I continue here, or decamp? This is a sad lonely spot--perhaps I had better quit it; but whither should I go? the wide world is before me, but what can I do therein? I have been in the world already without much success. No, I had better remain here; the place is lonely, it is true, but here I am free and independent, and can do what I please; but I can't remain here without food. Well, I will find my way to the nearest town, lay in a fresh supply of provision, and come back, turning my back upon the world, which has turned its back upon me. I don't see why I should not write a little sometimes; I have pens and an ink-horn, and for a writing-desk I can place the Bible on my knee. I shouldn't wonder if I could write a capital satire on the world on the back of that Bible; but first of all I must think of supplying myself with food." I rose up from the stone on which I was seated, determining to go to the nearest town, with my little horse and cart and procure what I wanted. The nearest town, according to my best calculation, lay about five miles distant; I had no doubt, however, that by using ordinary diligence, I should be back before evening. In order to go lighter, I determined to leave my tent standing as it was, and all the things which I had purchased of the tinker, just as they were. "I need not be apprehensive on their account," said I to myself; "nobody will come here to meddle with them--the great recommendation of this place is its perfect solitude--I dare say that I could live here six months without seeing a single human visage. I will now harness my little gry and be off to the town." At a whistle which I gave, the little gry, which was feeding on the bank near the uppermost part of the dingle, came running to me, for by this time he had become so accustomed to me that he would obey my call for all the world as if he had been one of the canine species. "Now," said I to him, "we are going to the town to buy bread for myself, and oats for you--I am in a hurry to be back; therefore, I pray you to do your best, and to draw me and the cart to the town with all possible speed, and to bring us back; if you do your best, I promise you oats on your return. You know the meaning of oats, Ambrol?" Ambrol whinnied as if to let me know that he understood me perfectly well, as indeed he well might, as I had never once fed him during the time he had been in my possession without saying the word in question to him. Now, Ambrol, in the Gypsy tongue, signifieth a pear. So I caparisoned Ambrol, and then, going to the cart, removed two or three things from out it into the tent; I then lifted up the shafts, and was just going to call to the pony to come and be fastened to them, when I thought I heard a noise. I stood stock still, supporting the shaft of the little cart in my hand, and bending the right side of my face slightly towards the ground; but I could hear nothing. The noise which I thought I had heard was not one of those sounds which I was accustomed to hear in that solitude--the note of a bird, or the rustling of a bough; it was--there I heard it again--a sound very much resembling the grating of a wheel amongst gravel. Could it proceed from the road? Oh no, the road was too far distant for me to hear the noise of anything moving along it. Again I listened, and now I distinctly heard the sound of wheels, which seemed to be approaching the dingle; nearer and nearer they drew, and presently the sound of wheels was blended with the murmur of voices. Anon I heard a boisterous shout, which seemed to proceed from the entrance of the dingle. "Here are folks at hand," said I, letting the shaft of the cart fall to the ground: "is it possible that they can be coming here?" My doubts on that point, if I entertained any, were soon dispelled: the wheels, which had ceased moving for a moment or two, were once again in motion, and were now evidently moving down the winding path which led to my retreat. Leaving my cart, I came forward and placed myself near the entrance of the open space, with my eyes fixed on the path down which my unexpected and I may say unwelcome visitors were coming. Presently I heard a stamping or sliding, as if of a horse in some difficulty; and then a loud curse, and the next moment appeared a man and a horse and cart; the former holding the head of the horse up to prevent him from falling, of which he was in danger, owing to the precipitous nature of the path. Whilst thus occupied, the head of the man was averted from me. When, however, he had reached the bottom of the descent, he turned his head, and perceiving me, as I stood bareheaded, without either coat or waistcoat, about two yards from him, he gave a sudden start, so violent that the backward motion of his hand had nearly flung the horse upon his haunches. "Why don't you move forward?" said a voice from behind, apparently that of a female; "you are stopping up the way, and we shall be all down upon one another;" and I saw the head of another horse overtopping the back of the cart. "Why don't you move forward, Jack?" said another voice, also of a female, yet higher up the path. The man stirred not, but remained staring at me in the posture which he had assumed on first perceiving me, his body very much drawn back, his left foot far in advance of his right, and with his right hand still grasping the halter of the horse, which gave way more and more, till it was clean down on its haunches. "What's the matter?" said the voice which I had last heard. "Get back with you, Belle, Moll," said the man, still staring at me: "here's something not over-canny or comfortable here." "What is it?" said the same voice; "let me pass, Moll, and I'll soon clear the way," and I heard a kind of rushing down the path. "You need not be afraid," said I, addressing myself to the man,--"I mean you no harm; I am a wanderer like yourself---come here to seek for shelter--you need not be afraid; I am a Rome chabo {82} by matriculation--one of the right sort, and no mistake. Good day to ye, brother; I bids ye welcome." The man eyed me suspiciously for a moment--then, turning to his horse with a loud curse, he pulled him up from his haunches, and led him and the cart farther down to one side of the dingle, muttering as he passed me, "Afraid? Hm!" I do not remember ever to have seen a more ruffianly-looking fellow: he was about six feet high, with an immensely athletic frame; his face was black and bluff, and sported an immense pair of whiskers, but with here and there a grey hair, for his age could not be much under fifty. He wore a faded blue frock coat, corduroys, and highlows--on his black head was a kind of red nightcap, round his bull neck a Barcelona handkerchief--I did not like the look of the man at all. "Afraid," growled the fellow, proceeding to unharness his horse; "that was the word, I think." But other figures were now already upon the scene. Dashing past the other horse and cart, which by this time had reached the bottom of the pass, appeared an exceedingly tall woman, or rather girl, for she could scarcely have been above eighteen; she was dressed in a tight bodice, and a blue stuff gown; hat, bonnet or cap she had none, and her hair, which was flaxen, hung down on her shoulders unconfined; her complexion was fair, and her features handsome, with a determined but open expression. She was followed by another female, about forty, stout and vulgar-looking, at whom I scarcely glanced, my whole attention being absorbed by the tall girl. "What's the matter, Jack?" said the latter, looking at the man. "Only afraid, that's all," said the man, still proceeding with his work. "Afraid at what?--at that lad? Why, he looks like a ghost--I would engage to thrash him with one hand." "You might beat me with no hands at all," said I, "fair damsel, only by looking at me: I never saw such a face and figure, both regal--why, you look like Ingeborg, Queen of Norway; she had twelve brothers, you know, and could lick them all, though they were heroes-- "'On Dovrefeld in Norway, Were once together seen, The twelve heroic brothers Of Ingeborg the queen.'" "None of your chaffing, young fellow," said the tall girl, "or I will give you what shall make you wipe your face; be civil, or you will rue it." "Well, perhaps I was a peg too high," said I: "I ask your pardon--here's something a bit lower-- "'As I was jawing to the gav yeck divvus {84a} I met on the drom miro Rommany chi--'" {84b} "None of your Rommany chies, young fellow," said the tall girl, looking more menacingly than before, and clenching her fist; "you had better be civil. I am none of your chies; and, though I keep company with gypsies or, to speak more proper, half and halfs, I would have you to know that I come of Christian blood and parents, and was born in the great house of Long Melford." "I have no doubt," said I, "that it was a great house; judging from your size, I shouldn't wonder if you were born in a church." "Stay, Belle," said the man, putting himself before the young virago, who was about to rush upon me, "my turn is first." Then, advancing to me in a menacing attitude, he said with a look of deep malignity, "'Afraid' was the word, wasn't it?" "It was," said I, "but I think I wronged you; I should have said, aghast--you exhibited every symptom of one labouring under uncontrollable fear." The fellow stared at me with a look of stupid ferocity, and appeared to be hesitating whether to strike or not: ere he could make up his mind, the tall girl stepped forward, crying, "He's chaffing; let me at him!" and, before I could put myself on my guard, she struck me a blow on the face which had nearly brought me to the ground. "Enough," said I, putting my hand to my cheek; "you have now performed your promise, and made me wipe my face: now be pacified, and tell me fairly the ground of this quarrel." "Grounds!" said the fellow; "didn't you say I was afraid? and if you hadn't, who gave you leave to camp on my ground?" "Is it your ground?" said I. "A pretty question," said the fellow; "as if all the world didn't know that. Do you know who I am?" "I guess I do," said I; "unless I am much mistaken, you are he whom folks call the 'Flaming Tinman.' To tell you the truth, I'm glad we have met, for I wished to see you. These are your two wives, I suppose; I greet them. There's no harm done--there's room enough here for all of us--we shall soon be good friends, I dare say; and when we are a little better acquainted, I'll tell you my history." "Well, if that doesn't beat all!" said the fellow. "I don't think he's chaffing now," said the girl, whose anger seemed to have subsided on a sudden; "the young man speaks civil enough." "Civil!" said the fellow, with an oath; "but that's just like you: with you it is a blow, and all over. Civil! I suppose you would have him stay here, and get into all my secrets, and hear all I may have to say to my two morts." "Two morts," {86} said the girl, kindling up--"where are they? Speak for one, and no more. I am no mort of yours, whatever some one else may be. I tell you one thing, Black John, or Anselo, for t'other an't your name, the same thing I told the young man here, be civil, or you will rue it." The fellow looked at the girl furiously, but his glance soon quailed before hers; he withdrew his eyes, and cast them on my little horse, which was feeding amongst the trees. "What's this?" said he, rushing forward and seizing the animal. "Why, as I am alive, this is the horse of that mumping villain Slingsby." "It's his no longer; I bought it and paid for it." "It's mine now," said the fellow; "I swore I would seize it the next time I found it on my beat--ay, and beat the master too." "I am not Slingsby." "All's one for that." "You don't say you will beat me?" "Afraid was the word." "I'm sick and feeble." "Hold up your fists." "Won't the horse satisfy you?" "Horse nor bellows either." "No mercy, then." "Here's at you." "Mind your eyes, Jack. There, you've got it. I thought so," shouted the girl, as the fellow staggered back from a sharp blow in the eye. "I thought he was chaffing at you all along." "Never mind, Anselo. You know what to do--go in," said the vulgar woman, who had hitherto not spoken a word, but who now came forward with all the look of a fury; "go in, apopli; {87} you'll smash ten like he." The Flaming Tinman took her advice, and came in bent on smashing, but stopped short on receiving a left-handed blow on the nose. "You'll never beat the Flaming Tinman in that way," said the girl, looking at me doubtfully. And so I began to think myself, when, in the twinkling of an eye, the Flaming Tinman disengaged himself of his frock-coat, and, dashing off his red nightcap, came rushing in more desperately than ever. To a flush hit which he received in the mouth he paid as little attention as a wild bull would have done; in a moment his arms were around me, and in another, he had hurled me down, falling heavily upon me. The fellow's strength appeared to be tremendous. "Pay him off now," said the vulgar woman. The Flaming Tinman made no reply, but planting his knee on my breast, seized my throat with two huge horny hands. I gave myself up for dead, and probably should have been so in another minute but for the tall girl, who caught hold of the handkerchief which the fellow wore round his neck with a grasp nearly as powerful as that with which he pressed my throat. "Do you call that fair play?" said she. "Hands off, Belle," said the other woman; "do you call it fair play to interfere? hands off, or I'll be down upon you myself." But Belle paid no heed to the injunction, and tugged so hard at the handkerchief, that the Flaming Tinman was nearly throttled; suddenly relinquishing his hold of me, he started on his feet, and aimed a blow at my fair preserver, who avoided it, but said coolly:-- "Finish t'other business first, and then I'm your woman whenever you like; but finish it fairly--no foul play when I'm by--I'll be the boy's second, and Moll can pick you up when he happens to knock you down." The battle during the next ten minutes raged with considerable fury, but it so happened that during this time I was never able to knock the Flaming Tinman down, but on the contrary received six knock-down blows myself. "I can never stand this," said I, as I sat on the knee of Belle: "I am afraid I must give in; the Flaming Tinman hits very hard," and I spat out a mouthful of blood. "Sure enough you'll never beat the Flaming Tinman in the way you fight--it's of no use flipping at the Flaming Tinman with your left hand: why don't you use your right?" "Because I'm not handy with it," said I; and then getting up, I once more confronted the Flaming Tinman, and struck him six blows for his one, but they were all left-handed blows, and the blow which the Flaming Tinman gave me knocked me off my legs. "Now, will you use Long Melford?" said Belle, picking me up. "I don't know what you mean by Long Melford," said I, gasping for breath. "Why, this long right of yours," said Belle, feeling my right arm--"if you do, I shouldn't wonder if you yet stand a chance." And now the Flaming Tinman was once more ready, much more ready than myself. I, however, rose from my second's knee as well as my weakness would permit me; on he came striking left and right, appearing almost as fresh as to wind and spirit as when he first commenced the combat, though his eyes were considerably swelled, and his nether lip was cut in two; on he came, striking left and right, and I did not like his blows at all, or even the wind of them, which was anything but agreeable, and I gave way before him. At last he aimed a blow which, had it taken full effect, would doubtless have ended the battle, but, owing to his slipping, the fist only grazed my left shoulder, and came with terrific force against a tree, close to which I had been driven; before the Tinman could recover himself, I collected all my strength, and struck him beneath the ear, and then fell to the ground completely exhausted, and it so happened that the blow which I struck the Tinker beneath the ear was a right-handed blow. "Hurrah for Long Melford!" I heard Belle exclaim; "there is nothing like Long Melford for shortness all the world over." At these words, I turned round my head as I lay, and perceived the Flaming Tinman stretched upon the ground apparently senseless. "He is dead," said the vulgar woman, as she vainly endeavoured to raise him up; "he is dead; the best man in all the north country, killed in this fashion, by a boy." Alarmed at these words, I made shift to get on my feet; and, with the assistance of the woman, placed my fallen adversary in a sitting posture. I put my hand to his heart, and felt a slight pulsation. "He's not dead," said I, "only stunned; if he were let blood, he would recover presently." I produced a penknife which I had in my pocket, and, baring the arm of the Tinman, was about to make the necessary incision, when the woman gave me a violent blow, and, pushing me aside, exclaimed, "I'll tear the eyes out of your head, if you offer to touch him. Do you want to complete your work, and murder him outright, now he's asleep? you have had enough of his blood already." "You are mad," said I; "I only seek to do him service. Well, if you won't let him be blooded, fetch some water and fling it into his face; you know where the pit is." "A pretty manoeuvre," said the woman: "leave my mard {90a} in the hands of you and that limmer, {90b} who has never been true to us: I should find him strangled or his throat cut when I came back." "Do you go," said I to the tall girl, "take the can and fetch some water from the pit." "You had better go yourself," said the girl, wiping a tear as she looked on the yet senseless form of the tinker; "you had better go yourself, if you think water will do him good." I had by this time somewhat recovered my exhausted powers, and, taking the can, I bent my steps as fast as I could to the pit; arriving there, I lay down on the brink, took a long draught, and then plunged my head into the water; after which I filled the can, and bent my way back to the dingle. Before I could reach the path which led down into its depths, I had to pass some way along its side; I had arrived at a part immediately over the scene of the last encounter, where the bank, overgrown with trees, sloped precipitously down. Here I heard a loud sound of voices in the dingle; I stopped, and laying hold of a tree, leaned over the bank and listened. The two women appeared to be in hot dispute in the dingle. "It was all owing to you, you limmer," said the vulgar woman to the other; "had you not interfered, the old man would soon have settled the boy." "I'm for fair play and Long Melford," said the other. "If yow old man, as you call him, could have settled the boy fairly, he might, for all I should have cared, but no foul work for me; and as for sticking the boy with our gulleys {91} when he comes back, as you proposed, I am not so fond of your old man or you that I should oblige you in it, to my soul's destruction." "Hold your tongue, or I'll . . ."; I listened no farther, but hastened as fast as I could to the dingle. My adversary had just begun to show signs of animation; the vulgar woman was still supporting him, and occasionally cast glances of anger at the tall girl, who was walking slowly up and down. I lost no time in dashing the greater part of the water into the Tinman's face, whereupon he sneezed, moved his hands, and presently looked round him. At first his looks were dull and heavy, and without any intelligence at all; he soon, however, began to recollect himself, and to be conscious of his situation; he cast a scowling glance at me, then one of the deepest malignity at the tall girl, who was still walking about without taking much notice of what was going forward. At last he looked at his right hand, which had evidently suffered from the blow against the tree, and a half-stifled curse escaped his lips. The vulgar woman now said something to him in a low tone, whereupon he looked at her for a moment, and then got upon his legs. Again the vulgar woman said something to him; her looks were furious, and she appeared to be urging him on to attempt something. I observed that she had a clasped knife in her hand. The fellow remained standing for some time, as if hesitating what to do; at last he looked at his hand, and, shaking his head, said something to the woman which I did not understand. The tall girl, however, appeared to overhear him, and, probably repeating his words, said, "No, it won't do: you are right there; and now hear what I have to say,--let bygones be bygones, and let us all shake hands, and camp here, as the young man was saying just now." The man looked at her, and then, without any reply, went to his horse, which was lying down among the trees, and kicking it up, led it to the cart, to which he forthwith began to harness it. The other cart and horse had remained standing motionless during the whole affair which I have been recounting, at the bottom of the pass. The woman now took the horse by the head, and leading it with the cart into the open part of the dingle, turned both round, and then led them back, till the horse and cart had mounted a little way up the ascent; she then stood still and appeared to be expecting the man. During this proceeding Belle had stood looking on without saying anything; at last, perceiving that the man had harnessed his horse to the other cart, and that both he and the woman were about to take their departure, she said, "You are not going, are you?" Receiving no answer, she continued: "I tell you what, both of you, Black John, and you Moll, his mort, this is not treating me over civilly,--however, I am ready to put up with it, and to go with you if you like, for I bear no malice. I'm sorry for what has happened, but you have only yourselves to thank for it. Now, shall I go with you? only tell me." The man made no manner of reply, but flogged his horse. The woman, however, whose passions were probably under less control, replied, with a screeching tone, "Stay where you are, you jade, and may the curse of Judas cling to you,--stay with the bit of a mullo {93a} whom you helped, and my only hope is that he may gulley {93b} you before he comes to be--Have you with us, indeed! after what's past, no, nor nothing belonging to you. Fetch down your mailla {94a} go-cart and live here with your chabo." {94b} She then whipped on the horse, and ascended the pass, followed by the man. The carts were light, and they were not long in ascending the winding path. I followed, to see that they took their departure. Arriving at the top, I found near the entrance a small donkey- cart, which I concluded belonged to the girl. The tinker and his mort were already at some distance; I stood looking after them for a little time, then taking the donkey by the reins I led it with the cart to the bottom of the dingle. Arrived there, I found Belle seated on the stone by the fireplace. Her hair was all dishevelled, and she was in tears. "They were bad people," said she, "and I did not like them, but they were my only acquaintance in the wide world." CHAPTER V.--ISOPEL BERNERS: A TALL GIRL OF EIGHTEEN, AND HER STORY. In the evening of that same day the tall girl and I sat at tea by the fire, at the bottom of the dingle; the girl on a small stool, and myself, as usual, upon my stone. The water which served for the tea had been taken from a spring of pellucid water in the neighbourhood, which I had not had the good fortune to discover, though it was well known to my companion, and to the wandering people who frequented the dingle. "This tea is very good," said I, "but I cannot enjoy it as much as if I were well: I feel very sadly." "How else should you feel," said the girl, "after fighting with the Flaming Tinman? All I wonder is that you can feel at all! As for the tea, it ought to be good, seeing that it cost me ten shillings a pound." "That's a great deal for a person in your station to pay." "In my station! I'd have you to know, young man--however, I haven't the heart to quarrel with you, you look so ill; and after all, it is a good sum to pay for one who travels the roads; but if I must have tea, I like to have the best; and tea I must have, for I am used to it, though I can't help thinking that it sometimes fills my head with strange fancies--what some folks call vapours, making me weep and cry!" "Dear me," said I, "I should never have thought that one of your size and fierceness would weep and cry!" "My size and fierceness! I tell you what, young man, you are not over civil, this evening; but you are ill, as I said before, and I shan't take much notice of your language, at least for the present; as for my size, I am not so much bigger than yourself; and as for being fierce, you should be the last one to fling that at me. It is well for you that I can be fierce sometimes. If I hadn't taken your part against Blazing Bosville, you wouldn't be now taking tea with me." "It is true that you struck me in the face first; but we'll let that pass. So that man's name is Bosville; what's your own?" "Isopel Berners." "How did you get that name?" "I say, young man, you seem fond of asking questions! will you have another cup of tea?" "I was just going to ask for another." "Well, then, here it is, and much good may it do you; as for my name, I got it from my mother." "Your mother's name, then, was Isopel?" "Isopel Berners." "But had you never a father?" "Yes, I had a father," said the girl, sighing, "but I don't bear his name." "It is the fashion, then, in your country for children to bear their mother's name?" "If you ask such questions, young man, I shall be angry with you. I have told you my name, and whether my father's or mother's, I am not ashamed of it." "It is a noble name." "There you are right, young man. The chaplain in the great house, where I was born, told me it was a noble name; it was odd enough, he said, that the only three noble names in the country were to be found in the great house; mine was one; the other two were Devereux and Bohun." "What do you mean by the great house?" "The workhouse." "Is it possible that you were born there?" "Yes, young man; and as you now speak softly and kindly, I will tell you my whole tale. My father was an officer of the sea, and was killed at sea as he was coming home to marry my mother, Isopel Berners. He had been acquainted with her, and had left her; but after a few months he wrote her a letter, to say that he had no rest, and that he repented, and that as soon as his ship came to port he would do her all the reparation in his power. Well, young man, the very day before they reached port they met the enemy, and there was a fight, and my father was killed, after he had struck down six of the enemy's crew on their own deck; for my father was a big man, as I have heard, and knew tolerably well how to use his hands. And when my mother heard the news, she became half distracted, and ran away into the fields and forests, totally neglecting her business, for she was a small milliner; and so she ran demented about the meads and forests for a long time, now sitting under a tree, and now by the side of a river--at last she flung herself into some water, and would have been drowned, had not some one been at hand and rescued her, whereupon she was conveyed to the great house, lest she should attempt to do herself further mischief, for she had neither friends nor parents--and there she died three months after, having first brought me into the world. She was a sweet, pretty creature, I'm told, but hardly fit for this world, being neither large, nor fierce, nor able to take her own part. So I was born and bred in the great house, where I learnt to read and sew, to fear God, and to take my own part. When I was fourteen I was put out to service to a small farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not stay long, for I was half starved, and otherwise ill-treated, especially by my mistress, who one day attempted to knock me down with a besom, I knocked her down with my fist, and went back to the great house." "And how did they receive you in the great house?" "Not very kindly, young man--on the contrary, I was put into a dark room, where I was kept a fortnight on bread and water; I did not much care, however, being glad to have got back to the great house at any rate, the place where I was born, and where my poor mother died; and in the great house I continued two years longer, reading and sewing, fearing God, and taking my own part when necessary. At the end of the two years I was again put out to service, but this time to a rich farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not live long,--less time, I believe, than with the poor ones, being obliged to leave for--" "Knocking your mistress down?" "No, young man, knocking my master down, who conducted himself improperly towards me. This time I did not go back to the great house, having a misgiving that they would not receive me; so I turned my back to the great house where I was born, and where my poor mother died, and wandered for several days, I know not whither, supporting myself on a few halfpence, which I chanced to have in my pocket. It happened one day, as I sat under a hedge crying, having spent my last farthing, that a comfortable-looking elderly woman came up in a cart, and seeing the state in which I was, she stopped and asked what was the matter with me. I told her some part of my story, whereupon she said, 'Cheer up, my dear: if you like, you shall go with me, and wait upon me.' Of course I wanted little persuasion, so I got into the cart and went with her. She took me to London and various other places, and I soon found that she was a travelling woman, who went about the country with silks and linen. I was of great use to her, more especially in those places where we met evil company. Once, as we were coming from Dover, we were met by two sailors, who stopped our cart, and would have robbed and stripped us. 'Let me get down,' said I; so I got down, and fought with them both, till they turned round and ran away. Two years I lived with the old gentlewoman, who was very kind to me, almost as kind as a mother; at last she fell sick at a place in Lincolnshire, and after a few days died, leaving me her cart and stock in trade, praying me only to see her decently buried, which I did, giving her a funeral fit for a gentlewoman. After which I travelled the country melancholy enough for want of company, but so far fortunate, that I could take my own part when anybody was uncivil to me. At last, passing through the valley of Todmorden, I formed the acquaintance of Blazing Bosville and his wife, with whom I occasionally took journeys for company's sake, for it is melancholy to travel about alone, even when one can take one's own part. I soon found they were evil people; but, upon the whole, they treated me civilly, and I sometimes lent them a little money, so that we got on tolerably well together. He and I, it is true, had once a dispute, and nearly came to blows; for once, when we were alone, he wanted me to marry him, promising, if I would, to turn off Grey Moll, or if I liked it better, to make her wait upon me as a maid-servant. I never liked him much, but from that hour less than ever. Of the two, I believe Grey Moll to be the best, for she is at any rate true and faithful to him, and I like truth and constancy, don't you, young man?" "Yes," said I, "they are very nice things. I feel very strangely." "How do you feel, young man?" "Very much afraid." "Afraid, at what? At the Flaming Tinman? Don't be afraid of him. He won't come back, and if he did, he shouldn't touch you in this state: I'd fight him for you. But he won't come back, so you needn't be afraid of him." "I'm not afraid of the Flaming Tinman." "What, then, are you afraid of?" "The evil one?" "The evil one?" said the girl: "where is he?" "Coming upon me." "Never heed," said the girl: "I'll stand by you." CHAPTER VI.--A FOAMING DRAUGHT--THE MAGIC OF ALE. The kitchen of the public-house was a large one, and many people were drinking in it; there was a confused hubbub of voices. I sat down on a bench behind a deal table, of which there were three or four in the kitchen; presently a bulky man, in a green coat, of the Newmarket cut, and without a hat, entered, and observing me, came up, and in rather a gruff tone cried, "Want anything, young fellow?" "Bring me a jug of ale," said I; "if you are the master, as I suppose you are, by that same coat of yours, and your having no hat on your head." "Don't be saucy, young fellow," said the landlord, for such he was, "don't be saucy, or--" Whatever he intended to say, he left unsaid, for fixing his eyes upon one of my hands, which I had placed by chance upon the table, he became suddenly still. This was my left hand, which was raw and swollen, from the blows dealt on a certain hard skull in a recent combat. "What do you mean by staring at my hand so?" said I, withdrawing it from the table. "No offence, young man, no offence," said the landlord in a quite altered tone; "but the sight of your hand--." Then observing that our conversation began to attract the notice of the guests in the kitchen, he interrupted himself saying in an undertone, "But mum's the word for the present; I will go and fetch the ale." In about a minute he returned, with a jug of ale foaming high. "Here's your health," said he, blowing off the foam and drinking; but perceiving that I looked rather dissatisfied, he murmured, "All's right--I glory in you; but mum's the word." Then placing the jug on the table, he gave me a confidential nod, and swaggered out of the room. What can the silly impertinent fellow mean? thought I; but the ale was now before me, and I hastened to drink, for my weakness was great, and my mind was full of dark thoughts, the remains of the indescribable horror of the preceding night. It may kill me, thought I, as I drank deep; but who cares? anything is better than what I have suffered. I drank deep, and then leaned back against the wall; it appeared as if a vapour was stealing up into my brain, gentle and benign, soothing and stilling the horror and the fear; higher and higher it mounted, and I felt nearly overcome; but the sensation was delicious, compared with that I had lately experienced, and now I felt myself nodding; and, bending down, I laid my head on the table on my folded hands. And in that attitude I remained some time, perfectly unconscious. At length, by degrees, perception returned, and I lifted up my head. I felt somewhat dizzy and bewildered, but the dark shadow had withdrawn itself from me. And now, once more, I drank of the jug; this second draught did not produce an overpowering effect upon me--it revived and strengthened me--I felt a new man. I looked around me: the kitchen had been deserted by the greater part of the guests; besides myself, only four remained; these were seated at the farther end. One was haranguing fiercely and eagerly; he was abusing England, and praising America. At last he exclaimed, "So when I gets to New York, I will toss up my hat, and damn the King." That man must be a radical, thought I. CHAPTER VII.--A DISCIPLE OF WILLIAM COBBETT--THE SCHOLAR ENCOUNTERS THE PRIEST. The individual whom I supposed to be a radical, after a short pause, again uplifted his voice; he was rather a strong-built fellow of about thirty, with an ill-favoured countenance, a white hat on his head, a snuff-coloured coat on his back, and, when he was not speaking, a pipe in his mouth. "Who would live in such a country as England?" he shouted. "There is no country like America," said his nearest neighbour, a man also in a white hat, and of a very ill-favoured countenance,--"there is no country like America," said he, withdrawing a pipe from his mouth. "I think I shall"--and here he took a draught from a jug, the contents of which he appeared to have in common with the other--"go to America one of these days myself." "Poor old England is not such a bad country, after all," said a third, a simple-looking man in a labouring dress, who sat smoking a pipe without anything before him. "If there was but a little more work to be got I should have nothing to say against her. I hope, however--" "You hope? who cares what you hope?" interrupted the first, in a savage tone; "you are one of those sneaking hounds who are satisfied with dog's wages, a bit of bread and a kick. Work, indeed! who, with the spirit of a man, would work for a country where there is neither liberty of speech nor of action, a land full of beggarly aristocracy, hungry borough-mongers, insolent parsons, and 'their --- wives and daughters,' as William Cobbett says, in his 'Register'?" "Ah, the Church of England has been a source of incalculable mischief to these realms," said another. The person who uttered these words sat rather aloof from the rest; he was dressed in a long black surtout. I could not see much of his face, partly owing to his keeping it very much directed to the ground, and partly owing to a large slouched hat which he wore; I observed, however, that his hair was of a reddish tinge. On the table near him was a glass and spoon. "You are quite right," said the first, alluding to what this last had said: "the Church of England has done incalculable mischief here. I value no religion three halfpence, for I believe in none; but the one that I hate most is the Church of England; so when I get to New York, after I have shown the fine fellows on the quay a spice of me, by --- the King, I'll toss up my hat again, and --- the Church of England too." "And suppose the people of New York should clap you in the stocks?" said I. These words drew upon me the attention of the whole four. The radical and his companion stared at me ferociously; the man in black gave me a peculiar glance from under his slouched hat; the simple-looking man in the labouring dress laughed. "What are you laughing at, you fool?" said the radical, turning and looking at the other, who appeared to be afraid of him, "hold your noise; and a pretty fellow, you," said he, looking at me, "to come here, and speak against the great American nation." "I speak against the great American nation?" said I: "I rather paid them a compliment." "By supposing they would put me in the stocks? Well, I call it abusing them, to suppose they would do any such thing. Stocks, indeed!--there are no stocks in all the land. Put me in the stocks? why, the President will come down to the quay, and ask me to dinner, as soon as he hears what I have said about the King and the Church." "I shouldn't wonder," said I, "if you go to America, you will say of the President and country what now you say of the King and Church, and cry out for somebody to sent you back to England." The radical dashed his pipe to pieces against the table. "I tell you what, young fellow, you are a spy of the aristocracy, sent here to kick up a disturbance." "Kicking up a disturbance," said I, "is rather inconsistent with the office of spy. If I were a spy, I should hold my head down, and say nothing." The man in black {106} partially raised his head, and gave me another peculiar glance. "Well, if you ar'n't sent to spy, you are sent to bully, to prevent people speaking, and to run down the great American nation; but you sha'n't bully me. I say, down with the aristocracy, the beggarly aristocracy! Come, what have you to say to that?" "Nothing," said I. "Nothing!" repeated the radical. "No," said I: "down with them as soon as you can." "As soon as I can! I wish I could. But I can down with a bully of theirs. Come, will you fight for them?" "No," said I. "You won't?" "No," said I; "though from what I have seen of them I should say they are tolerably able to fight for themselves." "You won't fight for them," said the radical, triumphantly; "I thought so; all bullies, especially those of the aristocracy, are cowards. Here, landlord," said he, raising his voice, and striking against the table with the jug, "some more ale--he won't fight for his friends." "A white feather," said his companion. "He! he!" tittered the man in black. "Landlord, landlord," shouted the radical, striking the table with the jug louder than before. "Who called?" said the landlord, coming in at last. "Fill this jug again," said the other, "and be quick about it." "Does any one else want anything?" said the landlord. "Yes," said the man in black; "you may bring me another glass of gin and water." "Cold?" said the landlord. "Yes," said the man in black, "with a lump of sugar in it." "Gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it," {107} said I, and struck the table with my fist. "Take some?" said the landlord inquiringly. "No," said I, "only something came into my head." "He's mad," said the man in black. "Not he," said the radical. "He's only shamming; he knows his master is here, and therefore has recourse to these manoeuvres, but it won't do. Come, landlord, what are you staring at? Why don't you obey your orders? Keeping your customers waiting in this manner is not the way to increase your business." The landlord looked at the radical, and then at me. At last taking the jug and glass, he left the apartment, and presently returned with each filled with its respective liquor. He placed the jug with the beer before the radical, and the glass with the gin and water before the man in black, and then, with a wink to me, he sauntered out. "Here is your health, sir," said the man of the snuff-coloured coat, addressing himself to the man in black. "I honour you for what you said about the Church of England. Every one who speaks against the Church of England has my warm heart. Down with it, I say, and may the stones of it be used for mending the roads, as my friend William says in his Register." The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank to the man in the snuff-coloured coat. "With respect to the steeples," said he, "I am not altogether of your opinion: they might be turned to better account than to serve to mend the roads; they might still be used as places of worship, but not for the worship of the Church of England. I have no fault to find with the steeples, it is the Church itself which I am compelled to arraign; but it will not stand long, the respectable part of its ministers are already leaving it. It is a bad Church, a persecuting Church." "Whom does it persecute?" said I. The man in black glanced at me slightly, and then replied slowly, "The Catholics." "And do those whom you call Catholics never persecute?" said I. "Never," said the man in black. "Did you ever read 'Fox's Book of Martyrs?'" said I. "He! he!" tittered the man in black, "there is not a word of truth in 'Fox's Book of Martyrs.'" "Ten times more than in the 'Flos Sanctorum,'" said I. The man in black looked at me, but made no answer. "And what say you to the Massacre of the Albigenses and the Vaudois, 'whose bones lie scattered on the cold Alp,' or the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes?" The man in black made no answer. "Go to," said I, "it is because the Church of England is not a persecuting Church, that those whom you call the respectable part are leaving her; it is because they can't do with the poor Dissenters what Simon de Montfort did with the Albigenses, and the cruel Piedmontese with the Vaudois, that they turn to bloody Rome; the Pope will no doubt welcome them, for the Pope, do you see, being very much in want, will welcome--" "Hollo!" said the radical, interfering, "what are you saying about the Pope? I say hurrah for the Pope: I value no religion three halfpence, as I said before, but if I were to adopt any, it should be the Popish, as it's called, because I conceive the Popish to be the grand enemy of the Church of England, of the beggarly aristocracy, and the borough-monger system, so I won't hear the Pope abused while I am by. Come, don't look fierce. You won't fight, you know, I have proved it; but I will give you another chance: I will fight for the Pope--will you fight against him?" "O dear me, yes," said I, getting up and stepping forward. "I am a quiet, peaceable young man, and, being so, am always ready to fight against the Pope--the enemy of all peace and quiet--to refuse fighting for the aristocracy is a widely different thing from refusing to fight against the Pope--so come on, if you are disposed to fight for him. To the Pope broken bells, to Saint James broken shells. No Popish vile oppression, but the Protestant succession. Confusion to the Groyne, hurrah for the Boyne, for the army at Clonmel, and the Protestant young gentlemen who live there as well." "An Orangeman," said the man in black. "Not a Platitude," said I. The man in black gave a slight start. {110} "Amongst that family," said I, "no doubt something may be done, but amongst the Methodist preachers I should conceive that the success would not be great." The man in black sat quite still. "Especially amongst those who have wives," I added. The man in black stretched his hand towards his gin and water. "However," said I, "we shall see what the grand movement will bring about, and the results of the lessons in elocution." The man in black lifted the glass up to his mouth, and in doing so, let the spoon fall. "But what has this to do with the main question?" said I: "I am waiting here to fight against the Pope." "Come, Hunter," said the companion of the man in the snuff-coloured coat, "get up, and fight for the Pope." "I don't care for the young fellow," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat. "I know you don't," said the other; "so get up, and serve him out." "I could serve out three like him," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat. "So much the better for you," said the other--"the present work will be all the easier for you; get up, and serve him out at once." The man in the snuff-coloured coat did not stir. "Who shows the white feather now?" said the simple-looking man. "He! he! he!" tittered the man in black. "Who told you to interfere?" said the radical, turning ferociously towards the simple-looking man; "say another word, and I'll--And you!" said he, addressing himself to the man in black, "a pretty fellow you to turn against me, after I had taken your part. I tell you what, you may fight for yourself. I'll see you and your Pope in the pit of Eldon before I fight for either of you, so make the most of it." "Then you won't fight?" said I. "Not for the Pope," said the radical; "I'll see the Pope--" "Dear me!" said I, "not fight for the Pope, whose religion you would turn to, if you were inclined for any? I see how it is; you are not fond of fighting. But I'll give you another chance. You were abusing the Church of England just now. I'll fight for it--will you fight against it?" "Come, Hunter," said the other, "get up, and fight against the Church of England." "I have no particular quarrel against the Church of England," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat; "my quarrel is with the aristocracy. If I said anything against the Church, it is merely for a bit of corollary, as Master William Cobbett would say; the quarrel with the Church belongs to this fellow in black, so let him carry it on. However," he continued suddenly, "I won't slink from the matter either; it shall never be said by the fine fellows on the quay of New York, that I wouldn't fight against the Church of England. So down with the beggarly aristocracy, the Church, and the Pope, to the bottom of the pit of Eldon, and may the Pope fall first, and the others upon him." Thereupon, dashing his hat on the table, he placed himself in an attitude of offence, and rushed forward. He was, as I have said before, a powerful fellow, and might have proved a dangerous antagonist, more especially to myself, who, after my recent encounter with the Flaming Tinman, and my wrestlings with the evil one, was in anything but fighting order. Any collision, however, was prevented by the landlord, who, suddenly appearing, thrust himself between us. "There shall be no fighting here," said he: "no one shall fight in this house, except it be with myself; so if you two have anything to say to each other, you had better go into the field behind the house. But you fool," said he, pushing Hunter violently on the breast, "do you know whom you are going to tackle with?--this is the young chap that beat Blazing Bosville, only as late as yesterday, in Mumpers Dingle. Grey Moll told me all about it last night, when she came for some brandy for her husband, who, she said, had been half killed; and she described the young man to me so closely, that I knew him at once, that is, as soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, for she told me he was a left-hand hitter. Ar'n't it all true, young man? Ar'n't you he that beat Flaming Bosville in Mumpers Dingle?" "I never beat Flaming Bosville," said I: "he beat himself. Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn't be here at the present moment." "Hear! hear!" said the landlord, "now that's just as it should be; I like a modest man, for, as the parson says, nothing sits better upon the young man than modesty. I remember, when I was young, fighting with Tom of Hopton, the best man that ever pulled off coat in England. I remember, too, that I won the battle; for I happened to hit Tom of Hopton in the mark, as he was coming in, so that he lost his wind, and falling squelch on the ground, do ye see, he lost the battle; though I am free to confess that he was a better man than myself--indeed, the best man that ever fought in England. Yet still I won the battle, as every customer of mine, and everybody within twelve miles round, has heard over and over again. Now, Mr. Hunter, I have one thing to say; if you choose to go into the field behind the house, and fight the young man, you can. I'll back him for ten pounds; but no fighting in my kitchen--because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment." "I have no wish to fight the young man," said Hunter; "more especially as he has nothing to say for the aristocracy. If he chose to fight for them, indeed--but he won't, I know; for I see he's a decent, respectable young man; and, after all, fighting is a blackguard way of settling a dispute, so I have no wish to fight. However, there is one thing I'll do," said he, uplifting his fist; "I'll fight this fellow in black here for half a crown, or for nothing, if he pleases; it was he that got up the last dispute between me and the young man, with his Pope and his nonsense; so I will fight him for anything he pleases, and perhaps the young man will be my second; whilst you--" "Come, Doctor," said the landlord, "or whatsoever you be, will you go into the field with Hunter? I'll second you, only you must back yourself. I'll lay five pounds on Hunter, if you are inclined to back yourself; and will help you to win it as far, do you see, as a second can; because why? I always likes to do the fair thing." "Oh! I have no wish to fight," said the man in black, hastily; "fighting is not my trade. If I have given any offence, I beg anybody's pardon." "Landlord," said I, "what have I to pay?" "Nothing at all," said the landlord; "glad to see you. This is the first time that you have been at my house, and I never charge new customers, at least customers such as you, anything for the first draught. You'll come again, I daresay; shall always be glad to see you. I won't take it," said he, as I put sixpence on the table; "I won't take it." "Yes, you shall," said I; "but not in payment for anything I have had myself: it shall serve to pay for a jug of ale for that gentleman," said I, pointing to the simple-looking individual; "he is smoking a poor pipe, I do not mean to say that a pipe is a bad thing; but a pipe without ale, do you see--" "Bravo!" said the landlord, "that's just the conduct I like." "Bravo!" said Hunter. "I shall be happy to drink with the young man whenever I meet him at New York, where, do you see, things are better managed than here." "If I have given offence to anybody," said the man in black, "I repeat that I ask pardon,--more especially to the young gentleman, who was perfectly right to stand up for his religion, just as I--not that I am of any particular religion, no more than this honest gentleman here," bowing to Hunter; "but I happen to know something of the Catholics--several excellent friends of mine are Catholics--and of a surety the Catholic religion is an ancient religion, and a widely-extended religion, though it certainly is not a universal religion, but it has of late made considerable progress, even amongst those nations who have been particularly opposed to it--amongst the Prussians and the Dutch, for example, to say nothing of the English; and then, in the East, amongst the Persians, amongst the Armenians." "The Armenians," said I; "O dear me, the Armenians--" "Have you anything to say about those people, sir?" said the man in black, lifting up his glass to his mouth. "I have nothing further to say," said I, "than that the roots of Ararat are occasionally found to be deeper than those of Rome." {117} "There's half a crown broke," said the landlord, as the man in black let fall the glass, which was broken to pieces on the floor. "You will pay me the damage, friend, before you leave this kitchen. I like to see people drink freely in my kitchen, but not too freely, and I hate breakages: because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment." CHAPTER VIII.--FIRST LESSONS IN ARMENIAN. The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to describe in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance of about two miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the west by the time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle seated by a fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During my absence she had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpaulin, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. "I am glad you are returned," said she, as soon as she perceived me; "I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice?" "Yes," said I; "I went to the public-house and drank ale as you advised me; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away the horror from my mind--I am much beholden to you." "I knew it would do you good," said Belle; "I remembered that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good, kind man, used to say, 'Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong.'" "He was no advocate for tea, then?" {118} said I. "He had no objection to tea; but he used to say, 'Everything in its season.' Shall we take ours now?--I have waited for you." "I have no objection," said I; "I feel rather heated, and at present should prefer tea to ale--'Everything in its season,' as the surgeon said." Thereupon Belle prepared tea, and, as we were taking it, she said, "What did you see and hear at the public-house?" "Really," said I, "you appear to have your full portion of curiosity: what matters it to you what I saw and heard at the public-house?" "It matters very little to me," said Belle; "I merely inquired of you, for the sake of a little conversation. You were silent, and it is uncomfortable for two people to sit together without opening their lips--at least, I think so." "One only feels uncomfortable," said I, "in being silent, when one happens to be thinking of the individual with whom one is in company. To tell you the truth, I was not thinking of my companion, but of certain company with whom I had been at the public-house." "Really, young man," said Belle, "you are not over complimentary; but who may this wonderful company have been--some young--?" and here Belle stopped. "No," said I, "there was no young person--if person you were going to say. There was a big portly landlord, whom I dare say you have seen; a noisy, savage radical, who wanted at first to fasten upon me a quarrel about America, but who subsequently drew in his horns; then there was a strange fellow, a prowling priest, I believe, whom I have frequently heard of, who at first seemed disposed to side with the radical against me, and afterwards with me against the radical. There, you know my company, and what took place." "Was there no one else?" said Belle. "You are mighty curious," said I. "No, none else, except a poor simple mechanic, and some common company, who soon went away." Belle looked at me for a moment, and then appeared to be lost in thought. "America," said she musingly--"America!" "What of America?" said I. "I have heard that it is a mighty country." "I dare say it is," said I; "I have heard my father say that the Americans are first-rate marksmen." "I heard nothing about that," said Belle; "what I heard was, that it is a great and goodly land, where people can walk about without jostling, and where the industrious can always find bread; I have frequently thought of going thither." "Well," I said, "the radical in the public-house will perhaps be glad of your company thither; he is as great an admirer of America as yourself, though I believe on different grounds." "I shall go by myself," said Belle, "unless--unless that should happen which is not likely. I am not fond of radicals no more than I am of scoffers and mockers." "Do you mean to say that I am a scoffer and mocker?" "I don't wish to say you are," said Belle; "but some of your words sound strangely like scoffing and mocking. I have now one thing to beg, which is, that if you have anything to say against America, you would speak it out boldly." "What should I have to say against America? I never was there." "Many people speak against America who never were there." "Many people speak in praise of America who never were there; but with respect to myself, I have not spoken for or against America." "If you liked America you would speak in its praise." "By the same rule, if I disliked America I should speak against it." "I can't speak with you," said Belle; "but I see you dislike the country." "The country!" "Well, the people--don't you?" "I do." "Why do you dislike them?" "Why, I have heard my father say that the American marksmen, led on by a chap of the name of Washington, sent the English to the right-about in double-quick time." "And that is your reason for disliking the Americans?" "Yes," said I, "that is my reason for disliking them." "Will you take another cup of tea?" said Belle. I took another cup; we were again silent. "It is rather uncomfortable," said I, at last, "for people to sit together without having anything to say." "Were you thinking of your company?" said Belle. "What company?" said I. "The present company." "The present company! Oh, ah!--I remember that I said one only feels uncomfortable in being silent with a companion, when one happens to be thinking of the companion. Well, I had been thinking of you the last two or three minutes, and had just come to the conclusion, that to prevent us both feeling occasionally uncomfortably towards each other, having nothing to say, it would be as well to have a standing subject, on which to employ our tongues. Belle, I have determined to give you lessons in Armenian." "What is Armenian?" "Did you ever hear of Ararat?" "Yes, that was the place where the ark rested; I have heard the chaplain in the great house talk of it; besides, I have read of it in the Bible." "Well, Armenian is the speech of people of that place, and I should like to teach it you." "To prevent--" "Ay, ay, to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Your acquiring it besides might prove of ulterior advantage to us both: for example, suppose you and I were in promiscuous company, at Court, for example, and you had something to communicate to me which you did not wish any one else to be acquainted with, how safely you might communicate it to me in Armenian!" "Would not the language of the roads do as well?" said Belle. "In some places it would," said I, "but not at Court, owing to its resemblance to thieves' slang. There is Hebrew, again, which I was thinking of teaching you, till the idea of being presented at Court made me abandon it, from the probability of our being understood, in the event of our speaking it, by at least half a dozen people in our vicinity. There is Latin, it is true, or Greek, which we might speak aloud at Court with perfect confidence of safety; but upon the whole I should prefer teaching you Armenian, not because it would be a safer language to hold communication with at Court, but because, not being very well grounded in it myself, I am apprehensive that its words and forms may escape from my recollection, unless I have sometimes occasion to call them forth." "I am afraid we shall have to part company before I have learnt it," said Belle; "in the mean time, if I wish to say anything to you in private, somebody being by, shall I speak in the language of the roads?" "If no roadster is nigh, you may," said I, "and I will do my best to understand you. Belle, I will now give you a lesson in Armenian." "I suppose you mean no harm," said Belle. "Not in the least; I merely propose the thing to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Let us begin." "Stop till I have removed the tea-things," said Belle; and, getting up, she removed them to her own encampment. "I am ready," said Belle, returning, and taking her former seat, "to join with you in anything which will serve to pass away the time agreeably, provided there is no harm in it." "Belle," said I, "I have determined to commence the course of Armenian lessons by teaching you the numerals; but, before I do that, it will be as well to tell you that the Armenian language is called Haik." "I am sure that word will hang upon my memory," said Belle. "Why hang upon it?" "Because the old women in the great house used to call so the chimney- hook, on which they hung the kettle; in like manner, on the hake of my memory I will hang your hake." "Good!" said I, "you will make an apt scholar; but, mind, that I did not say hake, but haik; the words are, however, very much alike; and, as you observe, upon your hake you may hang my haik. We will now proceed to the numerals." "What are numerals?" said Belle. "Numbers. I will say the Haikan numbers up to ten. There, have you heard them?" "Yes." "Well, try and repeat them." "I only remember number one," said Belle, "and that because it is me." "I will repeat them again," said I, "and pay great attention. Now, try again." "Me, jergo, earache." "I neither said jergo, nor earache. I said yergou and yerek. Belle, I am afraid I shall have some difficulty with you as a scholar." Belle made no answer. Her eyes were turned in the direction of the winding path, which led from the bottom of the hollow where we were seated, to the plain above "Gorgio shunella," {125a} she said, at length, in a low voice. "Pure Rommany," said I; "where?" I added, in a whisper. "Dovey odoy," {125b} said Belle, nodding with her head towards the path. "I will soon see who it is," said I; and starting up, I rushed towards the pathway, intending to lay violent hands on any one I might find lurking in its windings. Before, however, I had reached its commencement, a man, somewhat above the middle height, advanced from it into the dingle, in whom I recognised the man in black, whom I had seen in the public-house. CHAPTER IX.--LAVENGRO RECEIVES A VISIT OF CEREMONY FROM THE MAN IN BLACK. The man in black and myself stood opposite to each other for a minute or two in silence; I will not say that we confronted each other that time, for the man in black, after a furtive glance, did not look me in the face, but kept his eyes fixed, apparently on the leaves of a bunch of ground nuts which were growing at my feet. At length, looking round the dingle, he exclaimed, "Buona Sera, I hope I don't intrude." "You have as much right here," said I, "as I or my companion; but you had no right to stand listening to our conversation." "I was not listening," said the man: "I was hesitating whether to advance or retire; and if I heard some of your conversation the fault was not mine." "I do not see why you should have hesitated if your intentions were good," said I. "I think the kind of place in which I found myself might excuse some hesitation," said the man in black, looking around; "moreover, from what I have seen of your demeanour at the public-house, I was rather apprehensive that the reception I might experience at your hands might be more rough than agreeable." "And what may have been your motive for coming to this place?" said I. "Per far visita a sua signoria, ecco il motivo." "Why do you speak to me in that gibberish," said I; "do you think I understand it?" "It is not Armenian," said the man in black; "but it might serve in a place like this, for the breathing of a little secret communication, were any common roadster near at hand. It would not do at Court, it is true, being the language of singing women, and the like; but we are not at Court--when we are, I can perhaps summon up a little indifferent Latin, if I have anything private to communicate to the learned Professor." And at the conclusion of this speech the man in black lifted up his head, and, for some moments, looked me in the face. The muscles of his own seemed to be slightly convulsed, and his mouth opened in a singular manner. "I see," said I, "that for some time you were standing near me and my companion, in the mean act of listening." "Not at all," said the man in black: "I heard from the steep bank above, that to which I have now alluded, whilst I was puzzling myself to find the path which leads to your retreat. I made, indeed, nearly the compass of the whole thicket before I found it." "And how did you know that I was here?" I demanded. "The landlord of the public-house, with whom I had some conversation concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt I should find you in this place, to which he gave me instructions not very clear. But now I am here, I crave permission to remain a little time, in order that I may hold some communion with you." "Well," said I, "since you are come, you are welcome; please step this way." Thereupon I conducted the man in black to the fireplace, where Belle was standing, who had risen from her stool on my springing up to go in quest of the stranger. The man in black looked at her with evident curiosity, then making her rather a graceful bow, "Lovely virgin," said he, stretching out his hand, "allow me to salute your fingers." "I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers," said Belle. "I did not presume to request to shake hands with you," said the man in black; "I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the extremity of your two forefingers." "I never permit anything of the kind," said Belle; "I do not approve of such unmanly ways: they are only befitting those who lurk in corners or behind trees, listening to the conversation of people who would fain be private." "Do you take me for a listener, then?" said the man in black. "Ay, indeed I do," said Belle; "the young man may receive your excuses, and put confidence in them if he please, but for my part I neither admit them, nor believe them;" and thereupon flinging her long hair back, which was hanging over her cheeks, she seated herself on her stool. "Come, Belle," said I, "I have bidden the gentleman welcome; I beseech you, therefore, to make him welcome. He is a stranger, where we are at home; therefore, even did we wish him away, we are bound to treat him kindly." "That's not English doctrine," said the man in black. "I thought the English prided themselves on their hospitality," said I. "They do so," said the man in black; "they are proud of showing hospitality to people above them, that is to those who do not want it, but of the hospitality which you were now describing, and which is Arabian, they know nothing. No Englishman will tolerate another in his house, from whom he does not expect advantage of some kind, and to those from whom he does, he can be civil enough. An Englishman thinks that, because he is in his own house, he has a right to be boorish and brutal to any one who is disagreeable to him, as all those are who are really in want of assistance. Should a hunted fugitive rush into an Englishman's house, beseeching protection, and appealing to the master's feelings of hospitality, the Englishman would knock him down in the passage." "You are too general," said I, "in your strictures; Lord [Aberdeen], the unpopular Tory minister, was once chased through the streets of London by a mob, and, being in danger of his life, took shelter in the shop of a Whig linendraper, declaring his own unpopular name, and appealing to the linendraper's feelings of hospitality; whereupon the linendraper, utterly forgetful of all party rancour, nobly responded to the appeal, and telling his wife to conduct his lordship upstairs, jumped over the counter, with his ell in his hand, and placing himself with half a dozen of his assistants at the door of his boutique, manfully confronted the mob, telling them that he would allow himself to be torn to a thousand pieces, ere he would permit them to injure a hair of his lordship's head: what do you think of that!" "He! he! he!" tittered the man in black. "Well," said I, "I am afraid your own practice is not very different from that which you have been just now describing: you sided with the radical in the public-house against me, as long as you thought him the most powerful, and then turned against him when you saw he was cowed. What have you to say to that?" "O! when one is in Rome, I mean England, one must do as they do in England; I was merely conforming to the custom of the country, he! he! but I beg your pardon here, as I did in the public-house I made a mistake." "Well," said I, "we will drop the matter; but pray seat yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you." The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for occupying what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the stone, and I squatted down gypsy fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool at a slight distance on my right. After a time I addressed him thus. "Am I to reckon this a mere visit of ceremony? Should it prove so, it will be, I believe, the first visit of the kind ever paid me." "Will you permit me to ask," said the man in black,--"the weather is very warm," said he, interrupting himself, and taking off his hat. I now observed that he was partly bald, his red hair having died away from the fore part of his crown; his forehead was high, his eyebrows scanty, his eyes, grey and sly, with a downward tendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth rather large--a kind of sneering smile played continually on his lips, his complexion was somewhat rubicund. "A bad countenance," said Belle, in the language of the roads, observing that my eyes were fixed on his face. "Does not my countenance please you, fair damsel?" said the man in black, resuming his hat and speaking in a peculiarly gentle voice. "How," said I, "do you understand the language of the roads?" "As little as I do Armenian," said the man in black; "but I understand look and tone." "So do I, perhaps," retorted Belle; "and, to tell you the truth, I like your tone as little as your face." "For shame!" said I; "have you forgot what I was saying just now about the duties of hospitality? You have not yet answered my question," said I, addressing myself to the man, "with respect to your visit." "Will you permit me to ask who you are?" "Do you see the place where I live?" said I. "I do," said the man in black, looking around. "Do you know the name of this place?" "I was told it was Mumpers' or Gypsies' Dingle," said the man in black. "Good," said I; "and this forge and tent, what do they look like?" "Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy." "Good," said I; "they belong to me." "Are you, then, a Gypsy?" said the man in black. "What else should I be?" "But you seem to have been acquainted with various individuals with whom I have likewise had acquaintance; and you have even alluded to matters, and even words, which have passed between me and them." "Do you know how Gypsies live!" said I. "By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes." "Well," said I, "there's my forge, and yonder is some iron, though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer." "But how did you come by your knowledge?" "Oh," said I, "if you want me to reveal the secrets of my trade, I have, of course, nothing further to say. Go to the scarlet dyer, and ask him how he dyes cloth." "Why scarlet?" said the man in black. "Is it because Gypsies blush like scarlet?" "Gypsies never blush," said I; "but Gypsies' cloaks are scarlet." "I should almost take you for a Gypsy," said the man in black, "but for--" "For what?" said I. "But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing," said the man in black, with a titter. "And why should not a Gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?" said I. "Because the Gypsy race is perfectly illiterate," said the man in black; "they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness, and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers--and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing che io non credo afatto." "What do you take me for?" said I. "Why," said the man in black, "I should consider you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a Gypsy life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for a philologist." "And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions acutely?" said I. "Because the philological race is the most stupid under Heaven," said the man in black; "they are possessed, it is true, of a certain faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them; but that any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, to say nothing of an acute one, on any subject--even though the subject were philology--is a thing of which I have no idea." "But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this handmaid?" "I believe I did," said the man in black. "And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute answers to the questions you asked me?" "I believe I did," said the man in black. "And would any one but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle?" "I should think not," said the man in black. "Well, then, don't you see that it is possible for a philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?" "I really don't know," said the man in black. "What's the matter with you?" said I. "Merely puzzled," said the man in black. "Puzzled?" "Yes." "Really puzzled?" "Yes." "Remain so." "Well," said the man in black, rising, "puzzled or not, I will no longer trespass upon your and this young lady's retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion." "No apology is necessary," said I; "will you please to take anything before you go? I think this young lady, at my request, will contrive to make you a cup of tea." "Tea!" said the man in black--"he! he! I don't drink tea; I don't like it,--if, indeed, you had--" and here he stopped. "There's nothing like gin and water, is there?" said I, "but I am sorry to say I have none." "Gin and water," said the man in black--"how do you know that I am fond of gin and water?" "Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house?" "You did," said the man in black, "and I remember, that when I called for some, you repeated my words. Permit me to ask, Is gin and water an unusual drink in England?" "It is not usually drunk cold, and with a lump of sugar," said I. "And did you know who I was by my calling for it so?" "Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information," said I. "With all your knowledge," said the man in black, "you do not appear to have known that I was coming to visit you?" "Gypsies do not pretend to know anything which relates to themselves," said I; "but I advise you, if you ever come again, to come openly." "Have I your permission to come again?" said the man in black. "Come when you please; this dingle is as free for you as me." "I will visit you again," said the man in black--"till then addio." "Belle," said I, after the man in black had departed, "we did not treat that man very hospitably; he left us without having eaten or drunk at our expense." "You offered him some tea," said Belle, "which, as it is mine, I should have grudged him, for I like him not." "Our liking or disliking him had nothing to do with the matter; he was our visitor, and ought not to have been permitted to depart dry; living as we do in this desert, we ought always to be prepared to administer to the wants of our visitors. Belle, do you know where to procure any good Hollands?" "I think I do," said Belle, "but--" "I will have no 'buts.' Belle, I expect that with as little delay as possible you procure, at my expense, the best Hollands you can find." CHAPTER X.--HOW ISOPEL BERNERS AND THE WORD-MASTER PASSED THEIR TIME IN THE DINGLE. Time passed on, and Belle and I lived in the dingle; when I say lived, the reader must not imagine that we were always there. She went out upon her pursuits, and I went out where inclination led me; but my excursions were very short ones, and hers occasionally occupied whole days and nights. If I am asked how we passed the time when we were together in the dingle, I would answer that we passed the time very tolerably, all things considered; we conversed together, and when tired of conversing I would sometimes give Belle a lesson in Armenian; her progress was not particularly brilliant, but upon the whole satisfactory; in about a fortnight she had hung up one hundred Haikan numerals upon the hake of her memory. I found her conversation highly entertaining; she had seen much of England and Wales, and had been acquainted with some of the most remarkable characters who travelled the roads at that period; and let me be permitted to say that many remarkable characters have travelled the roads of England, of whom fame has never said a word. I loved to hear her anecdotes of these people; some of whom I found had occasionally attempted to lay violent hands either upon her person or effects, and had invariably been humbled by her without the assistance of either justice or constable. I could clearly see, however, that she was rather tired of England, and wished for a change of scene; she was particularly fond of talking of America, to which country her aspirations chiefly tended. She had heard much of America, which had excited her imagination; for at that time America was much talked of, on roads and in homesteads, at least so said Belle, who had good opportunities of knowing, and most people allowed that it was a good country for adventurous English. The people who chiefly spoke against it, as she informed me, were soldiers disbanded upon pensions, the sextons of village churches, and excisemen. Belle had a craving desire to visit that country, and to wander with cart and little animal amongst its forests; when I would occasionally object, that she would be exposed to danger from strange and perverse customers, she said that she had not wandered the roads of England so long and alone, to be afraid of anything which might befal in America; and that she hoped with God's favour, to be able to take her own part, and to give to perverse customers as good as they might bring. She had a dauntless heart that same Belle: such was the staple of Belle's conversation. As for mine, I would endeavour to entertain her with strange dreams of adventure, in which I figured in opaque forests, strangling wild beasts, or discovering and plundering the hoards of dragons; and sometimes I would narrate to her other things far more genuine--how I had tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and had dealings with ferocious publishers. Belle had a kind heart, and would weep at the accounts I gave her of my early wrestlings with the dark Monarch. She would sigh, too, as I recounted the many slights and degradations I had received at the hands of ferocious publishers. But she had the curiosity of a woman; and once, when I talked to her of the triumphs which I had achieved over unbroken mares, she lifted up her head and questioned me as to the secret of the virtue which I possessed over the aforesaid animals: whereupon I sternly reprimanded, and forthwith commanded her to repeat the Armenian numerals; and, on her demurring, I made use of words, to escape which she was glad to comply, saying the Armenian numerals from one to a hundred, which numerals, as a punishment for her curiosity, I made her repeat three times, loading her with the bitterest reproaches whenever she committed the slightest error, either in accent or pronunciation, which reproaches she appeared to bear with the greatest patience. And now I have given a fair account of the manner in which Isopel Berners and myself passed our time in the dingle. CHAPTER XI.--ALE, GIVE THEM ALE, AND LET IT BE STRONG--A MAIN OF COCKS--LAVENGRO CONSOLES THE LANDLORD, WHO PROPOUNDS A NOVEL PLAN FOR THE LIQUIDATION OF DEBTS. Amongst other excursions, I went several times to the public-house, to which I introduced the reader in a former chapter. I had experienced such beneficial effects from the ale I had drunk on that occasion, that I had wished to put its virtue to a frequent test; nor did the ale on subsequent trials belie the good opinion which I had at first formed of it. After each visit which I made to the public-house, I found my frame stronger and my mind more cheerful than they had previously been. The landlord appeared at all times glad to see me, and insisted that I should sit within the bar, where, leaving his other guests to be attended to by a niece of his who officiated as his housekeeper, he would sit beside me and talk of matters concerning "the ring," indulging himself with a cigar and a glass of sherry, which he told me was his favourite wine, whilst I drank my ale. "I loves the conversation of all you coves of the ring," said he once, "which is natural, seeing as how I have fought in a ring myself. Ah, there is nothing like the ring; I wish I was not rather too old to go again into it. I often think I should like to have another rally--one more rally, and then--But there's a time for all things--youth will be served, every dog has his day, and mine has been a fine one--let me be content. After beating Tom of Hopton, there was not much more to be done in the way of reputation; I have long sat in my bar the wonder and glory of this here neighbourhood. I'm content, as far as reputation goes; I only wish money would come in a little faster; however, the next main of cocks will bring me in something handsome--comes off next Wednesday at --- have ventured ten five-pound notes--shouldn't say ventured either--run no risk at all, because why? I knows my birds." About ten days after this harangue, I called again, at about three o'clock one afternoon. The landlord was seated on a bench by a table in the common room, which was entirely empty; he was neither smoking nor drinking, but sat with his arms folded, and his head hanging down over his breast. At the sound of my step he looked up. "Ah," said he, "I am glad you are come: I was just thinking about you." "Thank you," said I; "it was very kind of you, especially at a time like this, when your mind must be full of your good fortune. Allow me to congratulate you on the sums of money you won by the main of cocks at ---. I hope you brought it all safe home." "Safe home," said the landlord; "I brought myself safe home, and that was all; came home without a shilling, regularly done, cleaned out." "I am sorry for that," said I; "but after you had won the money, you ought to have been satisfied, and not risked it again. How did you lose it? I hope not by the pea and thimble." "Pea and thimble," said the landlord--"not I; those confounded cocks left me nothing to lose by the pea and thimble." "Dear me," said I; "I thought that you knew your birds." "Well, so I did," said the landlord, "I knew the birds to be good birds, and so they proved, and would have won if better birds had not been brought against them, of which I knew nothing, and so do you see I am done, regularly done." "Well," said I, "don't be cast down; there is one thing of which the cocks by their misfortune cannot deprive you--your reputation; make the most of that, give up cock-fighting, and be content with the custom of your house, of which you will always have plenty, as long as you are the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood." The landlord struck the table before him violently with his fist. "Confound my reputation!" said he. "No reputation that I have will be satisfaction to my brewer for the seventy pounds I owe him. Reputation won't pass for the current coin of this here realm; and let me tell you, that if it a'n't backed by some of it, it a'n't a bit better than rotten cabbage, as I have found. Only three weeks since I was, as I told you, the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood; and people used to come and look at me, and worship me; but as soon as it began to be whispered about that I owed money to the brewer, they presently left off all that kind of thing; and now, during the last three days, since the tale of my misfortune with the cocks has got wind, almost everybody has left off coming to the house, and the few who does, merely comes to insult and flout me. It was only last night that fellow, Hunter, called me an old fool in my own kitchen here. He wouldn't have called me a fool a fortnight ago--'twas I called him fool then, and last night he called me old fool; what do you think of that? the man that beat Tom of Hopton to be called not only a fool, but an old fool; and I hadn't heart, with one blow of this here fist into his face, to send his head ringing against the wall; for when a man's pocket is low, do you see, his heart a'n't much higher. But it is no use talking, something must be done. I was thinking of you just as you came in, for you are just the person that can help me." "If you mean," said I, "to ask me to lend you the money which you want, it will be to no purpose, as I have very little of my own, just enough for my own occasions; it is true, if you desired it, I would be your intercessor with the person to whom you owe the money, though I should hardly imagine that anything I could say--" "You are right there," said the landlord; "much the brewer would care for anything you could say on my behalf--your going would be the very way to do me up entirely. A pretty opinion he would have of the state of my affairs if I were to send him such a 'cessor as you; and as for your lending me money, don't think I was ever fool enough to suppose either that you had any, or if you had that you would be fool enough to lend me any. No, no, the coves of the ring knows better; I have been in the ring myself, and knows what fighting a cove is, and though I was fool enough to back those birds, I was never quite fool enough to lend anybody money. What I am about to propose is something very different from going to my landlord, or lending any capital; something which, though it will put money into my pocket, will likewise put something handsome into your own. I want to get up a fight in this here neighbourhood, which would be sure to bring plenty of people to my house, for a week before and after it takes place; and as people can't come without drinking, I think I could, during one fortnight, get off for the brewer all the sour and unsaleable liquids he now has, which people wouldn't drink at any other time, and by that means, do you see, liquidate my debt; then, by means of betting, making first all right, do you see, I have no doubt that I could put something handsome into my pocket and yours, for I should wish you to be the fighting man, as I think I can depend upon you." "You really must excuse me," said I, "I have no wish to figure as a pugilist, besides there is such a difference in our ages; you may be the stronger man of the two, and perhaps the hardest hitter, but I am in much better condition, am more active on my legs, so that I am almost sure I should have the advantage, for, as you very properly observed, 'Youth will be served.'" "Oh, I didn't mean to fight," said the landlord. "I think I could beat you if I were to train a little; but in the fight I propose I looks more to the main chance than anything else. I question whether half so many people could be brought together if you were to fight with me as the person I have in view, or whether there would be half such opportunities for betting; for I am a man, do you see; the person I wants you to fight with is not a man, but the young woman you keeps company with." "The young woman I keep company with," said I; "pray what do you mean?" "We will go into the bar, and have something," said the landlord, getting up. "My niece is out, and there is no one in the house, so we can talk the matter over quietly." Thereupon I followed him into the bar, where, having drawn me a jug of ale, helped himself as usual to a glass of sherry, and lighted a cigar, he proceeded to explain himself further. "What I wants is to get up a fight between a man and a woman; there never has yet been such a thing in the ring, and the mere noise of the matter would bring thousands of people together, quite enough to drink out, for the thing should be close to my house, all the brewer's stock of liquids, both good and bad." "But," said I, "you were the other day boasting of the respectability of your house; do you think that a fight between a man and a woman close to your establishment would add to its respectability?" "Confound the respectability of my house," said the landlord, "will the respectability of my house pay the brewer, or keep the roof over my head? No, no! when respectability won't keep a man, do you see, the best thing is to let it go and wander. Only let me have my own way, and both the brewer, myself, and every one of us, will be satisfied. And then the betting --what a deal we may make by the betting--and that we shall have all to ourselves, you, I, and the young woman; the brewer will have no hand in that. I can manage to raise ten pounds, and if by flashing that about, I don't manage to make a hundred, call me a horse." "But, suppose," said I, "the party should lose, on whom you sport your money, even as the birds did?" "We must first make all right," said the landlord, "as I told you before; the birds were irrational beings, and therefore couldn't come to an understanding with the others, as you and the young woman can. The birds fought fair; but I intend you and the young woman should fight cross." "What do you mean by cross?" said I. "Come, come," said the landlord, "don't attempt to gammon me; you in the ring, and pretend not to know what fighting cross is! That won't do, my fine fellow; but as no one is near us, I will speak out. I intend that you and the young woman should understand one another and agree beforehand which should be beat; and if you take my advice you will determine between you that the young woman shall be beat, as I am sure that the odds will run high upon her, her character as a fist-woman being spread far and wide, so that all the flats who think it will be all right, will back her, as I myself would, if I thought it would be a fair thing." "Then," said I, "you would not have us fight fair?" "By no means," said the landlord, "because why? I conceives that a cross is a certainty to those who are in it, whereas by the fair thing one may lose all he has." "But," said I, "you said the other day that you liked the fair thing." "That was by way of gammon," said the landlord, "just, do you see, as a Parliament cove might say, speechifying from a barrel to a set of flats, whom he means to sell. Come, what do you think of the plan?" "It's a very ingenious one," said I. "A'n't it?" said the landlord. "The folks in this neighbourhood are beginning to call me old fool, but if they don't call me something else, when they sees me friends with the brewer, and money in my pocket, my name is not Catchpole. Come, drink your ale, and go home to the young gentlewoman." "I am going," said I, rising from my seat, after finishing the remainder of the ale. "Do you think she'll have any objection?" said the landlord. "To do what?" said I. "Why, to fight cross." "Yes, I do," said I. "But you will do your best to persuade her?" "No, I will not," said I. "Are you fool enough to wish to fight fair?" "No," said I, "I am wise enough to wish not to fight at all." "And how's my brewer to be paid?" said the landlord. "I really don't know," said I. "I'll change my religion," said the landlord. CHAPTER XII.--ANOTHER VISIT FROM THE MAN IN BLACK: HIS ESTIMATE OF MEZZOFANTE. One evening Belle and myself received another visit from the man in black. After a little conversation of not much importance, I asked him whether he would not take some refreshment, assuring him that I was now in possession of some very excellent Hollands which, with a glass, a jug of water, and a lump of sugar, were heartily at his service; he accepted my offer, and Belle going with a jug to the spring, from which she was in the habit of procuring water for tea, speedily returned with it full of the clear, delicious water of which I have already spoken. Having placed the jug by the side of the man in black, she brought him a glass and spoon, and a teacup, the latter containing various lumps of snowy-white sugar: in the meantime I had produced a bottle of the stronger liquid. The man in black helped himself to some water, and likewise to some Hollands, the proportion of water being about two-thirds; then adding a lump of sugar, he stirred the whole up, tasted it, and said that it was good. "This is one of the good things of life," he added, after a short pause. "What are the others?" I demanded. "There is Malvoisia sack," said the man in black, "and partridge, and beccafico." "And what do you say to high mass?" said I. "High mass!" said the man in black; "however," he continued, after a pause, "I will be frank with you; I came to be so; I may have heard high mass on a time, and said it too; but as for any predilection for it, I assure you I have no more than for a long High Church sermon." "You speak a la Margutte?" said I. "Margutte!" said the man in black, musingly. "Margutte?" "You have read Pulci, I suppose?" said I. "Yes, yes," said the man in black, laughing; "I remember." "He might be rendered into English," said I, "something in this style:-- "'To which Margutte answered with a sneer, I like the blue no better than the black, My faith consists alone in savoury cheer, In roasted capons, and in potent sack; But, above all, in famous gin and clear, Which often lays the Briton on his back, With lump of sugar, and with lymph from well, I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell.'" "He! he! he!" said the man in black; "that is more than Mezzofante could have done for a stanza of Byron." "A clever man," said I. "Who?" said the man in black. "Mezzofante di Bologna." "He! he! he!" said the man in black; "now I know that you are not a Gypsy, at least a soothsayer; no soothsayer would have said that--" "Why," said I, "does he not understand five-and-twenty tongues?" "O yes," said the man in black; "and five-and-twenty added to them; but--he! he! it was principally from him who is certainly the Prince of Philologists that I formed my opinion of the sect." "You ought to speak of him with more respect," said I; "I have heard say that he has done good service to your see." "O yes," said the man in black; "he has done good service to our see, that is, in his way; when the neophytes of the propaganda are to be examined in the several tongues in which they are destined to preach, he is appointed to question them, the questions being first written down for him, or else, he! he! he! Of course you know Napoleon's estimate of Mezzofante; he sent for the linguist from motives of curiosity, and after some discourse with him, told him that he might depart; then turning to some of his generals, he observed, 'Nous avons eu ici un exemple qu'un homme peut avoir beaucoup de paroles avec bien peu d'esprit.'" "You are ungrateful to him," said I; "well, perhaps, when he is dead and gone you will do him justice." "True," said the man in black; "when he is dead and gone, we intend to erect him a statue of wood, on the left-hand side of the door of the Vatican library." "Of wood?" said I. "He was the son of a carpenter, you know," said the man in black; "the figure will be of wood for no other reason, I assure you; he! he!" "You should place another statue on the right." "Perhaps we shall," said the man in black; "but we know of no one amongst the philologists of Italy, nor, indeed, of the other countries, inhabited by the faithful worthy, to sit parallel in effigy with our illustrissimo; when, indeed, we have conquered those regions of the perfidious by bringing the inhabitants thereof to the true faith, I have no doubt that we shall be able to select one worthy to bear him company, one whose statue shall be placed on the right hand of the library, in testimony of our joy at his conversion; for, as you know, 'There is more joy,' etc." "Wood?" said I. "I hope not," said the man in black; "no, if I be consulted as to the material for the statue, I should strongly recommend bronze." And when the man in black had said this, he emptied his second tumbler of its contents, and prepared himself another. CHAPTER XIII.--THE MAN IN BLACK DISCUSSES THE FOIBLES OF THE ENGLISH--HIS SCHEMES FOR WINNING OVER THE ARISTOCRACY, THE MIDDLE CLASS, AND THE RABBLE--HORSEFLESH AND BITTER ALE. "So you hope to bring these regions again beneath the banner of the Roman see?" said I; after the man in black had prepared the beverage, and tasted it. "Hope," said the man in black; "how can we fail? Is not the Church of these regions going to lose its prerogative?" "Its prerogative?" "Yes; those who should be the guardians of the religion of England are about to grant Papists emancipation and to remove the disabilities from Dissenters, which will allow the Holy Father to play his own game in England." On my inquiring how the Holy Father intended to play his game, the man in black gave me to understand that he intended for the present to cover the land with temples, in which the religion of Protestants would be continually scoffed at and reviled. On my observing that such behaviour would savour strongly of ingratitude, the man in black gave me to understand that if I entertained the idea that the See of Rome was ever influenced in its actions by any feeling of gratitude I was much mistaken, assuring me that if the See of Rome in any encounter should chance to be disarmed, and its adversary, from a feeling of magnanimity, should restore the sword which had been knocked out of its hand, the See of Rome always endeavoured on the first opportunity to plunge the said sword into its adversary's bosom,--conduct which the man in black seemed to think was very wise, and which he assured me had already enabled it to get rid of a great many troublesome adversaries, and would, he had no doubt, enable it to get rid of a great many more. On my attempting to argue against the propriety of such behaviour, the man in black cut the matter short, by saying, that if one party was a fool he saw no reason why the other should imitate it in its folly. After musing a little while I told him that emancipation had not yet passed through the legislature, and that perhaps it never would, reminding him that there was often many a slip between the cup and the lip; to which observation the man in black agreed, assuring me, however, that there was no doubt that emancipation would be carried, inasmuch as there was a very loud cry at present in the land; a cry of "tolerance," which had almost frightened the Government out of its wits; who, to get rid of the cry, was going to grant all that was asked in the way of toleration, instead of telling the people to "Hold their nonsense," and cutting them down, provided they continued bawling longer. I questioned the man in black with respect to the origin of this cry; but he said to trace it to its origin would require a long history; that, at any rate, such a cry was in existence, the chief raisers of it being certain of the nobility, called Whigs, who hoped by means of it to get into power, and to turn out certain ancient adversaries of theirs called Tories, who were for letting things remain _in statu quo_; that these Whigs were backed by a party amongst the people called Radicals, a specimen of whom I had seen in the public-house; a set of fellows who were always in the habit of bawling against those in place; "and so," he added, "by means of these parties, and the hubbub which the Papists and other smaller sects are making, a general emancipation will be carried, and the Church of England humbled, which is the principal thing which the See of Rome cares for." {153} On my telling the man in black that I believed that even among the high dignitaries of the English Church there were many who wished to grant perfect freedom to religions of all descriptions, he said: "He was aware that such was the fact, and that such a wish was anything but wise, inasmuch as if they had any regard for the religion they professed, they ought to stand by it through thick and thin, proclaiming it to be the only true one, and denouncing all others, in an alliterative style, as dangerous and damnable; whereas, by their present conduct, they are bringing their religion into contempt with the people at large, who would never continue long attached to a Church, the ministers of which did not stand up for it, and likewise cause their own brethren, who had a clearer notion of things, to be ashamed of belonging to it. I speak advisedly," said he, in continuation; "there is one Platitude." "And I hope there is only one," said I; "you surely would not adduce the likes and dislikes of that poor silly fellow as the criterions of the opinions of any party?" "You know him," said the man in black; "nay, I heard you mention him in the public-house; the fellow is not very wise, I admit, but he has sense enough to know, that unless a Church can make people hold their tongues when it thinks fit, it is scarcely deserving the name of a Church; no, I think that the fellow is not such a very bad stick, and that upon the whole he is, or rather was, an advantageous specimen of the High Church English clergy, who, for the most part, so far from troubling their heads about persecuting people, only think of securing tithes, eating their heavy dinners, puffing out their cheeks with importance on country justice benches, and occasionally exhibiting their conceited wives, hoyden daughters, and gawky sons at country balls, whereas Platitude--" "Stop," said I; "you said in the public-house that the Church of England was a persecuting Church, and here in the dingle you have confessed that one section of it is willing to grant perfect freedom to the exercise of all religions, and the other only thinks of leading an easy life." "Saying a thing in the public-house is a widely different thing from saying it in the dingle," said the man in black; "had the Church of England been a persecuting Church, it would not stand in the position in which it stands at present; it might, with its opportunities, have spread itself over the greater part of the world. I was about to observe, that instead of practising the indolent habits of his High Church brethren, Platitude would be working for his money, preaching the proper use of fire and faggot, or rather of the halter and the whipping-post, encouraging mobs to attack the houses of Dissenters, employing spies to collect the scandal of neighbourhoods, in order that he might use it for sacerdotal purposes, and, in fact, endeavouring to turn an English parish into something like a Jesuit benefice in the south of France.' "He tried that game," said I, "and the parish said--'Pooh, pooh,' and, for the most part, went over to the Dissenters." "Very true," said the man in black, taking a sip at his glass, "but why were the Dissenters allowed to preach? why were they not beaten on the lips till they spat out blood, with a dislodged tooth or two? Why, but because the authority of the Church of England has, by its own fault, become so circumscribed that Mr. Platitude was not able to send a host of beadles and sbirri to their chapel to bring them to reason, on which account Mr. Platitude is very properly ashamed of his Church, and is thinking of uniting himself with one which possesses more vigour and authority." "It may have vigour and authority," said I, "in foreign lands, but in these kingdoms the day for practising its atrocities is gone by. It is at present almost below contempt, and is obliged to sue for grace _in forma pauperis_." "Very true," said the man in black, "but let it once obtain emancipation, and it will cast its slough, put on its fine clothes, and make converts by thousands. 'What a fine Church,' they'll say; 'with what authority it speaks--no doubts, no hesitation, no sticking at trifles.' What a contrast to the sleepy English Church! they'll go over to it by millions, till it preponderates here over every other, when it will of course be voted the dominant one; and then--and then--" and here the man in black drank a considerable quantity of gin and water. "What then?" said I. "What then?" said the man in black, "why, she will be true to herself. Let Dissenters, whether they be Church of England, as perhaps they may still call themselves, Methodist, or Presbyterian, presume to grumble, and there shall be bruising of lips in pulpits, tying up to whipping-posts, cutting off ears and noses--he! he! the farce of King Log has been acted long enough; the time for Queen Stork's tragedy is drawing nigh;" and the man in black sipped his gin and water in a very exulting manner. "And this is the Church which, according to your assertion in the public- house, never persecutes?" "I have already given you an answer," said the man in black, "with respect to the matter of the public-house; it is one of the happy privileges of those who belong to my Church to deny in the public-house what they admit in the dingle; {156} we have high warranty for such double speaking. Did not the foundation-stone of our Church, St. Peter, deny in the public house what he had previously professed in the valley?" "And do you think," said I, "that the people of England, who have shown aversion to anything in the shape of intolerance, will permit such barbarities as you have described?" "Let them become Papists," said the man in black; "only let the majority become Papists, and you will see." "They will never become so," said I; "the good sense of the people of England will never permit them to commit such an absurdity." "The good sense of the people of England?" said the man in black, filling himself another glass. "Yes," said I; "the good sense of not only the upper, but the middle and lower classes." "And of what description of people are the upper class?" said the man in black, putting a lump of sugar into his gin and water. "Very fine people," said I, "monstrously fine people; so, at least, they are generally believed to be." "He! he!" said the man in black; "only those think them so who don't know them. The male part of the upper class are in youth a set of heartless profligates; in old age, a parcel of poor, shaking, nervous paillards. The female part, worthy to be the sisters and wives of such wretches, unmarried, full of cold vice, kept under by vanity and ambition, but which, after marriage, they seek not to restrain; in old age, abandoned to vapours and horrors, do you think that such beings will afford any obstacle to the progress of the Church in these regions, as soon as her movements are unfettered?" "I cannot give an opinion; I know nothing of them, except from a distance. But what think you of the middle classes?" "Their chief characteristic," said the man in black, "is a rage for grandeur and gentility; and that same rage makes us quite sure of them in the long run. Every thing that's lofty meets their unqualified approbation; whilst everything humble, or, as they call it, 'low,' is scouted by them. They begin to have a vague idea that the religion which they have hitherto professed is low; at any rate that it is not the religion of the mighty ones of the earth, of the great kings and emperors whose shoes they have a vast inclination to kiss, nor was used by the grand personages of whom they have read in their novels and romances, their Ivanhoes, their Marmions, and their Ladies of the Lake." "Do you think that the writings of Scott have had any influence in modifying their religious opinions?" "Most certainly I do," said the man in black. "The writings of that man have made them greater fools than they were before. All their conversation now is about gallant knights, princesses, and cavaliers, with which his pages are stuffed--all of whom were Papists, or very high Church, which is nearly the same thing; and they are beginning to think that the religion of such nice sweet-scented gentry must be something very superfine. Why, I know at Birmingham the daughter of an ironmonger, who screeches to the piano the Lady of the Lake's hymn to the Virgin Mary, always weeps when Mary Queen of Scots is mentioned, and fasts on the anniversary of the death of that very wise martyr, Charles the First. Why, I would engage to convert such an idiot to popery in a week, were it worth my trouble. O Cavaliere Gualtiero, avete fatto molto in favore della Santa Sede!" "If he has," said I, "he has done it unwittingly; I never heard before that he was a favourer of the popish delusion." "Only in theory," said the man in black. "Trust any of the clan MacSycophant for interfering openly and boldly in favour of any cause on which the sun does not shine benignantly. Popery is at present, as you say, suing for grace in these regions _in forma pauperis_; but let royalty once take it up, let old gouty George once patronize it, and I would consent to drink puddle-water, if the very next time the canny Scot was admitted to the royal symposium he did not say, 'By my faith, yere Majesty, I have always thought, at the bottom of my heart, that popery, as ill scrapit tongues ca' it, was a very grand religion; I shall be proud to follow your Majesty's example in adopting it.'" "I doubt not," said I, "that both gouty George and his devoted servant will be mouldering in their tombs long before Royalty in England thinks about adopting popery." "We can wait," said the man in black; "in these days of rampant gentility, there will be no want of Kings nor of Scots about them." "But not Walters," said I. {159} "Our work has been already tolerably well done by one," said the man in black; "but if we wanted literature we should never lack in these regions hosts of literary men of some kind or other to eulogise us, provided our religion were in the fashion, and our popish nobles choose, and they always do our bidding, to admit the canaille to their tables, their kitchen tables. As for literature in general," said he, "the Santa Sede is not particularly partial to it, it may be employed both ways. In Italy, in particular, it has discovered that literary men are not always disposed to be lick-spittles." "For example, Dante," said I. "Yes," said the man in black. "A dangerous personage; that poem of his cuts both ways; and then there was Pulci, that Morgante of his cuts both ways, or rather one way, and that sheer against us; and then there was Aretino, who dealt so hard with the poveri frati; all writers, at least Italian ones, are not lick spittles. And then in Spain,--'tis true, Lope de Vega and Calderon were most inordinate lick-spittles; the 'Principe Constante' of the last is a curiosity in its way; and then the 'Mary Stuart' of Lope; I think I shall recommend the perusal of that work to the Birmingham ironmonger's daughter; she has been lately thinking of adding 'a slight knowledge of the magneeficent language of the Peninsula' to the rest of her accomplishments, he! he! he! but then there was Cervantes, starving, but straight; he deals us some hard knocks in that second part of his Quixote; then there were some of the writers of the picaresque novels. No; all literary men are not lick-spittles, whether in Italy or Spain, or, indeed, upon the Continent; it is only in England that all--" "Come," said I, "mind what you are about to say of English literary men." "Why should I mind?" said the man in black, "there are no literary men here. I have heard of literary men living in garrets, but not in dingles, whatever philologists may do; I may, therefore, speak out freely. It is only in England that literary men are invariably lick-spittles; on which account, perhaps, they are so despised, even by those who benefit by their dirty services. Look at your fashionable novel writers, he! he! and above all at your newspaper editors, ho! ho!" "You will, of course, except the editors of the --- from your censure of the last class?" said I. "Them!" said the man in black; "why, they might serve as models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it. See how they bepraise their patrons, the grand Whig nobility, who hope, by raising the cry of liberalism, and by putting themselves at the head of the populace, to come into power shortly. I don't wish to be hard, at present, upon those Whigs," he continued, "for they are playing our game; but a time will come when, not wanting them, we will kick them to a considerable distance: and then, when toleration is no longer the cry, and the Whigs are no longer backed by the populace, see whether the editors of the --- will stand by them; they will prove themselves as expert lick-spittles of despotism as of liberalism. Don't think they will always bespatter the Tories and Austria." "Well," said I, "I am sorry to find that you entertain so low an opinion of the spirit of English literary men; we will now return, if you please, to the subject of the middle classes; I think your strictures upon them in general are rather too sweeping--they are not altogether the foolish people you have described. Look, for example, at that very powerful and numerous body the Dissenters, the descendants of those sturdy Patriots who hurled Charles the Simple from his throne." "There are some sturdy fellows amongst them, I do not deny," said the man in black, "especially amongst the preachers, clever withal--two or three of that class nearly drove Mr. Platitude mad, as perhaps you are aware, but they are not very numerous; and the old sturdy sort of preachers are fast dropping off, and, as we observe with pleasure, are generally succeeded by frothy coxcombs, whom it would not be very difficult to gain over. But what we most rely upon as an instrument to bring the Dissenters over to us is the mania for gentility, which amongst them has of late become as great, and more ridiculous, than amongst the middle classes belonging to the Church of England. All the plain and simple fashions of their forefathers they are either about to abandon, or have already done so. Look at the most part of their chapels, no longer modest brick edifices, situated in quiet and retired streets, but lunatic- looking erections, in what the simpletons call the modern Gothic taste, of Portland-stone, with a cross upon the top, and the site generally the most conspicuous that can be found; and look at the manner in which they educate their children, I mean those that are wealthy. They do not even wish them to be Dissenters, 'the sweet dears shall enjoy the advantages of good society, of which their parents were debarred.' So the girls are sent to tip-top boarding schools, where amongst other trash they read 'Rokeby,' and are taught to sing snatches from that high-flying ditty the 'Cavalier--' 'Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown, With the barons of England, who fight for the crown?'-- he! he! their own names. Whilst the lads are sent to those hot-beds of pride and folly--colleges, whence they return with a greater contempt for everything 'low,' and especially for their own pedigree, than they went with. I tell you, friend, the children of Dissenters, if not their parents, are going over to the Church, as you call it, and the Church is going over to Rome." "I do not see the justice of that latter assertion at all," said I; "some of the Dissenters' children may be coming over to the Church of England, and yet the Church of England be very far from going over to Rome." "In the high road for it, I assure you," said the man in black, "part of it is going to abandon, the rest to lose their prerogative, and when a church no longer retains its prerogative, it speedily loses its own respect, and that of others." "Well," said I, "if the higher classes have all the vices and follies which you represent, on which point I can say nothing, as I have never mixed with them; and even supposing the middle classes are the foolish beings you would fain make them, and which I do not believe them as a body to be, you would still find some resistance amongst the lower classes. I have a considerable respect for their good sense and independence of character; but pray let me hear your opinion of them." "As for the lower classes," said the man in black, "I believe them to be the most brutal wretches in the world, the most addicted to foul feeding, foul language, and foul vices of every kind; wretches who have neither love for country, religion, nor anything save their own vile selves. You surely do not think that they would oppose a change of religion? why, there is not one of them but would hurrah for the Pope, or Mahomet, for the sake of a hearty gorge and a drunken bout, like those which they are treated with at election contests." "Has your church any followers amongst them?" said I. "Wherever there happens to be a Romish family of considerable possessions," said the man in black, "our church is sure to have followers of the lower class, who have come over in the hope of getting something in the shape of dole or donation. As, however, the Romish is not yet the dominant religion, and the clergy of the English establishment have some patronage to bestow, the churches are not quite deserted by the lower classes; yet were the Romish to become the established religion, they would, to a certainty, all go over to it; you can scarcely imagine what a self-interested set they are--for example, the landlord of that public-house in which I first met you, having lost a sum of money upon a cock-fight, and his affairs in consequence being in a bad condition, is on the eve of coming over to us, in the hope that two old Popish females of property, whom I confess, will advance him a sum of money to set him up again in the world." "And what could have put such an idea into the poor fellow's head?" said I. "Oh! he and I have had some conversation upon the state of his affairs," said the man in black; "I think he might make a rather useful convert in these parts, provided things take a certain turn, as they doubtless will. It is no bad thing to have a fighting fellow, who keeps a public-house, belonging to one's religion. He has been occasionally employed as a bully at elections by the Tory party, and he may serve us in the same capacity. The fellow comes of a good stock; I heard him say that his father headed the High Church mob, who sacked and burnt Priestley's house at Birmingham towards the end of the last century." "A disgraceful affair," said I. "What do you mean by a disgraceful affair?" said the man in black. "I assure you that nothing has occurred for the last fifty years which has given the High Church party so much credit in the eyes of Rome as that; we did not imagine that the fellows had so much energy. Had they followed up that affair, by twenty others of a similar kind, they would by this time have had everything in their own power; but they did not, and, as a necessary consequence, they are reduced to almost nothing." "I suppose," said I, "that your church would have acted very differently in its place." "It has always done so," said the man in black, coolly sipping. "Our church has always armed the brute-population against the genius and intellect of a country, provided that same intellect and genius were not willing to become its instruments and eulogists; and provided we once obtain a firm hold here again, we would not fail to do so. We would occasionally stuff the beastly rabble with horseflesh and bitter ale, and then halloo them on against all those who were obnoxious to us." "Horseflesh and bitter ale!" I replied. "Yes," said the man in black; "horseflesh and bitter ale, the favourite delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always ready to do our bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. There is a tradition in our church, that before the rabble of Penda, at the instigation of Austin, attacked and massacred the presbyterian monks of Bangor, they had been allowed a good gorge of horseflesh and bitter ale. He! he! he!" continued the man in black, "what a fine spectacle to see such a mob, headed by a fellow like our friend, the landlord, sack the house of another Priestley." "Then you don't deny that we have had a Priestley," said I, "and admit the possibility of our having another? You were lately observing that all English literary men were sycophants?" "Lick-spittles," said the man in black; "yes, I admit that you have had a Priestley, but he was a Dissenter of the old sort; you have had him, and perhaps may have another." "Perhaps we may," said I. "But with respect to the lower classes, have you mixed much with them?" "I have mixed with all classes," said the man in black, "and with the lower not less than the upper and middle, they are much as I have described them; and of the three, the lower are the worst. I never knew one of them that possessed the slightest principle . . . "I ought to know something of the English people," he continued, after a moment's pause; "I have been many years amongst them labouring in the cause of the Church." "Your See must have had great confidence in your powers, when it selected you to labour for it in these parts?" said I. "They chose me," said the man in black, "principally because, being of British extraction and education, I could speak the English language and bear a glass of something strong. It is the opinion of my See, that it would hardly do to send a missionary into a country like this who is not well versed in English--a country where they think, so far from understanding any language besides his own, scarcely one individual in ten speaks his own intelligibly; or an ascetic person where, as they say, high and low, male and female, are, at some period of their lives, fond of a renovating glass, as it is styled, in other words, of tippling." "Your See appears to entertain a very strange opinion of the English," said I. "Not altogether an unjust one," said the man in black, lifting the glass to his mouth. "Well," said I, "it is certainly very kind on its part to wish to bring back such a set of beings beneath its wing." "Why, as to the kindness of my See," said the man in black, "I have not much to say; my See has generally in what it does a tolerably good motive; these heretics possess in plenty what my See has a great hankering for, and can turn to a good account--money!" "The founder of the Christian religion cared nothing for money," said I. "What have we to do with what the founder of the Christian religion cared for?" said the man in black; "how could our temples be built, and our priests supported without money? But you are unwise to reproach us with a desire of obtaining money; you forget that your own church, if the Church of England be your own church, as I suppose it is, from the willingness which you displayed in the public-house to fight for it, is equally avaricious; look at your greedy Bishops, and your corpulent Rectors! do they imitate Christ in his disregard for money? Go to! you might as well tell me that they imitate Christ in his meekness and humility." "Well," said I, "whatever their faults may be, you can't say that they go to Rome for money." The man in black made no direct answer, but appeared by the motion of his lips to be repeating something to himself. "I see your glass is again empty," said I; "perhaps you will replenish it." The man in black arose from his seat, adjusted his habiliments which were rather in disorder, and placed upon his head his hat, which he had laid aside, then, looking at me, who was still lying upon the ground, he said--"I might, perhaps, take another glass, though I believe I have had quite as much as I can well bear; but I do not wish to hear you utter anything more this evening after that last observation of yours--it is quite original; I will meditate upon it on my pillow this night after having said an ave and a pater--go to Rome for money!" He then made Belle a low bow, slightly motioned to me with his hand, as if bidding farewell, and then left the dingle with rather uneven steps. "Go to Rome for money," I heard him say as he ascended the winding path, "he! he! he! Go to Rome for money, ho! ho! ho!" CHAPTER XIV.--LIFE IN THE DINGLE--ISOPEL IS INOCULATED WITH TONGUES--A THUNDERSTORM. Nearly three days elapsed without anything of particular moment occurring. Belle drove the little cart containing her merchandise about the neighbourhood, returning to the dingle towards the evening. As for myself, I kept within my wooded retreat, working during the periods of her absence leisurely at my forge. Having observed that the quadruped which my companion drove was as much in need of shoes as my own had been some time previously, I had determined to provide it with a set, and during the aforesaid periods occupied myself in preparing them. As I was employed three mornings and afternoons about them, I am sure that the reader will agree that I worked leisurely, or rather lazily. On the third day Belle arrived somewhat later than usual; I was lying on my back at the bottom of the dingle, employed in tossing up the shoes, which I had produced, and catching them as they fell, some being always in the air mounting or descending, somewhat after the fashion of the waters of a fountain. "Why have you been absent so long?" said I to Belle; "it must be long past four by the day." "I have been almost killed by the heat," said Belle; "I was never out in a more sultry day--the poor donkey, too, could scarcely move along." "He shall have fresh shoes," said I, continuing my exercise: "here they are, quite ready; to-morrow I will tack them on." "And why are you playing with them in that manner?" said Belle. "Partly in triumph at having made them, and partly to show that I can do something besides making them; it is not every one, who, after having made a set of horse-shoes, can keep them going up and down in the air, without letting one fall." "One has now fallen on your chin," said Belle. "And another on my cheek," said I, getting up; "it is time to discontinue the game, for the last shoe drew blood." Belle went to her own little encampment; and as for myself, after having flung the donkey's shoes into my tent, I put some fresh wood on the fire, which was nearly out, and hung the kettle over it. I then issued forth from the dingle, and strolled round the wood that surrounded it; for a long time I was busied in meditation, looking at the ground, striking with my foot, half unconsciously, the tufts of grass and thistles that I met in my way. After some time, I lifted up my eyes to the sky, at first vacantly, and then with more attention, turning my head in all directions for a minute or two; after which I returned to the dingle. Isopel was seated near the fire, over which the kettle was now hung; she had changed her dress--no signs of the dust and fatigue of her late excursion remained; she had just added to the fire a small billet of wood, two or three of which I had left beside it; the fire cracked, and a sweet odour filled the dingle. "I am fond of sitting by a wood fire," said Belle, "when abroad, whether it be hot or cold; I love to see the flames dart out of the wood; but what kind is this, and where did you get it?" "It is ash," said I, "green ash. Somewhat less than a week ago, whilst I was wandering along the road by the side of a wood, I came to a place where some peasants were engaged in cutting up and clearing away a confused mass of fallen timber: a mighty-aged oak had given way the night before, and in its fall had shivered some smaller trees; the upper part of the oak, and the fragments of the rest, lay across the road. I purchased, for a trifle, a bundle or two, and the wood on the fire is part of it--ash, green ash." "That makes good the old rhyme," said Belle, "which I have heard sung by the old women in the great house:-- 'Ash, when green, Is fire for a queen.'" "And on fairer form of queen, ash fire never shone," said I, "than on thine, O beauteous queen of the dingle." "I am half disposed to be angry with you, young man," said Belle. "And why not entirely?" said I. Belle made no reply. "Shall I tell you?" I demanded. "You had no objection to the first part of the speech, but you did not like being called queen of the dingle. Well, if I had the power, I would make you queen of something better than the dingle--Queen of China. Come, let us have tea." "Something less would content me," said Belle, sighing as she rose to prepare our evening meal. So we took tea together, Belle and I. "How delicious tea is after a hot summer's day, and a long walk!" said she. "I daresay it is most refreshing then," said I; "but I have heard people say that they most enjoy it on a cold winter's night, when the kettle is hissing on the fire, and their children playing on the hearth." Belle sighed. "Where does tea come from?" she presently demanded. "From China," said I; "I just now mentioned it, and the mention of it put me in mind of tea." "What kind of country is China?" "I know very little about it; all I know is, that it is a very large country far to the East, but scarcely large enough to contain its inhabitants, who are so numerous, that though China does not cover one- ninth part of the world, its inhabitants amount to one-third of the population of the world." "And do they talk as we do?" "O no! I know nothing of their language; but I have heard that it is quite different from all others, and so difficult that none but the cleverest people amongst foreigners can master it, on which account, perhaps, only the French pretend to know anything about it." "Are the French so very clever, then?" said Belle. "They say there are no people like them, at least in Europe. But talking of Chinese reminds me that I have not for some time past given you a lesson in Armenian. The word for tea in Armenian is--by-the-bye, what is the Armenian word for tea?" "That's your affair, not mine," said Belle; "it seems hard that the master should ask the scholar." "Well," said I, "whatever the word may be in Armenian, it is a noun; and as we have never yet declined an Armenian noun together, we may as well take this opportunity of declining one. Belle, there are ten declensions in Armenian!" "What's a declension?" "The way of declining a noun." "Then, in the civilest way imaginable, I decline the noun. Is that a declension?" "You should never play on words; to do so is low, vulgar, smelling of the pothouse, the workhouse. Belle, I insist on your declining an Armenian noun." "I have done so already," said Belle. "If you go on in this way," said I, "I shall decline taking any more tea with you. Will you decline an Armenian noun?" "I don't like the language," said Belle. "If you must teach me languages, why not teach me French or Chinese?" "I know nothing of Chinese; and as for French, none but a Frenchman is clever enough to speak it--to say nothing of teaching; no, we will stick to Armenian, unless, indeed, you would prefer Welsh!" "Welsh, I have heard, is vulgar," said Belle; "so, if I must learn one of the two, I will prefer Armenian, which I never heard of till you mentioned it to me; though of the two, I really think Welsh sounds best." "The Armenian noun," said I, "which I propose for your declension this night, is Dyer, which signifieth Lord, or Master." "It soundeth very like tyrant," said Belle. "I care not what it sounds like," said I; "it is the word I chose, though it is not of the first declension. Master, with all its variations, being the first noun, the sound of which I would have you learn from my lips. Come, let us begin-- "A master Dyer, Of a master, Dyern. Repeat--" "The word sounds very strange to me," said Belle. "However, to oblige you I will do my best;" and thereupon Belle declined master in Armenian. "You have declined the noun very well," said I; "that is in the singular number; we will now go to the plural." "What is the plural?" said Belle. "That which implies more than one, for example, masters; you shall now go through masters in Armenian." "Never," said Belle, "never; it is bad to have one master, but more I would never bear, whether in Armenian or English." "You do not understand," said I; "I merely want you to decline masters in Armenian." "I do decline them; I will have nothing to do with them, nor with master either; I was wrong to--What sound is that?" "I did not hear it, but I dare say it is thunder; in Armenian--" "Never mind what it is in Armenian; but why do you think it is thunder?" "Ere I returned from my stroll, I looked up into the heavens, and by their appearance I judged that a storm was nigh at hand." "And why did you not tell me so?" "You never asked me about the state of the atmosphere, and I am not in the habit of giving my opinion to people on any subject, unless questioned. But, setting that aside, can you blame me for not troubling you with forebodings about storm and tempest, which might have prevented the pleasure you promised yourself in drinking tea, or perhaps a lesson in Armenian, though you pretend to dislike the latter?" "My dislike is not pretended," said Belle; "I hate the sound of it, but I love my tea, and it was kind of you not to wish to cast a cloud over my little pleasures; the thunder came quite time enough to interrupt it without being anticipated--there is another peal--I will clear away, and see that my tent is in a condition to resist the storm, and I think you had better bestir yourself." Isopel departed, and I remained seated on my stone, as nothing belonging to myself required any particular attention. In about a quarter of an hour she returned, and seated herself upon her stool. "How dark the place is become since I left you," said she; "just as if night were just at hand." "Look up at the sky," said I; "and you will not wonder; it is all of a deep olive. The wind is beginning to rise; hark how it moans among the branches; and see how their tops are bending--it brings dust on its wings--I felt some fall on my face; and what is this, a drop of rain?" "We shall have plenty anon," said Belle; "do you hear? it already begins to hiss upon the embers; that fire of ours will soon be extinguished." "It is not probable that we shall want it," said I, "but we had better seek shelter: let us go into my tent." "Go in," said Belle, "but you go in alone; as for me, I will seek my own." "You are right," said I, "to be afraid of me; I have taught you to decline master in Armenian." "You almost tempt me," said Belle, "to make you decline mistress in English." "To make matters short," said I, "I decline a mistress." "What do you mean?" said Belle, angrily. "I have merely done what you wished me," said I, "and in your own style; there is no other way of declining anything in English, for in English there are no declensions." "The rain is increasing," said Belle. "It is so," said I; "I shall go to my tent; you may come, if you please; I do assure you I am not afraid of you." "Nor I of you," said Belle; "so I will come. Why should I be afraid? I can take my own part; that is--" We went into the tent and sat down, and now the rain began to pour with vehemence. "I hope we shall not be flooded in this hollow," said I to Belle. "There is no fear of that," said Belle; "the wandering people, amongst other names, call it the dry hollow. I believe there is a passage somewhere or other by which the wet is carried off. There must be a cloud right above us, it is so dark. Oh! what a flash!" "And what a peal!" said I; "that is what the Hebrews call Koul Adonai--the voice of the Lord. Are you afraid?" "No," said Belle, "I rather like to hear it." "You are right," said I, "I am fond of the sound of thunder myself. There is nothing like it: Koul Adonai behadar; the voice of the Lord is a glorious voice, as the prayer-book version hath it." "There is something awful in it," said Belle; "and then the lightning, the whole dingle is now in a blaze." "'The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and discovereth the thick bushes.' As you say, there is something awful in thunder." "There are all kinds of noises above us," said Belle: "surely I heard the crashing of a tree?" "'The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedar trees,'" said I, "but what you hear is caused by a convulsion of the air; during a thunderstorm there are occasionally all kinds of aerial noises. Ab Gwilym, who, next to King David, has best described a thunderstorm, speaks of these aerial noises in the following manner:-- 'Astonied now I stand at strains, As of ten thousand clanking chains; And once, methought, that overthrown, The welkin's oaks came whelming down; Upon my head upstarts my hair: Why hunt abroad the hounds of air? What cursed hag is screeching high, Whilst crash goes all her crockery?' You would hardly believe, Belle, that though I offered at least ten thousand lines nearly as good as those to the booksellers in London, the simpletons were so blind to their interest as to refuse purchasing them." "I don't wonder at it," said Belle, "especially if such dreadful expressions frequently occur as that towards the end; surely that was the crash of a tree?" "Ah!" said I, "there falls the cedar tree--I mean the sallow; one of the tall trees on the outside of the dingle has been snapped short." "What a pity," said Belle, "that the fine old oak, which you saw the peasants cutting up, gave way the other night, when scarcely a breath of air was stirring: how much better to have fallen in a storm like this, the fiercest I remember." "I don't think so," said I; "after braving a thousand tempests, it was meeter for it to fall of itself than to be vanquished at last. But to return to Ab Gwilym's poetry, he was above culling dainty words, and spoke boldly his mind on all subjects. Enraged with the thunder for parting him and Morfydd, he says, at the conclusion of his ode, 'My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee, For parting my dear pearl and me!'" "You and I shall part; that is, I shall go to my tent if you persist in repeating from him. The man must have been a savage. A poor wood-pigeon has fallen dead." "Yes," said I, "there he lies just outside the tent; often have I listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. So you do not like Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Gothe:-- 'Mist shrouds the night, and rack; Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack! Wildly the owls are flitting, Hark to the pillars splitting Of palaces verdant ever, The branches quiver and sever, The mighty stems are creaking, The poor roots breaking and shrieking, In wild mixt ruin down dashing, O'er one another they're crashing; Whilst 'midst the rocks so hoary, Whirlwinds hurry and worry. Hear'st not, sister--' "Hark!" said Belle, "hark!" "'Hear'st not, sister, a chorus Of voices?'" "No," said Belle, "but I hear a voice." CHAPTER XV.--FIRST AID TO A POSTCHAISE AND A POSTILLION--MORE HOSPITALITY. I listened attentively, but I could hear nothing but the loud clashing of branches, the pattering of rain, and the muttered growl of thunder. I was about to tell Belle that she must have been mistaken, when I heard a shout, indistinct, it is true, owing to the noises aforesaid, from some part of the field above the dingle. "I will soon see what's the matter," said I to Belle, starting up. "I will go, too," said the girl. "Stay where you are," said I; "if I need you I will call;" and, without waiting for an answer, I hurried to the mouth of the dingle. I was about a few yards only from the top of the ascent, when I beheld a blaze of light, from whence I knew not; the next moment there was a loud crash, and I appeared involved in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. "Lord have mercy upon us," I heard a voice say, and methought I heard the plunging and struggling of horses. I had stopped short on hearing the crash, for I was half stunned; but I now hurried forward, and in a moment stood upon the plain. Here I was instantly aware of the cause of the crash and the smoke. One of those balls, generally called fire-balls, had fallen from the clouds, and was burning on the plain at a short distance; and the voice which I had heard, and the plunging, were as easily accounted for. Near the left-hand corner of the grove which surrounded the dingle, and about ten yards from the fire-ball, I perceived a chaise, with a postillion on the box, who was making efforts, apparently useless, to control his horses, which were kicking and plunging in the highest degree of excitement. I instantly ran towards the chaise, in order to offer what help was in my power. "Help me," said the poor fellow, as I drew nigh; but before I could reach the horses, they had turned rapidly round, one of the fore-wheels flew from its axle-tree, the chaise was overset, and the postillion flung violently from his seat upon the field. The horses now became more furious than before, kicking desperately, and endeavouring to disengage themselves from the fallen chaise. As I was hesitating whether to run to the assistance of the postillion, or endeavour to disengage the animals, I heard the voice of Belle exclaiming, "See to the horses, I will look after the man." She had, it seems, been alarmed by the crash which accompanied the fire-bolt, and had hurried up to learn the cause. I forthwith seized the horses by the heads, and used all the means I possessed to soothe and pacify them, employing every gentle modulation of which my voice was capable. Belle, in the meantime, had raised up the man, who was much stunned by his fall; but presently recovering his recollection to a certain degree, he came limping to me holding his hand to his right thigh. "The first thing that must now be done," said I, "is to free these horses from the traces; can you undertake to do so?" "I think I can," said the man, looking at me somewhat stupidly. "I will help," said Belle, and without loss of time laid hold of one of the traces. The man, after a short pause, also set to work, and in a few minutes the horses were extricated. "Now," said I to the man, "what is next to be done?" "I don't know," said he; "indeed, I scarcely know anything; I have been so frightened by this horrible storm, and so shaken by my fall." "I think," said I, "that the storm is passing away, so cast your fears away too; and as for your fall, you must bear it as lightly as you can. I will tie the horses amongst those trees, and then we will all betake us to the hollow below." "And what's to become of my chaise?" said the postillion, looking ruefully on the fallen vehicle. "Let us leave the chaise for the present," said I; "we can be of no use to it." "I don't like to leave my chaise lying on the ground in this weather," said the man, "I love my chaise, and him whom it belongs to." "You are quite right to be fond of yourself," said I, "on which account I advise you to seek shelter from the rain as soon as possible." "I was not talking of myself," said the man, "but my master, to whom the chaise belongs." "I thought you called the chaise yours," said I. "That's my way of speaking," said the man; "but the chaise is my master's, and a better master does not live. Don't you think we could manage to raise up the chaise?" "And what is to become of the horses?" said I. "I love my horses well enough," said the man; "but they will take less harm than the chaise. We two can never lift up that chaise." "But we three can," said Belle; "at least, I think so; and I know where to find two poles which will assist us." "You had better go to the tent," said I, "you will be wet through." "I care not for a little wetting," said Belle; "moreover, I have more gowns than one--see you after the horses." Thereupon, I led the horses past the mouth of the dingle, to a place where a gap in the hedge afforded admission to the copse or plantation, on the southern side. Forcing them through the gap, I led them to a spot amidst the trees, which I deemed would afford them the most convenient place for standing; then, darting down into the dingle, I brought up a rope, and also the halter of my own nag, and with these fastened them each to a separate tree in the best manner I could. This done, I returned to the chaise and the postillion. In a minute or two Belle arrived with two poles, which, it seems, had long been lying, overgrown with brushwood, in a ditch or hollow behind the plantation. With these both she and I set to work in endeavouring to raise the fallen chaise from the ground. We experienced considerable difficulty in this undertaking; at length, with the assistance of the postillion, we saw our efforts crowned with success--the chaise was lifted up, and stood upright on three wheels. "We may leave it here in safety," said I, "for it will hardly move away on three wheels, even supposing it could run by itself; I am afraid there is work here for a wheelwright, in which case I cannot assist you; if you were in need of a blacksmith it would be other wise." "I don't think either the wheel or the axle is hurt," said the postillion, who had been handling both; "it is only the linch-pin having dropped out that caused the wheel to fly off; if I could but find the linch-pin! though, perhaps, it fell out a mile away." "Very likely," said I; "but never mind the linch-pin, I can make you one, or something that will serve: but I can't stay here any longer, I am going to my place below with this young gentlewoman, and you had better follow us." "I am ready," said the man; and after lifting up the wheel and propping it against the chaise, he went with us, slightly limping, and with his hand pressed to his thigh. As we were descending the narrow path, Belle leading the way, and myself the last of the party, the postillion suddenly stopped short, and looked about him. "Why do you stop?" said I. "I don't wish to offend you," said the man; "but this seems to be a strange place you are leading me into; I hope you and the young gentlewoman, as you call her, don't mean me any harm--you seemed in a great hurry to bring me here." "We wished to get you out of the rain," said I, "and ourselves too; that is, if we can, which I rather doubt, for the canvas of a tent is slight shelter in such a rain; but what harm should we wish to do you?" "You may think I have money," said the man, "and I have some, but only thirty shillings, and for a sum like that it would be hardly worth while to--" "Would it not?" said I; "thirty shillings, after all, are thirty shillings, and for what I know, half a dozen throats may have been cut in this place for that sum at the rate of five shillings each; moreover, there are horses, which would serve to establish this young gentlewoman and myself in housekeeping, provided we were thinking of such a thing." "Then I suppose I have fallen into pretty hands," said the man, putting himself in a posture of defence; "but I'll show no craven heart; and if you attempt to lay hands on me, I'll try to pay you in your own coin. I'm rather lamed in the leg, but I can still use my fists; so come on, both of you, man and woman, if woman this be, though she looks more like a grenadier." "Let me hear no more of this nonsense," said Belle; "if you are afraid, you can go back to your chaise--we only seek to do you a kindness." "Why, he was just now talking about cutting throats," said the man. "You brought it on yourself," said Belle; "you suspected us, and he wished to pass a joke upon you; he would not hurt a hair of your head, were your coach laden with gold, nor would I." "Well," said the man, "I was wrong--here's my hand to both of you," shaking us by the hands; "I'll go with you where you please, but I thought this a strange lonesome place, though I ought not much to mind strange lonesome places, having been in plenty of such when I was a servant in Italy, without coming to any harm--come, let us move on, for 'tis a shame to keep you two in the rain." So we descended the path which led into the depths of the dingle; at the bottom I conducted the postillion to my tent, which, though the rain dripped and trickled through it, afforded some shelter; there I bade him sit down on the log of wood, while I placed myself as usual on my stone. Belle in the meantime had repaired to her own place of abode. After a little time, I produced a bottle of the cordial of which I have previously had occasion to speak, and made my guest take a considerable draught. I then offered him some bread and cheese, which he accepted with thanks. In about an hour the rain had much abated. "What do you now propose to do?" said I. "I scarcely know," said the man; "I suppose I must endeavour to put on the wheel with your help." "How far are you from your home?" I demanded. "Upwards of thirty miles," said the man. "My master keeps an inn on the great north road, and from thence I started early this morning with a family which I conveyed across the country to a hall at some distance from here. On my return I was beset by the thunderstorm, which frightened the horses, who dragged the chaise off the road into the field above, and overset it as you saw. I had proposed to pass the night at an inn about twelve miles from here on my way back, though how I am to get there to-night I scarcely know, even if we can put on the wheel, for, to tell you the truth, I am shaken by my fall, and the smoulder and smoke of that fire-ball have rather bewildered my head; I am, moreover, not much acquainted with the way." "The best thing you can do," said I, "is to pass the night here; I will presently light a fire, and endeavour to make you comfortable--in the morning we will see to your wheel." "Well," said the man, "I shall be glad to pass the night here, provided I do not intrude, but I must see to the horses." Thereupon I conducted the man to the place where the horses were tied. "The trees drip rather upon them," said the man, "and it will not do for them to remain here all night; they will be better out in the field picking the grass, but first of all they must have a good feed of corn;" thereupon he went to his chaise, from which he presently brought two small bags, partly filled with corn--into them he inserted the mouths of the horses, tying them over their heads. "Here we will leave them for a time," said the man; "when I think they have had enough, I will come back, tie their fore-legs, and let them pick about." CHAPTER XVI.--THE NEW-COMER TAKES KINDLY TO THE DINGLE AND ITS OCCUPANTS, ABOUT WHOM HE FORMS HIS OWN OPINIONS. It might be about ten o'clock at night. Belle, the postillion, and myself, sat just within the tent, by a fire of charcoal which I had kindled in the chafing-pan. The man had removed the harness from his horses, and, after tethering their legs, had left them for the night in the field above, to regale themselves on what grass they could find. The rain had long since entirely ceased, and the moon and stars shone bright in the firmament, up to which, putting aside the canvas, I occasionally looked from the depths of the dingle. Large drops of water, however, falling now and then upon the tent from the neighbouring trees, would have served, could we have forgotten it, to remind us of the recent storm, and also a certain chilliness in the atmosphere, unusual to the season, proceeding from the moisture with which the ground was saturated; yet these circumstances only served to make our party enjoy the charcoal fire the more. There we sat bending over it: Belle, with her long beautiful hair streaming over her magnificent shoulders; the postillion smoking his pipe, in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, having flung aside his great coat, which had sustained a thorough wetting; and I without my waggoner's slop, of which, it being in the same plight, I had also divested myself. The new-comer was a well-made fellow of about thirty with an open and agreeable countenance. I found him very well informed for a man in his station, and with some pretensions to humour. After we had discoursed for some time on indifferent subjects, the postillion, who had exhausted his pipe, took it from his mouth, and, knocking out the ashes upon the ground, exclaimed: "I little thought, when I got up in the morning, that I should spend the night in such agreeable company, and after such a fright." "Well," said I, "I am glad that your opinion of us has improved; it is not long since you seemed to hold us in rather a suspicious light." "And no wonder," said the man, "seeing the place you were taking me to. I was not a little, but very much afraid of ye both; and so I continued for some time, though, not to show a craven heart, I pretended to be quite satisfied; but I see I was altogether mistaken about ye. I thought you vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers; but now--" "Vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers," said I; "and what are we but people of that stamp?" "Oh," said the postillion, "if you wish to be thought such, I am far too civil a person to contradict you, especially after your kindness to me, but--" "But!" said I; "what do you mean by but? I would have you to know that I am proud of being a travelling blacksmith: look at these donkey-shoes, I finished them this day." The postillion took the shoes and examined them. "So you made these shoes?" he cried at last. "To be sure I did; do you doubt it?" "Not in the least," said the man. "Ah! ah!" said I, "I thought I should bring you back to your original opinion. I am, then, a vagrant Gypsy body, a tramper, a wandering blacksmith." "Not a blacksmith, whatever else you may be," said the postillion, laughing. "Then how do you account for my making those shoes?" "By your not being a blacksmith," said the postillion; "no blacksmith would have made shoes in that manner. Besides, what did you mean just now by saying you had finished these shoes to-day? a real blacksmith would have flung off half-a-dozen sets of donkey shoes in one morning, but you, I will be sworn, have been hammering at these for days, and they do you credit, but why? because you are no blacksmith; no, friend, your shoes may do for this young gentlewoman's animal, but I shouldn't like to have my horses shod by you, unless at a great pinch indeed." "Then," said I, "for what do you take me?" "Why, for some runaway young gentleman," said the postillion. "No offence, I hope?" "None at all; no one is offended at being taken or mistaken for a young gentleman, whether runaway or not; but from whence do you suppose I have run away?" "Why, from college," said the man: "no offence?" "None whatever; and what induced me to run away from college?" "A love affair, I'll be sworn," said the postillion. "You had become acquainted with this young gentle woman, so she and you--" "Mind how you get on, friend," said Belle, in a deep serious tone. "Pray proceed," said I; "I dare say you mean no offence." "None in the world," said the postillion; "all I was going to say was that you agreed to run away together, you from college and she from boarding-school. Well, there's nothing to be ashamed of in a matter like that, such things are done every day by young folks in high life." "Are you offended?" said I to Belle. Belle made no answer; but, placing her elbows on her knees, buried her face in her hands. "So we ran away together?" said I. "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "to Gretna Green, though I can't say that I drove ye, though I have driven many a pair." "And from Gretna Green we came here?" "I'll be bound you did," said the man, "till you could arrange matters at home." "And the horse-shoes?" said I. "The donkey-shoes you mean," answered the postillion; "why, I suppose you persuaded the blacksmith who married you to give you, before you left, a few lessons in his trade?" "And we intend to stay here till we have arranged matters at home?" "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "till the old people are pacified, and they send you letters directed to the next post town, to be left till called for, beginning with, 'Dear children,' and enclosing you each a cheque for one hundred pounds, when you will leave this place, and go home in a coach like gentlefolks, to visit your governors; I should like nothing better than to have the driving of you: and then there will be a grand meeting of the two families, and after a few reproaches, the old people will agree to do something handsome for the poor thoughtless things; so you will have a genteel house taken for you, and an annuity allowed you. You won't get much the first year, five hundred at the most, in order that the old folks may let you feel that they are not altogether satisfied with you, and that you are yet entirely in their power; but the second, if you don't get a cool thousand, may I catch cold, especially should young madam here present a son and heir for the old people to fondle, destined one day to become sole heir of the two illustrious houses, and then all the grand folks in the neighbourhood, who have, bless their prudent hearts! kept rather aloof from you till then, for fear you should want anything from them--I say, all the carriage people in the neighbourhood, when they see how swimmingly matters are going on, will come in shoals to visit you." "Really," said I, "you are getting on swimmingly." "Oh," said the postillion, "I was not a gentleman's servant nine years without learning the ways of gentry, and being able to know gentry when I see them." "And what do you say to all this?" I demanded of Belle. "Stop a moment," interposed the postillion, "I have one more word to say, and when you are surrounded by your comforts, keeping your nice little barouche and pair, your coachman and livery servant, and visited by all the carriage people in the neighbourhood--to say nothing of the time when you come to the family estates on the death of the old people--I shouldn't wonder if now and then you look back with longing and regret to the days when you lived in the damp dripping dingle, had no better equipage than a pony or donkey-cart, and saw no better company than a tramper or gypsy, except once, when a poor postillion was glad to seat himself at your charcoal fire." "Pray," said I, "did you ever take lessons in elocution?" "Not directly," said the postillion, "but my old master, who was in Parliament, did, and so did his son, who was intended to be an orator. A great professor used to come and give them lessons, and I used to stand and listen, by which means I picked up a considerable quantity of what is called rhetoric. In what I last said, I was aiming at what I have heard him frequently endeavouring to teach my governors as a thing indispensably necessary in all oratory, a graceful pere--pere--peregrination." "Peroration, perhaps?" "Just so," said the postillion; "and now I'm sure I am not mistaken about you; you have taken lessons yourself, at first hand, in the college vacations, and a promising pupil you were, I make no doubt. Well, your friends will be all the happier to get you back. Has your governor much borough interest?" "I ask you once more," said I, addressing myself to Belle, "what you think of the history which this good man has made for us?" "What should I think of it," said Belle, still keeping her face buried in her hands, "but that it is mere nonsense?" "Nonsense!" said the postillion. "Yes," said the girl, "and you know it." "May my leg always ache, if I do," said the postillion, patting his leg with his hand; "will you persuade me that this young man has never been at college?" "I have never been at college, but--" "Ay, ay," said the postillion; "but--" "I have been to the best schools in Britain, to say nothing of a celebrated one in Ireland." "Well, then, it comes to the same thing," said the postillion; "or perhaps you know more than if you had been at college--and your governor?" "My governor, as you call him," said I, "is dead." "And his borough interest?" "My father had no borough interest," said I; "had he possessed any, he would perhaps not have died as he did, honourably poor." "No, no," said the postillion; "if he had had borough interest, he wouldn't have been poor nor honourable, though perhaps a right honourable. However, with your grand education and genteel manners, you made all right at last by persuading this noble young gentlewoman to run away from boarding-school with you." "I was never at a boarding-school," said Belle, "unless you call--" "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "boarding-school is vulgar, I know: I beg your pardon, I ought to have called it academy, or by some other much finer name--you were in something much greater than a boarding-school." "There you are right," said Belle, lifting up her head and looking the postillion full in the face by the light of the charcoal fire; "for I was bred in the workhouse." "Wooh!" said the postillion. "It is true that I am of good--" "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "let us hear--" "Of good blood," continued Belle; "my name is Berners, Isopel Berners, though my parents were unfortunate. Indeed, with respect to blood, I believe I am of better blood than the young man." "There you are mistaken," said I; "by my father's side I am of Cornish blood, and by my mother's of brave French Protestant extraction. Now, with respect to the blood of my father--and to be descended well on the father's side is the principal thing--it is the best blood in the world, for the Cornish blood, as the proverb says--" "I don't care what the proverb says," said Belle; "I say my blood is the best--my name is Berners, Isopel Berners--it was my mother's name, and is better, I am sure, than any you bear, whatever that may be; and though you say that the descent on the father's side is the principal thing--and I know why you say so," she added with some excitement--"I say that descent on the mother's side is of most account, because the mother--" "Just come from Gretna Green, and already quarrelling," said the postillion. "We do not come from Gretna Green," said Belle. "Ah, I had forgot," said the postillion, "none but great people go to Gretna Green. Well, then, from church, and already quarrelling about family, just like two great people." "We have never been to church," said Belle, "and, to prevent any more guessing on your part, it will be as well for me to tell you, friend, that I am nothing to the young man, and he, of course, nothing to me. I am a poor travelling girl, born in a workhouse: journeying on my occasions with certain companions, I came to this hollow, where my company quarrelled with the young man, who had settled down here, as he had a right to do, if he pleased; and not been able to drive him out, they went away after quarrelling with me, too, for not choosing to side with them; so I stayed here along with the young man, there being room for us both, and the place being as free to me as to him." "And, in order that you may be no longer puzzled with respect to myself," said I, "I will give you a brief outline of my history. I am the son of honourable parents, who gave me a first-rate education, as far as literature and languages went, with which education I endeavoured, on the death of my father, to advance myself to wealth and reputation in the big city; but failing in the attempt, I conceived a disgust for the busy world, and determined to retire from it. After wandering about for some time, and meeting with various adventures, in one of which I contrived to obtain a pony, cart, and certain tools, used by smiths and tinkers, I came to this place, where I amused myself with making horse-shoes, or rather pony-shoes, having acquired the art of wielding the hammer and tongs from a strange kind of smith--not him of Gretna Green--whom I knew in my childhood. And here I lived, doing harm to no one, quite lonely and solitary, till one fine morning the premises were visited by this young gentlewoman and her companions. She did herself anything but justice when she said that her companions quarrelled with her because she would not side with them against me; they quarrelled with her, because she came most heroically to my assistance as I was on the point of being murdered; and she forgot to tell you, that after they had abandoned her she stood by me in the dark hour, comforting and cheering me, when unspeakable dread, to which I am occasionally subject, took possession of my mind. She says she is nothing to me, even as I am nothing to her. I am of course nothing to her, but she is mistaken in thinking she is nothing to me. I entertain the highest regard and admiration for her, being convinced that I might search the whole world in vain for a nature more heroic and devoted." "And for my part," said Belle, with a sob, "a more quiet, agreeable partner in a place like this I would not wish to have; it is true he has strange ways, and frequently puts words into my mouth very difficult to utter; but--but--" and here she buried her face once more in her hands. "Well," said the postillion, "I have been mistaken about you; that is, not altogether, but in part. You are not rich folks, it seems, but you are not common people, and that I could have sworn. What I call a shame is, that some people I have known are not in your place and you in theirs,--you with their estates and borough interest, they in this dingle with these carts and animals; but there is no help for these things. Were I the great Mumbo Jumbo above, I would endeavour to manage matters better; but being a simple postillion, glad to earn three shillings a day, I can't be expected to do much . . . ." [Here the postillion tells his story. After they have heard it, Lavengro, Isopel, and the narrator roll themselves in their several blankets and bid one another "Good night."] CHAPTER XVII.--THE MAKING OF THE LINCH-PIN--THE SOUND SLEEPER--BREAKFAST--THE POSTILLION'S DEPARTURE. I awoke at the first break of day, and, leaving the postillion fast asleep, stepped out of the tent. The dingle was dank and dripping. I lighted a fire of coals, and got my forge in readiness. I then ascended to the field, where the chaise was standing as we had left it on the previous evening. After looking at the cloud-stone near it, now cold, and split into three pieces, I set about prying narrowly into the condition of the wheel and axle-tree--the latter had sustained no damage of any consequence, and the wheel, as far as I was able to judge, was sound, being only slightly injured in the box. The only thing requisite to set the chaise in a travelling condition appeared to be a linch-pin, which I determined to make. Going to the companion wheel, I took out the linch-pin, which I carried down with me to the dingle, to serve me as a model. I found Belle by this time dressed, and seated near the forge: with a slight nod to her like that which a person gives who happens to see an acquaintance when his mind is occupied with important business, I forthwith set about my work. Selecting a piece of iron which I thought would serve my purpose, I placed it in the fire, and plying the bellows in a furious manner, soon made it hot; then seizing it with the tongs, I laid it on my anvil, and began to beat it with my hammer, according to the rules of my art. The dingle resounded with my strokes. Belle sat still, and occasionally smiled, but suddenly started up and retreated towards her encampment, on a spark which I purposely sent in her direction alighting on her knee. I found the making of a linch-pin no easy matter; it was, however, less difficult than the fabrication of a pony-shoe; my work, indeed, was much facilitated by my having another pin to look at. In about three-quarters of an hour I had succeeded tolerably well, and had produced a linch-pin which I thought would serve. During all this time, notwithstanding the noise which I was making, the postillion never showed his face. His non-appearance at first alarmed me: I was afraid he might be dead, but, on looking into the tent, I found him still buried in the soundest sleep. "He must surely be descended from one of the seven sleepers," said I, as I turned away and resumed my work. My work finished, I took a little oil, leather, and sand, and polished the pin as well as I could; then, summoning Belle, we both went to the chaise, where, with her assistance, I put on the wheel. The linch- pin which I had made fitted its place very well, and having replaced the other, I gazed at the chaise for some time with my heart full of that satisfaction which results from the consciousness of having achieved a great action; then, after looking at Belle in the hope of obtaining a compliment from her lips, which did not come, I returned to the dingle, without saying a word, followed by her. Belle set about making preparations for breakfast; and I, taking the kettle, went and filled it at the spring. Having hung it over the fire, I went to the tent in which the postillion was still sleeping, and called upon him to arise. He awoke with a start, and stared around him at first with the utmost surprise, not unmixed, I could observe, with a certain degree of fear. At last, looking in my face, he appeared to recollect himself. "I had quite forgot," said he, as he got up, "where I was, and all that happened yesterday. However, I remember now the whole affair, thunderstorm, thunder-bolt, frightened horses, and all your kindness. Come, I must see after my coach and horses; I hope we shall be able to repair the damage." "The damage is already quite repaired," said I, "as you will see, if you come to the field above." "You don't say so," said the postillion, coming out of the tent; "well, I am mightily beholden to you. Good morning, young gentlewoman," said he, addressing Belle, who, having finished her preparations, was seated near the fire. "Good morning, young man," said Belle: "I suppose you would be glad of some breakfast; however, you must wait a little, the kettle does not boil." "Come and look at your chaise," said I; "but tell me how it happened that the noise which I have been making did not awake you; for three-quarters of an hour at least I was hammering close at your ear." "I heard you all the time," said the postillion, "but your hammering made me sleep all the sounder; I am used to hear hammering in my morning sleep. There's a forge close by the room where I sleep when I'm at home, at my inn; for we have all kinds of conveniences at my inn--forge, carpenter's shop, and wheelwright's,--so that when I heard you hammering, I thought, no doubt, that it was the old noise, and that I was comfortable in my bed at my own inn." We now ascended to the field, where I showed the postillion his chaise. He looked at the pin attentively, rubbed his hands, and gave a loud laugh. "Is it not well done?" said I. "It will do till I get home," he replied. "And that is all you have to say?" I demanded. "And that's a good deal," said he, "considering who made it. But don't be offended," he added, "I shall prize it all the more for its being made by a gentleman, and no blacksmith; and so will my governor, when I show it to him. I shan't let it remain where it is, but will keep it, as a remembrance of you, as long as I live." He then again rubbed his hands with great glee, and said, "I will now go and see after my horses, and then to breakfast, partner, if you please." Suddenly, however, looking at his hands, he said, "Before sitting down to breakfast, I am in the habit of washing my hands and face: I suppose you could not furnish me with a little soap and water." "As much water as you please," said I, "but if you want soap, I must go and trouble the young gentlewoman for some." "By no means," said the postillion, "water will do at a pinch." "Follow me," said I; and leading him to the pond of the frogs and newts, I said, "This is my ewer; you are welcome to part of it--the water is so soft that it is scarcely necessary to add soap to it;" then lying down on the bank, I plunged my head into the water, then scrubbed my hands and face, and afterwards wiped them with some long grass which grew on the margin of the pond. "Bravo," said the postillion, "I see you know how to make a shift;" he then followed my example, declared he never felt more refreshed in his life, and, giving a bound, said, "he would go and look after his horses." We then went to look after the horses, which we found not much the worse for having spent the night in the open air. My companion again inserted their heads in the corn-bags, and, leaving the animals to discuss their corn, returned with me to the dingle, where we found the kettle boiling. We sat down, and Belle made tea and did the honours of the meal. The postillion was in high spirits, ate heartily, and, to Belle's evident satisfaction, declared that he had never drank better tea in his life, or indeed any half so good. Breakfast over, he said that he must now go and harness his horses, as it was high time for him to return to his inn. Belle gave him her hand and wished him farewell: the postillion shook her hand warmly, and was advancing close up to her--for what purpose I cannot say--whereupon Belle, withdrawing her hand, drew herself up with an air which caused the postillion to retreat a step or two with an exceedingly sheepish look. Recovering himself, however, he made a low bow, and proceeded up the path. I attended him, and helped to harness his horses and put them to the vehicle; he then shook me by the hand, and taking the reins and whip mounted to his seat; ere he drove away he thus addressed me: "If ever I forget your kindness and that of the young woman below, dash my buttons. If ever either of you should enter my inn you may depend upon a warm welcome, the best that can be set before you, and no expense to either, for I will give both of you the best of characters to the governor, who is the very best fellow upon all the road. As for your linch-pin, I trust it will serve till I get home, when I will take it out and keep it in remembrance of you all the days of my life;" then giving the horses a jerk with his reins, he cracked his whip and drove off. I returned to the dingle, Belle had removed the breakfast things, and was busy in her own encampment: nothing occurred, worthy of being related, for two hours, at the end of which time Belle departed on a short expedition, and I again found myself alone in the dingle. CHAPTER XVIII.--THE MAN IN BLACK--THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY--NEPOTISM--DONNA OLYMPIA--OMNIPOTENCE--CAMILLO ASTALLI--THE FIVE PROPOSITIONS. In the evening I received another visit from the man in black. I had been taking a stroll in the neighbourhood, and was sitting in the dingle in rather a listless manner, scarcely knowing how to employ myself; his coming, therefore, was by no means disagreeable to me. I produced the hollands and glass from my tent, where Isopel Berners had requested me to deposit them, and also some lump sugar, then taking the gotch I fetched water from the spring, and, sitting down, begged the man in black to help himself; he was not slow in complying with my desire, and prepared for himself a glass of hollands and water with a lump of sugar in it. After he had taken two or three sips with evident satisfaction, I, remembering his chuckling exclamation of "Go to Rome for money," when he last left the dingle, took the liberty, after a little conversation, of reminding him of it, whereupon, with a he! he! he! he replied, "Your idea was not quite so original as I supposed. After leaving you the other night I remembered having read of an emperor of Germany who conceived the idea of applying to Rome for money, and actually put it into practice. "Urban the Eighth then occupied the papal chair, of the family of the Barberini, nicknamed the Mosche, or Flies, from the circumstance of bees being their armorial bearing. The Emperor having exhausted all his money in endeavouring to defend the church against Gustavus Adolphus, the great King of Sweden, who was bent on its destruction, applied in his necessity to the Pope for a loan of money. The Pope, however, and his relations, whose cellars were at that time full of the money of the church, which they had been plundering for years, refused to lend him a scudo; whereupon a pasquinade picture was stuck up at Rome, representing the church lying on a bed, gashed with dreadful wounds, and beset all over with flies, which were sucking her, whilst the Emperor of Germany was kneeling before her with a miserable face, requesting a little money towards carrying on the war against the heretics, to which the poor church was made to say: 'How can I assist you, O my champion, do you not see that the flies have sucked me to the very bones?' Which story," said he, "shows that the idea of going to Rome for money was not quite so original as I imagined the other night, though utterly preposterous. "This affair," said he, "occurred in what were called the days of nepotism. Certain popes, who wished to make themselves in some degree independent of the cardinals, surrounded themselves with their nephews, and the rest of their family, who sucked the church and Christendom as much as they could, none doing so more effectually than the relations of Urban the Eighth, at whose death, according to the book called the "Nipotismo di Roma," there were in the Barberini family two hundred and twenty-seven governments, abbeys, and high dignities; and so much hard cash in their possession that threescore and ten mules were scarcely sufficient to convey the plunder of one of them to Palestrina." He added, however, that it was probable that Christendom fared better whilst the popes were thus independent, as it was less sucked, whereas before and after that period, it was sucked by hundreds instead of tens, by the cardinals and all their relations, instead of by the pope and his nephews only. Then, after drinking rather copiously of his hollands, he said that it was certainly no bad idea of the popes to surround themselves with nephews, on whom they bestowed great church dignities, as by so doing they were tolerably safe from poison, whereas a pope, if abandoned to the cardinals, might at any time be made away with by them, provided they thought that he lived too long, or that he seemed disposed to do anything which they disliked; adding, that Ganganelli would never have been poisoned provided he had had nephews about him to take care of his life, and to see that nothing unholy was put into his food, or a bustling stirring brother's wife like Donna Olympia. He then with a he! he! he! asked me if I had ever read the book called the "Nipotismo di Roma"; and on my replying in the negative, he told me that it was a very curious and entertaining book, which he occasionally looked at in an idle hour, and proceeded to relate to me anecdotes out of the "Nipotismo di Roma" about the successor of Urban, Innocent the Tenth, and Donna Olympia, showing how fond he was of her, and how she cooked his food, and kept the cardinals away from it, and how she and her creatures plundered Christendom, with the sanction of the Pope until Christendom, becoming enraged, insisted that he should put her away, which he did for a time, putting a nephew--one Camillo Astalli--in her place, in which, however, he did not continue long for the Pope, conceiving a pique against him, banished him from his sight, and recalled Donna Olympia, who took care of his food, and plundered Christendom until Pope Innocent died. I said that I only wondered that between pope and cardinals the whole system of Rome had not long fallen to the ground, and was told in reply, that its not having fallen was the strongest proof of its vital power, and the absolute necessity for the existence of the system. That the system, notwithstanding its occasional disorders, went on. Popes and cardinals might prey upon its bowels, and sell its interests, but the system survived. The cutting off of this or that member was not able to cause Rome any vital loss; for, as soon as she lost a member, the loss was supplied by her own inherent vitality; though her popes had been poisoned by cardinals, and her cardinals by popes; and though priests occasionally poisoned popes, cardinals, and each other, after all that had been, and might be, she had still, and would ever have, her priests, cardinals, and pope. Finding the man in black so communicative and reasonable, I determined to make the best of my opportunity, and learn from him all I could with respect to the papal system, and told him that he would particularly oblige me by telling me who the Pope of Rome was; and received for answer, that he was an old man elected by a majority of cardinals to the papal chair; who, immediately after his election, became omnipotent and equal to God on earth. On my begging him not to talk such nonsense, and asking him how a person could be omnipotent who could not always preserve himself from poison, even when fenced round by nephews, or protected by a bustling woman, he, after taking a long sip of hollands and water, told me that I must not expect too much from omnipotence; for example, that as it would be unreasonable to expect that One above could annihilate the past--for instance, the Seven Years' War, or the French Revolution--though any one who believed in Him would acknowledge Him to be omnipotent, so would it be unreasonable for the faithful to expect that the Pope could always guard himself from poison. Then, after looking at me for a moment steadfastly, and taking another sip, he told me that popes had frequently done impossibilities; for example, Innocent the Tenth had created a nephew: for, not liking particularly any of his real nephews, he had created the said Camillo Astalli his nephew; asking me, with a he! he! "What but omnipotence could make a young man nephew to a person to whom he was not in the slightest degree related?" On my observing that of course no one believed that the young fellow was really the pope's nephew, though the pope might have adopted him as such, the man in black replied, "that the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli had hitherto never become a point of faith; let, however, the present pope, or any other pope, proclaim that it is necessary to believe in the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli, and see whether the faithful would not believe in it. Who can doubt that," he added, "seeing that they believe in the reality of the five propositions of Jansenius? The Jesuits, wishing to ruin the Jansenists, induced a pope to declare that such and such damnable opinions, which they called five propositions, were to be found in a book written by Jansen, though in reality no such propositions were to be found there; whereupon the existence of these propositions became forthwith a point of faith to the faithful. Do you then think," he demanded, "that there is one of the faithful who would not swallow, if called upon, the nephewship of Camillo Astalli as easily as the five propositions of Jansenius?" "Surely, then," said I, "the faithful must be a pretty pack of simpletons!" Whereupon the man in black exclaimed, "What! a Protestant, and an infringer of the rights of faith! Here's a fellow, who would feel himself insulted if any one were to ask him how he could believe in the miraculous conception, calling people simpletons who swallow the five propositions of Jansenius, and are disposed, if called upon, to swallow the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli." I was about to speak, when I was interrupted by the arrival of Belle. After unharnessing her donkey, and adjusting her person a little, she came and sat down by us. In the meantime I had helped my companion to some more hollands and water, and had plunged with him into yet deeper discourse. CHAPTER XIX.--NECESSITY OF RELIGION--THE GREAT INDIAN ONE--IMAGE WORSHIP--SHAKESPEARE--THE PAT ANSWER--KRISHNA--AMEN. Having told the man in black that I should like to know all the truth with regard to the Pope and his system, he assured me he should be delighted to give me all the information in his power; that he had come to the dingle, not so much for the sake of the good cheer which I was in the habit of giving him, as in the hope of inducing me to enlist under the banners of Rome, and to fight in her cause; and that he had no doubt that, by speaking out frankly to me, he ran the best chance of winning me over. He then proceeded to tell me that the experience of countless ages had proved the necessity of religion; the necessity, he would admit, was only for simpletons; but as nine-tenths of the dwellers upon this earth were simpletons, it would never do for sensible people to run counter to their folly, but, on the contrary, it was the wisest course to encourage them in it, always provided that, by so doing, sensible people could derive advantage; that the truly sensible people of this world were the priests, who, without caring a straw for religion for its own sake, made use of it as a cord by which to draw the simpletons after them; that there were many religions in this world, all of which had been turned to excellent account by the priesthood; but that the one the best adapted for the purposes of priestcraft was the popish, which, he said, was the oldest in the world and the best calculated to endure. On my inquiring what he meant by saying the popish religion was the oldest in the world, whereas there could be no doubt that the Greek and Roman religion had existed long before it, to say nothing of the old Indian religion still in existence and vigour; he said, with a nod, after taking a sip at his glass, that, between me and him, the popish religion, that of Greece and Rome, and the old Indian system were, in reality, one and the same. "You told me that you intended to be frank," said I; "but, however frank you may be, I think you are rather wild." "We priests of Rome," said the man in black, "even those amongst us who do not go much abroad, know a great deal about church matters, of which you heretics have very little idea. Those of our brethren of the Propaganda, on their return home from distant missions, not unfrequently tell us very strange things relating to our dear mother; for example, our first missionaries to the East were not slow in discovering and telling to their brethren that our religion and the great Indian one were identical, no more difference between them than between Ram and Rome. Priests, convents, beads, prayers, processions, fastings, penances, all the same, not forgetting anchorites and vermin, he! he! The pope they found under the title of the grand lama, a sucking child surrounded by an immense number of priests. Our good brethren, some two hundred years ago, had a hearty laugh, which their successors have often re-echoed; they said that helpless suckling and its priests put them so much in mind of their own old man, surrounded by his cardinals, he! he! Old age is second childhood." "Did they find Christ?" said I. "They found him too," said the man in black, "that is, they saw his image; he is considered in India as a pure kind of being, and on that account, perhaps, is kept there rather in the background, even as he is here." "All this is very mysterious to me," said I. "Very likely," said the man in black; "but of this I am tolerably sure, and so are most of those of Rome, that modern Rome had its religion from ancient Rome, which had its religion from the East." "But how?" I demanded. "It was brought about, I believe, by the wanderings of nations," said the man in black. "A brother of the Propaganda, a very learned man, once told me--I do not mean Mezzofante, who has not five ideas--this brother once told me that all we of the Old World, from Calcutta to Dublin, are of the same stock, and were originally of the same language, and--" "All of one religion," I put in. "All of one religion," said the mad in black; "and now follow different modifications of the same religion." "We Christians are not image-worshippers," said I. "You heretics are not, you mean," said the man in black; "but you will be put down, just as you have always been, though others may rise up after you; the true religion is image-worship; people may strive against it, but they will only work themselves to an oil; how did it fare with that Greek Emperor, the Iconoclast, what was his name, Leon the Isaurian? Did not his image-breaking cost him Italy, the fairest province of his empire, and did not ten fresh images start up at home for every one which he demolished? Oh! you little know the craving which the soul sometimes feels after a good bodily image." "I have indeed no conception of it," said I; "I have an abhorrence of idolatry--the idea of bowing before a graven figure." "The idea, indeed," said Belle, who had now joined us. "Did you never bow before that of Shakespeare?" said the man in black, addressing himself to me, after a low bow to Belle. "I don't remember that I ever did," said I, "but even suppose I did?" "Suppose you did," said the man in black; "shame on you, Mr. Hater of Idolatry; why, the very supposition brings you to the ground; you must make figures of Shakespeare, must you? then why not of St. Antonio, or Ignacio, or of a greater personage still? I know what you are going to say," he cried, interrupting me as I was about to speak. "You don't make his image in order to pay it divine honours, but only to look at it, and think of Shakespeare; but this looking at a thing in order to think of a person is the very basis of idolatry. Shakespeare's works are not sufficient for you; no more are the Bible or the legend of Saint Antony or Saint Ignacio for us, that is for those of us who believe in them; I tell you, Zingaro, that no religion can exist long which rejects a good bodily image." "Do you think," said I, "that Shakespeare's works would not exist without his image?" "I believe," said the man in black, "that Shakespeare's image is looked at more than his works, and will be looked at, and perhaps adored, when they are forgotten. I am surprised that they have not been forgotten long ago; I am no admirer of them." "But I can't imagine," said I, "how you will put aside the authority of Moses. If Moses strove against image-worship, should not his doing so be conclusive as to the impropriety of the practice; what higher authority can you have than that of Moses?" "The practice of the great majority of the human race," said the man in black, "and the recurrence to image-worship, where image-worship has been abolished. Do you know that Moses is considered by the church as no better than a heretic, and though, for particular reasons, it has been obliged to adopt his writings, the adoption was merely a sham one, as it never paid the slightest attention to them? No, no, the church was never led by Moses, nor by one mightier than he, whose doctrine it has equally nullified--I allude to Krishna in his second avatar; the church, it is true, governs in his name, but not unfrequently gives him the lie, if he happens to have said anything which it dislikes. Did you never hear the reply which Padre Paolo Segani made to the French Protestant Jean Anthoine Guerin, who had asked him whether it was easier for Christ to have been mistaken in his Gospel, than for the Pope to be mistaken in his decrees?" "I never heard their names before," said I. "The answer was pat," said the man in black, "though he who made it was confessedly the most ignorant fellow of the very ignorant order to which he belonged, the Augustine. 'Christ might err as a man,' said he, 'but the Pope can never err, being God.' The whole story is related in the Nipotismo." "I wonder you should ever have troubled yourselves with Christ at all," said I. "What was to be done?" said the man in black; "the power of that name suddenly came over Europe, like the power of a mighty wind; it was said to have come from Judaea, and from Judaea it probably came when it first began to agitate minds in these parts; but it seems to have been known in the remote East, more or less, for thousands of years previously. It filled people's minds with madness; it was followed by books which were never much regarded, as they contained little of insanity; but the name! what fury that breathed into people! the books were about peace and gentleness, but the name was the most horrible of war-cries--those who wished to uphold old names at first strove to oppose it, but their efforts were feeble, and they had no good war-cry; what was Mars as a war- cry compared with the name of. . . .? It was said that they persecuted terribly, but who said so? The Christians. The Christians could have given them a lesson in the art of persecution, and eventually did so. None but Christians have ever been good persecutors; well, the old religion succumbed, Christianity prevailed, for the ferocious is sure to prevail over the gentle." "I thought," said I, "you stated a little time ago that the Popish religion and the ancient Roman are the same?" "In every point but that name, that Krishna and the fury and love of persecution which it inspired," said the man in black. "A hot blast came from the East, sounding Krishna; it absolutely maddened people's minds, and the people would call themselves his children; we will not belong to Jupiter any longer, we will belong to Krishna; and they did belong to Krishna, that is in name, but in nothing else; for who ever cared for Krishna in the Christian world, or who ever regarded the words attributed to Him, or put them in practice?" "Why, we Protestants regard His words, and endeavour to practise what they enjoin as much as possible." "But you reject his image," said the man in black; "better reject his words than his image: no religion can exist long which rejects a good bodily image. Why, the very negro barbarians of High Barbary could give you a lesson on that point; they have their fetish images, to which they look for help in their afflictions; they have likewise a high priest, whom they call--" "Mumbo Jumbo," said I; "I know all about him already." "How came you to know anything about him?" said the man in black, with a look of some surprise. "Some of us poor Protestant tinkers," said I, "though we live in dingles, as also acquainted with a thing or two." "I really believe you are," said the man in black, staring at me; "but, in connection with this Mumbo Jumbo, I could relate to you a comical story about a fellow, an English servant, I once met at Rome." {218} "It would be quite unnecessary," said I; "I would much sooner hear you talk about Krishna, his words and image." "Spoken like a true heretic," said the man in black; "one of the faithful would have placed his image before his words; for what are all the words in the world compared with a good bodily image?" "I believe you occasionally quote his words?" said I. "He! he!" said the man in black; "occasionally." "For example," said I, "upon this rock I will found my church." "He! he!" said the man in black; "you must really become one of us." "Yet you must have had some difficulty in getting the rock to Rome?" "None whatever," said the man in black; "faith can remove mountains, to say nothing of rocks--ho! ho!" "But I cannot imagine," said I, "what advantage you could derive from perverting those words of Scripture in which the Saviour talks about eating his body." "I do not know, indeed, why we troubled our heads about the matter at all," said the man in black; "but when you talk about perverting the meaning of the text, you speak ignorantly, Mr. Tinker; when he whom you call the Saviour gave his followers the sop, and bade them eat it, telling them it was his body, he delicately alluded to what it was incumbent upon them to do after his death, namely, to eat his body." "You do not mean to say that he intended they should actually eat his body?" "Then you suppose ignorantly," said the man in black; "eating the bodies of the dead was a heathenish custom, practised by the heirs and legatees of people who left property; and this custom is alluded to in the text." "But what has the New Testament to do with heathen customs," said I, "except to destroy them?" "More than you suppose," said the man in black. "We priests of Rome, who have long lived at Rome, know much better what the New Testament is made of than the heretics and their theologians, not forgetting their Tinkers; though I confess some of the latter have occasionally surprised us--for example, Bunyan. The New Testament is crowded with allusions to heathen customs, and with words connected with pagan sorcery. Now, with respect to words, I would fain have you, who pretend to be a philologist, tell me the meaning of Amen?" I made no answer. "We, of Rome," said the man in black, "know two or three things of which the heretics are quite ignorant; for example, there are those amongst us--those, too, who do not pretend to be philologists--who know what amen is, and, moreover, how we got it. We got it from our ancestors, the priests of ancient Rome; and they got the word from their ancestors of the East, the priests of Buddh and Brahma." "And what is the meaning of the word?" I demanded. "Amen," said the man in black, "is a modification of the old Hindoo formula, Omani batsikhom, by the almost ceaseless repetition of which the Indians hope to be received finally to the rest or state of forgetfulness of Buddh or Brahma; a foolish practice you will say, but are you heretics much wiser, who are continually sticking amen to the end of your prayers, little knowing when you do so, that you are consigning yourselves to the repose of Buddh? Oh, what hearty laughs our missionaries have had when comparing the eternally sounding Eastern gibberish of Omani batsikhom, and the Ave Maria and Amen Jesus of our own idiotical devotees." "I have nothing to say about the Ave Marias and Amens of your superstitious devotees," said I; "I daresay that they use them nonsensically enough, but in putting Amen to the end of a prayer, we merely intend to express, 'So let it be.'" "It means nothing of the kind," said the man in black; "and the Hindoos might just as well put your national oath at the end of their prayers, as perhaps they will after a great many thousand years, when English is forgotten, and only a few words of it remembered by dim tradition without being understood. How strange if, after the lapse of four thousand years, the Hindoos should damn themselves to the blindness so dear to their present masters, even as their masters at present consign themselves to the forgetfulness so dear to the Hindoos; but my glass has been empty for a considerable time; perhaps Bellissima Biondina," said he, addressing Belle, "you will deign to replenish it?" "I shall do no such thing," said Belle; "you have drank quite enough, and talked more than enough, and to tell you the truth I wish you would leave us alone." "Shame on you, Belle," said I, "consider the obligations of hospitality." "I am sick of that word," said Belle, "you are so frequently misusing it; were this place not Mumpers' Dingle, and consequently as free to the fellow as ourselves, I would lead him out of it." "Pray be quiet, Belle," said I. "You had better help yourself," said I, addressing myself to the man in black, "the lady is angry with you." "I am sorry for it," said the man in black; "if she is angry with me, I am not so with her, and shall always be proud to wait upon her; in the meantime I will wait upon myself." CHAPTER XX.--THE PROPOSAL--THE SCOTCH NOVEL--LATITUDE--MIRACLES--PESTILENT HERETICS--OLD FRASER--WONDERFUL TEXT--NO ARMENIAN. The man in black having helped himself to some more of his favourite beverage, and tasted it, I thus addressed him: "The evening is getting rather advanced, and I can see that this lady," pointing to Belle, "is anxious for her tea, which she prefers to take cosily and comfortably with me in the dingle. The place, it is true, is as free to you as to ourselves, nevertheless, as we are located here by necessity, whilst you merely come as a visitor, I must take the liberty of telling you that we shall be glad to be alone, as soon as you have said what you have to say, and have finished the glass of refreshment at present in your hand. I think you said some time ago that one of your motives for coming hither was to induce me to enlist under the banner of Rome. I wish to know whether that was really the case?" "Decidedly so," said the man in black; "I come here principally in the hope of enlisting you in our regiment, in which I have no doubt you could do us excellent service." "Would you enlist my companion as well?" I demanded. "We should be only too proud to have her among us, whether she comes with you or alone," said the man in black, with a polite bow to Belle. "Before we give you an answer," I replied, "I would fain know more about you; perhaps you will declare your name?" "That I will never do," said the man in black; "no one in England knows it but myself, and I will not declare it, even in a dingle; as for the rest, _Sono un Prete Cattolica Appostolico_--that is all that many a one of us can say for himself, and it assuredly means a great deal." "We will now proceed to business," said I. "You must be aware that we English are generally considered a self-interested people." "And with considerable justice," said the man in black, drinking. "Well, you are a person of acute perception, and I will presently make it evident to you that it would be to your interest to join with us. You are at present, evidently, in very needy circumstances, and are lost, not only to yourself, but the world; but should you enlist with us, I could find you an occupation not only agreeable, but one in which your talents would have free scope. I would introduce you in the various grand houses here in England, to which I have myself admission, as a surprising young gentleman of infinite learning, who by dint of study has discovered that the Roman is the only true faith. I tell you confidently that our popish females would make a saint, nay a God of you; they are fools enough for anything. There is one person in particular with whom I should wish to make you acquainted, in the hope that you would be able to help me to perform good service to the holy see. He is a gouty old fellow, of some learning, residing in an old hall, near the great western sea-port, and is one of the very few amongst the English Catholics possessing a grain of sense. I think you could help us to govern him, for he is not unfrequently disposed to be restive, asks us strange questions--occasionally threatens us with his crutch; and behaves so that we are often afraid that we shall lose him, or, rather, his property, which he has bequeathed to us, and which is enormous. I am sure that you could help us to deal with him; sometimes with your humour, sometimes with your learning, and perhaps occasionally with your fists. "And in what manner would you provide for my companion?" said I. "We would place her at once," said the man in black, "in the house of two highly respectable Catholic ladies in this neighbourhood, where she would be treated with every care and consideration till her conversion should be accomplished in a regular manner; we would then remove her to a female monastic establishment, where, after undergoing a year's probation, during which time she would be instructed in every elegant accomplishment, she should take the veil. Her advancement would speedily follow, for, with such a face and figure, she would make a capital lady abbess, especially in Italy, to which country she would probably be sent; ladies of her hair and complexion--to say nothing of her height--being a curiosity in the south. With a little care and management she could soon obtain a vast reputation for sanctity; and who knows but after her death she might become a glorified saint--he! he! Sister Maria Theresa, for that is the name I propose you should bear. Holy Mother Maria Theresa--glorified and celestial saint, I have the honour of drinking to your health," and the man in black drank. "Well, Belle," said I, "what have you to say to the gentleman's proposal?" "That if he goes on in this way I will break his glass against his mouth." "You have heard the lady's answer," said I. "I have," said the man in black, "and shall not press the matter. I can't help, however, repeating that she would make a capital lady abbess; she would keep the nuns in order, I warrant her; no easy matter! Break the glass against my mouth--he! he! How she would send the holy utensils flying at the nuns' heads occasionally, and just the person to wring the nose of Satan should he venture to appear one night in her cell in the shape of a handsome black man. No offence, madam, no offence, pray retain your seat," said he, observing that Belle had started up; "I mean no offence. Well, if you will not consent to be an abbess, perhaps you will consent to follow this young Zingaro, and to co-operate with him and us. I am a priest, madam, and can join you both in an instant, _connubio stabili_, as I suppose the knot has not been tied already." "Hold your mumping gibberish," said Belle, "and leave the dingle this moment, for though 'tis free to every one, you have no right to insult me in it." "Pray be pacified," said I to Belle, getting up, and placing myself between her and the man in black, "he will presently leave, take my word for it--there, sit down again," said I, as I led her to her seat; then, resuming my own, I said to the man in black: "I advise you to leave the dingle as soon as possible." "I should wish to have your answer to my proposal first," said he. "Well, then, here you shall have it: I will not entertain your proposal; I detest your schemes: they are both wicked and foolish." "Wicked," said the man in black, "have they not--he! he!--the furtherance of religion in view?" "A religion," said I, "in which you yourself do not believe, and which you contemn." "Whether I believe in it or not," said the man in black, "it is adapted for the generality of the human race; so I will forward it, and advise you to do the same. It was nearly extirpated in these regions, but it is springing up again, owing to circumstances. Radicalism is a good friend to us; all the liberals laud up our system out of hatred to the Established Church, though our system is ten times less liberal than the Church of England. Some of them have really come over to us. I myself confess a baronet [Sir Charles Wolesley] who presided over the first radical meeting ever held in England--he was an atheist when he came over to us, in the hope of mortifying his own church--but he is now--ho! ho!--a real Catholic devotee--quite afraid of my threats; I made him frequently scourge himself before me. Well, Radicalism does us good service, especially amongst the lower classes, for Radicalism chiefly flourishes amongst them; for though a baronet or two may be found amongst the radicals, and perhaps as many lords--fellows who have been discarded by their own order for clownishness, or something they have done--it incontestably flourishes best among the lower orders. Then the love of what is foreign is a great friend to us; this love is chiefly confined to the middle and upper classes. {227} Some admire the French, and imitate them; others must needs be Spaniards, dress themselves up in a zamarra, stick a cigar in their mouths, and say, 'Carajo.' Others would pass for Germans; he! he! the idea of any one wishing to pass for a German! but what has done us more service than anything else in these regions--I mean amidst the middle classes--has been the novel, the Scotch novel. The good folks, since they have read the novels, have become Jacobites; and, because all the Jacobs were Papists, the good folks must become Papists also, or, at least, papistically inclined. The very Scotch Presbyterians, since they have read the novels, are become all but Papists; I speak advisedly, having lately been amongst them. There's a trumpery bit of a half papist sect, called the Scotch Episcopalian Church, which lay dormant and nearly forgotten for upwards of a hundred years, which has of late got wonderfully into fashion in Scotland, because, forsooth, some of the long-haired gentry of the novels were said to belong to it, such as Montrose and Dundee; and to this the Presbyterians are going over in throngs, traducing and vilifying their own forefathers, or denying them altogether, and calling themselves descendants of--ho! ho! ho!--Scottish Cavaliers!!! I have heard them myself repeating snatches of Jacobite ditties about 'Bonnie Dundee,' and-- "'Come, fill up my cup, and fill up my can, And saddle my horse, and call up my man.' There's stuff for you! Not that I object to the first part of the ditty, it is natural enough that a Scotchman should cry, 'Come, fill up my cup!' more especially if he's drinking at another person's expense--all Scotchmen being fond of liquor at free cost: but 'Saddle his horse!!!'--for what purpose I would ask? Where is the use of saddling a horse, unless you can ride him? and where was there ever a Scotchman who could ride?" "Of course you have not a drop of Scotch blood in your veins," said I, "otherwise you would never have uttered that last sentence." "Don't be too sure of that," said the man in black; "you know little of Popery if you imagine that it cannot extinguish love of country, even in a Scotchman. A thorough-going Papist--and who more thorough-going than myself--cares nothing for his country; and why should he? he belongs to a system, and not to a country." "One thing," said I, "connected with you, I cannot understand; you call yourself a thorough-going Papist, yet are continually saying the most pungent things against Popery, and turning to unbounded ridicule those who show any inclination to embrace it." "Rome is a very sensible old body," said the man in black, "and little cares what her children say, provided they do her bidding. She knows several things, and amongst others, that no servants work so hard and faithfully as those who curse their masters at every stroke they do. She was not fool enough to be angry with the Miquelets of Alba, who renounced her, and called her 'puta' all the time they were cutting the throats of the Netherlanders. Now, if she allowed her faithful soldiers the latitude of renouncing her, and calling her 'puta' in the market-place, think not she is so unreasonable as to object to her faithful priests occasionally calling her 'puta' in the dingle." "But," said I, "suppose some one were to tell the world some of the disorderly things which her priests say in the dingle." "He would have the fate of Cassandra," said the man in black; "no one would believe him--yes, the priests would: but they would make no sign of belief. They believe in the Alcoran des Cordeliers {230}--that is, those who have read it; but they make no sign." "A pretty system," said I, "which extinguishes love of country and of everything noble, and brings the minds of its ministers to a parity with those of devils, who delight in nothing but mischief." "The system," said the man in black, "is a grand one, with unbounded vitality. Compare it with your Protestantism, and you will see the difference. Popery is ever at work, whilst Protestantism is supine. A pretty church, indeed, the Protestant! Why, it can't even work a miracle." "Can your church work miracles?" I demanded. "That was the very question," said the man in black, "which the ancient British clergy asked of Austin Monk, after they had been fools enough to acknowledge their own inability. 'We don't pretend to work miracles; do you?' 'Oh! dear me, yes,' said Austin; 'we find no difficulty in the matter. We can raise the dead, we can make the blind see; and to convince you I will give sight to the blind. Here is this blind Saxon, whom you cannot cure, but on whose eyes I will manifest my power, in order to show the difference between the true and the false church;' and forthwith, with the assistance of a handkerchief and a little hot water, he opened the eyes of the barbarian. So we manage matters! A pretty church, that old British church, which could not work miracles--quite as helpless as the modern one. The fools! was birdlime so scarce a thing amongst them?--and were the properties of warm water so unknown to them, that they could not close a pair of eyes and open them?" "It's a pity," said I, "that the British clergy, at that interview with Austin, did not bring forward a blind Welshman, and ask the monk to operate upon him." "Clearly," said the man in black; "that's what they ought to have done; but they were fools without a single resource." Here he took a sip at his glass. "But they did not believe in the miracle?" said I. "And what did their not believing avail them?" said the man in black. "Austin remained master of the field, and they went away holding their heads down, and muttering to themselves. What a fine subject for a painting would be Austin's opening the eyes of the Saxon barbarian, and the discomfiture of the British clergy! I wonder it has not been painted!--he! he!" "I suppose your church still pet forms miracles occasionally?" said I. "It does," said the man in black. "The Rev. . . . has lately been performing miracles in Ireland, destroying devils that had got possession of people; he has been eminently successful. In two instances he not only destroyed the devils, but the lives of the people possessed--he! he! Oh! there is so much energy in our system; we are always at work, whilst Protestantism is supine." "You must not imagine," said I, "that all Protestants are supine; some of them appear to be filled with unbounded zeal. They deal, it is true, not in lying miracles, but they propagate God's Word. I remember only a few months ago, having occasion for a Bible, going to an establishment, the object of which was to send Bibles all over the world. The supporters of that establishment could have no self-interested views; for I was supplied by them with a noble-sized Bible at a price so small as to preclude the idea that it could bring any profit to the vendors." The countenance of the man in black slightly fell. "I know the people to whom you allude," said he; "indeed, unknown to them, I have frequently been to see them, and observed their ways. I tell you frankly that there is not a set of people in this kingdom who have caused our church so much trouble and uneasiness. I should rather say that they alone cause us any; for as for the rest, what with their drowsiness, their plethora, their folly, and their vanity, they are doing us anything but mischief. These fellows are a pestilent set of heretics, whom we would gladly see burnt; they are, with the most untiring perseverance, and in spite of divers minatory declarations of the holy father, scattering their books abroad through all Europe, and have caused many people in Catholic countries to think that hitherto their priesthood have endeavoured, as much as possible, to keep them blinded. There is one fellow amongst them for whom we entertain a particular aversion; a big, burly parson, with the face of a lion, the voice of a buffalo, and a fist like a sledge-hammer. The last time I was there, I observed that his eye was upon me, and I did not like the glance he gave me at all; I observed him clench his fist, and I took my departure as fast as I conveniently could. Whether he suspected who I was, I know not; but I did not like his look at all, and do not intend to go again." "Well then," said I, "you confess that you have redoubtable enemies to your plans in these regions, and that even amongst the ecclesiastics there are some widely different from those of the plethoric and Platitude schools." "It is but too true," said the man in black; "and if the rest of your church were like them we should quickly bid adieu to all hope of converting these regions, but we are thankful to be able to say that such folks are not numerous; there are, moreover, causes at work quite sufficient to undermine even their zeal. Their sons return at the vacations, from Oxford and Cambridge, puppies, full of the nonsense which they have imbibed from Platitude professors; and this nonsense they retail at home, where it fails not to make some impression, whilst the daughters scream--I beg their pardons--warble about Scotland's Montrose, and Bonny Dundee, and all the Jacobs; so we have no doubt that their papa's zeal about the propagation of such a vulgar book as the Bible will in a very little time be terribly diminished. Old Rome will win, so you had better join her." And the man in black drained the last drop in his glass. "Never," said I, "will I become the slave of Rome." "She will allow you latitude," said the man in black; "do but serve her, and she will allow you to call her 'puta' at a decent time and place, her popes occasionally call her 'puta.' A pope has been known to start from his bed at midnight and rush out into the corridor, and call out 'puta' three times in a voice which pierced the Vatican; that pope was . . ." "Alexander the Sixth, I dare say," said I; "the greatest monster that ever existed, though the worthiest head which the popish system ever had--so his conscience was not always still. I thought it had been seared with a brand of iron." "I did not allude to him, but to a much more modern pope," said the man in black; "it is true he brought the word, which is Spanish, from Spain, his native country, to Rome. He was very fond of calling the church by that name, and other popes have taken it up. She will allow you to call her by it if you belong to her." "I shall call her so," said I, "without belonging to her, or asking her permission." "She will allow you to treat her as such if you belong to her," said the man in black. "There is a chapel in Rome, where there is a wondrously fair statue--the son of a cardinal--I mean his nephew--once . . . Well, she did not cut off his head, but slightly boxed his cheek and bade him go." "I have read all about that in 'Keysler's Travels,'" said I; "do you tell her that I would not touch her with a pair of tongs, unless to seize her nose." "She is fond of lucre," said the man in black; "but does not grudge a faithful priest a little private perquisite," and he took out a very handsome gold repeater. "Are you not afraid," said I, "to flash that watch before the eyes of a poor tinker in a dingle?" "Not before the eyes of one like you," said the man in black. "It is getting late," said I; "I care not for perquisites." "So you will not join us?" said the man in black. "You have had my answer," said I. "If I belong to Rome," said the man in black, "why should not you?" "I may be a poor tinker," said I; "but I may never have undergone what you have. You remember, perhaps, the fable of the fox who had lost his tail?" The man in black winced, but almost immediately recovering himself, he said, "Well, we can do without you: we are sure of winning." "It is not the part of wise people," said I, "to make sure of the battle before it is fought: there's the landlord of the public-house, who made sure that his cocks would win, yet the cocks lost the main, and the landlord is little better than a bankrupt." "People very different from the landlord," said the man in black, "both in intellect and station, think we shall surely win; there are clever machinators among us who have no doubt of our success." "Well," said I, "I will set the landlord aside, and will adduce one who was in every point a very different person from the landlord, both in understanding and station; he was very fond of laying schemes, and, indeed, many of them turned out successful. His last and darling one, however, miscarried, notwithstanding that by his calculations he had persuaded himself that there was no possibility of its failing--the person that I allude to was old Fraser . . ." "Who?" said the man in black, giving a start, and letting his glass fall. "Old Fraser, of Lovat," said I, "the prince of all conspirators and machinators; he made sure of placing the Pretender on the throne of these realms. 'I can bring into the field so many men,' said he; 'my son-in- law, Cluny, so many, and likewise my cousin, and my good friend;' then speaking of those on whom the government reckoned for support he would say, 'So-and-so is lukewarm; this person is ruled by his wife, who is with us; the clergy are anything but hostile to us; and as for the soldiers and sailors, half are disaffected to King George, and the rest cowards.' Yet when things came to a trial, this person whom he had calculated upon to join the Pretender did not stir from his home, another joined the hostile ranks, the presumed cowards turned out heroes, and those whom he thought heroes ran away like lusty fellows at Culloden; in a word, he found himself utterly mistaken, and in nothing more than himself; he thought he was a hero, and proved himself nothing more than an old fox; he got up a hollow tree, didn't he, just like a fox? "'L' opere sue non furon leonine, ma di volpe.'" {237} The man in black sat silent for a considerable time, and at length answered, in rather a faltering voice, "I was not prepared for this; you have frequently surprised me by your knowledge of things which I should never have expected any person of your appearance to be acquainted with, but that you should be aware of my name is a circumstance utterly incomprehensible to me. I had imagined that no person in England was acquainted with it; indeed, I don't see how any person should be, I have revealed it to no one, not being particularly proud of it. Yes, I acknowledge that my name is Fraser, and that I am of the blood of that family or clan, of which the rector of our college once said that he was firmly of opinion that every individual member was either rogue or fool. I was born at Madrid, of pure, _oime_, Fraser blood. My parents at an early age took me to [Rome], where they shortly died, not, however, before they had placed me in the service of a cardinal, with whom I continued some years, and who, when he had no further occasion for me, sent me to the college, in the left-hand cloister of which, as you enter, rest the bones of Sir John D[ereham]; there, in studying logic and humane letters, I lost whatever of humanity I had retained when discarded by the cardinal. Let me not, however, forget two points,--I am a Fraser, it is true, but not a Flannagan; I may bear the vilest name of Britain, but not of Ireland; I was bred up at the English house, and there is at [Rome] a house for the education of bog-trotters; I was not bred up at that; beneath the lowest gulf, there is one yet lower; whatever my blood may be, it is at least not Irish; whatever my education may have been, I was not bred at the Irish seminary--on those accounts I am thankful--yes, _per dio_! I am thankful. After some years at college--but why should I tell you my history, you know it already perfectly well, probably much better than myself. I am now a missionary priest labouring in heretic England, like Parsons and Garnet of old, save and except that, unlike them, I run no danger, for the times are changed. As I told you before, I shall cleave to Rome--I must; _no hay remedio_, as they say at Madrid, and I will do my best to further her holy plans--he! he!--but I confess I begin to doubt of their being successful here--you put me out; old Fraser, of Lovat! I have heard my father talk of him; he had a gold-headed cane, with which he once knocked my grandfather down--he was an astute one, but as you say, mistaken, particularly in himself. I have read his life by Arbuthnot, {238a} it is in the library of our college. Farewell! I shall come no more to this dingle--to come would be of no utility; I shall go and labour elsewhere, though . . . how you came to know my name is a fact quite inexplicable--farewell! to you both." He then arose; and without further salutation departed from the dingle, in which I never saw him again. {238b} "How, in the name of wonder, came you to know that man's name?" said Belle, after he had been gone some time. "I, Belle? I knew nothing of the fellow's name, I assure you." "But you mentioned his name." "If I did, it was merely casually, by way of illustration. I was saying how frequently cunning people were mistaken in their calculations, and I adduced the case of old Fraser, of Lovat, as one in point; I brought forward his name, because I was well-acquainted with his history, from having compiled and inserted it in a wonderful work, which I edited some months ago, entitled 'Newgate Lives and Trials,' but without the slightest idea that it was the name of him who was sitting with us; he, however, thought that I was aware of his name. Belle! Belle! for a long time I doubted the truth of Scripture, owing to certain conceited individuals, but now I begin to believe firmly; what wonderful texts are in Scripture, Belle! 'The wicked trembleth where--where . . .'" "'They were afraid where no fear was; thou hast put them to confusion, because God hath despised them,'" said Belle; "I have frequently read it before the clergyman in the great house of Long Melford. But if you did not know the man's name, why let him go away supposing that you did?" "Oh, if he was fool enough to make such a mistake, I was not going to undeceive him--no, no! Let the enemies of old England make the most of all their blunders and mistakes, they will have no help from me; but enough of the fellow, Belle, let us now have tea, and after that . . ." "No Armenian," said Belle; "but I want to ask a question: pray are all people of that man's name either rogues or fools?" "It is impossible for me to say, Belle, this person being the only one of the name I have ever personally known. I suppose there are good and bad, clever and foolish, amongst them, as amongst all large bodies of people; however, after the tribe had been governed for upwards of thirty years by such a person as old Fraser, it were no wonder if the greater part had become either rogues or fools: he was a ruthless tyrant, Belle, over his own people, and by his cruelty and rapaciousness must either have stunned them into an apathy approaching to idiocy, or made them artful knaves in their own defence. The qualities of parents are generally transmitted to their descendants--the progeny of trained pointers are almost sure to point, even without being taught: if, therefore, all Frasers are either rogues or fools, as this person seems to insinuate, it is little to be wondered at, their parents or grandparents having been in the training- school of old Fraser! but enough of the old tyrant and his slaves. Belle, prepare tea this moment, or dread my anger. I have not a gold-headed cane like old Fraser of Lovat, but I have, what some people would dread much more, an Armenian rune-stick." CHAPTER XXI.--FRESH ARRIVALS--PITCHING THE TENT--CERTIFICATED WIFE--HIGH- FLYING NOTIONS. On the following morning, as I was about to leave my tent, I heard the voice of Belle at the door, exclaiming, "Sleepest thou, or wakest thou?" "I was never more awake in my life," said I, going out, "What is the matter?" "He of the horse-shoe," said she, "Jasper, of whom I have heard you talk, is above there on the field with all his people; I went about a quarter of an hour ago to fill the kettle at the spring, and saw them arriving." "It is well," said I; "have you any objection to asking him and his wife to breakfast?" "You can do as you please," said she; "I have cups enough, and have no objection to their company." "We are the first occupiers of the ground," said I, "and, being so, should consider ourselves in the light of hosts, and do our best to practise the duties of hospitality." "How fond you are of using that word!" said Belle: "if you wish to invite the man and his wife, do so, without more ado; remember, however, that I have not cups enough, nor indeed tea enough, for the whole company." Thereupon hurrying up the ascent, I presently found myself outside the dingle. It was as usual a brilliant morning, the dewy blades of the rye-grass which covered the plain sparkled brightly in the beams of the sun, which had probably been about two hours above the horizon. A rather numerous body of my ancient friends and allies occupied the ground in the vicinity of the mouth of the dingle. About five yards on the right I perceived Mr. Petulengro busily employed in erecting his tent; he held in his hand an iron bar, sharp at the bottom, with a kind of arm projecting from the top for the purpose of supporting a kettle or cauldron over the fire, and which is called in the Romanian language "Kekauviskoe saster." With the sharp end of this Mr. Petulengro was making holes in the earth at about twenty inches' distance from each other, into which he inserted certain long rods with a considerable bend towards the top, which constituted no less than the timbers of the tent, and the supporters of the canvas. Mrs. Petulengro and a female with a crutch in her hand, whom I recognised as Mrs. Chikno, sat near him on the ground, whilst two or three children, from six to ten years old, who composed the young family of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro, were playing about. "Here we are, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, as he drove the sharp end of the bar into the ground; "here we are, and plenty of us--Bute dosta Romany chals." {242} "I am glad to see you all," said I; "and particularly you, madam," said I, making a bow to Mrs. Petulengro; "and you also, madam," taking off my hat to Mrs. Chikno. "Good day to you, sir," said Mrs. Petulengro; "you look as usual, charmingly, and speak so, too; you have not forgot your manners." "It is not all gold that glitters," said Mrs. Chikno. "However, good- morrow to you, young rye." "I do not see Tawno," said I, looking around; "where is he?" "Where, indeed!" said Mrs. Chikno; "I don't know; he who countenances him in the roving line can best answer." "He will be here anon," said Mr. Petulengro; "he has merely ridden down a by-road to show a farmer a two-year-old colt; she heard me give him directions, but she can't be satisfied." "I can't indeed," said Mrs. Chikno. "And why not, sister?" "Because I place no confidence in your words, brother; as I said before, you countenances him." "Well," said I, "I know nothing of your private concerns; I am come on an errand. Isopel Berners, down in the dell there, requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro's company at breakfast. She will be happy also to see you, madam," said I, addressing Mrs. Chikno. "Is that young female your wife, young man?" said Mrs. Chikno. "My wife?" said I. "Yes, young man, your wife, your lawful certificated wife." "No," said I, "she is not my wife." "Then I will not visit with her," said Mrs. Chikno; "I countenance nothing in the roving line." "What do you mean by the roving line?" I demanded. "What do I mean by the roving line? Why, by it I mean such conduct as is no ttatcheno. {244a} When ryes and rawnies {244b} lives together in dingles, without being certificated, I calls such behaviour being tolerably deep in the roving line, everything savouring of which I am determined not to sanctify. I have suffered too much by my own certificated husband's outbreaks in that line to afford anything of the kind the slightest shadow of countenance." "It is hard that people may not live in dingles together without being suspected of doing wrong," said I. "So it is," said Mrs. Petulengro, interposing; "and, to tell you the truth, I am altogether surprised at the illiberality of my sister's remarks. I have often heard say, that is in good company--and I have kept good company in my time--that suspicion is king's evidence of a narrow and uncultivated mind; on which account I am suspicious of nobody, not even of my own husband, whom some people would think I have a right to be suspicious of, seeing that on his account I once refused a lord; but ask him whether I am suspicious of him, and whether I seek to keep him close tied to my apron-string; he will tell you nothing of the kind; but that, on the contrary, I always allows him an agreeable latitude, permitting him to go where he pleases, and to converse with any one to whose manner of speaking he may take a fancy. But I have had the advantage of keeping good company, and therefore . . ." "Meklis," {244c} said Mrs. Chikno, "pray drop all that, sister; I believe I have kept as good company as yourself; and with respect to that offer with which you frequently fatigue those who keeps company with you, I believe, after all, it was something in the roving and uncertificated line." "In whatever line it was," said Mrs. Petulengro, "the offer was a good one. The young duke--for he was not only a lord, but a duke too--offered to keep me a fine carriage, and to make me his second wife; for it is true that he had another who was old and stout, though mighty rich, and highly good-natured; so much so, indeed, that the young lord assured me that she would have no manner of objection to the arrangement; more especially if I would consent to live in the same house with her, being fond of young and cheerful society. So you see . . ." "Yes, yes," said Mrs. Chikno, "I see, what I before thought, that it was altogether in the uncertificated line." "Meklis," said Mrs. Petulengro, "I use your own word, madam, which is Romany; for my own part, I am not fond of using Romany words, unless I can hope to pass them off for French, which I cannot in the present company. I heartily wish that there was no such language, and do my best to keep it away from my children, lest the frequent use of it should altogether confirm them in low and vulgar habits. I have four children, madam, but . . ." "I suppose by talking of your four children you wish to check me for having none," said Mrs. Chikno, bursting into tears; "if I have no children, sister, it is no fault of mine, it is--but why do I call you sister," said she angrily, "you are no sister of mine, you are a grasni, a regular mare--a pretty sister, indeed, ashamed of your own language. I remember well that by your high-flying notions you drove your own mother . . ." "We will drop it," said Mrs. Petulengro; "I do not wish to raise my voice, and to make myself ridiculous. Young gentleman," said she, "pray present my compliments to Miss Isopel Berners, and inform her that I am very sorry that I cannot accept her polite invitation. I am just arrived, and have some slight domestic matters to see to, amongst others, to wash my children's faces; but that in the course of the forenoon, when I have attended to what I have to do, and have dressed myself, I hope to do myself the honour of paying her a regular visit; you will tell her that with my compliments. With respect to my husband he can answer for himself, as I, not being of a jealous disposition, never interferes with his matters." "And tell Miss Berners," said Mr. Petulengro, "that I shall be happy to wait upon her in company with my wife as soon as we are regularly settled; at present I have much on my hands, having not only to pitch my own tent, but this here jealous woman's, whose husband is absent on my business." Thereupon I returned to the dingle, and without saying anything about Mrs. Chikno's observations, communicated to Isopel the messages of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro; Isopel made no other reply than by replacing in her coffer two additional cups and saucers, which, in expectation of company, she had placed upon the board. The kettle was by this time boiling. We sat down, and as we breakfasted, I gave Isopel Berners another lesson in the Armenian language. CHAPTER XXII.--THE PROMISED VISIT--ROMAN FASHION--WIZARD AND WITCH--CATCHING AT WORDS--THE TWO FEMALES--DRESSING OF HAIR--THE NEW ROADS--BELLE'S ALTERED APPEARANCE--HERSELF AGAIN. About mid-day Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro {247} came to the dingle to pay the promised visit. Belle, at the time of their arrival, was in her tent, but I was at the fireplace, engaged in hammering part of the outer-tire, or defence, which had come off from one of the wheels of my vehicle. On perceiving them I forthwith went to receive them. Mr. Petulengro was dressed in Roman fashion, with a somewhat smartly-cut sporting-coat, the buttons of which were half-crowns--and a waistcoat, scarlet and black, the buttons of which were spaded half-guineas; his breeches were of a stuff half velveteen, half corduroy, the cords exceedingly broad. He had leggings of buff cloth, furred at the bottom: and upon his feet were highlows. Under his left arm was a long black whalebone riding-whip, with a red lash, and an immense silver knob. Upon his head was a hat with a high peak, somewhat of the kind which the Spaniards call _calane_, so much in favour with the bravos of Seville and Madrid. Now when I have added that Mr. Petulengro had on a very fine white holland shirt, I think I have described his array. Mrs. Petulengro--I beg pardon for not having spoken of her first--was also arrayed very much in the Roman fashion. Her hair, which was exceedingly black and lustrous, fell in braids on either side of her head. In her ears were rings, with long drops of gold. Round her neck was a string of what seemed very much like very large pearls, somewhat tarnished, however, and apparently of considerable antiquity. "Here we are, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "here we are, come to see you--wizard and witch, witch and wizard:-- "'There's a chovahanee, and a chovahano, {249a} The nav se len is Petulengro.'" "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mrs. Petulengro; "you make me ashamed of you with your vulgar ditties. We are come a-visiting now, and everything low should be left behind." "True," said Mr. Petulengro; "why bring what's low to the dingle, which is low enough already?" "What, are you a catcher at words?" said I. "I thought that catching at words had been confined to the pothouse farmers and village witty bodies." "All fools," said Mrs. Petulengro, "catch at words, and very naturally, as by so doing they hope to prevent the possibility of rational conversation. Catching at words confined to pothouse farmers and village witty bodies! No, nor to Jasper Petulengro. Listen for an hour or two to the discourse of a set they call newspaper editors, and if you don't go out and eat grass, as a dog does when he is sick, I am no female woman. The young lord whose hand I refused when I took up with wise Jasper once brought two of them to my mother's tan, {249b} when hankering after my company; they did nothing but carp at each other's words, and a pretty hand they made of it. Ill-favoured dogs they were, and their attempt at what they called wit almost as unfortunate as their countenances." "Well," said I, "madam, we will drop all catchings and carpings for the present. Pray take your seat on this stool, whilst I go and announce to Miss Isopel Berners your arrival." Thereupon I went to Belle's habitation, and informed her that Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro had paid us a visit of ceremony, and were awaiting her at the fireplace. "Pray go and tell them that I am busy," said Belle, who was engaged with her needle. "I do not feel disposed to take part in any such nonsense." "I shall do no such thing," said I, "and I insist upon your coming forthwith, and showing proper courtesy to your visitors. If you do not their feelings will be hurt, and you are aware that I cannot bear that people's feelings should be outraged. Come this moment, or . . ." "Or what?" said Belle, half smiling. "I was about to say something in Armenian," said I. "Well," said Belle, laying down her work, "I will come." "Stay," said I, "your hair is hanging about your ears, and your dress is in disorder; you had better stay a minute or two to prepare yourself to appear before your visitors, who have come in their very best attire." "No," said Belle, "I will make no alteration in my appearance; you told me to come this moment, and you shall be obeyed." So Belle and I advanced towards our guests. As we drew nigh Mr. Petulengro took off his hat and made a profound obeisance to Belle, whilst Mrs. Petulengro rose from the stool and made a profound curtsey. Belle, who had flung her hair back over her shoulders, returned their salutations by bending her head, and after slightly glancing at Mr. Petulengro, fixed her large blue eyes full upon his wife. Both these females were very handsome--but how unlike! Belle fair, with blue eyes and flaxen hair; Mrs. Petulengro with olive complexion, eyes black, and hair dark--as dark as could be. Belle, in demeanour calm and proud; the gypsy graceful, but full of movement and agitation. And then how different were those two in stature! The head of the Romany rawnie scarcely ascended to the breast of Isopel Berners. I could see that Mrs. Petulengro gazed on Belle with unmixed admiration: so did her husband. "Well," said the latter, "one thing I will say, which is, that there is only one on earth worthy to stand up in front of this she, and that is the beauty of the world, as far as man flesh is concerned, Tawno Chikno; what a pity he did not come down!" "Tawno Chikno," said Mrs. Petulengro, flaring up; "a pretty fellow he to stand up in front of this gentlewoman, a pity he didn't come, quotha? not at all, the fellow is a sneak, afraid of his wife. He stand up against this rawnie! why the look she has given me would knock the fellow down." "It is easier to knock him down with a look than with a fist," said Mr. Petulengro; "that is, if the look comes from a woman: not that I am disposed to doubt that this female gentlewoman is able to knock him down either one way or the other. I have heard of her often enough, and have seen her once or twice, though not so near as now. Well, ma'am, my wife and I are come to pay our respects to you; we are both glad to find that you have left off keeping company with Flaming Bosville, and have taken up with my pal; he is not very handsome, but a better . . . ." "I take up with your pal, as you call him; you had better mind what you say," said Isopel Berners; "I take up with nobody." "I merely mean taking up your quarters with him," said Mr. Petulengro; "and I was only about to say a better fellow-lodger you cannot have, or a more instructive, especially if you have a desire to be inoculated with tongues, as he calls them. I wonder whether you and he have had any tongue-work already." "Have you and your wife anything particular to say? If you have nothing but this kind of conversation I must leave you, as I am going to make a journey this afternoon, and should be getting ready." "You must excuse my husband, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro; "he is not overburdened with understanding, and has said but one word of sense since he has been here, which was that we came to pay our respects to you. We have dressed ourselves in our best Roman way, in order to do honour to you; perhaps you do not like it; if so, I am sorry. I have no French clothes, madam; if I had any, madam, I would have come in them in order to do you more honour." "I like to see you much better as you are," said Belle; "people should keep to their own fashions, and yours is very pretty." "I am glad you are pleased to think it so, madam; it has been admired in the great city, it created what they call a sensation, and some of the great ladies, the court ladies, imitated it, else I should not appear in it so often as I am accustomed; for I am not very fond of what is Roman, having an imagination that what is Roman is ungenteel; in fact, I once heard the wife of a rich citizen say that gypsies were vulgar creatures. I should have taken her saying very much to heart, but for her improper pronunciation; she could not pronounce her words, madam, which we gypsies, as they call us, usually can, so I thought she was no very high purchase. You are very beautiful, madam, though you are not dressed as I could wish to see you, and your hair is hanging down in sad confusion; allow me to assist you in arranging your hair, madam; I will dress it for you in our fashion; I would fain see how your hair would look in our poor gypsy fashion; pray allow me, madam?" and she took Belle by the hand. "I really can do no such thing," said Belle, withdrawing her hand; "I thank you for coming to see me, but . . ." "Do allow me to officiate upon your hair, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro; "I should esteem your allowing me a great mark of condescension. You are very beautiful, madam, and I think you doubly so, because you are so fair; I have a great esteem for persons with fair complexions and hair; I have a less regard for people with dark hair and complexions, madam." "Then why did you turn off the lord, and take up with me?" said Mr. Petulengro; "that same lord was fair enough all about him." "People do when they are young and silly what they sometimes repent of when they are of riper years and understandings. I sometimes think that had I not been something of a simpleton, I might at this time be a great court lady. Now, madam," said she, again taking Belle by the hand, "do oblige me by allowing me to plait your hair a little?" "I have really a good mind to be angry with you," said Belle, giving Mrs. Petulengro a peculiar glance. "Do allow her to arrange your hair," said I, "she means no harm, and wishes to do you honour; do oblige her and me too, for I should like to see how your hair would look dressed in her fashion." "You hear what the young rye says?" said Mrs. Petulengro. "I am sure you will oblige the young rye, if not myself. Many people would be willing to oblige the young rye, if he would but ask them; but he is not in the habit of asking favours. He has a nose of his own, which he keeps tolerably exalted; he does not think small-beer of himself, madam; and all the time I have been with him, I never heard him ask a favour before; therefore, madam, I am sure you will oblige him. My sister Ursula would be very willing to oblige him in many things, but he will not ask for anything, except for such a favour as a word, which is a poor favour after all. I don't mean for her word; perhaps he will some day ask you for your word. If so . . ." "Why here you are, after railing at me for catching at words, catching at a word yourself," said Mr. Petulengro. "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mrs. Petulengro. "Don't interrupt me in my discourse; if I caught at a word now, I am not in the habit of doing so. I am no conceited body; no newspaper Neddy; no pothouse witty person. I was about to say, madam, that if the young rye asks you at any time for your word, you will do as you deem convenient; but I am sure you will oblige him by allowing me to braid your hair." "I shall not do it to oblige him," said Belle; "the young rye, as you call him, is nothing to me." "Well, then, to oblige me," said Mrs. Petulengro; "do allow me to become your poor tire-woman." "It is great nonsense," said Belle, reddening; "however, as you came to see me, and ask the matter as a particular favour to yourself . . ." "Thank you, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, leading Belle to the stool; "please to sit down here. Thank you; your hair is very beautiful, madam," she continued as she proceeded to braid Belle's hair; "so is your countenance. Should you ever go to the great city, among the grand folks, you would make a sensation, madam. I have made one myself, who am dark; the chi she is kauley, which last word signifies black, which I am not, though rather dark. There's no colour like white, madam; it's so lasting, so genteel. Gentility will carry the day, madam, even with the young rye. He will ask words of the black lass, but beg the word of the fair." In the meantime Mr. Petulengro and myself entered into conversation. "Any news stirring, Mr. Petulengro?" said I. "Have you heard anything of the great religious movements?" "Plenty," said Mr. Petulengro; "all the religious people, more especially the Evangelicals--those that go about distributing tracts--are very angry about the fight between Gentleman Cooper and White-headed Bob, which they say ought not to have been permitted to take place; and then they are trying all they can to prevent the fight between the lion and the dogs, {256} which they say is a disgrace to a Christian country. Now, I can't say that I have any quarrel with the religious party and the Evangelicals; they are always civil to me and mine, and frequently give us tracts, as they call them, which neither I nor mine can read; but I cannot say that I approve of any movements, religious or not, which have in aim to put down all life and manly sport in this here country." "Anything else?" said I. "People are becoming vastly sharp," said Mr. Petulengro; "and I am told that all the old-fashioned, good-tempered constables are going to be set aside, and a paid body of men to be established, {257} who are not to permit a tramper or vagabond on the roads of England;--and talking of roads puts me in mind of a strange story I heard two nights ago, whilst drinking some beer at a public-house, in company with my cousin Sylvester. I had asked Tawno to go, but his wife would not let him. Just opposite me, smoking their pipes, were a couple of men, something like engineers, and they were talking of a wonderful invention which was to make a wonderful alteration in England; inasmuch as it would set aside all the old roads, which in a little time would be ploughed up, and sowed with corn, and cause all England to be laid down with iron roads, on which people would go thundering along in vehicles, pushed forward by fire and smoke. Now, brother, when I heard this, I did not feel very comfortable; for I thought to myself, what a queer place such a road would be to pitch one's tent upon, and how impossible it would be for one's cattle to find a bite of grass upon it; and I thought likewise of the danger to which one's family would be exposed of being run over and severely scorched by these same flying, fiery vehicles; so I made bold to say that I hoped such an invention would never be countenanced, because it was likely to do a great deal of harm. Whereupon, one of the men, giving me a glance, said, without taking the pipe out of his mouth, that for his part he sincerely hoped that it would take effect; and if it did no other good than stopping the rambles of gypsies, and other like scamps, it ought to be encouraged. Well, brother, feeling myself insulted, I put my hand into my pocket, in order to pull out money, intending to challenge him to fight for a five-shilling stake, but merely found sixpence, having left all my other money at the tent; which sixpence was just sufficient to pay for the beer which Sylvester and myself were drinking, of whom I couldn't hope to borrow anything--'poor as Sylvester' being a by-word amongst us. So, not being able to back myself, I held my peace, and let the Gorgio have it all his own way, who, after turning up his nose at me, went on discoursing about the said invention, saying what a fund of profit it would be to those who knew how to make use of it, and should have the laying down of the new roads, and the shoeing of England with iron. And after he had said this, and much more of the same kind, which I cannot remember, he and his companion got up and walked away; and presently I and Sylvester got up and walked to our camp; and there I lay down in my tent by the side of my wife, where I had an ugly dream of having camped upon an iron road; my tent being overturned by a flying vehicle; my wife's leg injured; and all my affairs put into great confusion." "Now, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, "I have braided your hair in our fashion: you look very beautiful, madam; more beautiful, if possible, than before." Belle now rose, and came forward with her tire-woman. Mr. Petulengro was loud in his applause, but I said nothing, for I did not think Belle was improved in appearance by having submitted to the ministry of Mrs. Petulengro's hand. Nature never intended Belle to appear as a gypsy; she had made her too proud and serious. A more proper part for her was that of a heroine, a queenly heroine,--that of Theresa of Hungary, for example; or, better still, that of Brynhilda the Valkyrie, the beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer, who incurred the curse of Odin, because, in the tumult of spears, she sided with the young king, and doomed the old warrior to die, to whom Odin had promised victory. Belle looked at me for a moment in silence; then turning to Mrs. Petulengro, she said, "You have had your will with me; are you satisfied?" "Quite so, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, "and I hope you will be so too, as soon as you have looked in the glass." "I have looked in one already," said Belle, "and the glass does not flatter." "You mean the face of the young rye," said Mrs. Petulengro; "never mind him, madam; the young rye, though he knows a thing or two, is not a university, nor a person of universal wisdom. I assure you that you never looked so well before; and I hope that, from this moment, you will wear your hair in this way." "And who is to braid it in this way?" said Belle, smiling. "I, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, "I will braid it for you every morning, if you will but be persuaded to join us. Do so, madam, and I think, if you did, the young rye would do so too." "The young rye is nothing to me, nor I to him," said Belle; "we have stayed some time together; but our paths will soon be apart. Now, farewell, for I am about to take a journey." "And you will go out with your hair as I have braided it," said Mrs. Petulengro; "if you do, everybody will be in love with you." "No," said Belle, "hitherto I have allowed you to do what you please, but henceforth I shall have my own way. Come, come," said she, observing that the gypsy was about to speak, "we have had enough of nonsense; whenever I leave this hollow, it will be wearing my hair in my own fashion." "Come, wife," said Mr. Petulengro, "we will no longer intrude upon the rye and rawnie, there is such a thing as being troublesome." Thereupon Mr. Petulengro and his wife took their leave, with many salutations. "Then you are going?" said I, when Belle and I were left alone. "Yes," said Belle, "I am going on a journey; my affairs compel me." "But you will return again?" said I. "Yes," said Belle, "I shall return once more." "Once more," said I; "what do you mean by once more? The Petulengros will soon be gone, and will you abandon me in this place?" "You were alone here," said Belle, "before I came, and, I suppose, found it agreeable, or you would not have stayed in it." "Yes," said I, "that was before I knew you; but having lived with you here, I should be very loth to live here without you." "Indeed," said Belle, "I did not know that I was of so much consequence to you. Well, the day is wearing away--I must go and harness Traveller to the cart." "I will do that," said I, "or anything else you may wish me. Go and prepare yourself; I will see after Traveller and the cart." Belle departed to her tent, and I set about performing the task I had undertaken. In about half-an-hour Belle again made her appearance--she was dressed neatly and plainly. Her hair was no longer in the Roman fashion, in which Pakomovna had plaited it, but was secured by a comb; she held a bonnet in her hand. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" I demanded. "There are two or three bundles by my tent, which you can put into the cart," said Belle. I put the bundles into the cart, and then led Traveller and the cart up the winding path, to the mouth of the dingle, near which was Mr. Petulengro's encampment. Belle followed. At the top, I delivered the reins into her hands; we looked at each other steadfastly for some time. Belle then departed and I returned to the dingle, where, seating myself on my stone, I remained for upwards of an hour in thought. CHAPTER XXIII.--THE FESTIVAL--THE GYPSY SONG--PIRAMUS OF ROME--THE SCOTCHMAN--GYPSY NAMES. On the following day there was much feasting amongst the Romany chals of Mr. Petulengro's party. Throughout the forenoon the Romany chies did scarcely anything but cook flesh, and the flesh which they cooked was swine's flesh. About two o'clock, the chals and chies dividing themselves into various parties, sat down and partook of the fare, which was partly roasted, partly sodden. I dined that day with Mr. Petulengro and his wife and family, Ursula, Mr. and Mrs. Chikno, and Sylvester and his two children. Sylvester, it will be as well to say, was a widower, and had consequently no one to cook his victuals for him, supposing he had any, which was not always the case, Sylvester's affairs being seldom in a prosperous state. He was noted for his bad success in trafficking, notwithstanding the many hints which he received from Jasper, under whose protection he had placed himself, even as Tawno Chikno had done, who himself, as the reader has heard on a former occasion, was anything but a wealthy subject, though he was at all times better off than Sylvester, the Lazarus of the Romany tribe. All our party ate with a good appetite, except myself, who, feeling rather melancholy that day, had little desire to eat. I did not, like the others, partake of the pork, but got my dinner entirely off the body of a squirrel which had been shot the day before by a chal of the name of Piramus, who, besides being a good shot, was celebrated for his skill in playing on the fiddle. During the dinner a horn filled with ale passed frequently around, I drank of it more than once, and felt inspirited by the draughts. The repast concluded, Sylvester and his children departed to their tent, and Mr. Petulengro, Tawno, and myself getting up, went and lay down under a shady hedge, where Mr. Petulengro, lighting his pipe, began to smoke, and where Tawno presently fell asleep. I was about to fall asleep also, when I heard the sound of music and song. Piramus was playing on the fiddle, whilst Mrs. Chikno, who had a voice of her own, was singing in tones sharp enough, but of great power, a gypsy song:-- POISONING THE PORKER. BY MRS. CHIKNO. To mande shoon ye Romany chals Who besh in the pus about the yag, I'll pen how we drab the baulo, I'll pen how we drab the baulo. We jaws to the drab-engro ker, Trin horsworth there of drab we lels, And when to the swety back we wels We pens we'll drab the baulo, We'll have a drab at a baulo. And then we kairs the drab opre, And then we jaws to the farming ker To mang a beti habben, A beti poggado habben. A rinkeno baulo there we dick, And then we pens in Romano jib; Wust lis odoi opre ye chick, And the baulo he will lel lis, The baulo he will lel lis. Coliko, coliko saulo we Apopli to the farming ker Will wel and mang him mullo, Will wel and mang his truppo. And so we kairs, and so we kairs; The baulo in the rarde mers; We mang him on the saulo, And rig to the tan the baulo. And then we toves the wendror well Till sore the wendror iuziou se, Till kekkeno drab's adrey lis Till drab there's kek adrey lis. And then his truppo well we hatch, Kin levinor at the kitchema, And have a kosko habben, A kosko Romano habben. The boshom engro kils, he kils, The tawnie juva gils, she gils A puro Romano gillie, Now shoon the Romano gillie. Which song I had translated in the following manner, in my younger days, for a lady's album. Listen to me ye Roman lads, who are seated in the straw about the fire, and I will tell how we poison the porker, I will tell how we poison the porker. We go to the house of the poison monger (_i.e_. the apothecary), where we buy three pennies' worth of bane, and when we return to our people we say, we will poison the porker; we will try and poison the porker. We then make up the poison, and then we take our way to the house of the farmer, as if to beg a bit of victuals, a little broken victuals. We see a jolly porker, and then we say in Roman language, "Fling the bane yonder amongst the dirt, and the porker soon will find it, the porker soon will find it." Early on the morrow, we will return to the farmhouse, and beg the dead porker, the body of the dead porker. And so we do, even so we do; the porker dieth during the night; on the morrow we beg the porker, and carry to the tent the porker. And then we wash the inside well, till all the inside is perfectly clean, till there's no bane within it, not a poison grain within it. And then we roast the body well, send for ale to the ale-house, and have a merry banquet, a merry Roman banquet. The fellow with the fiddle plays, he plays; the little lassie sings, she sings an ancient Roman ditty; now hear the Roman ditty. SONG OF THE BROKEN CHASTITY. {265} BY URSULA. Penn'd the Romany chi ke laki dye "Miry dearie dye mi shom cambri!" "And savo kair'd tute cambri, Miry dearie chi, miry Romany chi?" "O miry dye a boro rye, A bovalo rye, a gorgiko rye, Sos kistur pre a pellengo grye, 'Twas yov sos kerdo man cambri." "Tu tawnie vassavie lubbeny, Tu chal from miry tan abri; Had a Romany chal kair'd tute cambri, Then I had penn'd ke tute chie, But tu shan a vassavie lubbeny With gorgikie rat to be cambri." "There's some kernel in those songs, brother," said Mr Petulengro, when the songs and music were over. "Yes," said I, "they are certainly very remarkable songs. I say, Jasper, I hope you have not been drabbing baulor {266} lately." "And suppose we have, brother, what then?" "Why, it is a very dangerous practice, to say nothing of the wickedness of it." "Necessity has no law, brother." "That is true," said I, "I have always said so, but you are not necessitous, and should not drab baulor." "And who told you we had been drabbing baulor?" "Why, you have had a banquet of pork, and after the banquet Mrs. Chikno sang a song about drabbing baulor, so I naturally thought you might have lately been engaged in such a thing" "Brother, you occasionally utter a word or two of common sense. It was natural for you to suppose, after seeing that dinner of pork, and hearing that song, that we had been drabbing baulor; I will now tell you that we have not been doing so. What have you to say to that?" "That I am very glad of it." "Had you tasted that pork, brother, you would have found that it was sweet and tasty, which balluva that is drabbed can hardly be expected to be. We have no reason to drab baulor at present, we have money and credit; but necessity has no law. Our forefathers occasionally drabbed baulor, some of our people may still do such a thing, but only from compulsion." "I see," said I; "and at your merry meetings you sing songs upon the compulsatory deeds of your people, alias their villainous actions; and, after all, what would the stirring poetry of any nation be, but for its compulsatory deeds? Look at the poetry of Scotland, the heroic part, founded almost entirely on the villainous deeds of the Scotch nation; cow- stealing, for example, which is very little better than drabbing baulor; whilst the softer part is mostly about the slips of its females among the broom, so that no upholder of Scotch poetry could censure Ursula's song as indelicate, even if he understood it. What do you think, Jasper?" "I think, brother, as I before said, that occasionally you utter a word of common sense. You were talking of the Scotch, brother; what do you think of a Scotchman finding fault with Romany?" "A Scotchman finding fault with Romany, Jasper! Oh dear, but you joke, the thing could never be." "Yes, and at Piramus's fiddle; what do you think of a Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus's fiddle?" "A Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus's fiddle! nonsense, Jasper." "Do you know what I most dislike, brother?" "I do not, unless it be the constable, Jasper." "It is not the constable, it's a beggar on horseback, brother." "What do you mean by a beggar on horseback?" "Why, a scamp, brother, raised above his proper place, who takes every opportunity of giving himself fine airs. About a week ago, my people and myself camped on a green by a plantation in the neighbourhood of a great house. In the evening we were making merry, the girls were dancing, while Piramus was playing on the fiddle a tune of his own composing, to which he has given his own name, Piramus of Rome, and which is much celebrated amongst our people, and from which I have been told that one of the grand gorgio composers, who once heard it, has taken several hints. So, as we were making merry, a great many grand people, lords and ladies, I believe, came from the great house and looked on, as the girls danced to the tune of Piramus of Rome, and seemed much pleased; and when the girls had left off dancing, and Piramus playing, the ladies wanted to have their fortunes told; so I bade Mikailia Chikno, who can tell a fortune when she pleases better than any one else, tell them a fortune, and she, being in a good mind, told them a fortune which pleased them very much. So, after they had heard their fortunes, one of them asked if any of our women could sing; and I told them several could, more particularly Leviathan--you know Leviathan, she is not here now, but some miles distant, she is our best singer, Ursula coming next. So the lady said she should like to hear Leviathan sing, whereupon Leviathan sang the Gudlo pesham, {269a} and Piramus played the tune of the same name, which, as you know, means the honeycomb, the song and the tune being well entitled to the name, being wonderfully sweet. Well, everybody present seemed mighty well pleased with the song and music, with the exception of one person, a carroty-haired Scotch body; how he came there I don't know, but there he was; and, coming forward, he began in Scotch as broad as a barn-door to find fault with the music and the song, saying that he had never heard viler stuff than either. Well, brother, out of consideration for the civil gentry with whom the fellow had come, I held my peace for a long time, and in order to get the subject changed, I said to Mikailia in Romany, you have told the ladies their fortunes, now tell the gentlemen theirs, quick quick,--pen lende dukkerin. {269b} Well, brother, the Scotchman, I suppose, thinking I was speaking ill of him, fell into a greater passion than before, and catching hold of the word dukkerin--'Dukkerin,' said he, 'what's dukkerin?' 'Dukkerin,' said I, 'is fortune, a man or woman's destiny; don't you like the word?' 'Word! d'ye ca' that a word? a bonnie word,' said he. 'Perhaps you'll tell us what it is in Scotch,' said I, 'in order that we may improve our language by a Scotch word; a pal of mine has told me that we have taken a great many words from foreign lingos.' 'Why, then, if that be the case, fellow, I will tell you; it is e'en "spaeing,"' said he, very seriously. 'Well, then,' said I, 'I'll keep my own word, which is much the prettiest--spaeing! spaeing! why, I should be ashamed to make use of the word, it sounds so much like a certain other word;' and then I made a face as if I were unwell. 'Perhaps it's Scotch also for that?' 'What do you mean by speaking in that guise to a gentleman?' said he, 'you insolent vagabond, without a name or a country.' 'There you are mistaken,' said I, 'my country is Egypt, but we 'Gyptians, like you Scotch, are rather fond of travelling; and as for name--my name is Jasper Petulengro, perhaps you have a better; what is it?' 'Sandy Macraw.' At that, brother, the gentlemen burst into a roar of laughter, and all the ladies tittered." "You were rather severe on the Scotchman, Jasper." "Not at all, brother, and suppose I were, he began first; I am the civilest man in the world, and never interfere with anybody who lets me and mine alone. He finds fault with Romany, forsooth! why, L---d A'mighty, what's Scotch? He doesn't like our songs; what are his own? I understand them as little as he mine; I have heard one or two of them, and pretty rubbish they seemed. But the best of the joke is the fellow's finding fault with Piramus's fiddle--a chap from the land of bagpipes finding fault with Piramus's fiddle! Why, I'll back that fiddle against all the bagpipes in Scotland, and Piramus against all the bagpipers; for though Piramus weighs but ten stone, he shall flog a Scotchman of twenty." "Scotchmen are never so fat as that," said I, "unless, indeed, they have been a long time pensioners of England. I say, Jasper, what remarkable names your people have!" "And what pretty names, brother; there's my own, for example, Jasper; then there's Ambrose and Sylvester; then there's Culvato, which signifies Claude; then there's Piramus, that's a nice name, brother." "Then there's your wife's name, Pakomovna; then there's Ursula and Morella." "Then, brother, there's Ercilla." "Ercilla! the name of the great poet of Spain, how wonderful; then Leviathan." "The name of a ship, brother; Leviathan was named after a ship, so don't make a wonder out of her. But there's Sanpriel and Synfye." "Ay, and Clementina and Lavinia, Camillia and Lydia, Curlanda and Orlanda; wherever did they get those names?" "Where did my wife get her necklace, brother?" "She knows best, Jasper. I hope . . ." "Come, no hoping! She got it from her grandmother, who died at the age of a hundred and three, and sleeps in Coggeshall churchyard. She got it from her mother, who also died very old, and could give no other account of it than that it had been in the family time out of mind." "Whence could they have got it?" "Why, perhaps where they got their names, brother. A gentleman, who had travelled much, once told me that he had seen the sister of it about the neck of an Indian queen." "Some of your names, Jasper, appear to be church names; your own, for example, and Ambrose, and Sylvester; perhaps you got them from the Papists, in the times of Popery; but where did you get such a name as Piramus, a name of Grecian romance? Then some of them appear to be Slavonian; for example, Mikailia and Pakomovna. I don't know much of Slavonian; but . . ." "What is Slavonian, brother?" "The family name of certain nations, the principal of which is the Russian, and from which the word slave is originally derived. You have heard of the Russians, Jasper?" "Yes, brother; and seen some. I saw their crallis at the time of the peace; he was not a bad-looking man for a Russian." "By-the-bye, Jasper, I'm half inclined to think that crallis {272} is a Slavish word. I saw something like it in a lil called 'Voltaire's Life of Charles XII.' How you should have come by such names and words is to me incomprehensible." "You seem posed, brother." "I really know very little about you, Jasper." "Very little indeed, brother. We know very little about ourselves; and you know nothing, save what we have told you; and we have now and then told you things about us which are not exactly true, simply to make a fool of you, brother. You will say that was wrong; perhaps it was. Well, Sunday will be here in a day or two, when we will go to church, where possibly we shall hear a sermon on the disastrous consequences of lying." CHAPTER XXIV.--THE CHURCH--THE ARISTOCRATICAL PEW--DAYS OF YORE--THE CLERGYMAN--"IN WHAT WOULD A MAN BE PROFITED?" When two days had passed, Sunday came; I breakfasted by myself in the solitary dingle; and then, having set things a little to rights, I ascended to Mr. Petulengro's encampment. I could hear church-bells ringing around in the distance, appearing to say, "Come to church, come to church," as clearly as it was possible for church-bells to say. I found Mr. Petulengro seated by the door of his tent, smoking his pipe, in rather an ungenteel undress. "Well, Jasper," said I, "are you ready to go to church? for if you are, I am ready to accompany you." "I am not ready, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "nor is my wife; the church, too, to which we shall go is three miles off; so it is of no use to think of going there this morning, as the service would be three-quarters over before we got there; if, however, you are disposed to go in the afternoon, we are your people." Thereupon I returned to my dingle, where I passed several hours in conning the Welsh Bible, which the preacher, Peter Williams, {274} had given me. At last I gave over reading, took a slight refreshment, and was about to emerge from the dingle, when I heard the voice of Mr. Petulengro calling me. I went up again to the encampment, where I found Mr. Petulengro, his wife, and Tawno Chikno, ready to proceed to church. Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro were dressed in Roman fashion, though not in the full-blown manner in which they had paid their visit to Isopel and myself. Tawno had on a clean white slop, with a nearly new black beaver, with very broad rims, and the nap exceedingly long. As for myself, I was dressed in much the same manner as that in which I departed from London, having on, in honour of the day, a shirt perfectly clean, having washed one on purpose for the occasion, with my own hands, the day before, in the pond of tepid water in which the newts and efts were in the habit of taking their pleasure. We proceeded for upwards of a mile, by footpaths through meadows and corn-fields; we crossed various stiles; at last, passing over one, we found ourselves in a road, wending along which for a considerable distance, we at last came in sight of a church, the bells of which had been tolling distinctly in our ears for some time; before, however, we reached the churchyard the bells had ceased their melody. It was surrounded by lofty beech-trees of brilliant green foliage. We entered the gate, Mrs. Petulengro leading the way, and proceeded to a small door near the east end of the church. As we advanced, the sound of singing within the church rose upon our ears. Arrived at the small door, Mrs. Petulengro opened it and entered, followed by Tawno Chikno. I myself went last of all, following Mr. Petulengro, who, before I entered, turned round and, with a significant nod, advised me to take care how I behaved. The part of the church {275} which we had entered was the chancel; on one side stood a number of venerable old men--probably the neighbouring poor--and on the other a number of poor girls belonging to the village school, dressed in white gowns and straw bonnets, whom two elegant but simply dressed young women were superintending. Every voice seemed to be united in singing a certain anthem, which, notwithstanding it was written neither by Tate nor Brady, contains some of the sublimest words which were ever put together, not the worst of which are those which burst on our ears as we entered. "Every eye shall now behold Him, Robed in dreadful majesty; Those who set at nought and sold Him, Pierced and nailed Him to the tree, Deeply wailing, Shall the true Messiah see." Still following Mrs. Petulengro, we proceeded down the chancel and along the aisle; notwithstanding the singing, I could distinctly hear as we passed many a voice whispering, "Here come the gypsies! here come the gypsies!" I felt rather embarrassed, with a somewhat awkward doubt as to where we were to sit; none of the occupiers of the pews, who appeared to consist almost entirely of farmers, with their wives, sons, and daughters, opened a door to admit us. Mrs. Petulengro, however, appeared to feel not the least embarrassment, but tripped along the aisle with the greatest nonchalance. We passed under the pulpit, in which stood the clergyman in his white surplice, and reached the middle of the church, where we were confronted by the sexton, dressed in a long blue coat, and holding in his hand a wand. This functionary motioned towards the lower end of the church, where were certain benches, partly occupied by poor people and boys. Mrs. Petulengro, however, with a toss of her head, directed her course to a magnificent pew, which was unoccupied, which she opened and entered, followed closely by Tawno Chikno, Mr. Petulengro, and myself. The sexton did not appear by any means to approve of the arrangement, and as I stood next the door laid his finger on my arm, as if to intimate that myself and companions must quit our aristocratical location. I said nothing, but directed my eyes to the clergyman, who uttered a short and expressive cough; the sexton looked at him for a moment, and then, bowing his head, closed the door--in a moment more the music ceased. I took up a prayer-book, on which was engraved an earl's coronet. The clergyman uttered, "I will arise, and go to my father." England's sublime liturgy had commenced. Oh, what feelings came over me on finding myself again in an edifice devoted to the religion of my country! I had not been in such a place I cannot tell how long--certainly not for years; and now I had found my way there again, it appeared as if I had fallen asleep in the pew of the old church of pretty D[ereham]. I had occasionally done so when a child, and had suddenly woke up. Yes, surely I had been asleep and had woken up; but, no! alas, no! I had not been asleep--at least not in the old church--if I had been asleep I had been walking in my sleep, struggling, striving, learning, and unlearning in my sleep. Years had rolled away whilst I had been asleep--ripe fruit had fallen, green fruit had come on whilst I had been asleep--how circumstances had altered, and above all myself, whilst I had been asleep. No, I had not been asleep in the old church! I was in a pew it is true, but not the pew of black leather, in which I sometimes fell asleep in days of yore, but in a strange pew; and then my companions, they were no longer those of days of yore. I was no longer with my respectable father and mother, and my dear brother, but with the gypsy cral {277} and his wife, and the gigantic Tawno, the Antinous of the dusky people. And what was I myself? No longer an innocent child, but a moody man, bearing in my face, as I knew well, the marks of my strivings and strugglings, of what I had learned and unlearned; nevertheless, the general aspect of things brought to my mind what I had felt and seen of yore. There was difference enough it is true, but still there was a similarity--at least I thought so,--the church, the clergyman, and the clerk differing in many respects from those of pretty D . . ., put me strangely in mind of them; and then the words!--by-the-bye, was it not the magic of the words which brought the dear enchanting past so powerfully before the mind of Lavengro? for the words were the same sonorous words of high import which had first made an impression on his childish ear in the old church of pretty Dereham. The liturgy was now over, during the reading of which my companions behaved in a most unexceptional manner, sitting down and rising up when other people sat down and rose, and holding in their hands prayer-books which they found in the pew, into which they stared intently, though I observed that, with the exception of Mrs. Petulengro, who knew how to read a little, they held the books by the top, and not the bottom, as is the usual way. The clergyman now ascended the pulpit, arrayed in his black gown. The congregation composed themselves to attention, as did also my companions, who fixed their eyes upon the clergyman with a certain strange immovable stare, which I believe to be peculiar to their race. The clergyman gave out his text, and began to preach. He was a tall, gentlemanly man, seemingly between fifty and sixty, with greyish hair; his features were very handsome, but with a somewhat melancholy cast: the tones of his voice were rich and noble, but also with somewhat of melancholy in them. The text which he gave out was the following one: "In what would a man be profited, provided he gained the whole world, and lost his own soul?" And on this text the clergyman preached long and well: he did not read his sermon, but spoke it extempore; his doing so rather surprised and offended me at first; I was not used to such a style of preaching in a church devoted to the religion of my country. I compared it within my mind with the style of preaching used by the high-church rector in the old church of pretty D . . ., and I thought to myself it was very different, and being very different I did not like it, and I thought to myself how scandalised the people of D . . . would have been had they heard it, and I figured to myself how indignant the high-church clerk would have been had any clergyman got up in the church of D . . . and preached in such a manner. Did it not savour strongly of dissent, methodism, and similar low stuff? Surely it did; why, the Methodist I had heard preach on the heath above the old city, preached in the same manner--at least he preached extempore; ay, and something like the present clergyman, for the Methodist spoke very zealously and with great feeling, and so did the present clergyman; so I, of course, felt rather offended with the clergyman for speaking with zeal and feeling. However, long before the sermon was over I forgot the offence which I had taken, and listened to the sermon with much admiration, for the eloquence and powerful reasoning with which it abounded. Oh, how eloquent he was, when he talked on the inestimable value of a man's soul, which he said endured for ever, whilst his body, as every one knew, lasted at most for a very contemptible period of time; and how forcibly he reasoned on the folly of a man, who, for the sake of gaining the whole world--a thing, he said, which provided he gained he could only possess for a part of the time, during which his perishable body existed--should lose his soul, that is, cause that precious deathless portion of him to suffer indescribable misery time without end. There was one part of his sermon which struck me in a very particular manner: he said, "That there were some people who gained something in return for their souls; if they did not get the whole world, they got a part of it--lands, wealth, honour, or renown; mere trifles, he allowed, in comparison with the value of a man's soul, which is destined either to enjoy delight, or suffer tribulation time without end; but which, in the eyes of the worldly, had a certain value, and which afforded a certain pleasure and satisfaction. But there were also others who lost their souls, and got nothing for them--neither lands, wealth, renown, nor consideration, who were poor outcasts, and despised by everybody. My friends," he added, "if the man is a fool who barters his soul for the whole world, what a fool he must be who barters his soul for nothing!" The eyes of the clergyman, as he uttered these words, wandered around the whole congregation; and when he had concluded them, the eyes of the whole congregation were turned upon my companions and myself. CHAPTER XXV.--RETURN FROM CHURCH--THE CUCKOO AND GYPSY--SPIRITUAL DISCOURSE. The service over, my companions and myself returned towards the encampment by the way we came. Some of the humble part of the congregation laughed and joked at us as we passed. Mr. Petulengro and his wife, however, returned their laughs and jokes with interest. As for Tawno and myself, we said nothing: Tawno, like most handsome fellows, having very little to say for himself at any time; and myself, though not handsome, not being particularly skilful at repartee. Some boys followed us for a considerable time, making all kinds of observations about gypsies; but as we walked at a great pace, we gradually left them behind, and at last lost sight of them. Mrs. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno walked together, even as they had come; whilst Mr. Petulengro and myself followed at a little distance. "That was a very fine preacher we heard," said I to Mr. Petulengro, after we had crossed the stile into the fields. "Very fine, indeed, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; "he is talked of, far and wide, for his sermons; folks say that there is scarcely another like him in the whole of England." "He looks rather melancholy, Jasper." "He lost his wife several years ago, who, they say, was one of the most beautiful women ever seen. They say that it was grief for her loss that made him come out mighty strong as a preacher; for, though he was a clergyman, he was never heard of in the pulpit before he lost his wife; since then the whole country has rung with the preaching of the clergyman of M . . ., as they call him. Those two nice young gentlewomen, whom you saw with the female childer, are his daughters." "You seem to know all about him, Jasper. Did you ever hear him preach before?" "Never, brother; but he has frequently been to our tent, and his daughters too, and given us tracts; for he is one of the people they call Evangelicals, who give folks tracts which they cannot read." "You should learn to read, Jasper." "We have no time, brother." "Are you not frequently idle?" "Never, brother; when we are not engaged in our traffic, we are engaged in taking our relaxation: so we have no time to learn." "You really should make an effort. If you were disposed to learn to read, I would endeavour to assist you. You would be all the better for knowing how to read." "In what way, brother?" "Why, you could read the Scriptures, and, by so doing, learn your duty towards your fellow-creatures." "We know that already, brother; the constables and justices have contrived to knock that tolerably into our heads." "Yet you frequently break the laws." "So, I believe, do now and then those who know how to read, brother." "Very true, Jasper; but you really ought to learn to read, as, by so doing, you might learn your duty towards yourselves: and your chief duty is to take care of your own souls; did not the preacher say, 'In what is a man profited, provided he gain the whole world'?" "We have not much of the world, brother." "Very little indeed, Jasper. Did you not observe how the eyes of the whole congregation were turned towards our pew when the preacher said, 'There are some people who lose their souls, and get nothing in exchange; who are outcast, despised, and miserable?' Now, was not what he said quite applicable to the gypsies?" "We are not miserable, brother." "Well, then, you ought to be, Jasper. Have you an inch of ground of your own? Are you of the least use? Are you not spoken ill of by everybody? What's a gypsy?" "What's the bird noising yonder, brother?" "The bird! Oh, that's the cuckoo tolling; but what has the cuckoo to do with the matter?" "We'll see, brother; what's the cuckoo?" "What is it? you know as much about it as myself, Jasper." "Isn't it a kind of roguish, chaffing bird, brother?" "I believe it is, Jasper." "Nobody knows whence it comes, brother?" "I believe not, Jasper." "Very poor, brother, not a nest of its own?" "So they say, Jasper." "With every person's bad word, brother?" "Yes, Jasper, every person is mocking it." "Tolerably merry, brother?" "Yes, tolerably merry, Jasper." "Of no use at all, brother?" "None whatever, Jasper." "You would be glad to get rid of the cuckoos, brother?" "Why, not exactly, Jasper; the cuckoo is a pleasant, funny bird, and its presence and voice give a great charm to the green trees and fields; no, I can't say I wish exactly to get rid of the cuckoo." "Well, brother, what's a Romany chal?" "You must answer that question yourself, Jasper." "A roguish, chaffing fellow, a'n't he, brother?" "Ay, ay, Jasper." "Of no use at all, brother?" "Just so, Jasper; I see . . ." "Something very much like a cuckoo, brother?" "I see what you are after, Jasper." "You would like to get rid of us, wouldn't you?" "Why, no, not exactly." "We are no ornament to the green lanes in spring and summer time, are we, brother? and the voices of our chies, with their cukkerin and dukkerin, don't help to make them pleasant?" "I see what you are at, Jasper." "You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, wouldn't you?" "Can't say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might wish." "And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory wenches, hey, brother?" "Can't say that I should, Jasper. You are certainly a picturesque people, and in many respects an ornament both to town and country; painting and lil writing too are under great obligations to you. What pretty pictures are made out of your campings and groupings, and what pretty books have been written in which gypsies, or at least creatures intended to represent gypsies, have been the principal figures! I think if we were without you, we should begin to miss you." "Just as you would the cuckoos, if they were all converted into barn-door fowls. I tell you what, brother, frequently as I have sat under a hedge in spring or summer time, and heard the cuckoo, I have thought that we chals and cuckoos are alike in many respects, but especially in character. Everybody speaks ill of us both, and everybody is glad to see both of us again." "Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and cuckoos; men have souls, Jasper!" "And why not cuckoos, brother?" "You should not talk so, Jasper; what you say is little short of blasphemy. How should a bird have a soul?" "And how should a man?" "Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul." "How do you know it?" "We know very well." "Would you take your oath of it, brother--your bodily oath?" "Why, I think I might, Jasper!" "Did you ever see the soul, brother?" "No, I never saw it." "Then how could you swear to it? A pretty figure you would make in a court of justice, to swear to a thing which you never saw. Hold up your head, fellow. When and where did you see it? Now upon your oath, fellow, do you mean to say that this Roman stole the donkey's foal? Oh, there's no one for cross-questioning like Counsellor P . . . Our people when they are in a hobble always like to employ him, though he is somewhat dear. Now, brother, how can you get over the 'upon your oath, fellow, will you say that you have a soul?'" "Well, we will take no oath on the subject; but you yourself believe in the soul. I have heard you say that you believe in dukkerin; now what is dukkerin {286} but the soul science?" "When did I say that I believed in it?" "Why, after that fight, when you pointed to the bloody mark in the cloud, whilst he you wot of was galloping in the barouche to the old town, amidst the rain-cataracts, the thunder, and flame of heaven." "I have some kind of remembrance of it, brother." "Then, again, I heard you say that the dook of Abershaw rode every night on horseback down the wooded hill." "I say, brother, what a wonderful memory you have!" "I wish I had not, Jasper, but I can't help it; it is my misfortune." "Misfortune! well, perhaps it is; at any rate it is very ungenteel to have such a memory. I have heard my wife say that to show you have a long memory looks very vulgar; and that you can't give a greater proof of gentility than by forgetting a thing as soon as possible--more especially a promise, or an acquaintance when he happens to be shabby. Well, brother, I don't deny that I may have said that I believe in dukkerin, and in Abershaw's dook, which you say is his soul; but what I believe one moment, or say I believe, don't be certain that I shall believe the next, or say I do." "Indeed, Jasper, I heard you say on a previous occasion, on quoting a piece of song, that when a man dies he is cast into the earth, and there's an end of him." "I did, did I? Lor', what a memory you have, brother! But you are not sure that I hold that opinion now." "Certainly not, Jasper. Indeed, after such a sermon as we have been hearing, I should be very shocked if you held such an opinion." "However, brother, don't be sure I do not, however shocking such an opinion may be to you." "What an incomprehensible people you are, Jasper." "We are rather so, brother; indeed, we have posed wiser heads than yours before now." "You seem to care for so little, and yet you rove about a distinct race." "I say, brother!" "Yes, Jasper." "What do you think of our women?" "They have certainly very singular names, Jasper." "Names! Lavengro! But, brother, if you had been as fond of things as of names, you would never have been a pal of ours." "What do you mean, Jasper?" "A'n't they rum animals?" "They have tongues of their own, Jasper." "Did you ever feel their teeth and nails, brother?" "Never, Jasper, save Mrs. Herne's. {288} I have always been very civil to them, so . . ." "They let you alone. I say, brother, some part of the secret is in them." "They seem rather flighty, Jasper." "Ay, ay, brother!" "Rather fond of loose discourse!" "Rather so, brother." "Can you always trust them, Jasper?" "We never watch them, brother." "Can they always trust you?" "Not quite so well as we can them. However, we get on very well together, except Mikailia and her husband; but Mikailia is a cripple, and is married to the beauty of the world, so she may be expected to be jealous--though he would not part with her for a duchess, no more than I would part with my rawnie, nor any other chal with his." "Ay, but would not the chi part with the chal for a duke, Jasper?" "My Pakomovna gave up the duke for me, brother." "But she occasionally talks of him, Jasper." "Yes, brother, but Pakomovna was born on a common not far from the sign of the gammon." "Gammon of bacon, I suppose." "Yes, brother; but gammon likewise means . . ." "I know it does, Jasper; it means fun, ridicule, jest; it is an ancient Norse word, and is found in the Edda." "Lor', brother! how learned in lils you are!" "Many words of Norse are to be found in our vulgar sayings, Jasper; for example--in that particularly vulgar saying of ours, 'Your mother is up,' {289} there's a noble Norse word; mother, there, meaning not the female who bore us, but rage and choler, as I discovered by reading the Sagas, Jasper." "Lor', brother! how book-learned you be." "Indifferently so, Jasper. Then you think you might trust your wife with the duke?" "I think I could, brother, or even with yourself." "Myself, Jasper! Oh, I never troubled my head about your wife; but I suppose there have been love affairs between gorgios {290} and Romany chies. Why, novels are stuffed with such matters; and then even one of your own songs says so--the song which Ursula was singing the other afternoon." "That is somewhat of an old song, brother, and is sung by the chies as a warning at our solemn festivals." "Well! but there's your sister-in-law, Ursula, herself, Jasper." "Ursula, herself, brother?" "You were talking of my having her, Jasper." "Well, brother, why didn't you have her?" "Would she have had me?" "Of course, brother. You are so much of a Roman, and speak Romany so remarkably well." "Poor thing! she looks very innocent!" "Remarkably so, brother! However, though not born on the same common with my wife, she knows a thing or two of Roman matters." "I should like to ask her a question or two, Jasper, in connection with that song." "You can do no better, brother. Here we are at the camp. After tea, take Ursula under a hedge, and ask her a question or two in connection with that song." CHAPTER XXVI.--SUNDAY EVENING--URSULA--ACTION AT LAW--MERIDIANA MARRIED ALREADY. I took tea that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro and Ursula, {291} outside of their tent. Tawno was not present, being engaged with his wife in his own tabernacle; Sylvester was there, however, lolling listlessly upon the ground. As I looked upon this man, I thought him one of the most disagreeable fellows I had ever seen. His features were ugly, and, moreover, as dark as pepper; and, besides being dark, his skin was dirty. As for his dress, it was torn and sordid. His chest was broad, and his arms seemed powerful; but, upon the whole, he looked a very caitiff. "I am sorry that man has lost his wife," thought I; "for I am sure he will never get another." What surprises me is, that he ever found a woman disposed to unite her lot with his! After tea I got up and strolled about the field. My thoughts were upon Isopel Berners. I wondered where she was, and how long she would stay away. At length becoming tired and listless, I determined to return to the dingle, and resume the reading of the Bible at the place where I had left off. "What better could I do," methought, "on a Sunday evening?" I was then near the wood which surrounded the dingle, but at that side which was farthest from the encampment, which stood near the entrance. Suddenly, on turning round the southern corner of the copse, which surrounded the dingle, I perceived Ursula seated under a thorn-bush. I thought I never saw her look prettier than then, dressed as she was, in her Sunday's best. "Good evening, Ursula," said I; "I little thought to have the pleasure of seeing you here." "Nor would you, brother," said Ursula, "had not Jasper told me that you had been talking about me, and wanted to speak to me under a hedge; so hearing that, I watched your motions, and came here and sat down." "I was thinking of going to my quarters in the dingle, to read the Bible, Ursula, but . . ." "Oh, pray then, go to your quarters, brother, and read the Miduveleskoe lil; {293} you can speak to me under a hedge some other time." "I think I will sit down with you, Ursula; for, after all, reading godly books in dingles at eve is rather sombre work. Yes, I think I will sit down with you;" and I sat down by her side. "Well, brother, now you have sat down with me under the hedge, what have you to say to me?" "Why, I hardly know, Ursula." "Not know, brother; a pretty fellow you to ask young women to come and sit with you under hedges, and, when they come, not know what to say to them." "Oh! ah! I remember; do you know, Ursula, that I take a great interest in you?" "Thank ye, brother; kind of you, at any rate." "You must be exposed to a great many temptations, Ursula." "A great many indeed, brother. It is hard to see fine things, such as shawls, gold watches, and chains in the shops, behind the big glasses, and to know that they are not intended for one. Many's the time I have been tempted to make a dash at them; but I bethought myself that by so doing I should cut my hands, besides being almost certain of being grabbed and sent across the gull's bath to the foreign country." "Then you think gold and fine things temptations, Ursula?" "Of course, brother, very great temptations; don't you think them so?" "Can't say I do, Ursula." "Then more fool you, brother; but have the kindness to tell me what you would call a temptation?" "Why, for example, the hope of honour and renown, Ursula." "The hope of honour and renown! very good, brother: but I tell you one thing, that unless you have money in your pocket, and good broadcloth on your back, you are not likely to obtain much honour and--what do you call it? amongst the gorgios, to say nothing of the Romany chals." "I should have thought, Ursula, that the Romany chals, roaming about the world as they do, free and independent, were above being led by such trifles." "Then you know nothing of the gypsies, brother; no people on earth are fonder of those trifles, as you call them, than the Romany chals, or more disposed to respect those who have them." "Then money and fine clothes would induce you to do anything, Ursula?" "Ay, ay, brother, anything." "To chore, {295a} Ursula?" "Like enough, brother; gypsies have been transported before now for choring." "To hokkawar?" {295b} "Ay, ay; I was telling dukkerin only yesterday, brother." "In fact, to break the law in everything?" "Who knows, brother, who knows? as I said before, gold and fine clothes are great temptations." "Well, Ursula, I am sorry for it, I should never have thought you so depraved." "Indeed, brother." "To think that I am seated by one who is willing to--to . . ." "Go on, brother." "To play the thief." "Go on, brother." "The liar." "Go on, brother." "The--the . . ." "Go on, brother." "The--the lubbeny." {295c} "The what, brother?" said Ursula, starting from her seat. "Why, the lubbeny; don't you . . ." "I tell you what, brother," said Ursula, looking somewhat pale, and speaking very low, "if I had only something in my hand, I would do you a mischief." "Why, what is the matter, Ursula?" said I; "how have I offended you?" "How have you offended me? Why, didn't you insinivate just now that I was ready to play the--the . . ." "Go on, Ursula." "The--the . . . I'll not say it; but I only wish I had something in my hand." "If I have offended, Ursula, I am very sorry for it; any offence I may have given you was from want of understanding you. Come, pray be seated, I have much to question you about--to talk to you about." "Seated, not I! It was only just now that you gave me to understand that you was ashamed to be seated by me, a thief, a liar." "Well, did you not almost give me to understand that you were both, Ursula?" "I don't much care being called a thief and a liar," said Ursula; "a person may be a liar and a thief, and yet a very honest woman, but . . ." "Well, Ursula." "I tell you what, brother, if you ever sinivate again that I could be the third thing, so help me duvel! {296} I'll do you a mischief. By my God I will!" "Well, Ursula, I assure you that I shall sinivate, as you call it, nothing of the kind about you. I have no doubt, from what you have said, that you are a very paragon of virtue--a perfect Lucretia; but . . ." "My name is Ursula, brother, and not Lucretia: Lucretia is not of our family, but one of the Bucklands; she travels about Oxfordshire; yet I am as good as she any day." "Lucretia! how odd! Where could she have got that name? Well, I make no doubt, Ursula, that you are quite as good as she, and she of her namesake of ancient Rome; but there is a mystery in this same virtue, Ursula, which I cannot fathom! how a thief and a liar should be able, or indeed willing, to preserve her virtue is what I don't understand. You confess that you are very fond of gold. Now, how is it that you don't barter your virtue for gold sometimes? I am a philosopher, Ursula, and like to know everything. You must be every now and then exposed to great temptation, Ursula: for you are of a beauty calculated to captivate all hearts. Come, sit down and tell me how you are enabled to resist such temptation as gold and fine clothes?" "Well, brother," said Ursula, "as you say you mean no harm, I will sit down beside you, and enter into discourse with you; but I will uphold that you are the coolest hand that I ever came nigh, and say the coolest things." And thereupon Ursula sat down by my side. "Well, Ursula, we will, if you please, discourse on the subject of your temptations. I suppose that you travel very much about, and show yourself in all kinds of places?" "In all kinds, brother; I travels, as you say, very much, attends fairs and races, and enters booths and public-houses, where I tells fortunes, and sometimes dances and sings." "And do not people often address you in a very free manner?" "Frequently, brother; and I give them tolerably free answers." "Do people ever offer to make you presents? I mean presents of value, such as . . ." "Silk handkerchiefs, shawls, and trinkets; very frequently, brother." "And what do you do, Ursula?" "I take what people offers me, brother, and stows it away as soon as I can." "Well, but don't people expect something for their presents? I don't mean dukkerin, dancing, and the like; but such a moderate and innocent thing as a choomer, {298} Ursula?" "Innocent thing, do you call it, brother?" "The world calls it so, Ursula. Well, do the people who give you the fine things never expect a choomer in return?" "Very frequently, brother." "And do you ever grant it?" "Never, brother." "How do you avoid it?" "I gets away as soon as possible, brother. If they follows me, I tries to baffle them, by means of jests and laughter; and if they persist, I uses bad and terrible language, of which I have plenty in store." "But if your terrible language has no effect?" "Then I screams for the constable, and if he comes not, I uses my teeth and nails." "And are they always sufficient?" "I have only had to use them twice, brother; but then I found them sufficient." "But suppose the person who followed you was highly agreeable, Ursula? A handsome young officer of local militia, for example, all dressed in Lincoln green, would you still refuse him the choomer?" "We makes no difference, brother! the daughters of the gypsy-father makes no difference; and, what's more, sees none." "Well, Ursula, the world will hardly give you credit for such indifference." "What cares we for the world, brother! we are not of the world." "But your fathers, brothers, and uncles give you credit I suppose, Ursula." "Ay, ay, brother, our fathers, brothers, and cokos {299a} gives us all manner of credit; for example, I am telling lies and dukkerin in a public- house where my batu {299b} or coko--perhaps both--are playing on the fiddle; well, my batu and my coko beholds me amongst the public-house crew, talking nonsense and hearing nonsense; but they are under no apprehension; and presently they sees the good-looking officer of militia, in his greens and Lincolns, get up and give me a wink, and I go out with him abroad, into the dark night perhaps; well, my batu and coko goes on fiddling, just as if I were six miles off asleep in the tent, and not out in the dark street with the local officer, with his Lincolns and his greens." "They know they can trust you, Ursula?" "Ay, ay, brother; and, what's more, I knows I can trust myself." "So you would merely go out to make a fool of him, Ursula?" "Merely go out to make a fool of him, brother, I assure you." "But such proceedings really have an odd look, Ursula." "Amongst gorgios, very so, brother." "Well, it must be rather unpleasant to lose one's character even amongst gorgios, Ursula; and suppose the officer, out of revenge for being tricked and duped by you, were to say of you the thing that is not, were to meet you on the race-course the next day, and boast of receiving favours which he never had, amidst a knot of jeering militia-men, how would you proceed, Ursula? would you not be abashed?" "By no means, brother; I should bring my action of law against him." "Your action at law, Ursula?" "Yes, brother; I should give a whistle, whereupon all one's cokos and batus, and all my near and distant relations, would leave their fiddling, dukkerin, and horse-dealing, and come flocking about me. 'What's the matter, Ursula?' says my coko. 'Nothing at all,' I replies, 'save and except that gorgio, in his greens and his Lincolns, says that I have played the . . . with him.' 'Oho, he does, Ursula,' says my coko; 'try your action of law against him, my lamb,' and he puts something privily into my hands; whereupon I goes close up to the grinning gorgio, and staring him in the face, with my head pushed forward, I cries out: 'You say I did what was wrong with you last night when I was out with you abroad?' 'Yes,' says the local officer, 'I says you did,' looking down all the time. 'You are a liar,' says I, and forthwith I breaks his head with the stick which I holds behind me, and which my coko has conveyed privily into my hand." "And this is your action at law, Ursula?" "Yes, brother, this is my action at club-law." "And would your breaking the fellow's head quite clear you of all suspicion in the eyes of your batus, cokos, {301} and what not?" "They would never suspect me at all, brother, because they would know that I would never condescend to be over intimate with a gorgio; the breaking the head would be merely intended to justify Ursula in the eyes of the gorgios." "And would it clear you in their eyes?" "Would it not, brother? When they saw the blood running down from the fellow's cracked poll on his greens and Lincolns, they would be quite satisfied; why, the fellow would not be able to show his face at fair or merry-making for a year and three quarters." "Did you ever try it, Ursula?" "Can't say I ever did, brother, but it would do." "And how did you ever learn such a method of proceeding?" "Why, 'tis advised by gypsy liri, {302a} brother. It's part of our way of settling difficulties amongst ourselves; for example, if a young Roman were to say the thing which is not respecting Ursula and himself, Ursula would call a great meeting of the people, who would all sit down in a ring, the young fellow amongst them; a coko would then put a stick in Ursula's hand, who would then get up and go to the young fellow, and say, 'Did I play the . . . with you?' and were he to say 'Yes,' she would crack his head before the eyes of all." "Well," said I, "Ursula, I was bred an apprentice to gorgio law, and of course ought to stand up for it, whenever I conscientiously can, but I must say the gypsy manner of bringing an action for defamation is much less tedious, and far more satisfactory, than the gorgiko one. I wish you now to clear up a certain point which is rather mysterious to me. You say that for a Romany chi to do what is unseemly with a gorgio is quite out of the question, yet only the other day I heard you singing a song in which a Romany chi confesses herself to be cambri {302b} by a grand gorgious gentleman." "A sad let down," said Ursula. "Well," said I, "sad or not, there's the song that speaks of the thing, which you give me to understand is not?" "Well, if the thing ever was," said Ursula, "it was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, not true." "Then why do you sing the song?" "I tell you, brother: we sings the song now and then to be a warning to ourselves to have as little to do as possible in the way of acquaintance with the gorgios; and a warning it is. You see how the young woman in the song was driven out of her tent by her mother, with all kinds of disgrace and bad language; but you don't know that she was afterwards buried alive by her cokos and pals, in an uninhabited place. The song doesn't say it, but the story says it; for there is a story about it, though, as I said before, it was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, wasn't true." "But if such a thing were to happen at present, would the cokos and pals bury the girl alive?" "I can't say what they would do," said Ursula, "I suppose they are not so strict as they were long ago; at any rate she would be driven from the tan, {303} and avoided by all her family and relations as a gorgio's acquaintance, so that, perhaps, at last, she would be glad if they would bury her alive." "Well, I can conceive that there would be an objection on the part of the cokos and batus that a Romany chi should form an improper acquaintance with a gorgio, but I should think that the batus and cokos could hardly object to the chi's entering into the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio." Ursula was silent. "Marriage is an honourable estate, Ursula." "Well, brother, suppose it be?" "I don't see why a Romany chi should object to enter into the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio." "You don't, brother; don't you?" "No," said I, "and, moreover, I am aware, notwithstanding your evasion, Ursula, that marriages and connections now and then occur between gorgios and Romany chies; the result of which is the mixed breed, called half-and- half, which is at present travelling about England, and to which the Flaming Tinman belongs, otherwise called Anselo Herne." "As for the half-and-halfs," said Ursula, "they are a bad set; and there is not a worse blackguard in England than Anselo Herne." "All what you say may be very true, Ursula, but you admit that there are half-and-halfs." "The more's the pity, brother." "Pity or not, you admit the fact; but how do you account for it?" "How do I account for it? why, I will tell you, by the break up of a Roman family, brother,--the father of a small family dies, and perhaps the mother; and the poor children are left behind; sometimes they are gathered up by their relations, and sometimes, if they have none, by charitable Romans, who bring them up in the observance of gypsy law; but sometimes they are not so lucky, and falls into the company of gorgios, trampers, and basket-makers, who live in caravans, with whom they take up, and so . . . I hate to talk of the matter, brother; but so comes this race of the half-and-halfs." "Then you mean to say, Ursula, that no Romany chi, unless compelled by hard necessity, would have anything to do with a gorgio." "We are not over fond of gorgios, brother, and we hates basket-makers and folks that live in caravans." "Well," said I, "suppose a gorgio, who is not a basket-maker, a fine handsome gorgious gentleman, who lives in a fine house . . ." "We are not fond of houses, brother. I never slept in a house in my life." "But would not plenty of money induce you?" "I hate houses, brother, and those who live in them." "Well, suppose such a person were willing to resign his fine house, and, for love of you, to adopt gypsy law, speak Romany, and live in a tan, {305} would you have nothing to say to him?" "Bringing plenty of money with him, brother?" "Well, bringing plenty of money with him, Ursula." "Well, brother, suppose you produce your man; where is he?" "I was merely supposing such a person, Ursula." "Then you don't know of such a person, brother?" "Why, no, Ursula; why do you ask?" "Because, brother, I was almost beginning to think that you meant yourself." "Myself, Ursula! I have no fine house to resign; nor have I money. Moreover, Ursula, though I have a great regard for you, and though I consider you very handsome, quite as handsome, indeed, as Meridiana in . . ." "Meridiana! where did you meet with her?" said Ursula, with a toss of her head. "Why, in old Pulci's . . ." "At old Fulcher's! that's not true brother. Meridiana is a Borzlam, and travels with her own people, and not with old Fulcher, {306} who is a gorgio and a basket-maker." "I was not speaking of old Fulcher, but Pulci, a great Italian writer, who lived many hundred years ago, and who, in his poem called the 'Morgante Maggiore,' speaks of Meridiana, the daughter of . . ." "Old Carus Borzlam," said Ursula; "but if the fellow you mention lived so many hundred years ago, how, in the name of wonder, could he know anything of Meridiana?" "The wonder, Ursula, is, how your people could ever have got hold of that name, and similar ones. The Meridiana of Pulci was not the daughter of old Carus Borzlam, but of Caradoro, a great pagan king of the East, who, being besieged in his capital by Manfredonio, another mighty pagan king, who wished to obtain possession of his daughter, who had refused him, was relieved in his distress by certain paladins of Charlemagne, with one of whom, Oliver, his daughter Meridiana fell in love." "I see," said Ursula, "that it must have been altogether a different person, for I am sure that Meridiana Borzlam would never have fallen in love with Oliver. Oliver! why, that is the name of the curo-mengro who lost the fight near the chong gav, {307} the day of the great tempest, when I got wet through. No, no! Meridiana Borzlam would never have so far forgot her blood as to take up with Tom Oliver." "I was not talking of that Oliver, Ursula, but of Oliver, peer of France, and paladin of Charlemagne, with whom Meridiana, daughter of Caradore, fell in love, and for whose sake she renounced her religion and became a Christian, and finally ingravidata, or cambri, by him:-- "E nacquene un figliuol, dice la storia, Che dette a Carlo-man poi gran vittoria." which means . . ." "I don't want to know what it means," said Ursula; "no good, I'm sure. Well, if the Meridiana of Charles's wain's pal was no handsomer than Meridiana Borzlam, she was no great catch, brother; for though I am by no means given to vanity, I think myself better to look at than she, though I will say she is no lubbeny, and would scorn . . ." "I make no doubt she would, Ursula, and I make no doubt that you are much handsomer than she, or even the Meridiana of Oliver. What I was about to say, before you interrupted me, is this, that though I have a great regard for you, and highly admire you, it is only in a brotherly way, and . . ." "And you had nothing better to say to me," said Ursula, "when you wanted to talk to me beneath a hedge, than that you liked me in a brotherly way! well, I declare . . ." "You seem disappointed, Ursula." "Disappointed, brother! not I." "You were just now saying that you disliked gorgios, so, of course, could only wish that I, who am a gorgio, should like you in a brotherly way; I wished to have a conversation with you beneath a hedge, but only with the view of procuring from you some information respecting the song which you sung the other day, and the conduct of Roman females, which has always struck me as being highly unaccountable, so, if you thought anything else . . ." "What else should I expect from a picker-up of old words, brother? Bah! I dislike a picker-up of old words worse than a picker-up of old rags." "Don't be angry, Ursula, I feel a great interest in you; you are very handsome, and very clever; indeed, with your beauty and cleverness, I only wonder that you have not long since been married." "You do, do you, brother?" "Yes. However, keep up your spirits, Ursula, you are not much past the prime of youth, so . . ." "Not much past the prime of youth! Don't be uncivil, brother; I was only twenty-two last month." "Don't be offended, Ursula, but twenty-two is twenty-two, or I should rather say, that twenty-two in a woman is more than twenty-six in a man. You are still very beautiful, but I advise you to accept the first offer that's made to you." "Thank you, brother, but your advice comes rather late; I accepted the first offer that was made me five years ago." "You married five years ago, Ursula! is it possible?" "Quite possible, brother, I assure you." "And how came I to know nothing about it?" "How comes it that you don't know many thousand things about the Romans, brother? Do you think they tell you all their affairs?" "Married, Ursula, married! well, I declare!" "You seem disappointed, brother." "Disappointed! Oh, no! not at all; but Jasper, only a few weeks ago, told me that you were not married; and, indeed, almost gave me to understand that you would be very glad to get a husband." "And you believed him? I'll tell you, brother, for your instruction, that there is not in the whole world a greater liar than Jasper Petulengro." "I am sorry to hear it, Ursula; but with respect to him you married--who might he be? A gorgio, or a Romany chal?" "Gorgio, or Romany chal? Do you think I would ever condescend to a gorgio? It was a Camomescro, brother, a Lovell, a distant relation of my own." "And where is he! and what became of him? Have you any family?" "Don't think I am going to tell you all my history, brother; and, to tell you the truth, I am tired of sitting under hedges with you, talking nonsense. I shall go to my house." "Do sit a little longer, sister Ursula. I most heartily congratulate you on your marriage. But where is this same Lovell? I have never seen him: I should wish to congratulate him too. You are quite as handsome as the Meridiana of Pulci, Ursula, ay, or the Despina of Ricciardetto. Ricciardetto, Ursula, is a poem written by one Fortiguerra, about ninety years ago, in imitation of the Morgante of Pulci. It treats of the wars of Charlemagne and his Paladins with various barbarous nations, who came to besiege Paris. Despina was the daughter and heiress of Scricca, King of Cafria; she was the beloved of Ricciardetto, and was beautiful as an angel; but I make no doubt you are quite as handsome as she." "Brother," said Ursula--but the reply of Ursula I reserve for another chapter, the present having attained to rather an uncommon length, for which, however, the importance of the matter discussed is a sufficient apology. CHAPTER XXVII.--URSULA'S TALE--THE PATTERAN--THE DEEP WATER--SECOND HUSBAND. "Brother," said Ursula, plucking a dandelion which grew at her feet. "I have always said that a more civil and pleasant-spoken person than yourself can't be found. I have a great regard for you and your learning, and am willing to do you any pleasure in the way of words or conversation. Mine is not a very happy story, but as you wish to hear it, it is quite at your service. Launcelot Lovell made me an offer, as you call it, and we were married in Roman fashion; that is, we gave each other our right hands, and promised to be true to each other. We lived together two years, travelling sometimes by ourselves, sometimes with our relations; I bore him two children, both of which were still-born, partly, I believe, from the fatigue I underwent in running about the country telling dukkerin when I was not exactly in a state to do so, and partly from the kicks and blows which my husband Launcelot was in the habit of giving me every night, provided I came home with less than five shillings, which it is sometimes impossible to make in the country, provided no fair or merry-making is going on. At the end of two years my husband, Launcelot, whistled a horse from a farmer's field, and sold it for forty pounds; and for that horse he was taken, put in prison, tried, and condemned to be sent to the other country for life. Two days before he was to be sent away, I got leave to see him in the prison, and in the presence of the turnkey I gave him a thin cake of gingerbread, in which there was a dainty saw which could cut through iron. I then took on wonderfully, turned my eyes inside out, fell down in a seeming fit, and was carried out of the prison. That same night my husband sawed his irons off, cut through the bars of his window, and dropping down a height of fifty feet, lighted on his legs, and came and joined me on a heath where I was camped alone. We were just getting things ready to be off, when we heard people coming, and sure enough they were runners after my husband, Launcelot Lovell; for his escape had been discovered within a quarter of an hour after he had got away. My husband, without bidding me farewell, set off at full speed, and they after him, but they could not take him, and so they came back and took me, and shook me, and threatened me, and had me before the poknees, {312} who shook his head at me, and threatened me in order to make me discover where my husband was, but I said I did not know, which was true enough; not that I would have told him if I had. So at last the poknees and the runners, not being able to make anything out of me, were obliged to let me go, and I went in search of my husband. I wandered about with my cart for several days in the direction in which I saw him run off, with my eyes bent on the ground, but could see no marks of him; at last, coming to four cross roads, I saw my husband's patteran." "You saw your husband's patteran?" "Yes, brother. Do you know what patteran means?" "Of course, Ursula; the gypsy trail, the handful of grass which the gypsies strew in the roads as they travel, to give information to any of their companions who may be behind, as to the route they have taken. The gypsy patteran has always had a strange interest for me, Ursula." "Like enough, brother; but what does patteran mean?" "Why, the gypsy trail, formed as I told you before." "And you know nothing more about patteran, brother?" "Nothing at all, Ursula; do you?" "What's the name for the leaf of a tree, brother?" "I don't know," said I; "it's odd enough that I have asked that question of a dozen Romany chals and chies, and they always told me that they did not know." "No more they did, brother; there's only one person in England that knows, and that's myself--the name for a leaf is patteran. Now there are two that knows it--the other is yourself." "Dear me, Ursula, how very strange! I am much obliged to you. I think I never saw you look so pretty as you do now; but who told you?" "My mother, Mrs. Herne, told it me one day, brother, when she was in a good humour, which she very seldom was, and no one has a better right to know than yourself, as she hated you mortally: it was one day when you had been asking our company what was the word for a leaf, and nobody could tell you, that she took me aside and told me, for she was in a good humour, and triumphed in seeing you balked. She told me the word for leaf was patteran, which our people use now for trail, having forgotten the true meaning. She said that the trail was called patteran, because the gypsies of old were in the habit of making the marks with the leaves and branches of trees, placed in a certain manner. She said that nobody knew it but herself, who was one of the old sort, and begged me never to tell the word to any one but him I should marry; and to be particularly cautious never to let you know it, whom she hated. Well, brother, perhaps I have done wrong to tell you; but, as I said before, I likes you, and am always ready to do your pleasure in words and conversation; my mother, moreover, is dead and gone, and, poor thing, will never know anything about the matter. So, when I married, I told my husband about the patteran, and we were in the habit of making our private trail with leaves and branches of trees, which none of the other gypsy people did; so, when I saw my husband's patteran, I knew it at once, and I followed it upwards of two hundred miles towards the north; and then I came to a deep, awful-looking water, with an overhanging bank, and on the bank I found the patteran, which directed me to proceed along the bank towards the east; and I followed my husband's patteran towards the east, and before I had gone half a mile, I came to a place where I saw the bank had given way, and fallen into the deep water. Without paying much heed, I passed on, and presently came to a public-house, not far from the water, and I entered the public-house to get a little beer, and perhaps to tell a dukkerin, for I saw a great many people about the door; and, when I entered, I found there was what they calls an inquest being held upon a body in that house, and the jury had just risen to go and look at the body; and being a woman, and having a curiosity, I thought I would go with them, and so I did; and no sooner did I see the body than I knew it to be my husband's; it was much swelled and altered, but I knew it partly by the clothes, and partly by a mark on the forehead, and I cried out, 'It is my husband's body,' and I fell down in a fit, and the fit that time, brother, was not a seeming one." "Dear me," I, "how terrible! but tell me, Ursula, how did your husband come by his death?" "The bank, overhanging the deep water, gave way under him, brother, and he was drowned; for, like most of our people, he could not swim, or only a little. The body, after it had been in the water a long time, came up of itself, and was found floating. Well, brother, when the people of the neighbourhood found that I was the wife of the drowned man, they were very kind to me, and made a subscription for me, with which, after having seen my husband buried, I returned the way I had come, till I met Jasper and his people, and with them I have travelled ever since: I was very melancholy for a long time, I assure you, brother; for the death of my husband preyed very much upon my mind." "His death was certainly a very shocking one, Ursula; but, really, if he had died a natural one, you could scarcely have regretted it, for he appears to have treated you barbarously." "Women must bear, brother; and, barring that he kicked and beat me, and drove me out to tell dukkerin when I could scarcely stand, he was not a bad husband. A man, by gypsy law, brother, is allowed to kick and beat his wife, and to bury her alive, if he thinks proper. I am a gypsy, and have nothing to say against the law." "But what has Mikailia Chikno to say about it?" "She is a cripple, brother, the only cripple amongst the Roman people: so she is allowed to do and say as she pleases. Moreover, her husband does not think fit to kick or beat her, though it is my opinion she would like him all the better if he were occasionally to do so, and threaten to bury her alive; at any rate, she would treat him better, and respect him more." "Your sister does not seem to stand much in awe of Jasper Petulengro, Ursula." "Let the matters of my sister and Jasper Petulengro alone, brother; you must travel in their company some time before you can understand them; they are a strange two, up to all kind of chaffing: but two more regular Romans don't breathe, and I'll tell you, for your instruction, that there isn't a better mare-breaker in England that Jasper Petulengro, if you can manage Miss Isopel Berners as well as . . ." "Isopel Berners," said I, "how came you to think of her?" "How should I but think of her, brother, living as she does with you in Mumper's dingle, and travelling about with you; you will have, brother, more difficulty to manage her, than Jasper has to manage my sister Pakomovna. I should have mentioned her before, only I wanted to know what you had to say to me; and when we got into discourse, I forgot her. I say, brother, let me tell you your dukkerin, with respect to her, you will never . . ." "I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula." "Do let me tell you your dukkerin, brother, you will never manage . . ." "I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula, in connection with Isopel Berners. Moreover, it is Sunday, we will change the subject; it is surprising to me that, after all you have undergone, you should still look so beautiful. I suppose you do not think of marrying again, Ursula?" "No, brother, one husband at a time is quite enough for any reasonable mort; especially such a good husband as I have got." "Such a good husband! why, I thought you told me your husband was drowned?" "Yes, brother, my first husband was." "And have you a second?" "To be sure, brother." "And who is he, in the name of wonder?" "Who is he? why Sylvester, to be sure." "I do assure you, Ursula, that I feel disposed to be angry with you; such a handsome young woman as yourself to take up with such a nasty pepper- faced good-for-nothing . . ." "I won't hear my husband abused, brother; so you had better say no more." "Why, is he not the Lazarus of the gypsies? has he a penny of his own, Ursula?" "Then the more his want, brother, of a clever chi like me to take care of him and his childer. I tell you what, brother, I will chore, {318} if necessary, and tell dukkerin for Sylvester, if even so heavy as scarcely to be able to stand. You call him lazy; you would not think him lazy if you were in a ring with him; he is a proper man with his hands: Jasper is going to back him for twenty pounds against Slammocks of the Chong gav, the brother of Roarer and Bell-metal; he says he has no doubt that he will win." "Well, if you like him, I, of course, can have no objection. Have you been long married?" "About a fortnight, brother; that dinner, the other day, when I sang the song, was given in celebration of the wedding." "Were you married in a church, Ursula?" "We were not, brother; none but gorgios, cripples, and lubbenys are ever married in a church; we took each other's words. Brother, I have been with you near three hours beneath this hedge. I will go to my husband." "Does he know that you are here?" "He does brother." "And is he satisfied?" "Satisfied! of course. Lor', you gorgios! Brother, I go to my husband and my house." And, thereupon, Ursula rose and departed. After waiting a little time I also arose; it was now dark, and I thought I could do no better than betake myself to the dingle; at the entrance of it I found Mr. Petulengro. "Well brother," said he, "what kind of conversation have you and Ursula had beneath the hedge?" "If you wished to hear what we were talking about, you should have come and sat down beside us; you knew where we were." "Well, brother, I did much the same, for I went and sat down behind you." "Behind the hedge, Jasper?" "Behind the hedge, brother." "And heard all our conversation?" "Every word, brother; and a rum conversation it was." "'Tis an old saying, Jasper, that listeners never hear any good of themselves; perhaps you heard the epithet that Ursula bestowed upon you." "If, by epitaph, you mean that she called me a liar, I did, brother, and she was not much wrong, for I certainly do not always stick exactly to truth; you, however, have not much to complain of me." "You deceived me about Ursula, giving me to understand she was not married." "She was not married when I told you so, brother; that is, not to Sylvester; nor was I aware that she was going to marry him. I once thought you had a kind of regard for her, and I am sure she had as much for you as a Romany chi can have for a gorgio. I half expected to have heard you make love to her behind the hedge, but I begin to think you care for nothing in this world but old words and strange stories. Lor', to take a young woman under a hedge, and talk to her as you did to Ursula; and yet you got everything out of her that you wanted, with your gammon about old Fulcher and Meridiana. You are a cunning one, brother." "There you are mistaken, Jasper. I am not cunning. If people think I am, it is because, being made up of art themselves, simplicity of character is a puzzle to them. Your women are certainly extraordinary creatures, Jasper." "Didn't I say they were rum animals? Brother, we Romans shall always stick together as long as they stick fast to us." "Do you think they always will, Jasper?" "Can't say, brother; nothing lasts for ever. Romany chies are Romany chies still, though not exactly what they were sixty years ago. My wife, though a rum one, is not Mrs. Herne, brother. I think she is rather fond of Frenchmen and French discourse. I tell you what, brother, if ever gypsyism breaks up, it will be owing to our chies having been bitten by that mad puppy they calls gentility." CHAPTER XXVIII.--THE DINGLE AT NIGHT--THE TWO SIDES OF THE QUESTION--ROMAN FEMALES--FILLING THE KETTLE--THE DREAM--THE TALL FIGURE. I descended to the bottom of the dingle. It was nearly involved in obscurity. To dissipate the feeling of melancholy which came over my mind, I resolved to kindle a fire; and having heaped dry sticks upon my hearth, and added a billet or two, I struck a light and soon produced a blaze. Sitting down, I fixed my eyes upon the blaze, and soon fell into a deep meditation. I thought of the events of the day, the scene at church, and what I had heard at church, the danger of losing one's soul, the doubts of Jasper Petulengro as to whether one had a soul. I thought over the various arguments which I had either heard, or which had come spontaneously to my mind, for or against the probability of a state of future existence. They appeared to me to be tolerably evenly balanced. I then thought that it was at all events taking the safest part to conclude that there was a soul. It would be a terrible thing, after having passed one's life in the disbelief of the existence of a soul, to wake up after death a soul, and to find one's self a lost soul. Yes, methought I would come to the conclusion that one has a soul. Choosing the safe side, however, appeared to me to be playing rather a dastardly part. I had never been an admirer of people who chose the safe side in everything; indeed I had always entertained a thorough contempt for them. Surely it would be showing more manhood to adopt the dangerous side, that of disbelief; I almost resolved to do so--but yet in a question of so much importance, I ought not to be guided by vanity. The question was not which was the safe, but the true side? yet how was I to know which was the true side? Then I thought of the Bible--which I had been reading in the morning--that spoke of the soul and a future state; but was the Bible true? I had heard learned and moral men say that it was true, but I had also heard learned and moral men say that it was not: how was I to decide? Still that balance of probabilities! If I could but see the way of truth, I would follow it, if necessary, upon hands and knees; on that I was determined; but I could not see it. Feeling my brain begin to turn round, I resolved to think of something else; and forthwith began to think of what had passed between Ursula and myself in our discourse beneath the hedge. I mused deeply on what she had told me as to the virtue of the females of her race. How singular that virtue must be which was kept pure and immaculate by the possessor, whilst indulging in habits of falsehood and dishonesty. I had always thought the gypsy females extraordinary beings. I had often wondered at them, their dress, their manner of speaking, and, not least, at their names; but, until the present day, I had been unacquainted with the most extraordinary point connected with them. How came they possessed of this extraordinary virtue? was it because they were thievish? I remembered that an ancient thief-taker, who had retired from his useful calling, and who frequently visited the office of my master at law, the respectable S. . ., who had the management of his property--I remembered to have heard this worthy, with whom I occasionally held discourse, philosophic and profound, when he and I chanced to be alone together in the office, say that all first-rate thieves were sober, and of well-regulated morals, their bodily passions being kept in abeyance by their love of gain; but this axiom could scarcely hold good with respect to these women--however thievish they might be, they did care for something besides gain: they cared for their husbands. If they did thieve, they merely thieved for their husbands; and though, perhaps, some of them were vain, they merely prized their beauty because it gave them favour in the eyes of their husbands. Whatever the husbands were--and Jasper had almost insinuated that the males occasionally allowed themselves some latitude--they appeared to be as faithful to their husbands as the ancient Roman matrons were to theirs. Roman matrons! and, after all, might not these be in reality Roman matrons? They called themselves Romans; might not they be the descendants of the old Roman matrons? Might not they be of the same blood as Lucretia? And were not many of their strange names--Lucretia amongst the rest--handed down to them from old Rome? It is true their language was not that of old Rome; it was not, however, altogether different from it. After all, the ancient Romans might be a tribe of these people, who settled down and founded a village with the tilts of carts, which by degrees, and the influx of other people, became the grand city of the world. I liked the idea of the grand city of the world owing its origin to a people who had been in the habit of carrying their houses in their carts. Why, after all, should not the Romans of history be a branch of these Romans? There were several points of similarity between them; if Roman matrons were chaste, both men and women were thieves. Old Rome was the thief of the world; yet still there were difficulties to be removed before I could persuade myself that the old Romans and my Romans were identical; and in trying to remove these difficulties, I felt my brain once more beginning to turn, and in haste took up another subject of meditation, and that was the patteran, and what Ursula had told me about it. I had always entertained a strange interest for that sign by which in their wanderings the Romanese gave to those of their people who came behind intimation as to the direction which they took; but it now inspired me with greater interest than ever,--now that I had learned that the proper meaning of it was the leaves of trees. I had, as I had said in my dialogue with Ursula, been very eager to learn the word for leaf in the Romanian language, but had never learned it till this day; so patteran signified leaf, the leaf of a tree; and no one at present knew that but myself and Ursula, who had learned it from Mrs. Herne, the last, it was said, of the old stock; and then I thought what strange people the gypsies must have been in the old time. They were sufficiently strange at present, but they must have been far stranger of old; they must have been a more peculiar people--their language must have been more perfect--and they must have had a greater stock of strange secrets. I almost wished that I had lived some two or three hundred years ago, that I might have observed these people when they were yet stranger than at present. I wondered whether I could have introduced myself to their company at that period, whether I should have been so fortunate as to meet such a strange, half-malicious, half good-humoured being as Jasper, who would have instructed me in the language, then more deserving of note than at present. What might I not have done with that language, had I known it in its purity? Why, I might have written books in it; yet those who spoke it would hardly have admitted me to their society at that period, when they kept more to themselves. Yet I thought that I might possibly have gained their confidence, and have wandered about with them, and learned their language, and all their strange ways, and then--and then--and a sigh rose from the depth of my breast; for I began to think, "Supposing I had accomplished all this, what would have been the profit of it? and in what would all this wild gypsy dream have terminated?" Then rose another sigh, yet more profound, for I began to think, "What was likely to be the profit of my present way of life; the living in dingles, making pony and donkey shoes, conversing with gypsy-women under hedges, and extracting from them their odd secrets?" What was likely to be the profit of such a kind of life, even should it continue for a length of time?--a supposition not very probable, for I was earning nothing to support me, and the funds with which I had entered upon this life were gradually disappearing. I was living, it is true, not unpleasantly, enjoying the healthy air of heaven; but, upon the whole, was I not sadly misspending my time? Surely I was; and, as I looked back, it appeared to me that I had always been doing so. What had been the profit of the tongues which I had learned? had they ever assisted me in the day of hunger? No, no! it appeared to me that I had always misspent my time, save in one instance, when by a desperate effort I had collected all the powers of my imagination, and written the "Life of Joseph Sell" {326}; but even when I wrote the Life of Sell, was I not in a false position? Provided I had not misspent my time, would it have been necessary to make that effort, which, after all, had only enabled me to leave London, and wander about the country for a time? But could I, taking all circumstances into consideration, have done better than I had? With my peculiar temperament and ideas, could I have pursued with advantage the profession to which my respectable parents had endeavoured to bring me up? It appeared to me that I could not, and that the hand of necessity had guided me from my earliest years, until the present night in which I found myself seated in the dingle, staring on the brands of the fire. But ceasing to think of the past which, as irrecoverably gone, it was useless to regret, even were there cause to regret it, what should I do in future? Should I write another book like the "Life of Joseph Sell," take it to London, and offer it to a publisher? But when I reflected on the grisly sufferings which I had undergone whilst engaged in writing the "Life of Sell," I shrank from the idea of a similar attempt; moreover, I doubted whether I possessed the power to write a similar work--whether the materials for the life of another Sell lurked within the recesses of my brain? Had I not better become in reality what I had hitherto been merely playing at--a tinker or a gypsy? But I soon saw that I was not fitted to become either in reality. It was much more agreeable to play the gypsy or the tinker, than to become either in reality. I had seen enough of gypsying and tinkering to be convinced of that. All of a sudden the idea of tilling the soil came into my head; tilling the soil was a healthful and noble pursuit! but my idea of tilling the soil had no connection with Britain; for I could only expect to till the soil in Britain as a serf. I thought of tilling it in America, in which it was said there was plenty of wild, unclaimed land, of which any one, who chose to clear it of its trees, might take possession. I figured myself in America, in an immense forest, clearing the land destined, by my exertions, to become a fruitful and smiling plain. Methought I heard the crash of the huge trees as they fell beneath my axe; and then I bethought me that a man was intended to marry--I ought to marry; and if I married, where was I likely to be more happy as a husband and a father than in America, engaged in tilling the ground? I fancied myself in America, engaged in tilling the ground, assisted by an enormous progeny. Well, why not marry, and go and till the ground in America? I was young, and youth was the time to marry in, and to labour in. I had the use of all my faculties; my eyes, it is true, were rather dull from early study, and from writing the "Life of Joseph Sell"; but I could see tolerably well with them, and they were not bleared. I felt my arms, and thighs, and teeth--they were strong and sound enough; so now was the time to labour, to marry, eat strong flesh, and beget strong children--the power of doing all this would pass away with youth, which was terribly transitory. I bethought me that a time would come when my eyes would be bleared, and, perhaps, sightless; my arms and thighs strengthless and sapless; when my teeth would shake in my jaws, even supposing they did not drop out. No going a wooing then--no labouring--no eating strong flesh, and begetting lusty children then; and I bethought me how, when all this should be, 1 should bewail the days of my youth as misspent, provided I had not in them founded for myself a home, and begotten strong children to take care of me in the days when I could not take care of myself; and thinking of these things, I became sadder and sadder, and stared vacantly upon the fire till my eyes closed in a doze. I continued dozing over the fire, until rousing myself I perceived that the brands were nearly consumed, and I thought of retiring for the night. I arose, and was about to enter my tent, when a thought struck me. "Suppose," thought I, "that Isopel Berners should return in the midst of the night, how dark and dreary would the dingle appear without a fire! truly, I will keep up the fire, and I will do more; I have no board to spread for her, but I will fill the kettle, and heat it, so that if she comes, I may be able to welcome her with a cup of tea, for I know she loves tea." Thereupon, I piled more wood upon the fire, and soon succeeded in producing a better blaze than before; then, taking the kettle, I set out for the spring. On arriving at the mouth of the dingle, which fronted the east, I perceived that Charles's wain was nearly opposite to it, high above in the heavens, by which I knew that the night was tolerably well advanced. The gypsy encampment lay before me; all was hushed and still within it, and its inmates appeared to be locked in slumber; as I advanced, however, the dogs, which were fastened outside the tents, growled and barked; but presently recognising me, they were again silent, some of them wagging their tails. As I drew near a particular tent, I heard a female voice say--"Some one is coming!" and, as I was about to pass it, the cloth which formed the door was suddenly lifted up, and a black head and part of a huge naked body protruded. It was the head and upper part of the giant Tawno, who, according to the fashion of gypsy men, lay next the door, wrapped in his blanket; the blanket had, however, fallen off, and the starlight shone clear on his athletic tawny body, and was reflected from his large staring eyes. "It is only I, Tawno," said I, "going to fill the kettle, as it is possible that Miss Berners may arrive this night." "Kos-ko," {330} drawled out Tawno, and replaced the curtain. "Good, do you call it?" said the sharp voice of his wife; "there is no good in the matter; if that young chap were not living with the rawnee in the illegal and uncertificated line, he would not be getting up in the middle of the night to fill her kettles." Passing on, I proceeded to the spring, where I filled the kettle, and then returned to the dingle. Placing the kettle upon the fire, I watched it till it began to boil; then removing it from the top of the brands, I placed it close beside the fire, and leaving it simmering, I retired to my tent; where, having taken off my shoes, and a few of my garments, I lay down on my palliasse, and was not long in falling asleep. I believe I slept soundly for some time, thinking and dreaming of nothing: suddenly, however, my sleep became disturbed, and the subject of the patterans began to occupy my brain. I imagined that I saw Ursula tracing her husband, Launcelot Lovell, by means of his patterans; I imagined that she had considerable difficulty in doing so; that she was occasionally interrupted by parish beadles and constables, who asked her whither she was travelling, to whom she gave various answers. Presently methought that, as she was passing by a farm- yard, two fierce and savage dogs flew at her; I was in great trouble, I remember, and wished to assist her, but could not, for though I seemed to see her, I was still at a distance: and now it appeared that she had escaped from the dogs, and was proceeding with her cart along a gravelly path which traversed a wild moor; I could hear the wheels grating amidst sand and gravel. The next moment I was awake, and found myself sitting up in my tent; there was a glimmer of light through the canvas caused by the fire; a feeling of dread came over me, which was perhaps natural, on starting suddenly from one's sleep in that wild lone place; I half imagined that some one was nigh the tent; the idea made me rather uncomfortable, and to dissipate it I lifted up the canvas of the door and peeped out, and, lo! I had an indistinct view of a tall figure standing by the tent. "Who is that?" said I, whilst I felt my blood rush to my heart. "It is I," said the voice of Isopel Berners; "you little expected me, I dare say; well, sleep on, I do not wish to disturb you." "But I was expecting you," said I, recovering myself, "as you may see by the fire and the kettle. I will be with you in a moment." Putting on in haste the articles of dress which I had flung off, I came out of the tent, and addressing myself to Isopel, who was standing beside her cart, I said--"Just as I was about to retire to rest I thought it possible that you might come to-night, and got everything in readiness for you. Now, sit down by the fire whilst I lead the donkey and cart to the place where you stay; I will unharness the animal, and presently come and join you." "I need not trouble you," said Isopel; "I will go myself and see after my things." "We will go together," said I, "and then return and have some tea." Isopel made no objection, and in about half- an-hour we had arranged everything at her quarters. I then hastened and prepared tea. Presently Isopel rejoined me, bringing her stool; she had divested herself of her bonnet, and her hair fell over her shoulders; she sat down, and I poured out the beverage, handing her a cup. "Have you made a long journey to-night?" said I. "A very long one," replied Belle, "I have come nearly twenty miles since six o'clock." "I believe I heard you coming in my sleep," said I; "did the dogs above bark at you?" "Yes," said Isopel, "very violently; did you think of me in your sleep?" "No," said I, "I was thinking of Ursula and something she had told me." "When and where was that?" said Isopel. "Yesterday evening," said I, "beneath the dingle hedge." "Then you were talking with her beneath the hedge?" "I was," said I, "but only upon gypsy matters. Do you know, Belle, that she has just been married to Sylvester, so you need not think that she and I . . ." "She and you are quite at liberty to sit where you please," said Isopel. "However, young man," she continued, dropping her tone, which she had slightly raised, "I believe what you said, that you were merely talking about gypsy matters, and also what you were going to say, if it was, as I suppose, that she and you had no particular acquaintance." Isopel was now silent for some time. "What are you thinking of?" said I. "I was thinking," said Belle, "how exceedingly kind it was of you to get everything in readiness for me, though you did not know that I should come." "I had a presentiment that you would come," said I; "but you forget that I have prepared the kettle for you before, though it was true I was then certain that you would come." "I had not forgotten your doing so, young man," said Belle; "but I was beginning to think that you were utterly selfish, caring for nothing but the gratification of your own strange whims." "I am very fond of having my own way," said I, "but utterly selfish I am not, as I dare say I shall frequently prove to you. You will often find the kettle boiling when you come home." "Not heated by you," said Isopel, with a sigh. "By whom else?" said I; "surely you are not thinking of driving me away?" "You have as much right here as myself," said Isopel, "as I have told you before; but I must be going myself." "Well," said I, "we can go together; to tell you the truth, I am rather tired of this place." "Our paths must be separate," said Belle. "Separate," said I, "what do you mean? I shan't let you go alone, I shall go with you; and you know the road is as free to me as to you; besides, you can't think of parting company with me, considering how much you would lose by doing so; remember that you scarcely know anything of the Armenian language; now, to learn Armenian from me would take you twenty years." Belle faintly smiled. "Come," said I, "take another cup of tea." Belle took another cup of tea, and yet another; we had some indifferent conversation, after which I arose and gave her donkey a considerable feed of corn. Belle thanked me, shook me by the hand, and then went to her own tabernacle, and I returned to mine. CHAPTER XXIX.--VISIT TO THE LANDLORD--HIS MORTIFICATIONS--HUNTER AND HIS CLAN--RESOLUTION. On the following morning, after breakfasting with Belle, who was silent and melancholy, I left her in the dingle, and took a stroll amongst the neighbouring lanes. After some time I thought I would pay a visit to the landlord of the public-house, whom I had not seen since the day when he communicated to me his intention of changing his religion. I therefore directed my steps to the house, and on entering it found the landlord standing in the kitchen. Just then two mean-looking fellows, who had been drinking at one of the tables, and who appeared to be the only customers in the house, got up, brushed past the landlord, and saying in a surly tone "We shall pay you some time or other," took their departure. "That's the way they serve me now," said the landlord, with a sigh. "Do you know those fellows," I demanded, "since you let them go away in your debt?" "I know nothing about them," said the landlord, "save that they are a couple of scamps." "Then why did you let them go away without paying you?" said I. "I had not the heart to stop them," said the landlord; "and, to tell you the truth, everybody serves me so now, and I suppose they are right, for a child could flog me." "Nonsense," said I, "behave more like a man, and with respect to those two fellows run after them, I will go with you, and if they refuse to pay the reckoning I will help you to shake some money out of their clothes." "Thank you," said the landlord; "but as they are gone, let them go on. What they have drank is not of much consequence." "What is the matter with you?" said I, staring at the landlord, who appeared strangely altered; his features were wild and haggard, his formerly bluff cheeks were considerably sunken in, and his figure had lost much of its plumpness. "Have you changed your religion already, and has the fellow in black commanded you to fast?" "I have not changed my religion yet," said the landlord, with a kind of shudder; "I am to change it publicly this day fortnight, and the idea of doing so--I do not mind telling you--preys much upon my mind; moreover, the noise of the thing has got abroad, and everybody is laughing at me, and what's more, coming and drinking my beer, and going away without paying for it, whilst I feel myself like one bewitched, wishing but not daring to take my own part. Confound the fellow in black, I wish I had never seen him! yet what can I do without him? The brewer swears that unless I pay him fifty pounds within a fortnight he'll send a distress warrant into the house, and take all I have. My poor niece is crying in the room above; and I am thinking of going into the stable and hanging myself; and perhaps it's the best thing I can do, for it's better to hang myself before selling my soul than afterwards, as I'm sure I should, like Judas Iscariot, whom my poor niece, who is somewhat religiously inclined, has been talking to me about." "I wish I could assist you," said I, "with money, but that is quite out of my power. However, I can give you a piece of advice. Don't change your religion by any means; you can't hope to prosper if you do; and if the brewer chooses to deal hardly with you, let him. Everybody would respect you ten times more provided you allowed yourself to be turned into the roads rather than change your religion, than if you got fifty pounds for renouncing it." "I am half inclined to take your advice," said the landlord, "only, to tell you the truth, I feel quite low, without any heart in me." "Come into the bar," said I, "and let us have something together--you need not be afraid of my not paying for what I order." We went into the bar-room, where the landlord and I discussed between us two bottles of strong ale, which he said were part of the last six which he had in his possession. At first he wished to drink sherry, but I begged him to do no such thing, telling him that the sherry would do him no good, under the present circumstances; nor, indeed, to the best of my belief under any, it being of all wines the one for which I entertained the most contempt. The landlord allowed himself to be dissuaded, and, after a glass or two of ale, confessed that sherry was a sickly disagreeable drink, and that he had merely been in the habit of taking it from an idea he had that it was genteel. Whilst quaffing our beverage, he gave me an account of the various mortifications to which he had of late been subject, dwelling with particular bitterness on the conduct of Hunter, who, he said, came every night and mouthed him, and afterwards went away without paying for what he had drank or smoked, in which conduct he was closely imitated by a clan of fellows who constantly attended him. After spending several hours at the public-house I departed, not forgetting to pay for the two bottles of ale. The landlord, before I went, shaking me by the hand, declared that he had now made up his mind to stick to his religion at all hazards, the more especially as he was convinced he should derive no good by giving it up. {337} CHAPTER XXX.--PREPARATIONS FOR THE FAIR--THE LAST LESSON--THE VERB SIRIEL. It might be about five in the evening when I reached the gypsy encampment. Here I found Mr. Petulengro, Tawno Chikno, Sylvester, and others, in a great bustle, clipping and trimming certain ponies and old horses which they had brought with them. On inquiring of Jasper the reason of their being so engaged, he informed me that they were getting the horses ready for a fair, which was to be held on the morrow, at a place some miles distant, at which they should endeavour to dispose of them, adding--"Perhaps, brother, you will go with us, provided you have nothing better to do?" Not having any particular engagement, I assured him that I should have great pleasure in being of the party. It was agreed that we should start early on the following morning. Thereupon I descended into the dingle. Belle was sitting before the fire, at which the kettle was boiling. "Were you waiting for me?" I inquired. "Yes," said Belle, "I thought that you would come, and I waited for you." "That was very kind," said I. "Not half so kind," said she, "as it was of you to get everything ready for me in the dead of last night, when there was scarcely a chance of my coming." The tea-things were brought forward, and we sat down. "Have you been far?" said Belle. "Merely to that public-house," said I, "to which you directed me on the second day of our acquaintance." "Young men should not make a habit of visiting public- houses," said Belle, "they are bad places." "They may be so to some people," said I, "but I do not think the worst public-house in England could do me any harm." "Perhaps you are so bad already," said Belle, with a smile, "that it would be impossible to spoil you." "How dare you catch at my words?" said I; "come, I will make you pay for doing so--you shall have this evening the longest lesson in Armenian which I have yet inflicted upon you." "You may well say inflicted," said Belle, "but pray spare me. I do not wish to hear anything about Armenian, especially this evening." "Why this evening?" said I. Belle made no answer. "I will not spare you," said I; "this evening I intend to make you conjugate an Armenian verb." "Well, be it so," said Belle; "for this evening you shall command." "To command is hramahyel," said I. "Ram her ill, indeed," said Belle; "I do not wish to begin with that." "No," said I, "as we have come to the verbs, we will begin regularly; hramahyel is a verb of the second conjugation. We will begin with the first." "First of all tell me," said Belle, "what a verb is?" "A part of speech," said I, "which, according to the dictionary, signifies some action or passion; for example, I command you, or I hate you." "I have given you no cause to hate me," said Belle, looking me sorrowfully in the face. "I was merely giving two examples," said I, "and neither was directed at you. In those examples, to command and hate are verbs. Belle, in Armenian there are four conjugations of verbs; the first end in al, the second in yel, the third in oul, and the fourth in il. Now, have you understood me?" "I am afraid, indeed, it will all end ill," said Belle. "Hold your tongue," said I, "or you will make me lose my patience." "You have already made me nearly lose mine," said Belle. "Let us have no unprofitable interruptions," said I. "The conjugations of the Armenian verbs are neither so numerous nor so difficult as the declensions of the nouns; hear that, and rejoice. Come, we will begin with the verb hntal, a verb of the first conjugation, which signifies to rejoice. Come along: hntam, I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest: why don't you follow, Belle?" "I am sure I don't rejoice, whatever you may do," said Belle. "The chief difficulty, Belle," said I, "that I find in teaching you the Armenian grammar, proceeds from your applying to yourself and me every example I give. Rejoice, in this instance, is merely an example of an Armenian verb of the first conjugation, and has no more to do with your rejoicing than lal, which is also a verb of the first conjugation, and which signifies to weep, would have to do with your weeping, provided I made you conjugate it. Come along: hntam. I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest; hnta, he rejoices; hntamk, we rejoice: now, repeat those words." "I can't," said Belle, "they sound more like the language of horses than of human beings. Do you take me for . . .?" "For what?" said I. Belle was silent. "Were you going to say mare?" said I. "Mare! mare! by-the- bye, do you know, Belle, that mare in old English stands for woman; and that when we call a female an evil mare, the strict meaning of the term is merely bad woman. So if I were to call you mare, without prefixing bad, you must not be offended." "But I should, though," said Belle. "I was merely attempting to make you acquainted with a philological fact," said I. "If mare, which in old English, and likewise in vulgar English, signifies a woman, sounds the same as mare, which in modern and polite English signifies a female horse, I can't help it. There is no such confusion of sounds in Armenian, not, at least, in the same instance. Belle, in Armenian, woman is ghin, the same word, by-the-bye, as our queen, whereas mare is madagh tzi, which signifies a female horse; and perhaps you will permit me to add, that a hard-mouthed jade is, in Armenian, madagh tzi hsdierah." "I can't bear this much longer," said Belle. "Keep yourself quiet," said I; "I wish to be gentle with you; and to convince you, we will skip hntal, and also for the present verbs of the first conjugation, and proceed to the second. Belle, I will now select for you to conjugate the prettiest verb in Armenian; not only of the second, but also of all the four conjugations; that verb is siriel. Here is the present tense:--siriem, siries, sire, siriemk, sirek, sirien. You observe that it runs on just in the same manner as hntal, save and except that e is substituted for a; and it will be as well to tell you that almost the only difference between the second, third, and fourth conjugations, and the first, is the substituting in the present, preterite, and other tenses e, or ou, or i for a; so you see that the Armenian verbs are by no means difficult. Come on, Belle, and say siriem." Belle hesitated. "Pray oblige me, Belle, by saying siriem!" Belle still appeared to hesitate. "You must admit, Belle, that it is much softer than hntam." "It is so," said Belle; "and to oblige you, I will say siriem." "Very well indeed, Belle," said I. "No vartabied, or doctor, could have pronounced it better; and now, to show you how verbs act upon pronouns in Armenian, I will say siriem zkiez. Please to repeat siriem zkiez!" "Siriem zkiez!" said Belle; "that last word is very hard to say." "Sorry that you think so, Belle," said I. "Now please to say siria zis." Belle did so. "Exceedingly well," said I. "Now say yerani the sireir zis." "Yerani the sireir zis," said Belle. "Capital!" said I; "you have now said, I love you--love me--ah! would that you would love me!" "And I have said all these things?" said Belle. "Yes," said I; "you have said them in Armenian." "I would have said them in no language that I understood," said Belle; "and it was very wrong of you to take advantage of my ignorance, and make me say such things." "Why so?" said I; "if you said them, I said them too." "You did so," said Belle; "but I believe you were merely bantering and jeering." "As I told you before, Belle," said I, "the chief difficulty which I find in teaching you Armenian proceeds from your persisting in applying to yourself and me every example I give." "Then you meant nothing after all?" said Belle, raising her voice. "Let us proceed," said I; "sirietsi, I loved." "You never loved any one but yourself," said Belle; "and what's more. . ." "Sirietsits, I will love," said I; "sirietsies, thou wilt love." "Never one so thoroughly heartless," said Belle. "I tell you what, Belle, you are becoming intolerable, but we will change the verb; or rather I will now proceed to tell you here, that some of the Armenian conjugations have their anomalies; one species of these I wish to bring before your notice. As old Villotte {343} says--from whose work I first contrived to pick up the rudiments of Armenian--'Est verborum transitivorum, quorum infinitivus . . .' but I forgot, you don't understand Latin. He says there are certain transitive verbs, whose infinitive is in outsaniel; the preterite in outsi; the imperative in oue; for example--parghat-soutsaniem, I irritate . . ." "You do, you do," said Belle; "and it will be better for both of us if you leave off doing so." "You would hardly believe, Belle," said I, "that the Armenian is in some respects closely connected with the Irish, but so it is; for example, that word parghat-soutsaniem is evidently derived from the same root as feargaim, which, in Irish, is as much as to say I vex." "You do, indeed," said Belle, sobbing. "But how do you account for it?" "O man, man!" said Belle, bursting into tears, "for what purpose do you ask a poor ignorant girl such a question, unless it be to vex and irritate her? If you wish to display your learning, do so to the wise and instructed, and not to me, who can scarcely read or write. Oh, leave off your nonsense; yet I know you will not do so, for it is the breath of your nostrils! I could have wished we should have parted in kindness, but you will not permit it. I have deserved better at your hands than such treatment. The whole time we have kept company together in this place, I have scarcely had one kind word from you, but the strangest . . ." and here the voice of Belle was drowned in her sobs. "I am sorry to see you take on so, dear Belle," said I. "I really have given you no cause to be so unhappy; surely teaching you a little Armenian was a very innocent kind of diversion." "Yes, but you went on so long, and in such a strange way, and made me repeat such strange examples, as you call them, that I could not bear it." "Why, to tell you the truth, Belle, it's my way; and I have dealt with you just as I would with . . ." "A hard-mouthed jade," said Belle, "and you practising your horse-witchery upon her. I have been of an unsubdued spirit, I acknowledge, but I was always kind to you; and if you have made me cry, it's a poor thing to boast of." "Boast of!" said I; "a pretty thing indeed to boast of; I had no idea of making you cry. Come, I beg your pardon; what more can I do? Come, cheer up, Belle. You were talking of parting; don't let us part, but depart, and that together." "Our ways lie different," said Belle. "I don't see why they should," said I. "Come, let us be off to America together!" "To America together?" said Belle, looking full at me. "Yes," said I; "where we will settle down in some forest, and conjugate the verb siriel conjugally." "Conjugally?" said Belle. "Yes," said I; "as man and wife in America, air yew ghin." "You are jesting, as usual," said Belle. "Not I, indeed. Come, Belle, make up your mind, and let us be off to America; and leave priests, humbug, learning, and languages behind us." "I don't think you arc jesting," said Belle; "but I can hardly entertain your offers; however, young man, I thank you." "You had better make up your mind at once," said I, "and let us be off. I shan't make a bad husband, I assure you. Perhaps you think I am not worthy of you? To convince you, Belle, that I am, I am ready to try a fall with you this moment upon the grass. Brynhilda, the valkyrie, swore that no one should marry her who could not fling her down. Perhaps you have done the same. The man who eventually married her, got a friend of his, who was called Sigurd, the serpent-killer, to wrestle with her, disguising him in his own armour. Sigurd flung her down, and won her for his friend, though he loved her himself. I shall not use a similar deceit, nor employ Jasper Petulengro to personate me--so get up, Belle, and I will do my best to fling you down." "I require no such thing of you, or anybody," said Belle; "you are beginning to look rather wild." "I every now and then do," said I; "come, Belle, what do you say?" "I will say nothing at present on the subject," said Belle; "I must have time to consider." "Just as you please," said I; "to-morrow I go to a fair with Mr. Petulengro, perhaps you will consider whilst I am away. Come, Belle, let us have some more tea. I wonder whether we shall be able to procure tea as good as this in the American forest." CHAPTER XXXI.--THE DAWN OF DAY--THE LAST FAREWELL--DEPARTURE FOR THE FAIR--THE FINE HORSE--RETURN TO THE DINGLE--NO ISOPEL. It was about the dawn of day when I was awakened by the voice of Mr. Petulengro shouting from the top of the dingle, and bidding me get up. I arose instantly, and dressed myself for the expedition to the fair. On leaving my tent, I was surprised to observe Belle, entirely dressed, standing close to her own little encampment. "Dear me," said I, "I little expected to find you up so early. I suppose Jasper's call awakened you, as it did me." "I merely lay down in my things," said Belle, "and have not slept during the night." "And why did you not take off your things and go to sleep?" said I. "I did not undress," said Belle, "because I wished to be in readiness to bid you farewell when you departed; and as for sleeping, I could not." "Well, God bless you!" said I, taking Belle by the hand. Belle made no answer, and I observed that her hand was very cold. "What is the matter with you?" said I, looking her in the face. Belle looked at me for a moment in the eyes, and then cast down her own--her features were very pale. "You are really unwell," said I; "I had better not go to the fair, but stay here, and take care of you." "No," said Belle, "pray go, I am not unwell." "Then go to your tent," said I, "and do not endanger your health by standing abroad in the raw morning air. God bless you, Belle; I shall be home to-night, by which time I expect you will have made up your mind; if not, another lesson in Armenian, however late the hour be." I then wrung Belle's hand, and ascended to the plain above. I found the Romany party waiting for me, and everything in readiness for departing. Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno were mounted on two old horses. The rest who intended to go to the fair, amongst whom were two or three women, were on foot. On arriving at the extremity of the plain, I looked towards the dingle. Isopel Berners stood at the mouth, the beams of the early morning sun shone full on her noble face and figure. I waved my hand towards her. She slowly lifted up her right arm. I turned away, and never saw Isopel Berners again. {348} My companions and myself proceeded on our way. In about two hours we reached the place where the fair was to be held. After breakfasting on bread and cheese and ale behind a broken stone wall, we drove our animals to the fair. The fair was a common cattle and horse fair: there was little merriment going on, but there was no lack of business. By about two o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Petulengro and his people had disposed of their animals at what they conceived very fair prices--they were all in high spirits, and Jasper proposed to adjourn to a public-house. As we were proceeding to one, a very fine horse, led by a jockey, made its appearance on the ground. Mr. Petulengro stopped short, and looked at it steadfastly: "Fino covar dove odoy sas miro--a fine thing were that, if it were but mine!" he exclaimed. "If you covet it," said I, "why do you not purchase it?" "We low gyptians never buy animals of that description; if we did we could never sell them, and most likely should be had up as horse-stealers." "Then why did you say just now, 'It were a fine thing if it were but yours'?" said I. "We gyptians always say so when we see anything that we admire. An animal like that is not intended for a little hare like me, but for some grand gentleman like yourself. I say, brother, do you buy that horse!" "How should I buy the horse, you foolish person?" said I. "Buy the horse, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; "if you have not the money I can lend it you, though I be of lower Egypt." "You talk nonsense," said I; "however, I wish you would ask the man the price of it." Mr. Petulengro, going up to the jockey, inquired the price of the horse--the man, looking at him scornfully, made no reply. "Young man," said I, going up to the jockey, "do me the favour to tell me the price of that horse, as I suppose it is to sell." The jockey, who was a surly-looking man of about fifty, looked at me for a moment, then, after some hesitation, said laconically, "Seventy." "Thank you," said I, and turned away. "Buy that horse," said Mr. Petulengro, coming after me; "the dook tells me that in less than three months he will be sold for twice seventy." "I will have nothing to do with him," said I; "besides, Jasper, I don't like his tail. Did you observe what a mean scrubby tail he has?" "What a fool you are, brother!" said Mr. Petulengro; "that very tail of his shows his breeding. No good bred horse ever yet carried a fine tail--'tis your scrubby-tailed horses that are your out-and-outers. Did you ever hear of Syntax, brother? That tail of his puts me in mind of Syntax. Well, I say nothing more, have your own way--all I wonder at is, that a horse like him was ever brought to such a fair of dog cattle as this." We then made the best of our way to a public-house, where we had some refreshment. I then proposed returning to the encampment, but Mr. Petulengro declined, and remained drinking with his companions till about six o'clock in the evening, when various jockeys from the fair come in. After some conversation a jockey proposed a game of cards; and in a little time, Mr. Petulengro and another gypsy sat down to play a game of cards with two of the jockeys. Though not much acquainted with cards, I soon conceived a suspicion that the jockeys were cheating Mr. Petulengro and his companion; I therefore called Mr. Petulengro aside, and gave him a hint to that effect. Mr. Petulengro, however, instead of thanking me, told me to mind my own bread and butter, and forthwith returned to his game. I continued watching the players for some hours. The gypsies lost considerably, and I saw clearly that the jockeys were cheating them most confoundedly. I therefore once more called Mr. Petulengro aside, and told him that the jockeys were cheating him, conjuring him to return to the encampment. Mr. Petulengro, who was by this time somewhat the worse for liquor, now fell into a passion, swore several oaths, and asking me who had made me a Moses over him and his brethren, told me to return to the encampment by myself. Incensed at the unworthy return which my well-meant words had received, I forthwith left the house, and having purchased a few articles of provision, I set out for the dingle alone. It was dark night when I reached it, and descending I saw the glimmer of a fire from the depths of the dingle; my heart beat with fond anticipation of a welcome. "Isopel Berners is waiting for me," said I, "and the first word that I shall hear from her lips is that she has made up her mind. We shall go to America, and be so happy together." On reaching the bottom of the dingle, however, I saw seated near the fire, beside which stood the kettle simmering, not Isopel Berners, but a gypsy girl, who told me that Miss Berners when she went away had charged her to keep up the fire, and have the kettle boiling against my arrival. Startled at these words, I inquired at what hour Isopel had left, and whither she was gone, and was told that she had left the dingle, with her cart, about two hours after I departed; but where she was gone the girl did not know. I then asked whether she had left no message, and the girl replied that she had left none, but had merely given directions about the kettle and fire, putting, at the same time, sixpence into her hand. "Very strange," thought I; then dismissing the gypsy girl I sat down by the fire. I had no wish for tea, but sat looking on the embers, wondering what could be the motive of the sudden departure of Isopel. "Does she mean to return?" thought I to myself. "Surely she means to return," Hope replied, "or she would not have gone away without leaving any message"--"and yet she could scarcely mean to return," muttered Foreboding, "or she would assuredly have left some message with the girl." I then thought to myself what a hard thing it would be, if, after having made up my mind to assume the yoke of matrimony, I should be disappointed of the woman of my choice. "Well, after all," thought I, "I can scarcely be disappointed; if such an ugly scoundrel as Sylvester had no difficulty in getting such a nice wife as Ursula, surely I, who am not a tenth part so ugly, cannot fail to obtain the hand of Isopel Berners, uncommonly fine damsel though she be. Husbands do not grow upon hedge-rows; she is merely gone after a little business and will return to-morrow." Comforted in some degree by these hopeful imaginings, I retired to my tent, and went to sleep. CHAPTER XXXII.--GLOOMY FOREBODINGS--THE POSTMAN'S MOTHER--A VALEDICTORY LETTER FROM ISOPEL WITH A LOCK OF HER HAIR--THE END OF A CHAPTER IN THE LIFE OF THE ROMANY RYE--AND OF THE BOOK OF ISOPEL BERNERS. Nothing occurred to me of any particular moment during the following day. Isopel Berners did not return; but Mr. Petulengro and his companions came home from the fair early in the morning. When I saw him, which was about mid-day, I found him with his face bruised and swelled. It appeared that, some time after I had left him, he himself perceived that the jockeys with whom he was playing cards were cheating him and his companion; a quarrel ensued, which terminated in a fight between Mr. Petulengro and one of the jockeys, which lasted some time, and in which Mr. Petulengro, though he eventually came off victor, was considerably beaten. His bruises, in conjunction with his pecuniary loss, which amounted to about seven pounds, were the cause of his being much out of humour; before night, however, he had returned to his usual philosophic frame of mind, and, coming up to me as I was walking about, apologised for his behaviour on the preceding day, and assured me that he was determined, from that time forward, never to quarrel with a friend for giving him good advice. Two more days passed, and still Isopel Berners did not return. Gloomy thoughts and forebodings filled my mind. During the day I wandered about the neighbouring roads in the hopes of catching an early glimpse of her and her returning vehicle; and at night lay awake, tossing about on my hard couch, listening to the rustle of every leaf, and occasionally thinking that I heard the sound of her wheels upon the distant road. Once at midnight, just as I was about to fall into unconsciousness, I suddenly started up, for I was convinced that I heard the sound of wheels. I listened most anxiously, and the sound of wheels striking against stones was certainly plain enough. "She comes at last," thought I, and for a few moments I felt as if a mountain had been removed from my breast;--"here she comes at last, now, how shall I receive her? Oh," thought I, "I will receive her rather coolly, just as if I was not particularly anxious about her--that's the way to manage these women." The next moment the sound became very loud, rather too loud, I thought, to proceed from her wheels, and then by degrees became fainter. Rushing out of my tent, I hurried up the path to the top of the dingle, where I heard the sound distinctly enough, but it was going from me, and evidently proceeded from something much larger than the cart of Isopel. I could, moreover, hear the stamping of a horse's hoofs at a lumbering trot. Those only whose hopes have been wrought up to a high pitch, and then suddenly dashed down, can imagine what I felt at that moment; and yet when I returned to my lonely tent, and lay down on my hard pallet, the voice of conscience told me that the misery I was then undergoing, I had fully merited, from the unkind manner in which I had intended to receive her, when for a brief moment I supposed that she had returned. It was on the morning after this affair, and the fourth, if I forget not, from the time of Isopel's departure, that, as I was seated on my stone at the bottom of the dingle, getting my breakfast, I heard an unknown voice from the path above--apparently that of a person descending--exclaim, "Here's a strange place to bring a letter to;" and presently an old woman, with a belt round her middle, to which was attached a leathern bag, made her appearance, and stood before me. "Well, if I ever!" said she, as she looked about her. "My good gentlewoman," said I, "pray what may you please to want?" "Gentlewoman!" said the old dame, "please to want!--well, I call that speaking civilly, at any rate. It is true, civil words cost nothing; nevertheless, we do not always get them. What I please to want is to deliver a letter to a young man in this place; perhaps you be he?" "What's the name on the letter?" said I, getting up and going to her. "There is no name upon it," said she, taking a letter out of her scrip and looking at it. "It is directed to the young man in Mumpers' Dingle." "Then it is for me, I make no doubt," said I, stretching out my hand to take it. "Please to pay me ninepence first," said the old woman. "However," said she, after a moment's thought, "civility is civility, and, being rather a scarce article, should meet with some return. Here's the letter, young man, and I hope you will pay for it; for if you do not, I must pay the postage myself." "You are the postwoman, I suppose?" said I, as I took the letter. "I am the postman's mother," said the old woman; "but as he has a wide beat, I help him as much as I can, and I generally carry letters to places like this, to which he is afraid to come himself." "You say the postage is ninepence," said I, "here's a shilling." "Well, I call that honourable," said the old woman, taking the shilling and putting it into her pocket--"here's your change, young man," said she, offering me threepence. "Pray keep that for yourself," said I; "you deserve it for your trouble." "Well, I call that genteel," said the old woman; "and as one good turn deserves another, since you look as if you couldn't read, I will read your letter for you. Let's see it; it's from some young woman or other, I dare say." "Thank you," said I, "but I can read." "All the better for you," said the old woman; "your being able to read will frequently save you a penny, for that's the charge I generally make for reading letters; though, as you behaved so genteelly to me, I should have charged you nothing. Well, if you can read, why don't you open the letter, instead of keeping it hanging between your finger and thumb?" "I am in no hurry to open it," said I, with a sigh. The old woman looked at me for a moment--"Well, young man," said she, "there are some--especially those who can read--who don't like to open their letters when anybody is by, more especially when they come from young women. Well, I won't intrude upon you, but leave you alone with your letter. I wish it may contain something pleasant. God bless you," and with these words she departed. I sat down on my stone, with my letter in my hand. I knew perfectly well that it could have come from no other person than Isopel Berners; but what did the letter contain? I guessed tolerably well what its purport was--an eternal farewell! yet I was afraid to open the letter, lest my expectation should be confirmed. There I sat with the letter, putting off the evil moment as long as possible. At length I glanced at the direction, which was written in a fine bold hand, and was directed, as the old woman had said, to the young man in "Mumpers' Dingle," with the addition, "near . . ., in the county of . . . ." Suddenly the idea occurred to me, that, after all, the letter might not contain an eternal farewell; and that Isopel might have written, requesting me to join her. Could it be so? "Alas! no," presently said Foreboding. At last I became ashamed of my weakness. The letter must be opened sooner or later. Why not at once? So as the bather who, for a considerable time has stood shivering on the bank, afraid to take the decisive plunge, suddenly takes it, I tore open the letter almost before I was aware. I had no sooner done so than a paper fell out. I examined it; it contained a lock of bright flaxen hair. "This is no good sign," said I, as I thrust the lock and paper into my bosom, and proceeded to read the letter, which ran as follows:-- "TO THE YOUNG MAN IN MUMPERS' DINGLE. "SIR,--I send these lines, with the hope and trust that they will find you well, even as I am myself at this moment, and in much better spirits, for my own are not such as I could wish they were, being sometimes rather hysterical and vapourish, and at other times, and most often, very low. I am at a sea-port, and am just going on shipboard; and when you get these I shall be on the salt waters, on my way to a distant country, and leaving my own behind me, which I do not expect ever to see again. "And now, young man, I will, in the first place, say something about the manner in which I quitted you. It must have seemed somewhat singular to you that I went away without taking any leave, or giving you the slightest hint that I was going; but I did not do so without considerable reflection. I was afraid that I should not be able to support a leave-taking; and as you had said that you were determined to go wherever I did, I thought it best not to tell you at all; for I did not think it advisable that you should go with me, and I wished to have no dispute. "In the second place, I wish to say something about an offer of wedlock which you made me; perhaps, young man, had you made it at the first period of our acquaintance, I should have accepted it, but you did not, and kept putting off and putting off, and behaving in a very grange manner, till I could stand your conduct no longer, but determined upon leaving you and Old England, which last step I had been long thinking about; so when you made your offer at last, everything was arranged--my cart and donkey engaged to be sold--and the greater part of my things disposed of. However, young man, when you did make it, I frankly tell you that I had half a mind to accept it; at last, however, after very much consideration, I thought it best to leave you for ever, because, for some time past, I had become almost convinced, that though with a wonderful deal of learning, and exceedingly shrewd in some things, you were--pray don't be offended--at the root mad! and though mad people, I have been told sometimes make very good husbands, I was unwilling that your friends, if you had any, should say that Belle Berners, the workhouse girl, took advantage of your infirmity; for there is no concealing that I was born and bred up in a workhouse; notwithstanding that, my blood is better than your own, and as good as the best; you having yourself told me that my name is a noble name, and once, if I mistake not, that it was the same word as baron, which is the same thing as bear; and that to be called in old times a bear was considered a great compliment--the bear being a mighty strong animal, on which account our forefathers called all their great fighting-men barons, which is the same as bears. "However, setting matters of blood and family entirely aside, many thanks to you, young man, from poor Belle, for the honour you did her in making that same offer; for, after all, it is an honour to receive an honourable offer, which she could see clearly yours was, with no floriness nor chaff in it; but, on the contrary, entire sincerity. She assures you that she shall always bear it and yourself in mind, whether on land or water; and as a proof of the good-will she bears to you, she sends you a lock of the hair which she wears on her head, which you were often looking at, and were pleased to call flax, which word she supposes you meant as a compliment, even as the old people meant to pass a compliment to their great folks, when they called them bears; though she cannot help thinking that they might have found an animal as strong as a bear, and somewhat less uncouth, to call their great folks after: even as she thinks yourself, amongst your great store of words, might have found something a little more genteel to call her hair after than flax, which, though strong and useful, is rather a coarse and common kind of article. "And as another proof of the good-will she bears to you, she sends you, along with the lock, a piece of advice, which is worth all the hair in the world, to say nothing of the flax. "_Fear God_, and take your own part. There's Bible in that, young man; see how Moses feared God, and how he took his own part against everybody who meddled with him. And see how David feared God, and took his own part against all the bloody enemies which surrounded him--so fear God, young man, and never give in. The world can bully, and is fond, provided it sees a man in a kind of difficulty, of getting about him, calling him coarse names, and even going so far as to hustle him; but the world, like all bullies, carries a white feather in its tail, and no sooner sees the man taking off his coat, and offering to fight his best, than it scatters here and there, and is always civil to him afterwards. So when folks are disposed to ill- treat you, young man, say 'Lord, have mercy upon me!' and then tip them Long Melford, to which, as the saying goes, there is nothing comparable for shortness all the world over; and these last words, young man, are the last you will ever have from her who is nevertheless, "Your affectionate female servant, "ISOPEL BERNERS." After reading the letter I sat for some time motionless, holding it in my hand. {361} The day-dream in which I had been a little time before indulging, of marrying Isopel Berners, of going with her to America, and having by her a large progeny, who were to assist me in felling trees, cultivating the soil, and who would take care of me when I was old, was now thoroughly dispelled. Isopel had deserted me, and was gone to America by herself, where, perhaps, she would marry some other person, and would bear him a progeny, who would do for him what in my dream I had hoped my progeny by her would do for me. Then the thought came into my head that though she was gone I might follow her to America, but then I thought that if I did I might not find her; America was a very large place, and I did not know the port to which she was bound; but I could follow her to the port from which she had sailed, and there possibly discover the port to which she was bound; but then I did not even know the port from which she had set out, for Isopel had not dated her letter from any place. Suddenly it occurred to me that the post-mark on the letter would tell me from whence it came, so I forthwith looked at the back of the letter, and in the post-mark read the name of a well-known and not very distant sea-port. I then knew with tolerable certainty the port where she had embarked, and I almost determined to follow her, but I almost instantly determined to do no such thing. Isopel Berners had abandoned me, and I would not follow her; "perhaps," whispered Pride, "if I overtook her, she would only despise me for running after her"; and it also told me pretty roundly that, provided I ran after her, whether I overtook her or not, I should heartily despise myself. So I determined not to follow Isopel Berners; I took her lock of hair, and looked at it, then put it in her letter, which I folded up and carefully stowed away, resolved to keep both for ever, but I determined not to follow her. Two or three times, however, during the day I wavered in my determination, and was again and again almost tempted to follow her, but every succeeding time the temptation was fainter. In the evening I left the dingle, and sat down with Mr. Petulengro and his family by the door of his tent. Mr. Petulengro soon began talking of the letter which I had received in the morning. "Is it not from Miss Berners, brother?" said he. I told him it was. "Is she coming back, brother?" "Never," said I; "she is gone to America, and has deserted me." "I always knew that you two were never destined for each other," said he. "How did you know that?" I inquired. "The dook told me so, brother; you are born to be a great traveller." "Well," said I, "if I had gone with her to America, as I was thinking of doing, I should have been a great traveller." "You are to travel in another direction, brother," said he. "I wish you would tell me all about my future wanderings," said I. "I can't, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "there's a power of clouds before my eye." "You are a poor seer, after all," said I, and getting up, I retired to my dingle and my tent, where I betook myself to my bed, and there, knowing the worst, and being no longer agitated by apprehension, nor agonised by expectation, I was soon buried in a deep slumber, the first which I had fallen into for several nights. Footnotes: {1} He was christened George Henry, but he dropped the Henry, as, Tobias George Smollett dropped his George. {2} Dafydd ab Gwilym, "the greatest genius of the Cimbric race and one of the first poets of the world." See _Wild Wales_, chap. lxxxvi., for a very interesting account of this "Welsh Ovid." {5} Elsewhere he writes to John Murray: "What a contemptible trade is the author's compared with that of the jockey!" {8} For a useful, if more commonplace and merely bibliographical study of Sir Richard Phillipps, see W. E. A. Axon's _Stray Chapters_, 1888, p. 237. {12} This is no less true of Borrow's still earlier book _The Zincali_, _An Account of the Gypsies of Spain_ (1841)--a book which every true Borrovian will carefully assimilate, if only for these reasons: First, it supplies a key to much of his later work, many of the greatest qualities of which may here be found in embryo. Secondly, it contains some of the finest descriptive passages in the English tongue, notably the account of the Gitana of Seville. {20a} The beer he got was seldom to his taste; he called it "swipes," but went on drinking glass after glass. What a figure he must have made in the bar parlour of the Bald-faced Stag at Roehampton, with his tales of Jerry Abershaw, Ambrose Gwinett, Thurtell and Wainewright! Mr. Watts- Dunton says he had the gift of drinking deeply, but he adds "of the waters of life," a refinement which Borrow himself might have deprecated. {20b} Henry Hall Dixon. {22} Of the marvellous facility with which some people learn languages in the latter sense we have a good example cited by Alfred Russel Wallace, in the case of a Flemish planter of Ceram, near Amboyna, named Captain Van der Beck. "When quite a youth he had accompanied a Government official who was sent to report on the trade and commerce of the Mediterranean, and had acquired _the colloquial language of every place they stayed a few weeks at_. He had afterwards made voyages to St. Petersburg, and to other parts of Europe, including a few weeks in London; and had then come out to the East, where he had been for some years trading and speculating in the various islands. He now spoke Dutch, French, Malay and Javanese, all equally well; English with a very slight accent, but with perfect fluency, and a most complete knowledge of idiom, in which I often tried to puzzle him in vain. German and Italian were also quite familiar to him, and his acquaintance with European languages included Modern Greek, Turkish, Russian and colloquial Hebrew and Latin. As a test of his power, I may mention that he had made a voyage to the out-of-the-way island of Salibaboo, and had stayed there trading a few weeks. As I was collecting vocabularies, he told me he thought he could remember some words, and dictated a considerable number. Some time after I met with a short list of words taken down in those islands, and in every case they agreed with those he had given me. He used to sing a Hebrew drinking-song, which he had learned from some Jews with whom he had once travelled and astonished by joining in their conversation." {23} Borrow's colloquial gift was, to all appearance, closely allied to that of this polyglot Fleming. {23} Wallace, _The Malay Archipelago_, 1890, p. 269. {25} Flunkeyism he called it, and thence deduced the pecuniary miseries of Scott's later life. His depreciatory view was in part, too, I believe, an echo from his favourite _Vidocq_. Speaking of the gipsies in his chapter on "Les Careurs," Vidocq calls them a species characterised and depicted with so little truth by the first romance-writer of our time. But Borrow certainly had a far deeper reason for his dislike of Scott. Under the specious pretence of deference for antiquity and respect for primitive models, he imagined that Scott was sapping the foundations of Protestantism. Newman from the opposite camp saw only the beneficial effect of Scott's influence in turning men's minds in the direction of the Middle Ages. (See his article in the _British Critic_ for April 1839, and _Apologia_, chap. iii.). As for Wordsworth, Borrow (with characteristic wrong-headedness) conceived him as an impostor. Had _he_ made Nature his tent and the hard earth his bed with the stars for a canopy? No; he walked out to sing of moorland, and fell from a "highly eligible" cottage in the Lakes, where women-folk, at his beck and call, bore the brunt of the "plain living." {27a} The "splendid old corsair," E. J. T., is best known perhaps as the grim and grizzled pilot in Millais' great picture (now in the Tate) of the North-west Passage. Trelawny and Borrow are linked together as men whose mental powers were strong but whose bodily powers were still stronger in the _Memoirs_ of Gordon Hake (who knew both of them well). Another rival of Borrow in respect to the _Mens sana in corpore sano_ was the famous Dr. Whewell, Master of Trinity. Mr. Murray tells a story of his concern at a dinner-party upon a prospect of an altercation between Borrow and Whewell. With both omniscience was a foible. Both were powerful men; and both of them, if report were true, had more than a superficial knowledge of the art of self-defence. {27b} As a matter of fact there was nothing in the least degree squalid about Borrow's subjects or treatment. His tramps and vagabonds have nothing about them that is repulsive. Borrow, it is true, was ready enough to condone the offences of those who sought dupes among the well- to-do public; but he preferred the honester members of the vagrant class; and it is plain that they reciprocated the preference, for they regarded the Romany Rye with an almost superstitious reverence on account of his truth, honour bright and fair speech. Borrow had a passion for depicting the class that Hurtado de Mendoza had first caught for literature in his _Lazarillo_ (1553)--that, namely, of the old tricksters of the highway who still retained many traits, noble and ignoble, from the primeval savage. For the characteristically mean and squalid one must go up higher in the scale of civilisation. {30} Of all the reviews of _Lavengro_, extraordinary as many now appear, it was left for the month of July in the year of grace 1900 to produce the most delightfully amazing. We subjoin it verbatim from the _Catholic Times_ of July 27th, 1900. "LAVENGRO: THE SCHOLAR, THE GYPSY, THE PRIEST. By George Burrow. With an introduction by Theodore Watts-Dunton. (London: Ward, Lock, and Co., Ltd.) 2s. "We suppose the publishers find that this sort of literary rubbish, suffused with antediluvian bigotry of the most benighted character, pays: otherwise, no doubt, they would not have issued it as a volume of their 'New Minerva Library.' It consists of a twaddling introduction by Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton, who tells us he has been 'brought into personal relations with many men of genius,' and so on _ad nauseam_, and of a sort of novel by Mr. Burrow, in a palpable imitation of the style of De Foe without a spark of De Foe's ability. The only thing for which this Mr. Burrow is distinguished is his crass anti-Catholic bigotry; and the terms in which, in one part of the book at least, he refers to the Blessed Virgin are an outrage not merely on the religious feelings of Catholics, but also on ordinary propriety. Catholics, unless they deserve to be treated scornfully, will take note of the fact that such a work as this has been issued by Messrs. Ward and Lock." To get an idea of the _semper eadem_ of Catholic criticism, the reader should compare with the above the _Dublin Review_ for May 1843, in which the author of the _Bible in Spain_ is described as "a missionary sent out by a gang of conspirators against Christianity who denominate themselves the Bible Society." {37} The popularity of _Lavengro_ has been rapidly on the increase during the past ten years, if we may judge by the number of editions. It was printed in the Minerva series in 1889, and reprinted 1900. A version of large portions of the work by Duclos appeared in 1892. Macmillans published an edition in 1896, Newnes in 1897. It was included in the "Oxford Library," 1898. An illustrated edition, an edition produced under the supervision of Dr. Knapp, a miniature edition of Dent's, and the reprint of the Minerva edition, already referred to, appeared in 1900, apart from booksellers' reprints such as those of Denny and Mudie. {38} Dr. Jessopp in _Daily Chronicle_. April 30th, 1900. {39a} Borrow is said to have expressed a desire to meet but three sentient beings: Dan O'Connell, Lamplighter (a racehorse), and Anna Gurney. He was introduced into the presence of the last-mentioned at Sheringham, but so far below the vision was the reality (as must appear) that he turned and ran without stopping till he came to the Old Tucker's Inn at Cromer (East Anglian tradition). {39b} Mary Clarke, widow, daughter of Edmund Skepper, was wedded to Borrow on April 23rd, 1840. Her daughter, Henrietta, is still living at a great age at Yarmouth. Borrow gives a characteristic account of these two ladies in the first chapter of _Wild Wales_. "Of my wife I will merely say that she is a perfect paragon of wives--can make puddings and sweets and treacle posset, and is the best woman of business in East Anglia: of my step-daughter, for such she is though I generally call her daughter, and with good reason seeing that she has always shown herself a daughter to me, that she has all kinds of good qualities and several accomplishments, knowing something of conchology, more of botany, drawing capitally in the Dutch style, and playing remarkably well on the guitar--not the trumpery German thing so-called, but the real Spanish guitar." Borrow's mother had died in August 1858. {40} This was written in December 1900. {43} There remains only the _Appendix_. A delightful resume of grievances brooded over in solitude, cruelly stigmatised by Professor Knapp as "certain posterior interpolations." The ground base of the theme is the wickedness of popery; and when argument gives out Borrow is ready with all the boyish inconsequence of a Charles Kingsley to throw up his cap and shout 'Go it, our side!' 'Down with the Pope!' {49} Borrow's personal appearance, as we know from the later portrait by his most intimate friend, Dr. Thomas Gordon Hake, must have been sufficiently striking at any period of his life. "His figure was tall and his bearing very noble. He had a finely moulded head and thick white hair--white from his youth; his brown eyes were soft, yet piercing; his mouth had a generous curve--his nose was somewhat of the Semitic type, which gave his face the cast of a young Memnon." This is confirmed by the assurance in _Lavengro_ that a famous heroic painter was extremely anxious to secure Don Jorge as a model for the face and figure of Pharaoh! {52} "I am not cunning. If people think I am it is because, being made up of art themselves, simplicity of character is a puzzle to them."--_Romany Rye_, chap. xi. {61} _Gypsy lad_. {62} _Blacksmith_. {63a} _Tell fortunes_. {63b} Hill Tower: _i.e_. Norwich. {63c} _Farewell_. {64} _Blacksmith_. {65a} _Smith_. {65b} The "Wayland Smith" referred to in _Kenilworth_. {67a} _Horse_. {67b} _Horseshoe_. {67c} _Striking_. {69a} _Horse_. {69b} _Knife_. {69c} _Hoof_. {69d} _Horseshoe nail_. {69e} _Great file_. {69f} _Tool box_. {71} _Poison_. {82} _Gipsy chap_. {84a} _Going to the village one day_. {84b} _Road my gypsy lass_. {86} Mort, _i.e_., woman, concubine, a cant term. {87} _Again_. {90a} _Old man_. {90b} _Wretch_, _hussy_. {91} An old word for knife, used by Urquhart and also by Burns. {93a} _Carcase_. {93b} _Knife_. {94a} _Donkey_. {94b} _Lad_. {106} The main characters in _Lavengro_ are three: the scholar (Borrow himself), the gypsy (Mr. Petulengro), and the priest, or popish propagandist. This last is the man in black. The word-master has in the course of his travels heard a good deal about this man, and he is able to identify him almost at once by his predilection for gin and water, cold, with a lump of sugar in it. He hears of him first from his London friend, Francis Ardry, then from an Armenian merchant whom he met in London, and then again from a brother-author, who describes a silly and intrusive Anglican parson, called Platitude, as a puppet in the hands of "the man in black." The latter he characterises as a sharking priest, who has come over from Italy to proselytize and plunder; he has "some powers of conversation and some learning, but he carries the countenance of an arch-villain; Platitude is evidently his tool." {107} When Borrow (Lavengro, that is), was in London, his friend Francis Ardry warned him against a certain papistical propagandist: "A strange fellow--a half Italian, half English priest . . . he is fond of a glass of gin and water--and over a glass of gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it, he has been more communicative, perhaps, than was altogether prudent. Were I my own master, I would kick him, politics and religious movements, to a considerable distance." {110} During his travels after his abandonment of Grub Street, "Lavengro" frequently came upon the traces of the man in black. While sojourning for one night with a hospitable though superstitious acquaintance, whom he met after leaving Salisbury, "Lavengro" heard the story of the Rev. Mr. Platitude, a sacerdotalist of weak intellects who had been cajoled from his lawful allegiance to the "good, quiet Church of England," by the wiles of a sharking priest come over from Italy to proselytize and to plunder. From what he then heard of the sharking priest, by putting two and two together, Lavengro was now able to identify him with the "man in black." Subsequently he heard of the efforts of the same clever dialectician to overcome the Methodist preacher Peter Williams--efforts which collapsed upon the appearance of the preacher's wife Winifred. "Wife, wife," muttered the disconcerted priest, "if the fool has a wife he will never do for us." In the course of his wanderings this nineteenth-century S. Augustine often gave himself out to be a teacher of elocution. {117} The man in black was completely mystified by the knowledge of his own past life which this remark revealed (see Chap. IX. _infra_.). There were, as have been seen, a variety of threads connecting the man in black with definite scenes in the memory of Lavengro, though the latter did not happen to have seen the "prowling priest" in the flesh before this occasion. While in London Lavengro frequently met a certain Armenian merchant, who much resented the pretensions of the Roman Papa: that he, the Papa, had more to say in heaven than the Armenian patriarch, and that the hillocks of Rome were higher than the ridges of Ararat. "The Papa of Rome," said the Armenian to Lavengro, "has at present many emissaries in this country, in order to seduce the people from their own quiet religion to the savage heresy of Rome; this fellow" (describing the man in black) "came to me partly in the hope of converting me, but principally to extort money for the purpose of furthering the designs of Rome in this country. I humoured the fellow at first, keeping him in play for nearly a month, deceiving and laughing at him. At last he discovered that he could make nothing of me, and departed with the scowl of Caiaphas, whilst I cried after him, 'The roots of Ararat are _deeper_ than those of Rome.'" This same Armenian subsequently offered Lavengro a desk in his office opposite his deaf Moldavian clerk, having surmised that he would make an excellent merchant because he squinted like a true Armenian. Unhappily for the Flaming Tinman and for Isopel Berners, the word-master refused this singular offer. {118} A passado at Belle's avowed weakness for that beverage. {125a} _A strange listens_. {125b} _Up yonder_. {153} The Catholic controversy was just at its height in 1825, and the Catholic Emancipation Bill received the Royal Assent in April 1829. {156} The doctrine of economy in a nutshell. {159} For Borrow's final verdict on Sir Walter Scott, it is only fair to cite his _Romano Lavo-Lil_, a book on the English Gypsy Language, corresponding to his book on the _Zincali_ or Spanish Gypsies, but published more than forty years later, namely in 1874. Here he relates how he once trudged to Dryburgh "to pay my respects at the tomb of Sir Walter Scott, a man with whose principles I have no sympathy, but for whose genius I have always entertained the most intense admiration." {218} The story of Mumbo Jumbo and the English servant in Rome is that narrated at great length by the postillion in the last chapter of _Lavengro_. {227} See the third Appendix to _Romany Rye_ on this subject of "Foreign Nonsense." For Wolseley's perversion see _Dict. Nat. Biog_., lxii., p. 323. {230} A blasphemous work by Albizzi. French version printed, Geneva, 1556. {237} His deeds were not those of lions, but of foxes. {238a} "Archibald Arbuthnot: Life, Adventures, and Vicissitudes of Simon [Fraser] Lord Lovat." London, 1746, 12mo. {238b} For later news of the red-haired Jack-priest and his dupe, Parson Platitude, see _Romany Rye_, chap. xxvii. {242} Plenty of gypsy lads; chals and chies, lads and lasses. {244a} _Modest_. {244b} _Gentlemen and ladies_. {244c} Drop it. {247} The Petulengres, a wandering clan of gypsies, led by Jasper Petulengro and his wife Pakomovna are introduced to us in _Lavengro_ (chaps, v. and liv.). The etymology is thus explained by Borrow. "Petulengro: A compound of the modern Greek [Greek text] and the Sanscrit _kara_; the literal meaning being lord of the horse-shoe (_i.e_. maker), it is one of the private cognominations of 'the Smiths,' an English gypsy clan." Engro is apparently akin to the English suffix monger, and with it may be compared the Anglo-Saxon suffix smith, in such words as lore- smith or war-smith (warrior). Thus we have sapengro, lavengro, and sherengro, head man. Of the gypsy tribes in England, Borrow in his _Zincali_ (ed. 1846, Introd.) has the following: "The principal gypsy tribes at present in existence are the Stanleys, whose grand haunt is the New Forest; the Lovells, who are fond of London and its vicinity: the Coopers, who call Windsor Castle their home; the Hernes, to whom the north country, more especially Yorkshire, belongeth; and lastly my brethren the Smiths, to whom East Anglia appears to have been allotted from the beginning. All these families have gypsy names, which seem, however, to be little more than attempts at translation of the English ones. Thus the Stanleys are called Bar-engres, which means stony fellows, the Coopers, Wardo-engres or wheelwrights, the Lovells, Camo- mescres, or amorous fellows, the Hernes (German Haaren), Balors, hairs, or hairy fellows, while the Smiths are called Petulengres, that is, horseshoe-fellows, or blacksmiths. Besides the above-named gypsy clans, there are other smaller ones, some of which do not comprise more than a dozen individuals, children included. For example, the Bosviles, the Browns, the Chilcotts, the Grays, Lees, Taylors and Whites; of these the principal is the Bosvile tribe." {249a} There's a witch and a wizard and their name is Petulengro. {249b} _Tent_. {256} This refers to a notorious match between a lion and six mastiffs, arranged by George Wombwell at Warwick, in July 1825. The fight was that between George Cooper and Ned Baldwin, 5 July, 1825. {257} Peel's Metropolitan Police, constituted 1829. {265} Said the gypsy lass to her mother-- 'My dear mother, I am with child.' 'And what kind of a man made you with child, My own daughter, my gypsy lass?' 'O my mother, a great gentleman, A rich gentleman, a stranger to our race, Who rides upon a fine stallion, 'Twas he that made me thus with child.' 'Vile little harlot that you are, Be off, good-bye, you leave my tent! Had a Romany lad got thee with child, Then I had said to thee, poor lass! But thou art just a vile harlot By a stranger man to be with child.' {266} _Pig-poisoning_. {269a} _Honeycomb_. {269b} _Tell their fortunes_. {272} _King_. {274} See Introduction, p. 10. {275} The church of Willenhall, Staffordshire, near Mumpers' Dingle, is, perhaps, intended. The hymn was originally Cennick's, but the verse in question Charles Wesley's. The old tune Helmsley (not St. Thomas) was a favourite of Queen Victoria. {277} Chieftain. {286} Dukkerin, fortune-telling: duk or dook, ghost. {288} See Introduction, p. 9. {289} The Shakespearean meaning was hysterical passion. See _Lear_, II., iv. 52: "O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!" The word remained fairly common during the seventeenth century. Mary Rich, Countess of Warwick, in her Diary (1667) speaks of herself as suffering from "a fit of the spleen and mother together." {290} _Stranger men_. {291} Ursula is evidently intended by Borrow to typify the gypsy chi. And the key to the type is supplied in the _Gypsies in Spain_ (see especially chap. vii.). The gypsies, says Borrow, arc almost entirely ignorant of the grand points of morality; but on one point they are in general wiser than those who have had far better opportunities than such unfortunate outcasts of regulating their steps and distinguishing good from evil. They know that chastity is a jewel of high price, and that conjugal fidelity is capable of occasionally flinging a sunshine even over the dreary hours of a life passed in the contempt of almost all laws, whether human or divine. There is a word in the gypsy language to which those who speak it attach ideas of peculiar reverence, far superior to that connected with the name of the Supreme Being, the creator of themselves and the universe. This word is _Lacha_, which with them is the corporeal chastity of the females; we say corporeal chastity, for no other do they hold in the slightest esteem; it is lawful among them, nay praiseworthy, to be obscene in look, gesture and discourse, to be accessories to vice, and to stand by and laugh at the worst abominations of the Busne (gorgios, or gentiles) provided their _Lacha ye trupos_, or corporeal chastity, remains unblemished. The gypsy child, from her earliest years, is told by her strange mother that a good Calli need only dread one thing in this world, and that is the loss of her _Lacha_, in comparison with which that of life is of little consequence, as in such an event she will be provided for, but what provision is there for a gypsy who has lost her _Lacha_. "Bear this in mind, my child," she will say, "and now eat this bread and go forth and see what you can steal." The Romany, in a word, is the sect of the Husbands (and Wives) and their first precept is this: Be faithful to the _Roms_ (husbands) and take not up with the gorgios, whether they be raior (gentlemen) or baior (fellows). {293} _Godly book_. {295a} Chore, to steal. {295b} Hokkawar, to cheat. {295c} Lubbeny, the whore. {296} _God_. {298} Choomer, a kiss. {299a} _Uncle_. {299b} _Father_. {301} Batu, father; coko, uncle. {302a} _Law_. {302b} _With child_. {303} Tan, tent. {305} _Tent_. {306} Old Fulcher was an amateur in the meanest kinds of petty larceny whose deplorable end is described in chapter xli. of the _Romany Rye_. {307} The boxer who lost the fight near the Castle Hill (Norwich). {312} Poknees, magistrate. {318} _Steal_. {326} See Introduction, p. 9. This is the book the MS. of which Lavengro sold for 20 pounds, and upon the proceeds of which he started upon the ramble which led him to the dingle. The _Life of Joseph Sell_ is not known to Bibliography; but the incident is nevertheless probably drawn from Borrow's own career. {330} "Good." {337} The next time the compassionate word-master visited the landlord, he found him a 'down pin' no longer, but the centre of an adulatory crowd. The way in which he surmounted the sea of troubles that beset him is described with much humour in _The Romany Rye_ (chap. xvii). The main factors in his relief were (1) Strong ale, taken by the advice of Lavengro, which leads to Catchpole knocking down the radical, Hunter, and winning back the admiration of the tap-room, (2) a loan from the parson of Willenhall, who wished to save a muscular fellow-Protestant from the clutches of the man in black. The brewer now became very civil, a coach was appointed to stop at the inn, and, in short, Catchpole is left by Lavengro riding upon the summit of the wave of popularity and good fortune. {343} Jacobus Villotte, his _Dictionarium Latino-Armenium_, Rome, 1714. {348} And this, alas! is the last glimpse we are to have of Isopel Berners, a heroine whose like we shall scarce encounter again in the whole wide world of romance. Charles Kingsley says of her, indeed, that she is far too good not to be true. The likeness is undoubtedly a masterpiece, yet, though Borrow has drawn the outline firmly, he leaves much for the imagination to fill in. Languid indeed must be the imagination that can fail to be stimulated by Borrow's outline of his Brynhilda. Cast in the mould of Britannia, queen, however, not of the waves but of the woodland, poor yet noble, and innocent of every mean ambition of gentility, faithful, valiant, and proud,--as she stands pale and commanding, in the sunshine at the dingle's mouth, in all her virginal dignity, is she not a figure worthy to rank with the queens of Beauty and Romance, with Dido "with a willow in her hand," with the deeply-loving Rebecca as with a calm and tender dignity she bids for ever adieu to the land of Wilfred of Ivanhoe? {361} After the receipt of this letter three nights elapsed, and then the word-master himself left the dingle for the last time. The third night he spent alone in his encampment "in a very melancholy manner, with little or no sleep, thinking of Isopel Berners; and in the morning when I quitted the place, I shed several tears, as I reflected that I should probably never again see the spot where I had passed so many hours in her company." 
34749	----	Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON TRACK AND FIELD [Illustration: BOBBY WON BY A CLEAN TWO YARDS] THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON TRACK AND FIELD OR THE CHAMPIONS OF THE SCHOOL LEAGUE by GERTRUDE W. MORRISON Author of The Girls of Central High, The Girls of Central High on Lake Luna, etc. ILLUSTRATED THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. AKRON, OHIO -- NEW YORK MADE IN U. S. A. Copyright, 1914 by GROSSET & DUNLAP Table of Contents - CHAPTER I--THE GIRL ON THE STONE FENCE - CHAPTER II--HIDE AND SEEK - CHAPTER III--THE GYPSY CAMP - CHAPTER IV--THE GYPSY QUEEN - CHAPTER V--THE SITUATION LOOKS SERIOUS - CHAPTER VI--PRESSING HOSPITALITY - CHAPTER VII--THE YELLOW KERCHIEF AGAIN - CHAPTER VIII--THE GIRL IN THE STORM - CHAPTER IX--THE GYPSIES AGAIN - CHAPTER X--EVE'S ADVENTURE - CHAPTER XI--BOBBY IS INTERESTED - CHAPTER XII--THE RACES - CHAPTER XIII--WHAT MARGIT SAID - CHAPTER XIV--ANOTHER FLITTING - CHAPTER XV--ANOTHER RIVALRY ON THE FIELD - CHAPTER XVI--FIVE IN A TOWER - CHAPTER XVII--EVE TAKES A RISK - CHAPTER XVIII--THE CONSCIENCE OF PRETTYMAN SWEET - CHAPTER XIX--MARGIT AND MISS CARRINGTON MEET - CHAPTER XX--INTER-CLASS RIVALRY - CHAPTER XXI--MARGIT'S MYSTERY - CHAPTER XXII--LOU POTTER SCORES ONE - CHAPTER XXIII--THE FIELD DAY - CHAPTER XXIV--MARGIT PAYS A DEBT - CHAPTER XXV--THE WINNING POINTS CHAPTER I--THE GIRL ON THE STONE FENCE The roads were muddy, but the uplands and the winding sheep-paths across them had dried out under the caressing rays of the Spring sun and, with the budding things of so many delicate shades of green, the groves and pastures--all nature, indeed--were garbed in loveliness. The group of girls had toiled up the ascent to an overhanging rock on the summit of a long ridge. Below--in view from this spot for some rods--wound the brown ribbon of road which they had been following until the upland paths invited their feet to firmer tread. There were seven of the girls and every one of the seven--in her way--was attractive. But the briskest, and most eager, and most energetic, was really the smaller--a black-eyed, be-curled, laughing miss who seemed bubbling over with high spirits. "Sit down--do, Bobby! It makes me simply _ache_ to see you flitting around like a robin. And I'm tired to death!" begged one girl, who had dropped in weariness on the huge, gray rock. "How can you expect to dance half the night, Jess Morse, and then start off on a regular walking 'tower?'" demanded the girl addressed. "_I_ didn't go to Mabel Boyd's party last night. As Gee Gee says, 'I conserved my energies.'" "I don't believe anything ever tires you, Bobs," said the girl who sat next to Jess--a vigorous, good looking maid with a very direct gaze, who was attractively gowned in a brown walking dress. "You are next door to perpetual motion." "How'd you know who I was next door to?" laughed Clara Hargrew, whom her friends insisted on calling "Bobby" because her father, Tom Hargrew, had nicknamed her that when she was little, desiring a boy in the family when only girls had been vouchsafed to him. "And it is a fact that that French family who have moved into the little house next us are just as lively as fleas. They could be called 'perpetual motion,' all right. "And oh, say!" cried the lively Bobby, "we had the greatest joke the other night on Lil Pendleton. You know, she thinks she's some French scholar--and she _does_ speak high school French pretty glibly----" "How's that, young lady?" interposed the girl in brown. "Put away your hammer. Do you _dare_ knock anything taught in Central High?" "That's all right, Mother Wit," drawled Bobby Hargrew. "But any brand of French that one learns out of a book is bound to sound queer in the ears of the Parisian born--believe me! And these Sourat people are the real thing." "But what about Lily Pendleton?" demanded one of the two girls who were dressed exactly alike and looked so much alike that one might have been the mirrored reflection of the other. "Why," replied Bobby, thus urged by one of the Lockwood twins, "Lil had some of us over to her house the other evening, and she is forever getting new people around her--like her mother, you know. Mrs. Pendleton has the very _queerest_ folk to some of her afternoons-long-haired pianists, and long-haired Anarchists, and once she had a short-haired pugilist--only he was reformed, I believe, and called himself a physical instructor, or a piano-mover, or something----" "Stop, stop!" cried Jess Morse, making a grab at Bobby. "You're running on like Tennyson's brook. You're a born gossip." "You're another! Don't you want to hear about these Sourats?" "I don't think any of us will hear the end of your story if you don't stick to the text a little better, Bobby," remarked a quiet, graceful girl, who stood upright, gazing off over the hillside and wooded valley below, to the misty outlines of the city so far away. "Then keep 'em still, will you, Nell?" demanded Bobby, of the last speaker. "Listen: The Sourats were invited with the rest of us over to Lily's, and Lil sang us some songs in American French. Afterward I heard Hester Grimes ask the young man, Andrea Sourat, if the songs did not make him homesick, and with his very politest bow, he said: "'No, Mademoiselle! Only seek.' "I don't suppose the poor fellow knew how it sounded in English, but it certainly was an awful slap at Lil," giggled Bobby. "Well, I wish they wouldn't give us languages at High," sighed Nellie Agnew, Dr. Arthur Agnew's daughter, when the laugh had subsided, and still looking off over the prospect. "I know my German is dreadful." "Let's petition to do away with Latin and Greek, too," suggested Bobby, who was always deficient in those studies. "'Dead languages'--what's the good of 'em if they are deceased, anyway? I've got a good mind to ask Old Dimple a question next time." "What's the question, Bobby?" asked Jess, lazily. "Why, if they're 'dead languages,' who killed 'em? He ought to have a monument, whoever he was--and if he'd only buried them good and deep he might have had _two_ monuments." "If you gave a little more time to studying books and less time to studying mischief----" began the girl in brown, when suddenly Nellie startled them all by exclaiming: "Look there! See that girl down there? What do you suppose she is doing?" Some of them jumped up to look over the edge of the rock on which they rested; but Jess Morse refused to be aroused. "What's the girl doing?" she drawled. "It's got to be something awfully funny to get me on my feet again----" "Hush!" commanded the girl in brown. "Can she hear us, 'way down there, Laura Belding?" asked Nellie Agnew, anxiously. "See here! Something's chasing her--eh?" The girl who had attracted their attention was quite unknown to any of the walking party. And she was, at first sight, an odd-looking person. She wore no hat, and her black hair streamed behind her in a wild tangle as she ran along the muddy road. She had a vivid yellow handkerchief tied loosely about her throat, and her skirt was green--a combination of colors bound to attract attention at a distance. When the girls first saw this fugitive--for such she seemed to be--she was running from the thick covert of pine and spruce which masked the road to the west, and now she leaped upon the stone fence which bordered the upper edge of the highway as far as the spectators above could trace its course. The stone wall was old, and broken in places. It must have offered very insecure footing; but the oddly dressed girl ran along it with the confidence of a chipmunk. "Did you ever see anything like that?" gasped Bobby. "I'd like to have her balance." "And her feet!" agreed Jess, struggling to her knees the better to see the running girl. "She's bound to fall!" gasped Nellie. "Not she!" said Eve Sitz, the largest and quietest girl of the group. "Those Gypsies run like dogs and are just as sure-footed as--as chamois," added the Swiss girl, harking back to a childhood memory of her own mountainous country. "A Gypsy!" asked Bobby, in a hushed voice. "You don't mean it?" "She's dressed like one," said Eve. "And see how brown she is," added Laura Belding, otherwise "Mother Wit." "There! she almost fell," gasped one of the twins who stood now, with arms entwined, looking at the flying girl with nervous expectancy. It did not seem as though she could run the length of the stone fence without coming to grief. But it was a quick journey. With a flying leap the girl in the green skirt and yellow scarf disappeared in a clump of brush which masked the wall at its easterly end, just where the road dipped toward the noisy brook which curved around that shoulder of the ridge and, later, fell over a ledge into a broad pool--the murmur of the cascade being faintly audible to the spectators on the summit of the ridge. "She's gone!" spoke Bobby, finally, breaking the silence. "But who's that coming after her?" demanded Nellie, looking back toward the West. "There! down in the shadow of the trees. Isn't that a figure moving, too?" CHAPTER II--HIDE AND SEEK "It's a man!" Dora Lockwood said it so tragically that Bobby was highly amused. "My goodness me!" she chortled. "You said that with all the horrified emphasis of a spinster lady." "It _is_ a man--isn't it?" whispered the other twin. "I--I guess so," Laura Belding said, slowly. "It is," declared Jess. "And he's a tough looking character." "And he is acting quite as oddly as the girl did," remarked Bobby. "What do you suppose it means?" "He's a Gypsy, too, I believe," put in Eve Sitz, suddenly. "Say! this is getting melodramatic," laughed Laura Belding. "Just like 'The Gypsy's Warning,' or something quite as hair-raising, eh?" agreed Bobby. "There! he's coming out," gasped Jess. The man appeared for half a minute in the clearer space of the open road. He was staring all about, up and down the road, along the edge of the woods, and even into the air. The seven girls were behind the fringe of bushes that edged the huge rock, and he could not see them. "What an evil-faced fellow he is!" whispered Dora Lockwood. "And see the big gold rings in his ears," added her twin, Dorothy. "Do you suppose he is really after that girl?" observed Laura, thoughtfully. "Whether he is, or not, it's none of our business, I suppose," returned Jess, who was Mother Wit's closest chum. "I'm not so sure of that." "My goodness! if they're Gypsies, we don't want to have anything to do with them," exclaimed Dorothy. "Oh, the Romany people aren't so bad," said Eve Sitz, easily. "They have customs of their own, and live a different life from we folk----" "Or 'us folk?'" suggested Nellie, smiling. "From other folk, anyway!" returned the big girl, cheerfully. "They come through this section every Spring--and sometimes later in the year, too. We have often had them at the house," she added, for Eve's father had a large farm, and from that farm the seven girls had started on this long walk early in the morning. It was the Easter vacation at Central High and these friends were all members of the junior class. Centerport, the spires and tall buildings of which they could now see in the distance, was a wealthy and lively city of some hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, situated on the southern shore of Lake Luna, a body of water of considerable size. At either end of the lake was another large town--namely Lumberport and Keyport. In each of these latter cities was a well conducted high school, and in Centerport there were three--the East and West Highs, and Central High, the newest and largest. For a year now the girls of all these five high schools had been deeply interested in athletics, including the games usually played upon the Girls' Branch Athletic League grounds--canoeing, rowing, ski running, and lastly, but not least in value according to the estimation of their instructors, walking. Usually the physical instructor of Central High, Mrs. Case, accompanied her pupils on their walking tours; but this vacation the seven friends who now stood upon the summit of this big, gray rock, had determined to indulge in a long walk by themselves, and they had come over to Eve Sitz's house the night before so as to get an early start on the mountain road to Fielding, twenty miles away. From that place they would take the train back to Centerport, and Eve was to remain all night with Laura at the Belding home. These girls, although of strongly marked and contrasting characters, were intimate friends. They had been enthusiastic members of the girls' athletic association from its establishment; and they had, individually and together, taken an important part in the athletic activities of Central High. For instance, in the first volume of this series, entitled, "The Girls of Central High; Or, Rivals for All Honors," Laura Belding was able to interest one of the wealthiest men of Centerport, Colonel Richard Swayne, in the girls' athletic association, then newly formed, so that he gave a large sum of money toward a proper athletic field and gymnasium building for their sole use. In "The Girls of Central High on Lake Luna; Or, the Crew That Won," the second story of the series, the girls were mainly centering their attention upon aquatic sports; and the Lockwood twins--Dora and Dorothy--were particularly active in this branch of athletics. They won honorable mention if not the prize in the canoe event, and were likewise members of the Central High girls' crew that won the cup in the contest of eight-oared shells. The third volume of the series, named "The Girls of Central High at Basketball; Or, The Great Gymnasium Mystery," particularly related the fortunes of the representative basketball team of Central High, and of which each girl now gathered here on the ridge was a member. Not long previous to this day in the Spring vacation when the seven were tramping toward Fielding, Jess Morse had made a great hit with her school friends and instructors, as well. She had written a play, which was performed by members of the girls' secret society of the school and some of their boy friends, and so good was it that it not only won a prize of two hundred dollars for which many of the girls of Central High had competed, but it attracted the attention of a professional theatrical producer, who had made a contract with Mrs. Morse, Jess's mother, for the use of the play in a revised form upon the professional stage. The details of all this are to be found in the fourth volume of the series, entitled, "The Girls of Central High on the Stage; Or, The Play That Took the Prize." "There! the fellow's going back," said Jess Morse, suddenly calling attention to the dark man on the road below. "If he was after the girl he has given up the chase. I am glad of that," added her chum. "But where did the girl go?" demanded Bobby Hargrew, craning her neck to peer toward the bushes on the easterly side of the rock. "There she is!" ejaculated Dora Lockwood, grabbing Bobby by the arm. She pointed down the side of the ridge, where the rough pasture land dropped to the verge of the brook. The other girls came running and gazed in the direction she pointed out. The green skirt and the yellow scarf appeared. The girl was wading in the stream, and she passed swiftly along, seen by the spectators at every opening in the fringe of trees and brush that bordered the brook. "In the water at this time of the year!" gasped Jess. "And in her shoes and stockings! She wouldn't have had time to stop to take them off and get so far up stream," declared Bobby, almost dancing up and down in her eagerness. "What do you suppose it means?" cried Nellie. "She is running away from the man, I guess," admitted Laura, slowly. "And trying to hide her trail," added Eve. "Hide her trail! Is this the Indian country? Are the Gypsies savages?" demanded Nellie. "Has she got to run along the top of a stone fence and then take to a running stream to throw off pursuit?" "That is her hope, I expect," Laura said. "But _why?_" cried Bobby. "You can't tell me that even Gypsies are as keen on a trail as all that----" "Hark!" commanded Laura. "Listen." "It's dogs," spoke Bobby, in a moment. "O--o--o--o! sounds like a wolf," shuddered Dora. "It is worse," said Eve Sitz, her face flushing. "That is the bay of a bloodhound. I remember that we saw one of the great, lop-eared animals in leash when that party of Romanys went past our place last week." "You don't mean that, Eve?" Jess cried. "A bloodhound?" "And they have put him on the trail of that girl--sure as you live!" declared the farmer's daughter, with decision. CHAPTER III--THE GYPSY CAMP "Why! I think this is outrageous," said Nellie Agnew. "We ought to find a constable and have such a thing stopped. Think of chasing that poor girl with a mad dog----" "I guess he isn't mad," ventured Eve, soberly. Bobby laughed. "Even if he's only vexed I wouldn't want a bloodhound tearing after me over these hills." "You know what I mean," persisted Nellie, still wrathfully. "It is a desperate shame! The dog will hurt her----" "No, no!" said Eve. "It is trained. And the man has it in leash----" "Hush! here they are!" warned Laura, and the girls hid themselves behind the fringe of bushes. The dog gave tongue just as it came in sight, and the sound sent a shiver over the watchers. The baying of a bloodhound is a very terrifying sound indeed. With the dogs were three men--one of them the same the girls of Central High had seen before. The other two were fully as rough-looking. "I hope they don't find her!" exclaimed Bobby. "They'll find you if you don't keep still," warned Jess. But it appeared to the girls that the Gypsies were having considerable difficulty in following the trail of the girl who had fled along the top of the old stone wall. The dog searched from side to side of the road. He leaped the wall, dragging one of the men after him, and ran about the lower field. That she had traversed the stone fence, like a fox, never seemed to enter the men's minds, nor the dog's either. For some time the party of hunters were in sight; but finally they went off in an easterly direction along the road, passing over the brook in which the strange girl had left her "water trail," and the girls of Central High believed that the fugitive was safe--for the time being, at least. "I wish we knew where she was going," said Nellie. "I'd help her, for one." "Me, too," agreed Bobby Hargrew. "If she should get as far as our house, mother would take her in," said Eve, in her placid way. "But the Romany folk are peculiar people, and they have laws of their own and do not like to be brought under those of other countries." "Why, they're just tramps, aren't they? Sort of sublimated tramps, perhaps," said Jess. "Not the real Gypsies," said Laura. "They are very jealous, I have read, of their customs, their laws, and their language. They claim descent in direct line from early Egyptian times. The name of Stanley alone, which is common with them, dates back to William the Conqueror." "Well, come on!" sighed Jess. "We don't care anything about the Gypsies, and we can't help that girl--just now. If we tried to follow her up stream we would only give those men the idea of the direction in which we went. Let's get on, or we'll never get to Fielding." "All right," agreed Laura. "Forward, march!" sang out Bobby. "How's the way, Eve? Right down this hill?" "Keep parallel with the road. We'll strike another path later," said the Swiss girl, who had rambled all over these hills with her brother. "Oh, these shoes!" groaned Jess. "I told you so," exclaimed Laura. "Bah! what good does it do to repeat _that?_" snapped her chum. "I hate those old mud-scows of mine that Mrs. Case makes me wear when she goes walking with us." "Well, you certainly wore a fine pair to-day," scoffed Bobby. "I guess it doesn't do to do what Mrs. Case advises against." "Not if we want to make points for Central High," said Laura, laughing. "That's so! Where would Jess be to-day if this was a regular scheduled walk, to count for our school in June?" cried Dora. "Now, rub it in! rub it in!" exclaimed Jess. "Don't you suppose I know I've been a chump without you all telling me so?" "I do believe it will rain," burst out Dorothy, suddenly. "Doesn't that look like a rain-cloud to you, Laura?" "Pooh!" said Eve. "Don't be afraid of a little April shower. It won't drown us, that's sure." "That's all right," agreed Dora, the other twin. "But we don't want to get soaked. If it should start to rain, is there any shelter near?" "The Gypsy camp, maybe," laughed Bobby, and then went on ahead, singing: "'April showers bring May flowers And sometimes more than that; For the unexpected downpour Often ruins the Easter hat.' "Say, girls, we _would_ be in a mess if it should start to rain hard." "And that cloud looks threatening," admitted Nellie Agnew. "I believe I felt a drop then," gasped Dora. "What's the matter, Chicken Little?" laughed Laura. "Is the sky falling?" "You can laugh! Maybe it will be a regular flood," said Jess, ruefully. "By the way, what caused the flood?" asked Bobby, soberly. "Folks were so wicked--all but Noah," replied Dora. "No," said Bobby. "It's one of Bobby's 'burns,'" declared Jess. "What _did_ cause the flood, then?" "It rained," said the irrepressible one. "Come on under this tree, girls!" cried Eve, striding ahead down the hill. "It will only be a passing shower." They ran for cover, and the broad branching limbs of the huge cedar Eve had selected faithfully covered them as the brief spring shower went drumming by. Meanwhile Laura was saying, more thoughtfully: "We've got to give our best attention to the inter-class and inter-school athletics when school opens again, girls, if we want Central High to stand first at the end of the year. You know we are being beaten right along by the East High and Keyport Just think! Central High only Number 3 in points that count when the June field day comes. We can't stand for that, can we?" "I should say not!" cried Bobby. "But we beat 'em last year on the water." "And we stand first in basketball," added Dora Lockwood. "But the fact remains we haven't got the championship of the League cinched by any manner of means," returned Laura. "Eve is going to win, I believe, in the shot-putting contests. Mrs. Case says that is on the doubtful list of girls' athletics. But throwing weights isn't going to hurt Eve, or Hester Grimes, that's sure. And look at that girl at Vassar! She put the shot thirty-two feet and three-quarters of an inch when she was only sixteen. Eve can do almost as well." "I don't know about that, Mother Wit," said the big girl, laughing. "But I'll do my best." "And your best will beat them all, I believe." "She'll beat Magdeline Spink, of Lumberport, I know," cried Bobby. "And _she_ did all the big 'throws' last year--baseball, basketball, putting the shot, and all of 'em." "I hope you are right, Bobby," returned the country girl, smiling. She was proud of her strength and physique. Her outdoor life since she was a little child, and what she had inherited from a long line of peasant ancestors was coming into play now for the benefit of Central High's athletic score. "Now, don't sit down there on the damp ground, Jess. You'll get a case of rheumatism--and a bad case, too." "Oh, I hope not!" cried Jess, jumping up. "I shouldn't know what to do for it." "You'd have to take mud baths," giggled Dorothy. "That road below is in fine shape for that purpose, then," said Jess, looking through the pouring rain at the puddles in the roadway. "You'd have to wear flannels," said Dora. "Hah!" cried Bobby. "That's it. Flannels are a sure cure. You know, "'Although it caused within his home A very serious schism, He still insisted flannel-cakes Were good for rheumatism.'" "Go on!" exclaimed Jess, laughing. "You sound like 'Alice in Wonderland.'" "Say, rather, 'Bobby in Blunderland,'" added Laura. "But to get back to athletics----" "'To return to our muttons,'" quoth Bobby, unrepressed. "We have a chance to win the championship--our school has--if we can bring the relay teams up to the mark, and win the jumping events. It is on field and track that we have got to gain the points. No doubt of that." "Then our track teams need strengthening--much," said Nellie Agnew, thoughtfully. "I should say so!" exclaimed Bobby. "I could put on one of Lil Pendleton's peg-top skirts and beat most of the junior runners right now!" "If it's as bad as that, we have all got to go into the track athletics, and pull up our score," declared Laura. "Hurrah!" cried Dorothy, suddenly. "It's stopped raining." "That little shower didn't even wet under the bushes," said Eve, with satisfaction. "Let's get along, then, before another comes and washes us away," said Bobby. "Straight ahead, Evangeline?" "Yes. Right down to that dead oak you see on the lower hillside." "Good! A mark is set before me, and if my luck holds good I'll reach it. But why prate of 'luck'? Is there such a thing?" "Give it up. What's the answer?" asked Dora Lockwood, directly behind her. "Luck is a foolish thing--or a belief in it is," complained Bobby. "List to my tale of woe: "Why wear a rabbit foot for luck Or nail a horseshoe on the sill? For if upon the ice you slip You'll surely get a spill. "Why cross your fingers in the dark To keep the witches from your track, When if, in getting out of bed, You step upon a tack?" "Don't sing us any more doggerel, but lead on!" commanded Laura. Bobby was first at the dead tree. There she stopped, not for breath, but because, below her, in a sheltered hollow, where a spring drifted away across a grassy lawn, there was an encampment. She held up her hand and motioned for silence. There were three large, covered wagons such is Gypsies usually drive. A dozen horses were tethered where the young grass was particularly lush. A fire over which a big kettle of some savory stew bubbled, burned in the midst of the encampment. There were two gaudily painted canvas tents staked on the green, too, although from the opened doors of the wagons it was evident that the Gypsies, at this time of year, mainly lived within their vehicles. "Oh!" exclaimed Bobby, when the other girls were crowding about her, and looking as hard as she was at the camp. "This is what the girl we saw, ran away from." CHAPTER IV--THE GYPSY QUEEN "Isn't that romantic?" cried Jess, under her breath. "Wouldn't you like to live in the open like that, Laura?" "Sometimes. Then again I might want a steam-heated house," laughed Mother Wit. "And see that darling little baby!" gasped Nellie Agnew, as a little fellow in gay apparel ran out of one of the tents. A young woman followed him. She had black hair, and very black eyes, and wore a necklace, and earrings, and bracelets galore. When she ran after the crowing little one the tinkling of these ornaments was audible to the group of girls on the hillside. This gaily dressed woman caught up the laughing child, and as she turned her gaze went over his head and struck full upon the seven girls. She set the little boy down quietly, said something to him, and he ran to cover like a frightened chicken. She spoke another word--aloud--and two men and three other women appeared from the wagons, or tents. They all gazed up at the half-frightened girls. "Come down, pretty young ladies," said the gaily bedecked Gypsy woman, in a wheedling tone. "We will not harm you. If you cross our palms with silver we may be able to tell you something pleasant." She spoke English well enough; but her address mainly was a formula used; to attract trade. "What'll we do?" gasped Dorothy Lockwood, clinging to her twin's hand. "Keep your courage, Dorry," said her sister. "Don't let them see we're afraid of them," Nellie advised, but in a shaking voice. "And why should we be afraid?" asked Laura, quite calmly. "Oh, I've seen that woman before," said Eve. "She's one of the Vareys. They are English Gypsies, like the Stanleys. She was at our place last summer." She started down the steep hillside into the camp. The first Gypsy woman said something in the Romany dialect to the others, and the men drifted away, only the woman awaiting the coming of the girls of Central High. As the seven friends approached they saw that the Varey woman was very handsome, in her bold, dark way. Silver ornaments were entwined in her coarse, blue-black hair; her dress, though garish in color, was neat and of rich material. The bangle, bracelets, necklace and all were either of silver or gold--no sham about them, as Laura Belding very well knew, her father being a jeweler and she knowing something about good jewelry. "She's queen of the tribe," whispered Eve to Laura. "And her husband, Jim Varey, is leader of this clan. He is a horse trader, and sells oilcloth and tinware, while the women sell baskets, and the like, and pick up a quarter now and then telling fortunes." "Oh, Eve!" whispered Jess, behind, "did you ever have your fortune told?" "Yes. It's silly," replied Eve, flushing. "It would be lots of fun," said Bobby, quite as eager as Jess. "Let's all do it," urged Nellie. "If we give them a little money they probably will not molest us." "They wouldn't dare trouble us, anyway," said Eve. "And why should they?" But the other girls, who were not so well acquainted with the Romany people, felt that the adventure in the Gypsy camp promised much excitement. In a minute they were all on the greensward in front of the tent of the Gypsy queen. "Cross the poor Gypsy's palm with silver," whined Grace Varey, in a wheedling tone, "and each of you shall learn what the future has in store for you." "Suppose you can't tell us anything pleasant?" said Bobby Hargrew, boldly. "Then we'd rather not know it." "But such pretty little ladies are bound to have pretty fortunes," replied the Romany woman. "Come! for a shilling--two shillings, in your American money--I will tell you each what you want to know most." "You will?" "Yes, indeed, for but two shillings in your American money." "She means a quarter," said Eve. "You try it first, Mother Wit," urged Nellie, nudging Laura. At the words Grace Varey looked sharply at Laura Belding's earnest face and thoughtful gray eyes. Instantly she said: "You do not fear. You lead these others. You have a quick mind and you invent things. You are usually first in everything; but power does not spoil you. You win love as well as admiration--there is a difference. You have parents and at least one brother. You have no sister. There is a----" She shut her eyes for a moment, and hesitated. "There is a black person--a woman--who has something to do with you----" "Beware of the 'black man coming with a bundle,'" hissed Bobby, giggling. "Hush!" exclaimed Jess. "She means Mammy Jinny, Laura's old nurse." Grace Varey had turned swiftly to the scoffing Bobby, and she pointed at her with an accusing finger. "You do not believe," she said, quickly. "You are light and thoughtless. You have been spoiled by a doting father. You have no mother--poor child! You are very frivolous and light-hearted; but a great sorrow is coming into your life soon. Into your school life, I believe. It is connected with one of your teachers--a woman. Beware!" Now, this was very melodramatic; but Bobby, for some reason, could not laugh at it. The woman was too much in earnest. Suddenly Grace Varey's manner changed, and she whined: "Cross the poor Gypsy's palm with silver, and she will tell you more. Only two shillings, little lady," and she urged Laura toward the tent. "All right," said Mother Wit. "If the rest of you are game, I am. But don't back out afterward." "Not if she is genuine," said Jess, laughing. Bobby hadn't a word to say; for the moment she was quelled. But all that the woman had said could be easily explained by the science of deduction--which is merely observation raised to the _nth_ power. Mother Wit went into the tent and found it a rather gloomy place. There was a folding table and two divans, besides some dingy hangings. It was evidently arranged for the purpose of fortune telling and nothing else. "Sit down, lady," said the Gypsy queen. "Let me see your hand. Do you believe in the reading of character by the lines of the hand?" "I do not know whether I do or not," replied Laura, calmly. The woman laughed lightly. She peered at the lines of Laura's palm for a moment, and then said: "You believe nothing without investigation. For so young a person you are very cautious, and you have much good sense. You are sharp and intelligent. And you are gentle-hearted. In short, your friends love you very dearly, and you are very faithful to them. Is it not so?" "You flatter me," said Laura, quietly. She noted that the woman was no longer holding her hand by the fingers; that she had shifted her own hand to Laura's wrist, and that two of the queen's fingers were resting lightly on her pulse--just as Dr. Agnew held a patient's hand when he counted the throbbing of his heart. "Oh, I know," went on the Gypsy, in her whining, sing-song way. "You would be faithful in every event. If you had a secret you could keep it--surely. For instance," she added, without changing her tone or raising her voice, "if you had seen the girl with the yellow handkerchief and green skirt, and the little, puckered blue scar high up--near the right temple--you would not tell where she was--which direction she had gone." _That_ was why the woman was feeling her pulse! Laura knew her heart jumped at the question. She might control her features; but the woman's question had startled her, and that sudden heart-throb had told the shrewd queen what she wished to know. She smiled lazily, in the dim light, upon the girl before her. She knew that Laura Belding and her friends had seen the fugitive from the Gypsy camp. CHAPTER V--THE SITUATION LOOKS SERIOUS Laura Belding was as quick to think as she was to act. She remained perfectly calm after the woman's question--calm outwardly, at least. Now she spoke: "You have spoken a very true thing now. If I had seen such a girl I should not tell you. And this has nothing to do with my own fortune. I have paid you to tell me something about my future--which you seem to know so well." This spurring phrase put the woman on her mettle. She flushed slowly under her dark skin. "You are a heretic--you do not believe," she said. "I must be shown before I believe," returned Laura, confidently. "Then what comes to you in the future will only prove the case," laughed the Gypsy queen. "You do not believe in palmistry," and she tossed the hand from her lightly. "Neither do you," said Laura, bluntly. "You did not hold my hand then to enable you to read my palm, but for another purpose." "You are a shrewd lady," said the Gypsy. "I read character in other ways than by palmistry--it is true." She looked at Laura for some seconds very earnestly. Of course, Mother Wit did not believe this Gypsy had any occult power; but her deep black eyes were wonderfully compelling, and it might be that there was something in "mind reading." "You have an intention now that, if followed to its conclusion, will bring you trouble, young lady. Just what that intention may be, or what trouble it may bring, I cannot say exactly," declared the woman, slowly and impressively. "But it deals with a person you have never seen but once--I believe, recently. It seems that you may think you are helping her----" "That is not prophesying," said Laura, quickly, and interrupting the Gypsy queen. "I shall scarcely think your information worth what I have paid you if you do not do better than that." "What do you mean?" demanded the woman, hastily, and with a flush coming into her cheek again. "You know very well that you are warning me not to assist the girl who has run away from this camp," Mother Wit said, boldly. "Ha! Then you _did_ see her?" cried the Gypsy. "You know I did. You played a trick on me to find out. You are not telling my fortune, but you are endeavoring to find out, through me, about the girl who has run away. And I tell you right now, you will not learn anything further from me--or from the other girls." The Gypsy queen gazed at her with lowering brows; but Laura Belding neither "shivered nor shook." "You are quite courageous--for a girl," observed the woman, at last. "I may be, or not. But I am intelligent enough to know when I am being fooled. Unless you have something of importance to tell me I shall conclude that this fortune-telling seance is ended," and Laura rose from her seat. "Wait," said the woman, in a low voice. "I will tell you one thing. You may not consider it worth your attention now, little lady; but it will prove so in the end. _Do not cross the Romany folk--it is bad luck!_" "And I do not believe in 'luck,'" rejoined Laura, smiling. She was determined not to let the woman see that she was at all frightened. Surely these people would not dare detain, or injure, seven girls. "An unbeliever!" muttered the Gypsy woman. "We can tell nothing to an unbeliever." "And having got _from_ her all you are likely to get," said Laura, coolly, "your prophecies are ended, are they?" Queen Grace waved her hand toward the tent flap. "Send in one of your companions," she said. "Any one of them. I am angry with you, and when passion controls me I can see nothing, little lady." But Laura Belding went forth, fully determined that none of her friends should waste their money upon the chance that the Gypsy queen might see into the future for them. "It's wicked, anyway," decided Mother Wit. "If God thought it best for us to know what the future had in store for us, he would have put it within the power of every person to know what was coming. Professional palmists, and fortune-tellers of all sorts, are merely wicked persons who wish to get foolish people's money!" She found the six other girls grouped in the middle of the camp, trying to understand one of the women, who was talking to them, and evidently not a little frightened. "Oh, Laura! How did it go?" demanded Jess, running to her. "Very bad. She is a fraud," whispered Mother Wit. "And look out! they think we have seen the girl who ran away and they will try to pump us about her." "That's what I thought," declared Jess. "Know all about your past and future, Laura?" asked Bobby Hargrew. "Dear me! it makes me shiver to think of it," said Nellie. "Does she stir a cauldron, and call on the spirits of the earth and air?" "She calls on nothing but her own shrewd sense," replied Laura, shortly. "And she can tell you really nothing. Take my advice, girls, and don't try it." "Oh!" cried the disappointed Bobby "I did so hope she could tell me--more." "Don't you believe a thing she told you about trouble coming to you at school," said Eve, quietly. "You needn't worry about that, Bobs," drawled Dora Lockwood. "You know you are always getting into trouble with Gee Gee." "Maybe she could tell me how to circumvent her," sighed Bobby. "You'll never get the best of Miss Grace Carrington," said Jess, decidedly; "so give up all hope of _that_." "Let the little lady try it--do," whined one of the women. "She can learn much, perhaps. Because one fails, that is no reason why another should not succeed." "I'd like to try it," said Bobby, earnestly. Laura whispered: "What they want to find out is if we saw the girl who has run away from them, and if we know where she is. Be careful." "Are you sure?" "Positive," Laura replied. "She caught me with her questions. She knows I saw the girl. I told her nothing else." The queen came to the opening of the tent and beckoned to Bobby. She seemed to know instinctively which girl was anxious to try her arts. "Oh, Bobby," whispered Dorothy. "Maybe you'd better not--as Laura says." "I want to see for myself," said the other girl, doggedly. And she moved toward the Gypsy's tent. Laura gathered the other girls about her. One of the women was so near that she could overhear anything said louder than a whisper. "I want to get away from here at once," said Laura, quietly. "Let us buy any little things they may have for sale, and go on our way. We can get away better now when there are only two men in the camp than we can when those other three--and the bloodhound--get back." "Oh, mercy me!" gasped Jess. "I had forgotten about the bloodhound." "Hush!" murmured Laura. "Don't let that woman hear you." But it was evident that the Gypsy woman had heard. She uttered a sentence or two in Romany and the two men whom the girls had seen before at the camp appeared. They did not come near, but sat by the roadside that passed through the hollow, and filled their pipes and smoked. It was quite evident that they were on guard. "We are prisoners!" whispered Nellie, seizing Eve's arm. "Sh!" admonished Laura again. "Don't let them see that you're afraid. That will only make them the bolder." But all of the six girls outside the Gypsy's tent were more than a little disturbed. The situation did seem serious. CHAPTER VI--PRESSING HOSPITALITY The other woman had been stirring the great pot of stew. It certainly _did_ throw off a delicious odor. Each girl carried a lunch box and they had been about to hunt a pretty spot, near a spring, and satisfy their appetites. Now the woman at the cauldron, who looked a deal like an old witch, turned and waved her spoon, grinned, and said something to the half-frightened visitors. The younger Gypsy woman interpreted: "She says you can have some dinner, if you will stay." "My goodness!" whispered Dora. "I could not eat any of that stuff." "Some of the Gypsies are good cooks--and that smells delicious," Eve said. Laura shook her head, but tried to speak kindly. "We could not stop long enough to eat with you," she said. "We must go just as soon as the other girl comes out." "Better think twice of it, little lady," said the Gypsy woman. "When you eat the bread and salt of the Romany folk they remain your friends." "And chase you with bloodhounds if you try to get away," spoke Nellie, unguardedly. It was an unfortunate remark. The woman must have heard it. She turned and spoke to the men again. They rose and stood ready to oppose the departure of the girls of Central High. Even Laura and Eve felt their courage waver at this. The latter knew that there were no farms near--no inhabited dwellings. The nearest family must be at least two miles away. And this road was lonely at best--and this time of year, when the farmers were just beginning to get their plows into the ground, everybody was busy and there would not be much driving on any of the ridge roads. "What can we do?" moaned Dorothy Lockwood. "Will they dare keep us here, Eve?" demanded her twin. At this strained point in the proceedings there was a sudden excitement among the Gypsies. One of the men started up the road in an easterly direction. The girls looked in some worriment of mind to see what was to happen. "They've caught the girl!" muttered Jess. "No, But the dog's coming back," said Laura. There appeared almost at once the three men who had hunted with the bloodhound--and the hound himself. He was more ferocious-looking close to than at a distance. The six girls shrank together when he passed them, his great dewlaps slobbering and dripping, and his red eyes glancing sullenly from side to side. The Gypsies laughed when they saw fear so plainly displayed in the countenances of the six girls. The bloodhound was fastened to one of the wagon wheels, and then the Romany folk paid no particular attention to their visitors. It was plain that they considered the girls would not go far when they saw that the dog could be unleashed and set upon their trail. Nellie Agnew began to cry, but Laura was growing angry. "Just wait till Bobby comes out of that tent. I'm going to start right off along the road----" "You won't ever dare to!" gasped Dora. "Yes, I will. They won't dare set a dog like that on us----" Just then the little boy they had first seen ran out of the other tent. He was evidently aiming for his father, who was a low-browed man with huge hoops of gold in his ears, and a ferocious mustache. But the little one had to pass the dog. He saw him, gave a shriek of delight, and ran straight at the huge and savage-looking creature! The girls were, for an instant, greatly startled. Then they were amazed to see the little fellow roll the bloodhound over and laugh and shriek in delight--while the dog nuzzled the baby and seemed to like the play. "My goodness!" cried Jess. "That dog's nothing but a bluff!" "I believe you," said Laura. "I've heard of a dog's bark being worse than his bite; but in this case his appearance is a whole lot worse than his real nature. I guess they just keep him for his fearful looks and his ability to trail anything." "Girls included," murmured Dora. "I don't want him trailing me." The Gypsies had tried to call the little boy away from the huge dog. But they knew that the appearance of the hound would no longer strike terror to the hearts of their visitors. Indeed, Laura, who was naturally unafraid of dogs, as she was of horses, went over to the big, ugly-looking brute, and patted his head. He raised up and looked at her, and his bloodshot eyes _did_ have a fearful appearance; but he lapped her hand with his soft tongue--and _that_ bogey was laid! "Just as soon as Bobby comes out, we'll go, girls," said Laura, confidently. "They won't dare lay a finger on us." At that moment Bobby burst from the fortune-teller's tent. She presented a wonderful and a shocking sight to her friends, for usually they saw her laughing. She was in tears and she ran to Laura and clung to her in a frightened way. "Oh! oh!" she cried. "I want to get away from this horrid place. Do let's go, Mother Wit! Please do!" "What's the matter with you, Bobby?" demanded Jess, nervously. "You give me the creeps." "These hateful people----" began Dora Lockwood, when the Gypsy queen appeared at the tent entrance. Her eyes sparkled and her handsome face was flushed. She called something in a low, clear voice, and the men, who had gathered in a knot at one side, started toward her. One of them unfastened the dog again and held the end of the chain. The queen was talking excitedly in their own tongue to the others. Laura shook Bobby a little and said, shrewdly: "I guess she got out of you what she wanted to know, eh?" Bobby only sobbed. "Did you tell her what direction that girl was going--that she was wading up stream?" "Oh, yes! I did!" gasped Bobby. "She made me." "Well, it can't be helped. It's really none of our business," said Laura. "But if they try to stop us from going away now, we've got to scatter and run. They can't hold us all very well, and one of us will surely find some house----" "They won't dare stop us," said Eve, decidedly. At that moment Nell held up her hand. "Hark!" she exclaimed. "What is that?" The rattling of a heavy wagon coming down the road from the east was audible. Eve instantly ran out to the edge of the road. One of the Gypsies uttered a shrill, warning cry, and the men turned to intercept the girls. But into view came the heads of a team of bay horses, and then a farm-wagon, with a bewhiskered man in high boots on the seat, driving the team. "Hullo! Whoa!" exclaimed the farmer, when he saw Eve. "I declare I Is that you, Evie?" "Why, Mr. Crook! how glad I am to see you," said the Swiss girl. "What have you got in the wagon? Just a few bags? Then you can give us a lift, can't you? We are tired walking." "Sure I can, Miss Evie," replied the farmer. "What are you girls doin' with these 'Gyptians? Gettin' your fortunes told?" "Oh, we just stopped here for a minute," said Eve, carelessly. The Gypsies had hesitated to approach closer. The men began to slip away, one after the other. "Pile in, girls," said the farmer, hospitably. "I'm going five or six miles on this road. Bound for Fielding?" "Yes, we are," replied Eve, as her friends gratefully clambered into the end of the wagon. "Oh, dear me!" whispered Jess. "What luck this is! I believe those folks would have tried to keep us." "I don't know about that," returned her chum. "But the woman certainly managed to frighten Bobby most thoroughly." Bobby had hushed her sobs. But even when the wagon had started again and the Gypsy camp was out of sight, she was not willing to talk about what the Varey woman had told her. CHAPTER VII--THE YELLOW KERCHIEF AGAIN School opened the next Monday and the girls of Central High took up their tasks "for the last heat" of the year, as Jess Morse expressed it. "And I'm glad," she told her chum, Laura Belding, "Just think! next Fall we'll be seniors." "Wishing your life away," laughed Laura. "We were awfully glad to be juniors, I remember." "Sure. But we'll boss the school next fall," said Jess. "We've done very well for juniors, especially in athletics," observed Laura. "Why, practically, our bunch has dominated athletics for a year, now. We made the eight-oared shell in our sophomore year." "True. And the champion basketball team, too." "And Eve is going to qualify for the broad jump as well as the shot-put, I verily believe," said Laura. "I'm glad I found that girl and got her to come to Central High instead of going to Keyport." "She was a lucky find," admitted Jess. "And she wasn't much afraid of those Gypsies last week--did you notice?" "Of course she wasn't. She told me this morning that the constable over there looked for the camp, but the Romany folk had moved on." "I wonder if they caught that girl in the yellow kerchief," said Jess, thoughtfully. "Don't know. But they managed to scare Bobby pretty thoroughly," said Laura. "I never did see Bobby Hargrew quite so impressed." Jess smiled. "She seemed to know something about you, too, Laura--that Gypsy queen. She knew you had a negro mammy at home." "I don't know how she guessed that," admitted Laura. "But I believe all that fortune telling is foolishness. If she came to the house and told Mammy Jinny half what she did us, Mammy would be scared to death. We had a good laugh on the dear old thing yesterday. She's had a cold for several days and mother insisted upon calling Dr. Agnew in to see her. You know how Nellie's father is--always joking and the like; and he enjoys puzzling Mammy Jinny. So when he had examined her he said: "'Mammy, the trouble is in your thorax, larynx and epiglottis.' "'Ma soul an' body, Doctor!' exclaimed Mammy, turning gray. 'An' I only t'ought I had a so' t'roat.'" "But Mammy does like to use long words herself," chuckled Jess. "She will remember those words and spring them on you some time. Remember when her nephew had the rheumatism?" "Of course," Laura replied. "We asked her if it was the inflammatory kind and she said: "'Sho' it's exclamatory rheumatism. He yells all de time.'" "But I _do_ wonder," said Jess, again, "if the Gypsies caught that girl. She must have wanted badly to get away from them to have run the risk of being chased by a bloodhound." "And she was smart, too," Laura agreed. "Running on that wall and wading in the stream threw the dog off the scent." "If one of us had done such a thing as that when the water was so cold we would have got our 'never-get-over,'" declared Jess. "I believe you. And a lot of us girls are 'tender-feet,' as Chet says, at this time of year. We have been in the house too much. I tell you, Jess, we've got to get 'em out in the field just as soon as it's dry enough. Bill Jackway is working on the track and Mrs. Case says she thinks we can start outdoor relay practice and quarter-mile running on Saturday--if it's pleasant." "That's what we have got to practice up on, too, if we want to win the points we need to put Central High at the top of the list," agreed her chum. "I should say!" The moment they were freed from the regular lessons of the day Laura and Jess and their particular friends made for the handsome gym, building and athletic field that Colonel Richard Swayne had made possible for them. Bobby Hargrew was very much down in the mouth, for she had gone up against Miss Carrington at several points and the martinet had been very severe with the irrepressible. "I tell you what," growled Bobby, "I believe that little brother of Alice Long hit it off about right when it comes to teachers." "How is that?" asked Laura. "Why, he came home after going to school a few days last Fall, and says he: 'I don't think teachers know much, anyway. They keep asking you questions all the time.'" "I agree with you there," Jess said. "And such useless questions! Why, if you answered them literally half the time you'd be swamped in demerits. For instance, did you notice that one to-day: 'Why did Hannibal cross the Alps?' I felt just like answering: 'For the same reason the chicken crossed the road!'" The girls got into their gym. suits in a hurry and then played passball for a while, and, when well warmed up, went out on the field. Mrs. Case appeared and tried some of the younger ones out in relay running, while several of the bigger ones, including Eve, tried the broad jump, and Laura, and Jess, and more of the juniors trotted around the cinder path. Central High had to develop a first-class sprinter to win that event at the June tourney, and, as Laura said, "it was a question where the lightning would strike." Every girl who _would_ run--even down to the freshies--was to be tried out. As for the relay races, that was a matter of general interest. To-day Mrs. Case's whistle blew in half an hour, and every girl oh the field lined up for a "shuttle relay"--half of them on one line and half on the other, fifty yards apart. At the sound of the whistle Number 1 girl shot off across the running space and touched Number 2, the latter dashing back to touch Number 3, and so on until the last girl crossed the line at the finish. This is a splendid form of relay-racing, for it keeps the girls on the alert, and the distance is not too great for any girl, who has a physician's approval, to run. Mrs. Case, however, was extremely careful--as was Dr. Agnew, the medical inspector--as to the condition of the girls before they entered upon any very serious training. The afternoons of this first week of school were spent in working out the girls gradually, the instructor learning what they really could do. Nor were any of the girls allowed to work on the track, or in the gym., two days in succession. But Saturday afternoon was devoted to real work and the making up of the relay teams for practice during the spring. It chanced to be a glorious day, too, and the field was well attended. Bobby Hargrew was faithfully practicing for the quarter-mile sprint. She was as fast as anybody in the junior class, and for once was really putting her mind to the work. "If Gee Gee doesn't hamper me too much with conditions and extra work, maybe I can be of some help to the school," spoke Miss Bobby. "But I can see plainly she's got it in for me." "That's what the Gypsy fortune-teller told you," returned Jess. "Didn't she warn you to beware of one of your teachers--and a woman?" Bobby's light-hearted chatter was stilled and she paled as Jess reminded her of the Gypsy woman. "Pooh!" Laura quickly said. "There is nothing in that foolishness." Bobby had utterly refused to tell them what Grace Varey, the Gypsy queen, had told her in the tent. "She could easily see that Bobby was full of good spirits and that she must always be in difficulties with her teachers--and of course it was safe to guess that she would have trouble with a female teacher. I wouldn't give a minute's thought to such foolishness." But Bobby would not be led to say anything farther, and was very quiet for a time. She was with Laura and the other juniors, however, over by the gate, when Nell Agnew made her great discovery. The girls had been playing captain's ball on one of the courts, and they were all warm and tired. Wrapped in their blanket coats, on which Mrs. Case insisted at this time of the year, they were resting on the bench which faced the gateway, and the gate was open. "My goodness me!" gasped the doctor's daughter, suddenly, "isn't that the same girl?" "Huh?" asked Bobby. "Isn't what the same girl? You're as lucid as mud, Nell." "Out there! Quick, Laura--don't you see her?" Laura Belding craned her neck to see outside the yard. Across the street a girl was passing slowly. They could not see her face, and she was wrapped in a long cloak--or waterproof garment. "Look at that yellow handkerchief!" exclaimed Jess. "I saw it--and I saw her face," said Nellie. "That's like the girl we saw up there on the ridge," admitted Laura, slowly. "The Gypsy girl!" exclaimed Jess, in excitement. "It _was_ she. I saw her face," repeated Nell. "Now, what do you know about that?" cried Jess. "Why, she must have gotten away from those people, after all. I'm glad of it." Bobby said never a word, but she stared after the yellow kerchief, which showed plainly above the collar of the mantle the strange girl wore. And while her mates discussed with interest the appearance in town of the fugitive from the Gypsy camp, Bobby was only thoughtful. CHAPTER VIII--THE GIRL IN THE STORM Now, Bobby Hargrew was not naturally a secretive girl. Far from it. Her mates noted, however, that of late she had grown quieter. Ever since their adventure with the Gypsies she had seemed distraught at times, and not at all like her usual merry, light-hearted self. "That horrid Gypsy woman told her something that scared her," Jess Morse said to Laura Belding. "I didn't think Bobby would be so easily gulled." "Those people know how to make things seem awful real, I expect," returned her chum, thoughtfully. "If I had not been on my guard, and had the woman not tried to learn something from me, instead of attempting to mystify me, I expect I would have fallen under her spell." "Nonsense!" laughed Jess. "Well, it seems Bobby was impressed," said Laura. "I should say she was. And whatever the woman told her, it is something that is supposed to happen in the future. Bobby is looking forward to it with terror." "I wish I knew what it was." "But Bobs won't take you into her confidence," sighed Jess. "No. I've sounded her. And it is no mere trouble that she expects in school. It is something more serious than Miss Carrington's severity," Laura rejoined. Clara Hargrew probably had more friends among the girls of Central High than any other girl on the Hill; yet she had not one "crush." She was "hail-fellow-well-met" with all her schoolmates, and never paired off with any particular girl. She had nobody in whom she would naturally confide--not even at home. For there had been no mother in the Hargrew home for several years. Mr. Hargrew idolized Bobby, who was the oldest of his three girls; but a father can never be like a mother to a girl. Her two sisters were small--the youngest only six years old. The housekeeper and nurse looked out for the little girls; but Bobby was answerable to nobody but her father, and he was a very easy-going man indeed. He was proud of Bobby, and of her smartness and whimsicality; and about everything she did was right in his eyes. The fact that his oldest daughter had been a good deal of a tomboy never troubled the groceryman in the least. "She was as good as any boy," he often laughingly said, and it was he who had nicknamed her "Bobby." But the girl was just now at the age and stage of growth when she needed a mother's advice and companionship more than any other time in her life. And she felt woefully alone these days. She was usually the life of the house when she was indoors, and the little girls, Elsie and Mabel, loved to have her as their playmate. In the evenings, too, she was used to being much with her father. But of late Mr. Hargrew had been going out one or two evenings each week--a new practice for him--and on these evenings when her father was absent, Bobby was so gloomy that it was not long before the little girls complained. "You're sick, child," declared Mrs. Ballister, the old lady who had been with them since long before Mrs. Hargrew died. "No, I'm not," declared Bobby. "Then you've done something that's settin' heavy on your conscience," declared the old lady, nodding. "Nothing else would make you so quiet, Clara." And Bobby felt too miserable to "answer back," and swallowed the accusation without comment. It was early in the week following the Saturday on which the girls had seen the fugitive from the Gypsy camp passing the athletic field. Soon after the mid-day recess a sudden spring thunder storm came up, the sky darkened, the air grew thick, and sharp lightning played across the clouds before the threatened downpour. Some of the girls were so frightened that they ran in from the recreation ground before the gong rang. The heavens were overcast and the trees before the schoolhouse began to writhe in the rising wind. The first heavy drops were falling when Bobby, who had been excused by Miss Carrington to do an errand during the recess, turned the corner and faced the sudden blast. It swooped down upon her with surprising power, whirled her around, flung her against the fence, and then, in rebounding, she found herself in another person's arms. "Oh, dear me! Excuse me--do!" gasped Bobby, blinded for the moment and clinging to the person with whom she had collided. "I--I didn't mean to run you down." At that instant there was a blinding flash followed by a roll of thunder that seemed to march clear across the sky. Bobby felt this girl whom she clung to shrink and tremble at the sound. Now, Bobby herself was not particularly afraid of thunder and lightning, and she immediately grew braver. "Come on!" she said. "We'll get wet here. Let's run into the boys' vestibule--that's nearest." The boys' yard was empty; indeed, the afternoon session had been called to order now in all the classrooms. Bobby and the strange girl ran, half blindly, into the graveled yard and up the steps. Just as they entered the vestibule the downpour came. The flood descended and had they been out in it half a minute longer the fugitives would have been saturated. "Just in time!" cried Bobby, attempting to open the inner door. "Oh! I can't go in there," stammered the strange girl. "Nor I guess I can't, either," said Bobby, half laughing, half breathless. "It's locked--and the wind is blowing the rain right into this vestibule. Come on! Let's shut this outside door." The half of the two-leaved door of the vestibule which had been open was heavy; but Bobby's companion proved to be a strong and rugged girl, and together they managed to close it. Then, with the rain and wind shut out, although the roar of the elements was still loud in their ears, the two girls were able to examine each other. And instantly Bobby Hargrew forgot all about the thunder, and lightning, and rain. She stared at the girl cowering in the corner, who winced every time the lightning played across the sky, and closed her eyes with her palms to the reverberation of the thunder. The girl was perhaps a couple of years older Bobby herself. She was dark and had a tangle of black hair which was dressed indifferently. A woolen cap was drawn down almost to her ears. She was rather scrubbily dressed, and nothing that she wore looked very clean or very new. The waist she had on was cut low at the neck--so low that the girl had tied loosely around her throat a soft, yellow muffler. Although the old brown cloak she wore hid her green skirt, Bobby knew that the girl before her was the one she and her friends had seen escaping from the Gypsy camp nearly a fortnight before. The girl who had been unafraid of pursuit by the bloodhound, and had run upon stone fences and waded in an ice-cold mountain brook to hide her trail, now cowered in the vestibule of the schoolhouse, in a nervous tremor because of the thunderstorm. "My! but you _are_ scared of lightning, aren't you?" exclaimed Bobby, after a minute, and when the noise of the elements had somewhat ceased. "I--I always am," gasped the girl. "The lightning won't hurt you--at least, the lightning you _see_ will never hurt you, my father says," added Bobby. "The danger is all past by the time you see the flash of it." "But I can't help being frightened," replied the girl. "No. I suppose not. And I guess you are brave enough about other things to make up, eh?" The girl looked up at her, but was evidently puzzled. She glanced through the glass doors of the building into the corridor. "Is this the school building?" she asked, quickly. "Yes. But this is the boys' entrance, so I don't want to ring. I'd get scolded for coming here," said Bobby. "Oh, don't ring!" exclaimed the girl, putting a timid hand upon Bobby's arm. "This is the big school, isn't it?" "It's the biggest in town. It's Central High," said Bobby, proudly. "You go here to school, of course?" asked the girl, somewhat wistfully. "Yes. I'm a junior." The other shook her head. The grading of the school was evidently not understood by the Gypsy girl. "Say! do you have many teachers in this school?" she asked. "Yes. There's enough of them," replied Bobby, grumblingly. "Women, too?" "Yes. Some women." "Who are they?" asked the girl, quickly. "What's their names?" The thunder was rolling away now, but the rain was still beating down in such volume that the girls could not venture forth. Bobby would have gotten wet in running around to the girls' entrance. "Why," she said, studying the Gypsy's face in a puzzled way. "There's Miss Gould." "Gould? That's not her whole name, is it?" asked this curious girl. "Miss Marjorie Gould." "Say it slow--say the letters," commanded the Gypsy girl. Bobby, much amazed, began: "M-a-r-j-o-r-i-e G-o-u-l-d." The strange girl shook her head. Bobby saw that she had been counting the letters of Miss Gould's name on her fingers, and she asked: "Don't you read English?" "No. I'm Austrian. I know some German. A woman taught me. But I never went to school--never to a school like this," said the Gypsy girl, with a sigh. "Who are you?" asked Bobby, deeply interested. "You--you can call me Margit--Margit Salgo, from Austria." Now, this puzzled Bobby Hargrew more than ever, for she knew that the Gypsies the girl had been with were English. Yet she was afraid of frightening the girl by telling her what she already knew about her. And immediately the Gypsy girl asked her another question: "Spell me some of their other names, will you?" "Whose other names?" "The lady teachers," replied Margit, her black eyes flashing eagerly. "Why--why, there's Mrs. Case," stammered Bobby. "How do you spell the letters?" "R-o-s-e C-a-s-e," said Bobby, slowly. "No! no!" exclaimed Margit. "Not enough. Too short." "But don't you know the name of the woman you are looking for?" "I didn't say I was looking for anybody," said Margit, with suspicion. "I am just curious." "And you can't repeat the name?" "I never heard it repeated. I only know how many letters there are. I saw it on a card. I counted the letters," said the girl, with a shrewd light in her eyes. "Now! haven't you any more lady teachers here?" "There's Gee Gee!" exclaimed Bobby, with half a chuckle, amused at the thought of Miss Carrington being mixed up in any manner with this half-wild Gypsy girl. "Too short," said the other, shaking her head decidedly. "Oh, her real name is long enough. It's Grace G. Carrington." "Spell it out," commanded Margit Salgo, eagerly. Bobby did so, but the girl shook her head. "Not enough letters," she declared. "Why--there are sixteen letters to Miss Carrington's name," said Bobby, wonderingly. "How many are there to the name you are hunting for?" "Two more," said Margit, promptly. "Eighteen?" "Yes. Now, don't you tell anybody what I say. That's a good girl," urged the other. "You're not afraid of me, are you?" asked Bobby, in wonder. "I'm afraid of everybody," muttered the girl. "You've--you've run away from somebody?" ventured Bobby, fearing to startle the fugitive by telling her just how much she _did_ know. "Never you mind about me. Thank you for what you've told me. I--I guess the worst of it's over now, and I'll go," said Margit, and she tugged at the knob of the outer door. The rain was still falling fast; but the thunder only muttered in the distance and the electric display had entirely passed. "Wait!" cried Bobby, earnestly. "Maybe I can help you some more." "No. I don't need anybody to help me. I can take care of myself," replied the Gypsy girl, sullenly. She mastered the door-latch, pulled the door open, and ran out into the rain. In half a minute she was flying up the street, and not until she was out of sight did Bobby remember something that might be of great importance in explaining the mystery. "Why, Miss Carrington always writes her name 'Grace _Gee_ Carrington,'" exclaimed Bobby. "There's the eighteen letters that the girl is looking for. I never thought of that!" CHAPTER IX--THE GYPSIES AGAIN When the rain stopped, Bobby went around to the other entrance and reported herself to Miss Carrington. That teacher always doubted Bobby's excuses, and this time she shook her head over the girl's tardiness. "You told me you had plenty of time to do your errand within the limit of the recess, Miss Hargrew," said Gee Gee. "Do better next time, please." "She always acts as though she thought I had an India rubber imagination," muttered Bobby, to her nearest seatmate, "and that I was always stretching it." "Miss Hargrew, please refrain from communicating in lesson time!" snapped the ever-watchful teacher. "Dear me!" murmured Bobby. "She's got me again. I _do_ have the worst luck." And then she wondered what Miss Carrington knew about the strange Gypsy girl, or what Margit knew about Gee Gee. "I'd like to get better acquainted with that girl," thought Bobby. "There is a mystery about her--and Gee Gee is in it." But she said nothing to any of the other juniors, judging it best to keep her own counsel. Meanwhile she kept a keen lookout for the girl to appear about the school building again. Several days passed, however, and Bobby saw nothing of her. Meanwhile the girls who were earnest in the work of putting Central High ahead in the inter-school athletic competition worked hard on the field and under Mrs. Case's eye in the gymnasium. Bobby was really doing her best on the track. Never had she settled down to such thorough work in any branch of athletics as she had in this effort to make a record for the quarter-mile. Central High needed the points that a champion sprinter could win, just as the school needed the points putting the shot, and the broad jump, would add to its record. Bobby, the year before, had acted as coxswain of the eight-oared crew; and she had played all season on the big basketball team--the champion nine. But this running was different work. Now she had no teammates to encourage her, or to keep her up to the mark. It was just what she could do for the school by herself. "Just by your lonesome, Bobby," Laura Belding told her. "To win the quarter-mile will mean two whole points in June. Think of that! And you can do it." "I don't know," returned the other girl, in some despondency. "Gee Gee'll likely get something on me before the June meet, and then where'll we be?" "But you don't _have_ to do things to make Miss Carrington give you demerits." "Bah! I don't have to do anything at all to get demerits. She's just expecting me to do something all the time, and she 'jumps' me without giving me a chance. Any other girl in the school can cut up much worse than I do and never get a sour look; but I--oh, dear!" "You see what it is to have a reputation for mischief," said Laura, half inclined to laugh. "Can't you cut out the frolic for this one term? Cure yourself of practical joking and 'joshing' poor Miss Carrington." "Great Cæsar!" ejaculated Bobby. "How could I ever do it?" Nevertheless, with all her reckless talk, she was really trying her very best to keep out of difficulties in school, and on the other hand to make the best time possible on the cinder track. Mrs. Case began to try her out now and then, and held the watch on her. Bobby wanted to know how fast she made the quarter; but the instructor put up her watch with a smile and a head-shake. "That I sha'n't tell you, Miss Hargrew. Not yet. You do your best; that's what you are to do. If you fall back, or I see you losing form, you'll hear about it soon enough." One morning before school-time Bobby heard Mrs. Ballister scolding at the back door. The old housekeeper did not often scold the maid, for she was a dear old lady and, as Bobby herself said, "as mild-tempered as a lamb." But she heard her say: "Be off with you! We've nothing for you. Scalawags like you shouldn't prosper--filling a girl's silly head full of more silliness. Go on at once!" Somehow Bobby had a premonition of what the trouble was about. She ran out upon the side porch and saw two Gypsy women coming around the path from the fear of the house. They were the two who had been at Queen Grace Varey's camp that day on the ridge when the girls of Central High had had their adventure. "Here is a little lady," whined the old woman. "She will buy of us," lifting up her baskets. "No, no," said Bobby, shaking her head vigorously. The other woman recognized her and touched the arm of her companion warningly. "Surely the little lady will not be unkind to the poor Romany," she whined. "She does not forget what Queen Grace told her?" "I want to forget it," declared Bobby, with flushed face. "I have nothing for you. Go away--do!" "Ah-ha, little lady!" chuckled the woman, with a leer. "You are mistress here now--and you can send us away. But remember! Your father will bring home another mistress before mid-summer." The two women laughed harshly, and turned away, going slowly out of the yard. Bobby remained upon the porch until she had winked back the tears--and bitter tears they were, indeed--and so went slowly in to breakfast. "Those horrid 'Gyptians," Mrs. Ballister was saying. "I caught them out there trying to tell Sally's fortune. They'd make her believe she was going to fall heir to a fortune, or get a husband, or something, and then we'd lose the best kitchen girl we ever had." But Bobby felt too serious to smile at the old lady's sputtering. Despite what Laura Belding said, there _must_ be something in the fortunes the Gypsy queen told! How did she know so much about _her?_ Bobby asked herself. She knew that Bobby had no mother and that she was sure to get into trouble with her teachers. And now the prophecy she had made that her father would bring home a new wife before mid-summer rankled in Bobby Hargrew's mind like a barbed arrow. For Bobby loved her father very dearly, and had been for years his confidante. It had long been agreed between them that she was going to be his partner in the grocery business, just as though she had been born a boy. And as soon as the little girls were big enough they were to go away to boarding school, Mrs. Ballister should be relieved of the responsibility of the house, and Bobby was going to be the real mistress of the Hargrew home. And suppose, instead of all these things Father Tom should bring home a new mother to reign over them? The thought was ever in Bobby's mind these days. Not that she had any reason to fear the coming of a step-mother. The only girl at Central High whom she knew that had a step-mother loved her very dearly and made as much of her as though she had been two real mothers. Sue Blakesley had been without a mother long enough to appreciate even a substitute. But Bobby and Mr. Hargrew had been such close friends and comrades that the girl was jealous of such a possibility as anybody coming into her father's life who could take her place in any degree. She worried over the Gypsy's prophecy continually; she wet her pillow at night with bitter tears because of it, and it sobered and changed her to her schoolmates, as we have seen. It was a very serious and imminent trouble indeed to the warm-hearted, impulsive girl. On her way to school that morning she chanced to turn the corner into Whiffle Street just as a dark-browed, shuffling fellow crossed from the other side and trailed along ahead of her toward the schoolhouse. Bobby knew that black face, and the huge gold hoops in his ears, at once. It was the husband of the Gypsy queen. "Oh, I wonder if the whole encampment is in town hunting for that poor girl, Margit?" thought Bobby. "They are such strange, wicked folk. And look at him--why, that's Gee Gee!" The lady ahead on the walk, behind whom the Gypsy was walking so stealthily, was none other than Miss Carrington herself. Instantly Bobby's thought flashed to the mysterious inquiries of the girl, Margit Salgo, about the teacher at Central High. Bobby involuntarily quickened her steps. She was afraid of these Gypsies; but she was curious, too. The whole block was deserted, it seemed, save for herself, Gee Gee, and the man. Suddenly he hastened his long stride and overtook the teacher. Bobby knew that the fellow accosted Miss Carrington. The lady halted, and shrank a little. But she did not scream, or otherwise betray fear. "No, lady. Ah'm no beggar. Ma nyme's Jim Varey an' ah'm honest man, so I be. Ah come out o' Leeds, in Yorkshire, an' we be travelin', me an' mine. Wait, lady! Ah've summat tae show ye." He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a card. He held this card so that Miss Carrington could read what was printed, or written, on it. And she did so, as was evident to Bobby, for she started back a little and uttered a murmured exclamation. "Ah sees ye knaw ye'r awn nyme, lidy," said Jim Varey, shrewdly. "Yer the lady we're lookin' for, mayhap. 'Tis private business----" "I can have no business with you, man," exclaimed Miss Carrington. "Why, you're a Gypsy!" "Aye. I'm Gypsy. An' so was ma fawther an' mither, an' their fawthers an' mithers before 'em. We'm proud of the Romany blood. An' more'n 'us, lady, has mixed with the Romany--an' in other climes aside Yorkshire. But all Romany is one, wherever vound. Ye knaw that, lidy." "I don't know what you mean! I don't know what you are talking about! What do you want of me?" cried Miss Carrington, quite wildly. The man drew closer. Bobby was really frightened, too. She opened her own mouth to shriek for help. But the Gypsy did not touch the teacher. Instead, he said in a low, but perfectly clear, voice, so that Bobby heard it plainly: "I would speak to you, lidy, of the child of Belas Salgo." Miss Carrington uttered a stifled shriek. Bobby sprang forward, finding her own voice now, and using it to good purpose, too. A door banged, and a gentleman ran out of his house and down to the gate, where the Gypsy had stopped Miss Carrington. It chanced to be Franklin Sharp, the principal of Central High. Jim Varey saw him coming, glanced swiftly around, evidently considered the time and place unfavorable for further troubling the teacher, and so broke into a run and disappeared. Mr. Sharp caught Gee Gee before she fell. But she did not utterly lose consciousness. Bobby had caught her hand and clung to it. The girl heard Gee Gee murmur: "There was no child! There was no child! Oh! Poor Anne! Poor Anne!" "Let us take her into the house," said Mr. Sharp, kindly. "That ruffian has scared her, I believe. Could you identify him, do you think, Miss Hargrew?" "Yes, sir," declared Bobby, tremblingly. But Miss Carrington cried: "Oh, no! Oh, no! Don't go after him--do nothing to him." And she continued to cry and moan while they took her into the house and put her in the care of Mrs. Sharp. That forenoon Gee Gee did not appear before her classes at Central High. But she was present at the afternoon session and Bobby thought her quite as stern and hard as ever. Nor did the teacher say a word to the girl about the Gypsy, or mention the occasion in any way. CHAPTER X--EVE'S ADVENTURE Eve Sitz had plenty to do out of school hours when she was at home. Nobody could afford to be idle at the Sitz farm. But she found time, too, to put on an old skirt, gym. shoes, and a sweater, and go down behind the barn to practice her broad jump and to throw a baseball at the high board fence behind the sheepfold. She grew expert indeed in ball throwing, and occasionally when Otto, her brother, caught her at this exercise, he marvelled that his sister could throw the horsehide farther and straighter than he. "Dot beats it all, mein cracious!" gasped Otto, who was older than Eve by several years, had never been to school in this new country, and was one who would never be able to speak English without a strong accent. "How a girl can t'row a pall like dot. I neffer!" "You wait till June, Otto," replied his sister, in German. "If you come to the big field the day of the Centerport High Schools, you will see that girls can do quite well in athletics. You know how we can row, and you saw us play basketball. Wait till you see the Central High girls on track and field!" "A lot of foolishness," croaked Otto. "You go to the school to learn to be smart, no?" "No," replied Eve, laughing at him. "I am smart in the first place, or I would not go. And don't I help mother just as much--and milk--and feed the pigs and chickens--and all that? Wait till you see me put the shot. I am going to win a whole point for the school if I am champion shot-putter." "Ach! It is beyond me," declared Otto, walking off to attend to his work. The family--plain Swiss folk as they were--thought Eve quite mad over these "foolish athletics." They had no such things in the schools at home--in the old country. Yet Father and Mother Sitz were secretly proud of their big and handsome daughter. She was growing up "American." That was something to be achieved. They had come of peasant stock, and hoped that their girl, at least, would mix with a more highly educated class of young folk in this new country. So, if Eve thought that the tasks which usually fell to her nights and mornings, and on Saturdays, were not sufficient to keep her in what she called "condition," her parents made no objection to her throwing baseballs, or jumping, or taking long walks, or riding on the old gray mare's back over the North pasture. And it was upon one of these rides that she fell upon her second adventure that Spring with the Gypsies--or, at least, with one of the tribe. It occurred on the Saturday morning following Miss Carrington's meeting with Jim Varey, husband of the Gypsy queen. Of course, Bobby Hargrew had said nothing about this mysterious connection of the martinet teacher with the roving band of "Egyptians"; it was not her secret, and although Bobby might be an innocent gossip, she was no tale-bearer. Eve finished her morning's work, "pegged" the baseball at the target she had marked with a brush on the sheep fold fence, managing to scare all the woolly muttons out of at least half of their senses, and then grabbed up a bridle and ran down to the pasture bars and whistled for the mare. The old horse came cantering across the field. Eve never failed to have a lump of sugar in her pocket, and the old girl nuzzled around for it and would not be content until she had munched it. Meanwhile Eve slipped on the bridle and sprang upon the creature's back. Hester Grimes, and Lily Pendleton, and some of the wealthier girls who went to Central High, rode horseback in the parks. They went to a riding school and cantered around a tanbark ring, and then rode, very demurely, two and two, upon old broken-kneed hacks through the bridle-paths. Mrs. Case approved of horseback exercise for girls, either astride or side-saddle, as they pleased; but she certainly would have held her breath in fear had she seen Eve Sitz career down the rocky pasture upon her mount on this keen-aired morning. It had rained over night and the bushes were still dripping. Every time a sharp hoof of the unshod mare tore up a clod as she cantered, Eve got the scent of the wet earth in her nostrils, and drank it in with long and deep inhalations. She rode the mare with a loose rein and let her take her head. They dashed down the hill and through the narrow path that crossed a piece of Mr. Sitz's swamp land. Here the dogwood was budding and a few Judas-trees displayed a purple blush, as though a colored mist hung about them. In a few days the bushes would burst forth in full flower. Eve rode fast along the swamp path. It was narrow, and to have ventured three yards upon either side would have been to sink, horse and all, into the quagmire. This was a waste piece of the farm that her father hoped to drain at some time, but now it was only a covert for birds and frogs. But suddenly, as the girl rode fast, she thought she heard a cry. She half checked her mount; but the sound was not repeated. A minute later the gray mare was through the marsh-piece and out upon the field beyond. Eve intended circling around by Peveril Pond and so reach home again by another path; yet the mysterious cry she had heard back there in the swamp-piece kept returning to her mind. Suppose it had been a real cry--a human cry--a cry for help? The thought came back to her again and again. She was in sight of the pond, when she could stand it no longer, but pulled the mare about. "Come, old girl! We've got to be sure of this," cried Eve. "Back you go!" Her mount cantered back again. They reached the edge of the swamp and Eve pulled the mare down to a walk. Stepping daintily, the steed followed the narrow path through the over-bushed swamp. One could not see a dozen feet on either hand, so tall were the bushes, and so thick--not even at the height Eve rode. She halted her horse and called aloud: "Ahoy! Hullo! Who called?" No answer--for half a minute. The farmer's daughter shouted again. Then she heard it again--a half-stifled cry--a cry that ended in a choking gasp and which chilled the blood in her veins and made her hold her own breath for a moment. Was it an actual voice calling for help that had answered her? Or had she imagined the cry? She held in the anxious horse, and waited. Again the muffled shriek reached her ears. Somebody was caught in the quagmire--in the quicksand. It was off to the left, and not many yards from the path. CHAPTER XI--BOBBY IS INTERESTED Indeed, one could not have ventured many feet from the path at this season of the year, when the heavy Spring rains had filled the swamp, without sinking into the mire. Eve knew this very well, and it was with fast-beating heart that she slipped from her horse, tied the bridle-rein to a sapling, and ventured cautiously in the direction of the half-choked cries. "I'm coming! Where are you?" she called. The cry for help came for a third time. Eve parted the bushes before her, and then shrank back. She had been about to put her foot upon a bit of shaking moss which, when she disturbed the branches of the bush, sank completely out of sight in the black mire. Another step might have proved her own undoing! But on the other side of this dimpling pool of mire a willow tree of the "weeping" variety stood with its roots deep in the swamp. And clinging to a drooping branch of this tree were two sun-browned hands--muscular, but small. "A woman!" gasped Eve. Then, the next moment, she added: "A girl!" And a girl it was--a girl no older than herself. The victim was all but shoulder deep in the mire. She was clinging desperately to the branch of the tree. Her face was half hidden by the twigs and leaves, and by her own disarranged hair, which hung in black elf-locks about it. But even in that moment of surprise and fear, Eve identified her. It was the girl who had been a fugitive from the Gypsy camp. The identity of the person in peril did not claim Eve's attention for half a moment, however. It was her necessity, and the fact that she must be rescued immediately that spurred the farm girl to action. "Hold on! I'll save you!" she shouted, and even as she spoke she saw the girl slip down a hand's breadth deeper into the ooze. If she was to save the victim Eve must indeed work rapidly, and to the purpose. She saw how the girl had come into her evil plight. Beside the tree ran a narrow strip of grassy hummock. It looked sound, but Eve well knew that all such places were treacherous. The Gypsy girl had trusted to it, venturing off the regular and beaten path. She had slipped, or the edge of the hummock had caved in with her. Only by chance had she caught at the branch of the willow and so stayed her descent into the bottomless morass. Fleet of foot, Eve sprang back to the bridle-path where the mare was tied. She wanted the only thing which, in this emergency, could be of help to her--and to the girl sinking in the mire. There was no time to go for help. There was no fence near where she could obtain rails, even. Nor did she have anything with which to cut down saplings to aid the girl. Quickly her nimble fingers unbound the leather bridle from the tree. Then she unbuckled the reins and removed them entirely, letting the mare go free if she would. But the wise old horse stood and watched her, without offering to run away. "That's right! Stand still, old girl!" exclaimed Eve Sitz. "I'll want you mighty bad in a minute, or two, perhaps." She sprang upon the tussock on which the victim of the accident had evidently been before her. But she was cautious. She came to the place where the poor girl clung to the tree branch. Those twigs were slowly slipping through her cramped fingers. In a few seconds she would slip entirely from her hold. Already she was too far gone to speak, and her eyes were closed. It was no use calling again. Eve bent forward and with a little prayer for help, cast the loop of the strong rein over the victim's head and shoulders. As she did so the girl's hands slipped entirely from the tree branch. Eve screamed. But she threw herself back, too, as the weight of the sinking girl came upon the bridle-rein. Eve easily held her up. She could sink no farther. But the question that troubled the farmer's daughter was: Could she draw the unconscious girl out of the mire? But Eve was the heavier of the two, and far stronger. The Gypsy girl could run and leap like a hare--as she had proven the day the girls of Central High had seen her escaping from the encampment of her Romany companions. But she had not been strong enough to scramble out of the mud when she had once fallen into it. Now Eve, sure that the bridle-rein would hold, flung herself back and dragged the girl up. She came out upon the narrow tussock slowly, but surely. Eve wrapped the lines about her wrists and tugged with all her weight and strength; and she was not many seconds in accomplishing the rescue. The unfortunate girl lay helpless on the edge of the morass. She was a mass of mud, and her eyes were still closed. Eve seized her under the arms and dragged her across the trembling hummock to firmer ground. Once Eve herself stepped over the edge of the solid ground and plunged--knee-deep--into the mire. But she recovered herself and quickly brought her burden, breathless though she herself was, to the bridle-path. The old gray mare looked upon the muddy figure on the ground with ears pricked forward. But Eve spoke softly to her, and the creature stood still, as though she knew her help was needed. Eve did not trouble to put on the rein again. When she got her breath she raised the girl, who was still only half conscious, in her arms, and managed to get her on the horse. "You've got to carry double; but you can go just as slow as you want to, old girl!" Eve exclaimed, as she leaped upon the mare herself, sitting behind the other girl, and holding her on. Then she spoke again to the mare, and the latter picked her way carefully over the narrow path and so to the North pasture. In fifteen minutes Eve had the strange girl at the farmhouse, where her kind-hearted mother helped put the visitor to bed. They were true Samaritans in that house. They reserved all questioning until after the needy had been aided. Eve went to town that afternoon, for she was due for practice at the athletic field, full of this adventure. The strange girl had not said a word about herself save that she had been traveling through the marsh early that morning and had mistaken the path. Eve had told her mother her suspicions as to who the girl was, and it was plain that the young Gypsy would be unfit for travel for some days. The Sitzes would try to find out something about her condition and why she was striving to escape from her companions. "But, it's plain why she left town so hurriedly," declared Jess Morse, one of those to whom Eve told her story. "I've seen those Gypsy women in town myself this week. I saw the queen--Grace Varey, did you say her name is?" "That's the name she gave us last year," said Eve. "Well, I saw her only this morning. The Gypsies have come to town to search for that girl. She knows it and was escaping into the country when she got into that swamp. My! It was lucky you rode that way, Eve." But it was Bobby Hargrew who showed the most interest in the affairs of the mysterious Gypsy girl. She asked Eve a hundred questions about her and finally admitted that she had reasons for wishing to know all about her that she did not feel free to divulge. "I tell you honestly, Eve, I wish you'd let me go home with you so that I can see that girl before Monday morning," said Bobby, bluntly. "Well, why not?" returned the farm girl, laughing. "You'd be welcome, Clara." "I'll telephone father at the store and run home and pack a bag and meet you at the station," announced Bobby, greatly excited. "Why, we'll be more than pleased," urged Eve. "I'd like to know what the matter is with that girl, too. If you find out, will you tell me?" and she laughed again. "If it's only _my_ secret I'll tell you in a minute," promised Bobby. But in her heart she believed that it would prove to be partly Miss Carrington's secret, and she could not speak of _her_ affairs, that was sure. CHAPTER XII--THE RACES Bobby, as she said, "fished" for this invitation and got it while the girls were dressing in the gym. building, before the try-out work on the field that Saturday afternoon. Eve went to her broad jump, while Bobby lined up with a lot of the would-be sprinters from all four classes, to try their speed from the fifty-yard dash up to the quarter-mile. Only the very best of the candidates were allowed to try the longer races, and they had all to go to Dr. Agnew's office first. The doctor spent the most of every Saturday afternoon at the gym. building, and he doled out good advice to the girls while he prodded them, and listened to their heart and lung action, and otherwise discovered if they were "fit." Laura had been delegated by Mrs. Case to watch the sprinters, and most of them were quickly sent to the courts to play tennis, or basketball, or some other game, and the cinder track was soon devoted to those only who were earnestly endeavoring to develop their speed as runners--and who had some small chance, at least, to make a good record. Bobby tried the first short dash, and then the third. There was some crowding on the track and she could not do her best--nor did she wish to. As long as she made a good enough showing to be advised to wait for the finals, she was content, and so was Laura. "Hold yourself in," advised Mother Wit, smiling on her. "If you spend your best wind trying to beat these others at first you'll be lost when it comes to the quarter-mile, and be retired." So Bobby bided her time until the quarter-mile was called. There were but six contestants. It was the longest trial of speed that Mrs. Case would allow on the track. The Girls' Branch Athletic League gave but a doubtful approval, at most, to the quarter-mile trial. The six were "set" on the line and Laura, watch in hand, waited for the arrow to touch the mark, her hand raised. "Go!" she shouted, and the girls sprang away, each doing her very best from the start. For the quarter-mile run leaves little space for jockeying. It is soon over, and the contestant who gets off ahead is quite frequently the winner. The six girls were not so unevenly matched; and they started well on a line. For the first few yards they kept together. But then the pace began to tell. For fifty yards, say, they were matched to a degree; then it was plain that only two of them had the "sand" to keep up that killing pace for long. Bobby and one other forged ahead. Breast to breast, their arms working in unison, their stride equal, the two girls passed ahead of the others and shot along the track with unabated swiftness. The girls behind were panting, and falling back. One wavered and dropped out entirely when she had run but a furlong. The others clung to the track, however, doing their very best to record a fair time, at least. They had learned under Mrs. Case to play the game out, no matter how badly they seemed to be beaten. Bobby and the girl with her felt the strain growing, however. Unless the runner is experienced, the dogged perseverance of a close opponent is likely to rattle one at the last moment. As the two came down the stretch and the watching girls began to cheer and "root" for their favorite contestant, the runners felt their nerve going. A misstep now would cause the loss of the race to one, or to the other. Bobby tried not to see the girls along the track, or to think of the one pounding away beside her. She was breathing with comparative ease herself; but the sound of the other girl's breathing pumped in her ears, louder and louder! And how loudly her footbeats were, too! Could she only get away from those sounds--leave them behind her--clear the rushing air about her of those noises! There was the line stretched across the track. She knew it was there because Laura stood with it in her hand. If she could only breast that ribbon first! Somewhere--it seemed to be a cry from the air right over her head--a shrill voice kept repeating: "Come on! Come on, Bobs!" And Bobby called up that reserve strength that Mrs. Case had talked so much about in her little lectures to the girls, and sprang ahead of her rival. She was unconscious of the fact that she was ahead. It seemed to her that the other girl was still clinging to her. She could hear the footsteps and the heavy breathing. But suddenly she was aware that it was her own feet spurning the cinders that she heard--and her own breathing. She was winning! And then the tape snapped across her chest and Jess and Eve Sitz, who had run over to watch the finish of the race, caught her in their arms. "Splendid! Bully for you, Bobs!" cried Jess. "Why, there isn't any other quarter-mile runner in Central High. You take the palm!" And not until then did Bob understand that the girl she thought she had run so closely was a hallucination. The second runner was yards behind her at the finish! They bore Bobby into the gym. building and Mrs. Case insisted upon Dr. Agnew's seeing her again almost immediately. The physician was still in the building, and he came when called. The physical instructor was examining the time card Laura and her assistants had made out. She would not divulge their time to the runners, and the time keepers were sworn to secrecy; but everybody knew that Bobby Hargrew had made a good showing. "There's nothing the matter with that little girl," said the doctor, confidently. "Only, these sudden strains are not valuable. Yes, once, by the way, is all right. As long as one does not go beyond that reserve strength that your instructor harps upon," and he laughed. Bobby was naturally proud over her achievement, for she knew that she had run a very fast quarter. She was only sorry that she could not know herself just how fast she was. But that was a secret Mrs. Case kept from her. "The worst possible thing for a runner in training to know is how fast, or how slow, he is," she often declared, "Do your best each time; that is your business." So Bobby got into her street clothes and, having telephoned to her father as she had promised Eve Sitz, she ran home to pack her bag. On the way she passed by the house where Miss Carrington boarded. Gee Gee had two rooms in a wing of the old Boyce house, in which the Widow Boyce kept lodgers. Her front room had long, French windows which swung outward like doors upon the porch. And as Bobby ran by she saw a man come down from this porch, as though he had been listening at the windows, and hurry around the corner of the house and behind the thick hedge of the kitchen garden. "That was the Gypsy--Jim Varey," Bobby thought, hesitating before the house. "What is he haunting Gee Gee for? Ought she to know that he is hanging around?" But the girl hesitated about going in and speaking to the teacher. Gee Gee, she considered, was really her arch-enemy. Why should she try to shield her from any trouble? And, too, Miss Carrington might not thank her for interfering in her private affairs. So Bobby ran on home and told Mrs. Ballister where she was going, huddled a few things into her bag, kissed "the kids," as she termed her sisters, and ran off for the station, there to meet Eve for the 5:14 train to Keyport. And while she waited who should appear but that black-faced man with the gold hoops in his ears--Jim Varey! The Gypsy saw her--Bobby knew he did. But he paid her no attention, slinking into the men's room and not appearing again until Eve arrived and the two girls went aboard the train. Then Bobby saw him once more. "Do you see that fellow, Eve?" she demanded, whispering into the bigger girl's ear. "What fellow?" "There! he's gone," said Bobby, with a sigh. "I feared he was following us." "Whom do you mean?" queried Eve, rather surprised by her manner. "Jim Varey, the Gypsy." "Why! is he about?" asked Eve. "You mean the husband of Queen Grace? Well, he's a bad egg, he is! I hope he won't dog us to the house, for he might learn then where that poor girl is hiding." When they were in the car Bobby stuck her head out of the window to look along the platform. She did not see Jim Varey in the crowd; but she might better have kept in her head--for he saw her. CHAPTER XIII--WHAT MARGIT SAID The two girls settled back into their seats, each having one to herself, for the car was not filled. Bobby was soon laughing and joking in her usual way. "If I ride backward like this, will I get to the same place you do, Eve?" she asked. "What a ridiculous question!" exclaimed Eve. "I don't know. One of the 'squabs' was going around yesterday asking everybody a much more foolish one." "What was that?" "Why, what was the largest island in the world before Australia was discovered?" queried Bobby, giggling. "Why--why--Newfoundland, perhaps?" "Nope." "Madagascar?" "No," said Bobby, shaking her head. "England and Scotland together?" "Huh! You couldn't divide them very well," jeered Bobby. "But that's not the answer." "What _was_ the biggest island, then? I give, it up," said Eve. "Why, Australia, of course," chuckled Bobby. "It was there all the time, even if it wasn't discovered. Don't you see?" And so she passed the time without betraying the fact that she had a very serious reason for wishing to see and talk with Margit Salgo. When the girls left the train they had no idea that Jim Varey got out of the smoking car on the wrong side from the station and hid in the bushes. When the girls started across the fields toward the Sitz place, the Gypsy dogged them. In half an hour Eve and her guest reached the house, never suspecting that they had been the subject of attention. Bobby was welcome at the farmhouse. She had been there several times before and from Farmer Sitz down they enjoyed the whimsical, irrepressible girl. The expectation that she would be "good fun" put Bobby on her mettle, despite the fact that, secretly, she did not feel cheerful. Margit Salgo was better and seemed content enough to occupy the comfortable bed in the room next Eve's own. She knew Bobby immediately, and looked a bit disturbed. But Bobby gave her to understand that she had told nobody about what the Gypsy girl had said the day they were caught together in the rain. "But to-night, when the other folks are abed, I want you to tell Eve and me what you care to about yourself, Margit," said Bobby, when the others were out of the room. "Perhaps we can help you. All we girls are interested in you, for, you see, at least seven of us saw you that day when you ran away from your friends." "No friends of mine! no friends of mine!" gasped the girl, half in fear. "All right. You tell us all about it this evening," whispered Bobby and then whisked out to help Eve with her duties. Not that she was of much help when she followed Eve out to the clean and modern barn where Eve had her own six cows to milk, while Otto or the hired man milked the rest of the herd. But she _was_ amusing. "Goodness me!" was Bobby's first comment, when she came into the shed and saw the row of mild-eyed cattle standing in their stalls. "What a lot of cows--and every one of them chewing gum! Can you beat it?" "What do you suppose Miss Carrington would say to a row of girls who chewed their cud as seriously as these bossies?" laughed Eve. Bobby arched her brows, screwed up her mouth, and replied, in a stilted manner: "'Young ladies! I _am_ surprised. Do my eyes deceive me? Do you consider it polite to wag your jaws like that in public? Fie, for shame!' And much more to the same purpose," added Bobby, laughing. "Oh, Gee Gee and her lessons in politeness make me tired. She's so polite herself that she'd even return a telephone call! Hullo! what's this?" "A bridle," said Eve, as Bobby took it down from its hook. "Oh! Sure! You see, I'm a regular green-horn when it comes to country things. Of course, that's the bit. But say! _how_ do you ever get it into the horse's mouth? _I'd_ have to wait for him to yawn, I expect," and she laughed. She was great fun at supper, too, to the delight of the family. Otto, with his queer notions of the English language, made Bobby very gay; and the young man complained of his difficulties with the English language just for the sake of encouraging Bobby to correct his speech. Finally she made up one of her little doggerel verses for him, to Otto's great delight: "Otto saw a sausage in a pan, He smelled a smelt a-frying; He saw the sheep that had been dyed Look not the least like dying. "He saw a hen sit on an egg, Although she had been set; Heard Eve complain of being dry Though plainly she was wet. "He looked upon the window pane, Quite sure no pain it had; Then sighed, and shook his head, and said: 'Dot English, she iss pad!'" Good Mrs. Sitz had not allowed Margit to get out of bed, but Eve and Bobby took supper in to the Gypsy girl on a tray. She protested that she was not an invalid, and after Otto and the old folks had gone to bed, Margit, well wrapped in shawls and a comforter, came out to sit in a big chair before Eve's fire. "I am not like you girls," she said, wistfully. "You go to school and learn things out of books, eh? Well, I never went to school. And then, this big America is so different from my country. You do not understand." "I guess I can understand something of what you mean," observed Eve, soberly. "You see, _we_ came from Europe, too." "Not from Hungary--Austria-Hungary?" cried Margit Salgo, with excitement. "No, no. From Switzerland," replied Eve, smiling. "And I was very small when we came, so I do not remember much about it." "But I came only last year," explained Margit. "And I was given to the Vareys----" "Goodness me! Don't talk that way," interrupted Bobby. "It sounds just as though you were _owned_ by those Gypsies." "Well, it is so," said Margit. "I am a Gypsy, too. My father was Belas Salgo. He was a musician--a wonderful musician, I believe. But he was a Gypsy. And all the Romany are kin, in some way. These Vareys are English Gypsies. They are kind enough to me. But I sure believe they hide from me _who I am_." "What do you mean by that?" asked Eve, in surprise, although Bobby said not a word, but listened, eagerly. "Only my father, you see, was a Gypsy. My mother----" "Who was she?" asked Bobby, suddenly. "I--I do not know. But she was not of those people--no. I am sure of that. She died when I was very little. I went about in many lands with my father. Then he died--very suddenly. Gypsy friends took me for a while, but they all said I belonged over here--in America. So they sent me here finally." "Your mother was American, then, perhaps?" said Eve, shrewdly. "That may be it. But these Vareys care nothing about my finding any relatives, save for one thing," said Margit, shaking her head, gloomily. "What is that?" asked Bobby. "If there is money. They believe my mother's people might be rich, or something of the kind. Then they would make them pay to get hold of me. But suppose my mother's people do not want me?" slowly added the fugitive, sadly. "You are quite sure this is the idea the Vareys have?" asked Bobby. "Oh, yes. I heard them talking. Then I saw a--a card with a name written on it. They said, when they were looking at the card, '_She_ will know all about it. It is to her we must go.' So I know it was a woman's name." "But how did you know--or suspect--that the name was that of any teacher in our school?" demanded Bobby, much to Eve's surprise. "Ah! I learned much--here a word, there a word--by listening. I knew we were coming to Centerport for the purpose of getting speech with this woman whose name had been given them by the Hungarian people who brought me over here to America." "But mercy on us!" cried Eve, in vast amazement. "What name is it?" "She can't explain, for she cannot pronounce it," said Bobby, instantly. "Grace, or Jim Varey, never spoke the name aloud," said Margit, shaking her head. "But I know there are eighteen letters in the name. I counted them." "And what teacher at Central High has eighteen letters in her name?" murmured Eve, staring at Bobby. Bobby took a pencil and wrote Miss Carrington's full name slowly on a piece of paper. She put it before the Gypsy girl. "Is _that_ the name?" she asked. "When we spoke together before I had forgotten that Miss Carrington always spells her middle name out in full when she writes it at all." "Miss Carrington!" gasped Eve, and, like Bobby, looked in the Gypsy girl's face questioningly. CHAPTER XIV--ANOTHER FLITTING "Is she nice?" asked Margit Salgo, eagerly, looking at the two Central High girls. "Bless us!" muttered Bobby. "She is a very well educated lady," said Eve, seriously. "I cannot tell whether you would like her. But--but do you really believe that she knows anything about you, Margit?" "I do not know how much she knows of _me_," said the Gypsy girl, quickly. "But of my mother's people she knows. That I am sure. She--she holds the key, you would say, to the matter. It is through her, I am sure, that the Vareys expect to get money for me." "To sell you to Miss Carrington?" gasped Eve. "I do not know," replied the Gypsy girl, shaking her head. "But there is money to be made out of me, I know. And Queen Grace is--is very eager to get money." "She's avaricious, is she?" said Eve, thoughtfully. But Bobby Hargrew's mind was fixed upon another phase of the subject. She took Margit's hand and asked, softly: "What was your mother's name, dear?" "Why--Madam Salgo." "But her first name--her intimate name? What did your father call her? Do you not remember?" Margit waited a moment and then nodded. "I understand," she said. "It was 'Annake.'" "Anne?" "Ah, yes--in your harsh English tongue," returned Margit. "But why do you ask?" Bobby was not willing to tell her that--then. "At any rate, Margit," Eve told her, soothingly, "you will stay here with us just as long as you like." The girl had narrated her flight from Centerport when she saw the Gypsies in that town and knew they would hunt her down. "And we girls will help you find your friends." "This Miss Carrington," spoke Margit, eagerly. "She knows. I must meet her. But do you not tell her anything about me. Let me meet and judge her for myself." "Don't you think we'd better tell her something about you?" asked Eve, thoughtfully. "Perhaps she might not want to know me," replied the Gypsy girl, anxiously. "Who am I? A Romany! All you other people look down on the Romany folk." "Well, you are only part Gypsy," said the practical Evangeline. "And your father was an educated man--a great musician, you say." "Surely!" "Then I wouldn't class myself with people who would chase me with a bloodhound, and only wanted to make money out of me," said Eve, sensibly. "Ah! but all the Romany folk are not like, the Vareys," returned Margit. Eve would not allow the girl to talk until late, for her experience in the swamp had been most exhausting. They bundled her into bed, and laid all her poor clothing--which Mrs. Sitz had washed and ironed with her own hands--on the chair beside her. Bobby had one more question to ask the Gypsy girl before she went to sleep, and she asked that in secret. "How did that Varey woman--that Gypsy queen--know so much about me, and about Laura Belding, and our affairs?" "Did she?" returned Margit, sleepily. "She is a sharp one! But, then, the Vareys have worked through this part of the country for years and years. That is why I was given to them, I think. Perhaps Grace Varey has been to Centerport many times--I do not know. We Romany folk pick up all sorts of information--yes!" Bobby stole into bed beside Eve. She could not sleep for some time; but finally her eyes closed and--for some hours, or some minutes, she never knew which--she slept. Then, a dog's howling broke her rest. Bobby sat up and listened. The dog's mournful howling sounded nearer. Some dog about the Sitz premises answered with several savage barks. But, as nothing followed, the city girl dropped back upon her pillows again. The night noises of the country, however, disturbed her. She could not sleep soundly. Once she thought she heard voices--and so clearly that it seemed as though they must be in the bedroom. But it was still dark. Nobody could be astir, she told herself, at such a dark hour. A rooster crowed, and then several others followed. She fell asleep again slowly counting the chanticleers. And then--suddenly, it seemed--Eve was shaking her and calling in her ear: "Oh, Bobby! Bobby! Wake up--do! What do you suppose has happened?" It was broad daylight. Eve was more than half dressed and the door between their room and that occupied by the Gypsy girl was open. "What's the matter?" gasped Bobby. "She's gone!" wailed Eve. "Who's gone?" and Bobby leaped out of bed. "That girl. Out of the window. She's run away!" Bobby ran to look into the room. The window sash was up and the blinds wide open. The girls had slept on the ground floor, and alone in this wing of the rambling old farmhouse. "What did she run away for?" demanded Bobby, slowly. "She could have _walked_ away, had she wanted to, couldn't she? Nobody would have stopped her." "But she's gone!" cried Eve. "So I see," Bobby admitted, grimly. "She didn't go of her own free will, you can just bet!" "I didn't think of that," cried Eve, running to the window. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and even farmer folk remain an hour longer in bed on that day. The sun, which had just risen, revealed the hillside fields and pastures clearly. There was not an object in sight which suggested the missing girl's escape, saving just beneath the window. There several planks had been laid upon the soft earth, to make a walk to the hard path. This had been done by those who had come after Margit Salgo, so as to leave no footprints. Eve finished dressing in a hurry and ran to tell her parents and Otto. Mr. and Mrs. Sitz slept at the other end of the house, and Otto and the hired man on the floor above. Whoever had kidnapped the girl--for such it seemed to be--had worked very circumspectly. The watchdog, chained by his hutch, had been caught and a strong rubber band fastened about his jaws so that he could not bark. This had evidently been the first work of the marauders. Then they had gone about taking out the girl coolly enough. There were few footprints anywhere. And in the roadway they found where a wagon had been turned around. In this wagon, it was likely, Margit had been carried away, and it had started along the road in the direction of Centerport. "They have got her again," sighed Bobby. "And goodness only knows what they will do with her, or where they will hide her away." "Perhaps we will never see the poor girl again," ventured Eve. But Bobby did not believe that. She knew now, for sure, that Margit Salgo was in some manner closely connected with the private affairs of Miss Carrington. She was sure that both the Gypsies and Margit would appear near the high school again. CHAPTER XV--ANOTHER RIVALRY ON THE FIELD Eve Sitz had no rival at Central High when it came to putting the shot; but there were plenty of girls who essayed the broad jump--and some did almost if not quite as well as Eve. Notably Lou Potter, a senior who practiced assiduously and who had many friends who believed she would, in the end, best the Swiss girl. "The meet is a long way off yet," said one of Lou's friends to Laura Belding. "That girl you juniors are boosting isn't the only 'hope' of Central High." "Whom do you mean?" returned Mother Wit. "That girl whose name sounds like a glass of vichy--what is it? Eve----" "And what about Eve Sitz?" demanded Bobby, who chanced to arrive in time to hear the senior's remark. "And here's another fresh one," said the senior, eyeing Bobby coolly. "Thinks she is going to grab off the quarter-mile." "You make me tired!" returned Bobby, promptly. "Is that what you call loyalty to the school? If you've got another girl faster than I am, trot her out. I won't stand in her light." "Nor will Eve interfere with any girl who can beat her in jumping, or put the shot farther," declared Laura, quickly. "Oh, yes! That's all very pretty talk. But Mrs. Case is favoring you. She is favoring the whole junior class. _We_ weren't doing all the athletic stunts last year when we were juniors--no, indeed!" "Well, whose fault is it if the junior class stands better in after-hour athletics than the senior?" demanded Bobby, laughing. "And you pushed yourselves into the basketball team even before you were juniors," declared the other girl, angrily. "Come, now!" returned Laura, warmly. "That's not fair at all. If any of you seniors had shown any desire to play the game to win, Mrs. Case would have put you on the first team--you know that. But your class, as a whole, would rather dance, and go to parties, and attend the theatre, and all that. You know very well that Mrs. Case has often called our attention to the fact that late hours takes the vitality out of us, and makes success in the gym. and on the field impossible." "Thanks for your lecture, Mother Witless!" snapped the other girl. "But I don't care for it. And let me tell you that Lou Potter is going to make your soda-water champion look cheap." "Dear me!" exclaimed Bobby, as the older girl turned away. "Do you suppose we'll be as high and mighty as all that when we get to be seniors, Laura?" "I hope not--not even if we get to be patriarchs," laughed Mother Wit. "But Miss Potter is making a good jump, just the same, Bobby. Eve isn't going to have it all her own way." "Why, Eve'll beat her easily," declared Bobby, with confidence. Eve Sitz did not find it so easy to score ahead of all her rivals, however. And Lou Potter's record steadily grew better. Eve knew that she was doing her very best right along, whereas the senior was creeping up, creeping up--showing almost as good a record as Eve, and still forging on. Magdeline Spink, of Lumberport, held the championship for putting the shot, and Eve knew that she had surpassed her score. In the broad jump it was almost as difficult for the contestants to learn their exact record as it was for the sprinters to learn theirs. If Mrs. Case measured the distance she kept the record secret. Some of the seniors, especially those who were backing Lou Potter, began to make trouble in the meetings of the athletic committee, too. Heretofore no point had been made of the fact that the after-hour athletics were dominated by the junior class of Central High. That it was the fault of the present class of seniors if they were not in control of the League, did not now appeal to the disaffected. Some of the junior and sophomore girls who, as Bobby said, were inclined to "toady" to members of the first class, took up cudgels for the seniors, too. Notably Lily Pendleton, who was forever aping the manners of her elders and always liked to associate with more mature girls. And so, when there was friction in the committee meetings, Lily usually sided with the senior members. "Why don't you stick by your classmates, Lil?" demanded the hot-tempered Bobby, one afternoon, when the committee had been discussing plans for the June meet. It had already been decided that the inter-school field day exercises should be held on the grounds of Central High, that being by far the best field. "Have I got to stick by you whether you're right, or not, Bob Hargrew?" demanded Lily. "But we're right--of course." "I don't think so. The seniors should have their say. We'll want to boss when _we_ are seniors." "They haven't shown much interest in the scoring of Central High in athletic matters until lately," Jess Morse said, quickly. "Why should they want to come in now and run it all?" "They have the right," declared Lily. "Don't see it--do you, Laura?" cried Bobby. "If they only wouldn't try to go against Mrs. Case's wishes so frequently," sighed Mother Wit, who would have conceded much for peace. "They don't propose to be bossed by the teachers all the time," declared Lily. "And they're right." Now, this attitude would have appealed to Bobby Hargrew a few months before. But she had learned a good bit of late. "There is no use in our trying to run athletics in opposition to Mrs. Case--or Mr. Sharp," she said. "Or Gee Gee; eh, Bobby?" added Hester Grimes, slily. As the girls crowded out of the committee room some of the boys were grouped at the corridor's end, plainly waiting for their appearance. Chet Belding and Launcelot Darby, his chum, were waiting for Laura and Jess. That was a frequent occurrence. No boy ever waited for the fly-away Bobby; but there was with the two chums a tall, thin youth dressed in the most astonishing clothes that ever appeared in the corridors of a high school. "Oh me, oh my!" cried Bobby, under her breath. "There's Purt Sweet--and he looks like a negro minstrel." "My goodness me! He _is_ dressed to kill, isn't he?" giggled Jess. For Prettyman Sweet, the sartorial example of Central High, was more than usually gay upon this occasion. And he was not waiting there by chance, it was plain. "See! Lily is trotting off with him," laughed Bobby. "They must have patched up a truce. Oh! and look at that collar!" and the wicked Bobby leaned far over the banister and sang gaily: "He wore a collar extra high, He wore a purple vest; He wore his father's patience out-- But why tell all the rest?" "That saucy child!" exclaimed Lily, looking back. "She ought to be whipped." "You never can get even with her, doncher know," drawled Purt, shaking his head. "Weally, I'd much like to try it; but I don't know what to do." "And the rest of those girls, laughing, too," snapped Lily. "Jess Morse and Laura are just as bad." "Well, weally----" "Oh, if you had half the pluck of a rabbit," scolded Lily, "you'd do something to get square." Now, Lil Pendleton wronged Pretty Sweet. He was not particularly brave, it was true; but he would have done a good deal to "get even" with Bobby Hargrew for her sharp tongue. He had been the butt of her jokes for a long time and---- Well, it is said even the worm will turn. The following afternoon a sudden thunder shower kept some of the girls in the school building after most of the pupils had departed. It was a part of the junior class, and Bobby, as well as Laura and Jess, were among those kept by Miss Carrington after the regular session closed. "I believe she knew we were due at the athletic field this afternoon," grumbled Bobby, as they stood waiting at the foot of the tower stairs for the shower to pass. "What good would it have done us to be at the gym. now?" laughed Laura. "This shower has spoiled open air work for the afternoon." "Bobby doesn't believe Gee Gee ever gives us extra tasks because we deserve them," said Jess. "It _did_ seem as though Miss Carrington was particularly harsh to-day," murmured Eve. "That's so! She was as cross as two sticks," declared Bobby. "I believe something is troubling Miss Carrington's mind," said Nellie Agnew. "Have you noticed how thin she is getting--and that she starts nervously at every little thing?" "She was scared when the thunder began--I was glad of it," declared Bobby. "Bad girl!" admonished Laura. "It's her conscience," ventured Bobby. Eve looked at her and shook her head. "Oh, I'm not going to say _why_ I think her conscience troubles her," laughed Bobby. Nellie was looking out of the window. "I say, girls! it's breaking away, I do believe. And I think there's a rainbow--yes! there's a part of it." "It is a very small part you see, Nell," laughed Eve. "Let's go up into the tower," suggested Jess. "We can see it all from there." "Let's," agreed Bobby. "That's forbidden, you know," said Laura, slowly. "Oh, dear, Laura! Don't be such a mollycoddle! Nobody's really told us girls not to go into the tower. And we won't do any damage----" "Maybe the door is locked," observed Nellie, doubtfully. But Bobby ran to the solid oak door and tried it. Although there was a key in the lock, the door opened at once to her turning of the knob. "Come on!" exclaimed Bobby. "You're a lot of scare-cats!" "I admire your language, Bobs," laughed Jess, following her. The others went, too. Of course it was forbidden territory, and why shouldn't they want to go? That was only human nature. Besides, as they climbed the stairs, through the narrow windows they caught glimpses of the rainbow and the clouds, now breaking up into great beds of vari-colored mist. "Hurry up!" cried Bobby, in the lead. "It's just wonderful up here." They had left the door at the foot of the long, winding flight open. But scarcely had they disappeared when another figure appeared in the corridor which they had left. Purt Sweet, too, had been kept after school by Professor Dimp. The youth saw the girls ascend the stair. The chance was too obvious to neglect. Although usually taking Bobby's jokes and the others' laughter good-naturedly, he had been spurred by Lily Pendleton's remarks to a desire to "get square." And here was opportunity before him. Purt hurried forward, softly closed the door behind the girls, and turned the key in the lock. CHAPTER XVI--FIVE IN A TOWER But the girls climbing the stairs to see the rainbow had no idea that anybody below was playing a trick on them. After school was dismissed and the pupils left the building, and the teachers were gone, there was nobody but old John, the janitor, on the premises. From any other floor he could be summoned by alarm bells. But there were no push-buttons in the tower. Therefore, when Purt Sweet turned the key, and stole away from the door at the bottom of the tower stairs, he had imprisoned the five girls as effectually as though they were in the tower of some ancient castle. The five went up the stairs, however, without any suspicion that they were prisoners. "Come on! come on!" urged Bobby, who mounted much quicker than the others. "Oh, this is glorious!" They came out into a square room, through which the air blew freshly. The rain had evidently blown into the place during the shower, for it lay in puddles on the stone floor. The windows had no panes--indeed, they were merely narrow slits in the stone wall, like loop-holes in old fortresses. "Dear me!" cried Jess. "How small the people look in the park--do you see? Just like ants." "Some of 'em are uncles, not 'ants,'" laughed Bobby. "Punning again!" exclaimed Nell. "You should be punished for that, Bobby." "Huh! that's worse than mine," declared Bobby. "Look at that sky!" cried Laura. "It is very beautiful," agreed Eve, quietly. "Look at those clouds yonder--a great, pink bed of down!" murmured Jess. "And this arch of color," said Laura, seriously. "I suppose that is just what Noah saw. How poetic to call it the Bow of Promise!" The girls enjoyed looking at the wild colorings of the clouds and the beautiful bow. A half an hour elapsed before they proposed descending. As they went down the stairs, Bobby still in the lead, she stopped suddenly with a little cry. "What's the matter now, Bobs?" demanded Jess. "Oh! don't you see it?" cried the other girl. "It's a spider." "He won't eat you," said Jess. "Go on." "I know he won't. I declare! he's spinning a web." At that moment she came to the bottom of the stairway. "Guess the draught pulled the door shut," she exclaimed. "Hullo!" She tried the knob, but the door would not open. "Why, what's the matter, Bobby?" cried Laura. "That is not a spring lock." "Huh! I guess not," returned Bobby. "But somebody's sprung it on us, just the same." "What do you mean?" demanded Nellie Agnew. "The door's locked," declared Laura, reaching the bottom step and trying the knob herself. "You bet it is," said Bobby. "It's a joke!" gasped Eve. "I should hope so," returned Laura. "If they were in earnest it would be bad for us. John will leave the building soon, and how will we attract anybody to release us?" "Oh, Laura!" cried Nell. "Nobody would be so mean." "It may be," said Eve, thoughtfully, "that somebody went past, saw the door open, and closed and locked it with no idea that we were in the tower." "Well!" exclaimed Bobby, at that. "We're in a nice fix--yes?" "Who would have done it?" wailed Nellie Agnew. "Maybe the janitor himself," observed Laura, thoughtfully. "My goodness! but you're the cheerful girl," returned Bobby. "Do you want to scare us to death right at the start, Mother Wit?" "We might as well admit the seriousness of the situation," said Laura. "I can't imagine that anybody would shut us up here for a joke." "Some of the boys?" suggested Eve. "That Short and Long is full of mischief," added Nell. "Chet would wring his neck for a thing like this," declared Jess, with confidence. "I don't care who did it, or what it was done for," said Bobby, finally. "The fact remains: The door is locked!" "That is the truest thing you ever said, Bobby," sighed Jess. "Come on back to the tower room. Do you suppose we can call loud enough to attract the attention of people on the street?" "Not in a thousand years," groaned Bobby. "Oh, we won't have to remain here that long," said Laura, cheerfully. "Hope not," growled Bobby. "I'm getting hungry." "That won't do you any good," said Jess. "It's useless to have an appetite when there is nothing in sight to satisfy it--just as useless as the holes in a porous plaster." "Who says the holes in a porous plaster are useless?" demanded Bobby, quickly. "They're not." "What are they for, then?" asked Eve, mildly. "Why, to let the pain out, of course," declared Bobby, boldly. "I wish there were some holes here that would let _us_ out," sighed Nellie Agnew. "Don't lose heart, Nell!" advised Laura. "There never was a situation that didn't offer some release. We'll find a way of escape." "Sure!" scoffed Bobby. "Any of us can crawl out through one of these slits in the wall." "And then what?" demanded Jess. "Why, jump!" cried Bobby. "There'll be nothing to stop you." "Don't talk so recklessly," said Mother Wit. "This is really a very serious problem. Mother will be very anxious about me if I don't come home by six." "It's an hour and a half to that yet," said Nellie, looking at her watch. Bobby was striving to squeeze through one of the open windows in the tower and look down upon the street. But it was nonsense to expect anybody on the walk to see them up there in the tower. "And we could shriek our heads off without attracting a bit of attention," declared Nellie, half crying. "What _shall_ we do, Laura?" "Keep cool," advised Laura. "Why lose all our courage because we are locked into this tower? We will be found." "Maybe," spoke Bobby, gloomily. "You have become a regular croaker," declared Jess. "I'm ashamed of you, Bobs." "That's all right!" cried Bobby. "But hunger is an awful thing to suffer." "Ha! you make me laugh," cried Eve. "Just think of me! If I don't catch that 5:14 train I'll not get supper till nine o'clock." "But what a supper it will be when you _do_ get it!" exclaimed Bobby. "Oh, girls! when I was at Eve's house last week they had thirteen vegetables for supper, besides two kinds of cold meat, and preserves and pickles. Talk about the poor farmer! Why the sort of supper Eve's folks have every night would cost city folks two dollars a plate." "I am afraid you are stretching your imagination, Bobby," laughed Eve. "Never! They've got bins and bins of vegetables--and rows and rows of ham in the meat house--and bar'ls and bar'ls of salt pork! Listen here," cried the whimsical Bobby, who had a doggerel rhyme for every occasion. "This is just what Eve Sitz hears whenever she goes down into the cellar in the winter. She can't deny it!" And she sang: "Potato gazed with frightened eyes, King corn lent mournful ear, The beet a blushing red did turn, The celery blanched with fear, The bean hid trembling in its pod, The trees began to bark, And on the beaten turnpike road The stones for warmth did spark, The brooklet babbled in its sleep Because the night was cold; The onion weeps within its bed Because the year is old." "You are so ridiculous," said Eve. "Nobody believes the rigamaroles you say." "All right!" returned Bobby, highly offended. "But you're bound to believe one thing--that's sure." "What is that?" queried Nellie. "That we're up in this tower, with the door locked--and I believe that John, the janitor, goes home about this time to supper!" "Oh, oh!" cried Nellie. "Don't say _that_. However will we get away?" "Let's bang on the door!" exclaimed Jess. So they thumped upon the thick oak door--Bobby even kicked it viciously; and they shouted until they were hoarse. But nobody heard, and nobody came. The only person who knew they were locked into the tower was a mile away from Central High by that time--and, anyway, he dared not tell of what he had done, nor did he dare go back to release the girls from their imprisonment. CHAPTER XVII--EVE TAKES A RISK "Now, Nell!" declared Mother Wit, emphatically, "there isn't the least use in your crying. Tears will not get us down from this tower." "You--you can be just as--as brave as you want to be," sobbed Nellie Agnew. "I--want--to--go--home!" "For goodness-gracious sake! Who doesn't?" snapped Bobby. "But, just as Laura says, weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth won't help us the tiniest bit!" "What will help us, I'd like to know?" grumbled Jess Morse. "Put on your thinking cap, Mother Wit," cried Bobby. "Dear me!" said Eve, drawing in her head. "It _is_ a long way from the ground--and that's a fact." "It's a good, long jump," chuckled Bobby. "Let's write calls for help on pieces of paper and drop them down," suggested Laura. "With the wind blowing the way it is, the papers would fly up, instead of down," scoffed her chum. "We'll weight 'em," said Laura. "It would be like throwing over a bottle into the sea, telling how we are cast away on a desert island," said Bobby. "And this is worse than any desert island I ever heard about. Say, girls! how do you suppose our boots will taste?" "What nonsense!" said Nellie, wiping her eyes. "We sha'n't be hungry enough to begin on our shoes for a long time yet. But how scared our folks will be when we don't come home to supper." "And the sun's going down," mourned Jess. "Why, girls," said Laura, thoughtfully, "it will be after dark before our folks begin to miss us much. And then they won't see us up here, that's sure!" "I'm going to climb out of one of these windows and wave something," cried her chum. "Surely somebody will see me." "And think you're just playing up here," commented Nellie, who was fast losing all hope. "My goodness!" exclaimed Jess. "They must think, then, that I have selected a crazy place to play in," and she removed her jacket and began to crawl out through one of the windows of the tower. "Be careful, dear!" warned Laura. "Yes, do look out where you step," said Bobby, grabbing Jess's skirt with a firm grip. "It's a long way down to the street." "If we only had some means of making a light up here," said Laura, in a worried tone. "Then, after dark, people _would_ be attracted by our plight." "I haven't a match--have you?" demanded Bobby. "Of course not. Girls never do carry useful things in their pockets. Unless _you_ do, Bobby." "I've got about everything in my pocket but a match," declared the smaller girl. "I have a good mind to drop this old coat," called Jess, from outside. "And it would catch on something half-way down the tower, perhaps, and then you'd never see it again," Bobby said. "Well, what _shall_ we do?" demanded Jess, wriggling back into the tower room and dragging her jacket after her. "Nobody will even look up. I expect we'd look like pigeons up here to them." "Oh, dear!" gasped Bobby. "I do wish some pigeons _would_ fly up here. They do sometimes, you know." "What good would they do us?" demanded Nellie. "Couldn't we kill and eat them?" replied Bobby. "Nothing like having bright ideas when you are cast away on a desert tower." "Your ideas may be bright enough," laughed Laura; "but I wouldn't care to eat pigeons raw." "You may be glad to before we get down from here," returned Bobby, gloomily. "Now that's ridiculous," said Mother Wit, briskly. "Don't _you_ begin to lose heart, Miss Hargrew." "I've as good a right as the next one," growled Bobby. "Speaking of pigeons," observed Jess, ruminatively, "Chet's carriers sometimes come up here when he lets them out. I've seen them." "My goodness me!" ejaculated Mother Wit. "Wouldn't that be fine?" "Wouldn't what be fine?" queried Nellie, wiping her eyes. "If some of Chet's carriers would just fly up here. They know me. I've handled them lots of times. And we might send a note back telling Chet where we are." "And he'd find it tied under the pigeon's wing in about a week," scoffed Bobby. "What _are_ we going to do, girls?" demanded Nellie. "And it's chilly up here, too." Jess pulled on her jacket again. "We can go down on the stairway, where it is warmer," she said. "It is very annoying," wailed the doctor's daughter, "to have you girls take the matter so calmly. Why, the whole town will be searching for us by midnight." "I hope so!" ejaculated Bobby. "Let's all shout together. Somebody ought to hear us," Eve said. "That is impossible," objected Jess. "Sound doesn't travel downward--much. Not when there is a sharp wind blowing, as it is now. It's a good deal farther to the ground than it appears." "That's like what our old girl, Nora, said about the distance to Liverpool. When she came to us, she came direct from the immigrant ship," laughed Bobby. "And she was telling about the weary way across the 'say.' 'How far is it, Nora?' one of the children asked her. "'It's fower thousan' mile,' declared Nora, 'to Liverpool.' "But the kiddies wouldn't have that. They looked it up in the geography, and told her she was wrong--it was only three thousand. "'Sure, that's flatways,' says Nora. 'But I been over it, an' wid the ups an' the downs, sure I _know_ 'tis another thousand!" "Dear me, Bobby," complained Nellie. "I believe you'd joke if you were going to be hanged!" "Do you think so?" asked Bobby, seriously. "Much obliged. That's a good reputation to have, whether I deserve it or not." "Good for you, Bobs!" laughed Jess. "You keep still, old croaker!" she added, shaking Nellie Agnew. "Let's look on the cheerful side of it. Every cloud has a silver lining." "If you can see any silver lining to _this_ cloud, I'd like you to show it to me, Miss!" exclaimed Nellie, with some warmth. Eve was going from window to window, thrusting her head and shoulders out of each, and examining the sides of the tower carefully. Laura asked what she was doing. "Why, dear, on this side is the roof of the school building," said Eve, thoughtfully. "It isn't so far below us." "It's much too far for us to jump," returned Mother Wit. "True," said Eve, smiling. "But see here." "I can't climb out of the same window you are at," complained Laura. "Go to the next one, then, and I'll point it out to you." Laura did so. Sitting sideways on the sills the girls could thrust the upper part of their bodies out and obtain an unobstructed view of this entire wall of the tower. "See that wire?" exclaimed Eve, eagerly. Just below the level of the windows which pierced the upper story of the tower a heavy stay-wire was fastened to a staple set in the masonry. At some time the school building had been dressed with flags and bunting and this heavy wire had never been removed. It was fastened at the other end to a ring in the roof of the main building. "I see it, Evangeline," admitted Mother Wit, with something like fear in her voice. "You wouldn't do it!" "I believe I can," declared the country girl. "Why--why--it would take a trapeze performer!" "Well, Mrs. Case has had us working on the ladders and the parallel bars until we ought to be pretty fair on a trapeze," said Eve, laughing a little. "Oh, Eve! I wouldn't try it," cried Laura. "You see," said the other, steadily, "if I can get out of the window here, and two of you can steady me, I can drop down upon that wire----" "But suppose you should fall to the roof!" "I won't fall. That is not what I am aiming to do, at least." "It is too reckless a thing to try," cried Laura. "Now, wait. Nobody will see us up here. If we have to stay all night some of the girls will be sick. You know that. Now, if I can once get to that wire, I know I can work my way down it to the roof." "You'll slide--and cut your hands all to pieces." "No, I won't. I've a pair of thick gloves in my pocket," declared Eve. "I am going to try it, Mother Wit." "Oh, I don't believe you had better!" Eve slid back into the tower-room, Laura following her. The bigger girl slipped out of her coat and took off her hat immediately. "Hullo!" said Bobby. "Don't you want your slippers, too? You're in for the night, are you?" But Eve was finding her gloves and these she drew on. Even Nellie began to get interested then. "What _are_ you going to do now?" she cried. Laura explained quickly. Nellie began to cry again, and even Bobby looked troubled. "It isn't worth the risk, is it?" she asked. "Somebody will find us some time." "That's just it," Eve returned. "We don't know when that _some time_ will be. I can slide down that wire, get in by the roof opening, and unlock this door that shuts us up here. Of course, the key will be in the lock. If it isn't, and there is nobody in the building, I can telephone for help." "Say, that's great!" spoke Jess. "If you can only do it safely, Eve." "Oh, I'll do it," declared the country girl, confidently, and the next moment she began climbing out through the window nearest to the wire. Laura and Jess held her around the waist; then, as she slid out, farther and farther, they clung to her shoulders. But Eve had to leave her arms free and suddenly she panted: "Let me go! I've got to drop and grab the wire. That's the only way." Laura and her chum looked at each other in doubt and fear. It did seem as though, if they let go of the girl, she must fall to the foot of the tower! CHAPTER XVIII--THE CONSCIENCE OF PRETTYMAN SWEET Prettyman Sweet would never have played such a contemptible trick on Bobby Hargrew and her comrades had he not been goaded to it by Lily Pendleton. Purt had what the girls called "a dreadful crush" on Lily, and she had made fun of him because he took Bobby's jokes so tamely. "If you had a spark of pluck you'd get square with that Hargrew girl," Lily Pendleton had told him, and Purt thought that he was getting square with Bobby and her friends when he turned the key in the lock at the foot of the tower stairs. At first as he ran out of the school building into the rain that was still falling a little, his only fear was that he had been seen by somebody. But once away from the school building he began to giggle over the joke he had played on the girls. "They won't laugh at me so much next time," he thought. And then he remembered, with something of a shock, that he could not afford to tell anybody about what he had done. If he owned up to having locked the girls into the tower, he knew very well what would happen to him. If Chet Belding, or Lance Darby, did not get hold of him, one of the other boys would most certainly take him to task for the trick. And Purt Sweet was no fighter. He wouldn't get much fun out of the trick he had played on the girls, after all! Now he wished he had not done it. What was the fun, when he had to keep it a secret? So Purt continued on this way home with lagging feet. And every yard, the possibilities that might follow his trick grew plainer in his mind. He saw, as he went on, that instead of having done something to create a laugh, he might have been guilty of an act that would start a whole lot' of trouble. He knew, as well as did the girls shut up in the tower, that old John, the janitor, would go home to supper soon. And at this time of year, when there were no fires to see to, except the hot water heater, the old man might not come back at all. For, as far as Purt knew, there were no meetings in the building that evening. At least, he had heard none announced. The girls were likely to be left in the tower until the next day, while their friends were searching the city for them. Purt went into the square, from which point he could gaze up at the tower. But it was so far away, and so tall, that he could see nothing at the narrow slits of windows up there at the top. "If--if those girls waved a handkerchief out of the openings, nobody could see it down here," thought the conscience-stricken youth. He had never been up in the tower himself, for it was forbidden territory. So he did not know how wide the windows were. It just struck home to Master Purt Sweet that the girls would be unable to signal their situation to anybody. But he had reached home before these thoughts so troubled him that he felt as though he _must_ undo what he had done. Perhaps John had not gone home yet. He might still be able to get into the building, creep upstairs, unlock the door of the tower, and then run out before the girls could catch and identify him. For Purt had a very strong desire not to be suspected in this matter. Chet Belding would take up cudgels for his sister in a minute; and Chet would, Purt was sure, thrash him most soundly! Any of the teachers would have a pass-key to the building. Purt remembered that fact, too. Could he prevail upon one of them to lend him a key so that he could go into the building? Of course, he must have some good excuse, and he feared to appear before Professor Dimp with any such request unless he could back it with sound reason. And Mr. Sharp was entirely out of the question. Purt knew that the principal of Central. High would see right through him instantly. As for the lady teachers, Purt was more afraid of them than of Mr. Dimp and the principal. As it grew dark the boy sat cowering in his room at home, from the window of which he could see dimly the outlines of the schoolhouse tower, and he wept a few tears. He would have given a good deal had he not turned the key in that lock! Purt didn't feel that he could appear at the dinner table; so he gave an excuse to his mother's maid, and went out again. Perhaps somebody had discovered the girls up in the tower and released them. He walked up Whiffle Street and saw Chet Belding hanging over the front gate. "Hullo, Purt!" exclaimed the big fellow. "What's doing?" "No--nothing," stammered Purt. "Well, don't be so scared about it. What's got you now?" "No--nothing," stammered Purt again. "Haven't seen Lance, have you?" "No." "Nor the girls?" The question scared Purt Sweet through and through. But he plucked up courage to ask: "How should I know anything about them? Hasn't your sister come home yet?" "No. Down to that gym., I expect. Say, these girls are getting altogether too athletic. Didn't see Jess, either, did you?" Purt shook his head and went on. He was afraid to stop longer with Chet--afraid that the latter would learn something about what he had done. It did seem to the culprit as though knowledge of the trick played on Laura Belding and her friends stuck out all over him. It was deep dusk now. Purt came within a block of the school building and looked slily about the corners, as though he were bent on mischief, instead of desirous of undoing the mischief he had already done. Had old John gone home yet? Would all the lower doors of Central High be locked? These were the questions that puzzled him. Purt ran into the side gate of the boys' recreation ground and fumbled at the basement door, by which he knew the janitor usually left. It was locked; yet, as he rattled the knob, he thought he heard an answering sound within. He scuttled away to the corner and there waited to watch the door. Nobody came out. After half a minute of uncertainty the lad crept on to the boys' entrance. The outside doors were closed and locked. He ran around to the street and entered the girls' yard. The outer vestibule door was opened here and he ventured in, creeping along in the darkness and fumbling for the doorknob. And just then Purt Sweet got the scare of his life. A strong hand clasped his wrist and a sharp voice demanded: "What do you want here? Are you waiting for those girls, too?" "Oh, dear me!" gasped Prettyman Sweet, his knees trembling. "_Now_ I'm in a fix, sure enough!" CHAPTER XIX--MARGIT AND MISS CARRINGTON MEET It was several seconds before Purt realized just what manner of person had seized him by the arm in the vestibule at the girls' entrance of Central High. It was so dark that Purt only knew it was a girl. "Who--who are you?" he stammered. "Oh! It's only a boy," said the girl, in a tone of disgust. "What do you want here?" "I--I was trying to get in," murmured Purt. "What for? Isn't this the girls' entrance? They told me it was." Then Purt knew that she did not belong at Central High. Indeed, she was a different kind of girl from any the youth had ever met. "Who are you, and what do _you_ want?" asked Purt, plucking up courage. "I guess you don't go to Central High." "I never went to any school--not like this, anyway." "But what do you want here? I--I left something in the building and wanted to get back and find it," stammered Purt. "I was waiting to see those girls," said the stranger. "What girls?" demanded the boy, in a panic again. "Some that I know. I waited and watched down by that place where they play----" "The athletic field?" suggested Purt. "Perhaps. And I asked another girl. She said they had not come down from the school yet. They were kept in. So I came up here----" "Who were the girls you want to see?" "One is named Evangeline, and she-comes from Switzerland. I am Austrian myself. And there is another girl--a little girl who always laughs. Her name is like a boy's name." "Bobby Hargrew," said Purt, with a stifled groan. "And neither of those girls have come out of the building yet?" "No," said the girl. "I have watched and waited for more than an hour." Purt rattled the knob of the inner door desperately; but it was locked and evidently there was nobody within to hear him. "They must be away upstairs and cannot hear you," said the strange girl. And _that_ scared Purt, too. It seemed to him that this girl must know just what he had done to those girls whom she was waiting for. He started to leave the vestibule. "Hold on! Isn't there any other door we can get in by?" asked the stranger. "I'm--I'm going to try the main entrance. Perhaps that is unlocked," Purt replied. "I'll go with you," volunteered the other, and followed him down the steps. Purt wanted to get rid of her, whoever she was. He wished now that he hadn't come back to the schoolhouse. He had read somewhere that criminals are driven by some mysterious power to haunt the scenes of their crimes. And it must be a fact, Purt told himself, for he had certainly been foolish to come back here to Central High--and go without his supper. He decided to slip out of the girls' yard and run away. But when he reached the street there was the strange girl right at his elbow. And he remembered that she had a grip as firm as Chet Belding's own. So nothing would do but try the front entrance. Of course, he knew it was ridiculous to go to that door. Even by day it was kept locked and visitors had to ring; only the teachers had pass-keys. But they went in at the main gate and mounted the steps of the portico. It was indeed black under here, for the street lights were too far away to cast any of their radiance into the place. Purt fumbled around, found the doorknob, and tried it. To his amazement it turned in his hand and the door swung open into the dark corridor. "They're here, then," whispered the girl. "Where do you suppose they are?" she continued. Now Purt had very good reason for believing that he knew just where the girls were whom this stranger wished to see; but he only said, gruffly: "I'm sure I don't know. I don't believe they're in the building now." "Oh, yes, they are. They have not come out. There are several beside those I named. So I was told at the athletic field." "Well, I don't know anything about them!" denied Purt, hurriedly. "I--I just want to go up for my book----" He shook himself free and ran for the front stairway. He knew his way in the dark and hoped to leave the girl behind. Once let him reach the foot of the tower stairs, he would unlock the door, fling it open so that the prisoners would hear him above, and then dart down the boys' stairway and so out of the school building again. But before he reached the top of the first flight he heard the patter of the strange girl's footsteps beside him. Through the long windows enough light filtered to show him her figure. And she ran better than he did, and without panting. Purt was scared now worse than he had been before. "She'll tell them who unlocked the door," he thought, "and so they'll know right away who imprisoned them in the first place. Then Laura will tell her brother and Chet will thrash me--I know he will!" The lad was almost ready to cry now. It seemed to him as though every step he took got him deeper and deeper into trouble. He dashed up the other flight two steps at a time; but the girl kept on equal terms with him. What good wind she had! She could beat many of the girls of Central High in running, that was sure. "I don't know what has become of Eve Sitz and that other girl you want to see," exclaimed Purt, stopping suddenly. "And I don't see why you are sticking so close to me." "You know your way around this building; I don't," declared the girl, shortly. "I can't help you find them----" "You seem afraid of something," remarked the girl, shrewdly. "What's the matter with you?" "Well, I go to school here," complained Purt. "You don't. You'll get into trouble, coming into the building at night." "I guess you're afraid of getting into trouble yourself," returned the other, quite unshaken. "Well, if one of the teachers is here and finds us----" "I'll tell them just what I came for. Will you?" demanded the girl, quickly, and thrusting her face into Purt's so as to see him better. She had him there! Purt knew it--and he knew _she_ knew it. This strange girl was laughing softly to herself in the darkness. "Go on--if you're going anywhere," said she, after a minute. "I believe you know where those girls are. I want to see that Evangeline and that Hargrew girl. You show me." "I--I don't know!" wailed Purt, under his breath. Then he was sure he heard somebody's step. It was in one of the classrooms opening into this corridor. At the sound, spurred by sudden terror, the boy leaped away. He was half-way down the corridor. Around the corner was the door of the tower. And then, just as he dashed past a door on his right, it opened. A broad band of light streamed out, and to Purt's ears came the quick demand: "What's this? Who are you?" "It's Gee Gee!" thought the boy, but he never stopped. In a moment he realized that Miss Carrington had not addressed her question to him, but to the girl. He ran on, as softly as possible, and rounded the corner, knowing that the strange girl had been caught by the teacher, who repeated her demand in a louder and more emphatic tone. "Who are you? What are you doing here in the schoolhouse?" Then Miss Carrington saw that the girl was not one of her scholars--indeed, no girl of Central High was ever dressed so gaily, unless it was at a masquerade. "For goodness sake, child!" exclaimed the teacher, still more sharply. "Come in here and explain yourself." She drew her inside the classroom and closed the door. In the full light the strange girl was revealed in a purple velvet skirt, a green bodice, a yellow silk scarf, or handkerchief, around her neck, and with a net, on which steel beads were sewed, over her hair. With her dark complexion and high color she was indeed a striking figure as she stood there, hands on her hips, and panting slightly as she gazed back bravely into Miss Carrington's spectacled eyes. "For goodness sake, child!" repeated the teacher. "Who and what are you?" "My name is Margit Salgo," said the Gypsy girl, watching Miss Carrington, with her sharp black eyes. "Salgo?" whispered the teacher, and for a moment the girl thought that Miss Carrington would sink into the nearest chair. Then she drew herself up and, although her pallor remained, her eyes sparkled behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. "I suppose you are here to tell me your father was Belas Salgo?" demanded the lady, harshly. "I don't know who you are, Madam," said the Gypsy girl. "Are you the lady whom the Vareys say knows all about me?" "Who are the Vareys?" returned Miss Carrington, quickly. "They are English Gypsies. I was placed in their care when my father's friends brought me to this country. They have held me prisoner but I have got away from them----" "I do not understand you--I do not understand you," insisted Miss Carrington, weakly. And now she did grope her way to a seat. "Are you the teacher here whose name has in it eighteen letters?" asked the girl, anxiously. "I do not read your English, although I speak it. I learn to speak languages easily--it is a gift. My father had it." "True," murmured Miss Carrington. "Belas Salgo was a wonderful linguist." "Does your name have the eighteen letters?" pursued Margit, eagerly. She repeated her story about the card on which was printed, or written, the name of the lady whom the Vareys had come to Centerport to see. Miss Carrington listened more quietly, and finally bowed. "Yes. I am the lady. I am Miss Carrington," she admitted. "That is what those girls called you," muttered Margit, but the teacher did not hear. "You claim to be Belas Salgo's daughter?" repeated Miss Carrington, at last. "I am his daughter. I cannot remember my mother--much. But my father I remember very well. Why, I traveled everywhere with him! All over southern Europe we went. And to Algiers, and the other north coast cities. He played everywhere about the Mediterranean until he died. And then," said the girl, simply, "I lost all happiness--and I was brought to this great, cold country." Miss Carrington had listened with her head resting on her hand and her eyes watching the girl from behind her glasses. Now she said: "Well, I do not believe you are Belas Salgo's child--not the Belas Salgo I have good reason to remember. No. But I will take you home with me and we will talk this matter over. "I was correcting some examination papers," she added, going to the desk and turning out the student lamp. "But they may go until another time," and with a sigh she put on her hat and cloak, and taking the Gypsy girl's hand led her out of the school building, the darkened corridors of which she knew so well. CHAPTER XX--INTER-CLASS RIVALRY If Eve Sitz had been outside of the schoolhouse tower, being held by the girls all of this time, she must certainly have been by now at the point of exhaustion, and so must they. But Eve had dropped just right, had caught the wire with her gloved hands just as she had expected to, and then swung down and hung from the steel strand for a few seconds to get her breath. Nellie and Bobby, leaning out of neighboring windows, cheered her on. "Hurrah, girls!" declared the irrepressible. "She's going to do it. There she goes--hand under hand!" "Oh, if she doesn't slip," wailed Nellie. "She's not going to slip," cried Bobby. "Hurrah! She's on the roof." Once on the main building Eve did not waste time. She ran to the door, which she knew would be open, and so darted down the stairs to the corridor out of which the tower stairway opened. There was the key in the lock as they had expected, and in a few moments she was calling the other four girls down. "My goodness!" exclaimed Nellie, kissing Eve when she reached the foot of the stairs. "Aren't you just the brave, brave girl! And whatever should we have done without you?" "I guess one of the others would have done the same had I not first thought of it," returned Eve, modestly. "Hush!" exclaimed Laura, suddenly. "I hear somebody." A door opened below, and then somebody came up stairs. The girls crowded back into the corner and waited. "I know that step," whispered Jess. "Fee, fi, fo, fum!" murmured Bobby. "And well may you say it is your 'foe,' Bobby," giggled Jess. "It's Miss Carrington." "Never!" gasped Nell. "Yes, it is. I am sure," agreed Laura. "Oh, dear! if she catches us here we'll have to tell where we have been and all about it," groaned Eve. "And demerits to work off to-morrow," moaned Bobby. "Back into the stairway and keep still," whispered Laura. They all crowded back. Miss Carrington came along the gloomy corridor and entered a classroom. She did not turn the corner. "Good! Now let's creep down and make our escape," whispered Bobby. "But not by the front door. She came in that way." "But the other doors will be locked--both the boys' and ours," urged Jess. "I know the way out through the basement," spoke Bobby, with determination. "I can open John's door. Come on." So, at the very moment Prettyman Sweet tried the basement door, the girls on whom he had played his trick were about to come out. Purt was scared and ran away. Later, when he escaped from Margit, the Gypsy girl, and ran to the foot of the tower stairs, Purt was scared again. He found the door open and the girls gone. Who could have released them? He slunk home in the darkness, taking the back alleys instead of Whiffle Street, and the next day he scarcely dared go to school for fear the girls had found out who played the trick on them. But Laura and her mates all thought that either John, the janitor, or one of the teachers had chanced to close the tower door and lock it. And, as they had been where they were forbidden to go, they said very little about their fright and anxiety. But Eve was quite a heroine among them. The girl from the farm was a deal more muscular than most of her mates; perhaps no girl at Central High could have climbed out of that tower window and worked her way down the wire in just that manner. And Eve was showing herself, as time went on, to be the best girl at the broad jump and at putting the twelve-pound shot, too. Lou Potter, of the senior class, did well; but after a time she seemed to have reached her limit in both the jumping and shot-putting. Then it was that Eve took a spurt and went ahead. She left all other competitors but Lou far behind. Mrs. Case did not approve of inter-class competition in athletics; but the managing committee of the June meet had made such competition necessary to a degree. The upper classes of Central High had to choose their champions, and those champions in the foot races, from the 100-yard dash to the quarter-mile, had to compete the first week in June to arrange which should represent the school on the big day. In other trials it was the same--broad jump, shot-putting, relay race teams, and all the rest. There was developed in the freshman class a sprinter who almost bested Bobby Hargrew at first; but the freshmen had little, after all, to do when the big day came. The main contestants for athletic honors were bound to be drawn from the junior and sophomore classes. It was a fact that the present senior class of Central High had not been as imbued with the spirit of after-hour athletics, or with loyalty to the school, as had the younger classes. And the seniors had awakened too late to the importance of leaving a good record in athletics behind them when they were graduated. There was not a girl in the class the equal of Mary O'Rourke, or Celia Prime, who had been graduated the year before. Lou Potter, however, had many supporters, not alone among her own class. The freshies and sophs of course were jealous of the prominence of the juniors in athletics, so they centered their loyalty upon Lou. Eve could do nothing that Lou Potter couldn't do! That was the cry, and the feeling ran quite high for a while. Besides, another thing came to make Eve rather unpopular with a certain class of girls. "Touch Day"--that famous occasion when candidates for membership in the M. O. R.'s were chosen--came in May, and Eve was one of the lucky girls to receive the magic "touch." The fact that she had not been attending Central High a year aroused bitter feeling, although Eve was a junior in good standing. "Say!" cried Bobby Hargrew, "if they had kicked about _me_ being an M. O. R. there would have been some sense in it. For I never really thought I'd arrive at such an honor." For Bobby had really been drawn as a member of the secret society, and she never ceased to be surprised at the fact. But this school year--especially since early spring--Bobby Hargrew had been much changed. Not that she was not cheerful, and full of fun; but she had settled down to better work in her classes, and there was a steadiness about her that had been missing in the old Bobby Hargrew. They were talking this change over one evening around the Belding dinner table. "Bobby wouldn't be herself if she got too strait-laced," remarked Chetwood. "That's the main good thing about her--the ginger in her." "Chetwood!" exclaimed his mother, admonishingly. "You speak of the girl as though she were a horse--or a dog. 'Ginger' indeed!" "Well, Little Mum," said her big son. "That's exactly what I mean. She's no namby-pamby, Miss Sissy kind of a girl; but a good fellow----" "I cannot allow you to talk that way about one of your young lady friends," declared Mrs. Belding, with heat. "I am surprised, Chetwood." Mr. Belding began to chuckle, and she turned on him now with some exasperation. "James!" she said, warmly. "I believe you support these children in their careless use of English, and in their other crimes against the niceties of our existence. Chet is as boisterous and rough as--as a street boy. And Laura uses most shocking language at times, I declare." "Oh, Mother Mine! why drag me into it?" laughed Laura, while her father added: "Isn't 'crimes' a rather strong word in this instance, Mother?" "I do not care!" cried the good lady, much disturbed. "Chetwood uses language that I know my mother would never have allowed at Her table. And Laura is so taken up with these dreadful athletics that she cares nothing for the things which used to interest me when I was a girl. She really doesn't like to pour tea for me Wednesday afternoons." "I admit it," said Laura, _sotto voce_. "Do you blame her?" added Chet, grumblingly. "Thank goodness! I was brought up differently," declared Mrs. Belding, sternly. "We girls were not allowed to do such awful things-even in private--as you do, Laura, in your gymnasium----" "Hear! hear!" cried Father Belding, finally rapping on the table with the handle of his knife. "I must say a word here. Mother, you are too hard on the young folks." "No I am not, James," said the good lady, bridling. "You force me to say something that may hurt your feelings; but I believe you have forgotten it. You complain of Laura's athletics and gymnasium work. Don't you see that it is an escape valve for the overflow of animal spirits that the girls of our generation, Mother, missed?" "I deny that the girls of _my_ day possessed such 'animal spirits,' as you call them," declared Mrs. Belding, vehemently. "You force me," said Mr. Belding, gravely, yet with a twinkle in his eyes, "to prove my case. Children! did I ever tell you about the first view I had of your dear mother?" "No, Pop! Tell us," urged Chet, who kept on eating despite his interest in the discussion. "Mr. Belding!" gasped his wife, suddenly. "What are you----" "Sorry, my dear; you force me to it," said her husband, with continued gravity. "But the first sight I ever had of your mother, children, was when she was six or seven years old. I was working for old Mr. Cummings, whose business I finally bought out, and I came to your mother's house on an errand." "James!" cried Mrs. Belding. "I cannot allow you to tell that foolish thing. It--it is disgraceful." "It is indeed," admitted her husband, nodding. "But if you and your school girl friends had been as much devoted to athletics as Laura and her little friends, I doubt if you would have needed the front stairs bannisters as an escape valve for your animal spirits. "For, children," added Mr. Belding, as his wife, her face very rosy, got up to come around the table to him, "my first view of your mother was her coming down stairs at express train speed, a-straddle of the bannisters!" Mrs. Belding reached him then, and any further particulars of this "disgraceful" story, were smothered promptly. But Laura and Chet enjoyed immensely the fact that--once upon a time, at least--there had been some little element of tomboyishness in their mother's character. CHAPTER XXI--MARGIT'S MYSTERY To the amazement of the girls of Central High--particularly those seven who had been on the early Spring tramp to Fielding and had first seen the Gypsy girl when she ran away from Queen Grace Varey and the other Romany folk--Margit Salgo, as she called herself, appeared suddenly in the class rooms of the school. And, to complete their bewilderment, she appeared as the attendant of Miss Carrington! Margit spoke little to any of the other girls. She came to Eve and Bobby and told them how she had been made to leave the farmhouse by the Vareys, who had come after her in the night; but how she had finally got away from them, and her connection with Miss Carrington, she would not explain, although Bobby was very curious. "Well, doesn't that beat all!" ejaculated Bobby, to Eve Sitz. "And we thought we might be able to help Margit. She seems to have helped herself, all right." "I am glad, if she is now in good hands; but I do not understand it," rejoined Eve. "Say! there can't be any mistake about her wanting to get to Miss Carrington before. Now she's got to Gee Gee, all right. Guess there's nothing to be said by outside parties, eh?" "Well, we can wonder--eh?" "Oh, there's no law against it. Take it out in wondering. You can be sure that Gee Gee will be as mum as an oyster." "But where is Queen Grace--and the others?" added Eve. "That's so," Bobby returned. "If Miss Carrington hasn't settled with the Romanies and given them what they wanted, you can make sure that they will take a hand in the matter again." Margit, however, seemed to have cut loose from the Gypsies altogether. When she appeared at Central High with the teacher she was dressed like any other girl coming from a well-to-do home. Her Gypsy garb had been discarded. Margit sat by herself and she had special lessons. She did not recite with the other girls, nor did she have much to say to any of them, save to Eve and Bobby. Even Mother Wit was not very successful in scraping an acquaintance with the Austro-Hungarian. Indeed, when one of the girls tried to talk with her, Margit answered in German; or, if the girl was taking German and could understand the spoken language pretty well, Margit used the outlandish dialect of the Romany folk, and that settled it. Either she did not wish to make acquaintances, or she had been warned by Miss Carrington not to satisfy the curiosity of the girls of Central High about herself. Of course nobody dared to question Gee Gee. If Mr. Sharp understood the reason for the new girl's presence he gave no sign--ignored her entirely, in fact. So the girls were vastly excited about Margit Salgo, her presence at Central High, where she came from, and--particularly--what relationship she bore to Gee Gee. One day the teacher was particularly short-tempered and found reason for taking Bobby Hargrew to task over some trivial fault. "I am amazed, Miss Hargrew, that so light-minded a girl as you ever won your way into the M. O. R. chapter. I do not see, Miss, but that you are just as mischievous as ever. Neither time nor place changes you." She said it very spitefully, and some of the other girls laughed. But suddenly Margit popped up and said something vigorously in German--speaking so quickly that the other girls did not understand her; but Gee Gee evidently understood. Her face flamed and she glared at the Gypsy girl in a way that would have quelled any other in the room. But Margit did not wither under her glance. She stared back, her head up and shoulders squared; and it was plain by her attitude that she defied Gee Gee. Bobby was as amazed as the others. Margit had taken her part against the teacher. And for the moment it seemed as though there would be a serious breach between Gee Gee and her protégé. However, the incident effectually called Gee Gee's attention away from Bobby, and the latter heard nothing more of _her_ fault. But it seemed that the connection between the teacher and Margit Salgo was not founded upon _love_. There was some other reason than affection that made Gee Gee care for the half-wild Gypsy girl. Some of the others whispered that Gee Gee must have done some awful thing, and Margit knew it and so held the teacher in her power. But that, of course, was a silly explanation of the mystery. It was plain, too, that the teacher would not let Margit out of her sight on the street. They came and went to school together, walking side by side. At the place where Miss Carrington had boarded so long, nobody ever saw Margit in the yard, but Miss Carrington was with her. One might have thought the girl a prisoner. Bobby was hurrying over to Laura's house with her books, one morning, wishing for a little help in one of the problems to be discussed that day, and she started through the grounds surrounding the Widow Boyce's house, from the back street. Suddenly she saw a man crouching in the shrubbery. Weeks before she had seen a man spying about the house, and believed him to be one of the Gypsies. Now Bobby halted and spied on the Peeping Tom himself. In a moment she saw that it was the man with the gold rings in his ears whom Eve had told her was Jim Varey, the husband of the Gypsy Queen. He was lurking there for no good purpose, that was sure. Having carried Margit off from Farmer Sitz's house in the middle of the night, the Gypsies would doubtless attempt to steal the girl away from Gee Gee, as well. The school teacher had evidently not settled with the Romany folk. They had not yet got money through the girl, as Margit had said they hoped to do. Bobby turned back toward the street, intending to look for a policeman, or for some neighbor; but as she did so she heard wheels grating against the curb, and there stood a covered wagon, with two sleek horses attached, and another Gypsy man driving them. The man on the seat of the wagon whistled, and Jim Varey raised his hand as a signal. Then the latter darted around the corner of the house toward the front. These maneuvers were only too plain to Bobby. There was not time to look for a policeman--and, in any case, an officer was hard to find in the Hill section of Centerport. Bobby ran along the hedge, stooping so as not to be seen by the man on the wagon seat, and came around to the front of the house from the direction opposite that which Jim Varey had taken. Just as she reached the front porch there was a wild scream from Miss Carrington, and Bobby saw the man leap from the far end of the porch with Margit in his arms. Margit did not scream; she only beat the man about the head and--perhaps--left the marks of her nails in his dark face. It was plain that she was being carried away from Gee Gee against her will. She had no desire to go back to the Gypsies. Now, Miss Carrington could not run. She had been brought up in no athletic school, that was sure. She followed the kidnapper clumsily enough, and he would have gotten well away in the covered wagon with the girl, had it remained to Gee Gee to intervene. But Bobby screamed, dropped her books, and went at the fellow as though she were playing football. She "tackled low," seizing with both arms about the knees, and Jim Varey, screeching and threatening, fell forward on the sward--and Margit escaped from his arms. "Oh!" gasped the girl. "Quick! get into the house!" cried Bobby, bounding to her feet. Margit whisked past her, and past Miss Carrington, and fled indoors as she was advised. Jim Varey leaped up and confronted the little girl who had overturned him. His fists were clenched and he gabbled in the Romany tongue a string of what were evidently threats and vituperation. "Now, it isn't me you want to carry off," said Bobby, bravely. "I wouldn't be any good to you. Get away, now, for I see Mr. Sharp coming down the street." Which was true enough--although the school principal was still a long way off. Jim Varey seemed to see the wisdom of the girl's remarks, however, for he turned and fled. The next minute they heard the heavy wagon being driven furiously away from the garden gate, and Bobby turned to find Gee Gee, sitting very faint and white, upon the porch steps. CHAPTER XXII--LOU POTTER SCORES ONE "Has he gone?" gasped Gee Gee, weakly. "They've driven off, Miss Carrington. Margit is in no danger now," said Bobby, eyeing the teacher curiously. "You--you know about it, too, do you?" murmured the teacher. "I guess I know something about it," replied Bobby, promptly. "We girls saw Margit up there in the hills when she ran away from the Gypsies the first time. And I was over to Eve Sitz's the night the Vareys stole Margit away again. I'd see the police if I were you, Miss Carrington." "The police--yes!" returned the lady. "It will all have to be dragged into publicity, I suppose." Bobby didn't know what to say, for she did not understand Gee Gee's present character, anyway! Nobody before had ever seen Miss Grace Gee Carrington so disturbed in her mind. Bobby saw the front door open again, and Margit appeared on the porch. "Come in! Come in! It's all right now," said the Gypsy girl. "There is nothing to fear from them now---- Ah! who is this?" Bobby turned quickly and saw a little, stooped old man, turning in at the gate. Miss Carrington saw him, too, and she came to her feet in a moment. The color came back into her face and she began to look very grim again--more like her usual self. "Morning! morning!" cackled the old gentleman, nodding at the school teacher, but looking hard at Bobby. And the latter recognized him as Eben Chumley, a queer, miserly old man who owned a great deal of property on the Hill. "Good morning, Mr. Chumley," said Miss Carrington, quietly. "Now, don't tell me _this_ is the gal," said Mr. Chumley, pointing a long finger at Bobby. "For that's Tom Hargrew's young 'un--I know her well enough." "_This_ is the girl I wish you to see and talk with, Mr. Chumley," said Miss Carrington, beckoning Margit forward. Then she added, in her severest tone: "Miss Hargrew! you are excused." "Well, the mean cat!" muttered Bobby, as she went out of the yard. "I had no intention of listening to their private affairs. But she might at least have thanked me for tumbling over that Gypsy." Margit came to her, however, that morning, and thanked her warmly. "You're a brave girl, Miss Hargrew," she said. "And I think that Jim Varey will let me alone hereafter. At least, he had better keep his distance." And so it seemed, for thereafter, when Miss Carrington and her charge walked to and from school, a policeman strolled behind them. The girls--especially those of the junior class, however--were almost eaten up with curiosity. Luckily, as June approached, they had something else to think about out of regular recitation hours. The rivalry on the athletic field became very keen indeed. Mrs. Case did her best to impress upon the girls' minds that a spirit of rivalry between classes would perhaps injure the chances of the school at large at the final meet. "Loyalty to Central High!" was her battle cry. But all of the girls--especially a certain portion of the seniors--forgot the "good of the greater number" in the petty class differences. Lou Potter, the senior, was backed strongly for first place in putting the shot and for the broad jump. Nobody but Mrs. Case, indeed, knew just how Lou and Eve Sitz stood in those two events. The Saturday afternoon came when Mrs. Case was to try out the girls with the highest scores in the various events to be featured on the Big Day. Relay teams from each class had been gradually made up, and now these were to compete for the honor of representing Central High at the meet. The Junior Four was made up of Laura Belding, Jess Morse, and Dora and Dorothy Lockwood, with Bobby Hargrew as substitute. They were not only all fast, but they were quick-witted. A relay race isn't altogether won with one's feet. The seniors averaged taller girls, and heavier. The sophomores were nearer the weight and size of Laura and her mates; and of course, it was scarcely to be expected that the freshman four would stand a chance at all. When the three heats were run off, however, the freshmen proved better than the seniors once, and surpassed the sophomores in two of the heats. The juniors won all three heats in fast time. "Those squabs are coming on to be jimdandies!" declared Bobby, enthusiastically. "They're going to be just such another class in athletics as ours." "And of course," remarked Lou Potter, who overheard her, "the junior class of Central High is just the most wonderful crowd of girls that was ever brought together." "Now you've said it," admitted Bobby, with satisfaction. "But I never did expect to hear a senior say that about us!" Mrs. Case came over and her presence halted further bickering. But the rivalry of the two upper classes rankled. Bobby took the hundred-yard dash from all competitors. Later she easily beat all the other entries in the quarter-mile race. Interest centered after that in the broad jump and the shot-putting contest. Eve was in her usual good form and equalled, in her three trials, her best previous record. Just what that record had been the girls as a body did not know; but on this occasion the distance was made public. Eve had bested all competitors by a full inch and a half. Her nearest rival was Lou Potter. "Favoritism!" was the cry among the seniors, but they were very careful not to allow their physical instructor hear it. In truth, Mrs. Case, as she always had been, was opposed to inter-class trials on the field or track. It lowered the standard of loyalty to the school as a whole, and was frequently the cause of bickerings and heart-burnings, as in this present case. But she was bound by the rules of a committee in which she had but one vote. She was glad to learn, however, that other instructors in other schools were having the same trouble. The Girls' Branch Athletic League is truly against rivalry between classes of the same school. In putting the shot the same unfortunate feeling arose between backers of Lou Potter and Evangeline Sitz. Eve carried the day; she put the twelve-pound shot far ahead of her rival. But the seniors were not satisfied. Their class would make a poor showing indeed at the meet. "I'd just like to get square with that Swiss doll!" exclaimed Lou Potter, as she turned out of the gate of the athletic field, after it was all over and Mrs. Case had announced who would be the representatives of the school in each department of athletics, at the June meet. "She is a foreigner, anyway. Laura Belding got her to come to this school. She'd much better have gone to Keyport, where she belongs," cried one of Lou's classmates. They could not see that Eve's presence at Central High was likely to give the school at least two points in athletics; that Keyport might have won had the country girl attended the Keyport High, as she had first intended. "There she goes now--aiming for the railroad station," said Lou Potter. "I wish something would keep her from getting to the field on the day of the meet." It was this mean thought in her mind, perhaps, that made Miss Potter notice Eve particularly as she followed behind the country girl. Lou's friends separated from her, but her way led toward the railroad station, too. And before that was reached Miss Potter suddenly became aware of the fact that a woman and a man were following Eve Sitz. She saw them first standing at a corner, and whispering, and pointing after Eve. They were dark-faced people, foreign-looking, and the man wore hoops of gold in his ears. "There are a lot of those Gypsies around this Spring," was Lou's first thought. "Hullo! those people are watching that Sitz girl." She became curious, as she saw the Gypsies dog Eve's footsteps for block after block. Whether they wished to speak to the big girl, or were just watching her, Lou could not tell. She was a bold girl herself, and not at all afraid of the Romany folk. When Eve disappeared into the railroad station and the man and woman remained outside, Lou walked up to them. "What are you following that girl for?" she asked, and when Queen Grace and her husband would have denied it, Lou made her reason for asking plain. "If you don't like her, neither do I. I'd like to have her out of the way for at least one day--one day next week," and she named the day of the Athletic Meet. "This is a plot to trap us," growled Jim Varey to his wife. But the Gypsy Queen was, as we have seen, a very shrewd student of human nature. She could see just how bad a heart Lou Potter had. Queen Grace possessed no occult power. No so-called fortune-teller has. They are all wicked people, and liars. But she had long made a study of the worst side of human nature. She saw that Lou Potter was ripe for mischief. She talked to her softly and insinuatingly, putting Jim out of the way. Then she agreed to meet the senior again and learn just what she wished done to Eve Sitz. For the Gypsy Queen saw a chance to make a few dollars and, as Margit Salgo had said, the woman was very avaricious. She and her husband had been following Eve idly enough. They dared not approach Margit while she was under the protection of Miss Carrington and the police; but they laid to Eve a part of the blame for the Gypsy girl's escape from their hands before they had made any money out of her. Lou Potter went away from her conference with the Gypsies very much delighted. "I guess we'll show them that the seniors have something to say about athletics at Central High," she muttered, over and over again. "I reckon I've scored one on Miss Eve Sitz, too!" CHAPTER XXIII--THE FIELD DAY There was a tall, gaunt, gray man who came to the Widow Boyce's to see Miss Carrington on certain occasions. He always carried a blue bag, stuffed with papers and books, and it was well known by the neighbors that he was Miss Carrington's lawyer. There was nothing suggestive of romance about Aaron MacCullough; but like all old attorneys he had dabbled in many, many romances. There were a score of old families of Centerport who had entrusted their cupboard secrets to Mr. MacCullough. He came in one evening, with his blue bag, and sat down in Gee Gee's sitting room. The Central High teacher was quite as dry in appearance, and as grim as the lawyer himself. She sat on one side of the table, and he on the other, and the papers which he first examined and read aloud he passed to her, and she scrutinized them through her spectacles. "So," she said, at length, "these correspondents of yours in Buda-Pesth seem to know all about Salgo's affairs, do they?" "It is notorious, Miss Carrington," said the old man, nodding. "There can be no mistake. Belas Salgo was a strange man. All geniuses, perhaps, are strange----" "He was a wicked foreigner!" declared Miss Carrington, sharply. "Wicked in your eyes, perhaps. He married and carried away with him your dearest friend." "My cousin Anne--yes," said she, slowly. "She had been in my care. She was musical. She went mad over the man--and he no better than a Gypsy." "Gypsy blood he confessed to--yes," said the lawyer, shaking his head. "But he could make wonderful music. I remember hearing him once in this very town." "Oh, he charmed everybody--but me," said Miss Carrington, vigorously. "And he would have charmed me, perhaps, with his fiddle if Anne had not gone mad over him. I knew how it would be for her--misery and trouble!" "We do not know that," said the old gentleman, shaking his head. "Her few years with Belas Salgo were happy enough, by all account." "But she never wrote to me!" cried the Central High teacher. "Nor she never wrote to her father's partner, Mr. Chumley. Eben Chumley, by the way, is for denying the identity of this girl, Margit?" "Well! so was I," admitted Miss Carrington. "Though heaven knows it was for another reason! I did not think poor Anne would have had a daughter and never written me a word about it." "Ahem!" said Mr. MacCullough, clearing his throat significantly, "your last word to her, I understand, was a harsh one?" "Ah! But I never meant it. She must have known I never meant it," exclaimed Miss Carrington, her voice trembling. The old lawyer shook his head. "We never do mean the harsh words," he murmured. "However," he added, after a moment's silence. "The fact remains that this girl, Margit Salgo, is assuredly the daughter of Belas Salgo and Anne Carrington. The money--what there was of it--left in the hands of Eben Chumley by his partner, Anne's father, belongs to the child, and Eben must be made to disgorge." "It will hurt Chumley dreadfully to give up the money," said Gee Gee, quickly. "How much is there?" "Less than a thousand dollars. You know, Chumley & Carrington were in the real estate business in only a small way, back in those days. With interest, and all, it will be but a modest fortune." "I suppose those Gypsies thought the child was a great heiress," said the teacher. "That is probable. They undoubtedly think so now. It is my advice that you allow me to go to the police and explain the matter fully. Let them gather in this Jim Varey, and the others, and tell them just how little the sum is that is coming to Margit Salgo. It is about enough for her education--and that's all." Miss Carrington nodded. "Nevertheless," she said, with finality, "she is Cousin Anne's child. I shall make her education and future keeping my affair. I have not worked, and taught, all these years for nothing, Mr. MacCullough." "Quite true--quite true," admitted the old man, briskly. "And if you wish to adopt the girl----" "I intend to do so," announced Gee Gee. "Then there is nobody to gainsay you, I am certain," declared the lawyer, rising. "I congratulate the child upon falling in with so good a guardian, Miss Carrington. And--perhaps--you are to be congratulated, too," he added to himself as he left her sitting grimly by the table. For more than Lawyer MacCullough noted the change that was gradually coming over the martinet teacher of Central High. Whether it was the influence of Margit's presence, or not, it was true that Miss Carrington was not half so harsh as she used to be. "Change of heart--she's sure to die, I'm afraid," announced Bobby Hargrew, one day, when Gee Gee had failed to seize the opportunity to berate that young lady for a certain fault. But later, Miss Carrington put herself out to speak to Bobby on the street, and upon matters not connected with the school work. "Clara, I never properly thanked you for taking my ward's part the other morning when that dreadful man attacked her," said Miss Carrington, quietly. "But I am grateful, nevertheless." "Your ward!" gasped Bobby, her curiosity and wonder passing all bounds of politeness. "Oh, Miss Carrington! is she really related to you?" "Margit? Not in the least--at least, no relation that the law would allow. For that reason I propose to adopt her. She will be known as Margaret Carrington--and I hope, Miss Clara, that you and the other girls of Central High will be kind to her." Bobby smiled. "I think Margit will take care of herself, Miss Carrington, if we don't treat her right. But I know all the girls will be glad to have her join." "Thank you. She is foreign to your ways, as yet," pursued the teacher, a little doubtfully. "From what she says, she is much interested in Mrs. Case's classes--in the physical culture classes, and the like. I--I expect you will introduce her at the gymnasium, Miss Clara?" "Of course!" exclaimed Bobby, half stunned. "Why--why Margit's the surest-footed girl I ever saw. You ought to see her running that day along the top of the stone wall!" "Er--I presume that such unseemly conduct will not be necessary if Margaret becomes a votary of athletics as taught the young ladies of Central High," returned Miss Carringtan, stiffly. "Just the same," Bobby said, in talking over the matter with Laura and the rest of the girls, afterwards, "just the same, Margit Salgo will be a splendid addition to our fighting force some day. Why, she's got biceps like a boy, and she says she can swim, and skate, and ride. We're going to have another A-1 champion for Central High in Margit Salgo some day!" It must be confessed that, about this time, many of the Central High girls gave more thought to athletic matters than they did to their lessons. Still, the unbending rule that only those who kept up with their studies would have a part in the after-hour athletic contests was a solvent for any serious trouble. The day of the meet was at hand. The athletic teams of the five high schools--three of Centerport and one each from Lumberport and Keyport--were to meet on the Central High field. There were several important trophies, as well as the usual league pins for the winners, and interest in the field day--not alone among the girls themselves--ran high. Laura Belding and her mates had figured out very carefully just what events Central High was sure to win, and how many of the "uncertain" points were needed to clinch the championship. They felt sure of the hundred-yard dash; as far as they could learn no girl in any of the five schools had developed the speed of Bobby Hargrew over that short course. The two hundred and twenty-yard dash and the quarter-mile run were doubtful, despite Bobby's splendid showing in the latter. The hurdle races were doubtful, too, as well as the shuttle and potato relays. In the high and broad jumps, as well as the shot-putting, there was serious doubt. The best Laura could figure, Central High would go into the contest needing four points more than they were _sure_ of winning. Those four points might be supplied by Bobby in the quarter-mile run, one of the chief events of the day, and Eve Sitz in the broad jump and putting the shot. "You girls have got to do your very best--don't forget that!" Laura told them, as they separated the night before the meet. "Central High just about leans her whole weight on you." It was on Friday and the whole school was excused at noon; but those taking part in the events of the day were not obliged to report until one o'clock--and then only to the committee at the gymnasium building. The crowds from Lumberport and from Keyport came in chartered steamers. They marched into the field just before one o'clock, and the classes from the East and West Highs followed them a few minutes later. The girls in their light dresses, and with the flags fluttering, were a pretty sight. Of course, the grandstand was rapidly filling with adult spectators, and with the boys, when the girls of Central High came in. There was some marching and counter-marching, before all were seated. Already some of the girls, in their gymnasium clothes, began to appear on the courts for warming-up practice. Suddenly Bobby Hargrew burst into a knot of Central High girls gathered around Mrs. Case, on the main floor of the gym. building, and fairly shouted: "Where is she?" "Where's who?" asked Laura, curiously. "Is this one of your jokes? Who are you looking for?" "Where's Eve? Who's seen Eve Sitz?" repeated Bobby, anxiously. "Why, I think you'll find her around somewhere. What's the matter? Got to see her right this moment, Bobby?" Bobby's tone of tragic despair stopped the joking at last, however, as she cried: "She's not reported. She isn't here. Nobody's seen her. She hasn't come into town, as far as I can find out. And certain sure she hasn't come into this building--and it's one o'clock now!" "Why, Clara! what do you mean?" asked the physical instructor of Central High. "It is not possible that Evangeline Sitz would fail to appear at such a time as this?" "And with so much depending on her?" shrieked Jess Morse. "Impossible!" "Something has happened to her," said Laura, aghast. "Has nobody seen her?" demanded Mrs. Case. Nobody had. "I'll run to father's office and telephone," suggested Nellie Agnew. "They have a telephone at the Sitz farm, haven't they?" "Of course," rejoined Laura. "Do run, Nell!" The group, mostly made up of juniors, was horror-stricken by the fact that one of the most dependable of the girls was missing. But a senior who stood near said, scoffingly: "Oh, I guess that girl won't be missed. We've got Lou Potter to put right in her place--in both the shot-put and the broad jump. And the chance belonged to Lou, anyway. Now she'll get her rights, perhaps." CHAPTER XXIV--MARGIT PAYS A DEBT "Did you hear what that girl said, Laura?" demanded Bobby, in a whisper, clinging to the arm of Mother Wit. "It sounded as though she knew something about Eve's absence." "No. Just jealousy," returned Laura. "I--don't--know---- Here's Nell!" exclaimed the smaller girl, eagerly. The doctor's daughter ran up, very much excited. "Otto was on the 'phone," she said. "He says that Eve left for town in time to catch the nine-twenty-seven. Why, she should have been here two hours ago!" "What do you suppose has happened?" wailed Jess. "I will see the committee at once," said Mrs. Case, quietly. "Of course, if Evangeline does not report in time, we shall have to put in a substitute." "Oh, Mrs. Case!" cried Bobby. "_Don't_ put in that Lou Potter!" "What, Clara? Is that your loyalty to Central High?" demanded the athletic instructor, sternly. "Well, she's been so mean----" "But if she is the next best girl we have in training, and Eve does not appear, would you cripple Central High's chances for a petty feud like this?" Mrs. Case spoke warmly and Bobby fell back abashed. But all the juniors were amazed and troubled by the emergency which had so suddenly arisen. The attitude of some seniors surprised Eve's friends, too. They were seen to gather in groups, and giggle and whisper, and when the troubled juniors passed these seniors made remarks which suggested that they knew more about Eve's absence than her own friends. Especially was Lou Potter in high feather over something. She sneered at Laura Belding, when the latter went about asking everybody if they had seen or heard of Eve that morning. Time approached for the early events of the afternoon, and the relay teams were called out for the first event. About that time Margit Salgo, who had been moving about in the crowd of Central High competitors, suddenly broke away from a group, of whom Lou Potter was the center, and ran hurriedly for the exit. At the gate the ticket-taker had just allowed Mr. and Mrs. Belding to enter and Margit saw Chet--whom she now knew very well--beside their automobile outside. "Chetwood!" she gasped, running out to him. "There has something happened that will make Central High lose to-day--it is a plot--it is a meanness----" She broke into German, as she did when she was excited, and Chet literally "threw up his hands." "Hold your horses, Miss Margaret," he begged. "I can't follow you when you talk like that. My German's lame in both feet, anyway--like the son of Jonathan." "I do not know your Jonathan," she cried, when Chet, grinning, interrupted: "You're weak in your Scripture, then. But what about it? What's happened?" "They have got Eve Sitz!" declared Margit, tragically. "Who's got her?" "I do not know for sure. I only suspect," declared the girl. "But quick! drive where I shall say. We may be in time." "Do you mean to say that Eve hasn't got here yet?" "I do." "Yet she's already left home?" "Oh, yes, indeed!" "And she's an important figure in to-day's events, I understand," quoth Master Chet. "You think you know where she is?" "Oh, yes!" cried Margit. "Hop in, then. Tell me where to go, and we'll get there if a policeman doesn't hold us up on the way." Margit whispered in his ear. Chet looked surprised; then nodded and helped her into the seat beside him. In a minute they were out of the crowd of other autos and were speeding down Whiffle Street and into Market. When they struck the main thoroughfare the young fellow had to drive the car more circumspectly; but he made such time that more than one traffic officer held up a warning hand and shook his head at them. "Sure you know where you want to go, Margaret?" Chet asked his companion once, as they dodged around a truck and turned off into a long and narrow side street where the class of tenements on either hand were of the cheaper quality. "Yes," nodded the girl. "I should know. I was there myself." "Oh! that's where the Gyps, have their encampment in town?" exclaimed Chet. "Yes." "And you think Eve has been caught by the same people who held you?" "Yes. I believe so." "Then take it from me, Margaret," declared Chet, decidedly, "a policeman goes into the house with us. I don't take any chances with those people." She nodded again and a few moments later she told him to stop before a certain number. This was, indeed, a crowded and mean section of the town. "I thought Romany folk lived in the open air and were bold and free--and all that?" said Chet, in disgust, as he stopped the engine and prepared to get out after removing certain plugs so that the car could not be started during their absence. "In town they live like other poor people. They camp in a cheap flat. But they would not remain here long if they did not hope to get hold of me," replied Margit, quietly. "Hullo! You're running right into trouble, perhaps," said Chet, doubtfully. "What if I am? That girl, Eve, was good to me. And those other girls are my friends. We will get her free so that she may get to the athletic field in time. What?" "I guess it _is_ what," admitted Chet, to himself. Then he saw an officer and beckoned to the man. A few words explained their need. "Ha! I was told to keep an eye on those folk. I know 'em," said the policeman. "And this is the girl who was with them before?" and he stared curiously at Margit Salgo. They went quickly into the house and up to the floor that the girl remembered very well indeed. She pointed out the door of the flat and Chet rapped upon it. The officer kept in the shadow. The door opened a trifle, after the second knock, and a voice whispered some word which Chet could not understand. Instantly Margit hissed a reply--it was in Romany. The door opened a bit wider. Somebody inside saw the girl; but Chet was seen, too. "What did Ah tell 'ee?" demanded Jim Varey's gruff voice. "This is a business tae bring trouble tae us, says I--and I was right." Before he had ceased speaking the policeman sprang forward and with knee and shoulder forced the door wide open. He had drawn his club. "Keep still--all you here! If you give me trouble I'll arrest all of you instead of this man and his wife," and he seized Jim by the shoulder. "Where's the girl?" cried Chet. "Eve! Eve Sitz! Are you here?" There was an answering cry from back in some other room. Margit darted past the struggling people in the kitchen and opened a door beyond. "Here I am!" cried Eve Sitz. The country girl was tied to a chair, but not tightly enough to cramp her limbs. Nor had she been really ill-treated. "Run down," said the officer to Chet, "and blow this whistle. Tell my partner, when he comes, to send for the wagon. We'll give these folks a ride." "Oh, but I must get to the field, Chetwood!" cried Eve, in despair. "They told me Margit was here and needed me, and I came right from the train. I don't know what it means----" Chet had darted down the stairs and he soon came back with the other policeman. The officers agreed that the boy and two girls need not accompany them to the station; the Gypsy Queen and her husband, with the other Romany folk at home in the flat, could be held until later in the day for somebody to appear against them. And that somebody was Miss Carrington's lawyer, Aaron MacCullough. Eve had no more trouble with the Gypsies--nor did Margit. Mr. MacCullough took the opportunity of showing the roaming folk that they could make little out of Margit or her friends, and then the Centerport police warned them out of town. Meanwhile Chet, with the two girls, got into the automobile, and started back toward the Central High athletic field. It was already two o'clock, and on the program of the day the event of the broad jump would be called in less than half an hour! CHAPTER XXV--THE WINNING POINTS That first relay race, in which the Junior Four of Central High took part, passed like a night-mare for Laura Belding and her companions. Every one of them was worried about Eve's disappearance--so worried that they came perilously near not doing their very best. But the rooters for their school got off with a splendid chorus when the girls came on the field, and with all that enthusiasm Laura and her comrades could not fail "to pull off some brilliant running," as Bobby slangily expressed it. And they did so. The four won the point for Central High, and next in line was the one hundred-yard dash. Bobby, as fresh as a lark, came to the scratch and prepared to do her very best against the representatives from the four other high schools. There was a girl from Lumberport whom she had been told to look out for. But Bobby proposed to "look out" for nobody on this short dash. The girl who got off in the best form was almost sure to win. And that girl was Bobby. At the word she shot away like an arrow, and a roar of approval burst from the seats occupied by the boys of Central High. "C--e--n, Central High! C--e--n--t--r--a--l, Central High! C--e--n--t--r--a--l--h--i--g--h, Central High! Ziz--z--z--z---- Boom!" Bobby seemed to be fairly borne along on that yell. She started ahead and she kept ahead. Like a flash she went down the track and breasted the tape quicker than it takes to tell it. "Bobby Hargrew! She's all right!" sang the girls of Central High on the benches. Then girls and boys joined in, and finally the other schools added their cheers to the paean of praise that sent Bobby back to the gym. building with a delightful glow at her heart. "Good for you, Bobs!" cried Jess, who stood in the sun in her blanket coat. "That's another of the points we need. Why, we're going to wipe up the field with them." "But where's Eve?" panted Bobby. "Has anybody seen her?" "No. She didn't come. She's left us in the lurch----" "Not intentionally, I am sure," declared Bobby, quickly. "Well, Mrs. Case is going to put Lou in for the broad jump if Eve doesn't show up. And that miserable senior is as perky about it as she can be. There she is yonder, all ready for the event, although it's not due for an hour yet," added Jess. The field was next cleared for folk dancing, taking part in which were most of the freshman and sophomore classes of all five schools. This attracted the adult spectators more than it did the girls themselves; the latter's keenest interest was centered in the all-absorbing athletic events. One of the juniors kept watch at the entrance to the field, and sent in word now and then that nothing had been heard or seen of Eve Sitz. Laura and her other friends did not know that Margit had gone away with Chet fielding to hunt for the missing girl. "If she doesn't come pretty soon all will be lost!" groaned Nellie Agnew as the field cleared after the folk dancing. "Maybe Lou can carry the points for us," suggested Dora Lockwood, doubtfully. "Never in this world!" cried Bobby. "Nor does Mrs. Case believe it. But it's the best she can do," said Jess. "There! after this event comes the broad jump." "See that nasty Lou Potter!" complained Bobby. "She's standing there, grinning just like a Chessy-cat----" "Hold on, Bobby, hold on!" exclaimed Nellie Agnew, admonishingly. "Remember!" "Remember what?" snapped Bobby. "'Loyalty to Central High!' That's the battle cry." "And right Nell is, Bobs," interposed Jess. "We've got to give that girl the finest kind of a send-off when she goes into the field. Hearten her up! Never mind how mean we think her, remember she represents Central High, and the old school needs the points." "Quite true, girls," said Laura. "When Lou goes out to jump, pass the word to the boys to give her an ovation." And just then there was some shouting at the gate, the crowd opened, and a figure dashed through wildly and made for the gym. "It's Eve! It's Eve!" shouted Bobby, fairly dancing up and down. Margit Salgo was right behind the country girl. She hurried with her to the dressing rooms, and before the broad jump was called, Eve appeared, cool, smiling, and quite like her usual self. "Mrs. Case! I protest!" declared Lou Potter, standing before the physical instructor of Central High, as Eve approached. "This is my chance. I demand the right to make this jump." But the instructor only smiled and shook her head. "Evangeline is in plenty of time," she said. "You are merely a substitute, Miss Potter. Are you ready, Eve? Then, take your place with the other contestants. You are Number 3." News of Eve's nick o' time appearance had been circulated by Chet Belding when he joined the Central High boys. When it came the girl's turn to jump she received an ovation that startled the echoes. And Eve did not disappoint her friends. She carried off the honors of the broad jump by two inches over every other competitor, beating the record established two years before. Bobby did equally as well in the quarter-mile race. That was a trial of greater endurance than her winning dash, but she came along ahead of all the other sprinters, and won by a clean two yards. Then Eve went into the field again and beat the famous Magdeline Spink, of Lumberport, putting the shot, by ten and a quarter inches--making a remarkable score for Central High, and establishing a record for following classes to attempt to beat for some years to come. Of course, the girls as a whole did not know for sure that any of the seniors had had anything to do with Eve's being abducted to the Varey flat; but because Lou Potter, and others, had been so positive that Eve would not appear, the juniors could not help feeling suspicious. Had it not been for Laura Belding, ever the peace-maker, friction might have resulted that would have lasted through the remainder of the term and spoiled the graduation exercises for Central High that year. "We can afford to let the matter rest as it is," said Mother Wit, to her junior class friends. "Central High won--we got the winning points--and we stand at the head of our school athletic league. We can be satisfied with our score. "As far as these seniors go---- Well, the bad ones are not the entire class. And, anyway, they will soon be graduated and we shall have no more trouble from them. Let them be an example to us----" "An example!" cried the irrepressible Bobby. "I guess you mean a horrible example." "Perhaps. At least, let us remember, when we are seniors, not to do as they have done," concluded Mother Wit. "If I'm any prophet," said Jess. "We won't be like them." "Well, you are no prophet!" cried Bobby. "And don't talk to me any more about prophets and fortune-tellers." "Oh-ho!" mocked Nellie. "Bobby no longer believes in the Gypsy Queen!" "I believe in nothing of the kind. I was a dreadfully foolish girl to pay any attention to that wicked woman. You see, she was wrong. I got into no trouble this term with Gee Gee, after all." But Bobby said nothing to her friends about the greater fear that she had had for weeks--the fear that her father might bring home a new wife. She knew now that that had been merely a spiteful guess of the Gypsy Queen, who knew Mr. Hargrew's circumstances, and thought it safe to warn his daughter that he might marry again. "The wicked old witch--that's what she is!" thought Bobby. "Father Tom would never do that. I am going to be his housekeeper as well as his partner." And nothing in the future could ever make Bobby Hargrew doubt her father's word. The girls of Central High--especially the juniors--carried off greater honors after that Field Day; but never did they win trophies that gave them more satisfaction than these. Eve was sure to make a name for herself in the league in the future; and Bobby had developed into quite a sprinter. Laura Belding looked forward in the next year to developing other girls into all-round athletes who would win points for Central High. And indeed, they all--girls and instructors alike--looked forward to immense benefit as well as pleasure to be derived from the future athletic activities of the Girls of Central High. THE END 
34491	----	Ralph Clavering, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ RALPH CLAVERING, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. A young girl dressed in a cloak and hat, and looking sad and somewhat timid, stood in the middle of the large hall of a fine old country house. The floor was of oak, and the walls were covered with dark oak wainscoting, from which hung down several full-length portraits of grim old knights and gentlemen in bag wigs, and ladies in court suits, looking very prim and stern. The hall door was open, and through it was seen a post-chaise, from which a footman was extracting a small trunk and a variety of other articles, under the direction of a woman who, it was evident, had also just arrived. As there was no one to notice the young lady, she amused herself by looking round the hall and examining the portraits. While she was thus employed, a door opened, and a lad appeared, who, running forward, put out his hand, and said, "And so you are my own cousin, are you? and your name is Lilly Vernon, is it?" The young lady looked up with a quick, intelligent glance, and answered, "If you are Ralph Clavering, I conclude we are cousins, for I am, as you suppose, Lilly Vernon." "All right--how jolly!" exclaimed the boy. "We have been looking for you for some days, and I have been expecting to have great fun when you came. I once had a sister, but she is dead, and I have terribly wanted some one to help me kill the time since then, though I would far rather have had a boy cousin, I will tell you that." "I would rather help you to employ time than to kill it, Cousin Ralph," said Lilly, with a smile. "It may chance to come off the victor otherwise." "Oh, is that the way you talk? I don't like preaching," exclaimed Ralph petulantly, and turning away with a frown. He came back, however, and added, "But I don't want to quarrel with you. Come into the dining-room, and warm yourself by the fire, and have some luncheon. I was eating mine when you arrived, and I have not finished. We shall be all alone, for papa is out hunting, and mamma is ill in bed, as she always is. I should have gone out after the hounds too, but I was ill and lazy. I intend to take a trot this afternoon though. You can ride I hope--if not, I will teach you; but ride you must, that I am determined." "Oh, I can ride almost anything. I had a pony of my own--a spirited little creature--at home," answered Lilly, a shade of melancholy passing over her features as she pronounced the word home. Ralph did not observe it, but answered, "Oh, that's capital! I should like to see you ride with me though, and take a ditch or a gate. There are not many things I do well, perhaps; but I do that, at all events." "Perhaps you try to do that, and don't try to do anything else," remarked Lilly. "Oh, there you are again!" exclaimed Ralph, "I will not stand sermonising--remember that--so you had better knock off at once." He spoke in a tone so dictatorial and loud that Lilly stared at him, wondering whether or not he was in earnest. The two young people had by this time reached the dining-room, where a substantial luncheon was spread, speaking well for the hospitality of Clavering Hall. Ralph, having helped his cousin with a courtesy which showed that he was well accustomed to do the honours of the table, filled his own plate with no unsparing hand, and addressed himself steadily to discuss the viands. Lilly, who quickly got through her meal, looked up more than once, wondering when he would finish and talk to her again. Poor girl! she could not help feeling sad and forlorn. She perceived instantly that Ralph was not a person to treat her with sympathy, and at the best his kindness would be precarious. She was the daughter of a clergyman in the south of Ireland. Both he and her mother had died during a famine which had raged in that country. She had been thus left an orphan, and had been committed to the guardianship of her uncle and only near relation, Mr Clavering, of Clavering Hall. Unhappily he was not a person well fitted for the responsible office. Mrs Clavering was an invalid, and seldom quitted her bed-room. As Mr Clavering was also constantly from home, engaged in magisterial duties, or in hunting or shooting, their son Ralph was very much neglected and left to his own devices. These devices were too often bad, while, as was to be expected, he found his associates among his father's grooms, and other uneducated persons willing to flatter him. Thus noxious weeds were springing up in his disposition, which should carefully have been rooted out as they appeared; indeed. Master Ralph Clavering was being utterly ruined at the time of Lilly Vernon's arrival at Clavering Hall. He had been to school for some years, so that he was not altogether uneducated; but his education was far from finished when he unexpectedly appeared at home, and it was soon whispered about that he had been expelled for some act of insubordination and a flagrant exhibition of violence of temper. After this, as his father did not think fit to send him to another school, he was placed under the nominal charge of the curate of the parish, who undertook to superintend his further education till he was old enough to go to college. As, however, he only spent with him a few hours in the morning, and found numerous excuses for keeping away altogether, neither his character improved, nor did his progress in learning become satisfactory. Ralph, thus unchecked, yielded more frequently to his temper, became more dictatorial and tyrannical every day, till he was rather feared and disliked than loved by all with whom he came in contact. Such is the not very pleasant character our hero had obtained at the time our history commences. CHAPTER TWO. Lilly Vernon had been for some weeks at Clavering Hall. She had been kindly received by her uncle and aunt, had completely got over the timidity she felt on her arrival, and had found herself perfectly at home. Not so Biddy O'Reardon, her former nurse, who had accompanied her from Ireland, and was desired to remain as her personal attendant. Biddy did not comprehend all that was said, and thought that the other servants were laughing at her, and declared that though Clavering Hall was a fine place, its ways were not those to which she had been accustomed, and she heartily wished herself back at Ballyshannon in the dear ould country. Still, for the love of the young mistress, she would stay wherever she stayed, though it was a pity she had so ill-conditioned a spalpeen of a cousin to be her companion. These remarks reached Ralph's ears, and he and Biddy became on far from good terms. He revenged himself by playing her all sorts of tricks. One day he came into the little sitting-room in which she sat with Lilly and begged her to sew a button on his coat. Poor Biddy good-naturedly assented, but on opening her workbox found that her thimble had been trodden flat, her scissors divided, and all her reels of cotton exchanged for small pebbles! Enjoying her anger and vexation, Ralph ran laughing away, while Lilly gently, though indignantly, reproved him for his unkind and ungenerous conduct. No one thought that a governess was necessary for Lilly; but happily her education had been carefully attended to by her parents, and she had formed the resolution of continuing the studies she had commenced with them. As soon as she could get her books unpacked, she set to work, and with steady perseverance performed her daily task, to the unbounded astonishment of her cousin, who could not comprehend why she should take so much trouble when there was no one "to make her," as he expressed himself. It was a fine bright day in the winter when Ralph burst into the study which Lilly had very much to herself. "Come along, Lilly!" he exclaimed. "I have ordered out Apple-blossom for you, and I will ride Sugar-plum. Throw those stupid books away. What can make you drone over them as you do?" Lilly looked up at her cousin with a serious expression in her calm eyes, and said, "Papa and mamma wished me to learn my lessons, and I want to do exactly as if they were alive. They always made me do my lessons before I went out, and so, Ralph, I cannot come." Ralph Clavering looked very much astonished, and with a contemptuous curl of his lip and a frown on his brow left the room, exclaiming, "What can Lilly mean? She doesn't care for me, that's very positive." He threw himself on his pony, and switching it with more than his usual impetuosity, galloped off down the avenue. Lilly bent forward again to her self-imposed studies. Now and then she got up from her seat, and putting the book on one side and placing her hands behind her, repeated her lesson through with an expression of awe in her countenance, as if she thought her mother was looking over the book and listening to her. Lilly had just finished her work when Ralph returned. "What, old bookworm, have you really finished your stupid lessons?" he exclaimed. "You've lost a capital gallop, that I can tell you. However, you shall have one in the afternoon, though you don't deserve it. I've ordered Sugar-plum round to the stable to get a feed of corn while we are at luncheon, and in an hour he'll be ready again. Apple-blossom will be ready for you, and we'll have a capital ride after all." Lilly said that she should like to ride, and soon afterwards luncheon was announced. The young people took it by themselves, for Mr Clavering was from home, and there were no guests in the house. Ralph tossed off a couple of glasses of sherry, scolding the butler for not quite filling them. "Good stuff after a gallop this cold weather," he observed. Lilly shook her head. "You could do very well without that," she remarked. "Oh, you girls know nothing," he answered contemptuously. "I could drink twice as much, and not be the worse for it." In spite of Lilly's entreaties he took one or two more glasses, evidently for the sake of teasing her. Lilly found it difficult not to show her vexation. Ralph was in one of his obstinate humours. He had never been restrained when a child, and every day he found the task of restraining his temper become harder and harder. He owned this to his cousin. "Try, Ralph, what you can do," she answered. "Unless you try you cannot hope to succeed." "Impossible," he answered petulantly. "It is absurd to suppose that I'm not to get into a rage every now and then. It is gentlemanly, it is manly." "Oh, Ralph, what nonsense!" exclaimed Lilly. "Which is the most manly, to guide your pony along the road, or let it run away with you, flinging out at everybody it meets, and throwing you at last?" "That's nothing to do with my getting into a rage if I please," said Ralph. But he looked as if he fully comprehended the simile; and as Lilly saw that he did so, and had no wish to irritate him, she changed the subject. Soon after this the ponies were brought to the door. Lilly, who had got on her riding-skirt, sprang lightly on Apple-blossom, Ralph not even offering to assist her, and away the two cousins galloped down the avenue. Ralph's good humour did not return for some time, in spite of all Lilly could do. At length her lively remarks and the fine fresh air gradually brought it back, and this encouraged her to talk on. They had a delightful and a very long ride. Sometimes they galloped over the level sward through a fine extensive forest in the neighbourhood, and through the deciduous trees, now destitute of leaves. There were many hollies and firs and other evergreens, which gave a cheerful aspect to the scene, and with the blue sky overhead they scarcely remembered that it was winter. Sometimes they got on a hard piece of road, and had a good trot for a couple of miles, and then they reached some fine open downs, when, giving their little steeds the rein, away they galloped as hard as hoof could be laid to the ground, with the fresh pure air circulating freely round them. Now they had to descend and to pass along lanes full of ruts and holes, where they had carefully to pick their way, and then they crossed some ploughed fields till they once more reached a piece of turf by the road-side. On the turf, Ralph was again able to make his pony go at the pace which best suited his taste, Lilly easily keeping up with him. Once more in the forest, they galloped as fast as ever along its open glades. "This is first-rate," cried Ralph. "There never was a finer day for riding." "Oh, indeed it is," responded Lilly. "This is a beautiful world, and I always think each season as it comes round the most delightful." "I don't trouble my head about that," said Ralph, giving his pony a switch. "I know when it is a fine day, and I enjoy it." Lilly had discovered that Ralph always carefully fenced off from any subject which he thought might lead to serious reflection. She waited her time to speak to him, hoping it might come. Soon after this they again reached the high road. Several times Ralph's pony, which had gone through a good deal of work that morning, attempted to stop, and when Ralph urged him on he stumbled. "Sugar-plum must be tired," observed Lilly. "Let us walk our ponies home." "No, I hate everything slow," cried Ralph, hastening on the pony. "If the beast can't go he won't suit me, and so he shall soon find who is master." Lilly again entreated him to pull up, but he would not listen to her. At some distance before them appeared a figure in a red cloak. Lilly perceived that it was an old gipsy woman with a child at her back. In a copse by the road-side there was a cart with a tent and a fire before it, from which ascended into the clear calm air a thin column of smoke. The old woman was making her way towards the camp, not hearing apparently the tramp of the pony's hoofs. "Take care, take care, Ralph," cried Lilly; "you will ride over that poor old woman if you gallop on." "I don't care if I do," said Ralph, angry at being spoken to. "She's only a wretched old gipsy woman." "A fellow-creature," answered Lilly. "Oh, Ralph, take care." Ralph galloped on till his pony was close up to the old woman, at a spot where the ground was rough, and there was a somewhat steep descent. He could scarcely have intended actually to ride over the old woman. Just then she heard the pony's hoofs strike the ground close behind her. She started on one side, and the pony dashed on, shying as he did so. The animal's foot at that moment struck against a piece of hard clay, and already almost exhausted, down he came, throwing his rider to a considerable distance over his head on the ground. Lilly slipped off her well-trained little pony, which stood perfectly still while she ran to her cousin's assistance. Ralph's countenance was pale as death. He groaned heavily, and was evidently much hurt. His pony, as soon as it got up, trotted off to a distance to avoid the beating its young master might have bestowed. Lilly cried out to the old gipsy woman, who, although she could not hear, saw and understood her gestures. The old woman stood at a distance gazing at the scene, and then slowly and unwillingly came back. Lilly, as she watched Ralph's countenance, became more and more alarmed. She endeavoured, by every gesture she could make use of, to intimate that she wanted assistance. The old woman knelt down by the lad, and putting her hand on his brow, and then on his arm, gave a grunt, and rising with more agility than could have been expected, hobbled off towards the gipsy camp. Lilly would have run on herself for help, but she dared not leave her cousin on the ground, lest a carriage coming rapidly down the hill might run over him. She anxiously watched the old woman as she approached the tent. No one came forth, and she feared that all the gipsies might be absent, and that no help could be procured. She was herself, in the meantime, not idle. She placed Ralph's head on her lap, loosened his neckerchief, and chafed his temples, but her efforts were vain; he still remained unconscious, and she fancied that he was growing rather worse than better. Lilly knew that she could not lift him, though she longed to be able to carry him even as far as the green bank by the road-side. She was in despair, and could not refrain from bursting into tears. At last a thin dark man, with long elf-locks, accompanied by two boys as wild-looking as he was, and still more ragged, came running up. "Ah! my pretty lady, don't take on; your brother has still life in him," he exclaimed when he saw Ralph. "Here, you Seth, lift up the young master's legs; and Tim, you be off after his pony. Be quick, like lightning, in a hurry." Without more ado he raised Ralph from the ground, and bore him in his arms towards the tent. Lilly followed, leading Apple-blossom. They soon reached the gipsy tents. In one of them was a heap of straw. Ralph was placed on it. Lilly saw that the sooner medical aid could be procured the better. Still she did not like to leave him in charge of such doubtful characters as the gipsies. "You will take care of him, and I will hurry home to bring assistance," she said to the gipsy. "Whatever you like, pretty mistress, for your sake we will do," was the gallant answer. Lilly mounted Apple-blossom, and galloped on to the Hall. Great was the consternation her news caused. Mrs Clavering was so ill that no one ventured to tell her of the accident. Mr Clavering was away from home, and the butler and housekeeper were out on a visit. Lilly found that she must decide what was to be done. She ordered the carriage to be got ready, and then she sat down and wrote a note to the doctor, which she sent off by a groom. By that time the carriage was at the door, and, with Biddy as her companion, she drove back to the gipsy encampment. They considerately took with them some food, and all sorts of things which they thought might be required. Just as they reached the camp they found the doctor, whom the groom had happily met. There, on a heap of dirty straw, under cover of a tattered tent, lay the heir of Clavering Hall. Lilly had hoped to take Ralph home; but directly Doctor Morison saw him, he said that he must on no account be carried to such a distance, although he might be moved on a litter to a neighbouring cottage, as the gipsy tent afforded neither warmth nor shelter from rain or snow. A door was accordingly procured, and Ralph was carried by the gipsy and his two sons to a cottage about a quarter of a mile off, while the carriage was sent back for some bedding and clothes. No sooner had the gipsies performed the office they had undertaken than they hurried away; and when, some time afterwards Doctor Morison, at Miss Vernon's request, sent to call them back that they might receive a reward, they had moved their ground: the black spot caused by their fire, and some patches of straw, alone showed where their camp had been pitched. "I fear, Miss Vernon, that your cousin is in a very dangerous state," said Doctor Morison, after again examining Ralph. "I think that it will be well if you return in the carriage, and break the news to his father. Remember, however, that I do not despair of his life." This information made Lilly's heart very sad. "He may die, and so unprepared," she whispered to herself. "Oh, may he be graciously preserved!" How many, young as Ralph Clavering, have been cut off in the midst of their evil doings! An old woman and her daughter, the occupants of the cottage, gladly consented to give up the best accommodation their small abode offered to their wealthy neighbours. Mr Clavering, who had just reached the Hall, scarcely comprehended at first what had happened. Lilly had to repeat her tale. At length, when he really understood what had occurred, like a frantic person he threw himself into the carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive on as fast as the horses could go. "What a wretched, miserable hole for my boy!" he exclaimed as he entered the cottage. "Poor young master bean't accustomed to cottage rooms," observed the old woman, Dame Harvey, to her daughter. She could not forget that, humble as was her cottage, it was her own, and that she was bestowing a favour on those she had admitted within it. She was conscious at the same time that she was doing her duty towards them as a Christian, and this made her overlook, without complaint, many other slights she received. It was an anxious night to all concerned in Ralph's welfare. Doctor Morison feared that he had received a concussion of the brain, but could not decide whether it would prove serious till the next day. Mr Clavering scarcely left his son's bedside, nor would Lilly, had not Biddy filled her place, and she then consented to lie down on some chairs in a back room, where a large fire had been made up, a cart with fuel having arrived from the Hall. Ralph breathed painfully, it was evident that his life hung by a thread. CHAPTER THREE. Two days passed by, and it seemed very uncertain whether Ralph Clavering would recover. Lilly, by the doctor's orders, had to return home, but she begged that Biddy might remain to watch the invalid, and a more faithful nurse could not have been found. She, indeed, discovered with sorrow the true estimation in which her cousin was held at Clavering Hall; for among all the pampered servants not one volunteered, or seemed anxious to attend by his bedside. When he was well he ordered them roughly about, and abused them if they did not obey his often unreasonable commands. Now, as mean and irreligious persons are wont to do, they retaliated by treating him with neglect. Mr Clavering, whose fears for his son's life were fully aroused, only rushed out of the cottage for a few minutes at a time to calm his agitation, or to give way to his grief, and then hurried back to his bedside. He had sent for the housekeeper to attend on Ralph, but Mrs Gammage declined coming on the plea that her mistress required her attendance, and that her own health was so delicate that she should die of cold in Dame Harvey's cottage. The dame, therefore, and her daughter volunteered their services, and more careful attendants could not have been found. Mrs Harvey had been in service in her youth, and as she observed knew how to attend on gentlefolks. Food, and bedding, and furniture and all sorts of things had been sent from the Hall, and as the cottage was neat and clean, Mr Clavering might well have been thankful that his son had so comfortable a refuge. Lilly rode over every morning from the Hall, and generally again in the afternoon, but she was not allowed to remain many minutes at a time with her cousin. For several days the doctor continued to look grave, and said that he might possibly recover, but that he must not yet hold out too strong hopes on the subject. "I do trust he may recover," she answered. "It would be so dreadful for him to die, and I really think that there is some good in him." "There is no good thing in any of us, young lady," remarked the doctor; "yet I pray that if he lives the very best of things may be put into him--a new heart, or we cannot hope to see him changed from what he was." "I will pray that he may recover, and that he may get a new heart," said Lilly, artlessly. "Do, Miss Vernon," said Doctor Morison. "Human skill avails us nothing without God's aid." Lilly rode home much happier. She could not have much of what might properly be called affection for her cousin, for his behaviour had prevented that, but she sincerely pitied him, and was anxious for his welfare. Day after day passed by. "I will tell you to-morrow what to hope," answered Dr Morison to her usual inquiries. Lilly cantered home more anxious than ever to make her report to her aunt. "Of course he will die," observed Mrs Clavering; "what have we to expect?" "God is ever merciful and good," said Lilly, calmly. The lady stared. "I shall not believe that he will live till I see him recovered," she answered. "We can pray that he may, dear aunt, at all events," replied Lilly. The next day Lilly rode off at an early hour to Dame Harvey's cottage. Dr Morison arrived nearly at the same moment. She waited anxiously for his report. He remained, it seemed, a very long time with his patient. At last he appeared with a smile on his countenance. "He will yet do well. He requires careful nursing more than anything else, and I hope that in a few days he will be strong enough to be removed to the Hall." Lilly rode back to carry the joyful news to her aunt. Mr Clavering, when he heard this opinion, poured out expressions of gratitude to the doctor, and called him the preserver of his son's life, assuring him that there was nothing he would not do to show his sense of the obligation. "Give thanks where they are due," said Dr Morison. "And, my dear sir, you cannot please me more than by endeavouring to correct his faults, and to bring him up in the way he should go." "A very odd man, that doctor," said Mr Clavering, to himself. "Under other circumstances I should think his remarks highly impertinent." Dame Harvey could hardly be persuaded to take the sum of money offered her by Mr Clavering. She had only done her duty, and she had done it without thought of reward; she would have done the same for any poor neighbour who would have been unable to repay her. Mr Clavering was incredulous as to her disinterestedness. Lilly took her part. "I am sure, uncle, she nursed Ralph so kindly and gave up her cottage to him simply from kindness of heart," she observed. "Had any young nobleman been thrown from his horse out hunting would you not have taken him in, and kept him till he was well, without thought of reward? Papa used to say that the poor feel as we do, and often more acutely, and that we should treat their feelings with the same consideration that we should those of the rich." "You have vast experience, Miss Lilly, about such matters," answered Mr Clavering, with a laugh. "I know that the poor pull down my fences, and do all sorts of mischief, and I judge them by their deeds." "And how do the rich treat each other, and how would they behave if they were exposed to the temptations of poverty?" argued Lilly, with unusual vehemence. "We have put up your Irish spirit, young lady," answered her uncle, laughing. "However, I dare say that you are right, and I have no doubt of Dame Harvey's good intentions." Ralph having as the doctor said, once turned the corner, got rapidly well. Lilly was in hopes that from what had occurred his character would have improved, indeed, while he still remained weak and unable to help himself he was far less dictatorial than he used to be, and more than once, though not, perhaps, in the most gracious of ways, expressed himself obliged for what had been done for him. "He'll do better by-and-by," thought his sanguine cousin. "He is fretful now from his long confinement. When he gets out in the fresh air he will recover his temper." CHAPTER FOUR. There is an old saying that, "What is born in the grain is shown in the fruit." No sooner had Ralph Clavering recovered his physical strength than he was himself again in all other respects, or even still more dictatorial and abusive if any one offended him than before. At first Lilly was in despair. At last she recollected her own motto, "We must try before we can succeed." "Yes, I will try again, and very hard before I give it up in despair." The winter had been very severe, and numbers of labourers had been thrown out of work. Ralph was allowed at first only to drive out in the carriage. One day as he was waiting in the porch, filled with the warm sunshine, for his luxurious vehicle to come to the door, two ragged objects were seen approaching up the avenue. One was a thin and tall dark man, the other was a lad of the same foreign complexion. A frown gathered on Ralph's brow as he saw them. "What do you want here, you fellows?" he shouted out. "Food and money to pay the doctor, young master," answered the man, coming up to the floor. "The rest of the family are down with sickness camped in Fouley Copse, and they'll die if they don't get help." "Then you are gipsies, and we don't encourage gipsies," said Ralph. "You wouldn't let us die, young master, would you?" asked the man, humbly. "No fear of that, I'm up to you," cried Ralph, growing angry. "Be off with you." "I've always heard that one good turn deserves another, and believed it too, gipsy though I am, but I am not likely to get it this time," said the man, eyeing Ralph with a glance of contempt. Just then Lilly, hearing her cousin speaking loudly, came to the hall door. No sooner did she see the man than she exclaimed, "Why, that is the kind gipsy who carried you to Dame Harvey's cottage, and would take no reward. What is it you want, poor man? Tell us, that we may do what we can." The gipsy repeated his previous story. "We will go there immediately, and carry some food and other things for your family," she said. "But you are hungry yourselves, Ralph, tell Mrs Gammage that she must let them have some dinner, and that she must put up some food and blankets, and some other things for you to carry." Ralph demurred. Lilly grew impatient. "If we do not find matters as they are described, we can but bring the things back," she observed. This satisfied her cousin, who had thus suddenly become so scrupulous. It is wonderful how careful people are not to make a mistake in doing an act of charity. "Blessings on thee, young mistress! You remember me, then, sweet lady?" said the gipsy. "I do, indeed," answered Lilly; "but I did not hear your name." "Arnold I am called in this country, sweet lady," answered the gipsy. "My people are not wont to ask favours, but we are starving; and though you call us outcasts and heathens, we can be grateful." Ralph had gone to ask Mrs Gammage, very much to that lady's astonishment, to give the gipsies some food. Still greater was her surprise when he insisted on having some provisions put up to carry to their encampment. "Cousin Lilly will have it so," he answered, when she expostulated with him on the subject. This settled the matter; and the gipsies, being invited into the servants' hall, had a more abundant meal placed before them than they had seen for many a day. Ralph felt a pleasure which he had never before experienced, as he got into the pony-carriage with the stores the housekeeper had provided. Lilly rode by his side, and away they went. They got to the encampment before Arnold and his son could reach it. It was in the centre of a thick copse, which sheltered the tents from the wind. They had need of such shelter, for the tents were formed of old canvas thickened by mats of rushes, but so low, that they scarcely allowed the inmates to sit upright. They took the gipsies completely by surprise, and Lilly saw at a glance that Arnold had in no way exaggerated their miserable condition. Great was the astonishment, therefore, of the poor people at having a plentiful supply of provisions presented to them. Lilly, who soon saw that those who were most ill were far beyond her skill, promised to send Dr Morison to them. Lilly and Ralph were still at the encampment when Arnold and his son arrived. Their expressions of gratitude, if not profuse, were evidently sincere. So reduced were the whole party to starvation, that it seemed likely, had aid not arrived, they must all soon have died. There were two or three girls and boys sitting on the ground, covered up with old mats, their elf-locks almost concealing their features, of which little more than their black sparkling eyes were visible, while some smaller children were crouching down under the rags which their mother had heaped over her. There was an iron pot hanging from a triangle over the fire; but it contained but a few turnips and other vegetables, not a particle of meat. Even the pony which drew the family cart looked half-starved, as if sharing the general distress. "It is a pleasure to help those poor people," observed Ralph to his cousin, as they returned homeward. "I did not suppose so much wretchedness existed in England." "There is far more than we have seen to-day," said Lilly. "When hard times come, there are thousands and thousands thrown out of work, who then from one day to another do not know how they are to find food to put into their mouths on the next." "I should think that they might lay by when they are getting full wages," remarked Ralph. A carriage passing prevented Lilly from hearing the remark. The groom, who was driving, replied to it. "A hard job, Mr Ralph, for a poor man with a large family of hungry boys and girls able to eat, but to earn nothing, to lay by out of eight or nine shillings a week. Many a hard-working, strong man, gets no more. Why, Mr Ralph, you spend more on your clothes, gloves, and washing, and such like things." "Yes; but I am different, Thomas, you know. I couldn't do without good clothes and other things," answered Ralph. Thomas, fancying that he would be supported by Miss Lilly, ventured to say more than he would otherwise have done, and so he replied, "Don't see the difference, Mr Ralph. A rich man can't wear many more clothes at a time, or eat much more, than a poor one; and a poor one wants food and clothing as much as his betters. If he can't get them by honest means he sickens and dies, or takes to stealing. I don't know how the rich would act if they were to have the temptations the poor are exposed to!" Ralph was not inclined to say anything more on the subject to Thomas; he felt angry at his speaking so plainly. Thomas had never before done so, undoubtedly because he was sensible how useless it would have been. Not long after this they reached Dr Morison's house. Lilly told her tale, and the doctor promised to set off immediately to the gipsy encampment. Never had Ralph appeared to greater advantage than he did on that day at dinner. He laughed and talked, and made himself generally agreeable. His father and mother were surprised, and hailed the change as a sign of returning health. The doctor called in the evening. He had visited the gipsy encampment, and stated his belief, that if aid had not been sent to them, two or more of their number would have died before many days were over. "They owe their lives under Providence to you, Miss Vernon, I assure you," said the doctor. "Not more to me than to my cousin," answered Lilly, promptly. "He got the eatables from Mrs Gammage, and carried them to the encampment. I should have been afraid of going alone." The doctor did not repeat a version of the story which he had heard from Arnold, but he replied, "I am truly glad to hear that Mr Ralph busies himself about the welfare of his fellow-creatures." Mr and Mrs Clavering looked surprised; the words struck strangely on their ears. They were so different to what they were accustomed to hear. Mrs Clavering had been inclined to complain of her son and niece having visited the gipsies for fear they might catch a fever from them or get robbed, and now she heard them praised by Dr Morison, for whose opinion she had great respect; so she said nothing. Every day after this Lilly and Ralph paid a visit to the encampment, taking not only food but some blankets, with some of which Mrs Gammage had supplied them. Others had actually been bought by Ralph, at his cousin's instigation, with his own money. There could be no doubt from the way they expressed themselves, that the gipsies really were grateful for the kindness shown them, so different from the treatment they had been accustomed to receive from the world. Their hand was supposed to be against every man, and every man's hand was undoubtedly against them. At length the whole family had so completely recovered, that Arnold told them that he should leave the neighbourhood. "The gentlefolks don't like our ways, and we should be sorry, after what you have done for us, if we came foul of any of your people," said the gipsy. "So should we, indeed," answered Lilly. "And I hope you will not do anything elsewhere to get yourselves into trouble." "No fear, sweet lady," said Arnold, with the courtesy so often found among his people. "The thought that you would be offended would prevent us." CHAPTER FIVE. The days flew by; the spring returned; Ralph completely recovered his strength, and renewed his daily visits to his tutor; while Lilly, unaided, pursued her own studies with unwavering steadiness, and employed herself in calling, with her aunt, on some of the surrounding families of their own rank, in riding, sketching, in visiting the poor in the neighbourhood, and in doing good to all around as far as she had the power. Doctor Morison called her his bright intelligence, and said that he considered her a ministering angel, sent into their district to awaken these people from the Boetian lethargy into which they had sunk. Lilly, however, did not hear these compliments. Had she, her reply would have been that she was only doing what she knew to be right. Ralph occasionally joined his cousin in her occupations. Sometimes he rode with her, and sat by her side while she sketched; and he even condescended to carry her basket when she visited the cottages of their poor neighbours. He was rising, though he was not aware of it, in their estimation, and many expressed a belief that he would turn out well after all. To be sure, he would occasionally cast that hope to the ground by some outbreak of temper and violence of language. Lilly was often almost in despair, but she remembered her motto, "We must try before we can do," and so she determined to try on. It must not be supposed that she had distinctly said to herself, "I will set to work to give my cousin good principles, or to reform my cousin." The nearest approach was to think, "I wish that anything I could say or do would make Ralph give up some of his bad habits, and to act as I am sure he ought." Still, had she clearly seen all the difficulties of the task which she had in reality, although unknowingly, undertaken, she would not have shrunk from it. "It would be so delightful to have Cousin Ralph what he ought to be," she said, over and over again, to herself. She undoubtedly was setting properly about the work by gently leading him into the right way. He had too undisciplined a mind to be reasoned with, and had been too much indulged to be driven. Ralph had since his recovery taken a great fancy for rowing. A broad stream passed at no great distance from the Hall, which ultimately fell into a rapid river. Ralph had persuaded his father to have a small boat built for him, which he could manage by himself. He had hitherto had but little practice; he had, however, learned to pull sufficiently well to send on the boat ahead a short distance without catching a crab, and this made him fancy himself already a proficient. Lilly very naturally believed his assertions that he could row perfectly well; and the boat having been repainted and put in order, she gladly accompanied him on one of the first warm days in spring down to the stream. John Hobby, a cottager near, had charge of the boat and kept the oars. He was out when Ralph called for them, and so his wife told their son to take them down to the boat. "But you surely are not going alone, Mr Ralph, without my good man or our lad?" said the dame. "It's a main dangerous stream, and needs a strong arm and a practised hand to guide a boat along it." "That's all you know about it, mistress!" answered Ralph, in his usual self-satisfied, contemptuous tone. "I've rowed often enough on the stream to know that I've no reason to be afraid." "Well, maybe, Mr Ralph; but you won't go far, I do hope," persisted the dame. "Just as far as I please; and I'll thank you not to interfere with your advice, mistress," answered Ralph, walking off to follow Lilly, who had unfortunately not heard the warning voice. Lilly had got to some distance before Dame Hobby saw her, or she would undoubtedly have entreated her not to venture on the water. Ralph, with unusual politeness, handed his cousin into the boat. "John, John!" cried the dame, "here lad, take the oars down to the boat for Master Ralph Clavering, and just give him a hint, that if he goes without you, he may chance to drown himself and the pretty young lady with him." Then she added, in a lower tone, to herself, "A nice young gentleman to order people about as he does. He'll learn some day who's who." A fine handsome young lad, who had been working in the garden at the back of the house, appeared at her call. He appeared to be about the same age as Ralph Clavering, but was taller and stouter. There was a look, too, of health and conscious strength about him, and withal, a pleasant, good-natured smile on his well-formed countenance, which showed that he was on good terms with himself and the world in general. He took the oars from an outhouse, and followed Ralph and Lilly to the boat. Young John Hobby was about to follow, when Ralph told him to keep back, and seizing the oars, exclaimed, "Now, Lilly, I will show you what I can do; and we'll make a voyage unsurpassed since the days of Columbus!" Lilly was but little accustomed to boating, and believing that her cousin's experience was equal to what he asserted it to be, she entrusted herself to him without hesitation. John Hobby stood watching their proceedings, and scratching his head, evidently wishing to say something. "You'd better go up stream, Master Clavering," he cried out at length, as Ralph shoved off from the bank. "The current runs very strong, and it's easier to go with, than against it." "Hold your tongue, you lout," answered Ralph, angrily. "I know how to row, and don't want to be dictated to." "Beg pardon, Master Clavering: I only said what I knew would be best," answered John Hobby, sturdily. Though a tenant of Mr Clavering's, John Hobby, the elder, paid his rent, improved his land, and feared neither him nor anyone else. Of young John, more will be said hereafter. Ralph had been undecided which way to go. To show his independence, he immediately turned the boat's head down the stream. He had skill enough to keep her in the centre of the river, and down she floated smoothly and easily. He was delighted with his own performance. "Hurrah!" he shouted. "Away we go, right merrily. That lout wanted to frighten you. I told you, Cousin Lilly, how pleasant it would be." Lilly found it extremely pleasant. The sun shone brightly and sparkled on the surface of the stream; and so clear was the water, that the fish could be seen swimming about on each side of the boat. The water-fowl skimmed lightly over it, or flew from bank to bank, every now and then giving forth strange cries, which made Lilly declare that the river must be infested by water kelpies, who were attempting to lure them to destruction. On the little boat glided. It did not seem to occur to Ralph that the current, rather than his exertions, was carrying them on. "This is what I like. Isn't it pleasant?" he exclaimed, again and again. Lilly was inclined to enjoy it, although, perhaps, a suspicion might have arisen that it would have been wiser to have followed John Hobby's advice, and to have gone up the stream first, so as to have returned with the current in their favour. They did not go very fast, but had ample time to admire the scenery. Sometimes the stream expanded in width, the banks were low, and little else than beds of rushes and willows, green meadows with cows feeding, were to be seen, with, perhaps, far off, a row of trees, a few Lombardy poplars, and the spire of a church peeping above them. In other places there were steep slopes, and rocks and cliffs, crowned with birch and alder, and even oak, and a variety of other trees. There were bends or angles in the course of the stream, which afforded a variety of pretty views, with here and there a cottage, or some fine old tree, whose branches extended over the water, forming a prominent feature. "Oh! how I wish that I had brought my sketch-book," exclaimed Lilly. "These views are so different to those I have been accustomed to take. We must come again to-morrow, and then you must stop as we go up and down the stream at the points I most admire to-day." Ralph promised to do as his cousin wished, but it did not occur to him to ascertain how far he could keep the boat in one place. At last, Lilly recollected that she had the back of a letter and a pencil in her bag, and, with a piece of board which was in the boat, she extemporised a drawing block. "Now, Ralph, here is a very pretty spot, turn the boat round a little, and I will quickly sketch it," she cried out, not doubting that her wishes would be fulfilled. Ralph got the boat round, as he was directed, but Lilly soon found herself receding so rapidly from her subject, that it was impossible to take a correct sketch. Again and again she called to him to keep the boat in one place. Ralph persisted that he was doing his best. "Why, Ralph, I thought that you were so expert an oarsman, that you could make your boat go anywhere, or do anything?" said Lilly. Ralph could not stand being jeered, even by his cousin. He quickly lost his temper, and at the same time while increasing his exertions, he lost his oar. Away it went out of his grasp, and floated down the stream. "There, you made me do that, you silly girl!" he exclaimed, angrily. "What is to be done now?" "Try and pick it up, to be sure," answered Lilly. "Paddle after it with the other oar." Ralph stood up to use the other oar as a paddle, and very nearly tumbled over in making the attempt. Lilly now became somewhat alarmed. She knew, however, that the wisest thing to do was to sit still, especially as Ralph began jumping about, and beating the water without any definite object. The boat continued to float down, following the oar, which gained but very little on her. Lilly again urged her cousin to try and recover it. His next attempt was as unsuccessful as the first, and the other oar nearly slipped from his hands. At last he sat down, almost crying, and looking exceedingly foolish. "The boat may go where it chooses," he exclaimed, pettishly. "How am I to row with only one oar?" In spite of her fears, Lilly almost burst into a fit of laughter. "Try again, cousin Ralph; you can do nothing unless you try," she answered. "If you will not try to row, I must put you to shame by making the attempt myself." Thus put on his mettle, Ralph again roused himself, but it was to little purpose; and he and Lilly now found that they had reached the mouth of the stream, and were entering the main river, which was far broader and more rapid. In vain he now tried to gain the bank, the rapid current bore the boat on into the very middle of the river. They both had ridden along the bank, and they remembered that some way down the water rushed over a ledge of rocks, with a fall of several feet. "Never mind," said Ralph; "there is a ford there, and I can but jump out and drag the boat to land." "Ah, but that was in the summer," answered Lilly. "I remember a man telling us that in the spring a great body of water falls over the ledge; and that when we passed, with the water scarcely up to our horse's knees, there is a regular cataract, and that once some people who were attempting to cross in a boat, got drifted near it, and were carried down and all drowned." "Oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed Ralph, now fairly wringing his hands. "Why did we come? How foolish we were. I wish that we had followed that lout Hobby's advice. He, of course, knows more about the river than we do." Lilly was very much inclined to say, "Speak for yourself, cousin Ralph; I believed your boastful assertions, and trusted myself to you." Instead of that, she only said, "Still we must try to save ourselves. We ought, at all events, to try to reach the bank. Ah! what is this?" She lifted up a loose board from the bottom of the boat: "Here, do you use this as a paddle, and give me the oar. We shall be able to guide the boat if we try." Ralph, once more roused, took the plank and used it as his cousin directed. Still, from want of skill, they made but little progress. The other oar had been caught in an eddy, and had been drifted so far away, that they had lost sight of it altogether. As they were exerting themselves with might and main, their attention was aroused by a shout, and looking up, they saw a man standing on the bank and waving the lost oar. This encouraged them; while the roar of the cataract, a little way below, made them still more feel the necessity of exertion. The boat was, of course, all the time drifting down, sideways, nearer and nearer to the dangerous spot. Still they were approaching the shore. The man with the oar ran along the bank. They had got within twenty yards of it, when the current seemed to increase in rapidity. The man shouted to them to use more exertion, but that was beyond their power. Poor Lilly's arms were already aching, and her hands were hot and blistered with the oar. Glancing on one side, they could see the ledge of rocks against which the river rushed, breaking into a mass of foam. It seemed impossible that they could reach the bank before they got within its influence. The man with the oar, seeing their danger, sprang forward and swam out towards them. He was not, apparently, a very good swimmer, but he struggled on. "He'll be drowned, and do us no good," cried Ralph. "Oh, no! I pray God that he may be preserved!" exclaimed Lilly, with a fervour, which showed that the expression came from her heart, and was truly a prayer. It was heard, the man struggled on, and seized the stem of the boat. "Go back to the other end," he cried out; and, as Ralph obeyed the order, he threw in the oar, and climbed up himself over the bow. Without speaking a word more, he seized both oars, and began rowing away with might and main towards the shore. Only then did Lilly and her cousin discover that the stranger was no other than Arnold, the gipsy. "Why, Arnold, we little thought that it was you!" they exclaimed in the same breath. "No time to talk," was the answer. "I'll tell you when we are all safe." In a few seconds the boat reached the land. Ralph shuddered when he saw how short a distance they were above the place where the waters, raging and foaming, dashed over the rocks. Lilly remarked, also, the great danger they had escaped. Her first impulse was to offer their gratitude to God for their preservation; her next was, to thank the gipsy for the effort he had made on their behalf. "But you will surely catch cold, Arnold, if you remain in your wet things," said Lilly. "No fear for me, young lady," he answered; "I am seasoned for all weathers, and a little wetting will do me no harm; but, I'm thinking that you young people will be wishing to get home again. How are you to do it?" "My cousin said that he would row back," answered Lilly, with a glance at Ralph, indicative of her real opinion on the subject. "Perhaps, then, you'll give me a passage, Master Ralph," said the gipsy. "It's a long way round by land, and the roads, such as they are, are not a little muddy in some places, and rough in others." "Oh, yes, I'll row you round--or, that is to say, you shall go round in the boat if you will take the oars, for I feel rather tired after rowing all the way down," replied Ralph, looking very sheepish. "Well, young gentleman, after my wetting it will be wise to keep in exercise; so, sit down, and I will try what I can do," said Arnold, taking the oars in a way which showed that he was accustomed to their use. He put the boat in motion, but instead of rowing out in the stream, he kept close in with the bank, following all its sinuosities, so as to avoid the opposing current. He bent sturdily to the oars, and sent the boat so rapidly through the water, that she went up the stream even faster than she had descended it when Ralph was rowing. For some time he said nothing; perhaps he felt rather ashamed of himself, but if such was the case the feeling wore off. Arnold made the boat skim over the water so easily, that at last he began to fancy that he could do the same. Surely he could do everything better than a wretched gipsy, who only the other day was almost starving. Meantime, Lilly had asked Arnold after his wife and family, and how he had happened to be on the bank of the river at a moment so opportune for her and Ralph. "The questions, sweet lady, are easily answered," said Arnold. "My wife and children are as well as scant food and hard living will allow them. We are camped about a mile from where you saw me. Knowing of old that the river is full of fish, I had gone to catch some. I had only just thrown in my line when I caught sight of your boat, and guessed that you would be the better for any help I could give you." "Then your family will lose the supper you expected to catch for them, and will not know what has become of you," said Lilly. "They are too well accustomed to go without supper to complain of that," said Arnold; "and as to not knowing what has become of me, we make it a rule never to trouble ourselves if one or the other does not appear at the time expected. We suppose that the absent one has some good reason for not coming back to camp. We gipsies do not allow ourselves to have more cares than we can help. It is all very well for the rich who live in fine houses, and ride in fine carriages, and wear fine clothes, and have more food than they can eat, to make cares for themselves; that would never do for us." Ralph thought that the gipsy was growing rather impertinent in his observations; yet, as Lilly encouraged him by her remarks, he said nothing. They had for some time re-entered the tributary stream, and were proceeding quickly up it. At last, Ralph, having recovered his confidence, insisted on taking the oars, he had contemplated desiring Arnold to get out, but he had a suspicion that Lilly would not approve of such a proceeding. Arnold, without hesitation, relinquished his seat, and allowed him to take the oars. Ralph at first rowed away sturdily enough, but the boat at once began to go on one side, and then to cross over to the other side of the stream; and even Ralph could not help discovering that instead of progressing upwards, the boat was once more dropping down with the current. "I cannot tell how it is," he exclaimed at last, in a tone of vexation, "there is something or other prevents me from managing the boat as I used. The oars have been changed, or they have been doing something to the boat." Lilly's lips curled, but she saw that her cousin was not in a humour to bear any quizzing; so she merely said-- "Never mind then, Ralph; let Arnold take the oars and row us home as fast as he can, for I am afraid that Uncle and Aunt Clavering will be very anxious about us, if they hear the report John Hobby is likely to give." "He'd better not have said anything--that's all," growled Ralph, looking as if he could annihilate the low-born Hobby, had he dared to commit such an atrocity. Happily for that individual, now so unconscious of evil, nearly an hour elapsed after this ere the boat reached the landing-place near the Hall. There stood Hobby. "I am truly glad to see you--that I am!" he exclaimed, honest satisfaction lighting up his countenance. "I was terribly alarmed you would never get back of your own selves--indeed I was, let me tell you." Ralph was going to make an angry reply to what he considered Hobby's impertinent remarks, but Lilly interrupted him-- "You are right, John Hobby," she said, kindly. "If it had not been for our friend Arnold here, we might never have got back at all; and had we followed your advice we should have saved ourselves a great deal of anxiety, and not have been exposed to the great danger from which we have been preserved." "As to the danger, it's all well that ends well, Miss," remarked Hobby, bluntly. "But I do hope Master Ralph won't be taking you on the water again till he's learnt to row properly." "Make the boat fast, and take the oars away with you!" exclaimed Ralph, walking off homewards. "Stop, cousin! You have not thanked Arnold, or asked him to come up to the Hall, where I am sure Uncle and Aunt Clavering would wish to see him," cried Lilly; but Ralph was so angry with Hobby's remarks, that he would not return. "Do not trouble him, young lady," said Arnold, casting a glance after the young heir of Clavering Hall, in which he did not conceal his contempt. "I do not require his thanks, nor any reward from him or his. You show me by your looks that you thank me, and that pays me more than enough." "Oh, but his father and mother will not be satisfied with that; they will wish to repay you," answered Lilly. "And besides, your wife and children are not well off; some money or some clothing will be of use to them, surely." "I'll not deny it; but we value such things less than you fancy, young lady," said the gipsy. "We have enough for the present, and we do not trouble ourselves much as to what is to come. But I won't keep you talking. The young gentleman has just remembered that he ought to wait for you, and is sitting down on the bank there. He thinks himself very rich and very important, and that he can do everything, I daresay; but if he knew all about himself that I know about him, he would act more kindly towards others and think less of himself. You may tell him so whenever you like from me." The meaning of this last remark did not strike Lilly at the moment. She still pressed Arnold to come to the Hall, but he declined, saying that he must of necessity go back to his family. Lilly again expressing her thanks, hurried after Ralph, who did not recover his self-complacency till they reached the Hall. CHAPTER SIX. When Mr and Mrs Clavering heard Lilly's version of the boating expedition, they were anxious to repay Arnold for the service he had rendered; but when they sent over a servant on horseback to the locality where he had said his tents were pitched, he was not to be found. Lilly was extremely sorry to hear this. She wished also to express her gratitude more fully than she had before done, and although he had refused to receive any reward, she had hopes that his wife and children would be willing to accept any presents she might be able to give them. Every effort, however, made by Mr Clavering to discover him proved unavailing. Perhaps his steward, whom he employed, did not take as much pains as he might have done. Ralph and Lilly went on much as they had been accustomed to do. Although Lilly often asked Ralph, when he was going to take her for another excursion on the water, he invariably offered some excuse. She observed also that he never went near the river if he could help it, and that he invariably seemed much annoyed whenever John Hobby's name was mentioned. It was evident that he had not forgotten the remarks made by honest John about his rowing. Sometimes Lilly suspected that he had even some stronger reason for disliking the young peasant. She feared that it was from the meanest of all reasons, jealousy. Hobby was better looking and more active, and excelled him in all athletic exercises. Hobby also was very good-natured, and had a great deal of humour, so that he was a general favourite among all who knew him in the country round. Ralph felt annoyed that one so much his inferior in birth, wealth, and education should in all other respects be his superior. Again Lilly felt almost in despair that Ralph would ever become what he ought to be. She was a sensible and wise girl, and had not formed too high a standard of perfection, but still there was a standard which she knew he could and ought to reach, and she did not feel disposed to be satisfied with any measure below it. She had flattered herself that she had got him out of many of his bad habits, but he had fallen back into most of them, and she found that the influence, which she fancied she had gained over him, was in no way secured. He mixed as before, whenever he had an opportunity, with low associates, and he used to abuse and swear at all around him at the slightest provocation. As a young boy, this conduct had only met with contempt, but as he grew older it gained him every day fresh enemies, so that there was scarcely a person in the district round who was so much disliked. During the last few years a great and happy change has taken place among the peasantry of England, and except a limited number of Chartists and other ill-instructed persons mostly confined to the towns, it may truly be said that the whole of the population is contented and orderly and patient under inevitable suffering and poverty. It was not so formerly, and directly they began to suffer from a scarcity of provisions or low wages, their only idea of remedying the evil, was to burn or destroy the property of their more wealthy and prosperous neighbours. Bad times, as they were called, were now occurring, and the whole rural population, especially in the neighbourhood of Clavering Hall, were in a state of great discontent. Incendiary fires were of nightly occurrence throughout the country. Not only haystacks, but wheat-stacks and barns and farm buildings were set on fire. This way which the country people took of showing their suffering was both very wicked and exceedingly foolish, but it proved indubitably that something or other required amendment. The magistrates took very naturally a somewhat one-sided view of the case, and regarding the people as evil-disposed and rebellious, employed the most stringent measures to repress these outrages. Whenever any supposed incendiaries were caught they seldom escaped conviction and were always punished with the utmost severity. Mr Clavering especially was conspicuous for the zeal with which he hunted down offenders and the unrelenting sternness with which he brought them to punishment. He, in consequence, brought upon himself a large amount of odium, and coupled with his conduct generally towards the peasantry, it made him probably the most unpopular man in the county. While the proud owner of Clavering Hall was the most unpopular, the poor tenant of one of his humble cottages was one of the most popular. This was no other than John Hobby. Hobby's popularity arose from several causes. A good deal of it was owing to the estimation in which his son was held, while he himself was looked upon as a hearty, good-natured fellow, ever ready with his tongue or his single stick to stand up for a friend or to defend the right; but, above all this, he had been falsely accused and tried on the charge of an act of incendiarism or of instigating others to commit it, and likewise of afterwards heading a number of persons who had committed various lawless acts. After a long imprisonment John Hobby had proved his innocence, and not being of either a humble or forgiving temper, he was not backward in speaking on all occasions of the way in which he had been treated. The summer passed away, the autumn came round, and matters grew worse. Lilly Vernon, however, rode out as usual, fearless of evil. Sometimes her uncle accompanied her, at others Ralph condescended to do so; but more usually of late she was followed by a groom, one of the most respectable and honest of the household. She had one day gone a considerable distance from home, when as she was walking her horse up a hill, with a copse wood on either side, she saw among the trees a small fire with a tent and carts near it, and the other usual features of a gipsy encampment. "Perhaps that is Arnold's camp," she said to herself, and just then she caught sight of the gipsy himself coming along the road. As soon as he perceived who it was he hurried towards her. "I was coming this very day to watch for you near the Hall, young lady," he said, putting his hand on her horse's neck. "You wished, I know, to do me a service, and you have it now in your power to help me. My eldest boy has been taken up by the constables on a charge of setting fire to Farmer Low's haystacks. He is innocent of the crime, for crime I hold it; but he is a gipsy, he was taken near the spot, and it will go hard with him. Your uncle has an affection for you, and will listen to the truth from your lips. If you put the matter before him, and tell him whose son the lad is, may be he will exert himself in his favour. Though he is a hard man, he is not one to let the innocent suffer." Lilly willingly promised to do all that the gipsy asked. Having paid a visit to his wife and children, who warmly welcomed her, she hurried homeward. On her return she met considerable bodies of men proceeding along the road, all armed with scythes, or hooks, or sticks. On enquiring of the groom what they were about his only reply was, "They are up to some mischief, Miss, but it's as much as my life's worth to ask them. I did not like their looks as they passed, and cast their eyes on the Clavering livery." On reaching the Hall Lilly hastened to find her uncle, who was at home, and without saying anything of what she had just seen, laid the young gipsy's case before him and placed the evidence of his innocence in so clear a light that he at once promised he would befriend him. She had promised the gipsy's wife to ride out the next day to tell her of the success of her petition. To assist in keeping down the disturbances which have been mentioned, the yeomanry were called out. The magistrates announced that the next time a mob assembled for mischief they should be fired on, and ridden down without mercy. No one was louder than Ralph Clavering in asserting that this was the only way to treat them. "I cannot help thinking, cousin, that milder measures would answer better," observed Lilly; "I would rather go unarmed among them, and show them the folly and wickedness of their proceedings." "You are very wise, Lilly, but you know nothing of the management of men," answered Ralph, contemptuously. A body of cavalry had been quartered near Clavering Hall for some time, but information being brought that an outbreak was expected in a town in the other end of the county they were immediately ordered off in that direction. A number of guests were assembled that day at the Hall at dinner. The cloth had just been removed, when the butler hurried in, and with a pale face and a trembling voice, announced the startling fact that one of the grooms had met a large body of armed men marching up through the park. His report was so circumstantial that there was no doubt about the matter. Some of the ladies took the matter calmly enough, others gave utterance to various expressions of terror, while the gentlemen were unanimous in the opinion that the windows and doors should be instantly barricaded, and that the Hall should be defended to the last if attacked. Not a moment was to be lost. There was no time to take out the sashes, but the shutters of all the lower rooms were closed and barred, as also were the doors, and chests of drawers, and tables and chairs were piled against them. Ralph seemed highly pleased with the proceedings. He had never been so energetic, and no one was more active in carrying about the furniture and placing it, so as to strengthen the fortifications. There were a number of fowling-pieces and pistols and other fire-arms in the house. Those fit for use were at once loaded, and consigned to the different guests and men servants; others which had long been laid aside were hunted up, and while one part of the garrison set to work to clean them, others commenced casting bullets, and a third party went about to forage for lead for the purpose. A leaden cistern and some leaden pipes leading to it were quickly cut to pieces and the material carried below. Lilly, though fully believing the report from what she had seen in the afternoon, and considerably alarmed in consequence, devoted herself to comforting her aunt, who was in a sad state of agitation, and kept declaring that the house would be burned down, and that they would all be murdered. Some of the ladies, however, volunteered to assist in casting bullets, and expressed their readiness to fight if the house were attacked. Mr Clavering appeared at this juncture to considerable advantage. He showed that he felt as an Englishman, and that, as Englishmen may well glory in the privilege of doing, he looked upon his house as his castle. He at once took the lead, and went about calmly from room to room, superintending all the arrangements. While affairs were in this state, it occurred to one of the gentlemen to enquire how near the rioters had got to the house? No one could say; in fact, no one had seen them since Bill Snookes, the groom, had reported their approach. One old gentleman, who enjoyed a practical joke, suggested that they had perhaps been taking a great deal of trouble, and disarranging the house to no purpose, and that the rioters might not be coming at all, which, of course made the rest very angry; at the same time that it induced two or three others to volunteer to go out and ascertain the position and force of the enemy. Bill's report had been somewhat vague, and he might possibly have exaggerated their numbers. The night was very dark, and from the upper windows no persons were visible in the park, and not a sound was heard-- even the dogs were silent, which they would not have been had people been moving about. Beyond the park, however, were seen in two or more places a bright glare in the sky, which, there could be little doubt, was caused by incendiary fires. We at the present day can scarcely realise that such was possible. The inmates of the Hall watched anxiously; any moment the well-formed corn and haystacks on the estate might burst into a blaze, and so might even the extensive outhouses of the Hall itself. Still the Hall was not attacked. Two volunteers offered to go out and ascertain the state of affairs. A strong party accompanied them to one of the side-doors to repel any attack of the enemy who might be in ambush near and attempt to surprise them. Ralph wanted to accompany the scouts, but they politely declined having his company. The night was now drawing on; several of the party reiterated their belief that the rioters would not come near them. At length the probability of an attack being made on the Hall was set at rest by the return of the two scouts, who stated that they had encountered a large body of men marching towards it and loudly threatening its destruction. They themselves were almost discovered, and had had no little difficulty in making their escape. Everybody within the mansion was now in greater bustle than before. Again Mr Clavering looked at all the doors and fastenings, and inspected all the points of possible approach, and men servants or maid servants were stationed at all the windows which could be reached by ladders, several of which it was recollected, when too late, were left exposed to view in the outhouses. Several of the gentlemen stood with fire-arms in their hands at some of the windows of the upper rooms commanding the approach to the house. The night was calm, not a sound was yet to be heard. At length the low, dull tramp of a body of men moving rapidly onward, broke the stillness. It grew more and more distinct; voices were heard mingling with it. They became louder and louder. Shouts and cries broke forth which soon evolved themselves into threats of vengeance against Clavering Hall and its proprietor. At last the open space before the house became filled with men. The cries became more prolonged. "Now, lads, destruction to the Hall and death to its owner. Hurrah!" shouted some one from the crowd. The shout was repeated by a hundred voices. It might well have made the defenders of the Hall tremble, for it was known that the cavalry had been sent off to a distance, and that there was no prospect of succour. "We'll fight it out, and we must needs be ashamed of ourselves if we cannot drive the scoundrels away," exclaimed Mr Clavering. "Light your torches, lads--fire is the thing for us," shouted one of the mob. "We'll soon smoke out these monsters." Soon after this, a small light was seen. It seemed to spread from hand to hand; and now some hundred torches waved to and fro in front of the Hall. The female occupants had now good reason for trembling with alarm. Still Mr Clavering was unwilling to give the order to fire. Not that he had much compunction about killing them, but it would only have exasperated the people, without driving them away. "The doors are closed," cried the man who had before spoken. "We must burst them open. Bring forward the battering rams." No sooner was the command issued, than a number of men were seen hurrying up with some trunks of small trees, slung on ropes, between them. This proceeding had not been foreseen; and it was evident that the doors could not withstand the force about to be applied to them. "If you proceed to violence, understand all of you below this, that we will fire," shouted Mr Clavering. "Many of you will lose your lives-- mark that. I give you warning." "And we give you warning, that we will burn you and your fine Hall, and everybody in it. Mark that, Ralph Clavering," was the answer. "Huzza, lads.--No more delay.--On with the work." The men thus incited brought forward a battering ram, and made a furious attack on the front door. Stout as it was, it cracked throughout. Another such blow would have burst it open, and allowed the angry assailants a free entrance. Still Mr Clavering and his companions were unwilling to fire, till it appeared that they had no longer any other resource. "Again I give you warning, men--we will take the lives of some of you if you approach the door," he shouted out. "Do your worst--we don't fear you, squire," was the answer; and again a rush was made towards the door. A shower of bullets rattled down among the assailants, and several shots were fired from the crowd in return. Loud shrieks and cries of vengeance arose on all sides. The hall door was burst open, and fierce men, maddened by hunger, with all their worst passions aroused, were rushing in, with torches in their hands, bent on destroying the mansion, when they were met by a party of the defenders, who resolutely kept them back. Still it was too evident that numbers would prevail, when, at that moment, a voice which rose high and clear above the din shouted out-- "What, men, are you about? Do you wish to destroy the property of one of your best friends? You fancy that Clavering Hall is to belong to the lad known as young Ralph Clavering; but you are mistaken. The rightful heir is no other than he whom we all have called John Hobby. Look at him, any one of you; and who can doubt it? When the right moment comes it will be proved. In the meantime let that high and mighty young gentleman, Master Ralph Clavering, enjoy his dignity as best he can, and look down on those whom he will soon find are his equals." While the stranger was speaking, there was so perfect a silence among the rioters that every word was heard by those within the house. Ralph Clavering heard them with feelings of astonishment and dismay. So did Lilly, and so did Mr and Mrs Clavering. They did not believe the extraordinary assertion; but still it created most painful feelings within their bosoms. The effect on the mob, however, was highly satisfactory. Although some insisted that they should continue the attack, because the property, as it still belonged to Squire Clavering, ought to be destroyed, but by far the larger majority agreed to abandon it. The majority carried the day, and the small minority had no inclination to continue fighting alone. "But before we go, lads, let us give three cheers for the rightful heir of Clavering Hall. Hip! hip! hip! hurra for honest John Hobby! and when he comes into his property, may he not forget his poorer neighbours!" Again and again they shouted this assertion, creating even more astonishment and dismay in the minds of the owner of the Hall and his friends than their attack had done. The volley from the fowling-pieces did not appear to have produced much effect, or, if any of the people had been hit, they were carried off by their friends. After the last cheer, the whole body suddenly moved off, the rear ranks pushing hurriedly on, evidently not wishing to be the last, lest they might be assailed by the inmates of the Hall. Some of the gentlemen, indeed, proposed sallying out, and punishing the rioters; but Mr Clavering told them that he would not sanction such an act, as it would be utterly useless, and might lead to their own destruction. In a few minutes not a person was to be seen in the park, while the sound of the retreating footsteps of the mob gradually faded away. CHAPTER SEVEN. The assertion made by the stranger, which had so unexpectedly raised the siege of the Hall, created the most painful doubts in the minds of Mr and Mrs Clavering. At the time of their child's birth Mr Clavering had been away, and his conscience told him that it had been for the sake of his own gratification and amusement. The housekeeper and several other servants in the Hall at the time had been dismissed for misconduct, and, from circumstances which occurred, Mrs Clavering had no proof or certainty whatever that her child had not been changed. Seldom has a mother been placed in a more painful position. Another circumstance which gave the statement a greater air of truth was, that the woman Hobby had been employed at the Hall at the time Mrs Clavering's child was born, that she herself was said to have given birth to an infant shortly afterwards, and that certainly a boy had been brought up by her who was now known as John Hobby. She was by some means or other better off than her neighbours. Young Hobby was always well dressed and well cared for, and had been sent to the best village school the neighbourhood afforded; so that, considered only a cottager's child, he soon became the associate on equal terms of the sons of the well-to-do farmers in the neighbourhood. Mrs Hobby had not spoiled him; and John Hobby the elder, who was a conscientious man, had, to the best of his power, done his duty by him, and given him such religious instruction as he was able. He was also a firm, mild-tempered man, and had never failed firmly and gently to punish him whenever he committed a fault. The morning after the events which have been described, Mr Clavering met his guests at the breakfast-table with a calmer countenance than could have been expected. "You all heard the strange assertion made last night, and saw the effect it produced," he observed. "In its truth I am not inclined to believe, though I shall, of course, make the most searching inquiry as to the origin of the report. I have sent for the youth, the supposed rival of Ralph, and I am endeavouring to discover the person who last night made the statement which probably saved the Hall from destruction. I cannot look upon him otherwise than as a friend." "Then, uncle, I will tell you who he is," exclaimed Lilly, eagerly; "I recognised his voice. He is Arnold the gipsy. I was certain of it the moment he began speaking." "Those gipsies pick up strange tales, which can seldom be relied on," observed one of the guests. "I should think not," exclaimed Ralph Clavering, whose features had been much agitated since he took his seat at the table, but who had endeavoured to preserve a calm demeanour. "You are not going to discard me as your son, I hope, merely from the assertion of a vagabond gipsy?" "No, indeed, Ralph, my dear boy; but you would surely wish the report to be inquired into," said Mr Clavering, calmly. Lilly had come round, and put her hand on his shoulder. "Whatever is the case, dear Ralph, I will be your sister-cousin as long as we live," she said, in her sweet, gentle voice. "Endeavour to bear this great trial well; you can if you strive properly." Ralph bent his head down between his hands, and bursting into tears, murmured-- "But it is very hard to bear." It was the first time in his life that he had ever shown signs of a softened heart, and it made Lilly inwardly rejoice, for she had expected to see him fly out, and abuse Hobby as a vile impostor, and, as it were, strike right and left at any one who ventured to question that he was the lawful heir of Clavering Hall. She observed, also, that during the day, though occasionally moody, he was far less dictatorial and haughty in his manner towards others than usual, while to her he was especially gentle and polite. Mr Clavering attended the magistrates' meeting, and not unmindful of his promise to his niece, succeeded in getting the young gipsy, Arnold's son, discharged, though the evidence against him would, perhaps, have been sufficient in those days, to convict him, had he not had a friend to speak in his favour. In the evening young John Hobby, with Mrs Hobby, arrived at the Hall. She was given in charge of the housekeeper, with strict orders to prevent her from communicating with any one. John was habited in his Sunday suit, and with his good looks and modest and unassuming yet unembarrassed manners, he won many sympathisers. He was extremely astonished to find himself at the Hall, for he had not heard the report promulgated by Arnold, nor had he nor Mrs Hobby been told why they had been sent for. When the young gipsy had been discharged, Mr Clavering told him that he wished to see his father; but it was not till another day had nearly passed that Arnold made his appearance. There could be little doubt that he was well aware of the object for which he had been requested to come to the Hall, though Mrs Hobby and John had been kept out of his way. A lawyer had come down from London, and two or three other friends remained at the Hall to assist Mr Clavering in investigating the case. Arnold was first brought up. His story was very simple. He had no personal interest whatever in young Hobby. He had obtained the information through his wife, who, in the course of her calling of fortune-telling, had got it from Mrs Hobby herself. He considered the secret of value, but had not intended to make use of it, though he was induced to do so for the purpose of saving the Hall from destruction. Mrs Hobby's evidence was next taken. She stated that neither of the children about whom this question had arisen was her own; that Mrs Duffy, the housekeeper at the Hall, had brought her an infant, stating that it was the child of Mrs Clavering; that it would never be reared if brought up by its mother, and that to save its life she had taken it away, and substituted another in its stead. She owned that she had her doubts as to the propriety of the proceeding, but that her scruples had been quieted by a sum of money, and that she was told she would receive a similar sum every year as long as she did not betray the secret. The gipsy wife had, however, wormed it out of her, and this year the looked-for sum had not arrived at the usual time. Although there were some discrepancies, and even improbabilities, in the details of the statement, it still appeared possible that the story might in the main be true; and, at all events, it wore an air of sufficient probability to make the positions of the two youths extremely painful. Ralph came forward in a way which was little expected, but which gave Lilly great satisfaction. He earnestly begged that John Hobby might remain at the Hall, and be treated in all respects as he had been, and that he might accompany him to his tutor, and obtain the education which would fit him for the position in life he might possibly be destined to gain. No conclusion could possibly be arrived at, however, it appeared, unless Mrs Duffy and her accomplices could be found; and what had become of her no one knew. Another question also arose: if Ralph was not the heir of Clavering Hall, who was he? Again, should he be proved to be the son of Mr and Mrs Clavering, who was John Hobby? For the present, however, Mr Clavering's legal adviser assured him that the law would in no way interfere with the right of his supposed son Ralph as heir of Clavering Hall. John Hobby himself made no claim, while the whole story rested on the assertions of a gipsy and an ignorant woman, who had no proofs to bring forward in its support. The persons who suffered most were Mr and Mrs Clavering. They had looked upon Ralph as their son, and had loved him as such, too blindly indeed; and now they felt that they might possibly have been bestowing this love on a stranger, and neglecting their own offspring. As they saw young Hobby, indeed, they could not help acknowledging that he was worthy of the love of any parents, though they could discover no likeness in him to themselves, or any of their near relatives, while Ralph had always been considered the very image of Mr Clavering. Thus they continued in the most painful state of uncertainty as to which was their son, without any possibility of solving the mystery. CHAPTER EIGHT. Ralph Clavering was becoming a changed character. His spirit had been humbled, if not broken. He had persuaded himself that any moment he might have to descend from his proud position as heir of Clavering Hall, and become a nameless beggar, ignorant even of who were his parents. John Hobby had truly heaped coals of fire on his head that had completely softened and won his heart. In their studies, John Hobby's quickness and perseverance stimulated him to make greater exertions than he had ever before used. Hobby remained on as a guest at the Hall and was soon looked upon as one of the family. The only thing certain with regard to him was that he was not the son of Dame Hobby and her husband John; and Lilly, at all events, hoped that he had the right to bear some more euphonious name. He also daily improved in manners and in the tone of his voice and accent, so that after the lapse of a few months, a stranger visiting the Hall would not have supposed that his early days had been spent in one of the humblest cottages on the estate. He did not, however, lose his modest demeanour and simple manners. They remained, but became those of a cultivated and polished person. At length the time arrived when it had been arranged that Ralph should go to the University. He wished that his friend should accompany him. Here in an open field Hobby's talents had full space for development. Ralph was inclined to feel jealous at finding himself distanced by his friend, but he stifled the unworthy feeling, and rejoiced at his success. It was considerable, for Hobby carried off all the prizes for which he was able to contend. Thus three years passed rapidly away, and at the end of that time, while Ralph Clavering passed a very creditable degree, John Hobby took high honours. He now resolved, by the advice of his tutors and other friends, to enter at the Bar, where he might carve out his own fortune. He invariably spent his vacations with Ralph. Sometimes they made tours together on the Continent or elsewhere, but the winters were generally spent at Clavering Hall. Ralph was now as much loved and respected by the household and tenants as he had before been disliked, and all agreed that it would be a grievous pity if it should be proved that he was not the rightful heir, though it was acknowledged that a finer or better young gentleman than Mr John Hobby was not to be found. The two young men were at the Hall for the early part of the Christmas vacation, just as they had left College. After it they proposed making a tour in the East. Snow covered the ground and a biting north-east wind blew out side, while all within was cheerful and bright. A large party staying in the house were assembled in the dining-room; the cloth had just been removed and the young collegians were receiving the congratulations of their friends at their success at the University, when the butler entering whispered to Mr Clavering that a man desired to see him immediately on important business. Desiring that the man might be shown into his study he apologised to his friends and hurriedly left the room. On entering the study a tall thin man stepped forward--"It's a long time since you have seen me, Squire Clavering, but maybe you may remember the gipsy Arnold," said the stranger. "You and yours acted kindly towards me and mine, and I have ever since been wishing to do you a service in return. I knew that the occasion would some day come. It has arrived. You have long been anxious to find the woman Duffy. She is in the neighbourhood, and I suspect on her death-bed. If you hasten to her you may yet be in time to take her depositions, as she alone is able to settle who is your rightful son and heir." Fortunately a brother magistrate and Mr Clavering's lawyer were staying in the house. Ordering a carriage to be got ready, he sent for them, and, without delay, accompanied by Arnold, they set off to the cottage where Mrs Duffy was to be found. The old woman was in bed and evidently very ill. At first, when told why they had come, she was greatly alarmed and refused to say anything, but being soothed and assured that no injury would be done her, she expressed her readiness to say all she knew. Mr Clavering, who had hitherto been so calm, now that the painful mystery was about to be cleared up, could scarcely restrain his feelings. As she spoke the lawyer, unobserved by her, wrote down her words. The description of a life of crime is not edifying. Avarice, the eager desire for money, had been the incentive which urged her on from crime to crime. By a bribe she had been induced by the wicked brother of a gentleman of property in the north of England to assist in carrying off his son and heir, and not knowing what to do with the infant, she had committed it to the charge of Dame Hobby, leading her by further falsehood to suppose that it was the heir, lately born, of Clavering Hall. Part of the money she had received from the uncle she had remitted regularly to the Dame for the boy's support. She asserted most positively that Ralph Clavering was truly the child, born to Mr and Mrs Clavering, and that no change had been effected to her knowledge and belief. Mr Clavering uttered an ejaculation of thankfulness when he heard this, and his brother magistrate warmly congratulated him. The lawyer rubbed his hands, exclaiming--"This other affair will, however, give the gentlemen of the long robe a nice supply of occupation for the spring months. I know the gentleman, and believe every word; he'll fight it out to the last. Really if all people were honest, it would be hard work for barristers to find support." The trial predicted by the lawyer took place; and, thanks to Mr Clavering's purse, it was brought to a successful issue for the interests of Ralph's friend. As Sir Harry Olcotte, the owner of many broad acres, the latter never forgot that he had once been simple John Hobby, while Ralph Clavering had reason to bless the day which aroused him from his state of self-conceit and self-indulgence, and which made him feel the necessity of self-exertion and self-command. It may be satisfactory to some readers to know that Lilly Vernon, not many years after the events recorded, became Lady Olcotte; that Arnold the gipsy and all his family settled down near them, and became respectable members of society; and that old John Hobby and his dame were placed on one of the best farms of the estate, and that the Steward, in the most unaccountable way, always forgot to call for their rent. 
21375	----	The Weathercock, Being the Adventures of a Boy with a Bias, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ There is actually another title to this book, "The Boy Inventer", and that is just the character of our sixteen-year-old hero. He is living with his uncle, who is a doctor in a small Lincolnshire village. He is friendly, after a fashion, with three boys who are living in the Rector's house, where they are being educated. Our hero, Vane Lee, is also a bit of a naturalist, as is the author of this book. But some of his inventions have a way of going wrong, as for example when he decides to make the defective church clock work. He takes it all to pieces, cleans all the parts up, and puts it all together again--with the exception of two vital wheels. In the middle of the night the clock's bell begins to strike without cease--the signal in the village for a fire. Everybody turns out and rushes about with fire hoses looking for the fire, and it takes a while before they find out that there never was a fire at all. But one day Vane is set upon by two gipsy boys, and beaten nearly to death. Nobody knows who did the deed, as Vane is for a long while unconscious. Eventually he comes round, and things become a little bit clearer, but exactly how I will not reveal here. The typography of the book we used was not very good, and there were a number of spelling inconsistencies. For instance "gipsy" is sometimes spelt "gipsey" and sometimes "gypsy". And the unfortunate Mr Deering is sometimes spelt "Dearing" and sometimes "Dereing". I hope we have ironed these things out, as well as making the hyphenation more consistent throughout the book. Read it, or listen to it--you'll enjoy it. ________________________________________________________________________ THE WEATHERCOCK, BEING THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY WITH A BIAS, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. TOADSTOOLS! "Oh, I say, here's a game! What's he up to now?" "Hi! Vane! Old weathercock! Hold hard!" "Do you hear? Which way does the wind blow?" Three salutations shouted at a lad of about sixteen, who had just shown himself at the edge of a wood on the sunny slope of the Southwolds, one glorious September morning, when the spider-webs were still glittering with iridescent colours, as if every tiny strand were strung with diamonds, emeralds and amethysts, and the thick green moss that clothed the nut stubbs was one glorious sheen of topaz, sapphire and gold. Down in the valley the mist still hung in thick patches, but the sun's rays were piercing it in many directions, and there was every promise of a hot day, such as would make the shade of the great forest with its acorn-laden oaks welcome, and the whole place tempting to one who cared to fill pocket or basket with the bearded hazelnuts, already beginning to show colour in the pale green husks, while the acorns, too, were changing tint slightly, and growing too big for their cups. The boy, who stood with his feet deep in moss, was framed by the long lithe hazel stems, and his sun-browned face looked darker in the shade as, bareheaded, his cap being tucked in the band of his Norfolk jacket, he passed one hand through his short curly hair, to remove a dead leaf or two, while the other held a little basket full of something of a bright orange gold; and as he glanced at the three youths in the road, he hurriedly bent down to rub a little loam from the knees of his knickerbockers--loam freshly gathered from some bank in the wood. "Morning," he said, as the momentary annoyance caused by the encounter passed off. "How is it you chaps are out so early?" "Searching after you, of course," said the first speaker. "What have you got there?" "These," said the lad, holding up his basket, as he stepped down amongst the dewy grass at the side of the road. "Have some?" "Have some? Toadstools?" "Toad's grandmothers!" cried the lad. "They're all chanterelles--for breakfast. Delicious." The first of the three well-dressed youths, all pupils reading with the Reverend Morton Syme, at the Rectory, Mavis Greythorpe, Lincolnshire, gave a sidelong glance at his companions and advanced a step. "Let's look," he said. The bearer of the basket raised his left hand with his fungoid booty, frankly trusting, and his fellow-pupil delivered a sharp kick at the bottom of the wicker receptacle--a kick intended to send the golden chalice-like fungi flying scattered in the air. But George Vane Lee was as quick in defence as the other was in attack, and his parry was made in the easiest and most effortless way. It was just this:-- He let the basket swing down and just passed his right hand forward, seeming only to brush the assailant's ankle--in fact it was the merest touch, but sufficient to upset the equilibrium of a kicker on one leg, and the next moment Lance Distin was lying on his back in a perfect tangle of brambles, out of which he scrambled, scratched and furious, amidst a roar of laughter from his companions. "You beggar!" he cried, with his dark eyes flashing, and a red spot in each of his sallow cheeks. "Keep off!" cried the mushroom bearer, backing away. "Lay hold of him, Gilmore--Aleck!" The lads addressed had already caught at the irate boy's arms. "Let go, will you!" he yelled. "I'll let him know." "Be quiet, or we'll all sit on you and make you." "I'll half kill him--I'll nearly break his neck." "No, don't," said the boy with the basket, laughing. "Do you want your leave stopped? Nice you'd look with a pair of black eyes." "You can't give them to me," roared the lad, passionately, as he still struggled with those who held him, but giving them little trouble in keeping him back. "Don't want to. Served you right. Shouldn't have tried to kick over my basket. There, don't be in such a temper about that." "I'll pay you for it, you miserable cad!" "Don't call names, Distie," said the lad coolly. "Those who play at bowls must expect rubbers. Let him go, boys; he won't hurt me." It was a mere form that holding; but as the detaining pair loosened their hold, Lance Distin gave himself a violent wrench, as if he were wresting himself free, and then coloured to the roots of his hair, as he saw the laugh in his adversary's eyes. "Distie's got no end of Trinidad sun in him yet.--What a passionate fellow you are, Cocoa. I say, these are good, really. Come home with me and have breakfast." Lance Distin, son of a wealthy planter in the West Indies, turned away scornfully, and the others laughed. "Likely," said Fred Gilmore, showing his white teeth. "Why, I wouldn't poison a cat with them." "No," said Aleck Macey; "I know." "Know what?" "It's a dodge to make a job for his uncle, because the doctor can't get any practice." "Don't want any," said the lad, good-humouredly. "If he did, he'd go back to Savile Row." "Not he," snarled Distin, pausing in his occupation of removing thorns from his jacket. "Killed all his patients, and was obliged to run away into the country." "That's it!" said Vane Lee, with a laugh. "What a clever chap you are, Distie; at least you would be if your tongue wasn't quite so sharp. There, shake hands, I didn't mean to hurt you." He stretched out rather a dirty hand, at which the young Creole gave a contemptuous glance, looked at his own white fingers, and thrust them into his pockets. "Ah, well, they are dirty," said Vane, laughing. "No, they're not. It's only good old English soil. Come on. Uncle will be glad to see you, and then we'll all walk up to the Rectory together." _Crick_! Distin struck a match, and, with a very haughty look on his thin face, began to puff at a cigarette which he had taken from a little silver case, Vane watching him scornfully the while, but only to explode with mirth the next moment, for the young West Indian, though he came from where his father's plantations produced acres of the pungent weed, was not to the manner born, and at the third draw inhaled so much acrid smoke that he choked, and stood coughing violently till Vane gave him a hearty slap on his back. Down went the cigarette, as Distin made a bound forward. "You boor!" he coughed out; and, giving the lad a malevolent look, he turned haughtily to the others. "Are you fellows coming home to breakfast?" He did not pause for an answer, but walked off sharply in the direction of the Rectory, a quarter of a mile from the little sleepy town. "Oh, I say," cried Vane, in a tone full of remorse, "what an old pepper-pot he is! I didn't mean to upset him. He began it,--now, didn't he?" "Yes, of course," said Gilmore. "Never mind. He'll soon come round." "Oh, yes," said Macey. "I shouldn't take any notice. He'll forget it all before night." "But it seems so queer," said the lad, taking out and examining one of his mushrooms. "I just came out for a walk, and to pick some of these to have cooked for breakfast; and just as I've got a nice basketful, I come upon you fellows, and you begin to chaff and play larks, and the next moment I might have been knocking all the skin off my knuckles against Distin's face, if I hadn't backed out--like a coward," he added, after a pause. "Oh, never mind," said the others. "But I do mind," cried the lad. "I want to be friends with everyone. I hate fighting and quarrelling, and yet I'm always getting into hot-water." "Better go and get your hands in now--with soap," said Macey, staring at the soil-marks. "Pooh! a rinse in the water-cress stream would take that off. Never mind Distin: come home, you two." "No, not this morning," said Gilmore. "I won't ask you to taste the mushrooms: honour bright." "Wouldn't come if you did," said Macey, with a merry laugh on his handsome face. "Old Distie would never forgive us if we came home with you now." "No," said Gilmore; "he'd keep us awake half the night preaching at you. Oh! here's old Syme." "Ah, gentlemen, good-morning," said a plump, florid clergyman with glittering glasses. "That's right, walk before breakfast. Good for stamina. Must be breakfast time though. What have you got there, Lee?" "Fungi, sir." "Hum! ha!" said the rector bending over the basket. "Which? Fungi, soft as you pronounce it, or Fungi--Funghi, hard, eh?" "Uncle says soft, sir," said Vane. "Hum--ha--yes," said the rector, poking at one of the vegetable growths with the forefinger of his gloved hand. "He ought to know. But, _vulgo_, toadstools. You're not going to eat those, are you?" "Yes, sir. Will you try a few?" "Eh? Try a few, Lee? Thanks, no. Too much respect for my gastric region. And look here; hadn't you better try experiments on Jamby's donkey? It's very old." "Wouldn't be any good, sir. Nothing would hurt him," said Vane, laughing. "Hum! ha! Suppose not. Well, don't poison one of my pupils--yourself. Breakfast, gentlemen, breakfast. The matutinal coffee and one of Brader's rolls, not like the London French, but passably good; and there is some cold stuffed chine." "Cold stuffed chine!" said Vane, as he walked in the other direction. "Why, these will be twice as good--if Martha will cook 'em. Nasty prejudiced old thing!" Ten minutes later he reached a gate where the remains of a fine old avenue leading up to a low mossy-looking stone house, built many generations back; and as he neared it, a pleasant odour, suggestive of breakfast, saluted his nostrils, and he went round and entered the kitchen, to be encountered directly by quite an eager look from its occupant, as he made his petition. The Weathercock--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER TWO. AUNT AND UNCLE. "No, Master Vane, I'll not," cried cook, bridling up, and looking as if an insult had been offered to her stately person; "and if master and missus won't speak, it's time someone else did." "But I only want them just plainly stewed with a little butter, pepper, and salt," said Vane, with the basket in his hand. "A little butter and pepper and salt, sir!" cried cook reproachfully; "a little rhubar' and magneshire, you mean, to keep the nasty pysonous thinks from hurting of you. Really I do wonder at you, sir, a-going about picking up such rubbish." "But they're good food--good to eat." "Yes, sir; for toads and frogs. Don't tell me, sir. Do you think I don't know what's good Christian food when I see it, and what isn't?" "I know you think they're no good, but I want to try them as an experiment." "Life isn't long enough, sir, to try sperrymens, and I'd sooner go and give warning at once than be the means of laying you on a bed of agony and pain." "Oh, well, never mind, cook, let me do them myself." "What?" cried the stout lady in such a tone of indignant surprise that the lad felt as if he had been guilty of a horrible breach of etiquette, and made his retreat, basket and all, toward the door. But he had roused Martha, who, on the strength of many years' service with the doctor and his lady in London, had swollen much in mind as well as grown stout in body, and she followed him to the kitchen-door where he paused without opening it, for fear of the dispute reaching the ears of aunt and uncle in the breakfast-room. "Look here, Martha," he said, "don't be cross. Never mind. I'm sorry I asked you." "Cross? Cross, Master Vane? Is it likely I should make myself cross about a basketful of rubbishing toadstools that you've wasted your time in fetching out of the woods?" "No, no, you are not cross, and I beg your pardon." "And I wouldn't have thought it of you, sir. The idee, indeed, of you wanting to come and meddle here in my kitchen!" "But I don't want to, I tell you, so don't say any more about it." But before Vane could grasp the woman's intention, she had snatched the basket from his hand and borne it back to the table, upon which she thumped it with so much vigour that several of the golden chalice-like fungi leaped out. "Here, what are you going to do?" cried Vane. "What you told me, sir," said cook austerely, and with a great hardening of her face. "I don't forget my dooties, sir, if other people do." "Oh, but never mind, cook," cried Vane. "I'm sorry I asked you." "Pray don't say any more about it, sir. The things shall be cooked and sent to table, and it's very thankful you ought to be, I'm sure, that master's a doctor and on the spot ready, for so sure as you eat that mess in the parlour, you'll all be on a bed of sickness before night." "Now, Martha," cried Vane; "that's just what you said when I asked you to cook the parasol mushrooms." "Paragrandmother mushrooms, sir; you might just as well call them by their proper name, umberrella toadstools, and I don't believe any one ate them." "Yes; uncle and I ate them, and they were delicious. Cook these the same way." "I know how to cook them, sir, only it's an insult to proper mushrooms to dress them in the same way as good wholesome food." "That's good wholesome food," said Vane, "only people don't know it. I wanted to bring you some big puff balls to fry for me, but you turn so cross about it." "And enough to make anyone turn cross, sir. There, that will do now. I've said that I'd cook them, and that's enough." Vane Lee felt that there was nothing to be done now but make a retreat, and he went into the hall where Eliza Jane, the doctor's housemaid, was whisking a feather-brush about, over picture-frames, and ornaments, curiosities from different parts of the world, and polishing the hall table. From this she flew to the stand and caught up the hat brush with which she attacked the different hats on the pegs, speaking over her shoulder at Vane in a rapid way as she went on. "Now, don't you ask me to do anything, Master Vane, because I'm all behind, and your aunt's made the tea and waiting for you, and your uncle will be back directly, for he has only gone down the garden for a walk, and to pick up the fallen peaches." "Wasn't going to ask you to do anything," was the reply. "But you've been asking cook to do something, and a nice fantigue she'll be in. She was bad enough before. I wouldn't have such a temper for all the money in the Bank of England. What have you been asking her to do?--Bother the hat!" Eliza was brushing so vigorously that she sent Vane's hard felt hat, which she had just snatched up from where he had placed it, flying to the other end of the hall just as Doctor Lee, a tall, pleasant-looking grey-haired man, came in from the garden with a basket of his gleanings from beneath the south wall. "That meant for me?" he said, staring down at the hat and then at Vane. "Which I beg your pardon, sir," said the maid, hurriedly. "I was brushing it, and it flew out of my hand." "Ah! You should hold it tight," said the doctor, picking up the hat, and looking at a dint in the crown. "It will require an operation to remove that depression of the brain-pan on the _dura mater_. I mean on the lining, eh, Vane?" "Oh, I can soon put that right," said the boy merrily, as he gave it a punch with his fist and restored the crown to its smooth dome-like shape. "Yes," said the doctor, "but you see we cannot do that with a man who has a fractured skull. Been out I see?" he continued, looking down at the lad's discoloured, dust-stained boots. "Oh, yes, uncle, I was out at six. Glorious morning. Found quite a basketful of young chanterelles." "Indeed? What have you done with them?" "Been fighting Martha to get her to cook them." "And failed?" said the doctor quietly, as he peered into the basket, and turned over the soft, downy, red-cheeked peaches he had brought in. "No, uncle,--won." "Now, you good people, it's nearly half-past eight. Breakfast-- breakfast. Bring in the ham, Eliza." "Good-morning, my dear," said the doctor, bending down to kiss the pleasantly plump elderly lady who had just opened the dining-room door, and keeping up the fiction of its being their first meeting that morning. "Good-morning, dear." "Come, Vane, my boy," cried the doctor, "breakfast, breakfast. Here's aunt in one of her furious tempers because you are so late." "Don't you believe him, my dear," said the lady. "It's too bad. And really, Thomas, you should not get in the habit of telling such dreadful fibs even in fun. Had a nice walk, Vane?" "Yes, aunt, and collected a capital lot of edible fungi." "The word fungi's enough to make any one feel that they are not edible, my dear," said Aunt Hannah. "What sort did you get? Not those nasty, tall, long-legged things you brought before?" "No, aunt; beautiful golden chanterelles. I wanted to have them cooked for breakfast." "And I have told him it would be high treason," said the doctor. "Martha would give warning." "No, no, my dear, not quite so bad as that, but leave them to me, and I'll cook them for lunch myself." "No need, aunt; Martha came down from her indignant perch." "I'm glad of that," said the lady smiling; "but, one minute, before we go in the dining-room: there's a beautiful _souvenir_ rosebud over the window where I cannot reach it. Cut it and bring it in." "At your peril, sir," said the doctor fiercely. "The last rose of summer! I will not have it touched." "Now, my dear Tom, don't be so absurd," cried the lady. "What is the use of your growing roses to waste--waste--waste themselves all over the place." "You hear that, Vane? There's quoting poetry. Waste their sweetness on the desert air, I suppose you mean, madam?" "Yes: it's all the same," said the lady. "Thank you, my dear," she continued, as Vane handed the rose in through the window. "My poor cut-down bloom," sighed the doctor; but Vane did not hear him, for he was setting his hat down again in the museum-like hall, close by the fishing-tackle and curiosities of many lands just as a door was opened and a fresh, maddening odour of fried ham saluted his nostrils. "Oh, murder!" cried the lad; and he rushed upstairs, three steps at a time, to begin washing his hands, thinking the while over his encounter with his Creole fellow-pupil. "Glad I didn't fight him," he muttered, as he dried his knuckles, and looked at them curiously. "Better than having to ask uncle for his sticking-plaster." He stopped short, turning and gazing out of the bedroom window, which looked over the back garden toward the field with their Jersey cows; and just then a handsome game-cock flapped his bronzed wings and sent forth his defiant call. "Cock-a-doodle-doo! indeed," muttered Vane; "and he thinks me a regular coward. I suppose it will have to come to a set-to some day. I feel sure I can lick him, and perhaps, after all, he'll lick me." "Oh, Vane, my dear boy, don't!" cried Mrs Lee, as the lad rushed down again, his feet finding the steps so rapidly that the wonder was that he did not go headlong, and a few seconds later, he was in his place at the dining-room table, tastily arranged with its plate, china, and flowers. A walk before breakfast is a wonderful thing for the appetite, and Vane soon began with a sixteen-year-old growing appetite upon the white bread, home-made golden butter, and the other pleasant products of the doctor's tiny homestead, including brahma eggs, whose brown shells suggested that they must have been boiled in coffee. The doctor kept the basket he had brought in beside him on the cloth, and had to get up four times over to throw great fat wood-lice out of the window, after scooping them up with a silver tablespoon, the dark grey creatures having escaped from between the interstices of the basket, and being busily making their way in search of some dry, dark corner. "It is astonishing what a predilection for peaches the wood-louse has," said the doctor, resuming his seat. "All your fault, uncle," said Vane, with his mouth full. "Mine! why?" "You see you catch them stealing, and then you forgive them and let them go to find their way back to the south wall, so that they can begin again." "Humph! yes," said the doctor; "they have plenty of enemies to shorten their lives without my help. Well, so you found some mushrooms, did you?" "Yes, uncle, just in perfection." "Some more tea, dear?" said Vane's aunt. "I hope you didn't bring many to worry cook with." "Only a basket full, aunty," said Vane merrily. "What!" cried the lady, holding the teapot in air. "But she is going to cook them for dinner." "Really, my dear, I must protest," said the lady. "Vane cannot know enough about such things to be trusted to bring them home and eat them. I declare I was in fear and trembling over that last dish." "You married a doctor, my dear," said Vane's uncle quietly; "and you saw me partake of the dish without fear. Someone must experimentalise, somebody had to eat the first potato, and the first bunch of grapes. Nature never labelled them wholesome food." "Then let somebody else try them first," said the lady. "I do not feel disposed to be made ill to try whether this or that is good for food. I am not ambitious." "Then you must forgive us: we are," said the doctor dipping into his basket. "Come, you will not refuse to experimentalise on a peach, my dear. There is one just fully ripe, and--dear me! There are two wood-lice in this one. Eaten their way right in and living there." He laid one lovely looking peach on a plate, and made another dip. "That must have fallen quite early in the night," said Vane, sharply, "slugs have been all over it." "So they have," said the doctor, readjusting his spectacles. "Here is a splendid one. No: a blackbird has been digging his beak into that. And into this one too. Really, my dear, I'm afraid that my garden friends and foes have been tasting them all. No, here is one with nothing the matter, save the contusion consequent from its fall from the mother tree." "On to mother earth," said Vane laughing. "I say, uncle, wouldn't it be a good plan to get a lot of that narrow old fishing net, and spread it out hanging from the wall, so as to catch all the peaches that fall?" "Excellent," said the doctor. "I'll do it," said Vane, wrinkling up his brow, as he began to puzzle his brains about the best way to suspend the net for the purpose. Soon after, the lad was in the doctor's study, going over some papers he had written, ready for his morning visit to the rectory; and this put him in mind of the encounter with his fellow-pupil, Distin, and made him thoughtful. "He doesn't like me," the boy said to himself; "and somehow I feel as if I do not like him. I don't want to quarrel, and it always seems as if one was getting into hot-water with him. He's hot-blooded, I suppose, from being born in the West Indies. Well, if that's it," mused Vane, "he can't help it any more than I can help being cool because I was born in England. I won't quarrel with him. There." And taking up his books and papers, he strapped them together, and set off for the rectory, passing out of the swing-gate, going along the road toward the little town above which the tall grey-stone tower stood up in the clear autumn air with its flagstaff at the corner of the battlements, its secondary tower at the other corner, holding within it the narrow spiral staircase which led from the floor to the leads; and about it a little flock of jackdaws sailing round and round before settling on the corner stones, and the top. "Wish I could invent something to fly with," thought Vane, as he reached the turning some distance short of the first houses of the town. "It does seem so easy. Those birds just spread out their wings, and float about wherever they please with hardly a beat. There must be a way, if one could only find it out." He went off into the pleasant lane to the left, and caught sight of a bunch of blackberries apparently within reach, and he was about to cross the dewy band of grass which bordered the road, when he recollected that he had just put on clean boots, and the result of a scramble through and among brambles would be unsatisfactory for their appearance in the rector's prim study. So the berries hung in their place, left to ripen, and he went on till a great dragon-fly came sailing along the moist lane to pause in the sunny openings, and poise itself in the clear air where its wings vibrated so rapidly that they looked like a patch of clear gauze. Vane's thoughts were back in an instant to the problem that has puzzled so many minds; and as he watched the dragon-fly, a couple of swallows skimmed by him, darted over the wall, and were gone. Then, flopping idly along in its clumsy flight, came a white butterfly, and directly after a bee--one of the great, dark, golden-banded fellows, with a soft, velvety coat. "And all fly in a different way," said Vane to himself, thoughtfully. "They all use wings, but all differently; and they have so much command over them, darting here and there, just as they please. I wonder whether I could make a pair of wings and a machine to work them. It doesn't seem impossible. People float up in balloons, but that isn't enough. I think I could do it, and--oh, hang it, there goes ten, and the rector will be waiting. I wonder whether I can recollect all he said about those Greek verbs." CHAPTER THREE. IN THE STUDY. Vane reached the rectory gate and turned in with his brains in the air, dashing here and there like a dragon-fly, skimming after the fashion of a swallow, flying steadily, bumble-bee-fashion, and flopping faintly as the butterfly did whose wings were so much out of proportion to the size of its body. Either way would do, he thought, or better still, if he could fly by a wide-spread membrane stretched upon steel or whalebone ribs or fingers like a bat. Why not? he mused. There could be no reason; and he was beginning to wonder why he had never thought of making some flying machine before, when he was brought back to earth from his imaginary soarings by a voice saying,-- "Hullo! here's old Weathercock!" and this was followed by a laugh which brought the colour into his cheeks. "I don't care," he thought. "Let him laugh. Better be a weathercock and change about, than be always sticking fast. Uncle says we can't help learning something for one's trouble." By this time he was at the porch, which he entered just as the footman was carrying out the breakfast things. "Rector isn't in the study then, Joseph?" said Vane. "No, sir; just coming in out of the garden. Young gents is in there together." Vane felt disposed to wait and go in with the rector, but, feeling that it would be cowardly, he walked straight in at the study door to find Distin, Gilmore, and Macey seated at the table, all hard at work, but apparently not over their studies. "Why, gracious!" cried Macey. "Alive?" said Gilmore. "Used to it," sneered Distin. "That sort of creature takes a deal of killing." "What's the matter?" said Vane, good-humouredly, taking a seat. "Why," said Gilmore, "we were all thinking of writing to our tailors to send us suits of mourning out of respect for you--believe it or not as you please." "Thankye," said Vane quietly. "Then I will not believe it, because Distin wouldn't order black if I were drowned." "Who said a word about drowned? I said poisoned," cried Gilmore. "Not a word about it. But why?" "Because you went home and ate those toadstools." "Wrong," said Vane quietly, "I haven't eaten them yet." "Then three cheers for the tailors; there's a chance for them yet," cried Macey. "Why didn't you eat them?" asked Gilmore. "Afraid?" "I don't think so. They'll be ready by dinner time, will you come?" Grimaces followed, as Vane quietly opened his books, and glanced round the rector's room with its handsome book-cases all well filled, chimney-piece ornamented with classic looking bronzes; and the whole place with its subdued lights and heavily curtained windows suggestive of repose for the mind and uninterrupted thought and study. Books and newly-written papers lay on the table, ready for application, but the rector's pupils did not seem to care about work in their tutor's absence, for Macey, who was in the act of handing round a tin box when Vane entered, now passed it on to the latter. "Lay hold, old chap," he said. Vane opened it, and took out a piece of crisp dark brown stickiness generally known as "jumble," and transferred it to his mouth, while four lower jaws were now seen at work, giving the pupils the aspect of being members of that portion of the quadrupedal animal kingdom known as ruminants. "Worst of this stuff is," said Macey, "that you get your teeth stuck together. Oh, I say, Gil, what hooks! A whole dozen?" Gilmore nodded as he opened a ring of fine silkworm gut, and began to examine the points and backs of the twelve bright blue steel hooks at the ends of the gut lengths, and the carefully-tied loops at the other. "Where did you buy them?" continued Macey, as he gloated over the bright hookah. No answer. "Where did you buy them, Gil?" said Macey again. "Cuoz--duoz--ooze." "What!" cried Macey; and Distin and Vane both looked wonderingly at their fellow-pupil, who had made a peculiar incoherent guttural noise, faintly represented by the above words. Then Vane began to laugh. "What's the matter, Gil?" he said. Gilmore gave his neck a peculiar writhe, and his jaws a wrench. "I wish you fellows wouldn't bother," he cried. "You, Macey, ought to know better: you give a chap that stickjaw stuff of yours, and then worry him to speak. Come by post, I said. From London." Distin gave vent to a contemptuous sniff, and it was seen that he was busily spreading tobacco on thin pieces of paper, and rolling them up into cigarettes with the nonchalant air of one used to such feats of dexterity, though, truth to tell, he fumbled over the task; and as he noticed that Vane was observing him with a quiet look of good-humoured contempt, his fingers grew hot and moist, and he nervously blundered over his task. "Well," he said with a vicious twang in his tones, "what are you staring at?" "You," replied Vane, with his hand holding open a Greek Lexicon. "Then mind your lessons, schoolboy," retorted Distin sharply. "Did you never see a gentleman roll a cigarette before?" "No," said Vane quietly, and then, feeling a little nettled by the other's tone, he continued, "and I can't see one now." Distin half rose from the table, crushing a partly formed cigarette in his hand. "Did you mean that for another insult, sir?" he cried in a loud, angry voice. "Oh, I say, Distie," said Gilmore, rising too, and catching his arm, "don't be such a pepper-pot. Old Weathercock didn't mean any harm." "Mind your own business," said Distin, fiercely wrenching his arm free. "That is my business--to sit on you when you go off like a firework," said Gilmore merrily. "I say, does your father grow much ginger on his plantation?" "I was speaking to the doctor's boy, and I'll thank you to be silent," cried Distin. "Oh, I say, don't, don't, don't!" cried Macey, apostrophising all three. "What's the good of kicking up rows about nothing! Here, Distie," he continued, holding out his box; "have some more jumble." Distin waved the tin box away majestically, and turned to Vane. "I said, sir, goo--gloo--goog--" He stepped from his place to the window in a rage, for his voice had suddenly become most peculiar; and as the others saw him thrust a white finger into his mouth and tear out something which he tried to throw away but which refused to be cast off, they burst into a simultaneous roar of laughter, which increased as they saw the angry lad suck his finger, and wipe it impatiently on his handkerchief. "Don't you give me any of your filthy stuff again, you. Macey," he cried. "All right," said the culprit, wiping the tears out of his eyes, and taking the tin box from his pocket. "Have a bit more?" Distin struck the tin box up furiously, sending it flying open, as it performed an arc in the air, and distributing fragments of the hard-baked saccharine sweet. "Oh, I say!" cried Macey, hastily stooping to gather up the pieces. "Here, help, Gil, or we shall have Syme in to find out one of them by sitting on it." "Look here, sir," cried Distin, across the table to Vane, who sat, as last comer, between him and the door, "I said did you mean that as an insult?" "Oh, rubbish!" replied Vane, a little warmly now; "don't talk in that manner, as if you were somebody very big, and going to fight a duel." "I asked you, sir, if you meant that remark as an insult," cried Distin, "and you evade answering, in the meanest and most shuffling way. I was under the impression when I came down to Greythorpe it was to read with English gentlemen, and I find--" "Never mind what you find," said Vane; "I'll tell you what you do." "Oh, you will condescend to tell me that," sneered Distin. "Pray what do I do?" "Don't tell him, Lee," said Gilmore; "and stop it, both of you. Mr Syme will be here directly, and we don't want him to hear us squabbling over such a piece of idiotic nonsense." "And you call my resenting an insult of the most grave nature a piece of idiocy, do you, Mr Gilmore?" "No, Mr Distin; but I call the beginning of this silly row a piece of idiocy." "Of course you fellows will hang together," said Distin, with a contemptuous look. "I might have known that you were not fit to trust as a friend." "Look here, Dis," said Gilmore, in a low, angry voice, "don't you talk to me like that." "And pray why, sir?" said Distin, in a tone full of contempt. "Because I'm not Vane, sir, and--" "I say, old chaps, don't, please don't," cried Macey, earnestly. "Look here; I've got a tip from home by this morning's post, and I'll be a good feed to set all square. Come: that's enough." Then, imitating the rector's thick, unctuous voice, "Hum--ha!--silence, gentlemen, if you please." "Silence yourself, buffoon!" retorted Distin, sharply, and poor Macey sank down in his chair, startled, or assuming to be. "No, Mr Gilmore," said Distin, haughtily, "you are not Vane Lee, you said, and--and what?" "I'll tell you," cried the lad, with his brow lowering. "I will not sit still and let you bully me. He may not think it worth his while to hit out at a foreign-bred fellow who snaps and snarls like an angry dog, but I do; and if you speak to me again as you did just now, I'll show you how English-bred fellows behave. I'll punch your head." "No, you will not, Gil," said Vane, half rising in his seat. "I don't want to quarrel, but if there must be one, it's mine. So look here, Distin: you've done everything you could for months past to put me out of temper." "He--aw!--he--aw!" cried Macey, in parliamentary style. "Be quiet, jackass," cried Distin; and Macey began to lower himself, in much dread, under the table. "I say," continued Vane, "you have done everything you could to put me out of temper, and I've put up with it patiently, and behaved like a coward." "He--aw, he--aw!" said Macey again; and Vane shook his fist at him good-humouredly. "Amen. That's all, then," cried Macey; and then, imitating the rector again, "Now, gentlemen, let us resume our studies." "Be quiet, Aleck," said Gilmore, angrily; "I--" He did not go on, for he saw Distin's hand stealing toward a heavy dictionary, and, at that moment, Vane said firmly:-- "I felt it was time to show you that I am not quite a coward. I did mean it as an insult, as you call it. What then?" "That!" cried Distin, hurling the dictionary he had picked up with all his might at his fellow-pupil, across the table, but without effect. Vane, like most manly British lads, knew how to take care of himself, and a quick movement to one side was sufficient to allow the big book to pass close to his ear, and strike with a heavy bang against the door panel just as the handle rattled, and a loud "Hum--ha!" told that the rector was coming into the room for the morning's reading. CHAPTER FOUR. MARTHA'S MISTAKE. As quickly as if he were fielding a ball, Vane caught up the volume from where it fell, and was half-way back to his seat as the rector came in, looking very much astonished, partly at the noise of the thump on the door, partly from an idea that the dictionary had been thrown as an insult to him. Macey was generally rather a heavy, slow fellow, but on this occasion he was quick as lightning, and, turning sharply to Distin, who looked pale and nervous at the result of his passionate act. "You might have given the dictionary to him, Distin," he said, in a reproachful tone. "Don't do books any good to throw 'em." "Quite right, Mr Macey, quite right," said the rector, blandly, as he moved slowly to the arm-chair at the end of the table. "Really, gentlemen, you startled me. I was afraid that the book was intended for me, hum--ha! in disgust because I was so late." "Oh, no, sir," cried Distin, with nervous eagerness. "Of course not, my dear Distin, of course not. An accident--an error-- of judgment. Good for the binders, no doubt, but not for the books. And I have an affection for books--our best friends." He subsided into his chair as he spoke. "Pray forgive me for being so late. A little deputation from the town, Mr Rounds, my churchwarden; Mr Dodge, the people's. A little question of dispute calling for a gentle policy on my part, and--but, no matter; it will not interest you, neither does it interest me now, in the face of our studies. Mr Macey, shall I run over your paper now?" Macey made a grimace at Vane, as he passed his paper to the rector; and, as it was taken, Vane glanced at Distin, and saw that his lips were moving as he bent over his Greek. Vane saw a red spot in each of his sallow cheeks, and a peculiar twitching about the corners of his eyes, giving the lad a nervous, excitable look, and making Vane remark,-- "What a pity it all is. Wish he couldn't be so easily put out. He can't help it, I suppose, and I suppose I can. There, he shan't quarrel with me again. I suppose I ought to pitch into him for throwing the book at my head, but I could fight him easily, and beat him, and, if I did, what would be the good? I should only make him hate me instead of disliking me as he does. Bother! I want to go on with my Greek." He rested his head upon his hands determinedly, and, after a great deal of effort, managed to condense his thoughts upon the study he had in hand; and when, after a long morning's work, the rector smilingly complimented him upon his work, he looked up at him as if he thought it was meant in irony. "Most creditable, sir, most creditable; and I wish I could say the same to you, my dear Macey. A little more patient assiduity--a little more solid work for your own sake, and for mine. Don't let me feel uncomfortable when the Alderman, your respected father, sends me his customary cheque, and make me say to myself, `We have not earned this honourably and well.'" The rector nodded to all in turn, and went out first, while, as books were being put together, Macey said sharply:-- "Here, Vane; I'm going to walk home with you. Come on!" Vane glanced at Distin, who stood by the table with his eyes half-closed, and his hand resting upon the dictionary he had turned into a missile. "He's waiting to hear what I say," thought Vane, quickly. Then aloud:--"All right, then, you shall. I see through you, though. You want to be asked to lunch on the toadstools." In spite of himself, Vane could not help stealing another glance at Distin, and read in the contempt which curled his upper lip that he was accusing him mentally of being a coward, and eager to sneak away. "Well, let him," he thought. "As I am not afraid of him, I can afford it." Then he glanced at Gilmore who was standing sidewise to the window with his hands in his pockets; and he frowned as he encountered Vane's eyes, but his face softened directly. "I won't ask you to come with us, Gil," said Vane frankly. "All right, old Weathercock," cried Gilmore; and his face lit up now with satisfaction. "He doesn't think I'm afraid," said Vane to himself. "Am I to wait all day for you?" cried Macey. "No; all right, I'm coming," said Vane, finishing the strapping together of his books.--"Ready now." But he was not, for he hesitated for a moment, coloured, and then his face, too, lit up, and he turned to Distin, and held out his hand. "I'm afraid I lost my temper a bit, Distie," he said; "but that's all over now. Shake hands." Distin raised the lids of his half-closed eyes, and gazed full at the speaker, but his hand did not stir from where it rested upon the book. And the two lads stood for some moments gazing into each other's eyes, till the blue-veined lids dropped slowly over Distin's, and without word or further look, he took his cigarette case out of his pocket, walked deliberately out of the study, and through the porch on to the gravel drive, where, directly after, they heard the sharp _crick-crack_ of a match. "It's all going to end in smoke," said Macey, wrinkling up his forehead. "I say, it isn't nice to wish it, because I may be in the same condition some day; but I do hope that cigarette will make him feel queer." "I wouldn't have his temper for anything," cried Gilmore, angrily. "It isn't English to go on like that." "Oh, never mind," said Vane; "he'll soon cool down." "Yes; but when he does, you feel as if it's only a crust," cried Gilmore. "And that the jam underneath isn't nice," added Macey. "Never mind. It's nothing fresh. We always knew that our West India possessions were rather hot. Come on, Vane. I don't know though. I don't want to go now." "Not want to come? Why?" "Because I only wanted to keep you two from dogs delighting again." "You behaved very well, Vane, old fellow," said Gilmore, ignoring Macey's attempts to be facetious. "He thinks you're afraid of him, and if he don't mind he'll someday find out that he has made a mistake." "I hope not," said Vane quietly. "I hate fighting." "You didn't seem to when you licked that gipsy chap last year." Vane turned red. "No: that's the worst of it. I always feel shrinky till I start; and then, as soon as I get hurt, I begin to want to knock the other fellow's head off--oh, I say, don't let us talk about that sort of thing; one has got so much to do." "You have, you mean," said Gilmore, clapping him on the shoulder. "What's in the wind now, Weathercock?" "He's making a balloon," said Macey, laughing. Vane gave quite a start, as he recalled his thoughts about flight that morning. "Told you so," cried Macey merrily; "and he's going to coax pepper-pot Distin to go up with him, and pitch him out when they reach the first lake." "No, he isn't," said Gilmore; "he's going to be on the look-out, for Distie's sure to want to serve him out on the sly if he can." "Coming with us?" said Vane. "No, not this time, old chap," said Gilmore, smiling. "I'm going to be merciful to your aunt and spare her." "What do you mean?" "I'll come when Aleck Macey stops away. He does eat at such a frightful rate, that if two of us came your people would never have us in at the Little Manor again." Macey made an offer as if to throw something, but Gilmore did not see it, for he had stepped close up to Vane and laid his hand upon his shoulder. "I'm going to stop with Distie. Don't take any notice of his temper. I'm afraid he cannot help it. I'll stay and go about with him, as if nothing had happened." Vane nodded and went off with Macey, feeling as if he had never liked Gilmore so much before; and then the little unpleasantry was forgotten as they walked along from the rectory gates, passing, as they reached the main road, a party of gipsies on their way to the next town with their van and cart, both drawn by the most miserable specimens of the four-legged creature known as horse imaginable, and followed by about seven or eight more horses and ponies, all of which found time to crop a little grass by the roadside as cart and van were dragged slowly along. It was not an attractive-looking procession, but the gipsies themselves seemed active and well, and the children riding or playing about the vehicles appeared to be happy enough, and the swarthy, dark-eyed women, both old and young, good-looking. Just in front of the van, a big dark man of forty slouched along, with a whip under his arm, and a black pipe in his mouth; and every now and then he seemed to remember that he had the said whip, and took it in hand, to give it a crack which sounded like a pistol shot, with the result that the horse in the van threw up its head, which had hung down toward the road, and the other skeleton-like creature in the cart threw up its tail with a sharp whisk that disturbed the flies which appeared to have already begun to make a meal upon its body, while the scattered drove of ragged ponies and horses ceased cropping the roadside herbage, and trotted on a few yards before beginning to eat again. "They're going on to some fair," said Macey, as he looked curiously at the horses. "I say, you wouldn't think anyone would buy such animals as those." "Want to buy a pony, young gentlemen?" said the man with the pipe, sidling up to them. "What for?" said Macey sharply. "Scarecrow? We're not farmers." The man grinned. "And we don't keep dogs," continued Macey. "Oh, I say, George, you have got a pretty lot to-day." The gipsy frowned and gave his whip a crack. "Only want cleaning up, master," he said. "Going to the fair?" The man nodded and went on, for all this was said without the two lads stopping; and directly after, driving a miserable halting pony which could hardly get over the ground, a couple of big hulking lads of sixteen or seventeen appeared some fifty yards away. "Oh, I say, Vane," cried Macey; "there's that chap you licked last year. You'll see how he'll smile at you." "I should like to do it again," said Vane. "Look at them banging that poor pony about. What a shame it seems!" "Yes. You ought to invent a machine for doing away with such chaps as these. They're no good," said Macey. "Oh, you brute!--I say, don't the poor beggar's sides sound hollow!" "Hollow! Yes," cried Vane indignantly; "they never feed them, and that poor thing can't find time to graze." "No. It will be a blessing for it when it's turned into leather and glue." "Go that side, and do as I do," whispered Vane; and they separated, and took opposite sides of the road, as the two gipsy lads stared hard at them, and as if to rouse their ire shouted at the wretched pony, and banged its ribs. What followed was quickly done. Vane snatched at one stick and twisted it out of the lad's hand nearest to him Macey followed suit, and the boys stared. "It would serve you precious well right if I laid the stick about your shoulders," cried Vane, breaking the ash sapling across his knee. "Ditto, ditto," cried Macey doing the same, and expecting an attack. The lads looked astonished for the moment, but instead of resenting the act, trotted on after the pony, which had continued to advance; and, as soon as they were at a safe distance, one of them turned, put his hand to his mouth and shouted "yah!" while the other took out his knife and flourished it. "Soon cut two more," he cried. "There!" said Macey, "deal of good you've done. The pony will only get it worse, and that's another notch they've got against you." "Pish!" said Vane, contemptuously. "Yes, it's all very well to say pish; but suppose you come upon them some day when I'm not with you. Gipsies never forget, and you see if they don't serve you out." Vane gave him a merry look, and Macey grinned. "I hope you will always be with me to take care of me," said Vane. "Do my best, old fellow--do my best, little man. I say, though, do you mean me to come and have lunch?" "It'll be dinner to-day," said Vane. "But won't your people mind?" "Mind! no. Uncle and aunt both said I was to ask you to come as often as I liked. Uncle likes you." "No; does he?" "Yes; says you're such a rum fellow." "Oh!" Macey was silent after that "oh," and the silence lasted till they reached the manor, for Vane was thinking deeply about the quarrel that morning; but, as the former approached the house, he felt no misgivings about his being welcome, the doctor, who was in the garden, coming forward to welcome him warmly, and Mrs Lee, who heard the voices, hastening out to join them. Ten minutes later they were at table, where Macey proved himself a pretty good trencherman till the plates were changed and Eliza brought in a dish and placed it before her mistress. "Hum!" said the doctor, "only one pudding and no sweets. Why, Macey, they're behaving shabbily to you to-day." Aunt Hannah looked puzzled, and Vane stared. "Is there no tart or custard, Eliza?" asked the doctor. "Yes, sir; both coming, sir," said the maid, who was very red in the face. "Then what have you there?" Eliza made an unspellable noise in her throat, snatched off the cover from the dish, and hurried out of the room. "Dear me!" said the doctor putting on his glasses, and looking at the dish in which, in the midst of a quantity of brownish sauce, there was a little island of blackish scraps, at which Aunt Hannah gazed blankly, spoon in hand. "What is it, my dear?" continued the doctor. "I'm afraid, dear, it is a dish of those fungi that Vane brought in this morning." "Oh, I see. You will try them, Macey?" "Well, sir, I--" "Of course he will, uncle. Have a taste, Aleck. Give him some, aunt." Aunt Hannah placed a portion upon their visitor's plate, and Macey was wonderfully polite--waiting for other people to be served before he began. "Oh, I say, aunt, take some too," cried Vane. "Do you wish it, my dear? Well, I will;" and Aunt Hannah helped herself, as the doctor began to turn his portion over; and Macey thought of poisoning, doctors, and narrow escapes, as he trifled with the contents of his plate. "Humph!" said the doctor breaking a painful silence. "I'm afraid, Vane, that cook has made a mistake." "Mistake, sir?" cried Macey, eagerly; "then you think they are not wholesome?" "Decidedly not," said the doctor. "I suppose these are your chanterelles, Vane." "Don't look like 'em, uncle." "No, my boy, they do not. I can't find any though," said the doctor, as he turned over his portion with his fork. "No: I was wrong." "They are not the chanterelles then, uncle?" "Oh, yes, my boy, they are. I was afraid that Martha had had an accident with the fungi, and had prepared a substitute from my old shooting boots, but I can't see either eyelet or nail. Can you?" "Oh, my dear!" cried Aunt Hannah to her nephew; "do, pray, ring, and have them taken away. You really should not bring in such things to be cooked." "No, no: stop a moment," said the doctor, as Macey grinned with delight; "let's see first whether there is anything eatable." "It's all like bits of shrivelled crackling," said Vane, "only harder." "Yes," said the doctor, "much. I'm afraid Martha did not like her job, and she has cooked these too much. No," he added, after tasting, "this is certainly not a success. Now for the tart--that is, if our young friend Macey has quite finished his portion." "I haven't begun, sir," said the visitor. "Then we will wait." "No, no, please sir, don't. I feel as if I couldn't eat a bit." "And I as if they were not meant to eat," said the doctor, smiling. "Never mind, Vane; we'll get aunt to cook the rest, or else you and I will experimentalise over a spirit lamp in the workshop, eh?" "Yes, uncle, and we'll have Macey there, and make him do all the tasting for being so malicious." "Tell me when it's to be," said Macey, grinning with delight at getting rid of his plate; "and I'll arrange to be fetched home for a holiday." CHAPTER FIVE. THE MILLER'S BOAT. Vane so frequently got into hot-water with his experiments that he more than once made vows. But his promises were as unstable as water, and he soon forgot them. He had vowed that he would be contented with things as they were, but his active mind was soon at work contriving. He and Macey had borrowed Rounds the miller's boat one day for a row. They were out having a desultory wander down by the river, when they came upon the bluff churchwarden himself, and he gave them a friendly nod as he stood by the roadside talking to Chakes about something connected with the church; and, as the boys went on, Macey said, laughing, "I say, Weathercock, you're such a fellow for making improvements, why don't you take Chakes in hand, and make him look like the miller?" "They are a contrast, certainly," said Vane, glancing back at the gloomy, bent form of the sexton, as he stood looking up sidewise at the big, squarely-built, wholesome-looking miller. "But I couldn't improve him. I say, what shall we do this afternoon?" "I don't know," said Macey. "Two can't play cricket comfortably. It's stupid to bowl and field." "Well, and it's dull work to bat, and be kept waiting while the ball is fetched. Let's go to my place. I want to try an experiment." "No, thank you," cried Macey. "Don't catch me holding wires, or being set to pound something in a mortar. I know your little games, Vane Lee. You've caught me once or twice before." "Well, let's do something. I hate wasting time." "Come and tease old Gil; or, let's go and sit down somewhere near Distie. He's in the meadows, and it will make him mad as mad if you go near him." "Try something better," said Vane. "Oh, I don't know. We might go blackberrying, only one seems to be getting too old for that sort of thing. Let's hire two nags, and have a ride." "Well, young gents, going my way?" cried the miller, from behind them, as he strode along in their rear. "Where are you going?" said Vane. "Down to the mill. The wind won't blow, so I'm obliged to make up for it at the river mill, only the water is getting short. That's the best of having two strings to your bow, my lads. By the time the water gets low, perhaps the wind may rise, and turn one's sails again. When I can't get wind or water there's no flour, and if there's no flour there'll be no bread." "That's cheerful," cried Macey. "Yes; keeps one back, my lad. Two strings to one's bow arn't enough. Say, Master Lee, you're a clever sort of chap, and make all kinds of 'ventions; can't you set me going with a steam engine thing as 'll make my stones run, when there's no water?" "I think I could," said Vane, eagerly. "I thowt you'd say that, lad," cried the miller, laughing; "but I've heard say as there's blowings-up--explosions--over your works sometimes, eh?" "Oh, that was an accident," cried Vane. "And accidents happen in the best regulated families, they say," cried the miller. "Well, I must think about it. Cost a mint o' money to do that." By this time they had reached the long, low, weather-boarded, wooden building, which spanned the river like a bridge, and looked curiously picturesque among the ancient willows growing on the banks, and with their roots laving in the water. It was a singular-looking place, built principally on a narrow island in the centre of the stream, and its floodgates and dam on either side of the island; while heavy wheels, all green with slimy growth, and looking grim and dangerous as they turned beneath the mill on either side, kept up a curious rumbling and splashing sound that was full of suggestions of what the consequences would be should anyone be swept over them by the sluggish current in the dam, and down into the dark pool below. "Haven't seen you, gents, lately, for a day's fishing," said the miller, as he entered the swing-gate, and held it open for the lads to follow, which, having nothing else to do, they did, as a matter of course. "No," said Macey; "been too busy over our books." The churchwarden laughed. "Oh, yes, I suppose so, sir. You look just the sort of boy who would work himself to death over his learning. Tired of fishing?" "I'm not," said Vane. "Have there been many up here lately?" "Swarms," said the miller. "Pool's alive with roach and chub sometimes, and up in the dam for hundreds of yards you may hear the big tench sucking and smacking their lips among the weeds, as if they was waiting for a bit of paste or a fat worm." "You'll give us a day's fishing any time we like to come then, Mr Rounds?" said Vane. "Two, if you like, my lads. Sorry I can't fit you up with tackle, or you might have a turn now." "Oh, I shan't come and fish that way," cried Macey. "I've tried too often. You make all kinds of preparations, and then you come, and the fish won't bite. They never will when I try." "Don't try enough, do he, Master Lee?" "Yes, I do," cried Macey. "I like fishing with a net, or I should like to have a try if you ran all the water out of the dam, so that we could see what fish were in." "Yes, I suppose you'd like that." "Hi! Look there, Vane," cried Macey, pointing to a newly-painted boat fastened by its chain to one of the willows. "I'm ready for a row if Mr Rounds would lend us the boat." "Nay, you'd go and drown yourself and Master Vane too." "Pooh! as if we couldn't row. I say, Mr Rounds, do lend us the boat." "Oh, well, I don't mind, my lads, if you'll promise to be steady, and not get playing any games." "Oh, I'll promise, and there's no need to ask Lee. He's as steady as you are." "All right, lads; you can have her. Oars is inside the mill. I'll show you. Want to go up or down?" "I don't care," said Macey. "If you want to go down stream, I shall have to slide the boat down the overshoot. Better go up, and then you'll have the stream with you coming back. Hello, here's some more of you." This was on his seeing Distin and Gilmore coming in the other direction, and Macey shouted directly: "Hi! We've got the boat. Come and have a row." Gilmore was willing at once, but Distin held off for a few moments, but the sight of the newly-painted boat, the clear water of the sunlit river, and the glowing tints of the trees up where the stream wound along near the edge of the wood, were too much for him, and he took the lead at once, and began to unfasten the chain. "You can fasten her up again when you bring her back," said the miller, as he led the way into the mill. "I do like the smell of the freshly-ground flour," cried Macey, as they passed the door. "But, I say, Vane Lee, hadn't we better have gone alone? You see if those two don't monopolise the oars till they're tired, and then we shall have to row them just where they please." "Never mind," said Vane; "we shall be on the water." "I'll help you pitch them in, if they turn nasty, as people call it, down here." "There you are, young gents, and the boat-hook, too," said the miller, opening his office door, and pointing to the oars. "Brand noo uns I've just had made, so don't break 'em." "All right, we'll take care," said Macey; and, after a few words of thanks, the two lads bore out the oars, and crossed a narrow plank gangway in front of the mill to the island, where Distin and Gilmore were seated in the boat. "Who's going to row?" said Macey. "We are," replied Distin, quietly taking off his jacket, Gilmore following suit, and Macey gave Vane a look, which plainly said, "Told you so," as he settled himself down in the stern. The start was not brilliant, for, on pushing off, Distin did not take his time from Gilmore, who was before him, and consequently gave him a tremendous thump on the back with both fists. "I say," roared Gilmore, "we haven't come out crab-catching." Whereupon Macey burst into a roar of laughter, and Vane smiled. Distin, who was exceedingly nervous and excited, looked up sharply, ignored Macey, and addressed Vane. "Idiot!" he cried. "I suppose you never had an accident in rowing." "Lots," said Vane, with his face flushing, but he kept his temper. "Perhaps you had better take the oar yourself." "Try the other way, Mr Distin, sir," cried the miller, in his big, bluff voice; and, looking up, they could see his big, jolly face at a little trap-like window high up in the mill. "Eh! Oh, thank you," said Distin, in a hurried, nervous way, and, rising in his seat, he was in the act of turning round to sit down with his back to Gilmore, when a fresh roar of laughter from Macey showed him that the miller was having a grin at his expense. Just then the little window shut with a sharp clap, and Distin hesitated, and glanced at the shore as if, had it been closer, he would have leaped out of the boat, and walked off. But they were a good boat's length distant, and he sat down again with an angry scowl on his face, and began to pull. "In for a row again," said Gilmore to himself. "Why cannot a fellow bear a bit of banter like that!" To make things go more easily, Gilmore reversed the regular order of rowing, and took his time, as well as he could, from Distin, and the boat went on, the latter tugging viciously at the scull he held. The consequence was, that, as there was no rudder and the river was not straight, there was a tendency on the part of the boat to run its nose into the bank, in spite of all that Gilmore could do to prevent it; and at last Macey seized the boat-hook, and put it over the stern. "Look here," he cried, "I daresay I can steer you a bit with this." But his act only increased the annoyance of Distin, who had been nursing his rage, and trying to fit the cause in some way upon Vane. "Put that thing down, idiot!" he cried, fiercely, "and sit still in the boat. Do you think I am going to be made the laughing-stock of everybody by your insane antics?" "Oh, all right, Colonist," said Macey, good-humouredly; "only some people would put the pole down on your head for calling 'em idiots." "What!" roared Distin; "do you dare to threaten me?" "Oh, dear, no, sir. I beg your pardon, sir. I'm very sorry, sir. I didn't come for to go for to--" "Clown!" cried Distin, contemptuously. "Oh, I say, Vane, we are having a jolly ride," whispered Macey, but loud enough for Distin to hear, and the Creole's dark eyes flashed at them. "I say, Distin," said Gilmore in a remonstrant growl, "don't be so precious peppery about nothing. Aleck didn't mean any harm." "That's right! Take his part," cried Distin, making the water foam, as he pulled hard. "You fellows form a regular cabal, and make a dead set at me. But I'm not afraid. You've got the wrong man to deal with, and--confound the wretched boat!" He jumped up, and raising the scull, made a sharp dig with it at the shore, and would have broken it, had not Gilmore checked him. "Don't!" he cried, "you will snap the blade." For, having nearly stopped rowing as he turned to protest, the natural result was that the boat's nose was dragged round, and the sharp prow ran right into the soft overhanging bank and stuck fast. Vane tried to check himself, but a hearty fit of laughter would come, one which proved contagious, for Macey and Gilmore both joined in, the former rolling about and giving vent to such a peculiar set of grunts and squeaks of delight, as increased the others' mirth, and made Distin throw down his scull, and jump ashore, stamping with rage. "No, no, Distie, don't do that," cried Gilmore, wiping his eyes. "Come back." "I won't ride with such a set of fools," panted Distin, hoarsely. "You did it on purpose to annoy me." He took a few sharp steps away, biting his upper lip with rage, and the laughter ceased in the boat. "I say, Distin," cried Vane; and the lad faced round instantly with a vindictive look at the speaker as he walked sharply back to the boat, and sprang in. "No, I will not go," he cried. "That's what you want--to get rid of me, but you've found your match." He sprang in so sharply that the boat gave a lurch and freed itself from the bank, gliding off into deep water again; and as Distin resumed his scull, Gilmore waited for it to dip, and then pulled, so that solely by his skill--for Distin was very inexperienced as an oarsman--the boat was kept pretty straight, and they went on up stream in silence. Macey gazed at Gilmore, who was of course facing him, but he could not look at his friend without seeing Distin too, and to look at the latter meant drawing upon himself a savage glare. So he turned his eyes to Vane, with the result that Distin watched him as if he were certain that he was going to detect some fresh conspiracy. Macey sighed, and gazed dolefully at the bank, as if he wished that he were ashore. Vane gazed at the bank too, and thought of his ill luck in being at odds with Distin, and of the many walks he had had along there with his uncle. These memories brought up plenty of pleasant thoughts, and he began to search for different water-plants and chat about them to Macey, who listened eagerly this time for the sake of having something to do. "Look!" said Vane pointing; "there's the Stratiotes." "What?" "Stratiotes. The water-soldier." "Then he's a deserter," said Macey. "Hold hard you two, and let's arrest him." "No, no; go on rowing," said Vane. "Don't take any notice of the buffoon, Gilmore," cried Distin sharply. "Pull!" "I say, old cock of the weather," whispered Macey, leaning over the side, "I'd give something to be as strong as you are." "Why?" asked Vane in the same low tone. "Because my left fist wants to punch Distie's nose, and I haven't got muscle enough--what do you call it, biceps--to do it." "Let dogs delight to bark and bite," said Vane, laughing. "Don't," whispered Macey; "you're making Distie mad again. He feels we're talking about him. Go on about the vegetables." "All right. There you are then. That's all branched bur-reed." "What, that thing with the little spikey horse-chestnuts on it?" "That's it." "Good to eat?" "I never tried it. There's something that isn't," continued Vane, pointing at some vivid green, deeply-cut and ornamental leaves. "What is it? Looks as if it would make a good salad." "Water hemlock. Very poisonous." "Do not chew the hemlock rank--growing on the weedy bank," quoted Macey. "I wish you wouldn't begin nursery rhymes. You've started me off now. I should like some of those bulrushes," and he pointed to a cluster of the brown poker-like growth rising from the water, well out of reach from the bank. "Those are not bulrushes." "What are they, then?" "It is the reed-mace." "They'll do just as well by that name. I say, Distie, I want to cut some of them." "Go on rowing," said Distin, haughtily, to Gilmore, without glancing at Macey. "All right, my lord," muttered Macey. "Halloo! What was that? a big fish?" "No; it was a water-rat jumped in." "All right again," said Macey good-humouredly. "I don't know anything at all. There never was such an ignorant chap as I am." "Give me the other scull, Gilmore," said Distin, just then. "All right, but hadn't we better go a little higher first? The stream runs very hard just here." Distin uttered a sound similar to that made by a turkey-cock before he begins to gobble--a sound that may be represented by the word _Phut_, and they preserved their relative places. "What are those leaves shaped like spears?" said Macey, giving Vane a peculiar look. "Arrowheads." "There, I do know what those are!" cried Macey, quickly as a shoal of good-sized fish darted of from a gravelly shallow into deep water. "Well, what are they?" "Roach and dace." "Neither," said Vane, laughing heartily. "Well, I--oh, but they are." "No." "What then?" "Chub." "How do you know?" "By the black edge round their tails." "I say!" cried Macey; "how do you know all these precious things so readily?" "Walks with uncle," replied Vane. "I don't know much but he seems to know everything." "Why I thought he couldn't know anything but about salts and senna, and bleeding, and people's tongues when they put 'em out." "Here, Macey and he had better row now," cried Distin, suddenly. "Let's have a rest, Gilmore." The exchange of position was soon made, and Macey said, as he rolled up his sleeves over his thin arms, which were in peculiar contrast to his round plump face:-- "Now then: let's show old pepper-pot what rowing is." "No: pull steadily, and don't show off," said Vane quietly. "We want to look at the things on the banks." "Oh, all right," cried Macey resignedly; and the sculls dipped together in a quiet, steady, splashless pull, the two lads feathering well, and, with scarcely any exertion, sending the boat along at a fair pace, while Vane, with a naturalist's eye, noted the different plants on the banks, the birds building in the water-growth--reed sparrows, and bearded tits, and pointing out the moor-hens, coots, and an occasional duck. All at once, as they cut into a patch of the great dark flat leaves of the yellow water-lily, there was a tremendous swirl in the river just beyond the bows of the boat--one which sent the leaves heaving and falling for some distance ahead. "Come now, that was a pike," cried Macey, as he looked at Distin lolling back nonchalantly, with his eyes half-closed. "Yes; that was a pike, and a big one too," said Vane. "Let's see, opposite those three pollard willows in the big horseshoe bend. We'll come and have a try for him, Aleck, one of these days." It was a pleasant row, Macey and Vane keeping the oars for a couple of hours, right on, past another mill, and among the stumps which showed where the old bridge and the side-road once spanned the deeps--a bridge which had gradually decayed away and had never been replaced, as the traffic was so small and there was a good shallow ford a quarter of a mile farther on. The country was beautifully picturesque up here, and the latter part of their row was by a lovely grove of beeches which grew on a chalk ridge-- almost a cliff--at whose foot the clear river ran babbling along. Here, all of a sudden, Macey threw up the blade of his oar, and at a pull or two from Vane, the boat's keel grated on the pebbly sand. "What's that for?" cried Gilmore, who had been half asleep as he sat right back in the stern, with his hands holding the sides. "Time to go back," said Macey. "Want my corn." "He means his thistle," said Distin, rousing himself to utter a sarcastic remark. "Thistle, if you like," said Macey, good-humouredly. "Donkey enjoys his thistle as much as a horse does his corn, or you did chewing sugar-cane among your father's niggers." It was an unlucky speech, and like a spark to gunpowder. Distin sprang up and made for Macey, with his fists doubled, but Vane interposed. "No," he said; "no fighting in a boat, please. Gilmore and I don't want a ducking, if you do." There was another change in the Creole on the instant. The fierce angry look gave place to a sneering smile, and he spoke in a husky whisper. "Oh, I see," he said, gazing at Vane the while, with half-shut eyes. "You prompted him to say that." Vane did not condescend to answer, but Macey cried promptly,-- "That he didn't. Made it all up out of my own head." "A miserable insult," muttered Distin. "But he had nothing to do with it, Distie," said Macey; "all my own; and if you wish for satisfaction--swords or pistols at six sharp, with coffee, I'm your man." Distin took no heed of him, but stood watching Vane, his dark half-shut eyes flashing as they gazed into the lad's calm wide-open grey orbs. "I say," continued Macey, "if you wish for the satisfaction of a gentleman--" "Satisfaction--gentleman!" raged out Distin, as he turned suddenly upon Macey. "Silence, buffoon!" "The buffoon is silent," said Macey, sinking calmly down into his place; "but don't you two fight, please, till after we've got back and had some food. I say, Gil, is there no place up here where we can buy some tuck?" "No," replied Gilmore; and then, "Sit down, Vane. Come, Distie, what is the good of kicking up such a row about nothing. You really are too bad, you know. Let's, you and I, row back." "Keep your advice till it is asked for," said Distin contemptuously. "You, Macey, go back yonder into the stern. Perhaps Mr Vane Lee will condescend to take another seat." "Oh, certainly," said Vane quietly, though there was a peculiar sensation of tingling in his veins, and a hot feeling about the throat. The peculiar human or animal nature was effervescing within him, and though he hardly realised it himself, he wanted to fight horribly, and there was that mastering him in those moments which would have made it a keen joy to have stood ashore there on the grass beneath the chalk cliff and pummelled Distin till he could not see to get back to the boat. But he did not so much as double his fist, though he knew that Macey and Gilmore were both watching him narrowly and thinking, he felt sure, that, if Distin struck him, he would not return the blow. As the three lads took their seats, Distin, with a lordly contempt and arrogance of manner, removed his jacket, and deliberately doubled it up to place it forward. Then slowly rolling up his sleeves he took the sculls, seated himself and began to back-water but without effect, for the boat was too firmly aground forward. "You'll never get her off that way," cried Macey the irrepressible. "Now lads, all together, make her roll." "Sit still, sir!" thundered Distin--at least he meant to thunder, but it was only a hoarse squeak. "Yes, sir; certainly, sir," cried Macey; and then, in an undertone to his companions, "Shall we not sterrike for ferreedom? Are we all--er-- serlaves!" Then he laughed, and slapped his leg, for Distin drew in one scull, rose, and began to use the other to thrust the boat off. "I say, you know," cried Macey, as Gilmore held up the boat-hook to Distin, but it was ignored, "I don't mean to pay my whack if you break that scull." "Do you wish me to break yours?" retorted Distin, so fiercely that his words came with a regular snarl. "Oh, murder! he's gone mad," said Macey, in a loud whisper; and screwing up his face into a grimace which he intended to represent horrible dread, but more resembled the effects produced by a pin or thorn, he crouched down right away in the stern of the boat, but kept up a continuous rocking which helped Distin's efforts to get her off into deep water. When the latter seated himself, turned the head, and began to row back, that is to say, he dipped the sculls lightly from time to time, so as to keep the boat straight, the stream being strong enough to carry them steadily down without an effort on the rower's part. Macey being right in the stern, Vane and Gilmore sat side by side, making a comment now and then about something they passed, while Distin was of course alone, watching them all from time to time through his half-closed eyes, as if suspicious that their words might be relating to him. Then a gloomy silence fell, which lasted till Macey burst out in ecstatic tones: "Oh, I am enjoying of myself!" Then, after a pause: "Never had such a glorious day before." Another silence, broken by Macey once more, saying in a deferential way:-- "If your excellency feels exhausted by this unwonted exertion, your servant will gladly take an oar." Distin ceased rowing, and, balancing the oars a-feather, he said coldly:-- "If you don't stop that chattering, my good fellow, I'll either pitch you overboard, or set you ashore to walk home." "Thankye," cried Macey, cheerfully; "but I'll take the dry, please." Distin's teeth grated together as he sat and scowled at his fellow-pupil, muttering, "Chattering ape;" but he made no effort to put his threats into execution, and kept rowing on, twisting his neck round from time to time, to see which way they were going; Vane and Gilmore went on talking in a low tone; and Macey talked to himself. "He has made me feel vicious," he said. "I'm a chattering ape, am I? He'll pitch me overboard, will he? I'd call him a beast, only it would be so rude. He'd pitch me overboard, would he? Well, I could swim if he did, and that's more than he could do." Macey looked before him at Vane and Gilmore, to see that the former had turned to the side and was thoughtfully dipping his hand in the water, as if paddling. "Halloo, Weathercock!" he cried. "I know what you're thinking about." "Not you," cried Vane merrily, as he looked back. "I do. You were thinking you could invent a machine to send the boat along far better than old West Indies is doing it now." Vane stared at him. "Well," he said, hesitatingly, "I was not thinking about Distin's rowing, but I was trying to hit out some way of propelling a boat without steam." "Knew it! I knew it! Here, I shan't read for the bar; I shall study up for a head boss conjurer, thought-reader, and clairvoyant." "For goodness' sake, Gilmore, lean back, and stuff your handkerchief in that chattering pie's mouth. You had better; it will save me from pitching him into the river." Then deep silence fell on the little party, and Macey's eyes sparkled. "Yes, he has made me vicious now," he said to himself; and, as he sat back, he saw something which sent a thought through his brain which made him hug his knees. "Let me see," he mused: "Vane can swim and dive like an otter, and Gil is better in the water than I am. All right, my boy; you shall pitch me in." Then aloud: "Keep her straight, Distie. Don't send her nose into the willows." The rower looked sharply round, and pulled his right scull. Then, a little further on, Macey shouted:-- "Too much port--pull your right." Distin resented this with an angry look; but Macey kept on in the most unruffled way, and, by degrees, as the rower found that it saved him from a great deal of unpleasant screwing round and neck-twisting, he began to obey the commands, and pulled a little harder, so that they travelled more swiftly down the winding stream. "Port!" shouted Macey. "Port it is! Straight on!" Then, after a minute,-- "Starboard! More starboard! Straight on!" Again: "Pull your right--not too much. Both hands;" and Distin calmly and indifferently followed the orders, till it had just occurred to him that the others might as well row now, when Macey shouted again:-- "Right--a little more right; now, both together. That's the way;" and, as again Distin obeyed, Macey shut his eyes, and drew up his knees. To give a final impetus to the light craft, Distin leaned forward, threw back the blades of the sculls, dipped, and took hold of the water, and then was jerked backwards as the boat struck with a crash on one of the old piles of the ancient bridge, ran up over it a little way, swung round, and directly after capsized, and began to float down stream, leaving its human freight struggling in deep water. CHAPTER SIX. DISTIN IS INCREDULOUS. "Oh, murder!" shouted Macey, as he rose to the surface, and struck out after the boat, which he reached, and held on by the keel. Gilmore swam after him, and was soon alongside, while Vane made for the bank, climbed out, stood up dripping, and roaring with laughter. "Hi! Gil!--Aleck, bring her ashore," he cried. "All right!" came back; but almost simultaneously Vane shouted again, in a tone full of horror:-- "Here, both of you--Distin--where's Distin?" He ran along the bank as he spoke, gazing down into the river, but without seeing a sign of that which he sought. Macey's heart sank within him, as, for the first time, the real significance of that which he had done in carefully guiding the rower on to the old rotten pile came home. A cold chill ran through him, and, for the moment, he clung, speechless and helpless, to the drifting boat. But Vane soon changed all that. "Here, you!" he yelled, "get that boat ashore, turn her over, and come to me--" As he spoke, he ran to and fro upon the bank for a few moments, but, seeing nothing, he paused opposite a deep-looking place, and plunged in, to begin swimming about, raising his head at every stroke, and searching about him, but searching in vain, for their companion, who, as far as he knew, had not risen again to the surface. Meanwhile, Gilmore and Macey tried their best to get the boat ashore, and, after struggling for a few minutes in the shallow close under the bank, they managed to right her, but not without leaving a good deal of water in the bottom. Still she floated as they climbed in and thrust her off, but only for Gilmore to utter a groan of dismay as he grasped the helplessness of their situation. "No oars--no oars!" he cried; and, standing up in the stern, he plunged into the water again, to swim toward where he could see Vane's head. "What have I done--what have I done!" muttered Macey, wildly. "Oh, poor chap, if he should be drowned!" For a moment he hesitated about following Gilmore, but, as he swept the water with his eyes, he caught sight of something floating, and, sitting down, he used one hand as a paddle, trying to get the boat toward the middle of the river to intercept the floating object, which he had seen to be one of the oars. Vane heard the loud splash, and saw that Gilmore was swimming to his help, then he kept on, looking to right and left in search of their companion; but everywhere there was the eddying water gliding along, and bearing him with it. For a time he had breasted the current, trying to get toward the deeps where the bridge had stood, but he could make no way, and, concluding from this that Distin would have floated down too, he kept on his weary, useless search till Gilmore swam up abreast. "Haven't seen him?" panted the latter, hoarsely. "Shall we go lower?" "No," cried Vane; "there must be an eddy along there. Let's go up again." They swam ashore, climbed out on to the bank, and, watching the surface as they ran, they made for the spot where the well-paved road had crossed the bridge. Here they stood in silence for a few moments, and Gilmore was about to plunge in again, but Vane stopped him. "No, no," he cried, breathing heavily the while; "that's of no use. Wait till we see him rise--if he is here," he added with a groan. The sun shone brightly on the calm, clear water which here looked black and deep, and after scanning it for some time Vane said quickly-- "Look! There, just beyond that black stump." "No; there is nothing there but a deep hole." "Yes, but the water goes round and round there, Gil; that must be the place." He was about to plunge in, but it was Gilmore's turn to arrest him. "No, no; it would be no use." "Yes; I'll dive down." "But there are old posts and big stones, I daren't let you go." "Ah!" shouted Vane wildly; "look--look!" He shook himself free and plunged in as Gilmore caught sight of something close up to the old piece of blackened oak upon which Macey had so cleverly steered the boat. It was only a glimpse of something floating, and then it was gone; and he followed Vane, who was swimming out to the old post. This he reached before Gilmore was half-way, swam round for a few moments, and then paddled like a dog, rose as high as he could, turned over and dived down into the deep black hole. In a few moments he was up again to take a long breath and dive once more. This time he was down longer, and Gilmore held on by the slimy post, gazing about with staring eyes, and prepared himself to dive down after his friend, when all at once, Vane's white face appeared, and one arm was thrust forth to give a vigorous blow upon the surface. "Got him," he cried in a half-choked voice, "Gil, help!" Gilmore made for him directly, and as he reached his companion's side the back of Distin's head came to the surface, and Gilmore seized him by his long black hair. Their efforts had taken them out of the eddy into the swift stream once more, and they began floating down; Vane so confused and weak from his efforts that he could do nothing but swim feebly, while his companion made some effort to keep Distin's face above water and direct him toward the side. An easy enough task at another time, for it only meant a swim of some fifty yards, but with the inert body of Distin, and Vane so utterly helpless that he could barely keep himself afloat, Gilmore had hard work, and, swim his best, he could scarcely gain a yard toward the shore. Very soon he found that he was exhausting himself by his efforts and that it would be far better to go down the stream, and trust to getting ashore far lower down, though, at the same time, a chilly feeling of despair began to dull his energies, and it seemed hopeless to think of getting his comrade ashore alive. All the same, though, forced as the words sounded, he told Vane hoarsely that it was all right, and that they would soon get to the side. Vane only answered with a look--a heavy, weary, despairing look--which told how thoroughly he could weigh his friend's remark, as he held on firmly by Distin and struck out slowly and heavily with the arm at liberty. There was no doubt about Vane's determination. If he had loosed his hold of Distin, with two arms free he could have saved himself with comparative ease, but that thought never entered his head, as they floated down the river, right in the middle now, and with the trees apparently gliding by them and the verdure and water-growth gradually growing confused and dim. To Vane all now seemed dreamlike and strange. He was in no trouble--there was no sense of dread, and the despair of a few minutes before was blunted, as with his body lower in the water, which kept rising now above his lips, he slowly struggled on. All at once Gilmore shouted wildly,-- "Vane--we can't do it. Let's swim ashore." Vane turned his eyes slowly toward him, as if he hardly comprehended his words. "What can I do?" panted Gilmore, who, on his side, was gradually growing more rapid and laboured in the strokes he made; but Vane made no sign, and the three floated down stream, each minute more helpless; and it was now rapidly becoming a certainty that, if Gilmore wished to save his life, he must quit his hold of Distin, and strive his best to reach the bank. "It seems so cowardly," he groaned; and he looked wildly round for help, but there was none. Then there seemed to be just one chance: the shore looked to be just in front of them, for the river turned here sharply round, forming a loop, and there was a possibility of their being swept right on to the bank. Vain hope! The stream swept round to their right, bearing them toward the other shore, against which it impinged, and then shot off with increased speed away for the other side; and, though they were carried almost within grasping distance of a tree whose boughs hung down to kiss the swift waters, the nearest was just beyond Gilmore's reach, as he raised his hand, which fell back with a splash, as they were borne right out, now toward the middle once more, and round the bend. "I can't help it. Must let go," thought Gilmore. "I'm done." Then aloud: "Vane, old chap! let go. Let's swim ashore;" and then he shuddered, for Vane's eyes had a dull, half-glazed stare, and his lips, nostrils,--the greater part of his face, sank below the stream. "Oh, help!" groaned Gilmore; "he has gone:" and, loosing his hold of Distin, he made a snatch at Vane, who was slowly sinking, the current turning him face downward, and rolling him slowly over. But Gilmore made a desperate snatch, and caught him by the sleeve as Vane rose again with his head thrown back and one arm rising above the water, clutching frantically at vacancy. The weight of that arm was sufficient to send him beneath the surface again, and Gilmore's desperate struggle to keep him afloat resulted in his going under in turn, losing his presence of mind, and beginning to struggle wildly as he, too, strove to catch at something to keep himself up. Another few moments and all would have been over, but the clutch did not prove to be at vacancy. Far from it. A hand was thrust into his, and as he was drawn up, a familiar voice shouted in his singing ears, where the water had been thundering the moment before: "Catch hold of the side," was shouted; and his fingers involuntarily closed on the gunwale of the boat, while Macey reached out and seized Vane by the collar, drew him to the boat, or the boat to him, and guided the drowning lad's cramped hand to the gunwale too. "Now!" he shouted; "can you hold on?" There was no answer from either, and Macey hesitated for a few moments, but, seeing how desperate a grip both now had, he seized one of the recovered sculls, thrust it out over the rowlock, and pulled and paddled first at the side, then over the stern till, by help of the current, he guided the boat with its clinging freight into shallow water where he leaped overboard, seized Gilmore, and dragged him right up the sandy shallow to where his head lay clear. He then went back and seized Vane in turn, after literally unhooking his cramped fingers from the side, and dragged him through the shallow water a few yards, before he realised that his fellow-pupil's other hand was fixed, with what for the moment looked to be a death-grip, in Distin's clothes. This task was more difficult, but by the time he had dragged Vane alongside of Gilmore, the latter was slowly struggling up to his feet; and in a confused, staggering way he lent a hand to get Vane's head well clear of the water on to the warm dry pebbles, and then between them they dragged Distin right out beyond the pebbles on to the grass. "One moment," cried Macey, and he dashed into the water again just in time to catch hold of the boat, which was slowly floating away. Then wading back he got hold of the chain, and twisted it round a little blackthorn bush on the bank. "I'm better now," gasped Gilmore. And then, "Oh, Aleck, Aleck, they're both dead!" "They aren't," shouted Macey fiercely. "Look! Old Weathercock's moving his eyes, but I'm afraid of poor old Colonist. Here, hi, Vane, old man! You ain't dead, are you? Catch hold, Gil, like this, under his arm. Now, together off!" They seized Vane, and, raising his head and shoulders, dragged him up on to the grass, near where Distin lay, apparently past all help, and a groan escaped from Gilmore's lips, as, rapidly regaining his strength and energy, he dropped on his knees beside him. "It's all right," shouted Macey, excitedly, when a whisper would have done. "Weathercock's beginning to revive again. Hooray, old Vane! You'll do. We must go to Distie." Vane could not speak, but he made a sign, which they interpreted to mean, go; and the next moment they were on their knees by Distin's side, trying what seemed to be the hopeless task of reviving him. For the lad's face looked ghastly in the extreme; and, though Macey felt his breast and throat, there was not the faintest pulsation perceptible. But they lost no time; and Gilmore, who was minute by minute growing stronger, joined in his companion's efforts at resuscitation from a few rather hazy recollections of a paper he had once read respecting the efforts to be made with the apparently drowned. Everything was against them. They had no hot flannels or water-bottles to apply to the subject's feet, no blankets in which to wrap him, nothing but sunshine, as Macey began. After doubling up a couple of wet jackets into a cushion and putting them under Distin's back, he placed himself kneeling behind the poor fellow's head, seized his arms, pressed them hard against his sides, and then drew them out to their full stretch, so as to try and produce respiration by alternately compressing and expanding the chest. He kept on till he grew so tired that his motions grew slow; and then he gave place to Gilmore, who carried on the process eagerly, while Macey went to see how Vane progressed, finding him able to speak now in a whisper. "How is Distin?" he whispered. "Bad," said Macey, laconically. "Not dead!" cried Vane, frantically. "Not yet," was the reply; "but I wouldn't give much for the poor fellow's chance. Oh, Vane, old chap, do come round, and help. You are so clever, and know such lots of things. I shall never be happy again if he dies." For answer to this appeal Vane sat up, but turned so giddy that he lay back again. "I'll come and try as soon as I can," he said, feebly. "All the strength has gone out of me." "Let me help you," cried Macey; and he drew Vane into a sitting position, but had to leave him and relieve Gilmore, whose arms were failing fast. Macey took his place, and began with renewed vigour at what seemed to be a perfectly hopeless task, while Gilmore went to Vane. "It's no good," muttered Macey, whose heart was full of remorse; and a terrible feeling of despair came over him. "It's of no use, but I will try and try till I drop. Oh, if I could only bring him to, I'd never say an unkind word to him again!" He threw himself into his task, working Distin's thin arms up and down with all his might, listening intently the while for some faint suggestion of breathing, but all in vain; the arms he held were cold and dank, and the face upon which he looked down, seeing it in reverse, was horribly ghastly and grotesque. "I don't like him," continued Macey, to himself, as he toiled away; "I never did like him, and I never shall, but I think I'd sooner it was me lying here than him. And me the cause of it all." "Poor old Distie!" he went on. "I suppose he couldn't help his temper. It was his nature, and he came from a foreign country. How could I be such a fool? Nearly drowned us all." He bent over Distin at every pressure of the arms, close to the poor fellow's side; and, as he hung over him, the great tears gathered in his eyes, and, in a choking voice, he muttered aloud:-- "I didn't mean it, old chap. It was only to give you a ducking for being so disagreeable; indeed, indeed, I wish it had been me." "Oh, I say," cried a voice at his ear; "don't take on like that, old fellow. We'll bring him round yet. Vane's getting all right fast." "I can't help it, Gil, old chap," said Macey, in a husky whisper; "it is so horrible to see him like this." "But I tell you we shall bring him round. You're tired, and out of heart. Let me take another turn." "No, I'm not tired yet," said Macey, recovering himself, and speaking more steadily. "I'll keep on. You feel his heart again." He accommodated his movements to his companion's, and Gilmore kept his hand on Distin's breast, but he withdrew it again without a word; and, as Macey saw the despair and the hopeless look on the lad's face, his own heart sank lower, and his arms felt as if all the power had gone. But, with a jerk, he recommenced working Distin's arms up and down with the regular pumping motion, till he could do no more, and he again made way for Gilmore. He was turning to Vane, but felt a touch on his shoulder, and, looking round, it was to gaze in the lad's grave face. "How is he?" "Oh, bad as bad can be. Do, pray, try and save him, Vane. We mustn't let him die." Vane breathed hard, and went to Distin's side, kneeling down to feel his throat, and looking more serious as he rose. "Let me try now," he whispered, but Gilmore shook his head. "You're too weak," he said. "Wait a bit." Vane waited, and at last they were glad to let him take his turn, when the toil drove off the terrible chill from which he was suffering, and he worked at the artificial respiration plan, growing stronger every minute. Again he resumed the task in his turn, and then again, after quite an hour of incessant effort had been persisted in; while now the feeling was becoming stronger in all their breasts that they had tried in vain, for there was no more chance. "If we could have had him in a bed, we might have done some good," said Gilmore, sadly. "Vane, old fellow, I'm afraid you must give it up." But, instead of ceasing his efforts, the lad tried the harder, and, in a tone of intense excitement, he panted:-- "Look!" "At what?" cried Macey, eagerly; and then, going down on his knees, he thrust in his hand beneath the lad's shirt. "Yes! you can feel it. Keep on, Vane, keep on." "What!" shouted Gilmore; and then he gave a joyful cry, for there was a trembling about one of Distin's eyelids, and a quarter of an hour later they saw him open his eyes, and begin to stare wonderingly round. It was only for a few moments, and then they closed again, as if the spark of the fire of life that had been trembling had died out because there had been a slight cessation of the efforts to produce it. But there was no farther relaxation. All, in turn, worked hard, full of excitement at the fruit borne by their efforts; and, at last, while Vane was striving his best, the patient's eyes were opened, gazed round once more, blankly and wonderingly, till they rested upon Vane's face, when memory reasserted itself, and an unpleasant frown darkened the Creole's countenance. "Don't," he cried, angrily, in a curiously weak, harsh voice, quite different from his usual tones; and he dragged himself away, and tried to rise, but sank back. Vane quitted his place, and made way for Macey, whose turn it would have been to continue their efforts, but Distin gave himself a jerk, and fixed his eyes on Gilmore, who raised him by passing one hand beneath his shoulders. "Better?" "Better? What do you mean? I haven't--Ah! How was it the boat upset?" There was no reply, and Distin spoke again, in a singularly irritable way. "I said, how was it the boat upset? Did someone run into us?" "You rowed right upon one of the old posts," replied Gilmore, and Distin gazed at him fixedly, while Macey shrank back a little, and then looked furtively from Vane to Gilmore, and back again at Distin, who fixed his eyes upon him searchingly, but did not speak for some time. "Here," he said at last; "give me your hand. I can't sit here in these wet things." "Can you stand?" said Gilmore, eagerly. "Of course I can stand. Why shouldn't I? Because I'm wet? Oh!" He clapped his hands to his head, and bowed down a little. "Are you in pain?" asked Gilmore, with solicitude. "Of course I am," snarled Distin; "any fool could see that. I must have struck my head, I suppose." "He doesn't suspect me," thought Macey, with a long-drawn breath full of relief. "Here, I'll try again," continued Distin. "Where's the boat? I want to get back, and change these wet things. Oh! my head aches as if it would split!" Gilmore offered his hand again, and, forgetting everything in his desire to help one in pain and distress, Vane ranged up on the other side, and was about to take Distin's arm. But the lad shrank from him fiercely. "I can manage," he said. "I don't want to be hauled and pulled about like a child. Now, Gil, steady. Let's get into the boat. I want to lie down in the stern." "Wait a minute or two; she's half full of water," cried Macey, who was longing to do something helpful. "Come on, Vane." The latter went to his help, and they drew the boat closer in. "Oh, I say," whispered the lad, "isn't old Dis in a temper?" "Yes; I've heard that people who have been nearly drowned are terribly irritable when they come to," replied Vane, in the same tone. "Never mind, we've saved his life." "You did," said Macey. "Nonsense; we all did." "No; we two didn't dive down in the black pool, and fetch him up. Oh, I say, Vane, what a day! If this is coming out for pleasure I'll stop at home next time. Now then, together." They pulled together, and by degrees lightened the boat of more and more water, till they were able to get it quite ashore, and drain out the last drops over the side. Then launching again, and replacing the oars, Macey gave his head a rub. "We shall have to buy the miller a new boat-hook," he said. "I suppose the iron on the end of the pole was so heavy that it took the thing down. I never saw it again. Pretty hunt I had for the sculls. I got one, but was ever so long before I could find the other." "You only just got to us in time," said Vane, with a sigh; and he looked painfully in his companion's eyes. "Oh, I say, don't look at a fellow like that," said Macey. "I am sorry--I am, indeed." Vane was silent, but still looked at his fellow-pupil steadily. "Don't ever split upon me, old chap," continued Macey; "and I'll own it all to you. I thought it would only be a bit of a lark to give him a ducking, for he had been--and no mistake--too disagreeable for us to put up with it any longer." "Then you did keep on telling him which hand to pull and steered him on to the pile?" Macey was silent. "If you did, own to it like a man, Aleck." "Yes, I will--to you, Vane. I did, for I thought it would be such a game to see him overboard, and I felt it would only be a wetting for us. I never thought of it turning out as it did." He ceased speaking, and Vane stood gazing straight before him for a few moments. "No," he said, at last, "you couldn't have thought that it would turn out like it did." "No, 'pon my word, I didn't." "And we might have had to go back and tell Syme that one of his pupils was dead. Oh, Aleck, if it had been so!" "Yes, but don't you turn upon me, Vane. I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it; and I'll never try such a trick as that again." "Ready there?" cried Gilmore. "Yes; all right," shouted Macey. Then, in a whisper, "Don't tell Distie. He'd never forgive me. Here they come." For, sallow, and with his teeth chattering, Distin came toward them, leaning on Gilmore's arm; but, as he reached the boat, he drew himself up, and looked fixedly in Vane's face. "You needn't try to plot any more," he said, "for I shall be aware of you next time." "Plot?" stammered Vane, who was completely taken aback. "I don't know what you mean." "Of course not," said Distin, bitterly. "You are such a genius--so clever. You wouldn't set that idiot Macey to tell me which hand to pull, so as to overset the boat. But I'll be even with you yet." "I wouldn't, I swear," cried Vane, sharply. "Oh, no; not likely. You are too straightforward and generous. But I'm not blind: I can see; and if punishment can follow for your cowardly trick, you shall have it. Come, Gil, you and I will row back together. It will warm us, and we can be on our guard against treachery this time." He stepped into the boat, staggered, and would have fallen overboard, had not Vane caught his arm; but, as soon as he had recovered his balance, he shook himself free resentfully and seated himself on the forward thwart. "Jump in," said Gilmore, in a low voice. "Yes, jump in, Mr Vane Lee, and be good enough to go right to the stern. You did not succeed in drowning me this time; and, mind this, if you try any tricks on our way back, I'll give you the oar across the head. You cowardly, treacherous bit of scum!" "No, he isn't," said Macey, boldly, "and you're all out of it, clever as you are. It was not Vane's doing, the running on the pile, but mine. I did it to take some of the conceit and bullying out of you, so you may say and do what you like." "Oh, yes, I knew you did it," sneered Distin; "but there are not brains enough in your head to originate such a dastardly trick. That was Vane Lee's doing, and he'll hear of it another time, as sure as my name's Distin." "I tell you it was my own doing entirely," cried Macey, flushing up; "and I'll tell you something else. I'm glad I did it--so there. For you deserved it, and you deserve another for being such a cad." "What do you mean?" cried Distin, threateningly. "What I say, you ungrateful, un-English humbug. You were drowning; you couldn't be found, and you wouldn't have been here now, if it hadn't been for old Weathercock diving down and fetching you up, and then, half-dead himself, working so hard to help save your life." "I don't believe it," snarled Distin. "Don't," said Macey, as he thrust the boat from the side, throwing himself forward at the same time, so that he rode out on his chest, and then wriggled in, to seat himself close by Vane, while Gilmore and Distin began to row hard, so as to get some warmth into their chilled bodies. They went on in silence for some time, and then Macey leaped up. "Now, Vane," he cried; "it's our turn." "Sit down," roared Distin. "Don't, Aleck," said Vane, firmly. "You are quite right. We want to warm ourselves too. Come, Gil, and take my place." "Sit down!" roared Distin again; but Gilmore exchanged places with Vane, and Macey stepped forward, and took hold of Distin's oar. "Now then, give it up," he said; and, utterly cowed by the firmness of the two lads, Distin stepped over the thwart by Vane, and went and seated himself by Gilmore. "Ready?" cried Macey. "Yes." "You pull as hard as you can, and let's send these shivers out of us. You call out, Gil, and steer us, for we don't want to have to look round." They bent their backs to their work, and sent the boat flying through the water, Gilmore shouting a hint from time to time, with the result that they came in sight of the mill much sooner than they had expected, and Gilmore looked out anxiously, hoping to get the boat moored unseen, so that they could hurry off and get to the rectory by the fields, so that their drenched condition should not be noticed. But, just as they approached the big willows, a window in the mill was thrown open, the loud clacking and the roar of the machinery reached their ears, and there was the great, full face of the miller grinning down at them. "Why, hallo!" he shouted; "what game's this? Been fishing?" "No," said Vane, quietly; "we--" But, before he could finish, the miller roared:-- "Oh, I see, you've been bathing; and, as you had no towels, you kept your clothes on. I say, hang it all, my lads, didst ta capsize the boat?" "No," said Vane, quietly, as he leaped ashore with the chain; "we had a misfortune, and ran on one of those big stumps up the river." "Hey? What, up yonder by old brigg?" "Yes." "Hang it all, lads, come into the cottage, and I'll send on to fetch your dry clothes. Hey, but it's a bad job. Mustn't let you catch cold. Here, hi! Mrs Lasby. Kettle hot?" "Yes, Mester," came from the cottage. "Then set to, and make the young gents a whole jorum of good hot tea." The miller hurried the little party into the cottage, where the kitchen-fire was heaped up with brushwood and logs, about which the boys stood, and steamed, drinking plenteously of hot tea the while, till the messenger returned with their dry clothes, and, after the change had been made, their host counselled a sharp run home, to keep up the circulation, undertaking to send the wet things back himself. CHAPTER SEVEN. MR. BRUFF'S PRESENT. That boating trip formed a topic of conversation in the study morning after morning when the rector was not present--a peculiar form of conversation when Distin was there--which was not regularly, for the accident on the river served as an excuse for several long stays in bed--but a free and unfettered form when he was not present. For Macey soon freed Vane from any feeling of an irksome nature by insisting to Gilmore how he had been to blame. Gilmore looked very serious at first, but laughed directly after. "I really thought it was an accident," he said; "and I felt the more convinced that it was on hearing poor old hot-headed Distie accuse you, Vane, because, of course, I knew you would not do such a thing; and I thought Macey blamed himself to save you." "Thought me a better sort of fellow than I am, then," said Macey. "Much," replied Gilmore, quietly. "You couldn't see old Weathercock trying to drown all his friends." "I didn't," cried Macey, indignantly. "I only wanted to give Distie a cooling down." "And nicely you did it," cried Gilmore. "There, don't talk any more about it," cried Vane, who was busy sketching upon some exercise paper. "It's all over, and doesn't bear thinking about." "What's he doing?" cried Macey, reaching across the table, and making a snatch at the paper, which Vane tried hurriedly to withdraw, but only saved a corner, while Macey waved his portion in triumph. "Hoo-rah!" he cried. "It's a plan for a new patent steamboat, and I shall make one, and gain a fortune, while poor old Vane will be left out in the cold." "Let's look," said Gilmore. "No, no. It's too bad," cried Vane, making a fresh dash at the paper. "Shan't have it, sir! Sit down," cried Macey. "How dare you, sir! Look, Gil! It is a boat to go by steam, with a whipper-whopper out at the stern to send her along." "I wish you wouldn't be so stupid, Aleck. Give me the paper." "Shan't." "I don't want to get up and make a struggle for it." "I should think not, sir. Sit still. Oh, I say, Gil, look. Here it all is. It's not steam. It's a fellow with long arms and queer elbows turns a wheel." "Get out!" cried Vane, laughing; "those are shafts and cranks." "Of course they are. No one would think it, though, would they, Gil? I say, isn't he a genius at drawing?" "Look here, Aleck, if you don't be quiet with your chaff I'll ink your nose." "Wonderful, isn't he?" continued Macey. "I say, how many hundred miles an hour a boat like that will go!" "Oh, I say, do drop it," cried Vane, good-humouredly. "I know," cried Macey; "this is what you were thinking about that day we had Rounds' boat." "Well, yes," said Vane, quietly. "I couldn't help thinking how slow and laborious rowing seemed to be, and how little change has been made in all these years that are passed. You see," he continued, warming to his subject, "there is so much waste of manual labour. It took two of us to move that boat and not very fast either." "And only one sitting quite still to upset it," said Gilmore quietly. Macey started, as if he had been stung. "There's a coward," he cried. "I thought you weren't going to say any more about it." "Slipped out all at once, Aleck," said Gilmore. "But you were quite right," said Vane. "Two fellows toiling hard, and just one idea from another's brain proved far stronger." "Now you begin," groaned Macey. "Oh, I say, don't! I wouldn't have old Distie know for anything. You chaps are mean." "Go on, Vane," cried Gilmore. "There's nothing more to go on about, for I haven't worked out the idea thoroughly." "I know," cried Macey, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I thought," continued Vane dreamily, "that one might contrive a little paddle or screw--" "And work it with hot-water pipes," cried Macey. It was Vane's turn to wince now; and he made a pretence of throwing a book at Macey, who ducked down below the table, and then slowly raised his eyes to the level as Vane went on. "Then you could work that paddle by means of cranks." "Only want one--old Weathercock. Best crank I know," cried Macey. "Will you be quiet," cried Gilmore. "Go on, Vane." "That is nearly all," said the latter, thoughtfully, and looking straight before him, as if he could see the motive-power he mentally designed. "But how are you going to get the thing to work?" "Kitchen-boiler," cried Macey. Gilmore made "an offer" at him with his fist, but Macey dodged again. "Oh, one might move it by working a lever with one's hands." "Then you might just as well row," said Gilmore. "Well, then, by treadles, with one's feet." "Oh--oh--oh!" roared Macey. "Don't! don't! Who's going to be put on the tread-mill when he wants to have a ride in a boat? Why, I--" "Pst! Syme!" whispered Gilmore, as a step was heard. Then the door opened, and Distin came in, looking languid and indifferent. "Morning," cried Gilmore. "Better?" Distin gave him a short nod, paid no heed to the others, and went to his place to take up a book, yawning loudly as he did so. Then he opened the book slowly. "Look!" cried Macey, with a mock aspect of serious interest. "Eh? What at?" said Vane. "The book," cried Macey; and then he yawned tremendously. "Oh, dear! I've got it now." Vane stared. "Don't you see? You, being a scientific chap, ought to have noticed it directly. Example of the contagious nature of a yawn." Oddly enough, Gilmore yawned slightly just at the moment, and, putting his hand to his mouth, said to himself, "Oh, dear me!" "There!" cried Macey, triumphantly, "that theory's safe. Distie comes in, sits down, yawns; then the book yawns, I yawn, Gilmore yawns. You might, could, would, or should yawn, only you don't, and--" "Good-morning, gentlemen. I'm a bit late, I fear. Had a little walk after breakfast, and ran against Doctor Lee, who took me in to see his greenhouse. He tells me you are going to heat it by hot-water. Why, Vane, you are quite a genius." Macey reached out a leg to kick Vane under the table, but it was Distin's shin which received the toe of the lad's boot, just as Gilmore moved suddenly. Distin uttered a sharp ejaculation, and looked fiercely across at Gilmore. "What did you do that for?" he cried. "What?" "Kick me under the table." "I did not." "Yes, you--" "Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried the rector reprovingly, "this is not a small boarding-school, and you are not school-boys. I was speaking." "I beg your pardon, sir," cried Gilmore. Distin was silent, and Macey, who was scarlet in the face; glanced across at Vane, and seemed as if he were going to choke with suppressed laughter, while Vane fidgeted about in his seat. The rector frowned, coughed, changed his position, smiled, and went on, going back a little to pick up his words where he had left off. "Quite a genius, Vane--yes, I repeat it, quite a genius." "Oh, no, sir; it will be easy enough." "After once doing, Vane," said the rector, "but the first invention--the contriving--is, I beg to say, hard. However, I am intensely gratified to see that you are putting your little--little--little--what shall I call them?" "Dodges, sir," suggested Macey, deferentially. "No, Mr Macey, that is too commonplace--too low a term for the purpose, and we will, if you please, say schemes." "Yes, sir," said Macey, seriously--"schemes." "Schemes to so useful a purpose," continued the rector; "and I shall ask you to superintend the fitting up of my conservatory upon similar principles." "Really, sir, I--" began Vane; but the rector smiled and raised a protesting hand. "Don't refuse me, Vane," he said. "Of course I shall beg that you do not attempt any of the manual labour--merely superintend; but I shall exact one thing, if you consent to do it for me. That is, if the one at the manor succeeds." "Of course I will do it, if you wish, sir," said Vane. "I felt sure you would. I said so to your uncle, and your aunt said she was certain you would," continued the rector; "but, as I was saying, I shall exact one thing: as my cook is a very particular woman, and would look startled if I even proposed to go into the kitchen--" He paused, and Vane, who was in misery, glanced at Macey--to see that he was thoroughly enjoying it all, while Distin's countenance expressed the most sovereign contempt. "I say, Vane Lee," said the rector again, as if he expected an answer, "I shall exact one thing." "Yes, sir. What?" "That the rule of the queen of the kitchen be respected; but--ah, let me see, Mr Distin, I think we were to take up the introductory remarks made on the differential calculus." And the morning's study at the rectory went on. "Best bit of fun I've had for a long time," cried Macey, as he strolled out with Vane when the readings were at an end. "Yes, at my expense," cried Vane sharply. "My leg hurts still with that kick." "Oh, that's nothing," cried Macey; "I kicked old Distie twice as hard by mistake, and he's wild with Gilmore because he thinks it's he." Vane gripped him by the collar. "No, no, don't. I apologise," cried Macey. "Don't be a coward." "You deserve a good kicking," cried Vane, loosing his grasp. "Yes, I know I do, but be magnanimous in your might, oh man of genius." "Look here," cried Vane, grinding his teeth, "if you call me a genius again, I will kick you, and hard too." "But I must. My mawmaw said I was always to speak the truth, sir." "Yes, and I'll make you speak the truth, too. Such nonsense! Genius! Just because one can use a few tools, and scheme a little. It's absurd." "All right. I will not call you a genius any more. But I say, old chap, shall you try and make a boat go by machinery?" "I should like to," said Vane, who became dreamy and thoughtful directly. "But I have no boat." "Old Rounds would lend you his. There was a jolly miller lived down by the Greythorpe river," sang Macey. "Nonsense! He wouldn't lend me his boat to cut about." "Sell it you." Vane shook his head. "Cost too much." "Then, why cut it? You ought to be able to make a machine that would fit into a boat with screws, or be stuck like a box under the thwarts." "Yes, so I might. I didn't think of that," cried Vane, eagerly. "I'll try it." "There," said Macey, "that comes of having a clever chap at your elbow like yours most obediently. Halves!" "Eh?" "I say, halves! I invented part of the machine, and I want to share. But when are you going to begin old Syme's conservatory?" "Oh, dear!" sighed Vane. "I'd forgotten that. Come along. Let's try and think out the paddles as you propose. I fancy one might get something like a fish's tail to propel a boat." "What, by just waggling?" "It seems to me to be possible." "Come on, and let's do it then," cried Macey, starting to trot along the road. "I want to get the taste of Distin out of my mouth.--I say--" "Well?" "Don't I wish his mother wanted him so badly that he was obliged to go back to the West Indies at once.--Hallo! Going to the wood?" "Yes, I don't mean to be beaten over those fungi we had the other day," cried Vane; and to prove that he did not, he inveigled Macey into accompanying him into the woods that afternoon, to collect another basketful--his companion assisting by nutting overhead, while Vane busied himself among the moss at the roots of the hazel stubs. "Going to have those for supper?" said Macey, as they were returning. Vane shook his head. "I suppose I mustn't take these home to-day after all." "Look here, come on with me to the rectory, and give 'em to Mr Syme." "Pooh!--Why, he laughed at them." "But you can tell him you had some for dinner at the Little Manor. I won't say anything." "I've a good mind to, for I've read that they are delicious if properly cooked," cried Vane. "No, I don't like to. But I should like to give them to someone, for I don't care to see them wasted." "Do bring them to the rectory, and I'll coax Distie on into eating some. He will not know they are yours; and, if they upset him, he will not be of so much consequence as any one else." But Vane shook his head as they walked thoughtfully back. "I know," he cried, all at once; "I'll give them to Mrs Bruff." "But would she cook them?" "Let's go and see. What time is it?" "Half-past four," said Macey. "Plenty of time before he gets home from work." Vane started off at such a rate that Macey had to cry out for respite as they struck out of the wood, and reached a lane where, to their surprise, they came plump upon the gipsies camped by the roadside, with a good fire burning, and their miserable horse cropping the grass in peace. The first objects their eyes lit upon were the women who were busily cooking; and Vane advanced and offered his basket of vegetable treasures, but they all laughed and shook their heads, and the oldest woman of the party grunted out the word "poison." "There," said Macey, as they went along the lane, "you hear. They ought to know whether those are good or no. If they were nice, do you think the gipsies would let them rot in the woods." "But, you see, they don't know," said Vane quietly, and then he gripped his companion's arm. "What's that?" he whispered. "Some one talking in the wood." "Poaching perhaps," said Vane, as he peered in amongst the trees. Just then the voice ceased, and there was a rustling in amongst the bushes at the edge of the wood, as if somebody was forcing his way through, and resulting in one of the gipsy lads they had before seen, leaping out into the narrow deep lane, followed by the other. The lads seemed to be so astonished at the encounter that they stood staring at Vane and Macey for a few moments, then looked at each other, and then, as if moved by the same impulse, they turned and rushed back into the wood, and were hidden from sight directly. "What's the matter with them?" said Vane. "They must have been at some mischief." "Mad, I think," said Macey. "All gipsies are half mad, or they wouldn't go about, leading such a miserable life as they do. Song says a gipsy's life is a merry life. Oh, is it? Nice life in wet, cold weather. They don't look very merry, then." "Never mind: it's nothing to do with us. Come along." Half-an-hour's walking brought them into the open fields, and as they stood at the end of the lane in the shade of an oak tree, Macey said suddenly: "I say, there's old Distie yonder. Where has he been? Bet twopence it was to see the gipsies and get his fortune told." "For a walk as far as here, perhaps, and now he is going back." Macey said it "seemed rum," and they turned off then to reach Bruff's cottage, close to the little town. "I don't see anything rum in it," Vane said, quietly. "Don't you? Well, I do. Gilmore was stopping back to keep him company, wasn't he? Well, where is Gilmore? And why is Distie cutting along so--at such a rate?" Vane did not reply, and Macey turned to look at him wonderingly. "Here! Hi! What's the matter?" Vane started. "Matter?" he said, "nothing." "What were you thinking about? Inventing something?" "Oh, no," said Vane, confusedly. "Well, I was thinking about something I was making." "Thought so. Well, I am glad I'm not such a Hobby-Bob sort of a fellow as you are. Syme says you're a bit of a genius, ever since you made his study clock go; but you're the worst bowler, batter, and fielder I know; you're not worth twopence at football; and if one plays at anything else with you--spins a top, or flies a kite, or anything of that kind--you're never satisfied without wanting to make the kite carry up a load, or making one top spin on the top of another, and--" "Take me altogether, I'm the most cranky, disagreeable fellow you ever knew, eh?" said Vane, interrupting. "Show me anyone who says so, and I'll punch his head," cried Macey, eagerly. "There he goes. No; he's out of sight now." "What, old Distie? Pooh! he's nobody, only a creole, and don't count." The gardener's cottage stood back from the road; its porch covered with roses, and the little garden quite a blaze of autumn flowers; and as they reached it, Vane paused for a moment to admire them. "Hallo!" cried Macey, "going to improve 'em?" "They don't want it," said Vane, quietly. "I was thinking that you always see better flowers in cottage gardens than anywhere else." At that moment the gardener's wife came to the door, smiling at her visitors, and Vane recollected the object of his visit. "I've brought you these, Mrs Bruff," he said. "Toadstools, sir?" said the woman, opening her eyes widely. "No; don't call them by that name," cried Macey, merrily; "they're philogustators." "Kind of potaters, sir?" said the woman, innocently. "Are they for Eben to grow?" "No, for you to cook for his tea. Don't say anything, but stew them with a little water and butter, pepper and salt." "Oh, thank you, sir," cried the woman. "Are they good?" "Delicious, if you cook them well." "Indeed I will, sir. Thank you so much." She took the basket, and wanted to pay for the present with some flowers, but the lads would only take a rosebud each, and went their way, to separate at the turning leading to the rectory gate. CHAPTER EIGHT. A PROFESSIONAL VISIT. "Not going up to the rectory?" said the Doctor, next morning. "No, uncle," said Vane, looking up from a book he was reading. "Joseph came with a note, before breakfast, to say that the rector was going over to Lincoln to-day, and that he hoped I would do a little private study at home." "Then don't, my dear," said Aunt Hannah. "You read and study too much. Get the others to go out with you for some excursion." Vane looked at her in a troubled way. "He was going to excursion into the workshop. Eh, boy?" said the doctor. "Yes, uncle, I did mean to." "No, no, no, my dear; get some fresh air while it's fine. Yes, Eliza." "If you please, ma'am, cook says may she speak to you." "Yes; send her in," was the reply; and directly after Martha appeared, giving the last touches to secure the clean apron she had put on between kitchen and breakfast-room. "Cook's cross," said Vane to himself, as his aunt looked up with-- "Well, cook?" "Sorry to trouble you, ma'am, but I want to know what I'm to do about my vegetables this morning." "Cook them," said Vane to himself, and then he repeated the words aloud, and added, "not like you did my poor chanterelles." "Hush, Vane, my dear," said Aunt Hannah, as the cook turned upon him fiercely. "I do not understand what you mean, Martha." "I mean, ma'am," said the cook, jerkily, but keeping her eyes fixed upon Vane, "that Bruff sent word as he's too ill to come this morning; and I can't be expected to go down gardens, digging potatoes and cutting cauliflowers for dinner. It isn't my place." "No, no, certainly not, Martha," said Aunt Hannah. "Dear me! I am sorry Bruff is so ill. He was quite well yesterday." "But I want the vegetables now, ma'am." "And you shall have them, Martha," said the doctor, rising, bowing, and opening the door for the cook to pass out, which she did, looking wondering and abashed at her master, as if not understanding what he meant. "Dear me!" continued the doctor, rubbing one ear, and apostrophising his nephew, "what a strange world this is. Now, by and by, Vane, that woman will leave here to marry and exist upon some working man's income, and never trouble herself for a moment about whether it's her place to go down the garden `to cut a cabbage to make an apple-pie,' as the poet said--or somebody else; but be only too glad to feel that there is a cabbage in the garden to cut, and a potato to dig. Vane, my boy, will you come and hold the basket?" "No, uncle; I'll soon dig a few, and cut the cauliflower," said Vane, hastily; and he hurried toward the door. "I'll go with you, my boy," said the doctor; and he went out with his nephew, who was in a state of wondering doubt, respecting the gardener's illness. For suppose that chanterelles were, after all, not good to eat, and he had poisoned the man! "Come along, Vane. We can find a basket and fork in the tool-house." The doctor took down his straw hat, and led the way down the garden, looking very happy and contented, but extremely unlike the Savile Row physician, whom patients were eager to consult only a few years before. Then the tool-house was reached, and he shouldered a four-pronged fork, and Vane took the basket; the row of red kidney potatoes was selected, and the doctor began to dig and turn up a root of fine, well-ripened tubers. "Work that is the most ancient under the sun, Vane, my boy," said the old gentleman, smiling. "Pick them up." But Vane did not stir. He stood, basket in hand, thinking; and the more he thought the more uneasy he grew. "Ready? Pick them up!" cried the doctor. "What are you thinking about, eh?" Vane gave a jump. "I beg your pardon, uncle, I was thinking." "I know that. What about?" "Bruff being ill." "Hum! Yes," said the doctor, lifting the fork to remove a potato which he had accidentally impaled. "I think I know what's the matter with Master Bruff." "So do I, uncle. Will you come on and see him, as soon as we have got enough vegetables?" "Physician's fee is rather high for visiting a patient, my boy; and Bruff only earns a pound a week. What very fine potatoes!" "You will come on, won't you, uncle? I'm sure I know what's the matter with him." "Do you?" said the doctor, turning up another fine root of potatoes. "Without seeing him?" "Yes, uncle;" and he related what he had done on the previous afternoon. "Indeed," said the doctor, growing interested. "But you ought to know a chanterelle if you saw one. Are you sure what you gave Mrs Bruff were right?" "Quite, uncle; I am certain." "Dear me! But they are reckoned to be perfectly wholesome food. I don't understand it. There, pick up the potatoes, and let's cut the cauliflowers. I'll go and see what's wrong." Five minutes after the basket was handed in to Martha; and then the doctor washed his hands, changed his hat, and signified to Aunt Hannah where they were going. "That's right, my dear, I thought you would," said the old lady, beaming. "Going too, Vane, my dear?" "Yes, aunt." "That's right. I hope you will find him better." Vane hoped so, too, in his heart, as he walked with his uncle to the gardener's cottage, conjuring up all kinds of suffering, and wondering whether the man had been ill all the night; and, to make matters worse, a deep groan came from the open bedroom window as they approached. Vane looked at his uncle in horror. "Good sign, my boy," said the doctor cheerfully. "Not very bad, or he would not have made that noise. Well, Mrs Bruff," he continued, as the woman appeared to meet them at the door, "so Ebenezer is unwell?" "Oh, yes, sir, dreadful. He was took badly about two o'clock, and he has been so queer ever since." "Dear me," said the doctor. "Do you know what has caused it?" "Yes, sir," said the woman, beginning to sob; "he says it's those nasty toadstools Master Vane brought, and gave me to cook for his tea. Ah, Master Vane, you shouldn't have played us such a trick." Vane looked appealingly at his uncle, who gave him a reassuring nod. "You cooked them then?" said the doctor. "Oh, yes, sir, and we had them for tea, and the nasty things were so nice that we never thought there could be anything wrong." "What time do you say your husband was taken ill?" "About two o'clock, sir." "And what time were you taken ill?" "Me, sir?" said the woman staring. "I haven't been ill." "Ah! You did not eat any of the--er--toadstools then?" "Yes, sir, I did, as many as Ebenezer." "Humph! What time did your husband come home last night?" "I don't know, sir, I was asleep. But I tell you it was about two when he woke me up, and said he was so bad." "Take me upstairs," said the doctor shortly; and he followed the woman up to her husband's room, leaving Vane alone with a sinking heart, and wishing that he had not ventured to give the chanterelles to the gardener's wife. He could not sit down but walked about, listening to the steps and murmur of voices overhead, meaning to give up all experiments in edible fungi for the future, and ready to jump as he heard the doctor's heavy step again crossing the room, and then descending the stairs, followed by Bruff's wife. "Do you think him very bad, sir?" she faltered. "Oh, yes," was the cheerful reply; "he has about as splitting a headache as a poor wretch could have." "But he will not die, sir?" "No, Mrs Bruff," said the doctor. "Not just yet; but you may tell him, by-and-by, when you get him downstairs, feeling penitent and miserable, that, if he does not leave off going to the Chequers, he'll have to leave off coming to the Little Manor." "Why, sir, you don't think that?" faltered the woman. "No, I do not think, because I am quite sure, Mrs Bruff. He was not hurt by your cookery, but by what he took afterward. You understand?" "Oh, sir!" "Come along, Vane. Good-morning, Mrs Bruff," said the doctor, loud enough for his voice to be heard upstairs. "I am only too glad to come and help when any one is ill; but I don't like coming upon a fool's errand." The doctor walked out into the road, looking very stern and leaving the gardener's wife in tears, but he turned to Vane with a smile before they had gone far. "Then you don't think it was the fungi, uncle?" said the lad, eagerly. "Yes, I do, boy, the produce of something connected with yeast fungi; not your chanterelles." Vane felt as if a load had been lifted off his conscience. "Very tiresome, too," said the doctor, "for I wanted to have a chat with Bruff to-day about that greenhouse flue. He says it is quite useless, for the smoke and sulphur get out into the house and kill the plants. Now then, sir, you are such a genius at inventing, why can't you contrive the way to heat the greenhouse without causing me so much expense in the way of fuel, eh? I mean the idea you talked about before. I told Mr Syme it was to be done." Vane was not ready with an answer to that question, and he set himself to think it out, just as they encountered the gipsy vans again, and the two lads driving the lame pony, at the sight of which the doctor frowned, and muttered something about the police, while the lads favoured Vane with a peculiar look. CHAPTER NINE. HOW TO HEAT THE GREENHOUSE. "Vane, my boy, you are like my old friend Deering," said the doctor one morning. "Am I, uncle?" said the lad. "I'll have a good look at him if ever I see him." The doctor laughed. "I mean he is one of those men who are always trying to invent something fresh; he is a perfect boon to the patent agents." Vane looked puzzled. "You don't understand the allusion?" "No, uncle, I suppose it's something to do with my being fond of--" "Riding hobbies," said the doctor. "Oh, I don't want to ride hobbies, uncle," said Vane, in rather an ill-used tone. "I only like to be doing things that seem as if they would be useful." "And quite right, too, my dear," said Aunt Hannah, "only I do wish you wouldn't make quite such a mess as you do sometimes." "Yes, it's quite right, mess or no mess," said the doctor pleasantly. "I'm glad to see you busy over something or another, even if it does not always answer. Better than wasting your time or getting into mischief." "But they always would answer, uncle," said Vane, rubbing one ear in a vexed fashion--"that is, if I could get them quite right." "Ah, yes, if you could get them quite right. Well, what about the greenhouse? You know I was telling the parson the other day about your plans about the kitchen-boiler and hot-water." Vane looked for a moment as if he had received too severe a check to care to renew the subject on which he had been talking; but his uncle looked so pleasant and tolerant of his plans that the boy fired up. "Well, it was like this, uncle: you say it is a great nuisance for any one to have to go out and see to the fire on wet, cold, dark nights." "So it is, boy. Any one will grant that." "Yes, uncle, and that's what I want to prevent." "Well, how?" "Stop a moment," said Vane. "I've been thinking about this a good deal more since you said you must send for the bricklayer." "Well, well," said the doctor, "let's hear." "I expect you'll laugh at me," said Vane; "but I've been trying somehow to get to the bottom of it all." "Of course; that's the right way," said the doctor; and Aunt Hannah gave an approving nod. "Well," said Vane; "it seems to me that one fire ought to do all the work." "So it does, my boy," said the doctor; "but it's a devouring sort of monster and eats up a great deal of coal." "But I mean one fire ought to do for both the kitchen and the greenhouse, too." "What, would you have Martha's grate in among the flowers, and let her roast and fry there? That wouldn't do." "No, no, uncle. Let the greenhouse be heated with hot-water pipes." "Well?" "And connect them, as I said before, with the kitchen-boiler." "As I told Syme," said the doctor. "No, no, no," cried Aunt Hannah, very decisively. "I'm quite sure that wouldn't do; and I'm certain that Martha would not approve of it." "Humph!" ejaculated the doctor. "I'm afraid our Martha does not approve of doing anything but what she likes. But that would not do, boy. I told Syme so, but he was hot over it--boiler-hot." "Well, then, let it be by means of a small boiler fitted somewhere at the side of the kitchen range, uncle; then the one fire will do everything; and, with the exception of a little cost at first, the greenhouse will always afterwards be heated for nothing." "Come, I like that idea," said the doctor, rubbing his nose. "There's something in that, eh, my dear? Sounds well." "Yes," said Aunt Hannah, "it sounds very well, but so do all Vane's plans; and, though I like to encourage him so long as he does not make too much mess, I must say that they seldom do anything else but sound." "Oh, aunt!" "Well, it's quite true, my dear, and you know it. I could name a dozen things." "No, no, don't name 'em, aunt," said Vane hurriedly. "I know I have made some mistakes; but then everyone does who tries to invent." "Then why not let things be as they are, my dear. I'm sure the old corkscrew was better to take out corks than the thing you made." "It would have been beautiful, aunt," cried Vane, "if--" "It hadn't broken so many bottles," said the doctor with a humorous look in his eyes. "It wouldn't have mattered if it had been aunt's cowslip wine, but it always chose my best port and sherry." "And then there was that churn thing," continued Aunt Hannah. "Oh, come, aunt, that was a success." "What, a thing that sent all the cream flying out over Martha when she turned the handle! No, my dear, no." "But you will not see, aunt, that it was because the thing was not properly made." "Of course I do, my dear," said Aunt Hannah. "That's what I say." "No, no, aunt, I mean made by a regular manufacturer, with tight lids. That was only a home-made one for an experiment." "Yes, I know it was, my dear; and I recollect what a rage Martha was in with the thing. I believe that if I had insisted upon her going on using that thing, she would have left." "I wish you wouldn't keep on calling it a thing, aunt," said Vane, in an ill-used tone; "it was a patent churn." "Never mind, boy," said the doctor, "yours is the fate of all inventors. People want a deal of persuading to use new contrivances; they always prefer to stick to the old ones." "Well, my dear, and very reasonably, too," said Aunt Hannah. "You know I like to encourage Vane, but I cannot help thinking sometimes that he is too fond of useless schemes." "Not useless, aunt." "Well, then, schemes; and that it would be better if he kept more to his Latin and Greek and mathematics with Mr Syme, and joining the other pupils in their sports." "Oh, he works hard enough at his studies," said the doctor. "I'm very glad to hear you say so, my dear," said Aunt Hannah; "and as to the rather unkind remark you made about the churn--" "No, no, my dear, don't misunderstand me. I meant that people generally prefer to keep to the old-fashioned ways of doing things." "But, my dear," retorted Aunt Hannah, who had been put out that morning by rebellious acts on the part of Martha, "you are as bad as anyone. See how you threw away Vane's pen-holder that he invented, and in quite a passion, too. I did think there was something in that, for it is very tiresome to have to keep on dipping your pen in the ink when you have a long letter to write." "Oh, aunty, don't bring up that," said Vane, reproachfully. But it was too late. "Hang the thing!" cried the doctor, with a look of annoyance and perplexity on his countenance; "that was enough to put anyone out of temper. The idea was right enough, drawing the holder up full like a syringe, but then you couldn't use it for fear of pressing it by accident, and squirting the ink all over your paper, or on to your clothes. 'Member my new shepherd's-plaid trousers, Vane?" "Yes, uncle; it was very unfortunate. You didn't quite know how to manage the holder. It wanted studying." "Studying, boy! Who's going to learn to study a pen-holder. Goose-quill's good enough for me. They don't want study." Vane rubbed his ear, and looked furtively from one to the other, as Aunt Hannah rose, and put away her work. "No, my dear," she said, rather decisively; "I'm quite sure that Martha would never approve of anyone meddling with her kitchen-boiler." She left the room, and Vane sat staring at his uncle, who returned his gaze with droll perplexity in his eyes. "Aunt doesn't take to it, boy," said the doctor. "No, uncle, and I had worked it out so thoroughly on paper," cried Vane. "I'm sure it would have been a great success. You see you couldn't do it anywhere, but you could here, because our greenhouse is all against the kitchen wall. You know how well that rose grows because it feels the heat from the fireplace through the bricks?" "Got your plans--sketches--papers?" said the doctor. "Yes, uncle," cried the boy, eagerly, taking some sheets of note-paper from his breast. "You can see it all here. This is where the pipe would come out of the top of the boiler, and run all round three sides of the house, and go back again and into the boiler, down at the bottom." "And would that be enough to heat the greenhouse?" "Plenty, uncle. I've worked it all out, and got a circular from London, and I can tell you exactly all it will cost--except the bricklayers' work, and that can't be much." "Can't it?" cried the doctor, laughing. "Let me tell you it just can be a very great deal. I know it of old. There's a game some people are very fond of playing at, Vane. It's called bricks and mortar. Don't you ever play at it much; it costs a good deal of money." "Oh, but this couldn't cost above a pound or two." "Humph! No. Not so much as building a new flue, of course. But, look here: how about cold, frosty nights? The kitchen-fire goes out when Martha is off to bed." "It does now, uncle," said the lad; "but it mustn't when we want to heat the hot-water pipes." "But that would mean keeping up the fire all night." "Well, you would do that if you had a stove and flue, uncle." "Humph, yes." "And, in this case, the fire on cold winters' nights would be indoors, and help to warm the house." "So it would," said the doctor, who went on examining the papers very thoughtfully. "The pipes would be nicer and neater, too, than the brick flue, uncle." "True, boy," said the doctor, still examining the plans very attentively. "But, look here. Are you pretty sure that this hot-water would run all along the pipes?" "Quite, uncle, and I did so hope you would let me do it, if only to show old Bruff that he does not know everything." "But you don't expect me to put my hand in my pocket and pay pounds on purpose to gratify your vanity, boy--not really?" said the doctor. "No, uncle," cried Vane; "it's only because I want to succeed." "Ah, well, I'll think it over," said the doctor; and with that promise the boy had to rest satisfied. CHAPTER TEN. VANE'S WORKSHOP. But Vane went at once to the kitchen with the intention of making some business-like measurements of the opening about the range, and to see where a boiler could best be placed. A glance within was sufficient. Martha was busy about the very spot; and Vane turned back, making up his mind to defer his visit till midnight, when the place would be solitary, and the fire out. There was the greenhouse, though; and, fetching a rule, he went in there, and began measuring the walls once more, to arrive at the exact length of piping required, when he became conscious of a shadow cast from the open door; and, looking up, there stood Bruff, with a grin upon his face--a look so provocative that Vane turned upon him fiercely. "Well, what are you laughing at?" he cried. "You, Mester." "Why?" "I was thinking as you ought to hev been a bricklayer or carpenter, sir, instead of a scollard, and going up to rectory. Measuring for that there noo-fangle notion of yours?" "Yes, I am," cried Vane; "and what then?" "Oh, nowt, sir, nowt, only it wean't do. Only throwing away money." "How do you know, Bruff?" "How do I know, sir? Why, arn't I been a gardener ever since I was born amost, seeing as my father and granfa' was gardeners afore me. You tak' my advice, sir, as one as knows. There's only two ways o' heating places, and one's wi' a proper fireplace an' a flue, and t'other's varmentin wi' hot manner." "Varmentin with hot manner, as you call it. Why, don't they heat the vineries at Tremby Court with hot-water?" "I've heered you say so, sir, but I niver see it. Tak' my advice, sir, and don't you meddle with things as you don't understand. Remember them taters?" "Oh, yes, I remember the potatoes, Bruff; and I daresay, if the truth was known, you cut all the eyes out, instead of leaving the strongest, as I told you." "I don't want no one to teach me my trade," said the man, sulkily; and he shuffled away, leaving Vane wondering why he took so much trouble, only to meet with rebuffs from nearly everyone. "I might just as well be fishing, or playing cricket, or lying on my back in the sun, like old Distin does. Nobody seems to understand me." He was standing just inside the door, moodily tapping the side-post with the rule, when he was startled by a step on the gravel, and, looking up sharply, he found himself face to face with a little, keen, dark, well-dressed man, who had entered the gate, seen him standing in the greenhouse, and walked across the lawn, whose mossy grass had silenced his footsteps till he reached the path. "Morning," he said. "Doctor at home?" "Yes," replied Vane, looking at the stranger searchingly, and wondering whether he was a visitor whom his uncle would be glad to see. The stranger was looking searchingly at him, and he spoke at once:-- "You are the nephew, I suppose?" Vane looked at him wonderingly. "Yes, I thought so. Father and mother dead, and the doctor bringing you up. Lucky fellow! Here, what does this mean?" and he pointed to the rule. "I was measuring," said Vane, colouring. "Ah! Thought you were to be a clergyman or a doctor. Going to be a carpenter?" "No," replied Vane sharply, and feeling full of resentment at being questioned so by a stranger. "I was measuring the walls." "What for?" said the stranger, stepping into the greenhouse and making the lad draw back. "Well, if you must know, sir--" "No, I see. Old flue worn-out;--measuring for a new one." Vane shook his head, and, in spite of himself, began to speak out freely, the stranger seeming to draw him. "No; I was thinking of hot-water pipes." "Good! Modern and better. Always go in for improvements. Use large ones." "Do you understand heating with hot-water, sir?" "A little," said the stranger, smiling. "Where are you going to make your furnace?" "I wasn't going to make one." "Going to do it with cold hot-water then?" said the stranger, smiling again. "No, of course not. The kitchen-fireplace is through there," said Vane, pointing with his rule, "and I want to put a boiler in, so that the one fire will answer both purposes." "Good! Excellent!" said the stranger sharply. "Your own idea?" "Yes, sir." "Do it, then, as soon as you can--before the winter. Now take me in to your uncle." Vane looked at him again, and now with quite a friendly feeling for the man who could sympathise with his plans. He led the stranger to the front door, and was about to ask him his name, when the doctor came out of his little study. "Ah, Deering," he said quietly, "how are you? Who'd have thought of seeing you." "Not you, I suppose," said the visitor quietly. "I was at Lincoln on business, and thought I would come round your way as I went back to town." "Glad to see you, man: come in. Vane, lad, find your aunt, and tell her Mr Deering is here." "Can't see that I'm much like him," said Vane to himself, as he went in search of his aunt, and saw her coming downstairs. "Here's Mr Deering, aunt," he said, "and uncle wants you." "Oh, dear me!" cried Aunt Hannah, looking troubled, and beginning to arrange her collar and cuffs. "Why did uncle say that I was like Mr Deering, aunt?" whispered Vane. "I'm not a bit. He's dark and I'm fair." "He meant like him in his ways, my dear: always dreaming about new inventions, and making fortunes out of nothing. I do hope your uncle will not listen to any of his wild ideas." This description of the visitor excited Vane's curiosity. One who approved of his plans respecting the heating of the greenhouse was worthy of respect, and Vane was in no way dissatisfied to hear that Mr Deering was quite ready to accept the doctor's hospitality for a day or two. That afternoon, as Aunt Hannah did not show the least disposition to leave the doctor and his guest alone, the latter rose and looked at Vane. "I should like a walk," he said. "Suppose you take me round the garden, squire." Vane followed him out eagerly; and as soon as they were in the garden, the visitor said quickly:-- "Got a workshop?" Vane flushed a little. "Only a bit of a shed," he said. "It was meant to be a cow-house, but uncle lets me have it to amuse myself in." "Show it to me," said the visitor. "Wouldn't you rather come round the grounds to have a look at uncle's fruit?" said Vane hurriedly. "No. Why do you want to keep me out of your den?" "Well, it's so untidy." "Workshops generally are. Some other reason." "I have such a lot of failures," said Vane hurriedly. "Blunders and mistakes, I suppose, in things you have tried to make?" "Yes." "Show me." Vane would far rather have led their visitor in another direction, but there was a masterful decided way about him that was not to be denied, and the lad led him into the large shed which had been floored with boards and lined, so as to turn it into quite a respectable workshop, in which were, beside a great heavy deal table in the centre, a carpenter's bench, and a turning lathe, while nails were knocked in everywhere, shelves ran from end to end, and the place presented to the eye about as strange a confusion of odds and ends as could have been seen out of a museum. Vane looked at the visitor as he threw open the door, expecting to hear a derisive burst of laughter, but he stepped in quietly enough, and began to take up and handle the various objects which took his attention, making remarks the while. "You should not leave your tools lying about like this: the edges get dulled, and sometimes they grow rusty. Haven't you a tool-chest?" "There is uncle's old one," said Vane. "Exactly. Then, why don't you keep them in the drawers?--Humph! Galvanic battery!" "Yes; it was uncle's." "And he gives it to you to play with, eh?" Vane coloured again. "I was trying to perform some experiments with it." "Oh, I see. Well, it's a very good one; take care of it. Little chemistry, too, eh?" "Yes: uncle shows me sometimes how to perform experiments." "But he does not show you how to be neat and orderly." "Oh, this is only a place to amuse oneself in!" said Vane. "Exactly, but you can get ten times the amusement out of a shop where everything is in its place and there's a place for everything. Now, suppose I wanted to perform some simple experiment, say, to show what convection is, with water, retort and spirit lamp?" "Convection?" said Vane, thoughtfully, as if he were searching in his mind for the meaning of a word he had forgotten. "Yes," said the visitor, smiling. "Surely you know what convection is." "I've forgotten," said Vane, shaking his head. "I knew once." "Then you have not forgotten. You've got it somewhere packed away. Head's untidy, perhaps, as your laboratory." "I know," cried Vane--"convection: it has to do with water expanding and rising when it is hot and descending when it is cold." "Of course it has," said the visitor, laughing, "why you were lecturing me just now on the art of heating greenhouses by hot-water circulating through pipes; well, what makes it circulate?" "The heat." "Of course, by the law of convection." Vane rubbed one ear. "You had not thought of that?" "No." "Ah, well, you will not forget it again. But, as I was saying--suppose I wanted to try and perform a simple experiment to prove, on a small scale, that the pipes you are designing would heat. I cannot see the things I want, and I'll be bound to say you have them somewhere here." "Oh, yes: I've got them all somewhere." "Exactly. Take my advice, then, and be a little orderly. I don't mean be a slave to order. You understand?" "Oh, yes," said Vane, annoyed, but at the same time pleased, for he felt that the visitor's remarks were just. "Humph! You have rather an inventive turn then, eh?" "Oh, no," cried Vane, disclaiming so grand a term, "I only try to make a few things here sometimes on wet days." "Pretty often, seemingly," said the visitor, peering here and there. "Silk-winding, collecting. What's this? Trying to make a steam engine?" "No, not exactly an engine; but I thought that perhaps I might make a little machine that would turn a wheel." "And supply you with motive-power. Well, I will tell you at once that it would not." "Why not?" said Vane, with a little more confidence, as he grew used to his companion's abrupt ways. "Because you have gone the wrong way to work, groping along in the dark. I'll be bound to say," he continued, as he stood turning over the rough, clumsy contrivance upon which he had seized--a bit of mechanism which had cost the boy a good many of his shillings, and the blacksmith much time in filing and fitting in an extremely rough way--"that Newcomen and Watt and the other worthies of the steam engine's early days hit upon exactly the same ideas. It is curious how men in different places, when trying to contrive some special thing, all start working in the same groove." "Then you think that is all stupid and waste of time, sir?" "I did not say so. By no means. The bit of mechanism is of no use-- never can be, but it shows me that you have the kind of brain that ought to fit you for an engineer, and the time you have spent over this has all been education. It will teach you one big lesson, my lad. When you try to invent anything again, no matter how simple, don't begin at the very beginning, but seek out what has already been done, and begin where others have left off--making use of what is good in their work as a foundation for yours." "Yes, I see now," said Vane. "I shall not forget that." Their visitor laughed. "Then you will be a very exceptional fellow, Vane Lee. But, there, I hope you will not forget. Humph!" he continued, looking round, "You have a capital lot of material here: machinery and toys. No, I will not call them toys, because these playthings are often the parents of very useful machines. What's that--balloon?" "An attempt at one," replied Vane. "Oh, then, you have been trying to solve the flying problem." "Yes," cried Vane excitedly; "have you?" "Yes, I have had my season of thought over it, my lad; and I cannot help thinking that it will some day be mastered or discovered by accident." Vane's lips parted, and he rested his elbows on the workbench, placed his chin in his hands, and gazed excitedly in his companion's face. "And how do you think it will be done?" "Ah, that's a difficult question to answer, boy. There is the problem to solve. All I say is, that if we have mastered the water and can contrive a machine that will swim like a fish--" "But we have not," said Vane. "Indeed! Then what do you call an Atlantic liner, with the propeller in its tail?" "But that swims on the top of the water." "Of course it does, because the people on board require air to breathe. Otherwise it could be made to swim beneath the water as a fish does, and at twenty miles an hour." "Yes: I did not think of that." "Well, as we have conquered the water to that extent, I do not see why we should not master the air." "We can rise in balloons." "Yes, but the balloon is clumsy and unmanageable. It will not do." "What then, sir?" "That's it, my boy, what then? It is easy to contrive a piece of mechanism with fans that will rise in the air, but when tried on a large scale, to be of any real service, I'm afraid it would fail." "Then why not something to fly like a bird or a bat?" said Vane eagerly. "No; the power required to move the great flapping wings would be too weighty for it; and, besides, I always feel that there is a something in a bird or bat which enables it to make itself, bulk for bulk, the same weight as the atmosphere." "But that seems impossible," said Vane. "Seems, but it may not be so. Fifty years ago the man would have been laughed at who talked about sending a message to Australia and getting the answer back the same day, but we do not think much of it now. We would have thought of the Arabian Nights, and magicians, if a man had spoken to some one miles away, then listened to his tiny whisper answering back; but these telephonic communications are getting to be common business matters now. Why, Vane, when I was a little boy photography or light-writing was only being thought of: now people buy accurate likenesses of celebrities at a penny a piece on barrows in London streets." Vane nodded. "To go back to the flying," continued his companion, "I have thought and dreamed over it a great deal, but without result. I am satisfied, though, of one thing, and it is this, that some birds possess the power of gliding about in the air merely by the exercise of their will. I have watched great gulls floating along after a steamer at sea, by merely keeping their wings extended. At times they would give a slight flap or two, but not enough to affect their progress--it has appeared to me more to preserve their balance. And, again, in one of the great Alpine passes, I have watched the Swiss eagle--the Lammergeyer--rise from low down and begin sailing round and round, hardly beating with his wings, but always rising higher and higher in a vast spiral, till he was above the mountain-tops which walled in the sides of the valley. Then I have seen him sail right away. There is something more in nature connected with flight, which we have not yet discovered. I will not say that we never shall, for science is making mighty strides. There," he added, merrily, "end of the lecture. Let's go out in the open air." Vane sighed. "I came from London, my boy, where all the air seems to be second-hand. Out here on this slope of the wolds, the breeze gives one life and strength. Take me for a walk, out in the woods, say, it will do me good, and make me forget the worries and cares of life." "Are you inventing something?" Mr Deering gave the lad a sharp look, and nodded his head. "May I ask what, sir?" "No, my boy, you may not," said Mr Deering, sadly. "Perhaps I am going straightway on the road to disappointment and failure; but I must go on now. Some day you will hear. Now take me where I can breathe. Oh, you happy young dog!" he cried merrily. "What a thing it is to be a boy!" "Is it?" said Vane, quietly. "Yes, it is. And you, sir, think to yourself, like the blind young mole you are, what a great thing it is to be a man. There, come out into the open air, and let's look at nature; I get very weary sometimes of art." Vane looked wonderingly at his new friend and did not feel so warmly toward him as he had a short time before, but this passed off when they were in the garden, where he admired the doctor's fruit, waxed eloquent over the apples and pears, and ate one of the former with as much enjoyment as a boy. He was as merry as could be, too, and full of remarks as the doctor's Jersey cow and French poultry were inspected, but at his best in the woods amongst the gnarled old oaks and great beeches, seeming never disposed to tire. That night Mr Deering had a very long consultation with the doctor; and Vane noted that his aunt looked very serious indeed, but she said nothing till after breakfast the next morning, when their visitor had left them for town, and evidently in the highest spirits. "Let that boy go on with his whims, doctor," he said aloud, in Vane's hearing. "He had better waste a little money in cranks and eccentrics than in toffee and hard-bake. Good-bye." And he was gone as suddenly, so it seemed to Vane, as he had come. It was then that Vane heard his aunt say: "Well, my dear, I hope it is for the best. It will be a very serious thing for us if it should go wrong." "Very," said the doctor drily; and Vane wondered what it might be. CHAPTER ELEVEN. OILING THE CLOCK. The plan of the town of Mavis Greythorpe was very simple, being one long street with houses on either side, placed just as the builders pleased. Churchwarden Rounds' long thatched place stood many yards back, which was convenient, for he liked to grow roses that his neighbours could see and admire. Crumps the cowkeeper's, too, stood some distance back, but that was handy, for there was room for the cowshed and the dairy close to the path. Dredge, the butcher, had his open shop, too--a separate building from the house at the back--close to the path, where customers could see the mortal remains of one sheep a week, sometimes two, and in the cold weather a pig, and a half or third of a "beast," otherwise a small bullock, the other portions being retained by neighbouring butchers at towns miles away, where the animal had been slain. But at fair time and Christmas, Butcher, or, as he pronounced it, Buttcher Dredge, to use his own words, "killed hissen" and a whole bullock was on exhibition in his open shop. The houses named give a fair idea of the way in which architecture was arranged for in Mavis; every man who raised a house planted it where it seemed good in his own eyes; and as in most cases wayfarers stepped down out of the main street into the front rooms, the popular way of building seemed to have been that the builder dug a hole and then put a house in it. Among those houses which were flush with the main street was that of Michael Chakes, clerk and sexton, who was also the principal shoemaker of Mavis, and his place of business was a low, open-windowed room with bench and seat, where, when not officially engaged, he sat at work, surrounded by the implements and products of his trade, every now and then opening his mouth and making a noise after repeating a couple of lines, under the impression that he was singing. Upon that point opinions differed. Vane Lee wanted a piece of leather, and as there was nothing at home that he could cut up, saving one of the doctor's Wellington boots, which were nearly new, he put on his cap, thrust his hands in his pockets, and set off for the town street, as eagerly as if his success in life depended upon his obtaining that piece of leather instanter. The place was perfectly empty as he reached the south end, the shops looked nearly the same, save that at Grader the baker's there were four covered glasses, containing some tasteless looking biscuits full of holes; a great many flies, hungry and eager to get out, walking in all directions over the panes; and on the lowest shelf Grader's big tom-cat, enjoying a good sleep in the sun. Vane did not want any of those biscuits, but just then he caught sight of Distin crossing the churchyard, and to avoid him he popped in at the baker's, to be saluted by a buzz from the flies, and a slow movement on the part of the cat who rose, raised his back into a high arch, yawned and stretched, and then walked on to the counter, and rubbed his head against Vane's buttons, as the latter thrust his hands into his pocket for a coin, and tapped on the counter loudly once, then twice, then the third time, but there was no response, for the simple reason that Mrs Grader had gone to talk to a neighbour, and John Grader, having risen at three to bake his bread, and having delivered it after breakfast, was taking a nap. "Oh, what a sleepy lot they are here!" muttered Vane, as he went to the door which, as there was no sign of Distin now, and he did not want any biscuits, he passed, and hurried along the street to where Michael Chakes sat in his open window, tapping away slowly at the heavy sole of a big boot which he was ornamenting with rows of hob-nails. Vane stepped in at once, and the sexton looked up, nodded, and went on nailing again. "Oughtn't to put the nails so close, Mike." "Nay, that's the way to put in nails, Mester Vane!" said the sexton. "But if they were open they'd keep a man from slipping in wet and frost." "Don't want to keep man from slipping, want to make 'em weer." "Oh, all right; have it your own way. Here, I want a nice strong new bit of leather, about six inches long." "What for?" "Never you mind what for, get up and sell me a bit." "Nay, I can't leave my work to get no leather to-day, Mester. Soon as I've putt in these here four nails, I'm gooing over to belfry." "What for? Some one dead?" "Nay, not they. Folk weant die a bit now, Mester Vane. I dunno whether it's Parson Syme's sarmints or what, but seems to me as if they think it's whole dooty a man to live to hundred and then not die." "Nonsense, cut me my bit of leather, and let me go." "Nay, sir, I can't stop to coot no leather to-day. I tellee I'm gooin' to church." "But what for?" "Clock's stopped." "Eh! Has it?" cried Vane eagerly. "What's the matter with it?" "I d'know sir. Somethin' wrong in its inside, I spect. I'm gooing to see." "Forgotten to wind it up, Mike." "Nay, that I arn't, sir. Wound her up tight enew." "Then that's it. Wound up too tight, perhaps." "Nay, she's been wound up just the same as I've wound her these five-and-twenty year, just as father used to. She's wrong inside." "Goes stiff. Wants a little oil. Bring some in a bottle with a feather and I'll soon put it right." The sexton pointed with his hammer to the chimney-piece where a small phial bottle was standing, and Vane took it up at once, and began turning a white fowl's feather round to stir up the oil. "You mean to come, then?" said the sexton. "Of course. I'm fond of machinery," cried Vane. "Ay, you be," said the sexton, tapping away at the nails, "and you'd like to tak' that owd clock all to pieces, I know." "I should," cried Vane with his eyes sparkling. "Shall I?" "What?" cried the sexton, with his hammer raised. "Why, you'd never get it put together again." "Tchah! that I could. I would somehow," added the lad. "Ay somehow; but what's the good o' that! Suppose she wouldn't goo when you'd putt her together somehow. What then?" "Why, she won't go now," cried Vane, "so what harm would it do?" "Well, I don't know about that," said the sexton, driving in the last nail, and pausing to admire the iron-decorated sole. "Now, then, cut my piece of leather," cried Vane. "Nay, I can't stop to coot no pieces o' leather," said the sexton. "Church clock's more consekens than all the bits o' leather in a tanner's yard. I'm gooing over yonder now." "Oh, very well," said Vane, as the man rose, untied his leathern apron, and put on a very ancient coat, "it will do when we come back." "Mean to go wi' me, then?" "Of course I do." The sexton chuckled, took his hat from behind the door, and stepped out on to the cobble-stone pathway, after taking the oil bottle and a bunch of big keys from a nail. The street looked as deserted as if the place were uninhabited, and not a soul was passed as they went up to the church gate at the west end of the ancient edifice, which had stood with its great square stone fortified tower, dominating from a knoll the tiny town for five hundred years--ever since the days when it was built to act as a stronghold to which the Mavis Greythorpites could flee if assaulted by enemies, and shoot arrows from the narrow windows and hurl stones from the battlements. Or, if these were not sufficient, and the enemy proved to be very enterprising indeed, so much so as to try and batter in the hugely-thick iron-studded belfry-door, why there were those pleasant openings called by architects machicolations, just over the entrance, from which ladlesful of newly molten lead could be scattered upon their heads. Michael Chakes knew the bunch of keys by heart, but he always went through the same ceremony--that of examining them all four, and blowing in the tubes, as if they were panpipes, keeping the one he wanted to the last. "Oh, do make haste, Mike," cried the boy. "You are so slow." "Slow and sewer's my motter, Mester Vane," grunted the sexton, as he slowly inserted the key. "Don't you hurry no man's beast; you may hev an ass of your own some day." "If I do I'll make him go faster than you do. I say, though, Mike, do you think it's true about those old bits of leather?" As he spoke, Vane pointed to a couple of scraps of black-looking, curl-edged hide, fastened with broad headed nails to the belfry-door. "True!" cried the sexton, turning his grim, lined, and not over-clean face to gaze in the frank-looking handsome countenance beside him. "True! Think o' that now, and you going up to rectory every day, to do your larning along with the other young gents, to Mester Syme. Well, that beats all." "What's that got to do with it?" cried Vane, as the sexton ceased from turning the key in the door, and laid one hand on the scraps of hide. "Got to do wi' it, lad? Well I am! And to call them leather." "Well, so they are leather," said Vane. "And do you mean to say, standing theer with the turn-stones all around you as you think anything bout t'owd church arn't true?" "No, but I don't think it's true about those bits of leather." "Leather, indeed!" cried the sexton. "I'm surprised at you, Mester Vane--that I am. Them arn't leather but all that's left o' the skins o' the Swedums and Danes as they took off 'em and nailed up on church door to keep off the rest o' the robbin', murderin' and firin' wretches as come up river in their ships and then walked the rest o' the way across the mash?" "Oh, but it might be a bit of horse skin." "Nay, nay, don't you go backslidin' and thinking such a thing as that, mester. Why, theer was a party o' larned gentlemen come one day all t'way fro' Lincoln, and looked at it through little tallerscope things, and me standing close by all the time to see as they didn't steal nowt, for them sort's terruble folk for knocking bits off wi' hammers as they carries in their pockets and spreadin' bits o' calico over t' brasses, and rubbin' 'em wi' heel balls same as I uses for edges of soles; and first one and then another of 'em says--`Human.' That's what they says. Ay, lad, that's true enough, and been here to this day." "Ah, well, open the door, Mike, and let's go in. I don't believe people would have been such wretches as to skin a man, even if he was a Dane, and then nail the skin up there. But if they did, it wouldn't have lasted." The sexton shook his head very solemnly and turned the great key, the rusty lock-bolt shooting back reluctantly, and the door turning slowly on its hinges, which gave forth a dismal creak. "Here, let's give them a drop of oil," cried Vane; but the sexton held the bottle behind him. "Nay, nay," he said; "they're all right enew. Let 'em be, lad." "How silent it seems without the old clock ticking," said Vane, looking up at the groined roof where, in place of bosses to ornament the handsome old ceiling of the belfry, there were circular holes intended to pour more lead and arrows upon besiegers, in case they made their way through the door, farther progress being through a narrow lancet archway and up an extremely small stone spiral staircase toward which Vane stepped, but the sexton checked him. "Nay, Mester, I go first," he said. "Look sharp then." But the only thing sharp about the sexton were his awls and cutting knives, and he took an unconscionably long time to ascend to the floor above them where an opening in the staircase admitted them to a square chamber, lighted by four narrow lancet windows, and into which hung down from the ceiling, and through as many holes, eight ropes, portions of which were covered with worsted to soften them to the ringers' hands. Vane made a rush for the rope of the tenor bell, but the sexton uttered a cry of horror. "Nay, nay, lad," he said, as soon as he got his breath, "don't pull: 'twould make 'em think there's a fire." "Oh, all right," said Vane, leaving the rope. "Nay, promise as you weant touch 'em, or I weant go no further." "I promise," cried Vane merrily. "Now, then, up you go to the clock." The sexton looked relieved, and went to a broad cupboard at one side of the chamber, opened it, and there before them was the great pendulum of the old clock hanging straight down, and upon its being started swinging, it did so, but with no answering _tic-tac_. "Where are the weights, Mike?" cried Vane, thrusting in his head, and looking up. "Oh, I see them." "Ay, you can see 'em, lad, wound right up. There, let's go and see." The sexton led the way up to the next floor, but here they were stopped by a door, which was slowly opened after he had played his tune upon the key pipes. "Oh I say, Mike, what a horrible old bore you are," cried the boy, impatiently. "Then thou shouldstna hev coom, lad," said the sexton as they stood now in a chamber through which the bell ropes passed and away up through eight more holes in the next ceiling, while right in the middle stood the skeleton works of the great clock, with all its wheels and escapements open to the boy's eager gaze, as he noted everything, from the portion which went out horizontally through the wall to turn the hands on the clock's face, to the part where the pendulum hung, and on either side the two great weights which set the machine in motion, and ruled the striking of the hours. The clock was screwed down to a frame-work of oaken beams, and looked, in spite of its great age and accumulation of dust, in the best of condition, and, to the sexton's horror, Vane forgot all about the eight big bells overhead, and the roof of the tower, from which there was a magnificent view over the wolds, and stripped off his jacket. "What are you going to do, lad?" cried the sexton. "See what's the matter. Why the clock won't go." "Nay, nay, thou must na touch it, lad. Why, it's more than my plaace is worth to let anny one else touch that theer clock." "Oh, nonsense! Here, give me the oil." Vane snatched the bottle, and while the sexton looked on, trembling at the sacrilege, as it seemed to him, the lad busily oiled every bearing that he could reach, and used the oil so liberally that at last there was not a drop left, and he ceased his task with a sigh. "There, Mike, she'll go now," he cried. "Can't say I've done any harm." "Nay, I wean't say that you hev, mester, for I've been standing ready to stop you if you did." Vane laughed. "Now, then, start the pendulum," he said; "and then put the hands right." He went to the side to start the swinging regulator himself but the sexton again stopped him. "Nay," he said; "that's my job, lad;" and very slowly and cautiously he set the bob in motion. "There, I told you so," cried Vane; "only wanted a drop of oil." For the pendulum swung _tic_--_tac_--_tic_--_tac_ with beautiful regularity. Then, as they listened it went _tic_--_tic_. Then _tic_ two or three times over, and there was no more sound. "Didn't start it hard enough, Mike," cried Vane; and this time, to the sexton's horror, he gave the pendulum a good swing, the regular _tic_--_tac_ followed, grew feeble, stopped, and there was an outburst as if of uncanny laughter from overhead, so real that it was hard to think that it was only a flock of jackdaws just settled on the battlements of the tower. "Oh, come, I'm not going to be beaten like this," cried Vane, "I know I can put the old clock right." "Nay, nay, not you," said the sexton firmly. "But I took our kitchen clock to pieces, and put it together again; and now it goes splendidly--only it doesn't strike right." "Mebbe," said the sexton, "but this arn't a kitchen clock. Nay, Master Vane, the man 'll hev to come fro Lincun to doctor she." "But let me just--" "Nay, nay, you don't touch her again." The man was so firm that Vane had to give way and descend, forgetting all about the piece of leather he wanted, and parting from the sexton at the door as the key was turned, and then walking back home, to go at once to his workshop and sit down to think. There was plenty for him to do--any number of mechanical contrivances to go on with, notably the one intended to move a boat without oars, sails, or steam, but they were not church clocks, and for the time being nothing interested him but the old clock whose hands were pointing absurdly as to the correct time. All at once a thought struck Vane, and he jumped up, thrust a pair of pliers, a little screw-wrench and a pair of pincers into his pockets and went out again. CHAPTER TWELVE. THOSE TWO WHEELS. As Vane walked along the road the tools in his pocket rattled, and they set him thinking about Mr Deering, and how serious he had made his uncle look for a few days. Then about all their visitor had said about flying, and that set him wondering whether it would be possible to contrive something which might easily be tested. "I could go up on to the leads of the tower, step off and float down into the churchyard." Vane suddenly burst out laughing. "Why, if I had said that yonder," he thought, "old Macey would tell me that it would be just in the right place, for I should be sure to break my neck." Then he began thinking about Bruff the gardener, for he passed his cottage; and about his coming to work the next day after being ill, and never saying another word about the chanterelles. Directly after his thoughts turned in another direction, for he came upon the two gipsy lads, seated under the hedge, with their legs in the ditch, proof positive that the people of their tribe were somewhere not very far away. The lads stared at him very hard, and Vane stared back at them, thinking what a curious life it seemed--for two big strong boys to be always hanging about, doing nothing but drive a few miserable worn-out horses from fair to fair. Just as he was abreast of the lads, one whispered something to the other, but what it was Vane could not understand, for it sounded mere gibberish. Then the other replied, without moving his head, and Vane passed on. "I don't believe it's a regular language they talk," he said to himself. "Only a lot of slang words they've made up. What do they call it? Rum--Rum--Romany, that is it. Well, it doesn't sound Roman-like to me." About a hundred yards on he looked back, to see that the two gipsy lads were in eager converse, and one was gesticulating so fiercely, that it looked like quarrelling. But Vane had something else to think about, and he went on, holding the tools inside his pockets, to keep them from clicking together as he turned up toward the rectory, just catching sight of the gipsy lads again, now out in the road and slouching along toward the town. "Wonder whether Mr Symes is at home again," thought Vane, but he did not expect that he would be, as it was his hour for being from the rectory, perhaps having a drive, so that he felt pretty easy about him. But he kept a sharp look-out for Gilmore and the others. "Hardly likely for them to be in," he thought; and then he felt annoyed with himself because his visit seemed furtive and deceptive. As a rule, he walked up to the front of the house, feeling quite at home, and as if he were one of its inmates, whereas now there was the feeling upon him that he had no business to go upon his present mission, and that the first person he met would ask him what right he had to come sneaking up there with tools in his pockets. For a moment he thought he would go back, but he mastered that, and went on, only to hesitate once more, feeling sure that he had heard faintly the rector's peculiar clearing of his voice--"Hah-errum!" His active brain immediately raised up the portly figure of his tutor before him, raising his eyebrows, and questioning him about why he was there; but these thoughts were chased away directly after, as he came to an opening in the trees, through which he could look right away to where the river went winding along through the meadows, edged with pollard willows, and there, quite half-a-mile away, he could see a solitary figure standing close to the stream. "That's old Macey," muttered Vane, "fishing for perch in his favourite hole." Feeling pretty certain that the others would not be far away, he stood peering about till he caught sight of another figure away to his right. "Gilmore surely," he muttered; and then his eyes wandered again till they lighted upon a figure seated at the foot of a tree close by the one he had settled to be Gilmore. "Old Distie," said Vane, with a laugh. "What an idle fellow he is. Never happy unless he is sitting or lying down somewhere. I suppose it's from coming out of a hot country, where people do lie about a great deal." "That's all right," he thought, "they will not bother me, and I needn't mind, for it's pretty good proof that the rector is out." Feeling fresh confidence at this, but, at the same time, horribly annoyed with himself because of the shrinking feeling which troubled him, he went straight up the path to the porch and rang. Joseph, the rector's footman, came hurrying into the hall, pulling down the sides of his coat, and looked surprised and injured on seeing that it was only one of "Master's pupils." "I only wanted the keys of the church, Joe," said Vane, carelessly. "There they hang, sir," replied the man, pointing to a niche in the porch. "Yes, I know, but I didn't like to take them without speaking," said Vane; and the next minute he was on his way to the churchyard through the rectory garden, hugging the duplicate keys in his pocket, and satisfied that he could reach the belfry-door without being seen by the sexton. It was easy enough to get there unseen. Whether he could open the door unheard was another thing. There was no examining each key in turn, and no whistling in the pipes, but the right one chosen at once and thrust in. "_Tah_!" came from overhead loudly; and Vane started back, when quite a chorus arose, and the flock of jackdaws flew away, as if rejoicing at mocking one who was bent upon a clandestine visit to the church. "How stupid!" muttered Vane; but he gave a sharp glance round to see if he were observed before turning the key, and throwing open the door. "Why didn't he let me oil it?" he muttered, for the noise seemed to be twice as loud now, and after dragging out the key the noise was louder still, he thought, as he thrust to the door, and locked it on the inside. Then, as he withdrew the key again, he hesitated and stood listening. Everything look strange and dim, and he felt half disposed to draw back, but laughing to himself at his want of firmness, he ran up the winding stairs again, as fast as the worn stones would let him, passed the ringers' chamber, and went on up to the locked door, which creaked dismally, as he threw it open. The next moment he was by the clock. But he did not pause here. Drawing back into the winding staircase he ascended to where the bells hung, and had a good look at the one with the hammer by it--that on which the clock struck the hours--noted how green it was with verdigris, and then hurried down to the clock-chamber, took out his tools, pulled off his jacket and set to work. For there was this peculiarity about the doctor's nephew--that he gave the whole of his mind and energies to any mechanical task which took his fancy, and, consequently, there was neither mind nor energy left to bestow upon collateral circumstances. Another boy would have had a thought for the consequences of what he was attempting--whether it was right for him to meddle, whether the rector would approve. Vane had not even the vestige of a thought on such matters. He could only see wheels and pinions taken out after the removal of certain screws, cleaned, oiled, put back, and the old clock pointing correctly to the time of day and, striking decently and in order, as a church clock should. Pincers, pliers and screw-driver were laid on the floor and the screw-wrench was applied here and there, after which a cloth or rag was required to wipe the different wheels, and pivots; but unfortunately nothing of the kind was at hand, so a clean pocket-handkerchief was utilised, not to its advantage--and the work went on. Vane's face was a study as he used his penknife to scrape and pare off hardened oil, which clogged the various bearings; and as some pieces of the clock, iron or brass, was restored to its proper condition of brightness, the lad smiled and looked triumphant. Time went on, though that clock stood still, and all at once, as he set down a wheel and began wishing that he had some one to help him remove the weights, it suddenly dawned upon him that it was getting towards sunset, that he had forgotten all about his dinner, and that if he wanted any tea, he must rapidly replace the wheels he had taken out, and screw the frame-work back which he had removed. He had been working at the striking part of the clock, and he set to at once building up again, shaking his head the while at the parts he had not cleaned, having been unable to remove them on account of the line coiled round a drum and attached to a striking weight. "A clockmaker would have had that weight off first thing, I suppose," he said to himself, as he toiled away. "I'll get Aleck to come and help me to-morrow and do it properly, while I'm about it." "It's easy enough," he said half-aloud at the end of an hour. "I believe I could make a clock in time if I tried. There you are," he muttered as he turned the final screw that he had removed. "Hullo, what a mess I'm in!" He looked at his black and oily hands, and began thinking of soap and soda with hot-water as he rose from his knees after gathering up his tools, and then he stopped staring before him at a ledge beneath the back of the clock face. "Why, I forgot them," he said, taking from where they lay a couple of small cogged wheels which he had cleaned very carefully, and put on one side early in his task. "Where do they belong to?" he muttered, as he looked from them to the clock and back again. There seemed to be nothing missing: every part fitted together, but it was plain enough that these two wheels had been left out, and that to find out where they belonged and put them back meant a serious task gone over again. "Well, you two will have to wait," said the boy at last. "It doesn't so much matter as I'm going to take the clock to pieces again, but all the same, I don't like missing them." He hesitated for a few moments, as to what he should do with the wheels, and ended by reaching in and laying them just beneath the works on one of the squared pieces of oak to which the clock was screwed. Ten minutes later he was at the rectory porch, where he hung up the keys just inside the hall, and then trotted home with his hands in his pockets to hide their colour. He was obliged to show them in the kitchen though, where he went to beg a jug of hot-water and some soda. "Why, where have you been, sir?" cried Martha; "and the dinner kept waiting a whole hour, and orders from your aunt to broil chicken for your tea, as if there wasn't enough to do, and some soda? I haven't got any." "But you've got some, cookie," said Vane. "Not a bit, if you speak to me in that disrespectful way, sir. My name's Martha, if you please. Well, there's a bit, but how a young gentleman can go on as you do making his hands like a sweep's I don't know, and if I was your aunt I'd--" Vane did not hear what, for he had hurried away with the hot-water and soda, the odour of the kitchen having had a maddening effect upon him, and set him thinking ravenously of the dinner he had missed and the grilled chicken to come. But there was no reproof for him when, clean and decent once more, he sought the dining-room. Aunt Hannah shook her head, but smiled as she made the tea, and kissed him as he went to her side. "Why, Vane, my dear, you must be starving," she whispered. But his uncle was deep in thought over some horticultural problem and did not seem to have missed him. He roused up, though, over the evening meal, while Vane was trying to hide his nails, which in spite of all his efforts looked exceedingly black and like a smith's. It was the appetising odour of the grilled chicken that roused the doctor most, for after sipping his tea and partaking of one piece of toast he gave a very loud sniff and began to look round the table. Vane's plate and the dish before him at once took his attention. "Meat tea?" he said smiling pleasantly. "Dear me! and I was under the impression that we had had dinner just as usual. Come, Vane, my boy, don't be greedy. Remember your aunt; and I'll take a little of that. It smells very good." "But, my dear, you had your dinner, and Vane was not there," cried Aunt Hannah. "Oh! bless my heart, yes," said the doctor. "Really I had quite forgotten all about it." "Hold your plate, uncle," cried Vane. "Oh, no, thank you, my boy. It was all a mistake, I was thinking about the greenhouse, my dear, you know that the old flue is worn-out, and really something must be done to heat it." "Oh, never mind that," said Aunt Hannah, but Vane pricked up his ears. "But I must mind it, my dear," said the doctor. "It does not matter now, but the cold weather will come, and it would be a pity to have the choice plants destroyed." "I think it is not worth the trouble," said Aunt Hannah. "See how tiresome it is for someone to be obliged to come to see to that fire late on cold winter nights." "There can be no pleasure enjoyed, my dear, without some trouble," said the doctor. "It is tiresome, I know, all that stoking and poking when the glass is below freezing point, and once more, I say I wish there could be some contrivance for heating the greenhouse without farther trouble." Vane pricked up his ears again, and for a few moments his uncle's words seemed about to take root; but those wheels rolled into his mind directly after, and he was wondering where they could belong to, and how it was that he had not missed them when he put the others back. Then the grilled chicken interfered with his power of thinking, and the greenhouse quite passed away. The evenings at the Little Manor House were very quiet, as a rule. The doctor sat and thought, or read medical or horticultural papers; Aunt Hannah sat and knitted or embroidered and kept looking up to nod at Vane in an encouraging way as he was busy over his classics or mathematics, getting ready for reading with the rector next day; and the big cat blinked at the fire from the hearthrug. But, on this particular night, Vane hurried through the paper he had to prepare for the next day, and fetched out of the book-cases two or three works which gave a little information on horology, and he was soon deep in toothed-wheels, crown-wheels, pinions, ratchets, pallets, escapements, free, detached, anchor, and half-dead. Then he read on about racks, and snails; weights, pendulums, bobs, and compensations. Reading all this was not only interesting, but gave the idea that taking a clock to pieces and putting it together again was remarkably easy; but there was no explanation about those missing wheels. Bedtime at last, and Vane had another scrub with the nail-brush at his hands before lying down. It was a lovely night, nearly full-moon, and the room looked so light after the candle was out that Vane gave it the credit of keeping him awake. For, try how he would, he could not get to sleep. Now he was on his right side, but the pillow grew hot and had to be turned; now on his left, with the pillow turned back. Too many clothes, and the counterpane stripped back. Not enough: his uncle always said that warmth was conducive to sleep, and the counterpane pulled up. But no sleep. "Oh, how wakeful I do feel!" muttered the boy impatiently, as he tossed from side to side. "Is it the chicken?" No; it was not the chicken, but the church clock, and those two wheels, which kept on going round and round in his mind without cessation. He tried to think of something else: his studies, Greek, Latin, the mathematical problems upon which he was engaged; but, no: ratchets and pinions, toothed-wheels, free and detached, pendulums and weights, had it all their own way, and at last he jumped out of bed, opened the window and stood there, looking out, and cooling his heated, weary head for a time. "Now I can sleep," he said to himself, triumphantly, as he returned to his bed; but he was wrong, and a quarter of an hour after he was at the washstand, pouring himself out a glass of water, which he drank. That did have some effect, for at last he dropped off into a fitful unrefreshing sleep, to be mentally borne at once into the chamber of the big stone tower, with the clockwork tumbled about in heaps all round him; and he vainly trying to catch the toothed-wheels, which kept running round and round, while the clock began to strike. Vane started up in bed, for the dream seemed real--the clock was striking. No: that was not a clock striking, but one of the bells, tolling rapidly in the middle of the night. For a moment the lad thought he was asleep, but the next he had sprung out of bed and run to the window to thrust out his head and listen. It was unmistakable: the big bell was going as he had never heard it before--not being rung, but as if someone had hold of the clapper and were beating it against the side--_Dang, dang, dang, dang_--stroke following stroke rapidly; and, half-confused by the sleep from which he had been awakened, Vane was trying to make out what it meant, when faintly, but plainly heard on the still night air, came that most startling of cries-- "Fire! Fire! Fire!" The Weathercock--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A DISTURBED NIGHT. Just as Vane shivered at the cry, and ran to hurry on some clothes, there was the shape of the door clearly made out in lines of light, and directly after a sharp tapping. "Vane, my boy, asleep?" "No, uncle; dressing." "You heard the bell, then. I'm afraid it means fire." "Yes, fire, fire! I heard them calling." "I can't see anything, can you?" "No, uncle, but I shall be dressed directly, and will go and find out where it is?" "O hey! Master Vane!" came from the outside. "Fire!" It was the gardener's voice, and the lad ran to the window. "Yes, I heard. Where is it?" "Don't know yet, sir. Think it's the rectory." "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" came from Vane's door. "Hi, Vane, lad, I'll dress as quickly as I can. You run on and see if you can help. Whatever you do, try and save the rector's books." Vane grunted and went on dressing, finding everything wrong in the dark, and taking twice as long as usual to get into his clothes. As he dressed, he kept on going to the window to look out, but not to obtain any information, for the gardener had run back at a steady trot, his steps sounding clearly on the hard road, while the bell kept up its incessant clamour, the blows of the clapper following one another rapidly as ever, and with the greatest of regularity. But thrust his head out as far as he would, there was no glare visible, as there had been the year before when the haystack was either set on fire or ignited spontaneously from being built up too wet. Then the whole of the western sky was illumined by the flames, and patches of burning hay rose in great flakes high in air, and were swept away by the breeze. "Dressed, uncle. Going down," cried Vane, as he walked into the passage. "Shan't be five minutes, my boy." "Take care, Vane, dear," came in smothered and suggestive tones. "Don't go too near the fire." "All right, aunt," shouted the boy, as he ran downstairs, and, catching up his cap, unfastened the front door, stepped out, ran down the path, darted out from the gate, and began to run toward where the alarm bell was being rung. It was no great distance, but, in spite of his speed, it seemed to be long that night; and, as Vane ran, looking eagerly the while for the glow from the fire, he came to the conclusion that the brilliancy of the moon was sufficient to render it invisible, and that perhaps the blaze was yet only small. "Hi! Who's that?" cried a voice, whose owner was invisible in the shadow cast by a clump of trees. "I--Vane Lee. Is the rectory on fire, Distin?" "I've just come out of it, and didn't see any flames," said the youth contemptuously. "Here, hi! Distie!" came from the side-road leading to the rectory grounds. "Wait for us. Who's that? Oh, you, Vane. What's the matter?" "I don't know," replied Vane. "I jumped out of bed when I heard the alarm bell." "So did we, and here's Aleck got his trousers on wrong way first." "I haven't," shouted Macey; "but that's my hat you've got." As he spoke, he snatched the hat Gilmore was wearing, and tossed the one he held toward his companion. "Are you fellows coming?" said Distin, coldly. "Of course we are," cried Macey. "Come on, lads; let's go and help them get out the town squirt." They started for the main street at a trot, and Vane panted out:-- "I'll lay a wager that the engine's locked up, and that they can't find the keys." "And when they do, the old pump won't move," cried Gilmore. "And the hose will be all burst," cried Macey. "I thought we were going to help," said Distin, coldly. "If you fellows chatter so, you'll have no breath left." By this time they were among the houses, nearly everyone of which showed a light at the upper window. "Here's Bruff," cried Vane, running up to a group of men, four of whom were carrying poles with iron hooks at the end--implements bearing a striking family resemblance to the pole drags said to be "kept in constant readiness," by wharves, bridges, and docks. "What have you got there, gardener?" shouted Gilmore. "Hooks, sir, to tear off the burning thack." "But where is the burning thatch?" cried Vane. "I dunno, sir," said the gardener. "I arn't even smelt fire yet." "Have they got the engine out?" "No, sir. They arn't got the keys yet. Well, did you make him hear?" continued Bruff, as half-a-dozen men came trotting down the street. "Nay, we can't wacken him nohow." "What, Chakes?" cried Vane. "Ay; we've been after the keys." "But he must be up at the church," said Vane. "It's he who is ringing the bell." "Nay, he arn't theer," chorused several. "We went theer first, and doors is locked." By this time there was quite a little crowd in the street, whose components were, for the most part, asking each other where the fire was; and, to add to the confusion, several had brought their dogs, some of which barked at the incessant ringing of the big bell, while three took part in a quarrel, possibly induced by ill-temper consequent upon their having been roused from their beds. "Then he must have locked himself in," cried Vane. "Not he," said Distin. "Go and knock him up; he's asleep still." "Well," said Bruff, with a chuckle, as he stood his hook pole on end, "owd Mike Chakes can sleep a bit, I know; but if he can do it through all this ting dang, he bets me." "Come and see," cried Vane, making for the church-tower. "No; come and rout him out of bed," cried Distin. Just then a portly figure approached, and the rector's smooth, quick voice was heard asking:-- "Where is the fire, my men?" "That's what we can't none on us mak' out, Parson," said a voice. "Hey! Here's Mester Rounds; he's chutch-waarden; he'll know." "Nay, I don't know," cried the owner of the name; "I've on'y just got out o' bed. Who's that pullin' the big bell at that rate?" "We think it's saxton," cried a voice. "Yes, of course. He has locked himself in." "Silence!" cried the rector; and, as the buzz of voices ceased, he continued, "Has anyone noticed a fire?" "Nay, nay, nay," came from all directions. "But at a distance--at either of the farms?" "Nay, they're all right, parson," said the churchwarden. "We could see if they was alight. Hi! theer! How'd hard!" he roared, with both hands to his mouth. "Don't pull the bell down." For the clangour continued at the same rate,--_Dang, dang dang, dang_. "Owd Mikey Chakes has gone mad, I think," said a voice. "Follow me to the church," said the rector; and, leading the way with his pupils, the rector marched the little crowd up the street, amidst a buzz of voices, many of which came from bedroom windows, now all wide-open, and with the occupants of the chambers gazing out, and shouting questions to neighbours where the fire might be. A few moments' pause was made at the sexton's door, but all was silent there, and no response came to repeated knocks. "He must be at the church, of course," said the rector; and in a few minutes all were gathered at the west door, which was tried, and, as before said, found to be fastened. "Call, somebody with a loud voice." "We did come and shout, sir, and kicked at the door." "Call again," said the rector. "The bell makes so much clamour the ringer cannot hear. Hah! he has stopped." For, as he spoke, the strokes on the bell grew slower, and suddenly ceased. A shout was raised, a curious cry, composed of "Mike"--"Chakes!"--"Shunk" and other familiar appellations. "Hush, hush!" cried the rector. "One of you--Mr Rounds, will you have the goodness to summon the sexton." "Hey! hey! Sax'on!" shouted the miller in a voice of thunder; and he supplemented his summons by kicking loudly at the door. "Excuse me, Mr Rounds," said the rector; "the call will suffice." "But it don't suffice, Parson," said the bluff churchwarden. "Hi, Chakes, man, coom down an' open doooor!" "Straange and queer," said the butcher. "Theer arn't nobody, or they'd say summat." There was another shout. "Plaace arn't harnted, is it?" said a voice from the little crowd. "Will somebody have the goodness to go for my set of the church keys," said the rector with dignity. "You? Thank you, Mr Macey. You know where they hang." Macey went off at a quick pace; and, to fill up the time, the rector knocked with the top of his stick. By this time the doctor had joined the group. "It seems very strange," he said. "The sexton must have gone up himself, nobody else had keys." "And there appears to be nothing to cause him to raise an alarm," said the rector. "Surely the man has not been walking in his sleep." "Tchah!" cried the churchwarden; "not he, sir. Wean't hardly walk a dozen steps, even when he's awake. Why, hallo! what now?" "Here he is! Here he is!" came excitedly from the crowd, as the sexton walked deliberately up with a lantern in one hand, a bunch of keys in the other. "Mr Chakes," said the rector sternly, "what is the meaning of this?" "Dunno, sir. I come to see," replied the sexton. "I thowt I heerd bell tolling, and I got up and as there seems to be some'at the matter I comed." "Then, you did not go into the belfry to ring the alarm," cried the doctor. "Nay, I ben abed and asleep till the noise wackened me." "It is very strange," said the rector. "Ah, here is Mr Macey. Have the goodness to open the door; and, Mr Rounds, will you keep watch over the windows to see if any one escapes. This must be some trick." As the door was opened the rector turned to his pupils. "Surely, young gentlemen," he said in a whisper, "you have not been guilty of any prank." They all indignantly disclaimed participation, and the rector led the way into the great silent tower, where he paused. "I'm afraid I must leave the search to younger men," he said. "That winding staircase will be too much for me." Previously all had hung back out of respect to the rector, but at this a rush was made for the belfry, the rectory pupils leading, and quite a crowd filling the chamber where the ropes hung perfectly still. "Nobody here, sir," shouted Distin, down the staircase. "Dear me!" exclaimed the rector; who was standing at the foot, almost alone, save that he had the companionship of the doctor and that they were in close proximity to the churchwarden and the watchers outside the door. "Go up higher. Perhaps he is hiding by the clock or among the bells." This necessitated Chakes going up first, and unlocking the clock-chamber door, while others went higher to see if any one was hidden among the bells or on the roof. "I know'd there couldn't be no one in here," said Chakes solemnly, as he held up his lantern, and peered about, and round the works of the clock. "How did you know?" said Distin suspiciously. "That's how," replied the sexton, holding up his keys. "No one couldn't get oop here, wi'out my key or parson's." This was received with a solemn murmur, and after communications had been sent to and fro between the rector and Distin, up and down the spiral staircase, which made an excellent speaking-tube, the rector called to everyone to come back. He was obeyed, Chakes desiring the pupils to stay with him while he did the locking up; and as he saw a look exchanged between Macey and Gilmore, he raised his keys to his lips, and blew down the pipes. "Here, hallo!" cried Gilmore, "where's the show and the big drum? He's going to give us Punch and Judy." "Nay, sir, nay, I always blows the doost out. You thought I wanted you to stay because--Nay, I arn't scarred. On'y thought I might want someone to howd lantern." He locked the clock-chamber door, and they descended to the belfry, where several of the people were standing, three having hold of the ropes. "Nay, nay, you mustn't pull they," shouted Chakes. "Bell's been ringing 'nuff to-night. Latt 'em be." "Why, we never looked in those big cupboards," cried Macey suddenly, pointing to the doors behind which the weights hung, and the pendulum, when the clock was going, swung to and fro. "Nay, there's nowt," said the sexton, opening and throwing back the door to show the motionless ropes and pendulum. Vane had moved close up with the others, and he stood there in silence as the doors were closed again, and then they descended to join the group below, the churchwarden now coming to the broad arched door. "Well?" he cried; "caught 'em?" "There's no one there," came chorused back. "Then we must all hev dreamed we heard bell swing," said the churchwarden. "Let's all goo back to bed." "It is very mysterious," said the rector. "Very strange," said the doctor. "The ringing was of so unusual a character, too." "Owd place is harnted," said a deep voice from the crowd, the speaker having covered his mouth with his hand, so as to disguise his voice. "Shame!" said the rector sternly. "I did not think I had a parishioner who could give utterance to such absurd sentiments." "Then what made bell ring?" cried another voice. "I do not know yet," said the rector, gravely; "but there must have been some good and sufficient reason." "Perhaps one of the bells was left sticking up," said Macey--a remark which evoked a roar of laughter. "It is nearly two o'clock, my good friends," said the rector, quietly; "and we are doing no good discussing this little puzzle. Leave it till daylight, and let us all return home to our beds. Chakes, have the goodness to lock the door. Good-night, gentlemen. Doctor, you are coming my way; young gentlemen, please." He marched off with the doctor, followed by his four pupils, till Distin increased his pace a little, and contrived to get so near that the doctor half turned and hesitated for Distin to come level. "Perhaps you can explain it, my young friend," he said; and Distin joined in the conversation. Meanwhile Gilmore and Macey were talking volubly, while Vane seemed to be listening. "It's all gammon about haunting and ghosts and goblins," said Gilmore. "Chaps who wrote story-books invented all that kind of stuff, same as they did about knights in full armour throwing their arms round beautiful young ladies, and bounding on to their chargers and galloping off." "Oh, come, that's true enough," said Macey. "What!" cried Gilmore, "do you mean to tell me that you believe a fellow dressed in an ironmonger's shop, and with a big pot on his head, and a girl on his arm, could leap on a horse?" "Yes, if he was excited," cried Macey. "He couldn't do it, without the girl." "But they did do it." "No, they didn't. It's impossible. If you want the truth, read some of the proper accounts about the armour they used to wear. Why, it was so heavy that--" "Yes, it was heavy," said Macey, musingly. "Yes, so heavy, that when they galloped at each other with big clothes-prop things, and one of 'em was knocked off his horse, and lay flat on the ground, he couldn't get up again without his squires to help him." "You never read that." "Well, no, but Vane Lee did. He told me all about it. I suppose, then, you're ready to believe that the church-tower's haunted?" "I don't say that," said Macey, "but it does seem very strange." "Oh, yes, of course it does," said Gilmore mockingly. "Depend upon it there was a tiny chap with a cloth cap, ending in a point sitting up on the timbers among the bells with a big hammer in his hands, and he was pounding away at the bell till he saw us coming, and then off he went, hammer and all." "I didn't say I believed that," said Macey; "but I do say it's very strange." "Well, good-night, Syme," said the doctor, who had halted at the turning leading up to the rectory front door. "It is very curious, but I can't help thinking that it was all a prank played by some of the town lads to annoy the sexton. Well, Vane, my boy, ready for bed once more?" Vane started out of a musing fit and said good-night to his tutor and fellow-pupils to walk back with his uncle. "I can't puzzle it out, Vane. I can't puzzle it out," the doctor said, and the nephew shivered, for fear that the old gentleman should turn upon him suddenly and say, "Can you?" But no such question was asked, for the doctor began to talk about different little mysteries which he had met with in his career, all of which had had matter-of-fact explanations that came in time, and then they reached the house, to find a light in the breakfast-room, where Aunt Hannah was dressed, and had prepared some coffee for them. "Oh, I have been so anxious," she cried. "Whose place is burned?" "No one's," said the doctor, cheerily; and then he related their experience. "I'm very thankful it's no worse," said Aunt Hannah. "Some scamps of boys must have had a string tied to the bell, I suppose." Poor old lady, she seemed to think of the great tenor bell in the old tower as if it were something which could easily be swung by hand. They did not sit long; and, ill at ease, and asking himself whether he was going to turn into a disingenuous cowardly cur, Vane gladly sought his chamber once more to sit down on the edge of his bed, and ponder over his day's experience. "It must have been through leaving out those two wheels," he muttered, "that made something go off, and start the weight running down as fast as it could. I must speak about it first thing to-morrow morning, or the people will think the place is full of ghosts. Yes, I'll tell uncle in the morning and he can do what he likes." On coming to this resolve Vane undressed and slipped into bed once more, laid his head on the pillow, and composed himself to sleep; but no sleep came, and with his face burning he glided out of bed again, put on a few things, and then stole out of his bedroom into the passage, where he stood hesitating for a few minutes. "No," he muttered as he drew a deep breath, "I will not be such a coward;" and, creeping along the passage, he tapped softly on the next bedroom door. "Eh? Yes. Someone ill?" cried the doctor. "Down directly." "No, no, uncle, don't get up," cried Vane hoarsely. "I only wanted to tell you something." "Tell me something? Well, what is it?" "I wanted to say that I had been trying to clean the church clock this afternoon, and I left out two of the wheels." "What!" roared the doctor. "Hang it all, boy, I think nature must have left out two of your wheels." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. MACEY IN DIFFICULTIES. "Well, no," said the doctor emphatically, after hearing Vane's confession at breakfast next morning. "No harm was done, so I think we will make it a private affair between us, Vane, for the rector would look upon it as high treason if he knew." "I'll go and tell him if you say I am to, uncle." "Then I do not say you are to, boy. By the way, do your school-fellows--I beg their pardons--your fellow-pupils know?" "I have only told you and aunt, sir." "Ah, well, let it rest with us, and I daresay the clockmaker will have his own theory about how the two wheels happened to be missing from the works of the clock. Only don't you go meddling with things which do not belong to your department in future or you may get into very serious trouble indeed." The doctor gave his nephew a short sharp nod which meant dismissal, and Vane went off into the conservatory to think about his improvement of the heating apparatus. But the excitement of the previous night and the short rest he had had interfered with his powers of thought, and the greenhouse was soon left for the laboratory, and that place for the rectory, toward which Vane moved with a peculiarly guilty feeling. He wished now that the doctor had given him leave to speak out, for then he felt that he could have gone more comfortably to the study, instead of taking his seat imagining that the rector suspected him, or that he had been told that his pupil had been seen going into the church-tower with Chakes, and afterwards alone. "He can't help knowing," Vane said to himself, as he neared the grounds; "and I shall have to confess after all." But he did not, for on reaching the rectory Joseph met him with the announcement that master was so unwell that he had decided not to get up. "Then there will be no study this morning, Joseph?" "No, sir, not a bit, and the young gents have gone off--rabbiting, I think." "Which way?" "Sowner's woods, sir. I think if you was to look sharp you'd ketch 'em up." Vane felt quite disposed to "look sharp," and overtake the others, one reason being that he hoped to find Distin more disposed to become friendly again, for he argued it was so stupid for them, working together at the same table, to be separated and to carry on a kind of feud. It was about a couple of miles to Sowner's wood, and with the intention of taking all the short cuts, and getting there in less than half an hour, Vane hurried on, feeling the soft sweet breeze upon his cheeks and revelling in the joy of being young, well and hearty. The drowsy sensations he had felt at breakfast were rapidly passing off, and his spirits rose as he now hoped that there would be no trouble about his escapade with the clock, as he had done the right thing in explaining matters to the doctor. It was a glorious morning, with the country round looking lovely in the warm mellow light of early autumn, and, gaze which way he would, some scene of beauty met his eye. His course was along the main road for some distance, after which he would have to turn down one of the many narrow lanes of that part of the country--lanes which only led from one farm to another, and for the most part nearly impassable in winter from the scarcity of hard material for repairing the deep furrows made by the waggon-wheels. But these lanes were none the less beautiful with their narrow borders of grass in the place of paths, each cut across at intervals, to act as a drain to the road, though it was seldom that they did their duty and freed the place from the pools left by the rain. The old Romans, when they made roads, generally drew them straight. The Lincolnshire farmers made them by zigzagging along the edge of a man's land, so that there was no cause for surprise to Vane when after going along some distance beneath the overhanging oak trees he came suddenly upon his old friends the gipsies once more, with the miserable horses grazing, the van and cart drawn up close to the hedge, and the women cooking at their wood fire as of old. They saluted him with a quiet nod, and as Vane went on, he was cognisant of the fact that they were watching him; but he would not look back till he had gone some distance. When he did the little camp was out of sight, but the two gipsy lads were standing behind as if following him. As soon as they saw that they were observed, they became deeply intent upon the blackberries and haws upon the hedges, picking away with great eagerness, but following again as Vane went on. "I suppose they think I'm going rabbiting or fishing, and hope to get a job," thought Vane. "Well, they'll be disappointed, but they must find it out for themselves." He was getting hot now, for the sun came down ardently, and there was no wind down in the deeply-cut lane, but he did not check his pace for he was nearing Sowner's woods now, and eager to find out the object which had brought his three fellow-pupils there. "What are they after?" he said. "Distin wouldn't stoop to go blackberrying or nutting. He doesn't care for botany. Rabbiting! I'll be bound to say they've got a gun and are going to have a day at them. "Well, I don't mind," he concluded after a pause, "but I don't believe old Distin would ever hit a rabbit if he tried, and--" He stopped short, for, on turning a corner where the lane formed two sides of a square field, he saw that the two great hulking lads were slouching along after him still, and had lessened the distance between them considerably. Vane's musings had been cut short off and turned into another track. "Well," he said, "perhaps they may have a chance to hunt out wounded rabbits, or find dead ones, and so earn sixpence a piece." Then, as he hurried on, taking off his hat now to wipe his steaming brow, he began to wonder who had given the pupils leave for a day's rabbit-shooting, and came to the conclusion at last that Churchwarden Rounds, who had some land out in this direction had obtained permission for them. "Don't matter," he said; "perhaps they're not after rabbits after all." Soon after the lane turned in another direction and, as he passed round the corner, thinking of what short cuts any one might make who did not mind forcing his way through or leaping hedges, he once more glanced back at the gipsy lads, and found that he was only being followed by one. "The other has given it up as a bad job," he said to himself, and then, "How much farther is it? and what a wild-goose chase I am coming. They may have gone in quite another direction, for Joseph couldn't be sure." Just then, though, an idea occurred to him--That he would easily find out where they were when they fired. "I wonder whose gun they have borrowed?" For, knowing that they owned none, he began to run over in his mind who would be the most ready to lend a gun in the expectation of getting half a crown for its use. "Gurner's got one, because he goes after the wild geese in the winter," thought Vane; "and Bruff has that big flint-lock with the pan lined with silver. He'd lend it to anybody for a shilling and be glad of it.-- Well, look at that! Why he must have made a regular short cut so as to get there. Why did he do that?" This thought was evoked by Vane suddenly catching sight of the second gipsy lad turned into the first. In other words, the one whom he supposed to have gone back, had gone on, and Vane found himself in that narrow lane with high banks and hedges on either side and with one of these great lawless lads in front, and the other behind. For the first time it now occurred to Vane that the place was very lonely, and that the nearest farm was quite a mile away, right beyond Sowner wood, whose trees now came in view, running up the slope of a great chalk down. "Whatever do they mean?" thought Vane, for the gipsy lad in front had suddenly stopped, turned round, and was coming toward him. "Why, he has a stick," said Vane to himself, and looking sharply round he saw that the other one also carried a stick. For a moment a feeling of dread ran through him, but it passed off on the instant, and he laughed at himself for a coward. "Pooh!" he said, "they want to beat for rabbits and that's why they have got their sticks." In spite of himself Vane Lee wondered why the lads had not been seen to carry sticks before; then, laughing to himself as he credited them with having had them tucked up somewhere under their clothes, he walked on boldly. "What nonsense!" he thought; "is it likely that those two fellows would be going to attack me!" But all the same their movements were very suggestive, for there was a furtive, peculiar action on the part of the one in front, who was evidently uneasy, and kept on looking behind him and to right and left, as if in search of danger or a way of escape, and in both a peculiar hesitancy that struck Vane at once. Under the circumstances, he too, had hard work to keep from looking about for a way of escape, should the lads mean mischief: but he did not, for fear that they should think him cowardly, and walked steadily on, with the result that the boy in front stopped short and then began slowly to retreat. "They are up to some game," thought Vane with his heart beginning to beat hard, and a curious feeling of excitement running through him as he thought of his chances against two strong lads armed with sticks if they did dare to attack him. But again he cast aside the thought as being too absurd, and strode boldly on. "These are not the days for footpads and highwaymen," he said to himself, and just then the lad in front gave vent to a peculiar whistle, made a rush up the bank on his left, looked sharply round, ducked down, whistled again, and disappeared. "I'd give something to know what game they call this," said Vane to himself, as he watched the spot where the lad had disappeared; and then he turned sharply round to question the one who was following him, but, to his astonishment, he found that the lane behind him was vacant. Vane paused for a few moments and then made a dash forward till he reached the trampled grass and ferns where the first boy had scrambled up the bank, climbed to the top, and stood looking round for him. But he was gone, and there was not much chance for anyone not gifted with the tracking power of an Indian to follow the fugitive through the rough tangle of scrub oak, ferns, brambles and gorse which spread away right to the borders of the wood. Just as he was standing on the highest part of the bank looking sharply round, he heard a shout. Then-- "Weathercock, ahoy! Coo-ee!" He looked in the direction, fully expecting to see Macey, whose voice he recognised, but for some minutes he was invisible. Then he saw the tall ferns moving, and directly after he caught sight of his fellow-pupil's round face, and then of his arms waving, as he literally waded through the thick growth. Vane gave an answering shout, and went to meet him, trying the while to arrive at a settlement of the gipsy lads' conduct, and feeling bound to come to the conclusion that they had meant mischief; but heard Macey coming, perhaps the others, for he argued that they could not be very far away. Vane laughed to himself, as he advanced slowly, for he knew the part he was in well enough, and it amused him as he fought his way on, to think of the struggles Macey, a London boy, was having to get through the tangle of briar and furze. For he had often spent an hour in the place with the doctor, collecting buckthorn and coral-moss, curious lichens, sphagnum, and the round, and long-leaved sundews, or butterwort: for all these plants abounded here, with the bramble and bracken. There were plenty of other bog plants, too, in the little pools and patches of water, while the dry, gravelly and sandy mounds here and there were well known to him as the habitat of the long-legged parasol mushrooms, whose edible qualities the doctor had taught him in their walks. "Poor old Macey!" he said, as he leaped over or parted the great thorny strands of the brambles laden with their luscious fruit which grew here in abundance, and then he stopped short and laughed, for a yell came from his fellow-pupil, who had also stopped. "Come on," cried Vane. "Can't! I'm caught by ten million thorns. Oh, I say, do come and help a fellow out." Vane backed a little way, and selecting an easier path, soon reached the spot where Macey was standing with his head and shoulders only visible. "Why didn't you pick your way?" he cried. "Couldn't," said Macey dolefully; "the thorns wouldn't let me. I say, do come." "All right," said Vane, confidently, but the task was none too easy, for Macey had floundered into the densest patch of thorny growth anywhere near, and the slightest movement meant a sharp prick from blackberry, rose, or furze. "Whatever made you try to cross this bit?" said Vane, who had taken out his knife to divide some of the strands. "I was trying to find the lane. Haven't seen one about anywhere, have you?" "Why, of course I have," said Vane, laughing at his friend's doleful plight. "It's close by." "I began to think somebody had taken it away. Oh! Ah! I say--do mind; you're tearing my flesh." "But I must cut you out. Now then, lift that leg and put your foot on this bramble." "It's all very fine to talk, but I shall be in rags when I do get out." "That's better: now the other. There, now, put your hand on my shoulder and give a jump." "I daren't." "Nonsense--why?" "I should leave half my toggery behind." "You wouldn't: come along. Take my hands." Macey took hold of his companion's hands, there was a bit of a struggle, and he stood bemoaning his injuries; which consisted of pricks and scratches, and a number of thorns buried deeply beneath his clothes. "Nice place this is," he said dolefully. "Lovely place for botanists," said Vane, merrily. "Then I'm thankful I'm not a botanist." "Where are the others?" asked Vane. "I don't know. Distin wanted to lie down in the shade as soon as we reached the edge of the wood, and Gil wouldn't leave him, out of civility." "Then you didn't come rabbit-shooting?" "Rabbit-grandmothering! We only came for a walk, and of course I didn't want to sit down and listen to Distin run down England and puff the West Indies, so I wandered off into the wood and lost myself." "What, there too?" "Yes, and spent my time thinking about you." "What! Because you wanted me to act as guide?" "No, I didn't: it was because I got into a part where the oak trees and fir trees were open, and there was plenty of grass. And there I kept on finding no end of toadstools such as you delight in devouring." "Ah!" exclaimed Vane eagerly. "Where was it?" "Oh, you couldn't find the place again. I couldn't, but there were such big ones; and what do you think I said?" "How should I know?" said Vane, trampling down the brambles, so as to make the way easier for his companion. "I said I wish the nasty pig was here, and he could feast for a month." "Thank you," said Vane. "I don't care. I can only pity ignorant people. But whereabouts did you leave Gil and Distin?" "I don't know, I tell you. Under an oak tree." "Yes, but which?" "Oh, somewhere. I had a pretty job to find my way out, and I didn't till I had picked out a great beech tree to sleep in to-night, and began thinking of collecting acorns for food." "Why didn't you shout?" "I did, till I was so hoarse I got down to a whisper. Oh, I say, why did you let that bit of furze fly back?" "Couldn't help it." "I'm getting sick of Greythorpe. No police to ask your way, no gas lamps, no cabs." "None at all. It's a glorious place, isn't it, Aleck?" "Well, I suppose it is when you know your way, and are not being pricked with thorns." "Ah, you're getting better," cried Vane. "What shall we do--go back alone, or try and find them?" "Go back, of course. I'm not going through all that again to-day to find old Distin, and hear him sneer about you. He's always going on. Says Syme has no business to have you at the rectory to mix with gentlemen." "Oh, he says that, does he?" "Yes, and I told him you were more of a gentleman than he was, and he gave me a back-handed crack over the mouth." "And what did you do--hit him back?" "Not with my fist. With my tongue. Called him a nigger. That hits him hardest, for he's always fancying people think there's black blood in his veins, though, of course, there isn't, and it wouldn't matter if there were, if he was a good fellow. Let's get on. Where's the lane?" "Just down there," said Vane; and they reached it directly after, but there were no signs of the gipsies, and Vane said nothing about them then, feeling that he must have been mistaken about their intentions, which could only have been to beg. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. TWO BUSY DAYS. It is curious to study the different things which please boys. Anything less likely to form a fortnight's amusement for a lad than the iron-pipes, crooks, bends, elbows, syphons and boiler delivered by waggon from the nearest railway, it would be hard to conceive. But to Vane they were a source of endless delight, and it thoroughly puzzled him to find Bruff, the gardener, muttering and grumbling about their weight. "It arn't gardener's work, sir, that's why I grumbled," said the man. "My work's flowers and vegetables and sech. I arn't used to such jobs as that." "Why, what difference does it make?" cried Vane. "A deal, sir. Don't seem respectful to a man whose dooty's flowers and vegetables and sech, to set him hauling and heaving a lot o' iron-pipes just got down for your pranks." "Well, of all the ungrateful, grumbling fellows!" cried Vane. "Isn't it to save you from coming up here on cold, frosty nights to stoke the fire?" "Nay, bud it wean't," said Bruff, with a grin. "Look here, Mester Vane, I've sin too many of your contraptions not to know better. You're going to have the greenhouse pulled all to pieces, and the wall half knocked down to try your bits o' tricks, and less than a month they'll all have to be pulled out again, and a plain, good, old English flue 'll have to be put up as ought to be done now." "You're a stubborn old stick-in-the-way, Bruff. Why, if you could have done as you liked, there would never have been any railway down here. Mind! don't break that. Cast-iron's brittle." "Brittle! It's everything as is bad, sir. But you're right, theere. Niver a bit o' railway would I hev hed. Coach and waggon was good enew for my feyther, and it was good enew for me." "Come along," said Vane; "let's get all in their places, as they'll be in the greenhouse." "Ay, we'll get 'em in, I suppose," grumbled the gardener, "bud you mark my words, Mester Vane; them water pipes 'll nivver get hot, and, when they do, they'll send out a nasty, pysonous steam as'll kill ivery plahnt in the greenhouse. Now, you see?" "Grumble away," said Vane; and Bruff did grumble. He found fault at being taken away from his work to help in Master Vane's whims, murmured at having to help move the boiler, and sat down afterwards, declaring that he had hurt his back, and could do no more that day; whereupon Vane, who was much concerned, was about to fetch the doctor, but Bruff suddenly felt a little better, and gradually came round. Matters had gone as far as this when voices were heard in the avenue, and Gilmore and Macey made their appearance. Vane's first movement was to run and get his jacket to put on; but he stopped himself, and stood fast. "I don't mind their seeing me," he muttered. But he did, and winced as the joking began, Gilmore taking a high tone, and asking Vane for an estimate for fitting up a vinery for him. Gilmore and Macey both saw that their jokes gave annoyance; and, to turn them off, offered to help, Macey immediately taking off his coat, hanging it over the greenhouse door, and seizing the end of a pipe to move it where it was not wanted. "Don't be jealous, Bruff," he cried, as he saw the gardener stare. "I'll leave a little bit of work for you to do." Bruff grinned and scratched his head. "Oh, if it comes to that, Mester Macey," he said, "you come here any time, and I'll give you some sensible work to do, diggin' or sweeping." "I say," whispered Vane, the next minute, when he had contrived to get Macey alone, "what made you take off your coat?" "So as to help." "No, it wasn't, or not alone for that. You were thinking about what Distin said about my not being fit to associate with gentlemen." Macey flushed a little, like a girl. "Nonsense!" he said. "Now, confess. The truth!" "Oh, I don't know. Well, perhaps. Here, come along, or we shan't get done to-day." They did not get done that day; in fact they had hardly begun when it was time to leave off; and though there was plenty of fun and joking and banging together of pieces of iron-pipe and noise which brought out the doctor to see, and Aunt Hannah in a state of nervousness to make sure that nobody was hurt, Vane did not enjoy his work, for he could not help glancing at his dirty hands, and asking himself whether Distin was not right. And at these times his fellow-pupil's fastidiously clean hands and unruffled, prim and dandified aspect came before him, making him feel resolved to be more particular as to the character of the hobbies he rode. At parting, when Gilmore and Macey were taking leave after a visit to Vane's room and a plenteous application of soap and nail-brushes, in spite of their declaration that they had had a jolly day, their leader-- their foreman of the works, as Gilmore called him--had quite made up his mind that he would let the bricklayer and blacksmith finish the job. In consequence of his resolve, he was up by six o'clock next morning when the men came, meaning to superintend, but he soon lapsed, and was as busy as either of them. Vane fully expected a severe encounter with Martha apropos of her kitchen-fire being left unlit, and the litter of brick and mortar rubbish made by the bricklayer; but to his surprise the cook did not come into the kitchen, and during breakfast Vane asked why this was. "Aunt's diplomancy," said the doctor, merrily. "No, no, my dear. Your uncle's," cried Aunt Hannah. "Ah, well, halves," cried the doctor. "Martha wanted a holiday to visit her friends, and she started last night for two days. Can you get the boiler set and all right for Mrs Bruff to clean up before Martha comes back?" "You must, my dear, really," cried Aunt Hannah. "You must." "Oh, very well, aunt, if the bricklayer will only work well, it shall be done." "Thank you, my dear, for really I should not dare to meet Martha if everything were not ready; and pray, pray, my dear, see that nothing is done to interfere with her kitchen-fire." The doctor laughed. Vane promised, and forgetful entirely of appearances he deputed his uncle to go to the rectory and excuse him for two days, and worked like a slave. The result was that not only was the boiler set in the wall behind the kitchen-fire, and all put perfectly straight before the next night, but the iron-pipes, elbows, and syphons were joined together with their india-rubber rings, and supported on brick piers, the smith having screwed in a couple of taps for turning off the communication in hot weather, and the fitting of the boiler; and pipes through the little iron cistern at the highest point completing the work. "Ought by rights, sir, to stand for a few days for the mortar to set," said the bricklayer on leaving; and this opinion being conveyed to Aunt Hannah, she undertook that Martha, should make shift in the back kitchen for a day or two--just as they had during her absence. "She will not like it, my dear," said Aunt Hannah, "but as there is no muddle to clean up, and all looks right, I don't mind making her do that." "Real tyrant of the household, Vane," said the doctor. "Don't you ever start housekeeping and have a cook." Everything had been finished in such excellent time, consequent upon certain bribery and corruption in the shape of half-crowns, that early in the evening, Vane, free from all workmanlike traces, was able to point triumphantly to the neat appearance of the job, and explain the working of the supply cistern, and of the stop-cocks between the boiler and the pipes to his aunt and uncle. "I thought there ought only to be one tap," said Vane; "but they both declared that there ought to be one to each pipe, so as to stop the circulation; and as it only cost a few shillings more I didn't stop the smith from putting it in." "Humph!" said the doctor as Vane turned first one and then the other tap on and off, "seems to work nice and easy." "And it does look very much neater than all those bricks," said Aunt Hannah. "But I must say one thing, my dear, though I don't like to damp your project, it does smell very nasty indeed." "Oh, aunt, dear," cried Vane merrily; "that's nothing: only the Brunswick black with which they have painted the pipes. That smell will all go off when it's hard and dry. That wants to dry slowly, too, so you'll be sure and tell Martha about not lighting the fire." "Oh, yes, my dear, I'll see to that." "Then now I shall go up to the rectory and tell them I'm coming to lessons in the morning, and--" he hesitated--"I think I shall give up doing rough jobs for the future." "Indeed," said the doctor with a humorous twinkle in his eye; "wouldn't you like to take the church clock to pieces, and clean it and set it going again?" Vane turned sharply on his uncle with an appealing look. "Now really, my dear, you shouldn't," cried Aunt Hannah. "Don't, don't, pray, set the boy thinking about doing any more such dirty work." "Dirty work? quite an artist's job. I only mentioned it because Mr Syme told me that a man would be over from Lincoln to-morrow to see to the clock. Quite time it was done." Vane hurried off to escape his uncle's banter, and was soon after in the lane leading up to the rectory, where, as luck had it, he saw Distin walking slowly on in front, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, he ran after him. "Evening," he cried. Distin turned his head slowly, and looked him coldly in the face. "I beg your pardon," he drawled, "were you speaking to me?" "Oh, hang it, Distie, yes," cried Vane. "What's the good of us two being out. Shake hands. I'm sorry if I said anything to offend you and hope you'll forgive me if there is anything to forgive." Distin stared at him haughtily. "Really," he said in rather a drawling manner, "I am at a loss to understand what you mean by addressing me like this, sir." "Oh, I say, Distie, don't take that queer tone to a fellow," cried Vane, who could not help feeling nettled. "Here, shake hands--there's a good fellow." He held out his own once more for the other to take, but Distin ignored it, and half turning away he said:-- "Have the goodness to address me next time when I have spoken to you. I came down here to read with Mr Syme, and I shall go on doing so, but I presume it is open to me to choose whom I please for my associates, and I shall select gentlemen." "Well," said Vane, shortly, "my father was a gentleman; and do you mean to insinuate that my uncle and aunt are not a gentleman and lady?" "I refuse to discuss matters with every working-class sort of boy I am forced to encounter," said Distin, haughtily. "Have the goodness to keep yourself to yourself, and to associate with people of your own class. Good-evening." "Have the goodness to associate with people of your own class!" said Vane, unconsciously repeating his fellow-pupil's words. "I don't like fighting, but, oh, how he did make my fingers itch to give him one good solid punch in the head." Vane stood looking at the retiring figure thoroughly nettled now. "Ugh!" he exclaimed, "what a nasty mean temper to have. It isn't manly. It's like a spiteful boarding-school girl. Well, I'm not going down on my knees to him. I can get on without Distin if he can get on without me. But it is so petty and mean to go on about one liking to do a bit of mechanical work. One can read classics and stick to one's mathematics all the same, and if I can't write a better paper than he can it's a queer thing." Vane turned to go back to the Little Manor, for, in spite of his defiant, careless way of treating Distin's words, he could not help feeling too much stung to care about continuing his journey to the rectory, for the feeling would come to the front that his fellow-pupil had some excuse for what he had said. "I suppose I did look like a blacksmith's or bricklayer's boy to-day," he said to himself. "But if I did, what business is it of his? There's nothing disgraceful in it, or uncle would soon stop me. And, besides, Gilmore and Macey don't seem to mind, and their families are far higher than Distin's. There: I don't care. I was going to give up all kind of work that dirties one's hands, but now I will not, just out of spite. Dirty work, indeed! I'll swear I never looked half so dirty over my carpentering and turning and scheming as I've seen him look after a game at football on a wet day." But all the same, the evening at the Little Manor seemed to be a very dull one; and when, quite late, the carrier's cart stopped at the gate, and cook got down, Vane felt no interest in knowing what she would say about the alterations in her kitchen, nor in knowing whether Aunt Hannah had spoken to her about not lighting the kitchen-fire. But he revived a little after his supper, and was eager to take a candle and go out of the hall-door and along the gravel-path, shading the light, on his way to the greenhouse, where he had a good quiet inspection of his work, and was delighted to find that the india-rubber joints hardly leaked in the least, and no more than would be cured by the swelling of the caoutchouc, as soon as the pipes were made hot, and the rings began to fit more tightly, by filling up the uneven places in the rough iron. Everything looked delightfully fresh and perfect; the pipes glistened of an ebon blackness; the two brass taps shone new and smooth; and the various plants and flowers exhaled their scent and began to master that of the Brunswick black. Soon after satisfying himself that all was right, he made his way up to his bedroom, so thoroughly tired out by the bodily exertion of the two past days that he dropped off at once into a heavy, dreamless sleep, which was brought to an end about eight o'clock the next morning by a sensation of his having been seized by a pair of giant hands and thrown suddenly and heavily upon the bedroom floor. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A LESSON ON STEAM. Half-stunned, confused, and wondering, Vane Lee awoke to the fact that he really was lying upon the carpet at the side of his bed, and for a few moments, he felt that he must have fallen out; but, in an indistinct fashion, he began to realise that he had heard a tremendous noise in his sleep, and started so violently that he had rather thrown himself than fallen out of bed, while to prove to him that there was something terribly wrong, there were loud shrieks from the lower part of the house, and from the passage came his uncle's voice. "Vane, my lad, quick! jump up!" "It's an earthquake," panted Vane, as he hurried on his clothes, listening the while with fear and trembling, to the screams which still rose at intervals from below. "That's Eliza's voice," he thought, and directly after as he waited, full of excitement, for the next shock, and the crumbling down of the house, "That's cook." Almost at the same moment a peculiar odour came creeping in beneath and round the door; and Vane, as he forced a reluctant button through the corresponding hole with fumbling fingers took a long sniff. "'Tisn't an earthquake," he thought; "that's gunpowder!" The next moment, after trying to think of what gunpowder there was on the premises, and unable to recall any, he was for attributing the explosion, for such he felt it to be, to some of the chemicals in the laboratory. That idea he quickly dismissed, for the screams were from the kitchen, and he was coming round to the earthquake theory again, when a thought flashed through his brain, and he cried aloud in triumph, just as the doctor threw open his door:-- "It is gunpowder." "Smells like it, boy," cried the doctor, excitedly, "but I had none. Had you?" "No, uncle," cried Vane, as a fresh burst of screaming, arose; "but it's cook. She has been blowing up the copper hole to make the fire draw." "Come along! That's it!" cried the doctor. "Stupid woman! I hope she is not much burned." This all took place as they were hurrying down into the hall, where the odour was stifling now: that dank, offensive, hydrogenous smell which is pretty familiar to most people, and as they hurried on to the kitchen from which the cries for help came more faintly now, they entered upon a dimly-seen chaos of bricks, mortar, broken crockery, and upset kitchen furniture. "A pound of powder at least," cried the doctor, who then began to sneeze violently, the place being full of steam, and dust caused by the ceiling having been pretty well stripped of plaster. "Here, cook--Eliza--where are you?" "Oh, master, master, master!" "Help!--help!--help!" Two wild appeals for aid from the back kitchen, where the copper was set, and into which uncle and nephew hurried, expecting to find the two maids half buried in _debris_. But, to the surprise of both, that office was quite unharmed, and cook was seated in a big Windsor chair, sobbing hysterically, while Eliza was on the floor, screaming faintly with her apron held over her face. "How could you be so foolish!--how much powder?--where did you get it?-- where are you hurt?" rattled out the doctor breathlessly. "Anything the matter, cook?" said Bruff, coming to the door. "Matter? Yes," cried the doctor, growing cool again. "Here, help me lift Eliza into a chair." "No, no, don't touch me; I shall fall to pieces," sobbed the maid wildly. "Nonsense! Here, let me see where you are hurt," continued the doctor, as Eliza was lifted carefully. "Oh, Master Vane--oh, Master Vane! Is it the end of the world?" groaned cook, as the lad took one of her hands, and asked her where she was injured. "No, no," cried Vane. "Tell me where you are harmed." "I don't know--I don't know--I don't know," moaned the trembling woman, beginning in a very high tone and ending very low. "It's all over--It's all over now." "Give her water," said the doctor. "She's hysterical. Here, cook," he cried sternly, "how came you to bring powder into the house?" "I don't know--I don't know--I don't know," moaned the trembling woman. "Oh, master, give me something. Don't let me die just yet." "Die! nonsense!" cried the doctor. "Be quiet, Eliza. Hang it, women, I can't do anything if you cry out like this. Wherever are you hurt? You, Eliza, speak." His firm way had its effect; and as Bruff and Vane stood looking on, the maid faltered:-- "I was a-doing the breakfast-room, sir, when it went off; and, soon as I heered cook scream, I tried to get to her, but had to go round by the back." "Did you know she was going to blow up the copper hole with gunpowder?" "No, sir. Last time I see her, she was lighting the kitchen-fire." "What!" yelled Vane. "Yes, sir," cried cook, sitting up suddenly, and speaking indignantly: "and I won't stop another day in a house where such games is allowed. I'd got a good fire by half-past six, and was busy in the back kitchen when it went off. Me get powder to blow up copper holes? I scorn the very idee of it, sir. It's that master Vane put powder among the coals to play me a trick." "I didn't," cried Vane. "Don't say that, sir," interposed Bruff, "why, I see the greenhouse chockfull o' smoke as I come by." Vane had turned quite cold, and was staring at his uncle, while his uncle with his face full of chagrin and perplexity was staring at him. "You've done it this time, my boy," said the doctor, sadly. "Is anybody killed?--is anybody killed?" cried Aunt Hannah from the hall. "I can't come through the kitchen. My dear Vane! oh, do speak." "No one hurt," shouted the doctor. "Come, Vane." He led the way through the shattered kitchen, which was a perfect wreck; but before he could reach the hall, Vane had passed him. "Aunt! Aunt!" he cried; "did you tell cook not to light the kitchen-fire?" "Oh, dear me!" cried Aunt Hannah; "what a head I have. I meant to, but I quite forgot." There was silence in the hall for a few moments, only broken by a sob or two from the back kitchen. Then Aunt Hannah spoke again. "Oh, I am so sorry, my dear. But is anybody very badly hurt?" "Yes," said the doctor, dryly. "Vane is--very." "My dear, my dear! Where?" cried Aunt Hannah, catching the lad by the arm. "Only in his _amour propre_" said the doctor, and Vane ran out of the hall and through the front door to get round to the greenhouse, but as he opened the door of the glass building the doctor overtook him, and they entered in silence, each looking round eagerly for the mischief done. Here it was not serious: some panes of glass were broken, and two or three pipes nearest to the wall were blown out of their places; but there was the cause of all mischief, the two taps in the small tubes which connected the flow and return pipes were turned off, with the consequence, that there was no escape for the steam, and the closed boiler had of course exploded as soon as sufficient steam had generated, with the consequences seen. "Pretty engineer you are, sir," cried the doctor, "to have both those stop-cocks turned." "There ought not to have been a second one, uncle," said Vane dolefully. "I let them get the better of me yesterday, and put in the second. If it had not been for that, one pipe would have been always open, and there could have been no explosion." "Humph! I see," said the doctor. "But I ought to have left them turned on, and I should have done so, only I did not think that there was going to be any fire this morning." "Here, come back, and let's see the extent of the mischief in the kitchen. That piece of new wall is blown out, you see." He pointed to the loose bricks and mortar thrust out into quite a bow; and then they walked sadly back into the house, where cook's voice could be heard scolding volubly, mingled with Aunt Hannah's milder tones, though the latter could hardly be heard as they entered the devastated kitchen, from which the smoke and dust had now pretty well disappeared, making the damage plain to see. And very plain it was: the new boiler stood in front of the grate, with a hole ripped in one side, the wrought iron being forced out by the power of the steam, just as if it had been composed of paper; the kitchen range was broken, and the crockery on the dresser exactly opposite to the fireplace looked as if it had been swept from the shelves and smashed upon the floor. Chairs were overturned; the table was lying upon its side; tins, coppers, graters, spoons and ladles were here, there, and everywhere. The clock had stopped, and the culinary implements that ornamented the kitchen chimney-piece had evidently flown up to the ceiling. In short, scarcely a thing in the place had escaped some damage, while dust and fragments of plaster covered every object, and the only witness of the explosion, the cat, which had somehow been sheltered and escaped unhurt, was standing on the top of the cupboard, with its eyes glowering and its tail standing straight up, feathered out like a plume. "Oh, my dear, my dear, what a scene!" cried Aunt Hannah, piteously. "Vane must never perform any more experiments here." She had just come to the back kitchen-door, and was looking in. "Oh, Aunt! Aunt!" cried Vane. "All very well to blame the poor boy," said the doctor with mock severity. "It was your doing entirely." "Mine, Thomas!" faltered Aunt Hannah. "Of course it was. You were told not to have the kitchen-fire lit." "Yes--yes," wailed Aunt Hannah; "and I forgot it." "It was not only that, Aunt, dear," said Vane, going to her side, and taking her hand. "It was my unlucky experiment was the principal cause." "Not another day, Eliza," came from the back kitchen. "No, no, not if they went down on their bended knees and begged me to stop." "What, amongst all this broken crockery?" cried the doctor. "Hold your tongue, you stupid woman, and send Bruff to ask his wife to come and help clear up all this mess." Cook, invisible in the back, uttered a defiant snort. "Ah!" shouted the doctor. "Am I master here. See to a fire there at once, and I should like one of those delicious omelettes for my breakfast, cook. Let's have breakfast as soon as you can. There, no more words. Let's be very thankful that you were neither of you badly scalded. You heard what I said, Bruff?" "Yes, sir, of course." "Then go and fetch your wife directly. Cook will give you some breakfast here." Bruff scurried off, and Eliza entered the kitchen, wiping her eyes. "Bit of a fright for you, eh, my girl?" said the doctor, taking her hand, and feeling her pulse. "Well done! Brave little woman. You are as calm as can be again. You're not going to run away at a moment's notice." "Oh, no, sir," cried Eliza eagerly. "Nor cook neither," said the doctor aloud. "She's too fond of us to go when we are in such a state as this." There was a sniff now from the back kitchen and the doctor gave Vane a humorous look, as much as to say, "I can manage cook better than your aunt." "There, my dear," he said, "it's of no use for you to cry over spilt milk. Better milk the cow again and be more careful. See what is broken by and by, and then come to me for a cheque. Vane, my boy, send a letter up at once for another boiler." "But surely, dear--" began Aunt Hannah. "I am not about to have the boiler set there again? Indeed I am. Vane is not going to be beaten because we have had an accident through trusting others to do what we ought to have done for ourselves. There, come and let's finish dressing; and cook!" "Yes, sir," came very mildly from the back kitchen, in company with the crackling of freshly-lit wood. "You'll hurry the breakfast all you can." "Yes, sir." "Don't feel any the worse now, do you?" "No, sir, only a little ketchy about the throat." "Oh, I'll prescribe for that." "Thank you, sir, but it will be better directly," said cook hastily. "After you've taken my dose, make yourself a good strong cup of tea. Come along, my dear. Now, Vane, your face wants washing horribly, my boy. Hannah, my dear, you understand now the tremendous force of steam." "Yes, my dear," said Aunt Hannah, sorrowfully. "I do indeed." "And if ever in the future you see anyone sitting upon the safety valve to get up speed, don't hesitate for a moment, go and knock him off." "My dear Thomas," said Aunt Hannah, dolefully, "this is no subject for mirth." "Eh? Isn't it? I think it is. Why, some of us might have been scalded to death, and we have all escaped. Don't you call that a cause for rejoicing? What do you say, Vane?" "I say, sir, that I shall never forgive myself," replied the lad sadly. "Not your place, Weathercock, but mine, and your aunt's. I'll forgive you freely, and as for your aunt, she can't help it because she was partly to blame." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. ANXIETIES. "Hallo, boiler-burster," cried Gilmore, next time they met, while Macey ran into a corner of the study to turn his face to the wall and keep on exploding with laughter, "when are you going to do our conservatory up here?" "Oh, I say, don't chaff me," cried Vane, "I have felt so vexed about it all." "Distie has been quite ill ever since with delight at your misfortune. It has turned him regularly bilious." "Said it was a pity you weren't blown up, too," cried Macey. "Bah! don't tell ugly tales," said Gilmore. "I wish I could feel that he did not," thought Vane, who had a weakness for being good friends with everybody he knew. He had to encounter plenty of joking about the explosion, and for some time after, Bruff used to annoy him by turning away when they met, and shaking his shoulders as if convulsed with mirth, but after a sharp encounter with Vane, when he had ventured to say he knew how it would be, he kept silence, and later on he was very silent indeed. For the new boiler came down, and was set without any objection being made by cook, who was for some time, however, very reluctant to go near the thing for fear it should go off; but familiarity bred contempt, and she grew used to it as it did not go off, and to Bruff's great disgust it acted splendidly, heating the greenhouse in a way beyond praise, and with scarcely any trouble, and an enormous saving of fuel. Vane was so busy over the hot-water apparatus, and had so much to think about with regard to the damages in connection with the explosion, that he had forgotten all about the adventure in the lane just prior to meeting Macey, till one day, when out botanising with the doctor, they came through that very lane again, and in their sheltered corner, there were the gipsies, looking as if they had never stirred for weeks. There, too, were the women cooking by the fire, and the horses and ponies grazing on the strips of grass by the roadside. But closer examination would have proved that the horses which drew cart and van were different, and several of the drove of loose ones had been sold or changed away. There, too, were the boys whose duty it was to mind the horses slouching about the lane, and their dark eyes glistened as the doctor and Vane came along. "Dear me!" said the doctor suddenly. "What, uncle?" "I thought I saw someone hurry away through the furze bushes as we came up, as if to avoid being seen. Your friend Macey I think." "Couldn't have been, uncle, or he would have stopped." "I was mistaken perhaps.--A singular people these, so wedded to their restless life. I should like to trace them back and find out their origin. It would be a curious experience to stay with them for a year or two," continued the doctor, after a long silence, "and so find out exactly how they live. I'm afraid that they do a little stealing at times when opportunity serves. Fruit, poultry, vegetables, any little thing they can snap up easily. Then, too, they have a great knowledge of herbs and wild vegetables, with which, no doubt, they supplement their scanty fare. Like to join them for a bit, Vane?" "Oh, no," said the boy laughing. "I don't think I should care for that. Too fond of a comfortable bed, uncle, and a chair and table for my meals." "If report says true, their meals are not bad," continued the doctor. "Their women are most clever at marketing and contrive to buy very cheaply of the butchers, and they are admirable cooks. They do not starve themselves." "Think there's any truth about the way they cook fowls or pheasants, uncle?" "What, covering them all over with clay, and then baking them in the hot embers of a wood fire? Not a doubt about it, boy. They serve squirrels and hedgehogs in the same way, even a goose at times. When they think it is done, the clay is burned into earthenware. Then a deft blow with a stick or stone cracks the burnt clay and the bird or animal is turned out hot and juicy, the feathers or bristles remaining in the clay." "Don't think I could manage hedgehog or squirrel, uncle." "I should not select them for diet. They are both carnivorous, and the squirrel, in addition, has its peculiar odorous gland like the pole-cat tribe." "But a squirrel isn't carnivorous, uncle," said Vane, "he eats nuts and fruit." "And young birds, too, sometimes, my boy. Flesh-eating things are not particularly in favour for one's diet. Even the American backwoodsman who was forced to live on crows did not seem very favourably impressed. You remember?" "No, uncle; it's new to me." "He was so short of food, winter-game being scarce, that he had to shoot and eat crows. Someone asked him afterwards whether they were nice, and he replied that he `didn't kinder hanker arter 'em.'" "Well, I don't `kinder hanker arter' squirrel," said Vane, merrily, "and I don't `kinder hanker arter' being a gipsy king ha--ha--as the old song says. You'll have to make me an engineer, uncle." "Steam engineer, boy?" said the doctor, smiling. "Oh, anything, as long as one has to be contriving something new. Couldn't apprentice me to an inventor, could you?" "To Mr Deering, for instance?" Vane shook his head. "I don't know," he said, dubiously. "I liked--You don't mind my speaking out, uncle?" "No, boy, speak out," said the doctor, looking at him curiously. "I was going to say that I liked Mr Deering for some things. He was so quick and clever, but--" "You didn't like him for other things?" Vane nodded, and the doctor looked care-worn and uneasy; his voice sounded a little husky, too, as he said sharply:-- "Oh, he is a very straightforward, honourable man. We were at school together, and I could trust Deering to any extent. But he has been very unfortunate in many ways, and I'm afraid has wasted a great deal of his life over unfruitful experiments with the result that he is still poor." "But anyone must have some failures, uncle. All schemes cannot be successful." "True, but there is such a large proportion of disappointment that I should say an inventor is an unhappy man." "Not if he makes one great hit," cried Vane warmly. "Oh, I should like to invent something that would do a vast deal of good, and set everyone talking about it. Why, it would mean a great fortune." "And when you had made your great fortune, what then?" "Well, I should be a rich man, and I could make you and aunt happy." "I don't know that, Vane," said the doctor, laying his hand upon the lad's shoulder. "I saved a pleasant little competence out of my hard professional life, and it has been enough to keep us in this pleasant place, and bring up and educate you. I am quite convinced that if I had ten times as much I should be no happier, and really, my boy, I don't think I should like to see you a rich man." "Uncle!" "I mean it, Vane. There, dabble in your little schemes for a bit, and you shall either go to college or to some big civil engineer as a pupil, but you must recollect the great poet's words." "What are they, uncle?" said Vane, in a disappointed tone. "`There is a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we may.' "Now let's have a little more botany. What's that?" "Orange peziza," said Vane, pouncing upon a little fungus cup; and this led the doctor into a dissertation on the beauty of these plants, especially of those which required a powerful magnifying glass to see their structure. Farther on they entered a patch of fir-wood where a little search rewarded them with two or three dozen specimens of the orange milk mushroom, a kind so agreeable to the palate that the botanists have dubbed it delicious. "Easy enough to tell, Vane," said the doctor, as he carefully removed every scrap of dirt and grass from the root end of the stem, and carefully laid the neatly-shaped dingy-green round-table shaped fungi in his basket upon some moss. "It is not every edible fungus that proves its safety by invariably growing among fir trees and displaying this thick rich red juice like melted vermilion sealing-wax." "And when we get them home, Martha will declare that they are rank poison," said Vane. "And all because from childhood she has been taught that toadstools are poison. Some are, of course, boy, so are some wild fruits, but it would be rather a deprivation for us if we were to decline to eat every kind of fruit but one." "I should think it would," cried Vane, "or two." "And yet, that is what people have for long years done in England. Folks abroad are wiser. There, it's time we went back." Vane was very silent on his homeward way, for the doctor had damped him considerably, and the bright career which he had pictured for himself as an inventor was beginning to be shrouded in clouds. "Civil engineer means a man who surveys and measures land for roads and railways, and makes bridges," said Vane to himself. "I don't think I should like that. Rather go to a balloon manufactory and--" He stopped to think of the subject which the word balloon brought up, and at last said to himself: "Oh, if I could only invent the way how to fly." "The boy has too much gas in his head," the doctor said to himself, as they reached home; "and he must be checked, but somehow he has spoiled my walk." He threw himself into an easy chair after placing his basket on the table, and into which Aunt Hannah peeped as Vane went up to his room. "Botanical specimens, my dear," she said. "Yes, for the cook," said the doctor dreamily. "Oh, my dear, you should not bring them home. You know how Martha dislikes trying experiments. My dear, what is the matter?" "Oh, nothing--nothing, only Vane was talking to me, and it set me thinking whether I have done right in trusting Deering as I have." Aunt Hannah looked as troubled as the doctor now, and sighed and shook her head. "No," cried the doctor firmly, "I will not doubt him. He is a gentleman, and as honest as the day." "Yes," said Aunt Hannah quietly, "but the most honourable people are not exempt from misfortune." "My dear Hannah," cried the doctor, "don't talk like that. Why it would ruin Vane's prospects if anything went wrong." "And ours too," said Aunt Hannah sadly, just as Vane was still thinking of balloons. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. A TELL-TALE SHADOW. "What's going on here?" said Vane to himself, as he was walking up the town, and then, the colour rose to his cheeks, and he looked sharply round to see if he was observed. But Greythorpe town street was as empty as usual. There was Grader's cat in the window, a dog asleep on a step, and a few chickens picking about in front of the carrier's, while the only sounds were the clink, clink of the blacksmith's hammer upon his anvil, and the brisk tapping made by Chakes, as he neatly executed repairs upon a pair of shoes. A guilty conscience needs no accuser, and, if it had not been for that furtive visit to the clock, Vane would not have looked round to see if he was observed before hurrying up to the church, and entering the tower, for the open door suggested to him what was going on. He mounted the spiral staircase, and, on reaching the clock-chamber, its door being also open, Vane found himself looking at the back of a bald-headed man in his shirt-sleeves, standing with an oily rag in his hand, surrounded by wheels and other portions of the great clock. Vane stopped short, and there was a good deal of colour in his face still, as he watched the man till he turned. "Come to put the clock right, Mr Gramp?" he said. "How do, sir; how do? Yes, I've come over, and not before it was wanted. Clocks is like human beings, sir, and gets out of order sometimes. Mr Syme sent word days ago, but I was too busy to come sooner." "Ah!" said Vane, for the man was looking at him curiously. "I hear she went a bit hard the other night, and set all the bells a-ringing." "No, only one," said Vane, quickly. "And no wonder, when folks gets a-meddling with what they don't understand. Do you know, sir--no, you'll never believe it--watch and clock making's a hart?" "A difficult art, too," said Vane, rather nervously. "Eggs--actly, sir, and yet, here's your shoemaker--bah! your cobbler, just because the church clock wants cleaning, just on the strength of his having to wind it up, thinks he can do it without sending for me. No, you couldn't believe it, sir, but, as true as my name's Gramp, he did; and what does he do? Takes a couple of wheels out, and leaves 'em tucked underneath. But, as sure as his name's Chakes, I'm going straight up to the rectory as soon as I'm done, and if I don't--" "No, no, don't," cried Vane, excitedly, for the turn matters had taken was startling. "It was not Chakes, Mr Gramp; it was I." "You, Mr Lee, sir? You?" cried the man, aghast with wonder. "Whatever put it into your head to try and do such a thing as that? Mischief?" "No, no, it was not that; the clock wouldn't go, and I came up here all alone, and it did seem so tempting that I began to clean a wheel or two, and then I wanted to do a little more, and a little more, and I got the clock pretty well all to pieces; and then--somehow--well, two of the wheels were left out." The clockmaker burst into a hearty fit of laughter. "I should think they were left out," he cried. "Then I must use your name instead of Chakes, eh?" "No, no, Mr Gramp; pray don't do that; the rector doesn't know. I only told my uncle, and I wasn't thinking about you when I tried to set it going." "But, you see, sir, it was such a thing to do--to meddle with a big church clock. If it had been an old Dutch with wooden works and sausage weights, or a brass American, I shouldn't have said a word; but my church clock, as I've tended for years! really, sir, you know it's too bad a deal." "Yes, Mr Gramp, it was too bad; a great piece of--of--assumption." "Assumption, sir; yes, sir, that's the very word. Well, really, I hardly know what to say." "Say nothing, Mr Gramp." "You did tell the doctor, sir?" "Yes, I told uncle." "Hum! I'm going to call at the Little Manor to see the doctor about the tall eight-day. Perhaps I'd better consult him." "Well, yes, speak to uncle if you like, but go by what he says." The clockmaker nodded, and went on with his work, and from looking on, Vane came to helping, and so an hour passed away, when it suddenly occurred to him that Aunt Hannah had said something about a message she wanted him to take, so he had unwillingly to leave the clock-chamber. "Good-day, sir, good-day. I shall see you this evening." "Yes, of course," said Vane; and then, as he hurried down the stairs, it seemed as if there was to be quite a vexatious re-opening of the case. "I do wish I had not touched the old thing," muttered Vane, as he went back. "I couldn't offer him half-a-crown to hold his tongue. Clockmaker's too big." But he did not see the clockmaker again that day, for, as he entered the little drawing-room-- "My dear," cried Aunt Hannah, "I was wishing that you would come. I want you to go over to Lenby for me, and take this packet--a bottle, mind, for Mrs Merry. It's a liniment your uncle has made up for her rheumatism." "Mrs Merry, aunt?" "Yes, my dear, at the far end of the village; she's quite a martyr to her complaint, and I got your uncle to call and see her last time you were out for a drive. Have the pony if you like." "Yes, take her, boy," said the doctor. "She is getting too fat with good living. No; I forgot she was to be taken to the blacksmith's to be shod this afternoon." "All right, uncle, I'll walk over," cried Vane, "I shall enjoy it." "Well, it will not do you any harm. Go across the rough land at the edge of the forest. You may find a few ferns worth bringing for the greenhouse. And pray try for a few fungi." Vane nodded, thrust the packet in his breast, and, taking trowel and basket, he started for his three-miles cross-country walk to Lenby, a tiny village, famous for its spire, which was invisible till it was nearly reached, the place lying in a nook in the wold hills, which, in that particular part, were clothed with high beeches of ancient growth. The late autumn afternoon was glorious, and the little town was soon left behind, the lane followed for a time, but no gipsy van or cart visible, though there was the trace of the last fire. Being deep down in the cutting-like hollow, Vane could not see over the bank, where a donkey was grazing amongst the furze, while, completely hidden in a hollow, there was one of those sleeping tents, formed by planting two rows of willow sticks a few feet apart and then bending over the tops, tying them together, and spreading a tilt over all. This was invisible to the boy and so were the heads of the two stout gipsy lads, who peered down at him from a little farther on, and then drew softly away to shelter themselves among the bushes and ferns till they were beyond hearing. When, stooping low, they ran off towards the wood, but in a stealthy furtive manner as if they were trying to stalk some wild animal and cut it off farther on, where the place was most solitary and wild. In happy ignorance of the interest taken in his proceedings, Vane trudged along till it seemed to him that it was time to climb up out of the lane by the steep sand bank, and this he did, but paused half-way without a scientific or inventive idea in his head, ready to prove himself as boyish as anyone of his years, for he had come upon a magnificent patch of brambles sending up in the hot autumn sunshine cone after cone of the blackest of blackberries such as made him drive his toes into the loose sand to get a better foothold, and long for a suitable basket, the one he carried being a mere leather bag. "Aunt would like a lot of these," he thought, and resisting the temptation to have a feast he left them on the chance of finding them next day when he could come provided with a basket. For blackberries found as much favour with Aunt Hannah as the doctor's choicest plums or apples. A little higher, though, Vane paused again to stain his fingers and lips with the luscious fruit, which, thanks to the American example, people have just found to be worthy of cultivation in their gardens. "'Licious," said Vane, with a smack of the lips, and then, mounting to the top of the bank he stood for a few moments gazing at the glorious prospect, all beautiful cultivation on his right, all wild grass, fern, and forest on his left. This last took most of his attention, as he mapped out his course by the nearest way to the great clump of beeches which towered above the oaks, and then at once strode onward, finding an easy way where a stranger would soon have found himself stuck fast, hedged in by thorns. "I'll come back by the road," thought Vane. "After all it's better and less tiring." But with the beeches well in view, he made light of the difficulties of the little trodden district, which seemed to be quite a sanctuary for the partridges, three coveys rising, as he went on, with a tremendous rush and whirr of wing, to fly swiftly for a distance, and then glide on up and down, rising at clumps of furze, and clearing them, to descend into hollows and rise again apparently, after the first rush, without beat of wing. "It's very curious, that flying," said Vane to himself, as he stood sheltering his eyes to watch the last covey till it passed out of sight--"ten of them, and they went along just as if they had nothing to do but will themselves over the ground. It must be a fine thing to fly. Find it out some day," he said; and he hurried on again to reach the spot where a little rill made a demarcation between the sand and bog he had traversed, and the chalk which rose now in a sharp slope on the other side. He drew back a little way, took a run and leaped right across the cress-bordered clear water, alighting on hard chalk pebbles, and causing a wild splashing and rustling as a pair of moor-hens rose from amongst the cress, their hollow wings beating hard, their long green legs and attenuated toes hanging apparently nerveless beneath them, and giving a slight glimpse of their coral-coloured beak, and crests and a full view of the pure white and black of their short barred tail ere they disappeared amongst the bulrushes which studded one side of the winding stream. Vane watched them for a moment or two, and shook his head. "Partridges beat them hollow. Wonder whether I can find uncle any truffles." He made for the shade of the beeches, passing at once on to a crackling carpet of old beech-mast and half rotten leaves, while all around him the great trees sent up their wonderfully clean, even-lined trunks, and boughs laden with dark green leaves, and the bronzy brown-red cases of the tiny triangular nuts, the former ready now to gape and drop their sweet contents where those of the past year had fallen before. "Pity beech-nuts are so small," he said, as he stood looking up in the midst of a glade where the tall branches of a dozen regularly planted trees curved over to meet those of another dozen, and touching in the centre, shutting out the light, and forming a natural cathedral nave, such as might very well have suggested a building to the first gothic architect for working the design in stone. "Ought to be plenty here," said Vane to himself after drinking his fill of the glorious scene with its side aisles and verdant chapels all around; and stooping down at the foot of one tree, he began with the little trowel which he had taken from his pocket to scrape away the black coating of decayed leaves, and then dig here and there for the curious tubers likely to be found in such a place, but without result. "Hope uncle hasn't bought a turkey to stuff with truffles," he said with a laugh, as he tried another place; "the basket does not promise to be very heavy." He had no better luck here, and he tried another, in each case carefully scratching away the dead leaves to bare the soft leaf-mould, and then dig carefully. "Want a truffle dog, or a pig," he muttered; and then he pounced upon a tuber about twice as large as a walnut, thrusting it proudly into his basket. "Where one is, there are sure to be others," he said; and he resumed his efforts, finding another and another, all in the same spot. "Why, I shall get a basketful," he thought, and he began to dwell pleasantly upon the satisfaction the sight of his successful foray would give the doctor, who had a special penchant for truffles, and had often talked about what expensive delicacies they were for those who dwelt in London. Encouraged then by his success, he went on scraping and grubbing away eagerly with more or less success, while the task grew more mechanical, and after feeling that his bottle was safe in his breast-pocket, he began to think that it was time to leave off, and go on his mission; but directly after, as he was rubbing the clean leaf-mould from off a tuber, his thoughts turned to Distin, and the undoubted enmity he displayed. "If it was not such a strong term," he said to himself, "I should be ready to say he hates me, and would do me any ill-turn he could." He had hardly thought this, and was placing his truffle in the basket, when a faint noise toward the edge of the wood where the sun poured in, casting dark shadows from the tree-trunks, made him look sharply in that direction. For a few moments he saw nothing, and he was about to credit a rabbit with the sound, when it suddenly struck him that one of the shadows cast on the ground not far distant had moved slightly, and as he fixed his eyes upon it intently, he saw that it was not a shadow cast by a tree, unless it was one that had a double trunk for some distance up and then these joined. The next moment he was convinced:--for it was the shadow of a human being hiding behind a good-sized beech, probably in profound ignorance that his presence was clearly shown to the person from whom he was trying to hide. CHAPTER NINETEEN. VANE IS MISSING. Aunt Hannah had been very busy devoting herself according to her custom in watching attentively while Eliza bustled about, spreading the cloth for high tea--a favourite meal at the Little Manor. She had kept on sending messages to Martha in the kitchen till that lady had snorted and confided to Eliza, "that if missus sent her any more of them aggrawating orders she would burn the chicken to a cinder." For Aunt Hannah's great idea in life was to make those about her comfortable and happy; and as Vane would return from his long walk tired and hungry, she had ordered roast chicken for tea with the sausages Mrs Rounds had sent as a present after the pig-killing. That was all very well. Martha said "yes, mum," pleasantly and was going to do her best; but unfortunately, Aunt Hannah made a remark which sent the cook back to her kitchen, looking furious. "As if I ever did forget to put whole peppers in the bread sauce," she cried to Eliza with the addition of a snort, and from that minute there were noises in the kitchen. The oven door was banged to loudly; saucepans smote the burning coals with their bottoms heavily; coals were shovelled on till the kitchen became as hot as Martha's temper, and the plates put down to heat must have had their edges chipped, so hardly were they rattled together. But in the little drawing-room Aunt Hannah sat as happy and placid as could be till it was drawing toward the time for Vane's return, when she took her keys from her basket, and went to the store-room for a pot of last year's quince marmalade and carried it into the dining-room. "Master Vane is so fond of this preserve, Eliza," she said. "Oh, and, by the way, ask Martha to send in the open jam tart. I dare say he would like some of that." "I did tell Martha so, ma'am." "That was very thoughtful of you, Eliza." "But she nearly snapped my head off, ma'am." "Dear, dear, dear, I do wish that Martha would not be so easily put out." Aunt Hannah gave a glance over the table, and placing a fresh bunch of flowers in a vase in the centre, and a tiny bowl of ornamental leaves, such as the doctor admired, by his corner of the table, smiled with satisfaction to see how attractive everything looked. Then she went back to her work in the drawing-room, but only to pop up again and go to the window, open it, and look out at where the doctor was busy with his penknife and some slips of bass, cutting away the old bindings and re-tying some choice newly-grafted pears which had begun to swell and ask for more room to develop. "It's getting very nearly tea-time, my dear," she cried. "Bruff went half an hour ago." "Yes, quarter of an hour before his time," said the doctor. "That's a curious old silver watch of his, always fast, but he believes in it more than he does in mine." "But it is time to come in and wash your hands, love." "No. Another quarter of an hour," said the doctor. "Vane come back?" "No, dear, not yet. But he must be here soon." "I will not keep his lordship waiting," said the doctor, quietly going on with his tying; and Aunt Hannah toddled back to look at the drawing-room mantel-clock. "Dear me, yes," she said; "it is nearly a quarter to six." Punctually to his time, the doctor's step was heard in the little hall, where he hung up his hat before going upstairs to change his coat and boots and wash his hands. Then descending. "Time that boy was back, isn't it?" he said going behind Aunt Hannah, who was looking out of the window at a corner which afforded a glimpse of the road. "Oh, my dear, how you startled me!" cried Aunt Hannah. "Can't help it, my dear. I always was an ugly man." "My dear, for shame! yes, it's quite time he was back. I am growing quite uneasy." "Been run over perhaps by the train." "Oh, my dear!" cried Aunt Hannah in horrified tones. "But how could he be? The railway is not near where he has gone." "Of course it isn't. There, come and sit down and don't be such an old fidget about that boy. You are spoiling him." "That I am sure I am not, my dear." "But you are--making a regular Molly of him. He'll be back soon. I believe if you had your own way you would lead him about by a string." "Now that is nonsense, my dear," cried Aunt Hannah. "How can I help being anxious about him when he is late?" "Make more fuss about him than if he was our own child." Aunt Hannah made no reply, but sat down working and listening intently for the expected step, but it did not come, and at last she heaved a sigh. "Yes, he is late," said the doctor, looking at his watch. "Not going anywhere else for you, was he?" "Oh, no, my dear; he was coming straight back." "Humph!" ejaculated the doctor; "thoughtless young dog! I want my tea." "He can't be long now," said Aunt Hannah. "Humph! Can't be. That boy's always wool-gathering instead of thinking of his duties." Aunt Hannah's brow wrinkled and she looked five years older as she rose softly to go to the window, and look out. "That will not bring him here a bit sooner, Hannah," said the doctor drily. "I dare say he has gone in at the rectory, and Syme has asked him to stay." "Oh, no, my dear, I don't think he would do that, knowing that we should be waiting." "Never did, I suppose," said the doctor. Aunt Hannah was silent. She could not deny the impeachment, and she sat there with her work in her lap, thinking about how late it was; how hungry the doctor would be, and how cross it would make him, for he always grew irritable when kept waiting for his meals. Then she began to think about going and making the tea, and about the chicken, which would be done to death, and the doctor did not like chickens dry. Just then there was a diversion. Eliza came to the door. "If you please 'm, cook says shall she send up the chicken? It's half-past six." Aunt Hannah looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked at his watch. "Wait a minute," he said; and then: "No, I'll give him another quarter of an hour." "What a tantrum Martha will be in," muttered Eliza, as she left the room. "Oh, that poor chicken!" thought Aunt Hannah, and then aloud:-- "I hope Vane has not met with any accident." "Pshaw! What accident could he meet with in walking to the village with a bottle of liniment and back, unless--" "Yes?" cried Aunt Hannah, excitedly; "unless what, my dear?" "He has opened the bottle and sat down by the roadside to drink it all." "Oh, my dear, surely you don't think that Vane would be so foolish." "I don't know," cried the doctor, "perhaps so. He is always experimentalising over something." "But," cried Aunt Hannah, with a horrified look, "it was liniment for outward application only!" "Exactly: that's what I mean," said the doctor. "He has not been content without trying the experiment of how it would act rubbed on inside instead of out." "Then that poor boy may be lying somewhere by the roadside in the agonies of death--poisoned," cried Aunt Hannah in horror; but the doctor burst out into a roar of laughter. "Oh, it's too bad, my dear," cried Aunt Hannah, tearfully. "You are laughing at me and just, too, when I am so anxious about Vane." "I'm not: a young rascal. He has met those sweet youths from the rectory, and they are off somewhere, or else stopping there." The doctor rose and rang the bell. "Are you going to send up to see, my dear?" "No, I am not," said the doctor, rather tartly. "I am going to--" Eliza entered the room. "We'll have tea directly, Eliza," said the doctor; and Aunt Hannah hurried into the dining-room to measure out so many caddy spoonfuls into the hot silver pot, and pour in the first portion of boiling water, but listening for the expected footstep all the time. That meal did not go off well, for, in spite of the doctor's assumed indifference, he was also anxious about his nephew. Aunt Hannah could not touch anything, and the doctor's appetite was very little better; but he set this down to the chicken being, as he said, dried to nothing, and the sausages being like horn--exaggerations, both--for, in spite of Martha's threats, she was too proud of her skill in cooking to send up anything overdone. The open jam tart was untouched, and the opening of that pot of last year's quince marmalade proved to have been unnecessary; for, though Aunt Hannah paused again and again with her cup half-way to her lips, it was not Vane's step that she heard; and, as eight o'clock came, she could hardly keep back her tears. All at once the doctor rose and went into the hall, followed by Aunt Hannah, who looked at him wistfully as he put on a light overcoat, and took hat and stick. "I'll walk to the rectory," he said, "and bring him back." Aunt Hannah laid her hand upon his arm, as he reached the door. "Don't be angry with him, my dear," she whispered. "Why not? Is that boy to do just as he pleases here? I'll give him a good sound thrashing, that's what I'll do with him." Aunt Hannah took away the doctor's walking stick, which he had made whish through the air and knock down one of Vane's hats. "There, I'll do it with my fist," cried the doctor. "You cannot amputate that." "My dear!" whispered Aunt Hannah, handing back the stick. "All right, I will not hit him, but I'll give him a most tremendous tongue thrashing, as they call it here." "No, no; there is some reason for his being late." "Very well," cried the doctor. "I shall soon see." The door closed after him, and Aunt Hannah began to pace the drawing-room, full of forebodings. "I am sure there is something very wrong," she said, "or Vane would not have behaved like this." She broke down here, and had what she called "a good cry." But it did not seem to relieve her, and she recommenced her walking once more. At every sound she made for the door, believing it was Vane come back, and, truth to tell, thinking very little of the doctor, but every time she hurried to the door and window she was fain to confess it was fancy, and resumed her weary agitated walk up and down the room. At last, though, there was the click of the swing-gate, and she hurried to the porch where she was standing as the doctor came up. "Yes, dear," she cried, before he reached the door. "Has he had his tea?" The doctor was silent, and came into the hall where Aunt Hannah caught his arm. "There is something wrong?" she cried. "No, no, don't be agitated, my dear," said the doctor gently. "It may be nothing." "Then he is there--hurt?" "No, no. They have not seen him." "He has not been with the pupils?" "No." "Oh, my dear, my dear, what does it mean?" cried Aunt Hannah. "It is impossible to say," said the doctor, "but we must be cool. Vane is not a boy to run away." "Oh, no." "So I have sent Bruff over to ask what time he got to Lenby, and what time he left, and, if possible, to find out which way he returned. Bruff may meet him. We don't know what may have kept him. Nothing serious, of course." But the doctor's words did not carry conviction; and, as if sympathising with his wife, he took and pressed her hand. "Come, come," he whispered, "try and be firm. We have no reason for thinking that there is anything wrong." "No," said Aunt Hannah, with a brave effort to keep down her emotion.--"Yes, Eliza, what is it?" There had been a low whispering in the hall, followed by Eliza tapping at the door and coming in. "I beg pardon, ma'am," said the maid, hastily, "but cook and me's that anxious we hoped you wouldn't mind my asking about Master Vane." A curious sound came from the passage, something between a sigh and a sob. "There is nothing to tell you," said the doctor, "till Bruff comes back. Mr Vane has been detained; that's all." "Thank you, sir," said Eliza. "It was only that we felt we should like to know." In spite of the trouble she was in there was room for a glow of satisfaction in Aunt Hannah's mind on finding how great an interest was felt by the servants; and she set herself to wait as patiently as she could for news. "It will not be so very long, will it dear?" she whispered, for she could not trust herself to speak aloud. "It must be two hours," said the doctor gravely. "It is a long way. I am sorry I did not make Bruff drive, but I thought it would take so long to get the pony ready that I started him at once;" and then ready to reprove his wife for her anxiety and eagerness to go to door or window from time to time, the doctor showed himself to be just as excited, and at the end of the first hour, he strode out into the hall. Aunt Hannah followed him. "I can't stand it any longer, my dear," he cried. "I don't believe I care a pin about the young dog, for I am sure he is playing us some prank, but I must go and meet Bruff." "Yes, do, do," cried Aunt Hannah, hurriedly getting the doctor's hat and stick. "But couldn't I go, too?" The doctor bent down, and kissed her. "No, no, my dear, you would only hinder me," he said, tenderly, and to avoid seeing her pained and working face he hurried out and took the road for Lenby, striking off to the left, after passing the church. But after walking sharply along the dark lane, for about a couple of miles, it suddenly occurred to the doctor that the chances were, that Bruff, who knew his way well, would take the short cuts, by the fields, and, after hesitating for a few minutes, he turned and hurried back. "A fool's errand," he muttered. "I ought to have known better." As matters turned out, he had done wisely in returning, and the walk had occupied his mind, for, as he came within hearing of the Little Manor again, he fancied that a sound in front was the click of the swing-gate. It was: for he reached the door just as Eliza was on her way to the drawing-room to announce that Bruff had come back. "Bring him here," said the doctor, who had entered. "No: stop: I'll come and speak to him in the kitchen." But Aunt Hannah grasped his hand. "No, no," she whispered firmly now. "I must know the worst." "Send Bruff in," said the doctor, sternly, and the next minute the gardener was heard rubbing his boots on the mat, and came into the hall, followed by the other servants. "Well, Bruff," said the doctor, in a short, stern way, "you have not found him?" "No, sir, arn't seen or heard nowt." "But he had been and left the medicine?" "Nay, sir, not he. Nobody had seen nowt of him. He hadn't been there." Aunt Hannah uttered a faint gasp. "But didn't you ask at either of the cottages as you passed?" asked the doctor sharply. "Cottages, sir? Why, there arn't none. I cut acrost the fields wherever I could, and the only plaace nigh is Candell's farm--that's quarter of a mile down a lane." "Yes, yes, of course," said the doctor. "I had forgotten. Then you have brought no news at all?" "Well, yes, sir; a bit as you may say." "Well, what is it, man? Don't keep us in suspense." "Seems like news to say as he arn't been nowheres near Lenby." "Can you form any idea of where he is likely to have gone?" Bruff looked in his hat and pulled the lining out a little way, and peered under that as if expecting to find some information there, but ended by shaking his head and looking in a puzzled fashion at the doctor. "Come with me," said the latter, and turning to Aunt Hannah, he whispered: "Go and wait patiently, my dear. I don't suppose there is anything serious the matter. I daresay there is a simple explanation of the absence if we could find it; but I feel bound to try and find him, if I can, to-night." "But how long will you be?" "One hour," said the doctor, glancing at his watch. "If I am not back then you will have a message from me in that time, so that you will be kept acquainted with all I know." "Please, sir, couldn't we come and help?" said cook eagerly. "Me and 'Liza's good walkers." "Thank you," said the doctor; "the best help you can render is to sit up and wait, ready to attend to your mistress." He turned to Aunt Hannah who could not trust herself to speak, but pressed his hand as he passed out into the dark night, followed by Bruff. "The rectory," he said briefly; and walked there rapidly to ring and startle Joseph, who was just thinking of giving his final look round before going to bed. "Some one badly, sir?" he said, as he admitted the doctor and gardener, jumping at the conclusion that his master was wanted at a sick person's bedside. "No. Have you seen Mr Vane since he left after lessons this morning?" "No, sir." "Where is the rector?" "In his study, sir." "And the young gentlemen?" "Just gone up to bed, sir." "Show me into the study." Joseph obeyed, and the rector, who was seated with a big book before him, which he was not reading, jumped up in a startled way. "Vane Lee?" he cried. "Yes: I'm very anxious about Vane. He was sent over to Lenby, this afternoon and has not returned. I want to ask Macey and Gilmore if they know anything of his whereabouts." "But some one came long ago. They have not seen him since luncheon." "Tut--tut--tut!" ejaculated the doctor. "Not been back then?" The doctor shook his head, and the rector suggested that he had stayed at Lenby and half a dozen other things which could be answered at once. "Would you mind sending for the lads to come down?" "Certainly not. Of course," cried the rector; and he rang and sent up a message. "I don't suppose they are in bed," he said. "They always have a good long gossip; and, as long as they are down in good time I don't like to be too strict. But, my dear Lee. You don't think there is anything serious?" "I don't know what to think, Syme," cried the doctor, agitatedly. "Is it an escapade--has he run off?" "My dear sir, you know him almost as well as I do. Is he the sort of boy to play such a prank?" "I should say, no. But, stop, you have had some quarrel. You have been reproving him." "No--no--no," cried the doctor. "Nothing of the kind. If there had been I should have felt more easy." "But, what can have happened? A walk to Lenby and back by a boy who knows every inch of the way." "That is the problem," said the doctor. "Ah, here is someone." For there was a tap at the door, and Macey entered, to look wonderingly from one to the other. "Aleck, my boy," said the doctor, "Vane is missing. Can you suggest anything to help us? Do you know of any project that he had on hand or of any place he was likely to have gone to on his way to Lenby?" "No," said Macey, quickly. "Take time, my dear boy, and think," said the rector. "But I can't think, sir, of anything," cried Macey. "No. Unless--" "Yes," cried the doctor; "unless what?" "He was going to Lenby, you say." "Yes." "Well, mightn't he have stopped there?" "No, no, my boy," cried the doctor, in disappointed tones, as Gilmore came in, and directly after Distin, both looking wonderingly round. "We sent there." "Then I don't know," said Macey, anxiously. "He might have gone over the bit of moor though." "Yes," said the doctor; "he could have gone that way." "Well, sir, mightn't he have been caught among the brambles, or lost his way?" "No, my boy, absurd!" "I once did, sir, and he came and helped me out." "Oh, no," cried the doctor; "impossible." "But there are some very awkward pieces of bog and peat and water-holes, sir," said Gilmore; and as he said this Distin drew a deep breath, and took a step back from the shaded lamp. The rector also drew a deep breath, and looked anxiously at the doctor, who stood with his brow contracted for a few moments, and then shook his head. "He was too clever and active for that," he cried. "No, Gilmore, that is not the solution. He is not likely to have come upon poachers? There are a great many pheasants about there?" "No poachers would be about in the afternoon," said the rector. "My dear Lee, I do not like to suggest so terrible a thing, but I must say, I think it is our duty to get all the help we can, and search the place armed with lanterns." The doctor looked at him wildly. "Of course we'll help. What do you say?" "Yes," said the doctor hoarsely. "Let us search." The rector rang the bell, and Joseph answered directly. "Wait a moment," cried the doctor. "Mr Distin, you have not spoken yet. Tell me: what is your opinion. Do you think Vane can have come to harm in the moor strip yonder?" Distin shrank back as he was addressed, and looked round wildly, from one to the other. "I--I?" he faltered. "Yes, you--my dear boy," said the rector, sharply. "Answer at once, and do, pray, try to master that nervousness." Distin passed his tongue over his lips, and his voice sounded very husky as he said, almost inaudibly at first, but gathering force as he went on:-- "I don't know. I have not seen him since this morning." "We know that," said the doctor; "but should you think it likely, that he has met with an accident, or can you suggest anywhere likely for him to have gone?" "No, sir, no," said Distin, firmly now. "I can't think of anywhere, nor should I think he is likely to have sunk in either of the bog holes, though he is very fond of trying to get plants of all kinds when he is out." "Yes, yes," said the doctor, hoarsely. "I taught him;" and as he spoke Distin gave a furtive look all round the room, to see that nearly everyone was watching him closely. "We must hope for the best, Lee," said the doctor, firmly. "Joseph, take Doctor Lee's man with you, go down the town street and spread the alarm. We want men with lanterns as quickly as possible. That place must be searched." The two men started at once, and the rector, after an apology, began to put on his boots once more. "I promised to go or send word to the Manor," said the doctor, "but I feel as if I had not the heart to go." "To tell Mrs Lee, sir?" said Distin, quickly. "Yes, to say that we are all going to search for Vane," said the doctor, "but not what we suspect." "I understand," said Distin, quickly; and, as if glad to escape, he hurried out of the room, and directly after they heard the closing of the outer door, and his steps on the gravel as he ran. CHAPTER TWENTY. NO NEWS. "Distin seems curiously agitated and disturbed," said the doctor. "Yes: he is a nervous, finely-strung youth," replied the rector. "The result of his birth in a tropical country. It was startling, too, his being fetched down from bed to hear such news." "Of course--of course," said the doctor; and preparations having been rapidly made by the rector, who mustered three lanterns, one being an old bull's-eye, they all started. "Better go down as far as the church, first, and collect our forces. Then we'll make a start for the moor. But who shall we have for guide?" "Perhaps I know the place best," said the doctor; and they started in silence, passing down the gravel drive, out at the gate, and then along the dark lane with the lights dancing fitfully amongst the trees and bushes on either side, and casting curiously weird shadows behind. As they reached the road, Macey, who carried one lantern, held it high above his head and shouted. "Hush--hush!" cried the doctor, for the lad's voice jarred upon him in the silence. "Distin's coming, sir," said Macey. There was an answering hail, and then the _pat-pat_ of steps, as Distin trotted after and joined them. By the time the church was reached, there was plenty of proof of Vane's popularity, for lanterns were dancing here and there, and lights could be seen coming from right up the street, while a loud eager buzz of voices reached their ears. Ten minutes after the doctor found himself surrounded by a band of about forty of the townsfolk, everyone of whom had some kind of lantern and a stick or pole, and all eager to go in search of the missing lad. Rounds the miller was one of the foremost, and carried the biggest lantern, and made the most noise. Chakes the sexton, was there, too, with his lantern--a dim, yellow-looking affair, whose sides were of horn sheets, with here and there fancy devices punched in the tin to supply air to the burning candle within. Crumps, from the dairy, Graders the baker, and John Wrench the carpenter, all were there, and it seemed a wonder to Macey where all the lanterns had come from. But it was no wonder, for Greythorpe was an ill-lit place, where candles and oil-lamps took the place of gas even in the little shops, and there were plenty of people who needed the use of a stable-light. There were two policemen stationed in Greythorpe, but they were off on their nightly rounds, and it was not until the weird little procession of light-bearers had gone half a mile from the town that there was a challenge from under a dark hedge, and two figures stepped out into the road. "Eh? Master Vane Lee lost?" said one of the figures, the lights proclaiming them to be the policemen, who had just met at one of their appointed stations; "then we'd better jyne you." This added two more lanterns to the bearers of light, but for a long time they were not opened, but kept as a reserved force--ready if wanted. At last, in almost utter silence, the moor was reached, the men were spread out, and the search began. But it was ended after an hour's struggling among the bushes, and an extrication of Chakes, and Wrench the carpenter, from deep bog holes into which they had suddenly stepped, and, on being drawn out, sent home. Then Rounds spoke out in his loud, bluff way. "Can't be done, doctor, by this light. It's risking the lives of good men and true. I want to find young Mester, and I'll try as if he was a son of my own, but we can't draw this mash to-night." There was a dead silence at this, and then the rector spoke out. "I'm afraid he is right, Lee. I would gladly do everything possible, but this place really seems impassable by night." The doctor was silent, and the rector spoke again: "What do you say, constable?" "As it can't be done, sir, with all respect to you as the head of the parish." "Seems to me like getting up an inquess, sir," said Dredge the butcher, "with ooz all dodging about here with our lights, like so many will-o'-the-wispies." "Ay, I was gooin' to say as theered be job for owd Chakes here 'fore morning if he gets ower his ducking." "I'm afraid you are right," said the doctor, sadly. "If I were sure that my nephew was somewhere here on the moor, I should say keep on at all hazards, but it is too dangerous a business by lantern light." "Let's give a good shout," cried the miller; "p'r'aps the poor lad may hear it. Now, then, all together: one, two three, and _Ahoy_!" The cry rang far out over the moor, and was faintly answered, so plainly that Macey uttered a cry of joy. "Come on," he cried; "there he is." "Nay, lad," said the miller; "that was on'y the echo." "No, no," said Macey; "it was an answer." "It did sound like it," said the rector; and the doctor remained in doubt. "You listen," said the miller; and, putting his hands on either side of his mouth, he gave utterance to a stentorian roar. "Vane, ho!" There was a pause, and a "ho!" came back. "All right?" roared the miller. "Right!" came back. "Good-night!" shouted the miller again. "Night!" "There, you see. Only an echo," said the miller. "Wish it wasn't. Why, if it had been his voice, lads, we'd soon ha' hed him home." "Yes, it's an echo, Aleck," said Gilmore, sadly. "But we could stop, and go on searching, sir," cried Macey. "It's such a pity to give up." "Only till daybreak, my lad," said the doctor, sadly. "We can do no good here, and the risk is too great." Gilmore uttered a low sigh, and Macey a groan, as, after a little more hesitation, it was decided to go back to the town, and wait till the first dawn, when the search could be resumed. "And, look here, my lads," cried the miller; "all of you as can had better bring bill-hooks and sickles, for it's bad going through these brambles, even by day." "And you, constables," said the rector; "you are on duty along the roads. You will keep a sharp look-out." "Of course, sir, and we'll communicate with the other men we meet from Lenby and Riby, and Dunthorpe. We shall find him, sir, never fear." The procession of lanterns was recommenced, but in the other direction now, and in utter despondency the doctor followed, keeping with the rector and his pupils, all trying in turn to suggest some solution of the mystery, but only for it to close in more darkly round them, in spite of all. The police then left them at the spot where they had been encountered, and promised great things, in which nobody felt any faith; and at last, disheartened and weary, the churchyard was reached, and the men dismissed, all promising to be ready to go on at dawn. Then there was a good deal of opening of lanterns, the blowing out of candle and lamp, the closing of doors, and an unpleasant, fatty smell, which gradually dispersed as all the men departed but the miller. "Hope, gentlemen," he said, in his big voice, "you don't think I hung back from helping you." "No, no, Rounds," said the doctor, sadly; "you are not the sort of man to fail us in a pinch." "Thankye, doctor," said the bluff fellow, holding out his hand. "Same to you. I aren't forgot the way you come and doctored my missus when she was so bad, and you not a reg'lar doctor, but out o' practice. But nivver you fear; we'll find the lad. I shan't go to bed, but get back and light a pipe. I can think best then; and mebbe I'll think out wheer the young gent's gone." "Thank you, Rounds," said the doctor. "Perhaps we had all better go and try and think it out, for Heaven grant that it may not be so bad as we fear." "Amen to that!" cried the miller, "as clerk's not here. And say, parson, I'll goo and get key of owd Chakes, and, at the first streak o' daylight, I'll goo to belfry, and pull the rope o' the ting-tang to rouse people oop. You'll know what it means." He went off; and the rest of the party, preceded by Joseph Bruff having sought his cottage, walked slowly back, all troubled by the same feeling, omitting Distin, that they had done wrong in giving up so easily, but at the same time feeling bound to confess that they could have done no good by continuing the search. As they reached the end of the rectory lane and the doctor said "good-night," the rector urged him to come up to the rectory and lie down on a couch till morning, but Doctor Lee shook his head. "No," he said, "it is quite time I was back. There is someone sorrowing there more deeply than we can comprehend. Till daybreak, Syme. Good-night." Macey stood listening to the doctor's retiring footsteps and then ran after him. "Hi! Macey!" cried Gilmore. "Mr Macey, where are you going?" cried the rector. But the boy heard neither of them as he ran on till the doctor heard the footsteps and stopped. "Yes," he said, "what is it?" "Only me--Aleck Macey, sir." "Yes, my lad? Have you brought a message from Mr Syme?" "No, sir; I only wanted--I only thought--I--I--Doctor Lee, please let me come and wait with you till it's time to start." Macey began falteringly, but his last words came out with a rush. "Why not go back to bed, my lad, and get some rest--some sleep?" "Rest?--sleep? Who is going to sleep when, for all we know, poor old Vane's lying helpless somewhere out on the moor. Let me come and stop with you." For answer the doctor laid his hand upon Macey's shoulder, and they reached the Little Manor swing-gate and passed up the avenue without a word. There were lights burning in two of the front windows, and long before they reached the front door in the porch, it was opened, and a warm glow of light shone out upon the advancing figures. It threw up, too, the figure of Aunt Hannah, who, as soon as she realised the fact that there were two figures approaching, ran out and before the doctor could enlighten her as to the truth, she flung her arms round Macey's neck, and hugged him to her breast, sobbing wildly. "Oh, my dear, my dear, where have you been--where have you been?" As she spoke, she buried her face upon the lad's shoulder, while Macey looked up speechlessly at the doctor, and he, choked with emotion as he was, could not for some moments find a word to utter. Still, clinging to him in the darkness Aunt Hannah now took tightly hold of the boy's arm, as if fearing he might again escape from her, and drawing him up toward the door from which the light shone now, showing Eliza and Martha both waiting, she suddenly grasped the truth, and uttered a low wail of agony. "Not found?" she cried. "Oh, how could you let me, how could you! It was too cruel, indeed, indeed!" Aunt Hannah's sobs broke out loudly now; and, unable to bear more, Macey glided away, and did not stop running after passing the gate till he reached the rectory door. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. IN THE EARLY MORNING. Churchwarden Rounds kept his word, for at the first break of day his vigorous arms sent the ting-tang ringing in a very different way to that adopted by old Chakes for the last few minutes before service commenced on Sunday morning and afternoon. And he did not ring in vain, for though the search was given up in the night the objections were very genuine. Everyone was eager to help so respected a neighbour as the doctor, and to a man the searchers surrounded him as he walked up to the church; even Wrench the carpenter, and Chakes the sexton putting in an appearance in a different suit to that worn over-night and apparently none the worse for the cold plunge into peaty water they had had. The rector was not present, and the little expedition was about to start, when Macey came running up to say that Mr Syme was close behind. This decided the doctor to pause for a few minutes, and while it was still twilight the rector with Gilmore and Distin came up, the former apologising for being so late. "I'm afraid that I fell asleep in my chair, Lee," he whispered. "I'm very sorry." "There is no need to say anything," said the doctor sadly. "It is hardly daybreak even now." Gilmore looked haggard, and his face on one side was marked by the leather of the chair in which he had been asleep. Macey looked red-eyed too, but Distin was perfectly calm and as neat as if he had been to bed as usual to enjoy an uninterrupted night's rest. When the start was made, it having been decided to follow the same course as over-night, hardly a word was said, for in addition to the depression caused by the object in view, the morning felt chilly, and everything looked grim and strange in the mist. The rector and doctor led the way with the churchwarden, then followed the rector's three pupils, and after them the servants and townspeople in silence. Macey was the first of the rectory trio to speak, and he harked back to the idea that Vane must be caught in the brambles just as he had been when trying to make a short cut, but Gilmore scouted the notion at once. "Impossible!" he said, "Vane wouldn't be so stupid. If he is lost on the moor it is because he slipped into one of those black bog holes, got tangled in the water-weeds and couldn't get out." "Ugh!" exclaimed Macey with a shudder. "Oh, I say: don't talk like that. It's too horrid. You don't think so, do you, Distie? Why it has made you as white as wax to hear him talk like that." Distin shivered as if he were cold, and he forced a smile as he said hastily:-- "No: of course I don't. It's absurd." "What is?" said Gilmore. "Your talking like this. It isn't likely. I think it's a great piece of nonsense, this searching the country." "Why, what would you do?" cried Macey. "I--I--I don't know," cried Distin, who was taken aback. "Yes, I do. I should drive over to the station to see if he took a ticket for London, or Sheffield, or Birmingham, or somewhere. It's just like him. He has gone to buy screws, or something, to make a whim-wham to wind up the sun." "No, he hasn't," said Macey sturdily; "he wouldn't go and upset the people at home like that; he's too fond of them." "Pish!" ejaculated Distin contemptuously. "Distie's sour because he is up so early, Gil," continued Macey. "Don't you believe it. Vane's too good a chap to go off like that." "Bah! he is always changing about. Why, you two fellows call him Weathercock." "Well!" cried Gilmore; "it isn't because we don't like him." "No," said Macey, "only in good-humoured fun, because he turns about so. I wish," he added dolefully, "he would turn round here now." "You don't think as the young master's really drownded, do you?" said a voice behind, and Macey turned sharply, to find that Bruff had been listening to every word. "No, I don't," he cried angrily; "and I'll punch anybody's head who says he is. I believe old Distie wishes he was." "You're a donkey," cried Distin, turning scarlet. "Then keep away from my heels--I might kick. It makes me want to with everybody going along as cool as can be, as if on purpose, to fish the best chap I ever knew out of some black hole among the bushes." "Best chap!" said Distin, contemptuously. "Yes: best chap," retorted Macey, whose temper was soured by the cold and sleeplessness of the past night. Further words were stopped by the churchwarden's climbing up the sandy bank of the deep lane, and stopping half-way to the top to stretch out his hand to the rector whom he helped till he was amongst the furze, when he turned to help the doctor, who was, however, active enough to mount by himself. The rest of the party were soon up in a group, and then there was a pause and the churchwarden spoke. "If neither of you gentlemen, has settled what to do," he said, "it seems to me the best thing is to make a line of our-sens along top of the bank here, and then go steady right along towards Lenby--say twenty yards apart." The doctor said that no better plan could be adopted, but added:-- "I should advise that whenever a pool is reached the man who comes to it should shout. Then all the line must stop while I come to the pool and examine it." "But we've got no drags or hooks, mester," whispered the churchwarden, and the doctor shuddered. "No," he said hastily, "but I think there would certainly be some marks of struggling at the edge--broken twigs, grass, or herbage torn away." "Look at Distie," whispered Gilmore. "Was looking," replied Macey who was gazing fixedly at his fellow-pupil's wild eyes and hollow cheeks. "Hasn't pitched, or shoved him in, has he?" "Hush! Don't talk like that," whispered Gilmore again; and just then the object of their conversation looked up sharply, as if conscious that he was being canvassed, and gazed suspiciously from one to the other. Meanwhile the miller who had uncovered so as to wipe his brow, threw his staring red cotton handkerchief sharply back into the crown of his hat and knocked it firmly into its place. "Why, of course," he said: "That's being a scientific gentleman. I might have thought of that, but I didn't." Without further delay half the party spread out toward the wood which formed one side of the moor, while the other half spread back toward the town; and as soon as all were in place the doctor, who was in the centre, with Rounds the miller on his right, and the rector on his left, gave the word. The churchwarden shouted and waved his hat and with the soft grey dawn gradually growing brighter, and a speck or two of orange appearing high up in the east, the line went slowly onward towards Lenby, pausing from time to time for pools to be examined and for the more luckless of the party to struggle out of awkward places. The rector's three pupils were on the right--the end nearest the town, Distin being the last in the line and in spite of Macey's anticipations, he struggled on as well as the best man there. Patches of mist like fleecy clouds, fallen during the night, lay here and there; and every now and then one who looked along the line could see companions walk right into these fogs and disappear for minutes at a time to suddenly step out again on to land that was quite clear. Hardly a word was spoken, the toil was sufficient to keep every one silent. For five minutes after a start had been made every one was drenched with dew to the waist, and as Macey afterwards said if they had forded the river they could not have been more wet. Every now and then birds were startled by someone, to rise with a loud _whirr_ if they were partridges, with a rapid beating of pinions and frightened quacking if wild-fowl; and for a few moments, more than once, both Macey and Gilmore forgot the serious nature of their mission in interest in the various objects they encountered. For these were not few. Before they had gone a quarter of a mile there was a leap and a rush, and unable to contain himself, Bruff, who was next on Macey's left suddenly shouted "_loo_--_loo_--_loo_--_loo_." "See him, Mester Macey!" he cried. "Oh, if we'd had a greyhound." But they had no long-legged hound to dart off after the longer-eared animal; and the hare started from its form in some dry tussock grass, went off with its soft fur streaked to its sides with the heavy dew, and was soon out of reach. Then a great grey flapped-wing heron rose from a tiny mere and sailed heavily away. That pool had to be searched as far as its margin was concerned; and as it was plainly evident that birds only had visited it lately, the line moved on again just as the red disk of the sun appeared above the mist, and in one minute the grim grey misty moor was transformed into a vast jewelled plain spangled with myriads upon myriads of tiny gems, glittering in all the colours of the prism, and sending a flash of hopeful feeling into the boys' breasts. "Oh!" cried Macey; "isn't it lovely! I am glad I came." "Yes," said Gilmore; and then correcting himself. "Who can feel glad on a morning like this!" "I can," said Macey, "for it all makes me feel now that we are stupid to think anything wrong can have happened to poor old Weathercock. He's all right somewhere." Something akin to Macey's feeling of light-heartedness had evidently flashed into the hearts of all in the line, for men began to shout to one another as they hurried on with more elasticity of tread; they made lighter of their difficulties, and no longer felt a chill of horror whenever Rounds summoned all to a halt, while the doctor passed along the line to examine some cotton-rush dotted margin about a pool. Working well now, the line pressed on steadily in the direction of Lenby, and a couple of miles must have been gone over when a halt was called, and after a short discussion in the centre, the churchwarden came panting along the line giving orders as he went till he reached the end where the three pupils were. "Now, lads," he cried, "we're going to sweep round now, like the soldiers do--here by this patch of bushes. You, Mr Distin, will march right on, keeping your distance as before, and go the gainest way for the wood yonder, where you'll find the little stream. Then you'll keep back along that and we shall sweep that side of the moor till we get to the lane again." "But we shall miss ever so much in the middle," cried Gilmore. "Ay, so we shall, lad, but we'll goo up along theer afterwards, and back'ards, and forwards till we've been all over." "But, I say," cried Macey, "you don't think we shall find him here, do you?" "Nay, I don't, lad; but the doctor has a sort of idee that we may, and I'm not the man to baulk him. He might be here, you see." "Yes," said Macey; "he might. There: all right, we'll go on when you give the word." "Forrard, then, my lads; there it is, and I wish we may find him. Nay, I don't," he said, correcting himself, "for, poor lad he'd be in a bad case to have fallen down here for the night. Theer's something about it I can't understand, and if I were you, Mr Distin, sir, I'd joost chuck an eye now and then over the stream towards the edge of the wood." Distin nodded and the line was swung round, so as to advance for some distance toward the wood which began suddenly just beyond the stream. There another shout, and the waving of the miller's hat, altered the direction again, and with Distin close by the flowing water, the line was marched back toward the lane with plenty of repetitions of their outward progress but it was at a slower rate, for the tangle was often far more dense. And somehow, perhaps from the brilliancy of the morning, and the delicious nature of the pure soft air, the lads' spirits grew higher, and they had to work hard to keep their attention to the object they had in view, for nature seemed to be laying endless traps for them, especially for Macey, who certainly felt Vane's disappearance most at heart, but was continually forgetting him on coming face to face with something fresh. Now it was an adder coiled up in the warm sunshine on a little dry bare clump among some dead furze. It was evidently watching him but making no effort to get out of his way. He had a stick, and it would have been easy to kill the little reptile, but somehow he had not the heart to strike at him, and he walked on quickly to overtake the line which had gone on advancing while he lagged behind. Ten minutes later he nearly stepped upon a rabbit which bounded away, as he raised his stick to hurl it after the plump-looking little animal like a boomerang. But he did not throw, and the rabbit escaped. He did not relax his efforts, but swept the tangle of bushes and brambles from right to left and back to the right, always eagerly trying to find something, if only a footprint to act as a clue that he might follow, but there was no sign. All at once in a sandy spot amongst some furze bushes he stopped again, with a grim smile on his lip. "Very evident that he hasn't been here," he muttered, as he looked at some scattered specimens of a fungus that would have delighted Vane, and been carried off as prizes. They were tall-stemmed, symmetrically formed fungi, with rather ragged brown and white tops, which looked as if in trying to get them open into parasol shape the moorland fairies had regularly torn up the outer skin of the tops with their little fingers; those unopened though showed the torn up marks as well, as they stood there shaped like an egg stuck upon a short thin stick. "Come on!" shouted Gilmore. "Found anything?" Macey shook his head, and hurried once more onward to keep the line, to hear soon afterwards _scape, scape_, uttered shrilly by a snipe which darted off in zigzag flight. "Oh, how poor old Vane would have liked to be here on such a morning!" thought Macey, and a peculiar moisture, which he hastily dashed away, gathered in his eyes and excused as follows:-- "Catching cold," he said, quickly. "No wonder with one's feet and legs so wet, why, I'm soaking right up to the waist. Hallo! what bird's that?" For a big-headed, thick-beaked bird flew out of a furze bush, showing a good deal of white in its wings. "Chaffinch, I s'pose. No; can't be. Too big. Oh, I do wish poor old Vane was here: he knows everything of that kind. Where can he be? Where can he be?" It was hot work that toiling through the bushes, but no one murmured or showed signs of slackening as he struggled along. There were halts innumerable, and the doctor could be seen hurrying here and hurrying there along the straggling line till at last a longer pause than usual was made at some pool, and heads were turned toward those who seemed to be making a more careful examination than usual; while, to relieve the tedium of the halt, Distin suddenly went splashing through the shallow stream on to the pebbly margin on the other side. "Shan't you get very wet?" shouted Gilmore. "Can't get wetter than I am," was shouted back then. "I say it's ten times better walking here. Look out! Moor-hens!" "And wild ducks," cried Gilmore, as a pair of pointed-winged mallards flew up with a wonderfully graceful flight. But the birds passed away unnoticed, for just then Distin uttered a cry which brought Macey tearing over the furze and brambles following Gilmore, who was already at the edge of the stream, and just then the signal was given by the miller to go on. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. VANE IS TAKEN AT A DISADVANTAGE. Vane felt for the moment quite startled, the place being so silent and solitary, but the idea of danger seemed to him absurd, and he stood watching the shadow till all doubt of its being human ceased, for an arm was raised and then lowered as if a signal was being made. "What can it mean?" he thought. And then:--"I'll soon see." Just as he had made up his mind to walk forward, there was a slight movement and a sharp crack as of a twig of dead wood breaking under the pressure of a foot, and he who caused the sound, feeling that his presence must be known, stepped out from behind the tree. "Why, I fancied it was Distie," said Vane to himself with a feeling of relief that he would have found it hard to explain, for it was one of the gipsy lads approaching him in a slow, furtive way. "Thought they were gone long enough ago," he said to himself; and then speaking: "Hi! you, sir; come here!--Make him try and dig some up. Wonder they don't hunt for truffles themselves," he added. "Don't think they are wholesome, perhaps." The lad came slowly toward him, but apparently with great unwillingness. "Come on," cried Vane, "and I'll give you a penny. Hallo! Here's the other one!" For the second lad came slouching along beneath the trees. "Here, you two," cried Vane, waving his trowel; "come along and dig up some of these. That's right. You've got sticks. You can do it with the points." The second boy had come into sight from among the trees to Vane's left, and advanced cautiously now, as if doubtful of the honesty of his intentions. "That's right," cried Vane. "Come along, both of you, and I'll give you twopence a piece. Do you hear? I shan't hurt you." But they did not hasten their paces, advancing very cautiously, stick in hand, first one and then the other, glancing round as if for a way of escape, as it seemed. "Why, they're as shy as rabbits," thought Vane, laughing to himself. "It's leading such a wild life, I suppose. Here," he cried to the first lad, who was now within a yard of him, while the other was close behind; "see these? I want some of them. Come on, and I'll show you how to find them. Why, what did you do that for?" Vane gave a bound forward, wincing with pain, for he had suddenly received a heavy blow on the back from the short cudgel the boy behind him bore, and as he turned fiercely upon him, thrusting the trowel into his basket and doubling his fist to return the blow, the first boy struck him heavily across the shoulder with his stick. If the gipsy lads imagined that the blows would cow Vane, and make him an easy victim for the thrashing they had evidently set themselves to administer, they were sadly mistaken. For uttering a cry of rage as the second blow sent a pang through him, Vane dashed down his basket and trowel, spun round and rushed at his second assailant, but only to receive a severe blow across one wrist while another came again from behind. "You cowards!" roared Vane; "put down those sticks, or come in front." The lads did neither, and finding in spite of his rage the necessity for caution, Vane sprang to a tree, making it a comrade to defend his back, and then struck out wildly at his assailants. So far his efforts were in vain. Sticks reach farther than fists, and his hands both received stinging blows, one on his right, numbing it for the moment and making him pause to wonder what such an unheard-of attack could mean. Thoughts fly quickly at all times, but with the greatest swiftness in emergencies, and as Vane now stood at bay he could see that these two lads had been watching him for some time past, and that the attack had only been delayed for want of opportunity. "I always knew that gipsies could steal," he thought, "but only in a little petty, pilfering way. This is highway robbery, and if I give them all I've got they will let me go." Then he considered what he had in his pockets--about seven shillings, including the half-pence--and a nearly new pocket-knife. He was just coming to the conclusion that he might just as well part with this little bit of portable property and escape farther punishment, when one of the boys made a feint at his head and brought his stick down with a sounding crack, just above his left knee, while the other struck him on the shoulder. Vane's blood was up now, and forgetting all about compromising, he dashed at one of his assailants, hitting out furiously, getting several blows home, in spite of the stick, and the next minute would have torn it from the young scoundrel's grasp if the other had not attacked him so furiously behind that he had to turn and defend himself there. This gave the boy he was beating time to recover himself, and once more Vane was attacked behind and had to turn again. All this was repeated several times, Vane getting far the worst of the encounter, for the gipsy lads were as active as cats and wonderfully skilful at dealing blows; but all the same they did not escape punishment, as their faces showed, Vane in his desperation ignoring the sticks and charging home with pretty good effect again and again. "It's no good; I shall be beaten," he thought as he now protected himself as well as he could by the shelter afforded by the tree he had chosen, though poor protection it was, for first one and then the other boy would dart in feinting with his stick and playing into the other's hand and giving him an opportunity to deliver a blow. "I shall have to give in, and the young savages will almost kill me." And all this time he was flinching, dodging and shrinking here and there, and growing so much exhausted that his breath came thick and fast. "Oh, if I only had a stick!" he panted, as he avoided a blow on one side to receive one on the other; and this made him rush savagely at one of the lads; but he had to draw back, smarting from a sharp blow across the left arm, right above the elbow, and one which half numbed the member. But though he cast longing eyes round, there was no sticks save those carried by the boys, who, with flashing eyes, kept on darting in and aiming wherever they could get a chance. There was one fact, however, which Vane noticed, and which gave him a trifle of hope just when he was most despairing: his adversaries never once struck at his head, contenting themselves by belabouring his arms, back and legs, which promised to be rendered quite useless if the fight went on. And all the time neither of the gipsy lads spoke a word, but kept on leaping about him, making short runs, and avoiding his blows in a way that was rapidly wearing him out. Should he turn and run? No, he thought; they would run over the ground more swiftly than he, and perhaps get him down. Then he thought of crying for help, but refrained, for he felt how distant they were from everyone, and that if he cried aloud he would only be expending his breath. And lastly, the idea came again that he had better offer the lads all he had about him. But hardly had the thought crossed his brain, than a more vicious blow than usual drove it away, and he rushed from the shelter of the tree-trunk at the boy who delivered that blow. In trying to avoid Vane's fist, he caught his heel, staggered back, and in an instant his stick was wrested from his hand, whistled through the air, and came down with a sounding crack, while what one not looking on might have taken to be an echo of the blow sounded among the trees. But it was not an echo, only the real thing, the second boy having rushed to his brother's help, and struck at Vane's shoulder, bringing him fiercely round to attack in turn, stick-armed now, and on equal terms. For Vane's blow had fallen on the first boy's head, and he went down half-stunned and bleeding, to turn over and then begin rapidly crawling away on hands and knees. Vane saw this, and he forgot that he was weak, that his arms were numbed and tingling, and that his legs trembled under him. If victory was not within his grasp, he could take some vengeance for his sufferings; and the next minute the beechen glade was ringing with the rattle of stick against stick, as in a state of blind fury now, blow succeeded blow, many not being fended off by the gipsy lad's stick, but reaching him in a perfect hail on head, shoulders, arms, everywhere. They flew about his head like a firework, making him see sparks in a most startling way till Vane put all his remaining strength into a tremendous blow which took effect upon a horizontal bough; the stick snapped in two close to his hand, and he stood defenceless once more, but the victor after all, for the second boy was running blindly in and out among the trees, and the first was quite out of sight. As he grasped the position, Vane uttered a hoarse shout and started in pursuit, but staggered, reeled, tried to save himself, and came down, heavily upon something hard, from which he moved with great rapidity and picked up to look at in dismay. It was the trowel. A faint, rustling sound amongst the leaves overhead roused Vane to the fact that he must have been sitting there some time in a giddy, half-conscious state, and, looking up, he could see the bright eyes of a squirrel fixed upon him, while its wavy bushy tail was twitching, and the little animal sounded as if it were scolding him for being there; otherwise all was still, and, in spite of his sufferings, it seemed very comical to Vane that the pretty little creature should be abusing him, evidently looking upon him as a thief come poaching upon the winter supply of beech-nuts. Then the giddy feeling grew more oppressive, the trees began to slowly sail round him, and there appeared to be several squirrels and several branches all whisking their bushy tails and uttering that peculiar sound of theirs--_chop, chop, chop_,--as if they had learned it from the noise made by the woodman in felling trees. What happened then Vane did not know, for when he unclosed his eyes again, it was to gaze at the level rays of the ruddy sun which streamed in amongst the leaves and twigs of the beeches, making them glorious to behold. For a few minutes he lay there unable to comprehend anything but the fact that his head was amongst the rough, woody beech-mast, and that one hand grasped the trowel while the other was full of dead leaves; but as his memory began to work more clearly and he tried to move, the sharp pains which shot through him chased all the mental mists away and he sprang up into a sitting posture unable to resist uttering a groan of pain as he looked round to see if either of the gipsy boys was in sight. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. WHERE VANE SPENT THE NIGHT. The squirrel and the squirrel only. There was not even a sound now. Vane could see the basket he had brought and the two pieces of the strong ash stick which he had broken over the fight with the second boy. The ground was trampled and the leaves kicked up, but no enemy was near, and he naturally began to investigate his damages. "They haven't killed me--not quite," he said, half-aloud, as he winced in passing his hand over his left shoulder and breast; and then his eyes half-closed, a deathly feeling of sickness came over him and he nearly fainted with horror, for at the touch of his hand a severe pain shot through his shoulder, and he could feel that his breast and armpit was soaking wet. Recovering from the shock of the horrible feeling he took out his handkerchief to act as a bandage, for he felt that he must be bleeding freely from one of the blows, and he knew enough from his uncle's books about injured arteries to make him set his teeth and determine to try and stop that before he attempted to get to his feet and start for home. His first effort was to unbutton his Norfolk jacket and find the injury which he felt sure must be a cut across the shoulder, but at the first touch of his hand he winced again, and the sick feeling came back with a faint sensation of horror, for there was a horrible grating sound which told of crushed bone and two edges grinding one upon the other. Again he mastered his weakness and boldly thrust his hand into his breast, withdrew it, and burst out into a wild hysterical laugh as he gave a casual glance at his hand before passing it cautiously into his left breast-pocket and bringing out, bit by bit, the fragments of the bottle of preparation which the doctor had dispensed, and that it had been his mission to deliver that afternoon. For in the heat of the struggle, a blow of one of the sticks had crushed the bottle, saturating his breast and side with the medicament, and suggesting to his excited brain a horrible bleeding wound and broken bones. "Oh, dear!" he groaned; and he laughed again, "how easy it is to deceive oneself;" and he busied himself, as he spoke, in picking out the remains of the bottle, and finally turned his pocket inside out and shook it clear. "Don't smell very nice," he said with a sigh; "but I hope it's good for bruises. Well, it's of no use for me to go on now, so I may as well get back." He was kneeling now and feeling his arms and shoulders again, and then he cautiously touched his face and head. But there was no pain, no trace of injury in that direction, and he began softly passing his hands up and down his arms, and over his shoulders, wincing with agony at every touch, and feeling that he must get on at once if he meant to reach home, for a terrible stiffness was creeping over him, and when at last he rose to his feet, he had to support himself by the nearest tree, for his legs were bruised from hip to ankle, and refused to support his weight. "It is of no good," he said at last, after several efforts to go on, all of which brought on a sensation of faintness. "I can't walk; what shall I do?" He took a step or two, so as to be quite clear of the broken bottle, and then slowly lowered himself down upon the thick bed of beech-mast and leaves, when the change to a recumbent position eased some of his sufferings, and enabled him to think more clearly. And one of the results of this was a feeling of certainty that it would be impossible for him to walk home. Then he glanced round, wondering whether his assailants had gone right away or were only watching prior to coming back to finish their work. "I don't know what it means," he said, dolefully. "I can't see why they should attack me like this. I never did them any harm. It must be for the sake of money, and they'll come back when I'm asleep." Vane ground his teeth, partly from rage, partly from pain, as he thrust his hand into his pocket, took out all the money he had, and then after looking carefully round, he raised the trowel, scraped away the leaves, dug a little hole and put in the coins, then covered them up again, spreading the leaves as naturally as possible, and mentally making marks on certain trees so as to remember the spot. At the same time he was haunted by the feeling that his every act was being watched, and that the coins would be found. "Never mind," he muttered, "they must find them," and he lay back once more to think about getting home, and whether he could manage the task after a rest, but he grew more and more certain that he could not, for minute by minute he grew cooler, and in consequence his joints and muscles stiffened, so that at last he felt as if he dared not stir. He lay quite still for a while, half-stunned mentally by his position, and glad to feel that he was not called upon to act in any way for the time being, all of which feeling was of course the result of the tremendous exertion through which he had passed, and the physical weakness and shock caused by the blows. It was a soft, deliciously warm evening, and it was restful to lie there, gazing through the trees at the glowing west, which was by slow degrees paling. The time had gone rapidly by during the last two hours or so, and it suddenly occurred to him in a dull, hazy way that the evening meal, a kind of high tea, would be about ready now at the little manor; that Aunt Hannah would be getting up from her work to look out of the window and see if he was coming; and that after his afternoon in the garden, the doctor would have been up to his bedroom and just come down ready to take his seat at the snug, comfortable board. "And they are waiting for me," thought Vane. The idea seemed more to amuse than trouble him in his half-stupefied state, for everything was unreal and dreamy. He could not fully realise that he was lying there battered and bruised, but found himself thinking as of some one else in whose troubles he took an interest. It was a curious condition of mind to be in, and, if asked, he could not have explained why he felt no anxiety nor wonder whether, after waiting tea for a long time, the doctor would send to meet him, and later on despatch a messenger to the village, where no news would be forthcoming. Perhaps his uncle and aunt would be anxious and would send people in search of him, and if these people were sent they would come along the deep lane and over the moorland piece, thinking that perhaps he would have gone that way for a short cut. Perhaps. It all seemed to be perhaps, in a dull, misty way, and it was much more pleasant to lie listening to the partridges calling out on the moor--that curiously harsh cry, answered by others at a distance, and watch the sky growing gradually grey, and the clouds in the west change from gold to crimson, then to purple, and then turn inky black, while now from somewhere not far away he heard the flapping of wings and a hoarse, crocketing sound which puzzled him for the moment, but as it was repeated here and there, he knew it was the pheasants which haunted that part of the forest, flying up to their roosts for the night, to be safe from prowling animals--four-legged, or biped who walked the woods by night armed with guns. For it did not matter; nothing mattered now. He was tired; and then all was blank. Sleep or stupor, one or the other. Vane had been insensible for hours when he woke up with a start to find that lie was aching and that his head burned. He was puzzled for a few minutes before he could grasp his position. Then all he had passed through came, and he lay wondering whether any search had been made. But still that did not trouble him. He wanted to lie still and listen to the sounds in the wood, and to watch the bright points of light just out through the narrow opening where he had seen the broad red face of the sun dip down, lower and lower out of sight. The intense darkness, too, beneath the beeches was pleasant and restful, and though there were no partridges calling now, there were plenty of sounds to lie and listen to, and wonder what they could be. At another time he would have felt startled to find himself alone out there in the darkness, but in his strangely dulled state now every feeling of alarm was absent, and a sensation akin to curiosity filled his brain. Even the two gipsy lads were forgotten. He had once fancied that they might return, but he had had reasoning power enough left to argue that they would have come upon him long enough before, and to feel that he must have beaten them completely,--frightened them away. And as he lay he awoke to the fact that all was not still in that black darkness, for there was a world of active, busy life at work. Now there came, like a whispering undertone, a faint clicking noise as the leaves moved. There were tiny feet passing over him; beetles of some kind that shunned the light; wood-lice and pill millipedes, hurrying here and there in search of food; and though Vane could not see them he knew that they were there. Again there was the soft rustling movement of a leaf, and then of another a short distance away on the other side of his head. And Vane smiled as he lay there on his back staring up at the overhanging boughs through which now and then he could catch sight of a fine bright ray. For he knew that sound well enough. It was made by great earth worms which reached out of their holes in the cool, moist darkness, feeling about for a soft leaf which they could seize with their round looking mouths, hold tightly, and draw back after them into the hole from which their tails had not stirred. Vane lay listening to this till he was tired, and then waited for some other sound of the night. It was not long in coming--a low, soft, booming buzz of some beetle, which sailed here and there, now close by, now so distant that its hum was almost inaudible, but soon came nearer again till it was right over his head, when there was a dull flip, then a tap on the dry beech-mast. "Cockchafer," said Vane softly, and he knew that it had blundered up against some twig and fallen to earth, where, though he could not see it, he knew that it was lying upon its back sprawling about with its awkward-looking legs, vainly trying to get on to them again and start upon another flight. Once more there was silence, broken only by a faint, fine hum of a gnat, and the curious wet crackling or rustling sound which rose from the leaves. Then Vane smiled, for in the distance there was a resonant, "Hoi, hoi," such as might have been made by people come in search of him. But he knew better, as the shout rose up, and nearer and nearer still at intervals, for it was an owl sailing along on its soft, silent pinions, the cry being probably to startle a bird from its roost or some unfortunate young bird or mouse into betraying its whereabouts, so that a feathered leg might suddenly be darted down to seize, with four keen claws all pointing to one centre, and holding with such a powerful grip that escape was impossible. The owl passed through the dark shadowy aisles, and its cry was heard farther and farther away till it died out; but there was no sense of loneliness in the beech-wood. There was always something astir. Now it was a light tripping sound of feet over the dead leaves, the steps striking loudly on the listener's ear. Then they ceased, as if the animal which made the sounds were cautious and listening for danger. Again trip, trip, trip, plainly heard and coming nearer, and from half-a-dozen quarters now the same tripping sounds, followed by pause after pause, and then the continuation as if the animals were coming from a distance to meet at some central spot. _Rap_! A quick, sharp blow of a foot on the ground, followed by a wild, tearing rush of rabbits among the trees, off and away to their burrows, not one stopping till its cotton-wool-like tail had followed its owner into some sandy hole. Another pause with the soft petillation of endless life amongst the dead leaves, and then from outside the forest, down by the sphagnum margined pools, where the cotton-rushes grew and the frogs led a cool, soft splashing life, there came a deep-toned bellowing roar, rising and falling with a curious ventriloquial effect as if some large animal had lost its way, become bogged, and in its agony was calling upon its owner for rescue. No large quadruped, only a brown-ruffed, long necked, sharp-billed bittern, the now rare marsh bird which used to haunt the watery solitudes with the heron, but save here and there driven away by drainage and the naturalist's gun. And as Vane lay and listened, wondering whether the bird uttered its strange, bellowing song from down by a pool, or as it sailed round and round, and higher and higher, over the boggy mere, he recalled the stories Chakes had told him of the days when "bootherboomps weer as plentiful in the mash as wild ducks in winter." And then he tried to fit the bird's weird bellowing roar with the local rustic name--"boomp boomp--boother boomp!" but it turned out a failure, and he lay listening to the bird's cry till it grew fainter and less hoarse. Then fainter still, and at last all was silent, for Vane had sunk once more into a half-insensible state, it could hardly be called sleep, from which he was roused by the singing of birds and the dull, chattering wheezing chorus kept up by a great flock of starlings, high up in the beech tops. The feverish feeling which had kept him from being cold had now passed off, and he lay there chilled to the bone, aching terribly and half-puzzled at finding himself in so strange a place. But by degrees he recalled everything, and feeling that unless he made some effort to crawl out of the beech-wood he might lie there for many hours, perhaps days, he tried to turn over so as to get upon his knees and then rise to his feet. He was not long in finding that the latter was an impossibility, for at the slightest movement the pain was intense, and he lay still once more. But it was terribly cold; he was horribly thirsty, and fifty yards away the beech trees ended and the sun was shining hotly on the chalky bank, while just below there was clear water ready for scooping up with his hand to moisten his cracked lips. In addition, there were blackberries or, if not, dew-berries which he might reach. Only a poor apology for breakfast, but delicious now if he could only get some between his lips. He tried again, then again, each time the pain turning him sick; but there was a great anxiety upon him now. His thoughts were no longer dull and strained in a selfish stupor; he was awake, fully awake, and in mental as well as bodily agony. For his thoughts were upon those at the little manor, and he knew that they must have passed a sleepless night on his account, and he knew, too, that in all probability his uncle had been out with others searching for him, certain that some evil must have befallen or he would have returned. It was a terrible wrench, and he felt as if his muscles were being torn; but with teeth set, he struggled till he was upon hands and knees, and then made his first attempt to crawl, if only for a foot or two. At last, after shrinking again and again, he made the effort, and the start made, he persevered, though all the time there was a singing in his ears, the dead leaves and blackened beech-mast seemed to heave and fall like the surface of the sea, and a racking agony tortured his limbs. But he kept on foot by foot, yard by yard, with many halts and a terrible drag upon his mental powers before he could force himself to recommence. How long that little journey of fifty or sixty yards took he could not tell; all he knew was that he must get out of the forest and into the sunshine, where he might be seen by those who came in search of him; and there was water there--the pure clear water which would be so grateful to his parched lips and dry, husky throat. The feeling of chill was soon gone, for his efforts produced a burning pain in every muscle, but in a dim way he knew that he was getting nearer the edge, for it was lighter, and a faint splashing sound and the beating of wings told of wild-fowl close at hand in that clear water. On then again so slowly, but foot by foot, till the last of the huge pillar-like trunks which had seemed to bar his way was passed, and he slipped down a chalky bank to lie within sight of the water but unable to reach it, utterly spent, when he heard a familiar voice give the Australian call--"Coo-ee!" and he tried to raise a hand but it fell back. Directly after a voice cried: "Hi! Here he is!" The voice was Distin's, and as he heard it Vane fainted dead away. The Weathercock--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. THE LAW ASKS QUESTIONS. Seeing the rush made by Gilmore and Macey, Bruff hesitated for a few moments, and then turned and shouted to Joseph, the next man. "They've fun suthin," and ran after them. Joseph turned and shouted to Wrench, the carpenter. "They've got him," and followed Bruff. Wrench shouted to Chakes and ran after Joseph, and in this House-that-Jack-built fashion the news ran along the line to the doctor and rector, and right to the end, with the result that all came hurrying along in single-file, minute by minute increasing the size of the group about where Vane lay quite insensible now. "Poor old chap," cried Macey, dropping on his knees by his friend's side, Gilmore kneeling on the other, and both feeling his hands and face, which were dank and cold, while Distin stood looking down grimly but without offering to stir. "Don't say he's dead, sir," panted Bruff. "No, no, he's not dead," cried Macey. "Fetch some water; no, run for the doctor." "He's coming, sir," cried Joseph, shading his eyes to look along the line. "He won't be long. Hi--hi--yi! Found, found, found!" roared the man, and his cry was taken up now and once more the news flew along the line, making all redouble their exertions, even the rector, who had not done such a thing for many years, dropping into the old football pace of his youth, with his fists up and trotting along after the doctor. But the progress was very slow. It was a case of the more haste the worst speed, for a bee-line through ancient gorse bushes and brambles is not perfection as a course for middle-aged and elderly men not accustomed to go beyond a walk. Every one in his excitement caught the infection, and began to run, but the mishaps were many. Chakes, whose usual pace was one mile seven furlongs per hour, more or less, tripped and went down; and as nobody stopped to help him, three men passed him before he had struggled up and began to look about for his hat. The next to go down was Rounds, the miller, who, after rushing several tangles like an excited rhinoceros, came to grief over an extra tough bramble strand, and went down with a roar. "Are you hurt, Mr Rounds?" panted the doctor. "Hurt!" cried the churchwarden, "I should think I am, sir. Five hundred million o' thorns in me. But don't you wait. You go on, and see to that boy," he continued, as he drew himself into a sitting position. "Dessay he wants you more than I do." "Then I will go on, Mr Rounds; forgive me for leaving you." "All right, sir, and you too, parson; goo on, niver mind me." The rector seemed disposed to stay, for he was breathless, but he trotted on, and was close to the doctor, as he reached the group on the other side of the stream. "Not dead?" panted the doctor. "Oh no, sir," cried Macey, "but he's very bad; seems to have tumbled about among the trees a great deal. Look at his face." The doctor knelt down after making the men stand back. "Must have fallen heavily," he said, as he began his examination. "Head cut, great swelling, bruise across his face, and eye nearly closed. This is no fall, Mr Syme. Good heavens! look at his hand and wrist. The poor fellow has been horribly beaten with sticks, I should say." "But tell me," panted the rector; "he is not--" "No, no, not dead; insensible, but breathing." "Found him, gentlemen?" said a voice; and as the rector looked up, it was to see the two police constables on their way to join them. "Yes, yes," cried the rector; "but, tell me, was there any firing in the night--any poachers about?" "No, sir; haven't seen or heard of any lately; we keep too sharp a look-out. Why, the young gent has got it severely. Some one's been knocking of him about." "Don't stop to talk," cried the doctor. "I must have him home directly." "Here, how is he?" cried a bluff voice; and Rounds now came up, dabbing his scratched and bleeding face with his handkerchief. "Bad, bad, Rounds," said the doctor. "Bad? Ay, he is. But, halloo, who is been doing this?" He looked around at his fellow-townsmen, and then at Vane's fellow-pupils so fiercely that Gilmore said quickly: "Not I, Mr Rounds." "Silence!" cried the doctor angrily. "It is of vital importance that my nephew should be carried home at once." "Oh, we'll manage that, sir," said one of the constables as he slipped off his greatcoat and spread it on the ground. "Now, if we lift him and lay him upon that, and half-a-dozen take hold of the sides and try to keep step, we can get him along." "Yes, that's right," cried the doctor, superintending the lifting, which drew a faint groan from Vane. "Poor lad!" he said; "but I'm glad to hear that. Now then, better keep along this side of the stream till we can cut across to the lane. Here, I want a good runner." "I'll go," said Gilmore quickly. "Yes, you," said the doctor, "go and tell my wife to have Vane's bed ready. Say we have found him hurt, but not very badly." "Why not take him to the rectory?" said Mr Syme. "It is nearer." "Thank you, but I'll have him at home," said the doctor. "One moment, gentlemen," said the first constable, book in hand. "I want to know exactly where he was found." "Here, man, here," cried the doctor. "Now then, lift him carefully, and keep step. If I say stop, lower him directly." "Yes, sir; go on," said the constable. "We must have a look round before we come away. P'r'aps you'd stop along with us, Mr Churchwarden, sir, and maybe one of you young gents would stay," he continued, addressing Distin. "Me--me stay!" said the lad starting, and flushing to his brow. "Yes, sir. Young gents' eyes are sharp and see things sometimes." "Yes, Distin, my dear boy," said the rector, "stop with them. You are going to search?" "Yes, sir. That young gent couldn't have got into that state all by himself, and we want to find out who did it." The man glanced sharply at Distin again as he spoke, and the young Creole avoided his eye with the result that the constable made a note in his book with a pencil which seemed to require wetting before it would mark. "I think," said the rector, "it is my duty to stay here, as this matter is assuming a serious aspect." "Thank ye, sir; I should be glad if you would," said the constable. "It do begin to look serious." "Joseph, run on after Dr Lee, and tell him why I am staying. Say that he is to use the carriage at once if he wishes to send for help or nurse. I shall not be very long." Joseph ran off at a sharp trot after the departing group, and the constable went slowly forward after carefully examining the ground where Vane had been found. "Keep back, everybody, please. Plenty of footprints here," he said, "but all over, I'm afraid. Hah! Look here, sir," he continued, pointing down at the loose sand and pebbles; "he crawled along here on his hands and knees." Distin looked sallow and troubled now, and kept on darting furtive looks at those about, several of the men having stopped back to see what the constable might find. "Don't see no steps but his," said the constable, who seemed to be keenly observant for so rustic-looking a man. "Hah, that's where he come down, regularly slipped, you see." He pointed to the shelving bank of chalk, on the top of which the beeches began, and over which their long, lithe branches drooped. "Steady, please. I'll go on here by myself with you two gents. You see as no one else follows till I give leave." The second constable nodded, and the bank was climbed, the rector telling Distin to hold out a hand to help him--a hand that was very wet and cold, feeling something like the tail of a codfish. Here the constable had no difficulty in finding Vane's track over the dead leaves and beech-mast for some distance, and then he uttered an ejaculation as he pounced upon a broken stick, one of the pieces being stained with blood. "It's getting warm," he said. "Oh, yes, don't come forward, gentlemen. Here we are: ground's all trampled and kicked up, and what's this here? Little trowel and a basket and--" He turned over the contents of the basket with a puzzled expression. "Aren't taters," he said, holding the basket to the rector. "No, my man, they are truffles." "Oh, yes, sir, I can see they're trifles." "Truffles, my man, troofles," said the rector. "The poor fellow must have been digging them up." "But no one wouldn't interfere with him for digging up that stuff, sir. I mean keepers or the like. And there's been two of 'em here, simminly. Oh, yes, look at the footmarks, only they don't tell no tales. I like marks in soft mud, where you can tell the size, and what nails was in the boots. Stuff like this shows nothing. Halloo, again." "Found something else?" cried the rector excitedly. "Bits o' broken glass, sir,--glass bottle. There's a lot of bits scattered about." The constable searched about the grass of the beech grove where the struggle had taken place, but not being gifted with the extraordinary eyes and skill of an American Indian, he failed to find the track of Vane's assailants going and coming, and he was about to give up when the rector pointed to a couple of places amongst the dead leaves which looked as if two hands had torn up some of the dead leaves. "Ay, that's someat," said the constable quickly. "I see, sir, you're quite right. Some one went down here and--Phee-ew!" he whistled as he picked up a leaf. "See that, sir?" The rector looked, shuddered and turned away, but Distin pressed forward with a curious, half-fascinated aspect, and stared down at the leaf the constable held out, pointing the while to several more like it which lay upon the ground. "Blood?" said Distin in a hoarse voice. "Yes, sir, that's it. Either the young gent or some one else had what made that. Don't look nice, do it?" Distin shuddered, and the constable made another note in his book, moistening his pencil over and over again and glancing thoughtfully at Distin as he wrote in a character that might have been called cryptographic, for it would have defied any one but the writer to have made it out. "Well, constable," said the rector at last, "what have you discovered?" "That the young gent was out here, sir, digging up them tater things as he was in the habit of grubbing up--weeds and things. I've seen him before." "Yes, yes," said the rector. "Well?" "And then some one come and went at him." "Some one," said the rector, "I thought you said two." "So I did, sir, and I thought so at first, but I don't kind o' find marks of more than one, and he broke this stick about Mr Vane, and the wonder to me is as he hasn't killed him. Perhaps he has." "But what motive? It could not have been the keepers." "Not they, sir. They liked him." "Could it be poachers?" "Can't say, sir. Hardly. What would they want to 'tack a young gent like that for?" "Have there been any tramps about who might do it for the sake of robbery?" "Ha'n't been a tramp about here for I don't know how long, sir. We're quite out of them trash. Looks to me more like a bit o' spite." "Spite?" "Yes, sir. Young gent got any enemies as you know on?" The rector laughed and Distin joined in, making the constable scratch his head. "Oh, no, my man, we have no enemies in my parish. You have not got the right clue this time. Try again." "I'm going to, sir, but that's all for to-day," said the man, buttoning up his book in his pocket. "I think we'll go back to the town now." "By all means," said the rector. "Very painful and very strange. Come, Distin." As he spoke he walked from under the twilight of the great beech-wood out into the sunshine, where about a dozen of the searchers were waiting impatiently in charge of the second constable for a report of what had been done. As the rector went on, Distin looked keenly round and then bent down over the leaves which bore the ugly stains, and without noticing that the constable had stolen so closely to him, that when he raised his head he found himself gazing full in the man's searching eyes. "Very horrid, sir, aren't it," he said. "Yes, yes, horrible," cried Distin, hastily, and he turned sharply round to follow the rector. At that moment the constable touched him on the shoulder with the broken stick, and Distin started round and in spite of himself shivered at the sight of the pieces. "Yes," he said hoarsely, as his face now was ghastly. "You want to speak to me?" "Yes, sir, just a word or two. Would you mind telling me where you was yesterday afternoon--say from four to six o'clock?" "I--I don't remember," said Distin. "Why do you ask?" "The law has a right to ask questions, sir, and doesn't always care about answering of them," said the man with a twinkle of the eye. "You say you don't know where you was?" "No. I am not sure. At the rectory, I think." "You aren't sure, sir, but at the rectory, you think. Got rather a bad memory, haven't you, sir?" "No, excellent," cried Distin desperately. "You says as you was at the rectory yesterday afternoon when this here was done?" "How do you know it was done in the afternoon," said Distin, quickly. "Reason one, 'cause the young gent went in the afternoon to Lenby. Reason two, 'cause he was digging them trifles o' taters, and young gents don't go digging them in the dark. That do, sir?" "Yes. I feel sure now that I was at the rectory," said Distin, firmly. "Then I must ha' made a mistake, sir--eyes nothing like so good as they was." "What do you mean," cried Distin, changing colour once more. "Oh, nothing, sir, nothing, only I made sure as I see you when I was out in my garden picking apples in the big old tree which is half mine, half my mate's. But of course it was my mistake. Thought you was going down the deep lane." "Oh, no, I remember now," said Distin, carelessly; "I go out so much to think and study, that I often quite forget. Yes, I did go down the lane--of course, and I noticed how many blackberries there were on the banks." "Ay, there are a lot, sir--a great lot to-year. The bairns gets quite basketsful of 'em." "Are you coming, Distin?" cried the rector. "Yes, sir, directly," cried Distin; and then haughtily, "Do you want to ask me any more questions, constable?" "No, sir, thankye; that will do." "Then, good-morning." Distin walked away with his head up, and a nonchalant expression on his countenance, leaving the constable looking after him. "Want to ask me any more questions, constable," he said, mimicking Distin's manner. "Then good-morning." He stood frowning for a few minutes, and nodded his head decisively. "Well," he said, "you're a gentleman, I suppose, and quite a scholard, or you wouldn't be at parson's, but if you aren't about as artful as they make 'em, I'm as thick-headed as a beetle. Poor lad! Only a sort o' foreigner, I suppose. What a blessing it is to be born a solid Englishman. Not as I've got a word again your Irishman and Scotchman, or your Welsh, if it comes to that, but what can you expect of a lad born out in a hot climate that aren't good for nobody but blacks?" He took a piece of string out of his pocket, and very carefully tied the trowel and pieces of broken stick together as firmly as if they were to be despatched on a long journey. Then he opened the basket, peeped in, and frowned at the truffles, closed it up and went out. "Any of you as likes can go in now," he said, and shaking his head solemnly as questions began to pour upon him from all sides respecting the stick and basket, he strode off with his colleague in the direction of the town, gaining soon upon the rector, who was too tired and faint to walk fast, for it was not his habit to pass the night out of bed, and take a walk of some hours' duration at early dawn. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. BATES IS OBSTINATE. Gilmore reached the Little Manor to find Aunt Hannah ready to hurry out and meet him, and he shrank from giving his tidings, fearing that it would be a terrible shock. But he could keep nothing back with those clear, trusting eyes fixed upon him, and he gave his message. "You would not deceive me, Mr Gilmore?" she said. "You are sure that he is only badly hurt; the doctor--my husband--hasn't sent you on to soften worse news to come?" "Indeed no," cried Gilmore warmly. "Don't think that. He is very bad. It is not worse." Aunt Hannah closed her eyes, and he saw her lips move for a few moments. He could not hear the words she spoke, but he took off his hat, and bent his head till she laid her hand upon his arm. "Thank God!" she said fervently. "I feared the worst. They are coming on, you say?" "Yes, but it will be quite an hour before they can get here. You will excuse me, Mrs Lee, I want to get back to poor old Vane's side." "Yes, go," she said cheerfully. "I shall be very busy getting ready for him. The doctor did not say that you were to take anything back?" "No," said Gilmore; and he hurried away, admiring the poor little lady's fortitude, for he could see that she was suffering keenly, and only too glad to be alone. As he hurried back to the town he was conscious for the first time that his lower garments were still saturated and patched with dust; that his hands were torn and bleeding, and that his general aspect was about as disordered as it could possibly be. In fact he felt that he looked as if he had been spending the early morning trying to drag a pond, and that every one who saw him would be ready to jeer. On the contrary, though he met dozens of people all eager to question him about Vane, no one appeared to take the slightest notice of his clothes, and he could not help learning how popular his friend was among the townsfolk, as he saw their faces assume an aspect of joy and relief. "I wonder whether they would make so much fuss about me," he said to himself; and, unable to arrive at a self-satisfying conclusion, he began to think what a blank it would have made in their existence at the rectory if Vane had been found dead. From that, as he hurried along, he began to puzzle himself about the meaning of it all, and was as far off from a satisfactory conclusion as when he began, on coming in sight of the little procession with the doctor walking on one side of Vane, and Macey upon the other. He had not spoken, but lay perfectly unconscious, and there was not the slightest change when, followed by nearly the whole of the inhabitants of Greythorpe, he was borne in at the Little Manor Gate, the crowd remaining out in the road waiting for such crumbs of news as Bruff brought to them from time to time. There was not much to hear, only that the doctor had carefully examined Vane when he had been placed in bed, and found that his arms and shoulders were horribly beaten and bruised, and that the insensibility still lasted, while Doctor Lee had said something about fever as being a thing to dread. They were the words of wisdom, for before many hours had passed Vane was delirious and fighting to get out of bed and defend himself against an enemy always attacking him with a stick. He did not speak, only shrank and cowered and then attacked in turn fiercely, producing once more the whole scene so vividly that the doctor and Aunt Hannah could picture everything save the enemy who had committed the assault. The next evening, while the rector sat thinking over the bad news he had heard from the Little Manor half-an-hour before, Joseph tapped at the door to announce a visitor, and the rector said that he might be shown in. Macey was at the Little Manor. Gilmore and Distin were in the grounds when the visitor was seen entering the gate, and the latter looked wildly round, as if seeking for the best way to escape; but mastering himself directly, he stood listening to Gilmore, who exclaimed: "Hallo! here's Mr PC. Let's go and ask him if he has any news about the brute who nearly killed poor old Vane." "No," said Distin, hoarsely; "let's wait till he comes out." "All right," replied Gilmore; and he stood in the gloom beneath the great walnut tree watching the constable go up to the porch, ring, and, after due waiting, enter, his big head, being seen soon after, plainly shown against the study shaded lamp. "Well, constable," said the rector; "you have news for me?" "Yes, sir." "About the assailant of my poor pupil?" "Yes, sir, and I should have been here before, only it was Magistrates' day, and I had to go over to the town to attend a case." "Well, what have you found out? Do you know who the person was that assailed Mr Vane Lee?" "Yes, sir: I'm pretty sure." "Not some one in this town?" "Yes, sir." "Surely not. I cannot think that any one would be so cruel." "Sorry to say it is so, sir, as far as I know; and I'm pretty sure now." "But who? We have so few black sheep here, I am thankful to say. Not Tompkins?" "No, sir." "Jevell?" "No, sir, some one much nigher home than that, sir, I'm sorry to say." "Well, speak, and put me out of my suspense." "Some one here, sir," said the constable, after drawing a long breath. "What!" "Fact, sir. Some one as lives here at the rectory." "In the name of common sense, man," cried the rector, angrily, "whom do you mean--me?" "No, sir, that would be too bad," said the constable. "Whom, then?" "Your pupil, sir, Mr Distin." Had a good solid Japanese earthquake suddenly shaken down all the walls of the rectory and left the Reverend Morton Syme seated in his easy chair unhurt and surrounded by debris and clouds of dust, he could not have looked more astonished. He stared at the constable, who stood before him, very stiff, much buttoned up and perfectly unmoved, as a man would stand who feels his position unassailable. Then quietly and calmly taking out his gold-rimmed spring eye-glasses, the rector drew a white pocket-handkerchief from his breast, carefully polished each glass, put them on and stared frowningly at his visitor, who returned the look for a time, and then feeling his position irksome and that it called for a response, he coughed, saluted in military fashion and settled his neck inside his coat collar. "You seem to be perfectly sober, Bates," said the rector at last. "Sober, sir?" said the man quickly. "Well, I think so, sir." "Then, my good man, you must be mad." The constable smiled. "Beg pardon, sir. That's just what criminals make a point of saying when you charge 'em. Not as I mean, sir," he added hastily, "that you are a criminal, far from it." "Thank you, my man, I hope not. But what in the name of common sense has put it into your head that my pupil, Mr Distin, could be guilty of such a terrible deed? Oh, it's absurd--I mean monstrous." The constable looked at him stolidly, and then said slowly: "Suckumstarnces, sir, and facks." "But, really, my good man, I--Stop! You said you had been over to the town and met your chief officer. Surely you have not started this shocking theory there." "Oh, yes, sir. In dooty bound. I told him my suspicions." "Well, what did he say?" The constable hesitated, coughed, and pulled himself tightly together. "I asked you what your chief officer said, sir." "Well, sir, if I must speak I must. He said I was a fool." "Ah, exactly," cried the rector, eagerly. Then, checking himself, he said with a deprecating smile: "No, no, Bates, I do not endorse that, for I have always found you a very respectable, intelligent officer, who has most efficiently done his duty in Greythorpe; and unless it were for your benefit, I should be very sorry to hear of your being removed." "Thankye, sir; thankye kindly," said the constable. "But in this case, through excess of zeal, I am afraid you have gone much too far. Mr Lance Distin is a gentleman, a student, and of very excellent family. A young man of excellent attainments, and about as likely to commit such a brutal assault as you speak of, as--as, well, for want of a better simile, Bates, as I am." The constable shook his head and looked very serious. "Now, tell me your reasons for making such a charge." The explanations followed. "Flimsy in the extreme, Bates," said the rector triumphantly, and as if relieved of a load. "And you show no more common sense than to charge a gentleman with such a crime solely because you happened to see him walking in that direction." "Said he wasn't out, sir." "Well, a slip--a piece of forgetfulness. We might either of us have done the same. But tell me, why have you come here?" "Orders was to investigate, and if I found other facts, sir, to communicate with the chief constable." "Of course. Now, you see, my good man, that what I say is correct--that through excess of zeal you are ready to charge my pupil--a gentleman entrusted to my charge by his father in the West Indies--a pupil to whom, during his stay in England, I act _in loco parentis_--and over whose career I shall have to watch during his collegiate curriculum-- with a crime that must have been committed by some tramp. You understand me?" "Yes, sir, all except the French and the cricklum, but I daresay all that's right." The rector smiled. "Now, are you satisfied that you have made a mistake?" "No, sir, not a bit of it," said the constable stolidly. The rector made a deprecating gesture with his hand, rose and rang the bell. Then he returned to his seat, sat back and waited till the bell was answered. "Have the goodness, Joseph, to ask Mr Distin to step here." "If I might make so bold, sir," interposed the constable, "I should like you to have 'em all in." "One of my pupils, Mr Macey, is at the manor." "Macey? That's the funny one," said the constable. "Perhaps you'd have in them as is at home." "Ask Mr Gilmore to step in too." Joseph withdrew, and after a painful silence, steps were heard in the porch. "By the way, Bates," said the rector, hastily, "have you spread this charge?" "No, sir; of course not." "Does not Doctor Lee know?" "Not yet, sir. Thought it my dooty to come fust to you." "I thank you, Bates. It was very considerate of you. Hush!" Distin's voice was heard saying something outside in a loud, laughing way, and the next moment he tapped and entered. "Joseph said you wished to see me, sir." Then, with an affected start as he saw the constable standing there, "Have you caught them?" "Be good enough to sit down, Distin. Gilmore, take a chair." Then, after a pause: "You are here, Gilmore, at the constable's request, but the matter does not affect you. My dear Distin, it does affect you, and I want you to help me convince this zealous but wrong-headed personage that he is labouring under a delusion." "Certainly, sir," replied Distin, cheerfully. "What is the delusion?" "In plain, simple English, my dear boy, he believes that you committed that cruel assault upon poor Vane Lee." "Oh," exclaimed Distin, springing up and gazing excited at the constable, his eyes full of reproach--a look which changed to one of indignation, and with a stamp of the foot like one that might be given by an angry girl, he cried: "How dare he!" "Ah, yes! How dare he," said the rector. "But pray do not be angry, my dear boy. There is no need. Bates is a very good, quiet, sensible man who comes here in pursuance of what he believes to be his duty, and I am quite convinced that as soon as he realises the fact that he has made a great mistake he will apologise, and there will be an end of it." The constable did not move a muscle, but stood gazing fixedly at Distin, who uttered a contemptuous laugh. "Well, Mr Syme," he said, "what am I to do? Pray give me your advice." "Certainly, and it is my duty to act as your counsel; so pray forgive me for asking you questions which you may deem unnecessary--for I grant that they are as far as I am concerned, but they are to satisfy this man." "Pray ask me anything you like, sir," cried Distin with a half-contemptuous laugh. "Then tell me this, on your honour as a gentleman: did you assault Vane Lee?" "No!" cried Distin. "Did you meet him in the wood the day before yesterday?" "No." "Did you encounter him anywhere near there, quarrel with and strike him?" "No, no, no," cried Distin, "and I swear--" "There is no need to swear, Mr Distin. You are on your honour, sir," said the rector. "Well, sir, on my honour I did not see Vane Lee from the time he left this study the day before yesterday till I found him lying below the chalk-bank by that stream." "Thank you, Distin. I am much obliged for your frank disclaimer," said the rector, gravely. "As I intimated to you all this was not necessary to convince me, but to clear away the scales from this man's eyes. Now, Bates," he continued, turning rather sternly to the constable, "are you satisfied?" "No, sir," said the man bluntly, "not a bit." "Why, you insolent--" "Silence, Mr Distin," said the rector firmly. "But, really, sir, this man's--" "I said silence, Mr Distin. Pray contain yourself. Recollect what you are. I will say anything more that I consider necessary." He cleared his throat, sat back for a few moments, and then turned to the constable. "Now, my good fellow, you have heard Mr Distin's indignant repudiation of this charge, and you are obstinately determined all the same." "Don't know about obstinate, sir," replied the constable, "I am only doing my duty, sir." "What you conceive to be your duty, Bates. But you are wrong, my man, quite wrong. You are upon the wrong scent. Now I beg of you try to look at this in a sensible light and make a fresh start to run down the offender. You see you have made a mistake. Own to it frankly, and I am sure that Mr Distin will be quite ready to look over what has been said." Just then there was a tap at the door. "May I come in, sir?" "Yes, come in, my dear boy. You have just arrived from the Manor?" "Yes, sir," said Macey. "How is Vane?" Macey tried to answer, but something seemed to rise in his throat, and when he did force out his words they sounded low and husky. "Awfully bad, sir. The doctor took me up, but he doesn't know anybody. Keeps going on about fighting." "Poor lad," said the rector, with a sigh. "But, look here, Macey, you must hear this. The constable here--Bates--has come to announce to me his belief that the assault was committed by your fellow-pupil." "Distin?" cried Macey, sharply, and as he turned to him the Creole's jaw dropped. "Yes, but it is of course a mistake, and has been disproved. I was pointing out to Bates here the folly of an obstinate persistence in such an idea, when you entered." Then turning once more to the constable, "Come, my man, you see now that you are in the wrong." "No, sir," said the constable, "I didn't see it before, but I feel surer now that I'm right." "What?" "That young gent thinks so too." "Mr Macey? Absurd!" "See how he jumped to it directly, sir." "Nonsense, man! Nonsense," cried the rector. "Here, Macey, my dear boy, I suppose, as a man of peace, I must strive to convince this wrong-headed personage. Tell him that he is half mad." "For thinking Distin did it, sir?" replied Macey, slowly. "Exactly--yes." "It wouldn't be quite fair, sir, because I'm afraid I thought so, too." The constable gave his leg a slap. "You--you dare to think that," cried Distin. "Hush! hush! hush!" said the rector, firmly. "Macey, my dear boy, what cause have you for thinking such a thing." "Distin hates him." The constable drew a long breath, and he had hard work to preserve his equanimity in good official style. "My dear Macey," cried the rector reproachfully, "surely you are not going, on account of a few boyish disagreements, to think that your fellow-pupil would make such a murderous attack. Come, you don't surely believe that?" "No," said Macey slowly, "I don't now: I can't believe that he would be such a wretch." "There!" cried the rector, triumphantly. "Now, constable, there is no more to say, except that I beg you will not expose me and mine to painful trouble, and yourself to ridicule by going on with this baseless charge." "Can't say, sir, I'm sure," replied the constable. "I want to do my dooty, and I want to show respect to you, Mr Syme, sir, as has always been a good, kind gentleman to me; but we're taught as no friendly or personal feelings is to stand in the way when we want to catch criminals. So, with all doo respect to you, I can't make no promises." "I shall not ask you, my man," replied the rector; "what I do say is go home and think it over. In a day or two I hope and trust that my pupil Vane Lee will be well enough to enlighten us as to who were his assailants." "I hope so, sir. But suppose he dies?" "Heaven forbid! my man. There, do as I say: go back and think over this meeting seriously, and believe me I shall be very glad to see you come to me to-morrow and say frankly, from man to man--I have been in the wrong. Don't shrink from doing so. It is an honour to anyone to avow that he was under a misapprehension." "Thankye, sir, and good-night," said the constable, as the rector rang for Joseph to show him out; and the next minute all sat listening to his departing steps on the gravel, followed by the _click click click click_ of the swing-gate. The rector looked round as if he were about to speak, but he altered his mind, and the three pupils left the room, Distin going up to his chamber without a word, while attracted by the darkness Gilmore and Macey strolled out through the open porch into the grounds. "Suppose he dies?" said Macey, almost unconsciously repeating the constable's words. "Oh, I say, don't talk like that," cried Gilmore. "It isn't likely, and you shouldn't have turned against poor old Distie as you did." "I couldn't help it," said Macey, sadly. "You'd have thought the same if the doctor had let you go up to see poor old Weathercock. It was horrid. His face is dreadful, and his arms are black and blue from the wrist to the shoulder." "But Dis declared that he hadn't seen him," cried Gilmore. "I hope he hadn't, for it's too horrid to think a fellow you mix with could be such a wretch." Gilmore turned sharply round to his companion, but it was too dark to see his face. There was something, however, in his tone of voice which struck him as being peculiar. It did not sound confident of Distin's innocence. There was a want of conviction in his words too, and this set Gilmore thinking as to the possibility of Distin having in a fit of rage and dislike quarrelled with and then beaten Vane till the stick was broken and his victim senseless. The idea grew rapidly as he stood there beside Macey in the darkness, and he recalled scores of little incidents all displaying Distin's dislike of his fellow-pupil; and as Gilmore thought on, a conscious feeling of horror, almost terror, crept over him till his common sense began to react and argue the matter out so triumphantly that in a voice full of elation he suddenly and involuntarily exclaimed: "It's absurd! He couldn't." "What's absurd? Who couldn't," cried Macey, starting from a reverie. "Did I say that aloud?" said Gilmore, wonderingly. "Why, you shouted it." "I was thinking about whether it was possible that the constable was right." "That's queer," said Macey; "I was thinking just the same." "And that Distie had done it?" "Yes." "Well, don't you see that it is impossible?" "No, I wish I could," said Macey sadly; "can you?" "Why, of course. Vane's as strong as Distie, isn't he?" "Yes, quite." "And he can use his fists." "I should rather think he can. I put on the gloves with him one day and he sent me flying. But what has that got to do with it?" "Everything. Do you think Distie could have pitched into Vane with a stick and not got something back?" "Why, of course he couldn't." "Well, there you are, then. He hasn't got a scratch." "Hist! What's that," said Macey, softly. "Sounded like a window squeaking." "Come away," whispered Macey taking his companion by the arm, and leading him over the turf before he stopped some distance now from the house. "What is it?" said Gilmore then. "That noise; it was old Distie at his window. I could just make him out. He had been listening to what we said." "Listeners never hear--" began Gilmore. "Any good of themselves," said Macey, finishing the old saying. "Well, I don't mind." "More don't I." And the two lads went in. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. SYMPATHY. Those were sad and weary hours at the Little Manor, and when Vane's delirium was at its height and he was talking most rapidly, Doctor Lee for almost the first time in his life felt doubtful of his own knowledge and ability to treat his patient. He was troubled with a nervous depression, which tempted him to send for help, and he turned to white-faced, red-eyed Aunt Hannah. "I'm afraid I'm not treating him correctly," he whispered. "I think I will send Bruff over to the station to telegraph for help." But Aunt Hannah shook her head. "If you cannot cure him, dear," she said firmly, "no one can. No, do not send." "But he is so very bad," whispered the doctor; "and when this fever passes off he will be as weak as a babe." "Then we must nurse him back to strength," said Aunt Hannah. "No, dear, don't send. It is not a case of doubt. You know exactly what is the matter, and of course how to treat him for the best." The doctor was silenced and stood at the foot of the bed, while Aunt Hannah laid her cool, soft hand upon the sufferer's burning brow. Neither aunt nor uncle troubled to think much about the causes of the boy's injuries; their thoughts were directed to the nursing and trying to allay the feverish symptoms, for the doctor was compelled to own that his nephew's condition was grave, the injuries being bad enough alone without the exposure to the long hours of a misty night just on the margin of a moor. It was not alone in the chamber that sympathetic conversation went on, for work was almost at a standstill in house and garden. For the three servants talked together, as they found out how much Vane had had to do with their daily life, and what a blank his absence on a bed of sickness had caused. "Oh, dear!" sighed Martha, "poor, poor fellow!" The tears were rolling down her cheeks, and to keep up an ample supply of those signs of sorrow she took a very long sip of warm tea, for the pot had been kept going almost incessantly since Vane had been borne up to his bed. "Yes, it is.--Oh, dear," sighed Eliza. "Poor dear! Only to think of it and him only as you may say yesterday alive and well." "Ay, and so it is, and so it always will be," said Bruff, who was standing by the kitchen-door turning some ale round and round in the bottom of a mug. "Ah!" sighed Martha. "Ah, indeed!" sighed Eliza. "And me so ready to make a fuss about the poor dear because he'd made a litter sometimes with his ingenuous proceedings." "And me too," sighed Eliza, "and ready to bite my very tongue off now for saying the things I did." "Yes, as Mr Syme says, we're a many of us in black darkness," muttered Bruff. "Why, that there hot-water apparatus is a boon and a blessin' to men, as the song says." "About the pens?" added Eliza. "You can most see the things grow." "Ah," sighed Martha. "He weer as reight as reight. It was all them turning off the scape-yokes." "And Missus forgetting to tell Martha about not lighting the fire." "And if he'd only get well again," sobbed Martha, wiping her eyes, "the biler might be busted once a week, and not a word would I say." "No," sighed Bruff giving his ale another twist round and slowly pouring it down his throat. "There's a rose tree in the garden as he budded hisself, though I always pretended it was one of my doing, and sorry I am now." "Ah," sighed Martha, "we all repents when it's too late." Pop! A cinder flew out of the fire on to the strip of carpet lying across the hearth, and a pungent odour of burning wool arose. But Bruff stooped down and using his hardened fingers as tongs, picked up the cinder and tossed it inside the fender. Martha started as the cinder flew out and looked aghast at Eliza, her ruddy face growing mottled, while the housemaid's cheeks were waxen as the maids gave themselves up to the silly superstition that, like many more, does not die hard but absolutely refuses to die at all. "Oh, my poor dear!" cried Martha, sobbing aloud, while Eliza buried her face in her apron, and the reason thereof suddenly began to dawn upon Bruff, who turned to the fireplace again, stooped down and carefully picked up the exploded bubble of coke and gas, turned it over two or three times, and then by a happy inspiration giving it a shake and producing a tiny tinkling noise. Bruff's face expanded into a grin. "Why, it aren't," he cried holding out the cinder; "it's a puss o' money." "No, no," sighed Martha, "that isn't the one." "That it is," cried Bruff, sturdily. "I'm sure on it. Look 'Liza." The apron was slowly drawn away from the girl's white face and she fixed her eyes on the hollow cinder, but full of doubt. "It is. Hark!" cried Bruff, and he shook the cinder close to Eliza's ear. "Can't you hear?" "It does tinkle," she said. "But are you sure that's the one?" "Of course I am, and it's a sign as he'll get well again, and be rich and happy." "No, no; that isn't the one, that isn't the one," sobbed Martha. "Tell you it is," cried Bruff so fiercely that the cook doubtingly took the piece of cinder, shook it, and by degrees a smile spread over her countenance and she rose and put the scrap on the chimney-piece between two bright brass candlesticks. "For luck," she said; and this time she wiped her eyes dry and examined a saucepan of beef tea which she had stewed down. "In case it's wanted," she said confidentially, though there was not the slightest likelihood thereof for some time to come. "Well," said Bruff at last, "I suppose I had better go out to work." But he only looked out of the kitchen window at the garden and shook his head. "Don't seem to hev no 'art in it," he said, looking from one to the other, as if this were quite a new condition for him to be in. "Seems to miss him so, and look wheer you will theer's a something as puts you in mind of him. Well, all I says is this, and both of you may hear it, only let him get well and he may do any mortal thing in my garden, and I won't complain." Bruff took up his mug, looked inside it, and set it down again with a frown. "My missus is coming up to see if she can do owt for you 's afternoon." "Ah!" sighed cook, "you never know what neighbours is till you're in trouble, 'Liza." "No." "Go up, soft like, and ask missus if I may send her a cup o' tea." "No," said Eliza, decisively; "pour one out and I'll take it up. And I say, dear, you know what a one master is for it; why don't you send him up the little covered basin o' beef tea. There, I'll go and put a napkin over a tray." Perhaps it was due to being called "dear," perhaps to the fact there was an outlet for the strong beef tea she had so carefully prepared; at any rate Martha smiled and went to the cupboard for the pepper, and then to the salt-box, to season the beef tea according to her taste. Five minutes later the tray was borne up with the herbaceous and the flesh tea, and in addition some freshly-made crisp brown toast. The refreshments were most welcome, for both the doctor and Aunt Hannah were exhausted and faint, and as soon as they were alone again, and Eliza gone down with the last bulletin, Aunt Hannah shed a few tears. "So sympathetic and thoughtful of the servants, dear," she said. The doctor nodded, and then as he dipped the dry toast in the beef tea he thought to himself that Vane had somehow managed to make himself a friend everywhere. But an enemy, too, he thought directly after, and he set himself to try and think out who it could be--an occupation stopped by messengers from the rectory, Gilmore, Distin and Macey having arrived to ask how the patient was getting on. While on their way back, they met Bates, the constable, looking very solemn as he saluted them and went on, thinking a great deal, but waiting until Vane recovered his senses before proceeding to act. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. VANE RECOLLECTS. "Hah, that's better," said the doctor one fine morning, "feel stronger, don't you?" "Oh yes, uncle," said Vane rather faintly, "only my head feels weak and strange, and as if I couldn't think." "Then don't try," said the doctor, and for another day or two Vane was kept quiet. But all the time there was a curious mental effervescence going on as the lad lay in bed, the object of every one's care; and until he could clearly understand why he was there, there was a constant strain and worry connected with his thoughts. "Give him time," the doctor used to say to Aunt Hannah, "and have confidence in his medical man. When nature has strengthened him enough his mind will be quite clear." "But are you sure, dear?" said Aunt Hannah piteously; "it would be so sad if the poor fellow did not quite recover his memory." "Humph!" ejaculated the doctor, "this comes of having some one you know by heart for medical attendant. You wouldn't have asked Doctor White or Doctor Black such a question as that." "It is only from anxiety, my dear," said Aunt Hannah; "I have perfect confidence in you. It is wonderful how he is improved." Just then two visitors arrived in the shape of Gilmore and Macey. They had come to make inquiries on account of the rector, they said; and on hearing the doctor's report, Macey put in a petition on his own account. "Let you go up and sit with him a bit?" said the doctor. "Well, I hardly know what to say. He knows us now; but will you promise to be very quiet?" "Oh, of course, sir," cried Macey. "I can't let two go up," said the doctor. Macey looked at Gilmore. "I'll give way if you'll promise to let me have first turn next time." "Agreed," said Macey; and Gilmore went off back to give the doctor's report to the rector, while Macey was led upstairs gently by Aunt Hannah, and after again promising to be very quiet, let into Vane's room, and the door closed behind him. Vane was lying, gazing drowsily at the window, but the closing of the door made him turn his eyes toward the new comer, when his face lit up directly. "What, Aleck!" he said faintly. "What, old Weathercock!" cried Macey, running to the bed. "Oh, I say, old chap, it does one good to see you better, I say you're going to be quite well now, aren't you?" "Yes, I am better. But have they caught them?" "Eh? Caught what?" "Those two young scoundrels of gipsies," said Vane quickly. Then, as he realised what he had said, he threw his arms out over the sheet. "Why, that's what I've been trying to think of for days, and now it's come. Have they caught them?" "What for?" said Macey, wonderingly. "For knocking me about as they did. They ought to be punished; I've been very ill, haven't I?" "Awful," said Macey, quickly. "But, I say, was it those two chaps?" Vane looked at him half wonderingly. "Yes, of course," he said. "I remember it all now. It's just as if a cloud had gone away from the back of my head, and I could see clearly right back now." "Why did they do it?" cried Macey, speaking out, but feeling dubious, for Vane's manner was rather strange, and he might still be wandering. "I don't know," said Vane; "I was getting truffles for uncle when they came along, and it was fists against sticks. They won, I suppose." "Well, rather so I think," said Macey, edging toward the door. "Don't go, old chap. You've only just come." "No, but you're talking too much, and you're to be kept quiet." "Well, I'm lying quiet. But, tell me, have they caught those two fellows for knocking me about last night?" "No, not yet; and I must go now, old fellow." "But tell me this: What did Syme say this morning because I didn't come?" "Oh, nothing much; he was tackling me. I got it horribly for being so stupid." "Not you. But tell him I shall be back in the morning." "All right. Good-bye." They shook hands, and Macey hurried down to the doctor and Mrs Lee. "Here, he's ever so much better and worse, too, sir," cried Macey. The doctor started up in alarm. "Oh, no, sir; he's quiet enough, but he thinks it was only last night when he was knocked about." "Convalescents are often rather hazy about their chronology," said the doctor. "But he's clear enough in one thing, sir; he says it was the two gipsy lads who set upon him with sticks." "Ah!" cried the doctor. "And I came down to ask you if these two fellows ought not to be caught." "Yes, yes, of course," cried the doctor. "But first of all we must be sure whether he is quite clear in his head. This may be an illusion." "Well, sir, it may be," replied Macey, "but if I'd had such a knocking about as poor Vane, I shouldn't make any mistake about it as soon as I could begin to think." "Stay here," said the doctor. "I'll go up and see him." He went up and all doubt about his nephew's clearness of memory was at an end, for Vane began at once. "I've been lying here some time, haven't I, uncle?" "Yes, my boy; a long while." "I was very stupid just now when Macey was here. It seemed to me that it was only last night that I was in the wood getting truffles, when those two gipsy lads attacked me, but, of course, I've been very ill since." "Yes, my boy, very." "The young scoundrels! There was the basket and trowel, I remember." "Yes, my boy, they brought them home." "That's right. It was your little bright trowel, and--oh, of course I remember that now. I was taking the bottle of liniment, and one of the lad's sticks struck me on the breast, where I had the bottle in my pocket, and shivered it." "Struck you with his stick?" "Yes. I made as hard a fight of it as I could, but they were too much for me." "Don't think about it any more now, but try and have a nap," said the doctor quietly. "I want to go down." Vane sighed. "What's the matter, boy, fresh pain?" "No, I was thinking what a trouble I am to you, uncle." "Trouble, boy? Why, it's quite a treat," said the doctor, laughing. "I was quite out of practice, and I'm in your debt for giving me a little work." "Don't thank me, uncle," said Vane with a smile, though it was only the shadow of his usual hearty laugh. "I wouldn't have given you the job if I could have helped it." The doctor nodded, patted the boy's shoulder and went down, for Vane in his weakness willingly settled himself off to sleep, his eyes being half-closed as the doctor shut the door. "Well, sir," cried Macey, eagerly, as the doctor entered the drawing-room, "he's all right in the head again, isn't he?" "I don't think there's a doubt of it, my lad," said the doctor. "You are going close by, will you ask the policeman to come down?" "Yes; I'll tell him," cried Macey, eagerly. "No, no, leave me to tell him. I would rather," said the doctor, "because I must speak with some reserve. It is not nice to arrest innocent people." "But I may tell Mr Syme and Gilmore?" "Oh, yes, you can tell what you know," replied the doctor; and, satisfied with this concession, Macey rushed off. As he reached the lane leading to the rectory, habit led him up it a few yards. Then recollecting himself, he was turning back when he caught sight of Distin and Gilmore coming toward him, and he waited till they came up. "It's all right," he cried. "Vane knows all about it now, and he told me and the doctor who it is that he has to thank for the knocking about." "What! he knows?" cried Distin, eagerly; and Gilmore caught his companion's arm. "Yes," he cried, catching Distin's arm in turn, "come on with me." "Where to?" said Distin, starting. "To the police--to old Bates." Distin gave Macey a curious look, and then walked on beside him, Macey repeating all he knew as they went along toward Bates' cottage, where they found the constable looking singularly unofficial, for he was in his shirt-sleeves weeding his garden. "Want me, gents?" he said with alacrity as he rose and looked from one to the other, his eyes resting longest upon Distin, as if he had some doubt about him that he could not clear up. "We don't, but the doctor does," cried Macey. "I've just come from there." "Phee-ew!" whistled the constable. "They been at his fowls again? No; they'd have known in the morning. Why--no--yes--you don't mean to say as Mr Vane's come round enough to say who knocked him about?" "The doctor told me to tell you he wanted you to step down to see him," said Macey coolly; "so look sharp." The constable ran to the pump to wash his hands, and five minutes after he was on the way to the Little Manor. "I'm wrong," he muttered as he went along--"ever so wrong. Somehow you can't be cock-sure about anything. I could ha' sweered as that yallow-faced poople had a finger in it, for it looked as straight as straight; but theer, it's hard work to see very far. Now, let's hear what the doctor's got to say." CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. ROWING SUPERSEDED. "That there Mr Distin 'll have his knife into me for what I said about him. Oh, dear me, what a blunder I did make!" "Yes, wrong as wrong," said Constable Bates, as he came away from the Little Manor, "and me niver to think o' they two lungeing looking young dogs. Why, of course it was they. I can see it clear now, as clear--a child could see it. Well, I'll soon run them down." Easier said than done, for the two gipsy lads seemed to have dropped quite out of sight, and in spite of the help afforded by members of the constabulary all round the county the two furtive, weasel-like young scamps could not be heard of. They and their gang had apparently migrated to some distant county, and the matter was almost forgotten. "It doesn't matter," Vane said, as he grew better. "I don't want to punish the scamps, I want to finish my boat;" and as soon as he grew strong he devoted all his spare time to the new patent water-walker as Macey dubbed it, and at which Distin now and then delivered a covert sneer. For this scheme was the outcome of the unfortunate ride on the river that day when Vane sat dreaming in the boat and watching the laborious work of those who wielded the oars and tried to think out a means of sending a boat gliding through the water almost without effort. He had thought over what had already been done as far as he knew, and pondered over paddle-wheels and screws with the mighty engines which set them in motion, but his aquatic mechanism must need neither fire nor steam. It must be something simple, easily applicable to a small boat, and either depend upon a man's arm or foot, as in the treadle of a lathe, or else be a something that he could wind up like old Chakes did the big clock, with a great winch key, and then go as long as he liked. It took so much thinking, and he was so silent indoors, that Aunt Hannah told the doctor in confidence one night that she was sure poor Vane was sickening for something, and she was afraid that it was measles. "Yes," said the doctor with a laugh, "sort of mental measles. You'll see he will break out directly with a rash--" "Oh, my dear," cried Aunt Hannah, "then hadn't he better be kept in a warm bed?" "Hannah, my beloved wife," said the doctor, solemnly, "is it not time you learned to wait till your ill-used husband has finished his speech before you interrupt him? I was saying break out directly with a rash desire to spend more money upon a whim-wham to wind up the sun." "Ah, now you are joking," said Aunt Hannah. "Then you do not think he is going to be ill again?" "Not a bit." It all came out in a day or two, and after listening patiently to the whole scheme-- "Well," said the doctor, "try, only you are not to go beyond five pounds for expenses." "Then you believe in it, uncle," cried Vane, excitedly. "I am not going to commit myself, boy," said the doctor. "Try, and if you succeed you may ride us up and down the river as often as you like." Vane went off at once to begin. "Five pounds, my dear," said Aunt Hannah, shaking her head, "and you do not believe in it. Will it not be money wasted." "Not more so than five pounds spent in education," replied the doctor, stoutly. "The boy has a turn for mechanics, so let him go on. He'll fail, but he will have learned a great deal about ics, while he has been amusing himself for months." "About Hicks?" said Aunt Hannah, innocently, "is he some engineer?" "Who said _Hicks_?" cried the doctor, "I said ics--statics, and dynamics and hydraulics, and the rest of their nature's forces." "Oh," said Aunt Hannah, "I understand," which can only be looked upon as a very innocent fib. Meanwhile Vane had hurried down to the mill, for five pounds does not go very far in mechanism, and there would be none to spare for the purchase of a boat. "Hallo, squire," roared the miller, who saw him as he approached the little bridge, "you're too late." "What for--going out?" "Going out? What, with all this water on hand. Nay, lad, mak' your hay while the sun shines. Deal o' grinding to do a day like this." "Then why did you say I was too late?" said Vane. "For the eels running. They weer coming down fast enew last night. Got the eel trap half full. Come and look." He led the way down through a flap in the floor to where, in a cellar-like place close to the big splashing mill wheel, there was a tub half full of the slimy creatures, anything but a pleasant-looking sight, and Vane said so. "Reight, my lad," said the miller, "but you wait till a basketful goes up to the Little Manor and your Martha has ornamented 'em with eggs and crumbs and browned 'em and sent 'em up on a white napkin, with good parsley. Won't be an unpleasant sight then, eh? Come down to fish?" "No," said Vane, hesitating now. "Oh, then, you want the boat?" "Yes, it was about the boat." "Well, lad, there she is chained to the post. You're welcome, only don't get upset again and come back here like drowned rats." "I don't want to row," said Vane. "I--er--that is--oh, look here, Mr Rounds," he cried desperately, "you can only say no. I am inventing a plan for moving boats through the water without labour." "Well, use the oars; they aren't labour." "But I mean something simpler or easier." "Nay, theer aren't no easier way unless you tak a canoe and paddle." "But I'm going to invent an easier way, and I want you to lend me the boat for an experiment." "What!" roared the miller, "you want to coot my boat to pieces for some new fad o' yourn. Nay, lad, it aren't likely." "But I don't want to cut it up." "Say, coot, lad, coot; don't chop your words short; sounds as if you were calling puss wi' your cat." "Well, then I don't want to coot up the boat, only to fit my machine in when it's ready, and propel the boat that way." "Oh, I see," said the miller, scratching his big head. "You don't want to coot her aboot." "No, not at all; I won't even injure the paint." "Hum, well, I don't know what to say, lad. You wouldn't knock her aboot?" "No; only bring my machine and fit it somewhere in the stern." "Sort o' windmill thing?" "Oh, no." "Oh, I see, more like my water-mill paddles, eh?" "Well, I don't quite know yet," said Vane. "What, aren't it ready?" "No; I haven't begun." "Oh. Mebbe it never will be." "Oh, yes, I shall finish it," said Vane. "Hey, what a lad thou art for scheming things; I wish you'd mak' me a thing to grind corn wi'out weering all the face off the stones, so as they weant bite." "Perhaps I will some day." "Ay, there'd be some sense in that, lad. Well, thou alway was a lad o' thy word when I lent you the boat, so you may have her when you like; bood I'll lay a wager you don't get a machine done as'll row the boat wi' me aboard." "We'll see," cried Vane, excitedly. "Ay, we will," said the miller. "Bood, say, lad, what a one thou art for scheming! I say I heered some un say that it was one o' thy tricks that night when church clock kep' on striking nine hundred and nineteen to the dozen." "Well, Mr Round--" "I know'd: thou'd been winding her oop wi' the kitchen poker, or some game o' that sort, eh?" "No, I only tried to clean the clock a little, and set it going again." "Ay, and left all ta wheels out. Haw--haw--haw!" The miller's laugh almost made the mill boards rattle. "I say, don't talk about it, Mr Round," cried Vane; "and, really, I only forgot two." The miller roared again. "On'y left out two! Hark at him! Why, ivery wheel has some'at to do wi' works. Theer, I weant laugh at thee, lad, only don't fetch us all oot o' bed another night, thinking the whole plaace is being bont aboot our ears. Theer tak' the boat when you like; you're welcome enew." Vane went off in high glee, and that day he had long interviews with Wrench the carpenter, and the blacksmith, who promised to work out his ideas as soon as he gave them models or measurements, both declaring that they had some splendid "stooff" ready to "wuck off," and Vane went back to his own place and gave every spare moment to his idea. That propeller took exactly two months to make, for the workmen always made the parts entrusted to them either too short or too long, and in fact just as a cobbler would make a boot that ought to have been the work of a skilful veteran. "It's going to be a rum thing," said Macey, who helped a great deal by strolling down from the rectory, sitting on a box, and drumming his heels on the side, while he made disparaging remarks, and said that the whole affair was sure to fail. The doctor came in too, and nodded as the different parts were explained; but as the contrivance was worked out, Vane found that he had to greatly modify his original ideas; all the same though, he brought so much perseverance to bear that the blacksmith's objections were always overridden, and Wrench the carpenter's growls suppressed. One of the greatest difficulties encountered was the making the machine so self-contained that it could be placed right in the stern of the boat without any need for nails or stays. But Vane had a scheme for every difficulty, and at last the day came when the new propeller was set up in the little workshop, and Distin, brought by curiosity, accompanied Gilmore and Macey to the induction. Vane was nervous enough, but proud, as he took his fellow-pupils into the place, and there, in the middle, fixed upon a rough, heavy bench, stood the machine. "Why, you never got that made for five pounds?" cried Gilmore. "N-no," said Vane, wincing a little, "I'm afraid it will cost nearly fifteen. I had to make some alterations." "Looks a rum set-out," continued Gilmore, and Distin stood and smiled. "Oh, I say, while I remember," cried Gilmore, "there was a little girl wanted you this morning, Dis. Said she had a message for you." "Oh, yes, I saw her," said Distin, nonchalantly. "Begging--I saw her." "She'll always be following you," said Macey. "Why, that makes four times she has been after you, Dis." "Oh, well, poor thing, what can one do," said Distin, hurriedly; "some mother or sister very ill, I believe. But I say, Vane," he continued, as if eager to change the conversation, "where is this thing to go?" "In the stern of the boat." "Stern? Why, it will fill the boat, and there will not be room for anything else." "Oh, but the future ones will be made all of iron, and not take up half the space." Gilmore touched a lever and moved a crank. "Don't, don't," yelled Macey, running to the door, "it will go off." There was a roar of laughter, in which all joined, and Vane explained the machine a little more, and above all that this was only a tentative idea and just to see if the mechanism would answer its purpose. "But, I say," cried Gilmore, "it looks like a wooden lathe made to turn water." "Or a mangle," said Distin, with a sneer of contempt. "Wrong, both of you," cried Macey, getting toward the door, so as to be able to escape if Vane tried to get at him. "I'll tell you what it's like--a knife-grinder's barrow gone mad." "All right," said Vane, "laugh away. Wait till you see how it works." "When are you going to try it?" said Gilmore. "To-morrow afternoon. Mr Round's going to send a cart for it and four of his men to get it down." "We will be there," said Macey with a scowl such as would be assumed by the wicked man in a melodrama, and then the workshop was locked up. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. TRYING AN EXPERIMENT. "Pray, pray, be careful, Vane, my dear," cried Aunt Hannah, the next afternoon, when the new propeller had been carefully lifted on to the miller's cart, and the inventor rushed in to say good-bye and ask the doctor and his aunt to come down for the trial, which would take place in two hours' time exactly. Then he followed the cart, but only to be overtaken by the rector's other three pupils, Macey announcing that Mr Syme was going to follow shortly. Vane did not feel grateful, and he would have rather had the trial all alone, but he was too eager and excited to mind much, and soon after the boat was drawn up to the side of the staging, at the end of the dam, the ponderous affair lifted from the cart, and the miller came out to form one of the group of onlookers. "Why, hey, Vane Lee, my lad, she's too big enew. She'll sink the boat." "Oh, no," cried Vane. "It looks heavier than it is." "Won't be much room for me," said the miller, with a chuckle. "You mustn't come," cried Vane in alarm. "Only Macey and I are going in the boat. We work the pedals and hand cranks. This is only an experiment to see if it will go." "Hey bood she'll goo reight enew," said the miller, seriously, "if I get in. Reight to the bottom, and the mill 'll be to let." There was a roar of laughter at this, and Macey whispered:-- "I say, Weathercock, if they're going to chaff like this I shall cut off." "No, no, don't be a coward," whispered back Vane; "it's only their fun. It don't hurt." "Oh, doesn't it. I feel as if gnats were stinging me." "That theer boat 'll never carry her, my lad," said the miller. "It will, I tell you," cried Vane, firmly. "Aw reight. In wi' her then, and when she's at the bottom you can come and fish for her. It's straange and deep down there." "Now then, ready?" cried Vane after a due amount of preparation. An affirmative answer was given; the frame-work with its cranks was carefully lifted on to the platform and lowered into the boat's stern, which it fitted exactly, and Vane stepped in, and by the help of a screw-hammer fitted some iron braces round the boat, screwed them up tightly. The machine was fairly fixed in its place and looked extremely top-heavy, and with Vane in the stern as well, sent the boat's gunwale down within four inches of the surface and the bows up correspondingly high. By this time the rector and the Little Manor people had arrived, while quite a little crowd from the town had gathered to stand on the edge of the dam and for the most part grin. "There," said Vane as he stood up covered with perspiration from his efforts. "That's about right. In a boat made on purpose the machine would be fitted on the bottom and be quite out of the way." "Couldn't be, lad," said the miller. "But goo on, I want to see her move." "Wish there was another boat here, Gil," said Distin. "You and I would race them." "Let them talk," said Vane, to encourage Macey, who looked very solemn, and as he spoke he carefully examined the two very small paddles which dropped over each side, so arranged that they should, when worked by the cranks and hand levers, churn up the water horizontally instead of vertically like an ordinary paddle wheel. There were a good many other little things to do, such as driving in a few wedges between the frame-work and side of the boat, to get all firmer, but Vane had come provided with everything necessary, and when he could no longer delay the start, which he had put off as long as possible, and when it seemed as if Macey would be missing if they stopped much longer, the lad rose up with his face very much flushed and spoke out frankly and well, explaining that it was quite possible that his rough machine would not work smoothly at first, but that if the principle was right he would soon have a better boat and machine. Hereupon Gilmore cried, "Hooray!" and there was a hearty cheer, accompanied by a loud tapping of the rector's walking stick, on the wooden gangway. "Now, Vane, lad, we're getting impatient," cried the doctor, who was nearly as anxious as his nephew. "Off with you!" "Well said, doctor," cried the miller; "less o' the clapper, my lads, and more of the spinning wheels and stones." "Ready, Macey?" whispered Vane. "No," was whispered back. "Why?" "I'm in such an awful stew." "Get out. It's all right. Now then. You know. Come down and sit in your place steadily." Macey stepped down into the boat, which gave a lurch, and went very near the water, as far as the gunwale was concerned. "Hi theer; howd hard," cried the miller; "he's too heavy. Coom out, lad, and I'll tak thy place." There was another roar of laughter at this. "Oh, I say, Mr Round, don't chaff us or we can't do it," whispered Vane to the jolly-looking great twenty-stone fellow. "Aw reight, lad. I'll be serious enew now. Off you go! Shall I give you a shove?" "No," said Vane. "I want to prove the boat myself. Now, Macey, you sit still till I've worked her round even, and then when I say off, you keep on stroke for stroke with me." "All right," cried Macey, and Vane began to work his crank and paddle on the boat's starboard side with the result that they began to move and curve round. Then, applying more force and working hard, he gave himself too much swing in working his lever, with the result that his side rose a little. In the midst of the cheering that had commenced the little horizontal paddle came up level with the surface, spun round at a great rate, and sent a tremendous shower of spray all over those on the gangway, Distin getting the worst share, and in his effort to escape it nearly going off into the dam. "You did that on purpose," he roared furiously, his voice rising above the shout of laughter. "Oh, I've had enough of this," said Macey. "Let me get out." "No, no, sit still. It's all right," whispered Vane. Then, aloud, "I didn't, Dis, it was an accident. All right, Aleck, keep the boat level. Now we're straight for the river. Work away." Macey tugged at his lever and pushed with his feet; his paddle now revolved, and though the boat swayed dangerously, and Aunt Hannah was in agony lest it should upset, the paddles kept below the surface, and cheer after cheer arose. For the two lads, in spite of the clumsiness and stiffness of the mechanism, were sending the boat steadily right out of the dam and into the river, where they ran it slowly for some four hundred yards before they thought it time to turn, and all the while with a troop of lads and men cheering with all their might. "Sit steady; don't sway," said Vane, "she's rather top-heavy." "I just will," responded Macey. "She'd be over in a moment. But, I say, isn't it hard work?" "The machinery's too stiff," said Vane. "My arms are," said Macey, "and I don't seem to have any legs." "Never mind." "But I do." "Stop now," said Vane, and the boat glided on a little way and then the stream checked her entirely, right in the middle. "That's the best yet," said Macey, with a sigh of relief. But there was no rest for him. "Now," cried Vane, "we're going back." "Can't work 'em backwards." "No, no, forward," said Vane. "I'll work backwards. Work away." Macey obeyed, and a fresh burst of cheers arose as, in obedience to the reverse paddling, the boat turned as if on a pivot. Then as soon as it was straight for the mill, Vane reversed again, and accompanied by their sympathisers on the bank and working as hard as they could, the two engineers sent the boat slowly along, right back into the pool, and by judicious management on Vane's part, alongside of the wooden staging which acted as a bridge to the mill on its little island. Here plenty more cheers saluted the navigators. "Bravo! bravo!" cried the rector. "Well done, Vane," cried the doctor. "Viva," shouted Distin, with a sneering look at Vane, who winced as if it had been a physical stab, and he did not feel the happier for knowing that the cheers were for nothing, since he did not want Macey's words to tell him that his machine was a failure from the amount of labour required. "Why, I could have taken the boat there and back home myself with a pair of sculls, and nearly as fast again," whispered the boy. It was quite correct, and Vane felt anything but happy, as he stepped on to the top of the camp-shed, where the others were. "Can't wark it by mysen," said the miller. "Won't join me, I suppose, doctor?" "Any one else, not you," said the doctor, merrily. "Come," said the rector, "another trial. Gilmore, Distin, you have a turn." "All right, sir," cried Gilmore, getting into the boat; "come on, Dis." "Oh, I don't know," said the young creole. "He's afraid," said Macey, mischievously, and just loud enough for Distin to hear. The latter darted a furious look at him, and then turned to Gilmore. "Oh, very well," he said in a careless drawl. "I don't mind having a try." "It'll take some of the fat conceit out of him, Weathercock," said Macey, wiping his streaming brow. "Oh, I say, I am hot." Gilmore had taken off his jacket and vest before getting into the boat. Distin kept his on, and stepped down, while Vane held the boat's side from where he kneeled on the well-worn planks. "Take off your things, man," said Gilmore, as Distin sat down. "Work the levers steadily, Gil," said Vane. "All right, old fellow." "I dare say we can manage; thank you," said Distin, in a low, sarcastic tone, meant for Vane's ears alone, for, saving the miller, the others were chatting merrily about the success of the trial. "It does not seem to be such a wonderfully difficult piece of performance." "It isn't," said Vane, frankly. "Only trim the boat well she's top-heavy." "Thank you once more," said Distin, as he took off jacket and vest, and began to fold them. "I'll give her head a push off," said Vane, taking up the boat-hook and beginning to thrust the boat's head out so that the fresh engineers could start together. "Thank you again," said Distin, sarcastically, as the bows went round, and Vane after sending the prow as far as he could, ran and caught the stern, and drew that gently round till the boat was straight for the river and gliding forward. "Ready, Dis?" said Gil, who had hold of his lever, and foot on the treadle he had to work. "One moment," said Distin, rising in the boat to place his carefully folded clothes behind him, and it was just as Vane gave the boat a final thrust and sent it gliding. "Give us a shout, you fellows," cried Gilmore. "Steady Dis!" he roared. "Hooray!" came from the little crowd. "Oh, what a lark!" shouted Macey, but Aunt Hannah uttered a shriek. Vane's thrust had not the slightest thing to do with the mishap, for the boat was already so crank that the leverage of Distin's tall body, as he stood up, was quite enough to make it settle down on one side. As this disturbed his balance, he made a desperate effort to recover himself, placed a foot on the gunwale, and the next moment, in the midst of the cheering, took a header right away into the deep water, while the boat gradually continued its motion till it turned gently over, and floated bottom upwards, leaving Gilmore slowly swimming to the side, where he clung to the camp-shedding laughing, till it seemed as if he would lose his hold. "Help! help!" cried Aunt Hannah. "All right, ma'am," said the miller, snatching the boat-hook from Vane. "Mr Distin! Mr Distin," shrieked Aunt Hannah. The miller literally danced with delight. "Up again directly, ma'am," he said, "only a ducking, and the water's beautifully clean. There he is," he continued, as Distin's head suddenly popped up with his wet black hair streaked over his forehead, and catching him deftly by the waistband of his trowsers with the boat-hook, the miller brought the panting youth to the gangway, and helped him out. "You did that on purpose," cried Distin, furiously; but the miller only laughed the more, and soon after the boat had been drawn to its moorings, and righted, it was chained up, so that it should do no more mischief, the miller said. That brought the experiment to a conclusion, and when the machine had been taken back dry to the workshop, as it had been proved that it was only labour in a novel way and much increased, Vane broke it up, and the doctor, when the bills were paid, said quietly: "I think Vane will have a rest now for a bit." CHAPTER THIRTY. MONEY TROUBLES. "Going out, Vane?" "Only to the rectory, uncle; want me?" "No, my boy, no," said the doctor, sadly. "Er--that is, I do want to have a chat with you, but another time will do." "Hadn't you better tell me now, uncle," said Vane. "I don't like to go on waiting and thinking that I have a scolding coming, and not know what it's about." The doctor, who was going out into the garden, smiled as he turned, shook his head, and walked back to his chair. "You have not been doing anything, Vane, my lad," he said quickly and sadly. "If anyone deserves a scolding it is I; and your aunt persistently refuses to administer it." "Of course," said Aunt Hannah, looking up from her work, "you meant to do what was right, my dear. I am sorry more on your account than on my own, dear," and she rose and went behind the doctor's chair to place her hands on his shoulder. He took them both and pressed them together to hold them against his cheek. "Thank you, my dear," he said, turning his head to look up in her eyes. "I knew it would make no difference in you. For richer or poorer, for better or worse, eh? There, go and sit down, my dear, and let's have a chat with Vane here." Aunt Hannah bowed her head and went back to her place, but contrived so that she might pass close to Vane and pass her hand through his curly hair. "Vane, boy," said the doctor sharply and suddenly, "I meant to send you to college for the regular terms." "Yes, uncle." "And then let you turn civil engineer." "Yes, uncle, I knew that," said the lad, wonderingly. "Well, my boy, times are altered. I may as well be blunt and straightforward with you. I cannot afford to send you to college, and you will have to start now, beginning to earn your own living, instead of five or six years hence." Vane looked blank and disappointed for a few moments, and then, as he realised that his aunt and uncle were watching the effect of the latter's words keenly, his face lit up. "All right, uncle," he said; "I felt a bit damped at first, for I don't think I shall like going away from home, but as to the other, the waiting and college first, I shan't mind. I am sorry though that you are in trouble. I'm afraid I've been a great expense to you." "There, don't be afraid about that any longer, my boy," said the doctor, rising. "Thank you, my lad--thank you. That was very frank and manly of you. There, you need not say anything to your friends at present, and--I'll talk to you another time." The doctor patted Vane on the shoulder, then wrung his hand and hurried out into the garden. "Why, auntie, what's the matter?" cried Vane, kneeling down by the old lady's chair, as she softly applied her handkerchief to her eyes. "It's money, my dear, money," she said, making an effort to be calm. "I did hope that we were going to end our days here in peace, where, after his long, anxious toil in London, everything seems to suit your uncle so, and he is so happy with his botany and fruit and flowers; but Heaven knows what is best, and we shall have to go into quite a small cottage now." "But I thought uncle was ever so rich, aunt," cried Vane. "Oh, if I'd known I wouldn't have asked him for money as I have for my schemes." "Oh, my dear, it isn't that," cried Aunt Hannah. "I was always afraid of it, but I did not like to oppose your uncle." "It? What was it?" cried Vane. "Perhaps I ought not to tell you, dear, but I don't know. You must know some time. It was that Mr Deering. Your uncle has known him ever since they were boys at school together; and then Mr Deering, who is a great inventor, came down and told your uncle that he had at last found the means of making his fortune over a mechanical discovery, if some one would be security for him. Your uncle did not like to refuse." "Oh, dear!" muttered Vane. "You see it was not to supply him with money then, only to be security, so that other people would advance him money and enable him to start his works and pay for his patents." "Yes, aunt, I understand," cried Vane. "And now--" "His invention has turned out to be a complete failure, and your poor uncle will have to pay off Mr Deering's liabilities. When that is done, I am afraid we shall be very badly off, my dear." "That you shan't, auntie," cried Vane, quickly; "I'll work for you both, and I'll make a fortune somehow. I don't see why I shouldn't invent." "No, no, don't, boy, for goodness' sake," said the doctor, who had heard part of the conversation as he returned. "Let's have good hard work, my lad. Let someone else do the inventing." "All right, uncle," said Vane, firmly; "I'll give up all my wild ideas now about contriving things, and set to work." "That's right, boy," said the doctor. "I'm rather sick of hearing inventions named." "Don't say that, dear," said Aunt Hannah, quietly and firmly; "and I should not like all Vane's aspirations to be damped because Mr Deering has failed. Some inventions succeed: the mistake seems to me to be when people take it for granted that everything must be a success." "Hear! hear!" cried the doctor, thumping the table. "Here hi! You Vane, why don't you cheer, sir, when our Queen of Sheba speaks such words of wisdom. Your aspirations shall not be stopped, boy. There, no more words about the trouble. It's only the loss of money, and it has done me good. I was growing idle and dyspeptic." "You were not, dear," said Aunt Hannah, decidedly. "Oh, yes, I was, my dear, and this has roused me up. There, I don't care a bit for the loss, since you two take it so bravely. And, perhaps after all, in spite of all the lawyers say, matters may not turn out quite so badly. Deering says he shall come down, and I like that: it's honourable and straightforward of him." "I wish he would not come," said Aunt Hannah, "I wish we had never seen his face." "No, no! tut, tut," said the doctor. "I'm sure I shall not be able to speak civilly to him," cried Aunt Hannah. "You will, dear, and you will make him as welcome as ever. His misfortune is as great as ours--greater, because he has the additional care of feeling that he has pretty well ruined us and poor Vane here." "Oh, it hasn't ruined me, uncle," cried Vane. "I don't so much mind missing college." "But, suppose I had some money to leave you, my boy, and it is all gone." "Oh," cried Vane, merrily, "I'm glad of that. Mr Syme said one day that he always pitied a young man who had expectations from his elders, for, no matter how true-hearted the heir might be, it was always a painful position for him to occupy, that of waiting for prosperity till other people died. It was something like that, uncle, but I haven't given it quite in his words." "Humph! Syme is a goose," said the doctor, testily. "I'm sure you never wanted me dead, so as to get my money, Vane." "Why, of course not, uncle. I never thought about money except when I wanted to pay old Wrench or Dance for something he made for me." "There, I move that this meeting be adjourned," cried the doctor. "One moment, though, before it is carried unanimously. How will Aunt behave to poor Deering, when he comes down." "Same as she behaves to every one, uncle," cried Vane, laughing. "There, old lady," said the doctor, "and as for the money, bah! let it take wings and fly away, and--" The doctor's further speech was checked by Aunt Hannah throwing her arms about his neck and burying her face in his breast, while Vane made a rush out into the garden and then ran rapidly down the avenue. "If I'd stopped a minute longer, I should have begun blubbering like a great girl," he muttered. "Why, hanged if my eyes aren't quite wet." CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF. Vane made his way straight to the rectory, with a fixed intention in his mind. The idea had been growing for days: now it was quite ripe, consequent, perhaps, on the state of mind produced by the scene at the manor. "It will be more frank and manly," he said to himself. "He's different to us and can't help his temper, so I'll look over everything, and say `what's the good of our being bad friends. Shake hands and forgive me. I'm a rougher, coarser fellow than you are, and I dare say I've often said things that hurt you when I didn't mean it.'" "Come, he can't get over that," said Vane, half-aloud, and full of eagerness to get Distin alone, he turned up the rectory lane, and came at once upon Gilmore and Macey. "Hullo, Weathercock," cried the latter, "which way does the wind blow?" "Due east." "That's rectory way." "Yes; is Distie in?" "No; what do you want with him. He doesn't want you. Come along with us," said Gilmore. "No, I want to see Distie--which way did he go?" "Toward the moor," said Macey, with an air of mock mystery. "There's something going on, old chap." "What do you mean?" "A little girl came and waited about the gate till we were in the grounds, and then she began to signal and I went to her. But she didn't want me. She said she wanted to give this to that tall gentleman." "This?" said Vane. "What was this?" "A piece of stick, with notches cut in it," said Macey. "You're not chaffing, are you?" "Not a bit of it. I went and told Distie, and he turned red as a bubby-jock and went down to the gate, took the stick, stuck it in his pocket, and then marched off." "Why, what does that mean?" cried Vane. "I don't know," said Macey. "Distie must belong to some mysterious bund or verein, as the Germans call it. Perhaps he's a Rosicrucian, or a member of a mysterious sect, and this was a summons to a meeting." "Get out," cried Vane. "Well, are you coming with us? Aleck has had a big tip from home, and wants to spend it." "Yes; do come, Vane." "No, not to-day," cried the lad, and he turned off and walked away sharply to avoid being tempted into staying before he had seen Distin, and "had it out," as he termed it. "Hi! Weathercock!" shouted Macey, "better stop. I've invented something--want your advice." "Not to be gammoned," shouted back Vane; and he went off at a sharp trot, leaped a stile and went on across the fields, his only aim being to get away from his companions, but as soon as he was out of sight, he hesitated, stopped, and then went sharply off to his left. "I'll follow Distie," he muttered. "The moor's a good place for a row. He can shout at me there, and get in a passion. Then he'll cool down, and we shall be all right again--and a good job too," he added. "It is so stupid for two fellows studying together to be bad friends." By making a few short cuts, and getting over and through hedges, Vane managed to take a bee-line for the moor, and upon reaching it, he had a good look round, but there was no sign of Distin. "He may be lying down somewhere," thought Vane, as he strode on, making his way across the moor in the direction of the wood, but still there was no sign of Distin, even after roaming about for an hour, at times scanning the surface of the long wild steep, at others following the line of drooping trees at the chalk-bank edge, but for the most part forgetting all about the object of his search, as his attention was taken up by the flowers and plants around. There was, too, so much to think about in the scene at home, that afternoon, and as he recalled it all, Vane set his teeth, and asked himself whether the time was not coming when he must set aside boyish things, and begin to think seriously of his future as a man. He went on and on, so used to the moor that it seemed as if his legs required no guidance, but left his brain at liberty to think of other things than the course he was taking, while he wondered how long it would be before he left Greythorpe, and whether he should have to go to London or some one of the big manufacturing towns. There was Mr Deering, too, ready to take up a good deal of his thought. And now it seemed cruel that this man should have come amongst them to disturb the current of a serene and peaceful life. "I think he ought to be told so, too," said Vane to himself; "but I suppose that it ought not to come from me." He had to pause for a few moments to extricate himself from a tangle of brambles consequent upon his having trusted his legs too much, and, looking up then, he found that he was a very short distance from the edge of the beech-wood, and a second glance showed him that he was very near the spot where he had dug for the truffles, and then encountered the two gipsy lads. A feeling of desire sprang up at once in him to see the spot again, and, meaning to go in among the trees till he had passed over the ground on his way along the edge of the wood to where he could strike across to the deep lane, he waded over the pebbles of the little stream, dried his boots in the soft, white sand on the other side, and ran lightly up the bank, to step at once in among the leaves and beech-mast. It was delightfully cool and shady after the hot sunshine of the moor, and he was winding in and out among the great, smooth tree-trunks, looking for the spot where he had had his struggle, when he fancied that he heard the murmur of voices not far away. "Fancy--or wood pigeons," he said to himself; and, involuntarily imitating the soft, sweet _too roochetty coo roo_ of the birds, he went on, but only to be convinced directly after that those were voices which he had heard; and, as he still went on in his course, he knew that, after all, he was going to encounter Distin, for it was undoubtedly his voice, followed by a heavy, dull utterance, like a thick, hoarse whisper. Vane bore off a little to the left. His curiosity was deeply stirred, for he knew that Distin had received some kind of message, and he had followed him, but it was with the idea of meeting him on his return. For he could not play the eavesdropper; and, feeling that he had inadvertently come upon business that was not his, he increased his pace, only to be arrested by an angry cry, followed by these words, distinctly heard from among the trees: "No, not another sixpence; so do your worst!" The voice was Distin's, undoubtedly; and, as no more was said, Vane began to hurry away. He had nothing to do with Distin's money matters, and he was walking fast when there was the rapid beat of feet away to his right, but parallel with the way he was going. Then there was a rush, a shout, a heavy fall, and a half-smothered voice cried "Help!" That did seem to be Vane's business, and he struck off to the right directly, to bear through a denser part of the wood, and come to an opening, which struck him at once as being the one where he had had his encounter with the gipsy lads. The very next moment, with every nerve tingling, he was running toward where he could see his two enemies kneeling upon someone they had got down; and, though he could not see the face, he knew it was Distin whom they were both thumping with all their might. "Now will you?" he heard, as he rushed forward toward the group, all of whose constituents were so much excited by their struggle that they did not hear his approach. "No," shouted Vane, throwing himself upon them, but not so cleverly as he had meant, for his toe caught in a protruding root, and he pitched forward more like a skittle-ball than a boy, knocking over the two gipsy lads, and himself rolling over amongst the beech-mast and dead leaves. Distin's two assailants were so startled and astonished that they, too, rolled over and over hurriedly several times before they scrambled to their feet, and dived in among the trees. But Vane was up, too, on the instant. "Here, Dis!" he shouted; "help me take them." Distin had risen, too, very pale everywhere in the face but about the nose, which was very ruddy, for reasons connected with a blow, but, as Vane ran on, he did not follow. "Do you hear? Come on!" cried Vane, looking back. "Help me, and we can take them both." But Distin only glanced round for a way of retreat, and, seeing that Vane was alone, the two gipsy lads dodged behind a tree, and cleverly kept it between them as he rushed on, and then sprang out at him, taking him in the rear, and getting a couple of blows home as he turned to defend himself. "History repeats itself," he muttered, through his set teeth; "but they haven't got any sticks;" and, determined now to make a prisoner of one of them, he attacked fiercely, bringing to bear all the strength and skill he possessed, for there was no sign of shrinking on the part of the two lads, who came at him savagely, as if enraged at his robbing them of their prey. There were no sticks now, as Vane had said; it was an attack with nature's weapons, but the two gipsy lads had had their tempers whetted in their encounter with Distin, and, after the first fright caused by Vane's sudden attack, they met him furiously. They were no mean adversaries, so long as spirit nerved them, for they were active and hard as cats, and had had a long experience in giving and taking blows. So that, full of courage and indignation as he was, Vane soon began to find that he was greatly overmatched, and, in the midst of his giving and taking, he looked about anxiously for Distin, but for some time looked in vain. All at once, though, as he stepped back to avoid a blow he saw Distin peering round the trunk of one of the trees. "Oh, there you are," he panted, "come on and help me." Distin did not stir, and one of the gipsy lads burst into a hoarse laugh. "Not he," cried the lad. "Why, he give us money to leather you before." Distin made an angry gesture, but checked himself. "Take that for your miserable lie," cried Vane, and his gift was a stinging blow in the lad's mouth, which made him shrink away, and make room for his brother, who seized the opportunity of Vane's arm and body being extended, to strike him full in the ear, and make him lose his balance. "'Tarn't a lie," cried this latter. "He did give us three shillin' apiece to leather you." The lad speaking followed up his words with blows, and Vane was pretty hard set, while a conscious feeling of despair came over him on hearing of Distin's treachery. But he forced himself not to credit it, and struck out with all his might. "I don't believe it," he roared, "a gentleman wouldn't do such a thing." "But he aren't a gent," said the first lad, coming on again, with his lips bleeding. "Promised to pay us well, and he weant." "Come and show them it's all a lie, Dis," cried Vane, breathlessly. "Come and help me." But Distin never stirred. He only stood glaring at the scene before him, his lips drawn from his white teeth, and his whole aspect betokening that he was fascinated by the fight. "Do you hear?" roared Vane at last, hoarsely. "You're never going to be such a coward as to let them serve me as they did before." Still Distin did not stir, and a burst of rage made the blood flush to Vane's temples, as he ground his teeth and raged out with: "You miserable, contemptible cur!" He forgot everything now. All sense of fear--all dread of being beaten by two against one--was gone, and as if he had suddenly become possessed with double his former strength, he watchfully put aside several of the fierce blows struck at him, and dodged others, letting his opponents weary themselves, while he husbanded his strength. It was hard work, though, to keep from exposing himself in some fit of blind fury, for the lads, by helping each other, kept on administering stinging blows, every one of which made Vane grind his teeth, and long to rush in and close with one or the other of his adversaries. But he mastered the desire, knowing that it would be fatal to success, for the gipsies were clever wrestlers, and would have the advantage, besides which, one of them could easily close and hold while the other punished him. "I wouldn't have believed it. I wouldn't have believed it," he kept on muttering as he caught sight of Distin's pallid face again and again, while avoiding the dodges and attempts to close on the part of the gipsies. At last, feeling that this could not go on, and weakened by his efforts, Vane determined to try, and, by a sudden rush, contrive to render one of his adversaries _hors de combat_, when, to his great delight, they both drew off, either for a few minutes' rest, or to concoct some fresh mode of attack. Whatever it might be, the respite was welcome to Vane, who took advantage of it to throw off his Norfolk jacket; but watching his adversaries the while, lest they should make a rush while he was comparatively helpless. But they did not, and tossing the jacket aside he rapidly rolled up his sleeves, and tightened the band of his trousers, feeling refreshed and strengthened by every breath he drew. "Now," he said to himself as the gipsies whispered together, "let them come on." But they did not attack, one of them standing ready to make a rush, while the other went to the edge of the wood to reconnoitre. "It means fighting to the last then," thought Vane, and a shiver ran through him as he recalled his last encounter. Perhaps it was this, and the inequality of the match which made him turn to where Distin still stood motionless. "I say, Dis," he cried, appealingly, "I won't believe all they said. We'll be friends, when it's all over, but don't leave me in the lurch like this." Distin looked at him wildly, but still neither spoke nor stirred, and Vane did not realise that he was asking his fellow-pupil that which he was not likely to give. For the latter was thinking,-- "Even if he will not believe it, others will," and he stared wildly at Vane's bruised and bleeding face with a curious feeling of envy at his prowess. "Right," shouted the gipsy lad who had been on the look-out, and running smartly forward, he dashed at Vane, followed by his brother, and the fight recommenced. "If they would only come on fairly, I wouldn't care," thought Vane, as he did his best to combat the guerilla-like warfare his enemies kept up, for he did not realise that wearisome as all their feinting, dodging and dropping to avoid blows, and their clever relief of each other might be, a bold and vigorous closing with them would have been fatal. And, oddly enough, though they had sought to do this at first, during the latter part of the encounter they had kept aloof, though perhaps it was no wonder, for Vane had given some telling blows, such as they did not wish to suffer again. "I shall have to finish it, somehow," thought Vane, as he felt that he was growing weaker; and throwing all the vigour and skill into his next efforts, he paid no heed whatever to the blows given him by one of the lads, but pressed the other heavily, following him up, and at last, when he felt nearly done, aiming a tremendous left-handed blow at his cheek. As if to avoid the blow, the lad dropped on his hands and knees, but this time he was a little too late; the blow took effect, and his falling was accelerated so that he rolled over and over, while unable to stop himself, Vane's body followed his fist and he, too, fell with a heavy thud, full on his adversary's chest. Vane was conscious of both his knees coming heavily upon the lad, and he only saved his face from coming in contact with the ground by throwing up his head. Then, he sprang up, as, for the first time during the encounter, Distin uttered a warning cry. It warned Vane, who avoided the second lad's onslaught, and gave him a smart crack on the chest and another on the nose. This gave him time to glance at his fallen enemy, who did not try to get up. It was only a momentary glance, and then he was fighting desperately, for the second boy seemed to be maddened by the fate of the first. Casting off all feinting now, he dashed furiously at Vane, giving and receiving blows till the lads closed in a fierce wrestling match, in which Vane's superior strength told, and in another moment or two, he would have thrown his adversary, had not the lad lying unconscious on the dead leaves, lent his brother unexpected aid. For he was right in Vane's way, so that he tripped over him, fell heavily with the second gipsy lad upon his chest, holding him down with his knees and one hand in his collar, while he raised the other, and was about to strike him heavily in the face, when there was a dull sound and he fell over upon his brother, leaving Vane free. "Thankye, Dis," he panted, as he struggled to his knees; "that crack of yours was just in time," and the rector's two pupils looked each other in the face. It was only for a moment, though, and then Vane seated himself to recover breath on the uppermost of his fallen foes. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. HAVING IT OUT. "Now," said Vane, after sitting, panting for a few minutes, "I came out to-day on purpose to find you, and ask you to shake hands. Glad I got here in time to help you. Shake hands, now." "No," said Distin, slowly; "I can't do that." "Nonsense! I say these two have got it. Why not?" "Because," said Distin, with almost a groan, "I'm not fit. My hands are not clean." "Wash 'em then, or never mind." "You know what I mean," said Distin. "What they said was true." Vane stared at him in astonishment. "Yes, it's quite true," said Distin, bitterly. "I've behaved like a blackguard." Just at that moment, the top gipsy began to struggle, and Vane gave him a tremendous clout on the ear. "Lie still or I'll knock your head off," he cried, fiercely. "You don't mean to say you set these two brutes to knock me about with sticks?" "Yes, he did," cried the top boy. "Yes, I did," said Distin, after making an effort as if to swallow something. "I paid them, and they have pestered me for money ever since. They sent to me to-day to come out to them, and I gave them more, but they were not satisfied and were knocking me about when you came." The lower prisoner now began to complain, and with cause, for his brother was lying across his chest, so that he had the weight of two to bear; but Vane reached down suddenly and placed his fist on the lad's nose, with a heavy grinding motion. "You dare to move, that's all," he growled, threateningly, and the lad drew a deep breath, and lay still, while Distin went on as if something within him were forcing this confession. "There," he said, "it's all over now. They've kept out of sight of the police all this time, and sent messages to me from where they were in hiding, and I've had to come and pay them. I've been like a slave to them, and they've degraded me till I've felt as if I couldn't bear it." "And all for what?" said Vane, angrily. "I never did you any harm." "I couldn't help it," said Distin. "I hated you, I suppose. I tell you, I've behaved like a blackguard, and I suppose I shall be punished for it, but I'd rather it was so than go on like I have lately." "Look here," cried Vane, savagely, and he raised himself up a little as if he were riding on horseback, and then nipped his human steed with his knees, and bumped himself down so heavily that both the gipsy lads yelled. "Yes, I meant to hurt you. I say, look here, I know what you both mean. You are going to try and heave me off, and run for it, but don't you try it, my lads, or it will be the worse for you. It's my turn this time, and you don't get away, so be still. Do you hear? Lie still!" Vane's voice sounded so deep and threatening that the lads lay perfectly quiescent, and Distin went on. "Better get out your handkerchief," he said, taking out his own, "and we'll tie their hands behind them, and march them to Bates' place." "You'll help me then?" said Vane. "Yes." "Might as well have helped me before, and then I shouldn't have been so knocked about." Distin shook his head, and began to roll up his pocket-handkerchief to form a cord. "There's no hurry," said Vane, thoughtfully. "I want a rest." The lowermost boy uttered a groan, for his imprisonment was painful. "Better let's get it over," said Distin, advancing and planting a foot on a prisoner who looked as if he were meditating an attempt to escape. "No hurry," said Vane, quietly, "you haven't been fighting and got pumped out. Besides, it wants thinking about. I don't quite understand it yet. I can't see why you should do what you did. It was so cowardly." "Don't I know all that," cried Distin, fiercely. "Hasn't it been eating into me? I'm supposed to be a gentleman, and I've acted toward you like a miserable cad, and disgraced myself forever. It's horrible and I want to get it over." "I don't," said Vane, slowly. "Can't you see how maddening it is. I've got to go with you to take these beasts--no, I will not call them that, for I tempted them with money to do it all, and they have turned and bitten me." "Yes: that was being hoist with your own petard, Mr Engineer," cried Vane, merrily. "Don't laugh at me," cried Distin with a stamp of the foot. "Can't you see how I'm degraded; how bitter a sting it was to see you, whom I tried to injure, come to my help. Isn't it all a judgment on me?" "Don't know," said Vane looking at him stolidly and then frowning and administering a sounding punch in the ribs to his restive seat, with the effect that there was another yell. "You make light of it," continued Distin, "for you cannot understand what I feel. I have, I say, to take these brutes up to the police--" "No, no," cried the two lads, piteously. "--And then go straight to Syme, and confess everything, and of course he'll expel me. Nice preparation for a college life; and what will they say at home?" "Yes," said Vane, echoing the other's words; "what will they say at home? You mean over in Trinidad?" Distin bowed his head, his nervous-looking face working from the anguish he felt, and his lower lip quivering with the mental agony and shame. "Trinidad's a long way off," said Vane, thoughtfully. "No place is far off now," cried Distin, passionately. "And if it were ten times as far, what then? Don't I know it? Do you think I can ever forget it all?" "No," said Vane; "you never will. I suppose it must have made you uncomfortable all along." "Don't--don't talk about it," cried Distin, piteously. "There, come along, you must be rested now." "Look here," cried one of the lads, shrilly; "if you tak' us up to Greytrop we'll tell all about it." Vane gave another bump. "What's the good of that, stupid," he said. "Mr Distin would tell first." "Yes," said the young fellow firmly; and as Vane looked at his determined countenance, he felt as if he had never liked him so well before; "I shall tell first. Come what may, Vane Lee, you shan't have it against me that I did not speak out openly. Now, come." "Not yet," said Vane, stubbornly. "I'm resting." There was a pause, and one of the gipsy lads began to snivel. "Oh, pray, good, kind gen'l'man, let us go this time, and we'll never do so any more. Do, please, good gen'l'man, let us go." "If you don't stop that miserable, pitiful, cowardly howling, you cur," cried Vane so savagely that the lad stared at him with his mouth open, "I'll gag that mouth of yours with moss. Lie still!" Vane literally yelled this last order at the lad, and the mouth shut with a snap, while its owner stared at him in dismay. "I only wish I could have you standing up and lying down too," cried Vane, "or that it wasn't cowardly to punch your wretched heads now you are down." There was another pause, during which the lowermost boy began to groan, but he ceased upon Vane giving a fresh bump. "I shall be obliged now, Mr Lee," said Distin, quickly, "by your helping to tie those two scoundrels." "No more a scoundrel than you are," said the lowermost boy fiercely; and Vane gave another bump. "Don't hurt him," said Distin. "He only spoke the truth. Come, let's turn this one over." Vane did not stir, but sat staring hard in Distin's face. "Look here," he said at last; "you mean what you say about the police and Mr Syme?" "Yes, of course." "And you understand what will follow?" Distin bowed as he drew his breath hard through his teeth. "You will not be able to stop at the rectory even if that busybody Bates doesn't carry it over to the magistrates." "I know everything," said Distin, firmly, and he drew a long breath now of relief. "I am set upon it, even if I never hold up my head again." "All right," said Vane in his peculiar, hard, stubborn way. "You've made up your mind; then I've made up mine." "What do you mean?" said Distin. "Wait and see," said Vane, shortly. "But I wish to get it over." "I know you do. But you're all right. Look at me, I can't see, but expect my face is all puffy; and look at my knuckles. These fellows have got heads like wood." "I am sorry, very sorry," said Distin, sadly; "but I want to make all the reparation I can." "Give me that handkerchief," said Vane sharply; and he snatched it from Distin's hand. "No, no, keep back. I'll do what there is to do. They're not fit to touch. Ah, would you!" The top boy had suddenly thrown up his head in an effort to free himself. But his forehead came in contact with Vane's fist and he dropped back with a groan. "Hurt, did it!" said Vane, bending down, and whispering a few words. Then aloud, as he rose. "Now, then, get up and let me tie your hands behind you." The lad rose slowly and painfully. "Turn round and put your hands behind you," cried Vane. The lad obeyed, and then as if shot from a bow he leaped over his prostrate brother with a loud whoop and dashed off among the trees. "No, no, it's of no use," cried Vane as Distin started in pursuit; "you might just as well try to catch a hare. Now you, sir, up with you." The second lad rose, groaning as if lame and helpless, turning his eyes piteously upon his captor; and then, quick as lightning, he too started off. "Loo, loo, loo!" shouted Vane, clapping his hands as if cheering on a greyhound. "I say, Distie, how the beggars can run." A defiant shout answered him, and Vane clapped his hands to his mouth and yelled: "Po-lice--if you ever come again." "Yah!" came back from the wood, and Distin cried, angrily: "You let them go on purpose." "Of course I did," said Vane. "Here's your handkerchief. You don't suppose I would take them up, and hand them over to the police, and let you lower yourself like you said, do you?" "Yes--yes," cried Distin, speaking like a hysterical girl. "I will tell everything now; how I was tempted, and how I fell." "Bother!" cried Vane, gruffly. "That isn't like an English lad should speak. You did me a cowardly, dirty trick, and you confessed to me that you were sorry for it. Do you think I'm such a mean beast that I want to take revenge upon you!" "But it is my duty--I feel bound--I must speak," cried Distin, in a choking voice. "Nonsense! It's all over. I'm the person injured, and I say I won't have another word said. I came out this afternoon to ask you to make friends, and to shake hands. There's mine, and let the past be dead." Vane stood holding out his hand, but it was not taken. "Do you hear?" he cried. "Shake hands." "I can't," groaned Distin, with a piteous look. "I told you before mine are not clean." "Mine are," said Vane, meaning, of course, metaphorically; "and perhaps--no, there is no perhaps--mine will clean yours." Vane took the young Creole's hand almost by force, and gave it a painful grip, releasing it at last for Distin to turn to the nearest tree, lay his arm upon the trunk, and then lean his forehead against it in silence. Vane stood looking at him, hesitating as to what he should say or do. Then, with a satisfied nod to himself, he said, cheerily: "I'm going down to the stream to have a wash. Come on soon." It was a bit of natural delicacy, and the sensitive lad, born in a tropic land, felt it as he stood there with his brain filled with bitterness and remorse, heaping self-reproaches upon himself, and more miserable than he had ever before been in his life. "I do believe he's crying," thought Vane, as he hurried out of the woodland shade, and down to the water's edge, where, kneeling down by a little crystal pool, he washed his stained and bleeding hands, and then began to bathe his face and temples. "Not quite so hot as I was," he muttered; "but, oh, what a mess I'm in! I shan't be fit to show myself, and must stop out till it's dark. What would poor aunt say if she saw me! Frighten her nearly into fits." He was scooping up the fresh, cool water, and holding it to his bruises, which pained him a good deal, but, in spite of all his sufferings, he burst into a hearty fit of laughter at last, and, as his eyes were closed, he did not notice that a shadow was cast over him, right on to the water. It was Distin, for he had come quietly down the bank, and was standing just behind him. "Are you laughing at me?" he said, bitterly. "Eh? You there?" cried Vane, raising his head. "No, I was grinning at the way those two fellows scuttled off. They made sure they were going to be in the lock-up to-night." "Where they ought to have been," said Distin. "Oh, I don't know. They're half-wild sort of fellows--very cunning, and all that sort of thing. I daresay I should have done as they did if I had been a gipsy. But, never mind that now. They'll keep away from Greythorpe for long enough to come." He began dabbing his face with his handkerchief, and looking merrily at Distin. "I say," he cried; "I didn't know I could fight like that. Is my face very queer?" "It is bruised and swollen," said Distin, with an effort. "I'm afraid it will be worse to-morrow." "So am I, but we can't help it. Never mind, it will be a bit of a holiday for me till the bruises don't show; and I can sit and think out something else. Come and see me sometimes." "I can't, Vane, I can't," cried Distin, wildly. "Do you think I have no feeling?" "Too much, I should say," cried Vane. "There, why don't you let it go? Uncle says life isn't long enough for people to quarrel or make enemies. That's all over; and, I say, I feel ever so much more comfortable now. Haven't got such a thing as a tumbler in your pocket, have you?" Distin looked in the bruised and battered face before him, wondering at the lad's levity, as Vane continued: "No, I suppose you haven't, and my silver cup is on the sideboard. Never mind: here goes. Just stand close to me, and shout if you see any leeches coming." As he spoke, he lay down on his chest, reaching over another clear portion of the stream. "I must drink like a horse," he cried; and, placing his lips to the surface, he took a long draught, rose, wiped his lips, drew a deep breath, and exclaimed, "Hah! That was good." Then he reeled, caught at the air, and would have fallen, but Distin seized him, and lowered him to the ground, where he lay, looking very ghastly, for a few minutes. "Only a bit giddy," he said, faintly. "It will soon go off." "I'll run and fetch help," cried Distin, excitedly. "Nonsense! What for? I'm getting better. There: that's it." He sat up, and, with Distin's help, struggled to his feet. "How stupid of me!" he said, with a faint laugh. "I suppose it was leaning over the water so long. I'm all right now." He made a brave effort, and the two lads walked toward the lane, but, before they had gone many yards, Vane reeled again. This time the vertigo was slighter, and, taking Distin's arm, he kept his feet. "Let's walk on," he said. "I daresay the buzzy noise and singing in my head will soon pass off." He was right: it did, and they progressed slowly till they reached the lane, where the walking was better, but Vane was still glad to retain Distin's help, and so it happened that, when they were about a mile from the rectory, Gilmore and Macey, who were in search of them, suddenly saw something which made them stare. "I say," cried Macey; "'tisn't real, is it? Wait till I've rubbed my eyes." "Why, they've made it up," cried Gilmore. "I say, Aleck, don't say a word." "Why not?" "I mean don't chaff them or Dis may go off like powder. You know what he is." "I won't speak a word, but, I say, it's Weathercock's doing. He has invented some decoction to charm creoles, and henceforth old Dis will be quite tame." As they drew nearer, Gilmore whispered: "They've been having it out." "Yes, and Weathercock has had an awful licking; look at his phiz." "No," said Gilmore. "Vane has licked; and it's just like him, he hasn't hit Dis in the face once. Don't notice it." "Not I." They were within speaking distance now; and Distin's sallow countenance showed two burning red spots in the cheeks. "Hullo!" cried Vane. "Come to meet us?" "Yes," said Gilmore; "we began to think you were lost." "Oh, no," said Vane, carelessly. "Been some distance and the time soon goes. I think I'll turn off here, and get home across the meadows. Good-evening, you two. Good-night, Dis, old chap." "Good-night," said Distin, huskily, as he took the bruised and slightly bleeding hand held out to him. Then turning away, he walked swiftly on. "Why, Vane, old boy," whispered Gilmore, "what's going on?" Vane must have read of Douglas Jerrold's smart reply, for he said, merrily: "I am; good-night," and he was gone. "I'm blest!" cried Macey; giving his leg a slap. "He has gone in back way so as not to be seen," cried Gilmore. "That's it," cried Macey, excitedly. "Well, of all the old Weathercocks that ever did show which way the wind blew--" He did not finish that sentence, but repeated his former words-- "I'm blest!" CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. IN HIDING. Vane meant to slip in by the back after crossing the meadows, but as a matter of course he met Bruff half-way down the garden, later than he had been there for years. "Why, Master Vane!" he cried, "you been at it again." "Hush! Don't say anything," cried the lad. But Bruff's exclamation had brought Martha to the kitchen-door; and as she caught sight of Vane's face, she uttered a cry which brought out Eliza, who shrieked and ran to tell Aunt Hannah, who heard the cry, and came round from the front, where, with the doctor, she had been watching for the truant, the doctor being petulant and impatient about his evening meal. Then the murder was out, and Vane was hurried into the little drawing-room, where Aunt Hannah strove gently to get him upon the couch. "No, no, no," cried Vane. "Uncle, tell Bruff and those two that they are not to speak about it." The doctor nodded and gave the order, but muttered, "Only make them talk." "But what has happened, my dear? Where have you been?" "Don't bother him," said the doctor, testily. "Here, boy, let's look at your injuries." "They're nothing, uncle," cried Vane. "Give me some tea, aunt, and I'm as hungry as a hunter. What have you got?" "Oh, my dear!" cried Aunt Hannah; "how can you, and with a face like that." "Nothing the matter with him," said the doctor, "only been fighting like a young blackguard." "Couldn't help it, uncle," said Vane. "You wouldn't have had me lie down and be thrashed without hitting back." "Oh, my dear!" cried Aunt Hannah, "you shouldn't fight." "Of course not," said the doctor, sternly. "It is a low, vulgar, contemptible, disgraceful act for one who is the son of a gentleman-- to--to--Did you win?" "Yes, uncle," cried Vane; and he lay back in the easy chair into which he had been forced by Aunt Hannah, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. Aunt Hannah seized him and held him. "Oh, my love," she cried to the doctor, "pray give him something: sal-volatile or brandy: he's hysterical." "Nonsense!" cried the doctor. "Here--Vane--idiot, you leave off laughing, sir?" "I can't, uncle," cried Vane, piteously; "and it does hurt so. Oh my! oh my! You should have seen the beggars run." "Beggars? You've been fighting beggars, Vane!" cried Aunt Hannah. "Oh, my dear! my dear!" "Will you hold your tongue, Hannah," cried the doctor, sternly. "Here, Vane, who ran? Some tramps?" "No, uncle: those two gipsy lads." "What! who attacked you before?" "Yes, and they tried it again. Aunt, they got the worst of it this time." "You--you thrashed them?" cried the doctor, excitedly. "Yes, uncle." "Alone?" "Oh, yes: only with someone looking on." "But you beat them alone; gave them a thorough good er--er--licking, as you call it, sir?" "Yes, uncle; awful." "Quite beat them?" "Knocked them into smithereens; had them both down, one on the other, and sat on the top for half an hour." The doctor caught Vane's right hand in his left, held it out, and brought his own right down upon it with a sounding spank, gripped it, and shook the bruised member till Vane grinned with pain. "Oh, my dear!" remonstrated Aunt Hannah, "you are hurting him, and you are encouraging him in a practice that--" "Makes perfect," cried the doctor, excitedly. "By George! I wish I had been there!" "My dear!" "I do, Hannah. It makes me feel quite young again. But come and have your tea, you young dog--you young Roman--you Trojan, you--well done, Alexander. But stop!--those two young scoundrels. Hi! where's Bruff?" "Stop, uncle," cried Vane, leaping up and seizing the doctor's coat-tails. "What are you going to do?" "Send Bruff for Bates, and set him on the young scoundrels' track. I shan't rest till I get them in jail." "No, no, uncle, sit down," said Vane, with a quiver in his voice. "We can't do that." Then he told them all. As Vane ended his narrative, with the doctor pacing up and down the room, and Martha fussing because the delicate cutlets she had prepared were growing cold, Aunt Hannah was seated on the carpet by her nephew's chair, holding one of his bruised hands against her cheek, and weeping silently as she whispered, "My own brave boy!" As she spoke, she reached up to press her lips to his, but Vane shrank away. "No, no, aunt dear," he said, "I'm not fit to kiss." "Oh, my own brave, noble boy," she cried; and passing her arms about his neck, she kissed him fondly. "Who's encouraging the boy in fighting now?" cried the doctor, sharply. "But, how could he help it, my dear?" said Aunt Hannah. "Of course; how could he help it." Then changing his manner, he laid his hand upon Vane's shoulder. "You are quite right, Vane, lad. Let them call you Weathercock if they like, but you do always point to fair weather, my boy, and turn your back on foul. No: there must be no police business. The young scoundrels have had their punishment--the right sort; and Mr Distin has got his in a way such a proud, sensitive fellow will never forget." "But ought not Vane to have beaten him, too?" said Aunt Hannah, naively. "What!" cried the doctor, in mock horror. "Woman! You are a very glutton at revenge. Three in one afternoon? But to be serious. He was beaten, then, my dear--with forgiveness. Coals of fire upon his enemy's head, and given him a lesson such as may form a turning point in his life. God bless you, my boy! You've done a finer thing to-day than it is in your power yet to grasp. You'll think more deeply of it some day, and--Hannah, my darling, are you going to stand preaching at this poor boy all the evening, when you see he is nearly starved?" Aunt Hannah laughed and cried together, as she fondled Vane. "I'll go and fetch you a cup of tea, my dear. Don't move." The doctor took a step forward, and gave Vane a slap on the back. "Cup of tea--brought for him. Come along, boy. Aunt would spoil us both if she could, but we're too good stuff, eh? Now, prize-fighter, give your aunt your arm, and I'll put some big black patches on your nose and forehead after tea." Vane jumped up and held out his arm, but Aunt Hannah looked at him wildly. "You don't think, dear, that black patches--oh!" "No, I don't," said the doctor gaily; "but we must have some pleasant little bit of fiction to keep him at home for a few days. Little poorly or--I know. Note to the rectory asking Syme to forgive me, and we'll have the pony-carriage at six in the morning, and go down to Scarboro' for a week, till he is fit to be seen." "Yes," said Aunt Hannah, eagerly, "the very thing;" and to her great delight, save that his mouth was stiff and sore, Vane ate and drank as if nothing whatever had been the matter. The next morning they started for their long drive, to catch the train. "Third-class now, my boy," said the doctor, sadly; "economising has begun." "And I had forgotten it all," thought Vane. "Poor uncle!--poor aunt! I must get better, and go to work." CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. THE MOUSE AND THE LION. The stay at Scarboro' was short, for a letter came from Aunt Hannah, announcing that Mr Deering was coming down, and adding rather pathetically that she wished he would not. The doctor tossed the letter over to Vane, who was looking out of the hotel window, making a plan for sliding bathing machines down an inclined plane; and he had mentally contrived a delightful arrangement when he was pulled up short by the thought that the very next north-east gale would send in breakers, and knock his inclined plane all to pieces. "For me to read, uncle," he said. The doctor nodded. "Then you'll want to go back." "Yes, and you must stay by yourself." Vane rose and went to the looking-glass, stared at his lips, made a grimace and returned. "I say, uncle, do I look so very horrid?" he said. "That eye's not ornamental, my boy." "No, but shall you mind very much?" "I? Not at all." "Then I shall come back with you." "Won't be ashamed to be seen?" "Not I," said Vane; "I don't care, and I should like to be at home when Mr Deering comes." "Why?" "He may be able to get me engaged somewhere in town." "Humph!" ejaculated the doctor. "Want to run away from us then, now we are poor." "Uncle!" shouted Vane, fiercely indignant; but he saw the grim smile on the old man's countenance, and went close up and took his arm. "You didn't mean that," he continued. "It's because I want to get to work so as to help you and aunt now, instead of being a burden to you." "Don't want to go, then?" Vane shook his head sadly. "No, uncle, I've been so happy at home, but of course should have to go some day." "Ah, well, there is no immediate hurry. We'll wait. I don't think that Mr Deering is quite the man I should like to see you with in your first start in life. I'm afraid, Vane, boy, that he is reckless. Yesterday, I thought him unprincipled too, but he is behaving like a man of honour in coming down to see me, and show me how he went wrong. It's a sad business, but I daresay we shall get used to it after a time." The journey back was made so that they reached home after dark, Vane laughingly saying that it would screen him a little longer, and almost the first person they encountered was Mr Deering himself. "Hah, Doctor," he said quietly, "I'm glad you're come back. I only reached here by the last train." The doctor hesitated a moment, and then shook hands. "Well, youngster," said the visitor, "I suppose you have not set the Thames on fire yet." "No," said Vane, indignantly, for their visitor's manner nettled him, "and when I try to, I shall set to work without help." Deering's eyes flashed angrily. "Vane!" said Aunt Hannah, reproachfully. "You forget that Mr Deering is our guest, Vane," said the doctor. "Yes, uncle, I forgot that." "Don't reprove him," said Deering. "I deserve it, and I invited the taunt by my manner toward your nephew." "Dinner's ready," said Aunt Hannah, hastily. "Or supper," said the doctor, and ten minutes later they were all seated at the meal, talking quietly about Scarboro', its great cliffs and the sea, Mr Deering showing a considerable knowledge of the place. No allusion whatever was made to the cause of their guest's visit till they had adjourned to the drawing-room, Mr Deering having stopped in the hall to take up a square tin box, and another which looked like a case made to contain rolled up plans. The doctor frowned, and seeing that some business matters were imminent, Aunt Hannah rose to leave the room, and Vane followed her example. "No, no, my dear Mrs Lee," said Deering, "don't leave us, and there is nothing to be said that the lad ought not to hear. It will be a lesson to him, as he is of a sanguine inventive temperament like myself, not to be too eager to place faith in his inventions." "Look here, Deering," said the doctor, after clearing his voice, "this has been a terrible misfortune for us, and, I believe, for you too." "Indeed it has," said Deering, bitterly. "I feel ten years older, and in addition to my great hopes being blasted, I know that in your eyes, and those of your wife, I must seem to have been a thoughtless, designing scoundrel, dishonest to a degree." "No, no, Mr Deering," said Aunt Hannah, warmly, "nobody ever thought that of you." "Right," said the doctor, smiling. "I have wept bitterly over it, and grieved that you should ever have come down here to disturb my poor husband in his peaceful life, where he was resting after a long laborious career. It seemed so cruel--such a terrible stroke of fate." "Yes, madam, terrible and cruel," said Deering, sadly and humbly. "There now, say no more about it," said the doctor. "It is of no use to cry over spilt milk." "No," replied Deering, "but I do reserve to myself the right to make some explanations to you both, whom I have injured so in your worldly prospects." "Better let it go, Deering. There, man, we forgive you, and the worst we think of you is that you were too sanguine and rash." "Don't say that," cried Deering, "not till you have heard me out and seen what I want to show you; but God bless you for what you have said. Lee, you and I were boys at school together; we fought for and helped each other, and you know that I have never willingly done a dishonest act." "Never," said the doctor, reaching out his hand, to which the other clung. "You had proof of my faith in you when I became your bondman." "Exactly." "Then, now, let's talk about something else." "No," said Deering, firmly. "I must show you first that I was not so rash and foolish as you think. Mrs Lee, may I clear this table?" "Oh, certainly," said Aunt Hannah, rather stiffly. "Vane, my dear, will you move the lamp to the chimney." Vane lifted it and placed it on the mantelpiece, while Mr Deering moved a book or two and the cloth from the round low table, and then opening a padlock at the end of the long round tin case, he drew out a great roll of plans and spread them on the table, placing books at each corner, to keep them open. "Here," he said, growing excited, "is my invention. I want you all to look--you, in particular, Vane, for it will interest you from its similarity to a plan you had for heating your conservatory." Vane's attention was centred at once on the carefully drawn and coloured plans, before which, with growing eagerness, their visitor began to explain, in his usual lucid manner, so that even Aunt Hannah became interested. The idea was for warming purposes, and certainly, at first sight, complicated, but they soon grasped all the details, and understood how, by the use of a small furnace, water was to be heated, and to circulate by the law of convection, so as to supply warmth all through public buildings, or even in houses where people were ready to dispense with the ruddy glow of fire. "Yes," said the doctor, after an hour's examination of the drawings; "that all seems to be quite right." "But the idea is not new," said Vane. "Exactly. You are quite right," said Deering; "it is only a new adaptation in which I saw fortune, for it could be used in hundreds of ways where hot-water is not applicable now. I saw large works springing up, and an engineering business in which I hoped you, Vane, would share; for with your brains, my boy, I foresaw that you would be invaluable to me, and would be making a great future for yourself. There, now, you see my plans, Lee. Do I seem so mad and reckless to you both? Have I not gone on step by step, and was I not justified in trying to get monetary help to carry out my preparations for what promised so clearly to be a grand success?" "Well, really, Deering, I can't help saying yes," said the doctor. "It does look right, doesn't it, my dear?" "Yes," said Aunt Hannah, with a sigh; "it does certainly look right." "I would not go far till, as I thought, I had tested my plans in every way." "That was right," said the doctor. "Well, what's the matter--why hasn't it succeeded?" "Ah, why, indeed?" replied Deering. "Some law of nature, which, in spite of incessant study, I cannot grasp, has been against me." Vane was poring over the plans, with his forehead full of lines and his mouth pursed up, and, after bringing sheet after sheet to the top, he ended by laying the fullest drawing with all its colourings and references out straight, and, lifting the lamp back upon it in the centre of the table to give a better light; and while his aunt and untie were right and left, Mr Deering was facing him, and he had his back to the fire: "But you should have made models, and tested it all thoroughly." "I did, Lee, I did," cried Mr Deering, passionately. "I made model after model, improving one upon the other, till I had reached, as I thought, perfection. They worked admirably, and when I was, as I thought, safe, and had obtained my details, I threw in the capital, for which you were security, started my works, and began making on a large scale. Orders came in, and I saw, as I told you, fortune in my grasp." "Well, and what then?" "Failure. That which worked so well on a small scale was useless on a large." Vane was the only one standing, and leaning his elbows on the great drawing, his chin upon his hands, deeply interested in the pipes, elbows, taps, furnace, and various arrangements. "But that seems strange," said the doctor. "I should have thought you were right." "Exactly," said Deering, eagerly. "You would have thought I was right. I felt sure that I was right. I would have staked my life upon it. If I had had a doubt, Lee, believe me I would not have risked that money, and dragged you down as I have." "I believe you, Deering," said the doctor, more warmly than he had yet spoken; "but, hang it, man, I wouldn't give up. Try again." "I have tried again, till I feel that if I do more my brain will give way--I shall go mad. No: nature is against me, and I have made a terrible failure." Aunt Hannah sighed. "There is nothing for me but to try and recover my shattered health, get my nerves right again, and then start at something else." "Why not have another try at this?" said the doctor. "I cannot," said Deering. "I have tried, and had disastrous explosions. In one moment the work of months has been shattered, and now, if I want men to work for me again, they shake their heads, and refuse. It is of no use to fence, Lee. I have staked my all, and almost my life, on that contrivance, and I have failed." "It can't be a failure," said Vane, suddenly. "It must go." Deering looked at him pityingly. "You see," he said to Aunt Hannah, "your nephew is attracted by it, and believes in it." "Yes," said Aunt Hannah, with a shudder. "Roll up the plans now, my dear," she added, huskily; "it's getting late." "All right, aunt. Soon," said Vane, quietly; and then, with some show of excitement, "I tell you it must go. Why, it's as simple as simple. Look here, uncle, the water's heated here and runs up there and there, and out and all about, and comes back along those pipes, and gradually gets down to the coil here, and is heated again. Why, if that was properly made by good workmen, it couldn't help answering." Deering smiled sadly. "You didn't have one made like that, did you?" "Yes. Six times over, and of the best material." "Well?" "No, my boy, ill. There was a disastrous explosion each time." Vane looked searchingly in the inventor's face. "Why, it couldn't explode," cried Vane. "My dear Vane, pray do not be so stubborn," said Aunt Hannah. "I don't want to be, aunt, but I've done lots of things of this kind, and I know well enough that if you fill a kettle with water, solder down the lid, and stop up the spout, and then set it on the fire, it will burst, just as our boiler did; but this can't. Look, uncle, here is a place where the steam and air can escape, so that it can't go off." "But it did, my boy, it did." "What, made from that plan?" "No, not from that, but from the one I had down here," said Mr Deering; and he took out his keys, opened the square tin box, and drew out a carefully folded plan, drawn on tracing linen, and finished in the most perfect way. "There," said the inventor, as Vane lifted the lamp, and this was laid over the plan from which it had been traced; "that was the work-people's reference--it is getting dirty now. You see it was traced from the paper." "Yes, I see, and the men have followed every tracing mark. Well, I say that the engine or machine, or whatever you call it, could not burst." The inventor smiled sadly, but said no more, and Vane went on poring over the coloured drawing, with all its reference letters, and sections and shadings, while the doctor began conversing in a low tone. "Then you really feel that it is hopeless?" he said. "Quite. My energies are broken. I have not the spirit to run any more risks, even if I could arrange with my creditors," replied Deering, sadly. "Another such month as I have passed, and I should have been in a lunatic asylum." The doctor looked at him keenly from beneath his brows, and involuntarily stretched out a hand, and took hold of his visitor's wrist. "Yes," he said, "you are terribly pulled down, Deering." "Now, Vane, my dear," said Aunt Hannah, softly; "do put away those dreadful plans." "All right, aunt," said the boy; "just lift up the lamp, will you?" Aunt Hannah raised the lamp, and Vane drew the soiled tracing linen from beneath, while, as the lamp was heavy, the lady replaced it directly on the spread-out papers. Vane's face was a study, so puckered up and intent it had grown, as he stood there with the linen folded over so that he could hold it beneath the lamp-shade, and gaze at some detail, which he compared with the drawing on the paper again and again. "My dear!" whispered Aunt Hannah; "do pray put those things away now; they give me quite a cold shudder." Vane did not answer, but drew a long breath, and fixed his eyes on one particular spot of the pencilled linen, then referred to the paper beneath the lamp, which he shifted a little, so that the bright circle of light shed by the shade was on one spot from which the tracing had been made. "Vane," said Aunt Hannah, more loudly, "put them away now." "Yes," said Deering, starting; "it is quite time. They have done their work, and to-morrow they shall be burned." "No," yelled Vane, starting up and swinging the linen tracing round his head as he danced about the room. "Hip, hip, hip, hurray, hurray, hurray!" "Has the boy gone mad?" cried the doctor. "Vane, my dear child!" cried Aunt Hannah. "Hip, hip, hip, hurray," roared Vane again, leaping on the couch, and waving the plan so vigorously, that a vase was swept from a bracket and was shivered to atoms. "Oh, I didn't mean that," he cried. "But of course it burst." "What do you mean?" cried Deering, excitedly. "Look there, look here!" cried Vane, springing down, doubling the linen tracing quickly, so that he could get his left thumb on one particular spot, and then placing his right forefinger on the plan beneath the lamp. "See that?" "That?" cried Deering, leaning over the table a little, as he sat facing the place lately occupied by Vane. "That?" he said again, excitedly, and then changing his tone, "Oh, nonsense, boy, only a fly-spot in the plan, or a tiny speck of ink." "Yes, smudged," cried Vane; "but, look here," and he doubled the tracing down on the table; "but they've made it into a little stop-cock here." "What?" roared Deering. "And if that wasn't in your machine, of course it blew up same as my waterpipes did in the conservatory, and wrecked the kitch--" Vane did not finish his sentence, for the inventor sprang up with the edge of the table in his hands, throwing up the top and sending the lamp off on to the floor with a crash, while he fell backward heavily into his chair, as if seized by a fit. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. MRS. LEE IS INCREDULOUS. "Help, help," cried Aunt Hannah, excitedly, as the lamp broke on the floor, and there was a flash of flame as the spirit exploded, some having splashed into the fire, and for a few minutes it seemed as if the fate of the Little Manor was sealed. But Vane only stared for a moment or two aghast at the mischief, and then seized one end of the blazing hearthrug. Mr Deering seized the other, and moved by the same impulse, they shot the lamp into the hearth, turned the rug over, and began trampling upon it to put out the flame. "Get Mrs Lee out," shouted Deering. "Here, Vane, the table cover; fetch mats." The fire was still blazing up round the outside of the rug; there was a rush of flame up the chimney from the broken lamp; and the room was filling fast with a dense black evil-smelling smoke. But Vane worked well as soon as the doctor had half carried out Mrs Lee, and kept running back with door-mats from the hall; and he was on his way with the dining-room hearthrug, when Martha's voice came from kitchen-ward, full of indignation: "Don't tell me," she said evidently to Eliza, "it's that boy been at his sperriments again, and it didn't ought to be allowed." Vane did not stop to listen, but bore in the great heavy hearthrug. "Here, Vane, here," cried the doctor; and the boy helped to spread it over a still blazing patch, and trampled it close just as Aunt Hannah and Eliza appeared with wash-hand jug of water and Martha with a pail. "No, no," cried the doctor; "no water. The fire is trampled out." The danger was over, and they all stood panting by the hall-door, which was opened to drive out the horrible black smoke. "Why, Vane, my boy," cried the doctor, as the lad stood nursing his hands, "not burned?" "Yes, uncle, a little," said Vane, who looked as if he had commenced training for a chimney-sweep; "just a little. I shan't want any excuse for not going to the rectory for a few days." "Humph!" muttered the doctor, as Mr Deering hurried into the smoke to fetch out his drawings and plans; "next guest who comes to my house had better not be an inventor." Then aloud: "But what does this mean, Vane, lad, are you right?" "Right?--yes," cried Deering, reappearing with his blackened plans, which he bore into the dining-room, and then, regardless of his sooty state, he caught the doctor's hands in his and shook them heartily before turning to Aunt Hannah, who was looking despondently at her ruined drawing-room. "Never mind the damage, Mrs Lee," he cried, as he seized her hands. "It's a trifle. I'll furnish your drawing-room again." "Oh, Mr Deering," she said, half-tearfully, half in anger, "I do wish you would stop in town." "Hannah, my dear!" cried the doctor. Then, turning to Deering: "But; look here, has Vane found out what was wrong?" "Found out?" cried Deering, excitedly; "why, his sharp young eyes detected the one little bit of grit in the wheel that stopped the whole of the works. Lee, my dear old friend, I can look you triumphantly in the face again, and say that your money is not lost, for I can return it, tenfold--Do you hear, Mrs Lee, tenfold, twentyfold, if you like; and as for you--You black-looking young rascal!" he cried, turning and seizing Vane's hand, "if you don't make haste and grow big enough to become my junior partner, why I must take you while you are small." "Oh, oh!" shouted Vane; "my hands, my hands!" "And mine too," said Deering, releasing Vane's hands to examine his own. "Yes, I thought I had burned my fingers before, but I really have this time. Doctor, I place myself and my future partner in your hands." Aunt Hannah forgot her blackened and singed hearthrugs and broken lamp as soon as she realised that there was real pain and suffering on the way, and busily aided the doctor as he bathed and bandaged the rather ugly burns on Vane's and Mr Deering's hands. And at last, the smoke having been driven out, all were seated once more, this time in the dining-room, listening to loud remarks from Martha on the stairs, as she declared that she was sure they would all be burned in their beds, and that she always knew how it would be--remarks which continued till Aunt Hannah went out, and then there was a low buzzing of voices, and all became still. And now, in spite of his burns, Deering spread out his plans once more, and compared them for a long time in silence, while Vane and the doctor looked on. "Yes," he said at last, "there can be no mistake. Vane is right. This speck was taken by the man who traced it for a stop-cock, and though this pipe shows so plainly here in the plan, in the engine itself it is right below here, and out of sight. You may say that I ought to have seen such a trifling thing myself; but I did not, for the simple reason that I knew every bit of mechanism by heart that ought to be there; but of this I had no knowledge whatever. Vane, my lad, you've added I don't know how many years to my life, and you'll never do a better day's work as long as you live. I came down here to-day a broken and a wretched man, but I felt that, painful as it would be, I must come and show my old friend that I was not the scoundrel he believed." The doctor uttered a sound like a low growl, and just then Aunt Hannah came back looking depressed, weary, and only half-convinced, to hear Deering's words. "There is not a doubt about it now, Mrs Lee," he cried, joyfully. "Vane has saved your little fortune." "And his inheritance," said the doctor, proudly. "No," cried Deering, clapping Vane on the shoulder, "he wants no inheritance, but the good education and training you have given him. Speak out, my lad, you mean to carve your own way through life?" "Oh, I don't know," cried Vane; "you almost take my breath away. I only found out that little mistake in your plans." "And that was the hole through which your uncle's fortune was running out. Now, then, answer my question, boy. You mean to fight your own way in life?" "Don't call it fighting," said Vane, raising one throbbing hand. "I've had fighting enough to last me for years." "Well, then, _carve_ your way, boy?" "Oh, yes, sir, I mean to try. I say, uncle, what time is it?" "One o'clock, my boy," said the doctor, heartily; "the commencement of another and I hope a brighter day." CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. "I AM GLAD." Trivial as Vane's discovery may seem, it was the result of long months and study of applied science, and certain dearly bought experiences, and though Mr Deering blamed himself for not having noticed the little addition which had thwarted all his plans and brought him to the verge of ruin, he frankly avowed over and over again that he was indebted to his old friend's nephew for his rescue from such a perilous strait. He was off back to town that same day, and in a week the doctor, who was beginning to shake his head and feel doubtful whether he ought to expect matters to turn out so well, received a letter from the lawyer, to say that there would be no need to call upon him for the money for which he had been security. "But I do not feel quite safe yet, Vane, my boy," he said, "and I shall not till I really see the great success. Who can feel safe over an affair which depends on the turning on or off of a tap." But he need not have troubled himself, for he soon had ample surety that he was perfectly safe, and that he need never fear having to leave the Little Manor. Meanwhile matters went on at the rectory in the same regular course, Mr Syme's pupils working pretty hard, and there being a cessation of the wordy warfare that used to take place with Distin, Macey, and Gilmore, and their encounters, in which Vane joined, bantering and being bantered unmercifully; but Distin was completely changed. The sharp bitterness seemed to have gone out of his nature, and he became quiet and subdued. Vane treated him just the same as of old, but there was no warm display of friendship made, only on Distin's part a steady show of deference and respect till the day came when he was to leave Greythorpe rectory for Cambridge. It was just at the last; the good-byes had been said, and the fly was waiting to take him to the station, when he asked Vane to walk on with him for a short distance, and bade the fly-man follow slowly. Vane agreed readily enough, wondering the while what his old fellow-pupil would say, and he wondered still more as they walked on and on in silence. Then Vane began to talk of the distance to Cambridge; the college life; and of how glad he would be to get there himself; starting topics till, to use his own expression, when describing the scene to his uncle, he felt "in a state of mental vacuum." A complete silence had fallen upon them at last, when they were a couple of miles on the white chalky road, and the fly-man was wondering when his passenger was going to get in, as Vane looked at his watch. "I say, Dis, old chap," he said, "you'll have to say good-bye if you mean to catch that train." "Yes," cried Distin, hoarsely, as he caught his companion's hand. "I had so much I wanted to say to you, about all I have felt during those past months, but I can't say it. Yes," he cried passionately, "I must say this: I always hated you, Vane. I couldn't help it, but you killed the wretched feeling that day in the wood, and ever since I have fought with myself in silence, but so hard." "Oh, I say," cried Vane; "there, there, don't say any more. I've forgotten all that." "I must," cried Distin; "I know. I always have felt since that you cannot like me, and I have been so grateful to you for keeping silence about that miserable, disgraceful episode in my life--no, no, look me in the face, Vane." "I won't. Look in your watch's face," cried Vane, merrily, "and don't talk any more such stuff, old chap. We quarrelled, say, and it was like a fight, and we shook hands, and it was all over." "With you, perhaps, but not with me," said Distin. "I am different. I'd have given anything to possess your frank, manly nature." "Oh, I say, spare my blushes, old chap," cried Vane, laughing. "Be serious a minute, Vane. It may be years before we meet again, but I must tell you now. You seem to have worked a change in me I can't understand, and I want you to promise me this--that you will write to me. I know you can never think of me as a friend, but--" "Why can't I?" cried Vane, heartily. "I'll show you. Write? I should think I will, and bore you about all my new weathercock schemes. Dis, old chap, I'm such a dreamer that I've no time to see what people about me are like, and I've never seen you for what you really are till now we're going to say good-bye. I am glad you've talked to me like this." Something very like a sob rose in Distin's throat as they stood, hand clasped in hand, but he was saved from breaking down. "Beg pardon, sir," said the fly driver, "but we shan't never catch that train." "Yes; half a sovereign for you, if you get me there," cried Distin, snatching open the fly, and leaping in; "good-bye, old chap!" he cried as Vane banged the door and he gripped hands, as the latter ran beside the fly, "mind and write--soon--good-bye--good-bye." And Vane stood alone in the dusty road looking after the fly till it disappeared. "Well!" he cried, "poor old Dis! Who'd have thought he was such a good fellow underneath all that sour crust. I _am_ glad," and again as he walked slowly and thoughtfully back:--"I _am_ glad." CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. STAUNCH FRIENDS. Time glided on, and it became Gilmore's turn to leave the rectory. Other pupils came to take the places of the two who had gone, but Macey said the new fellows, did not belong, and could not be expected to cotton to the old inhabitants. "And I don't want 'em to," he said one morning, as he was poring over a book in the rectory study, "for this is a weary world, Weathercock." "Eh? What's the matter?" cried Vane, wonderingly, as he looked across the table at the top of Macey's head, which was resting against his closed fists, so that the lad's face was parallel with the table. "Got a headache?" "Horrid. It's all ache inside. I don't believe I've got an ounce of brains. I say, it ought to weigh pounds, oughtn't it?" "Here, what's wrong?" said Vane. "Let me help you." "Wish you would, but it's of no good, old fellow. I shall never pass my great-go when I get to college." "Why?" "Because I shall never pass the little one. I say, do I look like a fool?" He raised his piteous face as he spoke, and Vane burst into a roar of laughter. "Ah, it's all very well to laugh. That's the way with you clever chaps. I say, can't you invent a new kind of thing--a sort of patent oyster-knife to open stupid fellows' understanding? You should practice with it on me." "Come round this side," said Vane, and Macey came dolefully round with the work on mathematics, over which he had been poring. "You don't want the oyster-knife." "Oh, don't I, old fellow; you don't know." "Yes, I do. You've got one; every fellow has, if he will only use it." "Where abouts? What's it like--what is it?" "Perseverance," said Vane. "Come on and let's grind this bit up." They "ground" that bit up, and an hour after, Macey had a smile on his face. The "something attempted" was "something done." "That's what I do like so in you, Vane," he cried. "What?" "You can do all sorts of things so well, and work so hard. Why you beat the busy bee all to bits, and are worth hives of them." "Why?" said Vane, laughing. "You never go about making a great buzz over your work, as much as to say: `Hi! all of you look here and see what a busy bee I am,' and better still, old chap, you never sting." "Ever hear anything of Mr Deering now, uncle?" said Vane, one morning, as he stood in his workshop, smiling over some of his models and schemes, the inventor being brought to his mind by the remark he had made when he was there, about even the attempts being educational. "No, boy; nothing now, for some time; I only know that he has been very successful over his ventures; has large works, and is prospering mightily, but, like the rest of the world, he forgets those by whose help he has risen." "Oh, I don't think he is that sort of man, uncle. Of course, he is horribly busy." "A man ought not to be too busy to recollect those who held the ladder for him to climb, Vane," said the doctor, warmly. "You saved him when he was in the lowest of low water." "Oh, nonsense, uncle, I only saw what a muddle his work-people had made, just as they did with our greenhouse, and besides, don't you remember it was settled that I was to carve--didn't we call it--my own way." The doctor uttered a grunt. "That's all very well," began the doctor, but Vane interrupted him. "I say, uncle, I've been thinking very deeply about my going to college." "Well, what about it. Time you went, eh?" "No, uncle, and I don't think I should like to go. Of course, I know the value of the college education, and the position it gives a man; but it means three years' study--three years waiting to begin, and three years--" "Well, sir, three years what?" "Expense to you, uncle." "Now, look here, Vane," said the doctor, sternly, "when I took you, a poor miserable little fatherless and motherless boy, to bring up--and precious ugly you were--I made up my mind to do my duty by you." "And so you have, uncle, far more than I deserved," said Vane, merrily. "Silence, sir," cried the doctor, sternly. "I say--" But whatever it was, he did not say it, for something happened. Strange coincidences often occur in everyday life. One thinks of writing to a friend, and a letter comes from that friend, or a person may have formed the subject of conversation, and that person appears. Somehow, just as the doctor had assumed his sternest look, the door of Vane's little atelier was darkened, and Mr Deering stood therein, looking bright, cheery of aspect, and, in appearance, ten years younger than on the night when he upset the table, and the Little Manor House was within an inch of being burned down. "Mrs Lee said I should find you here," he said. "Why, doctor, how well you look. I'll be bound to say you never take much of your own physic. Glad to see you again, old fellow," he cried, shaking hands very warmly. "But, I beg your pardon, I did not know you were engaged with a stranger. Will you introduce me?" "Oh, I say, Mr Deering," cried Vane. "It is! The same voice grown gruff. The weathercock must want oiling. Seriously, though, my dear boy, you have grown wonderfully. It's this Greythorpe air." The doctor welcomed his old friend fairly enough, but a certain amount of constraint would show, and Deering evidently saw it, but he made no sign, and they went into the house, where Aunt Hannah met them in the drawing-room, looking a little flustered, consequent upon an encounter with Martha in the kitchen, that lady having declared that it would be impossible to make any further preparations for the dinner, even if a dozen gentlemen had arrived, instead of one. "Ah, my dear Mrs Lee," said Deering, "and I have never kept my word about the refurnishing of this drawing-room. What a scene we had that night, and how time has gone since!" Vane looked on curiously all the rest of that day, and could not help feeling troubled to see what an effort both his uncle and aunt made to be cordial to their guest, while being such simple, straightforward people, the more they tried, the more artificial and constrained they grew. Deering ignored everything, and chatted away in the heartiest manner; declared that it was a glorious treat to come down in the country; walked in the garden, and admired the doctor's flowers and fruit, and bees, and made himself perfectly at home, saying that he had come down uninvited for a week's rest. Vane began at last to feel angry and annoyed; but seizing his opportunity, the doctor whispered:-- "Don't forget, boy, that he is my guest. Prosperity has spoiled him, but I am not entertaining the successful inventor; I am only thinking of my old school-fellow whom I helped as a friend." "All right, uncle, I'll be civil to him." Six days glided slowly by, during which Deering monopolised the whole of everybody's time. He had the pony-carriage out, and made Vane borrow Miller Round's boat and row him up the river, and fish with him, returning at night to eat the doctor and Mrs Lee's excellent dinner, and drink the doctor's best port. And now the sixth day--the evening--had arrived, and Aunt Hannah had said to Vane:-- "I am so glad, my dear. To-morrow, he goes back to town." "And a jolly good job too, aunt!" cried Vane. "Yes, my dear, but do be a little more particular what you say." They were seated all together in the drawing-room, with Deering in the best of spirits, when all of a sudden, he exclaimed:-- "This is the sixth day! How time goes in your pleasant home, and I've not said a word yet about the business upon which I came. Well, I must make up for it now. Ready, Vane?" "Ready for what, sir,--game at chess?" "No, boy, work, business; you are rapidly growing into a man. I want help badly and the time has arrived. I've come down to settle what we arranged for about my young partner." Had a shell fallen in the little drawing-room, no one could have looked more surprised. Deering had kept his word. In the course of the next morning a long and serious conversation ensued, which resulted evidently in Deering's disappointment on the doctor's declining to agree to the proposal. "But, it is so quixotic of you, Lee," cried Deering, angrily. "Wrong," replied the doctor, smiling in his old school-fellow's face; "the quixotism is on your side in making so big a proposal on Vane's behalf." "But you are standing in the boy's light." "Not at all. I believe I am doing what is best for him. He is far too young to undertake so responsible a position." "Nonsense!" "I think it sense," said the doctor, firmly. "Vane shall go to a large civil engineer's firm as pupil, and if, some years hence, matters seem to fit, make your proposition again about a partnership, and then we shall see." Deering had to be content with this arrangement, and within the year Vane left Greythorpe, reluctantly enough, to enter upon his new career with an eminent firm in Great George Street, Westminster. But he soon found plenty of change, and three years later, long after the rector's other pupils had taken flight, Vane found himself busy surveying in Brazil, and assisting in the opening out of that vast country. It was hard but delightful work, full at times of excitement and adventure, till upon one unlucky day he was stricken down by malarious fever on the shores of one of the rivers. Fortunately for him it happened there, and not hundreds of miles away in the interior, where in all probability for want of help his life would have been sacrificed. His companions, however, got him on board a boat, and by easy stages he was taken down to Rio, where he awoke from his feverish dream, weak as a child, wasted almost to nothing, into what appeared to him another dream, for he was in a pleasantly-shaded bedroom, with someone seated beside him, holding his hand, and gazing eagerly into his wandering eyes. "Vane," he said, in a low, excited whisper; "do you know me." "Distin!" said Vane feebly, as he gazed in the handsome dark face of the gentleman bending over him. "Hah!" was ejaculated with a sigh of content; "you'll get over it now; but I've been horribly afraid for days." "What's been the matter?" said Vane, feebly. "Am I at the rectory? Where's Mr Syme? And my uncle?" "Stop; don't talk now." Vane was silent for a time; then memory reasserted itself. He was not at Greythorpe, but in Brazil. "Why, I was taken ill up the river. Have you been nursing me?" "Yes, for weeks," said Distin, with a smile. "Where am I?" "At Rio. In my house. I am head here of my father's mercantile business." "But--" "No, no, don't talk." "I must ask this: How did I get here?" "I heard that you were ill, and had you brought home that's all. I was told that the overseer with the surveying expedition was brought down ill--dying, they said, and then I heard that his name was Vane Lee. Can it be old Weathercock? I said; and I went and found that it was, and-- well, you know the rest." "Then I have you to thank for saving my life." "Well," said Distin, "you saved mine. There, don't talk; I won't. I want to go and write to the doctor that you are mending now. By-and-by, when you are better, we must have plenty of talks about the old Lincolnshire days." Distin was holding Vane's hands as he spoke, and his voice was cheery, though the tears were in his eyes. "And so," whispered Vane, thoughtfully, "I owe you my life." "I owe you almost more than that," said Distin, huskily. "Vane, old chap, I've often longed for us to meet again." It was a curious result after their early life. Vane often corresponded with Gilmore and Macey, but somehow he and Distin became the staunchest friends. "I can't understand it even now," Vane said to him one day when they were back in England, and had run down to the old place again. "Fancy you and I being companions here." "The wind has changed, old Weathercock," cried Distin, merrily. Then, seriously: "No, I'll tell you, Vane; there was some little good in me, and you made it grow." THE END. 
20870	----	THE MOTOR GIRLS THROUGH NEW ENGLAND Or Held by the Gypsies by MARGARET PENROSE The Goldsmith Publishing Co. New York, N.Y. Copyright, 1911, by Cupples & Leon Company CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE SHADOW II STRIKE OF THE LEADING LADY III A MISHAP IV TO THE RESCUE V FRIEND OR FOE VI A THIEF IN THE NIGHT VII THE SEARCH VIII THE BEGINNING OF THE END IX THE START X AN EXPLOSION XI THE RESULT OF A BLAZE XII QUEER COBBLERS XIII A DELAY AND A SCARE XIV THE MIDNIGHT TOW XV THE GIPSY'S WARNING XVI THE DISAPPEARANCE XVII MISSING XVIII KIDNAPPED XIX THE DEN OF THE GYPSY QUEEN XX CORA AND HELKA XXI MOTHER HULL XXII SADDENED HEARTS XXIII ANOTHER STORY XXIV THE COLLAPSE XXV THE AWAKENING XXVI SURPRISES XXVII THE CALL OF THE HEART XXVIII VICTORY XXIX A REAL LOVE FEAST THE MOTOR GIRLS THROUGH NEW ENGLAND CHAPTER I THE SHADOW "Look, girls! There's a man!" "Where?" "Just creeping under the dining-room window!" "What can he want--looks suspicious!" "Oh, I'm afraid to go in!" "Hush! We won't go in just now!" "If only the boys were here!" "Well, don't cry--they will be here soon." "See! He's getting under the fence! There he goes!" "Did you get a look at him?" "Yes, a good look. I'll know him next time." Bess, Belle and Cora were holding this whispered conversation. It was Belle, the timid, who wanted to cry, and it was Cora who had really seen the man--got the good look. Bess did say she wished the boys were around, but Bess had great confidence in those boys, and this remark, when a man was actually sneaking around Clover Cottage, was perfectly pardonable. The motor girls had just returned from a delightful afternoon ride along the shore road at Lookout Beach. Bess and Belle Robinson, otherwise Elizabeth and Isabel, the twins, were in their little car--the _Flyaway_--and Cora Kimball was driving her fine, four-cylinder touring affair, both machines having just pulled up in front of Clover Cottage, the summer home of the Robinsons. "Did the boys say they would come directly from the post-office?" asked Belle, as she eyed the back fence suspiciously. "Yes, they had to drop some mail in the box. We won't attempt to go in until they come. At any rate, I have a little something to do to the _Whirlwind_," and Cora pulled off her gloves, and started to get a wrench out of the tool box. "I'll get busy, too," declared Bess. "It will look better in case our friend happens to come around the corner." "No danger," and Cora glanced up from the tool box. "I fancy that gentleman is not of the type that runs into facts." "Do you think he is a burglar?" asked Belle. "Well, I wouldn't say just that. But he certainly is not straightforward. And that is a bad sign," replied Cora. "And not a person in the house to help us," sighed Belle. "Oh, I don't see why mamma----" "Now, Belle Robinson!" interrupted her sister. "You know perfectly well that mamma had to take Nellie and Rose over to Drifton. They have to get ready for school." "Mamma fusses a lot over those two girls," continued Belle. "It seems to me a lucky thing they happened to run away--our way." This remark was lost upon Bess and Cora. Bess was intent upon something--nothing definite--about the _Flyaway_, while Cora was working assiduously trying to adjust a leaky valve. The prospect of dark coming on with no one but themselves about the cottage, and the late appearance of the strange man, kept each one busy thinking. Presently Belle exclaimed: "Oh, here come the boys!" and without waiting for the young men to turn the corner, which marked the end of the Clover Cottage grounds, she ran along with the news. Jack Kimball, Cora's brother, Walter Pennington, his chum, and Ed Foster, the friend of both, sauntered along. "I suppose Belle will say we had a bandit," remarked Cora, with a laugh, "but to tell the truth, Bess, I did not like the fellow's looks." She closed the engine bonnet and hurried to the sidewalk. "Neither did I," replied Bess, "but it never does to let Belle know how we feel. She is so nervous!" "I'm glad the boys are here," finished Cora. "Oh, I'm always glad when they are here," confessed Bess, stepping up beside Cora, as the two waited for Belle and the young men to come up the gravel walk. "Hello, there!" saluted Jack. "More haunted house?" "No, only more haunts," replied Cora. "Guess he didn't like the style of the house." "Oh, you girls are too fussy," said Ed. "Seems to me if I were a young lady, and saw a young chap hanging under my window, I'd be sort of flattered." "We prefer the hanging done in the open," exclaimed Bess. "Besides, he didn't hang--he sneaked." "He crawled," declared Belle. "No, I distinctly saw him creep," corrected Cora. "Mere baby, evidently," hazarded Walter. "Well, I suppose he was after----" "Grub," interrupted Jack. "The creeping, crawling, sneaking kind invariably want grub. It was a shame to let him go off hungry." They all took seats upon the broad piazza, after the boys, by a casual look, were satisfied that no intruder was about the grounds. Belle kept close to Ed--he was the largest of the young men--but Cora and Bess showed no signs of fear. "Let's tell you about it," began Bess. "Let's," agreed Walter. "Then listen," ordered the young lady with the very rosy cheeks. "Listen while they let's," teased Jack. "I won't say one word," declared Bess; "not if the fellow comes down the chimney----" Every one laughed. Bess had such a ridiculous way of getting angry. "No joking," went on Cora, "when we came up the road we did see a fellow sneaking around the cottage. I'm not exactly afraid, ahem! but I may as well admit that I am glad you boys appeared just now, and I hope the interloper caught a glimpse, ahem! of your manly forms." The three boys jumped up as if some one had touched a spring. Ed was taller, Walter was stouter and Jack was--well, he was quicker. Bess noticed that, and did not hesitate to say so in making her special report of the trio. "At any rate," ventured Ed, "we are much obliged, Cora. It's awfully nice of you to notice us." "Suppose we take a look through the house," suggested Cora. "Not that I think anything is wrong. You know, girls are never really afraid----" "Oh, no! they are only afraid of being afraid," interrupted Walter. "Well, come along. And, since Ed is the biggest, let him lead!" The incident merely furnished sport for the boys. A burglar hunt was no uncommon thing at Clover Cottage, and this one was no more promising that had been a dozen others. Belle did not venture in with the searching party. She had her fears, as usual. Cora by reputation was not timid, and she had that reputation to maintain just now. As a matter of fact, she knew perfectly well that the man who took the trouble to crawl around the house had some sinister motive in doing so. Bess had not really seen him do it, so when she went in, along with the boys, she had scarcely any fear of running down either a sneak thief or a tramp, both varieties of undesirable citizens being common enough at the watering place. It did not strike Cora Kimball just then that she had a particular part to play in the impending drama which was to involve herself and her friends. In the first volume of the series, entitled "The Motor Girls," Cora found it her duty to unravel the mystery of the road, when a wallet, empty, but which should have contained a small fortune in bonds, was actually found in the tool box of her own car. Then in the next volume, "The Motor Girls on a Tour," Cora again had the lines of the leading lady, for it fell to her lot to "keep the promise" that restored little Wren, the cripple, to her own, both in money and in health. In the third book of the series, "The Motor Girls at Lookout Beach," it was Cora again who had to unearth the mystery, and now---- She smiled as she followed Ed into the big pantry. "You girls and boys seem to count me a star," she said pleasantly. "Ever since we were organized you have been keeping me in----" "The spotlight," finished Ed, with an unmistakable smile. "Well, Cora, we will try to let you down easy this time. Here, Bess, you poke your nose in the cubby hole and see if you see anything." "Oh!" screamed Bess, "I'll do nothing of the sort. Let Cora." "Why?" asked Cora. "Because--you're never the least bit afraid," stammered Bess. "Thanks," said Cora, without hesitation thrusting her head into the aperture through which dishes were passed. "Ouch!" she exclaimed, hastily withdrawing with her hand on her nose. "What's the matter?" asked Ed. "Did you bump into something?" "Yes," replied Cora, looking straight into the eyes of Bess. "I just bumped into--a fact." Then she and her brother walked into another room, leaving their friends to discuss the happening and follow at their leisure. CHAPTER II STRIKE OF THE "LEADING LADY" "Exactly what did you mean, Cora?" "You know perfectly well, Jack." "No, really, I did not know what you--bumped into. Did you hurt your nose?" "Not the least bit, my dear brother. And the real bump--the fact, you know--was that I just discovered how much these two little girls depend upon me. Bess said I was never the least bit afraid----" "And are you?" "Perhaps. At any rate, I didn't like the looks of that man, Jack. I don't intend the girls shall know it, but I was just the least bit afraid to come in the house. Who do you suppose he might be?" "Why, Cora!" and Jack looked his surprise. "What's up? Are you going to strike?" "Don't you believe me, Jack, that I was afraid?" "It is not like you. But I suppose there was something----" "Well, Jack, even a leading lady may get tired. I am going to try to do a little less of the leading." "Angry with the girls?" "Why, bless you, no. Why should I be? Aren't they the dearest--babies. But you boys----" "Oh, mad at us! Cora Kimball!" and her brother threatened to injure his beauty on the matting rug. "If I had only the least idea that you didn't like us, I would have packed the whole crowd off to the bungalow." "Still you insist upon misunderstanding me. Well, I may as well give up, Jack. Let us talk about something else." "I might make another mistake. But I would like to tell you what some of the boys said about the dance last night. They were just raving about you. Did you like Porter?" "The boy with a smile? Yes, I did. I don't know when I saw a young man so real. You know, Jack, with all due respect to boys hovering around twenty, they usually display too much--hover." "Chumpy, you mean." "If the word were a little less--aspirated. Girls might say--crude." "Real nice of the girls. But Porter asked me if I'd bring him around." "Why not? Bess had a splendid time with him." "But he spoke of you, Cora. And he's a great fellow at college." "By all means cultivate the great," replied Cora. "But here come the others. Ask them." "Striking again, Cora. All right. If Porter wants to take Bess to the games----" "He's welcome. I have already promised Ed." It was an hour after the strange-man scare, and the Robinson girls had finally been convinced that there were no miscreants lurking anywhere about the place. The excitement had made Bess prettier in the deep, red flush that overspread her face, and Belle, the pale, dainty blonde, had actually taken on a tint herself. Cora had the color that comes and stays, and only her deep brown eyes seemed brighter after the hunt had been declared "off." "If mother were only home," sighed Belle. "Thank goodness, she is not," put in Bess. "Bad enough to hunt burglars without consoling mamma." "Are you girls going to stay alone to-night?" asked Ed suddenly. "Oh, no, indeed! We expect Nettie back from the city. Never was there a girl like Nettie for scaring away scares," replied Bess. "But suppose she does not come?" spoke Jack. "Don't you think it might be well----" "To hire a special officer? No, thank you," answered Cora. "We are not the least bit afraid. Besides, we have a gun." "The dearest little revolver," went on Bess. "Father got it specially for mamma, and she won't even look at it, so it's mine." "Yes, and you most scared Nettie to death with it," interrupted the twin sister. "What do you think, boys? Nettie wouldn't touch the thing, and actually took a dustpan and a brush and scooped the weapon up from under Bess's pillow. Wasn't that dangerous?" "And dumped it in the bureau drawer," added Cora, with a laugh. "Better let me take charge of that, Bess. I won't take chances with Nettie scooping it up while I'm here." "Very well, Cora. You may take charge of it. Father suggested it was not a bad thing to have along when we take lonely runs. But, of course, I should never dare to fire it even to scare a tramp." "Say, are you girls going to stay here all summer?" asked Walter. "I thought you had planned for a tour somewhere." "We have. We are going to tour in our cars through New England," answered Cora. "First, we are going to the Berkshires, then we may go to the White Mountains. Of course, we are not going to let our cars get rusty around here." "No, indeed," put in Bess. "We are only waiting to arrange about our chaperon. Isn't it dreadful to be a girl, and have to be toted around under some maternal wing?" "Well, no. I shouldn't exactly think it dreadful to be a girl," and Jack made a funny face; "that is, a real nice twin girl, with rosy eyes and blue cheeks----" "Jack!" "But I was just going to say," went on that young man, "that the toting around might be inconvenient--at times." "Couldn't a fellow or two do the toting?" asked Walter the innocent. "That's just exactly the trouble. If we were perfectly sure we would not meet a fellow or two," replied Belle, making a very pretty mouth at Walter, "there would be no need of the toting." "Then don't meet them--take them along. I'll go." "Me, too," added Ed. "Me, three," multiplied Jack. "We fully expected you all to come," drawled Cora coolly. "Oh, you did? Isn't that nice! They fully expected us all to come, and never told us a word about it. Now, that's what I call real cozy, and real----" "Jack," interrupted Cora, "have we ever had a long trip entirely without you?" "Seems to me you did have one or two--rather disastrous they were, too, if I remember aright. But we caught up. Now this time you are really going to allow us to go in the line, eh?" "Just to wind up the season," Cora reminded him. "Oh, sort of a winder. Well, it's all right, Cora. I hope we can fix it to go. When do we start, if a fellow might make bold to ask? You see, my car is in the shop. Walter has loaned his to some one up the State. But a little thing like that doesn't matter when the girls say we shall go----" "If we have to walk," finished Ed. "We did plan to leave as soon as mamma could arrange about a friend of hers to accompany us," said Bess, with a sigh. "We hoped she would know when she came back to-morrow." "Well, I'm going to take my car down to the garage," remarked Cora, getting up from the porch swing. "We can talk of the trip after tea. And we have also decided to ask you poor, starved bungalofers to tea. Have you had any since you went to housekeeping?" "Ed _said_ it was tea," replied Jack, "but I think it was stove polish thinned out. We didn't really enjoy it. Now, that's awfully nice. To stay to tea! Bess, may I take your car in for you?" "If you would, Jack. I am lazy after the sunny ride. Seems to me the sun never goes down at the beach." Ed had not asked permission to run Cora's car down the street for her, but he was now cranking up, while Walter deliberately took his place at the wheel. "Let the 'chiffonier' do the work," said Walter, with a laugh. "He loves work." Cora stepped lightly into the tonneau of her handsome machine, and Ed followed. "To the Imperial!" he shouted into Walter's ear, "and see that you get there, man!" So the tables were turned, and Walter was "doing the work." As there was nothing left to do, Walter threw in the gear lever and let in the clutch, while Cora, laughing at the trick, settled herself comfortably at the side of Ed. The _Whirlwind_ skimmed along the avenue, first down to the post office and later fetched up at the garage. Bess and Jack, with Belle, followed, and as the little party glided along through the sea-side town, many admiring glances were cast in their direction. "If Nettie does not come," remarked Ed, "are you sure, Cora, you won't be the least bit afraid alone at the cottage?" "Why, no. There is a telephone wire over to the hotel, and, besides, I'm going to cock the little ivory pistol before I go to bed. A sneak thief always runs at the very sound of a pistol." "Well, I hope you will have no occasion to fire," replied Ed, "but, if you do, fire from the south window, and we will hear you." "And run all the way up the beach?" Cora told him, laughing at the possibility. "Why, there is always an officer on the pier, and he will be only too glad to have a run--he needs it." "You have it all planned?" "No, how silly! I was only thinking that in a real emergency it is well to be ready." "I guess you won't have any trouble. Here, man," to Walter, "don't you know better than to drive the lady into the barn?" But Walter paid no heed, and before the car stopped it was properly stalled in the very end of the big stone garage. CHAPTER III A MISHAP "The tea was just right," declared Ed, "and I can't see why you will not consent to let us entertain you for the remainder of the evening. Just because the maid has not come down is surely no reason why you should lose such a fine evening's sport." "But we never leave the house entirely alone after dark," protested Belle vaguely. "Lucky house," put in Jack. "But I don't believe the cottage would mind it the least bit, would you?" and he put his ear to the wall. "No, it says to go ahead. Yes? What's that? Delighted? Of course, I knew it would be. Nice Clover," and he patted the plain, white wall. "Of course, you want the girls to go out with us in that dandy little launch. I knew it! Now, girls, get ready. It is time to start." "And no chaper--" they all protested. "Quit!" shouted Walter. "I have it on good authority that when a girl's brother is along, and when there are twins in the same party, and when there are two fellows, near twins, in aforesaid same party, that makes a cross-finger combination on the chaperon. She doesn't have to come along." Walter was looking his very best, which was always good, for the brown boy was now browner than ever, with the tan of beach sand and sun. Bess wore a most becoming linen gown, with just a rim of embroidered pink around her plump neck, and she, too, looked charming. Then Belle--Belle always wore dainty things, she was so perfectly blonde and so bisquelike. Her gown was of the simplest silvery stuff that Jack described as cloudy. Cora, after her auto trip of the afternoon, had "freshed up" in dazzling white. She loved contrast, and invariably, after driving, would don something directly opposite to that required for motoring. Her dark hair looked blacker than usual against the fleecy white, and her face was strictly handsome. Cora Kimball had grown from pretty to handsome just as naturally as a bud unfolds into a flower, with the attending dignity. "If Cora thinks it's all right," weakened Bess. "I don't see why we shouldn't go," replied Cora, "especially as the boys cannot have the launch for another evening. But I suppose that would mean a second change of dress," with a look at the flimsy costumes about her. "Why?" asked Jack. "These--in the evening on the water?" "Why not? Wear shawls or something----" "Yes," assented Belle. "It is all right to be dressed up in a launch when we don't have to motor the boat." "Oh, I'll attend to the motoring," promised Ed. "I am the fellow who borrowed the boat." "Has Nettie a key?" asked Cora. "I guess so," replied Bess. "We can leave the cellar window----" "We can do nothing of the sort, Bess Robinson," interrupted Belle, "and have that man sneak in? I guess not!" "Oh, your man!" protested Jack. "Haven't you forgotten him yet? That's what I call faithful." "Well, at any rate, I am sure Nettie has her key," finished Bess. "And there is only one more train. If she does not come----" "I'll sleep in the hammock on the porch," volunteered Jack. "It would be heaps better than melting in the bungalow to-night." "I thought that bungalow was perfection," remarked Belle. "It is--on the catalogue. But after a day's sun like to-day we just put our ham and eggs on the corrugated iron roof, and they are done to a turn in the morning, with nice little ridge patterns on them." "If we are going sailing, we'd better be at it," Walter reminded them. Whereat the girls ran off to get wraps, and shortly returned ready for the trip. Nor were the wraps lacking in beauty or usefulness. Cora had a family shawl--the kind that defies description outside of the French-English fashion papers. It was of the Paisley order, and did not seem to be cut any place; at the same time it fell in folds about her arms and neck with some invisible fastenings. Her hood was made from a piece of the same wonderfully embroidered stuff--a big red star, with the points drawn in. Bess and Belle both wore pretty cloaks of eiderdown. Bess was in pink and Belle in blue. "Take your guitar, Cora," suggested Ed. "We will have some singing." "And you can play that piece--what is it? 'Love's Hankering?'" asked Jack. "'Love's Triumph,'" corrected Bess, "and it's the prettiest piece out this summer. Cora plays it beautifully." "It is pretty," confirmed Belle. "Yes, I like it," admitted Cora. "As long as you are bent on a romantic evening, we may as well have the little love song," and she slipped the strap of her guitar case over her arm as they started off. Jack took his banjo. He, too, liked the new summer "hit;" in fact, every one was whistling it as well as they could, but it took tuned strings to give it the correct interpretation. It was delightful on the water. The smaller bay opened into another and provided safe motor boating. The tide was slowly receding, and as the party glided along, little moonlight-tipped waves seemed to caress the launch. Jack and Cora were playing, Bess and Belle were humming, while Walter was "breathing sounds" that could scarcely be classified, and Ed was content to run the motor. "Now, isn't that pretty?" asked Belle of Ed, as Cora and Jack finished the popular piece. "Very catchy," replied the young man. "But Cora has given it a twist of her own," said Jack; "the end goes this way," and he correctly played a few bars, "while Cora likes it thusly," and he played a strain or two more in different style. Was it the moonlight on the baby waves? was it the murmur of that gliding boat? or was it something indefinable that so awakened the sentiments of the party of gay motorists? For some moments no one spoke; then Jack broke the spell with a lively fandango, played in solo. "This seems too good to last," prophesied Belle, with a sigh, "Do you think it was all right to leave the cottage alone?" "Now, Tinkle," and Walter moved as if to take her hand, "haven't we assured you that the cottage expressly desired to be left alone to-night, and that we fellows wanted your company?" It was a pretty speech for Walter, and was not lost on the sensitive Belle. "How about sand bars, Ed?" asked Jack. "Might we run onto one?" "We might, but I guess I could feel one coming. The tide is getting away. We had better veer toward the shore." "Oh! is there danger?" asked Belle, immediately alarmed. "Not much," replied Ed, "but we wouldn't like to walk home from this point." He was twisting the wheel so that the launch almost turned. Then a sound like something grating startled them. "Bottom!" exclaimed Jack, jumping up and going toward the wheel. "That was ground, Ed!" "Sounded a lot like it, but we can push off. Get that oar there, Walter; get the other and----" The launch gave a jerk and then stopped! "Oh! what is it?" asked Bess and Belle in one voice. "Nothing serious," Cora assured them. "You see, the tide has gone out so quickly that it has left us on a sand bar. I guess the boys can push off. They know how to handle oars." But this time even skillful handling of oars would not move the launch. Ed ran the motor at full speed ahead and reversed, but the boat remained on the bar, which now, as the tide rapidly lowered, could be plainly seen in the moonlight. "What next?" asked Cora coolly. "Hard to say," replied Ed, in rather a mournful tone. "If we had gone down the bay, we would not have been alone, but I thought this upper end so much more attractive to-night. However, we need not despair. We can wait for the tide." "Till morning!" almost shouted Belle. "It's due at three-thirty," announced the imperturbable Walter. "Oh! what shall we do?" wailed Bess. "We might walk," suggested Cora. "It isn't very far to that shore, and it's shallow." "Mercy, no!" exclaimed Belle. "There are all sorts of holes in the mud here. I would stay forever before I would try walking." Cora laughed. She had no idea of being taken seriously. "Now, you see," said Walter, "my wisdom in curtailing the chaperon. Just imagine her now," and he rolled laughingly over toward Jack. "Easy there! No need for artificial respiration or barrel-rolling just yet," declared Jack. "In fact, if we had a bit of water, we'd be thankful. Let me work the engine, Ed. Maybe I can give luck a turn and get more push out of it." Ed left his place, and Jack took it, but the sand bar held the little launch like adamant, and it seemed useless to exert the gasoline power further. "Suppose we have the little ditty again," suggested Ed, taking a seat near Cora. "What was it? 'Love's Latitude?'" "No, 'Love's Luxury,'" asserted Walter, as he made a comical move toward Belle. But Belle was disconsolate, and she only looked at the moon. It was almost funny, but the humor was entirely lost on the frightened girl. "When in doubt play 'The Gypsy's Warning,'" suggested Cora, picking up her guitar. "There is something bewitching about that tune." "See if we can bewitch a wave or two with it," remarked Jack. "That would fetch us in a little nearer to shore." But the situation was becoming more serious each moment. There they were--high though not exactly dry upon a big sand bar! Not a craft was in sight, and none within call! "If we only could trust the bottom, we fellows might get out and push her off," suggested Walter, "but it wouldn't be nice to get right in the line with Davy Jones' locker." "Oh, please don't do that," begged Bess. "It will be better to stay safely here and wait for the tide than to take any chance of losing----" "Wallie. Sometimes he's Walter, but when it comes to the possibility of our losing him, he's Wallie," declared Jack, clasping his arms around the other boy's neck. "Starboard watch ahoy!" "Right about face, forward march!" called Walter ridiculously. "That's not the same set," corrected Jack. "This was another kind of a watch--stem winder." The jollying of the boys kept the girls from actually feeling the seriousness of their plight. But to wait until morning for the tide! CHAPTER IV TO THE RESCUE "Don't tell the girls, but I am going to swim ashore," whispered Walter to Jack. "A nice fix we would be in if Mrs. Robinson came home and found the girls missing." "Swim ashore!" repeated Jack in surprise. "Why, Walter, it's a mile!" "Can't help it. I can do it, and I see a light directly opposite here. You give Ed the tip to keep the girls busy, while you stay back here with me. I'll be overboard in no time." Jack tried to persuade his friend not to take the risk, but Walter was determined; so, unobservedly divesting himself of his heaviest garments, he dropped over the side of the launch and was soon stroking for the shore. For some time the girls did not miss him, but Belle, keen to scent danger, abruptly asked if Walter had fallen asleep. "Yes," drawled Jack, "he is the laziest fellow." Cora pinched Jack's arm, and he in return gave her two firm impressions. She instantly knew that something was going on, and did her best to divert Belle's attention from it. "But where--is--he!" exclaimed Belle, for her gaze had traveled to the end of the launch and back again without seeing Walter. "He--is gone!" Realizing that the young man was actually not aboard the boat, she sank down in abject terror, ready to cry. "Don't take on so," said Ed. "He is all right. He has gone ashore to get help." "Gone ashore!" exclaimed both Belle and Bess in a breath. "Girls, do you imagine we would sit here calmly and try to quiet you if there was anything actually wrong?" asked Cora. "Why don't you give the boys credit, once in a while, for having a little common sense?" Looking across the water, the movement of the swimming youth could be seen, where the moonlight reflected on the waves. "Oh, I am so frightened!" exclaimed Belle. "I felt that something would happen!" "Something always does happen when it is expected," Cora told her, "but let us hope it will be nothing worse than what we already are conscious of. It was splendid of Walter to go, and I am sure he will return safely." "He's a first-rate swimmer," declared Ed, looking anxiously at the little rippling motion that marked Walter's progress. "He can easily go a mile." Then quiet settled upon the party. It was, indeed, a gloomy prospect. Stranded--Walter swimming in the bay--and nothing but sky above and water beyond them, just far enough away to be out of the reach of the launch. All the thoughts of the young folks seemed to follow Walter. Belle hid her face in her hands, Bess clung to Cora, and the two young men watched the progress of the swimmer. It seemed hours when, suddenly, a movement in the water, not far from them both, was noticed by Bess. "Oh! what is that?" she called. "Can it be----" "Oh, it's Walter!" shrieked Belle, clasping her hands. "It can't be!" answered Ed, at the some moment raising a lantern above his head to see, if possible, what was making the splash in the water. "It's as big--as--a----," began Belle. "Horse!" finished Cora. "I saw a head just then." "Oh, it's a whale!" cried Bess, actually dropping into the bottom of the boat as if to hide from the monster. "And he may have eaten Walter!" wailed Belle. "Girls!" commanded Cora. "Do try not to be so foolish. There are no whales in this bay." But all the same her voice was unsteady, and she would have given worlds for a reassuring shout from Walter. Another splash! "There he goes! It's a porpoise!" cried Jack. "No danger of one of those hog-fish going near a man. They're as timid as mice. Just see him go! There ought to be a lot of others, for they generally go in schools. Maybe this one was kept in because he couldn't spell 'book,' and is just getting home." Cora breathed a sigh of relief at Jack's joking tone. She didn't care to see the big fish swim--she was only too glad that he was going, and that he was of the harmless species described by Jack. The others watched the porpoise as he made his way out to the open sea. "My, I'll bet Walter was frightened if he met that fellow," said Ed. "I wish he hadn't gone," he whispered to Jack a moment later. "He said he would fire a pistol when he got to shore. He took a little one with him, and it's waterproof. Let's listen." As if the magical words had gone by wireless, at that very moment a shot was heard! "There! He's safe! That was his signal!" cried Jack, and Cora said afterwards that he hugged Belle, although the youth declared it was his own sister whom he had embraced. "Now, we will only have to wait and not worry," Ed remarked. "Over at that light there must be human beings, and they must have boats. Boats plus humans equal rescue." The relief from anxiety put the girls in better spirits. Bess and Belle wondered if Nettie had returned, and speculated whether, on finding them gone, she might have notified the police. Cora was thinking about what sort of lifeboat Walter would return with, while Ed and Jack were content to look and listen. A good hour passed, when a light could be seen moving about the beach. "They're coming, all right," declared Ed. "Watch that glimmer." The light moved first to the north, then in the other direction, until finally it became steady and was heading straight for the party in distress. "Wave your lantern," suggested Cora. "They may not be able to see it as it stands." Ed stood on the seat and circled the light about his head. Breathlessly they stood there--waiting, wondering and watching. "I'm going to call," said Bess, at the same moment shouting, "Walter!" at the top of her voice. "C-o-m-ing!" came the reply, and this time it was an open question whether Bess hugged Ed or Jack. "Now we will be all right," breathed Belle. "Oh, I shall never want to see a motor boat again! The _Flyaway_ is good enough for me." "Yes, I fancy a motor on the earth myself," Cora agreed, "but, of course, a little experience like this adds to our general knowledge. I hope Walter is all right." "Just hear him laugh," said Jack, as a chuckle came over the water. "Likely he has struck up with some mermaid. It would be just Wallie's luck." The merry voices that could now be heard were reassuring indeed. Nearer and nearer they came, until the girls actually became interested to the extent of arranging side combs and otherwise attending to little niceties, dear to the heart of all girls. "It's a mermaid, sure," declared Jack. "I heard her giggle!" and he grabbed out Cora's side comb to arrange his own hair. "Oh, it is--a girl," whispered Bess to Cora. "I heard her voice." "I hope she's nice," answered Cora, "but as long as we get some one to pull us off we have no occasion to be particular." By this time the rowboat was almost alongside. "Hurrah!" shouted Jack. "Also hurray!" added Ed. "Walter, you're a brick!" exclaimed Cora fervently. The light of the lantern now fell upon the face of the stranger. The stranded ones looked upon the countenance of a girl, not perhaps a very young girl, nor a very pretty girl, but her face was pleasant, and she pulled a stroke as steady as did Walter. Walter stood up. He was enveloped in a bath robe! CHAPTER V FRIEND OR FOE? When their launch pulled up to the dock that night, an anxious party greeted them. Nettie had returned from the city, and upon finding the cottage deserted had waited a reasonable length of time before consulting the neighbors. Then she found that the young folks had gone sailing. That settled it, for the waters of the bay are never considered too reliable, and when the girls did not return by ten o'clock Nettie locked up the cottage and set off for the beach. Of course, she learned that such a party had gone out, but in what direction no one along the beach front seemed to know. The upper bay course was the last thing thought of, and, when Nettie did succeed in hiring a fisherman to set out and search, he went down the cove opposite to the course taken by Ed in his motor boat. In half an hour the fisherman returned, and, as luck would have it, he brought with him Walter's cap, which had fallen overboard as the youth started out from the stalled motor boat, and so drifted in the other direction. In the rapid time that bad news always flies, the report became circulated that a sailing party was lost. Hazel and Paul Hastings, two friends of the motor girls, heard the report at their cottage, and hurried down to the little wharf, where they found Nettie in the deepest distress. Just as Paul was about to set out himself, the launch chugged in, with the party laughing and singing, Cora playing that same tune, and with our friends was the little lady from the bungalow, she who had rescued Walter, and who went with him to the succor of the stranded ones on the sand bar. It was a wonderful evening, and when Cora, with Bess, Belle and Miss Robbins, the new girl, stepped ashore, they evidently did not regret the length of time spent upon the water. Miss Robbins, it developed, was a young doctor, stopping up the river in a bungalow with her mother. Her boat was towed by the launch when they came in, and, although she wanted to row back, the others would not listen to such a proposition. "It won't take half an hour to get to the garage and bring my car right down here," insisted Walter, "unless you prefer walking up to the cottage with the young ladies, and I can run over there for you. I will have you back in your bungalow in ten minutes more." Miss Robbins was one of those rare young women who always did what was proposed for her, and she now promptly agreed to go to the cottage, and there await Walter and his car. As they entered the little parlor Bess drew Cora aside and demanded: "How ever did Walter find out that she'd just love to go to the Berkshires? And he wants to know if she is _homely_ enough to be our chaperon," she added, with a laugh. "She is," replied Jack's sister promptly, and in a tone of voice remarkably decisive for Cora, considering. "But she's nice," objected Bess. "Very," confirmed Cora, "and we should conform to the rules--homely, experienced and wise." "She's a lot of those," went on Bess, who seemed taken with the idea of going to the hills with Miss Robbins as chaperon. "Besides, I like her." "That's a lot more," said Cora, with a laugh. "I like her, too. It seems to me almost providential. We are going to the Berkshires, she wants to go, we can't get a mother to take us, so a young doctor ought to be the----" "Very thing," finished Bess, and she joined the others indoors. "But here is Walter back. How quickly he got around! Looks as if Walter is very keen on time--this time," and the tooting of the auto horn outside drew them to the door. "Walter's privilege," whispered Cora, just as Miss Robbins hurried to the steps. "Isn't this splendid," said the stranger, with polite gratitude. "One would not mind getting shipwrecked often for an auto ride. And such an evening! or night, I suppose it is now." "I'll go along," said Cora, realizing that she ought to do so. "Me, too," said Jack, thinking he should go with Cora. Bess and Belle would then be alone with Ed. Of course, Nettie was about, and they might sit on the porch until the others returned. Jack jumped in with Walter, while Cora and Miss Robbins took the second seat. The car was not Walter's runabout, but a larger machine from the garage. "I'll have to come down in the morning for my boat," said Miss Robbins. "We've been living on soft clams lately, and I have to go out quite a way to dig them." "Do you dig them?" asked Cora. "Of course, why not? It is muddy and dirty, but it's lots cheaper than buying them, and then we are sure they are fresh." "I'll go up in the boat when I fetch the robe back," said Walter, who, it was plain to be seen, liked the excuse to visit the bungalow on the rocks. "What time do you clam?" "Well, I have to call at the fresh-air camp tomorrow. I'll be back about eleven, and can then get some dug in time for lunch." "We are bungalowing," spoke Jack. "Why can't we clam, Wallie?" Walter poked his free elbow into Jack's ribs. "You can, of course, what's to prevent you," and he gave him such another hard jab that Jack grabbed the elbow. "But I wouldn't start tomorrow--it's unlucky to clam on Wednesday," finished Walter. The girls were too busy talking to notice the boys' conversation, if the pokes and exclamations might be classified as such. "Don't you ever sink?" called back Jack to Miss Robbins. "Oh my, no! I can tell all the safe and unsafe places." And she laughed merrily. "It is late for us to bring you home," said Cora. "I hope your mother won't be frightened at your absence." "Oh, no, mother has absolute confidence in me," replied Miss Robbins. "You see, mother and I are chums. We built the bungalow." "Built it?" echoed Cora. "Yes, indeed. You must come around in daylight and inspect it. Poverty may not be a blessing, but it is a pace-setter." Walter felt this was the very kind of a girl he had dreamed of. She might not be pretty, but when she tossed the bath robe out to him as he was virtually washed up at her door, tossed it out while she ran to get her own wraps to join him in the rescue, he felt instantly that this girl was a "find." Then, when she spoke of going to the Berkshires, he was further convinced, and now, when she told of building a bungalow--what an acquisition such a woman would be! "Aren't you afraid in the bungalow--just you and your mother in this lonely place?" asked Cora, as they drew up to the territory that outlined a camping ground. "Well we never have been afraid," replied Miss Robbins, "as I am pretty good with a revolver, but there seems to be some tramps around here lately. One visited us this morning before breakfast, and mother remarked he was not at all a pleasant sort of customer." "We had something like a similar call," said Cora, "only the man didn't ring the bell--he crawled around the house." "Mercy! Why didn't the boys chase him?" "They did, but he was beyond chase when they arrived. That's the one thing uncertain about boys--their presence when one wants them," and Cora stepped out of the machine to allow Miss Robbins room to pass. "There's a light in the window," remarked Jack, as he, too, alighted from the machine. "And there's mother! Mother, come out a minute," called Miss Robbins. "I want to----" "Daughter!" exclaimed the woman at the little door. "I am almost frightened to death. What happened? Where's your boat?" "Why! you frightened, mother? About me?" "Well, I suppose I should not have been," and the lady smiled as she stepped within range of the auto lamps. "But that horrid tramp. He came again!" "He did! How long ago?" "Just as you left. I cannot imagine why he should sneak around here at this hour. He could not have wanted food." There was no time for introductions. The excitement of Mrs. Robbins precluded any such formality. All talked just as if they had been well acquainted. "We could tell the town officers," suggested Walter. "It is not safe for women to be alone away up here." "He wanted to hire a boat, Regina," said the mother, "just as if he could not get one handy at the pier." "Shall we hunt for you?" asked Jack. "We are professional burglar hunters--do it 'most every evening." "Oh, thank you! but there are no hiding places about our shack. Either you are in it or out of it, and in one way or the other one is bound to be in evidence," said Miss Robbins, smiling frankly. "What did your visitor look like?" inquired Cora. "He was tall and dark and very stooped," replied Mrs. Robbins. "Besides this, I noticed he wore boots with his trousers outside, as a farmer or clammer wears them." "Oh!" said Cora simply. But she did not add that this description tallied somewhat with that of the man she had seen about Clover Cottage. She particularly saw the boots, but many clammers wear them that way. "I fancy the girls will be timid to-night," Cora remarked, as they started back to the cottage. "Yes, this has been what you might call a portentous evening," agreed Walter, "and I do declare I think Miss Robbins is--well--nice, to put it mildly." "Wallie," said Jack. "I will have an awful time with you, I can see that. But you are young, boy, very young, and she is already a doctor, so maybe there is hope--she may be able to cure you." CHAPTER VI A THIEF IN THE NIGHT "Hush!" "I heard it!" "Call Nettie!" "I would have to go out in the hall--the noise was somewhere near the second stairs." "But I am so frightened--I shall die!" "No, you won't. Please be quiet! I have the little revolver!" Cora crept out of bed and left Belle trembling there. She only advanced a few steps when the sounds in the hall again startled her. The stairs certainly creaked. There was no cat, no dog. Some one was walking on those steps. Cora realized that discretion was the better part of valor. It would be foolhardy to run out in the hall, even with the cocked revolver in her hand. If she could only touch the button of the electric hall light! She stepped out cautiously. Something seemed very near, yet, at that moment, there was no sound, just that feeling of some one near. She reached her arm out of the door, touched the button, and, in an instant, had flooded the hall with light. As she did so she saw a man turn and run down the three steps near the window, part way up the stairs. The window was open! Cora was too frightened to move for a moment, then she raised her revolver, and the next instant the sound of a shot rang through the house. The man dropped out of the window. Cora ran to it, looked down, saw the figure on the ground beneath, and fired again, but not at the man. With a cry the fellow jumped up, and as he hurried away Cora saw that he limped. She must have hit him! In all this time she could not give a word to the three frightened girls who were screaming and shouting for help. Nettie had run down from the third floor, Belle was threatening to die, and Bess was doing her best to make the boys down at the bungalow hear her cries. "Did you kill him?" gasped Belle, when Cora finally returned to the bedroom. "No, indeed, but I guess I hurt him a little. He limped off rather unsteadily. I had no idea of hitting him, but just as I fired toward the window he darted into it. I could not help it. He should have surrendered." Cora was as pale as death. Her black hair fell in a cloud about her shoulders. She sank into a chair and still held the smoking weapon. "Put that down!" commanded Nettie. "Not yet--he might come back," murmured Cora. "There is no reason for you to fear, it is not cocked," and she held up the revolver to prove her words. "Oh, do put it down!" begged Belle. "Seems to me you are more afraid of the revolver than of the burglar," remarked Cora. "Do you realize that a man has just jumped out of the window?" "Of course we do," wailed Bess, "but we don't want any more things to happen, and it's always the perfectly safe, unloaded guns that shoot people." "Oh, I'll put it away, if you feel so about it," and Cora stepped over to the dresser as she spoke. "I really hope I have not hurt the man very much!" "Couldn't have, when he was able to get away," declared Nettie. "But I just wish you had! The idea of a mean man sneaking around here! Likely he's taken the silver. I didn't bring it up last night!" "Well, that was not your fault, Nettie," Bess said. "We had so much excitement last night you are not responsible. Besides, you wanted to go down for it, and I said not to bother. But I hope he didn't take grandma's spoons." "Let's go down and find out," suggested Cora. "Oh, mercy, no!" cried Belle, who all the time continued to shiver under the bed clothes. "Let the old silver go--grandma's spoons and all the rest. We may be thankful we are alive." "But the man is gone," declared Cora. "I saw him go." "Yes, but there might be another man down stairs. Who knows anything about such persons or their doings?" "Again I'll agree, if it makes you feel better," replied Cora. "But, you see, mother has been away so much, and Jack is always at college, so that I am rather educated in this sort of thing," and as she glanced at her watch on the dresser the other girls could not help admiring her prudent courage. "What time is it?" asked Nettie. "The mystic hour--when we are supposed to be farthest from earth," replied Cora. "Just two." "There is no use in trying to sleep any more," said Bess. "We might better get up and dress." "And look like valentines in the morning! No, indeed, I am going to bed," and Cora deliberately dropped herself down beside Belle. "Oh, Nettie will keep guard," said Bess, apparently disappointed that Cora should give up her part of the "guarding." "Strange, the neighbors did not hear the shots," the maid said. "But it is just as well. We might have had to entertain people more troublesome than burglars. I'm going down stairs. I must look about the spoons. Mrs. Robinson will be so angry----" "You will do nothing of the sort, Nettie!" commanded Belle, sitting bolt upright. "I tell you we must all stick together until morning. I won't consent to any one leaving the room!" Even Bess laughed, the order was so peremptory. Nettie fussed around rather displeased. Finally she asked if the young ladies wanted anything, and learning that they did not made her way upstairs. "If you are to stay in this room, Bess," said Cora, "please get some place. I want to put out the light." "Oh, we must leave the light burning," insisted Belle. "Must we? Very well," and Cora drew a light coverlet over her eyes. "Good night, or good morning, girls. Let me sleep while I may. Who knows but the officers will be after me in the morning!" Bess dropped down upon the couch in the corner. Both twins had unlimited confidence in Cora, and as the time wore on they both felt, as she did, that there was no longer need for alarm. "She's actually asleep," said Belle quietly. "Good girl," replied Bess. "Wish I was. I hate to be awake." "But some one has to watch," said the sister. "What for?" "He might come back." "With a ball in his leg, or somewhere? Not much danger. Cora was plucky, and we were lucky. There! a rhyme at this hour! Positively dissipation!" "I am glad mother was not at home," whispered Belle. "Of course, that was the man who has been sneaking around." "Likely." "Did Cora say so?" "No, not just so, but she said she saw him." "Do you suppose they will say anything about her shooting him?" (This in a hissed whisper.) "Belle?" "What, dear?" "I must--go to--sleep!" "Then I must stay awake. Some one has to watch!" CHAPTER VII THE SEARCH The spoons were gone! Nettie discovered this very early the next morning, for the truth was, the maid did not return to sleep after the escape of the burglar from the Robinson cottage. The fact that she had been intrusted with the care of the table silver, during the absence of Mrs. Robinson, gave the girl grave anxiety, and, although Bess was willing to say it was partly her fault that the silver had not been brought upstairs that night, Nettie felt none the less guilty. The boys, Ed and Jack, were around at the cottage before the tired girls had a chance to collect themselves after breakfast. "We have got to make a quiet search first," said Jack, after hearing the story. "No use putting the officers on until we get a look over the neighborhood. From Cora's version of the affair he could not have gone very far." This was considered good advice, and accordingly Jack went back to the bungalow for Walter, so that all three chums might start out together. "Did you really get a look at him?" Ed asked Cora. "Not exactly a look," replied Cora, "but I noticed when he jumped up into the window that he wore a beard--he looked almost like a wild man." "Naturally he would look to you that way, under the circumstances," said Ed, "but what stumps me is how you expected him--how you had the gun loaded and all that." "Well, didn't he prowl around the very first day we came in from leaving mother at the train? He seemed to know we would be alone," declared Belle. "I hope he is so badly hurt that he had to----" "Give up prowling," finished Cora. "Well, I hope he is not badly hurt. It is not pleasant to feel that one has really injured another, even if he be a bold, bad burglar." "Don't let that worry you," encouraged Ed. "I rather guess his legs are used to balls and bullets. But here come the fellows. So long, girls," as he started off to meet Walter and Jack. "If we don't get the spoons we will get something." "Where are they going?" asked Bess. "Oh, I am so nervous and tired out this morning!" and Belle's white face corroborated that statement. "I feel I will have to go back to bed." "It's the best thing you can do," advised Cora, for, indeed, the dainty, nervous Belle was easily overcome. "I might say, though, go out on the porch and rest in the hammock. The air will help." Nettie was already searching and beating the ground from under the hall window out into the field, and then into the street. She had found one spoon, and she had also found a spot that showed where some one had lately been lying in the tall grass. Cora joined her now, and the two came to the conclusion that the man had rested there possibly to do something for the injured foot or leg. "It is well you found even one spoon," said Cora, bending low in the bushes to make sure there were no more dropped there, "for that will help in identifying the others." "But I do feel dreadfully," sighed Nettie. "I have been with Mrs. Robinson so long, and nothing of the kind has ever before happened." "There has to be a first time," said Cora, "and I am sure Mrs. Robinson will not blame you." "Only for you what might have happened," exclaimed the girl, looking into Cora's flushed face. "I cannot see how you ever had the courage to fire!" "I had to! Think of three helpless girls--and a desperate man. Why, if I showed fright, I am sure we might have all been chloroformed or something. Why, what's this? I declare! a chloroform bottle! There! And it's from the town drug store! Well, now, wasn't it lucky I had the revolver?" She picked up a small phial. "Don't tell Miss Bess or Miss Belle," cautioned Nettie. "They are so nervous now, I think they would not stay in the house another night if they knew about the bottle." "All right," agreed Cora, "but it will be well for the boys to know about it. It shows that the man went to the Spray drug store, and that he must belong about here some place." Meanwhile, Ed, Jack and Walter had done considerable searching. They followed what they took to be a trail, down over the railroad tracks, through swamps, and they finally brought up at an abandoned gypsy camp! "They left in a hurry," declared Ed. "See, they had a meal here last night, at least." The remains of food and of a campfire showed that his surmise was correct, and Jack made bold enough to pull down an old horse blanket that hung to the ground from the low limbs of a tree. "Hello! Who are you?" exclaimed Jack, for back of the improvised curtain lay a man asleep! The other boys ran to the spot. "That's him," whispered Ed, ignoring his education. "Look at the bandaged foot!" The man turned over and growled. He was not asleep, but pretended to be, or wanted to be. "Here!" exclaimed Ed, giving him a shove, "wake up! We want those spoons you borrowed last night!" The fellow pulled himself up on his arms and made a move as if to get something in his pocket, but the boys were too many and too quick for him. Ed and Walter had his arms secure before he had a chance to sit upright. Jack whipped out a strap, and while the fellow vigorously protested and exerted a desperate effort to free himself, the young men made him their prisoner. "You stay here, and I will go for the officer," said Jack, having tied fast the man's hands and noting that the sore foot would not permit of any running away. "What do you want?" shouted the man. "If you don't let me go, I'll----" "Oh, no, you won't," interrupted Ed. "A nice chap to break in on a couple of girls! Even robbers should have some honor," and Ed pushed the man back into the grass just to relieve his feelings. "I didn't do no breaking in," said the fellow, turning in pain. "I got kicked with a horse." "A little iron broncho," remarked Walter, with a smile. "Well, that sort of kick stays a while. I guess you won't feel like running after that horse. Did he run away?" The man looked as if he would like to strangle Walter, but he was forced to lie there helpless. Jack had gone. The officer, after hearing the story, decided to ask Cora to go to the swamp to identify the man. With this intention the two stopped at the cottage, and Cora promised to hurry along after them down to the abandoned camp. "I can't go this very minute," she said, "but I know the way. I will follow directly." "No need to go into the woods," said the officer, on second thought. "Just step down to the station house. We will have him there inside of half an hour." This was agreed upon, and when Jack and the Constable had gone toward the camp, Cora, without telling Bess or Belle, who did not happen to see the man with Jack, slipped into a linen outing suit and started for the country police station. The road led cross-cut through a lot. There were trees in the very heart of this big meadow, and when Cora reached a clump of birches she was suddenly startled to see an old woman shuffling after her. Cora stopped instantly. It was broad daylight, so she had no thought of fear. "What do you want?" she demanded of the woman, whom she saw was an old gypsy. "I--want--you, young lady!" almost hissed the woman. "Do not get Salvo into trouble!" and she raised a black and withered hand in warning, "or trouble shall be upon your head!" "Salvo!" "Tony Salvo! Liza has spoken!" and the old gypsy turned away, after giving Cora a look such as the young girl was not apt soon to forget. But Cora went straight on to the police station. CHAPTER VIII THE BEGINNING OF THE END Cora was pale and frightened. Jack and Ed had already reached the office of the country squire, where that official had taken the sulky prisoner. Walter went back to the cottage to assure the young girls there that everything would ultimately be all right. From under dark, shaggy eyebrows the man stared at Cora. He seemed to know of the gypsy woman's threat, and was adding to it all the savagery that looks and scowls could impart. But Cora was not to be thus intimidated--to give in to such lawbreakers. "Do you recognize the prisoner?" asked the officer. "As well as I can tell from the opportunity I had of seeing him," replied the girl, in a steadied voice. "What about him do you remember?" "The beard, and the fact that he is lame. I must have hit him when I fired to give the alarm." The man looked up and smiled. "Humph!" he grunted, "fired--to give--the alarm!" "Pretty good firing, eh?" demanded the squire. "Now, Miss Kimball, please give us the whole story." Again the man cast that swift, fierce look at Cora, but her eyes were diverted from him. "The first time I saw him--I think it was he--was one evening when we were returning from a motor ride. I saw a man creeping around the cottage. He had that peculiar stoop of the shoulders." "He's got that, all right," agreed the squire. "The next time I saw the person, whom I take to be this man, was last night, about midnight. I was aroused from sleep, and upon making a light in the hall I saw a man under the window. The next moment he jumped out, and again I saw the figure under the window." Cora paused. Somehow she felt unreasonably nervous, but the strain of the night's excitement might account for that. "What have you got to say for yourself, Tony?" asked the squire. "Not guilty," growled the man. "I was at the camp last night, and when the old folks were packing up I got kicked with that big bay horse. Ouch!" and he rubbed the injured leg. "Looks funny, though, doesn't it, Tony?" Jack and Ed were talking to Cora. "If you have finished with us, Squire Redding, we will leave," said Ed. "My sister is not used to this sort of thing." "Certainly, certainly," agreed the squire politely. "I am much obliged for her testimony. I guess we will hold Tony for the grand jury. Gypsies in this county have to be careful, or they lose their rights to come in here. I think, myself, we would be better off without them." "Then give me a chance to leave," snapped the man. "The rest are gone. We are done with this blamed county, anyhow." "Well, you will have to settle up first," declared Squire Redding. "Those spoons were valuable." "I ain't got no spoons! I tell you I was at the camp all night, and I don't know nothin' about this thing." "Very well, very well. Can you furnish a thousand-dollar bond?" "Thousand-dollar bond!" and the gypsy shifted uneasily. "I guess not, judge." "Then here comes the man to attend to your case. Constable Cummings, take this man to the station again and lock him up. Here, Tony, you can walk all right. Don't play off that way." But Tony did not move. He sat there defiant. Officer Cummings was a big man and accustomed to handling prisoners as rough and as ugly as this one. The two steel cells back of the fire house were often occupied by rough fishermen and clammers who forgot the law at the seaside place, and it was always Tom Cummings who put them in "the pen." "Come, Tony," he said, with a flourish of his stick. "I never like to hit a gypsy; it's bad luck." The prisoner looked up at big Tom. Then he shuffled to his feet and shambled out of the room. As he passed down the stone steps he brushed past Cora. Whether intentionally or otherwise, the man shoved the girl so that she was obliged to jump down at the side of the step. Jack saw it and so did Ed, but big Tom winked at them and merely hurried the prisoner along. Cora only smiled. Why should the man not be rude when her evidence had accused him of a serious crime--that of breaking and entering? "I didn't tell you about the bottle," she said to the boys as they walked along. "I found this bottle in the fields." "Chloroform!" exclaimed Jack. "You should have told the judge, Cora." "But could I prove that the man had it? Besides, it would be awful to have that made public." "You are right, Cora," agreed Ed. "First thing we'd know, it would be in the New York papers. 'Attempt to Chloroform Three Young Girls!' That would not be pleasant news for the folks up home way." "Oh, well, I suppose you are right," said Jack. "But that bottle puts a different light on the case, and it seems to me the fellow ought to suffer for it." "And do you know that old gypsy woman, Liza, met me and tried to scare me into--or out of--identifying Tony? She made a most dramatic threat." "Did, eh? I thought all the gypsies had cleared out!" exclaimed Jack. "I'll go and get a warrant for her----" "She took the eleven o'clock train," said Cora. "I saw her going to the station as I came up the street. Oh, I wouldn't bother with the poor old woman. This man is her brother, and naturally she wants to keep him out of trouble." "At the expense of trouble for others." Jack was determined to have justice for his sister. "I'm going to make sure she and the whole tribe have left the county. The lazy loafers!" "Now, Jacky," and Ed smiled indulgently. "Didn't Liza tell your fortune once, and say that you were going to marry the proverbial butter tub? It is not nice of you to go back on a thing like that." "Did it strike you, boys, that this man answers the description of the man Mrs. Robbins was frightened by?" asked Cora. "That's so," agreed Ed. "I'll bet he had his eye on something around the bungalow--not Miss Robbins, of course." "Well, it seems better that he is now safe," said Cora, with a sigh. "I'm glad I am through with it." "I hope you are," said Ed, and something in his manner caused Cora to remember that remark. "I hope you are!" But Cora was not through with it by a great deal--as we shall soon see. CHAPTER IX THE START "Dear me! I did think something else would happen to prevent us from getting off," said Bess, as she and Belle, with Cora, actually started out to get the autos ready for the tour to the Berkshires. "And to think that Miss Robbins can go with us!" "I'm sure she will be a lot better than a nervous person like dear mamma," said Belle. "Not but what we would love to have mamma go, but she does not enjoy our kind of motoring." "It does seem fortunate that Miss Robbins wanted to go," added Cora. "I like her; she is the ideal type of business woman." "Is she?" asked Belle, in such an innocent way that the other two girls laughed outright. "Oh, I suppose I ought to know," and Belle pouted; "but we always think Cora knows so much better--and more." "Which is another fact I have bumped into," said Cora. "I just feel that we are going to have the jolliest of good times," remarked Bess, as they started down the road. "I never care what route we take. Isn't it fine that the boys attended to all that arrest and police business for us?" "Very fine," agreed Cora, "but I like to have my say now about our plans. We are going to take the main road along the New York side. We will touch Bridgeport and Waterbury. You might like to know that much." "There are the boys, and there is Miss Robbins! My, doesn't she look smart!" suddenly exclaimed Bess. "That's a smart outfit," Cora agreed, as they saw the party approaching, Miss Robbins "done up" in a tan suit, with the exact shade in a motor cap. "I'm so glad we have all the things in the cars. It is so much better to do that the night before," remarked Belle. "But you didn't do it the night before; I did!" her sister reminded her. "Did you bring the hot-water bottle?" asked Cora. "If Belle gets a headache, you will surely need it." This was not a joke, neither was it intended for sarcasm, for on previous tours Belle had suffered, and the getting of reliable remedies was one of the real discomforts of the trip. "I put in the water bag and mustard, too," said Belle. "Bess is just as likely as not to get a cold, and she has to have mustard." "I suppose Cora brought cold cream," called Bess, with a laugh. "That is usually the important drug in her medicine chest." "I did," admitted Cora. "I will surely have to use a barrel of it going through the changes in the hills. I cannot stand a stinging face." Mrs. Robinson had taken a notion that her twins were outgrowing their twinship, consequently their outfits for the mountain trip had been made exactly alike in material and effect. The result was, the boys purposely mixed the girls up, asking Belle what made her so thin, for instance, when they knew perfectly well that she was always thin, and that it was Bess who had to own to being stout. The twins' costumes were of hunter-green corduroy, with knitted green caps. Cora wore mole-color cloth, with a toque to match, and as they now stood before the garage, waiting the coming of the others, who had stopped at the post office, many admiring eyes turned in their direction. "They have a lot of mail," remarked Cora gleefully, as Jack waved letters and cards to her. "I hope it is nothing we don't want just now." "As long as the gypsy man is safe, we needn't fear anything unpleasant," said Bess, "but I did feel a lot better when I heard that they took him to the real county jail." "Oh, yes," and Cora laughed. "You seemed to think that man was our particular evil genius. Bess, all gypsies are supposed to steal." "Hello!" "Here we are!" "Everybody and everything!" "No, Wallie forgot his new handkerchief--the one with the pretty rose in the corner." "And Jacky forgot his rope. We won't be able to haul him this time." "I forgot something," began Miss Robbins, "my absorbent cotton. See to it that if you must get hurt you don't get----" "The nose-bleed," Ed finished more practically than eloquently. Miss Robbins was to travel in Cora's car, with Cora and Hazel Hastings. The boys had tried to alter this plan, they declaring one boy, at least, should go in the big car, but Cora argued that the _Whirlwind_ was distinctly a girl's auto, and only girls should travel in it. This put Jack in his own runabout and Walter and Ed in the _Comet_. The Robinson girls, of course, were not to be separated, as the _Flyaway_ seemed to know all about the twins, and the twins knew all about the _Flyaway_. The weather was uncertain, and the fog horn at the point lighthouse had blown all night, so that the girls were naturally apprehensive. Only Cora's car was canopied, so that should it rain they would be obliged to stop and wait for clear weather. Nevertheless it was a very jolly party that now waited at the garage for the machines to be run out. The boys went inside and attended to the very last of the preparations, while Cora, too, insisted upon looking over her machine before starting off. "You'll have a fine trip," remarked the man at the garage. "I think the run through the Berkshires one of the best there is. Fine roads and nice people along the way." "Well, we need both," answered Miss Robbins. "I don't know so much about roads, but people--we always need them." "All aboard," cried Ed, as finally they all did get into the cars, and, as usual, the _Whirlwind_ led. Next came the _Flyaway_, then the two runabouts with the young men. "What a fine chauffeur Miss Cora is?" remarked Miss Robbins to Hazel. "Yes, but you must call her Cora," corrected Hazel gayly. "We make it a rule to go by first names when we like people." "Then you must call me Regina," added Miss Robbins. "I hope the young men don't make me Reggie." "They're very apt to," commented Hazel. Cora had thrown in the third speed, and was now bending over her wheel in real man fashion. They were getting out on the country roads, where all expected to make good time. Bess also threw on her full speed, following Cora's lead, and the boys, of course, gave the speeding signal on their horns. "My!" exclaimed Miss Robbins admiringly, as the landscape flashed by. "Can't we go," added Hazel exultingly. "It's like eating and drinking the atmosphere," continued the young lady physician. "I do love autoing," went on Hazel. "My brother is a perfect devotee of the machine. But we do not happen to own one of our own." "That is where good friends come in," said Miss Robbins. "This trip is a perfect delight to me. And, really, it will fix me up wonderfully for what I have to undertake this fall. You see, we have just closed the bungalow, mother has gone home, and that left me free to go to the Berkshires and have a little pleasure, together with attending to some business. I have a very old patient there. I have to call on her before she leaves the hills." "And you really have patients?" Hazel looked in surprise at the young woman beside her. "Of course, I do. But this one I inherited--she is a great aunt of mine." Hazel leaned forward to ask Cora what her speedometer was registering. "Only twenty miles an hour," replied Cora. "And we could go thirty easily. But I don't fancy ripping off a shoe, or doing any other of the things that speed might do." "I shall enjoy it all the more when I am so sure of that," spoke Regina. "I cannot see why people take risks just for the sake of----" "Hey, there!" shouted Ed, as his car shot past Cora's. "We are going on ahead." "So--we--see!" answered Cora dryly. "What do you suppose they are up to?" asked Bess, as she turned the _Flyaway_ up to the side of the _Whirlwind_. "Haven't any idea," replied Cora, just as Jack, too, shot by. "See you later," called Jack. "Not deserting us, are they?" asked Regina. "Oh, no, just some lark," answered Cora. But scarcely had the boys' machines disappeared than a trail of three gypsy wagons turned into the mountain highway from some narrow crossroad. "Oh!" sighed Belle, apprehensively clutching the arm of her sister. "Don't, Belle. You almost turned me into the _Whirlwind_," cautioned the sister, as she quickly twisted around the steering wheel. "Those are the beach gypsies," Cora was able to say to Bess. Then no one spoke. Bess leaned over her wheel, while Cora looked carefully for a place to turn out that would bring her clear of the rumbling old wagons. A woman sat in the back of one of the vehicles. She poked her head out and glared at the approaching machines. Then she was seen to wave a red handkerchief so that the persons in the next wagon could distinctly see it. The motor girls also saw it. This caused some confusion, as the motorists were trying to get out in the clear road, while the wagons were blocking the way. Then, just as the _Whirlwind_ was about to pass the second wagon, the driver halted his horse and stepped down directly in her path. He waved for Cora to stop. "Don't!" called Miss Robbins, and Cora shot by, followed closely by Bess, who turned on more gas. The gypsy wagons had all stopped in the middle of the road. The automobiles were now safely out of the wanderers' reach. "That was the time a chaperon counted," said Cora, "for I had not the slightest fear of stopping. I thought he might just want to ask some ordinary question." "You are too brave," said Miss Robbins. "It is not particularly interesting to stop on a road like this to talk to gypsies when our boys are out of reach." "We must speed up and reach them," said Cora. "I might meet more gypsies." Belle was thoroughly frightened. Hazel did not know what to make of the occurrence, but to Cora and to Bess, who had so lately learned something of queer gypsy ways, the matter looked more serious, now that there was time to think of it. "There they are!" shouted Bess, as she espied the two runabouts stopped at the roadside. "They are getting lunch," said Hazel. "Look at Jack putting down the things on the grass." "They certainly are," confirmed Cora. "Now, isn't that nice of them? And we have been blaming them for deserting us!" Neither the motor girls nor the motor boys knew what the meeting of the gypsy wagons was about to lead to--serious trouble for some of the party. CHAPTER X AN EXPLOSION The rain came. It descended in perfect sheets, and only the fact that our tourists could reach a mountain house saved them from more inconvenience than a wetting. They had just partaken of a very agreeable lunch by the roadside, all arranged and prepared by the boys, with endless burned potatoes down on the menu as "fresh roasted," when the lowering clouds gave Dame Nature's warning. Next the thunder roared about what it might do, and then our friends hurried away from the scene. The run brought them some way on the direct road to the Berkshires, and in one of those spots where it would seem the ark must have tipped, and dropped a human being or two, the young people found a small country community. The special feature of this community was not a church, nor yet a meeting house, but a well-equipped hotel, with all the requisites and perquisites of a first-class hostelry. "No more traveling to-day," remarked Cora, as, after a wait of two hours, she ventured to observe the future possible weather. "It looks as if it would rain all there was above, and then start in to scoop up some from the ocean. Did you ever see such clouds?" Ed said he had not. Walter said he did not want to, while the girls didn't just know. They wanted to be off, and hoped Cora's observations were not well-founded. Miss Robbins found in the hotel a sick baby to take up her time, and she inveigled Bess into helping her, while the wornout and worried mother took some rest. The little one, a darling girl of four years, had taken cold, and had the most troublesome of troubles--an earache--so that she cried constantly, until Miss Robbins eased the pain. When the boys realized what a really good doctor the girls' chaperon was, they all wanted to get sick in bed, Jack claiming the first "whack." But Walter had some claim on medical attendance, for when the storm was seen to be coming up he had eaten more stuff from the lunch basket than just one Walter could comfortably store away, and the headache that followed was not mere pretense. So the rainy afternoon at Restover Hotel was not idle in incident. It was almost tea time when Cora had a chance to speak with her brother privately. She beckoned him to a corner of the porch where the rain could not find them; neither could any of their friends. "Jack," she began, "do you know that the people in the gypsy wagon really did try to stop us? All that prattle of Bess and Belle was not nonsense. Only for Miss Robbins I should have stopped." "Well, what's the answer?" asked her brother. "That's just what I would like to find out," replied the sister. "It seems to me they would hardly have stopped a couple of girls to ask road directions or anything like that, when so many wagons, easier to halt than automobiles, had also passed by them." "Maybe they wanted some gas--gasoline. They use that in their torches." "But why ask girls for it?" insisted Cora. "Because girls are supposed to be soft, and they might give it. Catch a fellow giving anything to a gypsy!" "Well, that might be so, but I have a queer feeling about that old witch's threat. She looked like three dead generations mummified. Her eyes were like sword points." "She must have been a beaut. I should like to have met her witchship. But, Cora dear, don't worry. We boys are not going to run away again, and if we see the gypsies we will see them first and last." "But there are bands of them all over the hills, and I have always heard that they have some weird way of notifying each band of any important news in the colony. Now, you see, Jack, the arrest of that man would be very important to them. They are as loyal to each other as the royalty." "Nevertheless it is a good thing the fellow is landed, and it was a blessing that he went for the cottage instead of to Miss Robbins' bungalow. _They_ had no means of calling help," mused Jack. "I suppose it was," answered Cora. "But I tell you, I do not want another such experience. It was all right while I had to act, but when it was all over I had to----" "React! That's the trouble. What we do with nerve we must repeat without nerve. Now, what do you think of your brother as a public lecturer?" and Jack laughed at his own attempt to explain the reaction that Cora really felt. "My, wasn't that a bright stroke of lightning?" exclaimed Cora. "Listen! Something is struck!" "That's right!" "An explosion!" A terrific report followed the flash. Then cries and shrieks all over the hotel alarmed those who were not directly at the scene of the panic. "Oh, it's the kitchen! See the smoke!" Jack and Cora rushed indoors, their first anxiety being to make sure that all the girls and boys of their party were safe. "Where is Bess?" "Where is Belle?" "Where are Walter and Ed?" "Oh! where is Miss Robbins?" Every one was looking for some one. In the excitement the guests at the hotel were rushing about shouting for friends and relatives, while smoke, black and heavy, poured up the stairs from the basement. Jack, Ed and Walter were among the first to get out and use the fire extinguishers. There were plenty of these about the hotel, but on account of the injury to the men who were working in the kitchen at the time of the explosion, and owing to the fact that all the guests in the hotel just then were girls and women, the men having gone to the city, there really were not enough persons to cope with the flames that followed the lightning. "Quick!" shouted Cora, "we can get the buckets. Bess take that one," pointing to the pail that hung on the wall, and which was filled with water. "Belle, run around and find another! Regina is with the injured men, so we cannot have her, but there is a girl! Won't you please get a bucket from the hall?" this to a very much frightened young lady. "The fire extinguishers seem to be all emptied, and the men are beating back the flames from the stairway." In a remarkably short time more than a dozen frightened girls and women had formed a bucket brigade under Cora's direction, and as fast as they could get the pails they handed them, filled and again refilled, to the boys, who were now doing all in their power to keep the fire from spreading to the dining-room floor. "What happened?" demanded one woman, when Jack turned to take a pail of water from Cora. "Lightning struck the boiler," replied the young man. "Oh, mercy!" exclaimed the same unreasonable person, who was delaying the men with her questions. "Any one hurt?" "Yes, three," and Jack, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and looking like the earnest worker he was, dashed again down a step into the dense smoke to splash the pail of water on the smouldering but now well-wetted woodwork. It seemed then as if all the guests but our own friends had run out of the building, and were huddled on the porch or standing in the rain under the trees along the path. Ed and Walter had carried the cook and the dishwasher out from the kitchen immediately after the explosion of the boiler, and the other injured ones were in the little cottage adjoining the hotel, where Miss Robbins was binding up their burns and making good use of her skill and the materials that she carried in her emergency case. "But I am afraid this man is very dangerously injured," she told Ed. "A piece of the boiler struck him directly on the back of the head." "Should he go to the hospital?" asked the young man. "Without question, if he could. But this is so far from anything like a hospital." "We could take him to Waterbury in Cora's car," suggested Ed. "That is large enough to make him somewhat easy." "The very thing! But I could not go with him. This other man is suffering so," and she poured more oil on the face that had not yet been bandaged in cotton. "Cora could run the machine, and I could hold Jim--they say his name is Jim." "Poor Jim!" sighed the young lady doctor. "He has a very slight chance. See, he is unconscious!" Ed rushed out, and in a short time had the _Whirlwind_ at the door. Jack and Walter were still busy with the fire, but they stopped when he called them, and together all three carried Jim tenderly out, and when Ed got in first they put the man in his arms. Cora also had been summoned, and without as much as waiting for her cap, but, getting into the cloak that Bess threw from the hall rack, she cranked up, and was at the wheel, following the directions for the nearest way to a hospital in Waterbury. "It is his only chance," remarked Miss Robbins, when she heard some one say the jolting of the auto would kill him outright, "and both the car and its chauffeur can be depended upon." CHAPTER XI THE RESULT OF A BLAZE "That was plucky, Cora." "What, Ed?" "You running into Waterbury with a man who might have died in your car." "Then he would have died in your arms." "But I thought girls were so queer about things of that sort. When one dies in a house, for instance, a girl never likes the room----" "But you would have had to keep your arms. Ed, I think the pluck was all on your side. But I do hope Jim has a chance. He seems an awfully frail little fellow." "Weighs about as much as you do, I should judge. But they say that kind of build is the best for fighting disease--there is not so much blood to take up the poison." They were riding back to Restover. Ed insisted upon driving the car, although Cora declared that she was not the least tired. The trip to the hospital had been made at a very high rate of speed, as the unconscious man seemed in imminent danger, and Cora's hands now trembled visibly from their work at the wheel of the _Whirlwind_. "I suppose we will have to live on love tonight," remarked Ed, "for that kitchen is certainly a thing of the past." "What saved the second floor?" "The heavy beams and metal ceiling. I guess they have had fires before in that hotel, for the ceiling was practically of iron. I just wonder what the boys are doing about now. I fancy Walter has turned nurse to assist Miss Robbins." "And Jack has taken up the role of engineer--to be made chief of the fire department. I shouldn't wonder but what they had formally organized by this time." "He certainly deserves to be chief; he did good work. When a gas tank--a small affair--started to hiss in the servants' dining room, Jack grabbed up a big palm and dumped the contents of the flower pot into the tank. It was a small thing they heated coffee on, and when, the next moment, the tank broke it was surprised to find itself buried under a bed of sand, with flowers on the grave." Cora laughed heartily at Ed's telling of the incident. Certainly strange things, if not really funny things, always seem to occur during the excitement caused by fire. "If everything in the kitchen is gone, don't you think we had better bring back some refreshments?" asked Cora. "The folks will all have appetites when they find there is nothing to eat." "Great idea. Here is a good-looking store. Let's load up." "But is there no manager at the hotel? Who was or who is boss?" "Jim. The management of that sort of place goes into the shape of bills and accounts, settled every month. Some New York company owns the place. It was a failure, and they leased it to a local man. That's why there will be no one to look after things now." "Well, we will buy the food and send our bill in to the company. I guess they will be glad enough to pay it when they hear of the emergency." "Yes, it would not do for the hotel disaster to get into the New York papers, with a starved-to-death head. Well, here's our store. What shall we buy?" Cora and Ed left the car and went into the store. They bought all sorts of canned goods, although Cora declared they would have to be eaten raw. Then they bought bacon and eggs. Ed insisted on that, no matter, he said, if they had to come to town again and take back to Restover a gas stove. He insisted that no well-regulated emergency feed ever went without bacon and eggs. Bread and butter they procured for fifty persons. Some cake for the ladies, Ed suggested. Pork and beans, canned, Cora thought might do for breakfast, even if they had to be eaten from the cans. Then the last thought, and by no means the most trifling, was wooden plates and tin cups. The bill footed up to ten dollars, and Ed insisted that the man make out the bill as paid and marked for the Restover Hotel. A half hour later the _Whirlwind_ drew up to the hostelry. The rain had ceased, and the hotel patrons were almost all out of doors, so that the motor girls and boys trooped down to meet Ed and Cora. As was anticipated, hunger prevailed, and when it was found that stores of eatables were in the tonneau of the _Whirlwind_ even the most helpless, nervous ladies at the hotel wanted to help get the refreshments into the house. "But where can they be cooked?" "What can we cook on?" "There is no gas stove!" "Not even an oil stove!" "We can't eat bacon raw!" "The bread is all right, anyway!" Such was the volley of remarks that came out from the crowd. "We will manage somehow," said Cora. "Our boys are used to emergency work in the line of eating and fixing meals." "Seems ter me," whined a wizen old lady, "thet the girls knows somethin' about it, too!" In the dining room on the second floor were two chandeliers. Under these were, of course, tables, and before the anxious ones had time to settle their fears there stood on these tables Cora, Bess and Belle, and on the other Ed, Jack and Walter. Each of our friends had in his or her hand something that answered to the pan or pot brand of utensil, and in the pan or pot, which was held over the gas, was something that began to "talk-talk" out loud of good things to eat, sizzling and crisping. It was very funny to see the young folks cooking over the handsome chandeliers, from which, of course, the glass globes had been removed. "Well, did you ever!" exclaimed more than one. "Those young folks do beat all! I used to think ma and pa brung us up right, but whoever on earth would have cooked bacon and eggs over a lamp," ejaculated an old man. "I guess driving them machines makes them smart," said another guest, as she took the pan Cora handed down and gingerly slopped the stuff over on a wooden plate. "I guess it is a good thing to know how to drive an automobile. Makes you right smart! Whew! but that was hot!" and she put the overheated fingers into her mouth. "Put another dish over it to keep it hot," Cora ordered. "And can't some one set a table? That is not such a difficult thing to do." "See here!" called out Ed, "this is no pancake party. I am not going to stay up here cooking all night. I am going down to eat. We have enough of tomatoes warmed to fill the wash bowl, and I love canned tomatoes if they are out of a washbowl. We washed the bowl, and sterilized it, and it's as good as a soup tureen." There stood the white wash basin almost filled with the steaming tomatoes. As Ed said, there could be no objection to the crockery. Jack had charge of the water for tea. This took a long time to boil, owing to the fact that the kettle was a very much bent-up affair that had been rescued from the ruined kitchen. Bess was cooking canned peas, while Belle insisted that all she could do was to turn over, with a fork, the things that cooked nicely on Cora's pan. "Done to a turn!" announced Jack, as he jumped down with his pots. "Now, if you folks need any more you will really have to go into active service." His initiative was followed by the others, and presently the less timid of the guests had put food into pans and taken up their places on the tables to do their cooking, while it seemed that all at once every one "fell to" and procured something to eat. "Let there be no unbecoming haste!" remarked Walter gently, but it was a great meal, that. CHAPTER XII QUEER COBBLERS "Isn't she disappointing?" remarked Hazel. "Very," answered Cora. "To think that she should leave us for a patient!" "I cannot understand it." "I have heard that girls not home raised are like that--they have no sentiment." "Nor honor, either!" "Well, she didn't think she was bound to go with us, and, of course, there was money besides reputation in being on the spot when the hotel owners would arrive. But I am disappointed." "I hope the boys will not feel obliged to return for her," and Cora's lip curled slightly. "She is such a good business woman she ought to be able to get to the Berkshires from here." "Walter seems enthralled," and Hazel laughed. "I wonder how Jack got him to leave her?" They were on the road again, and Miss Robbins, the physician, the business woman, the chaperon, had stayed behind to take care of those who had been injured in the explosion. There were good doctors within call, but she simply would stay, and saw no reason why the girls should not go on alone. To her the idea of being obligated to them was not to be thought of when a matter like professional business came up. Of course, this was a general disappointment, for the girls would never have entrusted themselves to her patronage if they had not felt certain that she would keep her word with them. However, the fact was that they were on the road again, and Regina Robbins was happy on the sunny porch of the big hotel, incidentally attending to a cut or two on one man's face and a bad-looking burn on the arm of another. Bess and Belle were driving along, "their faces as long as fiddles," as Cora said. The boys had taken the lead, and they were having their own trouble trying to convince Walter that Miss Robbins had "dumped" the girls, and that it was a "low-down trick." The _Whirlwind_ glided along apparently happy under the firm hand of its fair owner. The _Flyaway_ seemed, too, to be glad of a chance to get away again, and as Bess threw in the third speed, according to commands from Jack, who was leading, the little silver machine darted away like an arrow freed from the bow. The day was wonderfully clear after the rain, and even the sunshine had been polished up by the scouring of the mighty storm of late summer. "I shouldn't care so much," Belle confided to her twin sister, "but when we get to Lenox alone, without a chaperon, what will people say?" "Well, Tinkle, we have not got there yet. Maybe we may pick up a chaperon between this and that." "If we only could! Where do we stop tonight?" "Wherever we get." So they sped on. Mile after mile was lapped up in the dust of the motors. Out through Connecticut, over the line into Massachusetts, and along the splendid roads that border the Housatonic River. Houses were becoming scarcer and fewer; it was now largely a matter of woodlands and roads. "We have to make time now," called Cora to the twins. "The boys say we should get to Pittsfield by evening." "To Pittsfield! Why, that's----" "About a hundred," called Cora again. "Look out for your shoes, and don't be reckless on the turns. Stripping your differential just now would be fatal." "All right," responded Bess, "but mine is not the only car in the race." "Thanks," called back Cora, "and now we will clear off. Good-by!" The _Whirlwind_ shot ahead. Jack's car was clear of the other--Walter's, and as the run had to be made against time it was best for each machine to have "room to look around it." "Oh!" gasped Hazel, as Cora swerved around a sharp bend, "I don't fancy this sort of riding." "But we have to get to a large town before night. It's all right. The roads are so clear." On they flew. Only the shrieking of Jack's siren and the groaning of the deep horn on Walter's car gave messages to the girls. Several miles were covered in silence, and then they came to a signboard. It told that the main road was closed, and that they must take to a side road--a highway that was fairly good, but much more lonely. "I suppose we'll get back to the main road before a great while," said Cora. "I hope so," returned Bess. "This looks dreadfully lonely, doesn't it?" "Don't think about it," came from her sister. On they went, the way becoming wilder each instant. Yet the road itself was fairly smooth, so that it was not necessary to slacken the speed of the cars. "Something really smells hot," said Hazel. "Could anything ignite?" "Not exactly," replied Cora, "but we don't want to get too hot. It makes trouble." She slackened just a bit to make sure that Hazel's anxiety had no foundation in fact, for, indeed, the big machine was using its engine and gas to the utmost capacity. Just ahead the glare of the _Comet_ could be seen as it plunged into a deep turn in a deeper lined wood. Jack, in his _Get-There_, was after the first, and then the girls had difficulty even in getting a responding sound from the toots and the blasts which all were continually sounding. "They are away ahead," said Bess. "I thought they had seen enough of getting too far away from us. How do we know but that we might meet the gypsies on this lonely road?" "I wonder if it is late or early for motorists?" asked Cora of Hazel. "We haven't met a single party." "Just happened so, I suppose," said Hazel. "Surely people out here must enjoy this sort of weather." "Listen!" Cora gave three sharp blasts on her horn, but no answer came. "The boys are getting too far ahead. "I will have to accelerate----," she called. She pressed down the pedal and bent over the wheel as if urging the machine to its utmost. Then there was jolt--a roar! a bang! Cora jammed on brakes. "A shoe is gone!" she cried. "Exploded!" Without the slightest warning a big tire overheated, had ripped clear off the front wheel, the inner tube exploded, and the car had almost gone into a ditch when Cora stopped it. Bess had seen the trouble, and was able to halt her car far enough away to avoid a collision. "Isn't that dreadful!" cried Cora, her face as white as the tie at her throat. "It ripped off just from speed!" "Can't it be fixed?" asked Hazel, who now was out beside Cora. "Oh, of course! but how and when? I have another shoe, but to get it on, and the boys, as usual, out of sight!" She had pulled off her gloves and was looking at the split tire. It was marvelous that it should have come off so clean--simply peeled. "And it's five o'clock," said Belle, with her usual unfortunate way of saying something to make things worse. "But it isn't midnight," almost snapped Cora. "Let's try to call the boys," suggested Belle. "Aren't they dreadful to get so far away?" "Very rude," and Cora showed some sarcasm. "But the thing to do right now is not to wait for anybody, but to get to work. Bess, can you help me slip in a tube and put on a shoe?" "I never have, but, of course, I'll try," and she, too, pulled off her gloves. Cora quickly opened up the tool box, got out the jack, and then she unbuckled the shoe that was fast at the side of the _Whirlwind_. "I always thought folks carried them to ornament the cars," said Hazel, with an attempt at good nature, "but it seems that a cobbler is the thing we ought to carry for an ornament. We really don't need him, but we do need new shoes." "How long will it take?" asked Belle. "There's no telling," replied Cora. "It isn't exactly like putting a belt on a sewing machine." She handled the inner tube freely enough, and soon had it in the big rubber shoe, partly inflated. "Easy as putting tape in a jelly bag," remarked Hazel. "But we must get it on now and blow it up," said Cora. "Bess, get the pump." The pump was gotten, after which, with much exertion, the shoe was on the rim, and then the blowing began. This was not so easily accomplished as had been the other parts of the mechanical operation. First Bess pumped, then Belle tried it. Hazel was sure she could do it, for she often blew up Paul's bicycle, but this tire would not blow full. The girls were rapidly losing their complexions. Such strenuous efforts! "Oh, that's hard enough," declared Bess, trying to push her pretty fingers into the rubber. "Yes," answered Cora, pressing on the tire, which sank with the pressure, "it's about as hard as rice pudding!" "How many pounds?" insisted Bess. Cora looked at the gauge. "Sixty. I have got to have a full ninety for this car." "Then I don't see how we are going to get it!" Cora did not heed the discouragement. She was pumping now, and the shoe was becoming rigid. "If I get it a little harder I'll call it done!" she panted, "though we may ditch the car next time." CHAPTER XIII A DELAY AND A SCARE It was an hour later when the boys came back. They had discovered the loss of the girls when they had gone so far ahead that it took some time to return. The race was too much for them. They were obliged to admit that, in its interest, they had forgotten the girls. "If Miss Robbins had been along, I fancy Walter would not have become so engrossed in the race," said Belle maliciously. "Well, Miss Robbins was not along," replied Walter, with equal meaning. "And what's more, Miss Robbins will not be along," spoke Cora. "I have heard of all sorts of things being permissible in the business world, but this, from a young lady, seems to be----" "The utmost," admitted Jack. "But, sis, you must make allowances. We would dump Miss Robbins in the mountains, and likely crawl home by train, while the hotel reputation will continue to reputate." "Suppose we quit buzzing and get at the car," suggested Ed. "Seems, though, as if Cora had about fixed it up." "I'm not so sure," said Cora eagerly. "I am afraid that there's something wrong other than the 'busted' tire. I was just about to look when you gentlemen returned. But will you please finish pumping first?" Finally it was hard enough, and then Cora jumped into the car, while Jack cranked up. A noise that might have come from a distant sawmill rewarded the effort. "A nut or a pin loose," suggested Walter, who now did what Jack called the "collar-button crawl" under the big car. But that was only the beginning, and the end was that night came on and made faces at a very desolate party of young people, stalled miles from nowhere, with nothing but remorse of conscience to keep off the damp, night air. Jack went around literally kicking himself, demanding to know whether they hadn't done the same thing before, and dumped those poor girls in a graveyard at midnight. When would boys learn that girls can't be trusted out of sight, and so, while the boys are supposed to be the girls' brothers, these same brothers must forego sport of the racing brand? Jack really felt the situation keenly. There was no way out of it, the girls could not get to a town even in the able-bodied cars, for Cora would no more leave her _Whirlwind_ there in the darkness than she would have left Bess or Belle. Then, when it was proposed that one of the boys stay to guard the machine, and the others of the party go along to some place, the objection of "no Miss Robbins" robbed the distracted young men of their last argument. "We will stay together," announced Cora. "At any rate, that will be better than some of us going to a hotel, and all that sort of thing. We can bunk in the cars." "Oh, in the woods!" almost shrieked Belle. "Well, no, you might go up a tree," said Cora rather crossly. "There's many a nest unseen----" "Wallie, you quit. The unseen nest is not for yours. You are hereby appointed for guard duty!" and Ed snatched up a stout stick to serve as "arms" for the guard. "I have a little something," admitted Jack, flashing a brand new revolver. "I have heard of the gypsy camps around these mountains, so I came prepared." "Oh, those gypsies!" and Belle had another spasm. "I feel that something will happen tonight! Those dreadful gypsies!" "We can lock you in the tonneau of Cora's car," suggested Ed, "and when the gypsies come they can't 'gyp' you. They may take all of us, but no power on earth, not even palm reading, can move that monster." The idea that she really could be locked up in the car gave Belle some comfort, although Bess and Hazel were holding a most secret convention over under a tree, where the last rays of light lingered as day hurried along. "Why did you speak about the gypsies?" Cora asked Jack, by way of reproof rather than question. "You know the girls go off in kinks when they think of the burglar." "Well, I suppose I shouldn't. But the fact is, we might as well be prepared, for there are bands of our friends tied up around these hills. Fortune telling is a great business among summer idlers." "Well, I hope we have seen the last of them. I'm going to stay in the open, in the _Flyaway_. I'd rather do it than be cooped up with the girls in the tonneau, and there will be room for Bess, Belle and Hazel inside the _Whirlwind_. It won't be so bad--a night in the wide open." "Oh, we fellows don't mind it, but, sis, might not some cocoon drop in your hair in the night? We had better rig up some sort of hood." "My own hood will do nicely, and I am almost dead from the exertion of that tire. I grant you, I will not lie awake listening for gypsies." "Then we boys will take turns on the picket," said Ed. "You can really depend upon us this time, girls. One will be awake and watching every minute." "Oh, I'm sure it's all right out here," replied Cora. "What would any one want in these woods at night?" "Might want fishing tackle," answered Walter. "Yes, I agree with thee, Edward; it is up to us to stay up to-night." With this positive assurance, the young ladies proceeded to make themselves comfortable in their novel quarters. Cora curled up in the _Flyaway_, and the _Comet_, with Ed and Jack "sitting up in a lying-down posture," as they expressed it, was placed just where the young men could hear the girls whisper should any gypsies appear, or rather be scented. The first man to do picket duty, Walter, was in the _Get-There_, directly out in the road, so that presently it seemed a night in the wide open might be a novelty rather than a misfortune. Some time must have passed. Belle declared she was not asleep. Bess vowed she was still asleep. Hazel begged both girls to keep quiet, but the light of the gas lamps from the _Get-There_ was bobbing about, and the flash of a new revolver was reflected in the night. "What can be the matter?" sobbed Belle. "Oh, I knew we shouldn't stay in these dreadful woods." "As if we could help it," complained her sister. "Belle, if you insist upon going on motor tours, why don't you try to get some sense?" "All right, there!" called Jack, who now, with another headlight in hand, was looking under and about the _Whirlwind_. "Yes! What's the matter?" answered and asked Bess. "Nothing that we know of," replied Jack, "but Wallie thought he scented game, and we need something for breakfast." "Goodness sakes! Likely a turtle or something," growled Bess, dropping her plump self down plumper than ever on the cushions. "I don't believe it," objected Belle. "They wouldn't wake us up for a turtle--or something." "Make it a moose then," suggested Hazel. "Moose are plenty in New England, they say." "With the horns?" asked Belle. "With and without," replied Hazel. "But if you don't mind, I'm going out to join in the hunt. I have always longed for a real, live hunt." "Oh, please don't," begged Belle. "It might be a man!" "No such luck. There's Cora with her lamp. They are certainly after something," and with this she opened the tonneau door and went out with the others into the wild, dark, lonely night. "I distinctly saw him," she heard Jack say. "Now, keep your nerve. Cora, where is the little gun?" "I've got it," she replied. "I feel better with it. You boys have two." "What is it?" asked Hazel, now thoroughly alarmed. "A man!" whispered Cora. "Walter saw him crawling around, and we are bound to find him. He is alone, that's sure, and there are seven of us." "Oh!" gasped Hazel. "But isn't it dangerous?" "A little, of course. But it would be worse to let sleeping dogs lie. It may be a harmless tramp--or a poor laborer--a woodsman." At the same time she knew perfectly well that any character of either type she mentioned would not go crawling around under stalled motor cars in the Berkshire hills. CHAPTER XIV THE MIDNIGHT TOW A more frightened set of girls than were our young friends that night could scarcely be imagined. Although Cora did tramp around after Ed and his lamp, with her pistol in her hand, she was trembling, and had good reason to be alarmed. As for Bess and Belle, they were, as Hazel said, "tied up in a knot" on the bottom of Cora's car, too terrified to cry. Hazel herself felt no inclination to explore on her own account, but was actually walking on Jack's heels, as he poked the motor lamp in and out of possible hiding places, seeking the mysterious shadow that had been seen to move and had been heard to rustle in the grass. But he was not found--a big slouch hat being the only tangible clew unearthed to a real personality. And this Walter dug out of a hole near a rear wheel of the _Whirlwind_. "Don't tell the girls," he whispered to Jack, "but here's his top-piece." "Put it away--in the _Comet_. We might need it," said Jack, in the same low voice. "Well, girls, of course you are frightened," began Ed. "What do you say to all crowding into the _Whirlwind_ and talking it out the rest of the night? We could make noise enough to scare away a dozen tramps." This idea was greeted with delight, even Bess and Belle venturing to poke their heads out of the tonneau door to beg the boys "all to come in." No more thought of Miss Robbins! It was now a matter of doing the best they could to restore something of the girls' lost nerves. And Ed, Jack and Walter undertook the task with considerable more seriousness than it had occurred to the much-alarmed girls it might be necessary to give the matter. All the girls asked for was protection--all the boys thought of giving was confidence. "My poor, dear _Whirlwind_" sighed Cora, as Ed assisted her into the tonneau. "To think that you have made all this trouble!" "No such thing," interrupted Walter gallantly. "It is up to us. We deserted you just to see who would make the hill in best time, and this serves us right." Bess, Belle and Hazel found plenty of room on the broad-cushioned seat, while Jack decided that he wouldn't mind in the least sitting down on the floor beside Cora, who had the folding chair. Ed and Walter took their places outside "on the box," and when the three other cars were lined up close the dark, dreary night under the trees, with the prospect of a man crawling around with malice aforethought, brightened up some. Even the moon peeked through the trees to make things look more pleasant, and to Belle company had never been so delightful before. She actually laughed at everything Jack said, and agreed that it would be fun to live in a motor houseboat. Cora alone was silent. She pleaded fatigue, but Jack knew that his sister did not give in to fatigue so easily; he also knew that she had seen the gypsy's hat! She lay with her head pillowed on her brother's shoulder and closed her eyes, feigning sleep. It was the same little sister Jack often told stories to, and the same black head that now was so glad to rest where many other evenings it had rested, when the mother was out and the sister did not like to "go to bed all alone, please, Jackie dear!" "It's a great thing to have a brother," blurted out Bess, in her ridiculous way, until Jack declared that he had another shoulder, and she might appropriate it if she wished to be a "sister" to him. "I guess I am too nervous to motor at night," admitted Belle. "I think, after this trip, I will plan mine by daylight." "But this was so planned," said Cora. "Whoever thought we would be stalled, that we would lose Miss Robbins, and that we would have to camp out all night in the _Whirlwind_?" "Of course, whoever thought it?" agreed Jack, stroking the head on his shoulder. "Do you suppose Walter and Ed are dead?" asked Cora. "Not that, but sleeping," returned Jack. "If they die they will never forget it as long as they live. There is a sacred duty in standing picket duty." "Oh, a light!" suddenly screamed Bess. "It's coming this way!" "Steady, there," shouted Ed, in his clear, deep voice. "Pass to the left!" and he tooted the horn of the _Whirlwind_. "A machine!" announced Jack, as he jumped up and peered through the wind shield. "Oh! isn't that lovely?" gasped Belle, willing at once to abandon her company for the prospect of getting out of the woods. By this time a big motor car had slowed up at the side of the other cars. The chauffeur alighted and, with all the chivalry of the road, asked what the trouble was. Leaving out the scare and the hat part, the boys soon told of their difficulty and the young ladies' plight, whereat an old gentleman, the only occupant of the car, insisted that the young ladies get in with him, and that his man, Benson, be allowed to tow the stalled car out of the hills. They decided to do this, agreeing that they had had enough of "camping out." "What name? What name did you say, sir?" he asked Jack, at the same time kicking his many robes up into a corner to make all possible room ill his magnificent car. "Kimball," replied Jack, "of Chelton, and the other names are----" "That's enough, plenty," the gentleman declared heartily. "I knew Joseph Kimball, of Chelton, and I guess he was your father." "Yes," replied Jack, astonished at thus meeting a family friend. "Well, when he went to Chelton I located in New Hampshire; that's where I belong." "Do you? That's where we are going--to the White Mountains, after a little stay in the Berkshires," finished Jack, as he handed Cora into the handsome car, and then likewise assisted Hazel and Belle. "Well, I guess we can fix you up then," said the old gentleman, in that hearty manner that can never be mistaken for mere politeness. "I have a girl of my own. We are in the Berkshires now." "I will be delighted to know----" then Cora stopped. She had not yet heard the gentleman's name. "Betty Rand--that's my girl. She's Elizabeth, of course, but Betty's good enough for me. Get right in here, girlie," to Belle. "Got room enough?" "Oh, yes, plenty, thank you," and Belle slipped down into the cushions with an audible sigh. "Well, you can depend upon Benson. See that! He's got the car hitched already! Never saw a fellow like Benson," and Mr. Rand spread the robe over the knees of Belle and Cora, with whom he sat, while Hazel had taken the small chair. "Keep warm," he told her. "Night air out here is trickish. I always take plenty of robes along." Hazel assured him that she had every comfort, and then they heard Ed toot the horn of the _Flyaway_, as he and Bess started off in the lead. Walter was in his _Comet_, and when Jack was sure that everything was in readiness for the _Whirlwind_ to be towed after the big six-cylinder machine, he jumped into his _Get-There_, and presently the whole party was off again, going toward Lenox. It was a wonderful relief--every one felt it--to be moving away from dread and darkness. "I always come up by night from New York," said Mr. Rand. "The roads are clear, and it saves time. Besides, to-morrow is Betty's birthday, and I have to be home." "Yes," said Cora politely. "We had no idea of traveling alone like this, but our chaperon----" "Well, you've got one now," interrupted the man nicely, noticing Cora's embarrassment. "I often do it for Betty--she's only got me." There was a catch in his voice this time, and while the three girls instantly felt that "the bars were down again," and that they really did have a chaperon in the person of this delightful gentleman, still it would have seemed rude to break the effect of his last remark. "We are getting her up, all right," he said, referring to towing the _Whirlwind_. "Never saw the like of Benson." "Isn't it splendid?" exclaimed Cora, looking back into the darkness and thus discerning the lamps of her car following. "It is a dreadful thing to be stalled." "Can't be beat," agreed Mr. Rand. "We get it once in a while, though Benson is a wonder--knows when to stop without getting a blow-out." "That's what we had," said Cora, "a blow-out." "Girls speeding!" and he slapped his knees in good nature. "Now, Betty thinks she can't go unless the engine stutters, as she calls it. I declare, girls are worse than men these days! Speeding!" Cora tried to tell something of the circumstances responsible for her speed, but he would take no excuse--it was ordinary speed, just like Betty's, he declared. "And you lost your chaperon?" He said this with a delightful chuckle, evidently relishing the circumstances that threw the interesting young party into his company. "Yes," spoke Belle, "there was a fire at the hotel, and she was a doctor. Of course, we didn't count when there were men to be bandaged up." "A fire!" repeated Mr. Rand. "At a hotel! The Restover, I'm sure. Why, that is my hotel. I mean I am one of the owners, and on my way up I met the woman doctor. So she was your chaperon! Well, I declare! Now, that's what I call a coincidence. That young woman--let me see. She was nursing the head waiter. Ha, ha! a good fellow to nurse. Always keep in with the head waiter." "Oh, he was that good-looking fellow, Cora," said Hazel. "Don't you remember how he soared around?" "A bird, eh?" and Mr. Rand laughed again. "Well, say," and his voice went down into the intimate key, "I wouldn't be surprised if your chaperon gave up her business. I heard some remarks about how very devoted she was to that head waiter." "Oh, Miss Robbins would never marry a waiter!" declared Belle. "Why, she's a practicing physician!" "But sometimes the practice is hard and uncertain," Mr. Rand reminded them. "I shouldn't be surprised when I go back there to straighten up accounts to find the doctor and the waiter 'doing nicely.'" "But how is the man we--that is--who went to the hospital?" asked Cora eagerly. "He was very badly hurt." "Oh, Jim, wasn't it? Why, he is getting along! By crackie!" and he slapped his knee again, "I have it! It was you who took Jim to the hospital! Now, I see! A motor girl with black hair and a maroon machine! Now, I have, more than ever, reason to be your friend, Miss Kimball. Jim has been with me for years, and had he died as the result of an accident at Restover--well, I shouldn't have gotten over it easily." "But some one had to take him," said Cora modestly. "Oh, I know all about that. That's like your excuse for speeding, and it's like Betty again. Wait until she hears that you saved Jim." "One would never know we were towing a car," intervened Hazel. "We sail along so beautifully." "But you babies have been awake all night," said Mr. Rand suddenly. "Now, couldn't you just tuck in somehow and sleep a wink or two? You won't get a chance when you see Betty. She's a regular phonograph--friendship's her key." "I am sleepy," confessed Cora. "I'm tired," admitted Belle. "And I'm dead," declared Hazel. "Then it's settled. You are each to go to sleep instantly, and if those fellows blow that horn again, I won't let them in to Betty's party," and Mr. Rand, in his wonderful, fatherly way, seemed to tuck each girl into a perfectly comfortable bed. "Now sleep! No more----" "Gypsies!" groaned Cora, but although he said not a word in reply, he knew perfectly well just what she meant. CHAPTER XV THE GYPSY'S WARNING It was at Betty's party. And as Mr. Rand had told our friends, Betty was a wonderful girl--for being happy and making others happy. Now, here it was less than a year from the time of her dear mother's death, and on her own birthday, of course, she would not have a party, but when Daddy came in with his arms full of company and bundles, as Betty put it, of course she turned right in and had an impromptu party--just to make Daddy happy. It was an easy matter to gather in a few of the nearby cottagers, of whom there were many very pleasant samples, and so, when the evening following the midnight tow arrived, the party from Chelton found themselves rested and ready for the festivities. As usual, Walter was devoted to Betty. Jack liked her, Ed admired her, but Walter claimed her--that was his way. She was a pretty girl of rather an unusual type, accounted for, her father declared, by the fact that her mother was an Irish beauty, and gave to Betty that wonderful golden-red hair, the hazel eyes and the indescribable complexion that is said to come from generations of buttermilk. And withal she was such a little flirt! How she did cling to Walter, make eyes at Ed and defy Jack, giving to each the peculiar attention that his special case most needed. Belle and Bess found it necessary to take up with some very pleasant chaps from a nearby hotel, while Cora and Hazel made themselves agreeable with two friends of Mr. Rand's--boys from New York, who had many mutual acquaintances with Chelton folks and, therefore, could talk of other things than gears and gasoline. Mr. Rand was on the side porch, and when the drawing-room conversation waited for the next remark, his voice might be heard in a very animated discussion. Cora sat near a French window, and she heard: "But the hat! How did his particular hat get there?" The answer of his friend was not audible. "I tell you," went on the gentleman, "this thing has got to be watched. I don't like it!" "Oh, Coral" chirped Belle. "Do sing the 'Gypsy's Warning.' We haven't heard it since the night----" "Walter fished up a chaperon," added Jack, with a laugh. "The 'Gypsy's Warning'!" repeated Betty. "It's a very old song," explained Cora, "but we had to revive something, so we revived----" "The gyp," finished Ed, getting up and fetching Cora's guitar from the tete in the corner. "Do sing it, Cora. This is such a gypsy land out here." "Are there?" asked Bess, in sudden alarm. "There _are_," said Ed mockingly. "There are gypsy land out here!" "Oh, you know perfectly well what I meant," and Bess pursed her lips prettily. "Course I do; if I didn't--land help me--I would need a map and a horoscope in my pocket every single minute." "Come on, Cora, sing," pleaded Hazel. "Let them hear about our Warning." "I'm afraid it's too late," objected Cora with a sly look at Betty and Walter. "We should have sent the warning on ahead of us." She stood up to take the instrument from Ed's hands. She was near the French window again. "I tell you," she heard Mr. Rand say, "these gypsy fellows will stoop to anything. And as for revenge--they say once a gypsy always a gypsy. Which means they will stick by each other----" "Come on, Cora. We want the song. I remember my mother used to sing the 'Gypsy's Warning,' and she brought it right down to date--we never went near a camp," said Walter. The threat of the old gypsy woman rang in Cora's ears. She could see her raise that brown finger and hear her say: "If you harm Salvo, harm shall be upon your head." Cora had testified against Salvo. A hat known to belong to a member of the tribe was later found at midnight under Cora's car, miles from the town where the robbery had been committed. Were they following her? "Oh, really, I can't sing to-night," she protested rather lamely. "I have a cold." The voices on the porch had ceased. Betty was claiming her father for some game. The evening had not been a great success. "And to-morrow," faltered Walter, "we pass on. I wish we had decided to stay in the Berkshires, but of course the girls must make the White Mountains," and he fell back in his chair as if overwhelmed. "I fancy Bess is ambitious to climb Mount Washington." "I possibly could--as well as the others," and Bess flushed at the mention of anything in the flesh-reducing line. "I have always been a pretty fair climber." "Yes, that's right," called Jack. "I remember one time Bess climbed in the window at school. A lemon pie had been locked up inadvertently." "But you ought to see more of Lenox," spoke Betty. "I do wish you would stay--for a few days at least." "So do I," said Walter with flagrant honesty. "But the season wanes," remarked Cora, "and we must keep to our itinerary. Now that my machine has been overhauled I anticipate a royal run. Betty, can't you come with us? Mr. Rand says you have been here all summer----" "And too much is enough," declared the ensnared Walter. "Betty, if you would come we might mount Mount Washington." "What do you say, papa?" "Why, go, of course; it would be the very thing for you. And then, don't you see, I shouldn't have to give up my job as chaperon," and he clapped his hands on his knees and chuckled with a relish that all enjoyed. Mr. Rand decided that he would go and take his gorgeous car, and the pretty, bright little Irish Betty! Why, it would be like starting all over again! Hazel was fingering Cora's guitar. The chords of the "Gypsy's Warning" just floated through the room. Walter hummed, Jack almost whistled, Ed looked the part, but Cora! Cora, brave, beautiful and capable--Cora jumped up and seemed to find some flowers in the vases absolutely absorbing. Cora did not take any part in rendering even the subdued "Gypsy's Warning." CHAPTER XVI THE DISAPPEARANCE "But it is lonely, and I think we had best keep close together." "But I want to----" "Show Betty how beautiful it is to be lonely. Wallie Pennington, you are breaking your contract. No one was to get----" "Personal. Oh, all right--take Betty," and Walter emitted a most unmusical brawl. "Of course, you and Ed are keeping the contract. You are doing as you please. Behold Ed now, carrying Cora over a pebble----" "That's because Ed loves _me_," declared Jack, "and he is saving Cora's boots." "All the same, I simply won't carry Bess. She might melt in my arms." The young men were exploring the woods in the White Mountains. The girls were racing about in absolute delight over the ferns, while Mr. Rand, who had actually taken the "jaunt" from the hotel afoot, sat on a huge stone comparing notes with his muscles, and with the inactive years of discretion and indiscretion. "They're like a lot of young animals," he was saying to any one near enough to hear, "and I--I am like something that really ought to know better." "Just suppose," said Jack to Ed, "that a young deer should spring out just there where Belle and Hazel are sitting. What do you think would be the act?" "Hazel would try to catch the deer, and Belle would go up a tree. Give me something harder." "Well, then, suppose a tramp should come along the path and ask Betty for the thing that hangs around her neck. What would happen then?" "Walter would get mixed up with his trampship. That, too, is easy." "Cora says we have got to get back to earth in time for the Chelton fair. Now, I never thought that Cora cared about that sort of thing," Walter remarked. "But it's the home town, and Cora knows her name is on some committee," replied Ed. "I guess we will get enough of these wilds in a week. At any rate, all Cora does care for is the car--she would rather motor than eat." Betty had taken some wild berries to her father. "I say, sis," he pleaded, "can't we get back? I am stiffening, and you may all have to get together and carry me." "Are you so tired? Poor dad! I didn't think the walk was too much. But you do feel it!" and she sat down on a soft clump of grass at his feet. "Well, as soon as the girls get their ferns and things they want to take home for specimens, we will start back. If you really are tired, we could get a carriage at the foot of the hill." "And have you youngsters laugh at me! Never! I would die walking first," and Mr. Rand stretched himself to show how near death he really was. "Now, I tell you, we will all take the bus back. That would be more like it." This suggestion was rapidly spread among the woodland party, and when the girls did finally consent to desert the growing things and leave a "speck of something for the rabbits to eat," as Jack put it, the start for the hotel was made. At the foot of the hill, or the opening of the mountain path, an old woman, a gypsy, stood with the inevitable basket on her arm. "Tell your fortune, lady? Tell you the truth," she called, and actually put her hand out to stop Cora as she was passing. "Tell it for a quarter." "Take a basketful," suggested Ed, sotto voce. "I would like to know what's going to become of Wallie when we get back to Chelton." As usual, Walter was helping Betty, who, with her light laugh and equally light step, was making her way over the last stones of the wood way. "Tell your fortune----" "Oh, no," called back Mr. Rand, who had stopped to see what was delaying the party. "We don't need to be told. Here woman," and he threw back a coin, "take this and buy a--new shawl." All this time the woman was standing directly in Cora's way. The path was very narrow, and on either side was close brushwood. Cora stepped in the bushes in order to get out to the road, and as she did she stumbled and fell. In an instant Ed had caught her up, but not before the old woman had peered deep into Cora's face, had actually moved her scarf as if looking for some mark of recognition. "I'll help her up," the woman exclaimed, when she saw that Ed was angry enough to thrust her to the edge of the pathway. "I see a fine fortune in her eyes. They are black, her hair is black, and she has the appearance of the girl who runs an automobile. Oh, yes, I remember!" and she now turned away satisfied. "These girls ride much. But she--she is their leader!" "Oh, come," whispered Belle. "I am so frightened. That is one of the gypsies from the beach camp." Cora had regained her feet, and with a bruised hand was now passing along with the others. "We might have had a couple of quarts of fortune out of that basket just as well as not," insisted Jack. "I never saw anything so handy." "Oh, those gypsies are a pest," declared Mr. Rand. "But I am just superstitious enough not to want to offend any of them. I claim to be a first-class chaperon--first-class!" "Are you hurt, Cora?" asked Bess, seeing that Cora was pressing her hand to her lips. "Only scratched from the brush," and she winced. "Those berry bushes seem to have a grudge against me." "But the old Gypsy?" asked Bess, as the two girls stood close together. "Oh, I didn't mind her rant," replied Cora. "They always have something wonderful to tell one." "I wish they would not cross our path so often," went on the other girl. "Seems to me they have been the one drawback of our entire trip." "Let us hope that they will now be satisfied," said Cora with that indefinite manner which so often conveys a stronger meaning than might have been intended. Both girls sighed. Then they joined the others, while the old gypsy woman looked after them sharply. Ed was hailing the driver of the bus--"Silent Bill," they called him, because he was never known to keep still, not even at his grandmother's funeral. Silent Bill lost no time in getting his horses headed right, also in starting out to describe the wonders and beauties of the White Mountains. It was fun to take the bus ride, and no one was more pleased at the prospect than was Mr. Rand. "Nothing like sitting down square," he declared. "Why young folks always want to walk themselves into the grave is more than I pretend to understand." "My, but that old gypsy woman did frighten me," said Belle to Hazel. "I never saw such a look as she gave Cora! I honestly thought she was going to drop. Maybe she----" "Blew powder into her eyes. The same thought came to me," replied Hazel. "Well, I hope we won't see any more gypsies until we get within police precincts. We have had enough of them here." Then Silent Bill called out something about how the air in those peaks would make a dead man well. "Look at them peaks!" he insisted. "That's what fetches folks up here every summer." "They fetched me down," remarked Mr. Rand, "but then I never did care for peaks." "Now, Mr. Rand," corrected Cora, "didn't you take a peek into my auto the night it broke down? Seems to me there are peeks and peaks----" Amid laughter they rode along, enjoying the splendid scenery and bracing air, but the gypsy's face was haunting Cora. That evening there was to be a hop at the hotel. As many of the patrons were soon leaving for home, it was expected that the affair would be entered into with all the energy that could be summoned from the last of the season. There would not be another big affair until the next summer, so all must "make hay" while the lights held out. Our friends had some trouble in finding just the correct wearing things in the small auto trunks, but pretty girls can so safely depend upon youth and good manners that simple frocks were pressed literally and physically for the occasion, whereas many of the all-season guests at the Tip-Top were not so self-reliant. Motor-made complexions, and the eyes that go with that peculiar form of beauty, formed a combination beyond dispute. Cora wore her pale yellow poplin, Betty was in all white, of course; Bess looked like an apple blossom in something pinkish, and Belle was the evening star in her dainty blue. Hazel "had on" a light green affair. We say "had on," for that's the way Hazel had of wearing things--she hated the bother of fixing up. The young men were not expected to have evening "togs" in their runabout traps, but they did have some really good-looking, fresh, summer flannels that made them appear just as well dressed and much better looking than some of the "swells" in their regular dress suits. "What a wonderful time!" exclaimed Betty. "I never thought we could have such a jolly good time at a regular hotel affair." "Why?" asked Hazel, wondering. "Because there are so many kinds of people that----" "We are all chorus, and no spot light?" interrupted Walter mischievously. "But we might put you up on the window sill." "Indeed!" and the little lady flounced off. "Now you may fill in that girl's card over there--the red-headed one. She has been looking at you most all evening, and I have promised at least four dances." Walter looked as if he would fall at Betty's feet if there had been sufficient room. "Betty! Betty!" he begged. "If you do not give me the 'Yale' I shall leave the ballroom instanter." "Oh, if you really want it," agreed Betty, and off they went. Bess was soon "puffed out" with the vigorous dance. She was with Jack. "Let's sit it out," she suggested. "I seem to be all out of breath." "Certainly," agreed Jack. "But couldn't I get some for you, or send you some?" "Some what?" "Breath, wasn't that what you wanted? Here is a splendid place for a breathing spell." Bess laughed and sat down with her partner. "There are all sorts of ways to dance," she remarked as the "red-headed" girl, who had eyes for Walter, stepped on her toes in passing. "Those girls from the Breakwater seem to have spite against us," remarked Jack. "That is the second time they have stepped on our toes." "And she is no featherweight," answered Bess, frowning. "Strange thing that good clothes cannot cover bad manners," went on Jack, who was plainly annoyed. "Let us take the other bench. She can't possibly reach us in the alcove." Cora was just gliding by. "Lazy," she called lightly. "You are missing the best dance." "I'm tired," replied Bess. "Besides we want to watch you." At this Ed, who was Cora's partner, gave a wonderful swirl to show just how beautifully he and Cora could do the "Yale Rush." "Cora is _such_ a good dancer," Bess whispered to Jack, "but then Cora is good at most everything." There was no sarcasm in her tone. "Oh yes, for a little sister she is all right," agreed the young man. "She might be worse." "Oh," exclaimed Bess suddenly. "I saw such a face at that window!" "Plenty of faces around here to-night," observed Jack lightly. "But that--oh! let us go away from here. I am nervous!" "Certainly," and Jack took her arm. "Now if that were Belle," he proceeded calmly, and then paused. Bess was actually trembling when they crossed to the stairway, but she soon recovered her composure. She said nothing more about the face she had seen peering through the window and tried to forget it, as the dance went on. After the "Paul Jones," a feature of the Tip-Top affairs, had been danced, every one wanted to cool off or down, according to the temperature desired. Cora was with Ed. They had drifted out on a side porch. Without any preamble one of the waiters touched Ed on the arm and told him there was a message for him waiting in the office. "How do you know it's for me?" asked Ed, astonished. "You are with the motor girls, aren't you?" replied the man, as if that were an explanation. "I'll take you back to the others," said Ed to Cora. "I may as well see what it is." "Oh, run along. It may be something urgent," suggested Cora. "I can slip back into the dance room when I want to, or I can wait here. You won't be long." Ed followed the waiter indoors, then went into the office as he directed. He was not absent more than ten minutes, but when he returned to the porch Cora was gone! CHAPTER XVII MISSING "I left her here ten minutes ago!" gasped Ed, trembling with excitement, as he related the news. "She must have gone inside," replied Jack, equally alarmed. "We must look before we tell the others." "No, give the alarm first, and look afterward," insisted Ed. "The thing that counts is to find her; people's nerves may rest afterwards. I think we had best call the hotel manager. That message sent me was a fake. It was an envelope addressed to me, and contained nothing but a blank paper. It was a game to get me away from Cora!" "Perhaps you are right. But I do hate to alarm every one. I know that Cora would feel that way herself. What's this?" and Jack stooped to the porch floor. "Her fan!" Ed almost snatched the trinket from Jack's hand. "The chain is broken," he said, "and she had it on when I left her. I remember how she dropped the fan to her side and it hung there." Here was a new proof of something very wrong--the chain was broken in two places. "Don't let us waste a moment," begged Ed, starting for the hotel office. "I will speak with the manager first." Jack felt as if something was gripping at his heart. Cora gone! Could it be possible that anything had really happened to her? Could she have been kidnapped? No, she must be somewhere with some of the girls. He followed Ed mechanically into the office. The manager was at the desk looking over the register. "A young lady has just disappeared from the west-end porch," began Ed, rather awkwardly, "and I fear that something strange has happened to her. I was called in here by this fake message"--he produced a slip of blank paper--"and while I was in here she disappeared." "No one else gone?" asked the manager with a questioning smile. "Why, no," replied Ed indignantly. "I was with Miss Kimball almost up to the moment she disappeared." Jack stepped forward. "I know that my sister would not give us one moment's anxiety were it in her power to avoid it," he said. "She is the most thoughtful girl in the world." The manager was looking at the envelope Ed held. "Who did you say told you about this?" he asked of Ed. "A waiter." "Just come along with me, and we will see the waiters and kitchen men before we disturb the guests," said the manager. They passed through the halls, where knots of the guests were strolling about passing the time between the dances--all apparently happy and contented. But Jack and Ed! What would be the outcome of their anxiety? "This way," said the hotel proprietor. "Let me see, you are----" he paused suggestively. "My name is Foster, and this is Mr. Kimball," said Ed. In the kitchen they found everything in confusion. The chef had lined up every man in the department, and he was questioning them. "What's this?" asked Mr. Blake, the proprietor. "Some one has been in here, or some one here has made away with a lot of the silver and with money from the men's pockets," replied the chef indignantly. "We have got to find out who is the culprit. I won't stand for that sort of thing." "Certainly not," Mr. Blake assured him, "but perhaps we can help you. Mr. Foster, will you kindly pick out the man who told you about that message?" The men stood up. Ed scrutinized each carefully. "None of these," he said finally. "Are you sure every one is here, Max?" asked Mr. Blake. "Every one, sir; even the last man I hired, who has never had an apron on yet." "Could it be any one from the outside?" faltered Jack. "No one could get in here and manage to make his way through----" "Excuse me, sir," said a very blond young waiter, "but I think a stranger has been in here. My locker was broken open and my apron--one of the best--is gone." "Is that so?" spoke Mr. Blake sharply. "Then we have no time to spare. The young lady----" "Oh, don't say it," cried Jack. "Cora kidnapped!" "Jack, old boy, be brave," whispered Ed, patting him on the shoulder. "Wherever Cora is, the gods are with her!" "We must first institute a thorough search," declared Mr. Blake. "You men form an outside posse. Be quick. Search every inch of the grounds. Max, no more kitchen duty to-night. Here, Ben, you ring the hall bell. That will bring the porters together. Then, Dave"--to a handsome young Englishman--"I put you in charge. That young lady must be found tonight." Ed and Jack exchanged glances. Would she really be found? Oh, how terrible it all seemed! "I must speak with Mr. Rand," said Jack. "Ed, you tell the girls." All that had been gayety and gladness was instantly turned into consternation and confusion. A young lady lured away from the Tip-Top! And the hotel crowded with guests! Belle was obliged to call for a doctor. Nor was it any case of imagined nerves. The excitement of the big ball had been enough, the disappearance of Cora was more than her weak heart could stand. Bess tried to be brave, but to lose Cora! Then she recalled the face at the window. Hazel and Betty waited for nothing, but took up a lantern and started out to search. If she had fallen down some place! Oh, if they could only make her hear them! "Here, porter," called Mr. Rand, when he had heard all the details that could be given, "get me a donkey--a good, lively donkey. I can manage one of the little beasts better than I can a horse. I used to ride one in Egypt. I'll go over the hills if it is midnight." "Oh, don't, Mr. Rand," begged Jack. "You are not strong enough to go over the mountains that way." "I am not, eh! Well, young man, I'll show you!" and he was already waiting for the donkey to be brought up from the hotel stables. "Nothing like a good donkey for a thing that has to be done." But it was such a wild wilderness--the sort chosen just on that account for hotel purposes. And after the brilliancy of the ballroom it did seem so very dark out of doors. "This way, Hazel," said Betty courageously. "I know the loneliest spot. Maybe she has been stolen, and might be hidden away in that hollow." "But if we go there alone----" "I'm not afraid," and Betty clutched her light stick. "If I found her, they would hear me scream all the way to--Portland!" Men were searching all over the grounds. Every possible sort of outdoor lantern had been pressed into service, and the glare of searchlights flickered from place to place like big fireflies. It was terrible--everything dreadful was being imagined. Only Ed, Walter and Jack tried to see a possibility of some mistake--of some reasonable explanation. It was exciting at first, that strange, dark hunt, but it soon became dreary, dull and desolate. Hazel and Betty gave up to have a good cry. Jack and Ed insisted upon following Mr. Rand on horses, making their way over the mountain roads and continually calling Cora. Walter followed the advice of the hotel proprietor, and went to notify the drivers of a stage line, which took passengers on at the Point. But how suddenly all had been thrown into a panic of fear at the loss of Cora! Not a girl to play pranks, in spite of some whispers about the hotel, those most concerned knew that Cora Kimball was at least being held a prisoner against her will somewhere; by whom, or with whom, no one could conjecture. What really had become of daring, dashing Cora Kimball? CHAPTER XVIII KIDNAPPED "Oh! Where am I?" "Hush! You are safe! But keep very quiet." Then Cora forgot--something smelled so strong, and she felt so sleepy. "We are almost there!" "But see the lights!" "They will never turn into the gully!" "If they do----" "I'll----" "Hush!" "She is a strong girl!" "So much the better. Give her a drink." "I don't like it." "You don't have to." "Do you know what they do now with kidnappers?" "She's no kid." "But it's just the same." "Hold your tongue. You have given me more bother than she has." "Salvo deserved what he got." "You deserve something, too," and the older woman, speaking to a young girl, gave the latter a blow with a whip. The girl winced, and showed her white teeth. She would some day break away from Mother Hull. They were riding in a gypsy wagon through the mountains, and it was one hour after Cora Kimball had been taken away from the porch of the Tip-Top. The drivers of the wagon were the most desperate members of the North Woods gypsy clan, and they had not the slightest fear that the searchers, who were actually almost flashing their lights in to the very wagon that bore Cora away, could ever discover her whereabouts. It was close and ill-smelling in that van. Cora was not altogether unconscious, and she turned uneasily on the bundle of straw deep in the bottom of the big wagon. "She is waking," said the girl presently. "She can now, if she's a mind to. We are in Dusky Hollow." "I won't be around when she does awake. I don't like it." "If you say any more, I'll give you a dose. Maybe you--want--to go--to sleep." "When I want to I shall," and the black eyes flashed in the darkness. "We did not promise to----" "Shut up!" and again that whip rang like the whisper of some frightened tree. "Oh, stop!" yelled the girl, "or I shall----" "Oh, no, you--won't. You just hold--your tongue." The horses shied, and the wagon skidded. Were they held up? "Right there, Sam," ordered the driver. "Easy--steady, Ned. Pull over here." The wagons moved forward again, and the women felt that the possible danger of discovery had passed. "Keep quiet in there," called a rough voice from the seat. "These woods are thick with trailers." For some time no one within the van spoke. Then Cora turned, and the woman wearing the thick hood clapped something over Cora's nose. "Oh, don't! She has had enough. Let her at least live," begged the younger woman, actually fanning Cora's white face with her own soiled handkerchief. The night seemed blacker and darker at each turn. Shouts from the searchers occasionally reached the ears of those within the wagon, and once Mr. Rand on his donkey might have seen them but for the trickery of the driver, who pulled his horses into some shadowy bushes and waited for the searchers to pass. The young gypsy woman peered down into Cora's face. "She's pretty," she said, with some sympathy. "Well, by the time she's out perhaps she won't be so pretty," sneered the older woman. "I swore revenge for Salvo, and I'll have it." "Oh, you and Salvo! Seems to me a man ought to be able----" "You cat! Do you want to go back to the cave?" The girl was silent again. "Where--am I? Jack! Jack!" Cora moaned. "Here! Don't you dare give her another drop of that stuff, or I'll--squeal!" The old woman stopped, and in the darkness of the wagon Mother Hull felt, rather than saw, that the younger one would do as she threatened. She might shout! Then those searching the woods would hear. "We will soon be there. Then she may call for Jack until her throat is sore!" muttered the hag. Cora tossed on her bed of straw. The chloroform kept her quiet, but she knew and felt that she was being borne away somewhere into that dark and lonely night. She could remember now how Ed had gone inside the hotel, and he had not come back! He would be back presently, and yes, she would try to sleep until he returned! She moaned and tried to call, but her voice was like that strange struggle of sound that comes in nightmare. It means nothing except to the sleeper. "She's choking," said the gypsy girl. "Let her," replied Mother Hull. "We can dump her easily here." "You--hag!" almost screamed the girl. "I will shout if you don't give her air." "Here! here!" called a voice from the seat. "If you two can't keep quiet, you know what we can do!" "She's choking!" insisted the girl. "Let her!" mocked the man. "I--won't. Help! Help!" yelled the girl, and as she did the light of a powerful automobile lamp was directed into the gypsy wagon! "There they are!" could be heard plainly. "Where?" asked the anxious ones. "In the gulch! Head them off! I saw a wagon!" Quicker than any one save a mountaineer knew how to swing around, that wagon swerved, turned and was again lost in the darkness. "Thought they had us!" called the man from the seat. "Lena, you will pay for this!" CHAPTER XIX THE DEN OF THE GYPSY QUEEN Cora opened her eyes. Standing over her was a woman--or was it a dream? A woman with flowing hair, beautiful, dark eyes, a band of gold like a crown about her head, and shimmering, dazzling stuff on her gown. Was Cora really awake? "Well," said the figure, "you are not bad-looking." "Oh, I am so--sick," moaned Cora. "I'll ring for something. Would you take wine?" "No, thank you; water," murmured Cora. The moments were becoming more real to Cora, but with consciousness came that awful sickness and that dizziness. She looked at the woman in the flowing red robes. Who could she be? Surely she was beautiful, and her face was kind and her manner sweet. The woman pulled a small cord, and presently a girl appeared to answer. "What, madam?" asked the girl. "Some limewater and some milk. And for me, some new cigarettes. Those Sam brought I could not use. You will find my key in my dressing table." She turned to Cora as the girl left. "You may have anything you want," she said, "and you need not worry. No harm will come to you. I rather think we shall be great friends." She sat down on some soft cushions on the floor. Then Cora noticed that her own resting place was also on the floor--a sort of flat couch--soft, but smelling so strongly of some strange odor. Was it smoke or perfume? "Do you mind if I smoke?" asked the woman. "I am Helka, the gypsy queen. That is, they call me that, although I am really Lillian, and I never had any fancy for this queening." She smiled bitterly. The girl entered again with a tray and a small silver case. "The water is for my friend," said the queen, and the girl walked over to Cora. "Do you think you are strong enough to take milk? Perhaps you would like lime in it." "Thank you very much," murmured Cora, "but I am very sick, and I have never been ill before." "It is the chloroform. It is sickish stuff, and Sam said you had to have a big dose." "Chloroform!" "Yes, don't you know? Don't you remember anything?" "Yes, I was on the hotel porch with Ed." "With Ed? I wish they had kidnapped Ed, although you are very nice, and when I heard them putting you in the dark room, where we put the bad gypsy girls, I insisted upon them bringing you right here. I had some trouble, Sam is a rough one, but I conquered. And let me tell you something." She stooped very low and whispered, "Trust me! Don't ask any questions when the girls are around. You may have everything but freedom!" "Am I a prisoner?" "Don't you remember the gypsy's warning? Didn't Mother Hull warn you not to go against Salvo?" "The robber?" "Hush! They are listening at that door, and I want you to stay with me. Are you very tired?" She was lighting a cigarette. "I would play something for you. Do you like music?" "Sometimes," said Cora, "but I am afraid I am going to cry----" "That's the reason I want to make some noise. They won't come in here, and they won't know you are crying. We must make them think you like it here." Cora turned and buried her face in the cushions. She realized that she had been abducted, and was being held a prisoner in this strange place. But she must--she felt she must--do as the woman told her. Just a few tears from sheer nervousness, then she would be brave. "Don't you ever smoke?" asked the queen. "I should die or run the risk of the dogs except for my cigarettes." "The risk----" "Hush! Yes, they have dreadful dogs. I, too, am," she whispered, "a prisoner. I will tell you about it later." She picked up an instrument and fingered it. It seemed like the harp, but it was not much larger than a guitar. The chords were very sweet, very deep and melodious. She was a skilled musician; even in her distress Cora could not fail to notice that. "I haven't any new music," said the queen. "They promised to fetch me some, but this trouble has kept the whole band busy. Now, how do you like this?" She swept her white fingers over the strings like some fairy playing with a wind-harp. "That is my favorite composition." "Do you compose?" "Oh, yes, it gives me something to do, and I never could endure painting or sewing, so I work out pretty tunes and put them on paper. Sometimes they send them to the printers for me." "Do you never leave here? Am I in America?" asked Cora. "Bless you, yes, you are in America; but no, to the other question. I have never left this house or the grounds since I came to America." "From----" "England. You see, I am not a noble gypsy, for I live in a house and have sat on chairs, although they don't like it. This house is an old mansion in the White Mountains." "It is your home?" asked Cora timidly. "It ought to be. They bought it with my mother's money." Cora sipped the water, then, feeling weak, she took a mouthful of the milk. Every moment she was becoming stronger. Every moment the strange scene around her was exciting her interest more fully. "What time is it?" she asked wearily. "Have you no idea?" "Is it morning?" "Almost." "And you are not in bed?" "Oh, I sleep when I feel like it. You see, I have nothing else to do." Cora wondered. Nothing to do? "Besides, we were waiting up for you, and I could not go to sleep until you came." "You expected me?" "For days. We knew you were in the mountains." "How?" asked Cora. "Because one of our men followed you. He said you almost caught him." Cora vaguely remembered the man under the auto when they had been stalled in the hills. That must have been the fellow. "My friends," stammered Cora, "my brother will be ill of fright, and my mother----" "Now, my dear," said the queen, "if you will only trust me, I shall do all I can for you. I might even get word to your brother. I love brothers. Once I had one." "Is he dead?" asked Cora kindly. "I do not know. You see, I was once a very silly girl. Would you believe it? I am twenty-five years old!" "I thought you young, but that is not old." "Ages. But some day--who can tell what you and I may do?" In making this remark she mumbled and hissed so that no one, whose eyes were not upon her at the moment she spoke, could have understood her. Cora took courage. Perhaps she could help this strange creature. Perhaps, after all, the imprisonment might lead to something of benefit. "I could sleep, if you would like to," said Cora, for her eyes were strangely heavy and her head ached. "When I finish my cigarette. You see, I am quite dissipated." She was the picture of luxurious ease--not of dissipation--and as Cora looked at her she was reminded of those highly colored pictures of Cleopatra. It was, indeed, a strange imprisonment, but Cora was passing through a strange experience. Who could tell what would be the end of it all? Cora's heart was beating wildly. She could not sleep, although her eyes were so heavy, and her head ached fiercely. The reaction from that powerful drug was setting in, and with that condition came all the protests of an outraged nature. She tossed on her couch. The gypsy queen heard her. "What is it?" she asked. "Can you not sleep?" "I don't know," Cora stammered in reply. "I wonder why they took me?" "You were to appear against Salvo at his trial, I understood. It was necessary to stop you. Perhaps that is one reason," said the gypsy. "But try to sleep." For some moments there was silence, and Cora dozed off. Suddenly she awoke with a wild start. "Oh!" she screamed. "Let me go! Jack! Jack!" "Hush!" whispered the gypsy. "It would not be safe for them to hear you." She pressed her hand to the forehead of the delirious girl. "You must have had a nightmare." Cora sighed. Then it was not a dream, it was real! She was still a captive. "Oh, I cannot help it," she sobbed. "If only I could die!" Then she stopped and touched the gentle hand that was stroking her brow. "You must not mind what I say to-night. It has all been so terrible," she finished. "But I like you, and will be your friend," assured the voice as the other leaned so closely toward her. "Yet, I cannot blame you for suffering. It is only natural. Let me give you some mineral water. That may soothe your nerves." The light was turned higher, and the form in the white robe flitted over to a cabinet. Cora could see that this gypsy wore a thin, silky robe. It was as white as snow, and in it the young woman looked some living statue. "I am giving you a great deal of trouble," Cora murmured. "I hope I will be able to repay you some day." "Oh, as for that, I am glad to have something to do. I have always read of the glory of nursing. Now I may try it. I am very vain and selfish. All I do I do for my own glory. If you are better, and I have made you so, I will be quite satisfied." She poured the liquid into a glass, and handed it to the sick girl. "Thank you," whispered Cora. "Now I will sleep. I was only dreaming when I called out." "They say I have clairvoyant power. I shall put you to sleep." The gypsy sat down beside Cora. Without touching her face she was passing her hands before Cora's eyes. The latter wondered if this might not be unsafe. Suppose the gypsy should hypnotize her into sleep and that she might not be able to awaken? Yet the sensation was so soothing! Cora thought, then stopped thinking. Sleep was coming almost as it had come when the man seized her. Drowsy, delightfully drowsy! Then sleep! CHAPTER XX CORA AND HELKA "What a wonderful morning! It makes me think of the Far East," said the gypsy queen. "Have you been there?" asked Cora politely. "Yes, I have been many places," replied Helka, "and to-day I will have a chance to tell you some queer stories about myself. I have a lover." "Then you are content here? You are not lonely?" "But I dare not own him as a lover; he is not a gypsy." "This is America. You should be free." "Yes," and she sighed. "I wonder shall I ever be able to get away!" "Shall _I_?" How strange! Two such beautiful young women prisoners in the heart of the White Mountains! Cora repeated her question. "Perhaps," answered Helka. "You see, they might fear punishment if you escaped; with me it would be--my punishment." "But what shall I do?" sighed Cora. "Do you really think they intend to keep me here?" "Is this not a pleasant place?" "It is indeed--with you. And I am glad that, bad as it is, I have had a chance to know you. I feel some day that I shall have a chance to help you." "You are a cheerful girl. I was afraid you would put in all your time crying. Then they would take you away." "No use to cry," replied Cora, as brightly as she could. "Of course, it is dreadful. But, at least, I am not being abused." "Nor shall you be. The gypsies are not cruel; they are merely revengeful. I think I like them because they are my truest friends in all the whole, wide world." A tap at the door stopped the conversation. Then a girl entered. She was the one who had been in the van with Cora! She looked keenly at the captive and smiled. "Do you wish anything?" she asked of the queen. "Yes, breakfast to-day must be double. You see, Lena, I have a friend." "Yes, I see. I am glad she is better." "Thank you," said Cora, but, of course, she had no way of knowing how this girl had tried to befriend her in the gypsy wagon. "We have some splendid berries. I picked them before the sun touched them," said Lena. "And fresh milk; also toast, and what else?" "We will leave it to you, Lena. I know Sam went to market." "Yes, and will the young lady like some of your robes? I thought that dress might not suit for daylight." Cora was still wearing her handsome yellow gown that she had worn at the Tip-Top ball. It did look strange in the bright, early morning sunshine. "Would you?" asked Helka of Cora. "I have a good bathroom, and there is plenty of water." She smiled and showed that wonderful set of teeth. Cora thought she had never before seen such human pearls. "It is very kind of you," and Cora sighed. "If I must stay I suppose I may as well be practical about it." "Oh, yes," Lena ventured. "They all like you, and it will be so much better not to give any trouble." "You see, Lena knows," said the queen. "Yes, Lena, get out something pretty, and Miss----" "Cora," supplied the prisoner. "Cora? What an odd name! But it suits you. There is so much coral in your cheeks. Yes, Miss Cora must wear my English robe--the one with the silver crown." To dress in the robes of a gypsy queen! If only this were a play, and not so tragically real! But the thought was not comforting. It meant imprisonment. Cora had determined to be brave, but it was hard. Yet she must hope that something unexpected would happen to rescue her. "Lena is my maid," explained Helka. "I tell her more than any of the others. And she fetches my letters secretly. Have you not one for me today, Lena?" The girl slipped her hand in her blouse and produced a paper. The queen grasped it eagerly. "Oh, yes," she said, "I knew he would write. Good David!" and she tore open the envelope. Cora watched her face and guessed that the missive was from the lover. Lena went out to bring the breakfast things. "If only I could go out and meet him!" said the queen, finishing the letter. "I would run away and marry him. He has been so good to wait so long. Just think! He has followed me from England!" "And you never meet him?" "Not since they suspect. It was then they bought the two fierce dogs. I would never dare pass them. Sometimes they ask me to take a ride in the big wagon, but I never could ride in that. You see, I am not all a gypsy. My father was a sort of Polish nobleman and my mother was part English. She became interested in the great question of the poor, and so left society for this--the free life. My father was also a reformer, and they were married twice--to make sure. It is my father's money that keeps me like this, and, of course, the tribe does not want to lose me." "And this man David?" "I met him when I rode like a queen in an open chariot in a procession. That is, he saw me, and, like the queens in the old stories, he managed to get a note to me. Then I had him come to the park we were quartered in. And since then--but it does seem so long!" "Could not Lena take a letter for me?" asked Cora timidly. "Oh, no! They would punish her very severely if she interfered in your case. You see, Salvo must be avenged and released from jail. I always hated Salvo!" Cora was silent. Presently the girl returned and placed the linen tablecloth on the floor. Following her came the other girl, with a tray of things. It was strange to see them set the table on the floor, but Cora remembered that this was a custom of the wanderers. When the breakfast had been arranged, the queen slipped down beside her coffee like a creature devoid of bones. She was very graceful and agile--like some animal of the forest. Cora took her place, with limbs crossed, and felt like a Turk. But the repast was not uninviting. The berries were fresh, and the milk was in a clean bowl; in fact, everything showed that the queen's money had bought the service. They talked and ate. Helka was very gay, the letter must have contained cheering news, and Cora was reminded how much she would have loved to have had a single word from one of her dear ones. But she must hope and wait. "Do take some water cress," pressed the strange hostess, possibly noting that Cora ate little. "I think this cress in America is one of your real luxuries. We have never before camped at a place where it could be gathered fresh from the spring." Daintily she laid some on the green salad on a thin slice of the fresh bread, and after offering the salt and pepper, placed the really "civilized" sandwich on the small plate beside Cora. "There is just one thing I should love to go into the world for," said the queen. "I would love to have my meals at a hotel. I am savagely fond of eating." "We had such a splendid hotel," answered Cora with a sigh. "It seems a mockery that I cannot invite you there with me--that even I cannot go myself. I keep turning the matter over and over in my mind, and the more I think the more impossible it all seems." "Nothing is impossible in Gypsy land," replied the queen, helping herself to some berries. "And it may even not be impossible to do as you suggest. But we must wait," and she smiled prettily. "You have a very great habit of haste; feverish haste, the books call it. I believe it is worse for one's complexion than are cigarettes. Let me begin making a Gypsy of you by teaching you to wait. You have a great deal to wait for." Cora glanced around her to avoid the eyes of the speaker. Surely she did have a great deal to wait for. "Do you stay in doors all the time?" she asked, glad to think of some leading question. "I should think that would hurt your complexion." "We often walk in the grounds. You see, we own almost all the woods, but I am afraid they will not trust you yet. You will have to promise me that you will not try to escape if I ask that you be allowed to walk with me soon," said Helka. "I could not promise that," Cora replied sadly. "Oh, I suppose not now. I will not ask you. We will just be good friends. And I will tell you about David. It is delightful to have some one whom I can trust to tell about him." "And I will tell you about my friends! Perhaps I will not be so lonely if I talk of them." Cora was now strong enough in nerve and will to observe her surroundings. The room was very large, and was undoubtedly used formerly as a billiard parlor, for it was situated in the top of the big house, and on all sides were windows, even a colored glass skylight in the roof. The floors were of hardwood and covered partially with foreign rugs. There were low divans, but no tables nor chairs. The whole scene was akin to that described as oriental. Lena returned with the robes for Cora, and laid them on a divan. Then she adjusted a screen, thus forming a dressing room in one corner. This corner was hung with an oblong mirror, framed in wonderful ebony. Helka saw that this attracted Cora's attention. "You are wondering about my glass? It was a gift from my father to my mother, and is all I have left of her beautiful things. It has been very difficult to carry that about the world." "It is very handsome and very massive," remarked Cora. "Yes, I love black things; I like ebony. They called my mother Bonnie, for she had ebony eyes and hair." "So have you," said Cora. "I am glad you are dark; it will make it easier, and the tribe will think you are safer. I really would like to get you back to your friends, but then I should lose you. And I don't see, either, how it ever could be managed unless they want to let you go." Cora sighed heavily. Then she prepared to don the garb of the gypsy queen! CHAPTER XXI MOTHER HULL "Mother Hull wants to talk with you, Helka." "She must send her message by you," said Helka to Lena. "I never get along with Mother Hull." Cora gasped, and then sighed the sigh of relief. Would that dreadful old woman enter the room and perhaps insult her? "She is very--cross," ventured Lena. "No more so than I am. Tell her to send her message." "But if she will not?" "Then I will not hear it." "There may be trouble." "I have my laws." The girl left the room, evidently not satisfied. Presently there was a shuffling of aged feet in the big, bare outside hall. Helka turned, and her eyes flashed angrily. "Go behind the screen," she said to Cora. "If she wants to see you, she must have my permission." At that the door opened, and the old gypsy woman entered. "I told you not to come," said Helka. "But I had to. It is----" She stopped and looked over the room carefully. "Oh, she is here," said the queen, "but you are not to see her." "Why?" "Because I have said so. You know my laws." The old woman looked as if she would like to have struck down the daring young queen. But her clinched fist was hidden in her apron. "Helka, if they take this house they take you." "Who is going to take it now?" "The new tribe. They have sent word. We must give in or they govern." The new tribe! That might mean more freedom for Helka. But she must be cautious--this old woman was the backbone of all the tribes, and every word she spoke might mean good or evil to all the American gypsies. She was all-powerful, in spite of Helka's pretended power. "They cannot take my house," said Helka finally. "I have the oath of ownership." The woman shook her head. All the while her eyes were searching for Cora, and she knew very well that the stolen girl was back of that screen. She wanted to see her, to know what she looked like in daylight; also to know how she was behaving. "What did she say about Salvo?" hissed the woman. "She says nothing of him. Why should she? Salvo did wrong. He should be sent to jail." This was a daring remark, and Helka almost wished she had not made it. The eyes of the old woman fairly blazed with anger. "You--you dare--to speak that way!" Helka nodded her head with apparent unconcern. "Why not?" "There is always--revenge. I might take your girl friend farther into the mountains. That would leave you time to behave." "Have we so many houses?" almost sneered the younger woman. "There are holes, and caves and rivers," answered the woman, with the plain intention of frightening the disloyal one into submission. "We left off that sort of thing when we came to America," replied Helka undaunted. "I will take care of this prisoner. I have agreed to." The old woman shuffled up nearer to the screen. Cora felt as if she must cry out or faint, but Helka spoke quickly. "Don't you dare to step one inch nearer," she said, assuming a voice of power. "I have told you to go!" A dog was barking fiercely under the window. "They will watch," said the old woman, meaning that the dogs would stay on guard if Cora should attempt escape. "Oh, I know that," answered Helka. "But I have told you to go!" Cora was trembling. She remembered the voice, although she was too deeply under the effects of the chloroform when in the wagon to recall more of this woman. "I only came to warn you," said the woman. "You are always warning," and Helka laughed. "I am afraid, Mother Hull, that we will begin to doubt your warnings. This young girl makes an admirable gypsy, yet you warned me so much before she came." The woman stooped over and whispered into Helka's ear. "And I warn you now," she said, "that if she gets away I will not save you from Sam. _You_ will _marry_ him." "Go away instantly," commanded the queen, springing up like an infuriated animal. "I have told you that before I will marry Sam I will--I will---- He sent you to threaten me! I----" "Helka! Helka!" soothed the woman, "be careful--what you say." "You leave me! I could throw myself from this window," and she went toward the open casement. "There now, girl! Mother Hull was always good to you-----" "Go!" The hag shuffled to the door. Turning, she watched Helka and looked toward the screen. Helka never moved, but stood like a tragedy queen, her finger pointing to the door. It was exactly like a scene in a play. Cora was very frightened, for she could see plainly through the hinge spaces of her hiding place. When there was no longer a step to be heard in the hall, Helka sank down on the floor and laughed as merrily as if she had been playing some absurd game. Cora was amazed to hear that girl laugh. "Were you frightened?" Helka asked. "A little," replied Cora, "she has such a dreadful face." "Like a witch," admitted Helka. "That is why she is so powerful--she can frighten every one with her face." "And the new tribe she spoke of?" "Has, I believe, a beautiful queen, and they are always trying to make me jealous. But since I have seen you, I care less for my gypsy life." "I am glad! I hope we may both soon go out in the beautiful, free world, and then you could meet David----" "Hush! I heard a step! Lie down and pretend illness." Again Cora did as she was commanded. It did seem as if all were commands in this strange world. There was a tap at the door. "Enter!" called Helka. A very young girl stepped into the room timidly. "Sam sent this," she said, then turned and ran away. Helka opened the cigar box. "Cigarettes, I suppose," she said. Then she smiled. "Why, it's a present--a bracelet. I suppose Sam found this as he finds everything else he sends me--in other people's pockets. Well, it is pretty, and I shall keep it. I love bracelets." She clasped the trinket on her white arm. It was pretty, and Cora had no doubt that it had been stolen, but as well for Helka to keep it as to try to do anything better with it. "I should like to give it to _you_," said the queen suddenly. She took off the bracelet and examined it closely. "Oh, I really couldn't take it," objected Cora. "I know what you think, but suppose you got out some time? This might lead to----" "Oh, I see. You need not speak more plainly. Perhaps when I go I may ask you for it!" "It has a name inside. Betty----" "Betty!" exclaimed Cora. "Do you know a Betty?" "Indeed, I do! She was with us when----" "Then that was when Sam found it. The name is Betty Rand!" "Oh, do you think they have harmed Betty?" and Cora grew pale. "Bless you, no! I heard that the girls had been searching the woods for you. She may have dropped it----" "Oh, I hope so. Dear Betty!" and Cora's eyes welled up. "What would I not give to see them all!" "Well, now, dear, you must not be impatient. See, I am reforming. I have not smoked today. And that is something that has not occurred in years. If you should make a lady out of a savage, would you think your time ill spent?" Cora gathered up the robe she wore. It did seem as if she had been in gypsy land so long! She was almost familiar now with its strange ways and customs. "You are not a savage, and I love your music. If you come out into the world, I am going to take you among my friends. We all have some musical education, but you have musical talent." "Do you really think so? David loves music. Shall I sing?" "Are you not afraid of that old woman?" asked Cora. "Not in the least. Besides, if I sing she will think all is well." She took up her guitar. But after running her fingers across the strings she laid it down again. "Tell me," she spoke suddenly, "about your mother. I hope she will not worry too much. If ever I knew my sweet mother I should be willing to live in a cave all my life." Cora had always heard girls speak this way of lost mothers. Yes, it was sweet to have one--to know one. "My mother is a brave woman," said Cora. "She will never give up until all hope is gone." "I know she is brave, for you must be like her. And your brother?" "He will miss me," answered Cora brokenly, for she could not even speak of Jack without being affected. The great, dark eyes of the gypsy looked out into the forest. Cora wondered of what she could be thinking. "Jack," she repeated, "Jack what?" "Jack Kimball," replied Cora, still wondering. "That sounds like a brave name," remarked the queen. "I am getting spoiled, I'm afraid. I cannot help being interested in the outside world." "Why should you not be?" asked Cora. "Because I do not belong to it. To be content one must not be too curious. That, I believe, is philosophy, and----" "There is some one coming," interrupted Cora. "It is Lena. I am like the blind. I know every one's step." And she was not mistaken, for a moment later Lena entered the room. CHAPTER XXII SADDENED HEARTS "I am afraid she is dead." "Jack, you must not give up so easily. The detectives have faith in the steamship story." Ed was speaking. "No, Cora would not be induced, under any circumstance, to take a Portland boat, and she could not have been taken away unconscious." "Girls before this have been led away with fake tales of a sick mother, and all that," said Ed feebly, "but I must agree with you--Cora was too level-headed." "And Belle is really very ill." "Mr. Rand has sent for a nurse. Belle feels as if she must die if Cora is not found soon. She is extremely sensitive." "Yes, the girls loved Cora." His voice broke and he turned his head away. The two young men were seated on the big piazza of the Tip-Top. It was just a week since the disappearance of Cora, and, of course, Mrs. Kimball had been notified by cable. She would return to America by the first steamer, but would not reach New York for some days yet. In the meantime Mr. Rand, who had turned out to be such a good friend in need, had advised Mrs. Kimball to wait a few days more before starting. He hoped and felt sure that some news of the girl would have been discovered by that time. "Walter 'phoned from Lenox," went on Ed, after a pause. "He had no real information, and the young girl at the sanitarium is not Cora." "I was afraid it was a useless journey. Well, let us see if we can do anything for the girls," and Jack arose languidly from the bench. "Misery likes company." They went up to the suite of rooms occupied by the young ladies. Hazel met them in the hall. "Whom do you think is coming to nurse Belle? Miss Robbins!" "What?" exclaimed both in one breath. "Yes, Mr. Rand insisted that she is the proper person, and it seems there is some reasonable explanation for her conduct. At any rate, it is well we will have some one we know. Oh, dear, Belle is so hysterical!" and Hazel herself was almost in tears. "When is Miss Robbins coming?" asked Jack. "Mr. Rand 'phoned, and she said she would come up at once. Then he sent his car out from his own garage for her." "What would we have done without Mr. Rand?" "Come in and speak to Belle," said Hazel. "She feels better when she has talked with you, Jack. Of course, you come also, Ed," she hurried to add, seeing him draw back. The young men entered the room, where Belle, pale as a drooping white rose, lay on a couch under the window. She smiled and extended her hand. "I am so glad you have come! Is there any news?" "Walter is running down a sanitarium clew," said Jack evasively. "I feel certain Cora is ill somewhere." "Where has he gone?" "To Lenox. We had a description from a sanitarium there. But, Belle, you must brace up. We can't afford to lose two girls." She smiled, and did try to look brighter, but the shock to her nerves had been very severe. "Did you hear that Miss Robbins is coming?" she asked. "Yes, and I think she is the very one we need," replied Ed. "She may even be able to help us in our search." "She is wonderfully clever, and it seems she did not mean to desert us at all. There is some sort of story back of her attention to the wounded ones at Restover," said Bess, who had been sitting at a little desk, busy with some mail. A hall boy tapped at the door and announced that some one wished to see Mr. Kimball. "Come along, Ed," said Jack. "You represent us." In the hotel office they met two detectives sent by Mr. Rand. They explained that they would have to have a picture of Cora to use in the press, for the purpose of getting help from the public by any possible identification. At first Jack objected, but Ed showed him that this move was necessary. So it was, with other matters, very painful for the young man to arrange with the strangers, where his sister's private life was concerned. Jack soon disposed of his part of the interview. He declared that Cora had no gentleman friends other than his own companions; also that she had never had any romantic notions about the stage or such sensational matters. In seeking all the information they could possibly obtain, that might assist in getting at a clew, the detectives, of course, were obliged to ask these and other questions. "Has all the wood been searched?" asked Jack. "Every part, even the caves," replied the detective. "We visited several bands of gypsies, but could not hold them--they cleared themselves." "But the gypsies had threatened her," insisted Jack. "Could any have left the country by way of Boston?" "Impossible. We have had all New York and New England roads carefully watched." "And there are no old huts anywhere? It has always seemed to me that these huts one finds in every woods might make safe hiding places for criminals," said Jack. "Well, we are still at it, and will report to you every day," said the elder man. "We have put our best men on the case, and have the hearty coöperation of all the newspaper men. They know how to follow up clews." "Of course," agreed Jack. "There was nothing in the Chelton rumor. I knew that was only a bit of sensationalism." "There was something in it," contradicted the detective, "but the trouble was we could not get further than the old gypsy woman's threat. She had told your sister to beware of interfering with that jailed fellow, Salvo. I believed there was some connection between her disappearance and that case, but, after talking to every one who knew anything about the gypsy band, we had to drop that clew for a time. There are no more of the tribe anywhere in the county, as far as we can learn." "And they have not been around here since the day they moved away, when we were travelling over the mountains," went on Jack. "Of course you have, as you say, taken care of all the ends, but the arrest of that fellow seems the most reasonable motive." "Had Miss Kimball any girl enemies? Any who might like to--well, would it be possible for them to induce her to go away, on some pretext, so that she might be detained?" asked the other detective. Jack and Ed exchanged glances. There was a girl, an Ida Giles, of whom, in the other books of this series, we were obliged to record some very unpleasant things. She was an enemy of Cora's. But the detective's idea was absurd. Ida Giles would have no part in any such conspiracy. "No girl would do anything like that," declared Jack emphatically. The sleuths of the law arose to go. "Thank you for your close attention," said Ed. "We certainly have fallen among friends in our trouble. The fact that I left her alone----" "Now, Ed, please stop that," interrupted Jack. "We have told you that it didn't matter whom she was with, the thing would have happened just the same. Any one would have fallen a victim to the false message." Again for the detectives' information the strange man who called Ed into the hotel office was described. But of what avail was that? He was easier to hide than was Cora, and both were safely hidden, it seemed. Finally, having exhausted their skill in the way of obtaining clews, the officers left, while the two young men, alone once more, were struggling to pull themselves together, that the girls might still have hope that there was a possibility of some favorable news. "It looks bad," almost sobbed Jack, for the interview with the officers had all but confirmed his worst fears, that of throwing more suspicion upon the Gypsy tribe. Ed was silent. He did not like to think of Cora in the clutch of those unscrupulous persons. The thought was like a knife to him. Jack saw his chum's new alarm and tried to brighten up. The door suddenly opened. Both young men started. A young woman entered the office. "Mr. Kimball, Mr. Foster!" she exclaimed, as the boys looked at her in surprise. "I am so sorry!" It was Miss Robbins. "We are very glad to see you," said Jack. "We need all sorts of doctors. Belle is very ill, and the others are not far from it." "And Cora?" she asked anxiously. "No news," said Jack, as cheerfully as he could. "Listen. I must tell you while I have a chance--before I see the girls. The man I stayed over to nurse is my brother!" CHAPTER XXIII ANOTHER STORY "Oh, Miss Robbins!" exclaimed Belle. "My dear! I am so sorry to see you ill!" "Yes, but Cora----" "Hush, my dear. You will not get strong while you worry so. Of course, you cannot stop at once, but you must try." Hazel, Betty and Bess had withdrawn. What a relief it was already to have some one who just knew how to control Belle. It had been so difficult for the young girls to try to console her, and her nerves had worked so sadly upon their own. "I suppose you thought I was a perfectly dreadful young woman," said Dr. Robbins cheerily. "But you did not know (she sighed effectively) that every one has her own troubles, while a doctor has her own and a whole lot of others." "Had you trouble?" Belle asked sympathetically. "Indeed I had, and still have. You should know. But wait, I'll just call the girls in and make a clean breast of it. It will save me further trouble." The tactful young doctor had planned to tell her story as much for the purpose of diverting Belle's mind as for any other reason. She called to the girls, who were in an adjoining room. How the strain of that one dreadful week had told upon their fresh young faces! Bess had almost lost her peach-blow; Hazel, never highly colored, but always bright of eye, showed signs even of pallor; Betty had put on too much color, that characteristic of the excitable disposition when the skin is the thermometer of the nerves, and her eyes not only sparkled, but actually glittered. All this was instantly apparent to the trained eye of the young doctor. "Come in, girls," she said. "I have decided to make a full confession." They looked at her in astonishment. What could she mean? Might she have married the sick man? This thought flashed into the mind of more than one of the party. "You thought I deserted you?" began Miss Robbins. "It looked like it," murmured Bess. "Well, when I went out on that lawn to work over the injured, I found there a long-lost brother!" "Brother?" "Yes, really. It is a strange story, but for three years mother and I have tried every means to find Leland. He was such a beautiful young fellow, and such a joy to us, but he got interested in social problems, and got to thinking that the poor were always oppressed, and all that sort of thing. Well, he had just finished college, and we hoped for such great things, when, after some warning enthusiasm, he disappeared." "Ran away?" asked Hazel. "Well, we thought at first he was drowned, for he used to sit for hours on the beach talking to fishermen. But I never thought he had met with any such misfortune. Leland is one of the individuals born to live. He is too healthy, too splendid, a chap to up and die. Of course, mother thought he must be dead, or he would not keep her in anxiety, but that is the way these reformer minds usually work--spare your own and lose the cause." "And what did happen?" asked Betty, all interested. "I happened to find him. There he lay, with his wonderful blond hair burned in ugly spots, and his baby complexion almost----" "Oh! are all his good looks gone?" gasped Belle--she who always stood up for the beautiful in everything, even in young men. "I hope not gone forever," said the doctor, "but, indeed, poor boy, he had a narrow escape." "But whatever took him into the kitchen?" asked Bess. "He went down there among the foreigners to study actual conditions. Did you ever hear of anything so idiotic? But that is his hobby. He has been into all kinds of labor during these three long, sorrowful years." "And you were helping your own brother! And we--blamed you!" It was Belle who spoke. "I could not blame you for so doing. I had been enjoined to secrecy the very moment poor Leland laid his eyes on me. He begged me not even to send word to mother, as he said it would spoil the research of an entire year if he had to stop his work before the summer was entirely over." "But he could not work--he is ill?" said Bess. "Still, you see, he could keep among the men he had classed himself with, and that is his idea of duty. I let mother know I had found him in spite of his 'ideas,' but I did not tell her much more." "Will he not go home with you?" asked Hazel. "He has promised to give up cooking by October first. Then I am going to collect him." "What an interesting young man he must be," remarked Belle, to whom the story had already brought some brightness. "Oh, indeed he is," declared Miss Robbins. "He is younger than I, and when I went to college he promised to do all sorts of stunts to prove my problems. He even wanted to try living, or dying, on one sort of food; wanted to remain up without sleeping until he fell over; wanted to sleep in dark cellars to see what effect that would have; in fact, I thought we would have to lock him up with a bodyguard to save his life, he was so enthusiastic about my profession. And as to anti-vivisection! Why, at one time he had twenty-five cats and four dogs in our small city yard to save them from the possible fate of some of their kind. I tell you, we had our hands full with pretty Leland." "I should love him," said Belle suddenly and emphatically. Every one laughed. It was actually the first real smile that had broken the sadness of their lives in that long, dreary week. Belle returned the charge with a contemptuous glance. "I mean, of course, I should love him as a friend of humanity," she answered. "Cats and dogs!" exclaimed Betty. "A friend of dumb animals is always a friend of humans," insisted Belle. Dr. Robbins smiled. Her cure was already working, and, while her story was correct, the recital of it had done more for those girls than had any other attempted cure of their melancholy. "Well, I cannot agree with you that one fond of animals--that is excessively fond--is always very fond of mankind," she said. "Still, in Leland's case, it was a curious mixture of both." "He will become a great man," prophesied Hazel. "If he does not kill himself in the trying," said the sister. "He came too near it in the fire. But suppose he should insist on--on digging sewers?" "Oh, you could restrain him. That would be insane!" declared Bess. "I don't know about that. Sewers have to be dug," contended Leland's sister. "I wish we might meet him," ventured Bess. "I am sure he would be an inspiration." Poor Bess! Always saying things backwards. He would be an inspiration--in digging sewers! "Well, you may some day, if he ever consents to become civilized again," said Dr. Robbins. "You see, he may take to the lecture platform, but very likely the platform will be against his principles. He will want to shout from the housetops!" A step in the hall attracted them. It was Ed. "Jack and I are going to town," he said, his face flushed with excitement. "The detectives claim to have a clew." "Oh, good! I knew Dr. Robbins would bring luck," declared Belle, actually springing up from the couch. "I am going out in the air. I feel as if Cora were here already!" "Easy, Belle," cautioned the doctor. "We must insist upon discipline for your mind and body. You must not waste energy. It is well to be hopeful, but bad to get excited." "But I can't help it." "Now, girls, we will let you know at once over the 'phone if we have any news," promised Ed, making his adieux. "We really are hopeful." Hope, as contagious as fear, had sprung into the heart of each of them. Yes, there must soon be news of Cora! CHAPTER XXIV THE COLLAPSE "We are to go out to-day!" Helka's face was beaming when she gave this news to Cora. The latter had longed so for the sunshine since shut up in the big upper room. "Out where?" "In the grounds, of course. They do not let us on the highway." "And does that satisfy you? You could go--if you chose." "Well, I could, and I could not. I would be afraid if I ran away that old Mother Hull's face would kill me in my sleep. She is a dreadful woman." "But that is superstitious. No dream can kill. I wish that was all that held me here," and Cora sighed deeply. "But you have promised not to try to escape while you are in my charge," Helka reminded her. "And surely you will keep that promise!" There was alarm in her voice. Helka had not told Cora all of her fears. "Yes, I will not run away from you. I doubt if I could do so, at any rate." "Indeed, you could not, but you might be foolish enough to try. I keep hoping for you all the time." "You are very good to me, Helka, and I hope that whatever becomes of me I will not lose you entirely. But sometimes I have a fearful dread. I feel as if I will choke from actual fear." "I don't blame you. The faces of some of our tribe are enough to strangle one. But I have promised to take care of you, and you need fear no violence, at any rate." They were seated on the floor, as usual. Presently Lena appeared. "Fetch the walking dresses--the brown and the black," said Helka. "We are going out in the woods." "Sam did not go to town," ventured Lena. "Why?" asked the queen sharply. "I don't know. He asked if you were going out." "Indeed! Perhaps he expects to walk with us. Well, don't hurry with the things. We have all day." Cora was disappointed. The very thought of getting out of doors had brought her hope--hope that some one might see her, hope for something so vague she could not name it. "Can't we go out this morning?" she asked. "The day is so delightful." Helka gave her a meaning glance. "I wish Sam would bring me some fruit," she said to Lena. "Tell him I have not had any for days, and say that the last--from the farm was delicious." "All right," assented Lena, "I think he--will go." "I think he will," agreed Helka. "He never fails me when I ask for anything. Sam is ambitious." She was bright and cheery again. Yes, they would take their walk, and Cora would be out in the great, free, wide world once more. "How do you manage to get such up-to-date clothes?" she asked Helka, as she inspected the tailor-made walking dress of really good cut and material. "Why, I have a girl friend in New York who sends by express a new gown each season. You see, it would not do for me to attract attention when I am out in the grounds." "But, if you did attract attention, would not that possibly help you to get away?" "My dear, the situation is very complex. You see, I have a respectable lover, and I live every day in hopes of some time joining him. Should our band get into disrepute, which it surely would do if discovered here, I should feel disgraced. Besides"--and she looked very serious--"there are other reasons why I cannot make any desperate move for freedom." Cora thought it wise not to press her further. It was a strange situation, but surely the woman was honest and kind, and had befriended Cora in her darkest hour. What more could she ask now? Helka gave Cora a choice of the dresses, and she took the black costume. There was scarcely any perceptible difference in their sizes, and when gowned Helka declared Cora looked "_chic_." Helka herself looked quite the society lady, her tight-fitting brown costume suiting her admirably. Cora was trembling with anticipation. She wondered if they would be allowed to roam about at will, or how they would be guarded. Finally Helka was ready. "We will have Lena with us--that is, she will be supposed to be with us. Then--but you must wait and see. It is rather odd, but it is better than being indoors." Helka rang her bell and Lena appeared. "We are ready," she said simply, and again the girl was gone. It seemed ages, but really was but a short time before Lena returned. "All right," she said, "the door is opened, and the dogs are gone." It was the first time Cora had been out in the hall, and she looked around in wonderment. It was dark and dirty, so different from Helka's apartment. Lena led the way. There were three flights of stairs. "You girls do not do too much sweeping," complained the queen, as she lifted her skirts. "I should think you would have had Christine brush down these steps." "I told her to, but Mother Hull sent her for berries," explained Lena. They passed along, and finally reached the outer door. The fresh air blew upon them. "Oh!" exclaimed Cora. "Isn't it good to be in the open air?" "Hush!" whispered Helka. "It is best that you make no remarks. I will tell you why later." Mother Hull was crouched at the steps. She looked up first at Helka, then at Cora. My, what eyes! No wonder Helka said they might kill one in a dream. Down the steps and at last on the ground! Cora's feet fairly tingled. Helka tripped along lightly ahead of her. Two ordinary-looking men were working on the grounds. The place seemed just like any other country house that might be old and somewhat neglected, but there was not the slightest evidence of it being an abode of crime or of gypsies. "This way, Cora," said Helka. "There is a splendid path through the woods this way. I love to gather the tinted leaves there." As they turned the men also turned and made their work fit in exactly to the way the girls were going. "Our guard," whispered Helka. "They will not speak to us, but they never take their eyes off us. I don't mind them, but I hate the dogs. They never call them unless they fear I might speak with a stranger." "What sort of dogs are they?" asked Cora eagerly. "I don't know; not thoroughbreds, I can tell you that. I could make friends with any decent dog, but these--must be regular tramps. I hate them." Cora, too, thought she might have made friends with any "decent" dogs, but she had the same fear that Helka spoke of regarding mongrels. A roadway was not too distant to be seen. If only some one would come along, thought Cora, some one who might hear her voice! But if she should shout! They might both be attacked by those savage dogs. "Oh, see those gentian," exclaimed Helka. "I always think of David's eyes when I find gentian. They are as blue and as sweet and----" "Why, Helka! You leave me nothing to say for my fair-eyed friends. They have eyes, every one of them. Here are Betty's," and she grasped a sprig of a wonderful blue blossom. "And here are dear, darling Belle's," picking up a spray of myrtle in bloom, "and here are the brown eyes of Bess," at which remark the eyes of Cora Kimball could hardly look at the late, brown daisy, because of a mist of tears. "All girls!" exclaimed Helka wonderingly. "Oh, I know some boys," replied Cora, running along and noting that the men with the dogs were close by. "Jack is dark. I really could not tell the color of his eyes!" "And he is your brother!" "The very reason," said Cora with something like a laugh. "Now I know that Walter has eyes like his hair, and his hair is not like anything else." "But Ed's?" and at this Helka smiled prettily. "I had an idea that Ed's eyes were sort of composite. A bit of love, that would be blue," and she picked up a late violet, "a bit of faith, gray for that," and she found a spray of wild geranium, "and a bit of black for steadfast honor. There! I must find a black-eyed Susan," and at this she actually ran away from Cora, and left the frightened girl with the men and dogs too close to her heels for comfort. For a moment Cora wanted to scream. She was too nervous to remember that she had been promised security by Helka: all she knew, and all she felt, was danger, and danger to her was now a thing unbearable. "Helka! Helka!" she called wildly. The other girl, running nymph-like through the woods, turned at the call, and putting her hands in trumpet shape to her lips, answered as do school girls and boys when out of reach of the more conventional forms of conversation. "Here I am," came the reply. "What is it, Cora?" "Wait for me," screamed the frightened girl, while those dreadful dogs actually sniffed at her heels. Cora felt just then that the strain of being so near freedom, and yet so far from it, was even worse than being in the big room. "I know where there are some beautiful fall wild flowers," said Helka. "We may walk along for a good distance yet. These grounds are mine, you know." "If they were only mine!" Cora could not help expressing. "You see, my dear, I owe something to my dear, dead mother. She loved this life." "But your father. Did he?" "I can't say. I wish I might find him. He is not really dead." "Not dead!" "No. I say so at times because we call certain conditions death, but I do believe my father lives--abroad." "And he is a nobleman?" "You folks would call him that, but he is not one of us." "How strange that you should be so bound by traditions! And you know your lover--is not one of you." "Oh, yes, he is. That is what makes him love me. He is called a socialist. He is not a gypsy, but he will not be bound by conventionalities." "But suppose he knew of this crime?" "We do not admit it is a crime to hold you for the release of Salvo. They cannot convict him of the robbery if you do not appear against him. It is a sort of justice." It was very vague justice to Cora, and she knew perfectly well the argument would have little weight with her friends, should she ever meet them again. But she must meet them! She must induce this girl--for she really was nothing more than a misinformed girl--she must induce her to escape! If only she could get a letter to David! If only Lena would take one for her! My, how her heart beat! Helka was picking flowers, but Cora was looking out on that roadway. An automobile dashed by. "Oh!" exclaimed Cora, clutching Helka's arm. "I cannot stand it! I must call or go mad!" The dead leaves tried to move! Something stirred them to unnatural life. There was a shuffling of feet! A riot of fear! Chipmunks scampered off! But the girl lay there! "Cora! Cora, dear!" wailed Helka. "Try to live! I cannot lose you! Oh, Cora, I must make you live!" But the form on the dead grass was lifeless. The automobile had dashed by. A cloud of dust was all that was left to mark its path. "Cora! Cora!" almost screamed Helka. "Wake up! They are coming!" The prostrate girl seemed to moan. Then they did come. Cora was apparently dead! CHAPTER XXV THE AWAKENING "What did I do? Did I--did they--oh, tell me?" Helka was leaning over Cora as the girl regained consciousness. It was night, and the room was quite dark. "You did nothing, dear, but faint. That was not your fault. Take another sip of this milk. Do you feel better?" "Yes, but I was so afraid that I screamed, and that they--those dreadful men would punish you." "Not afraid for yourself?" "Not if I could not help it. But you had nothing to do with it. Oh, Helka, I will die if I am not soon set free! I can't stand it." She burst into hysterical tears. Cora Kimball was losing strength, and with it her courage was failing. "How could you escape?" The words came slowly. Helka was thinking deeply. "Could we get Lena to take a note to David? He would surely rescue us." "But then--they might pour out vengeance upon him. I could not take the risk of anything happening to David." "You are too timid, Helka. Such straits as we are in demand risks." "We might poison those horrible, savage dogs. Lena might do that without her own knowledge. I could fix something. Do you know anything about poisons?" "Not much," replied Cora, "but I suppose if we got anything sure to be poison it would do." Hope sprang into her heart. "How did you get me indoors?" "They carried you. The air was too strong for you after such close confinement." "No, it was that automobile on the road. The sight of it simply overpowered me. Oh, how I wanted to call to those in it!" "Poor girl! Since you came I, too, have wanted to be free, and I am not as much afraid as I used to be." "We are in America, and have no right to fear." Cora thought at the same time that probably her own fearlessness accounted for her present plight. "If we could poison the dogs, and then slide down from one of these windows in the dark, perhaps we could get away," said Helka. "But what would happen when we found ourselves out in the dark woods? If they found us----" "There must be no 'if.' They must not find us. I am afraid of nothing but of this imprisonment." "Well, we will see. To-morrow I will get Lena to go to town for me, and perhaps we may be able to arrange something." "And you will not write to your David?" "Don't you think that dangerous?" "The very safest thing, for he is a man, and how could they injure him?" "And so handsome and so strong! He is like some grand old prince--his hair is like corn-silk and his eyes are like the blue sky," and Helka, as she reclined, with her chin in her hands, upon her couch, almost forgot that Cora was with her. "Then you will write to-morrow? Tell him to come to the end of the path at the west road by ten to-morrow night, and if we are not there we will leave a note so that he will see it." "How quickly you plan! What about the dogs?" "Lena will fetch the stuff to-morrow morning, and they will be dead by night. Then we will tie a rope to the window-sill or some strong place, and we will slip down. Oh, Helka, I will go down first, and go out first, and if they do not miss me, they will not miss you. It will be safe to follow me as quickly as you see I am off!" Cora threw her arms about the gypsy queen. As she spoke it seemed as if they were already free! "And when we meet David! Oh, my dear Cora, now you have made me--mad! Now I, too, will risk life to get away! I must go out into your world--David's world!" "Then we must both sleep, and be strong. Tomorrow we will be very good to every one. I will be well, and if I cannot eat I will pretend to. Lately I have almost choked on my food." Cora sipped the milk and then fell back exhausted. "I nearly forgot your illness, I became so excited with our plans. Do you know when you fainted they were all very much frightened? They would not like to have you die!" "But they might easily bury me. I should think that would be safer." "No, it is very hard to bury one. Somehow they find the dead more difficult to hide than they do the living. I guess the good spirits take care of the dead." "And we must take care of ourselves! Well, that may be. At any rate, I am glad I did not die. Oh, Helka, if you only could know my brother Jack. He is the noblest boy! And our girls! You know, we are called the motor girls, don't you?" "And you all own automobiles! I have never been in an automobile in my life," sighed Helka. "But you are going to ride in mine--in the _Whirlwind_! Doesn't that name suit you? It sounds so like your gypsy names. Why did you say they call you Helka?" "Well, I wanted something Polish. Holka means girl, so I changed it a little. My father called me his Holka." "How do you know that?" "From my mother's old letters. She told me as much as she wanted me to know. She said I was not all a gypsy, but I might choose my life when I grew up. She left me with a very kind gypsy nurse, but when she died--they took me to that horrible Mother Hull." "What a pity your mother should have trusted them. Well, Helka, when we find David, he will find your father. What was his name?" "Some day I will show you the letter, then you will know all my strange history. My music I inherited. My father was a fine musician." The winds of the White Mountains sang a song of tired summer. The leaves brushed the windows, and the two girls fell to dreaming. Cora thought of Jack, of Ed and of Walter; then of the dear, darling girls! Oh, what would she not give for one moment with them? Helka dreamed of David--of the handsome boy who had risked his life to get a note to her; then of how he followed her to America, and how he had, ever since, sent her those letters! Yes, she must risk all for freedom! CHAPTER XXVI SURPRISES "Some one wants Dr. Robbins on the 'phone." The hall boy brought the message. Dr. Robbins jumped up from her book and hurried to the hall telephone. "Yes. Hello! That you, Leland?" "Yes, dear. So glad to get a word with you. How are you?" "Well? Now, you really can't be----" "What? Going away? Run away?" There was a long pause after this monologue. Dr. Robbins was listening to the voice--presumably that of Leland. Then--"Leland! Are you crazy?" Another pause. The young woman's face might have been interpreted, but the 'phone was silent to outsiders. "You don't mean to say that you are going on some dangerous trip in the mountains--yes, I hear, in the mountains--to help some foolish girl? I know you did not say foolish; I said that. Leland, listen to me. Do you hear? All right. Now, listen. Don't you dare to go away again and not tell me exactly where you are going. I have only just--yes, I know all about your ideas. I am sure she is charming and worthy and all that, but----" Dr. Robbins tapped her foot impatiently. Oh, the limits of the telephone! If only she could reach that brother! "If you do not--report--look for you around Hemlock Bend! Yes, we'll do that. Oh, Leland!" She dropped the receiver and stood like one shocked physically as well as mentally. For a moment she remained there, then turned back to the room at the side of the girls' suite. Mr. Rand was sitting there. "What has happened?" he demanded. "You look as if there had been a ghost in that message." "Oh, there was, Mr. Rand! What shall I do? That brother of mine is running off again!" "Where?" "He didn't even say. His words were like those of some madman. If we did not hear from him within three days, we are to look for him about Hemlock Bend." "Where in the world is Hemlock Bend?" "As if we knew! That is just like Leland. Poor, dear Leland! Never practical enough even to send a straight message. Oh, Mr. Rand, that boy will kill us yet!" "Don't you fear, little girl," and there was an unmistakable note of tenderness in Mr. Rand's voice. "One who means well usually does well, however strange may be his methods. The first thing to do is to see if we can get him again at the Restover." Without waiting for her answer, the gentleman rushed out in the hall himself, and was presently calling up that hotel. As he happened to be one of the owners of the summer house, it was not difficult for him to get direct communication and answers. But the man asked for was gone. Had just gone. Had just caught a north-bound train--the express. "Can't get him there," reported Mr. Rand to Dr. Robbins. "Now to find Hemlock Bend." Guide books and time-tables were hastily consulted, but evidently the place was too small for printed mention. Dr. Robbins was in despair. That dreadful young man! Gone to some out-of-the-world place to rescue some absurd girl! And now he had actually gotten away! Belle, Bess, Betty and Hazel had just returned from a melancholy ramble. Belle was better--really better now than some of her companions, who had been bearing up well under the strain--but all the young faces were very sad. The boys had telephoned that they had some hope for developments in the clew they had gone away to investigate, but that was very meager encouragement. The boys always had hope--over the 'phone. Dr. Robbins told them part of the story. "Oh, the idea!" exclaimed Belle. "Isn't that like a tale of the olden times--for a young man to run away to rescue a lady! Now, what in the world is she being rescued from? Exactly. That's the impossible Leland. Never says who she is, what she is, or what about her. Now, as if we could put a story like that together!" She sank back as if mentally exhausted from the effort to "put it together." "But we must find Hemlock Bend," said Betty. "I feel as if I could lay my finger on every bend in the White Mountains." "All concentrated on your particular person," said Hazel, with a smile. "Well, I feel that way myself, only you being smaller, Betty, have a more compact concentration." "I think I have it," exclaimed Mr. Rand, as he returned with his hands full of pamphlets. "It is near--near----" "Let me look, Daddy," interrupted Betty. "I can see better, perhaps." He handed her one little green booklet. She glanced over it and mumbled a lot of stuff through which she had to pass in order to get at what was wanted. Then she paused. "Oh, yes, there's a place on the Woodland Branch railroad called Hemlock Grove. Of course, that must be around the corner from Hemlock Bend." They all agreed that it must be. Then to take the trip--they would not wait for three days. Mr. Rand said that would be absurd, but when the boys should return to the hotel, which would be that afternoon, they would all start out in their cars. They would make a double hunt--for Cora and for Leland. "It is a long trip," said Mr. Rand, "but I will take the big car, and Benson--couldn't do it without Benson--and we will be able to ride or to walk almost the length and breadth of the county." From that moment until the boys did return the young ladies were all excitement getting ready for the trip. "I just feel now that something will happen," declared the optimistic Betty. "If four girls and four boys, besides the best man in New England, to wit, my daddy, cannot find them, then, indeed, they are lost." "Oh, I, too, feel so anxious," sighed Bess. "I think the run will do our nerves good, if nothing else." "And I feel exactly as if I were starting out to meet Cora," declared Belle. "Oh, what would I give----" "We all would," interrupted Hazel. "But to think that Leland should put us to trouble just now when our hands and hearts are so full," wailed Dr. Robbins. "Well, as misery likes company, perhaps our trouble will get along better in pairs," said Hazel, without knowing exactly what she meant. Jack entered the corridor. His handsome, dark face was tanned to a deep brown, and he looked different. Had he news? "Where is Mr. Rand?" he asked. "Just calling to the garage," said Belle, a note of question in her answer. "Well, girls, we have found something. We have found Cora's gloves!" "Oh, where?" It was a chorus. "On the road to Sharon. I found one--Ed the other." He took from his pocket the gloves. They were not very much soiled, and had evidently only lain in the road a short time. "They are the ones she wore the night of the ball, when she disappeared," said Belle, looking at them carefully. "Then we will take that road and search every inch of it," declared Bess, also inspecting the gloves. "The dear old things!" and she actually pressed them to her lips. "I feel as if you had brought us a message from Cora." "Those gloves have never been out of doors a week," said Jack seriously. "They have been carried there--placed there--just to throw us off the track. We will start out in the opposite direction." "To-night?" "As soon as you girls can get equipped. We must find Cora now or----" "We will find her," cried Bess. "I know we will. Oh, just let us get on the road! I think the cars will scent the trail! I feel as if I were simply going out to meet her by appointment." It was a brave effort, for the girls felt anything but certain. So many hopes had arisen and been dashed down! so many clews had been followed, only to be abandoned! so many messages had been sent in vain! But with such hope as they could muster up the party in four automobiles started out from the Tip-Top. Without exception every guest was interested in the case, and as the motorists chugged off many were the wishes of good luck that were wafted after them. To find Cora! to find Leland! or---- Another disappointment would seem too cruel. Walter declared he could pick a trail they had never yet followed. Betty said she knew a very dark and dangerous pass, where she had lost her bracelet. Belle wanted to go by the river road, so that when it was actually left to Bess to decide, as she was next in authority to Cora in the Motor Girls' Club, she spoke for the way through the woods, straight up into a rough and shaggy pass. "They would never dream of an automobile getting up there," she declared, "and if she is in hiding they have taken her far away from the good roads." Wonderful for Bess! Wonderful, indeed, is the instinct of love! Scarcely had they turned into the wooded way than they espied smoke stealing up through the trees. "There must be some one over there," declared Bess, the first to make the discovery. "See! Yes, there is a flag!" "Oh, maybe they are those dreadful Gypsies," murmured Belle. "Let us wait for Mr. Rand and the others." "I am too anxious to see," objected her sister. "The rest are all within calling distance. See, there are the boys. Let us hurry into the side road. Whoever they are, they have had wagons up here." It required careful driving to cover the pass, for the roadway was newly made, and by no means well-finished. Great stones continually rolled out from under the big, rubber wheels, and Bess was on the alert to use the emergency brake, although the road was somewhat up hill. She feared the motor would stop and that they might back down. "See!" she exclaimed, "there are children! They must be Gypsy lads and lassies." Over in a clump of evergreens could be seen some children, playing at a campfire. Yes, they might be Gypsies. "Wait! wait," called Jack and Ed, who had now observed that the place was inhabited. "We will go in first." "All right," called back Bess, a little sorry that she could not have had the glory of doing the investigating alone. By this time most of the searching party had reached the spot. "We will get out and walk over," suggested Jack, his voice trembling with anticipation. It was growing dusk, and the smoke seemed to make the woods more uncanny, and the depths blacker and more dismal. The children in the underbrush had climbed up into the low trees to get a view of the automobiles. Jack, Ed and Walter were making their way through the brush to reach the spot whence the smoke was coming. Mr. Rand and his men were hurrying over from the cross road. "Go slow!" he called, with the disregard of speech that makes a saying stronger. "All right," answered Jack. "We'll take it carefully." "It's a camp!" exclaimed Walter, "and Gypsies, I'll wager." "Oh, I am so frightened!" cried Belle. "Yet I would brave them alone for the sake of dear, darling Cora." "Of course you would," Betty assured her, as she picked herself up from a fall over some hidden root. Dr. Robbins had secured a stout stick, and she made her way with more care over the uncertain footing. "There's a family of them, at any rate," remarked Jack, as he neared the open spot, where now could be seen a hut. A rough-looking man was waiting to see what they wanted. He smoked a pipe, wore heavy shoes and clothing. Mr. Rand spoke first. "Good afternoon, stranger," he said in a pleasant voice. The man touched his hat and replied with an indistinguishable murmur. "Camping?" went on Mr. Rand, scarcely knowing how to get into conversation. "Sort of," replied the man shortly. "Might we intrude for a little water?" continued the old gentleman. "The girls had a dusty ride." "Certainly," replied the woodsman, motioning toward a pail and dipper on a bench in front of the hut. "Hard to get at," whispered Jack to Walter, "but he doesn't look so bad." "No, I rather think he is not the man we want," agreed the other young man. "Stay here all year?" asked Ed, as he handed the brimming tin dipper to Bess, and turned to the stranger. "Pretty much," spoke the man with the pipe. "But is there anything wrong? Anything I could do for you?" This caused the whole party to surmise that he must have heard that "something" was wrong. That looked suspicious. A woman emerged from the hut. She was not altogether untidy, but of course showed that she lived far from civilization. She bowed to the party, then called to the children in the woods. "Well," said Mr. Rand finally, "we are looking for somebody. You haven't happened to hear or to have seen anything of a young girl in these parts, a girl--who might have gotten lost in the woods; have you?" "I have heard that a girl was lost," replied the man. "But I'm one of the forest rangers and I keep pretty close to my post at this time of the season, watching for fires. There are so many young folks camping and reckless with matches. Is there no trace of her? The missing girl from the hotel, is the one you mean, isn't it?" Then he was not a gypsy! The forest ranger! "No, I am sorry to say we have not yet discovered her," went on Mr. Rand. "But you being here in the very depths of the woods would likely know of any gypsy camps about, I believe." "There are no camps in the woods this year," the man assured him. "We have kept them out of this particular clearing by law. There are a lot of them scattered about in the mountains, but as far as I could find there is no camp deep in the woods. You see every summer someone gets lost in these woods, and we don't like the gypsies to have the first chance of finding them. But sit down," and he cleared the bench of the water pail. "You must have had a weary search." Everyone sighed. They were still without a possible clew. "We will rest for a minute or two," said Mr. Rand, "but we must still cover a lot of road tonight. We are out to find her if she is on the White Mountains." And so after some conversation and advice from the forest ranger the searching party again pressed on. CHAPTER XXVII THE CALL OF THE HEART "I am not the least bit afraid; in fact, I think I shall just sing to show them I feel secure," and Cora snatched up the guitar. She fingered it tenderly, then let it rest for a moment in her arms. "Did Lena say it was all right?" "The dogs are drugged. I didn't have the heart to kill the brutes, ugly as they are. They will not awaken." "Good! Then everything else will be all right. Oh, Helka, can you imagine we are so near freedom?" "I never was frightened before. Whether it is the thought of meeting David, or whether it is the thought of leaving them all, I cannot say, but I am shaking from head to foot," said the queen. "That is natural. You have been with them almost all your life. But I shall show you what real life is. This is slavery." Helka looked about her uneasily. "What shall we do first?" "When it is very dark, and all are in bed, I will fasten the rope to the big nail that Lena fetched. Then I shall try it from this side, and if it holds me I will slip down. Then I shall run. When you no longer hear the leaves rustle, or if you can hear the whistle I will give you as a signal, then you must come." "And if you go, and I cannot get out! Oh, Cora, I should die here alone now!" "Faint heart! Be brave! Be strong! Say you will win!" Cora was jubilant. To her it meant freedom! She had no fear of detection. All she thought of was success. To get away and then to send word to her dear ones! Lena tapped on the door. "Helka," she said, "could I, too, go?" "You, Lena--why?" "I will not be happy without Helka and without the good lady. I, too, would go away!" Her eyes were sad, and her voice trembled. "Why, Lena, they would search the earth for you--you are a real gypsy," said Helka. "But I have no mother, no father, and what right have they to me? In the world I could learn, I would work for you, I would be your slave!" The poor girl was almost in tears. Her manner pleaded her cause more eloquently than could any words. "How would you go?" asked the queen. "When I go out to lock the barn, I would just run, and run through the woods. I would wait for you at the big oak." "Where is Sam?" asked Helka. "He went out with the wagon this afternoon. He will not be back." "And Mother Hull?" "Smoking by the fire. She will sleep. I have put some powder in her tobacco." Cora murmured a protest. "Oh, she likes it," and the queen smiled. "Tonight it will be a treat. But the men--the guards?" "One went to gamble his money that you gave him; the other is out with his fishing pole. I have fixed it all." "Good girl. You told him I wanted fish for breakfast, and you told the other he could spend his money at the inn. Lena, I wish you _could_ come with us." "I _am_ going. I will not stay here." "But in the morning, when they find three gone--what then?" "In the morning," said Cora, "it does not matter what. We shall be safe some place. Yes, Lena, we will take you. This is no life for any girl." Lena fell on her knees and kissed Cora's hands wildly. She had befriended Cora ever since she saw her lying so still and white in that awful wagon, and now she might get her reward. "You will come up with tea when everything is safe," said Helka. "That will be our signal." Lena went away with a smile on her thin lips. True, she was a real gypsy girl, but she longed for another life, and felt keenly the injustice of that to which she was enslaved. "Then I will sing," said Cora. "See, the stars are coming out. The night will help us. I have marked every turn in the path. I pretended to be moving the stones from the grass, and I was placing them where I could feel them--in the dark." "You are a wonderful girl, Cora, and your world must also be wonderful. I have no fear of its strange ways--but my money? How shall I ever be able to get that?" "Never fear about the money," replied Cora cheerily. "What is rightfully yours you will get. My friends are always the friends of justice." "And they will not fear the tribe?" "The tribe will fear them. Wait and see. Now, what shall I sing--the 'Gypsy's Warning?'" "Yes," and Helka lay back on her low divan. Again Cora fingered the guitar. Daintily her fingers awoke the chords. Then she sang, first low, then fuller and fuller until her voice rang out in the night. "Trust him not, oh, gentle lady, Though his voice be low and sweet, For he only seeks to win you, Then to crush you at his feet!" At each stanza Cora seemed to gain new power in her voice. Helka raised herself on her arm. She was enchanted. The last line had not died on Cora's lips when Helka repeated: "Yes, I am the gypsy's only child!" The remark was rather a plaint, and Cora came over very close to Helka. "You must teach me a new song," she said. "I want one to surprise my friends with." "Then you are so sure of reaching them?" "Positive. All America will seem small to me when I am free," and she patted the hand of the queen. "Free!" repeated the other. "I had never thought this captivity until you came; then I felt the power of a civilized world, and I felt the bondage of this." The girls were speaking in subdued tones. A single word might betray them if overheard. Yet they were too nervous to remain silent, and Helka seemed so impressed, so agitated, at the thought of leaving, forever, her strange life. "Do you think it is safe about Lena?" she asked. "I would not like to get that faithful child into trouble." "It would be much safer to take her than to leave her here," Cora reasoned, "for when they found us gone they would surely blame her." "Yes, that is so. Well, I have never prayed, that has always seemed a weak sort of way to struggle," said the queen, "but it seems to me now that I must seek strength from some One more powerful than those of earth. There _must_ be such a power." "Indeed there is," replied Cora. "But now let us be happy. See the stars, how they glitter," and she turned back the drapery from the window. "And see, we shall have a great, big, bright moon to show us our way." "Hush!" whispered Helka. "I heard a step. Listen!" Neither spoke for some moments. Then Cora said: "It was someone in the hall, but the person has gone down the stairs." "I wonder who it could be? Lena would come in." "Perhaps that little, frowsy Christine. She seems to stay out of nights. I heard her last night when you were sleeping. I really think she came in very late, crept upstairs, and then I am sure she tried this door." "She did! Why did you not call me?" "Well, I was positive it was she, and I did not want to make trouble. You see she has been listening again." "She belongs to another tribe and has only come here lately," said Helka. "I have always suspected she was sent to spy on me. If it were not just to-night--this very night--I would call her to an account." "If the child is under orders," intervened Cora, "you can scarcely trust her to do otherwise than spy. But what do they want to know about you that they cannot readily find out?" "You could scarcely understand it dear. We have rival tribes, and they each want me--or my money." "There is another step! There seems to be so many noises to-night." "Perhaps that is only because we are listening." "We want to listen, and we want to hear," and Cora put her ear to the keyhole. "Are they gone?" Cora did not answer at once. Then she turned to Helka. "I am sure I heard two voices. Should we call? Or ask who is there?" "No, it will be better to take our chances. It would be awful to be disappointed now," said the queen in a whisper. "Surely Lena would not have betrayed us?" "Never. She is as faithful as--my right hand." "Of course! But I cannot help being afraid of everything. Helka, we should take some refreshment. That will give us courage." "I hope Lena will soon fetch the tea," and the queen sighed. "This suspense is dreadful." "But it will pay us in the end. If we made a mistake now----" Cora stopped. A tap came at the door, at which both girls fairly jumped. "I will answer," said Helka, immediately regaining her composure. She opened the door. "I forgot my lesson book in your room to-day," said a voice that proved to be that of Christine, "and may I get it?" "Not to-night," answered Helka decisively. "You should not forget things, and it is too late for lessons." "But the man--Jensen--says I must get it. He is my teacher, and he is below." "Tell him Helka says you must go to bed: to bed, do you hear? At once! I will have Lena see how you obey me." The girl turned away. Helka locked the door. "What does that mean?" asked Cora anxiously. "They are watching us. We must be very cautious. But she is only a timid child and she will go to bed. I do wonder what is keeping Lena?" "If they should keep her down stairs all night, then could we not venture to leave?" asked Cora. "I don't know. They might suspect, and they might keep Lena. You take up the guitar and I will ring." Cora obeyed. How her hands trembled! To be found out would almost mean death to both of them. Helka pulled the cord that rang the hall bell. Then they waited, but there was no answer. She pulled it again, and after a few minutes she heard the familiar step of Lena. She opened the door before the Gypsy girl had a chance to knock. A wild gesture of the girl's hands told Helka not to speak. Then she entered the room. "They are watching," she whispered, and without waiting for a reply she darted out into the hall again and crept down the stairs. "Can't we----" "Hush!" cautioned the queen as she pressed Cora's hands to bid her keep up her courage. It seemed hours. Would the trees never stop rustling, and would the steps below never cease their shuffling? "I have said that this was to be my night of music," whispered Helka. "The night of the full moon always is. So we must have music!" A long line of automobiles had rumbled along the narrow road. Not a horn sounded, not one of the cars gave any warning. It was night in the White Mountains, and besides the party from the Tip-Top, who had been searching from late that afternoon, there were also, on Mr. Rand's orders, two officers in a runabout. "Which way?" called the boys from their car. "Sounds like water!" "Oh, mercy!" exclaimed Bess, who was quite near. "Don't let us run over a falls!" "No danger!" came back from the Rand car. "That water is half a mile away." "This is rather unsafe for the girls, though," said Jack to Ed. "I wonder if they don't want to change cars?" "I have just asked Bess and Betty," replied Ed, "and they would not hear of it. Strange that such timid girls can be so plucky on occasions." "They're game all right," observed Jack. "I almost feel, now that we are out in the woods, that Cora is along. It is tough to think anything else." "Perhaps she is. I never felt as encouraged as I do to-night," declared Ed. "Somehow we started out to win and we've got to do it!" Now, the one great difficulty of this searching tour was that of not sounding the horns, consequently they had to feel their way, as on almost any part of the mountain roads there might be stray cottagers, or campers, or rustics, in danger of being run down. The lights flashed brightly as if trying to do their part in the search for Cora Kimball. Giant trees threw formidable shadows, and smaller ones whispered the secrets of the wood. But the girls and boys, and the women and men were too seriously bent upon their work to notice any signs so unimportant. Suddenly Jack turned off his power. He wanted to listen. "Did you hear anything?" asked Ed. "Thought I did, but these evergreens make all sorts of noises." "The others are making for the hill. We had best not lose sight of them," suggested Ed. At this Jack started up again and was soon under way. But something had sounded "human." He felt that there must be some sort of life near them. In a few minutes he was alongside the other cars. "What kept you?" asked Bess, eager for anything new. "Nothing," replied Ed. "We just wanted to listen." "We will leave the cars here and walk. I thought I saw a light," said Jack. "I am sure I did," declared Bess. "Oh, If only we find a cave, there are enough of us----" "The young ladies should not venture too deep in the woods," suggested Officer Brown. "We had best leave them with one of the young men here." "Oh, no," objected Belle. "We must go with you. We are better in a crowd." "Just as you say. But look! Is not that a light?" They were almost in front of the old house. Cora and Helka were tying the rope to the open window. "Sing! Sing!" whispered Lena, at the door. "Mother Hull is listening." Quickly Cora picked up the instrument again, and, although voice and hands trembled, she sang once more the last verse of the "Gypsy's Warning," while Helka played her little harp. "Hark! Hark!" shrieked Bess. "That is Cora's voice! Listen!" Spellbound they stood. "Yes," shouted Belle. "That's Cora!" "Oh, quick," gasped Betty, "she may stop, and then----" A rustle in the bushes close by startled them. A man groped his way out. "What do you want?" he demanded. "Oh, Leland!" It was Miss Robbins who uttered the words. She made her way up to the stranger, and while the others stood dumfounded she threw herself in the stranger's arms. "You, Regina? Here?" "Yes, is this the Hemlock Bend? Oh, to think that we have found you!" "But I must go! That was her harp. That was Lillian--somewhere in that thick woods!" "And the voice was Cora's," interrupted Jack. "Where can she be--to sing, and to sing like that?" The detectives with Mr. Rand were pressing on. They soon emerged from the thicket and saw the old mansion. "That is the Bradly place," said Officer Brown. "Only an old woman and a couple of girls live there. That is no place for one to be kidnapped." "No matter who is there," declared Bess, "I heard Cora sing, and that is Cora's song, 'The Gypsy's Warning.'" "And I heard Lillian play," declared Dr. Robbins' brother. "I have promised to rescue her to-night." "And that is why you came?" asked his sister. "Yes, she is there, in a gypsy den!" CHAPTER XXVIII VICTORY "Is SHE asleep?" asked Cora, as Lena poked her head in the door again. "Yes, and she will not wake. You may go!" "One more little song," begged Helka. "I may never play my lute again." "Why, Lena could bring it," suggested Cora. "It is not much to carry; and your box, I will take that." Helka ran her fingers over the strings. "Sing," she said, and Cora sang. "His voice is calling sweet and low! 'Babbette! Pierro!' He rows across, he takes her hand, And then they sail away!" "Yes," interrupted Helka, "he will come, and he will take my hand. Let us go!" "There! There!" screamed Bess. "That was Cora's voice!" "And that was Lillian's lute! Did I not give it to her?" insisted the strange young man, Leland. "Then our lost ones are together," said Jack. "I am going!" "Wait! Wait!" begged the detectives. "The dogs in there would tear you to pieces!" "They must eat my hot lead first," said Jack grimly, drawing his revolver. "No, wait," implored Mr. Rand. "A false move now may spoil it all." Every man, young and old, in the party took out his revolver and had it in readiness. Then, in a solid line, they deliberately walked up to the old house--through the path lined with boxwood over the little flower garden. "Yes, there is a light. See it near the roof?" The girls were almost on the heels of the men. They could not be induced to remain in the lane. "What is that?" "A woman's voice," said Officer Brown. "She is calling the dogs!" But no dogs came. Instead, a girl, Lena, confronted them. "What do you want?" she demanded rather rudely. "You," said the younger officer--Graham by name--and as he spoke he seized her arm. "I am only Lena. I have done nothing. Let me go. Help! help!" shrieked the girl. This aroused the old woman. She flung open the door and stood with lantern in hand. "Lena! Lena," she shrieked. "The dogs! Where are the dogs?" But Lena did not answer. "Sam! Jack! Tipo! Where are you all? What does this mean?" The searchers stood for a moment considering what was best to do. As they did so something came dangling down--the rope from the window near the roof! "Cora!" She fell into the very arms of Bess. Another moment and a second form slid down in that same mysterious way. It was Helka! And Leland was there to grasp her. "Lillian!" he murmured. "Oh, David! Am I--are we safe!" The door had slammed shut and the old woman was gone. "Is this the girl we are after?" exclaimed the officer in astonishment. "None other," declared Mr. Rand. "And I say, boys, just pick these girls up and carry them. That will be no task for you." Cora was weeping on Jack's shoulder, Helka was folded in Leland's arms. To her he was David. "What happened?" asked Betty. "Don't leave Lena," begged Cora. "She must come with us!" "Simply get everybody down on the road," suggested Mr. Rand, "then we may be able to tell Lena from Cora and all the rest." How different it was going back over that path! How merrily the girls prattled, and how excited were the men! It was Cora! Cora! Cora! And it was Helka! My friend Helka! Then Lillian. And David! Even Lena! It was well the automobiles had a few spare seats, for there were now four new passengers to be taken back to the Tip-Top. "Belle!" said Cora, when she could get her voice, "however did you venture out here?" "Now, Cora," and Belle protested feebly, "I have been very ill, since you left; and you know I would have gone anywhere to help find you. Anywhere in the world!" Cora kissed her fondly. Nothing and no one could resist teasing Belle. "Of course you would! But who has Lena?" "She is with the Rands," replied Bess, "but we claimed you. Oh, Cora Kimball!" As only girls know how to show affection, this sort was now fairly showered upon the rescued girl. "It almost seemed worth while to have been lost," Cora managed to say. "When shall we hear all about it?" asked Belle. "Not to-night," objected the twin sister. "It is enough to know that we have Cora." The automobiles were rumbling on. Every mile post took them farther from the gypsies, and nearer the hotel. "Hey there!" called Mr. Rand. "You boys keep a tight hold!" "Aye, aye, sir!" shouted back Walter. "Seems to me Mr. Rand is getting very gay," he remarked to Betty. "He simply means," said the dutiful daughter, "that you must look carefully after the girls. They might be after us--the gypsies, I mean. "Oh," said Walter, in that way that Walter had. CHAPTER XXIX A REAL LOVE FEAST "However did it happen?" demanded Belle. "Please let the child draw her breath," insisted Mr. Rand. "Remember, she has been kidnapped--a prisoner, a slave!" "No, not that," objected Helka. "She was my guest." "I knew we would find her," declared Betty, crowding up to Cora's chair. "We didn't," contradicted Ed, "she found us. She simply----" "Flopped down on us," finished Jack. "Cora, I never knew I loved you until I lost you." "Oh, yes, you did, Jackie. You always made sugary speeches when--you wanted small change." "And the dogs?" asked the detectives. "What happened to them?" "We put them to sleep!" announced Cora, in the gravest possible tones. "Do you know, we never could have done it but for Lena." "Lena shall be rewarded," declared Walter. "Wallie!" warned Jack. "The newest girl!" whispered Belle. "At any rate, no one can steal Helka," said Cora, glancing over at Lillian and David. "But how does he come to be Leland?" The question was aimed at Dr. Robbins. "Oh, that boy! He must change everything--even his name, although it really is Leland David." "David for strength, of course," said Cora. "Oh, I just must scream! Think of it! No more dogs! No more eating off the floor----" She caught Helka's eye. "What is it, Cora?" asked the gypsy queen. Cora clasped her arms about her. "Isn't she beautiful?" whispered Belle. "Did you ever see such a face?" "Glorious," pronounced Betty. "But say, Betty, did you notice how the daddy takes up with the doc?" said Ed. "I am dreadfully afraid of stepmothers." "I'm not," said Betty, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders. "I rather like them." "Had one on trial?" teased the boy. "No, on probation," braved Betty. "Then," said the officer, aside to Mr. Rand, "we shall raid the place!" "Exactly, exactly! There may be more girls under the stoop or up the chimney. That place should not be allowed to stand." "It was a great find," admitted the officer, "but I never would have been able to do anything if the young ladies had not recognized the voice. That place has been there for years. The Bradly house would have got past any of us." "Yes, the girls helped," said Mr. Rand proudly. "I have a great regard for girls." "You say silver was stolen from the seashore cottage? Likely it is in that place." "Haven't the slightest doubt of it, and more, too, I'll wager. Now, boys"--to the officers--"you have done a good night's work. We're a happy family, and I don't want to keep you longer from yours." So, with promises to soon overhaul the old Bradly house, the men of the law departed. "But why did you sing, Cora? How could you?" asked Ed. "Oh, I knew I was soon going to be happy, and wanted to get used to it," said Cora, with a laugh. "You haven't failed," said Dr. Robbins. "Praise from you? No, thanks to my good friend, we had everything but liberty. Didn't we, Helka?" "Oh, she's too busy. Let her alone," suggested Jack, his face radiant. "And you have on my bracelet! Cora Kimball!" accused Betty. "Another link in the endless chain," explained Cora vaguely. "That is a present from Gypsy Land." "Suppose we eat," suggested the practical Mr. Rand. "I have cabled Mrs. Kimball. She had not yet sailed." "Oh, poor, darling mother!" exclaimed Cora, her eyes filling. "Poor, darling--you," added Jack, not hesitating to kiss her openly. "Next!" called Ed. "Halves on that!" demanded Walter. "Fenn!" shouted Cora, for, indeed, the boys threatened to carry out the game. "Maybe you would like--a minister," suggested Mr. Rand mischievously, glancing at the undisturbed Helka and David. "For a couple of jobs?" asked Walter, looking keenly at Mr. Rand and carrying the same look into Dr. Robbins' face. "Well, I don't mind," replied the gentleman. "Betty is getting beyond my control." But Lillian, the gypsy queen, was not in such a hurry to wed, even her princely David. She would have a correct trousseau, and have a great wedding, with all the motor girls as maids. Her fear of the clan was entirely dispelled, just as Cora said it would be when she breathed the refreshing air of American freedom. "So you are the Motor Girls?" she asked, trying to comprehend it all. "They call us that," said Bess. Then the porter announced supper, and at the table were seated fifty guests--all to welcome back Cora and to sing the praises of the real, live, up-to-date motor girls. There is little more to tell. A few days later the house where Cora had been held a prisoner was raided, but there was no one there; the place had been stripped, and of Mother Hull and the unscrupulous men not a trace remained. But Tony Slavo was not so lucky. He was still in the clutches of the law, and there he remained for a long time, for he was convicted of the robbery of the Kimball cottage. Cora arranged to have the gypsy girl, Lena, sent to a boarding school. As for Lillian, who resumed her real name, Mr. Rand engaged a lawyer for her, and most of the wealth left to her was recovered from another band of gypsies who had control of it. So there was a prospect of new happiness for her and Leland, who promised to give up his odd ways, at least for a time. Cora soon recovered from the effects of her captivity and she formed a warm friendship for the former gypsy queen, even as did the other motor girls. "Oh, but wasn't it exciting, though?" exclaimed Bess one afternoon, when, after leaving the Tip-Top Hotel they had resumed their tour through New England. "I shall never forget how I felt when I saw Cora coming down that rope from the window." "Nor I, either," added Belle. "I wonder----" "Who's kissing her now?" interrupted Jack, with a laugh. "Silly boy! I was going to say I wonder what will happen to us next vacation." "Hard to tell," declared Ed. "Let's arrange for us boys to get lost, and for the girls to find us," proposed Walter. "Don't consider yourselves of such importance," said Hazel, but she blushed prettily. "Oh, well, it's all in the game," declared Jack. "I feel in my bones that something will happen." It did, and what it was will be told in the next volume of this series, to be entitled, "The Motor Girls on Cedar Lake; Or, The Hermit of Fern Island." In that we will meet with the young ladies and their friends again, and hear further of Cora's resourcefulness in times of danger. The tour through New England came to an end one beautiful day, when, after a picnic at a popular mountain resort, our friends turned their cars homeward. And so, as they are scudding along the pleasant roads, on which the dried leaves--early harbingers of autumn--were beginning to fall--we will take leave of the motor girls. 
16358	----	LANGUAGE*** Transcribed from the 1874 Trubner & Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk THE ENGLISH GIPSIES AND THEIR LANGUAGE By Charles G. Leland Author of "Hans Breitmann's Ballads," "The Music Lesson of Confucius," Etc. Etc. Second Edition LONDON TRUBNER & CO., 57 & 59 LUDGATE HILL 1874 [_All rights reserved_] PREFACE. As Author of this book, I beg leave to observe that all which is stated in it relative to the customs or peculiarities of Gipsies _was gathered directly from Gipsies themselves_; and that every word of their language here given, whether in conversations, stories, or sayings, was taken from Gipsy mouths. While entertaining the highest respect for the labours of Mr George Borrow in this field, I have carefully avoided repeating him in the least detail; neither have I taken anything from Simson, Hoyland, or any other writer on the Rommany race in England. Whatever the demerits of the work may be, it can at least claim to be an original collection of material fresh from nature, and not a reproduction from books. There are, it is true, two German Gipsy letters from other works, but these may be excused as illustrative of an English one. I may here in all sincerity speak kindly and gratefully of every true Gipsy I have ever met, and of the cheerfulness with which they have invariably assisted me in my labour to the extent of their humble abilities. Other writers have had much to say of their incredible distrust of _Gorgios_ and unwillingness to impart their language, but I have always found them obliging and communicative. I have never had occasion to complain of rapacity or greediness among them; on the contrary, I have often wondered to see how the great want of such very poor people was generally kept in check by their natural politeness, which always manifests itself when they are treated properly. In fact, the first effort which I ever made to acquire a knowledge of English Rommany originated in a voluntary offer from an intelligent old dame to teach me "the old Egyptian language." And as she also suggested that I should set forth the knowledge which I might acquire from her and her relatives in a book (referring to Mr Borrow's having done so), I may hold myself fully acquitted from the charge of having acquired and published anything which my Gipsy friends would not have had made known to the public. Mr Borrow has very well and truly said that it is not by passing a few hours among Gipsies that one can acquire a knowledge of their characteristics; and I think that this book presents abundant evidence that its contents were not gathered by slight and superficial intercourse with the Rommany. It is only by entering gradually and sympathetically, without any parade of patronage, into a familiar knowledge of the circumstances of the common life of humble people, be they Gipsies, Indians, or whites, that one can surprise unawares those little inner traits which constitute the _characteristic_. However this may be, the reader will readily enough understand, on perusing these pages--possibly much better than I do myself--how it was I was able to collect whatever they contain that is new. The book contains some remarks on that great curious centre and secret of all the nomadic and vagabond life in England, THE ROMMANY, with comments on the fact, that of the many novel or story-writers who have described the "Travellers" of the Roads, very few have penetrated the real nature of their life. It gives several incidents illustrating the character of the Gipsy, and some information of a very curious nature in reference to the respect of the English Gipsies for their dead, and the strange manner in which they testify it. I believe that this will be found to be fully and distinctly illustrated by anecdotes and a narrative in the original Gipsy language, with a translation. There is also a chapter containing in Rommany and English a very characteristic letter from a full-blood Gipsy to a relative, which was dictated to me, and which gives a sketch of the leading incidents of Gipsy life--trading in horses, fortune-telling, and cock-shying. I have also given accounts of conversations with Gipsies, introducing in their language and in English their own remarks (noted down by me) on certain curious customs; among others, on one which indicates that many of them profess among themselves a certain regard for our Saviour, because His birth and life appear to them to be like that of the Rommany. There is a collection of a number of words now current in vulgar English which were probably derived from Gipsy, such as row, shindy, pal, trash, bosh, and niggling, and finally a number of _Gudli_ or short stories. These _Gudli_ have been regarded by my literary friends as interesting and curious, since they are nearly all specimens of a form of original narrative occupying a middle ground between the anecdote and fable, and abounding in Gipsy traits. Some of them are given word for word as they are current among Gipsies, and others owe their existence almost entirely either to the vivid imagination and childlike fancies of an old Gipsy assistant, or were developed from some hint or imperfect saying or story. But all are thoroughly and truly Rommany; for every one, after being brought into shape, passed through a purely "unsophisticated" Gipsy mind, and was finally declared to be _tacho_, or sound, by real Rommanis. The truth is, that it is a difficult matter to hear a story among English Gipsies which is not mangled or marred in the telling; so that to print it, restitution and invention become inevitable. But with a man who lived in a tent among the gorse and fern, and who intermitted his earnest conversation with a little wooden bear to point out to me the gentleman on horseback riding over the two beautiful little girls in the flowers on the carpet, such fables as I have given sprang up of themselves, owing nothing to books, though they often required the influence of a better disciplined mind to guide them to a consistent termination. The Rommany English Vocabulary which I propose shall follow this work is many times over more extensive than any ever before published, and it will also be found interesting to all philologists by its establishing the very curious fact that this last wave of the primitive Aryan-Indian ocean which spread over Europe, though it has lost the original form in its subsidence and degradation, consists of the same substance--or, in other words, that although the grammar has wellnigh disappeared, the words are almost without exception the same as those used in India, Germany, Hungary, or Turkey. It is generally believed that English Gipsy is a mere jargon of the cant and slang of all nations, that of England predominating; but a very slight examination of the Vocabulary will show that during more than three hundred years in England the Rommany have not admitted a single English word to what they correctly call their language. I mean, of course, so far as my own knowledge of Rommany extends. To this at least I can testify, that the Gipsy to whom I was principally indebted for words, though he often used "slang," invariably discriminated correctly between it and Rommany; and I have often admired the extraordinary pride in their language which has induced the Gipsies for so many generations to teach their children this difference. {0a} Almost every word which my assistant declared to be Gipsy I have found either in Hindustani or in the works of Pott, Liebich, or Paspati. On this subject I would remark by the way, that many words which appear to have been taken by the Gipsies from modern languages are in reality Indian. And as I have honestly done what I could to give the English reader fresh material on the Gipsies, and not a rewarming of that which was gathered by others, I sincerely trust that I may not be held to sharp account (as the authors of such books very often are) for not having given more or done more or done it better than was really in my power. Gipsies in England are passing away as rapidly as Indians in North America. They keep among themselves the most singular fragments of their Oriental origin; they abound in quaint characteristics, and yet almost nothing is done to preserve what another generation will deeply regret the loss of. There are complete dictionaries of the Dacotah and many other American Indian languages, and every detail of the rude life of those savages has been carefully recorded; while the autobiographic romances of Mr Borrow and Mr Simson's History contain nearly all the information of any value extant relative to the English Gipsies. Yet of these two writers, Mr Borrow is the only one who had, so to speak, an inside view of his subject, or was a philologist. In conclusion I would remark, that if I have not, like many writers on the poor Gipsies, abused them for certain proverbial faults, it has been because they never troubled me with anything very serious of the kind, or brought it to my notice; and I certainly never took the pains to hunt it up to the discredit of people who always behaved decently to me. I have found them more cheerful, polite, and grateful than the lower orders of other races in Europe or America; and I believe that where their respect and sympathy are secured, they are quite as upright. Like all people who are regarded as outcasts, they are very proud of being trusted, and under this influence will commit the most daring acts of honesty. And with this I commend my book to the public. Should it be favourably received, I will add fresh reading to it; in any case I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I did my best to collect material illustrating a very curious and greatly-neglected subject. It is merely as a collection of material that I offer it; let those who can use it, do what they will with it. If I have not given in this book a sketch of the history of the Gipsies, or statistics of their numbers, or accounts of their social condition in different countries, it is because nearly everything of the kind may be found in the works of George Borrow and Walter Simson, which are in all respectable libraries, and may be obtained from any bookseller. I would remark to any impatient reader for mere entertainment, who may find fault with the abundance of Rommany or Gipsy language in the following pages, that _the principal object of the Author was to collect and preserve such specimens of a rapidly-vanishing language_, and that the title-page itself indirectly indicates such an object. I have, however, invariably given with the Gipsy a translation immediately following the text in plain English--at times very plain--in order that the literal meaning of words may be readily apprehended. I call especial attention to this fact, so that no one may accuse me of encumbering my pages with Rommany. While writing this book, or in fact after the whole of the first part was written, I passed a winter in Egypt; and as that country is still supposed by many people to be the fatherland of the Gipsies, and as very little is known relative to the Rommany there, I have taken the liberty of communicating what I could learn on the subject, though it does not refer directly to the Gipsies of England. Those who are interested in the latter will readily pardon the addition. There are now in existence about three hundred works on the Gipsies, but of the entire number comparatively few contain fresh material gathered from the Rommany themselves. Of late years the first philologists of Europe have taken a great interest in their language, which is now included in "Die Sprachen Europas" as the only Indian tongue spoken in this quarter of the world; and I believe that English Gipsy is really the only strongly-distinct Rommany dialect which has never as yet been illustrated by copious specimens or a vocabulary of any extent. I therefore trust that the critical reader will make due allowances for the very great difficulties under which I have laboured, and not blame me for not having done better that which, so far as I can ascertain, would possibly not have been done at all. Within the memory of man the popular Rommany of this country was really grammatical; that which is now spoken, and from which I gathered the material for the following pages, is, as the reader will observe, almost entirely English as to its structure, although it still abounds in Hindu words to a far greater extent than has been hitherto supposed. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. The Rommany of the Roads.--The Secret of Vagabond Life in England.--Its peculiar and thoroughly hidden Nature.--Gipsy Character and the Causes which formed it.--Moral Results of hungry Marauding.--Gipsy ideas of Religion. The Scripture story of the Seven Whistlers.--The Baker's Daughter.--Difficulties of acquiring Rommany.--The Fable of the Cat.--The Chinese, the American Indian, and the Wandering Gipsy. Although the valuable and curious works of Mr George Borrow have been in part for more than twenty years before the British public, {1} it may still be doubted whether many, even of our scholars, are aware of the remarkable, social, and philological facts which are connected with an immense proportion of our out-of-door population. There are, indeed, very few people who know, that every time we look from the window into a crowded street, the chances are greatly in favour of the assertion, that we shall see at least one man who bears in his memory some hundreds of Sanscrit roots, and that man English born; though it was probably in the open air, and English bred, albeit his breeding was of the roads. For go where you will, though you may not know it, you encounter at every step, in one form or the other, _the Rommany_. True, the dwellers in tents are becoming few and far between, because the "close cultivation" of the present generation, which has enclosed nearly all the waste land in England, has left no spot in many a day's journey, where "the travellers," as they call themselves, can light the fire and boil the kettle undisturbed. There is almost "no tan to hatch," or place to stay in. So it has come to pass, that those among them who cannot settle down like unto the Gentiles, have gone across the Great Water to America, which is their true Canaan, where they flourish mightily, the more enterprising making a good thing of it, by _prastering graias_ or "running horses," or trading in them, while the idler or more moral ones, pick up their living as easily as a mouse in a cheese, on the endless roads and in the forests. And so many of them have gone there, that I am sure the child is now born, to whom the sight of a real old-fashioned gipsy will be as rare in England as a Sioux or Pawnee warrior in the streets of New York or Philadelphia. But there is a modified and yet real Rommany-dom, which lives and will live with great vigour, so long as a regularly organised nomadic class exists on our roads--and it is the true nature and inner life of this class which has remained for ages, an impenetrable mystery to the world at large. A member of it may be a tramp and a beggar, the proprietor of some valuable travelling show, a horse-dealer, or a tinker. He may be eloquent, as a Cheap Jack, noisy as a Punch, or musical with a fiddle at fairs. He may "peddle" pottery, make and sell skewers and clothes-pegs, or vend baskets in a caravan; he may keep cock-shys and Aunt Sallys at races. But whatever he may be, depend upon it, reader, that among those who follow these and similar callings which he represents, are literally many thousands who, unsuspected by the _Gorgios_, are known to one another, and who still speak among themselves, more or less, that curious old tongue which the researches of the greatest living philologists have indicated, is in all probability not merely allied to Sanscrit, but perhaps in point of age, an elder though vagabond sister or cousin of that ancient language. For THE ROMMANY is the characteristic leaven of all the real tramp life and nomadic callings of Great Britain. And by this word I mean not the language alone, which is regarded, however, as a test of superior knowledge of "the roads," but a curious _inner life_ and freemasonry of secret intelligence, ties of blood and information, useful to a class who have much in common with one another, and very little in common with the settled tradesman or worthy citizen. The hawker whom you meet, and whose blue eyes and light hair indicate no trace of Oriental blood, may not be a _churdo_, or _pash-ratt_, or half-blood, or _half-scrag_, as a full Gipsy might contemptuously term him, but he may be, of his kind, a quadroon or octoroon, or he may have "gipsified," by marrying a Gipsy wife; and by the way be it said, such women make by far the best wives to be found among English itinerants, and the best suited for "a traveller." But in any case he has taken pains to pick up all the Gipsy he can. If he is a tinker, he knows _Kennick_, or cant, or thieves' slang by nature, but the Rommany, which has very few words in common with the former, is the true language of the mysteries; in fact, it has with him become, strangely enough, what it was originally, a sort of sacred Sanscrit, known only to the Brahmins of the roads, compared to which the other language is only commonplace _Prakrit_, which anybody may acquire. He is proud of his knowledge, he makes of it a deep mystery; and if you, a gentleman, ask him about it, he will probably deny that he ever heard of its existence. Should he be very thirsty, and your manners frank and assuring, it is, however, not impossible that after draining a pot of beer at your expense, he may recall, with a grin, the fact that he _has_ heard that the Gipsies have a queer kind of language of their own; and then, if you have any Rommany yourself at command, he will perhaps _rakker Rommanis_ with greater or less fluency. Mr Simeon, in his "History of the Gipsies," asserts that there is not a tinker or scissors- grinder in Great Britain who cannot talk this language, and my own experience agrees with his declaration, to this extent--that they all have some knowledge of it, or claim to have it, however slight it may be. So rare is a knowledge of Rommany among those who are not connected in some way with Gipsies, that the slightest indication of it is invariably taken as an irrefutable proof of relationship with them. It is but a few weeks since, as I was walking along the Marine Parade in Brighton, I overtook a tinker. Wishing him to sharpen some tools for me, I directed him to proceed to my home, and _en route_ spoke to him in Gipsy. As he was quite fair in complexion, I casually remarked, "I should have never supposed you could speak Rommany--you don't look like it." To which he replied, very gravely, in a tone as of gentle reproach, "You don't look a Gipsy yourself, sir; but you know you _are_ one--_you talk like one_." Truly, the secret of the Rommany has been well kept in England. It seems so to me when I reflect that, with the exception of Lavengro and the Rommany Rye, {5} I cannot recall a single novel, in our language, in which the writer has shown familiarity with the _real_ life, habits, or language of the vast majority of that very large class, the itinerants of the roads. Mr Dickens has set before us Cheap Jacks, and a number of men who were, in their very face, of the class of which I speak; but I cannot recall in his writings any indication that he knew that these men had a singular secret life with their _confreres_, or that they could speak a strange language; for we may well call that language strange which is, in the main, Sanscrit, with many Persian words intermingled. Mr Dickens, however, did not pretend, as some have done, to specially treat of Gipsies, and he made no affectation of a knowledge of any mysteries. He simply reflected popular life as he saw it. But there are many novels and tales, old and new, devoted to setting forth Rommany life and conversation, which are as much like the originals as a Pastor Fido is like a common shepherd. One novel which I once read, is so full of "the dark blood," that it might almost be called a gipsy novel. The hero is a gipsy; he lives among his kind--the book is full of them; and yet, with all due respect to its author, who is one of the most gifted and best- informed romance writers of the century, I must declare that, from beginning to end, there is not in the novel the slightest indication of any real and familiar knowledge of gipsies. Again, to put thieves' slang into the mouths of gipsies, as their natural and habitual language, has been so much the custom, from Sir Walter Scott to the present day, that readers are sometimes gravely assured in good faith that this jargon is pure Rommany. But this is an old error in England, since the vocabulary of cant appended to the "English Rogue," published in 1680, was long believed to be Gipsy; and Captain Grose, the antiquary, who should have known better, speaks with the same ignorance. It is, indeed, strange to see learned and shrewd writers, who pride themselves on truthfully depicting every element of European life, and every type of every society, so ignorant of the habits, manners, and language of thousands of really strange people who swarm on the highways and bye-ways! We have had the squire and the governess, my lord and all Bohemia--Bohemia, artistic and literary--but where are our _Vrais Bohemiens_?--Out of Lavengro and Rommany Rye--nowhere. Yet there is to be found among the children of Rom, or the descendants of the worshippers of Rama, or the Doms or Coptic Romi, whatever their ancestors may have been, more that is quaint and adapted to the purposes of the novelist, than is to be found in any other class of the inhabitants of England. You may not detect a trace of it on the roads; but once become truly acquainted with a fair average specimen of a Gipsy, pass many days in conversation with him, and above all acquire his confidence and respect, and you will wonder that such a being, so entirely different from yourself, could exist in Europe in the nineteenth century. It is said that those who can converse with Irish peasants in their own native tongue, form far higher opinions of their appreciation of the beautiful, and of the elements of humour and pathos in their hearts, than do those who know their thoughts only through the medium of English. I know from my own observation that this is quite the case with the Indians of North America, and it is unquestionably so with the Gipsy. When you know a true specimen to the depths of his soul, you will find a character so entirely strange, so utterly at variance with your ordinary conceptions of humanity, that it is no exaggeration whatever to declare that it would be a very difficult task for the best writer to convey to the most intelligent reader an idea of his subject's nature. You have in him, to begin with, a being whose every condition of life is in direct contradiction to what you suppose every man's life in England must be. "I was born in the open air," said a Gipsy to me a few days since; "and put me down anywhere, in the fields or woods, I can always support myself." Understand me, he did not mean by pilfering, since it was of America that we were speaking, and of living in the lonely forests. We pity with tears many of the poor among us, whose life is one of luxury compared to that which the Gipsy, who despises them, enjoys with a zest worth more than riches. "What a country America must be," quoth Pirengro, the Walker, to me, on the occasion just referred to. "Why, my pal, who's just welled apopli from dovo tem--(my brother, who has just returned from that country), tells me that when a cow or anything dies there, they just chuck it away, and nobody ask a word for any of it." "What would _you_ do," he continued, "if you were in the fields and had nothing to eat?" I replied, "that if any could be found, I should hunt for fern-roots." "I could do better than that," he said. "I should hunt for a _hotchewitchi_,--a hedge-hog,--and I should be sure to find one; there's no better eating." Whereupon assuming his left hand to be an imaginary hedge-hog, he proceeded to score and turn and dress it for ideal cooking with a case- knife. "And what had you for dinner to-day?" I inquired. "Some cocks' heads. They're very fine--very fine indeed!" Now it is curious but true that there is no person in the world more particular as to what he eats than the half-starved English or Irish peasant, whose sufferings have so often been set forth for our condolence. We may be equally foolish, you and I--in fact chemistry proves it--when we are disgusted at the idea of feeding on many things which mere association and superstition render revolting. But the old fashioned gipsy has none of these qualms--he is haunted by no ghost of society--save the policeman, he knows none of its terrors. Whatever is edible he eats, except horse-meat; wherever there is an empty spot he sleeps; and the man who can do this devoid of shame, without caring a pin for what the world says--nay, without even knowing that he does not care, or that he is peculiar--is independent to a degree which of itself confers a character which is not easy to understand. I grew up as a young man with great contempt for Helvetius, D'Holbach, and all the French philosophers of the last century, whose ideal man was a perfect savage; but I must confess that since I have studied gipsy nature, my contempt has changed into wonder where they ever learned in their _salons_ and libraries enough of humanity to theorise so boldly, and with such likeness to truth, as they did. It is not merely in the absolute out-of-doors independence of the old-fashioned Gipsy, freer than any wild beast from care for food, that his resemblance to a "philosopher" consists, or rather to the ideal man, free from imaginary cares. For more than this, be it for good or for evil, the real Gipsy has, unlike all other men, unlike the lowest savage, positively no religion, no tie to a spiritual world, no fear of a future, nothing but a few trifling superstitions and legends, which in themselves indicate no faith whatever in anything deeply seated. It would be difficult, I think, for any highly civilised man, who had not studied Thought deeply, and in a liberal spirit, to approach in the least to a rational comprehension of a real Gipsy mind. During my life it has been my fortune to become intimate with men who were "absolutely" or "positively" free-thinkers--men who had, by long study and mere logic, completely freed themselves from any mental tie whatever. Such men are rare; it requires an enormous amount of intellectual culture, an unlimited expenditure of pains in the metaphysical hot-bed, and tremendous self- confidence to produce them--I mean "the real article." Among the most thorough of these, a man on whom utter and entire freedom of thought sat easily and unconsciously, was a certain German doctor of philosophy named P---. To him God and all things were simply ideas of development. The last remark which I can recall from him was "_Ja, ja_. We advanced Hegelians agree exactly on the whole with the Materialists." Now, to my mind, nothing seems more natural than that, when sitting entire days talking with an old Gipsy, no one rises so frequently from the past before me as Mr P---. To him all religion represented a portion of the vast mass of frozen, petrified developments, which simply impede the march of intelligent minds; to my Rommany friend, it is one of the thousand inventions of _gorgio_ life, which, like policemen, are simply obstacles to Gipsies in the search of a living, and could he have grasped the circumstances of the case, he would doubtless have replied "_Avali_, we Gipsies agree on the whole exactly with Mr P---." Extremes meet. One Sunday an old Gipsy was assuring me, with a great appearance of piety, that on that day she neither told fortunes nor worked at any kind of labour--in fact, she kept it altogether correctly. "_Avali_, _dye_," I replied. "Do you know what the Gipsies in Germany say became of their church?" "_Kek_," answered the old lady. "No. What is it?" "They say that the Gipsies' church was made of pork, and the dogs ate it." Long, loud, and joyously affirmative was the peal of laughter with which the Gipsies welcomed this characteristic story. So far as research and the analogy of living tribes of the same race can establish a fact, it would seem that the Gipsies were, previous to their quitting India, not people of high caste, but wandering Pariahs, outcasts, foes to the Brahmins, and unbelievers. All the Pariahs are not free-thinkers, but in India, the Church, as in Italy, loses no time in making of all detected free-thinkers Pariahs. Thus we are told, in the introduction to the English translation of that very curious book, "The Tales of the Gooroo Simple," which should be read by every scholar, that all the true literature of the country--that which has life, and freedom, and humour--comes from the Pariahs. And was it different in those days, when Rabelais, and Von Hutten, and Giordano Bruno were, in their wise, Pariahs and Gipsies, roving from city to city, often wanting bread and dreading fire, but asking for nothing but freedom? The more I have conversed intimately with Gipsies, the more have I been struck by the fact, that my mingled experiences of European education and of life in the Far West of America have given me a basis of mutual intelligence which had otherwise been utterly wanting. I, myself, have known in a wild country what it is to be half-starved for many days--to feel that all my thoughts and intellectual exertions, hour by hour, were all becoming centered on one subject--how to get something to eat. I felt what it was to be wolfish and even ravening; and I noted, step by step, in myself, how a strange sagacity grew within me--an art of detecting food. It was during the American war, and there were thousands of us pitifully starved. When we came near some log hut I began at once to surmise, if I saw a flour sack lying about, that there was a mill not far distant; perhaps flour or bread in the house; while the dwellers in the hut were closely scanned to judge from their appearance if they were well fed, and of a charitable disposition. It is a melancholy thing to recall; but it is absolutely necessary for a thinker to have once lived such a life, that he may be able to understand what is the intellectual status of those fellow beings whose whole life is simply a hunt for enough food to sustain life, and enough beer to cheer it. I have spoken of the Gipsy fondness for the hedgehog. Richard Liebich, in his book, _Die Zigeuner in ihrem Wesen und in ihrer Sprache_, tells his readers that the only indication of a belief in a future state which he ever detected in an old Gipsy woman, was that she once dreamed she was in heaven. It appeared to her as a large garden, full of fine fat hedgehogs. "This is," says Mr Liebich, "unquestionably very earthly, and dreamed very sensuously; reminding us of Mahommed's paradise, which in like manner was directed to the animal and not to the spiritual nature, only that here were hedgehogs and there houris." Six or seven thousand years of hungry-marauding, end by establishing strange points of difference between the mind of a Gipsy and a well-to-do citizen. It has starved God out of the former; he inherited unbelief from his half fed Pariah ancestors, and often retains it, even in England, to this day, with many other unmistakable signs of his Eastern- jackal origin. And strange as it may seem to you, reader, his intercourse with Christians has all over Europe been so limited, that he seldom really knows what religion is. The same Mr Liebich tells us that one day he overheard a Gipsy disputing with his wife as to what was the true character of the belief of the Gentiles. Both admitted that there was a great elder grown up God (the _baro puro dewel_), and a smaller younger God (the _tikno tarno dewel_). But the wife maintained, appealing to Mr Liebich for confirmation, that the great God no longer reigned, having abdicated in favour of the Son, while the husband declared that the Great older God died long ago, and that the world was now governed by the little God who was, however, not the son of his predecessor, but of a poor carpenter. I have never heard of any such nonsense among the English wandering Gipsies with regard to Christianity, but at the same time I must admit that their ideas of what the Bible contains are extremely vague. One day I was sitting with an old Gipsy, discussing Rommany matters, when he suddenly asked me what the word was in the _waver temmeny jib_, or foreign Gipsy, for The Seven Stars. "That would be," I said, "the _Efta Sirnie_. I suppose your name for it is the Hefta Pens. There is a story that once they were seven sisters, but one of them was lost, and so they are called seven to this day--though there are only six. And their right name is the Pleiades." "That _gudlo_--that story," replied the gipsy, "is like the one of the Seven Whistlers, which you know is in the Scriptures." "What!" "At least they told me so; that the Seven Whistlers are seven spirits of ladies who fly by night, high in the air, like birds. And it says in the Bible that once on a time one got lost, and never came back again, and now the six whistles to find her. But people calls 'em the Seven Whistlers--though there are only six--exactly the same as in your story of the stars." "It's queer," resumed my Gipsy, after a pause, "how they always tells these here stories by Sevens. Were you ever on Salisbury Plain?" "No!" "There are great stones there--_bori bars_--and many a night I've slept there in the moonlight, in the open air, when I was a boy, and listened to my father tellin' me about the Baker. For there's seven great stories, and they say that hundreds of years ago a baker used to come with loaves of bread, and waste it all a tryin' to make seven loaves remain at the same place, one on each stone. But one all'us fell off, and to this here day he's never yet been able to get all seven on the seven stones." I think that my Gipsy told this story in connection with that of the Whistlers, because he was under the impression that it also was of Scriptural origin. It is, however, really curious that the Gipsy term for an owlet is the _Maromengro's Chavi_, or Baker's Daughter, and that they are all familiar with the monkish legend which declares that Jesus, in a baker's shop, once asked for bread. The mistress was about to give him a large cake, when her daughter declared it was too much, and diminished the gift by one half. "He nothing said, But by the fire laid down the bread, When lo, as when a blossom blows-- To a vast loaf the manchet rose; In angry wonder, standing by, The girl sent forth a wild, rude cry, And, feathering fast into a fowl, Flew to the woods a wailing owl." According to Eilert Sundt, who devoted his life to studying the _Fanten and Tataren_, or vagabonds and Gipsies of Sweden and Norway, there is a horrible and ghastly semblance among them of something like a religion, current in Scandinavia. Once a year, by night, the Gipsies of that country assemble for the purpose of un-baptizing all of their children whom they have, during the year, suffered to be baptized for the sake of gifts, by the Gorgios. On this occasion, amid wild orgies, they worship a small idol, which is preserved until the next meeting with the greatest secresy and care by their captain. I must declare that this story seems very doubtful to me. I have devoted this chapter to illustrating from different points the fact that there lives in England a race which has given its impress to a vast proportion of our vagabond population, and which is more curious and more radically distinct in all its characteristics, than our writers, with one or two exceptions, have ever understood. One extraordinary difference still remains to be pointed out--as it has, in fact, already been, with great acumen, by Mr George Borrow, in his "Gipsies in Spain," and by Dr Alexander Paspati, in his "Etudes sur les Tchinghianes ou Bohemiens de l'Empire Ottoman" (Constantinople, 1870); also by Mr Bright, in his "Hungary," and by Mr Simson. It is this, that in every part of the world it is extremely difficult to get Rommany words, even from intelligent gipsies, although they may be willing with all their heart to communicate them. It may seem simple enough to the reader to ask a man "How do you call 'to carry' in your language?" But can the reader understand that a man, who is possibly very much shrewder than himself in reading at a glance many phases of character, and in countless trickeries, should be literally unable to answer such a question? And yet I have met with many such. The truth is, that there are people in this world who never had such a thing as an abstract idea, let us say even of an apple, plumped suddenly at them--not once in all their lives--and, when it came, the unphilosophical mind could no more grasp it, than the gentleman mentioned by G. H. Lewes (History of Philosophy), could grasp the idea of substance without attribute as presented by Berkeley. The real Gipsy could talk about apples all day, but the sudden demand for the unconnected word, staggers him--at least, until he has had some practice in this, to him, new process. And it is so with other races. Professor Max Muller once told me in conversation, as nearly as I can recollect, that the Mohawk Indian language is extremely rich in declension, every noun having some sixteen or seventeen inflexions of case, but no nominative. One can express one's relations to a father to a most extraordinary extent, among the dilapidated descendants of that once powerful tribe. But such a thing as the abstract idea of _a_ father, or of 'father' _pur et simple_, never entered the Mohawk mind, and this is very like the Gipsies. When a rather wild Gipsy once gives you a word, it must be promptly recorded, for a demand for its repetition at once confuses him. _On doit saisir le mot echappe au Nomade, et ne pas l'obliger a le repeter, car il le changera selon so, facon_, says Paspati. Unused to abstract efforts of memory, all that he can retain is the sense of his last remark, and very often this is changed with the fleeting second by some associated thought, which materially modifies it. It is always difficult, in consequence, to take down a story in the exact terms which a philologist desires. There are two words for "bad" in English Gipsy, _wafro_ and _vessavo_; and I think it must have taken me ten minutes one day to learn, from a by no means dull gipsy, whether the latter word was known to him, or if it were used at all. He got himself into a hopeless tangle in trying to explain the difference between _wafro_ and _naflo_, or ill, until his mind finally refused to act on _vessavo_ at all, and spasmodically rejected it. With all the patience of Job, and the meekness of Moses, I awaited my time, and finally obtained my information. The impatience of such minds in narrative is amusing. Let us suppose that I am asking some _kushto Rommany chal_ for a version of AEsop's fable of the youth and the cat. He is sitting comfortably by the fire, and good ale has put him into a story-telling humour. I begin-- "Now then, tell me this _adree Rommanis_, in Gipsy--Once upon a time there was a young man who had a cat." Gipsy.--"_Yeckorus--'pre yeck cheirus_--_a raklo lelled a matchka_"-- While I am writing this down, and long before it is half done, the professor of Rommany, becoming interested in the subject, continues volubly-- --"_an' the matchka yeck sala dicked a chillico apre a rukk_--(and the cat one morning saw a bird in a tree"--) I.--"Stop, stop! _Hatch a wongish_! That is not it! Now go on. _The young man loved this cat so much_"-- _Gipsy_ (fluently, in Rommany), "that he thought her skin would make a nice pair of gloves"-- "Confound your gloves! Now do begin again"-- _Gipsy_, with an air of grief and injury: "I'm sure I was telling the story for you the best way I knew how!" Yet this man was far from being a fool. What was it, then? Simply and solely, a lack of education--of that mental training which even those who never entered a schoolhouse, receive more or less of, when they so much as wait patiently for a month behind a chair, or tug for six months at a plough, or in short, acquire the civilised virtue of Christian patience. That is it. We often hear in this world that a little education goes a great way; but to get some idea of the immense value of a very little education indeed, and the incredible effect it may have upon character, one should study with gentleness and patience a real Gipsy. Probably the most universal error in the world is the belief that all men, due allowance being made for greater or less knowledge, or "talents," have minds like our own; are endowed with the same moral perception, and see things on the whole very much as we do. Now the truth is that a Chinese, whose mind is formed, not by "religion" as we understand it, but simply by the intense pressure of "Old Custom," which we do not understand, thinks in a different manner from an European; moralists accuse him of "moral obliquity," but in reality it is a moral difference. Docility of mind, the patriarchal principle, and the very perfection of innumerable wise and moral precepts have, by the practice of thousands of years, produced in him their natural result. Whenever he attempts to think, his mind runs at once into some broad and open path, beautifully bordered with dry artificial flowers, {21} and the result has been the inability to comprehend any new idea--a state to which the Church of the Middle Ages, or any too rigidly established system, would in a few thousand years have reduced humanity. Under the action of widely different causes, the gipsy has also a different cast of mind from our own, and a radical moral difference. A very few years ago, when I was on the Plains of Western Kansas, old Black Kettle, a famous Indian chief said in a speech, "I am not a white man, I am a _wolf_. I was born like a wolf on the prairies. I have lived like a wolf, and I shall die like one." Such is the wild gipsy. Ever poor and hungry, theft seems to him, in the trifling easy manner in which he practises it, simply a necessity. The moral aspects of petty crime he never considers at all, nor does he, in fact, reflect upon anything as it is reflected on by the humblest peasant who goes to church, or who in any way feels himself connected as an integral part of that great body-corporate--Society. CHAPTER II. A GIPSY COTTAGE. The Old Fortune-Teller and her Brother.--The Patteran, or Gipsies' Road- Mark .--The Christian Cross, named by Continental Gipsies Trushul, after the Trident of Siva.--Curious English-Gipsy term for the Cross.--Ashwood Fires on Christmas Day.--Our Saviour regarded with affection by the Rommany because he was like themselves and poor.--Strange ideas of the Bible.--The Oak.--Lizards renew their lives.--Snails.--Slugs.--Tobacco Pipes as old as the world. "Duveleste; Avo. Mandy's kaired my patteran adusta chairuses where a drum jals atut the waver," which means in English--"God bless you, yes. Many a time I have marked my sign where the roads cross." I was seated in the cottage of an old Gipsy mother, one of the most noted fortune-tellers in England, when I heard this from her brother, himself an ancient wanderer, who loves far better to hear the lark sing than the mouse cheep when he wakes of a morning. It was a very small but clean cottage, of the kind quite peculiar to the English labourer, and therefore attractive to every one who has felt the true spirit of the most original poetry and art which this country has produced. For look high or low, dear reader, you will find that nothing has ever been better done in England than the pictures of rural life, and over nothing have its gifted minds cast a deeper charm. There were the little rough porcelain figures of which the English peasantry are so fond, and which, cheap as they are, indicate that the taste of your friends Lady --- for Worcester "porcelain," or the Duchess of --- for Majolica, has its roots among far humbler folk. In fact there were perhaps twenty things which no English reader would have supposed were peculiar, yet which were something more than peculiar to me. The master of the house was an Anglo-Saxon--a Gorgio--and his wife, by some magic or other, the oracle before-mentioned. And I, answering said-- "So you all call it _patteran_?" {24} "No; very few of us know that name. We do it without calling it anything." Then I took my stick and marked on the floor the following sign-- [Sign: ill24.jpg] "There," I said, "is the oldest patteran--first of all--which the Gipsies use to-day in foreign lands. In Germany, when one band of Gipsies goes by a cross road, they draw that deep in the dust, with the end of the longest line pointing in the direction in which they have gone. Then, the next who come by see the mark, and, if they choose, follow it." "We make it differently," said the Gipsy. "This is our sign--the _trin bongo drums_, or cross." And he drew his patteran thus-- [Cross: ill25.jpg] "The long end points the way," he added; "just as in your sign." "You call a cross," I remarked, "_trin bongo drums_, or the three crooked roads. Do you know any such word as _trushul_ for it?" "No; _trushilo_ is thirsty, and _trushni_ means a faggot, and also a basket." "I shouldn't wonder if a faggot once got the old Rommany word for cross," I said, "because in it every stick is crossed by the wooden _withy_ which binds it; and in a basket, every wooden strip crosses the other." I did not, however, think it worth while to explain to the Gipsies that when their ancestors, centuries ago, left India, it was with the memory that Shiva, the Destroyer, bore a trident, the tri-cula in Sanscrit, the _trisul_ of Mahadeva in Hindustani, and that in coming to Europe the resemblance of its shape to that of the Cross impressed them, so that they gave to the Christian symbol the name of the sacred triple spear. {26} For if you turn up a little the two arms of a cross, you change the emblem of suffering and innocence at once into one of murder--just as ever so little a deviation from goodness will lead you, my dear boy, into any amount of devilry. And that the unfailing lucid flash of humour may not be wanting, there lightens on my mind the memory of _The Mysterious Pitchfork_--a German satirical play which made a sensation in its time--and Herlossohn in his romance of _Der Letzte Taborit_ (which helped George Sand amazingly in Consuelo), makes a Gipsy chieftain appear in a wonderfully puzzling light by brandishing, in fierce midnight dignity, this agricultural parody on Neptune's weapon, which brings me nicely around to my Gipsies again. If I said nothing to the inmates of the cottage of all that the _trushul_ or cross trident suggested, still less did I vex their souls with the mystic possible meaning of the antique _patteran_ or sign which I had drawn. For it has, I opine, a deep meaning, which as one who knew Creuzer of old, I have a right to set forth. Briefly, then, and without encumbering my book with masses of authority, let me state that in all early lore, the _road_ is a symbol of life; Christ himself having used it in this sense. Cross roads were peculiarly meaning-full as indicating the meet-of life with life, of good with evil, a faith of which abundant traces are preserved in the fact that until the present generation suicides were buried at them, and magical rites and diabolic incantations are supposed to be most successful when practised in such places. The English _path_, the Gipsy patteran, the Rommany-Hindu _pat_, a foot, and the Hindu _panth_, a road, all meet in the Sanscrit _path_, which was the original parting of the ways. Now the _patteran_ which I have drawn, like the Koua of the Chinese or the mystical _Swastika_ of the Buddhists, embraces the long line of life, or of the infinite and the short, or broken lines of the finite, and, therefore, as an ancient magical Eastern sign, would be most appropriately inscribed as a _sikker-paskero dromescro_--or hand post--to show the wandering Rommany how to proceed on their way of life. [Svastika: ill27.jpg] That the ordinary Christian Cross should be called by the English Gipsies a _trin bongo drum_--or the three cross roads--is not remarkable when we consider that their only association with it is that of a "wayshower," as Germans would call it. To you, reader, it may be that it points the way of eternal life; to the benighted Rommany-English-Hindoo, it indicates nothing more than the same old weary track of daily travel; of wayfare and warfare with the world, seeking food and too often finding none; living for petty joys and driven by dire need; lying down with poverty and rising with hunger, ignorant in his very wretchedness of a thousand things which he _ought_ to want, and not knowing enough to miss them. Just as the reader a thousand, or perhaps only a hundred, years hence--should a copy of this work be then extant--may pity the writer of these lines for his ignorance of the charming comforts, as yet unborn, which will render _his_ physical condition so delightful. To thee, oh, future reader, I am what the Gipsy is to me! Wait, my dear boy of the Future--wait--till _you_ get to heaven! Which is a long way off from the Gipsies. Let us return. We had spoken _of patteran_, or of crosses by the way-side, and this led naturally enough to speaking of Him who died on the Cross, and of wandering. And I must confess that it was with great interest I learned that the Gipsies, from a very singular and Rommany point of view, respect, and even pay him, in common with the peasantry in some parts of England, a peculiar honour. For this reason I bade the Gipsy carefully repeat his words, and wrote them down accurately. I give them in the original, with a translation. Let me first state that my informant was not quite clear in his mind as to whether the Boro Divvus, or Great Day, was Christmas or New Year's, nor was he by any means certain on which Christ was born. But he knew very well that when it came, the Gipsies took great pains to burn an ash-wood fire. "Avali--adusta cheirus I've had to jal dui or trin mees of a Boro Divvus sig' in the sala, to lel ash-wood for the yag. That was when I was a bitti chavo, for my dadas always would keravit. "An' we kairs it because foki pens our Saviour, the tikno Duvel was born apre the Boro Divvus, 'pre the puv, avree in the temm, like we Rommanis, and he was brought 'pre pash an ash yag--(_Why you can dick dovo adree the Scriptures_!). "The ivy and holly an' pine rukks never pookered a lav when our Saviour was gaverin' of his kokero, an' so they tools their jivaben saw (sar) the wen, and dicks selno saw the besh; but the ash, like the surrelo rukk, pukkered atut him, where he was gaverin, so they have to hatch mullo adree the wen. And so we Rommany chals always hatchers an ash yag saw the Boro Divvuses. For the tickno duvel was chivved a wadras 'pre the puvius like a Rommany chal, and kistered apre a myla like a Rommany, an' jalled pale the tem a mangin his moro like a Rom. An' he was always a pauveri choro mush, like we, till he was nashered by the Gorgios. "An' he kistered apre a myla? Avali. Yeckorus he putchered the pash- grai if he might kister her, but she pookered him _kek_. So because the pash-grai wouldn't rikker him, she was sovahalled againsus never to be a dye or lel tiknos. So she never lelled kek, nor any cross either. "Then he putchered the myla to rikker him, and she penned: 'Avali!' so he pet a cross apre laki's dumo. And to the divvus the myla has a trin bongo drum and latchers tiknos, but the pash-grai has kek. So the mylas 'longs of the Rommanis." (TRANSLATION.)--"Yes--many a time I've had to go two or three miles of a Great Day (Christmas), early in the morning, to get ash-wood for the fire. That was when I was a small boy, for my father always would do it. "And we do it because people say our Saviour, the small God, was born on the Great Day, in the field, out in the country, like we Rommanis, and he was brought up by an ash-fire." Here a sudden sensation of doubt or astonishment at my ignorance seemed to occur to my informant, for he said,-- "Why, you can see that in the Scriptures!" To which I answered, "But the Gipsies have Scripture stories different from those of the Gorgios, and different ideas about religion. Go on with your story. Why do you burn ash-wood?" "The ivy, and holly, and pine trees, never told a word where our Saviour was hiding himself, and so they keep alive all the winter, and look green all the year. But the ash, like the oak (_lit_. strong tree), told of him (_lit_. across, against him), where he was hiding, so they have to remain dead through the winter. And so we Gipsies always burn an ash- fire every Great Day. For the Saviour was born in the open field like a Gipsy, and rode on an ass like one, and went round the land a begging his bread like a Rom. And he was always a poor wretched man like us, till he was destroyed by the Gentiles. "And He rode on an ass? Yes. Once he asked the mule if he might ride her, but she told him no. So because the mule would not carry him, she was cursed never to be a mother or have children. So she never had any, nor any cross either. "Then he asked the ass to carry him, and she said 'Yes;' so he put a cross upon her back. And to this day the ass has a cross and bears young, but the mule has none. So the asses belong to (are peculiar to) the Gipsies." There was a pause, when I remarked-- "That is a _fino gudlo_--a fine story; and all of it about an ash tree. Can you tell me anything about the _surrelo rukk_--the strong tree--the oak?" "Only what I've often heard our people say about its life." "And what is that?" "Dui hundred besh a hatchin, dui hundred besh nasherin his chuckko, dui hundred besh 'pre he mullers, and then he nashers sar his ratt and he's kekoomi kushto." {30} "That is good, too. There are a great many men who would like to live as long." "_Tacho_, true. But an old coat can hold out better than a man. If a man gets a hole in him he dies, but his _chukko_ (coat) can be _toofered_ and _sivved apre_ (mended and sewed up) for ever. So, unless a man could get a new life every year, as they say the _hepputs_, the little lizards do, he needn't hope to live like an oak." "Do the lizards get a new life every year?" "_Avali_. A _hepput_ only lives one year, and then he begins life over again." "Do snails live as long as lizards?" "Not when I find 'em rya--if I am hungry. Snails are good eating. {32} You can find plenty on the hedges. When they're going about in the fields or (are found) under wood, they are not good eating. The best are those which are kept, or live through (literally _sleep_) the winter. Take 'em and wash 'em and throw 'em into the kettle, with water and a little salt. The broth's good for the yellow jaundice." "So you call a snail"-- "A bawris," said the old fortune-teller. "Bawris! The Hungarian Gipsies call it a _bouro_. But in Germany the Rommanis say stargoli. I wonder why a snail should be a stargoli." "I know," cried the brother, eagerly. "When you put a snail on the fire it cries out and squeaks just like a little child. Stargoli means 'four cries.'" I had my doubts as to the accuracy of this startling derivation, but said nothing. The same Gipsy on a subsequent occasion, being asked what he would call a _roan_ horse in Rommany, replied promptly-- "A matchno grai"--a fish-horse. "Why a matchno grai?" "Because a fish has a roan (_i.e_., roe), hasn't it? Leastways I can't come no nearer to it, if it ain't that." But he did better when I was puzzling my brain, as the learned Pott and Zippel had done before me, over the possible origin of churro or tchurro, "a ball, or anything round," when he suggested-- "Rya--I should say that as a _churro_ is round, and a _curro_ or cup is round, and they both sound alike and look alike, it must be all werry much the same thing." {33} "Can you tell me anything more about snails?" I asked, reverting to a topic which, by the way, I have observed is like that of the hedgehog, a favourite one with Gipsies. "Yes; you can cure warts with the big black kind that have no shells." "You mean slugs. I never knew they were fit to cure anything." "Why, that's one of the things that everybody knows. When you get a wart on your hands, you go on to the road or into the field till you find a slug, one of the large kind with no shell (literally, with no house upon him), and stick it on the thorn of a blackthorn in a hedge, and as the snail dies, one day after the other, for four or five days, the wart will die away. Many a time I've told that to Gorgios, and Gorgios have done it, and the warts have gone away (literally, cleaned away) from their hands." {34} Here the Gipsy began to inquire very politely if smoking were offensive to me; and as I assured him that it was not, he took out his pipe. And knowing by experience that nothing is more conducive to sociability, be it among Chippeways or Gipsies, than that smoking which is among our Indians, literally a burnt-offering, {35} I produced a small clay pipe of the time of Charles the Second, given to me by a gentleman who has the amiable taste to collect such curiosities, and give them to his friends under the express condition that they shall be smoked, and not laid away as relics of the past. If you move in _etching_ circles, dear readers, you will at once know to whom I refer. The quick eye of the Gipsy at once observed my pipe. "That is a _crow-swagler_--a crow-pipe," he remarked. "Why a crow-pipe?" "I don't know. Some Gipsies call 'em _mullos' swaglers_, or dead men's pipes, because those who made 'em were dead long ago. There are places in England where you can find 'em by dozens in the fields. I never dicked (saw) one with so long a stem to it as yours. And they're old, very old. What is it you call it before everything" (here he seemed puzzled for a word) "when the world was a-making?" "The Creation." "Avali--that's it, the Creation. Well, them crow-swaglers was kaired at the same time; they're hundreds--avali--thousands of beshes (years) old. And sometimes we call the beng (devil) a swagler, or we calls a swagler the beng." "Why?" "Because the devil lives in smoke." CHAPTER III. THE GIPSY TINKER. Difficulty of coming to an Understanding with Gipsies.--The Cabman.--Rommany for French.--"Wanderlust."--Gipsy Politeness.--The Tinker and the Painting.--Secrets of Bat-catching.--The Piper of Hamelin, and the Tinker's Opinion of the Story.--The Walloon Tinker of Spa.--Argot. One summer day in London, in 1871, I was seated alone in an artist's studio. Suddenly I heard without, beneath the window, the murmur of two voices, and the sleepy, hissing, grating sound of a scissors-grinder's wheel. By me lay a few tools, one of which, a chisel, was broken. I took it, went softly to the window, and looked down. There was the wheel, including all the apparatus of a travelling tinker. I looked to see if I could discover in the two men who stood by it any trace of the Rommany. One, a fat, short, mind-his-own-business, ragged son of the roads, who looked, however, as if a sturdy drinker might be hidden in his shell, was evidently not my "affair." He seemed to be the "Co." of the firm. But by him, and officiating at the wheeling smithy, stood a taller figure--the face to me invisible--which I scrutinised more nearly. And the instant I observed his _hat_ I said to myself, "This looks like it." For dilapidated, worn, wretched as that hat was, there was in it an attempt, though indescribably humble, to be something melo-dramatic, foreign, Bohemian, and poetic. It was the mere blind, dull, dead germ of an effort--not even _life_--only the ciliary movement of an antecedent embryo--and yet it _had_ got beyond Anglo-Saxondom. No costermonger, or common cad, or true Englishman, ever yet had that indefinable touch of the opera-supernumerary in the streets. It _was_ a sombrero. "That's the man for me," I said. So I called him, and gave him the chisel, and after a while went down. He was grinding away, and touched his hat respectfully as I approached. Now the reader is possibly aware that of all difficult tasks one of the most difficult is to induce a disguised Gipsy, or even a professed one, to utter a word of Rommany to a man not of the blood. Of this all writers on the subject have much to say. For it is so black-swanish, I may say so centenarian in unfrequency, for a gentleman to speak Gipsy, that the Zingaro thus addressed is at once subjected to morbid astonishment and nervous fears, which under his calm countenance and infinite "cheek" are indeed concealed, but which speedily reduce themselves to two categories. 1. That Rommany is the language of men at war with the law; therefore you are either a detective who has acquired it for no healthy purpose, or else you yourself are a scamp so high up in the profession that it behooves all the little fish of outlawdom to beware of you. 2. Or else--what is quite as much to be dreaded--you are indeed a gentleman, but one seeking to make fun of him, and possibly able to do so. At any rate, your knowledge of Rommany is a most alarming coin of vantage. Certainly, reader, you know that a regular London streeter, say a cabman, would rather go to jail than be beaten in a chaffing match. I nearly drove a hansom into sheer convulsions one night, about the time this chapter happened, by a very light puzzler indeed. I had hesitated between him and another. "You don't know _your own mind_," said the disappointed candidate to me. "_Mind your own_ business," I replied. It was a poor palindrome, {38} reader--hardly worth telling--yet it settled him. But he swore--oh, of course he did--he swore beautifully. Therefore, being moved to caution, I approached calmly and gazed earnestly on the revolving wheel. "Do you know," I said, "I think a great deal of your business, and take a great interest in it." "Yes, sir." "I can tell you all the names of your tools in French. You'd like to hear them, wouldn't you?" "Wery much indeed, sir." So I took up the chisel. "This," I said, "is a _churi_, sometimes called a _chinomescro_." "That's the French for it, is it, sir?" replied the tinker, gravely. Not a muscle of his face moved. "The _coals_," I added, "are _hangars_ or _wongurs_, sometimes called _kaulos_." "Never heerd the words before in my life," quoth the sedate tinker. "The bellows is a _pudemengro_. Some call it a _pishota_." "Wery fine language, sir, is French," rejoined the tinker. In every instance he repeated the words after me, and pronounced them correctly, which I had not invariably done. "Wery fine language. But it's quite new to me." "You wouldn't think now," I said, affably, "that _I_ had ever been on the roads!" The tinker looked at me from my hat to my boots, and solemnly replied-- "I should say it was wery likely. From your language, sir, wery likely indeed." I gazed as gravely back as if I had not been at that instant the worst sold man in London, and asked-- "Can you _rakher Rommanis_?" (_i.e_., speak Gipsy.) And _he_ said he _could_. Then we conversed. He spoke English intermingled with Gipsy, stopping from time to time to explain to his assistant, or to teach him a word. This portly person appeared to be about as well up in the English Gipsy as myself--that is, he knew it quite as imperfectly. I learned that the master had been in America, and made New York and Brooklyn glad by his presence, while Philadelphia, my native city had been benefited as to its scissors and morals by him. "And as I suppose you made money there, why didn't you remain?" I inquired. The Gipsy--for he was really a Gipsy, and not a half-scrag--looked at me wistfully, and apparently a little surprised that I should ask him such a question. "Why, sir, _you_ know that _we_ can't keep still. Somethin' kept telling me to move on, and keep a movin'. Some day I'll go back again." Suddenly--I suppose because a doubt of my perfect Freemasonry had been aroused by my absurd question--he said, holding up a kettle-- "What do you call this here in Rommanis?" "I call it a _kekavi_ or a _kavi_," I said. "But it isn't _right_ Rommany. It's Greek, which the Rommanichals picked up on their way here." And here I would remark, by the way, that I have seldom spoken to a Gipsy in England who did not try me on the word for kettle. "And what do you call a face?" he added. "I call a face a _mui_," I said, "and a nose a _nak_; and as for _mui_, I call _rikker tiro mui_, 'hold your jaw.' That is German Rommany." The tinker gazed at me admiringly, and then said, "You're 'deep' Gipsy, I see, sir--that's what _you_ are." "_Mo rov a jaw_; _mo rakker so drovan_?" I answered. "Don't talk so loud; do you think I want all the Gorgios around here to know I talk Gipsy? Come in; _jal adree the ker and pi a curro levinor_." The tinker entered. As with most Gipsies there was really, despite the want of "education," a real politeness--a singular intuitive refinement pervading all his actions, which indicated, through many centuries of brutalisation, that fountain-source of all politeness--the Oriental. Many a time I have found among Gipsies whose life, and food, and dress, and abject ignorance, and dreadful poverty were far below that of most paupers and prisoners, a delicacy in speaking to and acting before ladies, and a tact in little things, utterly foreign to the great majority of poor Anglo-Saxons, and not by any means too common in even higher classes. For example, there was a basket of cakes on the table, which cakes were made like soldiers in platoons. Now Mr Katzimengro, or Scissorman, as I call him, not being familiar with the anatomy of such delicate and winsome maro, or bread, was startled to find, when he picked up one biscuit de Rheims, that he had taken a row. Instantly he darted at me an astonished and piteous glance, which said-- "I cannot, with my black tinker fingers, break off and put the cakes back again; I do not want to take all--it looks greedy." So I said, "Put them in your pocket." And he did so, quietly. I have never seen anything done with a better grace. On the easel hung an unfinished picture, representing the Piper of Hamelin surrounded by rats without number. The Gipsy appeared to be much interested in it. "I used to be a rat-catcher myself," he said. "I learned the business under old Lee, who was the greatest rat-catcher in England. I suppose you know, of course, sir, how to _draw_ rats?" "Certainly," I replied. "Oil of rhodium. I have known a house to be entirely cleared by it. There were just thirty-six rats in the house, and they had a trap which held exactly twelve. For three nights they caught a dozen, and that finished the congregation." "Aniseed is better," replied the Gipsy, solemnly. (By the way, another and an older Gipsy afterwards told me that he used caraway-oil and the heads of dried herrings.) "And if you've got a rat, sir, anywhere in this here house, I'll bring it to you in five minutes." He did, in fact, subsequently bring the artist as models for the picture two very pretty rats, which he had quite tamed while catching them. "But what does the picture mean, sir?" he inquired, with curiosity. "Once upon a time," I replied, "there was a city in Germany which was overrun with rats. They teased the dogs and worried the cats, and bit the babies in the cradle, and licked the soup from the cook's own ladle." "There must have been an uncommon lot of them, sir," replied the tinker, gravely. "There was. Millions of them. Now in those days there were no Rommanichals, and consequently no rat-catchers." "'Taint so now-a-days," replied the Gipsy, gloomily. "The business is quite spiled, and not to get a livin' by." "Avo. And by the time the people had almost gone crazy, one day there came a man--a Gipsy--the first Gipsy who had ever been seen in _dovo tem_ (or that country). And he agreed for a thousand crowns to clear all the rats away. So he blew on a pipe, and the rats all followed him out of town." "What did he blow on a pipe for?" "Just for _hokkerben_, to humbug them. I suppose he had oils rubbed on his heels. But when he had drawn the rats away and asked for his money, they would not give it to him. So then, what do you think he did?" "I suppose--ah, I see," said the Gipsy, with a shrewd look. "He went and drew 'em all back again." "No; he went, and this time piped all the children away. They all went after him--all except one little lame boy--and that was the last of it." The Gipsy looked earnestly at me, and then, as if I puzzled, but with an expression of perfect faith, he asked-- "And is that all _tacho_--all a fact--or is it made up, you know?" "Well, I think it is partly one and partly the other. You see, that in those days Gipsies were very scarce, and people were very much astonished at rat-drawing, and so they made a queer story of it." "But how about the children?" "Well," I answered; "I suppose you have heard occasionally that Gipsies used to chore Gorgios' chavis--steal people's children?" Very grave indeed was the assent yielded to this explanation. He _had_ heard it among other things. My dear Mr Robert Browning, I little thought, when I suggested to the artist your poem of the piper, that I should ever retail the story in Rommany to a tinker. But who knows with whom he may associate in this life, or whither he may drift on the great white rolling sea of humanity? Did not Lord Lytton, unless the preface to Pelham err, himself once tarry in the tents of the Egyptians? and did not Christopher North also wander with them, and sing-- "Oh, little did my mother think, The day she cradled me, The lands that I should travel in, Or the death that I should dee; Or gae rovin' about wi' tinkler loons, And sic-like companie"? "You know, sir," said the Gipsy, "that we have two languages. For besides the Rummany, there's the reg'lar cant, which all tinkers talk." "_Kennick_ you mean?" "Yes, sir; that's the Rummany for it. A 'dolly mort' is Kennick, but it's _juva_ or _rakli_ in Rummanis. It's a girl, or a rom's _chi_." "You say _rom_ sometimes, and then _rum_." "There's _rums_ and _roms_, sir. The _rum_ is a Gipsy, and a _rom_ is a husband." "That's your English way of calling it. All the rest of the world over there is only one word among Gipsies, and that is _rom_." Now, the allusion to _Kennick_ or cant by a tinker, recalls an incident which, though not strictly Gipsy in its nature, I will nevertheless narrate. In the summer of 1870 I spent several weeks at Spa, in the Ardennes. One day while walking I saw by the roadside a picturesque old tinker, looking neither better nor worse than the grinder made immortal by Teniers. I was anxious to know if all of his craft in Belgium could speak Gipsy, and addressed him in that language, giving him at the same time my knife to grind. He replied politely in French that he did not speak Rommany, and only understood French and Walloon. Yet he seemed to understand perfectly the drift of my question, and to know what Gipsy was, and its nature, since after a pause he added, with a significant smile-- "But to tell the truth, monsieur, though I cannot talk Rommany, I know another secret language. I can speak _Argot_ fluently." Now, I retain in my memory, from reading the Memoirs of Vidocq thirty years ago, one or two phrases of this French thieves' slang, and I at once replied that I knew a few words of it myself, adding-- "_Tu sais jaspiner en bigorne_?"--you can talk argot? "_Oui, monsieur_." "_Et tu vas roulant de vergne en vergne_?"--and you go about from town to town? Grave and keen, and with a queer smile, the tinker replied, very slowly-- "Monsieur knows the Gipsies" (here he shook his head), "and monsieur speaks _argot_ very well." (A shrug.) "Perhaps he knows more than he credits himself with. Perhaps" (and here his wink was diabolical)-- "_perhaps monsieur knows the entire tongue_!" Spa is full not only of gamblers, but of numbers of well-dressed Parisian sharpers who certainly know "the entire tongue." I hastened to pay my tinker, and went my way homewards. Ross Browne was accused in Syria of having "burgled" onions, and the pursuit of philology has twice subjected me to be suspected by tinkers as a flourishing member of the "dangerous classes." But to return to my rat-catcher. As I quoted a verse of German Gipsy song, he manifested an interest in it, and put me several questions with regard to the race in other lands. "I wish I was a rich gentleman. I would like to travel like you, sir, and have nothing to do but go about from land to land, looking after our Rummany people as you do, and learnin' everything Rummany. Is it true, sir, we come from Egypt?" "No. I think not. There are Gipsies in Egypt, but there is less Rommany in their _jib_ (language) than in any other Gipsy tribe in the world. The Gipsies came from India." "And don't you think, sir, that we're of the children of the lost Ten Tribes?" "I am quite sure that you never had a drop of blood in common with them. Tell me, do you know any Gipsy _gilis_--any songs?" "Only a bit of a one, sir; most of it isn't fit to sing, but it begins--" And here he sang: "Jal 'dree the ker my honey, And you shall be my rom." And chanting this, after thanking me, he departed, gratified with his gratuity, rejoiced at his reception, and most undoubtedly benefited by the beer with which I had encouraged his palaver--a word, by the way, which is not inappropriate, since it contains in itself the very word of words, the _lav_, which means a word, and is most antiquely and excellently Gipsy. Pehlevi is old Persian, and to _pen lavi_ is Rommany all the world over "to speak words." CHAPTER IV. GIPSY RESPECT FOR THE DEAD. Gipsies and Comteists identical as to "Religion"--Singular Manner of Mourning for the Dead, as practised by Gipsies--Illustrations from Life--Gipsy Job and the Cigars--Oaths by the Dead--Universal Gipsy Custom of never Mentioning the Names of the Dead--Burying valuable Objects with the Dead--Gipsies, Comteists, Hegelians, and Jews--The Rev. James Crabbe. Comte, the author of the Positivist philosophy, never felt the need of a religion until he had fallen in love; and at the present day his "faith" appears to consist in a worship of the great and wise and good among the dead. I have already spoken of many Gipsies reminding me, by their entirely unconscious ungodliness, of thorough Hegelians. I may now add, that, like the Positivists, they seem to correct their irreligion through the influence of love; and by a strange custom, which is, in spirit and fact, nothing less than adoring the departed and offering to the dead a singular sacrifice. He who has no house finds a home in family and friends, whence it results that the Gipsy, despite his ferocious quarrels in the clan, and his sharp practice even with near relations, is--all things considered--perhaps the most devoted to kith and kin of any one in the world. His very name--rom, a husband--indicates it. His children, as almost every writer on him, from Grellmann down to the present day, has observed, are more thoroughly indulged and spoiled than any non-gipsy can conceive; and despite all the apparent contradictions caused by the selfishness born of poverty, irritable Eastern blood, and the eccentricity of semi-civilisation, I doubt if any man, on the whole, in the world, is more attached to his own. It was only three or four hours ago, as I write, on the fifth day of February 1872, that a Gipsy said to me, "It is nine years since my wife died, and I would give all Anglaterra to have her again." That the real religion of the Gipsies, as I have already observed, consists like that of the Comteists, in devotion to the dead, is indicated by a very extraordinary custom, which, notwithstanding the very general decay, of late years, of all their old habits, still prevails universally. This is the refraining from some usage or indulgence in honour of the departed--a sacrifice, as it were, to their _manes_--and I believe that, by inquiring, it will be found to exist among all Gipsies in all parts of the world. In England it is shown by observances which are maintained at great personal inconvenience, sometime for years, or during life. Thus, there are many Gipsies who, because a deceased brother was fond of spirits, have refrained, after his departure, from tasting them, or who have given up their favourite pursuits, for the reason that they were last indulged in, in company with the lost and loved one. As a further illustration, I will give in the original Gipsy-language, as I myself took it down rapidly, but literally, the comments of a full-blooded Gipsy on this custom--the translation being annexed. I should state that the narrative which precedes his comments was a reply to my question, Why he invariably declined my offer of cigars? "No; I never toovs cigaras, kek. I never toovs 'em kenna since my pal's chavo Job mullered. And I'll pooker tute how it welled." "It was at the boro wellgooro where the graias prasters. I was kairin the paiass of the koshters, and mandy dicked a rye an' pookered him for a droppi levinor. '_Avali_,' he penned, 'I'll del you levinor and a kushto tuvalo too.' 'Parraco,' says I, 'rya.' So he del mandy the levinor and a dozen cigaras. I pet em adree my poachy an' jailed apre the purge and latched odoi my pal's chavo, an' he pook'd mandy, 'Where you jallin to, kako?' And I penned: 'Job, I've lelled some covvas for tute.' 'Tacho,' says he--so I del him the cigaras. Penned he: 'Where did tute latcher 'em?' 'A rye del 'em a mandy.' So he pet em adree his poachy, an' pookered mandy, 'What'll tu lel to pi?' 'A droppi levinor.' So he penned, 'Pauli the grais prasters, I'll jal atut the puvius and dick tute.' "Eight or nine divvuses pauli, at the K'allis's Gav, his pal welled to mandy and pookered mi Job sus naflo. And I penned, 'Any thing dush?' 'Worse nor dovo.' 'What _is_ the covvo?' Says yuv, 'Mandy kaums tute to jal to my pal--don't spare the gry--mukk her jal!' So he del mi a fino grai, and I kistered eight mee so sig that I thought I'd mored her. An' I pet her dree the stanya, an' I jalled a lay in the puv and' odoi I dicked Job. 'Thank me Duvel!' penned he, 'Kako you's welled acai, and if mandy gets opre this bugni (for 'twas the bugni he'd lelled), I'll del tute the kushtiest gry that you'll beat sar the Romni chuls.' But he mullered. "And he pens as he was mullerin. 'Kako, tute jins the cigarras you del a mandy?' '_Avali_,' I says he, 'I've got 'em acai in my poachy.' Mandy and my pens was by him, but his romni was avree, adree the boro tan, bikinin covvas, for she'd never lelled the bugni, nor his chavos, so they couldn't well a dickin, for we wouldn't mukk em. And so he mullered. "And when yuv's mullo I pet my wast adree his poachy and there mandy lastered the cigaras. And from dovo chairus, rya, mandy never tooved a cigar. "Avali--there's adusta Romni chuls that kairs dovo. And when my juvo mullered, mandy never lelled nokengro kekoomi. Some chairuses in her jivaben, she'd lel a bitti nokengro avree my mokto, and when I'd pen, 'Deari juvo, what do you kair dovo for?' she pooker mandy, 'It's kushti for my sherro.' And so when she mullered mandy never lelled chichi sensus. "Some mushis wont haw mass because the pal or pen that mullered was kammaben to it,--some wont pi levinor for panj or ten besh, some wont haw the kammaben matcho that the chavo hawed. Some wont haw puvengroes or pi tood, or haw pabos, and saw (sar) for the mullos. "Some won't kair wardos or kil the boshomengro--'that's mandy's pooro chavo's gilli'--and some won't kel. 'No, I can't kel, the last time I kelled was with mandy's poor juvo that's been mullo this shtor besh.' "'Come pal, let's jal an' have a drappi levinor--the boshomengri's odoi.' 'Kek, pal, kekoomi--I never pi'd a drappi levinor since my bibi's jalled.' 'Kushto--lel some tuvalo pal?' 'Kek--kek--mandy never tooved since minno juvo pelled a lay in the panni, and never jalled avree kekoomi a jivaben.' 'Well, let's jal and kair paiass with the koshters--we dui'll play you dui for a pint o' levinor.' 'Kek--I never kaired the paiass of the koshters since my dadas mullered--the last chairus I ever played was with him.' "And Lena, the juva of my pal's chavo, Job, never hawed plums a'ter her rom mullered." (TRANSLATION).--"No, I never smoke cigars. No; I never smoke them now since my brother's son Job died. And I'll tell you how it came. "It was at the great fair where the horses run (_i.e_., the races), I was keeping a cock-shy, and I saw a gentleman, and asked him for a drop of ale. 'Yes,' he said, 'I'll give you ale, and a good smoke too.' 'Thank you,' says I, 'Sir.' So he gave me the ale, and a dozen cigars. I put them in my pocket, and went on the road and found there my brother's son, and he asked me, 'Where (are) you going, uncle?' And I said: 'Job, I have something for you.' 'Good,' says he--so I gave him the cigars. He said: 'Where did you find them?' 'A gentleman gave them to me.' So he put them in his pocket, and asked me, 'What'll you take to drink?' 'A drop of ale.' So he said, 'After the horses (have) run I'll go across the field and see you.' "Eight or nine days after, at Hampton Court, {53} his 'pal' came to me and told me that Job was ill. And I said, 'Anything wrong?' 'Worse nor that.' 'What _is_ the affair?' Said he, 'I want you to go to my pal,--don't spare the horse--let her go!' So he gave me a fine horse, and I rode eight miles so fast that I thought I'd killed her. And I put her in the stable, and I went down into the field, and there I saw Job. 'Thank God!' said he; 'Uncle, you've come here; and if I get over this small-pox (for 'twas the smallpox he'd caught), I'll give you the best horse that you'll beat all the Gipsies.' But he died. "And he says as he was dying, 'Uncle, you know the cigars you gave me?' 'Yes.' Says he, 'I've got 'em here in my pocket.' I and my sisters were by him, but his wife was outside in the great tent, selling things, for she never had the smallpox, nor his children, so they couldn't come to see, for we wouldn't let them. And so he died. "And when he was dead, I put my hand in his pocket, and there I found the cigars. And from that time, Sir, I never smoked a cigar. "Yes! there are plenty of Gipsies who do that. And when my wife died, I never took snuff again. Sometimes in her life she'd take a bit of snuff out (from) my box; and when I'd say, 'Dear wife, what do you do that for?' she'd tell me, 'It's good for my head.' And so when she died I never took any (none) since. "Some men won't eat meat because the brother or sister that died was fond of (to) it; some won't drink ale for five or ten years; some won't eat the favourite fish that the child ate. Some won't eat potatoes, or drink milk, or eat apples; and all for the dead. "Some won't play cards or the fiddle--'that's my poor boy's tune'--and some won't dance--'No, I can't dance, the last time I danced was with my poor wife (or girl) that's been dead this four years.' "'Come, brother, let's go and have a drop of ale; the fiddler is there.' 'No, brother, I never drank a drop of ale since my aunt went (died).' 'Well, take some tobacco, brother?' 'No, no, I have not smoked since my wife fell in the water and never came out again alive.' 'Well, let's go and play at cock-shy, we two'll play you two for a pint o' ale.' 'No, I never played at cock-shy since my father died; the last time I played was with him.' "And Lena, the wife of my nephew Job, never ate plums after her husband died." This is a strange manner of mourning, but it is more effective than the mere wearing of black, since it is often a long-sustained and trying tribute to the dead. Its Oriental-Indian origin is apparent enough. But among the German Gipsies, who, I am firmly convinced, represent in language and customs their English brethren as the latter were three centuries ago, this reverence for the departed assumes an even deeper and more serious character. Mr Richard Liebich (_Die Zigeuner_, _Leipzig_, 1863), tells us that in his country their most sacred oath is _Ap i mulende_!--by the dead!--and with it may be classed the equally patriarchal imprecation, "By my father's hand!" Since writing the foregoing sentence a very remarkable confirmation of the existence of this oath among English Gipsies, and the sacredness with which it is observed, came under my own observation. An elderly Gipsy, during the course of a family difficulty, declared to his sister that he would leave the house. She did not believe he would until he swore by his dead wife--by his "_mullo juvo_." And when he had said this, his sister promptly remarked: "Now you have sworn by her, I know you will do it." He narrated this to me the next day, adding that he was going to put a tent up, about a mile away, and live there. I asked him if he ever swore by his dead father, to which he said: "Always, until my wife died." This poor man was almost entirely ignorant of what was in the Bible, as I found by questioning him; but I doubt whether I know any Christian on whom a Bible oath would be more binding than was to him his own by the dead. To me there was something deeply moving in the simple earnestness and strangeness of this adjuration. The German, like the older English Gipsies, carefully burn the clothes and bed of the deceased, and, indeed, most objects closely connected with them, and what is more extraordinary, evince their respect by carefully avoiding mentioning their names, even when they are borne by other persons or are characteristic of certain things. So that when a Gipsy maiden named Forella once died, her entire nation, among whom the trout had always been known only by its German designation, Forelle, at once changed the name, and, to this day it is called by them _mulo madscho_--the dead fish,--or at times _lolo madscho_--the red fish. This is also the case among the English Gipsies. Wishing to have the exact words and views of a real Rommany on this subject, I made inquiry, and noted down his reply, which was literally as follows:-- "Avali; when Rommany chals or juvos are mullos, their pals don't kaum to shoon their navs pauli--it kairs 'em too bongo--so they're purabend to waver navs. Saw don't kair it--kek--but posh do, kenna. My chavo's nav was Horfer or Horferus, but the bitti chavis penned him Wacker. Well, yeck divvus pre the wellgooro o' the graias prasters, my juvo dicked a boro _doll_ adree some hev of a buttika and penned, 'Dovo odoi dicks just like moro Wacker!' So we penned him _Wackerdoll_, but a'ter my juvo mullered I rakkered him Wacker again, because Wackerdoll pet mandy in cammoben o' my poor juvo." In English: "Yes. When Gipsy men or women die, their friends don't care to hear their names again--it makes them too sad, so they are changed to other names. All don't do it--no--but half of them do so still. My boy's name was Horfer or Horferus (Orpheus), but the children called him Wacker. Well, one day at the great fair of the races, my wife saw a large doll in some window of a shop, and said, 'That looks just like our Wacker!' So we called him Wackerdoll, but after my wife died I called him Wacker again, because Wacker_doll_ put me in mind of my poor wife." When further interrogated on the same subject, he said: "A'ter my juva mullered, if I dicked a waver rakli with lakis'nav, an' mandy was a rakkerin laki, mandy'd pen ajaw a waver geeri's nav, an rakker her by a waver nav:--dovo's to pen I'd lel some bongonav sar's Polly or Sukey. An' it was the sar covva with my dades nav--if I dicked a mush with a nav that simmed leskers, mandy'd rakker him by a waver nav. For 'twould kair any mush wafro to shoon the navyas of the mullas a't 'were cammoben to him." Or in English, "After my wife died, if I saw another girl with her name, and I was talking to her, I'd _speak_ another woman's name, and call her by another name; that's to say, I'd take some nick-name, such as Polly or Sukey. And it was the same thing with my father's name--if I saw a man with a name that was the same as his (literally, 'that _samed_ his'), I'd call him by another name. For 'twould make any man grieve (lit. 'bad') to hear the names of the dead that were dear to him." I suppose that there are very few persons, not of Gipsy blood, in England, to whom the information will not be new, that there are to be found everywhere among us, people who mourn for their lost friends in this strange and touching manner. Another form of respect for the departed among Gipsies, is shown by their frequently burying some object of value with the corpse, as is, however, done by most wild races. On questioning the same Gipsy last alluded to, he spoke as follows on this subject, I taking down his words:-- "When Job mullered and was chivved adree the puv, there was a nevvi kushto-dickin dui chakkas pakkered adree the mullo mokto. Dighton penned a mandy the waver divvus, that trin thousand bars was gavvered posh yeck o' the Chilcotts. An I've shooned o' some Stanleys were buried with sonnakai wongashees apre langis wastos. '_Do sar the Rommany chals kair adovo_?' Kek. Some chivs covvas pash the mullos adree the puv, and boot adusta don't." In English: "When Job died and was buried, there was a new beautiful pair of shoes put in the coffin (_lit_. corpse-box). Dighton told me the other day, that three thousand pounds were hidden with one of the Chilcotts. And I have heard of some Stanleys who were buried with gold rings on their fingers. '_Do all the Gipsies do that_?' No! some put things with the dead in the earth, and many do not." Mr Liebich further declares, that while there is really nothing in it to sustain the belief, this extraordinary reverence and regard for the dead is the only fact at all indicating an idea of the immortality of the soul which he has ever found among the Gipsies; but, as he admits, it proves nothing. To me, however, it is grimly grotesque, when I return to the disciples of Comte--the Positivists--the most highly cultivated scholars of the most refined form of philosophy in its latest stage, and find that their ultimate and practical manifestation of _la religion_, is quite the same as that of those unaffected and natural Positivists, the Gipsies. With these, as with the others, our fathers find their immortality in our short-lived memories, and if among either, some one moved by deep love--as Auguste was by the eyes of Clotilda--has yearned for immortality with the dear one, and cursed in agony Annihilation, he falls upon the faith founded in ancient India, that only that soul lives for ever which has done so much good on earth, as to leave behind it in humanity, ineffaceable traces of its elevation. Verily, the poor Gipsies would seem, to a humourist, to have been created by the devil, whose name they almost use for God, a living parody and satanic burlesque of all that human faith, doubt, or wisdom, have ever accomplished in their highest forms. Even to the weakest minded and most uninformed manufacturers of "Grellmann-diluted" pamphlets, on the Gipsies, their parallel to the Jews is most apparent. All over the world this black and God-wanting shadow dances behind the solid Theism of "The People," affording proof that if the latter can be preserved, even in the wildest wanderings, to illustrate Holy Writ--so can gipsydom--for no apparent purpose whatever. How often have we heard that the preservation of the Jews is a phenomenon without equal? And yet they both live--the sad and sober Jew, the gay and tipsy Gipsy, Shemite and Aryan--the one so ridiculously like and unlike the other, that we may almost wonder whether Humour does not enter into the Divine purpose and have its place in the Destiny of Man. For my own part, I shall always believe that the Heathen Mythology shows a superiority to any other, in _one_ conception--that of Loki, who into the tremendous upturnings of the Universe always inspires a grim grotesqueness; a laughter either diabolic or divine. Judaism, which is pre-eminently the principle of religious belief:--the metaphysical emancipation and enlightenment of Germany, and the materialistic positivism of France, are then, as I have indicated, nowhere so practically and yet laughably illustrated as by the Gipsy. Free from all the trammels of faith, and, to the last degree, indifferent and rationalistic, he satisfies the demands of Feuerbach; devoted to the positive and to the memory of the dead, he is the ideal of the greatest French philosophy, while as a wanderer on the face of the earth--not neglectful of picking up things _en route_--he is the rather blurred _facsimile_ of the Hebrew, the main difference in the latter parallel being that while the Jews are God's chosen people, the poor Gipsies seem to have been selected as favourites by that darker spirit, whose name they have naively substituted for divinity:--_Nomen et omen_. I may add, however, in due fairness, that there are in England some true Gipsies of unmixed blood, who--it may be without much reflection--have certainly adopted ideas consonant with a genial faith in immortality, and certain phases of religion. The reader will find in another chapter a curious and beautiful Gipsy custom recorded, that of burning an ash fire on Christmas-day, in honour of our Saviour, because He was born and lived like a Gipsy; and one day I was startled by bearing a Rom say "Miduvel hatch for mandy an' kair me kushto."--My God stand up for me and make me well. "That" he added, in an explanatory tone, "is what you say when you're sick." These instances, however, indicate no deep-seated conviction, though they are certainly curious, and, in their extreme simplicity, affecting. That truly good man, the Rev. James Crabb, in his touching little book, "The Gipsies' Advocate," gave numbers of instances of Gipsy conversions to religion and of real piety among them, which occurred after their minds and feelings had been changed by his labours; indeed, it would seem as if their lively imaginations and warm hearts render them extremely susceptible to the sufferings of Jesus. But this does not in the least affect the extraordinary truth that in their nomadic and natural condition, the Gipsies, all the world over, present the spectacle, almost without a parallel, of total indifference to, and ignorance of, religion, and that I have found true old-fashioned specimens of it in England. I would say, in conclusion, that the Rev. James Crabb, whose unaffected and earnest little book tells its own story, did much good in his own time and way among the poor Gipsies; and the fact that he is mentioned to the present day, by them, with respect and love, proves that missionaries are not useless, nor Gipsies ungrateful--though it is almost the fashion with too many people to assume both positions as rules without exceptions. CHAPTER V. GIPSY LETTERS. A Gipsy's Letter to his Sister.--Drabbing Horses.--Fortune Telling.--Cock Shys.--"Hatch 'em pauli, or he'll lel sar the Covvas!"--Two German Gipsy Letters. I shall give in this chapter a few curious illustrations of Gipsy life and character, as shown in a letter, which is illustrated by two specimens in the German Rommany dialect. With regard to the first letter, I might prefix to it, as a motto, old John Willett's remark: "What's a man without an imagination?" Certainly it would not apply to the Gipsy, who has an imagination so lively as to be at times almost ungovernable; considering which I was much surprised that, so far as I know, the whole race has as yet produced only one writer who has distinguished himself in the department of fiction--albeit he who did so was a giant therein--I mean John Bunyan. And here I may well be allowed an unintended digression, as to whether Bunyan were really a Gipsy. In a previous chapter of this work, I, with little thought of Bunyan, narrated the fact that an intelligent tinker, and a full Gipsy, asked me last summer in London, if I thought that the Rommany were of the Ten Tribes of Israel? When John Bunyan tells us explicitly that he once asked his father whether he and his relatives were of the race of the Israelites--he having then never seen a Jew--and when he carefully informs his readers that his descent was of a low and inconsiderable generation, "my father's house being of that rank that is meanest and most despised of all the families of the land," there remains no rational doubt whatever that Bunyan was indeed a Rom of the Rommany. "_Applico_" of which, as my own special and particular Gipsy is wont to say--it is worth noting that the magician Shakespeare, who knew everything, showed himself superior to many modern dramatists in being aware that the tinkers of England had, not a peculiar cant, but a special _language_. And now for the letters. One day Ward'engro of the K'allis's Gav, asked me to write him a letter to his daughter, in Rommany. So I began to write from his dictation. But being, like all his race, unused to literary labour, his lively imagination continually led him astray, and as I found amusement in his so doing, it proved to be an easy matter to induce him to wander off into scenes of gipsy life, which, however edifying they might be to my reader, would certainly not have the charm of novelty to the black-eyed lady to whom they were supposed to be addressed. However, as I read over from time to time to my Rommany chal what I had written, his delight in actually hearing his own words read from writing, partook of all the pride of successful authorship--it was, my dear sir, like your delight over your first proof sheet. Well, this was the letter. A translation will be found following it. THE PANNI GAV, _Dec_. 16, 1871. MY KAMLI CHAVI,--Kushti bak! My cammoben to turo mush an' turo dadas an' besto bak. We've had wafri bak, my pen's been naflo this here cooricus, we're doin' very wafro and couldn't lel no wongur. Your dui pals are kairin kushto, prasturin 'bout the tem, bickinin covvas. {65} Your puro kako welled acai to his pen, and hatched trin divvus, and jawed avree like a puro jucko, and never del mandy a poshero. Kek adusta nevvi. A rakli acai lelled a hora waver divvus from a waver rakli, and the one who nashered it pens: "Del it pauli a mandi and I wont dukker tute! Del it apre!" But the waver rakli penned "kek," and so they bitchered for the prastramengro. He lelled the juva to the wardo, and just before she welled odoi, she hatched her wast in her poachy, an' chiv it avree, and the prastramengro hatched it apre. So they bitchered her for shurabun. (Here my Gipsy suggested that _stardo_ or _staramangro_ might be used for greater elegance, in place of shurabun.) I've got kek gry and can't lel no wongur to kin kek. My kamli chavi, if you could bitch me a few bars it would be cammoben. I rikkers my covvas apre mi dumo kenna. I dicked my kako, waver divvus adree a lot o Rommany chals, saw a piin'. There was the juvas a koorin adoi and the mushis a koorin an' there was a boro chingaree, some with kali yakkas an' some with sherros chinned so the ratt jalled alay 'pre the drum. There was dui or trin bar to pessur in the sala for the graias an' mylas that got in pandamam (_pandapenn_). Your pal's got a kushti gry that can jal alangus the drum kushto. L--- too's got a baro kushto gry. He jawed to the wellgooro, to the boro gav, with a poggobavescro gry an' a nokengro. You could a mored dovo gry an' kek penn'd a lav tute. I del it some ballovas to hatch his bavol and I bikened it for 9 bar, to a rye that you jins kushto. Lotti was at the wellgooro dukkerin the ranis. She lelled some kushti habben, an' her jellico was saw porder, when she dicked her mush and shelled. "Havacai! I've got some fine habben!" She penned to a rakli, "Pet your wonger adree turo wast an I'll dukker tute." An' she lelled a pash bar from the rani. She penned her: "You kaums a rye a longo duros. He's a kaulo and there's a waver rye, a pauno, that kaums you too, an' you'll soon lel a chinamangree. Tute'll rummorben before dui besh, an' be the dye of trin chavis.' There was a gry jallin with a wardo langus the drum, an' I dicked a raklo, an' putsched (_pootched_) him. "How much wongur?" an' he pookered man'y "Desh bar;" I penned: "Is dovo, noko gry?" "Avali." Well, a Rommany chul del him desh bar for the gry an' bikined it for twelve bar to a boro rye. It was a fino kaulo gry with a boro herree, but had a naflo piro; it was the _nearo_ piro an' was a dellemescro. He del it some hopium drab to hatch adoi, and tooled his solivengro upo the purgis. At the paiass with the koshters a rye welled and Wantelo shelled avree: "Trin kosters for a horra, eighteen for a shekori!" An' the rye lelled a koshter an' we had pange collos for trin dozenos. The rye kaired paiass kushto and lelled pange cocoanuts, and lelled us to his wardo, and dell'd mandy trin currus of tatty panni, so that I was most matto. He was a kushti rye and his rani was as good as the rye. There was a waver mush a playin, an' mandy penned: "Pen the kosh paulier, hatch 'em odoi, don't well adoorer or he'll lel saw the covvos! Chiv 'em pauli!" A chi rakkered the ryes an' got fifteen cullos from yeck. And no moro the divvus from your kaum pal, M. TRANSLATION. THE WATER VILLAGE, _Dec_. 16, 1871. MY DEAR DAUGHTER,--Good luck! my love to your husband and your father, and best luck! We've had bad fortune, my sister has been sick this here week, we're doing very badly and could not get any money. Your two brothers are doing well, running about the country selling things. Your old uncle came to his sister and stayed three days, and went away like an old dog and never gave me a penny. Nothing much new. A girl here took a watch the other day from another girl, and the one who lost it said: "Give it back to me and I won't hurt you." But the other girl said "No," and so they sent for the constable. He took the girl to the station (or carriage), and just before she got there she put her hand in her pocket and threw it away, and the policeman picked it up. So they sent her to prison. I have no horse, and can't get any money to buy _none_. My dear daughter, if you could send me a few pounds it would be agreeable. I carry my _traps_ on my back now. I saw my uncle the other day among a lot of Gipsies, all drinking. There were the women fighting there, and the men fighting, and there was a great _shindy_, some with black eyes, and some with heads cut so that the blood ran down on the road. There were two or three pounds to pay in the morning for the horses and asses that were in the pound. Your brother has got a capital horse that can go along the road nicely. L---, too, has a large fine horse. He went to the fair in --- with a broken-winded horse and a glandered. You could have killed that horse and nobody said a word to you. I gave it some lard to stop his breathing, and I sold it for nine pound to a gentleman whom you know well. Lotty was at the fair telling fortunes to the ladies. She got some excellent food, and her apron was quite full, when she saw her husband and cried out: "Come here! I've got some nice victuals!" She said to a girl: "Put you money in your hand and I'll tell you your fortune." And she took half a sovereign from the lady. She told her: "You love a gentleman who is far away. He is dark, and there is another gentleman, a fair-haired man that loves you, and you'll soon get a letter. You'll marry before two years, and be the mother of three children." There was a horse going with a waggon along the road; and I saw a youth, and asked him, "How much money?" (for the horse), and he replied to me, "Ten pounds." I said, "Is that your horse?" "Yes." Well, a Gipsy gave him ten pounds for the horse, and sold it for twelve pounds to a great gentleman. It was a good black horse, with a (handsome) strong leg (literally large), but it had a bad foot; it was the _near_ foot, and it was a kicker. He gave it some opium medicament to keep quiet (literally to stop there), and held his rein (_i.e_., trotted him so as to show his pace, and conceal his faults) on the road. At the cock-shy a gentleman came, and Wantelo halloed out, "Three sticks for a penny, eighteen for a sixpence!" And the gentleman took a stick, and we had five shillings for three dozen throws! The gentleman played well, and got five cocoanuts, and took us to his carriage and gave me three glasses of brandy, so that I was almost drunk. He was a good gentleman, and his lady was as good as her husband. There was another man playing; and I said, "Set the sticks more back, set 'em there; don't go further or he'll get all the things! Set 'em back!" A Gipsy girl talked to the gentlemen (_i.e_., persuaded them to play), and got fifteen shillings from one. And no more to-day from your dear brother, M. * * * * * One thing in the foregoing letter is worth noting. Every remark or incident occurring in it is literally true--drawn from life--_pur et simple_. It is, indeed, almost the _resume_ of the entire life of many poor Gipsies during the summer. And I may add that the language in which it is written, though not the "deep" or grammatical Gipsy, in which no English words occur--as for instance in the Lord's Prayer, as given by Mr Borrow in his appendix to the Gipsies in Spain {70}--is still really a fair specimen of the Rommany of the present day, which is spoken at races by cock-shysters and fortune-tellers. The "Water Village," from which it is dated, is the generic term among Gipsies for all towns by the sea-side. The phrase _kushto_ (or _kushti_), _bak_!--"good luck!" is after "_Sarishan_!" or "how are you?" the common greeting among Gipsies. The fight is from life and to the life; and the "two or three pounds to pay in the morning for the horses and asses that got impounded," indicates its magnitude. To have a beast in pound in consequence of a frolic, is a common disaster in Gipsy life. During the dictation of the foregoing letter, my Gipsy paused at the word "broken-winded horse," when I asked him how he could stop the heavy breathing? "With ballovas (or lard and starch)--long enough to sell it." "But how would you sell a glandered horse?" Here he described, with great ingenuity, the manner in which he would _tool_ or manage the horse--an art in which Gipsies excel all the world over--and which, as Mr Borrow tells us, they call in Spain "_de pacuaro_," which is pure Persian. "But that would not stop the running. How would you prevent that?" "I don't know." "Then I am a better graiengro than you, for I know a powder, and with a penny's worth of it I could stop the glanders in the worst case, long enough to sell the horse. I once knew an old horse-dealer who paid sixty pounds for a _nokengro_ (a glandered horse) which had been powdered in this way." The Gipsy listened to me in great admiration. About a week afterwards I heard he had spoken of me as follows:-- "Don't talk about knowing. My rye knows more than anybody. He can cheat any man in England selling him a glandered horse." Had this letter been strictly confined to the limits originally intended, it would have spoken only of the sufferings of the family, the want of money, and possibly, the acquisition of a new horse by the brother. In this case it bears a decided family-likeness to the following letter in the German-Gipsy dialect, which originally appeared in a book entitled, _Beytrag zur Rottwellischen Grammatik_, _oder Worterbuch von der Zigeuner Spracke_, Leipzig 1755, and which was republished by Dr A. F. Pott in his stupendous work, _Die Zigeuner in Europa und Asien_. Halle, 1844. GERMAN GIPSY. MIRI KOMLI ROMNI,--Ertiewium Francfurtter wium te gajum apro Newoforo. Apro drum ne his mange mishdo. Mare manush tschingerwenes ketteni. Tschiel his te midschach wettra. Tschawe wele naswele. Dowa ker, kai me gaijam medre gazdias tele; mare ziga t'o terno kalbo nahsle penge. O flachso te hanfa te wulla te schwigarizakri te stifftshakri ho spinderde gotshias nina. Lopennawa, wium ke tshorero te wiam hallauter nange Denkerdum tschingerwam mangi kasht te mre wastiengri butin, oder hunte di kaw te kinnaw tschommoni pre te bikkewaw pale, te de denkerwaw te ehrnahrwaw man kiacke. Me bium kiacke kuremangrender pene aper mande, buten tschingerde buten trinen marde te man, tshimaster apri butin tshidde. O bolloben te rackel tutt andre sawe kolester, kai me wium adre te me tshawa tiro rum shin andro meraben. TRANSLATION. MY DEAR WIFE,--Before I came to Frankfort I went to Neustadt. On the way it did not go well with me. Our men quarrelled together. It was cold and wet weather. The children were ill. That house into which we had gone burnt down; our kid and the young calf run away. The flax and hemp and wool [which] the sister-in-law and step-daughter spun are also burned. In short, I say I became so poor that we all went naked. I thought of cutting wood and working by hand, or I should go into business and sell something. I think I will make my living so. I was so treated by the soldiers. They fell on us, wounded many, three they killed, and I was taken to prison to work for life. Heaven preserve you in all things from that into which I have fallen, and I remain thy husband unto death. * * * * * It is the same sad story in all, wretchedness, poverty, losses, and hunger. In the English letter there was a _chingari_--a shindy; in the German they have a _tshinger_, which is nearly the same word, and means the same. It may be remarked as curious that the word _meraben_ at the end of the letter, meaning death, is used by English Gipsies to signify life as well. "Dick at the gorgios, The gorgios round mandy; Trying to take my meripon, My meripon away." The third letter is also in the German-Gipsy dialect, and requires a little explanation. Once a man named Charles Augustus was arrested as a beggar and suspected Gipsy, and brought before Mr Richard Liebich, who appears to have been nothing less in the total than the _Furstlich Reuss- Plauenschem Criminalrathe und Vorstande des Furstlichen Criminalgerichts zu Lobenstein_--in fact, a rather lofty local magistrate. Before this terrible title Charles appeared, and swore stoutly that he was no more a Rommany chal than he was one of the Apostles--for be it remembered, reader, that in Germany at the present day, the mere fact of being a Gipsy is still treated as a crime. Suddenly the judge attacked him with the words--"_Tu hal rom, me hom, rakker tschatschopenn_!"--"Thou art a Gipsy, I am a Gipsy, speak the truth." And Charles, looking up in amazement and seeing the black hair and brown face of the judge, verily believed that he was of the blood of Dom. So crossing his arms on his breast in true Oriental style, he salaamed deeply, and in a submissive voice said--"_Me hom rom_"--"_I am a_ Gipsy." The judge did not abuse the confidence gained by his little trick, since he appears to have taken Charles under his wing, employed him in small jobs (in America we should say _chores_, but the word would be frightfully significant, if applied to a Gipsy), {75} and finally dismissed him. And Charles replied Rommanesquely, by asking for something. His application was as follows:-- GERMAN GIPSY. "LICHTENBERG ANE DESCHE OCHDADO, _Januar_ 1859. "LADSCHO BARO RAI,--Me hunde dschinawe duge gole dui trin Lawinser mire zelle gowe, har geas mange an demaro foro de demare Birengerenser. Har weum me stildo gage lean demare Birengere mr lowe dele, de har weum biro gage lean jon man dran o stilibin bri, de mangum me mr lowe lender, gai deum dele. Jon pendin len wellen geg mander. Gai me deum miro lowe lende, naste pennene jon gar wawer. Brinscherdo lowe hi an i Gissig, o baro godder lolo paro, trin Chairingere de jeg dschildo gotter sinagro lowe. Man weas mr lowe gar gobe dschanel o Baro Dewel ani Bolebin. Miro baaro bargerbin vaschge demare Ladschebin bennawe. O baro Dewel de pleisserwel de maro ladscho sii i pure sasde Tschiwaha demende demaro zelo Beero. De hadzin e Birengere miro lowe, dale mangawa me len de bidschin jon mire lowe gadder o foro Naile abbi Bidschebasger wurtum sikk. Gai me dschingerdum ab demende, hi gar dschadscho, gai miri romni hass mando, gowe hi dschadscho. Obaaro Dewel de bleiserwel de mange de menge demaro Ladscho Sii. Miero Bargerbin. De me dschawe demaro gandelo Waleddo. CHARLES AUGUSTIN." TRANSLATION. "LICHTENBERG, _January_ 18, 1859. "GOOD GREAT SIR,--I must write to you with these two or three words my whole business (_gowe_, English Gipsy _covvo_, literally 'thing,') how it happened to me in your town, by your servants (literally 'footmen'). When I was arrested, your servants took my money away, and when I was freed they took me out of prison. I asked my money of them which I had given up. They said they had got none from me. That I gave them my money they cannot deny. The said (literally, known) money is in a purse, a great piece, red (and) old, three kreutzers, and a yellow piece of good-for- nothing money. I did not get my money, as the great God in heaven knows. My great thanks for your goodness, I say. The great God reward your good heart with long healthy life, you and your whole family. And if your servants find my money, I beg they will send it to the town Naila, by the post at once. That I cursed you is not true; that my wife was drunk is true. The great God reward your good heart. My thanks. And I remain, your obedient servant, CHARLES AUGUSTIN." Those who attempt to read this letter in the original, should be informed that German Gipsy is, as compared to the English or Spanish dialects, almost a perfect language; in fact, Pott has by incredible industry, actually restored it to its primitive complete form; and its orthography is now settled. Against this orthography poor Charles Augustin sins sadly, and yet it may be doubted whether many English tramps and beggars could write a better letter. The especial Gipsy characteristic in this letter is the constant use of the name of God, and the pious profusion of blessings. "She's the _blessing-est_ old woman I ever came across," was very well said of an old Rommany dame in England. And yet these well-wishings are not always insincere, and they are earnest enough when uttered in Gipsy. CHAPTER VI. GIPSY WORDS WHICH HAVE PASSED INTO ENGLISH SLANG. Jockey.--Tool.--Cove or Covey.--Hook, Hookey, and Walker, Hocus, Hanky- Panky, and Hocus-Pocus.--Shindy.--Row.--Chivvy.--Bunged Eye.--Shavers.-- Clichy.--Caliban.--A Rum 'un.--Pal.--Trash.--Cadger.--Cad.--Bosh.--Bats.-- Chee-chee.--The Cheese.--Chiv Fencer.--Cooter.--Gorger.--Dick.--Dook.-- Tanner.--Drum.--Gibberish.--Ken.--Lil.--Loure.--Loafer.--Maunder.--Moke.-- Parny.--Posh.--Queer. Raclan.--Bivvy.--Rigs.--Moll.--Distarabin.--Tiny.-- Toffer.--Tool.--Punch.--Wardo.--Voker (one of Mr Hotten's Gipsy words).-- Welcher.--Yack.--Lushy.--A Mull.--Pross.--Toshers.--Up to Trap.--Barney.-- Beebee.--Cull, Culley.--Jomer.--Bloke.--Duffer.--Niggling.--Mug.-- Bamboozle, Slang, and Bite.--Rules to be observed in determining the Etymology of Gipsy Words. Though the language of the Gipsies has been kept a great secret for centuries, still a few words have in England oozed out here and there from some unguarded crevice, and become a portion of our tongue. There is, it must be admitted, a great difficulty in tracing, with anything like accuracy, the real origin or identity of such expressions. Some of them came into English centuries ago, and during that time great changes have taken place in Rommany. At least one-third of the words now used by Scottish Gipsies are unintelligible to their English brothers. To satisfy myself on this point, I have examined an intelligent English Gipsy on the Scottish Gipsy vocabularies in Mr Simpson's work, and found it was as I anticipated; a statement which will not appear incredible when it is remembered, that even the Rommany of Yetholm have a dialect marked and distinct from that of other Scotch Gipsies. As for England, numbers of the words collected by William Marsden, and Jacob Bryant, in 1784-5, Dr Bright in 1817, and by Harriott in 1830, are not known at the present day to any Gipsies whom I have met. Again, it should be remembered that the pronunciation of Rommany differs widely with individuals; thus the word which is given as _cumbo_, a hill, by Bryant, I have heard very distinctly pronounced _choomure_. I believe that to Mr Borrow is due the discovery that the word JOCKEY is of Gipsy origin, and derived from _chuckni_, which means a whip. For nothing is more clearly established than that the jockey-whip was the original term in which this word first made its appearance on the turf, and that the _chuckni_ was a peculiar form of whip, very long and heavy, first used by the Gipsies. "Jockeyism," says Mr Borrow, "properly means _the management of a whip_, and the word jockey is neither more nor less than the term, slightly modified, by which they designate the formidable whips which they usually carry, and which are at present in general use among horse-traffickers, under the title of jockey-whips." In Hungary and Germany the word occurs as _tschuckini_ or _chookni_, and _tschupni_. Many of my readers are doubtless familiar with the word to TOOL as applied to dexterously managing the reins and driving horses. 'To tool the horses down the road,' is indeed rather a fine word of its class, being as much used in certain clubs as in stables, and often denotes stylish and gentlemanly driving. And the term is without the slightest modification, either of pronunciation or meaning, directly and simply Gipsy, and is used by Gipsies in the same way. It has, however, in Rommany, as a primitive meaning--to hold, or to take. Thus I have heard of a feeble old fellow that "he could not tool himself togetherus"--for which last word, by the way, _kettenus_ might have been more correctly substituted. COVE is not an elegant, though a very old, word, but it is well known, and I have no doubt as to its having come from the Gipsy. In Rommany, all the world over, _cova_ means "a thing," but it is almost indefinite in its applicability. "It is," says Pott, "a general helper on all occasions; is used as substantive and adjective, and has a far wider scope than the Latin _res_." Thus _covo_ may mean "that man;" _covi_, "that woman;" and _covo_ or _cuvvo_, as it very often does in English, "that, there." It sometimes appears in the word _acovat_, or _this_. There is no expression more frequent in a Gipsy's mouth, and it is precisely the one which would be probably overheard by "Gorgios" and applied to persons. I believe that it first made its appearance in English slang as _covey_, and was then pronounced _cuvvy_, being subsequently abbreviated into cove. Quite a little family of words has come into English from the Rommany, _Hocben_, _huckaben_, _hokkeny_, or _hooker_, all meaning a lie, or to lie, deception and _humbug_. Mr Borrow shows us that _hocus_, to "bewitch" liquor with an opiate, and _hoax_, are probably Rommany from this root, and I have no doubt that the expression, "Yes, with a _hook_," meaning "it is false," comes from the same. The well-known "Hookey" who corresponds so closely with his untruthful and disreputable pal "Walker," is decidedly of the streets--gipsy. In German Gipsy we find _chochavav_ and _hochewawa_, and in Roumanian Gipsy _kokao_--a lie. Hanky-panky and Hocus-pocus are each one half almost pure Hindustani. {81} A SHINDY approaches so nearly in sound to the Gipsy word _chingaree_, which means precisely the same thing, that the suggestion is at least worth consideration. And it also greatly resembles _chindi_, which may be translated as "cutting up," and also quarrel. "To cut up shindies" was the first form in which this extraordinary word reached the public. In the original Gipsy tongue the word to quarrel is _chinger-av_, meaning also (Pott, _Zigeuner_, p. 209) to cut, hew, and fight, while to cut is _chinav_. "Cutting up" is, if the reader reflects, a very unmeaning word as applied to outrageous or noisy pranks; but in Gipsy, whether English, German, or Oriental, it is perfectly sensible and logical, involving the idea of quarrelling, separating, dividing, cutting, and stabbing. What, indeed, could be more absurd than the expression "cutting up shines," unless we attribute to _shine_ its legitimate Gipsy meaning of _a piece cut off_, and its cognate meaning, a noise? I can see but little reason for saying that a man _cut away_ or that he _shinned_ it, for run away, unless we have recourse to Gipsy, though I only offer this as a mere suggestion. "Applico" to shindy we have the word ROW, meaning nearly the same thing and as nearly Gipsy in every respect as can be. It is in Gipsy at the present day in England, correctly, _rov_, or _roven_--to cry--but _v_ and _w_ are so frequently transposed that we may consider them as the same letter. _Raw_ or _me rauaw_, "I howl" or "cry," is German Gipsy. _Rowan_ is given by Pott as equivalent to the Latin _ululatus_, which constituted a very respectable _row_ as regards mere noise. "Rowdy" comes from "row" and both are very good Gipsy in their origin. In Hindustani _Rao mut_ is "don't cry!" CHIVVY is a common English vulgar word, meaning to goad, drive, vex, hunt, or throw as it were here and there. It is purely Gipsy, and seems to have more than one root. _Chiv_, _chib_, or _chipe_, in Rommany, mean a tongue, inferring scolding, and _chiv_ anything sharp-pointed, as for instance a dagger, or goad or knife. But the old Gipsy word _chiv-av_ among its numerous meanings has exactly that of casting, throwing, pitching, and driving. To _chiv_ in English Gipsy means as much and more than to _fix_ in America, in fact, it is applied to almost any kind of action. It may be remarked in this connection, that in German or continental Gipsy, which represents the English in a great measure as it once was, and which is far more perfect as to grammar, we find different words, which in English have become blended into one. Thus, _chib_ or _chiv_, a tongue, and _tschiwawa_ (or _chiv_-ava), to lay, place, lean, sow, sink, set upright, move, harness, cover up, are united in England into _chiv_, which embraces the whole. "_Chiv it apre_" may be applied to throwing anything, to covering it up, to lifting it, to setting it, to pushing it, to circulating, and in fact to a very great number of similar verbs. There is, I think, no rational connection between the BUNG of a barrel and an eye which has been closed by a blow. One might as well get the simile from a knot in a tree or a cork in a flask. But when we reflect on the constant mingling of Gipsies with prizefighters, it is almost evident that the word BONGO may have been the origin of it. A _bongo yakko_ or _yak_, means a distorted, crooked, or, in fact, a bunged eye. It also means lame, crooked, or sinister, and by a very singular figure of speech, _Bongo Tem_ or the Crooked Land is the name for hell. {83} SHAVERS, as a quaint nick-name for children, is possibly inexplicable, unless we resort to Gipsy, where we find it used as directly as possible. _Chavo_ is the Rommany word for child all the world over, and the English term _chavies_, in Scottish Gipsy _shavies_, or shavers, leaves us but little room for doubt. I am not aware to what extent the term "little shavers" is applied to children in England, but in America it is as common as any cant word can be. I do not know the origin of the French word CLICHY, as applied to the noted prison of that name, but it is perhaps not undeserving the comment that in Continental Gipsy it means a key and a bolt. I have been struck with the fact that CALIBAN, the monster in "The Tempest," by Shakespeare, has an appellation which literally signifies blackness in Gipsy. In fact, this very word, or Cauliban, is given in one of the Gipsy vocabularies for "black." Kaulopen or Kauloben would, however, be more correct. "A regular RUM 'un" was the form in which the application of the word "rum" to strange, difficult, or distinguished, was first introduced to the British public. This, I honestly believe (as Mr Borrow indicates), came from _Rum_ or _Rom_, a Gipsy. It is a peculiar word, and all of its peculiarities might well be assumed by the sporting Gipsy, who is always, in his way, a character, gifted with an indescribable self-confidence, as are all "horsey" men characters, "sports" and boxers, which enables them to keep to perfection the German eleventh commandment, "Thou shall not let thyself be _bluffed_!"--_i.e_., abashed. PAL is a common cant word for brother or friend, and it is purely Gipsy, having come directly from that language, without the slightest change. On the Continent it is _prala_, or _pral_. In England it sometimes takes the form "_pel_." TRASH is derived by Mr Wedgwood (Dictionary of English Etymology, 1872) from the old word _trousse_, signifying the clipping of trees. But in old Gipsy or in the German Gipsy of the present day, as in the Turkish Rommany, it means so directly "fear, mental weakness and worthlessness," that it may possibly have had a Rommany origin. Terror in Gipsy is _trash_, while thirst is _trush_, and both are to be found in the Hindustani. _Tras_, which means _thirst_ and _alarm_ or _terror_. It should be observed that in no instance can these Gipsy words have been borrowed from English slang. They are all to be found in German Gipsy, which is in its turn identical with the Rommany language of India--of the Nats, Bhazeghurs, Doms, Multanee or Banjoree, as I find the primitive wandering Gipsies termed by different writers. I am aware that the word CAD was applied to the conductor of an omnibus, or to a non-student at Universities, before it became a synonym for vulgar fellow, yet I believe that it was abbreviated from cadger, and that this is simply the Gipsy word Gorgio, which often means a man in the abstract. I have seen this word printed as gorger in English slang. CODGER, which is common, is applied, as Gipsies use the term Gorgio, contemptuously, and it sounds still more like it. BOSH, signifying nothing, or in fact empty humbug, is generally credited to the Turkish language, but I can see no reason for going to the Turks for what the Gipsies at home already had, in all probability, from the same Persian source, or else from the Sanskrit. With the Gipsies, _bosh_ is a fiddle, music, noise, barking, and very often an idle sound or nonsense. "Stop your bosherin," or "your bosh," is what they would term _flickin lav_, or current phrase. "BATS," a low term for a pair of boots, especially bad ones, is, I think, from the Gipsy and Hindustani _pat_, a foot, generally called, however, by the Rommany in England, Tom Pats. "To pad the hoof," and "to stand pad "--the latter phrase meaning to stand upright, or to stand and beg, are probably derived from _pat_. It should be borne in mind that Gipsies, in all countries, are in the habit of changing certain letters, so that _p_ and _b_, like _l_ and _n_, or _k_ and _g_ hard, may often be regarded as identical. "CHEE-CHEE," "be silent!" or "fie," is termed "Anglo-Indian," by the author of the Slang Dictionary, but we need not go to India of the present day for a term which is familiar to every Gipsy and "traveller" in England, and which, as Mr Simson discovered long ago, is an excellent "spell" to discourage the advances of thimble-riggers and similar gentry, at fairs, or in public places. CHEESE, or "THE CHEESE," meaning that anything is pre-eminent or superior; in fact, "the thing," is supposed by many to be of gipsy origin because Gipsies use it, and it is to be found as "chiz" in Hindustani, in which language it means a thing. Gipsies do not, however, seem to regard it themselves, as _tacho_ or true Rommanis, despite this testimony, and I am inclined to think that it partly originated in some wag's perversion of the French word _chose_. In London, a man who sells cutlery in the streets is called a CHIVE FENCER, a term evidently derived from the Gipsy _chiv_, a sharp-pointed instrument or knife. A knife is also called a _chiv_ by the lowest class all over England. COUTER or COOTER is a common English slang term for a guinea. It was not necessary for the author of the Slang Dictionary to go to the banks of the Danube for the origin of a word which is in the mouths of all English Gipsies, and which was brought to England by their ancestors. A sovereign, a pound, in Gipsy, is a _bar_. A GORGER, meaning a gentleman, or well-dressed man, and in theatrical parlance, a manager, is derived by the author of the Slang Dictionary--absurdly enough, it must be confessed--from "gorgeous,"--a word with which it has no more in common than with gouges or chisels. A gorger or gorgio--the two are often confounded--is the common Gipsy word for one who is not Gipsy, and very often means with them a _rye_ or gentleman, and indeed any man whatever. Actors sometimes call a fellow- performer a _cully-gorger_. DICK, an English slang word for sight, or seeing, is purely Gipsy in its origin, and in common use by Rommanis over all the world. DOOK, to tell fortunes, and DOOKING, fortune-telling, are derived by the writer last cited, correctly enough, from the Gipsy _dukkerin_,--a fact which I specify, since it is one of the very rare instances in which he has not blundered when commenting on Rommany words, or other persons' works. Mr Borrow has told us that a TANNER or sixpence, sometimes called a Downer, owes its pseudonym to the Gipsy word _tawno_ or _tano_, meaning "little"--the sixpence being the little coin as compared with a shilling. DRUM or DROM, is the common English Gipsy word for a road. In English slang it is applied, not only to highways, but also to houses. If the word GIBBERISH was, as has been asserted, first applied to the language of the Gipsies, it may have been derived either from "Gip," the nickname for Gipsy, with _ish_ or _rish_ appended as in Engl-_ish_, I- _rish_, or from the Rommany word _Jib_ signifying a language. KEN, a low term for a house, is possibly of Gipsy origin. The common word in every Rommany dialect for a house is, however, neither ken nor khan, but _Ker_. LIL, a book, a letter, has passed from the Gipsies to the low "Gorgios," though it is not a very common word. In Rommany it can be _correctly_ applied only to a letter or a piece of paper, which is written on, though English Gipsies call all books by this name, and often speak of a letter as a _Chinamangri_. LOUR or LOWR, and LOAVER, are all vulgar terms for money, and combine two Gipsy words, the one _lovo_ or _lovey_, and the other _loure_, to steal. The reason for the combination or confusion is obvious. The author of the Slang Dictionary, in order to explain this word, goes as usual to the Wallachian Gipsies, for what he might have learned from the first tinker in the streets of London. I should remark on the word loure, that Mr Borrow has shown its original identity with _loot_, the Hindustani for plunder or booty. I believe that the American word loafer owes something to this Gipsy root, as well as to the German _laufer_ (_landlaufer_), and Mexican Spanish _galeofar_, and for this reason, that when the term first began to be popular in 1834 or 1835, I can distinctly remember that it meant to _pilfer_. Such, at least, is my earliest recollection, and of hearing school boys ask one another in jest, of their acquisitions or gifts, "Where did you loaf that from?" A petty pilferer was a loafer, but in a very short time all of the tribe of loungers in the sun, and disreputable pickers up of unconsidered trifles, now known as bummers, were called loafers. On this point my memory is positive, and I call attention to it, since the word in question has been the subject of much conjecture in America. It is a very curious fact, that while the word _loot_ is unquestionably Anglo-Indian, and only a recent importation into our English "slanguage," it has always been at the same time English-Gipsy, although it never rose to the surface. MAUNDER, to stroll about and beg, has been derived from _Mand_, the Anglo- Saxon for a basket, but is quite as likely to have come from Maunder, the Gipsy for "to beg." Mumper, a beggar, is also from the same source. MOKE, a donkey, is _said_ to be Gipsy, by Mr Hotten, but Gipsies themselves do not use the word, nor does it belong to their usual language. The proper Rommany word for an ass is _myla_. PARNY, a vulgar word for rain, is supposed to have come into England from the "Anglo-Indian" source, but it is more likely that it was derived from the Gipsy _panni_ or water. "Brandy pawnee" is undoubtedly an Anglo-Indian word, but it is used by a very different class of people from those who know the meaning of _Parny_. POSH, which has found its way into vulgar popularity, as a term for small coins, and sometimes for money in general, is the diminutive of the Gipsy word _pashero_ or _poshero_, a half-penny, from _pash_ a half, and _haura_ or _harra_, a penny. QUEER, meaning across, cross, contradictory, or bad, is "supposed" to be the German word _quer_, introduced by the Gipsies. In their own language _atut_ means across or against, though to _curry_ (German and Turkish Gipsy _kurava_), has some of the slang meaning attributed to _queer_. An English rogue will say, "to shove the queer," meaning to pass counterfeit money, while the Gipsy term would be to _chiv wafri lovvo_, or _lovey_. "RAGLAN, a married woman, originally _Gipsy_, but now a term with English tramps" (_The Slang Dictionary_, _London_ 1865). In Gipsy, _raklo_ is a youth or boy, and _rakli_, a girl; Arabic, _ragol_, a man. I am informed, on good authority, that these words are known in India, though I cannot find them in dictionaries. They are possibly transposed from _Lurka_ a youth and _lurki_ a girl, such transpositions being common among the lowest classes in India. RUMMY or RUMY, as applied to women, is simply the Gipsy word _romi_, a contraction of _romni_, a wife; the husband being her _rom_. BIVVY for beer, has been derived from the Italian _bevere_, but it is probably Gipsy, since in the old form of the latter language, Biava or Piava, means to drink. To _pivit_, is still known among English Gipsies. RIGS--running one's rigs is said to be Gipsy, but the only meaning of _rig_, so far as I am able to ascertain in Rommany, is _a side_ or _an edge_. It is, however, possible that one's _side_ may in earlier times have been equivalent to "face, or encounter." To _rikker_ or _rigger_ in Gipsy, is to carry anything. MOLL, a female companion, is probably merely the nickname for Mary, but it is worth observing, that _Mal_ in old Gipsy, or in German Gipsy, means an associate, and Mahar a wife, in Hindustani. STASH, to be quiet, to stop, is, I think, a variation of the common Gipsy word hatch, which means precisely the same thing, and is derived from the older word _atchava_. STURABAN, a prison, is purely Gipsy. Mr Hotten says it is from the Gipsy _distarabin_, but there is no such word beginning with _dis_, in the English Rommany dialect. In German Gipsy a prison is called _stillapenn_. TINY or TEENY has been derived from the Gipsy _tano_, meaning "little." TOFFER, a woman who is well dressed in new clean clothes, probably gets the name from the Gipsy _tove_, to wash (German Gipsy _Tovava_). She is, so to speak, freshly washed. To this class belong Toff, a dandy; _Tofficky_, dressy or gay, and _Toft_, a dandy or swell. TOOL as applied to stealing, picking pockets, and burglary, is, like _tool_, to drive with the reins; derived beyond doubt from the Gipsy word _tool_, to take or hold. In all the Continental Rommany dialects it is _Tulliwawa_. PUNCH, it is generally thought, is Anglo-Indian, derived directly from the Hindustani _Pantch_ or five, from the five ingredients which enter into its composition, but it may have partially got its name from some sporting Gipsy in whose language the word for _five_ is the same as in Sanskrit. There have been thousands of "swell" Rommany chals who have moved in sporting circles of a higher class than they are to be found in at the present day. "VARDO formerly was _Old Cant_ for a waggon" (_The Slang Dictionary_). It may be added that it is pure Gipsy, and is still known at the present day to every Rom in England. In Turkish Gipsy, _Vordon_ means a vehicle, in German Gipsy, _Wortin_. "Can you VOKER Rommany?" is given by Mr Hotten as meaning "Can you speak Gipsy,"--but there is no such word in Rommany as _voker_. He probably meant "Can you _rakker_"--pronounced very often _Roker_. Continental Gipsy _Rakkervava_. Mr Hotten derives it from the Latin _Vocare_! I do not know the origin of WELCHER, a betting cheat, but it is worthy of remark that in old Gipsy a _Walshdo_ or Welsher meant a Frenchman (from the German Walsch) or any foreigner of the Latin races. YACK, a watch, probably received its name from the Gipsy _Yak_ an eye, in the old times when watches were called bull's eyes. LUSHY, to be tipsy, and LUSH, are attributed for their origin to the name of Lushington, a once well-known London brewer, but when we find _Losho_ and _Loshano_ in a Gipsy dialect, meaning jolly, from such a Sanskrit root as _Lush_; as Paspati derives it, there seems to be some ground for supposing the words to be purely Rommany. Dr Johnson said of lush that it was "opposite to pale," and this curiously enough shows its first source, whether as a "slang" word or as indicative of colour, since one of its early Sanskrit meanings is _light_ or _radiance_. This identity of the so regarded vulgar and the refined, continually confronts us in studying Rommany. "To make a MULL of anything," meaning thereby to spoil or confuse it, if it be derived, as is said, from the Gipsy, must have come from _Mullo_ meaning _dead_, and the Sanskrit _Mara_. There is, however, no such Gipsy word as mull, in the sense of entangling or spoiling. PROSS is a theatrical slang word, meaning to instruct and train a tyro. As there are several stage words of manifest Gipsy origin, I am inclined to derive this from the old Gipsy _Priss_, to read. In English Gipsy _Prasser_ or _Pross_ means to ridicule or scorn. Something of this is implied in the slang word _Pross_, since it also means "to sponge upon a comrade," &c., "for drink." TOSHERS are in English low language, "men who steal copper from ship's bottoms." I cannot form any direct connection between this word and any in English Gipsy, but it is curious that in Turkish Gipsy _Tasi_ is a cup, and in Turkish Persian it means, according to Paspati, a copper basin used in the baths. It is as characteristic of English Gipsy as of any of its cognate dialects, that we often find lurking in it the most remarkable Oriental fragments, which cannot be directly traced through the regular line of transmission. UP TO TRAP means, in common slang, intelligent. It is worth observing, that in Gipsy, _drab_ or _trap_ (which words were pronounced alike by the first Gipsies who came from Germany to England), is used for medicine or poison, and the employment of the latter is regarded, even at the present, as the greatest Rommany secret. Indeed, it is only a few days since a Gipsy said to me, "If you know _drab_, you're up to everything; for there's nothing goes above that." With _drab_ the Gipsy secures game, fish, pigs, and poultry; he quiets kicking horses until they can be sold; and last, not least, kills or catches rats and mice. As with the Indians of North America, _medicine_--whether to kill or cure--is to the Gipsy the art of arts, and those who affect a knowledge of it are always regarded as the most intelligent. It is, however, remarkable, that the Gipsy, though he lives in fields and woods, is, all the world over, far inferior to the American Indian as regards a knowledge of the properties of herbs or minerals. One may pick the first fifty plants which he sees in the woods, and show them to the first Indian whom he meets, with the absolute certainty that the latter will give him a name for every one, and describe in detail their qualities and their use as remedies. The Gipsy seldom has a name for anything of the kind. The country people in America, and even the farmers' boys, have probably inherited by tradition much of this knowledge from the aborigines. BARNEY, a mob or crowd, may be derived from the Gipsy _baro_, great or many, which sometimes takes the form of _barno_ or _barni_, and which suggests the Hindustani Bahrna "to increase, proceed, to gain, to be promoted;" and Bharna, "to fill, to satisfy, to be filled, &c."--(Brice's "Hindustani and English Dictionary." London, Trubner & Co., 1864). BEEBEE, which the author of the Slang Dictionary declares means a lady, and is "Anglo-Indian," is in general use among English Gipsies for aunt. It is also a respectful form of address to any middle-aged woman, among friends. CULL or CULLY, meaning a man or boy, in Old English cant, is certainly of Gipsy origin. _Chulai_ signifies man in Spanish Gipsy (Borrow), and _Khulai_ a gentleman, according to Paspati; in Turkish Rommany--a distinction which the word _cully_ often preserves in England, even when used in a derogatory sense, as of a dupe. JOMER, a sweetheart or female favourite, has probably some connection in derivation with choomer, a kiss, in Gipsy. BLOKE, a common coarse word for a man, may be of Gipsy origin; since, as the author of the Slang Dictionary declares, it may be found in Hindustani, as Loke. "_Lok_, people, a world, region."--("Brice's Hind. Dictionary.") _Bala' lok_, a gentleman. A DUFFER, which is an old English cant term, expressive of contempt for a man, may be derived from the Gipsy _Adovo_, "that," "that man," or "that fellow there." _Adovo_ is frequently pronounced almost like "a duffer," or "_a duvva_." NIGGLING, which means idling, wasting time, doing anything slowly, may be derived from some other Indo-European source, but in English Gipsy it means to go slowly, "to potter along," and in fact it is the same as the English word. That it is pure old Rommany appears from the fact that it is to be found as _Niglavava_ in Turkish Gipsy, meaning "I go," which is also found in _Nikliovava_ and _Nikavava_, which are in turn probably derived from the Hindustani _Nikalna_, "To issue, to go forth or out," &c. (Brice, Hind. Dic.) _Niggle_ is one of the English Gipsy words which are used in the East, but which I have not been able to find in the German Rommany, proving that here, as in other countries, certain old forms have been preserved, though they have been lost where the vocabulary is far more copious, and the grammar much more perfect. MUG, a face, is derived by Mr Wedgwood from the Italian MOCCA, a mocking or apish mouth (Dictionary of English Etymology), but in English Gipsy we have not only _mui_, meaning the face, but the _older_ forms from which the English word was probably taken, such as Mak'h (Paspati), and finally the Hindustani _Mook_ and the Sanskrit _Mukha_, mouth or face (Shakespeare, Hind. Dic., p. 745). In all cases where a word is so "slangy" as mug, it seems more likely that it should have been derived from Rommany than from Italian, since it is only within a few years that any considerable number of the words of the latter language was imparted to the lower classes of London. BAMBOOZLE, BITE, and SLANG are all declared by the author of the Slang Dictionary to be Gipsy, but, with the exception of the last word, I am unable to verify their Rommany origin. Bambhorna does indeed mean in Hindustani (Brice), "to bite or to worry," and bamboo-bakshish to deceive by paying with a whipping, while _swang_, as signifying mimicking, acting, disguise and sham, whether of words or deeds, very curiously conveys the spirit of the word slang. As for _bite_ I almost hesitate to suggest the possibility of a connection between it and _Bidorna_, to laugh at. I offer not only these three suggested derivations, but also most of the others, with every reservation. For many of these words, as for instance _bite_, etymologists have already suggested far more plausible and more probable derivations, and if I have found a place for Rommany "roots," it is simply because what is the most plausible, and apparently the most probable, is not always the true origin. But as I firmly believe that there is much more Gipsy in English, especially in English slang and cant, than the world is aware of, I think it advisable to suggest what I can, leaving to abler philologists the task of testing its value. Writers on such subjects err, almost without an exception, in insisting on one accurately defined and singly derived source for every word, when perhaps three or four have combined to form it. The habits of thought and methods of study followed by philologists render them especially open to this charge. They wish to establish every form as symmetrical and mathematical, where nature has been freakish and bizarre. Some years ago when I published certain poems in the broken English spoken by Germans, an American philologist, named Haldemann, demonstrated to his own satisfaction that the language which I had put into Hans Breitmann's mouth was inaccurate, because I had not reduced it to an uniform dialect, making the same word the same in spelling and pronunciation on all occasions, when the most accurate observation had convinced me, as it must any one, that those who have only partially learned a language continually vary their methods of uttering its words. That some words have come from one source and been aided by another, is continually apparent in English Gipsy, as for instance in the word for reins, "guiders," which, until the Rommany reached England, was voidas. In this instance the resemblance in sound between the words undoubtedly conduced to an union. Gibberish may have come from the Gipsy, and at the same time owe something to _gabble_, _jabber_, and the old Norse or Icelandic _gifra_. _Lush_ may owe something to Mr Lushington, something to the earlier English _lush_, or rosy, and something to the Gipsy and Sanskrit. It is not at all unlikely that the word _codger_ owes, through _cadger_, a part of its being to _kid_, a basket, as Mr Halliwell suggests (Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words, 1852), and yet come quite as directly from _gorger_ or _gorgio_. "The cheese" probably has the Gipsy-Hidustani _chiz_ for a father, and the French _chose_ for a mother, while both originally sprung thousands of years ago in the great parting of the Aryan nations, to be united after so long a separation in a distant island in the far northern seas. The etymologist who hesitates to adopt this principle of joint sources of derivation, will find abundant instances of something very like it in many English Gipsy words themselves, which, as belonging to a language in extreme decay, have been formed directly from different, but somewhat similarly sounding, words, in the parent German or Eastern Rommany. Thus, _schukker_, pretty; _bi-shukker_, slow; _tschukko_, dry, and _tschororanes_, secretly, have in England all united in _shukar_, which expresses all of their meanings. CHAPTER VII. PROVERBS AND CHANCE PHRASES. An Old Gipsy Proverb--Common Proverbs in Gipsy Dress--Quaint Sayings--Characteristic Rommany Picture-Phrases. Every race has not only its peculiar proverbs, sayings, and catch-words, but also idiomatic phrases which constitute a characteristic chiaroscuro, if not colour. The Gipsies in England have of course borrowed much from the Gorgios, but now and then something of their own appears. In illustration of all this, I give the following expressions noted down from Gipsy conversation:-- _Tacho like my dad_. True like my father. _Kushto like my dad_. Good like my father. This is a true Gipsy proverb, used as a strongly marked indication of approbation or belief. _Kushto bak_. Good luck! As the Genoese of old greeted their friends with the word _Guadagna_! or "Gain!" indicating as Rabelais declares, their sordid character, so the Gipsy, whose life is precarious, and who depends upon chance for his daily bread, replies to "Sarishan!" (good day!) with "Kushto bak!" or "Good luck to you!" The Arabic "Baksheesh" is from the same root as bak, _i.e_., bacht. _When there's a boro bavol_, _huller the tan parl the waver rikk pauli the bor_. When the wind is high, move the tent to the other side of the hedge behind it. That is to say, change sides in an emergency. "_Hatch apre! Hushti! The prastramengro's wellin! Jal the graias avree! Prastee_!" "Jump up! Wide awake there! The policeman's coming! Run the horses off! Scamper!" This is an alarm in camp, and constitutes a sufficiently graphic picture. The hint to run the horses off indicates a very doubtful title to their possession. _The prastramengro pens me mustn't hatch acai_. The policeman says we mustn't stop here. No phrase is heard more frequently among Gipsies, who are continually in trouble with the police as to their right to stop and pitch their tents on commons. _I can hatch apre for pange_ (_panj_) _divvuses_. I can stop here for five days. A common phrase indicating content, and equivalent to, "I would like to sit here for a week." _The graias have taddered at the kas-stoggus_--_we must jal an durer_--_the gorgio's dicked us_! The horses have been pulling at the hay-stack--we must hurry away--the man has seen us! When Gipsies have remained over night on a farm, it sometimes happens that their horses and asses--inadvertently of course--find their way to the haystacks or into a good field. _Humanum est errare_! _Yeck mush can lel a grai ta panni_, _but twenty cant kair him pi_. One man can take a horse to water, but twenty can't make him drink. A well-known proverb. _A chirrico 'dree the mast is worth dui_ '_dree the bor_. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush (hedge). _Never kin a pong dishler nor lel a romni by momeli dood_. Never buy a handkerchief nor choose a wife by candle-light. _Always jal by the divvus_. Always go by the day. _Chin tutes chuckko by tute's kaum_. Cut your coat according to your fancy. This is a Gipsy variation of an old proverb. _Fino ranyas kair fino trushnees_. Nice reeds make nice baskets. _He can't tool his kokerus togetherus_ (_kettenus_). He can't hold himself together. Spoken of an infirm old man. _Too boot of a mush for his kokero_. Too much of a man for himself; _i.e_., he thinks too much of himself. _He_'s _too boot of a mush to rakker a pauveri chavo_. He's too proud too speak to a poor man. This was used, not in depreciation of a certain nobleman, whom the Gipsy who gave it to me had often seen, but admiringly, as if such _hauteur_ were a commendable quality. _More_ (_koomi_) _covvas the well_. There are more things to come. Spoken of food on a table, and equivalent to "Don't go yet." _The_ appears to be used in this as in many other instances, instead of _to_ for the sake of euphony. _The jivaben has jawed avree out of his gad_. The life has gone out of his shirt, _i.e_., body. This intimates a long and close connection between the body and the under garment. "Avree out of," a phrase in which the Gipsy word is immediately followed by its English equivalent, is a common form of expression for the sake of clearness. _I toves my own gad_. I wash my own shirt. A saying indicating celibacy or independence. _Mo rakkerfor a pennis when tute can't lel it_. Don't ask for a thing when you can't get it. _The wongurs kairs the grasni jal_. Money makes the mare go. _It's allers the boro matcho that pet-a-lay 'dree the panni_. It is always the largest fish that falls back into the water. _Bengis your see_! _Beng in tutes bukko_! The devil in your heart. The devil in your body, or bowels. This is a common form of imprecation among Gipsies all over the world. _Jawin sar a mush mullerin adree the boro naflo-ker_. Going like a man dying in the hospital. _Rikker it adree tute's kokero see an' kek'll jin_. Keep it a secret in your own heart, and nobody will know it. _Del sar mush a sigaben to hair his jivaben_. Give every man a chance to make his living. _It's sim to a choomer, kushti for kek till it's pordered atween dui_. It's like a kiss, good for nothing until it is divided between two. _A cloudy sala often purabens to a fino divvus_. A cloudy morning often changes to a fine day. _Iuzhiou panni never jalled avree from a chickli tan_. Clean water never came out from a dirty place. _Sar mush must jal to the cangry, yeck divvus or the waver_. Every man must go to the church (_i.e_., be buried) some day or other. _Kek mush ever lelled adusta mongur_. No man ever got money enough. _Pale the wafri bak jals the kushti bak_. Behind bad luck comes good luck. _Saw mushis ain't got the sim kammoben as wavers_. All men have not the same tastes. _Lel the tacho pirro, an' it's pash kaired_. Well begun is half done. _Whilst tute's rakkerin the cheiruses jal_. While you are talking the _times_ (hours) fly. _Wafri bak in a boro ker_, _sim's adree a bitti her_. There may be adversity in a large house as well as in a small one. _The kushtiest covvas allers jal avree siggest_. The best is soonest gone. _To dick a puro pal is as cammoben as a kushti habben_. To see an old friend is as agreeable as a good meal. _When tuti's pals chinger yeck with a waver_, _don't tute jal adoi_. When your brothers quarrel don't you meddle. _Pet up with the rakkerin an' mor pen chichi_. Endure the chattering and say nothing. _When a mush dels tute a grai tute man dick 'dree lester's mui_. When a man gives you a horse you must not look in his mouth. _Man jal atut the puvius_. Do not go across the field. Intimating that one should travel in the proper road. _There's a kushti sovaben at the kunsus of a duro drum_. There is a sweet sleep at the end of a long road. _Kair the cammodearer_. Make the best of it. _Rikker dovo adree tute's see_. Keep that a secret. _The koomi foki the tacho_. The more the merrier. _The pishom kairs the gudlo_. The bee makes the honey. _Id est_, each does his own work. _The pishom lels the gudlo avree the roozhers_. The bee gets honey from flowers. _Id est_, seeks it in the right place. _Hatch till the dood wells apre_. Wait till the moon rises. A very characteristic Gipsy saying. _Can't pen shukker atut lendy_. You cannot say aught against them. _He's boccalo ajaw to haw his chokkas_. He's hungry enough to eat his shoes. _The puro beng is a fino mush_! The devil is a nice character. _Mansha tu pal_! Cheer up, brother. Be a man! Spoken to any one who seems dejected. This corresponds partially to the German Gipsy _Manuschwari_! which is, however, rather an evil wish and a curse, meaning according to Dr Liebich (_Die Zigeuner_) the gallows, dire need, and epilepsy. Both in English and German it is, however, derived from Manusch, a man. _He's a hunnalo nakin mush_. He is an avaricious man. Literally, a spiteful nosed man. _Tute can hair a covva ferridearer if you jal shukar_. You can do a thing better if you go about it secretly. _We're lullero adoi we don't jin the jib_. We are dumb where we do not understand the language. _Chucked_ (_chivved_) _saw the habben avree_. He threw all the victuals about. A melancholy proverb, meaning that state of irritable intoxication when a man comes home and abuses his family. _A myla that rikkers tute is kushtier to kistur than a grai that chivs you apre_. An ass that carries you is better than a horse that throws you off. _The juva_, _that sikkers her burk will sikker her bull_. "Free of her lips, free of her hips." _He sims mandy dree the mui_--_like a puvengro_. He resembles me--like a potato. _Yeck hotchewitchi sims a waver as yeck bubby sims the waver_. One hedgehog is as like another as two peas. _He mored men dui_. He killed both of us. A sarcastic expression. _I dicked their stadees an langis sherros_. I saw their hats on their heads. Apropos of amazement at some very ordinary thing. _When you've tatti panni and rikker tutes kokero pash matto you can jal apre the wen sar a grai_. When you have brandy (spirits), and keep yourself half drunk, you can go through the winter like a horse. CHAPTER VIII. INDICATIONS OF THE INDIAN ORIGIN OF THE GIPSIES. Boro Duvel, or "Great God," an Old Gipsy term for Water--Bishnoo or Vishnu, the Rain-God--The Rain, called God's Blood by Gipsies--The Snow, "Angel's Feathers."--Mahadeva--Buddha--The Simurgh--The Pintni or Mermaid--The Nag or Blind-Worm--Nagari and Niggering--The Nile--Nats and Nautches, Naubat and Nobbet--A Puncher--Pitch, Piller and Pivlibeebee--Quod--Kishmet or Destiny--The Koran in England--"Sass"-- Sherengro--Sarserin--Shali or Rice--The Shaster in England--The Evil Eye--Sikhs--Stan, Hindostan, Iranistan--The true origin of Slang--Tat, the Essence of Being--Bahar and Bar--The Origin of the Words Rom and Romni.--Dom and Domni--The Hindi tem--Gipsy and Hindustani points of the Compass--Salaam and Shulam--Sarisham!--The Cups--Women's treading on objects--Horseflesh--English and Foreign Gipsies--Bohemian and Rommany. A learned Sclavonian--Michael von Kogalnitschan--has said of Rommany, that he found it interesting to be able to study a Hindu dialect in the heart of Europe. He is quite right; but as mythology far surpasses any philology in interest, as regards its relations to poetry, how much more wonderful is it to find--to-day in England--traces of the tremendous avatars, whose souls were gods, long ago in India. And though these traces be faint, it is still apparent enough that they really exist. One day an old Gipsy, who is said to be more than usually "deep" in Rommany, and to have had unusual opportunity for acquiring such knowledge from Gipsies older and deeper than himself, sent word to me, to know if "the rye" was aware that Boro Duvel, or the Great God, was an old Rommany expression for water? I thought that this was a singular message to come from a tent at Battersea, and asked my special Gipsy _factotum_, why God should be called water, or water, God? And he replied in the following words: "Panni is the Boro Duvel, and it is Bishnoo or Vishnoo, because it pells alay from the Boro Duvel. '_Vishnu is the Boro Duvel then_?'--Avali. There can't be no stretch adoi--can there, rya? Duvel is Duvel all the world over--but by the right _formation_, Vishnoo is the Duvel's ratt. I've shuned adovo but dusta cheiruses. An' the snow is poris, that jals from the angels' winguses. And what I penned, that Bishnoo is the Duvel's ratt, is puro Rommanis, and jinned by saw our foki." {110} Now in India, Vishnu and Indra are the gods of the rain. The learned, who insist that as there ought to be, so there must be, but a single source of derivation for every word, ignoring the fact that a dozen causes may aid in its formation, will at once declare that, as Bishnoo or Vishnoo is derived from the old Gipsy Brishni or Brschindo, and this from the Hindu Barish, and the Sanscrit Varish or Prish, there can be "no rational ground" for connecting the English Gipsy word with the Hindu god. But who can tell what secret undercurrents of dim tradition and vague association may have come down to the present day from the olden time. That rain should be often called God's blood, and water bearing the name of Vishnu be termed God, and that this should be regarded as a specially curious bit of Gipsy lore, is at any rate remarkable enough. As for the Gipsies in question ever having heard of Vishnu and other gods (as a friend suggests to me), save in this dim tradition, I can only say, that I doubt whether either of them ever heard even of the apostles; and I satisfied myself that the one who brought the secret had never heard of Joseph, was pitiably ignorant of Potiphar's wife, and only knew of "Mozhus" or Moses, that he "once heerd he was on the bulrushes." Mahadeva, or Mahadev, exists apparently in the mouth of every English Gipsy in the phrase "Maduveleste!" or, God bless you. This word Maduvel is often changed to Mi--duvel, and is generally supposed to mean "My God;" but I was once assured, that the _old_ and correct form was Ma, meaning great, and that it only meant great in connection with Duvel. A curious illustration of a lost word returning by chance to its original source was given one day, when I asked a Gipsy if he knew such a word as Buddha? He promptly replied, "Yes; that a booderi or boodha mush was an _old_ man;" and pointing to a Chinese image of Buddha, said: "That is a Boohda." He meant nothing more than that it represented an aged person, but the coincidence was at least remarkable. Budha in Hindustani really signifies an old man. The same Gipsy, observing on the chimney-piece a quaint image of a Chinese griffin--a hideous little goblin with wings--informed me that the Gipsy name for it was a Seemor or Seemorus, and further declared that the same word meant a dolphin. "But a dolphin has no wings," I remarked. "Oh, hasn't it?" rejoined the Gipsy; "its _fins_ are its wings, if it hadn't wings it could not be a Seemor." I think I recognise in this Seemor, the Simurgh or Griffin of Persian fable. {112} I could learn nothing more than this, that the Gipsy had always regarded a dolphin as resembling a large-headed winged monster, which he called a Seemor. NAG is a snake in Hindustani. The English Gipsies still retain this primaeval word, but apply it only to the blind-worm. It is, however, remarkable that the Nag, or blind-worm, is, in the opinion of the Rommany, the most mysterious of creatures. I have been told that "when a nag mullers it's hardus as a kosh, and you can pogger it like a swagler's toov," "When a blind-worm dies it is as hard as a stick, and you can break it like a pipe-stem." They also believe that the Nag is gifted, so far as his will goes, with incredible malignity, and say of him-- "If he could dick sim's he can shoon, He wouldn't mukk mush or grai jal an the drum." "If he could see as well as he can hear, he would not allow man or horse to go on the road." The Hindi alphabet Deva Nagari, "the writing of the gods," is commonly called Nagari. A common English Gipsy word for writing is "niggering." "He niggered sar he could pooker adree a chinamangree." The resemblance between _nagari_ and _nigger_ may, it is true, be merely accidental, but the reader, who will ascertain by examination of the vocabulary the proportion of Rommany words unquestionably Indian, will admit that the terms have probably a common origin. From Sanskrit to English Gipsy may be regarded as a descent "from the Nile to a street-gutter," but it is amusing at least to find a passable parallel for this simile. _Nill_ in Gipsy is a rivulet, a river, or a gutter. Nala is in Hindustani a brook; nali, a kennel: and it has been conjectured that the Indian word indicates that of the great river of Egypt. All of my readers have heard of the Nautch girls, the so-called _bayaderes_ or dancing-girls of India; but very few, I suppose, are aware that their generic name is remotely preserved in several English Gipsy words. Nachna in Hindustani means to dance, while the Nats, who are a kind of Gipsies, are generally jugglers, dancers, and musicians. A _natua_ is one of these Nats, and in English Gipsy _nautering_ means going about with music. Other attractions may be added, but, as I have heard a Gipsy say, "it always takes music to go _a-nauterin_' or _nobbin_'." _Naubat_ in the language of the Hindu Nats signifies "time, turn, and instruments of music sounding at the gate of a great man, at certain intervals." "Nobbet," which is a Gipsy word well known to all itinerant negro minstrels, means to go about with music to get money. "To nobbet round the tem, bosherin'." It also implies time or turn, as I inferred from what I was told on inquiry. "You can shoon dovo at the wellgooras when yeck rakkers the waver, You jal and nobbet." "You can hear that at the fairs when one says to the other, You go and nobbet," meaning, "It is your turn to play now." _Nachna_, to dance (Hindustani), appears to be reflected in the English Gipsy "nitchering," moving restlessly, fidgeting and dancing about. Nobbeting, I was told, "_is_ nauterin'--it's all one, rya!" _Paejama_ in India means very loose trousers; and it is worth noting that Gipsies call loose leggings, trousers, or "overalls," peajamangris. This may be Anglo-Indian derived from the Gorgios. Whether "pea-jacket" belongs in part to this family, I will not attempt to decide. Living constantly among the vulgar and uneducated, it is not to be wondered at that the English Gipsies should have often given a vulgar English and slangy term to many words originally Oriental. I have found that, without exception, there is a disposition among most people to promptly declare that all these words were taken, "of course," from English slang. Thus, when I heard a Gipsy speak of his fist as a "puncher," I naturally concluded that he did so because he regarded its natural use to be to "punch" heads with. But on asking him why he gave it that name, he promptly replied, "Because it takes pange (five) fingers to make a fist." And since _panja_ means in Hindustani a hand with the five fingers extended, it is no violent assumption to conclude that even _puncher_ may owe quite as much to Hindustani as to English, though I cheerfully admit that it would perhaps never have existed had it not been for English associations. Thus a Gipsy calls a pedlar a _packer_ or _pack-mush_. Now, how much of this word is due to the English word pack or packer, and how much to _paikar_, meaning in Hindustani a pedlar? I believe that there has been as much of the one as of the other, and that this doubly-formative influence, or _influence of continuation_, should be seriously considered as regards all Rommany words which resemble in sound others of the same meaning, either in Hindustani or in English. It should also be observed that the Gipsy, while he is to the last degree inaccurate and a blunderer as regards _English_ words (a fact pointed out long ago by the Rev. Mr Crabb), has, however, retained with great persistence hundreds of Hindu terms. Not being very familiar with peasant English, I have generally found Gipsies more intelligible in Rommany than in the language of their "stepfather-land," and have often asked my principal informant to tell me in Gipsy what I could not comprehend in "Anglo-Saxon." "To pitch together" does not in English mean to stick together, although _pitch_ sticks, but it does in Gipsy; and in Hindustani, _pichchi_ means sticking or adhering. I find in all cases of such resemblance that the Gipsy word has invariably a closer affinity as regards meaning to the Hindu than to the English, and that its tendencies are always rather Oriental than Anglo-Saxon. As an illustration, I may point out _piller_ (English Gipsy) to attack, having an affinity in _pilna_ (Hindustani), with the same meaning. Many readers will at once revert to _pill_, _piller_, and _pillage_--all simply _implying_ attack, but really meaning to _rob_, or robbery. But _piller_ in English Gipsy also means, as in Hindustani, to assault indecently; and this is almost conclusive as to its Eastern origin. It is remarkable that the Gipsies in England, or all the world over, have, like the Hindus, a distinctly descriptive expression for every degree of relationship. Thus a _pivli beebee_ in English Gipsy, or _pupheri bahim_ in Hindustani, is a father's sister's daughter. This in English, as in French or German, is simply a cousin. _Quod_, imprisonment, is an old English cant and Gipsy word which Mr Hotten attempts to derive from a college quadrangle; but when we find that the Hindu _quaid_ also means confinement, the probability is that it is to it we owe this singular term. There are many words in which it is evident that the Hindu Gipsy meaning has been shifted from a cognate subject. Thus _putti_, the hub of a wheel in Gipsy, means the felly of a wheel in Hindustani. _Kaizy_, to rub a horse down, or scrape him, in the original tongue signifies "to tie up a horse's head by passing the bridle to his tail," to prevent his kicking while being rubbed or 'scraped. _Quasur_, or _kasur_, is in Hindustani flame: in English Gipsy _kessur_ signifies smoke; but I have heard a Gipsy more than once apply the same term to flame and smoke, just as _miraben_ stands for both life and death. Very Oriental is the word kismet, or destiny, as most of my readers are probably aware. It is also English Gipsy, and was explained to me as follows: "A man's _kismut_ is what he's bound to kair--it's the kismut of his see. Some men's kismut is better'n wavers, 'cos they've got more better chiv. Some men's kismut's to bikin grais, and some to bikin kanis; but saw foki has their kismut, an' they can't pen chichi elsus." In English, "A man's destiny is what he is bound to do--it is the fate of his soul (life). Some men's destiny is better than others, because they have more command of language. Some are fated to sell horses, and others to sell hens; but all people have their mission, and can do nothing else." _Quran_ in the East means the Koran, and quran uthara to take an oath. In English Gipsy kurran, or kurraben, is also an oath, and it seems strange that such a word from such a source should exist in England. It is, however, more interesting as indicating that the Gipsies did not leave India until familiarised with Mohammedan rule. "He kaired his kurran pre the Duvel's Bavol that he would jal 'vree the tem for a besh." "He swore his oath upon God's Breath (the Bible) that he would leave the country for a year." Upon inquiring of the Gipsy who uttered this phrase why he called the Bible "God's Breath," he replied naively, "It's sim to the Duvel's jivaben, just the same as His breathus." "It is like God's life, just the same as His breath." It is to be observed that _nearly all the words which Gipsies claim as Gipsy_, _notwithstanding their resemblance to English_, _are to be found in Hindustani_. Thus _rutter_, to copulate, certainly resembles the English _rut_, but it is quite as much allied to _rutana_ (Hindustani), meaning the same thing. "Sass," or sauce, meaning in Gipsy, bold, forward impudence, is identical with the same English word, but it agrees very well with the Hindu _sahas_, bold, and was perhaps born of the latter term, although it has been brought up by the former. Dr A. F. Pott remarks of the German Gipsy word _schetra_, or violin, that he could nowhere find in Rommany a similar instrument with an Indian name. Surrhingee, or sarunghee, is the common Hindu word for a violin; and the English Gipsies, on being asked if they knew it, promptly replied that it was "an old word for the neck or head of a fiddle." It is true they also called it sarengro, surhingro, and shorengro, the latter word indicating that it might have been derived from sherro-engro--_i.e_., "head-thing." But after making proper allowance for the Gipsy tendency, or rather passion, for perverting words towards possible derivations, it seems very probable that the term is purely Hindu. Zuhru, or Zohru, means in the East Venus, or the morning star; and it is pleasant to find a reflection of the rosy goddess in the Gipsy _soor_, signifying "early in the morning." I have been told that there is a Rommany word much resembling _soor_, meaning the early star, but my informant could not give me its exact sound. _Dood of the sala_ is the common name for Venus. Sunrise is indicated by the eccentric term of "_kam-left the panni_" or sun-left the water. "It wells from the waver tem you jin," said my informant, in explanation. "The sun comes from a foreign country, and first leaves that land, and then leaves the sea, before it gets here." When a Gipsy is prowling for hens, or any other little waifs, and wishes to leave a broken trail, so that his tracks may not be identified, he will walk with the feet interlocked--one being placed outside the other--making what in America is very naturally termed a snake-trail. This he calls _sarserin_, and in Hindu _sarasana_ means to creep along like a snake. Supposing that the Hindu word for rice, _shali_, could hardly have been lost, I asked a Gipsy if he knew it, and he at once replied, "_Shali giv_ is small grain-corn, werry little grainuses indeed." _Shalita_ in Hindustani is a canvas sack in which a tent is carried. The English Gipsy has confused this word with _shelter_, and yet calls a small or "shelter" tent a shelter _gunno_, or bag. "For we rolls up the big tent in the shelter tent, to carry it." A tent cloth or canvas is in Gipsy a _shummy_, evidently derived from the Hindu shumiyana, a canopy or awning. It is a very curious fact that the English Gipsies call the Scripture or Bible the _Shaster_, and I record this with the more pleasure, since it fully establishes Mr Borrow as the first discoverer of the word in Rommany, and vindicates him from the suspicion with which his assertion was received by Dr Pott. On this subject the latter speaks as follows:-- "Eschastra de Moyses, l. ii. 22; [Greek text], M.; Sanskrit, castra; Hind., shastr, m. Hindu religious books, Hindu law, Scripture, institutes of science (Shakespeare). In proportion to the importance of the real existence of this word among the Gipsies must be the suspicion with which we regard it, when it depends, as in this instance, only on Borrow's assertion, who, in case of need, to supply a non-existing word, may have easily taken one from the Sanskrit."--_Die Zigeuner_, vol. ii. p. 224. The word _shaster_ was given to me very distinctly by a Gipsy, who further volunteered the information, that it not only meant the Scriptures, but also any written book whatever, and somewhat marred the dignity of the sublime association of the Bible and Shaster, by adding that "any feller's bettin'-book on the race-ground was a _shasterni lil_, 'cos it's written." I have never heard of the evil eye among the lower orders of English, but among Gipsies a belief in it is as common as among Hindus, and both indicate it by the same word, _seer_ or _sihr_. In India _sihr_, it is true, is applied to enchantment or magic in general, but in this case the whole may very well stand for a part. I may add that my own communications on the subject of the _jettatura_, and the proper means of averting it by means of crab's claws, horns, and the usual sign of the fore and little finger, were received by a Gipsy auditor with great faith and interest. To show, teach, or learn, is expressed in Gipsy by the word _sikker_, _sig_, or _seek_. The reader may not be aware that the Sikhs of India derive their name from the same root, as appears from the following extract from Dr Paspati's _etudes_: "_Sikava_, v. prim. 1 cl. 1 conj. part, siklo', montrer, apprendre. Sanskrit, s'iks', to learn, to acquire science; siksaka, adj., a learner, a teacher. Hindustani, seek'hna, v.a., to learn, to acquire; seek'h, s.f., admonition." I next inquired why they were called Seeks, and they told me it was a word borrowed from one of the commandments of their founder, which signifies 'learn thou,' and that it was adopted to distinguish the sect soon after he disappeared. The word, as is well known, has the same import in the Hindoovee" ("Asiatic Researches," vol. i. p. 293, and vol. ii. p. 200). This was a noble word to give a name to a body of followers supposed to be devoted to knowledge and truth. The English Gipsy calls a mermaid a _pintni_; in Hindu it is _bint ool buhr_, a maid of the sea. Bero in Gipsy is the sea or a ship, but the Rommany had reduced the term to the original _bint_, by which a girl is known all over the East. "Ya bint' Eeskendereyeh." _Stan_ is a word confounded by Gipsies with both _stand_, a place at the races or a fair, and _tan_, a stopping-place, from which it was probably derived. But it agrees in sound and meaning with the Eastern _stan_, "a place, station," and by application "country," so familiar to the reader in Hindustan, Iranistan, Beloochistan, and many other names. It is curious to find in the Gipsy tan not only the root-word of a tent, but also the "Alabama," or "here we rest," applied by the world's early travellers to so many places in the Morning Land. _Slang_ does _not_ mean, as Mr Hotten asserts, the secret language of the Gipsies, but is applied by them to acting; to speaking theatrical language, as in a play; to being an acrobat, or taking part in a show. It is a very old Gipsy word, and indicates plainly enough the origin of the cant word "slang." Using other men's words, and adopting a conventional language, strikes a Gipsy as _artificial_; and many men not Gipsies express this feeling by speaking of conventional stage language as "theatrical slang." Its antiquity and origin appear in the Hindu swangi, an actor; swang, mockery, disguise, sham; and swang lena, to imitate. As regards the sound of the words, most English Gipsies would call swang "slang" as faithfully as a Cockney would exchange _hat_ with '_at_. Deepest among deep words in India is _tat_, an element, a principle, the essence of being; but it is almost amusing to hear an English Gipsy say "that's the tatto (or tat) of it," meaning thereby "the thing itself," the whole of it. And thus the ultimate point of Brahma, and the infinite depth of all transcendental philosophy, may reappear in a cheap, portable, and convenient form, as a declaration that the real meaning of some mysterious transaction was that it amounted to a sixpenny swindle at thimble-rig; for to such base uses have the Shaster and the Vedas come in England. It is, however, pleasant to find the Persian _bahar_, a garden, recalling Bahar Danush, the garden of knowledge (Hindustani, bagh), reappearing in the English Gipsy _bar_. "She pirryed adree the bar lellin ruzhers." "She walked in the garden plucking flowers." And it is also like old times and the Arabian Nights at home, to know that bazaar is a Gipsy word, though it be now quite obsolete, and signifies no longer a public street for shops, but an open field. But of all words which identify the Gipsies with the East, and which prove their Hindu origin, those by which they call themselves Rom and Romni are most conclusive. In India the Dom caste is one of the lowest, whose business it is for the men to remove carcasses, while the Domni, or female Dom, sings at weddings. Everything known of the Dom identifies them with Gipsies. As for the sound of the word, any one need only ask the first Gipsy whom he meets to pronounce the Hindu _d_ or the word Dom, and he will find it at once converted into _l_ or _r_. There are, it is true, other castes and classes in India, such as Nats, the roving Banjaree, Thugs, &c., all of which have left unmistakable traces on the Gipsies, from which I conclude that at some time when these pariahs became too numerous and dangerous there was a general expulsion of them from India. {124} I would call particular attention to my suggestion that the Corn of India is the true parent of the Rom, because all that is known of the former caste indicates an affinity between them. The Dom pariahs of India who carry out or touch dead bodies, also eat the bodies of animals that have died a natural death, as do the Gipsies of England. The occupation of the Domni and Romni, dancing and making music at festivals, are strikingly allied. I was reminded of this at the last opera which I witnessed at Covent Garden, on seeing stage Gipsies introduced as part of the fete in "La Traviata." A curious indication of the Indian origin of the Gipsies may be found in the fact that they speak of every foreign country beyond sea as the Hindi tem, Hindi being in Hindustani their own word for Indian. Nothing was more natural than that the Rommany on first coming to England should speak of far-away regions as being the same as the land they had left, and among such ignorant people the second generation could hardly fail to extend the term and make it generic. At present an Irishman is a _Hindi tem mush_, or Hindu; and it is rather curious, by the way, that a few years ago in America everything that was _anti_-Irish or native American received the same appellation, in allusion to the exclusive system of castes. Although the Gipsies have sadly confounded the Hindu terms for the "cardinal points," no one can deny that their own are of Indian origin. Uttar is north in Hindustani, and Utar is west in Rommany. As it was explained to me, I was told that "Utar means west and wet too, because the west wind is wet." _Shimal_ is also north in Hindu; and on asking a Gipsy what it meant, he promptly replied, "It's where the snow comes from." _Poorub_ is the east in Hindustani; in Gipsy it is changed to porus, and means the west. This confusion of terms is incidental to every rude race, and it must be constantly borne in mind that it is very common in Gipsy. Night suggests day, or black white, to the most cultivated mind; but the Gipsy confuses the name, and calls yesterday and to-morrow, or light and shadow, by the same word. More than this, he is prone to confuse almost all opposites on all occasions, and wonders that you do not promptly accept and understand what his own people comprehend. This is not the case among the Indians of North America, because oratory, involving the accurate use of words, is among them the one great art; nor are the negroes, despite their heedless ignorance, so deficient, since they are at least very fond of elegant expressions and forcible preaching. I am positive and confident that it would be ten times easier to learn a language from the wildest Indian on the North American continent than from any real English Gipsy, although the latter may be inclined with all his heart and soul to teach, even to the extent of passing his leisure days in "skirmishing" about among the tents picking up old Rommany words. Now the Gipsy has passed his entire life in the busiest scenes of civilisation, and is familiar with all its refined rascalities; yet notwithstanding this, I have found by experience that the most untutored Kaw or Chippewa, as ignorant of English as I was ignorant of his language, and with no means of intelligence between us save signs, was a genius as regards ability to teach language when compared to most Gipsies. Everybody has heard of the Oriental _salaam_! In English Gipsy _shulam_ means a greeting. "Shulam to your kokero!" is another form of _sarishan_! the common form of salutation. The Hindu _sar i sham_ signifies "early in the evening," from which I infer that the Dom or Rom was a nocturnal character like the Night-Cavalier of Quevedo, and who sang when night fell, "Arouse ye, then, my merry men!" or who said "Good- evening!" just as we say (or used to say) "Good-day!" {127} A very curious point of affinity between the Gipsies and Hindus may be found in a custom which was described to me by a Rom in the following words:-- "When a mush mullers, an' the juvas adree his ker can't _kair habben_ because they feel so naflo 'bout the rom being gone, or the chavi or juvalo mush, or whoever it may be, then their friends for trin divvuses kairs their habben an' bitchers it a lende. An' that's tacho Rommanis, an' they wouldn't be dessen Rommany chuls that wouldn't kair dovo for mushis in sig an' tukli." "When a man dies, and the women in his house cannot prepare food (literally, make food) as they feel so badly because the man is gone (or the girl, or young man, or whoever it may be), then their friends for three days prepare their food and send it to them. And that is real Rommany (custom), and they would not be decent Rommany fellows who would not do that for people in sorrow and distress." Precisely the same custom prevails in India, where it is characterised by a phrase strikingly identical with the English Gipsy term for it. In England it is to _kair habben_, in Hindustani (Brice, Hin. Dict.) "karwa khana is the food that is sent for three days from relations to a family in which one of the members has died." The Hindu karwana, to make or to cause to do, and kara, to do, are the origin of the English Gipsy _kair_ (to make or cook), while from khana, or 'hana, to eat, comes _haw_ and _habben_, or food. The reader who is familiar with the religious observances of India is probably aware of the extraordinary regard in which the cup is held by many sects. In Germany, as Mr Liebich declares, drinking-cups are kept by the Gipsies with superstitious regard, the utmost care being taken that they never fall to the ground. "Should this happen, the cup is _never_ used again. By touching the ground it becomes sacred, and should no more be used. When a Gipsy cares for nothing else, he keeps his drinking-cup under every circumstance." I have not been able to ascertain whether this species of regard for the cup ever existed in England, but I know of many who could not be induced to drink from a white cup or bowl, the reason alleged being the very frivolous and insufficient one, that it reminded them of a blood-basin. It is almost needless to say that this could never have been the origin of the antipathy. No such consideration deters English peasants from using white crockery drinking-vessels. In Germany, among the Gipsies, if a woman has trodden on any object, or if the skirt of her dress has swept over or touched it, it is either destroyed, or if of value, is disposed of or never used again. I found on inquiry that the same custom still prevails among the old Gipsy families in England, and that if the object be a crockery plate or cup, it is at once broken. For this reason, even more than for convenience, real Gipsies are accustomed to hang every cooking utensil, and all that pertains to the table, high up in their waggons. It is almost needless to point out how closely these ideas agree with those of many Hindus. The Gipsy eats every and any thing except horseflesh. Among themselves, while talking Rommany, they will boast of having eaten _mullo baulors_, or pigs that have died a natural death, and _hotchewitchi_, or hedgehog, as did the belle of a Gipsy party to me at Walton-on-Thames in the summer of 1872. They can give no reason whatever for this inconsistent abstinence. But Mr Simson in his "History of the Gipsies" has adduced a mass of curious facts, indicating a special superstitious regard for the horse among the Rommany in Scotland, and identifying it with certain customs in India. It would be a curious matter of research could we learn whether the missionaries of the Middle Ages, who made abstinence from horse-flesh a point of salvation (when preaching in Germany and in Scandinavia), derived their superstition, in common with the Gipsies, from India. There can be no doubt that in seeking for the Indian origin of many Gipsy words we are often bewildered, and that no field in philology presents such opportunity for pugnacious critics to either attack or defend the validity of the proofs alleged. The very word for "doubtful" or "ambiguous," _dubeni_ or _dub'na_, is of this description. Is it derived from the Hindu _dhoobd'ha_, which every Gipsy would pronounce _doobna_, or from the English _dubious_, which has been made to assume the Gipsy- Indian termination _na_? Of this word I was naively told, "If a juva's bori (girl is big), that's _dub'ni_; and if she's shuvalo (swelled up), _that's_ dubni: for it may pen (say) she's kaired a tikno (is _enceinte_), and it may pen she hasn't." But when we find that the English Gipsy also employs the word _dukkeni_ for "doubtful," and compare it with the Hindustani _dhokna_ or _dukna_, the true derivation becomes apparent. Had Dr Pott or Dr Paspati had recourse to the plan which I adopted of reading a copious Hindustani dictionary entirely through, word by word, to a patient Gipsy, noting down all which he recognised, and his renderings of them, it is very possible that these learned men would in Germany and Turkey have collected a mass of overwhelming proof as to the Indian origin of Rommany. At present the dictionary which I intend shall follow this work shows that, so far as the Rommany dialects have been published, that of England contains a far greater number of almost unchanged Hindu words than any other, a fact to which I would especially call the attention of all who are interested in this curious language. And what is more, I am certain that the supply is far from being exhausted, and that by patient research among old Gipsies, the Anglo-Rommany vocabulary might be increased to possibly five or six thousand words. It is very possible that when they first came from the East to Europe the Gipsies had a very copious supply of words, for there were men among them of superior intelligence. But in Turkey, as in Germany, they have not been brought into such close contact with the _Gorgios_ as in England: they have not preserved their familiarity with so many ideas, and consequently their vocabulary has diminished. Most of the Continental Gipsies are still wild, black wanderers, unfamiliar with many things for which the English Gipsy has at least a name, and to which he has continued to apply old Indian words. Every one familiar with the subject knows that the English Gipsies in America are far more intelligent than their German Rommany cousins. A few years ago a large party of the latter appeared at an English racecourse, where they excited much attention, but greatly disgusted the English Roms, not as rivals, but simply from their habits. "They couldn't do a thing but beg," said my informant. "They jinned (knew) nothing else: they were the dirtiest Gipsies I ever saw; and when the juvas suckled the children, they sikkered their burks (showed their breasts) as I never saw women do before foki." Such people would not, as a rule, know so many words as those who looked down on them. The conclusion which I have drawn from studying Anglo-Rommany, and different works on India, is that the Gipsies are the descendants of a vast number of Hindus, of the primitive tribes of Hindustan, who were expelled or emigrated from that country early in the fourteenth century. I believe they were chiefly of the primitive tribes, because evidence which I have given indicates that they were identical with the two castes of the Doms and Nats--the latter being, in fact, at the present day, the real Gipsies of India. Other low castes and outcasts were probably included in the emigration, but I believe that future research will prove that they were all of the old stock. The first Pariahs of India may have consisted entirely of those who refused to embrace the religion of their conquerors. It has been coolly asserted by a recent writer that Gipsies are not proved to be of Hindu origin because "a few" Hindu words are to be found in their language. What the proportion of such words really is may be ascertained from the dictionary which will follow this work. But throwing aside all the evidence afforded by language, traditions, manners, and customs, one irrefutable proof still remains in the physical resemblance between Gipsies all the world over and the natives of India. Even in Egypt, the country claimed by the Gipsies themselves as their remote great-grandfather-land, the native Gipsy is not Egyptian in his appearance but Hindu. The peculiar brilliancy of the eye and its expression in the Indian is common to the Gipsy, but not to the Egyptian or Arab; and every donkey-boy in Cairo knows the difference between the _Rhagarin_ and the native as to personal appearance. I have seen both Hindus in Cairo and Gipsies, and the resemblance to each other is as marked as their difference from Egyptians. A few years ago an article on the Rommany language appeared in the "Atlantic Magazine" (Boston, U.S., America), in which the writer declared that Gipsy has very little affinity with Hindustani, but a great deal with Bohemian or Chech--in fact, he maintained, if I remember right, that a Chech and a Rom could understand one another in either of their respective tongues. I once devoted my time for several months to unintermitted study of Chech, and consequently do not speak in entire ignorance when I declare that true Rommany contains scores of Hindu words to one of Bohemian. {133} CHAPTER IX. MISCELLANEA. Gipsies and Cats.--"Christians."--Christians not "Hanimals."--Green, Red, and Yellow.--The Evil Eye.--Models and Morals.--Punji and Sponge-cake.--Troubles with a Gipsy Teacher.--Pilferin' and Bilberin'.--Khapana and Hopper.--Hoppera-glasses.--The little wooden Bear.--Huckeny Ponkee, Hanky Panky, Hocus-pocus, and Hokkeny Baro.--Burning a Gipsy Witch alive in America.--Daniel in the Lions' Den.--Gipsy Life in Summer.--The Gavengroes.--The Gipsy's Story of Pitch- and-Toss.--"You didn't fight your Stockings off?"--The guileless and venerable Gipsy.--The Gipsy Professor of Rommany and the Police.--His Delicacy of Feeling.--The old Gipsy and the beautiful Italian Models.--The Admired of the Police.--Honesty strangely illustrated.--Gipsies willing or unwilling to communicate Rommany.--Romance and Eccentricity of Gipsy Life and Manners.--The Gipsy Grandmother and her Family.--A fine Frolic interrupted.--The Gipsy Gentleman from America.--No such Language as Rommany.--Hedgehogs.--The Witch Element in Gipsy Life.--Jackdaws and Dogs.--Their Uses.--Lurchers and Poachers.--A Gipsy Camp.--The Ancient Henry.--I am mistaken for a Magistrate or Policeman.--Gipsies of Three Grades.--The Slangs.--Jim and the Twigs.--Beer rained from Heaven.--Fortune-telling.--A golden Opportunity to live at my Ease.--Petulamengro.--I hear of a New York Friend.--The Professor's Legend of the Olive-leaf and the Dove, "A wery tidy little Story."--The Story of Samson as given by a Gipsy.--The great Prize-fighter who was hocussed by a Fancy Girl.--The Judgment Day.--Passing away in Sleep or Dream to God.--A Gipsy on Ghosts.--Dogs which can kill Ghosts.--Twisted- legged Stealing.--How to keep Dogs away from a Place.--Gipsies avoid Unions.--A Gipsy Advertisement in the "Times."--A Gipsy Poetess and a Rommany Song. It would be a difficult matter to decide whether the superstitions and odd fancies entertained by the Gipsies in England are derived from the English peasantry, were brought from India, or picked up on the way. This must be left for ethnologists more industrious and better informed than myself to decide. In any case, the possible common Aryan source will tend to obscure the truth, just as it often does the derivation of Rommany words. But nothing can detract from the inexpressibly quaint spirit of Gipsy originality in which these odd _credos_ are expressed, or surpass the strangeness of the reasons given for them. If the spirit of the goblin and elfin lingers anywhere on earth, it is among the Rommany. One day I questioned a Gipsy as to cats, and what his opinion was of black ones, correctly surmising that he would have some peculiar ideas on the subject, and he replied-- "Rommanys never lel kaulo matchers adree the ker, 'cause they're mullos, and beng is covvas; and the puro beng, you jin, is kaulo, an' has shtor herros an' dui mushis--an' a sherro. But pauno matchers san kushto, for they're sim to pauno ghosts of ranis." Which means in English, "Gipsies never have black cats in the house, because they are unearthly creatures, and things of the devil; and the old devil, you know, is black, and has four legs and two arms--and a head. But white cats are good, for they are like the white ghosts of ladies." It is in the extraordinary reason given for liking white cats that the subtle Gipsyism of this cat-commentary consists. Most people would consider a resemblance to a white ghost rather repulsive. But the Gipsy lives by night a strange life, and the reader who peruses carefully the stories which are given in this volume, will perceive in them a familiarity with goblin-land and its denizens which has become rare among "Christians." But it may be that I do this droll old Gipsy great wrong in thus apparently classing him with the heathen, since he one day manifested clearly enough that he considered he had a right to be regarded as a true believer--the only drawback being this, that he was apparently under the conviction that all human beings were "Christians." And the way in which he declared it was as follows: I had given him the Hindustani word _janwur_, and asked him if he knew such a term, and he answered-- "Do I jin sitch a lav (know such a word) as _janwur_ for a hanimal? Avo (yes); it's _jomper_--it's a toadus" (toad). "But do you jin the lav (know the word) for an _animal_?" "Didn't I just pooker tute (tell you) it was a jomper? for if a toad's a hanimal, _jomper_ must be the lav for hanimal." "But don't you jin kek lav (know a word) for sar the covvas that have jivaben (all living things)--for jompers, and bitti matchers (mice), and gryas (horses)? You and I are animals." "Kek, rya, kek (no, sir, no), we aren't hanimals. _Hanimals_ is critters that have something queer about 'em, such as the lions an' helephants at the well-gooroos (fairs), or cows with five legs, or won'ful piebald grais--_them's_ hanimals. But Christins aint hanimals. Them's _mushis_" (men). To return to cats: it is remarkable that the colour which makes a cat desirable should render a bowl or cup objectionable to a true Gipsy, as I have elsewhere observed in commenting on the fact that no old-fashioned Rommany will drink, if possible, from white crockery. But they have peculiar fancies as to other colours. Till within a few years in Great Britain, as at the present day in Germany, their fondness for green coats amounted to a passion. In Germany a Gipsy who loses caste for any offence is forbidden for a certain time to wear green, so that _ver non semper viret_ may be truly applied to those among them who bloom too rankly. The great love for red and yellow among the Gipsies was long ago pointed out by a German writer as a proof of Indian origin, but the truth is, I believe, that all dark people instinctively choose these hues as agreeing with their complexion. A brunette is fond of amber, as a blonde is of light blue; and all true _kaulo_ or dark Rommany _chals_ delight in a bright yellow _pongdishler_, or neckerchief, and a red waistcoat. The long red cloak of the old Gipsy fortune-teller is, however, truly dear to her heart; she feels as if there were luck in it--that _bak_ which is ever on Gipsy lips; for to the wanderers, whose home is the roads, and whose living is precarious, Luck becomes a real deity. I have known two old fortune-telling sisters to expend on new red cloaks a sum which seemed to a lady friend very considerable. I have spoken in another chapter of the deeply-seated faith of the English Gipsies in the evil eye. Subsequent inquiry has convinced me that they believe it to be peculiar to themselves. One said in my presence, "There was a kauli juva that dicked the evil yack ad mandy the sala--my chavo's missis--an' a'ter dovo I shooned that my chavo was naflo. A bongo-yacki mush kairs wafro-luckus. _Avali_, the Gorgios don't jin it--it's saw Rommany." _I.e_., "There was a dark woman that looked the evil eye at me this morning--my son's wife--and after that I heard that my son was ill. A squint-eyed man makes bad-luck. Yes, the Gorgios don't know it--it's all Rommany." The Gipsy is of an eminently social turn, always ready when occasion occurs to take part in every conversation, and advance his views. One day my old Rom hearing an artist speak of having rejected some uncalled- for advice relative to the employment of a certain model, burst out in a tone of hearty approbation with-- "That's what _I_ say. Every man his own juva (every man his own girl), an' every painter his own _morals_." If it was difficult in the beginning for me to accustom the Gipsy mind to reply clearly and consistently to questions as to his language, the trouble was tenfold increased when he began to see his way, as he thought, to my object, and to take a real interest in aiding me. For instance, I once asked-- "Puro! do you know such a word as _punji_? It's the Hindu for capital." (Calmly.) "Yes, rya; that's a wery good word for capital." "But is it Rommany?" (Decidedly.) "It'll go first-rateus into Rommany." "But can you make it out? Prove it!" (Fiercely.) "Of course I can make it out. _Kushto_. Suppose a man sells 'punge-cake, would'nt that be his capital? _Punje_ must be capital." But this was nothing to what I endured after a vague fancy of the meaning of seeking a derivation of words had dimly dawned on his mind, and he vigorously attempted to aid me. Possessed with the crude idea that it was a success whenever two words could be forced into a resemblance of any kind, he constantly endeavoured to Anglicise Gipsy words--often, alas! an only too easy process, and could never understand why it was I then rejected them. By the former method I ran the risk of obtaining false Hindustani Gipsy words, though I very much doubt whether I was ever caught by it in a single instance; so strict were the tests which I adopted, the commonest being that of submitting the words to other Gipsies, or questioning him on them some days afterwards. By the latter "aid" I risked the loss of Rommany words altogether, and undoubtedly did lose a great many. Thus with the word _bilber_ (to entice or allure), he would say, in illustration, that the girls _bilbered_ the gentleman into the house to rob him, and then cast me into doubt by suggesting that the word must be all right, "'cause it looked all the same as _pilferin_'." One day I asked him if the Hindustani word khapana (pronounced almost hopana) (to make away with) sounded naturally to his ears. "Yes, rya; that must be _happer_, _habber_, or _huvver_. To hopper covvas away from the tan (_i.e_., to _hopper_ things from the place), is when you rikker 'em awayus (carry them away, steal them), and gaverit (hide _it_) tally your chuckko (under your coat). An' I can pen you a waver covva (I can tell you another thing) that's _hopper_--them's the glasses that you look through--_hoppera_-glasses." And here in bounding triumph he gave the little wooden bear a drink of ale, as if it had uttered this chunk of solid wisdom, and then treated himself to a good long pull. But the glance of triumph which shot from his black-basilisk eyes, and the joyous smile which followed these feats of philology, were absolutely irresistible. All that remained for me to do was to yield in silence. One day we spoke of _huckeny pokee_, or _huckeny ponkee_, as it is sometimes called. It means in Rommany "sleight of hand," and also the adroit substitution of a bundle of lead or stones for another containing money or valuables, as practised by Gipsy women. The Gipsy woman goes to a house, and after telling the simple-minded and credulous housewife that there is a treasure buried in the cellar, persuades her that as "silver draws silver," she must deposit all her money or jewels in a bag near the place where the treasure lies. This is done, and the Rommany _dye_ adroitly making up a parcel resembling the one laid down, steals the latter, leaving the former. Mr Barrow calls this _hokkeny baro_, the great swindle. I may remark, by the way, that among jugglers and "show-people" sleight of hand is called _hanky panky_. "Hocus-pocus" is attributed by several writers to the Gipsies, a derivation which gains much force from the fact, which I have never before seen pointed out, that _hoggu bazee_, which sounds very much like it, means in Hindustani legerdemain. English Gipsies have an extraordinary fancy for adding the termination _us_ in a most irregular manner to words both Rommany and English. Thus _kettene_ (together) is often changed to _kettenus_, and _side_ to _sidus_. In like manner, _hoggu_ (_hocku_ or _honku_) _bazee_ could not fail to become _hocus bozus_, and the next change, for the sake of rhyme, would be to hocus-po- cus. I told my ancient rambler of an extraordinary case of "huckeny pokee" which had recently occurred in the United States, somewhere in the west, the details of which had been narrated to me by a lady who lived at the time in the place where the event occurred. "A Gipsy woman," I said, "came to a farmhouse and played huckeny pokee on a farmer's wife, and got away all the poor woman's money." "Did she indeed, rya?" replied my good old friend, with a smile of joy flashing from his eyes, the unearthly Rommany light just glinting from their gloom. "Yes," I said impressively, as a mother might tell an affecting story to a child. "All the money that that poor woman had, that wicked Gipsy woman took away, and utterly ruined her." This was the culminating point; he burst into an irrepressible laugh; he couldn't help it--the thing had been done too well. "But you haven't heard all yet," I added. "There's more covvas to well." "Oh, I suppose the Rummany chi prastered avree (ran away), and got off with the swag?" "No, she didn't." "Then they caught her, and sent her to starabun" (prison). "No," I replied. "And what did they do?" "THEY BURNT HER ALIVE!" His jaw fell; a glossy film came over his panther-eyes. For a long time he had spoken to me, had this good and virtuous man, of going to America. Suddenly he broke out with this vehement answer-- "I won't go to that country--_s'up mi duvel_! I'll never go to America." It is told of a certain mother, that on showing her darling boy a picture in the Bible representing Daniel in the lions' den, she said, "And there is good Daniel, and there are those naughty lions, who are going to eat him all up." Whereupon the dear boy cried out, "O mother, look at that poor little lion in the corner--he won't get any." It is from this point of view that such affairs are naturally regarded by the Rommany. There is a strange goblinesque charm in Gipsydom--something of nature, and green leaves, and silent nights--but it is ever strangely commingled with the forbidden; and as among the Greeks of old with Mercury amid the singing of leafy brooks, there is a tinkling of, at least, petty larceny. Witness the following, which came forth one day from a Gipsy, in my presence, as an entirely voluntary utterance. He meant it for something like poetry--it certainly was suggested by nothing, and as fast as he spoke I wrote it down:-- "It's kushto in tattoben for the Rommany chals. Then they can jal langs the drum, and hatch their tan acai and odoi pre the tem. We'll lel moro habben acai, and jal andurer by-an'-byus, an' then jal by ratti, so's the Gorgios won't dick us. I jins a kushti puv for the graias; we'll hatch 'pre in the sala, before they latcher we've been odoi, an' jal an the drum an' lel moro habben." "It is pleasant for the Gipsies in the summer-time. Then they can go along the road, and pitch their tent here and there in the land. We'll take our food here, and go further on by-and-by, and then go by night, so that the Gorgios won't see us. I know a fine field for the horses; we'll stop there in the morning, before they find we have been there, and go on the road and eat our food." "I suppose that you often have had trouble with the _gavengroes_ (police) when you wished to pitch your tent?" Now it was characteristic of this Gipsy, as of many others, that when interested by a remark or a question, he would reply by bursting into some picture of travel, drawn from memory. So he answered by saying-- "They hunnelo'd the choro puro mush by pennin' him he mustn't hatch odoi. 'What's tute?' he pens to the prastramengro; 'I'll del you thrin bar to lel your chuckko offus an' koor mandy. You're a ratfully jucko an' a huckaben.'" _English_--They angered the poor old man by telling him he must not stop there. "What are you?" he said to the policeman, "I'll give you three pounds to take your coat off and fight me. You're a bloody dog and a lie" (liar). "I suppose you have often taken your coat off?" "Once I lelled it avree an' never chivved it apre ajaw." (_I.e_., "Once I took it off and never put it on again.") "How was that?" "Yeckorus when I was a tano mush, thirty besh kenna--rummed about pange besh, but with kek chavis--I jalled to the prasters of the graias at Brighton. There was the paiass of wussin' the pasheros apre for wongur, an' I got to the pyass, an' first cheirus I lelled a boro bittus--twelve or thirteen bar. Then I nashered my wongur, an' penned I wouldn't pyass koomi, an' I'd latch what I had in my poachy. Adoi I jalled from the gudli 'dree the toss-ring for a pashora, when I dicked a waver mush, an' he putched mandy, 'What bak?' and I penned pauli, 'Kek bak; but I've got a bittus left.' So I wussered with lester an' nashered saw my covvas--my chukko, my gad, an' saw, barrin' my rokamyas. Then I jalled kerri with kek but my rokamyas an--I borried a chukko off my pen's chavo. "And when my juva dickt'omandy pash-nango, she pens, 'Dovo's tute's heesis?' an' I pookered her I'd been a-koorin'. But she penned, 'Why, you haven't got your hovalos an; you didn't koor tute's hovalos avree?' 'No,' I rakkered; 'I taddered em offus. (The mush played me with a dui- sherro poshero.) "But dree the sala, when the mush welled to lel avree the jucko (for I'd nashered dovo ajaw), I felt wafrodearer than when I'd nashered saw the waver covvas. An' my poor juva ruvved ajaw, for she had no chavo. I had in those divvuses as kushti coppas an' heesus as any young Gipsy in Anglaterra--good chukkos, an' gads, an' pongdishlers. "An' that mush kurried many a geero a'ter mandy, but he never lelled no bak. He'd chore from his own dadas; but he mullered wafro adree East Kent." "Once when I was a young man, thirty years ago (now)--married about five years, but with no children--I went to the races at Brighton. There was tossing halfpence for money, and I took part in the game, and at first (first time) I took a good bit--twelve or thirteen pounds. Then I lost my money, and said I would play no more, and would keep what I had in my pocket. Then I went from the noise in the toss-ring for half an hour, when I saw another man, and he asked me, 'What luck?' and I replied, 'No luck; but I've a little left yet.' So I tossed with him and lost all my things--my coat, my shirt, and all, except my breeches. Then I went home with nothing but my breeches on--I borrowed a coat of my sister's boy. "And when my wife saw me half-naked, she _says_, 'Where are your clothes?' and I told her I had been fighting. But she said, 'Why, you have not your stockings on; you didn't fight your stockings off!' 'No,' I said; 'I drew them off.' (The man played me with a two-headed halfpenny.) "But in the morning when the man came to take away the dog (for I had lost that too), I felt worse than when I lost all the other things. And my poor wife cried again, for she had no child. I had in those days as fine clothes as any young Gipsy in England--good coats, and shirts, and handkerchiefs. "And that man hurt many a man after me, but he never had any luck. He'd steal from his own father; but he died miserably in East Kent." It was characteristic of the venerable wanderer who had installed himself as my permanent professor of Rommany, that although almost every phrase which he employed to illustrate words expressed some act at variance with law or the rights of property, he was never weary of descanting on the spotlessness, beauty, and integrity of his own life and character. These little essays on his moral perfection were expressed with a touching artlessness and child-like simplicity which would carry conviction to any one whose heart had not been utterly hardened, or whose eye-teeth had not been remarkably well cut, by contact with the world. In his delightful _naivete_ and simple earnestness, in his ready confidence in strangers and freedom from all suspicion--in fact, in his whole deportment, this Rommany elder reminded me continually of one--and of one man only--whom I had known of old in America. Need I say that I refer to the excellent --- ---? It happened for many days that the professor, being a man of early habits, arrived at our rendezvous an hour in advance of the time appointed. As he resolutely resisted all invitation to occupy the room alone until my arrival, declaring that he had never been guilty of such a breach of etiquette, and as he was, moreover, according to his word, the most courteous man of the world in it, and I did not wish to "contrary" him, he was obliged to pass the time in the street, which he did by planting himself on the front steps or expanding himself on the railings of an elderly and lonely dame, who could not endure that even a mechanic should linger at her door, and was in agony until the milkman and baker had removed their feet from her steps. Now, the appearance of the professor (who always affected the old Gipsy style), in striped corduroy coat, leather breeches and gaiters, red waistcoat, yellow neck-handkerchief, and a frightfully-dilapidated old white hat, was not, it must be admitted, entirely adapted to the exterior of a highly respectable mansion. "And he had such a vile way of looking, as if he were a-waitin' for some friend to come out o' the 'ouse." It is almost needless to say that this apparition attracted the police from afar off and all about, or that they gathered around him like buzzards near a departed lamb. I was told by a highly intelligent gentleman who witnessed the interviews, that the professor's kindly reception of these public characters--the infantile smile with which he courted their acquaintance, and the good old grandfatherly air with which he listened to their little tales--was indescribably delightful. "In a quarter of an hour any one of them would have lent him a shilling;" and it was soon apparent that the entire force found a charm in his society. The lone lady herself made a sortie against him once; but one glance at the amiable smile, "which was child-like and bland," disarmed her, and it was reported that she subsequently sent him out half-a-pint of beer. It is needless to point out to the reader accustomed to good society that the professor's declining to sit in a room where valuable and small objects abounded, in the absence of the owner, was dictated by the most delicate feeling. Not less remarkable than his strict politeness was the mysterious charm which this antique nomad unquestionably exercised on the entire female sex. Ladies of the highest respectability and culture, old or young, who had once seen him, invariably referred to him as "that charming old Gipsy." Nor was his sorcery less potent on those of low degree. Never shall I forget one morning when the two prettiest young Italian model-girls in all London were poseeing to an artist friend while the professor sat and imparted to me the lore of the Rommany. The girls behaved like moral statues till he appeared, and like quicksilver imps and devilettes for the rest of the sitting. Something of the wild and weird in the mountain Italian life of these ex-contadine seemed to wake like unholy fire, and answer sympathetically to the Gipsy wizard-spell. Over mountain and sea, and through dark forests with legends of _streghe_ and Zingari, these semi-outlaws of society, the Neapolitan and Rommany, recognised each other intuitively. The handsomest young gentleman in England could not have interested these handsome young sinners as the dark-brown, grey-haired old vagabond did. Their eyes stole to him. Heaven knows what they talked, for the girls knew no English, but they whispered; they could not write little notes, so they kept passing different objects, to which Gipsy and Italian promptly attached a meaning. Scolding them helped not. It was "a pensive sight." To impress me with a due sense of his honesty and high character, the professor informed me one day that he was personally acquainted, as he verily believed, with every policeman in England. "You see, rya," he remarked, "any man as is so well known couldn't never do nothing wrong now,--could he?" Innocent, unconscious, guileless air--and smile! I shall never see its equal. I replied-- "Yes; I think I can see you, Puro, walking down between two lines of hundreds of policemen--every one pointing after you and saying, 'There goes that good honest --- the honestest man in England!'" "Avo, rya," he cried, eagerly turning to me, as if delighted and astonished that I had found out the truth. "That's just what they all pens of me, an' just what I seen 'em a-doin' every time." "You know all the police," I remarked. "Do you know any turnkeys?" He reflected an instant, and then replied, artlessly-- "I don't jin many o' them. But I can jist tell you a story. Once at Wimbledown, when the _kooroo-mengroes_ were _odoi_ (when the troopers were there), I used to get a pound a week carryin' things. One day, when I had well on to two stun on my _dumo_ (back), the chief of police sees me an' says, 'There's that old scoundrel again! that villain gives the police more trouble than any other man in the country!' 'Thank you, sir,' says I, wery respectable to him. 'I'm glad to see you're earnin' a 'onest livin' for once,' says he. 'How much do you get for carryin' that there bundle?' 'A sixpence, rya!' says I. 'It's twice as much as you ought to have,' says he; 'an' I'd be glad to carry it myself for the money.' 'All right, sir,' says I, touchin' my hat and goin' off, for he was a wery nice gentleman. Rya," he exclaimed, with an air of placid triumph, "do you think the head-police his selfus would a spoke in them wery words to me if he hadn't a thought I was a good man?" "Well, let's get to work, old Honesty. What is the Rommanis for to hide?" "To _gaverit_ is to hide anything, rya. _Gaverit_." And to illustrate its application he continued-- "They penned mandy to gaver the gry, but I nashered to keravit, an' the mush who lelled the gry welled alangus an' dicked it." ("They told me to hide the horse, but I forgot to do it, and the man who _owned_ the horse came by and saw it.") It is only a few hours since I heard of a gentleman who took incredible pains to induce the Gipsies to teach him their language, but never succeeded. I must confess that I do not understand this. When I have met strange Gipsies, it has often greatly grieved me to find that they spoke their ancient tongue very imperfectly, and were ignorant of certain Rommany words which I myself, albeit a stranger, knew very well, and would fain teach them. But instead of accepting my instructions in a docile spirit of ignorant humility, I have invariably found that they were eagerly anxious to prove that they were not so ignorant as I assumed, and in vindication of their intelligence proceeded to pour forth dozens of words, of which I must admit many were really new to me, and which I did not fail to remember. The scouting, slippery night-life of the Gipsy; his familiarity with deep ravine and lonely wood-path, moonlight and field-lairs; his use of a secret language, and his constant habit of concealing everything from everybody; his private superstitions, and his inordinate love of humbugging and selling friend and foe, tend to produce in him that goblin, elfin, boyish-mischievous, out-of-the-age state of mind which is utterly indescribable to a prosaic modern-souled man, but which is delightfully piquant to others. Many a time among Gipsies I have felt, I confess with pleasure, all the subtlest spirit of fun combined with picture-memories of Hayraddin Maugrabin--witch-legends and the "Egyptians;" for in their ignorance they are still an unconscious race, and do not know what the world writes about them. They are not attractive from the outside to those who have no love for quaint scholarship, odd humours, and rare fancies. A lady who had been in a camp had nothing to say of them to me save that they were "dirty--dirty, and begged." But I ever think, when I see them, of Tieck's Elves, and of the Strange Valley, which was so grim and repulsive from without, but which, once entered, was the gay forecourt of goblin-land. The very fact that they hide as much as they can of their Gipsy life and nature from the Gorgios would of itself indicate the depths of singularity concealed beneath their apparent life--and this reminds me of incidents in a Sunday which I once passed beneath a Gipsy roof. I was, _en voyage_, at a little cathedral town, when learning that some Gipsies lived in a village eight miles distant, I hired a carriage and rode over to see them. I found my way to a neat cottage, and on entering it discovered that I was truly enough among the Rommany. By the fire sat a well-dressed young man; near him was a handsome, very dark young woman, and there presently entered a very old woman,--all gifted with the unmistakable and peculiar expression of real Gipsies. The old woman overwhelmed me with compliments and greetings. She is a local celebrity, and is constantly visited by the most respectable ladies and gentlemen. This much I had learned from my coachman. But I kept a steady silence, and sat as serious as Odin when he visited the Vala, until the address ceased. Then I said in Rommany-- "Mother, you don't know me. I did not come here to listen to fortune- telling." To which came the prompt reply, "I don't know what the gentleman is saying." I answered always in Rommany. "You know well enough what I am saying. You needn't be afraid of me--I'm the nicest gentleman you ever saw in all your life, and I can talk Rommany as fast as ever you ran away from a policeman." "What language is the gentleman talking?" cried the old dame, but laughing heartily as she spoke. "Oh dye--miri dye, Don't tute jin a Rommany rye? Can't tu rakker Rommany jib, Tachipen and kek fib?" "Avo, my rye; I can understand you well enough, but I never saw a Gipsy gentleman before." [Since I wrote that last line I went out for a walk, and on the other side of Walton Bridge, which legend says marks the spot where Julius Caesar crossed, I saw a tent and a waggon by the hedge, and knew by the curling blue smoke that a Gipsy was near. So I went over the bridge, and sure enough there on the ground lay a full-grown Petulamengro, while his brown _juva_ tended the pot. And when I spoke to her in Rommany she could only burst out into amazed laughter as each new sentence struck her ear, and exclaim, "Well! well! that ever I should live to hear this! Why, the gentleman talks just like one of _us_! '_Bien apropos_,' sayde ye ladye."] "Dye," quoth I to the old Gipsy dame, "don't be afraid. I'm _tacho_. And shut that door if there are any Gorgios about, for I don't want them to hear our _rakkerben_. Let us take a drop of brandy--life is short, and here's my bottle. I'm not English--I'm a _waver temmeny mush_ (a foreigner). But I'm all right, and you can leave your spoons out. Tacho." "The boshno an' kani The rye an' the rani; Welled acai 'pre the boro lun pani. Rinkeni juva hav acai! Del a choomer to the rye!" "_Duveleste_!" said the old fortune-teller, "that ever I should live to see a rye like you! A boro rye rakkerin' Rommanis! But you must have some tea now, my son--good tea." "I don't pi muttermengri dye ('drink tea,' but an equivoque). It's muttermengri with you and with us of the German jib." "Ha! ha! but you must have food. You won't go away like a Gorgio without tasting anything?" "I'll eat bread with you, but tea I haven't tasted this five-and-twenty years." "Bread you shall have, rya." And saying this, the daughter spread out a clean white napkin, and placed on it excellent bread and butter, with plate and knife. I never tasted better, even in Philadelphia. Everything in the cottage was scrupulously neat--there was even an approach to style. The furniture and ornaments were superior to those found in common peasant houses. There was a large and beautifully-bound photograph album. I found that the family could read and write--the daughter received and read a note, and one of the sons knew who and what Mr Robert Browning was. But behind it all, when the inner life came out, was the wild Rommany and the witch-_aura_--the fierce spirit of social exile from the world in which they lived (the true secret of all the witch-life of old), and the joyous consciousness of a secret tongue and hidden ways. To those who walk in the darkness of the dream, let them go as deep and as windingly as they will, and into the grimmest gloom of goblin-land, there will never be wanting flashes of light, though they be gleams diavoline, corpse-candlelights, elfin sparkles, and the unearthly blue lume of the eyes of silent night-hags wandering slow. In the forgotten grave of the sorcerer burns steadily through long centuries the Rosicrucian lamp, and even to him whose eyes are closed, sparkle, on pressure, phosphorescent rings. So there was Gipsy laughter; and the ancient _wicca_ and Vala flashed out into that sky-rocketty joyousness and Catherine-wheel gaiety, which at eighty or ninety, in a woman, vividly reminds one of the Sabbat on the Brocken, of the ointment, and all things terrible and unearthly and forbidden. I do not suppose that there are many people who can feel or understand that among the fearfully dirty dwellers in tents and caravans, cock-shysters and dealers in dogs of doubtful character, there can be anything strange, and quaint, and deeply tinged with the spirit of which I have spoken. As well might one attempt to persuade the twenty-stone half-illiterate and wholly old-fashioned rural magistrate of the last century that the poor devil of a hen-stealing Gipsy dragged before him knew that which would send thrills of joy through the most learned philologist in Europe, and cause the great band of scholars to sing for joy. Life, to most of us, is nothing without its humour; and to me a whilome German student illustrating his military marauding by phrases from Fichte, or my friend Pauno the Rommany urging me with words to be found in the Mahabahrata and Hafiz to buy a terrier, is a charming experience. I believe that my imagination has neither been led nor driven, when it has so invariably, in my conversing with Gipsy women, recalled Faust, and all I have ever read in Wierus, Bodinus, Bekker, Mather, or Glanvil, of the sorceress and _sortilega_. And certainly on this earth I never met with such a perfect _replica_ of Old Mother Baubo, the mother of all the witches, as I once encountered at a certain race. Swarthy, black-eyed, stout, half-centuried, fiercely cunning, and immoderately sensual, her first salutation was expressed in a phrase such as a Corinthian soul might be greeted with on entering that portion of the after-world devoted to the fastest of the fair. With her came a tall, lithe, younger sorceress; and verily the giant fat sow for her majesty, and the broom for the attendant, were all that was wanting. To return to the cottage. Our mirth and fun grew fast and furious; the family were delighted with my anecdotes of the Rommany in other lands--German, Bohemian, and Spanish,--not to mention the _gili_. And we were just in the gayest centre of it all, "whin,--och, what a pity!--this fine tay-party was suddenly broken up," as Patrick O'Flanegan remarked when he was dancing with the chairs to the devil's fiddling, and his wife entered. For in rushed a Gipsy boy announcing that Gorgios (or, as I may say, "wite trash") were near at hand, and evidently bent on entering. That this irruption of the enemy gave a taci-turn to our riotry and revelling will be believed. I tossed the brandy in the cup into the fire; it flashed up, and with it a quick memory of the spilt and blazing witch-brew in "Faust." I put the tourist-flask in my pocket, and in a trice had changed my seat and assumed the air of a chance intruder. In they came, two ladies--one decidedly pretty--and three gentlemen, all of the higher class, as they indicated by their manner and language. They were almost immediately followed by a Gipsy, the son of my hostess, who had sent for him that he might see me. He was a man of thirty, firmly set, and had a stern hard countenance, in which shone two glittering black eyes, which were serpent-like even among the Rommany. Nor have I ever seen among his people a face so expressive of self-control allied to wary suspicion. He was neatly dressed, but in a subdued Gipsy style, the principal indication being that of a pair of "cords," which, however, any gentleman might have worn--in the field. His English was excellent--in fact, that of an educated man; his sum total that of a very decided "character," and one who, if you wronged him, might be a dangerous one. We entered into conversation, and the Rommany rollicking seemed all at once a vapoury thing of the dim past; it was the scene in a witch-revel suddenly shifted to a drawing-room in May Fair. We were all, and all at once, so polite and gentle, and so readily acquainted and cosmo-polite--quite beyond the average English standard; and not the least charming part of the whole performance was the skill with which the minor parts were filled up by the Gipsies, who with exquisite tact followed our lead, seeming to be at once hosts and guests. I have been at many a play, but never saw anything better acted. But under it all burnt a lurid though hidden flame; and there was a delightful _diablerie_ of concealment kept up among the Rommany, which was the more exquisite because I shared in it. Reader, do you remember the scene in George Borrow's "Gipsies in Spain," in which the woman blesses the child in Spanish, and mutters curses on it meanwhile in Zincali? So it was that my dear old hostess blessed the sweet young lady, and "prodigalled" compliments on her; but there was one instant when her eye met mine, and a soft, quick-whispered, wicked Rommany phrase, unheard by the ladies, came to my ear, and in the glance and word there was a concentrated anathema. The stern-eyed Gipsy conversed well, entertaining his guests with ease. After he had spoken of the excellent behaviour and morals of his tribe--and I believe that they have a very high character in these respects--I put him a question. "Can you tell me if there is really such a thing as a Gipsy language? one hears such differing accounts, you know." With the amiable smile of one who pitied my credulity, but who was himself superior to all petty deception or vulgar mystery, he replied-- "That is another of the absurd tales which people have invented about Gipsies. As if we could have kept such a thing a secret!" "It does, indeed, seem to me," I replied, "that if you _had_, some people who were not Gipsies _must_ have learned it." "Of course," resumed the Gipsy, philosophically, "all people who keep together get to using a few peculiar terms. Tailors and shoemakers have their own words. And there are common vagabonds who go up and down talking thieves' slang, and imposing it on people for Gipsy. But as for any Gipsy tongue, I ought to know it" ("So I should think," I mentally ejaculated, as I contemplated his brazen calmness); "and I don't know three words of it." And we, the Gorgios, all smiled approval. At least that humbug was settled; and the Rommany tongue was done for--dead and buried--if, indeed, it ever existed. Indeed, as I looked in the Gipsy's face, I began to realise that a man might be talked out of a belief in his own name, and felt a rudimentary sensation to the effect that the language of the Black Wanderers was all a dream, and Pott's Zigeuner the mere tinkling of a pot of brass, Paspati a jingling Turkish symbol, and all Rommany a _praeterea nihil_ without the _vox_. To dissipate the delusion, I inquired of the Gipsy-- "You have been in America. Did you ever hunt game in the west?" "Yes; many a time. On the plains." "Of course--buffalo--antelope--jack rabbits. And once" (I said this as if forgetfully)--"I once ate a hedgehog--no, I don't mean a hedgehog, but a porcupine." A meaning glance shot from the Gipsy's eye. I uttered a first-class password, and if he had any doubt before as to who the Rommany rye might be, there was none now. But with a courteous smile he replied-- "It's quite the same, sir--porcupine or hedgehog. I know perfectly well what you mean." "Porcupines," I resumed, "are very common in America. The Chippeways call them _hotchewitchi_." This Rommany word was a plumper for the Gipsy, and the twinkle of his eye--the smallest star of mirth in the darkest night of gravity I ever beheld in my life--was lovely. I had trumped his card at any rate with as solemn gravity as his own; and the Gorgios thought our reminiscences of America were very entertaining. "He had more tow upon his distaffe Than Gervais wot of." But there was one in the party--and I think only one--who had her own private share in the play. That one was the pretty young lady. Through all the conversation, I observed from time to time her eyes fixed on my face, as if surmising some unaccountable mystery. I understood it at once. The bread and butter on the table, partly eaten, and the snow-white napkin indicated to a feminine eye that some one not of the household had been entertained, and that I was the guest. Perhaps she had seen the old woman's quick glance at me, but it was evident that she felt a secret. What she divined I do not know. Should this work ever fall into her hands, she will learn it all, and with it the fact that Gipsies can talk double about as well as any human beings on the face of the earth, and enjoy fun with as grave a face as any Ojib'wa of them all. The habits of the Gipsy are pleasantly illustrated by the fact that the collection of "animated books," which no Rommany gentleman's library should be without, generally includes a jackdaw. When the foot of the Gorgio is heard near the tent, a loud "_wa-awk_" from the wary bird (sounding very much like an alarm) at once proclaims the fact; and on approaching, the stranger finds the entire party in all probability asleep. Sometimes a dog acts as sentinel, but it comes to the same thing. It is said you cannot catch a weasel asleep: I am tempted to add that you can never find a Gipsy awake--but it means precisely the same thing. Gipsies are very much attached to their dogs, and in return the dogs are very much attached to their masters--so much so that there are numerous instances, perfectly authenticated, of the faithful animals having been in the habit of ranging the country alone, at great distances from the tent, and obtaining hares, rabbits, or other game, which they carefully and secretly brought by night to their owners as a slight testimonial of their regard and gratitude. As the dogs have no moral appreciation of the Game Laws, save as manifested in gamekeepers, no one can blame them. Gipsies almost invariably prefer, as canine manifesters of devotion, lurchers, a kind of dog which of all others can be most easily taught to steal. It is not long since a friend of mine, early one morning between dark and dawn, saw a lurcher crossing the Thames with a rabbit in his mouth. Landing very quietly, the dog went to a Gipsy _tan_, deposited his burden, and at once returned over the river. Dogs once trained to such secret hunting become passionately fond of it, and pursue it unweariedly with incredible secrecy and sagacity. Even cats learn it, and I have heard of one which is "good for three rabbits a week." Dogs, however, bring everything home, while puss feeds herself luxuriously before thinking of her owner. But whether dog or cat, cock or jackdaw, all animals bred among Gipsies do unquestionably become themselves Rommanised, and grow sharp, and shrewd, and mysterious. A writer in the _Daily News_ of October 19, 1872, speaks of having seen parrots which spoke Rommany among the Gipsies of Epping Forest. A Gipsy dog is, if we study him, a true character. Approach a camp: a black hound, with sleepy eyes, lies by a tent; he does not bark at you or act uncivilly, for that forms no part of his master's life or plans, but wherever you go those eyes are fixed on you. By-and-by he disappears--he is sure to do so if there are no people about the _tan_--and then reappears with some dark descendant of the Dom and Domni. I have always been under the impression that these dogs step out and mutter a few words in Rommany--their deportment is, at any rate, Rommanesque to the highest degree, indicating a transition from the barbarous silence of doghood to Christianly intelligence. You may persuade yourself that the Gipsies do not mind your presence, but rest assured that though he may lie on his side with his back turned, the cunning _jucko_ is carefully noting all you do. The abject and humble behaviour of a poor negro's dog in America was once proverbial: the quaint shrewdness, the droll roguery, the demure devilry of a real Gipsy dog are beyond all praise. The most valuable dogs to the Gipsies are by no means remarkable for size or beauty, or any of the properties which strike the eye; on the contrary, an ugly, shirking, humble-looking, two-and-sixpenny-countenanced cur, if he have but intellect, is much more their _affaire_. Yesterday morning, while sitting among the tents of "ye Egypcians," I overheard a knot of men discussing the merits of a degraded-looking doglet, who seemed as if he must have committed suicide, were he only gifted with sense enough to know how idiotic he looked. "Would you take seven pounds for him?" asked one. "Avo, I would take seven bar; but I wouldn't take six, nor six an' a half neither." The stranger who casts an inquisitive eye, though from afar off, into a Gipsy camp, is at once noted; and if he can do this before the wolf--I mean the Rom--sees him, he must possess the gift of fern-seed and walk invisible, as was illustrated by the above-mentioned yesterday visit. Passing over the bridge, I paused to admire the scene. It was a fresh sunny morning in October, the autumnal tints were beautiful in golden brown or oak red, while here and there the horse-chestnuts spread their saffron robes, waving in the embraces of the breeze like hetairae of the forest. Below me ran the silver Thames, and above a few silver clouds--the belles of the air--were following its course, as if to watch themselves in the watery winding mirror. And near the reedy island, at the shadowy point always haunted by three swans, whom I suspect of having been there ever since the days of Odin-faith, was the usual punt, with its elderly gentlemanly gudgeon-fishers. But far below me, along the dark line of the hedge, was a sight which completed the English character of the scene--a real Gipsy camp. Caravans, tents, waggons, asses, smouldering fires; while among them the small forms of dark children could be seen frolicking about. One Gipsy youth was fishing in the stream from the bank, and beyond him a knot of busy basketmakers were visible. I turned the bridge, adown the bank, and found myself near two young men mending chairs. They greeted me civilly; and when I spoke Rommany, they answered me in the same language; but they did not speak it well, nor did they, indeed, claim to be "Gipsies" at all, though their complexions had the peculiar hue which indicates some other than Saxon admixture of blood. Half Rommany in their knowledge, and yet not regarded as such, these "travellers" represented a very large class in England, which is as yet but little understood by our writers, whether of fact or fiction. They laughed while telling me anecdotes of gentlemen who had mistaken them for real Rommany chals, and finally referred me to "Old Henry," further down, who "could talk with me." This ancient I found a hundred yards beyond, basketing in the sun at the door of his tent. He greeted me civilly enough, but worked away with his osiers most industriously, while his comrades, less busy, employed themselves vigorously in looking virtuous. One nursed his infant with tender embraces, another began to examine green sticks with a view to converting them into clothes-pegs--in fact I was in a model community of wandering Shakers. I regret to say that the instant I uttered a Rommany word, and was recognised, this discipline of decorum was immediately relaxed. It was not complimentary to my moral character, but it at least showed confidence. The Ancient Henry, who bore, as I found, in several respects a strong likeness to the Old Harry, had heard of me, and after a short conversation confided the little fact, that from the moment in which I had been seen watching them, they were sure I was a _gav-mush_, or police or village authority, come to spy into their ways, and to at least order them to move on. But when they found that I was not as one having authority, but, on the contrary, came talking Rommany with the firm intention of imparting to them three pots of beer just at the thirstiest hour of a warm day, a great change came over their faces. A chair was brought to me from a caravan at some distance, and I was told the latest news of the road. "Matty's got his slangs," observed Henry, as he inserted a _ranya_ or osier-withy into his basket, and deftly twined it like a serpent to right and left, and almost as rapidly. Now a _slang_ means, among divers things, a hawker's licence. "I'm glad to hear it," I remarked. There was deep sincerity in this reply, as I had more than once contributed to the fees for the aforesaid _slangs_, which somehow or other were invariably refused to the applicant. At last, however, the slangs came; and his two boys, provided with them (at ten shillings per head), were now, in their sphere of life, in the position of young men who had received an education or been amply established in business, and were gifted with all that could be expected from a doting father. In its way this bit of intelligence meant as much to the basketmaker as, "Have you heard that young Fitz-Grubber has just got the double-first at Oxford?" or, "Do you know that old Cheshire has managed that appointment in India for his boy?--splendid independence, isn't it?" And I was shrewdly suspected by my audience, as the question implied, that I had had a hand in expanding this magnificent opening for the two fortunate young men. "_Dick adoi_!" cried one, pointing up the river. "Look there at Jim!" I looked and saw a young man far off, shirking along the path by the river, close to the hedge. "He thinks you're a _gav-mush_," observed Henry; "and he's got some sticks, an' is tryin' to hide them 'cause he daren't throw 'em away. Oh, aint he scared?" It was a pleasing spectacle to see the demi-Gipsy coming in with his poor little green sticks, worth perhaps a halfpenny, and such as no living farmer in all North America would have grudged a cartload of to anybody. Droll as it really seemed, the sight touched me while I laughed. Oh, if charity covereth a multitude of sins, what should not poverty do? I care not through which door it comes--nay, be it by the very portal of Vice herself--when sad and shivering poverty stands before me in humble form, I can only forgive and forget. And this child-theft was to obtain the means of work after all. And if you ask me why I did not at once proceed to the next magistrate and denounce the criminal, I can only throw myself for excuse on the illustrious example of George the Fourth, head of Church and State, who once in society saw a pickpocket remove from a gentleman's fob his gold watch, winking at the king as he did so. "Of course I couldn't say anything," remarked the good-natured monarch, "for the rascal took me into his confidence." Jim walked into camp amid mild chaff, to be greeted in Rommany by the suspected policeman, and to accept a glass of the ale, which had rained as it were from heaven into this happy family. These basketmakers were not real Gipsies, but _churdi_ or half-bloods, though they spoke with scorn of the two chair-menders, who, working by themselves at the extremity of the tented town (and excluded from a share in the beer), seemed to be a sort of pariahs unto these higher casters. I should mention, _en passant_, that when the beer-bearer of the camp was sent for the three pots, he was told to "go over to Bill and borrow his two-gallon jug--and be very careful not to let him find out what it was for." I must confess that I thought this was deeply unjust to the imposed-upon and beerless William; but it was another case of confidence, and he who sits among Gipsies by hedgerows green must not be over-particular. _Il faut heurler avec les loups_. "Ain't it wrong to steal dese here chickens?" asked a negro who was seized with scruples while helping to rob a hen-roost. "Dat, Cuff, am a great moral question, an' we haint got time to discuss it--so jist hand down anoder pullet." I found that Henry had much curious knowledge as to old Rommany ways, though he spoke with little respect of the Gipsy of the olden time, who, as he declared, thought all he needed in life was to get a row of silver buttons on his coat, a pair of high boots on his feet, and therewith--_basta_! He had evidently met at one time with Mr George Borrow, as appeared by his accurate description of that gentleman's appearance, though he did not know his name. "Ah! he could talk the jib first-rateus," remarked my informant; "and he says to me, 'Bless you! you've all of you forgotten the real Gipsy language, and don't know anything about it at all.' Do you know Old Frank?" he suddenly inquired. "Avo," I replied. "He's the man who has been twice in America." "But d'ye know how rich he is? He's got money in bank. And when a man gets money in bank, _I_ say there is somethin' in it. An' how do you suppose he made that money?" he inquired, with the air of one who is about to "come down with a stunner." "He did it _a-dukkerin_'." {171} But he pronounced the word _durkerin_'; and I, detecting at once, as I thought, an affinity with the German "turkewava," paused and stared, lost in thought. My pause was set down to amazement, and the Ancient Henry repeated-- "Fact. By _durkerin_'. I don't wonder you're astonished. Tellin' fortunes just like a woman. It isn't every man who could do that. But I suppose you could," he continued, looking at me admiringly. "You know all the ways of the Gorgios, an' could talk to ladies, an' are up to high life; ah, you could make no end of money. Why don't you do it?" Innocent Gipsy! was this thy idea of qualification for a seer and a reader of dark lore? What wouldst thou say could I pour into thy brain the contents of the scores of works on "occult nonsense," from Agrippa to Zadkiel, devoured with keen hunger in the days of my youth? Yes, in solemn sadness, out of the whole I have brought no powers of divination; and in it all found nothing so strange as the wondrous tongue in which we spoke. In this mystery called Life many ways have been proposed to me of alleviating its expenses; as, for instance, when the old professor earnestly commended that we two should obtain (I trust honestly) a donkey and a _rinkni juva_, who by telling fortunes should entirely contribute to our maintenance, and so wander cost-free, and _kost-frei_ over merrie England. But I threw away the golden opportunity--ruthlessly rejected it--thereby incurring the scorn of all scientific philologists (none of whom, I trow, would have lost such a chance). It was for doing the same thing that Matthew Arnold immortalised a clerke of Oxenforde: though it may be that "since Elizabeth" such exploits have lost their prestige, as I knew of two students at the same university who a few years ago went off on a six weeks' lark with two Gipsy girls; but who, far from desiring to have the fact chronicled in immortal rhyme, were even much afraid lest it should get into the county newspaper! Leaving the basketmakers (among whom I subsequently found a grand-daughter of the celebrated Gipsy Queen, Charlotte Stanley), I went up the river, and there, above the bridge, found, as if withdrawn in pride, two other tents, by one of which stood a very pretty little girl of seven or eight years with a younger brother. While talking to the children, their father approached leading a horse. I had never seen him before, but he welcomed me politely in Rommany, saying that I had been pointed out to him as the Rommany rye, and that his mother, who was proficient in their language, was very desirous of meeting me. He was one of the smiths--a Petulengro or Petulamengro, or master of the horse- shoe, a name familiar to all readers of Lavengro. This man was a full Gipsy, but he spoke better English, as well as better Rommany, than his neighbours, and had far more refinement of manner. And singularly enough, he appeared to be simpler hearted and more unaffected, with less Gipsy trickery, and more of a disposition for honest labour. His brother and uncle were, indeed, hard at work among the masons in a new building not far off, though they lived like true Gipsies in a tent. Petulamengro, as the name is commonly given at the present day, was evidently very proud of his Rommany, and talked little else: but he could not speak it nearly so well nor so fluently as his mother, who was of "the old sort," and who was, I believe, sincerely delighted that her skill was appreciated by me. All Gipsies are quite aware that their language is very old and curious, but they very seldom meet with Gorgios who are familiar with the fact, and manifest an interest in it. While engaged in conversation with this family, Petulamengro asked me if I had ever met in America with Mr ---, adding, "He is a brother-in-law of mine." I confess that I was startled, for I had known the gentleman in question very well for many years. He is a man of considerable fortune, and nothing in his appearance indicates in the slightest degree any affinity with the Rommany. He is not the only real or partial Gipsy whom I know among the wealthy and highly cultivated, and it is with pleasure I declare that I have found them all eminently kind-hearted and hospitable. It may be worth while to state, in this connection, that Gipsy blood intermingled with Anglo-Saxon when educated, generally results in intellectual and physical vigour. The English Gipsy has greatly changed from the Hindoo in becoming courageous, in fact, his pugnacity and pluck are too frequently carried to a fault. My morning's call had brought me into contact with the three types of the Gipsy of the roads. Of the half-breeds, and especially of those who have only a very slight trace of the dark blood or _kalo ratt_, there are in Great Britain many thousands. Of the true stock there are now only a few hundreds. But all are "Rommany," and all have among themselves an "understanding" which separates them from the "Gorgios." It is difficult to define what this understanding is--suffice it to say, that it keeps them all in many respects "peculiar," and gives them a feeling of free-masonry, and of guarding a social secret, long after they leave the roads and become highly reputable members of society. But they have a secret, and no one can know them who has not penetrated it. * * * * * One day I mentioned to my old Rommany, what Mr Borrow has said, that no English Gipsy knows the word for a leaf, or _patrin_. He admitted that it was true; but after considering the subject deeply, and dividing the deliberations between his pipe and a little wooden bear on the table--his regular oracle and friend--he suddenly burst forth in the following beautiful illustration of philology by theology:-- "Rya, I pens you the purodirus lav for a leaf--an' that's a _holluf_. (Don't you jin that the holluf was the firstus leaf? so holluf must be the Rommany lav, sense Rommanis is the purodirest jib o' saw.) For when the first mush was kaired an' created in the tem adree--and that was the boro Duvel himself, I expect--an' annered the tem apre, he was in the bero, an' didn't jin if there was any puvius about, so he bitchered the chillico avree. An' the chillico was a dove, 'cause dove-us is like Duvel, an' pash o' the Duvel an' Duvel's chillico. So the dove mukkered avree an' jalled round the tem till he latchered the puvius; for when he dickered a tan an' lelled a holluf-leaf, he jinned there was a tem, an' hatched the holluf apopli to his Duvel. An' when yuv's Duvel jinned there was a tem, he kaired bitti tiknos an' foki for the tem--an' I don't jin no more of it. Kekoomi. An' that is a wery tidy little story of the leaf, and it sikkers that the holluf was the first leaf. Tacho." "Sir, I will tell you the oldest word for a leaf--and that is an olive. (Don't you know that the olive was the first leaf? so olive must be the Rommany word, since Rommanis is the oldest language of all.) For when the first man was made and created in the world--and that was the great God himself, I expect--and brought the land out, he was in the ship, and didn't know if there was any earth about him, so he sent the bird out. And the bird was a dove, because _dove_ is like _Duvel_ (God), and half God and God's bird. So the dove flew away and went around the world till he found the earth; for when he saw a place and took an olive-leaf, he knew there was a country (land), and took the olive-leaf back to his Lord. And when his Lord knew there was land, he made little children and people for it--and I don't know anything more about it. And that is a very tidy little story of the leaf, and it shows that the olive was the first leaf." Being gratified at my noting down this original narrative from his own lips, my excellent old friend informed me, with cheerfulness not unmingled with the dignified pride characteristic of erudition, and of the possession of deep and darksome lore, that he also knew the story of Samson. And thus spake he:-- "Samson was a boro mush, wery hunnalo an' tatto at koorin', so that he nashered saw the mushis avree, an' they were atrash o' lester. He was so surrelo that yeckorus when he poggered avree a ker, an' it had a boro sasterni wuder, he just pet it apre his dumo, an' hookered it avree, an' jalled kerri an' bikin'd it. "Yeck divvus he lelled some weshni juckals, an' pandered yagni-trushnees to their poris and mukked 'em jal. And they nashered avree like puro bengis, sig in the sala, when sar the mushis were sutto, 'unsa parl the giv puvius, and hotchered sar the giv. "Then the krallis bitchered his mushis to lel Samson, but he koshered 'em, an' pash mored the tat of 'em; they couldn't kurry him, and he sillered 'em to praster for their miraben. An' 'cause they couldn't serber him a koorin', they kaired it sidd pre the chingerben drum. Now Samson was a seehiatty mush, wery cammoben to the juvas, so they got a wery rinkeni chi to kutter an' kuzzer him. So yuv welled a laki to a worretty tan, an' she hocussed him with drab till yuv was pilfry o' sutto, an his sherro hungered hooper side a lacker; an' when yuv was selvered, the mushis welled and chinned his ballos apre an' chivved him adree the sturaben. "An' yeck divvus the foki hitchered him avree the sturaben to kair pyass for 'em. And as they were gillerin' and huljerin' him, Samson chivved his wasters kettenus the boro chongurs of the sturaben, and bongered his kokerus adree, an sar the ker pet a lay with a boro gudli, an' sar the pooro mushis were mullered an' the ker poggered to bitti cutters." "Samson was a great man, very fierce and expert at fighting, so that he drove all men away, and they were afraid of him. He was so strong that once when he broke into a house, and it had a great iron door, he just put it on his back, and carried it away and went home and sold it. "One day he caught some foxes, and tied firebrands to their tails and let them go. And they ran away like old devils, early in the morning, when all the people were asleep, across the field, and burned all the wheat. "Then the king sent his men to take Samson, but he hurt them, and half killed the whole of them; they could not injure him, and he compelled them to run for life. And because they could not capture him by fighting, they did it otherwise by an opposite way. Now Samson was a man full of life, very fond of the girls, so they got a very pretty woman to cajole and coax him. And he went with her to a lonely house, and she 'hocussed' him with poison till he was heavy with sleep, and his head drooped by her side; and when he was poisoned, the people came and cut his hair off and threw him into prison. "And one day the people dragged him out of prison to make sport for them. And as they were making fun of him and teasing him, Samson threw his hands around the great pillars of the prison, and bowed himself in, and all the house fell down with a great noise, and all the poor men were killed and the house broken to small pieces. "And so he died." "Do you know what the judgment day is, Puro?" "Avo, rya. The judgment day is when you _soves alay_ (go in sleep, or dream away) to the boro Duvel." I reflected long on this reply of the untutored Rommany. I had often thought that the deepest and most beautiful phrase in all Tennyson's poems was that in which the impassioned lover promised his mistress to love her after death, ever on "into the dream beyond." And here I had the same thought as beautifully expressed by an old Gipsy, who, he declared, for two months hadn't seen three nights when he wasn't as drunk as four fiddlers. And the same might have been said of Carolan, the Irish bard, who lived in poetry and died in whisky. The soul sleeping or dreaming away to God suggested an inquiry into the Gipsy idea of the nature of spirits. "You believe in _mullos_ (ghosts), Puro. Can everybody see them, I wonder?" "Avo, rya, avo. Every mush can dick mullos if it's their cammoben to be dickdus. But 'dusta critters can dick mullos whether the mullos kaum it or kek. There's grais an' mylas can dick mullos by the ratti; an' yeckorus I had a grai that was trasher 'dree a tem langs the rikkorus of a drum, pash a boro park where a mush had been mullered. He prastered a mee pauli, but pash a cheirus he welled apopli to the wardos. A chinned jucko or a wixen can hunt mullos. Avali, they chase sperits just the sim as anything 'dree the world--dan'r 'em, koor 'em, chinger 'em--'cause the dogs can't be dukkered by mullos." In English: "Yes, sir, yes. Every man can see ghosts if it is their will to be seen. But many creatures can see ghosts whether the ghosts wish it or not. There are horses and asses (which) can see ghosts by the night; and once I had a horse that was frightened in a place by the side of a road, near a great park where a man had been murdered. He ran a mile behind, but after a while came back to the waggons. A cut (castrated) dog or a vixen can hunt ghosts. Yes, they chase spirits just the same as anything in the world--bite 'em, fight 'em, tear 'em--because dogs cannot be hurt by ghosts." "Dogs," I replied, "sometimes hunt men as well as ghosts." "Avo; but men can fool the juckals avree, and men too, and mullos can't." "How do they kair it?" "If a choramengro kaums to chore a covva when the snow is apre the puvius, he jals yeck piro, palewavescro. If you chiv tutes piros pal-o- the-waver--your kusto piro kaired bongo, jallin' with it a rikkorus, an' the waver piro straightus--your patteran'll dick as if a bongo-herroed mush had been apre the puvius. (I jinned a mush yeckorus that had a dui chokkas kaired with the dui tachabens kaired bongo, to jal a-chorin' with.) But if you're pallered by juckals, and pet lully dantymengro adree the chokkas, it'll dukker the sunaben of the juckos. "An' if you chiv lully dantymengro where juckos kair panny, a'ter they soom it they won't jal adoi chichi no moreus, an' won't mutter in dovo tan, and you can keep it cleanus." That is, "If a thief wants to steal a thing when the snow is on the ground, he goes with one foot behind the other. If you put your feet one behind the other--your right foot twisted, going with it to one side, and the other foot straight--your trail will look as if a crooked-legged man had been on the ground. (I knew a man once that had a pair of shoes made with the two heels reversed, to go a-thieving with.) But if you are followed by dogs, and put red pepper in your shoes, it will spoil the scent of the dogs. "And if you throw red pepper where dogs make water, they will not go there any more after they smell it, and you can keep it clean." "Well," I replied, "I see that a great many things can be learned from the Gipsies. Tell me, now, when you wanted a night's lodging did you ever go to a union?" "Kek, rya; the tramps that jal langs the drum an' mang at the unions are kek Rommany chals. The Rommany never kair dovo--they'd sooner besh in the bavol puv firstus. We'd putch the farming rye for mukkaben to hatch the ratti adree the granja,but we'd sooner suv under the bor in the bishnoo than jal adree the chuvveny-ker. The Rommany chals aint sim to tramps, for they've got a different drum into 'em." In English: "No, sir; the tramps that go along the road and beg at the unions are not Gipsies. The Rommany never do that--they'd sooner stay in the open field (literally, air-field). We would ask the farmer for leave to stop the night in the barn, but we'd sooner sleep under the hedge in the rain than go in the poorhouse. Gipsies are not like tramps, for they have a different _way_." The reader who will reflect on the extreme misery and suffering incident upon sleeping in the open air, or in a very scanty tent, during the winter in England, and in cold rains, will appreciate the amount of manly pride necessary to sustain the Gipsies in thus avoiding the union. That the wandering Rommany can live at all is indeed wonderful, since not only are all other human beings less exposed to suffering than many of them, but even foxes and rabbits are better protected in their holes from storms and frost. The Indians of North America have, without exception, better tents; in fact, one of the last Gipsy _tans_ which I visited was merely a bit of ragged canvas, so small that it could only cover the upper portion of the bodies of the man and his wife who slept in it. Where and how they packed their two children I cannot understand. The impunity with which any fact might be published in English Rommany, with the certainty that hardly a soul in England not of the blood could understand it, is curiously illustrated by an incident which came within my knowledge. The reader is probably aware that there appear occasionally in the "Agony" column of the _Times_ (or in that devoted to "personal" advertisements) certain sentences apparently written in some very strange foreign tongue, but which the better informed are aware are made by transposing letters according to the rules of cryptography or secret writing. Now it is estimated that there are in Great Britain at least one thousand lovers of occult lore and quaint curiosa, decipherers of rebuses and adorers of anagrams, who, when one of these delightful puzzles appears in the _Times_, set themselves down and know no rest until it is unpuzzled and made clear, being stimulated in the pursuit by the delightful consciousness that they are exploring the path of somebody's secret, which somebody would be very sorry to have made known. Such an advertisement appeared one day, and a friend of mine, who had a genius for that sort of thing, sat himself down early one Saturday morning to decipher it. First of all he ascertained which letter occurred most frequently in the advertisement, for this must be the letter _e_ according to rules made and provided by the great Edgar A. Poe, the American poet-cryptographer. But to reveal the secret in full, I may as well say, dear reader, that you must take printers' type in their cases, _and follow the proportions according to the size of the boxes_. By doing this you cannot fail to unrip the seam of any of these transmutations. But, alas! this cock would not fight--it was a dead bird in the pit. My friend at once apprehended that he had to deal with an old hand--one of those aggravating fellows who are up to cryp--a man who can write a sentence, and be capable of leaving the letter _e_ entirely out. For there _are_ people who will do this. So he went to work afresh upon now hypotheses, and pleasantly the hours fled by. Quires of paper were exhausted; he worked all day and all the evening with no result. That it was not in a foreign language my friend was well assured. "For well hee knows the Latine and the Dutche; Of Fraunce and Toscanie he hath a touche." Russian is familiar to him, and Arabic would not have been an unknown quantity. So he began again with the next day, and had been breaking the Sabbath until four o'clock in the afternoon, when I entered, and the mystic advertisement was submitted to me. I glanced at it, and at once read it into English, though as I read the smile at my friend's lost labour vanished in a sense of sympathy for what the writer must have suffered. It was as follows, omitting names:-- "MANDY jins of --- ---. Patsa mandy, te bitcha lav ki tu shan. Opray minno lav, mandy'l kek pukka til tute muks a mandi. Tute's di's see se welni poggado. Shom atrash tuti dad'l jal divio. Yov'l fordel sor. For miduvel's kom, muk lesti shoon choomani." In English: "I know of ---. Trust me, and send word where you are. On my word, I will not tell till you give me leave. Your mother's heart is wellnigh broken. I am afraid your father will go mad. He will forgive all. For God's sake, let him know something." This was sad enough, and the language in which it was written is good English Rommany. I would only state in addition, that I found that in the very house in which I was living, and at the same time, a lady had spent three days in vainly endeavouring to ascertain the meaning of these sentences. It is possible that many Gipsies, be they of high or low degree, in society or out of it, may not be pleased at my publishing a book of their language, and revealing so much of what they fondly cherish as a secret. They need be under no apprehension, since I doubt very much whether, even with its aid, a dozen persons living will seriously undertake to study it--and of this dozen there is not one who will not be a philologist; and such students are generally aware that there are copious vocabularies of all the other Gipsy dialects of Europe easy to obtain from any bookseller. Had my friend used the works of Pott or Paspati, Ascoli or Grellman, he would have found it an easy thing to translate this advertisement. The truth simply is, that for _scholars_ there is not a single secret or hidden word in English Gipsy or in any other Rommany dialect, and none except scholars will take pains to acquire it. Any man who wished to learn sufficient Gipsy to maintain a conversation, and thereby learn all the language, could easily have done so half a century ago from the vocabularies published by Bright and other writers. A secret which has been for fifty years published in very practical detail in fifty books, is indeed a _secret de Ponchinelle_. I have been asked scores of times, "Have the Gipsies an alphabet of their own? have they grammars of their language, dictionaries, or books?" Of course my answer was in the negative. I have heard of vocabularies in use among crypto-Rommanies, or those who having risen from the roads live a secret life, so to speak, but I have never seen one. But they have songs; and one day I was told that in my neighbourhood there lived a young Gipsy woman who was a poetess and made Rommany ballads. "She can't write," said my informant; "but her husband's a _Gorgio_, and he can. If you want them, I'll get you some." The offer was of course accepted, and the Gipsy dame, flattered by the request, sent me the following. The lyric is without rhyme, but, as sung, not without rhythm. "GILLI OF A RUMMANY JUVA. "Die at the gargers (Gorgios), The gargers round mandy! Trying to lel my meripon, My meripon (meripen) away. I will care (kair) up to my chungs (chongs), Up to my chungs in Rat, All for my happy Racler (raklo). My mush is lelled to sturribon (staripen), To sturribon, to sturribon; Mymush is lelled to sturribon, To the Tan where mandy gins (jins)." TRANSLATION. "Look at the Gorgios, the Gorgios around me! trying to take my life away. "I will wade up to my knees in blood, all for my happy boy. "My husband is taken to prison, to prison, to prison; my husband is taken to prison, to the place of which I know." CHAPTER X. GIPSIES IN EGYPT. Difficulty of obtaining Information.--The Khedive on the Gipsies.--Mr Edward Elias.--Mahomet introduces me to the Gipsies.--They call themselves Tataren.--The Rhagarin or Gipsies at Boulac.--Cophts.--Herr Seetzen on Egyptian Gipsies.--The Gipsy with the Monkey in Cairo.--Street- cries of the Gipsy Women in Egypt. Captain Newbold on the Egyptian Gipsies. Since writing the foregoing pages, and only a day or two after one of the incidents therein described, I went to Egypt, passing the winter in Cairo and on the Nile. While waiting in the city for the friend with whom I was to ascend the mysterious river, it naturally occurred to me, that as I was in the country which many people still believe is the original land of the Gipsies, it would be well worth my while to try to meet with some, if any were to be found. It is remarkable, that notwithstanding my inquiries from many gentlemen, both native and foreign, including savans and beys, the only educated person I ever met in Egypt who was able to give me any information on the subject of its Gipsies was the Khedive or Viceroy himself, a fact which will not seem strange to those who are aware of the really wonderful extent of his knowledge of the country which he rules. I had been but a few days in Cairo when, at an interview with the Khedive, Mr Beardsley, the American Consul, by whom I was presented, mentioned to his Highness that I was interested in the subject of the Gipsies, upon which the Khedive said that there were in Egypt many people known as "_Rhagarin_" (Ghagarin), who were probably the same as the "Bohemiens" or Gipsies of Europe. His words were, as nearly as I can remember, as follows:-- "They are wanderers who live in tents, and are regarded with contempt even by the peasantry. Their women tell fortunes, tattoo, {189} and sell small-wares; the men work in iron (_quincaillerie_). They are all adroit thieves, and noted as such. The men may sometimes be seen going around the country with monkeys; in fact, they appear to be in all respects the same people as the Gipsies of Europe." This was all that I could learn for several days; for though there were Gipsies--or "Egypcians"--in Egypt, I had almost as much trouble to find them as Eilert Sundt had to discover their brethren in Norway. In speaking of the subject to Mr Edward Elias, a gentleman well known in Egypt, he most kindly undertook to secure the aid of the chief of police, who in turn had recourse to the Shekh of the Gipsies. But the Shekh I was told was not himself a Gipsy, and there were none of his subjects in Cairo. After a few days, three wanderers, supposed to be Rommany, were arrested; but on examination they proved to be ignorant of any language except Arabic. Their occupation was music and dancing "with a stick;" in fact, they were performers in those curious and extremely ancient Fescennine farces, or _Atellanae_, which are depicted on ancient vases, and are still acted on the roads in Egypt as they were in Greece before the days of Thespis. Then I was informed that Gipsies were often encamped near the Pyramids, but research in this direction was equally fruitless. Remembering what his Highness had told me, that Gipsies went about exhibiting monkeys, I one day, on meeting a man bearing an ape, endeavoured to enter into conversation with him. Those who know Cairo can imagine with what result! In an instant we were surrounded by fifty natives of the lower class, jabbering, jeering, screaming, and begging--all intent, as it verily seemed, on defeating my object. I gave the monkey-bearer money; instead of thanking me, he simply clamoured for more, while the mob became intolerable, so that I was glad to make my escape. At last I was successful. I had frequently employed as donkey-driver an intelligent and well-behaved man named Mahomet, who spoke English well, and who was familiar with the byways of Cairo. On asking him if he could show me any Rhagarin, he replied that every Saturday there was a fair or market held at Boulac, where I would be sure to meet with women of the tribe. The men, I was told, seldom ventured into the city, because they were subject to much insult and ill-treatment from the common people. On the day appointed I rode to the market, which was extremely interesting. There were thousands of blue-shirted and red-tarbouched or white-turbaned Egyptians, buying or selling, or else merely amusing themselves; dealers in sugar-cane, pipe-pedlars, and vendors of rosaries; jugglers and minstrels. At last we came to a middle-aged woman seated on the ground behind a basket containing beads, glass armlets, and similar trinkets. She was dressed like any Arab woman of the lower class, but was not veiled, and on her chin blue lines were tattooed. Her features and whole expression were, however, evidently Gipsy. I spoke to her in Rommany, using such words as would have been intelligible to any of the race in England, Germany, or Turkey; but she did not understand me, and declared that she could speak nothing but Arabic. At my request Mahomet explained to her that I had travelled from a distant country in "Orobba," where there were many Rhagarin who declared that their fathers came from Egypt, and that I wished to know if any in the latter country could speak the old language. She replied that the Rhagarin of "Montesinos" could still speak it, but that her people in Egypt had lost the tongue. Mahomet declared that Montesinos meant Mount Sinai or Syria. I then asked her if the Rhagarin had no peculiar name for themselves, and she replied, "Yes, we call ourselves Tataren." This was at least satisfactory. All over Southern Germany and in Norway the Rommany are sailed Tataren; and though the word means Tartars, and is simply a misapplied term, it indicates a common race. The woman seemed to be very much gratified at the interest I manifested in her people. I gave her a double piastre, and asked for its value in blue-glass armlets. She gave me two pair, and as I turned to depart called me back, and with a good-natured smile handed me four more as a present. This generosity was very Gipsy-like, and very unlike the usual behaviour of any common Egyptian. While on the Nile, I inquired of people in different towns if they had ever seen Gipsies where they lived, and was invariably answered in the negative. Remembering to have read in some book a statement that the Ghawazi or dancing-girls formed a tribe by themselves, and spoke a peculiar language, I asked an American who has lived for many years in Egypt if he thought they could be Gipsies. He replied that an English lady of title, who had also been for a long time in the country, had formed this opinion. But when I questioned dancing-girls myself, I found them quite ignorant of any language except Arabic, and knowing nothing relating to the Rommany. Two Ghawazi whom I saw had, indeed, the peculiarly brilliant eyes and general expression of Gipsies. The rest appeared to be Egyptian-Arab; and I found on inquiry that one of the latter had really been a peasant girl who till within seven months had worked in the fields, while two others were occupied alternately with field-work and dancing. At the market in Boulac, Mahomet took me to a number of _Rhagarin_. They all resembled the one whom I have described, and were all occupied in selling exactly the same class of articles. They all differed slightly, as I thought, from the ordinary Egyptians in their appearance, and were decidedly unlike them, in being neither importunate for money nor disagreeable in their manners. But though they were certainly Gipsies, none of them would speak Rommany, and I doubt very much if they could have done so. Bonaventura Vulcanius, who in 1597 first gave the world a specimen of Rommany in his curious book "De Literis et Lingua Getarum" (which specimen, by the way, on account of its rarity, I propose to republish in another work), believed that the Gipsies were Nubians; and others, following in his track, supposed they were really Cophtic Christians (Pott, "Die Zigeuner," &c., Halle, 1844, p. 5). And I must confess that this recurred forcibly to my memory when, at Minieh, in Egypt, I asked a Copht scribe if he were Muslim, and he replied, "_La_, _ana Gipti_" ("No, I am a Copht"), pronouncing the word _Gipti_, or Copht, so that it might readily be taken for "Gipsy." And learning that _romi_ is the Cophtic for a man, I was again startled; and when I found _tema_ (tem, land) and other Rommany words in ancient Egyptian (_vide_ Brugsch, "Grammaire," &c.), it seemed as if there were still many mysteries to solve in this strange language. Other writers long before me attempted to investigate Egyptian Gipsy, but with no satisfactory result. A German named Seetzen ascertained that there were Gipsies both in Egypt and Syria, and wrote (1806) on the subject a MS., which Pott ("Die Zigeuner," &c.) cites largely. Of these Roms he speaks as follows: "Gipsies are to be found in the entire Osmanli realm, from the limits of Hungary into Egypt. The Turks call them Tschinganih; but the Syrians and Egyptians, as well as themselves, _Nury_, in the plural _El Nauar_. It was on the 24th November 1806 when I visited a troop of them, encamped with their black tents in an olive grove, to the west side of Naplos. They were for the greater part of a dirty yellow complexion, with black hair, which hung down on the side from where it was parted in a short plait, and their lips are mulatto- like." (Seetzen subsequently remarks that their physiognomy is precisely like that of the modern Egyptians.) "The women had their under lips coloured dark blue, like female Bedouins, and a few eaten-in points around the mouth of like colour. They, and the boys also, wore earrings. They made sieves of horse-hair or of leather, iron nails, and similar small ironware, or mended kettles. They appear to be very poor, and the men go almost naked, unless the cold compels them to put on warmer clothing. The little boys ran about naked. Although both Christians and Mahometans declared that they buried their dead in remote hill corners, or burned them, they denied it, and declared they were good Mahometans, and as such buried their dead in Mahometan cemeteries." (This corresponds to their custom in Great Britain in the past generation, and the earnestness which they display at present to secure regular burial like Christians.) "But as their instruction is even more neglected than that of the Bedouins, their religious information is so limited that one may say of them, they have either no religion at all, or the simplest of all. As to wine, they are less strict than most Mahometans. They assured me that in Egypt there were many _Nury_." The same writer obtained from one of these Syrian-Egyptian Gipsies a not inconsiderable vocabulary of their language, and says: "I find many Arabic, Turkish, and some Greek words in it; it appears to me, however, that they have borrowed from a fourth language, which was perhaps their mother-tongue, but which I cannot name, wanting dictionaries." The words which he gives appear to me to consist of Egyptian-Arabic, with its usual admixture from other sources, simply made into a gibberish, and sometimes with one word substituted for another to hide the meaning--the whole probably obtained through a dragoman, as is seen, for instance, when he gives the word _nisnaszeha_, a fox, and states that it is of unknown origin. The truth is, _nisnas_ means a monkey, and, like most of Seetzen's "Nuri" words, is inflected with an _a_ final, as if one should say "monkeyo." I have no doubt the Nauar may talk such a jargon; but I should not be astonished, either, if the Shekh who for a small pecuniary consideration eagerly aided Seetzen to note it down, had "sold" him with what certainly would appear to any Egyptian to be the real babble of the nursery. There are a very few Rommany words in this vocabulary, but then it should be remembered that there are some Arabic words in Rommany. The street-cry of the Gipsy women in Cairo is [ARABIC TEXT which cannot be reproduced] "_Neduqq wanetahir_!" "We tattoo and circumcise!" a phrase which sufficiently indicates their calling. In the "Deutscher Dragoman" of Dr Philip Wolff, Leipzig, 1867, I find the following under the word Zigeuner:-- "Gipsy--in Egypt, Gagri" (pronounced more nearly 'Rh'agri), "plural _Gagar_; in Syria, _Newari_, plural _Nawar_. When they go about with monkeys, they are called _Kurudati_, from _kird_, ape. The Gipsies of Upper Egypt call themselves Saaideh--_i.e_., people from Said, or Upper Egypt (_vide_ Kremer, i. 138-148). According to Von Gobineau, they are called in Syria Kurbati, [ARABIC TEXT which cannot be reproduced] (_vide_ 'Zeitschrift der D. M. G.,' xi. 690)." More than this of the Gipsies in Egypt the deponent sayeth not. He has interrogated the oracles, and they were dumb. That there are Roms in the land of Mizr his eyes have shown, but whether any of them can talk Rommany is to him as yet unknown. * * * * * Since the foregoing was printed, I have found in the _Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society_ (Vol. XVI., Part 2, 1856, p. 285), an article on The Gipsies in Egypt, by the late Captain Newbold, F.R.S., which gives much information on this mysterious subject. The Egyptian Gipsies, as Captain Newbold found, are extremely jealous and suspicious of any inquiry into their habits and mode of life, so that he had great difficulty in tracing them to their haunts, and inducing them to unreserved communication. These Gipsies are divided into three kinds, the Helebis, Ghagars (Rhagarin), and Nuris or Nawer. Of the Rhagars there are sixteen thousand. The Helebi are most prosperous of all these, and their women, who are called Fehemis, are the only ones who practice fortune-telling and sorcery. The male Helebis are chiefly ostensible dealers in horses and cattle, but have a bad character for honesty. Some of them are to be found in every official department in Egypt, though not known to be Gipsies--(a statement which casts much light on the circumstance that neither the chief of police himself nor the Shekh of the Rhagarin, with all their alleged efforts, could find a single Gipsy for me). The Helebis look down on the Rhagarin, and do not suffer their daughters to intermarry with them, though they themselves marry Rhagarin girls. The Fehemi, or Helebi women, are noted for their chastity; the Rhagarin are not. The men of the Rhagarin are tinkers and blacksmiths, and sell cheap jewellery or instruments of iron and brass. Many of them are athletes, mountebanks, and monkey-exhibitors; the women are rope-dancers and musicians. They are divided into classes, bearing the names of Romani, Meddahin, Ghurradin, Barmeki (Barmecides), Waled Abu Tenna, Beit er Rafai, Hemmeli, &c. The Helebis and Rhagarin are distinctly different in their personal appearance from the other inhabitants of Egypt, having the eyes and expression peculiar to all Gipsies. Captain Newbold, in fact, assumes that any person "who remains in Egypt longer than the ordinary run of travellers, and roams about the streets and environs of the large towns, can hardly fail to notice the strange appearance of certain females, whose features at once distinguish them from the ordinary Fellah Arabs and Cophts of the country." "The Nuris or Nawers are hereditary thieves, but are now (1856) employed as police and watchmen in the Pacha's country estates. In Egypt they intermarry with the Fellahin or Arabs of the soil, from whom, in physical appearance and dress, they can hardly be distinguished. Outwardly they profess Mohammedanism, and have little intercourse with the Helebis and Ghagars (or Rhagarin)." Each of these tribes or classes speak a separate and distinct dialect or jargon. That of the Rhagarin most resembles the language spoken by the Kurbats, or Gipsies of Syria. "It seems to me probable," says Captain Newbold, "that the whole of these tribes had one common origin in India, or the adjacent countries on its Western frontier, and that the difference in the jargons they now speak is owing to their sojourn in the various countries through which they have passed. _This is certain_, _that the Gipsies are strangers in the land of Egypt_." I am not astonished, on examining the specimens of these three dialects given by Captain Newbold, with the important addition made by Mr W. Burckhardt Barker, that I could not converse with the Rhagarin. That of the Nawers does not contain a single word which would be recognised as Rommany, while those which occur in the other two jargons are, if not positively either few and far between, strangely distorted from the original. A great number are ordinary vulgar Arabic. It is very curious that while in England such a remarkably large proportion of Hindustani words have been preserved, they have been lost in the East, in countries comparatively near the fatherland--India. I would, in conclusion to this work, remark that numbers of Rommany words, which are set down by philologists as belonging to Greek, Slavonian, and other languages, were originally Hindu, and have only changed their form a little because the wanderers found a resemblance to the old word in a new one. I am also satisfied that much may be learned as to the origin of these words from a familiar acquaintance with the vulgar dialects of Persia, and such words as are not put down in dictionaries, owing to their provincial character. I have found, on questioning a Persian gentleman, that he knew the meaning of many Rommany words from their resemblance to vulgar Persian, though they were not in the Persian dictionary which I used. ROMMANI GUDLI; OR, GIPSY STORIES AND FABLES. The Gipsy to whom I was chiefly indebted for the material of this book frequently narrated to me the _Gudli_ or small stories current among his people, and being a man of active, though child-like imagination, often invented others of a similar character. Sometimes an incident or saying would suggest to me the outline of a narrative, upon which he would eagerly take it up, and readily complete the tale. But if I helped him sometimes to evolve from a hint, a phrase, or a fact, something like a picture, it was always the Gipsy who gave it Rommany characteristics and conferred colour. It was often very difficult for him to distinctly recall an old story or clearly develop anything of the kind, whether it involved an effort of memory or of the imagination, and here he required aid. I have never in my life met with any man whose mind combined so much simplicity, cunning, and grotesque fancy, with such an entire incapacity to appreciate either humour or "poetry" as expressed in the ordinary language of culture. The metre and rhyme of the simplest ballad made it unintelligible to him, and I was obliged to repeat such poetry several times before he could comprehend it. Yet he would, while I was otherwise occupied than with him, address to his favourite wooden image of a little bear on the chimneypiece, grotesque soliloquies which would have delighted a Hoffman, or conduct with it dialogues which often startled me. With more education, he would have become a Rommany Bid- pai; and since India is the fatherland of the fable, he may have derived his peculiar faculty for turning morals and adorning tales legitimately from that source. I may state that those stories, which were made entirely; as a few were; or in part, by my assistant and myself, were afterwards received with approbation by ordinary Gipsies as being thoroughly Rommany. As to the _language_ of the stories, it is all literally and faithfully that of a Gipsy, word by word, written down as he uttered it, when, after we had got a _gudlo_ into shape, he told it finally over, which he invariably did with great eagerness, ending with an improvised moral. GUDLO I. HOW A GIPSY SAVED A CHILD'S LIFE BY BREAKING A WINDOW. 'Pre yeck divvus (or yeckorus) a Rommany chal was kairin' pyass with the koshters, an' he wussered a kosh 'pre the hev of a boro ker an' poggered it. Welled the prastramengro and penned, "Tu must pooker (or pessur) for the glass." But when they jawed adree the ker, they lastered the kosh had mullered a divio juckal that was jawan' to dant the chavo. So the rani del the Rommany chal a sonnakai ora an' a fino gry. But yeck koshter that poggers a hev doesn't muller a juckal. TRANSLATION. On a day (or once) a Gipsy was playing at cockshy, and he threw a stick through the window of a great house and broke the glass. Came the policeman and said, "You must answer (or pay) for the glass." But when they went into the house, they found the stick had killed a mad dog that was going to bite the child (boy). So the lady gave the Gipsy a gold watch and a good horse. But every stick that breaks a window does not kill a dog. GUDLO II. THE GIPSY STORY OF THE BIRD AND THE HEDGEHOG. 'Pre yeck divvus a hotchewitchi dicked a chillico adree the puv, and the chillico pukkered lesco, "Mor jal pauli by the kushto wastus, or the hunters' graias will chiv tute adree the chick, mullo; an' if you jal the waver rikk by the bongo wast, dovo's a Rommany tan adoi, and the Rommany chals will haw tute." Penned the hotchewitchi, "I'd rather jal with the Rommany chals, an' be hawed by foki that kaum mandy, than be pirraben apre by chals that dick kaulo apre mandy." It's kushtier for a tacho Rom to be mullered by a Rommany pal than to be nashered by the Gorgios. TRANSLATION. On a day a hedgehog met a bird in the field, and the bird told him, "Do not go around by the right hand, or the hunters' horses will trample you dead in the dirt; and if you go around by the left hand, there's a Gipsy tent, and the Gipsies will eat you." Said the hedgehog, "I'd rather go with the Gipsies, and be eaten by folk that like me, than be trampled on by people that despise (literally, look black upon) me." It is better for a real Gipsy to be killed by a Gipsy brother than to be hung by Gorgios. GUDLO III. A STORY OF A FORTUNE-TELLER. Yeckorus a tano Gorgio chivved apre a shubo an' jalled to a puri Rommany dye to get dukkered. And she pookered lester, "Tute'll rummorben a Fair Man with kauli yakkas." Then the raklo delled laki yeck shukkori an' penned, "If this shukkori was as boro as the hockaben tute pukkered mandy, tute might porder sar the bongo tem with rupp." But, hatch a wongish!--maybe in a divvus, maybe in a curricus, maybe a dood, maybe a besh, maybe waver divvus, he rummorbend a rakli by the nav of Fair Man, and her yakkas were as kaulo as miri juva's. There's always dui rikk to a dukkerben. TRANSLATION. Once a little Gorgio put on a woman's gown and went to an old Gipsy mother to have his fortune told. And she told him, "You'll marry a Fair Man with black eyes." Then the young man gave her a sixpence and said, "If this sixpence were as big as the lie you told me, you could fill all hell with silver." But, stop a bit! after a while--maybe in a week, maybe a month, maybe in a year, maybe the other day--he married a girl by the name of Fair Man, and her eyes were as black as my sweetheart's. There are always two sides to a prediction. GUDLO IV. HOW THE ROYSTON ROOK DECEIVED THE ROOKS AND PIGEONS. 'Pre yeck divvus a Royston rookus jalled mongin the kaulo chiriclos, an' they putched (pootschered) him, "Where did tute chore tiro pauno chukko?" And yuv pookered, "Mandy chored it from a biksherro of a pigeon." Then he jalled a-men the pigeons an' penned, "Sarishan, pals?" And they putched lesti, "Where did tute lel akovo kauli rokamyas te byascros?" And yuv penned, "Mandy chored 'em from those wafri mushis the rookuses." Pash-ratis pen their kokeros for Gorgios mongin Gorgios, and for Rommany mongin Rommany chals. TRANSLATION. On a day a Royston rook {206} went among the crows (black birds), and they asked him, "Where did you steal your white coat?" And he told (them), "I stole it from a fool of a pigeon." Then he went among the pigeons and said, "How are you, brothers?" And they asked him, "Where did you get those black trousers and sleeves?" And he said, "I stole 'em from those wretches the rooks." Half-breeds call themselves Gorgio among Gorgios, and Gipsy among Gipsies. GUDLO V. THE GIPSY'S STORY OF THE GORGIO AND THE ROMMANY CHAL. Once 'pre a chairus (or chyrus) a Gorgio penned to a Rommany chal, "Why does tute always jal about the tem ajaw? There's no kushtoben in what don't hatch acai." Penned the Rommany chal, "Sikker mandy tute's wongur!" And yuv sikkered him a cutter (cotter?), a bar, a pash-bar, a pash-cutter, a pange-cullo (caulor?) bittus, a pash-krooner (korauna), a dui-cullos bittus, a trin-mushi, a shuckori, a stor'oras, a trin'oras, a dui'oras, a haura, a poshero, a lulli, a pash-lulli. Penned the Rommany chal, "Acovo's sar wafri wongur." "Kek," penned the Gorgio; "se sar kushto an' kirus. Chiv it adree tute's wast and shoon it ringus." "Avo," penned the Rommany chal. "Tute pookered mandy that only wafri covvas keep jallin', te 'covo wongur has jalled sar 'pre the 'tem adusta timei (or timey)." Sar mushis aren't all sim ta rukers (rukkers.) Some must pirraben, and can't besh't a lay. TRANSLATION. Once upon a time a Gorgio said to a Gipsy, "Why do you always go about the country so? There is 'no good' in what does not rest (literally, stop here)." Said the Gipsy, "Show me your money!" And he showed him a guinea, a sovereign, a half-sovereign, a half-guinea, a five-shilling piece, a half-crown, a two-shilling piece, a shilling, a sixpence, a fourpenny piece, a threepence, a twopence, a penny, a halfpenny, a farthing, a half-farthing. Said the Gipsy, "This is all bad money." "No," said the other man; "it is all good and sound. Toss it in your hand and hear it ring!" "Yes," replied the Gipsy. "You told me that only bad things _keep going_, and this money has gone all over the country many a time." All men are not like trees. Some must travel, and cannot keep still. GUDLO VI. HOW THE GIPSY BRIBED THE POLICEMAN. Once apre a chairus a Rommany chal chored a rani chillico (or chiriclo), and then jalled atut a prastramengro 'pre the drum. "Where did tute chore adovo rani?" putchered the prastramengro. "It's kek rani; it's a pauno rani that I kinned 'dree the gav to del tute." "Tacho," penned the prastramengro, "it's the kushtiest pauno rani mandy ever dickdus. Ki did tute kin it?" Avali, many's the chairus mandy's tippered a trinmushi to a prastramengro ta mukk mandy hatch my tan with the chavvis. TRANSLATION. Once on a time a Gipsy stole a turkey, and then met a policeman on the road. "Where did you steal that turkey?" asked the policeman. "It's no turkey; it's a goose that I bought in the town to give you." "Fact," said the policeman, "it _is_ the finest goose I ever saw. Where _did_ you buy it?" Yes, many's the time I have given a shilling (three fourpence) to a policeman to let me pitch my tent with the children. {209} GUDLO VII. HOW A GIPSY LOST THREEPENCE. Yeckorus a choro mush besht a lay ta kair trin horras-worth o' peggi for a masengro. There jessed alang's a rye, who penned, "Tool my gry, an' I'll del tute a shukori." While he tooled the gry a rani pookered him, "Rikker this trushni to my ker, an' I'll del tute a trin grushi." So he lelled a chavo to tool the gry, and pookered lester, "Tute shall get pash the wongur." Well, as yuv was rikkinin' the trushnee an' siggerin burry ora bender the drum, he dicked a rye, who penned, "If tute'll jaw to the ker and hatch minni's juckal ta mandy, mi'll del tute a pash-korauna." So he got a waver chavo to rikker the trushnee for pash the wongur, whilst he jalled for the juckal. Wellin' alangus, he dicked a barvelo givescro, who penned, "'Avacai an' husker mandy to lel my guruvni (_gruvni_) avree the ditch, and I'll del you pange cullos" (caulos). So he lelled it. But at the kunsus of the divvus, sa yuv sus kennin apre sustis wongurs, he penned, "How wafro it is mandy nashered the trinoras I might have lelled for the mass-koshters!" A mush must always pet the giv in the puv before he can chin the harvest. TRANSLATION. Once a poor man sat down to make threepence-worth of skewers {210} for a butcher. There came along a gentleman, who said, "Hold my horse, and I'll give you a sixpence." While he held the horse a lady said to him, "Carry this basket to my house, and I'll give you a shilling." So he got a boy to hold the horse, and said to him, "You shall have half the money." Well, as he was carrying the basket and hurrying along fast across the road he saw a gentleman, who said, "If you'll go to the house and bring my dog to me, I will give you half-a-crown." So he got another boy to carry the basket for half the money, while he went for the dog. Going along, he saw a rich farmer, who said, "Come and help me here to get my cow out of the ditch, and I'll give you five shillings." So he got it. But at the end of the day, when he was counting his money, he said, "What a pity it is I lost the threepence I might have got for the skewers!" (literally, meat-woods.) A man must always put the grain in the ground before he can cut the harvest. GUDLO VIII. THE STORY OF THE GIPSY'S DOG. 'Pre yeck divvus a choro mush had a juckal that used to chore covvas and hakker them to the ker for his mush--mass, wongur, horas, and rooys. A rye kinned the juckal, an' kaired boot dusta wongur by sikkerin' the juckal at wellgooras. Where barvelo mushis can kair wongur tacho, chori mushis have to loure. TRANSLATION. On a day a poor man had a dog that used to steal things and carry them home for his master--meat, money, watches, and spoons. A gentleman bought the dog, and made a great deal of money by showing him at fairs. Where rich men can make money honestly, poor men have to steal. GUDLO IX. A STORY OF THE PRIZE-FIGHTER AND THE GENTLEMAN. 'Pre yeck chairus a cooromengro was to coor, and a rye rakkered him, "Will tute mukk your kokero be koored for twenty bar?" Penned the cooromengro, "Will tute mukk mandy pogger your herry for a hundred bar?" "Kek," penned the rye; "for if I did, mandy'd never pirro kushto ajaw." "And if I nashered a kooraben," penned the engro, "mandy'd never praster kekoomi." Kammoben is kushtier than wongur. TRANSLATION. On a time a prize-fighter was to fight, and a gentleman asked him, "Will you sell the fight" (_i.e_., let yourself be beaten) "for twenty pounds?" Said the prize-fighter, "Will you let me break your leg for a hundred pounds?" "No," said the gentleman; "for if I did, I should never walk well again." "And if I lost a fight," said the prize-fighter (literally, master, doer), "I could never 'run' again." Credit is better than money. GUDLO X. OF THE GENTLEMAN AND THE OLD GIPSY WOMAN. Pre yeck chairus a Rommany dye adree the wellgooro rakkered a rye to del laker trin mushi for kushto bak. An' he del it, an' putchered laki, "If I bitcher my wongur a-mukkerin' 'pre the graias, ki'll manni's bak be?" "My fino rye," she penned, "the bak'll be a collos-worth with mandy and my chavvis." Bak that's pessured for is saw (sar) adoi. TRANSLATION. On a time a Gipsy mother at the fair asked a gentleman to give her a shilling for luck. And he gave it, and asked her, "If I lose my money a- betting on the horses, where will my luck be?" "My fine gentleman," she said, "the luck will be a shilling's worth with me and my children." Luck that is paid for is always somewhere (literally, there). GUDLO XI. THE GIPSY TELLS OF THE CAT AND THE HARE. Yeckorus the matchka jalled to dick her kako's chavo the kanengro. An' there welled a huntingmush, an' the matchka taddied up the choomber, pre durer, pre a rukk, an' odoi she lastered a chillico's nest. But the kanengro prastered alay the choomber, longodurus adree the tem. Wafri bak kairs A choro mush ta jal alay, But it mukks a boro mush To chiv his kokero apre. {213} TRANSLATION. Once the cat went to see her cousin the hare. And there came a hunter, and the cat scrambled up the hill, further up, up a tree, and there she found a bird's nest. But the hare ran down the hill, far down into the country. Bad luck sends a poor man further down, but it causes a great man to rise still more. GUDLO XII. OF THE GIPSY WOMAN AND THE CHILD. Pre yeck chairus a chi jalled adree a waver tem, an' she rikkered a gunno pre laki dumo with a baulo adree. A rakli who was ladge of her tikno chored the baulo avree the gunno and chivved the chavi adree. Pasch a waver hora the chi shooned the tikno rov (ruvving), and dicked adree the gunno in boro toob, and penned, "If the baulos in akovo tem puraben into chavos, sa do the chavos puraben adree?" TRANSLATION. Once a woman went into a strange land, and she carried a bag on her back with a pig in it. A girl who was ashamed of her child stole the pig from the bag and put the baby in (its place). After an hour the woman heard the child cry, and looked into the bag with great amazement, and said, "If the pigs in this country change into children, into what do the children change?" GUDLO XIII. OF THE GIRL THAT WAS TO MARRY THE DEVIL. 'Pre yeck divvus a Rommany dye dukkered a rakli, and pookered laki that a kaulo rye kaumed her. But when the chi putchered her wongur, the rakli penned, "Puri dye, I haven't got a poshero to del tute. But pen mandy the nav of the kaulo rye." Then the dye shelled avree, very hunnalo, "Beng is the nav of tute's pirryno, and yuv se kaulo adusta." If you chore puri juvas tute'll lel the beng. TRANSLATION. On a day a Gipsy mother told a girl's fortune, and said to her that a dark (black) gentleman loved her. But when the woman demanded her money, the girl said, "Old mother, I haven't got a halfpenny to give you. But tell me the name of the dark gentleman." Then the mother roared out, very angry, "Devil is the name of your sweetheart, and he is black enough." If you cheat old women you will catch the devil. GUDLO XIV. OF THE GIPSY WHO STOLE THE HORSE. Yeckorus a mush chored a gry and jalled him avree adree a waver tem, and the gry and the mush jalled kushti bak kettenus. Penned the gry to his mush, "I kaums your covvas to wearus kushtier than mandy's, for there's kek chucknee or mellicus (pusimigree) adree them." "Kek," penned the mush pauli; "the trash I lel when mandy jins of the prastramengro an' the bitcherin' mush (krallis mush) is wafrier than any chucknee or busaha, an' they'd kair mandy to praster my miramon (miraben) avree any divvus." TRANSLATION. Once a man stole a horse and ran him away into another country, and the horse and the man became very intimate. Said the horse to the man, "I like your things to wear better than I do mine, for there's no whip or spur among them." "No," replied the man; "the fear I have when I think of the policeman and of the judge (sending or "transporting" man, or king's man) is worse than any whip or spur, and they would make me run my life away any day." GUDLO XV. THE HALF-BLOOD GIPSY, HIS WIFE, AND THE PIG. 'Pre yeck divvus there was a mush a-piin' ma his Rommany chals adree a kitchema, an' pauli a chairus he got pash matto. An' he penned about mullo baulors, that _he_ never hawed kek. Kenna-sig his juvo welled adree an' putched him to jal kerri, but yuv pookered her, "Kek--I won't jal kenna." Then she penned, "Well alang, the chavvis got kek habben." So she putchered him ajaw an' ajaw, an' he always rakkered her pauli "Kek." So she lelled a mullo baulor ap her dumo and wussered it 'pre the haumescro pre saw the foki, an' penned, "Lel the mullo baulor an' rummer it, an' mandy'll dick pauli the chavos." TRANSLATION. Once there was a man drinking with his Gipsy fellows in an alehouse, and after a while he got half drunk. And he said of pigs that had died a natural death, _he_ never ate any. By-and-by his wife came in and asked him to go home, but he told her, "No--I won't go now." Then she said, "Come along, the children have no food." So she entreated him again and again, and he always answered "No." So she took a pig that had died a natural death, from her back and threw it on the table before all the people, and said, "Take the dead pig for a wife, and I will look after the children." {218} GUDLO XVI. THE GIPSY TELLS THE STORY OF THE SEVEN WHISTLERS. My raia, the gudlo of the Seven Whistlers, you jin, is adree the Scriptures--so they pookered mandy. An' the Seven Whistlers (_Efta Shellengeri_) is seven spirits of ranis that jal by the ratti, 'pre the bavol, parl the heb, like chillicos. An' it pookers 'dree the Bible that the Seven Whistlers shell wherever they praster atut the bavol. But aduro timeus yeck jalled avree an' got nashered, and kenna there's only shove; but they pens 'em the Seven Whistlers. An' that sims the story tute pookered mandy of the Seven Stars. TRANSLATION. Sir, the story of the Seven Whistlers, you know, is in the Scriptures--so they told me. An' the Seven Whistlers are seven spirits of ladies that go by the night, through the air, over the heaven, like birds. And it tells (us) in the Bible that the Seven Whistlers whistle wherever they fly across the air. But a long time ago one went away and got lost, and now there are only six; but they call them the Seven Whistlers. And that is like the story you told me of the Seven Stars. {219} GUDLO XVII. AN OLD STORY WELL KNOWN TO ALL GIPSIES. A Rommany rakli yeckorus jalled to a ker a-dukkerin'. A'ter she jalled avree, the rakli of the ker missered a plachta, and pookered the rye that the Rommany chi had chored it. So the rye jalled aduro pauli the tem, and latched the Rommany chals, and bitchered them to staruben. Now this was adree the puro chairus when they used to nasher mushis for any bitti covvo. And some of the Rommany chals were nashered, an' some pannied. An' sar the gunnos, an' kavis, and covvas of the Rommanis were chivved and pordered kettenus 'pre the bor adree the cangry-puv, an' kek mush tooled 'em. An' trin dood (or munti) pauli, the rakli was kairin' the baulors' habben at the kokero ker, when she latched the plachta they nashered trin dood adovo divvus. So the rakli jalled with the plachta ta laki rye, and penned, "Dick what I kaired on those chuvvenny, chori Rommany chals that were nashered and pannied for adovo bitti covvo adoi!" And when they jalled to dick at the Rommanis' covvas pauli the bor adree the cangry-puv, the gunnos were pordo and chivved adree, chingered saw to cut-engroes, and they latched 'em full o' ruppeny covvos--rooys an' churls of sonnakai, an' oras, curros an' piimangris, that had longed o' the Rommany chals that were nashered an' bitschered padel. TRANSLATION. A Gipsy girl once went to a house to tell fortunes. After she went away, the girl of the house missed a pudding-bag (literally, _linen cloth_), and told the master the Gipsy girl had stolen it. So the master went far about the country, and found the Gipsies, and sent them to prison. Now this was in the old time when they used to hang people for any little thing. And some of the Gipsies were hung, and some transported (literally, _watered_). And all the bags, and kettles, and things of the Gipsies were thrown and piled together behind the hedge in the churchyard, and no man touched them. And three months after, the maid was preparing the pigs' food at the same house, when she found the linen cloth they lost three months (before) that day. So the girl went with the cloth to her master, and said, "See what I did to those poor, poor Gipsies that were hung and transported for that trifle (there)!" And when they went to look at the Gipsies' things behind the hedge in the churchyard, the bags were full and burst, torn all to rags, and they found them full of silver things--spoons and knives of gold, and watches, cups and teapots, that had belonged to the Gipsies that were hung and transported. {221a} GUDLO XVIII. HOW THE GIPSY WENT TO CHURCH. Did mandy ever jal to kangry? Avali, dui koppas, and beshed a lay odoi. I was adree the tale tem o' sar, an' a rye putched mandy to well to kangry, an' I welled. And sar the ryas an' ranis dicked at mandy as I jalled adree. {221b} So I beshed pukkenus mongin some geeros and dicked upar again the chumure praller my sherro, and there was a deer and a kanengro odoi chinned in the bar, an' kaired kushto. I shooned the rashai a-rakkerin'; and when the shunaben was kerro, I welled avree and jalled alay the drum to the kitchema. I latchered the raias mush adree the kitchema; so we got matto odoi, an' were jallin' kerri alay the drum when we dicked the raias wardo a-wellin'. So we jalled sig 'dusta parl the bor, an' gavered our kokeros odoi adree the puv till the rye had jessed avree. I dicked adovo rye dree the sala, and he putched mandy what I'd kaired the cauliko, pash kangry. I pookered him I'd pii'd dui or trin curros levinor and was pash matto. An' he penned mandy, "My mush was matto sar tute, and I nashered him." I pookered him ajaw, "I hope not, rya, for such a bitti covvo as dovo; an' he aint cammoben to piin' levinor, he's only used to pabengro, that don't kair him matto." But kek, the choro mush had to jal avree. An' that's sar I can rakker tute about my jallin' to kangry. TRANSLATION. Did I ever go to church? Yes, twice, and sat down there. I was in the lower land of all (Cornwall), and a gentleman asked me to go to church, and I went. And all the ladies and gentlemen looked at me as I went in. So I sat quietly among some men and looked up on the wall above my head, and there were a deer and a rabbit cut in the stone, beautifully done. I heard the clergyman speaking; and when the sermon was ended (literally, made), I came out and went down the road to the alehouse. I found the gentleman's servant in the alehouse; so we got drunk there, and were going home down the road when we saw the gentleman's carriage coming. So we went quickly enough over the hedge, and hid ourselves there in the field until the gentleman was gone. I saw the gentleman in the morning, and he asked me what I had done the day before, after church. I told him I'd drunk two or three cups of ale and was half tipsy. And he said, "My man was drunk as you, and I sent him off." I told him then, "I hope not, sir, for such a little thing as that; and he is not used to drink ale, he's only accustomed to cider, that don't intoxicate him." But no, the poor man had to go away. _And that's all I can tell you about my going to church_. GUDLO XIX. WHAT THE LITTLE GIPSY GIRL TOLD HER BROTHER. Penned the tikni Rommani chavi laki pal, "More mor the pishom, 'cause she's a Rommani, and kairs her jivaben jallin' parl the tem dukkerin' the ruzhas and lellin' the gudlo avree 'em, sar moro dye dukkers the ranis. An' ma wusser bars at the rookas, 'cause they're kaulos, an' kaulo ratt is Rommany ratt. An' maun pogger the bawris, for yuv rikkers his tan pre the dumo, sar moro puro dadas, an' so yuv's Rommany." TRANSLATION. Said the little Gipsy girl to her brother, "Don't kill the bee, because she is a Gipsy, and makes her living going about the country telling fortunes to the flowers and taking honey out of them, as our mother tells fortunes to the ladies. And don't throw stones at the rooks, because they are dark, and dark blood is Gipsy blood. And don't crush the snail, for he carries his tent on his back, like our old father" (_i.e_., carries his home about, and so he too is Rommany). GUDLO XX. HOW CHARLEY LEE PLAYED AT PITCH-AND-TOSS. I jinned a tano mush yeckorus that nashered sar his wongur 'dree the toss- ring. Then he jalled kerri to his dadas' kanyas and lelled pange bar avree. Paul' a bitti chairus he dicked his dadas an' pookered lester he'd lelled pange bar avree his gunnas. But yuv's dadas penned, "Jal an, kair it ajaw and win some wongur againus!" So he jalled apopli to the toss-ring an' lelled sar his wongur pauli, an' pange bar ferridearer. So he jalled ajaw kerri to the tan, an' dicked his dadas beshtin' alay by the rikk o' the tan, and his dadas penned, "Sa did you keravit, my chavo?" "Kushto, dadas. I lelled sar my wongur pauli; and here's tute's wongur acai, an' a bar for tute an' shtar bar for mi-kokero." An' that's tacho as ever you tool that pen in tute's waster--an' dovo mush was poor Charley Lee, that's mullo kenna. TRANSLATION. I knew a little fellow once that lost all his money in the toss-ring (_i.e_., at pitch-and-toss). Then he went home to his father's sacks and took five pounds out. After a little while he saw his father and told him he'd taken five pounds from his bags. But his father said, "Go on, spend it and win some more money!" So he went again to the toss-ring and got all his money back, and five pounds more. And going home, he saw his father sitting by the side of the tent, and his father said, "How did you succeed (_i.e_., _do it_), my son?" "Very well, father. I got all _my_ money back; and here's _your_ money now, and a pound for you and four pounds for myself." And that's true as ever you hold that pen in your hand--and that man was poor Charley Lee, that's dead now. GUDLO XXI. OF THE TINKER AND THE KETTLE. A petulamengro hatched yeck divvus at a givescro ker, where the rani del him mass an' tood. While he was hawin' he dicked a kekavi sar chicklo an' bongo, pashall a boro hev adree, an' he putchered, "Del it a mandy an' I'll lel it avree for chichi, 'cause you've been so kushto an' kammoben to mandy." So she del it a lester, an' he jalled avree for trin cooricus, an' he keravit apre, an' kaired it pauno sar rupp. Adovo he welled akovo drum pauli, an' jessed to the same ker, an' penned, "Dick acai at covi kushti kekavi! I del shove trin mushis for it, an' tu shall lel it for the same wongur, 'cause you've been so kushto a mandy." Dovo mush was like boot 'dusta mushis--wery cammoben to his kokero. TRANSLATION. A tinker stopped one day at a farmer's house, where the lady gave him meat and milk. While he was eating he saw a kettle all rusty and bent, with a great hole in it, and he asked, "Give it to me and I will take it away for nothing, because you have been so kind and obliging to me." So she gave it to him, and he went away for three weeks, and he repaired it (the kettle), and made it as bright (white) as silver. Then he went that road again, to the same house, and said, "Look here at this fine kettle! I gave six shillings for it, and you shall have it for the same money, because you have been so good to me." That man was like a great many men--very benevolent to himself. GUDLO XXII. THE STORY OF "ROMMANY JOTER." If a Rommany chal gets nashered an' can't latch his drum i' the ratti, he shells avree, "_Hup_, _hup_--_Rom-ma-ny_, _Rom-ma-ny jo-ter_!" When the chavvis can't latch the tan, it's the same gudlo, "_Rom-ma-ny jo-ter_!" Joter pens kett'nus. And yeck ratti my dadas, sixty besh kenna, was pirryin' par the weshes to tan, an' he shooned a bitti gudlo like bitti ranis a rakkerin' puro tacho Rommanis, and so he jalled from yeck boro rukk to the waver, and paul' a cheirus he dicked a tani rani, and she was shellin' avree for her miraben, "_Rom-ma-ny_, _Rom-ma-ny jo-ter_!" So my dada shokkered ajaw, "_Rom-ma-ny chal_, _ak-ai_!" But as he shelled there welled a boro bavol, and the bitti ranis an' sar prastered avree i' the heb like chillicos adree a starmus, and all he shunned was a savvaben and "Rom-ma- ny jo-ter!" shukaridir an' shukaridir, pash sar was kerro. An' you can dick by dovo that the kukalos, an' fairies, an' mullos, and chovihans all rakker puro tacho Rommanis, 'cause that's the old 'Gyptian jib that was penned adree the Scripture tem. TRANSLATION. If a Gipsy is lost and cannot find his way in the night, he cries out, "Hup, hup--Rom-ma-ny, Rom-ma-ny jo-ter!" When the children cannot find the tent, it is the same cry, "_Rom-ma-ny jo-ter_!" Joter means together. And one night my father, sixty years ago (literally, _now_), was walking through the woods to his tent, and he heard a little cry like little ladies talking real old Gipsy, and so he went from one great tree to the other (_i.e_., concealing himself), and after a while he saw a little lady, and she was crying out as if for her life, "_Rom-ma-ny_, _Rom-ma-ny jo-ter_!" So my father cried again, "_Gipsy_, _here_!" But as he hallooed there came a great blast of wind, and the little ladies and all flew away in the sky like birds in a storm, and all he heard was a laughing and "_Rom-ma-ny jo-ter_!" softer and softer, till all was done. And you can see by that that the goblins (dwarfs, mannikins), and fairies, and ghosts, and witches, and all talk real old Gipsy, because that is the old Egyptian language that was talked in the Scripture land. GUDLO XXIII. OF THE RICH GIPSY AND THE PHEASANT. Yeckorus a Rommany chal kaired adusta wongur, and was boot barvelo an' a boro rye. His chuckko was kashno, an' the crafnies 'pre lester chuckko were o' sonnakai, and his graias solivaris an' guiders were sar ruppeny. Yeck divvus this here Rommany rye was hawin' habben anerjal the krallis's chavo, an' they hatched adree a weshni kanni that was kannelo, but saw the mushis penned it was kushtidearer. "Bless mi-Duvel!" rakkered the Rommany rye shukar to his juvo, "tu and mandy have hawed mullo mass boot 'dusta cheiruses, mi-deari, but never soomed kek so wafro as dovo. It kauns worse than a mullo grai!" Boro mushis an' bitti mushis sometimes kaum covvas that waver mushis don't jin. TRANSLATION. Once a Gipsy made much money, and was very rich and a great gentleman. His coat was silk, and the buttons on his coat were of gold, and his horse's bridle and reins were all silver. One day this Gipsy gentleman was eating (at table) opposite to the king's son, and they brought in a pheasant that smelt badly, but all the people said it was excellent. "Bless me, God!" said the Gipsy gentleman softly (whispering) to his wife, "you and I have eaten dead meat (meat that died a natural death) many a time, my dear, but never smelt anything so bad as that. It stinks worse than a dead horse!" Great men and small men sometimes like (agree in liking things) that which other people do not understand. GUDLO XXIV. THE GIPSY AND THE "VISITING-CARDS." Yeckorus a choro Rommany chal dicked a rani hatch taller the wuder of a boro ker an' mukked adovo a bitti lil. Then he putched the rakli, when the rani jessed avree, what the lil kaired. Adoi the rakli pukkered lesco it was for her rani ta jin kun'd welled a dick her. "Avali!" penned the Rommany chal; "_that's_ the way the Gorgios mukks their patteran! _We_ mukks char apre the drum." The grai mukks his pirro apre the drum, an' the sap kairs his trail adree the puv. TRANSLATION. Once a poor Gipsy saw a lady stop before the door of a great house and left there a card (little letter). Then he asked the girl, when the lady went away, what the card meant (literally, _did_). Then (there) the girl told him it was for her lady to know who had come to see her. "Yes!" said the Gipsy; "so that is the way the Gorgios leave their sign! _We_ leave grass on the road." The horse leaves his track on the road, and the snake makes his trail in the dust. GUDLO XXV. THE GIPSY IN THE FOREST. When I was beshin' alay adree the wesh tale the bori rukkas, mandy putched a tikno chillico to latch mandy a bitti moro, but it jalled avree an' I never dicked it kekoomi. Adoi I putched a boro chillico to latch mandy a curro o' tatti panni, but it jalled avree paul' the waver. Mandy never putchered the rukk parl my sherro for kek, but when the bavol welled it wussered a lay to mandy a hundred ripe kori. TRANSLATION. When I was sitting down in the forest under the great trees, I asked a little bird to bring (find) me a little bread, but it went away and I never saw it again. Then I asked a great bird to bring me a cup of brandy, but it flew away after the other. I never asked the tree over my head for anything, but when the wind came it threw down to me a hundred ripe nuts. GUDLO XXVI. THE GIPSY FIDDLER AND THE YOUNG LADY. Yeckorus a tano mush was kellin' kushto pre the boshomengro, an' a kushti dickin rani pookered him, "Tute's killaben is as sano as best-tood." And he rakkered ajaw, "Tute's mui's gudlo sar pishom, an' I'd cammoben to puraben mi tood for tute's pishom." Kushto pash kushto kairs ferridearer. TRANSLATION. Once a young man was playing well upon the violin, and a beautiful lady told him, "Your playing is as soft as cream." And he answered, "Your mouth (_i.e_., lips or words) is sweet as honey, and I would like to exchange my cream for your honey." Good with good makes better. GUDLO XXVII. HOW THE GIPSY DANCED A HOLE THROUGH A STONE. Yeckorus some plochto Rommany chals an' juvas were kellin' the pash-divvus by dood tall' a boro ker, and yeck penned the waver, "I'd be cammoben if dovo ker was mandy's." And the rye o' the ker, kun sus dickin' the kellaben, rakkered, "When tute kells a hev muscro the bar you're hatchin' apre, mandy'll del tute the ker." Adoi the Rom tarried the bar apre, an' dicked it was hollow tale, and sar a curro 'pre the waver rikk. So he lelled dui sastern chokkas and kelled sar the ratti 'pre the bar, kairin' such a gudlo you could shoon him a mee avree; an' adree the sala he had kaired a hev adree the bar as boro as lesters sherro. So the barvelo rye del him the fino ker, and sar the mushis got matto, hallauter kettenus. Many a cheirus I've shooned my puri dye pen that a bar with a hev adree it kairs kammoben. TRANSLATION. Once some jolly Gipsy men and girls were dancing in the evening by moonlight before a great house, and one said to the other, "I'd be glad if that house was mine." And the gentleman of the house, who was looking at the dancing, said, "When you dance a hole through (in the centre of) the stone you are standing on, I'll give you the house." Then the Gipsy pulled the stone up, and saw it was hollow underneath, and like a cup on the other side. So he took two iron shoes and danced all night on the stone, making such a noise you could hear him a mile off; and in the morning he had made a hole in the stone as large as his head. So the rich gentleman gave him the fine house, and all the people got drunk, all together. Many a time I've heard my old mother say that a stone with a hole in it brings luck. GUDLO XXVIII. STORY OF THE GENTLEMAN AND THE GIPSY. Yeckorus a boro rye wouldn't mukk a choro, pauvero, chovveny Rommany chal hatch odoi 'pre his farm. So the Rommany chal jalled on a puv apre the waver rikk o' the drum, anerjal the ryas beshaben. And dovo ratti the ryas ker pelled alay; kek kash of it hatched apre, only the foki that loddered adoi hullered their kokeros avree ma their miraben. And the ryas tikno chavo would a-mullered if a Rommany juva had not lelled it avree their pauveri bitti tan. An' dovo's sar _tacho like my dad_, an' to the divvus kenna they pens that puv the Rommany Puv. TRANSLATION. Once a great gentleman would not let a poor, poor, poor Gipsy stay on his farm. So the Gipsy went to a field on the other side of the way, opposite the gentleman's residence. And that night the gentleman's house fell down; not a stick of it remained standing, only the people who lodged there carried themselves out (_i.e_., escaped) with their lives. And the gentleman's little babe would have died if a Gipsy woman had not taken it into their poor little tent. And that's all _true as my father_, and to this day they call that field the Gipsy Field. GUDLO XXIX. HOW THE GIPSY WENT INTO THE WATER. Yeck divvus a prastramengro prastered pauli a Rommany chal, an' the chal jalled adree the panni, that was pordo o' boro bittis o' floatin' shill, and there he hatched pall his men with only his sherro avree. "Hav avree," shelled a rye that was wafro in his see for the pooro rnush, "an' we'll mukk you jal!" "Kek," penned the Rom; "I shan't jal." "Well avree," penned the rye ajaw, "an' I'll del tute pange bar!" "_Kek_," rakkered the Rom. "Jal avree," shokkered the rye, "an' I'll del tute pange bar an' a nevvi chukko!" "Will you del mandy a walin o' tatto panni too?" putched the Rommany chal. "Avail, avail," penned the rye; "but for Duveleste hav' avree the panni!" "Kushto," penned the Rommany chal, "for cammoben to tute, rya, I'll jal avree!" {235} TRANSLATION. Once a policeman chased a Gipsy, and the Gipsy ran into the river, that was full of great pieces of floating ice, and there he stood up to his neck with only his head out. "Come out," cried a gentleman that pitied the poor man, "and we'll let you go!" "No," said the Gipsy; "I won't move." "Come out," said the gentleman again, "and I'll give you five pounds!" "No," said the Gipsy. "Come out," cried the gentleman, "and I'll give you five pounds and a new coat!" "Will you give me a glass of brandy too?" asked the Gipsy. "Yes, yes," said the gentleman; "but for God's sake come out of the water!" "Well," exclaimed the Gipsy, "to oblige you, sir, I'll come out!" GUDLO XXX. THE GIPSY AND HIS TWO MASTERS. "Savo's tute's rye?" putched a ryas mush of a Rommany chal. "I've dui ryas," pooked the Rommany chal: "Duvel's the yeck an' beng's the waver. Mandy kairs booti for the beng till I've lelled my yeckora habben, an' pallers mi Duvel pauli ajaw." TRANSLATION. "Who is your master?" asked a gentleman's servant of a Gipsy. "I've two masters," said the Gipsy: "God is the one, and the devil is the other. I work for the devil till I have got my dinner (one-o'clock food), and after that follow the Lord." GUDLO XXXI. THE LITTLE GIPSY BOY AT THE SILVERSMITH'S. A bitti chavo jalled adree the boro gav pash his dadas, an' they hatched taller the hev of a ruppenomengro's buddika sar pordo o' kushti-dickin covvas. "O dadas," shelled the tikno chavo, "what a boro choromengro dovo mush must be to a' lelled so boot adusta rooys an' horas!" A tacho covva often dicks sar a hokkeny (huckeny) covva; an dovo's sim of a tacho mush, but a juva often dicks tacho when she isn't. TRANSLATION. A little boy went to the great village (_i.e_., London) with his father, and they stopped before the window of a silversmith's shop all full of pretty things. "O father," cried the small boy, "what a great thief that man must be to have got so many spoons and watches!" A true thing often looks like a false one; and the same is true (and that's _same_) of a true man, but a girl often looks right when she is not. GUDLO XXXII. THE GIPSY'S DREAM. Mandy sutto'd I was pirraben lang o' tute, an' I dicked mandy's pen odoi 'pre the choomber. Then I was pirryin' ajaw parl the puvius, an' I welled to the panni paul' the Beng's Choomber, an' adoi I dicked some ranis, saw nango barrin' a pauno plachta 'pre lengis sherros, adree the panni pash their bukkos. An' I pookered lengis, "Mi-ranis, I putch tute's cammoben; I didn't jin tute sus acai." But yeck pre the wavers penned mandy boot kushti cammoben, "Chichi, mor dukker your-kokero; we just welled alay acai from the ker to lel a bitti bath." An' she savvy'd sa kushto, but they all jalled avree glan mandy sar the bavol, an' tute was hatchin' pash a maudy sar the cheirus. So it pens, "when you dick ranis sar dovo, you'll muller kushto." Well, if it's to be akovo, I kaum it'll be a booti cheirus a-wellin.' Tacho! TRANSLATION. I dreamed I was walking with you, and I saw my sister (a fortune-teller) there upon the hill. Then I (found myself) walking again over the field, and I came to the water near the Devil's Dyke, and there I saw some ladies, quite naked excepting a white cloth on their heads, in the water to the waists. And I said to them, "Ladies, I beg your pardon; I did not know you were here." But one among the rest said to me very kindly, "No matter, don't trouble yourself; we just came down here from the house to take a little bath." And she smiled sweetly, but they all vanished before me like the cloud (wind), and you were standing by me all the time. So it means, "_when you see ladies like that, you will die happily_." Well, if it's to be that, I hope it will be a long time coming. Yes, indeed. GUDLO XXXIII. OF THE GIRL AND HER LOVER. Yeckorus, boot hundred beshes the divvus acai, a juva was wellin' to chore a yora. "Mukk mandy hatch," penned the yora, "an' I'll sikker tute ki tute can lel a tikno pappni." So the juva lelled the tikno pappni, and it pookered laki, "Mukk mandy jal an' I'll sikker tute ki tute can chore a bori kani." Then she chored the bori kani, an' it shelled avree, "Mukk mandy jal an' I'll sikker tute ki you can loure a rani-chillico." And when she lelled the rani-chillico, it penned, "Mukk mandy jal an' I'll sikker tute odoi ki tute can lel a guruvni's tikno." So she lelled the guruvni's tikno, an' it shokkered and ruvved, an' rakkered, "Mukk mandy jal an' I'll sikker tute where to lel a fino grai." An' when she loured the grai, it penned laki, "Mukk mandy jal an' I'll rikker tute to a kushto-dick barvelo rye who kaums a pirreny." So she lelled the kushto tauno rye, an' she jivved with lester kushto yeck cooricus; but pash dovo he pookered her to jal avree, he didn't kaum her kekoomi. "Sa a wafro mush is tute," ruvved the rakli, "to bitcher mandy avree! For tute's cammoben I delled avree a yora, a tikno pappni, a boro kani, a rani-chillico, a guruvni's tikno, an' a fino grai." "Is dovo tacho?" putched the raklo. "'Pre my mullo dadas!" sovahalled the rakli," I del 'em sar apre for tute, yeck paul the waver, an' kenna tu bitchers mandy avree!" "So 'p mi-Duvel!" penned the rye, "if tute nashered sar booti covvas for mandy, I'll rummer tute." So they were rummobend. Avali, there's huckeny (hokkeny) tachobens and tacho huckabens. You can sovahall pre the lil adovo. TRANSLATION. Once, many hundred years ago (to-day now), a girl was going to steal an egg. "Let me be," said the egg, "and I will show you where you can get a duck." So the girl got the duck, and it said (told) to her, "Let me go and I will show you where you can get a goose" (large hen). Then she stole the goose, and it cried out, "Let me go and I'll show you where you can steal a turkey" (lady-bird). And when she took the turkey, it said, "Let me go and I'll show you where you can get a calf." So she got the calf, and it bawled and wept, and cried, "Let me go and I'll show you where to get a fine horse." And when she stole the horse, it said to her, "Let me go and I'll carry you to a handsome, rich gentleman who wants a sweetheart." So she got the nice young gentleman, and lived with him pleasantly one week; but then he told her to go away, he did not want her any more. "What a bad man you are," wept the girl, "to send me away! For your sake I gave away an egg, a duck, a goose, a turkey, a calf, and a fine horse." "Is that true?" asked the youth. "By my dead father!" swore the girl, "I gave them all up for you, one after the other, and now you send me away!" "So help me God!" said the gentleman, "if you lost so many things for me, I'll marry you." So they were married. Yes, there are false truths and true lies. You may kiss the book on _that_. GUDLO XXXIV. THE GIPSY TELLS OF WILL-O'-THE-WISP. Does mandy jin the lav adree Rommanis for a Jack-o'-lantern--the dood that prasters, and hatches, an' kells o' the ratti, parl the panni, adree the puvs? _Avali_; some pens 'em the Momeli Mullos, and some the Bitti Mullos. They're bitti geeros who rikker tute adree the gogemars, an' sikker tute a dood till you're all jalled apre a wafro drum an nashered, an' odoi they chiv their kokeros pauli an' savs at tute. Mandy's dicked their doods adusta cheiruses, an' kekoomi; but my pal dicked langis muis pash mungwe yeck ratti. He was jallin' langus an' dicked their doods, and jinned it was the yag of lesters tan. So he pallered 'em, an' they tadered him dukker the drum, parl the bors, weshes, puvius, gogemars, till they lelled him adree the panni, an then savvy'd avree. And odoi he dicked lender pre the waver rikk, ma lesters kokerus yakkis, an' they were bitti mushis, bitti chovihanis, about dui peeras boro. An' my pal was bengis hunnalo, an' sovahalled pal' lengis, "If I lelled you acai, you ratfolly juckos! if I nashered you, I'd chin tutes curros!" An' he jalled to tan ajaw an' pookered mandy saw dovo 'pre dovo rat. "Kun sus adovo?" Avali, rya; dovo was pash Kaulo Panni--near Blackwater. TRANSLATION. Do I know the word in Rommanis for a Jack-o'-lantern--the light that runs, and stops, and dances by night, over the water, in the fields? Yes; some call them the Light Ghosts, and some the Little Ghosts. They're little men who lead you into the waste and swampy places, and show you a light until you have gone astray and are lost, and then they turn themselves around and laugh at you. I have seen their lights many a time, and nothing more; but my brother saw their faces close and opposite to him (directly _vis-a-vis_) one night. He was going along and saw their lights, and thought it was the fire of his tent. So he followed them, and they drew him from the road over hedges, woods, fields, and lonely marshes till they got him in the water, and then laughed out loud. And there he saw them with his own eyes, on the opposite side, and they were little fellows, little goblins, about two feet high. And my brother was devilish angry, and swore at them! "If I had you here, you wretched dogs! if I caught you, I'd cut your throats!" And he went home and told me all that that night. "_Where was it_?" Yes, sir; that was near Blackwater. GUDLO XXXV. THE GIPSY EXPLAINS WHY THE FLOUNDER HAS HIS MOUTH ON ONE SIDE. Yeckorus sar the matchis jalled an' suvved kettenescrus 'dree the panni. And yeck penned as yuv was a boro mush, an' the waver rakkered ajaw sa yuv was a borodiro mush, and sar pookered sigan ket'nus how lengis were borodirer mushis. Adoi the flounder shelled avree for his meriben "Mandy's the krallis of you sar!" an' he shelled so surrelo he kaired his mui bongo, all o' yeck rikkorus. So to akovo divvus acai he's penned the Krallis o' the Matchis, and rikkers his mui bongo sar o' yeck sidus. Mushis shouldn't shell too shunaben apre lengis kokeros. TRANSLATION. Once all the fish came and swam together in the water. And one said that he was a great person, and the other declared that he was a greater person, and (at last) all cried out at once what great characters (men) they all were. Then the flounder shouted for his life, "I'm the king of you all!" and he roared so violently he twisted his mouth all to one side. So to this day he is called the King of the Fishes, and bears his face crooked all on one side. Men should not boast too loudly of themselves. GUDLO XXXVI. A GIPSY ACCOUNT OF THE TRUE ORIGIN OF THE FISH CALLED OLD MAIDS OR YOUNG MAIDS. Yeckorus kushti-dickin raklos were suvvin' 'dree the lun panni, and there welled odoi some plochti raklis an' juvas who pooked the tano ryas to hav' avree an' choomer 'em. But the raklos wouldn't well avree, so the ranis rikkered their rivabens avree an' pirried adree the panni paul' lendy. An' the ryas who were kandered alay, suvved andurer 'dree the panni, an' the ranis pallered 'em far avree till they were saw latchered, raklos and raklis. So the tauno ryas were purabened into Barini Mushi Matchis because they were too ladge (latcho) of the ranis that kaumed 'em, and the ranis were kaired adree Puri Rani Matchis and Tani Rani Matchis because they were too tatti an' ruzli. Raklos shouldn't be too ladge, nor raklis be too boro of their kokeros. TRANSLATION. Once some handsome youths were swimming in the sea, and there came some wanton women and girls who told the young men to come out and kiss them. But the youths would not come out, so the ladies stripped themselves and ran into the water after them. And the gentles who were driven away swam further into the water, and the ladies followed them far away till all were lost, boys and girls. So the young men were changed into Codfish because they were too shy of the girls that loved them, and the ladies were turned into Old Maids and Young Maids because they were too wanton and bold. Men should not be too modest, nor girls too forward. GUDLO XXXVII. HOW LORD COVENTRY LEAPED THE GIPSY TENT. A TRUE STORY. I dicked Lord Coventry at the Worcester races. He kistured lester noko grai adree the steeple-chase for the ruppeny--kek,--a sonnakai tank I think it was,--but he nashered. It was dovo tano rye that yeck divvus in his noko park dicked a Rommany chal's tan pash the rikk of a bor; and at yeck leap he kistered apre the bor, and jalled right atut an' parl the Rommany chal's tan. "Ha, kun's acai?" he shelled, as he dicked the tikno kaulos; "a Rommany chal's tan!" And from dovo divvus he mukked akovo Rom hatch his cammoben 'pre his puv. Tacho. Ruzlo mushis has boro sees. TRANSLATION. I saw Lord Coventry at the Worcester races. He rode his own horse in the steeple-chase for the silver--no, it was a gold tankard, I think, but he lost. It was that young gentleman who one day in his own park saw a Gipsy tent by the side of a hedge, and took a flying leap over tent, hedge, and all. "Ha, what's here?" he cried, as he saw the little brown children; "a Gipsy's tent!" And from that day he let that Gipsy stay as much as he pleased on his land. Bold men have generous hearts. GUDLO XXXVIII. OF MR BARTLETT'S LEAP. Dovo's sim to what they pens of Mr Bartlett in Glo'stershire, who had a fino tem pash Glo'ster an' Bristol, where he jivved adree a boro ker. Kek mush never dicked so booti weshni juckalos or weshni kannis as yuv rikkered odoi. They prastered atut saw the drumyas sim as kanyas. Yeck divvus he was kisterin' on a kushto grai, an' he dicked a Rommany chal rikkerin' a truss of gib-puss 'pre lester dumo pral a bitti drum, an' kistered 'pre the pooro mush, puss an' sar. I jins that puro mush better 'n I jins tute, for I was a'ter yeck o' his raklis yeckorus; he had kushti-dick raklis, an' he was old Knight Locke. "Puro," pens the rye, "did I kair you trash?" "I mang tute's shunaben, rya," pens Locke pauli; "I didn't jin tute sus wellin'!" So puro Locke hatched odoi 'pre dovo tem sar his miraben, an' that was a kushti covva for the puro Locke. TRANSLATION. That is like what is told of Mr Bartlett in Gloucestershire, who had a fine place near Gloucester and Bristol, where he lived in a great house. No man ever saw so many foxes or pheasants as he kept there. They ran across all the paths like hens. One day he was riding on a fine horse, when he saw a Gipsy carrying a truss of wheat-straw on his back up a little path, and leaped over the poor man, straw and all. I knew that old man better than I know you, for I was after one of his daughters then; he had beautiful girls, and he was old Knight Locke. "Old fellow," said the gentleman, "did I frighten you?" "I beg your pardon, sir," said Locke after him; "I didn't know you were coming!" So old Locke stayed on that land all his life, and that was a good thing for old Locke. GUDLO XXXIX. THE GIPSY, THE PIG, AND THE MUSTARD. Yeckorus a Rommany chal jalled to a boro givescroker sa's the rye sus hawin'. And sikk's the Rom wan't a-dickin', the rye all-sido pordered a kell-mallico pash kris, an' del it to the Rommany chal. An' sa's the kris dantered adree his gullo, he was pash tassered, an' the panni welled in his yakkas. Putched the rye, "Kun's tute ruvvin' ajaw for?" An' he rakkered pauli, "The kris lelled mandys bavol ajaw." Penned the rye, "I kaum the kris'll del tute kushti bak." "Parraco, rya," penned the Rom pauli; "I'll kommer it kairs dovo." Sikk's the rye bitchered his sherro, the Rommany chal loured the krissko-curro ma the ruppeny rooy, an' kek dicked it. The waver divvus anpauli, dovo Rom jalled to the ryas baulo- tan, an' dicked odoi a boro rikkeno baulo, an' gillied, "I'll dick acai if I can kair tute ruv a bitti." Now, rya, you must jin if you del a baulor kris adree a pabo, he can't shell avree or kair a gudlo for his miraben, an' you can rikker him bissin', or chiv him apre a wardo, an' jal andurer an' kek jin it. An' dovo's what the Rommany chal kaired to the baulor, pash the sim kris; an' as he bissered it avree an' pakkered it adree a gunno, he penned shukkar adree the baulor's kan, "Calico tute's rye hatched my bavol, an' the divvus I've hatched tute's; an' yeckorus your rye kaumed the kris would del mandy kushti bak, and kenna it _has_ del mengy kushtier bak than ever he jinned. Ryes must be sig not to kair pyass an' trickis atop o' choro mushis. TRANSLATION. Once a Gipsy went to a great farmhouse as the gentleman sat at table eating. And so soon as the Gipsy looked away, the gentleman very quietly filled a cheese-cake with mustard and gave it to the Gipsy. When the mustard bit in his throat, he was half choked, and the tears came into his eyes. The gentleman asked him, "What are you weeping for now?" And he replied, "The mustard took my breath away." The gentleman said, "I hope the mustard will give you good luck!" "Thank you, sir," answered the Gipsy; "I'll take care it does" (that). As soon as the gentleman turned his head, the Gipsy stole the mustard-pot with the silver spoon, and no one saw it. The next day after, that Gipsy went to the gentleman's pig-pen, and saw there a great fine-looking pig, and sang, "I'll see now if I can make _you_ weep a bit." Now, sir, you must know that if you give a pig mustard in an apple, he can't cry out or squeal for his life, and you can carry him away, or throw him on a waggon, and get away, and nobody will know it. And that is what the Gipsy did to the pig, with the same mustard; and as he ran it away and put it in a bag, he whispered softly into the pig's ear, "Yesterday your master stopped my breath, and to-day I've stopped yours; and once your master hoped the mustard would give me good luck, and now it _has_ given me better luck than he ever imagined." Gentlemen must be careful not to make sport of and play tricks on poor men. GUDLO XL. EXPLAINING THE ORIGIN OF A CURRENT GIPSY PROVERB OR SAYING. Trin or shtor beshes pauli kenna yeck o' the Petulengros dicked a boro mullo baulor adree a bitti drum. An' sig as he latched it, some Rommany chals welled alay an' dicked this here Rommany chal. So Petulengro he shelled avree, "A fino baulor! saw tulloben! jal an the sala an' you shall have pash." And they welled apopli adree the sala and lelled pash sar tacho. And ever sense dovo divvus it's a rakkerben o' the Rommany chals, "Sar tulloben; jal an the sala an' tute shall lel your pash." TRANSLATION. Three or four years ago one of the Smiths found a great dead pig in a lane. And just as he found it, some Gipsies came by and saw this Rommany. So Smith bawled out to them, "A fine pig! all fat! come in the morning and you shall have half." And they returned in the morning and got half, all right. And ever since it has been a saying with the Gipsies, "It's _all fat_; come in the morning and get your half." GUDLO XLI. THE GIPSY'S FISH-HOOK. Yeckorus a rye pookered a Rommany chal he might jal matchyin' 'dree his panni, and he'd del lester the cammoben for trin mushi, if he'd only matchy with a bongo sivv an' a punsy-ran. So the Rom jalled with India- drab kaired apre moro, an' he drabbered saw the matchas adree the panni, and rikkered avree his wardo sar pordo. A boro cheirus pauli dovo, the rye dicked the Rommany chal, an' penned, "You choramengro, did tute lel the matchas avree my panni with a hook?" "Ayali, rya, with a hook," penned the Rom pale, werry sido. "And what kind of a hook?" "Rya," rakkered the Rom, "it was yeck o' the longi kind, what we pens in amandis jib a hookaben" (_i.e_., huckaben or hoc'aben). When you del a mush cammoben to lel matchyas avree tute's panni, you'd better hatch adoi an' dick how he kairs it. TRANSLATION. Once a gentleman told a Gipsy he might fish in his pond, and he would give him permission to do so for a shilling, but that he must only fish with a hook and a fishing-pole (literally, crooked needle). So the Gipsy went with India-drab (juice of the berries of _Indicus cocculus_) made up with bread, and poisoned all the fish in the pond, and carried away his waggonful. A long time after, the gentleman met the Gipsy, and said, "You thief, did you catch the fish in my pond with a hook?" "Yes, sir, with a hook," replied the Gipsy very quietly. "And what kind of a hook?" "Sir," said the Gipsy, "it was one of the long kind, what we call in our language a hookaben" (_i.e_., _a lie or trick_). When you give a man leave to fish in your pond, you had better be present and see how he does it. GUDLO XLII. THE GIPSY AND THE SNAKE. If you more the first sappa you dicks, tute'll more the first enemy you've got. That's what 'em pens, but I don't jin if it's tacho or nettus. And yeckorus there was a werry wafro mush that was allers a-kairin' wafri covvabens. An' yeck divvus he dicked a sap in the wesh, an' he prastered paller it with a bori churi adree lester waster and chinned her sherro apre. An' then he rakkered to his kokerus, "Now that I've mored the sap, I'll lel the jivaben of my wenomest enemy." And just as he penned dovo lav he delled his pirro atut the danyas of a rukk, an' pet alay and chivved the churi adree his bukko. An' as he was beshin' alay a-mullerin' 'dree the weshes, he penned to his kokerus, "Avali, I dicks kenna that dovo's tacho what they pookers about morin' a sappa; for I never had kek worser ennemis than I've been to mandy's selfus, and what wells of morin' innocen hanimals is kek kushtoben." TRANSLATION. If you kill the first snake you see, you'll kill the first (principal) enemy you have. That is what they say, but I don't know whether it is true or not. And once there was a very bad man who was always doing bad deeds. And one day he saw a snake in the forest, and ran after it with a great knife in his hand and cut her head off. And then he said to himself, "Now that I've killed the snake, I'll take the life of my most vindictive (literally, most venomous) enemy." And just as he spoke that word he struck his foot against the roots of a tree, and fell down and drove the knife into his own body (liver or heart). And as he lay dying in the forests, he said to himself, "Yes, I see now that it is true what they told me as to killing a snake; for I never had any worse enemy than I have been to myself, and what comes of killing innocent animals is naught good." GUDLO XLIII. THE STORY OF THE GIPSY AND THE BULL. Yeckorus there was a Rommany chal who was a boro koorin' mush, a surrelo mush, a boro-wasteni mush, werry toonery an' hunnalo. An' he penned adusta cheiruses that kek geero an' kek covva 'pre the drumyas couldn't trasher him. But yeck divvus, as yuv was jallin' langs the drum with a waver pal, chunderin' an' hookerin' an' lunterin', an' shorin' his kokero how he could koor the puro bengis' selfus, they shooned a guro a-goorin' an' googerin', an' the first covva they jinned he prastered like divius at 'em, an' these here geeros prastered apre ye rukk, an' the boro koorin' mush that was so flick o' his wasters chury'd first o' saw (sar), an' hatched duri-dirus from the puv pre the limmers. An' he beshed adoi an' dicked ye bullus wusserin' an' chongerin' his trushnees sar aboutus, an' kellin' pre lesters covvas, an' poggerin' to cutengroes saw he lelled for lesters miraben. An' whenever the bavol pudered he was atrash he'd pelt-a-lay 'pre the shinger-ballos of the gooro (guro). An' so they beshed adoi till the sig of the sala, when the mush who dicked a'ter the gruvnis welled a-pirryin' by an' dicked these here chals beshin' like chillicos pre the rukk, an' patched lengis what they were kairin' dovo for. So they pookered him about the bullus, an' he hankered it avree; an' they welled alay an' jalled andurer to the kitchema, for there never was dui mushis in 'covo tem that kaumed a droppi levinor koomi than lender. But pale dovo divvus that trusheni mush never sookered he couldn't be a trashni mush no moreus. Tacho. TRANSLATION. Once there was a Gipsy who was a great fighting man, a strong man, a great boxer, very bold and fierce. And he said many a time that no man and no thing on the roads could frighten him. But one day, as he was going along the road with another man (his friend), exaggerating and bragging and boasting, and praising himself that he could beat the old devil himself, they heard a bull bellowing and growling, and the first thing they knew he ran like mad at them; and these men hurried up a tree, and the great fighting man that was so handy with his fists climbed first of all, and got (placed) himself furtherest from the ground on the limbs. And he sat there and saw the bull tossing and throwing his baskets all about, and dancing on his things, and breaking to pieces all he had for his living. And whenever the wind blew he was afraid he would fall on the horns of the bull. And so they sat there till daybreak, when the man who looked after the cows came walking by and saw these fellows sitting like birds on the tree, and asked them what they were doing that for. So they told him about the bull, and he drove it away; and they came down and went on to the alehouse, for there never were two men in this country that wanted a drop of beer more than they. But after that day that thirsty man never boasted he could not be a frightened man. True. GUDLO XLIV. THE GIPSY AND HIS THREE SWEETHEARTS. Yeckorus a tano mush kaired his cammoben ta trin juvas kett'nus an' kek o' the trin jinned yuv sus a pirryin' ye waver dui. An 'covo raklo jivved adree a bitti tan pash the rikkorus side o' the boro lun panni, an' yeck ratti sar the chais welled shikri kett'nus a lester, an' kek o' the geeris jinned the wavers san lullerin adoi. So they jalled sar-sigan kett'nus, an' rakkered, "Sarshan!" ta yeck chairus. An' dovo raklo didn't jin what juva kaumed lester ferridirus, or kun yuv kaumed ye ferridirus, so sar the shtor besht-a-lay sum, at the habbenescro, and yuv del len habben an' levinor. Yeck hawed booti, but ye waver dui wouldn't haw kek, yeck pii'd, but ye waver dui wouldn't pi chommany, 'cause they were sar hunnali, and sookeri an' kuried. So the raklo penned lengis, yuv sos atrash if yuv lelled a juva 'at couldn't haw, she wouldn't jiv, so he rummored the rakli that hawed her habben. All'ers haw sar the habben foki banders apre a tute, an' tute'll jal sikker men dush an' tukli. TRANSLATION. Once a young man courted three girls together, and none of the three knew he was courting the two others. And that youth lived in a little place near the side of the great salt water, and one night all the girls came at once together to him, and none of the girls knew the others were coming there. So they went all quick together, and said "Good evening," (sarishan means really "How are you?") at the same time. And that youth did not know which girl liked him best, or whom he loved best; so all the four sat down together at the table, and he gave them food and beer. One ate plenty, but the other two would eat nothing; one drank, but the other two would not drink something, because they were all angry, and grieved, and worried. So the youth told them he was afraid if he took a wife that could not eat, she would not live, so he married the girl that ate her food. Always eat all the food that people give you (literally share out to you), and you will go readily (securely) through sorrow and trouble. GUDLO XLV. THE GIPSIES AND THE SMUGGLERS. A TRUE STORY. Yeckorus, most a hundred besh kenna, when mi dadas sus a chavo, yeck ratti a booti Rommany chals san millerin kettenescrus pash the boro panni, kun sar-sig the graias ankaired a-wickerin an' ludderin an' nuckerin' an kairin a boro gudli, an' the Rommanis shuned a shellin, an' dicked mushis prasterin and lullyin for lenders miraben, sa's seer-dush, avree a boro hev. An' when len san sar jalled lug, the Rommany chals welled adoi an' latched adusta bitti barrels o' tatto-panni, an' fino covvas, for dovo mushis were 'mugglers, and the Roms lelled sar they mukked pali. An' dovo sus a boro covva for the Rommany chals, an' they pii'd sar graias, an' the raklis an' juvas jalled in kushni heezis for booti divvuses. An' dovo sus kerro pash Bo-Peep--a boro puvius adree bori chumures, pash Hastings in Sussex. When 'mugglers nasher an' Rommany chals latch, there's kek worser cammoben for it. TRANSLATION. Once almost a hundred years now, when my father was a boy, one night many Gipsies were going together near the sea, when all at once the horses began whinnying and kicking and neighing, and making a great noise, and the Gipsies heard a crying out, and saw men running and rushing as if in alarm, from a great cave. And when they were all gone away together, the Gipsies went there and found many little barrels of brandy, and valuables, for those men were smugglers, and the Gipsies took all they left behind. And that was a great thing for the Gipsies, and they drank like horses, and the girls and women went in silk clothes for many days. And that was done near Bo-Peep, a great field in the hills, by Hastings in Sussex. When smugglers lose and Gipsies find, nobody is the worse for it. FOOTNOTES {0a} The reason why Gipsy words have been kept unchanged was fully illustrated one day in a Gipsy camp in my hearing, when one man declaring of a certain word that it was only _kennick_ or slang, and not "Rommanis," added, "It can't be Rommanis, because everybody knows it. When a word gets to be known to everybody, it's no longer Rommanis." {1} Lavengro and the Rommany Rye: London, John Murray. {5} To these I would add "Zelda's Fortune," now publishing in the _Cornhill Magazine_. {21} Educated Chinese often exercise themselves in what they call "handsome talkee," or "talkee leeson" (i.e., reason), by sitting down and uttering, by way of assertion and rejoinder, all the learned and wise sentences which they can recall. In their conversation and on their crockery, before every house and behind every counter, the elegant formula makes its appearance, teaching people not merely _how_ to think, but what should be thought, and when. {24} Probably from the modern Greek [Greek text], the sole of the foot, _i.e_., a track. Panth, a road, Hindustani. {26} Pott: "Die Zigeuner in Europa and Asien," vol. ii, p. 293. {30} Two hundred (shel) years growing, two hundred years losing his coat, two hundred years before he dies, and then he loses all his blood and is no longer good. {32} The words of the Gipsy, as I took them down from his own lips, were as follows:-- "Bawris are kushto habben. You can latcher adusta 'pre the bors. When they're pirraben pauli the puvius, or tale the koshters, they're kek kushti habben. The kushtiest are sovven sar the wen. Lel'em and tove 'em and chiv 'em adree the kavi, with panny an' a bitti lun. The simmun's kushto for the yellow jaundice." I would remind the reader that in _every instance_ where the original Gipsy language is given, it was written down or _noted_ during conversation, and subsequently written out and read to a Gipsy, by whom it was corrected. And I again beg the reader to remember, that every Rommany phrase is followed by a translation into English. {33} Dr Pott intimates that _scharos_, a globe, may be identical with _sherro_, a head. When we find, however, that in German Rommany _tscharo_ means goblet, pitcher, vessel, and in fact cup, it seems as if the Gipsy had hit upon the correct derivation. {34} "Dovos yect o' the covvos that saw foki jins. When you lel a wart 'pre tutes wasters you jal 'pre the drum or 'dree the puvius till you latcher a kaulo bawris--yeck o' the boro kind with kek ker apre him, an' del it apre the caro of a kaulo kosh in the bor, and ear the bawris mullers, yeck divvus pauli the waver for shtar or pange divvuses the wart'll kinner away-us. 'Dusta chairusses I've pukkered dovo to Gorgios, an' Gorgios have kaired it, an' the warts have yuzhered avree their wasters." {35} Among certain tribes in North America, tobacco is both burned before and smoked "unto" the Great Spirit. {38} This word palindrome, though Greek, is intelligible to every Gipsy. In both languages it means "back on the road." {53} The Krallis's Gav, King's Village, a term also applied to Windsor. {65} Pronounced cuv-vas, like _covers_ without the _r_. {70} The Lord's Prayer in pure English Gipsy:-- "Moro Dad, savo djives oteh drey o charos, te caumen Gorgio ta Rommanny chal tiro nav, te awel tiro tem, te kairen tiro lav aukko prey puv, sar kairdios oteh drey o charos. Dey men todivvus more divvuskoe moro, ta for dey men pazorrhus tukey sar men for-denna len pazhorrus amande; ma muck te petrenna drey caik temptaciones; ley men abri sor doschder. Tiro se o tem, mi-duvel, tiro o zoozlu vast, tiro sor koskopen drey sor cheros. Avali. Tachipen." Specimens of old English Gipsy, preserving grammatical forms, may be found in Bright's Hungary (Appendix). London, 1818. I call attention to the fact that all the specimens of the language which I give in this book simply represent _the modern and greatly corrupted_ Rommany of the roads, which has, however, assumed a peculiar form of its own. {75} In gipsy _chores_ would mean swindles. In America it is applied to small jobs. {81} Vide chapter x. {83} This should be _Bengo-tem_ or devil land, but the Gipsy who gave me the word declared it was _bongo_. {110} In English: "Water is the Great God, and it is Bishnoo or Vishnoo because it falls from God. _Vishnu is then the Great God_?" "Yes; there can be no forced meaning there, can there, sir? Duvel (God) is Duvel all the world over; but correctly speaking, Vishnu is God's blood--I have heard that many times. And the snow is feathers that fall from the angels' wings. And what I said, that Bishnoo is God's Blood is old Gipsy, and known by all our people." {112} "Simurgh--a fabulous bird, _a griffin_."--_Brice's Hindustani Dictionary_. {124} Romi in Coptic signifies _a man_. {127} Since writing the above I have been told that among many Hindus "(good) evening" is the common greeting at any time of the day. And more recently still, meeting a gentleman who during twelve years in India had paid especial attention to all the dialects, I greeted him, as an experiment, with "Sarisham!" He replied, 'Why, that's more elegant than common Hindu--it's Persian!" "Sarisham" is, in fact, still in use in India, as among the Gipsies. And as the latter often corrupt it into _sha'shan_, so the vulgar Hindus call it "shan!" Sarishan means in Gipsy, "How are you?" but its affinity with _sarisham_ is evident. {133} Miklosich ("Uber die Mundarten de der Zigeuner," Wien, 1872) gives, it is true, 647 Rommany words of Slavonic origin, but many of these are also Hindustani. Moreover, Dr Miklosich treats as Gipsy words numbers of Slavonian words which Gipsies in Slavonian lands have Rommanised, but which are not generally Gipsy. {171} Fortune-telling. {189} In Egypt, as in Syria, every child is more or less marked by tattooing. Infants of the first families, even among Christians, are thus stamped. {206} The Royston rook or crow has a greyish-white back, but is with this exception entirely black. {209} The peacock and turkey are called lady-birds in Rommany, because, as a Gipsy told me, "they spread out their clothes, and hold up their heads and look fine, and walk proud, like great ladies." I have heard a swan called a pauno rani chillico--a white lady-bird. {210} To make skewers is a common employment among the poorer English Gipsies. {213} This rhyme and metre (such as they are) were purely accidental with my narrator; but as they occurred _verb. et lit_., I set them down. {218} This story is well known to most "travellers." It is also true, the "hero" being a _pash-and-pash_, or half-blood Rommany chal, whose name was told to me. {219} The reader will find in Lord Lytton's "Harold" mention of an Anglo- Saxon superstition very similar to that embodied in the story of the Seven Whistlers. This story is, however, entirely Gipsy. {221a} This, which is a common story among the English Gipsies, and told exactly in the words here given, is implicitly believed in by them. Unfortunately, the terrible legends, but too well authenticated, of the persecutions to which their ancestors were subjected, render it very probable that it may have occurred as narrated. When Gipsies were hung and transported merely for _being_ Gipsies, it is not unlikely that a persecution to death may have originated in even such a trifle as the alleged theft of a dish-clout. {221b} Although they bear it with remarkable _apparent_ indifference, Gipsies are in reality extremely susceptible to being looked at or laughed at. {235} This story was told me in a Gipsy tent near Brighton, and afterwards repeated by one of the auditors while I transcribed it. 
22877	----	Transcribed from the 1901 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org LAVENGRO The Scholar--The Gypsy--The Priest _By_ GEORGE BORROW _WITH NOTES AND AN INTRODUCTION_ BY F. HINDES GROOME VOLUME I _WITH A PORTRAIT FROM A PAINTING_ BY H. W. PHILLIPS LONDON METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. MDCCCCI {Portrait of George Borrow, painted by H. W. Phillips, engraved by W. Hall: p0.jpg} INTRODUCTION There have been many Romany Ryes, or "Gypsy Gentlemen," as Gypsies designate those who, though not of their race, yet have loved that race, and have mastered the Romany tongue. The first is one of the oddest--Andrew Boorde (_c._ 1490-1549). Carthusian, traveller, physician, and, perhaps, the original Merry Andrew, he got into trouble over certain delinquencies, and died a prisoner in the Fleet gaol. In 1542 he was writing his _Fyrst Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge_, and had come to "the xxxviii. chapiter," which "treateth of Egypt, and of theyr money and of theyr speche." He started bravely:-- "Egipt is a countrey ioyned to Jury, The countrey is plentyfull of wine, corne and hony. "There be many great wyldernes, in the which be many great wylde beastes. In ye which wildernis liuid many holy fathers, as it apperith in vitas patrum. The people--" But here, I fancy, he suddenly broke off; what did he know of the Egyptian people? Greece was the nearest he had ever been to Egypt. Going, however, for a stroll through his native county of Sussex, he presently lights on a band of "right Egyptians," belike in front of an alehouse. Egyptians! the very thing! Like any newspaper correspondent of to-day, he must straightway have whipped out his notebook, and jotted down the rest of his chapter:-- "The people of the country be swarte, and doth go disgisid in theyr apparel, contrary to other nacions. They be lyght fyngerd and vse pyking, they have litle maner and euyl loggyng, and yet they be pleasant daunsers. Ther be few or none of the Egypcions yt doth dwel in Egipt, for Egipt is repleted now with infydel alyons. Ther mony is brasse and golde. Yf there be any man yt wyl learne parte of theyr speche, Englyshe and Egipt speche foloweth." And there duly follows a neat little Ollendorfian dialogue about meat and bread, wine and beer, and such-like, in which Dr. Furnivall, Boorde's editor, left it for Professor Zupitza to recognise excellent Romany. "Sit you downe and dryncke," "Drinke, drynke for God's sake," are two of the phrases. The interview was probably prolonged, perhaps renewed; Andrew Boorde would find good fellowship with Gypsies. No. 2 is _the_ Scholar-Gypsy, of whom, alas! we know all too little, neither name nor dates, but only just what Joseph Glanvill tells in his _Vanity of Dogmatizing_ (1661):-- "There was very lately a Lad in the _University_ of _Oxford_, who being of very pregnant and ready parts, and yet wanting the encouragement of preferment, was by his poverty forc'd to leave his studies there, and to cast himself upon the wide world for a livelyhood. Now, his necessities growing dayly on him and wanting the help of friends to relieve him, he was at last forced to joyn himself to a company of _Vagabond Gypsies_, whom occasionly he met with, and to follow their Trade for a maintenance. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem, as that they discover'd to him their _Mystery_: in the practice of which, by the pregnancy of his wit and parts, he soon grew so good and proficient as to be able to out-do his Instructours. After he had been a pretty while well exercis'd in the Trade, there chanc'd to ride by a couple of _Scholars_ who had formerly bin of his acquaintance. The _Scholars_ had quickly spyed out their old friend among the _Gypsies_, and their amazement to see him among such society had well-nigh discover'd him: but by a sign he prevented their owning him before that Crew: and taking one of them aside privately, desired him with his friend to go to an _Inn_, not far distant thence, promising there to come to them. They accordingly went thither, and he follows: after their first salutations, his friends enquire how he came to lead so odd a life as that was, and to joyn himself with such a _cheating beggerly_ company. The _Scholar- Gypsy_ having given them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, told them that the people he went with were not such _Impostouirs_ as they were taken for, but that they had a _traditional_ kind of _learning_ among them, and could do wonders by the power of _Imagination_, and that himself had learnt much of their Art, and improved it further then themselves could. And to evince the truth of what he told them, he said, he'd remove into another room, leaving them to discourse together, and upon his return tell them the sum of what they had talked of: which accordingly he perform'd, giving them a full account of what had passed between them in his absence. The _Scholars_ being amaz'd at so unexpected a discovery, earnestly desir'd him to unriddle the _mystery_. In which he gave them satisfaction, by telling them, that what he did was by the power of _Imagination_, his Phancy _binding_ theirs, and that himself had dictated to them the discourse they held together, while he was from them: That there were warrantable wayes of heightening the _Imagination_ to that pitch as to bind anothers, and that when he had compass'd the whole _secret_, some parts of which he said he was yet ignorant of, he intended to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned." The third of our Romany Ryes is a Scottish peer and a Jacobite, George Seton, fifth Earl of Wintoun (1679-1749). He as a young man quarrelled with his father, and, taking up with a band of Gypsies who frequented the Seton property, set off with them on their wanderings over Scotland, England, and the Continent. He seems to have been away from June 1700 until November 1707: and when, by his father's death in 1704, he succeeded to the earldom, "no man knew where to find him, till accident led to the discovery." The Rev. Robert Patten, the Judas and the historian of the '15, records how, on the rebels' march from Kelso to Preston, Lord Wintoun would tell "many pleasant Stories of his Travels and his living unknown and obscurely with a Blacksmith in France, whom he served some years as a Bellows-blower and Under-Servant. He was," Patten adds, "very curious in working in several Handicraft Matters, and had made good Proficiency in them, witness the nice way he had found to cut asunder one of the Iron Bars in his Window in the Tower, by some small Instrument, scarce perceivable." It was on 4th August 1716 that Lord Wintoun made his escape, but, like everything else in his life, it is wrapped in obscurity. For, according to the Diary of Mary Countess Cowper for 19th March 1716, the last day of his trial, "My Lord _Winton_ had sawed an iron Bar with the Spring of his Watch very near in two, in order to make his Escape; but it was found out." So, possibly, there is something in the story told by the author of _Rab and his Friends_, that he was carried out of the Tower in a hamper, supposed to be full of family charters, by John Gunn, "the head of a band of roving gipsies." Anyhow, ever afterwards he lived at Rome, where in 1737 he was great master of the Lodge of Freemasonry. He died unmarried, though Lady Cowper alleges "he has eight Wives." Charles Bosvile, the scion of a good old Yorkshire house, is another who must have known much about the Gypsies. He was buried at Rossington, near Doncaster, on 30th January 1709; and more than a hundred years later the Gypsies would visit the churchyard, and pour out a flagon of ale on his grave by the chancel door. Joseph Hunter, the historian of South Yorkshire, tells how he had "established a species of sovereignty among that singular people, the Gypsies, who before the enclosures frequented the moors round Rossington. His word with them was law, and his authority so great that he perfectly restrained the pilfering propensities for which the tribe is censured, and gained the entire good-will for himself and his subjects of the farmers and people around. He was a gentleman with an estate of about 200_l._ a year; and his contemporary, Abraham de la Pryme of Hatfield, describes him as 'a mad spark, mighty fine and brisk, keeping company with a great many gentlemen, knights, and esquires, yet running about the country.'" Bamfylde Moore Carew (1693-? 1770), the son of the rector of Bickleigh, near Tiverton, is semi-mythical, though we know that a man of that name did really marry at Stoke Damerel, near Plymouth, one Mary Gray on 29th December 1733. Gray is an old Gypsy surname, but the Gypsies of his _Life and Adventures_ are just as unreal as those of any melodrama or penny dreadful. The poet-physician, John Armstrong (_c._ 1709-78), was at college at Edinburgh with Mr. Lawrie, who in 1767 was minister of Hawick; and "one year, during the vacation, they joined a band of gipsies, who in those days much infested the Borders." So says "Jupiter" Carlyle in his Autobiography; and he adds that "this expedition, which really took place, as Armstrong informed me in London, furnished Lawrie with a fine field for fiction and rhodomontade, so closely united to the groundwork, which might be true, that it was impossible to discompound them." The fourth Lord Coleraine, better known as Colonel George Hanger (_c._ 1751-1824), was a wild, harum-scarum Irishman. According to the Hon. Grantley Berkeley's _My Life and Recollections_, "in one of his early rambles he joined a gang of gipsies, fell in love with one of their dark- eyed beauties, and married her according to the rites of the tribe. He had entered the footguards in 1771, and used to introduce his brother- officers to his dusky bride, boasting his confidence in her fidelity. His married life went on pleasantly for about a fortnight, at the end of which his confidence and his bliss were destroyed together, on ascertaining to his intense disgust that his gipsy inamorata had eloped with a bandy-legged tinker." Very unlike the Colonel was the mythologist, Jacob Bryant (1715-1804). We know the little man, with his thirteen spaniels, through Madame D'Arblay's Diaries; she often visited Cypenham, his house near Windsor. It must have been in his garden here that he collected his materials for the paper "On the Zingara or Gypsey Language," which he read to the Royal Society in 1785. For "_covascorook_, laurel," is intelligible only by supposing him to have pointed to a laurel, and asked, "What is this?" and by the Gypsy's answering in words that mean "This is a tree." There are a number of similar slips in the vocabulary, as _sauvee_, an eagle (rightly, a needle), _porcherie_, brass (a halfpenny, a copper), _plastomingree_, couch (coach), and _baurobevalacochenos_, storm. This last word posed the etymological skill of even Prof. Pott in his great work on _Die Zigeuner_, but he hazards the conjecture that _cochenos_ may be akin to the Greek [Greek text]; really the whole may be dismembered into _bauro_, great, _baval_, wind, and the English "a-catching us." Still, Bryant's is not at all a bad vocabulary. Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton (1803-73), tells in a fragment of autobiography how at twenty-one he met a pretty Gypsy girl at sunset, was guided by her to the tents, and "spent with these swarthy wanderers five or six very happy days." He committed his money, fourteen pounds in all, to the care of the Gypsy grandmother, the queen of the camp, who "was faithful to the customs of the primitive gipsies, and would eat nothing in the shape of animal food that had not died a natural death"! Mimy, the Gypsy girl, and he make passionate love, till at last she proposes "marriage for five years by breaking a piece of burnt earth." But the stars and the Gypsy brethren forbid the banns, so they part eternally. It is all the silliest moonshine, the most impossible Gypsies: no, Bulwer Lytton deserves no place among the real Romany Ryes. Of these a whole host remain. Francis Irvine, a lieutenant in the Bengal Native Infantry, on the outward-bound voyage (1805) to India on board the _Preston_ East Indiaman, took down a vocabulary of one hundred and thirty Romany words from John Lee, a Gypsy recruit for the Company's European force. No other case is known to me of a Gypsy revisiting the land of his forefathers. John Hoyland (1750-1831), a Yorkshire Quaker, in 1814 began to study "the very destitute and abject condition" of the Midland Gypsies, and wrote _A Historical Survey of the Customs_, _Habits_, _and Present State of the Gypsies_ (York, 1816). He is said to "have fallen in love with a black-eyed gipsy girl," but it does not appear that he married her. Which is a pity; a Gypsy Quakeress would be a charming fancy. That poor thing, John Clare, the Peasant-Poet (1793-1864), is said to have "joined some gipsies for a time" before 1817; and Richard Bright, M.D. (1789-1858), famous as the investigator of "Bright's disease," must have known much of Gypsies both abroad and at home, to be able to write his _Travels through Lower Hungary_ (1818). James Crabb (1774-1851), Wesleyan minister at Southampton, and Samuel Roberts (1763- 1848), Sheffield manufacturer, both wrote books on the Gypsies, but were Gypsy philanthropists rather than Romany Ryes. Still, Roberts had a very fair knowledge of the language, and at seventy-seven "longed to be a gypsy, and enter a house no more." Colonel John Staples Harriot during his "residence in North Hampshire in the years 1819-20 was led to pay considerable attention to a race of vagrant men, roaming about the high- roads and lanes in the vicinity of Whitchurch, Waltham, and Overton"; in December 1829 he read before the Royal Asiatic Society an excellent Romany vocabulary of over four hundred words. These were Borrow's chief predecessors, but the list could be largely extended by making it include such names as those of Sir John Popham (1531-1607), Lord Chief-Justice of England; Sir William Sinclair, Lord Justice-General of Scotland from 1559; Mr. William Sympsoune, a great Scottish doctor of medicine towards the close of the sixteenth century; the Countess of Cassillis (1643), who did _not_ elope with Johnnie Faa; Richard Head (_c._ 1637-86), the author of _The English Rogue_; William Marsden (1754-1836), the Orientalist; John Wilson ("Christopher North," 1785-1854); the Rev. John Baird, minister of Yetholm 1829-61; G. P. R. James (1801-60), the novelist; and Sam Bough (1822-78), the landscape- painter. And after Borrow come many; the following are but a few of them:--John Phillip, R.A., Tom Taylor, the Rev. T. W. Norwood, George S. Phillips ("January Searle"), Charles Kingsley, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Mr. Charles Godfrey Leland ("Hans Breitmann"), Prof. Edward Henry Palmer, Sir Richard Burton, Bath C. Smart, M.D., of Manchester, Mr. H. T. Crofton, Major Whyte-Melville, Mr. Joseph Lucas, the Rev. R. N. Sanderson, Dr. D. Fearon Ranking, Mr. David MacRitchie, Mr. G. R. Sims, Mr. George Meredith, Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton, "F. W. Carew, M.D," and Mr. John Sampson. Thus, leaving aside all the foreign Romany Ryes, from the great engraver Jacques Callot to the present Polish novelist Sienkiewicz, we see that Borrow was not quite so _sui generis_ as he claimed for himself, and as others have often claimed for him. The meagreness of his knowledge of the Anglo-Gypsy dialect came out in his _Word-Book of the Romany_ (1874); there must have been over a dozen Englishmen who have known it far better than he. For his Spanish-Gypsy vocabulary in _The Zincali_ he certainly drew largely either on Richard Bright's _Travels through Lower Hungary_ or on Bright's Spanish authority, whatever that may have been. His knowledge of the strange history of the Gypsies was very elementary, of their manners almost more so, and of their folk-lore practically _nil_. And yet I would put George Borrow above every other writer on the Gypsies. In _Lavengro_ and, to a less degree, in its sequel, _The Romany Rye_, he communicates a subtle insight into Gypsydom that is totally wanting in the works--mainly philological--of Pott, Liebich, Paspati, Miklosich, and their confreres. Take his first meeting with Gypsies in the green lane near Norman Cross. There are flaws in it: he never would have spoken of the Gypsy beldame as "my mother there," nor could he possibly have guessed that the Romany _sap_ means "snake." Yet compare it with Maggie Tulliver's Gypsy adventure in _The Mill on the Floss_: how vivid and vigorous the one, how tame and commonplace the other. I am not going to dilate on the beauties of _Lavengro_; they seem to me sufficiently self-evident. But there is one point about the book that deserves some considering, its credibility as autobiography. Professor Knapp, Borrow's biographer, seems to place implicit confidence in _Lavengro_; I find myself unable to agree with him. Borrow may really have written the story of _Joseph Sell_ for a collection of Christmas tales; he may really have camped for some weeks as a tinker near Willenhall; "Belle Berners" may really have had some prototype; and he may really have bought the splendid horse of the Willenhall tavern-keeper, and sold it afterwards at Horncastle. But is the "Man in Black," then, also a reality, and the "Reverend Mr. Platitude," who thanks God that he has left all his Church of England prejudices in Italy? in other words, did Tractarianism exist in 1825, eight years before it was engendered by Keble's sermon? David Haggart, again, the Scottish Jack Sheppard,--Borrow describes him as "a lad of some fifteen years," with "prodigious breadth of chest," and as defeating in single combat a full-grown baker's apprentice. Borrow well may have seen him, for in July 1813 he really enlisted as a drummer in Borrow's father's regiment, newly quartered in Edinburgh Castle; but he was not fifteen then, only twelve years old. And the Jew pedlar scene in the first chapter, and the old apple-woman's son in the sixty-second! One might take equal exception to Borrow's pretended visits to Iceland, Moultan, and Kiachta (he was never within three thousand miles of Kiachta); to his translation of St. Luke's Gospel into Basque, of which he had only the merest smattering; and to his statement to a Cornish clergyman in 1854 that his "horrors" were due to the effects of Mrs. Herne's poison--he had suffered from them seven years before his Gypsy wanderings. But the strongest proof of his lax adherence to fact is adduced by Professor Knapp himself. In chapter xvi. of _Lavengro_, Borrow relates how in 1818, at Tombland Fair, Norwich, he doffed his hat to the great trotting stallion, Marshland Shales, "drew a deep _ah_! and repeated the words of the old fellows around, 'Such a horse as this we shall never see again; a pity that he is so old.'" Yes, but as Professor Knapp has found out, with his infinite painstaking, Marshland Shales (1802-35) was not thus paraded until 12th April 1827. _Lavengro_ {0a} was written in 1843-50, years after the events recorded there. Several of its petty slips are probably due to sheer forgetfulness; _e.g._, as to the four "airts" of Edinburgh Castle, and the "lofty" town-walls of Berwick-upon-Tweed. And the rest, I imagine, were due partly to love of posing, but much more to an honest desire to produce an amusing and interesting book. Borrow was not writing a set autobiography, and it seems rather hard to imagine that he was, and then to come down on this or that inaccuracy. He did pose, though, all his life long, and in every one of his writings. He posed to poor old Esther Faa Blythe, the "queen" of the Yetholm Tinklers, when, on entering her little cottage, he "flung his arms up three times into the air, and in an exceedingly disagreeable voice exclaimed, '_Sossi your nav_?' etc." (_Word-Book_, p. 314). He posed shamefully to Lieut.-Col. Elers Napier (Knapp, i. 308-312); and he posed even to me, a mere lad, when I saw him thrice in 1872-73, at Ascot, at his house in Hereford Square, and at the Notting-hill Potteries (_Bookman_, Feb. 1893, pp. 147-48). Yet, what books he has given us, the very best of them _Lavengro_; its fight with the Flaming Tinman is the finest fight in all the world's literature. _Lavengro_, nevertheless, met with a very sorry reception. It was not genteel enough for the readers of Disraeli and Bulwer Lytton; and it is only since Borrow's death, on 26th July 1881, that it has won its due place of pre-eminence. "No man's writing," says Mr. Watts-Dunton, "can take you into the country as Borrow's can; it makes you feel the sunshine, smell the flowers, hear the lark sing and the grasshopper chirp." They who would know Borrow thoroughly should pass from his own works to Mr. Watts-Dunton's "Reminiscences of George Borrow" (_Athenaeum_, Sept. 3, 10, 1881), to his "Notes upon George Borrow" (_Lavengro_, Ward, Lock, Bowden, & Co., 1893), to Mr. William A. Dutt's _George Borrow in East Anglia_ (1896), to Unpublished Letters of George Borrow, first printed in the _Bible Society Reporter_ from July 1899 onwards, and above all, to Professor William I. Knapp's _Life_, _Writings_, _and Correspondence of George Borrow_ (2 vols. 1899). AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION In the following pages I have endeavoured to describe a dream, partly of study, partly of adventure, in which will be found copious notices of books, and many descriptions of life and manners, some in a very unusual form. The scenes of action lie in the British Islands;--pray be not displeased, gentle reader, if perchance thou hast imagined that I was about to conduct thee to distant lands, and didst promise thyself much instruction and entertainment from what I might tell thee of them. I do assure thee that thou hast no reason to be displeased, inasmuch as there are no countries in the world less known by the British than these selfsame British Islands, or where more strange things are every day occurring, whether in road or street, house or dingle. The time embraces nearly the first quarter of the present century: this information again may, perhaps, be anything but agreeable to thee; it is a long time to revert to, but fret not thyself, many matters which at present much occupy the public mind originated in some degree towards the latter end of that period, and some of them will be treated of. The principal actors in this dream, or drama, are, as you will have gathered from the title-page, a Scholar, a Gypsy, and a Priest. Should you imagine that these three form one, permit me to assure you that you are very much mistaken. Should there be something of the Gypsy manifest in the Scholar, there is certainly nothing of the Priest. With respect to the Gypsy--decidedly the most entertaining character of the three--there is certainly nothing of the Scholar or the Priest in him; and as for the Priest, though there may be something in him both of scholarship and gypsyism, neither the Scholar nor the Gypsy would feel at all flattered by being confounded with him. Many characters which may be called subordinate will be found, and it is probable that some of these characters will afford much more interest to the reader than those styled the principal. The favourites with the writer are a brave old soldier and his helpmate, an ancient gentlewoman who sold apples, and a strange kind of wandering man and his wife. Amongst the many things attempted in this book is the encouragement of charity, and free and genial manners, and the exposure of humbug, of which there are various kinds, but of which the most perfidious, the most debasing, and the most cruel, is the humbug of the Priest. Yet let no one think that irreligion is advocated in this book. With respect to religious tenets I wish to observe that I am a member of the Church of England, into whose communion I was baptized, and to which my forefathers belonged. Its being the religion in which I was baptized, and of my forefathers, would be a strong inducement to me to cling to it; for I do not happen to be one of those choice spirits "who turn from their banner when the battle bears strongly against it, and go over to the enemy," and who receive at first a hug and a "viva," and in the sequel contempt and spittle in the face; but my chief reason for belonging to it is, because, of all churches calling themselves Christian ones, I believe there is none so good, so well founded upon Scripture, or whose ministers are, upon the whole, so exemplary in their lives and conversation, so well read in the book from which they preach, or so versed in general learning, so useful in their immediate neighbourhoods, or so unwilling to persecute people of other denominations for matters of doctrine. In the communion of this Church, and with the religious consolation of its ministers, I wish and hope to live and die, and in its and their defence will at all times be ready, if required, to speak, though humbly, and to fight, though feebly, against enemies, whether carnal or spiritual. And is there no priestcraft in the Church of England? There is certainly, or rather there was, a modicum of priestcraft in the Church of England, but I have generally found that those who are most vehement against the Church of England are chiefly dissatisfied with her, because there is only a modicum of that article in her--were she stuffed to the very cupola with it, like a certain other Church, they would have much less to say against the Church of England. By the other Church, I mean Rome. Its system was once prevalent in England, and, during the period that it prevailed there, was more prolific of debasement and crime than all other causes united. The people and the government at last becoming enlightened by means of the Scripture, spurned it from the island with disgust and horror, the land instantly after its disappearance becoming a fair field, in which arts, sciences, and all the amiable virtues flourished, instead of being a pestilent marsh where swine-like ignorance wallowed, and artful hypocrites, like so many Wills-o'-the-wisp, played antic gambols about, around, and above debased humanity. But Popery still wished to play her old part, to regain her lost dominion, to reconvert the smiling land into the pestilential morass, where she could play again her old antics. From the period of the Reformation in England up to the present time, she has kept her emissaries here, individuals contemptible in intellect, it is true, but cat-like and gliding, who, at her bidding, have endeavoured as much as in their power has lain, to damp and stifle every genial, honest, loyal, and independent thought, and to reduce minds to such a state of dotage as would enable their old popish mother to do what she pleased with them. And in every country, however enlightened, there are always minds inclined to grovelling superstition--minds fond of eating dust, and swallowing clay--minds never at rest, save when prostrate before some fellow in a surplice; and these popish emissaries found always some weak enough to bow down before them, astounded by their dreadful denunciations of eternal woe and damnation to any who should refuse to believe their Romania; but they played a poor game--the law protected the servants of Scripture, and the priest with his beads seldom ventured to approach any but the remnant of those of the eikonolatry--representatives of worm-eaten houses, their debased dependants, and a few poor crazy creatures amongst the middle classes--he played a poor game, and the labour was about to prove almost entirely in vain, when the English legislature, in compassion or contempt, or, yet more probably, influenced by that spirit of toleration and kindness which is so mixed up with Protestantism, removed almost entirely the disabilities under which Popery laboured, and enabled it to raise its head and to speak out almost without fear. And it did raise its head, and, though it spoke with some little fear at first, soon discarded every relic of it; went about the land uttering its damnation cry, gathering around it--and for doing so many thanks to it--the favourers of priestcraft who lurked within the walls of the Church of England; frightening with the loudness of its voice the weak, the timid, and the ailing; perpetrating, whenever it had an opportunity, that species of crime to which it has ever been most partial--_Deathbed robbery_; for as it is cruel, so is it dastardly. Yes, it went on enlisting, plundering, and uttering its terrible threats till . . . till it became, as it always does when left to itself, a fool, a very fool. Its plunderings might have been overlooked, and so might its insolence, had it been common insolence, but it . . ., and then the roar of indignation which arose from outraged England against the viper, the frozen viper which it had permitted to warm itself upon its bosom. But thanks, Popery, you have done all that the friends of enlightenment and religious liberty could wish; but if ever there were a set of foolish ones to be found under Heaven, surely it is the priestly rabble who came over from Rome to direct the grand movement--so long in its getting up. But now again the damnation cry is withdrawn, there is a subdued meekness in your demeanour, you are now once more harmless as a lamb. Well, we shall see how the trick--"the old trick"--will serve you. CHAPTER I Birth--My Father--Tamerlane--Ben Brain--French Protestants--East Anglia--Sorrow and Troubles--True Peace--A Beautiful Child--Foreign Grave--Mirrors--Alpine Country--Emblems--Slow of Speech--The Jew--Strange Gestures. On an evening of July, in the year 18--, at East D---, a beautiful little town in a certain district of East Anglia, I first saw the light. {1a} My father was a Cornish man, the youngest, as I have heard him say, of seven brothers. {1b} He sprang from a family of gentlemen, or, as some people would call them, gentillatres, for they were not very wealthy; they had a coat of arms, however, and lived on their own property at a place called Tredinnock, {1c} which being interpreted means _the house on the hill_, which house and the neighbouring acres had been from time immemorial in their possession. I mention these particulars that the reader may see at once that I am not altogether of low and plebeian origin; the present age is highly aristocratic, and I am convinced that the public will read my pages with more zest from being told that I am a gentillatre by birth with Cornish blood {2} in my veins, of a family who lived on their own property at a place bearing a Celtic name signifying the house on the hill, or more strictly the house on the _hillock_. My father was what is generally termed a posthumous child--in other words, the gentillatre who begot him never had the satisfaction of invoking the blessing of the Father of All upon his head; having departed this life some months before the birth of his youngest son. The boy, therefore, never knew a father's care; he was, however, well tended by his mother, whose favourite he was; so much so, indeed, that his brethren, the youngest of whom was considerably older than himself, were rather jealous of him. I never heard, however, that they treated him with any marked unkindness; and it will be as well to observe here that I am by no means well acquainted with his early history, of which, indeed, as I am not writing his life, it is not necessary to say much. Shortly after his mother's death, which occurred when he was eighteen, he adopted the profession of arms, which he followed during the remainder of his life, and in which, had circumstances permitted, he would probably have shone amongst the best. By nature he was cool and collected, slow to anger, though perfectly fearless, patient of control, of great strength; and, to crown all, a proper man with his hands. With far inferior qualifications many a man has become a field-marshal or general; similar ones made Tamerlane, who was not a gentillatre, but the son of a blacksmith, emperor of one-third of the world; but the race is not always for the swift, nor the battle for the strong, indeed I ought rather to say very seldom; certain it is, that my father, with all his high military qualifications, never became emperor, field-marshal, or even general: indeed, he had never an opportunity of distinguishing himself save in one battle, and that took place neither in Flanders, Egypt, nor on the banks of the Indus or Oxus, but in Hyde Park. Smile not, gentle reader, many a battle has been fought in Hyde Park, in which as much skill, science, and bravery have been displayed as ever achieved a victory in Flanders or by the Indus. In such a combat as that to which I allude, I opine that even Wellington or Napoleon would have been heartily glad to cry for quarter ere the lapse of five minutes, and even the Blacksmith Tartar would, perhaps, have shrunk from the opponent with whom, after having had a dispute with him, my father engaged in single combat for one hour, at the end of which time the champions shook hands and retired, each having experienced quite enough of the other's prowess. The name of my father's antagonist was Brain. What! still a smile? did you never hear that name before? I cannot help it! Honour to Brain, who four months after the event which I have now narrated was champion of England, having conquered the heroic Johnson. Honour to Brain, who, at the end of other four months, worn out by the dreadful blows which he had received in his manly combats, expired in the arms of my father, who read the Bible to him in his latter moments--Big Ben Brain. You no longer smile, even _you_ have heard of Big Ben. I have already hinted that my father never rose to any very exalted rank in his profession, notwithstanding his prowess and other qualifications. After serving for many years in the line, he at last entered as captain in the militia regiment of the Earl of ---, {4a} at that period just raised, and to which he was sent by the Duke of York to instruct the young levies in military manoeuvres and discipline; and in this mission I believe he perfectly succeeded, competent judges having assured me that the regiment in question soon came by his means to be considered as one of the most brilliant in the service, and inferior to no regiment of the line in appearance or discipline. As the headquarters of this corps were at D---, {4b} the duties of my father not unfrequently carried him to that place, and it was on one of these occasions that he became acquainted with a young person of the neighbourhood, for whom he formed an attachment, which was returned; and this young person was my mother. {4c} She was descended from a family of French Protestants, natives of Caen, who were obliged to leave their native country when old Louis, at the instigation of the Pope, thought fit to revoke the Edict of Nantes: their name was Petrement, and I have reason for believing that they were people of some consideration; that they were noble hearts, and good Christians, they gave sufficient proof in scorning to bow the knee to the tyranny of Rome. So they left beautiful Normandy for their faith's sake, and with a few louis d'ors in their purse, a Bible in the vulgar tongue, and a couple of old swords, which, if report be true, had done service in the Huguenot wars, they crossed the sea to the isle of civil peace and religious liberty, and established themselves in East Anglia. And many other Huguenot families bent their steps thither, and devoted themselves to agriculture or the mechanical arts; and in the venerable old city, the capital of the province, in the northern shadow of the Castle of De Burgh, the exiles built for themselves a church where they praised God in the French tongue, and to which, at particular seasons of the year, they were in the habit of flocking from country and from town to sing-- "Thou hast provided for us a goodly earth; Thou waterest her furrows, Thou sendest rain into the little valleys thereof, Thou makest it soft with the drops of rain, and blessest the increase of it." I have been told that in her younger days my mother was strikingly handsome; this I can easily believe: I never knew her in her youth, for though she was very young when she married my father (who was her senior by many years), she had attained the middle age before I was born, no children having been vouchsafed to my parents in the early stages of their union. Yet even at the present day, now that years threescore and ten have passed over her head, attended with sorrow and troubles manifold, poorly chequered with scanty joys, can I look on that countenance and doubt that at one time beauty decked it as with a glorious garment? Hail to thee, my parent! as thou sittest there, in thy widow's weeds, in the dusky parlour in the house overgrown with the lustrous ivy of the sister isle, the solitary house at the end of the retired court shaded by lofty poplars. Hail to thee, dame of the oval face, olive complexion, and Grecian forehead! by thy table seated with the mighty volume of the good Bishop Hopkins spread out before thee; there is peace in thy countenance, my mother; it is not worldly peace, however, not the deceitful peace which lulls to bewitching slumbers, and from which, let us pray, humbly pray, that every sinner may be roused in time to implore mercy not in vain! Thine is the peace of the righteous, my mother, of those to whom no sin can be imputed, the score of whose misdeeds has been long since washed away by the blood of atonement, which imputeth righteousness to those who trust in it. It was not always thus, my mother; a time was, when the cares, pomps, and vanities of this world agitated thee too much; but that time is gone by, another and a better has succeeded; there is peace now on thy countenance, the true peace; peace around thee, too, in thy solitary dwelling, sounds of peace, the cheerful hum of the kettle and the purring of the immense angola, which stares up at thee from its settle with its almost human eyes. No more earthly cares and affections now, my mother! Yes, one. Why dost thou suddenly raise thy dark and still brilliant eye from the volume with a somewhat startled glance? What noise is that in the distant street? Merely the noise of a hoof; a sound common enough: it draws nearer, nearer, and now it stops before thy gate. Singular! And now there is a pause, a long pause. Ha! thou hearest something--a footstep; a swift but heavy footstep! thou risest, thou tremblest, there is a hand on the pin of the outer door, there is some one in the vestibule, and now the door of thy apartment opens, there is a reflection on the mirror behind thee, a travelling hat, a grey head and sunburnt face. My dearest Son! My darling Mother! Yes, mother, thou didst recognise in the distant street the hoof-tramp of the wanderer's horse. I was not the only child of my parents; I had a brother some three years older than myself. {7} He was a beautiful child; one of those occasionally seen in England, and in England alone; a rosy, angelic face, blue eyes, and light chestnut hair; it was not exactly an Anglo-Saxon countenance, in which, by the bye, there is generally a cast of loutishness and stupidity; it partook, to a certain extent, of the Celtic character, particularly in the fire and vivacity which illumined it; his face was the mirror of his mind; perhaps no disposition more amiable was ever found amongst the children of Adam, united, however, with no inconsiderable portion of high and dauntless spirit. So great was his beauty in infancy, that people, especially those of the poorer classes, would follow the nurse who carried him about in order to look at and bless his lovely face. At the age of three months an attempt was made to snatch him from his mother's arms in the streets of London, at the moment she was about to enter a coach; indeed, his appearance seemed to operate so powerfully upon every person who beheld him, that my parents were under continual apprehension of losing him; his beauty, however, was perhaps surpassed by the quickness of his parts. He mastered his letters in a few hours, and in a day or two could decipher the names of people on the doors of houses and over the shop-windows. As he grew up, his personal appearance became less prepossessing, his quickness and cleverness, however, rather increased; and I may say of him, that with respect to everything which he took in hand he did it better and more speedily than any other person. Perhaps it will be asked here, what became of him? Alas! alas! his was an early and a foreign grave. As I have said before, the race is not always for the swift, nor the battle for the strong. And now, doubtless, after the above portrait of my brother, painted in the very best style of Rubens, the reader will conceive himself justified in expecting a full-length one of myself, as a child, for as to my present appearance, I suppose he will be tolerably content with that flitting glimpse in the mirror. But he must excuse me; I have no intention of drawing a portrait of myself in childhood; indeed it would be difficult, for at that time I never looked into mirrors. No attempts, however, were ever made to steal me in my infancy, and I never heard that my parents entertained the slightest apprehension of losing me by the hands of kidnappers, though I remember perfectly well that people were in the habit of standing still to look at me, ay, more than at my brother; from which premises the reader may form any conclusion with respect to my appearance which seemeth good unto him and reasonable. Should he, being a good-natured person, and always inclined to adopt the charitable side in any doubtful point, be willing to suppose that I, too, was eminently endowed by nature with personal graces, I tell him frankly that I have no objection whatever to his entertaining that idea; moreover, that I heartily thank him, and shall at all times be disposed, under similar circumstances, to exercise the same species of charity towards himself. With respect to my mind and its qualities I shall be more explicit; for, were I to maintain much reserve on this point, many things which appear in these memoirs would be highly mysterious to the reader, indeed incomprehensible. Perhaps no two individuals were ever more unlike in mind and disposition than my brother and myself: as light is opposed to darkness, so was that happy, brilliant, cheerful child to the sad and melancholy being who sprang from the same stock as himself, and was nurtured by the same milk. Once, when travelling in an Alpine country, I arrived at a considerable elevation; I saw in the distance, far below, a beautiful stream hastening to the ocean, its rapid waters here sparkling in the sunshine, and there tumbling merrily in cascades. On its banks were vineyards and cheerful villages; close to where I stood, in a granite basin, with steep and precipitous sides, slumbered a deep, dark lagoon, shaded by black pines, cypresses, and yews. It was a wild, savage spot, strange and singular; ravens hovered above the pines, filling the air with their uncouth notes, pies chattered, and I heard the cry of an eagle from a neighbouring peak; there lay the lake, the dark, solitary, and almost inaccessible lake; gloomy shadows were upon it, which, strangely modified as gusts of wind agitated the surface, occasionally assumed the shape of monsters. So I stood on the Alpine elevation, and looked now on the gay distant river, and now at the dark granite-encircled lake close beside me in the lone solitude, and I thought of my brother and myself. I am no moraliser; but the gay and rapid river, and the dark and silent lake, were, of a verity, no bad emblems of us two. So far from being quick and clever like my brother, and able to rival the literary feat which I have recorded of him, many years elapsed before I was able to understand the nature of letters, or to connect them. A lover of nooks and retired corners, I was as a child in the habit of fleeing from society, and of sitting for hours together with my head on my breast. What I was thinking about, it would be difficult to say at this distance of time; I remember perfectly well, however, being ever conscious of a peculiar heaviness within me, and at times of a strange sensation of fear, which occasionally amounted to horror, and for which I could assign no real cause whatever. By nature slow of speech, I took no pleasure in conversation, nor in hearing the voices of my fellow-creatures. When people addressed me, I not unfrequently, especially if they were strangers, turned away my head from them, and if they persisted in their notice burst into tears, which singularity of behaviour by no means tended to dispose people in my favour. I was as much disliked as my brother was deservedly beloved and admired. My parents, it is true, were always kind to me; and my brother, who was good-nature itself, was continually lavishing upon me every mark of affection. There was, however, one individual who, in the days of my childhood, was disposed to form a favourable opinion of me. One day, a Jew--I have quite forgotten the circumstance, but I was long subsequently informed of it--one day a travelling Jew knocked at the door of a farmhouse in which we had taken apartments; I was near at hand, sitting in the bright sunshine, drawing strange lines on the dust with my fingers, an ape and dog were my companions; the Jew looked at me and asked me some questions, to which, though I was quite able to speak, I returned no answer. On the door being opened, the Jew, after a few words, probably relating to pedlary, demanded who the child was, sitting in the sun; the maid replied that I was her mistress's youngest son, a child weak _here_, pointing to her forehead. The Jew looked at me again, and then said, "'Pon my conscience, my dear, I believe that you must be troubled there yourself to tell me any such thing. It is not my habit to speak to children, inasmuch as I hate them, because they often follow me and fling stones after me; but I no sooner looked at that child than I was forced to speak to it--his not answering me shows his sense, for it has never been the custom of the wise to fling away their words in indifferent talk and conversation; the child is a sweet child, and has all the look of one of our people's children. Fool, indeed! did I not see his eyes sparkle just now when the monkey seized the dog by the ear?--they shone like my own diamonds--does your good lady want any--real and fine? Were it not for what you tell me, I should say it was a prophet's child. Fool, indeed! he can write already, or I'll forfeit the box which I carry on my back, and for which I should be loth to take two hundred pounds!" He then leaned forward to inspect the lines which I had traced. All of a sudden he started back, and grew white as a sheet; then, taking off his hat, he made some strange gestures to me, cringing, chattering, and showing his teeth, and shortly departed, muttering something about "holy letters," and talking to himself in a strange tongue. The words of the Jew were in due course of time reported to my mother, who treasured them in her heart, and from that moment began to entertain brighter hopes of her youngest born than she had ever before ventured to foster. CHAPTER II Barracks and Lodgings--A Camp--The Viper--A Delicate Child--Blackberry Time--Meum and Tuum--Hythe--The Golgotha--Daneman's Skull--Superhuman Stature--Stirring Times--The Sea-Board. I have been a wanderer the greater part of my life; indeed I remember only two periods, and these by no means lengthy, when I was, strictly speaking, stationary. I was a soldier's son, and as the means of my father were by no means sufficient to support two establishments, his family invariably attended him wherever he went, so that from my infancy I was accustomed to travelling and wandering, and looked upon a monthly change of scene and residence as a matter of course. Sometimes we lived in barracks, sometimes in lodgings, but generally in the former, always eschewing the latter from motives of economy, save when the barracks were inconvenient and uncomfortable; and they must have been highly so indeed, to have discouraged us from entering them; for though we were gentry (pray bear that in mind, gentle reader), gentry by birth, and incontestably so by my father's bearing the commission of good old George the Third, we were not _fine gentry_, but people who could put up with as much as any genteel Scotch family who find it convenient to live on a third floor in London, or on a sixth at Edinburgh or Glasgow. It was not a little that could discourage us: we once lived within the canvas walls of a camp, at a place called Pett, in Sussex; and I believe it was at this place that occurred the first circumstance, or adventure, call it which you will, that I can remember in connection with myself: it was a strange one, and I will relate it. It happened that my brother and myself were playing one evening in a sandy lane, in the neighbourhood of this Pett camp; our mother was at a slight distance. All of a sudden, a bright yellow, and, to my infantine eye, beautiful and glorious, object made its appearance at the top of the bank from between the thick quickset, and, gliding down, began to move across the lane to the other side, like a line of golden light. Uttering a cry of pleasure, I sprang forward, and seized it nearly by the middle. A strange sensation of numbing coldness seemed to pervade my whole arm, which surprised me the more, as the object to the eye appeared so warm and sunlike. I did not drop it, however, but, holding it up, looked at it intently, as its head dangled about a foot from my hand. It made no resistance; I felt not even the slightest struggle; but now my brother began to scream and shriek like one possessed. "O mother, mother!" said he, "the viper!--my brother has a viper in his hand!" He then, like one frantic, made an effort to snatch the creature away from me. The viper now hissed amain, and raised its head, in which were eyes like hot coals, menacing, not myself, but my brother. I dropped my captive, for I saw my mother running towards me; and the reptile, after standing for a moment nearly erect, and still hissing furiously, made off, and disappeared. The whole scene is now before me, as vividly as if it occurred yesterday--the gorgeous viper, my poor dear frantic brother, my agitated parent, and a frightened hen clucking under the bushes--and yet I was not three years old! It is my firm belief that certain individuals possess an inherent power, or fascination, over certain creatures, otherwise I should be unable to account for many feats which I have witnessed, and, indeed, borne a share in, connected with the taming of brutes and reptiles. I have known a savage and vicious mare, whose stall it was dangerous to approach, even when bearing provender, welcome, nevertheless, with every appearance of pleasure, an uncouth, wiry-headed man, with a frightfully seamed face, and an iron hook supplying the place of his right hand, one whom the animal had never seen before, playfully bite his hair, and cover his face with gentle and endearing kisses; and I have already stated how a viper would permit, without resentment, one child to take it up in his hand, whilst it showed its dislike to the approach of another by the fiercest hissings. Philosophy can explain many strange things, but there are some which are a far pitch above her, and this is one. I should scarcely relate another circumstance which occurred about this time but for a singular effect which it produced upon my constitution. Up to this period I had been rather a delicate child; whereas almost immediately after the occurrence to which I allude I became both hale and vigorous, to the great astonishment of my parents, who naturally enough expected that it would produce quite a contrary effect. It happened that my brother and myself were disporting ourselves in certain fields near the good town of Canterbury. A female servant had attended us, in order to take care that we came to no mischief: she, however, it seems, had matters of her own to attend to, and, allowing us to go where we listed, remained in one corner of a field, in earnest conversation with a red-coated dragoon. Now it chanced to be blackberry time, and the two children wandered under the hedges, peering anxiously among them in quest of that trash so grateful to urchins of their degree. We did not find much of it, however, and were soon separated in the pursuit. All at once I stood still, and could scarcely believe my eyes. I had come to a spot where, almost covering the hedge, hung clusters of what seemed fruit--deliciously-tempting fruit--something resembling grapes of various colours, green, red, and purple. Dear me, thought I, how fortunate! yet have I a right to gather it? is it mine? for the observance of the law of _meum_ and _tuum_ had early been impressed upon my mind, and I entertained, even at that tender age, the utmost horror for theft; so I stood staring at the variegated clusters, in doubt as to what I should do. I know not how I argued the matter in my mind; the temptation, however, was at last too strong for me, so I stretched forth my hand and ate. I remember, perfectly well, that the taste of this strange fruit was by no means so pleasant as the appearance; but the idea of eating fruit was sufficient for a child, and, after all, the flavour was much superior to that of sour apples, so I ate voraciously. How long I continued eating I scarcely know. One thing is certain, that I never left the field as I entered it, being carried home in the arms of the dragoon in strong convulsions, in which I continued for several hours. About midnight I awoke, as if from a troubled sleep, and beheld my parents bending over my couch, whilst the regimental surgeon, with a candle in his hand, stood nigh, the light feebly reflected on the whitewashed walls of the barrack-room. Another circumstance connected with my infancy, and I have done. I need offer no apology for relating it, as it subsequently exercised considerable influence over my pursuits. We were, if I remember right, in the vicinity of a place called Hythe, in Kent. One sweet evening, in the latter part of summer, our mother took her two little boys by the hand, for a wander about the fields. In the course of our stroll, we came to the village church; an old, grey-headed sexton stood in the porch, who, perceiving that we were strangers, invited us to enter. We were presently in the interior, wandering about the aisles, looking on the walls, and inspecting the monuments of the notable dead. I can scarcely state what we saw; how should I? I was a child not yet four years old, and yet I think I remember the evening sun streaming in through a stained window upon the dingy mahogany pulpit, and flinging a rich lustre upon the faded tints of an ancient banner. And now once more we were outside the building, where, against the wall, stood a low-eaved pent-house, into which we looked. It was half filled with substances of some kind, which at first looked like large grey stones. The greater part were lying in layers; some, however, were seen in confused and mouldering heaps, and two or three, which had perhaps rolled down from the rest, lay separately on the floor. "Skulls, madam," said the sexton; "skulls of the old Danes! Long ago they came pirating into these parts; and then there chanced a mighty shipwreck, for God was angry with them, and He sunk them; and their skulls, as they came ashore, were placed here as a memorial. There were many more when I was young, but now they are fast disappearing. Some of them must have belonged to strange fellows, madam. Only see that one; why, the two young gentry can scarcely lift it!" And, indeed, my brother and myself had entered the Golgotha, and commenced handling these grim relics of mortality. One enormous skull, lying in a corner, had fixed our attention, and we had drawn it forth. Spirit of eld, what a skull was yon! I still seem to see it, the huge grim thing; many of the others were large, strikingly so, and appeared fully to justify the old man's conclusion, that their owners must have been strange fellows; but compared with this mighty mass of bone they looked small and diminutive, like those of pigmies; it must have belonged to a giant, one of those red- haired warriors of whose strength and stature such wondrous tales are told in the ancient chronicles of the north, and whose grave-hills, when ransacked, occasionally reveal secrets which fill the minds of puny moderns with astonishment and awe. Reader, have you ever pored days and nights over the pages of Snorro?--probably not, for he wrote in a language which few of the present day understand, and few would be tempted to read him tamed down by Latin dragomans. A brave old book is that of Snorro, containing the histories and adventures of old northern kings and champions, who seemed to have been quite different men, if we may judge from the feats which they performed, from those of these days. One of the best of his histories is that which describes the life of Harald Haardraade, who, after manifold adventures by land and sea, now a pirate, now a mercenary of the Greek emperor, became king of Norway, and eventually perished at the battle of Stamford Bridge, whilst engaged in a gallant onslaught upon England. Now, I have often thought that the old Kemp, whose mouldering skull in the Golgotha of Hythe my brother and myself could scarcely lift, must have resembled in one respect at least this Harald, whom Snorro describes as a great and wise ruler and a determined leader, dangerous in battle, of fair presence, and measuring in height _just five ells_, {19} neither more nor less. I never forgot the Daneman's skull; like the apparition of the viper in the sandy lane, it dwelt in the mind of the boy, affording copious food for the exercise of imagination. From that moment with the name of Dane were associated strange ideas of strength, daring, and superhuman stature; and an undefinable curiosity for all that is connected with the Danish race began to pervade me; and if, long after, when I became a student, I devoted myself with peculiar zest to Danish lore and the acquirement of the old Norse tongue and its dialects, I can only explain the matter by the early impression received at Hythe from the tale of the old sexton, beneath the pent-house, and the sight of the Danish skull. And thus we went on straying from place to place, at Hythe to-day, and perhaps within a week looking out from our hostel-window upon the streets of old Winchester, our motions ever in accordance with the "route" of the regiment, so habituated to change of scene that it had become almost necessary to our existence. Pleasant were these days of my early boyhood; and a melancholy pleasure steals over me as I recall them. Those were stirring times of which I am speaking, and there was much passing around me calculated to captivate the imagination. The dreadful struggle which so long convulsed Europe, and in which England bore so prominent a part, was then at its hottest; we were at war, and determination and enthusiasm shone in every face; man, woman, and child were eager to fight the Frank, the hereditary, but, thank God, never dreaded enemy of the Anglo-Saxon race. "Love your country and beat the French, and then never mind what happens," was the cry of entire England. Oh, those were days of power, gallant days, bustling days, worth the bravest days of chivalry at least; tall battalions of native warriors were marching through the land; there was the glitter of the bayonet and the gleam of the sabre; the shrill squeak of the fife and loud rattling of the drum were heard in the streets of country towns, and the loyal shouts of the inhabitants greeted the soldiery on their arrival, or cheered them at their departure. And now let us leave the upland, and descend to the sea-board; there is a sight for you upon the billows! A dozen men-of-war are gliding majestically out of port, their long buntings streaming from the top-gallant masts, calling on the skulking Frenchman to come forth from his bights and bays; and what looms upon us yonder from the fog-bank in the east? a gallant frigate towing behind her the long low hull of a crippled privateer, which but three short days ago had left Dieppe to skim the sea, and whose crew of ferocious hearts are now cursing their imprudence in an English hold. Stirring times those, which I love to recall, for they were days of gallantry and enthusiasm, and were moreover the days of my boyhood. CHAPTER III Pretty D-----The Venerable Church--The Stricken Heart--Dormant Energies--The Small Packet--Nerves--The Books--A Picture--Mountain-like Billows--The Footprint--Spirit of De Foe--Reasoning Powers--Terrors of God--Heads of the Dragons--High-Church Clerk--A Journey--The Drowned Country. And when I was between six and seven years of age we were once more at D---, {22} the place of my birth, whither my father had been despatched on the recruiting service. I have already said that it was a beautiful little town--at least it was at the time of which I am speaking; what it is at present I know not, for thirty years and more have elapsed since I last trod its streets. It will scarcely have improved, for how could it be better than it then was? I love to think on thee, pretty quiet D---, thou pattern of an English country town, with thy clean but narrow streets branching out from thy modest market-place, with thine old-fashioned houses, with here and there a roof of venerable thatch, with thy one half-aristocratic mansion, where resided thy Lady Bountiful--she, the generous and kind, who loved to visit the sick, leaning on her gold-headed cane, whilst the sleek old footman walked at a respectful distance behind. Pretty quiet D---, with thy venerable church, in which moulder the mortal remains of England's sweetest and most pious bard. Yes, pretty D---, I could always love thee, were it but for the sake of him who sleeps beneath the marble slab in yonder quiet chancel. It was within thee that the long-oppressed bosom heaved its last sigh, and the crushed and gentle spirit escaped from a world in which it had known nought but sorrow. Sorrow! do I say? How faint a word to express the misery of that bruised reed; misery so dark that a blind worm like myself is occasionally tempted to exclaim, Better had the world never been created than that one so kind, so harmless, and so mild, should have undergone such intolerable woe! But it is over now, for, as there is an end of joy, so has affliction its termination. Doubtless the All-wise did not afflict him without a cause: who knows but within that unhappy frame lurked vicious seeds which the sunbeams of joy and prosperity might have called into life and vigour? Perhaps the withering blasts of misery nipped that which otherwise might have terminated in fruit noxious and lamentable. But peace to the unhappy one, he is gone to his rest; the deathlike face is no longer occasionally seen timidly and mournfully looking for a moment through the window-pane upon thy market-place, quiet and pretty D---; the hind in thy neighbourhood no longer at evening-fall views, and starts as he views, the dark lathy figure moving beneath the hazels and alders of shadowy lanes, or by the side of murmuring trout streams; and no longer at early dawn does the sexton of the old church reverently doff his hat, as, supported by some kind friend, the death- stricken creature totters along the church-path to that mouldering edifice with the low roof, inclosing a spring of sanatory waters, built and devoted to some saint--if the legend over the door be true, by the daughter of an East Anglian king. But to return to my own history. I had now attained the age of six: shall I state what intellectual progress I had been making up to this period? Alas! upon this point I have little to say calculated to afford either pleasure or edification. I had increased rapidly in size and in strength: the growth of the mind, however, had by no means corresponded with that of the body. It is true, I had acquired my letters, and was by this time able to read imperfectly; but this was all: and even this poor triumph over absolute ignorance would never have been effected but for the unremitting attention of my parents, who, sometimes by threats, sometimes by entreaties, endeavoured to rouse the dormant energies of my nature, and to bend my wishes to the acquisition of the rudiments of knowledge; but in influencing the wish lay the difficulty. Let but the will of a human being be turned to any particular object, and it is ten to one that sooner or later he achieves it. At this time I may safely say that I harboured neither wishes nor hopes; I had as yet seen no object calculated to call them forth, and yet I took pleasure in many things which perhaps unfortunately were all within my sphere of enjoyment. I loved to look upon the heavens, and to bask in the rays of the sun, or to sit beneath hedgerows and listen to the chirping of the birds, indulging the while in musing and meditation as far as my very limited circle of ideas would permit; but, unlike my brother, who was at this time at school, and whose rapid progress in every branch of instruction astonished and delighted his preceptors, I took no pleasure in books, whose use, indeed, I could scarcely comprehend, and bade fair to be as arrant a dunce as ever brought the blush of shame into the cheeks of anxious and affectionate parents. But the time was now at hand when the ice which had hitherto bound the mind of the child with its benumbing power was to be thawed, and a world of sensations and ideas awakened to which it had hitherto been an entire stranger. One day a young lady, an intimate acquaintance of our family, and godmother to my brother, drove up to the house in which we dwelt; she staid some time conversing with my mother, and on rising to depart she put down on the table a small packet, exclaiming, "I have brought a little present for each of the boys: the one is a History of England, which I intend for my godson when he returns from school, the other is . . ."--and here she said something which escaped my ear, as I sat at some distance, moping in a corner,--"I intend it for the youngster yonder," pointing to myself; she then departed, and, my mother going out shortly after, I was left alone. I remember for some time sitting motionless in my corner, with my eyes bent upon the ground; at last I lifted my head and looked upon the packet as it lay on the table. All at once a strange sensation came over me, such as I had never experienced before--a singular blending of curiosity, awe, and pleasure, the remembrance of which, even at this distance of time, produces a remarkable effect upon my nervous system. What strange things are the nerves--I mean those more secret and mysterious ones in which I have some notion that the mind or soul, call it which you will, has its habitation; how they occasionally tingle and vibrate before any coming event closely connected with the future weal or woe of the human being. Such a feeling was now within me, certainly independent of what the eye had seen or the ear had heard. A book of some description had been brought for me, a present by no means calculated to interest me; what cared I for books? I had already many into which I never looked but from compulsion; friends, moreover, had presented me with similar things before, which I had entirely disregarded, and what was there in this particular book, whose very title I did not know, calculated to attract me more than the rest? yet something within told me that my fate was connected with the book which had been last brought; so, after looking on the packet from my corner for a considerable time, I got up and went to the table. The packet was lying where it had been left--I took it up; had the envelope, which consisted of whitish brown paper, been secured by a string or a seal, I should not have opened it, as I should have considered such an act almost in the light of a crime; the books, however, had been merely folded up, and I therefore considered that there could be no possible harm in inspecting them, more especially as I had received no injunction to the contrary. Perhaps there was something unsound in this reasoning, something sophistical; but a child is sometimes as ready as a grown-up person in finding excuses for doing that which he is inclined to. But whether the action was right or wrong, and I am afraid it was not altogether right, I undid the packet: it contained three books; two from their similarity seemed to be separate parts of one and the same work; they were handsomely bound, and to them I first turned my attention. I opened them successively, and endeavoured to make out their meaning; their contents, however, as far as I was able to understand them, were by no means interesting: whoever pleases may read these books for me, and keep them too, into the bargain, said I to myself. I now took up the third book: it did not resemble the others, being longer and considerably thicker; the binding was of dingy calf-skin. I opened it, and as I did so another strange thrill of pleasure shot through my frame. The first object on which my eyes rested was a picture; it was exceedingly well executed, at least the scene which it represented made a vivid impression upon me, which would hardly have been the case had the artist not been faithful to nature. A wild scene it was--a heavy sea and rocky shore, with mountains in the background, above which the moon was peering. Not far from the shore, upon the water, was a boat with two figures in it, one of which stood at the bow, pointing with what I knew to be a gun at a dreadful shape in the water; fire was flashing from the muzzle of the gun, and the monster appeared to be transfixed. I almost thought I heard its cry. I remained motionless, gazing upon the picture, scarcely daring to draw my breath, lest the new and wondrous world should vanish of which I had now obtained a glimpse. "Who are those people, and what could have brought them into that strange situation?" I asked of myself; and now the seed of curiosity, which had so long lain dormant, began to expand, and I vowed to myself to become speedily acquainted with the whole history of the people in the boat. After looking on the picture till every mark and line in it were familiar to me, I turned over various leaves till I came to another engraving; a new source of wonder--a low sandy beach on which the furious sea was breaking in mountain-like billows; cloud and rack deformed the firmament, which wore a dull and leaden-like hue; gulls and other aquatic fowls were toppling upon the blast, or skimming over the tops of the maddening waves--"Mercy upon him! he must be drowned!" I exclaimed, as my eyes fell upon a poor wretch who appeared to be striving to reach the shore; he was upon his legs, but was evidently half smothered with the brine; high above his head curled a horrible billow, as if to engulf him for ever. "He must be drowned! he must be drowned!" I almost shrieked, and dropped the book. I soon snatched it up again, and now my eye lighted on a third picture: again a shore, but what a sweet and lovely one, and how I wished to be treading it! There were beautiful shells lying on the smooth white sand--some were empty like those I had occasionally seen on marble mantelpieces, but out of others peered the heads and bodies of wondrous crayfish; a wood of thick green trees skirted the beach and partly shaded it from the rays of the sun, which shone hot above, while blue waves slightly crested with foam were gently curling against it; there was a human figure upon the beach, wild and uncouth, clad in the skins of animals, with a huge cap on his head, a hatchet at his girdle, and in his hand a gun; his feet and legs were bare; he stood in an attitude of horror and surprise; his body was bent far back, and his eyes, which seemed starting out of his head, were fixed upon a mark on the sand--a large distinct mark--a human footprint. . . . Reader, is it necessary to name the book which now stood open in my hand, and whose very prints, feeble expounders of its wondrous lines, had produced within me emotions strange and novel? Scarcely--for it was a book which has exerted over the minds of Englishmen an influence certainly greater than any other of modern times--which has been in most people's hands, and with the contents of which even those who cannot read are to a certain extent acquainted--a book from which the most luxuriant and fertile of our modern prose writers have drunk inspiration--a book, moreover, to which, from the hardy deeds which it narrates, and the spirit of strange and romantic enterprise which it tends to awaken, England owes many of her astonishing discoveries both by sea and land, and no inconsiderable part of her naval glory. Hail to thee, spirit of De Foe! What does not my own poor self owe to thee? England has better bards than either Greece or Rome, yet I could spare them easier far than De Foe, "unabashed De Foe," as the hunchbacked rhymer styled him. The true chord had now been touched; a raging curiosity with respect to the contents of the volume, whose engravings had fascinated my eye, burned within me, and I never rested until I had fully satisfied it; weeks succeeded weeks, months followed months, and the wondrous volume was my only study and principal source of amusement. For hours together I would sit poring over a page till I had become acquainted with the import of every line. My progress, slow enough at first, became by degrees more rapid, till at last, under "a shoulder of mutton sail," I found myself cantering before a steady breeze over an ocean of enchantment, so well pleased with my voyage that I cared not how long it might be ere it reached its termination. And it was in this manner that I first took to the paths of knowledge. About this time I began to be somewhat impressed with religious feelings. My parents were, to a certain extent, religious people; but, though they had done their best to afford me instruction on religious points, I had either paid no attention to what they endeavoured to communicate, or had listened with an ear far too obtuse to derive any benefit. But my mind had now become awakened from the drowsy torpor in which it had lain so long, and the reasoning powers which I possessed were no longer inactive. Hitherto I had entertained no conception whatever of the nature and properties of God, and with the most perfect indifference had heard the Divine name proceeding from the mouths of people--frequently, alas! on occasions when it ought not to be employed; but I now never heard it without a tremor, for I now knew that God was an awful and inscrutable being, the maker of all things; that we were His children, and that we, by our sins, had justly offended Him; that we were in very great peril from His anger, not so much in this life as in another and far stranger state of being yet to come; that we had a Saviour withal to whom it was necessary to look for help: upon this point, however, I was yet very much in the dark, as, indeed, were most of those with whom I was connected. The power and terrors of God were uppermost in my thoughts; they fascinated though they astounded me. Twice every Sunday I was regularly taken to the church, where, from a corner of the large spacious pew, lined with black leather, I would fix my eyes on the dignified high-church rector, {31a} and the dignified high-church clerk, {31b} and watch the movement of their lips, from which, as they read their respective portions of the venerable liturgy, would roll many a portentous word descriptive of the wondrous works of the Most High. _Rector_. "Thou didst divide the sea, through Thy power: Thou brakest the heads of the dragons in the waters." _Philoh_. "Thou smotest the heads of Leviathan in pieces: and gavest him to be meat for the people in the wilderness." _Rector_. "Thou broughtest out fountains, and waters out of the hard rocks: Thou driedst up mighty waters." _Philoh_. "The day is Thine, and the night is Thine: Thou hast prepared the light and the sun." Peace to your memories, dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk!--by this time ye are probably gone to your long homes, and your voices are no longer heard sounding down the aisles of the venerable church--nay, doubtless, this has already long since been the fate of him of the sonorous "Amen!"--the one of the two who, with all due respect to the rector, principally engrossed my boyish admiration--he, at least, is scarcely now among the living! Living! why, I have heard say that he blew a fife--for he was a musical as well as a Christian professor--a bold fife, to cheer the Guards and the brave Marines as they marched with measured step, obeying an insane command, up Bunker's height, whilst the rifles of the sturdy Yankees were sending the leaden hail sharp and thick amidst the red-coated ranks; for Philoh had not always been a man of peace, nor an exhorter to turn the other cheek to the smiter, but had even arrived at the dignity of a halberd in his country's service before his six-foot form required rest, and the grey-haired veteran retired, after a long peregrination, to his native town, to enjoy ease and respectability on a pension of "eighteenpence a day"; and well did his fellow-townsmen act when, to increase that ease and respectability, and with a thoughtful regard for the dignity of the good Church service, they made him clerk and precentor--the man of the tall form and of the audible voice, which sounded loud and clear as his own Bunker fife. Well, peace to thee, thou fine old chap, despiser of dissenters, and hater of papists, as became a dignified and high-church clerk; if thou art in thy grave, the better for thee; thou wert fitted to adorn a bygone time, when loyalty was in vogue, and smiling content lay like a sunbeam upon the land, but thou wouldst be sadly out of place in these days of cold philosophic latitudinarian doctrine, universal tolerism, and half-concealed rebellion--rare times, no doubt, for papists and dissenters, but which would assuredly have broken the heart of the loyal soldier of George the Third, and the dignified high-church clerk of pretty D---. We passed many months at this place: nothing, however, occurred requiring any particular notice, relating to myself, beyond what I have already stated, and I am not writing the history of others. At length {33} my father was recalled to his regiment, which at that time was stationed at a place called Norman Cross, in Lincolnshire, or rather Huntingdonshire, at some distance from the old town of Peterborough. For this place he departed, leaving my mother and myself to follow in a few days. Our journey was a singular one. On the second day we reached a marshy and fenny country, which, owing to immense quantities of rain which had lately fallen, was completely submerged. At a large town we got on board a kind of passage-boat, crowded with people; it had neither sails nor oars, and those were not the days of steam-vessels; it was a treck-schuyt, and was drawn by horses. Young as I was, there was much connected with this journey which highly surprised me, and which brought to my remembrance particular scenes described in the book which I now generally carried in my bosom. The country was, as I have already said, submerged--entirely drowned--no land was visible; the trees were growing bolt upright in the flood, whilst farmhouses and cottages were standing insulated; the horses which drew us were up to the knees in water, and, on coming to blind pools and "greedy depths," were not unfrequently swimming, in which case the boys or urchins who mounted them sometimes stood, sometimes knelt, upon the saddle and pillions. No accident, however, occurred either to the quadrupeds or bipeds, who appeared respectively to be quite _au fait_ in their business, and extricated themselves with the greatest ease from places in which Pharaoh and all his hosts would have gone to the bottom. Night-fall brought us to Peterborough, and from thence we were not slow in reaching the place of our destination. CHAPTER IV Norman Cross--Wide Expanse--Vive l'Empereur--Unpruned Woods--Man with the Bag--Froth and Conceit--I beg your Pardon--Growing Timid--About Three o'clock--Taking One's Ease--Cheek on the Ground--King of the Vipers--French King--Frenchmen and Water. And a strange place it was, this Norman Cross, and, at the time of which I am speaking, a sad cross to many a Norman, being what was then styled a French prison, that is, a receptacle for captives made in the French war. It consisted, if I remember right, of some five or six casernes, very long, and immensely high; each standing isolated from the rest, upon a spot of ground which might average ten acres, and which was fenced round with lofty palisades, the whole being compassed about by a towering wall, beneath which, at intervals, on both sides, sentinels were stationed, whilst outside, upon the field, stood commodious wooden barracks, capable of containing two regiments of infantry, intended to serve as guards upon the captives. Such was the station or prison at Norman Cross, where some six thousand French and other foreigners, followers of the grand Corsican, were now immured. What a strange appearance had those mighty casernes, with their blank blind walls, without windows or grating, and their slanting roofs, out of which, through orifices where the tiles had been removed, would be protruded dozens of grim heads, feasting their prison-sick eyes on the wide expanse of country unfolded from that airy height. Ah! there was much misery in those casernes; and from those roofs, doubtless, many a wistful look was turned in the direction of lovely France. Much had the poor inmates to endure, and much to complain of, to the disgrace of England be it said--of England, in general so kind and bountiful. Rations of carrion meat, and bread from which I have seen the very hounds occasionally turn away, were unworthy entertainment even for the most ruffian enemy, when helpless and a captive; and such, alas! was the fare in those casernes. And then, those visits, or rather ruthless inroads, called in the slang of the place "strawplait-hunts," when in pursuit of a contraband article, which the prisoners, in order to procure themselves a few of the necessaries and comforts of existence, were in the habit of making, red-coated battalions were marched into the prisons, who, with the bayonet's point, carried havoc and ruin into every poor convenience which ingenious wretchedness had been endeavouring to raise around it; and then the triumphant exit with the miserable booty; and, worst of all, the accursed bonfire, on the barrack parade, of the plait contraband, beneath the view of the glaring eyeballs from those lofty roofs, amidst the hurrahs of the troops, frequently drowned in the curses poured down from above like a tempest-shower, or in the terrific war-whoop of "_Vive l'Empereur_!" It was midsummer when we arrived at this place, and the weather, which had for a long time been wet and gloomy, now became bright and glorious; I was subjected to but little control, and passed my time pleasantly enough, principally in wandering about the neighbouring country. It was flat and somewhat fenny, a district more of pasture than agriculture, and not very thickly inhabited. I soon became well acquainted with it. At the distance of two miles from the station was a large lake, styled in the dialect of the country "a mere," {37} about whose borders tall reeds were growing in abundance, this was a frequent haunt of mine; but my favourite place of resort was a wild sequestered spot at a somewhat greater distance. Here, surrounded with woods and thick groves, was the seat of some ancient family, deserted by the proprietor, and only inhabited by a rustic servant or two. A place more solitary and wild could scarcely be imagined; the garden and walks were overgrown with weeds and briars, and the unpruned woods were so tangled as to be almost impervious. About this domain I would wander till overtaken by fatigue, and then I would sit down with my back against some beech, elm, or stately alder tree, and, taking out my book, would pass hours in a state of unmixed enjoyment, my eyes now fixed on the wondrous pages, now glancing at the sylvan scene around; and sometimes I would drop the book and listen to the voice of the rooks and wild pigeons, and not unfrequently to the croaking of multitudes of frogs from the neighbouring swamps and fens. In going to and from this place I frequently passed a tall elderly individual, dressed in rather a quaint fashion, with a skin cap on his head and stout gaiters on his legs; on his shoulders hung a moderate sized leathern sack; he seemed fond of loitering near sunny banks, and of groping amidst furze and low scrubby bramble bushes, of which there were plenty in the neighbourhood of Norman Cross. Once I saw him standing in the middle of a dusty road, looking intently at a large mark which seemed to have been drawn across it, as if by a walking-stick. "He must have been a large one," the old man muttered half to himself, "or he would not have left such a trail; I wonder if he is near; he seems to have moved this way." He then went behind some bushes which grew on the right side of the road, and appeared to be in quest of something, moving behind the bushes with his head downwards, and occasionally striking their roots with his foot: at length he exclaimed, "Here he is!" and forthwith I saw him dart amongst the bushes. There was a kind of scuffling noise, the rustling of branches, and the crackling of dry sticks. "I have him!" said the man at last; "I have got him!" and presently he made his appearance about twenty yards down the road, holding a large viper in his hand. "What do you think of that, my boy?" said he, as I went up to him--"what do you think of catching such a thing as that with the naked hand?" "What do I think?" said I. "Why, that I could do as much myself." "You do," said the man, "do you? Lord! how the young people in these days are given to conceit; it did not use to be so in my time: when I was a child, childer knew how to behave themselves; but the childer of these days are full of conceit, full of froth, like the mouth of this viper;" and with his forefinger and thumb he squeezed a considerable quantity of foam from the jaws of the viper down upon the road. "The childer of these days are a generation of--God forgive me, what was I about to say?" said the old man; and opening his bag he thrust the reptile into it, which appeared far from empty. I passed on. As I was returning, towards the evening, I overtook the old man, who was wending in the same direction. "Good evening to you, sir," said I, taking off a cap which I wore on my head. "Good evening," said the old man; and then, looking at me, "How's this?" said he, "you ar'n't, sure, the child I met in the morning?" "Yes," said I, "I am; what makes you doubt it?" "Why, you were then all froth and conceit," said the old man, "and now you take off your cap to me." "I beg your pardon," said I, "if I was frothy and conceited; it ill becomes a child like me to be so." "That's true, dear," said the old man; "well, as you have begged my pardon, I truly forgive you." "Thank you," said I; "have you caught any more of those things?" "Only four or five," said the old man; "they are getting scarce, though this used to be a great neighbourhood for them." "And what do you do with them?" said I; "do you carry them home and play with them?" "I sometimes play with one or two that I tame," said the old man; "but I hunt them mostly for the fat which they contain, out of which I make unguents which are good for various sore troubles, especially for the rheumatism." "And do you get your living by hunting these creatures?" I demanded. "Not altogether," said the old man; "besides being a viper-hunter, I am what they call a herbalist, one who knows the virtue of particular herbs; I gather them at the proper season, to make medicines with for the sick." "And do you live in the neighbourhood?" I demanded. "You seem very fond of asking questions, child. No, I do not live in this neighbourhood in particular, I travel about; I have not been in this neighbourhood till lately for some years." From this time the old man and myself formed an acquaintance; I often accompanied him in his wanderings about the neighbourhood, and, on two or three occasions, assisted him in catching the reptiles which he hunted. He generally carried a viper with him which he had made quite tame, and from which he had extracted the poisonous fangs; it would dance and perform various kinds of tricks. He was fond of telling me anecdotes connected with his adventures with the reptile species. "But," said he one day, sighing, "I must shortly give up this business; I am no longer the man I was; I am become timid, and when a person is timid in viper- hunting, he had better leave off, as it is quite clear his virtue is leaving him. I got a fright some years ago, which I am quite sure I shall never get the better of; my hand has been shaky more or less ever since." "What frightened you?" said I. "I had better not tell you," said the old man, "or you may be frightened too, lose your virtue, and be no longer good for the business." "I don't care," said I; "I don't intend to follow the business: I daresay I shall be an officer, like my father." "Well," said the old man, "I once saw the king of the vipers, and since then--" "The king of the vipers!" said I, interrupting him; "have the vipers a king?" "As sure as we have," said the old man--"as sure as we have King George to rule over us, have these reptiles a king to rule over them." "And where did you see him?" said I. "I will tell you," said the old man, "though I don't like talking about the matter. It may be about seven years ago that I happened to be far down yonder to the west, on the other side of England, nearly two hundred miles from here, following my business. It was a very sultry day, I remember, and I had been out several hours catching creatures. It might be about three o'clock in the afternoon, when I found myself on some heathy land near the sea, on the ridge of a hill, the side of which, nearly as far down as the sea, was heath; but on the top there was arable ground, which had been planted, and from which the harvest had been gathered--oats or barley, I know not which--but I remember that the ground was covered with stubble. Well, about three o'clock, as I told you before, what with the heat of the day and from having walked about for hours in a lazy way, I felt very tired; so I determined to have a sleep, and I laid myself down, my head just on the ridge of the hill, towards the field, and my body over the side down amongst the heath; my bag, which was nearly filled with creatures, lay at a little distance from my face; the creatures were struggling in it, I remember, and I thought to myself, how much more comfortably off I was than they; I was taking my ease on the nice open hill, cooled with the breezes, whilst they were in the nasty close bag, coiling about one another, and breaking their very hearts, all to no purpose: and I felt quite comfortable and happy in the thought, and little by little closed my eyes, and fell into the sweetest snooze that ever I was in in all my life; and there I lay over the hill's side, with my head half in the field, I don't know how long, all dead asleep. At last it seemed to me that I heard a noise in my sleep, something like a thing moving, very faint, however, far away; then it died, and then it came again upon my ear as I slept, and now it appeared almost as if I heard crackle, crackle; then it died again, or I became yet more dead asleep than before, I know not which, but I certainly lay some time without hearing it. All of a sudden I became awake, and there was I, on the ridge of the hill, with my cheek on the ground towards the stubble, with a noise in my ear like that of something moving towards me, amongst the stubble of the field; well, I lay a moment or two listening to the noise, and then I became frightened, for I did not like the noise at all, it sounded so odd; so I rolled myself on my belly, and looked towards the stubble. Mercy upon us! there was a huge snake, or rather a dreadful viper, for it was all yellow and gold, moving towards me, bearing its head about a foot and a half above the ground, the dry stubble crackling beneath its outrageous belly. It might be about five yards off when I first saw it, making straight towards me, child, as if it would devour me. I lay quite still, for I was stupefied with horror, whilst the creature came still nearer; and now it was nearly upon me, when it suddenly drew back a little, and then--what do you think?--it lifted its head and chest high in the air, and high over my face as I looked up, flickering at me with its tongue as if it would fly at my face. Child, what I felt at that moment I can scarcely say, but it was a sufficient punishment for all the sins I ever committed; and there we two were, I looking up at the viper, and the viper looking down upon me, flickering at me with its tongue. It was only the kindness of God that saved me: all at once there was a loud noise, the report of a gun, for a fowler was shooting at a covey of birds, a little way off in the stubble. Whereupon the viper sunk its head, and immediately made off over the ridge of the hill, down in the direction of the sea. As it passed by me, however,--and it passed close by me,--it hesitated a moment, as if it was doubtful whether it should not seize me; it did not, however, but made off down the hill. It has often struck me that he was angry with me, and came upon me unawares for presuming to meddle with his people, as I have always been in the habit of doing." "But," said I, "how do you know that it was the king of the vipers?" "How do I know!" said the old man; "who else should it be? There was as much difference between it and other reptiles as between King George and other people." "Is King George, then, different from other people?" I demanded. "Of course," said the old man; "I have never seen him myself, but I have heard people say that he is a ten times greater man than other folks; indeed, it stands to reason that he must be different from the rest, else people would not be so eager to see him. Do you think, child, that people would be fools enough to run a matter of twenty or thirty miles to see the king, provided King George--" "Haven't the French a king?" I demanded. "Yes," said the old man, "or something much the same, and a queer one he is; not quite so big as King George, they say, but quite as terrible a fellow. What of him?" "Suppose he should come to Norman Cross!" "What should he do at Norman Cross, child?" "Why, you were talking about the vipers in your bag breaking their hearts, and so on, and their king coming to help them. Now, suppose the French king should hear of his people being in trouble at Norman Cross, and--" "He can't come, child," said the old man, rubbing his hands, "the water lies between. The French don't like the water; neither vipers nor Frenchmen take kindly to the water, child." When the old man {44} left the country, which he did a few days after the conversation which I have just related, he left me the reptile which he had tamed and rendered quite harmless by removing the fangs. I was in the habit of feeding it with milk, and frequently carried it abroad with me in my walks. CHAPTER V The Tent--Man and Woman--Dark and Swarthy--Manner of Speaking--Bad Money--Transfixed--Faltering Tone--Little Basket--High Opinion--Plenty of Good--Keeping Guard--Tilted Cart--Rubricals--Jasper--The Right Sort--The Horseman of the Lane--John Newton--The Alarm--Gentle Brothers. One day it happened that, being on my rambles, I entered a green lane which I had never seen before; at first it was rather narrow, but as I advanced it became considerably wider; in the middle was a drift-way with deep ruts, but right and left was a space carpeted with a sward of trefoil and clover; there was no lack of trees, chiefly ancient oaks, which, flinging out their arms from either side, nearly formed a canopy, and afforded a pleasing shelter from the rays of the sun, which was burning fiercely above. Suddenly a group of objects attracted my attention. Beneath one of the largest of the trees, upon the grass, was a kind of low tent or booth, from the top of which a thin smoke was curling; beside it stood a couple of light carts, whilst two or three lean horses or ponies were cropping the herbage which was growing nigh. Wondering to whom this odd tent could belong, I advanced till I was close before it, when I found that it consisted of two tilts, like those of waggons, placed upon the ground and fronting each other, connected behind by a sail or large piece of canvas which was but partially drawn across the top; upon the ground, in the intervening space, was a fire, over which, supported by a kind of iron crowbar, hung a caldron; my advance had been so noiseless as not to alarm the inmates, who consisted of a man and woman, who sat apart, one on each side of the fire; they were both busily employed--the man was carding plaited straw, whilst the woman seemed to be rubbing something with a white powder, some of which lay on a plate beside her; suddenly the man looked up, and, perceiving me, uttered a strange kind of cry, and the next moment both the woman and himself were on their feet and rushing out upon me. I retreated a few steps, yet without turning to flee. I was not, however, without apprehension, which, indeed, the appearance of these two people was well calculated to inspire: the woman was a stout figure, seemingly between thirty and forty; she wore no cap, and her long hair fell on either side of her head like horse-tails half way down her waist; her skin was dark and swarthy, like that of a toad, and the expression of her countenance was particularly evil; her arms were bare, and her bosom was but half concealed by a slight bodice, below which she wore a coarse petticoat, her only other article of dress. The man was somewhat younger, but of a figure equally wild; his frame was long and lathy, but his arms were remarkably short, his neck was rather bent, he squinted slightly, and his mouth was much awry; his complexion was dark, but, unlike that of the woman, was more ruddy than livid; there was a deep scar on his cheek, something like the impression of a halfpenny. The dress was quite in keeping with the figure: in his hat, which was slightly peaked, was stuck a peacock's feather; over a waistcoat of hide, untanned and with the hair upon it, he wore a rough jerkin of russet hue; smallclothes of leather, which had probably once belonged to a soldier, but with which pipeclay did not seem to have come in contact for many a year, protected his lower man as far as the knee; his legs were cased in long stockings of blue worsted, and on his shoes he wore immense old-fashioned buckles. Such were the two beings who now came rushing upon me; the man was rather in advance, brandishing a ladle in his hand. "So I have caught you at last," said he; "I'll teach ye, you young highwayman, to come skulking about my properties!" Young as I was, I remarked that his manner of speaking was different from that of any people with whom I had been in the habit of associating. It was quite as strange as his appearance, and yet it nothing resembled the foreign English which I had been in the habit of hearing through the palisades of the prison; he could scarcely be a foreigner. "Your properties!" said I; "I am in the King's Lane. Why did you put them there, if you did not wish them to be seen?" "On the spy," said the woman, "hey? I'll drown him in the sludge in the toad-pond over the hedge." "So we will," said the man, "drown him anon in the mud!" "Drown me, will you?" said I; "I should like to see you! What's all this about? Was it because I saw you with your hands full of straw plait, and my mother there--" "Yes," said the woman; "what was I about?" _Myself_. How should I know? Making bad money, perhaps! And it will be as well here to observe, that at this time there was much bad money in circulation in the neighbourhood, generally supposed to be fabricated by the prisoners, so that this false coin and straw plait formed the standard subjects of conversation at Norman Cross. "I'll strangle thee," said the beldame, dashing at me. "Bad money, is it?" "Leave him to me, wifelkin," said the man, interposing; "you shall now see how I'll baste him down the lane." _Myself_. I tell you what, my chap, you had better put down that thing of yours; my father lies concealed within my tepid breast, and if to me you offer any harm or wrong, I'll call him forth to help me with his forked tongue. _Man_. What do you mean, ye Bengui's {48} bantling? I never heard such discourse in all my life: play man's speech or Frenchman's talk--which, I wonder? Your father! tell the mumping villain that if he comes near my fire I'll serve him out as I will you. Take that . . . Tiny Jesus! what have we got here? Oh, delicate Jesus! what is the matter with the child? I had made a motion which the viper understood; and now, partly disengaging itself from my bosom, where it had lain perdu, it raised its head to a level with my face, and stared upon my enemy with its glittering eyes. The man stood like one transfixed, and the ladle, with which he had aimed a blow at me, now hung in the air like the hand which held it; his mouth was extended, and his cheeks became of a pale yellow, save alone that place which bore the mark which I have already described, and this shone now portentously, like fire. He stood in this manner for some time; at last the ladle fell from his hand, and its falling appeared to rouse him from his stupor. "I say, wifelkin," said he, in a faltering tone, "did you ever see the like of this here?" But the woman had retreated to the tent, from the entrance of which her loathly face was now thrust, with an expression partly of terror and partly of curiosity. After gazing some time longer at the viper and myself, the man stooped down and took up the ladle; then, as if somewhat more assured, he moved to the tent, where he entered into conversation with the beldame in a low voice. Of their discourse, though I could hear the greater part of it, I understood not a single word; and I wondered what it could be, for I knew by the sound that it was not French. At last the man, in a somewhat louder tone, appeared to put a question to the woman, who nodded her head affirmatively, and in a moment or two produced a small stool, which she delivered to him. He placed it on the ground, close by the door of the tent, first rubbing it with his sleeve, as if for the purpose of polishing its surface. _Man_. Now, my precious little gentleman, do sit down here by the poor people's tent; we wish to be civil in our slight way. Don't be angry, and say no; but look kindly upon us, and satisfied, my precious little God Almighty. _Woman_. Yes, my gorgeous angel, sit down by the poor bodies' fire, and eat a sweetmeat. We want to ask you a question or two; only first put that serpent away. _Myself_. I can sit down, and bid the serpent go to sleep, that's easy enough; but as for eating a sweetmeat, how can I do that? I have not got one, and where am I to get it? _Woman_. Never fear, my tiny tawny, {50} we can give you one, such as you never ate, I daresay, however far you may have come from. The serpent sunk into its usual resting-place, and I sat down on the stool. The woman opened a box, and took out a strange little basket or hamper, not much larger than a man's fist, and formed of a delicate kind of matting. It was sewed at the top; but, ripping it open with a knife, she held it to me, and I saw, to my surprise, that it contained candied fruits of a dark green hue, tempting enough to one of my age. "There, my tiny," said she; "taste, and tell me how you like them." "Very much," said I; "where did you get them?" The beldame leered upon me for a moment, then, nodding her head thrice, with a knowing look, said, "Who knows better than yourself, my tawny?" Now, I knew nothing about the matter; but I saw that these strange people had conceived a very high opinion of the abilities of their visitor, which I was nothing loath to encourage. I therefore answered boldly, "Ah! who indeed!" "Certainly," said the man; "who should know better than yourself, or so well? And now, my tiny one, let me ask you one thing--you didn't come to do us any harm?" "No," said I, "I had no dislike to you; though, if you were to meddle with me--" _Man_. Of course, my gorgeous, of course you would; and quite right too. Meddle with you!--what right have we? I should say, it would not be quite safe. I see how it is; you are one of them there;--and he bent his head towards his left shoulder. _Myself_. Yes, I am one of them--for I thought he was alluding to the soldiers,--you had best mind what you are about, I can tell you. _Man_. Don't doubt we will for our own sake; Lord bless you, wifelkin, only think that we should see one of them there when we least thought about it. Well, I have heard of such things, though I never thought to see one; however, seeing is believing. Well! now you are come, and are not going to do us any mischief, I hope you will stay; you can do us plenty of good if you will. _Myself_. What good could I do you? _Man_. What good? plenty! Would you not bring us luck? I have heard say, that one of them there always does, if it will but settle down. Stay with us; you shall have a tilted cart all to yourself if you like. We'll make you our little God Almighty, and say our prayers to you every morning! _Myself_. That would be nice; and, if you were to give me plenty of these things, I should have no objection. But what would my father say? I think he would hardly let me. _Man_. Why not? he would be with you; and kindly would we treat him. Indeed, without your father you would be nothing at all. _Myself_. That's true; but I do not think he could be spared from his regiment. I have heard him say that they could do nothing without him. _Man_. His regiment! What are you talking about?--what does the child mean? _Myself_. What do I mean!--why, that my father is an officer-man at the barracks yonder, keeping guard over the French prisoners. _Man_. Oh! then that sap {52} is not your father? _Myself_. What, the snake? Why, no! Did you think he was? _Man_. To be sure we did. Didn't you tell me so? _Myself_. Why, yes; but who would have thought you would have believed it? It is a tame one. I hunt vipers, and tame them. _Man_. O--h! "O--h!" grunted the woman, "that's it, is it?" The man and woman, who during this conversation had resumed their former positions within the tent, looked at each other with a queer look of surprise, as if somewhat disconcerted at what they now heard. They then entered into discourse with each other in the same strange tongue which had already puzzled me. At length the man looked me in the face, and said, somewhat hesitatingly, "So you are not one of them there after all?" _Myself_. One of them there? I don't know what you mean. _Man_. Why, we have been thinking you were a goblin--a devilkin! However, I see how it is: you are a sap-engro, a chap who catches snakes, and plays tricks with them! Well, it comes very nearly to the same thing; and if you please to list with us, and bear us pleasant company, we shall be glad of you. I'd take my oath upon it, that we might make a mort of money by you and that sap, and the tricks it could do; and, as you seem fly to everything, I shouldn't wonder if you would make a prime hand at telling fortunes. "I shouldn't wonder," said I. _Man_. Of course. And you might still be our God Almighty, or at any rate our clergyman, so you should live in a tilted cart by yourself, and say prayers to us night and morning--to wifelkin here, and all our family; there's plenty of us when we are all together: as I said before, you seem fly, I shouldn't wonder if you could read? "Oh yes!" said I, "I can read;" and, eager to display my accomplishments, I took my book out of my pocket, and, opening it at random, proceeded to read how a certain man, whilst wandering about a certain solitary island, entered a cave, the mouth of which was overgrown with brushwood, and how he was nearly frightened to death in that cave by something which he saw. "That will do," said the man; "that's the kind of prayers for me and my family, ar'n't they, wifelkin? I never heard more delicate prayers in all my life! Why, they beat the rubricals hollow!--and here comes my son Jasper. I say, Jasper, here's a young sap-engro that can read, and is more fly than yourself. Shake hands with him; I wish ye to be two brothers." With a swift but stealthy pace Jasper came towards us from the farther part of the lane; on reaching the tent he stood still, and looked fixedly upon me as I sat upon the stool; I looked fixedly upon him. A queer look had Jasper; he was a lad of some twelve or thirteen years, with long arms, unlike the singular being who called himself his father; his complexion was ruddy, but his face was seamed, though it did not bear the peculiar scar which disfigured the countenance of the other; nor, though roguish enough, a certain evil expression which that of the other bore, and which the face of the woman possessed in a yet more remarkable degree. For the rest, he wore drab breeches, with certain strings at the knee, a rather gay waistcoat, and tolerably white shirt; under his arm he bore a mighty whip of whalebone with a brass knob, and upon his head was a hat without either top or brim. "There, Jasper! shake hands with the sap-engro." "Can he box, father?" said Jasper, surveying me rather contemptuously. "I should think not, he looks so puny and small." "Hold your peace, fool!" said the man; "he can do more than that--I tell you he's fly: he carries a sap about, which would sting a ninny like you to dead." "What, a sap-engro!" said the boy, with a singular whine, and, stooping down, he leered curiously in my face, kindly, however, and then patted me on the head. "A sap-engro!" he ejaculated; "lor!" "Yes, and one of the right sort," said the man; "I am glad we have met with him; he is going to list with us, and be our clergyman and God Almighty, ar'n't you, my tawny?" "I don't know," said I; "I must see what my father will say." "Your father; bah! . . ." but here he stopped, for a sound was heard like the rapid galloping of a horse, not loud and distinct as on a road, but dull and heavy as if upon a grass sward; nearer and nearer it came, and the man, starting up, rushed out of the tent, and looked around anxiously. I arose from the stool upon which I had been seated, and just at that moment, amidst a crashing of boughs and sticks, a man on horseback bounded over the hedge into the lane at a few yards' distance from where we were: from the impetus of the leap the horse was nearly down on his knees; the rider, however, by dint of vigorous handling of the reins, prevented him from falling, and then rode up to the tent. "'Tis Nat," said the man; "what brings him here?" The new comer was a stout burly fellow, about the middle age; he had a savage determined look, and his face was nearly covered over with carbuncles; he wore a broad slouching hat, and was dressed in a grey coat, cut in a fashion which I afterwards learnt to be the genuine Newmarket cut, the skirts being exceedingly short; his waistcoat was of red plush, and he wore broad corduroy breeches and white top-boots. The steed which carried him was of iron grey, spirited and powerful, but covered with sweat and foam. The fellow glanced fiercely and suspiciously around, and said something to the man of the tent in a harsh and rapid voice. A short and hurried conversation ensued in the strange tongue. I could not take my eyes off this new comer. Oh, that half-jockey, half-bruiser countenance, I never forgot it! More than fifteen years afterwards I found myself amidst a crowd before Newgate; a gallows was erected, and beneath it stood a criminal, a notorious malefactor. I recognised him at once; the horseman of the lane is now beneath the fatal tree, but nothing altered; still the same man; jerking his head to the right and left with the same fierce and under glance, just as if the affairs of this world had the same kind of interest to the last; grey coat of Newmarket cut, plush waistcoat, corduroys, and boots, nothing altered; but the head, alas! is bare, and so is the neck. Oh, crime and virtue, virtue and crime!--it was old John Newton, I think, who, when he saw a man going to be hanged, said, "There goes John Newton, but for the grace of God!" But the lane, the lane, all was now in confusion in the lane; the man and woman were employed in striking the tents and in making hurried preparations for departure; the boy Jasper was putting the harness upon the ponies and attaching them to the carts; and, to increase the singularity of the scene, two or three wild-looking women and girls, in red cloaks and immense black beaver bonnets, came from I know not what direction, and, after exchanging a few words with the others, commenced with fierce and agitated gestures to assist them in their occupation. The rider meanwhile sat upon his horse, but evidently in a state of great impatience; he muttered curses between his teeth, spurred the animal furiously, and then reined it in, causing it to rear itself up nearly perpendicular. At last he said, "Curse ye, for Romans, how slow ye are! well, it is no business of mine, stay here all day if you like; I have given ye warning, I am off to the big north road. However, before I go, you had better give me all you have of that." "Truly spoken, Nat, my pal," said the man; "give it him, mother. There it is; now be off as soon as you please, and rid us of evil company." The woman had handed him two bags formed of stocking, half full of something heavy, which looked through them for all the world like money of some kind. The fellow, on receiving them, thrust them without ceremony into the pockets of his coat, and then, without a word of farewell salutation, departed at a tremendous rate, the hoofs of his horse thundering for a long time on the hard soil of the neighbouring road, till the sound finally died away in the distance. The strange people were not slow in completing their preparations, and then, flogging their animals terrifically, hurried away seemingly in the same direction. The boy Jasper was last of the band. As he was following the rest, he stopped suddenly, and looked on the ground appearing to muse; then, turning round, he came up to me where I was standing, leered in my face, and then, thrusting out his hand, he said, "Good bye, Sap; I daresay we shall meet again; remember we are brothers; two gentle brothers." Then whining forth, "What, a sap-engro, lor!" he gave me a parting leer, and hastened away. I remained standing in the lane gazing after the retreating company. "A strange set of people," said I at last; "I wonder who they can be." CHAPTER VI Three Years--Lilly's Grammar--Proficiency--Ignorant of Figures--The School Bell--Order of Succession--Persecution--What are we to do?--Northward--A Goodly Scene--Haunted Ground--Feats of Chivalry--Rivers--Over the Brig. Years passed on, even three years; during this period I had increased considerably in stature and in strength, and, let us hope, improved in mind; for I had entered on the study of the Latin language. The very first person to whose care I was entrusted for the acquisition of Latin was an old friend of my father's, a clergyman who kept a seminary at a town the very next we visited after our departure from "the Cross." Under his instruction, however, I continued only a few weeks, as we speedily left the place. "Captain," said this divine, when my father came to take leave of him on the eve of our departure, "I have a friendship for you, and therefore wish to give you a piece of advice concerning this son of yours. You are now removing him from my care; you do wrong, but we will let that pass. Listen to me: there is but one good school book in the world--the one I use in my seminary--Lilly's Latin Grammar, in which your son has already made some progress. If you are anxious for the success of your son in life, for the correctness of his conduct and the soundness of his principles, keep him to Lilly's Grammar. If you can by any means, either fair or foul, induce him to get by heart Lilly's Latin Grammar, you may set your heart at rest with respect to him; I, myself, will be his warrant. I never yet knew a boy that was induced, either by fair means or foul, to learn Lilly's Latin Grammar by heart, who did not turn out a man, provided he lived long enough." My father, who did not understand the classical languages, received with respect the advice of his old friend, and from that moment conceived the highest opinion of Lilly's Latin Grammar. During three years I studied Lilly's Latin Grammar under the tuition of various schoolmasters, for I travelled with the regiment, and in every town in which we were stationary I was invariably (God bless my father!) sent to the classical academy of the place. It chanced, by good fortune, that in the generality of these schools the grammar of Lilly was in use; when, however, that was not the case, it made no difference in my educational course, my father always stipulating with the masters that I should be daily examined in Lilly. At the end of the three years I had the whole by heart; you had only to repeat the first two or three words of any sentence in any part of the book, and forthwith I would open cry, commencing without blundering and hesitation, and continue till you were glad to beg me to leave off, with many expressions of admiration at my proficiency in the Latin language. Sometimes, however, to convince you how well I merited these encomiums, I would follow you to the bottom of the stair, and even into the street, repeating in a kind of sing-song measure the sonorous lines of the golden schoolmaster. If I am here asked whether I understood anything of what I had got by heart, I reply--"Never mind, I understand it all now, and believe that no one ever yet got Lilly's Latin Grammar by heart when young, who repented of the feat at a mature age." And, when my father saw that I had accomplished my task, he opened his mouth, and said, "Truly, this is more than I expected. I did not think that there had been so much in you, either of application or capacity; you have now learnt all that is necessary, if my friend Dr. B---'s opinion was sterling, as I have no doubt it was. You are still a child, however, and must yet go to school, in order that you may be kept out of evil company. Perhaps you may still contrive, now you have exhausted the barn, to pick up a grain or two in the barn-yard. You are still ignorant of figures, I believe, not that I would mention figures in the same day with Lilly's Grammar." These words were uttered in a place called ---, in the north, or in the road to the north, to which, for some time past, our corps had been slowly advancing. I was sent to the school of the place, which chanced to be a day school. It was a somewhat extraordinary one, and a somewhat extraordinary event occurred to me within its walls. It occupied part of the farther end of a small plain, or square, at the outskirts of the town, close to some extensive bleaching fields. It was a long low building of one room, with no upper storey; on the top was a kind of wooden box, or sconce, which I at first mistook for a pigeon-house, but which in reality contained a bell, to which was attached a rope, which, passing through the ceiling, hung dangling in the middle of the school-room. I am the more particular in mentioning this appurtenance, as I had soon occasion to scrape acquaintance with it in a manner not very agreeable to my feelings. The master was very proud of his bell, if I might judge from the fact of his eyes being frequently turned to that part of the ceiling from which the rope depended. Twice every day, namely, after the morning and evening tasks had been gone through, were the boys rung out of school by the monotonous jingle of this bell. This ringing out was rather a lengthy affair, for, as the master was a man of order and method, the boys were only permitted to go out of the room one by one; and as they were rather numerous, amounting, at least, to one hundred, and were taught to move at a pace of suitable decorum, at least a quarter of an hour elapsed from the commencement of the march before the last boy could make his exit. The office of bell- ringer was performed by every boy successively; and it so happened that, the very first day of my attendance at the school, the turn to ring the bell had, by order of succession, arrived at the place which had been allotted to me; for the master, as I have already observed, was a man of method and order, and every boy had a particular seat, to which he became a fixture as long as he continued at the school. So, upon this day, when the tasks were done and completed, and the boys sat with their hats and caps in their hands, anxiously expecting the moment of dismissal, it was suddenly notified to me, by the urchins who sat nearest to me, that I must get up and ring the bell. Now, as this was the first time that I had been at the school, I was totally unacquainted with the process, which I had never seen, and, indeed, had never heard of till that moment. I therefore sat still, not imagining it possible that any such duty could be required of me. But now, with not a little confusion, I perceived that the eyes of all the boys in the school were fixed upon me. Presently there were nods and winks in the direction of the bell-rope; and, as these produced no effect, uncouth visages were made, like those of monkeys when enraged; teeth were gnashed, tongues thrust out, and even fists were bent at me. The master, who stood at the end of the room, with a huge ferule under his arm, bent full upon me a look of stern appeal; and the ushers, of whom there were four, glared upon me, each from his own particular corner, as I vainly turned, in one direction and another, in search of one reassuring look. But now, probably in obedience to a sign from the master, the boys in my immediate neighbourhood began to maltreat me. Some pinched me with their fingers, some buffeted me, whilst others pricked me with pins, or the points of compasses. These arguments were not without effect. I sprang from my seat, and endeavoured to escape along a double line of benches, thronged with boys of all ages, from the urchin of six or seven, to the nondescript of sixteen or seventeen. It was like running the gauntlet; every one, great or small, pinching, kicking, or otherwise maltreating me, as I passed by. Goaded on in this manner, I at length reached the middle of the room, where dangled the bell-rope, the cause of all my sufferings. I should have passed it--for my confusion was so great, that I was quite at a loss to comprehend what all this could mean, and almost believed myself under the influence of an ugly dream--but now the boys, who were seated in advance in the row, arose with one accord, and barred my farther progress; and one, doubtless more sensible than the rest, seizing the rope, thrust it into my hand. I now began to perceive that the dismissal of the school, and my own release from torment, depended upon this selfsame rope. I therefore, in a fit of desperation, pulled it once or twice, and then left off, naturally supposing that I had done quite enough. The boys who sat next the door, no sooner heard the bell, than rising from their seats, they moved out at the door. The bell, however, had no sooner ceased to jingle, than they stopped short, and, turning round, stared at the master, as much as to say, "What are we to do now?" This was too much for the patience of the man of method, which my previous stupidity had already nearly exhausted. Dashing forward into the middle of the room, he struck me violently on the shoulders with his ferule, and, snatching the rope out of my hand, exclaimed, with a stentorian voice, and genuine Yorkshire accent, "Prodigy of ignorance! dost not even know how to ring a bell? Must I myself instruct thee?" He then commenced pulling at the bell with such violence, that long before half the school was dismissed the rope broke, and the rest of the boys had to depart without their accustomed music. But I must not linger here, though I could say much about the school and the pedagogue highly amusing and diverting, which, however, I suppress, in order to make way for matters of yet greater interest. On we went, northward, northward! and, as we advanced, I saw that the country was becoming widely different from those parts of merry England in which we had previously travelled. It was wilder, and less cultivated, and more broken with hills and hillocks. The people, too, of those regions appeared to partake of something of the character of their country. They were coarsely dressed; tall and sturdy of frame; their voices were deep and guttural; and the half of the dialect which they spoke was unintelligible to my ears. I often wondered where we could be going, for I was at this time about as ignorant of geography as I was of most other things. However, I held my peace, asked no questions, and patiently awaited the issue. Northward, northward, still! And it came to pass that, one morning, I found myself extended on the bank of a river. It was a beautiful morning of early spring; small white clouds were floating in the heaven, occasionally veiling the countenance of the sun, whose light, as they retired, would again burst forth, coursing like a race-horse over the scene--and a goodly scene it was! Before me, across the water, on an eminence, stood a white old city, {65} surrounded with lofty walls, above which rose the tops of tall houses, with here and there a church or steeple. To my right hand was a long and massive bridge, with many arches, and of antique architecture, which traversed the river. The river was a noble one; the broadest that I had hitherto seen. Its waters, of a greenish tinge, poured with impetuosity beneath the narrow arches to meet the sea, close at hand, as the boom of the billows breaking distinctly upon a beach declared. There were songs upon the river from the fisher-barks; and occasionally a chorus, plaintive and wild, such as I had never heard before, the words of which I did not understand, but which, at the present time, down the long avenue of years, seem in memory's ear to sound like "Horam, coram, dago." Several robust fellows were near me, some knee-deep in water, employed in hauling the seine upon the strand. Huge fish were struggling amidst the meshes--princely salmon--their brilliant mail of blue and silver flashing in the morning beam; so goodly and gay a scene, in truth, had never greeted my boyish eye. And, as I gazed upon the prospect, my bosom began to heave, and my tears to trickle. Was it the beauty of the scene which gave rise to these emotions? Possibly; for though a poor ignorant child--a half-wild creature--I was not insensible to the loveliness of nature, and took pleasure in the happiness and handiworks of my fellow-creatures. Yet, perhaps, in something more deep and mysterious the feelings which then pervaded me might originate. Who can lie down on Elvir Hill without experiencing something of the sorcery of the place? Flee from Elvir Hill, young swain, or the maids of Elle will have power over you, and you will go elf-wild!--so say the Danes. I had unconsciously laid myself down upon haunted ground; and I am willing to imagine that what I then experienced was rather connected with the world of spirits and dreams than with what I actually saw and heard around me. Surely the elves and genii of the place were conversing, by some inscrutable means, with the principle of intelligence lurking within the poor uncultivated clod! Perhaps to that ethereal principle the wonders of the past, as connected with that stream, the glories of the present, and even the history of the future, were at that moment being revealed! Of how many feats of chivalry had those old walls been witness, when hostile kings contended for their possession?--how many an army from the south and from the north had trod that old bridge?--what red and noble blood had crimsoned those rushing waters?--what strains had been sung, ay, were yet being sung, on its banks?--some soft as Doric reed; some fierce and sharp as those of Norwegian Skaldaglam; some as replete with wild and wizard force as Finland's runes, singing of Kalevala's moors, and the deeds of Woinomoinen! Honour to thee, thou island stream! Onward may thou ever roll, fresh and green, rejoicing in thy bright past, thy glorious present, and in vivid hope of a triumphant future! Flow on, beautiful one!--which of the world's streams canst thou envy, with thy beauty and renown? Stately is the Danube, rolling in its might through lands romantic with the wild exploits of Turk, Polak, and Magyar! Lovely is the Rhine! on its shelvy banks grows the racy grape; and strange old keeps of robber-knights of yore are reflected in its waters, from picturesque crags and airy headlands!--yet neither the stately Danube, nor the beauteous Rhine, with all their fame, though abundant, needst thou envy, thou pure island stream!--and far less yon turbid river of old, not modern renown, gurgling beneath the walls of what was once proud Rome, towering Rome, Jupiter's town, but now vile Rome, crumbling Rome, Batuscha's town, far less needst thou envy the turbid Tiber of bygone fame, creeping sadly to the sea, surcharged with the abominations of modern Rome--how unlike to thee, thou pure island stream! And, as I lay on the bank and wept, there drew nigh to me a man in the habiliments of a fisher. He was bare-legged, of a weather-beaten countenance, and of stature approaching to the gigantic. "What is the callant greeting for?" said he, as he stopped and surveyed me. "Has onybody wrought ye ony harm?" "Not that I know of," I replied, rather guessing at than understanding his question; "I was crying because I could not help it! I say, old one, what is the name of this river?" "Hout! I now see what you was greeting at--at your ain ignorance, nae doubt--'tis very great! Weel, I will na fash you with reproaches, but even enlighten ye, since you seem a decent man's bairn, and you speir a civil question. Yon river is called the Tweed; and yonder, over the brig, is Scotland. Did ye never hear of the Tweed, my bonny man?" "No," said I, as I rose from the grass, and proceeded to cross the bridge to the town at which we had arrived the preceding night; "I never heard of it; but now I have seen it, I shall not soon forget it!" CHAPTER VII The Castle--A Father's Inquiries--Scotch Language--A Determination--Bui hin Digri--Good Scotchman--Difference of Races--Ne'er a Haggis--Pugnacious People--Wha are Ye, Man?--The Nor Loch--Gestures Wild--The Bicker--New Town Champion--Wild-Looking Figure--Headlong. It was not long before we found ourselves at Edinburgh, {69a} or rather in the Castle, into which the regiment marched with drums beating, colour- flying, and a long train of baggage-waggons behind. The Castle was, as I suppose it is now, a garrison for soldiers. Two other regiments were already there; the one an Irish, if I remember right, the other a small Highland corps. It is hardly necessary to say much about this Castle, which everybody has seen; on which account, doubtless, nobody has ever yet thought fit to describe it--at least that I am aware. Be this as it may, I have no intention of describing it, and shall content myself with observing, that we took up our abode in that immense building, or caserne, of modern erection, which occupies the entire eastern {69b} side of the bold rock on which the Castle stands. A gallant caserne it was--the best and roomiest that I had hitherto seen--rather cold and windy, it is true, especially in the winter, but commanding a noble prospect of a range of distant hills, which I was told were "the hieland hills," and of a broad arm of the sea, which I heard somebody say was the Firth of Forth. My brother, who, for some years past, had been receiving his education in a certain celebrated school in England, was now with us; and it came to pass, that one day my father, as he sat at table, looked steadfastly on my brother and myself, and then addressed my mother:--"During my journey down hither, I have lost no opportunity of making inquiries about these people, the Scotch, amongst whom we now are, and since I have been here I have observed them attentively. From what I have heard and seen, I should say that upon the whole they are a very decent set of people; they seem acute and intelligent, and I am told that their system of education is so excellent, that every person is learned--more or less acquainted with Greek and Latin. There is one thing, however, connected with them, which is a great drawback--the horrid jargon which they speak. However learned they may be in Greek and Latin, their English is execrable; and yet I'm told it is not so bad as it was. I was in company, the other day, with an Englishman who has resided here many years. We were talking about the country and the people. 'I should like both very well,' said I, 'were it not for the language. I wish sincerely our Parliament, which is passing so many foolish Acts every year, would pass one to force these Scotch to speak English.' 'I wish so, too,' said he. 'The language is a disgrace to the British Government; but, if you had heard it twenty years ago, captain!--if you had heard it as it was spoken when I first came to Edinburgh!'" "Only custom," said my mother. "I daresay the language is now what it was then." "I don't know," said my father; "though I daresay you are right; it could never have been worse than it is at present. But now to the point. Were it not for the language, which, if the boys were to pick it up, might ruin their prospects in life,--were it not for that, I should very much like to send them to a school there is in this place, which everybody talks about--the High School I think they call it. 'Tis said to be the best school in the whole island; but the idea of one's children speaking Scotch--broad Scotch! I must think the matter over." And he did think the matter over; and the result of his deliberation was a determination to send us to the school. {71} Let me call thee up before my mind's eye, High School, to which, every morning, the two English brothers took their way from the proud old Castle through the lofty streets of the Old Town. High School!--called so, I scarcely know why; neither lofty in thyself nor by position, being situated in a flat bottom; oblong structure of tawny stone, with many windows fenced with iron netting--with thy long hall below, and thy five chambers above, for the reception of the five classes, into which the eight hundred urchins, who styled thee instructress, were divided. Thy learned rector and his four subordinate dominies; thy strange old porter of the tall form and grizzled hair, hight Boee, {72} and doubtless of Norse ancestry, as his name declares; perhaps of the blood of Bui hin Digri, the hero of northern song--the Jomsborg Viking who clove Thorsteinn Midlangr asunder in the dread sea battle of Horunga Vog, and who, when the fight was lost and his own two hands smitten off, seized two chests of gold with his bloody stumps, and, springing with them into the sea, cried to the scanty relics of his crew, "Overboard now, all Bui's lads!" Yes, I remember all about thee, and how at eight of every morn we were all gathered together with one accord in the long hall, from which, after the litanies had been read (for so I will call them, being an Episcopalian), the five classes from the five sets of benches trotted off in long files, one boy after the other, up the five spiral staircases of stone, each class to its destination; and well do I remember how we of the third sat hushed and still, watched by the eye of the dux, until the door opened, and in walked that model of a good Scotchman, the shrewd, intelligent, but warm- hearted and kind dominie, the respectable Carson. And in this school I began to construe the Latin language, which I had never done before, notwithstanding my long and diligent study of Lilly, which illustrious grammar was not used at Edinburgh, nor indeed known. Greek was only taught in the fifth or highest class, in which my brother was; as for myself, I never got beyond the third during the two years that I remained at this seminary. I certainly acquired here a considerable insight in the Latin tongue; and, to the scandal of my father and horror of my mother, a thorough proficiency in the Scotch, which, in less than two months, usurped the place of the English, and so obstinately maintained its ground, that I still can occasionally detect its lingering remains. I did not spend my time unpleasantly at this school, though, first of all, I had to pass through an ordeal. "Scotland is a better country than England," said an ugly, blear-eyed lad, about a head and shoulders taller than myself, the leader of a gang of varlets who surrounded me in the playground, on the first day, as soon as the morning lesson was over. "Scotland is a far better country than England, in every respect." "Is it?" said I. "Then you ought to be very thankful for not having been born in England." "That's just what I am, ye loon; and every morning, when I say my prayers, I thank God for not being an Englishman. The Scotch are a much better and braver people than the English." "It may be so," said I, "for what I know--indeed, till I came here, I never heard a word either about the Scotch or their country." "Are ye making fun of us, ye English puppy?" said the blear-eyed lad; "take that!" and I was presently beaten black and blue. And thus did I first become aware of the difference of races and their antipathy to each other. "Bow to the storm, and it shall pass over you." I held my peace, and silently submitted to the superiority of the Scotch--_in numbers_. This was enough; from an object of persecution I soon became one of patronage, especially amongst the champions of the class. "The English," said the blear-eyed lad, "though a wee bit behind the Scotch in strength and fortitude, are nae to be sneezed at, being far ahead of the Irish, to say nothing of the French, a pack of cowardly scoundrels. And with regard to the English country, it is na Scotland, it is true, but it has its gude properties; and, though there is ne'er a haggis in a' the land, there's an unco deal o' gowd and siller. I respect England, for I have an auntie married there." The Scotch are certainly a most pugnacious people; their whole history proves it. Witness their incessant wars with the English in the olden time, and their internal feuds, highland and lowland, clan with clan, family with family, Saxon with Gael. In my time, the school-boys, for want, perhaps, of English urchins to contend with, were continually fighting with each other; every noon there was at least one pugilistic encounter, and sometimes three. In one month I witnessed more of these encounters than I had ever previously seen under similar circumstances in England. After all, there was not much harm done. Harm! what harm could result from short chopping blows, a hug, and a tumble? I was witness to many a sounding whack, some bloodshed, "a blue ee" now and then, but nothing more. In England, on the contrary, where the lads were comparatively mild, gentle, and pacific, I had been present at more than one death caused by blows in boyish combats, in which the oldest of the victors had scarcely reached thirteen years; but these blows were in the jugular, given with the full force of the arm shot out horizontally from the shoulder. But the Scotch--though by no means proficients in boxing (and how should they box, seeing that they have never had a teacher?)--are, I repeat, a most pugnacious people; at least they were in my time. Anything served them, that is, the urchins, as a pretence for a fray, or, Dorically speaking, a _bicker_; every street and close was at feud with its neighbour; the lads of the school were at feud with the young men of the college, whom they pelted in winter with snow, and in summer with stones; and then the feud between the Old and New Town! One day I was standing on the ramparts of the Castle on the south-western {75} side which overhangs the green brae, where it slopes down into what was in those days the green swamp or morass, called by the natives of Auld Reekie the Nor Loch; it was a dark gloomy day, and a thin veil of mist was beginning to settle down upon the brae and the morass. I could perceive, however, that there was a skirmish taking place in the latter spot. I had an indistinct view of two parties--apparently of urchins--and I heard whoops and shrill cries: eager to know the cause of this disturbance, I left the Castle, and descending the brae reached the borders of the morass, where was a runnel of water and the remains of an old wall, on the other side of which a narrow path led across the swamp: upon this path at a little distance before me there was "a bicker." I pushed forward, but had scarcely crossed the ruined wall and runnel, when the party nearest to me gave way, and in great confusion came running in my direction. As they drew nigh, one of them shouted to me, "Wha are ye, man? are ye o' the Auld Toon?" I made no answer. "Ha! ye are o' the New Toon; De'il tak ye, we'll moorder ye;" and the next moment a huge stone sung past my head. "Let me be, ye fule bodies," said I, "I'm no of either of ye, I live yonder aboon in the Castle." "Ah! ye live in the Castle; then ye're an Auld Tooner. Come gie us your help, man, and dinna stand there staring like a dunnot; we want help sair eneugh. Here are stanes." For my own part I wished for nothing better, and, rushing forward, I placed myself at the head of my new associates, and commenced flinging stones fast and desperately. The other party now gave way in their turn, closely followed by ourselves; I was in the van, and about to stretch out my hand to seize the hindermost boy of the enemy, when, not being acquainted with the miry and difficult paths of the Nor Loch, and in my eagerness taking no heed of my footing, I plunged into a quagmire, into which I sank as far as my shoulders. Our adversaries no sooner perceived this disaster, than, setting up a shout, they wheeled round and attacked us most vehemently. Had my comrades now deserted me, my life had not been worth a straw's purchase, I should either have been smothered in the quag, or, what is more probable, had my brains beaten out with stones; but they behaved like true Scots, and fought stoutly around their comrade, until I was extricated, whereupon both parties retired, the night being near at hand. "Ye are na a bad hand at flinging stanes," said the lad who first addressed me, as we now returned up the brae; "your aim is right dangerous, man; I saw how ye skelpit them; ye maun help us agin thae New Toon blackguards at our next bicker." So to the next bicker I went, and to many more, which speedily followed as the summer advanced; the party to which I had given my help on the first occasion consisted merely of outlyers, posted about half way up the hill, for the purpose of overlooking the movements of the enemy. Did the latter draw nigh in any considerable force, messengers were forthwith despatched to the "Auld Toon," especially to the filthy alleys and closes of the High Street, which forthwith would disgorge swarms of bare-headed and bare-footed "callants," who, with gestures wild and "eldrich screech and hollo," might frequently be seen pouring down the sides of the hill. I have seen upwards of a thousand engaged on either side in these frays, which I have no doubt were full as desperate as the fights described in the Iliad, and which were certainly much more bloody than the combats of modern Greece in the war of independence: the callants not only employed their hands in hurling stones, but not unfrequently slings; at the use of which they were very expert, and which occasionally dislodged teeth, shattered jaws, or knocked out an eye. Our opponents certainly laboured under considerable disadvantage, being compelled not only to wade across a deceitful bog, but likewise to clamber up part of a steep hill before they could attack us; nevertheless, their determination was such, and such their impetuosity, that we had sometimes difficulty enough to maintain our own. I shall never forget one bicker, the last indeed which occurred at that time, as the authorities of the town, alarmed by the desperation of its character, stationed forthwith a body of police on the hillside, to prevent, in future, any such breaches of the peace. It was a beautiful Sunday evening, the rays of the descending sun were reflected redly from the grey walls of the Castle, and from the black rocks on which it was founded. The bicker had long since commenced, stones from sling and hand were flying; but the callants of the New Town were now carrying everything before them. A full-grown baker's apprentice was at their head; he was foaming with rage, and had taken the field, as I was told, in order to avenge his brother, whose eye had been knocked out in one of the late bickers. He was no slinger or flinger, but brandished in his right hand the spoke of a cart-wheel, like my countryman Tom Hickathrift of old in his encounter with the giant of the Lincolnshire fen. Protected by a piece of wicker- work attached to his left arm, he rushed on to the fray, disregarding the stones which were showered against him, and was ably seconded by his followers. Our own party was chased half way up the hill, where I was struck to the ground by the baker, after having been foiled in an attempt which I had made to fling a handful of earth into his eyes. All now appeared lost, the Auld Toon was in full retreat. I myself lay at the baker's feet, who had just raised his spoke, probably to give me the _coup de grace_,--it was an awful moment. Just then I heard a shout and a rushing sound; a wild-looking figure is descending the hill with terrible bounds; it is a lad of some fifteen years; he is bare-headed, and his red uncombed hair stands on end like hedgehogs' bristles; his frame is lithy, like that of an antelope, but he has prodigious breadth of chest; he wears a military undress, that of the regiment, even of a drummer, for it is wild Davy, {79} whom a month before I had seen enlisted on Leith Links to serve King George with drum and drumstick as long as his services might be required, and who, ere a week had elapsed, had smitten with his fist Drum-Major Elzigood, who, incensed at his inaptitude, had threatened him with his cane; he has been in confinement for weeks, this is the first day of his liberation, and he is now descending the hill with horrid bounds and shoutings; he is now about five yards distant, and the baker, who apprehends that something dangerous is at hand, prepares himself for the encounter; but what avails the strength of a baker, even full grown?--what avails the defence of a wicker shield?--what avails the wheel-spoke, should there be an opportunity of using it, against the impetus of an avalanche or a cannon ball?--for to either of these might that wild figure be compared, which, at the distance of five yards, sprang at once with head, hands, feet and body, all together, upon the champion of the New Town, tumbling him to the earth amain. And now it was the turn of the Old Town to triumph. Our late discomfited host, returning on its steps, overwhelmed the fallen champion with blows of every kind, and then, led on by his vanquisher, who had assumed his arms, namely, the wheel-spoke and wicker shield, fairly cleared the brae of their adversaries, whom they drove down headlong into the morass. CHAPTER VIII Expert Climbers--The Crags--Something Red--The Horrible Edge--David Haggart--Fine Materials--The Greatest Victory--Extraordinary Robber--The Ruling Passion. Meanwhile I had become a daring cragsman, a character to which an English lad has seldom opportunities of aspiring; for in England there are neither crags nor mountains. Of these, however, as is well known, there is no lack in Scotland, and the habits of individuals are invariably in harmony with the country in which they dwell. The Scotch are expert climbers, and I was now a Scot in most things, particularly in language. The Castle in which I dwelt stood upon a rock, a bold and craggy one, which, at first sight, would seem to bid defiance to any feet save those of goats and chamois; but patience and perseverance generally enable mankind to overcome things which, at first sight, appear impossible. Indeed, what is there above man's exertions? Unwearied determination will enable him to run with the horse, to swim with the fish, and assuredly to compete with the chamois and the goat in agility and sureness of foot. To scale the rock was merely child's play for the Edinbro' callants. It was my own favourite diversion. I soon found that the rock contained all manner of strange crypts, crannies, and recesses, where owls nestled, and the weasel brought forth her young; here and there were small natural platforms, overgrown with long grass and various kinds of plants, where the climber, if so disposed, could stretch himself, and either give his eyes to sleep or his mind to thought; for capital places were these same platforms either for repose or meditation. The boldest features of the rock are descried on the southern {82a} side, where, after shelving down gently from the wall for some distance, it terminates abruptly in a precipice, black and horrible, of some three hundred feet {82b} at least, as if the axe of nature had been here employed cutting sheer down, and leaving behind neither excrescence nor spur--a dizzy precipice it is, assimilating much to those so frequent in the flinty hills of Northern Africa, and exhibiting some distant resemblance to that of Gibraltar, towering in its horridness above the neutral ground. It was now holiday time, and having nothing particular wherewith to occupy myself, I not unfrequently passed the greater part of the day upon the rocks. Once, after scaling the western crags, and creeping round a sharp angle of the wall, overhung by a kind of watch tower, I found myself on the southern side. Still keeping close to the wall, I was proceeding onward, for I was bent upon a long excursion which should embrace half the circuit of the Castle, when suddenly my eye was attracted by the appearance of something red, far below me; I stopped short, and, looking fixedly upon it, perceived that it was a human being in a kind of red jacket, seated on the extreme verge of the precipice, which I have already made a faint attempt to describe. Wondering who it could be, I shouted; but it took not the slightest notice, remaining as immovable as the rock on which it sat. "I should never have thought of going near that edge," said I to myself; "however, as you have done it, why should not I? And I should like to know who you are." So I commenced the descent of the rock, but with great care, for I had as yet never been in a situation so dangerous; a slight moisture exuded from the palms of my hands, my nerves were tingling, and my brain was somewhat dizzy--and now I had arrived within a few yards of the figure, and had recognised it: it was the wild drummer who had turned the tide of battle in the bicker on the Castle Brae. A small stone which I dislodged now rolled down the rock, and tumbled into the abyss close beside him. He turned his head, and after looking at me for a moment somewhat vacantly, he resumed his former attitude. I drew yet nearer to the horrible edge; not close, however, for fear was on me. "What are you thinking of, David?" said I, as I sat behind him and trembled, for I repeat that I was afraid. _David Haggart_. I was thinking of Willie Wallace. _Myself_. You had better be thinking of yourself, man. A strange place this to come to and think of William Wallace. _David Haggart_. Why so? Is not his tower just beneath our feet? _Myself_. You mean the auld ruin by the side of the Nor Loch--the ugly stane bulk, from the foot of which flows the spring into the dyke, where the watercresses grow? _David Haggart_. Just sae, Geordie. _Myself_. And why were ye thinking of him? The English hanged him long since, as I have heard say. _David Haggart_. I was thinking that I should wish to be like him. _Myself_. Do ye mean that ye would wish to be hanged? _David Haggart_. I wad na flinch from that, Geordie, if I might be a great man first. _Myself_. And wha kens, Davie, how great you may be, even without hanging? Are ye not in the high road of preferment? Are ye not a bauld drummer already? Wha kens how high ye may rise? perhaps to be general, or drum-major. _David Haggart_. I hae na wish to be drum-major; it were na great things to be like the doited carle, Else-than-gude, as they call him; and, troth, he has na his name for naething. But I should have nae objection to be a general, and to fight the French and Americans, and win myself a name and a fame like Willie Wallace, and do brave deeds, such as I have been reading about in his story book. _Myself_. Ye are a fule, Davie; the story book is full of lies. Wallace, indeed! the wuddie rebel! I have heard my father say that the Duke of Cumberland was worth twenty of Willie Wallace. _David Haggart_. Ye had better say naething agin Willie Wallace, Geordie, for, if ye do, De'il hae me, if I dinna tumble ye doon the craig. * * * * * Fine materials in that lad for a hero, you will say. Yes, indeed, for a hero, or for what he afterwards became. In other times, and under other circumstances, he might have made what is generally termed a great man, a patriot, or a conqueror. As it was, the very qualities which might then have pushed him on to fortune and renown were the cause of his ruin. The war over, he fell into evil courses; for his wild heart and ambitious spirit could not brook the sober and quiet pursuits of honest industry. "Can an Arabian steed submit to be a vile drudge?" cries the fatalist. Nonsense! A man is not an irrational creature, but a reasoning being, and has something within him beyond mere brutal instinct. The greatest victory which a man can achieve is over himself, by which is meant those unruly passions which are not convenient to the time and place. David did not do this; he gave the reins to his wild heart, instead of curbing it, and became a robber, and, alas! alas! he shed blood--under peculiar circumstances, it is true, and without _malice prepense_--and for that blood he eventually died, and justly; for it was that of the warden of a prison from which he was escaping, and whom he slew with one blow of his stalwart arm. Tamerlane and Haggart! Haggart and Tamerlane! Both these men were robbers, and of low birth, yet one perished on an ignoble scaffold, and the other died emperor of the world. Is this justice? The ends of the two men were widely dissimilar--yet what is the intrinsic difference between them? Very great, indeed; the one acted according to his lights and his country, not so the other. Tamerlane was a heathen, and acted according to his lights; he was a robber where all around were robbers, but he became the avenger of God--God's scourge on unjust kings, on the cruel Bajazet, who had plucked out his own brothers' eyes; he became to a certain extent the purifier of the East, its regenerator; his equal never was before, nor has it since been seen. Here the wild heart was profitably employed, the wild strength, the teeming brain. Onward, Lame one! Onward, Tamur--lank! Haggart. . . . But peace to thee, poor David! why should a mortal worm be sitting in judgment over thee? The Mighty and Just One has already judged thee, and perhaps above thou hast received pardon for thy crimes, which could not be pardoned here below; and now that thy feverish existence has closed, and thy once active form become inanimate dust, thy very memory all but forgotten, I will say a few words about thee, a few words soon also to be forgotten. Thou wast the most extraordinary robber that ever lived within the belt of Britain; Scotland rang with thy exploits, and England, too, north of the Humber; strange deeds also didst thou achieve when, fleeing from justice, thou didst find thyself in the Sister Isle; busy wast thou there in town and on curragh, at fair and race-course, and also in the solitary place. Ireland thought thee her child, for who spoke her brogue better than thyself?--she felt proud of thee, and said, "Sure, O'Hanlon is come again." What might not have been thy fate in the far west in America, whither thou hadst turned thine eye, saying, "I will go there, and become an honest man!" But thou wast not to go there, David--the blood which thou hadst shed in Scotland was to be required of thee; the avenger was at hand, the avenger of blood. Seized, manacled, brought back to thy native land, condemned to die, thou wast left in thy narrow cell, and told to make the most of thy time, for it was short: and there, in thy narrow cell, and thy time so short, thou didst put the crowning stone to thy strange deeds, by that strange history of thyself, penned by thy own hand in the robber tongue. Thou mightest have been better employed, David!--but the ruling passion was strong with thee, even in the jaws of death. Thou mightest have been better employed!--but peace be with thee, I repeat, and the Almighty's grace and pardon. CHAPTER IX Napoleon--The Storm--The Cove--Up the Country--The Trembling Hand--Irish--Tough Battle--Tipperary Hills--Elegant Lodgings--A Speech--Fair Specimen--Orangemen. Onward, onward! and after we had sojourned in Scotland nearly two years, {88} the long Continental war had been brought to an end, Napoleon was humbled for a time, and the Bourbons restored to a land which could well have dispensed with them; we returned to England, where the corps was disbanded, and my parents with their family retired to private life. I shall pass over in silence the events of a year, which offer little of interest as far as connected with me and mine. Suddenly, however, the sound of war was heard again, Napoleon had broken forth from Elba, and everything was in confusion. Vast military preparations were again made, our own corps was levied anew, and my brother became an officer in it; but the danger was soon over, Napoleon was once more quelled, and chained for ever, like Prometheus, to his rock. As the corps, however, though so recently levied, had already become a very fine one, thanks to my father's energetic drilling, the Government very properly determined to turn it to some account, and, as disturbances were apprehended in Ireland about this period, it occurred to them that they could do no better than despatch it to that country. In the autumn of the year 1815, we set sail from a port in Essex; {89a} we were some eight hundred strong, and were embarked in two ships, very large, but old and crazy; a storm overtook us when off Beachy Head, in which we had nearly foundered. I was awakened early in the morning by the howling of the wind, and the uproar on deck. I kept myself close, however, as is still my constant practice on similar occasions, and waited the result with that apathy and indifference which violent sea- sickness is sure to produce. We shipped several seas, and once the vessel missing stays--which, to do it justice, it generally did at every third or fourth tack--we escaped almost by a miracle from being dashed upon the foreland. On the eighth day of our voyage we were in sight of Ireland. The weather was now calm and serene, the sun shone brightly on the sea and on certain green hills in the distance, on which I descried what at first sight I believed to be two ladies gathering flowers, which, however, on our nearer approach, proved to be two tall white towers, doubtless built for some purpose or other, though I did not learn for what. We entered a kind of bay, or cove, {89b} by a narrow inlet; it was a beautiful and romantic place this cove, very spacious, and, being nearly land-locked, was sheltered from every wind. A small island, every inch of which was covered with fortifications, appeared to swim upon the waters, whose dark blue denoted their immense depth; tall green hills, which ascended gradually from the shore, formed the background to the west; they were carpeted to the top with turf of the most vivid green, and studded here and there with woods, seemingly of oak; there was a strange old castle half way up the ascent, a village on a crag--but the mists of morning were half veiling the scene when I surveyed it, and the mists of time are now hanging densely between it and my no longer youthful eye; I may not describe it;--nor will I try. Leaving the ship in the cove, we passed up a wide river in boats till we came to a city, {90} where we disembarked. It was a large city, as large as Edinburgh to my eyes; there were plenty of fine houses, but little neatness; the streets were full of impurities; handsome equipages rolled along, but the greater part of the population were in rags; beggars abounded; there was no lack of merriment, however; boisterous shouts of laughter were heard on every side. It appeared a city of contradictions. After a few days' rest we marched from this place in two divisions. My father commanded the second, I walked by his side. Our route lay up the country; the country at first offered no very remarkable feature, it was pretty, but tame. On the second day, however, its appearance had altered, it had become more wild; a range of distant mountains bounded the horizon. We passed through several villages, as I suppose I may term them, of low huts, the walls formed of rough stones without mortar, the roof of flags laid over wattles and wicker-work; they seemed to be inhabited solely by women and children; the latter were naked, the former, in general, blear-eyed beldames, who sat beside the doors on low stools, spinning. We saw, however, both men and women working at a distance in the fields. I was thirsty; and going up to an ancient crone, employed in the manner which I have described, I asked her for water; she looked me in the face, appeared to consider a moment, then tottering into her hut, presently reappeared with a small pipkin of milk, which she offered to me with a trembling hand. I drank the milk; it was sour, but I found it highly refreshing. I then took out a penny and offered it to her, whereupon she shook her head, smiled, and, patting my face with her skinny hand, murmured some words in a tongue which I had never heard before. I walked on by my father's side, holding the stirrup-leather of his horse; presently several low uncouth cars passed by, drawn by starved cattle: the drivers were tall fellows, with dark features and athletic frames--they wore long loose blue cloaks with sleeves, which last, however, dangled unoccupied: these cloaks appeared in tolerably good condition, not so their under garments. On their heads were broad slouching hats: the generality of them were bare-footed. As they passed, the soldiers jested with them in the patois of East Anglia, whereupon the fellows laughed, and appeared to jest with the soldiers; but what they said who knows, it being in a rough guttural language, strange and wild. The soldiers stared at each other, and were silent. "A strange language that!" said a young officer to my father, "I don't understand a word of it; what can it be?" "Irish!" said my father, with a loud voice, "and a bad language it is. I have known it of old, that is, I have often heard it spoken when I was a guardsman in London. There's one part of London where all the Irish live--at least all the worst of them--and there they hatch their villanies and speak this tongue; it is that which keeps them together and makes them dangerous: I was once sent there to seize a couple of deserters--Irish--who had taken refuge amongst their companions; we found them in what was in my time called a ken, that is a house where only thieves and desperadoes are to be found. Knowing on what kind of business I was bound, I had taken with me a sergeant's party; it was well I did so. We found the deserters in a large room, with at least thirty ruffians, horrid-looking fellows, seated about a long table, drinking, swearing, and talking Irish. Ah! we had a tough battle, I remember; the two fellows did nothing, but sat still, thinking it best to be quiet; but the rest, with an ubbubboo, like the blowing up of a powder-magazine, sprang up, brandishing their sticks; for these fellows always carry sticks with them even to bed, and not unfrequently spring up in their sleep, striking left and right." "And did you take the deserters?" said the officer. "Yes," said my father; "for we formed at the end of the room, and charged with fixed bayonets, which compelled the others to yield notwithstanding their numbers; but the worst was when we got out into the street; the whole district had become alarmed, and hundreds came pouring down upon us--men, women, and children. Women, did I say!--they looked fiends, half naked, with their hair hanging down over their bosoms; they tore up the very pavement to hurl at us, sticks rang about our ears, stones, and Irish--I liked the Irish worst of all, it sounded so horrid, especially as I did not understand it. It's a bad language." "A queer tongue," said I; "I wonder if I could learn it?" "Learn it!" said my father; "what should you learn it for?--however, I am not afraid of that. It is not like Scotch; no person can learn it, save those who are born to it, and even in Ireland the respectable people do not speak it, only the wilder sort, like those we have passed." Within a day or two we had reached a tall range of mountains running north and south, which I was told were those of Tipperary; along the skirts of these we proceeded till we came to a town, {93} the principal one of these regions. It was on the bank of a beautiful river, which separated it from the mountains. It was rather an ancient place, and might contain some ten thousand inhabitants--I found that it was our destination; there were extensive barracks at the farther end, in which the corps took up its quarters; with respect to ourselves, we took lodgings in a house which stood in the principal street. "You never saw more elegant lodgings than these, captain," said the master of the house, a tall, handsome, and athletic man, who came up whilst our little family were seated at dinner late in the afternoon of the day of our arrival; "they beat anything in this town of Clonmel. I do not let them for the sake of interest, and to none but gentlemen in the army, in order that myself and my wife, who is from Londonderry, may have the advantage of pleasant company, genteel company; ay, and Protestant company, captain. It did my heart good when I saw your honour ride in at the head of all those fine fellows, real Protestants, I'll engage, not a Papist among them, they are too good-looking and honest- looking for that. So I no sooner saw your honour at the head of your army, with that handsome young gentleman holding by your stirrup, than I said to my wife, Mistress Hyne, who is from Londonderry, 'God bless me,' said I, 'what a truly Protestant countenance, what a noble bearing, and what a sweet young gentleman. By the silver hairs of his honour--and sure enough I never saw hairs more regally silver than those of your honour--by his honour's grey silver hairs, and by my own soul, which is not worthy to be mentioned in the same day with one of them--it would be no more than decent and civil to run out and welcome such a father and son coming in at the head of such a Protestant military.' And then my wife, who is from Londonderry, Mistress Hyne, looking me in the face like a fairy as she is, 'You may say that,' says she. 'It would be but decent and civil, honey.' And your honour knows how I ran out of my own door and welcomed your honour riding in company with your son, who was walking; how I welcomed ye both at the head of your royal regiment, and how I shook your honour by the hand, saying, I am glad to see your honour, and your honour's son, and your honour's royal military Protestant regiment. And now I have you in the house, and right proud I am to have ye one and all; one, two, three, four, true Protestants every one, no Papists here; and I have made bold to bring up a bottle of claret which is now waiting behind the door; and, when your honour and your family have dined, I will make bold too to bring up Mistress Hyne, from Londonderry, to introduce to your honour's lady, and then we'll drink to the health of King George, God bless him; to the 'glorious and immortal'--to Boyne water--to your honour's speedy promotion to be Lord Lieutenant, and to the speedy downfall of the Pope and Saint Anthony of Padua." Such was the speech of the Irish Protestant addressed to my father in the long lofty dining-room with three windows, looking upon the High Street of the good town of Clonmel, as he sat at meat with his family, after saying grace like a true-hearted respectable soldier as he was. "A bigot and an Orangeman!" Oh yes! It is easier to apply epithets of opprobrium to people than to make yourself acquainted with their history and position. He was a specimen, and a fair specimen, of a most remarkable body of men, who during two centuries have fought a good fight in Ireland in the cause of civilisation and religious truth; they were sent as colonists, few in number, into a barbarous and unhappy country, where ever since, though surrounded with difficulties of every kind, they have maintained their ground; theirs has been no easy life, nor have their lines fallen upon very pleasant places; amidst darkness they have held up a lamp, and it would be well for Ireland were all her children like these her adopted ones. "But they are fierce and sanguinary," it is said. Ay, ay! they have not unfrequently opposed the keen sword to the savage pike. "But they are bigoted and narrow-minded." Ay, ay! they do not like idolatry, and will not bow the knee before a stone! "But their language is frequently indecorous." Go to, my dainty one, did ye ever listen to the voice of Papist cursing? The Irish Protestants have faults, numerous ones; but the greater number of these may be traced to the peculiar circumstances of their position: but they have virtues, numerous ones; and their virtues are their own, their industry, their energy, and their undaunted resolution are their own. They have been vilified and traduced--but what would Ireland be without them? I repeat, that it would be well for her were all her sons no worse than these much calumniated children of her adoption. CHAPTER X Protestant Young Gentlemen--The Greek Letters--Open Chimney--Murtagh--Paris and Salamanca--Nothing to do--To whit, to whoo!--The Pack of Cards--Before Christmas. We continued at this place for some months, during which time the soldiers performed their duties, whatever they were; and I, having no duties to perform, was sent to school. I had been to English schools, and to the celebrated one of Edinburgh; but my education, at the present day, would not be what it is--perfect, had I never had the honour of being _alumnus_ in an Irish seminary. "Captain," said our kind host, "you would, no doubt, wish that the young gentleman should enjoy every advantage which the town may afford towards helping him on in the path of genteel learning. It's a great pity that he should waste his time in idleness--doing nothing else than what he says he has been doing for the last fortnight--fishing in the river for trouts which he never catches; and wandering up the glen in the mountain, in search of the hips that grow there. Now, we have a school here, where he can learn the most elegant Latin, and get an insight into the Greek letters, which is desirable; and where, moreover, he will have an opportunity of making acquaintance with all the Protestant young gentlemen of the place, the handsome well-dressed young persons whom your honour sees in the church on the Sundays, when your honour goes there in the morning, with the rest of the Protestant military; for it is no Papist school, though there may be a Papist or two there--a few poor farmers' sons from the country, with whom there is no necessity for your honour's child to form any acquaintance at all, at all!" And to the school I went, where I read the Latin tongue and the Greek letters, with a nice old clergyman, who sat behind a black oaken desk, with a huge Elzevir {98} Flaccus before him, in a long gloomy kind of hall, with a broken stone floor, the roof festooned with cobwebs, the walls considerably dilapidated, and covered over with strange figures and hieroglyphics, evidently produced by the application of burnt stick; and there I made acquaintance with the Protestant young gentlemen of the place, who, with whatever _eclat_ they might appear at church on a Sunday, did assuredly not exhibit to much advantage in the school-room on the week days, either with respect to clothes or looks. And there I was in the habit of sitting on a large stone, before the roaring fire in the huge open chimney, and entertaining certain of the Protestant young gentlemen of my own age, seated on similar stones, with extraordinary accounts of my own adventures, and those of the corps, with an occasional anecdote extracted from the story-books of Hickathrift and Wight Wallace, pretending to be conning the lesson all the while. And there I made acquaintance, notwithstanding the hint of the landlord, with the Papist "gossoons," as they were called, the farmers' sons from the country; and of these gossoons, of which there were three, two might be reckoned as nothing at all; in the third, however, I soon discovered that there was something extraordinary. He was about sixteen years old, and above six feet high, dressed in a grey suit; the coat, from its size, appeared to have been made for him some ten years before. He was remarkably narrow-chested and round-shouldered, owing perhaps as much to the tightness of his garment as to the hand of nature. His face was long, and his complexion swarthy, relieved, however, by certain freckles, with which the skin was plentifully studded. He had strange wandering eyes, grey, and somewhat unequal in size; they seldom rested on the book, but were generally wandering about the room, from one object to another. Sometimes he would fix them intently on the wall, and then suddenly starting, as if from a reverie, he would commence making certain mysterious movements with his thumbs and forefingers, as if he were shuffling something from him. One morning, as he sat by himself on a bench, engaged in this manner, I went up to him, and said, "Good day, Murtagh; you do not seem to have much to do?" "Faith, you may say that, Shorsha dear!--it is seldom much to do that I have." "And what are you doing with your hands?" "Faith, then, if I must tell you, I was e'en dealing with the cards." "Do you play much at cards?" "Sorra a game, Shorsha, have I played with the cards since my uncle Phelim, the thief! stole away the ould pack, when he went to settle in the county Waterford!" "But you have other things to do?" "Sorra anything else has Murtagh to do that he cares about; and that makes me dread so going home at nights." "I should like to know all about you; where do you live, joy?" "Faith, then, ye shall know all about me, and where I live. It is at a place called the Wilderness that I live, and they call it so, because it is a fearful wild place, without any house near it but my father's own; and that's where I live when at home." "And your father is a farmer, I suppose?" "You may say that; and it is a farmer I should have been, like my brother Denis, had not my uncle Phelim, the thief! tould my father to send me to school, to learn Greek letters, that I might be made a saggart of, and sent to Paris and Salamanca." "And you would rather be a farmer than a priest?" "You may say that!--for, were I a farmer, like the rest, I should have something to do, like the rest--something that I cared for--and I should come home tired at night, and fall asleep, as the rest do, before the fire; but when I comes home at night I am not tired, for I have been doing nothing all day that I care for; and then I sits down and stares about me, and at the fire, till I become frighted; and then I shouts to my brother Denis, or to the gossoons, 'Get up, I say, and let's be doing something; tell us the tale of Finn-ma-Coul, and how he lay down in the Shannon's bed, and let the river flow down his jaws!' Arrah, Shorsha! I wish you would come and stay with us, and tell us some o' your sweet stories of your ownself and the snake ye carried about wid ye. Faith, Shorsha dear! that snake bates anything about Finn-ma-Coul or Brian Boroo, the thieves two, bad luck to them!" "And do they get up and tell you stories?" "Sometimes they does, but oftenmost they curses me, and bids me be quiet! But I can't be quiet, either before the fire or abed; so I runs out of the house, and stares at the rocks, at the trees, and sometimes at the clouds, as they run a race across the bright moon; and, the more I stares, the more frighted I grows, till I screeches and holloas. And last night I went into the barn, and hid my face in the straw; and there, as I lay and shivered in the straw, I heard a voice above my head singing out 'To whit, to whoo!' and then up I starts, and runs into the house, and falls over my brother Denis, as he lies at the fire. 'What's that for?' says he. 'Get up, you thief!' says I, 'and be helping me. I have been out into the barn, and an owl has crow'd at me!'" "And what has this to do with playing cards?" "Little enough, Shorsha dear!--If there were card-playing, I should not be frighted." "And why do you not play at cards?" "Did I not tell you that the thief, my uncle Phelim, stole away the pack? If we had the pack, my brother Denis and the gossoons would be ready enough to get up from their sleep before the fire, and play cards with me for ha'pence, or eggs, or nothing at all; but the pack is gone--bad luck to the thief who took it!" "And why don't you buy another?" "Is it of buying you are speaking? And where am I to get the money?" "Ah! that's another thing!" "Faith it is, honey!--And now the Christmas holidays is coming, when I shall be at home by day as well as night, and then what am I to do? Since I have been a saggarting, I have been good for nothing at all--neither for work nor Greek--only to play cards! Faith, it's going mad I will be!" "I say, Murtagh!" "Yes, Shorsha dear!" "I have a pack of cards." "You don't say so, Shorsha ma vourneen?--you don't say that you have cards fifty-two?" "I do, though; and they are quite new--never been once used." "And you'll be lending them to me, I warrant?" "Don't think it!--But I'll sell them to you, joy, if you like." "Hanam mon Dioul! am I not after telling you that I have no money at all?" "But you have as good as money, to me, at least; and I'll take it in exchange." "What's that, Shorsha dear?" "Irish!" "Irish?" "Yes, you speak Irish; I heard you talking it the other day to the cripple. You shall teach me Irish." "And is it a language-master you'd be making of me?" "To be sure!--what better can you do?--it would help you to pass your time at school. You can't learn Greek, so you must teach Irish!" Before Christmas, Murtagh was playing at cards with his brother Denis, and I could speak a considerable quantity of broken Irish. CHAPTER XI Templemore--Devil's Mountain--No Companion--Force of Circumstance--Way of the World--Ruined Castle--Grim and Desolate--The Donjon--Old Woman--My Own House. When Christmas was over, and the new year commenced, we broke up our quarters, and marched away to Templemore. {104} This was a large military station, situated in a wild and thinly inhabited country. Extensive bogs were in the neighbourhood, connected with the huge bog of Allan, the Palus Maeotis of Ireland. Here and there was seen a ruined castle looming through the mists of winter; whilst, at the distance of seven miles, rose a singular mountain, exhibiting in its brow a chasm, or vacuum, just, for all the world, as if a piece had been bitten out; a feat which, according to the tradition of the country, had actually been performed by his Satanic majesty, who, after flying for some leagues with the morsel in his mouth, becoming weary, dropped it in the vicinity of Cashel, where it may now be seen in the shape of a bold bluff hill, crowned with the ruins of a stately edifice, probably built by some ancient Irish king. We had been here only a few days, when my brother, who, as I have before observed, had become one of His Majesty's officers, was sent on detachment to a village at about ten miles' distance. He was not sixteen, and, though three years older than myself, scarcely my equal in stature, for I had become tall and large-limbed for my age; but there was a spirit in him which would not have disgraced a general; and, nothing daunted at the considerable responsibility which he was about to incur, he marched sturdily out of the barrack-yard at the head of his party, consisting of twenty light infantry men, and a tall grenadier sergeant, selected expressly by my father, for the soldier-like qualities which he possessed, to accompany his son on this his first expedition. So out of the barrack-yard, with something of an air, marched my dear brother, his single drum and fife playing the inspiring old melody, "Marlbrouk is gone to the wars, He'll never return no more!" I soon missed my brother, for I was now alone, with no being, at all assimilating in age, with whom I could exchange a word. Of late years, from being almost constantly at school, I had cast aside, in a great degree, my unsocial habits and natural reserve, but in the desolate region in which we now were there was no school; and I felt doubly the loss of my brother, whom, moreover, I tenderly loved for his own sake. Books I had none, at least such "as I cared about"; and with respect to the old volume, the wonders of which had first beguiled me into common reading, I had so frequently pored over its pages, that I had almost got its contents by heart. I was therefore in danger of falling into the same predicament as Murtagh, becoming "frighted" from having nothing to do! Nay, I had not even his resources; I cared not for cards, even if I possessed them, and could find people disposed to play with them. However, I made the most of circumstances, and roamed about the desolate fields and bogs in the neighbourhood, sometimes entering the cabins of the peasantry, with a "God's blessing upon you, good people!" where I would take my seat on the "stranger's stone" at the corner of the hearth, and, looking them full in the face, would listen to the carles and carlines talking Irish. Ah, that Irish! How frequently do circumstances, at first sight the most trivial and unimportant, exercise a mighty and permanent influence on our habits and pursuits!--how frequently is a stream turned aside from its natural course by some little rock or knoll, causing it to make an abrupt turn! On a wild road in Ireland I had heard Irish spoken for the first time; and I was seized with a desire to learn Irish, the acquisition of which, in my case, became the stepping-stone to other languages. I had previously learnt Latin, or rather Lilly; but neither Latin nor Lilly made me a philologist. I had frequently heard French and other languages, but had felt little desire to become acquainted with them; and what, it may be asked, was there connected with the Irish calculated to recommend it to my attention? First of all, and principally, I believe, the strangeness and singularity of its tones; then there was something mysterious and uncommon associated with its use. It was not a school language, to acquire which was considered an imperative duty; no, no; nor was it a drawing-room language, drawled out occasionally, in shreds and patches, by the ladies of generals and other great dignitaries, to the ineffable dismay of poor officers' wives. Nothing of the kind; but a speech spoken in out-of-the- way desolate places, and in cut-throat kens, where thirty ruffians, at the sight of the king's minions, would spring up with brandished sticks and an "ubbubboo, like the blowing up of a powder-magazine." Such were the points connected with the Irish, which first awakened in my mind the desire of acquiring it; and by acquiring it I became, as I have already said, enamoured of languages. Having learnt one by choice, I speedily, as the reader will perceive, learnt others, some of which were widely different from Irish. Ah, that Irish! I am much indebted to it in more ways than one. But I am afraid I have followed the way of the world, which is very much wont to neglect original friends and benefactors. I frequently find myself, at present, turning up my nose at Irish when I hear it in the street; yet I have still a kind of regard for it, the fine old language: "A labhair Padruic n'insefail nan riogh." One of the most peculiar features of this part of Ireland is the ruined castles, which are so thick and numerous that the face of the country appears studded with them, it being difficult to choose any situation from which one, at least, may not be descried. They are of various ages and styles of architecture, some of great antiquity, like the stately remains which crown the Crag of Cashel; others built by the early English conquerors; others, and probably the greater part, erections of the times of Elizabeth and Cromwell. The whole speaking monuments of the troubled and insecure state of the country, from the most remote periods to a comparatively modern time. From the windows of the room where I slept I had a view of one of these old places--an indistinct one, it is true, the distance being too great to permit me to distinguish more than the general outline. I had an anxious desire to explore it. It stood to the south-east; in which direction, however, a black bog intervened, which had more than once baffled all my attempts to cross it. One morning, however, when the sun shone brightly upon the old building, it appeared so near, that I felt ashamed at not being able to accomplish a feat seemingly so easy; I determined, therefore, upon another trial. I reached the bog, and was about to venture upon its black surface, and to pick my way amongst its innumerable holes, yawning horribly, and half filled with water black as soot, when it suddenly occurred to me that there was a road to the south, by following which I might find a more convenient route to the object of my wishes. The event justified my expectations, for, after following the road for some three miles, seemingly in the direction of the Devil's Mountain, I suddenly beheld the castle on my left. I diverged from the road, and, crossing two or three fields, came to a small grassy plain, in the midst of which stood the castle. About a gun- shot to the south was a small village, which had, probably, in ancient days, sprung up beneath its protection. A kind of awe came over me as I approached the old building. The sun no longer shone upon it, and it looked so grim, so desolate and solitary; and here was I, in that wild country, alone with that grim building before me. The village was within sight, it is true; but it might be a village of the dead for what I knew; no sound issued from it, no smoke was rising from its roofs, neither man nor beast was visible, no life, no motion--it looked as desolate as the castle itself. Yet I was bent on the adventure, and moved on towards the castle across the green plain, occasionally casting a startled glance around me; and now I was close to it. It was surrounded by a quadrangular wall, about ten feet in height, with a square tower at each corner. At first I could discover no entrance; walking round, however, to the northern side, I found a wide and lofty gateway with a tower above it, similar to those at the angles of the wall; on this side the ground sloped gently down towards the bog, which was here skirted by an abundant growth of copsewood, and a few evergreen oaks. I passed through the gateway, and found myself within a square enclosure of about two acres. On one side rose a round and lofty keep, or donjon, with a conical roof, part of which had fallen down, strewing the square with its ruins. Close to the keep, on the other side, stood the remains of an oblong house, built something in the modern style, with various window-holes; nothing remained but the bare walls and a few projecting stumps of beams, which seemed to have been half burnt. The interior of the walls was blackened, as if by fire; fire also appeared at one time to have raged out of the window-holes, for the outside about them was black, portentously so. "I wonder what has been going on here!" I exclaimed. There were echoes among the walls as I walked about the court. I entered the keep by a low and frowning doorway: the lower floor consisted of a large dungeon-like room, with a vaulted roof; on the left hand was a winding staircase in the thickness of the wall; it looked anything but inviting; yet I stole softly up, my heart beating. On the top of the first flight of stairs was an arched doorway, to the left was a dark passage, to the right, stairs leading still higher. I stepped under the arch and found myself in an apartment somewhat similar to the one below, but higher. There was an object at the farther end. An old woman, at least eighty, was seated on a stone, cowering over a few sticks burning feebly on what had once been a right noble and cheerful hearth; her side-glance was towards the doorway as I entered, for she had heard my footsteps. I stood suddenly still, and her haggard glance rested on my face. "Is this your house, mother?" I at length demanded, in the language which I thought she would best understand. "Yes, my house, my own house; the house of the broken-hearted." "Any other person's house?" I demanded. "My own house, the beggar's house--the accursed house of Cromwell!" CHAPTER XII A Visit--Figure of a Man--The Dog of Peace--The Raw Wound--The Guard-room--Boy Soldier--Person in Authority--Never Solitary--Clergyman and Family--Still-hunting--Fairy Man--Near Sunset--Bagg--Left-handed Hitter--.Irish and Supernatural--At Swanton Morley. One morning I set out, designing to pay a visit to my brother, at the place where he was detached; the distance was rather considerable, yet I hoped to be back by evening-fall, for I was now a shrewd walker, thanks to constant practice. I set out early, and, directing my course towards the north, I had in less than two hours accomplished considerably more than half of the journey. The weather had at first been propitious: a slight frost had rendered the ground firm to the tread, and the skies were clear; but now a change came over the scene, the skies darkened, and a heavy snowstorm came on; the road then lay straight through a bog, and was bounded by a deep trench on both sides; I was making the best of my way, keeping as nearly as I could in the middle of the road, lest, blinded by the snow which was frequently borne into my eyes by the wind, I might fall into the dyke, when all at once I heard a shout to windward, and turning my eyes I saw the figure of a man, and what appeared to be an animal of some kind, coming across the bog with great speed, in the direction of myself; the nature of the ground seemed to offer but little impediment to these beings, both clearing the holes and abysses which lay in their way with surprising agility; the animal was, however, some slight way in advance, and, bounding over the dyke, appeared on the road just before me. It was a dog, of what species I cannot tell, never having seen the like before or since; the head was large and round; the ears so tiny as scarcely to be discernible; the eyes of a fiery red: in size it was rather small than large; and the coat, which was remarkably smooth, as white as the falling flakes. It placed itself directly in my path, and showing its teeth, and bristling its coat, appeared determined to prevent my progress. I had an ashen stick in my hand, with which I threatened it; this, however, only served to increase its fury; it rushed upon me, and I had the utmost difficulty to preserve myself from its fangs. "What are you doing with the dog, the fairy dog?" said a man, who at this time likewise cleared the dyke at a bound. He was a very tall man, rather well dressed as it should seem; his garments, however, were like my own, so covered with snow that I could scarcely discern their quality. "What are ye doing with the dog of peace?" "I wish he would show himself one," said I; "I said nothing to him, but he placed himself in my road, and would not let me pass." "Of course he would not be letting you till he knew where ye were going." "He's not much of a fairy," said I, "or he would know that without asking; tell him that I am going to see my brother." "And who is your brother, little Sas?" "What my father is, a royal soldier." "Oh, ye are going then to the detachment at ---; by my shoul, I have a good mind to be spoiling your journey." "You are doing that already," said I, "keeping me here talking about dogs and fairies; you had better go home and get some salve to cure that place over your eye; it's catching cold you'll be, in so much snow." On one side of the man's forehead there was a raw and staring wound, as if from a recent and terrible blow. "Faith, then I'll be going, but it's taking you wid me I will be." "And where will you take me?" "Why, then, to Ryan's Castle, little Sas." "You do not speak the language very correctly," said I; "it is not Sas you should call me--'tis Sassanach," and forthwith I accompanied the word with a speech full of flowers of Irish rhetoric. The man looked upon me for a moment, fixedly, then, bending his head towards his breast, he appeared to be undergoing a kind of convulsion, which was accompanied by a sound something resembling laughter; presently he looked at me, and there was a broad grin on his features. "By my shoul, it's a thing of peace I'm thinking ye." But now with a whisking sound came running down the road a hare; it was nearly upon us before it perceived us; suddenly stopping short, however, it sprang into the bog on the right-hand side; after it amain bounded the dog of peace, followed by the man, but not until he had nodded to me a farewell salutation. In a few moments I lost sight of him amidst the snowflakes. The weather was again clear and fine before I reached the place of detachment. It was a little wooden barrack, surrounded by a wall of the same material; a sentinel stood at the gate, I passed by him, and, entering the building, found myself in a rude kind of guard-room; several soldiers were lying asleep on a wooden couch at one end, others lounged on benches by the side of a turf fire. The tall sergeant stood before the fire, holding a cooking utensil in his left hand; on seeing me, he made the military salutation. "Is my brother here?" said I, rather timidly, dreading to hear that he was out, perhaps for the day. "The ensign is in his room, sir," said Bagg; "I am now preparing his meal, which will presently be ready; you will find the ensign above stairs," and he pointed to a broken ladder which led to some place above. And there I found him--the boy soldier--in a kind of upper loft, so low that I could touch with my hands the sooty rafters; the floor was of rough boards, through the joints of which you could see the gleam of the soldiers' fire, and occasionally discern their figures as they moved about; in one corner was a camp bedstead, by the side of which hung the child's sword, gorget, and sash; a deal table stood in the proximity of the rusty grate, where smoked and smouldered a pile of black turf from the bog,--a deal table without a piece of baize to cover it, yet fraught with things not devoid of interest: a Bible, given by a mother; the Odyssey, the Greek Odyssey; a flute, with broad silver keys; crayons, moreover, and water colours; and a sketch of a wild prospect near, which, though but half finished, afforded ample proof of the excellence and skill of the boyish hand now occupied upon it. Ah! he was a sweet being, that boy soldier, a plant of early promise, bidding fair to become in after time all that is great, good, and admirable. I have read of a remarkable Welshman, of whom it was said, when the grave closed over him, that he could frame a harp, and play it; build a ship, and sail it; compose an ode, and set it to music. A brave fellow that son of Wales--but I had once a brother who could do more and better than this, but the grave has closed over him, as over the gallant Welshman of yore; there are now but two that remember him--the one who bore him, and the being who was nurtured at the same breast. He was taken, and I was left!--Truly, the ways of Providence are inscrutable. "You seem to be very comfortable, John," said I, looking around the room and at the various objects which I have described above: "you have a good roof over your head, and have all your things about you." "Yes, I am very comfortable, George, in many respects; I am, moreover, independent, and feel myself a man for the first time in my life--independent, did I say?--that's not the word, I am something much higher than that; here am I, not sixteen yet, a person in authority, like the centurion in the Book there, with twenty Englishmen under me, worth a whole legion of his men, and that fine fellow Bagg to wait upon me, and take my orders. Oh! these last six weeks have passed like hours of heaven." "But your time must frequently hang heavy on your hands; this is a strange wild place, and you must be very solitary?" "I am never solitary; I have, as you see, all my things about me, and there is plenty of company below stairs. Not that I mix with the soldiers; if I did, goodbye to my authority; but when I am alone I can hear all their discourse through the planks, and I often laugh to myself at the funny things they say." "And have you any acquaintance here?" "The very best; much better than the Colonel and the rest, at their grand Templemore; I had never so many in my whole life before. One has just left me, a gentleman who lives at a distance across the bog; he comes to talk with me about Greek, and the Odyssey, for he is a very learned man, and understands the old Irish, and various other strange languages. He has had a dispute with Bagg. On hearing his name, he called him to him, and, after looking at him for some time with great curiosity, said that he was sure he was a Dane. Bagg, however, took the compliment in dudgeon, and said that he was no more a Dane than himself, but a true- born Englishman, and a sergeant of six years' standing." "And what other acquaintance have you?" "All kinds; the whole neighbourhood can't make enough of me. Amongst others there's the clergyman of the parish and his family; such a venerable old man, such fine sons and daughters! I am treated by them like a son and a brother--I might be always with them if I pleased; there's one drawback, however, in going to see them; there's a horrible creature in the house, a kind of tutor, whom they keep more from charity than anything else; he is a Papist and, they say, a priest; you should see him scowl sometimes at my red coat, for he hates the king, and not unfrequently, when the king's health is drunk, curses him between his teeth. I once got up to strike him; but the youngest of the sisters, who is the handsomest, caught my arm and pointed to her forehead." "And what does your duty consist of? Have you nothing else to do than pay visits and receive them?" "We do what is required of us: we guard this edifice, perform our evolutions, and help the excise. I am frequently called up in the dead of night to go to some wild place or other in quest of an illicit still; this last part of our duty is poor mean work; I don't like it, nor more does Bagg; though without it, we should not see much active service, for the neighbourhood is quiet; save the poor creatures with their stills, not a soul is stirring. 'Tis true there's Jerry Grant." "And who is Jerry Grant?" "Did you never hear of him? that's strange; the whole country is talking about him; he is a kind of outlaw, rebel, or robber, all three I dare say; there's a hundred pounds offered for his head." "And where does he live?" "His proper home, they say, is in the Queen's County, where he has a band, but he is a strange fellow, fond of wandering about by himself amidst the bogs and mountains, and living in the old castles; occasionally he quarters himself in the peasants' houses, who let him do just what he pleases; he is free of his money, and often does them good turns, and can be good-humoured enough, so they don't dislike him. Then he is what they call a fairy man, a person in league with fairies and spirits, and able to work much harm by supernatural means, on which account they hold him in great awe; he is, moreover, a mighty strong and tall fellow. Bagg has seen him." "Has he?" "Yes! and felt him; he too is a strange one. A few days ago he was told that Grant had been seen hovering about an old castle some two miles off in the bog; so one afternoon what does he do but, without saying a word to me--for which, by the bye, I ought to put him under arrest, though what I should do without Bagg I have no idea whatever--what does he do but walk off to the castle, intending, as I suppose, to pay a visit to Jerry. He had some difficulty in getting there on account of the turf- holes in the bog, which he was not accustomed to; however, thither at last he got and went in. It was a strange lonesome place, he says, and he did not much like the look of it; however, in he went, and searched about from the bottom to the top and down again, but could find no one; he shouted and hallooed, but nobody answered, save the rooks and choughs, which started up in great numbers. 'I have lost my trouble,' said Bagg, and left the castle. It was now late in the afternoon, near sunset, when about half way over the bog he met a man--" "And that man was--" "Jerry Grant! there's no doubt of it. Bagg says it was the most sudden thing in the world. He was moving along, making the best of his way, thinking of nothing at all save a public-house at Swanton Morley, which he intends to take when he gets home, and the regiment is disbanded--though I hope that will not be for some time yet: he had just leaped a turf-hole, and was moving on, when, at the distance of about six yards before him, he saw a fellow coming straight towards him. Bagg says that he stopped short, as suddenly as if he had heard the word halt, when marching at double quick time. It was quite a surprise, he says, and he can't imagine how the fellow was so close upon him before he was aware. He was an immense tall fellow--Bagg thinks at least two inches taller than himself--very well dressed in a blue coat and buff breeches, for all the world like a squire when going out hunting. Bagg, however, saw at once that he had a roguish air, and he was on his guard in a moment. 'Good evening to ye, sodger,' says the fellow, stepping close up to Bagg, and staring him in the face. 'Good evening to you, sir! I hope you are well,' says Bagg. 'You are looking after some one?' says the fellow. 'Just so, sir,' says Bagg, and forthwith seized him by the collar; the man laughed, Bagg says it was such a strange awkward laugh. 'Do you know whom you have got hold of, sodger?' said he. 'I believe I do, sir,' said Bagg, 'and in that belief will hold you fast in the name of King George, and the quarter sessions;' the next moment he was sprawling with his heels in the air. Bagg says there was nothing remarkable in that; he was only flung by a kind of wrestling trick, which he could easily have baffled, had he been aware of it. 'You will not do that again, sir,' said he, as he got up and put himself on his guard. The fellow laughed again more strangely and awkwardly than before; then, bending his body and moving his head from one side to the other as a cat does before she springs, and crying out, 'Here's for ye, sodger!' he made a dart at Bagg, rushing in with his head foremost. 'That will do, sir,' says Bagg, and, drawing himself back, he put in a left-handed blow with all the force of his body and arm, just over the fellow's right eye. Bagg is a left-handed hitter, you must know, and it was a blow of that kind which won him his famous battle at Edinburgh with the big Highland sergeant. Bagg says that he was quite satisfied with the blow, more especially when he saw the fellow reel, fling out his arms, and fall to the ground. 'And now, sir,' said he, 'I'll make bold to hand you over to the quarter sessions, and, if there is a hundred pounds for taking you, who has more right to it than myself?' So he went forward, but ere he could lay hold of his man the other was again on his legs, and was prepared to renew the combat. They grappled each other--Bagg says he had not much fear of the result, as he now felt himself the best man, the other seeming half stunned with the blow--but just then there came on a blast, a horrible roaring wind bearing night upon its wings, snow, and sleet, and hail. Bagg says he had the fellow by the throat quite fast, as he thought, but suddenly he became bewildered, and knew not where he was; and the man seemed to melt away from his grasp, and the wind howled more and more, and the night poured down darker and darker; the snow and the sleet thicker and more blinding. 'Lord have mercy upon us!' said Bagg." _Myself_. A strange adventure that; it is well that Bagg got home alive. _John_. He says that the fight was a fair fight, and that the fling he got was a fair fling, the result of a common enough wrestling trick. But with respect to the storm, which rose up just in time to save the fellow, he is of opinion that it was not fair, but something Irish and supernatural. _Myself_. I dare say he's right. I have read of witchcraft in the Bible. _John_. He wishes much to have one more encounter with the fellow; he says that on fair ground, and in fine weather, he has no doubt that he could master him, and hand him over to the quarter sessions. He says that a hundred pounds would be no bad thing to be disbanded upon; for he wishes to take an inn at Swanton Morley, keep a cock-pit, and live respectably. _Myself_. He is quite right; and now kiss me, my darling brother, for I must go back through the bog to Templemore. CHAPTER XIII Groom and Cob--Strength and Symmetry--Where's the Saddle?--The First Ride--No more Fatigue--Love for Horses--Pursuit of Words--Philologist and Pegasus--The Smith--What more, Agrah!--Sassanach Ten Pence. And it came to pass that, as I was standing by the door of the barrack stable, one of the grooms came out to me, saying, "I say, young gentleman, I wish you would give the cob a breathing this fine morning." "Why do you wish me to mount him?" said I; "you know he is dangerous. I saw him fling you off his back only a few days ago." "Why, that's the very thing, master. I'd rather see anybody on his back than myself; he does not like me; but, to them he does, he can be as gentle as a lamb." "But suppose," said I, "that he should not like me?" "We shall soon see that, master," said the groom; "and, if so be he shows temper, I will be the first to tell you to get down. But there's no fear of that; you have never angered or insulted him, and to such as you, I say again, he'll be as gentle as a lamb." "And how came you to insult him," said I, "knowing his temper as you do?" "Merely through forgetfulness, master: I was riding him about a month ago, and having a stick in my hand, I struck him, thinking I was on another horse, or rather thinking of nothing at all. He has never forgiven me, though before that time he was the only friend I had in the world; I should like to see you on him, master." "I should soon be off him; I can't ride." "Then you are all right, master; there's no fear. Trust him for not hurting a young gentleman, an officer's son, who can't ride. If you were a blackguard dragoon, indeed, with long spurs, 'twere another thing; as it is, he'll treat you as if he were the elder brother that loves you. Ride! he'll soon teach you to ride if you leave the matter with him. He's the best riding master in all Ireland, and the gentlest." The cob was led forth; what a tremendous creature! I had frequently seen him before, and wondered at him; he was barely fifteen hands, but he had the girth of a metropolitan dray-horse; his head was small in comparison with his immense neck, which curved down nobly to his wide back: his chest was broad and fine, and his shoulders models of symmetry and strength; he stood well and powerfully upon his legs, which were somewhat short. In a word, he was a gallant specimen of the genuine Irish cob, a species at one time not uncommon, but at the present day nearly extinct. "There!" said the groom, as he looked at him, half admiringly, half sorrowfully, "with sixteen stone on his back, he'll trot fourteen miles in one hour; with your nine stone, some two and a half more; ay, and clear a six-foot wall at the end of it." "I'm half afraid," said I; "I had rather you would ride him." "I'd rather so, too, if he would let me; but he remembers the blow. Now, don't be afraid, young master, he's longing to go out himself. He's been trampling with his feet these three days, and I know what that means; he'll let anybody ride him but myself, and thank them; but to me he says, 'No! you struck me.'" "But," said I, "where's the saddle?" "Never mind the saddle; if you are ever to be a frank rider, you must begin without a saddle; besides, if he felt a saddle, he would think you don't trust him, and leave you to yourself. Now, before you mount, make his acquaintance--see there, how he kisses you and licks your face, and see how he lifts his foot, that's to shake hands. You may trust him--now you are on his back at last; mind how you hold the bridle--gently, gently! It's not four pair of hands like yours can hold him if he wishes to be off. Mind what I tell you--leave it all to him." Off went the cob at a slow and gentle trot, too fast and rough, however, for so inexperienced a rider. I soon felt myself sliding off, the animal perceived it too, and instantly stood stone still till I had righted myself; and now the groom came up: "When you feel yourself going," said he, "don't lay hold of the mane, that's no use; mane never yet saved man from falling, no more than straw from drowning; it's his sides you must cling to with your calves and feet, till you learn to balance yourself. That's it, now abroad with you; I'll bet my comrade a pot of beer that you'll be a regular rough rider by the time you come back." And so it proved; I followed the directions of the groom, and the cob gave me every assistance. How easy is riding, after the first timidity is got over, to supple and youthful limbs; and there is no second fear. The creature soon found that the nerves of his rider were in proper tone. Turning his head half round, he made a kind of whining noise, flung out a little foam, and set off. In less than two hours I had made the circuit of the Devil's Mountain, and was returning along the road, bathed with perspiration, but screaming with delight; the cob laughing in his equine way, scattering foam and pebbles to the left and right, and trotting at the rate of sixteen miles an hour. Oh, that ride! that first ride!--most truly it was an epoch in my existence; and I still look back to it with feelings of longing and regret. People may talk of first love--it is a very agreeable event, I dare say--but give me the flush, and triumph, and glorious sweat of a first ride, like mine on the mighty cob! My whole frame was shaken, it is true; and during one long week I could hardly move foot or hand; but what of that? By that one trial I had become free, as I may say, of the whole equine species. No more fatigue, no more stiffness of joints, after that first ride round the Devil's Hill on the cob. Oh, that cob! that Irish cob!--may the sod lie lightly over the bones of the strongest, speediest, and most gallant of its kind! Oh! the days when, issuing from the barrack-gate of Templemore, we commenced our hurry- skurry just as inclination led--now across the fields--direct over stone walls and running brooks--mere pastime for the cob!--sometimes along the road to Thurles and Holy Cross, even to distant Cahir!--what was distance to the cob? It was thus that the passion for the equine race was first awakened within me--a passion which, up to the present time, has been rather on the increase than diminishing. It is no blind passion; the horse being a noble and generous creature, intended by the All-Wise to be the helper and friend of man, to whom he stands next in the order of creation. On many occasions of my life I have been much indebted to the horse, and have found in him a friend and coadjutor, when human help and sympathy were not to be obtained. It is therefore natural enough that I should love the horse; but the love which I entertain for him has always been blended with respect; for I soon perceived that, though disposed to be the friend and helper of man, he is by no means inclined to be his slave; in which respect he differs from the dog, who will crouch when beaten; whereas the horse spurns, for he is aware of his own worth, and that he carries death within the horn of his heel. If, therefore, I found it easy to love the horse, I found it equally natural to respect him. I much question whether philology, or the passion for languages, requires so little of an apology as the love for horses. It has been said, I believe, that the more languages a man speaks, the more a man is he; which is very true, provided he acquires languages as a medium for becoming acquainted with the thoughts and feelings of the various sections into which the human race is divided; but, in that case, he should rather be termed a philosopher than a philologist--between which two the difference is wide indeed! An individual may speak and read a dozen languages, and yet be an exceedingly poor creature, scarcely half a man; and the pursuit of tongues for their own sake, and the mere satisfaction of acquiring them, surely argues an intellect of a very low order; a mind disposed to be satisfied with mean and grovelling things; taking more pleasure in the trumpery casket than in the precious treasure which it contains; in the pursuit of words, than in the acquisition of ideas. I cannot help thinking that it was fortunate for myself, who am, to a certain extent, a philologist, that with me the pursuit of languages has been always modified by the love of horses; for scarcely had I turned my mind to the former, when I also mounted the wild cob, and hurried forth in the direction of the Devil's Hill, scattering dust and flint-stones on every side; that ride, amongst other things, taught me that a lad with thews and sinews was intended by nature for something better than mere word-culling; and if I have accomplished anything in after life worthy of mentioning, I believe it may partly be attributed to the ideas which that ride, by setting my blood in a glow, infused into my brain. I might, otherwise, have become a mere philologist; one of those beings who toil night and day in culling useless words for some _opus magnum_ which Murray will never publish, and nobody ever read; beings without enthusiasm, who, having never mounted a generous steed, cannot detect a good point in Pegasus himself; like a certain philologist, who, though acquainted with the exact value of every word in the Greek and Latin languages, could observe no particular beauty in one of the most glorious of Homer's rhapsodies. What knew he of Pegasus? he had never mounted a generous steed; the merest jockey, had the strain been interpreted to him, would have called it a brave song!--I return to the brave cob. On a certain day I had been out on an excursion. In a cross-road, at some distance from the Satanic hill, the animal which I rode cast a shoe. By good luck a small village was at hand, at the entrance of which was a large shed, from which proceeded a most furious noise of hammering. Leading the cob by the bridle, I entered boldly. "Shoe this horse, and do it quickly, a gough," said I to a wild grimy figure of a man, whom I found alone, fashioning a piece of iron. "Arrigod yuit?" said the fellow, desisting from his work, and staring at me. "Oh yes, I have money," said I, "and of the best;" and I pulled out an English shilling. "Tabhair chugam?" said the smith, stretching out his grimy hand. "No, I shan't," said I; "some people are glad to get their money when their work is done." The fellow hammered a little longer, and then proceeded to shoe the cob, after having first surveyed it with attention. He performed his job rather roughly, and more than once appeared to give the animal unnecessary pain, frequently making use of loud and boisterous words. By the time the work was done, the creature was in a state of high excitement, and plunged and tore. The smith stood at a short distance, seeming to enjoy the irritation of the animal, and showing, in a remarkable manner, a huge fang, which projected from the under jaw of a very wry mouth. "You deserve better handling," said I, as I went up to the cob and fondled it; whereupon it whinnied, and attempted to touch my face with its nose. "Are ye not afraid of that beast?" said the smith, showing his fang. "Arrah, it's vicious that he looks!" "It's at you, then!--I don't fear him;" and thereupon I passed under the horse, between its hind legs. "And is that all you can do, agrah?" said the smith. "No," said I, "I can ride him." "Ye can ride him, and what else, agrah?" "I can leap him over a six-foot wall," said I. "Over a wall, and what more, agrah?" "Nothing more," said I; "what more would you have?" "Can you do this, agrah?" said the smith; and he uttered a word which I had never heard before, in a sharp pungent tone. The effect upon myself was somewhat extraordinary, a strange thrill ran through me; but with regard to the cob it was terrible; the animal forthwith became like one mad, and reared and kicked with the utmost desperation. "Can you do that, agrah?" said the smith. "What is it?" said I, retreating; "I never saw the horse so before." "Go between his legs, agrah," said the smith, "his hinder legs;" and he again showed his fang. "I dare not," said I; "he would kill me." "He would kill ye! and how do ye know that, agrah?" "I feel he would," said I; "something tells me so." "And it tells ye truth, agrah; but it's a fine beast, and it's a pity to see him in such a state: Is agam an't leigeas"--and here he uttered another word in a voice singularly modified, but sweet and almost plaintive; the effect of it was as instantaneous as that of the other, but how different!--the animal lost all its fury, and became at once calm and gentle. The smith went up to it, coaxed and patted it, making use of various sounds of equal endearment; then turning to me, and holding out once more the grimy hand, he said, "And now ye will be giving me the Sassanach ten pence, agrah?" CHAPTER XIV A Fine Old City--Norman Master-Work--Lollards' Hole--Good Blood--The Spaniard's Sword--Old Retired Officer--Writing to a Duke--God help the Child--Nothing like Jacob--Irish Brigades--Old Sergeant Meredith--I Have Been Young--Idleness--Only Course Open--The Bookstall--A Portrait--A Banished Priest. From the wild scenes which I have attempted to describe in the latter pages I must now transport the reader to others of a widely different character. He must suppose himself no longer in Ireland, but in the eastern corner of merry England. Bogs, ruins, and mountains have disappeared amidst the vapours of the west: I have nothing more to say of them; the region in which we are now is not famous for objects of that kind: perhaps it flatters itself that it can produce fairer and better things, of some of which let me speak; there is a fine old city before us, and first of that let me speak. {131} A fine old city, truly, is that, view it from whatever side you will; but it shows best from the east, where the ground, bold and elevated, overlooks the fair and fertile valley in which it stands. Gazing from those heights, the eye beholds a scene which cannot fail to awaken, even in the least sensitive bosom, feelings of pleasure and admiration. At the foot of the heights flows a narrow and deep river, with an antique bridge communicating with a long and narrow suburb, flanked on either side by rich meadows of the brightest green, beyond which spreads the city; the fine old city, perhaps the most curious specimen at present extant of the genuine old English town. Yes, there it spreads from north to south, with its venerable houses, its numerous gardens, its thrice twelve churches, its mighty mound, which, if tradition speaks true, was raised by human hands to serve as the grave heap of an old heathen king, who sits deep within it, with his sword in his hand, and his gold and silver treasures about him. There is a grey old castle {132a} upon the top of that mighty mound; and yonder, rising three hundred feet above the soil, from among those noble forest trees, behold that old Norman master- work, {132b} that cloud-encircled cathedral spire, around which a garrulous army of rooks and choughs continually wheel their flight. Now, who can wonder that the children of that fine old city are proud of her, and offer up prayers for her prosperity? I, myself, who was not born within her walls, offer up prayers for her prosperity, that want may never visit her cottages, vice her palaces, and that the abomination of idolatry may never pollute her temples. Ha, idolatry! the reign of idolatry has been over there for many a long year, never more, let us hope, to return; brave hearts in that old town have borne witness against it, and sealed their testimony with their hearts' blood--most precious to the Lord is the blood of His saints! we are not far from hallowed ground. Observe ye not yon chalky precipice, to the right of the Norman bridge? {133} On this side of the stream, upon its brow, is a piece of ruined wall, the last relic of what was of old a stately pile, whilst at its foot is a place called the Lollards' Hole; and with good reason, for many a saint of God has breathed his last beneath that white precipice, bearing witness against popish idolatry, midst flame and pitch; many a grisly procession has advanced along that suburb, across the old bridge, towards the Lollards' Hole: furious priests in front, a calm pale martyr in the midst, a pitying multitude behind. It has had its martyrs, the venerable old town! Ah! there is good blood in that old city, and in the whole circumjacent region of which it is the capital. The Angles possessed the land at an early period, which, however, they were eventually compelled to share with hordes of Danes and Northmen, who flocked thither across the sea to found hearthsteads on its fertile soil. The present race, a mixture of Angles and Danes, still preserve much which speaks strongly of their northern ancestry; amongst them ye will find the light brown hair of the north, the strong and burly forms of the north, many a wild superstition, ay, and many a wild name connected with the ancient history of the north and its sublime mythology; the warm heart, and the strong heart of the old Danes and Saxons still beats in those regions, and there ye will find, if anywhere, old northern hospitality and kindness of manner, united with energy, perseverance, and dauntless intrepidity; better soldiers or mariners never bled in their country's battles than those nurtured in those regions, and within those old walls. It was yonder, to the west, that the great naval hero of Britain first saw the light; {134} he who annihilated the sea pride of Spain, and dragged the humbled banner of France in triumph at his stern. He was born yonder, towards the west, and of him there is a glorious relic in that old town; in its dark flint guildhouse, the roof of which you can just descry rising above that maze of buildings, in the upper hall of justice, is a species of glass shrine, in which the relic is to be seen: a sword of curious workmanship, the blade is of keen Toledan steel, the heft of ivory and mother-of-pearl. 'Tis the sword of Cordova, won in bloodiest fray off Saint Vincent's promontory, and presented by Nelson to the old capital of the much-loved land of his birth. Yes, the proud Spaniard's sword is to be seen in yonder guildhouse, in the glass case affixed to the wall: many other relics has the good old town, but none prouder than the Spaniard's sword. Such was the place to which, when the war was over, my father retired: it was here that the old tired soldier set himself down with his little family. He had passed the greater part of his life in meritorious exertion, in the service of his country, and his chief wish now was to spend the remainder of his days in quiet and respectability; his means, it is true, were not very ample; fortunate it was that his desires corresponded with them: with a small fortune of his own, and with his half-pay as a royal soldier, he had no fears for himself or for his faithful partner and helpmate; but then his children! how was he to provide for them? how launch them upon the wide ocean of the world? This was, perhaps, the only thought which gave him uneasiness, and I believe that many an old retired officer at that time, and under similar circumstances, experienced similar anxiety; had the war continued, their children would have been, of course, provided for in the army, but peace now reigned, and the military career was closed to all save the scions of the aristocracy, or those who were in some degree connected with that privileged order, an advantage which few of these old officers could boast of; they had slight influence with the great, who gave themselves very little trouble either about them or their families. "I have been writing to the Duke," said my father one day to my excellent mother, after we had been at home somewhat better than a year. "I have been writing to the Duke of York about a commission for that eldest boy of ours. He, however, affords me no hopes; he says that his list is crammed with names, and that the greater number of the candidates have better claims than my son." "I do not see how that can be," said my mother. "Nor do I," replied my father. "I see the sons of bankers and merchants gazetted every month, and I do not see what claims they have to urge, unless they be golden ones. However, I have not served my king fifty years to turn grumbler at this time of life. I suppose that the people at the head of affairs know what is most proper and convenient; perhaps when the lad sees how difficult, nay, how impossible it is that he should enter the army, he will turn his mind to some other profession; I wish he may!" "I think he has already," said my mother; "you see how fond he is of the arts, of drawing and painting, and, as far as I can judge, what he has already done is very respectable; his mind seems quite turned that way, and I heard him say the other day that he would sooner be a Michael Angelo than a general officer. But you are always talking of him; what do you think of doing with the other child?" "What, indeed!" said my father; "that is a consideration which gives me no little uneasiness. I am afraid it will be much more difficult to settle him in life than his brother. What is he fitted for, even were it in my power to provide for him? God help the child! I bear him no ill will, on the contrary, all love and affection; but I cannot shut my eyes; there is something so strange about him! How he behaved in Ireland! I sent him to school to learn Greek, and he picked up Irish!" "And Greek as well," said my mother. "I heard him say the other day that he could read St. John in the original tongue." "You will find excuses for him, I know," said my father. "You tell me I am always talking of my first-born; I might retort by saying you are always thinking of the other; but it is the way of women always to side with the second-born. There's what's her name in the Bible, by whose wiles the old blind man was induced to give to his second son the blessing which was the birthright of the other. I wish I had been in his place! I should not have been so easily deceived! no disguise would ever have caused me to mistake an impostor for my first-born. Though I must say for this boy that he is nothing like Jacob; he is neither smooth nor sleek, and, though my second-born, is already taller and larger than his brother." "Just so," said my mother; "his brother would make a far better Jacob than he." "I will hear nothing against my first-born," said my father, "even in the way of insinuation: he is my joy and pride; the very image of myself in my youthful days, long before I fought Big Ben; though perhaps not quite so tall or strong built. As for the other, God bless the child! I love him, I'm sure; but I must be blind not to see the difference between him and his brother. Why, he has neither my hair nor my eyes; and then his countenance! why, 'tis absolutely swarthy, God forgive me! I had almost said like that of a gypsy, but I have nothing to say against that; the boy is not to be blamed for the colour of his face, nor for his hair and eyes; but, then, his ways and manners!--I confess I do not like them, and that they give me no little uneasiness--I know that he kept very strange company when he was in Ireland; people of evil report, of whom terrible things were said--horse-witches and the like. I questioned him once or twice upon the matter, and even threatened him, but it was of no use; he put on a look as if he did not understand me, a regular Irish look, just such a one as those rascals assume when they wish to appear all innocence and simplicity, and they full of malice and deceit all the time. I don't like them; they are no friends to old England, or its old king, God bless him! They are not good subjects, and never were; always in league with foreign enemies. When I was in the Coldstream, long before the Revolution, I used to hear enough about the Irish brigades kept by the French kings, to be a thorn in the side of the English whenever opportunity served. Old Sergeant Meredith once told me, that in the time of the Pretender there were always, in London alone, a dozen of fellows connected with these brigades, with the view of seducing the king's soldiers from their allegiance, and persuading them to desert to France to join the honest Irish, as they were called. One of these traitors once accosted him and proposed the matter to him, offering handfuls of gold if he could induce any of his comrades to go over. Meredith appeared to consent; but secretly gave information to his colonel; the fellow was seized, and certain traitorous papers found upon him; he was hanged before Newgate, and died exulting in his treason. His name was Michael Nowlan. That ever son of mine should have been intimate with the Papist Irish, and have learnt their language!" "But he thinks of other things now," said my mother. "Other languages, you mean," said my father. "It is strange that he has conceived such a zest for the study of languages; no sooner did he come home than he persuaded me to send him to that old priest to learn French and Italian, and, if I remember right, you abetted him; but, as I said before, it is in the nature of women invariably to take the part of the second-born. Well, there is no harm in learning French and Italian, perhaps much good in his case, as they may drive the other tongue out of his head. Irish! why he might go to the university but for that; but how would he look when, on being examined with respect to his attainments, it was discovered that he understood Irish? How did you learn it? they would ask him; how did you become acquainted with the language of Papists and rebels? The boy would be sent away in disgrace." "Be under no apprehension; I have no doubt that he has long since forgotten it." "I am glad to hear it," said my father; "for, between ourselves, I love the poor child; ay, quite as well as my first-born. I trust they will do well, and that God will be their shield and guide; I have no doubt He will, for I have read something in the Bible to that effect. What is that text about the young ravens being fed?" "I know a better than that," said my mother; "one of David's own words, 'I have been young and now am grown old, yet never have I seen the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread.'" I have heard talk of the pleasures of idleness, yet it is my own firm belief that no one ever yet took pleasure in it. Mere idleness is the most disagreeable state of existence, and both mind and body are continually making efforts to escape from it. It has been said that idleness is the parent of mischief, which is very true; but mischief itself is merely an attempt to escape from the dreary vacuum of idleness. There are many tasks and occupations which a man is unwilling to perform, but let no one think that he is therefore in love with idleness; he turns to something which is more agreeable to his inclination, and doubtless more suited to his nature; but he is not in love with idleness. A boy may play the truant from school because he dislikes books and study; but, depend upon it, he intends doing something the while--to go fishing, or perhaps to take a walk; and who knows but that from such excursions both his mind and body may derive more benefit than from books and school? Many people go to sleep to escape from idleness; the Spaniards do; and, according to the French account, John Bull, the squire, hangs himself in the month of November; but the French, who are a very sensible people, attribute the action, "_a une grande envie de se desennuyer_;" he wishes to be doing something, say they, and having nothing better to do, he has recourse to the cord. It was for want of something better to do that, shortly after my return home, {140} I applied myself to the study of languages. By the acquisition of Irish, with the first elements of which I had become acquainted under the tuition of Murtagh, I had contracted a certain zest and inclination for the pursuit. Yet it is probable, that had I been launched about this time into some agreeable career, that of arms, for example, for which, being the son of a soldier, I had, as was natural, a sort of penchant, I might have thought nothing more of the acquisition of tongues of any kind; but, having nothing to do, I followed the only course suited to my genius which appeared open to me. So it came to pass that one day, whilst wandering listlessly about the streets of the old town, I came to a small bookstall, and stopping, commenced turning over the books; I took up at least a dozen, and almost instantly flung them down. What were they to me? At last, coming to a thick volume, I opened it, and after inspecting its contents for a few minutes, I paid for it what was demanded, and forthwith carried it home. It was a tessara-glot grammar; a strange old book, printed somewhere in Holland, which pretended to be an easy guide to the acquirement of the French, Italian, Low Dutch, and English tongues, by means of which any one conversant in any one of these languages could make himself master of the other three. I turned my attention to the French and Italian. The old book was not of much value; I derived some benefit from it, however, and, conning it intensely, at the end of a few weeks obtained some insight into the structure of these two languages. At length I had learnt all that the book was capable of informing me, yet was still far from the goal to which it had promised to conduct me. "I wish I had a master!" I exclaimed; and the master was at hand. In an old court of the old town lived a certain elderly personage, perhaps sixty, or thereabouts; he was rather tall, and something of a robust make, with a countenance in which bluffness was singularly blended with vivacity and grimace; and with a complexion which would have been ruddy, but for a yellow hue which rather predominated. His dress consisted of a snuff- coloured coat and drab pantaloons, the former evidently seldom subjected to the annoyance of a brush, and the latter exhibiting here and there spots of something which, if not grease, bore a strong resemblance to it; add to these articles an immense frill, seldom of the purest white, but invariably of the finest French cambric, and you have some idea of his dress. He had rather a remarkable stoop, but his step was rapid and vigorous, and as he hurried along the streets, he would glance to the right and left with a pair of big eyes like plums, and on recognising any one would exalt a pair of grizzled eyebrows, and slightly kiss a tawny and ungloved hand. At certain hours of the day he might be seen entering the doors of female boarding-schools, generally with a book in his hand, and perhaps another just peering from the orifice of a capacious back pocket; and at a certain season of the year he might be seen, dressed in white, before the altar of a certain small popish chapel, chanting from the breviary in very intelligible Latin, or perhaps reading from the desk in utterly unintelligible English. Such was my preceptor in the French and Italian tongues. "Exul sacerdos; vone banished priest. I came into England twenty-five year ago, 'my dear.'" {142} CHAPTER XV Monsieur Dante--Condemned Musket--Sporting--Sweet Rivulet--The Earl's Home--The Pool--The Sonorous Voice--What dost Thou Read?--Man of Peace--Zohar and Mishna--Money-changers. So I studied French and Italian under the tuition of the banished priest, to whose house I went regularly every evening to receive instruction. I made considerable progress in the acquisition of the two languages. I found the French by far the most difficult, chiefly on account of the accent, which my master himself possessed in no great purity, being a Norman by birth. The Italian was my favourite. "_Vous serez_ _un jour un grand philologue_, _mon cher_," said the old man, on our arriving at the conclusion of Dante's Hell. "I hope I shall be something better," said I, "before I die, or I shall have lived to little purpose." "That's true, my dear! philologist--one small poor dog. What would you wish to be?" "Many things sooner than that; for example, I would rather be like him who wrote this book." "_Quoi_, _Monsieur Dante_? He was a vagabond, my dear, forced to fly from his country. No, my dear, if you would be like one poet, be like Monsieur Boileau; he is the poet." "I don't think so." "How, not think so? He wrote very respectable verses; lived and died much respected by everybody. T'other, one bad dog, forced to fly from his country--died with not enough to pay his undertaker." "Were you not forced to flee from your country?" "That very true; but there is much difference between me and this Dante. He fled from country because he had one bad tongue which he shook at his betters. I fly because benefice gone, and head going; not on account of the badness of my tongue." "Well," said I, "you can return now; the Bourbons are restored." "I find myself very well here; not bad country. _Il est vrai que la France sera toujours la France_; but all are dead there who knew me. I find myself very well here. Preach in popish chapel, teach schismatic, that is Protestant, child tongues and literature. I find myself very well; and why? Because I know how to govern my tongue; never call people hard names. _Ma foi_, _il y a beaucoup de difference entre moi et ce sacre de Dante_." Under this old man, who was well versed in the southern languages, besides studying French and Italian, I acquired some knowledge of Spanish. But I did not devote my time entirely to philology; I had other pursuits. I had not forgotten the roving life I had led in former days, nor its delights; neither was I formed by nature to be a pallid indoor student. No, no! I was fond of other and, I say it boldly, better things than study. I had an attachment to the angle, ay, and to the gun likewise. In our house was a condemned musket, bearing somewhere on its lock, in rather antique characters, "Tower, 1746"; with this weapon I had already, in Ireland, performed some execution among the rooks and choughs, and it was now again destined to be a source of solace and amusement to me, in the winter season, especially on occasions of severe frost when birds abounded. Sallying forth with it at these times, far into the country, I seldom returned at night without a string of bullfinches, blackbirds, and linnets hanging in triumph round my neck. When I reflect on the immense quantity of powder and shot which I crammed down the muzzle of my uncouth fowling-piece, I am less surprised at the number of birds which I slaughtered, than that I never blew my hands, face, and old honey-combed gun, at one and the same time, to pieces. But the winter, alas! (I speak as a fowler) seldom lasts in England more than three or four months; so, during the rest of the year, when not occupied with my philological studies, I had to seek for other diversions. I have already given a hint that I was also addicted to the angle. Of course there is no comparison between the two pursuits, the rod and line seeming but very poor trumpery to one who has had the honour of carrying a noble firelock. There is a time, however, for all things; and we return to any favourite amusement with the greater zest, from being compelled to relinquish it for a season. So, if I shot birds in winter with my firelock, I caught fish in summer, or attempted so to do, with my angle. I was not quite so successful, it is true, with the latter as with the former; possibly because it afforded me less pleasure. It was, indeed, too much of a listless pastime to inspire me with any great interest. I not unfrequently fell into a doze, whilst sitting on the bank, and more than once let my rod drop from my hands into the water. At some distance from the city, behind a range of hilly ground which rises towards the south-west, is a small river, the waters of which, after many meanderings, eventually enter the principal river of the district, {146} and assist to swell the tide which it rolls down to the ocean. It is a sweet rivulet, and pleasant is it to trace its course from its spring-head, high up in the remote regions of Eastern Anglia, till it arrives in the valley behind yon rising ground; and pleasant is that valley, truly a goodly spot, but most lovely where yonder bridge crosses the little stream. Beneath its arch the waters rush garrulously into a blue pool, and are there stilled, for a time, for the pool is deep, and they appear to have sunk to sleep. Farther on, however, you hear their voice again, where they ripple gaily over yon gravelly shallow. On the left, the hill slopes gently down to the margin of the stream. On the right is a green level, a smiling meadow, grass of the richest decks the side of the slope; mighty trees also adorn it, giant elms, the nearest of which, when the sun is nigh its meridian, fling a broad shadow upon the face of the pool; through yon vista you catch a glimpse of the ancient brick of an old English hall. It has a stately look, that old building, indistinctly seen, as it is, among those umbrageous trees; you might almost suppose it an earl's home; and such it was, or rather upon its site stood an earl's home, in days of old, for there some old Kemp, some Sigurd, or Thorkild, roaming in quest of a hearth-stead, settled down in the grey old time, when Thor and Freya were yet gods, and Odin was a portentous name. Yon old hall is still called the Earl's Home, {147} though the hearth of Sigurd is now no more, and the bones of the old Kemp, and of Sigrith his dame, have been mouldering for a thousand years in some neighbouring knoll; perhaps yonder, where those tall Norwegian pines shoot up so boldly into the air. It is said that the old earl's galley was once moored where is now that blue pool, for the waters of that valley were not always sweet; yon valley was once an arm of the sea, a salt lagoon, to which the war-barks of "Sigurd, in search of a home," found their way. I was in the habit of spending many an hour on the banks of that rivulet, with my rod in my hand, and, when tired with angling, would stretch myself on the grass, and gaze upon the waters as they glided past, and not unfrequently, divesting myself of my dress, I would plunge into the deep pool which I have already mentioned, for I had long since learned to swim. And it came to pass, that on one hot summer's day, after bathing in the pool, I passed along the meadow till I came to a shallow part, and, wading over to the opposite side, I adjusted my dress, and commenced fishing in another pool, beside which was a small clump of hazels. And there I sat upon the bank, at the bottom of the hill which slopes down from "the Earl's home"; my float was on the waters, and my back was towards the old hall. I drew up many fish, small and great, which I took from off the hook mechanically, and flung upon the bank, for I was almost unconscious of what I was about, for my mind was not with my fish. I was thinking of my earlier years--of the Scottish crags and the heaths of Ireland--and sometimes my mind would dwell on my studies--on the sonorous stanzas of Dante, rising and falling like the waves of the sea--or would strive to remember a couplet or two of poor Monsieur Boileau. "Canst thou answer to thy conscience for pulling all those fish out of the water, and leaving them to gasp in the sun?" said a voice, clear and sonorous as a bell. I started, and looked round. Close behind me stood the tall figure of a man, dressed in raiment of quaint and singular fashion, but of goodly materials. He was in the prime and vigour of manhood; his features handsome and noble, but full of calmness and benevolence; at least I thought so, though they were somewhat shaded by a hat of finest beaver, with broad drooping eaves. {148} "Surely that is a very cruel diversion in which thou indulgest, my young friend?" he continued. "I am sorry for it, if it be, sir," said I, rising; "but I do not think it cruel to fish." "What are thy reasons for not thinking so?" "Fishing is mentioned frequently in Scripture. Simon Peter was a fisherman." "True; and Andrew and his brother. But thou forgettest: they did not follow fishing as a diversion, as I fear thou doest.--Thou readest the Scriptures?" "Sometimes." "Sometimes?--not daily?--that is to be regretted. What profession dost thou make?--I mean to what religious denomination dost thou belong, my young friend?" "Church." "It is a very good profession--there is much of Scripture contained in its liturgy. Dost thou read aught besides the Scriptures?" "Sometimes." "What dost thou read besides?" "Greek, and Dante." "Indeed! then thou hast the advantage over myself; I can only read the former. Well, I am rejoiced to find that thou hast other pursuits beside thy fishing. Dost thou know Hebrew?" "No." "Thou shouldst study it. Why dost thou not undertake the study?" "I have no books." "I will lend thee books, if thou wish to undertake the study. I live yonder at the hall, as perhaps thou knowest. I have a library there, in which are many curious books, both in Greek and Hebrew, which I will show to thee, whenever thou mayest find it convenient to come and see me. Farewell! I am glad to find that thou hast pursuits more satisfactory than thy cruel fishing." And the man of peace departed, and left me on the bank of the stream. Whether from the effect of his words, or from want of inclination to the sport, I know not, but from that day I became less and less a practitioner of that "cruel fishing." I rarely flung line and angle into the water, but I not unfrequently wandered by the banks of the pleasant rivulet. It seems singular to me, on reflection, that I never availed myself of his kind invitation. I say singular, for the extraordinary, under whatever form, had long had no slight interest for me; and I had discernment enough to perceive that yon was no common man. Yet I went not near him, certainly not from bashfulness, or timidity, feelings to which I had long been an entire stranger. Am I to regret this? perhaps, for I might have learned both wisdom and righteousness from those calm, quiet lips, and my after-course might have been widely different. As it was, I fell in with other guess companions, from whom I received widely different impressions than those I might have derived from him. When many years had rolled on, long after I had attained manhood, and had seen and suffered much, and when our first interview had long since been effaced from the mind of the man of peace, I visited him in his venerable hall, and partook of the hospitality of his hearth. And there I saw his gentle partner, and his fair children, and on the morrow he showed me the books of which he had spoken years before, by the side of the stream. In the low quiet chamber, whose one window, shaded by a gigantic elm, looks down the slope towards the pleasant stream, he took from the shelf his learned books, Zohar and Mishna, Toldoth Jesu and Abarbenel. "I am fond of these studies," said he, "which, perhaps, is not to be wondered at, seeing that our people have been compared to the Jews. In one respect I confess we are similar to them; we are fond of getting money. I do not like this last author, this Abarbenel, the worse for having been a money- changer. I am a banker myself, as thou knowest." And would there were many like him, amidst the money-changers of princes! The hall of many an earl lacks the bounty, the palace of many a prelate the piety and learning, which adorn the quiet Quaker's home! CHAPTER XVI Fair of Horses--Looks of Respect--The Fast Trotter--Pair of Eyes--Strange Men--Jasper, Your Pal--Force of Blood--Young Lady with Diamonds--Not Quite so Beautiful. I was standing on the Castle Hill in the midst of a fair of horses. I have already had occasion to mention this castle. It is the remains of what was once a Norman stronghold, and is perched upon a round mound or monticle, in the midst of the old city. Steep is this mound and scarped, evidently by the hand of man; a deep gorge, over which is flung a bridge, separates it, on the south, from a broad swell of open ground called "the hill"; of old the scene of many a tournament and feat of Norman chivalry, but now much used as a show-place for cattle, where those who buy and sell beeves and other beasts resort at stated periods. So it came to pass that I stood upon this hill, observing a fair of horses. {152} The reader is already aware that I had long since conceived a passion for the equine race; a passion in which circumstances had of late not permitted me to indulge. I had no horses to ride, but I took pleasure in looking at them; and I had already attended more than one of these fairs: the present was lively enough, indeed horse fairs are seldom dull. There was shouting and whooping, neighing and braying; there was galloping and trotting; fellows with highlows and white stockings, and with many a string dangling from the knees of their tight breeches, were running desperately, holding horses by the halter, and in some cases dragging them along; there were long-tailed steeds, and dock-tailed steeds of every degree and breed; there were droves of wild ponies, and long rows of sober cart horses; there were donkeys, and even mules: the last rare things to be seen in damp, misty England, for the mule pines in mud and rain, and thrives best with a hot sun above and a burning sand below. There were--oh, the gallant creatures! I hear their neigh upon the wind; there were--goodliest sight of all--certain enormous quadrupeds only seen to perfection in our native isle, led about by dapper grooms, their manes ribanded and their tails curiously clubbed and balled. Ha! ha!--how distinctly do they say, ha! ha! An old man draws nigh, he is mounted on a lean pony, and he leads by the bridle one of these animals; nothing very remarkable about that creature, unless in being smaller than the rest and gentle, which they are not; he is not of the sightliest look; he is almost dun, and over one eye a thick film has gathered. But stay! there _is_ something remarkable about that horse, there is something in his action in which he differs from all the rest: as he advances, the clamour is hushed! all eyes are turned upon him--what looks of interest--of respect--and, what is this? people are taking off their hats--surely not to that steed! Yes, verily! men, especially old men, are taking off their hats to that one-eyed steed, and I hear more than one deep-drawn ah! "What horse is that?" said I to a very old fellow, the counterpart of the old man on the pony, save that the last wore a faded suit of velveteen, and this one was dressed in a white frock. "The best in mother England," said the very old man, taking a knobbed stick from his mouth, and looking me in the face, at first carelessly, but presently with something like interest; "he is old like myself, but can still trot his twenty miles an hour. You won't live long, my swain; tall and overgrown ones like thee never does; yet, if you should chance to reach my years, you may boast to thy great grand boys, thou hast seen Marshland Shales." Amain I did for the horse what I would neither do for earl or baron, doffed my hat; yes! I doffed my hat to the wondrous horse, the fast trotter, the best in mother England; and I too drew a deep ah! and repeated the words of the old fellows around. "Such a horse as this we shall never see again; a pity that he is so old." {154} Now during all this time I had a kind of consciousness that I had been the object of some person's observation; that eyes were fastened upon me from somewhere in the crowd. Sometimes I thought myself watched from before, sometimes from behind; and occasionally methought that, if I just turned my head to the right or left, I should meet a peering and inquiring glance; and indeed once or twice I did turn, expecting to see somebody whom I knew, yet always without success; though it appeared to me that I was but a moment too late, and that some one had just slipped away from the direction to which I turned, like the figure in a magic lanthorn. Once I was quite sure that there were a pair of eyes glaring over my right shoulder; my attention, however, was so fully occupied with the objects which I have attempted to describe, that I thought very little of this coming and going, this flitting and dodging of I knew not whom or what. It was, after all, a matter of sheer indifference to me who was looking at me. I could only wish, whomsoever it might be, to be more profitably employed; so I continued enjoying what I saw; and now there was a change in the scene, the wondrous old horse departed with his aged guardian; other objects of interest are at hand; two or three men on horseback are hurrying through the crowd, they are widely different in their appearance from the other people of the fair; not so much in dress, for they are clad something after the fashion of rustic jockeys, but in their look--no light brown hair have they, no ruddy cheeks, no blue quiet glances belong to them; their features are dark, their locks long, black, and shining, and their eyes are wild; they are admirable horsemen, but they do not sit the saddle in the manner of common jockeys, they seem to float or hover upon it, like gulls upon the waves; two of them are mere striplings, but the third is a very tall man with a countenance heroically beautiful, but wild, wild, wild. As they rush along, the crowd give way on all sides, and now a kind of ring or circus is formed, within which the strange men exhibit their horsemanship, rushing past each other, in and out, after the manner of a reel, the tall man occasionally balancing himself upon the saddle, and standing erect on one foot. He had just regained his seat after the latter feat, and was about to push his horse to a gallop, when a figure started forward close from beside me, and laying his hand on his neck, and pulling him gently downward, appeared to whisper something into his ear; presently the tall man raised his head, and, scanning the crowd for a moment in the direction in which I was standing, fixed his eyes full upon me, and anon the countenance of the whisperer was turned, but only in part, and the side-glance of another pair of wild eyes was directed towards my face, but the entire visage of the big black man, half stooping as he was, was turned full upon mine. But now, with a nod to the figure who had stopped him, and with another inquiring glance at myself, the big man once more put his steed into motion, and, after riding round the ring a few more times, darted through a lane in the crowd, and followed by his two companions disappeared, whereupon the figure who had whispered to him, and had subsequently remained in the middle of the space, came towards me, and, cracking a whip which he held in his hand so loudly that the report was nearly equal to that of a pocket pistol, he cried in a strange tone: "What! the sap-engro? {156} Lor! the sap-engro upon the hill!" "I remember that word," said I, "and I almost think I remember you. You can't be--" "Jasper, your pal! Truth, and no lie, brother." "It is strange that you should have known me," said I. "I am certain, but for the word you used, I should never have recognised you." "Not so strange as you may think, brother; there is something in your face which would prevent people from forgetting you, even though they might wish it; and your face is not much altered since the time you wot of, though you are so much grown. I thought it was you, but to make sure I dodged about, inspecting you. I believe you felt me, though I never touched you; a sign, brother, that we are akin, that we are dui palor--two relations. Your blood beat when mine was near, as mine always does at the coming of a brother; and we became brothers in that lane." "And where are you staying?" said I; "in this town?" "Not in the town; the like of us don't find it exactly wholesome to stay in towns, we keep abroad. But I have little to do here--come with me, and I'll show you where we stay." We descended the hill in the direction of the north, and passing along the suburb reached the old Norman bridge, which we crossed; the chalk precipice, with the ruin on its top, was now before us; but turning to the left we walked swiftly along, and presently came to some rising ground, which ascending, we found ourselves upon a wild moor or heath. {157} "You are one of them," said I, "whom people call--" "Just so," said Jasper; "but never mind what people call us." "And that tall handsome man on the hill, whom you whispered? I suppose he's one of ye. What is his name?" "Tawno Chikno," {158} said Jasper, "which means the small one; we call him such because he is the biggest man of all our nation. You say he is handsome, that is not the word, brother; he's the beauty of the world. Women run wild at the sight of Tawno. An earl's daughter, near London--a fine young lady with diamonds round her neck--fell in love with Tawno. I have seen that lass on a heath, as this may be, kneel down to Tawno, clasp his feet, begging to be his wife--or anything else--if she might go with him. But Tawno would have nothing to do with her: 'I have a wife of my own,' said he, 'a lawful Rommany wife, whom I love better than the whole world, jealous though she sometimes be.'" "And is she very beautiful?" said I. "Why, you know, brother, beauty is frequently a matter of taste; however, as you ask my opinion, I should say not quite so beautiful as himself." We had now arrived at a small valley between two hills, or downs, the sides of which were covered with furze; in the midst of this valley were various carts and low tents forming a rude kind of encampment; several dark children were playing about, who took no manner of notice of us. As we passed one of the tents, however, a canvas screen was lifted up, and a woman supported upon a crutch hobbled out. She was about the middle age, and, besides being lame, was bitterly ugly; she was very slovenly dressed, and on her swarthy features ill nature was most visibly stamped. She did not deign me a look, but, addressing Jasper in a tongue which I did not understand, appeared to put some eager questions to him. "He's coming," said Jasper, and passed on. "Poor fellow," said he to me, "he has scarcely been gone an hour, and she's jealous already. Well," he continued, "what do you think of her? you have seen her now, and can judge for yourself--that 'ere woman is Tawno Chikno's wife!" CHAPTER XVII The Tents--Pleasant Discourse--I am Pharaoh--Shifting for One's Self--Horse Shoes--This is Wonderful--Bless Your Wisdom--A Pretty Manoeuvre--Ill Day to the Romans--My Name is Herne--Singular People--An Original Speech--Word Master--Speaking Romanly. We went to the farthest of the tents, which stood at a slight distance from the rest, and which exactly resembled the one which I have described on a former occasion. We went in and sat down one on each side of a small fire, which was smouldering on the ground; there was no one else in the tent but a tall tawny woman of middle age, who was busily knitting. "Brother," said Jasper, "I wish to hold some pleasant discourse with you." "As much as you please," said I, "provided you can find anything pleasant to talk about." "Never fear," said Jasper; "and first of all we will talk of yourself. Where have you been all this long time?" "Here and there," said I, "and far and near, going about with the soldiers; but there is no soldiering now, so we have sat down, father and family, in the town there." "And do you still hunt snakes?" said Jasper. "No," said I; "I have given up that long ago; I do better now: read books and learn languages." "Well, I am sorry you have given up your snake-hunting; many's the strange talk I have had with our people about your snake and yourself, and how you frightened my father and mother in the lane." "And where are your father and mother?" "Where I shall never see them, brother; at least, I hope so." "Not dead?" "No, not dead; they are bitchadey pawdel." "What's that?" "Sent across--banished." "Ah! I understand; I am sorry for them. And so you are here alone?" "Not quite alone, brother." "No, not alone; but with the rest--Tawno Chikno takes care of you." "Takes care of me, brother!" "Yes, stands to you in the place of a father--keeps you out of harm's way." "What do you take me for, brother?" "For about three years older than myself." "Perhaps; but you are of the Gorgios, and I am a Rommany Chal. Tawno Chikno take care of Jasper Petulengro!" {161} "Is that your name?" "Don't you like it?" "Very much, I never heard a sweeter; it is something like what you call me." "The horse-shoe master and the snake-fellow, I am the first." "Who gave you that name?" "Ask Pharaoh." "I would, if he were here, but I do not see him." "I am Pharaoh." "Then you are a king." "Chachipen Pal." {162a} "I do not understand you." "Where are your languages? You want two things, brother: mother sense, and gentle Rommany." "What makes you think that I want sense?" "That, being so old, you can't yet guide yourself!" "I can read Dante, Jasper." "Anan, brother." "I can charm snakes, Jasper." "I know you can, brother." "Yes, and horses too; bring me the most vicious in the land, if I whisper he'll be tame." "Then the more shame for you--a snake-fellow--a horse-witch--and a lil- reader{162b}--yet you can't shift for yourself. I laugh at you, brother!" "Then you can shift for yourself?" "For myself and for others, brother." "And what does Chikno?" "Sells me horses, when I bid him. Those horses on the chong {162c} were mine." "And has he none of his own?" "Sometimes he has; but he is not so well off as myself. When my father and mother were bitchadey pawdel, which, to tell you the truth, they were, for chiving wafodo dloovu, {163a} they left me all they had, which was not a little, and I became the head of our family, which was not a small one. I was not older than you when that happened; yet our people said they had never a better krallis to contrive and plan for them, and to keep them in order. And this is so well known, that many Rommany Chals, {163b} not of our family, come and join themselves to us, living with us for a time, in order to better themselves, more especially those of the poorer sort, who have little of their own. Tawno is one of these." "Is that fine fellow poor?" "One of the poorest, brother. Handsome as he is, he has not a horse of his own to ride on. Perhaps we may put it down to his wife, who cannot move about, being a cripple, as you saw." "And you are what is called a Gypsy King?" "Ay, ay; a Rommany Kral." "Are there other kings?" "Those who call themselves so; but the true Pharaoh is Petulengro." "Did Pharaoh make horse-shoes?" "The first who ever did, brother." "Pharaoh lived in Egypt." "So did we once, brother." "And you left it?" "My fathers did, brother." "And why did they come here?" "They had their reasons, brother." "And you are not English?" "We are not Gorgios." {163c} "And you have a language of your own?" "Avali." {164a} "This is wonderful." "Ha, ha!" cried the woman, who had hitherto sat knitting, at the farther end of the tent, without saying a word, though not inattentive to our conversation, as I could perceive, by certain glances, which she occasionally cast upon us both. "Ha, ha!" she screamed, fixing upon me two eyes, which shone like burning coals, and which were filled with an expression both of scorn and malignity. "It is wonderful, is it, that we should have a language of our own? What, you grudge the poor people the speech they talk among themselves? That's just like you Gorgios, you would have everybody stupid, single-tongued idiots, like yourselves. We are taken before the Poknees of the gav, {164b} myself and sister, to give an account of ourselves. So I says to my sister's little boy, speaking Rommany, I says to the little boy who is with us, run to my son Jasper, and the rest, and tell them to be off, there are hawks abroad. So the Poknees questions us, and lets us go, not being able to make anything of us; but, as we are going, he calls us back. 'Good woman,' says the Poknees, 'what was that I heard you say just now to the little boy?' 'I was telling him, your worship, to go and see the time of day, and, to save trouble, I said it in our language.' 'Where did you get that language?' says the Poknees. ''Tis our own language, sir,' I tells him, 'we did not steal it.' 'Shall I tell you what it is, my good woman?' says the Poknees. 'I would thank you, sir,' says I, 'for 'tis often we are asked about it.' 'Well, then,' says the Poknees, 'it is no language at all, merely a made-up gibberish.' 'Oh, bless your wisdom,' says I, with a curtsey, 'you can tell us what our language is, without understanding it!' Another time we meet a parson. 'Good woman,' says he, 'what's that you are talking? Is it broken language?' 'Of course, your reverence,' says I, 'we are broken people; give a shilling, your reverence, to the poor broken woman.' Oh, these Gorgios! they grudge us our very language!" "She called you her son, Jasper?" "I am her son, brother." "I thought you said your parents were--" "Bitchadey pawdel; you thought right, brother. This is my wife's mother." "Then you are married, Jasper?" "Ay, truly; I am husband and father. You will see wife and chabo {165a} anon." "Where are they now?" "In the gav, penning dukkerin." {165b} "We were talking of language, Jasper." "True, brother." "Yours must be a rum one." "'Tis called Rommany." "I would gladly know it." "You need it sorely." "Would you teach it me?" "None sooner." "Suppose we begin now?" "Suppose we do, brother." "Not whilst I am here," said the woman, flinging her knitting down, and starting upon her feet; "not whilst I am here shall this Gorgio learn Rommany. A pretty manoeuvre, truly; and what would be the end of it? I goes to the farming ker {166a} with my sister, to tell a fortune, and earn a few sixpences for the chabes. I sees a jolly pig in the yard, and I says to my sister, speaking Rommany, 'Do so and so,' says I; which the farming man hearing, asks what we are talking about. 'Nothing at all, master,' says I; 'something about the weather;' when who should start up from behind a pale, where he has been listening, but this ugly Gorgio, crying out, 'They are after poisoning your pigs, neighbour!' so that we are glad to run, I and my sister, with perhaps the farm-engro shouting after us. Says my sister to me, when we have got fairly off, 'How came that ugly one to know what you said to me?' Whereupon I answers, 'It all comes of my son Jasper, who brings the Gorgio to our fire, and must needs be teaching him.' 'Who was fool there?' says my sister. 'Who, indeed, but my son Jasper,' I answers. And here should I be a greater fool to sit still and suffer it; which I will not do. I do not like the look of him; he looks over-gorgious. An ill day to the Romans when he masters Rommany; and, when I says that, I pens a true dukkerin." "What do you call God, Jasper?" "You had better be jawing," {166b} said the woman, raising her voice to a terrible scream; "you had better be moving off, my Gorgio; hang you for a keen one, sitting there by the fire, and stealing my language before my face. Do you know whom you have to deal with? Do you know that I am dangerous? My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!" And a hairy one she looked! She wore her hair clubbed upon her head, fastened with many strings and ligatures; but now, tearing these off, her locks, originally jet black, but now partially grizzled with age, fell down on every side of her, covering her face and back as far down as her knees. No she-bear of Lapland ever looked more fierce and hairy than did that woman, as standing in the open part of the tent, with her head bent down, and her shoulders drawn up, seemingly about to precipitate herself upon me, she repeated, again and again,-- "My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!--" "I call God Duvel, brother." "It sounds very like Devil." "It doth, brother, it doth." "And what do you call divine, I mean godly?" "Oh! I call that duvelskoe." "I am thinking of something, Jasper." "What are you thinking of, brother?" "Would it not be a rum thing if divine and devilish were originally one and the same word?" "It would, brother, it would--" * * * * * From this time I had frequent interviews with Jasper, sometimes in his tent, sometimes on the heath, about which we would roam for hours, discoursing on various matters. Sometimes mounted on one of his horses, of which he had several, I would accompany him to various fairs and markets in the neighbourhood, to which he went on his own affairs, or those of his tribe. I soon found that I had become acquainted with a most singular people, whose habits and pursuits awakened within me the highest interest. Of all connected with them, however, their language was doubtless that which exercised the greatest influence over my imagination. I had at first some suspicion that it would prove a mere made-up gibberish; but I was soon undeceived. Broken, corrupted, and half in ruins as it was, it was not long before I found that it was an original speech, far more so, indeed, than one or two others of high name and celebrity, which, up to that time, I had been in the habit of regarding with respect and veneration. Indeed many obscure points connected with the vocabulary of these languages, and to which neither classic nor modern lore afforded any clue, I thought I could now clear up by means of this strange broken tongue, spoken by people who dwelt amongst thickets and furze bushes, in tents as tawny as their faces, and whom the generality of mankind designated, and with much semblance of justice, as thieves and vagabonds. But where did this speech come from, and who were they who spoke it? These were questions which I could not solve, and which Jasper himself, when pressed, confessed his inability to answer. "But, whoever we be, brother," said he, "we are an old people, and not what folks in general imagine, broken Gorgios; and, if we are not Egyptians, we are at any rate Rommany Chals!" "Rommany Chals! I should not wonder after all," said I, "that these people had something to do with the founding of Rome. Rome, it is said, was built by vagabonds; who knows but that some tribe of the kind settled down thereabouts, and called the town which they built after their name? but whence did they come originally? ah! there is the difficulty." {169a} But abandoning these questions, which at that time were far too profound for me, I went on studying the language, and at the same time the characters and manners of these strange people. My rapid progress in the former astonished, while it delighted, Jasper. "We'll no longer call you Sap-engro, brother," said he; "but rather Lav-engro, which in the language of the Gorgios meaneth Word Master." "Nay, brother," said Tawno Chikno, with whom I had become very intimate, "you had better call him Cooro-mengro. {169b} I have put on _the gloves_ with him, and find him a pure fist master; I like him for that, for I am a Cooro-mengro myself, and was born at Brummagem." "I likes him for his modesty," said Mrs. Chikno; "I never hears any ill words come from his mouth, but, on the contrary, much sweet language. His talk is golden, and he has taught my eldest to say his prayers in Rommany, which my rover had never the grace to do." "He is the pal of my rom," {170a} said Mrs. Petulengro, who was a very handsome woman, "and therefore I likes him, and not the less for his being a rye; {170b} folks calls me high-minded, and perhaps I have reason to be so; before I married Pharaoh I had an offer from a lord. I likes the young rye, and, if he chooses to follow us, he shall have my sister. What say you, mother? should not the young rye have my sister Ursula?" "I am going to my people," said Mrs. Herne, placing a bundle upon a donkey, which was her own peculiar property; "I am going to Yorkshire, for I can stand this no longer. You say you like him: in that we differs; I hates the Gorgio, and would like, speaking Romanly, to mix a little poison with his waters. And now go to Lundra, {170c} my children; I goes to Yorkshire. Take my blessing with ye, and a little bit of a gillie {170d} to cheer your hearts with when ye are weary. In all kinds of weather have we lived together; but now we are parted. I goes broken- hearted--I can't keep you company; ye are no longer Rommany. To gain a bad brother, ye have lost a good mother." CHAPTER XVIII What Profession?--Not Fitted for a Churchman--Erratic Course--The Bitter Draught--Principle of Woe--Thou Wouldst be Joyous--What Ails You?--Poor Child of Clay. So the Gypsies departed; Mrs. Herne to Yorkshire, and the rest to London: as for myself, I continued in the house of my parents, passing my time in much the same manner as I have already described, principally in philological pursuits; but I was now sixteen, and it was highly necessary that I should adopt some profession, unless I intended to fritter away my existence, and to be a useless burden to those who had given me birth; but what profession was I to choose? there being none in the wide world perhaps for which I was suited; nor was there any one for which I felt any decided inclination, though perhaps there existed within me a lurking penchant for the profession of arms, which was natural enough, as, from my earliest infancy, I had been accustomed to military sights and sounds; but this profession was then closed, as I have already hinted, and, as I believe, it has since continued, to those who, like myself, had no better claims to urge than the services of a father. My father, who, for certain reasons of his own, had no very high opinion of the advantages resulting from this career, would have gladly seen me enter the Church. His desire was, however, considerably abated by one or two passages of my life, which occurred to his recollection. He particularly dwelt on the unheard-of manner in which I had picked up the Irish language, and drew from thence the conclusion that I was not fitted by nature to cut a respectable figure at an English university. "He will fly off in a tangent," said he, "and, when called upon to exhibit his skill in Greek, will be found proficient in Irish; I have observed the poor lad attentively, and really do not know what to make of him; but I am afraid he will never make a churchman!" And I have no doubt that my excellent father was right, both in his premises and the conclusion at which he arrived. I had undoubtedly, at one period of my life, forsaken Greek for Irish, and the instructions of a learned Protestant divine, for those of a Papist gossoon, the card-fancying Murtagh; and of late, though I kept it a strict secret, I had abandoned in a great measure the study of the beautiful Italian, and the recitation of the sonorous terzets of the Divine Comedy, in which at one time I took the greatest delight, in order to become acquainted with the broken speech, and yet more broken songs, of certain houseless wanderers whom I had met at a horse fair. Such an erratic course was certainly by no means in consonance with the sober and unvarying routine of college study. And my father, who was a man of excellent common sense, displayed it, in not pressing me to adopt a profession which required qualities of mind which he saw I did not possess. Other professions were talked of, amongst which the law; but now an event occurred which had nearly stopped my career, and merged all minor points of solicitude in anxiety for my life. My strength and appetite suddenly deserted me, and I began to pine and droop. Some said that I had overgrown myself, and that these were the symptoms of a rapid decline; I grew worse and worse, and was soon stretched upon my bed, from which it seemed scarcely probable that I should ever more rise, the physicians themselves giving but slight hopes of my recovery: as for myself, I made up my mind to die, and felt quite resigned. I was sadly ignorant at that time, and, when I thought of death, it appeared to me little else than a pleasant sleep, and I wished for sleep, of which I got but little. It was well that I did not die that time, for I repeat that I was sadly ignorant of many important things. I did not die, for somebody coming gave me a strange, bitter draught; a decoction, I believe, of a bitter root which grows on commons and desolate places: and the person who gave it me was an ancient female, a kind of doctress, who had been my nurse in my infancy, and who, hearing of my state, had come to see me; so I drank the draught, and became a little better, and I continued taking draughts made from the bitter root till I manifested symptoms of convalescence. But how much more quickly does strength desert the human frame than return to it! I had become convalescent, it is true, but my state of feebleness was truly pitiable. I believe it is in that state that the most remarkable feature of human physiology frequently exhibits itself. Oh, how dare I mention the dark feeling of mysterious dread which comes over the mind, and which the lamp of reason, though burning bright the while, is unable to dispel! Art thou, as leeches say, the concomitant of disease--the result of shattered nerves? Nay, rather the principle of woe itself, the fountain-head of all sorrow co-existent with man, whose influence he feels when yet unborn, and whose workings he testifies with his earliest cries, when, "drowned in tears," he first beholds the light; for, as the sparks fly upward, so is man born to trouble, and woe doth he bring with him into the world, even thyself, dark one, terrible one, causeless, unbegotten, without a father. Oh, how unfrequently dost thou break down the barriers which divide thee from the poor soul of man, and overcast its sunshine with thy gloomy shadow. In the brightest days of prosperity--in the midst of health and wealth--how sentient is the poor human creature of thy neighbourhood! how instinctively aware that the flood-gates of horror may be cast open, and the dark stream engulf him for ever and ever! Then is it not lawful for man to exclaim, "Better that I had never been born!" Fool, for thyself thou wast not born, but to fulfil the inscrutable decrees of thy Creator; and how dost thou know that this dark principle is not, after all, thy best friend; that it is not that which tempers the whole mass of thy corruption? It may be, for what thou knowest, the mother of wisdom, and of great works: it is the dread of the horror of the night that makes the pilgrim hasten on his way. When thou feelest it nigh, let thy safety word be "Onward"; if thou tarry, thou art overwhelmed. Courage! build great works--'tis urging thee--it is ever nearest the favourites of God--the fool knows little of it. Thou wouldst be joyous, wouldst thou? then be a fool. What great work was ever the result of joy, the puny one? Who have been the wise ones, the mighty ones, the conquering ones of this earth? the joyous? I believe not. The fool is happy, or comparatively so--certainly the least sorrowful, but he is still a fool: and whose notes are sweetest, those of the nightingale, or of the silly lark? * * * * * "What ails you, my child?" said a mother to her son, as he lay on a couch under the influence of the dreadful one; "what ails you? you seem afraid!" _Boy_. And so I am; a dreadful fear is upon me. _Mother_. But of what? there is no one can harm you; of what are you apprehensive? _Boy_. Of nothing that I can express; I know not what I am afraid of, but afraid I am. _Mother_. Perhaps you see sights and visions; I knew a lady once who was continually thinking that she saw an armed man threaten her, but it was only an imagination, a phantom of the brain. _Boy_. No armed man threatens me; and 'tis not a thing like that would cause me any fear. Did an armed man threaten me, I would get up and fight him; weak as I am, I would wish for nothing better, for then, perhaps, I should lose this fear; mine is a dread of I know not what, and there the horror lies. _Mother_. Your forehead is cool, and your speech collected. Do you know where you are? _Boy_. I know where I am, and I see things just as they are; you are beside me, and upon the table there is a book which was written by a Florentine; all this I see, and that there is no ground for being afraid. I am, moreover, quite cool, and feel no pain--but, but . . . And then there was a burst of "gemiti, sospiri ed alti guai." Alas, alas, poor child of clay! as the sparks fly upward, so wast thou born to sorrow--Onward! CHAPTER XIX Agreeable Delusions--Youth--A Profession--Ab Gwilym--Glorious English Law--There They Pass--My Dear Old Master--The Deal Desk--Language of the Tents--Where is Morfydd?--Go to--Only Once. It has been said by this or that writer, I scarcely know by whom, that, in proportion as we grow old, and our time becomes short, the swifter does it pass, until at last, as we approach the borders of the grave, it assumes all the speed and impetuosity of a river about to precipitate itself into an abyss; this is doubtless the case, provided we can carry to the grave those pleasant thoughts and delusions which alone render life agreeable, and to which even to the very last we would gladly cling; but what becomes of the swiftness of time, when the mind sees the vanity of human pursuits? which is sure to be the case when its fondest, dearest hopes have been blighted at the very moment when the harvest was deemed secure. What becomes from that moment, I repeat, of the shortness of time? I put not the question to those who have never known that trial,--they are satisfied with themselves and all around them, with what they have done, and yet hope to do; some carry their delusions with them to the borders of the grave, ay, to the very moment when they fall into it; a beautiful golden cloud surrounds them to the last, and such talk of the shortness of time: through the medium of that cloud the world has ever been a pleasant world to them; their only regret is that they are so soon to quit it; but oh, ye dear deluded hearts, it is not every one who is so fortunate! To the generality of mankind there is no period like youth. The generality are far from fortunate; but the period of youth, even to the least so, offers moments of considerable happiness, for they are not only disposed, but able to enjoy most things within their reach. With what trifles at that period are we content; the things from which in after- life we should turn away in disdain please us then, for we are in the midst of a golden cloud, and everything seems decked with a golden hue. Never during any portion of my life did time flow on more speedily than during the two or three years immediately succeeding the period to which we arrived in the preceding chapter: since then it has flagged often enough; sometimes it has seemed to stand entirely still; and the reader may easily judge how it fares at the present, from the circumstance of my taking pen in hand, and endeavouring to write down the passages of my life--a last resource with most people. But at the period to which I allude I was just, as I may say, entering upon life; I had adopted a profession, and--to keep up my character, simultaneously with that profession--the study of a new language--I speedily became a proficient in the one, but ever remained a novice in the other: a novice in the law, but a perfect master in the Welsh tongue. {178} Yes! very pleasant times were those, when within the womb of a lofty deal desk, behind which I sat for some eight hours every day, transcribing (when I imagined eyes were upon me) documents of every description in every possible hand, Blackstone kept company with Ab Gwilym--the polished English lawyer of the last century, who wrote long and prosy chapters on the rights of things--with a certain wild Welshman, who some four hundred years before that time indited immortal cowydds and odes to the wives of Cambrian chieftains--more particularly to one Morfydd, the wife of a certain hunchbacked dignitary called by the poet facetiously Bwa Bach--generally terminating with the modest request of a little private parlance beneath the green wood bough, with no other witness than the eos, or nightingale, a request which, if the poet himself may be believed, rather a doubtful point, was seldom, very seldom, denied. And by what strange chance had Ab Gwilym and Blackstone, two personages so exceedingly different, been thus brought together? From what the reader already knows of me, he may be quite prepared to find me reading the former; but what could have induced me to take up Blackstone, or rather the law? I have ever loved to be as explicit as possible; on which account, perhaps, I never attained to any proficiency in the law, the essence of which is said to be ambiguity; most questions may be answered in a few words, and this among the rest, though connected with the law. My parents deemed it necessary that I should adopt some profession, they named the law; the law was as agreeable to me as any other profession within my reach, so I adopted the law, and the consequence was, that Blackstone, probably for the first time, found himself in company with Ab Gwilym. By adopting the law I had not ceased to be Lavengro. {180} So I sat behind a desk many hours in the day, ostensibly engaged in transcribing documents of various kinds; the scene of my labours was a strange old house, occupying one side of a long and narrow court, into which, however, the greater number of the windows looked not, but into an extensive garden, filled with fruit trees, in the rear of a large, handsome house, belonging to a highly respectable gentleman, who, _moyennant un douceur considerable_, had consented to instruct my father's youngest son in the mysteries of glorious English law. Ah! would that I could describe the good gentleman in the manner which he deserves; he has long since sunk to his place in a respectable vault, in the aisle of a very respectable church, whilst an exceedingly respectable marble slab against the neighbouring wall tells on a Sunday some eye wandering from its prayer-book that his dust lies below; to secure such respectabilities in death, he passed a most respectable life. Let no one sneer, he accomplished much; his life was peaceful, so was his death. Are these trifles? I wish I could describe him, for I loved the man, and with reason, for he was ever kind to me, to whom kindness has not always been shown; and he was, moreover, a choice specimen of a class which no longer exists--a gentleman lawyer of the old school. I would fain describe him, but figures with which he has nought to do press forward and keep him from my mind's eye; there they pass, Spaniard and Moor, Gypsy, Turk, and livid Jew. But who is that? what that thick pursy man in the loose, snuff-coloured great-coat, with the white stockings, drab breeches, and silver buckles on his shoes; that man with the bull neck, and singular head, immense in the lower part, especially about the jaws, but tapering upward like a pear; the man with the bushy brows, small grey eyes, replete with cat-like expression, whose grizzled hair is cut close, and whose ear lobes are pierced with small golden rings? Oh! that is not my dear old master, but a widely different personage. _Bon jour_, _Monsieur Vidocq_! _expressions de ma part a Monsieur Le Baron Taylor_. But here he comes at last, my veritable old master! A more respectable-looking individual was never seen; he really looked what he was, a gentleman of the law--there was nothing of the pettifogger about him: somewhat under the middle size, and somewhat rotund in person, he was always dressed in a full suit of black, never worn long enough to become threadbare. His face was rubicund, and not without keenness; but the most remarkable thing about him was the crown of his head, which was bald, and shone like polished ivory, nothing more white, smooth, and lustrous. Some people have said that he wore false calves, probably because his black silk stockings never exhibited a wrinkle; they might just as well have said that he waddled, because his shoes creaked; for these last, which were always without a speck, and polished as his crown, though of a different hue, did creak, as he walked rather slowly. I cannot say that I ever saw him walk fast. He had a handsome practice, and might have died a very rich man, much richer than he did, had he not been in the habit of giving rather expensive dinners to certain great people, who gave him nothing in return, except their company; I could never discover his reasons for doing so, as he always appeared to me a remarkably quiet man, by nature averse to noise and bustle; but in all dispositions there are anomalies: I have already said that he lived in a handsome house, and I may as well here add that he had a very handsome wife, who both dressed and talked exceedingly well. So I sat behind the deal desk, engaged in copying documents of various kinds; and in the apartment in which I sat, and in the adjoining ones, there were others, some of whom likewise copied documents, while some were engaged in the yet more difficult task of drawing them up; and some of these, sons of nobody, were paid for the work they did, whilst others, like myself, sons of somebody, paid for being permitted to work, which, as our principal observed, was but reasonable, forasmuch as we not unfrequently utterly spoiled the greater part of the work entrusted to our hands. There was one part of the day when I generally found myself quite alone, I mean at the hour when the rest went home to their principal meal; I, being the youngest, was left to take care of the premises, to answer the bell, and so forth, till relieved, which was seldom before the expiration of an hour and a half, when I myself went home; this period, however, was anything but disagreeable to me, for it was then that I did what best pleased me, and, leaving off copying the documents, I sometimes indulged in a fit of musing, my chin resting on both my hands, and my elbows planted on the desk; or, opening the desk aforesaid, I would take out one of the books contained within it, and the book which I took out was almost invariably, not Blackstone, but Ab Gwilym. Ah, that Ab Gwilym! I am much indebted to him, and it were ungrateful on my part not to devote a few lines to him and his songs in this my history. Start not, reader, I am not going to trouble you with a poetical dissertation; no, no! I know my duty too well to introduce anything of the kind; but I, who imagine I know several things, and amongst others the workings of your mind at this moment, have an idea that you are anxious to learn a little, a very little, more about Ab Gwilym than I have hitherto told you, the two or three words that I have dropped having awakened within you a languid kind of curiosity. I have no hesitation in saying that he makes one of the some half-dozen really great poets whose verses, in whatever language they wrote, exist at the present day, and are more or less known. It matters little how I first became acquainted with the writings of this man, and how the short thick volume, stuffed full with his immortal imaginings, first came into my hands. I was studying Welsh, and I fell in with Ab Gwilym by no very strange chance. But, before I say more about Ab Gwilym, I must be permitted--I really must--to say a word or two about the language in which he wrote, that same "Sweet Welsh." If I remember right, I found the language a difficult one; in mastering it, however, I derived unexpected assistance from what of Irish remained in my head, and I soon found that they were cognate dialects, springing from some old tongue which itself, perhaps, had sprung from one much older. And here I cannot help observing cursorily that I every now and then, whilst studying this Welsh, generally supposed to be the original tongue of Britain, encountered words which, according to the lexicographers, were venerable words highly expressive, showing the wonderful power and originality of the Welsh, in which, however, they were no longer used in common discourse, but were relics, precious relics, of the first speech of Britain, perhaps of the world; with which words, however, I was already well acquainted, and which I had picked up, not in learned books, classic books, and in tongues of old renown, but whilst listening to Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno talking over their every-day affairs in the language of the tents; which circumstance did not fail to give rise to deep reflection in those moments when, planting my elbows on the deal desk, I rested my chin upon my hands. But it is probable that I should have abandoned the pursuit of the Welsh language, after obtaining a very superficial acquaintance with it, had it not been for Ab Gwilym. A strange songster was that who, pretending to be captivated by every woman he saw, was, in reality, in love with nature alone--wild, beautiful, solitary nature--her mountains and cascades, her forests and streams, her birds, fishes, and wild animals. Go to, Ab Gwilym, with thy pseudo-amatory odes, to Morfydd, or this or that other lady, fair or ugly--little didst thou care for any of them; Dame Nature was thy love, however thou mayest seek to disguise the truth. Yes, yes, send thy love- message to Morfydd, the fair wanton. By whom dost thou send it, I would know? by the salmon forsooth, which haunts the rushing stream! the glorious salmon which bounds and gambols in the flashing water, and whose ways and circumstances thou so well describest--see, there he hurries upwards through the flashing water. Halloo! what a glimpse of glory--but where is Morfydd the while? What, another message to the wife of Bwa Bach? Ay, truly; and by whom?--the wind! the swift wind, the rider of the world, whose course is not to be stayed; who gallops o'er the mountain, and, when he comes to broadest river, asks neither for boat nor ferry; who has described the wind so well--his speed and power? But where is Morfydd? And now thou art awaiting Morfydd, the wanton, the wife of the Bwa Bach; thou art awaiting her beneath the tall trees, amidst the underwood; but she comes not; no Morfydd is there. Quite right, Ab Gwilym; what wantest thou with Morfydd? But another form is nigh at hand, that of red Reynard, who, seated upon his chine at the mouth of his cave, looks very composedly at thee; thou startest, bendest thy bow, thy cross-bow, intending to hit Reynard with the bolt just about the jaw; but the bow breaks, Reynard barks and disappears into his cave, which by thine own account reaches hell--and then thou ravest at the misfortune of thy bow, and the non-appearance of Morfydd, and abusest Reynard. Go to, thou carest neither for thy bow nor for Morfydd, thou merely seekest an opportunity to speak of Reynard; and who has described him like thee? the brute with the sharp shrill cry, the black reverse of melody, whose face sometimes wears a smile like the devil's in the Evangile. But now thou art actually with Morfydd; yes, she has stolen from the dwelling of the Bwa Bach and has met thee beneath those rocks--she is actually with thee, Ab Gwilym; but she is not long with thee, for a storm comes on, and thunder shatters the rocks--Morfydd flees! Quite right, Ab Gwilym; thou hadst no need of her, a better theme for song is the voice of the Lord--the rock shatterer--than the frail wife of the Bwa Bach. Go to, Ab Gwilym, thou wast a wiser and a better man than thou wouldst fain have had people believe. But enough of thee and thy songs! Those times passed rapidly; with Ab Gwilym in my hand, I was in the midst of enchanted ground, in which I experienced sensations akin to those I had felt of yore whilst spelling my way through the wonderful book--the delight of my childhood. I say akin, for perhaps only once in our lives do we experience unmixed wonder and delight; and these I had already known. CHAPTER XX Silver Grey--Good Word for Everybody--A Remarkable Youth--Clients--Grades in Society--The Archdeacon--Reading the Bible. "I am afraid that I have not acted very wisely in putting this boy of ours to the law," said my father to my mother, as they sat together one summer evening in their little garden, beneath the shade of some tall poplars. Yes, there sat my father in the garden chair which leaned against the wall of his quiet home, the haven in which he had sought rest, and, praise be to God, found it, after many a year of poorly requited toil; there he sat, with locks of silver grey which set off so nobly his fine bold but benevolent face, his faithful consort at his side, and his trusty dog at his feet--an eccentric animal of the genuine regimental breed, who, born amongst red-coats, had not yet become reconciled to those of any other hue, barking and tearing at them when they drew near the door, but testifying his fond reminiscence of the former by hospitable waggings of the tail whenever a uniform made its appearance--at present a very unfrequent occurrence. "I am afraid I have not done right in putting him to the law," said my father, resting his chin upon his gold-headed bamboo cane. "Why, what makes you think so?" said my mother. "I have been taking my usual evening walk up the road, with the animal here," said my father; "and, as I walked along, I overtook the boy's master, Mr. S---. We shook hands, and, after walking a little way farther, we turned back together, talking about this and that; the state of the country, the weather, and the dog, which he greatly admired; for he is a good-natured man, and has a good word for everybody, though the dog all but bit him when he attempted to coax his head; after the dog, we began talking about the boy; it was myself who introduced that subject: I thought it was a good opportunity to learn how he was getting on, so I asked what he thought of my son; he hesitated at first, seeming scarcely to know what to say; at length he came out with 'Oh, a very extraordinary youth, a most remarkable youth indeed, captain!' 'Indeed,' said I, 'I am glad to hear it, but I hope you find him steady?' 'Steady, steady,' said he, 'why, yes, he's steady, I cannot say that he is not steady.' 'Come, come,' said I, beginning to be rather uneasy, 'I see plainly that you are not altogether satisfied with him; I was afraid you would not be, for, though he is my own son, I am anything but blind to his imperfections: but do tell me what particular fault you have to find with him; and I will do my best to make him alter his conduct.' 'No fault to find with him, captain, I assure you, no fault whatever; the youth is a remarkable youth, an extraordinary youth, only . . .' As I told you before, Mr. S--- is the best natured man in the world, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I could get him to say a single word to the disadvantage of the boy, for whom he seems to entertain a very great regard. At last I forced the truth from him, and grieved I was to hear it; though I must confess that I was somewhat prepared for it. It appears that the lad has a total want of discrimination." "I don't understand you," said my mother. "You can understand nothing that would seem for a moment to impugn the conduct of that child. I am not, however, so blind; want of discrimination was the word, and it both sounds well, and is expressive. It appears that, since he has been placed where he is, he has been guilty of the grossest blunders; only the other day, Mr. S--- told me, as he was engaged in close conversation with one of his principal clients, the boy came to tell him that a person wanted particularly to speak with him; and, on going out, he found a lamentable figure with one eye, who came to ask for charity; whom, nevertheless, the lad had ushered into a private room, and installed in an arm-chair, like a justice of the peace, instead of telling him to go about his business--now what did that show, but a total want of discrimination?" "I wish we may never have anything worse to reproach him with," said my mother. "I don't know what worse we could reproach him with," said my father; "I mean of course as far as his profession is concerned; discrimination is the very key-stone; if he treated all people alike, he would soon become a beggar himself; there are grades in society as well as in the army; and according to those grades we should fashion our behaviour, else there would instantly be an end of all order and discipline. I am afraid that the child is too condescending to his inferiors, whilst to his superiors he is apt to be unbending enough; I don't believe that would do in the world; I am sure it would not in the army. He told me another anecdote with respect to his behaviour, which shocked me more than the other had done. It appears that his wife, who, by the bye, is a very fine woman, and highly fashionable, gave him permission to ask the boy to tea one evening, for she is herself rather partial to the lad; there had been a great dinner party there that day, and there were a great many fashionable people, so the boy went and behaved very well and modestly for some time, and was rather noticed, till, unluckily, a very great gentleman, an archdeacon I think, put some questions to him, and, finding that he understood the languages, began talking to him about the classics. What do you think? the boy had the impertinence to say that the classics were much overvalued, and amongst other things that some horrid fellow or other, some Welshman I think (thank God it was not an Irishman), was a better poet than Ovid; the company were of course horrified; the archdeacon, who is seventy years of age, and has seven thousand a year, took snuff and turned away. Mrs. S--- turned up her eyes; Mr. S---, however, told me with his usual good-nature (I suppose to spare my feelings) that he rather enjoyed the thing, and thought it a capital joke." "I think so too," said my mother. "I do not," said my father; "that a boy of his years should entertain an opinion of his own--I mean one which militates against all established authority--is astounding; as well might a raw recruit pretend to offer an unfavourable opinion on the manual and platoon exercise; the idea is preposterous; the lad is too independent by half. I never yet knew one of an independent spirit get on in the army,--the secret of success in the army is the spirit of subordination." "Which is a poor spirit after all," said my mother; "but the child is not in the army." "And it is well for him that he is not," said my father; "but you do not talk wisely; the world is a field of battle, and he who leaves the ranks, what can he expect but to be cut down? I call his present behaviour leaving the ranks, and going vapouring about without orders; his only chance lies in falling in again as quick as possible; does he think he can carry the day by himself? an opinion of his own at these years--I confess I am exceedingly uneasy about the lad." "You make me uneasy too," said my mother; "but I really think you are too hard upon the child; he is not a bad child, after all, though not, perhaps, all you could wish him; he is always ready to read the Bible. Let us go in; he is in the room above us; at least he was two hours ago, I left him there bending over his books; I wonder what he has been doing all this time, it is now getting late; let us go in, and he shall read to us." "I am getting old," said my father; "and I love to hear the Bible read to me, for my own sight is something dim; yet I do not wish the child to read to me this night, I cannot so soon forget what I have heard; but I hear my eldest son's voice, he is now entering the gate; he shall read the Bible to us this night. What say you?" CHAPTER XXI The Eldest Son--Saying of Wild Finland--The Critical Time--Vaunting Polls--One Thing Wanted--A Father's Blessing--Miracle of Art--The Pope's House--Young Enthusiast--Pictures of England--Persist and Wrestle--The Little Dark Man. The eldest son! The regard and affection which my father entertained for his first-born were natural enough, and appeared to none more so than myself, who cherished the same feelings towards him. What he was as a boy the reader already knows, for the reader has seen him as a boy; fain would I describe him at the time of which I am now speaking, when he had attained the verge of manhood, but the pen fails me, and I attempt not the task; and yet it ought to be an easy one, for how frequently does his form visit my mind's eye in slumber and in wakefulness, in the light of day, and in the night watches; but last night I saw him in his beauty and his strength; he was about to speak, and my ear was on the stretch, when at once I awoke, and there was I alone, and the night storm was howling amidst the branches of the pines which surround my lonely dwelling: "Listen to the moaning of the pine, at whose root thy hut is fastened,"--a saying that, of wild Finland, in which there is wisdom; I listened and thought of life and death. . . . Of all human beings that I have ever known, that elder brother was the most frank and generous, ay, and the quickest and readiest, and the best adapted to do a great thing needful at the critical time, when the delay of a moment would be fatal. I have known him dash from a steep bank into a stream in his full dress, and pull out a man who was drowning; yet there were twenty others bathing in the water, who might have saved him by putting out a hand, without inconvenience to themselves, which, however, they did not do, but stared with stupid surprise at the drowning one's struggles. Yes, whilst some shouted from the bank to those in the water to save the drowning one, and those in the water did nothing, my brother neither shouted nor stood still, but dashed from the bank and did the one thing needful, which, under such circumstances, not one man in a million would have done. Now, who can wonder that a brave old man should love a son like this, and prefer him to any other? "My boy, my own boy, you are the very image of myself, the day I took off my coat in the park to fight Big Ben," said my father, on meeting his son wet and dripping, immediately after his bold feat. And who cannot excuse the honest pride of the old man--the stout old man? Ay, old man, that son was worthy of thee, and thou wast worthy of such a son; a noble specimen wast thou of those strong single-minded Englishmen, who, without making a parade either of religion or loyalty, feared God and honoured their king, and were not particularly friendly to the French, whose vaunting polls they occasionally broke, as at Minden and at Malplaquet, to the confusion vast of the eternal foes of the English land. I, who was so little like thee that thou understoodst me not, and in whom with justice thou didst feel so little pride, had yet perception enough to see all thy worth, and to feel it an honour to be able to call myself thy son; and if at some no distant time, when the foreign enemy ventures to insult our shore, I be permitted to break some vaunting poll, it will be a triumph to me to think that, if thou hadst lived, thou wouldst have hailed the deed, and mightest yet discover some distant resemblance to thyself, the day when thou didst all but vanquish the mighty Brain. I have already spoken of my brother's taste for painting, and the progress he had made in that beautiful art. It is probable that, if circumstances had not eventually diverted his mind from the pursuit, he would have attained excellence, and left behind him some enduring monument of his powers, for he had an imagination to conceive, and that yet rarer endowment, a hand capable of giving life, body, and reality to the conceptions of his mind; perhaps he wanted one thing, the want of which is but too often fatal to the sons of genius, and without which genius is little more than a splendid toy in the hands of the possessor--perseverance, dogged perseverance, in his proper calling; otherwise, though the grave had closed over him, he might still be living in the admiration of his fellow-creatures. O ye gifted ones, follow your calling, for, however various your talents may be, ye can have but one calling capable of leading ye to eminence and renown; follow resolutely the one straight path before you, it is that of your good angel, let neither obstacles nor temptations induce ye to leave it; bound along if you can; if not, on hands and knees follow it, perish in it, if needful; but ye need not fear that; no one ever yet died in the true path of his calling before he had attained the pinnacle. Turn into other paths, and for a momentary advantage or gratification ye have sold your inheritance, your immortality. Ye will never be heard of after death. "My father has given me a hundred and fifty pounds," said my brother to me one morning, "and something which is better--his blessing. I am going to leave you." "And where are you going?" "Where? to the great city; to London, to be sure." "I should like to go with you." "Pooh!" said my brother; "what should you do there? But don't be discouraged; I dare say a time will come when you too will go to London." And, sure enough, so it did, and all but too soon. "And what do you purpose doing there?" I demanded. "Oh, I go to improve myself in art, to place myself under some master of high name, at least I hope to do so eventually. I have, however, a plan in my head, which I should wish first to execute; indeed, I do not think I can rest till I have done so; every one talks so much about Italy, and the wondrous artists which it has produced, and the wondrous pictures which are to be found there; now I wish to see Italy, or rather Rome, the great city, for I am told that in a certain room there is contained the grand miracle of art." "And what do you call it?" "The Transfiguration, painted by one Rafael, and it is said to be the greatest work of the greatest painter which the world has ever known. I suppose it is because everybody says so, that I have such a strange desire to see it. I have already made myself well acquainted with its locality, and think that I could almost find my way to it blindfold. When I have crossed the Tiber, which, as you are aware, runs through Rome, I must presently turn to the right, up a rather shabby street, which communicates with a large square, the farther end of which is entirely occupied by the front of an immense church, with a dome, which ascends almost to the clouds, and this church they call St. Peter's." "Ay, ay," said I, "I have read about that in 'Keysler's Travels.'" "Before the church, in the square, are two fountains, one on either side, casting up water in showers; between them, in the midst, is an obelisk, brought from Egypt, and covered with mysterious writing; on your right rises an edifice, not beautiful nor grand, but huge and bulky, where lives a strange kind of priest whom men call the Pope, a very horrible old individual, who would fain keep Christ in leading strings, calls the Virgin Mary the Queen of Heaven, and himself God's Lieutenant-General upon earth." "Ay, ay," said I, "I have read of him in 'Fox's Book of Martyrs.'" "Well, I do not go straight forward up the flight of steps conducting into the church, but I turn to the right, and, passing under the piazza, find myself in a court of the huge bulky house; and then ascend various staircases, and pass along various corridors and galleries, all of which I could describe to you, though I have never seen them; at last a door is unlocked, and we enter a room rather high, but not particularly large, communicating with another room, into which, however, I do not go, though there are noble things in that second room--immortal things, by immortal artists; amongst others, a grand piece of Corregio; I do not enter it, for the grand picture of the world is not there; but I stand still immediately on entering the first room, and I look straight before me, neither to the right nor left, though there are noble things both on the right and left, for immediately before me at the farther end, hanging against the wall, is a picture which arrests me, and I can see nothing else, for that picture at the farther end hanging against the wall is the picture of the world . . ." Yes, go thy way, young enthusiast, and, whether to London town or to old Rome, may success attend thee; yet strange fears assail me and misgivings on thy account. Thou canst not rest, thou sayest, till thou hast seen the picture in the chamber at old Rome hanging over against the wall; ay, and thus thou dost exemplify thy weakness--thy strength too, it may be--for the one idea, fantastic yet lovely, which now possesses thee, could only have originated in a genial and fervent brain. Well, go, if thou must go; yet it perhaps were better for thee to bide in thy native land, and there, with fear and trembling, with groanings, with straining eyeballs, toil, drudge, slave, till thou hast made excellence thine own; thou wilt scarcely acquire it by staring at the picture over against the door in the high chamber of old Rome. Seekest thou inspiration? thou needest it not, thou hast it already; and it was never yet found by crossing the sea. What hast thou to do with old Rome, and thou an Englishman? "Did thy blood never glow at the mention of thy native land?" as an artist merely? Yes, I trow, and with reason, for thy native land need not grudge old Rome her "pictures of the world"; she has pictures of her own, "pictures of England"; and is it a new thing to toss up caps and shout--England against the world? Yes, against the world in all, in all; in science and in arms, in minstrel strain, and not less in the art "which enables the hand to deceive the intoxicated soul by means of pictures." {198} Seekest models? to Gainsborough and Hogarth turn, not names of the world, may be, but English names--and England against the world! A living master? why, there he comes! thou hast had him long, he has long guided thy young hand towards the excellence which is yet far from thee, but which thou canst attain if thou shouldst persist and wrestle, even as he has done, 'midst gloom and despondency--ay, and even contempt; he who now comes up the creaking stair to thy little studio in the second floor to inspect thy last effort before thou departest, the little stout man whose face is very dark, and whose eye is vivacious; that man has attained excellence, destined some day to be acknowledged, though not till he is cold, and his mortal part returned to its kindred clay. He has painted, not pictures of the world, but English pictures, such as Gainsborough himself might have done; beautiful rural pieces, with trees which might well tempt the wild birds to perch upon them: thou needest not run to Rome, brother, where lives the old Mariolater, after pictures of the world, whilst at home there are pictures of England; nor needest thou even go to London, the big city, in search of a master, for thou hast one at home in the old East Anglian town who can instruct thee whilst thou needest instruction: better stay at home, brother, at least for a season, and toil and strive 'midst groanings and despondency till thou hast attained excellence even as he has done--the little dark man with the brown coat and the top-boots, whose name will one day be considered the chief ornament of the old town, and whose works will at no distant period rank amongst the proudest pictures of England--and England against the world!--thy master, my brother, thy, at present, all too little considered master--Crome. {199} CHAPTER XXII Desire for Novelty--Lives of the Lawless--Countenances--Old Yeoman and Dame--We Live near the Sea--Uncouth-looking Volume--The Other Condition--Draoitheac--A Dilemma--The Antinomian--Lodowick Muggleton--Almost Blind--Anders Vedel. But to proceed with my own story; I now ceased all at once to take much pleasure in the pursuits which formerly interested me, I yawned over Ab Gwilym, even as I now in my mind's eye perceive the reader yawning over the present pages. What was the cause of this? Constitutional lassitude, or a desire for novelty? Both it is probable had some influence in the matter, but I rather think that the latter feeling was predominant. The parting words of my brother had sunk into my mind. He had talked of travelling in strange regions and seeing strange and wonderful objects, and my imagination fell to work and drew pictures of adventures wild and fantastic, and I thought what a fine thing it must be to travel, and I wished that my father would give me his blessing, and the same sum that he had given my brother, and bid me go forth into the world; always forgetting that I had neither talents nor energies at this period which would enable me to make any successful figure on its stage. And then I again sought up the book which had so captivated me in my infancy, and I read it through; and I sought up others of a similar character, and in seeking for them I met books also of adventure, but by no means of a harmless description, lives of wicked and lawless men, Murray and Latroon--books of singular power, but of coarse and prurient imagination--books at one time highly in vogue; now deservedly forgotten, and most difficult to be found. And when I had gone through these books, what was my state of mind? I had derived entertainment from their perusal, but they left me more listless and unsettled than before, and I really knew not what to do to pass my time. My philological studies had become distasteful, and I had never taken any pleasure in the duties of my profession. I sat behind my desk in a state of torpor, my mind almost as blank as the paper before me, on which I rarely traced a line. It was always a relief to hear the bell ring, as it afforded me an opportunity of doing something which I was yet capable of doing, to rise and open the door and stare in the countenances of the visitors. All of a sudden I fell to studying countenances, and soon flattered myself that I had made considerable progress in the science. "There is no faith in countenances," said some Roman of old; "trust anything but a person's countenance." "Not trust a man's countenance?" say some moderns; "why, it is the only thing in many people that we can trust; on which account they keep it most assiduously out of the way. Trust not a man's words if you please, or you may come to very erroneous conclusions; but at all times place implicit confidence in a man's countenance, in which there is no deceit; and of necessity there can be none. If people would but look each other more in the face, we should have less cause to complain of the deception of the world; nothing so easy as physiognomy nor so useful." Somewhat in this latter strain I thought at the time of which I am speaking. I am now older, and, let us hope, less presumptuous. It is true that in the course of my life I have scarcely ever had occasion to repent placing confidence in individuals whose countenances have prepossessed me in their favour; though to how many I may have been unjust, from whose countenances I may have drawn unfavourable conclusions, is another matter. But it had been decreed by that Fate which governs our every action, that I was soon to return to my old pursuits. It was written that I should not yet cease to be Lav-engro, though I had become, in my own opinion, a kind of Lavater. It is singular enough that my renewed ardour for philology seems to have been brought about indirectly by my physiognomical researches, in which had I not indulged, the event which I am about to relate, as far as connected with myself, might never have occurred. Amongst the various countenances which I admitted during the period of my answering the bell, there were two which particularly pleased me, and which belonged to an elderly yeoman and his wife, whom some little business had brought to our law sanctuary. I believe they experienced from me some kindness and attention, which won the old people's hearts. So, one day, when their little business had been brought to a conclusion, and they chanced to be alone with me, who was seated as usual behind the deal desk in the outer room, the old man with some confusion began to tell me how grateful himself and dame felt for the many attentions I had shown them, and how desirous they were to make me some remuneration. "Of course," said the old man, "we must be cautious what we offer to so fine a young gentleman as yourself; we have, however, something we think will just suit the occasion, a strange kind of thing which people say is a book, though no one that my dame or myself have shown it to can make anything out of it; so as we are told that you are a fine young gentleman, who can read all the tongues of the earth and stars, as the Bible says, we thought, I and my dame, that it would be just the thing you would like; and my dame has it now at the bottom of her basket." "A book!" said I; "how did you come by it?" "We live near the sea," said the old man; "so near that sometimes our thatch is wet with the spray; and it may now be a year ago that there was a fearful storm, and a ship was driven ashore during the night, and ere the morn was a complete wreck. When we got up at daylight, there were the poor shivering crew at our door; they were foreigners, red-haired men, whose speech we did not understand; but we took them in, and warmed them, and they remained with us three days; and when they went away they left behind them this thing, here it is, part of the contents of a box which was washed ashore." "And did you learn who they were?" "Why, yes; they made us understand that they were Danes." Danes! thought I, Danes! and instantaneously, huge and grizzly, appeared to rise up before my vision the skull of the old pirate Dane, even as I had seen it of yore in the pent-house of the ancient church to which, with my mother and my brother, I had wandered on the memorable summer eve. And now the old man handed me the book; a strange and uncouth-looking volume enough. It was not very large, but instead of the usual covering was bound in wood, and was compressed with strong iron clasps. It was a printed book, but the pages were not of paper, but vellum, and the characters were black, and resembled those generally termed Gothic. "It is certainly a curious book," said I, "and I should like to have it; but I can't think of taking it as a gift; I must give you an equivalent; I never take presents from anybody." The old man whispered with his dame and chuckled, and then turned his face to me, and said, with another chuckle, "Well, we have agreed about the price, but, may be, you will not consent." "I don't know," said I; "what do you demand?" "Why, that you shake me by the hand, and hold out your cheek to my old dame,--she has taken an affection to you." "I shall be very glad to shake you by the hand," said I, "but as for the other condition, it requires consideration." "No consideration at all," said the old man, with something like a sigh; "she thinks you like her son, our only child, that was lost twenty years ago in the waves of the North Sea." "Oh, that alters the case altogether," said I, "and of course I can have no objection." And now at once I shook off my listlessness, to enable me to do which nothing could have happened more opportune than the above event. The Danes, the Danes! And was I at last to become acquainted, and in so singular a manner, with the speech of a people which had as far back as I could remember exercised the strongest influence over my imagination, as how should they not!--in infancy there was the summer-eve adventure, to which I often looked back, and always with a kind of strange interest, with respect to those to whom such gigantic and wondrous bones could belong as I had seen on that occasion; and, more than this, I had been in Ireland, and there, under peculiar circumstances, this same interest was increased tenfold. I had mingled much whilst there with the genuine Irish--a wild, but kind-hearted race, whose conversation was deeply imbued with traditionary lore, connected with the early history of their own romantic land, and from them I heard enough of the Danes, but nothing commonplace, for they never mentioned them but in terms which tallied well with my own preconceived ideas. For at an early period the Danes had invaded Ireland, and had subdued it, and, though eventually driven out, had left behind them an enduring remembrance in the minds of the people, who loved to speak of their strength and their stature, in evidence of which they would point to the ancient raths or mounds, where the old Danes were buried, and where bones of extraordinary size were occasionally exhumed. And as the Danes surpassed other people in strength, so, according to my narrators, they also excelled all others in wisdom, or rather in Draoitheac, or magic, for they were powerful sorcerers, they said, compared with whom the fairy men of the present day knew nothing at all, at all; and, amongst other wonderful things, they knew how to make strong beer from the heather that grows upon the bogs. Little wonder if the interest, the mysterious interest, which I had early felt about the Danes, was increased tenfold by my sojourn in Ireland. And now I had in my possession a Danish book, which, from its appearance, might be supposed to have belonged to the very old Danes indeed; but how was I to turn it to any account? I had the book, it is true, but I did not understand the language, and how was I to overcome that difficulty? hardly by poring over the book; yet I did pore over the book, daily and nightly, till my eyes were dim, and it appeared to me that every now and then I encountered words which I understood--English words, though strangely disguised; and I said to myself, courage! English and Danish are cognate dialects, a time will come when I shall understand this Danish; and then I pored over the book again, but with all my poring I could not understand it; and then I became angry, and I bit my lips till the blood came; and I occasionally tore a handful from my hair, and flung it upon the floor, but that did not mend the matter, for still I did not understand the book, which, however, I began to see was written in rhyme--a circumstance rather difficult to discover at first, the arrangement of the lines not differing from that which is employed in prose; and its being written in rhyme made me only the more eager to understand it. But I toiled in vain, for I had neither grammar nor dictionary of the language; and when I sought for them could procure neither; and I was much dispirited, till suddenly a bright thought came into my head, and I said, although I cannot obtain a dictionary or grammar, I can perhaps obtain a Bible in this language, and if I can procure a Bible, I can learn the language, for the Bible in every tongue contains the same thing, and I have only to compare the words of the Danish Bible with those of the English, and, if I persevere, I shall in time acquire the language of the Danes; and I was pleased with the thought, which I considered to be a bright one, and I no longer bit my lips, or tore my hair, but I took my hat, and, going forth, I flung my hat into the air. And when my hat came down, I put it on my head and commenced running, directing my course to the house of the Antinomian preacher, who sold books, and whom I knew to have Bibles in various tongues amongst the number, and I arrived out of breath, and I found the Antinomian in his little library, dusting his books; and the Antinomian clergyman was a tall man of about seventy, who wore a hat with a broad brim and a shallow crown, and whose manner of speaking was exceedingly nasal; and when I saw him, I cried, out of breath, "Have you a Danish Bible?" and he replied, "What do you want it for, friend?" and I answered, "To learn Danish by;" "And may be to learn thy duty," replied the Antinomian preacher. "Truly, I have it not, but, as you are a customer of mine, I will endeavour to procure you one, and I will write to that laudable society which men call the Bible Society, an unworthy member of which I am, and I hope by next week to procure what you desire." And when I heard these words of the old man, I was very glad, and my heart yearned towards him, and I would fain enter into conversation with him; and I said, "Why are you an Antinomian? For my part I would rather be a dog than belong to such a religion." "Nay, friend," said the Antinomian, "thou forejudgest us; know that those who call us Antinomians call us so despitefully; we do not acknowledge the designation." "Then you do not set all law at nought?" said I. "Far be it from us," said the old man; "we only hope that, being sanctified by the Spirit from above, we have no need of the law to keep us in order. Did you ever hear tell of Lodowick Muggleton?" {208} "Not I." "That is strange; know then that he was the founder of our poor society, and after him we are frequently, though opprobriously, termed Muggletonians, for we are Christians. Here is his book, which, perhaps, you can do no better than purchase; you are fond of rare books, and this is both curious and rare; I will sell it cheap. Thank you, and now be gone; I will do all I can to procure the Bible." And in this manner I procured the Danish Bible, and I commenced my task; first of all, however, I locked up in a closet the volume which had excited my curiosity, saying, "Out of this closet thou comest not till I deem myself competent to read thee," and then I sat down in right earnest, comparing every line in the one version with the corresponding one in the other; and I passed entire nights in this manner, till I was almost blind, and the task was tedious enough at first, but I quailed not, and soon began to make progress: and at first I had a misgiving that the old book might not prove a Danish book, but was soon reassured by reading many words in the Bible which I remembered to have seen in the book; and then I went on right merrily, and I found that the language which I was studying was by no means a difficult one, and in less than a month I deemed myself able to read the book. Anon, I took the book from the closet, and proceeded to make myself master of its contents; I had some difficulty, for the language of the book, though in the main the same as the language of the Bible, differed from it in some points, being apparently a more ancient dialect; by degrees, however, I overcame this difficulty, and I understood the contents of the book, and well did they correspond with all those ideas in which I had indulged connected with the Danes. For the book was a book of ballads, about the deeds of knights and champions, and men of huge stature; ballads which from time immemorial had been sung in the North, and which some two centuries before the time of which I am speaking had been collected by one Anders Vedel, who lived with a certain Tycho Brahe, and assisted him in making observations upon the heavenly bodies, at a place called Uranias Castle, on the little island of Hveen, in the Cattegat. CHAPTER XXIII The Two Individuals--The Long Pipe--The Germans--Werther--The Female Quaker--Suicide--Gibbon--Jesus of Bethlehem--Fill Your Glass--Shakespeare--English at Minden--Melancholy Swayne Vonved--The Fifth Dinner--Strange Doctrines--Are You Happy?--Improve Yourself in German. It might be some six months after the events last recorded, that two individuals were seated together in a certain room, in a certain street of the old town which I have so frequently had occasion to mention in the preceding pages; one of them was an elderly, and the other a very young man, and they sat on either side of a fireplace, beside a table, on which were fruit and wine; the room was a small one, and in its furniture exhibited nothing remarkable. Over the mantelpiece, however, hung a small picture with naked figures in the foreground, and with much foliage behind. It might not have struck every beholder, for it looked old and smoke-dried; but a connoisseur, on inspecting it closely, would have pronounced it to be a Judgment of Paris, and a masterpiece of the Flemish school. The forehead of the elder individual was high, and perhaps appeared more so than it really was, from the hair being carefully brushed back, as if for the purpose of displaying to the best advantage that part of the cranium; his eyes were large and full, and of a light brown, and might have been called heavy and dull, had they not been occasionally lighted up by a sudden gleam--not so brilliant, however, as that which at every inhalation shone from the bowl of the long clay pipe which he was smoking, but which, from a certain sucking sound which about this time began to be heard from the bottom, appeared to be giving notice that it would soon require replenishment from a certain canister, which, together with a lighted taper, stood upon the table beside him. {211} "You do not smoke?" said he, at length, laying down his pipe, and directing his glance to his companion. Now there was at least one thing singular connected with this last, namely, the colour of his hair, which, notwithstanding his extreme youth, appeared to be rapidly becoming grey. He had very long limbs, and was apparently tall of stature, in which he differed from his elderly companion, who must have been somewhat below the usual height. "No, I can't smoke," said the youth, in reply to the observation of the other; "I have often tried, but could never succeed to my satisfaction." "Is it possible to become a good German without smoking?" said the senior, half speaking to himself. "I dare say not," said the youth; "but I shan't break my heart on that account." "As for breaking your heart, of course you would never think of such a thing; he is a fool who breaks his heart on any account; but it is good to be a German, the Germans are the most philosophic people in the world, and the greatest smokers: now I trace their philosophy to their smoking." "I have heard say their philosophy is all smoke--is that your opinion?" "Why, no; but smoking has a sedative effect upon the nerves, and enables a man to bear the sorrows of this life (of which every one has his share) not only decently, but dignifiedly. Suicide is not a national habit in Germany as it is in England." "But that poor creature, Werther, who committed suicide, was a German." "Werther is a fictitious character, and by no means a felicitous one; I am no admirer either of Werther or his author. But I should say that, if there ever was a Werther in Germany, he did not smoke. Werther, as you very justly observe, was a poor creature." "And a very sinful one; I have heard my parents say that suicide is a great crime." "Broadly, and without qualification, to say that suicide is a crime, is speaking somewhat unphilosophically. No doubt suicide, under many circumstances, is a crime, a very heinous one. When the father of a family, for example, to escape from certain difficulties, commits suicide, he commits a crime; there are those around him who look to him for support, by the law of nature, and he has no right to withdraw himself from those who have a claim upon his exertions; he is a person who decamps with other people's goods as well as his own. Indeed, there can be no crime which is not founded upon the depriving others of something which belongs to them. A man is hanged for setting fire to his house in a crowded city, for he burns at the same time or damages those of other people; but if a man who has a house on a heath sets fire to it, he is not hanged, for he has not damaged or endangered any other individual's property, and the principle of revenge, upon which all punishment is founded, has not been aroused. Similar to such a case is that of the man who, without any family ties, commits suicide; for example, were I to do the thing this evening, who would have a right to call me to account? I am alone in the world, have no family to support, and, so far from damaging any one, should even benefit my heir by my accelerated death. However, I am no advocate for suicide under any circumstances; there is something undignified in it, unheroic, un-Germanic. But if you must commit suicide--and there is no knowing to what people may be brought--always contrive to do it as decorously as possible; the decencies, whether of life or of death, should never be lost sight of. I remember a female Quaker who committed suicide by cutting her throat, but she did it decorously and decently: kneeling down over a pail, so that not one drop fell upon the floor; thus exhibiting in her last act that nice sense of neatness for which Quakers are distinguished. I have always had a respect for that woman's memory." And here, filling his pipe from the canister, and lighting it at the taper, he recommenced smoking calmly and sedately. "But is not suicide forbidden in the Bible?" the youth demanded. "Why, no; but what though it were!--the Bible is a respectable book, but I should hardly call it one whose philosophy is of the soundest. I have said that it is a respectable book; I mean respectable from its antiquity, and from containing, as Herder says, 'the earliest records of the human race,' though those records are far from being dispassionately written, on which account they are of less value than they otherwise might have been. There is too much passion in the Bible, too much violence; now, to come to all truth, especially historic truth, requires cool dispassionate investigation, for which the Jews do not appear to have ever been famous. We are ourselves not famous for it, for we are a passionate people; the Germans are not--they are not a passionate people--a people celebrated for their oaths; we are. The Germans have many excellent historic writers, we . . . 'tis true we have Gibbon . . . You have been reading Gibbon--what do you think of him?" "I think him a very wonderful writer." "He is a wonderful writer--one _sui generis_--uniting the perspicuity of the English--for we are perspicuous--with the cool dispassionate reasoning of the Germans. Gibbon sought after the truth, found it, and made it clear." "Then you think Gibbon a truthful writer?" "Why, yes; who shall convict Gibbon of falsehood? Many people have endeavoured to convict Gibbon of falsehood; they have followed him in his researches, and have never found him once tripping. Oh, he is a wonderful writer! his power of condensation is admirable; the lore of the whole world is to be found in his pages. Sometimes in a single note, he has given us the result of the study of years; or, to speak metaphorically, 'he has ransacked a thousand Gulistans, and has condensed all his fragrant booty into a single drop of otto.'" "But was not Gibbon an enemy to the Christian faith?" "Why, no; he was rather an enemy to priestcraft, so am I; and when I say the philosophy of the Bible is in many respects unsound, I always wish to make an exception in favour of that part of it which contains the life and sayings of Jesus of Bethlehem, to which I must always concede my unqualified admiration--of Jesus, mind you; for with his followers and their dogmas I have nothing to do. Of all historic characters Jesus is the most beautiful and the most heroic. I have always been a friend to hero-worship, it is the only rational one, and has always been in use amongst civilised people--the worship of spirits is synonymous with barbarism--it is mere fetish; the savages of West Africa are all spirit worshippers. But there is something philosophic in the worship of the heroes of the human race, and the true hero is the benefactor. Brahma, Jupiter, Bacchus, were all benefactors, and, therefore, entitled to the worship of their respective peoples. The Celts worshipped Hesus, who taught them to plough, a highly useful art. We, who have attained a much higher state of civilisation than the Celts ever did, worship Jesus, the first who endeavoured to teach men to behave decently and decorously under all circumstances; who was the foe of vengeance, in which there is something highly indecorous; who had first the courage to lift his voice against that violent dogma, 'an eye for an eye'; who shouted conquer, but conquer with kindness; who said put up the sword, a violent unphilosophic weapon; and who finally died calmly and decorously in defence of his philosophy. He must be a savage who denies worship to the hero of Golgotha." "But He was something more than a hero; He was the Son of God, wasn't He?" The elderly individual made no immediate answer; but, after a few more whiffs from his pipe, exclaimed, "Come, fill your glass! How do you advance with your translation of Tell?" "It is nearly finished; but I do not think I shall proceed with it; I begin to think the original somewhat dull." "There you are wrong; it is the masterpiece of Schiller, the first of German poets." "It may be so," said the youth. "But, pray excuse me, I do not think very highly of German poetry. I have lately been reading Shakespeare; and, when I turn from him to the Germans--even the best of them--they appear mere pigmies. You will pardon the liberty I perhaps take in saying so." "I like that every one should have an opinion of his own," said the elderly individual; "and, what is more, declare it. Nothing displeases me more than to see people assenting to everything that they hear said; I at once come to the conclusion that they are either hypocrites, or there is nothing in them. But, with respect to Shakespeare, whom I have not read for thirty years, is he not rather given to bombast, 'crackling bombast,' as I think I have said in one of my essays?" "I dare say he is," said the youth; "but I can't help thinking him the greatest of all poets, not even excepting Homer. I would sooner have written that series of plays, founded on the fortunes of the House of Lancaster, than the Iliad itself. The events described are as lofty as those sung by Homer in his great work, and the characters brought upon the stage still more interesting. I think Hotspur as much of a hero as Hector, and young Henry more of a man than Achilles; and then there is the fat knight, the quintessence of fun, wit, and rascality. Falstaff is a creation beyond the genius even of Homer." "You almost tempt me to read Shakespeare again--but the Germans?" "I don't admire the Germans," said the youth, somewhat excited. "I don't admire them in any point of view. I have heard my father say that, though good sharpshooters, they can't be much depended upon as soldiers; and that old Sergeant Meredith told him that Minden would never have been won but for the two English regiments, who charged the French with fixed bayonets, and sent them to the right-about in double-quick time. With respect to poetry, setting Shakespeare and the English altogether aside, I think there is another Gothic nation, at least, entitled to dispute with them the palm. Indeed, to my mind, there is more genuine poetry contained in the old Danish book which I came so strangely by, than has been produced in Germany from the period of the Niebelungen lay to the present." "Ah, the Koempe Viser?" said the elderly individual, breathing forth an immense volume of smoke, which he had been collecting during the declamation of his young companion. "There are singular things in that book, I must confess; and I thank you for showing it to me, or rather your attempt at translation. I was struck with that ballad of Orm Ungarswayne, who goes by night to the grave-hill of his father to seek for counsel. And then, again, that strange melancholy Swayne Vonved, who roams about the world propounding people riddles; slaying those who cannot answer, and rewarding those who can with golden bracelets. Were it not for the violence, I should say that ballad has a philosophic tendency. I thank you for making me acquainted with the book, and I thank the Jew Mousha for making me acquainted with you." "That Mousha was a strange customer," said the youth, collecting himself. "He _was_ a strange customer," said the elder individual, breathing forth a gentle cloud. "I love to exercise hospitality to wandering strangers, especially foreigners; and when he came to this place, pretending to teach German and Hebrew, I asked him to dinner. After the first dinner, he asked me to lend him five pounds; I _did_ lend him five pounds. After the fifth dinner, he asked me to lend him fifty pounds; I did _not_ lend him the fifty pounds." "He was as ignorant of German as of Hebrew," said the youth; "on which account he was soon glad, I suppose, to transfer his pupil to some one else." "He told me," said the elder individual, "that he intended to leave a town where he did not find sufficient encouragement; and, at the same time, expressed regret at being obliged to abandon a certain extraordinary pupil, for whom he had a particular regard. Now I, who have taught many people German from the love which I bear to it, and the desire which I feel that it should be generally diffused, instantly said, that I should be happy to take his pupil off his hands, and afford him what instruction I could in German, for, as to Hebrew, I have never taken much interest in it. Such was the origin of our acquaintance. You have been an apt scholar. Of late, however, I have seen little of you--what is the reason?" The youth made no answer. "You think, probably, that you have learned all I can teach you? Well, perhaps you are right." "Not so, not so," said the young man, eagerly; "before I knew you I knew nothing, and am still very ignorant; but of late my father's health has been very much broken, and he requires attention; his spirits also have become low, which, to tell you the truth, he attributes to my misconduct. He says that I have imbibed all kinds of strange notions and doctrines, which will, in all probability, prove my ruin, both here and hereafter; which--which--" "Ah! I understand," said the elder, with another calm whiff. "I have always had a kind of respect for your father, for there is something remarkable in his appearance, something heroic, and I would fain have cultivated his acquaintance; the feeling, however, has not been reciprocated. I met him, the other day, up the road, with his cane and dog, and saluted him; he did not return my salutation." "He has certain opinions of his own," said the youth, "which are widely different from those which he has heard that you profess." "I respect a man for entertaining an opinion of his own," said the elderly individual. "I hold certain opinions; but I should not respect an individual the more for adopting them. All I wish for is tolerance, which I myself endeavour to practise. I have always loved the truth, and sought it; if I have not found it, the greater my misfortune." "Are you happy?" said the young man. "Why, no! And, between ourselves, it is that which induces me to doubt sometimes the truth of my opinions. My life, upon the whole, I consider a failure; on which account, I would not counsel you, or any one, to follow my example too closely. It is getting late, and you had better be going, especially as your father, you say, is anxious about you. But, as we may never meet again, I think there are three things which I may safely venture to press upon you. The first is, that the decencies and gentlenesses should never be lost sight of, as the practice of the decencies and gentlenesses is at all times compatible with independence of thought and action. The second thing which I would wish to impress upon you, is, that there is always some eye upon us; and that it is impossible to keep anything we do from the world, as it will assuredly be divulged by somebody as soon as it is his interest to do so. The third thing which I would wish to press upon you--" "Yes," said the youth, eagerly bending forward. "Is"--and here the elderly individual laid down his pipe upon the table--"that it will be as well to go on improving yourself in German!" CHAPTER XXIV The Alehouse Keeper--Compassion for the Rich--Old English Gentleman--How is This?--Madeira--The Greek Parr--Twenty Languages--Whiter's Health--About the Fight--A Sporting Gentleman--The Flattened Nose--Lend us that Pightle--The Surly Nod. "Holloa, master! can you tell us where the fight is likely to be?" Such were the words shouted out to me by a short thick fellow, in brown top-boots, and bareheaded, who stood, with his hands in his pockets, at the door of a country alehouse as I was passing by. Now, as I knew nothing about the fight, and as the appearance of the man did not tempt me greatly to enter into conversation with him, I merely answered in the negative, and continued my way. It was a fine lovely morning in May, the sun shone bright above, and the birds were carolling in the hedge-rows. I was wont to be cheerful at such seasons, for, from my earliest recollection, sunshine and the song of birds have been dear to me; yet, about that period, I was not cheerful, my mind was not at rest; I was debating within myself, and the debate was dreary and unsatisfactory enough. I sighed, and turning my eyes upward, I ejaculated, "What is truth?" But suddenly, by a violent effort breaking away from my meditations, I hastened forward; one mile, two miles, three miles were speedily left behind; and now I came to a grove of birch and other trees, and opening a gate I passed up a kind of avenue, and soon arriving before a large brick house, of rather antique appearance, knocked at the door. In this house there lived a gentleman with whom I had business. He was said to be a genuine old English gentleman, and a man of considerable property; at this time, however, he wanted a thousand pounds, as gentlemen of considerable property every now and then do. I had brought him a thousand pounds in my pocket, for it is astonishing how many eager helpers the rich find, and with what compassion people look upon their distresses. He was said to have good wine in his cellar. "Is your master at home?" said I, to a servant who appeared at the door. "His worship is at home, young man," said the servant, as he looked at my shoes, which bore evidence that I had come walking. "I beg your pardon, sir," he added, as he looked me in the face. "Ay, ay, servants," thought I, as I followed the man into the house, "always look people in the face when you open the door, and do so before you look at their shoes, or you may mistake the heir of a Prime Minister for a shopkeeper's son." I found his worship a jolly, red-faced gentleman, of about fifty-five; he was dressed in a green coat, white corduroy breeches, and drab gaiters, and sat on an old-fashioned leather sofa, with two small, thorough-bred, black English terriers, one on each side of him. He had all the appearance of a genuine old English gentleman who kept good wine in his cellar. "Sir," said I, "I have brought you a thousand pounds;" and I said this after the servant had retired, and the two terriers had ceased the barking which is natural to all such dogs at the sight of a stranger. And when the magistrate had received the money, and signed and returned a certain paper which I handed to him, he rubbed his hands, and looking very benignantly at me, exclaimed-- "And now, young gentleman, that our business is over, perhaps you can tell me where the fight is to take place?" "I am sorry, sir," said I, "that I can't inform you, but everybody seems to be anxious about it;" and then I told him what had occurred to me on the road with the alehouse keeper. "I know him," said his worship; "he's a tenant of mine, and a good fellow, somewhat too much in my debt though. But how is this, young gentleman? you look as if you had been walking; you did not come on foot?" "Yes, sir, I came on foot." "On foot! why, it is sixteen miles." "I shan't be tired when I have walked back." "You can't ride, I suppose?" "Better than I can walk." "Then why do you walk?" "I have frequently to make journeys connected with my profession; sometimes I walk, sometimes I ride, just as the whim takes me." "Will you take a glass of wine?" "Yes." "That's right; what shall it be?" "Madeira!" The magistrate gave a violent slap on his knee. "I like your taste," said he; "I am fond of a glass of Madeira myself, and can give you such a one as you will not drink every day; sit down, young gentleman; you shall have a glass of Madeira, and the best I have." Thereupon he got up, and, followed by his two terriers, walked slowly out of the room. I looked round the room, and, seeing nothing which promised me much amusement, I sat down, and fell again into my former train of thought. "What is truth?" said I. "Here it is," said the magistrate, returning at the end of a quarter of an hour, followed by the servant, with a tray; "here's the true thing, or I am no judge, far less a justice. It has been thirty years in my cellar last Christmas. There," said he to the servant, "put it down, and leave my young friend and me to ourselves. Now, what do you think of it?" "It is very good," said I. "Did you ever taste better Madeira?" "I never before tasted Madeira." "Then you ask for a wine without knowing what it is?" "I ask for it, sir, that I may know what it is." "Well, there is logic in that, as Parr would say; you have heard of Parr?" "Old Parr?" "Yes, old Parr, but not that Parr; you mean the English, I the Greek Parr, {225a} as people call him." "I don't know him." "Perhaps not--rather too young for that, but were you of my age, you might have cause to know him, coming from where you do. He kept school there--I was his first scholar; he flogged Greek into me till I loved him--and he loved me: he came to see me last year, and sat in that chair; I honour Parr--he knows much, and is a sound man." "Does he know the truth?" "Know the truth; he knows what's good, from an oyster to an ostrich--he's not only sound, but round." "Suppose we drink his health?" "Thank you, boy: here's Parr's health, and Whiter's." "Who is Whiter?" "Don't you know Whiter? I thought everybody knew Reverend Whiter the philologist, {225b} though I suppose you scarcely know what that means. A man fond of tongues and languages, quite out of your way--he understands some twenty; what do you say to that?" "Is he a sound man?" "Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say: he has got queer notions in his head--wrote a book to prove that all words came originally from the earth--who knows? Words have roots, and roots live in the earth; but, upon the whole, I should not call him altogether a sound man, though he can talk Greek nearly as fast as Parr." "Is he a round man?" "Ay, boy, rounder than Parr; I'll sing you a song, if you like, which will let you into his character:-- 'Give me the haunch of a buck to eat, and to drink Madeira old, And a gentle wife to rest with, and in my arms to fold, An Arabic book to study, a Norfolk cob to ride, And a house to live in shaded with trees, and near to a river side; With such good things around me, and blessed with good health withal, Though I should live for a hundred years, for death I would not call.' Here's to Whiter's health--so you know nothing about the fight?" "No, sir; the truth is, that of late I have been very much occupied with various matters, otherwise I should, perhaps, have been able to afford you some information--boxing is a noble art." "Can you box?" "A little." "I tell you what, my boy; I honour you, and provided your education had been a little less limited, I should have been glad to see you here in company with Parr and Whiter; both can box. Boxing is, as you say, a noble art--a truly English art; may I never see the day when Englishmen shall feel ashamed of it, or blacklegs and blackguards bring it into disgrace. I am a magistrate, and, of course, cannot patronise the thing very openly, yet I sometimes see a prize fight: I saw the Game Chicken beat Gulley." "Did you ever see Big Ben?" "No! why do you ask?" But here we heard a noise, like that of a gig driving up to the door, which was immediately succeeded by a violent knocking and ringing, and after a little time, the servant who had admitted me made his appearance in the room. "Sir," said he, with a certain eagerness of manner, "here are two gentlemen waiting to speak to you." "Gentlemen waiting to speak to me! who are they?" "I don't know, sir," said the servant; "but they look like sporting gentlemen, and--and"--here he hesitated; "from a word or two they dropped, I almost think that they come about the fight." "About the fight!" said the magistrate. "No! that can hardly be; however, you had better show them in." Heavy steps were now heard ascending the stairs, and the servant ushered two men into the apartment. Again there was a barking, but louder than that which had been directed against myself, for here were two intruders; both of them were remarkable looking men, but to the foremost of them the most particular notice may well be accorded: he was a man somewhat under thirty, and nearly six feet in height. He was dressed in a blue coat, white corduroy breeches, fastened below the knee with small golden buttons; on his legs he wore white lamb's-wool stockings, and on his feet shoes reaching to the ankles; round his neck was a handkerchief of the blue and bird's eye pattern; he wore neither whiskers nor moustaches, and appeared not to delight in hair, that of his head, which was of a light brown, being closely cropped; the forehead was rather high, but somewhat narrow; the face neither broad nor sharp, perhaps rather sharp than broad; the nose was almost delicate; the eyes were grey, with an expression in which there was sternness blended with something approaching to feline; his complexion was exceedingly pale, relieved, however, by certain pock-marks, which here and there studded his countenance; his form was athletic, but lean; his arms long. In the whole appearance of the man there was a blending of the bluff and the sharp. You might have supposed him a bruiser; his dress was that of one in all its minutiae; something was wanting, however, in his manner--the quietness of the professional man; he rather looked like one performing the part--well--very well--but still performing a part. His companion!--there, indeed, was the bruiser--no mistake about him: a tall massive man, with a broad countenance and a flattened nose; dressed like a bruiser, but not like a bruiser going into the ring; he wore white-topped boots, and a loose brown jockey coat. As the first advanced towards the table, behind which the magistrate sat, he doffed a white castor from his head, and made rather a genteel bow; looking at me, who sat somewhat on one side, he gave a kind of nod of recognition. "May I request to know who you are, gentlemen?" said the magistrate. "Sir," said the man in a deep, but not unpleasant voice, "allow me to introduce to you my friend, Mr. ---, the celebrated pugilist;" and he motioned with his hand towards the massive man with the flattened nose. "And your own name, sir?" said the magistrate. "My name is no matter," said the man; "were I to mention it to you, it would awaken within you no feeling of interest. It is neither Kean nor Belcher, and I have as yet done nothing to distinguish myself like either of those individuals, or even like my friend here. However, a time may come--we are not yet buried; and whensoever my hour arrives, I hope I shall prove myself equal to my destiny, however high-- 'Like bird that's bred amongst the Helicons.'" And here a smile half theatrical passed over his features. "In what can I oblige you, sir?" said the magistrate. "Well, sir, the soul of wit is brevity; we want a place for an approaching combat between my friend here and a brave from town. Passing by your broad acres this fine morning we saw a pightle, which we deemed would suit. Lend us that pightle, and receive our thanks; 'twould be a favour, though not much to grant: we neither ask for Stonehenge nor for Tempe." My friend looked somewhat perplexed; after a moment, however, he said, with a firm but gentlemanly air, "Sir, I am sorry that I cannot comply with your request." "Not comply!" said the man, his brow becoming dark as midnight; and with a hoarse and savage tone, "Not comply! why not?" "It is impossible, sir; utterly impossible!" "Why so?" "I am not compelled to give my reasons to you, sir, nor to any man." "Let me beg of you to alter your decision," said the man, in a tone of profound respect. "Utterly impossible, sir; I am a magistrate." "Magistrate! then fare ye well, for a green-coated buffer and a Harmanbeck." "Sir!" said the magistrate, springing up with a face fiery with wrath. But, with a surly nod to me, the man left the apartment; and in a moment more the heavy footsteps of himself and his companion were heard descending the staircase. "Who is that man?" said my friend, turning towards me. "A sporting gentleman, well known in the place from which I come." "He appeared to know you." "I have occasionally put on the gloves with him." "What is his name?" {230} CHAPTER XXV Doubts--Wise King of Jerusalem--Let Me See--A Thousand Years--Nothing New--The Crowd--The Hymn--Faith--Charles Wesley--There He Stood--Farewell, Brother--Death--Sun, Moon, and Stars--Wind on the Heath. There was one question which I was continually asking myself at this period, and which has more than once met the eyes of the reader who has followed me through the last chapter. "What is truth?" I had involved myself imperceptibly in a dreary labyrinth of doubt, and, whichever way I turned, no reasonable prospect of extricating myself appeared. The means by which I had brought myself into this situation may be very briefly told; I had inquired into many matters, in order that I might become wise, and I had read and pondered over the words of the wise, so called, till I had made myself master of the sum of human wisdom; namely, that every thing is enigmatical and that man is an enigma to himself; thence the cry of "What is truth?" I had ceased to believe in the truth of that in which I had hitherto trusted, and yet could find nothing in which I could put any fixed or deliberate belief--I was, indeed, in a labyrinth! In what did I not doubt? With respect to crime and virtue I was in doubt; I doubted that the one was blamable and the other praiseworthy. Are not all things subjected to the law of necessity? Assuredly; time and chance govern all things: yet how can this be? alas! Then there was myself; for what was I born? Are not all things born to be forgotten? That's incomprehensible: yet is it not so? Those butterflies fall and are forgotten. In what is man better than a butterfly? All then is born to be forgotten. Ah! that was a pang indeed; 'tis at such a moment that a man wishes to die. The wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his shady arbours beside his sunny fish-pools, saying so many fine things, wished to die, when he saw that not only all was vanity, but that he himself was vanity. Will a time come when all will be forgotten that now is beneath the sun? If so, of what profit is life? In truth it was a sore vexation of spirit to me when I saw, as the wise man saw of old, that whatever I could hope to perform must necessarily be of very temporary duration; and if so, why do it? I said to myself, whatever name I can acquire, will it endure for eternity? scarcely so. A thousand years? Let me see! what have I done already? I have learnt Welsh, and have translated the songs of Ab Gwilym, some ten thousand lines, into English rhyme; I have also learnt Danish, and have rendered the old book of ballads cast by the tempest upon the beach into corresponding English metre. Good! have I done enough already to secure myself a reputation of a thousand years? No, no! certainly not; I have not the slightest ground for hoping that my translations from the Welsh and Danish will be read at the end of a thousand years. Well, but I am only eighteen, and I have not stated all that I have done; I have learnt many other tongues, and have acquired some knowledge even of Hebrew and Arabic. Should I go on in this way till I am forty, I must then be very learned; and perhaps, among other things, may have translated the Talmud, and some of the great works of the Arabians. Pooh! all this is mere learning and translation, and such will never secure immortality. Translation is at best an echo, and it must be a wonderful echo to be heard after the lapse of a thousand years. No! all I have already done, and all I may yet do in the same way, I may reckon as nothing--mere pastime; something else must be done. I must either write some grand original work, or conquer an empire; the one just as easy as the other. But am I competent to do either? Yes, I think I am, under favourable circumstances. Yes, I think I may promise myself a reputation of a thousand years, if I do but give myself the necessary trouble. Well! but what's a thousand years after all, or twice a thousand years? Woe is me! I may just as well sit still. "Would I had never been born!" I said to myself; and a thought would occasionally intrude. But was I ever born? Is not all that I see a lie--a deceitful phantom? Is there a world, and earth, and sky? Berkeley's doctrine--Spinosa's doctrine! Dear reader, I had at that time never read either Berkeley or Spinosa. {233} I have still never read them; who are they, men of yesterday? "All is a lie--all a deceitful phantom," are old cries; they come naturally from the mouths of those who, casting aside that choicest shield against madness, simplicity, would fain be wise as God, and can only know that they are naked. This doubting in the "universal all" is almost coeval with the human race: wisdom, so called, was early sought after. All is a lie--a deceitful phantom--was said when the world was yet young; its surface, save a scanty portion, yet untrodden by human foot, and when the great tortoise yet crawled about. All is a lie, was the doctrine of Buddh; and Buddh lived thirty centuries before the wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his arbours, beside his sunny fish-pools, saying many fine things, and, amongst others, "There is nothing new under the sun!" * * * * * One day, whilst I bent my way to the heath of which I have spoken on a former occasion, at the foot of the hills which formed it I came to a place where a wagon was standing, but without horses, the shafts resting on the ground; there was a crowd about it, which extended half-way up the side of the neighbouring hill. The wagon was occupied by some half a dozen men--some sitting, others standing; they were dressed in sober-coloured habiliments of black or brown, cut in a plain and rather uncouth fashion, and partially white with dust; their hair was short, and seemed to have been smoothed down by the application of the hand; all were bareheaded--sitting or standing, all were bareheaded. One of them, a tall man, was speaking as I arrived; ere, however, I could distinguish what he was saying, he left off, and then there was a cry for a hymn "to the glory of God"--that was the word. It was a strange sounding hymn, as well it might be, for everybody joined in it: there were voices of all kinds, of men, of women, and of children--of those who could sing and of those who could not--a thousand voices all joined, and all joined heartily; no voice of all the multitude was silent save mine. The crowd consisted entirely of the lower classes, labourers and mechanics, and their wives and children--dusty people, unwashed people, people of no account whatever, and yet they did not look a mob. And when that hymn was over--and here let me observe that, strange as it sounded, I have recalled that hymn to mind, and it has seemed to tingle in my ears on occasions when all that pomp and art could do to enhance religious solemnity was being done--in the Sistine Chapel, what time the papal band was in full play, and the choicest choristers of Italy poured forth their mellowest tones in presence of Batuschca and his cardinals--on the ice of the Neva, what time the long train of stately priests, with their noble beards and their flowing robes of crimson and gold, with their ebony and ivory staves, stalked along, chanting their Sclavonian litanies in advance of the mighty Emperor of the North and his Priberjensky guard of giants, towards the orifice through which the river, running below in its swiftness, is to receive the baptismal lymph:--when the hymn was over, another man in the wagon proceeded to address the people; he was a much younger man than the last speaker; somewhat square built and about the middle height; his face was rather broad, but expressive of much intelligence, and with a peculiar calm and serious look; the accent in which he spoke indicated that he was not of these parts, but from some distant district. The subject of his address was faith, and how it could remove mountains. It was a plain address, without any attempt at ornament, and delivered in a tone which was neither loud nor vehement. The speaker was evidently not a practised one--once or twice he hesitated as if for words to express his meaning, but still he held on, talking of faith, and how it could remove mountains: "It is the only thing we want, brethren, in this world; if we have that, we are indeed rich, as it will enable us to do our duty under all circumstances, and to bear our lot, however hard it may be--and the lot of all mankind is hard--the lot of the poor is hard, brethren--and who knows more of the poor than I?--a poor man myself, and the son of a poor man: but are the rich better off? not so, brethren, for God is just. The rich have their trials too: I am not rich myself, but I have seen the rich with careworn countenances; I have also seen them in madhouses; from which you may learn, brethren, that the lot of all mankind is hard; that is, till we lay hold of faith, which makes us comfortable under all circumstances; whether we ride in gilded chariots or walk barefooted in quest of bread; whether we be ignorant, whether we be wise--for riches and poverty, ignorance and wisdom, brethren, each brings with it its peculiar temptations. Well, under all these troubles, the thing which I would recommend you to seek is one and the same--faith; faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, who made us and allotted to each his station. Each has something to do, brethren. Do it, therefore, but always in faith; without faith we shall find ourselves sometimes at fault; but with faith never--for faith can remove the difficulty. It will teach us to love life, brethren, when life is becoming bitter, and to prize the blessings around us; for as every man has his cares, brethren, so has each man his blessings. It will likewise teach us not to love life over much, seeing that we must one day part with it. It will teach us to face death with resignation, and will preserve us from sinking amidst the swelling of the river Jordan." And when he had concluded his address, he said, "Let us sing a hymn, one composed by Master Charles Wesley--he was my countryman, brethren. 'Jesus, I cast my soul on Thee, Mighty and merciful to save; Thou shalt to death go down with me, And lay me gently in the grave. This body then shall rest in hope, This body which the worms destroy; For Thou shalt surely raise me up, To glorious life and endless joy.'" Farewell, preacher with the plain coat, and the calm serious look! I saw thee once again, and that was lately--only the other day. It was near a fishing hamlet, by the seaside, that I saw the preacher again. He stood on the top of a steep monticle, used by pilots as a look-out for vessels approaching that coast, a dangerous one, abounding in rocks and quicksands. There he stood on the monticle, preaching to weather-worn fishermen and mariners gathered below upon the sand. "Who is he?" said I to an old fisherman who stood beside me with a book of hymns in his hand; but the old man put his hand to his lips, and that was the only answer I received. Not a sound was heard but the voice of the preacher and the roaring of the waves; but the voice was heard loud above the roaring of the sea, for the preacher now spoke with power, and his voice was not that of one who hesitates. There he stood--no longer a young man, for his black locks were become grey, even like my own; but there was the intelligent face, and the calm serious look which had struck me of yore. There stood the preacher, one of those men--and, thank God, their number is not few--who, animated by the spirit of Christ, amidst much poverty, and, alas! much contempt, persist in carrying the light of the Gospel amidst the dark parishes of what, but for their instrumentality, would scarcely be Christian England. I would have waited till he had concluded, in order that I might speak to him, and endeavour to bring back the ancient scene to his recollection, but suddenly a man came hurrying towards the monticle, mounted on a speedy horse, and holding by the bridle one yet more speedy, and he whispered to me, "Why loiterest thou here?--knowest thou not all that is to be done before midnight?" and he flung me the bridle; and I mounted on the horse of great speed, and I followed the other, who had already galloped off. And as I departed, I waved my hand to him on the monticle, and I shouted, "Farewell, brother! the seed came up at last, after a long period!" and then I gave the speedy horse his way, and leaning over the shoulder of the galloping horse, I said, "Would that my life had been like his--even like that man's!" I now wandered along the heath, till I came to a place where, beside a thick furze, sat a man, his eyes fixed intently on the red ball of the setting sun. "That's not you, Jasper?" "Indeed, brother!" "I've not seen you for years." "How should you, brother?" "What brings you here?" "The fight, brother." "Where are the tents?" "On the old spot, brother." "Any news since we parted?" "Two deaths, brother." "Who are dead, Jasper?" "Father and mother, brother." "Where did they die?" "Where they were sent, brother." "And Mrs. Herne?" "She's alive, brother." "Where is she now?" "In Yorkshire, brother." "What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?" said I, as I sat down beside him. "My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in the old song of Pharaoh, which I have heard my grandam sing-- 'Cana marel o manus chivios ande puv, Ta rovel pa leste o chavo ta romi.' {239} When a man dies, he is cast into the earth, and his wife and child sorrow over him. If he has neither wife nor child, then his father and mother, I suppose; and if he is quite alone in the world, why, then, he is cast into the earth, and there is an end of the matter." "And do you think that is the end of a man?" "There's an end of him, brother, more's the pity." "Why do you say so?" "Life is sweet, brother." "Do you think so?" "Think so!--There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?" "I would wish to die--" "You talk like a Gorgio--which is the same as talking like a fool--were you a Rommany Chal you would talk wiser. Wish to die, indeed!--A Rommany Chal would wish to live for ever!" "In sickness, Jasper?" "There's the sun and stars, brother." "In blindness, Jasper?" "There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that, I would gladly live for ever. Dosta, {240} we'll now go to the tents and put on the gloves; and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother!" CHAPTER XXVI The Flower of the Grass--Days of Pugilism--The Rendezvous--Jews--Bruisers of England--Winter, Spring--Well-earned Bays--The Fight--Huge Black Cloud--Frame of Adamant--The Storm--Dukkeripens--The Barouche--The Rain Gushes. How for everything there is a time and a season, and then how does the glory of a thing pass from it, even like the flower of the grass. This is a truism, but it is one of those which are continually forcing themselves upon the mind. Many years have not passed over my head, yet, during those which I can recall to remembrance, how many things have I seen flourish, pass away, and become forgotten, except by myself, who, in spite of all my endeavours, never can forget anything. I have known the time when a pugilistic encounter between two noted champions was almost considered in the light of a national affair; when tens of thousands of individuals, high and low, meditated and brooded upon it, the first thing in the morning and the last at night, until the great event was decided. But the time is past, and many people will say, thank God that it is; all I have to say is, that the French still live on the other side of the water, and are still casting their eyes hitherward--and that in the days of pugilism it was no vain boast to say, that one Englishman was a match for two of t'other race; at present it would be a vain boast to say so, for these are not the days of pugilism. But those to which the course of my narrative has carried me were the days of pugilism; it was then at its height, and consequently near its decline, for corruption had crept into the ring; and how many things, states and sects among the rest, owe their decline to this cause! But what a bold and vigorous aspect pugilism wore at that time! and the great battle was just then coming off: the day had been decided upon, and the spot--a convenient distance from the old town; and to the old town were now flocking the bruisers of England, men of tremendous renown. Let no one sneer at the bruisers of England--what were the gladiators of Rome, or the bull-fighters of Spain, in its palmiest days, compared to England's bruisers? Pity that ever corruption should have crept in amongst them--but of that I wish not to talk; let us still hope that a spark of the old religion, of which they were the priests, still lingers in the breasts of Englishmen. There they come, the bruisers, from far London, or from wherever else they might chance to be at the time, to the great rendezvous in the old city; some came one way, some another: some of tip-top reputation came with peers in their chariots, for glory and fame are such fair things, that even peers are proud to have those invested therewith by their sides; others came in their own gigs, driving their own bits of blood, and I heard one say: "I have driven through at a heat the whole hundred and eleven miles, and only stopped to bait twice." Oh, the blood-horses of old England! but they, too, have had their day--for everything beneath the sun there is a season and a time. But the greater number come just as they can contrive; on the tops of coaches, for example; and amongst these there are fellows with dark sallow faces, and sharp shining eyes; and it is these that have planted rottenness in the core of pugilism, for they are Jews, and, true to their kind, have only base lucre in view. It was fierce old Cobbett, I think, who first said that the Jews first introduced bad faith amongst pugilists. He did not always speak the truth, but at any rate he spoke it when he made that observation. Strange people the Jews--endowed with every gift but one, and that the highest, genius divine--genius which can alone make of men demigods, and elevate them above earth and what is earthy and grovelling; without which a clever nation--and who more clever than the Jews?--may have Rambams in plenty, but never a Fielding nor a Shakespeare. A Rothschild and a Mendoza, yes--but never a Kean nor a Belcher. So the bruisers of England are come to be present at the grand fight speedily coming off; there they are met in the precincts of the old town, near the field of the chapel, planted with tender saplings at the restoration of sporting Charles, which are now become venerable elms, as high as many a steeple; there they are met at a fitting rendezvous, where a retired coachman, with one leg, keeps an hotel and a bowling-green. I think I now see them upon the bowling-green, the men of renown, amidst hundreds of people with no renown at all, who gaze upon them with timid wonder. Fame, after all, is a glorious thing, though it lasts only for a day. There's Cribb, the champion of England, and perhaps the best man in England; there he is, with his huge massive figure, and face wonderfully like that of a lion. There is Belcher, the younger, not the mighty one, who is gone to his place, but the Teucer Belcher, the most scientific pugilist that ever entered a ring, only wanting strength to be, I won't say what. He appears to walk before me now, as he did that evening, with his white hat, white great-coat, thin genteel figure, springy step, and keen, determined eye. Crosses him, what a contrast! grim, savage Shelton, who has a civil word for nobody, and a hard blow for anybody--hard! one blow, given with the proper play of his athletic arm, will unsense a giant. Yonder individual, who strolls about with his hands behind him, supporting his brown coat lappets, under-sized, and who looks anything but what he is, is the king of the light weights, so called--Randall! the terrible Randall, who has Irish blood in his veins; not the better for that, nor the worse; and not far from him is his last antagonist, Ned Turner, who, though beaten by him, still thinks himself as good a man, in which he is, perhaps, right, for it was a near thing; and "a better shentleman," in which he is quite right, for he is a Welshman. But how shall I name them all? they were there by dozens, and all tremendous in their way. There was Bulldog Hudson, and fearless Scroggins, who beat the conqueror of Sam the Jew. There was Black Richmond--no, he was not there, but I knew him well; he was the most dangerous of blacks, even with a broken thigh. There was Purcell, who could never conquer till all seemed over with him. There was--what! shall I name thee last? ay, why not? I believe that thou art the last of all that strong family still above the sod, where mayst thou long continue--true piece of English stuff, Tom of Bedford--sharp as Winter, kind as Spring. Hail to thee, Tom of Bedford, or by whatever name it may please thee to be called, Spring or Winter. Hail to thee, six-foot Englishman of the brown eye, worthy to have carried a six-foot bow at Flodden, where England's yeomen triumphed over Scotland's king, his clans and chivalry. Hail to thee, last of England's bruisers, after all the many victories which thou hast achieved--true English victories, unbought by yellow gold; need I recount them? nay, nay! they are already well known to fame--sufficient to say that Bristol's Bull and Ireland's Champion were vanquished by thee, and one mightier still, gold itself, thou didst overcome; for gold itself strove in vain to deaden the power of thy arm; and thus thou didst proceed till men left off challenging thee, the unvanquishable, the incorruptible. 'Tis a treat to see thee, Tom of Bedford, in thy "public" in Holborn way, whither thou hast retired with thy well-earned bays. 'Tis Friday night, and nine by Holborn clock. There sits the yeoman at the end of his long room, surrounded by his friends; glasses are filled, and a song is the cry, and a song is sung well suited to the place; it finds an echo in every heart--fists are clenched, arms are waved, and the portraits of the mighty fighting men of yore, Broughton, and Slack, and Ben, which adorn the walls, appear to smile grim approbation, whilst many a manly voice joins in the bold chorus: "Here's a health to old honest John Bull, When he's gone we shan't find such another, And with hearts and with glasses brim full, We will drink to old England, his mother." But the fight! with respect to the fight, what shall I say? Little can be said about it--it was soon over; some said that the brave from town, who was reputed the best man of the two, and whose form was a perfect model of athletic beauty, allowed himself, for lucre vile, to be vanquished by the massive champion with the flattened nose. One thing is certain, that the former was suddenly seen to sink to the earth before a blow of by no means extraordinary power. Time, time! was called; but there he lay upon the ground apparently senseless, and from thence he did not lift his head till several seconds after the umpires had declared his adversary victor. There were shouts; indeed there's never a lack of shouts to celebrate a victory, however acquired; but there was also much grinding of teeth, especially amongst the fighting men from town. "Tom has sold us," said they, "sold us to the yokels; who would have thought it?" Then there was fresh grinding of teeth, and scowling brows were turned to the heaven; but what is this? is it possible, does the heaven scowl too? why, only a quarter of an hour ago . . . but what may not happen in a quarter of an hour? For many weeks the weather had been of the most glorious description, the eventful day, too, had dawned gloriously, and so it had continued till some two hours after noon; the fight was then over; and about that time I looked up--what a glorious sky of deep blue, and what a big fierce sun swimming high above in the midst of that blue; not a cloud--there had not been one for weeks--not a cloud to be seen, only in the far west, just on the horizon, something like the extremity of a black wing; that was only a quarter of an hour ago, and now the whole northern side of the heaven is occupied by a huge black cloud, and the sun is only occasionally seen amidst masses of driving vapour; what a change! but another fight is at hand, and the pugilists are clearing the outer ring;--how their huge whips come crashing upon the heads of the yokels; blood flows, more blood than in the fight; those blows are given with right good-will, those are not sham blows, whether of whip or fist; it is with fist that grim Shelton strikes down the big yokel; he is always dangerous, grim Shelton, but now particularly so, for he has lost ten pounds betted on the brave who sold himself to the yokels; but the outer ring is cleared: and now the second fight commences; it is between two champions of less renown than the others, but is perhaps not the worse on that account. A tall thin boy is fighting in the ring with a man somewhat under the middle size, with a frame of adamant; that's a gallant boy! he's a yokel, but he comes from Brummagem, and he does credit to his extraction; but his adversary has a frame of adamant: in what a strange light they fight, but who can wonder, on looking at that frightful cloud usurping now one-half of heaven, and at the sun struggling with sulphurous vapour; the face of the boy, which is turned towards me, looks horrible in that light, but he is a brave boy, he strikes his foe on the forehead, and the report of the blow is like the sound of a hammer against a rock; but there is a rush and a roar overhead, a wild commotion, the tempest is beginning to break loose; there's wind and dust, a crash, rain and hail; is it possible to fight amidst such a commotion? yes! the fight goes on; again the boy strikes the man full on the brow, but it is of no use striking that man, his frame is of adamant. "Boy, thy strength is beginning to give way, and thou art becoming confused;" the man now goes to work, amidst rain and hail. "Boy, thou wilt not hold out ten minutes longer against rain, hail, and the blows of such an antagonist." And now the storm was at its height; the black thunder-cloud had broken into many, which assumed the wildest shapes and the strangest colours, some of them unspeakably glorious; the rain poured in a deluge, and more than one waterspout was seen at no great distance: an immense rabble is hurrying in one direction; a multitude of men of all ranks, peers and yokels, prize-fighters and Jews, and the last came to plunder, and are now plundering amidst that wild confusion of hail and rain, men and horses, carts and carriages. But all hurry in one direction, through mud and mire; there's a town only three miles distant, which is soon reached, and soon filled, it will not contain one-third of that mighty rabble; but there's another town farther on--the good old city is farther on, only twelve miles; what's that! who will stay here? onward to the old town. Hurry-skurry, a mixed multitude of men and horses, carts and carriages, all in the direction of the old town; and, in the midst of all that mad throng, at a moment when the rain gushes were coming down with particular fury, and the artillery of the sky was pealing as I had never heard it peal before, I felt some one seize me by the arm--I turned round, and beheld Mr. Petulengro. "I can't hear you, Mr. Petulengro," said I; for the thunder drowned the words which he appeared to be uttering. "Dearginni," I heard Mr. Petulengro say, "it thundereth. I was asking, brother, whether you believe in dukkeripens?" "I do not, Mr. Petulengro; but this is strange weather to be asking me whether I believe in fortunes." "Grondinni," said Mr. Petulengro, "it haileth. I believe in dukkeripens, brother." "And who has more right," said I, "seeing that you live by them? But this tempest is truly horrible." "Dearginni, grondinni ta villaminni! {249} It thundereth, it haileth, and also flameth," said Mr. Petulengro. "Look up there, brother!" I looked up. Connected with this tempest there was one feature to which I have already alluded--the wonderful colours of the clouds. Some were of vivid green; others of the brightest orange; others as black as pitch. The Gypsy's finger was pointed to a particular part of the sky. "What do you see there, brother?" "A strange kind of cloud." "What does it look like, brother?" "Something like a stream of blood." "That cloud foreshoweth a bloody dukkeripen." "A bloody fortune!" said I. "And whom may it betide?" "Who knows!" said the Gypsy. Down the way, dashing and splashing, and scattering man, horse, and cart to the left and right, came an open barouche, drawn by four smoking steeds, with postillions in scarlet jackets and leather skull-caps. Two forms were conspicuous in it; that of the successful bruiser, and of his friend and backer, the sporting gentleman of my acquaintance. "His!" said the Gypsy, pointing to the latter, whose stern features wore a smile of triumph, as, probably recognising me in the crowd, he nodded in the direction of where I stood, as the barouche hurried by. There went the barouche, dashing through the rain gushes, and in it one whose boast it was that he was equal to "either fortune." Many have heard of that man--many may be desirous of knowing yet more of him. I have nothing to do with that man's after life--he fulfilled his dukkeripen. "A bad, violent man!" Softly, friend; when thou wouldst speak harshly of the dead, remember that thou hast not yet fulfilled thy own dukkeripen! CHAPTER XXVII My Father--Premature Decay--The Easy Chair--A Few Questions--So You Told Me--A Difficult Language--They Call it Haik--Misused Opportunities--Saul--Want of Candour--Don't Weep--Heaven Forgive Me--Dated from Paris--I Wish He were Here--A Father's Reminiscences--Farewell to Vanities. My father, as I have already informed the reader, had been endowed by nature with great corporeal strength; indeed, I have been assured that, at the period of his prime, his figure had denoted the possession of almost Herculean powers. The strongest forms, however, do not always endure the longest, the very excess of the noble and generous juices which they contain being the cause of their premature decay. But, be that as it may, the health of my father, some few years after his retirement from the service to the quiet of domestic life, underwent a considerable change; his constitution appeared to be breaking up; and he was subject to severe attacks from various disorders, with which, till then, he had been utterly unacquainted. He was, however, wont to rally, more or less, after his illnesses, and might still occasionally be seen taking his walk, with his cane in his hand, and accompanied by his dog, who sympathised entirely with him, pining as he pined, improving as he improved, and never leaving the house save in his company; and in this manner matters went on for a considerable time, no very great apprehension with respect to my father's state being raised either in my mother's breast or my own. But, about six months after the period at which I have arrived in my last chapter, it came to pass that my father experienced a severer attack than on any previous occasion. He had the best medical advice; but it was easy to see, from the looks of his doctors, that they entertained but slight hopes of his recovery. His sufferings were great, yet he invariably bore them with unshaken fortitude. There was one thing remarkable connected with his illness; notwithstanding its severity, it never confined him to his bed. He was wont to sit in his little parlour, in his easy chair, dressed in a faded regimental coat, his dog at his feet, who would occasionally lift his head from the hearth-rug on which he lay, and look his master wistfully in the face. And thus my father spent the greater part of his time, sometimes in prayer, sometimes in meditation, and sometimes in reading the Scriptures. I frequently sat with him, though, as I entertained a great awe for my father, I used to feel rather ill at ease, when, as sometimes happened, I found myself alone with him. "I wish to ask you a few questions," said he to me, one day, after my mother had left the room. "I will answer anything you may please to ask me, my dear father." "What have you been about lately?" "I have been occupied as usual, attending at the office at the appointed hours." "And what do you there?" "Whatever I am ordered." "And nothing else?" "Oh yes! sometimes I read a book." "Connected with your profession?" "Not always; I have been lately reading Armenian--" "What's that?" "The language of a people whose country is a region on the other side of Asia Minor." "Well!" "A region abounding with mountains." "Well!" "Amongst which is Mount Ararat." "Well!" "Upon which, as the Bible informs us, the ark rested." "Well!" "It is the language of the people of those regions." "So you told me." "And I have been reading the Bible in their language." "Well!" "Or rather, I should say, in the ancient language of these people; from which I am told the modern Armenian differs considerably." "Well!" "As much as the Italian from the Latin." "Well!" "So I have been reading the Bible in ancient Armenian." "You told me so before." "I found it a highly difficult language." "Yes." "Differing widely from the languages in general with which I am acquainted." "Yes." "Exhibiting, however, some features in common with them." "Yes." "And sometimes agreeing remarkably in words with a certain strange wild speech with which I became acquainted--" "Irish?" "No, father, not Irish--with which I became acquainted by the greatest chance in the world." "Yes." "But of which I need say nothing farther at present, and which I should not have mentioned but for that fact." "Well!" "Which I consider remarkable." "Yes." "The Armenian is copious." "Is it?" "With an alphabet of thirty-nine letters, but it is harsh and guttural." "Yes." "Like the language of most mountainous people--the Armenians call it Haik." "Do they?" "And themselves, Haik, also; they are a remarkable people, and, though their original habitation is the Mountain of Ararat, they are to be found, like the Jews, all over the world." "Well!" "Well, father, that's all I can tell you about the Haiks, or Armenians." "And what does it all amount to?" "Very little, father; indeed, there is very little known about the Armenians; their early history, in particular, is involved in considerable mystery." "And, if you knew all that it was possible to know about them, to what would it amount? to what earthly purpose could you turn it? have you acquired any knowledge of your profession?" "Very little, father." "Very little! Have you acquired all in your power?" "I can't say that I have, father." "And yet it was your duty to have done so. But I see how it is, you have shamefully misused your opportunities; you are like one, who, sent into the field to labour, passes his time in flinging stones at the birds of heaven." "I would scorn to fling a stone at a bird, father." "You know what I mean, and all too well, and this attempt to evade deserved reproof by feigned simplicity is quite in character with your general behaviour. I have ever observed about you a want of frankness, which has distressed me; you never speak of what you are about, your hopes, or your projects, but cover yourself with mystery. I never knew till the present moment that you were acquainted with Armenian." "Because you never asked me, father; there's nothing to conceal in the matter--I will tell you in a moment how I came to learn Armenian. A lady whom I met at one of Mrs. ---'s parties took a fancy to me, and has done me the honour to allow me to go and see her sometimes. She is the widow of a rich clergyman, and on her husband's death came to this place to live, bringing her husband's library with her: I soon found my way to it, and examined every book. Her husband must have been a learned man, for amongst much Greek and Hebrew I found several volumes in Armenian, or relating to the language." "And why did you not tell me of this before?" "Because you never questioned me; but I repeat, there is nothing to conceal in the matter. The lady took a fancy to me, and, being fond of the arts, drew my portrait; she said the expression of my countenance put her in mind of Alfieri's Saul." "And do you still visit her?" "No, she soon grew tired of me, and told people that she found me very stupid; she gave me the Armenian books, however." "Saul," said my father, musingly, "Saul; I am afraid she was only too right there; he disobeyed the commands of his master, and brought down on his head the vengeance of Heaven--he became a maniac, prophesied, and flung weapons about him." "He was, indeed, an awful character--I hope I shan't turn out like him." "God forbid!" said my father, solemnly; "but in many respects you are headstrong and disobedient like him. I placed you in a profession, and besought you to make yourself master of it, by giving it your undivided attention. This, however, you did not do; you know nothing of it, but tell me that you are acquainted with Armenian; but what I dislike most is your want of candour--you are my son, but I know little of your real history; you may know fifty things for what I am aware: you may know how to shoe a horse for what I am aware." "Not only to shoe a horse, father, but to make horse-shoes." "Perhaps so," said my father; "and it only serves to prove what I was just saying, that I know little about you." "But you easily may, my dear father; I will tell you anything that you may wish to know--shall I inform you how I learnt to make horse-shoes?" "No," said my father; "as you kept it a secret so long, it may as well continue so still. Had you been a frank, open-hearted boy, like one I could name, you would have told me all about it of your own accord. But I now wish to ask you a serious question--what do you propose to do?" "To do, father?" "Yes! the time for which you were articled to your profession will soon be expired, and I shall be no more." "Do not talk so, my dear father; I have no doubt that you will soon be better." "Do not flatter yourself; I feel that my days are numbered; I am soon going to my rest, and I have need of rest, for I am weary. There, there, don't weep! Tears will help me as little as they will you; you have not yet answered my question. Tell me what you intend to do." "I really do not know what I shall do." "The military pension which I enjoy will cease with my life. The property which I shall leave behind me will be barely sufficient for the maintenance of your mother respectably. I again ask you what you intend to do. Do you think you can support yourself by your Armenian or your other acquirements?" "Alas! I think little at all about it; but I suppose I must push into the world, and make a good fight, as becomes the son of him who fought Big Ben; if I can't succeed, and am driven to the worst, it is but dying--" "What do you mean by dying?" "Leaving the world; my loss would scarcely be felt. I have never held life in much value, and every one has a right to dispose as he thinks best of that which is his own." "Ah! now I understand you; and well I know how and where you imbibed that horrible doctrine, and many similar ones which I have heard from your mouth; but I wish not to reproach you--I view in your conduct a punishment for my own sins, and I bow to the will of God. Few and evil have been my days upon the earth; little have I done to which I can look back with satisfaction. It is true I have served my king fifty years, and I have fought with--Heaven forgive me, what was I about to say!--but you mentioned the man's name, and our minds willingly recall our ancient follies. Few and evil have been my days upon earth, I may say with Jacob of old, though I do not mean to say that my case is so hard as his; he had many undutiful children, whilst I have only . . .; but I will not reproach you. I have also like him a son to whom I can look with hope, who may yet preserve my name when I am gone, so let me be thankful; perhaps, after all, I have not lived in vain. Boy, when I am gone, look up to your brother, and may God bless you both. There, don't weep; but take the Bible, and read me something about the old man and his children." My brother had now been absent for the space of three years. At first his letters had been frequent, and from them it appeared that he was following his profession in London with industry; they then became rather rare, and my father did not always communicate their contents. His last letter, however, had filled him and our whole little family with joy; it was dated from Paris, and the writer was evidently in high spirits. After describing in eloquent terms the beauties and gaieties of the French capital, he informed us how he had plenty of money, having copied a celebrated picture of one of the Italian masters for a Hungarian nobleman, for which he had received a large sum. "He wishes me to go with him to Italy," added he, "but I am fond of independence; and, if ever I visit old Rome, I will have no patrons near me to distract my attention." But six months had now elapsed from the date of this letter, and we had heard no farther intelligence of my brother. My father's complaint increased; the gout, his principal enemy, occasionally mounted high up in his system, and we had considerable difficulty in keeping it from the stomach, where it generally proves fatal. I now devoted almost the whole of my time to my father, on whom his faithful partner also lavished every attention and care. I read the Bible to him, which was his chief delight; and also occasionally such other books as I thought might prove entertaining to him. His spirits were generally rather depressed. The absence of my brother appeared to prey upon his mind. "I wish he were here," he would frequently exclaim; "I can't imagine what can have become of him; I trust, however, he will arrive in time." He still sometimes rallied, and I took advantage of those moments of comparative ease, to question him upon the events of his early life. My attentions to him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly, and unreserved. I had never known my father so entertaining as at these moments, when his life was but too evidently drawing to a close. I had no idea that he knew and had seen so much; my respect for him increased, and I looked upon him almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in general highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with some of the brightest glories of our native land. He had frequently conversed--almost on terms of familiarity--with good old George. He had known the conqueror of Tippoo Saib; and was the friend of Townshend, who, when Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of Montcalm. "Pity," he added, "that when old--old as I am now--he should have driven his own son mad by robbing him of his plighted bride; but so it was; he married his son's bride. I saw him lead her to the altar; if ever there was an angelic countenance, it was that girl's; she was almost too fair to be one of the daughters of women. Is there anything, boy, that you would wish to ask me? now is the time." "Yes, father; there is one about whom I would fain question you." "Who is it? shall I tell you about Elliot?" "No, father, not about Elliot; but pray don't be angry; I should like to know something about Big Ben." "You are a strange lad," said my father; "and, though of late I have begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is still much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that name? Don't you know that it is one of my temptations? you wish to know something about him. Well! I will oblige you this once, and then farewell to such vanities--something about him. I will tell you--his skin, when he flung off his clothes--and he had a particular knack in doing so--his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for combat--and when he fought he stood so . . . if I remember right--his skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my elder son was here." CHAPTER XXVIII My Brother's Arrival--The Interview--Night--A Dying Father--Christ. At last my brother arrived; he looked pale and unwell; I met him at the door. "You have been long absent," said I. "Yes," said he, "perhaps too long; but how is my father?" "Very poorly," said I, "he has had a fresh attack; but where have you been of late?" "Far and wide," said my brother; "but I can't tell you anything now, I must go to my father. It was only by chance that I heard of his illness." "Stay a moment," said I. "Is the world such a fine place as you supposed it to be before you went away?" "Not quite," said my brother, "not quite; indeed I wish--but ask me no questions now, I must hasten to my father." There was another question on my tongue, but I forbore; for the eyes of the young man were full of tears. I pointed with my finger, and the young man hastened past me to the arms of his father. I forbore to ask my brother whether he had been to old Rome. What passed between my father and brother I do not know; the interview, no doubt, was tender enough, for they tenderly loved each other; but my brother's arrival did not produce the beneficial effect upon my father which I at first hoped it would; it did not even appear to have raised his spirits. He was composed enough, however: "I ought to be grateful," said he; "I wished to see my son, and God has granted me my wish; what more have I to do now than to bless my little family and go?" My father's end was evidently at hand. And did I shed no tears? did I breathe no sighs? did I never wring my hands at this period? the reader will perhaps be asking. Whatever I did and thought is best known to God and myself; but it will be as well to observe, that it is possible to feel deeply, and yet make no outward sign. And now for the closing scene. At the dead hour of night, it might be about two, I was awakened from sleep by a cry which sounded from the room immediately below that in which I slept. I knew the cry, it was the cry of my mother; and I also knew its import, yet I made no effort to rise, for I was for the moment paralysed. Again the cry sounded, yet still I lay motionless--the stupidity of horror was upon me. A third time, and it was then that, by a violent effort, bursting the spell which appeared to bind me, I sprang from the bed and rushed downstairs. My mother was running wildly about the room; she had awoke, and found my father senseless in the bed by her side. I essayed to raise him, and after a few efforts supported him in the bed in a sitting posture. My brother now rushed in, and, snatching up a light that was burning, he held it to my father's face. "The surgeon, the surgeon!" he cried; then, dropping the light, he ran out of the room followed by my mother; I remained alone, supporting the senseless form of my father; the light had been extinguished by the fall, and an almost total darkness reigned in the room. The form pressed heavily against my bosom--at last methought it moved. Yes, I was right, there was a heaving of the breast, and then a gasping. Were those words which I heard? Yes, they were words, low and indistinct at first, and then audible. The mind of the dying man was reverting to former scenes. I heard him mention names which I had often heard him mention before. It was an awful moment; I felt stupefied, but I still contrived to support my dying father. There was a pause, again my father spoke: I heard him speak of Minden, {264} and of Meredith, the old Minden sergeant, and then he uttered another name, which at one period of his life was much in his lips, the name of . . . but this is a solemn moment! There was a deep gasp: I shook, and thought all was over; but I was mistaken--my father moved, and revived for a moment; he supported himself in bed without my assistance. I make no doubt that for a moment he was perfectly sensible, and it was then that, clasping his hands, he uttered another name clearly, distinctly--it was the name of Christ. With that name upon his lips, the brave old soldier sank back upon my bosom, and, with his hands still clasped, yielded up his soul. CHAPTER XXIX The Greeting--Queer Figure--Cheer Up--The Cheerful Fire--It Will Do--The Sally Forth--Trepidation--Let Him Come In. "One-and-Ninepence, sir, or the things which you have brought with you will be taken away from you!" Such were the first words which greeted my ears, one damp misty morning in March, {265} as I dismounted from the top of a coach in the yard of a London inn. I turned round, for I felt that the words were addressed to myself. Plenty of people were in the yard--porters, passengers, coachmen, ostlers, and others, who appeared to be intent on anything but myself, with the exception of one individual, whose business appeared to lie with me, and who now confronted me at the distance of about two yards. I looked hard at the man--and a queer kind of individual he was to look at--a rakish figure, about thirty, and of the middle size, dressed in a coat smartly cut, but threadbare, very tight pantaloons of blue stuff, tied at the ankles, dirty white stockings and thin shoes, like those of a dancing-master; his features were not ugly, but rather haggard, and he appeared to owe his complexion less to nature than carmine; in fact, in every respect, a very queer figure. "One-and-ninepence, sir, or your things will be taken away from you!" he said, in a kind of lisping tone, coming yet nearer to me. I still remained staring fixedly at him, but never a word answered. Our eyes met; whereupon he suddenly lost the easy impudent air which he before wore. He glanced, for a moment, at my fist, which I had by this time clenched, and his features became yet more haggard; he faltered; a fresh "one-and-ninepence," which he was about to utter, died on his lips; he shrank back, disappeared behind a coach, and I saw no more of him. "One-and-ninepence, or my things will be taken away from me!" said I to myself, musingly, as I followed the porter to whom I had delivered my scanty baggage; "am I to expect many of these greetings in the big world? Well, never mind! I think I know the counter-sign!" And I clenched my fist yet harder than before. So I followed the porter, through the streets of London, to a lodging which had been prepared for me by an acquaintance. The morning, as I have before said, was gloomy, and the streets through which I passed were dank and filthy; the people, also, looked dank and filthy; and so, probably, did I, for the night had been rainy, and I had come upwards of a hundred miles on the top of a coach; my heart had sunk within me, by the time we reached a dark narrow street, in which was the lodging. "Cheer up, young man," said the porter, "we shall have a fine afternoon!" And presently I found myself in the lodging which had been prepared for me. It consisted of a small room, up two pair of stairs, in which I was to sit, and another still smaller above it, in which I was to sleep. I remember that I sat down, and looked, disconsolate, about me--everything seemed so cold and dingy. Yet how little is required to make a situation--however cheerless at first sight--cheerful and comfortable. The people of the house, who looked kindly upon me, lighted a fire in the dingy grate; and, then, what a change!--the dingy room seemed dingy no more! Oh, the luxury of a cheerful fire after a chill night's journey! I drew near to the blazing grate, rubbed my hands, and felt glad. And, when I had warmed myself, I turned to the table, on which, by this time, the people of the house had placed my breakfast; and I ate and I drank; and, as I ate and drank, I mused within myself, and my eyes were frequently directed to a small green box, which constituted part of my luggage, and which, with the rest of my things, stood in one corner of the room, till at last, leaving my breakfast unfinished, I rose, and, going to the box, unlocked it, and took out two or three bundles of papers tied with red tape, and, placing them on the table, I resumed my seat and my breakfast, my eyes intently fixed upon the bundles of papers all the time. And when I had drained the last cup of tea out of a dingy teapot, and ate the last slice of the dingy loaf, I untied one of the bundles, and proceeded to look over the papers, which were closely written over in a singular hand, and I read for some time, till at last I said to myself, "It will do." And then I looked at the other bundle for some time without untying it; and at last I said, "It will do also." And then I turned to the fire, and, putting my feet against the sides of the grate, I leaned back on my chair, and, with my eyes upon the fire, fell into deep thought. And there I continued in thought before the fire, until my eyes closed, and I fell asleep; which was not to be wondered at, after the fatigue and cold which I had lately undergone on the coach-top; and, in my sleep, I imagined myself still there, amidst darkness and rain, hurrying now over wild heaths, and now along roads overhung with thick and umbrageous trees, and sometimes methought I heard the horn of the guard, and sometimes the voice of the coachman, now chiding, now encouraging his horses, as they toiled through the deep and miry ways. At length a tremendous crack of a whip saluted the tympanum of my ear, and I started up broad awake, nearly oversetting the chair on which I reclined--and, lo! I was in the dingy room before the fire, which was by this time half extinguished. In my dream I had confounded the noise of the street with those of my night-journey; the crack which had aroused me I soon found proceeded from the whip of a carter, who, with many oaths, was flogging his team below the window. Looking at a clock which stood upon the mantelpiece, I perceived that it was past eleven; whereupon I said to myself, "I am wasting my time foolishly and unprofitably, forgetting that I am now in the big world, without anything to depend upon save my own exertions;" and then I adjusted my dress, and, locking up the bundle of papers which I had not read, I tied up the other, and, taking it under my arm, I went downstairs; and, after asking a question or two of the people of the house, I sallied forth into the street with a determined look, though at heart I felt somewhat timorous at the idea of venturing out alone into the mazes of the mighty city, of which I had heard much, but of which, of my own knowledge, I knew nothing. I had, however, no great cause for anxiety in the present instance; I easily found my way to the place which I was in quest of--one of the many new squares on the northern side of the metropolis, and which was scarcely ten minutes' walk from the street in which I had taken up my abode. Arriving before the door of a tolerably large house which bore a certain number, I stood still for a moment in a kind of trepidation, looking anxiously at the door; I then slowly passed on till I came to the end of the square, where I stood still, and pondered for a while. Suddenly, however, like one who has formed a resolution, I clenched my right hand, flinging my hat somewhat on one side, and, turning back with haste to the door before which I had stopped, I sprang up the steps, and gave a loud rap, ringing at the same time the bell of the area. After the lapse of a minute the door was opened by a maid-servant of no very cleanly or prepossessing appearance, of whom I demanded, in a tone of some hauteur, whether the master of the house was at home. Glancing for a moment at the white paper bundle beneath my arm, the handmaid made no reply in words, but, with a kind of toss of her head, flung the door open, standing on one side as if to let me enter. I did enter; and the handmaid, having opened another door on the right hand, went in, and said something which I could not hear: after a considerable pause, however, I heard the voice of a man say, "Let him come in;" whereupon the handmaid, coming out, motioned me to enter, and, on my obeying, instantly closed the door behind me. CHAPTER XXX The Sinister Glance--Excellent Correspondent--Quite Original--My System--A Losing Trade--Merit--Starting a Review--What Have You Got?--Stop!--Dairyman's Daughter--Oxford Principles--More Conversation--How is This? There were two individuals in the room in which I now found myself; it was a small study, surrounded with bookcases, the window looking out upon the square. Of these individuals he who appeared to be the principal stood with his back to the fireplace. He was a tall stout man, about sixty, dressed in a loose morning gown. The expression of his countenance would have been bluff but for a certain sinister glance, and his complexion might have been called rubicund but for a considerable tinge of bilious yellow. He eyed me askance as I entered. The other, a pale, shrivelled-looking person, sat at a table apparently engaged with an account-book; he took no manner of notice of me, never once lifting his eyes from the page before him. "Well, sir, what is your pleasure!" said the big man, {270} in a rough tone, as I stood there, looking at him wistfully--as well I might--for upon that man, at the time of which I am speaking, my principal, I may say my only, hopes rested. "Sir," said I, "my name is so-and-so, and I am the bearer of a letter to you from Mr. so-and-so, an old friend and correspondent of yours." The countenance of the big man instantly lost the suspicious and lowering expression which it had hitherto exhibited; he strode forward, and, seizing me by the hand, gave me a violent squeeze. "My dear sir," said he, "I am rejoiced to see you in London. I have been long anxious for the pleasure--we are old friends, though we have never before met. Taggart," said he to the man who sat at the desk, "this is our excellent correspondent, the friend and pupil of our other excellent correspondent." The pale, shrivelled-looking man slowly and deliberately raised his head from the account-book, and surveyed me for a moment or two; not the slightest emotion was observable in his countenance. It appeared to me, however, that I could detect a droll twinkle in his eye: his curiosity, if he had any, was soon gratified; he made me a kind of bow, pulled out a snuff-box, took a pinch of snuff, and again bent his head over the page. "And now, my dear sir," said the big man, "pray sit down, and tell me the cause of your visit. I hope you intend to remain here a day or two." "More than that," said I, "I am come to take up my abode in London." "Glad to hear it; and what have you been about of late? got anything which will suit me? Sir, I admire your style of writing, and your manner of thinking; and I am much obliged to my good friend and correspondent for sending me some of your productions. I inserted them all, and wished there had been more of them--quite original, sir, quite: took with the public, especially the essay about the non-existence of anything. I don't exactly agree with you though; I have my own peculiar ideas about matter--as you know, of course, from the book I have published. Nevertheless, a very pretty piece of speculative philosophy--no such thing as matter--impossible that there should be--_ex nihilo_--what is the Greek? I have forgot--very pretty indeed; very original." "I am afraid, sir, it was very wrong to write such trash, and yet more to allow it to be published." "Trash! not at all; a very pretty piece of speculative philosophy; of course you were wrong in saying there is no world. The world must exist, to have the shape of a pear; and that the world is shaped like a pear, and not like an apple, as the fools of Oxford say, I have satisfactorily proved in my book. Now, if there were no world, what would become of my system? But what do you propose to do in London?" "Here is the letter, sir," said I, "of our good friend, which I have not yet given to you; I believe it will explain to you the circumstances under which I come." He took the letter, and perused it with attention. "Hem!" said he, with a somewhat altered manner, "my friend tells me that you are come up to London with the view of turning your literary talents to account, and desires me to assist you in my capacity of publisher in bringing forth two or three works which you have prepared. My good friend is perhaps not aware that for some time past I have given up publishing--was obliged to do so--had many severe losses--do nothing at present in that line, save sending out the Magazine once a month; and, between ourselves, am thinking of disposing of that--wish to retire--high time at my age--so you see--" "I am very sorry, sir, to hear that you cannot assist me" (and I remember that I felt very nervous); "I had hoped--" "A losing trade, I assure you, sir; literature is a drug. Taggart, what o'clock is it?" "Well, sir!" said I, rising, "as you cannot assist me, I will now take my leave; I thank you sincerely for your kind reception, and will trouble you no longer." "Oh, don't go. I wish to have some farther conversation with you; and perhaps I may hit upon some plan to benefit you. I honour merit, and always make a point to encourage it when I can; but, . . . Taggart, go to the bank, and tell them to dishonour the bill twelve months after date for thirty pounds which becomes due to-morrow. I am dissatisfied with that fellow who wrote the fairy tales, and intend to give him all the trouble in my power. Make haste." Taggart did not appear to be in any particular haste. First of all, he took a pinch of snuff, then, rising from his chair, slowly and deliberately drew his wig, for he wore a wig of a brown colour, rather more over his forehead than it had previously been, buttoned his coat, and, taking his hat, and an umbrella which stood in a corner, made me a low bow, and quitted the room. "Well, sir, where were we? Oh, I remember, we were talking about merit. Sir, I always wish to encourage merit, especially when it comes so highly recommended as in the present instance. Sir, my good friend and correspondent speaks of you in the highest terms. Sir, I honour my good friend, and have the highest respect for his opinion in all matters connected with literature--rather eccentric though. Sir, my good friend has done my periodical more good and more harm than all the rest of my correspondents. Sir, I shall never forget the sensation caused by the appearance of his article about a certain personage whom he proved--and I think satisfactorily--to have been a legionary soldier--rather startling, was it not? The S--- of the world a common soldier, in a marching regiment--original, but startling; sir, I honour my good friend." "So you have renounced publishing, sir," said I, "with the exception of the Magazine?" "Why, yes; except now and then, under the rose; the old coachman, you know, likes to hear the whip. Indeed, at the present moment, I am thinking of starting a Review on an entirely new and original principle; and it just struck me that you might be of high utility in the undertaking--what do you think of the matter?" "I should be happy, sir, to render you any assistance, but I am afraid the employment you propose requires other qualifications than I possess; however, I can make the essay. My chief intention in coming to London was to lay before the world what I had prepared; and I had hoped by your assistance--" "Ah! I see, ambition! Ambition is a very pretty thing; but, sir, we must walk before we run, according to the old saying--what is that you have got under your arm?" "One of the works to which I was alluding; the one, indeed, which I am most anxious to lay before the world, as I hope to derive from it both profit and reputation." "Indeed! what do you call it?" "Ancient songs of Denmark, heroic and romantic, translated by myself; with notes philological, critical, and historical." "Then, sir, I assure you that your time and labour have been entirely flung away; nobody would read your ballads, if you were to give them to the world to-morrow." "I am sure, sir, that you would say otherwise if you would permit me to read one to you;" and, without waiting for the answer of the big man, nor indeed so much as looking at him, to see whether he was inclined or not to hear me, I undid my manuscript, and, with a voice trembling with eagerness, I read to the following effect:-- 'Buckshank bold and Elfinstone, And more than I can mention here, They caused to be built so stout a ship, And unto Iceland they would steer. They launched the ship upon the main, Which bellowed like a wrathful bear; Down to the bottom the vessel sank, A laidly Trold has dragged it there. Down to the bottom sank young Roland, And round about he groped awhile; Until he found the path which led Unto the bower of Ellenlyle.'" "Stop!" said the publisher; "very pretty indeed, and very original; beats Scott hollow, and Percy too: but, sir, the day for these things is gone by; nobody at present cares for Percy, nor for Scott, either, save as a novelist; sorry to discourage merit, sir, but what can I do! What else have you got?" "The songs of Ab Gwilym, the Welsh bard, also translated by myself, with notes critical, philological, and historical." "Pass on--what else?" "Nothing else," said I, folding up my manuscript with a sigh, "unless it be a romance in the German style; on which, I confess, I set very little value." "Wild?" "Yes, sir, very wild." "Like the 'Miller of the Black Valley'?" "Yes, sir, very much like the 'Miller of the Black Valley.'" "Well, that's better," said the publisher; "and yet, I don't know, I question whether any one at present cares for the miller himself. No, sir, the time for those things is also gone by; German, at present, is a drug; and, between ourselves, nobody has contributed to make it so more than my good friend and correspondent;--but, sir, I see you are a young gentleman of infinite merit, and I always wish to encourage merit. Don't you think you could write a series of evangelical tales?" "Evangelical tales, sir?" "Yes, sir, evangelical novels." "Something in the style of Herder?" "Herder is a drug, sir; nobody cares for Herder--thanks to my good friend. Sir, I have in yon drawer a hundred pages about Herder, which I dare not insert in my periodical; it would sink it, sir. No, sir, something in the style of the 'Dairyman's Daughter.'" {278} "I never heard of the work till the present moment." "Then, sir, procure it by all means. Sir, I could afford as much as ten pounds for a well-written tale in the style of the 'Dairyman's Daughter'; that is the kind of literature, sir, that sells at the present day! It is not the Miller of the Black Valley--no, sir, nor Herder either, that will suit the present taste; the evangelical body is becoming very strong, sir; the canting scoundrels--" "But, sir, surely you would not pander to a scoundrelly taste?" "Then, sir, I must give up business altogether. Sir, I have a great respect for the goddess Reason--an infinite respect, sir; indeed, in my time, I have made a great many sacrifices for her; but, sir, I cannot altogether ruin myself for the goddess Reason. Sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as is well known; but I must also be a friend to my own family. It is with the view of providing for a son of mine that I am about to start the Review of which I was speaking. He has taken into his head to marry, sir, and I must do something for him, for he can do but little for himself. Well, sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as I said before, and likewise a friend to Reason; but I tell you frankly that the Review which I intend to get up under the rose, and present him with when it is established, will be conducted on Oxford principles." "Orthodox principles, I suppose you mean, sir?" "I do, sir; I am no linguist, but I believe the words are synonymous." Much more conversation passed between us, and it was agreed that I should become a contributor to the "Oxford Review." I stipulated, however, that, as I knew little of politics, and cared less, no other articles should be required from me than such as were connected with belles-lettres and philology; to this the big man readily assented. "Nothing will be required from you," said he, "but what you mention; and now and then, perhaps, a paper on metaphysics. You understand German, and perhaps it would be desirable that you should review Kant; and in a review of Kant, sir, you could introduce to advantage your peculiar notions about _ex nihilo_." He then reverted to the subject of the "Dairyman's Daughter," which I promised to take into consideration. As I was going away, he invited me to dine with him on the ensuing Sunday. "That's a strange man!" said I to myself, after I had left the house; "he is evidently very clever; but I cannot say that I like him much, with his 'Oxford Reviews' and 'Dairyman's Daughters.' But what can I do? I am almost without a friend in the world. I wish I could find some one who would publish my ballads, or my songs of Ab Gwilym. In spite of what the big man says, I am convinced that, once published, they would bring me much fame and profit. But how is this?--what a beautiful sun!--the porter was right in saying that the day would clear up--I will now go to my dingy lodging, lock up my manuscripts, and then take a stroll about the big city." CHAPTER XXXI The Walk--London's Cheape--Street of the Lombards--Strange Bridge--Main Arch--The Roaring Gulf--The Boat--Clyfaking--A Comfort--The Book--The Blessed Woman--No Trap. So I set out on my walk to see the wonders of the big city, and, as chance would have it, I directed my course to the east. The day, as I have already said, had become very fine, so that I saw the great city to advantage, and the wonders thereof: and much I admired all I saw; and, amongst other things, the huge cathedral, standing so proudly on the most commanding ground in the big city; and I looked up to the mighty dome, surmounted by a golden cross, and I said within myself, "That dome must needs be the finest in the world;" and I gazed upon it till my eyes reeled, and my brain became dizzy, and I thought that the dome would fall and crush me; and I shrank within myself, and struck yet deeper into the heart of the big city. "O Cheapside! Cheapside!" said I, as I advanced up that mighty thoroughfare, "truly thou art a wonderful place for hurry, noise, and riches! Men talk of the bazaars of the East--I have never seen them--but I dare say that, compared with thee, they are poor places, silent places, abounding with empty boxes, O thou pride of London's east!--mighty mart of old renown!--for thou art not a place of yesterday:--long before the Roses red and white battled in fair England, thou didst exist--a place of throng and bustle--a place of gold and silver, perfumes and fine linen. Centuries ago thou couldst extort the praises even of the fiercest foes of England. Fierce bards of Wales, sworn foes of England, sang thy praises centuries ago; and even the fiercest of them all, Red Julius himself, wild Glendower's bard, had a word of praise for London's 'Cheape,' for so the bards of Wales styled thee in their flowing odes. Then, if those who were not English, and hated England, and all connected therewith, had yet much to say in thy praise, when thou wast far inferior to what thou art now, why should true-born Englishmen, or those who call themselves so, turn up their noses at thee, and scoff thee at the present day, as I believe they do? But, let others do as they will, I, at least, who am not only an Englishman, but an East Englishman, will not turn up my nose at thee, but will praise and extol thee, calling thee mart of the world--a place of wonder and astonishment!--and, were it right and fitting to wish that anything should endure for ever, I would say prosperity to Cheapside, throughout all ages--may it be the world's resort for merchandise, world without end." And when I had passed through the Cheape I entered another street, which led up a kind of ascent, and which proved to be the street of the Lombards, called so from the name of its first founders; and I walked rapidly up the street of the Lombards, neither looking to the right nor left, for it had no interest for me, though I had a kind of consciousness that mighty things were being transacted behind its walls; but it wanted the throng, bustle, and outward magnificence of the Cheape, and it had never been spoken of by "ruddy bards"! And, when I had got to the end of the street of the Lombards, I stood still for some time, deliberating within myself whether I should turn to the right or the left, or go straight forward, and at last I turned to the right, down a street of rapid descent, and presently found myself upon a bridge which traversed the river which runs by the big city. A strange kind of bridge it was; huge and massive, and seemingly of great antiquity. It had an arched back, like that of a hog, a high balustrade, and at either side, at intervals, were stone bowers bulking over the river, but open on the other side, and furnished with a semicircular bench. Though the bridge was wide--very wide--it was all too narrow for the concourse upon it. Thousands of human beings were pouring over the bridge. But what chiefly struck my attention was a double row of carts and wagons, the generality drawn by horses as large as elephants, each row striving hard in a different direction, and not unfrequently brought to a standstill. Oh the cracking of whips, the shouts and oaths of the carters, and the grating of wheels upon the enormous stones that formed the pavement! In fact, there was a wild hurly-burly upon the bridge, which nearly deafened me. But, if upon the bridge there was a confusion, below it there was a confusion ten times confounded. The tide, which was fast ebbing, obstructed by the immense piers of the old bridge, poured beneath the arches with a fall of several feet, forming in the river below as many whirlpools as there were arches. Truly tremendous was the roar of the descending waters, and the bellow of the tremendous gulfs, which swallowed them for a time, and then cast them forth, foaming and frothing from their horrid wombs. Slowly advancing along the bridge, I came to the highest point, and there I stood still, close beside one of the stone bowers, in which, beside a fruit-stall, sat an old woman, with a pan of charcoal at her feet, and a book in her hand, in which she appeared to be reading intently. There I stood, just above the principal arch, looking through the balustrade at the scene that presented itself--and such a scene! Towards the left bank of the river, a forest of masts, thick and close, as far as the eye could reach; spacious wharfs, surmounted with gigantic edifices; and, far away, Caesar's Castle, with its White Tower. To the right, another forest of masts, and a maze of buildings, from which, here and there, shot up to the sky chimneys taller than Cleopatra's Needle, vomiting forth huge wreaths of that black smoke which forms the canopy--occasionally a gorgeous one--of the more than Babel city. Stretching before me, the troubled breast of the mighty river, and, immediately below, the main whirlpool of the Thames--the Maelstrom of the bulwarks of the middle arch--a grisly pool, which, with its superabundance of horror, fascinated me. Who knows but I should have leapt into its depths?--I have heard of such things--but for a rather startling occurrence which broke the spell. As I stood upon the bridge, gazing into the jaws of the pool, a small boat shot suddenly through the arch beneath my feet. There were three persons in it; an oarsman in the middle, whilst a man and woman sat at the stern. I shall never forget the thrill of horror which went through me at this sudden apparition. What!--a boat--a small boat--passing beneath that arch into yonder roaring gulf! Yes, yes, down through that awful water-way, with more than the swiftness of an arrow, shot the boat, or skiff, right into the jaws of the pool. A monstrous breaker curls over the prow--there is no hope; the boat is swamped, and all drowned in that strangling vortex! No! the boat, which appeared to have the buoyancy of a feather, skipped over the threatening horror, and, the next moment, was out of danger, the boatman--a true boatman of Cockaigne that--elevating one of his sculls in sign of triumph, the man hallooing, and the woman, a true Englishwoman that--of a certain class--waving her shawl. Whether any one observed them save myself, or whether the feat was a common one, I know not; but nobody appeared to take any notice of them. As for myself, I was so excited, that I strove to clamber up the balustrade of the bridge, in order to obtain a better view of the daring adventurers. Before I could accomplish my design, however, I felt myself seized by the body, and, turning my head, perceived the old fruit-woman, who was clinging to me. "Nay, dear! don't--don't!" said she. "Don't fling yourself over--perhaps you may have better luck next time!" "I was not going to fling myself over," said I, dropping from the balustrade; "how came you to think of such a thing?" "Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you might have had ill luck, and that you wished to make away with yourself." "Ill luck," said I, going into the stone bower, and sitting down. "What do you mean? ill luck in what?" "Why, no great harm, dear! clyfaking perhaps." "Are you coming over me with dialects," said I, "speaking unto me in fashions I wot nothing of?" "Nay, dear! don't look so strange with those eyes of your'n, nor talk so strangely; I don't understand you." "Nor I you; what do you mean by clyfaking?" "Lor, dear! no harm; only taking a handkerchief now and then." "Do you take me for a thief?" "Nay, dear! don't make use of bad language; we never calls them thieves here, but prigs and fakers: to tell you the truth, dear, seeing you spring at that railing put me in mind of my own dear son, who is now at Bot'ny: when he had bad luck, he always used to talk of flinging himself over the bridge; and, sure enough, when the traps were after him, he did fling himself into the river, but that was off the bank; nevertheless, the traps pulled him out, and he is now suffering his sentence; so you see you may speak out, if you have done anything in the harmless line, for I am my son's own mother, I assure you." "So you think there's no harm in stealing?" "No harm in the world, dear! Do you think my own child would have been transported for it, if there had been any harm in it? and, what's more, would the blessed woman in the book here have written her life as she has done, and given it to the world, if there had been any harm in faking? She, too, was what they call a thief and a cut-purse; ay, and was transported for it, like my dear son; and do you think she would have told the world so, if there had been any harm in the thing? Oh, it is a comfort to me that the blessed woman was transported, and came back--for come back she did, and rich too--for it is an assurance to me that my dear son, who was transported too, will come back like her." "What was her name?" "Her name, blessed Mary Flanders." "Will you let me look at the book?" "Yes, dear, that I will, if you promise me not to run away with it." I took the book from her hand; a short thick volume, at least a century old, bound with greasy black leather. I turned the yellow and dog's-eared pages, reading here and there a sentence. Yes, and no mistake! _His_ pen, his style, his spirit might be observed in every line of the uncouth-looking old volume--the air, the style, the spirit of the writer of the book which first taught me to read. {287} I covered my face with my hand, and thought of my childhood . . . "This is a singular book," said I at last; "but it does not appear to have been written to prove that thieving is no harm, but rather to show the terrible consequences of crime: it contains a deep moral." "A deep what, dear?" "A . . . but no matter; I will give you a crown for this volume." "No, dear, I will not sell the volume for a crown." "I am poor," said I; "but I will give you two silver crowns for your volume." "No, dear, I will not sell my volume for two silver crowns; no, nor for the golden one in the king's Tower down there; without my book I should mope and pine, and perhaps fling myself into the river; but I am glad you like it, which shows that I was right about you, after all; you are one of our party, and you have a flash about that eye of yours which puts me just in mind of my dear son. No, dear, I won't sell you my book; but, if you like, you may have a peep into it whenever you come this way. I shall be glad to see you; you are one of the right sort, for, if you had been a common one, you would have run away with the thing; but you scorn such behaviour, and, as you are so flash of your money, though you say you are poor, you may give me a tanner to buy a little baccy with; I love baccy, dear, more by token that it comes from the plantations to which the blessed woman was sent." "What's a tanner?" said I. "Lor! don't you know, dear? Why, a tanner is sixpence; and, as you were talking just now about crowns, it will be as well to tell you that those of our trade never calls them crowns, but bulls; but I am talking nonsense, just as if you did not know all that already, as well as myself; you are only shamming--I'm no trap, dear, nor more was the blessed woman in the book. Thank you, dear--thank you for the tanner; if I don't spend it, I'll keep it in remembrance of your sweet face. What, you are going?--well, first let me whisper a word to you. If you have any clies to sell at any time, I'll buy them of you; all safe with me; I never 'peach, and scorns a trap; so now, dear, God bless you! and give you good luck. Thank you for your pleasant company, and thank you for the tanner." CHAPTER XXXII The Tanner--The Hotel--Drinking Claret--London Journal--New Field--Commonplaceness--The Three Individuals--Botheration--Frank and Ardent. "'Tanner!" said I, musingly, as I left the bridge; "Tanner! what can the man who cures raw skins by means of a preparation of oak bark and other materials have to do with the name which these fakers, as they call themselves, bestow on the smallest silver coin in these dominions? Tanner! I can't trace the connection between the man of bark and the silver coin, unless journeymen tanners are in the habit of working for sixpence a day. But I have it," I continued, flourishing my hat over my head, "tanner, in this instance, is not an English word." Is it not surprising that the language of Mr. Petulengro and of Tawno Chikno is continually coming to my assistance whenever I appear to be at a nonplus with respect to the derivation of crabbed words? I have made out crabbed words in AEschylus by means of the speech of Chikno and Petulengro, and even in my Biblical researches I have derived no slight assistance from it. It appears to be a kind of picklock, an open sesame, Tanner--Tawno! the one is but a modification of the other; they were originally identical, and have still much the same signification. Tanner, in the language of the apple-woman, meaneth the smallest of English silver coins; and Tawno, in the language of the Petulengres, though bestowed upon the biggest of the Romans, according to strict interpretation, signifieth a little child. So I left the bridge, retracing my steps for a considerable way, as I thought I had seen enough in the direction in which I had hitherto been wandering; I should say that I scarcely walked less than thirty miles about the big city on the day of my first arrival. Night came on, but still I was walking about, my eyes wide open, and admiring everything that presented itself to them. Everything was new to me, for everything is different in London from what it is elsewhere--the people, their language, the horses, the _tout ensemble_--even the stones of London are different from others--at least it appeared to me that I had never walked with the same ease and facility on the flagstones of a country town as on those of London; so I continued roving about till night came on, and then the splendour of some of the shops particularly struck me. "A regular Arabian Nights' entertainment!" said I, as I looked into one on Cornhill, gorgeous with precious merchandise, and lighted up with lustres, the rays of which were reflected from a hundred mirrors. But, notwithstanding the excellence of the London pavement, I began about nine o'clock to feel myself thoroughly tired; painfully and slowly did I drag my feet along. I also felt very much in want of some refreshment, and I remembered that since breakfast I had taken nothing. I was now in the Strand, and, glancing about, I perceived that I was close by an hotel, which bore over the door the somewhat remarkable name of Holy Lands. Without a moment's hesitation I entered a well-lighted passage, and, turning to the left, I found myself in a well-lighted coffee-room, with a well-dressed and frizzled waiter before me. "Bring me some claret," said I, for I was rather faint than hungry, and I felt ashamed to give a humbler order to so well-dressed an individual. The waiter looked at me for a moment; then, making a low bow, he bustled off, and I sat myself down in the box nearest to the window. Presently the waiter returned, bearing beneath his left arm a long bottle, and between the fingers of his right hand two large purple glasses; placing the latter on the table, he produced a cork-screw, drew the cork in a twinkling, set the bottle down before me with a bang, and then, standing still, appeared to watch my movements. You think I don't know how to drink a glass of claret, thought I to myself. I'll soon show you how we drink claret where I come from; and, filling one of the glasses to the brim, I flickered it for a moment between my eyes and the lustre, and then held it to my nose; having given that organ full time to test the bouquet of the wine, I applied the glass to my lips, taking a large mouthful of the wine, which I swallowed slowly and by degrees, that the palate might likewise have an opportunity of performing its functions. A second mouthful I disposed of more summarily; then, placing the empty glass upon the table, I fixed my eyes upon the bottle, and said--nothing; whereupon the waiter, who had been observing the whole process with considerable attention, made me a bow yet more low than before, and, turning on his heel, retired with a smart chuck of his head, as much as to say, It is all right; the young man is used to claret. And when the waiter had retired I took a second glass of the wine, which I found excellent; and, observing a newspaper lying near me, I took it up and began perusing it. It has been observed somewhere that people who are in the habit of reading newspapers every day are not unfrequently struck with the excellence of style and general talent which they display. Now, if that be the case, how must I have been surprised, who was reading a newspaper for the first time, and that one of the best of the London journals! Yes, strange as it may seem, it was nevertheless true that, up to the moment of which I am speaking, I had never read a newspaper of any description. {293} I of course had frequently seen journals, and even handled them; but, as for reading them, what were they to me?--I cared not for news. But here I was now with my claret before me, perusing, perhaps, the best of all the London journals--it was not the -----and I was astonished: an entirely new field of literature appeared to be opened to my view. It was a discovery, but I confess rather an unpleasant one; for I said to myself, if literary talent is so very common in London, that the journals, things which, as their very name denotes, are ephemeral, are written in a style like the article I have been perusing, how can I hope to distinguish myself in this big town, when, for the life of me, I don't think I could write anything half so clever as what I have been reading. And then I laid down the paper, and fell into deep musing; rousing myself from which, I took a glass of wine, and, pouring out another, began musing again. What I have been reading, thought I, is certainly very clever and very talented; but talent and cleverness I think I have heard some one say are very commonplace things, only fitted for everyday occasions. I question whether the man who wrote the book I saw this day on the bridge was a clever man; but, after all, was he not something much better? I don't think he could have written this article, but then he wrote the book which I saw on the bridge. Then, if he could not have written the article on which I now hold my forefinger--and I do not believe he could--why should I feel discouraged at the consciousness that I, too, could not write it? I certainly could no more have written the article than he could; but then, like him, though I would not compare myself to the man who wrote the book I saw upon the bridge, I think I could--and here I emptied the glass of claret--write something better. Thereupon I resumed the newspaper; and, as I was before struck with the fluency of style and the general talent which it displayed, I was now equally so with its commonplaceness and want of originality on every subject; and it was evident to me that, whatever advantage these newspaper-writers might have over me in some points, they had never studied the Welsh bards, translated Koempe Viser, or been under the pupilage of Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno. And as I sat conning the newspaper three individuals entered the room, and seated themselves in the box at the farther end of which I was. They were all three very well dressed; two of them elderly gentlemen, the third a young man about my own age, or perhaps a year or two older: they called for coffee; and, after two or three observations, the two eldest commenced a conversation in French, which, however, though they spoke it fluently enough, I perceived at once was not their native language; the young man, however, took no part in their conversation, and when they addressed a portion to him, which indeed was but rarely, merely replied by a monosyllable. I have never been a listener, and I paid but little heed to their discourse, nor indeed to themselves; as I occasionally looked up, however, I could perceive that the features of the young man, who chanced to be seated exactly opposite to me, wore an air of constraint and vexation. This circumstance caused me to observe him more particularly than I otherwise should have done: his features were handsome and prepossessing; he had dark brown hair and a high-arched forehead. After the lapse of half an hour, the two elder individuals, having finished their coffee, called for the waiter, and then rose as if to depart, the young man, however, still remaining seated in the box. The others, having reached the door, turned round, and, finding that the youth did not follow them, one of them called to him with a tone of some authority; whereupon the young man rose, and, pronouncing half audibly the word "botheration," rose and followed them. I now observed that he was remarkably tall. All three left the house. In about ten minutes, finding nothing more worth reading in the newspaper, I laid it down, and though the claret was not yet exhausted, I was thinking of betaking myself to my lodgings, and was about to call the waiter, when I heard a step in the passage, and in another moment the tall young man entered the room, advanced to the same box, and, sitting down nearly opposite to me, again pronounced to himself, but more audibly than before, the same word. "A troublesome world this, sir," said I, looking at him. "Yes," said the young man, looking fixedly at me; "but I am afraid we bring most of our troubles on our own heads--at least I can say so of myself," he added, laughing. Then, after a pause, "I beg pardon," he said, "but am I not addressing one of my own country?" "Of what country are you?" said I. "Ireland." "I am not of your country, sir; but I have an infinite veneration for your country, as Strap said to the French soldier. Will you take a glass of wine?" "Ah, _de tout mon coeur_, as the parasite said to Gil Blas," cried the young man, laughing. "Here's to our better acquaintance!" And better acquainted we soon became; and I found that, in making the acquaintance of the young man, I had, indeed, made a valuable acquisition; he was accomplished, highly connected, and bore the name of Francis Ardry. Frank and ardent he was, and in a very little time had told me much that related to himself, and in return I communicated a general outline of my own history; he listened with profound attention, but laughed heartily when I told him some particulars of my visit in the morning to the publisher, whom he had frequently heard of. We left the house together. "We shall soon see each other again," said he, as we separated at the door of my lodging. CHAPTER XXXIII Dine with the Publisher--Religions--No Animal Food--Unprofitable Discussions--Principles of Criticism--The Book Market--Newgate Lives--Goethe a Drug--German Acquirements--Moral Dignity. On the Sunday I was punctual to my appointment to dine with the publisher. As I hurried along the square in which his house stood, my thoughts were fixed so intently on the great man, that I passed by him without seeing him. He had observed me, however, and joined me just as I was about to knock at the door. "Let us take a turn in the square," said he; "we shall not dine for half an hour." "Well," said he, as we were walking in the square, "what have you been doing since I last saw you?" "I have been looking about London," said I, "and I have bought the 'Dairyman's Daughter'; here it is." "Pray put it up," said the publisher; "I don't want to look at such trash. Well, do you think you could write anything like it?" "I do not," said I. "How is that?" said the publisher, looking at me. "Because," said I, "the man who wrote it seems to be perfectly well acquainted with his subject; and, moreover, to write from the heart." "By the subject you mean--" "Religion." "And a'n't you acquainted with religion?" "Very little." "I am sorry for that," said the publisher, seriously, "for he who sets up for an author ought to be acquainted not only with religion, but religions, and indeed with all subjects, like my good friend in the country. It is well that I have changed my mind about the 'Dairyman's Daughter,' or I really don't know whom I could apply to on the subject at the present moment, unless to himself; and after all I question whether his style is exactly suited for an evangelical novel." "Then you do not wish for an imitation of the 'Dairyman's Daughter'?" "I do not, sir; I have changed my mind, as I told you before; I wish to employ you in another line, but will communicate to you my intentions after dinner." At dinner, beside the publisher and myself, were present his wife and son, with his newly married bride; the wife appeared a quiet respectable woman, and the young people looked very happy and good-natured; not so the publisher, who occasionally eyed both with contempt and dislike. Connected with this dinner there was one thing remarkable; the publisher took no animal food, but contented himself with feeding voraciously on rice and vegetables prepared in various ways. "You eat no animal food, sir?" said I. "I do not, sir," said he; "I have forsworn it upwards of twenty years. In one respect, sir, I am a Brahmin. I abhor taking away life--the brutes have as much right to live as ourselves." "But," said I, "if the brutes were not killed, there would be such a superabundance of them, that the land would be overrun with them." "I do not think so, sir; few are killed in India, and yet there is plenty of room." "But," said I, "nature intended that they should be destroyed, and the brutes themselves prey upon one another, and it is well for themselves and the world that they do so. What would be the state of things if every insect, bird, and worm were left to perish of old age?" "We will change the subject," said the publisher; "I have never been a friend of unprofitable discussions." I looked at the publisher with some surprise, I had not been accustomed to be spoken to so magisterially; his countenance was dressed in a portentous frown, and his eye looked more sinister than ever; at that moment he put me in mind of some of those despots of whom I had read in the history of Morocco, whose word was law. He merely wants power, thought I to myself, to be a regular Muley Mehemet; and then I sighed, for I remembered how very much I was in the power of that man. The dinner over, the publisher nodded to his wife, who departed, followed by her daughter-in-law. The son looked as if he would willingly have attended them; he, however, remained seated; and, a small decanter of wine being placed on the table, the publisher filled two glasses, one of which he handed to myself, and the other to his son; saying, "Suppose you two drink to the success of the Review. I would join you," said he, addressing himself to me, "but I drink no wine; if I am a Brahmin with respect to meat, I am a Mahometan with respect to wine." So the son and I drank success to the Review, and then the young man asked me various questions; for example--How I liked London?--Whether I did not think it a very fine place?--Whether I was at the play the night before?--and Whether I was in the park that afternoon? He seemed preparing to ask me some more questions; but, receiving a furious look from his father, he became silent, filled himself a glass of wine, drank it off, looked at the table for about a minute, then got up, pushed back his chair, made me a bow, and left the room. "Is that young gentleman, sir," said I, "well versed in the principles of criticism?" "He is not, sir," said the publisher; "and, if I place him at the head of the Review ostensibly, I do it merely in the hope of procuring him a maintenance; of the principle of a thing he knows nothing, except that the principle of bread is wheat, and that the principle of that wine is grape. Will you take another glass?" I looked at the decanter; but, not feeling altogether so sure as the publisher's son with respect to the principle of what it contained, I declined taking any more. "No, sir," said the publisher, adjusting himself in his chair, "he knows nothing about criticism, and will have nothing more to do with the reviewals than carrying about the books to those who have to review them; the real conductor of the Review will be a widely different person, to whom I will, when convenient, introduce you. And now we will talk of the matter which we touched upon before dinner: I told you then that I had changed my mind with respect to you; I have been considering the state of the market, sir, the book market, and I have come to the conclusion that, though you might be profitably employed upon evangelical novels, you could earn more money for me, sir, and consequently for yourself, by a compilation of Newgate lives and trials." "Newgate lives and trials!" "Yes, sir," said the publisher, "Newgate lives and trials; and now, sir, I will briefly state to you the services which I expect you to perform, and the terms which I am willing to grant. I expect you, sir, to compile six volumes of Newgate lives and trials, each volume to contain by no manner of means less than one thousand pages; the remuneration which you will receive when the work is completed will be fifty pounds, which is likewise intended to cover any expenses you may incur in procuring books, papers, and manuscripts necessary for the compilation. Such will be one of your employments, sir,--such the terms. In the second place, you will be expected to make yourself useful in the Review--generally useful, sir--doing whatever is required of you; for it is not customary, at least with me, to permit writers, especially young writers, to choose their subjects. In these two departments, sir, namely, compilation and reviewing, I had yesterday, after due consideration, determined upon employing you. I had intended to employ you no farther, sir--at least for the present; but, sir, this morning I received a letter from my valued friend in the country, in which he speaks in terms of strong admiration (I don't overstate) of your German acquirements. Sir, he says that it would be a thousand pities if your knowledge of the German language should be lost to the world, or even permitted to sleep, and he entreats me to think of some plan by which it may be turned to account. Sir, I am at all times willing, if possible, to oblige my worthy friend, and likewise to encourage merit and talent; I have, therefore, determined to employ you in German." "Sir," said I, rubbing my hands, "you are very kind, and so is our mutual friend; I shall be happy to make myself useful in German; and if you think a good translation from Goethe--his 'Sorrows' for example, or more particularly his 'Faust'--" "Sir," said the publisher, "Goethe is a drug; his 'Sorrows' are a drug, so is his 'Faustus,' more especially the last, since that fool --- rendered him into English. No, sir, I do not want you to translate Goethe or anything belonging to him; nor do I want you to translate anything from the German; what I want you to do, is to translate into German. I am willing to encourage merit, sir; and, as my good friend in his last letter has spoken very highly of your German acquirements, I have determined that you shall translate my book of philosophy into German." "Your book of philosophy into German, sir?" "Yes, sir; my book of philosophy into German. I am not a drug, sir, in Germany as Goethe is here, no more is my book. I intend to print the translation at Leipzig, sir; and if it turns out a profitable speculation, as I make no doubt it will, provided the translation be well executed, I will make you some remuneration. Sir, your remuneration will be determined by the success of your translation." "But, sir--" "Sir," said the publisher, interrupting me, "you have heard my intentions; I consider that you ought to feel yourself highly gratified by my intentions towards you; it is not frequently that I deal with a writer, especially a young writer, as I have done with you. And now, sir, permit me to inform you that I wish to be alone. This is Sunday afternoon, sir; I never go to church, but I am in the habit of spending part of every Sunday afternoon alone--profitably I hope, sir--in musing on the magnificence of nature and the moral dignity of man." CHAPTER XXXIV The Two Volumes--A Young Author--Intended Editor--Quintilian--Loose Money. "What can't be cured must be endured," and "it is hard to kick against the pricks." At the period to which I have brought my history, I bethought me of the proverbs with which I have headed this chapter, and determined to act up to their spirit. I determined not to fly in the face of the publisher, and to bear--what I could not cure--his arrogance and vanity. At present, at the conclusion of nearly a quarter of a century, I am glad that I came to that determination, which I did my best to carry into effect. Two or three days after our last interview, the publisher made his appearance in my apartment; he bore two tattered volumes under his arm, which he placed on the table. "I have brought you two volumes of lives, sir," said he, "which I yesterday found in my garret; you will find them of service for your compilation. As I always wish to behave liberally and encourage talent, especially youthful talent, I shall make no charge for them, though I should be justified in so doing, as you are aware that, by our agreement, you are to provide any books and materials which may be necessary. Have you been in quest of any?" "No," said I, "not yet." "Then, sir, I would advise you to lose no time in doing so; you must visit all the bookstalls, sir, especially those in the by-streets and blind alleys. It is in such places that you will find the description of literature you are in want of. You must be up and doing, sir; it will not do for an author, especially a young author, to be idle in this town. To-night you will receive my book of philosophy, and likewise books for the Review. And, by the bye, sir, it will be as well for you to review my book of philosophy for the Review; the other reviews not having noticed it. Sir, before translating it, I wish you to review my book of philosophy for the Review." "I shall be happy to do my best, sir." "Very good, sir; I should be unreasonable to expect anything beyond a person's best. And now, sir, if you please, I will conduct you to the future editor of the Review. {306} As you are to co-operate, sir, I deem it right to make you acquainted." The intended editor was a little old man, who sat in a kind of wooden pavilion in a small garden behind a house in one of the purlieus of the city, composing tunes upon a piano. The walls of the pavilion were covered with fiddles of various sizes and appearances, and a considerable portion of the floor occupied by a pile of books all of one size. The publisher introduced him to me as a gentleman scarcely less eminent in literature than in music, and me to him as an aspirant critic--a young gentleman scarcely less eminent in philosophy than in philology. The conversation consisted entirely of compliments till just before we separated, when the future editor inquired of me whether I had ever read Quintilian; and, on my replying in the negative, expressed his surprise that any gentleman should aspire to become a critic who had never read Quintilian, with the comfortable information, however, that he could supply me with a Quintilian at half-price, that is, a translation made by himself some years previously, of which he had, pointing to the heap on the floor, still a few copies remaining unsold. For some reason or other, perhaps a poor one, I did not purchase the editor's translation of Quintilian. "Sir," said the publisher, as we were returning from our visit to the editor, "you did right in not purchasing a drug. I am not prepared, sir, to say that Quintilian is a drug, never having seen him; but I am prepared to say that man's translation is a drug, judging from the heap of rubbish on the floor; besides, sir, you will want any loose money you may have to purchase the description of literature which is required for your compilation." The publisher presently paused before the entrance of a very forlorn-looking street. "Sir," said he, after looking down it with attention, "I should not wonder if in that street you find works connected with the description of literature which is required for your compilation. It is in streets of this description, sir, and blind alleys, where such works are to be found. You had better search that street, sir, whilst I continue my way." I searched the street to which the publisher had pointed, and, in the course of the three succeeding days, many others of a similar kind. I did not find the description of literature alluded to by the publisher to be a drug, but, on the contrary, both scarce and dear. I had expended much more than my loose money long before I could procure materials even for the first volume of my compilation. CHAPTER XXXV Francis Ardry--Certain Sharpers--Brave and Eloquent--Opposites--Flinging the Bones--Strange Places--Dog-Fighting--Learning and Letters--Batch of Dogs--Redoubled Application. One evening I was visited by the tall young gentleman, Francis Ardry, whose acquaintance I had formed at the coffee-house. As it is necessary that the reader should know something more about this young man, who will frequently appear in the course of these pages, I will state in a few words who and what he was. He was born of an ancient Roman Catholic family in Ireland; his parents, whose only child he was, had long been dead. His father, who had survived his mother several years, had been a spendthrift, and at his death had left the family property considerably embarrassed. Happily, however, the son and the estate fell into the hands of careful guardians, near relations of the family, by whom the property was managed to the best advantage, and every means taken to educate the young man in a manner suitable to his expectations. At the age of sixteen he was taken from a celebrated school in England at which he had been placed, and sent to a small French university, in order that he might form an intimate and accurate acquaintance with the grand language of the Continent. There he continued three years, at the end of which he went under the care of a French abbe to Germany and Italy. It was in this latter country that he first began to cause his guardians serious uneasiness. He was in the hey-day of youth when he visited Italy, and he entered wildly into the various delights of that fascinating region, and, what was worse, falling into the hands of certain sharpers, not Italian, but English, he was fleeced of considerable sums of money. The abbe, who, it seems, was an excellent individual of the old French school, remonstrated with his pupil on his dissipation and extravagance; but, finding his remonstrances vain, very properly informed the guardians of the manner of life of his charge. They were not slow in commanding Francis Ardry home; and, as he was entirely in their power, he was forced to comply. He had been about three months in London when I met him in the coffee-room, and the two elderly gentlemen in his company were his guardians. At this time they were very solicitous that he should choose for himself a profession, offering to his choice either the army or law--he was calculated to shine in either of these professions--for, like many others of his countrymen, he was brave and eloquent; but he did not wish to shackle himself with a profession. As, however, his minority did not terminate till he was three-and-twenty, of which age he wanted nearly two years, during which he would be entirely dependent on his guardians, he deemed it expedient to conceal, to a certain degree, his sentiments, temporising with the old gentlemen, with whom, notwithstanding his many irregularities, he was a great favourite, and at whose death he expected to come into a yet greater property than that which he inherited from his parents. Such is a brief account of Francis Ardry--of my friend Francis Ardry; for the acquaintance, commenced in the singular manner with which the reader is acquainted, speedily ripened into a friendship which endured through many long years of separation, and which still endures certainly on my part, and on his--if he lives; but it is many years since I have heard from Francis Ardry. And yet many people would have thought it impossible for our friendship to have lasted a week--for in many respects no two people could be more dissimilar. He was an Irishman--I, an Englishman;--he, fiery, enthusiastic, and open-hearted;--I, neither fiery, enthusiastic, nor open- hearted;--he, fond of pleasure and dissipation;--I, of study and reflection. Yet it is of such dissimilar elements that the most lasting friendships are formed: we do not like counterparts of ourselves. "Two great talkers will not travel far together," is a Spanish saying; I will add, "Nor two silent people;" we naturally love our opposites. So Francis Ardry came to see me, and right glad I was to see him, for I had just flung my books and papers aside, and was wishing for a little social converse; and when we had conversed for some little time together, Francis Ardry proposed that we should go to the play to see Kean; so we went to the play, and saw--not Kean, who at that time was ashamed to show himself, but--a man who was not ashamed to show himself, and who people said was a much better man than Kean--as I have no doubt he was--though whether he was a better actor I cannot say, for I never saw Kean. Two or three evenings after Francis Ardry came to see me again, and again we went out together, and Francis Ardry took me to--shall I say?--why not?--a gaming house, where I saw people playing, and where I saw Francis Ardry play and lose five guineas, and where I lost nothing, because I did not play, though I felt somewhat inclined; for a man with a white hat and a sparkling eye held up a box which contained something which rattled, and asked me to fling the bones. "There is nothing like flinging the bones!" said he, and then I thought I should like to know what kind of thing flinging the bones was; I, however, restrained myself. "There is nothing like flinging the bones!" shouted the man, as my friend and myself left the room. Long life and prosperity to Francis Ardry! but for him I should not have obtained knowledge which I did of the strange and eccentric places of London. Some of the places to which he took me were very strange places indeed; but, however strange the places were, I observed that the inhabitants thought there were no places like their several places, and no occupations like their several occupations; and among other strange places to which Francis Ardry conducted me, was a place not far from the abbey church of Westminster. Before we entered this place our ears were greeted by a confused hubbub of human voices, squealing of rats, barking of dogs, and the cries of various other animals. Here we beheld a kind of cock-pit, around which a great many people, seeming of all ranks, but chiefly of the lower, were gathered, and in it we saw a dog destroy a great many rats in a very small period; and when the dog had destroyed the rats, we saw a fight between a dog and a bear, then a fight between two dogs, then . . . After the diversions of the day were over, my friend introduced me to the genius of the place, a small man of about five feet high, with a very sharp countenance, and dressed in a brown jockey coat, and top-boots. "Joey," said he, "this is a friend of mine." Joey nodded to me with a patronising air. "Glad to see you, sir!--want a dog?" "No," said I. "You have got one, then--want to match him?" "We have a dog at home," said I, "in the country; but I can't say I should like to match him. Indeed, I do not like dog-fighting." "Not like dog-fighting!" said the man, staring. "The truth is, Joe, that he is just come to town." "So I should think; he looks rather green--not like dog-fighting!" "Nothing like it, is there, Joey?" "I should think not; what is like it? A time will come, and that speedily, when folks will give up everything else, and follow dog-fighting." "Do you think so?" said I. "Think so? Let me ask what there is that a man wouldn't give up for it?" "Why," said I, modestly, "there's religion." "Religion! How you talk! Why, there's myself, bred and born an Independent, and intended to be a preacher, didn't I give up religion for dog-fighting? Religion, indeed! If it were not for the rascally law, my pit would fill better on Sundays than any other time. Who would go to church when they could come to my pit? Religion! why, the parsons themselves come to my pit; and I have now a letter in my pocket from one of them, asking me to send him a dog." "Well, then, politics," said I. "Politics! Why the gemmen in the House would leave Pitt himself, if he were alive, to come to my pit. There were three of the best of them here to-night, all great horators.--Get on with you! what comes next?" "Why, there's learning and letters." "Pretty things, truly, to keep people from dog-fighting. Why, there's the young gentlemen from the Abbey School comes here in shoals, leaving books, and letters, and masters too. To tell you the truth, I rather wish they would mind their letters, for a more precious set of young blackguards I never see'd. It was only the other day I was thinking of calling in a constable for my own protection, for I thought my pit would have been torn down by them." Scarcely knowing what to say, I made an observation at random. "You show, by your own conduct," said I, "that there are other things worth following besides dog-fighting. You practise rat-catching and badger- baiting as well." The dog-fancier eyed me with supreme contempt. "Your friend here," said he, "might well call you a new one. When I talks of dog-fighting, I of course means rat-catching, and badger-baiting, ay, and bull-baiting too, just as when I speaks religiously, when I says one I means not one but three. And talking of religion puts me in mind that I have something else to do besides chaffing here, having a batch of dogs to send off by this night's packet to the Pope of Rome." But at last I had seen enough of what London had to show, whether strange or commonplace, so at least I thought, and I ceased to accompany my friend in his rambles about town, and to partake of his adventures. Our friendship, however, still continued unabated, though I saw, in consequence, less of him. I reflected that time was passing on--that the little money I had brought to town was fast consuming, and that I had nothing to depend upon but my own exertions for a fresh supply; and I returned with redoubled application to my pursuits. CHAPTER XXXVI Occupations--Traduttore Traditore--Ode to the Mist--Apple and Pear--Reviewing--Current Literature--Oxford-like Manner--A Plain Story--Ill-regulated Mind--Unsnuffed Candle--Strange Dreams. I compiled the Chronicles of Newgate; {316a} I reviewed books for the Review {316b} established on an entirely new principle; and I occasionally tried my best to translate into German portions of the publisher's philosophy. In this last task I experienced more than one difficulty. I was a tolerable German scholar, it is true, and I had long been able to translate from German into English with considerable facility; but to translate from a foreign language into your own, is a widely different thing from translating from your own into a foreign language; and, in my first attempt to render the publisher into German, I was conscious of making miserable failures, from pure ignorance of German grammar; however, by the assistance of grammars and dictionaries, and by extreme perseverance, I at length overcame all the difficulties connected with the German language. But, alas! another difficulty remained, far greater than any connected with German--a difficulty connected with the language of the publisher--the language which the great man employed in his writings was very hard to understand; I say in his writings--for his colloquial English was plain enough. Though not professing to be a scholar, he was much addicted, when writing, to the use of Greek and Latin terms, not as other people used them, but in a manner of his own, which set the authority of dictionaries at defiance; the consequence was, that I was sometimes utterly at a loss to understand the meaning of the publisher. Many a quarter of an hour did I pass at this period, staring at periods of the publisher, and wondering what he could mean, but in vain, till at last, with a shake of the head, I would snatch up the pen, and render the publisher literally into German. Sometimes I was almost tempted to substitute something of my own for what the publisher had written, but my conscience interposed; the awful words, Traduttore traditore, commenced ringing in my ears, and I asked myself whether I should be acting honourably towards the publisher, who had committed to me the delicate task of translating him into German; should I be acting honourably towards him, in making him speak in German in a manner different from that in which he expressed himself in English? No, I could not reconcile such conduct with any principle of honour; by substituting something of my own in lieu of these mysterious passages of the publisher, I might be giving a fatal blow to his whole system of philosophy. Besides, when translating into English, had I treated foreign authors in this manner? Had I treated the minstrels of the Koempe Viser in this manner?--No. Had I treated Ab Gwilym in this manner? Even when translating his Ode to the Mist, in which he is misty enough, had I attempted to make Ab Gwilym less misty? No; on referring to my translation, I found that Ab Gwilym in my hands was quite as misty as in his own. Then, seeing that I had not ventured to take liberties with people who had never put themselves into my hands for the purpose of being rendered, how could I venture to substitute my own thoughts and ideas for the publisher's, who had put himself into my hands for that purpose? Forbid it every proper feeling!--so I told the Germans in the publisher's own way, the publisher's tale of an apple and a pear. I at first felt much inclined to be of the publisher's opinion with respect to the theory of the pear. After all, why should the earth be shaped like an apple, and not like a pear?--it would certainly gain in appearance by being shaped like a pear. A pear being a handsomer fruit than an apple, the publisher is probably right, thought I, and I will say that he is right on this point in the notice which I am about to write of his publication for the Review. And yet I don't know--said I, after a long fit of musing--I don't know but what there is more to be said for the Oxford theory. The world may be shaped like a pear, but I don't know that it is; but one thing I know, which is, that it does not taste like a pear; I have always liked pears, but I don't like the world. The world to me tastes much more like an apple, and I have never liked apples. I will uphold the Oxford theory--besides, I am writing in an "Oxford Review"--and am in duty bound to uphold the Oxford theory. So in my notice I asserted that the world was round; I quoted Scripture, and endeavoured to prove that the world was typified by the apple in Scripture, both as to shape and properties. "An apple is round," said I, "and the world is round--the apple is a sour, disagreeable fruit; and who has tasted much of the world without having his teeth set on edge?" I, however, treated the publisher, upon the whole, in the most urbane and Oxford-like manner; complimenting him upon his style, acknowledging the general soundness of his views, and only differing with him in the affair of the apple and pear. I did not like reviewing at all--it was not to my taste; it was not in my way; I liked it far less than translating the publisher's philosophy, for that was something in the line of one whom a competent judge had surnamed Lavengro. I never could understand why Reviews were instituted; works of merit do not require to be reviewed, they can speak for themselves, and require no praising; works of no merit at all will die of themselves, they require no killing. The Review to which I was attached was, as has been already intimated, established on an entirely new plan; it professed to review all new publications, which certainly no Review had ever professed to do before, other Reviews never pretending to review more than one-tenth of the current literature of the day. When I say it professed to review all new publications, I should add, which should be sent to it; for, of course, the Review would not acknowledge the existence of publications, the authors of which did not acknowledge the existence of the Review. I don't think, however, that the Review had much cause to complain of being neglected; I have reason to believe that at least nine-tenths of the publications of the day were sent to the Review, and in due time reviewed. I had good opportunity of judging--I was connected with several departments of the Review, though more particularly with the poetical and philosophic ones. An English translation of Kant's philosophy made its appearance on my table the day before its publication. In my notice of this work, I said that the English shortly hoped to give the Germans a _quid pro quo_. I believe at that time authors were much in the habit of publishing at their own expense. All the poetry which I reviewed appeared to be published at the expense of the authors. If I am asked how I comported myself, under all circumstances, as a reviewer--I answer,--I did not forget that I was connected with a Review established on Oxford principles, the editor of which had translated Quintilian. All the publications which fell under my notice I treated in a gentlemanly and Oxford-like manner, no personalities--no vituperation--no shabby insinuations; decorum, decorum was the order of the day. Occasionally a word of admonition, but gently expressed, as an Oxford undergraduate might have expressed it, or master of arts. How the authors whose publications were consigned to my colleagues were treated by them I know not; I suppose they were treated in an urbane and Oxford-like manner, but I cannot say; I did not read the reviewals of my colleagues, I did not read my own after they were printed. I did not like reviewing. Of all my occupations at this period I am free to confess I liked that of compiling the "Newgate Lives and Trials" the best; that is, after I had surmounted a kind of prejudice which I originally entertained. The trials were entertaining enough; but the lives--how full were they of wild and racy adventures, and in what racy, genuine language were they told. What struck me most with respect to these lives was the art which the writers, whoever they were, possessed of telling a plain story. It is no easy thing to tell a story plainly and distinctly by mouth; but to tell one on paper is difficult indeed, so many snares lie in the way. People are afraid to put down what is common on paper; they seek to embellish their narratives, as they think, by philosophic speculations and reflections; they are anxious to shine, and people who are anxious to shine can never tell a plain story. "So I went with them to a music booth, where they made me almost drunk with gin, and began to talk their flash language, which I did not understand," says, or is made to say, Henry Simms, executed at Tyburn some seventy years before the time of which I am speaking. I have always looked upon this sentence as a masterpiece of the narrative style, it is so concise and yet so very clear. As I gazed on passages like this, and there were many nearly as good in the Newgate Lives, I often sighed that it was not my fortune to have to render these lives into German rather than the publisher's philosophy--his tale of an apple and pear. Mine was an ill-regulated mind at this period. As I read over the lives of these robbers and pickpockets, strange doubts began to arise in my mind about virtue and crime. Years before, when quite a boy, as in one of the early chapters I have hinted, I had been a necessitarian; I had even written an essay on crime (I have it now before me, penned in a round boyish hand), in which I attempted to prove that there is no such thing as crime or virtue, all our actions being the result of circumstances or necessity. These doubts were now again reviving in my mind; I could not, for the life of me, imagine how, taking all circumstances into consideration, these highwaymen, these pickpockets, should have been anything else than highwaymen and pickpockets; any more than how, taking all circumstances into consideration, Bishop Latimer (the reader is aware that I had read "Fox's Book of Martyrs") should have been anything else than Bishop Latimer. I had a very ill-regulated mind at that period. My own peculiar ideas with respect to everything being a lying dream began also to revive. Sometimes at midnight, after having toiled for hours at my occupations, I would fling myself back on my chair, look about the poor apartment, dimly lighted by an unsnuffed candle, or upon the heaps of books and papers before me, and exclaim,--"Do I exist? Do these things, which I think I see about me, exist, or do they not? Is not every thing a dream--a deceitful dream? Is not this apartment a dream--the furniture a dream? The publisher a dream--his philosophy a dream? Am I not myself a dream--dreaming about translating a dream? I can't see why all should not be a dream; what's the use of the reality?" And then I would pinch myself, and snuff the burdened smoky light. "I can't see, for the life of me, the use of all this; therefore why should I think that it exists? If there was a chance, a probability of all this tending to anything, I might believe; but . . . " and then I would stare and think, and after some time shake my head and return again to my occupations for an hour or two; and then I would perhaps shake, and shiver, and yawn, and look wistfully in the direction of my sleeping apartment; and then, but not wistfully, at the papers and books before me; and sometimes I would return to my papers and books; but oftener I would arise, and, after another yawn and shiver, take my light, and proceed to my sleeping chamber. They say that light fare begets light dreams; my fare at that time was light enough; but I had anything but light dreams, for at that period I had all kind of strange and extravagant dreams, and amongst other things I dreamt that the whole world had taken to dog-fighting; and that I, myself, had taken to dog-fighting, and that in a vast circus I backed an English bulldog against the bloodhound of the Pope of Rome. CHAPTER XXXVII My Brother--Fits of Crying--Mayor Elect--The Committee--The Norman Arch--A Word of Greek--Church and State--At My Own Expense--If You Please. One morning {324} I arose somewhat later than usual, having been occupied during the greater part of the night with my literary toil. On descending from my chamber into the sitting-room I found a person seated by the fire, whose glance was directed sideways to the table, on which were the usual preparations for my morning's meal. Forthwith I gave a cry, and sprang forward to embrace the person; for the person by the fire, whose glance was directed to the table, was no one else than my brother. "And how are things going on at home?" said I to my brother, after we had kissed and embraced. "How is my mother, and how is the dog?" "My mother, thank God, is tolerably well," said my brother, "but very much given to fits of crying. As for the dog, he is not so well; but we will talk more of these matters anon," said my brother, again glancing at the breakfast things: "I am very hungry, as you may suppose, after having travelled all night." Thereupon I exerted myself to the best of my ability to perform the duties of hospitality, and I made my brother welcome--I may say more than welcome; and, when the rage of my brother's hunger was somewhat abated, we recommenced talking about the matters of our little family, and my brother told me much about my mother; he spoke of her fits of crying, but said that of late the said fits of crying had much diminished, and she appeared to be taking comfort; and, if I am not much mistaken, my brother told me that my mother had of late the Prayer-book frequently in her hand, and yet oftener the Bible. We were silent for a time--at last I opened my mouth and mentioned the dog. "The dog," said my brother, "is, I am afraid, in a very poor way; ever since the death he has done nothing but pine and take on. A few months ago, you remember, he was as plump and fine as any dog in the town; but at present he is little more than skin and bone. Once we lost him for two days, and never expected to see him again, imagining that some mischance had befallen him; at length I found him--where do you think? Chancing to pass by the churchyard, I found him seated on the grave!" "Very strange," said I; "but let us talk of something else. It was very kind of you to come and see me." "Oh, as for that matter, I did not come up to see you, though of course I am very glad to see you, having been rather anxious about you, like my mother, who has received only one letter from you since your departure. No, I did not come up on purpose to see you; but on a quite different account. You must know that the corporation of our town have lately elected a new mayor, a person of many qualifications--big and portly, with a voice like Boanerges; a religious man, the possessor of an immense pew; loyal, so much so that I once heard him say that he would at any time go three miles to hear any one sing 'God save the King'; moreover, a giver of excellent dinners. Such is our present mayor; {326} who, owing to his loyalty, his religion, and a little, perhaps, to his dinners, is a mighty favourite; so much so that the town is anxious to have his portrait painted in a superior style, so that remote posterity may know what kind of man he was, the colour of his hair, his air and gait. So a committee was formed some time ago, which is still sitting; that is, they dine with the mayor every day to talk over the subject. A few days since, to my great surprise, they made their appearance in my poor studio, and desired to be favoured with a sight of some of my paintings; well, I showed them some, and, after looking at them with great attention, they went aside and whispered. 'He'll do,' I heard one say; 'Yes, he'll do,' said another; and then they came to me, and one of them, a little man with a hump on his back, who is a watchmaker, assumed the office of spokesman, and made a long speech--(the old town has been always celebrated for orators)--in which he told me how much they had been pleased with my productions--(the old town has been always celebrated for its artistic taste)--and, what do you think? offered me the painting of the mayor's portrait, and a hundred pounds for my trouble. Well, of course I was much surprised, and for a minute or two could scarcely speak; recovering myself, however, I made a speech, not so eloquent as that of the watchmaker of course, being not so accustomed to speaking; but not so bad either, taking everything into consideration, telling them how flattered I felt by the honour which they had conferred in proposing to me such an undertaking; expressing, however, my fears that I was not competent to the task, and concluding by saying what a pity it was that Crome was dead. 'Crome,' said the little man, 'Crome; yes, he was a clever man, a very clever man in his way; he was good at painting landscapes and farmhouses, but he would not do in the present instance were he alive. He had no conception of the heroic, sir. We want some person capable of representing our mayor striding under the Norman arch out of the cathedral.' At the mention of the heroic an idea came at once into my head. 'Oh,' said I, 'if you are in quest of the heroic, I am glad that you came to me; don't mistake me,' I continued, 'I do not mean to say that I could do justice to your subject, though I am fond of the heroic; but I can introduce you to a great master of the heroic, fully competent to do justice to your mayor. Not to me, therefore, be the painting of the picture given, but to a friend of mine, the great master of the heroic, to the best, the strongest, [Greek text],' I added, for, being amongst orators, I thought a word of Greek would tell." "Well," said I, "and what did the orators say?" "They gazed dubiously at me and at one another," said my brother; "at last the watchmaker asked me who this Mr. Christo was; adding, that he had never heard of such a person; that, from my recommendation of him, he had no doubt that he was a very clever man; but that they should like to know something more about him before giving the commission to him. That he had heard of Christie the great auctioneer, who was considered to be an excellent judge of pictures; but he supposed that I scarcely--Whereupon, interrupting the watchmaker, I told him that I alluded neither to Christo nor to Christie; but to the painter of Lazarus rising from the grave, a painter under whom I had myself studied during some months that I had spent in London, and to whom I was indebted for much connected with the heroic. {328} "'I have heard of him,' said the watchmaker, 'and his paintings too; but I am afraid that he is not exactly the gentleman by whom our mayor would wish to be painted. I have heard say that he is not a very good friend to Church and State. Come, young man,' he added, 'it appears to me that you are too modest; I like your style of painting, so do we all, and--why should I mince the matter?--the money is to be collected in the town, why should it go into a stranger's pocket, and be spent in London?' "Thereupon I made them a speech, in which I said that art had nothing to do with Church and State, at least with English Church and State, which had never encouraged it; and that, though Church and State were doubtless very fine things, a man might be a very good artist who cared not a straw for either. I then made use of some more Greek words, and told them how painting was one of the Nine Muses, and one of the most independent creatures alive, inspiring whom she pleased, and asking leave of nobody; that I should be quite unworthy of the favours of the Muse if, on the present occasion, I did not recommend them a man whom I considered to be a much greater master of the heroic than myself; and that, with regard to the money being spent in the city, I had no doubt that they would not weigh for a moment such a consideration against the chance of getting a true heroic picture for the city. I never talked so well in my life, and said so many flattering things to the hunchback and his friends, that at last they said that I should have my own way; and that if I pleased to go up to London, and bring down the painter of Lazarus to paint the mayor, I might; so they then bade me farewell, and I have come up to London." "To put a hundred pounds into the hands of--" "A better man than myself," said my brother, "of course." "And have you come up at your own expense?" "Yes," said my brother, "I have come up at my own expense." I made no answer, but looked in my brother's face. We then returned to the former subjects of conversation, talking of the dead, my mother, and the dog. After some time, my brother said, "I will now go to the painter, and communicate to him the business which has brought me to town; and, if you please, I will take you with me and introduce you to him." Having expressed my willingness, we descended into the street. CHAPTER XXXVIII Painter of the Heroic--I'll Go!--A Modest Peep--Who is This?--A Capital Pharaoh--Disproportionably Short--Imaginary Picture--English Figures. The painter of the heroic resided a great way off, at the western end of the town. We had some difficulty in obtaining admission to him; a maid- servant, who opened the door, eyeing us somewhat suspiciously: it was not until my brother had said that he was a friend of the painter that we were permitted to pass the threshold. At length we were shown into the studio, where we found the painter, with an easel and brush, standing before a huge piece of canvas, on which he had lately commenced painting a heroic picture. The painter might be about thirty-five years old; he had a clever, intelligent countenance, with a sharp grey eye--his hair was dark brown, and cut a-la-Rafael, as I was subsequently told, that is, there was little before and much behind--he did not wear a neckcloth; but, in its stead, a black riband, so that his neck, which was rather fine, was somewhat exposed--he had a broad muscular breast, and I make no doubt that he would have been a very fine figure, but unfortunately his legs and thighs were somewhat short. He recognised my brother, and appeared glad to see him. "What brings you to London?" said he. Whereupon my brother gave him a brief account of his commission. At the mention of the hundred pounds, I observed the eyes of the painter glisten. "Really," said he, when my brother had concluded, "it was very kind to think of me. I am not very fond of painting portraits; but a mayor is a mayor, and there is something grand in that idea of the Norman arch. I'll go; moreover, I am just at this moment confoundedly in need of money, and when you knocked at the door, I don't mind telling you, I thought it was some dun. I don't know how it is, but in the capital they have no taste for the heroic, they will scarce look at a heroic picture; I am glad to hear that they have better taste in the provinces. I'll go; when shall we set off?" Thereupon it was arranged between the painter and my brother that they should depart the next day but one; they then began to talk of art. "I'll stick to the heroic," said the painter; "I now and then dabble in the comic, but what I do gives me no pleasure, the comic is so low; there is nothing like the heroic. I am engaged here on a heroic picture," said he, pointing to the canvas; "the subject is 'Pharaoh dismissing Moses from Egypt,' after the last plague--the death of the first-born;--it is not far advanced--that finished figure is Moses:" they both looked at the canvas, and I, standing behind, took a modest peep. The picture, as the painter said, was not far advanced, the Pharaoh was merely in outline; my eye was, of course, attracted by the finished figure, or rather what the painter had called the finished figure; but, as I gazed upon it, it appeared to me that there was something defective--something unsatisfactory in the figure. I concluded, however, that the painter, notwithstanding what he had said, had omitted to give it the finishing touch. "I intend this to be my best picture," said the painter; "what I want now is a face for Pharaoh; I have long been meditating on a face for Pharaoh." Here, chancing to cast his eye upon my countenance, of whom he had scarcely taken any manner of notice, he remained with his mouth open for some time. "Who is this?" said he at last. "Oh, this is my brother; I forgot to introduce him . . ." We presently afterwards departed; my brother talked much about the painter. "He is a noble fellow," said my brother; "but, like many other noble fellows, has a great many enemies; he is hated by his brethren of the brush--all the land and waterscape painters hate him--but, above all, the race of portrait painters, who are ten times more numerous than the other two sorts, detest him for his heroic tendencies. It will be a kind of triumph to the last, I fear, when they hear he has condescended to paint a portrait; however, that Norman arch will enable him to escape from their malice--that is a capital idea of the watchmaker, that Norman arch." I spent a happy day with my brother. On the morrow he went again to the painter, with whom he dined; I did not go with him. On his return he said, "The painter has been asking a great many questions about you, and expressed a wish that you would sit to him as Pharaoh; he thinks you would make a capital Pharaoh." "I have no wish to appear on canvas," said I; "moreover he can find much better Pharaohs than myself; and, if he wants a real Pharaoh, there is a certain Mr. Petulengro." "Petulengro?" said my brother; "a strange kind of fellow came up to me some time ago in our town, and asked me about you; when I inquired his name, he told me Petulengro. No, he will not do, he is too short; by the bye, do you not think that figure of Moses is somewhat short?" And then it appeared to me that I had thought the figure of Moses somewhat short, and I told my brother so. "Ah!" said my brother. On the morrow my brother departed with the painter for the old town, and there the painter painted the mayor. I did not see the picture for a great many years, when, chancing to be at the old town, I beheld it. The original mayor was a mighty, portly man, with a bull's head, black hair, body like that of a dray horse, and legs and thighs corresponding; a man six foot high at the least. To his bull's head, black hair, and body the painter had done justice; there was one point, however, in which the portrait did not correspond with the original--the legs were disproportionably short, the painter having substituted his own legs for those of the mayor, which when I perceived I rejoiced that I had not consented to be painted as Pharaoh, for, if I had, the chances are that he would have served me in exactly a similar way as he had served Moses and the mayor. Short legs in a heroic picture will never do; and, upon the whole, I think the painter's attempt at the heroic in painting the mayor of the old town a decided failure. If I am now asked whether the picture would have been a heroic one provided the painter had not substituted his own legs for those of the mayor--I must say, I am afraid not. I have no idea of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, even with the assistance of Norman arches; yet I am sure that capital pictures might be made out of English mayors, not issuing from Norman arches, but rather from the door of the "Checquers" or the "Brewers Three." The painter in question had great comic power, which he scarcely ever cultivated; he would fain be a Rafael, which he never could be, when he might have been something quite as good--another Hogarth; the only comic piece which he ever presented to the world being something little inferior to the best of that illustrious master. I have often thought what a capital picture might have been made by my brother's friend, if, instead of making the mayor issue out of the Norman arch, he had painted him moving under the sign of the "Checquers," or the "Three Brewers," with mace--yes, with mace,--the mace appears in the picture issuing out of the Norman arch behind the mayor,--but likewise with Snap, and with whiffler, quart pot, and frying pan, Billy Blind, and Owlenglass, Mr. Petulengro, and Pakomovna;--then, had he clapped his own legs upon the mayor, or any one else in the concourse, what matter? But I repeat that I have no hope of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, or, indeed, out of English figures in general. England may be a land of heroic hearts, but it is not, properly, a land of heroic figures, or heroic posture-making.--Italy . . . what was I going to say about Italy? {335} CHAPTER XXXIX No Authority Whatever--Interference--Wondrous Farrago--Brandt and Struensee--What a Life!--The Hearse--Mortal Relics--Great Poet--Fashion and Fame--What a Difference!--Oh, Beautiful!--Good for Nothing. And now once more to my pursuits, to my Lives and Trials. However partial at first I might be to these Lives and Trials, it was not long before they became regular trials to me, owing to the whims and caprices of the publisher. I had not been long connected with him before I discovered that he was wonderfully fond of interfering with other people's business--at least with the business of those who were under his control. What a life did his unfortunate authors lead! He had many in his employ toiling at all kinds of subjects--I call them authors because there is something respectable in the term author, though they had little authorship in, and no authority whatever over, the works on which they were engaged. It is true the publisher interfered with some colour of reason, the plan of all and every of the works alluded to having originated with himself; and, be it observed, many of his plans were highly clever and promising, for, as I have already had occasion to say, the publisher in many points was a highly clever and sagacious person; but he ought to have been contented with planning the works originally, and have left to other people the task of executing them, instead of which he marred everything by his rage for interference. If a book of fairy tales was being compiled, he was sure to introduce some of his philosophy, explaining the fairy tale by some theory of his own. Was a book of anecdotes on hand, it was sure to be half filled with sayings and doings of himself during the time that he was common councilman of the City of London. Now, however fond the public might be of fairy tales, it by no means relished them in conjunction with the publisher's philosophy; and however fond of anecdotes in general, or even of the publisher in particular--for indeed there were a great many anecdotes in circulation about him which the public both read and listened to very readily--it took no pleasure in such anecdotes as he was disposed to relate about himself. In the compilation of my Lives and Trials, I was exposed to incredible mortification, and ceaseless trouble, from this same rage for interference. It is true he could not introduce his philosophy into the work, nor was it possible for him to introduce anecdotes of himself, having never had the good or evil fortune to be tried at the bar; but he was continually introducing--what, under a less apathetic government than the one then being, would have infallibly subjected him, and perhaps myself, to a trial,--his politics; not his Oxford or pseudo politics, but the politics which he really entertained, and which were of the most republican and violent kind. But this was not all; when about a moiety of the first volume had been printed, he materially altered the plan of the work; it was no longer to be a collection of mere Newgate lives and trials, but of lives and trials of criminals in general, foreign as well as domestic. In a little time the work became a wondrous farrago, in which Konigsmark the robber figured by the side of Sam Lynn, and the Marchioness de Brinvilliers was placed in contact with a Chinese outlaw. What gave me the most trouble and annoyance was the publisher's remembering some life or trial, foreign or domestic, which he wished to be inserted, and which I was forthwith to go in quest of and purchase at my own expense: some of those lives and trials were by no means easy to find. "Where is Brandt and Struensee?" cries the publisher; "I am sure I don't know," I replied; whereupon the publisher falls to squealing like one of Joey's rats. "Find me up Brandt and Struensee by next morning, or . . ." "Have you found Brandt and Struensee?" cried the publisher, on my appearing before him next morning. "No," I reply, "I can hear nothing about them;" whereupon the publisher falls to bellowing like Joey's bull. By dint of incredible diligence, I at length discover the dingy volume containing the lives and trials of the celebrated two who had brooded treason dangerous to the state of Denmark. I purchase the dingy volume, and bring it in triumph to the publisher, the perspiration running down my brow. The publisher takes the dingy volume in his hand, he examines it attentively, then puts it down; his countenance is calm for a moment, almost benign. Another moment and there is a gleam in the publisher's sinister eye; he snatches up the paper containing the names of the worthies which I have intended shall figure in the forthcoming volumes--he glances rapidly over it, and his countenance once more assumes a terrific expression. "How is this?" he exclaims; "I can scarcely believe my eyes--the most important life and trial omitted to be found in the whole criminal record--what gross, what utter negligence! Where's the life of Farmer Patch? where's the trial of Yeoman Patch?" "What a life! what a dog's life!" I would frequently exclaim, after escaping from the presence of the publisher. One day, after a scene with the publisher similar to that which I have described above, I found myself about noon at the bottom of Oxford Street, where it forms a right angle with the road which leads or did lead to Tottenham Court. Happening to cast my eyes around, it suddenly occurred to me that something uncommon was expected; people were standing in groups on the pavement--the upstair windows of the houses were thronged with faces, especially those of women, and many of the shops were partly, and not a few entirely closed. What could be the reason of all this? All at once I bethought me that this street of Oxford was no other than the far-famed Tyburn way. Oh, oh, thought I, an execution; some handsome young robber is about to be executed at the farther end; just so, see how earnestly the women are peering; perhaps another Harry Symms--Gentleman Harry as they called him--is about to be carted along this street to Tyburn tree; but then I remembered that Tyburn tree had long since been cut down, and that criminals, whether young or old, good- looking or ugly, were executed before the big stone gaol, which I had looked at with a kind of shudder during my short rambles in the city. What could be the matter? Just then I heard various voices cry "There it comes!" and all heads were turned up Oxford Street, down which a hearse was slowly coming: nearer and nearer it drew; presently it was just opposite the place where I was standing, when, turning to the left, it proceeded slowly along Tottenham Road; immediately behind the hearse were three or four mourning coaches, full of people, some of which, from the partial glimpse which I caught of them, appeared to be foreigners; behind these came a very long train of splendid carriages, all of which, without one exception, were empty. "Whose body is in that hearse?" said I to a dapper-looking individual, seemingly a shopkeeper, who stood beside me on the pavement, looking at the procession. "The mortal relics of Lord Byron," said the dapper-looking individual, mouthing his words and smirking--"the illustrious poet, which have been just brought from Greece, and are being conveyed to the family vault in ---shire." {340} "An illustrious poet, was he?" said I. "Beyond all criticism," said the dapper man; "all we of the rising generation are under incalculable obligation to Byron; I myself, in particular, have reason to say so; in all my correspondence my style is formed on the Byronic model." I looked at the individual for a moment, who smiled and smirked to himself applause, and then I turned my eyes upon the hearse proceeding slowly up the almost endless street. This man, this Byron, had for many years past been the demigod of England, and his verses the daily food of those who read, from the peer to the draper's assistant; all were admirers, or rather worshippers, of Byron, and all doated on his verses; and then I thought of those who, with genius as high as his, or higher, had lived and died neglected. I thought of Milton abandoned to poverty and blindness; of witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs; and starving Otway: they had lived neglected and despised, and, when they died, a few poor mourners only had followed them to the grave; but this Byron had been made a half god of when living, and now that he was dead he was followed by worshipping crowds, and the very sun seemed to come out on purpose to grace his funeral. And, indeed, the sun, which for many days past had hidden its face in clouds, shone out that morn with wonderful brilliancy, flaming upon the black hearse and its tall ostrich plumes, the mourning coaches, and the long train of aristocratic carriages which followed behind. "Great poet, sir," said the dapper-looking man, "great poet, but unhappy." Unhappy? yes, I had heard that he had been unhappy; that he had roamed about a fevered, distempered man, taking pleasure in nothing--that I had heard; but was it true? was he really unhappy? was not this unhappiness assumed, with the view of increasing the interest which the world took in him? and yet who could say? He might be unhappy, and with reason. Was he a real poet after all? might he not doubt himself? might he not have a lurking consciousness that he was undeserving of the homage which he was receiving? that it could not last? that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame? He was a lordling, a glittering, gorgeous lordling: and he might have had a consciousness that he owed much of his celebrity to being so; he might have felt that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame. Fashion soon changes, thought I, eagerly to myself--a time will come, and that speedily, when he will be no longer in the fashion; when this idiotic admirer of his, who is still grinning at my side, shall have ceased to mould his style on Byron's; and this aristocracy, squirearchy, and what not, who now send their empty carriages to pay respect to the fashionable corpse, shall have transferred their empty worship to some other animate or inanimate thing. Well, perhaps after all it was better to have been mighty Milton in his poverty and blindness--witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs, and starving Otway; they might enjoy more real pleasure than this lordling; they must have been aware that the world would one day do them justice--fame after death is better than the top of fashion in life. They have left a fame behind them which shall never die, whilst this lordling--a time will come when he will be out of fashion and forgotten. And yet I don't know; didn't he write Childe Harold and that ode? Yes, he wrote Childe Harold and that ode. Then a time will scarcely come when he will be forgotten. Lords, squires, and cockneys may pass away, but a time will scarcely come when Childe Harold and that ode will be forgotten. He was a poet, after all, and he must have known it; a real poet, equal to . . . to . . . what a destiny! Rank, beauty, fashion, immortality,--he could not be unhappy; what a difference in the fate of men! I wish I could think he was unhappy . . . I turned away. "Great poet, sir," said the dapper man, turning away too, "but unhappy--fate of genius, sir; I, too, am frequently unhappy." Hurrying down a street to the right, I encountered Francis Ardry. "What means the multitude yonder?" he demanded. "They are looking after the hearse which is carrying the remains of Byron up Tottenham Road." "I have seen the man," said my friend, as he turned back the way he had come, "so I can dispense with seeing the hearse--I saw the living man at Venice--ah, a great poet." "Yes," said I, "a great poet, it must be so, everybody says so--what a destiny! What a difference in the fate of men! but 'tis said he was unhappy; you have seen him, how did he look?" "Oh, beautiful!" "But did he look happy?" "Why, I can't say he looked very unhappy; I saw him with two . . . very fair ladies; but what is it to you whether the man was unhappy or not? Come, where shall we go--to Joey's? His hugest bear--" "Oh, I have had enough of bears; I have just been worried by one." "The publisher?" "Yes." "Then come to Joey's, three dogs are to be launched at his bear: as they pin him, imagine him to be the publisher." "No," said I, "I am good for nothing; I think I shall stroll to London Bridge." "That's too far for me--farewell." CHAPTER XL London Bridge--Why Not?--Every Heart has its Bitters--Wicked Boys--Give me my Book--Such a Fright--Honour Bright. So I went to London Bridge, and again took my station on the spot by the booth where I had stood on the former occasion. The booth, however, was empty; neither the apple-woman nor her stall was to be seen. I looked over the balustrade upon the river; the tide was now, as before, rolling beneath the arch with frightful impetuosity. As I gazed upon the eddies of the whirlpool, I thought within myself how soon human life would become extinct there; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be over. When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse--a fascination; I had resisted it--I did not plunge into it. At present I felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was of a different kind; it proceeded from a loathing of life. I looked wistfully at the eddies--what had I to live for?--what indeed! I thought of Brandt and Struensee, and Yeoman Patch--should I yield to the impulse--why not? My eyes were fixed on the eddies. All of a sudden I shuddered; I thought I saw heads in the pool; human bodies wallowing confusedly; eyes turned up to heaven with hopeless horror; was that water, or . . . Where was the impulse now? I raised my eyes from the pool, I looked no more upon it--I looked forward, far down the stream in the far distance. Ha! what is that? I thought I saw a kind of Fata Morgana, green meadows, waving groves, a rustic home; but in the far distance--I stared--I stared--a Fata Morgana--it was gone . . . I left the balustrade and walked to the farther end of the bridge, where I stood for some time contemplating the crowd; I then passed over to the other side with an intention of returning home; just half way over the bridge, in a booth immediately opposite to the one in which I had formerly beheld her, sat my friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up behind her stall. "Well, mother," said I, "how are you?" The old woman lifted her head with a startled look. "Don't you know me?" said I. "Yes, I think I do. Ah, yes," said she, as her features beamed with recollection, "I know you, dear; you are the young lad that gave me the tanner. Well, child, got anything to sell?" "Nothing at all," said I. "Bad luck?" "Yes," said I, "bad enough, and ill usage." "Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next time; I am glad to see you." "Thank you," said I, sitting down on the stone bench; "I thought you had left the bridge--why have you changed your side?" The old woman shook. "What is the matter with you," said I; "are you ill?" "No, child, no; only--" "Only what? Any bad news of your son?" "No, child, no; nothing about my son. Only low, child--every heart has its bitters." "That's true," said I; "well, I don't want to know your sorrows; come, where's the book?" The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than before. "Book, child, what book?" "Why, blessed Mary, to be sure." "Oh, that; I ha'n't got it, child--I have lost it, have left it at home." "Lost it," said I; "left it at home--what do you mean? Come, let me have it." "I ha'n't got it, child." "I believe you have got it under your cloak." "Don't tell any one, dear; don't--don't," and the apple-woman burst into tears. "What's the matter with you?" said I, staring at her. "You want to take my book from me?" "Not I; I care nothing about it; keep it, if you like, only tell me what's the matter?" "Why, all about that book." "The book?" "Yes, they wanted to take it from me." "Who did?" "Why, some wicked boys. I'll tell you all about it. Eight or ten days ago, I sat behind my stall, reading my book; all of a sudden I felt it snatched from my hand; up I started, and see three rascals of boys grinning at me; one of them held the book in his hand. 'What book is this?' said he, grinning at it. 'What do you want with my book?' said I, clutching at it over my stall; 'give me my book.' 'What do you want a book for?' said he, holding it back; 'I have a good mind to fling it into the Thames.' 'Give me my book,' I shrieked; and, snatching at it, I fell over my stall, and all my fruit was scattered about. Off ran the boys--off ran the rascal with my book. Oh dear, I thought I should have died; up I got, however, and ran after them as well as I could; I thought of my fruit, but I thought more of my book. I left my fruit and ran after my book. 'My book! my book!' I shrieked. 'Murder! theft! robbery!' I was near being crushed under the wheels of a cart; but I didn't care--I followed the rascals. 'Stop them! stop them!' I ran nearly as fast as they--they couldn't run very fast on account of the crowd. At last some one stopped the rascal, whereupon he turned round, and flinging the book at me, it fell into the mud; well, I picked it up and kissed it, all muddy as it was. 'Has he robbed you?' said the man. 'Robbed me, indeed; why, he had got my book.' 'Oh, your book,' said the man, and laughed, and let the rascal go. Ah, he might laugh, but--" "Well, go on." "My heart beats so. Well, I went back to my booth and picked up my stall and my fruits, what I could find of them. I couldn't keep my stall for two days, I got such a fright; and when I got round I couldn't bide the booth where the thing had happened, so I came over to the other side. Oh, the rascals, if I could but see them hanged." "For what?" "Why, for stealing my book." "I thought you didn't dislike stealing--that you were ready to buy things--there was your son, you know--" "Yes, to be sure." "He took things." "To be sure he did." "But you don't like a thing of yours to be taken." "No, that's quite a different thing; what's stealing handkerchiefs, and that kind of thing, to do with taking my book! there's a wide difference--don't you see?" "Yes, I see." "Do you, dear? well, bless your heart, I'm glad you do. Would you like to look at the book?" "Well, I think I should." "Honour bright?" said the apple-woman, looking me in the eyes. "Honour bright," said I, looking the apple-woman in the eyes. "Well then, dear, here it is," said she, taking it from under her cloak; "read it as long as you like, only get a little farther into the booth . . . Don't sit so near the edge . . . you might . . ." I went deep into the booth, and the apple-woman, bringing her chair round, almost confronted me. I commenced reading the book, and was soon engrossed by it; hours passed away; once or twice I lifted up my eyes, the apple-woman was still confronting me: at last my eyes began to ache, whereupon I returned the book to the apple-woman, and, giving her another tanner, walked away. CHAPTER XLI Decease of the Review--Homer Himself--Bread and Cheese--Finger and Thumb--Impossible to Find--Something Grand--Universal Mixture--Some Other Publisher. Time passed away, and with it the Review, which, contrary to the publisher's expectation, did not prove a successful speculation. About four months after the period of its birth it expired, as all Reviews must for which there is no demand. Authors had ceased to send their publications to it, and, consequently, to purchase it; for I have already hinted that it was almost entirely supported by authors of a particular class, who expected to see their publications foredoomed to immortality in its pages. The behaviour of these authors towards this unfortunate publication I can attribute to no other cause than to a report which was industriously circulated, namely, that the Review was low, and that to be reviewed in it was an infallible sign that one was a low person, who could be reviewed nowhere else. So authors took fright; and no wonder, for it will never do for an author to be considered low. Homer himself has never yet entirely recovered from the injury he received by Lord Chesterfield's remark, that the speeches of his heroes were frequently exceedingly low. So the Review ceased, and the reviewing corps no longer existed as such; they forthwith returned to their proper avocations--the editor to compose tunes on his piano, and to the task of disposing of the remaining copies of his Quintilian--the inferior members to working for the publisher, being to a man dependants of his; one, to composing fairy tales; another, to collecting miracles of Popish saints; and a third, "Newgate Lives and Trials." Owing to the bad success of the Review, the publisher became more furious than ever. My money was growing short, and I one day asked him to pay me for my labours in the deceased publication. "Sir," said the publisher, "what do you want the money for?" "Merely to live on," I replied; "it is very difficult to live in this town without money." "How much money did you bring with you to town?" demanded the publisher. "Some twenty or thirty pounds," I replied. "And you have spent it already?" "No," said I, "not entirely; but it is fast disappearing." "Sir," said the publisher, "I believe you to be extravagant; yes, sir, extravagant!" "On what grounds do you suppose me to be so?" "Sir," said the publisher, "you eat meat." "Yes," said I, "I eat meat sometimes; what should I eat?" "Bread, sir," said the publisher; "bread and cheese." "So I do, sir, when I am disposed to indulge; but I cannot often afford it--it is very expensive to dine on bread and cheese, especially when one is fond of cheese, as I am. My last bread and cheese dinner cost me fourteenpence. There is drink, sir; with bread and cheese one must drink porter, sir." "Then, sir, eat bread--bread alone. As good men as yourself have eaten bread alone; they have been glad to get it, sir. If with bread and cheese you must drink porter, sir, with bread alone you can, perhaps, drink water, sir." However, I got paid at last for my writings in the Review, not, it is true, in the current coin of the realm, but in certain bills; there were two of them, one payable at twelve, and the other at eighteen months after date. It was a long time before I could turn these bills to any account; at last I found a person who, at a discount of only thirty per cent., consented to cash them; not, however, without sundry grimaces, and, what was still more galling, holding, more than once, the unfortunate papers high in air between his forefinger and thumb. So ill, indeed, did I like this last action, that I felt much inclined to snatch them away. I restrained myself, however, for I remembered that it was very difficult to live without money, and that, if the present person did not discount the bills, I should probably find no one else that would. But if the treatment which I had experienced from the publisher, previous to making this demand upon him, was difficult to bear, that which I subsequently underwent was far more so; his great delight seemed to consist in causing me misery and mortification; if, on former occasions, he was continually sending me in quest of lives and trials difficult to find, he now was continually demanding lives and trials which it was impossible to find; the personages whom he mentioned never having lived, nor consequently been tried. Moreover, some of my best Lives and Trials which I had corrected and edited with particular care, and on which I prided myself no little, he caused to be cancelled after they had passed through the press. Amongst these was the life of "Gentleman Harry." "They are drugs, sir," said the publisher, "drugs; that life of Harry Simms has long been the greatest drug in the calendar--has it not, Taggart?" Taggart made no answer save by taking a pinch of snuff. The reader has, I hope, not forgotten Taggart, whom I mentioned whilst giving an account of my first morning's visit to the publisher. I beg Taggart's pardon for having been so long silent about him; but he was a very silent man--yet there was much in Taggart--and Taggart had always been civil and kind to me in his peculiar way. "Well, young gentleman," said Taggart to me one morning, when we chanced to be alone a few days after the affair of the cancelling, "how do you like authorship?" "I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I am engaged in," said I. "What do you call authorship?" said Taggart. "I scarcely know," said I; "that is, I can scarcely express what I think it." "Shall I help you out?" said Taggart, turning round his chair, and looking at me. "If you like," said I. "To write something grand," said Taggart, taking snuff; "to be stared at--lifted on people's shoulders--" "Well," said I, "that is something like it." Taggart took snuff. "Well," said he, "why don't you write something grand?" "I have," said I. "What?" said Taggart. "Why," said I, "there are those ballads." Taggart took snuff. "And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym." Taggart took snuff again. "You seem to be very fond of snuff," said I, looking at him angrily. Taggart tapped his box. "Have you taken it long?" "Three-and-twenty years." "What snuff do you take?" "Universal mixture." "And you find it of use?" Taggart tapped his box. "In what respect?" said I. "In many--there is nothing like it to get a man through; but for snuff I should scarcely be where I am now." "Have you been long here?" "Three-and-twenty years." "Dear me," said I; "and snuff brought you through? Give me a pinch--pah, I don't like it," and I sneezed. "Take another pinch," said Taggart. "No," said I, "I don't like snuff." "Then you will never do for authorship; at least for this kind." "So I begin to think--what shall I do?" Taggart took snuff. "You were talking of a great work--what shall it be?" Taggart took snuff. "Do you think I could write one?" Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap,--he did not, however. "It would require time," said I, with a half sigh. Taggart tapped his box. "A great deal of time; I really think that my ballads . . ." Taggart took snuff. "If published, would do me credit. I'll make an effort, and offer them to some other publisher." Taggart took a double quantity of snuff. CHAPTER XLII Francis Ardry--That Won't Do, Sir--Observe My Gestures--I Think You Improve--Better than Politics--Delightful Young Frenchwoman--A Burning Shame--Magnificent Impudence--Paunch--Voltaire--Lump of Sugar. Occasionally I called on Francis Ardry. This young gentleman resided in handsome apartments in the neighbourhood of a fashionable square, kept a livery servant, and, upon the whole, lived in very good style. Going to see him one day, between one and two, I was informed by the servant that his master was engaged for the moment, but that, if I pleased to wait a few minutes, I should find him at liberty. Having told the man that I had no objection, he conducted me into a small apartment which served as antechamber to a drawing-room; the door of this last being half open, I could see Francis Ardry at the farther end, speechifying and gesticulating in a very impressive manner. The servant, in some confusion, was hastening to close the door; but, ere he could effect his purpose, Francis Ardry, who had caught a glimpse of me, exclaimed, "Come in--come in by all means;" and then proceeded, as before, speechifying and gesticulating. Filled with some surprise, I obeyed his summons. On entering the room I perceived another individual, to whom Francis Ardry appeared to be addressing himself; this other was a short spare man of about sixty; his hair was of badger grey, and his face was covered with wrinkles--without vouchsafing me a look, he kept his eye, which was black and lustrous, fixed full on Francis Ardry, as if paying the deepest attention to his discourse. All of a sudden, however, he cried with a sharp, cracked voice, "That won't do, sir; that won't do--more vehemence--your argument is at present particularly weak; therefore, more vehemence--you must confuse them, stun them, stultify them, sir;" and, at each of these injunctions, he struck the back of his right hand sharply against the palm of the left. "Good, sir--good!" he occasionally uttered, in the same sharp, cracked tone, as the voice of Francis Ardry became more and more vehement. "Infinitely good!" he exclaimed, as Francis Ardry raised his voice to the highest pitch; "and now, sir, abate; let the tempest of vehemence decline--gradually, sir; not too fast. Good, sir--very good!" as the voice of Francis Ardry declined gradually in vehemence. "And now a little pathos, sir--try them with a little pathos. That won't do, sir--that won't do,"--as Francis Ardry made an attempt to become pathetic,--"that will never pass for pathos--with tones and gesture of that description you will never redress the wrongs of your country. Now, sir, observe my gestures, and pay attention to the tone of my voice, sir." Thereupon, making use of nearly the same terms which Francis Ardry had employed, the individual in black uttered several sentences in tones and with gestures which were intended to express a considerable degree of pathos, though it is possible that some people would have thought both the one and the other highly ludicrous. After a pause, Francis Ardry recommenced imitating the tones and the gesture of his monitor in the most admirable manner. Before he had proceeded far, however, he burst into a fit of laughter, in which I should, perhaps, have joined, provided it were ever my wont to laugh. "Ha, ha!" said the other, good-humouredly, "you are laughing at me. Well, well, I merely wished to give you a hint; but you saw very well what I meant; upon the whole I think you improve. But I must now go, having two other pupils to visit before four." Then taking from the table a kind of three-cornered hat, and a cane headed with amber, he shook Francis Ardry by the hand; and, after glancing at me for a moment, made me a half bow, attended with a strange grimace, and departed. "Who is that gentleman?" said I to Francis Ardry, as soon as we were alone. "Oh, that is ---," said Frank, smiling, "the gentleman who gives me lessons in elocution." "And what need have you of elocution?" "Oh, I merely obey the commands of my guardians," said Francis, "who insist that I should, with the assistance of ---, qualify myself for Parliament; for which they do me the honour to suppose that I have some natural talent. I dare not disobey them; for, at the present moment, I have particular reasons for wishing to keep on good terms with them." "But," said I, "you are a Roman Catholic; and I thought that persons of your religion were excluded from Parliament?" "Why, upon that very thing the whole matter hinges; people of our religion are determined to be no longer excluded from Parliament, but to have a share in the government of the nation. Not that I care anything about the matter; I merely obey the will of my guardians; my thoughts are fixed on something better than politics." "I understand you," said I; "dog-fighting--well, I can easily conceive that to some minds dog-fighting--" "I was not thinking of dog-fighting," said Francis Ardry, interrupting me. "Not thinking of dog-fighting!" I ejaculated. "No," said Francis Ardry; "something higher and much more rational than dog-fighting at present occupies my thoughts." "Dear me," said I, "I thought I had heard you say, that there was nothing like it!" "Like what?" said Francis Ardry. "Dog-fighting, to be sure," said I. "Pooh," said Francis Ardry; "who but the gross and unrefined care anything for dog-fighting? That which at present engages my waking and sleeping thoughts is love--divine love--there is nothing like _that_. Listen to me, I have a secret to confide to you." And then Francis Ardry proceeded to make me his confidant. It appeared that he had had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of the most delightful young Frenchwoman imaginable, Annette La Noire by name, who had just arrived from her native country with the intention of obtaining the situation of governess in some English family; a position which, on account of her many accomplishments, she was eminently qualified to fill. Francis Ardry had, however, persuaded her to relinquish her intention for the present, on the ground that, until she had become acclimated in England, her health would probably suffer from the confinement inseparable from the occupation in which she was desirous of engaging; he had, moreover--for it appeared that she was the most frank and confiding creature in the world--succeeded in persuading her to permit him to hire for her a very handsome first floor in his own neighbourhood, and to accept a few inconsiderable presents in money and jewellery. "I am looking out for a handsome gig and horse," said Francis Ardry, at the conclusion of his narration; "it were a burning shame that so divine a creature should have to go about a place like London on foot, or in a paltry hackney coach." "But," said I, "will not the pursuit of politics prevent your devoting much time to this fair lady?" "It will prevent me devoting all my time," said Francis Ardry, "as I gladly would; but what can I do? My guardians wish me to qualify myself for a political orator, and I dare not offend them by a refusal. If I offend my guardians, I should find it impossible--unless I have recourse to Jews and money-lenders--to support Annette; present her with articles of dress and jewellery, and purchase a horse and cabriolet worthy of conveying her angelic person through the streets of London." After a pause, in which Francis Ardry appeared lost in thought, his mind being probably occupied with the subject of Annette, I broke silence by observing, "So your fellow-religionists are really going to make a serious attempt to procure their emancipation?" "Yes," said Francis Ardry, starting from his reverie; "everything has been arranged; even a leader has been chosen, at least for us of Ireland, upon the whole the most suitable man in the world for the occasion--a barrister of considerable talent, mighty voice, and magnificent impudence. With emancipation, liberty, and redress for the wrongs of Ireland in his mouth, he is to force his way into the British House of Commons, dragging myself and others behind him--he will succeed, and when he is in he will cut a figure; I have heard --- himself, who has heard --- him speak, say that he will cut a figure." "And is --- competent to judge?" I demanded. "Who but he?" said Francis Ardry; "no one questions his judgment concerning what relates to elocution. His fame on that point is so well established, that the greatest orators do not disdain occasionally to consult him; C--- himself, as I have been told, when anxious to produce any particular effect in the House, is in the habit of calling in --- for a consultation." "As to matter, or manner?" said I. "Chiefly the latter," said Francis Ardry, "though he is competent to give advice as to both, for he has been an orator in his day, and a leader of the people; though he confessed to me that he was not exactly qualified to play the latter part--'I want paunch,' said he." "It is not always indispensable," said I; "there is an orator in my town, a hunchback and watchmaker, without it, who not only leads the people, but the mayor too; perhaps he has a succedaneum in his hunch: but, tell me, is the leader of your movement in possession of that which --- wants?" "No more deficient in it than in brass," said Francis Ardry. "Well," said I, "whatever his qualifications may be, I wish him success in the cause which he has taken up--I love religious liberty." "We shall succeed," said Francis Ardry; "John Bull upon the whole is rather indifferent on the subject, and then we are sure to be backed by the Radical party, who, to gratify their political prejudices, would join with Satan himself." "There is one thing," said I, "connected with this matter which surprises me--your own luke-warmness. Yes, making every allowance for your natural predilection for dog-fighting, and your present enamoured state of mind, your apathy at the commencement of such a movement is to me unaccountable." "You would not have cause to complain of my indifference," said Frank, "provided I thought my country would be benefited by this movement; but I happen to know the origin of it. The priests are the originators, 'and what country was ever benefited by a movement which owed its origin to them?' so says Voltaire, a page of whom I occasionally read. By the present move they hope to increase their influence, and to further certain designs which they entertain both with regard to this country and Ireland. I do not speak rashly or unadvisedly. A strange fellow--a half Italian, half English priest--who was recommended to me by my guardians, partly as a spiritual, partly as a temporal guide, has let me into a secret or two; he is fond of a glass of gin and water--and over a glass of gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it, he has been more communicative, perhaps, than was altogether prudent. Were I my own master, I would kick him, politics, and religious movements, to a considerable distance. And now, if you are going away, do so quickly; I have an appointment with Annette, and must make myself fit to appear before her." CHAPTER XLIII Progress--Glorious John--Utterly Unintelligible--What a Difference! By the month of October I had, in spite of all difficulties and obstacles, accomplished about two-thirds of the principal task which I had undertaken, the compiling of the Newgate Lives; I had also made some progress in translating the publisher's philosophy into German. But about this time I began to see very clearly that it was impossible that our connection should prove of long duration; yet, in the event of my leaving the big man, what other resource had I--another publisher? But what had I to offer? There were my ballads, my Ab Gwilym, but then I thought of Taggart and his snuff, his pinch of snuff. However, I determined to see what could be done, so I took my ballads under my arm, and went to various publishers; some took snuff, others did not, but none took my ballads or Ab Gwilym; they would not even look at them. One asked me if I had anything else--he was a snuff-taker--I said yes; and going home, returned with my translation of the German novel, to which I have before alluded. After keeping it for a fortnight, he returned it to me on my visiting him, and, taking a pinch of snuff, told me it would not do. There were marks of snuff on the outside of the manuscript, which was a roll of paper bound with red tape, but there were no marks of snuff on the interior of the manuscript, from which I concluded that he had never opened it. I had often heard of one Glorious John, {365} who lived at the western end of the town; on consulting Taggart, he told me that it was possible that Glorious John would publish my ballads and Ab Gwilym, that is, said he, taking a pinch of snuff, provided you can see him; so I went to the house where Glorious John resided, and a glorious house it was, but I could not see Glorious John--I called a dozen times, but I never could see Glorious John. Twenty years after, by the greatest chance in the world, I saw Glorious John, and sure enough Glorious John published my books, but they were different books from the first; I never offered my ballads or Ab Gwilym to Glorious John. Glorious John was no snuff-taker. He asked me to dinner, and treated me with superb Rhenish wine. Glorious John is now gone to his rest, but I--what was I going to say?--the world will never forget Glorious John. So I returned to my last resource for the time then being--to the publisher, persevering doggedly in my labour. One day, on visiting the publisher, I found him stamping with fury upon certain fragments of paper. "Sir," said he, "you know nothing of German; I have shown your translation of the first chapter of my Philosophy to several Germans: it is utterly unintelligible to them." "Did they see the Philosophy?" I replied. "They did, sir, but they did not profess to understand English." "No more do I," I replied, "if that Philosophy be English." The publisher was furious--I was silent. For want of a pinch of snuff, I had recourse to something which is no bad substitute for a pinch of snuff, to those who can't take it, silent contempt; at first it made the publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of snuff would; it, however, eventually calmed him, and he ordered me back to my occupations, in other words, the compilation. To be brief, the compilation was completed, I got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him. He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men! CHAPTER XLIV The Old Spot--A Long History--Thou Shalt Not Steal--No Harm--Education--Necessity--Foam on Your Lip--Apples and Pears--What Will You Read?--Metaphor--The Fur Cap--I Don't Know Him. It was past mid-winter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company with the old apple-woman: she had just returned to the other side of the bridge, to her place in the booth where I had originally found her. This she had done after frequent conversations with me; "She liked the old place best," she said, which she would never have left but for the terror which she experienced when the boys ran away with her book. So I sat with her at the old spot, one afternoon past midwinter, reading the book, of which I had by this time come to the last pages. I had observed that the old woman for some time past had shown much less anxiety about the book than she had been in the habit of doing. I was, however, not quite prepared for her offering to make me a present of it, which she did that afternoon; when, having finished it, I returned it to her, with many thanks for the pleasure and instruction I had derived from its perusal. "You may keep it, dear," said the old woman, with a sigh; "you may carry it to your lodging, and keep it for your own." Looking at the old woman with surprise, I exclaimed, "Is it possible that you are willing to part with the book which has been your source of comfort so long?" Whereupon the old woman entered into a long history, from which I gathered that the book had become distasteful to her; she hardly ever opened it of late, she said, or if she did, it was only to shut it again; also, that other things which she had been fond of, though of a widely different kind, were now distasteful to her. Porter and beef-steaks were no longer grateful to her palate, her present diet chiefly consisting of tea, and bread and butter. "Ah," said I, "you have been ill, and when people are ill, they seldom like the things which give them pleasure when they are in health." I learned, moreover, that she slept little at night, and had all kinds of strange thoughts; that as she lay awake many things connected with her youth, which she had quite forgotten, came into her mind. There were certain words that came into her mind the night before the last, which were continually humming in her ears: I found that the words were, "Thou shalt not steal." On inquiring where she had first heard these words, I learned that she had read them at school, in a book called the primer; to this school she had been sent by her mother, who was a poor widow, and followed the trade of apple-selling in the very spot where her daughter followed it now. It seems that the mother was a very good kind of woman, but quite ignorant of letters, the benefit of which she was willing to procure for her child; and at the school the daughter learned to read, and subsequently experienced the pleasure and benefit of letters, in being able to read the book which she found in an obscure closet of her mother's house, and which had been her principal companion and comfort for many years of her life. But, as I have said before, she was now dissatisfied with the book, and with most other things in which she had taken pleasure; she dwelt much on the words, "Thou shalt not steal;" she had never stolen things herself, but then she had bought things which other people had stolen, and which she knew had been stolen; and her dear son had been a thief, which he perhaps would not have been but for the example which she set him in buying things from characters, as she called them, who associated with her. On inquiring how she had become acquainted with these characters, I learned that times had gone hard with her; that she had married, but her husband had died after a long sickness, which had reduced them to great distress; that her fruit trade was not a profitable one, and that she had bought and sold things which had been stolen to support herself and her son. That for a long time she supposed there was no harm in doing so, as her book was full of entertaining tales of stealing; but she now thought that the book was a bad book, and that learning to read was a bad thing; her mother had never been able to read, but had died in peace, though poor. So here was a woman who attributed the vices and follies of her life to being able to read; her mother, she said, who could not read, lived respectably, and died in peace; and what was the essential difference between the mother and daughter, save that the latter could read? But for her literature she might in all probability have lived respectably and honestly, like her mother, and might eventually have died in peace, which at present she could scarcely hope to do. Education had failed to produce any good in this poor woman; on the contrary, there could be little doubt that she had been injured by it. Then was education a bad thing? Rousseau was of opinion that it was; but Rousseau was a Frenchman, at least wrote in French, and I cared not the snap of my fingers for Rousseau. But education has certainly been of benefit in some instances; well, what did that prove, but that partiality existed in the management of the affairs of the world--if education was a benefit to some, why was it not a benefit to others? Could some avoid abusing it, any more than others could avoid turning it to a profitable account? I did not see how they could; this poor simple woman found a book in her mother's closet; a book, which was a capital book for those who could turn it to the account for which it was intended; a book, from the perusal of which I felt myself wiser and better, but which was by no means suited to the intellect of this poor simple woman, who thought that it was written in praise of thieving; yet she found it, she read it, and--and--I felt myself getting into a maze. What is right, thought I? what is wrong? Do I exist? Does the world exist? if it does, every action is bound up with necessity. "Necessity!" I exclaimed, and cracked my finger joints. "Ah, it is a bad thing," said the old woman. "What is a bad thing?" said I. "Why, to be poor, dear." "You talk like a fool," said I; "riches and poverty are only different forms of necessity." "You should not call me a fool, dear; you should not call your own mother a fool." "You are not my mother," said I. "Not your mother, dear?--no, no more I am; but your calling me fool put me in mind of my dear son, who often used to call me fool--and you just now looked as he sometimes did, with a blob of foam on your lip." "After all, I don't know that you are not my mother." "Don't you, dear? I'm glad of it; I wish you would make it out." "How should I make it out? who can speak from his own knowledge as to the circumstances of his birth? Besides, before attempting to establish our relationship, it would be necessary to prove that such people exist." "What people, dear?" "You and I." "Lord, child, you are mad; that book has made you so." "Don't abuse it," said I; "the book is an excellent one, that is, provided it exists." "I wish it did not," said the old woman; "but it shan't long; I'll burn it, or fling it into the river--the voices at night tell me to do so." "Tell the voices," said I, "that they talk nonsense; the book, if it exists, is a good book, it contains a deep moral; have you read it all?" "All the funny parts, dear; all about taking things, and the manner it was done; as for the rest, I could not exactly make it out." "Then the book is not to blame; I repeat that the book is a good book, and contains deep morality, always supposing that there is such a thing as morality, which is the same thing as supposing that there is anything at all." "Anything at all! Why, a'n't we here on this bridge, in my booth, with my stall and my--" "Apples and pears, baked hot, you would say--I don't know; all is a mystery, a deep question. It is a question, and probably always will be, whether there is a world, and consequently apples and pears; and, provided there be a world, whether that world be like an apple or a pear." "Don't talk so, dear." "I won't; we will suppose that we all exist--world, ourselves, apples, and pears: so you wish to get rid of the book?" "Yes, dear, I wish you would take it." "I have read it, and have no farther use for it; I do not need books: in a little time, perhaps, I shall not have a place wherein to deposit myself, far less books." "Then I will fling it into the river." "Don't do that; here, give it me. Now, what shall I do with it? you were so fond of it." "I am so no longer." "But how will you pass your time; what will you read?" "I wish I had never learned to read, or, if I had, that I had only read the books I saw at school: the primer or the other." "What was the other?" "I think they called it the Bible: all about God, and Job, and Jesus." "Ah, I know it." "You have read it; is it a nice book--all true?" "True, true--I don't know what to say; but if the world be true, and not all a lie, a fiction, I don't see why the Bible, as they call it, should not be true. By the bye, what do you call Bible in your tongue, or, indeed, book of any kind? as Bible merely means a book." "What do I call the Bible in my language, dear?" "Yes, the language of those who bring you things." "The language of those who _did_, dear; they bring them now no longer. They call me fool, as you did, dear, just now; they call kissing the Bible, which means taking a false oath, smacking calfskin." "That's metaphor," said I; "English, but metaphorical; what an odd language! So you would like to have a Bible,--shall I buy you one?" "I am poor, dear--no money since I left off the other trade." "Well, then, I'll buy you one." "No, dear, no; you are poor, and may soon want the money; but if you can take me one conveniently on the sly, you know--I think you may, for, as it is a good book, I suppose there can be no harm in taking it." "That will never do," said I, "more especially as I should be sure to be caught, not having made taking of things my trade; but I'll tell you what I'll do--try and exchange this book of yours for a Bible; who knows for what great things this same book of yours may serve?" "Well, dear," said the old woman, "do as you please; I should like to see the--what do you call it?--Bible, and to read it, as you seem to think it true." "Yes," said I, "seem; that is the way to express yourself in this maze of doubt--I seem to think--these apples and pears seem to be--and here seems to be a gentleman who wants to purchase either one or the other." A person had stopped before the apple-woman's stall, and was glancing now at the fruit, now at the old woman and myself; he wore a blue mantle, and had a kind of fur cap on his head; he was somewhat above the middle stature; his features were keen, but rather hard; there was a slight obliquity in his vision. Selecting a small apple, he gave the old woman a penny; then, after looking at me scrutinisingly for a moment, he moved from the booth in the direction of Southwark. "Do you know who that man is?" said I to the old woman. "No," said she, "except that he is one of my best customers: he frequently stops, takes an apple, and gives me a penny; his is the only piece of money I have taken this blessed day. I don't know him, but he has once or twice sat down in the booth with two strange-looking men--Mulattos, or Lascars, I think they call them." CHAPTER XLV Bought and Exchanged--Quite Empty--A New Firm--Bibles--Countenance of a Lion--Clap of Thunder--A Truce with This--I Have Lost It--Clearly a Right--Goddess of the Mint. In pursuance of my promise to the old woman, I set about procuring her a Bible with all convenient speed, placing the book which she had entrusted to me for the purpose of exchange in my pocket. I went to several shops, and asked if Bibles were to be had: I found that there were plenty. When, however, I informed the people that I came to barter, they looked blank, and declined treating with me; saying that they did not do business in that way. At last I went into a shop over the window of which I saw written, "Books bought and exchanged:" there was a smartish young fellow in the shop, with black hair and whiskers. "You exchange?" said I. "Yes," said he, "sometimes, but we prefer selling; what book do you want?" "A Bible," said I. "Ah," said he, "there's a great demand for Bibles just now; all kinds of people are become very pious of late," he added, grinning at me; "I am afraid I can't do business with you, more especially as the master is not at home. What book have you brought?" Taking the book out of my pocket, I placed it on the counter: the young fellow opened the book, and inspecting the title-page, burst into a loud laugh. "What do you laugh for?" said I, angrily, and half clenching my fist. "Laugh!" said the young fellow; "laugh! who could help laughing?" "I could," said I; "I see nothing to laugh at; I want to exchange this book for a Bible." "You do?" said the young fellow; "well, I dare say there are plenty who would be willing to exchange, that is, if they dared. I wish master were at home; but that would never do, either. Master's a family man, the Bibles are not mine, and master being a family man, is sharp, and knows all his stock; I'd buy it of you, but, to tell you the truth, I am quite empty here," said he, pointing to his pocket, "so I am afraid we can't deal." Whereupon, looking anxiously at the young man, "What am I to do?" said I; "I really want a Bible." "Can't you buy one?" said the young man; "have you no money?" "Yes," said I, "I have some, but I am merely the agent of another; I came to exchange, not to buy; what am I to do?" "I don't know," said the young man, thoughtfully laying down the book on the counter; "I don't know what you can do; I think you will find some difficulty in this bartering job, the trade are rather precise." All at once he laughed louder than before; suddenly stopping, however, he put on a very grave look. "Take my advice," said he; "there is a firm established in this neighbourhood which scarcely sells any books but Bibles; they are very rich, and pride themselves on selling their books at the lowest possible price; apply to them, who knows but what they will exchange with you?" Thereupon I demanded with some eagerness of the young man the direction to the place where he thought it possible that I might effect the exchange--which direction the young fellow cheerfully gave me, and, as I turned away, had the civility to wish me success. I had no difficulty in finding the house to which the young fellow directed me; it was a very large house, situated in a square; and upon the side of the house was written in large letters, "Bibles, and other religious books." At the door of the house were two or three tumbrils, in the act of being loaded with chests, very much resembling tea-chests; one of the chests falling down, burst, and out flew, not tea, but various books, in a neat, small size, and in neat leather covers; Bibles, said I,--Bibles, doubtless. I was not quite right, nor quite wrong; picking up one of the books, I looked at it for a moment, and found it to be the New Testament. "Come, young lad," said a man who stood by, in the dress of a porter, "put that book down, it is none of yours; if you want a book, go in and deal for one." Deal, thought I, deal,--the man seems to know what I am coming about,--and going in, I presently found myself in a very large room. Behind a counter two men stood with their backs to a splendid fire, warming themselves, for the weather was cold. Of these men one was dressed in brown, and the other was dressed in black; both were tall men--he who was dressed in brown was thin, and had a particularly ill-natured countenance; the man dressed in black was bulky, his features were noble, but they were those of a lion. "What is your business, young man?" said the precise personage, as I stood staring at him and his companion. "I want a Bible," said I. "What price, what size?" said the precise-looking man. "As to size," said I, "I should like to have a large one--that is, if you can afford me one--I do not come to buy." "Oh, friend," said the precise-looking man, "if you come here expecting to have a Bible for nothing, you are mistaken--we--" "I would scorn to have a Bible for nothing," said I, "or anything else; I came not to beg, but to barter; there is no shame in that, especially in a country like this, where all folks barter." "Oh, we don't barter," said the precise man, "at least Bibles; you had better depart." "Stay, brother," said the man with the countenance of a lion, "let us ask a few questions; this may be a very important case; perhaps the young man has had convictions." "Not I," I exclaimed; "I am convinced of nothing, and with regard to the Bible--I don't believe--" "Hey!" said the man with the lion countenance, and there he stopped. But with that "Hey!" the walls of the house seemed to shake, the windows rattled, and the porter whom I had seen in front of the house came running up the steps, and looked into the apartment through the glass of the door. There was silence for about a minute--the same kind of silence which succeeds a clap of thunder. At last the man with the lion countenance, who had kept his eyes fixed upon me, said calmly, "Were you about to say that you don't believe in the Bible, young man?" "No more than in anything else," said I; "you were talking of convictions--I have no convictions. It is not easy to believe in the Bible till one is convinced that there is a Bible." "He seems to be insane," said the prim-looking man; "we had better order the porter to turn him out." "I am by no means certain," said I, "that the porter could turn me out; always provided there is a porter, and this system of ours be not a lie, and a dream." "Come," said the lion-looking man, impatiently, "a truce with this nonsense. If the porter cannot turn you out, perhaps some other person can; but to the point--you want a Bible?" "I do," said I, "but not for myself; I was sent by another person to offer something in exchange for one." "And who is that person?" "A poor old woman, who has had what you call convictions,--heard voices, or thought she heard them--I forgot to ask her whether they were loud ones." "What has she sent to offer in exchange?" said the man, without taking any notice of the concluding part of my speech. "A book," said I. "Let me see it." "Nay, brother," said the precise man, "this will never do; if we once adopt the system of barter, we shall have all the holders of useless rubbish in the town applying to us." "I wish to see what he has brought," said the other; "perhaps Baxter, or Jewell's Apology, either of which would make a valuable addition to our collection. Well, young man, what's the matter with you?" I stood like one petrified; I had put my hand into my pocket--the book was gone. "What's the matter?" repeated the man with the lion countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder. "I have it not--I have lost it!" "A pretty story, truly," said the precise-looking man; "lost it!" "You had better retire," said the other. "How shall I appear before the party who entrusted me with the book? She will certainly think that I have purloined it, notwithstanding all I can say; nor, indeed, can I blame her,--appearances are certainly against me." "They are so--you had better retire." I moved towards the door. "Stay, young man, one word more; there is only one way of proceeding which would induce me to believe that you are sincere." "What is that?" said I, stopping and looking at him anxiously. "The purchase of a Bible." "Purchase!" said I, "purchase! I came not to purchase, but to barter; such was my instruction, and how can I barter if I have lost the book?" The other made no answer, and turning away I made for the door; all of a sudden I started, and turning round, "Dear me," said I, "it has just come into my head, that if the book was lost by my negligence, as it must have been, I have clearly a right to make it good." No answer. "Yes," I repeated, "I have clearly a right to make it good; how glad I am! see the effect of a little reflection. I will purchase a Bible instantly, that is, if I have not lost . . . " and with considerable agitation I felt in my pocket. The prim-looking man smiled: "I suppose," said he, "that he has lost his money as well as book." "No," said I, "I have not;" and pulling out my hand I displayed no less a sum than three half-crowns. "O noble goddess of the Mint!" as Dame Charlotta Nordenflycht, the Swede, said a hundred and fifty years ago, "great is thy power; how energetically the possession of thee speaks in favour of man's character!" "Only half a crown for this Bible?" said I, putting down the money; "it is worth three;" and bowing to the man of the noble features, I departed with my purchase. "Queer customer," said the prim-looking man, as I was about to close the door--"don't like him." "Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say," said he of the countenance of a lion. CHAPTER XLVI The Pickpocket--Strange Rencounter--Drag Him Along--A Great Service--Things of Importance--Philological Matters--Mother of Languages--Zhats! A few days after the occurrence of what is recorded in the last chapter, as I was wandering in the City, chance directed my footsteps to an alley leading from one narrow street to another in the neighbourhood of Cheapside. Just before I reached the mouth of the alley, a man in a great-coat, closely followed by another, passed it; and, at the moment in which they were passing, I observed the man behind snatch something from the pocket of the other; whereupon, darting into the street, I seized the hindermost man by the collar, crying at the same time to the other, "My good friend, this person has just picked your pocket." The individual whom I addressed, turning round with a start, glanced at me, and then at the person whom I held. London is the place for strange rencounters. It appeared to me that I recognised both individuals--the man whose pocket had been picked and the other; the latter now began to struggle violently; "I have picked no one's pocket," said he. "Rascal," said the other, "you have got my pocket-book in your bosom." "No, I have not," said the other; and, struggling more violently than before, the pocket-book dropped from his bosom upon the ground. The other was now about to lay hands upon the fellow, who was still struggling. "You had better take up your book," said I; "I can hold him." He followed my advice; and, taking up his pocket-book, surveyed my prisoner with a ferocious look, occasionally glaring at me. Yes, I had seen him before--it was the stranger whom I had observed on London Bridge, by the stall of the old apple-woman, with the cap and cloak; but, instead of these, he now wore a hat and great-coat. "Well," said I, at last, "what am I to do with this gentleman of ours?" nodding to the prisoner, who had now left off struggling. "Shall I let him go?" "Go!" said the other; "go! The knave--the rascal; let him go, indeed! Not so, he shall go before the Lord Mayor. Bring him along." "Oh, let me go," said the other: "let me go; this is the first offence, I assure ye--the first time I ever thought to do anything wrong." "Hold your tongue," said I, "or I shall be angry with you. If I am not very much mistaken, you once attempted to cheat me." "I never saw you before in all my life," said the fellow, though his countenance seemed to belie his words. "That is not true," said I; "you are the man who attempted to cheat me of one-and-ninepence in the coach-yard, on the first morning of my arrival in London." "I don't doubt it," said the other; "a confirmed thief;" and here his tones became peculiarly sharp; "I would fain see him hanged--crucified. Drag him along." "I am no constable," said I; "you have got your pocket-book,--I would rather you would bid me let him go." "Bid you let him go!" said the other almost furiously; "I command--stay, what was I going to say? I was forgetting myself," he observed more gently; "but he stole my pocket-book;--if you did but know what it contained." "Well," said I, "if it contains anything valuable, be the more thankful that you have recovered it; as for the man, I will help you to take him where you please; but I wish you would let him go." The stranger hesitated, and there was an extraordinary play of emotion in his features: he looked ferociously at the pickpocket, and, more than once, somewhat suspiciously at myself; at last his countenance cleared, and, with a good grace, he said, "Well, you have done me a great service, and you have my consent to let him go; but the rascal shall not escape with impunity," he exclaimed suddenly, as I let the man go, and starting forward, before the fellow could escape, he struck him a violent blow on the face. The man staggered, and had nearly fallen; recovering himself, however, he said, "I tell you what, my fellow, if I ever meet you in this street in a dark night, and I have a knife about me, it shall be the worse for you; as for you, young man," said he to me; but, observing that the other was making towards him, he left whatever he was about to say unfinished, and, taking to his heels, was out of sight in a moment. The stranger and myself walked in the direction of Cheapside, the way in which he had been originally proceeding; he was silent for a few moments, at length he said, "You have really done me a great service, and I should be ungrateful not to acknowledge it. I am a merchant; and a merchant's pocket-book, as you perhaps know, contains many things of importance; but, young man," he exclaimed, "I think I have seen you before; I thought so at first, but where I cannot exactly say: where was it?" I mentioned London Bridge and the old apple-woman. "Oh," said he, and smiled, and there was something peculiar in his smile, "I remember now. Do you frequently sit on London Bridge?" "Occasionally," said I; "that old woman is an old friend of mine." "Friend?" said the stranger; "I am glad of it, for I shall know where to find you. At present I am going to 'Change; time, you know, is precious to a merchant." We were by this time close to Cheapside. "Farewell," said he; "I shall not forget this service. I trust we shall soon meet again." He then shook me by the hand and went his way. The next day, as I was seated beside the old woman in the booth, the stranger again made his appearance, and, after a word or two, sat down beside me; the old woman was sometimes reading the Bible, which she had already had two or three days in her possession, and sometimes discoursing with me. Our discourse rolled chiefly on philological matters. "What do you call bread in your language?" said I. "You mean the language of those who bring me things to buy, or who did; for, as I told you before, I shan't buy any more; it's no language of mine, dear--they call bread pannam in their language." "Pannam!" said I, "pannam! evidently connected with, if not derived from, the Latin panis; even as the word tanner, which signifieth a sixpence, is connected with, if not derived from, the Latin tener, which is itself connected with, if not derived from, tawno or tawner, which, in the language of Mr. Petulengro, signifieth a sucking child. {386} Let me see, what is the term for bread in the language of Mr. Petulengro? Morro, or manro, as I have sometimes heard it called; is there not some connection between these words and panis? Yes, I think there is; and I should not wonder if morro, manro, and panis were connected, perhaps derived from the same root; but what is that root? I don't know--I wish I did; though, perhaps, I should not be the happier. Morro--manro! I rather think morro is the oldest form; it is easier to say morro than manro. Morro! Irish, aran; Welsh, bara; English, bread. I can see a resemblance between all the words, and pannam too; and I rather think that the Petulengrian word is the elder. How odd it would be if the language of Mr. Petulengro should eventually turn out to be the mother of all the languages in the world; yet it is certain that there are some languages in which the terms for bread have no connection with the word used by Mr. Petulengro, notwithstanding that those languages, in many other points, exhibit a close affinity to the language of the horse-shoe master: for example, bread, in Hebrew, is Laham, which assuredly exhibits little similitude to the word used by the aforesaid Petulengro. In Armenian it is--" "Zhats!" said the stranger, starting up. "By the Patriarch and the Three Holy Churches, this is wonderful! How came you to know aught of Armenian?" CHAPTER XLVII New Acquaintance--Wired Cases--Bread and Wine--Armenian Colonies--Learning Without Money--What a Language--The Tide--Your Foible--Learning of the Haiks--Old Proverb--Pressing Invitation. Just as I was about to reply to the interrogation of my new-formed acquaintance, a man, with a dusky countenance, probably one of the Lascars, or Mulattos, of whom the old woman had spoken, came up and whispered to him, and with this man he presently departed,--not, however, before he had told me the place of his abode, and requested me to visit him. After the lapse of a few days, I called at the house, which he had indicated. It was situated in a dark and narrow street, in the heart of the city, at no great distance from the bank. I entered a counting-room, in which a solitary clerk, with a foreign look, was writing. The stranger was not at home; returning the next day, however, I met him at the door as he was about to enter; he shook me warmly by the hand. "I am glad to see you," said he; "follow me; I was just thinking of you." He led me through the counting-room, to an apartment up a flight of stairs; before ascending, however, he looked into the book in which the foreign- visaged clerk was writing, and, seemingly not satisfied with the manner in which he was executing his task, he gave him two or three cuffs, telling him at the same time that he deserved crucifixion. The apartment above stairs, to which he led me, was large, with three windows, which opened upon the street. The walls were hung with wired cases, apparently containing books. There was a table and two or three chairs; but the principal article of furniture was a long sofa, extending, from the door by which we entered, to the farther end of the apartment. Seating himself upon the sofa, my new acquaintance motioned to me to sit beside him, and then, looking me full in the face, repeated his former inquiry. "In the name of all that is wonderful, how came you to know aught of my language?" "There is nothing wonderful in that," said I; "we are at the commencement of a philological age, every one studies languages: that is, every one who is fit for nothing else; philology being the last resource of dulness and ennui, I have got a little in advance of the throng, by mastering the Armenian alphabet; but I foresee the time when every unmarriageable miss, and desperate blockhead, will likewise have acquired the letters of Mesroub, and will know the term for bread, in Armenian, and perhaps that for wine." "Kini," said my companion; and that and the other word put me in mind of the duties of hospitality. "Will you eat bread and drink wine with me?" "Willingly," said I. Whereupon my companion, unlocking a closet, produced, on a silver salver, a loaf of bread, with a silver-handled knife, and wine in a silver flask, with cups of the same metal. "I hope you like my fare," said he, after we had both eaten and drunk. "I like your bread," said I, "for it is stale; I like not your wine; it is sweet, and I hate sweet wine." "It is wine of Cyprus," said my entertainer; and, when I found that it was wine of Cyprus, I tasted it again, and the second taste pleased me much better than the first, notwithstanding that I still thought it somewhat sweet. "So," said I, after a pause, looking at my companion, "you are an Armenian?" "Yes," said he, "an Armenian born in London, but not less an Armenian on that account. My father was a native of Ispahan, one of the celebrated Armenian colony which was established there shortly after the time of the dreadful hunger, which drove the children of Haik in swarms from their original country, and scattered them over most parts of the eastern and western world. In Ispahan he passed the greater portion of his life, following mercantile pursuits with considerable success. Certain enemies, however, having accused him to the despot of the place, of using seditious language, he was compelled to flee, leaving most of his property behind. Travelling in the direction of the west, he came at last to London, where he established himself, and where he eventually died, leaving behind a large property and myself, his only child, the fruit of a marriage with an Armenian English woman, who did not survive my birth more than three months." The Armenian then proceeded to tell me that he had carried on the business of his father, which seemed to embrace most matters, from buying silks of Lascars, to speculating in the funds, and that he had considerably increased the property which his father had left him. He candidly confessed that he was wonderfully fond of gold, and said there was nothing like it for giving a person respectability and consideration in the world: to which assertion I made no answer, being not exactly prepared to contradict it. And, when he had related to me his history, he expressed a desire to know something more of myself, whereupon I gave him the outline of my history, concluding with saying, "I am now a poor author, or rather philologist, upon the streets of London, possessed of many tongues, which I find of no use in the world." "Learning without money is anything but desirable," said the Armenian, "as it unfits a man for humble occupations. It is true that it may occasionally beget him friends; I confess to you that your understanding something of my language weighs more with me than the service you rendered me in rescuing my pocket-book the other day from the claws of that scoundrel whom I yet hope to see hanged, if not crucified, notwithstanding there were in that pocket-book papers and documents of considerable value. Yes, that circumstance makes my heart warm towards you, for I am proud of my language--as I indeed well may be--what a language, noble and energetic! quite original, differing from all others both in words and structure." "You are mistaken," said I; "many languages resemble the Armenian both in structure and words." "For example?" said the Armenian. "For example," said I, "the English." "The English?" said the Armenian; "show me one word in which the English resembles the Armenian." "You walk on London Bridge," said I. "Yes," said the Armenian. "I saw you look over the balustrade the other morning." "True," said the Armenian. "Well, what did you see rushing up through the arches with noise and foam?" "What was it?" said the Armenian. "What was it?--you don't mean the _tide_?" "Do I not?" said I. "Well, what has the tide to do with the matter?" "Much," said I; "what is the tide?" "The ebb and flow of the sea," said the Armenian. "The sea itself; what is the Haik word for sea?" The Armenian gave a strong gasp; then, nodding his head thrice, "You are right," said he; "the English word tide is the Armenian for sea; and now I begin to perceive that there are many English words which are Armenian; there is --- and ---, and there again in French there is --- and --- derived from the Armenian. How strange, how singular!--I thank you. It is a proud thing to see that the language of my race has had so much influence over the languages of the world." I saw that all that related to his race was the weak point of the Armenian. I did not flatter the Armenian with respect to his race or language. "An inconsiderable people," said I, "shrewd and industrious, but still an inconsiderable people. A language bold and expressive, and of some antiquity, derived, though perhaps not immediately, from some much older tongue. I do not think that the Armenian has had any influence over the formation of the languages of the world. I am not much indebted to the Armenian for the solution of any doubts; whereas to the language of Mr. Petulengro--" "I have heard you mention that name before," said the Armenian; "who is Mr. Petulengro?" And then I told the Armenian who Mr. Petulengro was. The Armenian spoke contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro and his race. "Don't speak contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro," said I, "nor of anything belonging to him. He is a dark mysterious personage; all connected with him is a mystery, especially his language; but I believe that his language is doomed to solve a great philological problem--Mr. Petulengro--" "You appear agitated," said the Armenian; "take another glass of wine; you possess a great deal of philological knowledge, but it appears to me that the language of this Petulengro is your foible: but let us change the subject; I feel much interested in you, and would fain be of service to you. Can you cast accounts?" I shook my head. "Keep books?" "I have an idea that I could write books," said I; "but, as to keeping them . . . " and here again I shook my head. The Armenian was silent some time; all at once, glancing at one of the wire cases, with which, as I have already said, the walls of the room were hung, he asked me if I was well acquainted with the learning of the Haiks. "The books in these cases," said he, "contain the master-pieces of Haik learning." "No," said I, "all I know of the learning of the Haiks is their translation of the Bible." "You have never read Z---?" "No," said I, "I have never read Z---." "I have a plan," said the Armenian; "I think I can employ you agreeably and profitably; I should like to see Z--- in an English dress; you shall translate Z---. If you can read the Scriptures in Armenian, you can translate Z---. He is our Esop, the most acute and clever of all our moral writers--his philosophy--" "I will have nothing to do with him," said I. "Wherefore?" said the Armenian. "There is an old proverb," said I, '"that a burnt child avoids the fire.' I have burnt my hands sufficiently with attempting to translate philosophy, to make me cautious of venturing upon it again;" and then I told the Armenian how I had been persuaded by the publisher to translate his philosophy into German, and what sorry thanks I had received; "and who knows," said I, "but the attempt to translate Armenian philosophy into English might be attended with yet more disagreeable consequences." The Armenian smiled. "You would find me very different from the publisher." "In many points I have no doubt I should," I replied; "but at the present moment I feel like a bird which has escaped from a cage, and, though hungry, feels no disposition to return. Of what nation is the dark man below stairs, whom I saw writing at the desk?" "He is a Moldave," said the Armenian; "the dog [and here his eyes sparkled] deserves to be crucified; he is continually making mistakes." The Armenian again renewed his proposition about Z---, which I again refused, as I felt but little inclination to place myself beneath the jurisdiction of a person who was in the habit of cuffing those whom he employed, when they made mistakes. I presently took my departure; not, however, before I had received from the Armenian a pressing invitation to call upon him whenever I should feel disposed. CHAPTER XLVIII What to Do--Strong Enough--Fame and Profit--Alliterative Euphony--Excellent Fellow--Listen to Me--A Plan--Bagnigge Wells. Anxious thoughts frequently disturbed me at this time with respect to what I was to do, and how support myself in the great city. My future prospects were gloomy enough, and I looked forward and feared; sometimes I felt half disposed to accept the offer of the Armenian, and to commence forthwith, under his superintendence, the translation of the Haik Esop; but the remembrance of the cuffs which I had seen him bestow upon the Moldavian, when glancing over his shoulder into the ledger or whatever it was on which he was employed, immediately drove the inclination from my mind. I could not support the idea of the possibility of his staring over my shoulder upon my translation of the Haik Esop, and, dissatisfied with my attempts, treating me as he had treated the Moldavian clerk; placing myself in a position which exposed me to such treatment, would indeed be plunging into the fire after escaping from the frying-pan. The publisher, insolent and overbearing as he was, whatever he might have wished or thought, had never lifted his hand against me, or told me that I merited crucifixion. What was I to do? turn porter? I was strong; but there was something besides strength required to ply the trade of a porter--a mind of a particularly phlegmatic temperament, which I did not possess. What should I do?--enlist as a soldier? I was tall enough; but something besides height is required to make a man play with credit the part of soldier, I mean a private one--a spirit, if spirit it can be called, which will not only enable a man to submit with patience to insolence and abuse, and even to cuffs and kicks, but occasionally to the lash. I felt that I was not qualified to be a soldier, at least a private one; far better be a drudge to the most ferocious of publishers, editing Newgate Lives, and writing in eighteenpenny Reviews--better to translate the Haik Esop, under the superintendence of ten Armenians, than be a private soldier in the English service; I did not decide rashly--I knew something of soldiering. What should I do? I thought that I would make a last and desperate attempt to dispose of the ballads and of Ab Gwilym. I had still an idea that, provided I could persuade any spirited publisher to give these translations to the world, I should acquire both considerable fame and profit; not, perhaps, a world-embracing fame such as Byron's; but a fame not to be sneered at, which would last me a considerable time, and would keep my heart from breaking;--profit, not equal to that which Scott had made by his wondrous novels, but which would prevent me from starving, and enable me to achieve some other literary enterprise. I read and re-read my ballads, and the more I read them the more I was convinced that the public, in the event of their being published, would freely purchase, and hail them with the merited applause. Were not the deeds and adventures wonderful and heart-stirring, from which it is true I could claim no merit, being but the translator; but had I not rendered them into English, with all their original fire? Yes, I was confident I had; and I had no doubt that the public would say so. And then, with respect to Ab Gwilym, had I not done as much justice to him as to the Danish ballads; not only rendering faithfully his thoughts, imagery, and phraseology, but even preserving in my translation the alliterative euphony which constitutes one of the most remarkable features of Welsh prosody? Yes, I had accomplished all this; and I doubted not that the public would receive my translations from Ab Gwilym with quite as much eagerness as my version of the Danish ballads. But I found the publishers as untractable as ever, and to this day the public has never had an opportunity of doing justice to the glowing fire of my ballad versification, {397} and the alliterative euphony of my imitations of Ab Gwilym. I had not seen Francis Ardry since the day I had seen him taking lessons in elocution. One afternoon as I was seated at my table, my head resting on my hands, he entered my apartment; sitting down, he inquired of me why I had not been to see him. "I might ask the same question of you," I replied. "Wherefore have you not been to see me?" Whereupon Francis Ardry told me that he had been much engaged in his oratorical exercises, also in escorting the young Frenchwoman about to places of public amusement; he then again questioned me as to the reason of my not having been to see him. I returned an evasive answer. The truth was, that for some time past my appearance, owing to the state of my finances, had been rather shabby; and I did not wish to expose a fashionable young man like Francis Ardry, who lived in a fashionable neighbourhood, to the imputation of having a shabby acquaintance. I was aware that Francis Ardry was an excellent fellow; but, on that very account, I felt, under existing circumstances, a delicacy in visiting him. It is very possible that he had an inkling of how matters stood, as he presently began to talk of my affairs and prospects. I told him of my late ill success with the booksellers, and inveighed against their blindness to their own interest in refusing to publish my translations. "The last that I addressed myself to," said I, "told me not to trouble him again unless I could bring him a decent novel or a tale." "Well," said Frank, "and why did you not carry him a decent novel or a tale?" "Because I have neither," said I; "and to write them is, I believe, above my capacity. At present I feel divested of all energy--heartless, and almost hopeless." "I see how it is," said Francis Ardry, "you have overworked yourself, and, worst of all, to no purpose. Take my advice; cast all care aside, and only think of diverting yourself for a month at least." "Divert myself," said I; "and where am I to find the means?" "Be that care on my shoulders," said Francis Ardry. "Listen to me--my uncles have been so delighted with the favourable accounts which they have lately received from T--- of my progress in oratory, that, in the warmth of their hearts, they made me a present yesterday of two hundred pounds. This is more money than I want, at least for the present; do me the favour to take half of it as a loan--hear me," said he, observing that I was about to interrupt him; "I have a plan in my head--one of the prettiest in the world. The sister of my charmer is just arrived from France; she cannot speak a word of English; and, as Annette and myself are much engaged in our own matters, we cannot pay her the attention which we should wish, and which she deserves, for she is a truly fascinating creature, although somewhat differing from my charmer, having blue eyes and flaxen hair; whilst Annette, on the contrary . . . But I hope you will shortly see Annette. Now, my plan is this--Take the money, dress yourself fashionably, and conduct Annette's sister to Bagnigge Wells." "And what should we do at Bagnigge Wells?" "Do!" said Francis Ardry. "Dance!" "But," said I, "I scarcely know anything of dancing." "Then here's an excellent opportunity of improving yourself. Like most Frenchwomen, she dances divinely; however, if you object to Bagnigge Wells and dancing, go to Brighton, and remain there a month or two, at the end of which time you can return with your mind refreshed and invigorated, and materials, perhaps, for a tale or novel." "I never heard a more foolish plan," said I, "or one less likely to terminate profitably or satisfactorily. I thank you, however, for your offer, which is, I dare say, well meant. If I am to escape from my cares and troubles, and find my mind refreshed and invigorated, I must adopt other means than conducting a French demoiselle to Brighton or Bagnigge Wells, defraying the expense by borrowing from a friend." Footnotes: {0a} Pronounced _Lav'en-gro_, not _Lav-en'gro_, the two first syllables exactly like those of _lavender_. Borrow meant it to stand for "word- master, philologist," but--_nomen omen_--already in Grellmann (1787) _latcho lavengro_ stood for "a liar." {1a} On 5th July 1803, at East Dereham, Norfolk, 17 miles west-north- west of Norwich. {1b} Captain Thomas Borrow (1758-1824), the youngest of a family of eight (three daughters and five sons). {1c} Trethinnick, near St. Cleer. {2} "In Cornwall are the best gentlemen."--_Corn. Prov._ (B.) {4a} Earl of Orford. Borrow's father rose from private to sergeant in the Coldstream Guards, and, passing in 1792 to the West Norfolk Militia, was six years later promoted adjutant with the rank of captain (Knapp, i. 7-16). {4b} Dereham. {4c} Ann Perfrement (1772-1858). They married in 1793 (Knapp, i. 16- 26). {7} John Thomas Borrow (1800-1833), ensign and lieutenant in his father's regiment, art student under Old Crome and Benjamin Haydon, and from 1826 a mining agent in Mexico. {19} Norwegian ells--about eight feet. (B.) {22} Dereham. {31a} Charles Hyde Wollaston (1772-1850), vicar from 1806--my mother's uncle. {31b} James Philo (1745-1829), an old soldier, for fifty years parish clerk. {33} In 1810. {37} Whittlesea Mere. In 1786 it measured 3.5 miles from east to west by 2.5 miles, and it was drained in 1850-51. {44} Much such a man, perhaps a descendant, travelled East Anglia about 1866. He used to visit schools to exhibit his snakes. {48} Better _bengesko_ or _beng's_, devil's. {50} _Tiny tawny_ is not Romany. _Tarno_ means "small" or "young." {52} _Sap_, snake; _sapengro_, snake-charmer. {65} Berwick-upon-Tweed. Its walls are not lofty. {69a} In 1813. {69b} South-western. {71} Borrow and his brother seem to have been at the High School in March 1814, probably only for the one winter session. James Pillans was rector, and the four under-masters were William Ritchie, Aglionby Ross Carson (Borrow's), George Irvine, James Gray. {72} William Bowie; probably from Gaelic _buidhe_, yellow, and so not Norse at all. {75} Northern. {79} David Haggart (1801-21), thief, was born and hanged at Edinburgh. He enlisted as a drummer in July 1813, and killed a Dumfries turnkey in 1820. His curious _Autobiography_ is written largely in thieves' cant. {82a} Northern. {82b} Perhaps two hundred feet. {88} Fifteen months. {89a} Harwich. {89b} Cork Harbour. {90} Cork. {93} Clonmel. {98} Elzevirs are not generally huge. {104} In Tipperary county, twenty miles north of Clonmel. In 1816. {131} Norwich. {132a} Till 1886 a prison, and now a museum. A square Norman keep. {132b} The tower is Norman, the spire Decorated, 215 feet high. {133} The Bishop's Bridge (1295) over the Wensum. {134} Horatio, Viscount Nelson (1758-1805), was born at Burnham-Thorpe Rectory, Norfolk, near Wells. {140} Borrow clean omits his two years (1816-18) at Norwich Grammar School, under Edward Valpy (1764-1832), headmaster 1810-29. This was probably because, horsed on James Martineau's back, he was flogged for running away to turn smuggler or freebooter. Sir James Brooke was another schoolfellow. {142} The Rev. Thomas D'Eterville, a Norman _emigre_. {146} The Yare. {147} Earlham Hall. {148} Joseph John Gurney (1788-1847), Quaker banker of Norwich, and philanthropist, a brother of Mrs. Fry. See A. J. C. Hare's _The Gurneys of Earlham_ (2 vols., 1895). {152} Tombland Fair, on Norwich Castle Hill, the day before Good Friday. {154} _Cf._ Introduction, p. xxv. {156} Snake-charmer. {157} Monschold (pron. _Muzzle_) Heath, near Norwich. {158} Better _Tarno Tikno_, little baby. {161} _Petulengro_, farrier, the esoteric Romany name of the Smith family. It is derived from the Modern Greek _petalon_, horse-shoe, if that, indeed, is not borrowed from the Romany. {162a} Truth, brother. {162b} Book. {162c} Hill. {163a} Passing bad money. {163b} Gypsies. {163c} Better _gaujoes_, non-Gypsies or Gentiles. {164a} Yes. {164b} Magistrate of the town. {165a} Child. {165b} In the town, telling fortunes. {166a} House. {166b} Going. {169a} In Vol. i. p. 320 of _Etymologicon Universale_ (3 vols., 1822- 25), by the Rev. Walter Whiter (1758-1832), from 1797 rector of Hardingham, near Wymondham, occurs this suggestion: "It will perhaps be discovered by some future inquirer that from a horde of vagrant _Gipseys_ once issued that band of sturdy robbers, the companions of Romulus and of Remus, who laid the foundations of the _Eternal City_ on the banks of the Tibur." This sounds truly Borrovian; and scattered through the amazing _Etymologicon_ are twenty-six Romany words, very correctly spelt, which I used to think Whiter must have learnt from George Borrow. But there are words that Borrow does not seem to have known--_poshe_, near; _kam_, sun; _ria_, sir (vocative), and _petalles_, horse-shoe (accusative). Whiter appears to have known Romany better than Borrow. Borrow certainly meant to write a good deal about Whiter, for in a letter to John Murray of 1st December 1842 he sketches _Lavengro_: "Capital subject--early life; studies and adventures; some account of my father, William Taylor, Whiter, Big Ben, etc. etc." (Knapp, ii. 5). But he barely mentions Whiter in chap. xxiv. of _Lavengro_. In the _Gypsy Lore Journal_ (i. 1888, pp. 102-4) I had an article on Whiter. That on Whiter by Mr. Courtney, in vol. lxi. of the _Dictionary of National Biography_ (1900), shows that he was writing on the Gypsy language in 1800 and 1811. {169b} Fighter. {170a} Husband. {170b} Gentleman. {170c} London. {170d} Song. {178} Borrow's _Wild Wales_ gives a full account of his Welsh studies at this period. {180} He was articled on 30th March 1819 to Messrs. Simpson & Rackham solicitors, for five years. {198} Klopstock. (B.) {199} John Crome, "Old Crome" (1768-1811), the great landscape-painter of the "Norwich School." {208} Lodowick Muggleton (1609-98), a London Puritan tailor, founded his sect about 1651. {211} William Taylor (1765-1836), "of Norwich," introduced German literature to English readers, and corresponded with Southey, Scott, Godwin, etc. He seems to have made an infidel of Borrow by 1824 (Knapp, ii. 261-2). See Life of Taylor by Robberds (1843). {225a} Samuel Parr (1747-1825). {225b} See note on p. 169. {230} John Thurtell (_c._ 1791-1824), the son of a Norwich alderman, was hanged at Hertford for the brutal murder in Gill's Hill Lane of a fellow- swindler, William Weare. He figures also in Hazlitt's "Prize-fight," and Sir Walter Scott visited the scene of Weare's murder. {233} Spinoza. {239} Rather shaky Romany. _Chivios_ and _rovel_ should be _chido si_ and _rovenna_. {240} Enough. {249} Absolutely meaningless to any English Gypsy that ever walked. Borrow seems to have fancied it was Hungarian Romany, but it isn't. {264} Anglo-Hanoverian victory over the French, 1759. {265} 2nd April 1824. {270} Sir Richard Phillips (1767-1840), schoolmaster, hosier, stationer, publisher, author, Radical, vegetarian, etc., removed from Leicester to London in 1795, was knighted in 1808, and finally retired to Brighton. {278} By the Rev. Legh Richmond (1772-1827). Elizabeth Wallbridge, the dairyman's daughter, is buried at Arreton, in the Isle of Wight; and 2,000,000 copies of the tract, which was written in 1809, are said to have been sold in the author's lifetime. {287} _The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the famous Moll Flanders_, by Daniel Defoe, appeared on 27th January 1722. {293} Quite incredible. Norwich had its own papers. {306} By Prof. Knapp identified with William Gifford (1757-1826), translator of Juvenal, editor of the _Anti-Jacobin_, the _Quarterly Review_, etc.; but Mr. Leslie Stephen argues, in _Literature_ (April 8, 1899, p. 375), that Gifford was then a rich bachelor with a sinecure of 1000 pounds a year, and that a much likelier identification is with John Carey (1756-1826), the "_Gradus_ Carey," who edited Quintilian in 1822, and did work for Sir Richard Phillips. {316a} _Celebrated Trials_ (6 vols., 1825). {316b} _The Universal Review_, March 1824-Jan. 1825. {324} 29th April 1824. {326} The ex-mayor, Robert Hawkes. {328} Benjamin Robert Haydon (1786-1846), who shot himself in his studio. {335} George Borrow about this time suffered much from the horrors, and meditated suicide (Knapp, i. 96-98). {340} Byron's corpse, on its way from Missolonghi to Hucknall Church, near Newstead in Notts, was removed on Monday, 12th July 1814, from Sir Edward Knatchbull's house in Great George Street, Westminster, at 11 a.m. {365} John Murray (1778-1843), publisher, the second of the name, the first of Albemarle Street. {386} _Tarno_ means simply "young" or "little." {397} _Romantic Ballads_, _translated from the Danish_, _and Miscellaneous Pieces_, by George Borrow, did appear in Norwich in 1826. 
56242	----	(University Of California, Santa Cruz) 1. Page scan source: Google Books https://books.google.com/books/about/ The_Gates_of_Dawn.html?id=fkGaAAAAIAAJ (University Of California, Santa Cruz) 2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. THE GATES OF DAWN BY FERGUS HUME. "The red light flames in the eastern skies, The dew lies heavy on lea and lawn, Grief with her anguish of midnight flies, And Joy comes up thro' the Gates of Dawn." LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY _LIMITED_, St. Dunstan's House, Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, E.C. 1894. LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. The Pleasures of the Road. II. Palmistry. III. Tithonus. IV. The Peacock in Jackdaw's Feathers. V. Tinker Tim. VI. The First Letter to a London Friend. VII. Diana of Farbis. VIII. The Recluse. IX. Village Gossip. X. Parson Jarner. XI. Farbis Court. XII. The Portrait in the Gallery. XIII. Under the Greenwood Tree. XIV. Dan's Secret. XV. Retrospection. XVI. Afternoon Tea. XVII. The Second Letter to a London Friend. XVIII. An Elizabethan Ancestor. XIX. The Pale Ladye. XX. In the Oak Parlour. XXI. The Days pass by. XXII. A Dreamer of Dreams. XXIII. Parson Jarner is astonished. XXIV. A Woman scorned. XXV. Jealousy. XXVI. Cupid in Arcady. XXVII. The Third Letter to a London Friend. XXVIII. Fire and Flame. XXIX. The Gipsy's Prophecy. XXX. The Final Letter to a London Friend. THE GATES OF DAWN. CHAPTER I. THE PLEASURES OF THE ROAD. The caravan rolled slowly along the dusty road with creakings and groanings and jingling of horse-bells. It was painted a dark-green colour, with white-curtained windows picked out in rose pink, and bright red shafts and wheels. The corrugated iron roof showed no signs of exposure to wind, rain, or sun, while the brasswork on door and harness glittered like fine gold. Evidently it was quite new, and this was its first journey into rural England. The sleek black animal that drew the gaily tinted structure picked his steps leisurely; his driver strolled alongside with sauntering step and whistling lip. A complacent fox-terrier followed at his master's heels with an observant eye for stray rabbits. Man, and horse, and dog, and house on wheels looked fitter for play than for work. There was something exasperating in their idle looks and lazy meanderings. A holiday company in holiday humour. It was very pleasant creeping across the broad heath in the twilight. Overhead, the sky, a dome of opal tints, showed here and there a twinkling star; underfoot, the grass, dry with summer heat, revealed moorland flowers. Between heaven and earth blew cool winds laden with many odours. In vague immensity the plain spread on every side towards the luminous horizon, and the caravan with its attendant life was but a speck on its vast bosom. Bird and beast and insect had retired to rest, and over all this large empty world brooded a dead silence. It was less like a moor in crowded England than a trackless wilderness in some unexplored country. For over an hour man and animals pursued their way. With their backs to the sunset, they pressed steadily onward, as if in search of some unseen goal. Then the fox-terrier grew weary, and jumped up on the doorstep behind, where he whimpered angrily for his victuals. His master merely laughed at such doggish impatience, and kept a keen look-out for the sign whereby to determine his halting-place for the night. Shortly a mighty ridge topped by stunted pines heaved up like a wave on the plain. The horse stopped at a signal from his driver. "It cannot be far off now," murmured the latter; "there are the pines, but I don't see the tall one." Here the road curved to the right, and round this the horse plodded of his own accord. The change of position brought into sight a many-branched pine, which showed proudly above its fellows. When he saw the tree loom black against the clear sky, the owner of the caravan gave a nod of satisfaction as at an expected sight, and looked thoughtfully from road to heath. His meditation only lasted two minutes. "I must go cross country," said he, and guided the horse on to the yielding turf. The vehicle swung and swayed and dipped and rose on the uneven ground, but by leading the horse carefully an upset was avoided. In a quarter of an hour the man and his belongings halted at the foot of the ridge immediately below the tall pine. A dull murmur like the buzzing of bees became audible, and the man stilled the impatient yapping of the dog to listen. "The sea!" Hardly had the last word left his lips, when an old woman--ugly as the witch of Endor--with red coif and scarlet cloak, hobbled out of the wood and planted herself deliberately before him. Her brown face, peaked eyes, and sharply cut features would have proclaimed her Romany, even without her fantastic garments and dazzling gold coins. From ears and neck and wrists depended strings of sequins, which jingled musically as she shivered in the keen air and stared at the new-comer. He beheld a withered gipsy hag, she a splendidly handsome young man. In her feminine eyes he was well worth looking at. Brown velveteen coat and knickerbockers, grey cloth shirt with blue neckerchief, cloth cap, gaiters, and heavy boots. There you have his dress--that of a gamekeeper. Yet the wearer would not have escaped the guillotine in the Reign of Terror. Aristocrat was writ largely on face and bearing. His six feet of stalwart manhood showed the influence of athletic training; his masterful mien, and the imperious look of his grey eyes, firm lips, and wide nostrils, betrayed the class to which he belonged. A glance revealed that this dominating nature was derived from long generations of men accustomed to command. His attempt to pass as a man of the people was a dismal failure. A step, a word, a gesture, proclaimed his breeding, and showed him superior to his surroundings. With the astuteness of her race, the gipsy saw the stamp of birth in this shabbily dressed vagrant, and framed her speech accordingly. "Cross my hand with gold, my fair-faced lord, and let the poor gipsy tell your fortune." The man addressed smoothed his moustache, and looked down with a quiet smile at the red-cloaked dame. He reflected before making answer, and even when he opened his mouth gave her but little satisfaction. "With you, no doubt, every one to be wheedled is a lord." "Trust a Romany to trick a Gorgio," said she, with a flicker of mirth in her glazed eye; "but truth will out at times. You are a gentleman, rye." He glanced at the vehicle behind him, at his rough clothes and heavy boots, and dismissed her speech with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "A gentleman! A lord! And tramping the country tinker-fashion! Your eyes are not sharp, mother." "Glib tongue! Steady eye. A rare lie, my dearie; but Mother Jericho ain't no fool. Can an eagle hide in goose-feathers? No! nor can you hide gentle birth in rough clothes." "I am having greatness thrust upon me," he answered smiling. "You are quite wrong, mother. Some rags of gentility, some scraps of learning, I may have picked up; but I am neither lord nor gentleman. My name is Dan, and I set up for being a cheap-jack." "Can you patter, rye?" "Can I what?" asked he, unable to understand her speech. "He! he!" mocked Mother Jericho. "A fine cheap-jack, truly! Why, he doesn't even know the lingo of the road! No, no, my dearie; I'm too fly to be taken in. Give me your hand and I'll tell your fortune. Then you can go." Dan was rather annoyed at this speech, which convicted him of being an impostor, and turning away, led his horse past Mother Jericho. She followed, screaming alternate blessings and cursings on his indifference, but neither had the effect of making him pause. Seeing it was useless to gain anything from such imperturbability, the old woman marched off in the opposite direction with a farewell shake of her fist. When the flare of her red cloak was no longer visible, Dan laughed quietly, and patted the fox-terrier. "Gipsies about, hey, Peter! We must keep a good watch to-night, or we may wake to find ourselves robbed of everything. Here is a chance for you to distinguish yourself, lad." Peter leaped up and whimpered as to assure Dan that he would do his best; and once more set in motion, the caravan moved up the incline between solemn files of pine trees. A pathway cut through the wood led upward in gentle gradations, so that there was little difficulty in making the ascent. It was now growing dark, and Dan pushed on rapidly so as to reach his camping-place under the tall pine before it became impossible to see his way. At length the caravan arrived almost at the summit of the ridge, when the road suddenly trended downward to the right and descended into a small dell. This, hollowed in a rough semicircle, was immediately below the tall pine, and being sheltered from the keen sea winds by trees and rocky walls, made a very comfortable camping-place. The limited area at the bottom bore marks of former wayfarers in the shape of wheel-ruts, black ashes of ancient fires, and downtrodden grass. With a nod of satisfaction, the individual who called himself Dan, and asserted so strenuously that he was not a gentleman, halted his horse and began to busy himself in preparations for his camp. He seemed to know his business as pioneer and wanderer. The horse, who answered to the unusual equine name of Simon, was unharnessed and turned loose to feed on the plentiful grass which carpeted the bottom of the dell. Dan rubbed him down in a most scientific manner, and then departed with bucket and lantern to seek for water. Peter was left on guard, and as a strong friendship existed between him and Simon, they bore the absence of their master with less impatience than might have been expected. Nothing is so clearly defined as the pathway to a spring, for the first act of all wayfarers is to search for water. Other paths may be grass-grown and untrodden, but the way to the spring is always well worn and plainly indicated. With the eye of a practical traveller, Dan selected the most beaten path and followed its track, confident that he would be able to fill his bucket where it ended. His expectations proved correct, for a well of good water under the shadow of a rock soon flashed in the rays of his lantern. Under the pines it was as dark as midnight, and had not Dan been careful to lighten his steps ahead, he would have pitched head foremost into the well. Had this happened, Simon and Peter would have waited his return in vain. As it was, they welcomed him back with neigh and bark. After filling the tea-kettle, Dan placed the bucket before Simon, who buried his nose therein with a grateful snort; nor did he lift his head till the water was gone. His thirst thus satisfied, he betook himself again to his grazing, and Dan, having been merciful to his beast, found time to be merciful to himself. Peter took a deep interest in the movements of his master. When the fire was lighted, he barked at the crackling of the wood, and snapped fiercely at the flying sparks. As Peter danced round it, the fire roared boisterously and lighted the rocky walls and solemn pines with gleams of red flame. There is nothing more cheerful than a fire, and even Dan, who had hitherto been silent, felt its influence, for he broke into a merry song while getting out the food. To the vagrant, where he lights his fire is home, and Dan, broiling rashers of bacon over the friendly flame, felt that he was in his own parlour. Assisted by Peter, whose mouth watered at the smell and sight of victuals, Dan made ready a plentiful meal. He was a most accomplished cook, and carried with him a store of comestibles which it is certain are unknown in gipsydom. Does your Romany know of _pâte de foie gras_, or of Italian _salami_; or does he even guess at the existence of olives, or of _caviare?_ All these toothsome morsels had this luxurious young man in his caravan, thereby giving the lie to his pretence of vagrancy. He was, without doubt, some outcast from civilization who regretted the flesh-pots of Egypt. He loved the life, but not the coarse fare, of the road, and was, so to speak, only playing at being a gipsy. Thoreau would have scorned so half-hearted a disciple, nor would Obermann have relished the company of so patent a sybarite. Yet on this special occasion Dan devoured none of his delicacies, but contented himself with dry bread, broiled bacon, and capital tea. With an appetite sharpened by keen air and long walks, he performed Homeric feats in the way of eating. For Peter a mutton-bone was provided, and he too proved a valiant trencher-dog--if such a term be allowable. There have been worse meals than that enjoyed by those two in the lonely dell, and when Dan finished his bacon and Peter his bone, both were thoroughly content. CHAPTER II. PALMISTRY. Supper despatched, Dan repaired to the spring for a second bucket of water, while Peter remained selfishly curled up beside the fire. Even when his master returned he took little notice of what was going on, feeling no interest in proceedings unconnected with his appetite. Dan gave Simon another drink, patted his neck and saw that his halter was safe, then went into the caravan. Thence he emerged with a fur rug, and spreading this beside the fire, he stretched himself thereon with a contented sigh. And now came in the "sweet o' the night," for Dan pulled out and charged a well-seasoned briar. This was the crowning joy of the day, and Dan envied neither king nor kaiser as he luxuriated in the Indian weed. Simon cropped the sweet grass near at hand; Peter, filled to repletion, snored with wakeful eye in the warmest place; and Dan smoked and read. And what think you he read, but Borrow's glorious "Lavengro?"--the most fitted book for such a gipsy, for such a situation. By the red firelight he read for the hundredth time that ever-new story of the Dingle, of Isopel, and of lovemaking in the Armenian tongue. What magic courtship! "Robinson Crusoe" for boys, but "Lavengro" for men--the more especially for those who incline to gipsydom, and find life flavourless save when on road or heath, under hedge or beside a camp-fire. For such Borrow's books have the authority of Scripture. In Birrel's happy phrase, Dan was "a born Borrovian." His face was alive with pleasure as he conned the magic page, nor did he fail to compare the situation of Lavengro with his own. "This might well pass for the Dingle," said he, letting the book fall. "I am certainly Lavengro in real life; but, alas! where is my Isopel? And did I find her, would it be possible to teach her lovemaking in the Armenian tongue? I am ignorant of such recondite matters; therefore it were best that no Isopel, with ready fist and sharp tongue, invade my privacy. Yet I would not mind meeting with the Flaming Tinman." Here he looked at his mighty arm. "I would do my best to thrash him. But woe is me! there is no Borrow to chant my victory." Such a speech, akin to blank verse, was doubtless inspired by Borrovian periods; but who ever heard a gipsy soliloquize thus, or saw one peruse the chronicle of that modern Ulysses? Dan asserted that he was no gentleman, yet in looks, in words, breeding would out, and Mother Jericho was as clever as the rest of her sex in detecting a palpable fraud. Yet what did this _soi-disant_ vagrant in the pinewood dell reading "Lavengro" by a camp-fire? Ah, that is a long story, and cannot be told at present. Simon cropped, Peter snored, and Dan was immersed in the account of that Homeric fight between Lavengro and the Flaming Tinman. So profoundly was he interested, that he heard not the approach of stealthy footsteps. But Peter was on the alert, and sprang into the darkness with angry yelp. Roused by the signal of danger, Dan arose to his feet and stood on the defensive, for one meets with adventures in England as in Timbuctoo. "Who is there?" he demanded, striding to the edge of the circle cast by the firelight. "He! he! my dearie, call off the dog. May he burn, spark of the evil one!" "Mother Jericho! Here, Peter!" "Yes, it is I, dearie. Bless you, rye, I knew you'd camp here." The scarlet cloak emerged into the firelight, and Dan beheld his gipsy friend uglier than ever in the flickering light. She shook her stick at Peter, who responded with furious tongue; whereat Dan caught him up in his arms and choked him into silence. Mother Jericho, interpreting this as a sign of welcome, hobbled near the fire and seated herself in a comfortable corner. In no wise resentful of her company--for even with "Lavengro" he found the dell a trifle lonely--Dan threw himself down in his old place and waited to hear what his visitor had to say. Evidently determined to act as a good comrade, Mother Jericho produced a dirty pipe and clawed the air in the direction of Dan's tobacco-pouch. He tossed it towards her, and, while she filled pipe and pocket, produced from the caravan a bottle of whisky. Filling a glass with this desirable drink, he looked interrogatively at the old woman. "Hot or cold water?" said he, deeming the undiluted spirit too strong for so aged a person. "Neat, dearie, neat! It's good for me in that way. I git on'y too much water on rainy nights." Having finished the whisky (a speedily performed operation) she lighted her pipe, and, puffing vigorously, leered at her host out of the smoke like an ugly cherub. He thought of Lavengro's companion in the same situation, and groaned. "What a substitute for Isopel!" he muttered disgustedly. "Hey!" croaked Mother Jericho, arching a skinny hand behind her ear. "Speak up, rye; I'm deaf." "What are you doing so late in this wood?" said Dan, not choosing to repeat his remark, which, indeed, would have been Greek to the old hag. "Where are your people?" "Near at hand, my dearie, near at hand. I came to see you here afore going to bed." "I hope none of them will follow your example, mother. I don't want to be robbed." "You won't be, rye! Burn me if you lose so much as a stick. They are my people," said Mother Jericho, confidentially; "and I told them not to come near you, dearie." "That's very kind of you," said Dan, somewhat astonished at the protection thus accorded. "And may I ask why you have tabooed me in this way?" "Hey! Tabooed! What's that?" "It's Polynesian for protection." "Polly what? I don't know no Pollys," said Mother Jericho, crossly. "I've come to read your hand and tell your fortune." "I don't believe in such rubbish." "You will afore you leave Farbis." "Will I, indeed? And where is Farbis?" "Over this ridge by the sea. Can't you hear the waves roaring? You allays hear 'em on still nights, dearie. Give me your hand, my brave rye." "I don't want my hand read," said Dan, unwillingly. "If it's money you want, here is a half-crown." Mother Jericho clawed the coin into her pocket with a mumbled exclamation of delight; then, before he could withdraw his hand, seized it and held it towards the red flame, palm upward. Half frowning, half laughing, Dan let her scan the lines, which she followed with the point of a skinny finger. "There are partings and meetings," said the sibyl. "You have come on a weary journey, and seek a pearl. What you seek you shall find, but beware of gold and silver hair." "What do you mean? What jargon is this?" "Two women shall love you, rye, and the one you hate shall seek your hand; she will aim her arrows at your heart." "At my heart?" "She will seek to do you evil through one whom you shall love. Here are fire and flame, and furious cries and brave deeds. A false father, a false mother, and joy coming up through the Gates of Dawn." "Rubbish!" Not understanding a word of her meaning, he pulled his hand roughly away. The old woman broke into a peal of derisive laughter, and sucked at her pipe in silence. In the red glow of the fire she looked like some evil creature of the night. Dan resented her presence and prophecies, and spoke angrily. "Why do you come here to tell me this nonsense?" he said, leaning forward. "I am not a superstitious fool, though, you take me for one. I don't love one woman, let alone two." "You will love afore you leave Farbis, dearie." "Indeed!" said he contemptuously. "Perhaps I will marry also!" "Ay. But there is much to be done afore then." Deeming it useless to argue against such obstinacy, Dan relapsed into silence and smoked his pipe. Yet, in spite of his apparent disbelief, he had an uneasy consciousness that the sibyl had read his mind and purpose clearer than he cared to think. He was a reticent young man, and hated to hear his private affairs discussed. But it was strange that this midnight hag should speak so truly. Dan was puzzled and displeased. "Have you ever seen me before?" he asked, after a meditative pause. "No, dearie, I never set eyes on you. I only read what Fate has written on your hand. It's print to me, dearie." "I tell you I don't believe in palmistry." "You will some day, rye." "If I fall in love and marry before I leave Farbis, I may," he responded ironically; "but as that is not likely to happen, I am afraid your black art will not gain a disciple." Mother Jericho took no notice of this sceptical speech, but rapping the ashes out of her pipe, stowed it carefully away in the folds of her dress. "I must go now, dearie," she said, rising stiffly to her feet; "but when I see ye to-morrow the spell will be on you. Ay, ay, laugh as you please, but Joy comes up for you through the Gates of Dawn!" "What Gates of Dawn?" "You'll see to-morrow, rye! And at noon you will find a guest by your fire." "You!" "Not I, dearie. But some one who wishes you well. Good night, my brave rye. I put the spell on you." Here she waved her stick like a malignant fairy. "Go you at daybreak to the sea and meet your fate at the Gates of Dawn." After the delivery of this mystic speech, she vanished as by magic into the darkness of the night. Dan looked into the gloom, somewhat bewildered by her sudden departure, which smacked of the broomstick, then returned to his book with a shrug of his broad shoulders. But Borrow failed to charm his preoccupied brain, and after one or two unsuccessful attempts to fix his attention on the page, he desisted with an impatient exclamation. "That old lady is a trifle weak in the head, I fear," said he, yawning. "What does she mean by her 'joy coming up through the Gates of Dawn?' Does she take me for a new Tithonus on the watch for Aurora? Yet it is strange that she knows of my desire," he added reflectively; "I thought no one knew of that but myself. Ah, bah! Every young man wishes to love, to marry. Her necromancy is all guesswork." Thus contemptuously dismissing the subject, he smoked a final pipe and made his preparations for retiring to rest. The night was so fine that he could not bring himself to sleep in the stuffy caravan, and finally decided to take his rest in the open air. After a drink of whisky to keep out the dews, he wrapped himself in the fur rug, and lay comfortably by the fire. Peter curled himself into a ball, and kept one eye on his master, the other on Simon. The wind wuddered through the pine trees overhead, but in the deep of the dell all was still and warm. The red flames leaped skyward to the stars until the fire died to grey ashes, and, save sigh of wind and roar of sea, no sound was heard. Lying on his back, Dan, oblivious to all outward things, went to the land of dreams, and there met Joy coming up through the Gates of Dawn. Mother Jericho's spell was acting bravely. CHAPTER III. TITHONUS. Should the stay-at-home happen to sleep under a strange roof, on one of his rare journeys, bewilderment and pain attend the hour of his waking. With sleep-bemused brain he eyes the unfamiliar room, and it is some considerable time before he can grasp the situation. The alien appearance of wall-paper and furniture, the different position of bed and door, come on his mind with a sense of pain. Like the little old woman of the nursery rhyme, he says, "This is not I," and it is difficult for him to arrive at an immediate conclusion as to personality and locality. The strangeness of the situation dazes his homely wits. Not so with your traveller. Whether he opens his eyes in palace or hovel, under roof or sky, he is in the instant fully aware of his position. Accustomed to a constant change of scene, his wits are always on the alert for new sights. If he went to sleep in France and woke in Yokohama, he would cease to be astonished before finishing his waking yawn. There is no sense of pain in his waking, but rather a pleasant novelty, which renews itself with every stage of the journey. Your cosmopolitan is the most adaptable of creatures. Dan was one of these enviable beings, and woke in the early morning with a due knowledge of his position. He rubbed his eyes and yawned and stretched himself, moved about briskly to restore the circulation of his blood, and made up the fire. A few embers were still red-hot, so he had no difficulty in fanning them into a blaze under an armful of dry sticks. The sun had not yet risen, and the air, notwithstanding that it was July, struck raw and cold. A pearly light pierced through the sombre boughs overhead, and already the pine wood echoed with the chirrup and twittering of waking birds. Peter went off on his own account in chase of an inquisitive rabbit, and Dan, after seeing to Simon, brewed himself a cup of strong tea, which enabled him to endure more comfortably the chill winds of morning. In spite of the heavy dew on herb and grass, Dan's clothes were quite dry, as he had taken the precaution to wrap himself tightly in his fur rug. But, having slept in his clothes all night, he felt uncomfortable--another proof of his sybaritism--and decided to have a bath before breakfast. Also he thought it advisable that Simon should have a splash in the water, and so made ready to go down to the beach. "We don't know where the sea is," said he to Peter, who had returned without catching his rabbit, "but we'll go on an exploring expedition." Peter whimpered, and hinted at breakfast before starting. "No, Peter," said Dan, gravely, putting a bridle on Simon; "a swim first, and breakfast to follow." Whereat Peter sat disconsolately on his haunches and shivered. He did not care for a swim, and, indeed, detested water with all his heart. Dan had no saddle, but, being a good rider, did not mind its absence. The bridle was sufficient to guide Simon, and Dan, having obtained a rough towel, jumped without difficulty on the bare back of his steed. Followed by Peter, who, knowing what was before him, came unwillingly, he rode up the path leading from the dell. Yet, mindful of the proximity of Mother Jericho's tribe, he took the precaution to lock up his caravan before leaving. Dan was too old and wary a traveller to trust to the taboo of the gipsy queen. Some member of the tribe less bound by authority than his fellows might break the unwritten law. There was a chilly feeling in the air, and so strongly with the resinous odour of the pines blended the tang of salt sea-breezes, that Dan scented the ocean long before Simon climbed the ridge. There was an upward path, and this Dan followed, in the hope that it would lead him to the sea. It wound deviously among the pine trees, and at length emerged into a small clearing, whence Dan had a splendid view of Farbis and the sea. He halted Simon so as to take in the features of the place. It was well worth the ten minutes' examination he gave it. Immediately below lay a large hollow almost in the shape of a circle, which curved towards the sea and there opened out into a narrow passage. Without doubt, at some remote epoch the ocean had roared through the gap and filled the hollow with salt waters, but the upheaval of the land had cut off the waves, and now the dry cup was filled with trees and houses. The sides were clothed with pines, which climbed up to the top and straggled off in patches on to the barren moorland. From where Dan was stationed he could see the moors stretching on either side purple with heather, then the sudden dip of the land into the hollow, the giant rocks guarding its entrance, and beyond, the line of ocean sharply defined against the red sky of dawn. In the smokeless atmosphere all the features of the scene stood out with photographic distinctness. The "village, a cluster of houses with one street, lay in the lowest part of the hollow. Among the pine trees, to the right, Dan saw a large house of weather-stained red brick, which he guessed was Farbis Court. From the clearing a path wound down to the village, and Dan descended thereby. To reach the sea he would have to pass through Farbis, and out by the gap where the giant rocks stood sentinel. All this, seen under the rosy tints of coming day, was very beautiful, and Dan gazed at it in silent admiration. "Queer little place," he thought, as Simon jogged downward; "quite out of the track of civilization. A speck in these wide moorlands. What can the inhabitants do to keep themselves supplied with the necessaries of life? They can't live entirely on fish! I never saw so lonely a place. It must have been established by some hermit." With cautious steps Simon descended the pathway, which was in anything but good repair. The edging of rough stone had fallen in parts, and here the rain had washed away huge gaps, perilous to the unwary foot. Dan found it impossible to guide the horse down a pathway as beset with snares as the Bridge of Mirza, so he wisely trusted to Simon's instinct. The animal justified the confidence placed in him, and landed his rider at the bottom without any mishap. He received a kind pat on the neck for such cleverness, a piece of attention of which he seemed appreciative. Dan felt a curious sensation, as though he had been let down into a pit. On three sides of him rose the steep banks, covered with pines and shrubs and sappy grass. In front, an untended road led past some scattered houses into the village. Peter ran ahead as herald, and, with the sharp sea-breeze blowing in his face, Dan pushed forward. Down the street clattered Simon, with the terrier barking before. To doors and windows came drowsy men and women, newly wakened from sleep. A few untidy children and slatternly females were in the street itself, and stared open-mouthed at the unaccustomed sight. Dan might have been the Wild Horseman himself, so profound was the sensation caused by his progress through that tumble-down village. Evidently strangers were rare in Farbis. A more poverty-stricken place it is impossible to conceive. The cottages were badly thatched, the windows in many cases broken and mended with rags, and there were puddles in front of the doors. In a wide space towards the end of the village Dan came on the two principal buildings. To the right, an ivy-clad church with square Norman tower, set in a waste-looking graveyard; to the left, a flourishing-looking public-house, "The Red Deer," with benches outside. It could easily be seen, from the appearance of this latter place, what made Farbis so wretched. The women were all remarkably ugly, and particularly careless about their dress. Dan, who had a keen eye for a pretty face, shuddered at the Gorgons he beheld, and trembled to think of Mother Jericho's prophecy. "If I am to meet my fate here," he murmured, "I sincerely hope it will not be through a temporary aberration of mind. It would be bad enough for _one_ of these creatures to fall in love with me; but to think of _two_--great heavens, it's too awful to contemplate!" He urged Simon to a clumsy trot in order to escape the ugly female population, and speedily left the village behind. The road now began to rise towards the two great cliffs which sentinelled the gap, and Dan could hear the roar of the sea; could smell the salt odour of the wave. Up the road he went, and at the entrance to the gap beheld a splendid sight. Directly in front of him was a narrow slit between the great rocks, and through this he saw the ocean. It faced due east, and the sky flamed crimson like a funeral pile. The ruddy light poured in rich profusion through the chasm and bathed him in hues of blood. A native, with open mouth, was climbing the road after him, and Dan, hearing his heavy footstep, looked round. "What do you call this?" he asked sharply. "T' Geates o' Dawn," replied the native, and stared harder than ever. "And Joy comes up through the Gates of Dawn," murmured Dan, as the gipsy's words flashed again into his mind. "How strange! Here are the 'Gates of Dawn,' but where is the embodied Joy? Hark! Some one is singing from the sea. A mermaid!" "Noa, measter," said the yokel, grinning from ear to ear at this extravagant idea; "'tis t' ould doctor's lass." Over the rim of ocean leaped the sun, and shafts of dazzling gold streamed through the Gates of Dawn. The sea turned to fire, and the fierce radiance smote the red firmament to glowing gold. Such splendid glitter and flame poured through the chasm that Dan put his hand to his eyes to keep himself from being blinded. It is ill work to face the sun-god in his anger. "Apollo is fiercer than Aurora," said Dan, blinking his eyes. "I would rather be Tithonus than Daphne. I wonder she did not share the fate of Semele and expire in the glorious divinity of her lover." "T' doctor's lass," again said the yokel, nodding up the road. Down it, in the full splendour of the sunlight, came a girl singing. Dan could distinguish the words as they floated skyward on the music of her voice. And she sang---- "The red light flames in the eastern skies, The dew lies heavy on lea and lawn, Grief with her anguish, of midnight flies, And Joy comes up thro' the Gates of Dawn." Such a vision of ripe beauty! This was surely no mortal maiden who danced down the road, but Aurora heralding the approach of the sun-god. Dan almost expected to see her scatter tufts of rosy cloud, and gaped like a yokel himself at the lovely woman who was coming towards him. Evidently she had been bathing, for her dark hair, still wet with the salt sea, streamed in profusion down her back. In a long blue cloak, with naked feet, she danced along, singing. Her face was beautiful--so much only could Dan gather as she flashed past him like a meteor. The presence of a stranger did not seem to rouse her curiosity, for she did not even turn her head to look at him, but, singing and dancing, went down the road towards the village. That splendid vision of immortal beauty lasted but two minutes. "T' doctor's lass," explained the yokel for the third time. "By Ph[oe]bus, no!" cried Dan, kicking Simon's sleek sides; "it is no mortal, but a goddess--an angel--a vision of the sunrise. My fate--pshaw!--my divinity! The face that launched a thousand ships! The golden Hebe--incarnate beauty--everlasting Joy!" With a laugh at his mythological folly, he dashed down the road, leaving the bucolic individual staring with all his might. When Rusticus shut his mouth, the stranger on his black horse was sweeping like the wind across the broad sands, shouting out a single line. The yokel heard it, and wondered. "And Joy comes up thro' the Gates of Dawn." The inhabitant of Farbis went back to his breakfast with the opinion that the stranger was either mad or the devil. CHAPTER IV. THE PEACOCK IN JACKDAW'S FEATHERS. It is hard to say what made Dan so excited. Usually he was a self-contained young man, who but seldom gave vent to his high spirits. On this morning, however, he was fairly carried away by the exuberance of his animal nature. He urged Simon to a gallop along the shining sands, and shouted out any poetry that came into his head. There was nobody to listen to him save a gull or so, therefore he indulged himself to the full in such nonsense. "_Dulce est desipere in loco_," and why not? Whether it was the brisk air, the roaring waves, or the sight of that beautiful face, he could not tell, but there was no doubt he was nature-mad, and pranced Simon about till the steady old roadster wondered what could be the matter with his usually sedate master. Peter enjoyed the excitement, and barked till he was hoarse. He was more in sympathy with such moods than Simon. The beach was a goodly length of sand, and at the end there was a cluster of rocks which afforded privacy. Not a soul was in sight, for, with the exception of "t' doctor's lass," none of the Farbis folk patronized the seashore at so early an hour. Dan tied up Simon, and behind the rocks stripped off his clothes. These he left Peter to guard, jumped, naked as he was, on horseback, and went off to frolic in the water. Here was primevalism with a vengeance. It is hard to say whether Dan or Simon most enjoyed the bath. They both splashed about in the waves till the blood sang in their veins. Some distance out Dan slipped off and ducked under and rolled over till he was tired. He could not go far enough out to swim, as he had to hold Simon by the reins. At length man and beast emerged thoroughly refreshed. Having donned his clothes, Dan once more made a racecourse of the beach, and finally trotted campward through the Gates of Dawn. Alas! no beauty awaited him this time. The sun was fairly up, and Aurora's services not being needed, she had disappeared. On his way through the village Dan had quite a crowd to look at him; but they only grinned, and did not volunteer a remark. At the Red Deer he drew rein for a tankard of ale. The landlord, stout and cheerful (as landlords should be), himself brought the frothing pot, and spoke so respectfully that Dan again felt that he was found out. What is the use of wearing shabby clothes and driving a caravan, and camping gipsy-fashion in a dell, if people will persistently say "sir" and touch their hat--or forelock, if uncovered? Dan remonstrated. "Why do you call me 'sir,' landlord? I'm only a cheap-jack." "That yew bain't, zur," replied the landlord, with respectful contradiction. "Aw knows gentry when aw sees 'um." "But I'm not a gentleman, confound you." "Aw've been tu Lunnon, zur, an' ses I when I sees 'um, 'Thet's gentry, fur zure.'" Dan contradicted him again, but receiving nothing but an obstinate shake of the head, rode off on his bare-backed steed, followed by the "Marnin', zur," of the landlord and attendant satellites. As a would-be tramp he was a distinct failure. "There's nothing for it," said Dan, as Simon climbed the hill; "I must get an accent of some sort. Perhaps Mother Jericho will teach me how to patter. They don't teach the rural accent at Oxford, more's the pity. I must say 'marnin'' and 'zur' and 'oi,' or they'll see through my disguise at once. What the deuce made me come on this wild-goose chase? I don't say it's not amusing, but I'm such a palpable fraud that I can't even gain the confidence of the lower orders. They all call me 'zur' and grin, and expect to be tipped. Hang it, no; as a cheap-jack I bar tipping. Puh! Here's the top of the hill at last. Tired, Simon?" Simon _was_ tired, and intimated as much by refusing to move an inch for a few minutes. During the continuance of this fit of obstinacy his master gazed at the Gates of Dawn, and his thoughts reverted to the vision of sunrise. "I wonder who that girl can be? I must see her again, if only to feast my eyes on the loveliest face I ever saw in my life. 'T' doctor's lass!' I'll get an ache or a pain, or something, and call on that doctor. I hope I won't be such a fool as to fall in love with Aurora! It would never do. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and rustic beauty does not look at home in the silks and farthingales of London. That old woman said I should meet my fate at the Gates of Dawn. Is that wild rose my fate, and if so, is----? Pshaw! I'm talking nonsense, and breakfast is waiting! Move on, Simon." From this speech it will be seen that Dan was by no means the person he represented himself to be. He spoke of London, of Oxford, of silks, satins, and tipping. Cheap-jacks are ignorant of such things. Even in looks he failed to impose on the rural population. Borrow, the glorious Bohemian, never would have recognized so arrant an impostor as one of the "fancy." Altogether Dan was rather crestfallen at his attempt to act the part of a cheap-jack, but could not help laughing at his own failure. To reverse the fable, this peacock could not strut in jackdaw plumes. The fire was nearly out when he reached the camp, but an armful of sticks soon made it blaze merrily again. All was exactly as he left it, and Dan could espy no thievish footsteps about his caravan. The taboo of Mother Jericho was evidently efficacious, or her people were exceptionally honest. Knowing somewhat of the gipsy nature, Dan held to the former opinion. "I wonder if the old lady will pay me another visit?" said Dan, as he busied himself getting breakfast; "she said something about coming here at noon. Or was it another person she mentioned? Well, I don't much care who it is, so long as they can instruct me as to the name and identity of Aurora. 'And Joy comes up through the Gates of Dawn.' What a pretty song she sang, and what a voice she has! and why don't you be sensible, Dan, and drop talking nonsense?" He took his own advice, and ceased to soliloquize. Indeed, his culinary cares did not permit him to continue it. With a dexterity begotten by long practice, he soon prepared the meal. Eggs and bacon, fragrant coffee, and bread and butter. O Lavengro, think of such a meal in the wilderness! What pioneer is this, to feed on such dainties! Lucullus should not tramp the country with his kitchen on his back. Peter had some dog-biscuits soaked in milk, and likewise devoured such scraps of bacon as were left. He fared badly in this respect, as Dan scraped the platter clean. Simon partook of oats and hay, after which he returned to his grazing. The grass was succulent, and Simon hungry, so he wished for nothing better than to be left alone. After breakfast, Dan washed up his crockery and cutlery, then lighted his beloved pipe. At peace with himself and the whole world, he sat by the fire and put Peter through a few tricks. Peter objected, and retreated with his tail--or what was called by courtesy his tail--between his legs; so, failing to find further diversion, Dan got out his diary. "I'm afraid this doesn't look like a cheap-jack," said he, sharpening a pencil; "they don't keep diaries, as a rule. There are many things to be set down this morning: Mother Jericho's visit, her prophecy and its fulfilment at the Gates of Dawn. I would I were an artist, to sketch that face. Talk about the Madonna type! Ah me!" He sighed as a tribute to the absent beauty, and busied himself in writing up the events of the last two days. Beyond the noting of a few facts, he had nothing whatever to write about. Such thoughts as he had were not worth committing to paper. And what, indeed, is the use of a healthy young man setting down immature fancies? Youth can write poetry, which is purely inspirational; but not novels or essays, both of which imply a long experience of human nature. Up to the age of thirty, unless gifted with the faculty of observance, youth is too interested in itself to concern itself with other people. It certainly troubles about the gentler sex, but they defy analysis, and he is a bold man who limns you a portrait in pen and ink with the remark, "This is a woman I once knew." Did you meet the original, you would find her vastly different. Women have as many sides to their characters as a diamond has facets, and never show the same side twice to one person. In such "weathercockisms"--to coin a word--lies their greatest charm. This is all very well, but has nothing to do with Dan in his camp. It were wiser not to digress, but to keep to the subject-matter in hand. Therefore to return to Dan and his scribbling. He wrote down his adventures, tried to recollect the words of Aurora's song, and finally, dropping pencil and book, fell to meditating on her beauty. In truth, he could think of nothing else. Now, the question is, Was he in love? Impossible! He knew nothing of the girl, he did not even know her name, so it was impossible that love could be born of a brief glance. Even Romeo's passion for Juliet had the advantage of a few hurried words. No! Dan was not in love, yet he felt strange sensations in the region of the heart when that face floated cherub-fashion--_i.e_. without body--before his mind's eye. Perhaps this was because the words of the red-cloaked sibyl had predisposed him to take special notice of the girl, and think of her as a possible factor in his life. Was she indeed his fate? He determined to question Mother Jericho closely the next time he saw her. What with writing and idling and smoking, the morning passed very quickly, and the sun, pouring its rays vertically on the dell, warned him that it was noon. At that time Mother Jericho had promised that he should receive a visitor, so Dan packed away his diary and kept a sharp look-out on the road. Meanwhile he felt too restless to sit still, and walked up and down the limited area of the hollow. Who he was, and what he was, and why he came to be camping in so solitary a place, will be told in due course. At present you can see that he is merely a rover of thirty, bent upon making holiday and getting the best out of life. What his name is matters not at present. He chose to call himself Dan, which is short for Daniel, but the name did not suit him in the least. He looked quite unlike a Daniel. There is a fitness in names as in other things. The promised visitor did not arrive at the appointed hour, and Dan became impatient. He had longing thoughts in the direction of his midday meal, and, indeed, was about to see after it, when Peter's sharp bark announced the approach of the expected visitor. It was not Mother Jericho, but a tall and powerfully built man. He strode boldly down the road and into the dell. Dan made a step forward to greet him, but the other drew back and looked at him carefully. Apparently the stranger was satisfied with his scrutiny, for he advanced with smile and outstretched hand. Not knowing whether to be pleased or angry, Dan gave his own reluctantly. "What is your name?" said he. "Tinker Tim," replied the other gruffly. "I come from Mother Jericho." CHAPTER V. TINKER TIM. "'And there were giants on the earth in those days,'" quoth Dan, eyeing the mighty bulk of his visitor. "Can you box, my friend?" "Try me," said Tinker Tim, putting up his fists. Here was a polite reception to give a guest. It is not the custom in civilized society for the host to invite the stranger within his gates to a bout of fisticuffs. But this was not polite society, and Dan had retrograded to primevalism. In the days of old, when fighting was hand to hand, and not conducted at long range, men usually commenced their friendships by thrashing one another. Robin Hood is an excellent example of this. In Merry Sherwood he beat the stranger, or the stranger beat him, either with fists or at quarter-staff, and afterwards the combatants fraternized. Each wished to see if the other was a man, before admitting him to his friendship. Dan was of this way of thinking, and eyed his opponent like a fighting-cock. If there was one thing he loved, it was a bout with the gloves, and Tim was apparently of the same mind. They were quite amicable, and disposed to be friendly with each other, but the friendship had to be cemented with blows and blood. The scent of battle--of friendly battle, to couple incongruous terms--was in the air. Dan was of goodly stature, and ready with his fists. He prided himself on his long reach of arm and quickness of eye. In the parts from which he came, few men cared to stand up to him, for he had been victorious times without number. His victories were so many and so easy that he longed to meet a dogged foe who could hold his own; therefore his mouth watered when he saw the thews and fists of his guest. They were eloquent of a prolonged battle, and Dan promised himself a happy morning. Tim was a son of Anak, six and a half feet high, and big in proportion. Not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his bones; nothing but tanned hide and swelling muscle. His face was burnt brown by the sun and reddened by the wind; and he wore a bushy black beard, which was slightly streaked with grey. His bold black eyes looked defiance, while the gold rings which adorned his ears added to his already barbaric appearance. A swarthy malcontent he seemed at first sight, a cut-throat of the Spanish main, a piratical desperado; yet, on a closer inspection, his good-humoured smile did away with such bloodthirsty appearances. He, too, counted his victories by the score, and sighed, like Alexander, for fresh worlds or men to conquer. Dan could not have given him a better welcome than that invitation to battle, and his eye sparkled with pleasure at the prospect. Each saw that the other was a man, and wished to decide which was the better. A fit of Berserk fury was on them both. "Come on, rye," said Tim, eager for the fray. "I'll fight you for a fi'-pun note." "I cannot wager so large an amount," replied Dan, gravely. "I am a poor man." Tim glanced at the caravan, and laughed hoarsely. He had his own opinion on the matter, or else had taken his cue from Mother Jericho. However, he was too bent on fighting to argue, and his face grew impatient as he poised himself lightly in an attitude of defence with scientifically placed fists. "Ain't you goin' to put 'em up?" said he, sharply. "Not without the gloves, friend. I've no notion of letting those sledge-hammer fists of yours spoil my beauty." "Ho! Women like to see men mashed a bit. Them's the kind they love best." "That may be! Women are all hero-worshippers. All the same, I wish my face to remain as it is. A broken nose may be heroic, but it isn't pleasing to the eye." And with such speech he disappeared into the caravan, whence he emerged with the boxing-gloves. Throwing a pair of these to Tim, he put on his own, and in a minute or so the two men were warily circling round one another. Peter was the only spectator of this famous fight, and he encouraged the combatants with sharp barks when the blows fell unusually thick. "Here is Lavengro again," thought Dan, aiming a blow at the jaw of his opponent. "I have dropped across the Flaming Tinman." And Lavengro alone could have fully described that Homeric contest. There was no hesitancy or half-heartedness about it. They pounded one another whenever they got the chance, and sent the blows straight from the shoulder. Thrice was Dan toppled over like a ninepin, and twice did Tim measure his length on the grassy sward. If one had the greater weight, the other had the quicker eye. Tim's leg-of-mutton fists did terrific damage when they got home on Dan's body, but for the most part they descended innocuously, so dexterously did the latter guard. At first they smiled, but soon their blood warmed and their faces set. Strength and agility were fairly matched, so that though the battle raged for close on an hour, each managed to hold his own. Dan could make no impression on the elephantine frame of Tim, and the tinker grew weary of trying to hit a flash of lightning in the person of the vagrant. It was as pretty a sight as a man might see in a day's walk, but so equal were both boxers that the contest seemed likely to last till sunset. The account of such a combat should roll off the tongue in blank verse or leaping hexameter, and be chanted by some noble minstrel. Nothing meaner can suffice! It is impossible to play an oratorio on a penny whistle. At length, when Dan had a bleeding nose and Tim a swelling eye, they threw down their gloves by mutual consent and declared it a drawn battle. On such result they shook hands like the manly pair they were, and Tim vented his emotion in a mighty oath which here need only be paraphrased. "By the ghost of Black Ben the Bruiser," said he, clapping his friendly antagonist on the shoulder, "you're a man, you are! None other shall have her, I swear." "Have whom?" asked Dan, bathing his crimsoned nose in the bucket. "Never you mind, rye," replied Tim, ambiguously; "that's neither here nor there. It might be Mother Jericho, for all you know." Not particularly attentive to this speech, Dan went on splashing up the ice-cold water; and Tim, with his black beard clutched in one begrimed hand, sat looking steadily at him. The vagrant seemed to find favour in his eyes, for during his scrutiny he grunted once or twice as though satisfied. It was evidently something more than personal prowess that recommended Dan to the gipsy giant. What it was must remain locked up in Tim's brain for the present. "Why didn't Mother Jericho come with you, Tim?" "She's got the rheumatism, rye, and sits in her tent squeaking like a trapped rabbit. 'Twas she who told me to look ye up." "Wanted to know the result of her prophecy, I suppose?" "Ay, ay! She told your fortune, did she? A good un for charming brass out of pockets, she is. Maybe she promised ye a wench, lad?" "That she did. Two wenches! I met one this morning." "Did ye, now? And where, my brave rye?" "'Joy comes up through the Gates of Dawn,'" hummed Dan, wiping his face. This mystical utterance was of course unintelligible to Tim, who looked up as though about to demand an explanation; but on second thoughts he threw himself down for a rest. He was not so young as he had been, and the violent exercise of the last sixty minutes had told slightly on his iron frame. "That was a good un, rye," said he, referring to the combat; "but you're too much of the eel for me. It ain't at sixty years that a man should mash round after a slippery chap like you." "Are you sixty years of age?" exclaimed Dan; and as Tim nodded, he continued, "Well, you don't look it, my man." "Open air and exercise, plain fare and daily change," replied Tim, glibly running off his lists of arts for circumventing the enemy Time; "but I'm beginning to get on, brother. There's a hole as I'll fall into afore long. Yet there's work to be done and wrongs to be righted afore I am tripped up. When all's square, I'll tumble into Mother Earth's arms with the rest." Engaged in getting victuals from the caravan, Dan did not at once comment on this mournful speech. When he did speak, his remark was more practical than sympathetic. "No doubt you're hungry after that tussle, Tim." "Ay, and thirsty. What have you to drink?" "Bottled beer. Here! don't spoil your dinner by smoking." Tim rapped the ashes out of his pipe, and with an assenting grin restored it to his pocket. Then he fell to caressing Peter. "A fine leetle dawg, squire!" "Pedigree dog! Kennel Club," replied Dan, curtly. "Ho, ho!" laughed the tinker, hoarsely, "and you call yourself a crocus! My Sam! You're a gentleman, you are--a great gentleman." "Pish! Do I look like a great gentleman in these rags?" "Ay, that you do, and burn him who says nay," replied Tim, emphatically. Whereat Dan laughed in a somewhat embarrassed fashion, and by way of changing the subject, intimated that the meal was ready. A meal he called it--by Vesta, goddess of the spit, it was a lordly banquet to which they sat down. Cold beef and pickles, bottled beer and cheese, with a plentiful supply of fresh bread. Can you ask anything better than to eat such victuals in the open air on a warm summer day, with voices of bird and bee, and sigh of wind, and roar of ocean, around? To feed in an airless dining-room were less conducive to appetite. The pair ate as they had fought, with a will, and the fragments of the feast would scarcely have filled one basket, let alone a dozen. Tim did most of the talking, and Dan could not help noticing that his speech was much more refined than was his appearance. This incongruity he touched on during the progress of the meal. "Where did you learn to speak so Well, Tim?" "Do I speak well, rye?" demanded the tinker, with marked surprise. "Well, ye see, I'm a Romany, I am, and we generally speak better than the lower orders of your natives. We have our own tongue, you know--the black language--and speak that among ourselves. But I've been among the Gorgios, rye, in my time, and maybe have picked up their way of talking." "Were you always a tinker?" "Ay! And my father and grandfather before me! We Romany follow the trades of our ancestors, and have our pride, though you Gentiles think us beasts of the field. But never mind my chatter, rye! I don't ask to know your business, so let mine be." After the fight, in which he had proved himself capable of holding his own, Dan could afford to let this reproof pass without the imputation of cowardice, so merely laughed at Tim's asperity, and lighted his pipe. The tinker, restored to good humour by this silent acquiescence, did the same, and the pair were soon puffing amicably together. There is no peacemaker like tobacco. "Who is t' doctor's lass, Tim?" asked Dan, suddenly. "Ho, ho! Have you run her to earth, rye? Isn't she a beauty?--eyes like stars, and hair like midnight!" "You know her, then?" "Every one for ten miles round knows her. She's out on the moors from dawn till sunset. A born Romany she is, though coming of Gorgio stock. And where did you clap eyes on her, rye?" "Coming up through the Gates of Dawn at sunrise." "Ay! Been swimming, I guess!" "Can she swim?" "Like an otter. And ride, and shoot, and fish, and tramp her thirty miles a day." "Quite a Diana!" "I don't know about no Diana," retorted Tim, gruffly; "but she's a clipper, and no mistake. Her fist is as ready as her tongue." "Borrow's Isopel in the flesh!" thought Dan, who listened eagerly to this account of his unknown nymph. "And what is the name of this Amazon?" he asked aloud. "Meg Merle. She's the daughter of Dr. Merle, who lives in Farbis village. An old fool he is, who sleeps and dreams and shuts his eyes to her beauty." "She is beautiful," said Dan, reflectively; "very--very beautiful!" Tim looked at him suspiciously and frowned. An unpleasant thought had just crossed his mind. "She's as good as she's beautiful, rye," he growled, "and can look after herself, I reckon. I shouldn't like to be the man who put an insult on her. I'd smash him," added the tinker, bringing down his huge fist with terrific force--"I'd smash him!" "Is that meant for me?" asked Dan, sharply, noting the suspicious look in the eyes of his guest. "Them as the cap fits can wear it, rye! You're a gentleman, though you don't choose to call yourself one, and gentlemen think country girls fine game; so----" "That's quite sufficient, my friend," cried the vagrant. "I know what you are about to say. Don't bellow out your warning. Gentleman or no gentleman, she has no need to fear me." Tim eyed him narrowly, and then, rolling over, gripped Dan's hand in his own huge paw. It was his way of apologizing for his unjust suspicions. "I trust ye! I trust ye! A man who can use his mauleys like you ain't a cur to play tricks on women. If I've offended you----" "You haven't offended me, friend. Say no more about it." So speaking, he rose abruptly and walked to the other side of the dell. Though he denied being angry, he was in reality rather indignant at Tim's imputation of libertinism. No man likes to be thought a scoundrel, and Dan did not like it. Yet he saw that the warning was dictated in a friendly spirit, so his wrath evaporated by the time he returned to the fire. At once he began to speak on a different subject, and Tim, seeing he was annoyed, gladly fell in with his humour. "I must come over to your camp, Tim. Where is it?" "Down yonder on the edge of the moor. We'll make ye as welcome as the dawn." "I'll come over, if only to find out why Mother Jericho coupled my name with that of this girl." "It wasn't Mother Jericho, but Fate," said Tim, with great simplicity. "If it be as she's to be your wife, there's no way out of it." "Pish! I'll never set eyes on her again, Tim. I leave this place to-morrow." "Not if Mother Jericho read your hand truly." There was no combating this obstinacy, as Tim was evidently a firm believer in palmistry. As a gipsy, he could not in reason be otherwise. Dan did not attempt to argue the matter, and after a few more words they parted, as Tim had business on hand. "I'm off tinkering to a village ten miles from here, rye," said he; "but don't 'ee forget to come to our camp when it suits you. I'll be proud to put on the gloves with you again." And with this pugilistic invitation he parted from his late antagonist. Dan remained lying where he was, and bearing in mind Tim's warning, made up his mind to baffle Mother Jericho's forecast if possible. But Fate proved too strong for him. Before the week was out, he met again with her whom he ironically christened the "Diana of Farbis." CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST LETTER TO A LONDON FRIEND. My Dear Jack, Not wishing to cut myself off entirely from civilization, I write to apprise you of my adventures while exploring England. I am in the wilds--that is, in a lonely village surrounded by moors, and twenty miles from the nearest town. A ragged boy on a ragged pony carries letters to and fro from this place--Farbis it is called--twice a week. Other communication with the world there is none, so you see I am sufficiently isolated from the influences of the nineteenth century. Of course you knew my intention of coming here, therefore you can express no surprise at the name of the village. I have seen the Court at a distance--a red-brick structure embosomed in pine woods--but as yet I have not called on the old lady who lives there. I cannot very well present myself in my character of a vagabond, as you may suppose; and, moreover, this wild life is so delightful that I wish to keep to myself as much as possible. When I think of you dawdling in park and club, I pity you heartily. I, too, have been in--shall I call it Arcady?--and suffered the ennui of the season. Now I live, not in your artificial manner, but after a hale and lusty fashion which precludes weariness. I rise with the lark, and retire with the dicky birds. For the most part my bed is a fur rug beside a roaring fire under the stars, and I am thoroughly enjoying myself. This last statement appears extraordinary, but it is precisely true. I begin to think civilization is a mistake, and that a cultivated man does not get so much out of his life as does the untutored savage. This is a somewhat quixotic way of looking at things, I admit; but, having tried both existences, I heartily pronounce in favour of the latter. I have an appetite which Gargantua might envy; I feel the blood rush through my veins; and I enjoy my life with a zest of which you, puny club-lounger, can have no conception. Such primevalism suits me, and I can well understand the fascination it has for so many men. I protest, Jack, that I never truly appreciated the history of the Scholar Gipsy till I read Arnold's poem by the light of my camp-fire. You get at the inmost soul of the thing from such circumstance. And talking about gipsies, I am at present fraternizing with a tribe of genuine vagrants who have pitched their ragged tents close at hand. When I go there and see their Eastern looks, I feel as though some genie had transported me to an encampment of Bedouins in Arabia. My location is in a dell almost hidden by overhanging trees, but on occasions I descend through the pine woods to see my brother-vagrants on the edge of the moor. Though I do not know a word of Romany, and am clearly an alien, they receive me most amicably, which says much for their innate good breeding. Were I but a proficient in their tongue, no doubt they would call me "brother" and "Romany Rye," as their grandparents did Borrow. "Lavengro" is another work which can only be appreciated in these surroundings. I have read it at least six times since leaving London, but it never palls on my taste, never grows dull, and exercises the same fascination as on the first perusal. Nay, more; Fate has taken a leaf from that glorious book and bestowed on me an adventure or so in the Borrovian style. My dell is a replica of that famous Dingle, and--would you believe it?--I have done battle with an individual like the Flaming Tinman. He also is a tinker and a bruiser, but here the resemblance ends. He is not a brute, and has no doxy trailing at his heels. Nor, alas! did he bring me an Isopel to whom I could teach--say French, in place of Armenian. One can say many pretty things in French, and the verbs lend themselves as readily to a philological flirtation as does the more recondite language of Lavengro. But I have no Isopel--at present. I see you raise your eyebrows at those two last words. You are wrong to suspect evil where none exists. It is true that there is a nymph of these parts--but I had better tell you the beginning of the story. On the night of my arrival in this dell, there came to me a red-cloaked hag who prophesied like a veritable Deborah. Only one scrap of her jargon do I recollect--that Joy should come up through the Gates of Dawn. These same gates are two giant cliffs that stand sentinel at the entrance to Farbis valley. I went down for a swim next morning, and when the sun rose out of the ocean and poured his beams through this chasm, it looked not unlike the Gates of the Day. The name is a poetical one, and pretty. I can quite understand some mute inglorious Milton having so christened this natural entrance. Here I saw Joy coming up as predicted, in the person of a lovely young woman, whom I at first took to be a mermaid, but the sight of whose bare feet dispelled the illusion. I caught but a glimpse of her face, and---- Now, don't finish the sentence for me by saying I lost my heart. I did no such thing; but I own that a very clear picture of this stray Nereid is imprinted on my mind. I have not seen her since that morning, so, to convince myself that she was of mortal mould, I asked my friend the tinker about her. It seems she is the daughter of a Dr. Merle, and leads a kind of huntress-life in the woods and on the moors. Tim--my reality of the Flaming Tinman--waxed enthusiastic over her knowledge of wood-lore, her perfect swimming, her straight shooting, and various other accomplishments less feminine than masculine. He concluded by warning me not to fall in love if I did not mean to marry her. Did you ever hear such rubbish?--as though I were a wolf in disguise, on the prowl for maidens of tender years! I doubt whether I shall ever see her again, and I can only remember her as Aurora coming up through the Gates of Dawn. No! I have not the slightest wish to play the part of Tithonus, though I swear she is lovely enough to snare a less inflammable person than myself. To speak seriously, I should like to see this girl again. She must be a very original creature to lead the life she does. I detest masculine women. Yet this Diana of Farbis piques my curiosity. Still, I shall not go out of my way to court Fate. If I meet Diana, it must be by chance; but, as I leave here in three days, I doubt whether I shall set eyes on her again. If I see her, if I fall in love with her, if I marry her, what would you say? But then, you see, I say "if"! "Much virtue in that little word," as sage Touchstone remarks. If you remember, we jested on the probability of my meeting with a wife on my travels. What if this unknown nymph should prove to be my fate in the marriage-market? Mother Jericho, the gipsy sybil, hinted pretty strongly that she whom I met at the Gates of Dawn would become my wife. Well, I met this Diana, this Rosalind, this Meg--not Merrilies, but Merle--the doctor's daughter. There is not the slightest chance of my introducing her to you in such a _rôle_, I assure you. I have no belief in palmistry, nor, for the matter of that, in _mésalliances_. But enough of women and love and guesses at the future. I must tell you of my fight with the tinker--or, rather, I would tell you had I the genius of Homer or the pen of Lavengro. I have neither. I fought a battle with him out of sheer love of fighting. There was no ill will on either side. We simply put on the gloves for a jest, and he was as eager as I to see who was the better man. Neither of us won, so I suppose we are about equal. Some fine day I'll have another bout with him, and see if I can't come off victorious. Tim is no mean foe, I assure you. These are all the adventures I have to tell you at present, but you must own that they are sufficiently exciting for these prosaic days. If you yawn over this letter and scoff in your superfine way at my Tinker, my Diana, my red-cloaked Witch, I will never again put pen to paper for your pleasure. If my correspondence is not so exciting as the romances of Dumas, it has at least the merit of being perfectly true, which is more than you can say for the glibly uttered lies of a thousand bragging Bobadils who have been to Africa and shot mythical elephants. In my next letter I will narrate my departure from this place, and my touching farewells of my gipsy friends. After all, I am not sure that I won't travel with them. They are a fascinating lot, though rather in want of soap and water. I may as well play my part of vagrant thoroughly, though, I must confess, I have hitherto been a dismal failure. Evidently I have not dressed the character properly, for the most addle-headed yokel calls me "zur," and looks expectant of a shilling. I am trying to get up an accent, but it's mighty difficult. Greek, which the monks said was an invention of the devil, is easy compared with this lingo. You can write me a letter in reply to this, addressed to "Dan, Post Office, Farbis," and I'll call for it. Dan is my travelling name. It is, I think, admirably suited to me, and I like it better than the one given to me by my godparents. Peter is quite well, and sends his love. He is having a glorious time, and actually got within a yard of a rabbit the other day. Simon is sleek and steady, and holds his tongue, which is more than I can say of Peter. And now, my friend, I must close this letter, for which you ought to be very grateful, as it is written under great difficulties, with a bad pencil, in a bad light. To keep up the spirit of the thing, I sign my travelling name, and take leave of you so. Dan, Proprietor of caravan, horse, and dog, at present encamped at Farbis. P.S.--Should I meet with Diana, I will give you a full account of the interview. What she said, what I said, how we met and how we parted, and all the rest of it. CHAPTER VII. DIANA OF FARBIS. The determination of Dan to remain at Farbis did not result in any immediate reward for such aiding of Destiny. Not a glimpse did he obtain of Meg Merle, and he began to think her invisible, after the fashion of the nameless nymph in "Lamia." Sometimes he heard her singing in the distance; but, though he followed the sound of her voice, he never succeeded in casting eyes on her face. It might be that she evaded a meeting, for while searching he caught at times the echo of a laugh. Then her singing would recommence further off, and he would again be lured onward, only to be disappointed anew. She flitted through the pine wood like a spectre, and though her voice filled it with music, she was as hidden as any bird. Were she viewless Echo herself, she could not have been more invisible. This feminine caprice angered Dan, and piqued his curiosity. He felt as though he were in a fairy wood, searching for some princess, spellbound by a powerful magician. Search as he might, the result was always the same. After a time he waxed sulky, and stayed persistently by his camp-fire, hoping that, if Destiny willed this phantom beauty to be his wife, she would come in due time into his presence. Not that he really believed in such fatalism, but the prophecy of Mother Jericho was not without a certain influence on his mind. He was of a somewhat impressionable nature, and at a rather impressionable age; so it might be that the fulfilment of one prediction led him to attach more value to the others than they deserved. Perhaps, also, he hoped to baffle Fate by remaining snug in his dell; but if so, the hope was vain, for in due course came the hour of fulfilment, and with it the woman. In the gipsy camp he found a new phase of life which amused him exceedingly, and was not sparing of his company to the gentle Romany. No more hospitable hosts could have been found than those ragged wanderers who made the world their home. They invited him to dip into their stew-pot, danced for him by the red firelight, sang wild gipsy songs to him in unknown tongues, and, miracle of miracles, were scrupulously honest in regard to his goods and chattels. Mother Jericho and Tim in command of the tribe, were his firm friends, else he might have found these vagrants less inclined to keep their thievish fingers from his belongings. As it was, he lost not so much as a stick, and began to think that the magpie propensities of the gipsies had been somewhat overrated. This wild life among wild people pleased him, and he found the days pass rapidly in the indulging of such simple pleasures. Every morning he rode Simon to the seashore for a matutinal swim, but never did he meet Joy in the person of Meg "coming up through the Gates of Dawn," though he kept a sharp look-out for a recurrence of the phenomenon. On his way back to camp he bought eggs and milk and bread, so as to lay in a stock of provisions for the day. For the rest of the golden hours he philandered about the woods in chase of that invisible mockery, or paid an idle visit to gipsydom. When all other pleasures palled, he sat smoking in the sunshine and read "Lavengro." The book never failed to enchain his fancy. On the fourth day, so restless is human nature, he began to weary of dell, of gipsies, of his own company, even of the book of books. A spirit of wandering seized on him fiercely, and this nostalgia of the road made him think seriously of once more putting Simon between the shafts of his caravan. There was nothing to see in the slatternly village, and comparatively little to interest him on the moors. Had he brought a gun, he might have sought relief in shooting rabbits, of which there were plenty about. But having no gun, he simply idled on the heath and set Peter after the bunnies, a task to which the terrier was by no means averse. But never by any chance did Peter catch a rabbit. It was during one of these excursions that he fell in again with Meg Merle. Looking down on Farbis Vale, and wondering how its people managed to support such isolation, he saw a rabbit scuttle past his feet. The next moment there was a sharp report, and it rolled over with a piteous squeal. Startled by the danger of the shot, and congratulating himself that Peter was safe, Dan turned round sharply to remonstrate with the reckless sportsman. The next moment, with cap in hand, he was bowing before Diana of Farbis. Evidently she had just returned from a shooting excursion, for two dead rabbits hung at her girdle, and she advanced to pick up the third. In a short dress of rough serge, a cap of the same material, gaiters and boots, she presented a somewhat uncommon appearance--rather masculine, to speak the truth, but on the whole not unpleasing. Dan thought of Di Vernon, of Atalanta, of the Lady of the Lake, and mythical Artemis, but in his heart acknowledged that none could have been so fair as she whom he beheld. She was in the spring of womanhood, a very Hebe for girlish grace, a very type of incarnate purity. Her face was one of those provoking countenances winch baffle description. Can one hope, by stringing together items of grey eyes, red lips, rosy cheek, or pearly teeth, to describe the looks of a fair woman? As soon expect poetry in an auctioneer's catalogue. The soul looking out of the clear eyes, the piquant expression of the curved lip, the ineffable charm of virginal purity,--who can hope to analyze such things? Not Dan, for one. Without attempting to reduce the component parts of this loveliness to dry facts, he simply stared spellbound at this fresh girlhood. Rosy as the dawn, full of life as a young roe, instinct with vitality and grace, she was like some beautiful wild creature of the woods. One such as the Greeks feigned haunted springs as nymphs, and boles of trees as dryads. Their eyes met as he took off his cap, in homage at once to beauty and purity and womanhood. Her looks charmed his eye and struck hard at his heart, as to capture it in one dash. She spoke first, and turned the dream to reality. "What do 'ee want messing about this yer plaace?" said the dream-maiden with the broadest accent. "It be 'mazing theng aw didn't shoot 'ee." With great self-control Dan managed to suppress the exclamation of surprise which arose involuntarily to his lips. That this fairy princess, this invisible nymph, this phantom of delight, should speak the coarse country dialect, came on him like a douche of cold water. He gasped and stared, and opened his mouth without speaking. The reaction was too terrible for mere speech. "Whoy doan't 'ee saay summat?" demanded the girl, with a twinkle in her eye. "Bean't 'ee----" "Don't," murmured Dan, faintly--"don't speak. It's too horrible!" To his surprise she began to laugh gaily, and when her hilarity had somewhat subsided, addressed him in the purest English with a noticeably refined accent. "You do not care for our country way of talking," said she, putting a rebellious curl in its place. "Not from your lips," he answered, after recovering from his second shock. "Who cares to hear Venus mouth the Scythian tongue?" She looked puzzled at the grandiloquence of this speech, and shifted her gun to the other arm. Dan saw that she was surveying him with the deepest interest, and, being a modest young man, blushed at such persistent scrutiny. "So you are the gentleman who fought with Tim?" "I am the vagrant who fought with the tinker," corrected Dan, smiling. "Why do you call me gentleman?" "Because Sir Alurde Breel was a gentleman, and you are just like him." "Indeed! I am much flattered by the comparison. Does Sir Alurde Breel live in these parts?" "He did, but died three hundred years ago," replied Meg, dryly. "His picture is in the gallery at Farbis Court. He is an ancestor of the present Lord Ardleigh who owns the Court." "Does his lordship live there?" "No! He is in London, I believe. Farbis Court is let to Miss Linisfarne. But these things do not interest you. Please pick up that rabbit." "You have had bad sport to-day," said Dan, hastening to obey this order. "Very bad! Still I have three rabbits to take home. Would you like one?" "I adore rabbit stew, Miss Merle." "Then keep that last one I shot. I see you know my name." "I do! Tinker Tim told me all about you." Meg frowned and then laughed. Her mirth was very musical. "Tim has a very long tongue, Mr. Dan." "Don't call me Mr. Dan." "Then don't you call me Miss Merle!" she said saucily. "Everybody else does," said Dan, unwilling to take advantage of such innocence; "and you see I can hardly call you Meg. I am a stranger to you." "Oh no! I have heard all about you from Tim and Mother Jericho. Besides, you are so like Sir Alurde that I seem to know you quite well." "A thousand blessings on the resemblance. I shall at once take advantage of your kind permission. Do you go often to Farbis Court--Meg?" "Very often, Dan. Miss Linisfarne is very kind to me." "Oh, the lady who lives at the Court in place of its owner! Where is Lord Ardleigh?" "In London, I believe," she said rather contemptuously. "I have no doubt he is one of those finical fine gentlemen of whom Miss Linisfarne talks." "That is not a flattering portrait," said Dan, smiling. "Probably not; but I have no doubt it is a true one." "Are you sure of that, Miss Merle?" "I told you I am not Miss Merle, Mr. Dan." "Then address me as Dan, if you want me to be less formal." "Of course I shall call you Dan," said she, opening her eyes in feigned surprise. "What else should I call you?" "Sir Alurde!" Meg laughed at this sally. They were getting very friendly, much to Dan's delight. All at once, as though recollecting herself, she ceased laughing and made as if to go. Dan stepped eagerly forward. "Let me carry your gun, Meg." "What for? I can carry it myself," she replied bluntly. "I would rather relieve you of the burden." "Very well, Dan. Take those other two rabbits; but I'll carry my own gun, thank you. What queer ideas you have! Just like those of Miss Linisfarne." "Does she carry your burdens?" asked Dan, gravely. They were now walking down the winding road to the village. "I should think not," replied Meg, laughing at the bare idea. "But you have the same manners as she has." "Is that a compliment?" "Oh no! It is the truth. My father is not at all like you, nor is Mr. Jarner, the vicar. I have never seen any one like you," she finished, looking at him with great interest. "Not even Sir Alurde?" "Oh, don't talk any more of that picture, or I shall be sorry I spoke of it." She was quite unsophisticated, and frankly uttered the thoughts that came into her mind. Hence the flimsy dialogue which ensued between them. Dan, unused to such candour, could not help feeling charmed at the purity of the soul thus laid bare to his gaze. "I saw you at the Gates of Dawn," said she, with an evident desire to change the subject. "Were you not very shocked at my appearing with bare feet?" "I was charmed." "Nonsense, Dan! It was an accident. I was swimming, and the tide carried away my shoes and stockings. I did not mind it much till I saw you. Then I felt dreadfully ashamed." "Why should you? 'Beauty unadorned is adorned the most!'" "You speak like Sir Charles Grandison," said Meg, with a blush at the compliment. "Ah! you have read that book?" "Yes. I like it very much. Miss Linisfarne has many old novels in her library, but she will not let me read all of them." "It is best to rely on her taste," said Dan, not relishing the idea of this innocent reading Richardson's contemporaries. "Are you fond of reading?" "Not very. I prefer fishing or shooting." "Who taught you to fish and shoot?" "Tim and Parson Jarner. You don't know him, do you? He's a dear old man, and so fond of dogs and horses." "Rather peculiar tastes for a clergyman." "Why so?" She opened her eyes wide at his remark, and as he had no wish to be the first to teach her worldly wisdom, Dan dismissed the subject. "Never mind," said he, ambiguously; "I'll tell you another time. Don't you find it dull here?" "Not at all! Why should I? There is always plenty to do. I swim and ride, and fish and shoot. I go across the moors with Parson Jarner; and I visit Miss Linisfarne two or three times a week. Besides, there are many things in the pine woods to give me pleasure." "What kind of things?" "Birds, and beasts, and spiders, and flowers. If you have sharp eyes, you can see all manner of queer things." "A female Jefferies!" thought Dan; then aloud, "You must teach me your woodcraft. I cannot see the marvels you describe." "How strange! Yes, I'll teach you with pleasure. I shall come to your dell and look at your caravan. Now we must part, Dan. My father expects me home." "You won't forget your promise," said he, clasping her hand. "No; I'll come when I can. Goodbye, Dan." "Goodbye, Meg." And then they parted. But one, at least, looked forward eagerly to their next meeting. Needless to say, that one was Dan. CHAPTER VIII. THE RECLUSE. "The third meeting will be fatal," said Dan to himself as he climbed the hill. "At the first I liked her beauty; now I am charmed with her innocence and candour. When I meet her for the third time, it may be a case of love." It was indeed astonishing how persistently the face and speech of Meg haunted his mind. She was so unconscious of her own beauty, so free from affectation, that he could not help admiring her simplicity of character. He was not of a particularly inflammable nature, and hitherto had shut his heart to the allurements of the other sex. The ladies with whom he was acquainted, though refined in every sense of the word, annoyed him by their persistent artificiality and their insincerity. But this wild rose was free from such taints, and in her conversation she displayed perfect candour. To Dan she was like the inhabitant of another planet, and she had for him all the charm of novelty. Without being a prophet, he could foresee that a few weeks in her company would chain him for ever to her side. She was ignorant of her power to do this, and in such unconsciousness lay a goodly portion of her fascination. In sober earnest, the girl puzzled him. By her own confession, she haunted the hills from morning till night, and by rights should be an uncouth creature, a female barbarian. Yet her accent and manners were both refined, and she had an evident acquaintance with literature, though not of the newest. Dan supposed that she owed such culture and polish as she possessed to Miss Linisfarne; but if that lady took an interest in her, he could not understand why she permitted the girl to roam the moors and woods at will. It was certain that Meg was in no way conscious of her own beauty, or she would have taken better care of her appearance, her dress, and her complexion. She apparently cared nothing for these things, and let the sun brown her face and the brambles scratch her hands without giving the matter a thought. Such negligence was not without its charm. After that second meeting, Dan made up his mind to see her again; but though he watched the whole of the next day, he caught not a glimpse of his charmer. He had no excuse for calling on Dr. Merle, else he might have taken advantage of it, and so passed at least a few minutes by her side. It then struck him that Mother Jericho might know her haunts, and he was on his way to the gipsy encampment for the purpose of inquiry, when Fate provided him with an excuse for calling at the doctor's house. On the path through the pine wood he picked up a red coral necklace which he had noticed her wearing. She had doubtless lost it on one of her excursions. "Good!" said Dan, slipping it into his pocket; "with this I can call on Dr. Merle and find out more about the huntress. If I introduce myself to the father, he may ask me to renew my visit, though I'm afraid my position does not warrant such a hope. However, I'll try; at least, I shall see her again." Contrary to her promise, Meg had not been near the dell, so Dan supposed that she had told her father of the invitation, and had been forbidden to accept it. When he saw Dr. Merle, this idea was dispelled. No one had less influence over his daughter than her surviving parent. But Dan did not come to this conclusion for some weeks. The doctor's house was built of grey stone, and placed as it was among the sombre pines, looked singularly funereal. It was not even enclosed by a fence, nor was there the slightest attempt at cultivating a garden. There it stood, square and gloomy, as though dropped suddenly into that savage solitude. It could be easily seen that the owner had no care for his surroundings. "If the father is so careless, I do not wonder that the daughter is allowed to run wild," murmured Dan, as he came in sight of this mausoleum. There was no bell, and though he knocked hard at the door, it was quite five minutes before it opened. A bent old man, dressed in dingy black, appeared, and, on being questioned, intimated in a surly voice that Meg was at the Court. "Is Dr. Merle in?" "A' be sleeping," was the crabbed response. "Then wake him and say that I wish to see him," said Dan, enraged at this uncivil reception. "Don't close the door till you have delivered my message." Somewhat startled by this determined bearing, so different to that of the meek Farbis folk, the surly Cerberus shuffled away, and returned in a few minutes with the information that the doctor would receive him in his study. Dan followed his guide, who led him into a dark apartment like a cell, and, pushing him in, the man shut the door as though to prevent his escape. "Well, what is it?" said a querulous voice at the other end of the room. "Why do you come at this hour? Don't you know it is my time for sleeping?" "Sleeping at three o'clock!" said Dan, with great astonishment. There was a rustle in the darkness, and a little man came forward. He did not recognize the voice, but guessing from its refinement that his visitor was a gentleman, he pulled up the blind to see who had thus roused him. A pale light filtered in through the dirty windowpanes, and Dan saw before him a small and neatly made person clothed in a ragged dressing-gown and carpet slippers. He was still handsome, and not more than fifty years of age, but his waxen skin had an unhealthy appearance, as though in want of fresh air and sunlight. His black hair and beard, both streaked with grey, were dishevelled, and his brown eyes had a vacant expression, as though his thoughts were far away. Altogether he did not look the kind of man likely to cure a sick person. Dan towered above him, and as he considered the little figure and the darkened room, he was reminded of Stanley's account of the African pygmies in their sunless forest. It took Dr. Merle some time to grasp the fact that his visitor was a stranger, and he peered curiously at him, with one little hand raking his untidy beard. So long did he look without speaking, that Dan felt rather embarrassed, and hardly knew how to begin a conversation. Merle saved him the trouble by speaking first. "Who are you?" he asked, still in the same querulous voice. "What do you want here? Physic?" "Never took a drop of physic in my life, sir," answered Dan, good-humouredly. "As to my name, it is Dan." "Dan what?" "Dan nothing," responded the other, with great coolness--"simply Dan. I am camping in the pinewood dell up yonder, and there I picked up this necklace. I think it belongs to your daughter." Dr. Merle took the corals and turned them over in a dazed fashion. He seemed to be half asleep, and started peevishly when his visitor's hearty voice rang through the room. The man's nervous system was out of order. "It is Miss Merle's, is it not?" "Yes, yes; thank you for bringing it back. I have no doubt she would say the same herself, but that she is with Miss Linisfarne at Farbis Court." "In that case I need not wait," said Dan, turning his back. The doctor stopped him before he could reach the door. "Don't go yet. I see so few people. I should like to have a talk with you." Seeing a chance of gaining information about Meg, the young man, nothing loth, sat down. His face was to the light, and Merle, who had shrunk back into the shadow, eyed him curiously. "You are not a common man," he said nervously. "That depends upon what you call common, sir. I certainly don't swear or get drunk, or wear my hat while in the house, or----" "Yes, yes! I understand all that. But you are travelling for pleasure?" "That's so, sir." "An American?" asked the doctor, noting the last reply. Dan laughed. "No," he said; "but I have been in the States. No doubt I have picked up a few flowers of American speech." "In short, you are a gentleman masquerading under the name of Dan?" "I don't think I am bound to answer that question," replied the other, with marked significance. Merle apologized at once. "Forgive me for being so curious. I do not seek to know your secret, but my daughter Margaret was talking about you, and I wondered who you were." "I hope Miss Merle is well," said Dan, evading a direct reply. "She is never ill. Strong as a young colt. That comes of her open-air life." "Do you think it is quite safe for her to wander on these moors alone?" "Of course I do! Every one knows her. I should be sorry for the man who insulted Meg. She can hold her own. Why do you laugh?" "It seems such a strange up-bringing for a young lady." "True, true!" muttered the little doctor, with a frown; "but what can I do? I am very poor. I make barely enough to live. I can do nothing--nothing." "But Miss Linisfarne might; she is a rich old maid with no relatives." "Miss Linisfarne!" said Merle, in tones of deep sorrow. "Yes, she might adopt her." Dan said the words carelessly enough, and was quite unprepared for their effect on his host. Merle sprang out of his seat. He had grown deadly white, and he seized Dan's arm with a shaking hand. He looked like a man thoroughly terrified, and could hardly articulate a word. "Did--did Tim the Tinker--say--say--anything?" "What do you mean?" asked Dan, with surprise. Merle looked at him steadily for a moment, and then turned away, wiping his forehead with a hankerchief. "It's all right," Dan overheard him mutter; "he knows nothing--nothing." The visitor began to think his host mad or drunk, and arose smartly to his feet for the second time. Again Merle stopped him. "No, no! Don't go yet. I am subject to these--these attacks." Then, with a sudden burst of hospitality, "Won't you have a glass of wine?" Dan's eyes wandered towards the writing-table, on which stood a decanter apparently containing wine. "Not that--not that," muttered Merle, hastily putting it in a cupboard; "that is medicine for my attacks." He averted his face from Dan, but the young man had already guessed his secret. Shaking hand, glazed eye, retiring manner,--the inference to be drawn from these was only too plain. Dr. Merle was a laudanum-drinker, and the decanter so hurriedly removed contained the fatal drug. "No, thank you, doctor; I will not take any wine," he said, disgusted with this discovery. "I must be off at once. Give my respects and the necklace to Miss Merle." "You'll come again?" "Certainly, in a day or so. Goodbye for the present." With a sigh of relief, he found himself again in the open air, and looked back at the dismal house with a shudder. "Poor girl!" he sighed, thinking of Meg; "what can she do with a father like that? A laudanum-drinker--a dreamer of dreams--a nervous fool. How, in the name of Nature, did he ever come to have that splendid creature as his child? I don't wonder she wanders about the hills. Anything would be better than that dark room and its unwholesome occupant." CHAPTER IX. VILLAGE GOSSIP. When he returned to his camp and had despatched his midday meal, Dan had a meditative smoke. There was no chance of his being interrupted, as Tinker Tim had gone on business to a neighbouring hamlet, and Mother Jericho was confined to her tent with rheumatism. It was just as well that he was left to his own thoughts, as he wished to think out the position in which he now found himself. Dan was a very masterful and practical person, and when he came to the conclusion that anything was wrong, always wished to remedy it at once. Not long after he left Merle's house, he decided that there was something very wrong indeed in the parish of Farbis, and that the something was connected with Meg. Recalling his conversations with Mother Jericho, Tinker Tim, and the doctor, it seemed to him as though they all had more or less of an understanding with one another. He was satisfied that the gipsies did not know him, and yet it appeared strange that they should be so friendly. Mother Jericho had prophesied that he should meet his fate at the Gates of Dawn. The very next morning he met with Meg. After his fight with Tim, that pugilist had remarked ambiguously, "None other shall have her;" and reading this mystical utterance by the light of recent events, Dan decided that it referred to Meg. Lastly, when he suggested that Miss Linisfarne should adopt the girl, Merle had come out with that curious remark anent Tinker Tim. Taking all these things into consideration, Dan saw a connection between them which seemed to hint at some mystery regarding Meg. This being the case, he also, from the promptings of his heart and the utterances of the gipsies, was implicated in some way unknown to himself. "They can't possibly know who I am," he said, filling a fresh pipe; "no one but Jack knew of my idea of the caravan. I don't suppose those carriage-builders would say a word. If, then, the old man and the tinker only know me as 'Dan,' why are they always hinting and talking about Meg? So far as I can see, they wish me to marry the girl, but for what reason? Merle has an understanding with these vagrants, or he would not have mentioned Tim. And why did he turn pale when I suggested Miss Linisfarne as an adopted mother? There's something wrong here, I'm certain; but what it is I can't make out." He eyed Peter in an absent manner, and Peter, meeting his eye, began to slink off, thinking he had done something wrong. Dan raised himself with a laugh at Peter's fears, and called back the conscience-smitten terrier. "Come here, you fool dog," he said, catching him by the scruff of the neck; "I wish to talk to you. Sit up and cross your paws, sir." Peter, noting a twinkle in his master's eyes, sat up laboriously and stared meekly in front of him. Having thus procured a listener, Dan addressed him, emphasizing his remarks with the stem of his pipe. "Peter," said he solemnly, "I am very much afraid that I take a greater interest in Diana of Farbis than is advisable. I am not in love with her, because a man of thirty is scarcely fool enough to fall in love with a woman he has only seen twice. But I take an interest in her, Peter, because I pity her wasted life. And if you think pity is akin to love, Peter, you think wrongly. This is a matter of head and heart. We had intended to go away to-morrow, Peter; but I have decided to stay and find out what all this is about. I don't like mysterious gipsies hatching plots against me, and prophesying me into marriage. You and I, Peter, will turn detectives, and ferret out the meaning of these things. Therefore, Peter, as a first step we will go into the village and listen to public opinion concerning Dr. Merle and his daughter. The audience is at an end, you rascal, so sit down." Peter dropped like a shot and yawned. He did not understand a word of this long speech. How could he? There was not a word about bones in it from beginning to end. When Dan put on his cap and picked up his stick, the actions were more intelligible to Peter than the previous words, and he whirled frantically before Dan in token of his delight at the prospect of a walk. Simon only tossed his head and looked. He had been down to the seashore that morning, and took no interest in anything save grass. Having thus ascertained the feelings of his four-footed friends, Dan cast a farewell glance around to see that everything was in good order, and strode off, followed by the barking terrier. All that afternoon Dan pottered about the village. He talked to stray labourers of crops and weather, artfully leading the conversation round to the gentry question; he gossiped with voluble women, on the plea of seeking a laundress for his linen, and learned indirectly their opinion of the doctor. It did not appear to be a very high one. "Th' ould doctor bean't nowt but a sleepy-head," they said contemptuously. "'A ain't vit vur nowt. 'A gits oop, 'a lies down--aw ain't niver no good. That 'a bean't!" From which speeches Dan gathered that Dr. Merle was not highly prized as a physician in Farbis. He stayed in his dismal house and soddened himself with laudanum. His patients resented the little interest he took in them, and proclaimed their views boisterously in broad rural dialect. It took all Dan's time to fathom the meaning of some of their words. In process of time he drifted into the Red Deer, more to quench his thirst than for any other reason, but found an unexpected mine of information in the landlord. That worthy brought him a tankard of ale with a jolly smile, and when Dan mentioned casually that he had been to see the doctor, burst out with unlimited information. "'A has nowt, zur," said the host; "'a stuck-up un, 'a be." "Is he a good doctor?" "Aw yis! 'A be mazing clivir, but thur bean't no use fur un; folk doan't git ill here. Look at t' doctor's lass, measter. She be vine an' strong." "Yes; a splendid-looking girl! Is she not a great friend of Miss Linisfarne?" The landlord nodded, and went into a long story about Miss Linisfarne's kindness to Meg. How Dr. Merle had neglected his daughter to shut himself up in seclusion, and how the lady at the Court had taken upon herself to look after the neglected girl. Mr. Jarner, the parson, was also mentioned by the host as one who had interested himself in the matter. He knew more about the gentry than any one else, and had been rector of the place for over a quarter of a century. Dan cut short the landlord's eloquence by asking where he could see Mr. Jarner and have a chat with him. He was directed to the vicarage, which was on the other side of the church, and, thinking that it would be as well to have an intelligent person to talk with, went off to seek the rustic divine. Farbis Church and graveyard were much neglected. The long grass grew nearly as high as the weather-stained tombs, and these in many cases had fallen down. The tower was in a most dilapidated condition, and though it had a clock and Chimes, the first had stopped and the second were silent. An air of mournful decay pervaded the whole place, and it could be easily seen that the present incumbent was not an energetic man. Certainly the place itself was not conducive to work. Not being pressed for time, Dan did not immediately repair to the vicarage, but sauntered idly through the churchyard, reading the quaint epitaphs, and watching the swallows wheeling round the hoary tower. Judging from the grass-grown pathway from lych-gate to porch, the Farbis folk did not come often to their devotions. The whole village--its wretchedness, its somnolence, its isolation--was typified by the shabby church. It was as though the place had gone to sleep in the Middle Ages, and had not yet been wakened by the tumult of the nineteenth century. Such infinite dreariness made Dan feel wretched. Not being able to take Peter inside the church, he set him to guard his cap in the porch by way of keeping him quiet. It may be here stated that the front of this cap--which was not the one he usually wore--was embroidered with the arms of Magdalen College, Oxford. Considering his pretence of vagrancy, it was foolish for Dan to decorate himself with so damning a piece of evidence regarding his worldly position. Nevertheless, being busied with his new thoughts of a possible conspiracy, he unthinkingly snatched up the cap before leaving the dell, and thus set Peter to watch it at the church door. Such negligence led to his undoing, and he recognized his carelessness when it was too late. Quite unaware of what awaited him, he examined the interior of the church, and found it in a similar condition to the graveyard. There were one or two painted windows and a finely carved reredos, but the first were broken in several places, and the second was spoilt by the damp. As usual, there was a collection of mouldy old tombs, which Dan, for reasons of his own, examined with great interest. Among them he found a crusading ancestor of Lord Ardleigh, carved in alabaster, with crossed legs and a formidable sword. Beside him lay Joan, his wife, with prayerful hands and monstrous head-dress. Faded scutcheons bedecked the worn sides of the tomb, and a long Latin oration, which nobody had the patience to decipher, set forth the many virtues of the deceased pair. Poor dead folks, resting so quietly in that dreary church, who thinks of you now? Afterwards Dan explored the leper chapel near the high altar, where those wretched pariahs heard the blessed mutter of the mass through a chink in the wall. The lepers were gone now, as were crusading lord and lady, and the high altar itself with its gold and silver and tall candles. A plain deal table, covered with a red cloth, whereon were set a cross and two bunches of flowers, did duty for the communion-table. The Vicar of Farbis was evidently in sympathy with Low Church doctrines, for there was no attempt at the sweeping or cleansing or garnishing of the house of prayer. From the contemplation of these melancholy things he was called to the porch by the furious barking of dogs. He recognized Peter's voice, and knew that the terrier was in trouble. At the door he found a large burly man thrashing two fox-terriers who had attacked Peter. It was a task of some difficulty, for all three dogs were determined to enjoy themselves. At length Dan picked up Peter by the scruff of the neck, and, assisted by the burly man, kicked away the assailants. When quiet was restored, the two had leisure to examine one another. At a glance Dan recognized the parson, and saw with dismay that he was holding that tell-tale cap with the Magdalen badge. The Rev. Stephen Jarner was tall and ponderous, with a red face and heavy jowl. To the waist he was a parson in orthodox collar, hat, and coat, but his nether limbs, invested in breeches and high boots, had a decidedly sporting appearance. He was a parson of the old school, fond of a good glass of wine and a well-spread board, but still fonder of dogs and horses. A hunting-crop was tucked under his arm, and the fox-terriers, eyeing Peter in Dan's embrace, sat at the feet of their clerical master. Dan was much amused at the group. "Here's a character," he thought. "A doctor addicted to opium, a pair of gipsies, a recluse lady, a lovely huntress, and a sporting parson. Decidedly I have got among queer folk!" CHAPTER X. PARSON JARNER. In his hand this remarkable-looking cleric still held Dan's cap. He looked at the badge and nodded his head towards the young man in a friendly fashion. "So you are a Magdalen man, sir," said he, in a full rich voice. "I too am of that college. _Et ego in Arcadia fui_. 'Addison's Walk' by the Cher is dear to me." Dan took his cap with a smile. The badge had unmasked him as an Oxonian, so that he could no longer pass himself off as cheap-jack of the caravan. "Yes, I belonged to Magdalen, sir," he owned up, stepping out of the porch and covering his head. "Had you not seen this, I would not tell you so much. I am in a different walk of life at present, Mr. Jarner, and my name is Dan." The clergyman looked at him with a slightly satirical expression on his full lips, and nodded. He quite understood the significance of the speech. "Keep your secret, friend Dan. I too have heard the chimes at midnight. You are at a frolicsome age, and why should not a man play the fool when the blood sings in his veins? But within reason--within reason." "Pagan sentiments, Mr. Jarner." "Pish, my dear sir! The sentiments of every healthy-minded man. So you are Dan? I have heard of you and of your caravan in the dell. Come across and crack a bottle with me." "What! port at four o'clock in the afternoon, and after the Red Deer ale? Do you take me for a four-bottle man, sir?" Jarner cracked his whip at the dogs, who all three set up a barking chorus. Bent upon offering hospitality, he was not to be daunted by the first refusal. "Then I'll give you good ale. That won't hurt you. By St. Beorl who built this church, I must have a chat with you. For thirty years I have been buried here, and not once have I met with a student of my old college. This day shall be marked with a white stone. That is Horace, sir, but I won't give you the Latin of it, as my classics, like my manners, have become somewhat rusty." Considerably diverted by the speech of this hospitable divine, Dan accepted the invitation, and they walked across to the vicarage. The door was wide open, and, followed by the dogs (who evidently had the right of entry), Jarner led his guest into a snug little room filled with old-fashioned furniture. There was a wide casement, in the depths of which was a parlour seat. The fireplace was large and old-fashioned, the shelves round the walls were filled with books in a more or less tattered condition, and there was a mahogany table ringed over with the bottoms of tumblers. Evidently that table had seen some hard drinking in the long winter nights. Over all there was a jovial air of untidy hospitality. Even before he spoke, Dan guessed that his new friend was unmarried. That parlour was eloquent of the absence of the female element at the vicarage. "Bachelor Hall, sir," said the parson, casting hat and hunting-crop into a corner. "Sit in that chair by the window. It is the most comfortable, and is only permitted to be used by favoured guests." "And why am I thus favoured?" replied Dan, dropping into a chair. "Because you are a nursling of Magdalen, sir," thundered the divine, with a laugh on his jolly red face. "There is Alma Mater herself over the fireplace--the quadrangle, and the tower askew. Ah me!" continued he, shaking his head pensively at the picture, "what days those were thirty years ago! Where are all the good fellows with whom I consorted in the time when Plancus was consul, and still---- But here comes the ale, Dan! Let me froth you a tankard, and we'll drink to the old college, sir, and to our better acquaintance." Not feeling equal to the task of emptying the silver pot presented to him, Dan bravely drank half, but Jarner did not set down his tankard till it was empty. Then he sighed, thumped himself with vigour, and nodded towards the mantelpiece. "Try a churchwarden," said he, persuasively. "Thank you, sir, I'll stick to my briar," answered Dan; and each having chosen his pipe, they smoked amicably together. "Briars smoke sweet," observed the former, using his little finger as a stopper, "but to my mind they don't come up to a churchwarden. I always smoke churchwardens, for," he added, with a twinkle in his little eyes, "being a clergyman, it is but right that I should affect a pipe with a clerical name." As in duty bound, Dan laughed at the old gentleman's joke, and then began to put cautious questions with a view to finding out all he could about Meg and her father. Jarner was very communicative, and replied frankly. The discovery that Dan was an Oxonian like himself warmed his heart towards the young fellow, and he did not regard him quite in the light of a stranger, though he knew nothing about him. Dan might have been an unconscionable scamp, and Jarner would not have seen through him. He was a simple, kindly old fellow, in spite of his strong ale and terriers and bluster. See, then, what freemasonry there is in Oxonianism. A coined word is necessary here, as no other can adequately describe the parson's attitude towards the tramp. "You have lived here for thirty years, Mr. Jarner?" "For thirty years, sir. I have charge of three parishes within a radius of twenty miles, and ride over to preach in one of them every second and third Sunday; the first I keep for Farbis." "How do the people live in this outlandish place?" "By weaving. Have you not seen the looms at work in the cottages?" "Well, yes; but I did not----" "See how inobservant is youth!" laughed Jarner, filling himself another tankard. "Don't be alarmed at my thirst, young man. I have been in the saddle for five hours to-day, over the hills at Silkon, where I met a friend of yours." "Indeed! I didn't know I had friends here." "Pooh! What about Tinker Tim? He is a warm admirer of you, sir, and thinks you a pretty light-weight fighter. Tim gave me a description of your battle in the dell. It was glorious--glorious! I should like to have been present." "Come to my camp, then, and I'll put on the gloves with you." "Not me--not me!" said Parson Jarner, wagging his large head. "Too old; and besides, I'm a vicar--must respect the cloth, young man!" "Well, to continue about Farbis. How do they get their bales of cloth away?" "There's a road over the hills by Farbis Court. The weavers here are a poor lot, and an infernally irreligious set. God forgive me for swearing!" "They seem healthy enough." "Oh yes 1 The air is good. They don't bother the doctor much." "Dr. Merle! I saw him the other day." Jarner faced round suddenly with a grave look on his face. "What do you think of him?" he asked doubtfully. "I think it is a pity he doesn't take example by De Quincey, and put away that decanter." "Oh, you saw that, did you? You have sharp eyes, young man. Yes, yes! it's a great pity. I've tried to break him off that laudanum-drinking, but it's no use; the man's a slave to the vice. I've straightened him out a dozen times, and he always doubles up again. Lord forbid that I should speak ill of my fellow-creatures, but Richard Merle's a poor white mouse of a creature!" "It is more than his daughter is." "Ta, ta! Hey! Have you met her?" "Two or three days ago." "She is a fine girl, sir. As honest and simple as can be. I am a hardened old bachelor, Dan, but my heart aches for the future of that poor creature." "Her father----" "Pooh, pooh! Tush! Don't talk to me, sir. He is worse than useless. The girl would have been ruined body and soul had she trusted to his fatherly care. I can say, without praising myself and Miss Linisfarne, that we have done our best for her. She is a noble creature, sir," continued the parson, vehemently, "and should be the mother of brave men and chaste women. But there, there! in this waste corner of the earth who is there to mate with her?" He sighed and finished his beer, then continued his speech after such pause. "I have often thought of asking Miss Linisfarne to take the lass to London and aid her to----" "No, no!" interrupted Dan, smartly, "do not let her go to town. A season would spoil her. It would destroy her charm of simplicity and candour. Believe me, my dear Mr. Jarner, it is best to let this woodland flower bloom here, and not to thrust it into the hothouse of an artificial civilization." "You take a great interest in the young lady, sir," said Jarner, dryly. "Do you think so, sir? It is pure philanthropy on my part, I assure you." Jarner looked steadily at him, but Dan met his eyes with so frank a face that he seemed satisfied of the young man's intentions. Nevertheless he tapped his breast meaningly. "Don't lose that, sir! Take care--take care!" "If you mean my heart, Mr. Jarner, there is no danger of my being so foolish. I can look after myself, and so can she. But to speak in a more general way--do you know if Dr. Merle has any dealings with Tim the Tinker?" "No, I can't say that I do. Why do you couple their names together, young man?" Dan meditated a few moments before replying. He was not prepared to communicate his suspicions to Jarner until he knew more about him. Unlike the confiding country divine, this haunter of cities was more cautious in unfolding himself to a new acquaintance. "I cannot answer your question at present, Mr. Jarner," he said at length, with some hesitancy; "but if you will do me the honour to visit my camp, I will explain myself, and ask your opinion on a certain matter." "Does it concern Meg?" asked Jarner, rendered serious by this speech. "Yes; it concerns Meg and--myself. No! pray don't ask me if I am in love with her. To-morrow I will tell you all." "At what hour shall I come?" "Say at noon. I am generally alone at that hour." Jarner accepted the invitation, and shook hands with his strange guest. Politeness forbade him to ask questions, else he might have done so. The whole tone of Dan's conversation was so mysterious that the simple gentleman was greatly puzzled and disturbed. CHAPTER XI. FARBIS COURT. The house built on the side of the hill was a dreary-looking place, standing in a park of no very great extent. Gloomy pine-woods rose above it, and the grounds appertaining to the mansion stretched below in a gentle slope towards the village. So sheltered was the park from sea-winds by reason of the depression of the ground, that therein flourished quite a forest in wild luxuriance. Oak, and sycamore, and beech, and elm, all lifted their giant boughs in the genial atmosphere, and formed a wood round the Court similar to that said to have environed the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. It was almost as impenetrable, and quite as wild in growth. Here the fecundation of Nature went on incessantly, unrestrained by the hand of man. Nothing was kept within bounds; so, untended and untouched, the forest--for, though of limited extent, it could be called by no other name--relapsed into its wild state. The trees crowded so thickly together that they almost excluded the sunlight. Parasites grew unchecked round the aged boles; wan grasses, uncoloured by the sun, sprang high and thick; while groves of saplings made the wood well-nigh impassable. Wild creatures dwelt in the undergrowth, undisturbed by sportsman or poacher, and overhead flocks of birds made the forest musical from sunrise to sunset. Here and there spread stagnant pools of water, choked with weeds, and almost hidden by broad-leaved lilies. And there were winding paths, overgrown with moss and grass, blocked by fallen tree-trunks, and barred to the most resolute pioneer by brushwood and tangled briars. Desolation ruled supreme throughout the deserted domain. From the rusty iron gates at the termination of the avenue up to the house itself stretched this jungle, and egress could only be obtained by means of the carriage-drive, which was in fairly good repair. Woods, and lawns, and flowerbeds, and paths were allowed to go to rack and ruin. For half a century Nature had done as she liked, with the result that Farbis Park became a wilderness. Only in tropical Africa could such savagery be paralleled. Nor was the house much better as regards care. Its long façade of red brick was reared on a substructure of terraces, whence wide flights of steps led downward to neglected lawn and gloomy forest. The trees had almost pushed their way to the balustrade of the terrace, and looked as though anxious to stifle the mansion in their close embrace. There were ranges of staring windows, turrets and gables and towers, sloping roofs and twisted chimney-stacks. Moss grew in the chinks of the bricks, many of the windows were broken, and here and there a crazy shutter swung noisily by one hinge. The coat of arms over the porch was mouldering and defaced; the steps leading to the iron-bound door were broken and timeworn. But that smoke issued from the chimneys in the daytime, and that lights gleamed from the windows by night, one would have deemed the great mansion uninhabited. Yet Miss Linisfarne dwelt therein. But her existence was one of more than conventual seclusion, and she herself decayed with the decaying woods and house. Long since had the Farbis folk ceased to wonder who she was, and why she had buried herself in so lonely a dwelling. Many of the villagers remembered that stormy December day, more than twenty years ago, when a travelling carriage crossed the moors, and brought a handsome young woman to that ill-omened house. From the time she arrived at Farbis, Miss Linisfarne had never left it again, but dwelt at the Court in solitary state, unfriended, almost unvisited. Parson Jarner and Meg were alone permitted to cross her threshold. No villager was invited to the kitchen of Farbis Court, nor did the servants mix with those who dwelt without the gates. It was surmised that there was some mystery connected with the persistent seclusion of Miss Linisfarne, but no one was clever enough to guess what the mystery might be. The general opinion was that the tenant of the Court had committed a crime, and had of her own free will condemned herself to a solitary life in expiation thereof. But this was a mere rumour, and unsupported by facts. If, as it was hinted, Parson Jarner knew the reason for this penitential life, never by word, or deed, or look did he reveal such unholy knowledge. No Sphinx could be more secretive than this simple divine when it so pleased him, therefore the villagers had little chance of having their curiosity gratified in that direction. The vicar paid frequent visits to the recluse, and always returned therefrom with a meditative air and frowning brow. His flock wondered at this, wondered at Miss Linisfarne's seclusion, wondered at everything connected with the Court, till after the lapse of a decade the novelty of the thing wore itself out, and they ceased wondering altogether. Yet they were constantly on the watch for the happening of some untoward event, and hoped, not without reason, to some day know the truth. Miss Linisfarne, being an invalid, was usually confined to one apartment--a great drawing-room which overlooked the terrace. During the early years of her exile--for so she termed it--she had enjoyed perfect health, and then drove frequently through the village on her way up the winding road to the moors. She had even strolled about the park, in those places where the savage wildness of the place permitted her to walk with comparative ease. Now all was changed. She never went beyond the gates, nor did she walk in the grounds, but when not lying on her couch, paced languidly up and down the terrace, or, if the weather was bad, exercised her feeble limbs in the picture-gallery. Can you conceive a more pitiful picture than that of this lonely figure wandering through the corridors, and galleries, and vast rooms of this desolate house? With such a tenant dwelling amid such surroundings, it was little to be wondered at that the Court gained the reputation of being haunted. Miss Linisfarne was reported to be wealthy, but not all the treasures of Solomon would have tempted a Farbis man to penetrate the mansion after dark. And this same superstition preserved the Court from the intrusion of the villagers either as visitors, beggars, or burglars. They dreaded even to pass the gates after dusk, and with fertile imagination began to weave strange stories of the lonely lady in the lonely house. Parson Jarner discouraged these tales, and reproved the tellers, but notwithstanding his prohibition, Farbis folk still held to their opinions. They declared that the Court was haunted, that Miss Linisfarne was a witch, that orgies were held in the empty rooms at midnight, and that cries of tortured women and of dying men could be heard at night. With such fancies did the villagers beguile the winter evenings over their fires. Superstition was strangely ingrained in the nature of the Farbis folk, and all Parson Jarner's arguments failed to eradicate their deeply rooted beliefs. The drawing-room, wherein Miss Linisfarne was generally to be found, was a vast apartment in the right-hand corner of the house. Eight French windows opened on to the front terrace, and five oriels at the side overlooked a sea of green, for here the forest rolled its leafy waves up to the very walls of the mansion. This apartment possessed a polished floor, which was strewn with bright-hued mats from the looms of Ispahan. Scattered sparsely through the room were chairs with cushions of faded satin, oval tables of rosewood and walnut, laden with books long since out of print; also with strange carvings in ivory by Chinese artificers, pots of dried rose-leaves, and glass-shaded wax flowers. Sofas of classical shape, designed during the first Empire of France, were stiffly set against the walls. Overhead the oval roof was frescoed with paintings of mythological subjects, and on the walls hung dark oil pictures and gilt-framed mirrors. Faded curtains draped the windows, and so excluded the light that the vast room was constantly filled with shadows. Over all lay the grey dust undisturbed for years. It was an eerie-looking place, and there was something terrifying about the large hollow empty space. Ghosts only could fitly inhabit its gloom and desolation. Near one of the oriel windows Miss Linisfarne lay on her couch. Here there was an attempt at comfort. A square of carpet faced the sofa, and was met at its outer borders by a gaudy Japanese screen, which converted the spot into a tiny room. A work-table stood close at hand, and near it an armchair was placed, while a revolving bookcase gave a touch of modernity to the nook. Here, in this oasis of comfort, Miss Linisfarne worked, and read, and fretted, and thought. It was at once her home and her prison. At times her hands would fall idly on her lap, and her eyes would wander from book or work to gaze out of the oriel at the green ocean of trees which isolated her dwelling. God alone knows what were her thoughts during those melancholy musings. Of nothing bright, you may be sure, for Mariana in her Moated Grange was less solitary than this woman with the sad eyes. A cloud of mystery, of dread, of horror, hung over the house and its occupant. No wonder the superstitious villagers avoided the unholy spot. House and women were accursed. Look at her as she lies there, with the light of the afternoon on her countenance. Can you not see how she has suffered--how mental torture has worn her face thin; how it has imprinted lines upon her brow, and laced her golden hair with threads of grey? She can count but forty-seven years, and yet she is an aged woman; for grief is even more powerful to destroy than time. The light has long since left those mournful eyes, the roses have long since faded from those worn cheeks, and the mouth is now set in fretful lines which were not there in early days. The features alone retain their beauty. Her straight nose, curved lips, firmly moulded chin, and high forehead are as if carved in ivory, for long seclusion from fresh air and tinting sunlight has imparted a yellowish hue to the skin. And the countless wrinkles round the mouth, under the eyes, and across the forehead, tell their own tale of mental agonies, of tearful hours, of sleepless nights. Sorrow had set her unmistakable seal on the face, and had rendered it haggard before its time. Wan countenance, inert figure, listless hands, and hopeless looks--a mournful spectacle this of sadness and despair. Yet she was still careful of her dress. No fault could be found with the grey silk tea-gown, adorned with lace at wrists and throat, or with the dainty slipper on the slender foot. Grey as was her hair, yet the undying coquetry of the feminine nature impelled her to coil it smoothly, and scatter it in crisp curls. When her hands moved, diamond rings glittered on the fingers, and her lean wrists were encircled with costly bracelets. She was aged before her time, she was lonely, she was filled with despair; but the woman in her still bade her tire her head, deck herself with gems, clothe herself in rich garments, and make the most of what was left to her. Meg sat in the armchair close to the couch. A greater contrast than the exuberant vitality of this girl, beside the etiolated looks of the elder woman, can scarcely be imagined. Bright eyes, rosy cheeks, restless hands--there was life in every movement; while Miss Linisfarne, listless and weary, looked as though the blood were stagnant in her veins. The girl still wore her rough serge dress, and her heavily shod feet looked clumsy beside the dainty slimness of Miss Linisfarne's slippers. Her hair was roughened by the wind, her hands were brown and scarred, and she spoke in a clear hearty voice, which contrasted strongly with the faint tones of her hostess. She brought into the room a breath of the woodlands, an odour of earth, of pine, of salt wave, and breezy down. Her very presence seemed to invigorate the pale invalid, who looked at her so kindly. As Antæus drew vigour from his parent earth, so did Miss Linisfarne draw fresh vitality from the animal healthfulness of her visitor. They were talking together on an interesting subject, and as the conversation went on, a flush crept into the cheeks of the elder woman, her eyes grew brighter, and her lips parted in a faint smile. The vitality diffused by Meg stirred the blood in her veins, and quickened the wan life to a semblance of health. So might Eurydice have regained health and life and sprightliness with every step she took from the kingdom of the dead. CHAPTER XII. THE PORTRAIT IN THE GALLERY. "So I gave him one of the rabbits," said Meg, concluding a long story of which Dan was the hero, "and he took it to his camp." "As a matter of fact, you provided his dinner," observed Miss Linisfarne, languidly. So far she had not taken much interest in the story. "I suppose so. Dan said he was fond of stewed rabbit." "No doubt. All gipsies are." "But Dan is not a gipsy!" said the girl, laughing. "He tries to be one, but fails. He is a gentleman." "My poor child, you must be making a mistake," replied the elder lady, in a pitying tone. "Gentlemen do not travel in caravans, or take rabbits from unknown young women." "This one does, Miss Linisfarne. I am sure I am right. Dan is a gentleman, and a very handsome one too." "Handsome!" echoed Miss Linisfarne, with a flush. "You did not tell me that, Meg. Describe his looks." "He is tall, with brown hair and moustache. His eyes are of a dark grey, and laugh with his lips. He is," said Meg, concluding this feminine description with a feminine epithet such as is to be found in the novels of the gentle sex--"he is a Greek god." "A most attractive person, according to your description. Are you sure your enthusiasm does not carry you away? For all I know, he may not be a bit better-looking than Parson Jarner. He also is a Greek god, though more like Silenus than Apollo." "Parson Jarner!" echoed Meg, in a tone of ineffable contempt. "Why, he is as old as old can be, and as red in the face and white in the hair as anything! Dan is really good-looking, like--like--oh," she cried, breaking off suddenly with a twinkle in her eyes, "I know who he is like." "What is the matter, child?" "Would you care to see Dan?" Miss Linisfarne shrank back on her couch with a quick sigh, and covered her face with her hands. "No! no!" she said in a low whisper; "how can you ask such a thing, child? I have seen no one but Mr. Jarner for years and years. I am dead--I am buried--I am forgotten. Do not bring a stranger to my sepulchre. Even this common wanderer must not see me as the wreck I am." Bather startled by this outburst, which she was far from expecting, Meg arose to her feet and bent over the couch with a pretty expression of penitence in her eyes. Gently she removed the hands hiding the face of her hostess. "You do not understand--you do not understand! It is not Dan himself I would show you, but his portrait." "His portrait!" repeated Miss Linisfarne, in blank astonishment. "Are you out of your mind, Meg?" "Come with me to the picture-gallery, and I will show you the portrait of Dan." Much bewildered by this invitation, Miss Linisfarne mechanically arose from the couch and linked her arm with that of Meg. She had not the remotest idea of what the girl meant to do, and so yielded to her curiosity. That the picture of a vagrant should be in Farbis Court picture-gallery seemed incredible. No portraits but those of the Breels hung there; and unless one of them had come to life again, she by no means understood how Meg intended to fulfil her promise. "You foolish child!" she said, with a low laugh. "This is some trick." "No, it is not. Come to the picture-gallery, and I will show you Dan." Thus adjured, Miss Linisfarne, leaning on Meg's shoulder, passed beyond the screen and across the polished floor of the room. They entered the hall, and slowly ascended the wide staircase. Miss Linisfarne was by no means strong, and, even with the assistance of her vigorous guest, found it impossible to move otherwise than at a snail's pace. At length they reached the gallery, which extended the whole length of the east wing, and here Meg paused before a portrait. "There!" she said, clapping her hands and laughing gaily, "that is Dan. The picture was painted three hundred years ago, but it is my caravan-owner for all that!" Miss Linisfarne looked steadily at the picture, which represented a handsome young man in Elizabethan costume. His face was, indeed, very like that of Dan, though naturally Miss Linisfarne was ignorant of such resemblance. Masterful look, firm lips, bold eyes--it was as though the painter of the portrait had transferred to his canvas the features of the vagrant. The more Meg looked at it, the more marked seemed the resemblance, and she glanced at Miss Linisfarne with a mischievous smile. "It is Dan," she repeated; "or else Dan is the ghost of Sir Alurde." "Sir Alurde is the original of this portrait, I know," said Miss Linisfarne; "but I am ignorant by what means a vagabond comes to resemble one of the proudest courtiers of Elizabeth. Are you sure the man you speak of resembles Sir Alurde?" "I am certain. See, here is a pencil-portrait, drawn from memory." She handed it to Miss Linisfarne, who glanced at it for a moment, and then looked around with a sigh of fatigue. "Bring me a chair, Meg, and place it before Sir Alurde's portrait. Thank you, child. I soon grow weary if I keep on my feet. Is this Dan's picture?" "Yes--from memory." "It is certainly very like the Elizabethan. But, as you have seen Sir Alurde's face some hundreds of times, and this vagabond's but once, I fancy you must unconsciously have drawn the countenance of the former." "No; I have drawn Dan's face. It is true," added Meg, demurely--"it is true that I have only spoken once to Sir Alurde's double, but I have seen him at least a dozen times. Often and often I have been hidden in the pine trees above his dell, and looked down on him without his knowing I was there. And sometimes I have sung songs and led him a dance through the wood, like Puck did the Athenian lovers. You yourself, Miss Linisfarne, said that I was quick at catching a likeness; and if that sketch is not as like Dan as Sir Alurde is like him, then call me--well, anything you please." "You foolish, foolish child!" said Miss Linisfarne, letting the sketch fall on her lap. "How can you indulge in such wild ways? Do you not know that you are twenty years of age, and must not act like an uneducated rustic?" "I am a rustic," replied Meg, smiling--"but not uneducated, thanks to you and Mr. Jarner. Oh," she continued, laughing at the recollection, "if you only had seen his face when I spoke like the villagers! He nearly fainted with surprise and horror." "I don't wonder at it," said Miss Linisfarne, severely. "You have no business to play such tricks. If this man is a gentleman, which I can hardly believe, he must have been shocked at your illiterate speech." "He was--very much shocked," assented Miss Merle, readily; "but I only spoke half a dozen words in the style of Audrey. Afterwards my language was most correct." "What did you converse about, child?" "I am afraid we talked nonsense! But as it was our first meeting, you can hardly wonder at that. He asked me to visit him in his dell." "You did not accept his invitation?" "Yes, I did! Why not? There is no harm in going there." The elder lady was nonplussed for the moment. Meg was so innocent and unsophisticated that it was really a matter of difficulty to set her right on some points. Miss Linisfarne did not wish to suggest anything detrimental to the character of the vagrant, if only because she did not think it advisable to put ideas into the mind of her _protégée_ which were not there already. She therefore evaded a direct reply, and spoke lightly, as though the matter were of no consequence. "My dear child, you must take care of your heart," she said, with forced gaiety. "I cannot have you falling in love with the first handsome scamp who comes to Farbis." "I fall in love!" laughed Meg. "What a funny idea! I don't think Dan is the kind of young man with whom I would fall in love. And then," she added reflectively, "I don't know what love is." "I hope you never will know," said Miss Linisfarne, vehemently. "Keep your heart free while you may, child. Love is a sweet poison which brings nothing but pain. Love!" she added, with a bitter laugh, "it is a curse--a curse, child, and not a blessing." "Were you ever in love, Miss Linisfarne?" The lady looked at the bright young creature before her, and a greyish pallor overspread her face. For some moments, as if not grasping the full purport of the question, she remained silent. When she did speak it was in a low dreamy voice, as though her thoughts were far away. "Yes, child! I loved once, but it led to nothing but madness and despair. He was a god in my eyes, as this vagrant is in yours. But his noble looks hid a base soul. He lied and plotted, and made me what I am. For his sake have I been condemned to this living tomb for these long, long, dreary years. I was young and fair when I came here. Look at me now--look at me now!" Overmastered by her passion, she rose to her feet and clenched her hands in impotent rage. Anger gave her momentary strength, and she paced up and down the long gallery like a panther in its cage. "There is no honour, no justice, no love, in this world!" she cried in a fierce voice. "Those who say there are such things lie. Who knows that better than I? To be tricked and betrayed and rendered unhappy--that is the lot of women. There is no hope for me--no escape. As I sowed, so have I reaped; and plentiful--plentiful has been the harvest of my sins. Child, child! go not near this man. Avoid him as you would a viper. If you neglect my warning----" She raised her hands in menace and looked at the girl. Something in Meg's face arrested the fury of her passion, and, letting her arms fall, she returned to her chair. It was not her duty to give Meg to eat of the tree of knowledge, and she abruptly stopped those confessions which hinted at sin and punishment. "Don't heed me, child--don't heed me," she said feverishly. "I talk at random. Bring this man here and let me see him. I will then be able to tell you if he is as you think. But I doubt it--I doubt it." "Will you see him, Miss Linisfarne?" "No, no! Bring him to this gallery. I dare not speak to him face to face, but view him from a distance. That will be sufficient for me! I love you, Meg, as though you were my own child, and would not have your heart tortured as mine has been. There, there! Go, child--go! Leave me here; I wish to be alone." Meg bent over her for a moment and kissed her cold forehead, then flitted rapidly away in obedience to the order. When her footsteps died away, Miss Linisfarne lifted her haggard face, and, clinging to the wall, advanced a few steps to where a mirror was placed. This gave back the reflection of a pale face, grey hair, and eyes filled with anguish. At the sight a moan escaped from her lips. "Oh, my lost beauty!" she sobbed; "oh, my lost beauty!" CHAPTER XIII. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. If Dan was disposed to envy the open-air life of the Romany, he certainly felt that there were drawbacks to such an existence. This other view of the question impressed itself forcibly on his mind as he sat in Mother Jericho's tent and heard the rain drumming on the roof. It was a rainy night, and the gipsies were all under shelter, though their wretched tents afforded but a poor protection against the rain. Through the chinks of the canvas the water persistently dripped, and formed little puddles on the floor. Mother Jericho, desirous of warmth, had lighted a fire at the door of her abode, and this filled the tent with acrid smoke. The flap at the entrance was fastened back to do away with this nuisance, but the entering wind drove the smoke inward, and made the inmates cough and rub their smarting eyes. Dan was the only guest, as Tim was absent from the camp. He had been away with his cart and donkey for two days, much to the regret of Dan, who wished particularly to see him. Indeed, it was principally on this account that he had left his comfortable waterproof caravan on this wild night and had come down to the gipsy camp. Anxious to question the tinker concerning his connection with Dr. Merle, the vagrant sought an interview, but, to his disappointment, found no one in the tent but Mother Jericho. The old lady welcomed him in a wheezy voice, and offered him the hospitality of her smoky abode. Dan accepted, as, in default of Tim, he thought he might pick up a few scraps of information from the old gipsy. In this he was mistaken. Mother Jericho was as close as an oyster when it so pleased her. The other gipsies--a dozen in all--were huddled in two caravans, and were more comfortable than the head of the tribe. She, a conservative Romany, preferred the privacy of her own tent to the innovation of sheltering under a tin roof, and coughed and choked over her own particular fire. It was a pitiful spectacle to see this old woman crouching over a few embers in the vain hope of getting warm. Dan pitied her greatly, and said as much when under shelter. To his surprise, his sympathy was received with anything but gratitude. "I'm well enough, dearie," croaked Mother Jericho, piling on more sticks. "Bless ye, young man, I'm used to this. I can't abear to be cooped up in a Gorgio house. Hawks and eagles don't roost in farmyards, as I knows of." Dan put a corner of his coat over the shivering Peter who was curled up beside him, and wondered how the old creature could exist amid such wretched surroundings. For the moment he forgot that ardent love of liberty which is the strongest characteristic of the gipsies, and which to them is ample compensation for the miseries which they endure in their wandering existence. In Mother Jericho he saw no romantic queen of a wild race, but merely a frail old woman who should be bestowed in an almshouse, where she could be looked after and protected from want and cold. Such comfort would have been more unpalatable to her than leaky tent and smoky fire. "Wouldn't you like to have a good house and a little money?" he said persuasively, revolving philanthropic schemes for the bettering of her misery. "Young man, I have money," replied Mother Jericho, with great dignity. "I could buy a caravan if I chose, but the tent's good enough for me. I was born in one, dearie, I've lived all my life in one, and I'll die in a tent." "But you would be more comfortable in a house." "No, dearie, no! It 'ud kill me." "But this," said Dan, rubbing his eyes, which smarted with the pungent smoke--"this is worse. You can't live here. It will kill you." "I've lived like this for eighty years, child, and it's not at my time of life that folks change. You are a Gorgio gentleman, and like to live in a fine house; I am a Romany, and the tent is my home." "Are you happy?" "Quite happy, dearie--quite happy, though I don't deny as my pipe wants filling." Willing to alleviate her discomfort in some small degree, Dan gave her a fill of tobacco, and she was soon adding more smoke to the already foggy atmosphere. When she spoke her voice sounded as from a cloud, for Dan could not even catch a glimpse of her face, so thickly rolled the blinding smoke between them. "That's better, dearie--much better," piped the voice from the cloud. "Wha-a! there ain't nothing like terbaccer for comfort--unless," added she artfully, "it's summat to warm the inside." Interpreting this hint in its right sense, Dan passed along his flask, and heard her smacking her withered lips over the whisky. He wished to soften her heart before asking questions; and having, as he thought, done so by these gifts, proceeded to business. Dan was not without diplomacy, but it proved worthless in this instance. "I thought Tim would be back to-night," said he, replacing the flask in his pocket. "Did ye, now?" whined Mother Jericho, crossly. "Well, he ain't. He's with the Hernes for a day, dearie. When he comes back I'll tell him ye asked for him." "When will he come back?" "To-morrow, or the next day, young man. Why d'ye want to see him?" "Just for companionship. It's lonely up at the dell." A grunt proceeding from the smoke showed that Mother Jericho did not put much faith in this assertion. After poking the fire, she spoke again. "Company ye want, child! Haven't ye better company nor the poor gipsies?" "No; I have no one to speak to." "Tim said ye met her at the Gates of Dawn." "Oh, the lady of your prophecy," said Dan, lightly. "Yes, I certainly did meet her; but I can hardly ask a young lady like Miss Merle to visit me." "Ho!" croaked Mother Jericho, maliciously, "ye'll have enough of her some day." "Pish! I don't believe in your prophecy. I choose my wife for myself, not at your bidding." "Fate is stronger than either of us, rye! I read your fortune in your hand, in the stars, and by the cards----" "Well?" said Dan, seeing she had not completed the sentence. "Well," echoed the old woman, "they all agree. Two women shall love ye, and ye shall love one--the first you met." "That means Meg! She is beautiful enough to make any man love her, but as yet my heart is untouched." "Ho, ho, young man! I'm not blind." Not caring to argue the question, Dan shifted his ground. "Who is the other woman?" "You'll meet her at the hour. She ain't far off. Fire and flame and brave deeds," continued she, dreamily. "A fine skein Fate reels off for ye, my son." "You seem to have arranged everything ahead," said Dan, pointedly. "No, dearie, no! It is written." "Indeed! Then what has Dr. Merle to do with it?" The question evidently took the old creature somewhat aback, for she did not answer immediately. When she again took part in the conversation, it was to feign a stupidity for the purpose of evading a direct reply. "Dearie me! How my head do swim! Was it Dr. Merle ye talked of just now, young man?" "Yes. Do you know him?" "Bless ye, child, what would I do running arter a Gentile doctor? When I aches or pains, I brew my own drinks from herb and root." "You must have seen him, at all events," persisted Dan, taking no notice of her evasion. "Oh yes, I've seen him. He is only a child. D'ye call him a man?" "No, I don't. He is a slave to his vice." "Fond of drinking, ain't he, dearie?" croaked Mother Jericho; "and it ain't whisky, nor gin, nor rum. No, no! I've heard of those brews which lift the soul from the body, and set it floatin' on golden seas. Bless ye, dearie, I have juice of a plant which can make you dream yourself into a kingdom. Ay, ay! 'Beasts of the field are ye,' say the Gentiles; but Mother Jericho and her Romany children know secrets of great power." There was evidently nothing to be learned from this cunning old woman, who maundered on about magic ceremonies and subtle arts without again touching on the subject of Merle. Vexed by his ill success, Dan clapped his hands smartly together to rouse her from such dreams, and spoke sharply and to the point. "Listen to me, mother. You and Tim and Dr. Merle have some scheme in your heads which concerns me." "May I die, young man, if I ever set eyes on you afore you came to Farbis." "That is not the question. For purposes of your own, you wish me to marry this Meg Merle." "Not I, dearie, nor Tim, nor the Gorgio. It's Fate, my rover." "I don't believe in Fate." "So ye said before, my blade. But the day will come when ye'll think of the poor gipsy-woman and her wise words." "Pshaw! You are trying to evade an answer. Who is Meg Merle?" "Hey? Speak up, young man; I'm deaf." "You obstinate old creature!" muttered Dan, savagely. "Who is Meg Merle?" "Not so loud, dearie--not so loud! I hates such hollering. The young gentlewoman is a child of the Gentile doctor." "I know that, but----" "Then why d'ye ask? You have forgot your manners." She was evidently determined to say nothing, yet Dan felt convinced from her manner that she knew more than he did about Merle and Meg. All else failing, he tried bribery, and slipped half a crown into her hand. "Tell me what secrets there are between Tinker Tim and the doctor." "Secrets, dearie! How should I know? Ask them as has secrets to tell 'em, not poor old Mother Jericho as hasn't. Bless ye for a good young man! This silver will bring ye luck." "I wish it would bring me information," said Dan, annoyed by the failure. "Good night, mother." "Are ye going, dearie? Good night. I send fine dreams along wi' ye." Dan was too angry to thank her for the gift, and, swinging his lantern, marched out of the tent, followed by Peter. The provoking old creature chuckled as he disappeared, and piled fresh wood on the fire. "If ye want riddles read, young man, you must pay in gold. Silver!" she said, with great contempt. "A curse go with him for a greedy Gentile!" CHAPTER XIV DAN'S SECRET. All that night it rained heavily, but Dan woke next morning to find that the clouds had dispersed. He was later than usual, and the sun was already over the rim of the sea. The dell was chilly and dripping with damp, while the ground was moist, and the pine trees were of a fresh green hue. In the silent hours the world had been thoroughly cleansed, and there was a new vigour in the air which caused the blood to speed more rapidly through his veins. The rain had drawn perfumes from the bosom of the earth, and the dell smelt like a garden of spices, and smoked with vapour like a sacrificial altar. Having taken the precaution to keep some wood in his caravan, he soon had a brisk fire burning, and forthwith proceeded to prepare breakfast. Owing to the lateness of the hour, and a timely remembrance that the heavy rains probably rendered the paths too slippery for Simon, he did not go down for his usual swim, but pottered about till noon, at which time he expected the vicar. To do honour to his guest, Dan made due preparation, and when the sun was up over the backbone of the ridge, found that there was nothing wanting save the presence of his visitor. His occupation being thus gone, he sat on a log beside his fire, and meditated over a pipe concerning the conversation of the previous night. There were many things to consider touching his position. So far he had not advanced one step in proving that his doubts had any foundation in fact. If there was any understanding between the gipsies and Dr. Merle--if Miss Linisfarne was connected at all with the affair--he could not decide without proof, and proof there was none. He felt sure that Mother Jericho held the key to the riddle which so perplexed him, but she was too cunning to reveal aught likely to be of use in elucidating the mystery. At times Dan felt disposed to think that his fears were groundless, that he was making a mountain out of a molehill; but when he again ran over the occurrences of the last week in his mind, he became sure that his instinct was right. There was something going on of which he knew nothing, It concerned himself and Meg Merle, but in what way he could by no means decide. Such hidden doings made him uneasy, after the fashion of men who ever fear the unseen. Under these circumstances he judged it advisable to consult Jarner, and ask his advice. The old vicar was a man of great common sense, and from his long residence in Farbis was well acquainted with those whom Dan suspected. He knew Miss Linisfarne; he had some knowledge of Dr. Merle; and, in their occasional visits to Farbis, he doubtless was aware of the gipsies' characters. With such knowledge, helped out by information on certain points from Dan, the truth might be pieced together. Failing Jarner, Dan did not know to whom to apply for assistance. "Yes," he decided, springing to his feet and pacing the dell, "I shall confide in Jarner, and tell him who I am. The knowledge of my name may assist him to an explanation; though what I can possibly have to do with these mysteries it is impossible to say. But there is no doubt that Tim, Mother Jericho, Merle, and Miss Linisfarne have an understanding together. As to Meg, she is as innocent and as ignorant as I. Jarner alone can help me; and when I confess my identity, I have no doubt he will tell me his story, or, rather, the stories of Merle and Miss Linisfarne." His thoughts halted at the last name, and turned off in the direction of Farbis Court and its strange tenant. She puzzled him more than did the others. "I must see her," he muttered thoughtfully. "Jarner may be able to take me there; or, failing him, I shall ask Meg to help me. Once I am face to face with her and I may learn something. Pshaw! I am deluding myself with shadows. Perhaps no mystery exists save in my imagination. Well, at all events, I shall confide in Mr. Jarner. His common sense will either dispel the shadows or turn them to reality." While thus soliloquizing after the manner of solitary men, he became aware that a dog-fight was in progress. Jarner's terriers were assaulting Peter in his own dell, and the three combatants were rolling over on the miry ground in a confused mass. Dan, seeing that Peter was outmatched, shut him up in the caravan for safety, and then turned to greet his visitor. The vicar did not immediately respond to his welcome, being busily engaged in correcting the terriers. His hunting-crop was in full play, and Peter answered the howls of his late antagonists from the caravan. At length quiet was restored, and Jarner, wiping the perspiration off his face, shook Dan by the hand. As for the terriers, they retreated to a safe distance and sat down with the air of martyrs. "By St. Beorl!" said Jarner, making use of his favourite expression, "fox-terriers are the most quarrelsome of dogs. Never a day passes without my rascals getting into a scrape." "They resent Peter as a trespasser, no doubt," replied Dan, equably. "I am glad to see you, sir. Sit down on this log, and make yourself at home." "Whew! It's no easy task for a man of my years to climb these hills. I am too flabby for such exertion. So this is your abode for the present?" "Yes. Sufficiently comfortable, don't you think?" "Hum! Sheltered enough; but for my part, sir, I should not care about camping out in such weather as we had last night." "Oh, I was safe in my caravan. But you must be hungry, and the midday meal is ready. I've scratched together some edibles, but I am afraid the fare is rough." "Bottled beer, sausages, cold beef! I must say, young man, that you know how to make yourself comfortable." "We learn other things at Magdalen besides the lore of the schools," said Dan, smiling. "I am not a believer in hermit's fare." Mr. Jarner nodded, to intimate that he was of the same mind, and set to work on what was before him. Dan assisted with no mean appetite, and for the next half-hour they ate, drank, and were merry. Vicar and vagrant fraternized famously, and by the time their pipes were lighted were on the most friendly terms. Pleasure over, they proceeded to business. "Well, sir," said Jarner, looking curiously at his host, "I am here in response to your invitation. What have you to say?" "Many things, Mr. Jarner. I am afraid I roused your curiosity the other night." "I don't deny it, Dan. Why did you couple the name of Merle with that of Tinker Tim?" "Because I believe they have an understanding together." "Humph! An understanding about what?--about whom?" "That is the very thing I wish to find out, Mr. Jarner. It concerns Meg." The vicar suddenly raised his eyes and examined Dan's face with the closest attention. He looked puzzled and thoughtful. "It concerns Meg," he repeated slowly. "Ay, ay; and in what way?" "That I can't say. Now, you----" "I am afraid I can give you no assistance," said Jarner, a trifle stiffly. "So far as I know, there can be no connection between the gipsies and the doctor. What are your grounds for such a belief?" "I was talking to Dr. Merle about his daughter, and suggested in a jocular way that if he found the young lady difficult to manage, he should ask Miss Linisfarne to adopt her." "And what did he say to that?" "He turned as white as paper, and asked me if Tim had told me anything." "Strange--very strange!" said the vicar, reflectively. "What did he mean by such a remark?" "I wish to find that out," repeated Dan for the second time. "For what reason, may I ask?" "Well," said the other, reflectively, "it sounds somewhat egotistical, but I have an idea that there is something going on between the gipsies, Dr. Merle, and Miss Linisfarne which concerns me." "Concerns you!" repeated Jarner, in surprise. "Why, what can a stranger like yourself have in common with such people?" "Nothing that I know of. But perhaps I had better tell you how I came here, and leave you to judge for yourself." "I am all attention," said the vicar, seriously, laying down his pipe, "and I must confess that I am curious to know who you are." "That is easily answered," returned Dan, smiling. "I am Lord Ardleigh." Jarner rose to his feet, with an expression of blank astonishment in his rubicund face. The information took him completely by surprise. He had guessed long ago that Dan was a gentleman, but never for a moment dreamt that he was a man of title. "Lord Ardleigh," he repeated slowly--"the owner of Farbis Court?" "That identical person, Mr. Jarner." The vicar pinched his nether lip between finger and thumb. A frown passed over his face, and he looked curiously at the nobleman. "Why are you masquerading as a cheap-jack, my lord?" "For no unworthy purpose, I assure you, sir. Sit down, and I will tell you my story, though it must be confessed it is the most prosaic of tales." Having picked up and relighted his pipe, Jarner resumed his seat on the log. Though controlling all outward expression of his feelings, he was uneasy at the revelation lately made. A lord masquerading as a vagrant was too much out of the ordinary course of things for him to accept it without disturbance. Ardleigh was the owner of Farbis Court, of Farbis village, and the patron of the living, yet Jarner gave him neither his hand nor a welcome. He was no truckler to rank, and first wished to hear the reason of the young man's visit before accepting him as a friend. Dan guessed his thoughts, and admired him all the more for such independence. "Lord Ardleigh----" began the vicar, when the other cut him short. "One moment, Mr. Jarner," he said coolly. "I have told you who I am because I wish for your assistance. But I do not want any one else to know; so please call me Dan, as you have hitherto done. Now, do not frown, my dear sir! I see you think my visit here is influenced by unworthy motives. I assure you that is a mistake. Hear my story before you condemn me, and meanwhile let us suppose that Ardleigh is in London, and call me Dan." There was a humorous smile on his lips as he made this speech, and the vicar was not proof against the charm of his manner. Instinct told him that the young man was to be trusted. "Well, then, Dan," said Jarner, his face clearing, "let me hear what you have to say." CHAPTER XV. RETROSPECTION. "You wish to know the reason of my being here, sir?" "Ay! It is not a common thing for a nobleman to masquerade as a commoner." "Then I must claim the merit of originality," said Dan, humorously. "I am but indulging in a freak. Have you ever read 'C[oe]lebs in Search of a Wife,' Mr. Jarner?" "Hannah More's book? Ay, long ago." "I am following the example of her hero. As Lord Ardleigh, it is my duty to take to myself a wife and beget heirs, the more especially as if I die the title goes to a scampish cousin of mine, who would drag it in the mud. Now, in London I found great difficulty in getting a wife." "Ho, ho! Pardon my laughter, Lord--I mean Dan--but you surely jest. With your title, looks, and wealth, you have but to pick and choose." "That might be; but among all the beauties of the season--of half a dozen seasons--I saw not one with whom I would care to pass my life. I do not regard marriage as a mere ceremony signifying nothing, but as the completion of a man's life, and am therefore hard to please in my choice of a mate." "Good, good! I am glad to see you consider the responsibilities of life. There is some sense in your head, young man." "All the women I met were more or less frivolous. They wanted my title, my money, but they did not love me for myself. Under these circumstances, I despaired of meeting one who would love me, and whom I could love. My fate was evidently not to be found in society, so I took the resolution of masquerading as a poor man, and going in search of a wife after the fashion of C[oe]lebs." "Have you been successful?" asked Jarner, gravely. "No! The lower orders have their faults as well as the upper classes. I have not yet found my ideal woman. With yonder caravan I have travelled for two summers through the land, and must confess that I like the life extremely well." "What brought you to Farbis, of all places?" "There, my dear sir, you lay your finger on a mystery. Three weeks ago I was camping some considerable distance from here, in the neighbourhood of gipsies. As usual, I fraternized with them, and they urged me to go to Farbis." "Did they give any reason?" "None, save that it was an interesting place. Of course they could not know me, or guess the object of my wanderings. They simply suggested Farbis; and as I remembered that I had a place here which I had never seen, it occurred to me that it would be interesting to turn aside and have a look at my property. I therefore accepted the hint given by the gipsies, and came here." "Pardon me, sir, but so far I see nothing mysterious." "Wait a moment, Mr. Jarner. Hardly had I set foot in this place when my fortune was told to me by Mother Jericho. She said I would meet with my fate at the Gates of Dawn. I went down to the beach next morning and met Meg. Tinker Tim came here and did battle with me. He observed that none other than I should have her; and this oracular sentence, I believe, applies also to Meg. Then I visited Dr. Merle, and he makes that strange remark about Tinker Tim which included a reference to Miss Linisfarne. Now then, sir," pursued Dan, laying his forefinger in the palm of his hand, "look at all these things together--the guiding of my footsteps to this place through gipsy suggestion, the prophecy of Mother Jericho, the remark of Tim, the fear of Dr. Merle and the allusion to Miss Linisfarne. What do you make of all these things, Mr. Jarner?" The vicar scratched his head and stared at the fire. He was gifted with unusual perspicuity, and the linking together of so many circumstances certainly seemed strange. There was ground for Dan's suspicions, and yet Jarner could not quite see how matters stood. He frowned, and spoke with marked hesitancy. "All such things might be coincidences. I own it is strange that the gipsies should so mix themselves up in your plans; but the whole circumstances are so intangible, that I do not see what inferences you can draw from them." "It seems to me, Mr. Jarner, that Meg is connected with the gipsies in some way, and that they wish me to marry her." "Pooh, pooh! For what reason?" "Ah! there you have me, sir." "They cannot possibly know your name," said Jarner, doubtfully, "unless you told the----" "I told no one. One man only knows of my wanderings, and he is London. To the gipsies I must appear simply as a cheap-jack, or at the best as a broken-down gentleman. Not at all a good match for Diana of Farbis." "True enough," said the vicar, smiling at the classical allusion; "and, moreover, I do not see why they should interest themselves in the girl. It is true that she is friendly with them, and often visits their camp, but gipsies do not as a rule trouble themselves about the Gorgios. Yes, I agree with you, Dan; it is certainly very strange." "Well, leaving our Romany friends out of the question--what has Dr. Merle to do with Miss Linisfarne? Why should he turn pale at the mention of her name?" "You ask me riddles, sir," said Jarner, with a vexed air--"riddles which I cannot answer. Dr. Merle has nothing to do with Miss Linisfarne. He has not even seen her." "You astonish me. He is a doctor, and she an invalid." "All the same, he has steadily refused to attend to her, although she has sent frequently for him. Miss Linisfarne remains shut up in the Court, and only sees myself and Meg; but the father of the girl has never crossed her threshold." Dan looked at the speaker with an air of astonishment. These matters were quite beyond his comprehension. So far as he could judge, matters were getting more mysterious than ever. "More mysteries," said he, smiling. "Really, Mr. Jarner, I am beginning to be interested in Farbis. Who is Dr. Merle? How long has he been in these parts?" "For fifteen years. He arrived with his daughter when she was a year old." "So long! And has he always lived this solitary life?" "Always. The man has some trouble on his mind, and strives to stifle memory by indulging in opium. He attends sometimes to the villagers, but for the most part remains secluded. Who he is I cannot say; but he must have money, even to live in the poor way he does. His village patients pay no fees, nor does he demand any. It is my impression that he has isolated himself for some circumstance connected with his early life. What it can be I do not know, as he has never confided in me. I see him sometimes, but he does not encourage my visits." "And Meg?" "She, poor child, was growing up in absolute ignorance, till I expostulated with Merle and gained his permission to take charge of her. All she knows is due to my teaching, but for the softer graces of education she is indebted to Miss Linisfarne." "How was it that Miss Linisfarne took an interest in her, when Dr. Merle refused to go to Farbis Court?" "It was my doing," said the vicar, simply. "I saw that though I could teach the girl to read, write, cipher, and all the rest of it, she required the training of a woman at the hands of one of her own sex. Miss Linisfarne was wretched in her isolation, so, in the hope of employing her mind, I suggested that she should aid me to educate Meg. I am glad to say that she was pleased to oblige me, and, with her father's permission, the girl went daily to the Court. Miss Linisfarne has taught her French and Italian; also painting and needlework and embroidery." "And you?" "I have taught her reading, writing, arithmetic, and all necessary things that a well-educated girl should know. From me she has also learnt how to shoot, fence, ride, and fish and swim. Taking her for all in all, Lord Ardleigh, I do not think you will find a better-educated girl anywhere. What she knows, she knows thoroughly; and, for the rest, is an upright, honest creature, whom I regard as my daughter. True as steel, beautiful as Hebe, and as well educated as any of your advanced bluestockings who shriek about the equality of woman with man." "She is indeed a splendid creature, vicar. But her religious----" "Sir," said Mr. Jarner, gravely, "can you think that I, a priest of the Church, would neglect the welfare of her soul? She is a member of our Church, and has received the Communion at my hands. I have never known her to tell a lie, and her heart is excellent. Many a case of distress has she relieved, and her influence with Miss Linisfarne has ever been exercised for the benefit of the poor and needy. Gipsies or no gipsies," added the vicar, raising a ponderous finger and shaking it at Dan, "you could not find a woman more fitted for your wife--ay, lord though you be, sir, and she a rustic maiden." Lord Ardleigh coloured under the steady gaze of the old man, and laughed in a somewhat embarrassed fashion. "According to the gipsies, and to what you say, it seems I have met with my fate. She is very beautiful, and all that is desirable; but----" "But you don't love her? Of course not! You have only met her once." "I don't say that I don't love her," protested Dan. "Then you do love her?" said the vicar, eagerly. "I don't say that either." "What, what! No evasion, sir, or I shall deem you unworthy of my friendship," thundered the vicar. "Either you love her or you do not. Which is it?" "I can't say, vicar. I am in a state of betwixt and between." Mr. Jarner looked steadily at the young lord, who met his gaze with the utmost frankness, and at length put out his hand, which the vicar grasped heartily. That was all; these two fine natures understood each other without words. The brow of the vicar cleared, and Dan smiled genially. Then they talked of other things. "About Miss Linisfarne, sir," asked Dan, after a pause--"what do you know about her?" "Just as much as I know about Merle. She came down here twenty and more years ago, and took up her abode in Farbis Court. Why, I do not know, though I have asked her frequently the reason of such isolation. She was then young and beautiful, but is now a wreck of her former self. But you, my lord--you are the landlord; you----" "I know nothing of her," said Ardleigh, hastily. "The Court was let to her in my father's time, when I was a little lad. She is a good tenant, and pays her rent regularly, so when I came into the estate she remained at the Court. I am as ignorant as you of her past." "Strange, strange!" muttered the vicar. "Here are two people who have retired from the world, and isolated themselves in this wretched place. What their secrets are I know not, as they keep them locked up in their own breasts. Ah! my dear young friend, how true it is that we mortal millions live alone!" He wagged his head solemnly over this remark, and prepared to take his departure. Dan escorted him up the dell as far as the top of the ridge. "I must think over what you have told me," said the vicar, shaking hands, "and will let you know what conclusion I come to. I agree with you that there is some mystery in all this, but at present I see no way of discovering what it may be. Come and see me soon, my lord." "Dan!" corrected the other, smiling. "Dan be it. Come and see me, Dan, and we will talk over matters. If you discover anything new, let me know of it. I am always at home in the evenings, and you will find a hearty welcome." "I won't forget your invitation; but I wish, vicar, you would introduce me to Miss Linisfarne." "I cannot do so without her permission, but I shall see. Of course, as Lord Ardleigh, you can call." "No doubt," replied Dan, dryly; "but I don't intend to call as Lord Ardleigh. Keep my secret, sir, until such time as I choose to reveal myself." Mr. Jarner nodded and moved away, leaving Dan alone on the summit of the ridge. The young man's eyes were turned towards Farbis Court, and then slowly travelled across the hollow till they rested on Dr. Merle's house. He shook his head. "There is some connection between those two houses," he murmured. "I shall not leave Farbis till I find out what it is." CHAPTER XVI. AFTERNOON TEA. If Dan had hoped to lead a solitary life he found out his mistake at the end of his first week's camping. It became known far and wide that he was of a hospitable nature, with the result that the dell was visited frequently by all the idle scamps in the neighbourhood. Some came with aggressive looks and demanded money, and food, and clothes, and Heaven only knows what else; but Dan disposed of these folk by offering to fight them. As they rarely cared to accept the challenge, they left speedily, with many curses, and those who did engage were thoroughly thrashed, so in the end such ruffians gave the dell a wide berth. Never was the Augean stable swept cleaner than was the dell of bullies and rogues and would-be thieves, by its muscular occupant. The gipsies often looked in to see how he was getting on, but these were privileged guests. Dan had partaken of their bread and salt, so was by no means chary of his own; moreover, they were instinctively polite, and never by any chance stole his belongings. He was therefore glad to see their brown faces, and made them heartily welcome. They were charmed to think that the great gentleman--as they insisted on calling Dan--should affect the life of the road, and, had he but known the Romany tongue, would doubtless have accepted him as their brother. But Dan had other things to think of besides learning the black language, and so there remained a gulf between him and the vagrants. He was with them but not of them. When the villagers straggled up from Farbis, with looks of dull surprise at his comfortable camp, Dan did his best to put them at their ease. But the bucolic character does not lend itself readily to friendly intercourse, and he gave up the task in despair. They ate and drank at his expense, grinned and wondered, but never ventured to offer an opinion. Between such and the keen-faced gipsies there was a difference as wide as that between eagle and barn-door fowl. Dan grew weary of their dull company, and gave them to understand as much, so they gradually ceased to persecute him with visits. Mother Jericho, Tim, and Parson Jarner were constantly in the dell both by day and by night; but Meg never came, though over four days had elapsed since their meeting. At length she made her appearance late in the afternoon, and found Dan making ready to visit the gipsy camp. When he saw her coming down the path he changed his mind, and, cap in hand, went forward to receive her with all honour. "Welcome to the dell, Meg," said he, extending a hand ceremoniously; "permit me to lead you to a seat by the fire." "I thank you greatly, Sir Charles Grandison," she answered gravely, accepting the offer; and in such formal fashion was conducted to the log, where she sat down, and laughed. "Are you surprised to see me, Dan?" "Not at all! You promised to pay me a visit." "So I did; but I nearly changed my mind for lack of a chaperon." "What do you know of chaperons?" said Dan, with an amused smile. "We don't require such spoil-sports here." "Miss Linisfarne said it was wrong for me to visit you without an elderly lady to take charge of me," said the visitor, demurely. "Indeed!" replied Dan, feeling unaccountably nettled at this uncalled-for interference. "Then why did she not come herself?" "She never goes anywhere--poor soul," said Meg, with a sigh; "you must not be angry at her. I was only joking about a chaperon; I rather think I can look after myself." "I rather think so too," answered her host, glancing at the proud face of the young girl; "but, to quieten your scruples, let us call this dell Arcady. In Arcady chaperons are unneeded and unknown." "I hope tea and bread-and-butter are not unknown," said Meg, quaintly; "for I have been on the moors all day, and came here for the selfish purpose of begging a meal." "You shall have one fit for a queen. Order what you like, and I shall place it before you." "You are, then, the Genie of the Ring?" retorted Meg, laughing; "but I think I can place you at a disadvantage. Suppose I call for champagne and oysters?" "Oh, come, now, you must be reasonable. Though, indeed," added Dan, with a sudden remembrance of his cellar, "I can supply you with champagne. Oysters I have not--not even tinned ones." "No, no!" cried Meg, as he advanced towards the caravan. "Please do not trouble. I was only joking. I never tasted champagne in my life." "All the more reason that you should begin now." "Genie of the Ring," said Meg, gaily, "come back! I forbid you to give me anything stronger than tea. I shall have tea and bread-and-butter and jam." "What kind of jam?" asked Dan, laughing. "I like strawberry best." "Good! I can provide you with that. We will have afternoon-tea, Meg, after the fashion of high society." But no society tea could have been as pleasant as that meal in the open air beside the wood fire. The dell was filled with golden sunshine, and the blue sky arched itself like a hollow sapphire over the green trees. A gentle wind whispered through the leaves, and the drowsy voice of the distant sea boomed like the solemn notes of an organ. Singing birds were in the pine wood, swallows darted through the sky, and bees and grasshoppers and humming wasps made the dell vocal with murmurous sound. Dan counted that day as one of the most perfect of his life; one to be marked with a white stone. Meg was hungry, and not afraid of displaying her appetite. She made the tea with the assistance of Dan, and cut a pile of bread-and-butter, which in conjunction with the strawberry jam vanished like snow before them. It was a happy meal, for during its progress host and guest jested and laughed as though they had known each other all their lives. When the meal was ended Dan lighted his pipe and threw himself at Meg's feet as she sat on the log. He looked up into her wonderful eyes and began to feel that he was falling in love with this child of nature. But she, yet fancy-free, smiled innocently at his ardent gaze, and, overflowing with life and happiness, burst into song. "I was a maid of Arcady, And you a shepherd, brown and merry; We danced together o'er the lea, And plucked the rose and leaf and berry; For life was gay and sweet and free Within the vales of Arcady. "But, ah! those days are over, dear, And you and I are sadly parted; No longer make we merry cheer, But wander lonely, broken hearted; For life is sad and dark to me, So far from happy Arcady. "Yet, if the gods are kind, perchance Again will come the golden weather, And hand in hand we'll gaily dance With love across the purple heather. Ah, joy, how happy shall we be When once again in Arcady." "Many thanks for so charming a song," murmured Dan, when she ended; "but why lament what is not? You are still in Arcady, remember." "And you?" "I have been away, but have returned. This is the golden weather, yonder is the purple heather, and you and I are together." A flush overspread her face, and the laughter died from lips and eyes. Dan spoke more ardently than he intended, and his glance rested on her with such fire that she trembled. The song had revealed to Dan in one instant that he was in love with this dryad, and, in the sudden rush of passion to his heart, he hardly knew what he said or did. She sat with downcast eyes, and put out her hand with a sudden gesture as though to keep off something she feared. After that brief outburst of passion, which lent ardour to his words and fire to his glance, reason reasserted her sway, and Dan felt shame-faced at so far forgetting himself. With ready wit he turned off his speech as a jest, though the throbbing of his heart gave the lie to his utterance. "Of course I speak in rhyme," he said, forcing himself to talk calmly, "and but repeat the sentiments of your song. Where did you find such pretty words?" Meg by this time had recovered herself. The smile came back to her lips, the sense of dread passed away, and she was able to reply to his question in her usual spirit. Yet that moment left its effect behind it, and implanted in her heart a germ to grow and spread in the near future. She was ignorant of the change for the moment, yet even then felt vaguely that something had occurred to change the face of things. "I found the words in an old book at Farbis Court," she replied quietly. "A Carolian lyric, no doubt," said Dan, carelessly. "They have a slight flavour of Suckling and Rochester. Probably they are by some rhyming ancestor of the Breels." "Perhaps Sir Alurde was the poet." "Eh? You put the verses back to Elizabeth? No. They smack more of the Restoration than of Gloriana's reign. But, talking of Sir Alurde, when are you going to show me my double?" "Come to-morrow to the park gates, at two o'clock, and I will take you to the picture-gallery." "But Miss Linisfarne?" "Oh, she will not mind! I told her all about you, Dan." "I trust you drew a flattering portrait?" "So flattering that I shall not repeat my description." "From such reticence I guess what you have said," replied Dan, laughing. "Will I see Miss Linisfarne?" "No. She never sees any one." "Why not?" "I cannot tell you. Perhaps it is because she has lost her beauty." "Was she beautiful?" "Oh, very, very beautiful!" said Meg, earnestly. "She showed me her portrait, and I never saw anything so lovely in my life." "Ah! Then you have not looked in the glass lately," observed Dan, rashly. Meg jumped up quickly, and frowned. Again that fear made itself felt. "You should not jest with me. I don't like it." "On my word of honour, I am not jesting." His ardent gaze corroborated those words, and, with a sudden feeling of dread, she ran past him, and flitted rapidly up the path. Dan feared that he had offended her, and this fear became certainty the next moment. She fled like an angered goddess. "Meg, Meg!" he cried earnestly; "don't run away! Don't be angry with me! What have I done?" The girl turned at the top of the path, and the sunlight fell on her face. She looked rather scared than angry, but frowned when she saw him take a step forward as to follow. With an imperative gesture she bade him halt, and the next moment vanished from his sight. Then Dan raged at himself loudly. "Oh, I am a beast and a brute and a dishonourable wretch!" said he, dashing down his cap. "How could I be such a fool as to frighten her? Yet how could I help it? The thing came on me all of a sudden. She won my heart from me with her song. I suspected this before, but now I am certain. Mother Jericho's prophecy is fulfilled. I am in love! I have met my fate!" From the near wood floated the fragment of the song-- "Ah, joy, how happy shall we be, When once again in Arcady." "It is an omen," said Dan, thankfully, and was greatly comforted. CHAPTER XVII. THE SECOND LETTER TO A LONDON FRIEND. My Dear Jack, Do not be surprised at getting a second letter from me before you have answered the first. This epistle is not so much a mark of friendship and remembrance as an outlet for the emotions of my soul. I want a sympathetic person to whom I can confide my thoughts, and as none is nearer than yourself, I make use of the penny post for the easing of my mind. No doubt this beginning will astonish you greatly; but the end is still more astonishing, so hold yourself in reserve for the revelation of a startling secret. As yet it is only a few hours old, and you are the first person to whom it is to be confided. And rightly so, for to whom else would I reveal it but to you, my Jonathan, my Pylades--my--my--any other bosom friend, of whom history makes mention. Jack, I am in--but, no, let me break it gently, lest the shock prove too much for your nerves. Have you read of the Lord of Burleigh, Jack? Do you know the legend of King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid? Of course you do, and have, with me, sneered at and disbelieved in the possibility of such love episodes. For my share in such doubts I am now being punished. I am hoist on my own petard. I am the eagle pierced by a shaft feathered from his own plumage. Call me no more Lord Ardleigh, but the Lord of Burleigh, and dub me Cophetua, for a jest, for I also have fallen a victim to cunning Cupid. She---- Now you can guess my secret from the last word. No need to burden you with explanations. You know all. Who else but a lover would say "She," and expect to be understood without further remark? Yes, Jack, it has come! I am in love. In love, Jack, with an angel--don't wrinkle your brows, cynic!--and her name is Diana of Farbis. I have seen her to-day for the third time, and, after a weak attempt to fight against Fate, I have succumbed. The gipsy hag is right! I have met my fate at the Gates of Dawn. Joy has come up through them, and I--unworthy creature that I am--am rewarded far beyond my deserts. I should here quote poetry, as prose is too feeble to express my meaning; but I refrain lest you should refuse to finish this letter. I know how impatient you are over rhyme sans reason. In sober serious earnest, Jack, I am rather bewildered by the novel sensation of being in love. When I first met this girl, I simply caught a glimpse of a lovely face which I admired in an artistic way as one admires a fine picture or a perfect statue. At our second meeting she spoke to me, and I felt drawn towards her in the most extraordinary manner. She babbled little else than nonsense, yet I preferred such to the most sensible speeches. Thus does love make fools of us all. Not that I then believed myself to be in love--though I had a faint fear that it might be so. With the third meeting came the full knowledge of my passion. To-day, Meg--that is her name--came to my dell and had afternoon tea. We were in Arcady for the moment, and she sang some foolish strain of love and parting. When she finished I knew I was in danger. When she left me, after an interval of talk more or less idle, I recognized the truth--that I was in love. Pray do not shake your head, and say that I have loved before. This is no counterfeit Eros, but the god himself, in all the glory of his divinity. It is not a subject to be laughed at, and if you do not sympathize with me at this crisis of my life, then never more be Pylades of mine. If she be all I take her to be--and I do not speak without due knowledge--then my quest is ended, and I have found the ideal woman of my dreams. To revert a moment to the commonplace details of life. Did I tell you I have here met with a sporting divine! Well, then, I have; and he is one of the most delightful persons I have come into contact with outside a novel. Trollope could have handled him with admirable skill, though I am afraid my rustic clergyman would have shocked Mrs. Proudie. He is the vicar of this place, and is a ponderous red-faced divine, after the style of Dr. Johnson. He shakes a large head, frowns with bushy eyebrows, and rolls out "sir" in the real Boswell style. Two fox-terriers attend him constantly, like familiar spirits, and he is learned in horse-dealing, in riding, in veterinary surgery, and other things relating to the equine part of creation. Peter introduced me to this prop of the Church by fighting with the ecclesiastical terriers. When the dogs were pacified, the masters, parson and vagabond, fraternized over foaming tankards of noble ale. He is a bachelor, and mostly dwells in an untidy back-parlour, which must have been taken from Tom Jones. I'll swear that Squire Western dwelt in such a one. Mr. Jarner paid me a visit yesterday and told me all about Meg. She is a _protégée_ of his, and I fancy he rather disapproved of the deep interest I manifested in the rustic beauty. To calm his apprehensions, I told him who I was, and assured him of my honesty of purpose. I declared myself an honest man. This last he considered was better than being a lord, and, to tell you the truth, I think so myself. Since I doffed my title, Jack, and consorted with my fellow-creatures, I have learned many things of which I would otherwise have been ignorant. If I woo Meg--and I intend to do so--it will be after the fashion of the Lord of Burleigh, not as a landscape painter, but as a simple gentleman rather out at elbows. As such I shall have at least a chance of being loved for myself. I have many things to tell you, but shall reserve them till our meeting in the near future. Were I to commit them to paper this letter would never come to an end. There are certain mysteries connected with the girl I love, which I am trying to fathom. Jarner gives me his assistance, and I have a staunch friend in him. Whether we will be successful yet remains to be seen. To-morrow I go to Farbis Court! No, I am not calling on Miss Linisfarne, as the old lady lives as secluded as a nun. I am going at the invitation of Meg, who proposes to show me the portrait of a certain Sir Alurde Breel, whom she says I greatly resemble. That is not inexplicable, seeing he is an Elizabethan ancestor of mine. Meg does not know this, and is greatly puzzled over what she considers a freak of nature. I believe she is half in love with Sir Alurde, and, as I resemble him so closely, the atavism may perhaps be a help to my wooing. It is no light task I have undertaken, Jack. Meg is so innocent, so utterly simple, that it seems like a sacrilege to disturb her tranquillity with love tales. She has no more idea of love than had Miranda before she met Ferdinand. Yet, if my memory serves me, Prospero's daughter found no difficulty in loving the shipwrecked Prince. I don't suppose any woman does find a difficulty when the knowledge of the passion comes to her. How could they, when, as Horace says, they learn it before their A, B, C. But Horace is a wicked old pagan, and I blush to quote him in connection with my spotless Una. Oh, Jack, if you only see what pretty ways she has, and how charmingly she can smile! "All heaven is in that smile." And her singing! Jack, she has a voice like a nightingale. Pshaw! no nightingale can trill like her. I am fathoms deep in love, Jack,--fathoms deep. I should like to tell her all I feel, yet must be wary and delicate in my attentions. She is as timid as a dove, and may fly like one, should I speak too boldly. Even the admiration in my eyes offended her to-day, though I swear I looked not with ruffian passion in her face. As soon would I think of killing myself in the midst of my newly found happiness, as of cherishing an unworthy thought of this Diana. I must pause here, as my passion is carrying me beyond all bounds, and I wax poetical. I dare say you think it would be as well for me to talk less poetry and more common sense. You are right, and I will try to do so; but it is as hard for a lover to be practical, as it is for a poet to stay Pegasus when his wings are spread. After love comes marriage, and I can fancy your grave looks at the idea of my making Meg Merle my wife. From a worldly point of view I admit that I might do better. She is only the daughter of a country doctor, and has not a penny to her name. But, Jack, she has more than money or rank. She has beauty, and honesty, and a noble soul. If you only heard the vicar talk about her! and, from what little I have seen, I endorse every word of his eulogy. Where would I meet with such another? Shall I discard this pearl simply because I gave myself the trouble to be born a lord? No, my friend, a thousand times no! I shall have many opportunities of seeing Meg, and if she is all Jarner says and all I take her to be, then will I make her Lady Ardleigh--that is, if she is willing to bless me with her hand and heart. As to the opinion of society, I care no more for that than you do. I have always gone my own way and done what I thought was right, even at the cost of being considered priggish and eccentric. I do not need more money, and would rather take a penniless wife like Meg than marry the artificial daughter of a millionaire. Marriage is a sacrament, not a compact. Would you have me give my title in exchange for filthy lucre, Jack? Perish the idea! Rather would I remain a bachelor for the rest of my life. My relations may shriek about misalliance, but what care I for their clamour? You stand by me, Jack, and I shall have no fear but that all will yet be well. "And all this," say you, with a grin, "before he knows if the girl will take him." Ay! that's the rub. Remember, I woo unassisted by title or wealth. I woo as plain Dan of the caravan, and have to trust to my own tongue and overmastering passion. She may refuse me, but I don't think she will. Already she has hung out a red flag on her cheeks, and who knows but what my wooing may speed more merrily than I think? At all events, Jack, I have a staunch friend in old Jarner. He will help me win this shy nymph, if no one else will; but, on the whole, I prefer to trust to my unassisted self for success. Here I must close; I could go on writing all night, but out of mercy for you I shall end. Read "Romeo and Juliet," and you will form some faint conception of my feelings. You laugh! He jests at scars who never felt a wound. Ha! ha! I had you in the trap there, friend Jack. But no more--this letter grows tedious, so I end it, and retire to dream of her who makes my hell a heaven. Jack! Jack! you have lost the friend of your youth; for I am now stabbed by a wench's black eye. You, too, will go the same way, though you have railed at love as heartily as did-- Your friend ARDLEIGH. P.S.--Jack, she is an angel. I am not good enough for her. CHAPTER XVIII. AN ELIZABETHAN ANCESTOR. "Have you been waiting long?" asked Meg, swinging a large key. "Close on an hour," replied Dan, ruefully; "I never passed so tedious a sixty minutes in my life." Meg laughed, and clinked the key against the iron bars. She was on one side of the gate, and he was on the other, but they could see and smile, which was a better fate than befell Pyramus and Thisbe when divided by that cruel wall. Dan felt as though he were on the eve of storming an enchanted castle to release a spellbound princess. He mentioned this fancy to Meg, who raised her eyebrows. "You must be thinking of Miss Linisfarne then," she said, "for no imprisoned princess would possess a key." "Very well, Meg, let us change the fairy story, and say that you are Bluebeard's wife. She had a key, and made bad use of it. But are you going to keep me outside Paradise?" "Paradise!" repeated Meg, not seeing the veiled compliment. "Why do you call the park Paradise?" After his bad fortune of the previous day, Dan was careful not to hurt her susceptibilities, and explained his compliment in a most prosaic fashion. Were he to speak plainly, she might refuse him admittance. "Paradise," said he gravely, "is a Persian word, and signifies a large enclosure filled with wild beasts." "That is not a pretty thing to say, seeing that I am in this enclosure." "Oh! if you want compliments, I----" "No, no! I want no compliments," she cried hastily, putting the key in the lock; "you must not think I am so foolish as to believe all you say." "Do I, then, talk such sad nonsense?" "I'm afraid so. Pray do not talk any more, but enter into your wild-beast enclosure." The heavy gates opened with a rumble, and Dan stepped in. When he was on the right side Meg locked the gates once more. He was rather amused at so useless a precaution. "Are you afraid of thieves here?" "No. But Miss Linisfarne does not like strangers to enter the park. She will let no one see her." "A female veiled prophet! Why does she live so secluded?" "I don't know!" said Meg, coldly; "she never told me, and I do not ask questions." "That is a hint for me to be silent, I suppose. Well, I won't inquire further." They were walking up the grass-grown avenue, and Dan was amazed at the savageness of the place. Meg was quite used to it, and saw nothing strange in the desolation. It did not seem to lower her spirits, but rather had the opposite effect, as she began to whistle. A very pretty whistle she had, and executed an operatic air with much precision and sweetness. Dan laughed. She was so unconventional that he could not help his merriment. "Why do you laugh, Daniel?" said Meg, severely. "I beg your pardon, but I never heard a young lady whistle before." "Oh, I know it is wrong--Miss Linisfarne is always scolding me; but I cannot break off the habit. Are you shocked?" "By no means. I am charmed." "Another compliment. If you make any more I shall leave you, sir." "What, in this tropical jungle! Do not be so cruel. Remember I am a stranger, and entitled to hospitality." Meg looked at him doubtfully, not understanding such irony; but Dan looked so grave when he spoke, that she passed over his remark in silence. "This is the house," she said, as they turned a corner and came within view of Farbis Court; "and yonder is Miss Linisfarne, walking on the terrace." Before them stretched the long façade of Farbis Court, looking desolate and ruinous in the strong light of the afternoon. A figure in white was slowly pacing up and down the terrace, but as they advanced towards the steps vanished into the house. Dan turned to his companion for an explanation. "She sees you are a stranger," said Meg, gravely, "and will now shut herself up in her own room till you leave." "Has she---- Oh, I beg your pardon; I must not ask questions. But your Miss Linisfarne is a most mysterious lady. One would think she had committed a crime." "Ah! You have been listening to foolish tales in the village." "On my honour, I have not. It was a mere idea." "Avery incorrect one," said the girl, who seemed offended at the imputation cast on her benefactress. "Do not say anything about Miss Linisfarne when you are inside. She may overhear you." "Not if she stays in her room." His guide laughed, but vouchsafed no explanation of her merriment. She knew perfectly well that Miss Linisfarne would be close beside them, to examine Dan thoroughly, but this information she did not think it wise to impart to her companion. Laying her finger on her lips to command silence, she led him into the dusky hall, and closed the great door with a resonant crash. It was the first time that Dan had set foot in the house of his ancestors, and he looked curiously at his surroundings. The hall was flagged with black and white marble in a diamond pattern, and on all sides arose tall white pillars, which vanished in the obscurity of the roof. Indeed, the whole house was pervaded by a twilight atmosphere, which Dan guessed was caused by the dirty state of the windows and the lavish use of stained glass. It smelt mouldy, and their footsteps echoed in the large empty spaces in a most dreary fashion. One could well imagine it to be filled with ghostly company at night. "Do phantoms haunt this place?" whispered Dan, as they ascended the wide staircase. "I can well imagine lords and ladies in silks and satins and powdered hair and slender canes coming out in the darkness." "I never saw any of them," replied Meg, in a matter-of-fact tone; "and I have been all over the house at midnight. Surely you don't believe in ghosts!" "No. But I could forgive any one who did while dwelling in this house." "It _is_ rather dreary," said Meg, casting a careless look around. "I wonder Lord Ardleigh doesn't pull the place down. But I don't suppose he knows he possesses the mansion." "Why not?" "Because he would not neglect it so much if he did. Why doesn't he come down and stay here, and see what he can do to help the weavers of Farbis? He is very wealthy, you know." "Is he, indeed?" said Dan, greatly amused at having himself discussed so openly. "Very wealthy; but he wastes all his money in London." "You do not care for him, I see." "I think he ought to be more alive to the responsibilities of his position," said Meg, primly. "What are you laughing at now?" "Is that sentiment your own?" said Dan, ignoring the question. "No. It is Mr. Jarner's. But we can talk of this later on. Here is the picture-gallery." It was a dreary-looking place; and Dan shuddered as he walked under the rows of frowning portraits. These were his ancestors--these men in armour, these stern-faced Puritans, these sad-looking ladies. Farbis Court and its desolation seemed to cast a shadow over all. He felt like a culprit under the menacing gaze of knight and dame. "Upon my word, they are a melancholy lot!" said their graceless descendant. "I don't think they approve of my intrusion. I don't see a merry face among them." "Sir Alurde is merry-faced." "As I am his double, I am glad that he is. I should not care to wear such sour looks. Where is the gentleman?" "You are standing close to him." Dan turned with a start, as though he expected to find a ghost at his elbow, and beheld a picture of himself on the wall. The resemblance was very striking, and he wondered that Meg did not guess he was Lord Ardleigh, with such a proof before her. "You might have sat for it," said Meg, looking from Sir Alurde to Dan. "I am glad to hear you say so. I assure you I had no idea I was so good-looking." "Oh, indeed, you are very good-looking, Dan." The man of the world blushed at the praise of this rustic maiden, and held up a protesting hand. He was standing by a window, and the light striking on his face emphasised his resemblance to Sir Alurde in a startling manner. "You will make me vain if you talk so," he said, smiling. "I see you admire Sir Alurde." "I do; I am quite in love with him." Before Dan could make capital out of this remark by introducing himself, he was startled by a long-drawn sigh which sounded close at hand. "Is that you, Meg?" "No; what do you mean?" "Did you sigh?" "Of course not. Why should I sigh?" "Then it must have been one of those ghosts we were talking about. I certainly heard some one sighing." Meg knew well enough that Miss Linisfarne was close at hand, and, fearful lest her companion should make some allusion to her, hastily beckoned him away. "Come up here, Dan. I wish to show you a very pretty lady." "Yourself?" said he, laughing; whereat she frowned and stamped her foot. "Why will you talk so! It is a Lady Ardleigh of the Restoration. She is----" "A doll," said Dan, contemptuously, looking at the simpering beauty,--"a china doll. Surely you don't think her beautiful! She has no soul." "What do you mean?" "Mean? Why, that she has never loved. You can see it in her face." "I have never loved, Dan, and I don't think myself a china doll, I assure you." "Oh, but you are a----" The words died away on Dan's lips, as a tall figure advanced slowly down the gallery. It was a woman who had once been very beautiful, but who was now a wreck of her former self. She looked steadily at Dan, and then glanced at Meg. "Miss Linisfarne!" said the girl, transfixed with astonishment. CHAPTER XIX. THE PALE LADYE. For the space of a minute, or it might be more, they looked at one another--Miss Linisfarne at Dan, he and Meg at Miss Linisfarne. It was so contrary to her usual custom to thus show herself to a stranger, that Meg might well be excused for being tongue-tied with astonishment. The languid creature whom Meg knew and pitied had disappeared as by magic, and in her place stood a bright-eyed, cheek-flushed being, who had regained for the moment the lost loveliness of her prime. Unable to guess the reason of this rejuvenescence, Meg could only look at her benefactress with parted lips and amazed eyes. Miss Linisfarne took no heed of her presence, but examined Dan in a leisurely manner, as though he were as indifferent to her regard as was Sir Alurde in his frame behind. Man of the world as Dan was, the eager scrutiny of this woman made him vaguely resentful, and he was amazed at the lack of delicacy which could permit her to signify so openly her admiration for a stranger. It seemed an insult to Meg that she should look at him with such brazen assurance; and, indifferently as he returned her gaze, he felt indignant at her demeanour. Meg was the first of the trio to break silence. She mistook Miss Linisfarne's examination of Dan for anger at his intrusion, and hastened to excuse him. "Do not be angry, Miss Linisfarne," she said breathlessly. "I wished to show Dan the picture of Sir Alurde, and---- "I am not angry, child," interrupted Miss Linisfarne. "Why should I be angry? I gave you permission to show the gallery to this gentleman." "Pardon me, madam, I do not claim to be a gentleman," said Dan, still resentful of her unwomanly scrutiny. "That may be so, sir," answered Miss Linisfarne, coldly; "but you must permit me to form my own opinion. Keep your secret, if it pleases you to do so. In due time you will no doubt reveal your identity." She spoke with such significance that Dan felt uneasy lest, owing to his resemblance to Sir Alurde, she should guess his name and rank. Gifted with a keener appreciation of culture than either Meg or the vicar, she saw at once through his flimsy disguise. She did not know he was Lord Ardleigh, but felt convinced that he was of gentle birth. He felt himself unmasked, yet was by no means ready to concede the point. "You flatter me, Miss Linisfarne," said he, bowing. "I trust I shall continue to deserve your good opinion." Miss Linisfarne smiled, but did not make any immediate reply to this ironic remark. The appearance of Dan and the evident mystery connected with his residence at Farbis piqued her curiosity, so she invented a pretext for getting Meg out of the way, in order to discover if possible who and what he was. "Meg, my dear," she said, turning to the girl, "perhaps your friend would like a cup of tea. Tell the housekeeper to get it ready in my room." Dan bowed his acceptance of this invitation, being as curious to talk with Miss Linisfarne as she was with him. The unusual hospitality added to Meg's perplexity, but, not daring to ask Miss Linisfarne's reasons, she tripped away to carry out the order. When her footsteps died away, Miss Linisfarne turned again towards Dan, and their eyes met. A duel of words was inevitable, as each wished to know the secret of the other. Conscious of this, Dan tried to gain the advantage by speaking first. "It is very kind of you to ask me to sit down with you, Miss Linisfarne. May I ask you a question?" She seated herself in the chair under Sir Alurde's picture, and signified her consent with a smiling nod. The coming war of words braced her nerves and aroused her from the lethargy of years. She felt like a new creature. "Is it your custom to entertain all vagrants who come here?" asked Dan, with feigned simplicity. "Yes, when they are vagrants like you, sir. Come, Dan--since it pleases you to call yourself by that hideous name,--let me know why you have come to Farbis." "To see the portrait of Sir Alurde." "You resemble it greatly," said Miss Linisfarne, annoyed at this evasion. "One would think you were connected with the Breels." "You flatter me," said he again, feeling that this chance observation was too near the mark to be pleasant. "Why will you not be candid with me?" asked Miss Linisfarne, in a vexed tone. Dan hesitated. He was astonished at the way in which she threw off all reserve and spoke to him. It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that it was not her business to ask questions about a stranger; but she guessed his thoughts, and commented on them frankly. "I see what is in your mind, sir. You think that I have no business to ask impertinent questions, but I assure you I have every right to do so." "I do not understand. I am afraid I am dull." "Not at all! You quite see my position. I am the chaperon, guardian, protectress--what you will--of Meg. She is an innocent girl, who knows nothing of the world, and it is my duty to look after her." "Why should you impute unworthy motives to me?" "I impute no motives," replied Miss Linisfarne, calmly; "but I ask myself, why is a gentleman philandering in this lonely place disguised as a vagrant? What reply can you make to that question, sir?" "Simply that I travel for my pleasure, and do not feel inclined to reveal my name." "Did you come down to Farbis with any purpose in your mind?" "No; I did not know the place at all. I came by chance, and, as Farbis pleases me, I propose to stay here for a week or so." "For what purpose?" Dan shrugged his shoulders to intimate that his purpose was not worth mentioning. This was rude, but Miss Linisfarne invited the discourtesy by the persistency with which she sought to know what did not concern her. Perhaps the hint was taken, for, after a meditative pause, she apologized for her curiosity. "The strangeness of our position must excuse the absence of the convenances, sir. It is not the custom for ladies and gentlemen to talk at the first meeting as we are now doing. But it is so rare to find a stranger in these parts, that you must excuse my very natural curiosity. Again, there is Meg to consider." She waited for an answer, but none came. Dan was considering if it would be wise to confess that he loved the girl, but, on second thoughts, decided to postpone such information. It would seem ridiculous in the eyes of Miss Linisfarne that he should profess to love Meg when he had only seen her three times. On the face of it the statement was absurd. He did not think so, being intoxicated with love; but the cooler judgment of Miss Linisfarne might look at it in quite a different light, therefore he had sense enough to hold his tongue. "You must not meet Meg any more," said Miss Linisfarne, seeing he did not reply. "Can you not see?" was the impatient answer. "She is a child, and you a man of the world. If she falls in love with you it will disturb her peace of mind. Would it be fair to do so?" "Can I not see Meg in your presence?" "I shall think about it," said Miss Linisfarne, thoughtfully. "Meanwhile, now that we have met, you can call again if you choose to do so. I am a lonely woman, and your presence will give me great pleasure." Dan felt rather embarrassed at this generous offer of friendship. He could not understand how Miss Linisfarne could be so rash in welcoming a stranger, who, for all she knew, might prove anything but a desirable acquaintance. He set it down to her long seclusion from the world, and a natural craving for society at any price. There was no hesitation on his part in accepting her offer, as he wished to see as much of Meg as he was able, and, as the girl was constantly at the Court, it would give him many opportunities of speaking with her. "I shall be delighted to call, Miss Linisfarne; and I promise you I shall appear more respectably dressed when I again make my appearance." "Will you leave your card on the occasion of your next visit?" she asked meaningly. "I am afraid that would not be much use, madam," he answered, avoiding the trap so skilfully laid. "You know my name." "Your travelling name only." "It will suffice for Farbis." "That may be, sir, but will it suffice for me?" Pushed into a corner, Dan hardly knew what reply to make. She was evidently determined to force him to speak, but he was fully as obstinate as she, and doggedly refused to gratify her desire. Yet not wishing to appear rude, he temporized. "In a week or so I shall tell you my name, if you still desire to know it, Miss Linisfarne." "You promise that?" she said eagerly. "I promise you faithfully," he answered, knowing well that did he wish to enlist her in his wooing it would be shortly necessary to confess all to her, as he had already done to Jarner. Then he tried to discover her secret, and, in his turn, asked questions. She proved to be as clever as he in baffling curiosity. "Do you know Dr. Merle, madam?" "Only by name. I have never seen him, though when ill I have frequently sent for him. I cannot understand his refusal to come, but put it down to the fact that he is as great an invalid as myself, and as rarely leaves his house." "Have you met with Meg's friends, the gipsies?" "No, sir. Do I not tell you that I never go beyond the park gates? I am dead to the world. As I asked you so many questions you have, perhaps, a right to retaliate, but I must request you to ask no more." "I beg your pardon. As you observed, the strangeness of our meeting must excuse the absence of the convenances. Here is Meg returning." "Who said you might call her Meg?" "She did. I would not have done so without her permission." "You should not have taken advantage of that permission, sir. She is a child, and knows no better; but you----" "Will be more careful in the future. Do not let us quarrel again, Miss Linisfarne." She was most unaccountably angry at his familiarity with her _protégée_, but his last remark, and the smile with which it was made, seemed to quieten her wrath. She controlled herself with a strong effort, and saluted Meg gaily-- "Well, child, is the tea ready?" "Quite ready, Miss Linisfarne Are you hungry, Dan?" "Yes, Miss Merle." "Miss Merle? Why 'Miss Merle'?" "By my request, Meg," said Miss Linisfarne, angrily. "You are too old, child, for a gentleman to call you by your Christian name. Give me your arm, sir. I am too weak to walk down the stairs unaided." Dan walked about with Miss Linisfarne, and Meg, much dismayed at the outburst of her benefactress, lagged in the rear. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that she by no means approved of the way in which Miss Linisfarne had taken possession of him. He wondered, also, at the position in which he found himself, but ceased to think it strange when he learned the cause. That first visit to the Court plunged him into troubles of which he had no conception. Yet he never regretted his acquaintance with Miss Linisfarne, in spite of the trouble, as he learned many things of importance to his future of which he would otherwise have remained ignorant. In this case out of evil came good. CHAPTER XX. IN THE OAK PARLOUR. That evening, Dan paid a visit to Mr. Jarner in order to confess his newly born passion. After the rebuff he had received from Miss Linisfarne, he judged it as well to enlist the sympathy of the vicar, so that if the one retarded the other would speed his wooing. Miss Linisfarne had taken up a distinctly hostile attitude towards Meg. She monopolized Dan all the tea-time, and seemed displeased when he addressed the girl even in the most casual manner. Dan was quite unaware of her reason for acting thus, and so wished to seek the advice and assistance of Mr. Jarner. The vicar was installed in the oaken parlour, and, according to his usual custom, had placed himself at the open window with his beer and his long clay pipe. There was no light in the room save what was given by the soft twilight. Dan hailed his host outside, and was bidden to enter with hearty hospitality. "Hey, lad, I'm glad to see you," said Mr. Jarner, in his usual loud voice; "come inside--come inside. A tankard and a pipe and a chat ye shall have. Down, Jane! Down, Mike!"--this to the yapping terriers. "Come in, my lord." "Hush!" said Dan, pausing on the threshold of the parlour; "not that name here." "Ay, ay! I forgot. It is Dan I'm to call you. Sit ye down. Yonder's the chair. Wait, and I'll light up." "Not on my account, sir," said his visitor, seating himself on the window seat. "Let us sit down here and enjoy the beauty of the evening. It is good to live on days like these. You remember Keble on the evening, vicar?" "Ay, sir; Keble and Cowper. Both knew the quiet of eventide. Isn't that a pretty picture, sir?"--the vicar pronounced it 'pratty.' "Yon's the church tower black against the clear glow of the sky. Bats and owls are abroad; I've been watching their flittings. And hark, if you have a soul for music, Dan." "The nightingale!" "He's in the thicket yonder, and sings his evening hymn nightly to me. To think that yonder strain is but an invitation to battle--the cock nightingale calling to his rival!" "Then all the sorrow of the bird----" "Comes from the poets. Poetic invention, sir! though I don't deny the ideal view is finer than the real. But we can talk of birds and beasts another time. What brings you here, Dan?" "A desire for your company, vicar." "Pooh-pooh, sir! Am I a young maiden that ye should come slipping through the dark to talk with me? You've--ay, ay, here's a tankard for you, Dan. Come, drink up!" "To tell you the truth, Mr. Jarner, I wish to speak seriously with you," said Dan, after they had pledged each other in ale. "Is it about those mysteries, Dan? Have you found out anything new?" "I have seen Miss Linisfarne." The vicar laid down his pipe on the window sill, and, with his hands on his knees, stared in surprise at his visitor. The news astonished him. "You--seen--Miss--Linisfarne!" said he, with a pause between each word. Dan nodded thrice to assure him that such was the case. Whereat the vicar picked up his pipe again, and proceeded to proclaim his wonderment. "It is the first time she has seen a stranger for years. How did you chance on her, may I ask?" "Meg took me to the Court to see the picture of Sir Alurde Breel, and, while we were looking at it, Miss Linisfarne made her appearance." "Ay?" "She was most agreeable, and very curious to know who I was." "Did you gratify her curiosity, Dan?" demanded the vicar, with a twinkle in his eye. His short acquaintance with Lord Ardleigh had shown him something of the young man's character. "No, sir. I managed to keep my secret with some difficulty, so she made another attempt to find it out, and asked me to tea." "Preserve us!" cried Jarner, breaking his pipe in his astonishment; "if this is not the most remarkable thing I have heard. Tea at Farbis Court, and you a stranger! In all the years I have known Miss Linisfarne, I have never broken bread under her roof. Look after yourself, lad. There's woman's guile at work. If you don't take care of yourself, the old lady will marry you. You'll be mated, my lord, before you know where you are. There is no trusting Eve's daughters," finished the vicar, rising to get a fresh pipe. "I'll be married soon, no doubt, Mr. Jarner, but not to Miss Linisfarne." In the glow of the match, with which the vicar was lighting his new pipe, Dan saw that his face had suddenly grown serious. "Are you talking of Meg, my lord?" "Yes. Of whom else should I talk? I am in love with Meg, sir, and, with your assistance, hope to make her my wife." "Is this a joke, my lord?" demanded Mr. Jarner, sternly. "I was never more serious in my life." "Then you're a lunatic, sir--a crazy person! What?--what? To love a woman you've seen but twice--to----" "Pardon me! I've seen her four times." "When, and where?" "First, at the Gates of Dawn. Second, on the crest of the ridge. Third, at afternoon tea, in my dell, yesterday. Fourth, to-day at Farbis Court." "My lord--my lord, you----" "Don't call me 'my lord'!" "Ay, but I shall, my lord. This is a serious matter, and it behoves you to talk with me in your true colours. As a priest, my Lord Ardleigh, I tell you that it is wrong for you to behave so!" "I don't understand you, sir," said Dan, placidly. He was not at all put out by the vicar's anger, which he considered just enough, in the parson's present state of misapprehension. "She has been to your dell, sir--alone." "Don't go too far, sir! You have no right to judge me without a hearing!" "The Lord forgive me if I am harsh!" said Jarner, wiping his forehead; "but the girl is dear to me, and I would not have a hair of her head harmed for all the gold of Ophir. I listen, my lord." "There is not much to tell, Mr. Jarner. Meg had tea with me in the dell; and it was there I fell in love with her." "You cannot love so suddenly, sir! This is a young man's fancy!" "Indeed, no! I am in love with her beauty, her heart, and her noble character. Can you blame me?" "No! It is natural that you should love so fine a creature. But so soon--so soon! Ay, there's the rub, my lord! Easy in--easy out!" "My dear vicar, if you had constructed an ideal, and suddenly found it realized in the flesh, would you not fall in love with it forthwith?" "Probably, my lord--probably!" "Well, that is what I have done. For years I have sought a woman like Meg, in the hope of making her my wife. Now I have found her, I am not inclined to let her go." "But your rank--your relatives." "A fig for both, my dear sir. I shall woo, and, I hope, win, under the name of Dan, and as to my relatives, I can settle with them. Believe me, Mr. Jarner, Meg will make a noble Countess of Ardleigh." "That is true!--that is true! A heart of gold, my lord--of gold unalloyed!" "From what I have seen of her, from what you have told me of her, I see well that I can find no better mate. If she will accept me as her husband, vicar, I shall feel proud and happy. You see, sir, the gipsy's prophecy is coming true, after all." Mr. Jarner wiped his eyes. He was deeply affected for the moment, for, knowing the merits of Meg, he wished her to marry a man worthy of her. Such a one Dan appeared to be, for, lord or no lord, he was an honest, noble young fellow, whom any girl might be proud to have at her feet. It was greatly to Mr. Jarner's credit that Dan's rank weighed not one iota in his estimation of the situation. "Good! good!" said Jarner, gripping Dan's hand; "if it is no fancy, but real, enduring love, I'll help you, my lord. But," he added, springing to his full height, "if you play her false----" "I shall not play her false," rejoined Dan, seriously. "On my honour, I swear that she shall be my wife." The vicar would have replied, but at that moment a whistle rang out in the garden. Jarner raised his head and listened. It was repeated. "Not a word more, Dan," said he, hurriedly; "here is Tinker Tim, I know his whistle--we will talk of this again. Be honest and true, and I shall be your friend." They had just time to exchange a hearty hand-shake, when Tim's huge bulk appeared at the window. The dogs barked furiously; but, nothing dismayed, the gipsy thrust in his mighty shoulders, and nodded to the gentlemen. "Evening to both o' ye," said Tim, familiarly. "I looked in at your dell, young man, but the fire was out and you also. Hy! passin, I've got ye the dorg." "What, another dog?" laughed Dan, as the gipsy hauled a fox-terrier pup out of his pocket. "Why, vicar, you must have a dozen." "Nay, five only! This makes the sixth," replied Jarner, taking the dog from Tim. "Light the lamp, Dan, and we'll have a look at this one." Thereafter ensued an argument over the dog, its breed, its price, and its condition, between the vicar and Tim. Dan listened with great amusement, and the buyer and seller went at it hard, the one trying to get the better of the other. At length a satisfactory bargain was concluded, and Tim, before taking his departure, accepted a drink of ale from the hospitable clergyman. "I'll go with you, Tim," said Dan, putting on his cap; "it will be company up to my dell." "Right, rye!" replied the Tinker, draining the tankard. "Good night t' ye, my noble gentleman," he added, nodding to Jarner. "Come and see me to-morrow; we will resume our conversation." This was the parting salutation of Jarner to Dan, and after he promised to call, he strode away with Tim into the darkness. At the top of the ridge, Dan halted to look down at the Gates of Dawn, which reared themselves like the portals of night in the gloom. Tim chuckled and clapped his companion heavily on the shoulder. "What about the prophecy, my lord?" said he, in a dry voice. "My lord!" repeated Dan, starting. "What, you know?" "I know that you are Lord Ardleigh, and that the prophecy of the Mother is fulfilled." CHAPTER XXI. THE DAYS PASS BY. Summer was giving place to autumn, and still Lord Ardleigh lingered at Farbis. A constant succession of fine days enabled him to continue his outdoor life; and so many weeks had he dwelt in the dell, that he quite looked on it in the light of a home. Instructed and guided by Meg, who was proficient in woodcraft, he soon became conversant with moors and valleys, and pine woods and adjacent hamlets. For miles round he explored the country, and learned the fascination exercised on the thoughtful mind by the barren hills. Those summer days were henceforth to rank among the pleasant memories of his life; and with reason, for were they not the days of his wooing? Who forgets the time when Cupid was king? It may be questioned whether he would have professed such ardent admiration of Bohemianism, had not Meg been with him daily from morn till sunset. She was his companion in all excursions, and treated him in a sisterly fashion. Such chilly affection he was far from relishing, being deeply in love, but the time was not yet ripe for him to speak. Meg had still to learn the pains and sweetness of love, but such knowledge had not yet come to her. In vain did Dan, by looks and words, endeavour to touch her heart. She could not understand, and though she professed to like him greatly, gave no sign of experiencing any deeper feeling. Her namesake Diana were scarce colder than this rustic maiden. "She is like Undine," complained Dan to his friend the vicar; "she has no soul." "No heart, you mean," replied Jarner, dryly; "there you are wrong. She has a warm and loving heart. Never a tale of poverty but----" "I know all that, sir; but I want her heart to melt to my tale, not to the whining of a sturdy mendicant." "I am afraid I cannot instruct you how to gain her affection, my lord; I have never felt the tender passion myself. Ho! ho! You come to a bad adviser when you seek my opinion on such points." This was but cold comfort, and Dan went away in despair. He likened his case to that of Pygmalion, and then took courage from such comparison, remembering that even the marble statue turned to warm flesh and blood in the end. Meanwhile, he followed his divinity about the hills, and hoped that he would gain her heart in the days to come. His wish was gratified, but in a most unexpected fashion. It was the jealous tongue of Miss Linisfarne, that first opened the eyes of Meg, and changed her from girl to woman. Dan was not offensively conceited. He entertained a reasonably good opinion of his looks and capabilities, but did not deem himself an Apollo with whom every woman was bound to fall in love. Yet, resolutely as he strove to thrust the notion from him, he became aware in more ways than one that Miss Linisfarne looked on him with great favour. Whether it was his appearance or his conversation he was unable to determine, but the pale lady of Farbis Court showed him plainly that he had taken her heart by storm. In place of lying for hours on her couch or limiting her walk to terrace and picture-gallery, she became almost as great a pedestrian as Meg. She invited Dan to the Court on every possible occasion, she followed him to the dell on the pretext of wishing to see his caravan, and frequently formed an undesirable third in those excursions on the moorlands. And, to put the matter beyond all doubt, she showed by her altered demeanour that she was wildly jealous of Meg. Dan began to find his life anything but pleasant. He did not love Miss Linisfarne, whom he looked on as quite an old woman, and objected strongly to her incessant attentions. She never left him alone for a single moment, and was always finding pretexts to be in his company. At first he laughed at such madness, but soon began to weary of his elderly admirer, the more so as she took to treating Meg in a very unpleasant fashion. With the instinct of a jealous woman she saw that Dan was in love with Meg, and since she could not revenge herself on the man, took every opportunity of doing so on the girl. She subjected her to all kinds of petty spite, sneered at her masculine habits, and always sent her out of the room when Dan happened to be at the Court. Meg resented this behaviour, though she was far from guessing the cause, and so went but seldom to see her benefactress. On his part Dan, learning from experience that Meg was not to be found as formerly at the Court, kept away also, and thus inflamed Miss Linisfarne's heart with rage and envy. So far had her unrequited passion carried her that she was rapidly approaching a stage when she might be expected to be dangerous. Dan noted this fact, and kept as much as possible from intruding on her privacy. The remedy was worse than the disease. Like the ostrich which thinks itself unseen because its head is thrust into the sand, Miss Linisfarne never deemed that her passion was patent to all Farbis. The villagers saw it, and made remarks on her age and folly; Mr. Jarner noticed it and frowned, and a rumour even reached Dr. Merle in the seclusion of his house. Only Meg was ignorant, for no one dared to say a word about Miss Linisfarne in her hearing. She was too mindful of former benefits to hear her benefactress blamed in the smallest degree. The last to hear of it was Mother Jericho, and she mentioned it to Tinker Tim as a good joke. Instead of looking on it as such, the gipsy scowled and swore, and finally went to the dell in search of Dan. Why he should trouble himself about Miss Linisfarne and her follies it is impossible to say; but he certainly spoke freely to Dan on the subject. "Morning, rye," said he, striding into the dell like Hercules. "What's all this about the old woman?" Ardleigh looked up in surprise. He was astonished to hear the tone in which Tim spoke, and resented the scowl with which the gipsy greeted him. "What do you mean, Tim?" he asked coldly. "She told me," said the Tinker, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, "that the old lady at the Court wants t' marry ye." "That is news to me! And how did she, by whom you no doubt mean Mother Jericho, learn this?" "It's all over the place. Miss Linisfarne wants to become your wife." Dan did not know whether to laugh or to frown. Although he was aware that there was some truth in the rumour, he was by no means inclined to admit as much to Tim; the more so as the attitude of the gipsy was distinctly hostile, and he eyed Dan in a gloomy and threatening manner. "Is it true, rye?" he demanded savagely. "What business is it of yours, even if it is true?" said Dan, wrathfully, springing to his feet. "It's every business," retorted the tinker, scowling; "it is--it is---- By Heaven!" he cried, his passion breaking loose, "I'll twist her neck!" "Twist Miss Linisfarne's neck?" "Ay! That I shall!" Dan advanced, and, laying his hand on the giant's shoulder, looked at him curiously. The man was strongly moved, though by what Dan could not conjecture. Such an unexpected display of anger was all of a piece with the other mysteries connected with Miss Linisfarne. "See here, my man," said Dan, deliberately; "we had better understand one another. I allow no man to speak to me as you have done. You are keeping something from me." "It's a lie!" said Tim, hoarsely. Dan, in nowise moved by the insult, persisted in his questioning. "It's the truth. How did you know my name?" "That's my business." "And mine also. I was directed to Farbis by your kinsfolk. I was met here by Mother Jericho, and a few weeks ago you called me by my name. Now you are angry because my name is connected with Miss Linisfarne's by lying gossip." "Is it lying gossip?" asked Tim, eagerly ignoring the rest of the speech. "Of course it is. I am in love with Meg. Do you think I want to marry Miss Linisfarne, who is old enough to be my mother?" Tim drew his hand across his brow, and heaved a sigh of relief. The declaration was evidently a great relief to him. He tried to evade an answer to the other questions by talking about Meg. "It was for the girl's sake, rye," said he, hurriedly. "I know you love her, and that she loves you, so I didn't want ye to love the old woman." "That is untrue, Tim. I love Meg, but she does not love me." "She will some day, rye." "Mind your own business, my man," said Dan, sharply. "Meg has nothing to do with you, or you with her. What I wish to know is, why you threaten ill to Miss Linisfarne?" "I can't tell ye--I can't tell ye." "You must; and also how you came to know my name." "Ho! ho! rye! That's easy. A pal o' mine had a cart made at the place where your caravan was built. He saw it there, and asked whose it was, so, when they said Lord Ardleigh, he passed the word round our people that a rye was on the wing." "So you knew who I was from the first?" said Dan, in a vexed tone. "Ay, that I did, my lord, and Mother Jericho also." "Had such knowledge anything to do with her prophecy?" "No." In spite of this denial, Tim looked so uneasy that Dan felt sure he was not speaking the truth. Determined to know it at any cost, he was about to ask a leading question, when Tim caught his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't ask me any questions, rye. When the time comes, I'll tell ye all." "All what?" "All these things ye wish to know--about the old lady and Dr. Merle and the prophecy." "When will the time come?" "On the day ye take Meg to church," said Tim, and with a significant nod marched away. Dan did not attempt to stay him, but stood reflectively looking at the ground. "I'll speak to Jarner again," he said, thoughtfully; "in spite of what he says, there is some mystery about Meg. If Jarner doesn't know it, Dr. Merle does. I'll see him." He lifted up his eyes, and saw the very man of whom he spoke coming down the path. CHAPTER XXII. A DREAMER OF DREAMS. It was with considerable astonishment that Dan saw Dr. Merle approaching the dell. That so habitual a recluse should break through his customary rules, and visit a comparative stranger showed that he must be influenced by a powerful motive. What that motive might be Dan was unable to conjecture, but hurriedly fixed on the only reason likely to account for the unexpected presence of his guest. It might be, Dan thought, that Merle had heard rumours of his attentions to Meg; and, therefore, had come to demand an explanation. This Dan was quite prepared to give, and, indeed, rather congratulated himself on the opportunity thus afforded of placing matters on a proper footing. His expectation was vain, for it soon appeared from the ensuing conversation that Merle had sought an interview for an entirely different purpose. Although it was a warm day, the wretched creature shivered as he came down the path, and blinked his eyes constantly in the unaccustomed sunshine. For so many years he had lived in that darkened room, that the access of light and the keen air rendered him uncomfortable. He was wrapped up as though it were winter, and crawled feebly along with the aid of a staff. With his pallid face, loose mouth, and red-rimmed eyes, he looked a most pitiable object, and Dan secretly wondered that this decrepit wreck should be the father of so splendid a specimen of womanhood as Meg. "A most undesirable father-in-law," said Dan to himself, as he went forward to assist his visitor. "But there is one comfort--he cannot live much longer. Even now he looks as though about to tumble into his grave." In order to pay this visit Merle had evidently omitted to take his usual dose of laudanum; but in place of such abstinence rendering his brain clear, it made him weak and irritable. The sudden cessation of the drug unstrung his nerves and clouded his intellect, so that he sank on the log, to which Dan conducted him, in a state of mental and physical collapse. His breath came in quick gasps, his hands trembled, and his lean body shook as with the palsy. In all his experience, Dan had never seen so degenerate a specimen of the human race. Much as he despised him, yet he could not refrain from pitying the creature. He was so weak and prostrate and broken up. All this time Merle said nothing, his whole attention being taken up in getting himself settled. When on the log, he coughed, and wiped the perspiration off his brow, and shivered and shook, until able to speak. It was quite five minutes before he could do so, and all the time Dan, after a brief word of welcome, held his peace, and eyed his visitor with strong curiosity. "Ow, ow!" coughed Merle, weakly. "What a hill that is to climb! I haven't climbed one for years. Why do you live in this out-of-the-way place? It is quite a journey from my house." "Why did you not send word that you wished to see me, Dr. Merle?" said Dan, gently. "Had you done so I should have called at your house, and so saved you the journey." "I didn't want you to call, young man. Meg would have asked the reason of your visit, and I do not wish her to know what I have to say." "Indeed! Does it then concern her?" said Dan, anxiously. "No! It has nothing to do with her," retorted Merle, querulously; "why should it? I wish to speak of myself, and of Miss Linisfarne, and of you." "Well, and what have you to say?" asked Dan, guessing from this speech that the errand had something to do with the rumours pervading Farbis. "You must not be offended, young man." "I can safely promise you that," said Dan, with veiled contempt; "nothing you could say would offend me. Pray proceed, Dr. Merle! I am all attention." "It is said that you are in love with Miss Linisfarne!" "So I have heard before." "Is it true?" demanded Merle, eagerly, putting out one shaking hand--"is it true?" Dan did not answer at once. That two such different individuals as Tinker Tim and Dr. Merle should display emotion in regard to Miss Linisfarne astonished him greatly. He could not conceive what influence that faded old woman could exercise over the recluse and the gipsy; the more so as neither, so far as he knew, had ever set eyes on the lady. It had been impossible to get the truth out of Tim; but there was a possibility of forcing a weak creature like Merle to explain himself. This Dan determined to do, and so spoke with forethought and deliberation. "Is it true?" said Merle again, seeing that the young man kept silent. "Before I answer that question I must ask you to explain your connection with Miss Linisfarne." Merle stared at him with a terrified expression, and could hardly force his dry lips to speak. When he did manage to find his tongue it was to tell an untruth. "I have no connection with Miss Linisfarne. All the time she has been in Farbis I have never seen her." "Then why trouble to ask if I love her?" "Because you have no right to love her," replied Merle, vehemently. "I forbid you--I forbid you! I shall speak to Tinker Tim. I--I----" His voice faltered and died away in his throat, for Dan had seized him by the shoulder, and was speaking to him in a very peremptory manner. "There must be an end to this, Dr. Merle," he said decisively. "I cannot allow you to meddle with my private affairs without having some explanation. You spoke of Miss Linisfarne--you speak of Tinker Tim. Between the three of you there is some understanding. Now, what is it?" "I daren't tell," whimpered the wretched creature, thoroughly frightened by this vehemence. "There is nothing--nothing." "Yes, there is! Out with it, sir. Before you leave this place I must know." Merle half arose from his seat as to escape; but Dan, now thoroughly angry at what he regarded as an unjustifiable interference, forced him down. The man snarled and muttered. Like a rat driven into a corner he turned at bay. "I shan't tell you!" "I'll drop you into the well if you don't," said Dan, grimly. "I'm not going to have you and Tim interfering with my business without knowing your reasons." "Has Tim been here?" "He left as you came. I wonder you did not meet him. And he asked me the same question as you have done. What business is it of yours or of his if I marry Miss Linisfarne? It has nothing to do with you." "Yes, it has--yes, it has! I love her--I love her!" "How can that be, when, by your own confession, you never saw her till you came to Farbis?" "I didn't say that! I said that I had not seen her since she came to Farbis." "Indeed! Then you knew her before she settled at the Court?" "Yes! I--that is--oh, don't ask me any more!" said Merle, in an hysterical manner. "I can't tell you. If Tinker Tim knew he would kill me." The alarm of the man was so genuine that Dan soothed him with soft words, as one would soothe a frightened child. And, indeed, Merle was little else, for the pernicious drug had effectually destroyed his manhood, and converted him into a nervous, irresponsible being. "Don't be afraid, Merle," said Dan, quietly; "no one shall hurt you. I can protect you from Tim; only tell me all!" "I cannot tell you about Tim, for I know hardly anything of him. But I can tell you my own story." "Very good; do so! Tim has promised to tell me his later on. Meanwhile, let me hear yours. You say you knew Miss Linisfarne?" "Yes, twenty-three years ago, it may be more. I have quite lost count of time." "I don't wonder at that," said Dan, gravely. "I--I only use it to soothe my pain," said Merle, hurriedly. "It makes me dream, and forget the past. If you only knew how I have been tortured--how I am tortured by memory--how burdensome my life is to me, you would not grudge me the drug which enables me to bear my accursed existence." "Why are you tortured by memory? Have you committed a crime?" "No! Do I look like a criminal! My sole crime is in having loved this woman too well. My name is not Merle--what it is does not matter. Three and twenty years ago I was a man, not a creature like I am now; but a man with a career before me. I met with Laura Linisfarne and loved her. She said she loved me, and then we were engaged. I lived in a fool's paradise for some months, and then found out her treachery, her wickedness. She ruined my life; she made me an outcast and a bye-word. I followed her here--to the exile to which her sin had condemned her. For years I have not seen her, but watched over her agony. For every pang I have felt, she has likewise suffered, for she has no opium to dull the stings of memory. If she says she loves you, she lies. She is a viper, a devil, a fiend! Were I strong enough, I would kill her! I was a man once--now look at me!" He sprang to his feet and stretched out his arms. A look of fury distorted his face, and he shook like a reed. "Look at me!" he cried. "This is he that was once Richard Mallard!" "Ah! Mallard--not Merle." "Oh, what have I said--what have I said?" cried Merle, with a sudden revulsion of feeling. "I did not mean to tell you my name, I--I----" "Hush, hush, no harm is done." "You know my secret; I shall tell you no more. Let me go--let me go. If you would know more, ask Tim. He can tell you why I came here--how bitterly I have suffered at the hands of that woman. And now she would marry you. Avoid her--avoid her, or she will ruin you as she has done me!" "She will not marry me. I don't love her," said Dan, slowly. "I am in love with your daughter Meg; I want to marry her." Merle looked at him with a dazed expression, then tossed up his arms, and, with a sudden access of strength, ran away up the path, laughing hysterically. "Ha! ha! you love my daughter," he cried, shrilly. "Go and tell Laura so! It will make her suffer. After all these years her sin has found her out. Go! go! tell her all! It will fill the measure of my revenge." He disappeared, still laughing loudly, and Dan could hear the echoes of that cruel mirth dying away in the distance. Astonished as he was at the way in which Merle had received his announcement, he made no attempt to follow; but, without changing his position, reflected on his course of action. His decision was soon made. "I shall see Jarner," he said, "and then Miss Linisfarne." CHAPTER XXIII. PARSON JARNER IS ASTONISHED. It was the custom of Mr. Jarner to visit at Farbis Court once a week. He pitied the loneliness of Miss Linisfarne, and did all in his power to divert her from melancholy reflections, by attempting to interest her in the duties of his three parishes. His weekly conversations were generally of a parochial character, and, eager to propitiate her only friend, Miss Linisfarne feigned an interest in these local affairs, which she was far from feeling. Still, they introduced a new element into her life, and gave her an opportunity of enjoying the society of the vicar, for which she was ever grateful. Meg was constantly with her; but, though Miss Linisfarne liked such companionship, she relished infinitely more the calls of Mr. Jarner. She was more inclined to the society of men than to that of her own sex. The unexpected appearance of Dan at Farbis wrought a revolution in her quiet life. Here was a handsome young gentleman--for she had no doubt on that point--who conversed intelligently, and who had plenty of time at his disposal to idle away at Farbis Court. Deprived for so many years of such congenial companionship, Miss Linisfarne welcomed Dan with enthusiasm, and made him free of her house. As has before been stated, she was jealous of Dan's partiality for Meg; and, having shown the girl plainly that she did not wish a third in their conversations, managed to keep her out of the road. But, alas for her plans! When Dan found that the presence of Meg in the dreary drawing-room was no longer to be counted on, he ceased to visit the Court, as was his custom. With the instinct of a jealous woman, Miss Linisfarne guessed the reason of his non-appearance, and was deeply angered that he should so scorn her. But she was by no means disposed to abandon him without a struggle, for, strange as it may appear, this faded beauty was really in love with the young man. Had she not been so, she would scarcely have made up her mind to marry him, and this is what she now intended to do. After due deliberation, she determined to bestow herself and her fortune on this unknown vagrant. Such a resolution was inconceivably rash, for she knew absolutely nothing about him. That he was a gentleman she was convinced, but was quite ignorant of his character, name, station, or wealth. To marry an adventurer, was what she intended; and, though she tried to salve her conscience with the reflection that one so handsome must be desirable in all other respects, yet she could not help feeling that it would be as well to discover his antecedents before committing herself further. To this end she sent for the vicar, in the belief that he, if any one, would know something of this attractive stranger. If the inquiry proved satisfactory, she was resolved to make him her husband. To such a pitch of rashness did her mad passion bear her. Jarner guessed that the coming interview had something to do with Dan, as he also had heard the rumour of Miss Linisfarne's infatuation. Also he had been present when Dan was visiting, and had seen the eager looks of the lady at her guest. Needless to say he greatly disapproved of the way in which she was behaving, and resolved to speak his mind at the interview, should it turn on the subject. And, indeed, as Miss Linisfarne had never sent for him before, he was perfectly certain that it was for the purpose of asking him to aid in her schemes that she invited his presence. This the vicar did not intend to do, as he by no means desired to break off the projected match between Dan and Meg. On his arrival at the Court, he was shown up to the picture-gallery, where he found Miss Linisfarne seated before the portrait of Sir Alurde. This was her favourite resort, for which she had quite deserted the drawing-room. For hours she gazed on that face which so resembled that of the man she loved, and glanced occasionally at a book on her lap, which set forth the history of the Elizabethan. This history she had found in the library, and on reading it had discovered that Sir Alurde and the vagrant possessed many traits in common. Yet, strange to say, it never crossed her mind that there must be a reason for such resemblance, nor did she guess that Sir Alurde was the ancestor of the man who chose to call himself Dan. Had she made such a discovery, it would have given her no pleasure, as she saw that Dan was not in love with her, and trusted to his poverty and her wealth to bring about the desired marriage. The vicar contracted his brows as he saw how infatuated she was with the picture, for he also was aware of the resemblance. Meg had told him as a jest, and now that he knew that Dan was Lord Ardleigh, he no longer wondered at the likeness. But it was not at the portrait he looked, but at Miss Linisfarne. The change in her appearance quite astonished him, for she seemed years younger, and in the flush of her mad passion had almost regained the beauty of her youth. When Jarner appeared, she arose, with a bright smile, and came towards him with outstretched hands. "You are much stronger, I see," said Jarner, in reply to her greeting. "That comes of walking in the open air, and of mixing more with your fellow-creatures. Hey, ma'm! There is nothing like exercise and society for bringing back the roses to pale cheeks." "I think it is more than exercise or society," replied Miss Linisfarne, joyously, and glanced at the portrait. The vicar glanced also, but wilfully chose to misinterpret her meaning. It was his intention to make her confession as difficult as possible, and, if there was any chance, to avert it altogether. "Hey, ma'm! Are you in love with Sir Alurde?" "No. Not with Sir Alurde," said Miss Linisfarne, pointedly; "but with some one who greatly resembles him." "And who may that be?" asked Jarner, dryly. "Cannot you guess? I have sent for you in order to speak on this very subject." The vicar pretended to search his memory, and shook his head with feigned vexation. "No, Miss Linisfarne; I cannot guess with whom you are infatuated." "Infatuated, sir!" she cried, starting to her feet. "Does the word displease you, ma'm?" "It is hardly courteous. Is love so ridiculous in a woman that you should hesitate to use the word?" "Love!" repeated Jarner, reflectively. "I think you told me, Miss Linisfarne, that you had loved many years ago, and had lost your lover." "I did," said she, paling at the irony of his accent. "Pardon me, if my memory fails," he continued; "but you also informed me that your love ended in disaster--that your heart was dead, and that for such reason you buried yourself in our solitudes.", Miss Linisfarne covered her face with her hands. All the joy had died out of her eyes, and she looked the miserable woman she was. "For twenty years and more you have lived here," continued Jarner, ponderously, "and all that time have remained faithful to the memory of that early passion. With the details you have not seen fit to honour me; but I can guess your story." She lifted her haggard face in surprise, but he took no notice of the action. "You loved and lost, ma'm, and so sought to be constant in this solitude to your dead lover. For twenty years you have been faithful. Why, then," added the vicar, pointing to the picture,--"why, then, let that displace his image in your heart? It is sacrilege to the dead." "You do not understand!" "Ay, ma'm, I understand well enough. I also have noted the resemblance which chains you to that portrait. You love the young man who calls himself Dan." "I do!" she cried with a bright flush. "Is there dishonour in such a love?" "Ay, to the dead!" "Tush! You know not of what you speak, sir. I have not made you my father confessor. I love this man. What have you to say against it? He is handsome, he is a gentleman, he is of a noble nature." "I grant all that, but----" "Make no objections, Mr. Jarner, for they carry no weight with me. I love now as I never loved before. You smile! You think I am too old to set my heart on him, but I tell you that I love this man fondly, and I shall marry him." "Marry him!" "Why not?" said she, pressing her hands on her heaving breast. "Do you know anything against him?" "No, indeed; still----" "Then there can be no obstacle to my union with him. He is poor, but I am rich. If he has no name of his own, he can take mine. What obstacle is there to our union?" "The greatest of all," answered Jarner, dryly; "he loves another woman." "Meg!" "Ah! you have seen as much. Yes, he loves Meg Merle, and wishes to make her his wife." "That he shall never do! Will he prefer that unformed girl to me--her poverty to my wealth? She shall not marry him. I love him, and will surrender him to no rival. Rival! Ha, is it I who call that girl a rival!" "Yes, it is you; and it were wiser if you did not. She is fond of you, Miss Linisfarne; you have brought her up; she looks on you as a mother----" "Mother!" "Yes, as a mother. So do not ruin her life, and destroy the memory of your kindness by seeking to marry this man. He is not for you, but for Meg." "I shall not give him up," she said, doggedly; "mine he shall be. Do you think that, after all these years of sorrow, I shall willingly surrender the only chance of joy that has come to me? He shall be my husband." The vicar picked up his hat as to go, and bowed. "In that case, ma'm, I need not remain. I disapprove altogether of your infatuation, and shall do my best to thwart your schemes. One woman only shall he marry,--Margaret Merle." "You seem very interested in this match," sneered Miss Linisfarne. "Is it of your making?" "No. It is his own desire." "Who is this man?" she asked, abruptly. "Do you know his name?" "I do, madam, but I shall not tell it to you." "Mr. Jarner----" "No more, ma'm! I have wasted too many words as it is. You shall not interrupt the course of true love. He is not for you, but for Meg Merle." She strove to detain him, but he strode away, deeply angered at her pertinacity. She stamped her foot, and looked at the picture of Sir Alurde. "Meg shall never marry you," she said, thinking of Dan,--"never! never! never!" CHAPTER XXIV. A WOMAN SCORNED. In her then state of mind it needed but the assurance of Jarner that Dan loved Meg to change Miss Linisfarne's passive dislike of the girl into active hatred. She had long been aware that Meg was her rival, but this confirmation by a third party showed her how easily she might lose her prize. At the same time, she was sufficiently clever to see that Meg was quite unconscious of Dan's devotion, and hoped, by taking advantage of this fact, to draw him away from one presumably indifferent to his regard. It was a difficult and delicate task, but Miss Linisfarne deemed herself capable of carrying it through. Come what may, she was resolved that Meg should not triumph. To forward her schemes, it was necessary that she should have an interview with Dan, and therefore sent a note to the dell requesting him to call. The young man duly received the invitation, and, though reluctant to visit a lady with whom his name was connected by gossip, could not find sufficient grounds for refusal, and so sent back to say that he would call at noon as desired. Had he known of Jarner's interview, he might have been placed on his guard, and so refused a meeting which could only end in disaster; but Jarner was away on parochial business, and Dan was quite ignorant of his danger. Much as he distrusted Miss Linisfarne--for by her own acts she had caused the gossip which had connected their names,--he did not think she was so passionately in love with him as to overstep all bounds of womanly modesty. He had laughed to scorn the notion of marriage put forward by Tim and Dr. Merle, deeming it beyond all probability that a gentlewoman would be so rash as to desire to link her fortunes with those of a nameless vagrant. Although Tinker Tim and the vicar knew his name, he was well assured that Miss Linisfarne was ignorant of it, and so could see no reason to believe the rumour of marriage. Dan was a cautious and astute young man, but in this case he had to measure his wits against a woman. As a natural consequence, he failed. The cleverest man is but a fool in some matters, when compared with even a silly woman. Yet Dan came through the ordeal more creditably than he might have expected. Miss Linisfarne was by no means silly, and had all her plans prepared for the subjugation of Dan. She intended to tell him that Meg's indifference was caused by the fact of her having another lover whom she wished to marry. There not being a representative of this mythical lover in the parish of Farbis, Miss Linisfarne decided to locate him at a safe distance, where he could not be easily found. All this was very clever, but she quite forgot that Dan's insight into human nature was as keen as her own, and that he would find it difficult to believe that a mere child like Meg could keep secret so important a factor in her life as a future marriage. Dan was honest and straightforward, and, notwithstanding Miss Linisfarne's fine-spun webs of sophistry, contrived in the end to break through them, though not without difficulty and pain. He failed in one respect, as his antagonist was a woman and unscrupulous; but he was successful in the end, as his strong love for Meg proved his safeguard against the wiles of this enchantress. Miss Linisfarne received him in her own particular corner of the drawing-room. Knowing her ill health, Dan quite expected to find her stretched languidly on the couch, but was astonished, as Jarner had been, to find himself welcomed by a bright-eyed lady, alert and merry. She presided over the tea-table and invited him to be seated. Nothing loth--for his walk had given him an appetite--Dan drank tea and devoured cakes, while Miss Linisfarne chatted to him on unimportant subjects. She was too clever to introduce Meg's name into the conversation, lest his suspicions might be aroused, and left him to make the first mention of the girl. This he did while talking of Mr. Jarner, and discussing matters incidental to his sojourn at Farbis. "I have enjoyed my stay here very very much, thank you, Miss Linisfarne," said Dan, in answer to a question. "You can judge of that by the months I have been encamped in the dell." "And what have you most delighted in?" asked Miss Linisfarne, hoping by this artful remark to lead him to talk of Meg. "In Mr. Jarner. I have never met a character like him before." "No; a sporting parson is rather rare nowadays." "It's not exactly his love of sport, but his whole character I admire. He is a cross between Dr. Johnson and Squire Western. A bluff, honest, hearty old man, who would put to shame many of our mincing, scented clergy. I can well understand him doing what he told me he did the other day." "What is that?" "Why, he found his congregation was not large enough, and was in danger of beginning the service, like Dean Swift, with 'Dearly beloved Roger,' so he doffed his surplice and went out with his hunting crop to thrash in a few listeners. Ay, and he succeeded too! He thrashed the whole village. I can fancy how attentive that congregation must have been." "He is very amusing," said Miss Linisfarne, laughing at this anecdote; "and has a good heart." "That he has," assented Dan, heartily. "Look how kind he has been to Meg. I do not know what she would have done without yourself and Mr. Jarner." "Ob, I have done very little," said Miss Linisfarne, carelessly. "It was a great pleasure to me to help the poor child. I am afraid you find her very rough and countrified?" "Indeed, no. I think her perfection as she is. It would be a sin to turn her into a fine London lady." "What do you know about London ladies?" "What indeed!" said Dan, laughing to hide his confusion. "I am only a vagabond." "I think we argued that question before, and disagreed upon it. You are no vagabond, though it pleases you to pass as one. By the way, you promised to tell me your name in a week or so. It is now two months since then, and I am still ignorant of it." "I cannot tell you at present," muttered Dan, awkwardly; "on some future occasion I may." Miss Linisfarne was disappointed at this denial, but did not see her way to press the matter. Nevertheless, she skilfully made use of the opportunity to reintroduce the topic of Meg. "It pleases you to be mysterious," she said coldly, "and I trust your motives are straightforward." "I think I can answer for them. With regard to whom?" "Meg Merle! You are constantly with her, and I do not think that it is right that you should be." "Why not?" asked Dan, with a frown. The significance of her tone annoyed him. "Well, for one thing, it is not right for the girl herself; for another--her lover may take exception to your conduct." "Miss Linisfarne!" He had leaped to his feet, and was looking at her with angry eyes. She gazed at him with admiration, and thought she had never seen him look so handsome; yet, undeterred by his wrath, persisted in her line of conduct. "Ah, you are astonished, I see. You did not know, then, that Meg was engaged to be married?" "I cannot believe it." "Nevertheless, it is true. That is why she is so indifferent to your suit." "What do you mean?" said Dan, rather confused by the rapidity with which she pressed the attack. "Oh, I am not blind! I know you are in love with her. Your devotion is quite useless, as you can see from her demeanour. She----" "That is innocence," he interrupted roughly. "She does not know the meaning of love. She has never thought of marriage. I do not--I cannot believe that she is engaged. Her whole life gives the lie to such an assertion." "You are discourteous." "I beg your pardon, I did not mean to be so," he replied apologetically; "but it is impossible. You must be mistaken." "Ask Mr. Byrne of Silkstone if I am mistaken. Meg may deny it, but he----" "Why should she deny it? If she is engaged to be married to this Silkstone man of whom you speak, there is no necessity to keep it secret. But I tell you it cannot be. If it were so she would have told me. She is an innocent child, who cannot keep a secret." "She kept this one, however." "Moreover, Mr. Jarner would have told me," said Dan, not heeding the taunt. Miss Linisfarne lost her temper. She had counted on resistance, but not on such a stubborn defence of Meg. Rising with flashing eyes, she stepped up to Dan, and, throwing aside all restraint, burst out into rapid speech. It was not wise for her to do so, but her love and jealousy carried her away, and she spoke wildly, madly--as she never would have spoken had she reflected for a moment. "Are you blind, sir, that you so believe in this girl? I tell you, she is engaged to be married. She does not love you--she will never love you. Why should you lay your heart at her feet only to find it spurned? Give it to me--I say, give it to me." "To you!" cried Dan, scarcely believing his ears. "Yes. You now know my secret. I love you! I love you! I wish to make you my husband. You are poor, but I am rich. Take me--take my money--only leave that wretched girl and come to me, who truly loves you." Dan stepped back a pace, and looked at her in amazement. Her face was flushed, her eyes were unnaturally bright, and her whole body trembled with emotion as she stretched out appealing hands to him. He was so utterly astonished, that for the moment he did not know what to say--what to do. "I love you. Come to me," she cried passionately. "You must see how I am prepared to give up all for you." "But I--I am not--not worthy," he stammered. "You are in my eyes." "I am poor--nameless--unknown." "What is that to me? I am rich--take my money. I have a name--take it as your own. With my name and my money you can make yourself known. Only love me." It was an extremely awkward situation. Here was Dan, standing helplessly before this impassionate woman, unable to move, almost unable to speak. He faltered, stammered, hesitated, while she with outstretched arms drew nearer. It was impossible to say how he would have extricated himself from the dilemma, had not a memory of his conversation with Merle flashed across his brain. He acted on the impulse of the moment, and flung out a hand to keep her back. "No. It is impossible. You are mad. Think of Mallard." "Mallard!" "Of Richard Mallard, whom you deceived, and deserted, and ruined!" Before the last words left his mouth, she had fallen fainting on the floor. The name evidently recalled some painful memory, as Dan, on remembering the anguish of Merle, guessed it would. He was sorry that he had mentioned it, but, so awkwardly was he placed, that he saw no way out of the position but to act in what he considered a brutal fashion. It proved efficacious, for Miss Linisfarne lay at his feet in a swoon, and he was free to go. Ringing the bell hastily he committed the insensible woman to the care of the astonished housekeeper, and rushed away with his brain on fire. "She is mad! mad!" he said, as he ran down the avenue. "But what else could I do? Mallard! Mallard and Merle! What does it all mean? Only one person can solve the mystery of Miss Linisfarne, and that is Tinker Tim." CHAPTER XXV. JEALOUSY. Miss Linisfarne recovered from her swoon to find that her machinations had proved unsuccessful. She had lied in saying that Meg was engaged to be married, and she had humiliated herself at the feet of a man who scorned her. These things were sufficient in themselves to cause her to repent of her folly, but, in place of learning a lesson from such rebuffs, she became still more inflamed against the girl whom she professed to love. Enraged by her failure and humiliation, she cast about for some means whereby to punish Meg, whom she unjustly regarded as the cause of her sufferings. No one was more prone than Miss Linisfarne to lay the burden of her follies on others. The reference by Dan to her lover of twenty years before, led her to fancy that he knew more about her life than was actually the case. She began to believe that this unknown man was well acquainted with the shameful history which had led to her retirement, and had come down to Farbis for the express purpose of recalling it to her mind. Ignorant of the identity of Dr. Merle with Mallard, she could not conceive how Dan had learned her secret, since she had confided it to no one in Farbis. Yet it was known to him, as was apparent from his utterance of the name, and he had used it in order to humiliate her to the dust. Her mad love for him gave place to rage and resentment, and she longed to find an opportunity to punish him for his disdain and knowledge. On calm reflection, she saw that, by parting him from Meg, she could render him miserable, and so resolved to see the girl, and, by lying to her as she had to Dan, to effectually prevent their marriage. Well aware that by her own acts she had prevented Meg from visiting at the Court, she resolved to go in person to Dr. Merle's house and see her rival. Her plan of action was not clear in her mind, but all she wanted was to achieve a lifelong separation between the pair. With this amiable object she repaired that same afternoon, alone and on foot, to the house of the doctor. It had been Dan's intention to speak personally to Meg; to demand from her own lips a refutation of the lies uttered by Miss Linisfarne. But on arriving at his camp he found a messenger from the vicar, requesting him to come down to the village on that evening, and this invitation Dan readily obeyed, as he was anxious to make a confidant of the vicar, and to ask his advice with regard to the revelations made by Tinker Tim, by Dr. Merle, and by Miss Linisfarne. He, therefore, deemed it politic to postpone his visit to Meg until he had seen the vicar, as in his future course he thought it would be wise to be guided by the strong common sense of Jarner. Had he suspected Miss Linisfarne's intention of poisoning the mind of Meg, he might have altered his plans; but, as it was, he was ignorant of her schemes and quite unprepared to counteract her wiles. So far Fortune declared itself in favour of the enemy. When Miss Linisfarne was announced as waiting for an interview, Meg was in the dark room with her father. She was astonished at the visit, as she could not think what reason her benefactress could have for calling on her. Dr. Merle was also surprised and very much alarmed, as he thought that this unexpected appearance of the woman he loved was due to a use made of his indiscreet revelations to Dan. With much agitation he implored Meg not to let Miss Linisfarne see him, though, with characteristic feebleness, he assigned merely selfish reasons for this strange request. "I am ill--very ill; she will only disturb me," he reiterated peevishly. "Why does she come here?" "It is impossible to say, father," said Meg, reflectively. "Perhaps she is sorry she has treated me so ill, and wants me to return to the Court." "Go, if she asks you, Meg; consent to anything, but do not let her see me." "Don't trouble yourself, father! I shall not let her enter this room." "She may force her way in," replied Merle, in a terrified whisper; "keep her away. Go and stop her." Meg departed as desired, not without some wonderment at the anxiety displayed by her father. She put it down to his retiring disposition; for, strange as it may appear, she knew nothing of Merle's indulgence in laudanum-drinking. He was ashamed to exhibit this vice before his only child, and always locked himself in his room when indulging in a debauch. Meg only knew these frequent retirements as caused by a mysterious illness, and never for a moment suspected that they were due to his own vices. Indeed, had she been told she would have been none the wiser, as she was unacquainted with even the name of laudanum. Merle's refusal to see Miss Linisfarne was quite in keeping with his usual habits; so, after a momentary wonder at his agitation, Meg dismissed the subject from her mind, and went into the next room to see her visitor. Miss Linisfarne, arrayed in black, and thickly veiled, arose to meet her, but did not come forward with any greeting. On the contrary, she stood still as any statue, and looked steadily at the splendid beauty of the young girl. It was so undeniable that she recognized the inferiority of her faded charms at once, and sank back in her chair with a sigh. This Meg interpreted as a sign of sorrow that they had been parted, and with great tenderness took the hand of--as she deemed her to be--her friend. The situation was not without a suspicion of irony. "I am so glad to see you, Miss Linisfarne," she said, kissing the elder woman. "I was afraid you were angry with me, and so kept away from the Court." "It was for your own good, Meg, that I was angry." "For my own good!" repeated Meg, rather astounded at this assertion. "What do you mean, Miss Linisfarne? Did I disobey you in anyway, that you banished me from Farbis Court? Was my conduct distasteful to you, that you so reproved me? What do you mean by saying your anger was for my own good?" Miss Linisfarne smiled under her veil at the indignation of the girl, and uttered only one word in reply. It had not the effect she anticipated. "Dan!" she said, with much significance. "What about Dan?" demanded Meg, in a puzzled tone. "It was on his account I wished you to keep away from the Court." "I don't understand!" "No, poor child!" said Miss Linisfarne, in a pitying tone. "How can you, with your youth and innocence and provincial education, be expected to understand the baseness of man?" "If you mean that Dan is base," replied Meg, bluntly, "I don't believe it. He is as good a man as Mr. Jarner." "I am afraid not, Meg." "You need not be afraid, Miss Linisfarne. I have seen Dan daily for the last three months, and every day I have grown to like him better." "Are you in love with him?" sneered Miss Linisfarne. Meg laughed heartily. Such an idea had never entered her mind, and she thought Miss Linisfarne was joking. "Of course I am not in love with him," she said, smiling; "why, we are like brother and sister." "You think so, but he does not. I tell you, Meg, he is a dishonourable man." "And I tell you he is not!" "He has a brave defender, I see! But what do you say of a man who professes to love two women at the same time?" "I should call him a scoundrel. But such a thing is impossible. No one can love two women at once." "Dan can," retorted Miss Linisfarne, in a taunting manner; "he loves you, and professes to love me." "Stop, stop!" cried Meg, with a bewildered expression of countenance. "What do you say? Dan loves me?" "Yes!" "That is impossible! He has never, in any way, hinted at such a thing." "No! Because he was afraid of my anger." "Of your anger!" "Yes! He came to Farbis Court yesterday and declared that he loved me--that he wished to make me his wife." "Oh, I cannot believe it," said Meg, jealously. "Nevertheless, it is true! He proposed to marry me; but I refused his offer with scorn." "Why did you do that?" Miss Linisfarne raised her veil, and showed a face inflamed with anger. Having once committed herself, she did not measure her words, and raged on without considering the harm she was doing. The belief Meg had in Dan enraged her, and she was determined to blacken his character in the girl's eyes, so that any tenderness Meg might have towards him should be crushed in its infancy. "Why did I do that?" she cried, with rapid speech. "Because his offer was an insult. He said that he loved you; in every action he has shown that he loved you. Fool that you are, do you think a man would stay in this place for weeks and weeks had he not been influenced by your presence? He was in love with me also--the base, dishonourable villain!" "If so, why did he ask you to be his wife?" said Meg, calmly, though her heart was beating wildly. "Because he is a base and dishonourable man. He loved you for your looks, child, but he wished to marry me for my money." "No, no!" "I tell you it is true," resumed Miss Linisfarne, vehemently. "Why should I, who have been a mother to you, tell a falsehood? This man has insulted us both. Now that I have repelled him he will come to you with loving words, and you--what will you say?" "If he has done what you say, I shall treat him with scorn." "Do you not believe me?" "No, Miss Linisfarne, I do not," replied Meg, facing round with great indignation. "I do not believe your story. If Dan proposed to you he does not love me. If he loves me as you say, he did not propose to you. I shall know the truth from his own lips." "Will you ask him?" demanded Miss Linisfarne, rather alarmed at the turn affairs had taken. "Of course I shall ask him. And, what is more, I shall believe his answer." "You love him, girl--you love him!" "I do. Until you spoke I only felt like a sister to him, but now you have put his conduct in a new light, and I feel what I never felt before. I do love him, and on his answer shall depend the happiness or the misery of my life." Thus Miss Linisfarne, by her jealousy, had brought about the very catastrophe she desired to avoid. She recognized that her wiles were worse than useless before the honest character of the girl, and silently admitted that she was again beaten. She had failed with Dan, now she failed with Meg. Only retreat remained. "You fool!" she said cruelly. "Ask him, and believe his lies. Your misery dates from that moment." She swept from the room with a haughty carriage, and left Meg bewildered and afraid. CHAPTER XXVI. CUPID IN ARCADY. When Dan explained to Jarner the equivocal position in which he was placed by the folly of Miss Linisfarne, the vicar urged him to end all mysteries by declaring his name and rank. Also to ask Meg to be his wife, and thus ascertain, beyond all question, the state of her feelings. Miss Linisfarne's story of an engagement to Byrne of Silkstone was scouted by Jarner with much wrath. "What can the woman be thinking of?" he said. "The whole story is false--there is not even a man in Silkstone called Byrne. She must have known that you would tell me this, and that I would be able to deny it." "No doubt she thought that, in the revulsion of feeling caused by her false word, I would ask her to marry me." "Very probably. I do not so much blame as pity her. The poor woman suffers from hysteria. When she comes to her senses she will be sorry enough for her behaviour." "I don't know so much about that, sir. Remember, she is a woman with a past. A woman with a past is capable of anything in the present." "Ay, but we know nothing of her past. She may be more sinned against than sinning." "Merle--or, to use his real name, Mallard--does not seem to think so." "A poor creature that, my lord. A man who would sink, as he has done, because a woman chose to jilt him, is a miserable specimen of humanity. I should like to know his story." "So should I, and the story of Miss Linisfarne and of Tinker Tim." "The last-named person can gratify your curiosity," said Jarner. "Take my advice, and declare yourself. Then ask Meg to be your wife, and, when all is accomplished, Tim will tell his story. I agree with you that there is a mystery, but Tim holds the key thereto." "Perhaps Meg won't accept me as her husband." "Try," said the vicar, significantly, and pushed the young man out of the room. This action sounds inhospitable; but the hour was late and the vicar weary, so he thus hinted strongly his wish to be alone. Dan, in nowise offended, for he was used to the vicar's blunt speech and blunt ways, accepted the hint in its true spirit, and returned to his camp. There was but little sleep for him that night. His thoughts were principally taken up with the curious fulfilment of the prophecy of Mother Jericho. Much as he despised superstition and ridiculed palmistry, he could not but admit that the sibyl had forecast the future with remarkable accuracy. She had predicted that he would meet his fate at the Gates of Dawn, and there he had seen Meg, whom he now designed to make his wife. The assertion that he would love one woman, and be loved by another whom he would dislike, had been fulfilled to the letter by the declaration of Miss Linisfarne. She had yellow hair streaked with grey, and hence Mother Jericho's warning to beware of gold and silver. So far all had occurred exactly as she foretold; but there was more to come. Miss Linisfarne was to seek to hurt him through Meg, and there was fire and flame and brave deeds. Also a false father, and a false mother. These yet unfulfilled events were a source of great perplexity to him, and he determined to nullify at least the first by at once declaring his passion to Meg. When they understood one another, he hoped that Miss Linisfarne would be powerless to harm him through his promised wife. But all this depended on the acceptance or refusal of his suit by Meg. After a restless night he walked down to the beach for a swim, and left Simon and Peter to guard the dell. As he passed through the Gates of Dawn, at the hour of sunrise, he beheld Meg coming up from the seashore. Again the golden glory of the day burned behind her, but she no longer sang, nor did she dance before the sun like Aurora. On the contrary, her eyes were downcast, her face sorrowful, and she attempted to pass Dan without a greeting. The omission vexed him, and he blocked her path by standing before her. Courtesy forbade her to force her way past him, so she paused irresolutely, and looked at him reproachfully. Astonished at this unusual behaviour, and rightly ascribing it to the influence of Miss Linisfarne, Dan was the first to speak. He wasted no time in idle talk, but went straight to the point. "Meg!" he said, looking at her anxiously, "what is the matter? Have I offended you, that you would pass me by as a stranger?" "I have nothing to say," she murmured. "Let me pass, please." "Not till you tell me how I have been so unfortunate as to offend you." "You have not offended me. I have no right to control your actions." "Then Miss Linisfarne has poisoned your mind against me." Meg lifted her eyes, and looked at him sorrowfully. Boldly as she had defended him when absent, she could not help believing that there was some truth in the assertions of Miss Linisfarne. Dan she had only known for a few months, while Miss Linisfarne was the close friend of years, therefore it was only natural she should attach more weight to the assertions of the latter than to those of the former. Experience only can instruct as to the proper estimate of a friendship. "Miss Linisfarne told me all," she said, with great dignity. "All what?" "Can you ask me?" replied Meg, reproachfully. "Does not your memory recall your words and acts?" "I really do not understand you," said Dan, much bewildered by this speech. "What have I said or done to you that you should thus reproach me?" "It is not what you said to me, Dan. I have no fault to find with you in any way, as I told Miss Linisfarne. But she says you called at Farbis Court, and----" "Go on," said Dan, seeing she hesitated. "I admit I called at the Court." "And there you asked Miss Linisfarne to be your wife." "I!" It was all he could say, being dumbfounded by the accusation, which he guessed was made by Miss Linisfarne. With her face suffused with blushes, Meg continued to speak in a low, nervous tone. Since she had discovered that she loved Dan, she felt ill at ease in his presence, and the subject on which she was forced to speak was uncongenial. The situation was most trying to a modest girl like Meg; but her brave spirit did not falter in fulfilling what she considered to be her duty. Therefore, much as she disliked the task, she did not shrink from the performance. Dan guessed all this, and admired her nerve. "Yes. Miss Linisfarne told me how you wished to marry her for the sake of her fortune. She said you were poor and nameless, and that you wished to improve your condition by marriage. Oh, Dan, I never thought you were so base!" "Nor am I," he replied, frankly. "It is quite untrue that I wish to marry Miss Linisfarne. On the contrary---- But that is neither here nor there. Though she has attempted to blacken my character in your eyes, I shall say nothing against her. Do you believe this story, Meg?" "I told her I did not; but----" She faltered, and looked away. Angered at the opinion she held of him, which was so galling to his proud nature, Dan caught her hands. "Look me in the eyes, Meg, and say if you believe me to be so base." "I don't think you are base; but you might be tempted----" "True; but not by Miss Linisfarne. You know better than that, Meg, I'll swear. Look me in the eyes, and tell me if you believe this story." In the steady eyes which met hers, Meg read the truth. All the lies of Miss Linisfarne faded from her memory. With the instinct of a true and loving heart, she recognized that Dan spoke the truth. "I believe you, Dan," she said, frankly. "Miss Linisfarne made a mistake." "Miss Linisfarne is---- Well, well! never mind her at present. No, you need not try to get away, Meg. I have to ask you a question. Can you not guess what it is?" "No. I--that is----" "I see you can. Yes, Meg. Poor and friendless and nameless and homeless as I am, I wish you to be my wife." "Your wife!" "My loved and honoured wife. It is you that have kept me so long at Farbis. I care nothing for Miss Linisfarne or her money, and a great deal for you. Dearest, can you accept my love?" "But I am poor, and----" "Well! Am I not poor also? I can only offer you a caravan! Come, Meg, will you be a poor man's wife? You do not speak. They say that silence gives consent. Meg, dearest wife!" He drew her unresistingly towards him, and with flushed cheeks and bright eyes she lay passively in his arms. He bent down to whisper-- "Will you be my wife, Meg?" She looked up into his face, but uttered no word. Nor was speech needed, for he saw in her eyes the answer he desired. There, in the lonely Gates of Dawn, where he had first met her, did he touch her lips with his own. A great joy filled the hearts of both. Emotion rendered them dumb, and they could only look silently into one another's eyes. "Meg, my darling wife!" "Dan!" "Remember, I am a poor wanderer, and you will have a hard life!" "Not if it is passed with you," she whispered. "I haven't even a name!" "Take mine. I love you, Dan! I did not know it till Miss Linisfarne spoke. Then, when I thought you were to be hers, I felt angered. I knew then that you were everything to me. In a single moment the whole of my life seemed to change, and all because I love you." "My darling!" He kissed her again. But why strive to describe the indescribable? To relate a love episode is foolish. Words are too poor to tell all. It were better to let the reader imagine the looks, and words, and joy of these two. They felt in that moment the perfect happiness which comes but once in a lifetime to man or woman. Earth was heaven, and they the angels who dwelt therein. After a sacred silence, which lasted it seemed ages, Dan was the first to speak. Having gained his end, he was now ready to make confession. "Meg, I have told you a falsehood." She drew away quickly with a startled look in her eyes, and faltered out the first thought in her mind. "Miss Linisfarne?" "No, no; it has nothing to do with Miss Linisfarne. Do not look so shocked. It is not a very dreadful story. Do you know who I am, Meg?" "Yes; you are Dan." "No; I am not Dan. Nor am I poor; nor am I a vagrant. I wooed you as a poor man because I wanted a wife who loved me for myself. You have done so, my dearest, and now I can confess my deception. My name is--can you not guess?" "No. How strangely you speak! Tell me! Who are you?" "Meg, Meg! whom do I resemble?" "Sir Alurde," said she, quickly. Then, with a sudden light breaking in on her mind, "Then he was your ancestor?" "Ah, you have guessed my secret. Yes, Meg, my real name is Francis Breel." "Lord Ardleigh!" "Precisely. And you, my dearest, who took poor Dan for his own worth, will be Lady Ardleigh of Farbis Court." CHAPTER XXVII. THE THIRD LETTER TO A LONDON FRIEND. Dear Jack, If this letter is wild, and incoherent, and rhapsodical, be sparing of your astonishment and blame. A scribe in my state of mind is not responsible for his epistles. Therefore be patient and read this letter carefully, for herein you will find a reason for these excuses. If you do not find my explanation all-sufficient, then you are not the sympathetic friend I took you for. What, indeed, is the use of friendship if it does not encourage and sympathize and congratulate? Were you in love--which you are not, judging from your cynical letters--I would patiently listen to your maunderings, so hearken to mine. If you wonder at this preamble learn the reason in three sentences. I love her! She loves me! We are engaged. Here I consider you have an ample explanation. Now, do not repeat that time-honoured sneer, "I told you so," and chuckle cynically over my capture by Cupid. It is true that he has chained me, but I glory in such bonds. Did you but see her face and hear her voice you would no longer wonder at my surrender. Who conquers Mars may be beaten by Venus. There is a classical nut for your cracking. Doubtless you consider events have moved speedily, seeing I have thus wooed and won my future wife in so short a space of time. You are perfectly right in such supposition. The events of a year have been crammed into seven days. Every hour has brought forth a surprise, and the result is--as above. My position has been anything but pleasant of late; but now I trust my troubles are over, though, according to the unfulfilled portion of Mother Jericho's prophecy, the worst are still to come. A pleasant prospect, truly! but one rendered endurable by my present happiness. Miss Linisfarne is the parent of my troubles and happiness. I told you about her in my last letters. A faded beauty in ill-health, who is my tenant at the Court. Ignorant of my identity, she thought I was simply a decayed gentleman, reduced to poverty and to the shelter of a caravan. With that inconsistency which is so noticeable a feature of the sex, she ignored my vagabondage, and, in the character of a broken-down gentleman, invited me to the Court. For some inexplicable reason she took a violent fancy to me, and ultimately proposed to marry me. You look surprised, and frown,--the first, at the information; the second, that I should impart it to you, and thus betray a woman's folly. As a matter of fact, unless I tell you all I can tell you nothing, and so must be content to accept your censure. I would not speak of such a thing to others; but to you, who are my second self, and have been the receptacle of my confidences since we were at Eton, I am surely justified in making the revelation. And, after all, my friend, you can put away those wire-drawn notions of honour, as Miss Linisfarne is not worthy of being considered in any way. She is a base and designing woman. You must agree with this estimate of her character--harsh though it seems--when I tell you that she tried to lower Meg in my eyes, and almost succeeded in blackening my character to Meg. Such uncalled-for malignancy is, to my mind, worthy of blame. She must be beaten with her own weapons, punished for her spiteful behaviour, and generally condemned--at all events in this letter, which is strictly confidential. It is useless for me to attempt to fathom her character. Originally it may have been a noble one, but twenty years of solitude have warped it strangely. Dr. Merle, who is the father of Meg, made a confession to me the other day. He heard a rumour that I was to marry Miss Linisfarne, and thereupon came to tell me that I was not to do so. He justified this declaration by the confession that his real name was Mallard--that he had been engaged to Miss Linisfarne twenty years ago, and that she had ruined his life. More than this he refused to tell me, but said Tinker Tim could reveal all. The gipsy declined confession until I married Meg; so, as I intend to do so shortly, I hope to be fully informed of all these mysteries. As I surmised, there is a connection between Tim and Dr. Merle and Miss Linisfarne; but what it is I cannot guess, so must possess my soul in patience until the gipsy chooses to open his mouth. After my interview with Merle--or Mallard, as that is his real name--I received a message from Miss Linisfarne asking me to call and see her. I went unwillingly, as I was by no means prepossessed in her favour by the revelation of the doctor. The interview was of the most painful character. She said that Meg was engaged to a certain Byrne of Silkstone, and finally offered me her hand, her name, and her wealth. I refused all three, and, not knowing how to extricate myself from so awkward a position, uttered the name of Mallard. Its effect was magical. She fainted, and I, having committed her to the care of her housekeeper, hastened away. I need hardly say that nothing will induce me to set foot again in her house. Much perplexed at my position, I consulted Mr. Jarner, as he is gifted with good common sense, and is remarkably shrewd in giving advice. He ascribed her strange conduct to hysteria, and said there was no truth in her assertion that Meg was engaged--nay, more, that Byrne of Silkstone was a myth. Why Miss Linisfarne should tell such falsehoods and offer to marry me I cannot say; but, as I remarked before, it is useless to attempt to fathom her character. My own opinion is, that seclusion has tended to unhinge her mind and destroy her self-control. No sane person would have acted as she has done. From charity, therefore, let us give her the benefit of the doubt, and say that she is mad. Yet there is a method in her madness which is hurtful to those whom she designs to injure. I am one of those unfortunates. When she found that I refused to marry, her love changed to hate, and she is a living example of the truth of Congreve's couplet-- "Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned." With a view, therefore, to blast my happiness, she sought Meg, and lied to her as she did to me. Declared that I wished to marry her for the sake of her wealth, that I was a base villain, an escaped criminal, a nameless outcast, and made me out to be the most abandoned of mankind. Meg retorted with spirit, and defended me, but could not help thinking that there might be some truth in these accusations. I can hardly blame her for such belief. She knew nothing, or comparatively nothing of me, whereas Miss Linisfarne has been her friend and benefactress for years. Unfortunately for Miss Linisfarne and fortunately for myself, I chanced to meet Meg at the Gates of Dawn, and speedily disabused her mind of all those malignant accusations. I denied that I had asked Miss Linisfarne to marry me because I wanted her money, and, in proof of the absurdity of such an idea, confessed my name and rank. Before doing so, however, I asked Meg to be my wife, and she, believing my bare word, accepted my offer. Can you wonder, then, that I should love and honour and esteem a woman who was prepared to marry a nameless outcast for his own worth? She is as simple and loving as a child, and I consider myself the most fortunate of men in winning her golden heart. What is rank, or title, or wealth compared with such pure love! She loves me, not my worldly advantages. Confess now, cynic as you are, that I have chosen wisely. Ah, Jack, the noblest gift that God can bestow on a man is the gift of a pure good woman's heart. I have gained this pearl without price, and henceforth have nothing better to gain from heaven. Meg was somewhat alarmed at finding I was King Cophetua in disguise. The title frightens her, and she is afraid she will not be worthy of such high rank. Not worthy, indeed! Could I place a crown instead of a coronet on her brow, it would be far below her deserts. She is a noble brave pure woman, who will enable me to fight the battle of life, and do what good lies in my power. I have no fear of her sinking under the burden of nobility, as did that puling minx who married the Lord of Burleigh. When Meg becomes more accustomed to the idea, when she is my wife, you will see that she will bear her honours nobly. Her beauty, her heart, her talents, her charms all fit her for such a station. Even you, Jack, fastidious as you are, will confess that I have the fairest and most loyal wife in the three kingdoms--ay, in the world. But enough of these rhapsodies, of which you must be tired. Let me descend from heaven to earth, and talk of meaner things. Dr. Merle gave his consent in a scared sort of way, and did not seem to know what to make of it. He is a poor feeble creature, with a brain sodden with the drug he takes. Notwithstanding my offer to provide for him, he declared his intention of remaining at Farbis, which, after all, I think is the best place for him. He is more fitted for a hermitage than for the world, as his vice has overmastered his brain and mind and has ruined his will and self-control. Every time I see him, I wonder how such a puny creature ever became the father of Meg. The late Mrs. Merle, or rather Mrs. Mallard, must have been a fine creature. I asked Meg about her, but she does not remember her mother, who died during her infancy. As Meg is close on twenty, this remark proves to me that Merle was not so inconsolable over the treachery of Miss Linisfarne as he pretends to be, for he must have married very soon after she jilted him. I can only suppose that he was disappointed in his wife, and, when she died, came to Farbis with his child to be in the neighbourhood of his first love. Yet he never attempted to see her, nor does Miss Linisfarne know that Dr. Merle is the lover of her youth. From his speedy marriage and subsequent retirement to Farbis you can see how feeble is his character. There is not a drop of his blood in the veins of Meg. That true fearless nature must be inherited from her mother. But how could a woman like Meg have married a rat like Merle! This thing puzzles me greatly. Mr. Jarner was delighted with my success, and congratulated me on gaining the heart of Meg. He considers me the most fortunate of men, and insisted on my drinking the best half of a bottle of port, in honour of the event. He is a splendid old man, and quite a character. With all his love of horses and dogs and sporting, he is deeply religious, and holds a fairer creed than many of those who use their outward holiness to cloak a mean soul. None other than he shall marry Meg and I. If you like to come down and be best man, just say so. I assure you Jarner is a parson worth meeting. I don't know if Miss Linisfarne has learned of our engagement. She must be greatly angered at the downfall of her scheme to part us. At all events, she gives no sign, but remains shut up at the Court. Meg is sorry for her, as is only natural; but I cannot feel it in my heart to pity so malignant a creature. Unless, indeed, she is mad, which puts a different complexion on the affair. As soon as my engagement was an accomplished fact, I went in search of Tinker Tim to tell him of it, and ask for an explanation of the mysteries. Unfortunately he has gone away on business connected with his fighting propensities, and will not be back for a week. However, I saw Mother Jericho, and told her of the accomplishment of her prophecy. She chuckled and leered like a wicked old fairy godmother, then damped my joy by hinting that my troubles were not yet over. "A false father, a false mother. Fire and flame, and brave deeds," she croaked,--"all these must be before you take your dearie to church. But you'll win through it all, and be happy. Your children and grandchildren shall sit on your knee, and she shall be by your side for forty years and more." Can you conceive anything more perplexing? Having seen the first part of her prophecy fulfilled, I am bound to believe the second. Evil is coming, but it can only come through Miss Linisfarne. She is malignant enough for anything, but at present gives no sign of her intentions. What do you make of the prophecy, Jack? "False father, false mother, fire and flame, and brave deeds." It is a riddle of the Sphinx. I can only leave its solution to Tim; but, at all events, I am happy to think that peace will come in the end. One does not appreciate joy without sorrow, so I am willing to undergo the troubles prophesied by the sibyl for the sake of being blessed with the last part of the prediction. All these ills are to take place before marriage, and, as I propose to be wedded in the autumn, there is not much time for their fulfilment. "False father, false mother, fire, flame, and brave deeds"--I leave the solution to your quick wits, my friend. Here I must close this long letter. Write and congratulate me, and say if you will come down to assist at the termination of my strange wooing. I am so happy, Jack, that I can write no more, so must leave you to guess the joy of your attached friend-- ARDLEIGH. CHAPTER XXVIII. FIRE AND FLAME. It is difficult, nay impossible, to alter in one day the habit of years. Meg had been accustomed to repair daily to Farbis Court from her early girlhood, and, now that Miss Linisfarne had so pointedly requested her to stay away, found her life disorganized. She still roamed the moor, in the company of Dan, and was to all appearance satisfied to see nothing of Miss Linisfarne; but in her heart she regretted the breach between them, and missed greatly her daily visit. Miss Linisfarne had behaved kindly for many years to the girl, and it was not in the nature of Meg to cherish animosity towards one to whom she owed much. Regarding her benefactress as a second mother, she was disposed to overlook the past, and make the first advance towards a reconciliation. This project she unfolded to Dan. "I cannot bear to think of her all alone in that great house," said Meg, "and, as I owe her more than I can ever repay, it is only right that I should see her." "I am afraid your visit will not be welcome," said Dan, dubiously. "She no longer looks on you as her _protégée_, remember, but as a woman who has thwarted her desires." "Still, I shall call," insisted Meg; "if she refuses to see me, or to be reconciled, I can come away again. But at least I shall have done my duty. Indeed, she has been like a mother to me. All I know is due to her and to Mr. Jarner." "What does he say, Meg?" "He thinks I ought to seek a reconciliation." "In that case, I approve of your visit. What the vicar says must be right. Go and see Miss Linisfarne, my darling. It is like your kind heart to overlook her behaviour." "Don't speak so harshly of her, Lord Ardleigh." "For your sake, I won't," said Dan, promptly; "let us say no more about her, Meg. Call when you please; but I fancy your embassy will be unsuccessful." "Oh, I hope not! I trust not! In spite of all that has passed I love her still, Lord Ardleigh." "Meg! You have called me Lord Ardleigh twice." "Oh, I forgot! Frank, then." "I don't like Frank either. Call me Dan." "But I cannot go on calling you Dan all your life." "Why not? It is the name I like best, for under it I won your love. And, indeed, Meg, I have been called Dan for so many months, that I no longer know myself as Francis Breel, or as Lord Ardleigh." "Very well," said Meg, coquettishly, "I shall call you Dan in private, when you are very, very good. Oh, Dan." The reason of this exclamation can be easily imagined. He who fails to guess it, is no true lover. Under the able tuition of Dan, the girl soon learned to know what love was. They were ideal lovers, and no quarrel occurred to mar the tranquillity of those golden days. Cupid was king then, and they his humble worshippers and obedient subjects. Having thus obtained the consent and approbation of Dan and the vicar, Meg repaired to Farbis Court. It was rather late, and the dusk was closing in, for she had been all the afternoon at the gipsy camp in the company of her lover. He left her on the brow of the hill at her own request, as she wished to see Miss Linisfarne that evening. Dan wished her to postpone her visit until next day; but Meg was resolute. She had already put off the call too long, and was determined to see and comfort the lonely woman that very evening. "It is only six o'clock, Dan," she said, in answer to his entreaties, "and I can easily be home before seven. It is three weeks since I saw her, so I must go at once." "To-morrow morning----" "Then I shall be with you. You keep me by your side all day. If I do not call in the evening, I shall not see her at all." "At least let me accompany you to the park gates." "No. There is no necessity. I can go myself, as I have always done. No one will touch me in Farbis. Good night, Dan. No. Only one kiss." Thus they parted, and Meg ran down the hill in the twilight. Dan watched her with some anxiety, and felt an unaccountable presentiment of evil. He did not think for a moment that Miss Linisfarne would harm the girl, else he would not have consented to her going to the Court. But there was a sense of uneasiness in his breast, for which he could not account. He looked towards Farbis Court, dark and forbidding under the hill. The sight did not lighten his spirits. "I hope I am wise in letting her go," he said aloud. "Pshaw! Miss Linisfarne is foolish, but not wicked. Meg is all right. But I'll call at the house after supper, and see if she is back, and also ask the result of her mission. She will fail, I fear; Miss Linisfarne is not the woman to forgive easily." Thus reassuring himself, he returned to his dell to prepare supper. Nevertheless the presentiment of evil still lurked in his mind, and he did not make so cheery a meal as usual. Had he only known what was taking place at the Court at that moment, he would no longer have wondered at his expectation of coming evil. It would have been wiser to trust a sparrow to a cat, than Meg to the clutches of Miss Linisfarne on that evening. A woman scorned is dangerous. She was pacing up and down the long drawing-room, with clasped hands, and a look of baffled rage on her face. Innumerable candles lighted the room brilliantly, and were reflected in the dusty mirrors. Miss Linisfarne, with dishevelled hair, looked at herself in the glass, and laughed bitterly at the wreck of her beauty. "No wonder he would not look at me," she said despairingly. "Old and haggard and wrinkled before my time. Had ever woman so miserable an existence as mine? Will that unhappy episode of my life ever haunt me? That man knows it, and knows Mallard. Then there is the other. Ah, where is he? I was a fool to leave him; but I have been punished for my folly--bitterly punished. Fierce as he was, surely the spectacle of this wreck would satiate his hatred. But he is dead--dead. I have not seen nor heard of him for twenty years. He is dead, with my dead past." She paused and walked rapidly up and down the dusty room. In her loose white robe she looked like a phantom. With her flashing eyes and restless gestures, she seemed like a mad woman. In truth her brain was not quite sane. Long seclusion and incessant fretting had rendered her irresponsible, and she frequently gave way to fits of rage which were scarcely to be distinguished from insanity. Ordinarily languid and weak, she possessed at these times the strength of a man. She was dangerous, and knew she was dangerous. She was mad, but did not know it. Nor did any one else. Only when she was alone did she give way to these paroxysms--as on the present occasion. "If I only had that girl here, I would kill her!" she panted. "I would crush her life out, and stamp out the beauty of her face! He loves her beauty as once the other loved mine. Oh, that I could mar and spoil it! I hate her! I hate her!" Leaning against the wall, exhausted with her passions, she looked as though in a dying condition. The fit was ended for the moment, and, weak with her late exertion, she threw herself on her couch by the oriel. At that moment, Meg entered the room. She was astonished at the blaze of light, and wondered where her friend could be. "Miss Linisfarne! Miss Linisfarne!" The woman on the couch heard and recognized the voice. A fierce thrill of joy shot through her; but she did not move. She did not even raise her face from the couch, but mentally repeated to herself-- "She is here! She is in my power!" Unaware of the wrath which possessed her hostess, Meg came forward and knelt by the couch. She was deeply sorry to find Miss Linisfarne in so prostrate a condition, and strove to comfort her. "Miss Linisfarne, it is I. It is Meg. I have come to see you, and tell you how sorry I am that we quarrelled. Won't you speak to me?" By this time Miss Linisfarne was more composed, and, with the cunning of a mad woman, concealed the hatred she felt for her visitor. Yet, when she looked at Meg with glittering eyes, the girl started back in horror. The invalid appeared dangerous; but of her Meg felt no fear--as yet. "Miss Linisfarne! Are you ill?" "Ill, child? I am very ill," replied Miss Linisfarne, in a hurried voice. "See how bright my eyes are; feel how hot my hands are. Fever, child--fever." "Lie down again, and let me get you a cooling drink--your medicine." "No medicine will do me any good, child. I am dying." "You must not talk like that, Miss Linisfarne," said Meg, soothingly; "you are only excited and feverish. Lie down again. Please do." "Why are you here?" asked Miss Linisfarne, taking no notice of the gentle request. "I came to say how sorry I am that----" "There, there, child--say no more about it." "You forgive me?" "Yes. I forgive you. See, I kiss you. Of course I forgive you." She pressed a Judas kiss on Meg's brow, where her lips seared like fire. Glancing hurriedly round the room, she wondered how she could harm the girl. Here, it was useless; the servants were within call, they would hear here. She must get the girl to some other part of the house, and there---- Yes. In that moment she formed a plan, and proceeded to carry it out. No fox was so cunning as she, at that moment. "So you are to marry Lord Ardleigh, child?" "Yes. You know him, then." "I was told--I was told. Ha! ha! No wonder he was like the picture of Sir Alurde." "Sir Alurde is his ancestor," said Meg, wondering at the strange manner of her hostess. "Yes, yes! And you are to be Lady Ardleigh! I am glad he means well, child. Yes, I thought his doings were evil. Poor man! Ha, ha!" "Dear Miss Linisfarne, lie down, and let me call the housekeeper." "No, no! I shall be better presently. Let me get up! I am quite strong. Hush, child; not a word! Let me whisper in your ear! I have a wedding present for you." "A present for me!" "Yes, I am going to give you the portrait of Sir Alurde. I asked Lord Ardleigh, and he said I could do so." "Have you seen him?" asked Meg, rather astonished that Dan had said nothing to her about it. "Yes, yes! The other day! Did he not tell you? I have had the portrait taken from the gallery and placed in a room. It looks splendid, child! Sir Alurde is a king among men. Come and see him." She sprang up from the couch, and seized a candle from one of the sconces. Meg tried to restrain her; but Miss Linisfarne insisted in going. In order to humour her, and in the hope that she might afterwards be more amenable to reason, Meg agreed to accompany her; and, with Miss Linisfarne leading the way, and bearing the candle, they left the drawing-room. Meg had no idea that the woman was mad, as she had no experience of lunacy. She certainly thought her conduct strange, but felt no fear, and humoured her as she would a child. Had she only guessed the truth, what horrors might have been averted! Up the stairs went Miss Linisfarne, chuckling over the success of her strategy. She led Meg far away from the inhabited portion of the house to the west wing, which was shut up and barred. Evidently she had been there lately, for a bunch of keys hung at her girdle, and with one of these she unlocked the doors. In the darkness only made more profound by the glimmer of that one candle, Meg began to feel a little afraid. "Where are you taking me to, Miss Linisfarne?" she said, shrinking back. "To see Sir Alurde's portrait! It is only a little way now! Come, child! Come, I say!" she added, savagely seizing the girl's wrist. "You must see my wedding present. Ah, my dear, a bonny bride you will make!" Now, thoroughly terrified, Meg strove to release herself from the clutch of her hostess, as she felt certain that something was wrong. But Miss Linisfarne now had the strength of madness in her, and hurried the girl along recklessly. The walls of the passage were hung with faded arras, that bellied out with the wind. In the dim light of the one candle the figures of huntsman and hawk and hound and tree started out grotesquely. Meg would have fled, but could not get away. Still retaining her presence of mind, she did not scream, but waited for the first opportunity to escape. Miss Linisfarne asked Meg to hold the candle, and, still clutching the girl's wrist, unlocked a door on the right. When it opened a breath of chill air swept out. Pushing Meg in, she followed, and they found themselves in a chamber of no great size, with one barred window. Against the wall rested a picture in its gold frame. "See, see! Sir Alurde's portrait! Your lover's portrait! My wedding present," cried Miss Linisfarne, snatching the candle from the girl. "Look, child--look at him now!" Meg uttered a cry of alarm! The picture was cut to pieces in the most savage manner. She turned to fly, but Miss Linisfarne was before her. With a jeering laugh she hurried out, and shut the door. Meg heard the key turn in the lock, and then the voice of the woman, whom she now knew was mad. "Stay there! Stay there! You wretch! You robber! You took him from me! Stay there in the dark, and look at his face now. Starve! starve and die in your cell! Shout, no one will hear you--no one will know! Ha, ha! How like you my wedding present?" As Miss Linisfarne uttered these words she waved the candle wildly. It touched the tapestry, and in a moment the moth-eaten stuff, dry as tinder, was in a blaze. She saluted the fire with cries of joy. Meg smelt the burning, and saw the vivid line of light under the door of her cell. With a cry of alarm she hurried to the window and found it barred, while outside in the passage the flames roared, and Miss Linisfarne shrieked like the mad woman she was. CHAPTER XXIX. THE GIPSY'S PROPHECY. True to his resolve, Dan left his camp after supper in order to assure himself that Meg had arrived safely at home. As he mounted the hill he heard confused shouts, and, on looking upward, beheld an unusual glow in the sky. Filled with fresh alarm at these portents he increased his pace, and was soon on the summit of the ridge overlooking Farbis. To his astonishment he saw that the Court was in flames, and that the shouts were those of the villagers hastening to extinguish the conflagration. Only for a moment did he survey the unaccustomed scene, then ran down to the village at top speed. "Great heavens!" he thought, "can that woman have killed Meg, and set fire to the place to conceal her crime?" This seemed to be the true explanation to his agitated mind, the more so as, in racing down the street, he ran against a man wringing his hands, and crying aloud. It was Dr. Merle. "Where is Meg? Is she safe?" demanded Dan, pausing a moment in his headlong career. "No, no!" wailed Merle, "she went to see Miss Linisfarne. She is at----" But Dan waited to hear no more. His worst forebodings appeared likely to be realized; and, frantic with dread at the danger of Meg, he sped on to the Court. He arrived in time to see the iron gates wrenched off their hinges by the stalwart arms of the villagers, who afterwards poured in through the gate. Carried along with the disorderly crowd up the avenue, Dan found himself at the elbow of the vicar. "Jarner, Jarner! Meg!" "What of her?" asked the parson, with anxiety. "Is she not with her father?" "No! She went to the Court to see Miss Linisfarne." "Great heavens!" muttered Jarner, in alarm. "Can it be that----" "For God's sake, Jarner, don't suppose anything so horrible," burst out Dan; "it is impossible. Meg must be safe." "Safe in that!" said Jarner, pointing to the Court, at the back of which red flames shot upward to the stars amid black clouds of smoke. "If harm comes to her I'll kill Miss Linisfarne." "I hope she has not killed herself! We must rescue both, if we can." "But the fire--the fire! Cannot it be put out?" cried Dan, as they mounted the terrace. "There is no water." Dan clenched his fists! It was horrible to think of the danger in which Meg was placed. The few servants were gathered together on the terrace, and the front door was wide open. In answer to the vicar's questions they said that both Miss Linisfarne and Meg were in the house. The housekeeper had seen them go towards the west wing. It was that part of the house that was on fire. "I must save her," said Dan, shaking himself free from Jarner's grasp; "let me go." He ran into the hall, and up the stairs. As he did so a huge form shot past him, and he saw to his astonishment that it was Tim. The face of the gipsy was quite pale, and he raced up the stairs with such rapidity as even to distance Dan. "Tim, Tim! Where is the west wing?" "I know, rye! Follow me!" The front of the house was quite safe, as the fire was confined to the west wing, and they rapidly threaded a maze of corridors. Tim seemed to know the way, and at length paused before a door. He tried to open it, but found it locked. "This leads to the west wing. They are in there. Help me to break it down." Without answer Dan threw himself against the door. Strong as he was it would not yield to his efforts. They could hear the crackling of the flames, and trembled to think of the two women shut up in that furnace. Tim put his shoulder to the door, and Dan assisted with all his strength. It cracked and yielded and fell back. With a shout they prepared to rush in, but were driven back by the fierce flames. The whole interior of the corridor was in fire, and the smoke rolled out in blinding clouds. Tim dropped on his hands and knees, and crept forward. Dan heard him shout. "What is it, Tim?" "Here is one! Miss Linisfarne--Laura!" In the excitement of the moment Dan gave no attention to the utterance of Miss Linisfarne's Christian name by the gipsy. He thought of nothing but the girl he loved. "Meg! Meg! Where is Meg?" "I don't know," said Tim, who appeared at that instant, bearing in his arms the inanimate body of Miss Linisfarne. "Let us take this one to a place of safety." "But Meg! Meg will be burnt to death!" cried Dan, and made a frantic rush forward. The flames sent him back, and he was almost stifled by the smoke. It was utterly impossible to pass that barrier of flame in search of Meg. At right angles to where he stood there was a window. As the passage was full of smoke, Dan darted to this, and smashed the glass. As the cold air rushed in he thought he heard a cry. Without considering what he was doing, he clambered out on to the sill of the window, and saw the whole length of the west wing stretching towards the hill. The flames flared upward through the roof, but the side was as yet untouched by the fire. It was as bright as day, and, clinging to the ivy some distance along, Dan saw the figure of a woman. "Meg! Meg!" he shouted. "Hold on! I am here!" "Dan, save me!" She had succeeded in wrenching the bars from the window of her cell, and had managed with difficulty to thrust herself through the aperture. The effort had exhausted her strength, and now she was clinging helplessly to the thick ivy which matted the walls. Overjoyed at the sight of her still alive, Dan shouted encouragement, and reflected how he could assist her. There was no time for him to go round by the front door, as the flames were already shooting from some of the windows of the west wing, and at any moment the fire might scorch Meg. He looked down and saw that an oak grew so close to the house that a good spring would land him in its topmost branches, which were but a little below the level of the window on the sill of which he stood. If he failed he would fall a considerable distance on to a flagged pavement, and run the risk of breaking his neck. In his cooler moments he might have hesitated to tempt such a catastrophe, but the thought of Meg's peril steeled his nerves. Marking a great bough which would bear his weight, he sprang from the window, and fortunately landed among the branches of the tree. His head struck against the bough, and he was almost stunned, but retained sufficient presence of mind to grasp at whatever came within his reach. After that effort all seemed like a dream. He heard Meg calling him wildly, and, in some way, managed to scramble down the tree, though, when he found himself on the ground, he could not explain how he got there. His head felt giddy, and his clothes were torn to ribbons in the fall. But there was no time to be lost, and he ran along the flagged path to where he saw Meg, high above, clinging to the ivy. The parasite formed a kind of natural ladder, but he dreaded to climb it, lest he should grow giddy and fall. In desperation he looked around for some means whereby to clear his head. A pool of stagnant water was at hand, and, without a moment's hesitation, he dipped his head therein. The shock of the cold water restored him to his normal condition, and the next moment he was scrambling up the ivy. The whole time, from his spring into the oak and his clambering up the side of the house, was not more than five minutes. He was just in time, for Meg's strength was rapidly giving way, and hardly had he placed his disengaged arm round her waist than she leaned half fainting on his breast with her whole weight. This threw the strain on his right arm, and the ivy was almost torn from his grasp. Fortunately, he had his feet firmly planted in the network roots of the parasite, and so managed to hold firmly. Still, the position was one of great peril, as the least false step would precipitate both himself and his burden into the depths below. "Meg, Meg!" he whispered vehemently, "clasp your arms round my neck and hang on. I must have both hands free." Mechanically she did as she was told, as the momentary fainting-fit had passed, and she now comprehended what was to be done. Free to use both hands, Dan gripped the ivy firmly, planted his feet carefully, and, with the girl clinging to his neck, managed with great difficulty to make the descent. They reached the ground in safety. "Thank God!" said Meg, looking up at the blazing ruin from which she had so miraculously escaped. "My own darling, how brave you are! But Miss Linisfarne?" "Tim saved her. Let us go round to the terrace and show them that you are alive. How did you get into the west wing, Meg?" "Miss Linisfarne took me there, under the pretext that she wanted to show me the portrait of Sir Alurde. Oh, Dan, she has cut it to pieces because it resembled you!" "I know she hates me, Meg. I was fearful lest she should do you harm, and it seems that my presentiment was right." "She shut me up in the room, Dan, and then set fire to the place. The window was barred, and I thought I was lost. Fortunately the bars were old and rusty, so I was able to wrench them out and free myself. But had you not come, I should have fallen." "My brave girl! There are not many who would have had such presence of mind, Meg. Miss Linisfarne is a fiend. Can you walk now?" "Yes; I am much stronger. Let us go at once." They hastened as quickly as possible round to the terrace, and found Miss Linisfarne in the centre of the crowd. She was terribly burnt, but conscious. The villagers welcomed Dan and Meg with cheers of delight, and Jarner hastened forward. Before he could reach Meg, however, Tim had passed him. With an ejaculation of thankfulness, he seized the astonished girl in his arms and kissed her. "Tim!" cried Dan, thoroughly enraged; "what right have you to----" "The right of a father," said Tim, in a deep voice. "I am the husband of yonder wretched woman, who tried to kill her own child." Both Dan and Meg looked at Jarner for an explanation. They were taken by surprise at Tim's speech, and could say nothing. "It is true," said Jarner, taking Meg tenderly in his arms. "I did not know it till now. Nor did Miss Linisfarne dream that you were her child, Meg. Had she known, this terrible catastrophe would not have taken place." "Is she my mother?" faltered Meg; "but my father----" "I am your father," said Tim, quietly. "Dr. Merle is only your guardian. It is a long story, Meg. I acted for the best, but it has turned out ill." "Meg, my child!" cried a feeble voice. "Come," said Dan, leading the girl towards the dying woman; "you must see and forgive your mother." Miss Linisfarne was dying. Her body was terribly burnt, and she was lying on the terrace wrapped in a blanket. The villagers were all in the house saving the furniture, so only those intimately concerned were present. The shock had driven the insanity out of Miss Linisfarne's brain, and she was now quite rational. As Meg knelt beside her, she put out a feeble hand. "Forgive!" she said faintly; "I was mad! I knew nothing, my child." "Oh, mother, mother! why did you not tell me I was your child?" "She did not know," said Tim, who was holding a cup of wine to the lips of the woman he claimed as his wife. "I did not think her worthy to know the truth, and so she never learned that it was her own daughter she brought up." "Cruel! cruel!" murmured Miss Linisfarne. "Would nothing less than twenty years of misery satiate your revenge?" "No," replied her husband, curtly. "Do not reproach her," said Jarner, in a gentle tone. "Do you not see she is dying? I have sent for Dr. Merle. Here he comes!" "Merle!" said Tim, with a frown. "No, not Merle, but Mallard." The feeble little doctor ran up to the group, and fell on his knees beside Miss Linisfarne. She looked at him in amazement. "Mallard!" "Oh, Laura, Laura! After all these years!" "Poor Richard!" murmured Miss Linisfarne. "I treated you badly; but I have been punished. You can forgive me now?" "I do! I do!--freely." "And Meg?" "I forgive you, mother, and I love you," said Meg, kissing her with tears. As she did so Miss Linisfarne's head fell back. She was dead. CHAPTER XXX. THE FINAL LETTER TO A LONDON FRIEND. Dear Jack, This is the last letter you will receive from the dell wherein I have camped so long. The days of my roving are over. No longer shall I trudge beside Simon through the long summer days, nor camp under the stars, nor read Lavengro by the red light of an outdoor fire. Shortly will you behold me as a sober, married man, and as such I must conform to the prejudices of civilization. The consulate of Plancus is at an end, my friend, and the days of Bohemian wanderings are over. I would regret them even more than I do, were not the present happier than the past. Great events have taken place since I last advised you of my adventures. I shall never disbelieve in palmistry again, nor shall I, even in the smallest degree, doubt the power of Romany hags to forecast the future. If you remember, I was doubtful in my last letter as to the chances of further fulfilment of Mother Jericho's prediction. I am a sceptic no longer, for, in the most marvellous way, every word of it has come true. What think you of that? "There are more things in heaven or earth----" But the quotation is threadbare. I shall not insult your understanding by repeating the whole. I now know all the mysteries, Jack, which have so long puzzled me. I was right in supposing there was a connection between Tim, Miss Linisfarne, and Dr. Merle. There is a very close connection which concerns Meg and concerns me. What it is you shall now hear, so prepare your sceptical mind for tales of wonder. In my last epistle I told you how Miss Linisfarne stood aloof when her plans were overturned, and shut herself up in the Court. Meg--tender-hearted girl as she is--regretted that one to whom she owed much should be thus estranged and lonely. She consulted both Mr. Jarner and myself as to the advisability of seeking a reconciliation with Miss Linisfarne, and we--suspecting no danger--approved of her resolution. Would that we had forbidden the visit, for it led to nothing but evil! Yet it fulfilled the prophecy, so I suppose was to be. Certainly it was out of our powers to advert the decrees of Fate. Fire and flame--false father--false mother! There is the riddle, Jack, and here is the interpretation thereof. Meg went to the Court one evening, at six o'clock, and saw Miss Linisfarne, who professed herself glad to be reconciled. Nay, more, she pretended to approve of the marriage, and said she would give Meg a wedding present. This was none other than the portrait of my ancestor, Sir Alurde, whom I so greatly resemble. It was very kind of her offering it to Meg, especially as it belonged to me! But, mark you, the cunning of the woman! She asserted that she had seen me in the interval, and had asked and obtained my permission to give the portrait. This statement, I need hardly tell you, was pure invention. Naturally enough Meg believed her story, and went with her to the west wing, where Miss Linisfarne had removed the picture. It was in a small room, slashed to pieces, and in that room the mad woman--for she was quite mad--locked up my poor darling, and set fire to the place. Whether it was by accident or design, I do not know; but she soon had the Court in a blaze. It is now completely gutted, and only the bare walls stand to show where the house once stood. The home of my ancestors is gone, but I care nothing for that. Meg is safe, and for that alone I am thankful. Tinker Tim was at the fire, and saved Miss Linisfarne. I rescued Meg by the merest accident. The brave girl wrenched out the bars of her prison-house, and climbed out. I saw her hanging on to the ivy which overgrows this part of the house, and by some miracle--for I cannot tell you how I did it--I extricated her from the perilous situation. We went to see after Miss Linisfarne, and then received a surprise. I know you won't believe it, Jack, for I was sceptical myself, until convinced by hearing the story in detail. Meg is not the daughter of Dr. Merle. You must remember how I wondered that so fine a nature, so beautiful a girl, could have for parent so contemptible a specimen of humanity. My wonder was legitimate. She is not Merle's daughter, but the child of Miss Linisfarne and Tinker Tim. There, sir, what do you think of that for a startling piece of news? I am so astonished myself that as yet I can hardly believe it. Nevertheless, it is perfectly true. Here is the story. More wonderful than any yet invented by fiction-mongers. Some twenty-five, or it may be more, years ago Tinker Tim--whose other name, by the way, is Lovel--was a handsome young gipsy. He was more ambitious than the rest of his race, and wished to be great. A strange thing for a Romany, for, as a rule, they are content with their humble condition and wandering life. Tim, however, left the tents of his people and went among the Gorgios. He had plenty of money left to him by his father, who was a noted prizefighter. He told no one that he was a gipsy, and, owing to his foreign looks, was supposed to be some Eastern prince. This is not to be wondered at, for, as you know, the Romany originally came from India many hundred years ago. Desiring to learn what pleasure there was in the life of a Gorgio, Tim encouraged the idea, and by a lavish use of his money managed to see a good deal of society. All this sounds extraordinary, but I believe it to be true. Though only a vagabond gipsy, Tim is a splendid looking man, and has a remarkably keen brain. I can quite well imagine that he could pass himself off for an Eastern prince, and gull society for at least a season. This is what occurred. He was much made of by the fashionable world, and while the lion of the season met with Miss Linisfarne. She was then just twenty years of ago, and a very beautiful woman. She fell in love with Tim and he with her. I do not know the details of the courtship, but it ended in a secret marriage performed by a Church of England clergyman. Tim would not be married publicly by a parson, as it would destroy his pretensions as an Eastern prince, and Miss Linisfarne would not be married in any other way. They compromised by a secret marriage, and Tim met his wife on the Continent, where they lived for some time. No one, not even the parents of Miss Linisfarne, knew of the marriage, and as she was abroad with a companion, secretly bribed to keep the marriage quiet, no harm was suspected. Then Tim, in a moment of weakness, told his wife that he was no prince, but only a wandering gipsy. To his surprise her love turned to hate. She considered that she had been tricked, as it had been her desire when the marriage was avowed to appear in London as a princess. She was an ambitious woman, and the discovery of the truth made her wrathful. Both she and her husband had fiery tempers, so in the end they parted. Miss Linisfarne returned to her people, and Tim was left abroad, vowing to revenge himself on his hardhearted wife. You can guess what that revenge was. About this time Merle, or rather Mallard, came into the story. He was a wealthy young doctor, madly in love with Miss Linisfarne. She, finding she was about to become a mother, accepted his addresses in order to conceal the disgrace. To her parents she confessed the truth, and they, deeming the ceremony with Tim no true marriage, as he was a gipsy, urged on the match with Mallard. All would have gone well had it taken place at once; but Mallard was called away to Italy, where his father was dying, and when he returned Miss Linisfarne had disappeared. The parents refused to tell this lover where she was; but, having unlimited money at his command, he had no difficulty in finding her hiding place. There he learned the truth, for he found she had given birth to a female child. She cynically avowed her connection with Tim, and drove Mallard mad for the time being. He had not at any time a strong brain, and the shock proved too much for him, so for three years he was in a lunatic asylum. When Miss Linisfarne returned to London, and told her parents all, they were so enraged at her folly and disgrace, that they exiled her to Farbis Court, where she spent the remainder of her miserable life. Much as I condemn her conduct, I must confess to a feeling of pity for the agony she endured all those years in the lonely house. If she sinned, she was bitterly punished. When Mallard came out of the asylum he was a complete wreck, and did not mend matters by taking to opium. He wandered about the world for two years, but found no peace. Then he formed a design of withdrawing from a world which had no further charms for him, since his life had been ruined by a woman. Yet he still loved Miss Linisfarne, and went down to the village where he had learned the truth. He found Miss Linisfarne had gone away, but the child, now five years of age, was still there, and with the child a gipsy who asserted he was the father. This of course was Tim, and with his strong will he soon obtained an ascendency over the weak mind of Mallard. Tim wished to force the mother to bring up her child and train it according to her duty, yet all the time remain in ignorance of the truth. He heard that Miss Linisfarne had gone to Farbis Court, and therefore proposed to Mallard that, as he wished to retire from the world, he also should go there under an assumed name, and adopt Meg--so the child was named--as his daughter. At first Mallard refused, but in the end yielded. The use of opium had already rendered him a tool in the hands of the gipsy, and when Meg was five years of age she was taken down to Farbis with her adopted father. Their life there you know. Dr. Merle, as he called himself, gave way entirely to his vice of laudanum drinking, and Meg was brought up by the vicar and Miss Linisfarne. Tim, hovering constantly about Farbis, was delighted at the success of his plot. The mother was fulfilling her maternal duties towards the child she had forsaken, and was quite ignorant of the relationship existing between them. Merle never saw her all the time he lived at Farbis, as Tim forbade him to seek her, fearful lest she should learn or guess the truth. Can you imagine a more dramatic situation, Jack? A husband, a wife, a lover, and a child. The husband forcing the lover to father his child, the mother bringing up her own daughter, and training her according to her duty, yet all the while remaining in ignorance of the relationship. Name any novel that can match that, my friend. How Meg grew up beautiful and strong, how she was educated by her unsuspecting mother and the vicar, I have told you in my former letters. Tim watched over her all the time. What his plans were with regard to his wife I know not. She thought him dead; but he doubtless intended to undeceive her on that point. I suppose he would have confessed his plot some time, and let the mother have her daughter. But the treachery of Miss Linisfarne led to an untimely explanation, and Tim has not told me what he intended to have done had the catastrophe not taken place. It seems horrible that the mother should have plotted the death of her daughter; but, as I said before, she did not know the truth, and, as she is dead, it were kindness to say no more about her. When Meg was nearly twenty years of age, Tim consulted with Merle as to getting her married. He was proud of his daughter, and wished her to make a good match. Merle could offer no suggestion, as there was no suitor worthy of the girl in the district. Then Chance intervened, and sent Tim the very husband he wanted for his daughter. At this point I come into the story, as you can guess. It appears that a gipsy was getting a caravan built at the shop where mine was being constructed. He heard that I intended to take to the life of the roads for a time, and knowing that I owned Farbis, where Tim's tribe was encamped--for these vagrants learn things in the most wonderful way--told the Tinker of my proposed expedition. Tim at once selected me as a husband for Meg, thinking truly that if he could only inveigle me to Farbis the girl's beauty would do the rest. Hence his plot. It was he who instructed the gipsies to urge me to visit Farbis, and when I was on my way thither, stationed Mother Jericho in the pine wood to prophesy about Joy coming up through the Gates of Dawn. The visit you know! I met Meg at the Gates of Dawn--fell in love with her, and hope to marry her. Tim's plot has been completely successful. Now you can understand Mother Jericho's talk, and Tim's hints, and Merle's fears. The gipsies knew I was Lord Ardleigh all the time, and, though I did not know it, I was surrounded on all sides by people anxious for me to marry Meg. Mother Jericho's prophecy was but the wishes of Tim put into words. Yet not all of it! I can understand the prediction as to my meeting Meg--as to the false father and the false mother--that was all designed. But how did the old hag know that Miss Linisfarne would fall in love with me, and what reason had she to foretell fire and flame? No one thought the wretched woman would set fire to the Court. That part of the prophecy I cannot understand, therefore I must admit I have a certain belief in palmistry. Well, Jack, the end has come. I know all, and, knowing all, am quite content to marry Meg, half-gipsy though she be. Miss Linisfarne is dead, as I told you, so she will be no trouble. Tim prefers his life of tent and road, as his one experiment among the Gorgios ended so disastrously. Yet I hope to see a good deal of him in the future, for though he is but a gipsy, I tell you he is a father-in-law to be proud of. By Jarner's advice, and with Tim's consent, this strange story is to be told to no one but yourself. There would be no use in publishing it abroad, and Meg will marry me as the daughter of Dr. Merle. That wretched creature will not live long, I fear, as he is in so shattered a condition. He has left all his money to Meg, which is only what she deserves. It will be settled on herself when the marriage takes place. Strange to say, he is nearly as wealthy as I am. I am coming up to town to see my lawyers, and make settlements on my future wife. Then I will ask you to come here with me in the spring, and see me married to Meg by Parson Jarner. You shall be best man, and Tim shall give the bride away. That office he reserves to himself, and absolutely refuses to give it to Dr. Merle. Miss Linisfarne is buried, and the Court is destroyed. I shall not rebuild it, but devote any surplus moneys I have to the use of the parish. I mean to raise the villagers out of their present wretched condition, to repair the church and augment the income of Parson Jarner. He, dear old man, refuses to leave Farbis, as he has grown to love the place and the people. So he shall be my almoner, and when my wife and I weary of being Lord and Lady Ardleigh, we shall come down to Farbis to be Dan and Meg. Tim and Parson Jarner and Mother Jericho will be there to welcome us, and we will revive the old Bohemian days which are now at an end. The old lady is in high glee at the fulfilment of her prophecy, as she well may be. It has given me a pearl of womanhood for my wife. I loved Meg from the first moment I saw her coming up through the Gates of Dawn. All our troubles are, I hope, over, sorrow has departed, and joy has come. I do not think I can do better than end this letter with a verse of Meg's song. It can stand in lieu of a signature. "The red light flames in the eastern skies, The dew lies heavy on lea and lawn, Grief with her anguish of midnight flies, And Joy comes up through the Gates of Dawn." THE END. LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS. LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. 
15356	----	Proofreading Team. RED MONEY BY FERGUS HUME Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Solitary Farm," "The Peacock of Jewels," "The Red Window," "The Steel Crown," etc. 1911 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE DRAMA OF LITTLE THINGS II. IN THE WOOD III. AN UNEXPECTED RECOGNITION IV. SECRETS V. THE WOMAN AND THE MAN VI. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN VII. THE SECRETARY VIII. AT MIDNIGHT IX. AFTERWARDS X. A DIFFICULT POSITION XI. BLACKMAIL XII. THE CONSPIRACY XIII. A FRIEND IN NEED XIV. MISS GREEBY, DETECTIVE XV. GUESSWORK XVI. THE LAST STRAW XVII. ON THE TRAIL XVIII. AN AMAZING ACCUSATION XIX. MOTHER COCKLESHELL XX. THE DESTINED END XXI. A FINAL SURPRISE RED MONEY CHAPTER I. THE DRAMA OF LITTLE THINGS. "Gypsies! How very delightful! I really must have my fortune told. The dear things know all about the future." As Mrs. Belgrove spoke she peered through her lorgnette to see if anyone at the breakfast-table was smiling. The scrutiny was necessary, since she was the oldest person present, and there did not appear to be any future for her, save that very certain one connected with a funeral. But a society lady of sixty, made up to look like one of forty (her maid could do no more), with an excellent digestion and a constant desire, like the Athenians of old, for "Something New!" can scarcely be expected to dwell upon such a disagreeable subject as death. Nevertheless, Mrs. Belgrove could not disguise from herself that her demise could not be postponed for many more years, and examined the faces of the other guests to see if they thought so too. If anyone did, he and she politely suppressed a doubtful look and applauded the suggestion of a fortune-telling expedition. "Let us make up a party and go," said the hostess, only too thankful to find something to amuse the house-party for a few hours. "Where did you say the gypsies were, Garvington?" "In the Abbot's Wood," replied her husband, a fat, small round-faced man, who was methodically devouring a large breakfast. "That's only three miles away. We can drive or ride." "Or motor, or bicycle, or use Shanks' mare," remarked Miss Greeby rather vulgarly. Not that any one minded such a speech from her, as her vulgarity was merely regarded as eccentricity, because she had money and brains, an exceedingly long tongue, and a memory of other people's failings to match. Lord Garvington made no reply, as breakfast, in his opinion, was much too serious a business to be interrupted. He reached for the marmalade, and requested that a bowl of Devonshire cream should be passed along. His wife, who was lean and anxious-looking even for an August hostess, looked at him wrathfully. He never gave her any assistance in entertaining their numerous guests, yet always insisted that the house should be full for the shooting season. And being poor for a titled pair, they could not afford to entertain even a shoeblack, much less a crowd of hungry sportsmen and a horde of frivolous women, who required to be amused expensively. It was really too bad of Garvington. At this point the reflections of the hostess were interrupted by Miss Greeby, who always had a great deal to say, and who always tried, as an American would observe, "to run the circus." "I suppose you men will go out shooting as usual?" she said in her sharp, clear voice. The men present collectively declared that such was their intention, and that they had come to "The Manor" for that especial purpose, so it was useless to ask them, or any one of them, to go on a fortune-telling expedition when they could find anything of that sort in Bond Street. "And it's all a lot of rot, anyhow," declared one sporting youth with obviously more muscle and money than brains; "no one can tell my fortune." "I can, Billy. You will be Prime Minister," flashed out Miss Greeby, at which there was a general laugh. Then Garvington threw a bombshell. "You'd better get your fortunes told to-day, if you want to," he grunted, wiping his mustache; "for to-morrow I'm going to have these rotters moved off my land straight away. They're thieves and liars." "So are many other people," snapped Miss Greeby, who had lost heavily at bridge on the previous night and spoke feelingly. Her host paid no attention to her. "There's been a lot of burglaries in this neighborhood of late. I daresay these gypsies are mixed up in them." "Burglaries!" cried Mrs. Belgrove, and turned pale under her rouge, as she remembered that she had her diamonds with her. "Oh, it's all right! Don't worry," said Garvington, pushing back his chair. "They won't try on any games in this house while I'm here. If any one tries to get in I'll shoot the beast." "Is that allowed by law?" asked an army officer with a shrug. "I don't know and I don't care," retorted Garvington. "An Englishman's house is his castle, you know, and he can jolly well shoot any one who tries to get into it. Besides, I shouldn't mind potting a burglar. Great sport." "You'd ask his intentions first, I presume," said Lady Garvington tartly. "Not me. Any one getting into the house after dark doesn't need his intentions to be asked. I'd shoot." "What about Romeo?" asked a poetic-looking young man. "He got into Juliet's house, but did not come as a burglar." "He came as a guest, I believe," said a quiet, silvery voice at the end of the table, and every one turned to look at Lady Agnes Pine, who had spoken. She was Garvington's sister, and the wife of Sir Hubert Pine, the millionaire, who was absent from the house party on this occasion. As a rule, she spoke little, and constantly wore a sad expression on her pale and beautiful face. And Agnes Pine really was beautiful, being one of those tall, slim willowy-looking women who always look well and act charmingly. And, indeed, her undeniable charm of manner probably had more to do with her reputation as a handsome woman than her actual physical grace. With her dark hair and dark eyes, her Greek features and ivory skin faintly tinted with a tea-rose hue, she looked very lovely and very sad. Why she should be, was a puzzle to many women, as being the wife of a superlatively rich man, she had all the joys that money could bring her. Still it was hinted on good authority--but no one ever heard the name of the authority--that Garvington being poor had forced her into marrying Sir Hubert, for whom she did not care in the least. People said that her cousin Noel Lambert was the husband of her choice, but that she had sacrificed herself, or rather had been compelled to do so, in order that Garvington might be set on his legs. But Lady Agnes never gave any one the satisfaction of knowing the exact truth. She moved through the social world like a gentle ghost, fulfilling her duties admirably, but apparently indifferent to every one and everything. "Clippin' to look at," said the young men, "but tombs to talk to. No sport at all." But then the young men did not possess the key to Lady Agnes Pine's heart. Nor did her husband apparently. Her voice was very low and musical, and every one felt its charm. Garvington answered her question as he left the room. "Romeo or no Romeo, guest or no guest," he said harshly, "I'll shoot any beast who tries to enter my house. Come on, you fellows. We start in half an hour for the coverts." When the men left the room, Miss Greeby came and sat down in a vacant seat near her hostess. "What did Garvington mean by that last speech?" she asked with a significant look at Lady Agnes. "Oh, my dear, when does Garvington ever mean anything?" said the other woman fretfully. "He is so selfish; he leaves me to do everything." "Well," drawled Miss Greeby with a pensive look on her masculine features, "he looked at Agnes when he spoke." "What do you mean?" demanded Lady Garvington sharply. Miss Greeby gave a significant laugh. "I notice that Mr. Lambert is not in the house," she said carelessly. "But some one told me he was near at hand in the neighborhood. Surely Garvington doesn't mean to shoot him." "Clara." The hostess sat up very straight, and a spot of color burned on either sallow cheek. "I am surprised at you. Noel is staying in the Abbot's Wood Cottage, and indulging in artistic work of some sort. But he can come and stay here, if he likes. You don't mean to insinuate that he would climb into the house through a window after dark like a burglar?" "That's just what I do mean," retorted Miss Greeby daringly, "and if he does, Garvington will shoot him. He said so." "He said nothing of the sort," cried Lady Garvington, angrily rising. "Well, he meant it. I saw him looking at Agnes. And we know that Sir Hubert is as jealous as Othello. Garvington is on guard I suppose, and--" "Will you hold your tongue?" whispered the mistress of the Manor furiously, and she would have shaken Miss Greeby, but that she had borrowed money from her and did not dare to incur her enmity. "Agnes will hear you; she is looking this way; can't you see?" "As if I cared," laughed Miss Greeby, pushing out her full lower lip in a contemptuous manner. However, for reasons best known to herself, she held her peace, although she would have scorned the idea that the hint of her hostess made her do so. Lady Garvington saw that her guests were all chattering with one another, and that the men were getting ready to leave for the day's shooting, so she went to discuss the dinner in the housekeeper's room. But all the time she and the housekeeper were arguing what Lord Garvington would like in the way of food, the worried woman was reflecting on what Miss Greeby had said. When the menu was finally settled--no easy task when it concerned the master of the house--Lady Garvington sought out Mrs. Belgrove. That juvenile ancient was sunning herself on the terrace, in the hope of renewing her waning vitality, and, being alone, permitted herself to look old. She brisked up with a kittenish purr when disturbed, and remarked that the Hengishire air was like champagne. "My spirits are positively wild and wayward," said the would-be Hebe with a desperate attempt to be youthful. "Ah, you haven't got the house to look after," sighed Lady Garvington, with a weary look, and dropped into a basket chair to pour out her woes to Mrs. Belgrove. That person was extremely discreet, as years of society struggling had taught her the value of silence. Her discretion in this respect brought her many confidences, and she was renowned for giving advice which was never taken. "What's the matter, my dear? You look a hundred," said Mrs. Belgrove, putting up her lorgnette with a chuckle, as if she had made an original observation. But she had not, for Lady Garvington always appeared worn and weary, and sallow, and untidy. She was the kind of absent-minded person who depended upon pins to hold her garments together, and who would put on her tiara crookedly for a drawing-room. "Clara Greeby's a cat," said poor, worried Lady Garvington, hunting for her pocket handkerchief, which was rarely to be found. "Has she been making love to Garvington?" "Pooh! No woman attracts Garvington unless she can cook, or knows something about a kitchen range. I might as well have married a soup tureen. I'm sure I don't know why I ever did marry him," lamented the lady, staring at the changing foliage of the park trees. "He's a pauper and a pig, my dear, although I wouldn't say so to every one. I wish my mother hadn't insisted that I should attend cooking classes." "What on earth has that to do with it?" "To do with what?" asked Lady Garvington absentmindedly. "I don't know what you're talking about, I'm sure. But mother knew that Garvington was fond of a good dinner, and made me attend those classes, so as to learn to talk about French dishes. We used to flirt about soups and creams and haunches of venison, until he thought that I was as greedy as he was. So he married me, and I've been attending to his meals ever since. Why, even for our honeymoon we went to Mont St. Michel. They make splendid omelettes there, and Garvington ate all the time. Ugh!" and the poor lady shuddered. Mrs. Belgrove saw that her companion was meandering, and would never come to the point unless forced to face it, so she rapped her knuckles with the lorgnette. "What about Clara Greeby?" she demanded sharply. "She's a cat!" "Oh, we're all cats, mewing or spitting as the fit takes us," said Mrs. Belgrove comfortably. "I can't see why cat should be a term of opprobrium when applied to a woman. Cats are charmingly pretty animals, and know what they want, also how to get it. Well, my dear?" "I believe she was in love with Noel herself," ruminated Lady Garvington. "Who was in love? Come to the point, my dear Jane." "Clara Greeby." Mrs. Belgrove laughed. "Oh, that ancient history. Every one who was anybody knew that Clara would have given her eyes--and very ugly eyes they are--to have married Noel Lambert. I suppose you mean him? Noel isn't a common name. Quite so. You mean him. Well, Clara wanted to buy him. He hasn't any money, and as a banker's heiress she is as rich as a Jew. But he wouldn't have her." "Why wouldn't he?" asked Lady Garvington, waking up--she had been reflecting about a new soup which she hoped would please her husband. "Clara has quite six thousand a year, and doesn't look bad when her maid makes her dress in a proper manner. And, talking about maids, mine wants to leave, and--" "She's too like Boadicea," interrupted Mrs. Belgrove, keeping her companion to the subject of Miss Greeby. "A masculine sort of hussy. Noel is far too artistic to marry such a maypole. She's six foot two, if she's an inch, and her hands and feet--" Mrs. Belgrove shuddered with a gratified glance at her own slim fingers. "You know the nonsense that Garvington was talking; about shooting a burglar," said the other woman vaguely. "Such nonsense, for I'm sure no burglar would enter a house filled with nothing but Early Victorian furniture." "Well? Well? Well?" said Mrs. Belgrove impatiently. "Clara Beeby thought that Garvington meant to shoot Noel." "Why, in heaven's name! Because Noel is his heir?" "I'm sure I can't help it if I've no children," said Lady Garvington, going off on another trail--the one suggested by Mrs. Belgrove's remark. "I'd be a happier woman if I had something else to attend to than dinners. I wish we all lived on roots, so that Garvington could dig them up for himself." "My dear, he'd send you out with a trowel to do that," said Mrs. Belgrove humorously. "But why does Garvington want to shoot Noel?" "Oh, he doesn't. I never said he did. Clara Greeby made the remark. You see, Noel loved Agnes before she married Hubert, and I believe he loves her still, which isn't right, seeing she's married, and isn't half so good-looking as she was. And Noel stopping at that cottage in the Abbot's Wood painting in water-colors. I think he is, but I'm not sure if it isn't in oils, and the--" "Well? Well? Well?" asked Mrs. Belgrove again. "It isn't well at all, when you think what a tongue Clara Greeby has," snapped Lady Garvington. "She said if Noel came to see Agnes by night, Garvington, taking him for a burglar, might shoot him. She insisted that he looked at Agnes when he was talking about burglars, and meant that." "What nonsense!" cried Mrs. Belgrove vigorously, at last having arrived at a knowledge of why Lady Garvington had sought her. "Noel can come here openly, so there is no reason he should steal here after dark." "Well, he's romantic, you know, dear. And romantic people always prefer windows to doors and darkness to light. The windows here are so insecure," added Lady Garvington, glancing at the facade above her untidy hair. "He could easily get in by sticking a penknife in between the upper and lower sash of the window. It would be quite easy." "What nonsense you talk, Jane," said Mrs. Belgrove, impatiently. "Noel is not the man to come after a married woman when her husband is away. I have known him since he was a Harrow schoolboy, so I have every right to speak. Where is Sir Hubert?" "He is at Paris or Pekin, or something with a 'P,'" said Lady Garvington in her usual vague way. "I'm sure I don't know why he can't take Agnes with him. They get on very well for a married couple." "All the same she doesn't love him." "He loves her, for I'm sure he's that jealous that he can't scarcely bear her out of his sight." "It seems to me that he can," remarked Mrs. Belgrove dryly. "Since he is at Paris or Pekin and she is here." "Garvington is looking after her, and he owes Sir Hubert too much, not to see that Agnes is all right." Mrs. Belgrove peered at Lady Garvington through her lorgnette. "I think you talk a great deal of nonsense, Jane, as I said before," she observed. "I don't suppose for one moment that Agnes thinks of Noel, or Noel of Agnes." "Clara Greeby says--" "Oh, I know what she says and what she wishes. She would like to get Noel into trouble with Sir Hubert over Agnes, simply because he will not marry her. As to her chatter about burglars--" "Garvington's chatter," corrected her companion. "Well, then, Garvington's. It's all rubbish. Agnes is a sweet girl, and--" "Girl?" Lady Garvington laughed disdainfully. "She is twenty-five." "A mere baby. People cannot be called old until they are seventy or eighty. It is a bad habit growing old. I have never encouraged it myself. By the way, tell me something about Sir Hubert Pine. I have only met him once or twice. What kind of a man is he?" "Tall, and thin, and dark, and--" "I know his appearance. But his nature?" "He's jealous, and can be very disagreeable when he likes. I don't know who he is, or where he came from. He made his money out of penny toys and South African investments. He was a member of Parliament for a few years, and helped his party so much with money that he was knighted. That's all I know of him, except that he is very mean." "Mean? What you tell me doesn't sound mean." "I'm talking of his behavior to Garvington," explained the hostess, touching her ruffled hair, "he doesn't give us enough money." "Why should he give you any?" asked Mrs. Belgrove bluntly. "Well, you see, dear, Garvington would never have allowed his sister to marry a nobody, unless--" "Unless the nobody paid for his footing. I quite understand. Every one knows that Agnes married the man to save her family from bankruptcy. Poor girl!" Mrs. Belgrove sighed. "And she loved Noel. What a shame that she couldn't become his wife!" "Oh, that would have been absurd," said Lady Garvington pettishly. "What's the use of Hunger marrying Thirst? Noel has no money, just like ourselves, and if it hadn't been for Hubert this place would have been sold long ago. I'm telling you secrets, mind." "My dear, you tell me nothing that everybody doesn't know." "Then what is your advice?" "About what, my dear?" "About what I have been telling you. The burglar, and--" "I have told you before, that it is rubbish. If a burglar does come here I hope Lord Garvington will shoot him, as I don't want to lose my diamonds." "But if the burglar is Noel?" "He won't be Noel. Clara Greeby has simply made a nasty suggestion which is worthy of her. But if you're afraid, why not get her to marry Noel?" "He won't have her," said Lady Garvington dolefully. "I know he won't. Still a persevering woman can do wonders, and Clara Greeby has no self-respect. And if you think Noel is too near, get Agnes to join her husband in Pekin." "I think it's Paris." "Well then, Paris. She can buy new frocks." "Agnes doesn't care for new frocks. Such simple tastes she has, wanting to help the poor. Rubbish, I call it." "Why, when her husband helps Lord Garvington?" asked Mrs. Belgrove artlessly. Lady Garvington frowned. "What horrid things you say." "I only repeat what every one is saying." "Well, I'm sure I don't care," cried Lady Garvington recklessly, and rose to depart on some vague errand. "I'm only in the world to look after dinners and breakfasts. Clara Greeby's a cat making all this fuss about--" "Hush! There she is." Lady Garvington fluttered round, and drifted towards Miss Greeby, who had just stepped out on to the terrace. The banker's daughter was in a tailor-made gown with a man's cap and a man's gloves, and a man's boots--at least, as Mrs. Belgrove thought, they looked like that--and carried a very masculine stick, more like a bludgeon than a cane. With her ruddy complexion and ruddy hair, and piercing blue eyes, and magnificent figure--for she really had a splendid figure in spite of Mrs. Belgrove's depreciation--she looked like a gigantic Norse goddess. With a flashing display of white teeth, she came along swinging her stick, or whirling her shillalah, as Mrs. Belgrove put it, and seemed the embodiment of coarse, vigorous health. "Taking a sun-bath?" she inquired brusquely and in a loud baritone voice. "Very wise of you two elderly things. I am going for a walk." Mrs. Belgrove was disagreeable in her turn. "Going to the Abbot's Wood?" "How clever of you to guess," Miss Greeby smiled and nodded. "Yes, I'm going to look up Lambert"; she always spoke of her male friends in this hearty fashion. "He ought to be here enjoying himself instead of living like a hermit in the wilds." "He's painting pictures," put in Lady Garvington. "Do hermits paint?" "No. Only society women do that," said Miss Greeby cheerfully, and Mrs. Belgrove's faded eyes flashed. She knew that the remark was meant for her, and snapped back. "Are you going to have your fortune told by the gypsies, dear?" she inquired amiably. "They might tell you about your marriage." "Oh, I daresay, and if you ask they will prophesy your funeral." "I am in perfect health, Miss Greeby." "So I should think, since your cheeks are so red." Lady Garvington hastily intervened to prevent the further exchange of compliments. "Will you be back to luncheon, or join the men at the coverts?" "Neither. I'll drop on Lambert for a feed. Where are you going?" "I'm sure I don't know," said the hostess vaguely. "There's lots to do. I shall know what's to be done, when I think of it," and she drifted along the terrace and into the house like a cloud blown any way by the wind. Miss Greeby looked after her limp figure with a contemptuous grin, then she nodded casually to Mrs. Belgrove, and walked whistling down the terrace steps. "Cat, indeed!" commented Mrs. Belgrove to herself when she saw Miss Greeby's broad back disappear behind the laurels. "Nothing half so pretty. She's like a great Flanders mare. And I wish Henry VIII was alive to marry her," she added the epithet suggesting that king, "if only to cut her head off." CHAPTER II. IN THE WOOD. Miss Greeby swung along towards her destination with a masculine stride and in as great a hurry as though she had entered herself for a Marathon race. It was a warm, misty day, and the pale August sunshine radiated faintly through the smoky atmosphere. Nothing was clear-cut and nothing was distinct, so hazy was the outlook. The hedges were losing their greenery and had blossomed forth into myriad bunches of ruddy hips and haws, and the usually hard road was soft underfoot because of the penetrating quality of the moist air. There was no wind to clear away the misty greyness, but yellow leaves without its aid dropped from the disconsolate trees. The lately-reaped fields, stretching on either side of the lane down which the lady was walking, presented a stubbled expanse of brown and dim gold, uneven and distressful to the eye. The dying world was in ruins and Nature had reduced herself to that necessary chaos, out of which, when the coming snow completed its task, she would build a new heaven and a new earth. An artist might have had some such poetic fancy, and would certainly have looked lovingly on the alluring colors and forms of decay. But Miss Greeby was no artist, and prided herself upon being an aggressively matter-of-fact young woman. With her big boots slapping the ground and her big hands thrust into the pockets of her mannish jacket, she bent her head in a meditative fashion and trudged briskly onward. What romance her hard nature was capable of, was uppermost now, but it had to do strictly with her personal feelings and did not require the picturesque autumn landscape to improve or help it in any way. One man's name suggested romance to bluff, breezy Clara Greeby, and that name was Noel Lambert. She murmured it over and over again to her heart, and her hard face flushed into something almost like beauty, as she remembered that she would soon behold its owner. "But he won't care," she said aloud, and threw back her head defiantly: then after a pause, she breathed softly, "But I shall make him care." If she hoped to do so, the task was one which required a great amount of skill and a greater amount of womanly courage, neither of which qualities Miss Greeby possessed. She had no skill in managing a man, as her instincts were insufficiently feminine, and her courage was of a purely rough-and-tumble kind. She could have endured hunger and thirst and cold: she could have headed a forlorn hope: she could have held to a sinking ship: but she had no store of that peculiar feminine courage which men don't understand and which women can't explain, however much they may exhibit it. Miss Greeby was an excellent comrade, but could not be the beloved of any man, because of the very limitations of semi-masculinity upon which she prided herself. Noel Lambert wanted a womanly woman, and Lady Agnes was his ideal of what a wife should be. Miss Greeby had in every possible way offered herself for the post, but Lambert had never cared for her sufficiently to endure the thought of passing through life with her beside him. He said she was "a good sort"; and when a man says that of a woman, she may be to him a good friend, or even a platonic chum, but she can never be a desirable wife in his eyes. What Miss Greeby lacked was sex, and lacking that, lacked everything. It was strange that with her rough common sense she could not grasp this want. But the thought that Lambert required what she could never give--namely, the feminine tenderness which strong masculine natures love--never crossed her very clear and mathematical mind. So she was bent upon a fool's errand, as she strode towards the Abbot's Wood, although she did not know it. Her aim was to capture Lambert as her husband; and her plan, to accomplish her wish by working on the heart-hunger he most probably felt, owing to the loss of Agnes Pine. If he loved that lady in a chivalrous fashion--and Miss Greeby believed that he did--she was absolutely lost to him as the wife of another man. Lambert would never degrade her into a divorce court appearance. And perhaps, after all, as Miss Greeby thought hopefully, his love for Sir Hubert's wife might have turned to scorn that she had preferred money to true love. But then, again, as Miss Greeby remembered, with a darkening face, Agnes had married the millionaire so as to save the family estates from being sold. Rank has its obligation, and Lambert might approve of the sacrifice, since he was the next heir to the Garvington title. "We shall see what his attitude is," decided Miss Greeby, as she entered the Abbot's Wood, and delayed arranging her future plans until she fully understood his feelings towards the woman he had lost. In the meantime, Lambert would want a comrade, and Miss Greeby was prepared to sink her romantic feelings, for the time being, in order to be one. The forest--which belonged to Garvington, so long as he paid the interest on the mortgage--was not a very large one. In the old days it had been of greater size and well stocked with wild animals; so well stocked, indeed, that the abbots of a near monastery had used it for many hundred years as a hunting ground. But the monastery had vanished off the face of the earth, as not even its ruins were left, and the game had disappeared as the forest grew smaller and the district around became more populous. A Lambert of the Georgian period--the family name of Lord Garvington was Lambert--had acquired what was left of the monastic wood by winning it at a game of cards from the nobleman who had then owned it. Now it was simply a large patch of green in the middle of a somewhat naked county, for Hengishire is not remarkable for woodlands. There were rabbits and birds, badgers, stoats, and such-like wild things in it still, but the deer which the abbots had hunted were conspicuous by their absence. Garvington looked after it about as much as he did after the rest of his estates, which was not saying much. The fat, round little lord's heart was always in the kitchen, and he preferred eating to fulfilling his duties as a landlord. Consequently, the Abbot's Wood was more or less public property, save when Garvington turned crusty and every now and then cleared out all interlopers. But tramps came to sleep in the wood, and gypsies camped in its glades, while summer time brought many artists to rave about its sylvan beauties, and paint pictures of ancient trees and silent pools, and rugged lawns besprinkled with rainbow wild flowers. People who went to the Academy and to the various art exhibitions in Bond Street knew the Abbot's Wood fairly well, as it was rarely that at least one picture dealing with it did not appear. Miss Greeby had explored the wood before and knew exactly where to find the cottage mentioned by Lady Garvington. On the verge of the trees she saw the blue smoke of the gypsies' camp fires, and heard the vague murmur of Romany voices, but, avoiding the vagrants, she took her way through the forest by a winding path. This ultimately led her to a spacious glade, in the centre of which stood a dozen or more rough monoliths of mossy gray and weather-worn stones, disposed in a circle. Probably these were all that remained of some Druidical temple, and archaeologists came from far and near to view the weird relics. And in the middle of the circle stood the cottage: a thatched dwelling, which might have had to do with a fairy tale, with its whitewashed walls covered with ivy, and its latticed windows, on the ledges of which stood pots of homely flowers. There was no fence round this rustic dwelling, as the monoliths stood as guardians, and the space between the cottage walls and the gigantic stones was planted thickly with fragrant English flowers. Snapdragon, sweet-william, marigolds, and scented clove carnations, were all to be found there: also there was thyme, mint, sage, and other pot-herbs. And the whole perfumed space was girdled by trees old and young, which stood back from the emerald beauty of untrimmed lawns. A more ideal spot for a dreamer, or an artist, or a hermit, or for the straying prince of a fairy tale, it would have been quite impossible to find. Miss Greeby's vigorous and coarse personality seemed to break in a noisy manner--although she did not utter a single word--the enchanted silence of the solitary place. However, the intruder was too matter-of-fact to trouble about the sequestered liveliness of this unique dwelling. She strode across the lawns, and passing beyond the monoliths, marched like an invader up the narrow path between the radiant flower-beds. From the tiny green door she raised the burnished knocker and brought it down with an emphatic bang. Shortly the door opened with a pettish tug, as though the person behind was rather annoyed by the noise, and a very tall, well-built, slim young man made his appearance on the threshold. He held a palette on the thumb of one hand, and clutched a sheaf of brushes, while another brush was in his mouth, and luckily impeded a rather rough welcome. The look in a pair of keen blue eyes certainly seemed to resent the intrusion, but at the sight of Miss Greeby this irritability changed to a glance of suspicion. Lambert, from old associations, liked his visitor very well on the whole, but that feminine intuition, which all creative natures possess, warned him that it was wise to keep her at arm's length. She had never plainly told her love; but she had assuredly hinted at it more or less by eye and manner and undue hauntings of his footsteps when in London. He could not truthfully tell himself that he was glad of her unexpected visit. For quite half a minute they stood staring at one another, and Miss Greeby's hard cheeks flamed to a poppy red at the sight of the man she loved. "Well, Hermit." she observed, when he made no remark. "As the mountain would not come to Mahomet, the prophet has come to the mountain." "The mountain is welcome," said Lambert diplomatically, and stood aside, so that she might enter. Then adopting the bluff and breezy, rough-and-ready-man-to-man attitude, which Miss Greeby liked to see in her friends, he added: "Come in, old girl! It's a pal come to see a pal, isn't it?" "Rather," assented Miss Greeby, although, woman-like, she was not entirely pleased with this unromantic welcome. "We played as brats together, didn't we? "Yes," she added meditatively, when following Lambert into his studio, "I think we are as chummy as a man and woman well can be." "True enough. You were always a good sort, Clara. How well you are looking--more of a man than ever." "Oh, stop that!" said Miss Greeby roughly. "Why?" Lambert raised his eyebrows. "As a girl you always liked to be thought manly, and said again and again that you wished you were a boy." "I find that I am a woman, after all," sighed the visitor, dropping into a chair and looking round; "with a woman's feelings, too." "And very nice those feelings are, since they have influenced you to pay me a visit in the wilds," remarked the artist imperturbably. "What are you doing in the wilds?" "Painting," was the laconic retort. "So I see. Still-life pictures?" "Not exactly." He pointed toward the easel. "Behold and approve." Miss Greeby did behold, but she certainly did not approve, because she was a woman and in love. It was only a pictured head she saw, but the head was that of a very beautiful girl, whose face smiled from the canvas in a subtle, defiant way, as if aware of its wild loveliness. The raven hair streamed straightly down to the shoulders--for the bust of the model was slightly indicated--and there, bunched out into curls. A red and yellow handkerchief was knotted round the brows, and dangling sequins added to its barbaric appearance. Nose and lips and eyes, and contours, were all perfect, and it really seemed as though the face were idealized, so absolutely did it respond to all canons of beauty. It was a gypsy countenance, and there lurked in its loveliness that wild, untamed look which suggested unrestricted roamings and the spacious freedom of the road. The sudden, jealous fear which surged into Miss Greeby's heart climbed to her throat and choked her speech. But she had wisdom enough to check unwise words, and glanced round the studio to recover her composure. The room was small and barely furnished; a couch, two deep arm-chairs, and a small table filled its limited area. The walls and roof were painted a pale green, and a carpet of the same delicate hue covered the floor. Of course, there were the usual painting materials, brushes and easel and palettes and tubes of color, together with a slightly raised platform near the one window where the model could sit or stand. The window itself had no curtains and was filled with plain glass, affording plenty of light. "The other windows of the cottage are latticed," said Lambert, seeing his visitor's eyes wander in that direction. "I had that glass put in when I came here a month ago. No light can filter through lattices--in sufficient quantity that is--to see the true tones of the colors." "Oh, bother the window!" muttered Miss Greeby restlessly, for she had not yet gained command of her emotions. Lambert laughed and looked at his picture with his head on one side, and a very handsome head it was, as Miss Greeby thought. "It bothered me until I had it put right, I assure you. But you don't seem pleased with my crib." "It's not good enough for you." "Since when have I been a sybarite, Clara?" "I mean you ought to think of your position." "It's too unpleasant to think about," rejoined Lambert, throwing himself on the couch and producing his pipe. "May I smoke?" "Yes, and if you have any decent cigarettes I'll join you. Thanks!" She deftly caught the silver case he threw her. "But your position?" "Five hundred a year and no occupation, since I have been brought up to neither trade nor profession," said Lambert leisurely. "Well?" "You are the heir to a title and to a large property." "Which is heavily mortgaged. As to the title"--Lambert shrugged his shoulders--"Garvington's wife may have children." "I don't think so. They have been married ten years and more. You are certain to come in for everything." "Everything consists of nothing," said the artist coolly. "Well," drawled Miss Greeby, puffing luxuriously at her cigarette, which was Turkish and soothing, "nothing may turn into something when these mortgages are cleared off." "Who is going to clear them off?" "Sir Hubert Pine." Lambert's brows contracted, as she knew they would when this name was mentioned, and he carefully attended to filling his pipe so as to avoid meeting her hard, inquisitive eyes. "Pine is a man of business, and if he pays off the mortgages he will take over the property as security. I don't see that Garvington will be any the better off in that case." "Lambert," said Miss Greeby very decidedly, and determined to know precisely what he felt like, "Garvington only allowed his sister to marry Sir Hubert because he was rich. I don't know for certain, of course, but I should think it probable that he made an arrangement with Pine to have things put straight because of the marriage." "Possible and probable," said the artist shortly, and wincing; "but old friend as you are, Clara, I don't see the necessity of talking about business which does not concern me. Speak to Garvington." "Agnes concerns you." "How objectionably direct you are," exclaimed Lambert in a vexed tone. "And how utterly wrong. Agnes does not concern me in the least. I loved her, but as she chose to marry Pine, why there's no more to be said." "If there was nothing more to be said," observed Miss Greeby shrewdly, "you would not be burying yourself here." "Why not? I am fond of nature and art, and my income is not enough to permit my living decently in London. I had to leave the army because I was so poor. Garvington has given me this cottage rent free, so I'm jolly enough with my painting and with Mrs. Tribb as housekeeper and cook. She's a perfect dream of a cook," ended Lambert thoughtfully. Miss Greeby shook her red head. "You can't deceive me." "Who wants to, anyhow?" demanded the man, unconsciously American. "You do. You wish to make out that you prefer to camp here instead of admitting that you would like to be at The Manor because Agnes--" Lambert jumped up crossly. "Oh, leave Agnes out of the question. She is Pine's wife, so that settles things. It's no use crying for the moon, and--" "Then you still wish for the moon," interpolated the woman quickly. "Not even you have the right to ask me such a question," replied Lambert in a quiet and decisive tone. "Let us change the subject." Miss Greeby pointed to the beautiful face smiling on the easel. "I advise you to," she said significantly. "You seem to have come here to give me good advice." "Which you won't take," she retorted. "Because it isn't needed." "A man's a man and a woman's a woman." "That's as true as taxes, as Mr. Barkis observed, if you are acquainted with the writings of the late Charles Dickens. Well?" Again Miss Greeby pointed to the picture. "She's very pretty." "I shouldn't have painted her otherwise." "Oh, then the original of that portrait does exist?" "Could you call it a portrait if an original didn't exist?" demanded the young man tartly. "Since you want to know so much, you may as well come to the gypsy encampment on the verge of the wood and satisfy yourself." He threw on a Panama hat, with a cross look. "Since when have you come to the conclusion that I need a dry nurse?" "Oh, don't talk bosh!" said Miss Greeby vigorously, and springing to her feet. "You take me at the foot of the letter and too seriously. I only came here to see how my old pal was getting on." "I'm all right and as jolly as a sandboy. Now are you satisfied?" "Quite. Only don't fall in love with the original of your portrait." "It's rather late in the day to warn me," said Lambert dryly, "for I have known the girl for six months. I met her in a gypsy caravan when on a walking tour, and offered to paint her. She is down here with her people, and you can see her whenever you have a mind to." "There's no time like the present," said Miss Greeby, accepting the offer with alacrity. "Come along, old boy." Then, when they stepped out of the cottage garden on to the lawns, she asked pointedly, "What is her name?" "Chaldea." "Nonsense. That is the name of the country." "I never denied that, my dear girl. But Chaldea was born in the country whence she takes her name. Down Mesopotamia way, I believe. These gypsies wander far and wide, you know. She's very pretty, and has the temper of the foul fiend himself. Only Kara can keep her in order." "Who is Kara?" "A Servian gypsy who plays the fiddle like an angel. He's a crooked-backed, black-faced, hairy ape of a dwarf, but highly popular on account of his music. Also, he's crazy about Chaldea, and loves her to distraction." "Does she love him?" Miss Greeby asked in her direct fashion. "No," replied Lambert, coloring under his tan, and closed his lips firmly. He was a very presentable figure of a man, as he walked beside the unusually tall woman. His face was undeniably handsome in a fair Saxon fashion, and his eyes were as blue as those of Miss Greeby herself, while his complexion was much more delicate. In fact, she considered that it was much too good a complexion for one of the male sex, but admitted inwardly that its possessor was anything but effeminate, when he had such a heavy jaw, such a firm chin, and such set lips. Lambert, indeed, at first sight did indeed look so amiable, as to appear for the moment quite weak; but danger always stiffened him into a dangerous adversary, and his face when aroused was most unpleasantly fierce. He walked with a military swing, his shoulders well set back and his head crested like that of a striking serpent. A rough and warlike life would have brought out his best points of endurance, capability to plan and strike quickly, and iron decision; but the want of opportunity and the enervating influences of civilized existence, made him a man of possibilities. When time, and place, and chance offered he could act the hero with the best; but lacking these things he remained innocuous like gunpowder which has no spark to fire it. Thinking of these things, Miss Greeby abandoned the subject of Chaldea, and of her possible love for Lambert, and exclaimed impulsively, "Why don't you chuck civilization and strike the out-trail?" "Why should I?" he asked, unmoved, and rather surprised by the change of the subject. "I'm quite comfortable here." "Too comfortable," she retorted with emphasis. "This loafing life of just-enough-to-live-on doesn't give you a chance to play the man. Go out and fight and colonize and prove your qualities." Lambert's color rose again, and his eyes sparkled. "I would if the chance--" "Ah, bah, Hercules and Omphale!" interrupted his companion. "What do you mean?" "Never mind," retorted Miss Greeby, who guessed that he knew what she meant very well. His quick flush showed her how he resented this classical allusion to Agnes Pine. "You'd carry her off if you were a man." "Chaldea?" asked Lambert, wilfully misunderstanding her meaning. "If you like. Only don't try to carry her off at night. Garvington says he will shoot any burglar who comes along after dark." "I never knew Garvington had anything to do with Chaldea." "Neither did I. Oh, I think you know very well what I mean." "Perhaps I do," said the young man with an angry shrug, for really her interference with his affairs seemed to be quite unjustifiable. "But I am not going to bring a woman I respect into the Divorce Court." "Respect? Love, you mean to say." Lambert stopped, and faced her squarely. "I don't wish to quarrel with you, Clara, as we are very old friends. But I warn you that I do possess a temper, and if you wish to see it, you are going the best way to get what you evidently want. Now, hold your tongue and talk of something else. Here is Chaldea." "Watching for you," muttered Miss Greeby, as the slight figure of the gypsy girl was seen advancing swiftly. "Ha!" and she snorted suspiciously. "Rye!" cried Chaldea, dancing toward the artist. "Sarishan rye." Miss Greeby didn't understand Romany, but the look in the girl's eyes was enough to reveal the truth. If Lambert did not love his beautiful model, it was perfectly plain that the beautiful model loved Lambert. "O baro duvel atch' pa leste!" said Chaldea, and clapped her slim hands. CHAPTER III. AN UNEXPECTED RECOGNITION. "I wish you wouldn't speak the calo jib to me, Chaldea," said Lambert, smiling on the beautiful eager face. "You know I don't understand it." "Nor I," put in Miss Greeby in her manly tones. "What does Oh baro devil, and all the rest of it mean?" "The Great God be with you," translated Chaldea swiftly, "and duvel is not devil as you Gorgios call it." "Only the difference of a letter," replied the Gentile lady good-humoredly. "Show us round your camp, my good girl." The mere fact that the speaker was in Lambert's company, let alone the offensively patronizing tone in which she spoke, was enough to rouse the gypsy girl's naturally hot temper. She retreated and swayed like a cat making ready to spring, while her black eyes snapped fire in a most unpleasant manner. But Miss Greeby was not to be frightened by withering glances, and merely laughed aloud, showing her white teeth. Her rough merriment and masculine looks showed Chaldea that, as a rival, she was not to be feared, so the angry expression on the dark face changed to a wheedling smile. "Avali! Avali! The Gorgios lady wants her fortune told." For the sake of diplomacy Miss Greeby nodded and fished in her pocket. "I'll give you half a crown to tell it." "Not me--not me, dear lady. Mother Cockleshell is our great witch." "Take me to her then," replied the other, and rapidly gathered into her brain all she could of Chaldea's appearance. Lambert had painted a very true picture of the girl, although to a certain extent he had idealized her reckless beauty. Chaldea's looks had been damaged and roughened by wind and rain, by long tramps, and by glaring sunshine. Yet she was superlatively handsome with her warm and swarthy skin, under which the scarlet blood circled freely. To an oval face, a slightly hooked nose and two vermilion lips, rather full, she added the glossy black eyes of the true Romany, peaked at the corners. Her jetty hair descended smoothly from under a red handkerchief down to her shoulders, and there, at the tips, became tangled and curling. Her figure was magnificent, and she swayed and swung from the hips with an easy grace, which reminded the onlookers of a panther's lithe movements. And there was a good deal of the dangerous beast-of-prey beauty about Chaldea, which was enhanced by her picturesque dress. This was ragged and patched with all kinds of colored cloths subdued to mellow tints by wear and weather. Also she jingled with coins and beads and barbaric trinkets of all kinds. Her hands were perfectly formed, and so doubtless were her feet, although these last were hidden by heavy laced-up boots. On the whole, she was an extremely picturesque figure, quite comforting to the artistic eye amidst the drab sameness of latterday civilization. "All the same, I suspect she is a sleeping volcano," whispered Miss Greeby in her companion's ear as they followed the girl through the camp. "Scarcely sleeping," answered Lambert in the same tone. "She explodes on the slightest provocation, and not without damaging results." "Well, you ought to know. But if you play with volcanic fire you'll burn more than your clever fingers." "Pooh! The girl is only a model." "Ha! Not much of the lay figure about her, anyway." Lambert, according to his custom, shrugged his shoulders and did not seek to explain further. If Miss Greeby chose to turn her fancies into facts, she was at liberty to do so. Besides, her attention was luckily attracted by the vivid life of the vagrants which hummed and bustled everywhere. The tribe was a comparatively large one, and--as Miss Greeby learned later--consisted of Lees, Loves, Bucklands, Hernes, and others, all mixed up together in one gypsy stew. The assemblage embraced many clans, and not only were there pure gypsies, but even many diddikai, or half-bloods, to be seen. Perhaps the gradually diminishing Romany clans found it better to band together for mutual benefit than to remain isolated units. But the camp certainly contained many elements, and these, acting co-operatively, formed a large and somewhat reckless community, which justified Garvington's alarm. A raid in the night by one or two, or three, or more of these lean, wiry, dangerous-looking outcasts was not to be despised. But it must be admitted that, in a general way, law and order prevailed in the encampment. There were many caravans, painted in gay colors and hung round with various goods, such as brushes and brooms, goat-skin rugs, and much tinware, together with baskets of all sorts and sizes. The horses, which drew these rainbow-hued vehicles, were pasturing on the outskirts of the camp, hobbled for the most part. Interspersed among the travelling homes stood tents great and small, wherein the genuine Romany had their abode, but the autumn weather was so fine that most of the inmates preferred to sleep in the moonshine. Of course, there were plenty of dogs quarrelling over bones near various fires, or sleeping with one eye open in odd corners, and everywhere tumbled and laughed and danced, brown-faced, lithe-limbed children, who looked uncannily Eastern. And the men, showing their white teeth in smiles, together with the fawning women, young and handsome, or old and hideously ugly, seemed altogether alien to the quiet, tame domestic English landscape. There was something prehistoric about the scene, and everywhere lurked that sense of dangerous primeval passions held in enforced check which might burst forth on the very slightest provocation. "It's a migrating tribe of Aryans driven to new hunting grounds by hunger or over-population," said Miss Greeby, for even her unromantic nature was stirred by the unusual picturesqueness of the scene. "The sight of these people and the reek of their fires make me feel like a cave-woman. There is something magnificent about this brutal freedom." "Very sordid magnificence," replied Lambert, raising his shoulders. "But I understand your feelings. On occasions we all have the nostalgia of the primitive life at times, and delight to pass from ease to hardship." "Well, civilization isn't much catch, so far as I can see," argued his companion. "It makes men weaklings." "Certainly not women," he answered, glancing sideways at her Amazonian figure. "I agree with you. For some reason, men are going down while women are going up, both physically and mentally. I wonder what the future of civilized races will be." "Here is Mother Cockleshell. Best ask her." The trio had reached a small tent at the very end of the camp by this time, snugly set up under a spreading oak and near the banks of a babbling brook. Their progress had not been interrupted by any claims on their attention or purses, for a wink from Chaldea had informed her brother and sister gypsies that the Gentile lady had come to consult the queen of the tribe. And, like Lord Burleigh's celebrated nod, Chaldea's wink could convey volumes. At all events, Lambert and his companion were unmolested, and arrived in due course before the royal palace. A croaking voice announced that the queen was inside her Arab tent, and she was crooning some Romany song. Chaldea did not open her mouth, but simply snapped her fingers twice or thrice rapidly. The woman within must have had marvellously sharp ears, for she immediately stopped her incantation--the songs sounded like one--and stepped forth. "Oh!" said Miss Greeby, stepping back, "I am disappointed." She had every reason to be after the picturesqueness of the camp in general, and Chaldea in particular, for Mother Cockleshell looked like a threadbare pew-opener, or an almshouse widow who had seen better days. Apparently she was very old, for her figure had shrivelled up into a diminutive monkey form, and she looked as though a moderately high wind could blow her about like a feather. Her face was brown and puckered and lined in a most wonderful fashion. Where a wrinkle could be, there a wrinkle was, and her nose and chin were of the true nutcracker order, as a witch's should be. Only her eyes betrayed the powerful vitality that still animated the tiny frame, for these were large and dark, and had in them a piercing look which seemed to gaze not at any one, but through and beyond. Her figure, dried like that of a mummy, was surprisingly straight for one of her ancient years, and her profuse hair was scarcely touched with the gray of age. Arrayed in a decent black dress, with a decent black bonnet and a black woollen shawl, the old lady looked intensely respectable. There was nothing of the picturesque vagrant about her. Therefore Miss Greeby, and with every reason, was disappointed, and when the queen of the woodland spoke she was still more so, for Mother Cockleshell did not even interlard her English speech with Romany words, as did Chaldea. "Good day to you, my lady, and to you, sir," said Mother Cockleshell in a stronger and harsher voice than would have been expected from one of her age and diminished stature. "I hope I sees you well," and she dropped a curtsey, just like any village dame who knew her manners. "Oh!" cried Miss Greeby again. "You don't look a bit like a gypsy queen." "Ah, my lady, looks ain't everything. But I'm a true-bred Romany--a Stanley of Devonshire. Gentilla is my name and the tent my home, and I can tell fortunes as no one else on the road can." "Avali, and that is true," put in Chaldea eagerly. "Gentilla's a bori chovihani." "The child means that I am a great witch, my lady," said the old dame with another curtsey. "Though she's foolish to use Romany words to Gentiles as don't understand the tongue which the dear Lord spoke in Eden's garden, as the good Book tells us." "In what part of the Bible do you find that?" asked Lambert laughing. "Oh, my sweet gentleman, it ain't for the likes of me to say things to the likes of you," said Mother Cockleshell, getting out of her difficulty very cleverly, "but the dear lady wants her fortune told, don't she?" "Why don't you say dukkerin?" "I don't like them wicked words, sir," answered Mother Cockleshell piously. "Wicked words," muttered Chaldea tossing her black locks. "And them true Romany as was your milk tongue. No wonder the Gentiles don't fancy you a true one of the road. If I were queen of--" A vicious little devil flashed out of the old woman's eyes, and her respectable looks changed on the instant. "Tol yer chib, or I'll heat the bones of you with the fires of Bongo Tem," she screamed furiously, and in a mixture of her mother-tongue and English. "Ja pukenus, slut of the gutter," she shook her fist, and Chaldea, with an insulting laugh, moved away. "Bengis your see! Bengis your see! And that, my generous lady," she added, turning round with a sudden resumption of her fawning respectability, "means 'the devil in your heart,' which I spoke witchly-like to the child. Ah, but she's a bad one." Miss Greeby laughed outright. "This is more like the real thing." "Poor Chaldea," said Lambert. "You're too hard on her, mother." "And you, my sweet gentleman, ain't hard enough. She'll sell you, and get Kara to put the knife between your ribs." "Why should he? I'm not in love with the girl." "The tree don't care for the ivy, but the ivy loves the tree," said Mother Cockleshell darkly. "You're a good and kind gentleman, and I don't want to see that slut pick your bones." "So I think," whispered Miss Greeby in his ear. "You play with fire." "Aye, my good lady," said Mother Cockleshell, catching the whisper--she had the hearing of a cat. "With the fire of Bongo Tern, the which you may call The Crooked Land," and she pointed significantly downward. "Hell, do you mean?" asked Miss Greeby in her bluff way. "The Crooked Land we Romany calls it," insisted the old woman. "And the child will go there, for her witchly doings." "She's too good-looking to lose as a model, at all events," said Lambert, hitching his shoulders. "I shall leave you to have your fortune told, Clara, and follow Chaldea to pacify her." As he went toward the centre of the camp, Miss Greeby took a hesitating step as though to follow him. In her opinion Chaldea was much too good-looking, let alone clever, for Lambert to deal with alone. Gentilla Stanley saw the look on the hard face and the softening of the hard eyes as the cheeks grew rosy red. From this emotion she drew her conclusions, and she chuckled to think of how true a fortune she could tell the visitor on these premises. Mother Cockleshell's fortune-telling was not entirely fraudulent, but when her clairvoyance was not in working order she made use of character-reading with good results. "Won't the Gorgios lady have her fortune told?" she asked in wheedling tones. "Cross Mother Cockleshell's hand with silver and she'll tell the coming years truly." "Why do they call you Mother Cockleshell?" demanded Miss Greeby, waiving the question of fortune-telling for the time being. "Bless your wisdom, it was them fishermen at Grimsby who did so. I walked the beaches for years and told charms and gave witchly spells for fine weather. Gentilla Stanley am I called, but Mother Cockleshell was their name for me. But the fortune, my tender Gentile--" "I don't want it told," interrupted Miss Greeby abruptly. "I don't believe in such rubbish." "There is rubbish and there is truth," said the ancient gypsy darkly. "And them as knows can see what's hidden from others." "Well, you will have an opportunity this afternoon of making money. Some fools from The Manor are coming to consult you." Mother Cockleshell nodded and grinned to show a set of beautifully preserved teeth. "I know The Manor," said she, rubbing her slim hands. "And Lord Garvington, with his pretty sister." "Lady Agnes Pine?" asked Miss Greeby. "How do you know, her?" "I've been in these parts before, my gentle lady, and she was good to me in a sick way. I would have died in the hard winter if she hadn't fed me and nursed me, so to speak. I shall love to see her again. To dick a puro pal is as commoben as a aushti habben, the which, my precious angel, is true Romany for the Gentile saying, 'To see an old friend is as good as a fine dinner.' Avali! Avali!" she nodded smilingly. "I shall be glad to see her, though here I use Romany words to you as doesn't understand the lingo." Miss Greeby was not at all pleased to hear Lady Agnes praised; as, knowing that Lambert had loved her, and probably loved her still, she was jealous enough to wish her all possible harm. However, it was not diplomatic to reveal her true feelings to Mother Cockleshell, lest the old gypsy should repeat her words to Lady Agnes, so she turned the conversation by pointing to a snow-white cat of great size, who stepped daintily out of the tent. "I should think, as a witch, your cat ought to be black," said Miss Greeby. Mother Cockleshell screeched like a night-owl and hastily pattered some gypsy spell to avert evil. "Why, the old devil is black," she cried. "And why should I have him in my house to work evil? This is my white ghost." Her words were accompanied by a gentle stroking of the cat. "And good is what she brings to my roof-tree. But I don't eat from white dishes, or drink from white mugs. No! No! That would be too witchly." Miss Greeby mused. "I have heard something about these gypsy superstitions before," she remarked meditatively. "Avo! Avo! They are in a book written by a great Romany Rye. Leland is the name of that rye, a gypsy Lee with Gentile land. He added land to the lea as he was told by one of our people. Such a nice gentleman, kind, and free of his money and clever beyond tellings, as I always says. Many a time has he sat pal-like with me, and 'Gentilla,' says he, 'your're a bori chovihani'; and that, my generous lady, is the gentle language for a great witch." "Chaldea said that you were that," observed Miss Greeby carelessly. "The child speaks truly. Come, cross my hand, sweet lady." Miss Greeby passed along half a crown. "I only desire to know one thing," she said, offering her palm. "Shall I get my wish?" Mother Cockleshell peered into the hands, although she had already made up her mind what to say. Her faculties, sharpened by years of chicanery, told her from the look which Miss Greeby had given when Lambert followed Chaldea, that a desire to marry the man was the wish in question. And seeing how indifferent Lambert was in the presence of the tall lady, Mother Cockleshell had no difficulty in adjusting the situation in her own artful mind. "No, my lady," she said, casting away the hand with quite a dramatic gesture. "You will never gain your wish." Miss Greeby looked angry. "Bah! Your fortune-telling is all rubbish, as I have always thought," and she moved away. "Tell me that in six months," screamed the old woman after her. "Why six months?" demanded the other, pausing. "Ah, that's a dark saying," scoffed the gypsy. "Call it seven, my hopeful-for-what-you-won't-get, like the cat after the cream, for seven's a sacred number, and the spell is set." "Gypsy jargon, gypsy lies," muttered Miss Greeby, tossing her ruddy mane. "I don't believe a word. Tell me--" "There's no time to say more," interrupted Mother Cockleshell rudely, for, having secured her money, she did not think it worth while to be polite, especially in the face of her visitor's scepticism. "One of our tribe--aye, and he's a great Romany for sure--is coming to camp with us. Each minute he may come, and I go to get ready a stew of hedgehog, for Gentile words I must use to you, who are a Gorgio. And so good day to you, my lady," ended the old hag, again becoming the truly respectable pew-opener. Then she dropped a curtsey--whether ironical or not, Miss Greeby could not tell--and disappeared into the tent, followed by the white cat, who haunted her footsteps like the ghost she declared it to be. Clearly there was nothing more to be learned from Mother Cockleshell, who, in the face of her visitor's doubts, had become hostile, so Miss Greeby, dismissing the whole episode as over and done with, turned her attention toward finding Lambert. With her bludgeon under her arm and her hands in the pockets of her jacket, she stalked through the camp in quite a masculine fashion, not vouchsafing a single reply to the greetings which the gypsies gave her. Shortly she saw the artist chatting with Chaldea at the beginning of the path which led to his cottage. Beside them, on the grass, squatted a queer figure. It was that of a little man, very much under-sized, with a hunch back and a large, dark, melancholy face covered profusely with black hair. He wore corduroy trousers and clumsy boots--his feet and hands were enormous--together with a green coat and a red handkerchief which was carelessly twisted round his hairy throat. On his tangled locks--distressingly shaggy and unkempt--he wore no hat, and he looked like a brownie, grotesque, though somewhat sad. But even more did he resemble an ape--or say the missing link--and only his eyes seemed human. These were large, dark and brilliant, sparkling like jewels under his elf-locks. He sat cross-legged on the sward and hugged a fiddle, as though he were nursing a baby. And, no doubt, he was as attached to his instrument as any mother could be to her child. It was not difficult for Miss Greeby to guess that this weird, hairy dwarf was the Servian gypsy Kara, of whom Lambert had spoken. She took advantage of the knowledge to be disagreeable to the girl. "Is this your husband?" asked Miss Greeby amiably. Chaldea's eyes flashed and her cheeks grew crimson. "Not at all," she said contemptuously. "I have no rom." "Ah, your are not married?" "No," declared Chaldea curtly, and shot a swift glance at Lambert. "She is waiting for the fairy prince," said that young gentleman smiling. "And he is coming to this camp almost immediately." "Ishmael Hearne is coming," replied the gypsy. "But he is no rom of mine, and never will be." "Who is he, then?" asked Lambert carelessly. "One of the great Romany." Miss Greeby remembered that Mother Cockleshell had also spoken of the expected arrival at the camp in these terms. "A kind of king?" she asked. Chaldea laughed satirically. "Yes; a kind of king," she assented; then turned her back rudely on the speaker and addressed Lambert: "I can't come, rye. Ishmael will want to see me. I must wait." "What a nuisance," said Lambert, looking annoyed. "Fancy, Clara. I have an idea of painting these two as Beauty and the Beast, or perhaps as Esmeralda and Quasimodo. I want them to come to the cottage and sit now, but they will wait for this confounded Ishmael." "We can come to-morrow," put in Chaldea quickly. "This afternoon I must dance for Ishmael, and Kara must play." "Ishmael will meet with a fine reception," said Miss Greeby, and then, anxious to have a private conversation with Chaldea so as to disabuse her mind of any idea she may have entertained of marrying Lambert, she added, "I think I shall stay and see him." "In that case, I shall return to my cottage," replied Lambert, sauntering up the pathway, which was strewn with withered leaves. "When are you coming to The Manor?" called Miss Greeby after him. "Never! I am too busy," he replied over his shoulder and disappeared into the wood. This departure may seem discourteous, but then Miss Greeby liked to be treated like a comrade and without ceremony. That is, she liked it so far as other men were concerned, but not as regards Lambert. She loved him too much to approve of his careless leave-taking, and therefore she frowned darkly, as she turned her attention to Chaldea. The girl saw that Miss Greeby was annoyed, and guessed the cause of her annoyance. The idea that this red-haired and gaunt woman should love the handsome Gorgio was so ludicrous in Chaldea's eyes that she laughed in an ironical fashion. Miss Greeby turned on her sharply, but before she could speak there was a sound of many voices raised in welcome. "Sarishan pal! Sarishan ba!" cried the voices, and Chaldea started. "Ishmael!" she said, and ran toward the camp, followed leisurely by Kara. Anxious to see the great Romany, whose arrival caused all this commotion, Miss Greeby plunged into the crowd of excited vagrants. These surrounded a black horse, on which sat a slim, dark-faced man of the true Romany breed. Miss Greeby stared at him and blinked her eyes, as though she could not believe what they beheld, while the man waved his hand and responded to the many greetings in gypsy language. His eyes finally met her own as she stood on the outskirts of the crowd, and he started. Then she knew. "Sir Hubert Pine," said Miss Greeby, still staring. "Sir Hubert Pine!" CHAPTER IV. SECRETS. The scouting crowd apparently did not catch the name, so busy were one and all in welcoming the newcomer. But the man on the horse saw Miss Greeby's startled look, and noticed that her lips were moving. In a moment he threw himself off the animal and elbowed his way roughly through the throng. "Sir Hubert," began Miss Greeby, only to be cut short hastily. "Don't give me away," interrupted Pine, who here was known as Ishmael Hearne. "Wait till I settle things, and then we can converse privately." "All right," answered the lady, nodding, and gripped her bludgeon crosswise behind her back with two hands. She was so surprised at the sight of the millionaire in the wood, that she could scarcely speak. Satisfied that she grasped the situation, Pine turned to his friends and spoke at length in fluent Romany. He informed them that he had some business to transact with the Gentile lady who had come to the camp for that purpose, and would leave them for half an hour. The man evidently was such a favorite that black looks were cast on Miss Greeby for depriving the Romany of his society. But Pine paid no attention to these signs of discontent. He finished his speech, and then pushed his way again toward the lady who, awkwardly for him, was acquainted with his true position as a millionaire. In a hurried whisper he asked Miss Greeby to follow him, and led the way into the heart of the wood. Apparently he knew it very well, and knew also where to seek solitude for the private conversation he desired, for he skirted the central glade where Lambert's cottage was placed, and finally guided his companion to a secluded dell, far removed from the camp of his brethren. Here he sat down on a mossy stone, and stared with piercing black eyes at Miss Greeby. "What are you doing here?" he demanded imperiously. "Just the question I was about to put to you," said Miss Greeby amiably. She could afford to be amiable, for she felt that she was the mistress of the situation. Pine evidently saw this, for he frowned. "You must have guessed long ago that I was a gypsy," he snapped restlessly. "Indeed I didn't, nor, I should think, did any one else. I thought you had nigger blood in you, and I have heard people say that you came from the West Indies. But what does it matter if you are a gypsy? There is no disgrace in being one." "No disgrace, certainly," rejoined the millionaire, leaning forward and linking his hands together, while he stared at the ground. "I am proud of having the gentle Romany blood. All the same I prefer the West Indian legend, for I don't want any of my civilized friends to know that I am Ishmael Hearne, born and bred in a tent." "Well, that's natural, Pine. What would Garvington say?" "Oh, curse Garvington!" "Curse the whole family by all means," retorted Miss Greeby coolly. Pine looked up savagely, "I except my wife." "Naturally. You always were uxorious." "Perhaps," said Pine gloomily, "I'm a fool where Agnes is concerned." Miss Greeby quite agreed with this statement, but did not think it worth while to indorse so obvious a remark. She sat down in her turn, and taking Lambert's cigarette case, which she had retained by accident, out of her pocket, she prepared to smoke. The two were entirely alone in the fairy dell, and the trees which girdled it were glorious with vivid autumnal tints. A gentle breeze sighing through the wood, shook down yew, crisp leaves on the woman's head, so that she looked like Danae in a shower of gold. Pine gazed heavily at the ground and coughed violently. Miss Greeby knew that cough, and a medical friend of hers had told her several times that Sir Hubert was a very consumptive individual. He certainly looked ill, and apparently had not long to live. And if he died, Lady Agnes, inheriting his wealth, would be more desirable as a wife than ever. And Miss Greeby, guessing whose wife she would be, swore inwardly that the present husband should look so delicate. But she showed no sign of her perturbations, but lighted her cigarette with a steady hand and smoked quietly. She always prided herself on her nerve. The millionaire was tall and lean, with a sinewy frame, and an oval, olive-complexioned face. It was clean-shaven, and with his aquiline nose, his thin lips, and brilliant black eyes, which resembled those of Kara, he looked like a long-descended Hindoo prince. The Eastern blood of the Romany showed in his narrow feet and slim brown hands, and there was a wild roving look about him, which Miss Greeby had not perceived in London. "I suppose it's the dress," she said aloud, and eyed Pine critically. "What do you say, Miss Greeby?" he asked, looking up in a sharp, startled manner, and again coughing in a markedly consumptive way. "The cowl makes the monk in your case," replied the woman quietly. "Your corduroy breeches and velveteen coat, with that colored shirt, and the yellow handkerchief round your neck, seem to suit you better than did the frock coats and evening dress I have seen you in. You did look like a nigger of sorts when in those clothes; now I can tell you are a gypsy with half an eye." "That is because you heard me called Ishmael and saw me among my kith and kin," said the man with a tired smile. "Don't tell Agnes." "Why should I? It's none of my business if you chose to masquerade as a gypsy." "I masquerade as Sir Hubert Pine," retorted the millionaire, slipping off the stone to sprawl full-length on the grass. "I am truly and really one of the lot in the camp yonder." "Do they know you by your Gentile name?" Pine laughed. "You are picking up the gypsy lingo, Miss Greeby. No. Every one on the road takes me for what I am, Ishmael Hearne, and my friends in the civilized world think I am Sir Hubert Pine, a millionaire with colored blood in his veins." "How do you come to have a double personality and live a double life?" "Oh, that is easily explained, and since you have found me out it is just as well that I should explain, so that you may keep my secret, at all events from my wife, as she would be horrified to think that she had married a gypsy. You promise?" "Of course. I shall say nothing. But perhaps she would prefer to know that she had married a gypsy rather than a nigger." "What polite things you say," said Pine sarcastically. "However, I can't afford to quarrel with you. As you are rich, I can't even bribe you to silence, so I must rely on your honor." "Oh, I have some," Miss Greeby assured him lightly. "When it suits you," he retorted doubtfully. "It does on this occasion." "Why?" "I'll tell you that when you have related your story." "There is really none to tell. I was born and brought up on the road, and thinking I was wasting my life I left my people and entered civilization. In London I worked as a clerk, and being clever I soon made money. I got hold of a man who invented penny toys, and saw the possibilities of making a fortune. I really didn't, but I collected enough money to dabble in stocks and shares. The South African boom was on, and I made a thousand. Other speculations created more than a million out of my thousand, and now I have over two millions, honestly made." "Honestly?" queried Miss Greeby significantly. "Yes; I assure you, honestly. We gypsies are cleverer than you Gentiles, and we have the same money-making faculties as the Jews have. If my people were not so fond of the vagrant life they would soon become a power in the money markets of the world. But, save in the case of myself, we leave all such grubbing to the Jews. I did grub, and my reward is that I have accumulated a fortune in a remarkably short space of time. I have land and houses, and excellent investments, and a title, which," he added sarcastically, "a grateful Government bestowed on me for using my money properly." "You bought the title by helping the political party you belonged to," said Miss Greeby with a shrug. "There was quite a talk about it." "So there was. As if I cared for talk. However, that is my story." "Not all of it. You are supposed to be in Paris, and--" "And you find me here," interrupted Pine with a faint smile. "Well you see, being a gypsy, I can't always endure that under-the-roof life you Gentiles live. I must have a spell of the open road occasionally. And, moreover, as my doctor tells me that I have phthisis, and that I should live as much as possible in the open air, I kill two birds with one stone, as the saying is. My health benefits by my taking up the old Romany wandering, and I gratify my nostalgia for the tent and the wild. You understand, you und--" His speech was interrupted by a fresh fit of coughing. "It doesn't seem to do you much good this gypsying," said Miss Greeby with a swift look, for his life was of importance to her plans. "You look pretty rocky I can tell you, Pine. And if you die your wife will be free to--" The man sat up and took away from his mouth a handkerchief spotted with blood. His eyes glittered, and he showed his white teeth. "My wife will be free to what?" he demanded viciously, and the same devil that had lurked in Mother Cockleshell's eye, now showed conspicuously in his. Miss Greeby had no pity on his manifest distress and visible wrath, but answered obliquely: "You know that she was almost engaged to her cousin before you married her," she hinted pointedly. "Yes, I know, d---- him," said Pine with a groan, and rolled over to clutch at the grass in a vicious manner. "But he's not at The Manor now?" "No." "Agnes doesn't speak of him?" "No." Pine drew a deep breath and rose slowly to his feet, with a satisfied nod. "I'm glad of that. She's a good woman is Agnes, and would never encourage him in any way. She knows what is due to me. I trust her." "Do you? When your secretary is also stopping at The Manor?" "Silver!" Pine laughed awkwardly, and kicked at a tuft of moss. "Well I did ask him to keep an eye on her, although there is really no occasion. Silver owes me a great deal, since I took him out of the gutter. If Lambert worried my wife, Silver would let me know, and then--" "And then?" asked Miss Greeby hastily. The man clenched his fists and his face grew stormy, as his blood untamed by civilization surged redly to the surface. "I'd twist his neck, I'd smash his skull, I'd--I'd--I'd--oh, don't ask me what I'd do." "I should keep my temper if I were you," Miss Greeby warned him, and alarmed by the tempest she had provoked. She had no wish for the man she loved to come into contact with this savage, veneered by civilization. Yet Lambert was in the neighborhood, and almost within a stone's throw of the husband who was so jealous of him. "Keep your temper," repeated Miss Greeby. "Is there anything else you would like me to do?" raged Pine fiercely. "Yes. Leave this place if you wish to keep the secret of your birth from your wife. Lady Garvington and Mrs. Belgrove, and a lot of people from The Manor, are coming to the camp to get their fortunes told. You are sure to be spotted." "I shall keep myself out of sight," said Pine sullenly and suspiciously. "Some of your gypsy friends may let the cat out of the bag." "Not one of them knows there is a cat in the bag. I am Ishmael Hearne to them, and nothing else. But I shan't stay here long." "I wonder you came at all, seeing that your wife is with her brother." "In the daring of my coming lies my safety," said Pine tartly. "I know what I am doing. As to Lambert, if he thinks to marry my wife when I am dead he is mistaken." "Well, I hope you won't die, for my sake!" "Why for your sake?" asked Pine sharply. "Because I love Lambert and I want to marry him." "Marry him," said the millionaire hoarsely, "and I'll give you thousands of pounds. Oh! I forgot that you have a large income. But marry him, marry him, Miss Greeby. I shall help you all I can." "I can do without assistance," said the woman coolly. "All I ask you to do is to refrain from fighting with Lambert." "What?" Pine's face became lowering again. "Is he at The Manor? You said--" "I know what I said. He is not at The Manor, but he is stopping in the cottage a stone's throw from here." Pine breathed hard, and again had a spasm of coughing. "What's he doing?" "Painting pictures." "He has not been near The Manor?" "No. And what is more, he told me to-day that he did not intend to go near the house. I don't think you need be afraid, Pine. Lambert is a man of honor, and I hope to get him to be my husband." "He shall never be my wife's husband," said the millionaire between his teeth and scowling heavily. "I know that I shan't live to anything like three score and ten. Your infernal hot-house civilization has killed me. But if Lambert thinks to marry my widow he shall do so in the face of Garvington's opposition, and will find Agnes a pauper." "What do you mean exactly?" Miss Greeby flung away the stump of her cigarette and rose to her feet. Pine wiped his brow and breathed heavily. "I mean that I have left Agnes my money, only on condition that she does _not_ marry Lambert. She can marry any one else she has a mind to. I except her cousin." "Because she loves him?" "Yes, and because he loves her, d--n him." "He doesn't," cried Miss Greeby, lying fluently, and heartily wishing that her lie could be a truth. "He loves me, and I intend to marry him. Now you can understand what I meant when I declared that I had honor enough to keep your secret. Lambert is my honor." "Oh, then I believe in your honor," sneered Pine cynically. "It is a selfish quality in this case, which can only be gratified by preserving silence. If Agnes knew that I was a true Romany tramp, she might run away with Lambert, and as you want him to be your husband, it is to your interest to hold your tongue. Thank you for nothing, Miss Greeby." "I tell you Lambert loves me," cried the woman doggedly, trying to persuade her heart that she spoke truly. "And whether you leave your money to your wife, or to any one else, makes no manner of difference." "I think otherwise," he retorted. "And it is just as well to be on the safe side. If my widow marries Lambert, she loses my millions, and they go to--" He checked himself abruptly. "Never mind who gets them. It is a person in whom you can take no manner of interest." Miss Greeby pushed the point of her bludgeon into the spongy ground, and looked thoughtful. "If Lambert loves Agnes still, which I don't believe," she observed, after a pause, "he would marry her even if she hadn't a shilling. Your will excluding him as her second husband is merely the twisting of a rope of sand, Pine." "You forget," said the man quickly, "that I declared also, he would have to marry her in the face of Garvington's opposition." "In what way?" "Can't you guess? Garvington only allowed me to marry his sister because I am a wealthy man. I absolutely bought my wife by helping him, and she gave herself to me without love to save the family name from disgrace. She is a good woman, is Agnes, and always places duty before inclination. Marriage with her pauper cousin meant practically the social extinction of the Lambert family, and nothing would have remained but the title. Therefore she married me, and I felt mean at the time in accepting the sacrifice. But I was so deeply in love with her that I did so. I love her still, and I am mean enough still to be jealous of this cousin. She shall never marry him, and I know that Garvington will appeal to his sister's strong desire to save the family once more; so that she may not be foolish enough to lose the money. And two millions, more or less," ended Pine cynically, "is too large a sum to pay for a second husband." "Does Agnes know these conditions?" "No. Nor do I intend that she should know. You hold your tongue." Miss Greeby pulled on her heavy gloves and nodded. "I told you that I had some notion of honor. Will you let Lambert know that you are in this neighborhood?" "No. There is no need. I am stopping here only for a time to see a certain person. Silver will look after Agnes, and is coming to the camp to report upon what he has observed." "Silver then knows that you are Ishmael Hearne?" "Yes. He knows all my secrets, and I can trust him thoroughly, since he owes everything to me." Miss Greeby laughed scornfully. "That a man of your age and experience should believe in gratitude. Well, it's no business of mine. You may be certain that for my own purpose I shall hold my tongue and shall keep Lambert from seeking your wife. Not that he loves her," she added hastily, as Pine's brows again drew together. "But she loves him, and may use her arts--" "Don't you dare to speak of arts in connection with my wife," broke in the man roughly. "She is no coquette, and I trust her--" "So long as Silver looks after her," finished Miss Greeby contemptuously. "What chivalrous confidence. Well, I must be going. Any message to your--" "No! No! No!" broke in Pine once more. "She is not to know that I am here, or anything about my true position and name. You promised, and you will keep your promise. But there, I know that you will, as self-interest will make you." "Ah, now you talk common sense. It is a pity you don't bring it to bear in the case of Silver, whom you trust because you have benefited him. Good-day, you very unsophisticated person. I shall see you again--" "In London as Hubert Pine," said the millionaire abruptly, and Miss Greeby, with a good-humored shrug, marched away, swinging her stick and whistling gayly. She was very well satisfied with the knowledge she had obtained, as the chances were that it would prove useful should Lambert still hanker after the unattainable woman. Miss Greeby had lulled Pine's suspicions regarding the young man's love for Agnes, but she knew in her heart that she had only done so by telling a pack of miserable lies. Now, as she walked back to The Manor, she reflected that by using her secret information dexterously, she might improve such falsehood into tolerable truth. Pine flung himself down again when she departed, and coughed in his usual violent manner. His throat and lungs ached, and his brow was wet with perspiration. With his elbows on his knees and his face between his hands, he sat miserably thinking over his troubles. There was no chance of his living more than a few years, as the best doctors in Europe and England had given him up, and when he was placed below ground, the chances were that Agnes would marry his rival. He had made things as safe as was possible against such a contingency, but who knew if her love for Lambert might not make her willing to surrender the millions. "Unless Garvington can manage to arouse her family pride," groaned Pine drearily. "She sacrificed herself before for that, and perhaps she will do so again. But who knows?" And he could find no answer to this question, since it is impossible for any man to say what a woman will do where her deepest emotions are concerned. A touch on Pine's shoulder made him leap to his feet with the alertness of a wild animal on the lookout for danger. By his side stood Chaldea, and her eyes glittered, as she came to the point of explanation without any preamble. The girl was painfully direct. "I have heard every word," she said triumphantly. "And I know what you are, brother." "Why did you come here?" demanded Pine sharply, and frowning. "I wanted to hear what a Romany had to do with a Gorgio lady, brother. And what do I hear. Why, that you dwell in the Gentile houses, and take a Gentile name, and cheat in a Gentile manner, and have wed with a Gentile romi. Speaking Romanly, brother, it is not well." "It is as I choose, sister," replied Pine quietly, for since Chaldea had got the better of him, it was useless to quarrel with her. "And from what I do good will come to our people." Chaldea laughed, and blew from her fingers a feather, carelessly picked up while in the thicket which had concealed her eavesdropping. "For that, I care that," said she, pointing to the floating feather slowly settling. "I looks to myself and to my love, brother." "Hey?" Pine raised his eyebrows. "It's a Gorgio my heart is set on," pursued Chaldea steadfastly. "A regular Romany Rye, brother. Do you think Lambert is a good name?" "It's the name of the devil, sister," cried Pine hastily. "The very devil I love. To me sweet, as to you sour. And speaking Romanly, brother, I want him to be my rom in the Gentile fashion, as you have a romi in your Gorgious lady." "What will Kara say?" said Pine, and his eyes flashed, for the idea of getting rid of Lambert in this way appealed to him. The girl was beautiful, and with her added cleverness she might be able to gain her ends, and these accomplished, would certainly place a barrier between Agnes and her cousin, since the woman would never forgive the man for preferring the girl. "Kara plays on the fiddle, but not on my heart-strings," said Chaldea in a cool manner, and watched Pine wickedly. "You'd better help me, brother, if you don't want that Gorgious romi of yours to pad the hoof with the rye." The blood rushed to Pine's dark cheeks. "What's that?" "No harm to my rye and I tell you, brother. Don't use the knife." "That I will not do, if a wedding-ring from him to you will do as well." "It will do, brother," said Chaldea calmly. "My rye doesn't love me yet, but he will, when I get him away from the Gentile lady's spells. They draw him, brother, they draw him." "Where do they draw him to?" demanded Pine, his voice thick with passion. "To the Gorgious house of the baro rai, the brother of your romi. Like an owl does he go after dusk to watch the nest." "Owl," muttered Pine savagely. "Cuckoo, rather. Prove this, my sister, and I help you to gain the love you desire." "It's a bargain, brother"--she held out her hand inquiringly--"but no knife." Pine shook hands. "It's a bargain, sister. Your wedding-ring will part them as surely as any knife. Tell me more!" And Chaldea in whispers told him all. CHAPTER V. THE WOMAN AND THE MAN. Quite unaware that Destiny, that tireless spinner, was weaving sinister red threads of hate and love into the web of his life, Lambert continued to live quietly in his woodland retreat. In a somewhat misanthropic frame of mind he had retired to this hermitage, after the failure of his love affair, since, lacking the society of Agnes, there was nothing left for him to desire. From a garden of roses, the world became a sandy desert, and denied the sole gift of fortune, which would have made him completely happy, the disconsolate lover foreswore society for solitude. As some seek religion, so Lambert hoped by seeking Nature's breast to assuage the pains of his sore heart. But although the great Mother could do so much, she could not do all, and the young man still felt restless and weary. Hard work helped him more than a little, but he had his dark hours during those intervals when hand and brain were too weary to create pictures. In one way he blamed Agnes, because she had married for money; in another way he did not blame her, because that same money had been necessary to support the falling fortunes of the noble family to which Lambert belonged. An ordinary person would not have understood this, and would have seen in the mercenary marriage simply a greedy grasping after the loaves and fishes. But Lambert, coming at the end of a long line of lordly ancestors, considered that both he and his cousin owed something to those of the past who had built up the family. Thus his pride told him that Agnes had acted rightly in taking Pine as her husband, while his love cried aloud that the sacrifice was too hard upon their individual selves. He was a Lambert, but he was also a human being, and the two emotions of love and pride strove mightily against one another. Although quite three years had elapsed since the victim had been offered at the altar--and a willing victim to the family fetish--the struggle was still going on. And because of its stress and strain, Lambert withdrew from society, so that he might see as little as possible of the woman he loved. They had met, they had talked, they had looked, in a conventionally light-hearted way, but both were relieved when circumstances parted them. The strain was too great. Pine arranged the circumstances, for hearing here, there, and everywhere, that his wife had been practically engaged to her cousin before he became her husband, he looked with jealous eyes upon their chance meetings. Neither to Agnes nor Lambert did he say a single word, since he had no reason to utter it, so scrupulously correct was their behavior, but his eyes were sufficiently eloquent to reveal his jealousy. He took his wife for an American tour, and when he brought her back to London, Lambert, knowing only too truly the reason for that tour, had gone away in his turn to shoot big game in Africa. An attack of malaria contracted in the Congo marshes had driven him back to England, and it was then that he had begged Garvington to give him The Abbot's Wood Cottage. For six months he had been shut up here, occasionally going to London, or for a week's walking tour, and during that time he had done his best to banish the image of Agnes from his heart. Doubtless she was attempting the same conquest, for she never even wrote to him. And now these two sorely-tried people were within speaking distance of one another, and strange results might be looked for unless honor held them sufficiently true. Seeing that the cottage was near the family seat, and that Agnes sooner or later would arrive to stay with her brother and sister-in-law, Lambert might have expected that such a situation would come about in the natural course of things. Perhaps he did, and perhaps--as some busybodies said--he took the cottage for that purpose; but so far, he had refrained from seeking the society of Pine's wife. He would not even dine at The Manor, nor would he join the shooting-party, although Garvington, with a singular blindness, urged him to do so. While daylight lasted, the artist painted desperately hard, and after dark wandered round the lanes and roads and across the fields, haunting almost unconsciously the Manor Park, if only to see in moonlight and twilight the casket which held the rich jewel he had lost. This was foolish, and Lambert acknowledged that it was foolish, but at the same time he added inwardly that he was a man and not an angel, a sinner and not a saint, so that there were limits, etc., etc., etc., using impossible arguments to quieten a lively conscience that did not approve of this dangerous philandering. The visit of Miss Greeby awoke him positively to a sense of danger, for if she talked--and talk she did--other people would talk also. Lambert asked himself if it would be better to visit The Manor and behave like a man who has got over his passion, or to leave the cottage and betake himself to London. While turning over this problem in his mind, he painted feverishly, and for three days after Miss Greeby had come to stir up muddy water, he remained as much as possible in his studio. Chaldea visited him, as usual, to be painted, and brought Kara with his green coat and beloved violin and hairy looks. The girl chatted, Kara played, and Lambert painted, and all three pretended to be very happy and careless. This was merely on the surface, however, for the artist was desperately wretched, because the other half of himself was married to another man, while Chaldea, getting neither love-look nor caress, felt savagely discontented. As for Kara, he had long since loved Chaldea, who treated him like a dog, and he could not help seeing that she adored the Gentile artist--a knowledge which almost broke his heart. But it was some satisfaction for him to note that Lambert would have nothing to do with the siren, and that she could not charm him to her feet, sang she ever so tenderly. It was an unhappy trio at the best. The gypsies usually came in the morning, since the light was then better for artistic purposes, but they always departed at one o'clock, so that Lambert had the afternoon to himself. Chaldea would fain have lingered in order to charm the man she loved into subjection; but he never gave her the least encouragement, so she was obliged to stay away. All the same, she often haunted the woods near the cottage, and when Lambert came out for a stroll, which he usually did when it became too dark to paint, he was bound to run across her. Since he had not the slightest desire to make love to her, and did not fathom the depth of her passion, he never suspected that she purposely contrived the meetings which he looked upon as accidental. Since Chaldea hung round the house, like a moth round a candle, she saw every one who came and went from the woodland cottage. On the afternoon of the third day since Pine's arrival at the camp in the character of Ishmael Hearne, the gypsy saw Lady Agnes coming through the wood. Chaldea knew her at once, having often seen her when she had come to visit Mother Cockleshell a few months previously. With characteristic cunning, the girl dived into the undergrowth, and there remained concealed for the purpose of spying on the Gentile lady whom she regarded as a rival. Immediately, Chaldea guessed that Lady Agnes was on her way to the cottage, and, as Lambert was alone as usual for the afternoon, the two would probably have a private conversation. The girl swiftly determined to listen, so that she might learn exactly how matters stood between them. It might be that she would discover something which Pine--Chaldea now thought of him as Pine--might like to know. So having arranged this in her own unscrupulous mind, the girl behind a juniper bush jealously watched the unsuspecting lady. What she saw did not please her overmuch, as Lady Agnes was rather too beautiful for her unknown rival's peace of mind. Sir Hubert's wife was not really the exquisitely lovely creature Chaldea took her to be, but her fair skin and brown hair were such a contrast to the gypsy's swarthy face and raven locks, that she really looked like an angel of light compared with the dark child of Nature. Agnes was tall and slender, and moved with a great air of dignity and calm self-possession, and this to the uncontrolled Chaldea was also a matter of offence. She inwardly tried to belittle her rival by thinking what a milk-and-water useless person she was, but the steady and resolute look in the lady's brown eyes gave the lie to this mental assertion. Lady Agnes had an air of breeding and command, which, with all her beauty, Chaldea lacked, and as she passed along like a cold, stately goddess, the gypsy rolled on the grass in an ecstasy of rage. She could never be what her rival was, and what her rival was, as she suspected, formed Lambert's ideal of womanhood. When she again peered through the bush, Lady Agnes had disappeared. But there was no need for Chaldea to ask her jealous heart where she had gone. With the stealth and cunning of a Red Indian, the gypsy took up the trail, and saw the woman she followed enter the cottage. For a single moment she had it in her mind to run to the camp and bring Pine, but reflecting that in a moment of rage the man might kill Lambert, Chaldea checked her first impulse, and bent all her energies towards getting sufficiently near to listen to a conversation which was not meant for her ears. Meanwhile, Agnes had been admitted by Mrs. Tribb, a dried-up little woman with the rosy face of a winter apple, and a continual smile of satisfaction with herself and with her limited world. This consisted of the cottage, in the wood, and of the near villages, where she repaired on occasions to buy food. Sometimes, indeed, she went to The Manor, for, born and bred on the Garvington estates, Mrs. Tribb knew all the servants at the big house. She had married a gamekeeper, who had died, and unwilling to leave the country she knew best, had gladly accepted the offer of Lord Garvington to look after the woodland cottage. In this way Lambert became possessed of an exceedingly clean housekeeper, and a wonderfully good cook. In fact so excellent a cook was Mrs. Tribb, that Garvington had frequently suggested she should come to The Manor. But, so far, Lambert had managed to keep the little woman to himself. Mrs. Tribb adored him, since she had known him from babyhood, and declined to leave him under any circumstances. She thought Lambert the best man in the world, and challenged the universe to find another so handsome and clever, and so considerate. "Dear me, my lady, is it yourself?" said Mrs. Tribb, throwing up her dry little hands and dropping a dignified curtsey. "Well, I do call it good of you to come and see Master Noel. He don't go out enough, and don't take enough interest in his stomach, if your ladyship will pardon my mentioning that part of him. But you don't know, my lady, what it is to be a cook, and to see the dishes get cold, while he as should eat them goes on painting, not but what Master Noel don't paint like an angel, as I've said dozens of times." While Mrs. Tribb ran on in this manner her lively black eyes twinkled anxiously. She knew that her master and Lady Agnes had been, as she said herself, "next door to engaged," and knew also that Lambert was fretting over the match which had been brought about for the glorification of the family. The housekeeper, therefore, wondered why Lady Agnes had come, and asked herself whether it would not be wise to say that Master Noel--from old associations, she always called Lambert by this juvenile title--was not at home. But she banished the thought as unworthy, the moment it entered her active brain, and with another curtsey in response to the visitor's greeting, she conducted her to the studio. "Them two angels will never do no wrong, anyhow," was Mrs. Tribb's reflection, as she closed the door and left the pair together. "But I do hope as that black-faced husband won't ever learn. He's as jealous as Cain, and I don't want Master Noel to be no Abel!" If Mrs. Tribb, instead of going to the kitchen, which she did, had gone out of the front door, she would have found Chaldea lying full length amongst the flowers under the large window of the studio. This was slightly open, and the girl could hear every word that was spoken, while so swiftly and cleverly had she gained her point of vantage, that those within never for one moment suspected her presence. If they had, they would assuredly have kept better guard over their tongues, for the conversation was of the most private nature, and did not tend to soothe the eavesdropper's jealousy. Lambert was so absorbed in his painting--he was working at the Esmeralda-Quasimodo picture--that he scarcely heard the studio door open, and it was only when Mrs. Tribb's shrill voice announced the name of his visitor, that he woke to the surprising fact that the woman he loved was within a few feet of him. The blood rushed to his face, and then retired to leave him deadly pale, but Agnes was more composed, and did not let her heart's tides mount to high-water mark. On seeing her self-possession, the man became ashamed that he had lost his own, and strove to conceal his momentary lapse into a natural emotion, by pushing forward an arm-chair. "This is a surprise, Agnes," he said in a voice which he strove vainly to render steady. "Won't you sit down?" "Thank you," and she took her seat like a queen on her throne, looking fair and gracious as any white lily. What with her white dress, white gloves and shoes, and straw hat tied under her chin with a broad white ribbon in old Georgian fashion, she looked wonderfully cool, and pure, and--as Lambert inwardly observed--holy. Her face was as faintly tinted with color as is a tea-rose, and her calm, brown eyes, under her smooth brown hair, added to the suggestive stillness of her looks. She seemed in her placidity to be far removed from any earthly emotion, and resembled a picture of the Madonna, serene, peaceful, and somewhat sad. Yet who could tell what anguished feelings were masked by her womanly pride? "I hope you do not find the weather too warm for walking," said Lambert, reining in his emotions with an iron hand, and speaking conventionally. "Not at all. I enjoyed the walk. I am staying at The Manor." "So I understand." "And you are staying here?" "There can be no doubt on that point." "Do you think you are acting wisely?" she asked with great calmness. "I might put the same question to you, Agnes, seeing that you have come to live within three miles of my hermitage." "It is because you are living in what you call your hermitage that I have come," rejoined Agnes, with a slight color deepening her cheeks. "Is it fair to me that you should shut yourself up and play the part of the disappointed lover?" Lambert, who had been touching up his picture here and there, laid down his palette and brushes with ostentatious care, and faced her doggedly. "I don't understand what you mean," he declared. "Oh, I think you do; and in the hope that I may induce you, in justice to me, to change your conduct, I have come over." "I don't think you should have come," he observed in a low voice, and threw himself on the couch with averted eyes. Lady Agnes colored again. "You are talking nonsense," she said with some sharpness. "There is no harm in my coming to see my cousin." "We were more than cousins once." "Exactly, and unfortunately people know that. But you needn't make matters worse by so pointedly keeping away from me." Lambert looked up quickly. "Do you wish me to see you often?" he asked, and there was a new note in his voice which irritated her. "Personally I don't, but--" "But what?" He rose and stood up, very tall and very straight, looking down on her with a hungry look in his blue eyes. "People are talking," murmured the lady, and stared at the floor, because she could not face that same look. "Let them talk. What does it matter?" "Nothing to you, perhaps, but to me a great deal. I have a husband." "As I know to my cost," he interpolated. "Then don't let me know it to _my_ cost," she said pointedly. "Sit down and let us talk common sense." Lambert did not obey at once. "I am only a human being, Agnes--" "Quite so, and a man at that. Act like a man, then, and don't place the burden on a woman's shoulders." "What burden?" "Oh, Noel, can't you understand?" "I daresay I can if you will explain. I wish you hadn't come here to-day. I have enough to bear without that." "And have I nothing to bear?" she demanded, a flash of passion ruffling her enforced calm. "Do you think that anything but the direst need brought me here?" "I don't know what brought you here. I am waiting for an explanation." "What is the use of explaining what you already know?" "I know nothing," he repeated doggedly. "Explain." "Well," said Lady Agnes with some bitterness, "it seems to me that an explanation is really necessary, as apparently I am talking to a child instead of a man. Sit down and listen." This time Lambert obeyed, and laughed as he did so. "Your taunts don't hurt me in the least," he observed. "I love you too much." "And I love in return. No! Don't rise again. I did not come here to revive the embers of our dead passion." "Embers!" cried Lambert with bitter scorn. "Embers, indeed! And a dead passion; how well you put it. So far as I am concerned, Agnes, the passion is not dead and never will be." "I am aware of that, and so I have come to appeal to that passion. Love means sacrifice. I want you to understand that." "I do, by experience. Did I not surrender you for the sake of the family name? Understand! I should think I did understand." "I--think--not," said Lady Agnes slowly and gently. "It is necessary to revive your recollections. We loved one another since we were boy and girl, and we intended, as you know, to marry. There was no regular engagement between us, but it was an understood family arrangement. My father always approved of it; my brother did not." "No. Because he saw in you an article of sale out of which he hoped to make money," sneered Lambert, nursing his ankle. Lady Agnes winced. "Don't make it too hard for me," she said plaintively. "My life is uncomfortable enough as it is. Remember that when my father died we were nearly ruined. Only by the greatest cleverness did Garvington manage to keep interest on the mortgages paid up, hoping that he would marry a rich wife--an American for choice--and so could put things straight. But he married Jane, as you know--" "Because he is a glutton, and she knows all about cooking." "Well, gluttony may be as powerful a vice as drinking and gambling, and all the rest of it. It is with Garvington, although I daresay that seeing the position he was in, people would laugh to think he should marry a poor woman, when he needed a rich wife. But at that time Hubert wanted to marry me, and Garvington got his cook-wife, while I was sacrificed." "Seeing that I loved you and you loved me, I wonder--" "Yes, I know you wondered, but you finally accepted my explanation that I did it to save the family name." "I did, and, much as I hated your sacrifice, it was necessary." "More necessary than you think," said Lady Agnes, sinking her voice to a whisper and glancing round, "In a moment of madness Garvington altered a check which Hubert gave him, and was in danger of arrest. Hubert declared that he would give up the check if I married him. I did so, to save my brother and the family name." "Oh, Agnes!" Lambert jumped up. "I never knew this." "It was not necessary to tell you. I made the excuse of saving the family name and property generally. You thought it was merely the bankruptcy court, but I knew that it meant the criminal court. However, I married Hubert, and he put the check in the fire in my presence and in Garvington's. He has also fulfilled his share of the bargain which he made when he bought me, and has paid off a great many of the mortgages. However, Garvington became too outrageous in his demands, and lately Hubert has refused to help him any more. I don't blame him; he has paid enough for me." "You are worth it," said Lambert emphatically. "Well, you may think so, and perhaps he does also. But does it not strike you, Noel, what a poor figure I and Garvington, and the whole family, yourself included, cut in the eyes of the world? We were poor, and I was sold to get money to save the land." "Yes, but this changing of the check also--" "The world doesn't know of that," said Agnes hurriedly. "Hubert has been very loyal to me. I must be loyal to him." "You are. Who dares to say that you are not?" "No one--as yet," she replied pointedly. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded, flushing through his fair skin. "I mean that if you met me in the ordinary way, and behaved to me as an ordinary man, people would not talk. But you shun my society, and even when I am at The Manor, you do not come near because of my presence." "It is so hard to be near you and yet, owing to your marriage, so far from you," muttered the man savagely. "If it is hard for you, think how hard it must be for me," said the woman vehemently, her passion coming to the surface. "People talk of the way in which you avoid me, and hint that we love one another still." "It is true! Agnes, you know it is true!" "Need the whole world know that it is true?" cried Agnes, rising, with a gust of anger passing over her face. "If you would only come to The Manor, and meet me in London, and accept Hubert's invitations to dinner, people would think that our attachment was only a boy and girl engagement, that we had outgrown. They would even give me credit for loving Hubert--" "But you don't?" cried Lambert with a jealous pang. "Yes, I do. He is my chosen husband, and has carried out his part of the bargain by freeing many of Garvington's estates. Surely the man ought to have something for his money. I don't love him as a wife should love her husband, not with heart-whole devotion, that is. But I give him loyalty, and I respect him, and I try to make him happy in every way. I do my part, Noel, as you do yours. Since I have been compelled to sacrifice love for money, at least let us be true to the sacrifice." "You didn't sacrifice yourself wholly for money." "No, I did not. It was because of Garvington's crime. But no one knows of that, and no one ever shall know. In fact, so happy am I and Hubert--" "Happy?" said Lambert wincing. "Yes," she declared firmly. "He thinks so, and whatever unhappiness I may feel, I conceal from him. But you must come to The Manor, and meet me here, there, and everywhere, so that people shall not say, as they are doing, that you are dying of love, and that, because I am a greedy fortune-hunter, I ruined your life." "They do not dare. I have not heard any--" "What can you hear in this jungle?" interrupted Lady Agnes with scorn. "You stop your ears with cotton wool, but I am in the world, hearing everything. And the more unpleasant the thing is, the more readily do I hear it. You can end this trouble by coming out of your lovesick retirement, and by showing that you no longer care for me." "That would be acting a lie." "And do I not act a lie?" she cried fiercely. "Is not my whole marriage a lie? I despise myself for my weakness in yielding, and yet, God help me, what else could I do when Garvington's fair fame was in question? Think of the disgrace, had he been prosecuted by Hubert. And Hubert knows that you and I loved; that I could not give him the love he desired. He was content to accept me on those terms. I don't say he was right; but am I right, are you right, is Garvington right? Is any one of us right? Not one, not one. The whole thing is horrible, but I make the best of it, since I did what I did do, openly and for a serious purpose of which the world knows nothing. Do your part, Noel, and come to The Manor, if only to show that you no longer care for me. You understand"--she clasped her hands in agony. "You surely understand." "Yes," said Lambert in a low voice, and suddenly looked years older. "I understand at last, Agnes. You shall no longer bear the burden alone. I shall be a loyal friend to you, my dear," and he took her hand. "Will you be a loyal friend to my husband?" she asked, withdrawing it. "Yes," said Lambert, and he bit his lip. "God helping me, I will." CHAPTER VI. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN. The interview between Lady Agnes and Lambert could scarcely be called a love-scene, since it was dominated by a stern sense of duty. Chaldea, lying at length amongst the crushed and fragrant flowers, herself in her parti-colored attire scarcely distinguishable from the rainbow blossoms, was puzzled by the way in which the two reined in their obvious passions. To her simple, barbaric nature, the situation appeared impossible. If he loved her and she loved him, why did they not run away to enjoy life together? The husband who had paid money for the wife did not count, nor did the brother, who had sold his sister to hide his criminal folly. That Lady Agnes should have traded herself to save Garvington from a well-deserved punishment, seemed inexcusable to the gypsy. If he had been the man she loved, then indeed might she have acted rightly. But having thrown over that very man in this silly fashion, for the sake of what did not appear to be worth the sacrifice, Chaldea felt that Agnes did not deserve Lambert, and she then and there determined that the Gentile lady should never possess him. Of course, on the face of it, there was no question of possession. The man being weaker than the woman would have been only too glad to elope, and thus cut the Gordian knot of the unhappy situation. But the woman, having acted from a high sense of duty, which Chaldea could not rise to, evidently was determined to continue to be a martyr. The question was, could she keep up that pose in the face of the undeniable fact that she loved her cousin? The listening girl thought not. Sooner or later the artificial barrier would be broken through by the held-back flood of passion, and then Lady Agnes would run away from the man who had bought her. And quite right, too, thought Chaldea, although she had no notion of permitting such an elopement to take place. That Agnes would hold to her bargain all her life, because Hubert had fulfilled his part, never occurred to the girl. She was not civilized enough to understand this problem of a highly refined nature. Since the situation was so difficult, Lambert was glad to see the back of his cousin. He escorted her to the door, but did not attend her through the wood. In fact, they parted rather abruptly, which was wise. All had been said that could be said, and Lambert had given his promise to share the burden with Agnes by acting the part of a lover who had never really been serious. But it did not do to discuss details, as these were too painful, so the woman hurried away without a backward glance, and Lambert, holding his heart between his teeth, returned to the studio. Neither one of the two noticed Chaldea crouching amongst the flowers. Had they been less pre-occupied, they might have done so; as it was she escaped observation. As soon as the coast was clear, Chaldea stole like a snake along the ground, through the high herbage of the garden, and beyond the circle of the mysterious monoliths. Even across the lawns of the glade did she crawl, so as not to be seen, although she need not have taken all this trouble, since Lambert, with a set face and a trembling hand, was working furiously at a minor picture he utilized to get rid of such moods. But the gypsy did not know this, and so writhed into the woods like the snake of Eden--and of that same she was a very fair sample--until, hidden by the boles of ancient trees, she could stand upright. When she did so, she drew a long breath, and wondered what was best to be done. The most obvious course was to seek Ishmael and make a lying report of the conversation. That his wife should have been with Lambert would be quite enough to awaken the civilized gypsy's jealousy, for after all his civilization was but skin deep. Still, if she did this, Chaldea was clever enough to see that she would precipitate a catastrophe, and either throw Agnes into Lambert's arms, or make the man run the risk of getting Pine's knife tickling his fifth rib. Either result did not appeal to her. She wished to get Lambert to herself, and his safety was of vital importance to her. After some consideration, she determined that she would boldly face the lover, and confess that she had overheard everything. Then she would have him in her power, since to save the wife from the vengeance of the husband, although there was no reason for such vengeance, he would do anything to keep the matter of the visit quiet. Of course the interview had been innocent, and Chaldea knew that such was the case. Nevertheless, by a little dexterous lying, and some vivid word-painting, she could make things extremely unpleasant for the couple. This being so, Lambert would have to subscribe to her terms. And these were, that he should leave Agnes and marry her. That there was such a difference in their rank mattered nothing to the girl. Love levelled all ranks, in her opinion. But while arranging what she should do, if Lambert proved obstinate, Chaldea also arranged to fascinate him, if possible, into loving her. She did not wish to use her power of knowledge until her power of fascination failed. And this for two reasons. In the first place, it was not her desire to drive the man into a corner lest he should defy her and fight, which would mean--to her limited comprehension--that everything being known to Pine, the couple would confess all and elope. In the second place, Chaldea was piqued to think that Lambert should prove to be so indifferent to her undeniable beauty, as to love this pale shadow of a Gentile lady. She would make certain, she told herself, if he really preferred the lily to the full-blown rose, and on his choice depended her next step. Gliding back to the camp, she decided to attend to one thing at a time, and the immediate necessity was to charm the man into submission. For this reason Chaldea sought out the Servian gypsy, who was her slave. Her slave Kara certainly was, but not her rom. If he had been her husband she would not have dared to propose to him what she did propose. He was amiable enough as a slave, because he had no hold over her, but if she married him according to the gypsy law, he would then be her master, and should she indulge her fancy for a Gentile, he would assuredly use a very nasty-looking knife, which he wore under the green coat. Even as it was, Kara would not be pleased to fiddle to her dancing, since he already was jealous of Lambert. But Chaldea knew how to manage this part of the business, risky though it was. The hairy little ape with the musician's soul had no claim on her, unless she chose to give him that of a husband. Then, indeed, things would be different, but the time had not come for marital slavery. The schemer found Kara at the hour of sunset sitting at the door of the tent he occupied, drawing sweet tones from his violin. This was the little man's way of conversing, for he rarely talked to human beings. He spoke to the fiddle and the fiddle spoke to him, probably about Chaldea, since the girl was almost incessantly in his thoughts. She occupied them now, and when he raised his shaggy head at the touch on his hump-back, he murmured with joy at the sight of her flushed beauty. Had he known that the flush came from jealousy of a rival, Kara might not have been so pleased. The two conversed in Romany, since the Servian did not speak English. "Brother?" questioned Chaldea, standing in the glory of the rosy sunset which slanted through the trees. "What of Ishmael?" "He is with Gentilla in her tent, sister. Do you wish to see him?" Chaldea shook her proud head. "What have I to do with the half Romany? Truly, brother, his heart is Gentile, though his skin be of Egypt." "Why should that be, sister, when his name signifies that he is of the gentle breed?" asked Kara, laying down his violin. "Gentile but not gentle," said Chaldea punning, then checked herself lest she should say too much. She had sworn to keep Pine's secret, and intended to do so, until she could make capital out of it. At present she could not, so behaved honorably. "But he's Romany enough to split words with the old witch by the hour, so let him stay where he is. Brother, would you make money?" Kara nodded and looked up with diamond eyes, which glittered and gloated on the beauty of her dark face. "Then, brother," continued the girl, "the Gorgio who paints gives me gold to dance for him." The Servian's face--what could be seen of it for hair--grew sombre, and he spat excessively. "Curses on the Gentile!" he growled low in his throat. "On him, but not on the money, brother," coaxed the girl, stooping to pat his face. "It's fine work, cheating the rye. But jealous you must not be, if the gold is to chink in our pockets." Kara still frowned. "Were you my romi, sister--" "Aye, if I were. Then indeed. But your romi I am not yet." "Some day you will be. It would be a good fortune, sister. I am as ugly as you are lovely, and we two together, you dancing to my playing, would make pockets of red gold. White shows best when placed on black." "What a mine of wisdom you are," jeered Chaldea, nodding. "Yes. It is so, and my rom you may be, if you obey." "But if you let the Gorgio make love to you--" "Hey! Am I not a free Roman, brother? You have not yet caught the bird. It still sings on the bough. If I kiss him I suck gold from his lips. If I put fond arms around his neck I but gather wealth for us both. Can you snare a mouse without cheese, brother?" Kara looked at her steadily, and then lifted his green coat to show the gleam of a butcher knife. "Should you go too far," he said significantly; and touched the blade. Chaldea bent swiftly, and snatching the weapon from his belt, flung it into the coarse grass under the trees. "So I fling you away," said she, and stamped with rage. "Truly, brother, speaking Romanly, you are a fool of fools, and take cheating for honesty. I lure the Gorgio at my will, and says you whimpering-like, 'She's my romi,' the which is a lie. Bless your wisdom for a hairy toad, and good-bye, for I go to my own people near Lundra, and never will he who doubted my honesty see me more." She turned away, and Kara limped after her to implore forgiveness. He assured her that he trusted her fully, and that whatever tricks she played the Gentile would not be taken seriously by himself. "Poison him I would," grumbled the little gnome in his beard. "For his golden talk makes you smile sweetly upon him. But for the gold--" "Yes, for the gold we must play the fox. Well, brother, now that you talk so, wait until the moon is up, then hide in the woods round the cottage dell with your violin to your chin. I lure the rabbit from its hole, and then you play the dance that delights the Gorgios. But what I do, with kisses or arm-loving, my brother," she added shaking her finger, "is but the play of the wind to shake the leaves. Believe me honest and my rom you shall be--some day!" and she went away laughing, to eat and drink, for the long watching had tired her. As for Kara he crawled again into the underwood to search for his knife. Apparently he did not trust Chaldea as much as she wanted him to. Thus it came about that when the moon rolled through a starry sky like a golden wheel, Lambert, sighing at his studio window, saw a slim and graceful figure glide into the clear space of lawn beyond the monoliths. So searching was the thin moonlight that he recognized Chaldea at once, as she wandered here and there restless as a butterfly, and apparently as aimless. But, had he known it, she had her eyes on the cottage all the time, and had he failed to come forth she would have come to inquire if he was at home. But the artist did come forth, thinking to wile away an hour with the fascinating gypsy girl. Always dressing for dinner, even in solitude, for the habit of years was too strong to lay aside--and, moreover, he was fastidious in his dress to preserve his self-respect--he appeared at the door looking slender and well-set up in his dark clothes. Although it was August the night was warm, and Lambert did not trouble to put on cap or overcoat. With his hands in his pockets and a cigar between his lips he strolled over to the girl, where she swayed and swung in the fairy light. "Hullo, Chaldea," he said leisurely, and leaning against one of the moss-grown monoliths, "what are you doing here?" "The rye," exclaimed Chaldea, with a well-feigned start of surprise. "Avali the rye. Sarishan, my Gorgious gentleman, you, too, are a nightbird. Have you come out mousing like an owl? Ha! ha! and you hear the nightingale singing, speaking in the Gentile manner," and clapping her hands she lifted up a full rich voice. "Dyal o pani repedishis, M'ro pirano hegedishis." "What does that mean, Chaldea?" "It is an Hungarian song, and means that while the stream flows I hear the violin of my love. Kara taught me the ditty." "And Kara is your love?" "No. Oh, no; oh, no," sang Chaldea, whirling round and round in quite a magical manner. "No rom have I, but a mateless bird I wander. Still I hear the violin of my true love, my new love, who knows my droms, and that means my habits, rye," she ended, suddenly speaking in a natural manner. "I don't hear the violin, however," said Lambert lazily, and thinking what a picturesque girl she was in her many-hued rag-tag garments, and with the golden coins glittering in her black hair. "You will, rye, you will," she said confidentially. "Come, my darling gentleman, cross my hand with silver and I dance. I swear it. No hokkeny baro will you behold when the wind pipes for me." "Hokkeny baro." "A great swindle, my wise sir. Hai, what a pity you cannot patter the gentle Romany tongue. Kek! Kek! What does it matter, when you speak Gentile gibberish like an angel. Sit, rye, and I dance for you." "Quite like Carmen and Don José in the opera," murmured Lambert, sliding down to the foot of the rude stone. "What of her and of him? Were they Romans?" "Carmen was and José wasn't. She danced herself into his heart." Chaldea's eyes flashed, and she made a hasty sign to attract the happy omen of his saying to herself. "Kushto bak," cried Chaldea, using the gypsy for good luck. "And to me, to me," she clapped her hand. "Hark, my golden rye, and watch me dance your love into my life." The wind was rising and sighed through the wood, shaking myriad leaves from the trees. Blending with its faint cry came a long, sweet, sustained note of music. Lambert started, so weird and unexpected was the sound. "Kara, isn't it?" he asked, looking inquiringly at Chaldea. "He talks to the night--he speaks with the wind. Oh-ah-ah-ah. Ah-oha-oha-oha-ho," sang the gypsy, clapping her hands softly, then, as the music came breathing from the hidden violin in dreamy sensuous tones, she raised her bare arms and began to dance. The place, the dancer, the hour, the mysterious music, and the pale enchantments of the moon--it was like fairyland. Lambert soon let his cigar go out, so absorbed did he become in watching the dance. It was a wonderful performance, sensuous and weirdly unusual. He had never seen a dance exactly like it before. The violin notes sounded like actual words, and the dancer answered them with responsive movements of her limbs, so that without speech the onlooker saw a love-drama enacted before his eyes. Chaldea--so he interpreted the dance--swayed gracefully from the hips, without moving her feet, in the style of a Nautch girl. She was waiting for some one, since to right and left she swung with a delicate hand curved behind her ear. Suddenly she started, as if she heard an approaching footstep, and in maidenly confusion glided to a distance, where she stood with her hands across her bosom, the very picture of a surprised nymph. Mentally, the dance translated itself to Lambert somewhat after this fashion: "She waits for her lover. That little run forward means that she sees him coming. She falls at his feet; she kisses them. He raises her--I suppose that panther spring from the ground means that he raises her. She caresses him with much fondling and many kisses. By Jove, what pantomime! Now she dances to please him. She stops and trembles; the dance does not satisfy. She tries another. No! No! Not that! It is too dreamy--the lover is in a martial mood. This time she strikes his fancy. Kara is playing a wild Hungarian polonaise. Wonderful! Wonderful!" He might well say so, and he struggled to his feet, leaning against the pillar of stone to see the dancer better. From the wood came the fierce and stirring Slav music, and Chaldea's whole expressive body answered to every note as a needle does to a magnet. She leaped, clicking her heels together, advanced, as if on the foe, with a bound--was flung back--so it seemed--and again sprang to the assault. She stiffened to stubborn resistance--she unexpectedly became pliant and yielding and graceful, and voluptuous, while the music took on the dreamy tones of love. And Lambert translated the change after his own idea: "The music does not please the dancer--it is too martial. She fears lest her lover should rush off to the wars, and seeks to detain him by the dance of Venus. But he will go. He rises; he speeds away; she breaks off the dance. Ah! what a cry of despair the violin gave just now. She follows, stretching out her empty arms. But it is useless--he is gone. Bah! She snaps her fingers. What does she care! She will dance to please herself, and to show that her heart is yet whole. What a Bacchanalian strain. She whirls and springs and swoops and leaps. She comes near to me, whirling like a Dervish; she recedes, and then comes spinning round again, like a mad creature. And then--oh, hang it! What do you mean? Chaldea, what are you doing?" Lambert had some excuse for suddenly bursting into speech, when he cried out vigorously: "Oh, hang it!" for Chaldea whirled right up to him and had laid her arms round his neck, and her lips against his cheek. The music stopped abruptly, with a kind of angry snarl, as if Kara, furious at the sight, had put his wrath into the last broken note. Then all was silent, and the artist found himself imprisoned in the arms of the woman, which were locked round his neck. With an oath he unlinked her fingers and flung her away from him fiercely. "You fool--you utter fool!" cried Lambert, striving to calm down the beating of his heart, and restrain the racing of his blood, for he was a man, and the sudden action of the gypsy had nearly swept away his self-restraint. "I love you--I love you," panted Chaldea from the grass, where he had thrown her. "Oh, my beautiful one, I love you." "You are crazy," retorted Lambert, quivering with many emotions to which he could scarcely put a name, so shaken was he by the experience. "What the devil do you mean by behaving in this way?" and his voice rose in such a gust of anger that Kara, hidden in the wood, rejoiced. He could not understand what was being said, but the tone of the voice was enough for him. He did not know whether Chaldea was cheating the Gentile, or cheating him; but he gathered that in either case, she had been repulsed. The girl knew that also, when her ardent eyes swept across Lambert's white face, and she burst into tears of anger and disappointment. "Oh, rye, I give you all, and you take nothing," she wailed tearfully. "I don't want anything. You silly girl, do you think that for one moment I was ever in love with you?" "I--I--want you--to--to--love me," sobbed Chaldea, grovelling on the grass. "Then you want an impossibility," and to Lambert's mind's eye there appeared the vision of a calm and beautiful face, far removed in its pure looks from the flushed beauty of the fiery gypsy. To gain control of himself, he took out a cigar and lighted it. But his hand trembled. "You little fool," he muttered, and sauntered, purposely, slowly toward the cottage. Chaldea gathered herself up with the spring of a tigress, and in a moment was at his elbow with her face black with rage. Her tears had vanished and with them went her softer mood. "You--you reject me," she said in grating tones, and shaking from head to foot as she gripped his shoulder. "Take away your hand," commanded Lambert sharply, and when she recoiled a pace he faced her squarely. "You must have been drinking," he declared, hoping to insult her into common sense. "What would Kara say if--" "I don't want Kara. I want you," interrupted Chaldea, her breast heaving, and looking sullenly wrathful. "Then you can't have me. Why should you think of me in this silly way? We were very good friends, and now you have spoiled everything. I can never have you to sit for me again." Chaldea's lip drooped. "Never again? Never again?" "No. It is impossible, since you have chosen to act in this way. Come, you silly girl, be sensible, and--" "Silly girl! Oh, yes, silly girl," flashed out Chaldea. "And what is she?" "She?" Lambert stiffened himself. "What do you mean?" "I mean the Gentile lady. I was under the window this afternoon. I heard all you were talking about." The man stepped back a pace and clenched his hands. "You--listened?" he asked slowly, and with a very white face. Chaldea nodded with a triumphant smile. "Avali! And why not? You have no right to love another man's romi." "I do not love her," began Lambert, and then checked himself, as he really could not discuss so delicate a matter with this wildcat. "Why did you listen, may I ask?" he demanded, passing his tongue over his dry lips. "Because I love you, and love is jealous." Lambert restrained himself by a violent effort from shaking her. "You are talking nonsense," he declared with enforced calmness. "And it is ridiculous for you to love a man who does not care in the least for you." "It will come--I can wait," insisted Chaldea sullenly. "If you wait until Doomsday it will make no difference. I don't love you, and I have never given you any reason to think so." "Chee-chee!" bantered the girl. "Is that because I am not a raclan?" "A raclan?" "A married Gentile lady, that is. You love her?" "I--I--see, here, Chaldea, I am not going to talk over such things with you, as my affairs are not your business." "They are the business of the Gorgious female's rom." "Rom? Her husband, you mean. What do you know of--" "I know that the Gentle Pine is really one of us," interrupted the girl quickly. "Ishmael Hearne is his name." "Sir Hubert Pine?" "Ishmael Hearne," insisted Chaldea pertly. "He comes to the fire of the Gentle Romany when he wearies of your Gorgious flesh-pots." "Pine a gypsy," muttered Lambert, and the memory of that dark, lean, Eastern face impressed him with the belief that what the girl said was true. "Avali. A true son of the road. He is here." "Here?" Lambert started violently. "What do you mean?" "I say what I mean, rye. He you call Pine is in our camp enjoying the old life. Shall I bring him to you?" she inquired demurely. In a flash Lambert saw his danger, and the danger of Agnes, seeing that the millionaire was as jealous as Othello. However, it seemed to him that honesty was the best policy at the moment. "I shall see him myself later," he declared after a pause. "If you listened, you must know that there is no reason why I should not see him. His wife is my cousin, and paid me a friendly visit--that is all." "Yes; that is all," mocked the girl contemptuously. "But if I tell him--" "Tell him what?" "That you love his romi!" "He knows that," said Lambert quietly. "And knows also that I am an honorable man. See here, Chaldea, you are dangerous, because this silly love of yours has warped your common sense. You can make a lot of mischief if you so choose, I know well." "And I _shall_ choose, my golden rye, if you love me not." "Then set about it at once," said Lambert boldly. "It is best to be honest, my girl. I have done nothing wrong, and I don't intend to do anything wrong, so you can say what you like. To-night I shall go to London, and if Pine, or Hearne, or whatever you call him, wants me, he knows my town address." "You defy me?" panted Chaldea, her breast rising and falling quickly. "Yes; truth must prevail in the end. I make no bargain with a spy," and he gave her a contemptuous look, as he strode into the cottage and shut the door with an emphatic bang. "Hai!" muttered the gypsy between her teeth. "Hatch till the dood wells apré," which means: "Wait until the moon rises!" an ominous saying for Lambert. CHAPTER VII. THE SECRETARY. "Was ever a man in so uncomfortable a position?" Lambert asked himself this question as soon as he was safe in his studio, and he found it a difficult one to answer. It was true that what he had said to Agnes, and what Agnes had said to him, was perfectly honest and extremely honorable, considering the state of their feelings. But the conversation had been overheard by an unscrupulous woman, whose jealousy would probably twist innocence into guilt. It was certain that she would go to Pine and give him a garbled version of what had taken place, in which case the danger was great, both to himself and to Agnes. Lambert had spoken bravely enough to the marplot, knowing that he had done no wrong, but now he was by no means sure that he had acted rightly. Perhaps it would have been better to temporize but that would have meant a surrender young to Chaldea's unmaidenly wooing. And, as the man had not a spark of love for her in a heart given entirely to another woman, he was unwilling even to feign playing the part of a lover. On reflection he still held to his resolution to go to London, thinking that it would be best for him to be out of reach of Agnes while Pine was in the neighborhood. The news that the millionaire was a gypsy had astonished him at first; but now that he considered the man's dark coloring and un-English looks, he quite believed that what Chaldea said was true. And he could understand also that Pine--or Hearne, since that was his true name--would occasionally wish to breathe the free air of heath and road since he had been cradled under a tent, and must at times feel strongly the longing for the old lawless life. But why should he revert to his beginnings so near to his brother-in-law's house, where his wife was staying? "Unless he came to keep an eye on her," murmured Lambert, and unconsciously hit on the very reason of the pseudo-gypsy's presence at Garvington. After all, it would be best to go to London for a time to wait until he saw what Chaldea would do. Then he could meet Pine and have an understanding with him. The very fact that Pine was a Romany, and was on his native heath, appealed to Lambert as a reason why he should not seek out the man immediately, as he almost felt inclined to do, in order to forestall Chaldea's story. As Hearne, the millionaire's wild instincts would be uppermost, and he would probably not listen to reason, whereas if the meeting took place in London, Pine would resume to a certain extent his veneer of civilization and would be more willing to do justice. "Yes," decided Lambert, rising and stretching himself. "I shall go to London and wait to turn over matters in my own mind. I shall say nothing to Agnes until I know what is best to be done about Chaldea. Meanwhile, I shall see the girl and get her to hold her tongue for a time--Damn!" He frowned. "It's making the best of a dangerous situation, but I don't see my way to a proper adjustment yet. The most necessary thing is to gain time." With this in his mind he hastily packed a gladstone bag, changed into tweeds, and told Mrs. Tribb that he was going to London for a day or so. "I shall get a trap at the inn and drive to the station," he said, as he halted at the door. "You will receive a wire saying when I shall return," and leaving the dry little woman, open-mouthed at this sudden departure, the young man hastened away. Instead of going straight to the village, he took a roundabout road to the camp on the verge of Abbot's Wood. Here he found the vagrants in a state of great excitement, as Lord Garvington had that afternoon sent notice by a gamekeeper that they were to leave his land the next day. Taken up with his own private troubles, Lambert did not pay much attention to those of the tribe, and looked about for Chaldea. He finally saw her sitting by one of the fires, in a dejected attitude, and touched her on the shoulder. At once, like a disturbed animal, she leaped to her feet. "The rye!" said Chaldea, with a gasp, and a hopeful look on her face. "Give me three days before you say anything to Pine," said Lambert in a low voice, and a furtive look round. "You understand." "No," said the girl boldly. "Unless you mean--" "Never mind what I mean," interrupted the man hastily, for he was determined not to commit himself. "Will you hold your tongue for three days?" Chaldea looked hard at his face, upon which the red firelight played brightly, but could not read what was in his mind. However, she thought that the request showed a sign of yielding, and was a mute confession that he knew he was in her power. "I give you three days," she murmured. "But--" "I have your promise then, so good-bye," interrupted Lambert abruptly, and walked away hastily in the direction of Garvington village. His mind was more or less of a chaos, but at all events he had gained time to reduce the chaos to some sort of order. Still as yet he could not see the outcome of the situation and departed swiftly in order to think it over. Chaldea made a step or two, as if to follow, but a reflection that she could do no good by talking at the moment, and a certainty that she held him in the hollow of her hand, made her pause. With a hitch of her shapely shoulders she resumed her seat by the fire, brooding sombrely on the way in which this Gentile had rejected her love. Bending her black brows and showing her white teeth like an irritated dog, she inwardly cursed herself for cherishing so foolish a love. Nevertheless, she did not try to overcome it, but resolved to force the Gorgio to her feet. Then she could spurn him if she had a mind to, as he had spurned her. But she well knew, and confessed it to herself with a sigh, that there would be no spurning on her part, since her wayward love was stronger than her pride. "Did the Gentile bring the gold, my sister?" asked a harsh voice, and she raised her head to see Kara's hairy face bent to her ear. "No, brother. He goes to Lundra to get the gold. Did I not play my fish in fine style?" "I took it for truth, sister!" said Kara, looking at her searchingly. Chaldea nodded wearily. "I am a great witch, as you can see." "You will be my romi when the gold chinks in our pockets?" "Yes, for certain, brother. It's a true fortune!" "Before our camp is changed, sister?" persisted the man greedily. "No; for to-morrow we may take the road, since the great lord orders us off his land. And yet--" Chaldea stood up, suddenly recollecting what had been said by Pine's wife. "Why should we leave?" "The rabbit can't kick dust in the fox's face, sister," said Kara, meaning that Garvington was too strong for the gypsies. "There are rabbits and rabbits," said Chaldea sententiously. "Where is Hearne, brother?" "In Gentilla's tent with a Gorgious gentleman. He's trading a horse with the swell rye, and wants no meddling with his time, sister." "I meddle now," snapped Chaldea, and walked away in her usual free and graceful manner. Kara shrugged his shoulders and then took refuge in talking to his violin, to which he related his doubts of the girl's truth. And he smiled grimly, as he thought of the recovered knife which was again snugly hidden under his weather-worn green coat. Chaldea, who did not stand on ceremony, walked to the end of the camp without paying any attention to the excited gypsies, and flung back the flap of the old woman's tent. Mother Cockleshell was not within, as she had given the use of her abode to Pine and his visitor. This latter was a small, neat man with a smooth, boyish face and reddish hair. He had the innocent expression of a fox-terrier, and rather resembled one. He was neatly and inoffensively dressed in blue serge, and although he did not look exactly like a gentleman, he would have passed for one in a crowd. When Chaldea made her abrupt entrance he was talking volubly to Pine, and the millionaire addressed him--when he answered--as Silver. Chaldea, remembering the conversation she had overheard between Pine and Miss Greeby, speedily reached the conclusion that the neat little man was the secretary referred to therein. Probably he had come to report about Lady Agnes. "What is it, sister?" demanded Pine sharply, and making a sign that Silver should stop talking. "Does the camp travel to-morrow, brother?" "Perhaps, yes," retorted Pine abruptly. "And perhaps no, brother, if you use your power." Silver raised his faint eyebrows and looked questioningly at his employer, as if to ask what this cryptic sentence meant. Pine knew only too well, since Chaldea had impressed him thoroughly with the fact that she had overheard many of his secrets. Therefore he did not waste time in argument, but nodded quietly. "Sleep in peace, sister. The camp shall stay, if you wish it." "I do wish it!" She glanced at Silver and changed her speech to Romany. "The ring will be here," tapping her finger, "in one week if we stay." "So be it, sister," replied Pine, also in Romany, and with a gleam of satisfaction in his dark eyes. "Go now and return when this Gentile goes. What of the golden Gorgious one?" "He seeks Lundra this night." "For the ring, sister?" Chaldea looked hard at him. "For the ring" she said abruptly, then dropping the tent-flap which she had held all the time, she disappeared. Silver looked at his master inquiringly, and noted that he seemed very satisfied. "What did she say in Romany?" he asked eagerly. "True news and new news, and news you never heard of," mocked Pine. "Don't ask questions, Mark." "But since I am your secretary--" "You are secretary to Hubert Pine, not to Ishmael Hearne," broke in the other man. "And when Romany is spoken it concerns the last." Silver's pale-colored, red-rimmed eyes twinkled in an evil manner. "You are afraid that I may learn too much about you." "You know all that is to be known," retorted Pine sharply. "But I won't have you meddle with my Romany business. A Gentile such as you are cannot understand the chals." "Try me." "There is no need. You are my secretary--my trusted secretary--that is quite enough. I pay you well to keep my secrets." "I don't keep them because you pay me," said Silver quickly, and with a look of meekness belied by the sinister gleam in his pale bluish eyes. "It is devotion that makes me honest. I owe everything to you." "I think you do," observed Pine quietly. "When I found you in Whitechapel you were only a pauper toymaker." "An inventor of toys, remember. You made your fortune out of my inventions." "The three clever toys you invented laid the foundations of my wealth," corrected the millionaire calmly. "But I made my money in the South African share business. And if I hadn't taken up your toys, you would have been now struggling in Whitechapel, since there was no one but me to exploit your brains in the toy-making way. I have rescued you from starvation; I have made you my secretary, and pay you a good salary, and I have introduced you to good society. Yes, you do indeed owe everything to me. Yet--" he paused. "Yet what?" "Miss Greeby observed that those who have most cause to be grateful are generally the least thankful to those who befriend them. I am not sure but what she is right." Silver pushed up his lower lip contemptuously, and a derisive expression came over his clean-shaven face. "Does a clever man like you go to that emancipated woman for experience?" "Emancipated women are usually very clever," said Pine dryly, "as they combine the logic of the male with the intuition of the female. And I have observed myself, in many cases, that kindness brings out ingratitude." Silver looked sullen and uneasy. "I don't know why you should talk to me in this strain," he said irritably. "I appreciate what you have done for me, and have no reason to treat you badly. If I did--" "I would break you," flamed out his employer, angered by the mere thought. "So long as you serve me well, Silver, I am your friend, and I shall treat you as I have always done, with every consideration. But you play any tricks on me, and--" he paused expressively. "Oh, I won't betray you, if that's what you mean." "I am quite sure you won't," said the millionaire with emphasis. "For if you do, you return to your original poverty. And remember, Mark, that there is nothing in my life which has any need of concealment." Silver cast a look round the tent and at the rough clothes of the speaker. "No need of any concealment?" he asked significantly. "Certainly not," rejoined Pine violently. "I don't wish my gypsy origin to be known in the Gentile world. But if the truth did come to light, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I commit no crime in calling myself by a Gorgio name and in accumulating a fortune. You have no hold over me." The man's look was so threatening that Silver winced. "I don't hint at any hold over you," he observed mildly. "I am bound to you both by gratitude and self-interest." "Aha. That last is better. It is just as well that we have come to this understanding. If you--" Pine's speech was ended by a sharp fit of coughing, and Silver looked at his contortions with a thin-lipped smile. "You'll kill yourself if you live this damp colonial sort of tent-life," was his observation. "Here, take a drink of water." Pine did so, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his rough coat. "You're a Gorgio," he said, weakly, for the fit had shaken him, "and can't understand how a bred and born Romany longs for the smell of the smoke, the space of the open country, and the sound of the kalo jib. However, I did not ask you here to discuss these things, but to take my instructions." "About Lady Agnes?" asked the secretary, his eyes scintillating. "You have had those long ago, although, trusting my wife as I do, there was really no need for me to ask you to watch her." "That is very true. Lady Agnes is exceedingly circumspect." "Is she happy?" Silver lifted his shoulders. "As happy as a woman can be who is married to one man while she loves another." He expected an outburst of anger from his employer, but none came. On the contrary, Pine sighed, restlessly. "Poor soul. I did her a wrong in making her my wife. She would have been happier with Lambert in his poverty." "Probably! Her tastes don't lie like those of other women in the direction of squandering money. By the way, I suppose, since you are here, that you know Lambert is staying in the Abbot's Wood Cottage?" "Yes, I know that. And what of it?" demanded the millionaire sharply. "Nothing; only I thought you would like to know. I fancied you had come here to see if--" "I did not. I can trust you to see that my wife and Lambert do not meet without spying myself." "If you love and trust your wife so entirely, I wonder you ask me to spy on her at all," said Silver with a faint sneer. "She is a woman, and we gypsies have sufficient of the Oriental in us to mistrust even the most honest women. Lambert has not been to The Manor?" "No. That's a bad sign. He can't trust himself in her presence." "I'll choke the life out of you, rat that you are, if you talk in such a way about my wife. What you think doesn't matter. Hold your tongue, and come to business. I asked you here to take my instructions." Silver was rather cowed by this outburst, as he was cunning enough to know precisely how far he could venture with safety. "I am waiting," he observed in sullen tones. "Garvington--as I knew he would--has ordered us off the land. As the wood is really mine, since I hold it as security, having paid off the mortgage, I don't choose that he should deal with it as though it were his own. Here"--he passed along a letter--"I have written that on my office paper, and you will see that it says, I have heard how gypsies are camping here, and that it is my wish they should remain. Garvington is not to order them off on any pretext whatsoever. You understand?" "Yes." Silver nodded, and slipped the paper into his breast pocket after a hasty glance at the contents, which were those the writer had stated. "But if Garvington wishes to know why you take such an interest in the gypsies, what am I to say?" "Say nothing. Simply do what I have told you." "Garvington may suspect that you are a Romany." "He won't. He thinks that I'm in Paris, and will never connect me with Ishmael Hearne. If he asks questions when we meet I can tell him my own tale. By the way, why is he so anxious to get rid of the tribe?" "There have been many burglaries lately in various parts of Hengishire," explained the secretary. "And Garvington is afraid lest the gypsies should be mixed up with them. He thinks, this camp being near, some of the men may break into the house." "What nonsense! Gypsies steal, I don't deny, but in an open way. They are not burglars, however, and never will be. Garvington has never seen any near The Manor that he should take fright in this way." "I am not so sure of that. Once or twice I have seen that girl who came to you hanging about the house." "Chaldea?" Pine started and looked earnestly at his companion. "Yes. She told Mrs. Belgrove's fortune one day when she met her in the park, and also tried to make Lady Agnes cross her hand with silver for the same purpose. Nothing came of that, however, as your wife refused to have her fortune told." Pine frowned and looked uneasy, remembering that Chaldea knew of his Gentile masquerading. However, as he could see no reason to suspect that the girl had betrayed him, since she had nothing to gain by taking such a course, he passed the particular incident over. "I must tell Chaldea not to go near The Manor," he muttered. "You will be wise; and tell the men also. Garvington has threatened to shoot any one who tries to enter his house." "Garvington's a little fool," said Pine violently. "There is no chance that the Romany will enter his house. He can set his silly mind at rest." "Well, you're warned," said Silver with an elaborate pretence of indifference. Pine looked up, growling. "What the devil do you mean, Mark? Do you think that I intend to break in. Fool! A Romany isn't a thief of that sort." "I fancied from tradition that they were thieves of all sorts," retorted the secretary coolly. "And suppose you took a fancy to come quietly and see your wife?" "I should never do that in this dress," interrupted the millionaire in a sharp tone. "My wife would then know my true name and birth. I wish to keep that from her, although there is nothing disgraceful in the secret. I wonder why you say that?" he said, looking searchingly at the little man. "Only because Lambert is in the--" "Lambert! Lambert! You are always harping on Lambert." "I have your interest at heart." Pine laughed doubtfully. "I am not so sure of that. Self-interest rather. I trust my wife--" "You do, since you make me spy on her," said Silver caustically. "I trust my wife so far," pursued the other man, "if you will permit me to finish my sentence. There is no need for her to see her cousin, and--as they have kept apart for so long--I don't think there is any chance of their seeking one another's company." "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," remarked the secretary sententiously. "And you may be living in a fool's paradise. Lambert is within running-away distance of her, remember." Pine laughed in a raucous manner. "An elopement would have taken place long ago had it been intended," he snapped tartly. "Don't imagine impossibilities, Mark. Agnes married me for my money, so that I might save the credit of the Lambert family. But for me, Garvington would have passed through the Bankruptcy Court long ago. I have paid off certain mortgages, but I hold them as security for my wife's good behavior. She knows that an elopement with her cousin would mean the ruin of her brother." "You do, indeed, trust her," observed Silver sarcastically. "I trust her so far and no further," repeated Pine with an angry snarl. "A Gentile she is, and Gentiles are tricky." He stretched out a slim, brown hand significantly and opened it. "I hold her and Garvington there," and he tapped the palm lightly. "You don't hold Lambert, and he is the dangerous one." "Only dangerous if Agnes consents to run away with him, and she won't do that," replied Pine coolly. "Well, she certainly doesn't care for money." "She cares for the credit of her family, and gave herself to me, so that the same might be saved." Silver shrugged his narrow shoulders. "What fools these aristocrats are," he observed pleasantly. "Even if Garvington were sold up he would still have his title and enough to live on in a quiet way." "Probably. But it was not entirely to save his estates that he agreed to my marriage with his sister," said Pine pointedly and quietly. "Eh! What?" The little man's foxy face became alive with eager inquiry. "Nothing," said Pine roughly, and rose heavily to his feet. "Mind your own infernal business, and mine also. Go back and show that letter to Garvington. I want my tribe to stay here." "_My_ tribe," laughed Silver, scrambling to his feet; and when he took his departure he was still laughing. He wondered what Garvington would say did he know that his sister was married to a full-blooded Romany. Pine, in the character of a horse-coper, saw him out of the camp, and was staring after him when Chaldea, on the watch, touched his shoulder. "I come to your tent, brother," she said with very bright eyes. "Eh? Yes!" Pine aroused himself out of a brown study. "Avali, miri pen. You have things to say to me?" "Golden things, which have to do with your happiness and mine, brother." "Hai? A wedding-ring, sister." "Truly, brother, if you be a true Romany and not the Gentile you call yourself." CHAPTER VIII. AT MIDNIGHT. Silver's delivery of his employer's orders to Lord Garvington were apparently carried out, for no further intimation was given to the gypsies that they were to vacate Abbot's Wood. The master of The Manor grumbled a good deal at the high tone taken by his brother-in-law, as, having the instincts of a landlord, he strongly objected to the presence of such riff-raff on his estates. However, as Pine had the whip-hand of him, he was obliged to yield, although he could not understand why the man should favor the Romany in this way. "Some of his infernal philanthropy, I suppose," said Garvington, in a tone of disgust, to the secretary. "Pine's always doing this sort of thing, and people ain't a bit grateful." "Well," said Silver dryly, "I suppose that's his look-out." "If it is, let him keep to his own side of the road," retorted the other. "Since I don't interfere with his business, let him not meddle with mine." "As he holds the mortgage and can foreclose at any moment, it _is_ his business," insisted Silver tartly. "And, after all, the gypsies are doing no very great harm." "They will if they get the chance. I'd string up the whole lot if I had my way, Silver. Poachers and blackguards every one of them. I know that Pine is always helping rotters in London, but I didn't know that he had any cause to interfere with this lot. How did he come to know about them?" "Well, Mr. Lambert might have told him," answered the secretary, not unwilling to draw that young man into the trouble. "He is at Abbot's Wood." "Yes, I lent him the cottage, and this is my reward. He meddles with my business along with Pine. Why can't he shut his mouth?" "I don't say that Mr. Lambert did tell him, but he might have done so." "I am quite sure that he did," said Garvington emphatically, and growing red all over his chubby face. "Otherwise Pine would never have heard, since he is in Paris. I shall speak to Lambert." "You won't find him at home. I looked in at his cottage to pass the time, and his housekeeper said that he had gone to London all of a sudden, this very evening." "Oh, he'll turn up again," said Garvington carelessly. "He's sick of town, Silver, since--" The little man hesitated. "Since when?" asked the secretary curiously. "Never mind," retorted the other gruffly, for he did not wish to mention the enforced marriage of his sister, to Silver. Of course, there was no need to, as Garvington, aware that the neat, foxy-faced man was his brother-in-law's confidential adviser, felt sure that everything was known to him. "I'll leave those blamed gypsies alone meanwhile," finished Garvington, changing and finishing the conversation. "But I'll speak to Pine when I see him." "He returns from Paris in three weeks," remarked Silver, at which information the gross little lord simply hunched his fat shoulders. Much as Pine had done for him, Garvington hated the man with all the power of his mean and narrow mind, and as the millionaire returned this dislike with a feeling of profound contempt, the two met as seldom as possible. Only Lady Agnes was the link between them, the visible object of sale and barter, which had been sold by one to the other. It was about this time that the house-party at The Manor began to break up; since it was now the first week in September, and many of the shooters wished to go north for better sport. Many of the men departed, and some of the women, who were due at other country houses; but Mrs. Belgrove and Miss Greeby still remained. The first because she found herself extremely comfortable, and appreciated Garvington's cook; and the second on account of Lambert being in the vicinity. Miss Greeby had been very disappointed to learn that the young man had gone to London, but heard from Mrs. Tribb that he was expected back in three days. She therefore lingered so as to have another conversation with him, and meanwhile haunted the gypsy camp for the purpose of keeping an eye on Chaldea, who was much too beautiful for her peace of mind. Sometimes Silver accompanied her, as the lady had given him to understand that she knew Pine's real rank and name, so the two were made free of the Bohemians and frequently chatted with Ishmael Hearne. But they kept his secret, as did Chaldea; and Garvington had no idea that the man he dreaded and hated--who flung money to him as if he were tossing a bone to a dog--was within speaking distance. If he had known, he would assuredly have guessed the reason why Sir Hubert Pine had interested himself in the doings of a wandering tribe of undesirable creatures. A week passed away and still, although Miss Greeby made daily inquiries, Lambert did not put in an appearance at the forest cottage. Thinking that he had departed to escape her, she made up her impatient mind to repair to London, and to hunt him up at his club. With this idea she intimated to Lady Garvington that she was leaving The Manor early next morning. The ladies had just left the dinner-table, and were having coffee in the drawing-room when Miss Greeby made this abrupt announcement. "Oh, my dear," said Lady Garvington, in dismay. "I wish you would change your mind. Nearly everyone has gone, and the house is getting quite dull." "Thanks ever so much," remarked Mrs. Belgrove lightly. She sat near the fire, for the evening was chilly, and what with paint and powder, and hair-dye, to say nothing of her artistic and carefully chosen dress, looked barely thirty-five in the rosy lights cast by the shaded lamps. "I don't mean you, dear," murmured the hostess, who was even more untidy and helpless than usual. "You are quite a host in yourself. And that recipe you gave me for Patagonian soup kept Garvington in quite a good humor for ever so long. But the house will be dull for you without Clara." "Agnes is here, Jane." "I fear Agnes is not much of an entertainer," said that lady, smiling in a weary manner, for this society chatter bored her greatly. "That's not to be wondered at," struck in Miss Greeby abruptly. "For of course you are thinking of your husband." Lady Agnes colored slightly under Miss Greeby's very direct gaze, but replied equably enough, to save appearances, "He is still in Paris." "When did you last hear from him, dear?" questioned Lady Garvington, more to manufacture conversation than because she really cared. "Only to-day I had a letter. He is carrying out some special business and will return in two or three weeks." "You will be glad to see him, no doubt," sneered Miss Greeby. "I am always glad to see my husband and to be with him," answered Lady Agnes in a dignified manner. She knew perfectly well that Miss Greeby hated her, and guessed the reason, but she was not going to give her any satisfaction by revealing the true feelings of her heart. "Well, I intend to stay here, Jane, if it's all the same to you," cried Mrs. Belgrove in her liveliest manner and with a side glance, taking in both Miss Greeby and Lady Agnes. "Only this morning I received a chit-chat letter from Mr. Lambert--we are great friends you know--saying that he intended to come here for a few days. Such a delightful man he is." "Oh, dear me, yes," cried Lady Garvington, starting. "I remember. He wrote yesterday from London, asking if he might come. I told him yes, although I mentioned that we had hardly anyone with us just now." Miss Greeby looked greatly annoyed, as Mrs. Belgrove maliciously saw, for she knew well that the heiress would now regret having so hastily intimated her approaching departure. What was the expression on Lady Agnes's face, the old lady could not see, for the millionaire's wife shielded it--presumably from the fire--with a large fan of white feathers. Had Mrs. Belgrove been able to read that countenance she would have seen satisfaction written thereon, and would probably have set down the expression to a wrong cause. In reality, Agnes was glad to think that Lambert's promise was being kept, and that he no longer intended to avoid her company so openly. But if she was pleased, Miss Greeby was not, and still continued to look annoyed, since she had burnt her boats by announcing her departure. And what annoyed her still more than her hasty decision was, that she would leave Lambert in the house along with the rival she most dreaded. Though what the young man could see in this pale, washed-out creature Miss Greeby could not imagine. She glanced at a near mirror and saw her own opulent, full-blown looks clothed in a pale-blue dinner-gown, which went so well--as she inartistically decided, with her ruddy locks, Mrs. Belgrove considered that Miss Greeby looked like a paint-box, or a sunset, or one of Turner's most vivid pictures, but the heiress was very well pleased with herself. Lady Agnes, in her favorite white, with her pale face and serious looks, was but a dull person of the nun persuasion. And Miss Greeby did not think that Lambert cared for nuns, when he had an Amazonian intelligent pal--so she put it--at hand. But, of course, he might prefer dark beauties like Chaldea. Poor Miss Greeby; she was pursuing her wooing under very great difficulties, and became silent in order to think out some way of revoking in some natural manner the information of her departure. There were other women in the room, who joined in the conversation, and all were glad to hear that Mr. Lambert intended to pay a visit to his cousin, for, indeed, the young man was a general favorite. And then as two or three decided--Mrs. Belgrove amongst the number--there really could be nothing in the report that he loved Lady Agnes still, else he would scarcely come and stay where she was. As for Pine's wife, she was a washed-out creature, who had never really loved her cousin as people had thought. And after all, why should she, since he was so poor, especially when she was married to a millionaire with the looks of an Eastern prince, and manners of quite an original nature, although these were not quite conventional. Oh, yes, there was nothing in the scandal that said Garvington had sold his sister to bolster up the family property. Lady Agnes was quite happy, and her husband was a dear man, who left her a great deal to her own devices--which he wouldn't have done had he suspected the cousin; and who gave her pots of money to spend. And what more could a sensible woman want? In this way those in the drawing-room babbled, while Agnes stared into the fire, bracing herself to encounter Lambert, who would surely arrive within the next two or three days, and while Miss Greeby savagely rebuked herself for having so foolishly intimated her departure. Then the men straggled in from their wine, and bridge became the order of the night with some, while others begged for music. After a song or so and the execution of a Beethoven sonata, to which no one paid any attention, a young lady gave a dance after the manner of Maud Allan, to which everyone attended. Then came feats of strength, in which Miss Greeby proved herself to be a female Sandow, and later a number of the guests sojourned to the billiard-room to play. When they grew weary of that, tobogganing down the broad staircase on trays was suggested and indulged in amidst shrieks of laughter. Afterwards, those heated by this horse-play strayed on to the terrace to breathe the fresh air, and flirt in the moonlight. In fact, every conceivable way of passing the time was taken advantage of by these very bored people, who scarcely knew how to get through the long evening. "They seem to be enjoying themselves, Freddy," said Lady Garvington to her husband, when she drifted against him in the course of attending to her guests. "I really think they find this jolly." "I don't care a red copper what they find," retorted the little man, who was looking worried, and not quite his usual self. "I wish the whole lot would get out of the house. I'm sick of them." "Ain't you well, Freddy? I knew that Patagonian soup was too rich for you." "Oh, the soup was all right--ripping soup," snorted Freddy, smacking his lips over the recollection. "But I'm bothered over Pine." "He isn't ill, is he?" questioned Lady Garvington anxiously. She liked her brother-in-law, who was always kind to her. "No, hang him; nothing worse than his usual lung trouble, I suppose. But he is in Paris, and won't answer my letters." "Letters, Freddy dear." "Yes, Jane dear," he mocked. "Hang it, I want money, and he won't stump up. I can't even get an answer." "Speak to Mr. Silver." "Damn Mr. Silver!" "Well, I'm sure, Frederick, you needn't swear at me," said poor, wan Lady Garvington, drawing herself up. "Mr. Silver is very kind. He went to that gypsy camp and found out how they cook hedgehog. That will be a new dish for you, dear. You haven't eaten hedgehog." "No. And what's more, I don't intend to eat it. But you may as well tell me how these gypsies cook it," and Freddy listened with both his red ears to the description, on hearing which he decided that his wife might instruct the cook how to prepare the animal. "But no one will eat it but me." Lady Garvington shuddered. "I shan't touch it myself. Those horrid snails you insisted on being cooked a week ago made me quite ill. You are always trying new experiments, Freddy." "Because I get so tired of every-day dishes," growled Lord Garvington. "These cooks have no invention. I wish I'd lived in Rome when they had those banquets you read of in Gibbon." "Did he write a book on cookery?" asked Lady Garvington very naturally. "No. He turned out a lot of dull stuff about wars and migrations of tribes: you are silly, Jane." "What's that about migration of tribes?" asked Mrs. Belgrove, who was in a good humor, as she had won largely at bridge. "You don't mean those dear gypsies at Abbot's Wood do you, Lord Garvington? I met one of them the other day--quite a girl and very pretty in a dark way. She told my fortune, and said that I would come in for a lot of money. I'm sure I hope so," sighed Mrs. Belgrove. "Celestine is so expensive, but no one can fit me like she can. And she knows it, and takes advantage, the horrid creature." "I wish the tribe of gypsies would clear out," snapped Freddy, standing before the fire and glaring at the company generally. "I know they'll break in here and rob." "Well," drawled Silver, who was hovering near, dressed so carefully that he looked more of a foxy, neat bounder than ever. "I have noticed that some of the brutes have been sneaking round the place." Mrs. Belgrove shrieked. "Oh, how lucky I occupy a bedroom on the third floor. Just like a little bird in its tiny-weeny nest. They can't get at me there, can they, Lord Garvington?" "They don't want you," observed Miss Greeby in her deep voice. "It's your diamonds they'd like to get." "Oh!" Mrs. Belgrove shrieked again. "Lock my diamonds up in your strong room, Lord Garvington. Do! do! do! To please poor little me," and she effusively clasped her lean hands, upon which many of the said diamonds glittered. "I don't think there is likely to be any trouble with these poor gypsies, Mrs. Belgrove," remarked Lady Agnes negligently. "Hubert has told me a great deal about them, and they are really not so bad as people make out." "Your husband can't know anything of such ragtags," said Miss Greeby, looking at the beautiful, pale face, and wondering if she really had any suspicion that Pine was one of the crew she mentioned. "Oh, but Hubert does," answered Lady Agnes innocently. "He has met many of them when he has been out helping people. You have no idea, any of you, how good Hubert is," she added, addressing the company generally. "He walks on the Embankment sometimes on winter nights and gives the poor creatures money. And in the country I have often seen him stop to hand a shilling to some tramp in the lanes." "A gypsy for choice," growled Miss Greeby, marvelling that Lady Agnes could not see the resemblance between the tramps' faces and that of her own husband. "However, I hope Pine's darlings won't come here to rob. I'll fight for my jewels, I can promise you." One of the men laughed. "I shouldn't like to get a blow from your fist." Miss Greeby smiled grimly, and looked at his puny stature. "Women have to protect themselves from men like you," she said, amidst great laughter, for the physical difference between her and the man was quite amusing. "It's all very well talking," said Garvington crossly. "But I don't trust these gypsies." "Why don't you clear them off your land then?" asked Silver daringly. Garvington glared until his gooseberry eyes nearly fell out of his red face. "I'll clear everyone to bed, that's what I'll do," he retorted, crossing the room to the middle French window of the drawing-room. "I wish you fellows would stop your larking out there," he cried. "It's close upon midnight, and all decent people should be in bed." "Since when have you joined the Methodists, Garvington?" asked an officer who had come over from some twelve-mile distant barracks to pass the night, and a girl behind him began to sing a hymn. Lady Agnes frowned. "I wish you wouldn't do that, Miss Ardale," she said in sharp rebuke, and the girl had the sense to be silent, while Garvington fussed over the closing of the window shutters. "Going to stand a siege?" asked Miss Greeby, laughing. "Or do you expect burglars, particularly on this night." "I don't expect them at all," retorted the little man. "But I tell you I hate the idea of these lawless gypsies about the place. Still, if anyone comes," he added grimly, "I shall shoot." "Then the attacking person or party needn't bother," cried the officer. "I shouldn't mind standing up to your fire, myself, Garvington." With laughter and chatter and much merriment at the host's expense, the guests went their several ways, the women to chat in one another's dressing-rooms and the men to have a final smoke and a final drink. Garvington, with two footmen, and his butler, went round the house, carefully closing all the shutters, and seeing that all was safe. His sister rather marvelled at this excessive precaution, and said as much to her hostess. "It wouldn't matter if the gypsies did break in," she said when alone with Lady Garvington in her own bedroom. "It would be some excitement, for all these people must find it very dull here." "I'm sure I do my best, Agnes," said the sister-in-law plaintively. "Of course, you do, you poor dear," said the other, kissing her. "But Garvington always asks people here who haven't two ideas. A horrid, rowdy lot they are. I wonder you stand it." "Garvington asks those he likes, Agnes." "I see. He hasn't any brains, and his guests suit him for the same reason." "They eat a great deal," wailed Lady Garvington. "I'm sure I might as well be a cook. All my time is taken up with feeding them." "Well, Freddy married you, Jane, because you had a genius for looking after food. Your mother was much the same; she always kept a good table." Lady Agnes laughed. "Yours was a most original wooing, Jane." "I'd like to live on bread and water for my part, Agnes." "Put Freddy on it, dear. He's getting too stout. I never thought that gluttony was a crime. But when I look at Freddy"--checking her speech, she spread out her hands with an ineffable look--"I'm glad that Noel is coming," she ended, rather daringly. "At least he will be more interesting than any of these frivolous people you have collected." Lady Garvington looked at her anxiously. "You don't mind Noel coming?" "No, dear. Why should I?" "Well you see, Agnes, I fancied--" "Don't fancy anything. Noel and I entirely understand one another." "I hope," blurted out the other woman, "that it is a right understanding?" Agnes winced, and looked at her with enforced composure. "I am devoted to my husband," she said, with emphasis. "And I have every reason to be. He has kept his part of the bargain, so I keep mine. But," she added with a pale smile, "when I think how I sold myself to keep up the credit of the family, and now see Freddy entertaining this riff-raff, I am sorry that I did not marry Noel, whom I loved so dearly." "That would have meant our ruin," bleated Lady Garvington, sadly. "Your ruin is only delayed, Jane. Freddy is a weak, self-indulgent fool, and is eating his way into the next world. It will be a happy day for you when an apoplectic fit makes you a widow." "My dear," the wife was shocked, "he is your brother." "More's the pity. I have no illusions about Freddy, Jane, and I don't think you have either. Now, go away and sleep. It's no use lying awake thinking over to-morrow's dinner. Give Freddy the bread and water you talked about." Lady Garvington laughed in a weak, aimless way, and then kissed her sister-in-law with a sigh, after which she drifted out of the room in her usual vague manner. Very shortly the clock over the stables struck midnight, and by that time Garvington the virtuous had induced all his men guests to go to bed. The women chatted a little longer, and then, in their turn, sought repose. By half-past twelve the great house was in complete darkness, and bulked a mighty mass of darkness in the pale September moonlight. Lady Agnes got to bed quickly, and tired out by the boredom of the evening, quickly fell asleep. Suddenly she awoke with all her senses on the alert, and with a sense of vague danger hovering round. There were sounds of running feet and indistinct oaths and distant cries, and she could have sworn that a pistol-shot had startled her from slumber. In a moment she was out of bed and ran to open her window. On looking out she saw that the moonlight was very brilliant, and in it beheld a tall man running swiftly from the house. He sped down the broad path, and just when he was abreast of a miniature shrubbery, she heard a second shot, which seemed to be fired there-from. The man staggered, and stumbled and fell. Immediately afterwards, her brother--she recognized his voice raised in anger--ran out of the house, followed by some of the male guests. Terrified by the sight and the sound of the shots, Lady Agnes huddled on her dressing-gown hastily, and thrust her bare feet into slippers. The next moment she was out of her bedroom and down the stairs. A wild idea had entered her mind that perhaps Lambert had come secretly to The Manor, and had been shot by Garvington in mistake for a burglar. The corridors and the hall were filled with guests more or less lightly attired, mostly women, white-faced and startled. Agnes paid no attention to their shrieks, but hurried into the side passage which terminated at the door out of which her brother had left the house. She went outside also and made for the group round the fallen man. "What is it? who is it?" she asked, gasping with the hurry and the fright. "Go back, Agnes, go back," cried Garvington, looking up with a distorted face, strangely pale in the moonlight. "But who is it? who has been killed?" She caught sight of the fallen man's countenance and shrieked. "Great heavens! it is Hubert; is he dead?" "Yes," said Silver, who stood at her elbow. "Shot through the heart." CHAPTER IX. AFTERWARDS. With amazing and sinister rapidity the news spread that a burglar had been shot dead while trying to raid The Manor. First, the Garvington villagers learned it; then it became the common property of the neighborhood, until it finally reached the nearest county town, and thus brought the police on the scene. Lord Garvington was not pleased when the local inspector arrived, and intimated as much in a somewhat unpleasant fashion. He was never a man who spared those in an inferior social position. "It is no use your coming over, Darby," he said bluntly to the red-haired police officer, who was of Irish extraction. "I have sent to Scotland Yard." "All in good time, my lord," replied the inspector coolly. "As the murder has taken place in my district I have to look into the matter, and report to the London authorities, if it should be necessary." "What right have you to class the affair as a murder?" inquired Garvington. "I only go by the rumors I have heard, my lord. Some say that you winged the man and broke his right arm. Others tell me that a second shot was fired in the garden, and it was that which killed Ishmael Hearne." "It is true, Darby. I only fired the first shot, as those who were with me will tell you. I don't know who shot in the garden, and apparently no one else does. It was this unknown individual in the garden that killed Hearne. By the way, how did you come to hear the name?" "Half a dozen people have told me, my lord, along with the information I have just given you. Nothing else is talked of far and wide." "And it is just twelve o'clock," muttered the stout little lord, wiping his scarlet face pettishly. "Ill news travels fast. However, as you are here, you may as well take charge of things until the London men arrive." "The London men aren't going to usurp my privileges, my lord," said Darby, firmly. "There's no sense in taking matters out of my hands. And if you will pardon my saying so, I should have been sent for in the first instance." "I daresay," snapped Garvington, coolly. "But the matter is too important to be left in the hands of a local policeman." Darby was nettled, and his hard eyes grew angry. "I am quite competent to deal with any murder, even if it is that of the highest in England, much less with the death of a common gypsy." "That's just where it is, Darby. The common gypsy who has been shot happens to be my brother-in-law." "Sir Hubert Pine?" questioned the inspector, thoroughly taken aback. "Yes! Of course I didn't know him when I fired, or I should not have done so, Darby. I understood, and his wife, my sister, understood, that Sir Hubert was in Paris. It passes my comprehension to guess why he should have come in the dead of night, dressed as a gypsy, to raid my house." "Perhaps it was a bet," said Darby, desperately puzzled. "Bet, be hanged! Pine could come openly to this place whenever he liked. I never was so astonished in my life as when I saw him lying dead near the shrubbery. And the worst of it is, that my sister ran out and saw him also. She fainted and has been in bed ever since, attended by Lady Garvington." "You had no idea that the man you shot was Sir Hubert, my lord?" "Hang it, no! Would I have shot him had I guessed who he was?" "No, no, my lord! of course not," said the officer hastily. "But as I have come to take charge of the case, you will give me a detailed account of what has taken place." "I would rather wait until the Scotland Yard fellows come," grumbled Garvington, "as I don't wish to repeat my story twice. Still, as you are on the spot, I may as well ask your advice. You may be able to throw some light on the subject. I'm hanged if I can." Darby pulled out his notebook. "I am all attention, my lord." Garvington plunged abruptly into his account, first having looked to see if the library door was firmly closed. "As there have been many burglaries lately in this part of the world," he said, speaking with deliberation, "I got an idea into my head that this house might be broken into." "Natural enough, my lord," interposed Darby, glancing round the splendid room. "A historic house such as this is, would tempt any burglar." "So I thought," remarked the other, pleased that Darby should agree with him so promptly. "And I declared several times, within the hearing of many people, that if a raid was made, I should shoot the first man who tried to enter. Hang it, an Englishman's house is his castle, and no man has a right to come in without permission." "Quite so, my lord. But the punishment of the burglar should be left to the law," said the inspector softly. "Oh, the deuce take the law! I prefer to execute my own punishments. However, to make a long story short, I grew more afraid of a raid when these gypsies came to camp at Abbot's Wood, as they are just the sort of scoundrels who would break in and steal." "Why didn't you order them off your land?" asked the policeman, alertly. "I did, and then my brother-in-law sent a message through his secretary, who is staying here, asking me to allow them to remain. I did." "Why did Sir Hubert send that message, my lord?" "Hang it, man, that's just what I am trying to learn, and I am the more puzzled because he came last night dressed as a gypsy." "He must be one," said Darby, who had seen Pine and now recalled his dark complexion and jetty eyes. "It seems, from what I have been told, that he stopped at the Abbot's Wood camp under the name of Ishmael Hearne." "So Silver informed me." "Who is he?" "Pine's secretary, who knows all his confidential affairs. Silver declared, when the secret could be kept no longer, that Pine was really a gypsy, called Ishmael Hearne. Occasionally longing for the old life, he stepped down from his millionaire pedestal and mixed with his own people. When he was supposed to be in Paris, he was really with the gypsies, so you can now understand why he sent the message asking me to let these vagrants stay." "You told me a few moments ago, that you could not understand that message, my lord," said Darby quickly, and looking searchingly at the other man. Garvington grew a trifle confused. "Did I? Well, to tell you the truth, Darby, I'm so mixed up over the business that I can't say what I do know, or what I don't know. You'd better take all I tell you with a grain of salt until I am quite myself again." "Natural enough, my lord," remarked the inspector again, and quite believed what he said. "And the details of the murder?" "I went to bed as usual," said Garvington, wearily, for the events of the night had tired him out, "and everyone else retired some time about midnight. I went round with the footmen and the butler to see that everything was safe, for I was too anxious to let them look after things without me. Then I heard a noise of footsteps on the gravel outside, just as I was dropping off to sleep--" "About what time was that, my lord?" "Half-past one o'clock; I can't be certain as to a minute. I jumped up and laid hold of my revolver, which was handy. I always kept it beside me in case of a burglary. Then I stole downstairs in slippers and pajamas to the passage,--oh, here." Garvington rose quickly. "Come with me and see the place for yourself!" Inspector Darby put on his cap, and with his notebook still in his hand, followed the stout figure of his guide. Garvington led him through the entrance hall and into a side-passage, which terminated in a narrow door. There was no one to spy on them, as the master of the house had sent all the servants to their own quarters, and the guests were collected in the drawing-room and smoking-room, although a few of the ladies remained in their bedrooms, trying to recover from the night's experience. "I came down here," said Garvington, opening the door, "and heard the burglar, as I thought he was, prowling about on the other side. I threw open the door in this way and the man plunged forward to enter. I fired, and got him in the right arm, for I saw it swinging uselessly by his side as he departed." "Was he in a hurry?" asked Darby, rather needlessly. "He went off like greased lightning. I didn't follow, as I thought that others of his gang might be about, but closing the door again I shouted blue murder. In a few minutes everyone came down, and while I was waiting--it all passed in a flash, remember, Darby--I heard a second shot. Then the servants and my friends came and we ran out, to find the man lying by that shrubbery quite dead. I turned him over and had just grasped the fact that he was my brother-in-law, when Lady Agnes ran out. When she learned the news she naturally fainted. The women carried her back to her room, and we took the body of Pine into the house. A doctor came along this morning--for I sent for a doctor as soon as it was dawn--and said that Pine had been shot through the heart." "And who shot him?" asked Darby sagely. Garvington pointed to the shrubbery. "Someone was concealed there," he declared. "How do you know, that, my lord?" "My sister, attracted by my shot, jumped out of bed and threw up her window. She saw the man--of course she never guessed that he was Pine--running down the path and saw him fall by the shrubbery when the second shot was fired." "Her bedroom is then on this side of the house, my lord?" "Up there," said Garvington, pointing directly over the narrow door, which was painted a rich blue color, and looked rather bizarre, set in the puritanic greyness of the walls. "My own bedroom is further along towards the right. That is why I heard the footsteps so plainly on this gravel." And he stamped hard, while with a wave of his hand he invited the inspector to examine the surroundings. Darby did so with keen eyes and an alert brain. The two stood on the west side of the mansion, where it fronted the three-miles distant Abbot's Wood. The Manor was a heterogeneous-looking sort of place, suggesting the whims and fancies of many generations, for something was taken away here, and something was taken away there, and this had been altered, while that had been left in its original state, until the house seemed to be made up of all possible architectural styles. It was a tall building of three stories, although the flattish red-tiled roofs took away somewhat from its height, and spread over an amazing quantity of land. As Darby thought, it could have housed a regiment, and must have cost something to keep up. As wind and weather and time had mellowed its incongruous parts into one neutral tint, it looked odd and attractive. Moss and lichen, ivy and Virginia creeper--this last flaring in crimson glory--clothed the massive stone walls with a gracious mantle of natural beauty. Narrow stone steps, rather chipped, led down from the blue door to the broad, yellow path, which came round the rear of the house and swept down hill in a wide curve, past the miniature shrubbery, right into the bosom of the park. "This path," explained Garvington, stamping again, "runs right through the park to a small wicket gate set in the brick wall, which borders the high road, Darby." "And that runs straightly past Abbot's Wood," mused the inspector. "Of course, Sir Hubert would know of the path and the wicket gate?" "Certainly; don't be an ass, Darby," cried Garvington petulantly. "He has been in this house dozens of times and knows it as well as I do myself. Why do you ask so obvious a question?" "I was only wondering if Sir Hubert came by the high road to the wicket gate you speak of, Lord Garvington." "That also is obvious," retorted the other, irritably. "Since he wished to come here, he naturally would take the easiest way." "Then why did he not enter by the main avenue gates?" "Because at that hour they would be shut, and--since it is evident that his visit was a secret one--he would have had to knock up the lodge-keeper." "Why was his visit a secret one?" questioned Darby pointedly. "That is the thing that puzzles me. Anything more?" "Yes? Why should Sir Hubert come to the blue door?" "I can't answer that question, either. The whole reason of his being here, instead of in Paris, is a mystery to me." "Oh, as to that last, the reply is easy," remarked the inspector. "Sir Hubert wished to revert to his free gypsy life, and pretended to be in Paris, so that he would follow his fancy without the truth becoming known. But why he should come on this particular night, and by this particular path to this particular door, is the problem I have to solve!" "Quite so, and I only hope that you will solve it, for the sake of my sister." Darby reflected for a moment or so. "Did Lady Agnes ask her husband to come here to see her privately?" "Hang it, no man!" cried Garvington, aghast. "She believed, as we all did, that her husband was in Paris, and certainly never dreamed that he was masquerading as a gypsy three miles away." "There was no masquerading about the matter, my lord," said Darby, dryly; "since Sir Hubert really was a gypsy called Ishmael Hearne. That fact will come out at the inquest." "It has come out now: everyone knows the truth. And a nice thing it is for me and Lady Agnes." "I don't think you need worry about that, Lord Garvington. The honorable way in which the late Sir Hubert attained rank and gained wealth will reflect credit on his humble origin. When the papers learn the story--" "Confound the papers!" interrupted Garvington fretfully. "I sincerely hope that they won't make too great a fuss over the business." The little man's hope was vain, as he might have guessed that it would be, for when the news became known in Fleet Street, the newspapers were only too glad to discover an original sensation for the dead season. Every day journalists and special correspondents were sent down in such numbers that the platform of Wanbury Railway Station was crowded with them. As the town--it was the chief town of Hengishire--was five miles away from the village of Garvington, every possible kind of vehicle was used to reach the scene of the crime, and The Manor became a rendezvous for all the morbid people, both in the neighborhood and out of it. The reporters in particular poked and pried all over the place, passing from the great house to the village, and thence to the gypsy camp on the borders of Abbot's Wood. From one person and another they learned facts, which were published with such fanciful additions that they read like fiction. On the authority of Mother Cockleshell--who was not averse to earning a few shillings--a kind of Gil Blas tale was put into print, and the wanderings of Ishmael Hearne were set forth in the picturesque style of a picarooning romance. But of the time when the adventurous gypsy assumed his Gentile name, the Romany could tell nothing, for obvious reasons. Until the truth became known, because of the man's tragic and unforeseen death, those in the camp were not aware that he was a Gorgio millionaire. But where the story of Mother Cockleshell left off, that of Mark Silver began, for the secretary had been connected with his employer almost from the days of Hearne's first exploits as Pine in London. And Silver--who also charged for the blended fact and fiction which he supplied--freely related all he knew. "Hearne came to London and called himself Hubert Pine," he stated frankly, and not hesitating to confess his own lowly origin. "We met when I was starving as a toymaker in Whitechapel. I invented some penny toys, which Pine put on the market for me. They were successful and he made money. I am bound to confess that he paid me tolerably well, although he certainly took the lion's share. With the money he made in this way, he speculated in South African shares, and, as the boom was then on, he simply coined gold. Everything he touched turned into cash, and however deeply he plunged into the money market, he always came out top in the end. By turning over his money and re-investing it, and by fresh speculations, he became a millionaire in a wonderfully short space of time. Then he made me his secretary and afterwards took up politics. The Government gave him a knighthood for services rendered to his party, and he became a well-known figure in the world of finance. He married Lady Agnes Lambert, and--and--that's all." "You were aware that he was a gypsy, Mr. Silver?" asked the reporter. "Oh, yes. I knew all about his origin from the first days of our acquaintanceship. He asked me to keep his true name and rank secret. As it was none of my business, I did so. At times Hearne--or rather Pine, as I know him best by that name--grew weary of civilization, and then would return to his own life of the tent and road. No one suspected amongst the Romany that he was anything else but a horse-coper. He always pretended to be in Paris, or Berlin, on financial affairs, when he went back to his people, and I transacted all business during his absence." "You knew that he was at the Abbot's Wood camp?" "Certainly. I saw him there once or twice to receive instructions about business. I expostulated with him for being so near the house where his brother-in-law and wife were living, as I pointed out that the truth might easily become known. But Pine merely said that his safety in keeping his secret lay in his daring to run the risk." "Have you any idea that Sir Hubert intended to come by night to Lord Garvington's house?" "Not the slightest. In fact, I told him that Lord Garvington was afraid of burglars, and had threatened to shoot any man who tried to enter the house." All this Silver said in a perfectly frank, free-and-easy manner, and also related how the dead man had instructed him to ask Garvington to allow the gypsies to remain in the wood. The reporter published the interview with sundry comments of his own, and it was read with great avidity by the public at large and by the many friends of the millionaire, who were surprised to learn of the double life led by the man. Of course, there was nothing disgraceful in Pine's past as Ishmael Hearne, and all attempts to discover something shady about his antecedents were vain. Yet--as was pointed out--there must have been something wrong, else the adventurer, as he plainly was, would not have met so terrible a death. But in spite of every one's desire to find fire to account for the smoke, nothing to Pine's disadvantage could be learned. Even at the inquest, and when the matter was thoroughly threshed out, the dead man's character proved to be honorable, and--save in the innocent concealment of his real name and origin--his public and private life was all that could be desired. The whole story was not criminal, but truly romantic, and the final tragedy gave a grim touch to what was regarded, even by the most censorious, as a picturesque narrative. In spite of all his efforts, Inspector Darby, of Wanbury, could produce no evidence likely to show who had shot the deceased. Lord Garvington, under the natural impression that Pine was a burglar, had certainly wounded him in the right arm, but it was the second shot, fired by some one outside the house, which had pierced the heart. This was positively proved by the distinct evidence of Lady Agnes herself. She rose from her sick-bed to depose how she had opened her window, and had seen the actual death of the unfortunate man, whom she little guessed was her husband. The burglar--as she reasonably took him to be--was running down the path when she first caught sight of him, and after the first shot had been fired. It was the second shot, which came from the shrubbery--marked on the plan placed before the Coroner and jury--which had laid the fugitive low. Also various guests and servants stated that they had arrived in the passage in answer to Lord Garvington's outcries, to find that he had closed the door pending their coming. Some had even heard the second shot while descending the stairs. It was proved, therefore, in a very positive manner, that the master of the house had not murdered the supposed robber. "I never intended to kill him," declared Garvington when his evidence was taken. "All I intended to do, and all I did do, was to wing him, so that he might be captured on the spot, or traced later. I closed the door after firing the shot, as I fancied that he might have had some accomplices with him, and I wished to make myself safe until assistance arrived." "You had no idea that the man was Sir Hubert Pine?" asked a juryman. "Certainly not. I should not have fired had I recognized him. The moment I opened the door he flung himself upon me. I fired and he ran away. It was not until we all went out and found him dead by the shrubbery that I recognized my brother-in-law. I thought he was in Paris." Inspector Darby deposed that he had examined the shrubbery, and had noted broken twigs here and there, which showed that some one must have been concealed behind the screen of laurels. The grass--somewhat long in the thicket--had been trampled. But nothing had been discovered likely to lead to the discovery of the assassin who had been ambushed in this manner. "Are there no footmarks?" questioned the Coroner. "There has been no rain for weeks to soften the ground," explained the witness, "therefore it is impossible to discover any footmarks. The broken twigs and trampled grass show that some one was hidden in the shrubbery, but when this person left the screen of laurels, there is nothing to show in which direction the escape was made." And indeed all the evidence was useless to trace the criminal. The Manor had been bolted and barred by Lord Garvington himself, along with some footmen and his butler, so no one within could have fired the second shot. The evidence of Mother Cockleshell, of Chaldea, and of various other gypsies, went to show that no one had left the camp on that night with the exception of Hearne, and even his absence had not been made known until the fact of the death was made public next morning. Hearne, as several of the gypsies stated, had retired about eleven to his tent and had said nothing about going to The Manor, much less about leaving the camp. Silver's statements revealed nothing, since, far from seeking his brother-in-law's house, Pine, had pointedly declared that in order to keep his secret he would be careful not to go near the place. "And Pine had no enemies to my knowledge who desired his death," declared the secretary. "We were so intimate that had his life been in danger he certainly would have spoken about it to me." "You can throw no light on the darkness?" asked the Coroner hopelessly. "None," said the witness. "Nor, so far as I can see, is any one else able to throw any light on the subject. Pine's secret was not a dishonorable one, as he was such an upright man that no one could have desired to kill him." Apparently there was no solution to the mystery, as every one concluded, when the evidence was fully threshed out. An open verdict was brought in, and the proceedings ended in this unsatisfactory manner. "Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown," said Lambert, when he read the report of the inquest in his St. James's Street rooms. "Strange. I wonder who cut the Gordian knot of the rope which bound Agnes to Pine?" He could find no reply to this question, nor could any one else. CHAPTER X. A DIFFICULT POSITION. Lord Garvington was not a creditable member of the aristocracy, since his vices greatly exceeded his virtues. With a weak nature, and the tastes of a sybarite, he required a great deal of money to render him happy. Like the immortal Becky Sharp, he could have been fairly honest if possessed of a large income; but not having it he stopped short of nothing save actual criminality in order to indulge his luxurious tastes to the full. Candidly speaking, he had already overstepped the mark when he altered the figures of a check his brother-in-law had given him, and, had not Pine been so generous, he would have undoubtedly occupied an extremely unpleasant position. However, thanks to Agnes, the affair had been hushed up, and with characteristic promptitude, Garvington had conveniently forgotten how nearly he had escaped the iron grip of Justice. In fact, so entirely did it slip his memory that--on the plea of Pine's newly discovered origin--he did not desire the body to be placed in the family vault. But the widow wished to pay this honor to her husband's remains, and finally got her own way in the matter, for the simple reason that now she was the owner of Pine's millions Garvington did not wish to offend her. But, as such a mean creature would, he made capital out of the concession. "Since I do this for you, Agnes," he said bluntly, when the question was being decided, "you must do something for me." "What do you wish me to do?" "Ah--hum--hey--ho!" gurgled Garvington, thinking cunningly that it was too early yet to exploit her. "We can talk about it when the will has been read, and we know exactly how we stand. Besides your grief is sacred to me, my dear. Shut yourself up and cry." Agnes had a sense of humor, and the blatant hypocrisy of the speech made her laugh outright in spite of the genuine regret she felt for her husband's tragic death. Garvington was quite shocked. "Do you forget that the body is yet in the house?" he asked with heavy solemnity. "I don't forget anything," retorted Agnes, becoming scornfully serious. "Not even that you count on me to settle your wretched financial difficulties out of poor Hubert's money." "Of course you will, my dear. You are a Lambert." "Undoubtedly; but I am not necessarily a fool." "Oh, I can't stop and hear you call yourself such a name," said Garvington, ostentatiously dense to her true meaning. "It is hysteria that speaks, and not my dear sister. Very natural when you are so grieved. We are all mortal." "You are certainly silly in addition," replied the widow, who knew how useless it was to argue with the man. "Go away and don't worry me. When poor Hubert is buried, and the will is read, I shall announce my intentions." "Intentions! Intentions!" muttered the corpulent little lord, taking a hasty departure out of diplomacy. "Surely, Agnes won't be such a fool as to let the family estates go." It never struck him that Pine might have so worded the will that the inheritance he counted upon might not come to the widow, unless she chose to fulfil a certain condition. But then he never guessed the jealousy with which the hot-blooded gypsy had regarded the early engagement of Agnes and Lambert. If he had done so, he assuredly would not have invited the young man down to the funeral. But he did so, and talked about doing so, with a frequent mention that the body was to rest in the sacred vault of the Lamberts so that every one should applaud his generous humility. "Poor Pine was only a gypsy," said Garvington, on all and every occasion. "But I esteemed him as a good and honest man. He shall have every honor shown to his memory. Noel and I, as representatives of his wife, my dear sister, shall follow him to the Lambert vault, and there, with my ancestors, the body of this honorable, though humble, man shall rest until the Day of Judgment." A cynic in London laughed when the speech was reported to him. "If Garvington is buried in the same vault," he said contemptuously, "he will ask Pine for money, as soon as they rise to attend the Great Assizes!" which bitter remark showed that the little man could not induce people to believe him so disinterested as he should have liked them to consider him. However, in pursuance of this artful policy, he certainly gave the dead man, what the landlady of the village inn called, "a dressy funeral." All that could be done in the way of pomp and ceremony was done, and the procession which followed Ishmael Hearne to the grave was an extraordinarily long one. The villagers came because, like all the lower orders, they loved the excitement of an interment; the gypsies from the camp followed, since the deceased was of their blood; and many people in financial and social circles came down from London for the obvious reason that Pine was a well-known figure in the City and the West End, and also a member of Parliament. As for Lambert, he put in an appearance, in response to his cousin's invitation, unwillingly enough, but in order to convince Agnes that he had every desire to obey her commands. People could scarcely think that Pine had been jealous of the early engagement to Agnes, when her former lover attended the funeral of a successful rival. Of course, the house party at The Manor had broken up immediately after the inquest. It would have disintegrated before only that Inspector Darby insisted that every one should remain for examination in connection with the late tragical occurrence. But in spite of questioning and cross-questioning, nothing had been learned likely to show who had murdered the millionaire. There was a great deal of talk after the body had been placed in the Lambert vault, and there was more talk in the newspapers when an account was given of the funeral. But neither by word of mouth, nor in print, was any suggestion made likely to afford the slightest clue to the name or the whereabouts of the assassin. Having regard to Pine's romantic career, it was thought by some that the act was one of revenge by a gypsy jealous that the man should attain to such affluence, while others hinted that the motive for the crime was to be found in connection with the millionaire's career as a Gentile. Gradually, as all conjecture proved futile, the gossip died away, and other events usurped the interest of the public. Pine, who was really Hearne, had been murdered and buried; his assassin would never be discovered, since the trail was too well hidden; and Lady Agnes inherited at least two millions on which she would probably marry her cousin and so restore the tarnished splendors of the Lambert family. In this way the situation was summed up by the gossips, and then they began to talk of something else. The tragedy was only a nine minutes' wonder after all. The gossips both in town and country were certainly right in assuming that the widow inherited the vast property of her deceased husband. But what they did not know was that a condition attached to such inheritance irritated Agnes and caused Garvington unfeigned alarm. Pine's solicitor--he was called Jarwin and came from a stuffy little office in Chancery Lane--called Garvington aside, when the mourners returned from the funeral, and asked that the reading of the will might be confined to a few people whom he named. "There is a condition laid down by the testator which need not be made public," said Mr. Jarwin blandly. "A proposition which, if possible, must be kept out of print." Garvington, with a sudden recollection of his iniquity in connection with the falsified check, did not dare to ask questions, but hastily summoned the people named by the lawyer. As these were the widow, Lady Garvington, himself, and his cousin Noel, the little man had no fear of what might be forthcoming, since with relatives there could be no risk of betrayal. All the same, he waited for the reading of the will with some perturbation, for the suggested secrecy hinted at some posthumous revenge on the part of the dead man. And, hardened as he was, Garvington did not wish his wife and Lambert to become acquainted with his delinquency. He was, of course, unaware that the latter knew about it through Agnes, and knew also how it had been used to coerce her--for the pressure amounted to coercion--into a loveless marriage. The quintette assembled in a small room near the library, and when the door and window were closed there was no chance that any one would overhear the conference. Lambert was rather puzzled to know why he had been requested to be present, as he had no idea that Pine would mention him in the will. However, he had not long to wait before he learned the reason, for the document produced by Mr. Jarwin was singularly short and concise. Pine had never been a great speaker, and carried his reticence into his testamentary disposition. Five minutes was sufficient for the reading of the will, and those present learned that all real and personal property had been left unreservedly to Agnes Pine, the widow of the testator, on condition that she did _not_ marry Noel Tamsworth Leighton Lambert. If she did so, the money was to pass to a certain person, whose name was mentioned in a sealed envelope held by Mr. Jarwin. This was only to be opened when Agnes Pine formally relinquished her claim to the estate by marrying Noel Lambert. Seeing that the will disposed of two millions sterling, it was a remarkably abrupt document, and the reading of it took the hearers' breath away. Garvington, relieved from the fears of his guilty conscience, was the first to recover his power of speech. He looked at the lean, dry lawyer, and demanded fiercely if no legacy had been left to him. "Surely Pine did not forget me?" he lamented, with more temper than sorrow. "You have heard the will," said Mr. Jarwin, folding up the single sheet of legal paper on which the testament was inscribed. "There are no legacies." "None at all." "Hasn't Pine remembered Silver?" "He has remembered nothing and no one save Lady Agnes." Jarwin bowed to the silent widow, who could not trust herself to speak, so angered was she by the cruel way in which her husband had shown his jealousy. "It's all very dreadful and very disagreeable," said Lady Garvington in her weak and inconsequent way. "I'm sure I was always nice to Hubert and he might have left me a few shillings to get clothes. Everything goes in cooks and food and--" "Hold your tongue, Jane," struck in her husband crossly. "You're always thinking of frocks and frills. But I agree with you this will is dreadful. I am not going to sit under such a beastly sell you know," he added, turning to Jarwin. "I shall contest the will." The lawyer coughed dryly and smiled. "As you are not mentioned in the testament, Lord Garvington, I fail to see what you can do." "Hum! hum! hum!" Garvington was rather disconcerted. "But Agnes can fight it." "Why should I?" questioned the widow, who was very pale and very quiet. "Why should you?" blustered her brother. "It prevents your marrying again." "Pardon me, it does not," corrected Mr. Jarwin, with another dry cough. "Lady Agnes can marry any one she chooses to, save--" His eyes rested on the calm and watchful face of Lambert. The young man colored, and glancing at Agnes, was about to speak. But on second thoughts he checked himself, as he did not wish to add to the embarrassment of the scene. It was the widow who replied. "Did Sir Hubert tell you why he made such a provision?" she asked, striving to preserve her calmness, which was difficult under the circumstances. "Why, no," said Jarwin, nursing his chin reflectively. "Sir Hubert was always of a reticent disposition. He simply instructed me to draw up the will you have heard, and gave me no explanation. Everything is in order, and I am at your service, madam, whenever you choose to send for me." "But suppose I marry Mr. Lambert--" "Agnes, you won't be such a fool!" shouted her brother, growing so scarlet that he seemed to be on the point of an apoplectic fit. She turned on him with a look, which reduced him to silence, but carefully avoided the eyes of the cousin. "Suppose I marry Mr. Lambert?" she asked again. "In that case you will lose the money," replied Jarwin, slightly weary of so obvious an answer having to be made. "You have heard the will." "Who gets the money then?" This was another ridiculous question, as Jarwin, and not without reason, considered. "Would you like me to read the will again?" he asked sarcastically. "No. I am aware of what it contains." "In that case, you must know, madam, that the money goes to a certain person whose name is mentioned in a sealed envelope, now in my office safe." "Who is the person?" demanded Garvington, with a gleam of hope that Pine might have made him the legatee. "I do not know, my lord. Sir Hubert Pine wrote down the name and address, sealed the envelope, and gave it into my charge. It can only be opened when the ceremony of marriage takes place between--" he bowed again to Lady Agnes and this time also to Lambert. "Pine must have been insane," said Garvington, fuming. "He disguises himself as a gypsy, and comes to burgle my house, and makes a silly will which ought to be upset." "Sir Hubert never struck me as insane," retorted Jarwin, putting the disputed will into his black leather bag. "A man who can make two million pounds in so short a space of time can scarcely be called crazy." "But this masquerading as a gypsy and a burglar," urged Garvington irritably. "He was actually a gypsy, remember, my lord, and it was natural that he should wish occasionally to get back to the life he loved. As to his being a burglar, I venture to disagree with you. He had some reason to visit this house at the hour and in the manner he did, and doubtless if he had lived he would have explained. But whatever might have been his motive, Lord Garvington, I am certain it was not connected with robbery." "Well," snapped the fat little man candidly, "if I had known that Pine was such a blighter as to leave me nothing, I'm hanged if I'd have allowed him to be buried in such decent company." "Freddy, Freddy, the poor man is dead. Let him rest," said Lady Garvington, who looked more limp and untidy than ever. "I wish he was resting somewhere else than in my vault. A damned gypsy!" "And my husband," said Lady Agnes sharply. "Don't forget that, Garvington." "I wish I could forget it. Much use he has been to us." "_You_ have no cause to complain," said his sister with a meaning glance, and Garvington suddenly subsided. "Won't you say something, Noel?" asked Lady Garvington dismally. "I don't see what there is to say," he rejoined, not lifting his eyes from the ground. "There you are wrong," remarked Agnes with a sudden flush. "There is a very great deal to say, but this is not the place to say it. Mr. Jarwin," she rose to her feet, looking a queenly figure in her long black robes, "you can return to town and later will receive my instructions." The lawyer looked hard at her marble face, wondering whether she would choose the lover or the money. It was a hard choice, and a very difficult position. He could not read in her eyes what she intended to do, so mutely bowed and took a ceremonious departure, paying a silent tribute to the widow's strength of mind. "Poor thing; poor thing," thought the solicitor, "I believe she loves her cousin. It is hard that she can only marry him at the cost of becoming a pauper. A difficult position for her, indeed. H'm! she'll hold on to the money, of course; no woman would be such a fool as to pay two millions sterling for a husband." In relation to nine women out of ten, this view would have been a reasonable one to take, but Agnes happened to be the tenth, who had the singular taste--madness some would have called it--to prefer love to hard cash. Still, she made no hasty decision, seeing that the issues involved in her renunciation were so great. Garvington, showing a characteristic want of tact, began to argue the question almost the moment Jarwin drove away from The Manor, but his sister promptly declined to enter into any discussion. "You and Jane can go away," said she, cutting him short. "I wish to have a private conversation with Noel." "For heaven's sake don't give up the money," whispered Garvington in an agonized tone when at the door. "I sold myself once to help the family," she replied in the same low voice; "but I am not so sure that I am ready to do so twice." "Quite right, dear," said Lady Garvington, patting the widow's hand. "It is better to have love than money. Besides, it only means that Freddy will have to give up eating rich dinners which don't agree with him." "Come away, you fool!" cried Freddy, exasperated, and, seizing her arm, he drew her out of the room, growling like a sick bear. Agnes closed the door, and returned to look at Lambert, who still continued to stare at the carpet with folded arms. "Well?" she demanded sharply. "Well?" he replied in the same tone, and without raising his eyes. "Is that all you have to say, Noel?" "I don't see what else I can say. Pine evidently guessed that we loved one another, although heaven knows that our affection has been innocent enough, and has taken this way to part us forever." "Will it part us forever?" "I think so. As an honorable man, and one who loves you dearly, I can't expect you to give up two millions for the sake of love in a cottage with me. It is asking too much." "Not when a woman loves a man as I love you." This time Lambert did look up, and his eyes flashed with surprise and delight. "Agnes, you don't mean to say that you would--" She cut him short by sitting down beside him and taking his hand. "I would rather live on a crust with you in the Abbot's Wood Cottage than in Park Lane a lonely woman with ample wealth." "You needn't remain lonely long," said Lambert moodily. "Pine's will does not forbid you to marry any one else." "Do I deserve that answer, Noel, after what I have just said?" "No, dear, no." He pressed her hand warmly. "But you must make some allowance for my feelings. It is right that a man should sacrifice all for a woman, but that a woman should give up everything for a man seems wrong." "Many women do, if they love truly as I do." "But, Agnes, think what people will say about me." "That will be your share of the sacrifice," she replied promptly. "If I do this, you must do that. There is no difficulty when the matter is looked on in that light. But there is a graver question to be answered." Lambert looked at her in a questioning manner and read the answer in her eyes. "You mean about the property of the family?" "Yes." Agnes heaved a sigh and shook her head. "I wish I had been born a village girl rather than the daughter of a great house. Rank has its obligations, Noel. I recognized that before, and therefore married Hubert. He was a good, kind man, and, save that I lost you, I had no reason to regret becoming his wife. But I did not think that he would have put such an insult on me." "Insult, dear?" Lambert flushed hotly. "What else can you call this forbidding me to marry you? The will is certain to be filed at Somerset House, and the contents will be made known to the public in the usual way, through the newspapers. Then what will people say, Noel? Why, that I became Hubert's wife in order to get his money, since, knowing that he was consumptive, I hoped he would soon die, and that as a rich widow I could console myself with you. They will chuckle to see how my scheme has been overturned by the will." "But you made no such scheme." "Of course not. Still, everyone will credit me with having done so. As a woman, who has been insulted, and by a man who has no reason to mistrust me, I feel inclined to renounce the money and marry you, if only to show how I despise the millions. But as a Lambert I must think again of the family as I thought before. The only question is, whether it is wise to place duty above love for the second time, considering the misery we have endured, and the small thanks we have received for our self-denial?" "Surely Garvington's estates are free by now?" "No; they are not. Hubert, as I told you when we spoke in the cottage, paid off many mortgages, but retained possession of them. He did not charge Garvington any interest, and let him have the income of the mortgaged land. No one could have behaved better than Hubert did, until my brother's demands became so outrageous that it was impossible to go on lending and giving him money. Hubert did not trust him so far as to give back the mortgages, so these will form a portion of his estate. As that belongs to me, I can settle everything with ease, and place Garvington in an entirely satisfactory condition. But I do that at the cost of losing you, dear. Should the estates pass to this unknown person, the mortgages would be foreclosed, and our family would be ruined." "Are things as bad as that?" "Every bit as bad. Hubert told me plainly how matters stood. For generations the heads of the family have been squandering money. Freddy is just as bad as the rest, and, moreover, has no head for figures. He does not know the value of money, never having been in want of it. But if everything was sold up--and it must be if I marry you and lose the millions--he will be left without an acre of land and only three hundred a year." "Oh, the devil!" Lambert jumped up and began to walk up and down the room with a startled air. "That would finish the Lambert family with a vengeance, Agnes. What do you wish me to do?" he asked, after a pause. "Wait," she said quietly. "Wait? For what--the Deluge?" "It won't come while I hold the money. I have a good business head, and Hubert taught me how to deal with financial matters. I could not give him love, but I did give him every attention, and I believe that I was able to help him in some ways. I shall utilize my experience to see the family lawyer and go into matters thoroughly. Then we shall know for certain if things are as bad as Hubert made out. If they are, I must sacrifice you and myself for the sake of our name; if they are not--" "Well?" asked Lambert, seeing how she hesitated. Agnes crossed the room and placed her arms round his neck with a lovely color tinting her wan cheeks. "Dear," she whispered, "I shall marry you. In doing so I am not disloyal to Hubert's memory, since I have always loved you, and he accepted me as his wife on the understanding that I could not give him my heart. And now that he has insulted me," she drew back, and her eyes flashed, "I feel free to become your wife." "I see," Lambert nodded. "We must wait?" "We must wait. Duty comes before love. But I trust that the sacrifice will not be necessary. Good-bye, dear," and she kissed him. "Good-bye," repeated Lambert, returning the kiss. Then they parted. CHAPTER XI. BLACKMAIL. Having come to the only possible arrangement, consistent with the difficult position in which they stood, Lambert and Lady Agnes took their almost immediate departure from The Manor. The young man had merely come to stay there in response to his cousin's request, so that his avoidance of her should not be too marked, and the suspicions of Pine excited. Now that the man was dead, there was no need to behave in this judicious way, and having no great love for Garvington, whom he thoroughly despised, Lambert returned to his forest cottage. There he busied himself once more with his art, and waited patiently to see what the final decision of Agnes would be. He did not expect to hear for some weeks, or even months, as the affairs of Garvington, being very much involved, could not be understood in a moment. But the lovers, parted by a strict sense of duty, eased their minds by writing weekly letters to one another. Needless to say, Garvington did not at all approve of the decision of his sister, which she duly communicated to him. He disliked Lambert, both as the next heir to the estates, and because he was a more popular man than himself. Even had Pine not prohibited the marriage in his will, Garvington would have objected to Agnes becoming the young man's wife; as it was, he stormed tempests, but without changing the widow's determination. Being a remarkably selfish creature, all he desired was that Agnes should live a solitary life as a kind of banker, to supply him with money whenever he chose to ask for the same. Pine he had not been able to manage, but he felt quite sure that he could bully his sister into doing what he wanted. It both enraged and surprised him to find that she had a will of her own and was not content to obey his egotistical orders. Agnes would not even remain under his roof--as he wanted her to, lest some other person should get hold of her and the desirable millions--but returned to her London house. The only comfort he had was that Lambert was not with her, and therefore--as he devoutly hoped--she would meet some man who would cause her to forget the Abbot's Wood recluse. So long as Agnes retained the money, Garvington did not particularly object to her marrying, as he always hoped to cajole and bully ready cash out of her, but he would have preferred had she remained single, as then she could be more easily plundered. "And yet I don't know," he said to his long-suffering wife. "While she's a widow there's always the chance that she may take the bit between her teeth and marry Noel, in which case she loses everything. It will be as well to get her married." "You will have no selection of the husband this time," said Lady Garvington, whose sympathies were entirely for Agnes. "She will choose for herself." "Let her," retorted Garvington, with feigned generosity. "So long as she does not choose Noel; hang him!" "He's the very man she will choose;" replied his wife, and Garvington, uneasily conscious that she was probably right, cursed freely all women in general and his sister in particular. Meanwhile he went to Paris to look after a famous chef, of whom he had heard great things, and left his wife in London with strict injunctions to keep a watch on Agnes. The widow was speedily made aware of these instructions, for when Lady Garvington came to stay with her sister-in-law at the sumptuous Mayfair mansion, she told her hostess about the conversation. More than that, she even pressed her to marry Noel, and be happy. "Money doesn't do so much, after all, when you come to think of it," lamented Lady Garvington. "And I know you'd be happier with Noel, than living here with all this horrid wealth." "What would Freddy say if he heard you talk so, Jane?" "I don't know what else he can say," rejoined the other reflectively. "He's never kept his temper or held his tongue with me. His liver is nearly always out of order with over-eating. However," she added cheering up, "he is sure to die of apoplexy before long, and then I shall live on tea and buns for the rest of my life. I simply hate the sight of a dinner table." "Freddy isn't a pretty sight during a meal," admitted his sister with a shrug. "All the same you shouldn't wish him dead, Jane. You might have a worse husband." "I'd rather have a profligate than a glutton, Agnes. But Freddy won't die, my dear. He'll go to Wiesbaden, or Vichy, or Schwalbach, and take the waters to get thin; then he'll return to eat himself to the size of a prize pig again. But thank goodness," said Lady Garvington, cheering up once more, "he's away for a few weeks, and we can enjoy ourselves. But do let us have plain joints and no sauces, Agnes." "Oh, you can live on bread and water if you choose," said the widow good-humoredly. "It's a pity I am in mourning, as I can't take you out much. But the motor is always at your disposal, and I can give you all the money you want. Get a few dresses--" "And hats, and boots, and shoes, and--and--oh, I don't know what else. You're a dear, Agnes, and although I don't want to ruin you, I do want heaps of things. I'm in rags, as Freddy eats up our entire income." "You can't ruin a woman with two millions, Jane. Get what you require and I'll pay. I am only too glad to give you some pleasure, since I can't attend to you as I ought to. But you see, nearly three times a week I have to consult the lawyers about settling Freddy's affairs." On these conditions four or five weeks passed away very happily for the two women. Lady Garvington certainly had the time of her life, and regained a portion of her lost youth. She revelled in shopping, went in a quiet way to theatres, patronized skating rinks, and even attended one or two small winter dances. And to her joy, she met with a nice young man, who was earnestly in pursuit of a new religion, which involved much fasting and occasional vegetarian meals. He taught her to eat nuts, and eschew meats, talking meanwhile of the psychic powers which such abstemiousness would develop in her. Of course Lady Garvington did not overdo this asceticism, but she was thankful to meet a man who had not read Beeton's Cookery Book. Besides, he flirted quite nicely. Agnes, pleased to see her sister-in-law enjoying life, gave her attention to Garvington's affairs, and found them in a woeful mess. It really did appear as if she would have to save the Lambert family from ever-lasting disgrace, and from being entirely submerged, by keeping hold of her millions. But she did not lose heart, and worked on bravely in the hope that an adjustment would save a few thousand a year for Freddy, without touching any of Pine's money. If she could manage to secure him a sufficient income to keep up the title, and to prevent the sale of The Manor in Hengishire, she then intended to surrender her husband's wealth and retire to a country life with Noel as her husband. "He can paint and I can look after the cottage along with Mrs. Tribb," she told Mrs. Belgrove, who called to see her one day, more painted and dyed and padded and tastefully dressed than ever. "We can keep fowls and things, you know," she added vaguely. "Quite an idyl," tittered the visitor, and then went away to tell her friends that Lady Agnes must have been in love with her cousin all the time. And as the contents of the will were now generally known, every one agreed that the woman was a fool to give up wealth for a dull existence in the woods. "All the same it's very sweet," sighed Mrs. Belgrove, having made as much mischief as she possibly could. "I should like it myself if I could only dress as a Watteau shepherdess, you know, and carry a lamb with a blue ribbon round its dear neck." Of course, Lady Agnes heard nothing of this ill-natured chatter, since she did not go into society during her period of mourning, and received only a few of her most intimate friends. Moreover, besides attending to Garvington's affairs, it was necessary that she should have frequent consultations with Mr. Jarwin in his stuffy Chancery Lane office, relative to the large fortune left by her late husband. There, on three occasions she met Silver, the ex-secretary, when he came to explain various matters to the solicitor. With the consent of Lady Agnes, the man had been discharged, when Jarvin took over the management of the millions, but having a thorough knowledge of Pine's financial dealings, it was necessary that he should be questioned every now and then. Silver was rather sulky over his abrupt dismissal, but cunningly concealed his real feelings when in the presence of the widow, since she was too opulent a person to offend. It was Silver who suggested that a reward should be offered for the detection of Pine's assassin. Lady Agnes approved of the idea, and indeed was somewhat shocked that she had not thought of taking this course herself. Therefore, within seven days every police office in the United Kingdom was placarded with bills, stating that the sum of one thousand pounds would be given to the person or persons who should denounce the culprit. The amount offered caused quite a flutter of excitement, and public interest in the case was revived for nearly a fortnight. At the conclusion of that period, as nothing fresh was discovered, people ceased to discuss the matter. It seemed as though the reward, large as it was, would never be claimed. But having regard to the fact that Silver was interesting himself in the endeavor to avenge his patron's death, Lady Agnes was not at all surprised to receive a visit from him one foggy November afternoon. She certainly did not care much for the little man, but feeling dull and somewhat lonely, she quite welcomed his visit. Lady Garvington had gone with her ascetic admirer to a lecture on "Souls and Sorrows!" therefore Agnes had a spare hour for the ex-secretary. He was shown into her own particular private sitting-room, and she welcomed him with studied politeness, for try as she might it was impossible for her to overcome her mistrust. "Good-day, Mr. Silver," she said, when he bowed before her. "This is an unexpected visit. Won't you be seated?" Silver accepted her offer of a chair with an air of demure shyness, and sitting on its edge stared at her rather hard. He looked neat and dapper in his Bond Street kit, and for a man who had started life as a Whitechapel toymaker, his manners were inoffensive. While Pine's secretary he had contrived to pick up hints in the way of social behavior, and undoubtedly he was clever, since he so readily adapted himself to his surroundings. He was not a gentleman, but he looked like a gentleman, and therein lay a subtle difference as Lady Agnes decided. She unconsciously in her manner, affable as it was, suggested the gulf between them, and Silver, quickly contacting the atmosphere, did not love her any the more for the hint. Nevertheless, he admired her statuesque beauty, the fairness of which was accentuated by her sombre dress. Blinking like a well-fed cat, Silver stared at his hostess, and she looked questioningly at him. With his foxy face, his reddish hair, and suave manners, too careful to be natural, he more than ever impressed her with the idea that he was a dangerous man. Yet she could not see in what way he could reveal his malignant disposition. "What do you wish to see me about, Mr. Silver?" she asked kindly, but did not--as he swiftly noticed--offer him a cup of tea, although it was close upon five o'clock. "I have come to place my services at your disposal," he said in a low voice. "Really, I am not aware that I need them," replied Lady Agnes coldly, and not at all anxious to accept the offer. "I think," said Silver dryly, and clearing his throat, "that when you hear what I have to say you will be glad that I have come." "Indeed! Will you be good enough to speak plainer?" She colored hotly when she asked the question, as it struck her suddenly that perhaps this plotter knew of Garvington's slip regarding the check. But as that had been burnt by Pine at the time of her marriage, she reflected that even if Silver knew about it, he could do nothing. Unless, and it was this thought that made her turn red, Garvington had again risked contact with the criminal courts. The idea was not a pleasant one, but being a brave woman, she faced the possibility boldly. "Well?" she asked calmly, as he did not reply immediately. "What have you to say?" "It's about Pine's death," said Silver bluntly. "Sir Hubert, if you please." "And why, Lady Agnes?" Silver raised his faint eyebrows. "We were more like brothers than master and servant. And remember that it was by the penny toys that I invented your husband first made money." "In talking to me, I prefer that you should call my late husband Sir Hubert," insisted the widow haughtily. "What have you discovered relative to his death?" Silver did not answer the question directly. "Sir Hubert, since you will have it so, Lady Agnes, was a gypsy," he remarked carelessly. "That was made plain at the inquest, Mr. Silver." "Quite so, Lady Agnes, but there were other things not made plain on that occasion. It was not discovered who shot him." "You tell me nothing new. I presume you have come to explain that you have discovered a clew to the truth?" Silver raised his pale face steadily. "Would you be glad if I had?" "Certainly! Can you doubt it?" The man shirked a reply to this question also. "Sir Hubert did not treat me over well," he observed irrelevantly. "I fear that has nothing to do with me, Mr. Silver." "And I was dimissed from my post," he went on imperturbably. "On Mr. Jarwin's advice," she informed him quickly. "There was no need for you to be retained. But I believe that you were given a year's salary in lieu of notice." "That is so," he admitted. "I am obliged to you and to Mr. Jarwin for the money, although it is not a very large sum. Considering what I did for Sir Hubert, and how he built up his fortune out of my brains, I think that I have been treated shabbily." Lady Agnes rose, and moved towards the fireplace to touch the ivory button of the electric bell. "On that point I refer you to Mr. Jarwin," she said coldly. "This interview has lasted long enough and can lead to nothing." "It may lead to something unpleasant unless you listen to me," said Silver acidly. "I advise you not to have me turned out, Lady Agnes." "What do you mean?" She dropped the hand she had extended to ring the bell, and faced the smooth-faced creature suddenly. "I don't know what you are talking about." "If you will sit down, Lady Agnes, I can explain." "I can receive your explanation standing," said the widow, frowning. "Be brief, please." "Very well. To put the matter in a nutshell, I want five thousand pounds." "Five thousand pounds!" she echoed, aghast. "On account," said Silver blandly. "On account, Lady Agnes." "And for what reason?" "Sir Hubert was a gypsy," he said again, and with a significant look. "Well?" "He stopped at the camp near Abbot's Wood." "Well?" "There is a gypsy girl there called Chaldea." "Chaldea! Chaldea!" muttered the widow, passing her hand across her brow. "I have heard that name. Oh, yes. Miss Greeby mentioned it to me as the name of a girl who was sitting as Mr. Lambert's model." "Yes," assented Silver, grinning. "She is a very beautiful girl." The color rushed again to the woman's cheeks, but she controlled her emotions with an effort. "So Miss Greeby told me!" She knew that the man was hinting that Lambert admired the girl in question, but her pride prevented her admitting the knowledge. "Chaldea is being painted as Esmeralda to the Quasimodo of her lover, a Servian gypsy called Kara, as I have been informed, Mr. Silver. But what has all this to do with me?" "Don't be in a hurry, Lady Agnes. It will take time to explain." "How dare you take this tone with me?" demanded the widow, clenching her hands. "Leave the room, sir, or I shall have you turned out." "Oh, I shall leave since you wish it," replied Silver, rising slowly and smoothing his silk hat with his sleeve. "But of course I shall try and earn the reward you offered, by taking the letter to the police." Agnes was so surprised that she closed again the door she had opened for her visitor's exit. "What letter?" "That one which was written to inveigle Sir Hubert to The Manor on the night he was murdered," replied Silver slowly, and suddenly raising his eyes he looked at her straightly. "I don't understand," she said in a puzzled way. "I have never heard that such a letter was in existence. Where is it?" "Chaldea has it, and will not give it up unless she receives five thousand pounds," answered the man glibly. "Give it to me and it passes into your possession, Lady Agnes." "Give you what?" "Five thousand pounds--on account." "On account of blackmail. How dare you make such a proposition to me?" "You know," said Silver pointedly. "I know nothing. It is the first time I have heard of any letter. Who wrote it, may I ask?" "You know," said Silver again. Lady Agnes was so insulted by his triumphant look that she could have struck his grinning face. However, she had too strong a nature to lower herself in this way, and pointed to a chair. "Let me ask you a few questions, Mr. Silver," she said imperiously. "Oh, I am quite ready to answer whatever you choose to ask," he retorted, taking his seat again and secretly surprised at her self-control. "You say that Chaldea holds a letter which inveigled my husband to his death?" demanded Lady Agnes coolly. "Yes. And she wants five thousand pounds for it." "Why doesn't she give it to the police?" "One thousand pounds is not enough for the letter. It is worth more--to some people," and Silver raised his pale eyes again. "To me, I presume you mean;" then when he bowed, she continued her examination. "The five thousand pounds you intimate is on account, yet you say that Chaldea will deliver the letter for that sum." "To me," rejoined the ex-secretary impudently. "And when it is in my possession, I can give it to you for twenty thousand pounds." Lady Agnes laughed in his face. "I am too good a business woman to make such a bargain," she said with a shrug. "Well, you know best," replied Silver, imitating her shrug. "I know nothing; I am quite in the dark as to the reason for your blackmailing, Mr. Silver." "That is a nasty word, Lady Agnes." "It is the only word which seems to suit the situation. Why should I give twenty-five thousand pounds for this letter?" "Its production will place the police on the track of the assassin." "And is not that what I desire? Why did I offer a reward of one thousand pounds if I did not hope that the wretch who murdered my husband should be brought to justice?" Silver exhibited unfeigned surprise. "You wish that?" "Certainly I do. Where was this letter discovered?" "Chaldea went to the tent of your husband in the camp and found it in the pocket of his coat. He apparently left it behind by mistake when he went to watch." "Watch?" "Yes! The letter stated that you intended to elope that night with Mr. Lambert, and would leave the house by the blue door. Sir Hubert went to watch and prevent the elopement. In that way he came by his death, since Lord Garvington threatened to shoot a possible burglar. Of course, Sir Hubert, when the blue door was opened by Lord Garvington, who had heard the footsteps of the supposed burglar, threw himself forward, thinking you were coming out to meet Mr. Lambert. Sir Hubert was first shot in the arm by Lord Garvington, who really believed for the moment that he had to do with a robber. But the second shot," ended Silver with emphasis, "was fired by a person concealed in the shrubbery, who knew that Sir Hubert would walk into the trap laid by the letter." During this amazing recital, Lady Agnes, with her eyes on the man's face, and her hands clasped in sheer surprise, had sat down on a near couch. She could scarcely believe her ears. "Is this true?" she asked in a faltering voice. Silver shrugged his shoulders again. "The letter held by Chaldea certainly set the snare in which Sir Hubert was caught. Unless the person in the shrubbery knew about the letter, the person would scarcely have been concealed there with a revolver. I know about the letter for certain, since Chaldea showed it to me, when I went to ask questions about the murder in the hope of gaining the reward. The rest of my story is theoretical." "Who was the person who fired the shot?" asked Lady Agnes abruptly. "I don't know." "Who wrote the letter which set the snare?" Silver shuffled. "Chaldea loves Mr. Lambert," he said hesitating. "Go on," ordered the widow coldly and retaining her self-control. "She is jealous of you, Lady Agnes, because--" "There is no reason to explain," interrupted the listener between her teeth. "Well, then, Chaldea hating you, says that you wrote the letter." "Oh, indeed." Lady Agnes replied calmly enough, although her conflicting emotions almost suffocated her. "Then I take it that this gypsy declares me to be a murderess." "Oh, I shouldn't say that exactly." "I do say it," cried Lady Agnes, rising fiercely. "If I wrote the letter, and set the snare, I must necessarily know that some one was hiding in the shrubbery to shoot my husband. It is an abominable lie from start to finish." "I am glad to hear you say so. But the letter?" "The police will deal with that." "The police? You will let Chaldea give the letter to the police?" "I am innocent and have no fear of the police. Your attempt to blackmail me has failed, Mr. Silver." "Be wise and take time for reflection," he urged, walking towards the door, "for I have seen this letter, and it is in your handwriting." "I never wrote such a letter." "Then who did--in your handwriting?" "Perhaps you did yourself, Mr. Silver, since you are trying to blackmail me in this bareface way." Silver snarled and gave her an ugly look. "I did no such thing," he retorted vehemently, and, as it seemed, honestly enough. "I had every reason to wish that Sir Hubert should live, since my income and my position depended upon his existence. But you--" "What about me?" demanded Lady Agnes, taking so sudden a step forward that the little man retreated nearer the door. "People say--" "I know what people say and what you are about to repeat," she said in a stifled voice. "You can tell the girl to take that forged letter to the police. I am quite able to face any inquiry." "Is Mr. Lambert also able?" "Mr. Lambert?" Agnes felt as though she would choke. "He was at his cottage on that night." "I deny that; he went to London." "Chaldea can prove that he was at his cottage, and--" "You had better go," said Lady Agnes, turning white and looking dangerous. "Go, before you say what you may be sorry for. I shall tell Mr. Lambert the story you have told me, and let him deal with the matter." Silver threw off the mask, as he was enraged she should so boldly withstand his demands. "I give you one week," he said harshly. "And, if you do not pay me twenty-five thousand pounds, that letter goes to the inspector at Wanbury." "It can go now," she declared dauntlessly. "In that case you and Mr. Lambert will be arrested at once." Agnes gripped the man's arm as he was about to step through the door. "I take your week of grace," she said with a sudden impulse of wisdom. "I thought you would," retorted Silver insultingly. "But remember I must get the money at the end of seven days. It's twenty-five thousand pounds for me, or disgrace to you," and with an abrupt nod he disappeared sneering. "Twenty-five thousand pounds or disgrace," whispered Agnes to herself. CHAPTER XII. THE CONSPIRACY. It was lucky that Lambert did not know of the ordeal to which Agnes had to submit, unaided, since he was having a most unhappy time himself. In a sketching expedition he had caught a chill, which had developed once more a malarial fever, contracted in the Congo marshes some years previously. Whenever his constitution weakened, this ague fit would reappear, and for days, sometimes weeks, he would shiver with cold, and alternately burn with fever. As the autumn mists were hanging round the leafless Abbot's Wood, it was injudicious of him to sit in the open, however warmly clothed, seeing that he was predisposed to disease. But his desire for the society of the woman he loved, and the hopelessness of the outlook, rendered him reckless, and he was more often out of doors than in. The result was that when Agnes came down to relate the interview with Silver, she found him in his sitting-room swathed in blankets, and reclining in an arm-chair placed as closely to a large wood fire as was possible. He was very ill indeed, poor man, and she uttered an exclamation when she saw his wan cheeks and hollow eyes. Lambert was now as weak as he had been strong, and with the mothering instinct of a woman, she rushed forward to kneel beside his chair. "My dear, my dear, why did you not send for me?" she wailed, keeping back her tears with an effort. "Oh, I'm all right, Agnes," he answered cheerfully, and fondly clasping her hand. "Mrs. Tribb is nursing me capitally." "I'm doing my best," said the rosy-faced little housekeeper, who stood at the door with her podgy hands primly folded over her apron. "Plenty of bed and food is what I give Master Noel; but bless you, my lady, he won't stay between the blankets, being always a worrit from a boy." "It seems to me that I am very much between the blankets now," murmured Lambert in a tired voice, and with a glance at his swathed limbs. "Go away, Mrs. Tribb, and get Lady Agnes something to eat." "I only want a cup of tea," said Agnes, looking anxiously into her lover's bluish-tinted face. "I'm not hungry." Mrs. Tribb took a long look at the visitor and pursed up her lips, as she shook her head. "Hungry you mayn't be, my lady, but food you must have, and that of the most nourishing and delicate. You look almost as much a corpse as Master Noel there." "Yes, Agnes, you do seem to be ill," said Lambert with a startled glance at her deadly white face, and at the dark circles under her eyes. "What is the matter, dear?" "Nothing! Nothing! Don't worry." Mrs. Tribb still continued to shake her head, and, to vary the movement, nodded like a Chinese mandarin. "You ain't looked after proper, my lady, for all your fine London servants, who ain't to be trusted, nohow, having neither hands to do nor hearts to feel for them as wants comforts and attentions. I remember you, my lady, a blooming young rose of a gal, and now sheets ain't nothing to your complexion. But rose you shall be again, my lady, if wine and food can do what they're meant to do. Tea you shan't have, nohow, but a glass or two of burgundy, and a plate of patty-foo-grass sandwiches, and later a bowl of strong beef tea with port wine to strengthen the same," and Mrs. Tribb, with a determined look on her face, went away to prepare these delicacies. "My dear! my dear!" murmured Agnes again when the door closed. "You should have sent for me." "Nonsense," answered Lambert, smoothing her hair. "I'm not a child to cry out at the least scratch. It's only an attack of my old malarial fever, and I shall be all right in a few days." "Not a few of these days," said Agnes, looking out of the window at the gaunt, dripping trees and gray sky and melancholy monoliths. "You ought to come to London and see the doctor." "Had I come, I should have had to pay you a visit, and I thought that you did not wish me to, until things were adjusted." Agnes drew back, and, kneeling before the fire, spread out her hands to the blaze. "Will they ever be adjusted?" she asked herself despairingly, but did not say so aloud, as she was unwilling to worry the sick man. "Well, I only came down to The Manor for a few days," she said aloud, and in a most cheerful manner. "Jane wants to get the house in order for Garvington, who returns from Paris in a week." "Agnes! Agnes!" Lambert shook his head. "You are not telling me the truth. I know you too well, my dear." "I really am staying with Jane at The Manor," she persisted. "Oh, I believe that; but you are in trouble and came down to consult me." "Yes," she admitted faintly. "I am in great trouble. But I don't wish to worry you while you are in this state." "You will worry me a great deal more by keeping silence," said Lambert, sitting up in his chair and drawing the blankets more closely round him. "Do not trouble about me. I'm all right. But you--" he looked at her keenly and with a dismayed expression. "The trouble must be very great," he remarked. "It may become so, Noel. It has to do with--oh, here is Mrs. Tribb!" and she broke off hurriedly, as the housekeeper appeared with a tray. "Now, my lady, just you sit in that arm-chair opposite to Master Noel, and I'll put the tray on this small stool beside you. Sandwiches and burgundy wine, my lady, and see that you eat and drink all you can. Walking over on this dripping day," cried Mrs. Tribb, bustling about. "Giving yourself your death of cold, and you with carriages and horses, and them spitting cats of motive things. You're as bad as Master Noel, my lady. As for him, God bless him evermore, he's--" Mrs. Tribb raised her hands to show that words failed her, and once more vanished through the door to get ready the beef tea. Agnes did not want to eat, but Lambert, who quite agreed with the kind-hearted practical housekeeper, insisted that she should do so. To please him she took two sandwiches, and a glass of the strong red wine, which brought color back to her cheeks in some degree. When she finished, and had drawn her chair closer to the blaze, he smiled. "We are just like Darby and Joan," said Lambert, who looked much better for her presence. "I am so glad you are here, Agnes. You are the very best medicine I can have to make me well." "The idea of comparing me to anything so nasty as medicine," laughed Agnes with an attempt at gayety. "But indeed, Noel, I wish my visit was a pleasant one. But it is not, whatever you may say; I am in great trouble." "From what--with what--in what?" stuttered Lambert, so confusedly and anxiously that she hesitated to tell him. "Are you well enough to hear?" "Of course I am," he answered fretfully, for the suspense began to tell on his nerves. "I would rather know the worst and face the worst than be left to worry over these hints. Has the trouble to do with the murder?" "Yes. And with Mr. Silver." "Pine's secretary? I thought you had got rid of him?" "Oh, yes. Mr. Jarwin said that he was not needed, so I paid him a year's wages instead of giving him notice, and let him go. But I have met him once or twice at the lawyers, as he has been telling Mr. Jarwin about poor Hubert's investments. And yesterday afternoon he came to see me." "What about?" Agnes came to the point at once, seeing that it would be better to do so, and put an end to Lambert's suspense. "About a letter supposed to have been written by me, as a means of luring Hubert to The Manor to be murdered." Lambert's sallow and pinched face grew a deep red. "Is the man mad?" "He's sane enough to ask twenty-five thousand pounds for the letter," she said in a dry tone. "There's not much madness about that request." "Twenty-five thousand pounds!" gasped Lambert, gripping the arms of his chair and attempting to rise. "Yes. Don't get up, Noel, you are too weak." Agnes pressed him back into the seat. "Twenty thousand for himself and five thousand for Chaldea." "Chaldea! Chaldea! What has she got to do with the matter?" "She holds the letter," said Agnes with a side-glance. "And being jealous of me, she intends to make me suffer, unless I buy her silence and the letter. Otherwise, according to Mr. Silver, she will show it to the police. I have seven days, more or less, in which to make up my mind. Either I must be blackmailed, or I must face the accusation." Lambert heard only one word that struck him in this speech. "Why is Chaldea jealous of you?" he demanded angrily. "I think you can best answer that question, Noel." "I certainly can, and answer it honestly, too. Who told you about Chaldea?" "Mr. Silver, for one, as I have just confessed. Clara Greeby for another. She said that the girl was sitting to you for some picture." "Esmeralda and Quasimodo," replied the artist quickly. "You will find what I have done of the picture in the next room. But this confounded girl chose to fall in love with me, and since then I have declined to see her. I need hardly tell you, Agnes, that I gave her no encouragement." "No, dear. I never for one moment supposed that you would." "All the same, and in spite of my very plain speaking, she continues to haunt me, Agnes. I have avoided her on every occasion, but she comes daily to see Mrs. Tribb, and ask questions about my illness." "Then, if she comes this afternoon, you must get that letter from her," was the reply. "I wish to see it." "Silver declares that you wrote it?" "He does. Chaldea showed it to him." "It is in your handwriting?" "So Mr. Silver declares." Lambert rubbed the bristles of his three days' beard, and wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. "I can't gather much from these hints," he said with the fretful impatience of an invalid. "Give me a detailed account of this scoundrel's interview with you, and report his exact words if you can remember them, Agnes." "I remember them very well. A woman does not forget such insults easily." "Damn the beast!" muttered Lambert savagely. "Go on, dear." Agnes patted his hand to soothe him, and forthwith related all that had passed between her and the ex-secretary. Lambert frowned once or twice during the recital, and bit his lip with anger. Weak as he was, he longed for Silver to be within kicking distance, and it would have fared badly with the foxy little man had he been in the room at the moment. When Agnes ended, her lover reflected for a few minutes. "It's a conspiracy," he declared. "A conspiracy, Noel?" "Yes. Chaldea hates you because the fool has chosen to fall in love with me. The discovery of this letter has placed a weapon in her hand to do you an injury, and for the sake of money Silver is assisting her. I will do Chaldea the justice to say that I don't believe she asks a single penny for the letter. To spite you she would go at once to the police. But Silver, seeing that there is money in the business, has prevented her doing so. As to this letter--" He stopped and rubbed his chin again vexedly. "It must be a forgery." "Without doubt, but not of your handwriting, I fancy, in spite of what this daring blackguard says. He informed you that the letter stated how you intended to elope with me on that night, and would leave The Manor by the blue door. Also, on the face of it, it would appear that you had written the letter to your husband, since otherwise it would not have been in his possession. You would not have given him such a hint had an elopement really been arranged." Agnes frowned. "There was no chance of an elopement being arranged," she observed rather coldly. "Of course not. You and I know as much, but I am looking at the matter from the point of view of the person who wrote the letter. It can't be your forged handwriting, for Pine would never have believed that you would put him on the track as it were. No, Agnes. Depend upon it, the letter was a warning sent by some sympathetic friend, and is probably an anonymous one." Agnes nodded meditatively. "You may be right, Noel. But who wrote to Hubert?" "We must see the letter and find out." "But if it is my forged handwriting?" "I don't believe it is," said Lambert decisively. "No conspirator would be so foolish as to conduct his plot in such a way. However, Chaldea has the letter, according to Silver, and we must make her give it up. She is sure to be here soon, as she always comes bothering Mrs. Tribb in the afternoon about my health. Just ring that hand-bell, Agnes." "Do you think Chaldea wrote the letter?" she asked, having obeyed him. "No. She has not the education to forge, or even to write decently." "Perhaps Mr. Silver--but no. I taxed him with setting the trap, and he declared that Hubert was more benefit to him alive than dead, which is perfectly true. Here is Mrs. Tribb, Noel." Lambert turned his head. "Has that gypsy been here to-day?" he asked sharply. "Not yet, Master Noel, but there's no saying when she may come, for she's always hanging round the house. I'd tar and feather her and slap and pinch her if I had my way, say what you like, my lady. I've no patience with gals of that free-and-easy, light-headed, butter-won't-melt-in-your-mouth kind." "If she comes to-day, show her in here," said Lambert, paying little attention to Mrs. Tribb's somewhat German speech of mouth-filling words. The housekeeper's black eyes twinkled, and she opened her lips, then she shut them again, and looking at Lady Agnes in a questioning way, trotted out of the room. It was plain that Mrs. Tribb knew of Chaldea's admiration for her master, and could not understand why he wished her to enter the house when Lady Agnes was present. She did not think it a wise thing to apply fire to gunpowder, which, in her opinion, was what Lambert was doing. There ensued silence for a few moments. Then Agnes, staring into the fire, remarked in a musing manner, "I wonder who did shoot Hubert. Mr. Silver would not have done so, as it was to his interest to keep him alive. Do you think that to hurt me, Noel, Chaldea might have--" "No! No! No! It was to her interest also that Pine should live, since she knew that I could not marry you while he was alive." Agnes nodded, understanding him so well that she did not need to ask for a detailed explanation. "It could not have been any of those staying at The Manor," she said doubtfully, "since every one was indoors and in bed. Garvington, of course, only broke poor Hubert's arm under a misapprehension. Who could have been the person in the shrubbery?" "Silver hints that I am the individual," said Lambert grimly. "Yes, he does," assented Lady Agnes quickly. "I declared that you were in London, but he said that you returned on that night to this place." "I did, worse luck. I went to town, thinking it best to be away while Pine was in the neighborhood, and--" "You knew that Hubert was a gypsy and at the camp?" interrupted Agnes in a nervous manner, for the information startled her. "Yes! Chaldea told me so, when she was trying to make me fall in love with her. I did not tell you, as I thought that you might be vexed, although I dare say I should have done so later. However, I went to town in order to prevent trouble, and only returned for that single night. I went back to town next morning very early, and did not hear about the murder until I saw a paragraph in the evening papers. Afterwards I came down to the funeral because Garvington asked me to, and I thought that you would like it." "Why did you come back on that particular night?" "My dear Agnes, I had no idea that Hubert would be murdered on that especial night, so did not choose it particularly. I returned because I had left behind a parcel of your letters to me when we were engaged. I fancied that Chaldea might put Hubert up to searching the cottage while I was away, and if he had found those letters he would have been more jealous than ever, as you can easily understand." "No, I can't understand," flashed out Agnes sharply. "Hubert knew that we loved one another, and that I broke the engagement to save the family. I told him that I could not give him the affection he desired, and he was content to marry me on those terms. The discovery of letters written before I became his wife would not have caused trouble, since I was always loyal to him. There was no need for you to return, and your presence here on that night lends color to Mr. Silver's accusation." "But you don't believe--" "Certainly I don't. All the same it is awkward for both of us." "I think it was made purposely awkward, Agnes. Whosoever murdered Hubert must have known of my return, and laid the trap on that night, so that I might be implicated." "But who set the trap?" "The person who wrote that letter." "And who wrote the letter?" "That is what we have to find out from Chaldea!" At that moment; as if he had summoned her, the gypsy suddenly flung open the door and walked in with a sulky expression on her dark face. At first she had been delighted to hear that Lambert wanted to see her, but when informed by Mrs. Tribb that Lady Agnes was with the young man, she had lost her temper. However, the chance of seeing Lambert was too tempting to forego, so she marched in defiantly, ready to fight with her rival if there was an opportunity of doing so. But the Gentile lady declined the combat, and took no more notice of the jealous gypsy than was absolutely necessary. On her side Chaldea ostentatiously addressed her conversation to Lambert. "How are you, rye?" she asked, stopping with effort in the middle of the room, for her impulse was to rush forward and gather him to her heaving bosom. "Have you taken drows, my precious lord?" "What do you mean by drows, Chaldea?" "Poison, no less. You look drabbed, for sure." "Drabbed?" "Poisoned. But I waste the kalo jib on you, my Gorgious. God bless you for a sick one, say I, and that's a bad dukkerin, the which in gentle Romany means fortune, my Gentile swell." "Drop talking such nonsense," said Lambert sharply, and annoyed to see how the girl ignored the presence of Lady Agnes. "I have a few questions to ask you about a certain letter." "Kushto bak to the rye, who showed it to the lady," said Chaldea, tossing her head so that the golden coins jingled. "He did not show it to me, girl," remarked Lady Agnes coldly. "Hai! It seems that the rumy of Hearne can lie." "I shall put you out of the house if you speak in that way," said Lambert sternly. "Silver went to Lady Agnes and tried to blackmail her." "He's a boro pappin, and that's Romany for a large goose, my Gorgious rye, for I asked no gold." "You told him to ask five thousand pounds." "May I die in a ditch if I did!" cried Chaldea vehemently. "Touch the gold of the raclan I would not, though I wanted bread. The tiny rye took the letter to give to the prastramengro, and that's a policeman, my gentleman, so that there might be trouble. But I wished no gold from her. Romany speaking, I should like to poison her. I love you, and--" "Have done with this nonsense, Chaldea. Talk like that and out you go. I can see from what you admit, that you have been making mischief." "That's as true as my father," laughed the gypsy viciously. "And glad am I to say the word, my boro rye. And why should the raclan go free-footed when she drew her rom to be slaughtered like a pig?" "I did nothing of the sort," cried Agnes, with an angry look. "Duvel, it is true." Chaldea still addressed Lambert, and took no notice of Agnes. "I swear it on your Bible-book. I found the letter in my brother's tent, the day after he perished. Hearne, for Hearne he was, and a gentle Romany also, read the letter, saying that the raclan, his own romi, was running away with you." "Who wrote the letter?" demanded Agnes indignantly. This time Chaldea answered her fiercely. "You did, my Gorgious rani, and lie as you may, it's the truth I tell." Ill as he was, Lambert could not endure seeing the girl insult Agnes. With unexpected strength he rose from his chair and took her by the shoulders to turn her out of the room. Chaldea laughed wildly, but did not resist. It was Agnes who intervened. "Let her stay until we learn the meaning of these things, Noel," she said rapidly in French. "She insults you," he replied, in the same tongue, but released the girl. "Never mind; never mind." Agnes turned to Chaldea and reverted to English. "Girl, you are playing a dangerous game. I wrote no letter to the man you call Hearne, and who was my husband--Sir Hubert Pine." Chaldea laughed contemptuously. "Avali, that is true. The letter was written by you to my precious rye here, and Hearne's dukkerin brought it his way." "How did he get it?" "Those who know, know," retorted Chaldea indifferently. "Hearne's breath was out of him before I could ask." "Why do you say that I wrote the letter?" "The tiny rye swore by his God that you did." "It is absolutely false!" "Oh, my mother, there are liars about," jeered the gypsy sceptically. "Catch you blabbing your doings on the crook, my rani, Chore mandy--" "Speak English," interrupted Agnes, who was quivering with rage. "You can't cheat me," translated Chaldea sulkily. "You write my rye, here, the letter swearing to run world-wide with him, and let it fall into your rom's hands, so as to fetch him to the big house. Then did you, my cunning gentleman," she whirled round on the astounded Lambert viciously, "hide so quietly in the bushes to shoot. Hai! it is so, and I love you for the boldness, my Gorgious one." "It is absolutely false," cried Lambert, echoing Agnes. "True! true! and twice times true. May I go crazy, Meg, if it isn't. You wanted the raclan as your romi, and so plotted my brother's death. But your sweet one will go before the Poknees, and with irons on her wrists, and a rope round her--" "You she-devil!" shouted Lambert in a frenzy of rage, and forgetting in his anger the presence of Agnes. "Words of honey under the moon," mocked the girl, then suddenly became tender. "Let her go, rye, let her go. My love is all for you, and when we pad the hoof together, those who hate us shall take off the hat." Lambert sat glaring at her furiously, and Agnes glided between him and the girl, fearful lest he should spring up and insult her. But she addressed her words to Chaldea. "Why do you think I got Mr. Lambert to kill my husband?" she asked, wincing at having to put the question, but seeing that it was extremely necessary to learn all she could from the gypsy. The other woman drew her shawl closely round her fine form and snapped her fingers contemptuously. "It needs no chovihani to tell. Hearne the Romany was poor, Pine the Gentile chinked gold in his pockets. Says you to yourself, 'He I love isn't him with money.' And says you, 'If I don't get my true rom, the beauty of the world will clasp him to her breast.' So you goes for to get Hearne out of the flesh, to wed the rye here on my brother's rich possessions. Avali," she nodded vigorously. "That is so, though 'No' you says to me, for wisdom. Red money you have gained, my daring sister, for the blood of a Romany chal has changed the color. But I'm no--" How long she would have continued to rage at Lady Agnes it is impossible to say, for the invalid, with the artificial strength of furious anger, sprang from his chair to turn her out of the room. Chaldea dodged him in the alert way of a wild animal. "That's no love-embrace, my rye," she jibed, retreating swiftly. "Later, later, when the moon rises, my angel," and she slipped deftly through the door with a contemptuous laugh. Lambert would have followed, but that Agnes caught his arm, and with tears in her eyes implored him to remain. "But what can we do in the face of such danger?" she asked him when he was quieter, and breaking down, she sobbed bitterly. "We must meet it boldly. Silver has the forged letter: he must be arrested." "But the scandal, Noel. Dare we--" "Agnes, you are innocent: I am innocent. Innocence can dare all things." Both sick, both troubled, both conscious of the dark clouds around them, they looked at one another in silence. Then Lambert repeated his words with conviction, to reassure himself as much as to comfort her. "Innocence can dare all things," said Lambert, positively. CHAPTER XIII. A FRIEND IN NEED. It was natural that Lambert should talk of having Silver arrested, as in the first flush of indignation at his audacious attempt to levy blackmail, this appeared the most reasonable thing to do. But when Agnes went back to The Manor, and the sick man was left alone to struggle through a long and weary night, the reaction suggested a more cautious dealing with the matter. Silver was a venomous little reptile, and if brought before a magistrate would probably produce the letter which he offered for sale at so ridiculous a price. If this was made public, Agnes would find herself in an extremely unpleasant position. Certainly the letter was forged, but that would not be easy to prove. And even if it were proved and Agnes cleared her character, the necessary scandal connected with the publicity of such a defence would be both distressing and painful. In wishing to silence Silver, and yet avoid the interference of the police, Lambert found himself on the horns of a dilemma. Having readjusted the situation in his own mind, Lambert next day wrote a lengthy letter to Agnes, setting forth his objections to drastic measures. He informed her--not quite truthfully--that he hoped to be on his feet in twenty-four hours, and then would personally attend to the matter, although he could not say as yet what he intended to do. But five out of the seven days of grace allowed by the blackmailer yet remained, and much could be done in that time. "Return to town and attend to your own and to your brother's affairs as usual," concluded the letter. "All matters connected with Silver can be left in my hands, and should he attempt to see you in the meantime, refer him to me." The epistle ended with the intimation that Agnes was not to worry, as the writer would take the whole burden on his own shoulders. The widow felt more cheerful after this communication, and went back to her town house to act as her lover suggested. She had every belief in Lambert's capability to deal with the matter. The young man was more doubtful, for he could not see how he was to begin unravelling this tangled skein. The interview with Chaldea had proved futile, as she was plainly on the side of the enemy, and to apply to Silver for information as to his intentions would merely result in a repetition of what he had said to Lady Agnes. It only remained to lay the whole matter before Inspector Darby, and Lambert was half inclined to go to Wanbury for this purpose. He did not, however, undertake the journey, for two reasons. Firstly, he wished to avoid asking for official assistance until absolutely forced to do so; and secondly, he was too ill to leave the cottage. The worry he felt regarding Agnes's perilous position told on an already weakened frame, and the invalid grew worse instead of better. Finally, Lambert decided to risk a journey to the camp, which was not so very far distant, and interview Mother Cockleshell. The old lady had no great love for Chaldea, who flouted her authority, and would not, therefore, be very kindly disposed towards the girl. The young man believed, in some vague way, that Chaldea had originated the conspiracy which had to do with the letter, and was carrying her underhand plans to a conclusion with the aid of Silver. Mother Cockleshell, who was very shrewd, might have learned or guessed the girl's rascality, and would assuredly thwart her aims if possible. Also the gypsy-queen would probably know a great deal about Pine in his character of Ishmael Hearne, since she had been acquainted with him intimately during the early part of his life. But, whatever she knew, or whatever she did not know, Lambert considered that it would be wise to enlist her on his side, as the mere fact that Chaldea was one of the opposite party would make her fight like a wild cat. And as the whole affair had to do with the gypsies, and as Gentilla Stanley was a gypsy, it was just as well to apply for her assistance. Nevertheless, Lambert was quite in the dark, as to what assistance could be rendered. In this way the young man made his plans, only to be thwarted by the weakness of his body. He could crawl out of bed and sit before the fire, but in spite of all his will-power, he could not crawl as far as the camp. Baffled in this way, he decided to send a note asking Mother Cockleshell to call on him, although he knew that if Chaldea learned about the visit--which she was almost certain to do--she would be placed on her guard. But this had to be risked, and Lambert, moreover, believed that the old woman was quite equal to dealing with the girl. However, Fate took the matter out of his hands, and before he could even write the invitation, a visitor arrived in the person of Miss Greeby, who suggested a way out of the difficulty, by offering her services. Matters came to a head within half an hour of her presenting herself in the sitting-room. Miss Greeby was quite her old breezy, masculine self, and her presence in the cottage was like a breath of moorland air blowing through the languid atmosphere of a hot-house. She was arrayed characteristically in a short-skirted, tailor-made gown of a brown hue and bound with brown leather, and wore in addition a man's cap, dog-skin gloves, and heavy laced-up boots fit to tramp miry country roads. With her fresh complexion and red hair, and a large frame instinct with vitality, she looked aggressively healthy, and Lambert with his failing life felt quite a weakling beside this magnificent goddess. "Hallo, old fellow," cried Miss Greeby in her best man-to-man style, "feeling chippy? Why, you do look a wreck, I must say. What's up?" "The fever's up and I'm down," replied Lambert, who was glad to see her, if only to distract his painful thoughts. "It's only a touch of malaria, my dear Clara. I shall be all right in a few days." "You're hopeful, I must say, Lambert. What about a doctor?" "I don't need one. Mrs. Tribb is nursing me." "Coddling you," muttered Miss Greeby, planting herself manfully in an opposite chair and crossing her legs in a gentlemanly manner. "Fresh air and exercise, beefsteaks and tankards of beer are what you need. Defy Nature and you get the better of her. Kill or cure is my motto." "As I have strong reasons to remain alive, I shan't adopt your prescription, Dr. Greeby," said Lambert, dryly. "What are you doing in these parts? I thought you were shooting in Scotland." "So I was," admitted the visitor, frankly and laying her bludgeon--she still carried it--across her knee. "But I grew sick of the sport. Knocked over the birds too easy, Lambert, so there was no fun. The birds are getting as silly as the men." "Well, women knock them over easy enough." "That's what I mean," said Miss Greeby, vigorously. "It's a rotten world, this, unless one can get away into the wilds." "Why don't you go there?" "Well," Miss Greeby leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, and dandled the bludgeon with both hands. "I thought I'd like a change from the rough and ready. This case of Pine's rather puzzled me, and so I'm on the trail as a detective." Lambert was rather startled. "That's considerably out of your line, Clara." Miss Greeby nodded. "Exactly, and so I'm indulging in the novelty. One must do something to entertain one's self, you know, Lambert. It struck me that the gypsies know a lot more about the matter than they chose to say, so I came down yesterday, and put up at the Garvington Arms in the village. Here I'm going to stay until I can get at the root of the matter." "What root?" "I wish to learn who murdered Pine, poor devil." "Ah," Lambert smiled. "You wish to gain the reward." "Not me. I've got more money than I know what to do with, as it is. Silver is more anxious to get the cash than I am." "Silver! Have you seen him lately?" "A couple of days ago," Miss Greeby informed him easily. "He's my secretary now, Lambert. Yes! The poor beast was chucked out of his comfortable billet by the death of Pine, and hearing that I wanted some one to write my letters and run my errands, and act like a tame cat generally, he applied to me. Since I knew him pretty well through Pine, I took him on. He's a cunning little fox, but all right when he's kept in order. And I find him pretty useful, although I've only had him as a secretary for a fortnight." Lambert did not immediately reply. The news rather amazed him, as it had always been Miss Greeby's boast that she could manage her own business. It was queer that she should have changed her mind in this respect, although she was woman enough to exercise that very feminine prerogative. But the immediate trend of Lambert's thoughts were in the direction of seeking aid from his visitor. He could not act himself because he was sick, and he knew that she was a capable person in dealing with difficulties. Also, simply for the sake of something to do she had become an amateur detective and was hunting for the trail of Pine's assassin. It seemed to Lambert that it would not be a bad idea to tell her of his troubles. She would, as he knew, be only too willing to assist, and in that readiness lay his hesitation. He did not wish, if possible, to lie under any obligation to Miss Greeby lest she should demand in payment that he should become her husband. And yet he believed that by this time she had overcome her desires in this direction. To make sure, he ventured on a few cautious questions. "We're friends, aren't we, Clara?" he asked, after a long pause. "Sure," said Miss Greeby, nodding heartily. "Does it need putting into words?" "I suppose not, but what I mean is that we are pals." He used the word which he knew most appealed to her masculine affectations. "Sure," said Miss Greeby again, and once more heartily. "Real, honest pals. I never believed in that stuff about the impossibility of a man and woman being pals unless there's love rubbish about the business. At one time, Lambert, I don't deny but what I had a feeling of that sort for you." "And now?" questioned the young man with an uneasy smile. "Now it's gone, or rather my love has become affection, and that's quite a different thing, old fellow. I want to see you happy, and you aren't now. I daresay you're still crying for the moon. Eh?" she looked at him sharply. "You asked me that before when you came here," said Lambert, slowly. "And I refused to answer. I can answer now. The moon is quite beyond my reach, so I have dried my tears." Miss Greeby, who was lighting a cigarette, threw away the match and stared hard at his haggard face. "Well, I didn't expect to hear that, now we know how the moon--" "Call things by their right name," interrupted Lambert, sharply. "Agnes is now a widow, if that's what you mean." "It is, if you call Agnes a thing. Of course, you'll marry her since the barrier has been removed?" "Meaning Pine? No! I'm not certain on that point. She is a rich widow and I'm a poor artist. In honor bound I can't allow her to lose her money by becoming my wife." Miss Greeby stared at the fire. "I heard about that beastly will," she said, frowning. "Horribly unfair, I call it. Still, I believed that you loved the moon--well, then, Agnes, since you wish us to be plain--and would carry her off if you had the pluck." "I have never been accused of not having pluck, Clara. But there's another thing to be considered, and that's honor." "Oh, bosh!" cried Miss Greeby, with boyish vigor. "You love her and she loves you, so why not marry?" "I'm not worth paying two million for, Clara." "You are, if she loves you." "She does and would marry me to-morrow if I would let her. The hesitation is on my part." "More fool you. If I were in her position I'd soon overcome your scruples." "I think not," said Lambert delicately. "Oh, I think so," she retorted. "A woman always gets her own way." "And sometimes wrecks continents to get it." "I'd wreck this one, anyhow," said Miss Greeby dryly. "However, we're pals, and if there's anything I can do--" "Yes, there is," said Lambert abruptly, and making up his mind to trust her, since she showed plainly that there was no chance of love on her part destroying friendship. "I'm sick here and can't move. Let me engage you to act on my behalf." "As what, if you don't mind my asking, Lambert?" "As what you are for the moment, a detective." "Ho!" said Miss Greeby in a guttural manner. "What's that?" "I want you to learn on my behalf, and as my deputy, who murdered Pine." "So that you can marry Agnes?" "No. The will has stopped my chances in that direction. Her two million forms quite an insurmountable barrier between us now, as the fact of her being Pine's wife did formerly. Now you understand the situation, and that I am prevented by honor from making her my wife, don't let us talk any more on that especial subject." "Right you are," assented Miss Greeby affably. "Only I'll say this, that you are too scrupulous, and if I can help you to marry Agnes I shall do so." "Why?" demanded Lambert bluntly. "Because I'm your pal and wish to see you happy. You won't be happy, like the Pears soap advertisement, until you get it. Agnes is the 'it.'" "Well, then, leave the matter alone, Clara," said Lambert, taking the privilege of an invalid and becoming peevish. "As things stand, I can see no chance of marrying Agnes without violating my idea of honor." "Then why do you wish me to help you?" demanded Miss Greeby sharply. "How do I wish you to help me, you mean." "Not at all. I know what you wish me to do; act as detective; I know about it, my dear boy." "You don't," retorted Lambert, again fractious. "But if you listen I'll tell you exactly what I mean." Miss Greeby made herself comfortable with a fresh cigarette, and nodded in an easy manner, "I'm all attention, old boy. Fire away!" "You must regard my confidence as sacred." "There's my hand on it. But I should like to know why you desire to learn who murdered Pine." "Because if you don't track down the assassin, Agnes will get into trouble." "Ho!" ejaculated Miss Greeby, guttural again. "Go on." Lambert wasted no further time in preliminary explanations, but plunged into the middle of things. In a quarter of an hour his auditor was acquainted with the facts of a highly unpleasant case, but exhibited no surprise when she heard what her secretary had to do with the matter. In fact, she rather appeared to admire his acuteness in turning such shady knowledge to his own advantage. At the same time, she considered that Agnes had behaved in a decidedly weak manner. "If I'd been in her shoes I'd have fired the beast out in double-quick time," said Miss Greeby grimly. "And I'd have belted him over the head in addition." "Then he would have gone straight to the police." "Oh, no he wouldn't. One thousand reward against twenty-five thousand blackmail isn't good enough." "He won't get his blackmail," said Lambert, tightening his lips. "You bet he won't now that I've come into the matter. But there's no denying he's got the whip-hand so far." "Agnes never wrote the letter," said Lambert quickly. "Oh, that goes without the saying, my dear fellow. Agnes knew that if she became a rich widow, your uneasy sense of honor would never let you marry her. She had no reason to get rid of Pine on that score." "Or on any score, you may add." Miss Greeby nodded. "Certainly! You and Agnes should have got married and let Garvington get out of his troubles as best he could. That's what I should have done, as I'm not an aristocrat, and can't see the use of becoming the sacrifice for a musty, fusty old family. However, Agnes made her bargain and kept to it. She's all right, although other people may be not of that opinion." "There isn't a man or woman who dare say a word against Agnes." "A good many will say lots of words, should what you have told me get into print," rejoined Miss Greeby dryly. "I agree with you. Therefore do I ask for your assistance. What is best to be done, Clara?" "We must get the letter from Silver and learn who forged it. Once that is made plain, the truth will come to light, since the individual who forged and sent that letter must have fired the second shot." "Quite so. But Silver won't give up the letter." "Oh, yes, he will. He's my secretary, and I'll make him." "Even as your secretary he won't," said Lambert, dubiously. "We'll see about that, old boy. I'll heckle and harry and worry Silver on to the gallows if he doesn't do what he's told." "The gallows. You don't think--" "Oh, I think nothing. It was to Silver's interest that Pine should live, so I don't fancy he set the trap. It was to Chaldea's interest that Pine should not live, since she loves you, and I don't think she is to blame. Garvington couldn't have done it, as he has lost a good friend in Pine, and--and--go on Lambert, suggest some one else." "I can't. And two out of three you mention were inside The Manor when the second shot was fired, so can prove an alibi." "I'm not bothering about who fired the second shot," said Miss Greeby leisurely, "but as to who wrote that letter. Once we find the forger, we'll soon discover the assassin." "True; but how are you going about it?" "I shall see Silver and force him to give me the letter." "If you can." "Oh, I'll manage somehow. The little beast's a coward, and I'll bully him into compliance." Miss Greeby spoke very confidently. "Then we'll see the kind of paper the letter is written on, and there may be an envelope which would show where it was posted. Of course, the forger must be well acquainted with Agnes's handwriting." "That's obvious," said Lambert promptly. "Well, I suppose that your way of starting the matter is the best. But we have only four days before Silver makes his move." "When I get the letter he won't make any move," reported Miss Greeby, and she looked very determined. "Let us hope so. But, Clara, before you return to town I wish you would see Mother Cockleshell." "That old gypsy fortune-teller, who looks like an almshouse widow? Why?" "She hates Chaldea, and I suspect that Chaldea has something to do with the matter of this conspiracy." "Ha!" Miss Greeby rubbed her aquiline nose. "A conspiracy. Perhaps you may be right. But its reason?" Lambert colored. "Chaldea wants me to marry her, you know." "The minx! I know she does. I warned you against having her to sit for you, Lambert. But there's no sense in your suggestion, my boy. It wasn't any catch for her to get Pine killed and leave his wife free to marry you." "No. And yet--and yet--hang it," the young man clutched his hair in desperation and glared at the fire, "I can't see any motive." "Nor can I. Unless it is to be found in the City." "Gypsies are more lawless than City men," observed the other quickly, "and Hearne would have enemies rather than Pine." "I don't agree with you," said Miss Greeby, rising and getting ready to go away. "Hearne was nobody: Pine was a millionaire. Successful men have enemies all over the shop." "At the inquest it was said that Pine had no enemies." "Oh, rubbish. A strong man like that couldn't make such a fortune without exciting envy. I'll bet that his assassin is to be found in a frock coat and a silk hat. However, I'll look up Mother Cockleshell, as it is just as well to know what she thinks of this pretty gypsy hussy of yours." "Not of mine. I don't care for her in the least." "As if that mattered. There is always one who loves and one who is loved, as Heine says, and that is the cause of all life's tragedies. Of this tragedy maybe, although I think some envious stockbroker may have shot Pine as a too successful financial rival. However, we shall see about it." "And see about another thing, Clara," said Lambert quickly. "Call on Agnes and tell her that she need not worry over Silver. She expects the Deluge in a few days, remember." "Write and tell her that I have the case in hand and that she needn't trouble about Silver. I'll straighten him out." "I fear you are too hopeful." "I don't fear anything of the sort. I'll break his neck if he doesn't obey me. I wouldn't hesitate to do it, either." Lambert ran his eyes over her masculine personality and laughed. "I quite believe that, Clara. But, I say, won't you have some tea before you go?" "No, thanks. I don't eat between meals." "Afternoon tea is a meal." "Nonsense. It's a weakness. I'm not Garvington. By the way, where is he?" "In Paris, but he returns in a few days." "Then don't let him meddle with this matter, or he'll put things wrong." "I shall allow no one but yourself to meddle, Clara, Garvington shan't know a single thing." Miss Greeby nodded. "Right. All we wish kept quiet would be in the papers if Garvington gets hold of our secrets. He's a loose-tongued little glutton. Well, good-bye, old chap, and do look after yourself. Good people are scarce." Lambert gripped her large hand. "I'm awfully obliged to you, Clara." "Wait until I do something before you say that, old son," she laughed and strode towards the door. "By the way, oughtn't I to send the doctor in?" "No. Confound the doctor! I'm all right. You'll see me on my legs in a few days." "Then we can work together at the case. Keep your flag flying, old chap, for I'm at the helm to steer the bark." And with this nautical farewell she went off with a manly stride, whistling a gay tune. Left alone, the invalid looked into the fire, and wondered if he had been right to trust her. After some thought, he concluded that it was the best thing he could have done, since, in his present helpless state, he needed some one to act as his deputy. And there was no doubt that Miss Greeby had entirely overcome the passion she had once entertained for him. "I hope Agnes will think so also," thought Lambert, when he began a letter to the lady. "She was always rather doubtful of Clara." CHAPTER XIV. MISS GREEBY, DETECTIVE. As Miss Greeby had informed Lambert, she intended to remain at the Garvington Arms until the mystery of Pine's death was solved. But her interview with him necessitated a rearrangement of plans, since the incriminating letter appeared to be such an important piece of evidence. To obtain it, Miss Greeby had decided to return to London forthwith, in order to compel its surrender. Silver would undoubtedly show fight, but his mistress was grimly satisfied that she would be able to manage him, and quite counted upon gaining her end by bullying him into compliance. When in possession of the letter she decided to submit it to Agnes and hear what that lady had to say about it as a dexterous piece of forgery. Then, on what was said would depend her next move in the complicated game. Meanwhile, since she was on the spot and desired to gather all possible evidence connected with Chaldea's apparent knowledge of the crime, Miss Greeby went straight from Lambert's cottage to the gypsy camp. Here she found the community of vagrants in the throes of an election, or rather their excitement was connected with the deposition of Gentilla Stanley from the Bohemian throne, and the elevation of Chaldea. Miss Greeby mixed with the throng, dispensed a few judicious shillings and speedily became aware of what was going on. It appeared that Chaldea, being pretty and unscrupulous, and having gained, by cunning, a wonderful influence amongst the younger members of the tribe, was insisting that she should be elected its head. The older men and women, believing wisely that it was better to have an experienced ruler than a pretty figurehead, stood by Mother Cockleshell, therefore the camp was divided into two parties. Tongues were used freely, and occasionally fists came into play, while the gypsies gathered round the tent of the old woman and listened to the duet between her and the younger aspirant to this throne of Brentford. Miss Greeby, with crossed legs and leaning on her bludgeon, listened to the voluble speech of Mother Cockleshell, which was occasionally interrupted by Chaldea. The oration was delivered in Romany, and Miss Greeby only understood such scraps of it as was hastily translated to her by a wild-eyed girl to whom she had given a shilling. Gentilla, less like a sober pew-opener, and more resembling the Hecate of some witch-gathering, screamed objurgations at the pitch of her crocked voice, and waved her skinny arms to emphasize her words, in a most dramatic fashion. "Oh, ye Romans," she screeched vehemently, "are ye not fools to be gulled by a babe with her mother's milk--and curses that it fed her--scarcely dry on her living lips? Who am I who speak, asses of the common? Gentilla Stanley, whose father was Pharaoh before her, and who can call up the ghosts of dead Egyptian kings, with a tent for a palace, and a cudgel for a sceptre, and the wisdom of our people at the service of all." "Things have changed," cried out Chaldea with a mocking laugh. "For old wisdom is dead leaves, and I am the tree which puts forth the green of new truths to make the Gorgios take off their hats to the Romans." "Oh, spawn of the old devil, but you lie. Truth is truth and changes not. Can you read the hand? can you cheat the Gentile? do you know the law of the Poknees, and can you diddle them as has money? Says you, 'I can!' And in that you lie, like your mother before you. Bless your wisdom"--Mother Cockleshell made an ironical curtsey. "Age must bow before a brat." "Beauty draws money to the Romans, and wheedles the Gorgios to part with red gold. Wrinkles you have, mother, and weak wits to--" "Weak wits, you drab? My weakest wits are your strongest. 'Wrinkles,' says you in your cunning way, and flaunts your brazen smoothness. I spit on you for a fool." The old woman suited her action to the word. "Every wrinkle is the mark of lessons learned, and them is wisdom which the Romans take from my mouth." "Hear the witchly hag," cried Chaldea in her turn. "She and her musty wisdom that puts the Romans under the feet of the Gentiles. Are not three of our brothers in choky? have we not been turned off common and out of field? Isn't the fire low and the pot empty, and every purse without gold? Bad luck she has brought us," snarled the girl, pointing an accusing finger. "And bad luck we Romans will have till she is turned from the camp." "Like a dog you would send me away," shrieked Mother Cockleshell, glancing round and seeing that Chaldea's supporters outnumbered her own. "But I'm dangerous, and go I shall as a queen should, at my own free will. I cast a shoe amongst you,"--she flung one of her own, hastily snatched off her foot--"and curses gather round it. Under its heels shall you lie, ye Romans, till time again and time once more be accomplished. I go on my own," she turned and walked to the door of her tent. "Alone I go to cheat the Gentiles and win my food. Take your new queen, and with her sorrow and starvation, prison, and the kicks of the Gorgios. So it is, as I have said, and so it shall be." She vanished into the tent, and the older members of the tribe, shaking their heads over the ill-omen of her concluding words, withdrew sorrowfully to their various habitations, in order to discuss the situation. But the young men and women bowed down before Chaldea and forthwith elected her their ruler, fawning on her, kissing her hands and invoking blessings on her pretty face, that face which they hoped and believed would bring prosperity to them. And there was no doubt that of late, under Mother Cockleshell's leadership, the tribe had been unfortunate in many ways. It was for this reason that Chaldea had raised the standard of rebellion, and for this reason also she gained her triumph. To celebrate her coronation she gave Kara, who hovered constantly at her elbow, a couple of sovereigns, and told him to buy food and drink. In a high state of enjoyment the gypsies dispersed in order to prepare for the forthcoming festivity, and Chaldea, weary but victorious, stood alone by the steps of the caravan, which was her perambulating home. Seizing her opportunity, Miss Greeby approached. "My congratulations to your majesty," she said ironically. "I'm sorry not to be able to stay for your coronation, which I presume takes place to-night. But I have to go back to London to see a friend of yours." "I have no friends, my Gentile lady," retorted Chaldea, with a fiery spark in each eye. "And what do you here amongst the gentle Romany?" "Gentle," Miss Greeby chuckled, "that's a new word for the row that's been going on, my girl. Do you know me?" "As I know the road and the tent and the art of dukkerhin. You stay at the big house, and you love the rye who lived in the wood." "Very clever of you to guess that," said Miss Greeby coolly, "but as it happens, you are wrong. The rye is not for me and not for you. He marries the lady he worships on his knees. Forgive me for speaking in this high-flowing manner," ended Miss Greeby apologetically, "but in romantic situations one must speak romantic words." Chaldea did not pay attention to the greater part of this speech, as only one statement appealed to her. "The rye shall not marry the Gentile lady," she said between her white teeth. "Oh, I think so, Chaldea. Your plotting has all been in vain." "My plotting. What do you know of that?" "A certain portion, my girl, and I'm going to know more when I see Silver." Chaldea frowned darkly. "I know nothing of him." "I think you do, since you gave him a certain letter." "Patchessa tu adove?" asked Chaldea scornfully; then, seeing that her visitor did not understand her, explained: "Do you believe in that?" "Yes," said Miss Greeby alertly. "You found the letter in Pine's tent when he was camping here as Hearne, and passed it to Silver so that he might ask money for it." "It's a lie. I swear it's a lie. I ask no money. I told the tiny rye--" "Silver, I presume," put in Miss Greeby carelessly. "Aye: Silver is his name, and a good one for him as has no gold." "He will get gold from Lady Agnes for the letter." "No. Drodi--ah bah!" broke off Chaldea. "You don't understand Romanes. I speak the Gorgio tongue to such as you. Listen! I found the letter which lured my brother to his death. The rani wrote that letter, and I gave it to the tiny rye, saying: 'Tell her if she gives up the big rye free she shall go; if not take the letter to those who deal in the law.'" "The police, I suppose you mean," said Miss Greeby coolly. "A very pretty scheme, my good girl. But it won't do, you know. Lady Agnes never wrote that letter, and had nothing to do with the death of her husband." "She set a trap for him," cried Chaldea fiercely, "and Hearne walked into it like a rabbit into a snare. The big rye waited outside and shot--" "That's a lie," interrupted Miss Greeby just as fiercely, and determined to defend her friend. "He would not do such a thing." "Ha! but I can prove it, and will when the time is ripe. He becomes my rom does the big rye, or round his neck goes the rope; and she dances long-side, I swear." "What a bloodthirsty idea, you savage devil! And how do you propose to prove that Mr. Lambert shot the man?" "Aha," sneered Chaldea contemptuously, "you take me for a fool, saying more than I can do. But know this, my precious angel"--she fumbled in her pocket and brought out a more or less formless piece of lead--"what's this, may I ask? The bullet which passed through Hearne's heart, and buried itself in a tree-trunk." Miss Greeby made a snatch at the article, but Chaldea was too quick for her and slipped it again into her pocket. "You can't prove that it is the bullet," snapped Miss Greeby glaring, for she dreaded lest its production should incriminate Lambert, innocent though she believed him to be. "Kara can prove it. He went to where Hearne was shot and saw that there was a big tree by the blue door, and before the shrubbery. A shot fired from behind the bushes would by chance strike the tree. The bullet which killed my brother was not found in the heart. It passed through and was in the tree-trunk. Kara knifed it out and brought it to me. If this," Chaldea held up the bullet again jeeringly, "fits the pistol of the big rye he will swing for sure. The letter hangs her and the bullet hangs him. I want my price." "You won't get it, then," said Miss Greeby, eyeing the pocket into which the girl had again dropped the bullet. "Mr. Lambert was absent in London on that night. I heard that by chance." "Then you heard wrong, my Gentile lady. Avali, quite wrong. The big rye returned on that very night and went to Lundra again in the morning." "Even if he did," said Miss Greeby desperately, "he did not leave the cottage. His housekeeper can prove--" "Nothing," snapped Chaldea triumphantly. "She was in her bed and the golden rye was in his bed. My brother was killed after midnight, and if the rye took a walk then, who can say where he was?" "You have to prove all this, you know." Chaldea snapped her fingers. "First, the letter to shame her; then the bullet to hang him. The rest comes after. My price, you know, my Gorgious artful. I toves my own gad. It's a good proverb, lady, and true Romany." "What does it mean?" "I wash my own shirt," said Chaldea, significantly, and sprang up the steps of her gaily-painted caravan to shut herself in. "What a fool I am not to take that bullet from her," thought Miss Greeby, standing irresolutely before the vehicle, and she cast a glance around to see if such an idea was feasible. It was not, as she speedily decided, for a single cry from Chaldea would bring the gypsies round to protect their new queen. It was probable also that the girl would fight like a wild cat; although Miss Greeby felt that she could manage her so far. But she was not equal to fighting the whole camp of vagrants, and so was compelled to abandon her scheme. In a somewhat discontented mood, she turned away, feeling that, so far, Chaldea had the whip-hand. Then it occurred to her that she had not yet examined Mother Cockleshell as had been her original intention when she came to the camp. Forthwith she passed back to the tent under the elm, to interview the deposed queen. Here, she found Gentilla Stanley placing her goods in an untidy bundle on the back of a large gray donkey, which was her private property. The old creature's eyes were red with weeping and her gray hair had fallen down, so that she presented a somewhat wild appearance. This, in connection with her employment, reminded Miss Greeby--whose reading was wide--of a similar scene in Borrow's "Lavengro," when Mrs. Pentulengro's mother shifted herself. And for the moment Mother Cockleshell had just the hairy looks of Mrs. Hern, and also at the moment, probably had the same amiable feelings. Feeling that the old woman detested her successful rival, Miss Greeby approached, guessing that now was the right moment to work on her mind, and thus to learn what she could of Chaldea's underhand doings. She quite expected a snub, as Gentilla could scarcely be expected to answer questions when taken up with her own troubles. But the artful creature, seeing by a side-glance that Miss Greeby was a wealthy Gentile lady, dropped one of her almshouse curtseys when she approached, and bundled up her hair. A change passed over her withered face, and Miss Greeby found herself addressing not so much a fallen queen, as a respectable old woman who had known better days. "And a blessing on your sweet face, my angel," mumbled Mother Cockleshell. "For a heart you have to feel for my sorrows." "Here is a sign of my feelings," said Miss Greeby, handing over a sovereign, for she rightly judged that the gypsy would only appreciate this outward symbol of sympathy. "Now, what do you know of Pine's murder?" Mother Cockleshell, who was busy tying up the sovereign in a corner of her respectable shawl, after biting it to make sure it was current gold, looked up with a vacant expression. "Murder, my lady, and what should I know of that?" Miss Greeby looked at her straightly. "What does Chaldea know of it?" A vicious pair of devils looked out of the decent widow's eyes in a moment, and at once she became the Romany. "Hai! She knows, does she, the drab! I hope to see her hanged." "For what?" "For killing of Hearne, may his bones rest sweetly." Miss Greeby suppressed an exclamation. "She accuses Lady Agnes of laying a trap by writing a letter, and says that Mr. Lambert fired the shot." "Avali! Avali!" Mother Cockleshell nodded vigorously, but did not interrupt her preparations for departure. "That she would say, since she loves the Gorgio, and hates the rani. A rope round her neck to set the rye free to make Chaldea--my curses on her--his true wife." "She couldn't have fired the shot herself, you know," went on Miss Greeby in a musing manner. "For then she would remove an obstacle to Mr. Lambert marrying Lady Agnes." "Blessings on her for a kind, Gentile lady," said Gentilla, piously, and looking more respectable than ever, since the lurking devils had disappeared. "But Chaldea is artful, and knows the rye." "What do you mean?" "This, my lady. Hearne, who was the Gorgio Pine, had the angel to wife, but he did not hope to live long because of illness." Miss Greeby nodded. "Consumption, Pine told me." "If he had died natural," pursued Mother Cockleshell, pulling hard at a strap, "maybe the Gentile lady would have married the golden rye, whom she loves. But by the violent death, Chaldea has tangled up both in her knots, and if they wed she will make trouble." "So she says. But can she?" "Hai! But she's a deep one, ma'am, believe me when I say so," Mother Cockleshell nodded sapiently. "But foolish trouble has she given herself, when the death of Hearne natural, or by the pistol-shot would stop the marriage." "What do you mean?" inquired Miss Greeby once more. "You Gentiles are fools," said Gentilla, politely. "For you put other things before true love. Hearne, as Pine, had much gold, and that he left to his wife should she not marry the golden rye." "How do you know that?" "Chaldea was told so by the dead, and told me, my lady. Now the angel of the big house would give up the gold to marry the rye, for her heart is all for him. 'But,' says he, and tell me if I'm wrong. Says he, 'No. If I make you my romi that would beggar you and fair it would not be, for a Romany rye to do!' So, my lady, the red gold parts them, because it's red money." "Red money?" "Blood money. The taint of blood is on the wealth of the dead one, and so it divides by a curse the true hearts of the living. You see, my lady?" Miss Greeby did see, and the more readily, since she had heard Lambert express exactly the sentiments with which the old gypsy credited him. An overstrained feeling of honor prevented him in any case from making Agnes his wife, whether the death had come by violence or by natural causes. But it was amazing that Gentilla should know this, and Miss Greeby wonderingly asked her how she came by such knowledge. The respectable widow chuckled. "I have witchly ways, ma'am, and the golden rye has talked many a time to me in my tent, when I told him of the Gorgious lady's goodness to me when ill. They love--aye, that is sure--but the money divides their hearts, and that is foolish. Chaldea had no need to shoot to keep them apart." "How do you know she shot Pine?" "Oh, I can say nothing the Poknees would listen to," said Mother Cockleshell readily. "For I speak only as I think, and not as I know. But the child was impatient for joy, and hoped by placing the cruel will between true hearts to gain that of the golden rye for her own part. But that she will not. Ha! Ha! Nor you, my lady, nor you." "Me?" Miss Greeby colored even redder than she was by nature. Gentilla looked at her shrewdly. "La! La! La! La!" she croaked. "Age brings a mighty wisdom. They were fools to throw me out," and she jerked her grizzled head in the direction of the caravans and tents. "Don't talk rubbish, you old donkey! Mr. Lambert is only my friend." "You're a woman and he's a man," said Mother Cockleshell sententiously. "We are chums, pals, whatever you like to call us. I want to see him happy." "He will never be happy, my lady, unless he marries the rani. And death, by bringing the money between their true love, has divided them forever, unless the golden rye puts his heart before his fear of silly chatter for them he moves amongst. The child was right to shoot Hearne, so far, although she could have waited and gained the same end. The rye is free to marry her, or to marry you, ma'am, but never to marry the angel, unless--" Mother Cockleshell adjusted the bundle carefully on the donkey, and then cut a long switch from the tree. "I don't want to marry Mr. Lambert," said Miss Greeby decisively. "And I'll take care that Chaldea doesn't!" Gentilla chuckled again. "Oh, trust you for that." "As to Chaldea shooting Pine--" "Leave it to me, leave it to me, ma'am," said the old gypsy with a grandiloquent wave of her dirty hand. "But I wish to learn the truth and save Lady Agnes from this trouble." "You wish to save her?" chuckled Mother Cockleshell. "And not the golden rye? Ah well, my angel, there are women, and women." She faced round, and the humor died out of her wrinkled face. "You wish for help and so have come to see me? Is it not so?" "Yes," said Miss Greeby tartly. "Chaldea will make trouble." "The child won't. I can manage her." Miss Greeby hitched up her broad shoulders contemptuously. "She has managed you just now." "There are ways and ways, and when the hour arrives, the sun rises to scatter the darkness," said Gentilla mystically. "Let the child win for the moment, for my turn comes." "Then you know something?" "What I know mustn't be said till the hour strikes. But content yourself, my Gorgious lady, with knowing that the child will make no trouble." "She has parted with the letter?" "I know of that letter. Hearne showed it to me, and would make for the big house, although I told him fair not to doubt his true wife." "How did he get the letter?" "That's tellings," said Mother Cockleshell with a wink of her lively eye. "I've a good mind to take you to the police, and then you'd be forced to say what you know," said Miss Greeby crossly, for the vague hints irritated her not a little. The old woman cackled in evident enjoyment. "Do that, and the pot will boil over, ma'am. I wish to help the angel rani who nursed me when I was sick, and I have debts to pay to Chaldea. Both I do in my own witchly way." "You will help me to learn the truth?" "Surely! Surely! my Gorgious one. And now," Mother Cockleshell gave a tug at the donkey's mouth, "I goes my ways." "But where can I find you again?" "When the time comes the mouth will open, and them as thinks they're high will find themselves in the dust. Aye, and maybe lower, if six feet of good earth lies atop, and them burning in lime, uncoffined and unblessed." Miss Greeby was masculine and fearless, but there was something so weird about this mystic sentence, which hinted at capital punishment, that she shrank back nervously. Mother Cockleshell, delighted to see that she had made an impression, climbed on to the gray donkey and made a progress through the camp. Passing by Chaldea's caravan she spat on it and muttered a word or so, which did not indicate that she wished a blessing to rest on it. Chaldea did not show herself, so the deposed queen was accompanied to the outskirts of the wood by the elder gypsies, mourning loudly. But when they finally halted to see the last of Mother Cockleshell, she raised her hand and spoke authoritatively. "I go and I come, my children. Forget not, ye Romans, that I say so much. When the seed needs rain it falls. Sarishan, brothers and sisters all." And with this strange speech, mystical to the last, she rode away into the setting sun, on the gray donkey, looking more like an almshouse widow than ever. As for Miss Greeby, she strode out of the camp and out of the Abbot's Wood, and made for the Garvington Arms, where she had left her baggage. What Mother Cockleshell knew, she did not guess; what Mother Cockleshell intended to do, she could not think; but she was satisfied that Chaldea would in some way pay for her triumph. And the downfall of the girl was evidently connected with the unravelling of the murder mystery. In a witchly way, as the old woman would have said herself, she intended to adjust matters. "I'll leave things so far in her hands," thought Miss Greeby. "Now for Silver." CHAPTER XV. GUESSWORK. Whether Miss Greeby found a difficulty, as was probable, in getting Silver to hand over the forged letter, or whether she had decided to leave the solution of this mystery to Mother Cockleshell, it is impossible to say. But she certainly did not put in an appearance at Lady Agnes Pine's town house to report progress until after the new year. Nor in the meantime did she visit Lambert, although she wrote to say that she induced the secretary to delay his threatened exposure. The position of things was therefore highly unsatisfactory, since the consequent suspense was painful both to Agnes and her lover. And of course the widow had been duly informed of the interview at the cottage, and naturally expected events to move more rapidly. However, taking the wise advice of Isaiah to "Make no haste in time of trouble," Agnes possessed her soul in patience, and did not seek out Miss Greeby in any way, either by visiting or by letter. She attended at her lawyers' offices to supervise her late husband's affairs, and had frequent consultations with Garvington's solicitors in connection with the freeing of the Lambert estates. Everything was going on very satisfactorily, even to the improvement of Lambert's health, so Agnes was not at all so ill at ease in her mind as might have been expected. Certainly the sword of Damocles still dangled over her head, and over the head of Lambert, but a consciousness that they were both innocent, assured her inwardly that it would not fall. Nevertheless the beginning of the new year found her in anything but a placid frame of mind. She was greatly relieved when Miss Greeby at last condescended to pay her a visit. Luckily Agnes was alone when the lady arrived, as Garvington and his wife were both out enjoying themselves in their several ways. The pair had been staying with the wealthy widow for Christmas, and had not yet taken their departure, since Garvington always tried to live at somebody's expense if possible. He had naturally shut up The Manor during the festive season, as the villagers expected coals and blankets and port wine and plum-puddings, which he had neither the money nor the inclination to supply. In fact, the greedy little man considered that they should ask for nothing and pay larger rents than they did. By deserting them when peace on earth and goodwill to men prevailed, or ought to have prevailed, he disappointed them greatly and chuckled over their lamentations. Garvington was very human in some ways. However, both the corpulent little lord and his untidy wife were out of the way when Miss Greeby was announced, and Agnes was thankful that such was the case, since the interview was bound to be an important one. Miss Greeby, as usual, looked large and aggressively healthy, bouncing into the room like an india-rubber ball. Her town dress differed very little from the garb she wore in the country, save that she had a feather-trimmed hat instead of a man's cap, and carried an umbrella in place of a bludgeon. A smile, which showed all her strong white teeth in a somewhat carnivorous way, overspread her face as she shook hands vigorously with her hostess. And Miss Greeby's grip was so friendly as to be positively painful. "Here you are, Agnes, and here am I. Beastly day, ain't it? Rain and rain and rain again. Seems as though we'd gone back to Father Noah's times, don't it?" "I expected you before, Clara," remarked Lady Agnes rather hurriedly, and too full of anxiety to discuss the weather. "Well, I intended to come before," confessed Miss Greeby candidly. "Only, one thing and another prevented me!" Agnes noticed that she did not specify the hindrances. "It was the deuce's own job to get that letter. Oh, by the way, I suppose Lambert told you about the letter?" "Mr. Silver told me about it, and I told Noel," responded Agnes gravely. "I also heard about your interview with--" "Oh, that's ages ago, long before Christmas. I should have gone and seen him, to tell about my experiences at the gypsy camp, but I thought that I would learn more before making my report as a detective. By the way, how is Lambert, do you know?" "He is all right now, and is in town." "At his old rooms, I suppose. For how long? I want to see him." "For an indefinite period. Garvington has turned him out of the cottage." "The deuce! What's that for?" "Well," said Agnes, explaining reluctantly, "you see Noel paid no rent, as Garvington is his cousin, and when an offer came along offering a pound a week for the place, Garvington said that he was too poor to refuse it. So Noel has taken a small house in Kensington, and Mrs. Tribb has been installed as his housekeeper. I wonder you didn't know these things." "Why should I?" asked Miss Greeby, rather aggressively. "Because it is Mr. Silver who has taken the cottage." Miss Greeby sat up alertly. "Silver. Oh, indeed. Then that explains why he asked me for leave to stay in the country. Said his health required fresh air, and that London got on his nerves. Hum! hum!" Miss Greeby bit the handle of her umbrella. "So he's taken the Abbot's Wood Cottage, has he? I wonder what that's for?" "I don't know, and I don't care," said Agnes restlessly. "Of course I could have prevented Garvington letting it to him, since he tried to blackmail me, but I thought it was best to see the letter, and to understand his meaning more thoroughly before telling my brother about his impertinence. Noel wanted me to tell, but I decided not to--in the meantime at all events." "Silver's meaning is not hard to understand," said Miss Greeby, drily and feeling in her pocket. "He wants to get twenty-five thousand pounds for this." She produced a sheet of paper dramatically. "However, I made the little animal give it to me for nothing. Never mind what arguments I used. I got it out of him, and brought it to show you." Agnes, paling slightly, took the letter and glanced over it with surprise. "Well," she said, drawing a long breath, "if I had not been certain that I never wrote such a letter, I should believe that I did. My handwriting has certainly been imitated in a wonderfully accurate way." "Who imitated it?" asked Miss Greeby, who was watching her eagerly. "I can't say. But doesn't Mr. Silver--" "Oh, he knows nothing, or says that he knows nothing. All he swears to is that Chaldea found the letter in Pine's tent the day after his murder, and before Inspector Darby had time to search. The envelope had been destroyed, so we don't know if the letter was posted or delivered by hand." "If I had written such a letter to Noel," said Agnes quietly, "it certainly would have been delivered by hand." "In which case Pine might have intercepted the messenger," put in Miss Greeby. "It couldn't have been sent by post, or Pine would not have got hold of it, unless he bribed Mrs. Tribb into giving it up." "Mrs. Tribb is not open to bribery, Clara. And as to the letter, I never wrote it, nor did Noel ever receive it." "It was written from The Manor, anyhow," said Miss Greeby bluntly. "Look at the crest and the heading. Someone in the house wrote it, if you didn't." "I'm not so sure of that. The paper might have been stolen." "Well." Miss Greeby again bit her umbrella handle reflectively. "There's something in that, Agnes. Chaldea told Mrs. Belgrove's fortune in the park, and afterwards she came to the drawing-room to tell it again. I wonder if she stole the paper while she was in the house." "Even if she did, an uneducated gypsy could not have forged the letter." "She might have got somebody to do so," suggested Miss Greeby, nodding. "Then the somebody must be well acquainted with my handwriting," retorted Lady Agnes, and began to study the few lines closely. She might have written it herself, so much did it resemble her style of writing. The terse communication stated that the writer, who signed herself "Agnes Pine," would meet "her dearest Noel" outside the blue door, shortly after midnight, and hoped that he would have the motor at the park gates to take them to London en route to Paris. "Hubert is sure to get a divorce," ended the letter, "and then we can marry at once and be happy ever more." It was certainly a silly letter, and Agnes laughed scornfully. "I don't express myself in that way," she said contemptuously, and still eyeing the writing wonderingly. "And as I respected my husband and respect myself, I should never have thought of eloping with my cousin, especially from Garvington's house, when I had much better and safer chances of eloping in town. Had Noel received this, he would never have believed that I wrote it, as I assuredly did not. And a 'motor at the park gates,'" she read. "Why not at the postern gate, which leads to the blue door? that would have been safer and more reasonable. Pah! I never heard such rubbish," and she folded up the letter to slip it into her pocket. Miss Greeby looked rather aghast. "Oh, you must give it back to me," she said hurriedly. "I have to look into the case, you know." "I shall not give it back to you," said Agnes in a determined manner. "It is in my possession and shall remain there. I wish to show it to Noel." "And what am I to say to Silver?" "Whatever you like. You can manage him, you know." "He'll make trouble." "Now that he has lost this weapon"--Agnes touched her pocket--"he can't." "Well"--Miss Greeby shrugged her big shoulders and stood up--"just as you please. But it would be best to leave the letter and the case in my hands." "I think not," rejoined Agnes decisively. "Noel is now quite well again, and I prefer him to take charge of the matter himself." "Is that all the thanks I get for my trouble?" "My dear Clara," said the other cordially, "I am ever so much obliged to you for robbing Mr. Silver of this letter. But I don't wish to put you to any more trouble." "Just as you please," said Miss Greeby again, and rather sullenly. "I wash my hands of the business, and if Silver makes trouble you have only yourself to thank. I advise you also, Agnes, to see Mother Cockleshell and learn what she has to say." "Does she know anything?" "She gave me certain mysterious hints that she did. But she appears to have a great opinion of you, my dear, so she may be more open with you than she was with me." "Where is she to be found?" "I don't know. Chaldea is queen of the tribe, which is still camped on the outskirts of Abbot's Wood. Mother Cockleshell has gone away on her own. Have you any idea who wrote the letter?" Agnes took out the forged missive again and studied it. "Not in the least," she said, shaking her head. "Do you know of any one who can imitate your handwriting?" "Not that I know--oh," she stopped suddenly and grew as white as the widow's cap she wore. "Oh," she said blankly. "What is it?" demanded Miss Greeby, on fire with curiosity. "Have you thought of any one?" Agnes shook her head again and placed the letter in her pocket. "I can think of no one," she said in a low voice. Miss Greeby did not entirely believe this, as the sudden hesitation and the paleness hinted at some unexpected thought, probably connected with the forgery. However, since she had done all she could, it was best, as she judged, to leave things in the widow's hands. "I'm tired of the whole business," said Miss Greeby carelessly. "It wouldn't do for me to be a detective, as I have no staying power, and get sick of things. Still, if you want me, you know where to send for me, and at all events I've drawn Silver's teeth." "Yes, dear; thank you very much," said Agnes mechanically, so the visitor took her leave, wondering what was rendering her hostess so absent-minded. A very persistent thought told her that Agnes had made a discovery in connection with the letter, but since she would not impart that thought there was no more to be said. When Miss Greeby left the house and was striding down the street, Agnes for the third time took the letter from her pocket and studied every line of the writing. It was wonderfully like her own, she thought again, and yet wondered both at the contents and at the signature. "I should never have written in this way to Noel," she reflected. "And certainly I should never have signed myself 'Agnes Pine' to so intimate a note. However, we shall see," and with this cryptic thought she placed the letter in her desk. When Garvington and his wife returned they found Agnes singularly quiet and pale. The little man did not notice this, as he never took any interest in other people's emotions, but his wife asked questions to which she received no answers, and looked at Agnes uneasily, when she saw that she did not eat any dinner to speak of. Lady Garvington was very fond of her kind-hearted sister-in-law, and would have been glad to know what was troubling her. But Agnes kept her worries to herself, and insisted that Jane should go to the pantomime, as she had arranged with some friends instead of remaining at home. But when Garvington moved to leave the drawing-room, after drinking his coffee, his sister detained him. "I want you to come to the library to write a letter for me, Freddy," she said in a tremulous voice. "Can't you write it yourself?" said Garvington selfishly, as he was in a hurry to get to his club. "No, dear. I am so tired," sighed Agnes, passing her hand across her brow. "Then you should have kept on Silver as your secretary," grumbled Garvington. "However, if it won't take long, I don't mind obliging you." He followed her into the library, and took his seat at the writing table. "Who is the letter to?" he demanded, taking up a pen in a hurry. "To Mr. Jarwin. I want him to find out where Gentilla Stanley is. It's only a formal letter, so write it and sign it on my behalf." "Like an infernal secretary," sighed Garvington, taking paper and squaring his elbows. "What do you want with old Mother Cockleshell?" "Miss Greeby was here to-day and told me that the woman knows something about poor Hubert's death." Garvington's pen halted for a moment, but he did not look round. "What can she possibly know?" he demanded irritably. "That's what I shall find out when Mr. Jarwin discovers her," said Agnes, who was in a low chair near the fire. "By the way, Freddy, I am sorry you let the Abbot's Wood Cottage to Mr. Silver." "Why shouldn't I?" growled Garvington, writing industriously. "Noel didn't pay me a pound a week, and Silver does." "You might have a more respectable tenant," said Agnes scathingly. "Who says Silver isn't respectable?" he asked, looking round. "I do, and I have every reason to say so." "Oh, nonsense!" Garvington began to write again. "Silver was Pine's secretary, and now he's Miss Greeby's. They wouldn't have engaged him unless he was respectable, although he did start life as a pauper toymaker. I suppose that is what you mean, Agnes. I'm surprised at your narrowness." "Ah, we have not all your tolerance, Freddy. Have you finished that letter?" "There you are." Garvington handed it over. "You don't want me to address the envelope?" "Yes, I do," Agnes ran her eyes over the missive; "and you can add a postscript to this, telling Mr. Jarwin he can take my motor to look for Gentilla Stanley if he chooses." Garvington did as he was asked reluctantly. "Though I don't see why Jarwin can't supply his own motors," he grumbled, "and ten to one he'll only put an advertisement in the newspapers." "As if Mother Cockleshell ever saw a newspaper," retorted his sister. "Oh, thank you, Freddy, you are good," she went on when he handed her the letter in a newly addressed envelope; "no, don't go, I want to speak to you about Mr. Silver." Garvington threw himself with a growl into a chair. "I don't know anything about him except that he's my tenant," he complained. "Then it is time you did. Perhaps you are not aware that Mr. Silver tried to blackmail me." "What?" the little man grew purple and exploded. "Oh, nonsense!" "It's anything but nonsense." Agnes rose and went to her desk to get the forged letter. "He came to me a long time before Christmas and said that Chaldea found this," she flourished the letter before her brother's eyes, "in Hubert's tent when he was masquerading as Hearne." "A letter? What does it say?" Garvington stretched out his hand. Agnes drew back and returned to her seat by the fire. "I can tell you the contents," she said coolly, "it is supposed to be written by me to Noel and makes an appointment to meet him at the blue door on the night of Hubert's death in order to elope." "Agnes, you never wrote such a letter," cried Garvington, jumping up with a furious red face. His sister did not answer for a moment. She had taken the letter just written to Jarwin by Garvington and was comparing it with that which Miss Greeby had extorted from Silver. "No," she said in a strange voice and becoming white, "I never wrote such a letter; but I should be glad to know why you did." "I did?" Garvington retreated and his face became as white as that of the woman who confronted him, "what the devil do you mean?" "I always knew that you were clever at imitating handwriting, Freddy," said Agnes, while the two letters shook in her grasp, "we used to make a joke of it, I remember. But it was no joke when you altered that check Hubert gave you, and none when you imitated his signature to that mortgage about which he told me." "I never--I never!" stammered the detected little scoundrel, holding on to a chair for support. "I never--" "Spare me these lies," interrupted his sister scornfully, "Hubert showed the mortgage, when it came into his possession, to me. He admitted that his signature was legal to spare you, and also, for my sake, hushed up the affair of the check. He warned you against playing with fire, Freddy, and now you have done so again, to bring about his death." "It's a damned lie." "It's a damned truth," retorted Agnes fiercely. "I got you to write the letter to Mr. Jarwin so that I might compare the signature to the one in the forged letter. Agnes Pine in one and Agnes Pine in the other, both with the same twists and twirls--very, very like my signature and yet with a difference that I alone can detect. The postscript about the motor I asked you to write because the word occurs in the forged letter. Motor and motor--both the same." "It's a lie," denied Garvington again. "I have not imitated your handwriting in the letter to Jarwin." "You unconsciously imitated the signature, and you have written the word motor the same in both letters," said Agnes decisively. "I suddenly thought of your talent for writing like other people when Clara Greeby asked me to-day if I could guess who had forged the letter. I laid a trap for you and you have fallen into it. And you"--she took a step forward with fiery glance so that Garvington, retreating, nearly tumbled over a chair--"you laid a trap for Hubert into which he fell." "I never did--I never did!" babbled Garvington, gray with fear. "Yes, you did. I swear to it. Now I understand why you threatened to shoot any possible burglar who should come to The Manor. You learned, in some way, I don't know how, that Hubert was with the gypsies, and, knowing his jealous nature, you wrote this letter and let it fall into his hands, so that he might risk being shot as a robber and a thief." "I--I--I--didn't shoot him," panted the man brokenly. "It was not for the want of trying. You broke his arm, and probably would have followed him out to inflict a mortal wound if your accomplice in the shrubbery had not been beforehand with you." "Agnes, I swear that I took Pine for a burglar, and I don't know who shot him. Really, I don't!" "You liar!" said Agnes with intense scorn. "When you posted your accompl--" She had no chance to finish the word, for Garvington broke in furiously and made a great effort to assert himself. "I had no accomplice. Who shot Pine I don't know. I never wrote the letter; I never lured him to his death; he was more good to me alive than dead. He never--" "He was not more good to you alive than dead," interrupted Lady Agnes in her turn. "For Hubert despised you for the way in which you tried to trick him out of money. He thought you little better than a criminal, and only hushed up your wickedness for my sake. You would have got no more money out of him, and you know that much. By killing him you hoped that I would get the fortune and then you could plunder me at your leisure. Hubert was hard to manage, and you thought that I would be easy. Well, I have got the money and you have got rid of Hubert. But I shall punish you." "Punish me?" Garvington passed his tongue over his dry lips, and looked as though in his terror he would go down on his knees to plead. "Oh, not by denouncing you to the police," said his sister contemptuously. "For, bad as you are, I have to consider our family name. But you had Hubert shot so as to get the money through me, and now that I am in possession I shall surrender it to the person named in the sealed envelope." "No! No! No! No! Don't--don't--" "Yes, I shall. I can do so by marrying Noel. I shall no longer consider the financial position of the family. I have sacrificed enough, and I shall sacrifice no more. Hubert was a good husband to me, and I was a good and loyal wife to him; but his will insults me, and you have made me your enemy by what you have done." "I did not do it. I swear I did not do it." "Yes, you did; and no denial on your part will make me believe otherwise. I shall give you a few days to think over the necessity of making a confession, and in any case I shall marry Noel." "And lose the money. You shan't!" "Shan't!" Agnes stepped forward and looked fairly into his shifty eyes. "You are not in a position to say that, Freddy. I am mistress both of the situation and of Hubert's millions. Go away," she pushed him toward the door. "Take time to think over your position, and confess everything to me." Garvington got out of the room as swiftly as his shaky legs could carry him, and paused at the door to turn with a very evil face. "You daren't split on me," he screeched. "I defy you! I defy you! You daren't split on me." Alas! Agnes knew that only too well, and when he disappeared she wept bitterly, feeling her impotence. CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST STRAW. Lady Agnes was inaccurate when she informed Miss Greeby that her cousin had taken a house in Kensington, since, like many women, she was accustomed to speak in general terms, rather than in a precise way. The young man certainly did live in the suburb she mentioned, but he had simply rented a furnished flat in one of the cheaper streets. He was the poorest of all the Lamberts, and could scarcely pay his club subscriptions, much less live in the style his ancient name demanded. The St. James's chambers had merely been lent to him by a friend, and when the owner returned, the temporary occupant had to shift. Therefore, on the score of economy, he hired the dingy flat and brought up Mrs. Tribb to look after it. The little woman, on her master's account, was disgusted with the mean surroundings. "When you ought to be living in a kind of Buckingham Palace, Master Noel, as I should declare with my dying breath," she said indignantly. "And have the title, too, if things was as they ought to be." "I shouldn't be much better off if I did have the title, Mrs. Tribb," replied Lambert with a shrug. "It's common knowledge that Garvington can scarcely keep his head above water. As an old family servant you should know." "Ah, Master Noel, there's many things as I know, as I'm sorry I do know," said Mrs. Tribb incoherently. "And them lords as is dead and buried did waste the money, there's no denying. But some of your cousins, Master Noel, have gone into trade and made money, more shame to them." "I don't see that, Mrs. Tribb. I'd go into trade myself if I had any head for figures. There's no disgrace in trade." "Not for them as isn't Lamberts, Master Noel, and far be it from me to say so, gentry not being so rich as they used to be when my mother was a gal. I don't hold with it though for you, sir. But now Lady Agnes having millions and billions will make things easier for you." "Certainly not, Mrs. Tribb. How could I take money from her?" "And why not, Master Noel? if you'll excuse my making so free. As a child she'd give you anything in the way of toys, and as a grown-up, her head is yours if not her heart, as is--" "There! there! Don't talk any more," said Lambert, coloring and vexed. "I haven't annoyed you, sir, I hope. It's my heart as speaks." "I appreciate the interest you take in the family, Mrs. Tribb, but you had better leave some things unsaid. Now, go and prepare tea, as Lady Agnes has written saying she will be here this afternoon." "Oh, Master Noel, and you only tell me now. Then there ain't time to cook them cakes she dotes on." But Lambert declined to argue further, and Mrs. Tribb withdrew, murmuring that she would have to make shift with sardine sandwiches. Her tongue was assuredly something of a nuisance, but the young man knew how devoted she was to the family, and, since she had looked after him when he was a child, he sanctioned in her a freedom he would not have permitted any one else to indulge in. And it is to be feared, that the little woman in her zeal sometimes abused her privileges. The sitting room was small and cramped, and atrociously furnished in an overcrowded way. There were patterns on the wall-paper, on the carpet, on the tablecloth and curtains, until the eye ached for a clean surface without a design. And there were so many ill-matched colors, misused for decorative purposes, that Lambert shuddered to the core of his artistic soul when he beheld them. To neutralize the glaring tints, he pulled down the blinds of the two windows which looked on to a dull suburban roadway, and thus shut out the weak sunshine. Then he threw himself into an uncomfortable arm-chair and sought solace in his briar root. The future was dark, the present was disagreeable, and the past would not bear thinking about, so intimately did it deal with the murder of Pine, the threats of Silver, and the misery occasioned by the sacrifice of Agnes to the family fetish. It was in the young man's mind to leave England forthwith and begin a new life, unhampered by former troubles and present grievances. But Agnes required help and could not be left to struggle unaided, so Lambert silently vowed again, as he had vowed before, to stand by her to the end. Yet so far he was unable to see what the end would be. While he thus contemplated the unpleasantness of life he became aware that the front door bell was ringing, and he heard Mrs. Tribb hurrying along the passage. So thin were the walls, and so near the door that he heard also the housekeeper's effusive welcome, which was cut short by a gasp of surprise. Lambert idly wondered what caused the little woman's astonishment, but speedily learned when Agnes appeared in the room. With rare discretion Mrs. Tribb ushered in the visitor and then fled to the kitchen to wonder why the widow had discarded her mourning. "And him only planted six months, as you might say," murmured the puzzled woman. "Whatever will Master Noel say to such goings on?" Master Noel said nothing, because he was too astonished to speak, and Agnes, seeing his surprise, and guessing its cause, waited, somewhat defiantly, for him to make an observation. She was dressed in a gray silk frock, with a hat and gloves, and shoes to match, and drew off a fur-lined cloak of maroon-colored velvet, when she entered the room. Her face was somewhat pale and her eyes looked unnaturally large, but she had a resolute expression about her mouth, which showed that she had made up her mind. Lambert, swift, from long association, to read her moods, wondered what conclusion she had arrived at, and proceeded to inquire. "Whatever is the meaning of this?" he demanded, considerably startled. "This dress?" "Of course. Where is your widow's cap and--" "In the fire, and there they can remain until they are burned to ashes." Lambert stared harder than ever. "What does it mean?" he asked again. "It means," said Agnes, replying very directly, "that the victim is no longer decked out for the sacrifice. It means, that as Hubert insulted me by his will, I no longer intend to consider his memory." "But, Agnes, you respected him. You always said that you did?" "Quite so, until his will was read. Then when I found that his mean jealousy--which was entirely unreasonable--had arranged to rob me of my income by preventing my marriage with you, I ceased to have any regard for him. Hubert knew that I loved you, and was content to take me on those terms so long as I was loyal to him. I _was_ loyal, and did what I could to show him gratitude for the way in which he helped the family. Now his will has broken the bargain I respect him no longer, and for that reason I refuse to pose any longer as a grieving widow." "I wonder, with these thoughts, that you posed at all," said Lambert gloomily, and pushed forward a chair. "I could not make up my mind until lately what to do," explained Agnes, sitting down gracefully, "and while I accepted his money it appeared to me that I ought to show his memory the outward respect of crape and all the rest of it. Now," she leaned forward and spoke meaningly, "I am resolved to surrender the money. That breaks the link between us. The will! the will!" she tapped an impatient foot on the carpet. "How could you expect any woman to put up with such an insult?" Lambert dropped on the sofa and looked at her hard. "What's up?" he asked anxiously. "I never saw you like this before." "I was not free when you last saw me," she replied dryly. "Oh, yes; you were a widow." "I mean free, in my own mind, to marry you. I am now. I don't intend to consider the family or society, or Mr. Silver's threats, or anything else. I have shaken off my fetters; I have discarded my ring." She violently pulled off her glove to show that the circle of gold was absent. "I am free, and I thank God that I am free." "Agnes! Agnes! I can't reduce you to poverty by marrying you. It would not be honorable of me." "And would it be honorable on my part for me to keep the money of a man I despise because his will insults me?" she retorted. "We argued all this before." "Yes, we did, and concluded to wait until we saw how the estates could be freed before we came to any conclusion." "And do you see now how the estates can be freed without using Pine's money, Agnes?" asked Lambert anxiously. "No. Things are ever so much worse than I thought. Garvington can hold out for another year, but at the end of twelve months the estates will be sold up by the person whose name is in the sealed envelope, and he will be reduced to some hundreds a year. The Lamberts!" she waved her arm dramatically, "are ruined, my dear; entirely ruined!" "And for the simple reason that you wish us to place love before duty." Agnes leaned forward and took his hand firmly. "Noel, you love me?" "Of course I do." "Do you love the family name better?" "In one way I wish to save it, in another I am willing to let it go hang." "Yes. Those were my views until three or four days ago." "And what caused you to change your mind, dear?" "A visit which Clara Greeby paid me." "Oh." Lambert sat up very straight. "She hasn't been making mischief, has she?" "Not at all. On the contrary, she has done both of us a great service." Lambert nodded thankfully. He felt doubtful as to whether Miss Greeby really had meant to renounce her absurd passion for himself, and it was a relief to find that she had been acting honestly. "Has she then learned who killed Pine?" he asked cautiously. Lady Agnes suddenly rose and began to pace the room, twisting her gloves and trying to control herself. Usually she was so composed that Lambert wondered at this restlessness. He wondered still more when she burst into violent tears, and therefore hastened to draw her back to the chair. When she was seated he knelt beside her and passed his arm round her neck, as distressed as she was. It was so unlike Agnes to break down in this way, and more unlike her to sob brokenly. "Oh, I'm afraid--I'm afraid." "Afraid of what, darling?" "I'm afraid to learn who killed my husband. He might have done so, and yet he only fired the first shot--" "Agnes," Lambert rose up suddenly, "are you talking of Garvington?" "Yes." She leaned back and dried her tears. "In spite of what he says, I am afraid he may be guilty." Lambert's heart seemed to stand still. "You talk rubbish!" he cried angrily. "I wish it was. Oh, how I wish it was rubbish! But I can't be sure. Of course, he may have meant what he says--" "What does he say? Tell me everything. Oh, heavens!" Lambert clutched his smooth hair. "What does it all mean?" "Ruin to the Lambert family. I told you so." "You have only told me scraps so far. I don't understand how you can arrive at the conclusion that Garvington is guilty. Agnes, don't go on crying in so unnecessary a way. If things have to be faced, surely we are strong enough to face them. Don't let our emotions make fools of us. Stop it! Stop it!" he said sharply and stamping. "Dry your eyes and explain matters." "I--I can't help my feelings," faltered Agnes, beginning to respond to the spur, and becoming calmer. "Yes, you can. I don't offer you brandy or smelling salts, or anything of the sort, because I know you to be a woman with a firm mind. Exert your will, and compel your nerves to be calm. This exhibition is too cheap." "Oh," cried Agnes indignantly, and this feeling was the one Lambert wished to arouse, "how can you talk so?" "Because I love you and respect you," he retorted. She knew that he meant what he said, and that her firmness of mind and self-control had always appealed to him, therefore she made a great effort and subdued her unruly nerves. Lambert gave her no assistance, and merely walked up and down the room while waiting for her to recover. It was not easy for her to be herself immediately, as she really was shaken, and privately considered that he expected too much. But pride came to her aid, and she gradually became more composed. Meanwhile Lambert pulled up the blind to display the ugly room in all its deformity, and the sight--as he guessed it would--extorted an exclamation from her. "Oh, how can you live in this horrid place?" she asked irrelevantly. "Necessity knows no law. Are you better?" "Yes; I am all right. But you are brutal, Noel." "I wouldn't have been brutal to a weaker woman," he answered. "And by acting as I have done, I show how much I think of you." "Rather a strange way of showing approval. But your drastic methods have triumphed. I am quite composed, and shall tell you of our disgrace in as unemotional a manner as if I were reckoning pounds, shillings and pence." "Disgrace?" Lambert fastened on the one word anxiously. "To us?" "To Garvington in the first place. But sit down and listen. I shall tell you everything, from the moment Clara came to see me." Lambert nodded and resumed his seat. Agnes, with wonderful coolness, detailed Miss Greeby's visit and production of the letter. Thence she passed on to explain how she had tricked Garvington into confession. "But he did not confess," interrupted Lambert at this point. "Not at the moment. He did yesterday in a letter to me. You see, he left my house immediately and slept at his club. Then he went down to The Manor and sent for Jane, who, by the way, knows nothing of what I have explained. Here are two letters," added Agnes, taking an envelope out of her pocket. "One is the forged one, and the other came from Garvington yesterday. Even though he is not imitating my writing, you can see every now and then the similarity. Perhaps there is a family resemblance in our caligraphy." Her cousin examined the two epistles with a rather scared look, for there was no doubt that things looked black against the head of the family. However, he did not read Garvington's letter, but asked Agnes to explain. "What excuse does he make for forging your name?" asked Lambert in a business-like way, for there was no need to rage over such a worm as Freddy. "A very weak one," she replied. "So weak that I scarcely believe him to be in earnest. Besides, Freddy always was a liar. He declares that when he went to see about getting the gypsies turned off the land, he caught sight of Hubert. He did not speak to him, but learned the truth from Mr. Silver, whom he forced to speak. Then he wrote the letter and let it purposely fall into Mr. Silver's hands, and by Mr. Silver it was passed on to Hubert. Freddy writes that he only wanted to hurt Hubert so that he might be laid up in bed at The Manor. When he was weak--Hubert, I mean--Freddy then intended to get all the money he could out of him." "He did not wish to kill Pine, then?" "No. And all the evidence goes to show that he only broke Hubert's arm." "That is true," murmured Lambert thoughtfully, "for the evidence of the other guests and of the servants showed plainly at the inquest that the second shot was fired outside while Garvington was indoors." Agnes nodded. "Yes; it really seems as though Freddy for once in his life is telling the exact truth." Her cousin glanced at Garvington's lengthy letter of explanation. "Do you really believe that he hoped to manage Pine during the illness?" "Well," said Agnes reluctantly, "Freddy has tremendous faith in his powers of persuasion. Hubert would do nothing more for him since he was such a cormorant for money. But if Hubert had been laid up with a broken arm, it is just possible that he might have been worried into doing what Freddy wanted, if only to get rid of his importunity." "Hum! It sounds weak. Garvington certainly winged Pine, so that seems to corroborate the statement in this letter. He's such a good shot that he could easily have killed Pine if he wanted to." "Then you don't think that Freddy is responsible for the death?" inquired Agnes with a look of relief. Lambert appeared worried. "I think not, dear. He lured Hubert into his own private trap so as to get him laid up and extort money. Unfortunately, another person, aware of the trap, waited outside and killed your poor husband." "According to what Freddy says, Mr. Silver knew of the trap, since he delivered the letter to Hubert. And Mr. Silver knew that Freddy had threatened to shoot any possible burglar. It seems to me," ended Agnes deliberately, "that Mr. Silver is guilty." "But why should he shoot Pine, to whom he owed so much?" "I can't say." "And, remember, Silver was inside the house." "Yes," assented Lady Agnes, in dismay. "That is true. It is a great puzzle, Noel. However, I am not trying to solve it. Clara says that Mr. Silver will hold his tongue, and certainly as the letter is now in my possession he cannot bring forward any evidence to show that I am inculpated in the matter. I think the best thing to do is to let Freddy and Mr. Silver fight out the matter between them, while we are on our honeymoon." Lambert started. "Agnes! What do you mean?" She grew impatient. "Oh, what is the use of asking what I mean when you know quite well, Noel? Hubert insulted me in his will, and cast a slur on my character by forbidding me to marry you. Freddy--although he did not fire the second shot--certainly lured Hubert to his death by forging that letter. I don't intend to consider my husband's memory any more, nor my brother's position. I shall never speak to him again if I can help it, as he is a wicked little animal. I have sacrificed myself sufficiently, and now I intend to take my own way. Let the millions go, and let Freddy be ruined, if only to punish him for his wickedness." "But, dear, how can I ask you to share my poverty?" said Lambert, greatly distressed. "I have only five hundred a year, and you have been accustomed to such luxury." "I have another five hundred a year of my own," said Agnes obstinately, "which Hubert settled on me for pin money. He refused to make any other settlements. I have a right to that money, since I sacrificed so much, and I shall keep it. Surely we can live on one thousand a year." "In England?" inquired Lambert doubtfully. "And after you have led such a luxurious life?" "No," she said quickly. "I mean in the Colonies. Let us go to Australia, or Canada, or South Africa, I don't care which, and cut ourselves off from the past. We have suffered enough; let us now think of ourselves." "But are we not selfish to let the family name be disgraced?" "Freddy is selfish, and will disgrace it in any case," said Agnes, with a contemptuous shrug. "What's the use of pulling him out of the mud, when he will only sink back into it again? No, Noel, if you love me you will marry me within the week." "But it's so sudden, dear," he urged, more and more distressed. "Take time to consider. How can I rob you of millions?" "You won't rob me. If you refuse, I shall make over the money to some charity, and live on my five hundred a year. Remember, Noel, what people think of me: that I married Hubert to get his money and to become your wife when he died, so that we could live on his wealth. We can only prove that belief to be false by surrendering the millions and marrying as paupers." "You may be right, and yet--" "And yet, and yet--oh," she cried, wounded, "you don't love me." The man did not answer, but stood looking at her with all his soul in his eyes, and shaking from head to foot. Never before had she looked so desirable, and never before had he felt the tides of love surge to so high a Water-mark. "Love you!" he said in a hoarse voice. "Agnes, I would give my soul for you." "Then give it." She wreathed her arms round his neck and whispered with her warm lips close to his ear, "Give me all of you." "But two millions--" "You are worth it." "Darling, you will repent." "Repent!" She pressed him closer to her. "Repent that I exchange a lonely life for companionship with you? Oh, my dear, how can you think so? I am sick of money and sick of loneliness. I want you, you, you! Noel, Noel, it is your part to woo, and here am I making all the love." "It is such a serious step for you to take." "It is the only step that I can take. I am known as a mercenary woman, and until we marry and give up the money, everybody will think scornfully of me. Besides, Freddy must be punished, and in no other way can I make him suffer so much as by depriving him of the wealth he sinned to obtain." "Yes. There is that view, certainly. And," Lambert gasped, "I love you--oh, never doubt that, my darling." "I shall," she whispered ardently, "unless you get a special license and marry me straightaway." "But Garvington and Silver--" "And Clara Greeby and Chaldea, who both love you," she mocked. "Let them all fight out their troubles alone. I have had enough suffering; so have you. So there's no more to be said. Now, sir," she added playfully, "wilt thou take this woman to be thy wedded wife?" "Yes," he said, opening his arms and gathering Agnes to his heart. "But what will people say of your marrying so soon after Pine's death?" "Let them say what they like and do what they like. We are going to the Colonies and will be beyond reach of slanderous tongues. Now, let us have tea, Noel, for I am hungry and thirsty, and quite tired out with trying to convince you of my earnestness." Lambert rang for the tea. "Shall we tell Jarwin that we intend to marry?" "No. We shall tell no one until we are married," she replied, and kissed him once, twice, thrice, and again, until Mrs. Tribb entered with the tray. Then they both sat demurely at the first of many meals which they hoped would be the start of a new Darby and Joan existence. And the outcome of the interview and of the decision that was arrived at appeared in a letter to Mr. Jarwin, of Chancery Lane. A week later he received a communication signed by Agnes Lambert, in which she stated that on the preceding day she had married her cousin by special license. Mr. Jarwin had to read the epistle twice before he could grasp the astounding fact that the woman had paid two millions for a husband. "She's mad, crazy, silly, insane," murmured the lawyer, then his eyes lighted up with curiosity. "Now I shall know the name of the person in the sealed letter who inherits," and he forthwith proceeded to his safe. CHAPTER XVII. ON THE TRAIL. Great was the excitement in society when it became known--through the medium of a newspaper paragraph--that Lady Agnes Pine had surrendered two millions sterling to become Mrs. Noel Lambert. Some romantic people praised her as a noble woman, who placed love above mere money, while others loudly declared her to be a superlative fool. But one and all agreed that she must have loved her cousin all the time, and that clearly the marriage with the deceased millionaire had been forced on by Garvington, for family reasons connected with the poverty of the Lamberts. It was believed that the fat little egotist had obtained his price for selling his sister, and that his estates had been freed from all claims through the generosity of Pine. Of course, this was not the case; but the fact was unknown to the general public, and Garvington was credited with an income which he did not possess. The man himself was furious at having been tricked. He put it in this way, quite oblivious to his own actions, which had brought about such a result. He could not plead ignorance on this score, as Agnes had written him a letter announcing her marriage, and plainly stating her reasons for giving up her late husband's fortune. She ironically advised him to seek out the person to whom the money would pass, and to see if he could not plunder that individual. Garvington, angry as he was, took the advice seriously, and sought out Jarwin. But that astute individual declined to satisfy his curiosity, guessing what use he would make of the information. In due time, as the solicitor said, the name of the lucky legatee would be made public, and with this assurance Garvington was obliged to be content. Meanwhile the happy pair--and they truly were extremely happy--heard nothing of the chatter, and were indifferent to either praise or blame. They were all in all to one another, and lived in a kind of Paradise, on the south coast of Devonshire. On one of his sketching tours Lambert had discovered a picturesque old-world village, tucked away in a fold of the moorlands, and hither he brought his wife for the golden hours of the honeymoon. They lived at the small inn and were attended to by a gigantic landlady, who made them very comfortable. Mrs. "Anak," as Noel called her, took the young couple for poor but artistic people, since Agnes had dropped her title, as unsuited to her now humble position. "And in the Colonies," she explained to her husband, during a moorland ramble, "it would be absurd for me to be called 'my lady.' Mrs. Noel Lambert is good enough for me." "Quite so, dear, if we ever do go to the Colonies." "We must, Noel, as we have so little to live on." "Oh, one thousand a year isn't so bad," he answered good-humoredly. "It may seem poverty to you, who have been used to millions, my darling; but all my life I have been hard up, and I am thankful for twenty pounds a week." "You speak as though I had been wealthy all my life, Noel. But remember that I was as hard up as you before I married Hubert, poor soul." "Then, dear, you must appreciate the fact that we can never starve. Besides I hope to make a name as a painter." "In the Colonies?" "Why not? Art is to be found there as in England. Change of scene does not destroy any talent one may possess. But I am not so sure, darling, if it is wise to leave England--at least until we learn who murdered Pine." "Oh, my dear, do let us leave that vexed question alone. The truth will never become known." "It must become known, Agnes," said Lambert firmly. "Remember that Silver and Chaldea practically accuse us of murdering your husband." "They know it is a lie, and won't proceed further," said Agnes hopefully. "Oh, yes, they will, and Miss Greeby also." "Clara! Why, she is on our side." "Indeed she is not. Your guess that she was still in love with me turns out to be quite correct. I received a letter from her this morning, which was forwarded from Kensington. She reproaches me with marrying you after the trouble she took in getting the forged letter back from Silver." "But you told me that she said she would help you as a friend." "She did so, in order--to use an expressive phrase--to pull the wool over my eyes. But she intended--and she puts her intention plainly in her letter--to help me in order to secure my gratitude, and then she counted upon my making her my wife." Agnes flushed. "I might have guessed that she would act in that way. When you told me that she was helping I had a suspicion what she was aiming at. What else does she say?" "Oh, all manner of things, more or less silly. She hints that I have acted meanly in causing you to forfeit two millions, and says that no man of honor would act in such a way." "I see," said Mrs. Lambert coolly. "She believed that my possession of the money would be even a greater barrier to our coming together than the fact of my being married to Hubert. Well, dear, what does it matter?" "A great deal, Agnes," replied Noel, wrinkling his brows. "She intends to make mischief, and she can, with the aid of Silver, who is naturally furious at having lost his chance of blackmail. Then there's Chaldea--" "She can do nothing." "She can join forces with Miss Greeby and the secretary, and they will do their best to get us into trouble. To defend ourselves we should have to explain that Garvington wrote the letter, and then heaven only knows what disgrace would befall the name." "But you don't believe that Freddy is guilty?" asked Agnes anxiously. "Oh, no. Still, he wrote that letter which lured Pine to his death, and if such a mean act became known, he would be disgraced forever." "Freddy has such criminal instincts," said Mrs. Lambert gloomily, "that I am quite sure he will sooner or later stand in the dock." "We must keep him out of it as long as we can," said Noel decisively. "For that reason I intend to leave you here and go to Garvington." "To see Freddy?" "Yes, and to see Chaldea, and to call on Silver, who is living in my old cottage. Also I wish to have a conversation with Miss Greeby. In some way, my dear, I must settle these people, or they will make trouble. Have you noticed, Agnes, what a number of gypsies seem to cross our path?" "Yes; but there are many gypsies in Devonshire." "No doubt, but many gypsies do not come to this retired spot as a rule, and yet they seem to swarm. Chaldea is having us watched." "For what reason?" Agnes opened her astonished eyes. "I wish to learn. Chaldea is now a queen, and evidently has sent instructions to her kinsfolk in this county to keep an eye on us." Agnes ruminated for a few minutes. "I met Mother Cockleshell yesterday," she observed; "but I thought nothing of it, as she belongs to Devonshire." "I believe Mother Cockleshell is on our side, dear, since she is so grateful to you for looking after her when she was sick. But Kara has been hovering about, and we know that he is Chaldea's lover." "Then," said Mrs. Lambert, rising from the heather on which they had seated themselves, "it will be best to face Mother Cockleshell and Kara in order to learn what all this spying means." Lambert approved of this suggestion, and the two returned to Mrs. "Anak's" abode to watch for the gypsies. But, although they saw two or three, or even more during the next few days, they did not set eyes on the Servian dwarf, or on Gentilla Stanley. Then--since it never rains but it pours--the two came together to the inn. Agnes saw them through the sitting-room window, and walked out boldly to confront them. Noel was absent at the moment, so she had to conduct the examination entirely alone. "Gentilla, why are you spying on me and my husband?" asked Agnes abruptly. The respectable woman dropped a curtsey and clutched the shoulder of Kara, who showed a disposition to run away. "I'm no spy, my angel," said the old creature with a cunning glint in her eyes. "It's this one who keeps watch." "For what reason?" "Bless you, my lady--" "Don't call me by my title. I've dropped it." "Only for a time, my dear. I have read your fortune in the stars, my Gorgio one, and higher you will be with money and rank than ever you have been in past days. But not with the child's approval." "The child. What child?" "Chaldea, no less. She's raging mad, as the golden rye has made you his romi, my sweet one, and she has set many besides Kara to overlook you." "So Mr. Lambert and I thought. And Chaldea's reason?" "She would make trouble," replied Mother Cockleshell mysteriously. "But Kara does not wish her to love the golden rye--as she still does--since he would have the child to himself." She turned and spoke rapidly in Romany to the small man in the faded green coat. Kara listened with twinkling eyes, and pulling at his heavy beard with one hand, while he held the neck of his violin with the other. When Mother Cockleshell ceased he poured out a flood of the kalo jib with much gesticulation, and in a voice which boomed like a gong. Of course, Mrs. Lambert did not understand a word of his speech, and looked inquiringly at Gentilla. "Kara says," translated the woman hurriedly, "that he is your friend, since he is glad you are the golden rye's romi. Ever since you left Lundra the child has set him and others to spy on you. She makes mischief, does the child in her witchly way." "Ask him," said Agnes, indicating the dwarf, "if he knows who murdered my late husband?" Gentilla asked the question and translated the reply. "He knows nothing, but the child knows much. I go back to the wood in Hengishire, my dear, to bring about much that will astonish Chaldea--curses on her evil heart. Tell the rye to meet me at his old cottage in a week. Then the wrong will be made right," ended Mother Cockleshell, speaking quite in the style of Meg Merrilees, and very grandiloquently. "And happiness will be yours. By this and this I bless you, my precious lady," making several mystical signs, she turned away, forcing the reluctant Kara to follow her. "But, Gentilla?" Agnes hurried in pursuit. "No! no, my Gorgious. It is not the time. Seven days, and seven hours, and seven minutes will hear the striking of the moment. Sarishan, my deary." Mother Cockleshell hobbled away with surprising alacrity, and Mrs. Lambert returned thoughtfully to the inn. Evidently the old woman knew of something which would solve the mystery, else she would scarcely have asked Noel to meet her in Hengishire. And being an enemy to Chaldea, who had deposed her, Agnes was quite sure that Gentilla would work her hardest to thwart the younger gypsy's plans. It flashed across her mind that Chaldea herself might have murdered Pine. But since his death would have removed the barrier between Lambert and herself, Agnes could not believe that Chaldea was guilty. The affair seemed to become more involved every time it was looked into. However, Mrs. Lambert related to her husband that same evening all that had taken place, and duly delivered the old gypsy's message. Noel listened quietly and nodded. He made up his mind to keep the appointment in Abbot's Wood the moment he received the intelligence. "And you can stay here, Agnes," he said. "No, no," she pleaded. "I wish to be beside you." "There may be danger, my dear. Chaldea will not stick at a trifle to revenge herself, you know." "All the more reason that I should be with you," insisted Agnes. "Besides, these wretches are plotting against me as much as against you, so it is only fair that I should be on the spot to defend myself." "You have a husband to defend you now, Agnes. Still, as I know you will be anxious if I leave you in this out-of-the-way place, it will be best for us both to go to London. There is a telephone at Wanbury, and I can communicate with you at once should it be necessary." "Of course it will be necessary," said Mrs. Lambert with fond impatience. "I shall worry dreadfully to think that you are in danger. I don't wish to lose you now that we are together." "You can depend upon my keeping out of danger, for your sake, dear," said the young man, caressing her. "Moreover, Mother Cockleshell will look after me should Chaldea try any of her Romany tricks. Stay in town, darling." "Oh, dear me, that flat is so dingy, and lonely, and disagreeable." "You shan't remain at the flat. There's a very pleasant hotel near Hyde Park where we can put up." "It's so expensive." "Never mind the expense, just now. When everything is square we can consider economy. But I shall not be easy in my mind until poor Pine's murderer is in custody." "I only hope Garvington won't be found to be an accomplice," said Agnes, with a shiver. "Bad as he is, I can't help remembering that he is my brother." "And the head of the Lamberts," added her husband gravely. "You may be sure that I shall try and save the name from disgrace." "It's a dismal ending to our honeymoon." "Let us look upon it as the last hedge of trouble which has to be jumped." Agnes laughed at this quaint way of putting things, and cheered up. For the next few days they did their best to enjoy to the full the golden hours of love, and peace which remained, and then departed, to the unfeigned regret of Mrs. "Anak." But present pleasure meant future trouble, so the happy pair--and they were happy in spite of the lowering clouds--were forced to leave their temporary paradise in order to baffle their enemies. Miss Greeby, Chaldea, Silver, and perhaps Garvington, were all arrayed against them, so a conflict could not possibly be avoided. Agnes took up her abode in the private hotel near the Park which Lambert had referred to, and was very comfortable, although she did not enjoy that luxury with which Pine's care had formerly surrounded her. Having seen that she had all she required, Noel took the train to Wanbury, and thence drove in a hired fly to Garvington, where he put up at the village inn. It was late at night when he arrived, so it might have been expected that few would have noted his coming. This was true, but among the few was Chaldea, who still camped with her tribe in Abbot's Wood. Whosoever now owned the property on mortgage, evidently did not desire to send the gypsies packing, and, of course, Garvington, not having the power, could not do so. Thus it happened that while Lambert was breakfasting next morning, somewhere about ten o'clock, word was brought to him by the landlady that a gypsy wished to see him. The young man at once thought that Mother Cockleshell had called to adjust the situation, and gave orders that she should be admitted. He was startled and ill-pleased when Chaldea made her appearance. She looked as handsome as ever, but her face wore a sullen, vicious look, which augured ill for a peaceful interview. "So you cheated me after all, rye?" was her greeting, and her eyes sparkled with anger at the sight of the man she had lost. "Don't be a fool, girl," said Lambert, purposely rough, for her persistence irritated him. "You know that I never loved you." "Am I so ugly then?" demanded the girl bitterly. "That remark is beside the point," said the man coldly. "And I am not going to discuss such things with you. But I should like to know why you set spies on me when I was in Devonshire?" Chaldea's eyes sparkled still more, and she taunted him. "Oh, the clever one that you are, to know that I had you watched. Aye, and I did, my rye. From the time you left the cottage you were under the looks of my people." "Why, may I ask?" "Because I want revenge," cried Chaldea, stepping forward and striking so hard a blow on the table that the dishes jumped. "You scorned me, and now you shall pay for that scorn." "Don't be melodramatic, please. What can you do to harm me, I should like to know, you silly creature?" "I can prove that you murdered my brother Hearne." "Oh, can you, and in what way?" "I have the bullet which killed him," said the gypsy, speaking very fast so as to prevent interruption. "Kara knifed it out of the tree-trunk which grows near the shrubbery. If I take it to the police and it fits your pistol, then where will you be, my precious cheat?" Lambert looked at her thoughtfully. If she really did possess the bullet he would be able to learn if Garvington had fired the second shot, since it would fit the barrel of his revolver. So far as he was concerned, when coming to live in the Abbot's Wood Cottage, he had left all his weapons stored in London, and would be able to prove that such was the case. He did not fear for himself, as Chaldea's malice could not hurt him in this way, but he wondered if it would be wise to take her to The Manor, where Garvington was in residence, in order to test the fitting of the bullet. Finally, he decided to risk doing so, as in this way he might be able to force the girl's hand and learn how much she really knew. If aware that Garvington was the culprit, she would exhibit no surprise did the bullet fit the barrel of that gentleman's revolver. And should it be proved that she knew the truth, she would not dare to say anything to the police, lest she should be brought into the matter, as an accomplice after the fact. Chaldea misunderstood his silence, while he was thinking in this way, and smiled mockingly with a toss of her head. "Ah, the rye is afraid. His sin has come home to him," she sneered. "Hai, you are at my feet now, my Gorgious one." "I think not," said Lambert coolly, and rose to put on his cap. "Come with me, Chaldea. We go to The Manor." "And what would I do in the boro rye's ken, my precious?" Lambert ignored the question. "Have you the bullet with you?" "Avali," Chaldea nodded. "It lies in my pocket." "Then we shall see at The Manor if it fits the pistol." "Hai! you have left the shooter at the big house," said the girl, falling into the trap, and thereby proved--to Lambert at least--that she was really in the dark as regards the true criminal. "Lord Garvington has a revolver of mine," said the young man evasively, although the remark was a true one, since he had presented his cousin with a brace of revolvers some twelve months before. Chaldea looked at him doubtfully. "And if the bullet fits--" "Then you can do what you like," retorted Lambert tartly. "Come on. I can't wait here all day listening to the rubbish you talk." The gypsy followed him sullenly enough, being overborne by his peremptory manner, and anxious, if possible, to bring home the crime to him. What she could not understand, for all her cleverness, was, why he should be so eager to condemn himself, and so went to The Manor on the lookout for treachery. Chaldea always judged other people by herself, and looked upon treachery as quite necessary on certain occasions. Had she guessed the kind of trap which Lambert was laying for her, it is questionable if she would have fallen into it so easily. And Lambert, even at this late hour, could not be certain if she really regarded him as guilty, or if she was only bluffing in order to gain her ends. Needless to say, Garvington did not welcome his cousin enthusiastically when he entered the library to find him waiting with Chaldea beside him. The fat little man rushed in like a whirlwind, and, ignoring his own shady behavior, heaped reproaches on Lambert's head. "I wonder you have the cheek to come here," he raged. "You and this beast of a girl. I want no gypsies in my house, I can tell you. And you've lost me a fortune by your selfish behavior." "I don't think we need talk of selfishness when you are present, Garvington." "Why not? By marrying Agnes you have made her give up the money." "She wished to give it up to punish you," said Lambert rebukingly. "To punish me!" Garvington's gooseberry eyes nearly fell out of his head. "And what have I done?" Lambert laughed and shrugged his shoulders. In the face of this dense egotism, it was impossible to argue in any way. He dismissed the subject and got to business, as he did not wish to remain longer in Garvington's society than was absolutely necessary. "This girl," he said abruptly, indicating Chaldea, who stood passively at his elbow, "has found the bullet with which Pine was shot." "Kara found it, my boro rye," put in the gypsy quickly, and addressing Lord Garvington, who gurgled out his surprises, "in the tree-trunk." "Ah, yes," interrupted the other. "The elm which is near the shrubbery. Then why didn't you give the bullet to the police?" "Do you ask that, Garvington?" inquired Lambert meaningly, and the little man whirled round to answer with an expression of innocent surprise. "Of course I do," he vociferated, growing purple with resentment. "You don't accuse me of murdering the man who was so useful to me, I hope?" "I shall answer that very leading question when you bring out the revolver with which you shot Pine on that night." "I only winged him," cried Garvington indignantly. "The second shot was fired by some unknown person, as was proved clearly enough at the inquest." "All the same, I wish you to produce the revolver." "Why?" The host looked suspicious and even anxious. It was Chaldea who replied, and when doing so she fished out the battered bullet. "To see if this fits the barrel of the pistol which the golden rye gave you, my great one," said she significantly. Garvington started, his color changed and he stole a queer look at the impassive face of his cousin. "The pistol which the golden rye gave me?" he repeated slowly and weighing the words. "Did you give me one, Noel?" "I gave you a couple in a case," answered Lambert without mentioning the date of the present. "And if this bullet fits the one you used--" "It will prove nothing," interrupted the other hurriedly, and with a restless movement. "I fired from the doorstep, and my bullet, after breaking Pine's arm, must have vanished into the beyond. The shot which killed him was fired from the shrubbery, and, it is quite easy to guess how it passed through him and buried itself in the tree which was in the line of fire." "I want to see the pistols," said Lambert insistently, and this time Chaldea looked at him, wondering why he was so anxious to condemn himself. "Oh, very well," snapped Garvington, with some reluctance, and walked toward the door. There he paused, and evidently awaited to arrive at some conclusion, the nature of which his cousin could not guess. "Oh, very well," he said again, and left the room. "He thinks that you are a fool, as I do, my Gorgious," said Chaldea scornfully. "You wish to hang yourself it seems, my rye." "Oh, I don't think that I shall be the one to be hanged. Tell me, Chaldea, do you really believe that I am guilty?" "Yes," said the girl positively. "And if you had married me I should have saved you." Lambert laughed, but was saved the trouble of a reply by the return of Garvington, who trotted in to lay a mahogany case on the table. Opening this, he took out a small revolver of beautiful workmanship. Chaldea, desperately anxious to bring home the crime to Lambert, hastily snatched the weapon from the little man's hand and slipped the bullet into one of the chambers. It fitted--making allowance for its battered condition--precisely. She uttered a cry of triumph. "So you did shoot the Romany, my bold one," was her victorious speech. "Because the bullet fits the barrel of a revolver I gave to my cousin some twelve months ago?" he inquired, smiling. Chaldea's face fell. "Twelve months ago!" she echoed, greatly disappointed. "Yes, as Lord Garvington can swear to. So I could not have used the weapon on that night, you see." "I used it," admitted Garvington readily enough. "And winged Pine." "Exactly. But I gave you a brace of revolvers of the same make. The bullet which would fit one--as it does--would fit the other. I see there is only one in the case. Where is the other?" Garvington's color changed and he shuffled with his feet. "I lent it to Silver," he said in a low voice, and reluctantly. "Was it in Silver's possession on the night Pine was shot?" "Must have been. He borrowed it a week before because he feared burglars." "Then," said Lambert coolly, and drawing a breath of relief, for the tension had been great, "the inference is obvious. Silver shot Hubert Pine." CHAPTER XVIII. AN AMAZING ACCUSATION. "Beng in tutes bukko!" swore Chaldea in good Romany, meaning that she wished the devil was in some one's body. And she heartily meant what she said, and cared little which of the two men's interior was occupied by the enemy of mankind, since she hated both. The girl was disappointed to think that Lambert should escape from her snare, and enraged that Garvington's production of one revolver and his confession that Silver had the other tended to this end. "May the pair of you burn in hell," she cried, taking to English, so that they could understand the insult. "Ashes may you be in the Crooked One's furnace." Lambert shrugged his shoulders, as he quite understood her feelings, and did not intend to lower himself by correcting her. He addressed himself to his cousin and turned his back on the gypsy. "Silver shot Hubert Pine," he repeated, with his eyes on Garvington's craven face. "It's impossible--impossible!" returned the other hurriedly. "Silver was shut up in the house with the rest. I saw to the windows and doors myself, along with the butler and footmen. At the inquest--" "Never mind about the inquest. I know what you said there, and I am now beginning to see why you said it." "What the devil do you mean?" "I mean," stated the other, staring hard at him, "that you knew Silver was guilty when the inquest took place, and screened him for some reason." "I didn't know; I swear I didn't know!" stuttered Garvington, wiping his heated face, and with his lower lip trembling. "You must have done so," replied Lambert relentlessly. "This bullet will fit both the revolvers I gave you, and as you passed on one to Silver--" "Rubbish! Bosh! Nonsense!" babbled the little man incoherently. "Until you brought the bullet I never knew that it would fit the revolver." This was true, as Lambert admitted. However, he saw that Garvington was afraid for some reason, and pressed his advantage. "Now that you see how it fits, you must be aware that it could only have been fired from the revolver which you gave Silver." "I don't see that," protested Garvington. "That bullet may fit many revolvers." Lambert shook his head. "I don't think so. I had that brace of revolvers especially manufactured, and the make is peculiar. I am quite prepared to swear that the bullet would fit no other weapon. And--and"--he hesitated, then faced the girl, who lingered, sullen and disappointed. "You can go, Chaldea," said Lambert, pointing to the French window of the library, which was wide open. The gypsy sauntered toward it, clutching her shawl and gritting her white teeth together. "Oh, I go my ways, my rye, but I have not done with you yet, may the big devil rack my bones if I have. You win to-day--I win to-morrow, and so good day to you, and curses on you for a bad one. The devil is a nice character--and that's you!" she screamed, beside herself with rage. "The puro beng is a fino mush, if you will have the kalo jib!" and with a wild cry worthy of a banshee she disappeared and was seen running unsteadily across the lawn. Lambert shrugged his shoulders again and turned to his miserable cousin, who had sat down with a dogged look on his fat face. "I have got rid of her because I wish to save the family name from disgrace," said Lambert quietly. "There is no disgrace on my part. Remember to whom you are speaking." "I do. I speak to the head of the family, worse luck! You have done your best to trail our name in the mud. You altered a check which Pine gave you so as to get more money; you forged his name to a mortgage--" "Lies, lies, the lies of Agnes!" screamed Garvington, jumping up and shaking his fist in puny anger. "The wicked--" "Speak properly of my wife, or I'll wring your neck," said Lambert sharply. "As to what she told me being lies, it is only too true, as you know. I read the letter you wrote confessing that you had lured Pine here to be shot by telling falsehoods about Agnes and me." "I only lured him to get his arm broken so that I might nurse him when he was ill and get some money," growled Garvington, sitting down again. "I am well aware of what you did and how you did it. But you gave that forged letter to Silver so that it might be passed on to Pine." "I didn't! I didn't! I didn't! I didn't!" "You did. And because Silver knew too much you gave him the Abbot's Wood Cottage at a cheap rent, or at no rent at all, for all I know. To be quite plain, Garvington, you conspired with Silver to have Pine killed." "Winged--only winged, I tell you. I never shot him." "Your accomplice did." "He's not my accomplice. He was in the house--everything was locked up." "By you," said Lambert quickly. "So it was easy for you to leave a window unfastened, so that Silver might get outside to hide in the shrubbery." "Oh!" Garvington jumped up again, looking both pale and wicked. "You want to put a rope round my neck, curse you." "That's a melodramatic speech which is not true," replied the other coldly. "For I want to save you, or, rather, our name, from disgrace. I won't call in the police"--Garvington winced at this word--"because I wish to hush the matter up. But since Chaldea and Silver accuse me and accuse Agnes of getting rid of Pine so that we might marry, it is necessary that I should learn the exact truth." "I don't know it. I know nothing more than I have confessed." "You are such a liar that I can't believe you. However, I shall go at once to Silver and you shall come with me." "I shan't!" Garvington, who was overfed and flabby and unable to hold his own against a determined man, settled himself in his chair and looked as obstinate as a battery mule. "Oh, yes, you will, you little swine," said Lambert freezingly cold. "How dare you call me names?" "Names! If I called you those you deserved I should have to annex the vocabulary of a Texan muledriver. How such a beast as you ever got into our family I can't conceive." "I am the head of the family and I order you to leave the room." "Oh, you do, do you? Very good. Then I go straight to Wanbury and shall tell what I have discovered to Inspector Darby." "No! No! No! No!" Garvington, cornered at last, sprang from his chair and made for his cousin with unsteady legs. "It might be unpleasant." "I daresay--to you. Well, will you come with me to Abbot's Wood?" "Yes," whimpered Garvington. "Wait till I get my cap and stick, curse you, for an interfering beast. You don't know what you're doing." "Ah! then you do know something likely to reveal the truth." "I don't--I swear I don't! I only--" "Oh, damn you, get your cap, and let us be off," broke in Lambert angrily, "for I can't be here all day listening to your lies." Garvington scowled and ambled out of the room, closely followed by his cousin, who did not think it wise to lose sight of so shifty a person. In a few minutes they were out of the house and took the path leading from the blue door to the postern gate in the brick wall surrounding the park. It was a frosty, sunny day, with a hard blue sky, overarching a wintry landscape. A slight fall of snow had powdered the ground with a film of white, and the men's feet drummed loudly on the iron earth, which was in the grip of the frost. Garvington complained of the cold, although he had on a fur overcoat which made him look like a baby bear. "You'll give me my death of cold, dragging me out like this," he moaned, as he trotted beside his cousin. "I believe you want me to take pneumonia so that I may die and leave you the title." "I should at least respect it more than you do," said Lambert with scorn. "Why can't you be a man instead of a thing on two legs? If you did die no one would miss you but cooks and provision dealers." Garvington gave him a vicious glance from his little pig's eyes, and longed to be tall, and strong, and daring, so that he might knock him down. But he knew that Lambert was muscular and dexterous, and would probably break his neck if it came to a tussle. Therefore, as the stout little lord had a great regard for his neck, he judged it best to yield to superior force, and trotted along obediently enough. Also he became aware within himself that it would be necessary to explain to Silver how he had come to betray him, and that would not be easy. Silver would be certain to make himself extremely disagreeable. Altogether the walk was not a pleasant one for the sybarite. The Abbot's Wood looked bare and lean with the leaves stripped from its many trees. Occasionally there was a fir, clothed in dark green foliage, but for the most part the branches of the trees were naked, and quivered constantly in the chilly breeze. Even on the outskirts of the wood one could see right into the centre where the black monoliths--they looked black against the snow--reared themselves grimly. To the right there was a glimpse of gypsy fires and tents and caravans, and the sound of the Romany tongue was borne toward them through the clear atmosphere. On such a day it was easy both to see and hear for long distances, and for this reason Chaldea became aware that the two men were walking toward the cottage. The girl, desperately angry that she had been unable to bring Lambert to book, had sauntered back to the camp, but had just reached it when she caught sight of the tall figure and the short one. In a moment she knew that Lambert and his cousin were making for Silver's abode, which was just what she had expected them to do. At once she determined to again adopt her former tactics, which had been successful in enabling her to overhear the conversation between Lambert and Lady Agnes, and, following at a respectful distance, she waited for her chance. It came when the pair entered the cottage, for then Chaldea ran swiftly in a circle toward the monoliths, and crouched down behind one. While peering from behind this shelter, she saw Silver pass the window of the studio, and felt certain that the interview, would take place in that room. Like a serpent, as she was, the girl crawled and wriggled through the frozen vegetation and finally managed to get under the window without being observed. The window was closed, but by pressing her ear close to the woodwork she was enabled to hear a great deal, if not all. Candidly speaking, Chaldea had truly believed that Lambert had shot Pine, but now that he had disproved the charge so easily, she became desperately anxious to learn the truth. Lambert had escaped her, but she thought that it might be possible to implicate his wife in the crime, which would serve her purpose of injuring him just as well. Silver was not surprised to see his landlord, as it seemed that Garvington paid him frequent visits. But he certainly showed an uneasy amazement when Lambert stalked in behind the fat little man. Silver was also small, and also cowardly, and also not quite at rest in his conscience, so he shivered when he met the very direct gaze of his unwelcome visitor. "You have come to look at your old house, Mr. Lambert," he remarked, when the two made themselves comfortable by the studio fire. "Not at all. I have come to see you," was the grim response. "That is an unexpected honor," said Silver uneasily, and his eyes sought those of Lord Garvington, who was spreading out his hands to the blaze, looking blue with cold. He caught Silver's inquiring look. "I couldn't help it," said Garvington crossly. "I must look after myself." Silver's smooth, foxy face became livid, and he could scarcely speak. When he did, it was with a sickly smile. "Whatever are you talking about, my lord?" "Oh, you know, d---- you! I did give you that revolver, you know." "The revolver?" Silver stared. "Yes, why should I deny it? I suppose you have come to get it back?" "I have come to get it, Mr. Silver," put in Lambert politely. "Hand it over to me, if you please." "If you like. It certainly has your name on the handle," said the secretary so quietly that the other man was puzzled. Silver did not seem to be so uncomfortable as he might have been. "The revolver was one of a pair which I had especially made when I went to Africa some years ago," explained Lambert elaborately, and determined to make his listener understand the situation thoroughly. "On my return I made them a present to my cousin. I understand, Mr. Silver, that Lord Garvington lent you one--" "And kept the other," interrupted the man sharply. "That is true. I was afraid of burglars, since Lord Garvington was always talking about them, so I asked him to lend me a weapon to defend myself with." "And you used it to shoot Pine," snapped Garvington, anxious to end his suspense and get the interview over as speedily as possible. Silver rose from his seat in an automatic manner, and turned delicately pale. "Are you mad?" he gasped, looking from one man to the other. "It's all very well you talking," whimpered Garvington with a shiver; "but Pine was shot with that revolver I lent you." "It's a lie!" "Oh, I knew you'd say that," complained Garvington, shivering again. "But I warned you that there might be trouble, since you carried that letter for me, so that it might fall by chance into Pine's hands." "Augh!" groaned Silver, sinking back into his chair and passing his tongue over a pair of dry, gray lips. "Hold your tongue, my lord." "What's the use? He knows," and Garvington jerked his head in the direction of his cousin. "The game's up, Silver--the game's up!" "Oh!" Silver's eyes flashed, and he looked like a rat at bay. "So you intend to save yourself at my expense. But it won't do, my lord. You wrote that letter, if I carried it to the camp." "I have admitted to my sister and to Lambert, here, that I wrote the letter, Silver. I had to, or get into trouble with the police, since neither of them will listen to reason. But you suggested the plan to get Pine winged so that he might be ill in my house, and then we could both get money out of him. You invented the plot, and I only wrote the letter." "Augh! Augh!" gulped Silver, unable to speak plainly. "Do you confess the truth of Lord Garvington's statement?" inquired Lambert suavely, and fixing a merciless eye on the trapped fox. "No--that is--yes. He swings on the same hook as I do." "Indeed. Then Lord Garvington was aware that you shot Pine?" "I was not! I was not!" screamed the head of the Lambert family, jumping up and clenching his hands. "I swear I never knew the truth until you brought the bullet to the library to fit the revolver." "The--the--bullet!" stammered Silver, whose smooth red hair was almost standing on end from sheer fright. "Yes," said Lambert, addressing him sharply. "Kara, under the direction of Chaldea, found the bullet in the trunk of the elm tree which was in the line of fire. She came with me to The Manor this morning, and we found that it fitted the barrel of Lord Garvington's revolver. At the inquest, and on unimpeachable evidence, it was proved that he fired only the first shot, which disabled Pine without killing him. The second shot, which pierced the man's heart, could only have come from the second revolver, which was, and is, in your possession, Mr. Silver. The bullet found in the tree trunk will fit no other barrel of no other weapon. I'm prepared to swear to this." Silver covered his face with his hands and looked so deadly white that Lambert believed he would faint. However, he pulled himself together, and addressed Garvington anxiously. "You know, my lord, that you locked up the house on that night, and that I was indoors." "Yes," admitted the other hesitating. "So far as I knew you certainly were inside. It is true, Noel," he added, catching his cousin's eye. "Even to save myself I must admit that." "Oh, you'd admit anything to save yourself," retorted his cousin contemptuously, and noting the mistake in the wording of the sentence. "But admitting that Silver was within doors doesn't save you, so far as I can see." "There is no need for Lord Garvington to excuse himself," spoke up Silver, attempting to enlist the little man on his side by defending him. "It was proved at the inquest, as you have admitted, Mr. Lambert, that he only fired the first shot." "And you fired the second." "I never did. I was inside and in bed. I only came down with the rest of the guests when I heard the firing. Is that not so, my lord?" "Yes," admitted Garvington grudgingly. "So far as I know you had nothing to do with the second shot." Silver turned a relieved face toward Lambert. "I shall confess this much, sir," he said, trying to speak calmly and judicially. "Pine treated me badly by taking my toy inventions and by giving me very little money. When I was staying at The Manor I learned that Lord Garvington had also been treated badly by Pine. He said if we could get money that we should go shares. I knew that Pine was jealous of his wife, and that you were at the cottage here, so I suggested that, as Lord Garvington could imitate handwriting, he should forge a letter purporting to come from Lady Agnes to you, saying that she intended to elope on a certain night. Also I told Lord Garvington to talk a great deal about shooting burglars, so as to give color to his shooting Pine." "It was arranged to shoot him, then?" "No, it wasn't," cried Garvington, glaring at Silver. "All we wanted to do was to break Pine's arm or leg so that he might be laid up in The Manor." "Yes, that is so," said Silver feverishly, and nodding. "I fancied--and for this reason I suggested the plot--that when Pine was ill, both Lord Garvington and myself could deal with him in an easier manner. Also--since the business would be left in my hands--I hoped to take out some money from various investments, and share it with Lord Garvington. We never meant that Pine should be killed, but only reduced to weakness so that we might force him to give us both money." "A very ingenious plot," said Lambert grimly and wondering how much of the story was true. "And then?" "Then Lord Garvington wrote the letter, and when seeing Pine, I gave it to him saying that while keeping watch on his wife--as he asked me to," said Silver with an emphasis which made Lambert wince, "I had intercepted the letter. Pine was furious, as I knew he would be, and said that he would come to the blue door at the appointed time to prevent the supposed elopement. I told Lord Garvington, who was ready, and--" "And I went down, pretending that Pine was a burglar," said Lord Garvington, continuing the story in a most shameless manner. "I opened the door quite expecting to find him there. He rushed me, believing in his blind haste that I was Agnes coming to elope with you. I shot him in the arm, and he staggered away, while I shut the door again. Whether, on finding his mistake, and knowing that he had met me instead of Agnes, he intended to go away, I can't say, as I was on the wrong side of the door. But Agnes, attracted to the window by the shot, declared--and you heard her declare it at the inquest, Noel--that Pine walked rapidly away and was shot just as he came abreast of the shrubbery. That's all." "And quite enough, too," said Lambert savagely. "You tricky pair of beasts; I suppose you hoped to implicate me in the crime?" "It wasn't a crime," protested Silver; "but only a way to get money. By going up to London you certainly delayed what we intended to do, since we could not carry out our plan until you returned. You did for one night, as Chaldea, who was on the watch for you, told us, and then we acted." "Did Chaldea know of the trap?" "No! She knew nothing save that I"--it was Silver who spoke--"wanted to know about your return. She found the letter in Pine's tent, and really believed that Lady Agnes had written it, and that you had shot Pine. It was to force you by threats to marry her that she gave the letter to me." "And she instructed you to show it to the police," said Lambert between his teeth, "whereas you tried to blackmail Lady Agnes." "I had to make my money somehow," said Silver insolently. "Pine was dead and Lady Agnes had the coin." "You were to share in the twenty-five thousand pounds, I suppose?" Lambert asked his cousin indignantly. "No; Silver blackmailed on his own. I hoped to get money from Agnes in another way--as her hard-up brother that is. And if--" "Oh, shut up! You make me sick," interrupted Lambert, suppressing a strong desire to choke his cousin. "You are as bad as Silver." "And Silver is as innocent as Lord Garvington," struck in that gentleman, whose face was recovering its natural color. Lambert turned on him sharply. "I don't agree with that. You shot Pine!" Silver sprang up with a hysterical cry. He had judged like Agag that the bitterness of death was past, but found that he was not yet safe. "I did not shoot Pine," he declared, wringing his hands. "Oh, why can't you believe me." "Because Garvington gave you the second revolver and with that--on the evidence of the bullet--Pine was murdered." "That might be so, but--but--" Silver hesitated, and shivered and looked round with a hunted expression in his eyes. "But what? You may as well explain to me." "I shan't--I refuse to. I am innocent! You can't hurt me!" Lambert brushed aside this puny rage. "Inspector Darby can. I shall go to Wanbury this evening and tell him all." "No; don't do that!" cried Garvington, greatly agitated. "Think of me--think of the family!" "I think of Justice! You two beasts aren't fit to be at large. I'm off," and he made for the door. In a moment Silver was clutching his coat. "No, don't!" he screamed. "I am innocent! Lord Garvington, say that I am innocent!" "Oh, ---- you, get out of the hole as best you can! I'm in as big a mess as you are, unless Lambert acts decently." "Decently, you wicked little devil," said Lambert scornfully. "I only propose to do what any decent man would do. You trapped Pine by means of the letter, and Silver shot him." "I didn't! I didn't!" "You had the revolver!" "I hadn't. I gave it away! I lent it!" panted Silver, crying with terror. "You lent it--you gave it--you liar! Who to?" Silver looked round again for some way of escape, but could see none. "To Miss Greeby. She--she--she--she shot Pine. I swear she did." CHAPTER XIX. MOTHER COCKLESHELL. It was late in the afternoon when Lambert got back to the village inn, and he felt both tired and bewildered. The examination of Silver had been so long, and what he revealed so amazing, that the young man wished to be alone, both to rest and to think over the situation. It was a very perplexing one, as he plainly saw, since, in the light of the new revelations, it seemed almost impossible to preserve the name of the family from disgrace. Seated in his sitting room, with his legs stretched out and his hands in his pockets, Lambert moodily glared at the carpet, recalling all that had been confessed by the foxy secretary of Miss Greeby. That he should accuse her of committing the crime seemed unreasonable. According to Silver, the woman had overheard by chance the scheme to lure Pine to The Manor. Knowing that the millionaire was coming to Abbot's Wood, the secretary had propounded the plan to Garvington long before the man's arrival. Hence the constant talk of the host about burglars and his somewhat unnecessary threat to shoot any one who tried to break into the house. The persistence of this remark had roused Miss Greeby's curiosity, and noting that Silver and his host were frequently in one another's company, she had seized her opportunity to listen. For some time, so cautious were the plotters, she had heard nothing particular, but after her recognition of Hearne as Pine when she visited the gypsy camp she became aware that these secret talks were connected with his presence. Then a chance remark of Garvington's--he was always loose-tongued--gave her the clue, and by threats of exposure she managed to make Silver confess the whole plot. Far from thwarting it she agreed to let them carry it out, and promised secrecy, only extracting a promise that she should be advised of the time and place for the trapping of the millionaire. And it was this acquiescence of Miss Greeby's which puzzled Lambert. On the face of it, since she was in love with him, it was better for her own private plans that Pine should remain alive, because the marriage placed Agnes beyond his reach. Why, then, should Miss Greeby have removed the barrier--and at the cost of being hanged for murder? Lambert had asked Silver this question, but had obtained no definite answer, since the secretary protested that she had not explained her reasons. Jokingly referring to possible burglars, she had borrowed the revolver from Silver which he had obtained from Garvington, and it was this action which first led the little secretary to suspect her. Afterward, knowing that she had met Pine in Abbot's Wood, he kept a close watch on her every action to see if she intended to take a hand in the game. But Silver protested that he could see no reason for her doing so, and even up to the moment when he confessed to Lambert could not conjecture why she had acted in such a manner. However, it appeared that she was duly informed of the hour when Pine would probably arrive to prevent the pretended elopement, and also learned that he would be hanging about the blue door. When Silver retired for the night he watched the door of her bedroom--which was in the same wing of the mansion of his own. Also he occasionally looked out to see if Pine had arrived, as the window of his room afforded a fair view of the blue door and the shrubbery. For over an hour--as he told Lambert--he divided his attention between the passage and the window. It was while looking out of the last, and after midnight, that he saw Miss Greeby climb out of her room and descend to the ground by means of the ivy which formed a natural ladder. Her window was no great height from the ground, and she was an athletic woman much given to exercise. Wondering what she intended to do, yet afraid--because of Pine's expected arrival--to leave the house, Silver watched her cautiously. She was arrayed in a long black cloak with a hood, he said, but in the brilliant moonlight he could easily distinguish her gigantic form as she slipped into the shrubbery. When Pine arrived, Silver saw him dash at the blue door when it was opened by Garvington, and saw him fall back after the first shot. Then he heard the shutting of the door; immediately afterward the opening of Lady Agnes's window, and noted that Pine ran quickly and unsteadily down the path. As he passed the shrubbery, the second shot came--at this point Silver simply gave the same description as Lady Agnes did at the inquest--and then Pine fell. Afterward Garvington and his guests came out and gathered round the body, but Miss Greeby, slipping along the rear of the shrubbery, doubled back to the shadow at the corner of the house. Silver, having to play his part, did not wait to see her re-enter the mansion, but presumed she did so by clambering up the ivy. He ran down and mingled with the guests and servants, who were clustered round the dead man, and finally found Miss Greeby at his elbow, artlessly inquiring what had happened. For the time being he accepted her innocent attitude. Later on, when dismissed by Jarwin and in want of funds, he sought out Miss Greeby and accused her. At first she denied the story, but finally, as she judged that he could bring home the crime to her, she compromised with him by giving him the post of her secretary at a good salary. When he obtained the forged letter from Chaldea--and she learned this from Lambert when he was ill--Miss Greeby made him give it to her, alleging that by showing it to Agnes she could the more positively part the widow from her lover. Miss Greeby, knowing who had written the letter, counted upon Agnes guessing the truth, and had she not seen that it had entered her mind, when the letter was brought to her, she would have given a hint as to the forger's name. But Agnes's hesitation and sudden paleness assured Miss Greeby that she guessed the truth, so the letter was left to work its poison. Silver, of course, clamored for his blackmail, but Miss Greeby promised to recompense him, and also threatened if he did not hold his tongue that she would accuse him and Garvington of the murder. Since the latter had forged the letter and the former had borrowed the revolver which had killed Pine, it would have been tolerably easy for Miss Greeby to substantiate her accusation. As to her share in the crime, all she had to do was to deny that Silver had passed the borrowed revolver on to her, and there was no way in which he could prove that he had done so. On the whole, Silver had judged it best to fall in with Miss Greeby's plans, and preserve silence, especially as she was rich and could supply him with whatever money he chose to ask for. She was in his power, and he was in her power, so it was necessary to act on the golden rule of give and take. And the final statement which Silver made to Lambert intimated that Garvington was ignorant of the truth. Until the bullet was produced in the library to fit the revolver it had never struck Garvington that the other weapon had been used to kill Pine. And he had honestly believed that Silver--as was actually the case--had remained in his bedroom all the time, until he came downstairs to play his part. As to Miss Greeby being concerned in the matter, such an idea had never entered Garvington's head. The little man's hesitation in producing the revolver, when he got an inkling of the truth, was due to his dread that if Silver was accused of the murder--and at the time it seemed as though the secretary was guilty--he might turn king's evidence to save his neck, and explain the very shady plot in which Garvington had been engaged. But Lambert had forced his cousin's hand, and Silver had been brought to book, with the result that the young man now sat in his room at the inn, quite convinced that Miss Greeby was guilty, yet wondering what motive had led her to act in such a murderous way. Also, Lambert wondered what was best to be done, in order to save the family name. If he went to the police and had Miss Greeby arrested, the truth of Garvington's shady dealings would certainly come to light, especially as Silver was an accessory after the fact. On the other hand, if he left things as they were, there was always a chance that hints might be thrown out by Chaldea--who had everything to gain and nothing to lose--that he and Agnes were responsible for the death of Pine. Of course, Lambert, not knowing that Chaldea had been listening to the conversation in the cottage, believed that the girl was ignorant of the true state of affairs, and he wondered how he could inform her that the actual criminal was known without risking her malignity. He wanted to clear his character and that of his wife; likewise he wished to save the family name. But it seemed to him that the issue of these things lay in the hands of Chaldea, and she was bent upon injuring him if she could. It was all very perplexing. It was at this point of his meditation that Mother Cockleshell arrived at the inn. He heard her jovial voice outside and judged from its tone that the old dame was in excellent spirits. Her visit seemed to be a hint from heaven as to what he should do. Gentilla hated Chaldea and loved Agnes, so Lambert felt that she would be able to help him. As soon as possible he had her brought into the sitting room, and, having made her sit down, closed both the door and the window, preparatory to telling her all that he had learned. The conversation was, indeed, an important one, and he was anxious that it should take place without witnesses. "You _are_ kind, sir," said Mother Cockleshell, who had been supplied with a glass of gin and water. "But it ain't for the likes of me to be sitting down with the likes of you." "Nonsense! We must have a long talk, and I can't expect you to stand all the time--at your age." "Some Gentiles ain't so anxious to save the legs of old ones," remarked Gentilla Stanley cheerfully. "But I always did say as you were a golden one for kindness of heart. Well, them as does what's unexpected gets what they don't hope for." "I have got my heart's desire, Mother," said Lambert, sitting down and lighting his pipe. "I am happy now." "Not as happy as you'd like to be, sir," said the old woman, speaking quite in the Gentile manner, and looking like a decent charwoman. "You've a dear wife, as I don't deny, Mr. Lambert, but money is what you want." "I have enough for my needs." "Not for her needs, sir. She should be wrapped in cloth of gold and have a path of flowers to tread upon." "It's a path of thorns just now," muttered Lambert moodily. "Not for long, sir; not for long. I come to put the crooked straight and to raise a lamp to banish the dark. Very good this white satin is," said Mother Cockleshell irrelevantly, and alluding to the gin. "And terbaccer goes well with it, as there's no denying. You wouldn't mind my taking a whiff, sir, would you?" and she produced a blackened clay pipe which had seen much service. "Smoking is good for the nerves, Mr. Lambert." The young man handed her his pouch. "Fill up," he said, smiling at the idea of his smoking in company with an old gypsy hag. "Bless you, my precious!" said Mother Cockleshell, accepting the offer with avidity, and talking more in the Romany manner. "I allers did say as you were what I said before you were, and that's golden, my Gorgious one. Ahime!" she blew a wreath of blue smoke from her withered lips, "that's food to me, my dearie, and heat to my old bones." Lambert nodded. "You hinted, in Devonshire, that you had something to say, and a few moments ago you talked about putting the crooked straight." "And don't the crooked need that same?" chuckled Gentilla, nodding. "There's trouble at hand, my gentleman. The child's brewing witch's broth, for sure." "Chaldea!" Lambert sat up anxiously. He mistrusted the younger gypsy greatly, and was eager to know what she was now doing. "Aye! Aye! Aye!" Mother Cockleshell nodded three times like a veritable Macbeth witch. "She came tearing, rampagious-like, to the camp an hour or so back and put on her fine clothes--may they cleave with pain to her skin--to go to the big city. It is true, rye. Kara ran by the side of the donkey she rode upon--may she have an accident--to Wanbury." "To Wanbury?" Lambert looked startled as it crossed his mind, and not unnaturally, that Chaldea might have gone to inform Inspector Darby about the conversation with Garvington in the library. "To Wanbury first, sir, and then to Lundra." "How can you be certain of that?" "The child treated me like the devil's calls her," said Gentilla Stanley, shaking her head angrily. "And I have no trust in her, for a witchly wrong 'un she is. When she goes donkey-wise to Wanbury, I says to a chal, says I, quick-like, 'Follow and watch her games!' So the chal runs secret, behind hedges, and comes on the child at the railway line making for Lundra. And off she goes on wheels in place of tramping the droms in true Romany style." "What the deuce has she gone to London for?" Lambert asked himself in a low voice, but Gentilla's sharp ears overheard. "Mischief for sure, my gentleman. Hai, but she's a bad one, that same. But she plays and I play, with the winning for me--since the good cards are always in the old hand. Fear nothing, my rye. She cannot hurt, though snake that she is, her bite stings." The young man did not reply. He was uneasy in one way and relieved in another. Chaldea certainly had not gone to see Inspector Darby, so she could not have any intention of bringing the police into the matter. But why had she gone to London? He asked himself this question and finally put it to the old woman, who watched him with bright, twinkling eyes. "She's gone for mischief," answered Gentilla, nodding positively. "For mischief's as natural to her as cheating is to a Romany chal. But I'm a dealer of cards myself, rye, and I deal myself the best hand." "I wish you'd leave metaphor and come to plain speaking," cried Lambert in an irritable tone, for the conversation was getting on his nerves by reason of its prolixity and indirectness. Mother Cockleshell laughed and nodded, then emptied the ashes out of her pipe and spoke out, irrelevantly as it would seem: "The child has taken the hearts of the young from me," said she, shaking her grizzled head; "but the old cling to the old. With them as trusts my wisdom, my rye, I goes across the black water to America and leaves the silly ones to the child. She'll get them into choky and trouble, for sure. And that's a true dukkerin." "Have you the money to go to America?" "Money?" The old woman chuckled and hugged herself. "And why not, sir, when Ishmael Hearne was my child. Aye, the child of my child, for I am the bebee of Hearne, bebee being grandmother in our Romany tongue, sir." Lambert started from his seat, almost too astonished to speak. "Do you mean to say that you are Pine's grandmother?" "Pine? Who is Pine? A Gentile I know not. Hearne he was born and Hearne he shall be to me, though the grass is now a quilt for him. Ohone! Hai mai! Ah, me! Woe! and woe, my gentleman. He was the child of my child and the love of my heart," she rocked herself to and fro sorrowfully, "like a leaf has he fallen from the tree; like the dew has he vanished into the blackness of the great shadow. Hai mai! Hai mai! the sadness of it." "Hearne your grandson?" murmured Lambert, staring at her and scarcely able to believe her. "True. Yes; it is true," said Gentilla, still rocking. "He left the road, and the tent, and the merry fire under a hedge for your Gentile life. But a born Romany he was and no Gorgio. Ahr-r-r!" she shook herself with disgust. "Why did he labor for gold in the Gentile manner, when he could have chored and cheated like a true-hearted black one?" Her allusions to money suddenly enlightened the young man. "Yours is the name mentioned in the sealed letter held by Jarwin?" he cried, with genuine amazement written largely on his face. "You inherit the millions?" Mother Cockleshell wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl and chuckled complacently. "It is so, young man, therefore can I take those who hold to my wisdom to the great land beyond the water. Ah, I am rich now, sir, and as a Gorgious one could I live beneath a roof-tree. But for why, I asks you, my golden rye, when I was bred to the open and the sky? In a tent I was born; in a tent I shall die. Should I go, Gentile, it's longing for the free life I'd be, since Romany I am and ever shall be. As we says in our tongue, my dear, 'It's allers the boro matcho that pet-a-lay 'dree the panni,' though true gypsy lingo you can't call it for sure." "What does it mean?" demanded Lambert, staring at the dingy possessor of two millions sterling. "It's allers the largest fish that falls back into the water," translated Mrs. Stanley. "I told that to Leland, the boro rye, and he goes and puts the same into a book for your readings, my dearie!" then she uttered a howl and flung up her arms. "But what matter I am rich, when my child's child's blood calls out for vengeance. I'd give all the red gold--and red money it is, my loved one," she added, fixing a bright pair of eyes on Lambert, "if I could find him as shot the darling of my heart." Knowing that he could trust her, and pitying her obvious sorrow, Lambert had no hesitation in revealing the truth so far as he knew it. "It wasn't a him who shot your grandson, but a her." "Hai!" Gentilla flung up her arms again, "then I was right. My old eyes did see like a cat in the dark, though brightly shone the moon when he fell." "What? You know?" Lambert started back again at this second surprise. "If it's a Gentile lady, I know. A red one large as a cow in the meadows, and fierce as an unbroken colt." "Miss Greeby!" "Greeby! Greeby! So your romi told me," shrieked the old woman, throwing up her hands in ecstasy. "Says I to her, 'Who's the foxy one?' and says she, smiling like, 'Greeby's her name!'" "Why did you ask my wife that?" demanded Lambert, much astonished. "Hai, she was no wife of yours then, sir. Why did I ask her? Because I saw the shooting--" "Of Pine--of Hearne--of your son?" "Of who else? of who else?" cried Mother Cockleshell, clapping her skinny hand and paddling on the floor with her feet. "Says Ishmael to me, 'Bebee,' says he, 'my romi is false and would run away with the golden rye this very night as ever was.' And says I to him, 'It's not so, son of my son, for your romi is as true as the stars and purer than gold.' But says he, 'There's a letter,' he says, and shows it to me. 'Lies, son of my son,' says I, and calls on him to play the trustful rom. But he pitches down the letter, and says he, 'I go this night to stop them from paddling the hoof,' and says I to him, 'No! No!' says I. 'She's a true one.' But he goes, when all in the camp are sleeping death-like, and I watches, and I follers, and I hides." "Where did you hide?" "Never mind, dearie. I hides securely, and sees him walking up and down biting the lips of him and swinging his arms. Then I sees--for Oliver was bright, and Oliver's the moon, lovey--the big Gentile woman come round and hide in the bushes. Says I to myself, says I, 'And what's your game?' I says, not knowing the same till she shoots and my child's child falls dead as a hedgehog. Then she runs and I run, and all is over." "Why didn't you denounce her, Gentilla?" "And for why, my precious heart? Who would believe the old gypsy? Rather would the Poknees say as I'd killed my dear one. No! no! Artful am I and patient in abiding my time. But the hour strikes, as I said when I spoke to your romi in Devonshire no less, and the foxy moll shall hang. You see, my dear, I waited for some Gentile to speak what I could speak, to say as what I saw was truth for sure. You speak, and now I can tell my tale to the big policeman at Wanbury so that my son's son may sleep quiet, knowing that the evil has come home to her as laid him low. But, lovey, oh, lovey, and my precious one!" cried the old woman darting forward to caress Lambert's hand in a fondling way, "tell me how you know and what you learned. At the cottage you were, and maybe out in the open watching the winder of her you loved." "No," said Lambert sharply, "I was at the cottage certainly, but in bed and asleep. I did not hear of the crime until I was in London. In this way I found out the truth, Mother!" and he related rapidly all that had been discovered, bringing the narrative right up to the confession of Silver, which he detailed at length. The old woman kept her sharp eyes on his expressive face and hugged his hand every now and then, as various points in the narrative struck her. At the end she dropped his hand and returned back to her chair chuckling. "It's a sad dukkerin for the foxy lady," said Gentilla, grinning like the witch she was. "Hanged she will be, and rightful it is to be so!" "I agree with you," replied Lambert relentlessly. "Your evidence and that of Silver can hang her, certainly. Yet, if she is arrested, and the whole tale comes out in the newspapers, think of the disgrace to my family." Mother Cockleshell nodded. "That's as true as true, my golden rye," she said pondering. "And I wish not to hurt you and the rani, who was kind to me. I go away," she rose to her feet briskly, "and I think. What will you do?" "I can't say," said Lambert, doubtfully and irresolutely. "I must consult my wife. Miss Greeby should certainly suffer for her crime, and yet--" "Aye! Aye! Aye! The boro rye," she meant Garvington, "is a bad one for sure, as we know. Shame to him is shame to you, and I wouldn't have the rani miserable--the good kind one that she is. Wait! aye, wait, my precious gentleman, and we shall see." "You will say nothing in the meantime," said Lambert, stopping her at the door, and anxious to know exactly what were her intentions. "I have waited long for vengeance and I can wait longer, sir," said Mother Cockleshell, becoming less the gypsy and more the respectable almshouse widow. "Depend upon my keeping quiet until--" "Until what? Until when?" "Never you mind," said the woman mysteriously. "Them as sins must suffer for the sin. But not you and her as is innocent." "No violence, Gentilla," said the young man, alarmed less the lawless gypsy nature should punish Miss Greeby privately. "I swear there shall be no violence, rye. Wait, for the child is making mischief, and until we knows of her doings we must be silent. Give me your gripper, my dearie," she seized his wrist and bent back the palm of the hand to trace the lines with a dirty finger. "Good fortune comes to you and to her, my golden rye," she droned in true gypsy fashion. "Money, and peace, and honor, and many children, to carry on a stainless name. Your son shall you see, and your son's son, my noble gentleman, and with your romi shall you go with happiness to the grave," she dropped the hand. "So be it for a true dukkerin, and remember Gentilla Stanley when the luck comes true." "But Mother, Mother," said Lambert, following her to the door, as he was still doubtful as to her intentions concerning Miss Greeby. The gypsy waved him aside solemnly. "Never again will you see me, my golden rye, if the stars speak truly, and if there be virtue in the lines of the hand. I came into your life: I go out of your life: and what is written shall be!" she made a mystic sign close to his face and then nodded cheerily. "Duveleste rye!" was her final greeting, and she disappeared swiftly, but the young man did not know that the Romany farewell meant, "God bless you!" CHAPTER XX. THE DESTINED END. As might have been anticipated, Lord Garvington was in anything but a happy frame of mind. He left Silver in almost a fainting condition, and returned to The Manor feeling very sick himself. The two cowardly little men had not the necessary pluck of conspirators, and now that there seemed to be a very good chance that their nefarious doings would be made public they were both in deadly fear of the consequences. Silver was in the worst plight, since he was well aware that the law would consider him to be an accessory after the fact, and that, although his neck was not in danger, his liberty assuredly was. He was so stunned by the storm which had broken so unexpectedly over his head, that he had not even the sense to run away. All manly grit--what he possessed of it--had been knocked out of him, and he could only whimper over the fire while waiting for Lambert to act. Garvington was not quite so downhearted, as he knew that his cousin was anxious to consider the fair fame of the family. Thinking thus, he felt a trifle reassured, for the forged letter could not be made public without a slur being cast on the name. Then, again, Garvington knew that he was innocent of designing Pine's death, and that, even if Lambert did inform the police, he could not be arrested. It is only just to say that had the little man known of Miss Greeby's intention to murder the millionaire, he would never have written the letter which lured the man to his doom. And for two reasons: in the first place he was too cowardly to risk his neck; and in the second Pine was of more value to him alive than dead. Comforting himself with this reflection, he managed to maintain a fairly calm demeanor before his wife. But on this night Lady Garvington was particularly exasperating, for she constantly asked questions which the husband did not feel inclined to answer. Having heard that Lambert was in the village, she wished to know why he had not been asked to stay at The Manor, and defended the young man when Garvington pointed out that an iniquitous person who had robbed Agnes of two millions could not be tolerated by the man--Garvington meant himself--he had wronged. Then Jane inquired why Lambert had brought Chaldea to the house, and what had passed in the library, but received no answer, save a growl. Finally she insisted that Freddy had lost his appetite, which was perfectly true. "And I thought you liked that way of dressing a fish so much, dear," was her wail. "I never seem to quite hit your taste." "Oh, bother: leave me alone, Jane. I'm worried." "I know you are, for you have eaten so little. What is the matter?" "Everything's the matter, confound your inquisitiveness. Hasn't Agnes lost all her money because of this selfish marriage with Noel, hang him? How the dickens do you expect us to carry on unless we borrow?" "Can't you get some money from the person who now inherits?" "Jarwin won't tell me the name." "But I know who it is," said Lady Garvington triumphantly. "One of the servants who went to the gypsy camp this afternoon told my maid, and my maid told me. The gypsies are greatly excited, and no wonder." Freddy stared at her. "Excited, what about?" "Why, about the money, dear. Don't you know?" "No, I don't!" shouted Freddy, breaking a glass in his irritation. "What is it? Bother you, Jane. Don't keep me hanging on in suspense." "I'm sure I never do, Freddy, dear. It's Hubert's money which has gone to his mother." Garvington jumped up. "Who--who--who is his mother?" he demanded, furiously. "That dear old Gentilla Stanley." "What! What! What!" "Oh, Freddy," said his wife plaintively. "You make my head ache. Yes, it's quite true. Celestine had it from William the footman. Fancy, Gentilla having all that money. How lucky she is." "Oh, damn her; damn her," growled Garvington, breaking another glass. "Why, dear. I'm sure she's going to make good use of the money. She says--so William told Celestine--that she would give a million to learn for certain who murdered poor Hubert." "Would she? would she? would she?" Garvington's gooseberry eyes nearly dropped out of his head, and he babbled, and burbled, and choked, and spluttered, until his wife was quite alarmed. "Freddy, you always eat too fast. Go and lie down, dear." "Yes," said Garvington, rapidly making up his mind to adopt a certain course about which he wished his wife to know nothing. "I'll lie down, Jane." "And don't take any more wine," warned Jane, as she drifted out of the dining-room. "You are quite red as it is, dear." But Freddy did not take this advice, but drank glass after glass until he became pot-valiant. He needed courage, as he intended to go all by himself to the lonely Abbot's Wood Cottage and interview Silver. It occurred to Freddy that if he could induce the secretary to give up Miss Greeby to justice, Mother Cockleshell, out of gratitude, might surrender to him the sum of one million pounds. Of course, the old hag might have been talking all round the shop, and her offer might be bluff, but it was worth taking into consideration. Garvington, thinking that there was no time to lose, since his cousin might be beforehand in denouncing the guilty woman, hurried on his fur overcoat, and after leaving a lying statement with the butler that he had gone to bed, he went out by the useful blue door. In a few minutes he was trotting along the well-known path making up his mind what to say to Silver. The interview did not promise to be an easy one. "I wish I could do without him," thought the treacherous little scoundrel as he left his own property and struck across the waste ground beyond the park wall. "But I can't, dash it all, since he's the only person who saw the crime actually committed. 'Course he'll get jailed as an accessory-after-the-fact: but when he comes out I'll give him a thousand or so if the old woman parts. At all events, I'll see what Silver is prepared to do, and then I'll call on old Cockleshell and make things right with her. Hang it," Freddy had a qualmish feeling. "The exposure won't be pleasant for me over that unlucky letter, but if I can snaffle a million, it's worth it. Curse the honor of the family, I've got to look after myself somehow. Ho! ho!" he chuckled as he remembered his cousin. "What a sell for Noel when he finds that I've taken the wind out of his sails. Serve him jolly well right." In this way Garvington kept up his spirits during the walk, and felt entirely cheerful and virtuous by the time he reached the cottage. In the thin, cold moonlight, the wintry wood looked spectral and wan. The sight of the frowning monoliths, the gaunt, frozen trees and the snow-powdered earth, made the luxurious little man shiver. Also the anticipated conversation rather daunted him, although he decided that after all Silver was but a feeble creature who could be easily managed. What Freddy forgot was that he lacked pluck himself, and that Silver, driven into a corner, might fight with the courage of despair. The sight of the secretary's deadly white and terrified face as he opened the door sufficient to peer out showed that he was at bay. "If you come in I'll shoot," he quavered, brokenly. "I'll--I'll brain you with the poker. I'll throw hot water on you, and--and scratch out your--your--" "Come, come," said Garvington, boldly. "It's only me--a friend!" Silver recognized the voice and the dumpy figure of his visitor. At once he dragged him into the passage and barred the door quickly, breathing hard meanwhile. "I don't mind you," he giggled, hysterically. "You're in the same boat with me, my lord. But I fancied when you knocked that the police--the police"--his voice died weakly in his throat: he cast a wild glance around and touched his neck uneasily as though he already felt the hangman's rope encircling it. Garvington did not approve of this grim pantomime, and swore. "I'm quite alone, damn you," he said roughly. "It's all right, so far!" He sat down and loosened his overcoat, for the place was like a Turkish bath for heat. "I want a drink. You've been priming yourself, I see," and he pointed to a decanter of port wine and a bottle of brandy which were on the table along with a tray of glasses. "Silly ass you are to mix." "I'm--I'm--keeping up my--my spirits," giggled Silver, wholly unnerved, and pouring out the brandy with a shaking hand. "There you are, my lord. There's water, but no soda." "Keeping up your spirits by pouring spirits down," said Garvington, venturing on a weak joke. "You're in a state of siege, too." Silver certainly was. He had bolted the shutters, and had piled furniture against the two windows of the room. On the table beside the decanter and bottles of brandy, lay a poker, a heavy club which Lambert had brought from Africa, and had left behind when he gave up the cottage, a revolver loaded in all six chambers, and a large bread knife. Apparently the man was in a dangerous state of despair and was ready to give the officers of the law a hostile welcome when they came to arrest him. He touched the various weapons feverishly. "I'll give them beans," he said, looking fearfully from right to left. "Every door is locked; every window is bolted. I've heaped up chairs and sofas and tables and chests of drawers, and wardrobes and mattresses against every opening to keep the devils out. And the lamps--look at the lamps. Ugh!" he shuddered. "I can't bear to be in the dark." "Plenty of light," observed Garvington, and spoke truly, for there must have been at least six lamps in the room--two on the table, two on the mantel-piece, and a couple on the sideboard. And amidst his primitive defences sat Silver quailing and quivering at every sound, occasionally pouring brandy down his throat to keep up his courage. The white looks of the man, the disorder of the room, the glare of the many lights, and the real danger of the situation, communicated their thrill to Garvington. He shivered and looked into shadowy corners, as Silver did; then strove to reassure both himself and his companion. "Don't worry so," he said, sipping his brandy to keep him up to concert pitch, "I've got an idea which will be good for both of us." "What is it?" questioned the secretary cautiously. He naturally did not trust the man who had betrayed him. "Do you know who has inherited Pine's money?" "No. The person named in the sealed envelope?" "Exactly, and the person is Mother Cockleshell." Silver was so amazed that he forgot his fright. "What? Is Gentilla Stanley related to Pine?" "She's his grandmother, it seems. One of my servants was at the camp to-day and found the gypsies greatly excited over the old cat's windfall." "Whew!" Silver whistled and drew a deep breath. "If I'd known that, I'd have got round the old woman. But it's too late now since all the fat is on the fire. Mr. Lambert knows too much, and you have confessed what should have been kept quiet." "I had to save my own skin," said Garvington sullenly. "After all, I had nothing to do with the murder. I never guessed that you were so mixed up in it until Lambert brought that bullet to fit the revolver I lent you." "And which I gave to Miss Greeby," snapped Silver tartly. "She is the criminal, not me. What a wax she will be in when she learns the truth. I expect your cousin will have her arrested." "I don't think so. He has some silly idea in his head about the honor of our name, and won't press matters unless he is forced to." "Who can force him?" asked Silver, looking more at ease, since he saw a gleam of hope. "Chaldea! She's death on making trouble." "Can't we silence her? Remember you swing on my hook." "No, I don't," contradicted Garvington sharply. "I can't be arrested." "For forging that letter you can!" "Not at all. I did not write it to lure Pine to his death, but only wished to maim him." "That will get you into trouble," insisted Silver, anxious to have a companion in misery. "It won't, I tell you. There's no one to prosecute. You are the person who is in danger, as you knew Miss Greeby to be guilty, and are therefore an accessory after the fact." "If Mr. Lambert has the honor of your family at heart he will do nothing," said the secretary hopefully; "for if Miss Greeby is arrested along with me the writing of that letter is bound to come out." "I don't care. It's worth a million." "What is worth a million?" "The exposure. See here, Silver, I hear that Mother Cockleshell is willing to hand over that sum to the person who finds the murderer of her grandson. We know that Miss Greeby is guilty, so why not give her up and earn the money?" The secretary rose in quivering alarm. "But I'd be arrested also. You said so; you know you said so." "And I say so again," remarked Garvington, leaning back coolly. "You'd not be hanged, you know, although she would. A few years in prison would be your little lot and when you came out I could give you say--er--er--ten thousand pounds. There! That's a splendid offer." "Where would you get the ten thousand? Tell me!" asked Silver with a curious look. "From the million Mother Cockleshell would hand over to me." "For denouncing me?" "For denouncing Miss Greeby." "You beast!" shrieked Silver hysterically. "You know quite well that if she is taken by the police I have no chance of escaping. I'd run away now if I had the cash. But I haven't. I count on your cousin keeping quiet because of your family name, and you shan't give the show away." "But think," said Garvington, persuasively, "a whole million." "For you, and only ten thousand for me. Oh, I like that." "Well, I'll make it twenty thousand." "No! no." "Thirty thousand." "No! no! no!" "Forty, fifty, sixty, seventy--oh, hang it, you greedy beast! I'll give you one hundred thousand. You'd be rich for life then." "Would I, curse you!" Silver clenched his fists and backed against the wall looking decidedly dangerous. "And risk a life-long sentence to get the money while you take the lion's share." "You'd only get ten years at most," argued the visitor, annoyed by what he considered to be silly objections. "Ten years are ten centuries at my time of life. You shan't denounce me." Garvington rose. "Yes, I shall," he declared, rendered desperate by the dread lest he should lose the million. "I'm going to Wanbury to-night to tell Inspector Darby and get a warrant for Miss Greeby's arrest along with yours as her accomplice." Silver flung himself forward and gripped Garvington's coat. "You daren't!" "Yes, I dare. I can't be hurt. I didn't murder the man and I'm not going to lose a pile of money for your silly scruples." "Oh, my lord, consider." Silver in a panic dropped on his knees. "I shall be shut up for years; it will kill me; it will kill me! And you don't know what a terrible and clever woman Miss Greeby is. She may deny that I gave her the revolver and I can't prove that I did. Then I might be accused of the crime and hanged. Hanged!" cried the poor wretch miserably. "Oh, you'll never give me away, my lord, will you." "Confound you, don't I risk my reputation to get the money," raged Garvington, shaking off the trembling arms which were round his knees. "The truth of the letter will have to come out, and then I'm dished so far as society is concerned. I wouldn't do it--tell that is--but that the stakes are so large. One million is waiting to be picked up and I'm going to pick it up." "No! no! no! no!" Silver grovelled on the floor and embraced Garvington's feet. But the more he wailed the more insulting and determined did the visitor become. Like all tyrants and bullies Garvington gained strength and courage from the increased feebleness of his victim. "Don't give me up," wept the secretary, nearly beside himself with terror; "don't give me up." "Oh, damn you, get out of the way!" said Garvington, and made for the door. "I go straight to Wanbury," which statement was a lie, as he first intended to see Mother Cockleshell at the camp and make certain that the reward was safe. But Silver believed him and was goaded to frenzy. "You shan't go!" he screamed, leaping to his feet, and before Garvington knew where he was the secretary had the heavy poker in his grasp. The little fat lord gave a cry of terror and dodged the first blow which merely fell on his shoulder. But the second alighted on his head and with a moan he dropped to the ground. Silver flung away the poker. "Are you dead? are you dead?" he gasped, kneeling beside Garvington, and placed his hand on the senseless man's heart. It still beat feebly, so he arose with a sigh of relief. "He's only stunned," panted Silver, and staggered unsteadily to the table to seize a glass of brandy. "I'll, ah--ah--ah!" he shrieked and dropped the tumbler as a loud and continuous knocking came to the front door. Naturally in his state of panic he believed that the police had actually arrived, and here he had struck down Lord Garvington. Even though the little man was not dead, Silver knew that the assault would add to his punishment, although he might have concluded that the lesser crime was swallowed up in the greater. But he was too terrified to think of doing anything save hiding the stunned man, and with a gigantic effort he managed to fling the body behind the sofa. Then he piled up rugs and cushions between the wall and the back of the sofa until Garvington was quite hidden and ran a considerable risk of being suffocated. All the time the ominous knocking continued, as though the gallows was being constructed. At least it seemed so to Silver's disturbed fancy, and he crept along to the door holding the revolver in an unsteady grip. "Who--who--is--" "Let me in; let me in," said a loud, hard voice. "I'm Miss Greeby. I have come to save you. Let me in." Silver had no hesitation in obeying, since she was in as much danger as he was and could not hurt him without hurting herself. With trembling fingers he unbolted the door and opened it, to find her tall and stately and tremendously impatient on the threshold. She stepped in and banged the door to without locking it. Silver's teeth chattered so much and his limbs trembled so greatly that he could scarcely move or speak. On seeing this--for there was a lamp in the passage--Miss Greeby picked him up in her big arms like a baby and made for the sitting-room. When, within she pitched Silver on to the sofa behind which Garvington lay senseless, and placing her arms akimbo surveyed him viciously. "You infernal worm!" said Miss Greeby, grim and savage in her looks, "you have split on me, have you?" "How--how--how do you know?" quavered Silver mechanically, noting that in her long driving coat with a man's cap she looked more masculine than ever. "How do I know? Because Chaldea was hiding under the studio window this afternoon and overheard all that passed between you and Garvington and that meddlesome Lambert. She knew that I was in danger and came at once to London to tell me since I had given her my address. I lost no time, but motored down here and dropped her at the camp. Now I've come to get you out of the country." "Me out of the country?" stammered the secretary. "Yes, you cowardly swine, although I'd rather choke the life out of you if it could be done with safety. You denounced me, you beast." "I had to; my own neck was in danger." "It's in danger now. I'd strangle you for two pins. But I intend to send you abroad since your evidence is dangerous to me. If you are out of the way there's no one else can state that I shot Pine. Here's twenty pounds in gold;" she thrust a canvas bag into the man's shaking hands; "get on your coat and cap and I'll take you to the nearest seaport wherever that is. My motor is on the verge of the wood. You must get on board some ship and sail for the world's end. I'll send you more money when you write. Come, come," she stamped, "sharp's the word." "But--but--but--" Miss Greeby lifted him off the sofa by the scruff of the neck. "Do you want to be killed?" she said between her teeth, "there's no time to be lost. Chaldea tells me that Lambert threatens to have me arrested." The prospect of safety and prosperity in a distant land so appealed to Silver that he regained his courage in a wonderfully short space of time. Rising to his feet he hastily drained another glass of brandy and the color came back to his wan cheeks. But for all the quantity he had drank that same evening he was not in the least intoxicated. He was about to rush out of the room to get his coat and cap when Miss Greeby laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Is there any one else in the house?" she asked suspiciously. Silver cast a glance towards the sofa. "There's no servant," he said in a stronger voice. "I have been cooking and looking after myself since I came here. But--but--but--" "But what, you hound?" she shook him fiercely. "Garvington's behind the sofa." "Garvington!" Miss Greeby was on the spot in a moment pulling away the concealing rugs and cushions. "Have you murdered him?" she demanded, drawing a deep breath and looking at the senseless man. "No, he's only stunned. I struck him with the poker because he wanted to denounce me." "Quite right." Miss Greeby patted the head of her accomplice as if he were a child, "You're bolder than I thought. Go on; hurry up! Before Garvington recovers his senses we'll be far enough away. Denounce me; denounce him, will you?" she said, looking at Garvington while the secretary slipped out of the room; "you do so at your own cost, my lord. That forged letter won't tell in your favor. Ha!" she started to her feet. "What's that! Who's here?" She might well ask. There was a struggle going on in the passage, and she heard cries for help. Miss Greeby flung open the sitting-room door, and Silver, embracing Mother Cockleshell, tumbled at her feet. "She got in by the door you left open," cried Silver breathlessly, "hold her or we are lost; we'll never get away." "No, you won't!" shouted the dishevelled old woman, producing a knife to keep Miss Greeby at bay. "Chaldea came to the camp and I learned through Kara how she'd brought you down, my Gentile lady. I went to tell the golden rye, and he's on the way here with the village policeman. You're done for." "Not yet." Miss Greeby darted under the uplifted knife and caught Gentilla round the waist. The next moment the old woman was flung against the wall, breathless and broken up. But she still contrived to hurl curses at the murderess of her grandson. "I saw you shoot him; I saw you shoot him," screamed Mother Cockleshell, trying to rise. "Silver, make for the motor; it's near the camp; follow the path," ordered Miss Greeby breathlessly; "there's no time to be lost. As to this old devil--" she snatched up a lamp as the secretary dashed out of the house, and flung it fairly at Gentilla Stanley. In a moment the old woman was yelling with agony, and scrambled to her feet a pillar of fire. Miss Greeby laughed in a taunting manner and hurled another lamp behind the sofa. "You'd have given me up also, would you, Garvington?" she cried in her deep tone; "take that, and that, and that." Lamp after lamp was smashed and burst into flames, until only one was left. Then Miss Greeby, seeing with satisfaction that the entire room was on fire and hearing the sound of hasty footsteps and the echoing of distant voices, rushed in her turn from the cottage. As she bolted the voice of Garvington screaming with pain and dread was heard as he came to his senses to find himself encircled by fire. And Mother Cockleshell also shrieked, not so much because of her agony as to stop Miss Greeby from escaping. "Rye! Rye! she's running; catch her; catch her. Aha--aha--aha!" and she sank into the now blazing furnace of the room. The walls of the cottage were of mud, the partitions and roof of wood and thatch, so the whole place soon burned like a bonfire. Miss Greeby shot out of the door and strode at a quick pace across the glade. But as she passed beyond the monoliths, Lambert, in company with a policeman, made a sudden appearance and blocked her way of escape. With a grim determination to thwart him she kilted up her skirts and leaped like a kangaroo towards the undergrowth beneath the leafless trees. By this time the flames were shooting through the thatched roof in long scarlet streamers and illuminated the spectral wood with awful light. "Stop! stop!" cried Lambert, racing to cut off the woman's retreat, closely followed by the constable. Miss Greeby laughed scornfully, and instead of avoiding them as they crossed her path, she darted straight towards the pair. In a moment, by a dexterous touch of her shoulders right and left, she knocked them over by taking them unawares, and then sprang down the path which curved towards the gypsies' encampment. At its end the motor was waiting, and so vivid was the light that she saw Silver's black figure bending down as he frantically strove to start the machine. She travelled at top speed, fearful lest the man should escape without her. Then came an onrush of Romany, attracted to the glade by the fire. They guessed from Miss Greeby's haste that something was seriously wrong and tried to stop her. But, delivering blows straight from the shoulder, here, there, and everywhere, the woman managed to break through, and finally reached the end of the pathway. Here was the motor and safety, since she hoped to make a dash for the nearest seaport and get out of the kingdom before the police authorities could act. But the stars in their course fought against her. Silver, having started the machinery, was already handling the steering gear, and bent only upon saving his own miserable self, had put the car in motion. He could only drive in a slip-slop amateur way and aimlessly zigzagged down the sloping bank which fell away to the high road. As the motor began to gather speed Miss Greeby ran for her life and liberty, ranging at length breathlessly alongside. The gypsies tailed behind, shouting. "Stop, you beast!" screamed Miss Greeby, feeling fear for the first time, and she tried to grab the car for the purpose of swinging herself on board. But Silver urged it to greater speed. "I save myself; myself," he shrieked shrilly and unhinged by deadly terror, "get away; get away." In his panic he twisted the wheel in the wrong direction, and the big machine swerved obediently. The next moment Miss Greeby was knocked down and writhed under the wheels. She uttered a tragic cry, but little Silver cared for that. Rendered merciless with fear he sent the car right over her body, and then drove desperately down the hill to gain the hard road. Miss Greeby, with a broken back, lay on the ground and saw as in a ghastly dream her machine flash roaring along the highway driven by a man who could not manage it. Even in her pain a smile crept over her pale face. "He's done for, the little beast," she muttered, "he'll smash. Lambert! Lambert!" The man whose name she breathed had arrived as she spoke; and knelt breathlessly beside her to raise her head. "You--you--oh, poor creature!" he gasped. "I'm done for, Lambert," she panted in deadly pain, "back broken. I sinned for you, but--but you can't hang me. Look--look after Garvington--Cockleshell too--look--look--Augh!" and she moaned. "Where are they?" "In--in--the--cottage," murmured the woman, and fell back in a fainting condition with a would-be sneering laugh. Lambert started to his feet with an oath, and leaving the wretched woman to the care of some gypsies, ran back to the glade. The cottage was a mass of streaming, crackling flames, and there was no water to extinguish these, as he realized with sudden fear. It was terrible to think that the old woman and Garvington were burning in that furnace, and desperately anxious to save at least one of the two, Lambert tried to enter the door. But the heat of the fire drove him back, and the flames seemed to roar at his discomfiture. He could do nothing but stand helplessly and gaze upon what was plainly Garvington's funeral pyre. By this time the villagers were making for the wood, and the whole place rang with cries of excitement and dismay. The wintry scene was revealed only too clearly by the ruddy glare and by the same sinister light. Lambert suddenly beheld Chaldea at his elbow. Gripping his arm, she spoke hoarsely, "The tiny rye is dead. He drove the engine over a bank and it smashed him to a pulp." "Oh! ah! And--and Miss Greeby?" "She is dying." Lambert clenched his hands and groaned, "Garvington and Mother Cockleshell?" "She is dead and he is dead by now," said Chaldea, looking with a callous smile at the burning cottage, "both are dead--Lord Garvington." "Lord Garvington?" Lambert groaned again. He had forgotten that he now possessed the title and what remained of the family estates. "Avali!" cried Chaldea, clapping her hands and nodding toward the cottage with a meaning smile, "there's the bonfire to celebrate the luck." CHAPTER XXI. A FINAL SURPRISE. A week later and Lambert was seated in the library of The Manor, looking worn and anxious. His wan appearance was not due so much to what he had passed through, trying as late events had been, as to his dread of what Inspector Darby was about to say. That officer was beside him, getting ready for an immediate conversation by turning over various papers which he produced from a large and well-filled pocket-book. Darby looked complacent and important, as an examination into the late tragedy had added greatly to his reputation as a zealous officer. Things were now more ship-shape, as Miss Greeby had died after making confession of her crime and had been duly buried by her shocked relatives. The ashes of Lord Garvington and Mother Cockleshell, recovered from the débris of the cottage, had also been disposed of with religious ceremonies, and Silver's broken body had been placed in an unwept grave. The frightful catastrophe which had resulted in the death of four people had been the talk of the United Kingdom for the entire seven days. What Lambert was dreading to hear was the report of Miss Greeby's confession, which Inspector Darby had come to talk about. He had tried to see her himself at the village inn, whither she had been transferred to die, but she had refused to let him come to her dying bed, and therefore he did not know in what state of mind she had passed away. Judging from the vindictive spirit which she had displayed, Lambert fancied that she had told Darby the whole wretched story of the forged letter and the murder. The last was bound to be confessed, but the young man had hoped against hope that Miss Greeby would be silent regarding Garvington's share in the shameful plot. Wickedly as his cousin had behaved, Lambert did not wish his memory to be smirched and the family honor to be tarnished by a revelation of the little man's true character. He heartily wished that the evil Garvington had done might be buried with him, and the whole sordid affair forgotten. "First, my lord," said Darby leisurely, when his papers were in order, "I have to congratulate your lordship on your accession to the title. Hitherto so busy have I been that there has been no time to do this." "Thank you, Mr. Inspector, but I regret that I should have succeeded through so tragic a death." "Yes, yes, my lord! the feeling does you honor," Darby nodded sympathetically; "but it must be some comfort for you to know that your poor cousin perished when on an errand of mercy, although his aim was not perhaps quite in accordance with strict justice." Lambert stared. "I don't know what you mean," he remarked, being puzzled by this coupling of Garvington's name with any good deed. "Of course you don't, my lord. But for you to understand I had better begin with Miss Greeby's confession. I must touch on some rather intimate things, however," said the inspector rather shyly. "Meaning that Miss Greeby was in love with me." "Exactly, my lord. Her love for you--if you will excuse my mentioning so private a subject--caused the whole catastrophe." "Indeed," the young man felt a sense of relief, as if Darby put the matter in this way the truth about the forged letter could scarcely have come to light, "will you explain?" "Certainly, my lord. Miss Greeby always wished to marry your lordship, but she knew that you loved your wife, the present Lady Garvington, who was then Lady Agnes Pine. She believed that you and Lady Agnes would sooner or later run away together." "There was no reason she should think so," said Noel, becoming scarlet. "Of course not, my lord. Pardon me again for speaking of such very private matters. But I can scarcely make your lordship understand how the late Sir Hubert Pine came by his death unless I am painfully frank." "Go on, Mr. Inspector," Noel leaned back and folded his arms. "Be frank to the verge of rudeness, if you like." "Oh, no, no, my lord; certainly not," Darby said in a shocked manner. "I will be as delicate as I possibly can. Well, then, my lord, Miss Greeby, thinking that you might elope with the then Lady Agnes Pine, resolved to place an even greater barrier between you than the marriage." "What could be a possibly greater barrier?" "Your honor, my lord, your strict sense of honor. Miss Greeby thought that if she got rid of Sir Hubert, and Lady Agnes was in possession of the millions, that you would never risk her losing the same for your sake." "She was right in supposing that, Mr. Inspector, but how did Miss Greeby know that Lady Agnes would lose the money if she married me?" "Sir Hubert told her so himself, my lord, when she discovered that he was at the Abbot's Wood camp under the name of Ishmael Hearne." "His real name." "Of course, my lord; of course. And having made this discovery and knowing how jealous Sir Hubert was of his wife--if you will pardon my mentioning the fact--Miss Greeby laid a trap to lure him to The Manor that he might be shot." The listener moved uneasily, and he now quite expected to hear the revelation of Garvington's forgery. "Go on, Mr. Inspector." "Miss Greeby," pursued the officer, glancing at his notes, "knew that the late Mark Silver, who was Sir Hubert's secretary, was not well disposed toward his employer, as he fancied that he had been cheated out of the proceeds of certain inventions. Miss Greeby worked on this point and induced Silver to forge a letter purporting to come from Lady Agnes to you saying that an elopement had been arranged." "Oh," Lambert drew a breath of relief, "so Silver laid a trap, did he?" "Yes, my lord, and a very clever one. The letter was arranged by Silver to fall into Sir Hubert's hands. That unfortunate gentleman came to the blue door at the appointed time, then Miss Greeby, who had climbed out of the window of her bedroom to hide in the shrubbery, shot the unsuspecting man. She then got back into her room--and a very clever climber she must have been, my lord--and afterward mingled with the guests." "But why did she think of luring Sir Hubert to be shot?" asked Noel with feigned ignorance, "when she ran such a risk of being discovered?" "Ah, my lord, therein lies the cleverness of the idea. Poor Lord Garvington had threatened to shoot any burglar, and that gave Miss Greeby the idea. It was her hope that your late cousin might kill Sir Hubert by mistaking him for a robber, and she only posted herself in the shrubbery to shoot if Sir Hubert was not killed. He was not, as we know that the shot fired by Lord Garvington only broke his arm. Miss Greeby made sure by killing him herself, and very cleverly she did so." "And what about my late cousin's philanthropic visit to Silver?" "Ah, my lord, that was a mistake. His lordship was informed of the forged letter by Chaldea the gypsy girl, who found it in Sir Hubert's tent, and for the sake of your family wished to get Silver out of the country. It would have been dreadful--as Lord Garvington rightly considered--that the name of his sister and your name should be mentioned in connection with an elopement even though it was untrue. He therefore went to induce Silver to leave the country, but the man, instead of being grateful, stunned his lordship with a blow from a poker which he had picked up." "How was that known, Mr. Inspector?" "Miss Greeby had the truth from his own lips. Silver threatened to denounce her, and knowing this Chaldea went to London to warn her." "Oh," muttered Lambert, thinking of what Gentilla Stanley had said, "how did she find out?" "She overheard a conversation between Silver and Lord Garvington in the cottage." Lambert was relieved again, since Miss Greeby had not evidently mentioned him as being mixed up with the matter. "Yes, Mr. Inspector, I can guess the rest. This unfortunate woman came down to get Silver, who could have hanged her, out of the country, and he set fire to the cottage." "She set fire to it," corrected Darby quickly, "by chance, as she told me, she overturned a lamp. Of course, Lord Garvington, being senseless, was burned to death. Gentilla Stanley was also burned." "How did she come to be there?" "Oh, it seems that Gentilla followed Hearne--he was her grandson I hear from the gypsies--to The Manor on that night and saw the shooting. But she said nothing, not feeling sure if her unsupported testimony would be sufficient to convict Miss Greeby. However, she watched that lady and followed her to the cottage to denounce her and prevent the escape of Silver--who knew the truth also, as she ascertained. Silver knocked the old woman down and stunned her, so she also was burned to death. Then Silver ran for the motor car and crushed Miss Greeby--since he could not manage the machine." "Did he crush her on purpose, do you think?" "No," said Darby after a pause, "I don't think so. Miss Greeby was rich, and if the pair of them had escaped Silver would have been able to extort money. He no more killed her than he killed himself by dashing into that chalk pit near the road. It was mismanagement of the motor in both cases." Lambert was quiet for a time. "Is that all?" he asked, looking up. "All, my lord," answered the inspector, gathering his papers together. "Is anything else likely to appear in the papers?" "No, my lord." "I noted," said Lambert slowly, "that there was no mention of the forged letter made at the inquest." Darby nodded. "I arranged that, my lord, since the forged letter made so free with your lordship's name and that of the present Lady Garvington. As you probably saw, it was only stated that the late Sir Hubert had gone to meet his secretary at The Manor and that Miss Greeby, knowing of his coming, had shot him. The motive was ascribed as anger at the late Sir Hubert for having lost a great sum of money which Miss Greeby entrusted to him for the purpose of speculation." "And is it true that such money was entrusted and lost?" "Perfectly true, my lord. I saw in that fact a chance of hiding the real truth. It would do no good to make the forged letter public and would cast discredit both on the dead and the living. Therefore all that has been said does not even hint at the trap laid by Silver. Now that all parties concerned are dead and buried, no more will be heard of the matter, and your lordship can sleep in peace." The young man walked up and down the room for a few minutes while the inspector made ready to depart. Noel was deeply touched by the man's consideration and made up his mind that he should not lose by the delicacy he had shown in preserving his name and that of Agnes from the tongue of gossips. He saw plainly that Darby was a man he could thoroughly trust and forthwith did so. "Mr. Inspector," he said, coming forward to shake hands, "you have acted in a most kind and generous manner and I cannot show my appreciation of your behavior more than by telling you the exact truth of this sad affair." "I know the truth," said Darby staring. "Not the exact truth, which closely concerns the honor of my family. But as you have saved that by suppressing certain evidence it is only right that you should know more than you do know." "I shall keep quiet anything that you tell me, my lord," said Darby greatly pleased; "that is, anything that is consistent with my official duty." "Of course. Also I wish you to know exactly how matters stand, since there may be trouble with Chaldea." "Oh, I don't think so, my lord. Chaldea has married that dwarf." "Kara, the Servian gypsy?" "Yes. She's given him a bad time, and he put up with it because he had no authority over her; but now that she's his romi--as these people call a wife--he'll make her dance to his playing. They left England yesterday for foreign parts--Hungary, I fancy, my lord. The girl won't come back in a hurry, for Kara will keep an eye on her." Lambert drew a long breath of relief. "I am glad," he said simply, "as I never should have felt safe while she remained in England." "Felt safe?" echoed the officer suspiciously. His host nodded and told the man to take a seat again. Then, without wasting further time, he related the real truth about the forged letter. Darby listened to the recital in amazement and shook his head sadly over the delinquency of the late Lord Garvington. "Well! Well!" said the inspector staring, "to think as a nobleman born and bred should act in this way." "Why shouldn't a nobleman be wicked as well as the grocer?" said Lambert impatiently, "and according to the socialistic press all the evil of humanity is to be found in aristocratic circles. However, you know the exact truth, Mr. Inspector, and I have confided to you the secret which concerns the honor of my family. You won't abuse my confidence." Darby rose and extended his hand. "You may be sure of that, my lord. What you have told me will never be repeated. Everything in connection with this matter is finished, and you will hear no more about it." "I'm glad and thankful," said the other, again drawing a breath of relief, "and to show my appreciation of your services, Darby, I shall send you a substantial check." "Oh, my lord, I couldn't take it. I only did my duty." "I think you did a great deal more than that," answered the new Lord Garvington dryly, "and had you acted entirely on the evidence you gathered together, and especially on the confession of that miserable woman, you might have made public much that I would prefer to keep private. Take the money from a friend, Darby, and as a mark of esteem for a man." "Thank you, my lord," replied the inspector straightly, "I don't deny but what my conscience and my duty to the Government will allow me to take it since you put it in that way. And as I am not a rich man the money will be welcome. Thank you!" With a warm hand-shake the inspector took his departure and Noel offered up a silent prayer of thankfulness to God that things had turned out so admirably. His shifty cousin was now dead and there was no longer any danger that the honor of the family, for which so much had been sacrificed, both by himself and Agnes, would be smirched. The young man regretted the death of Mother Cockleshell, who had been so well disposed toward his wife and himself, but he rejoiced that Chaldea had left England under the guardianship of Kara, as henceforth--if he knew anything of the dwarf's jealous disposition--the girl would trouble him no more. And Silver was dead and buried, which did away with any possible trouble coming from that quarter. Finally, poor Miss Greeby, who had sinned for love, was out of the way and there was no need to be anxious on her account. Fate had made a clean sweep of all the actors in the tragedy, and Lambert hoped that this particular play was ended. When the inspector went away, Lord Garvington sought out his wife and his late cousin's widow. To them he reported all that had passed and gave them the joyful assurance that nothing more would be heard in connection with the late tragic events. Both ladies were delighted. "Poor Freddy," sighed Agnes, who had quite forgiven her brother now that he had paid for his sins, "he behaved very badly; all the same he had his good points, Noel." "Ah, he had, he had," said Lady Garvington, the widow, shaking her untidy head, "he was selfish and greedy, and perhaps not so thoughtful as he might have been, but there are worse people than poor Freddy." Noel could not help smiling at this somewhat guarded eulogy of the dead, but did not pursue the subject. "Well, Jane, you must not grieve too much." "No, I shall not," she admitted bluntly, "I am going to be quiet for a few months and then perhaps I may marry again. But I shall marry a man who lives on nuts and roots, my dear Noel. Never again," she shuddered, "shall I bother about the kitchen. I shall burn Freddy's recipes and cookery books." Lady Garvington evidently really felt relieved by the death of her greedy little husband, although she tried her best to appear sorry. But the twinkle of relief in her eyes betrayed her, and neither Noel nor Agnes could blame her. She had enough to live on--since the new lord had arranged this in a most generous manner--and she was free from the cares of the kitchen. "So I'll go to London in a few days when I've packed up," said the widow nodding, "you two dears can stay here for your second honeymoon." "It will be concerned with pounds, shillings, and pence, then," said Agnes with a smile, "for Noel has to get the estate put in order. Things are very bad just now, as I know for certain. But we must try to save The Manor from going out of the family." It was at this moment, and while the trio wondered how the financial condition of the Lamberts was to be improved, that a message came saying that Mr. Jarwin wished to see Lord and Lady Garvington in the library. Wondering what the lawyer had come about, and dreading further bad news, the young couple descended, leaving the widow to her packing up. They found the lean, dry solicitor waiting for them with a smiling face. "Oh!" said Agnes as she greeted him, "then it's not bad news?" "On the contrary," said Jarwin, with his cough, "it is the best of news." Noel looked at him hard. "The best of news to me at the present moment would be information about money," he said slowly. "I have a title, it is true, but the estate is much encumbered." "You need not trouble about that, Lord Garvington; Mrs. Stanley has put all that right." "What?" asked Agnes greatly agitated. "Has she made over the mortgages to Noel? Oh, if she only has." "She has done better than that," remarked Jarwin, producing a paper of no great size, "this is her will. She wanted to make a deed of gift, and probably would have done so had she lived. But luckily she made the will--and a hard-and-fast one it is--for I drew it up myself," said Mr. Jarwin complacently. "How does the will concern us?" asked Agnes, catching Noel's hand with a tremor, for she could scarcely grasp the hints of the lawyer. "Mrs. Stanley, my dear lady, had a great regard for you since you nursed her through a dangerous illness. Also you were, as she put it, a good and true wife to her grandson. Therefore, as she approved of you and of your second marriage, she has left the entire fortune of your late husband to you and to Lord Garvington here." "Never!" cried Lambert growing pale, while his wife gasped with astonishment. "It is true, and here is the proof," Jarwin shook the parchment, "one million to you, Lord Garvington, and one million to your wife. Listen, if you please," and the solicitor read the document in a formal manner which left no doubt as to the truth of his amazing news. When he finished the lucky couple looked at one another scarcely able to speak. It was Agnes who recovered her voice first. "Oh, it can't be true--it can't be true," she cried. "Noel, pinch me, for I must be dreaming." "It is true, as the will gives you to understand," said the lawyer, smiling in his dry way, "and if I may be permitted to say so, Lady Garvington, never was money more rightfully inherited. You surrendered everything for the sake of true love, and it is only just that you should be rewarded. If Mrs. Stanley had lived she intended to keep five or six thousand for herself so that she could transport certain gypsies to America, but she would undoubtedly have made a deed of gift of the rest of the property. Oh, what a very fortunate thing it was that she made this will," cried Jarwin, genuinely moved at the thought of the possible loss of the millions, "for her unforeseen death would have spoiled everything if I had not the forethought to suggest the testament." "It is to you we owe our good fortune." "To Mrs. Gentilla Stanley--and to me partially. I only ask for my reward that you will continue to allow me to see after the property. The fees," added Jarwin with his dry cough, "will be considerable." "You can rob us if you like," said Noel, slapping him on the back. "Well, to say that I am glad is to speak weakly. I am overjoyed. With this money we can restore the fortunes of the family again." "They will be placed higher than they have ever been before," cried Agnes with a shining face. "Two millions. Oh, what a lot of good we can do." "To yourselves?" inquired Jarwin dryly. "And to others also," said Lambert gravely. "God has been so good to us that we must be good to others." "Then be good to me, Lord Garvington," said the solicitor, putting away the will in his bag, "for I am dying of hunger. A little luncheon--" "A very big one." "I am no great eater," said Jarwin, and walked toward the door, "a wash and brush-up and a plate of soup will satisfy me. And I will say again what I said before to both of you, that you thoroughly deserve your good fortune. Lord Garvington, you are the luckier of the two, as you have a wife who is far above rubies, and--and--dear me, I am talking romance. So foolish at my age. To think--well--well, I am extremely hungry, so don't let luncheon be long before it appears," and with a croaking laugh at his jokes the lawyer disappeared. Left alone the fortunate couple fell into one another's arms. It seemed incredible that the past storm should have been succeeded by so wonderful a calm. They had been tested by adversity, and they had proved themselves to be of sterling metal. Before them the future stretched in a long, smooth road under sunny blue skies, and behind them the black clouds, out of which they had emerged, were dispersing into thin air. Evil passes, good endures. "Two millions!" sighed Agnes joyfully. "Of red money," remarked her husband. "Why do you call it that?" "Mother Cockleshell--bless her!--called it so because it was tainted with blood. But we must cleanse the stains, Agnes, by using much of it to help all that are in trouble. God has been good in settling our affairs in this way, but He has given me a better gift than the money." "What is that?" asked Lady Garvington softly. "The love of my dear wife," said the happiest of men to the happiest of women. THE END. Popular Detective Stories by Fergus Hume Claude Duval of '95 A Coin of Edward VII The Disappearing Eye The Green Mummy Lady Jim of Curzon Street The Mandarin's Fan The Mystery of a Hansom Cab The Mystery Queen The Opal Serpent The Pagan's Cup The Rainbow Feather Red Money The Red Window The Sacred Herb The Sealed Message The Secret Passage The Solitary Farm The Steel Crown The Yellow Holly The Peacock of Jewels 
22743	----	[Illustration: HE PUSHED RUTH ROUGHLY BACK INTO HER SEAT. Page 123] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES Or The Missing Pearl Necklace By ALICE B. EMERSON Author of "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill," "Ruth Fielding at Silver Ranch," etc. Illustrated New York CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY Publishers ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Books for Girls By ALICE B. EMERSON RUTH FIELDING SERIES 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume, 40 cents, postpaid. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL Or, Jasper Parloe's Secret. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL Or, Solving the Campus Mystery. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP Or, Lost in the Backwoods. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT Or, Nita, the Girl Castaway. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH Or, Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys. RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND Or, The Old Hunter's Treasure Box. RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM Or, What Became of the Raby Orphans. RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES Or, The Missing Pearl Necklace. Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York. Copyright, 1915, by Cupples & Leon Company Ruth Fielding and the Gypsies. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. On the Lumano River 1 II. Roberto, the Gypsy 10 III. Evening at the Red Mill 19 IV. The Auto Tour 27 V. A Prophecy Fulfilled 37 VI. A Transaction in Mutton 43 VII. Fellow Travelers 53 VIII. What Was It All About? 61 IX. Queen Zelaya 69 X. In the Gypsy Camp 80 XI. Tom on the Trail 91 XII. A Break for Liberty 104 XIII. Ruth in the Toils 111 XIV. Roberto Again 116 XV. Helen's Escape 124 XVI. Through the Night and the Storm 133 XVII. Off for School Again 140 XVIII. Getting Into Harness 149 XIX. Can It Be Possible? 156 XX. He Cannot Talk 164 XXI. Ruth Intercedes 169 XXII. A Great Temptation 175 XXIII. Nettie Parsons' Feast 182 XXIV. Roberto Finds His Voice 190 XXV. Five Thousand Dollars 198 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES CHAPTER I ON THE LUMANO RIVER The steady turning of the grinding-stones set the old Red Mill a-quiver in every board and beam. The air within was full of dust--dust of the grain, and fine, fine dust from the stones themselves. Uncle Jabez Potter, the miller, came to the door and looked across the grassy yard that separated the mill and the farmhouse attached from the highroad. Under a broad-spreading tree sat two girls, busy with their needles. One, a sharp-faced, light-haired girl, who somehow carried a look of endured pain in her eyes in spite of the smile she flung at the old man, cried: "Hello, Dusty Miller! come out and fly about a little. It will do you good." The grim face of the miller lightened perceptibly. "How do you reckon a man like me kin fly, Mercy child?" he croaked. "I'll lend you my aeroplanes, if you like," she returned, gaily, and held up the two ebony canes which had been hidden by the tall grass. _They_ told the story of Mercy Curtis' look of pain, but once she had had to hobble on crutches and, as she pluckily declared, canes were "miles better than crutches." "I ain't got no time, gals, an' that's a fac'," said the miller, his face clouding suddenly. "Ain't ye seen hide nor hair of Ben an' them mules?" "Why, Uncle," said the second girl, quietly, "you know how many errands Ben had to do in town. He couldn't do them all and get back in so short a time." "I dunno about that, Niece Ruth--I dunno about that," said the old man, sharply. "Seems ter me I could ha' gone an' been back by now. An' hi guy! there's four sacks o' flour to take acrost the river to Tim Lakeby--an' I kyan't do it by meself--Ben knows that. Takes two' on us ter handle thet punt 'ith the river runnin' like she is right now." The girl who had last spoken folded the work in her lap and got up agilely. Her movements were followed--perhaps a little enviously--by the gaze of the lame girl. "How quick you are, Ruthie," she said. When Ruth Fielding looked down upon Mercy Curtis, her smile started an answering one upon the lame girl's thin face. "Quick on my feet, dearie," said Ruth. "But you have so much quicker a mind." "Flatterer!" returned the other, yet the smile lingered upon the thin face and made it the sweeter. The miller was turning, grumblingly, back into the shadowy interior of the mill, when Ruth hailed him. "Oh, Uncle!" she cried. "Let me help you." "What's that?" he demanded, wheeling again to look at her from under his shaggy eyebrows. Now, Ruth Fielding was worth looking at. She was plump, but not too plump; and she was quick in her movements, while her lithe and graceful figure showed that she possessed not only health, but great vitality. Her hair was of a beautiful bright brown color, was thick, and curled just a little. In her tanned cheeks the blood flowed richly--the color came and went with every breath she drew, it seemed, at times. That was when she was excited. But ordinarily she was of a placid temperament, and her brown eyes were as deep as wells. She possessed the power of looking searchingly and calmly at one without making her glance either impertinent or bold. In her dark skirt, middy blouse, and black stockings and low shoes, she made a pretty picture as she stood under the tree, although her features were none of them perfect. Her cheeks were perhaps a little too round; her nose--well, it was not a dignified nose at all! And her mouth was generously large, but the teeth gleaming behind her red lips were even and white, and her smile lit up her whole face in a most engaging manner. "Do let me help you, Uncle. I know I can," she repeated, as the old miller scowled at her. "What's that?" he said again. "Go with me in that punt to Tim Lakeby's?" "Why not?" "'Tain't no job for a gal, Niece Ruth," grumbled the miller. "Any job is all right for a girl--if she can do it," said Ruth, happily. "And I can row, Uncle--you know I can." "Ha! rowing one o' them paper-shell skiffs of Cameron's _one_ thing; the ash oars to my punt ain't for baby's han's," growled the miller. "Do let me try, Uncle Jabez," said Ruth again, when the lame girl broke in with: "You are an awfully obstinate old Dusty Miller! Why don't you own up that Ruthie's more good to you than a dozen boys would be?" "She ain't!" snarled the old man. At that moment there appeared upon the farmhouse porch a little, bent old woman who hailed them in a shrill, sweet voice: "What's the matter, gals? What's the matter, Jabez? Ain't nothin' broke down, hez there?" "No, Aunt Alvirah," laughed Ruth. "I just want Uncle Jabez to let me help him----" The old woman had started down the steps, her hand upon her back as she came, and intoning in a low voice: "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" She caught up the miller's remark, as he turned away again, very sharply, for he muttered something about "Silly gals' foolish idees." "What d'ye mean by that, Jabez Potter?" she demanded. "If Ruth says she kin help ye, she _kin_. You oughter know that by this time." "Help me row that punt across the river?" snarled the old man, wrathfully. "What nonsense!" "I dunno," said the old woman, slowly. "I see Tim's flag a-flyin'. I guess he wants his flour bad." "And I can pull an oar as good as _you_ can, Uncle Jabez," added Ruth. "Oh, all right! Come on, then. I see I shell hev no peace till I let ye try it. Ef we don't git back fer supper, don't blame _me_, Alviry." The miller disappeared in the gathering gloom of the mill. Soon the jarring of the structure and the hum of the stones grew slower--slower--slower, and finally the machinery was altogether still. Ruth had run for her hat. Then, waving her hand to Mercy and Aunt Alvirah, she ran around to the landing. The Lumano River was a wide stream, but at this season of the year it was pretty shallow. There was little navigation from Lake Osago at any time, but now the channel was dotted with dangerous rocks, and there were even more perilous reefs just under the surface. Uncle Jabez's boat was not really a "punt." It was a heavy rowboat, so stained and waterlogged in appearance that it might have been taken for a bit of drift-stuff that had been brought in to the Red Mill landing by the current. And truly, that is probably the means by which the miller had originally obtained the boat. He was of a miserly nature, was Uncle Jabez Potter, and the old boat--which its first owner had never considered worth coming after, following some spring freshet--served the miller well enough to transport his goods across the river. Tim Lakeby's store, on the north shore of the river, was in sight of the Red Mill. There were four sacks of flour to be transported, and already Uncle Jabez had placed two of them in the bottom of the boat, upon a clean tarpaulin. "Ef we go down the river an' swamp, I shell lose this flour," grumbled Uncle Jabez. "Drat that Ben! I tell ye, he'd ought to be hum by now." Ben was the hired man, and if the miller had not really been kindlier underneath than he appeared on the surface, Ben would never have remained as long with him as he had! Uncle Jabez balanced the weight in the boat with judgment. Although there seemed to be no real danger, he knew very well the nature of the treacherous current. Ruth slipped into the bow seat with her oar, and Uncle Jabez took stroke. The girl unknotted the painter, and the boat drifted out from the landing. "Now, set yer feet square, an' _pull_!" ejaculated her uncle, thrusting the blade of his own oar beneath the rippling surface. They were heavy ash oars--one was all the girl really could manage. But she was not afraid of a little hard work, her muscles were supple, and she had rowed one season in the first eight at Briarwood Hall, and so considered herself something of an oarswoman. The miller, by stretching to see over his shoulder, got the boat pointed in the right direction. "Pull, now!" he commanded, and set a long, forceful stroke for the girl to match. With the water slapping against the high side of the craft, sometimes sprinkling them with spray, they drove her forward for some minutes in silence. The boat lumbered heavily, and it was true that Ruth had all she could do to manage the oars. In some places, where the eddies tugged at the blade, it seemed as though a submerged giant seized it and tried to twist it from her grasp! "I guess you air gittin' yer fill-up of it, Niece Ruth," growled the miller, with a sound in his throat that might have been a chuckle. "Look out, now! ye'll hev us over." Ruth knew very well she had done nothing to give the boat that sudden jerk. It was the current; but she had no breath with which to argue the matter. On and on they pulled, while the sinking sun gilded the little wavelets, and bathed both river and the shores in golden glory. A homing bird shrieked a shrill "good-night," as it passed above them, flying from shore to shore. Now the northern shore was nearer than the landing they had left. Only occasionally Ruth turned her head, for she needed her full attention upon the oar which she managed with such difficulty. "We gotter p'int up-stream," growled Uncle Jabez, after wringing his neck around again to spy out the landing near Lakeby's store. "Pesky current's kerried us too fur down." He gave a mighty pull to his own oar to rehead the boat. It was a perilous move, and in a perilous place. Here the water ran, troubled and white-capped, over a hidden reef. "Oh! do be careful, Uncle!" cried Ruth. "Pull!" yelled the old man, in return. By chance he sunk his own oar-blade so deeply, that it rubbed against the reef. It lifted Uncle Jabez from his seat, and unbalanced the boat. Like a flash the heavy oar flew out of its socket, and the old man sprawled on his back in the bottom of the boat. The latter whirled around in the current, and before Ruth could scream, even, it crashed broadside upon the rock! The rotting planks of the boat could not stand such a blow. Ruth saw the plank cave in, and the water followed. Down the boat settled upon the submerged part of the rock--a hopeless wreck! This was not the worst of the accident. In seeking to recover his seat, Uncle Jabez went overboard, as the old boat tipped. He dove into the shallow water, and struck his head heavily on the reef. Blood-stained bubbles rose to the surface, and the old man struggled only feebly to rise. "He is hurt! he will be drowned!" gasped Ruth, and seeing him so helpless, she sprang nimbly over the canted side of the boat and sought to draw her uncle's head out of the water. Although she was a good swimmer, and was not afraid of the water, the current was so swift, and her own footing so unstable, it was doubtful if Ruth Fielding could save both the miller and herself from the peril that menaced them. CHAPTER II ROBERTO, THE GYPSY Ruth Fielding, following the death of her parents and while she was still a small girl, had left Darrowtown and Miss True Pettis, and all her other old friends and acquaintances, to live with her mother's uncle, at the Red Mill. Her coming to the mill and her early adventures in and about that charming place were related in the first volume of this series, entitled "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill." Ruth made many friends in her new home, among them Helen and Tom Cameron, the twin, motherless children of a wealthy dry-goods merchant who had a beautiful home, called "the Outlook," near the mill, and Mercy Curtis, the daughter of the railroad station agent at Cheslow, the nearest important town to Ruth's new home. Ruth, Helen, and Mercy all went to Briarwood Hall, a girls' school some distance from Cheslow, while Master Tom attended a military academy at Seven Oaks, near the girls' institution of learning. The incidents of their first term at school are related in the second volume of the series, while in the mid-winter vacation Ruth and her friends go to Snow Camp in the Adirondacks. Later, our friends spent part of a summer vacation at Lighthouse Point on the Atlantic Coast, after which they visited Silver Ranch in Montana. The sixth volume tells of another mid-winter camping adventure on Cliff Island, while the volume previous to our present story--number seven, in fact--was entitled "Ruth Fielding at Sunrise Farm." This story narrated Ruth's particular interest in Sadie Raby, a strange, wild girl who ran away from cruel people who had taken her "to raise." Her reunion with her twin brothers, Willie and Dickie, and how they all three became the special care of Mr. Steele, the wealthy owner of Sunrise Farm, is told. It is through Ruth's efforts that the Rabys are settled in life and win friends. Now Ruth and her schoolmates had returned to the Red Mill and Cheslow, and but a brief space would elapse before the girls would begin their third year at Briarwood Hall; they were all looking toward the beginning of the fall term with great eagerness. Had Ruth Fielding been able to think at this moment of the boat's overturn, or of anything but her uncle's peril, she might have considered that the possibility of her ever seeing Briarwood Hall again was somewhat doubtful! The hurrying water tugged at her as though a hundred hands had laid hold of her person. She was nearly arm-pit deep in the flood, and her uncle's body was so heavy that she had all she could do to hold his head above the surface. She could not get him back into the boat, even, and perhaps that would not have been a wise move. For the old skiff, shaking and rocking, was likely to be torn free by the battling current. If it should swing into deep water, it must sink almost at once, for the water was pouring in through the hole that had been battered in its side. The flour was fast becoming saturated with the river-water, and its increased weight would bear the boat to the bottom, if it slipped from the reef. Unable to see any good of boarding the boat again, Ruth tried to work her way along the reef until she stood upon a higher part of it. Uncle Jabez was unconscious, blood flowed from a deep cut on his head, and he lay a dead weight in her arms. Never had Ruth Fielding been in greater peril. She was frightened, but mostly for the old man who seemed so seriously hurt. Tossing her loosened hair out of her eyes, she stared longingly at the landing near Lakeby's store. It was some distance up-stream, and not a person was in sight. She feared, too, that it was too far away for her voice to carry. Yet she must scream for help. She shouted again and again, endeavoring to put all the strength of her voice into the cries. Was that an answer? The girl held her uncle high in her arms and looked all about. Nobody was at the store landing. Nobody was behind on the other shore of the river--and she was glad that Aunt Alvirah and Mercy had not seen the accident, for neither of them could have helped in this predicament. Yes! there was the repeated shout--and nearer. Ruth's eyes turned to the north shore of the Lumano again. There was somebody running down the bank--not near the store kept by Timothy Lakeby, but directly opposite the rock on which the old boat had stranded. "Oh! oh! Help! help!" shrieked the girl of the Red Mill. "Hold on! I'm coming!" The voice came to her more strongly than before. She could not see who the person was, but she knew he was alone. She could not imagine how he was to aid them. Why did he not run to the store and bring other men to help? There! he seemed to have leaped right into the river! "Oh, dear me! the strongest swimmer could not reach us, let alone help Uncle Jabez ashore," was Ruth's thought. But up came the figure into sight again. Dripping, of course, now he stood firmly on a peak of rock that was thrust above the tide, and shook back the long black hair from his eyes. He was a wild looking person. His feet were bare and his ragged trousers were rolled to his knees. He wore neither vest nor coat, and his shirt was open at his throat. To Ruth he seemed very bronzed and rough looking. But whoever, or whatever, he might be, the girl prayed that he would prove able to rescue Uncle Jabez. She felt that she could save herself, but she was having all she could do to bear up the unconscious miller. "Hold on!" shouted the rescuer again. Once more he plunged forward. He disappeared off the rock. Was he swimming again? The half-overturned boat hid him from Ruth's gaze. Suddenly he shouted close at hand. Up he bobbed on the higher point of rock just beyond the boat. "What's the matter, Missy?" he demanded. "Is the old man hurt?" "He hit his head. See! he is unconscious," explained Ruth. "I'll get him! Look out, now; I've got to push off this old boat, Missy. She ain't no good, anyway." Ruth saw that he was a big, black-haired, strong looking boy. His complexion was very dark and his eyes sparkling--like cut jet beads. He might have been seventeen or eighteen years old, but he was fully as tall, and apparently as strong, as an ordinary man. His long hair curled and was tangled like a wild man's. His beard had begun to grow on his lip and chin. In his ears Ruth saw small gold rings and his wrists and forearms--which were bared--were covered with an intricate pattern of tattooing in red and blue ink. Altogether, she had never seen so strange a boy in all her life--and certainly none so strong. He leaped into the broken boat, seized Ruth's oar that had not been lost in the overset, and bracing it against the rock, pushed the trembling boat free in a moment. Ruth could not repress a scream. It looked as though he, too, must be thrown into the river, as the boat was caught by the current and jerked free. But the wild boy laughed and leaped upon the higher part of the rock. As the miller's old boat drifted down stream, he sprang into the water again and reached the girl and her burden. "Give him to me!" commanded the boy. "I can bear him up better than you, Missy. We'll get him ashore--and you can't be any wetter than you are now." "Oh, never mind me!" cried Ruth. "I am not afraid of a ducking. And I can swim." "You don't want to try swimming in _this_ place, Missy," he returned. "You follow right behind me--so." He turned, carrying the heavy figure of the miller in his arms as though he weighed but a hundred pounds instead of nearer two, and set off toward the shore along the ledge of rock by which he had come. Ruth saw, now, that beyond where the boat had been wrecked, the rock joined the shore, with only here and there a place where it was deep under water. She saw, too, that the boat was now sinking. It had not sailed ten yards in the fierce current before its gunwales disappeared. It sank in a deeper channel below--flour and all! Ruth realized that Uncle Jabez would be sorely troubled over the loss of those bags of flour. Ruth paddled to the shore behind the strong boy, but before they really reached terra firma, she knew that Uncle Jabez was struggling back to consciousness. The boy lowered the miller easily to the ground. "He's coming 'round, Missy," he said. His smile was broad, and the little gold rings twinkled in his ears. Ruth, wet and bedrabbled as she was, did not think of her own discomfort. She knelt beside Uncle Jabez and spoke to him. For some seconds he was so dazed that he did not seem to recognize her. Then he stammered: "Ha--ha----I knowed we couldn't do it. No--no gal kin do a man's work. Ha!" This seemed rather hard on Ruth, after she had done her best, and it had not been her fault that the boat was wrecked, but she was too excited just then to trouble about the miller's grumbling. "Oh, Uncle! you're not badly hurt, are you?" "Ha--hum! I dunno," stuttered the miller, and sat up. He rubbed his forehead and brought his hand, with a little blood upon it, back to the level of his eyes. "I vum!" he ejaculated, with more interest than before. "I must ha' cracked my head some. Why was it I didn't drown?" "This little missy, here," said the black-eyed youth, quickly. "_She_ saved you, Mister. She held your head above water till I come." "Why--why----Niece Ruth! you did _that_?" "Oh, it was nothing, Uncle Jabez! I am so glad you are not hurt worse. This boy really saved you. He brought you ashore." "Who be ye, young man?" asked the miller. "I'm obleeged to ye--if what my niece says is true." "Oh, I am named Roberto. You need not to thank--no!" exclaimed the stranger, suddenly getting up and looking all about. "But it was very brave of him," declared Ruth, and she seized the boy's hand. "I--I am so glad you were near." "Here's Tim and Joe Bascom coming," said Uncle Jabez, who was facing the store. Instantly Roberto, as he called himself, jerked his hand from Ruth's grasp. He had seen the men coming, too, and without a word he turned and fled back into the woods. "Why--why----" began Ruth, in utter surprise. "What's the matter with that feller?" demanded Uncle Jabez, just as the storekeeper and Farmer Bascom arrived. "I seen the feller, Jabe," said the latter, eagerly. "He's one o' them blamed Gypsies. I run him out o' my orchard only yisterday." CHAPTER III EVENING AT THE RED MILL About this time Uncle Jabez began to wake up to the fact that his boat and the flour were gone. "It's a dumbed shame, Jabez! an' I needed that flour like tunket," said Timothy Lakeby, the storekeeper. "Huh!" grunted the miller. "'Tain't nothin' out o' your pocket, Tim." "But my customers air wantin' it." "You lemme hev your boat, an' a boy to bring it back, an' we'll go right hum an' load ye up some more flour," groaned the miller. "That dratted Ben will be back by thet time, I fancy. Ef he'd been ter the mill I wouldn't hev been dependent upon my niece ter help row that old boat." "Too heavy for her--too heavy for her, Jabe," declared Joe Bascom. "Huh! is thet so?" snapped the miller. He could grumble to Ruth himself, but he would not stand for any other person's criticism of her. "Lemme tell ye, she worked her passage all right. An' I vum! I b'lieve thet 'twas me, myself, thet run the old tub on the rock." "Aside from the flour, Jabez," said the storekeeper, "'tain't much of a loss. But you an' Ruthie might ha' both been drowned." "I would, if it hadn't been for her," declared the miller, with more enthusiasm than he usually showed. "She held my head up when I was knocked out--kinder. Ye see this cut in my head?" "Ye got out of it lucky arter all, then," said Bascom. "Ya-as," drawled the miller. "But I ain't feelin' so pert erbout losin' thet boat an' the flour." "But see how much worse it might have been, Uncle," suggested Ruth, timidly. "If it hadn't been for that boy----" "What did he say his name was?" interrupted Timothy. "Roberto." "Yah!" said Bascom. "Thet's a Gypsy name, all right! I'd like ter got holt on him." "I wish I could have thanked him," sighed Ruth. "If you see him ag'in, Joe," said the miller, "don't you bother about a peck o' summer apples. I'll pay for them," he added, with a sudden burst of generosity. "Of course--in trade," he added. He could move about now, and the gash in his head had ceased bleeding. It was a warm evening, and neither Ruth nor her uncle were likely to take cold from their ducking. But her clothing clung to her in an uncomfortable manner, and the girl was anxious to get back to the mill. Timothy Lakeby routed out a clerk and sent him with them in the lighter boat that was moored at the store landing. Ruth begged to pull an oar again, and her uncle did not forbid her. Perhaps he still felt a little weak and dazed. He kept speaking of Roberto, the Gypsy boy. "Strong as an ox, that feller," he said. "Wisht I had a man like him at the mill. Ben ain't wuth his salt." "Oh, I'm sure, Uncle Jabez, Ben is very faithful and good," urged Ruth. "Wal, a feller that could carry me like that young man done--he's jest another Sandow, _he_ is," said Uncle Jabez. They easily got across the river in the storekeeper's lighter boat, and Ruth displayed her oarsmanship to better advantage, for the oars were lighter. The miller noted her work and grunted his approval. "I vum! they _did_ teach ye suthin' at thet school 'sides folderrols, didn't they?" he said. Ruth asked the store clerk if he knew anything about the Gypsies. "Why, yes, Miss. I hear they are camping 'way up the river--up near the lakes, beyond Minturn's Dam. You know that's a wild country up there." Ruth remembered. She had been a little way in that direction with her friends, Tom and Helen Cameron, in their auto. Minturn Dam had burst two years before, and done much damage, but was now repaired. "That is a long way from here," she suggested to the clerk. "Yes'm. But Romany folks is gret roamers--thet's why they're called 'Romany,' mebbe," was the reply. "And I guess that black-eyed rascal is a wild one." "Never mind. He got me out o' the river," mumbled Uncle Jabez. They brought the boat to the mill landing in safety, and Ben appeared, having returned from town and put up the mules. He gazed in blank amazement at the condition of his employer and Ruth. "For the good land!" exclaimed Ben; but he got no farther. He was not a talkative young man, and it took considerable to wake him up to as exciting an expression as the above. "You kin talk!" snarled Uncle Jabez. "If you'd been here to help me, I wouldn't ha' lost our boat and the flour." The miller fairly _ached_ when he thought of his losses, and he had to lay the blame on somebody. "Now you help me git four more sacks over to Tim Lakeby's----" Ruth would not hear of his going back before he changed his clothing and had something put upon the cut in his head. After a little arguing, it was agreed that Ben and the clerk should ferry the flour across to the store, and then the clerk would bring Ben back. "Goodness sakes alive!" shrieked Aunt Alvirah, when she saw them come onto the porch, still dripping. "What you been doing to my pretty, Jabez Potter?" "Huh!" sniffed the miller. "Mebbe it's what she's been doing to _me_?" and he wreathed his thin lips into a wry grin. Aunt Alvirah and Mercy must hear it all. The lame girl was delighted. She pointed her finger at the old man, who had now gotten into his Sunday suit and had a bandage on his head. "Now, tell me, Dusty Miller, what do you think about girls being of some use? Isn't Ruth as good as any boy?" "She sartainly kep' me from drownin' as good as any boy goin'," admitted the old man. "But that was only chancey, as ye might say. When it comes to bein' of main use in the world----Wal, it ain't gals thet makes the wheels go 'round!' "And don't you really think, Uncle, that girls are any use in the world?" asked Ruth, quietly. She had come out upon the dimly lit porch (this was after their supper) in season to hear the miller's final observation. "Ha!" ejaculated Jabez. Perhaps he had not intended Ruth to hear just that. "They're like flowers, I reckon--mighty purty an' ornamental; but they ain't no manner o' re'l use!" Mercy fairly snorted, but she was too wise to say anything farther. Ruth, however, continued: "That seems very unfair, Uncle. Many girls are 'worth their salt,' as you call it, to their families. Why can't _I_ be of use to you--in time, of course?" "Ha! everyone to his job," said Uncle Jabez, brusquely. "You kin be of gre't help to your Aunt Alviry, no doubt. But ye can't take a sack of flour on your shoulders an' throw it inter a waggin--like Ben there. Or like that Roberto thet lugged me ashore to-night. An' I'm some weight, I be." "And is that all the kind of help you think you'll ever need, Uncle?" demanded Ruth, with rising emotion. "I ain't expectin' ter be helpless an' want nussin' by no gal--not yet awhile," said Uncle Jabez, with a chuckle. "Gals is a gre't expense--a gre't expense." "Now, Jabez! ye don't mean thet air," exclaimed the little old woman, coming from the kitchen. She lowered herself into the little rocker nearby, with her usual moan of, "Oh, my back! an' oh, my bones! Ye don't mean ter hurt my pretty's feelin's, I know." "She axed me!" exclaimed the miller, angrily. "I vum! ain't I spendin' a fortun' on her schoolin' at that Briarwood Hall?" "And didn't she save ye a tidy fortun' when she straightened out that Tintacker Mine trouble for ye, Jabez Potter?" demanded the old woman, vigorously. "An' the good Lord knows she's been a comfort an' help to ye, right an' left, in season an' out, ever since she fust stepped foot inter this Red Mill----What's she done for ye this very day, Jabez, as ye said yourself?" Aunt Alvirah was one of the very few people who dared to talk plainly to the miller, when he was in one of his tempers. Now he growled out some rough reply, and strode into the house. "You've driven him away, Auntie!" cried Ruth, under her breath. "He'd oughter be driv' away," said the old woman, "when he's in thet mind." "But what he says is true. I _am_ a great expense to him. I--I wish I could earn my own way through school." "Don't ye worry, my pretty. Jabez Potter's bark is wuss than his bite." "But the bark hurts, just the same." "He ought to be whipped!" hissed Mercy, in her most unmerciful tone. "I'd like to whip him, till all the dust flew out of his Dusty Miller clothes--so I would!" "Sh!" commanded Ruth, recovering her self-command again and fighting back the tears. "Just as Aunt Alvirah observes, he doesn't mean half of what he says." "It hurts just the same--you said it yourself," declared the lame girl, with a snap. "I want to be independent, anyway," said Ruth, with some excitement. "I want an education so I can _do_ something. I'd like to cultivate my voice--the teacher says it has possibilities. Mr. Cameron is going to let Helen go as far as she likes with the violin, and she doesn't _have_ to think about making her way in the world." "Gals ain't content now to sit down after gittin' some schoolin'--I kin see thet," sighed Aunt Alvirah. "It warn't so in my day. I never see the beat of 'em for wantin' ter go out inter the worl' an' make a livin'--jes' like men." CHAPTER IV THE AUTO TOUR "Hi, Ruth!" "Hey, Ruth!" "Straw, Ruth!--why don't you say?" cried the owner of the name, running to the porch and smiling out upon the Cameron twins, who had stopped their automobile at the Red Mill gate on a morning soon following that day on which Uncle Jabez and Ruth had undergone their involuntary ducking in the Lumano. "Aren't you ready, Ruthie?" cried Helen from the back seat of the car. "Do hurry up, Ruth--the horses don't want to stand," laughed Tom, who was slim and black haired and black eyed, like his twin. Indeed, the two were so much alike that, dressed in each other's clothing, it is doubtful if they could have been suspected in such disguise. "But my bag isn't packed yet," cried Ruth. "I didn't know you'd be here so soon." "Take your toothbrush and powder puff--that's all you girls really need," declared the irrepressible Tom. "I like that! And on a two days' trip into the hills," said his sister, beating him soundly with an energetic fist. "Give him one or two good ones for me, Helen," said Ruth, and ran in to finish her preparations for the journey she was to take with her friends. "Pshaw!" grumbled the impatient Tom, "going to Uncle Ike's isn't like going to a fancy hotel. And we'll stop over to-night with Fred Larkin's folks--the girls there would lend you and Ruth all you need." "Hold on!" exclaimed his sister. "Just what have you in _your_ bag? I know it's heavy. You have all you want----" "Sure. Pair of socks, two collars, fishing tackle, some books I borrowed of Fred last year, my bicycle wrench--you never know when you are going to need it,--a string of wampum I promised to take to Nealy Larkin--she's a Campfire girl, you know--and an Indian tomahawk for Fred----" "But, clothes! clothes!" gasped Helen. "Where are your shirts?" "Oh, I'll borrow a shirt, if I need one," declared Master Tom, grinning. "Uncle Ike's Benjy is about my size, you know. What's the use of carting around so much stuff?" "I notice you have your bag full of trash," sniffed Helen. "It can plainly be seen that Mrs. Murchiston was called away so suddenly that she could not oversee our packing." "Come on, Ruth!" shouted Tom again, turning toward the farmhouse. "Now, don't get her in a flurry," admonished Helen. "She hasn't had but two hours' notice to get ready for this two days' trip. It's a wonder Uncle Jabez would let her go with us at all." "Oh, Uncle Jabe isn't such a bad old fellow after all," said Tom. "He's been just as cross and cranky as he can be, ever since he lost his boat in the river the other evening--you know that. And they say he would have been drowned, too, if it hadn't been for Ruthie. What a brave girl she is, Tom!" "Bravest in seven states!" acknowledged Master Tom, promptly. He had always thought there was nobody just like Ruth, and his sister smiled upon him approvingly. "I guess she is!" she agreed. "There isn't a girl at Briarwood Hall that will be her match in anything--now that Madge Steele has gotten through. Ruth is going to be head of the senior class before we graduate--you see." "She'll have to hustle some to beat little Mercy Curtis," grinned Tom. "_There's_ a sharp suffragette for you!" Helen laughed. "That's right. But, unfortunately for Mercy, Mrs. Tellingham considers other work beside our books in grading us. Oh, Tommy! we're going to have a dandy time this coming year at school." "You have my best wishes," returned her brother, with a slightly clouded face. "Bobbins and Busy Izzy and I expect to be drilled like everything, when we get back to Seven Oaks. Professor Darly is a terror." Ruth came out with her bag then, and in the doorway behind her appeared the little, stooped figure of Aunt Alvirah. The Camerons waved their hands and shouted greetings to her. "Take good keer of my pretty, Master Tom," shrilled the old lady, hobbling out into the yard. "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" "We'll handle her as if she were made of glass," declared Tom, laughing. "Hop in, Ruthie!" "Good-bye, Aunt Alvirah!" cried the girl of the Red Mill, clasping the little old lady around the neck and kissing her. Then she waved her hand to Uncle Jabez, who appeared in the mill doorway, and he nodded grimly, as the car started. Ben appeared at a window and bashfully nodded to the departing pleasure party. The car quickly passed the end of the Cheslow road and sped up the riverside. These lowlands beyond the Red Mill had once been covered by a great flood, and the three friends would never forget their race with the freshet from Culm Falls, at the time the Minturn Dam burst. "But we're bound far, far above the dam this time," said Tom. "Fred Larkin lives farther than that--beyond the gorge between the hills, and at the foot of the first pond. We'll get there long before dark unless something happens to this old mill I'm driving." "There! Tommy's harping on his pet trouble," laughed Helen. "Father won't let us use the new car to go scooting about the country alone in, and Tommy thinks he is abused." "Well! that 'six' is just eating its head off in the garage," grumbled the boy. "Just as though it were a horse!" chuckled Ruth. "You wait! I bet something happens on this trip, because of this old heap of scrap iron that pa calls a car." "Goodness me!" exclaimed Helen, with some exasperation. "Don't you dare have a breakdown in the hills, Tom! I should be frightened. It's so wild up there beyond Loon Lake." "You needn't blame me," returned her twin. "I shall do my best." "And so will the auto--I have no doubt," added Ruth, laughingly. "Cheer up, Helen, dear----" "I know the rest of it!" interrupted her chum. "'The worst is yet to come!' I--hope--not!" Ruth Fielding would allow no worrying or criticism in this event. They were out for a good time, and she at once proceeded to cheer up the twins, and laugh at their fears, and interest them in other things. They crossed the river at Culm Falls--a beautiful spot--and it was beyond the bridge, as the car was mounting the first long rise, that the party of adventurers found their first incident of moment. Here and there were clearings in the forest upon the right side of the road (on the other side the hill fell abruptly to the river), and little farms. As the party came in sight of one of these farms, a great cry arose from the dooryard. The poultry was soundly disturbed--squawking, cackling, shrieking their protests noisily--while the deep baying of a dog rose savagely above the general turmoil. "Something doing there!" quoth Tom Cameron, slowing down. "A chicken hawk, perhaps?" suggested Ruth. A woman was screaming admonition or advice; occasionally the gruffer voice of a man added to the turmoil. But the dog's barking was the loudest sound. Suddenly, from around the corner of the barn, appeared a figure wildly running. It was neither the farmer, nor his wife--that was sure. "Tramp!" exclaimed Tom, reaching for the starting lever again. At that moment Helen shrieked. After the running man appeared a hound. He had broken his leash, and a more savage brute it would be difficult to imagine. He was following the runner with great leaps, and when the fugitive vaulted the roadside fence, the dog crashed through the rails, tearing down a length of them, and scrambling in the dusty road in an endeavor to get on the trail of the man again. Only, it was not a man; it was a boy! He was big and strong looking, but his face was boyish. Ruth Fielding stood up suddenly in the car and shrieked to him: "Come here! This way! Roberto!" "My goodness! is he a friend of yours, Ruthie?" gasped Tom Cameron. "He's the Gypsy boy that saved Uncle Jabez," returned Ruth, in a breath. "Take him aboard--_do_!" urged Helen. "That awful dog----" Roberto had heard and leaped for the running-board of the car. Tom switched on the power. Just as the huge hound leaped, and his fore-paws touched the step, the car darted away and the brute was left sprawling. The car was a left-hand drive, and Tom motioned the panting youth to get in beside him. The dark-faced fellow did so. At first he was too breathless to speak, but his black eyes snapped like beads, and his lips smiled. He seemed to have enjoyed the race with the savage dog, instead of having been frightened by it. "You save me, Missy, like I save your old man--eh?" he panted, at last, turning his brilliant smile upon Ruth. "Me! that dog mos' have me, eh?" "What was the matter? How came you to start all that riot?" demanded Tom, looking at the Gypsy youth askance. Roberto's grin became expansive. The little gold rings in his ears twinkled as well as his eyes. "I did them no wrong. I slept in the man's haymow. He found me a little while ago. He say I haf to _pay_ for my sleep--eh? How poor Gypsy pay?" and he opened his hands and shrugged his shoulders to show that his pockets were empty. "Me, no money have got. Can I work? Of course I work--only the farmers do not trust me. They call all Gypsies thieves. Isn't it so, Missy?" and he flashed a glance at Ruth. "I know, Mr. Joe Bascom drove you out of his orchard," agreed the girl of the Red Mill. "But you should have come across the river to _us_. Uncle Jabez is really grateful to you." "Oh, _that_?" and the boy shrugged his shoulders again. "I do not want pay for what I do--no. I want no money. I would not work a day for all my grandmother's wealth--and she is a miser," and Roberto laughed again, showing all his white, strong teeth. "But these people back here--this man and his woman--they want me to churn. It is a dog's work--no? I see where the dog haf to churn, but that dog die and they get this new, savage one--and it will not. Me, I think this dog very wise!" and Roberto's merriment broke out again, and he shook with it. "So I tell them I will not do dog's work, and then he, the man, chases me with his pitchfork, and the woman unloose the dog. Oh, yes! I make a great noise in the henyard. That dog chase me hard. So--I got away as you see," he concluded. "Say! you're a cool one," declared Tom, with growing admiration. "But you ought not to be loafing about, sleeping anywhere, and without employment," said Helen, primly. Roberto's black eyes sparkled. "Why does the little missy say I should work?" he demanded. "There is no need. I return to my people, perhaps. There I curry horses and fill the water pails for the women, and go with my uncle to the horse-fairs where he trades, or be under my grandmother's beck and call--the grandmother whom I tell you is a miser. But I never have money with them, and why should I work for it elsewhere?" "To get good clothes, and good food, and pay your way everywhere," suggested Tom. Roberto laughed again. He spread out his strong hands. "These keep me from day to day," he said. "But money burns a hole in my pocket. Or, would you have me like my grandmother? She hoards every penny-piece, and then gloats over her money-box, by the firelight, when the rest of the camp is asleep. Oh, I see her!" CHAPTER V A PROPHECY FULFILLED This queer youth interested Ruth Fielding and her friends, the Cameron twins, very much. Roberto was not naturally talkative, it seemed, for he soon dropped into silence and it was hard to get aught out of him but "Yes" and "No." At first, however, he had been excited, and he told them a great deal of his life with the tribe and along the pleasant country roads. The cities Roberto could not bear. "There is no breath left in them--it is used up by so many," he explained. He did not eschew work because he was lazy, it seemed; but he saw no use in it. Clothing? Money? Rich food? Other things that people strive for in the main? They were nothing to Roberto. He could sleep under a haystack, crunch a crust of bread, and wear his garments until they fell off him in rags. But he knew the woods and fields as nobody but a wild boy could. Every whistle and note of every bird was as familiar to him as his own Tzigane speech; and he could imitate them with exactness. He delighted his new friends, as the car rumbled along. He soon stopped talking much, as I have said, but he answered their multitude of questions, and did not seem to mind being cross-questioned about the life of the Gypsies. The auto party stopped soon after noon to lunch. It was Roberto who pointed out the spring of clear, cold water for which they searched. He had been over this road before and, it seemed, once along a trail was enough for the young Gypsy. He never forgot. He went away down the little stream, and made himself very clean before appearing for his share of the food. To the surprise of Ruth and Helen he ate daintily and showed breeding of a kind. Nor was he enamored of the cakes and other dainties that Babette, the Camerons' cook, had put into the lunch hamper, but enjoyed, instead, the more simple viands. Roberto grew restless of riding in the car soon after luncheon. He thanked them for giving him the lift, but explained that there were paths through the woods leading to the present camp of his tribe that he preferred to follow. "It is a mark of kindness for you to have brought me this way," he said, softly, bending over Ruth's hand, for he insisted upon considering her his hostess. He realized that, had it not been for her, the Camerons would have been chary of taking him aboard. "If you are ever near the Red Mill again," Ruth told him, "be sure to come and speak with Uncle Jabez. He will not forget you, I am sure." "Of that--pooh!" exclaimed the Gypsy. "I do not want pay for such an act. Do you?" And that set Ruth Fielding to thinking a bit. Perhaps she _had_ expected payment--of a kind--for her action in helping Uncle Jabez in the river. She had hoped he would more freely respond to her affection than he did. Ah! it is hard to do a good act and not secretly hope for some small return. "Virtue is its own reward" is a moral hard to understand! After Roberto had left them, the trio of friends were occupied in exchanging views regarding the Gypsy boy, and in discussing their several opinions as to what kind of people his folk really were. "It must be loads of fun to jog along the roads in those caravans, and camp where you please, and all that," said Helen, reflectively. "I believe I'd like it." "About twenty miles on a fast day, eh?" chuckled Tom, with scorn. "Not for me! When Gypsies get to riding in autos--and six-cylinder, up-to-date ones, too--I'll join the first tribe that comes along." "I declare, Tommy!" laughed his sister, "you are getting to be a 'speed fiend.' Ruth and I will be scared to drive with you." "It's great to go fast," exclaimed Master Tom. "Here's a straight piece of road ahead, girls. Hold on!" As he spoke, he manipulated the levers and the car leaped ahead. Ruth's startled "Oh!" was left a quarter of a mile behind. The girls clung to the hand-holds, and Tom crouched behind the windshield and "let her out." It was a straight piece of road, as he had said. But before they reached the first turn there was another house beside the road--a small farmhouse. Beyond it was a field, with a stone wall, and it chanced that just as the Camerons' car roared down the road, clearing at least thirty miles an hour, the leader of a flock of sheep in that pasture, butted through a place in the stone-fence and started to cross the highway. One sheep would not have made much trouble; it would have been easy to dodge just one object. But here came a string of the woolly creatures--and greater fools than sheep have not been discovered in the animal world! The old black-faced ram trotted across the road and through a gap in a fence on the river side. After him crowded the ewes and youngsters. The roaring auto frightened the creatures, but they would not give way before it. They knew no better than to follow that old ram through the gap, one after the other. Tom had shut off the engine and applied the brakes, as the girls shrieked. But he had been going too fast to stop short of the place where the sheep were passing. At the end of the flock came a lamb, bleating and trying to keep up with its mother. "Oh, the lamb!" shrieked Helen. "Look out, Tom!" added Ruth. The lamb did not get across the road. The car struck it, and with a pitiful "baa-a-a!" it was knocked a dozen feet. In a moment the car stopped. It had scarcely run its entire length past the spot where the lamb was struck. The poor creature lay panting, "baa-aing" feebly, beside the road. Ruth was out of the tonneau and kneeling beside the creature almost before the wheels ceased to roll. The mother ewe had crowded through the fence. Now she put her foolish face out, and called to the lamb to follow. "He can't!" almost sobbed Ruth. "He has a broken leg. Oh! what a foolish mother you were to lead him right into danger." Tom was silent and looked pretty solemn, while Helen was scolding him nervously--although she knew that he was not really at fault. "If you hadn't been speeding, this wouldn't have happened, Tom Cameron!" she said. "I told you so." "Oh, all right. You're a fine prophetess," grunted her brother. "Keep on rubbing it in." The lamb had tried to scramble up, but one of its forelegs certainly was broken. It tumbled over on its side again, and Ruth held it down tenderly and tried to soothe its fear. "Oh, dear! whatever shall we do?" she murmured. "The poor, poor little thing." "Guess we'll know pretty soon what we'll do," quoth Master Tom, standing beside the machine and looking back along the road. "Here comes the man that owns him." "Oh, dear me!" whispered Helen. "Doesn't he look savage?" "Worse than the old ram there," agreed her brother, for the black-faced leader of the flock was eyeing them through the fence. CHAPTER VI A TRANSACTION IN MUTTON The man who approached was a fierce, red-faced individual, with long legs encased to the knees in cowhide boots, overalls, a checked shirt, and a whisp of yellow whisker under his chin that parted and waved, as he strode toward the auto party. His pale blue eyes were ablaze, and he had worked himself up into a towering rage. Like many farmers (and sometimes for cause), he had evidently sworn eternal feud against all automobilists! "What d'ye mean, runnin' inter my sheep?" he bawled. "I'll have the law on ye! I'll make ye pay for ev'ry sheep ye killed! I'll attach yer machine, by glory! I'll put ye all in jail! I'll----" "You're going to have your hands full with all _that_, Mister," interrupted Tom Cameron. "And you're excited more than is necessary. I'll pay for all the damage I've done--although there would have been none at all, had your sheep remained in their pasture. This is a county road, I take it." "By glory!" exclaimed the farmer, arriving at the spot at last. "This road was built for folks ter drive over decent. Nobody reckoned on locomotives, an' sich comin' this way, when 'twas built--no, sir-ree!" "I'm sorry," began Tom, but the man broke in: "Thet don't pay me none for havin' all my sheep made into mutton b'fore their time. By glory! I got an attic home full o' 'sorries.' Ye can't git out o' it thet way." "I am not trying to. I'll pay for any sheep I have hurt or killed," Tom said, unable to keep from grinning at the excited farmer. "And don't ye git sassy none, neither!" commanded the man. "I'm one o' the school trustees in this deestrict, an' the church clerk. I got some influence. I guess if I arrested ye right naow--an' these gals, too--the jestice of the peace would consider I done jest right." "Oh!" murmured Helen, clinging to Ruth's hand. "He can't do it," whispered the latter. "I feel sure, sir," said Tom, politely, "that it will be unnecessary for you to go to such lengths. I will pay satisfactory damages. There is the lamb we struck--and the only beast that is hurt." The man had given but one glance to the lamb that lay on the grass beside the girls. He did not look to be any too tender-hearted, and the little creature's accident did not touch him at all--save in the region of his pocketbook. He stepped to the gap in the fence, kicked the bleating ewe out of the way in a most brutal manner, and proceeded to count his flock. He had to do this twice before he was assured that none but the lamb was missing. "You see," Tom said, quietly, "I have turned only one of your sheep into mutton--for I suppose this lamb must be killed." "Oh, no, Tom!" cried Ruth, who was bending over the little creature again. "I am sure its leg will mend." The farmer snorted. "Don't want no crippled critters erbout. Ye'll hafter pay me full price for that lamb, boy--then I'll give it to the dogs. 'Tain't no good the way it is." Ruth had tied the leg firmly with her own handkerchief--which was of practical size. "If we could put it in splints, and keep the lamb still, it would mend," she declared to Helen. "What do you consider the thing worth, sir?" asked Tom. "Four dollars," declared the farmer, promptly. It was not worth two, even at the present price of lamb, for the creature was neither big nor fat. "Here you are," said Tom, and thrust four one-dollar notes into his hand. The man stared at them, and from them to Tom. He really seemed disappointed. Perhaps he wished he had said more, when Tom did not haggle over the price. "Wal, I'll take it along to the house then," said the farmer. "An' when ye come this road ag'in, young man, ye better go a leetle slow--yaas, a leetle slow!" "I certainly shall--as long as you have gaps in your sheep pasture fence," returned Tom, promptly. "Git out'n the way, leetle gal," said the man, brushing Ruth aside. "I'll take him----" The lamb struggled to get on its feet. The sudden appearance of the man frightened the animal. "Stop that!" cried Ruth. "You'll hurt the poor thing." "I'll knock him in the head, when I git to the chopping block," said the farmer, roughly. "Shucks! it's only a lamb." "Don't you dare!" Ruth cried, standing in front of the quivering creature. "You are cruel." "Hoity-toity!" cried the farmer. "I guess I kin do as I please with my own." Helen clung to Ruth's hand and tried to draw her away from the rough man. Even Tom hesitated to arouse the farmer's wrath further. But the girl from the Red Mill stamped her foot and refused to move. "Don't you dare touch it!" she exclaimed. "It isn't your lamb." "What's that?" he demanded, and then broke into a hoarse laugh. "Thet thar's a good one! I raised thet lamb----" "And we have just bought it--paid you your own price for it," cried Ruth. "Crickey! that's so, Ruthie," Tom Cameron interposed. "Of course he doesn't own it. If you want the poor thing, we'll take it along to Fred Larkin's place." "Say!" exclaimed the farmer. "What does this mean? I didn't sell ye the carcass of thet thar lamb; I only got damages----" "You sold it. You know you did," Ruth declared, firmly. "I dare you to touch the poor little thing. It is ours--and I know its life can be saved." "Pick it right up, girls, and come on," advised Tom, starting his engine. "We have the rights of it, and if he interferes, we'll just run on to the next town and bring a constable back with us. I guess we can call upon the authorities, too. What's sauce for the goose, ought to be sauce for the gander." The man was stammering some very impolite words, and Tom was anxious to get his sister and Ruth away. The girls lifted the lamb in upon the back seat and laid it tenderly upon some wraps. Then the boy leaped into the front seat and prepared to start. "I tell ye what it is!" exclaimed the farmer, coming close to the car. "This ain't no better than highway robbery. I never expected ter have ye take the carcass away, when I told ye sich a low price----" "I have paid its full value, and you don't own a thread of its wool, Mister," said Tom, feeling the engine throb under him now. "I'm going to start----" "You wait! I ain't got through with you----" Just then the car started. The man had been holding to the end of the seat. He foolishly tried to continue his hold. The car sprang ahead suddenly, the farmer was swung around like a top, and the last they saw of him he was sitting in the middle of the dusty road, shaking both fists after the car, and yelling at the top of his voice. Just what he said, it was perhaps better that they did not hear! "Wasn't he a mean old thing?" cried Tom, when the car was purring along steadily. "And wasn't Ruth smart to see that he had no right to this poor little sheep?" said Helen, admiringly. "What you going to do with it, Ruthie?" demanded Tom, glancing back at the lamb. "Going to sell it to a butcher in Littletop? That's where Fred Larkin's folk live, you know." "Sell it to a butcher!" exclaimed Ruth, in scorn. "That's what the farmer would have done--butchered it." "It is the fate of most sheep to be turned into mutton," returned Tom, his eyes twinkling. "And then the mutton is turned into boys and girls," laughed Ruth. "But if I have my way, this little fellow will never become either a Cameron, or a Fielding." "Oh! I wouldn't want to eat him--after seeing him hurt," cried Helen. "Isn't he cunning? See! he knows we are going to be good to him." "I hope he knows it," her chum replied. "After all, it doesn't take much to assure domestic animals of our good intentions toward them." "Well," said Tom, grinning, "I promise not to eat this lamb, if you make a point of it, but if I don't get something to eat pretty soon, I assure you he'll be in grave danger!" They made Littletop and the Larkins' residence before Tom became too ravenous, however; and the younger members of the Larkin family welcomed the adventurers--including the lamb--with enthusiasm. Fred Larkin had some little aptitude for medicine and surgery--so they all said, at least--and he set the broken leg and put splints upon it. Then they put the little creature in one of the calf pens, fed it liberally, and Fred declared that in ten days it would be well enough to hop around. The little Larkin folk were delighted with the lamb for a pet, so Ruth knew that she could safely trust her protégé to them. There was great fun that night, for the neighboring young folk were invited to meet the trio from Cheslow and the Red Mill, and it was midnight before the girls and boys were still. Therefore, there was no early start made for the second day's run. Breakfast was late, and it was half-past nine before Tom started the car, and they left Littletop amid the cheers and good wishes of their friends. "We must hustle, if we want to get to Uncle Ike's before dark," Tom declared. "So you will have to stand for some scorching, girls." "See that you don't kill anything--or even maim it," advised his sister. "You are out four dollars for damages already." "Never you mind. I reckon you girls won't care to be marooned along some of these wild roads all night." "Nor to travel over them by night, either," advised Ruth. "My! we haven't seen a house for ten miles." "It's somewhere up this way that those Gypsy friends of Roberto are encamped--as near as I could make out," Tom remarked. "My! I wouldn't like to meet them," his sister said. "They wouldn't hurt us--at least, Roberto didn't," laughed Ruth. "That's all right. But Gypsies _do_ carry off people----" "And eat them?" scoffed Tom. "How silly, Nell!" "Well, Mr. Smartie! they might hold us for ransom." "Like regular brigands, eh?" returned Tom, lightly. "That _would_ be an adventure worth chronicling." "You can laugh----Oh!" As she was speaking, Helen saw a head thrust out of the bushes not far along the road they traveled. "What's the matter?" demanded Ruth, seizing her arm. "Look there!" But the car was past the spot in a moment. "Somebody was watching us, and dodged back," declared Helen, anxiously. "Oh, nonsense!" laughed her brother. But before they took the next turn they looked back and saw two men standing in the road, talking. They were rough-looking fellows. "Gypsies!" cried Helen. However, they saw nobody else for a few miles. Now they were skirting one of the lakes in the upper chain, some miles above the gorge where the dam was built, and the scenery was both beautiful and rugged. There were few farms. On a rising stretch of road, the engine began to miss, and something rattled painfully in the "internal arrangements" of the car. Tom looked serious, stopped several times, and just coaxed her slowly to the summit of the hill. "Now don't tell us that we're going to have a breakdown!" cried Helen. "Do you think those are thunder-heads hanging over the mountain?" asked Ruth, seriously. "Sure of it!" responded Helen. "You are a regular 'calamity howler'!" exclaimed Tom. "By Jove! this old mill _is_ going to kick up rusty." "There's a house!" cried Ruth, gaily, standing up in the back to look ahead. "Now we're all right if the machine has to be repaired, or a storm bursts upon us." But when the car limped up and stopped in the sandy road before the sagging gate, the trio saw that their refuge was a windowless and abandoned structure that looked as gaunt and ghostly as a lightning-riven tree! CHAPTER VII FELLOW TRAVELERS "Well! this is a pretty pickle!" groaned Tom, at last as much disturbed as Helen had been. "It's no use, girls. We'll have to stop here till the storm is over. It is coming." "Well, that will be fun!" cried Ruth, cheerfully. "Of course we ought to be storm-bound in a deserted house. That is according to all romantic precedent." "Humph! you and your precedent!" grumbled her chum. "I'd rather it was a nice roadside hotel, or tearoom. That would be something like." "Come on! we'll take in the hamper, and make tea on the deserted hearthstone," said Ruth. "Tom can stay out here and repair his old auto." "Tom will find a shelter for the machine first, I reckon. There! hear the thunder? We are going to get it, and I must raise the hood of the tonneau, too," proclaimed the lad. "Go on with your hamper and wraps. I see sheds back there, and I'll try to coax the old Juggernaut into that lane and so to the sheds." He did as he proposed during the next few minutes, while the girls approached the deserted dwelling, with the hamper. The lower front windows were boarded, and the door closed. But the door giving entrance from the side porch was ajar. "'Leave all hope behind, ye who enter here,'" quoted Helen, peering into the dusky interior. "It looks powerful ghostly, Ruthie." "There are plenty of windows out, so we'll have light enough," returned the girl of the Red Mill. "Don't be a 'fraid cat,' Helen." "That's all right," grumbled her chum. "You're only making a bluff yourself." Ruth laughed. She was not bothered by fears of the supernatural, no matter what the old house was, or had been. Now, a good-sized rat might have made her shriek and run! Into the house stepped Ruth Fielding, in her very bravest manner. The hall was dark, but the door into a room at the left--toward the back of the house--was open and through this doorway she ventured, the old, rough boards of the floor creaking beneath her feet. This apartment must have been the dining-room. There was a high, ornate, altogether ugly mantle and open fireplace at one end of the room. At the other, there stood, fastened to the wall, or built into it, a china closet, the doors of which had been removed. These ugly, shallow caverns gaped at them and promised refuge to spiders and mice. On the hearth was a heap of crusted gray ashes. "What a lonesome, eerie sort of a place," shivered Helen. "Wish the old car had kept running----" "Through the rain?" suggested Ruth, pointing outside, where the air was already gray with approaching moisture. Down from the higher hills the storm was sweeping. They could smell it, for the wind leaped in at the broken windows and rustled the shreds of paper still clinging to the walls of the dining-room. "This isn't a fit place to eat in," grumbled Helen. "Let's go above stairs. Carry that alcohol stove carefully, dear. We'll have a nice cup of tea, even if it does----" "Oh!" shrieked Helen, as a long streak of lightning flew across their line of vision. "Yes. Even in spite of _that_," repeated Ruth, smiling, and raising her voice that she might be heard above the cannonade of thunder. "I don't like it, I tell you!" declared her chum. "I can't say that I do myself, but I do not see how we are to help it." "I wish Tom was inside here, too." Ruth had glanced through the window and seen that Master Tom had managed to get the auto under a shed at the back. He was industriously putting up the curtains to the car, and making all snug against the rain, before he began to tinker with the machinery. There was a faint drumming in the air--the sound of rain coming down the mountain side, beating its "charge" upon the leaves as it came. There were no other sounds, for the birds and insects had sought shelter before the wrathful face of the storm. Yes! there was one other. The girls had not heard it until they began climbing the stairs out of the side entry. Helen clutched Ruth suddenly by the skirt. "Hear that!" she whispered. "Say it out loud, dear, do!" exclaimed the girl of the Red Mill. "There is never anything so nerve-shaking as a stage whisper." "There! you heard it?" "The wind rustling something," said Ruth, attempting to go on. "No." "Something squeaks--mice, I do believe." "Mice would starve to death here," declared Helen. "How smart of you! That is right," agreed Ruth. "Come on. Let us see what it is--if it's upstairs." Helen clung close to her and trembled. There was the rustling, squeaking sound again. Ruth pushed on (secretly feeling rather staggered by the strange noise), and they entered one of the larger upper chambers. Immediately she saw an open stovepipe hole in the chimney. "The noise comes from that," she declared, setting down the basket and pointing. "But what is it?" wailed her frightened chum. "The wind?" "Never!" The lightning flashed again, and the thunder rolled nearer. Helen screamed, crouched down upon the floor, and covered her ears, squeezing her eyelids tight shut too. "Dreadful! dreadful!" she gasped. Still the silence outside between the reports of thunder; but the rustling in the chimney continued. Ruth looked around, found a piece of broken window-sash on the floor, and approached the open pipe-hole. "Here's for stirring up Mr. Ghost," she said, in a much braver tone than she secretly felt. She always felt her responsibility with Helen. The latter was of a nervous, imaginary temperament, and it was never well for her to get herself worked up in this way. "Oh, Ruth! Don't! Suppose it bites you!" gasped Helen. At that Ruth _did_ laugh. "Whoever heard of a ghost with teeth?" she demanded, and instantly thrust the stick into the gaping hole. There was a stir--a flutter--a squeaking--and out flopped a brown object about the size of a mouse. Helen shrieked again, and even Ruth darted back. "A mouse!" cried Helen. "Right--_a flittermouse_!" agreed Ruth, suddenly bursting into a laugh. "The chimney's full of them." "Oh, let's get out!" "In this rain?" and Ruth pointed to the window, where now the drops were falling, big and fast--the vanguard of the storm. "But if a bat gets into your hair!" moaned Helen, rocking herself on her knees. Ruth opened the big hamper, seized a newspaper, and swooped down upon the blind, fluttering brown bat. Seizing it as she would a spider, she ran to the window and flung it out, just as the water burst into the room in a flood. Then she ran to the pipe-hole and thrust the paper into it, making a "stopper" which would not easily fall out. She dragged Helen to the other side of the room, where the floor was dry and they were out of the draught. There the two girls cowered for some moments, hugged close together, Helen hiding her eyes from the intermittent lightning against Ruth's jacket. The thunder roared overhead, and the rain dashed down in torrents. For ten minutes it was as hard a storm as the girl of the Red Mill ever remembered seeing. Such tempests in the hills are not infrequent. When the thunder began to roll away into the distance, and the lightning was less brilliant, the girls could take some notice of what else went on. The fierce drumming of the rain continued, but there seemed to be a noise in the lower part of the building. "Tom has come in," said Helen, with satisfaction. "He must have gotten awfully wet, then, getting here from that shed," Ruth returned. "Hush!" Somebody sneezed heavily. Helen opened her mouth to cry out, but Ruth put her palm upon her lips, effectually smothing the cry. "Sh!" the girl of the Red Mill admonished. "Let him find us." "Oh! that will be fun," agreed Helen. Ruth did not look at her. She listened intently. There was a heavy, scraping foot upon the floor below. To _her_ mind, it did not sound like Tom at all. She held Helen warningly by the wrist and they continued to strain their ears for some minutes. Then an odor reached them which Ruth was sure did not denote Tom's presence in the room below. It was the smell of strong tobacco smoked in an ancient pipe! "What's that?" sniffed Helen, whisperingly. Uncle Jabez smoked a strong pipe and Ruth could not be mistaken as to the nature of this one. She remembered the two men who had hidden in the bushes as the car rolled by, not many miles back on this road. "Let's shout for Tom and bring him in here," Helen suggested. "Perhaps get him into trouble? Let's try and find out, first, what sort of people they are," objected Ruth, for they now heard talking and knew that there were at least two visitors below. Rising quietly, Ruth crept on tiptoe to the head of the stair. The drumming rain helped smother any sound she might have made. Slowly, stair by stair, Ruth Fielding let herself down until she could see into the open doorway of the dining room. Two men were squatting on the hearth, both smoking assiduously. They were rough looking, unlovely fellows, and the growl of their voices did not impress Ruth as being of a quality to inspire confidence. CHAPTER VIII WHAT WAS IT ALL ABOUT? The two men were mumbling together--Ruth could not catch the words at first. When she did, they meant nothing to her, and she was puzzled. But suddenly one said in clear, if peculiar, English: "The old hag bags the best of the loot--always, my Carlo." The other replied, still gruffly, yet in a musical language that Ruth could not identify; yet somehow she was reminded of Roberto. He, the Gypsy lad, had formed his English sentences much as this ruffian had formed his phrase. Were these two of Roberto's tribesmen? "I like it not--I like it not!" the other burst out again, in anger. "Why should she govern? It is an iron rod in a trembling hand." "Psst!" snapped the other. "You respect neither age nor wisdom." He now spoke in English, but later he relapsed into the Tzigane tongue. Helen crept down to Ruth's side and listened, too; but it was little the girls understood. The angry ruffian--the complaining one--dropped more words in English now and then, like: "We risk all--she nothing." "There were the pearls, my Carlo--ah! beautiful! beautiful! Does she not seize them as her own?" "I put my neck in a noose no longer for any man but myself--surely not for a woman!" Then it was that the man Carlo burst into a tirade in his native speech, and under cover of his loud talk Ruth motioned her chum to creep back up the stairway, and she followed. A sudden disquieting thought came to her. The rain was growing less. Suppose Tom should come abruptly into the house? He might get into trouble with these ruffians. She whispered this thought to Helen, and her friend was panic-stricken again. "We must warn Tom--oh, we _must_ warn him somehow!" she gasped. "Surely we will," declared the girl from the Red Mill. "Now, careful how you step. A creaking board might give us away." They crept across the upper chamber to the rear of the house. Through another room they went, until they could look out of a broken window upon the sheds. There was Master Tom standing before the shed (the machine was hidden), wiping his hands upon a piece of waste, and looking out upon the falling rain. He saw the girls almost instantly, and opened his mouth to shout to them, but Ruth clapped her own hand to her lips and motioned with the other for him to be silent. Tom understood. He looked more than surprised--not a little startled, in fact. "What will he think?" murmured Helen. "He's so reckless!" "Leave it to me," declared Ruth, leaning out of the window into the still falling rain. She caught the boy's eye. He watched her motions. There was built at this end of the house an outside stairway, and although it was in bad repair, she saw that an agile fellow like Tom could mount the steps without any difficulty. Pointing to this flight, she motioned him to come by that means to their level, still warning him by gesture to make no sound. The boy understood and immediately darted across the intervening space to the house. Ruth knew there was no dining-room window from which the ruffians downstairs could see him. And they had made no move as far as she had heard. She left Helen to meet Tom when he came in through the sagging door at the top of the outside flight of stairs, and tiptoed back into that room where they had been frightened by the bat. It was directly over the dining-room. The same chimney was built into each room. This thought gave Ruth's active mind food for further reflection. The rumble of the men's voices continued from below. Tom and Helen followed her so softly into the room that Ruth did not hear them until they stood beside her. Tom touched her arm and pointed downward: "Tramps?" he asked. "Those Gypsies, I believe," whispered Ruth, in return. Helen was just as scared as she could be, and clung tightly to Tom's hand. "Wish we could scare them away," suggested the boy, with knitted brow. "Perhaps we can!" uttered Ruth, suddenly eager, and her brown eyes dancing. "Sh! Wait! Let me try." She went to the paper-stuffed stovepipe hole, out of which the bat had fallen. Helen would have exclaimed aloud, had not Tom seen her lips open and squeezed her hand warningly. "What is it?" he hissed. "Don't! don't!" begged Helen. "You'll let those bats all out here----" "Bats?" queried Tom, in wonder. "In the chimney," whispered Ruth. "Listen!" The stir and squeaking of the bats were audible. Enough rain had come in at the top of the broken chimney to disturb the nocturnal creatures. "Just the thing!" giggled Tom, seeing what Ruth would do. "Frighten them to pieces!" The girl of the Red Mill had secured the stick she used before. She pulled aside the "stopper" of newspaper and thrust in the stick. At once the rustling and squeaking increased. She worked the stick up and down insistently. Scale from the inside of the chimney began to rattle down to the hearth below. The voices ceased. Then the men were heard to scramble up. The bats were dislodged--perhaps many of them! There was a scuffling and scratching inside the flue. Below, the men broke out into loud cries. They shouted their alarm in the strange language the girls had heard before. Then their feet stamped over the floor. Tom ran lightly to the window. He saw a bat wheel out of the window below, and disappear. The rain had almost stopped. It was evident that many of the creatures were flapping about that deserted dining-room. The two ruffians scrambled to the door, through the entry, and out upon the porch. The sound of their feet did not hold upon the porch. They leaped down the steps, and Tom beckoned the girls eagerly to join him at the window. The two men were racing down the lane toward the muddy highroad, paying little attention to their steps or to the last of the rainstorm. "Panic-stricken, sure enough! Smart girl, Ruthie," was Master Tom's comment. "Now tell a fellow all about it." The girls did so, while Ruth lit the alcohol lamp and made the tea. Tom was ravenous--nothing could spoil that boy's appetite. "Gyps., sure enough," was his comment. "But what you heard them say wasn't much." "They'd been robbing somebody--or were going to rob," said Helen, shaking her head. "What frightful men they are!" "Pooh! they've gone now, and the old machine is fixed. We'll plow on through the mud as soon as you like." "I shall be glad, when we get to civilization again," said his sister. "And I'd like very much to understand what those men were talking about," Ruth observed. "Do you suppose Roberto knows about it? Pearls--beautiful pearls, that fellow spoke of." "I tell you they are thieves!" declared Helen. "We'll probably never know," Tom said, confidently. "So let's not worry!" Master Tom did not prove a good prophet on this point, although he had foreseen the breaking down of the automobile before they started from the Red Mill. They went back to the car and started from the old house in a much more cheerful mood, neither of the girls supposing that they were likely to run across the Gypsy men again. "We must hustle to make Uncle Ike's to-night, sure enough," Tom said, as the car rolled out into the muddy highway. "Is it very far yet?" asked Ruth. "More than sixty miles, and a bad road, and it is now half-past five," replied the boy. "Oh, my! I hope we'll not be delayed after dark," said his sister. "I never knew you to be such a 'fraid-cat before, Helen," laughed Ruth. "Everything's gone wrong to-day. And those awful men scared me. Let's stop at the hotel at Boisé Landing, if it grows dark. Uncle Ike's is a long way beyond the town, Tom." "Sure--if you say so," agreed her brother, cheerfully. "I can send word up to the folks that we are all right. Of course, they will be expecting us this evening. I telegraphed them this morning that we were on the way." The car plowed on through the mud. These roads were in very bad shape, and even while it had been dry, the traveling was bad enough. Now the wheels skidded and slipped, and the engine panted as though it were tired. It missed explosions frequently, too, and Tom sat under the wheel with a very serious face indeed. It was not far to a small settlement called, on the map, Severn Corners. Tom knew he could get gas there, if he needed it, but he was not sure that there was a repair shop at the place. If the old machine played a trick on them again---- And it did! Right at the foot of a hill, and not far from the shore of Long Lake, the engine "died." "Whatever shall we do?" cried Helen. "No use wrangling about it," said Ruth, with a laugh. "Will we have to walk?" "Walk! and carry the ropes and everything else of value?" demanded Helen. "We can't leave the machine unprotected," said Tom, seriously. "No knowing what would happen to it. But it's not far to Severn Corners. Only two miles, or so." "Now, I tell you," said Ruth, briskly. "You walk on, Tom, and get help. Bring back a team to drag the auto into town. Perhaps you'll find a farm before you go far. We'll remain here till you come back." "That's what you'll have to do, Tommy," agreed his sister, as the boy hesitated. "Of course, I'm only fooling. I won't be afraid." "I'll do my best, girls," Tom assured them. "I am sure you'll be perfectly safe," and Master Tom started off along the road at a quick trot. CHAPTER IX QUEEN ZELAYA Ruth and her chum were both a little troubled by Tom Cameron's departure, but even Helen had braced up and was determined not to show her fear. The situation of the girls in the auto on this lonely road was enough to trouble the mind of any person unfamiliar with the wilderness. The shore of Long Lake (which they could see from their seats in the car) was as wild as any stretch of country through which they had traveled during the two days of the tour. The stalled auto was on the main-traveled road, however, and there was a chance of somebody coming along. Ruth and Helen hoped that if this happened, it would be somebody who would remain with them until Tom's return. Both kept this wish a secret, for each tried to cheer the other. Perhaps, had it not been for that adventure at the old house shortly before, neither girl would have felt so nervous. The outlook from the stalled auto was very attractive, if wild. They could overlook a considerable part of Long Lake, a stretch of its distant southern shore, and several islands. The edge of the water was perhaps half a mile away, and the ground sloped abruptly from this road toward the lake. Following the very edge of the water was another road, but one which the girls knew nothing about and could scarcely see from the auto. It was merely a brown ribbon of cart-path through the second-growth timber, and it wound along the hillside, sometimes approaching very close to the main highway. Before the county had built the better road, this path had been the trail to Boisé Landing. Had the girls been looking that way, they might have seen, through a small break in the trees, some minutes after Tom left them, a string of odd-looking wagons moving slowly along this lower trail. First two men walked ahead, smoking their pipes and plowing through the mud and water without regard to where they stepped. Then followed three freshly painted green wagons--vehicles something like old-fashioned omnibuses, but with windows in the sides and front, and a door and steps behind. Through the roof of one a stovepipe was thrust. Behind followed a troop of horses, with two bare-legged, wild-looking youngsters astride each a barebacked steed, and holding the others with leading-reins. These horses, as well as those drawing the wagons, were sleek and well curried. A multitude of dogs ran in the mud and water, too, but there were no women and children about, save upon the front seats of each van with the drivers. Sounds from within the green vehicles, however, proclaimed the presence of a number of others. They were a strange-looking people--all swarthy, dark-haired, red-lipped, men and women alike having their ears pierced. The rings in the lobes of the women's ears were much larger than the ornaments in those of the men. At a certain opening in the shrubbery, the men ahead, looking upward, beheld the stalled auto and the two girls in it. One man held up his hand and the first wagon stopped. So did the remainder of the caravan. The two spoke together, and then strode back to the first green van. The window behind the driver's seat was already open and a strange face appeared at it. The man driving this van was young and rather handsome--in the same wild way that Roberto was handsome. Beside him sat a comely young woman, buxom of figure, with a child in her lap. Her head was encircled with a yellow silk kerchief, she wore a green, tight-fitting bodice, and her short skirt was of a peculiar purple. She wore black stockings and neat black pumps on her feet. Between these two on the seat, from the open window, was thrust the wicked, haggard head of a woman who might have been a hundred from the network of wrinkles in her face, and her generally aged appearance. But her eyes--black as sloes--were as sharp as a bird's. Her lips were gray, thin, and drew back when she spoke, displaying several strong, yellow fangs rather than teeth! When she spoke, it was with a hissing sound. She used the speech of the Gypsy folk, and the others--even the rough men in the road--were very respectful to her. They explained the stoppage of the caravan, and pointed out the auto and the girls above. It was evident that one of the men had suggested something which pleased the hag, in regard to the strangers in the motor-car. She grinned suddenly, displaying gums and fangs in a most horrible grimace. Nodding vigorously, she gave them some commands, and then spoke to the comely woman beside the driver. The latter passed the sleeping infant back to the old woman, who disappeared into the interior of the van. The younger woman leaped down into the road, and waiting beside the two rough men, allowed the entire caravan to pass on, leaving them behind. It was fast growing dark. The sun had disappeared behind the hills in the west, and long shadows were stretching their gaunt hands out for the girls in the auto. The chill wind which came after the tempest made them shiver, although they were somewhat sheltered by the curtains which Tom had arranged. "I suppose we _could_ snuggle down here with the robes, in the tonneau, and spend the night in some comfort," suggested Ruth Fielding. "Oh! don't mention it!" exclaimed her friend. "If Tom doesn't come back with a team, or with another auto, I'll never forgive him." "Of course he will return. But he may be delayed, Helen." "This auto-touring isn't as much fun as I thought it would be," groaned Helen Cameron. "Oh! what's that?" She peered out of the automobile. There was a handsome, smiling, dark young woman standing in the road beside the car. "Young ladies," said the stranger, in a pleasant voice, "are you in trouble? Can I help you at all?" "My goodness me! do you live near here? Can we go home with you?" cried Helen, in excitement. "Wait!" breathed Ruth, seizing her chum's arm, but Helen was too anxious to escape from her present situation to listen to Ruth. "For if you'll take us in till my brother gets back from Severn Corners----" "We are going to Severn Corners--my husband and I," said the woman, smiling. "Oh! then you do not live near here?" cried Helen, in disappointment. "Nobody lives near here, little lady," explained the stranger. "Nobody lives nearer than Severn Corners. But it is lonesome here. We will take you both on in our wagon--nobody shall hurt you. There is only my husband and baby and the old grandmother." "Where is your wagon?" demanded Ruth, suddenly hopping out into the road and looking all about. "Down yonder," said the woman, pointing below. "We follow the lower road. Just there. You can see the top of it." "Oh! A bus! It's like Uncle Noah's," declared Helen, referring to the ancient vehicle much patronized by the girls at Briarwood Hall. "Who are you?" demanded Ruth, again, with keen suspicion. "We are pedlars. We are good folks," laughed the woman. She did, indeed, seem very pleasant, and even Ruth's suspicions were allayed. Besides, it was fast growing dark, and there was no sign of Tom on the hilltop ahead. "Let's go on with them," begged Helen, seizing her chum's hand. "I am afraid to stay here any longer." "But Tom will not know where we have gone," objected Ruth, feebly. "I'll write him a note and leave it pinned to the seat." She proceeded to do this, while Ruth lit the auto lamps so that neither Tom, on his return, or anybody else, would run into the car in the dark. Then they were ready to go with the woman, removing only their personal wraps and bags. They would have to risk having the touring car stripped by thieves before Tom Cameron came back. "I don't believe there are any thieves around here," whispered Helen. "They would be scared to death in such a lonesome place!" she added, with a giggle. Ruth felt some doubt about going with the woman. She was so dark and foreign looking. Yet she seemed desirous of doing the girls a service. And even she, Ruth, did not wish to stay longer on the lonely road. Something surely had happened to detain Tom. In the south, too, "heat lightning" played sharply--and almost continuously. Ruth knew that this meant the tempest was raging at a distance and that it might return to this side of the lake. The thought of being marooned on this mountain road, at night, in such a storm as that which they had experienced two or three hours before, was more than Ruth Fielding could endure with calmness. So she agreed to go with the woman. Tom would know where they had gone when he returned, for he could not miss the note his sister had left. At least, that is what both girls believed. Only, they were scarcely out of sight of the car with the woman, when one of the rough-looking men, who had walked ahead of the Gypsy caravan, appeared from the bushes, stepped into the auto, tore the note from where it had been pinned, and at once slipped back into the shadows, with the crumpled paper in his pocket! Now the girls and their guide were down on the lower road. There was a twinkling light that showed the green van, horses, and the handsome driver--and the man looked like Roberto. "They are Gypsies, I believe," whispered Ruth. "Oh! you have Gypsies on the brain," flung back her chum. "At least, we shall be dry in that bus, if it rains. And we can find somebody at Severn Corners to put us up, even if there is no hotel." Ruth sighed, and agreed. The woman had been speaking to the man on the seat. Now she took the lantern and went around to the back of the van. "This way, little ladies," she said, in her most winning tone. "You may rest in comfort inside here. Nobody but the good old grandmother and my bébé." "Come on!" said Helen to Ruth, leading the way. There was a light in the interior and it dazzled the girls' eyes, as they climbed in. The door snapped to behind them, and the horses started along the road before either Ruth or Helen were able to see much of their surroundings. And strange enough their surroundings were; berths on either side of the strange cart, made up for sleeping and covered with gay quilts. There were chests and boxes, some of them padlocked, and all with cushions on them for seats. There was a table, and a hanging lamp, and a stove. A child was asleep in one of the bunks; a white-haired poodle lay crouched at the child's feet, and showed its teeth and snarled at the two visitors. But the appearance that amazed--and really startled--the girls most was the figure that sat facing them, as they entered the van. It was that of an old, old crone, sitting on a stool, bent forward with her sharp chin resting on her clenched fists, and her elbows on her knees, while iron-gray elf-locks hung about her wrinkled, nut-brown face, half screening it. Her bead-like eyes held the girls entranced from the first. Ruth and Helen looked at each other, startled and amazed, but they could not speak. Nor could they keep their gaze for long off the strange old woman. "Who are you, little ladies?" croaked the hag at last. Ruth became the spokesman. "We are two girls who have been motoring over the hills. Our motor-car broke down, and we were left alone while my friend's brother went for help. We grew fearful when it became dark----" The gray lips opened again: "You own the motor-car, little ladies?" "My friend's father owns it," said Ruth. "Then your parents are wealthy," and the fangs suddenly displayed themselves in a dreadful smile. "It is fine to be rich. The poor Gypsy scarcely knows where to lay her head, but you little ladies have great houses and much money--eh?" "Gypsy!" gasped Helen, seizing Ruth's hand. Ruth felt a sinking at her own heart. All the stories she had ever heard of these strange, wandering tribes rushed in upon her mind again. She had not been afraid of Roberto, and the woman who had brought them to the van seemed kind enough. But this old hag----! "Do not shrink from the old Romany woman," advised the hag, her eyes sparkling again. "She would not hurt the little ladies. She is a queen among her people--what she says is law to them. Do not fear." "Oh, I see no reason why we should be afraid of you," Ruth said, trying to speak in an unshaken voice. "I think you all mean us kindly, and we are thankful for this lift to Severn Corners." Something like a cackle broke from the hag's throat. "Queen Zelaya will let nothing befall you, little ladies," she declared. "Fear not. Her word is law among the Romany folk, poor as she may be. And now tell me, my little birds,--tell me of your riches, and your great houses, and all the wealth your parents have. I love to hear of such things--even I, poor Zelaya, who have nothing after a long, long life of toil." CHAPTER X IN THE GYPSY CAMP Ruth remembered what Roberto had said about his miserly grandmother. She believed these people who had offered her and Helen a ride were of the same tribe as Roberto, and the way Queen Zelaya spoke, caused the girl to believe that this old woman and Roberto's grandmother were one and the same person. She could say nothing to Helen at the moment. Personally she felt more afraid of this Gypsy Queen than she had of the two rough men in the abandoned house that afternoon! "Come!" repeated Zelaya. "Tell me of all the riches and jewels--the gold and silver-plates you eat from, the jewelry you have to wear, the rich silks--all of it! I love to hear of such things," exclaimed the woman, grinning again in her terrible way. Helen opened her lips to speak, but Ruth pinched her. "Tell her nothing," the girl of the Red Mill whispered. "I am afraid we have said too much already." "Why?" queried Helen, wonderingly. "Pshaw! this old woman can't hurt us. Isn't she funny?" "Speak up, my little ladies!" commanded Queen Zelaya. "My will is law here. Do not forget that." "I guess your will isn't much law to _us_," replied Helen, laughing and tossing her head. "You see, we do not know you----" "You shall!" hissed the horrible old creature, suddenly stretching forth one of her claw-like hands. "Come here!" Ruth seized her friend tightly. Helen was laughing, but suddenly she stopped. The queen's terrible eyes seemed to hold the girl in a spell. Involuntarily Helen's limbs bore her toward the far end of the van. The girl's face became pale; her own eyes protruded from their sockets; the Gypsy Queen charmed her, just as a snake is said to charm a young bird in its nest. But Ruth sprang after her, seized Helen's arm again, and shook her. "You stop that!" she cried, to the old woman. "Don't you mind her, Helen. She has some wicked power in her eyes, my dear!" Her cry broke the hypnotic spell the woman had cast over Helen Cameron. The latter sank down, trembling and sobbing, with her hands over her face. "Oh, dear, Ruthie! I wish we hadn't gotten into this wagon," she moaned. "I am sure I wish so, too," returned her chum, in a low voice, while the old woman rocked herself to and fro in her seat, and cackled her horrid laughter. "Aren't we ever going to get to that town? Tom said it was only two miles or a little over." "I wish we could speak to that other woman," muttered Ruth. "Do you suppose this old thing is crazy?" whispered Helen. "Worse than that," returned Ruth. "I am afraid of them all. I don't believe they mean us well. Let's get out, Helen." "Oh! where shall we go?" returned her friend, in a tone quite as soft as Ruth's own. "We must be somewhere near the town." "It is pitch dark outside the windows," complained Helen. "Let's try it. Pitch dark is not as bad as this wicked old creature----" The hag laughed again, although she was not looking at them. Surely she could not hear the girls' whispers, yet her cackling laugh sent a shiver over both girls. It was just as though Queen Zelaya, as she called herself, could read what was in their minds. "Yes, yes!" whispered Helen, with sudden eagerness in her voice. "You are right. We will go." "We'll slip out without anybody but the old woman seeing us----Then we'll run!" Ruth jumped up suddenly and stepped to the door at the rear of the van. She turned the knob and tried to open it. _The door was fastened upon the outside!_ Again the old woman broke into her cackling laugh. "Oh, no! oh, no!" she cried. "The pretty, rich little ladies cannot go yet. They must be the guests of the poor old Gypsy a little longer--they must eat of her salt. Then they will be her friends--and maybe they will help to make her rich." The girls stood close together, panting, afraid. Helen put her lips to Ruth's ear, and whispered: "Does _that_ mean she is going to hold us for ransom? Oh, dear! what did I say this very day? I _knew_ Gypsies were like this." "Hush!" warned Ruth. "Try and not let her see you are so afraid. Perhaps she means only to frighten us." "But--but when she looks at me, I seem to lose everything--speech, power to move, even power to think," gasped Helen. Just then the van turned suddenly from the road and came to a halt. They had been traveling much faster than Ruth and Helen had supposed. Lights flashed outside, and dogs barked, while the voices of men, women and children rose in a chorus of shouts and cries. "Oh, thank goodness!" exclaimed Helen. "They have gotten into town at last." Ruth feared this was not so. She tried to peer out of one of the windows. There was a bonfire at one side, and she thought she saw a tent. There were other wagons like the one in which they seemed to be imprisoned. "Now they'll _have_ to let us out," repeated Helen. "I am afraid not," returned the girl of the Red Mill. "This is the Gypsy camp, I am sure, dear. Do try to be brave! I think they never meant to take us after Tom, at all. We are prisoners, dear." At once Helen's spirits sank, but she grew angry. "You'd better not keep us here," she cried, looking again at the old woman. "My father has plenty of money and he will spend it all to get me back--and to punish you." "We will not take all his money from him, my pretty little lady," returned Zelaya. "Only a part of it. And the poor Gypsy has nothing," and once more she cackled. The door of the van was unlocked and opened. In the lamplight appeared a rough-looking man, with an evil face and a squint in one eye. He said something to the queen in their own tongue, but he spoke with great respect, and removed his hat and bowed to her, when she replied. Ruth and Helen started for the door, but the man motioned them back and scowled at them in an evil manner. They could see a crowd of curious faces without, and behind this man were children, women both old and young, and a few men. Zelaya lifted the child from its bed, and passed her into the arms of the woman who had guided Ruth and Helen to the van. She smiled upon the girls just as pleasantly as before, but now they knew that she was false and cruel. Then the queen waved her hand and the door was closed. "You remain with me to-night, little ladies. Oh! Zelaya would let nothing trouble you--no, no!" Helen burst into wild sobs at this, and threw herself upon the floor of the van. Ruth faced the old woman with wrathful sparks in her brown eyes. "You are acting very foolishly, indeed, whoever you are. You Gypsies cannot carry things with such a high hand in this State of New York. You'll find out----" "I am Zelaya, the Queen," interrupted the old hag, hoarsely. "Have a care! I will put a spell upon you, little lady----" "Pooh! you can't frighten me that way," declared Ruth Fielding. "I am not afraid of your spells, or your fortune telling, or any of your foolish magic. If you believe in any of it yourself, you have not gained much wisdom all the years you have lived." "You do not fear the arts of my people?" repeated Zelaya, trying to hold Ruth with her eye as she had Helen. "No, I do not. I fear your wickedness. And I know you must be very dishonest and cruel. But you have no more supernatural power than I have myself!" Zelaya's wrinkled face suddenly reddened with passion. She raised her claw-like hand and struck the bold girl sharply upon the cheek. "Impudence!" she muttered. "And _that_ is nothing supernatural," said Ruth, with continued boldness, although the blow had hurt her--leaving its mark. "You are breaking the laws of the land, which are far more powerful than any Gypsy law----" "Wait!" commanded the woman, threateningly. "You will learn yet, bold girl, how strong our laws are." She went back to her stool, mumbling to herself. Ruth lifted Helen into one of the berths, and sat down beside her. By and by the door of the van opened again and a bold-looking young woman--not the one that had brought them to the van--came in with three wooden bowls of a savory stew. She offered the tray to the visitors at a motion from old Zelaya, so that they had their choice before the queen received her own supper. "Let's eat it," whispered Ruth to Helen, when she saw that Zelaya plunged her own tin spoon into the stew. "It surely isn't drugged, or _she_ wouldn't touch it." They ate greedily, for both were hungry. It takes more than fear to spoil the healthy appetite of youth! "Do you suppose," whispered Helen, "that we could climb out of one of these windows after she falls asleep?" "I am sure I couldn't get through one," returned Ruth. "And I doubt if you could. Besides, there will be guards, and the dogs are awake. We've got to wait for help from outside, my dear." "Do you suppose Tom will find us?" "I hope not!" exclaimed Ruth. "Not while he is alone. But he certainly will give the alarm, and the whole countryside will be aroused." "Oh, dear, me! this old woman seems so sure that she can hold us captive." "I think she is crazy," Ruth declared. "And the other Gypsies must lack good sense, too, or they would not be governed by her." The queen gobbled down her supper and then prepared to retire to her own bunk. She told the girls to do the same, and they removed their shoes and outer garments and lay down--one on one side of the wagon, and one on the other. Ruth's head was toward the door. She could watch the movements of the old Gypsy woman. Zelaya did not go to sleep at all, but seemed to be waiting for the camp to get quiet and for her two visitors to fall into slumber. She kept raising her head and looking first at Helen, then at Ruth. The latter knew by her chum's breathing that, despite her fears, Helen had fallen asleep almost instantly. So Ruth began to breathe deeply and regularly, too. She closed her eyes--almost entirely. This was what Zelaya had been waiting for. Silently the old woman arose and turned up the lampwick a little. She knelt down before one of the padlocked boxes and unlocked it softly. Then she rummaged in the box--seemingly beneath a lot of rubbish that filled it, and drew forth a japanned box--like a cashbox. This was locked, too, and Zelaya wore the key of it on a string about her neck. Silently, with a glance at the two girls now and then, she unlocked this box and opened it on the top of the chest, before which she knelt. Ruth could see the old woman's face. It changed very much as she gazed upon what was in the japanned box. Her black eyes glowed, and her gray, thin lips were wreathed in a smile of delight. Again Ruth remembered Roberto's account of his grandmother. She was a miser, and he had mentioned that he had seen her at night gloating over her hoarded wealth. Surely Zelaya had all the signs of a miser. The next moment Ruth saw that the old woman verily possessed something worth gloating over. She lifted from the interior of the box a string of flashing gems--a broad band, or necklace, of them, in fact--and let them flow through her fingers in a stream of sparkling light. They were beautiful, beautiful pearls--a really wonderful necklace of them! Ruth held her breath for a moment. The queen turned suddenly and shot a keen, suspicious glance at her. The girl knew enough to cough, turn slightly, and recommence her steady breathing. The old woman had dropped the pearls in haste. Now she picked them up again, and went on with her silent worship of the gems. Ruth did not startle her again; but she saw something that made her own heart beat faster and brought the perspiration out upon her limbs. Above the old woman's head, and behind her, was a window. Pressed close to the pane of the window Ruth saw a face--dark, evil, be-mustached. It was one of the Gypsy men. She remembered now what she had overheard between the two supposed tramps who had taken shelter in the deserted house during the tempest. Was _this_ one of those two ruffians? And was he the one who had railed at the division of some stolen treasure, and had spoken with covetousness of the beautiful pearls? The thought made Ruth tremble. His wicked face withdrew, but all the time the Gypsy queen was admiring the necklace, Ruth felt that the evil eyes of the man were also gloating over the pearls. CHAPTER XI TOM ON THE TRAIL In spite of the fact that his sister thought it hard that Tom Cameron had not returned to the stalled auto by dark, the lad was having no easy time. In the first place, he had not run a mile on the road to Severn Corners when he stepped on a pebble, turned his ankle sharply, and had to hobble the rest of the way at a much slower pace than he had expected. All the time, too, Tom was troubled about the uncertainty of there being at the Corners any repair shop. He knew it was a small settlement. At most, the repair garage would be very small, and perhaps the mechanic a mere country "jack-of-all-trades," who would fumble the job. To obtain a car to drag his own into the town was beyond the boy's hopes, and when he came at last to a comfortable looking farmhouse some half a mile that side of the settlement, he determined to see if he could not obtain a pair of horses from the farmer, to get the car to the hamlet. He approached the back door of the house without seeing anybody about. It was already growing dark, he had hobbled so slowly on the road. As he stepped upon the porch, Tom heard a sudden furious barking inside the house. "Welcome to our city!" he muttered. "If nobody's at home but _that_ savage beast, I'm likely to fare about as Roberto did at that farmhouse 'way back on the road by Culm Falls." But he ventured to rap upon the door. It was one of those old-fashioned doors which opens in two parts. The upper half swung outward, but the lower remained bolted. Lucky for Tom Cameron this was so. A great, shaggy beast, with gleaming fangs and slobbering jaws, appeared over the ledge, scratching with his strong claws to get out at the intruder. "What do you want?" demanded a shrill voice from somewhere behind the excited brute. "We ain't got nothin' for tramps." "I should say you most certainly _had_ something for tramps, Madam," said Tom, when he could make himself heard. "Any tramp would run from that fellow." "I don't see _you_ running. But you better," advised the woman, who was thin-faced, scant of hair, and had a voice about as pleasant as a whip-saw going through a knot. "But _I_ am not a tramp, I assure you, Madam," said Tom, politely. "Huh! ye look it," declared the woman, without any politeness at all. And the boy _did_ look rather dilapidated. He had gotten more than a little wet in the first of the shower, and he had pawed around among the "internal arrangements" of the balky auto to such purpose, that he was disheveled and oil-streaked from head to foot. "I'm in disguise just now, Ma'am," laughed Tom, cheerfully. "But really, I have not come begging either food or lodging. Is your husband at home?" "Yes, he is. And he'll be here in a minute and chase ye off the place--ef ye don't scat at once," said the woman, sourly. "_He_ wouldn't hold back this dog, now, I tell ye." "Please believe me, Madam," urged Tom, "that I am better than I appear. Our car broke down on the road yonder, and I have come to see if I can hire a team of horses to drag it into the Corners." "Car? What kind of a car? Ain't no railroad here," she said, suspiciously. The dog had barked himself breathless by now and they could talk a little easier. Tom smiled, as he replied: "Our motor car--automobile." "Huh! why didn't ye say so?" she demanded. "Tryin' to fool me. It's bad enough ter drive one o' them abominations over people's roads, but tryin' to make out ye air on a train--though, land o' Goshen! some of ye make 'em go as fast as airy express I ever see. Wal! what about your ortermobile?" "It's broken down," said Tom, feeling that he had struck the wrong house, after all, if he expected help. "I'm 'tarnal glad of it!" snapped the farmer's wife. "Nuthin' could please me better. Las' time I went to town one o' them plagued nuisances come hootin' erlong an' made the old mare back us clean inter the ditch--an' I broke a dozen an' a ha'f of aigs right in the lap of my new bombazeen dress. Drat 'em all, I say!" "I am very sorry, Ma'am, that the accident occurred. But I can assure you I was not the cause of it," Tom said, quietly, and stifling a great desire to laugh. "I wish only to get your husband to help me with his team--and I will pay him well." "Huh! what d'ye call well?" she demanded. "A boy like you ain't likely to have much money." Thus brought to a "show down," Tom promptly pulled out his billcase and opened it in the light that streamed out of the doorway. The woman could see that he carried quite a bundle of notes--and that they were not all single dollar bills! "Land o' Goshen!" she ejaculated. "Where'd you steal all that money, ye young ruffian? I thought there was suthin' mighty bad about you when I fust set eyes on ye." This was a compliment that Tom Cameron had not been looking for! He was certainly taken aback at the woman's words, and before he could make any response, she raised her voice and began to shout for "Sam!" "Crickey!" thought the boy, "I hope Sam will have a better opinion of me than she does, or I'm likely to get into trouble." He began to back off the porch, and had his ankle not pained him so, he certainly would have set off on a run. Perhaps it is well he did not try this, however, for the woman cried: "You move a step off'n thet platform before Sam Blodgett comes an' I'll open the lower ha'f of this door and let the dawg loose on ye!" Then she bawled for her husband again, and pretty soon a shouted response came from the direction of the barns. Then a lantern flickered and swung, and Tom knew the man was coming toward the house. He appeared--a short, heavy-set man, barefooted, and with a pail of milk in one hand and the lantern in the other. "What's the matter, Sairy?" he demanded. "Who's this?" "Thet's what _I_ wanter know," snapped the woman. "It 'pears like he's one o' these runaway boys ye read about in the papers--an' he's stole some money." "I haven't either!" cried Tom, in some exasperation. "I don't have to steal money--or anything else, I hope. I showed her that I had some money, so that she would believe I could pay you for some work I wanted done----" "What work?" interposed the farmer. Tom told him about the stalled auto and what he wanted. "How much'll ye give?" shot in the farmer, right to the point. "What do you ask to drag the machine to town--to the Corners, I mean?" "If it's where ye say it is, ten dollars!" "All right," agreed the boy. "Your wife knows I have the money. I'll pay you when we get to the Corners." "I know ye got the money," said the woman. "But I don't know _how_ ye got it. And if you've got an ortermobile, too, I bet ye stole _that_!" "You hesh up, Sairy," advised Mr. Blodgett. "No need of your sp'ilin' a trade. Gimme my supper. I'll hafter eat b'fore I go with ye, young man." "Oh, all right," sighed Tom, remembering how the girls must be very much frightened by this time. The man tramped into the house with the milk and the lantern. Neither he nor his wife asked Tom inside--or mentioned supper to him. The woman put it steaming on the table and Tom--like the dog--might stand and look on. At last the farmer was finished. "Guess the team's eat by now," he remarked, and came out with the lantern hung on his arm. All this time the dog had had "fits and starts" of wanting to get at Tom and eat him up. Now he slipped past his master and ran at the visitor with a savage growl. The boy had no idea of being made the supper of the brute, no matter how hungry Fido might be. So he kicked out and barely touched him. Instantly the brute set up a terrible "ki-yi-ing!" and shot off the porch and disappeared into the darkness. Evidently the Blodgetts kept the animal for its bark, for it did not have the pluck of a woodchuck! "Come on," advised Sam, as the woman began to rail again. "She's wound up an' ain't likely to run down again for a week. You sure you wanter pay ten dollars for this job?" "I'm sure I _will_ pay that for it, whether I want to or not," declared Tom, with confidence. "Aw right. We'll be movin'. Maybe another shower by'm'by, an' I sha'n't wanter be out in it." "We'll go just as fast as you want to," said Tom, hobbling along to the stables. "I won't keep you back, Mr. Blodgett." "You're lame, I see," said the man, not unkindly. "You kin straddle one of the hosses if you like." Tom was glad enough to do this, and in a few minutes they were going back over the dark track Tom had come, the harness jingling from the horses' hames, and Mr. Blodgett trudging sturdily along by the animals' heads. They came to the top of the ridge from which the stalled car had last been seen by Tom. "There are the lights!" he cried. He was glad to see them. They shone cheerfully in the dark, and he had no idea that the girls were in any trouble. But when they got down to the bottom of the hill there was neither sign nor sound of the two girls. Tom shouted at the top of his voice. He searched the car all over for some written word. He saw that the girls had carried off only their own personal belongings and nothing else. What could it mean? Surely no thieves had come this way, or the car would have been stripped of everything portable, and of value. At least, so it seemed to Master Tom. He was not wise enough to suspect that the goods in the car had been left alone to mislead him. The Gypsies had been after bigger game than a few dollars' worth of auto furnishings. "Come now!" exclaimed Sam Blodgett. "I can't wait here all night. I only agreed to drag the car ter town." "But where could those girls have gone? My sister and Ruth Fielding?" "Ye ain't payin' me ter be no detectif," drawled the man. "Come! Shell I hitch on?" "Oh, yes! I don't know what else to do," groaned the boy. "I've got to get the car fixed first of all. Then I will find help and follow the girls." The farmer was as unsympathetic as a man possibly could be. He started the car and let Tom ride in it. But he had no word of advice to give about the absent girls. Perhaps, like his wife, he believed that Tom was not honest, that the car was stolen, and that Tom's companions were mythical! They rolled into Severn Corners at ten o'clock. Of course, in a hamlet of that kind, there was scarcely a light burning. Tom had learned from Blodgett that the local blacksmith sometimes "monkeyed with ortermobiles that come erlong busted." So he had the farmer draw the car to the door of the blacksmith shop. "Sim lives right next door, there," said Blodgett, preparing to depart. "Mebbe ye kin wake him up an' convince him he'd oughter mend yer contraption in the middle of the night. But Sim Peck is constable, too, so mebbe ye won't keer ter trouble him," and the farmer drove away with a chuckle. This news was, however, important to Tom. A constable was just about the man he most wanted to see. It had dawned on the boy's mind that his sister and Ruth had gotten into trouble, and he must find help for them. The street of the village was dark. This was one of the nights when the moon was booked to shine, but forgot to! The town fathers evidently lit the street lights only when the almanac said there was to be no moon. Tom removed one of the headlights and found his way to the door of the cottage next to the smithy. There was neither bell nor knocker, but he thundered at the panel with right good will, until he heard a stir in a chamber above. Finally a blind opened a little way and a sleepy voice inquired what he wanted. "Are you the blacksmith, sir?" asked Tom. "Huh? Wal! I should say I was. But I ain't no doctor," snarled the man above, "and I ain't in the habit of answering night calls. Don't ye see I ain't got no night bell? Go away! you're actin' foolish. I don't shoe hosses this time o' night." "It's not a horse," explained Tom, near laughter despite his serious feelings. "It's a motor-car." "Naw, I don't shoe no ortermobile, neither!" declared the man, and prepared to close the blind. "Say, Mister!" shouted Tom. "Do come down. I need you----" "If I come down thar, I won't come as no blacksmith, nor no mechanic. I'll come as the constable and run ye in--ye plaguey whipper-snapper!" "All right," cried Tom, fearing he would shut the blind. "Come down as constable. I reckon I need you in that character more than any other." "I believe ye do!" exclaimed the man, angrily. "If you air there when I git on my pants, you'll take a walk to the callaboose. None o' you young city sports air goin' to disturb the neighborhood like this--not if I know it!" Meanwhile, Tom could hear him stirring around, tumbling over the chairs in the dark, and growling at his boots, and otherwise showing his anger. But the boy was desperate, and he stood still until the man appeared--tin star pinned to his vest. "Wal, by gravey!" exclaimed the blacksmith-constable. "Ain't you a reckless youngster ter face up the majesty of the law in this here way?" Tom saw that, after all, the constable was grinning, and was not such an ill-natured fellow, now that he was really awake. The boy plunged into his story and told it with brevity, but in detail. "Why, I see how it is, youngster," said the man. "You're some scart about your sister and that other girl. But mebbe nothing's happened 'em at all." "But where have they gone?" "I couldn't tell you. We'll make search. But we've got to have something to travel in, and if it don't take too long to fix your auto, we'll travel in _that_." Of course, this was good sense, and Tom saw it, impatient as he was. The constable laid aside the vest with the badge of office upon it, and the blacksmith proceeded to open his forge and light a fire and a lantern. Then he listened to Tom's explanation of what had happened to the car, and went to work. Fortunately the damage was not serious, and the blacksmith was not a bad mechanic. Therefore, in an hour and a half he closed the smithy again, removing his apron, and the constable donned his vest and got into the car beside the troubled Tom. "Now let her out, son!" advised the official. "You've got all the law with ye that there is in this section, and ye kin go as fast as ye please." Tom needed no urging. He shot the repaired car over the road at a pace that would have made his sister and her chum scream indeed! Once at the bottom of the hill where the car had been stalled, they stopped and got out, each taking a lantern by the constable's advice. Blodgett and his horses had done their best to trample out the girls' footsteps, but there had been no other vehicle along the road, and the searchers managed to find footprints of the girls at one side. "Sure them's them?" asked Mr. Peck. "You can see they are not the prints of men's shoes," said Tom, confidently. "Right ye air! And here's another woman's shoe--only larger. They went away with some woman, that's sure." "A woman?" muttered Tom, greatly amazed. "Whoever could she be--and where have they gone with her?" CHAPTER XII A BREAK FOR LIBERTY Ruth finally slept in the Gypsy van as sweetly as though she were in her own little bed in the gable room at the Red Mill. She was bodily wearied, and she had lost herself while yet she was watching the Gypsy Queen worshipping the pearl necklace, and fearing that the man with the evil eyes was peering into the interior of the van. A hundred noises of the Gypsy camp awakened her when the sun was scarcely showing his face. Dogs barked and scampered about; horses neighed and stamped; roosters crowed and hens cackled. The children were crying, or laughing, and the women chattering as they went about the getting of breakfast at the fires. The fires crackled; the men sat upon the van tongues cleaning harness after the rain and mud of the afternoon before. The boys were polishing the coats of the beautiful horses, till they shone again. All these activities Ruth Fielding could see through the tiny windows of the queen's van, in which she and Helen Cameron were imprisoned. Her chum roused, too, but was half tempted to cry, when she remembered their circumstances. Queen Zelaya had gone out. "Come on!" exclaimed Ruth. "We've got to make the best of it. Get on your dress and shoes, and perhaps they will let us out, too." "Let's run away, Ruthie," whispered Helen. "The very first chance we get--sure we will!" agreed her chum. They found the door unlocked, and, as nobody stayed them, the two girls descended the steps to the ground. A cross-looking dog came and smelled of them, but the bold-looking girl who had brought the supper the night before drove him away. Ruth essayed to speak to her, but she shook her head and laughed. Perhaps she did not understand much English. Ruth was looking around eagerly for Roberto. Had she seen the Gypsy boy, she would certainly have thrown herself--and Helen--upon him for protection. But although not many of the Gypsies looked unkindly toward the girls, none appeared really friendly. The woman who had aided in their capture the night before took them down to the water, where they might wash their faces and hands and comb their hair, using the toilet requisites from their bags. Nobody had offered to interfere with them in any manner, or touch their belongings. The woman waited patiently until they were ready, and took them back to the camping ground for breakfast. But Ruth had seen something. At first she dared not whisper it to her chum. After they had eaten (and a very good breakfast it was that the Gypsies gave them), she managed to get Helen out of earshot of the watchers. Everybody in the camp watched the prisoners. The girls were not driven back into the van again at once, but Ruth saw that even the children circled about her and Helen, at a little distance, so that the girls were continuously guarded. They sat down upon an old stump, in an open space, where nobody could creep near enough to hear what Ruth said to Helen without one or the other of the captives seeing the eavesdropper. "What is it?" asked Helen, anxiously. "Oh, Ruth! where do you suppose Tom is? What can he think of us?" "I only hope Tom won't come along here alone and fall into trouble, too," said the girl of the Red Mill, in return. "But I believe there is a chance for us to get away without his help, dear." "Oh, how?" demanded her chum. "Did you look along the shore when we were down there to the lake just now?" "Yes. In both directions. There wasn't a soul in sight but you and myself and that woman," returned Helen, showing that she had been observant to a degree, at least. "You are right. It is a lonely spot. I saw nobody. But I saw a fishing punt." "A fishing punt?" "Yes. Pulled up on the shore a little way. There is a pole in it, too. It can be pushed off into the water easily, and I did not see another boat of any kind in either direction." "Oh, Ruth! Neither did I. I didn't even see the boat you speak of." "It is there just the same. We can reach it in one minute from here--by running." "Let's run, then!" whispered Helen, energetically. "We'll wait our chance. They are watching too closely now. By and by they must get more careless. Then we'll try it." "But I don't just see what we can do in that boat," queried Helen, after a moment's thought. "Push out into the lake, so that they can't reach us. Then risk being seen by Tom or somebody else who will help us escape the Gypsies." "But these men will follow us," said Helen, with a shudder. "They can swim--some of them--surely." "And if they try it, we'll beat them off with the push-pole," declared Ruth. "Keep up your pluck, Helen. They will not really dare hurt us--especially if they expect to get money for our release. And I'd like to know," added Ruth, with rather a bitter little laugh, "who will pay _my_ ransom?" "I'll make father pay whatever they ask," whispered Helen. "Oh, dear! won't he be just _mad_ when he hears about it?" Soon the activities of the camp changed. It was plain to the two girls that their captors had no intention of spending the day in this dell by the lake side. A number of the men and boys had gone off with some of the horses early. Now they returned, and it was evident that the men were angry, if not a little frightened. They talked loudly with Zelaya, and the Queen of the Gypsies seemed to be scolding them soundly. It was surprising to the visitors at the camp that the old woman should have such influence over these black-browed ruffians. But she _did_ possess a power; it was self-evident! Soon preparations were begun for shifting camp. The tents were struck and all the paraphernalia of the camp was returned to the three vans. "Something has happened," whispered Ruth to Helen. "Perhaps Tom has raised the hue and cry for us, and they are afraid of being caught here with us in their possession." "Mean old things!" snapped Helen. "I wish they would all be caught and put into jail." "The little children, too?" "The little ones will grow up to be big ones--and they are all bad," declared Helen, with confidence. "I can't believe that Roberto is bad," said Ruth, thoughtfully. "I wish he was with them now. I believe he would help us get away." "Maybe these are not his people." "I think they are," returned Ruth. But she did not say anything then to Helen about the pearl necklace, and the cashbox of Queen Zelaya. The necklace was never out of Ruth's thought, however, for she was sure it had been stolen. The girl of the Red Mill would know the necklace again; wherever she might see it. In the first place it was the most beautiful necklace she had ever seen. But there was a peculiar pendant attached to it--in the shape of a fleur-de-lis--of larger pearls, that would distinguish it among any number of such articles of adornment. Ruth kept in mind the chance she hoped would arise for their escape. Helen was hopeless; but she had agreed to make the attempt, if Ruth did. The whole camp was busy in preparing for departure. There were not so many eyes now upon the girls. And--therefore--there being no regular guard set over them, the opportunity Ruth hoped for arose. In harnessing one of the horses to a van, something happened to call most of the excited crowd together. The horse kicked, and one of the men was hurt. The moment the shouting over this incident arose, Ruth pinched Helen and they both got up and slipped into the wood. They were out of sight in a moment, and having chosen the side toward the lake, they set off at top speed through the underbrush for the spot where Ruth had seen the fishing punt. "Suppose it leaks?" gasped Helen, running hard beside her friend. "Well! we'll know it when we're in deep water," grimly returned Ruth. At that moment they heard a great hullabaloo at the camp behind them. "They've discovered we're missing," gasped Helen. "Come on, then!" cried Ruth. "Let's see if we can outwit them. We've got a chance for liberty, my dear. Don't lose heart." CHAPTER XIII RUTH IN THE TOILS The lake shore was just ahead of the fugitives. Ruth had been but a few yards out of the way in her calculations. She and Helen came out upon the beach almost at the spot where the fishing punt lay. The boat appeared to be sound, and the pole lying in it was a straight, peeled ash sapling, not too heavy for either of the girls to handle. "Jump in, Helen!" commanded Ruth. "Take the pole and push off. I'll push here at the bow." "But you'll get all wet!" quavered her chum. "As though _that_ mattered," returned the other, with a chuckle, as she leaned against the bow of the punt and braced her feet for the grand effort. "Now!" Helen had scrambled in and seized the pole. She thrust it against the shore, her own weight bearing down the stern, which was in the water, and thus raising the bow a trifle. "All-to-geth-er!" gasped Ruth, as though they were at "tug-of-war" in the Briarwood gymnasium. The boat moved. Ruth's feet slipped and she scrambled to get a fresh brace for them. "Now, again!" she cried. At that moment a great hound came rushing out of the wood upon their trail, raised his red eyes, saw them, and uttered a mournful bay. "We're caught!" wailed Helen. "We're nothing of the kind!" returned her friend. "Push again, Helen!" One more effort and Ruth was ankle deep in the water. The boat floated free! But before the brave girl could scramble aboard, the hound leaped for her. Helen screamed. That shriek was enough, without the baying of the hound, to bring their enemies to the water's edge. Ruth Fielding was terrified--of course! But she gave a final push to the boat as the hound grabbed her. Fortunately the beast seized only her skirt. Perhaps he had been taught not to actually worry his prey. However, the girl was dragged to her knees, and she could not escape. The punt shot out into the lake, and Ruth shouted to her chum: "Keep on! keep on! Never mind me! Find Tom and bring help----Oh!" The weight of the big dog had cast her into the shallow water. She immediately scrambled to her feet again. The hound held onto the skirt. The material was too strong to easily tear, and she could not get away. There was a crashing in the brush and out upon the edge of the lake came half a dozen of the Gypsy men and one of the women. She was the one who had befooled Ruth and Helen into entering the green van the night before. When she saw Ruth's plight, standing in the water with the hound holding her, she laughed as though it were a great joke. But the men did not laugh. He with the squinting eye strode down to the girl and would have slapped her with his hard palm, had not the woman jumped in and put herself between the man and Ruth. She seemed to threaten him in her own language, and the ruffian desisted. One of the boys threw off his clothing--all his outer garments, at least--and plunged right into the lake after Helen. The boat had swung around, for there was considerable current in Long Lake. "Don't let him come near you, Helen!" screamed Ruth. "Use your pole!" Her friend stood very bravely in the stern of the punt and raised the pole threateningly. The Gypsy boy could not easily overtake the boat, which was drifting farther and farther out toward the middle of the lake. Some of the others began running along the shore as though to keep pace with the boat. But suddenly a long-drawn, eerie cry resounded from the direction of the camp. The men stopped and returned; the boy scrambled ashore and hastily grabbed his clothing. The woman and the squint-eyed man dragged Ruth into the bush. The cry was a signal of some kind, and one not to be disobeyed. The Gypsies hurried back to the vans, and Ruth did not see Helen again. All was confusion at the camp. The horses were ready to start, and the movables were packed. The children and women swarmed into two of the vans. Queen Zelaya stood at the door of the other, and the moment she saw that one of the prisoners had not been recovered, she began to harangue her people threateningly. The squint-eyed man pushed Ruth toward the old woman. Zelaya's claw-like hand seized the girl's shoulder. She was jerked forward and up the steps into the van. Almost at once the caravan started, and Zelaya pulled the door to, and darkened the windows. "Quick, now!" she commanded the girl. "Take off your hat. Gypsies have no use for hats." She seized it and thrust it into one of her boxes. Then she commanded Ruth to remove her frock, and that followed the hat into the same receptacle. Afterward the girl was forced to take off her shoes and stockings. "Sit down here!" commanded Zelaya, as the van rolled along. The queen had been mixing some kind of a lotion in a bowl. Now with a sponge she anointed Ruth's face and neck, far below the collar of any gown she would wear; likewise her arms and hands, and her limbs from the knees down. Then Zelaya threw some earth on Ruth's feet and streaked her limbs with the same. She gave her a torn and not over-clean frock to put on instead of her own clothing, and insisted that she don the ugly garment at once. "Now, Gentile girl," hissed the old woman, "if they come to search for you, speak at your peril. We say you are ours--a wicked, orphan Gypsy, wicked through and through." She tore down Ruth's hair and rubbed some lotion into it that darkened its color, too. She really looked as wild and uncouth as the bold girl who waited upon the queen of the Gypsies. "Now let them find you!" cackled the old woman. "You are Belle, my great-granddaughter, and you are touched here--eh?" and she tapped her own wrinkled forehead with her finger. CHAPTER XIV ROBERTO AGAIN Ruth cried a little. But, after all, it was more because she was lonely than for any other reason. What would eventually happen to her in the Gypsy queen's toils she did not know. She had not begun to worry about that as yet. Helen had gotten clear away. She was confident of that, and was likewise sure that her chum would rouse the authorities and come in search of her. Tom, too, was faithful; he must already be stirring up the whole neighborhood to find his sister and Ruth. How far the caravan had traveled the night before, after the girls had joined the Gypsies, Ruth could not guess. But she realized that now they were making very good time up the road leading to Boisé Landing, along the edge of Long Lake. There might be some pursuit already. If Tom had telegraphed his father, Mr. Cameron would come looking for Helen "on the jump"! And had the searchers any idea the Gypsies had captured the two girls, Ruth was sure that the wanderers would get into trouble very quickly. "Why, even Uncle Jabez would 'start something,' as Tom would say, if he learned of this. I believe, even if I am not 'as good as a boy,' that Uncle Jabez loves me and would not let a parcel of tramps carry me off like this." She wiped away the tears, therefore, and in looking into a cloudy little mirror screwed to the wall of the vehicle, she found that the tears did not wash off the walnut stain. She had been dyed with a "fast color," sure enough! "If Heavy and The Fox, or Belle and Lluella could see me now!" thought Ruth Fielding. Suddenly the caravan halted. There were shouts and cries, and evidently the other vans were being emptied of their occupants in a hurry. Some of the men seemed to be arguing in English at the head of the queen's van. Ruth believed that a searching party had overtaken the Gypsies. She feared there would be a fight, and she was anxious to show herself, so that her unknown rescuers might see her. But she dared not scream. Old Zelaya scowled at her so savagely and threatened her so angrily with her clenched fist, that Ruth dared not speak. Finally the old woman opened the door of the van and flung her down the steps. The act was so unexpected that Ruth fell into the arms of the crowd waiting for her. It was evidently ready for her appearance. The boys and girls, and some of the women, received her into their midst, and they made so much noise, chattering and shrieking, and dancing about her, that Ruth was both confused and frightened. Had she herself shrieked aloud, her voice would have been drowned in the general hullabaloo. This noise was all intentional on the part of the Gypsies, for up at the head of the caravan Ruth caught a glimpse of a big man standing with a stout oak club in his hand and a big shiny star pinned to his vest near the armhole. A constable! Whether he was there searching for her and Helen, or was merely making inquiries about a robbed hen-roost, the girl from the Red Mill could not guess. There was so much confusion about her, that she could not hear a word the constable said! She waved her hand to him and tried to attract his attention. The girls and boys laughed at her, and pulled her about, and the bold girl she had seen before almost tore the frock from her shoulders. Suddenly Ruth realized that, even did the constable look right at her, he would not discover that she was a white girl. She looked just as disreputable in every way as the Gypsy children themselves! The constable came toward the first van. Zelaya now sat upon the top step, smoking a cheroot, and nodding in the sun as though she were too old and too feeble to realize what was going on. Yet Ruth was sure that the sly old queen had planned this scene and told her tribesmen what to do. Ruth was whisked away from the steps of the queen's van, and borne off by the shouting, dancing children. She tried to cry out so that the constable would hear her, but the crowd drowned her cries. She saw the constable search each of the three vans. Of course, he found no girls answering to the descriptions of Ruth and Helen--and it was the girls that he was searching for. He was Sim Peck, the blacksmith-constable from Severn Corners. It was a pity Tom Cameron had not been with him! Finally Ruth saw that the man had given up the search, and the Gypsies were going to depart. She determined to make a desperate attempt to attract his attention to herself. She suddenly sprang through the group of children, knocking the bold girl down in her effort, and started, yelling, for the constable. Instantly one of the men halted her, swung her about, clapped a palm over her mouth, and she saw him staring balefully down into her face. "You do that ageen--I keel you!" he hissed. It was the evil-eyed man who had spied upon Queen Zelaya, as she had worshipped the pearl necklace in the van the evening before. Ruth was stricken dumb and motionless. The man looked wicked enough to do just what he said he would. She saw the constable depart. Then the Gypsies huddled into the wagons, and she was seized by Zelaya and put into the first van. The old witch was grinning broadly. "Ah, ha!" she chuckled. "What does the Gentile girl think now? That she shall escape so easily Zelaya? Ha! she is already like one of our own kind. Her own parents would not know her--nor shall they see her again until they have paid, and paid in full!" "You are holding the wrong girl, Zelaya," murmured Ruth. "_My_ parents are dead, and there is nobody to pay you a great ransom for me." "False!" croaked the hag, and struck her again. The caravan rolled on after that for a long way. It did not stop for dinner, and Ruth grew very hungry, for she and Helen had been too excited that morning to eat much breakfast. Through the open door and the forward window Ruth saw considerable of the road. They were seldom out of sight of the lake. By and by they turned right down to the water's edge and she heard the horses' feet splashing through the shallow water. She could not imagine where they were going. Out of the door she saw that they seemed to be leaving the land and striking right out into the lake. The water grew deeper slowly, rising first over one step and then another, while the shore of the lake receded behind them. The other vans and the boys driving the horses followed in their wake. Curious, Ruth arose and went to the forward end of the van. She could see out between the driver and his wife, and over the heads of the horses. The latter were almost shoulder deep now, and were advancing very slowly. Some rods ahead she saw that there was a wooded island. It was of good size and seemed to be densely covered with trees and brush. Yet, there was a patch of sandy shore toward which the horses were being urged. The lake was so low, that there was a fordable stretch of its bottom between the mainland and this island. These Gypsies seemed to know this bar perfectly, and the driver of the queen's van made no mistake in guiding his span. In half an hour the horses were trotting through the shallows again. They rolled out upon the white beach, and then Ruth saw that a faint wagon trail led into the interior of the island. The Gypsies had been there before. There, in the middle of the wooded isle, was a clearing. The moment the vans arrived, all the people jumped out, laughing and talking, and the usual preparations for an encampment were begun. Only, in this case, Queen Zelaya sent the squint-eyed man and the ruffian who had so frightened Ruth to either shore of the island to keep watch. Tents were set up, fires kindled, a great supper begun, and the poultry was set loose to roam at will. Somewhere the Gypsy children had picked up a kid and a little calf. Both of these were freed, and at once began to butt each other, to the vast delight of the little ones. All about, under-foot and growling if they were disturbed, were the ugly dogs. Ruth was afraid of them! Now that they were on the island, the Gypsies gave her slight attention. The children did not come near her, and she was glad of that. Of course, the adults knew she could not escape. Later she heard one of the men on the shore shout. Nobody was disturbed at the camp, but after a little, there was some loud conversation and then somebody broke through the bushes and appeared suddenly in the little clearing. Ruth Fielding gasped and sprang to her feet. Nobody noticed her. The newcomer was Roberto. He strode swiftly across the camp to the queen's van. Zelaya sat upon the steps and when he came before her, he bowed very respectfully. The old woman showed more emotion at his appearance than Ruth believed possible. She got up quickly and kissed the boy on both of his cheeks. Her eyes sparkled and she talked with him for some time in the Tzigane tongue. Once or twice Roberto glanced in Ruth's direction, as though he and the old woman had been speaking of the captive girl. But, to the latter's surprise, she saw no look of recognition in the Gypsy boy's eyes. Finally, when he parted from the queen, Roberto crossed the encampment directly toward Ruth. The girl, fearful, yet hoping he would see and know her, rose to her feet and took a single step toward him. Roberto turned upon her fiercely. He struck at her with his arm and pushed Ruth roughly back into her seat. But although the action was so cruel and his look so hateful, the girl heard him whisper: "Wait! Let the little lady have no fear!" Then he passed on to greet his friends about the nearest campfire. CHAPTER XV HELEN'S ESCAPE Helen Cameron was so fearful at first of the Gypsies overtaking her, that she had no thought of any peril which might lie ahead of the drifting punt, into which she had scrambled. She realized that Ruth had sacrificed herself in their attempt to escape, but she could render her chum no help now. Indeed, the current which had seized the boat was so strong that she could not have gotten back to the shore, had she tried. When the Gypsies disappeared into the wood, taking Ruth with them, Helen realized her helplessness and loneliness, and she wept. She sat in the stern of the punt and floated on and on, without regard to where she was going. She could not have changed the course of the punt, however. She was now in too deep water; the guiding pole was of no use to her, and there were no oars, of course. She was drifting toward the middle of the lake, it seemed, yet the general direction was eastward. There, at the lower end of the lake, a wide stream carried its waters toward the distant Minturn Dam. But long before the stream came to that place, there was much of what the local guides called "white water." These swift rapids Helen thought little about at first. She had had no experience to warn her of her peril. At this moment she was fearful only of the wild Gypsy clan that had tried to keep her prisoner and that had, indeed, succeeded in carrying away her dear friend, Ruth Fielding. As she floated on, she saw nothing more of the Gypsies. She began to believe that they had not turned back to follow her along the edge of the lake. They were satisfied with their single prisoner! "But father will see to that!" sobbed Helen. "He won't let them run away with Ruth Fielding--I know he won't! Dear, dear! what would I ever do if Ruth disappeared and we shouldn't meet each other again--or not until we were quite grown up? "Such things _have_ happened! I've read about it in books. And those dreadful Gypsies make the children they capture become Gypsies, too. Suppose, years and years hence, I should meet Ruth and she should ask to tell my fortune as Gypsy women do--and she shouldn't know me----" Helen began to sob again. She was working herself up into a highly nervous state and her imagination was "running away with her," as Ruth often said. Just then she almost lost the punt-pole, and this near-accident startled her. She might need that pole yet--especially if the boat drifted into shallow water. She looked all around. She stood up, so as to see farther. Not a moving object appeared along either shore of the lake. This was a veritable wilderness, and human habitations were far, far away. She raised her eyes to the chain of hills over which she and her brother and Ruth had ridden the day before. At one point she could see the road itself, and just then there flashed into view an auto, traveling eastward at a fast clip. "But, of course, they can't see _me_ 'way down here," said Helen, shaking her head. "They wouldn't notice such a speck on the lake." So she did not even try to signal to the motor-car, and it was quickly out of sight. The current was now stronger, it seemed. The punt drifted straight down the lake toward the broad stream through which Long Lake was drained. Helen hoped the boat would drift in near one shore, or the other, but it entered the stream as near the middle as though it had been aimed for that point! Here the water gripped the heavy boat and drew it onward, swifter and swifter. At first Helen was not afraid. She saw the banks slipping by on either hand, and was now so far from the Gypsies, that she would have been glad to get ashore. Yet she did not think herself in any increased danger. Suddenly, however, an eddy gripped the boat. To her amazement the craft swung around swiftly and she was floating down stream, stern foremost! "Oh, dear me! I wish I had a pair of oars. Then I could manage this thing," she told herself. Then the boat scraped upon a rock. The blow was a glancing one, but it drove the craft around again. She was glad, however, to see the bow aimed properly. From moment to moment the boat now moved more swiftly. It seemed that the foam-streaked water tore at its sides as though desiring to swamp it. Helen sat very quietly in the middle seat, and watched the dimpling, eddying stream with increasing anxiety. Suddenly the punt darted shoreward. It looked just as though it must be cast upon the beach. Helen raised herself stiffly, seized the pole more firmly, and prepared to leap ashore with its aid. And just as she was about to risk the feat, the bow of the boat whirled outward again, she was almost cast into the water, and once more the boat whirled down the middle current. She dropped back into her seat with a gasp. This was terrible! She could not possibly control the craft in the rapids, and she was traveling faster and faster. The boat came to another eddy, and was whirled around and around, so swiftly, that Helen's poor head swam, too! She raised her voice in a cry for help, but it was likewise a cry of despair. She had no idea that there was a soul within the sound of her voice. Crash! the boat went against an outcropping rock. It spun around again and darted down the current. It was leaking now; the water poured into it between the sprung planks. The river widened suddenly into a great pool, fringed with trees. At one point a rock was out-thrust into the river and Helen saw--dimly enough at first--a figure spring into view upon this boulder. "Help! help!" shrieked the girl, as the boat spun about. "Hi! catch that!" It was dear old Tom's voice! The shout brought hope to Helen's heart. "Oh, Tom! Tom!" she cried. "Save me!" "Bet you I will!" returned the boy. "Just grab this rope----Now!" She saw the loop come hurtling through the air. Tom had learned how to properly throw a lariat the summer before, while in Montana, and he and his particular chums had practised the art assiduously ever since that time. Now, at his second trial, he dropped the noose right across the punt. Helen seized upon it. "Hitch it to the ring in the bow--quick!" commanded her brother, and Helen obeyed. In five minutes he had her ashore, but the punt sunk in shallow water. "I don't care! I don't care!" cried Helen, wading through the shallow water. "I really thought I was going to drown, Tommy boy." "But where's Ruth? Whatever have you girls been doing since last evening? Where did you go to?" He held her in his arms for a moment and hugged her tightly. Helen sobbed a little, with her face against his shoulder. "Oh! it's so-o good to have you again, Tommy," she declared. Then she told him swiftly all that had happened. Tom was mighty glad to get his sister back, but he was vastly worried about her chum. "That's what I feared. I had a feeling that you girls had fallen into the hands of those Gypsies. Those men in the old house were two of them----" "I know it. We saw them at the encampment." "But if Ruth is still with them," Tom said, "Peck will get her. He said he knew how to handle Gyps. He's been used to them all his life. And this tribe often come through this region, he told me." "Who is Mr. Peck?" asked Helen, puzzled. Tom told her of his adventures on the previous night. After returning to the spot where the auto had been stalled earlier in the evening, Tom and the constable had searched with the lanterns all about the place, and had followed the footsteps of the girls and the strange woman to the lower road. "I had no idea then that the wagon you had evidently gotten into was a Gypsy cart," pursued Tom. "We saw you'd gone on toward Severn Corners, however, and we went back. But you come along with me, now, Helen, and we'll return to that very place. I expect Uncle Ike will be waiting for us. I telephoned him before daylight this morning--and it's now ten o'clock. The car is right back here on the road." "Oh! I am so glad!" "Yes. Soon after breakfast Peck and I separated! I came this way in the car, hoping to find some trace of you. Peck made inquiries and said he'd follow the Gyps. Ruth will be taken away from them," declared Tom, with conviction. "That big smith isn't afraid of anybody." "Oh, I hope so," said Helen. "But that horrible old Gypsy--the queen, she calls herself--is very powerful." "Not much she isn't!" laughed Tom. "Peck fully feels the importance of that star he wears. I think he would tackle a herd of elephants, if they were breaking the law." So they sped on in the motor-car, feeling considerably better. The twins were very fond of each other, and were never really happy, when they were apart for long. But when they ran down into Severn Corners, expecting to find Ruth at the constable's house, they were gravely disappointed. The forge was open and Sim Peck was shoeing a horse. He stood up, hammer in hand, when the motor-car stopped before the smithy. "Hello!" he said to Tom. "Did you get her?" "I got my sister. She's had an awful time. Those Gypsies ought to be all shut up in jail," said Tom, vigorously. "Them 'Gyptians?" drawled Peck, in surprise. "What they got ter do with it?" "Why, they had everything to do with it. Don't you know that they carried off both my sister here and Ruth Fielding?" "Look here," said the blacksmith-constable, slowly, "let me understand this. Your sister has been with the 'Gyptians?" "Yes. Didn't you find Ruth with them?" "Wait a minute. Was she with old Zelaya's tribe?" "Yes," cried Helen. "That is the name of the Gypsy queen." "And the other gal?" demanded the man. "Where is she?" "That's what I ask you," said Tom, anxiously. "My sister escaped from them, but they recaptured the other girl." "Sure o' that?" he demanded. "Yes, I am!" cried Helen. "I saw them drag her back through the woods to the encampment." "When was this?" "Not far from six o'clock this morning." "By gravey!" ejaculated the man. "She ain't with 'em now. I been all through them vans, and seen the whole tribe. There ain't a white gal with 'em," said Mr. Peck, with confidence. CHAPTER XVI THROUGH THE NIGHT AND THE STORM Ruth did not really know what to think of Roberto, the Gypsy boy. His push, as he passed her, had been most rude, but his whispered words seemed a promise of friendship. He did not look at her again, as he went around the encampment. Roberto seemed a privileged character, and it was not hard to guess that he was Queen Zelaya's favorite grandchild. As for the prisoner, she was scarcely spoken to by anybody. She was not abused, but she felt her position keenly. Particularly was she ashamed of her appearance--barefooted, bareheaded, and stained until she seemed as dark as the Gypsy girls themselves. Ruth thought she looked altogether hateful! "I really would be ashamed to have Tom Cameron see me now," she thought. Yet she would have been delighted indeed to see Tom! It was in her chum's twin brother that she hoped, after all, for escape. For Roberto, the Gypsy, ignored her completely. She feared that his whispered words to her, when he first entered the camp, had meant nothing after all. Why should she expect him to be different from his tribesmen? The Gypsies fed her well and allowed her to wander about the camp as she pleased. There were two sentinels set to watch the northern and southern shores of the lake. Nobody could approach the island without being observed and warning given to the camp. Ruth had lost hope of anybody coming to the encampment in search of her, for the present. The constable had doubtless been sent by Tom Cameron, and he would report that there was nobody but Gypsies in the camp. Nobody but her immediate friends would distinguish Ruth from a Gypsy now. If Helen had found Tom, the situation could not be changed much for Ruth--and the latter realized that. Mr. Cameron and Uncle Jabez would have to be communicated with, before a general alarm could be sent out and detectives put on the case. By that time, where would the girl from the Red Mill be? This question was no easy one to answer. Ruth did not believe the Gypsies would remain on this island for any length of time. Queen Zelaya was doubtless shrewd enough to plan a long jump next time, and so throw off pursuit. Indeed, all the next day the girl could do little but worry about her own situation, and about Helen's fate. The last she had seen of her chum, she had been drifting out into the middle of this lake. Suppose the punt had sprung a leak, or capsized? Clouds gathered that day, and the second evening on the island closed with a steady, fine rain falling. The encampment was quiet early. Even the dogs found shelter from the wet, but Ruth had every reason to believe that the Gypsy men took turns in guarding the encampment. Ruth was made to sleep in Queen Zelaya's van, and as soon as it had become real dark, the old woman made her enter. In her rags of clothing, Ruth was not afraid of a little rain--surely she had on nothing that would be spoiled by the wet; but she had to obey the old hag. At supper time Roberto brought the bowls of savory stew that usually made up that meal for the Gypsies. There were three bowls on the tray and the boy gave Ruth a sharp side glance and pointed to a certain bowl. She dared not refuse to take it. When he approached his grandmother at the other end of the van, he removed his own bowl before setting the tray upon the box beside her. Ruth hesitated to eat her own portion; she had been afraid of being drugged from the beginning. Yet, somehow, she could not help feeling confidence in Roberto. The latter ate his supper with gusto, talking all the while with the old woman. But he went away without a word or look at Ruth after the meal. Soon Zelaya made her go to bed. Ruth was not sleepy, but she appeared to go to sleep almost at once, as she had before. She lay down in all the clothing she wore, for she was apprehensive of something happening on this night. She saw that the old woman was very drowsy herself. Appearing to sleep, Ruth waited and watched. The storm whined in the trees of the island, but there was no other noise. Zelaya was at the locked box again, and she soon drew forth her treasure-casket. She fondled the collar of pearls as she had on the first night Ruth had slept in the van. The girl was watching for that evil face at the window again. For a moment she thought she saw it, but then she recognized that it was Roberto's handsome face against the wet pane. Suddenly Ruth realized that the old woman had fallen asleep over her box of valuables. The girl was confident that there had been a drugged bowl at supper time, but _she_ had not eaten of it. There was a little noise at the door--ever so slight. The handle turned, and Roberto's head was thrust in. He nodded at Ruth as though he were sure she was not asleep, and then creeping up the steps, he gazed at his grandmother. There could be no doubt that she was sound asleep! He slipped in and closed the door. At first he did not say a word to Ruth. He went to Zelaya's side and shook her lightly. She did not awake. As though she were a child, the strong youth lifted her and placed her in the bed. Then he locked the small box, put the key again around Zelaya's neck, and lowered the treasure box into the chest. The padlock of this he snapped and then turned cheerfully to the watchful Ruth. "Come!" he whispered. "Missy not afraid of Roberto? Come!" No. Ruth was _not_ afraid of him. She rose quickly and preceded him, as he directed by a gesture, out of the door of the van. There was neither light nor sound in the whole camp. Once they were free, Roberto seized the girl's hand and led her through the darkness and the rain. Ruth's tender feet stumbled painfully over the rough ground, but the boy was not impatient. He seemed to know his way in the dark by instinct. Certainly, Ruth could scarcely see her hand before her face! However, it was not long before she realized that they had come out upon the shore of the island. There was a vast, empty-looking place before them, which Ruth knew must be the open lake. Where the sentinels had gone, she could not guess, unless Roberto had managed to drug _them_, too! However, there was not a word said, save when Roberto led her down, to the water and she felt it lave her feet. Then he muttered, in a low tone: "Don't fear, little Missy." As they waded deeper and deeper into the lake, following as she supposed the track by which the wagons had come to the island, Ruth _was_ more than a little frightened. Yet she would not show Roberto it was so. Once she whispered to him: "I can swim, Roberto." "Good! But I will carry you," and he suddenly stooped, slung her across his shoulder as though she had been a feather-weight, and marched on through the water. It was plain that the Gypsy boy knew this ford better than the drivers of the vans, for he found no spot that he could not wade through and carry Ruth, as well. It was nearly an hour before they reached the land. The rain beat upon them and the wind soughed in the trees. It seemed to get darker and darker, yet Roberto never hesitated for direction, and setting Ruth down upon her own feet, helped her on till they came to a well-traveled road. Not far ahead was a light. Ruth knew at once that it was a lamp shining through the windows of some farmhouse kitchen. "There they will take you in," Roberto said. "They are kind people. I am sorry I could not bring away your own clothes and your bag. But it could not be, Missy." "Oh! you have been so good to me, Roberto!" she cried, seizing both of his hands. "However can I thank you--or repay you?" "Don't be too hard on Gypsy--on my old grandmother. She is old and she is a miser. She thought she could make your friends pay her money. But now we will all leave here in the morning and you shall never be troubled by us again." "I will do nothing to punish her, Roberto," promised Ruth. "But I hope I shall see you at the Red Mill some time." "Perhaps--who knows?" returned the youth, with a smile that she could see in the dark, his teeth were so white. "Now run to the door and knock. When I see it opened and you go in, I will return." Ruth Fielding did as she was bidden. She entered the gate, mounted the porch, and rapped upon the kitchen door. The moment she looked into the motherly face of the woman who answered her knock, the girl knew that her troubles were over. CHAPTER XVII OFF FOR SCHOOL AGAIN There was much bustle about the old Red Mill. The first tang of frost was in the air, and September was lavishly painting the trees and bushes along the banks of the Lumano with crimson and yellow. A week had elapsed since Ruth and Helen had been prisoners in the Gypsies' encampment, up in the hills. That week had been crowded with excitement and adventure for the chums and Tom Cameron. They would all three have much to talk about regarding the Gypsies and their ways, for weeks to come. Uncle Ike Cameron had roused up the County Sheriff and all his minions, before Ruth appeared at Severn Corners, driven by the kindly farmer to whose door Roberto had brought her through the darkness and rain. Constable Peck, having searched the Gypsy camp, believed that Ruth must have escaped from the Romany people at the same time as Helen. Therefore, it was not until Ruth's complete story was told, that actual pursuit of the Gypsies by the county authorities was begun. Then Queen Zelaya and her band were not only out of the county, but out of the state, as well. They had hurried across the border, and it was understood that the tribe had gone south--as they usually did in the winter--and would be seen no more in New York State--at least not until the next spring. The three friends had much to tell wherever they went during this intervening week. They had had a fine time at "Uncle Ike's," but every adventure they had was tame in comparison to those they had experienced on the road overlooking Long Lake. They wondered what had become of Roberto--if he had returned to his people and risked being accused of letting Ruth escape. Ruth discussed this point with her friends; but one thing she had never mentioned to either Helen, or her brother Tom. She did not speak to them of the wonderful pearl necklace she had seen in the old Gypsy queen's possession. There was a mystery about that; she believed Zelaya must have stolen it. The man with the wicked face had intimated that it was part of some plunder the Gypsies had secured. Now, Ruth and Helen--and Tom as well--were ready to start for school again. This was the last morning for some time to come, that Ruth would look out of her little bedroom window at the Red Mill. She always left the beautiful place with regret. She had come to love old Aunt Alvirah so much, and have such a deep affection and pity for the miserly miller, that the joy of going back to Briarwood was well tempered with remorse. The night before, Uncle Jabez had come to Ruth, when she was alone, and thrust a roll of coin in her hand. "Ye'll want some ter fritter away as us'al, Niece Ruth," he had said in his most snarling tone. When she looked at it, her heart beat high. There were five ten-dollar gold pieces! It was given in an ungrateful way, yet the girl of the Red Mill believed her uncle meant to be kind after all. The very thought of giving up possession of so much money made him cranky. Perhaps he was determined to give her these fifty dollars on the very day they had been wrecked on the Lumano. No wonder he had been so cross all this time! It was Uncle Jabez's way. As Aunt Alvirah said, he could not help it. At least, he had never learned to make any effort to cure this unfortunate niggardliness that made him seem so unkind. "I do wish I had a lot of money," she told Aunt Alvirah, with a sigh. "I would never have to ask him to pay out a cent again. I could refuse to take this that he has given me and then I----" "Tut, tut, my pretty! don't say that," said the little old woman, soothingly. "It does him good to put his hand in his pocket--it does, indeed. If it is a sad wrench for him ter git it out ag'in--all the better!" and she chuckled a little as she lowered herself into her rocker. "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" "Ye don't understand yer uncle's nater like I do, Ruthie. You bein' his charge has been the salvation of him--yes, it has! Don't worry when he gives ye money; it's all thet keeps his old heart from freezin' right up solid." Now the Cameron automobile was at the gate, and Helen and Tom were calling to Ruth to hurry. Ben had taken her trunk to the Cheslow station the day before. Ruth appeared with her new handbag (the Gypsies had the old one), flung her arms about Aunt Alvirah's neck as she sat on the porch, and then ran swiftly to the door of the mill. "Uncle! I'm going!" she called into the brown dusk of the place. He came slowly to the door. His gray, grim face was unlighted by even an attempt at a smile, as he shook hands with her. "I know ye'll be a good gal," he said, sourly. "Ye allus be. But be savin' with--with all thet money I gave ye. It's enough to be the ruination of a young gal to hev so much." He repented of his gift, she knew. Yet she remembered what Aunt Alvirah had said, and refrained from handing it back to him. She determined, however, if she could, to never touch the five gold pieces, and some time, when she was self-supporting, she would hand the very same coins back to him! This was in her thought as she moved away. So, on this occasion, Ruth Fielding did not leave the Red Mill with a very happy feeling at her heart. The automobile sped away along the shady road into Cheslow. At the station Mercy Curtis, the lame girl, was awaiting them, although it was still some time before the train was due that would bear them away to Lake Osago. When it _did_ steam into view and come to a slow stop beside the platform, there was Heavy Stone and The Fox with their hands out of the windows, shouting to them. They had secured two seats facing each other, and Ruth and Mercy joined them, while Tom and Helen took the seat behind. Such a chattering as there was! The fleshy girl and Mary Cox had not seen Ruth and Helen and Mercy since they had all returned from the Steeles' summer home at Sunrise Farm, and you may believe there was plenty to talk about. "Who else is here?" demanded Ruth, standing up to search the length of the car for familiar faces. "Look out, Miss!" cried Heavy, producing her first joke of the fall term. "Remember Lot's wife!" "Why so?" asked Helen. "Goodness me! how ignorant you are--and you took chemistry last year, too," declared Jennie Stone. "I--don't--just--see," admitted Helen. "You mean to say you don't know what two-fold chemical change Lot's wife underwent?" "Give it up!" "Why," giggled Heavy, "first she turned to rubber, and then she turned to salt!" When the crowd had shown their appreciation, The Fox said: "We're going to pick up an Infant at Maxwell. Heard about her?" "No. Who is she?" asked Helen. "Not that Infants interest me much now. We can let the juniors take them in hand. Remember, girls, we are full-fledged seniors this year." "You'll have an interest in this new girl," said Miss Cox, with assurance. "Why?" "She is Nettie Parsons. You know her father is the big sugar man. He has oodles of money!" "Lot's of sugar, eh?" chuckled Heavy. "Hope she'll bring some to school with her. I have a sweet tooth, I hope you know." "A tooth! a whole set of sweet teeth, you mean!" cried Ruth. "I only hope she is nice. I don't care how much money she has," said Helen, smiling. "We won't hold her wealth up against her, if she's the right sort." "Oh, I'm not fooling," said The Fox, rather sharply, for she had a short temper, "to match her red hair," as Heavy said. "She'll probably bring trunks full of nice dresses to school and loads of jewelry----" "Won't that be silly? For Mrs. Tellingham won't let her wear them." "Only on state and date occasions," put in Mercy. "At any rate, her folks have splendid things. Why! don't you remember about her aunt losing that be-a-utiful necklace last spring?" "Necklace?" repeated Ruth. "What sort of a necklace?" "One of the finest pearl collars in the world, they say. Worth maybe fifty thousand dollars. Wonderful!" "A pearl necklace?" queried the girl from the Red Mill, her interest growing. "Yes, indeed." "How careless of her!" said Heavy, with a yawn. "Silly!" exclaimed The Fox. "It was stolen, of course." "By whom?" demanded Ruth. "Why, if the police knew that, they'd get back the necklace, wouldn't they?" demanded Mary Cox, with scorn. "But I didn't know--they might suspect?" suggested Ruth, meekly. "They do. Gypsies." "Gypsies!" cried Ruth and Helen together. And then the latter began: "Oh, girls! listen to what happened to Ruth and me only a week ago!" "Wait a bit, dear," broke in Ruth. "Let us know a little more about the lost necklace. Why do they think the Gypsies took it?" "I'll tell you," said The Fox. "You see, this aunt of Nettie's is very, very rich. She comes from California, and she was on to visit the Parsons last spring. "There was a tribe of Gypsies camping near the Parsons estate. They all went over to have their fortunes told--just for a lark, you know. It was after dinner one evening, and there was company. Nettie's Aunt Rachel had dressed her best, and she wore the necklace to the Gypsy camp. "That very night the Parsons' house was robbed. Not much was taken except the aunt's jewel-box and some money she had in her desk. The robbers were frightened away before they could go to any of the other suites. "The next day the Gypsies had left their encampment, too. Of course, there was nothing to connect the robbery with the Gyps., save circumstantial evidence. The police didn't find either the Gypsies or the necklace. But Aunt Rachel offered five thousand dollars' reward for the return of the pearls." "Just think of that!" gasped Helen. "Five thousand dollars. My, Ruthie! wouldn't you like to win _that_?" "Indeed I would," returned her chum, with longing. "But I guess the Gypsies _we_ were mixed up with never owned a pearl necklace like that. They didn't look as though they had anything but the gaily colored rags they stood in--and their horses." "What do you know about Gypsies?" asked The Fox. "A whole lot," cried Helen. "Let me tell you," and she proceeded to repeat the story of their adventure with Queen Zelaya and her tribe. Ruth said nothing during the story; her mind was busy with the mystery of the missing necklace. CHAPTER XVIII GETTING INTO HARNESS Nettie Parsons proved to be a very sweet, quiet girl, when she came aboard the train at Maxwell. She was rather older than the majority of girls who entered Briarwood Hall as "Infants." It seemed that she had suffered considerable illness and that had made her backward in her books. "Never mind! She'll be company for Ann Hicks," said Helen. "Won't that be fine? Neither of them will feel so badly, then, because they are in the lower classes." "We'll get the Sweetbriars to make her feel at home," said Ruth, to her chum. "No hazing this term, girlie! Let's welcome the newcomers like friends and sisters." "Sure, my dear," agreed Helen. "We haven't forgotten what they did to _us_, when we first landed at Briarwood Hall." When the train ran down to the dock where they were to take the steamboat _Lanawaxa_ for the other side of the lake, there was a crowd of a dozen or more girls in waiting. A welcoming shout greeted Ruth as she headed the party from the vestibule coach: "S. B.--Ah-h h! S. B.--Ah-h-h! Sound our battle-cry Near and far! S. B.--All! Briarwood Hall! Sweetbriars, do or die-- This be our battle-cry-- Briarwood Hall! _That's All!_" Every girl present belonged to the now famous school society, and Nettie Parsons was interested right away. She wished to know all about it, and how to join, and of course she was referred to Ruth. In this way the girl of the Red Mill and the new pupil became better acquainted, and Ruth found opportunity very soon to ask Nettie about the pearl necklace that her Aunt Rachel had lost some months before. Meanwhile, the girls, with their hand luggage, trooped down the long dock to the _Lanawaxa's_ boarding-plank. Heavy Stone turned suddenly in the hot sunshine (for it was a glowing noon) to find two of the smaller girls mincing along in her very footsteps. "I say! what are you two Infants following me so closely for?" she demanded. "Please, Miss," giggled one of them, "mother told me to take Sadie for a nice long walk, but to be sure and keep her in the shade!" This delighted the other girls immensely, for it was not often that anybody got ahead of the plump girl. She was too good-natured to take offense, however, and only grinned at them. They all crowded aboard and sought seats on the upper deck of the steamer. Tom had met some of his friends who attended the Seven Oaks Military Academy, among them big Bob Steele and little Isadore Phelps. Of course the boys joined the girls, and necessary introductions were made. Before the _Lanawaxa_ pulled out of the dock, they were all having great fun. "But how we will miss Madge!" was the general cry of the older girls, for Bobbins' sister no longer attended Briarwood Hall, and her absence would be felt indeed. Not being under the immediate eye of his sharp-tongued sister, Bobbins showed his preference for Mercy Curtis, and spent a good deal of time at the lame girl's side. He was so big and she was so slight and delicate, that they made rather an odd-looking pair. However, Bobbins enjoyed her sharp tongue and withstood her raillery. She called him "Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum" and made believe that she was very much afraid of him; yet it was noticeable that there was no venom in the sharp speeches the lame girl addressed to her big cavalier--and Mercy Curtis could be most unmerciful if she so desired! Soon they were on the train again, and a short run to the Seven Oaks station, where the red brick barracks of the Military School frowned down upon the railroad from the heights above. "I wouldn't go to school in such an ugly place," declared the girls. Here is where they separated from their boy friends. A great, ramshackle bus, and another vehicle, were waiting at the end of the platform. An old man in a long duster stood beside the bus to help the girls in and see to their baggage. This was "Uncle Noah" Dolliver. At once The Fox formed the girls into line, and keeping step to the march, they tramped the length of the platform, singing: "Uncle Noah, he built an ark-- One wide river to cross! And in it we have many a lark-- One wide river to cross! One wide river! One wide river of Jordan! One wide river! One wide river to cross! "The Sweetbriars get in, one by one-- One wide river to cross! The last in line is Heavy Stone-- One wide river to cross!" And the plump girl _was_ the last one to pop into the ancient equipage, filling the very last seat--_tight_! "Lucky you brought along another wagon, Uncle Noah," said The Fox, as the remainder of the girls ran to the second vehicle. Both of the wagons soon started. It was a hot and dusty afternoon and the girls were really crowded. "I'm squeezed in so tight I can't think," moaned Helen. "Ouch!" cried Belle Tingley. "That's my funny-bone you hit, Lluella, with your handbag. Oh! how funny it feels." "Did you ever know why they call that thing in your elbow the funny bone?" asked Heavy, mighty serious. "No," said Belle, rubbing the elbow vigorously. "Why, it's what makes folks 'laugh in their sleeves,'" chuckled the plump girl. "Oh, dear me! isn't she smart?" groaned Lluella. "Almost as smart as my Cousin Bill," said The Fox, breaking into the conversation. "He won't be called 'Willie' and he'll answer only to 'Bill,' or 'William.' "'William,' said the teacher one day to him in school, 'spell "ibex."' "Bill jumps up and begins: 'I-b----' "'Stop! stop, William!' cries the teacher. 'Where did you learn such grammar? Always say, "I am."' "And do you know," chuckled Mary, "Bill sat down and gave up spelling the word--and he doesn't know how to spell 'ibex' yet!" The sun had set, when they got out at the end of the Cedar Walk. Ruth, who had sat beside Nettie Parsons, went with her to the principal's office and introduced her to Mrs. Grace Tellingham. Later Ruth joined her chums in the old West Dormitory. There were two quartette rooms side by side, in which were hatched most of the fun and good times that happened at Briarwood Hall. In one were Ruth, Helen, Mercy, and Ann Hicks, the girl from the west. The other had long been the room of The Fox, Heavy, Belle Tingley, and Lluella Fairfax. Ann Hicks, right from Silver Ranch, was on hand to greet Ruth and the others, she having arrived at Briarwood the day before. She brought greetings from her Uncle Bill, Bashful Ike and his Sally. The crowd quieted down at last. The last guilty shadows stole from room to room, and finally every girl sought her own bed. Ruth and Helen shared one of the big beds in their room, but they did not go to sleep at once. They could hear the quiet breathing of Mercy and Ann, but the chum's eyes were still wide open. "That Nettie Parsons is a much nicer girl than I expected," whispered Helen. "That is something I want to talk with you about," said Ruth, quickly. "What?" "Nettie Parsons. At least, something about her Aunt Rachel." "Oh! the necklace," laughed Helen. "Are you really interested in it, Ruth?" "She offered five thousand dollars' reward for it," continued Ruth, breathlessly. "She really did. And the reward still stands." "Why, Ruthie!" exclaimed Helen, astonished. "Do you mean to say----" "This is what I mean to say," said Ruth, with energy. "I mean that I'd love to win that reward. I believe I know what has become of the pearl necklace. In fact, Helen, I am very sure that I have seen the necklace." CHAPTER XIX CAN IT BE POSSIBLE? Ruth was thinking a great deal--it must be confessed!--about money during the first days of this new term at Briarwood Hall, and yet she was not naturally of a mercenary nature. Nor was she alone in this, for the advent of Nettie Parsons into the school quite turned the heads of many. Nettie Parsons was the first multi-millionaire's daughter who had ever come to Briarwood Hall. Most of the girls' parents were well-to-do; otherwise they could not have afforded to pay the tuition fees, for Mrs. Grace Tellingham's institution was of considerable importance on the roster of boarding schools. Many of the girls' parents, like Helen Cameron's father, were really wealthy. But Mr. Parsons was way above that! And with a certain class the mere fact of money _as_ money, is cause enough for them to kneel down and worship! After a time these "toadies" were disappointed in the daughter of the "sugar king." Nettie Parsons was a very commonplace, kindly girl, not at all brilliant, and dressed more plainly than the majority of the girls at Briarwood Hall. Ruth's thoughts about money were not in the same lines as the thoughts of those girls so much interested in Nettie Parsons' riches. She neither envied the wealthy girl her possessions, nor desired to be like her. What Ruth Fielding desired so keenly was independence. She wanted to control her own destiny, instead of being so beholden to Uncle Jabez Potter for everything. The sting of being an object of charity had gotten deeply into Ruth's heart. The old miller had an unfortunate way with him, which made the proud girl feel keenly her situation. There was really no reason at all why the miller should take care of, and educate, his niece's child. He was not legally bound to do it. The kinship was not close enough for people to really expect Uncle Jabez to do all that he had for Ruth Fielding! There had been times when the girl, through several fortunate circumstances, had been of real help to the miller. She had once helped recover some money he had lost when the freshet wrecked a part of the Red Mill. Again, it was through her that an investment in a mine in Montana had proved productive of gain for Uncle Jabez, instead of loss. And now, only this summer, she had actually saved the miller's life. Grudgingly, Uncle Jabez had paid these debts by keeping her at this expensive school and furnishing her with clothes and spending money. It was plain he had never approved of her being away from the mill during vacations, too. Uncle Jabez saw no reason for young people "junketing about" and spending so much time in pleasure, as Ruth's friends did. Boys and girls learned to work, in his day, between short terms at school. It was all so different now, that the old man could not be blamed for misunderstanding. For a girl to look forward to making a name for herself in the world--to have a career--to really be somebody--was something of which Uncle Jabez (and Aunt Alvirah as well) could not fail to disapprove. Ruth desired to prepare for college, and in time enter a higher institution of learning. She wished, too, to cultivate her voice, and to use it in supporting herself later. She knew she could sing; she loved it, and the instructors at Briarwood encouraged her in the belief that she had a more than ordinarily fine contralto voice. Uncle Jabez did not believe in such things. He would never be willing to invest money in making a singer of his niece. Useless to think of it! Uncle Jabez had said that girls were of little use in the world, anyway--unless they settled down to housekeeping. The times Ruth had been of aid to him were, as he said, "just chancey." It was of the reward for the return of the missing pearl necklace to Nettie Parsons' Aunt Rachel, that the girl of the Red Mill was thinking so continually, while the first days of this term at Briarwood slipped by. But five thousand dollars would grant Ruth Fielding the independence she craved! Ruth and Helen Cameron had discussed the mystery of the pearl necklace in all its bearings--over and over again. All the "pros" and "cons" in the case had "been before the house," as Helen said, and it all came to the same answer: Could it be possible that Queen Zelaya, Roberto's grandmother, now had in her possession the necklace rightfully the property of Nettie Parsons' Aunt Rachel? "That is, she had it," said Ruth, believing fully it was so, "if that awful man I saw spying on her, has not robbed the old woman and gotten away with the necklace. You know how he talked that day in the deserted house to the other Gypsy?" "I guess I do!" exclaimed Helen. "Could I ever forget a single detail of that awful time?" "And where are the Gypsies now?" said Ruth, feelingly. "Ah! _that_ is the question." "Uncle Ike wrote father that they had been traced some distance toward the south," Helen returned, doubtfully. "The south is a big section of the country," and Ruth wagged her head. "Father was very angry," said Helen, "that the police did not find them, so that the whole tribe could be punished for what they did to us, I never saw father so angry before. He declared that the Gypsies should be taught a lesson, and that their escape was most inexcusable." Ruth said nothing, but shook her head. "You know the excuse the sheriff and that Constable Peck, at Severn Corners, gave?" "Yes," nodded Ruth. "If you had come right up to the village that night, when Roberto brought you to the farmhouse, and told where the camp was, they'd have nabbed the whole crowd, before they could have gotten over the state line." "I know," murmured Ruth. She was remembering Roberto's words as he left her that stormy night in sight of her refuge. He had asked not to be too hard on the Gypsies; therefore, she had not hurried to lodge information against Queen Zelaya and her tribe. But if she had only known about this pearl necklace! Nettie Parsons had described the jewel so clearly that the girl of the Red Mill could not for a moment doubt that the necklace in Zelaya's possession was the one for which the reward was offered. "I tell you what I'll do, if you say the word," Helen said at last, seeing that her friend was really so much troubled about the affair. "What's that, dear?" "I'll write to father. Let me tell him all about you seeing the old woman handling the pearls, and then about this necklace that was lost by Nettie's aunt. He can advise you, at any rate." So it was agreed. Helen wrote that very day. Inside of a week an answer came, and it quite excited Helen. "What do you think?" she demanded of her chum. "Father has business that calls him to Lumberton in a few days. He will come here to see us. And he says for me to tell you to be sure and say nothing to anybody else about the missing necklace until he sees you." "Of course I won't speak of it," replied Ruth. "I am not likely to. Oh, dear, Helen! if I could only win the reward that woman offers for the return of her necklace!" It was not many days before Helen received the telegram announcing her father's coming to Lumberton, which was the nearest town to Briarwood Hall. She showed it to Mrs. Tellingham, and asked that she and Ruth be excused from lessons, when Mr. Cameron came, as he wished to drive the girls over to see Tom at Seven Oaks. This was, of course, arranged. Mr. Cameron was a very busy man, and he could not spend much time in this visit. But he desired to speak to Ruth regarding the mystery of the pearl necklace. He had hired a pair of spirited horses at Lumberton, and he quite had his hands full, as they bowled over the hilly road toward the military academy. But he could talk to the girls. He had Ruth give him every particular of what she had seen at night in the Gypsy van, and when she had done so, he said: "I have taken the pains to get from the police the description of Mrs. Rachel Parsons' missing necklace. It fits your tale exactly, Ruth. Now, I tell you what I shall do. "I will set a detective agency at work. For my own part, I wish to overtake this Queen Zelaya, as she calls herself, and punish her for what she did to you two girls. If such people go free, it encourages them to do worse next time. "Now, if she has the necklace, and we can secure it, all the better. I would be glad to see you get that reward, Ruthie. And Helen says you are very anxious to win it." "Who wouldn't be?" gasped Ruth. "Just think of five thousand dollars!" They were driving through a fine piece of chestnut wood as she said this. The blight had not struck these beautiful trees and they hung full of the prickly burrs. The frost of the previous night had opened many of these, and the brown nuts smiled at once through the openings. "There's a boy knocking them down!" cried Helen. "Let's stop and get some, Father. See them rain down!" At that moment a shower of chestnuts fell and a prickly burr landed on the back of one of the team. The beast rose on his hind legs and pawed the air, snorting. "Look out!" exclaimed the boy in the tree. Mr. Cameron was a good horseman and he had the animals well in hand. The boy, however, was so anxious to see what went on below, that he strained forward too far. With a scream, and the snap of broken boughs, he plunged forward, shot through the leafy-canopy, and landed with a sickening thud upon the ground! Mr. Cameron had halted the horses dead. Ruth was out of the carriage like a flash and dropped on her knees by the boy's side. She was horror-stricken and speechless; yet she had made a great discovery as the boy fell. He was Roberto, the Gypsy! CHAPTER XX HE CANNOT TALK "Is he badly hurt?" cried Mr. Cameron, who dared not get down and leave the horses just then. "Don't tell us he is killed, Ruthie!" wailed Helen, clasping her hands and unable to leave the carriage. The Gypsy boy lay very still. One arm was bent under him in such a queer position that the girl of the Red Mill knew it must be broken. His olive face was pallid, and there was a little blood on his lips. She dared not move him. She bent down and put her ear to his chest. His heart was beating--he breathed! "He's alive!" she said, turning to her friends in the carriage. "But I am afraid he is badly hurt. At least, one arm----" The youth groaned. Ruth turned toward him with a tender little cry. She thought his eyelids quivered, but they were not opened. "What will we do with him? He ought to be taken to a hospital. Where's the nearest doctor?" asked Mr. Cameron. "Lumberton," said Ruth, promptly. "And that is the only place where there is a hospital around here." "Back we must go, then," declared Mr. Cameron, promptly. "We sha'n't see Master Tom to-day, that's sure. You get out, Helen, and I'll turn around." Helen ran to her friend who still hovered over the boy. At once she recognized him. "My goodness me! Roberto! isn't that strange? Then he did not go south with the other Gypsies." "It seems not--poor fellow," returned Ruth. "Do you suppose he knows all about the necklace--how his grandmother became possessed of it, and all?" "I don't know. I am sure Roberto is quite honest himself," returned Ruth. "He is not a thief like those wicked men who were talking that day in the old house, and who seem to have so much influence in the Gypsy camp." "I don't care!" exclaimed Helen, warmly. "I am sorry for Roberto. But I hope father _does_ send detectives after the Gyps., and that they catch and punish that horrid old woman. How mean she was to us!" "Sh!" warned Ruth. Roberto gave no sign of returning consciousness now. That puzzled the girl of the Red Mill, for she had thought he was just about to come to. Mr. Cameron turned the carriage and halted it beside the spot where the boy lay. "Of course you two girls can't lift him?" he said. "Of course we can!" returned his daughter, promptly. "Oh! Ruth and I haven't been doing gym. work for two years for nothing. Just watch us." "Easy!" murmured Ruth, warningly, as Helen seized the youth's legs. "Perhaps he has more than a broken arm." "But he must be lifted," said Helen. "Come on, now! He isn't conscious, and perhaps we can get him into the carriage before he wakes up." And they did. Roberto did not seem to be conscious, and yet, to Ruth's surprise, the color came and went in the boy's cheeks, and his black brows knitted a little. It was just as though he _were_ conscious and was endeavoring to endure the pain he felt without moaning. They got him into the carriage in as comfortable a position as possible. Ruth sat beside him, while Helen joined her father on the front seat. Then the gentleman let the spirited team go, and they dashed off over the road toward Lumberton. At once Helen told her father who the injured youth was. Having heard all the details of his young folks' adventures on the road to Boisé Landing, Mr. Cameron knew just who Roberto was, and he saw the importance of learning from him, if possible, where his clan had gone. "We want to know especially what has become of the old woman--the queen," Mr. Cameron said. "I can't help it, if she _is_ the boy's grandmother, she is a wicked woman. Besides, we want to get back that necklace for Mrs. Parsons." Unfortunately, it would be impossible for the dry goods merchant to remain in Lumberton to watch the case. He had to return that very evening, and could not spare the time now to see Tom. He arranged at the hospital for Roberto to be given every care, and left some money with Helen and Ruth for them to purchase little luxuries for the boy when he should become convalescent. He waited until after the doctors had made their examination and learned that Roberto not only suffered from a broken arm, but had two ribs broken and his right leg badly wrenched. Mr. Cameron wrote a note to Mrs. Tellingham, asking that Helen and Ruth might visit the hospital every day or two to see how the patient fared. "Besides," said Ruth, eagerly, "I may get him to talk. Perhaps he has deserted his tribe for good, and he may help us learn about the necklace." "You want to be very careful in trying to pump the lad," said Mr. Cameron, with a smile. He need not have feared on this point, however, as it turned out. The very next afternoon Ruth and Helen hurried in to Lumberton to make inquiries at the hospital. They saw the head physician and he was frankly puzzled about Roberto. "I thought I had had every kind of a case in my experience," said the surgeon, "but there's something about this one that puzzles me." "Is he more hurt than you thought?" cried Ruth, anxiously. "I don't know. It seems that we have found all his injuries that are apparent. But there is one we cannot reach. Something is the matter with his speech." "His speech?" gasped Helen. "You have heard him speak?" "Of course!" "Then he is not naturally dumb----" "Dumb?" repeated Helen, in wonderment. "You don't mean that he is dumb?" "I mean just that. It appears that since his fall yesterday, he cannot talk at all," said the doctor. CHAPTER XXI RUTH INTERCEDES The two girls did not see Roberto that day, nor for several days following. The hospital authorities did not think it best to allow him to be excited even in a mild way. They sent in such delicacies as the nurse said he could have, and Tony Foyle was bribed by Helen to get a report from the hospital every day about the young Gypsy. The girls kept very quiet about the patient in the hospital. Their mates knew only that Helen and Ruth had been driving with Mr. Cameron when the boy fell out of the tree. They did not dream that the victim of the accident had any possible connection with the pearl necklace that Nettie Parsons' aunt had lost! Helen kept her father informed of the progress of Roberto's case, and in return he wrote Helen that the detectives were confident of reaching old Queen Zelaya and her tribe. "But if we could only get Roberto to talk!" sighed Ruth. "Why, Ruth Fielding! if the poor fellow has been made speechless by that fall, how _can_ he talk?" "I know, but----" "Don't you believe it is _so_?" "Why--yes," admitted Ruth. "Of course, he would have no reason for refusing to speak. And they say he has a hard time making them understand what he wants, for he doesn't know how to write. Poor fellow! I suppose he never realized before, that the art of writing was of any use to _him_." In a week or so the girls were allowed to go to the ward where Roberto lay. Helen carried an armful of good things for the Gypsy lad to eat, but Ruth remembered that he had not cared much for delicacies, and she carried picture papers and a great armful of brilliant fall flowers--some picked by herself in the woods, and the others begged from Tony Foyle. "Taking flowers to a boy--pshaw!" scoffed Helen. "Why, that shows you have no brother, Ruthie. Tom wouldn't look at flowers when he's sick." Ruth believed she had made no mistake. When they approached the bed in which Roberto lay, he looked very pale indeed, and the expression of weariness on his face as he stared out of the distant window, made Ruth's heart ache for the captive wild-boy. "Here are visitors for you, Robert," said the kindly nurse. The big, black eyes of the Gypsy boy rolled toward the two girls. Then his face lit up and his eyes sparkled. They were fixed eagerly on the mass of brilliant blossoms Ruth carried. She scattered the flowers over the coverlet, and Roberto seized some of them, fairly pressing them to his lips. He nodded and smiled at the display of Helen's offerings, too, but he could not keep his eyes away from the flowers. He had been homesick for his beloved woodlands. He was still in plaster and could not move much. He did his best to make the girls understand how welcome they were, but not a sound came from his lips. "A very strange case, indeed," said the doctor in charge, when the girls came down from the ward. "There seems to be absolutely no reason why he does not speak. Apparently no paralysis of the vocal cords. But speechless he is. And as he cannot read or write, it is a nuisance." "It isn't possible that for some reason he doesn't _wish_ to speak?" queried Ruth, doubtfully. "Why, Ruth! there you go again!" exclaimed Helen. "I never knew you to be so suspicious." The doctor laughed. "I think not," he said. "Of course, he might, but he must be a wonderfully good actor. The next time you come, we shall try him." So on a subsequent call of the two girls at the hospital, the doctor entered the ward at the same time they did and likewise approached Roberto's bed, only on the opposite side. Ruth had brought more flowers, and the boy was evidently delighted. "Are you sure you can't speak to me, Roberto?" asked Ruth, softly, as he nodded and smiled and clasped the flowers to his breast with his one good hand. Roberto shook his head sadly, and his black eyes showed every indication of sorrow. But of a sudden he jumped, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. The doctor straightened up and Roberto scowled at him wrathfully. The boy had not uttered a sound. "I jabbed him with this needle," said the doctor, with disgust. "You see, either he has perfect control over himself; or he absolutely cannot speak. While I was setting his arm and fixing up his smashed ribs, he only moaned a little." "Oh!" Helen had gasped, looking at the medical man in some wrath. "Don't do it again--not for _me_," urged Ruth. "I am sorry I said anything about it." "Oh, he isn't seriously injured by _that_," said the surgeon, holding up the needle. "But I do not think he is 'playing possum.'" "It isn't possible!" exclaimed Helen, confidently. "And how long must he lie here?" Ruth asked. "Oh, in a fortnight he'll be as fine as a fiddle. Of course, he won't be able to use his arm much for several weeks. But the ribs will knit all right. Maybe he can find some light job----" "We'll see about _that_," Helen interrupted. "I can see you young ladies are much interested in him," chuckled the doctor. "And not entirely because he is a handsome, black-eyed rascal, eh?" Ruth knew that old Tony Foyle, the gardener at Briarwood Hall, was interested in the lad. He had gone up to the ward to see Roberto several times, and came away enthusiastic in the Gypsy's praise. "Sure," said Tony, to Ruth, "he's jist the bye after me hear-r-t. Herself would like him, he's that doomb!" "Herself" was Tony's wife, who was the cook at Briarwood Hall. "And the way that boy do be lovin' flowers! Sure, his bed in the horspital is jest covered wid 'em. He'd be a handy lad to have here ter give me aid, so he would. An' I been tellin' Mis' Tellingham that I need another helper." "We'll get him the job, Tony!" cried Ruth, in delight. "I believe he would like to help around your hothouse and the beds. I'll see." She interceded with the principal for Roberto, and obtained her promise that the Gypsy boy should have the job. Then she sounded Roberto himself, and by the way his eyes lit up and he smiled and nodded, Ruth knew he would be delighted to be Tony Foyle's assistant. "At least," thought Ruth, "I can keep in sight of him for a time. Perhaps he couldn't tell us, anyway, where Queen Zelaya has hidden herself. But I believe he knows, and I haven't much faith in the results those detectives get." Roberto mended rapidly. He was soon up and about the ward, when the girls called. He was less restless than Ruth expected him to be, and he still signified his intention of coming to help the little old Irish gardener at Briarwood Hall. "When he recovers his powers of speech," said the doctor, "it will be as suddenly as he lost them. No doubt of that. But it is a most puzzling case. I am glad he is not going far from Lumberton. I want to watch the progress of the affair." The next day Roberto came to Briarwood. CHAPTER XXII A GREAT TEMPTATION About this time Ruth suffered a great temptation. She was so little given to covetousness or envy, that other girls of her class might have dresses, jewelry, and many other things dear to girlish hearts, without Ruth's being at all disturbed. Her one great, overmastering passion was for Independence! She envied none of her mates anything but _that_. Now she fell under temptation, and this was the way of it: Ruth belonged to the picked class that the physical instructor had chosen for exhibition gymnasium work at the mid-winter entertainment. This year there were to be important visitors at the school, and Mrs. Tellingham wished to make the occasion a more than ordinarily successful entertainment. The class of twenty girls, selected from the best of the seniors and juniors, was to drill, dance, and go through other gymnastic exercises. And it was agreed among them that each girl should have a brand new costume, although this was no suggestion of either the teacher or Mrs. Tellingham. The class invented this idea itself. It was agreed--nineteen in favor, at least--to appear at the entertainment in a brand new outfit. And how could Ruth say "No?" Every girl in the class but herself had only to write home for money and order the uniform. As it chanced, Ruth had plenty of money to pay for a costume. Helen, who was one of the number, knew Ruth had that fifty dollars in gold that Uncle Jabez had given the girl of the Red Mill the day she left home. This was the temptation: Ruth had promised herself never to use that money. She had a small sum left from her vacation money, and she was making that do for incidentals, until she could earn more in some way. She was already tutoring both Nettie Parsons and Ann Hicks in their more advanced textbooks, and they were paying her small sums for this help. But she could not earn enough in this way--nor in any other--to buy the new gymnasium costume. And there were the five ten-dollar gold pieces lying in a little jeweler's box in the bottom of her trunk. She went with Helen to the dressmaker in Lumberton, when Helen ordered _her_ new costume. "Why don't you let her fit you now, too, Ruth?" demanded Miss Cameron. "Oh, there is plenty of time. Let us see first how well she makes yours," Ruth returned, with a forced laugh. She knew she could not wear her usual costume with the picked class without looking odd. The girls had decided on crimson trimming on the blue skirt and blouse, instead of the regulation white. Nineteen girls with crimson bands and one with white--and that soiled!--would look odd enough. It would fairly spoil the picture, Ruth knew. She was worried because of this, for she did not want to make her mates look ridiculous. Never had Ruth Fielding been so uncertain about any question since she had been old enough to decide for herself. She was really so troubled that her recitation marks were not as high as they should have been. The teachers began to question her, for Ruth Fielding's course at Briarwood had been a triumphant one from the start! "You are not ill, Miss Fielding?" asked Miss Gould. "I am surprised to find that you are going below your past averages. What is the matter?" "I am sure I do not know, Miss Gould," declared Ruth. Yet she feared that the reply was not strictly truthful. She _did_ know; night and day she was worrying about the new gymnasium costume. Should she order one, or should she not? Could she buy a little of the crimson ribbon and put it on her old uniform and thus pass muster? What would the girls say, if she did that? And what would they say if she appeared at the exhibition in her old costume? Was she purely selfish in trying to get out of buying the new dress? Was her reason for not wishing to break into that roll of coin a bad one, after all? Those questions kept coming to Ruth Fielding, and got between her and her books. Mrs. Tellingham called her into the office early in October and pointed out to her that, unless her averages increased, her standing in her class would be greatly changed. "You are doing no outside work, Miss Fielding?" inquired the principal. "No, Ma'am." "I hear you are helping two of the other girls--in a perfectly legitimate way, of course. It is not taking too much out of you?" "Oh, no, dear Mrs. Tellingham!" cried Ruth, fearful that her tutoring would be forbidden. "You are not working too hard in the gym.?" "I do not think so," stammered Ruth. "And _this_ is ridiculous," said Mrs. Tellingham, with a smile. "I do not think there is a more robust looking girl in my school. But, there must be something." "I suppose so," murmured Ruth. "But you do not know what it is? If you do, tell me." "I study just as hard, Mrs. Tellingham," said Ruth, non-committally. "I spend quite as much thought over my books. Really, I think I shall do better again." "I hope so. I do not want to see any bright girl like you fall behind. There is always some reason for such changes, but sometimes we teachers have hard work to get at it. I want all my girls to have confidence in me and to tell me if anything goes wrong with them." "Yes, Ma'am," said Ruth, guiltily. But she could not take the principal of Briarwood Hall into her confidence--she positively could _not_ do it! How ridiculous it would seem to the dignified Mrs. Grace Tellingham that she did not dip into the money her uncle had given her to buy that costume! And she was losing her standing, and worrying everybody who cared, because of this temptation. She knew she was doing wrong in falling behind in her studies. Surely _that_ was not the way to give Uncle Jabez the best return possible for his investment. If she fell back in her books this year, Ruth knew she would never be able to make it up. She must either be prepared for college half a year later, or skip some work that would be found wanting at a later time--would be a thorn in her flesh, indeed, for the remainder of her school life. One hour Ruth told herself that she would be decisive--she would be brave--she would not move in her determination to keep the fifty dollars intact. And then, the next hour, her heart would sink, as she looked forward to what would be said and thought by her companions when the exhibition day came around and she appeared in her old suit. She thought seriously of trying to withdraw in season from the exhibition class. But unfortunately she could not easily do that. The instructor had selected the twenty girls herself, and what excuse--what honest excuse--could Ruth give for demanding her release? "Oh, dear me!" she thought, tossing on her pillow at night, "if I could only be the means of returning that necklace to Mrs. Parsons! My troubles would all be over for sure. "Mr. Cameron's detectives will _never_ find that old Queen Zelaya, but I bet Roberto knows just where she has gone for the winter." With this in mind she tried again and again to get some information out of Tony Foyle's new helper. Roberto always had a smile for her, and seemed willing enough to try to make signs about anything and everything but his tribe and his grandmother. And so smart was he that his gestures were very understandable indeed, when he wished to give information about the new work that he loved, and about the fall flowers and bulbs which were being taken up for storage in the conservatory against the cold of winter. It seemed strange--indeed, it made Ruth suspicious--that Roberto could convey his meaning so easily by gesture when the subject was not one regarding the missing Gypsies! Again and again the thought came to the girl that the Gypsy boy was actually "playing possum." Knowing, perhaps, that he would be questioned about his grandmother, and not wishing to give information about her or her tribe, he had decided to become dumb. Yet, if this was so, how wonderfully well he did it! Even the doctor at the hospital could not understand the case. Roberto's condition certainly was puzzling. And Ruth believed that he held the clew to the whereabouts of Queen Zelaya and the pearl necklace. That being the case, he stood between Ruth and that great reward which the girl of the Red Mill was so anxious to win. CHAPTER XXIII NETTIE PARSONS' FEAST Incidentally there was as much fun going on at Briarwood Hall as usual this fall, but Ruth Fielding did not entirely enjoy any of the frolics in which she necessarily had a part. The work of the Sweetbriar organization was all that really interested her in this line. Several new girls who entered the school in September who were old enough, joined the association, besides others who were advanced from the lower classes. It was an honor--and was so considered by all--to be invited to become a Sweetbriar. Within the association was much innocent entertainment. Picnics, musicals, evening parties approved by the school faculty--even little feasts after curfew--were hatched within the membership. Nettie Parsons, the daughter of the "sugar king," was destined never to be very popular in the school. Those girls who hoped to benefit by Nettie's wealth soon found that money meant as little to Nettie as to any girl at Briarwood. On the other hand, she was no brilliant scholar, and she made friends slowly. Ruth and Helen determined to help the "poor little rich girl," as they called her, and they egged her on to give a midnight reception in the room Nettie occupied with three other girls in the West Dormitory. "There's no way so sure to the hearts of these girls than through their stomachs," Mercy said, when she heard of the plan. "Let poor Net stuff them full of indigestible 'goodies,' and they will remember her for life!" "Why put it that way, Mercy?" drawled Heavy. "You know, you are fond of a bit of candy, or a pickle, yourself. The 'goodies' which we do not get at the school table are 'gifts of the gods.' They are unexpected pleasures. And when eaten after hours, with a blanket for a tablecloth and candles for lights, they become 'forbidden fruit,' which is known to be the sweetest of all!" "Listen to Jen going into rhapsodies over eatables!" sniffed The Fox. "Give her her way, and every composition she handed in to Miss Gould would be a menu." "Bah!" scoffed Heavy. "You eat your share when you get a chance, I notice." "When Heavy is free from the scholastic yoke, and bosses her father's house for good," said Helen, "every dinner will make old Luculus turn in his grave and groan with envy----" "Or with indigestion," snapped Mercy. "The girl will positively _burst_ some day!" "I don't care," mourned Heavy, shaking her head. "It isn't what I get to eat at Briarwood that makes me fat--that's sure." "No," chuckled Ruth. "You grow plump on the remembrance of what you have already eaten, dear. Who was it ate three plates of floating island last night for supper?" "Well!" cried Heavy, with wide open eyes, "you wouldn't want me to leave them and let them go to waste, would you? Both you and Helen left your shares, and the cook would have been hurt, if the pudding had come back untouched." "Kind-hearted girl!" said The Fox, with a sniff. After-hour parties were frowned upon by Mrs. Tellingham and the teachers, of course; not for the mild breaking of the school rules entailed, but because the girls' stomachs were apt to suffer. In the West Dormitory, too, Miss Picolet was known to be very sharp-eyed and sharp-eared for such occasions. It took some wit to circumvent Miss Picolet; perhaps that is why the girls on Ruth's corridor so delighted in holding orgies unbeknown to the little French teacher. Miss Scrimp, the matron, was a heavy sleeper. The girls did not worry about her. Nettie Parsons' room was at the very end of the cross-corridor, and farthest from the stairway. The stairway went up through the middle of the big brick dormitory building, and perhaps _that_ was not the best arrangement in case of fire; but there were plenty of fire escapes on the outside. The question which at once arose, when the sixteen girls Nettie chose had been invited to the feast, was who should stand guard? This was always a matter for discussion--sometimes for heart burnings, too. It was no pleasant task to sit out upon the cold stairway and watch for the opening of Miss Picolet's door below. Sometimes they decided by casting lots. Sometimes some girl who was very good-natured was inveigled into taking her plate of goodies out there in the dimly lit corridor. And sometimes one had to be bribed to stand watch for the others. Miss Picolet was always known to light her candle when she was disturbed by any sound, or suspicion; then she would come to her door and listen. She never moved about her room without a light, that was one good thing! The girl on watch had warning the instant the French teacher opened her door. But of the sixteen girls Nettie Parsons had chosen, not one wanted to play sentinel. Some of them said they would rather not attend the jamboree at all! The season was far enough advanced for the nights to be cold, and the corridors were not warm after the steam went down. The party was called for ten o'clock. By that time frost would most likely be gathering on the window panes. "Catch _me_ bundling up in a fur coat and mittens and stopping out there in that draughty place!" cried The Fox, "while the rest of you are stuffing yourself to repletion in a nice warm room." "Thought you didn't care for the goodies?" demanded Heavy, slily. "I don't care for catching my death of cold, Miss!" snapped Mary Cox. Neither Lluella, nor Belle, would "be the goat." Of course, it was understood that Heavy herself could never be out of reach of the cake plates! Nettie would not hear of Ruth being on watch. "I have it!" said Ruth, at last. "Leave it to me. I'll find a new guard, and I know he will not fail us." "Who is that?" demanded her chum. "Roberto." "Goodness me!" exclaimed Nettie. "Not that boy who helps Foyle?" "That's the one. And he'll do anything for Ruth," declared Helen, promptly. "Anything but talk!" thought Ruth, to herself, but she did not say it aloud. "I don't see how _he_ can help us," Ann Hicks said. "He can't come into the dormitory." "I--guess--not!" cried Helen. "But he won't mind watching outside," Ruth explained. "At least, I'll ask him----" "But what good will _that_ do?" demanded Heavy. "If Miss Picolet gets up out of her warm nest, _he_ won't know it." "Yes, he will," said Ruth, nodding. The Fox began to laugh. "Don't let _her_ hear you say that, Fielding. Picolet is an awful old maid. She would be horrified, if she thought a male person even imagined her in bed!" "But how will he know?" demanded Ann. "That's easy," laughed Ruth. "He will stand where he can watch her window. If he sees her candle lit, he will give the alarm." "How?" asked Nettie. "We'll rig a 'tick-tack'--you know what I mean?" "Oh, don't I!" giggled Heavy. "Roberto can pull the string below, and that will make a tick-tack rap on Nettie's window." "Splendid!" cried the giver of the feast. "You just see if he will do it, Miss Fielding. And I'll give him a dollar--or more, if he wants it." "A dollar will be a lot of money for Roberto," laughed Helen. "But he won't do it for that." "No?" "Of course not. He'll only do it because Ruth asks him." Which was really the fact. Roberto understood well enough what was desired of him. Ruth pointed out the French teacher's window, and the windows of Nettie Parsons' quartette room. From one of them would hang a weighted string on that night. Everything was agreed, and the feast planned. It was a starlight night, when it arrived, but Roberto could find a place to hide in the shrubbery, where he could watch both windows, as agreed. He slept in a little back room of Tony Foyle's suite in the basement of the main building, and could get out and in without disturbing Mr. and Mrs. Foyle. If he were caught out of his room after hours, Ruth knew that Tony would be angry, but she had great influence with the little Irishman and promised Roberto that she would "make it all right" for him, if he were caught. The hour of the party came. The West Dormitory had apparently been "in the arms of Morpheus" for half an hour, at least. "But Mr. Murphy didn't get a strangle hold on us to-night," giggled Heavy, as she led the procession from her room. The girls were all in their kimonas, and many brought plates, knives and forks, cups, and other paraphernalia for the feast. There was to be hot chocolate and there were two alcohol lamps and two pots. The Fox presided over one lamp and Heavy bossed the other one. There was something wrong with the plump girl's lamp; either it had been filled too full, or it leaked. From the start it kept flaring and frightening the girls. "I really wish you would not use that old contraption!" exclaimed Ann Hicks. "It's just as uncertain as a pinto pony." "Never you mind," snapped Heavy. "I guess I know----" Pouf! The flames flared suddenly. Heavy leaped back, stumbled over another girl, and went sprawling. The flames did not touch her, but they _did_ ignite the curtain at the window. There was a great squealing as the girls ran. Nobody dared tear down the blazing curtain, and the flames leaped higher and higher each instant. Then one of the most frightened of the company jerked open the door, put her head out into the corridor, and shrieked "Fire!" CHAPTER XXIV ROBERTO FINDS HIS VOICE That settled it! There was a full-fledged panic in that quartette room in an instant. It bade fair, too, to spread to the whole building. Ruth, who had been busy distributing cakes before the accident, sprang to the open door, seized the girl who had yelled, and literally "yanked" her back into the room. Then she banged the door to and placed her back against it. "Stop!" she cried, yet in a low voice. "Don't be foolish. It's only a little fire. We can put it out. Don't rouse the whole house and frighten everybody." "Oh, Ruth! I can't reach it!" wailed Helen, who was really trying to pull down the curtain. Ann ran with a bowl of water and tried to splash it over the burning curtain. But the bowl tipped backwards and part of the water went over Heavy, who was just trying to struggle to her feet. "Oh! oh! wow!" gasped the plump girl. "I'm drowning! Do you think I'm afire, Ann Hicks?" Some of the others were sane enough to laugh, but the more nervous girls were already in tears, and the fire _was_ spreading from one curtain to the other. There was a smell of scorching varnish, too. The window frame was catching! In the very midst of the confusion, when it seemed positive that the whole school must be aroused, there came a commanding rap upon the window pane. It was not the gentle signal of the tick-tack--no, indeed! "Will you hear _that_?" gasped Belle Tingley. "Miss Picolet's up." "No!" cried Ruth, from the other end of the room. "Open that window, Ann! It's Roberto. He's climbed the fire-escape." "My goodness me!" gasped The Fox. "I never was so glad to see a boy in all my life! Let him in--do!" No sooner said than done. The girl from Silver Ranch had her wits about her. She snapped open the catch and raised the sash. Into the room bounded the Gypsy lad. He had seen the flames from the ground and he immediately knew what to do when he got inside. He seized a chair, leaped up into it, and with his long arms was enabled to tear down the blazing hangings. These he thrust into the bowl of water. "Oh, Roberto! your hands are burned!" cried Ruth, darting to his side, as the fire was quenched. "Never you mind, little Missy----" He halted, staring at her. Then his face flushed like fire and his eyes dropped before her accusing gaze. "You _can_ speak!" exclaimed the girl from the Red Mill. "You _can_!" "He's gotten back his tongue!" cried Helen, in surprise. "Isn't that wonderful?" But Ruth was sure, by the Gypsy boy's shamefaced look, that there was nothing wonderful about it at all. Roberto had been able to speak all the time, but he did not wish to. Now, in his excitement, he had betrayed the fact. There was too much confusion just then for the matter to be discussed or explained. The girls, seeing that the fire was out, scattered at once to their rooms. Roberto left instantly by the window, and Ruth helped Nettie and her roommates repair the damage as well as possible. "I'll buy new curtains for the windows," said the "sugar king's" daughter. "And I'm only glad nothing worse happened." "The worst hasn't happened yet," giggled one of her roommates. "What do you mean?" "I saw Jennie Stone take a bag of pickles, some seed cakes, a citron bun, and about half a pound of candy with her, when she flew. If she absorbs all that to-night, she will be sick to-morrow, that's all!" "Well," Ruth advised, "the best we can do won't hide the damage. Miss Scrimp will find out about the fire, anyway. The best thing to do is to make a clean breast of it, Nettie. I'm sorry the feast was a failure, but we all know you did your best." "I'm thankful it was no worse," returned the new girl. "And how brave that Gypsy boy was, Ruth! I must thank him to-morrow." "You leave him to me," said the girl of the Red Mill, grimly. "I want to talk to Roberto myself." When she got back to her excited roommates, she said little about the wonderful recovery of the Gypsy boy's power of speech, until Mercy and Ann were asleep. Then she said to Helen Cameron: "I am going to telegraph to your father the first thing in the morning. Roberto has been fooling us all. You can't tell me! I know he's been able to talk all the time." "You don't really think so, dear?" asked Helen. "I do. He must have been conscious when we picked him up that time and carried him to the carriage. And we mentioned his grandmother then and the necklace. He's just as sharp as a knife, you know; he's been dumb for a purpose. He did not want to be questioned about Zelaya and the missing pearl necklace." "My goodness me! Father will be _so_ angry," cried Helen. "Roberto will have to tell. I like him, and he was very brave to-night. But I do not believe the boy is a thief himself, and he would be better if he entirely left his thieving relatives." "Maybe he'll run away," suggested Helen. But Roberto would have been obliged to start very early that next morning to have run away. Ruth Fielding was the first person up in the school, and she was standing outside Tony's door, when the little Irishman first appeared. "Helen Cameron wants you to take this telegram down to the office at once, Tony," she said. "Mrs. Tellingham knows about it. We are in a dreadful hurry. Is Roberto inside?" "Sure he is, Miss----" "You take the message; don't let Roberto see it, and you keep your eye on that boy to-day, until Mr. Cameron arrives. He'll want to see him." "Now, don't be tellin' me th' bye has been inter mischief?" cried the warm-hearted Irishman. "Not much. Only he's suddenly recovered the use of his tongue, Tony, and Mr. Cameron wants to talk with him." "Gracious powers!" murmured Tony. "Recovered his spache, has he? The saints be praised!" He obeyed Ruth, however, in each particular. If Roberto had it in his mind to run away, he had no chance to do so that day. Tony watched him sharply, and in the evening Mr. Cameron arrived at Briarwood Hall. The gentleman greeted his daughter and Ruth in Mrs. Tellingham's parlor, but when he interviewed Roberto, it was downstairs in Tony Foyle's rooms. The girls saw Mr. Cameron only for a moment after that. He was just starting for the train, and Roberto was going with him. "The young rascal has admitted just what Ruth suspected," said Mr. Cameron, chuckling a little. "He fooled us all--including the doctor. Though the Doc., I reckon, suspected strongly that the boy could talk, if he desired to. "Roberto did not want to be questioned. Now he has told me that his grandmother did not go south at all. He says she often spends the winter in New York City as do other Gypsies. She is really a great character among her people, and with the information I have gathered, I believe the New York police will be able to locate her. "I shall hang on to Master Roberto until the matter is closed up. He will say nothing about the necklace. He'll not even own up that he ever saw it. But he tells me that his grandmother is a miser and hoards up valuables just like a magpie." Helen's father and the Gypsy boy went away then, and the chums had to possess their souls with patience, and attend strictly to their school work, until they could hear how the matter turned out. CHAPTER XXV FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS It was not likely that Ruth found it any easier, after this, to attend strictly to her school duties, but after her conversation with Mrs. Tellingham she _had_ put forth a greater effort to recover her standing in her class. Whether Mrs. Parsons' necklace was found, or not; whether Ruth obtained a portion of the reward in pay for the information she had lodged, the girl realized that she had no right to neglect her studies. She had come to one conclusion at least: whether or no, she would not break into that fifty dollars Uncle Jabez had given her so unwillingly. And she would use no more of his money for vacation jaunts, or for luxuries. "I must accept his help in gaining my education," she told herself. "But beyond that, I need not go. I have gone about, and had good times, and bought many things just as though I really had a right to expect Uncle Jabez to supply every need. "No more of that, Ruth Fielding! You prate of wishing to be independent: be so in any event!" She was young to come to such a determination; yet Ruth's experiences since her parents had died were such as would naturally make her self-assertive. She knew what she wanted, _and she went after it_! As for the matter of the new gymnasium suit--why! that Ruth gave up entirely. She decided that she had no business to use Uncle Jabez's money for it, and of course she could not go into debt for a new costume. No matter what the other girls thought, or what they did, _she_ would have to be content with her old uniform when it came to the exhibition games. She did not have the courage yet to tell even Helen of this decision; nevertheless she was determined to stick to it. At once she had begun to pick up in recitation marks, and Miss Gould no longer scowled over Ruth's reports. The strain of mind had been considerable, however; Ruth had much to make up in her studies; she wasted no time and began to forge ahead again. She would not even think of Roberto and Mr. Cameron's search for Queen Zelaya. Helen was full of the topic, and often tried to discuss it with Ruth, but the latter put it aside. She had done all she could (or so she thought) to help restore the missing pearl necklace to Nettie's aunt. Worrying about it any more was not going to help a bit. It seemed too ridiculous to think of _her_ ever obtaining five thousand dollars--or any part of that generous reward! So the busy days passed. Helen heard from her father several times, but although she knew he was in New York, ostensibly buying goods, and that he had Roberto with him, the gentleman said very little about the other Gypsies and the missing necklace. Then one day Mrs. Tellingham sent for Ruth. To be sent for by the principal never frightened the girl of the Red Mill--much. She stood well on the principal's books, she knew. But the lady had called her to discuss nothing about the school work. She had a letter and a railroad ticket in her hand. "Tony has telephoned for Dolliver to come for you, Ruth," said Mrs. Tellingham. "You must go away----" "Nothing has happened at home? Uncle Jabez--Aunt Alvirah----?" "Nothing is wrong with them at all, my dear," declared the lady, kindly. "It is Mr. Cameron. He wants you to come to New York at once. Here is transportation for you. He will meet your train at the Grand Central Station." "Mrs. Parsons' necklace!" gasped Ruth. "He says something about that--yes," said Mrs. Tellingham. "It is important for you to come and identify somebody, I believe. You must tell him that, at this time in the term, you can be spared only a short time." All was bustle and confusion for Ruth during the next two hours. Then she found herself on the train bound for New York. She had a section of the sleeper to herself, and arrived in the city the next morning at an early hour. She was making her toilette, as the electric engine whisked the long train through the upper reaches of the city, and she marveled at the awakening Bronx and Harlem streets. When she came out through the gateway of the trainshed, she saw a youth standing by, watching the on-coming passengers sharply. But she was almost upon him, and he had stepped forward, lifting his hat and putting out a hand to take her bag, before she recognized Roberto, the Gypsy boy. But how changed in appearance! Of course, he was still dark of skin, and his black eyes flashed. But he had removed the gold rings from his ears, his hair had been trimmed to a proper length, he was dressed smartly in a gray suit, and wore a nice hat and shoes. Altogether Roberto was a very handsome youth indeed--more so now than when he had been a wild boy! "You do not know me, Miss Fielding?" he said, his eyes twinkling and a warm blush rising in his cheeks. "You--you are so changed!" gasped Ruth. "Yes. Mr. Cameron is a fine man," said the boy, nodding. "I like him. He do all this for me," and he made a gesture that included his new outfit, and flashed her another brilliant smile. "Oh! how it does improve you, Roberto!" she cried. "_Robert_, if you please," he said, laughing. "_I_ am going to be American boy--yes. I have left the Gypsy boy forever behind--eh?" Ruth fairly clapped her hands. "Do you mean all that, Robert?" she cried. "Sure!" he said proudly. "I like America. Yes! I have been here now ten years, and it suit me. And Mr. Cameron say I can go to school and learn to be American business man. That is better than trading horses--eh?" "Oh, isn't that fine!" cried the girl of the Red Mill. "Now, where are you going to take me?" "To the hotel. Mr. Cameron will wait breakfast for us," declared the lad, and in ten minutes Ruth was greeting her chum's father across the restaurant table. "And I suppose you are just about eaten up with curiosity as to why I sent for you?" Mr. Cameron asked her, smiling, when Robert had gone out on an errand. "Just about, sir," admitted the girl. "Why, I want to tell you, my dear, that you are likely to be a very lucky girl indeed. The five thousand dollars reward----" "You haven't found the necklace?" "Yes, indeed. That has been found and identified. What I want you for is so you can identify that old Gypsy, Queen Zelaya. I did not want to force her grandson to appear against her before the authorities. But you can do so with a clear conscience. "Queen Zelaya will be sent back to Bohemia. She has a bad record, and entered the country secretly some years ago. Your evidence will enable the Federal authorities to clinch their case, and return the old woman to the country of her birth. "It is not believed that she actually stole the pearl necklace, but it is plain she shared in the proceeds of all the Gypsies' plundering, and in this case she took the giant's portion. "We could not prove robbery upon her, but she can be transported, and she shall be," concluded Mr. Cameron, firmly. This was what finally happened to Queen Zelaya. Her clan was broken up, and not one of them was ever seen in the neighborhood of the Red Mill--or elsewhere in that county--again. Robert Mazell, as is the Gypsy boy's Americanized name, promises to be all that he told Ruth he hoped to be--in time. He must begin at the bottom of the educational ladder, but he is so quick to learn that his patron, Mr. Cameron, tells Tom, laughingly, that _he_, Tom, will have to look to his laurels, or the boy from Bohemia will outstrip him. Having carried out the trailing of the Gypsy Queen at his own expense, and recovered the necklace privately, Mr. Cameron did not have to divide the reward offered by Mrs. Rachel Parsons with anybody. The entire five thousand dollars was deposited in Ruth's name in the Cheslow Savings Bank. And this happened in time so that Ruth could draw enough of her fortune to get a new gymnasium costume for the mid-winter exhibition! She did not have to use the money Uncle Jabez grudgingly gave her. Her tuition fees were paid in advance for this year at Briarwood Hall, but she determined thereafter to pay all her own expenses, at school and elsewhere. At last she felt herself to be independent. By going to Mr. Cameron, she could get money when she wished, without annoying the miller, and for this situation she was very very thankful. Her life stretched before her over a much pleasanter path than ever before. There were kind friends whom she could help in the future, as they needed help--and that delighted Ruth Fielding. Her own future seemed secure. She could prepare herself for college and could gain the education she craved. It seemed that nothing could balk her ambition in that direction. And so--this seems to be a very good place indeed in which to bid good-bye for a time to Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill. THE END ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 40 cents, postpaid. Ruth Fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. By her sunny disposition she melted the old miller's heart. Her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. The Ruth Fielding Series is the biggest and best selling series of books for girls ever published. Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill or Jaspar Parloe's Secret Ruth Fielding at Briarwood Hall or Solving the Campus Mystery Ruth Fielding at Snow Camp or Lost in the Backwoods Ruth Fielding at Lighthouse Point or Nita, the Girl Castaway Ruth Fielding at Silver Ranch or Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys Ruth Fielding on Cliff Island or The Old Hunter's Treasure Box Ruth Fielding at Sunrise Farm or What Became of the Raby Orphans Ruth Fielding and the Gypsies or The Missing Pearl Necklace Ruth Fielding in Moving Pictures (New) or Helping the Dormitory Fund Ruth Fielding Down in Dixie (New) or Great Days in the Land of Cotton Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE MOTOR GIRLS SERIES By MARGARET PENROSE Author of the highly successful "Dorothy Dale Series" 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid. Since the enormous success of our "Motor Boys Series," by Clarence Young, we have been asked to get out a similar series for girls. No one is better equipped to furnish these tales than Mrs. Penrose, who, besides being an able writer, is an expert automobilist. The Motor Girls or A Mystery of the Road The Motor Girls on a Tour or Keeping a Strange Promise The Motor Girls at Lookout Beach or In Quest of the Runaways The Motor Girls Through New England or Held by the Gypsies The Motor Girls on Cedar Lake or The Hermit of Fern Island The Motor Girls on the Coast or The Waif from the Sea The Motor Girls on Crystal Bay or The Secret of the Red Oar The Motor Girls on Waters Blue or The Strange Cruise of the Tartar The Motor Girls at Camp Surprise or The Cave in the Mountain Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE DOROTHY DALE SERIES By MARGARET PENROSE Author of "The Motor Girls Series" 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid. Dorothy Dale is the daughter of an old Civil War veteran who is running a weekly newspaper in a small Eastern town. Her sunny disposition, her fun-loving ways and her trials and triumphs make clean, interesting and fascinating reading. The Dorothy Dale Series is one of the most popular series of books for girls ever published. Dorothy Dale: a Girl of To-day Dorothy Dale at Glenwood School Dorothy Dale's Great Secret Dorothy Dale and Her Chums Dorothy Dale's Queer Holidays Dorothy Dale's Camping Days Dorothy Dale's School Rivals Dorothy Dale in the City Dorothy Dale's Promise Dorothy Dale in the West Dorothy Dale's Strange Discovery (New) Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE SADDLE BOYS SERIES By CAPTAIN JAMES CARSON 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 40 cents, postpaid. All lads who love life in the open air and a good steed, will want to peruse these books. Captain Carson knows his subject thoroughly, and his stories are as pleasing as they are healthful and instructive. The Saddle Boys of the Rockies or Lost on Thunder Mountain Telling how the lads started out to solve the mystery of a great noise in the mountains--how they got lost--and of the things they discovered. The Saddle Boys in the Grand Canyon or The Hermit of the Cave A weird and wonderful story of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, told in a most absorbing manner. The Saddle Boys are to the front in a manner to please all young readers. The Saddle Boys on the Plains or After a Treasure of Gold In this story the scene is shifted to the great plains of the southwest and then to the Mexican border. There is a stirring struggle for gold, told as only Captain Carson can tell it. The Saddle Boys at Circle Ranch or In at the Grand Round-up Here we have lively times at the ranch, and likewise the particulars of a grand round-up of cattle and encounters with wild animals and also cattle thieves. A story that breathes the very air of the plains. The Saddle Boys on Mexican Trails or In the Hands of the Enemy The scene is shifted in this volume to Mexico. The boys go on an important errand, and are caught between the lines of the Mexican soldiers. They are captured and for a while things look black for them; but all ends happily. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK ----------------------------------------------------------------------- UP-TO-DATE BASEBALL STORIES THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK Author of "The College Sports Series" 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid. Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars or The Rivals of Riverside In this volume, the first of the series, Joe is introduced as an everyday country boy who loves to play baseball and is particularly anxious to make his mark as a pitcher. A splendid picture of the great national game in the smaller towns of our country. Baseball Joe on the School Nine or Pitching for the Blue Banner Joe's great ambition was to go to boarding school and play on the school team. He got to boarding school but found it harder making the team there than it was getting on the nine at home. Baseball Joe at Yale or Pitching for the College Championship From a preparatory school Baseball Joe goes to Yale University. He makes the freshman nine and in his second year becomes a varsity pitcher and pitches in several big games. Baseball Joe in the Central League or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher In this volume the scene of action is shifted from Yale College to a baseball league of our central states. Baseball Joe's work in the box for Old Eli had been noted by one of the managers and Joe gets an offer he cannot resist. Baseball Joe in the Big League or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggle From the Central League Joe is drafted into the St. Louis Nationals. At first he has little to do in the pitcher's box, but gradually he wins favor. A corking baseball story that fans, both young and old, will enjoy. Baseball Joe on the Giants or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis How Joe was traded to the Giants and became their mainstay in the box makes an interesting baseball story. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE MOTOR BOYS SECOND SERIES (Trade Mark, Reg. U. S. Pat. Of.) By CLARENCE YOUNG 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid. This, the Second Series of the now world famed Motor Boys virtually starts a new series, but retains all the favorite characters introduced in the previous books. The Motor Boys Series is the biggest and best selling series of books for boys ever published. Ned, Bob and Jerry at Boxwood Hall or The Motor Boys as Freshmen Fresh from their adventures in their automobile, their motor boat and their airship, the youths are sent to college to complete their interrupted education. Some boys at the institution of learning have heard much about our heroes, and so conclude that the Motor Boys will try to run everything to suit themselves. A plot is formed to keep our heroes entirely in the background and not let them participate in athletics and other contests. How the Motor Boys forged to the front and made warm friends of their rivals makes unusually interesting reading. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE Y.M.C.A. BOYS SERIES By BROOKS HENDERLEY 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid. This new series relates the doings of a wide-awake boys' club of the Y. M. C. A., full of good times and everyday, practical Christianity. Clean, elevating and full of fun and vigor, books that should be read by every boy. The Y. M. C. A. Boys of Cliffwood or The Struggle for the Holwell Prize Telling how the boys of Cliffwood were a wild set and how, on Hallowe'en, they turned the home town topsy-turvy. This led to an organization of a boys' department in the local Y. M. C. A. When the lads realized what was being done for them, they joined in the movement with vigor and did all they could to help the good cause. To raise funds they gave a minstrel show and other entertainments, and a number of them did their best to win a gold medal offered by a local minister who was greatly interested in the work of upbuilding youthful character. The Y. M. C. A. Boys on Bass Island or The Mystery of Russabaga Camp Summer was at hand, and at a meeting of the boys of the Y. M. C. A. of Cliffwood, it was decided that a regular summer camp should be instituted. This was located at a beautiful spot on Bass Island, and there the lads went boating, swimming, fishing and tramping to their heart's content. There were a great many surprises, but in the end the boys managed to clear up a mystery of long standing. Incidentally, the volume gives a clear insight into the workings of the now justly popular summer camps of the Y. M. C. A., throughout the United States. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES (Trade Mark, Reg. U. S. Pat. Of.) By CLARENCE YOUNG 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid. The Motor Boys or Chums Through Thick and Thin The Motor Boys Overland or A Lone Trip for Fun and Fortune The Motor Boys in Mexico. or The Secret of The Buried City The Motor Boys Across the Plains or The Hermit of Lost Lake The Motor Boys Afloat or The Stirring Cruise of the Dartaway The Motor Boys on the Atlantic or The Mystery of the Lighthouse The Motor Boys in Strange Waters or Lost in a Floating Forest The Motor Boys on the Pacific or The Young Derelict Hunters The Motor Boys in the Clouds or A Trip for Fame and Fortune The Motor Boys Over the Rockies or A Mystery of the Air The Motor Boys Over the Ocean or A Marvellous Rescue in Mid-Air The Motor Boys on the Wing or Seeking the Airship Treasure The Motor Boys After a Fortune or The Hut on Snake Island The Motor Boys on the Border or Sixty Nuggets of Gold The Motor Boys Under the Sea or From Airship to Submarine The Motor Boys on Road and River or Racing to Save a Life CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK 
22939	----	Transcribed from the 1882 Houghton, Mifflin and Company edition by David Price, ccx074@pglaf.org THE GYPSIES BY CHARLES G. LELAND AUTHOR OF "THE ENGLISH GYPSIES AND THEIR LANGUAGE," "ANGLO-ROMANY BALLADS," "HANS BREITMANN'S BALLADS," ETC. BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge Copyright, 1882, BY CHARLES G. LELAND. _All rights reserved_. PREFACE. The reader will find in this book sketches of experiences among gypsies of different nations by one who speaks their language and is conversant with their ways. These embrace descriptions of the justly famed musical gypsies of St. Petersburg and Moscow, by whom the writer was received literally as a brother; of the Austrian gypsies, especially those composing the first Romany orchestra of that country, selected by Liszt, and who played for their friend as they declared they had never played before for any man; and also of the English, Welsh, Oriental, and American brethren of the dark blood and the tents. I believe that the account of interviews with American gypsies will possess at least the charm of novelty, but little having as yet been written on this extensive and very interesting branch of our nomadic population. To these I have added a characteristic letter in the gypsy language, with translation by a lady, legendary stories, poems, and finally the substance of two papers, one of which I read before the British Philological Society, and the other before the Oriental Congress at Florence, in 1878. Those who study ethnology will be interested to learn from these papers, subsequently combined in an article in the "Saturday Review," that I have definitely determined the existence in India of a peculiar tribe of gypsies, who are _par eminence_ the Romanys of the East, and whose language is there what it is in England, the same in vocabulary, and the chief slang of the roads. This I claim as a discovery, having learned it from a Hindoo who had been himself a gypsy in his native land. Many writers have suggested the Jats, Banjars, and others as probable ancestors or type-givers of the race; but the existence of the _Rom himself_ in India, bearing the distinctive name of Rom, has never before been set forth in any book or by any other writer. I have also given what may in reason be regarded as settling the immensely disputed origin of the word "Zingan," by the gypsies' own account of its etymology, which was beyond all question brought by them from India. In addition to this I have given in a chapter certain conversations with men of note, such as Thomas Carlyle, Lord Lytton, Mr. Roebuck, and others, on gypsies; an account of the first and family names and personal characteristics of English and American Romanys, prepared for me by a very famous old gypsy; and finally a chapter on the "Shelta Thari," or Tinkers' Language, a very curious jargon or language, never mentioned before by any writer except Shakespeare. What this tongue may be, beyond the fact that it is purely Celtic, and that it does not seem to be identical with any other Celtic dialect, is unknown to me. I class it with the gypsy, because all who speak it are also acquainted with Romany. For an attempt to set forth the tone or feeling in which the sketches are conceived, I refer the reader to the Introduction. When I published my "English Gypsies and their Language," a reviewer declared that I "had added nothing to our" (that is, his) "knowledge on the subject." As it is always pleasant to meet with a man of superior information, I said nothing. And as I had carefully read everything ever printed on the Romany, and had given a very respectable collection of what was new to me as well as to all my Romany rye colleagues in Europe, I could only grieve to think that such treasures of learning should thus remain hidden in the brain of one who had never at any time or in any other way manifested the possession of any remarkable knowledge. Nobody can tell in this world what others may know, but I modestly suggest that what I have set forth in this work, on the origin of the gypsies, though it may be known to the reviewer in question, has at least never been set before the public by anybody but myself, and that it deserves further investigation. No account of the tribes of the East mentions the Rom or Trablus, and yet I have personally met with and thoroughly examined one of them. In like manner, the "Shelta Thari" has remained till the present day entirely unknown to all writers on either the languages or the nomadic people of Great Britain. If we are so ignorant of the wanderers among us, and at our very doors, it is not remarkable that we should be ignorant of those of India. INTRODUCTION. I have frequently been asked, "Why do you take an interest in gypsies?" And it is not so easy to answer. Why, indeed? In Spain one who has been fascinated by them is called one of the _aficion_, or affection, or "fancy;" he is an _aficionado_, or affected unto them, and people there know perfectly what it means, for every Spaniard is at heart a Bohemian. He feels what a charm there is in a wandering life, in camping in lonely places, under old chestnut-trees, near towering cliffs, _al pasar del arroyo_, by the rivulets among the rocks. He thinks of the wine skin and wheaten cake when one was hungry on the road, of the mules and tinkling bells, the fire by night, and the _cigarito_, smoked till he fell asleep. Then he remembers the gypsies who came to the camp, and the black-eyed girl who told him his fortune, and all that followed in the rosy dawn and ever onward into starry night. "Y se alegre el alma llena De la luz de esos luceros." And his heart is filled with rapture At the light of those lights above. This man understands it. So, too, does many an Englishman. But I cannot tell you why. Why do I love to wander on the roads to hear the birds; to see old church towers afar, rising over fringes of forest, a river and a bridge in the foreground, and an ancient castle beyond, with a modern village springing up about it, just as at the foot of the burg there lies the falling trunk of an old tree, around which weeds and flowers are springing up, nourished by its decay? Why love these better than pictures, and with a more than fine-art feeling? Because on the roads, among such scenes, between the hedge-rows and by the river, I find the wanderers who properly inhabit not the houses but the scene, not a part but the whole. These are the gypsies, who live like the birds and hares, not of the house-born or the town-bred, but free and at home only with nature. I am at some pleasant watering-place, no matter where. Let it be Torquay, or Ilfracombe, or Aberystwith, or Bath, or Bournemouth, or Hastings. I find out what old churches, castles, towns, towers, manors, lakes, forests, fairy-wells, or other charms of England lie within twenty miles. Then I take my staff and sketch-book, and set out on my day's pilgrimage. In the distance lie the lines of the shining sea, with ships sailing to unknown lands. Those who live in them are the Bohemians of the sea, homing while roaming, sleeping as they go, even as gypsies dwell on wheels. And if you look wistfully at these ships far off and out at sea with the sun upon their sails, and wonder what quaint mysteries of life they hide, verily you are not far from being affected or elected unto the Romany. And if, when you see the wild birds on the wing, wending their way to the South, and wish that you could fly with them,--anywhere, anywhere over the world and into adventure,--then you are not far in spirit from the kingdom of Bohemia and its seven castles, in the deep windows of which AEolian wind-harps sing forever. Now, as you wander along, it may be that in the wood and by some grassy nook you will hear voices, and see the gleam of a red garment, and then find a man of the roads, with dusky wife and child. You speak one word, "Sarishan!" and you are introduced. These people are like birds and bees, they belong to out-of-doors and nature. If you can chirp or buzz a little in their language and know their ways, you will find out, as you sit in the forest, why he who loves green bushes and mossy rocks is glad to fly from cities, and likes to be free of the joyous citizenship of the roads, and everywhere at home in such boon company. When I have been a stranger in a strange town, I have never gone out for a long walk without knowing that the chances were that I should meet within an hour some wanderer with whom I should have in common certain acquaintances. These be indeed humble folk, but with nature and summer walks they make me at home. In merrie England I could nowhere be a stranger if I would, and that with people who cannot read; and the English-born Romany rye, or gentleman speaking gypsy, would in like manner be everywhere at home in America. There was a gypsy family always roaming between Windsor and London, and the first words taught to their youngest child were "Romany rye!" and these it was trained to address to me. The little tot came up to me,--I had never heard her speak before,--a little brown-faced, black-eyed thing, and said, "How-do, Omany 'eye?" and great was the triumph and rejoicing and laughter of the mother and father and all the little tribe. To be familiar with these wanderers, who live by dale and down, is like having the bees come to you, as they did to the Dacian damsel, whose death they mourned; it is like the attraction of the wild deer to the fair Genevieve; or if you know them to be dangerous outlaws, as some are, it is like the affection of serpents and other wild things for those whom nature has made their friends, and who handle them without fear. They are human, but in their lives they are between man as he lives in houses and the bee and bird and fox, and I cannot help believing that those who have no sympathy with them have none for the forest and road, and cannot be rightly familiar with the witchery of wood and wold. There are many ladies and gentlemen who can well-nigh die of a sunset, and be enraptured with "bits" of color, and captured with scenes, and to whom all out-of-doors is as perfect as though it were painted by Millais, yet to whom the bee and bird and gypsy and red Indian ever remain in their true inner life strangers. And just as strange to them, in one sense, are the scenes in which these creatures dwell; for those who see in them only pictures, though they be by Claude and Turner, can never behold in them the fairy-land of childhood. Only in Ruysdael and Salvator Rosa and the great unconscious artists lurks the spell of the Romany, and this spell is unfelt by Mr. Cimabue Brown. The child and the gypsy have no words in which to express their sense of nature and its charm, but they have this sense, and there are very, very few who, acquiring culture, retain it. And it is gradually disappearing from the world, just as the old delicately sensuous, naive, picturesque type of woman's beauty--the perfection of natural beauty--is rapidly vanishing in every country, and being replaced by the mingled real and unreal attractiveness of "cleverness," intellect, and fashion. No doubt the newer tend to higher forms of culture, but it is not without pain that he who has been "in the spirit" in the old Sabbath of the soul, and in its quiet, solemn sunset, sees it all vanishing. It will all be gone in a few years. I doubt very much whether it will be possible for the most unaffectedly natural writer to preserve any of its hieroglyphics for future Champollions of sentiment to interpret. In the coming days, when man shall have developed new senses, and when the blessed sun himself shall perhaps have been supplanted by some tremendous electrical light, and the moon be expunged altogether as interfering with the new arrangements for gravity, there will doubtless be a new poetry, and art become to the very last degree self-conscious of its cleverness, artificial and impressional; yet even then weary scholars will sigh from time to time, as they read in our books of the ancient purple seas, and how the sun went down of old into cloud-land, gorgeous land, and then how all dreamed away into night! Gypsies are the human types of this vanishing, direct love of nature, of this mute sense of rural romance, and of _al fresco_ life, and he who does not recognize it in them, despite their rags and dishonesty, need not pretend to appreciate anything more in Callot's etchings than the skillful management of the needle and the acids. Truly they are but rags themselves; the last rags of the old romance which connected man with nature. Once romance was a splendid mediaeval drama, colored and gemmed with chivalry, minnesong, bandit-flashes, and waving plumes; now there remain but a few tatters. Yes, we were young and foolish then, but there are perishing with the wretched fragments of the red Indian tribes mythologies as beautiful as those of the Greek or Norseman; and there is also vanishing with the gypsy an unexpressed mythology, which those who are to come after us would gladly recover. Would we not have been pleased if one of the thousand Latin men of letters whose works have been preserved had told us how the old Etruscans, then still living in mountain villages, spoke and habited and customed? But oh that there had ever lived of old one man who, noting how feelings and sentiments changed, tried to so set forth the souls of his time that after-comers might understand what it was which inspired their art! In the Sanskrit humorous romance of "Baital Pachisi," or King Vikram and the Vampire, twenty-five different and disconnected trifling stories serve collectively to illustrate in the most pointed manner the highest lesson of wisdom. In this book the gypsies, and the scenes which surround them, are intended to teach the lesson of freedom and nature. Never were such lessons more needed than at present. I do not say that culture is opposed to the perception of nature; I would show with all my power that the higher our culture the more we are really qualified to appreciate beauty and freedom. But gates must be opened for this, and unfortunately the gates as yet are very few, while Philistinism in every form makes it a business of closing every opening to the true fairy-land of delight. The gypsy is one of many links which connect the simple feeling of nature with romance. During the Middle Ages thousands of such links and symbols united nature with religion. Thus Conrad von Wurtzburg tells in his "Goldene Schmiede" that the parrot which shines in fairest grass-green hue, and yet like common grass is never wet, sets forth the Virgin, who bestowed on man an endless spring, and yet remained unchanged. So the parrot and grass and green and shimmering light all blended in the ideal of the immortal Maid-Mother, and so the bird appears in pictures by Van Eyck and Durer. To me the gypsy-parrot and green grass in lonely lanes and the rain and sunshine all mingle to set forth the inexpressible purity and sweetness of the virgin parent, Nature. For the gypsy is parrot-like, a quaint pilferer, a rogue in grain as in green; for green was his favorite garb in olden time in England, as it is to-day in Germany, where he who breaks the Romany law may never dare on heath to wear that fatal fairy color. These words are the key to the following book, in which I shall set forth a few sketches taken during my rambles among the Romany. The day is coming when there will be no more wild parrots nor wild wanderers, no wild nature, and certainly no gypsies. Within a very few years in the city of Philadelphia, the English sparrow, the very cit and cad of birds, has driven from the gardens all the wild, beautiful feathered creatures whom, as a boy, I knew. The fire-flashing scarlet tanager and the humming-bird, the yellow-bird, blue-bird, and golden oriole, are now almost forgotten, or unknown to city children. So the people of self-conscious culture and the mart and factory are banishing the wilder sort, and it is all right, and so it must be, and therewith _basta_. But as a London reviewer said when I asserted in a book that the child was perhaps born who would see the last gypsy, "Somehow we feel sorry for that child." THE RUSSIAN GYPSIES. It is, I believe, seldom observed that the world is so far from having quitted the romantic or sentimental for the purely scientific that, even in science itself, whatever is best set forth owes half its charm to something delicately and distantly reflected from the forbidden land of fancy. The greatest reasoners and writers on the driest topics are still "genial," because no man ever yet had true genius who did not feel the inspiration of poetry, or mystery, or at least of the unusual. We are not rid of the marvelous or curious, and, if we have not yet a science of curiosities, it is apparently because it lies for the present distributed about among the other sciences, just as in small museums illuminated manuscripts are to be found in happy family union with stuffed birds or minerals, and with watches and snuff-boxes, once the property of their late majesties the Georges. Until such a science is formed, the new one of ethnology may appropriately serve for it, since it of all presents most attraction to him who is politely called the general reader, but who should in truth be called the man who reads the most for mere amusement. For Ethnology deals with such delightful material as primeval kumbo-cephalic skulls, and appears to her votaries arrayed, not in silk attire, but in strange fragments of leather from ancient Irish graves, or in cloth from Lacustrine villages. She glitters with the quaint jewelry of the first Italian race, whose ghosts, if they wail over the "find," "speak in a language man knows no more." She charms us with etchings or scratchings of mammoths on mammoth-bone, and invites us to explore mysterious caves, to picnic among megalithic monuments, and speculate on pictured Scottish stones. In short, she engages man to investigate his ancestry, a pursuit which presents charms even to the illiterate, and asks us to find out facts concerning works of art which have interested everybody in every age. _Ad interim_, before the science of curiosities is segregated from that of ethnology, I may observe that one of the marvels in the latter is that, among all the subdivisions of the human race, there are only two which have been, apparently from their beginning, set apart, marked and cosmopolite, ever living among others, and yet reserved unto themselves. These are the Jew and the gypsy. From time whereof history hath naught to the contrary, the Jew was, as he himself holds in simple faith, the first man. Red Earth, Adam, was a Jew, and the old claim to be a peculiar people has been curiously confirmed by the extraordinary genius and influence of the race, and by their boundless wanderings. Go where we may, we find the Jew--has any other wandered so far? Yes, one. For wherever Jew has gone, there, too, we find the gypsy. The Jew may be more ancient, but even the authentic origin of the Romany is lost in ancient Aryan record, and, strictly speaking, his is a prehistoric caste. Among the hundred and fifty wandering tribes of India and Persia, some of them Turanian, some Aryan, and others mixed, it is of course difficult to identify the exact origin of the European gypsy. One thing we know: that from the tenth to the twelfth century, and probably much later on, India threw out from her northern half a vast multitude of very troublesome indwellers. What with Buddhist, Brahman, and Mohammedan wars,--invaders outlawing invaded,--the number of out-_castes_ became alarmingly great. To these the Jats, who, according to Captain Burton, constituted the main stock of our gypsies, contributed perhaps half their entire nation. Excommunication among the Indian professors of transcendental benevolence meant social death and inconceivable cruelty. Now there are many historical indications that these outcasts, before leaving India, became gypsies, which was the most natural thing in a country where such classes had already existed in very great numbers from early times. And from one of the lowest castes, which still exists in India, and is known as the Dom, {19} the emigrants to the West probably derived their name and several characteristics. The Dom burns the dead, handles corpses, skins beasts, and performs other functions, all of which were appropriated by, and became peculiar to, gypsies in several countries in Europe, notably in Denmark and Holland, for several centuries after their arrival there. The Dom of the present day also sells baskets, and wanders with a tent; he is altogether gypsy. It is remarkable that he, living in a hot climate, drinks ardent spirits to excess, being by no means a "temperate Hindoo," and that even in extreme old age his hair seldom turns white, which is a noted peculiarity among our own gypsies of pure blood. I know and have often seen a gypsy woman, nearly a hundred years old, whose curling hair is black, or hardly perceptibly changed. It is extremely probable that the Dom, mentioned as a caste even in the Shastras, gave the name to the Rom. The Dom calls his wife a Domni, and being a Dom is "Domnipana." In English gypsy, the same words are expressed by _Rom_, _romni_, and _romnipen_. D, be it observed, very often changes to _r_ in its transfer from Hindoo to Romany. Thus _doi_, "a wooden spoon," becomes in gypsy _roi_, a term known to every tinker in London. But, while this was probably the origin of the word Rom, there were subsequent reasons for its continuance. Among the Cophts, who were more abundant in Egypt when the first gypsies went there, the word for man is _romi_, and after leaving Greece and the Levant, or _Rum_, it would be natural for the wanderers to be called _Rumi_. But the Dom was in all probability the parent stock of the gypsy race, though the latter received vast accessions from many other sources. I call attention to this, since it has always been held, and sensibly enough, that the mere fact of the gypsies speaking Hindi-Persian, or the oldest type of Urdu, including many Sanskrit terms, does not prove an Indian or Aryan origin, any more than the English spoken by American negroes proves a Saxon descent. But if the Rom can be identified with the Dom--and the circumstantial evidence, it must be admitted, is very strong--but little remains to seek, since, according to the Shastras, the Doms are Hindoo. Among the tribes whose union formed the European gypsy was, in all probability, that of the _Nats_, consisting of singing and dancing girls and male musicians and acrobats. Of these, we are told that not less than ten thousand lute-players and minstrels, under the name of _Luri_, were once sent to Persia as a present to a king, whose land was then without music or song. This word _Luri_ is still preserved. The saddle-makers and leather-workers of Persia are called Tsingani; they are, in their way, low caste, and a kind of gypsy, and it is supposed that from them are possibly derived the names Zingan, Zigeuner, Zingaro, etc., by which gypsies are known in so many lands. From Mr. Arnold's late work on "Persia," the reader may learn that the _Eeli_, who constitute the majority of the inhabitants of the southern portion of that country, are Aryan nomads, and apparently gypsies. There are also in India the Banjari, or wandering merchants, and many other tribes, all spoken of as gypsies by those who know them. As regards the great admixture of Persian with Hindi in good Romany, it is quite unmistakable, though I can recall no writer who has attached sufficient importance to a fact which identifies gypsies with what is almost preeminently the land of gypsies. I once had the pleasure of taking a Nile journey in company with Prince S---, a Persian, and in most cases, when I asked my friend what this or that gypsy word meant, he gave me its correct meaning, after a little thought, and then added, in his imperfect English, "What for you want to know such word?--that _old_ word--that no more used. Only common people--old peasant-woman--use that word--_gentleman_ no want to know him." But I did want to know "him" very much. I can remember that one night, when our _bon prince_ had thus held forth, we had dancing girls, or Almeh, on board, and one was very young and pretty. I was told that she was gypsy, but she spoke no Romany. Yet her panther eyes and serpent smile and _beaute du diable_ were not Egyptian, but of the Indian, _kalo-ratt_,--the dark blood, which, once known, is known forever. I forgot her, however, for a long time, until I went to Moscow, when she was recalled by dancing and smiles, of which I will speak anon. I was sitting one day by the Thames, in a gypsy tent, when its master, Joshua Cooper, now dead, pointing to a swan, asked me for its name in gypsy. I replied, "_Boro pappin_." "No, _rya_. _Boro pappin_ is 'a big goose.' _Sakku_ is the real gypsy word. It is very old, and very few Romany know it." A few days after, when my Persian friend was dining with me at the Langham Hotel, I asked him if he knew what Sakku meant. By way of reply, he, not being able to recall the English word, waved his arms in wonderful pantomime, indicating some enormous winged creature; and then, looking into the distance, and pointing as if to some far-vanishing object, as boys do when they declaim Bryant's address "To a Water-Fowl," said,-- "Sakku--one ver' big bird, like one _swen_--but he _not_ swen. He like the man who carry too much water up-stairs {22} his head in Constantinople. That bird all same that man. He _sakkia_ all same wheel that you see get water up-stairs in Egypt." This was explanatory, but far from satisfactory. The prince, however, was mindful of me, and the next day I received from the Persian embassy the word elegantly written in Persian, with the translation, "_a pelican_." Then it was all clear enough, for the pelican bears water in the bag under its bill. When the gypsies came to Europe they named animals after those which resembled them in Asia. A dog they called _juckal_, from a jackal, and a swan _sakku_, or pelican, because it so greatly resembles it. The Hindoo _bandarus_, or monkey, they have changed to _bombaros_, but why Tom Cooper should declare that it is _pugasah_, or _pukkus-asa_, I do not know. {23} As little can I conjecture the meaning of the prefix _mod_, or _mode_, which I learned on the road near Weymouth from a very ancient tinker, a man so battered, tattered, seamed, riven, and wrinkled that he looked like a petrifaction. He had so bad a barrow, or wheel, that I wondered what he could do with it, and regarded him as the very poorest man I had ever seen in England, until his mate came up, an _alter ego_, so excellent in antiquity, wrinkles, knobbiness, and rags that he surpassed the vagabond pictures not only of Callot, Dore, and Goya, but even the unknown Spanish maker of a picture which I met with not long since for sale, and which for infinite poverty defied anything I ever saw on canvas. These poor men, who seemed at first amazed that I should speak to them at all, when I spoke Romany at once called me "brother." When I asked the younger his name, he sank his voice to a whisper, and, with a furtive air, said,-- "_Kamlo_,--Lovel, you know." "What do you call yourself in the way of business?" I asked. "_Katsamengro_, I suppose." Now _Katsamengro_ means scissors-master. "That is a very good word. But _chivo_ is deeper." "_Chivo_ means a knife-man?" "Yes. But the deepest of all, master, is _Modangarengro_. For you see that the right word for coals isn't _wongur_, as Romanys generally say, but _Angara_." Now _angara_, as Pott and Benfey indicate, is pure Sanskrit for coals, and _angarengro_ is a worker in coals, but what _mod_ means I know not, and should be glad to be told. I think it will be found difficult to identify the European gypsy with any one stock of the wandering races of India. Among those who left that country were men of different castes and different color, varying from the pure northern invader to the negro-like southern Indian. In the Danubian principalities there are at the present day three kinds of gypsies: one very dark and barbarous, another light brown and more intelligent, and the third, or _elite_, of yellow-pine complexion, as American boys characterize the hue of quadroons. Even in England there are straight-haired and curly-haired Romanys, the two indicating not a difference resulting from white admixture, but entirely different original stocks. It will, I trust, be admitted, even from these remarks, that Romanology, or that subdivision of ethnology which treats of gypsies, is both practical and curious. It deals with the only race except the Jew, which has penetrated into every village which European civilization has ever touched. He who speaks Romany need be a stranger in few lands, for on every road in Europe and America, in Western Asia, and even in Northern Africa, he will meet those with whom a very few words may at once establish a peculiar understanding. For, of all things believed in by this widely spread brotherhood, the chief is this,--that he who knows the _jib_, or language, knows the ways, and that no one ever attained these without treading strange paths, and threading mysteries unknown to the Gorgios, or Philistines. And if he who speaks wears a good coat, and appears a gentleman, let him rest assured that he will receive the greeting which all poor relations in all lands extend to those of their kin who have risen in life. Some of them, it is true, manifest the winsome affection which is based on great expectations, a sentiment largely developed among British gypsies; but others are honestly proud that a gentleman is not ashamed of them. Of this latter class were the musical gypsies, whom I met in Russia during the winter of 1876 and 1877, and some of them again in Paris during the Exposition of 1878. ST. PETERSBURG. There are gypsies and gypsies in the world, for there are the wanderers on the roads and the secret dwellers in towns; but even among the _aficionados_, or Romany ryes, by whom I mean those scholars who are fond of studying life and language from the people themselves, very few have dreamed that there exist communities of gentlemanly and lady-like gypsies of art, like the Bohemians of Murger and George Sand, but differing from them in being real "Bohemians" by race. I confess that it had never occurred to me that there was anywhere in Europe, at the present day, least of all in the heart of great and wealthy cities, a class or caste devoted entirely to art, well-to-do or even rich, refined in manners, living in comfortable homes, the women dressing elegantly; and yet with all this obliged to live by law, as did the Jews once, in Ghettos or in a certain street, and regarded as outcasts and _cagots_. I had heard there were gypsies in Russian cities, and expected to find them like the _kerengri_ of England or Germany,--house-dwellers somewhat reformed from vagabondage, but still reckless semi-outlaws, full of tricks and lies; in a word, _gypsies_, as the world understands the term. And I certainly anticipated in Russia something _queer_,--the gentleman who speaks Romany seldom fails to achieve at least that, whenever he gets into an unbroken haunt, an unhunted forest, where the Romany rye is unknown,--but nothing like what I really found. A recent writer on Russia {26} speaks with great contempt of these musical Romanys, their girls attired in dresses by Worth, as compared with the free wild outlaws of the steppes, who, with dark, ineffable glances, meaning nothing more than a wild-cat's, steal poultry, and who, wrapped in dirty sheep-skins, proudly call themselves _Mi dvorane Polaivii_, Lords of the Waste. The gypsies of Moscow, who appeared to me the most interesting I have ever met, because most remote from the Surrey ideal, seemed to Mr. Johnstone to be a kind of second-rate Romanys or gypsies, gypsified for exhibition, like Mr. Barnum's negro minstrel, who, though black as a coal by nature, was requested to put on burnt cork and a wig, that the audience might realize that they were getting a thoroughly good imitation. Mr. Johnstone's own words are that a gypsy maiden in a long _queue_, "which perhaps came from Worth," is "horrible," "_corruptio optimi pessima est_;" and he further compares such a damsel to a negro with a cocked hat and spurs. As the only negro thus arrayed who presents himself to my memory was one who lay dead on the battle-field in Tennessee, after one of the bravest resistances in history, and in which he and his men, not having moved, were extended in "stark, serried lines" ("ten cart-loads of dead niggers," said a man to me who helped to bury them), I may be excused for not seeing the wit of the comparison. As for the gypsies of Moscow, I can only say that, after meeting them in public, and penetrating to their homes, where I was received as one of themselves, even as a Romany, I found that this opinion of them was erroneous, and that they were altogether original in spite of being clean, deeply interesting although honest, and a quite attractive class in most respects, notwithstanding their ability to read and write. Against Mr. Johnstone's impressions, I may set the straightforward and simple result of the experiences of Mr. W. R. Ralston. "The gypsies of Moscow," he says, "are justly celebrated for their picturesqueness and for their wonderful capacity for music. All who have heard their women sing are enthusiastic about the weird witchery of the performance." When I arrived in St. Petersburg, one of my first inquiries was for gypsies. To my astonishment, they were hard to find. They are not allowed to live in the city; and I was told that the correct and proper way to see them would be to go at night to certain _cafes_, half an hour's sleigh-ride from the town, and listen to their concerts. What I wanted, however, was not a concert, but a conversation; not gypsies on exhibition, but gypsies at home,--and everybody seemed to be of the opinion that those of "Samarcand" and "Dorot" were entirely got up for effect. In fact, I heard the opinion hazarded that, even if they spoke Romany, I might depend upon it they had acquired it simply to deceive. One gentleman, who had, however, been much with them in other days, assured me that they were of pure blood, and had an inherited language of their own. "But," he added, "I am sure you will not understand it. You may be able to talk with those in England, but not with ours, because there is not a single word in their language which resembles anything in English, German, French, Latin, Greek, or Italian. I can only recall," he added, "one phrase. I don't know what it means, and I think it will puzzle you. It is _me kamava tut_." If I experienced internal laughter at hearing this it was for a good reason, which I can illustrate by an anecdote: "I have often observed, when I lived in China," said Mr. Hoffman Atkinson, author of "A Vocabulary of the Yokohama Dialect," "that most young men, particularly the gay and handsome ones, generally asked me, about the third day after their arrival in the country, the meaning of the Pidgin-English phrase, 'You makee too muchee lov-lov-pidgin.' Investigation always established the fact that the inquirer had heard it from 'a pretty China girl.' Now _lov-pidgin_ means love, and _me kamava tut_ is perfectly good gypsy anywhere for 'I love you;' and a very soft expression it is, recalling _kama-deva_, the Indian Cupid, whose bow is strung with bees, and whose name has two strings to it, since it means, both in gypsy and Sanskrit, Love-God, or the god of love. 'It's _kama-duvel_, you know, _rya_, if you put it as it ought to be,' said Old Windsor Froggie to me once; 'but I think that Kama-_devil_ would by rights come nearer to it, if Cupid is what you mean.'" I referred the gypsy difficulty to a Russian gentleman of high position, to whose kindness I had been greatly indebted while in St. Petersburg. He laughed. "Come with me to-morrow night to the _cafes_, and see the gypsies; I know them well, and can promise that you shall talk with them as much as you like. Once, in Moscow, I got together all in the town--perhaps a hundred and fifty--to entertain the American minister, Curtin. That was a very hard thing to do,--there was so much professional jealousy among them, and so many quarrels. Would you have believed it?" I thought of the feuds between sundry sturdy Romanys in England, and felt that I could suppose such a thing, without dangerously stretching my faith, and I began to believe in Russian gypsies. "Well, then, I shall call for you to-morrow night with a _troika_; I will come early,--at ten. They never begin to sing before company arrive at eleven, so that you will have half an hour to talk to them." It is on record that the day on which the general gave me this kind invitation was the coldest known in St. Petersburg for thirty years, the thermometer having stood, or rather having lain down and groveled that morning at 40 degrees below zero, Fahr. At the appointed hour the _troika_, or three-horse sleigh, was before the Hotel d'Europe. It was, indeed, an arctic night, but, well wrapped in fur-lined _shubas_, with immense capes which fall to the elbow or rise far above the head, as required, and wearing fur caps and fur-lined gloves, we felt no cold. The beard of our _istvostshik_, or driver, was a great mass of ice, giving him the appearance of an exceedingly hoary youth, and his small horses, being very shaggy and thoroughly frosted, looked in the darkness like immense polar bears. If the general and myself could only have been considered as gifts of the slightest value to anybody, I should have regarded our turn-out, with the driver in his sheep-skin coat, as coming within a miracle of resemblance to that of Santa Claus, the American Father Christmas. On, at a tremendous pace, over the snow, which gave out under our runners that crunching, iron sound only heard when the thermometer touches zero. There is a peculiar fascination about the _troika_, and the sweetest, saddest melody and most plaintive song of Russia belong to it. THE TROIKA. _Vot y'dit troika udalaiya_. Hear ye the troika-bell a-ringing, And see the peasant driver there? Hear ye the mournful song he's singing, Like distant tolling through the air? "O eyes, blue eyes, to me so lonely, O eyes--alas!--ye give me pain; O eyes, that once looked at me only, I ne'er shall see your like again. "Farewell, my darling, now in heaven, And still the heaven of my soul; Farewell, thou father town, O Moscow, Where I have left my life, my all!" And ever at the rein still straining, One backward glance the driver gave; Sees but once more a green low hillock, Sees but once more his loved one's grave. "_Stoi_!"--Halt! We stopped at a stylish-looking building, entered a hall, left our _skubas_, and I heard the general ask, "Are the gypsies here?" An affirmative being given, we entered a large room, and there, sure enough, stood six or eight girls and two men, all very well dressed, and all unmistakably Romany, though smaller and of much slighter or more delicate frame than the powerful gypsy "travelers" of England. In an instant every pair of great, wild eyes was fixed on me. The general was in every way a more striking figure, but I was manifestly a fresh stranger, who knew nothing of the country, and certainly nothing of gypsies or gypsydom. Such a verdant visitor is always most interesting. It was not by any means my first reception of the kind, and, as I reviewed at a glance the whole party, I said within myself:-- "Wait an instant, you black snakes, and I will give you something to make you stare." This promise I kept, when a young man, who looked like a handsome light Hindoo, stepped up and addressed me in Russian. I looked long and steadily at him before I spoke, and then said:-- "_Latcho divvus prala_!" (Good day, brother.) "What is _that_?" he exclaimed, startled. "_Tu jines latcho adosta_." (You know very well.) And then, with the expression in his face of a man who has been familiarly addressed by a brazen statue, or asked by a new-born babe, "What o'clock is it?" but with great joy, he cried:-- "_Romanichal_!" In an instant they were all around me, marveling greatly, and earnestly expressing their marvel, at what new species of gypsy I might be; being in this quite unlike those of England, who, even when they are astonished "out of their senses" at being addressed in Romany by a gentleman, make the most red-Indian efforts to conceal their amazement. But I speedily found that these Russian gypsies were as unaffected and child-like as they were gentle in manner, and that they compared with our own prize-fighting, sturdy-begging, always-suspecting Romany roughs and _rufianas_ as a delicate greyhound might compare with a very shrewd old bull-dog, trained by an unusually "fly" tramp. That the girls were first to the fore in questioning me will be doubted by no one. But we had great trouble in effecting a mutual understanding. Their Romany was full of Russian; their pronunciation puzzled me; they "bit off their words," and used many in a strange or false sense. Yet, notwithstanding this, I contrived to converse pretty readily with the men,--very readily with the captain, a man as dark as Ben Lee, to those who know Benjamin, or as mahogany, to those who know him not. But with the women it was very difficult to converse. There is a theory current that women have a specialty of tact and readiness in understanding a foreigner, or in making themselves understood; it may be so with cultivated ladies, but it is my experience that, among the uneducated, men have a monopoly of such quick intelligence. In order fully to convince them that we really had a tongue in common, I repeated perhaps a hundred nouns, giving, for instance, the names of various parts of the body, of articles of apparel and objects in the room, and I believe that we did not find a single word which, when pronounced distinctly by itself, was not intelligible to us all. I had left in London a Russo-Romany vocabulary, once published in "The Asiatic Magazine," and I had met with Bohtlinghk's article on the dialect, as well as specimens of it in the works of Pott and Miklosich, but had unfortunately learned nothing of it from them. I soon found, however, that I knew a great many more gypsy words than did my new friends, and that our English Romany far excels the Russian in _copia verborum_. "But I must sit down." I observed on this and other occasions that Russian gypsies are very naif. And as it is in human nature to prefer sitting by a pretty girl, these Slavonian Romanys so arrange it according to the principles of natural selection--or natural politeness--that, when a stranger is in their gates, the two prettiest girls in their possession sit at his right and left, the two less attractive next again, _et seriatim_. So at once a damsel of comely mien, arrayed in black silk attire, of faultless elegance, cried to me, pointing to a chair by her side, "_Bersh tu alay_, _rya_!" (Sit down, sir),--a phrase which would be perfectly intelligible to any Romany in England. I admit that there was another damsel, who is generally regarded by most people as the true gypsy belle of the party, who did not sit by me. But, as the one who had "voted herself into the chair," by my side, was more to my liking, being the most intelligent and most gypsy, I had good cause to rejoice. I was astonished at the sensible curiosity as to gypsy life in other lands which was displayed, and at the questions asked. I really doubt if I ever met with an English gypsy who cared a farthing to know anything about his race as it exists in foreign countries, or whence it came. Once, and once only, I thought I had interested White George, at East Moulsey, in an account of Egypt, and the small number of Romanys there; but his only question was to the effect that, if there were so few gypsies in Egypt, wouldn't it be a good place for him to go to sell baskets? These of Russia, however, asked all kinds of questions about the manners and customs of their congeners, and were pleased when they recognized familiar traits. And every gypsyism, whether of word or way, was greeted with delighted laughter. In one thing I noted a radical difference between these gypsies and those of the rest of Europe and of America. There was none of that continually assumed mystery and Romany freemasonry, of superior occult knowledge and "deep" information, which is often carried to the depths of absurdity and to the height of humbug. I say this advisedly, since, however much it may give charm to a novel or play, it is a serious impediment to a philologist. Let me give an illustration. Once, during the evening, these Russian gypsies were anxious to know if there were any books in their language. Now I have no doubt that Dr. Bath Smart, or Prof. E. H. Palmer, or any other of the initiated, will perfectly understand when I say that by mere force of habit I shivered and evaded the question. When a gentleman who manifests a knowledge of Romany among gypsies in England is suspected of "dixonary" studies, it amounts to _lasciate ogni speranza_,--give up all hope of learning any more. "I'm glad to see you here, _rya_, in my tent," said the before-mentioned Ben Lee to me one night, in camp near Weybridge, "because I've heard, and I know, you didn't pick up _your_ Romany out of books." The silly dread, the hatred, the childish antipathy, real or affected, but always ridiculous, which is felt in England, not only among gypsies, but even by many gentlemen scholars, to having the Romany language published is indescribable. Vambery was not more averse to show a lead pencil among Tartars than I am to take notes of words among strange English gypsies. I might have spared myself any annoyance from such a source among the Russian Romanys. They had not heard of Mr. George Borrow; nor were there ugly stories current among them to the effect that Dr. Smart and Prof. E. H. Palmer had published works, the direct result of which would be to facilitate their little paths to the jail, the gallows, and the grave. "Would we hear some singing?" We were ready, and for the first time in my life I listened to the long-anticipated, far-famed magical melody of Russian gypsies. And what was it like? May I preface my reply to the reader with the remark that there are, roughly speaking, two kinds of music in the world,--the wild and the tame,--and the rarest of human beings is he who can appreciate both. Only one such man ever wrote a book, and his _nomen et omen_ is Engel, like that of the little English slaves who were _non Angli_, _sed angeli_. I have in my time been deeply moved by the choruses of Nubian boatmen; I have listened with great pleasure to Chinese and Japanese music,--Ole Bull once told me he had done the same; I have delighted by the hour in Arab songs; and I have felt the charm of our red-Indian music. If this seems absurd to those who characterize all such sound and song as "caterwauling," let me remind the reader that in all Europe there is not one man fonder of music than an average Arab, a Chinese, or a red Indian; for any of these people, as I have seen and know, will sit twelve or fifteen hours, without the least weariness, listening to what cultivated Europeans all consider as a mere charivari. When London gladly endures fifteen-hour concerts, composed of _morceaux_ by Wagner, Chopin, and Liszt, I will believe that art can charm as much as nature. The medium point of intelligence in this puzzle may be found in the extraordinary fascination which many find in the monotonous tum-tum of the banjo, and which reappears, somewhat refined, or at least somewhat Frenchified, in the _Bamboula_ and other Creole airs. Thence, in an ascending series, but connected with it, we have old Spanish melodies, then the Arabic, and here we finally cross the threshold into mystery, midnight, and "caterwauling." I do not know that I can explain the fact why the more "barbarous" music is, the more it is beloved of man; but I think that the principle of the _refrain_, or repetition in music, which as yet governs all decorative art and which Mr. Whistler and others are endeavoring desperately to destroy, acts in music as a sort of animal magnetism or abstraction, ending in an _extase_. As for the fascination which such wild melodies exert, it is beyond description. The most enraptured audience I ever saw in my life was at a Coptic wedding in Cairo, where one hundred and fifty guests listened, from seven P.M. till three A.M., and Heaven knows how much later, to what a European would call absolute jangling, yelping, and howling. The real medium, however, between what I have, for want of better words, called wild and tame music exists only in that of the Russian gypsies. These artists, with wonderful tact and untaught skill, have succeeded, in all their songs, in combining the mysterious and maddening charm of the true, wild Eastern music with that of regular and simple melody, intelligible to every Western ear. I have never listened to the singing or playing of any distinguished artist--and certainly never of any far-famed amateur--without realizing that neither words nor melody was of the least importance, but that the man's manner of performance or display was everything. Now, in enjoying gypsy singing, one feels at once as if the vocalists had entirely forgotten self, and were carried away by the bewildering beauty of the air and the charm of the words. There is no self-consciousness, no vanity,--all is real. The listener feels as if he were a performer; the performer is an enraptured listener. There is no soulless "art for the sake of art," but art for direct pleasure. "We intend to sing only Romany for _you_, _rya_," said the young lady to my left, "and you will hear our real gypsy airs. The _Gaji_ [Russians] often ask for songs in our language, and don't get them. But you are a Romanichal, and when you go home, far over the _baro kalo pani_ [the broad black water, that is, the ocean], you shall tell the Romany how we can sing. Listen!" And I listened to the strangest, wildest, and sweetest singing I ever had heard,--the singing of Lurleis, of sirens, of witches. First, one damsel, with an exquisitely clear, firm voice, began to sing a verse of a love-ballad, and as it approached the end the chorus stole in, softly and unperceived, but with exquisite skill, until, in a few seconds, the summer breeze, murmuring melody over a rippling lake, seemed changed to a midnight tempest, roaring over a stormy sea, in which the _basso_ of the _kalo shureskro_ (the black captain) pealed like thunder. Just as it died away a second girl took up the melody, very sweetly, but with a little more excitement,--it was like a gleam of moonlight on the still agitated waters, a strange contralto witch-gleam; and then again the chorus and the storm; and then another solo yet sweeter, sadder, and stranger,--the movement continually increasing, until all was fast, and wild, and mad,--a locomotive quickstep, and then a sudden silence--sunlight--the storm had blown away. Nothing on earth is so like magic and elfin-work as when women burst forth into improvised melody. The bird only "sings as his bill grew," or what he learned from the elders; yet when you hear birds singing in woodland green, throwing out to God or the fairies irrepressible floods of what seems like audible sunshine, so well does it match with summer's light, you think it is wonderful. It is mostly when you forget the long training of the prima donna, in her ease and apparent naturalness, that her song is sweetest. But there is a charm, which was well known of old, though we know it not to-day, which was practiced by the bards and believed in by their historians. It was the feeling that the song was born of the moment; that it came with the air, gushing and fresh from the soul. In reading the strange stories of the professional bards and scalds and minstrels of the early Middle Age, one is constantly bewildered at the feats of off-hand composition which were exacted of the poets among Celts or Norsemen. And it is evident enough that in some mysterious way these singers knew how to put strange pressure on the Muse, and squeeze strains out of her in a manner which would have been impossible at present. Yet it lingers here and there on earth among wild, strange people,--this art of making melody at will. I first heard it among Nubian boatmen on the Nile. It was as manifest that it was composed during the making as that the singers were unconscious of their power. One sung at first what may have been a well-known verse. While singing, another voice stole in, and yet another, softly as shadows steal into twilight; and ere I knew it all were in a great chorus, which fell away as mysteriously, to become duos, trios,--changing in melody in strange, sweet, fitful wise, as the faces seen in the golden cloud in the visioned aureole of God blend, separate, burn, and fade away ever into fresher glory and tints incarnadined. Miss C. F. Gordon Cumming, after informing us that "it is utterly impossible to give you the faintest shadow of an idea of the fascination of Tahitian _himenes_," proceeds, as men in general and women in particular invariably do, to give what the writer really believes is a very good description indeed. 'T is ever thus, and thus 't will ever be, and the description of these songs is so good that any person gifted with imagination or poetry cannot fail to smile at the preceding disavowal of her ability to give an idea. These _himenes_ are not--and here such of my too expectant young lady-readers as are careless in spelling will be sadly disappointed--in any way connected with weddings. They are simply the natural music of Tahiti, or strange and beautiful part-songs. "Nothing you have ever heard in any other country," says our writer, "bears the slightest resemblance to these wild, exquisite glees, faultless in time and harmony, though apparently each singer introduces any variations which may occur to him or to her. Very often there is no leader, and apparently all sing according to their own sweet will. One voice commences; it may be that of an old native, with genuine native words (the meaning of which we had better not inquire), or it may be with a Scriptural story, versified and sung to an air originally from Europe, but so completely Tahitianized that no mortal could recognize it, which is all in its favor, for the wild melodies of this isle are beyond measure fascinating. "After one clause of solo, another strikes in--here, there, everywhere--in harmonious chorus. It seems as if one section devoted themselves to pouring forth a rippling torrent of 'Ra, ra, ra--ra--ra!' while others burst into a flood of 'La, la--la--la--la!' Some confine their care to sound a deep, booming bass in a long-continued drone, somewhat suggestive (to my appreciative Highland ear) of our own bagpipes. Here and there high falsetto notes strike in, varied from verse to verse, and then the choruses of La and Ra come bubbling in liquid melody, while the voices of the principal singers now join in unison, now diverge as widely as it is possible for them to do, but all combine to produce the quaintest, most melodious, rippling glee that ever was heard." This is the _himene_; such the singing which I heard in Egypt in a more regular form; but it was exactly as the writer so admirably sets it forth (and your description, my lady traveler, is, despite your disavowal, quite perfect and a _himene_ of itself) that I heard the gypsy girls of St. Petersburg and of Moscow sing. For, after a time, becoming jolly as flies, first one voice began with "La, la, la--la--la!" to an unnamed, unnamable, charming melody, into which went and came other voices, some bringing one verse or no verse, in unison or alone, the least expected doing what was most awaited, which was to surprise us and call forth gay peals of happy laughter, while the "La, la, la--la--la!" was kept up continuously, like an accompaniment. And still the voices, basso, soprano, tenor, baritone, contralto, rose and fell, the moment's inspiration telling how, till at last all blended in a locomotive-paced La, and in a final roar of laughter it ended. I could not realize at the time how much this exquisite part-singing was extemporized. The sound of it rung in my head--I assure you, reader, it rings there yet when I think of it--like a magic bell. Another day, however, when I begged for a repetition of it, the girls could recall nothing of it. They could start it again on any air to the unending strain of "La--la--la;" but _the_ "La--la--la" of the previous evening was _avec les neiges d'antan_, with the smoke of yesterday's fire, with the perfume and bird-songs. "La, la, la--la--la!" In Arab singing, such effects are applied simply to set forth erotomania; in negro minstrelsy, they are degraded to the lowest humor; in higher European music, when employed, they simply illustrate the skill of composer and musician. The spirit of gypsy singing recalled by its method and sweetness that of the Nubian boatmen, but in its _general_ effect I could think only of those strange fits of excitement which thrill the red Indian and make him burst into song. The Abbe Domenech {42} has observed that the American savage pays attention to every sound that strikes upon his ear when the leaves, softly shaken by the evening breeze, seem to sigh through the air, or when the tempest, bursting forth with fury, shakes the gigantic trees that crack like reeds. "The chirping of the birds, the cry of the wild beasts, in a word, all those sweet, grave, or imposing voices that animate the wilderness, are so many musical lessons, which he easily remembers." In illustration of this, the missionary describes the singing of a Chippewa chief, and its wild inspiration, in a manner which vividly illustrates all music of the class of which I write. "It was," he says, "during one of those long winter nights, so monotonous and so wearisome in the woods. We were in a wigwam, which afforded us but miserable shelter from the inclemency of the season. The storm raged without; the tempest roared in the open country; the wind blew with violence, and whistled through the fissures of the cabin; the rain fell in torrents, and prevented us from continuing our route. Our host was an Indian, with sparkling and intelligent eyes, clad with a certain elegance, and wrapped majestically in a large fur cloak. Seated close to the fire, which cast a reddish gleam through the interior of his wigwam, he felt himself all at once seized with an irresistible desire to imitate the convulsions of nature, and to sing his impressions. So, taking hold of a drum which hung near his bed, he beat a slight rolling, resembling the distant sounds of an approaching storm; then, raising his voice to a shrill treble, which he knew how to soften when he pleased, he imitated the whistling of the air, the creaking of the branches dashing against one another, and the particular noise produced by dead leaves when accumulated in compact masses on the ground. By degrees the rollings of the drum became more frequent and louder, the chants more sonorous and shrill, and at last our Indian shrieked, howled, and roared in a most frightful manner; he struggled and struck his instrument with extraordinary rapidity. It was a real tempest, to which nothing was wanting, not even the distant howling of the dogs, nor the bellowing of the affrighted buffaloes." I have observed the same musical inspiration of a storm upon Arabs, who, during their singing, also accompanied themselves on a drum. I once spent two weeks in a Mediterranean steamboat, on board of which were more than two hundred pilgrims, for the greater part wild Bedouins, going to Mecca. They had a minstrel who sang and played on the _darabuka_, or earthenware drum, and he was aided by another with a simple _nai_, or reed-whistle; the same orchestra, in fact, which is in universal use among all red Indians. To these performers the pilgrims listened with indescribable pleasure; and I soon found that they regarded me favorably because I did the same, being, of course, the only Frank on board who paid any attention to the singing--or any money for it. But it was at night and during storms that the spirit of music always seemed to be strongest on the Arabs, and then, amid roaring of wild waters and thundering, and in dense darkness, the rolling of the drum and the strange, bewildering ballads never ceased. It was the very counterpart, in all respects, of the Chippewa storm song. After the first gypsy lyric there came another, to which the captain especially directed my attention as being what Sam Petulengro calls "reg'lar Romany." It was _I rakli adro o lolo gad_ (The girl in the red chemise), as well as I can recall his words,--a very sweet song, with a simple but spirited chorus; and as the sympathetic electricity of excitement seized the performers we were all in a minute "going down the rapids in a spring freshet." "_Bagan tu rya_, _bagan_!" (Sing, sir,--sing) cried my handsome neighbor, with her black gypsy eyes sparkling fire. "_Jines hi bagan eto_--_eto latcho Romanes_." (You can sing that,--it's real Romany.) It was evident that she and all were singing with thorough enjoyment, and with a full and realizing consciousness of gypsyism, being greatly stimulated by my presence and sympathy. I felt that the gypsies were taking unusual pains to please the Romany rye from the _dur' tem_, or far country, and they had attained the acme of success by being thoroughly delighted with themselves, which is all that can be hoped for in art, where the aim is pleasure and not criticism. There was a pause in the performance, but none in the chattering of the young ladies, and during this a curious little incident occurred. Wishing to know if my pretty friend could understand an English gypsy lyric, I sang in an undertone a ballad, taken from George Borrow's "Lavengro," and which begins with these words:-- "Pende Eomani chai ke laki dye; 'Miri diri dye, mi shom kameli.'" I never knew whether this was really an old gypsy poem or one written by Mr. Borrow. Once, when I repeated it to old Henry James, as he sat making baskets, I was silenced by being told, "That ain't no real gypsy _gilli_. That's one of the kind made up by gentlemen and ladies." However, as soon as I repeated it, the Russian gypsy girl cried eagerly, "I know that song!" and actually sang me a ballad which was essentially the same, in which a damsel describes her fall, owing to a Gajo (Gorgio, a Gentile,--not gypsy) lover, and her final expulsion from the tent. It was adapted to a very pretty melody, and as soon as she had sung it, _sotto voce_, my pretty friend exclaimed to another girl, "Only think, the _rye_ from America knows _that_ song!" Now, as many centuries must have passed since the English and Russian gypsies parted from the parent stock, the preservation of this song is very remarkable, and its antiquity must be very great. I did not take it down, but any resident in St. Petersburg can, if so inclined, do so among the gypsies at Dorat, and verify my statement. Then there was a pretty dance, of a modified Oriental character, by one of the damsels. For this, as for the singing, the only musical instrument used was a guitar, which had seven strings, tuned in Spanish fashion, and was rather weak in tone. I wished it had been a powerful Panormo, which would have exactly suited the _timbre_ of these voices. The gypsies were honestly interested in all I could tell them about their kind in other lands; while the girls were professionally desirous to hear more Anglo-Romany songs, and were particularly pleased with one beginning with the words:-- "'Me shom akonyo,' gildas yoi, Men buti ruzhior, Te sar i chiriclia adoi Pen mengy gilior.'" Though we "got on" after a manner in our Romany talk, I was often obliged to have recourse to my friend the general to translate long sentences into Russian, especially when some sand-bar of a verb or some log of a noun impeded the current of our conversation. Finally, a formal request was made by the captain that I would, as one deep beyond all their experience in Romany matters, kindly tell them what kind of people they really were, and whence they came. With this demand I cheerfully complied, every word being listened to with breathless interest. So I told them what I knew or had conjectured relative to their Indian origin: how their fathers had wandered forth through Persia; how their travels could be traced by the Persian, Greek, or Roumanian words in the language; how in 1417 a band of them appeared in Europe, led by a few men of great diplomatic skill, who, by crafty dealing, obtained from the Pope, the Emperor of Germany, and all the kings of Europe, except that of England, permission to wander for fifty years as pilgrims, declaring that they had been Christians, but, having become renegades, the King of Hungary had imposed a penance on them of half a century's exile. Then I informed them that precisely the same story had been told by them to the rulers in Syria and Egypt, only that in the Mohammedan countries they pretended to be good followers of Islam. I said there was reason to believe that some of their people had been in Poland and the other Slavonic countries ever since the eleventh century, but that those of England must have gone directly from Eastern Europe to Great Britain; for, although they had many Slavic words, such as _krallis_ (king) and _shuba_, there were no French terms, and very few traces of German or Italian, in the English dialect. I observed that the men all understood the geographical allusions which I made, knowing apparently where India, Persia, and Egypt were situated--a remarkable contrast to our own English "travelers," one of whom once informed me that he would like to go "on the road" in America, "because you know, sir, as America lays along into France, we could get our French baskets cheaper there." I found, on inquiry, that the Russian gypsies profess Christianity; but, as the religion of the Greek church, as I saw it, appears to be practically something very little better than fetich-worship, I cannot exalt them as models of evangelical piety. They are, however, according to a popular proverb, not far from godliness in being very clean in their persons; and not only did they appear so to me, but I was assured by several Russians that, as regarded these singing gypsies, it was invariably the case. As for morality in gypsy girls, their principles are very peculiar. Not a whisper of scandal attaches to these Russian Romany women as regards transient amours. But if a wealthy Russian gentleman falls in love with one, and will have and hold her permanently, or for a durable connection, he may take her to his home if she likes him, but must pay monthly a sum into the gypsy treasury; for these people apparently form an _artel_, or society-union, like all other classes of Russians. It may be suggested, as an explanation of this apparent incongruity, that gypsies all the world over regard steady cohabitation, or agreement, as marriage, binding themselves, as it were, by _Gand-harbavivaha_, as the saint married Vasantasena, which is an old Sanskrit way of wedding. And let me remark that if one tenth of what I heard in Russia about "morals" in the highest or lowest or any other class be true, the gypsies of that country are shining lights and brilliant exemplars of morality to all by whom they are surrounded. Let me also add that never on any occasion did I hear or see among them anything in the slightest degree improper or unrefined. I knew very well that I could, if I chose, talk to such _naive_ people about subjects which would shock an English lady, and, as the reader may remember, I did quote Mr. Borrow's song, which he has not translated. But a European girl who would have endured allusions to tabooed subjects would have at all times shown vulgarity or coarseness, while these Russian Romany girls were invariably lady-like. It is true that the St. Petersburg party had a dissipated air; three or four of them looked like second-class French or Italian theatrical artistes, and I should not be astonished to learn that very late hours and champagne were familiar to them as cigarettes, or that their flirtations among their own people were neither faint, nor few, nor far between. But their conduct in my presence was irreproachable. Those of Moscow, in fact, had not even the apparent defects of their St. Petersburg sisters and brothers, and when among them it always seemed to me as if I were simply with nice gentle creoles or Cubans, the gypsy manner being tamed down to the Spanish level, their great black eyes and their guitars increasing the resemblance. The indescribably wild and thrilling character of gypsy music is thoroughly appreciated by the Russians, who pay very high prices for Romany performances. From five to eight or ten pounds sterling is usually given to a dozen gypsies for singing an hour or two to a special party, and this is sometimes repeated twice or thrice of an evening. "A Russian gentleman, when he is in funds," said the clerk of the Slavansky Bazaar in Moscow to me, "will make nothing of giving the Zigani a hundred-ruble note," the ruble rating at half a crown. The result is that good singers among these lucky Romanys are well to do, and lead soft lives, for Russia. MOSCOW. I had no friends in Moscow to direct me where to find gypsies _en famille_, and the inquiries which I made of chance acquaintances simply convinced me that the world at large was as ignorant of their ways as it was prejudiced against them. At last the good-natured old porter of our hotel told me, in his rough Baltic German, how to meet these mysterious minstrels to advantage. "You must take a sleigh," he said, "and go out to Petrovka. That is a place in the country, where there are grand _cafes_ at considerable distances one from the other. Pay the driver three rubles for four hours. Enter a _cafe_, call for something to drink, listen to the gypsies singing, and when they pass round a plate put some money in it. That's all." This was explicit, and at ten o'clock in the evening I hired a sleigh and went. If the cold which I had experienced in the general's troika in St. Petersburg might be compared to a moderate rheumatism, that which I encountered in the sleigh outside the walls of Moscow, on Christmas Eve, 1876, was like a fierce gout. The ride was in all conscience Russian enough to have its ending among gypsies, Tartars, or Cossacks. To go at a headlong pace over the creaking snow behind an _istvostshik_, named Vassili, the round, cold moon overhead, church-spires tipped with great inverted golden turnips in the distance, and this on a night when the frost seemed almost to scream in its intensity, is as much of a sensation in the suburbs of Moscow as it could be out on the steppes. A few wolves, more or less, make no difference,--and even they come sometimes within three hours' walk of the Kremlin. _Et ego inter lupos_,--I too have been among wolves in my time by night, in Kansas, and thought nothing of such rides compared to the one I had when I went gypsying from Moscow. In half an hour Vassili brought me to a house, which I entered. A "proud porter," a vast creature, in uniform suggestive of embassies and kings' palaces, relieved me of my _shuba_, and I found my way into a very large and high hall, brilliantly lighted as if for a thousand guests, while the only occupants were four couples, "spooning" _sans gene_, one in each corner and a small party of men and girls drinking in the middle. I called a waiter; he spoke nothing but Russian, and Russian is of all languages the most useless to him who only talks it "a little." A little Arabic, or even a little Chippewa, I have found of great service, but a fair vocabulary and weeks of study of the grammar are of no avail in a country where even men of gentlemanly appearance turn away with childish _ennui_ the instant they detect the foreigner, resolving apparently that they cannot and _will not_ understand him. In matters like this the ordinary Russian is more impatient and less intelligent than any Oriental or even red Indian. The result of my interview with the waiter was that we were soon involved in the completest misunderstanding on the subject of gypsies. The question was settled by reference to a fat and fair damsel, one of the "spoons" already referred to, who spoke German. She explained to me that as it was Christmas Eve no gypsies would be there, or at any other _cafe_. This was disappointing. I called Vassili, and he drove on to another "garden," deeply buried in snow. When I entered the rooms at this place, I perceived at a glance that matters had mended. There was the hum of many voices, and a perfume like that of tea and many _papiross_, or cigarettes, with a prompt sense of society and of enjoyment. I was dazzled at first by the glare of the lights, and could distinguish nothing, unless it was that the numerous company regarded me with utter amazement; for it was an "off night," when no business was expected,--few were there save "professionals" and their friends,--and I was manifestly an unexpected intruder on Bohemia. As luck would have it, that which I believed was the one worst night in the year to find the gypsy minstrels proved to be the exceptional occasion when they were all assembled, and I had hit upon it. Of course this struck me pleasantly enough as I looked around, for I knew that at a touch the spell would be broken, and with one word I should have the warmest welcome from all. I had literally not a single speaking acquaintance within a thousand miles, and yet here was a room crowded with gay and festive strangers, whom the slightest utterance would convert into friends. I was not disappointed. Seeking for an opportunity, I saw a young man of gentlemanly appearance, well dressed, and with a mild and amiable air. Speaking to him in German, I asked the very needless question if there were any gypsies present. "You wish to hear them sing?" he inquired. "I do not. I only want to talk with one,--with _any_ one." He appeared to be astonished, but, pointing to a handsome, slender young lady, a very dark brunette, elegantly attired in black silk, said,-- "There is one." I stepped across to the girl, who rose to meet me. I said nothing for a few seconds, but looked at her intently, and then asked,-- "_Rakessa tu Romanes_, _miri pen_?" (Do you talk Romany, my sister?) She gave one deep, long glance of utter astonishment, drew one long breath, and, with a cry of delight and wonder, said,-- "_Romanichal_!" That word awoke the entire company, and with it they found out who the intruder was. "Then might you hear them cry aloud, 'The Moringer is here!'" for I began to feel like the long-lost lord returned, so warm was my welcome. They flocked around me; they cried aloud in Romany, and one good-natured, smiling man, who looked like a German gypsy, mounting a chair, waved a guitar by its neck high in the air as a signal of discovery of a great prize to those at a distance, repeating rapidly,-- "_Av'akai_, _ava'kai_, _Romanichal_!" (Come here; here's a gypsy!) And they came, dark and light, great and small, and got round me, and shook hands, and held to my arms, and asked where I came from, and how I did, and if it wasn't jolly, and what would I take to drink, and said how glad they were to see me; and when conversation flagged for an instant, somebody said to his next neighbor, with an air of wisdom, "American Romany," and everybody repeated it with delight. Then it occurred to the guitarist and the young lady that we had better sit down. So my first acquaintance and discoverer, whose name was Liubasha, was placed, in right of preemption, at my right hand, the _belle des belles_, Miss Sarsha, at my left, a number of damsels all around these, and then three or four circles of gypsies, of different ages and tints, standing up, surrounded us all. In the outer ring were several fast-looking and pretty Russian or German blonde girls, whose mission it is, I believe, to dance--and flirt--with visitors, and a few gentlemanly-looking Russians, _vieuz garcons_, evidently of the kind who are at home behind the scenes, and who knew where to come to enjoy themselves. Altogether there must have been about fifty present, and I soon observed that every word I uttered was promptly repeated, while every eye was fixed on me. I could converse in Romany with the guitarist, and without much difficulty; but with the charming, heedless young ladies I had as much trouble to talk as with their sisters in St. Petersburg. The young gentleman already referred to, to whom in my fancy I promptly gave the Offenbachian name of Prince Paul, translated whenever there was a misunderstanding, and in a few minutes we were all intimate. Miss Sarsha, who had a slight cast in one of her wild black eyes, which added something to the gypsiness and roguery of her smiles, and who wore in a ring a large diamond, which seemed as if it might be the right eye in the wrong place, was what is called an earnest young lady, with plenty to say and great energy wherewith to say it. What with her eyes, her diamond, her smiles, and her tongue, she constituted altogether a fine specimen of irrepressible fireworks, and Prince Paul had enough to do in facilitating conversation. There was no end to his politeness, but it was an impossible task for him now and then promptly to carry over a long sentence from German to Russian, and he would give it up like an invincible conundrum, with the patient smile and head-wag and hand-wave of an amiable Dundreary. Yet I began to surmise a mystery even in him. More than once he inadvertently betrayed a knowledge of Romany, though he invariably spoke of his friends around in a patronizing manner as "these gypsies." This was very odd, for in appearance he was a Gorgio of the Gorgios, and did not seem, despite any talent for languages which he might possess, likely to trouble himself to acquire Romany while Russian would answer every purpose of conversation. All of this was, however, explained to me afterward. Prince Paul again asked me if I had come out to hear a concert. I said, "No; that I had simply come out to see my brothers and sisters and talk with them, just as I hoped they would come to see me if I were in my own country." This speech produced a most favorable impression, and there was, in a quiet way, a little private conversation among the leaders, after which Prince Paul said to me, in a very pleasant manner, that "these gypsies," being delighted at the visit from the gentleman from a distant country, would like to offer me a song in token of welcome. To this I answered, with many thanks, that such kindness was more than I had expected, for I was well aware of the great value of such a compliment from singers whose fame had reached me even in America. It was evident that my grain of a reply did not fall upon stony ground, for I never was among people who seemed to be so quickly impressed by any act of politeness, however trifling. A bow, a grasp of the hand, a smile, or a glance would gratify them, and this gratification their lively black eyes expressed in the most unmistakable manner. So we had the song, wild and wonderful like all of its kind, given with that delightful _abandon_ which attains perfection only among gypsies. I had enjoyed the singing in St. Petersburg, but there was a _laisser aller_, a completely gay spirit, in this Christmas-Eve gypsy party in Moscow which was much more "whirling away." For at Dorot the gypsies had been on exhibition; here at Petrovka they were frolicking _en __famille_ with a favored guest,--a Romany rye from a far land to astonish and delight,--and he took good care to let them feel that they were achieving a splendid success, for I declared many times that it was _butsi shukar_, or very beautiful. Then I called for tea and lemon, and after that the gypsies sang for their own amusement, Miss Sarsha, as the incarnation of fun and jollity, taking the lead, and making me join in. Then the crowd made way, and in the space appeared a very pretty little girl, in the graceful old gypsy Oriental dress. This child danced charmingly indeed, in a style strikingly like that of the Almeh of Egypt, but without any of the erotic expressions which abound in Eastern pantomime. This little Romany girl was to me enchanting, being altogether unaffected and graceful. It was evident that her dancing, like the singing of her elder sisters, was not an art which had been drilled in by instruction. They had come into it in infancy, and perfected themselves by such continual practice that what they did was as natural as walking or talking. When the dancing was over, I begged that the little girl would come to me, and, kissing her tiny gypsy hand, I said, "_Spassibo tute kamli_, _eto hi butsi shukar_" (Thank you, dear; that is very pretty), with which the rest were evidently pleased. I had observed among the singers, at a little distance, a very remarkable and rather handsome old woman,--a good study for an artist,--and she, as I also noticed, had sung with a powerful and clear voice. "She is our grandmother," said one of the girls. Now, as every student of gypsies knows, the first thing to do in England or Germany, on entering a tent-gypsy encampment, is to be polite to "the old woman." Unless you can win her good opinion you had better be gone. The Russian city Roms have apparently no such fancies. On the road, however, life is patriarchal, and the grandmother is a power to be feared. As a fortune-teller she is a witch, ever at warfare with the police world; she has a bitter tongue, and is quick to wrath. This was not the style or fashion of the old gypsy singer; but, as soon as I saw the _puri babali dye_, I requested that she would shake hand with me, and by the impression which this created I saw that the Romany of the city had not lost all the feelings of the road. I spoke of Waramoff's beautiful song of the "Krasneya Sarafan," which Sarsha began at once to warble. The characteristic of Russian gypsy-girl voices is a peculiarly delicate metallic tone,--like that of the two silver bells of the Tower of Ivan Velikoi when heard from afar,--yet always marked with fineness and strength. This is sometimes startling in the wilder effects, but it is always agreeable. These Moscow gypsy girls have a great name in their art, and it was round the shoulders of one of them--for aught I know it may have been Sarsha's great-grandmother--that Catalani threw the cashmere shawl which had been given to her by the Pope as "to the best singer in the world." "It is not mine by right," said the generous Italian; "it belongs to the gypsy." The gypsies were desirous of learning something about the songs of their kindred in distant lands, and, though no singer, I did my best to please them, the guitarist easily improvising accompaniments, while the girls joined in. As all were in a gay mood faults were easily excused, and the airs were much liked,--one lyric, set by Virginia Gabriel, being even more admired in Moscow than in St. Petersburg, apropos of which I may mention that, when I afterward visited the gypsy family in their own home, the first request from Sarsha was, "_Eto gilyo_, _rya_!" (_That_ song, sir), referring to "Romany," which has been heard at several concerts in London. And so, after much discussion of the affairs of Egypt, I took my leave amid a chorus of kind farewells. Then Vassili, loudly called for, reappeared from some nook with his elegantly frosted horse, and in a few minutes we were dashing homeward. Cold! It was as severe as in Western New York or Minnesota, where the thermometer for many days every winter sinks lower than in St. Petersburg, but where there are no such incredible precautions taken as in the land of double windows cemented down, and fur-lined _shubas_. It is remarkable that the gypsies, although of Oriental origin, are said to surpass the Russians in enduring cold; and there is a marvelous story told about a Romany who, for a wager, undertook to sleep naked against a clothed Muscovite on the ice of a river during an unusually cold night. In the morning the Russian was found frozen stiff, while the gypsy was snoring away unharmed. As we returned, I saw in the town something which recalled this story in more than one _moujik_, who, well wrapped up, lay sleeping in the open air, under the lee of a house. Passing through silent Moscow on the early Christmas morn, under the stars, as I gazed at the marvelous city, which yields neither to Edinburgh, Cairo, nor Prague in picturesqueness, and thought over the strange evening I had spent among the gypsies, I felt as if I were in a melodrama with striking scenery. The pleasing _finale_ was the utter amazement and almost speechless gratitude of Vassili at getting an extra half-ruble as an early Christmas gift. As I had received a pressing invitation from the gypsies to come again, I resolved to pay them a visit on Christmas afternoon in their own house, if I could find it. Having ascertained that the gypsy street was in a distant quarter, called the _Grouszini_, I engaged a sleigh, standing before the door of the Slavanski-Bazaar Hotel, and the usual close bargain with the driver was effected with the aid of a Russian gentleman, a stranger passing by, who reduced the ruble (one hundred kopecks) at first demanded to seventy kopecks. After a very long drive we found ourselves in the gypsy street, and the _istvostshik_ asked me, "To what house?" "I don't know," I replied. "Gypsies live here, don't they?" "Gypsies, and no others." "Well, I want to find a gypsy." The driver laughed, and just at that instant I saw, as if awaiting me on the sidewalk, Sarsha, Liubasha, and another young lady, with a good-looking youth, their brother. "This will do," I said to the driver, who appeared utterly amazed at seeing me greeted like an old friend by the Zigani, but who grinned with delight, as all Russians of the lower class invariably do at anything like sociability and fraternity. The damsels were faultlessly attired in Russian style, with full fur-lined, glossy black-satin cloaks and fine Orenberg scarfs, which are, I believe, the finest woolen fabrics in the world. The party were particularly anxious to know if I had come specially to visit _them_, for I have passed over the fact that I had also made the acquaintance of another very large family of gypsies, who sang at a rival _cafe_, and who had also treated me very kindly. I was at once conducted to a house, which we entered in a rather gypsy way, not in front, but through a court, a back door, and up a staircase, very much in the style of certain dwellings in the Potteries in London. But, having entered, I was led through one or two neat rooms, where I saw lying sound asleep on beds, but dressed, one or two very dark Romanys, whose faces I remembered. Then we passed into a sitting-room, which was very well furnished. I observed hanging up over the chimney-piece a good collection of photographs, nearly all of gypsies, and indicating that close resemblance to Hindoos which comes out so strongly in such pictures, being, in fact, more apparent in the pictures than in the faces; just as the photographs of the old Ulfilas manuscript revealed alterations not visible in the original. In the centre of the group was a cabinet-size portrait of Sarsha, and by it another of an Englishman of _very_ high rank. I thought this odd, but asked no questions. My hosts were very kind, offering me promptly a rich kind of Russian cake, begging to know what else I would like to eat or drink, and apparently deeply concerned that I could really partake of nothing, as I had just come from luncheon. They were all light-hearted and gay, so that the music began at once, as wild and as bewitching as ever. And here I observed, even more than before, how thoroughly sincere these gypsies were in their art, and to what a degree they enjoyed and were excited by their own singing. Here in their own home, warbling like birds and frolicking like children, their performance was even more delightful than it had been in the concert-room. There was evidently a great source of excitement in the fact that I must enjoy it far more than an ordinary stranger, because I understood Romany, and sympathized with gypsy ways, and regarded them not as the _Gaji_ or Gentiles do, but as brothers and sisters. I confess that I was indeed moved by the simple kindness with which I was treated, and I knew that, with the wonderfully keen perception of character in which gypsies excel, they perfectly understood my liking for them. It is this ready intuition of feelings which, when it is raised from an instinct to an art by practice, enables shrewd old women to tell fortunes with so much skill. I was here introduced to the mother of the girls. She was a neat, pleasant-looking woman, of perhaps forty years, in appearance and manners irresistibly reminding me of some respectable Cuban lady. Like the others, she displayed an intelligent curiosity as to my knowledge of Romany, and I was pleased at finding that she knew much more of the language than her children did. Then there entered a young Russian gentleman, but not "Prince Paul." He was, however, a very agreeable person, as all Russians can be when so minded; and they are always so minded when they gather, from information or conjecture, the fact that the stranger whom they meet is one of education or position. This young gentleman spoke French, and undertook the part of occasional translator. I asked Liubasha if any of them understood fortune-telling. "No; we have quite lost the art of _dorriki_. {61} None of us know anything about it. But we hear that you Romanichals over the Black Water understand it. Oh, _rya_," she cried, eagerly, "you know so much,--you're such a deep Romany,--can't _you_ tell fortunes?" "I should indeed know very little about Romany ways," I replied, gravely, "if I could not _pen dorriki_. But I tell you beforehand, _terni pen_, '_dorrikipen hi hokanipen_,' little sister, fortune-telling is deceiving. Yet what the lines say I can read." In an instant six as pretty little gypsy hands as I ever beheld were thrust before me, and I heard as many cries of delight. "Tell _my_ fortune, _rya_! tell mine! and _mine_!" exclaimed the damsels, and I complied. It was all very well to tell them there was nothing in it; they knew a trick worth two of that. I perceived at once that the faith which endures beyond its own knowledge was placed in all I said. In England the gypsy woman, who at home ridicules her own fortune-telling and her dupes, still puts faith in a _gusveri mush_, or some "wise man," who with crystal or magical apparatus professes occult knowledge; for she thinks that her own false art is an imitation of a true one. It is really amusing to see the reverence with which an old gypsy will look at the awful hieroglyphics in Cornelius Agrippa's "Occult Philosophy," or, better still, "Trithemius," and, as a gift, any ordinary fortune-telling book is esteemed by them beyond rubies. It is true that they cannot read it, but the precious volume is treasured like a fetich, and the owner is happy in the thought of at least possessing darksome and forbidden lore, though it be of no earthly use to her. After all the kindness they had shown me, I could not find it in my heart to refuse to tell these gentle Zingari their little fortunes. It is not, I admit, exactly in the order of things that the chicken should dress the cook, or the Gorgio tell fortunes to gypsies; but he who wanders in strange lands meets with strange adventures. So, with a full knowledge of the legal penalties attached in England to palmistry and other conjuration, and with the then pending Slade case knocking heavily on my conscience, I proceeded to examine and predict. When I afterward narrated this incident to the late G. H. Lewes, he expressed himself to the effect that to tell fortunes to gypsies struck him as the very _ne plus ultra_ of cheek,--which shows how extremes meet; for verily it was with great modesty and proper diffidence that I ventured to foretell the lives of these little ladies, having an antipathy to the practice of chiromancing as to other romancing. I have observed that as among men of great and varied culture, and of extensive experience, there are more complex and delicate shades and half-shades of light in the face, so in the palm the lines are correspondingly varied and broken. Take a man of intellect and a peasant, of equal excellence of figure according to the literal rules of art or of anatomy, and this subtile multiplicity of variety shows itself in the whole body in favor of the "gentleman," so that it would almost seem as if every book we read is republished in the person. The first thing that struck me in these gypsy hands was the fewness of the lines, their clearly defined sweep, and their simplicity. In every one the line of life was unbroken, and, in fine, one might think from a drawing of the hand, and without knowing who its owner might be, that he or she was of a type of character unknown in most great European cities,--a being gifted with special culture, and in a certain simple sense refined, but not endowed with experience in a thousand confused phases of life. The hands of a true genius, who has passed through life earnestly devoted to a single art, however, are on the whole like these of the gypsies. Such, for example, are the hands of Fanny Janauschek, the lines of which agree to perfection with the laws of chiromancy. The art reminds one of Cervantes's ape, who told the past and present, but not the future. And here "tell me what thou hast been, and I will tell what thou wilt be" gives a fine opportunity to the soothsayer. To avoid mistakes I told the fortunes in French, which was translated into Russian. I need not say that every word was listened to with earnest attention, or that the group of dark but young and comely faces, as they gathered around and bent over, would have made a good subject for a picture. After the girls, the mother must needs hear her _dorriki_ also, and last of all the young Russian gentleman, who seemed to take as earnest an interest in his future as even the gypsies. As he alone understood French, and as he appeared to be _un peu gaillard_, and, finally, as the lines of his hand said nothing to the contrary, I predicted for him in detail a fortune in which _bonnes fortunes_ were not at all wanting. I think he was pleased, but when I asked him if he would translate what I had said of his future into Russian, he replied with a slight wink and a scarcely perceptible negative. I suppose he had his reasons for declining. Then we had singing again, and Christopher, the brother, a wild and gay young gypsy, became so excited that while playing the guitar he also danced and caroled, and the sweet voices of the girls rose in chorus, and I was again importuned for the _Romany_ song, and we had altogether a very Bohemian frolic. I was sorry when the early twilight faded into night, and I was obliged, notwithstanding many entreaties to the contrary, to take my leave. These gypsies had been very friendly and kind to me in a strange city, where I had not an acquaintance, and where I had expected none. They had given me of their very best; for they gave me songs which I can never forget, and which were better to me than all the opera could bestow. The young Russian, polite to the last, went bareheaded with me into the street, and, hailing a sleigh-driver, began to bargain for me. In Moscow, as in other places, it makes a great difference in the fare whether one takes a public conveyance from before the first hotel or from a house in the gypsy quarter. I had paid seventy kopecks to come, and I at once found that my new friend and the driver were engaged in wild and fierce dispute whether I should pay twenty or thirty to return. "Oh, give him thirty!" I exclaimed. "It's little enough." "_Non_," replied the Russian, with the air of a man of principles. "_Il ne faut pas gater ces gens-la_." But I gave the driver thirty, all the same, when we got home, and thereby earned the usual shower of blessings. A few days afterward, while going from Moscow to St. Petersburg, I made the acquaintance of a young Russian noble and diplomat, who was well informed on all current gossip, and learned from him some curious facts. The first young gentleman whom I had seen among the Romanys of Moscow was the son of a Russian prince by a gypsy mother, and the very noble Englishman whose photograph I had seen in Sarsha's collection had not long ago (as rumor averred) paid desperate attentions to the belle of the Romanys without obtaining the least success. My informant did not know her name. Putting this and that together, I think it highly probable that Sarsha was the young lady, and that the _latcho bar_, or diamond, which sparkled on her finger had been paid for with British gold, while the donor had gained the same "unluck" which befell one of his type in the Spanish gypsy song as given by George Borrow:-- "Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, And thus his ditty ran: 'God send the gypsy maiden here, But not the gypsy man.' "On high arose the moon so bright, The gypsy 'gan to sing, 'I gee a Spaniard coming here, I must be on the wing.'" AUSTRIAN GYPSIES. I. In June, 1878, I went to Paris, during the great Exhibition. I had been invited by Monsieur Edmond About to attend as a delegate the Congres Internationale Litteraire, which was about to be held in the great city. How we assembled, how M. About distinguished himself as one of the most practical and common-sensible of men of genius, and how we were all finally harangued by M. Victor Hugo with the most extraordinary display of oratorical sky-rockets, Catherine-wheels, blue-lights, fire-crackers, and pin-wheels by which it was ever my luck to be amused, is matter of history. But this chapter is only autobiographical, and we will pass over the history. As an Anglo-American delegate, I was introduced to several great men gratis; to the greatest of all I introduced myself at the expense of half a franc. This was to the Chinese giant, Chang, who was on exhibition at a small cafe garden near the Trocadero. There were no other visitors in his pavilion when I entered. He received me with politeness, and we began to converse in fourth-story English, but gradually went down-stairs into Pidgin, until we found ourselves fairly in the kitchen of that humble but entertaining dialect. It is a remarkable sensation to sit alone with a mild monster, and feel like a little boy. I do not distinctly remember whether Chang is eight, or ten or twelve feet high; I only know that, though I am, as he said, "one velly big piecee man," I sat and lifted my eyes from time to time at the usual level, forgetfully expecting to meet his eyes, and beheld instead the buttons on his breast. Then I looked up--like Daruma to Buddha--and up, and saw far above me his "lights of the soul" gleaming down on me as it were from the top of a lofty beacon. I soon found that Chang, regarding all things from a giant's point of view, esteemed mankind by their size and looks. Therefore, as he had complimented me according to his lights, I replied that he was a "numpa one too muchee glanti handsome man, first chop big." Then he added, "You belongy Inklis man?" "No. My one piecee _fa-ke-kwok_; {69} my Melican, galaw. You dlinkee ale some-tim?" The giant replied that _pay-wine_, which is Pidgin for beer, was not ungrateful to his palate or foreign to his habits. So we had a quart of Alsopp between us, and drank to better acquaintance. I found that the giant had exhibited himself in many lands, and taken great pains to learn the language of each, so that he spoke German, Italian, and Spanish well enough. He had been at a mission-school when he used to "stop China-side," or was in his native land. I assured him that I had perceived it from the first, because he evidently "talked ink," as his countrymen say of words which are uttered by a scholar, and I greatly gratified him by citing some of my own "beautiful verses," which are reversed from a Chinese original:-- "One man who never leadee {69a} Like one dly {69b} inkstan be: You turn he up-side downy, No ink lun {69c} outside he." So we parted with mutual esteem. This was the second man by the name of Chang whom I had known, and singularly enough they were both exhibited as curiosities. The other made a living as a Siamese twin, and his brother was named Eng. They wrote their autographs for me, and put them wisely at the very top of the page, lest I should write a promise to pay an immense sum of money, or forge a free pass to come into the exhibition gratis over their signatures. Having seen Chang, I returned to the Hotel de Louvre, dined, and then went forth with friends to the Orangerie. This immense garden, devoted to concerts, beer, and cigars, is said to be capable of containing three thousand people; before I left it it held about five thousand. I knew not why this unwonted crowd had assembled; when I found the cause I was astonished, with reason. At the gate was a bill, on which I read "Les Bohemiennes de Moscow." "Some small musical comedy, I suppose," I said to myself. "But let us see it." We pressed on. "Look there!" said my companion. "Those are certainly gypsies." Sure enough, a procession of men and women, strangely dressed in gayly colored Oriental garments, was entering the gates. But I replied, "Impossible. Not here in Paris. Probably they are performers." "But see. They notice you. That girl certainly knows you. She's turning her head. There,--I heard her say O Romany rye!" I was bewildered. The crowd was dense, but as the procession passed me at a second turn I saw they were indeed gypsies, and I was grasped by the hand by more than one. They were my old friends from Moscow. This explained the immense multitude. There was during the Exhibition a great _furor_ as regarded _les zigains_. The gypsy orchestra which performed in the Hungarian cafe was so beset by visitors that a comic paper represented them as covering the roofs of the adjacent houses so as to hear something. This evening the Russian gypsies were to make their debut in the Orangerie, and they were frightened at their own success. They sang, but their voices were inaudible to two thirds of the audience, and those who could not hear roared, "Louder!" Then they adjourned to the open air, where the voices were lost altogether on a crowd calling, "_Garcon_--_vite_--_une tasse cafe_!" or applauding. In the intervals scores of young Russian gentlemen, golden swells, who had known the girls of old, gathered round the fair ones like moths around tapers. The singing was not the same as it had been; the voices were the same, but the sweet wild charm of the Romany caroling, bird-like, for pleasure was gone. But I found by themselves and unnoticed two of the troupe, whom I shall not soon forget. They were two very handsome youths,--one of sixteen years, the other twenty. And with the first words in Romany they fairly jumped for joy; and the artist who could have caught their picture then would have made a brave one. They were clad in blouses of colored silk, which, with their fine dark complexions and great black eyes, gave them a very picturesque air. These had not seen me in Russia, nor had they heard of me; they were probably from Novogorod. Like the girls they were children, but in a greater degree, for they had not been flattered, and kind words delighted them so that they clapped their hands. They began to hum gypsy songs, and had I not prevented it they would have run at once and brought a guitar, and improvised a small concert for me _al fresco_. I objected to this, not wishing to take part any longer in such a very public exhibition. For the _gobe-mouches_ and starers, noticing a stranger talking with _ces zigains_, had begun to gather in a dense crowd around us, and the two ladies and the gentleman who were with us were seriously inconvenienced. We endeavored to step aside, but the multitude stepped aside also, and would not let us alone. They were French, but they might have been polite. As it was, they broke our merry conference up effectively, and put us to flight. "Do let us come and see you, _rya_," said the younger boy. "We will sing, for I can really sing beautifully, and we like you so much. Where do you live?" I could not invite them, for I was about to leave Paris, as I then supposed. I have never seen them since, and there was no adventure and no strange scenery beyond the thousands of lights and guests and trees and voices speaking French. Yet to this day the gay boyishness, the merry laughter, and the child-like _naivete_ of the promptly-formed liking of those gypsy youths remains impressed on my mind with all the color and warmth of an adventure or a living poem. Can you recall no child by any wayside of life to whom you have given a chance smile or a kind word, and been repaid with artless sudden attraction? For to all of us,--yes, to the coldest and worst,--there are such memories of young people, of children, and I pity him who, remembering them, does not feel the touch of a vanished hand and hear a chord which is still. There are adventures which we can tell to others as stories, but the best have no story; they may be only the memory of a strange dog which followed us, and I have one such of a cat who, without any introduction, leaped wildly towards me, "and would not thence away." It is a good life which has many such memories. I was walking a day or two after with an English friend, who was also a delegate to the International Literary Congress, in the Exhibition, when we approached the side gate, or rear entrance of the Hungarian cafe. Six or seven dark and strange-looking men stood about, dressed in the uniform of a military band. I caught their glances, and saw that they were Romany. "Now you shall see something queer," I said to my friend. So advancing to the first dark man I greeted him in gypsy. "I do not understand you," he promptly replied--or lied. I turned to a second. "You have more sense, and you do understand. _Adro miro tem penena mande o baro rai_." (In my country the gypsies call me the great gentleman.) This phrase may be translated to mean either the "tall gentleman" or the "great lord." It was apparently taken in the latter sense, for at once all the party bowed very low, raising their hands to their foreheads, in Oriental fashion. "Hallo!" exclaimed my English friend, who had not understood what I had said. "What game is this you are playing on these fellows?" Up to the front came a superior, the leader of the band. "Great God!" he exclaimed, "what is this I hear? This is wonderful. To think that there should be anybody here to talk with! I can only talk Magyar and Romanes." "And what do you talk?" I inquired of the first violin. "_Ich spreche nur Deutsch_!" he exclaimed, with a strong Vienna accent and a roar of laughter. "I only talk German." This worthy man, I found, was as much delighted with my German as the leader with my gypsy; and in all my experience I never met two beings so charmed at being able to converse. That I should have met with them was of itself wonderful. Only there was this difference: that the Viennese burst into a laugh every time he spoke, while the gypsy grew more sternly solemn and awfully impressive. There are people to whom mere talking is a pleasure,--never mind the ideas,--and here I had struck two at once. I once knew a gentleman named Stewart. He was the mayor, first physician, and postmaster of St. Paul, Minnesota. While camping out, _en route_, and in a tent with him, it chanced that among the other gentlemen who had tented with us there were two terrible snorers. Now Mr. Stewart had heard that you may stop a man's snoring by whistling. And here was a wonderful opportunity. "So I waited," he said, "until one man was coming down with his snore, _diminuendo_, while the other was rising, _crescendo_, and at the exact point of intersection, _moderato_, I blew my car-whistle, and so got both birds at one shot. I stopped them both." Even as Mayor Stewart had winged his two birds with one ball had I hit my two peregrines. "We are now going to perform," said the gypsy captain. "Will you not take seats on the platform, and hear us play?" I did not know it at the time, but I heard afterwards that this was a great compliment, and one rarely bestowed. The platform was small, and we were very near our new friends. Scarcely had the performance begun ere I perceived that, just as the gypsies in Russia had sung their best in my honor, these artists were exerting themselves to the utmost, and, all unheeding the audience, playing directly at me and into me. When any _tour_ was deftly made the dark master nodded to me with gleaming eyes, as if saying, "What do you think of _that_, now?" The Viennese laughed for joy every time his glance met mine, and as I looked at the various Lajoshes and Joshkas of the band, they blew, beat, or scraped with redoubled fury, or sank into thrilling tenderness. Hurrah! here was somebody to play to who knew gypsy and all the games thereof; for a very little, even a word, reveals a great deal, and I must be a virtuoso, at least by Romany, if not by art. It was with all the joy of success that the first piece ended amid thunders of applause. "That was not the _racoczy_," I said. "Yet it sounded like it." "No," said the captain. "But _now_ you shall hear the _racoczy_ and the _czardas_ as you never heard them before. For we can play that better than any orchestra in Vienna. Truly, you will never forget us after hearing it." And then they played the _racoczy_, the national Hungarian favorite, of gypsy composition, with heart and soul. As these men played for me, inspired with their own music, feeling and enjoying it far more than the audience, and all because they had got a gypsy gentleman to play to, I appreciated what a _life_ that was to them, and what it should be; not cold-blooded skill, aiming only at excellence or preexcellence and at setting up the artist, but a fire and a joy, a self-forgetfulness which whirls the soul away as the soul of the Moenad went with the stream adown the mountains,--_Evoe Bacchus_! This feeling is deep in the heart of the Hungarian gypsy; he plays it, he feels it in every air, he knows the rush of the stream as it bounds onwards,--knows that it expresses his deepest desire; and so he has given it words in a song which, to him who has the key, is one of the most touching ever written:-- "Dyal o pani repedishis, M'ro pirano hegedishis; "Dyal o pani tale vatra, M'ro pirano klanetaha. "Dyal o pani pe kishai M'ro pirano tsino rai." "The stream runs on with rushing din As I hear my true love's violin; "And the river rolls o'er rock and stone As he plays the flute so sweet alone. "Runs o'er the sand as it began, Then my true love lives a gentleman." Yes, music whirling the soul away as on a rushing river, the violin notes falling like ripples, the flute tones all aflow among the rocks; and when it sweeps _adagio_ on the sandy bed, then the gypsy player is at heart equal to a lord, then he feels a gentleman. The only true republic is art. There all earthly distinctions pass away; there he is best who lives and feels best, and makes others feel, not that he is cleverer than they, but that he can awaken sympathy and joy. The intense reality of musical art as a comforter to these gypsies of Eastern Europe is wonderful. Among certain inedited songs of the Transylvanian gypsies, in the Kolosvarer dialect, I find the following:-- "Na janav ko dad m'ro as, Niko mallen mange as, Miro gule dai merdyas Pirani me pregelyas. Uva tu o hegedive Tu sal mindik pash mange." "I've known no father since my birth, I have no friend alive on earth; My mother's dead this many day, The girl I loved has gone her way; Thou violin with music free Alone art ever true to me." It is very wonderful that the charm of the Russian gypsy girls' singing was destroyed by the atmosphere or applause of a Paris concert-room, while the Hungarian Romanys conquered it as it were by sheer force, and by conquering gave their music the charm of intensity. I do not deny that in this music, be it of voice or instruments, there is much which is perhaps imagined, which depends on association, which is plain to John but not to Jack; but you have only to advance or retreat a few steps to find the same in the highest art. This, at least, we know: that no performer at any concert in London can awake the feeling of intense enjoyment which these wild minstrels excite in themselves and in others by sympathy. Now it is a question in many forms as to whether art for enjoyment is to die, and art for the sake of art alone survive. Is joyous and healthy nature to vanish step by step from the heart of man, and morbid, egoistic pessimism to take its place? Are over-culture, excessive sentiment, constant self-criticism, and all the brood of nervous curses to monopolize and inspire art? A fine alliance this they are making, the ascetic monk and the atheistic pessimist, to kill Nature! They will never effect it. It may die in many forms. It may lose its charm, as the singing of Sarsha and of Liubasha was lost among the rustling and noise of thousands of Parisian _badauds_ in the Orangerie. But there will be stronger forms of art, which will make themselves heard, as the Hungarian Romanys heeded no din, and bore all away with their music. "_Latcho divvus miri pralia_!--_miduvel atch pa tumende_!" (Good-day, my brothers. God rest on you) I said, and they rose and bowed, and I went forth into the Exhibition. It was a brave show, that of all the fine things from all parts of the world which man can make, but to me the most interesting of all were the men themselves. Will not the managers of the next world show give us a living ethnological department? Of these Hungarian gypsies who played in Paris during the Exhibition much was said in the newspapers, and from the following, which appeared in an American journal, written by some one to me unknown, the reader may learn that there were many others to whom their music was deeply thrilling or wildly exciting:-- "The Hungarian Tziganes (Zigeuner) are the rage just now at Paris. The story is that Liszt picked out the individuals composing the band one by one from among the gypsy performers in Hungary and Bohemia. Half-civilized in appearance, dressed in an unbecoming half-military costume, they are nothing while playing Strauss' waltzes or their own; but when they play the Radetsky Defile, the Racoksky March, or their marvelous czardas, one sees and hears the battle, and it is easy to understand the influence of their music in fomenting Hungarian revolutions; why for so long it was made treasonable to play or listen to these czardas; and why, as they heard them, men rose to their feet, gathered together, and with tears rolling down their faces, and throats swelling with emotion, departed to do or die." And when I remember that they played for me as they said they had played for no other man in Paris, "into the ear,"--and when I think of the gleam in their eyes, I verily believe they _told_ the truth,--I feel glad that I chanced that morning on those dark men and spoke to them in Romany. * * * * * Since the above was written I have met in an entertaining work called "Unknown Hungary," by Victor Tissot, with certain remarks on the Hungarian gypsy musicians which are so appropriate that I cite them in full:-- "The gypsy artists in Hungary play by inspiration, with inimitable _verve_ and spirit, without even knowing their notes, and nothing whatever of the rhymes and rules of the masters. Liszt, who has closely studied them, says, The art of music being for them a sublime language, a song, mystic in itself, though dear to the initiated, they use it according to the wants of the moment which they wish to express. They have invented their music for their own use, to sing about themselves to themselves, to express themselves in the most heartfelt and touching monologues. "Their music is as free as their lives; no intermediate modulation, no chords, no transition, it goes from one key to another. From ethereal heights they precipitate you into the howling depths of hell; from the plaint, barely heard, they pass brusquely to the warrior's song, which bursts loudly forth, passionate and tender, at once burning and calm. Their melodies plunge you into a melancholy reverie, or carry you away into a stormy whirlwind; they are a faithful expression of the Hungarian character, sometimes quick, brilliant, and lively, sometimes sad and apathetic. "The gypsies, when they arrived in Hungary, had no music of their own; they appropriated the Magyar music, and made from it an original art which now belongs to them." I here break in upon Messieurs Tissot and Liszt to remark that, while it is very probable that the Roms reformed Hungarian music, it is rather boldly assumed that they had no music of their own. It was, among other callings, as dancers and musicians that they left India and entered Europe, and among them were doubtless many descendants of the ten thousand Indo-Persian Luris or Nuris. But to resume quotation:-- "They made from it an art full of life, passion, laughter, and tears. The instrument which the gypsies prefer is the violin, which they call _bas' alja_, 'the king of instruments.' They also play the viola, the cymbal, and the clarionet. "There was a pause. The gypsies, who had perceived at a table a comfortable-looking man, evidently wealthy, and on a pleasure excursion in the town, came down from their platform, and ranged themselves round him to give him a serenade all to himself, as is their custom. They call this 'playing into the ear.' "They first asked the gentleman his favorite air, and then played it with such spirit and enthusiasm and overflowing richness of variation and ornament, and with so much emotion, that it drew forth the applause of the whole company. After this they executed a czardas, one of the wildest, most feverish, harshest, and, one may say, tormenting, as if to pour intoxication into the soul of their listener. They watched his countenance to note the impression produced by the passionate rhythm of their instruments; then, breaking off suddenly, they played a hushed, soft, caressing measure; and again, almost breaking the trembling cords of their bows, they produced such an intensity of effect that the listener was almost beside himself with delight and astonishment. He sat as if bewitched; he shut his eyes, hung his head in melancholy, or raised it with a start, as the music varied; then jumped up and struck the back of his head with his hands. He positively laughed and cried at once; then, drawing a roll of bank-notes from his pocket-book, he threw it to the gypsies, and fell back in his chair, as if exhausted with so much enjoyment. And in _this_ lies the triumph of the gypsy music; it is like that of Orpheus, which moved the rocks and trees. The soul of the Hungarian plunges, with a refinement of sensation that we can understand, but cannot follow, into this music, which, like the unrestrained indulgence of the imagination in fantasy and caprice, gives to the initiated all the intoxicating sensations experienced by opium smokers." The Austrian gypsies have many songs which perfectly reflect their character. Most of them are only single verses of a few lines, such as are sung everywhere in Spain; others, which are longer, seem to have grown from the connection of these verses. The following translation from the Roumanian Romany (Vassile Alexandri) gives an idea of their style and spirit:-- GYPSY SONG. The wind whistles over the heath, The moonlight flits over the flood; And the gypsy lights up his fire, In the darkness of the wood. Hurrah! In the darkness of the wood. Free is the bird in the air, And the fish where the river flows; Free is the deer in the forest, And the gypsy wherever he goes. Hurrah! And the gypsy wherever he goes. A GORGIO GENTLEMAN SPEAKS. Girl, wilt thou live in my home? I will give thee a sable gown, And golden coins for a necklace, If thou wilt be my own. GYPSY GIRL. No wild horse will leave the prairie For a harness with silver stars; Nor an eagle the crags of the mountain, For a cage with golden bars; Nor the gypsy girl the forest, Or the meadow, though gray and cold, For garments made of sable, Or necklaces of gold. THE GORGIO. Girl, wilt thou live in my dwelling, For pearls and diamonds true? {82} I will give thee a bed of scarlet, And a royal palace, too. GYPSY GIRL. My white teeth are my pearlins, My diamonds my own black eyes; My bed is the soft green meadow, My palace the world as it lies. Free is the bird in the air, And the fish where the river flows; Free is the deer in the forest, And the gypsy wherever he goes. Hurrah! And the gypsy wherever he goes. There is a deep, strange element in the gypsy character, which finds no sympathy or knowledge in the German, and very little in other Europeans, but which is so much in accord with the Slavonian and Hungarian that he who truly feels it with love is often disposed to mingle them together. It is a dreamy mysticism; an indefinite semi-supernaturalism, often passing into gloom; a feeling as of Buddhism which has glided into Northern snows, and taken a new and darker life in winter-lands. It is strong in the Czech or Bohemian, whose nature is the worst understood in the civilized world. That he should hate the German with all his heart and soul is in the order of things. We talk about the mystical Germans, but German self-conscious mysticism is like a problem of Euclid beside the natural, unexpressed dreaminess of the Czech. The German mystic goes to work at once to expound his "system" in categories, dressing it up in a technology which in the end proves to be the only mystery in it. The Bohemian and gypsy, each in their degrees of culture, form no system and make no technology, but they feel all the more. Now the difference between true and imitative mysticism is that the former takes no form; it is even narrowed by religious creeds, and wing-clipt by pious "illumination." Nature, and nature alone, is its real life. It was from the Southern Slavonian lands that all real mysticism, and all that higher illumination which means freedom, came into Germany and Europe; and after all, Germany's first and best mystic, Jacob Bohme, was Bohemian by name, as he was by nature. When the world shall have discovered who the as yet unknown Slavonian German was who wrote all the best part of "Consuelo," and who helped himself in so doing from "Der letzte Taborit," by Herlossohn, we shall find one of the few men who understood the Bohemian. Once in a while, as in Fanny Janauschek, the Czech bursts out into art, and achieves a great triumph. I have seen Rachel and Ristori many a time, but their best acting was shallow compared to Janauschek's, as I have seen it in by-gone years, when she played Iphigenia and Medea in German. No one save a Bohemian could ever so _intuit_ the gloomy profundity and unearthly fire of the Colchian sorceress. These are the things required to perfect every artist,--above all, the tragic artist,--that the tree of his or her genius shall not only soar to heaven among the angels, but also have roots in the depths of darkness and fire; and that he or she shall play not only to the audience, and in sympathy with them, but also unto one's self and down to one's deepest dreams. No one will accuse me of wide discussion or padding who understands my drift in this chapter. I am speaking of the gypsy, and I cannot explain him more clearly than by showing his affinities with the Slavonian and Magyar, and how, through music and probably in many other ways, he has influenced them. As the Spaniard perfectly understands the objective vagabond side of the Gitano, so the Southeastern European understands the musical and wild-forest yearnings of the Tsigane. Both to gypsy and Slavonian there is that which makes them dream so that even debauchery has for them at times an unearthly inspiration; and as smoking was inexpressibly sacred to the red Indians of old, so that when the Guatemalan Christ harried hell, the demons offered him cigars; in like manner tipsiness is often to the gypsy and Servian, or Czech, or Croat, something so serious and impressive that it is a thing not to be lightly thought of, but to be undertaken with intense deliberation and under due appreciation of its benefits. Many years ago, when I had begun to feel this strange element I gave it expression in a poem which I called "The Bohemian," as expressive of both gypsy and Slavonian nature:-- THE BOHEMIAN. Chces li tajnou vec aneb pravdu vyzvedeti Blazen, dite opily clovek o tom umeji povodeti. Wouldst thou know a truth or mystery, A drunkard, fool, or child may tell it thee BOHEMIAN PROVERB. And now I'll wrap my blanket o'er me, And on the tavern floor I'll lie, A double spirit-flask before me, And watch my pipe clouds, melting, die. They melt and die, but ever darken As night comes on and hides the day, Till all is black; then, brothers, hearken, And if ye can write down my lay. In yon long loaf my knife is gleaming, Like one black sail above the boat; As once at Pesth I saw it beaming, Half through a dark Croatian throat. Now faster, faster, whirls the ceiling, And wilder, wilder, turns my brain; And still I'll drink, till, past all feeling, My soul leaps forth to light again. Whence come these white girls wreathing round me? Barushka!--long I thought thee dead; Katchenka!--when these arms last bound thee Thou laid'st by Rajrad, cold as lead. And faster, faster, whirls the ceiling, And wilder, wilder, turns my brain; And from afar a star comes stealing Straight at me o'er the death-black plain. Alas! I sink. My spirits miss me. I swim, I shoot from shore to shore! Klara! thou golden sister--kiss me! I rise--I'm safe--I'm strong once more. And faster, faster, whirls the ceiling, And wilder, wilder, whirls my brain; The star!--it strikes my soul, revealing All life and light to me again. * * * * * Against the waves fresh waves are dashing, Above the breeze fresh breezes blow; Through seas of light new light is flashing, And with them all I float and flow. Yet round me rings of fire are gleaning,-- Pale rings of fire, wild eyes of death! Why haunt me thus, awake or dreaming? Methought I left ye with my breath! Ay, glare and stare, with life increasing, And leech-like eyebrows, arching in; Be, if ye must, my fate unceasing, But never hope a fear to win. He who knows all may haunt the haunter, He who fears naught hath conquered fate; Who bears in silence quells the daunter, And makes his spoiler desolate. O wondrous eyes, of star-like lustre, How have ye changed to guardian love! Alas! where stars in myriads cluster, Ye vanish in the heaven above. * * * * * I hear two bells so softly ringing; How sweet their silver voices roll! The one on distant hills is ringing, The other peals within my soul. I hear two maidens gently talking, Bohemian maids, and fair to see: The one on distant hills is walking, The other maiden,--where is she? Where is she? When the moonlight glistens O'er silent lake or murmuring stream, I hear her call my soul, which listens, "Oh, wake no more! Come, love, and dream!" She came to earth, earth's loveliest creature; She died, and then was born once more; Changed was her race, and changed each feature, But yet I loved her as before. We live, but still, when night has bound me In golden dreams too sweet to last, A wondrous light-blue world around me, She comes,--the loved one of the past. I know not which I love the dearest, For both the loves are still the same: The living to my life is nearest, The dead one feeds the living flame. And when the sun, its rose-wine quaffing, Which flows across the Eastern deep, Awakes us, Klara chides me, laughing, And says we love too well in sleep. And though no more a Voivode's daughter, As when she lived on earth before, The love is still the same which sought her, And I am true, and ask no more. * * * * * Bright moonbeams on the sea are playing, And starlight shines upon the hill, And I should wake, but still delaying In our old life I linger still. For as the wind clouds flit above me, And as the stars above them shine, My higher life's in those who love me, And higher still, our life's divine. And thus I raise my soul by drinking, As on the tavern floor I lie; It heeds not whence begins our thinking If to the end its flight is high. E'en outcasts may have heart and feeling, The blackest wild Tsigan be true, And love, like light in dungeons stealing, Though bars be there, will still burst through. It is the reecho of more than one song of those strange lands, of more than one voice, and of many a melody; and those who have heard them, though not more distinctly than Francois Villon when he spoke of flinging the question back by silent lake and streamlet lone, will understand me, and say it is true to nature. In a late work on Magyarland, by a lady Fellow of the Carpathian Society, I find more on Hungarian gypsy music, which is so well written that I quote fully from it, being of the opinion that one ought, when setting forth any subject, to give quite as good an opportunity to others who are in our business as to ourselves. And truly this lady has felt the charm of the Tsigan music and describes it so well that one wishes she were a Romany in language and by adoption, like unto a dozen dames and damsels whom I know. "The Magyars have a perfect passion for this gypsy music, and there is nothing that appeals so powerfully to their emotions, whether of joy or sorrow. These singular musicians are, as a rule, well taught, and can play almost any music, greatly preferring, however, their own compositions. Their music, consequently, is highly characteristic. It is the language of their lives and strange surroundings, a wild, weird banshee music: now all joy and sparkle, like sunshine on the plains; now sullen, sad, and pathetic by turns, like the wail of a crushed and oppressed people,--an echo, it is said, of the minstrelsy of the _hegedosok_ or Hungarian bards, but sounding to our ears like the more distant echo of that exceeding bitter cry, uttered long centuries ago by their forefathers under Egyptian bondage, and borne over the time-waves of thousands of years, breaking forth in their music of to-day." Here I interrupt the lady--with all due courtesy--to remark that I cannot agree with her, nor with her probable authority, Walter Simson, in believing that the gypsies are the descendants of the mixed races who followed Moses out of Egypt. The Rom in Egypt is a Hindoo stranger now, as he ever was. But that the echo of centuries of outlawry and wretchedness and wildness rises and falls, like the ineffable discord in a wind-harp, in Romany airs is true enough, whatever its origin may have been. But I beg pardon, madam,--I interrupted you. "The soul-stirring, madly exciting, and martial strains of the Racoczys--one of the Revolutionary airs--has just died upon the ear. A brief interval of rest has passed. Now listen with bated breath to that recitative in the minor key,--that passionate wail, that touching story, the gypsies' own music, which rises and falls on the air. Knives and forks are set down, hands and arms hang listless, all the seeming necessities of the moment being either suspended or forgotten,--merged in the memories which those vibrations, so akin to human language, reawaken in each heart. Eyes involuntarily fill with tears, as those pathetic strains echo back and make present some sorrow of long ago, or rouse from slumber that of recent time. . . . "And now, the recitative being ended, and the last chord struck, the melody begins, of which the former was the prelude. Watch the movements of the supple figure of the first violin, standing in the centre of the other musicians, who accompany him softly. How every nerve is _en rapport_ with his instrument, and how his very soul is speaking through it! See how gently he draws the bow across the trembling strings, and how lovingly he lays his cheek upon it, as if listening to some responsive echo of his heart's inmost feeling, for it is his mystic language! How the instrument lives and answers to his every touch, sending forth in turn utterances tender, sad, wild, and joyous! The audience once more hold their breath to catch the dying tones, as the melody, so rich, so beautiful, so full of pathos, is drawing to a close. The tension is absolutely painful as the gypsy dwells on the last lingering note, and it is a relief when, with a loud and general burst of sound, every performer starts into life and motion. _Then_ what crude and wild dissonances are made to resolve themselves into delicious harmony! What rapturous and fervid phrases, and what energy and impetuosity, are there in every motion of the gypsies' figures, as their dark eyes glisten and emit flashes in unison with the tones!" The writer is gifted in giving words to gypsy music. One cannot say, as the inexhaustible Cad writes of Niagara ten times on a page in the Visitors' Book, that it is indescribable. I think that if language means anything this music has been very well described by the writers whom I have cited. When I am told that the gypsies' impetuous and passionate natures make them enter into musical action with heart and soul, I feel not only the strains played long ago, but also hear therein the horns of Elfland blowing,--which he who has not heard, of summer days, in the drone of the bee, by reedy rustling stream, will never know on earth in any wise. But once heard it comes ever, as I, though in the city, heard it last night in the winter wind, with Romany words mingled in wild refrain:-- "_Kamava tute_, _miri chelladi_!" II. AUSTRIAN GYPSIES IN PHILADELPHIA. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, and I was walking down Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, when I met with three very dark men. Dark men are not rarities in my native city. There is, for instance, Eugene, who has the invaluable faculty of being able to turn his hand to an infinite helpfulness in the small arts. These men were darker than Eugene, but they differed from him in this, that while he is a man of color, they were not. For in America the man of Aryan blood, however dark he may be, is always "off" color, while the lightest-hued quadroon is always on it. Which is not the only paradox connected with the descendants of Africans of which I have heard. I saw at a glance that these dark men were much nearer to the old Aryan stock than are even my purely white readers. For they were more recently from India, and they could speak a language abounding in Hindi, in pure old Sanskrit, and in Persian. Yet they would make no display of it; on the contrary, I knew that they would be very likely at first to deny all knowledge thereof, as well as their race and blood. For they were gypsies; it was very apparent in their eyes, which had the Gitano gleam as one seldom sees it in England. I confess that I experienced a thrill as I exchanged glances with them. It was a long time since I had seen a Romany, and, as usual, I knew that I was going to astonish them. They were singularly attired, having very good clothes of a quite theatrical foreign fashion, bearing silver buttons as large as and of the shape of hen's eggs. Their hair hung in black ringlets down their shoulders, and I saw that they had come from the Austrian Slavonian land. I addressed the eldest in Italian. He answered fluently and politely. I changed to Ilirski or Illyrian and to Serb, of which I have a few phrases in stock. They spoke all these languages fluently, for one was a born Illyrian and one a Serb. They also spoke Nemetz, or German; in fact, everything except English. "Have you got through all your languages?" I at last inquired. "Tutte, signore,--all of them." "Isn't there _one_ left behind, which you have forgotten? Think a minute." "No, signore. None." "What, not _one_! You know so many that perhaps a language more or less makes no difference to you." "By the Lord, signore, you have seen every egg in the basket." I looked him fixedly in the eyes, and said, in a low tone,-- "_Ne rakesa tu Romanes miro prala_?" There was a startled glance from one to the other, and a silence. I had asked him if he could not talk Romany. And I added,-- "_Won't_ you talk a word with a gypsy brother?" _That_ moved them. They all shook my hands with great feeling, expressing intense joy and amazement at meeting with one who knew them. "_Mishto hom me dikava tute_." (I am glad to see you.) So they told me how they were getting on, and where they were camped, and how they sold horses, and so on, and we might have got on much farther had it not been for a very annoying interruption. As I was talking to the gypsies, a great number of men, attracted by the sound of a foreign language, stopped, and fairly pushed themselves up to us, endeavoring to make it all out. When there were at least fifty, they crowded in between me and the foreigners, so that I could hardly talk to them. The crowd did not consist of ordinary people, or snobs. They were well dressed,--young clerks, at least,--who would have fiercely resented being told that they were impertinent. "Eye-talians, ain't they?" inquired one man, who was evidently zealous in pursuit of knowledge. "Why don't you tell us what they are sayin'?" "What kind of fellers air they, any way?" I was desirous of going with the Hungarian Roms. But to walk along Chestnut Street with an augmenting procession of fifty curious Sunday promenaders was not on my card. In fact, I had some difficulty in tearing myself from the inquisitive, questioning, well-dressed people. The gypsies bore the pressure with the serene equanimity of cosmopolite superiority, smiling at provincial rawness. Even so in China and Africa the traveler is mobbed by the many, who, there as here, think that "I want to know" is full excuse for all intrusiveness. _Q'est tout comme chez nous_. I confess that I was vexed, and, considering that it was in my native city, mortified. A few days after I went out to the _tan_ where these Roms had camped. But the birds had flown, and a little pile of ashes and the usual debris of a gypsy camp were all that remained. The police told me that they had some very fine horses, and had gone to the Northwest; and that is all I ever saw of them. I have heard of a philanthropist who was turned into a misanthrope by attempting to sketch in public and in galleries. Respectable strangers, even clergymen, would stop and coolly look over his shoulder, and ask questions, and give him advice, until he could work no longer. Why is it that people who would not speak to you for life without an introduction should think that their small curiosity to see your sketches authorizes them to act as aquaintances? Or why is the pursuit of knowledge assumed among the half-bred to be an excuse for so much intrusion? "I want to know." Well, and what if you do? The man who thinks that his desire for knowledge is an excuse for impertinence--and there are too many who act on this in all sincerity--is of the kind who knocks the fingers off statues, because "he wants them" for his collection; who chips away tombstones, and hews down historic trees, and not infrequently steals outright, and thinks that his pretense of culture is full excuse for all his mean deeds. Of this tribe is the man who cuts his name on all walls and smears it on the pyramids, to proclaim himself a fool to the world; the difference being that, instead of wanting to know anything, he wants everybody to know that His Littleness was once in a great place. I knew a distinguished artist, who, while in the East, only secured his best sketch of a landscape by employing fifty men to keep off the multitude. I have seen a strange fellow take a lady's sketch out of her hand, excusing himself with the remark that he was so fond of pictures. Of course my readers do not act thus. When they are passing through the Louvre or British Museum they never pause and overlook artists, despite the notices requesting them not to do so. Of course not. Yet I once knew a charming young American lady, who scouted the idea as nonsense that she should not watch artists at work. "Why, we used to make up parties for the purpose of looking at them!" she said. "It was half the fun of going there. I'm sure the artists were delighted to get a chance to talk to us." Doubtless. And yet there are really very few artists who do not work more at their ease when not watched, and I have known some to whom such watching was misery. They are not, O intruder, painting for _your_ amusement! This is not such a far cry from my Romanys as it may seem. When I think of what I have lost in this life by impertinence coming between me and gypsies, I feel that it could not be avoided. The proportion of men, even of gentlemen, or of those who dress decently, who cannot see another well-dressed man talking with a very poor one in public, without at once surmising a mystery, and endeavoring to solve it, is amazing. And they do not stop at a trifle, either. It is a marked characteristic of all gypsies that they are quite free from any such mean intrusiveness. Whether it is because they themselves are continually treated as curiosities, or because great knowledge of life in a small way has made them philosophers, I will not say, but it is a fact that in this respect they are invariably the politest people in the world. Perhaps their calm contempt of the _galerly_, or green Gorgios, is founded on a consciousness of their superiority in this matter. The Hungarian gypsy differs from all his brethren of Europe in being more intensely gypsy. He has deeper, wilder, and more original feeling in music, and he is more inspired with a love of travel. Numbers of Hungarian Romany chals--in which I include all Austrian gypsies--travel annually all over Europe, but return as regularly to their own country. I have met with them exhibiting bears in Baden-Baden. These Ricinari, or bear-leaders, form, however, a set within a set, and are in fact more nearly allied to the gypsy bear-leaders of Turkey and Syria than to any other of their own people. They are wild and rude to a proverb, and generally speak a peculiar dialect of Romany, which is called the Bear-leaders' by philologists. I have also seen Syrian-gypsy Ricinari in Cairo. Many of the better caste make a great deal of money, and some are rich. Like all really pure-blooded gypsies, they have deep feelings, which are easily awakened by kindness, but especially by sympathy and interest. ENGLISH GYPSIES. I. OATLANDS PARK. Oatlands Park (between Weybridge and Walton-upon-Thames) was once the property of the Duke of York, but now the lordly manor-house is a hotel. The grounds about it are well preserved and very picturesque. They should look well, for they cover a vast and wasted fortune. There is, for instance, a grotto which cost forty thousand pounds. It is one of those wretched and tasteless masses of silly rock-rococo work which were so much admired at the beginning of the present century, when sham ruins and sham caverns were preferred to real. There is, also, close by the grotto, a dogs' burial-ground, in which more than a hundred animals, the favorites of the late duchess, lie buried. Over each is a tombstone, inscribed with a rhyming epitaph, written by the titled lady herself, and which is in sober sadness in every instance doggerel, as befits the subject. In order to degrade the associations of religion and church rites as effectually as possible, there is attached to these graves the semblance of a ruined chapel, the stained-glass window of which was taken from a church. {97} I confess that I could never see either grotto or grave-yard without sincerely wishing, out of regard to the memory of both duke and duchess, that these ridiculous relics of vulgar taste and affected sentimentalism could be completely obliterated. But, apart from them, the scenes around are very beautiful; for there are grassy slopes and pleasant lawns, ancient trees and broad gravel walks, over which, as the dry leaves fall on the crisp sunny morning, the feet are tempted to walk on and on, all through the merry golden autumn day. The neighborhood abounds in memories of olden time. Near Oatlands is a modernized house, in which Henry the Eighth lived in his youth. It belonged then to Cardinal Wolsey; now it is owned by Mr. Lindsay,--a sufficient cause for wits calling it Lindsay-Wolsey, that being also a "fabric." Within an hour's walk is the palace built by Cardinal Wolsey, while over the river, and visible from the portico, is the little old Gothic church of Shepperton, and in the same view, to the right, is the old Walton Bridge, by Cowie Stakes, supposed to cover the exact spot where Caesar crossed. This has been denied by many, but I know that the field adjacent to it abounds in ancient British jars filled with burned bones, the relics of an ancient battle,--probably that which legend states was fought on the neighboring Battle Island. Stout-hearted Queen Bessy has also left her mark on this neighborhood, for within a mile is the old Saxon-towered church of Walton, in which the royal dame was asked for her opinion of the sacrament when it was given to her, to which she replied:-- "Christ was the Word who spake it, He took the bread and brake it; And what that Word did make it, That I believe, and take it." In memory of this the lines were inscribed on the massy Norman pillar by which she stood. From the style and cutting it is evident that the inscription dates from the reign of Elizabeth. And very near Oatlands, in fact on the grounds, there are two ancient yew-trees, several hundred yards apart. The story runs that Queen Elizabeth once drew a long bow and shot an arrow so far that, to commemorate the deed, one of these trees was planted where she stood, and the other where the shaft fell. All England is a museum of touching or quaint relics; to me one of its most interesting cabinets is this of the neighborhood of Weybridge and Walton-upon-Thames. I once lived for eight months at Oatlands Park, and learned to know the neighborhood well. I had many friends among the families in the vicinity, and, guided by their advice, wandered to every old church and manor-house, ruin and haunted rock, fairy-oak, tower, palace, or shrine within a day's ramble. But there was one afternoon walk of four miles, round by the river, which I seldom missed. It led by a spot on the bank, and an old willow-tree near the bridge, which spot was greatly haunted by the Romany, so that, excepting during the hopping-season of autumn, when they were away in Kent, I seldom failed to see from afar a light rising smoke, and near it a tent and a van, as the evening shadows blended with the mist from the river in phantom union. It is a common part of gypsy life that the father shall be away all day, lounging about the next village, possibly in the _kitchema_ or ale-house, or trying to trade a horse, while the wife trudges over the country, from one farm-house or cottage to another, loaded with baskets, household utensils, toys, or cheap ornaments, which she endeavors, like a true Autolyca, with wily arts and wheedling tones, to sell to the rustics. When it can be managed, this hawking is often an introduction to fortune-telling, and if these fail the gypsy has recourse to begging. But it is a weary life, and the poor _dye_ is always glad enough to get home. During the day the children have been left to look out for themselves or to the care of the eldest, and have tumbled about the van, rolled around with the dog, and fought or frolicked as they chose. But though their parents often have a stock of cheap toys, especially of penny dolls and the like, which they put up as prizes for games at races and fairs, I have never seen these children with playthings. The little girls have no dolls; the boys, indeed, affect whips, as becomes incipient jockeys, but on the whole they never seemed to me to have the same ideas as to play as ordinary house-children. The author of "My Indian Garden" has made the same observation of Hindoo little ones, whose ways are not as our ways were when we were young. Roman and Egyptian children had their dolls; and there is something sadly sweet to me in the sight of these barbarous and naive facsimiles of miniature humanity, which come up like little spectres out of the dust of ancient days. They are so rude and queer, these Roman puppets; and yet they were loved once, and had pet names, and their owl-like faces were as tenderly kissed as their little mistresses had been by their mothers. So the Romany girl, unlike the Roman, is generally doll-less and toy-less. But the affection between mother and child is as warm among these wanderers as with any other people; and it is a touching sight to see the gypsy who has been absent all the weary day returning home. And when she is seen from afar off there is a race among all the little dark-brown things to run to mother and get kissed, and cluster and scramble around her, and perhaps receive some little gift which mother's thoughtful love has provided. Knowing these customs, I was wont to fill my pockets with chestnuts or oranges, and, distributing them among the little ones, talk with them, and await the sunset return of their parents. The confidence or love of all children is delightful; but that of gypsy children resembles the friendship of young foxes, and the study of their artless-artful ways is indeed attractive. I can remember that one afternoon six small Romany boys implored me to give them each a penny. I replied,-- "If I had sixpence, how would you divide it?" "That would be a penny apiece," said the eldest boy. "And if threepence?" "A ha'penny apiece." "And three ha'pence?" "A farden all round. And then it couldn't go no furder, unless we bought tobacco an' diwided it." "Well, I have some tobacco. But can any of you smoke?" They were from four to ten years of age, and at the word every one pulled out the stump of a blackened pipe,--such depraved-looking fragments I never saw,--and holding them all up, and crowding closely around, like hungry poultry with uplifted bills, they began to clamor for _tuvalo_, or tobacco. They were connoisseurs, too, and the elder boy, as he secured his share, smelled it with intense satisfaction, and said, "That's _rye's tuvalo_;" that is, "gentleman's tobacco," or best quality. One evening, as the shadows were darkening the day, I met a little gypsy boy, dragging along, with incredible labor, a sack full of wood, which one needed not go far afield to surmise was neither purchased nor begged. The alarmed and guilty or despairing look which he cast at me was very touching. Perhaps he thought I was the gentleman upon whose property he had "found" the wood; or else a magistrate. How he stared when I spoke to him in Romany, and offered to help him carry it! As we bore it along I suggested that we had better be careful and avoid the police, which remark established perfect confidence between us. But as we came to the tent, what was the amazement of the boy's mother to see him returning with a gentleman helping him to carry his load! And to hear me say in Romany, and in a cheerful tone, "Mother, here is some wood we've been stealing for you." Gypsies have strong nerves and much cheek, but this was beyond her endowment; she was appalled at the unearthly strangeness of the whole proceeding, and when she spoke there was a skeleton rattle in her words and a quaver of startled ghastliness in her laugh. She had been alarmed for her boy, and when I appeared she thought I was a swell bringing him in under arrest; but when I announced myself in Romany as an accomplice, emotion stifled thought. And I lingered not, and spoke no more, but walked away into the woods and the darkness. However, the legend went forth on the roads, even unto Kingston, and was told among the rollicking Romanys of 'Appy Ampton; for there are always a merry, loafing lot of them about that festive spot, looking out for excursionists through the months when the gorse blooms, and kissing is in season--which is always. And he who seeks them on Sunday may find them camped in Green Lane. When I wished for a long ramble on the hedge-lined roads--the sweet roads of old England--and by the green fields, I was wont to take a day's walk to Netley Abbey. Then I could pause, as I went, before many a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, and protected by trees and hawthorn hedges, and again surrender my soul, while walking, to tender and vague reveries, in which all definite thoughts swim overpowered, yet happy, in a sea of voluptuous emotions inspired by clouds lost in the blue sea of heaven and valleys visioned away into the purple sky. What opium is to one, what hasheesh may be to another, what _kheyf_ or mere repose concentrated into actuality is to the Arab, that is Nature to him who has followed her for long years through poets and mystics and in works of art, until at last he pierces through dreams and pictures to reality. The ruins of Netley Abbey, nine or ten miles from Oatlands Park, are picturesque and lonely, and well fitted for the dream-artist in shadows among sunshine. The priory was called Newstead or De Novo Loco in Norman times, when it was founded by Ruald de Calva, in the day of Richard Coeur de Lion. The ruins rise gray, white, and undressed with ivy, that they may contrast the more vividly with the deep emerald of the meadows around. "The surrounding scenery is composed of rivers and rivulets,"--for seven streams run by it, according to Aubrey,--"of foot-bridge and fords, plashy pools and fringed, tangled hollows, trees in groups or alone, and cattle dotted over the pastures:" an English Cuyp from many points of view, beautiful and English-home-like from all. Very near it is the quaint, out-of-the-way, darling little old church of Pirford, up a hill, nestling among trees, a half-Norman, decorated beauty, out of the age, but altogether in the heart. As I came near, of a summer afternoon, the waving of leaves and the buzzing of bees without, and the hum of the voices of children at school within the adjoining building, the cool shade and the beautiful view of the ruined Abbey beyond, made an impression which I can never forget. Among such scenes one learns why the English love so heartily their rural life, and why every object peculiar to it has brought forth a picture or a poem. I can imagine how many a man, who has never known what poetry was at home, has wept with yearning inexpressible, when sitting among burning sands and under the palms of the East, for such scenes as these. But Netley Abbey is close by the river Wey, and the sight of that river and the thought of the story of the monks of the olden time who dwelt in the Abbey drive away sentiment as suddenly as a north wind scatters sea-fogs. For the legend is a merry one, and the reader may have heard it; but if he has not I will give it in one of the merriest ballads ever written. By whom I know not,--doubtless many know. I sing, while walking, songs of olden time. THE MONKS OF THE WEY. A TRUE AND IMPORTANT RELATION OF THE WONDERFUL TUNNELL OF NEWARKE ABBEY AND OF THE UNTIMELY ENDE OF SEVERALL OF YE GHOSTLY BRETH'REN. The monks of the Wey seldom sung any psalms, And little they thought of religion or qualms; Such rollicking, frolicking, ranting, and gay, And jolly old boys were the monks of the Wey. To the sweet nuns of Ockham devoting their cares, They had little time for their beads and their prayers; For the love of these maidens they sighed night and day, And neglected devotion, these monks of the Wey. And happy i' faith might these brothers have been If the river had never been rolling between The abbey so grand and the convent so gray, That stood on the opposite side of the Wey. For daily they sighed, and then nightly they pined But little to anchorite precepts inclined, So smitten with beauty's enchantments were they, These rollicking, frolicking monks of the Wey. But scandal was rife in the country near, They dared not row over the river for fear; And no more could they swim it, so fat were they, These oily and amorous monks of the Wey. Loudly they groaned for their fate so hard, From the love of these beautiful maidens debarred, Till a brother just hit on a plan which would stay The woe of these heart-broken monks of the Wey. "Nothing," quoth he, "should true love sunder; Since we cannot go over, then let us go under! Boats and bridges shall yield to clay, We'll dig a long tunnel clean under the Wey." So to it they went with right good will, With spade and shovel and pike and bill; And from evening's close till the dawn of day They worked like miners all under the Wey. And at vesper hour, as their work begun, Each sung of the charms of his favorite nun; "How surprised they will be, and how happy!" said they, "When we pop in upon them from under the Wey!" And for months they kept grubbing and making no sound Like other black moles, darkly under the ground; And no one suspected such going astray, So sly were these mischievous monks of the Wey. At last their fine work was brought near to a close And early one morn from their pallets they rose, And met in their tunnel with lights to survey If they'd scooped a free passage right under the Wey. But alas for their fate! As they smirked and they smiled. To think how completely the world was beguiled, The river broke in, and it grieves me to say It drowned all the frolicksome monks of the Wey. * * * * * O churchmen beware of the lures of the flesh, The net of the devil has many a mesh! And remember whenever you're tempted to stray, The fate that befell the poor monks of the Wey. It was all long ago, and now there are neither monks nor nuns; the convent has been converted, little by little, age by age, into cottages, even as the friars and nuns themselves may have been organically changed possibly into violets, but more probably into the festive sparrows which flit and hop and flirt about the ruins with abrupt startles, like pheasants sudden bursting on the wing. There is a pretty little Latin epigram, written by a gay monk, of a pretty little lady, who, being very amorous, and observing that sparrows were like her as to love, hoped that she might be turned into one after death; and it is not difficult for a dreamer in an old abbey, of a golden day to fancy that these merry, saucy birdies, who dart and dip in and out of the sunshine or shadow, chirping their shameless ditties _pro et con_, were once the human dwellers in the spot, who sang their gaudrioles to pleasant strains. I became familiar with many such scenes for many miles about Oatlands, not merely during solitary walks, but by availing myself of the kind invitations of many friends, and by hunting afoot with the beagles. In this fashion one has hare and hound, but no horse. It is not needed, for while going over crisp stubble and velvet turf, climbing fences and jumping ditches, a man has a keen sense of being his own horse, and when he accomplishes a good leap of being intrinsically well worth 200 pounds. And indeed, so long as anybody can walk day in and out a greater distance than would tire a horse, he may well believe he is really worth one. It may be a good thing for us to reflect on the fact that if slavery prevailed at the present day as it did among the polished Greeks the average price of young gentlemen, and even of young ladies, would not be more than what is paid for a good hunter. Divested of diamonds and of Worth's dresses, what would a girl of average charms be worth to a stranger? Let us reflect! It was an October morning, and, pausing after a run, I let the pack and the "course-men" sweep away, while I sat in a pleasant spot to enjoy the air and scenery. The solemn grandeur of groves and the quiet dignity of woodland glades, barred with rays of solid-seeming sunshine, such as the saint of old hung his cloak on, the brook into which the overhanging chestnuts drop, as if in sport, their creamy golden little boats of leaves, never seem so beautiful or impressive as immediately after a rush and cry of many men, succeeded by solitude and silence. Little by little the bay of the hounds, the shouts of the hunters, and the occasional sound of the horn grew fainter; the birds once more appeared, and sent forth short calls to their timid friends. I began again to notice who my neighbors were, as to daisies and heather which resided around the stone on which I sat, and the exclusive circle of a fairy-ring at a little distance, which, like many exclusive circles, consisted entirely of mushrooms. As the beagle-sound died away, and while the hounds were "working around" to the road, I heard footsteps approaching, and looking up saw before me a gypsy woman and a boy. She was a very gypsy woman, an ideal witch, nut-brown, tangle-haired, aquiline of nose, and fierce-eyed; and fiercely did she beg! As amid broken Gothic ruins, overhung with unkempt ivy, one can trace a vanished and strange beauty, so in this worn face of the Romany, mantled by neglected tresses, I could see the remains of what must have been once a wonderful though wild loveliness. As I looked into those serpent eyes; trained for a long life to fascinate in fortune-telling simple dove-girls, I could readily understand the implicit faith with which many writers in the olden time spoke of the "fascination" peculiar to female glances. "The multiplication of women," said the rabbis, "is the increase of witches," for the belles in Israel were killing girls, with arrows, the bows whereof are formed by pairs of jet-black eyebrows joined in one. And thus it was that these black-eyed beauties, by _mashing_ {108} men for many generations, with shafts shot sideways and most wantonly, at last sealed their souls into the corner of their eyes, as you have heard before. Cotton Mather tells us that these witches with peaked eye-corners could never weep but three tears out of their long-tailed eyes. And I have observed that such tears, as they sweep down the cheeks of the brunette witches, are also long-tailed, and recall by their shape and glitter the eyes from which they fell, even as the daughter recalls the mother. For all love's witchcraft lurks in flashing eyes,--_lontan del occhio lontan dal' cuor_. It is a great pity that the pigeon-eye-peaks, so pretty in young witches, become in the old ones crow's-feet and crafty. When I greeted the woman, she answered in Romany, and said she was a Stanley from the North. She lied bravely, and I told her so. It made no difference in any way, nor was she hurt. The brown boy, who seemed like a goblin, umber-colored fungus, growing by a snaky black wild vine, sat by her and stared at me. I was pleased, when he said _tober_, that she corrected him, exclaiming earnestly, "Never say _tober_ for road; that is _canting_. Always say _drom_; that is good Romanes." There is always a way of bringing up a child in the way he should go,--though it be a gypsy one,--and _drom_ comes from the Greek _dromos_, which is elegant and classical. Then she began to beg again, to pass the time, and I lectured her severely on the sin and meanness of her conduct, and said, with bitterness, "Do dogs eat dogs, or are all the Gorgios dead in the land, that you cry for money to me? Oh, you are a fine Stanley! a nice Beshaley you, to sing mumpin and mongerin, when a half-blood Matthews has too much decency to trouble the rye! And how much will you take? Whatever the gentleman pleases, and thank you, my kind sir, and the blessings of the poor gypsy woman on you. Yes, I know that, _givelli_, you mother of all the liars. You expect a sixpence, and here it is, and may you get drunk on the money, and be well thrashed by your man for it. And now see what I had in my hand all the time to give you. A lucky half crown, my deary; but that's not for you now. I only give a sixpence to a beggar, but I stand a _pash-korauna_ to any Romany who's a pal and amal." This pleasing discourse made us very good friends, and, as I kept my eyes sharply fixed on her viper orbs with an air of intense suspicion, everything like ill-feeling or distrust naturally vanished from her mind; for it is of the nature of the Romanys and all their kind to like those whom they respect, and respect those whom they cannot deceive, and to measure mankind exactly by their capacity of being taken in, especially by themselves. As is also the case, in good society, with many ladies and some gentlemen,--and much good may it do them! There was a brief silence, during which the boy still looked wistfully into my face, as if wondering what kind of gentleman I might be, until his mother said,-- "How do you do with them _ryas_ [swells]? What do you tell 'em--about--what do they think--you know?" This was not explicit, but I understood it perfectly. There is a great deal of such loose, disjointed conversation among gypsies and other half-thinkers. An educated man requires, or pretends to himself to require, a most accurately-detailed and form-polished statement of anything to understand it. The gypsy is less exacting. I have observed among rural Americans much of this lottery style of conversation, in which one man invests in a dubious question, not knowing exactly what sort of a prize or blank answer he may draw. What the gypsy meant effectively was, "How do you account to the Gorgios for knowing so much about us, and talking with us? Our life is as different from yours as possible, and you never acquired such a knowledge of all our tricky ways as you have just shown without much experience of us and a double life. You are related to us in some way, and you deceive the Gorgios about it. What is your little game of life, on general principles?" For the gypsy is so little accustomed to having any congenial interest taken in him that he can clearly explain it only by consanguinity. And as I was questioned, so I answered,-- "Well, I tell them I like to learn languages, and am trying to learn yours; and then I'm a foreigner in the country, anyhow, and they don't know my _droms_ [ways], and they don't care much what I do,--don't you see?" This was perfectly satisfactory, and as the hounds came sweeping round the corner of the wood she rose and went her way, and I saw her growing less and less along the winding road and up the hill, till she disappeared, with her boy, in a small ale-house. "Bang went the sixpence." When the last red light was in the west I went down to the river, and as I paused, and looked alternately at the stars reflected and flickering in the water and at the lights in the little gypsy camp, I thought that as the dancing, restless, and broken sparkles were to their serene types above, such were the wandering and wild Romany to the men of culture in their settled homes. It is from the house-dweller that the men of the roads and commons draw the elements of their life, but in that life they are as shaken and confused as the starlight in the rippling river. But if we look through our own life we find that it is not the gypsy alone who is merely a reflection and an imitation of the stars above him, and a creature of second-hand fashion. I found in the camp an old acquaintance, named Brown, and also perceived at the first greeting that the woman Stanley had told Mrs. Brown that I would not be _mongerdo_, or begged from, and that the latter, proud of her power in extortion, and as yet invincible in mendicancy, had boasted that she would succeed, let others weakly fail. And to lose no time she went at me with an abruptness and dramatic earnestness which promptly betrayed the secret. And on the spot I made a vow that nothing should get a farthing from me, though I should be drawn by wild horses. And a horse was, indeed, brought into requisition to draw me, or my money, but without success; for Mr. Brown, as I very well knew,--it being just then the current topic in the best society on the road,--had very recently been involved in a tangled trouble with a stolen horse. This horse had been figuratively laid at his door, even as a "love-babe" is sometimes placed on the front steps of a virtuous and grave citizen,--at least, this is what White George averred,--and his very innocence and purity had, like a shining mark, attracted the shafts of the wicked. He had come out unscathed, with a package of papers from a lawyer, which established his character above par; but all this had cost money, beautiful golden money, and brought him to the very brink of ruin! Mrs. Brown's attack was a desperate and determined effort, and there was more at stake on its success than the reader may surmise. Among gypsy women skill in begging implies the possession of every talent which they most esteem, such as artfulness, cool effrontery, and the power of moving pity or provoking generosity by pique or humor. A quaint and racy book might be written, should it only set forth the manner in which the experienced matrons give straight-tips or suggestions to the maidens as to the manner and lore of begging; and it is something worth hearing when several sit together and devise dodges, and tell anecdotes illustrating the noble art of mendicity, and how it should be properly practiced. Mrs. Brown knew that to extort alms from me would place her on the pinnacle as an artist. Among all the Cooper clan, to which she was allied, there was not one who ever begged from me, they having all found that the ripest nuts are those which fall from the tree of their own accord, or are blown earthward by the soft breezes of benevolence, and not those which are violently beaten down. She began by pitiful appeals; she was moving, but I did not budge. She grew pathetic; she touched on the stolen horse; she paused, and gushed almost to tears, as much as to say, If it must be, you _shall_ know all. Ruin stared them in the face; poverty was crushing them. It was well acted,--rather in the Bernhardt style, which, if M. Ondit speaks the truth, is also employed rather extensively for acquiring "de monish." I looked at the van, of which the Browns are proud, and inquired if it were true that it had been insured for a hundred pounds, as George had recently boasted. Persuasion having failed, Mrs. Brown tried bold defiance, saying that they needed no company who were no good to them, and plainly said to me I might be gone. It was her last card, thinking that a threat to dissolve our acquaintance would drive me to capitulate, and it failed. I laughed, went into the van, sat down, took out my brandy flask, and then accepted some bread and ale, and, to please them, read aloud all the papers acquitting George from all guilt as concerned the stolen horse,--papers which, he declared, had cost him full five pounds. This was a sad come-down from the story first told. Then I seriously rated his wife for begging from me. "You know well enough," I said, "that I give all I can spare to your family and your people when they are sick or poor. And here you are, the richest Romanys on the road between Windsor and the Boro Gav, begging a friend, who knows all about you, for money! Now, here is a shilling. Take it. Have half a crown? Two of 'em! No! Oh, you don't want it here in your own house. Well, you have some decency left, and to save your credit I won't make you take it. And you scandalize me, a gentleman and a friend, just to show this tramp of a Stanley _juva_, who hasn't even got a drag [wagon], that you can beat her _a mongerin mandy_ [begging me]." Mrs. Brown assented volubly to everything, and all the time I saw in her smiling eyes, ever agreeing to all, and heard from her voluble lips nothing but the _lie_,--that lie which is the mental action and inmost grain of the Romany, and especially of the _diddikai_, or half-breed. Anything and everything--trickery, wheedling or bullying, fawning or threatening, smiles, or rage, or tears--for a sixpence. All day long flattering and tricking to tell fortunes or sell trifles, and all life one greasy lie, with ready frowns or smiles: as it was in India in the beginning, as it is in Europe, and as it will be in America, so long as there shall be a rambler on the roads, amen! Sweet peace again established, Mrs. Brown became herself once more, and acted the hospitable hostess, exactly in the spirit and manner of any woman who has "a home of her own," and a spark of decent feeling in her heart. Like many actors, she was a bad lot on the boards, but a very nice person off them. Here in her rolling home she was neither a beggar nor poor, and she issued her orders grandly. "Boil some tea for the _rye_--cook some coffee for the _rye_--wait a few minutes, my darling gentleman, and I'll brile you a steak--or here's a fish, if you'd like it?" But I declined everything except the corner of a loaf and some ale; and all the time a little brown boy, with great black eyes, a perfect Murillo model, sat condensed in wondrous narrow space by the fire, baking small apples between the bars of the grate, and rolling up his orbs at me as if wondering what could have brought me into such a circle,--even as he had done that morning in the greenwood. Now if the reader would know what the interior of a gypsy van, or "drag," or _wardo_, is like, he may see it in the following diagram. [Picture: Interior of gypsy van] _A_ is the door; _B_ is the bed, or rather two beds, each six feet long, like berths, with a vacant space below; _C_ is a grate cooking-stove; _D_ is a table, which hangs by hinges from the wall; _E_ is a chest of drawers; _f_ and _f_ are two chairs. The general appearance of a well-kept van is that of a state-room. Brown's is a very good van, and quite clean. They are admirably well adapted for slow traveling, and it was in such vans, purchased from gypsies, that Sir Samuel Baker and his wife explored the whole of Cyprus. Mrs. Brown was proud of her van and of her little treasures. From the great recess under the bed she raked out as a rare curiosity an old Dolly Varden or damasked skirt, not at all worn, quite pretty, and evidently of considerable value to a collector. This had belonged to Mrs. Brown's grandmother, an old gypsy queen. And it may be observed, by the way, that the claims of every Irishman of every degree to be descended from one of the ancient kings of Ireland fade into nothing before those of the gypsy women, all of whom, with rare exception, are the own daughters of royal personages, granddaughterhood being hardly a claim to true nobility. Then the bed itself was exhibited with pride, and the princess sang its praises, till she affirmed that the _rye_ himself did not sleep on a better one, for which George reprimanded her. But she vigorously defended its excellence, and, to please her, I felt it and declared it was indeed much softer than the one I slept on, which was really true,--thank Heaven--and was received as a great compliment, and afterwards proclaimed on the roads even unto the ends of Surrey. "Yes," said Brown, as I observed some osiers in the cupboard, "when I feels like it I sometimes makes a pound a day a-making baskets." "I should think," I said, "that it would be cheaper to buy French baskets of Bulrose [Bulureaux] in Houndsditch, ready made." "So one would think; but the _ranyor_ [osiers] costs nothin', and so it's all profit, any way." Then I urged the greater profit of living in America, but both assured me that so long as they could make a good living and be very comfortable, as they considered themselves, in England, it would be nonsense to go to America. For all things are relative, and many a gypsy whom the begged-from pity sincerely, is as proud and happy in a van as any lord in the land. A very nice, neat young gypsy woman, camped long before just where the Browns were, once said to me, "It isn't having everything fine and stylish that makes you happy. Now we've got a van, and have everything so elegant and comfortable, and sleep warm as anybody; and yet I often say to my husband that we used to be happier when we used to sleep under a hedge with, may be, only a thin blanket, and wake up covered with snow." Now this woman had only a wretched wagon, and was always tramping in the rain, or cowering in a smoky, ragged tent and sitting on the ground, but she had food, fire, and fun, with warm clothes, and believed herself happy. Truly, she had better reason to think so than any old maid with a heart run to waste on church gossip, or the latest engagements and marriages; for it is better to be a street-boy in a corner with a crust than one who, without it, discusses, in starvation, with his friend the sausages and turtle-soup in a cook-shop window, between which and themselves there is a great pane of glass fixed, never to be penetrated. II. WALKING AND VISITING. I never shall forget the sparkling splendor of that frosty morning in December when I went with a younger friend from Oatlands Park for a day's walk. I may have seen at other times, but I do not remember, such winter lace-work as then adorned the hedges. The gossamer spider has within her an inward monitor which tells if the weather will be fine; but it says nothing about sudden changes to keen cold, and the artistic result was that the hedges were hung with thousands of Honiton lamp-mats, instead of the thread fly-catchers which their little artists had intended. And on twigs and dead leaves, grass and rock and wall, were such expenditures of Brussels and Spanish point, such a luxury of real old Venetian run mad, and such deliria of Russian lace as made it evident that Mrs. Jack Frost is a very extravagant fairy, but one gifted with exquisite taste. When I reflect how I have in my time spoken of the taste for lace and diamonds in women as entirely without foundation in nature, I feel that I sinned deeply. For Nature, in this lace-work, displays at times a sympathy with humanity,--especially womanity,--and coquets and flirts with it, as becomes the subject, in a manner which is merrily awful. There was once in Philadelphia a shop the windows of which were always filled with different kinds of the richest and rarest lace, and one cold morning I found that the fairies had covered the panes with literal frost fac-similes of the exquisite wares which hung behind. This was no fancy; the copies were as accurate as photographs. Can it be that in the invisible world there are Female Fairy Schools of Design, whose scholars combine in this graceful style Etching on Glass and Art Needlework? We were going to the village of Hersham to make a call. It was not at any stylish villa or lordly manor-house,--though I knew of more than one in the vicinity where we would have been welcome,--but at a rather disreputable-looking edifice, which bore on its front the sign of "Lodgings for Travellers." Now "traveller" means, below a certain circle of English life, not the occasional, but the habitual wanderer, or one who dwells upon the roads, and gains his living thereon. I have in my possession several cards of such a house. I found them wrapped in a piece of paper, by a deserted gypsy camp, where they had been lost:-- A NEW HOUSE. _Good Lodging for Travellers_. _With a Large Private Kitchen_. THE CROSS KEYS, WEST STREET . . . MAIDENHEAD. BY J. HARRIS. The "private kitchen" indicates that the guests will have facilities for doing their own cooking, as all of them bring their own victuals in perpetual picnic. In the inclosure of the house in Hersham, the tops of two or three gypsy vans could always be seen above the high fence, and there was that general air of mystery about the entire establishment which is characteristic of all places haunted by people whose ways are not as our ways, and whose little games are not as our little games. I had become acquainted with it and its proprietor, Mr. Hamilton, in that irregular and only way which is usual with such acquaintances. I was walking by the house one summer day, and stopped to ask my way. A handsome dark-brown girl was busy at the wash-tub, two or three older women were clustered at the gate, and in all their faces was the manner of the _diddikai_ or _chureni_, or half-blood gypsy. As I spoke I dropped my voice, and said, inquiringly,-- "Romanes?" "Yes," was the confidential answer. They were all astonished, and kept quiet till I had gone a few rods on my way, when the whole party, recovering from their amazement, raised a gentle cheer, expressive of approbation and sympathy. A few days after, walking with a lady in Weybridge, she said to me,-- "Who is that man who looked at you so closely?" "I do not know." "That's very strange. I am quite sure I heard him utter two words in a strange language, as you passed, as if he only meant them for you. They sounded like _sarshaun baw_." Which means, "How are you, sir?" or friend. As we came up the street, I saw the man talking with a well-dressed, sporting-looking man, not quite a gentleman, who sat cheekily in his own jaunty little wagon. As I passed, the one of the wagon said to the other, speaking of me, and in pure Romany, evidently thinking I did not understand,-- "_Dikk'adovo Giorgio_, _adoi_!" (Look at that Gorgio, there!) Being a Romany rye, and not accustomed to be spoken of as a Gorgio, I looked up at him, angrily, when he, seeing that I understood him, smiled, and bowed politely in apology. I laughed and passed on. But I thought it a little strange, for neither of the men had the slightest indication of gypsiness. I met the one who had said _sarishan ba_ again, soon after. I found that he and the one of the wagon were not of gypsy blood, but of a class not uncommon in England, who, be they rich or poor, are affected towards gypsies. The wealthy one lived with a gypsy mistress; the poorer one had a gypsy wife, and was very fond of the language. There is a very large class of these mysterious men everywhere about the country. They haunt fairs; they pop up unexpectedly as Jack-in-boxes in unsuspected guise; they look out from under fatherly umbrellas; their name is Legion; their mother is Mystery, and their uncle is Old Tom,--not of Virginia, but of Gin. Once, in the old town of Canterbury, I stood in the street, under the Old Woman with the Clock, one of the quaintest pieces of drollery ever imagined during the Middle Ages. And by me was a tinker, and as his wheel went _siz-'z-'z-'z_, _uz-uz-uz-z-z_! I talked with him, and there joined us a fat, little, elderly, spectacled, shabby-genteel, but well-to-do-looking sort of a punchy, small tradesman. And, as we spoke, there went by a great, stout, roaring Romany woman,--a scarlet-runner of Babylon run to seed,--with a boy and a hand-cart to carry the seed in. And to her I cried, "_Hav akai te mandy'll del tute a shaori_!" (Come here, and I'll stand a sixpence!) But she did not believe in my offer, but went her way, like a Burning Shame, through the crowd, and was lost evermore. I looked at the little old gentleman to see what effect my outcry in a strange language had upon him. But he only remarked, soberly, "Well, now, I _should_ 'a' thought a sixpence would 'a' brought her to!" And the wheel said, "Suz-zuz-zuz-z-z I should 'a' suz-suz 'a' thought a suz-z-zixpence would 'a' suz-zuz 'a' brought her, too-z-z-z!" And I looked at the Old Woman with the Clock, and she ticked, "A--six--pence--would--have--brought--_me_--two--three--four"--and I began to dream that all Canterbury was Romany. We came to the house, the landlord was up-stairs, ill in bed, but would be glad to see us; and he welcomed us warmly, and went deeply into Romany family matters with my friend, the Oxford scholar. Meanwhile, his daughter, a nice brunette, received and read a letter; and he tried to explain to me the mystery of the many men who are not gypsies, yet speak Romany, but could not do it, though he was one of them. It appeared from his account that they were "a kind of mixed, you see, and dusted in, you know, and on it, out of the family, it peppers up; but not exactly, you understand, and that's the way it is. And I remember a case in point, and that was one day, and I had sold a horse, and was with my boy in a _moramengro's buddika_ [barber's shop], and my boy says to me, in Romanes, 'Father, I'd like to have my hair cut.' 'It's too dear here, my son,' said I, Romaneskes; 'for the bill says threepence.' And then the barber, he ups and says, in Romany, 'Since you're Romanys, I'll cut it for _two_pence, though it's clear out of all my rules.' And he did it; but why that man _rakkered Romanes_ I don't know, nor how it comes about; for he hadn't no more call to it than a pig has to be a preacher. But I've known men in Sussex to take to diggin' truffles on the same principles, and one Gorgio in Hastings that adopted sellin' fried fish for his livin', about the town, because he thought it was kind of romantic. That's it." Over the chimney-piece hung a large engraving of Milton and his daughters. It was out of place, and our host knew it, and was proud. He said he had bought it at an auction, and that it was a picture of Middleton,--a poet, he believed; "anyhow, he was a writing man." But, on second thought, he remembered that the name was not Middleton, but Millerton. And on further reflection, he was still more convinced that Millerton _was_ a poet. I once asked old Matthew Cooper the Romany word for a poet. And he promptly replied that he had generally heard such a man called a _givellengero_ or _gilliengro_, which means a song-master, but that he himself regarded _shereskero-mush_, or head-man, as more elegant and deeper; for poets make songs out of their heads, and are also ahead of all other men in head-work. There is a touching and unconscious tribute to the art of arts in this definition which is worth recording. It has been said that, as people grow polite, they cease to be poetical; it is certain that in the first circles they do not speak of their poets with such respect as this. Out again into the fresh air and the frost on the crisp, crackling road and in the sunshine. At such a time, when cold inspires life, one can understand why the old poets and mystics believed that there was fire in ice. Therefore, Saint Sebaldus, coming into the hut of a poor and pious man who was dying of cold, went out, and, bringing in an armful of icicles, laid them on the andirons and made a good fire. Now this fire was the inner glowing glory of God, and worked both ways,--of course you see the connection,--as was shown in Adelheid von Sigolsheim, the Holy Nun of Unterlinden, who was so full of it that she passed the night in a freezing stream, and then stood all the morning, ice-clad, in the choir, and never caught cold. And the pious Peroneta, to avoid a sinful suitor, lived all winter, up to her neck, in ice-water, on the highest Alp in Savoy. {125} These were saints. But there was a gypsy, named Dighton, encamped near Brighton, who told me nearly the same story of another gypsy, who was no saint, and which I repeat merely to show how extremes meet. It was that this gypsy, who was inspired with anything but the inner glowing glory of God, but who was, on the contrary, cram full of pure cussedness, being warmed by the same,--and the devil,--when chased by the constable, took refuge in a river full of freezing slush and broken ice, where he stood up to his neck and defied capture; for he verily cared no more for it than did Saint Peter of Alcantara, who was both ice and fire proof. "Come out of that, my good man," said the gentleman, whose hen he had stolen, "and I'll let you go." "No, I won't come out," said the gypsy. "My blood be on your head!" So the gentleman offered him five pounds, and then a suit of clothes, to come ashore. The gypsy reflected, and at last said, "Well, if you'll add a drink of spirits, I'll come; but it's only to oblige you that I budge." Then we walked in the sober evening, with its gray gathering shadows, as the last western rose light rippled in the river, yet fading in the sky,--like a good man who, in dying, speaks cheerfully of earthly things, while his soul is vanishing serenely into heaven. The swans, looking like snowballs, unconscious of cold were taking their last swim towards the reedy, brake-tangled islets where they nested, gossiping as they went. The deepening darkness, at such a time, becomes more impressive from the twinkling stars, just as the subduing silence is noted only by the far-borne sounds from the hamlet or farm-house, or the occasional whispers of the night-breeze. So we went on in the twilight, along the Thames, till we saw the night-fire of the Romanys and its gleam on the _tan_. A _tan_ is, strictly speaking, a tent, but a tent is a dwelling, or stopping-place; and so from earliest Aryan time, the word _tan_ is like Alabama, or "here we rest," and may be found in _tun_, the ancestor of town, and in _stan_, as in Hindostan,--and if I blunder, so much the better for the philological gentlemen, who, of all others, most delight in setting erring brothers right, and never miss a chance to show, through others' shame, how much they know. There was a bark of a dog, and a voice said, "The Romany rye!" They had not seen us, but the dog knew, and they knew his language. "_Sarishan ryor_!" "_O boro duvel atch' pa leste_!" (The great Lord be on you!) This is not a common Romany greeting. It is of ancient days and archaic. Sixty or seventy years ago it was current. Old Gentilla Cooper, the famous fortune-teller of the Devil's Dike, near Brighton, knew it, and when she heard it from me she was moved,--just as a very old negro in London was, when I said to him, "_Sady_, uncle." I said it because I had recognized by the dog's bark that it was Sam Smith's tan. Sam likes to be considered as _deep_ Romany. He tries to learn old gypsy words, and he affects old gypsy ways. He is pleased to be called Petulengro, which means Smith. Therefore, my greeting was a compliment. In a few minutes we were in camp and at home. We talked of many things, and among others of witches. It is remarkable that while the current English idea of a witch is that of an old woman who has sold herself to Satan, and is a distinctly marked character, just like Satan himself, that of the witch among gypsies is general and Oriental. There is no Satan in India. Mrs. Smith--since dead--held that witches were to be found everywhere. "You may know a natural witch," she said, "by certain signs. One of these is straight hair which curls at the ends. Such women have it in them." It was only recently, as I write, that I was at a very elegant art reception, which was fully reported in the newspapers. And I was very much astonished when a lady called my attention to another young and very pretty lady, and expressed intense disgust at the way the latter wore her hair. It was simply parted in the middle, and fell down on either side, smooth as a water-fall, and then broke into curls at the ends, just as water, after falling, breaks into waves and rapids. But as she spoke, I felt it all, and saw that Mrs. Petulengro was in the right. The girl with the end-curled hair was uncanny. Her hair curled at the ends,--so did her eyes; she _was_ a witch. "But there's a many witches as knows clever things," said Mrs. Petulengro. "And I learned from one of them how to cure the rheumatiz. Suppose you've got the rheumatiz. Well, just you carry a potato in your pocket. As the potato dries up, your rheumatiz will go away." Sam Smith was always known on the roads as Fighting Sam. Years have passed, and when I have asked after him I have always heard that he was either in prison or had just been let out. Once it happened that, during a fight with a Gorgio, the Gorgio's watch disappeared, and Sam was arrested under suspicion of having got up the fight in order that the watch might disappear. All of his friends declared his innocence. The next trouble was for _chorin a gry_, or stealing a horse, and so was the next, and so on. As horse-stealing is not a crime, but only "rough gambling," on the roads, nobody defended him on these counts. He was, so far as this went, only a sporting character. When his wife died he married Athalia, the widow of Joshua Cooper, a gypsy, of whom I shall speak anon. I always liked Sam. Among the travelers, he was always spoken of as genteel, owing to the fact, that whatever the state of his wardrobe might be, he always wore about his neck an immaculate white woolen scarf, and on _jours de fete_, such as horse-races, sported a _boro stardi_, or chimney-pot hat. O my friend, Colonel Dash, of the club! Change but the name, this fable is of thee! "There's to be a _walgoro_, _kaliko i sala_--a fair to-morrow morning, at Cobham," said Sam, as he departed. "All right. We'll be there." As I went forth by the river into the night, and the stars looked down like loving eyes, there shot a meteor across the sky, one long trail of light, out of darkness into darkness, one instant bright, then dead forever. And I remembered how I once was told that stars, like mortals, often fall in love. O love, forever in thy glory go! And that they send their starry angels forth, and that the meteors are their messengers. O love, forever in thy glory go! For love and light in heaven, as on earth, were ever one, and planets speak with light. Light is their language; as they love they speak. O love, forever in thy glory go! III. COBHAM FAIR. The walk from Oatlands Park Hotel to Cobham is beautiful with memorials of Older England. Even on the grounds there is a quaint brick gateway, which is the only relic of a palace which preceded the present pile. The grandfather was indeed a stately edifice, built by Henry VIII., improved and magnified, according to his lights, by Inigo Jones, and then destroyed during the civil war. The river is here very beautiful, and the view was once painted by Turner. It abounds in "short windings and reaches." Here it is, indeed, the Olerifera Thamesis, as it was called by Guillaume le Breton in his "Phillipeis," in the days of Richard the Lion Heart. Here the eyots and banks still recall Norman days, for they are "wild and were;" and there is even yet a wary otter or two, known to the gypsies and fishermen, which may be seen of moonlight nights plunging or swimming silently in the haunted water. Now we pass Walton Church, and look in, that my friend may see the massy Norman pillars and arches, the fine painted glass, and the brasses. One of these represents John Selwyn, who was keeper of the royal park of Oatlands in 1587. Tradition, still current in the village, says that Selwyn was a man of wondrous strength and of rare skill in horsemanship. Once, when Queen Elizabeth was present at a stag hunt, he leaped from his horse upon the back of the stag, while both were running at full speed, kept his seat gracefully, guided the animal towards the queen, and stabbed him so deftly that he fell dead at her majesty's feet. It was daintily done, and doubtless Queen Bess, who loved a proper man, was well pleased. The brass plate represents Selwyn as riding on the stag, and there is in the village a shop where the neat old dame who presides, or her daughter, will sell you for a penny a picture of the plate, and tell you the story into the bargain. In it the valiant ranger sits on the stag, which he is stabbing through the neck with his _couteau de chasse_, looking meanwhile as solemn as if he were sitting in a pew and listening to _De profundis_. He who is great in one respect seldom fails in some other, and there is in the church another and a larger brass, from which it appears that Selwyn not only had a wife, but also eleven children, who are depicted in successive grandeur or gradation. There are monuments by Roubiliac and Chantrey in the church, and on the left side of the altar lies buried William Lilly, the great astrologer, the Sidrophel of Butler's "Hudibras." And look into the chancel. There is a tablet to his memory, which was put up by Elias Ashmole, the antiquary, who has left it in print that this "fair black marble stone" cost him 6 pounds 4_s_. 6_d_. When I was a youth, and used to pore in the old Franklin Library of Philadelphia over Lilly, I never thought that his grave would be so near my home. But a far greater literary favorite of mine lies buried in the church-yard without. This is Dr. Maginn, the author of "Father Tom and the Pope," and many another racy, subtle jest. A fellow of infinite humor,--the truest disciple of Rabelais,--and here he lies without a monument! Summon the sexton, and let us ask him to show us the scold's, or gossip's, bridle. This is a rare curiosity, which is kept in the vestry. It would seem, from all that can be learned, that two hundred years ago there were in England viragoes so virulent, women so gifted with gab and so loaded and primed with the devil's own gunpowder, that all moral suasion was wasted on them, and simply showed, as old Reisersberg wrote, that _fatue agit qui ignem conatur extinguere sulphure_ ('t is all nonsense to try to quench fire with brimstone). For such diavolas they had made--what the sexton is just going to show you--a muzzle of thin iron bars, which pass around the head and are padlocked behind. In front a flat piece of iron enters the mouth and keeps down the tongue. On it is the date 1633, and certain lines, no longer legible:-- "Chester presents Walton with a bridle, To curb women's tongues that talk too idle." A sad story, if we only knew it all! What tradition tells is that long ago there was a Master Chester, who lost a fine estate through the idle, malicious clack of a gossiping, lying woman. "What is good for a bootless bene?" What he did was to endow the church with this admirable piece of head-gear. And when any woman in the parish was unanimously adjudged to be deserving of the honor, the bridle was put on her head and tongue, and she was led about town by the beadle as an example to all the scolding sisterhood. Truly, if it could only be applied to the women and men who repeat gossip, rumors reports, _on dits_, small slanders, proved or unproved, to all gobe-mouches, club-gabblers, tea-talkers and tattlers, chatterers, church-twaddlers, wonderers if-it-be-true-what-they-say; in fine, to the entire sister and brother hood of tongue-waggers, I for one would subscribe my mite to have one kept in every church in the world, to be zealously applied to their vile jaws. For verily the mere Social Evil is an angel of light on this earth as regards doing evil, compared to the Sociable Evil,--and thus endeth the first lesson. We leave the church, so full of friendly memories. In this one building alone there are twenty things known to me from a boy. For from boyhood I have held in my memory those lines by Queen Elizabeth which she uttered here, and have read Lilly and Ashmole and Maginn; and this is only one corner in merrie England! Am I a stranger here? There is a father-land of the soul, which has no limits to him who, far sweeping on the wings of song and history, goes forth over many lands. We have but a little farther to go on our way before we come to the quaint old manor-house which was of old the home of President Bradshaw, the grim old Puritan. There is an old sailor in the village, who owns a tavern, and he says, and the policeman agrees with him, that it was in this house that the death-warrant of King Charles the First was signed. Also, that there is a subterranean passage which leads from it to the Thames, which was in some way connected with battle, murder, plots, Puritans, sudden death, and politics; though how this was is more than legend can clearly explain. Whether his sacred majesty was led to execution through this cavity, or whether Charles the Second had it for one of his numerous hiding-places, or returned through it with Nell Gwynn from his exile, are other obscure points debated among the villagers. The truth is that the whole country about Walton is subterrened with strange and winding ways, leading no one knows whither, dug in the days of the monks or knights, from one long-vanished monastery or castle to the other. There is the opening to one of these hard by the hotel, but there was never any gold found in it that ever I heard of. And all the land is full of legend, and ghosts glide o' nights along the alleys, and there is an infallible fairy well at hand, named the Nun, and within a short walk stands the tremendous Crouch oak, which was known of Saxon days. Whoever gives but a little of its bark to a lady will win her love. It takes its name from _croix_ (a cross), according to Mr. Kemble, {134} and it is twenty-four feet in girth. Its first branch, which is forty-eight feet long, shoots out horizontally, and is almost as large as the trunk. Under this tree Wickliffe preached, and Queen Elizabeth dined. It has been well said by Irving that the English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every class of society, have been extremely fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life. True, the days have gone when burlesque pageant and splendid procession made even villages magnificent. Harp and tabor and viol are no longer heard in every inn when people would be merry, and men have forgotten how to give themselves up to headlong roaring revelry. The last of this tremendous frolicking in Europe died out with the last yearly _kermess_ in Amsterdam, and it was indeed wonderful to see with what utter _abandon_ the usually stolid Dutch flung themselves into a rushing tide of frantic gayety. Here and there in England a spark of the old fire, lit in mediaeval times, still flickers, or perhaps flames, as at Dorking in the annual foot-ball play, which is carried on with such vigor that two or three thousand people run wild in it, while all the windows and street lamps are carefully screened for protection. But notwithstanding the gradually advancing republicanism of the age, which is dressing all men alike, bodily and mentally, the rollicking democracy of these old-fashioned festivals, in which the peasant bonneted the peer without ceremony, and rustic maids ran races _en chemise_ for a pound of tea, is entirely too leveling for culture. There are still, however, numbers of village fairs, quietly conducted, in which there is much that is pleasant and picturesque, and this at Cobham was as pretty a bit of its kind as I ever saw. These are old-fashioned and gay in their little retired nooks, and there the plain people show themselves as they really are. The better class of the neighborhood, having no sympathy with such sports or scenes, do not visit village fairs. It is, indeed, a most exceptional thing to see any man who is a "gentleman," according to the society standard, in any fair except Mayfair in London. Cobham is well built for dramatic display. Its White Lion Inn is of the old coaching days, and the lion on its front is a very impressive monster, one of the few relics of the days when signs were signs in spirit and in truth. In this respect the tavern keeper of to-day is a poor snob, that he thinks a sign painted or carven is degenerate and low, and therefore announces, in a line of letters, that his establishment is the Pig and Whistle, just as his remote predecessor thought it was low, or slow, or old-fashioned to dedicate his ale-shop to Pigen Wassail or Hail to the Virgin, and so changed it to a more genteel and secular form. In the public place were rows of booths arranged in streets forming _imperium in imperio_, a town within a town. There was of course the traditional gilt gingerbread, and the cheering but not inebriating ginger-beer, dear to the youthful palate, and not less loved by the tired pedestrian, when, mixed half and half with ale, it foams before him as _shandy gaff_. There, too, were the stands, presided over by jaunty, saucy girls, who would load a rifle for you and give you a prize or a certain number of shots for a shilling. You may be a good shot, but the better you shoot the less likely will you be to hit the bull's-eye with the rifle which that black-eyed Egyptian minx gives you; for it is artfully curved and false-sighted, and the rifle was made only to rifle your pocket, and the damsel to sell you with her smiles, and the doll is stuffed with sawdust, and life is not worth living for, and Miching Mallocko says it,--albeit I believe he lives at times as if there might be moments when it was forgot. And we had not been long on the ground before we were addressed furtively and gravely by a man whom it required a second glance to recognize as Samuel Petulengro, so artfully was he disguised as a simple-seeming agriculturalist of the better lower-class. But that there remained in Sam's black eyes that glint of the Romany which nothing could disguise, one would have longed to buy a horse of him. And in the same quiet way there came, one by one, out of the crowd, six others, all speaking in subdued voices, like conspirators, and in Romany, as if it were a sin. And all were dressed rustically, and the same with intent to deceive, and all had the solemn air of very small farmers, who must sell that horse at any sacrifice. But when I saw Sam's horses I marked that his disguise of himself was nothing to the wondrous skill with which he had converted his five-pound screws into something comparatively elegant. They had been curried, clipped, singed, and beautified to the last resource, and the manner in which the finest straw had been braided into mane and tail was a miracle of art. This was _jour de fete_ for Sam and his _diddikai_, or half-blood pals; his foot was on his native heath in the horse-fair, where all inside the ring knew the gypsy, and it was with pride that he invited us to drink ale, and once in the bar-room, where all assembled were jockeys and sharps, conversed loudly in Romany, in order to exhibit himself and us to admiring friends. A Romany rye, on such occasions, is to a Sam Petulengro what a scion of royalty is to minor aristocracy when it can lure him into its nets. To watch one of these small horse-dealers at a fair, and to observe the manner in which he conducts his bargains, is very curious. He lounges about all day, apparently doing nothing; he is the only idler around. Once in a while somebody approaches him and mutters something, to which he gives a brief reply. Then he goes to a tap-room or stable-yard, and is merged in a mob of his mates. But all the while he is doing sharp clicks of business. There is somebody talking to another party about _that horse_; somebody telling a farmer that he knows a young man as has got a likely 'oss at 'arf price, the larst of a lot which he wants to clear out, and it may be 'ad, but if the young man sees 'im [the farmer] he may put it on 'eavy. Then the agent calls in one of the disguised Romanys to testify to the good qualities of the horse. They look at it, but the third _deguise_, who has it in charge, avers that it has just been sold to a gentleman. But they have another. By this time the farmer wishes he had bought the horse. When any coin slips from between our fingers, and rolls down through a grating into the sewer, we are always sure that it was a sovereign, and not a half-penny. Yes, and the fish which drops back from the line into the river is always the biggest take--or mistake--of the day. And this horse was a bargain, and the three in disguise say so, and wish they had a hundred like it. But there comes a Voice from the depths, a casual remark, offering to bet that 'ere gent won't close on that hoss. "Bet yer ten bob he will." "Done." "How do yer know he don't take the hoss?" "He carn't; he's too heavy loaded with Bill's mare. Says he'll sell it for a pound better." The farmer begins to see his way. He is shrewd; it may be that he sees through all this myth of "the gentleman." But his attention has been attracted to the horse. Perhaps he pays a little more, or "the pound better;" in greater probability he gets Sam's horse for the original price. There are many ways among gypsies of making such bargains, but the motive power of them all is _taderin_, or drawing the eye of the purchaser, a game not unknown to Gorgios. I have heard of a German _yahud_ in Philadelphia, whose little boy Moses would shoot from the door with a pop-gun or squirt at passers-by, or abuse them vilely, and then run into the shop for shelter. They of course pursued him and complained to the parent, who immediately whipped his son, to the great solace of the afflicted ones. And then the afflicted seldom failed to buy something in that shop, and the corrected son received ten per cent. of the profit. The attention of the public had been drawn. As we went about looking at people and pastimes, a Romany, I think one of the Ayres, said to me,-- "See the two policemen? They're following you two gentlemen. They saw you pallin' with Bowers. That Bowers is the biggest blackguard on the roads between London and Windsor. I don't want to hurt his charackter, but it's no bad talkin' nor _dusherin_ of him to say that no decent Romanys care to go with him. Good at a mill? Yes, he's that. A reg'lar _wastimengro_, I call him. And that's why it is." Now there was in the fair a vast institution which proclaimed by a monstrous sign and by an excessive eruption of advertisement that it was THE SENSATION OF THE AGE. This was a giant hand-organ in connection with a forty-bicycle merry-go-round, all propelled by steam. And as we walked about the fair, the two rural policemen, who had nothing better to do, shadowed or followed us, their bucolic features expressing the intensest suspicion allied to the extremest stupidity; when suddenly the Sensation of the Age struck up the Gendarme's chorus, "We'll run 'em in," from Genevieve de Brabant, and the arrangement was complete. Of all airs ever composed this was the most appropriate to the occasion, and therefore it played itself. The whole formed quite a little opera-bouffe, gypsies not being wanting. And as we came round, in our promenade, the pretty girl, with her rifle in hand, implored us to take a shot, and the walk wound up by her finally letting fly herself and ringing the bell. That pretty girl might or might not have a touch of Romany blood in her veins, but it is worth noting that among all these show-men and show-women, acrobats, exhibitors of giants, purse-droppers, gingerbread-wheel gamblers, shilling knife-throwers, pitch-in-his-mouths, Punches, Cheap-Jacks, thimble-rigs, and patterers of every kind there is always a leaven and a suspicion of gypsiness. If there be not descent, there is affinity by marriage, familiarity, knowledge of words and ways, sweethearting and trafficking, so that they know the children of the Rom as the house-world does not know them, and they in some sort belong together. It is a muddle, perhaps, and a puzzle; I doubt if anybody quite understands it. No novelist, no writer whatever, has as yet _clearly_ explained the curious fact that our entire nomadic population, excepting tramps, is not, as we thought in our childhood, composed of English people like ourselves. It is leavened with direct Indian blood; it has, more or less modified, a peculiar _morale_. It was old before the Saxon heptarchy. I was very much impressed at this fair with the extensive and unsuspected amount of Romany existent in our rural population. We had to be satisfied, as we came late into the tavern for lunch, with cold boiled beef and carrots, of which I did not complain, as cold carrots are much nicer than warm, a fact too little understood in cookery. There were many men in the common room, mostly well dressed, and decent even if doubtful looking. I observed that several used Romany words in casual conversation. I came to the conclusion at last that all who were present knew something of it. The greatly reprobated Bowers was not himself a gypsy, but he had a gypsy wife. He lived in a cottage not far from Walton, and made baskets, while his wife roamed far and near, selling them; and I have more than once stopped and sent for a pot of ale, and shared it with Bill, listening meantime to his memories of the road as he caned chairs or "basketed." I think his reputation came rather from a certain Bohemian disregard of _convenances_ and of appearances than from any deeply-seated sinfulness. For there are Bohemians even among gypsies; everything in this life being relative and socially-contractive. When I came to know the disreputable William well, I found in him the principles of Panurge, deeply identified with the _morale_ of Falstaff; a wondrous fund of unbundled humor, which expressed itself more by tones than words; a wisdom based on the practices of the prize-ring; and a perfectly sympathetic admiration of my researches into Romany. One day, at Kingston Fair, as I wished to depart, I asked Bill the way to the station. "I will go with you and show you," he said. But knowing that he had business in the fair I declined his escort. He looked at me as if hurt. "_Does tute pen mandy'd chore tute_?" (Do you think I would rob _you_ or pick your pockets?) For he believed I was afraid of it. I knew Bill better. I knew that he was perfectly aware that I was about the only man in England who had a good opinion of him in any way, or knew what good there was in him. When a _femme incomprise_, a woman not as yet found out, discovers at last the man who is so much a master of the art of flattery as to satisfy somewhat her inordinate vanity, she is generally grateful enough to him who has thus gratified her desires to refrain from speaking ill of him, and abuse those who do, especially the latter. In like manner, Bill Bowers, who was every whit as interesting as any _femme incomprise_ in Belgravia, or even Russell Square, believing that I had a little better opinion of him than anybody else, would not only have refrained from robbing me, but have proceeded to lam with his fists anybody else who would have done so,--the latter proceeding being, from his point of view, only a light, cheerful, healthy, and invigorating exercise, so that, as he said, and as I believe truthfully, "I'd rather be walloped than not fight." Even as my friend H. had rather lose than not play "farrer." This was a very pretty little country fair at Cobham; pleasant and purely English. It was very picturesque, with its flags, banners, gayly bedecked booths, and mammoth placards, there being, as usual, no lack of color or objects. I wonder that Mr. Frith, who has given with such idiomatic genius the humors of the Derby, has never painted an old-fashioned rural fair like this. In a few years the last of them will have been closed, and the last gypsy will be there to look on. There was a pleasant sight in the afternoon, when all at once, as it seemed to me, there came hundreds of pretty, rosy-cheeked children into the fair. There were twice as many of them as of grown people. I think that, the schools being over for the day, they had been sent a-fairing for a treat. They swarmed in like small bee-angels, just escaped from some upset celestial hive; they crowded around the booths, buying little toys, chattering, bargaining, and laughing, when my eye caught theirs, as though to be noticed was the very best joke in the whole world. They soon found out the Sensation of the Age, and the mammoth steam bicycle was forthwith crowded with the happy little creatures, raptured in all the glory of a ride. The cars looked like baskets full of roses. It was delightful to see them: at first like grave and stolid little Anglo-Saxons, occupied seriously with the new Sensation; then here and there beaming with thawing jollity; then smiling like sudden sun-gleams; and then laughing, until all were in one grand chorus, as the speed became greater, and the organ roared out its notes as rapidly as a runaway musical locomotive, and the steam-engine puffed in time, until a high-pressure scream told that the penn'orth of fun was up. As we went home in the twilight, and looked back at the trees and roofs of the village, in dark silhouette against the gold-bronze sky, and heard from afar and fitfully the music of the Great Sensation mingled with the beat of a drum and the shouts of the crowd, rising and falling with the wind, I felt a little sad, that the age, in its advancing refinement, is setting itself against these old-fashioned merry-makings, and shrinking like a weakling from all out-of-doors festivals, on the plea of their being disorderly, but in reality because they are believed to be vulgar. They come down to us from rough old days; but they are relics of a time when life, if rough, was at least kind and hearty. We admire that life on the stage, we ape it in novels, we affect admiration and appreciation of its rich picturesqueness and vigorous originality, and we lie in so doing; for there is not an aesthetic prig in London who could have lived an hour in it. Truly, I should like to know what Francois Villon and Chaucer would have thought of some of their modern adorers, or what the lioness Fair-sinners of the olden time would have had to say to the nervous weaklings who try to play the genial blackguard in their praise! It is to me the best joke of the age that those who now set themselves up for priests of the old faith are the men, of all others, whom the old gods would have kicked, _cum magna injuria_, out of the temple. When I sit by Bill Bowers, as he baskets, and hear the bees buzz about his marigolds, or in Plato Buckland's van, or with a few hearty and true men of London town of whom I wot, _then_ I know that the old spirit liveth in its ashes; but there is little of it, I trow, among its penny prig-trumpeters. IV. THE MIXED FORTUNES. "Thus spoke the king to the great Master: 'Thou didst bless and ban the people; thou didst give benison and curse, luck and sorrow, to the evil or the good.' "And the Master said, 'It may be so.' "And the king continued, 'There came two men, and one was good and the other bad. And one thou didst bless, thinking he was good; but he was wicked. And the other thou didst curse, and thought him bad; but he was good.' "The Master said, 'And what came of it?' "The king answered, 'All evil came upon the good man, and all happiness to the bad.' "And the Master said, 'I write letters, but I am not the messenger; I hunt the deer, but I am not the cook; I plant the vine, but I do not pour the wine to the guests; I ordain war, yet do not fight; I send ships forth on the sea, but do not sail them. There is many a slip between cup and lip, as the chief of the rebel spirits said when he was thrown out of heaven, and I am not greater nor wiser than he was before he fell. Hast thou any more questions, O son?' "And the king went his way." One afternoon I was walking with three ladies. One was married, one was a young widow, and one, no longer very young, had not as yet husbanded her resources. And as we went by the Thames, conversation turned upon many things, and among them the mystery of the future and mediums; and the widow at last said she would like to have her fortune told. "You need not go far to have it done," I said. "There is a gypsy camp not a mile away, and in it one of the cleverest fortune-tellers in England." "I am almost afraid to go," said the maiden lady. "It seems to me to be really wrong to try to look into the awful secrets of futurity. One can never be certain as to what a gypsy may not know. It's all very well, I dare say, to declare it's all rubbish, but then you know you never can tell what may be in a rubbish-heap, and they may be predicting true things all the time while they think they're humbugging you. And they do often foretell the most wonderful things; I know they do. My aunt was told that she would marry a man who would cause her trouble, and, sure enough, she did; and it was such a shame, she was such a sweet-tempered, timid woman, and he spent half her immense fortune. Now wasn't that wonderful?" It would be a curious matter for those who like studying statistics and chance to find out what proportion in England of sweet-tempered, timid women of the medium-middle class, in newly-sprouted families, with immense fortunes, do _not_ marry men who only want their money. Such heiresses are the natural food of the noble shark and the swell sucker, and even a gypsy knows it, and can read them at a glance. I explained this to the lady; but she knew what she knew, and would not know otherwise. So we came along the rippling river, watching the darting swallows and light water-gnats, as the sun sank afar into the tawny, golden west, and Night, in ever-nearing circles, wove her shades around us. We saw the little tents, like bee-hives,--one, indeed, not larger than the hive in which Tyll Eulenspiegel slept his famous nap, and in which he was carried away by the thieves who mistook him for honey and found him vinegar. And the outposts, or advanced pickets of small, brown, black-eyed elves, were tumbling about as usual, and shouted their glad greeting; for it was only the day before that I had come down with two dozen oranges, which by chance proved to be just one apiece for all to eat except for little Synfie Cooper, who saved hers up for her father when he should return. I had just an instant in which to give the gypsy sorceress a "straight tip," and this I did, saying in Romany that one of the ladies was married and one a widow. I was indeed quite sure that she must know the married lady as such, since she had lived near at hand, within a mile, for months. And so, with all due solemnity, the sorceress went to her work. "You will come first, my lady, if you please," she said to the married dame, and led her into a hedge-corner, so as to be remote from public view, while we waited by the camp. The hand was inspected, and properly crossed with a shilling, and the seeress began her prediction. "It's a beautiful hand, my lady, and there's luck in it. The line o' life runs lovely and clear, just like a smooth river from sea to sea, and that means you'll never be in danger before you die, nor troubled with much ill. And it's written that you'll have another husband very soon." "But I don't want another," said the lady. "Ah, my dear lady, so you'll say till you get him, but when he comes you'll be glad enough; so do you just get the first one out of your head as soon as you can, for the next will be the better one. And you'll cross the sea and travel in a foreign land, and remember what I told you to the end of your life days." Then the widow had her turn. "This is a lucky hand, and little need you had to have your fortune told. You've been well married once, and once is enough when it's all you need. There's others as is never satisfied and wants everything, but you've had the best, and more you needn't want, though there'll be many a man who'll be in love with you. Ay, indeed, there's fair and dark as will feel the favor of your beautiful eyes, but little good will it do them, and barons and lords as would kiss the ground you tread on; and no wonder, either, for you have the charm which nobody can tell what it is. But it will do 'em no good, nevermore." "Then I'm never to have another husband," said the widow. "No, my lady. He that you married was the best of all, and, after him, you'll never need another; and that was written in your hand when you were born, and it will be your fate, forever and ever: and that is the gypsy's production over the future, and what she has producted will come true. All the stars in the fermentation of heaven can't change it. But if you ar'n't satisfied, I can set a planet for you, and try the cards, which comes more expensive, for I never do that under ten shillings." There was a comparing of notes among the ladies and much laughter, when it appeared that the priestess of the hidden spell, in her working, had mixed up the oracles. Jacob had manifestly got Esau's blessing. It was agreed that the _bonnes fortunes_ should be exchanged, that the shillings might not be regarded as lost, and all this was explained to the unmarried lady. She said nothing, but in due time was also _dukkered_ or fortune-told. With the same mystery she was conducted to the secluded corner of the hedge, and a very long, low-murmuring colloquy ensued. What it was we never knew, but the lady had evidently been greatly impressed and awed. All that she would tell was that she had heard things that were "very remarkable, which she was sure no person living could have known," and in fact that she believed in the gypsy, and even the blunder as to the married lady and the widow, and all my assurances that chiromancy as popularly practiced was all humbug, made no impression. There was once "a disciple in Yabneh" who gave a hundred and fifty reasons to prove that a reptile was no more unclean than any other animal. But in those days people had not been converted to the law of turtle soup and the gospel of Saint Terrapin, so the people said it was a vain thing. And had I given a hundred and fifty reasons to this lady, they would have all been vain to her, for she wished to believe; and when our own wishes are served up unto us on nice brown pieces of the well-buttered toast of flattery, it is not hard to induce us to devour them. It is written that when Ashmedai, or Asmodeus, the chief of all the devils of mischief, was being led a captive to Solomon, he did several mysterious things while on the way, among others bursting into extravagant laughter, when he saw a magician conjuring and predicting. On being questioned by Benaiah, the son of Jehoiada, why he had seemed so much amused, Ashmedai answered that it was because the seer was at the very time sitting on a princely treasure, and he did not, with all his magic and promising fortune to others, know this. Yet, if this had been told to all the world, the conjurer's business would not have suffered. Not a bit of it. _Entre Jean_, _passe Jeannot_: one comes and goes, another takes his place, and the poor will disappear from this world before the too credulous shall have departed. It was on the afternoon of the following day that I, by chance, met the gypsy with a female friend, each with a basket, by the roadside, in a lonely, furzy place, beyond Walton. "You are a nice fortune-teller, aren't you now?" I said to her. "After getting a tip, which made it all as clear as day, you walk straight into the dark. And here you promise a lady two husbands, and she married already; but you never promised me two wives, that I might make merry withal. And then to tell a widow that she would never be married again! You're a _bori chovihani_ [a great witch],--indeed, you aren't." "_Rye_," said the gypsy, with a droll smile and a shrug,--I think I can see it now,--"the _dukkerin_ [prediction] was all right, but I pet the right _dukkerins_ on the wrong ladies." And the Master said, "I write letters, but I am not the messenger." His orders, like the gypsy's, had been all right, but they had gone to the wrong shop. Thus, in all ages, those who affect superior wisdom and foreknowledge absolute have found that a great practical part of the real business consisted in the plausible explanation of failures. The great Canadian weather prophet is said to keep two clerks busy, one in recording his predictions, the other in explaining their failures; which is much the case with the rain-doctors in Africa, who are as ingenious and fortunate in explaining a miss as a hit, as, indeed, they need be, since they must, in case of error, submit to be devoured alive by ants,--insects which in Africa correspond in several respects to editors and critics, particularly the stinging kind. "_Und ist man bei der Prophezeiung angestellt_," as Heine says; "when a man has a situation in a prophecy-office," a great part of his business is to explain to the customers why it is that so many of them draw blanks, or why the trains of fate are never on time. V. HAMPTON RACES. On a summer day, when waking dreams softly wave before the fancy, it is pleasant to walk in the noon-stillness along the Thames, for then we pass a series of pictures forming a gallery which I would not exchange for that of the Louvre, could I impress them as indelibly upon the eye-memory as its works are fixed on canvas. There exists in all of us a spiritual photographic apparatus, by means of which we might retain accurately all we have ever seen, and bring out, at will, the pictures from the pigeon-holes of the memory, or make new ones as vivid as aught we see in dreams, but the faculty must be developed in childhood. So surely as I am now writing this will become, at some future day, a branch of education, to be developed into results of which the wildest imagination can form no conception, and I put the prediction on record. As it is, I am sorry that I was never trained to this half-thinking, half-painting art, since, if I had been, I should have left for distant days to come some charming views of Surrey as it appears in this decade. The reedy eyots and the rising hills; the level meadows and the little villes, with their antique perpendicular Gothic churches, which form the points around which they have clustered for centuries, even as groups of boats in the river are tied around their mooring-posts; the bridges and trim cottages or elegant mansions with their flower-bordered grounds sweeping down to the water's edge, looking like rich carpets with new baize over the centre, make the pictures of which I speak, varying with every turn of the Thames; while the river itself is, at this season, like a continual regatta, with many kinds of boats, propelled by stalwart young Englishmen or healthy, handsome damsels, of every rank, the better class by far predominating. There is a disposition among the English to don quaint holiday attire, to put on the picturesque, and go to the very limits which custom permits, which would astonish an American. Of late years this is becoming the case, too, in Trans-Atlantis, but it has always been usual in England, to mark the fete day with a festive dress, to wear gay ribbons, and to indulge the very harmless instinct of youth to be gallant and gay. I had started one morning on a walk by the Thames, when I met a friend, who asked,-- "Aren't you going to-day to the Hampton races?" "How far is it?" "Just six miles. On Molesy Hurst." Six miles, and I had only six shillings in my pocket. I had some curiosity to see this race, which is run on the Molesy Hurst, famous as the great place for prize-fighting in the olden time, and which has never been able to raise itself to respectability, inasmuch as the local chronicler says that "the course attracts considerable and not very reputable gatherings." In fact, it is generally spoken of as the Costermonger's race, at which a mere welsher is a comparatively respectable character, and every man in a good coat a swell. I was nicely attired, by chance, for the occasion, for I had come out, thinking of a ride, in a white hat, new corduroy pantaloons and waistcoat, and a velveteen coat, which dress is so greatly admired by the gypsies that it may almost be regarded as their "national costume." There was certainly, to say the least, a rather _bourgeois_ tone at the race, and gentility was conspicuous by its absence; but I did not find it so outrageously low as I had been led to expect. I confess that I was not encouraged to attempt to increase my little hoard of silver by betting, and the certainty that if I lost I could not lunch made me timid. But the good are never alone in this world, and I found friends whom I dreamed not of. Leaving the crowd, I sought the gypsy vans, and by one of these was old Liz Buckland. "_Sarishan rye_! And glad I am to see you. Why didn't you come down into Kent to see the hoppin'? Many a time the Romanys says they expected to see their _rye_ there. Just the other night, your Coopers was a-lyin' round their fire, every one of 'em in a new red blanket, lookin' so beautiful as the light shone on 'em, and I says, 'If our _rye_ was to see you, he'd just have that book of his out, and take all your pictures.'" After much gossip over absent friends, I said,-- "Well, _dye_, I stand a shilling for beer, and that's all I can do to-day, for I've come out with only _shove trin-grushi_." Liz took the shilling, looked at it and at me with an earnest air, and shook her head. "It'll never do, _rye_,--never. A gentleman wants more than six shillin's to see a race through, and a reg'lar Romany rye like you ought to slap down his _lovvo_ with the best of 'em for the credit of his people. And if you want a _bar_ [a pound] or two, I'll lend you the money, and never fear about your payment." It was kind of the old _dye_, but I thought that I would pull through on my five shillings, before I would draw on the Romany bank. To be considered with sincere sympathy, as an object of deserving charity, on the lowest race-ground in England, and to be offered eleemosynary relief by a gypsy, was, indeed, touching the hard pan of humiliation. I went my way, idly strolling about, mingling affably with all orders, for my watch was at home. _Vacuus viator cantabit_. As I stood by a fence, I heard a gentlemanly-looking young man, who was evidently a superior pickpocket, or "a regular fly gonoff," say to a friend,-- "She's on the ground,--a great woman among the gypsies. What do they call her?" "Mrs. Lee." "Yes. A swell Romany she is." Whenever one hears an Englishman, not a scholar, speak of gypsies as "Romany," he may be sure that man is rather more on the loose than becomes a steady citizen, and that he walks in ways which, if not of darkness, are at least in a shady _demi-jour_, with a gentle down grade. I do not think there was anybody on the race-ground who was not familiar with the older word. It began to rain, and before long my new velveteen coat was very wet. I looked among the booths for one where I might dry myself and get something to eat, and, entering the largest, was struck by the appearance of the landlady. She was a young and decidedly pretty woman, nicely dressed, and was unmistakably gypsy. I had never seen her before, but I knew who she was by a description I had heard. So I went up to the bar and spoke:-- "How are you, Agnes?" "Bloomin'. What will you have, sir?" "_Dui curro levinor_, _yeck for tute_, _yeck for mandy_." (Two glasses for ale,--one for you, one for me.) She looked up with a quick glance and a wondering smile, and then said,-- "You must be the Romany rye of the Coopers. I'm glad to see you. Bless me, how wet you are. Go to the fire and dry yourself. Here, Bill, I say! Attend to this gentleman." There was a tremendous roaring fire at the farther end of the booth, at which were pieces of meat, so enormous as to suggest a giant's roast or a political barbecue rather than a kitchen. I glanced with some interest at Bill, who came to aid me. In all my life I never saw a man who looked so thoroughly the regular English bull-dog bruiser of the lowest type, but battered and worn out. His nose, by oft-repeated pummeling, had gradually subsided almost to a level with his other features, just as an ancient British grave subsides, under the pelting storms of centuries, into equality with the plain. His eyes looked out from under their bristly eaves like sleepy wild-cats from a pig-pen, and his physique was tremendous. He noticed my look of curiosity. "Old Bruisin' Bill, your honor. I was well knowed in the prize-ring once. Been in the newspapers. Now, you mus'n't dry your coat that way! New welweteen ought always to be wiped afore you dry it. I was a gamekeeper myself for six years, an' wore it all that time nice and proper, I did, and know how may be you've got a thrip'ny bit for old Bill. Thanky." I will do Mrs. Agnes Wynn the credit to say that in her booth the best and most abundant meal that I ever saw for the price in England was given for eighteen pence. Fed and dried, I was talking with her, when there came up a pretty boy of ten, so neat and well dressed and altogether so nice that he might have passed current for a gentleman's son anywhere. "Well, Agnes. You're Wynn by name and winsome by nature, and all the best you have has gone into that boy. They say you gypsies used to steal children. I think it's time to turn the tables, and when I take the game up I'll begin by stealing your _chavo_." Mrs. Wynn looked pleased. "He is a good boy, as good as he looks, and he goes to school, and don't keep low company." Here two or three octoroon, duodecaroon, or vigintiroon Romany female friends of the landlady came up to be introduced to me, and of course to take something at my expense for the good of the house. This they did in the manner specially favored by gypsies; that is to say, a quart of ale, being ordered, was offered first to me, in honor of my social position, and then passed about from hand to hand. This rite accomplished, I went forth to view the race. The sun had begun to shine again, the damp flags and streamers had dried themselves in its cheering rays, even as I had renewed myself at Dame Wynn's fire, and I crossed the race-course. The scene was lively, picturesque, and thoroughly English. There are certain pleasures and pursuits which, however they may be perfected in other countries, always seem to belong especially to England, and chief among these is the turf. As a fresh start was made, as the spectators rushed to the ropes, roaring with excitement, and the horses swept by amid hurrahs, I could realize the sympathetic feeling which had been developed in all present by ancient familiarity and many associations with such scenes. Whatever the moral value of these may be, it is certain that anything so racy with local color and so distinctly fixed in popular affection as the _race_ will always appeal to the artist and the student of national scenes. I found Old Liz lounging with Old Dick, her husband, on the other side. There was a canvas screen, eight feet high, stretched as a background to stop the sticks hurled by the players at "coker-nuts," while the nuts themselves, each resting on a stick five feet high, looked like disconsolate and starved spectres, waiting to be cruelly treated. In company with the old couple was a commanding-looking, eagle-eyed Romany woman, in whom I at once recognized the remarkable gypsy spoken of by the pickpocket. "My name is Lee," she said, in answer to my greeting. "What is yours?" "Leland." "Yes, you have added land to the lee. You are luckier than I am. I'm a Lee without land." As she spoke she looked like an ideal Meg Merrilies, and I wished I had her picture. It was very strange that I made the wish at that instant, for just then she was within an ace of having it taken, and therefore arose and went away to avoid it. An itinerant photographer, seeing me talking with the gypsies, was attempting, though I knew it not, to take the group. But the keen eye of the Romany saw it all, and she went her way, because she was of the real old kind, who believe it is unlucky to have their portraits taken. I used to think that this aversion was of the same kind as that which many good men evince in a marked manner when requested by the police to sit for their photographs for the rogues' gallery. But here I did the gypsies great injustice; for they will allow their likenesses to be taken if you will give them a shoe-string. That this old superstition relative to the binding and loosing of ill-luck by the shoe-string should exist in this connection is of itself curious. In the earliest times the shoe-latchet brought luck, just as the shoe itself did, especially when filled with corn or rice, and thrown after the bride. It is a great pity that the ignorant Gentiles, who are so careful to do this at every wedding, do not know that it is all in vain unless they cry aloud in Hebrew, "_Peru urphu_!" {159} with all their might when the shoe is cast, and that the shoe should be filled with rice. She went away, and in a few minutes the photographer came in great glee to show a picture which he had taken. "'Ere you are, sir. An elegant photograph, surroundin' sentimental scenery and horiental coker-nuts thrown in,--all for a diminitive little shillin'." "Now that time you missed it," I said; "for on my honor as a gentleman, I have only ninepence in all my pockets." "A gent like you with only ninepence!" said the artist. "If he hasn't got money in his pocket now," said Old Liz, speaking up in my defense, "he has plenty at home. He has given pounds and pounds to us gypsies." "_Dovo's a huckaben_," I said to her in Romany. "_Mandy kekker delled tute kumi'n a trin-grushi_." (That is untrue. I never gave you more than a shilling.) "Anyhow," said Liz, "ninepence is enough for it." And the man, assenting, gave it to me. It was a very good picture, and I have since had several copies taken of it. "Yes, _rya_," said Old Liz, when I regretted the absence of my Lady Lee, and talked with her about shoe-strings and old shoes, and how necessary it was to cry out "_Peru urphu_!" when you throw them,--"yes. That's the way the Gorgis always half does things. You see 'em get a horse-shoe off the roads, and what do they do with it! Goes like _dinneli_ idiots and nails it up with the p'ints down, which, as is well beknown, brings all the bad luck there is flyin' in the air into the house, and _taders chovihanees_ [draws witches] like anise-seed does rats. Now common sense ought to teach that the shoe ought to be put like horns, with the p'ints up. For if it's lucky to put real horns up, of course the horse-shoe goes the same _drom_ [road]. And it's lucky to pick up a red string in the morning,--yes, or at any time; but it's sure love from a girl if you do,--specially silk. And if so be she gives you a red string or cord, or a strip of red stuff, _that_ means she'll be bound to you and loves you." VI. STREET SKETCHES. London, during hot weather, after the close of the wise season, suggests to the upper ten thousand, and to the lower twenty thousand who reflect their ways, and to the lowest millions who minister to them all, a scene of doleful dullness. I call the time which has passed wise, because that which succeeds is universally known as the silly season. Then the editors in town have recourse to the American newspapers for amusing murders, while their rural brethren invent great gooseberries. Then the sea-serpent again lifts his awful head. I am always glad when this sterling inheritance of the Northern races reappears; for while we have _him_ I know that the capacity for swallowing a big bouncer, or for inventing one, is not lost. He is characteristic of a fine, bold race. Long may he wave! It is true that we cannot lie as gloriously as our ancestors did about him. When the great news-dealer of Norse times had no home-news he took his lyre, and either spun a yarn about Vinland such as would smash the "Telegraph," or else sung about "that sea-snake tremendous curled, whose girth encircles half the world." It is wonderful, it is awful, to consider how true we remain to the traditions of the older time. The French boast that they invented the _canard_. Let them boast. They also invented the shirt-collar; but hoary legends say that an Englishman invented the shirt for it, as well as the art of washing it. What the shirt is to the collar, that is the glorious, tough old Northern _saga_, or maritime spun yarn, to the _canard_, or duck. The yarn will wash; it passes into myth and history; it fits exactly, because it was made to order; its age and glory illustrate the survival of the fittest. I have, during three or four summers, remained a month in London after the family had taken flight to the sea-side. I stayed to finish books promised for the autumn. It is true that nearly four million of people remain in London during the later summer; but it is wonderful what an influence the absence of a few exerts on them and on the town. Then you realize by the long lines of idle vehicles in the ranks how few people in this world can afford a cab; then you find out how scanty is the number of those who buy goods at the really excellent shops; and then you may finally find out by satisfactory experience, if you are inclined to grumble at your lot in life or your fortune, how much better off you are than ninety-nine in a hundred of your fellow-murmurers at fate. It was my wont to walk out in the cool of the evening, to smoke my cigar in Regent's Park, seated on a bench, watching the children as they played about the clock-and-bull fountain,--for it embraces these objects among its adornments,--presented by Cowasie Jehanguire, who added to these magnificent Persian names the prosaic English postscript of Ready Money. In this his name sets forth the history of his Parsee people, who, from being heroic Ghebers, have come down to being bankers, who can "do" any Jew, and who might possibly tackle a Yankee so long as they kept out of New Jersey. One evening I walked outside of the Park, passing by the Gloucester Bridge to a little walk or boulevard, where there are a few benches. I was in deep moon-shadow, formed by the trees; only the ends of my boots shone like eyes in the moonlight as I put them out. After a while I saw a nice-looking young girl, of the humble-decent class, seated by me, and with her I entered into casual conversation. On the bench behind us were two young Italians, conversing in strongly marked Florentine dialect. They evidently thought that no one could understand them; as they became more interested they spoke more distinctly, letting out secrets which I by no means wished to hear. At that instant I recalled the famous story of Prince Bismarck and the Esthonian young ladies and the watch-key. I whispered to the girl,-- "When I say something to you in a language which you do not understand, answer '_Si_' as distinctly as you can." The damsel was quick to understand. An instant after I said,-- "_Ha veduto il mio 'havallo la sera_?" "_Si_." There was a dead silence, and then a rise and a rush. My young friend rolled her eyes up at me, but said nothing. The Italians had departed with their awful mysteries. Then there came by a man who looked much worse. He was a truculent, untamable rough, evidently inspired with gin. At a glance I saw by the manner in which he carried his coat that he was a traveler, or one who lived on the roads. Seeing me he stopped, and said, grimly,--"Do you love your Jesus?" This is certainly a pious question; but it was uttered in a tone which intimated that if I did not answer it affirmatively I might expect anything but Christian treatment. I knew why the man uttered it. He had just come by an open-air preaching in the Park, and the phrase had, moreover, been recently chalked and stenciled by numerous zealous and busy nonconformists all over northwestern London. I smiled, and said, quietly,-- "_Pal_, _mor rakker sa drovan_. _Ja pukenus on the drum_." (Don't talk so loud, brother. Go away quietly.) The man's whole manner changed. As if quite sober, he said,-- "_Mang your shunaben_, _rye_. _But tute jins chomany_. _Kushti ratti_!" (Beg your pardon, sir. But you _do_ know a thing or two. Good-night!) "I was awfully frightened," said the young girl, as the traveler departed. "I'm sure he meant to pitch into us. But what a wonderful way you have, sir, of sending people away! I wasn't so much astonished when you got rid of the Italians. I suppose ladies and gentlemen know Italian, or else they wouldn't go to the opera. But this man was a common, bad English tramp; yet I'm sure he spoke to you in some kind of strange language, and you said something to him that changed him into as peaceable as could be. What was it?" "It was gypsy, young lady,--what the gypsies talk among themselves." "Do you know, sir, I think you're the most mysterious gentleman I ever met." "Very likely. Good-night." "Good night, sir." I was walking with my friend the Palmer, one afternoon in June, in one of the several squares which lie to the west of the British Museum. As we went I saw a singular-looking, slightly-built man, lounging at a corner. He was wretchedly clad, and appeared to be selling some rudely-made, but curious contrivances of notched sticks, intended to contain flowerpots. He also had flower-holders made of twisted copper wire. But the greatest curiosity was the man himself. He had such a wild, wasted, wistful expression, a face marked with a life of almost unconscious misery. And most palpable in it was the unrest, which spoke of an endless struggle with life, and had ended by goading him into incessant wandering. I cannot imagine what people can be made of who can look at such men without emotion. "That is a gypsy," I said to the Palmer. "_Sarishan_, _pal_!" The wanderer seemed to be greatly pleased to hear Romany. He declared that he was in the habit of talking it so much to himself when alone that his ordinary name was Romany Dick. "But if you come down to the Potteries, and want to find me, you mus'n't ask for Romany Dick, but Divius Dick." "That means Wild Dick." "Yes." "And why?" "Because I wander about so, and can never stay more than a night in any one place. I can't help it. I must keep going." He said this with that wistful, sad expression, a yearning as for something which he had never comprehended. Was it _rest_? "And so I _rakker_ Romany [talk gypsy to myself], when I'm alone of a night, when the wind blows. It's better company than talkin' Gorginess. More sociable. _He_ says--no--_I_ say more sensible things Romaneskas than in English. You understand me?" he exclaimed suddenly, with the same wistful stare. "Perfectly. It's quite reasonable. It must be like having two heads instead of one, and being twice as knowing as anybody else." "Yes, that's it. But everybody don't know it." "What do you ask for one of those flower-stands, Dick?" "A shillin', sir." "Well, here is my name and where I live, on an envelope. And here are two shillings. But if you _chore mandy_ [cheat me] and don't leave it at the house, I'll look you up in the Potteries, and _koor tute_ [whip you]." He looked at me very seriously. "Ah, yes. You could _koor me kenna_ [whip me now]. But you couldn't have _koored_ my _dadas_ [whipped my father]. Leastways not afore he got his leg broken fightin' Lancaster Sam. You must have heard of my father,--Single-stick Dick. But if your're comin' down to the Potteries, don't come next Sunday. Come Sunday three weeks. My brother is _stardo kenna_ for _chorin_ a _gry_ [in prison for horse-stealing]. In three weeks he'll be let out, and we're goin' to have a great family party to welcome him, and we'll be glad to see you. Do come." The flower-stand was faithfully delivered, but another engagement prevented an acceptance of the invitation, and I have never seen Dick since. * * * * * I was walking along Marylebone Road, which always seems to be a worn and wind-beaten street, very pretty once, and now repenting it; when just beyond Baker Street station I saw a gypsy van hung all round with baskets and wooden-ware. Smoke issued from its pipe, and it went along smoking like any careless pedestrian. It always seems strange to think of a family being thus conveyed with its dinner cooking, the children playing about the stove, over rural roads, past common and gorse and hedge, in and out of villages, and through Great Babylon itself, as if the family had a _pied a terre_, and were as secluded all the time as though they lived in Little Pedlington or Tinnecum. For they have just the same narrow range of gossip, and just the same set of friends, though the set are always on the move. Traveling does not make a cosmopolite. By the van strolled the lord and master, with his wife. I accosted him. "_Sarishan_?" "_Sarishan rye_!" "Did you ever see me before? Do you know me?" "No, sir." "I'm sorry for that. I have a nice velveteen coat which I have been keeping for your father. How's your brother Frank? Traveling about Kingston, I suppose. As usual. But I don't care about trusting the coat to anybody who don't know me." "I'll take it to him, safe enough, sir." "Yes, I dare say. On your back. And wear it yourself six months before you see him." Up spoke his wife: "That he shan't. I'll take good care that the _pooro mush_ [the old man] gets it all right, in a week." "Well, _dye_, I can trust you. You remember me. And, Anselo, here is my address. Come to the house in half an hour." In half an hour the housekeeper, said with a quiet smile,-- "If you please, sir, there's a gentleman--a _gypsy_ gentleman--wishes to see you." It is an English theory that the master can have no "visitors" who are not gentlemen. I must admit that Anselo's dress was not what could be called gentlemanly. From his hat to his stout shoes he looked the impenitent gypsy and sinful poacher, unaffected and natural. There was a cutaway, sporting look about his coat which indicated that he had grown to it from boyhood "in woodis grene." He held a heavy-handled whip, a regular Romany _tchupni_ or _chuckni_, which Mr. Borrow thinks gave rise to the word "jockey." I thought the same once, but have changed my mind, for there were "jockeys" in England before gypsies. Altogether, Anselo (which comes from Wenceslas) was a determined and vigorous specimen of an old-fashioned English gypsy, a type which, with all its faults, is not wanting in sundry manly virtues. I knew that Anselo rarely entered any houses save ale-houses, and that he had probably never before been in a study full of books, arms, and bric-a-brac. And he knew that I was aware of it. Now, if he had been more of a fool, like a red Indian or an old-fashioned fop, he would have affected a stoical indifference, for fear of showing his ignorance. As it was, he sat down in an arm-chair, glanced about him, and said just the right thing. "It must be a pleasant thing, at the end of the day, after one has been running about, to come home to such a room as this, so full of fine things, and sit down in such a comfortable chair." "Will I have a glass of old ale? Yes, I thank you." "That is _kushto levinor_ [good ale]. I never tasted better." "Would I rather have wine or spirits? No, I thank you; such ale as this is fit for a king." Here Anselo's keen eye suddenly rested on something which he understood. "What a beautiful little rifle! That's what I call a _rinkno yag-engree_ [pretty gun]." "Has it been a _wafedo wen_ [hard winter], Anselo?" "It has been a dreadful winter, sir. We have been hard put to it sometimes for food. It's dreadful to think of. I've acti'lly seen the time when I was almost desperated, and if I'd had such a gun as that I'm afraid, if I'd been tempted, I could a-found it in my heart to knock over a pheasant." I looked sympathetically at Anselo. The idea of his having been brought to the very brink of such a terrible temptation and awful crime was touching. He met the glance with the expression of a good man, who had done no more than his duty, closed his eyes, and softly shook his head. Then he took another glass of ale, as if the memory of the pheasants or something connected with the subject had been too much for him, and spoke:-- "I came here on my horse. But he's an ugly old white punch. So as not to discredit you, I left him standing before a gentleman's house, two doors off." Here Anselo paused. I acknowledged this touching act of thoughtful delicacy by raising my glass. He drank again, then resumed:-- "But I feel uneasy about leaving a horse by himself in the streets of London. He'll stand like a driven nail wherever you put him--but there's always plenty of claw-hammers to draw such nails." "Don't be afraid, Anselo. The park-keeper will not let anybody take him through the gates. I'll pay for him if he goes." But visions of a stolen horse seemed to haunt Anselo. One would have thought that something of the kind had been familiar to him. So I sent for the velveteen coat, and, folding it on his arm, he mounted the old white horse, while waving an adieu with the heavy-handled whip, rode away in the mist, and was seen no more. Farewell, farewell, thou old brown velveteen! I had thee first in by-gone years, afar, hunting ferocious fox and horrid hare, near Brighton, on the Downs, and wore thee well on many a sketching tour to churches old and castles dark or gray, when winter went with all his raines wete. Farewell, my coat, and benedicite! I bore thee over France unto Marseilles, and on the steamer where we took aboard two hundred Paynim pilgrims of Mahound. Farewell, my coat, and benedicite! Thou wert in Naples by great Virgil's tomb, and borest dust from Posilippo's grot, and hast been wetted by the dainty spray from bays and shoals of old Etrurian name. Farewell, my coat, and benedicite! And thou wert in the old Egyptian realm: I had thee on that morning 'neath the palms when long I lingered where of yore had stood the rose-red city, half as old as time. Farewell, my coat, and benedicite! It was a lady called thee into life. She said, Methinks ye need a velvet coat. It is a seemly guise to ride to hounds. Another gave me whip and silvered spurs. Now all have vanished in the darkening past. Ladies and all are gone into the gloom. Farewell, my coat, and benedicite. Thou'st had a venturous and traveled life, for thou wert once in Moscow in the snow. A true Bohemian thou hast ever been, and as a right Bohemian thou wilt die, the garment of a roving Romany. Fain would I see and hear what thou'rt to know of reckless riding and the gypsy _tan_, of camps in dark green lanes, afar from towns. Farewell, mine coat, and benedicite! VII. OF CERTAIN GENTLEMEN AND GYPSIES. One morning I was walking with Mr. Thomas Carlyle and Mr. Froude. We went across Hyde Park, and paused to rest on the bridge. This is a remarkable place, since there, in the very heart of London, one sees a view which is perfectly rural. The old oaks rise above each other like green waves, the houses in the distance are country-like, while over the trees, and far away, a village-looking spire completes the picture. I think that it was Mr. Froude who called my attention to the beauty of the view, and I remarked that it needed only a gypsy tent and the curling smoke to make it in all respects perfectly English. "You have paid some attention to gypsies," said Mr. Carlyle. "They're not altogether so bad a people as many think. In Scotland, we used to see many of them. I'll not say that they were not rovers and reivers, but they could be honest at times. The country folk feared them, but those who made friends wi' them had no cause to complain of their conduct. Once there was a man who was persuaded to lend a gypsy a large sum of money. My father knew the man. It was to be repaid at a certain time. The day came; the gypsy did not. And months passed, and still the creditor had nothing of money but the memory of it; and ye remember '_nessun maggior dolore_,'--that there's na greater grief than to remember the siller ye once had. Weel, one day the man was surprised to hear that his frien' the gypsy wanted to see him--interview, ye call it in America. And the gypsy explained that, having been arrested, and unfortunately detained, by some little accident, in preeson, he had na been able to keep his engagement. 'If ye'll just gang wi' me,' said the gypsy, 'aw'll mak' it all right.' 'Mon, aw wull,' said the creditor,--they were Scotch, ye know, and spoke in deealect. So the gypsy led the way to the house which he had inhabited, a cottage which belonged to the man himself to whom he owed the money. And there he lifted up the hearthstone; the hard-stane they call it in Scotland, and it is called so in the prophecy of Thomas of Ercildowne. And under the hard-stane there was an iron pot. It was full of gold, and out of that gold the gypsy carle paid his creditor. Ye wonder how 't was come by? Well, ye'll have heard it's best to let sleeping dogs lie." "Yes. And what was said of the Poles who had, during the Middle Ages, a reputation almost as good as that of gypsies? _Ad secretas Poli_, _curas extendere noli_." (Never concern your soul as to the secrets of a Pole.) Mr. Carlyle's story reminds me that Walter Simpson, in his history of them, says that the Scottish gypsies have ever been distinguished for their gratitude to those who treated them with civility and kindness, anent which he tells a capital story, while other instances sparkle here and there with many brilliant touches in his five hundred-and-fifty-page volume. I have more than once met with Romanys, when I was in the company of men who, like Carlyle and Bilderdijk, "were also in the world of letters known," or who might say, "We have deserved to be." One of the many memories of golden days, all in the merrie tyme of summer song in England, is of the Thames, and of a pleasure party in a little steam-launch. It was a weenie affair,--just room for six forward outside the cubby, which was called the cabin; and of these six, one was Mr. Roebuck,--"the last Englishman," as some one has called him, but as the late Lord Lytton applies the same term to one of his characters about the time of the Conquest, its accuracy may be doubted. Say the last type of a certain phase of the Englishman; say that Roebuck was the last of the old iron and oak men, the _triplex aes et robur_ chiefs of the Cobbet kind, and the phrase may pass. But it will only pass over into a new variety of true manhood. However frequently the last Englishman may die, I hope it will be ever said of him, _Le roi est mort_,--_vive le roi_! I have had talks with Lord Lytton on gypsies. He, too, was once a Romany rye in a small way, and in the gay May heyday of his young manhood once went off with a band of Romanys, and passed weeks in their tents,--no bad thing, either, for anybody. I was more than once tempted to tell him the strange fact that, though he had been among the black people and thought he had learned their language, what they had imposed upon him for that was not Romany, but cant, or English thieves' slang. For what is given, in good faith, as the gypsy tongue in "Paul Clifford" and the "Disowned," is only the same old mumping _kennick_ which was palmed off on Bampfylde Moore Carew; or which he palmed on his readers, as the secret of the Roms. But what is the use or humanity of disillusioning an author by correcting an error forty years old. If one could have corrected it in the proof, _a la bonne heure_! Besides, it was of no particular consequence to anybody whether the characters in "Paul Clifford" called a clergyman a _patter-cove_ or a _rashai_. It is a supreme moment of triumph for a man when he discovers that his specialty--whatever it be--is not of such value as to be worth troubling anybody with it. As for Everybody, _he_ is fair game. The boat went up the Thames, and I remember that the river was, that morning, unusually beautiful. It is graceful, as in an outline, even when leaden with November mists, or iron-gray in the drizzle of December, but under the golden sunlight of June it is lovely. It becomes every year, with gay boating parties in semi-fancy dresses, more of a carnival, in which the carnivalers and their carnivalentines assume a more decided character. It is very strange to see this tendency of the age to unfold itself in new festival forms, when those who believe that there can never be any poetry or picturing in life but in the past are wailing over the vanishing of May-poles and old English sports. There may be, from time to time, a pause between the acts; the curtain may be down a little longer than usual; but in the long run the world-old play of the Peoples' Holiday will go on, as it has been going ever since Satan suggested that little apple-stealing excursion to Eve, which, as explained by the Talmudists, was manifestly the direct cause of all the flirtations and other dreadful doings in all little outings down to the present day, in the drawing-room or "on the leads," world without end. And as the boat went along by Weybridge we passed a bank by which was a small gypsy camp; tents and wagons, donkeys and all, reflected in the silent stream, as much as were the swans in the fore-water. And in the camp was a tall, handsome, wild beauty, named Britannia, who knew me well; a damsel fond of larking, with as much genuine devil's gunpowder in her as would have made an entire pack or a Chinese hundred of sixty-four of the small crackers known as fast girls, in or around society. She was a splendid creature, long and lithe and lissom, but well rounded, of a figure suggestive of leaping hedges; and as the sun shone on her white teeth and burning black eyes, there was a hint of biting, too, about her. She lay coiled and basking, in feline fashion, in the sun; but at sight of me on the boat, up she bounded, and ran along the bank, easily keeping up with the steamer, and crying out to me in Romanes. Now it just so happened that I by no means felt certain that _all_ of the company present were such genial Bohemians as to appreciate anything like the joyous intimacy which Britannia was manifesting, as she, Atalanta-like, coursed along. Consequently, I was not delighted with her attentions. "What a fine girl!" said Mr. Roebuck. "How well she would look on the stage! She seems to know you." "Certainly," said one of the ladies, "or she would not be speaking her language. Why don't you answer her? Let us hear a conversation." Thus adjured, I answered,-- "_Miri pen_, _miri kushti pen_, _beng lel tute_, _ma rakker sa drovan_! _Or ma rakker Romaneskas_. _Man dikesa te rania shan akai_. _Miri kameli_--_man kair __mandy ladge_!" (My sister, my nice, sweet sister!--devil take you! don't hallo at me like that! Or else don't talk Romany. Don't you see there are ladies here? My dear, don't put me to shame!) "_Pen the rani ta wusser mandy a trin-grushi_--_who_--_op_, _hallo_!" (Tell the lady to shy me a shilling--whoop!) cried the fast damsel. "_Pa miri duvels kam_, _pen_--_o bero se ta duro_. _Mandy'll de tute a pash-korauna keratti if tu tevel ja_. _Gorgie shan i foki kavakoi_!" (For the Lord's sake, sister!--the boat is too far from shore. I'll give you half a crown this evening if you'll clear out. These be Gentiles, these here.) "It seems to be a melodious language," said Mr. Roebuck, greatly amused. "What are you saying?" "I am telling her to hold her tongue, and go." "But how on earth does it happen that you speak such a language?" inquired a lady. "I always thought that the gypsies only talked a kind of English slang, and this sounds like a foreign tongue." All this time Britannia, like the Cork Leg, never tired, but kept on the chase, neck and neck, till we reached a lock, when, with a merry laugh like a child, she turned on her track and left us. "Mr. L.'s proficiency in Romany," said Mr. Roebuck, "is well known to me. I have heard him spoken of as the successor to George Borrow." "That," I replied, "I do not deserve. There are other gentlemen in England who are by far my superiors in knowledge of the people." And I spoke very sincerely. Apropos of Mr. George Borrow, I knew him, and a grand old fellow he was,--a fresh and hearty giant, holding his six feet two or three inches as uprightly at eighty as he ever had at eighteen. I believe that was his age, but may be wrong. Borrow was like one of the old Norse heroes, whom he so much admired, or an old-fashioned gypsy bruiser, full of craft and merry tricks. One of these he played on me, and I bear him no malice for it. The manner of the joke was this: I had written a book on the English gypsies and their language; but before I announced it, I wrote a letter to Father George, telling him that I proposed to print it, and asking his permission to dedicate it to him. He did not answer the letter, but "worked the tip" promptly enough, for he immediately announced in the newspapers on the following Monday his "Word-Book of the Romany Language," "with many pieces in gypsy, illustrative of the way of speaking and thinking of the English gypsies, with specimens of their poetry, and an account of various things relating to gypsy life in England." This was exactly what I had told him that my book would contain; for I intended originally to publish a vocabulary. Father George covered the track by not answering my letter; but I subsequently ascertained that it had been faithfully delivered to him by a gentleman from whom I obtained the information. It was like the contest between Hildebrand the elder and his son:-- "A ready trick tried Hildebrand, That old, gray-bearded man; For when the younger raised to strike, Beneath his sword he ran." And, like the son, I had no ill feeling about it. My obligations to him for "Lavengro" and the "Romany Rye" and his other works are such as I owe to few men. I have enjoyed gypsying more than any sport in the world, and I owe my love of it all to George Borrow. I have since heard that a part of Mr. Borrow's "Romano Lavo-Lil" had been in manuscript for thirty years, and that it might never have been published but for my own work. I hope that this is true; for I am sincerely proud to think that I may have been in any way, directly or indirectly, the cause of his giving it to the world. I would gladly enough have burnt my own book, as I said, with a hearty laugh, when I saw the announcement of the "Lavo-Lil," if it would have pleased the old Romany rye, and I never spoke a truer word. He would not have believed it; but it would have been true, all the same. I well remember the first time I met George Borrow. It was in the British Museum, and I was introduced to him by Mrs. Estelle Lewis,--now dead,--the well known-friend of Edgar A. Poe. He was seated at a table, and had a large old German folio open before him. We talked about gypsies, and I told him that I had unquestionably found the word for "green," _shelno_, in use among the English Romany. He assented, and said that he knew it. I mention this as a proof of the manner in which the "Romano Lavo-Lil" must have been hurried, because he declares in it that there is no English gypsy word for "green." In this work he asserts that the English gypsy speech does not probably amount to fourteen hundred words. It is a weakness with the Romany rye fraternity to believe that there are no words in gypsy which they to not know. I am sure that my own collection contains nearly four thousand Anglo-Romany terms, many of which I feared were doubtful, but which I am constantly verifying. America is a far better place in which to study the language than England. As an old Scotch gypsy said to me lately, the deepest and cleverest old gypsies all come over here to America, where they have grown rich, and built the old language up again. I knew a gentleman in London who was a man of extraordinary energy. Having been utterly ruined, at seventy years of age, by a relative, he left England, was absent two or three years in a foreign country, during which time he made in business some fifty thousand pounds, and, returning, settled down in England. He had been in youth for a long time the most intimate friend of George Borrow, who was, he said, a very wild and eccentric youth. One night, when skylarking about London, Borrow was pursued by the police, as he wished to be, even as Panurge so planned as to be chased by the night-watch. He was very tall and strong in those days, a trained shoulder-hitter, and could run like a deer. He was hunted to the Thames, "and there they thought they had him." But the Romany rye made for the edge, and, leaping into the wan water, like the Squyre in the old ballad, swam to the other side, and escaped. I have conversed with Mr. Borrow on many subjects,--horses, gypsies, and Old Irish. Anent which latter subject I have heard him declare that he doubted whether there was any man living who could really read an old Irish manuscript. I have seen the same statement made by another writer. My personal impressions of Mr. Borrow were very agreeable, and I was pleased to learn afterwards from Mrs. Lewis that he had expressed himself warmly as regarded myself. As he was not invariably disposed to like those whom be met, it is a source of great pleasure to me to reflect that I have nothing but pleasant memories of the good old Romany rye, the Nestor of gypsy gentlemen. It is commonly reported among gypsies that Mr. Borrow was one by blood, and that his real name was Boro, or great. This is not true. He was of pure English extraction. When I first met "George Eliot" and G. H. Lewes, at their house in North Bank, the lady turned the conversation almost at once to gypsies. They spoke of having visited the Zincali in Spain, and of several very curious meetings with the _Chabos_. Mr. Lewes, in fact, seldom met me--and we met very often about town, and at many places, especially at the Trubners'--without conversing on the Romanys. The subject evidently had for him a special fascination. I believe that I have elsewhere mentioned that after I returned from Russia, and had given him, by particular request, an account of my visits to the gypsies of St. Petersburg and Moscow, he was much struck by the fact that I had chiromanced to the Romany clan of the latter city. To tell the fortunes of gypsy girls was, he thought, the refinement of presumption. "There was in this world nothing so impudent as a gypsy when determined to tell a fortune; and the idea of not one, but many gypsy girls believing earnestly in my palmistry was like a righteous retribution." The late Tom Taylor had, while a student at Cambridge, been _aficionado_, or smitten, with gypsies, and made a manuscript vocabulary of Romany words, which he allowed me to use, and from which I obtained several which were new to me. This fact should make all smart gypsy scholars "take tent" and heed as to believing that they know everything. I have many Anglo-Romany words--purely Hindi as to origin--which I have verified again and again, yet which have never appeared in print. Thus far the Romany vocabulary field has been merely scratched over. Who that knows London knoweth not Sir Patrick Colquhoun? I made his acquaintance in 1848, when, coming over from student-life in Paris and the Revolution, I was most kindly treated by his family. A glorious, tough, widely experienced man he was even in early youth. For then he already bore the enviable reputation of being the first amateur sculler on the Thames, the first gentleman light-weight boxer in England, a graduate with honors of Cambridge, a Doctor Ph. of Heidelberg, a diplomat, and a linguist who knew Arabic, Persian, and Gaelic, Modern Greek and the Omnium Botherum tongues. They don't make such men nowadays, or, if they do, they leave out the genial element. Years had passed, and I had returned to London in 1870, and found Sir Patrick living, as of yore, in the Temple, where I once and yet again and again dined with him. It was in the early days of this new spring of English life that we found ourselves by chance at a boat-race on the Thames. It was on the Thames, by his invitation, that I had twenty years before first seen an English regatta, and had a place in the gayly decked, superbly luncheoned barge of his club. It is a curious point in English character that the cleverest people do not realize or understand how festive and genial they really are, or how gayly and picturesquely they conduct their sports. It is a generally accepted doctrine with them that they do this kind of thing better in France; they believe sincerely that they take their own amusements sadly; it is the tone, the style, with the wearily-witty, dreary clowns of the weekly press, in their watery imitations of Thackeray's worst, to ridicule all English festivity and merry-making, as though sunshine had faded out of life, and God and Nature were dead, and in their place a great wind-bag Jesuit-Mallock were crying, in tones tainted with sulphuretted hydrogen, "_Ah bah_!" Reader mine, I have seen many a fete in my time, all the way from illuminations of Paris to the Khedive's fifteen-million-dollar spree in 1873 and the last grand flash of the Roman-candle carnival of 1846, but for true, hearty enjoyment and quiet beauty give me a merry party on the Thames. Give me, I say, its sparkling waters, its green banks, the joyous, beautiful girls, the hearty, handsome men. Give me the boats, darting like fishes, the gay cries. And oh--oh!--give me the Alsopp's ale in a quart mug, and not a remark save of approbation when I empty it. I had met Sir Patrick in the crowd, and our conversation turned on gypsies. When living before-time in Roumania, he had Romany servants, and learned a little of their language. Yes, he was inclined to be "affected" into the race, and thereupon we went gypsying. Truly, we had not far to seek, for just outside the crowd a large and flourishing community of the black-blood had set itself up in the _pivlioi_ (cocoa-nut) or _kashta_ (stick) business, and as it was late in the afternoon, and the entire business-world was about as drunk as mere beer could make it, the scene was not unlively. At that time I was new to England, and unknown to every gypsy on the ground. In after-days I learned to know them well, very well, for they were chiefly Coopers and their congeners, who came to speak of me as _their_ rye and own special property or proprietor,--an allegiance which involved on one side an amount of shillings and beer which concentrated might have set up a charity, but which was duly reciprocated on the other by jocular tenures of cocoa-nuts, baskets, and choice and deep words in the language of Egypt. As we approached the cock-shy, where sticks were cast at cocoa-nuts, a young gypsy _chai_, whom I learned to know in after-days as Athalia Cooper, asked me to buy some sticks. A penny a throw, all the cocoa-nuts I could hit to be my own. I declined; she became urgent, jolly, riotous, insistive. I endured it well, for I held the winning cards. _Qui minus propere_, _minus prospere_. And then, as her voice rose _crescendo_ into a bawl, so that all the Romanys around laughed aloud to see the green Gorgio so chaffed and bothered, I bent me low, and whispered softly in her ear a single monosyllable. Why are all those sticks dropped so suddenly? Why does Athalia in a second become sober, and stand up staring at me, all her chaff and urgency forgotten. Quite polite and earnest now. But there is joy behind in her heart. This _is_ a game, a jolly game, and no mistake. And uplifting her voice again, as the voice of one who findeth an exceeding great treasure even in the wilderness, she cried aloud,--"_It's a Romany rye_!" The spiciest and saltest and rosiest of Sir Patrick's own stories, told after dinner over his own old port to a special conventicle of clergymen about town, was never received with such a roar of delight as that cry of Athalia's was by the Romany clan. Up went three sheers at the find; further afield went the shout proclaiming the discovery of an aristocratic stranger of their race, a _rye_, who was to them as wheat,--a gypsy gentleman. Neglecting business, they threw down their sticks, and left their cocoanuts to grin in solitude; the _dyes_ turned aside from fortune-telling to see what strange fortune had sent such a visitor. In ten minutes Sir Patrick and I were surrounded by such a circle of sudden admirers and vehement applauders, as it seldom happens to any mortal to acquire--out of Ireland--at such exceedingly short notice and on such easy terms. They were not particular as to what sort of a gypsy I was, or where I came from, or any nonsense of that sort, you know. It was about _cerevisia vincit omnia_, or the beery time of day with them, and they cared not for anything. I was extremely welcome; in short, there was poetry in me. I had come down on them by a way that was dark and a trick that was vain, in the path of mystery, and dropped on Athalia and picked her up. It was gypsily done and very creditable to me, and even Sir Patrick was regarded as one to be honored as an accomplice. It is a charming novelty in every life to have the better class of one's own kind come into it, and nobody feels so keenly as a jolly Romany that _jucundum nihil est nisi quod ref icit varietas_--naught pleases us without variety. Then and there I drew to me the first threads of what became in after-days a strange and varied skein of humanity. There was the Thames upon a holiday. Now I look back to it, I ask, _Ubi sunt_? (Where are they all?) Joshua Cooper, as good and earnest a Rom as ever lived, in his grave, with more than one of those who made my acquaintance by hurrahing for me. Some in America, some wandering wide. Yet there by Weybridge still the Thames runs on. By that sweet river I made many a song. One of these, to the tune of "Waves in Sunlight Dancing," rises and falls in memory like a fitful fairy coming and going in green shadows, and that it may not perish utterly I here give it a place:-- AVELLA PARL O PANI. Av' kushto parl o pani, Av' kushto mir' akai! Mi kameli chovihani, Avel ke tiro rye! Shan raklia rinkenidiri, Mukkellan rinkeni se; Kek rakli 'dre i temia Se rinkenidiri mi. Shan dudnidiri yakka, Mukkelan dudeni; Kek yakk peshel' sa kushti Pa miro kameli zi. Shan balia longi diri, Mukk 'lende bori 'pre, Kek waveri raklia balia, Te lian man opre. Yoi lela angustrini, I miri tacheni, Kek wavei mush jinella, Sa dovo covva se. Adre, adre o doeyav Patrinia pellelan, Kenna yek chumer kerdo O wavero well' an. Te wenna butidiri, Ke jana sig akoi Sa sig sa yeck si gillo Shan waveri adoi. Avella parl o pani, Avella sig akai! Mi kamli tani-rani Avell' ke tiro rye! * * * * * COME OVER THE RIVER O love, come o'er the water, O love, where'er you be! My own sweetheart, my darling, Come over the river to me! If any girls are fairer, Then fairer let them be; No maid in all the country Is half so fair to me. If other eyes are brighter, Then brighter let them shine; I know that none are lighter Upon this heart of mine. If other's locks are longer, Then longer let them grow; Hers are the only fish-lines Which ever caught me so. She wears upon her finger A ring we know so well, And we and that ring only Know what the ring can tell. From trees into the water Leaves fall and float away, So kisses come and leave us, A thousand in a day. Yet though they come by thousands, Yet still they show their face; As soon as one has left us Another fills its place. O love, come o'er the water, O lore, where'er you be! My own sweetheart, my darling, Come over the river to me! WELSH GYPSIES. I. MAT WOODS THE FIDDLER. The gypsies of Wales are to those of England what the Welsh themselves are to the English; more antique and quaint, therefore to a collector of human bric-a-brac more curious. The Welsh Rom is specially grateful for kindness or courtesy; he is deeper as to language, and preserves many of the picturesque traits of his race which are now so rapidly vanishing. But then he has such excellent opportunity for gypsying. In Wales there are yet thousands of acres of wild land, deep ravines, rocky corners, and roadside nooks, where he can boil the kettle and _hatch the tan_, or pitch his tent, undisturbed by the rural policeman. For it is a charming country, where no one need weary in summer, when the days are long, or in early autumn,-- "When the barley is ripe, And the frog doth pipe, In golden stripe And green all dressed; When the red apples Roll in the chest." Then it is pleasant walking in Wales, and there too at times, between hedge-rows, you may meet with the Romany. I was at Aberystwith by the sea, and one afternoon we went, a party of three gentlemen and three ladies, in a char-a-banc, or wagonette, to drive. It was a pleasant afternoon, and we had many a fine view of distant mountains, on whose sides were mines of lead with silver, and of which there were legends from the time of Queen Elizabeth. The hills looked leaden and blue in the distance, while the glancing sea far beyond recalled silver,--for the alchemy of imagery, at least, is never wanting to supply ideal metals, though the real may show a sad _deficit_ in the returns. As we drove we suddenly overtook a singular party, the first of whom was the leader, who had lagged behind. He was a handsome, slender, very dark young man, carrying a violin. Before him went a little open cart, in which lay an old woman, and by her a harp. With it walked a good-looking gypsy girl, and another young man, not a gypsy. He was by far the handsomest young fellow, in form and features, whom I ever met among the agricultural class in England; we called him a peasant Apollo. It became evident that the passional affinity which had drawn this rustic to the gypsy girl, and to the roads, was according to the law of natural selection, for they were wonderfully well matched. The young man had the grace inseparable from a fine figure and a handsome face, while the girl was tall, lithe, and pantherine, with the diavolesque charm which, though often attributed by fast-fashionable novelists to their heroines, is really never found except among the lowborn beauties of nature. It is the beauty of the Imp and of the Serpent; it fades with letters; it dies in the drawing-room or on the stage. You are mistaken when you think you see it coming out of the synagogue, unless it be a very vulgar one. Your Lahova has it not, despite her black eyes, for she is too clever and too conscious; the devil-beauty never knows how to read, she is unstudied and no actress. Rachel and the Bernhardt have it not, any more than Saint Agnes or Miss Blanche Lapin. It is not of good or of evil, or of culture, which is both; it is all and only of nature, and it does not know itself. As the wagonette stopped I greeted the young man at first in English, then in Romany. When he heard the gypsy tongue he started, his countenance expressing the utmost surprise and delight. As if he could hardly believe in such a phenomenon he inquired, "_Romany_?" and as I nodded assent, he clasped my hand, the tears coming into his eyes. Such manifestations are not common among gypsies, but I can remember how one, the wife of black Ben Lee, was thus surprised and affected. How well I recall the time and scene,--by the Thames, in the late twilight, when every tree and twig was violet black against the amber sky, where the birds were chirp-chattering themselves to roost and rest, and the river rippled and murmured a duet with the evening breeze. I was walking homeward to Oatlands when I met the tawny Sinaminta, bearing her little stock of baskets to the tent and van which I had just quitted, and where Ben and his beautiful little boy were lighting the _al fresco_ fire. "I have prayed to see this day!" exclaimed the gypsy woman. "I have so wanted to see the Romany rye of the Coopers. And I laid by a little _delaben_, a small present, for you when we should meet. It's a photograph of Ben and me and our child." I might have forgotten the evening and the amber sky, rippling river and dark-green hedge-rows, but for this strange meeting and greeting of an unknown friend, but a few kind words fixed them all for life. That must be indeed a wonderful landscape which humanity does not make more impressive. I spoke but a few words to the gypsy with the violin, and we drove on to a little wayside inn, where we alighted and rested. After a while the gypsies came along. "And now, if you will, let us have a real frolic," I said to my friends. A word was enough. A quart of ale, and the fiddle was set going, and I sang in Romany, and the rustic landlord and his household wondered what sort of guests we could be. That they had never before entertained such a mixed party I can well believe. Here, on one hand, were indubitable swells, above their usual range; there, on the other, were the dusky vagabonds of the road; and it could be no common condescending patronage, for I was speaking neither Welsh nor English, and our friendly fraternity was evident. Yes, many a time, in England, have I seen the civil landlady or the neat-handed Phillis awed with bewilderment, as I have introduced Plato Buckland, or the most disreputable-looking but oily--yea, glycerine-politeful--old Windsor Frog, into the parlor, and conversed with him in mystic words. Such an event is a rare joy to the gypsy. For he loves to be lifted up among men; he will tell you with pride of the times when he was pointed at, and people said, "_He's_ the man!" and how a real gentleman once invited him into his house and gave him a glass of wine. But to enter the best room of the familiar tavern, to order, in politest but imperative tones, "beer"--sixpenny beer--for himself and "the other gentleman," is indeed bliss. Then, in addition to the honor of moving in distinguished society, before the very eyes and in the high places of those who have hitherto always considered him as a lowly cuss, the Romany realizes far more than the common peasant the contrast-contradiction, or the humor of the drama, its bit of mystification, and especially the mystification of the house-folk. This is unto him the high hour of the soul, and it is not forgotten. It passes unto the golden legends of the heart, and you are tenderly enshrined in it. Once, when I was wandering afoot with old Cooper, we stopped at an inn, and in a room by ourselves ordered luncheon. The gypsy might have had poultry of the best; he preferred cold pork. While the attendant was in the room, he sat with exemplary dignity at the table; but as the girl left, he followed her step sounds with his ears, like a dog, moved his head, glanced at me with a nod, turned sideways from the table, and, putting his plate on his knees, proceeded to eat without a fork. "For it isn't proper for me to eat at the table with you, or _as_ you do." The Welsh gypsy played well, and his sister touched the harp and sang, the ale circulated, and the villagers, assembling, gazed in a crowd into the hall. Then the girl danced solo, just as I have seen her sisters do in Egypt and in Russia, to her brother's fiddling. Even so of old, Syrian and Egyptian girls haunted gardens and taverns, and danced _pas seul_ all over the Roman empire, even unto Spain, behaving so gypsily that wise men have conjectured that they were gypsies in very truth. And who shall say they were not? For it is possible that prehistorically, and beyond all records of Persian Luri and Syrian Ballerine and Egyptian Almeh, there was all over the East an outflowing of these children of art from one common primeval Indian stock. From one fraternity, in Italy, at the present day, those itinerant pests, the hand-organ players, proceed to the ends of the earth and to the gold-diggings thereof, and time will yet show that before all time, or in its early dawn, there were root-born Romany itinerants singing, piping, and dancing unto all the known world; yea, and into the unknown darkness beyond, _in partibus infidelium_. A gentleman who was in our party had been long in the East. I had known him in Alexandria during the carnival, and he had lived long time _outre mer_, in India. Hearing me use the gypsy numerals--_yeck_, _dui_, _trin_, _shtor_, _panj_,--he proceeded to count in Hindustani or Persian, in which the same words from one to ten are almost identical with Romany. All of this was carefully noted by the old gypsy mother,--as, also, that my friend is of dark complexion, with sparkling black eyes. Reduced in dress, or diluted down to worn corduroy and a red tie, he might easily pass muster, among the Sons of the Road, as one of them. And now the ladies must, of course, have their fortunes told, and this, I could observe, greatly astonished the gypsies in their secret souls, though they put a cool face on it. That we, ourselves, were some kind of a mysterious high-caste Romany they had already concluded, and what faith could we put in _dukkerin_? But as it would indubitably bring forth shillings to their benefit, they wisely raised no questions, but calmly took this windfall, which had fallen as it were, from the skies, even as they had accepted the beer, which had come, like a providential rain, unto them, in the thirst of a dry journey. It is customary for all gypsy sorceresses to take those who are to be fortune-told aside, and, if possible, into a room by themselves. This is done partly to enhance the mystery of the proceeding, and partly to avoid the presence of witnesses to what is really an illegal act. And as the old sorceress led a lady into the little parlor, the gypsy man, whose name was Mat, glanced up at me, with a droll, puzzled expression, and said, "Patchessa _tu_ adovo?" (Do _you_ believe in that?) With a wink, I answered, "Why not? I, too, tell fortunes myself." _Anch io sono pittore_. It seemed to satisfy him, for he replied, with a nod-wink, and proceeded to pour forth the balance of his thoughts, if he had any, into the music of his violin. When the ladies had all been instructed as to their future, my friend, who had been in the East, must needs have his destiny made known unto him. He did not believe in this sort of thing, you know,--of course not. But he had lived a long time among Orientals, and he just happened to wish to know how certain speculations would fall out, and he loves, above all things, a lark, or anything out of the common. So he went in. And when alone with the sybil, she began to talk to him in Romany. "Oh, I say, now, old lady, stow that!" he exclaimed. "I don't understand you." "You don't understand me!" exclaimed the fortune-teller. "Perhaps you didn't understand your own mother when she talked Romany to you. What's the use of your tryin' to make yourself out a Gorgio to _me_? Don't I know our people? Didn't your friend there talk Romanes? Isn't he all Romaneskas? And didn't I hear you with my own ears count up to ten in Romany? And now, after that, you would deny your own blood and people! Yes, you've dwelt in Gorgines so long that you think your eyes are blue and your hair is yellow, my son, and you have been far over the sea; but wherever you went you knew Romanes, if you don't know your own color. But you shall hear your fortune. There is lead in the mines and silver in the lead, and wealth for him who is to win it, and that will be a dark man who has been nine times over the sea, and eaten his bread under the black tents, and been three times near death, once from a horse, and once from a man, and once through a woman. And you will know something you don't know now before a month is over, and something will be found that is now hidden, and has been hidden since the world was made. And there's a good fortune coming to the man it was made for, before the oldest tree that's a-growing was a seed, and that's a man as knows how to count Romanes up to ten, and many a more thing beside that, that he's learned beyond the great water." And so we went our ways, the harp and violin sounds growing fainter as we receded, till they were like the buzzing of bees in drying clover, and the twilight grew rosier brown. I never met Mat Woods again, though I often heard of his fame as a fiddler. Whether my Anglo-Indian friend found the fortune so vaguely predicted is to me as yet unknown. But I believe that the prediction encouraged him. That there are evils in palmistry, and sin in card-drawing, and iniquity in coffee-grounding, and vice in all the planets, is established by statute, and yet withal I incline to believe that the art of prediction cheers up many a despondent soul, and does some little good, even as good ale, despite the wickedness of drinking, makes some hearts merry and others stronger. If there are foolish maids who have had their heads turned by being told of coming noblemen and prospective swells, who loved the ground they trod on, and were waiting to woo and win and wed, and if the same maidens herein described have thereby, in the manner set forth, been led by the aforesaid devices unto their great injury, as written in the above indictment, it may also _per contra_ and on the other hand be pleaded that divers girls, to wit, those who believe in prediction, have, by encouragement and hope to them held out of legally marrying sundry young men of good estate, been induced to behave better than they would otherwise have done, and led by this hope have acted more morally than was their wont, and thereby lifted themselves above the lowly state of vulgarity, and even of vice, in which they would otherwise have groveled, hoveled, or cottaged. And there have been men who, cherishing in their hearts a prediction, or, what amounts to the same thing, a conviction, or a set fancy, have persevered in hope until the hope was realized. You, O Christian, who believe in a millennium, you, O Jew, who expect a Messiah, and await the fulfillment of your _dukkerin_, are both in the right, for both will come true when you _make_ them do so. II. THE PIOUS WASHERWOMAN. There is not much in life pleasanter than a long ramble on the road in leaf-green, sun-gold summer. Then it is Nature's merry-time, when fowls in woods them maken blithe, and the crow preaches from the fence to his friends afield, and the honeysuckle winketh to the wild rose in the hedge when she is wooed by the little buzzy bee. In such times it is good for the heart to wander over the hills and far away, into haunts known of old, where perhaps some semi-Saxon church nestles in a hollow behind a hill, where grass o'ergrows each mouldering tomb, and the brook, as it ripples by in a darksome aldered hollow, speaks in a language which man knows no more, but which is answered in the same forgotten tongue by the thousand-year yew as it rustles in the breeze. And when there are Runic stones in this garden of God, where He raises souls, I often fancy that this old dialect is written in their rhythmic lines. The yew-trees were planted by law, lang-syne, to yield bows to the realm, and now archery is dead and Martini-Henry has taken its place, but the yews still live, and the Runic fine art of the twisted lines on the tombs, after a thousand years' sleep, is beginning to revive. Every thing at such a time speaks of joy and resurrection--tree and tomb and bird and flower and bee. These are all memories of a walk from the town of Aberystwith, in Wales, which walk leads by an ancient church, in the soul garden of which are two Runic cross tombstones. One day I went farther afield to a more ancient shrine, on the top of a high mountain. This was to the summit of Cader Idris, sixteen miles off. On this summit there is a Druidical circle, of which the stones, themselves to ruin grown, are strange and death-like old. Legend says that this is the burial-place of Taliesin, the first of Welsh bards, the primeval poet of Celtic time. Whoever sleeps on the grave will awake either a madman or a poet, or is at any rate unsafe to become one or the other. I went, with two friends, afoot on this little pilgrimage. Both were professors at one of the great universities. The elder is a gentleman of great benevolence, learning, and gentleness; the other, a younger man, has been well polished and sharpened by travel in many lands. It is rumored that he has preached Islam in a mosque unto the Moslem even unto taking up a collection, which is the final test of the faith which reaches forth into a bright eternity. That he can be, as I have elsewhere noted, a Persian unto Persians, and a Romany among Roms, and a professional among the hanky-pankorites, is likewise on the cards, as surely as that he knows the roads and all the devices and little games of them that dwell thereon. Though elegant enough in his court dress and rapier when he kisses the hand of our sovereign lady the queen, he appears such an abandoned rough when he goes a-fishing that the innocent and guileless gypsies, little suspecting that a _rye_ lies _perdu_ in his wrap-rascal, will then confide in him as if he and in-doors had never been acquainted. We had taken with us a sparing lunch of thin sandwiches and a frugal flask of modest, blushing brandy, which we diluted at a stingy little fountain spring which dropped economically through a rift in the rock, as if its nymph were conscious that such a delicious drink should not be wasted. As it was, it refreshed us, and we were resting in a blessed repose under the green leaves, when we heard footsteps, and an old woman came walking by. She was the ideal of decent and extreme poverty. I never saw anybody who was at once so poor and so clean. In her face and in her thin garments was marked the mute, resolute struggle between need and self-respect, which, to him who understands it, is as brave as any battle between life and death. She walked on as if she would have gone past without a word, but when we greeted her she paused, and spoke respectfully. Without forwardness she told her sad and simple story: how she belonged to the Wesleyan confession, how her daughter was dying in the hospital at Caernarvon; how she had walked sixty miles to see her, and hoped to get there in time to close her eyes. In reply to a question as to her means, she admitted that they were exhausted, but that she could get through without money; she did not beg. And then came naturally enough the rest of the little artless narrative, as it generally happens among the simple annals of the poor: how she had been for forty years a washerwoman, and had a letter from her clergyman. There was a tear in the eye of the elder professor, and his hand was in his pocket. The younger smoked in silence. I was greatly moved myself,--perhaps bewildered would be the better word,--when, all at once, as the old woman turned in the sunlight, I caught the expression _of the corner of an eye_! My friend Salaman, who boasts that he is of the last of the Sadducees,--that strange, ancient, and secret sect, who disguise themselves as the _Neu Reformirte_,--declares that the Sephardim may be distinguished from the Ashkenazim as readily as from the confounded Goyim, by the corners of their eyes. This he illustrated by pointing out to me, as they walked by in the cool of the evening, the difference between the eyes of Fraulein Eleonora Kohn and Senorita Linda Abarbanel and divers and sundry other young ladies,--the result being that I received in return thirty-six distinct _oeillades_, several of which expressed indignation, and in all of which there was evidently an entire misconception of my object in looking at them. Now the eyes of the Sephardesses are unquestionably fascinating; and here it may be recalled that, in the Middle Ages, witches were also recognized by having exactly the same corners, or peaks, to the eye. This is an ancient mystery of darksome lore, that the enchantress always has the bird-peaked eye, which betokens danger to somebody, be she of the Sephardim, or an ordinary witch or enchantress, or a gypsy. Now, as the old Wesleyan washerwoman turned around in the sunshine, I saw the witch-pointed eye and the glint of the Romany. And then I glanced at her hands, and saw that they had not been long familiar with wash-tubs; for, though clean, they were brown, and had never been blanched with an age of soap-suds. And I spoke suddenly, and said,-- "_Can tute rakker Romanes_, _miri dye_?" (Can you speak Romany, my mother?) And she answered, as if bewildered,-- "The Lord forbid, sir, that I should talk any of them wicked languages." The younger professor's eyes expressed dawning delight. I followed my shot with,-- "_Tute needn't be attrash to rakker_. _Mandy's been apre the drom mi-kokero_." (You needn't be afraid to speak. I have been upon the road myself.) And, still more confused, she answered in English,-- "Why, sir, you be upon the road now!" "It seems to me, old lady," remarked the younger professor, "that you understand Romany very well for one who has been for forty years in the Methodist communion." It may be observed that he here confounded washing with worshiping. The face of the true believer was at this point a fine study. All her confidence had deserted her. Whether she thought we were of her kind in disguise, or that, in the unknown higher world of respectability, there might be gypsies of corresponding rank, even as there might be gypsy angels among the celestial hierarchies, I cannot with confidence assert. About a week ago a philologist and purist told me that there is no exact synonym in English for the word _flabbergasted_, as it expresses a peculiar state of bewilderment as yet unnamed by scholars, and it exactly sets forth the condition in which our virtuous poverty appeared. She was, indeed, flabbergasted. _Cornix scorpum rapuit_,--the owl had come down on the rabbits, and lo! they had fangs. I resumed,-- "Now, old lady, here is a penny. You are a very poor person, and I pity you so much that I give you this penny for your poverty. But there is a pocketful where this came from, and you shall have the lot if you'll _rakker_,"--that is, talk gypsy. And at that touch of the Ithuriel spear the old toad flashed up into the Romany devil, as with gleaming eyes and a witch-like grin she cried in a mixture of gypsy and tinker languages,-- "Gents, I'll have tute jin when you tharis mandy you rakker a reg'lar fly old bewer." Which means, "Gentlemen, I'll have you know, when you talk to me, you talk to a reg'lar shrewd old female thief." The face of the elder professor was a study of astonishment for Lavater. His fingers relaxed their grasp of the shilling, his hand was drawn from his pocket, and his glance, like Bill Nye's, remarked: "_Can_ this be?" He tells the story to this day, and always adds, "I _never_ was so astonished in my life." But the venerable washerwoman was also changed, and, the mask once thrown aside, she became as festive as a witch on the Brocken. Truly, it is a great comfort to cease playing a part, particularly a pious one, and be at home and at ease among your like; and better still if they be swells. This was the delight of Anderson's ugly duck when it got among the swans, "and, blest sensation, felt genteel." And to show her gratitude, the sorceress, who really seemed to have grown several shades darker, insisted on telling our fortunes. I think it was to give vent to her feelings in defiance of the law that she did this; certain it was that just then, under the circumstances, it was the only way available in which the law could be broken. And as it was, indeed, by heath and hill that the priestess of the hidden spell bade the Palmer from over the sea hold out his palm. And she began in the usual sing-song tone, mocking the style of gypsy fortune-tellers, and satirizing herself. And thus she spoke,-- "You're born under a lucky star, my good gentleman, and you're a married man; but there's a black-eyed young lady that's in love with you." "Oh, mother of all the thieves!" I cried, "you've put the _dukkerin_ on the wrong man. I'm the one that the dark girls go after." "Yes, my good gentleman. She's in love with you both." "And now tell my fortune!" I exclaimed, and with a grim expression, casting up my palm, I said,-- "_Pen mengy if mandy'll be bitchade padel for chorin a gry_, _or nasherdo for merin a gav-mush_." (Tell me if I am to be transported for stealing a horse, or hung for killing a policeman.) The old woman's face changed. "You'll never need to steal a horse. The man that knows what you know never need be poor like me. I know who _you_ are _now_; you're not one of these tourists. You're the boro Romany rye [the tall gypsy gentleman]. And go your way, and brag about it in your house,--and well you may,--that Old Moll of the Roads couldn't take you in, and that you found her out. Never another _rye_ but you will ever say that again. Never." And she went dancing away in the sunshine, capering backwards along the road, merrily shaking the pennies in her hand for music, while she sang something in gypsy,--witch to the last, vanishing as witches only can. And there came over me a feeling as of the very olden time, and some memory of another witch, who had said to another man, "_Thou_ art no traveler, Great master, I know thee now;" and who, when he called her the mother of the giants, replied, "Go thy way, and boast at home that no man will ever waken me again with spells. Never." That was the parting of Odin and the Vala sorceress, and it was the story of oldest time; and so the myth of ancient days becomes a tattered parody, and thus runs the world away to Romanys and rags--when the gods are gone. When I laughed at the younger professor for confounding forty years in the church with as many at the wash-tub, he replied,-- "Cleanliness is with me so near to godliness that it is not remarkable that in my hurry I mistook one for the other." So we went on and climbed Cader Idris, and found the ancient grave of rocks in a mystic circle, whose meaning lies buried with the last Druid, who would perhaps have told you they were-- "Seats of stone nevir hewin with mennes hand But wrocht by Nature as it ane house had bene For Nymphes, goddis of floudes and woodis grene." And we saw afar the beautiful scene, "where fluddes rynnys in the foaming sea," as Gawain Douglas sings, and where, between the fresh water and salt, stands a village, even where it stood in earliest Cymric prehistoric dawn, and the spot where ran the weir in which the prince who was in grief because his weir yielded no fish, at last fished up a poet, even as Pharaoh's daughter fished out a prophet. I shall not soon forget that summer day, nor the dream-like panorama, nor the ancient grave; nor how the younger professor lay down on the seat of stone nevir hewin with mennes hand, and declared he had a nap,--just enough to make him a poet. To prove which he wrote a long poem on the finding of Taliesin in the nets, and sent it to the Aberystwith newspaper; while I, not to be behindhand, wrote another, in imitation of the triplets of Llydwarch Hen, which were so greatly admired as tributes to Welsh poetry that they were forthwith translated faithfully into lines of consonants, touched up with so many _w_'s that they looked like saws; and they circulated even unto Llandudno, and, for aught I know, may be sung at Eistedfodds, now and ever, to the twanging of small harps,--_in soecula saeculorum_. Truly, the day which had begun with a witch ended fitly enough at the tomb of a prophet poet. III. THE GYPSIES AT ABERYSTWITH. Aberystwith is a little fishing-village, which has of late years first bloomed as a railway-station, and then fruited into prosperity as a bathing-place. Like many _parvenus_, it makes a great display of its Norman ancestor, the old castle, saying little about the long centuries of plebeian obscurity in which it was once buried. This castle, after being woefully neglected during the days when nobody cared for its early respectability, has been suddenly remembered, now that better times have come, and, though not restored, has been made comely with grass banks, benches, and gravel walks, reminding one of an Irish grandfather in America, taken out on a Sunday with "the childher," and looking "gintale" in the clean shirt and whole coat unknown to him for many a decade in Tipperary. Of course the castle and the wealth, or the hotels and parade, are well to the fore, or boldly displayed, as Englishly as possible, while the little Welsh town shrinks quietly into the hollow behind. And being new to prosperity, Aberystwith is also a little muddled as to propriety. It would regard with horror the idea of allowing ladies and gentlemen to bathe together, even though completely clad; but it sees nothing out of the way when gentlemen in pre-fig-leaf costume disport themselves, bathing just before the young ladies' boarding-school and the chief hotel, or running joyous races on the beach. I shall never forget the amazement and horror with which an Aberystwithienne learned that in distant lands ladies and gentlemen went into the water arm in arm, although dressed. But when it was urged that the Aberystwith system was somewhat peculiar, she replied, "Oh, _that_ is a very different thing!" On which words for a text a curious sermon might be preached to the Philistiny souls who live perfectly reconciled to absurd paradoxes, simply because they are accustomed to them. Now, of all human beings, I think the gypsies are freest from trouble with paradoxes as to things being different or alike, and the least afflicted with moral problems, burning questions, social puzzles, or any other kind of mental rubbish. They are even freer than savages or the heathen in this respect, since of all human beings the Fijian, New Zealander, Mpongwe, or Esquimaux is most terribly tortured with the laws of etiquette, religion, social position, and propriety. Among many of these heathen unfortunates the meeting with an equal involves fifteen minutes of bowing, re-bowing, surre-bowing, and rejoinder-bowing, with complementary complimenting, according to old custom, while the worship of Mrs. Grundy through a superior requires a half hour wearisome beyond belief. "In Fiji," says Miss C. F. Gordon Cumming, "strict etiquette rules every action of life, and the most trifling mistake in such matters would cause as great dissatisfaction as a breach in the order of precedence at a European ceremonial." In dividing cold baked missionary at a dinner, especially if a chief be present, the host committing the least mistake as to helping the proper guest to the proper piece in the proper way would find himself promptly put down in the _menu_. In Fiji, as in all other countries, this punctilio is nothing but the direct result of ceaseless effort on the part of the upper classes to distinguish themselves from the lower. Cannibalism is a joint sprout from the same root; "the devourers of the poor" are the scorners of the humble and lowly, and they are all grains of the same corn, of the devil's planting, all the world over. Perhaps the quaintest error which haunts the world in England and America is that so much of this stuff as is taught by rule or fashion as laws for "the _elite_" is the very nucleus of enlightenment and refinement, instead of its being a remnant of barbarism. And when we reflect on the degree to which this naive and child-like faith exists in the United States, as shown by the enormous amount of information in certain newspapers as to what is the latest thing necessary to be done, acted, or suffered in order to be socially saved, I surmise that some future historian will record that we, being an envious people, turned out the Chinese, because we could not endure the presence among us of a race so vastly our superiors in all that constituted the true principles of culture and "custom." Arthur Mitchell, in inquiring What is Civilization? {209} remarks that "all the things which gather round or grow upon a high state of civilization are not necessarily true parts of it. These conventionalities are often regarded as its very essence." And it is true that the greater the fool or snob, the deeper is the conviction that the conventional is the core of "culture." "'It is not genteel,' 'in good form,' or 'the mode,' to do this or do that, or say this or say that." "Such things are spoken of as marks of a high civilization, or by those who do not confound civilization with culture as differentiators between the cultured and the uncultured." Dr. Mitchell "neither praises nor condemns these things;" but it is well for a man, while he is about it, to know his own mind, and I, for myself, condemn them with all my heart and soul, whenever anybody declares that such brass counters in the game of life are real gold, and insists that I shall accept them as such. For small play in a very small way with small people, I would endure them; but many men and nearly all women make their capital of them. And whatever may be said in their favor, it cannot be denied that they constantly lead to lying and heartlessness. Even Dr. Mitchell, while he says he does not condemn them, proceeds immediately to declare that "while we submit to them they constitute a sort of tyranny, under which we fret and secretly pine for escape. Does not the exquisite of Rotten Row weary for his flannel shirt and shooting-jacket? Do not 'well-constituted' men want to fish and shoot or kill something, themselves, by climbing mountains, when they can find nothing else? In short, does it not appear that these conventionalities are irksome, and are disregarded when the chance presents itself? And does it not seem as if there were something in human nature pulling men back to a rude and simple life?" To find that _men_ suffer under the conventionalities, "adds, on the whole," says our canny, prudent Scot, "to the respectability of human nature." _Tu ha ragione_ (right you are), Dr. Mitchell, there. For the conventional, whether found among Fijians as they were, or in Mayfair as it is, whenever it is vexatious and merely serves as a cordon to separate "sassiety" from society, detracts from the respectability of humanity, and is in itself vulgar. If every man in society were a gentleman and every woman a lady, there would be no more conventionalism. _Usus est tyrannus_ (custom is a tyrant), or, as the Talmud proverb saith, "Custom is the plague of wise men, but is the idol of fools." And he was a wise Jew, whoever he was, who declared it. But let us return to our black sheep, the gypsy. While happy in not being conventional, and while rejoicing, or at least unconsciously enjoying freedom from the bonds of etiquette, he agrees with the Chinese, red Indians, May Fairies, and Fifth Avenoodles in manifesting under the most trying circumstances that imperturbability which was once declared by an eminent Philadelphian to be "the Corinthian ornament of a gentleman." He who said this builded better than he knew, for the ornament in question, if purely Corinthian, is simply brass. One morning I was sauntering with the Palmer in Aberystwith, when we met with a young and good-looking gypsy woman, with whom we entered into conversation, learning that she was a Bosville, and acquiring other items of news as to Egypt and the roads, and then left. We had not gone far before we found a tinker. He who catches a tinker has got hold of half a gypsy and a whole cosmopolite, however bad the catch may be. He did not understand the greeting _Sarishan_!--he really could not remember to have heard it. He did not know any gypsies,--"he could not get along with them." They were a bad lot. He had seen some gypsies three weeks before on the road. They were curious dark people, who lived in tents. He could not talk Romany. This was really pitiable. It was too much. The Palmer informed him that he was wasting his best opportunities, and that it was a great pity that any man who lived on the roads should be so ignorant. The tinker never winked. In the goodness of our hearts we even offered to give him lessons in the _kalo jib_, or black language. The grinder was as calm as a Belgravian image. And as we turned to depart the professor said,-- "_Mandy'd del tute a shahori to pi moro kammaben_, _if tute jinned sa mandi pukkers_." (I'd give you a sixpence to drink our health, if you knew what I am saying.) With undisturbed gravity the tinker replied,-- "Now I come to think of it, I do remember to have heard somethin' in the parst like that. It's a conwivial expression arskin' me if I won't have a tanner for ale. Which I will." "Now since you take such an interest in gypsies," I answered, "it is a pity that you should know so little about them. I have seen them since you have. I saw a nice young woman, one of the Bosvilles here, not half an hour ago. Shall I introduce you?" "That young woman," remarked the tinker, with the same immovable countenance, "is my wife. And I've come down here, by app'intment, to meet some Romany pals." And having politely accepted his sixpence, the griddler went his way, tinkling his bell, along the road. He did not disturb himself that his first speeches did not agree with his last; he was not in the habit of being disturbed about anything, and he knew that no one ever learned Romany without learning with it not to be astonished at any little inconsistencies. Serene and polished as a piece of tin in the sunshine, he would not stoop to be put out by trifles. He was a typical tinker. He knew that the world had made up proverbs expressing the utmost indifference either for a tinker's blessing or a tinker's curse, and he retaliated by not caring a curse whether the world blessed or banned him. In all ages and in all lands the tinker has always been the type of this droning indifference, which goes through life bagpiping its single melody, or whistling, like the serene Marquis de Crabs, "Toujours Santerre." "Es ist und bleibt das alte Lied Von dem versoff'nen Pfannenschmied, Und wer's nicht weiter singen kann, Der fang's von Vorne wieder an." 'T will ever be the same old song Of tipsy tinkers all day long, And he who cannot sing it more May sing it over, as before. I should have liked to know John Bunyan. As a half-blood gypsy tinker he must have been self-contained and pleasant. He had his wits about him, too, in a very Romanly way. When confined in prison he made a flute or pipe out of the leg of his three legged-stool, and would play on it to pass time. When the jailer entered to stop the noise, John replaced the leg in the stool, and sat on it looking innocent as only a gypsy tinker could,--calm as a summer morning. I commend the subject for a picture. Very recently, that is, in the beginning of 1881, a man of the same tinkering kind, and possibly of the same blood as Honest John, confined in the prison of Moyamensing, Philadelphia, did nearly the same thing, only that instead of making his stool leg into a musical pipe he converted it into a pipe for tobacco. But when the watchman, led by the smell, entered his cell, there was no pipe to be found; only a deeply injured man complaining that "somebody, had been smokin' outside, and it had blowed into his cell through the door-winder from the corridore, and p'isoned the atmosphere. And he didn't like it." And thus history repeats itself. 'T is all very well for the sticklers for Wesleyan gentility to deny that John Bunyan was a gypsy, but he who in his life cannot read Romany between the lines knows not the jib nor the cut thereof. Tough was J. B., "and de-vil-ish sly," and altogether a much better man than many suppose him to have been. The tinker lived with his wife in a "tramps' lodging-house" in the town. To those Americans who know such places by the abominable dens which are occasionally reported by American grand juries, the term will suggest something much worse than it is. In England the average tramp's lodging is cleaner, better regulated, and more orderly than many Western "hotels." The police look closely after it, and do not allow more than a certain number in a room. They see that it is frequently cleaned, and that clean sheets are frequently put on the beds. One or two hand-organs in the hall, with a tinker's barrow or wheel, proclaimed the character of the lodgers, and in the sitting-room there were to be found, of an evening, gypsies, laborers with their families seeking work or itinerant musicians. I can recall a powerful and tall young man, with a badly expressive face, one-legged, and well dressed as a sailor. He was a beggar, who measured the good or evil of all mankind by what they gave him. He was very bitter as to the bad. Yet this house was in its way upper class. It was not a den of despair, dirt, and misery, and even the Italians who came there were obliged to be decent and clean. It would not have been appropriate to have written for them on the door, "_Voi che intrate lasciate ogni speranza_." (He who enters here leaves soap behind.) The most painful fact which struck me, in my many visits, was the intelligence and decency of some of the boarders. There was more than one who conversed in a manner which indicated an excellent early education; more than one who read the newspaper aloud and commented on it to the company, as any gentleman might have done. Indeed, the painful part of life as shown among these poor people was the manifest fact that so many of them had come down from a higher position, or were qualified for it. And this is characteristic of such places. In his "London Labour and the London Poor," vol. i. p. 217, Mahew tells of a low lodging-house "in which there were at one time five university men, three surgeons, and several sorts of broken-down clerks." The majority of these cases are the result of parents having risen from poverty and raised their families to "gentility." The sons are deprived by their bringing up of the vulgar pluck and coarse energy by which the father rose, and yet are expected to make their way in the world, with nothing but a so-called "education," which is too often less a help than a hindrance. In the race of life no man is so heavily handicapped as a young "gentleman." The humblest and raggedest of all the inmates of this house were two men who got their living by _shelkin gallopas_ (or selling ferns), as it is called in the Shelta, or tinker's and tramp's slang. One of these, whom I have described in another chapter as teaching me this dialect, could conjugate a French verb; we thought he had studied law. The other was a poor old fellow called Krooty, who could give the Latin names for all the plants which he gathered and sold, and who would repeat poetry very appropriately, proving sufficiently that he had read it. Both the fern-sellers spoke better English than divers Lord Mayors and Knights to whom I have listened, for they neither omitted _h_ like the lowly, nor _r_ like the lofty ones of London. The tinker's wife was afflicted with a nervous disorder, which caused her great suffering, and made it almost impossible for her to sell goods, or contribute anything to the joint support. Her husband always treated her with the greatest kindness; I have seldom seen an instance in which a man was more indulgent and gentle. He made no display whatever of his feelings; it was only little by little that I found out what a heart this imperturbable rough of the road possessed. Now the Palmer, who was always engaged in some wild act of unconscious benevolence, bought for her some medicine, and gave her an order on the first physician in the town for proper advice; the result being a decided amelioration of her health. And I never knew any human being to be more sincerely grateful than the tinker was for this kindness. Ascertaining that I had tools for wood-carving, he insisted on presenting me with crocus powder, "to put an edge on." He had a remarkably fine whetstone, "the best in England; it was worth half a sovereign," and this he often and vainly begged me to accept. And he had a peculiar little trick of relieving his kindly feelings. Whenever we dropped in of an evening to the lodging-house, he would cunningly borrow my knife, and then disappear. Presently the _whiz-whiz_, _st'st_ of his wheel would be heard without, and then the artful dodger would reappear with a triumphant smile, and with the knife sharpened to a razor edge. Anent which gratitude I shall have more to say anon. One day I was walking on the Front, when I overtook a gypsy van, loaded with baskets and mats, lumbering along. The proprietor, who was a stranger to me, was also slightly or lightly lumbering in his gait, being cheerfully beery, while his berry brown wife, with a little three-year-old boy, peddled wares from door to door. Both were amazed and pleased at being accosted in Romany. In the course of conversation they showed great anxiety as to their child, who had long suffered from some disorder which caused them great alarm. The man's first name was Anselo, though it was painted Onslow on his vehicle. Mr. Anselo, though himself just come to town, was at once deeply impressed with the duty of hospitality to a Romany rye. I had called him _pal_, and this in gypsydom involves the shaking of hands, and with the better class an extra display of courtesy. He produced half a crown, and declared his willingness to devote it all to beer for my benefit. I declined, but he repeated his offer several times,--not with any annoying display, but with a courteous earnestness, intended to set forth a sweet sincerity. As I bade him good-by, he put the crown-piece into one eye, and as he danced backward, gypsy fashion up the street and vanished in the sunny purple twilight towards the sea I could see him winking with the other, and hear him cry, "Don't say no--now's the last chance--do I hear a bid?" We found this family in due time at the lodging-house, where the little boy proved to be indeed seriously ill, and we at once discovered that the parents, in their ignorance, had quite misunderstood his malady and were aggravating it by mal-treatment. To these poor people the good Palmer also gave an order on the old physician, who declared that the boy must have died in a few days, had he not taken charge of him. As it was, the little fellow was speedily cured. There was, it appeared, some kind of consanguinity between the tinker or his wife and the Anselo family. These good people, anxious to do anything, yet able to do little, consulted together as to showing their gratitude, and noting that we were specially desirous of collecting old gypsy words gave us all they could think of, and without informing us of their intention, which indeed we only learned by accident a long time after, sent a messenger many miles to bring to Aberystwith a certain Bosville, who was famed as being deep in Romany lore, and in possession of many ancient words. Which was indeed true, he having been the first to teach us _pisali_, meaning a saddle, and in which Professor Cowell, of Cambridge, promptly detected the Sanskrit for sit-upon, the same double meaning also existing in _boshto_; or, as old Mrs. Buckland said to me at Oaklands Park, in Philadelphia, "a _pisali_ is the same thing with a _boshto_." "What will gain thy faith?" said Quentin Durward to Hayradden Maugrabhin. "Kindness," answered the gypsy. The joint families, solely with intent to please us, although they never said a word about it, next sent for a young Romany, one of the Lees, and his wife whom they supposed we would like to meet. Walking along the Front, I met the tinker's wife with the handsomest Romany girl I ever beheld. In a London ball-room or on the stage she would have been a really startling beauty. This was young Mrs. Lee. Her husband was a clever violinist, and it was very remarkable that when he gave himself up to playing, with _abandon_ or self-forgetfulness, there came into his melodies the same wild gypsy expression, the same chords and tones, which abound in the music of the Austrian Tsigane. It was not my imagination which prompted the recognition; the Palmer also observed it, without thinking it remarkable. From the playing of both Mat Woods and young Lee, I am sure that there has survived among the Welsh gypsies some of the spirit of their old Eastern music, just as in the solo dancing of Mat's sister there was precisely the same kind of step which I had seen in Moscow. Among the hundreds of the race whom I have met in Great Britain, I have never known any young people who were so purely Romany as these. The tinker and Anselo with his wife had judged wisely that we would be pleased with this picturesque couple. They always seemed to me in the house like two wild birds, and tropical ones at that, in a cage. There was a tawny-gold, black and scarlet tone about them and their garb, an Indian Spanish duskiness and glow which I loved to look at. Every proceeding of the tinker and Anselo was veiled in mystery and hidden in the obscurity so dear to such grown-up children, but as I observed after a few days that Lee did nothing beyond acting as assistant to the tinker at the wheel, I surmised that the visit was solely for our benefit. As the tinker was devoted to his poor wife, so was Anselo and his dame devoted to their child. He was, indeed, a brave little fellow, and frequently manifested the precocious pluck and sturdiness so greatly admired by the Romanys of the road; and when he would take a whip and lead the horse, or in other ways show his courage, the delight of his parents was in its turn delightful. They would look at the child as if charmed, and then at one another with feelings too deep for words, and then at me for sympathetic admiration. The keeper of the house where they lodged was in his way a character and a linguist. Welsh was his native tongue and English his second best. He also knew others, such as Romany, of which he was proud, and the Shelta or Minklas of the tinkers, of which he was not. The only language which he knew of which he was really ashamed was Italian, and though he could maintain a common conversation in it he always denied that he remembered more than a few words. For it was not as the tongue of Dante, but as the lingo of organ-grinders and such "catenone" that he knew it, and I think that the Palmer and I lost dignity in his eyes by inadvertently admitting that it was familiar to us. "I shouldn't have thought it," was all his comment on the discovery, but I knew his thought, and it was that we had made ourselves unnecessarily familiar with vulgarity. It is not every one who is aware of the extent to which Italian is known by the lower orders in London. It is not spoken as a language; but many of its words, sadly mangled, are mixed with English as a jargon. Thus the Italian _scappare_, to escape, or run away, has become _scarper_; and a dweller in the Seven Dials has been heard to say he would "_scarper_ with the _feele_ of the _donna_ of the _cassey_;" which means, run away with the daughter of the landlady of the house, and which, as the editor of the Slang Dictionary pens, is almost pure Italian,--_scappare colla figlia della donna_, _della casa_. Most costermongers call a penny a _saltee_, from _soldo_; a crown, a _caroon_; and one half, _madza_, from _mezza_. They count as follows:-- ITALIAN. Oney saltee, a penny Uno soldo. Dooey saltee, twopence Dui soldi. Tray saltee, threepence Tre soldi. Quarterer saltee, fourpence Quattro soldi. Chinker saltee, fivepence Cinque soldi. Say saltee, sixpence Sei soldi. Say oney saltee, or setter Sette soldi. saltee, sevenpence Say dooee saltee, or otter Otto soldi. saltee, eightpence Say tray saltee, or nobba saltee, Nove soldi. ninepence Say quarterer saltee, or dacha Dieci soldi. (datsha) saltee, tenpence Say chinker saltee, or dacha one Dieci uno soldi saltee, elevenpence Oney beong, one shilling Uno bianco. A beong say saltee, one shilling Uno bianco sei soldi. and sixpence Madza caroon, half a crown Mezza corona. Mr. Hotten says that he could never discover the derivation of _beong_, or _beonk_. It is very plainly the Italian _bianco_, white, which, like _blanc_ in French and _blank_ in German, is often applied slangily to a silver coin. It is as if one had said, "a shiner." Apropos of which word there is something curious to be noted. It came forth in evidence, a few years ago in England, that burglars or other thieves always carried with them a piece of coal; and on this disclosure, a certain writer, in his printed collection of curiosities, comments as if it were a superstition, remarking that the coal is carried for an amulet. But the truth is that the thief has no such idea. The coal is simply a sign for money; and when the bearer meets with a man whom he thinks may be a "fence," or a purchaser of stolen goods, he shows the coal, which is as much as to say, Have you money? Money, in vulgar gypsy, is _wongur_, a corruption of the better word _angar_, which also means a hot coal; and _braise_, in French _argot_, has the same double meaning. I may be wrong, but I suspect that _rat_, a dollar in Hebrew, or at least in Schmussen, has its root in common with _ratzafim_, coals, and possibly _poschit_, a farthing, with _pecham_, coal. In the six kinds of fire mentioned in the Talmud, {222} there is no identification of coals with money; but in the German legends of Rubezahl, there is a tale of a charcoal-burner who found them changed to gold. Coins are called shiners because they shine like glowing coals, and I dare say that the simile exists in many more languages. One twilight we found in the public sitting-room of the lodging-house a couple whom I can never forget. It was an elderly gypsy and his wife. The husband was himself characteristic; the wife was more than merely picturesque. I have never met such a superb old Romany as she was; indeed, I doubt if I ever saw any woman of her age, in any land or any range of life, with a more magnificently proud expression or such unaffected dignity. It was the whole poem of "Crescentius" living in modern time in other form. When a scholar associates much with gypsies there is developed in him in due time a perception or intuition of certain kinds of men or minds, which it is as difficult to describe as it is wonderful. He who has read Matthew Arnold's "Gipsy Scholar" may, however, find therein many apt words for it. I mean very seriously what I say; I mean that through the Romany the demon of Socrates acquires distinctness; I mean that a faculty is developed which is as strange as divination, and which is greatly akin to it. The gypsies themselves apply it directly to palmistry; were they well educated they would feel it in higher forms. It may be reached among other races and in other modes, and Nature is always offering it to us freely; but it seems to live, or at least to be most developed, among the Romany. It comes upon the possessor far more powerfully when in contact with certain lives than with others, and with the sympathetic it takes in at a glance that which may employ it at intervals for years to think out. And by this _duk_ I read in a few words in the Romany woman an eagle soul, caged between the bars of poverty, ignorance, and custom; but a great soul for all that. Both she and her husband were of the old type of their race, now so rare in England, though commoner in America. They spoke Romany with inflection and conjugation; they remembered the old rhymes and old words, which I quoted freely, with the Palmer. Little by little, the old man seemed to be deeply impressed, indeed awed, by our utterly inexplicable knowledge. I wore a velveteen coat, and had on a broad, soft felt hat. "You talk as the old Romanys did," said the old man. "I hear you use words which I once heard from old men who died when I was a boy. I thought those words were lying in graves which have long been green. I hear songs and sayings which I never expected to hear again. You talk like gypsies, and such gypsies as I never meet now; and you look like Gorgios. But when I was still young, a few of the oldest Romany _chals_ still wore hats such as you have; and when I first looked at you, I thought of them. I don't understand you. It is strange, very strange." "It is the Romany _soul_," said his wife. "People take to what is in them; if a bird were born a fox, it would love to fly." I wondered what flights she would have taken if she had wings. But I understood why the old man had spoken as he did; for, knowing that we had intelligent listeners, the Palmer and I had brought forth all our best and quaintest Romany curios, and these rural Welsh wanderers were not, like their English pals, familiar with Romany ryes. And I was moved to like them, and nobody perceives this sooner than a gypsy. The old couple were the parents of young Lee, and said they had come to visit him; but I think that it was rather to see us that we owed their presence in Aberystwith. For the tinker and Anselo were at this time engaged, in their secret and owl-like manner, as befitted men who were up to all manner of ways that were dark, in collecting the most interesting specimens of Romanys, for our especial study; and whenever this could be managed so that it appeared entirely accidental and a surprise, then they retired into their shadowed souls and chuckled with fiendish glee at having managed things so charmingly. But it will be long ere I forget how the old man's eye looked into the past as he recalled,-- "The hat of antique shape and coat of gray, The same the gypsies wore," and went far away back through my words to words heard in the olden time, by fires long since burnt out, beneath the flame-gilt branches of forests which have sailed away as ships, farther than woods e'er went from Dunsinane, and been wrecked in Southern seas. But though I could not tell exactly what was in every room, I knew into what house his soul had gone; and it was for this that the scholar-gypsy went from Oxford halls "to learn strange arts and join a gypsy tribe." His friends had gone from earth long since, and were laid to sleep; some, perhaps, far in the wold and wild, amid the rocks, where fox and wild bird were their visitors; but for an instant they rose again from their graves, and I knew them. "They could do wonders by the power of the imagination," says Glanvil of the gypsies; "their fancy binding that of others." Understand by imagination and fancy all that Glanvil really meant, and I agree with him. It is a matter of history that, since the Aryan morning of mankind, the Romanys have been chiromancing, and, following it, trying to read people's minds and bind them to belief. Thousands of years of transmitted hereditary influences always result in something; it has really resulted with the gypsies in an instinctive, though undeveloped, intuitive perception, which a sympathetic mind acquires from them,--nay, is compelled to acquire, out of mere self-defense; and when gained, it manifests itself in many forms, "But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill." AMERICAN GYPSIES. I. GYPSIES IN PHILADELPHIA. It is true that the American gypsy has grown more vigorous in this country, and, like many plants, has thriven better for being trans--I was about to write incautiously _ported_, but, on second thought, say _planted_. Strangely enough, he is more Romany than ever. I have had many opportunities of studying both the elders from England and the younger gypsies, born of English parents, and I have found that there is unquestionably a great improvement in the race here, even from a gypsy stand-point. The young sapling, under more favorable influences, has pushed out from the old root, and grown stronger. The causes for this are varied. Gypsies, like peacocks, thrive best when allowed to range afar. _Il faut leur donner le clef des champs_ (you must give them the key of the fields), as I once heard an old Frenchman, employed on Delmonico's Long Island farm, lang syne, say of that splendid poultry. And what a range they have, from the Atlantic to the Pacific! Marry, sir, 't is like roaming from sunrise to sunset, east and west, "and from the aurora borealis to a Southern blue-jay," and no man shall make them afraid. Wood! "Well, 't is a _kushto tem for kasht_" (a fair land for timber), as a very decent _Romani-chal_ said to me one afternoon. It was thinking of him which led me to these remarks. I had gone with my niece--who speaks Romany--out to a gypsyry by Oaklands Park, and found there one of our good people, with his wife and children, in a tent. Hard by was the wagon and the horse, and, after the usual initiatory amazement at being accosted in the _kalo jib_, or black language, had been survived, we settled down into conversation. It was a fine autumnal day, Indian-summery,--the many in one of all that is fine in weather all the world over, put into a single glorious sense,--a sense of bracing air and sunshine not over-bold or bright, and purple, tawny hues in western skies, and dim, sweet feelings of the olden time. And as we sat lounging in lowly seats, and talked about the people and their ways, it seemed to me as if I were again in Devonshire or Surrey. Our host--for every gypsy who is visited treats you as a guest, thus much Oriental politeness being deeply set in him--had been in America from boyhood, but he seemed to be perfectly acquainted with all whom I had known over the sea. Only one thing he had not heard, the death of old Gentilla Cooper, of the Devil's Dyke, near Brighton, for I had just received a letter from England announcing the sad news. "Yes, this America is a good country for travelers. _We can go South in winter_. Aye, the land is big enough to go to a warm side in winter, and a cool one in summer. But I don't go South, because I don't like the people; I don't get along with them. _Some Romanys do_. Yes, but I'm not on that horse, I hear that the old country's getting to be a hard place for our people. Yes, just as you say, there's no _tan to hatch_, no place to stay in there, unless you pay as much as if you went to a hotel. 'T isn't so here. Some places they're uncivil, but mostly we can get wood and water, and a place for a tent, and a bite for the old _gry_ [horse]. The country people like to see us come, in many places. They're more high-minded and hon'rable here than they are in England. If we can cheat them in horse-dealin' they stand it as gentlemen always ought to do among themselves in such games. Horse-dealin' is horse-stealin', in a way, among real gentlemen. If I can Jew you or you do me, it's all square in gamblin', and nobody has any call to complain. Therefore, I allow that Americans are higher up as gentlemen than what they are in England. It is not all of one side, like a jug-handle, either. Many of these American farmers can cheat me, and have done it, and are proud of it. Oh, yes; they're much higher toned here. In England, if you put off a _bavolengro_ [broken-winded horse] on a fellow he comes after you with a _chinamangri_ [writ]. Here he goes like a man and swindles somebody else with the _gry_, instead of sneaking off to a magistrate. "Yes," he continued, "England's a little country, very little, indeed, but it is astonishing how many Romanys come out of it over here. _Do I notice any change in them after coming_? I do. When they first come, they drink liquor or beer all the time. After a while they stop heavy drinking." I may here observe that even in England the gypsy, although his getting drunk is too often regulated or limited simply by his means, seldom shows in his person the results of long-continued intemperance. Living in the open air, taking much exercise, constantly practicing boxing, rough riding, and other manly sports, he is "as hard as nails," and generally lives to a hearty old age. As he very much prefers beer to spirits, it may be a question whether excess in such drinking is really any serious injury to him. The ancestors of the common English peasants have for a thousand, it may be for two thousand, years or more all got drunk on beer, whenever they could afford it, and yet a more powerful human being than the English peasant does not exist. It may be that the weaklings all die at an early age. This I cannot deny, nor that those who survive are simply so tough that beer cannot kill them. What this gypsy said of the impartial and liberal manner in which he and his kind are received by the farmers is also true. I once conversed on this subject with a gentleman farmer, and his remarks were much like those of the Rom. I inferred from what he said that the coming of a party of gypsy horse-dealers into his neighborhood was welcomed much as the passengers on a Southern steamboat were wont of old to welcome the proprietor of a portable faro bank. "I think," said he, "that the last time the gypsies were here they left more than they took away." An old Rom told me once that in some parts of New Jersey they were obliged to watch their tents and wagons very carefully for fear of the country people. I do not answer for the truth of this. It speaks vast volumes for the cleverness of gypsies that they can actually make a living by trading horses in New Spain. It is very true that in many parts of America the wanderers are welcomed with _feux de joie_, or with salutes of shot-guns,--the guns, unfortunately, being shotted and aimed at them. I have mentioned in another chapter, on a Gypsy Magic Spell, that once in Tennessee, when an old Romany mother had succeeded in hoaxing a farmer's wife out of all she had in the world, the neighboring farmers took the witch, and, with a view to preventing effectually further depredation, caused her to pass "through flames material and temporal unto flames immaterial and eternal;" that is to say, they burned her alive. But the gypsy would much prefer having to deal with lynchers than with lawyers. Like the hedge-hog, which is typically a gypsy animal, he likes better to be eaten by those of his own kind than to be crushed into dirt by those who do not understand him. This story of the hedge-hog was cited from my first gypsy book by Sir Charles Dilke, in a speech in which he made an application of it to certain conservatives who remained blindly suffering by their own party. It will hold good forever. Gypsies never flourished so in Europe as during the days when every man's hand was against them. It is said that they raided and plundered about Scotland for fifty years before they were definitely discovered to be mere marauders, for the Scots themselves were so much given up to similar pursuits that the gypsies passed unnoticed. The American gypsies do not beg, like their English brothers, and particularly their English sisters. This fact speaks volumes for their greater prosperity and for the influence which association with a proud race has on the poorest people. Our friends at Oaklands always welcomed us as guests. On another occasion when we went there, I said to my niece, "If we find strangers who do not know us, do not speak at first in Romany. Let us astonish them." We came to a tent, before which sat a very dark, old-fashioned gypsy woman. I paused before her, and said in English,-- "Can you tell a fortune for a young lady?" "She don't want her fortune told," replied the old woman, suspiciously and cautiously, or it may be with a view of drawing us on. "No, I can't tell fortunes." At this the young lady was so astonished that, without thinking of what she was saying, or in what language, she cried,-- "_Dordi_! _Can't tute pen dukkerin_?" (Look! Can't you tell fortunes?) This unaffected outburst had a greater effect than the most deeply studied theatrical situation could have brought about. The old dame stared at me and at the lady as if bewildered, and cried,-- "In the name of God, what kind of gypsies are _you_?" "Oh! _mendui shom bori chovihani_!" cried L., laughing; "we are a great witch and a wizard, and if you can't tell me my fortune, I'll tell yours. Hold out your hand, and cross mine with a dollar, and I'll tell you as big a lie as you ever _penned_ a _galderli Gorgio_ [a green Gentile]." "Well," exclaimed the gypsy, "I'll believe that you can tell fortunes or do anything! _Dordi_! _dordi_! but this is wonderful. Yet you're not the first Romany _rani_ [lady] I ever met. There's one in Delaware: a _boridiri_ [very great] lady she is, and true Romany,--_flick o the jib te rinkeni adosta_ [quick of tongue and fair of face]. Well, I am glad to see you." "Who is that talking there?" cried a man's voice from within the tent. He had heard Romany, and he spoke it, and came out expecting to see familiar faces. His own was a study, as his glance encountered mine. As soon as he understood that I came as a friend, he gave way to infinite joy, mingled with sincerest grief that he had not at hand the means of displaying hospitality to such distinguished Romanys as we evidently were. He bewailed the absence of strong drink. Would we have some tea made? Would I accompany him to the next tavern, and have some beer? All at once a happy thought struck him. He went into the tent and brought out a piece of tobacco, which I was compelled to accept. Refusal would have been unkind, for it was given from the very heart. George Borrow tells us that, in Spain, a poor gypsy once brought him a pomegranate as a first acquaintanceship token. A gypsy is a gypsy wherever you find him. These were very nice people. The old dame took a great liking to L., and showed it in pleasant manners. The couple were both English, and liked to talk with me of the old country and the many mutual friends whom we had left behind. On another visit, L. brought a scarlet silk handkerchief, which she had bound round her head and tied under her chin in a very gypsy manner. It excited, as I anticipated, great admiration from the old dame. "_Ah kenna tute dikks rinkeni_--now you look nice. That's the way a Romany lady ought to wear it! Don't she look just as Alfi used to look?" she cried to her husband. "Just such eyes and hair!" Here L. took off the _diklo_, or handkerchief, and passed it round the gypsy woman's head, and tied it under her chin, saying,-- "I am sure it becomes you much more than it does me. Now you look nice:-- "'Red and yellow for Romany, And blue and pink for the Gorgiee.'" We rose to depart, the old dame offered back to L. her handkerchief, and, on being told to keep it, was greatly pleased. I saw that the way in which it was given had won her heart. "Did you hear what the old woman said while she was telling your fortune?" asked L., after we had left the tent. "Now, I think of it, I remember that she or you had hold of my hand, while I was talking with the old man, and he was making merry with my whisky. I was turned away, and around so that I never noticed what you two were saying." "She _penned_ your _dukkerin_, and it was wonderful. She said that she must tell it." And here L. told me what the old _dye_ had insisted on reading in my hand. It was simply very remarkable, and embraced an apparent knowledge of the past, which would make any credulous person believe in her happy predictions of the future. "Ah, well," I said, "I suppose the _dukk_ told it to her. She may be an eye-reader. A hint dropped here and there, unconsciously, the expression of the face, and a life's practice will make anybody a witch. And if there ever was a witch's eye, she has it." "I would like to have her picture," said L., "in that _lullo diklo_ [red handkerchief]. She looked like all the sorceresses of Thessaly and Egypt in one, and, as Bulwer says of the Witch of Vesuvius, was all the more terrible for having been beautiful." Some time after this we went, with Britannia Lee a-gypsying, not figuratively, but literally, over the river into New Jersey. And our first greeting, as we touched the ground, was of good omen, and from a great man, for it was Walt Whitman. It is not often that even a poet meets with three sincerer admirers than the venerable bard encountered on this occasion; so, of course, we stopped and talked, and L. had the pleasure of being the first to communicate to Bon Gualtier certain pleasant things which had recently been printed of him by a distinguished English author, which is always an agreeable task. Blessed upon the mountains, or at the Camden ferryboat, or anywhere, are the feet of anybody who bringeth glad tidings. "Well, are you going to see gypsies?" "We are. We three gypsies be. By the abattoir. _Au revoir_." And on we went to the place where I had first found gypsies in America. All was at first so still that it seemed if no one could be camped in the spot. "_Se kekno adoi_." (There's nobody there.) "_Dordi_!" cried Britannia, "_Dikkava me o tuv te tan te wardo_. [I see a smoke, a tent, a wagon.] I declare, it is my _puro pal_, my old friend, W." And we drew near the tent and greeted its owner, who was equally astonished and delighted at seeing such distinguished Romany _tani ranis_, or gypsy young ladies, and brought forth his wife and three really beautiful children to do the honors. W. was a good specimen of an American-born gypsy, strong, healthy, clean, and temperate, none the worse for wear in out-of-dooring, through tropical summers and terrible winters. Like all American Romanys, he was more straightforward than most of his race in Europe. All Romanys are polite, but many of the European kind are most uncomfortably and unconsciously naive. Strange that the most innocent people should be those who most offend morality. I knew a lady once--Heaven grant that I may never meet with such another!--who had been perfectly educated in entire purity of soul. And I never knew any _devergondee_ who could so shock, shame, and pain decent people as this Agnes did in her sweet ignorance. "I shall never forget the first day you came to my camp," said W. to Britannia. "Ah, you astonished me then. You might have knocked me down with a feather. And I didn't know what to say. You came in a carriage with two other ladies. And you jumped out first, and walked up to me, and cried, '_Sa'shan_!' That stunned me, but I answered, '_Sa'shan_.' Then I didn't speak Romanes to you, for I didn't know but what you kept it a secret from the other two ladies, and I didn't wish to betray you. And when you began to talk it as deep as any old Romany I ever heard, and pronounced it so rich and beautiful, I thought I'd never heard the like. I thought you must be a witch." "_Awer me shom chovihani_" (but I am a witch), cried the lady. "_Mukka men ja adre o tan_." (Let us go into the tent.) So we entered, and sat round the fire, and asked news of all the wanderers of the roads, and the young ladies, having filled their pockets with sweets, produced them for the children, and we were as much at home as we had ever been in any salon; for it was a familiar scene to us all, though it would, perhaps, have been a strange one to the reader, had he by chance, walking that lonely way in the twilight, looked into the tent and asked his way, and there found two young ladies--_bien mises_--with their escort, all very much at their ease, and talking Romany as if they had never known any other tongue from the cradle. "What is the charm of all this?" It is that if one has a soul, and does not live entirely reflected from the little thoughts and little ways of a thousand other little people, it is well to have at all times in his heart some strong hold of nature. No matter how much we may be lost in society, dinners, balls, business, we should never forget that there is an eternal sky with stars over it all, a vast, mysterious earth with terrible secrets beneath us, seas, mountains, rivers, and forests away and around; and that it is from these and what is theirs, and not from gas-lit, stifling follies, that all strength and true beauty must come. To this life, odd as he is, the gypsy belongs, and to be sometimes at home with him by wood and wold takes us for a time from "the world." If I express myself vaguely and imperfectly, it is only to those who know not the charm of nature, its ineffable soothing sympathy,--its life, its love. Gypsies, like children, feel this enchantment as the older grown do not. To them it is a song without words; would they be happier if the world brought them to know it as words without song, without music or melody? I never read a right old English ballad of sumere when the leaves are grene or the not-broune maid, with its rustling as of sprays quivering to the song of the wode-wale, without thinking or feeling deeply how those who wrote them would have been bound to the Romany. It is ridiculous to say that gypsies are not "educated" to nature and art, when, in fact, they live it. I sometimes suspect that aesthetic culture takes more true love of nature out of the soul than it inspires. One would not say anything of a wild bird or deer being deficient in a sense of that beauty of which it is a part. There are infinite grades, kinds, or varieties of feeling of nature, and every man is perfectly satisfied that his is the true one. For my own part, I am not sure that a rabbit, in the dewy grass, does not feel the beauty of nature quite as much as Mr. Ruskin, and much more than I do. No poet has so far set forth the charm of gypsy life better than Lenau has done, in his highly-colored, quickly-expressive ballad of "Die drei Zigeuner," of which I here give a translation into English and another into Anglo-American Romany. THE THREE GYPSIES. I saw three gypsy men, one day, Camped in a field together, As my wagon went its weary way, All over the sand and heather. And one of the three whom I saw there Had his fiddle just before him, And played for himself a stormy air, While the evening-red shone o'er him. And the second puffed his pipe again Serenely and undaunted, As if he at least of earthly men Had all the luck that he wanted. In sleep and comfort the last was laid, In a tree his cymbal {238} lying, Over its strings the breezes played, O'er his heart a dream went flying. Ragged enough were all the three, Their garments in holes and tatters; But they seemed to defy right sturdily The world and all worldly matters. Thrice to the soul they seemed to say, When earthly trouble tries it, How to fiddle, sleep it, and smoke it away, And so in three ways despise it. And ever anon I look around, As my wagon onward presses, At the gypsy faces darkly browned, And the long black flying tresses. TRIN ROMANI CHALIA. Dikdom me trin geeria Sar yeckno a tacho Rom, Sa miro wardo ghias adur Apre a wafedo drom. O yeckto sos boshengero, Yuv kellde pes-kokero, O kamlo-dud te perele Sos lullo apre lo. O duito sar a swagele Dikde 'pre lestes tuv, Ne kamde kumi, penava me 'Dre sar o miduvels puv. O trinto sovade kushto-bak Lest 'zimbel adre rukk se, O bavol kelld' pre i tavia, O sutto 'pre leskro zi. Te sar i lengheri rudaben Shan katterdi-chingerdo Awer me penav' i Romani chals Ne kesserden chi pa lo. Trin dromia lende sikkerden kan Sar dikela wafedo, Ta bosher, tuver te sove-a-le Aja sa bachtalo. Dikdom palal, sa ghiom adur Talla yeckno Romani chal 'Pre lengheri kali-brauni mui, Te lengheri kali bal. II. THE CROCUS-PITCHER. {241} (PHILADELPHIA.) It was a fine spring noon, and the corner of Fourth and Library streets in Philadelphia was like a rock in the turn of a rapid river, so great was the crowd of busy business men which flowed past. Just out of the current a man paused, put down a parcel which he carried, turned it into a table, placed on it several vials, produced a bundle of hand-bills, and began, in the language of his tribe, to _cant_--that is, _cantare_, to sing--the virtues of a medicine which was certainly _patent_ in being spread out by him to extremest thinness. In an instant there were a hundred people round him. He seemed to be well known and waited for. I saw at a glance what he was. The dark eye and brown face indicated a touch of the _diddikai_, or one with a little gypsy blood in his veins, while his fluent patter and unabashed boldness showed a long familiarity with race-grounds and the road, or with the Cheap-Jack and Dutch auction business, and other pursuits requiring unlimited eloquence and impudence. How many a man of learning, nay of genius, might have paused and envied that vagabond the gifts which were worth so little to their possessor! But what was remarkable about him was that instead of endeavoring to conceal any gypsy indications, they were manifestly exaggerated. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and ear-rings and a red embroidered waistcoat of the most forcible old Romany pattern, which was soon explained by his words. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "I am always sorry to detain a select and genteel audience. But I was detained myself by a very interesting incident. I was invited to lunch with a wealthy German gentleman; a very wealthy German, I say, one of the pillars of your city and front door-step of your council, and who would be the steeple of your exchange, if it had one. And on arriving at his house he remarked, 'Toctor, by tam you koom yust in goot dime, for mine frau und die cook ish bote fall sick mit some-ding in a hoory, und I kess she'll die pooty quick-sudden.' Unfortunately I had with me, gentlemen, but a single dose of my world-famous Gypsy's Elixir and Romany Pharmacopheionepenthe. (That is the name, gentlemen, but as I detest quackery I term it simply the Gypsy's Elixir.) When the German gentleman learned that in all probability but one life could be saved he said, 'Veil, denn, doctor, subbose you gifes dat dose to de cook. For mine frau ish so goot dat it's all right mit her. She's reaty to tie. But de boor gook ish a sinner, ash I knows, und not reaty for de next world. And dere ish no vomans in town dat can gook mine sauer-kraut ash she do.' Fortunately, gentlemen, I found in an unknown corner of a forgotten pocket an unsuspected bottle of the Gypsy's Elixir, and both interesting lives were saved with such promptitude, punctuality, neatness and dispatch that the cook proceeded immediately to conclude the preparation of our meal--(thank you sir,--one dollar, if you please, sir. You say I only charged half a dollar yesterday! That was for a smaller bottle, sir. Same size, as this, was it? Ah, yes, I gave you a large bottle by mistake,--so you owe me fifty cents. Never mind, don't give it back. I'll take the half dollar.") All of this had been spoken with the utmost volubility. As I listened I almost fancied myself again in England, and at a country fair. Taking in his audience at a glance, I saw his eye rest on me ere it flitted, and he resumed,-- "We gypsies are, as you know, a remarkable race, and possessed of certain rare secrets, which have all been formulated, concentrated, dictated, and plenipotentiarated into this idealized Elixir. If I were a mountebank or a charlatan I would claim that it cures a hundred diseases. Charlatan is a French word for a quack. I speak French, gentlemen; I speak nine languages, and can tell you the Hebrew for an old umbrella. The Gypsy's Elixir cures colds, gout, all nervous affections, with such cutaneous disorders as are diseases of the skin, debility, sterility, hostility, and all the illities that flesh is heir to except what it can't, such as small-pox and cholera. It has cured cholera, but it don't claim to do it. Others claim to cure, but can't. I am not a charlatan, but an Ann-Eliza. That is the difference between me and a lady, as the pig said when he astonished his missus by blushing at her remarks to the postman. (_Better have another bottle_, _sir_. _Haven't you the change_? _Never mind_, _you can owe me fifty cents_. _I know a gentleman when I see one_.) I was recently Down East in Maine, where they are so patriotic, they all put the stars and stripes into their beds for sheets, have the Fourth of July three hundred and sixty-five times in the year, and eat the Declaration of Independence for breakfast. And they wouldn't buy a bottle of my Gypsy's Elixir till they heard it was good for the Constitution, whereupon they immediately purchased my entire stock. Don't lose time in securing this invaluable blessing to those who feel occasional pains in the lungs. This is not taradiddle. I am engaged to lecture this afternoon before the Medical Association of Germantown, as on Wednesday before the University of Baltimore; for though I sell medicine here in the streets, it is only, upon my word of honor, that the poor may benefit, and the lowly as well as the learned know how to prize the philanthropic and eccentric gypsy." He run on with his patter for some time in this vein, and sold several vials of his panacea, and then in due time ceased, and went into a bar-room, which I also entered. I found him in what looked like prospective trouble, for a policeman was insisting on purchasing his medicine, and on having one of his hand-bills. He was remonstrating, when I quietly said to him in Romany, "Don't trouble yourself; you were not making any disturbance." He took no apparent notice of what I said beyond an almost imperceptible wink, but soon left the room, and when I had followed him into the street, and we were out of ear-shot, he suddenly turned on me and said,-- "Well, you _are_ a swell, for a Romany. How do you do it up to such a high peg?" "Do what?" "Do the whole lay,--look so gorgeous?" "Why, I'm no better dressed than you are,--not so well, if you come to that _vongree_" (waistcoat). "'T isn't _that_,--'t isn't the clothes. It's the air and the style. Anybody'd believe you'd had no end of an education. I could make ten dollars a patter if I could do it as natural as you do. Perhaps you'd like to come in on halves with me as a bonnet. _No_? Well, I suppose you have a better line. You've been lucky. I tell you, you astonished me when you _rakkered_, though I spotted you in the crowd for one who was off the color of the common Gorgios,--or, as the Yahudi say, the _Goyim_. No, I carn't _rakker_, or none to speak of, and noways as deep as you, though I was born in a tent on Battersea Common and grew up a fly fakir. What's the drab made of that I sell in these bottles? Why, the old fake, of course,--you needn't say _you_ don't know that. _Italic good English_. Yes, I know I do. A fakir is bothered out of his life and chaffed out of half his business when he drops his _h_'s. A man can do anything when he must, and I must talk fluently and correctly to succeed in such a business. _Would I like a drop of something_? You paid for the last, now you must take a drop with me. _Do I know of any Romany's in town_? Lots of them. There is a ken in Lombard Street with a regular fly mort,--but on second thoughts we won't go there,--_and_--oh, I say--a very nice place in --- Street. The landlord is a Yahud; his wife can _rakker_ you, I'm sure. _She's_ a good lot, too." And while on the way I will explain that my acquaintance was not to be regarded as a real gypsy. He was one of that large nomadic class with a tinge of gypsy blood who have grown up as waifs and strays, and who, having some innate cleverness, do the best they can to live without breaking the law--much. They deserve pity, for they have never been cared for; they owe nothing to society for kindness, and yet they are held even more strictly to account by the law than if they had been regularly Sunday-schooled from babyhood. This man when he spoke of Romanys did not mean real gypsies; he used the word as it occurs in Ainsworth's song of "Nix my dolly, pals fake away. And here I am both tight and free, A regular rollicking Romany." For he meant _Bohemian_ in its widest and wildest sense, and to him all that was apart from the world was _his_ world, whether it was Rom or Yahudi, and whether it conversed in Romany or Schmussen, or any other tongue unknown to the Gentiles. He had indeed no home, and had never known one. It was not difficult to perceive that the place to which he led me was devoted in the off hours to some other business besides the selling of liquor. It was neat and quiet, in fact rather sleepy; but its card, which was handed to me, stated in a large capital head-line that it was OPEN ALL NIGHT, and that there was pool at all hours. I conjectured that a little game might also be performed there at all hours, and that, like the fountain of Jupiter Ammon, it became livelier as it grew later, and that it certainly would not be on the full boil before midnight. "_Scheiker fur mich_, _der Isch will jain soreff shaskenen_" (Beer for me and brandy for him), I said to the landlord, who at once shook my hand and saluted me with _Sholem_! Even so did Ben Daoud of Jerusalem, not long ago. Ben knew me not, and I was buying a pocket-book of him at his open-air stand in Market Street, and talking German, while he was endeavoring to convince me that I ought to give five cents more for it than I had given for a similar case the day before, on the ground that it was of a different color, or under color that the leather had a different ground, I forget which. In talking I let fall the word _kesef_ (silver). In an instant Ben had taken my hand, and said _Sholem aleichum_, and "Can you talk Spanish?"--which was to show that he was superfine Sephardi, and not common Ashkenaz. "Yes," resumed the crocus-fakir; "a man must be able to talk English very fluently, pronounce it correctly, and, above all things, keep his temper, if he would do anything that requires chanting or pattering. _How did I learn it_? A man can learn to do anything when it's business and his living depends on it. The people who crowd around me in the streets cannot pronounce English decently; not one in a thousand here can say _laugh_, except as a sheep says it. Suppose that you are a Cheap Jack selling things from a van. About once in an hour some tipsy fellow tries to chaff you. He hears your tongue going, and that sets his off. He hears the people laugh at your jokes, and he wants them to laugh at his. When you say you're selling to raise money for a burned-out widow, he asks if she isn't your wife. Then you answer him, 'No, but the kind-hearted old woman who found you on the door-step and brought you up to the begging business.' If you say you are selling goods under cost, it's very likely some yokel will cry out, 'Stolen, hey?' And you patter as quick as lightning, 'Very likely; I thought your wife sold 'em to me too cheap for the good of somebody's clothes-line.' If you show yourself his superior in language awd wit, the people will buy better; they always prefer a gentleman to a cad. Bless me! why, a swell in a dress-coat and kid gloves, with good patter and hatter, can sell a hundred rat-traps while a dusty cad in a flash kingsman would sell one. As for the replies, most of them are old ones. As the men who interrupt you are nearly all of the same kind, and have heads of very much the same make, with an equal number of corners, it follows that they all say nearly the same things. Why, I've heard two duffers cry out the same thing at once to me. So you soon have answers cut and dried for them. We call 'em _cocks_, because they're just like half-penny ballads, all ready printed, while the pitcher always has the one you want ready at his finger-ends. It is the same in all canting. I knew a man once who got his living by singing of evenings in the gaffs to the piano, and making up verses on the gentlemen and ladies as they came in; and very nice verses he made, too,--always as smooth as butter. _How do you do it_? I asked him one day. 'Well, you wouldn't believe it,' said he; 'but they're mostly cocks. The best ones I buy for a tanner [sixpence] apiece. If a tall gentleman with a big beard comes in, I strike a deep chord and sing,-- "'This tall and handsome party, With such a lot of hair, Who seems so grand and hearty, Must be a _militaire_; We like to see a swell come Who looks so _distingue_, So let us bid him welcome, And hope he'll find us gay.' "The last half can be used for anybody. That's the way the improvisatory business is managed for visitors. Why, it's the same with fortune-telling. _You have noticed that_. Well, if the Gorgios had, it would have been all up with the fake long ago. The old woman has the same sort of girls come to her with the same old stories, over and over again, and she has a hundred dodges and gets a hundred straight tips where nobody else would see anything; and of course she has the same replies all ready. There is nothing like being glib. And there's really a great deal of the same in the regular doctor business, as I know, coming close on to it and calling myself one. Why, I've been called into a regular consultation in Chicago, where I had an office,--'pon my honor I was, and no great honor neither. It was all patter, and I pattered 'em dumb." I began to think that the fakir could talk forever and ever faster. If he excelled in his business, he evidently practiced at all times to do so. I intimated as much, and he at once proceeded fluently to illustrate this point also. "You hear men say every day that if they only had an education they would do great things. What it would all come to with most of them is that they would _talk_ so as to shut other men up and astonish 'em. They have not an idea above that. I never had any schooling but the roads and race-grounds, but I can talk the hat off a lawyer, and that's all I can do. Any man of them could talk well if he tried; but none of them will try, and as they go through life, telling you how clever they'd have been if somebody else had only done something for them, instead of doing something for themselves. So you must be going. Well, I hope I shall see you again. Just come up when you're going by and say that your wife was raised from the dead by my Elixir, and that it's the best medicine you ever had. And if you want to see some regular tent gypsies, there's a camp of them now just four miles from here; real old style Romanys. Go out on the road four miles, and you'll find them just off the side,--anybody will show you the place. _Sarishan_!" I was sorry to read in the newspaper, a few days after, that the fakir had been really arrested and imprisoned for selling a quack medicine. For in this land of liberty it makes an enormous difference whether you sell by advertisement in the newspapers or on the sidewalk, which shows that there is one law for the rich and another for the poor, even in a republic. III. GYPSIES IN CAMP. (NEW JERSEY.) The Weather had put on his very worst clothes, and was never so hard at work for the agricultural interests, or so little inclined to see visitors, as on the Sunday afternoon when I started gypsying. The rain and the wind were fighting one with another, and both with the mud, even as the Jews in Jerusalem fought with themselves, and both with the Romans,--which was the time when the _Shaket_, or butcher, killed the ox who drank the water which quenched the fire which the reader has often heard all about, yet not knowing, perhaps, that the house which Jack built was the Holy Temple of Jerusalem. It was with such reflections that I beguiled time on a long walk, for which I was not unfitly equipped in corduroy trousers, with a long Ulster and a most disreputable cap befitting a stable-boy. The rig, however, kept out the wet, and I was too recently from England to care much that it was raining. I had seen the sun on color about thirty times altogether during the past year, and so had not as yet learned to miss him. It is on record that when the Shah was in England a lady said to him, "Can it be possible, your highness, that there are in your dominions people who worship the sun?" "Yes," replied the monarch, musingly; "and so would you, if you could only see him." The houses became fewer as I went on, till at last I reached the place near which I knew the gypsies must be camped. As is their custom in England, they had so established themselves as not to be seen from the road. The instinct which they display in thus getting near people, and yet keeping out of their sight, even as rats do, is remarkable. I thought I knew the town of Brighton, in England, thoroughly, and had explored all its nooks, and wondered that I had never found any gypsies there. One day I went out with a Romany acquaintance, who, in a short time, took me to half a dozen tenting-places, round corners in mysterious by-ways. It often happens that the spots which they select to _hatch the tan_, or pitch the tent, are picturesque bits, such as artists love, and all gypsies are fully appreciative of beauty in this respect. It is not a week, as I write, since I heard an old horse-dealing veteran of the roads apologize to me with real feeling for the want of a view near his tent, just as any other man might have excused the absence of pictures from his walls. The most beautiful spot for miles around Williamsport, in Pennsylvania, a river dell, which any artist would give a day to visit, is the favorite camping-ground of the Romany. Woods and water, rocks and loneliness, make it lovely by day, and when, at eventide, the fire of the wanderers lights up the scene, it also lights up in the soul many a memory of tents in the wilderness, of pictures in the Louvre, of Arabs and of Wouvermanns and belated walks by the Thames, and of Salvator Rosa. Ask me why I haunt gypsydom. It has put me into a thousand sympathies with nature and art, which I had never known without it. The Romany, like the red Indian, and all who dwell by wood and wold as outlawes wont to do, are the best human links to bind us to their home-scenery, and lead us into its inner life. What constitutes the antithetic charm of those wonderful lines, "Afar in the desert, I love to ride, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side," but the presence of the savage who belongs to the scene, and whose _being_ binds the poet to it, and blends him with it as the flux causes the fire to melt the gold? I left the road, turned the corner, and saw before me the low, round tents, with smoke rising from the tops, dark at first and spreading into light gray, like scalp-locks and feathers upon Indian heads. Near them were the gayly-painted vans, in which I at once observed a difference from the more substantial-looking old-country _vardo_. The whole scene was so English that I felt a flutter at the heart: it was a bit from over the sea; it seemed as if hedge-rows should have been round, and an old Gothic steeple looking over the trees. I thought of the last gypsy camp I had seen near Henley-on-Thames, and wished Plato Buckland were with me to share the fun which one was always sure to have on such an occasion in his eccentric company. But now Plato was, like his father in the song, "_Duro pardel the boro pani_," Far away over the broad-rolling sea, and I must introduce myself. There was not a sign of life about, save in a sorrowful hen, who looked as if she felt bitterly what it was to be a Pariah among poultry and a down-pin, and who cluttered as if she might have had a history of being borne from her bower in the dark midnight by desperate African reivers, of a wild moonlit flitting and crossing black roaring torrents, drawn all the while by the neck, as a Turcoman pulls a Persian prisoner on an "alaman," with a rope, into captivity, and finally of being sold unto the Egyptians. I drew near a tent: all was silent, as it always is in a _tan_ when the foot-fall of the stranger is heard; but I knew that it was packed with inhabitants. I called in Romany my greeting, and bade somebody come out. And there appeared a powerfully built, dark-browed, good-looking man of thirty, who was as gypsy as Plato himself. He greeted me very civilly, but with some surprise, and asked me what he could do for me. "Ask me in out of the rain, pal," I replied. "You don't suppose I've come four miles to see you and stop out here, do you?" This was, indeed, reasonable, and I was invited to enter, which I did, and found myself in a scene which would have charmed Callot or Goya. There was no door or window to the black tent; what light there was came through a few rifts and rents and mingled with the dull gleam of a smoldering fire, producing a perfect Rembrandt blending of rosy-red with dreamy half-darkness. It was a real witch-aura, and the denizens were worthy of it. As my eyes gradually grew to the gloom, I saw that on one side four brown old Romany sorceresses were "_beshing apre ye pus_" (sitting on the straw), as the song has it, with deeper masses of darkness behind them, in which other forms were barely visible. Their black eyes all flashed up together at me, like those of a row of eagles in a cage; and I saw in a second that, with men and all I was in a party who were anything but milksops; in fact, with as regularly determined a lot of hard old Romanys as ever battered a policeman. I confess that a feeling like a thrill of joy came over me--a memory of old days and by-gone scenes over the sea--when I saw this, and knew they were not _diddikais_, or half-breed mumpers. On the other side, several young people, among them three or four good-looking girls, were eating their four-o'clock meal from a canvas spread on the ground. There were perhaps twenty persons in the place, including the children who swarmed about. Even in a gypsy tent something depends on the style of a self-introduction by a perfect stranger. Stepping forward, I divested myself of my Ulster, and handed it to a nice damsel, giving her special injunction to fold it up and lay it by. My _mise en scene_ appeared to meet with approbation, and I stood forth and remarked,-- "Here I am, glad to see you; and if you want to see a regular _Romany rye_ [gypsy gentleman], just over from England, now's your chance. _Sarishan_!" And I received, as I expected, a cordial welcome. I was invited to sit down and eat, but excused myself as having just come from _habben_, or food, and settled myself to a cigar. But while everybody was polite, I felt that under it all there was a reserve, a chill. I was altogether too heavy a mystery. I knew my friends, and they did not know me. Something, however, now took place which went far to promote conviviality. The tent-flap was lifted, and there entered an elderly woman, who, as a gypsy, might have been the other four in one, she was so quadruply dark, so fourfold uncanny, so too-too witch-like in her eyes. The others had so far been reserved as to speaking Romany; she, glancing at me keenly, began at once to talk it very fluently, without a word of English, with the intention of testing me; but as I understood her perfectly, and replied with a burning gush of the same language, being, indeed, glad to have at last "got into my plate," we were friends in a minute. I did not know then that I was talking with a celebrity whose name has even been groomily recorded in an English book; but I found at once that she was truly "a character." She had manifestly been sent for to test the stranger, and I knew this, and made myself agreeable, and was evidently found _tacho_, or all right. It being a rule, in fact, with few exceptions, that when you really like people, in a friendly way, and are glad to be among them, they never fail to find it out, and the jury always comes to a favorable verdict. And so we sat and talked on in the monotone in which Romany is generally spoken, like an Indian song, while, like an Indian drum, the rain pattered an accompaniment on the tightly drawn tent. Those who live in cities, and who are always realizing self, and thinking how they think, and are while awake given up to introverting vanity, never _live_ in song. To do this one must be a child, an Indian, a dweller in fields and green forests, a brother of the rain and road-puddles and rolling streams, and a friend of the rustling leaves and the summer orchestra of frogs and crickets and rippling grass. Those who hear this music and think to it never think about it; those who live only in books never sing to it in soul. As there are dreams which _will not_ be remembered or known to _reason_, so this music shrinks from it. It is wonderful how beauty perishes like a shade-grown flower before the sunlight of analysis. It is dying out all the world over in women, under the influence of cleverness and "style;" it is perishing in poetry and art before criticism; it is wearing away from manliness, through priggishness; it is being crushed out of true gentleness of heart and nobility of soul by the pessimist puppyism of miching Mallockos. But nature is eternal and will return. When man has run one of his phases of culture fairly to the end, and when the fruit is followed by a rattling rococo husk, then comes a winter sleep, from which he awakens to grow again as a child-flower. We are at the very worst of such a time; but there is a morning redness far away, which shows that the darkness is ending, the winter past, the rain is over and gone. Arise, and come away! "Sossi kair'd tute to av'akai pardel o boro pani?" (And what made you come here across the broad water?) said the good old dame confidentially and kindly, in the same low monotone. "Si lesti chorin a gry?" (Was it stealing a horse?) _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _patter_, _dum_! played the rain. "Avali I dikked your romus kaliko" (I saw your husband yesterday), remarked some one aside to a girl. _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _patter_, _dum_! "No, mother deari, it was not a horse, for I am on a better, higher lay." _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _patter_, _dum_! "He is a first-rate dog, but mine's as good." _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _dum_! "Tacho! There's money to be made by a gentleman like you by telling fortunes." _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _dum_! "Yes, a five-hundred-dollar hit sometimes. But _dye_, I work upon a better lay." _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _dum_! "Perhaps you are _a boro drabengro_" (a great physician). _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _dum_! "It was away among the rocks that he fell into the reeds, half in the water, and kept still till they went by." "If any one is ill among you, I may be of use." _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _dum_! "And what a wind! It blows as if the good Lord were singing! Kushti chirus se atch a-kerri." (This is a pleasant day to be at home.) _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _dum_! "I thought you were a doctor, for you were going about in the town with the one who sells medicine. I heard of it." _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _dum_! "Do not hurry away! Come again and see us. I think the Coopers are all out in Ohio." _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _dum_! The cold wind and slight rain seemed refreshing and even welcome, as I went out into the cold air. The captain showed me his stock of fourteen horses and mules, and we interchanged views as to the best method of managing certain maladies in such stock. I had been most kindly entertained; indeed, with the home kindliness which good people in the country show to some hitherto unseen and unknown relative who descends to them from the great world of the city. Not but that my friends did not know cities and men as well as Ulysses, but even Ulysses sometimes met with a marvel. In after days I became quite familiar with the several families who made the camp, and visited them in sunshine. But they always occur to me in memory as in a deep Rembrandt picture, a wonderful picture, and their voices as in vocal chiaroscuro; singing to the wind without and the rain on the tent,-- _Dum_, _dum_, _dum_, _patter_, _dum_! IV. HOUSE GYPSIES IN PHILADELPHIA This chapter was written by my niece through marriage, Miss Elizabeth Robins. It is a part of an article which was published in "The Century," and it sets forth certain wanderings in seeking old houses in the city of Philadelphia. All along the lower part of Race Street, saith the lady, are wholesale stores and warehouses of every description. Some carts belonging to one of them had just been unloaded. The stevedores who do this--all negroes--were resting while they waited for the next load. They were great powerful men, selected for their strength, and were of many hues, from _cafe au lait_, or coffee much milked, up to the browned or black-scorched berry itself, while the very _athletae_ were coal-black. They wore blue overalls, and on their heads they had thrown old coffee-bags, which, resting on their foreheads, passed behind their ears and hung loosely down their backs. It was in fact the _haik_ or bag-cloak of the East, and it made a wonderfully effective Arab costume. One of them was half leaning, half sitting, on a pile of bags; his Herculean arms were folded, and he had unconsciously assumed an air of dignity and defiance. He might have passed for an African chief. When we see such men in Egypt or other sunny countries _outre mer_, we become artistically eloquent; but it rarely occurs to sketchers and word-painters to do much business in the home-market. The mixture of races in our cities is rapidly increasing, and we hardly notice it. Yet it is coming to pass that a large part of our population is German and Irish, and that our streets within ten years have become fuller of Italian fruit dealers and organ-grinders, so that _Cives sum Romanus_ (I am a Roman citizen), when abroad, now means either "I possess a monkey" or "I sell pea-nuts." Jews from Jerusalem peddle pocket-books on our sidewalks, Chinamen are monoplizing our washing and ironing, while among laboring classes are thousands of Scandinavians, Bohemians, and other Slaves. The prim provincial element which predominated in my younger years is yielding before this influx of foreigners, and Quaker monotony and stern conservatism are vanishing, while Philadelphia becomes year by year more cosmopolite. As we left the handsome negroes and continued our walk on Water Street an Italian passed us. He was indeed very dirty and dilapidated; his clothes were of the poorest, and he carried a rag-picker's bag over his shoulder; but his face, as he turned it towards us, was really beautiful. "_Siete Italiano_?" (Are you an Italian?) asked my uncle. "_Si_, _signore_" (Yes, sir), he answered, showing all his white teeth, and opening his big brown eyes very wide. "_E come lei piace questo paese_?" (And how do you like this country?) "Not at all. It is too cold," was his frank answer, and laughing good-humoredly he continued his search through the gutters. He would have made a good model for an artist, for he had what we do not always see in Italians, the real southern beauty of face and expression. Two or three weeks after this encounter, we were astonished at meeting on Chestnut Street a little man, decently dressed, who at once manifested the most extraordinary and extravagant symptoms of delighted recognition. Never saw I mortal so grin-full, so bowing. As we went on and crossed the street, and looked back, he was waving his hat in the air with one hand, while he made gestures of delight with the other. It was the little Italian rag-picker. Then along and afar, till we met a woman, decently enough dressed, with jet-black eyes and hair, and looking not unlike a gypsy. "A Romany!" I cried with delight. Her red shawl made me think of gypsies, and when I caught her eye I saw the indescrible flash of the _kalorat_, or black blood. It is very curious that Hindus, Persians, and gypsies have in common an expression of the eye which distinguishes them from all other Oriental races, and chief in this expression is the Romany. Captain Newbold, who first investigated the gypsies of Egypt, declares that, however disguised, he could always detect them by their glance, which is unlike that of any other human being, though something resembling it is often seen in the ruder type of the rural American. I believe myself that there is something in the gypsy eye which is inexplicable, and which enables its possessor to see farther through that strange mill-stone, the human soul, than I can explain. Any one who has ever seen an old fortune-teller of "the people" keeping some simple-minded maiden by the hand, while she holds her by her glittering eye, like the Ancient Mariner, with a basilisk stare, will agree with me. As Scheele de Vere writes, "It must not be forgotten that the human eye has, beyond question, often a power which far transcends the ordinary purposes of sight, and approaches the boundaries of magic." But one glance, and my companion whispered, "Answer me in Romany when I speak, and don't seem to notice her." And then, in loud tone, he remarked, while looking across the street,-- "_Adovo's a kushto puro rinkeno ker adoi_." (That is a nice old pretty house there.) "_Avali_, _rya_" (Yes, sir), I replied. There was a perceptible movement by the woman in the red shawl to keep within ear-shot of us. Mine uncle resumed,-- "_Boro kushto covva se ta rakker a jib te kek Gorgio iinella_." (It's nice to talk a language that no Gentile knows.) The red shawl was on the trail. "_Je crois que ca mord_," remarked my uncle. We allowed our artist guide to pass on, when, as I expected, I felt a twitch at my outer garment. I turned, and the witch eyes, distended with awe and amazement, were glaring into mine, while she said, in a hurried whisper,-- "Wasn't it Romanes?" "_Avah_," I replied, "_mendui rakker sarja adovo jib_. _Butikumi ryeskro lis se denna Gorgines_." (Yes, we always talk that language. Much more genteel it is than English.) "_Te adovo wavero rye_?" (And that _other_ gentleman?) with a glance of suspicion at our artist friend. "_Sar tacho_" (He's all right), remarked mine uncle, which I greatly fear meant, when correctly translated in a Christian sense, "He's all wrong." But there is a natural sympathy and intelligence between Bohemians of every grade, all the world over, and I never knew a gypsy who did not understand an artist. One glance satisfied her that he was quite worthy of our society. "And where are you _tannin kenna_?" (tenting now), I inquired. "We are not tenting at this time of year; we're _kairin_," _i.e._, houseing, or home-ing. It is a good verb, and might be introduced into English. "And where is your house?" "There, right by Mammy Sauerkraut's Row. Come in and sit down." I need not give the Romany which was spoken, but will simply translate. The house was like all the others. We passed through a close, dark passage, in which lay canvas and poles, a kettle and a _sarshta_, or the iron which is stuck into the ground, and by which a kettle hangs. The old-fashioned tripod, popularly supposed to be used by gypsies, in all probability never existed, since the Roms of India to-day use the _sarshta_, as mine uncle tells me he learned from a _ci-devant_ Indian gypsy Dacoit, or wandering thief, who was one of his intimates in London. We entered an inner room, and I was at once struck by its general indescribable unlikeness to ordinary rooms. Architects declare that the type of the tent is to be distinctly found in all Chinese and Arab or Turkish architecture; it is also as marked in a gypsy's house--when he gets one. This room, which was evidently the common home of a large family, suggested, in its arrangement of furniture and the manner in which its occupants sat around the tent and the wagon. There was a bed, it is true but there was a roll of sail-cloth, which evidently did duty for sleeping on at night, but which now, rolled up, acted the part described by Goldsmith:-- "A thing contrived a double part to play, A bed by night, a sofa during day." There was one chair and a saddle, a stove and a chest of drawers. I observed an engraving hanging up which I have several times seen in gypsy tents. It represents a very dark Italian youth. It is a favorite also with Roman Catholics, because the boy has a consecrated medal. The gypsies, however, believe that the boy stole the medal. The Catholics think the picture is that of a Roman boy, because the inscription says so; and the gypsies call it a Romany, so that all are satisfied. There were some eight or nine children in the room, and among them more than one whose resemblance to the dark-skinned saint might have given color enough to the theory that he was "One whose blood Had rolled through gypsies ever since the flood." There was also a girl, of the pantherine type, and one damsel of about ten, who had light hair and fair complexion, but whose air was gypsy and whose youthful countenance suggested not the golden, but the brazenest, age of life. Scarcely was I seated in the only chair, when this little maiden, after keenly scrutinizing my appearance, and apparently taking in the situation, came up to me and said,-- "Yer come here to have yer fortune told. I'll tell it to yer for five cents." "_Can tute pen dukkerin aja_?" (Can you tell fortunes already?) I inquired. And if that damsel had been lifted at that instant by the hair into the infinite glory of the seventh sphere, her countenance could not have manifested more amazement. She stood _bouche beante_, stock still staring, open-mouthed wide. I believe one might have put a brandy ball into it, or a "bull's eye," without her jaws closing on the dainty. It was a stare of twenty-four carats, and fourth proof. "This here _rye_" remarked mine uncle, affably, in middle English, "is a hartist. He puts 'is heart into all he does; _that's_ why. He ain't Romanes, but he may be trusted. He's come here, that wot he has, to draw this 'ere Mammy Sauerkraut's Row, because it's interestin'. He ain't a tax-gatherer. _We_ don't approve o' payin' taxes, none of hus. We practices heconomy, and dislike the po-lice. Who was Mammy Sauerkraut?" "I know!" cried the youthful would-be fortune-teller. "She was a witch." "_Tool yer chib_!" (Hold your tongue!) cried the parent. "Don't bother the lady with stories about _chovihanis_" (witches). "But that's just what I want to hear!" I cried. "Go on, my little dear, about Mammy Sauerkraut, and you will get your five cents yet, if you only give me enough of it." "Well, then, Mammy Sauerkraut was a witch, and a little black girl who lives next door told me so. And Mammy Sauerkraut used to change herself into a pig of nights, and that's why they called her Sauerkraut. This was because they had pig ketchers going about in those times, and once they ketched a pig that belonged to her, and to be revenged on them she used to look like a pig, and they would follow her clear out of town way up the river, and she'd run, and they'd run after her, till by and by fire would begin to fly out of her bristles, and she jumped into the river and sizzed." This I thought worthy of the five cents. Then my uncle began to put questions in Romany. "Where is Anselo W.? He that was _staruben_ for a _gry_?" (imprisoned for a horse). "_Staruben apopli_." (Imprisoned again.) "I am sorry for it, sister Nell. He used to play the fiddle well. I wot he was a canty chiel', and dearly lo'ed the whusky, oh!" "Yes, he was too fond of that. How well he could play!" "Yes," said my uncle, "he could. And I have sung to his fiddling when the _tatto-pani_ [hot water, _i.e._, spirits] boiled within us, and made us gay, oh, my golden sister! That's the way we Hungarian gypsy gentlemen always call the ladies of our people. I sang in Romany." "I'd like to hear you sing now," remarked a dark, handsome young man, who had just made a mysterious appearance out of the surrounding shadows. "It's a _kamaben gilli_" (a love-song), said the _rye_; "and it is beautiful, deep old Romanes,--enough to make you cry." There was the long sound of a violin, clear as the note of a horn. I had not observed that the dark young man had found one to his hand, and, as he accompanied, my uncle sang; and I give the lyric as he afterwards gave it to me, both in Romany and English. As he frankly admitted, it was his own composition. KE TEINALI. Tu shan miri pireni Me kamava tute, Kamlidiri, rinkeni, Kames mande buti? Sa o miro kushto gry Taders miri wardi,-- Sa o boro buno rye Rikkers lesto stardi. Sa o bokro dre o char Hawala adovo,-- Sa i choramengeri Lels o ryas luvoo,-- Sa o sasto levinor Kairs amandy matto,-- Sa o yag adre o tan Kairs o geero tatto,-- Sa i puri Romni chai Pens o kushto dukkrin,-- Sa i Gorgi dinneli, Patsers lakis pukkrin,-- Tute taders tiro rom, Sims o gry, o wardi, Tute chores o zi adrom Rikkers sa i stardi. Tute haws te chores m'ri all, Tutes dukkered buti Tu shan miro jivaben Me t'vel paller tute. Paller tute sarasa Pardel puv te pani, Trinali--o krallisa! Miri chovihani! TO TRINALI. Now thou art my darling girl, And I love thee dearly; Oh, beloved and my fair, Lov'st thou me sincerely? As my good old trusty horse Draws his load or bears it; As a gallant cavalier Cocks his hat and wears it; As a sheep devours the grass When the day is sunny; As a thief who has the chance Takes away our money; As strong ale when taken down Makes the strongest tipsy; As a fire within a tent Warms a shivering gypsy; As a gypsy grandmother Tells a fortune neatly; As the Gentile trusts in her, And is done completely,-- So you draw me here and there, Where you like you take me; Or you sport me like a hat,-- What you will you make me. So you steal and gnaw my heart For to that I'm fated! And by you, my gypsy Kate, I'm intoxicated. And I own you are a witch, I am beaten hollow; Where thou goest in this world I am bound to follow,-- Follow thee, where'er it be, Over land and water, Trinali, my gypsy queen! Witch and witch's daughter! "Well, that _is_ deep Romanes," said the woman, admiringly. "It's beautiful." "_I_ should think it was," remarked the violinist. "Why, I didn't understand more than one half of it. But what I caught I understood." Which, I reflected, as he uttered it, is perhaps exactly the case with far more than half the readers of all poetry. They run on in a semi-sensuous mental condition, soothed by cadence and lulled by rhyme, reading as they run for want of thought. Are there not poets of the present day who mean that you shall read them thus, and who cast their gold ornaments hollow, as jewelers do, lest they should be too heavy? "My children," said Meister Karl, "I could go on all day with Romany songs; and I can count up to a hundred in the black language. I know three words for a mouse, three for a monkey, and three for the shadow which falleth at noonday. And I know how to _pen dukkerin_, _lel dudikabin te chiv o manzin apre latti_." {270} "Well, the man who knows _that_ is up to _drab_ [medicine], and hasn't much more to learn," said the young man. "When a _rye's_ a Rom he's anywhere at home." "So _kushto bak_!" (Good luck!) I said, rising to go. "We will come again!" "Yes, we will come again," said Meister Karl. "Look for me with the roses at the races, and tell me the horse to bet on. You'll find my _patteran_ [a mark or sign to show which way a gypsy has traveled] at the next church-door, or may be on the public-house step. Child of the old Egyptians, mother of all the witches, sister of the stars, daughter of darkness, farewell!" This bewildering speech was received with admiring awe, and we departed. I should have liked to hear the comments on us which passed that evening among the gypsy denizens of Mammy Sauerkraut's Row. V. A GYPSY LETTER. All the gypsies in the country are not upon the roads. Many of them live in houses, and that very respectably, nay, even aristocratically. Yea, and it may be, O reader, that thou hast met them and knowest them not, any more than thou knowest many other deep secrets of the hearts and lives of those who live around thee. Dark are the ways of the Romany, strange his paths, even when reclaimed from the tent and the van. It is, however, intelligible enough that the Rom converted to the true faith of broadcloth garments by Poole, or dresses by Worth, as well as to the holy gospel of daily baths and _savon au violet_, should say as little as possible of his origin. For the majority of the world being snobs, they continually insist that all blood unlike their own is base, and the child of the _kalorat_, knowing this, sayeth naught, and ever carefully keeps the lid of silence on the pot of his birth. And as no being that ever was, is, or will be ever enjoyed holding a secret, playing a part, or otherwise entering into the deepest mystery of life--which is to make a joke of it--so thoroughly as a gypsy, it follows that the being respectable has to him a raciness and drollery and pungency and point which passeth faith. It has often occurred to me, and the older I grow the more I find it true, that the _real_ pleasure which bank presidents, moral politicians, not a few clergymen, and most other highly representative good men take in having a high character is the exquisite secret consciousness of its being utterly undeserved. They love acting. Let no man say that the love of the drama is founded on the artificial or sham. I have heard the Reverend Histriomastix war and batter this on the pulpit; but the utterance _per se_ was an actual, living lie. He was acting while he preached. Love or hunger is not more an innate passion than acting. The child in the nursery, the savage by the Nyanza or in Alaska, the multitude of great cities, all love to bemask and seem what they are not. Crush out carnivals and masked balls and theatres, and lo, you! the disguising and acting and masking show themselves in the whole community. Mawworm and Aminidab Sleek then play a role in every household, and every child becomes a wretched little Roscius. Verily I say unto you, the fewer actors the more acting; the fewer theatres the more stages, and the worse. Lay it to heart, study it deeply, you who believe that the stage is an open door to hell, for the chances are ninety and nine to one that if this be true _you_ will end by consciously or unconsciously keeping a private little gate thereunto. Beloved, put this in thy pipe and fumigate it, that acting in some form is a human instinct which cannot be extinguished, which never has been and never will be; and this being so, is it not better, with Dr. Bellows, to try to put it into proper form than to crush it? Truly it has been proved that with this, as with a certain other unquenchable penchant of humanity, when you suppress a score of professionals you create a thousand zealous amateurs. There was never in this world a stage on which mere acting was more skillfully carried out than in all England under Cromwell, or in Philadelphia under the Quakers. Eccentric dresses, artificial forms of language, separate and "peculiar" expressions of character unlike those of "the world," were all only giving a form to that craving for being odd and queer which forms the soul of masking and acting. Of course people who act all the time object to the stage. _Le diable ne veut pas de miroir_. The gypsy of society not always, but yet frequently, retains a keen interest in his wild ancestry. He keeps up the language; it is a delightful secret; he loves now and then to take a look at "the old thing." Closely allied to the converted sinners are the _aficionados_, or the ladies and gentlemen born with unconquerable Bohemian tastes, which may be accounted for by their having been themselves gypsies in preexistent lives. No one can explain how or why it is that the _aficion_ comes upon them. It is _in_ them. I know a very learned man in England, a gentleman of high position, one whose name is familiar to my readers. He could never explain or understand why from early childhood he had felt himself drawn towards the wanderers. When he was only ten years old he saved up all his little store of pence wherewith to pay a tinker to give him lessons in Romany, in which tongue he is now a Past Grand. I know ladies in England and in America, both of the blood and otherwise, who would give up a ball of the highest flight in society, to sit an hour in a gypsy tent, and on whom a whispered word of Romany acts like wild-fire. Great as my experience has been I can really no more explain the intensity of this yearning, this _rapport_, than I can fly. My own fancy for gypsydom is faint and feeble compared to what I have found in many others. It is in them like the love for opium, for music, for love itself, or for acting. I confess that there is to me a nameless charm in the strangely, softly flowing language, which gives a sweeter sound to every foreign word which it adopts, just as the melody of a forest stream is said to make more musical the songs of the birds who dwell beside it. Thus Wentzel becomes Wenselo and Anselo; Arthur, Artaros; London, Lundra; Sylvester, Westaros. Such a phrase as "_Dordi_! _dovelo adoi_?" (See! what is that there?) could not be surpassed for mere beauty of sound. It is apropos of living double lives, and playing parts, and the charm of stealing away unseen, like naughty children, to romp with the tabooed offspring of outlawed neighbors, that I write this, to introduce a letter from a lady, who has kindly permitted me to publish it. It tells its own story of two existences, two souls in one. I give it as it was written, first in Romany, and then in English:-- _Febmunti_ 1_st_. MIRO KAMLO PAL,--Tu tevel mishto ta shun te latcherdum me akovo kurikus tacho Romany tan akai adre o gav. Buti kamaben lis sas ta dikk mori foki apopli; buti kushti ta shun moro jib. Mi-duvel atch apa mande, si ne shomas pash naflo o Gorginess, vonk' akovo vias. O waver divvus sa me viom fon a swell saleskro haben, dikdom me dui Romani chia beshin alay apre a longo skamin adre --- Square. Kalor yakkor, kalor balyor, lullo diklas apre i sherria, te lender trushnia aglal lender piria. Mi-duvel, shomas pash divio sar kamaben ta dikav lender! Avo! kairdum o wardomengro hatch i graia te sheldom avri, "_Come here_!" Yon penden te me sos a rani ta dukker te vian sig adosta. Awer me saldom te pendom adre Romanis: "Sarishan miri dearis! Tute don't jin mandy's a Romany!" Yon nastis patser lende kania nera yakkor. "Mi-duvel! Sa se tiro nav? putchde yeck. "Miro nav se Britannia Lee." Kenna-sig yon diktas te me sos tachi, te penden amengi lender navia shanas M. te D. Lis sos duro pa lende ta jin sa a Romani rani astis jiv amen Gorgios, te dikk sa Gorgious, awer te vel kushti Romani aja, te tevel buoino lakis kaloratt. Buti rakkerdem apre mori foki, buti nevvi, buti savo sos rumado, te beeno, te puredo, savo sos vino fon o puro tem, te butikumi aja kekkeno sos rakkerben sa gudli. M. pende amengi, "Mandy don't jin how tute can jiv among dem Gorgies." Pukerdom anpali: "Mandy dont jiv, mandy mers kairin amen lender." Yon mangades mande ta well ta dikk a len, adre lendes ker apre o chumba kai atchena pa o wen. Pende M., "Av miri pen ta ha a bitti sar mendi. Tute jins the chais are only kerri aratti te Kurrkus." Sunday sala miri pen te me ghion adoi te latchedon o ker. O tan sos bitto, awer sa i Romanis pende, dikde boro adosta paller jivin adre o wardo. M. sos adoi te lakis roms dye, a kushti puri chai. A. sar shtor chavia. M. kerde haben sa mendui viom adoi. I puri dye sos mishto ta dikk mande, yoi kamde ta jin sar trustal mande. Rakkerdem buti aja, te yoi pende te yoi ne kekker latchde a Romani rani denna mande. Pendom me ke laki shan adre society kumi Romani rania, awer i galderli Gorgios ne jinena lis. Yoi pende sa miri pen dikde simlo Lusha Cooper, te siggerde lakis kaloratt butider denna me. "Tute don't favor the Coopers, miri dearie! Tute pens tiri dye rummerd a mush navvered Smith. Was adovo the Smith as lelled kellin te kurin booths pasher Lundra Bridge? Sos tute beeno adre Anglaterra?" Pukkerdom me ke puri dye sar jinav me trustal miri kokeri te simensi. Tu jinsa shan kek Gorgies sa longi-bavoli apre genealogies, sa i puri Romani dyia. Vonka foki nastis chin lende adre lilia, rikkerena lende aduro adre lendros sherria. _Que la main droit perd recueille la gauche_. "Does tute jin any of the ---'s?" pende M. "Tute dikks sim ta ---'s juva." "Ne kekker, yois too pauno,' pens A. "It's chomani adre the look of her," pende M. Dikkpali miro pal. Tu jinsa te --- sos i chi savo dudikabinde manush, navdo --- buti wongur. Vanka yoi sos lino apre, o Beshomengro pende ta ker laki chiv apre a shuba sims Gorgios te adenne lelled laki adre a tan sar desh te dui gorgi chaia. --- astissa pen i chai savo chorde lestis lovvo. Vanka yoi vias adre o tan, yoi ghias sig keti laki, te pende: "Jinava me laki talla lakis longi vangusti, te rinkeni mui. Yoi sos stardi dui beshya, awer o Gorgio kekker las leski vongur pali." Savo-chirus mendi rakkerden o wuder pirido, te trin manushia vian adre. . . . Pali lenders sarishans, M. shelde avri: "Av ta misali, rikker yer skammins longo tute! Mrs. Lee, why didn't tute bring yer rom?" "Adenna me shom kek rumadi." "Mi-duvel, Britannia!" pende --- "M. pende amengy te tu sos rumado." "M. didn't dukker tacho vonka yoi dukkerd adovo. Yois a dinneli," pendom me. Te adenne sar mendi saden atut M. Haben sos kushto, loim a kani, ballovas te puvengros, te kushto curro levina. Liom mendi kushto paiass dre moro puro Romany dromus. Rinkenodiro sos, kerde mande pash ta ruv, shomas sa kushto-bakno ta atch yecker apopli men mori foki. Sos "Britannia!" akai, te "Britannia!" doi, te sar sa adre o puro cheirus, vonka chavi shomas. Ne patserava me ta Dante chinde:-- "Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi dei tempi felici." Talla me shomas kushto-bakno ta pen apre o puro chirus. Sar lende piden miro kamaben Romaneskaes, sar gudlo; talla H. Yov pende nastis ker lis, pa yuv kenna lias tabuti. Kushto dikin Romnichal yuv. Tu tevel jin lesti sarakai pa Romani, yuv se sa kalo. Te _avec l'air indefinnissable du vrai Bohemien_. Yuv patserde me ta piav miro sastopen wavescro chirus. Kana shomas pa misali, geero vias keti ian; dukkeriben kamde yov. Hunali sos i puri dye te pendes amergi, "Beng lel o puro jukel for wellin vanka mendi shom hain, te kenna tu shan akai, miri Britannia Yov ne tevel lel kek kushto bak. Mandy'll pen leste a wafedo dukkerin." Adoi A. putcherde mengy, "Does tute dukker or sa does tute ker." "Miri pen, mandy'll pen tute tacho. Mandy dukkers te dudikabins te kers buti covvas. Shom a tachi Romani chovihani." "Tacho! tacho!" saden butider. Miri pen te me rikkerdem a boro matto-morricley pa i chavis. Yon beshden alay apre o purj, hais lis. Rinkeno _picture_ sas, pendom dikkav mande te miri penia te pralia kenna shomas bitti. Latcherdom me a tani kali chavi of panj besh chorin levina avri miro curro. Dikde, sar lakis bori kali yakka te kali balia simno tikno Bacchante, sa yoi prasterde adrom. Pendom parako pa moro kushto-bakeno chirus--"kushto bak" te "kushto divvus." Mendi diom moro tachopen ta well apopli, te kan viom kerri. Patserava dikk tute akai talla o prasterin o ye graia. Kushto bak te kushto ratti. Sarja tiro pen, BRITANNIA LEE. TRANSLATION. _February_ 1_st_. MY DEAR FRIEND,--You will be glad to learn that I, within the week, found a real Romany family (place) here in this town. Charming it was to find our folk again; pleasant it was to listen to our tongue. The Lord be on me! but I was half sick of Gentiles and their ways till this occurred. The other day, as I was returning from a highly aristocratic breakfast, where we had winter strawberries with the _creme de la creme_, I saw two gypsy women sitting on a bench in --- Square. Black eyes, black hair, red kerchiefs on their heads, their baskets on the ground before their feet. Dear Lord! but I was half wild with delight at seeing them. Aye, I made the coachman stop the horses, and cried aloud, "Come here!" They thought I was a lady to fortune-tell, and came quickly. But I laughed, and said in Romany, "How are you, my dears? You don't know that I am a gypsy." They could not trust their very ears or eyes! At length one said, "My God! what _is_ your name?" "My name's Britannia Lee," and, at a glance, they saw that I was to be trusted, and a Romany. Their names, they said, were M. and D. It was hard (far) for them to understand how a Romany lady _could_ live among Gentiles, and look so Gorgious, and yet be a true gypsy withal, and proud of her dark blood. Much they talked about our people; much news I heard,--much as to who was married and born and buried, who was come from the old country, and much more. Oh, _never_ was such news so sweet to me! M. said, "I don't know how you _can_ live among the Gentiles." I answered, "I don't live; I _die_, living in their houses with them." They begged me then to come and see them in their home, upon the hill, where they are wintering. M. said, "Come, my sister, and eat a little with us. You know that the women are only at home at night and on Sunday." Sunday morning, sister and I went there, and found the house. It was a little place, but, as they said, after the life in wagons it seemed large. M. was there, and her husband's mother, a nice old woman; also A., with four children. M. was cooking as we entered. The old mother was glad to see us; she wished to know all about us. All talked, indeed, and that quite rapidly, and she said that I was the first Romany lady {279} she had ever seen. I said to her that in society are many gypsy ladies to be found, but that the wretched Gentiles do not know it. She said that my sister looked like Lusha Cooper, and showed her dark blood more than I do. "You don't favor the Coopers, my dearie. You say your mother married a Smith. Was that the Smith who kept a dancing and boxing place near London Bridge? Were you born in England?" I told the old mother all I knew about myself and my relations. You know that no Gorgios are so long-winded on genealogies as old mothers in Rom. When people don't write them down in their family Bibles, they carry them, extended, in their heads. _Que la main droit perd recueille la gauche_. "Do you know any of the ---'s?" said M. "You look like ---'s wife." "No; she's too pale," said A. "It's something in the look of her," said M. Reflect, my brother. You know that --- was the woman who "cleaned out" a man named --- of a very large sum {280} by "dukkeripen" and "dudikabin." "When she was arrested, the justice made her dress like any Gorgio, and placed her among twelve Gentile women. The man who had been robbed was to point out who among them had stolen his money. When she came into the room, he went at once to her, and said, 'I know her by her long skinny fingers and handsome face.' She was imprisoned for two years, but the Gorgio never recovered his money." What time we reasoned thus, the door undid, and three men entered. After their greetings, M. cried, "Come to table; bring your chairs with you!" "Mrs. Lee, why didn't you bring your husband?" "Because I am not married." "Lord! Britannia! Why, M. told me that you were." "Ah, M. didn't fortune right when she fortuned that. She's a fool," quoth I. And then we all laughed like children. The food was good: chickens and ham and fried potatoes, with a glass of sound ale. We were gay as flies in summer, in the real old Romany way. 'T was "Britannia" here, "Britannia" there, as in the merry days when we were young. Little do I believe in Dante's words,-- "Nessun maggior dolore, Che ricordarsi dei tempi felici." "There is no greater grief Than to remember by-gone happy days." For it is always happiness to me to think of good old times when I was glad. All drank my health, _Romaneskaes_, together, with a shout,--all save H., who said he had already had too much. Good-looking gypsy, that! You'd know him anywhere for Romany, he is so dark,--_avec l'air indefinissable du vrai Bohemien_. He promised to drink my health another time. As we sat, a gentleman came in below, wishing to have his fortune told. I remember to have read that the Pythoness of Delphian oracle prepared herself for _dukkerin_, or presaging, by taking a few drops of cherry-laurel water. (I have had it prescribed for my eyes as R _aq. laur. cerasi. fiat lotio_,--possibly to enable me to see into the future.) Perhaps it was the cherry-brandy beloved of British matrons and Brighton school-girls, taken at Mutton's. _Mais revenons a nos moutons_. The old mother had taken, not cherry-laurel water, nor even cherry-brandy, but joly good ale, and olde, which, far from fitting her to reveal the darksome lore of futurity, had rendered her loath to leave the festive board of the present. Wrathful was the sybil, furious as the Vala when waked by Odin, angry as Thor when he missed his hammer, to miss her merriment. "May the devil take the old dog for coming when we are eating, and when thou art here, my Britannia! Little good fortune will he hear this day. Evil shall be the best I'll promise him." Thus spake the sorceress, and out she went to keep her word. Truly it was a splendid picture this of "The Enraged Witch," as painted by Hexenmeister von Teufel, of Hollenstadt,--her viper eyes flashing infernal light and most unchristian fire, shaking _les noirs serpents de ses cheveux_, as she went forth. I know how, in an instant, her face was beautiful with welcome, smiling like a Neapolitan at a cent; but the poor believer caught it hot, all the same, and had a sleepless night over his future fate. I wonder if the Pythoness of old, when summoned from a _petit souper_, or a holy prophet called out of bed of a cold night, to decide by royal command on the fate of Israel, ever "took it out" on the untimely king by promising him a lively, unhappy time of it. Truly it is fine to be behind the scenes and see how they work the oracle. For the gentleman who came to consult my witch was a man of might in the secrets of state, and one whom I have met in high society. And, oh! _if_ he had known who it was that was up-stairs, laughing at him for a fool! While she was forth, A. asked me, "Do you tell fortunes, or _what_?" "My sister," I replied, "I'll tell thee the truth. I do tell fortunes. I keep a house for the purchase of stolen goods. I am largely engaged in making counterfeit money and all kinds of forgery. I am interested in burglary. I lie, swear, cheat, and steal, and get drunk on Sunday. And I do many other things. I am a real Romany witch." This little confession of faith brought down the house. "Bravo! bravo!" they cried, laughing. Sister and I had brought a great tipsy-cake for the children, and they were all sitting under a table, eating it. It was a pretty picture. I thought I saw in it myself and all my sisters and brothers as we were once. Just such little gypsies and duckling Romanys! And now! And then! What a comedy some lives are,--yea, such lives as mine! And now it is _you_ who are behind the scenes; anon, I shall change with you. _Va Pierre_, _vient Pierette_. Then I surprised a little brown maiden imp of five summers stealing my beer, and as she was caught in the act, and tore away shrieking with laughter, she looked, with her great black eyes and flowing jetty curling locks, like a perfect little Bacchante. Then we said, "Thank you for the happy time!" "Good luck!" and "Good day!" giving our promises to come again. So we went home all well. I hope to see you at the races here. Good luck and good-night also to you. Always your friend, BRITANNIA LEE I have somewhat abbreviated the Romany text of this letter, and Miss Lee herself has somewhat polished and enlarged the translation, which is strictly fit and proper, she being a very different person in English from what she is in gypsy, as are most of her kind. This letter may be, to many, a strange lesson, a quaint essay, a social problem, a fable, an epigram, or a frolic,--just as they choose to take it. To me it is a poem. Thou, my friend, canst easily understand why all that is wild and strange, out-of-doors, far away by night, is worthy of being Tennysoned or Whitmanned. If there be given unto thee stupendous blasted trees, looking in the moonlight like the pillars of a vast and ghostly temple; the fall of cataracts down awful rocks; the wind wailing in wondrous language or whistling Indian melody all night on heath, rocks, and hills, over ancient graves and through lonely caves, bearing with it the hoot of the night-owl; while over all the stars look down in eternal mystery, like eyes reading the great riddle of the night which thou knowest not,--this is to thee like Ariel's song. To me and to us there are men and women who are in life as the wild river and the night-owl, as the blasted tree and the wind over ancient graves. No man is educated until he has arrived at that state of thought when a picture is quite the same as a book, an old gray-beard jug as a manuscript, men, women, and children as libraries. It was but yester morn that I read a cuneiform inscription printed by doves' feet in the snow, finding a meaning where in by-gone years I should have seen only a quaint resemblance. For in this by the _ornithomanteia_ known of old to the Chaldean sages I saw that it was neither from arrow-heads or wedges which gave the letters to the old Assyrians. When thou art at this point, then Nature is equal in all her types, and the city, as the forest, full of endless beauty and piquancy,--_in saecula saeculorum_. I had written the foregoing, and had enveloped and directed it to be mailed, when I met in a lady-book entitled "Magyarland" with the following passages:-- "The gypsy girl in this family was a pretty young woman, with masses of raven hair and a clear skin, but, notwithstanding her neat dress and civilized surroundings, we recognized her immediately. It is, in truth, not until one sees the Romany translated to an entirely new form of existence, and under circumstances inconsistent with their ordinary lives, that one realizes how completely different they are from the rest of mankind in form and feature. Instead of disguising, the garb of civilization only enhances the type, and renders it the more apparent. No matter what dress they may assume, no matter what may be their calling, no matter whether they are dwellers in tents or houses, it is impossible for gypsies to disguise their origin. Taken from their customary surroundings, they become at once an anomaly and an anachronism, and present such an instance of the absurdity of attempting to invert the order of nature that we feel more than ever how utterly different they are from the human race; that there is a key to their strange life which we do not possess,--a secret free masonry that renders them more isolated than the veriest savages dwelling in the African wilds,--and a hidden mystery hanging over them and their origin that we shall never comprehend. They are indeed a people so entirely separate and distinct that, in whatever clime or quarter of the globe they may be met with, they are instantly recognized; for with them forty centuries of association with civilized races have not succeeded in obliterating one single sign." * * * * * "Alas!" cried the princess; "I can never, never find the door of the enchanted cavern, nor enter the golden cavern, nor solve its wonderful mystery. It has been closed for thousands of years, and it will remain closed forever." "What flowers are those which thou holdest?" asked the hermit. "Only primroses or Mary's-keys, {285} and tulips," replied the princess. "Touch the rock with them," said the hermit, "and the door will open." * * * * * The lady writer of "Magyarland" held in her hand all the while, and knew it not, a beautiful primrose, which might have opened for her the mysterious Romany cavern. On a Danube steamboat she saw a little blind boy sitting all day all alone: only a little Slavonian peasant boy, "an odd, quaint little specimen of humanity, with loose brown garments, cut precisely like those of a grown-up man, and his bits of feet in little raw-hide moccasins." However, with a tender, gentle heart she began to pet the little waif. And the captain told her what the boy was. "He is a _guslar_, or minstrel, as they call them in Croatia. The Yougo-Slavs dedicate all male children who are born blind, from infancy, to the Muses. As soon as they are old enough to handle anything, a small mandolin is given them, which they are taught to play; after which they are taken every day into the woods, where they are left till evening to commune in their little hearts with nature. In due time they become poets, or at any rate rhapsodists, singing of the things they never saw, and when grown up are sent forth to earn their livelihood, like the troubadours of old, by singing from place to place, and asking alms by the wayside. "It is not difficult for a Slav to become a poet; he takes in poetic sentiment as a river does water from its source. The first sounds he is conscious of are the words of his mother singing to him as she rocks his cradle. Then, as she watches the dawning of intelligence in his infant face, her mother language is that of poetry, which she improvises at the moment, and though he never saw the flowers nor the snow-capped mountains, nor the flowing streams and rivers, he describes them out of his inner consciousness, and the influence which the varied sounds of nature have upon his mind." Rock and river and greenwood tree, sweet-spiced spring flower, rustling grass, and bird-singing nature and freedom,--this is the secret of the poets' song and of the Romany, and there is no other mystery in either. He who sleeps on graves rises mad or a poet; all who lie on the earth, which is the grave and cradle of nature, and who live _al fresco_, understand gypsies as well as my lady Britannia Lee. Nay, when some natures take to the Romany they become like the Norman knights of the Pale, who were more Paddyfied than the Paddies themselves. These become leaders among the gypsies, who recognize the fact that one renegade is more zealous than ten Turks. As for the "mystery" of the history of the gypsies, it is time, sweet friends, that 't were ended. When we know that there is to-day, in India, a sect and set of Vauriens, who are there considered Gipsissimae, and who call themselves, with their wives and language and being, Rom, Romni, and Romnipana, even as they do in England; and when we know, moreover, that their faces proclaim them to be Indian, and that they have been a wandering caste since the dawn of Hindu history, we have, I trow, little more to seek. As for the rest, you may read it in the great book of Out-of Doors, _capitulo nullo folio nigro_, or wherever you choose to open it, written as distinctly, plainly, and sweetly as the imprint of a school-boy's knife and fork on a mince-pie, or in the uprolled rapture of the eyes of Britannia when she inhaleth the perfume of a fresh bunch of Florentine violets. _Ite missa est_. GYPSIES IN THE EAST. Noon in Cairo. A silent old court-yard, half sun and half shadow in which quaintly graceful, strangely curving columns seem to have taken from long companionship with trees something of their inner life, while the palms, their neighbors, from long in-door existence, look as if they had in turn acquired household or animal instincts, if not human sympathies. And as the younger the race the more it seeks for poets and orators to express in thought what it only feels, so these dumb pillars and plants found their poet and orator in the fountain which sang or spoke for them strangely and sweetly all night and day, uttering for them not only their waking thoughts, but their dreams. It gave a voice, too, to the ancient Persian tiles and the Cufic inscriptions which had seen the caliphs, and it told endless stories of Zobeide and Mesrour and Haroun al Raschid. Beyond the door which, when opened, gave this sight was a dark ancient archway twenty yards long, which opened on the glaring, dusty street, where camels with their drivers and screaming _sais_, or carriage-runners and donkey-boys and crying venders, kept up the wonted Oriental din. But just within the archway, in its duskiest corner, there sat all day a living picture, a dark and handsome woman, apparently thirty years old, who was unveiled. She had before her a cloth and a few shells; sometimes an Egyptian of the lower class stopped, and there would be a grave consultation, and the shells would be thrown, and then further solemn conference and a payment of money and a departure. And it was world-old Egyptian, or Chaldean, as to custom, for the woman was a Rhagarin, or gypsy, and she was one of the diviners who sit by the wayside, casting shells for auspices, even as shells and arrows were cast of old, to be cursed by Israel. It is not remarkable that among the myriad _manteias_ of olden days there should have been one by shells. The sound of the sea as heard in the nautilus or conch, when "It remembers its august abode And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there," is very strange to children, and I can remember how in childhood I listened with perfect faith to the distant roaring, and marveled at the mystery of the ocean song being thus forever kept alive, inland. Shells seem so much like work of human hands, and are often so marked as with letters, that it is not strange that faith soon found the supernatural in them. The magic shell of all others is the cowrie. Why the Roman ladies called it _porcella_, or little pig, because it has a pig's back, is the objective explanation of its name, and how from its gloss that name, or porcellana, was transferred to porcelain, is in books. But there is another side to the shell, and another or esoteric meaning to "piggy," which was also known to the _dames du temps jadis_, to Archipiada and Thais, _qui fut la belle Romaine_,--and this inner meaning makes of it a type of birth or creation. Now all that symbolizes fertility, birth, pleasure, warmth, light, and love is opposed to barrenness, cold, death, and evil; whence it follows that the very sight of a shell, and especially of a cowrie, frightens away the devils as well as a horse-shoe, which by the way has also its cryptic meaning. Hence it was selected to cast for luck, a world-old custom, which still lingers in the game of props; and for the same reason it is hung on donkeys, the devil being still scared away by the sight of a cowrie, even as he was scared away of old by its prototype, as told by Rabelais. As the sibyls sat in caves, so the sorceress sat in the dark archway, immovable when not sought, mysterious as are all her kind, and something to wonder at. It was after passing her, and feeling by quick intuition what she was, that the court-yard became a fairy-land, and the fountain its poet, and the palm-trees Tamar maids. There are people who believe there is no mystery, that an analysis of the gypsy sorceress would have shown an ignorant outcast; but while nature gives chiaro-oscuro and beauty, and while God is the Unknown, I believe that the more light there is cast by science the more stupendous will be the new abysses of darkness revealed. These natures must be taken with the _life_ in them, not dead,--and their life is mystery. The Hungarian gypsy lives in an intense mystery, yes, in true magic in his singing. You may say that he cannot, like Orpheus, move rocks or tame beasts with his music. If he could he could do no more than astonish and move us, and he does that now, and the _why_ is as deep a mystery as that would be. So far is it from being only a degrading superstition in those who believe that mortals like themselves can predict the future, that it seems, on the contrary ennobling. It is precisely because man feels a mystery within himself that he admits it may be higher in others; if spirits whisper to him in dreams and airy passages of trembling light, or in the music never heard but ever felt below, what may not be revealed to others? You may tell me if you will that prophecies are all rubbish and magic a lie, and it may be so,--nay, _is_ so, but the awful mystery of the Unknown without a name and the yearning to penetrate it _is_, and is all the more, because I have found all prophecies and jugglings and thaumaturgy fail to bridge over the abyss. It is since I have read with love and faith the evolutionists and physiologists of the most advanced type that the Unknown has become to me most wonderful, and that I have seen the light which never shone on sea or land as I never saw it before. And therefore to me the gypsy and all the races who live in freedom and near to nature are more poetic than ever. For which reason, after the laws of acoustics have fully explained to me why the nautilus sounds like a far off-ocean dirge, the unutterable longing _to know more_ seizes upon me, "Till my heart is full of longing For the secret of the sea, And the heart of the great ocean Sends a thrilling pulse through me." That gypsy fortune-teller, sitting in the shadow, is, moreover, interesting as a living manifestation of a dead past. As in one of her own shells when petrified we should have the ancient form without its color, all the old elements being displaced by new ones, so we have the old magic shape, though every atom in it is different; the same, yet not the same Life in the future, and the divination thereof, was a stupendous, ever-present reality to the ancient Egyptian, and the sole inspiration of humanity when it produced few but tremendous results. It is when we see it in such living forms that it is most interesting. As in Western wilds we can tell exactly by the outline of the forests where the borders of ancient inland seas once ran, so in the great greenwood of history we can trace by the richness or absence of foliage and flower the vanished landmarks of poetry, or perceive where the enchantment whose charm has now flown like the snow of the foregone year once reigned in beauty. So a line of lilies has shown me where the sea-foam once fell, and pine-trees sang of masts preceding them. "I sometimes think that never blows so red The rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every hyacinth the garden wears Dropt in her lap from some once lovely head." {292} The memory of that court-yard reminds me that I possess two Persian tiles, each with a story. There is a house in Cairo which is said to be more or less contemporary with the prophet, and it is inhabited by an old white-bearded emir, more or less a descendant of the prophet. This old gentleman once gave as a precious souvenir to an American lady two of the beautiful old tiles from his house, whereof I had one. In the eyes of a Muslim there is a degree of sanctity attached to this tile, as one on which the eyes of the prophet may have rested,--or at least the eyes of those who were nearer to him than we are. Long after I returned from Cairo I wrote and published a fairy-book called Johnnykin, {292} in which occurred the following lines:-- Trust not the Ghoul, love, Heed not his smile; _Out of the Mosque_, _love_, _He stole the tile_. One day my friend the Palmer from over the sea came to me with a present. It was a beautiful Persian tile. "Where did you get it?" I asked. "I stole it out of a mosque in Syria." "Did you ever read my Johnnykin?" "Of course not." "I know you never did." Here I repeated the verse. "But you remember what the Persian poet says:-- "'And never since the vine-clad earth was young Was some great crime committed on the earth, But that some poet prophesied the deed.'" "True, and also what the great Tsigane poet sang:-- "'O manush te lela sossi choredo, Wafodiro se te choramengro.' "He who takes the stolen ring, Is worse than he who stole the thing." "And it would have been better for you, while you were _dukkerin_ or prophesying, to have prophesied about something more valuable than a tile." And so it came to pass that the two Persian tiles, one given by a descendant of the Prophet, and the other the subject of a prophecy, rest in my cabinet side by side. In Egypt, as in Austria, or Syria, or Persia, or India, the gypsies are the popular musicians. I had long sought for the derivation of the word _banjo_, and one day I found that the Oriental gypsies called a gourd by that name. Walking one day with the Palmer in Cambridge, we saw in a window a very fine Hindu lute, or in fact a real banjo made of a gourd. We inquired, and found that it belonged to a mutual friend, Mr. Charles Brookfield, one of the best fellows living, and who, on being forthwith "requisitioned" by the unanimous voice of all who sympathized with me in my need, sent me the instrument. "He did not think it right," he said, "to keep it, when Philology wanted it. If it had been any other party,--but he always had a particular respect and awe of her." I do not assert that this discovery settles the origin of the word _banjo_, but the coincidence is, to say the least, remarkable. I saw many gypsies in Egypt, but learned little from them. What I found I stated in a work called the "Egyptian Sketch Book." It was to this effect: My first information was derived from the late Khedive Ismael, who during an interview with me said, "There are in Egypt many people known as Rhagarin, or Ghagarin, who are probably the same as the gypsies of Europe. They are wanderers, who live in tents, and are regarded with contempt even by the peasantry. Their women tell fortunes, tattoo, and sell small wares; the men work in iron. They are all adroit thieves, and noted as such. The men may sometimes be seen going round the country with monkeys. In fact, they appear to be in all respects the same people as the gypsies of Europe." I habitually employed, while in Cairo, the same donkey-driver, an intelligent and well-behaved man named Mahomet, who spoke English fairly. On asking him if he could show me any Rhagarin, he replied that there was a fair or market held every Saturday at Boulac, where I would be sure to meet with women of the tribe. The men, he said, seldom ventured into the city, because they were subject to much insult and ill-treatment from the common people. On the day appointed I rode to Boulac. The market was very interesting. I saw no European or Frangi there, except my companion, Baron de Cosson, who afterwards traveled far into the White Nile country, and who had with his brother Edward many remarkable adventures in Abyssinia, which were well recorded by the latter in a book. All around were thousands of blue-skirted and red-tarbouched or white-turbaned Egyptians, buying or selling, or else amusing themselves, but with an excess of outcry and hallo which indicates their grown child character. There were dealers in donkeys and horses roaring aloud, "He is for ten napoleons! Had I asked twenty you would have gladly given me fifteen!" "O true believers, here is a Syrian steed which will give renown to the purchaser!" Strolling loosely about were dealers in sugar-cane and pea-nuts, which are called gooba in Africa as in America, pipe peddlers and venders of rosaries, jugglers and minstrels. At last we came to a middle-aged woman seated on the ground behind a basket containing beads, glass armlets, and such trinkets. She was dressed like any Arab-woman of the lower class, but was not veiled, and on her chin blue lines were tattooed. Her features and expression were, however, gypsy, and not Egyptian. And as she sat there quietly I wondered how a woman could feel in her heart who was looked down upon with infinite scorn by an Egyptian, who might justly be looked down on in his turn with sublime contempt by an average American Methodist colored whitewasher who "took de 'Ledger.'" Yet there was in the woman the quiet expression which associates itself with respectability, and it is worth remarking that whenever a race is greatly looked down on by another from the stand-point of mere color, as in America, or mere religion, as in Mahometan lands, it always contains proportionally a larger number of _decent_ people than are to be found among those who immediately oppress it. An average Chinese is as a human being far superior to a hoodlum, and a man of color to the white man who cannot speak of him or to him except as a "naygur" or a "nigger." It is when a man realizes that he is superior in _nothing_ else save race, color, religion, family, inherited fortune, and their contingent advantages that he develops most readily into the prig and snob. I spoke to the woman in Romany, using such words as would have been intelligible to any of her race in any other country; but she did not understand me, and declared that she could speak nothing but Arabic. At my request Mahomet explained to her that I had come from a distant country in Orobba, or Europe, where there were many Rhagarin, who said that their fathers came from Egypt, and that I wished to know if any in the old country could speak the old language. She replied that the Rhagarin of Montesinos could still speak it; but that her people in Egypt had lost the tongue. Mahomet, in translating, here remarked that Montesinos meant Mount Sinai or Syria. I then asked her if the Rhagarin had no peculiar name for themselves, and she answered, "Yes; we call ourselves Tataren." This at least was satisfactory. All over Southern Germany and in Norway the gypsies are called Tartaren, and though the word means Tartars, and is misapplied, it indicates the race. The woman seemed to be much gratified at the interest I manifested in her people. I gave her a double piaster, and asked for its value in blue glass armlets. She gave me four, and as I turned to depart called me back, and with a good-natured smile handed me four more as a present. This generosity was very gypsy-like, and very unlike the habitual meanness of the ordinary Egyptian. After this Mahomet took me to a number of Rhagarin. They all resembled the one whom I had seen, and all were sellers of small articles and fortune-tellers. They all differed slightly from common Egyptians in appearance, and were more unlike them in not being importunate for money, nor disagreeable in their manners. But though they were as certainly gypsies as old Charlotte Cooper herself, none of them could speak Romany. I used to amuse myself by imagining what some of my English gypsy friends would have done if turned loose in Cairo among their cousins. How naturally old Charlotte would have waylaid and "dukkered" and amazed the English ladies in the Muskee, and how easily that reprobate old amiable cosmopolite, the Windsor Frog, would have mingled with the motley mob of donkey-boys and tourists before Shepherd's Hotel, and appointed himself an _attache_ to their excursions to the Pyramids, and drunk their pale ale or anything else to their healths, and then at the end of the day have claimed a wage for his politeness! And how well the climate would have agreed with them, and how they would have agreed that it was of all lands the best for _tannin_, or tenting out, in the world! The gypsiest-looking gypsy in Cairo, with whom I became somewhat familiar, was a boy of sixteen, a snake-charmer; a dark and even handsome youth, but with eyes of such wild wickedness that no one who had ever seen him excited could hope that he would ever become as other human beings. I believe that he had come, as do all of his calling, from a snake-catching line of ancestors, and that he had taken in from them, as did Elsie Venner, the serpent nature. They had gone snaking, generation after generation, from the days of the serpent worship of old, it may be back to the old Serpent himself; and this tawny, sinuous, active thing of evil, this boy, without the least sense of sympathy for any pain, who devoured a cobra alive with as much indifference as he had just shown in petting it, was the result. He was a human snake. I had long before reading the wonderfully original work of Doctor Holmes reflected deeply on the moral and immoral influences which serpent worship of old, in Syria and other lands, must have had upon its followers. But Elsie Venner sets forth the serpent nature as benumbed or suspended by cold New England winters and New England religions, moral and social influences; the Ophites of old and the Cairene gypsy showed the boy as warmed to life in lands whose winters are as burning summers. Elsie Venner is not sensual, and sensuality is the leading trait of the human-serpent nature. Herein lies an error, just as a sculptor would err who should present Lady Godiva as fully draped, or Sappho merely as a sweet singer of Lesbos, or Antinous only as a fine young man. He who would harrow hell and rake out the devil, and then exhibit to us an ordinary sinner, or an _opera bouffe_ "Mefistofele," as the result, reminds one of the seven Suabians who went to hunt a monster,--"_a Ungeheuer_,"--and returned with a hare. Elsie Venner is not a hare; she is a wonderful creation; but she is a winter-snake. I confess that I have no patience, however, with those who pretend to show us summer-snakes, and would fain dabble with vice; who are amateurs in the diabolical, and drawing-room dilettanti in damnation. Such, as I have said before, are the aesthetic adorers of Villon, whom the old _roue_ himself would have most despised, and the admirers of "Faustine," whom Faustina would have picked up between her thumb and finger, and eyed with serene contempt before throwing them out of the window. A future age will have for these would-be wickeds, who are only monks half turned inside out, more laughter than we now indulge in at Chloe and Strephon. I always regarded my young friend Abdullah as a natural child of the devil and a serpent-souled young sinner, and he never disappointed me in my opinion of him. I never in my life felt any antipathy to serpents, and he evidently regarded me as a _sapengro_, or snake-master. The first day I met him he put into my hands a cobra which had the fangs extracted, and then handled an asp which still had its poison teeth. On his asking me if I was afraid of it, and my telling him "No," he gave it to me, and after I had petted it, he always manifested an understanding,--I cannot say sympathy. I should have liked to see that boy's sister, if he ever had one, and was not hatched out from some egg found in the desert by an Egyptian incubus or incubator. She must have been a charming young lady, and his mother must have been a beauty, especially when in court-dress,--with her broom _et praeterea nihil_. But neither, alas, could be ever seen by me, for it is written in the "Gittin" that there are three hundred species of male demons, but what the female herself is like is known to no one. Abdullah first made his appearance before me at Shepherd's Hotel, and despite his amazing natural impudence, which appeared to such splendid advantage in the street that I always thought he must be a lineal descendant of the brazen serpent himself, he evinced a certain timidity which was to me inexplicable, until I recalled that the big snake of Irish legends had shown the same modesty when Saint Patrick wanted him to enter the chest which he had prepared for his prison. "Sure, it's a nate little house I've made for yees," said the saint, "wid an iligant parlor." "I don't like the look av it at all, at all," says the sarpent, as he squinted at it suspiciously, "and I'm loath to _inter_ it." Abdullah looked at the parlor as if he too were loath to "inter" it; but he was in charge of one in whom his race instinctively trust, so I led him in. His apparel was simple: it consisted of a coarse shirt, very short, with a belt around the waist, and an old tarbouch on his head. Between the shirt and his bare skin, as in a bag, was about a half peck of cobras, asps, vipers, and similar squirming property; while between his cap and his hair were generally stowed one or two enormous living scorpions, and any small serpents that he could not trust to dwell with the larger ones. When I asked Abdullah where he contrived to get such vast scorpions and such lively serpents, he replied, "Out in the desert." I arranged, in fact, to go out with him some day a-snaking and scorp'ing, and have ever since regretted that I did not avail myself of the opportunity. He showed off his snakes to the ladies, and concluded by offering to eat the largest one alive before our eyes for a dollar, which price he speedily reduced to a half. There was a young New England lady present who was very anxious to witness this performance; but as I informed Abdullah that if he attempted anything of the kind I would kick him out-of-doors, snakes and all, he ceased to offer to show himself a cannibal. Perhaps he had learned what Rabbi Simon ben Yochai taught, that it is a good deed to smash the heads of the best of serpents, even as it is a duty to kill the best of Goyim. And if by Goyim he meant Philistines, I agree with him. I often met Abdullah after that, and helped him to several very good exhibitions. Two or three things I learned from him. One was that the cobra, when wide awake, yet not too violently excited, lifts its head and maintains a curious swaying motion, which, when accompanied by music, may readily be mistaken for dancing acquired from a teacher. The Hindu _sappa-wallahs_ make people believe that this "dancing" is really the result of tuition, and that it is influenced by music. Later, I found that the common people in Egypt continue to believe that the snakes which Abdullah and his tribe exhibit are as dangerous and deadly as can be, and that they are managed by magic. Whether they believe, as it was held of old by the Rabbis, that serpents are to be tamed by sorcery only on the Sabbath, I never learned. Abdullah was crafty enough for a whole generation of snakes, but in the wisdom attributed to serpents he was woefully wanting. He would run by my side in the street as I rode, expecting that I would pause to accept a large wiggling scorpion as a gift, or purchase a viper, I suppose for a riding-whip or a necktie. One day when I was in a jam of about a hundred donkey-boys, trying to outride the roaring mob, and all of a fever with heat and dust, Abdullah spied me, and, joining the mob, kept running by my side, crying in maddening monotony, "Snake, sah! Scorpion, sah! Very fine snake to-day, sah!"--just as if his serpents were edible delicacies, which were for that day particularly fresh and nice. There are three kinds of gypsies in Egypt,--the Rhagarin, the Helebis, and the Nauar. They have secret jargons among themselves; but as I ascertained subsequently from specimens given by Captain Newboldt {302a} and Seetzen, as quoted by Pott, {302b} their language is made up of Arabic "back-slang," Turkish and Greek, with a very little Romany,--so little that it is not wonderful that I could not converse with them in it. The Syrian gypsies, or Nuri, who are seen with bears and monkeys in Cairo, are strangers in the land. With them a conversation is not difficult. It is remarkable that while English, German, and Turkish or Syrian gypsy look so different and difficult as printed in books, it is on the whole an easy matter to get on with them in conversation. The roots being the same, a little management soon supplies the rest. Abdullah was a Helebi. The last time I saw him I was sitting on the balcony of Shepherd's Hotel, in the early evening, with an American, who had never seen a snake-charmer. I called the boy, and inadvertently gave him his pay in advance, telling him to show all his stock in trade. But the temptation to swindle was too great, and seizing the coin he rushed back into the darkness. From that hour I beheld him no more. I think I can see that last gleam of his demon eyes as he turned and fled. I met in after-days with other snake-boys, but for an eye which indicated an unadulterated child of the devil, and for general blackguardly behavior to match, I never found anybody like my young friend Abdullah. The last snake-masters whom I came across were two sailors at the Oriental Seamen's Home in London. And strangely enough, on the day of my visit they had obtained in London, of all places, a very large and profitable job; for they had been employed to draw the teeth of all the poisonous serpents in the Zoological Garden. Whether these practitioners ever applied for or received positions as members of the Dental College I do not know, any more than if they were entitled to practice as surgeons without licenses. Like all the Hindu _sappa-wallahs_, or snake-men, they are what in Europe would be called gypsies. GYPSY NAMES AND FAMILY CHARACTERISTICS. The following list gives the names of the principal gypsy families in England, with their characteristics. It was prepared for me by an old, well-known Romany, of full blood. Those which have (A) appended to them are known to have representatives in America. For myself, I believe that gypsies bearing all these names are to be found in both countries. I would also state that the personal characteristics attributed to certain families are by no means very strictly applicable, neither do any of them confine themselves rigidly to any particular part of England. I have met, for instance, with Bosvilles, Lees, Coopers, Smiths, Bucklands, etc., in every part of England as well as Wales. I am aware that the list is imperfect in all respects. AYRES. BAILEY (A). Half-bloods. Also called rich. Roam in Sussex. BARTON. Lower Wiltshire. BLACK. Hampshire. BOSVILLE (A). Generally spread, but are specially to be found in Devonshire. I have found several fine specimens of real Romanys among the American Bosvilles. In Romany, _Chumomishto_, that is, Buss (or Kiss) well. BROADWAY (A). Somerset. BUCKLAND. In Gloucestershire, but abounding over England. Sometimes called _Chokamengro_, that is Tailor. BURTON (A). Wiltshire. CHAPMAN (A). Half-blood, and are commonly spoken of as a rich clan. Travel all over England. CHILCOTT (vul. CHILCOCK). CLARKE. Half-blood. Portsmouth. COOPER (A). Chiefly found in Berkshire and Windsor. In Romany, _Vardo mescro_. DAVIES. DICKENS. Half-blood. DIGHTON. Blackheath. DRAPER. Hertfordshire. FINCH. FULLER. Hardly half-blood, but talk Romany. GRAY. Essex. In Romany, _Gry_, or horse. HARE (A). Chiefly in Hampshire. HAZARD. Half-blood. Windsor. HERNE. Oxfordshire and London. "Of this name there are," says Borrow (Romano Lavo-Lil), "two gypsy renderings: (1.) Rosar-mescro or Ratzie-mescro, that is, _duck_-fellow; the duck being substituted for the _heron_, for which there is no word in Romany, this being done because there is a resemblance in the sound of Heron and Herne. (2.) Balor-engre, or Hairy People, the translator having confounded Herne with Haaren, Old English for hairs." HICKS. Half-blood. Berkshire. HUGHES. Wiltshire. INGRAHAM (A). Wales and Birmingham, or in the Kalo tem or Black Country. JAMES. Half-blood. JENKINS. Wiltshire. JONES. Half-blood. Headquarters at Battersea, near London. LEE (A). The same in most respects as the Smiths, but are even more widely extended. I have met with several of the most decided type of pure-blooded, old-fashioned gypsies among Lees in America. They are sometimes among themselves called _purum_, a _lee-k_, from the fancied resemblance of the words. LEWIS. Hampshire. LOCKE. Somerset and Gloucestershire. LOVEL. Known in Romany as Kamlo, or Kamescro, that is, lover. London, but are found everywhere. LOVERIDGE. Travel in Oxfordshire; are in London at Shepherd's Bush. MARSHALL. As much Scotch as English, especially in Dumfriesshire and Galloway, in which latter region, in Saint Cuthbert's church-yard, lies buried the "old man" of the race, who died at the age of one hundred and seven. In Romany Makkado-tan-engree, that is, Fellows of the Marshes. Also known as Bungoror, cork-fellows and Chikkenemengree, china or earthenware (lit. dirt or clay) men, from their cutting corks, and peddling pottery, or mending china. MATTHEWS. Half-blood. Surrey. NORTH. PETULENGRO, or SMITH. The Romany name Petulengro means Master of the Horseshoe; that is, Smith. The gypsy who made this list declared that he had been acquainted with Jasper Petulengro, of Borrow's Lavengro, and that he died near Norwich about sixty years ago. The Smiths are general as travelers, but are chiefly to be found in the East of England. PIKE. Berkshire. PINFOLD, or PENFOLD. Half and quarter blood. Widely extended, but most at home in London. ROLLIN (ROLAND?). Half-blood. Chiefly about London. SCAMP. Chiefly in Kent. A small clan. Mr. Borrow derives this name from the Sanskrit Ksump, to go. I trust that it has not a more recent and purely English derivation. SHAW. SMALL (A). Found in West England, chiefly in Somerset and Devonshire. STANLEY (A). One of the most extended clans, but said to be chiefly found in Devonshire. They sometimes call themselves in joke Beshalay, that is, Sit-Down, from the word _stan_, suggesting standing up in connection with lay. Also Bangor, or Baromescre, that is, Stone (stan) people. Thus "Stony-lea" was probably their first name. Also called Kashtengrees, Woodmen, from the New Forest. TAYLOR. A clan described as _diddikai_, or half-bloods. Chiefly in London. This clan should be the only one known as _Chokamengro_. TURNER. WALKER. Half-blood. Travel about Surrey. WELLS (A). Half-blood. Somerset. WHARTON. WORTON. I have only met the Whartons in America. WHEELER. Pure and half-blood. Battersea. WHITE. "Adre o Lavines tem o Romanies see WOODS, ROBERTS, WILLIAMS, and JONES. In Wales the gypsies are Woods, Roberts, Williams, and Jones." {307a} CHARACTERISTICS. {307b} Of these gypsies the BAILIES are fair. The BIRDS are in Norfolk and Suffolk. The BLACKS are dark, stout, and strong. The BOSVILLES are rather short, fair, stout, and heavy. The BROADWAYS are fair, of medium height and good figures. The BUCKLANDS are thin, dark, and tallish. The BUNCES travel in the South of England. The BURTONS are short, dark, and very active. The CHAPMANS are fair. The CLARKES are fair and well-sized men. The COOPERS are short, dark, and very active. The DIGHTONS are very dark and stout. The DRAPERS are very tall and large and dark. The FAAS are at Kirk Yetholm, in Scotland. The GRAYS are very large and fair. The GREENES are small and dark. The GREGORIES range from Surrey to Suffolk. The HARES are large, stout, and dark. The HAZARDS are tall and fair. The HERNES (Herons) are very large and dark. The HICKS are very large, strong, and fair. The HUGHES are short, stubby, and dark. The INGRAHAMS are fair and all of medium height. The JENKINS are dark, not large, and active. The JONES are fair and of middling height. The LANES are fair and of medium height. The LEES are dark, tall, and stout. The LEWIS are dark and of medium height. The LIGHTS are half-bloods, and travel in Middlesex. The LOCKES are shortish, dark, and large. The LOVELLS are dark and large. The MACES are about Norwich. The MATTHEWS are thick, short, and stout, fair, and good fighters. The MILLERS are at Battersea. NORTH. Are to be found at Shepherd's Bush. The OLIVERS are in Kent. The PIKES are light and very tall. The PINFOLDS are light, rather tall, not heavy. (Are really a Norfolk family. F. Groome.) The ROLANDS are rather large and dark. The SCAMPS are very dark and stout. The SHAWS travel in Middlesex. The SMALLS are tall, stout, and fair. The SMITHS are dark, rather tall, slender, and active. The STANLEYS are tall, dark, and handsome. The TAYLORS are short, stout, and dark. The TURNERS are also in Norfolk and Suffolk. The WALKERS are stout and fair. The WELLS are very light and tall. The WHEELERS are thin and fair. The WHITES are short and light. The YOUNGS are very dark. They travel in the northern counties, and belong both to Scotland and England. * * * * * The following is a collection of the more remarkable "fore" or Christian names of Romanys:-- MASCULINE NAMES. Opi Boswell. Wanselo, or Anselo. I was once of the opinion that this name was originally Lancelot, but as Mr. Borrow has found Wentzlow, _i.e._, Wenceslas, in England, the latter is probably the original. I have found it changed to Onslow, as the name painted on a Romany van in Aberystwith, but it was pronounced Anselo. Pastor-rumis. Spico. Jineral, _i.e._, General Cooper. Horferus and Horfer. Either Arthur or Orpheus. His name was then changed to Wacker-doll, and finally settled into Wacker. Plato or Platos Buckland. Wine-Vinegar Cooper. The original name of the child bearing this extraordinary name was Owen. He died soon after birth, and was in consequence always spoken of as Wine-Vinegar,--Wine for the joy which his parents had at his birth, and Vinegar to signify their grief at his loss. Gilderoy Buckland. Silvanus Boswell. Lancelot Cooper. Sylvester, Vester, Wester, Westarus and 'Starus. Oscar Buckland. Dimiti Buckland. Liberty. Piramus Boswell. Goliath. Reconcile. Octavius. Justerinus. Render Smith. Faunio. Shek-esu. I am assured on good authority that a gypsy had a child baptized by this name. Artaros. Sacki. Culvato (Claude). Spysell. Divervus. Spico. Lasho, _i.e._, Louis. Vesuvius. I do not know whether any child was actually called by this burning cognomen, but I remember that a gypsy, hearing two gentlemen talking about Mount Vesuvius, was greatly impressed by the name, and consulted with them as to the propriety of giving it to his little boy. Wisdom. Loverin. Inverto. Mantis. Studaveres Lovel. Happy Boswell. FEMININE NAMES. Selinda, Slinda, Linda, Slindi. Delilah. Mia. Prudence. Mizelia, Mizelli, Mizela. Providence. Lina. Eve. Pendivella. Athaliah. Jewranum, _i.e._, Geranium. Gentilla, Gentie. Virginia. Synfie. Probably Cynthia. Suby, Azuba. Sybie. Probably from Sibyl. Isaia. Richenda. Canairis. Kiomi. Fenella. Liberina. Floure, Flower, Flora. Malindi. Kisaiya. Otchame. Orlenda. Renee. Reyora, Regina. Sinaminta. Syeira. Probably Cyra. Y-yra or Yeira. Truffeni. Delira, Deleera. Ocean Solis. Marili Stanley. Penelli. Possibly from Fenella. Britannia. Glani. Segel Buckland. Zuba. Morella Knightly. Sybarini Cooper. Eza. Esmeralda Locke. Lenda. Penti. Collia. Reservi. This extraordinary name was derived from a reservoir, by which some gypsies were camped, and where a child was born. Lementina. Casello (Celia). Rodi. Catseye. Alabina. Trainette. Dosia. Perpinia. Lavi. Dora. Silvina. Starlina. Richenda. Bazena. Marbelenni. Bena. Ashena. Ewri. Vashti. Koket. Youregh. Lusho. GYPSY STORIES IN ROMANY, WITH TRANSLATION. MERLINOS TE TRINALI. "Miro koko, pen mandy a rinkeno gudlo?" Avali miri chavi. Me 'tvel pen tute dui te shyan trin, vonka tute 'atches sar pukeno. Shun amengi. Yeckorus adre o Lavines tem sos a boro chovihan, navdo Merlinos. Gusvero mush sos Merlinos, buti seeri covva yuv asti kair. Jindas yuv ta pur yeck jivnipen adre o waver, saster adre o rupp, te o rupp adre sonakai. Fino covva sos adovo te sos miro. Te longoduro fon leste jivdes a bori chovihani, Trinali sos lakis nav. Boridiri chovihani sos Trinali, buti manushe seerdas yoi, buti ryor purdas yoi adre mylia te balor, te ne kesserdas yeck haura pa sar lender dush. Yeck divvus Merlinos lias lester chovihaneskro ran te jas aduro ta latcher i chovihani te pessur laki drovan pa sar lakis wafropen. Te pa adovo tacho divvus i rani Trinali shundas sa Merlinos boro ruslo sorelo chovihan se, te pendas, "Sossi ajafra mush? Me dukkerava leste or yuv tevel mer mande, s'up mi o beng! me shom te seer leste. Mukkamen dikk savo lela kumi shunaben, te savo se o jinescrodiro?" Te adoi o Merlinos jas apre o dromus, sarodivvus akonyo, sarja adre o kamescro dud, te Trinali jas adre o wesh sarja adre o ratinus, o tam, o kalopen, o shure, denne yoi sos chovihani. Kennasig, yan latcherde yeckawaver, awer Merlinos ne jindas yoi sos Trinali, te Trinali ne jindas adovo manush se Merlinos. Te yuv sos buti kamelo ke laki, te yoi apopli; kennasig yandui ankairde ta kam yeckawaver butidiro. Vonka yeck jinella adovo te o waver jinella lis, kek boro chirus tvel i dui sosti jinavit. Merlinos te Trinali pende "me kamava tute," sig ketenes, te chumerde yeckawaver, te beshde alay rikkerend adre o simno pelashta te rakkerde kushto bak. Te adenna Merlinos pukkerdas laki, yuv jas ta dusher a buti wafodi chovihani, te Trinali pendas lesko o simno covva, sa yoi sos ruzno ta kair o simno keti a boro chovihano. Te i dui ankairede ta manger yeckawaver ta mukk o covva ja, te yoi te yuv shomas atrash o nasherin lende pireno te pireni. Awer Merlinos pendas, "Mandy sovahalldom pa o kam ta pur laki pa sar lakis jivaben adre o waves truppo." Te yoi ruvvedas te pendas, "Sovahalldas me pa o chone ta pur adovo chovihano adre a wavero, sim's tute." Denna Merlinos putcherdas, "Sasi lesters nav?" Yoi pendas, "Merlinos." Yuv rakkeredas palall, "Me shom leste, sasi tiro nav?" Yoi shelledas avri, "Trinali!" Kenna vanka chovihanis sovahallan chumeny apre o kam te i choni, yan sosti keravit or mer. Te denna Merlinos pendas, "Jinesa tu sa ta kair akovo pennis sar kushto te tacho?" "Kekker miro kamlo pireno," pendas i chori chovihani sa yoi ruvdas." "Denna me shom kumi jinescro, ne tute," pendas Merlinos. "Shukar te kushto covva se akovo, miri romni. Me bevel pur tute adre mande, te mande adre tute. Te vonka mendui shom romadi mendui tevel yeck." Sa yeck mush ta divvus kenna penella yoi siggerdas leste, te awavero pens yuv siggerdas laki. Ne jinava me miri kameli. Ne dikkdas tu kekker a dui sherescro haura? Avail! Wusser lis uppar, te vanka lis pellalay pukk amengy savo rikk se alay. Welsher pendas man adovo. Welsheri pennena sarja tachopen. MERLIN AND TRINALI. "My uncle, tell me a pretty story!" Yes, my child. I will tell you two, and perhaps three, if you keep very quiet. Listen to me. Once in Wales there was a great wizard named Merlin. Many magic things he could do. He knew how to change one living being into another, iron into silver, and silver into gold. A fine thing that would be if it were mine. And afar from him lived a great witch. Trinali was her name. A great witch was Trinali. Many men did she enchant, many gentlemen did she change into asses and pigs, and never cared a copper for all their sufferings. One day Merlin took his magic rod, and went afar to find the witch, and pay her severely for all her wickedness. And on that very [true] day the lady Trinali heard how Merlin was [is] a great, powerful wizard, and said, "What sort of a man is this? I will punish him or he shall kill me, deuce help me! I will bewitch him. Let us see who has the most cleverness and who is the most knowing." And then Merlin went on the road all day alone, always in sunshine; and Trinali went in the forest, always in the shade, the darkness, the gloom, for she was a black witch. Soon they found one another, but Merlin did not know [that] she was Trinali, and Trinal, did not know that man was [is to be] Merlin. And he was very pleasant to her, and she to him again. Very soon the two began to love one another very much. When one knows that and the other knows it, both will soon know it. Merlin and Trinali said "I love thee" both together, and kissed one another, and sat down wrapped in the same cloak, and conversed happily. Then Merlin told her he was going to punish a very wicked witch; and Trinali told him the same thing, how she was bold [daring] to do the same thing to a great wizard. And the two began to beg one another to let the thing go, and she and he were afraid of losing lover and sweetheart. But Merlin said, "I swore by the sun to change her for her whole life into another form" [body]; and she wept and said, "I swore by the moon to change that wizard into another [person] even as you did." Then Merlin inquired, "What is his name?" She said, "Merlin." He replied, "I am he; what is your name?" She cried aloud, "Trinali." Now when witches swear anything on the sun or the moon, they must do it or die. Then Merlin said, "Do you know how to make this business all nice and right?" "Not at all, my dear love," said the poor witch, as she wept. "Then I am cleverer than you," said Merlin. "An easy and nice thing it is, my bride. For I will change you into me, and myself into you. And when we are married we two will be one." So one man says nowadays that she conquered him, and another that he conquered her. I do not know [which it was], my dear. Did you ever see a two-headed halfpenny? _Yes_? Throw it up, and when it falls down ask me which side is under. A Welsher told me that story. Welshers always tell the truth. O PUV-SUVER. Yeckorus sims buti kedivvus, sos rakli, te yoi sos kushti partanengri, te yoi astis kair a rinkeno plachta, yeck sar divvus. Te covakai chi kamdas rye butidiro, awer yeck divvus lakis pireno sos stardo adre staruben. Te vonka yoi shundas lis, yoi hushtiedas apre te jas keti krallis te mangerdas leste choruknes ta mukk lakis pireno ja piro. Te krallis patserdas laki tevel yoi kairdas leste a rinkeno plachta, yeck sar divvus pa kurikus, hafta plachta pa hafta divvus, yuv tvel ferdel leste, te de leste tachaben ta ja 'vri. I tani rani siggerdas ta keravit, te pa shov divvus yoi taderedas adrom, kushti zi, pa lis te sarkon chirus adre o shab yoi bitcherdas plachta keta krallis. Awer avella yeck divvus yoi sos kinlo, te pendes yoi nei kamdas kair butsi 'dovo divvus si sos brishnu te yoi nestis shiri a sappa dre o kamlo dud. Adenn' o krallis pendas te yoi nestis kair butsi hafta divvus lava lakis pireno, o rye sosti hatch staramescro te yoi ne mukkdas kamaben adosta pa leste. Te i rakli sos sa hunnalo te tukno dre lakis zi yoi merdas o ruvvin te lias puraben adre o puv-suver. Te keti divvus kenna yoi pandella apre lakris tavia, vonka kam peshella, te i cuttor pani tu dikess' apre lende shan o panni fon lakis yakka yoi ruvdas pa lakris pireno. Te tu vel hatch kaulo yeck lilieskro divvus tu astis nasher sar o kairoben fon o chollo kurikus, miri chavi. Tu peness' tu kamess' to shun waveri gudli. Sar tacho. Me tevel puker tute rinkno gudlo apre kali foki. Repper tute sarkon me penava sa me repper das lis fon miro babus. THE SPIDER. {317} Once there was a girl, as there are many to-day, and she was a good needle-worker, and could make a beautiful cloak in one day. And that [there] girl loved a gentleman very much; but one day her sweetheart was shut up in prison, and when she heard it she hastened and went to the king, and begged him humbly to let her love go free. And the king promised her if she would make him a fine cloak,--one every day for a week, seven cloaks for seven days,--he would forgive him, and give him leave to go free. The young lady hastened to do it, and for six days she worked hard [lit. pulled away] cheerfully at it, and always in the evening she sent a cloak to the king. But it came [happened] one day that she was tired, and said [that] she did not wish to work because it was rainy, and she could not dry or bleach the cloth [?] in the sunlight. Then the king said that if she could not work seven days to get her lover the gentleman must remain imprisoned, for she did not love him as she should [did not let love enough on him]. And the maid was so angry and vexed in her heart [or soul] that she died of grief, and was changed into a spider. And to this day she spreads out her threads when the sun shines, and the dew-drops which you see on them are the tears which she has wept for her lover. If you remain idle one summer day you may lose a whole week's work, my dear. You say that you would like to hear more stories! All right. I will tell you a nice story about lazy people. {317b} Remember all I tell you, as I remembered it from my grandfather. GORGIO, KALO-MANUSH, TE ROM. Yeckorus pa ankairoben, kon i manushia nanei lavia, o boro Duvel jas pirian. Sa si asar? Shun miri chavi, me givellis tute:-- Buti beshia kedivrus kenna Adre o tem ankairoben, O boro Duvel jas 'vri aja, Ta dikk i mushia miraben. Sa yuv pirridas, dikkdas trin mushia pash o dromescro rikk, hatchin keti chomano mush te vel de lendis navia, te len putcherde o boro Duvel ta navver lende. Dordi, o yeckto mush sos pano, te o boro Duvel pukkerdas kavodoi, "Gorgio." Te yuv sikkerdas leste kokero keti dovo, te suderdas leste buti kameli sa jewries, te rinkeni rudaben, te jas _gorgeous_. Te o wavescro geero sos kalo sa skunya, te o boro Duvel pendas, "Nigger!" te yuv _nikkeredas_ adrom, sa sujery te muzhili, te yuv se _nikkerin_ sarja keti kenna, adre o kamescro dud, te yuv's kalo-kalo ta kair butsi, nanei tu serbers leste keti lis, te tazzers lis. Te o trinto mush sos brauuo, te yuv beshdas pukeno, tuvin leste's swagler, keti o boro Duvel rakkerdas, "Rom!" te adenna o mush hatchedas apre, te pendas buti kamelo, "Parraco Rya tiro kushtaben; me te vel mishto piav tiro sastopen!" Te jas romeli a _roamin_ langs i lescro romni, te kekker dukkerdas lester kokerus, ne kesserdas pa chichi fon adennadoi keti kenna, te jas adral o sweti, te kekker hatchedas pukenus, te nanei hudder ta keravit ket' o boro Duvel penell' o lav. Tacho adovo se sa tiri yakka, miri kamli. GORGIO, {319a} BLACK MAN, AND GYPSY. Once in the creation, when men had no names, the Lord went walking. How was that? Listen, my child, I will sing it to you:-- Many a year has passed away Since the world was first begun, That the great Lord went out one day To see how men's lives went on. As he walked along he saw three men by the roadside, waiting till some man would give them names; and they asked the Lord to name them. See! the first man was white, and the Lord called him Gorgio. Then he adapted himself to that name, and adorned himself with jewelry and fine clothes, and went _gorgeous_. And the other man was black and the Lord called him Nigger, and he lounged away [_nikker_, to lounge, loiter; an attempted pun], so idle and foul; and he is always lounging till now in the sunshine, and he is too lazy [_kalo-kalo_, black-black, or lazy-lazy, that is, too black or too lazy] to work unless you compel and punish him. And the third man was brown, and he sat quiet, smoking his pipe, till the Lord said, Rom! [gypsy, or "roam"]; and then that man arose and said, very politely, "Thank you, Lord, for your kindness. I'd be glad to drink your health." And he went, Romany fashion, a-roaming {319b} with his romni [wife], and never troubled himself about anything from that time till to-day, and went through the world, and never rested and never wished to until the Lord speaks the word. That is all as true as your eyes, my dear! YAG-BAR TE SASTER. SA O KAM SOS ANKERDO. "Pen mandy a waver gudlo trustal o ankairoben!" Ne shomas adoi, awer shundom buti apa lis fon miro babus. Foki pende mengy sa o chollo-tem {320} sos kerdo fon o kam, awer i Romany chalia savo keren sar chingernes, pen o kam sos kerdo fon o boro tem. Wafedo gry se adovo te nestis ja sigan te anpali o kushto drom. Yeckorus 'dre o puro chirus, te kenna, sos a bori pureni chovihani te kerdas sirini covvas, te jivdas sar akonyo adre o heb adre o ratti. Yeck divvus yoi latchedas yag-bar adre o puv, te tilldas es apre te pukkeredas lestes nav pale, "Yag-bar." Te pash a bittus yoi latchedas a bitto kushto-saster, te haderdas lis apre te putchedas lestis nav, te lis rakkerdas apopli, "Saster." Chivdasi dui 'dre lakis putsi, te pendas Yag-bar, "Tu sosti rummer o rye, Saster!" Te yan kerdavit, awer yeck divvus i dui ankairede ta chinger, te Saster des lestis juva Yag-bar a tatto-yek adre o yakk, te kairedas i chingari ta mukker avri, te hotcher i puri juva's putsi. Sa yoi wusserdas hotcherni putsi adre o hev, te pendas lis ta kessur adrom keti avenna o mush sari juva kun kekker chingerd chichi. I chingari shan staria, te dovo yag se o kam, te lis nanei jillo avri keti kenna, te lis tevel hotcher anduro buti beshia pa sar jinova me keti chingerben. Tacho si? Ne shomas adoi. FLINT AND STEEL. OR HOW THE SUN WAS CREATED. "Tell me another story about the creation!" I was not there at the time, but I heard a great deal about it from my grandfather. All he did there was to turn the wheel. People tell me that the world was made from the sun, but gypsies, who do everything all contrary, say that the sun was made from the earth. A bad horse is that which will not travel either way on a road. Once in the old time, as [there may be] now, was a great old witch, who made enchantments, and lived all alone in the sky in the night. One day she found a flint in a field, and picked her up, and the stone told her that her name was Flint. And after a bit she found a small piece of steel, and picked him up, and asked his name, and he replied, "Steel" [iron]. She put the two in her pocket, and said to Flint, "You must marry Master Steel." So they did, but one day the two began to quarrel, and Steel gave his wife Flint a hot one [a severe blow] in the eye, and made sparks fly, and set fire to the old woman's pocket. So she threw the burning pocket up into the sky, and told it to stay there until a man and his wife who had never quarreled should come there. The sparks [from Flint's eye] are the stars, and the fire is the sun, and it has not gone out as yet, and it will burn on many a year, for all I know to the contrary. Is it true? I was not there. O MANUSH KON JIVDAS ADRE O CHONE (SHONE). "Pen mandy a waver gudlo apa o chone?" Avail miri deari. Adre o puro chirus butidosta manushia jivvede kushti-bakeno 'dre o chone, sar chichi ta kair awer ta rikker ap o yag so kerela o dud. Awer, amen i foki jivdas buti wafodo muleno manush, kon dusherdas te lias witchaben atut sar i waveri deari manushia, te yuv kairedas lis sa's ta shikker lende sar adrom, te chivdas len avri o chone. Te kenna o sig o i foki shan jillo, yuv pendas: "Kenna akovi dinneli juckalis shan jillo, me te vel jiv mashni te kushto, sar akonyus." Awer pash o bitto, o yag ankairdas ta hatch alay, te akovo geero latchdas se yuv ne kamdas ta hatch adre o ratti te merav shillino, yuv sosti ja sarja pa kosht. Te kanna i waveri foki shanas adoi, yan ne kerden o rikkaben te wadderin i kashta adre o divvusko chirus, awer kenna asti lel lis sar apre sustis pikkia, sar i ratti, te sar o divvus. Sa i foki akai apre o chollo-tem dikena adovo manush keti divvus kenna, sar pordo o koshter te bittered, te muserd te gumeri, te guberin keti leskro noko kokero, te kunerin akonyus pash lestis yag. Te i chori mushia te yuv badderedas adrom, yul [yan] jassed sar atut te trustal o hev akai, te adoi, te hatchede up buti pa lender kokeros; te adovi shan i starya, te chirkia, te bitti dudapen tu dikessa sarakai. "Se adovo sar tacho?" Akovi se kumi te me jinova. Awer kanna sa tu penessa me astis dikk o manush dre o chone savo rikkela kasht apre lestes dumo, yuv sosti keravit ta chiv adre o yag, te yuv ne tevel dukker lestes kokero ta kair adovo te yuv sus rumado or lias palyor, sa lis se kammaben adosta o mush chingerd lestis palya te nassered lende sar anduro. Tacho. THE MAN WHO LIVED IN THE MOON. "Tell me another story about the moon." Yes, my dear. In the old time many men lived happily in the moon, with nothing to do but keep up the fire which makes the light. But among the folk lived a very wicked, obstinate man, who troubled and hated all the other nice [dear] people, and he managed it so as to drive them all away, and put them out of the moon. And when the mass of the folk were gone, he said, "Now those stupid dogs have gone, I will live comfortably and well, all alone." But after a bit the fire began to burn down, and that man found that if he did not want to be in the darkness [night] and die of cold he must go all the time for wood. And when the other people were there, they never did any carrying or splitting wood in the day-time, but now he had to take it all on his shoulders, all night and all day. So the people here on our earth see that man to this day all burdened [full] of wood, and bitter and grumbling to himself, and lurking alone by his fire. And the poor people whom he had driven away went all across and around heaven, here and there, and set up in business for themselves, and they are the stars and planets and lesser lights which you see all about. ROMANY TACHIPEN. Taken down accurately from an old gypsy. Common dialect, or "half-and-half" language. "Rya, tute kams mandy to pukker tute the tachopen--awo? Se's a boro or a kusi covva, mandy'll rakker tacho, s'up mi-duvel, apre mi meriben, bengis adre man'nys see if mandy pens a bitto huckaben! An' sa se adduvvel? Did mandy ever chore a kani adre mi jiv? and what do the Romany chals kair o' the poris, 'cause kekker ever dikked chichi pash of a Romany tan? Kek rya,--mandy _never_ chored a kani an' adre sixty beshes kenna 'at mandy's been apre the drumyors, an' sar dovo chirus mandy never dikked or shuned or jinned of a Romany chal's chorin yeck. What's adduvel tute pens?--that Petulengro kaliko divvus penned tute yuv rikkered a yagengeree to muller kanis! Avail rya--tacho se aja--the mush penned adre his kokero see _weshni_ kanis. But kek _kairescro_ kanis. Romanis kekker chores lendy." GYPSY TRUTH. "Master, you want me to tell you all the truth,--yes? If it's a big or a little thing, I'll tell the truth, so help me God, upon my life! The devil be in my soul if I tell the least lie! And what is it? Did I ever in all my life steal a chicken? and what do the gypsies do with the feathers, because nobody ever saw any near a gypsy tent? Never, sir,--I _never_ stole a chicken; and in all the sixty years that I've been on the roads, in all that time I never saw or heard or knew of a gypsy's stealing one. What's that you say?--that Petulengro told you yesterday that he carried a gun to kill _chickens_! Ah yes, sir,--that is true, too. The man meant in his heart wood chickens [that is, pheasants]. But not _domestic_ chickens. Gypsies never steal _them_." {324} CHOVIHANIPEN. "Miri diri bibi, me kamava butidiro tevel chovihani. Kamava ta dukker geeris te ta jin kunjerni cola. Tu sosti sikker mengi sarakovi." "Oh miri kamli! vonka tu vissa te vel chovihani, te i Gorgie jinena lis, tu lesa buti tugnus. Sar i chavi tevel shellavri, te kair a gudli te wusser baria kanna dikena tute, te shyan i bori foki merena tute. Awer kushti se ta jin garini covva, kushti se vonka chori churkni juva te sar i sweti chungen' apre, jinela sa ta kair lende wafodopen ta pessur sar lenghis dush. Te man tevel sikker tute chomany chovihaneskes. Shun! Vonka tu kamesa pen o dukkerin, lesa tu sar tiro man {325} ta latcher ajafera a manush te manushi lis se. De lende o yack, chiv lis drovan opa lakis yakka tevel se rakli. Vonka se pash trasherdo yoi tevel pen buti talla jinaben. Kanna tu sos kedo lis sorkon cherus tu astis risser buti dinneli chaia sa tav trustal tiro angushtri. Kenna-sig tiri yakka dikena pensa sappa, te vonka tu shan hoini tu tevel dikk pens' o puro beng. O pashno covva miri deari se ta jin sa ta plasser, te kamer, te masher foki. Vanka rakli lela chumeni kek-siglo adre lakis mui, tu sastis pen laki adovo sikerela buti bak. Kanna lela lulli te safrani balia, pen laki adovo se tatcho sigaben yoi sasti lel buti sonakei. Kanna lakis koria wena ketenes, dovo sikerela yoi tevel ketni buti barveli rya. Pen sarja vonka tu dikesa o latch apre lakis cham, talla lakis kor, te vaniso, adovos sigaben yoi tevel a bori rani. Ma kessur tu ki lo se, 'pre o truppo te pre o bull, pen laki sarja o latch adoi se sigaben o boridirines. Hammer laki apre. Te dikessa tu yoi lela bitti wastia te bitti piria, pen laki trustal a rye ko se divius pa rinkeni piria, te sa o rinkeno wast anela kumi bacht te rinkno mui. Hammerin te kamerin te masherin te shorin shan o pash o dukkerin. Se kek rakli te kekno mush adre mi duvel's chollo-tem savo ne se boino te hunkari pa chomani, te si tu astis latcher sa se tu susti lel lender wongur. Stastis, latcher sar o rakkerben apre foki. "Awer miri bibi, adovos sar hokkanipen. Me kamava buti ta sikker tachni chovihanipen. Pen mandy si nanei tachi chovahanis, te sa yol dikena." "O tachi chovihani miri chavi, lela yakka pensa chiriclo, o kunsus se rikkeredo apre pensa bongo chiv. Buti Yahudi, te nebollongeri lena jafri yakka. Te cho'hani balia shan rikkerdi pa lakis ankairoben te surri, te adenna risserdi. Vonka Gorgikani cho'hani lena shelni yakka, adulli shan i trasheni. "Me penava tuki chomani sirines. Vonka tu latchesa o pori te o sasterni krafni, te anpali tu latchesa cuttor fon papiros, tu sastis chin apre lis sar o pori savo tu kamesa, te ha lis te tu lesa lis. Awer tu sasti chin sar tiro noko ratt. Si tu latchessa pash o lon-doeyav o boro matcheskro-bar, te o puro curro, chiv lis keti kan, shunesa godli. Tevel tastis kana pordo chone peshela, besh sar nangi adre lakis dud hefta ratti, te shundes adre lis, sarrati o gudli te vel tachodiro, te anpale tu shunesa i feris rakerena sig adosta. Vonka tu keresa hev sar o bar adre o mulleskri-tan, jasa tu adoi yeck ratti pash a waver te kenna-sig tu shunesa sa i mulia rakerena. Sorkon-chirus penena ki lovo se garrido. Sastis lel o bar te risser lis apre o mulleskri-tan, talla hev si kedo. "Me penava tuki apopli chomani cho'haunes. Le vini o sar covva te suverena apre o pani, pa lenia, pa doeyav. Te asar i paneskri mullos kon jivena adre o pani rakkerena keti puveskri chovihanis. Si manush dikela pano panna, te partan te diklo apre o pani te lela lis, adovo sikela astis lel a pireni, o yuzhior te o kushtidir o partan se, o kushtidir i rakli. Si latchesa ran apre o pani, dovo sikela sastis kur tiro wafedo geero. Chokka or curro apre o pani penela tu tevel sig atch kamelo sar tiri pireni, te pireno. Te safrani ruzhia pa pani dukerena sonaki, te pauni, rupp, te loli, kammaben." "Kana latchesa klisin, dovo se buti bacht. Vonka haderesa lis apre, pen o manusheskro te rakleskri nav, te yan wena kamlo o tute. Butidir bacht si lullo dori te tav. Rikker lis, sikela kushti kamaben. Man nasher lis avri tiro zi miri chavi." "Nanei, bibi, kekker." WITCHCRAFT. {327} "My dear aunt, I wish very much to be a witch. I would like to enchant people and to know secret things. You can teach me all that." "Oh, my darling! if you come to be a witch, and the Gentiles know it, you will have much trouble. All the children will cry aloud, and make a noise and throw stones at you when they see you, and perhaps the grown-up people will kill you. But it is nice to know secret things; pleasant for a poor old humble woman whom all the world spits upon to know how to do them evil and pay them for their cruelty. And I _will_ teach you something of witchcraft. Listen! When thou wilt tell a fortune, put all thy heart into finding out what kind of a man or woman thou hast to deal with. Look [keenly], fix thy glance sharply, especially if it be a girl. When she is half-frightened, she will tell you much without knowing it. When thou shalt have often done this thou wilt be able to twist many a silly girl like twine around thy fingers. Soon thy eyes will look like a snake's, and when thou art angry thou wilt look like the old devil. Half the business, my dear, is to know how to please and flatter and allure people. When a girl has anything unusual in her face, you must tell her that it signifies extraordinary luck. If she have red or yellow hair, tell her that is a true sign that she will have much gold. When her eyebrows meet, that shows she will be united to many rich gentlemen. Tell her always, when you see a mole on her cheek or her forehead or anything, that is a sign she will become a great lady. Never mind where it is, on her body,--tell her always that a mole or fleck is a sign of greatness. _Praise her up_. And if you see that she has small hands or feet, tell her about a gentleman who is wild about pretty feet, and how a pretty hand brings more luck than a pretty face. Praising and petting and alluring and crying-up are half of fortune-telling. There is no girl and no man in all the Lord's earth who is not proud and vain about something, and if you can find it out you can get their money. If you can, pick up all the gossip about people." "But, my aunt, that is all humbug. I wish much to learn real witchcraft. Tell me if there are no real witches, and how they look." "A real witch, my child, has eyes like a bird, the corner turned up like the point of a curved pointed knife. Many Jews and un-Christians have such eyes. And witches' hairs are drawn out from the beginning [roots] and straight, and then curled [at the ends]. When Gentile witches have green eyes they are the most [to be] dreaded. "I will tell you something magical. When you find a pen or an iron nail, and then a piece of paper, you should write on it with the pen all thou wishest, and eat it, and thou wilt get thy wish. But thou must write all in thy own blood. If thou findest by the sea a great shell or an old pitcher [cup, etc.], put it to your ear: you will hear a noise. If you can, when the full moon shines sit quite naked in her light and listen to it; every night the noise will become more distinct, and then thou wilt hear the fairies talking plainly enough. When you make a hole with a stone in a tomb go there night after night, and erelong thou wilt hear what the dead are saying. Often they tell where money is buried. You must take a stone and turn it around in the tomb till a hole is there. "I will tell you something more witchly. Observe [take care] of everything that swims on water, on rivers or the sea. For so the water-spirits who live in the water speak to the earth's witches. If a man sees cloth on the water and gets it, that shows he will get a sweetheart; the cleaner and nicer the cloth, the better the maid. If you find a staff [stick or rod] on the water, that shows you will beat your enemy. A shoe or cup floating on the water means that you will soon be loved by your sweetheart. And yellow flowers [floating] on the water foretell gold, and white, silver, and red, love. "When you find a key, that is much luck. When you pick [lift it] up, utter a male or female name, and the person will become your own. Very lucky is a red string or ribbon. Keep it. It foretells happy love. Do not let this run away from thy soul, my child." "No, aunt, never." THE ORIGIN OF THE GYPSIES. This chapter contains in abridged form the substance of papers on the origin of the gypsies and their language, read before the London Philological Society; also of another paper read before the Oriental Congress at Florence in 1878; and a _resume_ of these published in the London _Saturday Review_. It has been repeated until the remark has become accepted as a sort of truism, that the gypsies are a mysterious race, and that nothing is known of their origin. And a few years ago this was true; but within those years so much has been discovered that at present there is really no more mystery attached to the beginning of these nomads than is peculiar to many other peoples. What these discoveries or grounds of belief are I shall proceed to give briefly, my limits not permitting the detailed citation of authorities. First, then, there appears to be every reason for believing with Captain Richard Burton that the Jats of Northwestern India furnished so large a proportion of the emigrants or exiles who, from the tenth century, went out of India westward, that there is very little risk in assuming it as an hypothesis, at least, that they formed the _Hauptstamm_ of the gypsies of Europe. What other elements entered into these, with whom we are all familiar, will be considered presently. These gypsies came from India, where caste is established and callings are hereditary even among out-castes. It is not assuming too much to suppose that, as they evinced a marked aptitude for certain pursuits and an inveterate attachment to certain habits, their ancestors had in these respects resembled them for ages. These pursuits and habits were that They were tinkers, smiths, and farriers. They dealt in horses, and were naturally familiar with them. They were without religion. They were unscrupulous thieves. Their women were fortune-tellers, especially by chiromancy. They ate without scruple animals which had died a natural death, being especially fond of the pig, which, when it has thus been "butchered by God," is still regarded even by prosperous gypsies in England as a delicacy. They flayed animals, carried corpses, and showed such aptness for these and similar detested callings that in several European countries they long monopolized them. They made and sold mats, baskets, and small articles of wood. They have shown great skill as dancers, musicians, singers, acrobats; and it is a rule almost without exception that there is hardly a traveling company of such performers or a theatre, in Europe or America, in which there is not at least one person with some Romany blood. Their hair remains black to advanced age, and they retain it longer than do Europeans or ordinary Orientals. They speak an Aryan tongue, which agrees in the main with that of the Jats, but which contains words gathered from other Indian sources. This is a consideration of the utmost importance, as by it alone can we determine what was the agglomeration of tribes in India which formed the Western gypsy. Admitting these as the peculiar pursuits of the race, the next step should be to consider what are the principal nomadic tribes of gypsies in India and Persia, and how far their occupations agree with those of the Romany of Europe. That the Jats probably supplied the main stock has been admitted. This was a bold race of Northwestern India, which at one time had such power as to obtain important victories over the caliphs. They were broken and dispersed in the eleventh century by Mahmoud, many thousands of them wandering to the West. They were without religion, "of the horse, horsey," and notorious thieves. In this they agree with the European gypsy. But they are not habitual eaters of _mullo balor_, or "dead pork;" they do not devour everything like dogs. We cannot ascertain that the Jat is specially a musician, a dancer, a mat and basket maker, a rope-dancer, a bear-leader, or a peddler. We do not know whether they are peculiar in India among the Indians for keeping their hair unchanged to old age, as do pure-blood English gypsies. All of these things are, however, markedly characteristic of certain different kinds of wanderers, or gypsies, in India. From this we conclude, hypothetically, that the Jat warriors were supplemented by other tribes,--chief among these may have been the Dom,--and that the Jat element has at present disappeared, and been supplanted by the lower type. The Doms are a race of gypsies found from Central India to the far northern frontier, where a portion of their early ancestry appears as the Domarr, and are supposed to be pre-Aryan. In "The People of India," edited by J. Forbes Watson and J. W. Kaye (India Museum, 1868), we are told that the appearance and modes of life of the Doms indicate a marked difference from those of the people who surround them (in Behar). The Hindus admit their claim to antiquity. Their designation in the Shastras is Sopuckh, meaning dog-eater. They are wanderers; they make baskets and mats, and are inveterate drinkers of spirits, spending all their earnings on it. They have almost a monopoly as to burning corpses and handling all dead bodies. They eat all animals which have died a natural death, and are particularly fond of pork of this description. "Notwithstanding profligate habits, many of them attain the age of eighty or ninety; and it is not till sixty or sixty-five that their hair begins to get white." The Domarr are a mountain race, nomads, shepherds, and robbers. Travelers speak of them as "gypsies." A specimen which we have of their language would, with the exception of one word, which is probably an error of the transcriber, be intelligible to any English gypsy, and be called pure Romany. Finally, the ordinary Dom calls himself a Dom, his wife a Domni, and the being a Dom, or the collective gypsydom, Domnipana. _D_ in Hindustani is found as _r_ in English gypsy speech,--_e.g._, _doi_, a wooden spoon, is known in Europe as _roi_. Now in common Romany we have, even in London,-- Rom . . . A gypsy. Romni . . . A gypsy wife. Romnipen . . . Gypsydom. Of this word _rom_ I shall have more to say. It may be observed that there are in the Indian _Dom_ certain distinctly-marked and degrading features, characteristic of the European gypsy, which are out of keeping with the habits of warriors, and of a daring Aryan race which withstood the caliphs. Grubbing in filth as if by instinct, handling corpses, making baskets, eating carrion, being given to drunkenness, does not agree with anything we can learn of the Jats. Yet the European gypsies are all this, and at the same time "horsey" like the Jats. Is it not extremely probable that during the "out-wandering" the Dom communicated his name and habits to his fellow-emigrants? The marked musical talent characteristic of the Slavonian and other European gypsies appears to link them with the Luri of Persia. These are distinctly gypsies; that is to say, they are wanderers, thieves, fortune-tellers, and minstrels. The Shah-Nameh of Firdusi tells us that about the year 420 A.D. Shankal, the Maharajah of India, sent to Behram Gour, a ruler of the Sassanian dynasty in Persia, ten thousand minstrels, male and female, called _Luri_. Though lands were allotted to them, with corn and cattle, they became from the beginning irreclaimable vagabonds. Of their descendants, as they now exist, Sir Henry Pottinger says:-- "They bear a marked affinity to the gypsies of Europe. {335} They speak a dialect peculiar to themselves, have a king to each troupe, and are notorious for kidnapping and pilfering. Their principal pastimes are drinking, dancing, and music. . . . They are invariably attended by half a dozen of bears and monkeys that are broke in to perform all manner of grotesque tricks. In each company there are always two or three members who profess . . . modes of divining, which procure them a ready admission into every society." This account, especially with the mention of trained bears and monkeys, identifies them with the Ricinari, or bear-leading gypsies of Syria (also called Nuri), Turkey, and Roumania. A party of these lately came to England. We have seen these Syrian Ricinari in Egypt. They are unquestionably gypsies, and it is probable that many of them accompanied the early migration of Jats and Doms. The Nats or Nuts are Indian wanderers, who, as Dr. J. Forbes Watson declares, in "The People of India," "correspond to the European gypsy tribes," and were in their origin probably identical with the Luri. They are musicians, dancers, conjurers, acrobats, fortune-tellers, blacksmiths, robbers, and dwellers in tents. They eat everything, except garlic. There are also in India the Banjari, who are spoken of by travelers as "gypsies." They are traveling merchants or peddlers. Among all these wanderers there is a current slang of the roads, as in England. This slang extends even into Persia. Each tribe has its own, but the name for the generally spoken _lingua franca_ is _Rom_. It has never been pointed out, however, by any writer, that there is in Northern and Central India a distinct tribe, which is regarded, even by the Nats and Doms and Jats themselves, as peculiarly and distinctly gypsy. There are, however, such wanderers, and the manner in which I became aware of their existence was, to say the least, remarkable. I was going one day along the Marylebone Road when I met a very dark man, poorly clad, whom I took for a gypsy; and no wonder, as his eyes had the very expression of the purest blood of the oldest families. To him I said,-- "_Rakessa tu Romanes_?" (Can you talk gypsy?) "I know what you mean," he answered in English. "You ask me if I can talk gypsy. I know what those people are. But I'm a Mahometan Hindu from Calcutta. I get my living by making curry powder. Here is my card." Saying this he handed me a piece of paper, with his name written on it: _John Nano_. "When I say to you, '_Rakessa tu Romanes_?' what does it mean?" "It means, 'Can you talk Rom?' But _rakessa_ is not a Hindu word. It's Panjabi." I met John Nano several times afterwards and visited him in his lodgings, and had him carefully examined and cross-questioned and pumped by Professor Palmer of Cambridge, who is proficient in Eastern tongues. He conversed with John in Hindustani, and the result of our examination was that John declared he had in his youth lived a very loose life, and belonged to a tribe of wanderers who were to all the other wanderers on the roads in India what regular gypsies are to the English Gorgio hawkers and tramps. These people were, he declared, "the _real_ gypsies of India, and just like the gypsies here. People in India called them Trablus, which means Syrians, but they were full-blood Hindus, and not Syrians." And here I may observe that this word Trablus which is thus applied to Syria, is derived from Tripoli. John was very sure that his gypsies were Indian. They had a peculiar language, consisting of words which were not generally intelligible. "Could he remember any of these words?" Yes. One of them was _manro_, which meant bread. Now _manro_ is all over Europe the gypsy word for bread. John Nano, who spoke several tongues, said that he did not know it in any Indian dialect except in that of his gypsies. These gypsies called themselves and their language _Rom_. Rom meant in India a real gypsy. And Rom was the general slang of the road, and it came from the Roms or Trablus. Once he had written all his autobiography in a book. This is generally done by intelligent Mahometans. This manuscript had unfortunately been burned by his English wife, who told us that she had done so "because she was tired of seeing a book lying about which she could not read." Reader, think of losing such a life! The autobiography of an Indian gypsy,--an abyss of adventure and darksome mysteries, illuminated, it may be, with vivid flashes of Dacoitee, while in the distance rumbled the thunder of Thuggism! Lost, lost, irreparably lost forever! And in this book John had embodied a vocabulary of the real Indian Romany dialect. Nothing was wanting to complete our woe. John thought at first that he had lent it to a friend who had never returned it. But his wife remembered burning it. Of one thing John was positive: Rom was as distinctively gypsy talk in India as in England, and the Trablus are the true Romanys of India. What here suggests itself is, how these Indian gypsies came to be called _Syrian_. The gypsies which roam over Syria are evidently of Indian origin; their language and physiognomy both declare it plainly. I offer as an hypothesis that bands of gypsies who have roamed from India to Syria have, after returning, been called Trablus, or Syrians, just as I have known Germans, after returning from the father-land to America, to be called Americans. One thing, however, is at least certain. The Rom are the very gypsies of gypsies in India. They are thieves, fortune-tellers, and vagrants. But whether they have or had any connection with the migration to the West we cannot establish. Their language and their name would seem to indicate it; but then it must be borne in mind that the word _rom_, like _dom_, is one of wide dissemination, _dum_ being a Syrian gypsy word for the race. And the very great majority of even English gypsy words are Hindi, with an admixture of Persian, and do not belong to a slang of any kind. As in India, _churi_ is a knife, _nak_ the nose, _balia_ hairs, and so on, with others which would be among the first to be furnished with slang equivalents. And yet these very gypsies are _Rom_, and the wife is a _Romni_, and they use words which are not Hindu in common with European gypsies. It is therefore not improbable that in these Trablus, so called through popular ignorance, as they are called Tartars in Egypt and Germany, we have a portion at least of the real stock. It is to be desired that some resident in India would investigate the Trablus. It will probably be found that they are Hindus who have roamed from India to Syria and back again, here and there, until they are regarded as foreigners in both countries. Next to the word _rom_ itself, the most interesting in Romany is _zingan_, or _tchenkan_, which is used in twenty or thirty different forms by the people of every country, except England, to indicate the gypsy. An incredible amount of far-fetched erudition has been wasted in pursuing this philological _ignis fatuus_. That there are leather-working and saddle-working gypsies in Persia who call themselves Zingan is a fair basis for an origin of the word; but then there are Tchangar gypsies of Jat affinity in the Punjab. Wonderful it is that in this war of words no philologist has paid any attention to what the gypsies themselves say about it. What they do say is sufficiently interesting, as it is told in the form of a legend which is intrinsically curious and probably ancient. It is given as follows in "The People of Turkey," by a Consul's Daughter and Wife, edited by Mr. Stanley Lane Poole, London, 1878: "Although the gypsies are not persecuted in Turkey, the antipathy and disdain felt for them evinces itself in many ways, and appears to be founded upon a strange legend current in the country. This legend says that when the gypsy nation were driven out of their country (India), and arrived at Mekran, they constructed a wonderful machine to which a wheel was attached." From the context of this imperfectly told story, it would appear as if the gypsies could not travel farther until this wheel should revolve:-- "Nobody appeared to be able to turn it, till in the midst of their vain efforts some evil spirit presented himself under the disguise of a sage, and informed the chief, whose name was Chen, that the wheel would be made to turn only when he had married his sister Guin. The chief accepted the advice, the wheel turned round, and the name of the tribe after this incident became that of the combined names of the brother and sister, Chenguin, the appellation of all the gypsies of Turkey at the present day." The legend goes on to state that in consequence of this unnatural marriage the gypsies were cursed and condemned by a Mahometan saint to wander forever on the face of the earth. The real meaning of the myth--for myth it is--is very apparent. _Chen_ is a Romany word, generally pronounced _chone_, meaning the moon; {341a} while _guin_ is almost universally given as _gan_ or _kan_. That is to say, Chen-gan or -kan, or Zin-kan, is much commoner than Chen-guin. Now _kan_ is a common gypsy word for the sun. George Borrow gives it as such, and I myself have heard Romanys call the sun _kan_, though _kam_ is commoner, and is usually assumed to be right. Chen-kan means, therefore, moon-sun. And it may be remarked in this connection, that the neighboring Roumanian gypsies, who are nearly allied to the Turkish, have a wild legend stating that the sun was a youth who, having fallen in love with his own sister, was condemned as the sun to wander forever in pursuit of her, after she was turned into the moon. A similar legend exists in Greenland {341b} and in the island of Borneo, and it was known to the old Irish. It is in fact a spontaneous myth, or one of the kind which grow up from causes common to all races. It would be natural, to any imaginative savage, to regard the sun and moon as brother and sister. The next step would be to think of the one as regularly pursuing the other over the heavens, and to this chase an erotic cause would naturally be assigned. And as the pursuit is interminable, the pursuer never attaining his aim, it would be in time regarded as a penance. Hence it comes that in the most distant and different lands we have the same old story of the brother and the sister, just as the Wild Hunter pursues his bride. It was very natural that the gypsies, observing that the sun and moon were always apparently wandering, should have identified their own nomadic life with that of these luminaries. That they have a tendency to assimilate the idea of a wanderer and pilgrim to that of the Romany, or to _Romanipen_, is shown by the assertion once made to me by an English gypsy that his people regarded Christ as one of themselves, because he was always poor, and went wandering about on a donkey, and was persecuted by the Gorgios. It may be very rationally objected by those to whom the term "solar myth" is as a red rag, that the story, to prove anything, must first be proved itself. This will probably not be far to seek. Everything about it indicates an Indian origin, and if it can be found among any of the wanderers in India, it may well be accepted as the possible origin of the greatly disputed word _zingan_. It is quite as plausible as Dr. Miklosich's very far-fetched derivation from the Acingani,--[Greek text],--an unclean, heretical Christian sect, who dwelt in Phrygia and Lycaonia from the seventh till the eleventh century. The mention of Mekran indicates clearly that the moon story came from India before the Romany could have obtained any Greek name. And if gypsies call themselves or are called Jen-gan, or Chenkan, or Zingan, in the East, especially if they were so called by Persian poets, it is extremely unlikely that they ever received such a name from the Gorgios of Europe. It is really extraordinary that all the philologists who have toiled to derive the word _zingan_ from a Greek or Western source have never reflected that if it was applied to the race at an early time in India or Persia all their speculations must fall to the ground. One last word of John Nano, who was so called from two similar Indian words, meaning "the pet of his grandfather." I have in my possession a strange Hindu knife, with an enormously broad blade, perhaps five or six inches broad towards the end, with a long handle richly mounted in the purest bronze with a little silver. I never could ascertain till 1 knew him what it had been used for. Even the old ex-king of Oude, when he examined it, went wrong on it. Not so John Nano. "I know well enough what that knife is. I have seen it before,--years ago. It is very old, and it was long in use; it was the knife used by the public executioner in Bhotan. It is Bhotani." By the knife hangs the ivory-handled court-dagger which belonged to Francis II. of France, the first husband of Mary Queen of Scots. I wonder which could tell the strangest story of the past! "It has cut off many a head," said John Nano, "and I have seen it before!" I do not think that I have gone too far in attaching importance to the gypsy legend of the origin of the word _chen-kan_ or _zingan_. It is their own, and therefore entitled to preference over the theories of mere scholars; it is Indian and ancient, and there is much to confirm it. When I read the substance of this chapter before the Philological Society of London, Prince Lucien Bonaparte,--who is beyond question a great philologist, and one distinguished for vast research,--who was in the chair, seemed, in his comments on my paper, to consider this sun and moon legend as frivolous. And it is true enough that German symbolizers have given us the sun myth to such an extent that the mere mention of it in philology causes a recoil. Then, again, there is the law of humanity that the pioneer, the gatherer of raw material, who is seldom collector and critic together, is always assailed. Columbus always gets the chains and Amerigo Vespucci the glory. But the legend itself is undeniably of the gypsies and Indian. It is remarkable that there are certain catch-words, or test-words, among old gypsies with which they try new acquaintances. One of these is _kekkavi_, a kettle; another, _chinamangri_, a bill-hook, or chopper (also a letter), for which there is also another word. But I have found several very deep mothers in sorcery who have given me the word for sun, _kam_, as a precious secret, but little known. Now the word really is very well known, but the mystery attached to it, as to _chone_ or _shule_, the moon, would seem to indicate that at one time these words had a peculiar significance. Once the darkest-colored English gypsy I ever met, wishing to sound the depth of my Romany, asked me for the words for sun and moon, making more account of my knowledge of them than of many more far less known. As it will interest the reader, I will here give the ballad of the sun and the moon, which exists both in Romany and Roumani, or Roumanian, in the translation which I take from "A Winter in the City of Pleasure" (that is Bucharest), by Florence K. Berger,--a most agreeable book, and one containing two Chapters on the Tzigane, or gypsies. THE SUN AND THE MOON. Brother, one day the Sun resolved to marry. During nine years, drawn by nine fiery horses, he had rolled by heaven and earth as fast as the wind or a flying arrow. But it was in vain that he fatigued his horses. Nowhere could he find a love worthy of him. Nowhere in the universe was one who equaled in beauty his sister Helen, the beautiful Helen with silver tresses. The Sun went to meet her, and thus addressed her: "My dear little sister Helen, Helen of the silver tresses, let us be betrothed, for we are made for one another. "We are alike not only in our hair and our features, but also in our beauty. I have locks of gold, and thou hast locks of silver. My face is shining and splendid, and thine is soft and radiant." "O my brother, light of the world, thou who art pure of all stain, one has never seen a brother and sister married together, because it would be a shameful sin." At this rebuke the Sun hid himself, and mounted up higher to the throne of God, bent before Him, and spoke:-- "Lord our Father, the time has arrived for me to wed. But, alas! I cannot find a love in the world worthy of me except the beautiful Helen, Helen of the silver hair!" God heard him, and, taking him by the hand, led him into hell to affright his heart, and then into paradise to enchant his soul. Then He spake to him, and while He was speaking the Sun began to shine brightly and the clouds passed over:-- "Radiant Sun! Thou who art free from all stain, thou hast been through hell and hast entered paradise. Choose between the two." The Sun replied, recklessly, "I choose hell, if I may have, for a life, Helen, Helen of the shining silver hair." The Sun descended from the high heaven to his sister Helen, and ordered preparation for his wedding. He put on her forehead the waving gold chaplet of the bride, he put on her head a royal crown, he put on her body a transparent robe all embroidered with fine pearls, and they all went into the church together. But woe to him, and woe to her! During the service the lights were extinguished, the bells cracked while ringing, the seats turned themselves upside down, the tower shook to its base, the priests lost their voices, and the sacred robes were torn off their backs. The bride was convulsed with fear. For suddenly, woe to her! an invisible hand grasped her up, and, having borne her on high, threw her into the sea, where she was at once changed into a beautiful silver fish. The Sun grew pale and rose into the heaven. Then descending to the west, he plunged into the sea to search for his sister Helen, Helen of the shining silver hair. However, the Lord God (sanctified in heaven and upon the earth) took the fish in his hand, cast it forth into the sky, and changed it anew into the moon. Then He spoke. And while God was speaking the entire universe trembled, the peaks of the mountains bowed down, and men shivered with fear. "Thou, Helen of the long silver tresses, and thou resplendent Sun, who are both free from all stain, I condemn you for eternity to follow each other with your eyes through space, without being ever able to meet or to reach each other upon the road of heaven. Pursue one another for all time in traveling around the skies and lighting up the world." * * * * * Fallen from a high estate by sin, wicked, and therefore wandering: it was with such a story of being penitent pilgrims, doomed for a certain space to walk the earth, that the gypsies entered Europe from India, into Islam and into Christendom, each time modifying the story to suit the religion of the country which they invaded. Now I think that this sun and moon legend is far from being frivolous, and that it conforms wonderfully well with the famous story which they told to the Emperor Sigismund and the Pope and all Europe, that they were destined to wander because they had sinned. When they first entered Europe, the gypsies were full of these legends; they told them to everybody; but they had previously told them to themselves in the form of the Indian sun and moon story. This was the root whence other stories grew. As the tale of the Wandering Jew typifies the Hebrew, so does this of the sun and moon the Romany. A GYPSY MAGIC SPELL. There is a meaningless rhyme, very common among children. It is repeated while counting off those who are taking part in a game, and allotting to each a place. It is as follows:-- "Ekkeri akkery u-kery an Fillisi', follasy, Nicolas John Queebee-quabee--Irishman. Stingle 'em--stangle 'em--buck!" With a very little alteration in sounds, and not more than children make of these verses in different places, this may be read as follows:-- "'Ekkeri, akai-ri, you kair--an. Filissin follasy. Nakelas ja'n. Kivi, kavi. Irishman. Stini--stani--buck!" This is nonsense, of course, but it is Romany, or gypsy, and may be translated:-- "First--here--you begin. Castle--gloves. You don't play. Go on! _Kivi_--kettle. How are you? _Stini_--buck--buck." The common version of the rhyme begins with:-- "_One_ 'eri--two-ery, ekkeri--an." But one-ry is the _exact_ translation of ekkeri; ek or yek being one. And it is remarkable that in "_Hickory_ dickory dock, The rat ran up the clock; The clock struck _one_, And down he run, _Hickory_ dickory dock." We have hickory or ekkeri again, followed by a significant _one_. It may be observed that while, the first verses abound in Romany words, I can find no trace of any in other child-rhymes of the kind. It is also clear that if we take from the fourth line the _ingle 'em_, _angle 'em_, evidently added for mere jingle, there remains _stan_ or _stani_, "a buck," followed by the very same word in English. With the mournful examples of Mr. Bellenden Kerr's efforts to show that all our old proverbs and tavern signs are Dutch, and Sir William Betham's Etruscan-Irish, I should be justly regarded as one of the too frequent seekers for mystery in moonshine if I declared that I positively believed this to be Romany. Yet it is possible that it contains gypsy words, especially "fillissi,' follasy," which mean exactly _chateau_ and gloves, and I think it not improbable that it was once a sham charm used by some Romany fortune-teller to bewilder Gorgios. Let the reader imagine the burnt-sienna wild-cat eyed old sorceress performing before a credulous farm-wife and her children the great ceremony of _hakk'ni panki_, which Mr. Borrow calls _hokkani boro_, but for which there is a far deeper name,--that of _the great secret_,--which even my best friends among the Romany tried to conceal from me. This feat is performed by inducing some woman of largely magnified faith to believe that there is hidden in her house a magic treasure, which can only be made to come to hand by depositing in the cellar another treasure, to which it will come by natural affinity and attraction. "For gold, as you sees, my deari, draws gold, and so if you ties up all your money in a pocket-handkercher and leaves it, you'll find it doubled. An' wasn't there the Squire's lady, and didn't she draw two hundred old gold guineas out of the ground where they'd laid in a old grave,--and only one guinea she gave me for all my trouble; an' I hope you'll do better by the poor old gypsy, my deari --- ---." The gold and all the spoons are tied up,--for, as the enchantress observes, there may be silver too,--and she solemnly repeats over it magical rhymes, while the children, standing around in awe, listen to every word. It is a good subject for a picture. Sometimes the windows are closed, and candles give the only light. The next day the gypsy comes and sees how the charm is working. Could any one look under her cloak he might find another bundle precisely resembling the one containing the treasure. She looks at the precious deposit, repeats her rhyme again, and departs, after carefully charging the housewife that the bundle must not be touched or spoken of for three weeks. "Every word you tell about it, my-deari will be a guinea gone away." Sometimes she exacts an oath on the Bible that nothing shall be said. Back to the farmer's wife never again. After three weeks another Extraordinary instance of gross credulity appears in the country paper, and is perhaps repeated in a colossal London daily, with a reference to the absence of the school-master. There is wailing and shame in the house,--perhaps great suffering, for it may be that the savings of years have beer swept away. The charm has worked. But the little sharp-eared children remember it and sing it, and the more meaningless it is in their ears the more mysterious does it sound. And they never talk about the bundle, which when opened was found to contain only sticks, stones, and rags, without repeating it. So it goes from mouth to mouth, until, all mutilated, it passes current for even worse nonsense than it was at first. It may be observed, however,--and the remark will be fully substantiated by any one who knows the language,--that there is a Romany _turn_ to even the roughest corners of these rhymes. _Kivi_, _stingli_, _stangli_, are all gypsyish. But, as I have already intimated, this does not appear in any other nonsense verses of the kind. There is nothing of it in "Intery, mintery, cutery corn"-- or in anything else in Mother Goose. It is alone in its sounds and sense,--or nonsense. But there is not a wanderer of the roads who on hearing it would not explain, "Rya, there's a great deal of Romanes in that ere." I should also say that the word _na-kelas_ or _ne-kelas_, which I here translate differently, was once explained to me at some length by a gypsy as signifying "not speaking," or "keeping quiet." Now the mystery of mysteries of which I have spoken in the Romany tongue is this. The _hokkani boro_, or great trick, consists of three parts. Firstly, the telling of a fortune, and this is to _pen dukkerin_ or _pen durkerin_. The second part is the conveying away of the property, which is to _lel dudikabin_, or to take lightning, possibly connected with the very old English slang term of _bien lightment_. There is evidently a great confusion of words here. And the third is to "_chiv o manzin apre lati_," or to put the oath upon her, which explains itself. When all the deceived are under oath not to utter a word about the trick, the gypsy mother has "a safe thing of it." The _hokkani boro_, or great trick, was brought by the gypsies from the East. It has been practiced by them all over the world, it is still played every day somewhere. This chapter was written long ago in England. I am now in Philadelphia, and here I read in the "Press" of this city that a Mrs. Brown, whom I sadly and reluctantly believe is the wife of an acquaintance of mine, who walks before the world in other names, was arrested for the same old game of fortune-telling and persuading a simple dame that there was treasure in the house, and all the rest of the grand deception. And Mrs. Brown, good old Mrs. Brown, went to prison, where she will linger until a bribed alderman, or a purchased pardon, or some one of the numerous devices by which justice is evaded in Pennsylvania, delivers her. Yet it is not a good country, on the whole, for _hokkani boro_, since the people here, especially in the rural districts, have a rough-and-ready way of inflicting justice which interferes sadly with the profits of aldermen and other politicians. Some years ago, in Tennessee, a gypsy woman robbed a farmer by the great trick of all he was worth. Now it is no slander to say that the rural folk of Tennessee greatly resemble Indians in certain respects, and when I saw thousands of them, during the war, mustered out in Nashville, I often thought, as I studied their dark brown faces, high cheek bones, and long straight black hair, that the American is indeed reverting to the aboriginal type. The Tennessee farmer and his neighbors, at any rate, reverted very strongly indeed to the original type when robbed by the gypsies, for they turned out all together, hunted them down, and, having secured the sorceress, burned her alive at the stake. And thus in a single crime and its punishment we have curiously combined a world-old Oriental offense, an European Middle-Age penalty for witchcraft, and the fierce torture of the red Indians. SHELTA, THE TINKERS' TALK. "So good a proficient in one quarter of an hour that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life."--_King Henry the Fourth_. One summer day, in the year 1876, I was returning from a long walk in the beautiful country which lies around Bath, when, on the road near the town, I met with a man who had evidently grown up from childhood into middle age as a beggar and a tramp. I have learned by long experience that there is not a so-called "traveler" of England or of the world, be he beggar, tinker, gypsy, or hawker, from whom something cannot be learned, if one only knows how to use the test-glasses and proper reagents. Most inquirers are chiefly interested in the morals--or immorals--of these nomads. My own researches as regards them are chiefly philological. Therefore, after I had invested twopence in his prospective beer, I addressed him in Romany. Of course he knew a little of it; was there ever an old "traveler" who did not? "But we are givin' Romanes up very fast,--all of us is," he remarked. "It is a gettin' to be too blown. Everybody knows some Romanes now. But there _is_ a jib that ain't blown," he remarked reflectively. "Back slang an' cantin' an' rhymin' is grown vulgar, and Italian always _was_ the lowest of the lot; thieves _kennick_ is genteel alongside of organ-grinder's lingo, you know. Do _you_ know anythin' of Italian, sir?" "I can _rakker_ it pretty _flick_" (talk it tolerably), was my reply. "Well I should never a _penned_ [thought] sitch a swell gent as you had been down so low in the slums. Now _Romanes_ is genteel. I heard there's actilly a book about Romanes to learn it out of. But as for this other jib, its wery hard to talk. It is most all Old Irish, and they calls it Shelter." This was all that I could learn at that time. It did not impress me much, as I supposed that the man merely meant Old Irish. A year went by, and I found myself at Aberystwith, the beautiful sea-town in Wales, with my friend Professor Palmer--a palmer who has truly been a pilgrim _outre-mer_, even by Galilee's wave, and dwelt as an Arab in the desert. One afternoon we were walking together on that end of the beach which is the antithesis of the old Norman castle; that is, at the other extremity of the town, and by the rocks. And here there was a little crowd, chiefly of young ladies, knitting and novel-reading in the sun, or watching children playing on the sand. All at once there was an alarm, and the whole party fled like partridges, skurrying along and hiding under the lee of the rocks. For a great rock right over our heads was about to be blasted. So the professor and I went on and away, but as we went we observed an eccentric and most miserable figure crouching in a hollow like a little cave to avoid the anticipated falling stones. "_Dikk o dovo mush adoi a gavverin lester kokero_!" (Look at that man there, hiding himself!) said the professor in Romanes. He wished to call attention to the grotesque figure without hurting the poor fellow's feelings. "_Yuv's atrash o' ye baryia_" (He is afraid of the stones), I replied. The man looked up. "I know what you're saying, gentlemen. That's Romany." "Jump up, then, and come along with us." He followed. We walked from rock to rock, and over the sand by the sea, to a secluded nook under a cliff. Then, seated around a stone table, we began our conversation, while the ocean, like an importunate beggar, surfed and foamed away, filling up the intervals with its mighty roaring language, which poets only understand or translate:-- "Thus far, and then no more:" Such language speaks the sounding sea To the waves upon the shore. Our new acquaintance was ragged and disreputable. Yet he held in his hand a shilling copy of "Helen's Babies," in which were pressed some fern leaves. "What do you do for a living?" I asked. "_Shelkin gallopas_ just now," he replied. "And what is that?" "Selling ferns. Don't you understand? That's what we call it in _Minklers Thari_. That's tinkers' language. I thought as you knew Romanes you might understand it. The right name for it is _Shelter_ or _Shelta_." Out came our note-books and pencils. So this was the _Shelter_ of which I had heard. He was promptly asked to explain what sort of a language it was. "Well, gentlemen, you must know that I have no great gift for languages. I never could learn even French properly. I can conjugate the verb _etre_,--that is all. I'm an ignorant fellow, and very low. I've been kicked out of the lowest slums in Whitechapel because I was too much of a blackguard for 'em. But I know rhyming slang. Do you know Lord John Russell?" "Well, I know a little of rhyming, but not that." "Why, it rhymes to _bustle_." "I see. _Bustle_ is to pick pockets." "Yes, or anything like it, such as ringing the changes." Here the professor was "in his plate." He knows perfectly how to ring the changes. It is effected by going into a shop, asking for change for a sovereign, purchasing some trifling article, then, by ostensibly changing your mind as to having the change, so bewilder the shopman as to cheat him out of ten shillings. It is easily done by one who understands it. The professor does not practice this art for the lucre of gain, but he understands it in detail. And of this he gave such proofs to the tramp that the latter was astonished. "A tinker would like to have a wife who knows as much of that as you do," he remarked. "No woman is fit to be a tinker's wife who can't make ten shillings a day by _glantherin_. _Glantherin_ or _glad'herin_ is the correct word in Shelter for ringing the changes. As for the language, I believe it's mostly Gaelic, but it's mixed up with Romanes and canting or thieves' slang. Once it was the common language of all the old tinkers. But of late years the old tinkers' families are mostly broken up, and the language is perishing." Then he proceeded to give us the words in Shelta, or Minklers Thari. They were as follows:-- Shelkin gallopas Selling ferns. Soobli, Soobri Brother, friend--a man. Bewr Woman. Gothlin or goch'thlin Child. Young bewr Girl. Durra, or derra Bread. Pani Water (Romany). Stiff A warrant (common cant). Yack A watch (cant, _i.e._ bull's eye, _Yack_, an eye in Romany). Mush-faker Umbrella mender. Mithani (mithni) Policeman. Ghesterman (ghesti) Magistrate. Needi-mizzler A tramp. Dinnessy Cat. Stall Go, travel. Biyeghin Stealing. Biyeg To steal. Biyeg th'eenik To steal the thing. Crack A stick. Monkery Country. Prat Stop, stay, lodge. Ned askan Lodging. Glantherin (glad'herin) Money, swindling. This word has a very peculiar pronunciation. Sauni or sonni See. Strepuck (reepuck) A harlot. Strepuck lusk, Luthrum's gothlin Son of a harlot. Kurrb yer pee Punch your head or face. Pee Face. Borers and jumpers Tinkers' tools. Borers Gimlets. Jumpers Cranks. Ogles Eyes (common slang). Nyock Head. Nyock A penny. Odd Two. Midgic A shilling. Nyo(d)ghee A pound. Sai, sy Sixpence. Charrshom, Cherrshom, Tusheroon A crown. Tre-nyock Threepence. Tripo-rauniel A pot of beer. Thari, Bug Talk. Can you thari Shelter? Can you bug Shelta? Can you talk tinkers' language? Shelter, shelta Tinker's slang. Larkin Girl. Curious as perhaps indicating an affinity between the Hindustani _larki_, a girl, and the gypsy _rakli_. Snips Scissors (slang). Dingle fakir A bell-hanger. Dunnovans Potatoes. Fay (_vulgarly_ fee) Meat. Our informant declared that there are vulgar forms of certain words. Gladdher Ring the changes (cheat in change). "No minkler would have a bewr who couldn't gladdher." Reesbin Prison. Tre-moon Three months, a 'drag.' Rauniel, Runniel Beer. Max Spirits (slang). Chiv Knife. (Romany, a pointed knife, _i.e. tongue_.) Thari To speak or tell. "I tharied the soobri I sonnied him." (I told the man I saw him.) Mushgraw. Our informant did not know whether this word, of Romany origin, meant, in Shelta, policeman or magistrate. Scri, scree To write. Our informant suggested _scribe_ as the origin of this word. Reader A writ. "You're readered soobri." (You are put in the "Police Gazette," friend.) Our informant could give only a single specimen of the Shelta literature. It was as follows:-- "My name is Barney Mucafee, With my borers and jumpers down to my thee (thigh). An' it's forty miles I've come to kerrb yer pee." This vocabulary is, as he declared, an extremely imperfect specimen of the language. He did not claim to speak it well. In its purity it is not mingled with Romany or thieves' slang. Perhaps some student of English dialects may yet succeed in recovering it all. The pronunciation of many of the words is singular, and very different from English or Romany. Just as the last word was written down, there came up a woman, a female tramp of the most hardened kind. It seldom happens that gentlemen sit down in familiar friendly converse with vagabonds. When they do they are almost always religious people, anxious to talk with the poor for the good of their souls. The talk generally ends with a charitable gift. Such was the view (as the vagabond afterwards told us) which she took of our party. I also infer that she thought we must be very verdant and an easy prey. Almost without preliminary greeting she told us that she was in great straits,--suffering terribly,--and appealed to the man for confirmation, adding that if we would kindly lend her a sovereign it should be faithfully repaid in the morning. The professor burst out laughing. But the fern-collector gazed at her in wrath and amazement. "I say, old woman," he cried; "do you know who you're _rakkerin_ [speaking] to? This here gentleman is one of the deepest Romany ryes [gypsy gentlemen] a-going. And that there one could _gladdher_ you out of your eye-teeth." She gave one look of dismay,--I shall never forget that look,--and ran away. The witch had chanced upon Arbaces. I think that the tramp had been in his time a man in better position. He was possibly a lawyer's clerk who had fallen into evil ways. He spoke English correctly when not addressing the beggar woman. There was in Aberystwith at the same time another fern-seller, an elderly man, as wretched and as ragged a creature as I ever met. Yet he also spoke English purely, and could give in Latin the names of all the plants which he sold. I have always supposed that the tinkers' language spoken of by Shakespeare was Romany; but I now incline to think it may have been Shelta. Time passed, and "the levis grene" had fallen thrice from the trees, and I had crossed the sea and was in my native city of Philadelphia. It was a great change after eleven years of Europe, during ten of which I had "homed," as gypsies say, in England. The houses and the roads were old-new to me; there was something familiar-foreign in the voices and ways of those who had been my earliest friends; the very air as it blew hummed tunes which had lost tones in them that made me marvel. Yet even here I soon found traces of something which is the same all the world over, which goes ever on "as of ever," and that was the wanderer of the road. Near the city are three distinct gypsyries, where in summer-time the wagon and the tent may be found; and ever and anon, in my walks about town, I found interesting varieties of vagabonds from every part of Europe. Italians of the most Bohemian type, who once had been like angels,--and truly only in this, that their visits of old were few and far between,--now swarmed as fruit dealers and boot-blacks in every lane; Germans were of course at home; Czechs, or Slavs, supposed to be Germans, gave unlimited facilities for Slavonian practice; while tinkers, almost unknown in 1860, had in 1880 become marvelously common, and strange to say were nearly all Austrians of different kinds. And yet not quite all, and it was lucky for me they were not. For one morning, as I went into the large garden which lies around the house wherein I wone, I heard by the honeysuckle and grape-vine a familiar sound,--suggestive of the road and Romanys and London, and all that is most traveler-esque. It was the tap, tap, tap of a hammer and the clang of tin, and I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled at the end of the garden a tinker was near. And I advanced to him, and as he glanced up and greeted, I read in his Irish face long rambles on the roads. "Good-morning!" "Good-mornin', sorr!" "You're an old traveler?" "I am, sorr." "Can you rakker Romanes?" "I can, sorr!" "_Pen yer nav_." (Tell your name.) "Owen ---, sorr." A brief conversation ensued, during which we ascertained that we had many friends in common in the _puro tem_ or Ould Country. All at once a thought struck me, and I exclaimed,-- "Do you know any other languages?" "Yes, sorr: Ould Irish an' Welsh, an' a little Gaelic." "That's all?" "Yes, sorr, all av thim." "All but one?" "An' what's that wan, sorr?" "Can you _thari shelta_, _subli_?" No tinker was ever yet astonished at anything. If he could be he would not be a tinker. If the coals in his stove were to turn to lumps of gold in a twinkle, he would proceed with leisurely action to rake them out and prepare them for sale, and never indicate by a word or a wink that anything remarkable had occurred. But Owen the tinker looked steadily at me for an instant, as if to see what manner of man I might be, and then said,-- "_Shelta_, is it? An' I can talk it. An' there's not six min livin' as can talk it as I do." "Do you know, I think it's very remarkable that you can talk Shelta." "An' begorra, I think it's very remarkable, sorr, that ye should know there is such a language." "Will you give me a lesson?" "Troth I will." I went into the house and brought out a note-book. One of the servants brought me a chair. Owen went on soldering a tin dish, and I proceeded to take down from him the following list of words in _Shelta_: Theddy Fire (_theinne_. Irish). Strawn Tin. Blyhunka Horse. Leicheen Girl. Soobli Male, man. Binny soobli Boy. Binny Small. Chimmel Stick. Gh'ratha, grata Hat. Griffin, or gruffin Coat. Respes Trousers. Gullemnocks Shoes. Grascot Waistcoat. Skoich, or skoi Button. Numpa Sovereign, one pound. Gorhead, or godhed Money. Merrih Nose (?). Nyock Head. Graigh Hair. Kaine, or kyni Ears (Romany, _kan_). Melthog Inner shirt. Medthel Black. Cunnels Potatoes. Faihe, or feye Meat (_feoil_. Gaelic). Muogh Pig (_muck_. Irish). Miesli, misli To go (origin of "mizzle"?) Mailyas, or moillhas Fingers (_meirleach_, stealers Gaelic). Shaidyog Policeman. Respun To steal. Shoich Water, blood, liquid. Alemnoch Milk. Raglan, or reglan Hammer. Goppa Furnace, smith (_gobha_, a smith. Gaelic). Terry A heating-iron. Khoi Pincers. Chimmes (compare _chimmel_) Wood or stick. Mailyas Arms. Koras Legs (_cos_, leg. Gaelic). Skoihopa Whisky. Bulla (_ull_ as in _gull_) A letter. Thari Word, language. Mush Umbrella (slang). Lyesken cherps Telling fortunes. Loshools Flowers (_lus_, erb or flower? Gaelic). Dainoch To lose. Chaldroch Knife (_caldock_, sharply pointed. Gaelic). Bog To get. Masheen Cat. Cambra Dog. Laprogh Goose, duck. Kaldthog Hen. Rumogh Egg. Kiena House (_ken_, old gypsy and modern cant). Rawg Wagon. Gullemnoch Shoes. Analt To sweep, to broom. Analken To wash. D'erri Bread. R'ghoglin (gogh'leen) To laugh. Kradyin To stop, stay, sit, lodge, remain. Oura Town. Lashool Nice (_lachool_. Irish). Moinni, or moryeni Good (_min_, pleasant. Gaelic). Moryenni yook Good man. Gyami Bad (_cam_. Gaelic). Probably the origin of the common canting term _gammy_, bad. Ishkimmisk Drunk (_misgeach_. Gaelic) Roglan A four-wheeled vehicle. Lorch A two-wheeled vehicle. Smuggle Anvil. Granya Nail. Riaglon Iron. Gushuk Vessel of any kind. Tedhi, thedi Coal; fuel of any kind. Grawder Solder. Tanyok Halfpenny. (Query _tani_, little, Romany, and _nyok_, a head.) Chlorhin To hear. Sunain To see. Salkaneoch To taste, take. Mailyen To feel (_cumail_, to hold. Gaelic). Crowder String. Sobye (?) Mislain Raining (mizzle?). Goo-ope, guop Cold. Skoichen Rain. Thomyok Magistrate. Shadyog Police. Bladhunk Prison. Bogh To get. Salt Arrested, taken. Straihmed A year. Gotherna, guttema Policeman. [A very rare old word.] Dyukas, or Jukas Gorgio, Gentile; one not of the class. Misli Coming, to come, to send. To my-deal To me. Lychyen People. Grannis Know. Skolaia To write. Skolaiyami A good scholar. Nyok Head. Lurk Eye. Menoch Nose. Glorhoch Ear. Koris Feet. Tashi shingomai To read the newspaper. Gorheid Money. Tomgarheid (_i.e._ big money) Gold. Skawfer, skawper Silver. Tomnumpa Bank-note. Terri Coal. Ghoi Put. Nyadas Table. Kradyin Being, lying. Tarryin Rope. Kor'heh Box. Miseli Quick. Krad'hyi Slow. Th-mddusk Door. Khaihed Chair (_khahir_. Irish). Bord Table. Grainyog Window. Rumog Egg. Aidh Butter. Okonneh A priest. Thus explained in a very Irish manner: "_Okonneh_, or _Koony_, _is_ a _sacred_ man, and _kuni_ in Romany means secret. An' sacret and sacred, sure, are all the same." Shliema Smoke, pipe. Munches Tobacco. Khadyogs Stones. Yiesk Fish (_iasg_. Gaelic). Cab Cabbage. Cherpin Book. This appears to be vulgar. _Llyower_ was on second thought declared to be the right word. (_Leabhar_, Gaelic.) Misli dainoch To write a letter; to write; that is, send or go. Misli to my bewr Write to my woman. Gritche Dinner. Gruppa Supper. Goihed To leave, lay down. Lurks Eyes. Ainoch Thing. Clisp To fall, let fall. Clishpen To break by letting fall. Guth, gut Black. Gothni, gachlin Child. Styemon Rat. Krepoch Cat. Grannien With child. Loshub Sweet. Shum To own. L'yogh To lose. Crimum Sheep. Khadyog Stone. Nglou Nail. Gial Yellow, red. Talosk Weather. Laprogh Bird. Madel Tail. Carob To cut. Lubran, luber To hit. Thom Violently. Mish it thom Hit it hard. Subli, or soobli Man (_siublach_, a vagrant. Gaelic). There you are, readers! Make good cheer of it, as Panurge said of what was beyond him. For what this language really is passeth me and mine. Of Celtic origin it surely is, for Owen gave me every syllable so garnished with gutturals that I, being even less of one of the Celtes than a Chinaman, have not succeeded in writing a single word according to his pronunciation of it. Thus even Minklers sounds more like _minkias_, or _pikias_, as he gave it. To the foregoing I add the numerals and a few phrases:-- Hain, or heen One. Do Two. Tri Three. Ch'air, or k'hair Four. Cood Five. She, or shay Six. Schaacht, or schach' Seven. Ocht Eight. Ayen, or nai Nine. Dy'ai, djai, or dai Ten. Hinniadh Eleven. Do yed'h Twelve. Trin yedh Thirteen. K'hair yedh, etc. Fourteen, etc. Tat 'th chesin ogomsa That belongs to me. Grannis to my deal It belongs to me. Dioch maa krady in in this nadas I am staying here. Tash emilesh He is staying there. Boghin the brass Cooking the food. My deal is mislin I am going. The nidias of the kiena don't The people of the house don't know granny what we're a tharyin what we're saying. This was said within hearing of and in reference to a bevy of servants, of every hue save white, who were in full view in the kitchen, and who were manifestly deeply interested and delighted in our interview, as well as in the constant use of my note-book, and our conference in an unknown tongue, since Owen and I spoke frequently in Romany. That bhoghd out yer mailya You let that fall from your hand. I also obtained a verse of a ballad, which I may not literally render into pure English:-- "Cosson kailyah corrum me morro sari, Me gul ogalyach mir; Rahet manent trasha moroch Me tu sosti mo diele." "Coming from Galway, tired and weary, I met a woman; I'll go bail by this time to-morrow, You'll have had enough of me." _Me tu sosti_, "Thou shalt be (of) me," is Romany, which is freely used in Shelta. The question which I cannot solve is, On which of the Celtic languages is this jargon based? My informant declares that it is quite independent of Old Irish, Welsh, or Gaelic. In pronunciation it appears to be almost identical with the latter; but while there are Gaelic words in it, it is certain that much examination and inquiry have failed to show that it is contained in that language. That it is "the talk of the ould Picts--thim that built the stone houses like beehives"--is, I confess, too conjectural for a philologist. I have no doubt that when the Picts were suppressed thousands of them must have become wandering outlaws, like the Romany, and that their language in time became a secret tongue of vagabonds on the roads. This is the history of many such lingoes; but unfortunately Owen's opinion, even if it be legendary, will not prove that the Painted People spoke the Shelta tongue. I must call attention, however, to one or two curious points. I have spoken of Shelta as a jargon; but it is, in fact, a language, for it can be spoken grammatically and without using English or Romany. And again, there is a corrupt method of pronouncing it, according to English, while correctly enunciated it is purely Celtic in sound. More than this I have naught to say. Shelta is perhaps the last Old British dialect as yet existing which has thus far remained undiscovered. There is no hint of it in John Camden Hotten's Slang Dictionary, nor has it been recognized by the Dialect Society. Mr. Simson, had he known the "Tinklers" better, would have found that not Romany, but Shelta, was the really secret language which they employed, although Romany is also more or less familiar to them all. To me there is in it something very weird and strange. I cannot well say why; it seems as if it might be spoken by witches and talking toads, and uttered by the Druid stones, which are fabled to come down by moonlight to the water-side to drink, and who will, if surprised during their walk, answer any questions. Anent which I would fain ask my Spiritualist friends one which I have long yearned to put. Since you, my dear ghost-raisers, can call spirits from the vasty deep of the outside-most beyond, will you not--having many millions from which to call--raise up one of the Pictish race, and, having brought it in from the _Ewigkeit_, take down a vocabulary of the language? Let it be a lady _par preference_,--the fair being by far the more fluent in words. Moreover, it is probable that as the Picts were a painted race, woman among them must have been very much to the fore, and that Madame Rachels occupied a high position with rouge, enamels, and other appliances to make them young and beautiful forever. According to Southey, the British blue-stocking is descended from these woad-stained ancestresses, which assertion dimly hints at their having been literary. In which case, _voila notre affaire_! for then the business would be promptly done. Wizards of the secret spells, I adjure ye, raise me a Pictess for the sake of philology--and the picturesque! Footnotes: {19} From the observations of Frederic Drew (_The Northern Barrier of India_, London, 1877) there can be little doubt that the Dom, or Dum, belong to the pre-Aryan race or races of India. "They are described in the Shastras as Sopukh, or Dog-Eaters" (_Types of India_). I have somewhere met with the statement that the Dom was pre-Aryan, but allowed to rank as Hindoo on account of services rendered to the early conquerors. {22} Up-stairs in this gentleman's dialect signified up or upon, like _top_ Pidgin-English. {23} _Puccasa_, Sanskrit. Low, inferior. Given by Pliny E. Chase in his _Sanskrit Analogues_ as the root-word for several inferior animals. {26} _A Trip up the Volga to the Fair of Nijni-Novgovod_. By H. A. Munro Butler Johnstone. 1875. {42} _Seven Years in the Deserts of America_. {61} In Old English Romany this is called _dorrikin_; in common parade, _dukkerin_. Both forms are really old. {68} Flower-flag-nation man; that is, American. {69a} _Leadee_, reads. {69b} _Dly_, dry. {69c} _Lun_, run. {82} Diamonds true. _O latcho bar_ (in England, _tatcho bar_), "the true or real stone," is the gypsy for a diamond. {97} Within a mile, Maginn lies buried, without a monument. {108} _Mashing_, a word of gypsy origin (_mashdva_), meaning fascination by the eye, or taking in. {125} Goerres, _Christliche Mystik_, i. 296. 1. 23. {134} _The Saxons in England_, i. 3. {159} _Peru urphu_! "Increase and multiply!" _Vide_ Bodenschatz _Kirchliche Verfassung der Juden_, part IV. ch. 4, sect. 2. {209} _The Past in the Present_, part 2, lect. 3 {222} _Yoma_, fol. 21, col. 2. {238} _Zimbel_. The cymbal of the Austrian gypsies is a stringed instrument, like the zitter. {241} _Crocus_, in common slang an itinerant quack, mountebank, or seller of medicine; _Pitcher_, a street dealer. {270} A brief _resume_ of the most characteristic gypsy mode of obtaining property. {279} Lady, in gypsy _rani_. The process of degradation is curiously marked in this language. _Rani_ (_rawnee_), in Hindi, is a queen. _Rye_, or _rae_, a gentleman, in its native land, is applicable to a nobleman, while _rashai_, a clergyman, even of the smallest dissenting type, rises in the original _rishi_ to a saint of the highest order. {280} This was the very same affair and the same gypsies described and mentioned on page 383 of _In Gypsy Tents_, by Francis Hindes Groome, Edinburgh, 1880. I am well acquainted with them. {285} _Primulaveris_: in German _Schlussel blume_, that is, key flowers; also Mary's-keys and keys of heaven. Both the primrose and tulip are believed in South Germany to be an Open Sesame to hidden treasure. {292} Omar Khayyam, _Rubaiyat_. {293} _Johnnykin and the Goblins_. London: Macmillan. {302a} Vide _Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society_, vol. xvi. part 2, 1856 p. 285. {302b} _Die Zigeuner_. {307a} _The Dialect of the English Gypsies_. {307b} I beg the reader to bear it in mind that all this is literally as it was given by an old gypsy, and that I am not responsible for its accuracy or inaccuracy. {317a} Literally, the earth-sewer. {317b} _Kali foki_. _Kalo_ means, as in Hindustani, not only black, but also lazy. Pronounced _kaw-lo_. {319a} _Gorgio_. Gentile; any man not a gypsy. Possibly from _ghora aji_ "Master white man," Hindu. Used as _goi_ is applied by Hebrews to the unbelievers. {319b} _Romeli_, _rom'ni_. Wandering, gypsying. It is remarkable that _remna_, in Hindu, means to roam. {320} _Chollo-tem_. Whole country, world. {324} There is a great moral difference, not only in the gypsy mind, but in that of the peasant, between stealing and poaching. But in fact, as regards the appropriation of poultry of any kind, a young English gypsy has neither more nor less scruple than other poor people of his class. {325} _Man lana_, Hindostani: to set the heart upon. _Manner_, Eng. Gyp.: to encourage; also, to forbid. {327} _Chovihan_, m., _chovihani_, fem., often _cho'ian_ or _cho'ani_, a witch. Probably from the Hindu _'toanee_, a witch, which has nearly the same pronunciation as the English gypsy word. {335} _Travels in Beloochistan and Scinde_, p. 153. {341a} English gypsies also call the moon _shul_ and _shone_. {341b} _Tales and Traditions of the Eskimo_, by Dr. Henry Rink. London 1875, p. 236. 
36400	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 36400-h.htm or 36400-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36400/36400-h/36400-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36400/36400-h.zip) [Illustration: One young woman brought a great pan of stew and bread and three spoons to the van. _Frontispiece._] THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AMONG THE GYPSIES How They Met What Happened And How It Ended by GRACE BROOKS HILL Author of "The Corner House Girls," "The Corner House Girls on a Houseboat," etc. Illustrated by Thelma Gooch Barse & Hopkins Publishers Newark, N. J. New York, N. Y. * * * * * BOOKS FOR GIRLS The Corner House Girls Series By Grace Brooks Hill _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated._ THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS IN A PLAY THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS' ODD FIND THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A TOUR THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS GROWING UP THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SNOWBOUND THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A HOUSEBOAT THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AMONG THE GYPSIES Publishers BARSE & HOPKINS Newark, N. J. New York, N. Y. * * * * * Copyright, 1921, by Barse & Hopkins _The Corner House Girls Among the Gypsies_ Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I The Fretted Silver Bracelet 9 II A Profound Mystery 20 III Sammy Pinkney in Trouble 31 IV The Gypsy Trail 40 V Sammy Occasions Much Excitement 50 VI The Gypsy's Words 60 VII The Bracelet Again To the Fore 70 VIII The Misfortunes of a Runaway 81 IX Things Go Wrong 90 X All Is Not Gold That Glitters 100 XI Mysteries Accumulate 108 XII Getting in Deeper 114 XIII Over the Hills and Far Away 122 XIV Almost Had Him 134 XV Uncertainties 143 XVI The Dead End of Nowhere 149 XVII Ruth Begins To Worry 157 XVIII The Junkman Again 165 XIX The House Is Haunted 175 XX Plotters at Work 184 XXI Tess and Dot Take a Hand 195 XXII Excitement Galore 206 XXIII A Surprising Meeting 217 XXIV The Captives 234 XXV It Must Be All Right 244 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS One young woman brought a great pan of stew and bread and three spoons to the van Title "You have found it!" he chattered with great excitement 112 The girls could sit under the trees while Luke reclined on a swinging cot 158 "They want that silver thing back. It wasn't meant for you" 203 THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AMONG THE GYPSIES CHAPTER I--THE FRETTED SILVER BRACELET If Sammy Pinkney had not been determined to play a "joey" and hooked back one of the garage doors so as to enter astride a broomstick with a dash and the usual clown announcement, "Here we are again!" all would not have happened that did happen to the Corner House girls--at least, not in just the way the events really occurred. Even Dot, who was inclined to be forgiving of most of Sammy's sins both of omission and commission, admitted that to be true. Tess, the next oldest Corner House girl (nobody ever dignified her with the name of "Theresa," unless it were Aunt Sarah Maltby) was inclined to reflect the opinion regarding most boys held by their oldest sister, Ruth. Tess's frank statement to this day is that it was entirely Sammy's fault that they were mixed up with the Gypsies at all. But-- "Well, if I'm going to be in your old circus," Sammy announced doggedly, "I'm going to be a joey--or _nothin'_." "You know very well, Sammy, that you can't be that," said Tess reprovingly. "Huh? Why can't I? I bet I'd make just as good a clown as Mr. Sully Sorber, who is Neale's half-uncle, or Mr. Asa Scruggs, who is Barnabetta's father." "I don't mean you can't be a clown," interrupted Tess. "I mean you can't be just _nothing_. You occupy space, so you must be something. Our teacher says so." "Shucks!" ejaculated Sammy Pinkney. "Don't I know that? And I wish you wouldn't talk about school. Why! we're only in the middle of our vacation, I should hope." "It seems such a long time since we went to school," murmured Dot, who was sitting by, nursing the Alice-doll in her arms and waiting her turn to be called into the circus ring, which was the cleared space in the middle of the cement floor. "That's because all you folks went off cruising on that houseboat and never took me with you," grumbled Sammy, who still held a deep-seated grouch because of the matter mentioned. "But 'tain't been long since school closed--and it isn't going to be long before the old thing opens again." "Why, Sammy!" admonished Tess. "I just _hate_ school, so I do!" vigorously announced the boy. "I'd rather be a tramp--or a Gypsy. Yes, I would." "Or a pirate, Sammy?" suggested Dot reflectively. "You know, me and you didn't have a very nice time when we went off to be pirates. 'Member?" "Huh!" grumbled Sammy, "that was because you was along. Girls can't be pirates worth shucks. And anyway," he concluded, "I'm going to be the joey in this show, or I won't play." "It will be supper time and the others will be back with the car, so none of us can play if we don't start in pretty soon," Tess observed. "Dot and I want to practice our gym work that Neale O'Neil has been teaching us. But you can clown it all you want to, Sammy." "Well, that lets me begin the show anyway," Sammy stated with satisfaction. He always did want to lead. And now he immediately ran to hook back the door and prepared to make his entrance into the ring in true clowning style, as he had seen Sully Sorber do in Twomley & Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie. The Kenway garage opened upon Willow Street and along that pleasantly shaded and quiet thoroughfare just at this time came three rather odd looking people. Two were women carrying brightly stained baskets of divers shapes, and one of these women--usually the younger one--went into the yard of each house and knocked at the side or back door, offering the baskets for sale. The younger one was black-eyed and rather pretty. She was neatly dressed in very bright colors and wore a deal of gaudy jewelry. The older woman was not so attractive--or so clean. Loitering on the other side of the street, and keeping some distance behind the Gypsy women, slouched a tall, roughly clad fellow who was evidently their escort. The women came to the Kenway garage some time after Sammy Pinkney had made his famous "entrance" and Dot had abandoned the Alice-doll while she did several handsprings on the mattress that Tess had laid down. Dot did these very well indeed. Neale O'Neil, who had been trained in the circus, had given both the smaller Corner House girls the benefit of his advice and training. They loved athletic exercises. Mrs. McCall, the Corner House housekeeper, declared Tess and Dot were as active as grasshoppers. The two dark-faced women, as they peered in at the open doorway of the garage, seemed to think Dot's handsprings were marvelously well done, too; they whispered together excitedly and then the older one slyly beckoned the big Gypsy man across the street to approach. When he arrived to look over the women's heads it was Tess who was actively engaged on the garage floor. She was as supple as an eel. Of course, Tess Kenway would not like to be compared to an eel; but she was proud of her ability to "wriggle into a bow knot and out again"--as Sammy vociferously announced. "Say, Tess! that's a peach of a trick," declared the boy with enthusiasm. "Say! Lemme--Huh! What do _you_ want?" For suddenly he saw the two Gypsy women at the door of the garage. The man was now out of sight. "Ah-h!" whined the old woman cunningly, "will not the young master and the pretty little ladies buy a nice basket of the poor Gypsy? Good fortune goes with it." "Gee! who wants to buy a basket?" scoffed Sammy. "You only have to carry things in it." The bane of Sammy Pinkney's existence was the running of errands. "But they _are_ pretty," murmured Tess. "Oh--oo! See that nice green and yellow one with the cover," gasped Dot. "Do you suppose we've got money enough to buy that one, Tess? How nice it would be to carry the children's clothes in when we go on picnics." By "children" Dot meant their dolls, of which, the two smaller Corner House girls possessed a very large number. Several of these children, besides the Alice-doll, were grouped upon a bench in the corner of the garage as a part of the circus audience. The remainder of the spectators were Sandyface and her family. Sandyface was now a great, _great_ grandmother cat, and more of her progeny than one would care to catalog tranquilly viewed the little girls' circus or rolled in kittenish frolic on the floor. It sometimes did seem as though the old Corner House demesne was quite given up to feline inhabitants. And the recurrent appearance of new litters of kittens belonging to Sandyface herself, her daughters and granddaughters, had ceased to make even a ripple in the pool of Corner House existence. This explanation regarding the dolls and cats is really aside from our narrative. Tess and Dot both viewed with eager eyes the particular covered basket held out enticingly by the old Gypsy woman. Of course the little girls had no pockets in their gymnasium suits. But in a pocket of her raincoat which Tess had worn down to the garage over her blouse and bloomers, she found a dime and two pennies--"just enough for two ice-cream cones," Sammy Pinkey observed. "Oh! And my Alice-doll has eight cents in her cunning little beaded bag," cried Dot, with sudden animation. She produced the coins. But there was only twenty cents in all! "I--I--What do you ask for that basket, please?" Tess questioned cautiously. "Won't the pretty little ladies give the poor old Gypsy woman half a dollar for the basket?" The little girls lost hope. They were not allowed to break into their banks for any purpose without asking Ruth's permission, and their monthly stipend of pocket money was very low. "It is a very nice basket, little ladies," said the younger Gypsy woman--she who was so gayly dressed and gaudily bejeweled. "I know," Tess admitted wistfully. "But if we haven't so much money, how can we buy it?" "Say!" interrupted the amateur joey, hands in pockets and viewing the controversy quite as an outsider. "Say, Tess! if you and Dot really want that old basket, I've got two-bits I'll lend you." "Oh, Sammy!" gasped Dot. "A whole quarter?" "Have you got it here with you?" Tess asked. "Yep," announced the boy. "I don't think Ruth would mind our borrowing twenty-five cents of you, Sammy," said Tess, slowly. "Of course not," urged Dot. "Why, Sammy is just like one of the family." "Only when you girls go off cruising, I ain't," observed Sammy, his face clouding with remembrance. "_Then_ I ain't even a step-child." But he produced the quarter and offered it to Tess. She counted it with the money already in her hand. "But--but that makes only forty-five cents," she said. The two Gypsy women spoke hissingly to each other in a tongue that the children did not, of course, understand. Then the older woman thrust the basket out again. "Take!" she said. "Take for forty-fi' cents, eh? The little ladies can have." "Go ahead," Sammy said as Tess hesitated. "That's all the old basket is worth. I can get one bigger than that at the chain store for seven cents." "Oh, Sammy, it isn't as bee-_you_-tiful as this!" gasped Dot. "Well, it's a basket just the same." Tess put the silver and pennies in the old woman's clawlike hand and the longed-for basket came into her possession. "It is a good-fortune basket, pretty little ladies," repeated the old Gypsy, grinning at them toothlessly. "You are honest little ladies, I can see. You would never cheat the old Gypsy, would you? This is all the money you have to pay for the beautiful basket? Forty-fi' cents?" "Aw, say!" grumbled Sammy, "a bargain is a bargain, ain't it? And forty-five cents is a good deal of money." "If--if you think we ought to pay more--" Tess held the basket out hesitatingly. Dot fairly squealed: "Don't be a ninny, Tessie Kenway! It's ours now." "The basket is yours, little ladies," croaked the crone as the younger woman pulled sharply at her shawl. "But good fortune goes with it only if you are honest with the poor old Gypsy. Good-bye." The two strange women hurried away. Sammy lounged to the door, hands in pockets, to look after them. He caught a momentary glimpse of the tall Gypsy man disappearing around a corner. The two women quickly followed him. "Oh, what a lovely basket!" Dot was saying. "I--I hope Ruth won't scold because we borrowed that quarter of Sammy," murmured Tess. "Shucks!" exclaimed their boy friend. "Don't tell her. You can pay me when you get some more money." "Oh, no!" Tess said. "I would not hide anything from Ruth." "You couldn't, anyway," said the practical Dot. "She will want to know where we got the money to pay for the basket. Oh, _do_ open it, Tess. Isn't it lovely?" The cover worked on a very ingeniously contrived hinge. Had the children known much about such things they must have seen that the basket was worth much more than the price they had paid for it--much more indeed than the price the Gypsies had first asked. Tess lifted the cover. Dot crowded nearer to look in. The shadows of the little girls' heads at first hid the bottom of the basket. Then both saw something gleaming dully there. Tess and Dot cried out in unison; but it was the latter's brown hand that darted into the basket and brought forth the bracelet. "A silver bracelet!" Tess gasped. "Oh, look at it!" cried Dot. "Did you _ever_? Do you s'pose it's real silver, Tess?" "Of course it is," replied her sister, taking the circlet in her own hand. "How pretty! It's all engraved with fret-work--" "Hey!" ejaculated Sammy coming closer. "What's that?" "Oh, Sammy! A silver bracelet--all fretted, too," exclaimed the highly excited Dot. "Huh! What's that? 'Fretted'? When my mother's fretted she's--Say! how can a silver bracelet be cross, I want to know?" "Oh, Sammy," Tess suddenly ejaculated, "these Gypsy women will be cross enough when they miss this bracelet!" "Oh! Oh!" wailed Dot. "Maybe they'll come back and want to take it and the pretty basket, Tess. Let's run and hide 'em!" CHAPTER II--A PROFOUND MYSTERY Tess Kenway was positively shocked by her sister Dot's suggestion. To think of trying to keep the silver bracelet which they knew must belong to the Gypsy woman who had sold them the green and yellow basket, was quite a horrifying thought to Tess. "How _can_ you say such a thing, Dottie Kenway?" she demanded sternly. "Of course we cannot keep the bracelet. And that old Gypsy lady said we were honest, too. She could _see_ we were. And, then, what would Ruthie say?" Their older sister's opinion was always the standard for the other Corner House girls. And that might well be, for Ruth Kenway had been mentor and guide to her sisters ever since Dot, at least, could remember. Their mother had died so long ago that Tess but faintly remembered her. The Kenways had lived in a very moderately priced tenement in Bloomsburg when Mr. Howbridge (now their guardian) had searched for and found them, bringing them with Aunt Sarah Maltby to the old Corner House in Milton. In the first volume of this series, "The Corner House Girls," these matters are fully explained. The six succeeding volumes relate in detail the adventures of the four sisters and their friends--and some most remarkable adventures have they had at school, under canvas, at the seashore, as important characters in a school play, solving the mystery of a long-lost fortune, on an automobile tour through the country, and playing a winning part in the fortunes of Luke and Cecile Shepard in the volume called "The Corner House Girls Growing Up." In "The Corner House Girls Snowbound," the eighth book of the series, the Kenways and a number of their young friends went into the North Woods with their guardian to spend the Christmas Holidays. Eventually they rescued the twin Birdsall children, who likewise had come under the care of the elderly lawyer who had so long been the Kenway sisters' good friend. During the early weeks of the summer, just previous to the opening of our present story, the Corner House girls had enjoyed a delightful trip on a houseboat in the neighboring waters. The events of this trip are related in "The Corner House Girls on a Houseboat." During this outing there was more than one exciting incident. But the most exciting of all was the unexpected appearance of Neale O'Neil's father, long believed lost in Alaska. Mr. O'Neil's return to the States could only be for a brief period, for his mining interests called him back to Nome. His son, however, no longer mourned him as lost, and naturally (though this desire he kept secret from Agnes) the boy hoped, when his school days were over, to join his father in that far Northland. There was really no thought in the mind of the littlest Corner House girl to take that which did not belong to her. Most children believe implicitly in "findings-keepings," and it seemed to Dot Kenway that as they had bought the green and yellow basket in good faith of the two Gypsy women, everything it contained should belong to them. This, too, was Sammy Pinkney's idea of the matter. Sammy considered himself very worldly wise. "Say! what's the matter with you, Tess Kenway? Of course that bracelet is yours--if you want it. Who's going to stop you from keeping it, I want to know?" "But--but it must belong to one of those Gypsy ladies," gasped Tess. "The old lady asked us if we were honest. Of course we are!" "Pshaw! If they miss it, they'll be back after that silver thing fast enough." "But, Sammy, suppose they don't know the bracelet fell into this basket?" "Then you and Dot are that much in," was the prompt rejoinder of their boy friend. "You bought the basket and all that was in it. They couldn't claim the _air_ in that basket, could they? Well, then! how could they lay claim to anything else in the basket?" Such logic seemed unanswerable to Dot's mind. But Tess shook a doubtful head. She had a feeling that they ought to run after the Gypsies to return to them at once the bracelet. Only, neither she nor Dot was dressed properly to run through Milton's best residential streets after the Romany people. As for Sammy-- Happily, so Tess thought, she did not have to decide the matter. Musically an automobile horn sounded its warning and the children ran out to welcome the two older Corner House girls and Neale O'Neil, who acted as their chauffeur on this particular trip. They had been far out into the country for eggs and fresh vegetables, to the farm, in fact, of Mr. Bob Buckham, the strawberry king and the Corner House girls' very good friend. In these times of very high prices for food, Ruth Kenway considered it her duty to save money if she could by purchasing at first cost for the household's needs. "Otherwise," this very capable young housewife asked, "how shall we excuse the keeping of an automobile when the up-keep and everything is so high?" "Oh, _do_," begged Agnes, the flyaway sister, "_do_ let us have something impractical, Ruth. I just hate the man who wrote the first treatise on political economy." "I fancy it is 'household economy' you mean, Aggie," returned her sister, smiling. "And I warrant the author of the first treatise on that theme was a woman." "Mrs. Eva Adam, I bet!" chuckled Neale O'Neil, hearing this controversy from the driver's seat. "It has always been in my mind that the First Lady of the Garden of Eden was tempted to swipe those apples more because the price of other fruit was so high than for any other reason." "Then Adam was stingy with the household money," declared Agnes. "I really wish you would not use such words as 'swipe' before the children, Neale," sighed Ruth who, although she was no purist, did not wish the little folk to pick up (as they so easily did) slang phrases. She stepped out of the car when Neale had halted it within the garage and Agnes handed her the egg basket. Tess and Dot immediately began dancing about their elder sister, both shouting at once, the smallest girl with the green and yellow basket and Tess with the silver bracelet in her hand. "Oh, Ruthie, what do you think?" "See how pretty it is! And they never missed it." "_Can't_ we keep it, Ruthie?" This from Dot. "We paid those Gypsy ladies for the basket and all that was in it. Sammy says so." "Then it must be true of course," scoffed Agnes. "What is it?" "Well, I guess I know some things," observed Sammy, bridling. "If you buy a walnut you buy the kernel as well as the shell, don't you? And that bracelet was inside that covered basket, like the kernel in a nut." "Listen!" exclaimed Neale likewise getting out of the car. "Sammy's a very Solomon for judgment." "Now don't you call me that, Neale O'Neil!" ejaculated Sammy angrily. "I ain't a pig." "Wha--what! Who called you a pig, Sammy?" "Well, that's what Mr. Con Murphy calls _his_ pig--'Solomon.' You needn't call me by any pig-name, so there!" "I stand reproved," rejoined Neale with mock seriousness. "But, see here: What's all this about the basket and the bracelet--a two-fold mystery?" "It sounds like a thriller in six reels," cried Agnes, jumping out of the car herself to get a closer view of the bracelet and the basket. "My! Where did you get that gorgeous bracelet, children?" The beauty of the family, who loved "gew-gaws" of all kinds, seized the silver circlet and tried it upon her own plump arm. Ruth urged Tess to explain and had to place a gentle palm upon Dot's lips to keep them quiet so that she might get the straight of the story from the more sedate Tess. "And so, that's how it was," concluded Tess. "We bought the basket after borrowing Sammy's twenty-five cent piece, and of course the basket belongs to us, doesn't it, Ruthie?" "Most certainly, my dear," agreed the elder sister. "And inside was that beautiful fretted silver bracelet. And that--" "Just as certainly belongs to the Gypsies," finished Ruth. "At least, it does not belong to you and Dot." "Aw shu-u-cks!" drawled Sammy in dissent. Even Agnes cast a wistful glance at the older girl. Ruth was always so uncompromising in her decisions. There was never any middle ground in her view. Either a thing was right, or it was wrong, and that was all there was to it! "Well," sighed Tess, "that Gypsy lady _said_ she knew we were honest." "I think," Ruth observed thoughtfully, "that Neale had better run the car out again and look about town for those Gypsy women. They can't have got far away." "Say, Ruth! it's most supper time," objected Neale. "Have a heart!" "Anyway, I wouldn't trouble myself about a crowd of Gypsies," said Agnes. "They may have stolen the bracelet." "Oh!" gasped Tess and Dot in unison. "You know what June Wildwood told us about them. And she lived with Gypsies for months." "Gypsies are not all alike," the elder sister said confidently in answer to this last remark by Agnes. "Remember Mira and King David Stanley, and how nice they were to Tess and Dottie?" she asked, speaking of an incident related in "The Corner House Girls on a Tour." "I don't care!" exclaimed Agnes, pouting, and still viewing the bracelet on her arm with admiration. "I wouldn't run _my_ legs off chasing a band of Gypsies." They were all, however, bound to be influenced by Ruth's decision. "Well, I'll hunt around after supper," Neale said. "I'll take Sammy with me. You'll know those women if you see them again, won't you, kid?" "Sure," agreed Sammy, forgiving Neale for calling him "kid" with the prospect of an automobile ride in the offing. "But--but," breathed Tess in Ruth's ear, "if those Gypsy ladies don't take back the bracelet, it belongs to Dot and me, doesn't it, Sister?" "Of course. Agnes! do give it back, now. I expect it will cause trouble enough if those women are not found. A bone of contention! Both these children will want to wear the bracelet at the same time. Don't _you_ add to the difficulty, Agnes." "Why," drawled Agnes, slowly removing the curiously engraved silver ornament from her arm, "of course they will return for it. Or Neale will find them." This statement, however, was not borne out by the facts. Neale and Sammy drove all about town that evening without seeing the Gypsy women. The next day the smaller Corner House girls were taken into the suburbs all around Milton; but nowhere did they find trace of the Gypsies or of any encampment of those strange, nomadic people in the vicinity. The finding of the bracelet in the basket remained a mystery that the Corner House girls could not soon forget. "It does seem," said Tess, "as though those Gypsy ladies couldn't have meant to give us the bracelet, Dot. The old one said so much about our being honest. She didn't expect us to _steal_ it." "Oh, no!" agreed Dot. "But Neale O'Neil says maybe the Gypsy ladies stole it, and were afraid to keep it. So they gave it to us." "M-mm," considered Tess. "But that doesn't explain it at all. Even if they wanted to get rid of the bracelet, they need not have given it to us in such a lovely basket. Ruth says the basket is worth a whole lot more than the forty-five cents we paid for it." "It _is_ awful pretty," sighed Dot in agreement. "Some day they will surely come back for the bracelet." "Oh, I hope not!" murmured the littlest Corner House girl. "It makes such a be-_you_-tiful belt for my Alice-doll, when it's my turn to wear it." CHAPTER III--SAMMY PINKNEY IN TROUBLE Uncle Rufus, who was general factotum about the old Corner House and even acted as butler on "date and state occasions," was a very brown man with a shiny bald crown around three-quarters of the circumference of which was a hedge of white wool. Aided by Neale O'Neil (who still insisted on earning a part of his own support in spite of the fact that Mr. Jim O'Neil, his father, expected in time to be an Alaskan millionaire gold-miner), Uncle Rufus did all of the chores about the place. And those chores were multitudinous. Besides the lawns and the flower gardens to care for, there was a good-sized vegetable garden to weed and to hoe. Uncle Rufus suffered from what he called a "misery" in his back that made it difficult for him to stoop to weed the small plants in the garden. "I don't know, Missy Ruth," complained the old darkey to the eldest Corner House girl, "how I's goin' to get that bed of winter beets weeded--I dunno, noways. My misery suah won't let me stoop down to them rows, and there's a big patch of 'em." "Do they need weeding right now, Uncle Rufus?" "Suah do, Missy. Dey is sufferin' fo' hit. I'd send wo'd for some o' mah daughter Pechunia's young 'uns to come over yere, but I knows dat all o' them that's big enough to work is reg'larly employed by de farmers out dat a-way. Picking crops for de canneries is now at de top-notch, Missy; and even Burnejones Whistler and Louise-Annette is big enough to pick beans." "Goodness me!" exclaimed Agnes, who overheard the old man's complaint. "There ought to be kids enough around these corners to hire, without sending to foreign lands for any. They are always under foot if you _don't_ want them." "Ain't it de truf?" chuckled the old man. "Usual' I can't look over de hedge without spyin' dat Sammy Pinkney and a dozen of his crew. They's jest as plenty as bugs under a chip. But now--" "Well, why not get Sammy?" interrupted Ruth. "He ought to be of some use, that is sure," added Agnes. "Can yo' put yo' hand on dat boy?" demanded Uncle Rufus. "'Nless he's in mischief I don't know where to look for him." "I can find him all right," Agnes declared. "But I cannot guarantee that he will take the job." "Offer him fifty cents to weed those beet rows," Ruth said briskly. "The bed I see is just a mat of weeds." They had walked down to the garden while the discussion was going on. "If Sammy will do it I'll be glad to pay the half dollar." She bustled away about some other domestic matter; for despite the fact that Mrs. McCall bore the greater burden of housekeeping affairs, Ruth Kenway did not shirk certain responsibilities that fell to her lot both outside and inside the Corner House. After all was said and done, Sammy Pinkney looked upon Agnes as his friend. She was more lenient with him than even Dot was. Ruth and Tess looked upon most boys as merely "necessary evils." But Agnes had always liked to play with boys and was willing to overlook their shortcomings. "I got a lot to do," ventured Sammy, shying as usual at the idea of work. "But if you really want me to, Aggie--" "And if you want to make a whole half dollar," suggested Agnes, not much impressed by the idea that Sammy would weed beets as a favor. "All right," agreed the boy, and shooing Buster, his bulldog, out of the Corner House premises, for Buster and Billy Bumps, the goat, were sworn enemies, Sammy proceeded to the vegetable garden. Now, both Uncle Rufus and Agnes particularly showed Sammy which were the infant beets and which the weeds. It is a fact, however, that there are few garden plants grown for human consumption that do not have their counterpart among the noxious weeds. The young beets, growing in scattered clumps in the row (for each seed-burr contains a number of seeds), looked much like a certain weed of the lambs'-quarters variety; and this reddish-green weed pretty well covered the beet bed. Tess and Dot had gone to a girls' party at Mrs. Adams', just along on Willow Street, that afternoon, so they did not appear to disturb Sammy at his task. In fact, the boy had it all his own way. Neither Uncle Rufus nor any other older person came near him, and he certainly made a thorough job of that beet bed. Mrs. McCall "set great store," as she said, by beets--both pickled and fresh--for winter consumption. When Neale O'Neil chanced to go into the garden toward supper time to see what Sammy was doing there, it was too late to save much of the crop. "Well, of all the dunces!" ejaculated Neale, almost immediately seeing what Sammy had been about. "Say! you didn't do that on purpose, did you? Or don't you know any better?" "Know any better'n _what_?" demanded the bone-weary Sammy, in no mood to endure scolding in any case. "Ain't I done it all right? I bet you can't find a weed in that whole bed, so now." "Great grief, kid!" gasped the older boy, seeing that Sammy was quite in earnest, "I don't believe you've left anything _but_ weeds in those rows. It--it's a knock-out!" "Aw--I never," gulped Sammy. "I guess I know beets." "Huh! It looks as though you don't even know _beans_," chortled Neale, unable to keep his gravity. "What a mess! Mrs. McCall will be as sore as she can be." "I don't care!" cried the tired boy wildly. "I saved just what Aggie told me to, and threw away everything else. And see how the rows are." "Why, Sammy, those aren't where the rows of beets were at all. See! _These_ are beets. _Those_ are weeds. Oh, great grief!" and the older boy went off into another gale of laughter. "I--I do-o-on't care," wailed Sammy. "I did just what Aggie told me to. And I want my half dollar." "You want to be paid for wasting all Mrs. McCall's beets?" "I don't care, I earned it." Neale could not deny the statement. As far as the work went, Sammy certainly had spent time and labor on the unfortunate task. "Wait a minute," said Neale, as Sammy started away in anger. "Maybe all those beet plants you pulled up aren't wilted. We can save some of them. Beets grow very well when they are transplanted--especially if the ground is wet enough and the sun isn't too hot. It looks like rain for to-night, anyway." "Aw--I--" "Come on! We'll get some water and stick out what we can save. I'll help you and the girls needn't know you were such a dummy." "Dummy, yourself!" snarled the tired and over-wrought boy. "I'll never weed another beet again--no, I won't!" Sammy made a bee-line out of the garden and over the fence into Willow Street, leaving Neale fairly shaking with laughter, yet fully realizing how dreadfully cut-up Sammy must feel. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune seem much greater to the mind of a youngster like Sammy Pinkney than to an adult person. The ridicule which he knew he must suffer because of his mistake about the beet bed, seemed something that he really could not bear. Besides, he had worked all the afternoon for nothing (as he presumed) and only the satisfaction of having earned fifty cents would have counteracted the ache in his muscles. Harried by his disappointment, Sammy was met by his mother in a stern mood, her first question being: "Where have you been wasting your time ever since dinner, Sammy Pinkney? I never did see such a lazy boy!" It was true that he had wasted his time. But his sore muscles cried out against the charge that he was lazy. He could not explain, however, without revealing his shame. To be ridiculed was the greatest punishment Sammy Pinkney knew. "Aw, what do you want me to do, Maw? Work _all_ the time? Ain't this my vacation?" "But your father says you are to work enough in the summer to keep from forgetting what work is. And look how grubby you are. Faugh!" "What do you want me to do, Maw?" "You might do a little weeding in our garden, you know, Sammy." "Weeding!" groaned the boy, fairly horrified by the suggestion after what he had been through that afternoon. "You know very well that our onions and carrots need cleaning out. And I don't believe you could even find our beets." "Beets!" Sammy's voice rose to a shriek. He never was really a bad boy; but this was too much. "Beets!" cried Sammy again. "I wouldn't weed a beet if nobody ever ate another of 'em. No, I wouldn't." He darted by his mother into the house and ran up to his room. Her reiterated command that he return and explain his disgraceful speech and violent conduct did not recall Sammy to the lower floor. "Very well, young man. Don't you come down to supper, either. And we'll see what your father has to say about your conduct when he comes home." This threat boded ill for Sammy, lying sobbing and sore upon his bed. He was too desperate to care much what his father did to him. But to face the ridicule of the neighborhood--above all to face the prospect of weeding another bed of beets!--was more than the boy could contemplate. "I'll run away and be a pirate--that's just what I'll do," choked Sammy, his old obsession enveloping his harassed thoughts. "I'll show 'em! They'll be sorry they treated me so--all of 'em." Just who "'em" were was rather vague in Sammy Pinkney's mind. But the determination to get away from all these older people, whom he considered had abused him, was not vague at all. CHAPTER IV--THE GYPSY TRAIL Mr. Pinkney, Sammy's father, heard all about it before he arrived home, for he always passed the side door of the old Corner House on his return from business. He came at just that time when Neale O'Neil was telling the assembled family--including Mrs. McCall, Uncle Rufus, and Linda the maid-of-all-work--about the utter wreck of the beet bed. "I've saved what I could--set 'em out, you know, and soaked 'em well," said the laughing Neale. "But make up your mind, Mrs. McCall, that you'll have to buy a good share of your beets this winter." "Well! What do you know about that, Mr. Pinkney?" demanded Agnes of their neighbor, who had halted at the gate. "Just like that boy," responded Mr. Pinkney, shaking his head over his son's transgressions. "Just the same," Neale added, chuckling, "Sammy says you showed him which were weeds and which were beets, Aggie." "Of course I did," flung back the quick-tempered Agnes. "And so did Uncle Rufus. But that boy is so heedless--" "I agree that Sammy pays very little attention to what is told him," said Sammy's father. Here Tess put in a soothing word, as usual: "Of course he didn't mean to pull up all your beets, Mrs. McCall." "And I don't like beets anyway," proclaimed Dot. "He certainly must have worked hard," Ruth said, producing a fifty-cent piece and running down the steps to press it into Mr. Pinkney's palm. "I am sure Sammy had no intention of spoiling our beet bed. And I am not sure that it is not partly our fault. He should not have been left all the afternoon without some supervision." "He should be more observing," said Mr. Pinkney. "I never did see such a rattlebrain." "'The servant is worthy of his hire,'" quoted Ruth. "And tell him, Mr. Pinkney, that we forgive him." "Just the same," cried Agnes after their neighbor, "although Sammy may know beans, as Neale says, he doesn't seem to know beets! Oh, what a boy!" So Mr. Pinkney brought home the story of Sammy's mistake and he and his wife laughed over it. But when Mrs. Pinkney called upstairs for the boy to come down to a late supper she got only a muffled response that he "didn't want no supper." "He must be sick," she observed to her husband, somewhat anxiously. "He's sick of the mess he's made--that's all," declared Mr. Pinkney cheerfully. "Let him alone. He'll come around all right in the morning." Meanwhile at the Corner House the Kenway sisters had something more important (at least, as they thought) to talk about than Sammy Pinkney and his errors of judgment. What Dot had begun to call the "fretful silver bracelet" was a very live topic. The local jeweler had pronounced the bracelet of considerable value because of its workmanship. It did not seem possible that the Gypsy women could have dropped the bracelet into the basket they had sold the smaller Corner House girls and then forgotten all about it. "It is not reasonable," Ruth Kenway declared firmly, "that it could just be a mistake. That basket is worth two dollars at least; and they sold it to the children for forty-five cents. It is mysterious." "They seemed to like Tess and me a whole lot," Dot said complacently. "That is why they gave it to us so cheap." "And that is the very reason I am worried," Ruth added. "Why don't you report it to the police?" croaked Aunt Sarah Maltby. "Maybe they'll try to rob the house." "O-oh," gasped Dot, round-eyed. "Who? The police?" giggled Agnes in Ruth's ear. "Maybe we ought to look again for those Gypsy ladies," Tess said. "But the bracelet is awful pretty." "I tell you! Let's ask June Wildwood. She knows all about Gypsies," cried Agnes. "She used to travel with them. Don't you remember, Ruth? They called her Queen Zaliska, and she made believe tell fortunes. Of course, not being a real Gypsy she could not tell them very well." "Crickey!" ejaculated Neale O'Neil, who was present. "You don't believe in that stuff, do you, Aggie?" "I don't know whether I do or not. But it's awfully thrilling to think of learning ahead what is going to happen." "Huh!" snorted her boy friend. "Like the weather man, eh? But he has some scientific data to go on." "Probably the Gypsy fortune tellers have reduced their business to a science, too," Ruth calmly said. "Anyhow," laughed Neale, "Queen Zaliska now works in Byburg's candy store. Some queen, I'll tell the world!" "Neale!" admonished Ruth. "_Such_ slang!" "Come on, Neale," said the excited Agnes. "Let you and me go down to Byburg's and ask her about the bracelet." "I really don't see how June can tell us anything," observed Ruth slowly. "Anyway," Agnes briskly said, putting on her hat, "we need some candy. Come on, Neale." The Wildwoods were Southerners who had not lived long in Milton. Their story is told in "The Corner House Girls Under Canvas." The Kenways were very well acquainted with Juniper Wildwood and her sister, Rosa. Agnes felt privileged to question June about her life with the Gypsies. "I saw Big Jim in town the other day," confessed the girl behind the candy counter the moment Agnes broached the subject. "I am awfully afraid of him. I ran all the way home. And I told Mr. Budd, the policeman on this beat, and I think Mr. Budd warned Big Jim to get out of town. There is some talk about getting a law through the Legislature putting a heavy tax on each Gypsy family that does not keep moving. _That_ will drive them away from Milton quicker than anything else. And that Big Jim is a bad, bad man. Why! he's been in jail for stealing." "Oh, my! He's a regular convict, then," gasped Agnes, much impressed. "Pshaw!" said Neale. "They don't call a man a convict unless he has been sent to the State prison, or to the Federal penitentiary. But that Big Jim looked to be tough enough, when we saw him down at Pleasant Cove, to belong in prison for life. Remember him, Aggie?" "The children did not say anything about a Gypsy man," observed his friend. "There were two Gypsy women." She went on to tell June Wildwood all about the basket purchase and the finding of the silver bracelet. The older girl shook her head solemnly as she said: "I don't understand it at all. Gypsies are always shrewd bargainers. They never sell things for less than they cost." "But they made that basket," Agnes urged. "Perhaps it didn't cost them so much as Ruth thinks." June smiled in a superior way. "Oh, no, they didn't make it. They don't waste their time nowadays making baskets when they can buy them from the factories so much cheaper and better. Oh, no!" "Crackey!" exclaimed Neale. "Then they are fakers, are they?" "That bracelet is no fake," declared Agnes. "That is what puzzles me most," said June. "Gypsies are very tricky. At least, all I ever knew. And if those two women you speak of belonged to Big Jim's tribe, I would not trust them at all." "But it seems they have done nothing at all bad in this case," Agnes observed. "Tess and Dot are sure ahead of the game, so far," chuckled Neale in agreement. "Just the same," said June Wildwood, "I would not be careless. Don't let the children talk to the Gypsies if they come back for the bracelet. Be sure to have some older person see the women and find out what they want. Oh, they are very sly." June had then to attend to other customers, and Agnes and Neale walked home. On the way they decided that there was no use in scaring the little ones about the Gypsies. "I don't believe in bugaboos," Agnes declared. "We'll just tell Ruth." This she proceeded to do. But perhaps she did not repeat June Wildwood's warning against the Gypsy band with sufficient emphasis to impress Ruth's mind. Or just about this time the older Corner House girl had something of much graver import to trouble her thought. By special delivery, on this evening just before they retired, arrived an almost incoherent letter from Cecile Shepard, part of which Ruth read aloud to Agnes: "... and just as Aunt Lorina is only beginning to get better! I feel as though this family is fated to have trouble this year. Luke was doing so well at the hotel and the proprietor liked him. It isn't _his_ fault that that outside stairway was untrustworthy and fell with him. The doctor says it is only a strained back and a broken wrist. But Luke is in bed. I am going by to-morrow's train to see for myself. I don't dare tell Aunt Lorina--nor even Neighbor. Neighbor--Mr. Northrup--is not well himself, and he would only worry about Luke if he knew.... Now, don't _you_ worry, and I will send you word how Luke is just the minute I arrive." "But how can I help being anxious?" Ruth demanded of her sister. "Poor Luke! And he was working so hard this summer so as not to be obliged to depend entirely on Neighbor for his college expenses next year." Ruth was deeply interested in Luke Shepard--had been, in fact, since the winter previous when all the Corner House family were snowbound at the Birdsall winter camp in the North Woods. Of course, Ruth and Luke were both very young, and Luke had first to finish his college course and get into business. Still and all, the fact that Luke Shepard had been hurt quite dwarfed the Gypsy bracelet matter in Ruth's mind. And in that of Agnes, too, of course. In addition, the very next morning Mrs. Pinkney ran across the street and in at the side door of the Corner House in a state of panic. "Oh! have you seen him?" she cried. "Seen whom, Mrs. Pinkney?" asked Ruth with sympathy. "Is Buster lost again?" demanded Tess, poising a spoonful of breakfast food carefully while she allowed her curiosity to take precedence over the business of eating. "That dog always _is_ getting lost." "It isn't Sammy's dog," wailed Mrs. Pinkney. "It is Sammy himself. I can't find him." "Can't find Sammy?" repeated Agnes. "His bed hasn't been slept in! I thought he was just sulky last night. But he is _gone_!" "Well," said Tess, practically, "Sammy is always running away, you know." "Oh, this is serious," cried the distracted mother. "He has broken open his bank and taken all his money--almost four dollars." "My!" murmured Dot, "it must cost lots more to run away and be pirates now than it used to." "Everything is much higher," agreed Tess. CHAPTER V--SAMMY OCCASIONS MUCH EXCITEMENT "I do hope and pray," Aunt Sarah Maltby declared, "that Mrs. Pinkney won't go quite distracted about that boy. Boys make so much trouble usually that a body would near about believe that it must be an occasion for giving thanks to get rid of one like Sammy Pinkney." This was said of course after Sammy's mother had gone home in tears--and Agnes had accompanied her to give such comfort as she might. The whole neighborhood was roused about the missing Sammy. All agreed that the boy never was of so much importance as when he was missing. "I do hope and pray that the little rascal will turn up soon," continued Aunt Sarah, "for Mrs. Pinkney's sake." "I wonder," murmured Dot to Tess, "why it is Aunt Sarah always says she 'hopes and prays'? Wouldn't just praying be enough? You're sure to get what you pray for, aren't you?" "But what is the use of praying if you don't hope?" demanded Tess, the hair-splitting theologian. "They must go together, Dot. I should think you'd see that." Mrs. Pinkney had lost hope of finding Sammy, however, right at the start. She knew him of course of old. He had been running away ever since he could toddle out of the gate; but she and Mr. Pinkney tried to convince themselves that each time would be the last--that he was "cured." For almost always Sammy's runaway escapades ended disastrously for him and covered him with ridicule. Particularly ignominious was the result of his recent attempt, which is narrated in the volume immediately preceding this, to accompany the Corner House Girls on their canal-boat cruise, when he appeared as a stowaway aboard the boat in the company of Billy Bumps, the goat. "And he hasn't even taken Buster with him this time," proclaimed Mrs. Pinkney. "He chained Buster down cellar and the dog began to howl. So mournful! It got on my nerves. I went down after Mr. Pinkney went to business early this morning and let Buster out. Then, because of the dog's actions, I began to suspect Sammy had gone. I called him. No answer. And he hadn't had any supper last night either." "I am awfully sorry, Mrs. Pinkney," Agnes said. "It was too bad about the beets. But he needn't have run away because of _that_. Ruth sent him his fifty cents, you know." "That's just it!" exclaimed the distracted woman. "His father did not give Sammy the half dollar. As long as the boy was so sulky last evening, and refused to come down to eat, Mr. Pinkney said let him wait for that money till he came down this morning. _He_ thought Ruth was too good. Sammy is always doing something." "Oh, he's not so bad," said the comforting Agnes. "I am sure there are lots worse boys. And are you sure, Mrs. Pinkney, that he has really run away this time?" "Buster can't find him. The poor dog has been running around and snuffing for an hour. I've telephoned to his father." "Who--_what_? Buster's father?" "Mr. Pinkney," explained Sammy's mother. "I suppose he'll tell the police. He says--Mr. Pinkney does--that the police must think it is a 'standing order' on their books to find Sammy." "Oh, my!" giggled Agnes, who was sure to appreciate the comical side of the most serious situation. "I should think the policemen would be so used to looking for Sammy that they would pick him up anywhere they chanced to see him with the idea that he was running away." "Well," sighed Mrs. Pinkney, "Buster can't find him. There he lies panting over by the currant bushes. The poor dog has run his legs off." "I don't believe bulldogs are very keen on a scent. Our old Tom Jonah could do better. But of course Sammy went right out into the street and the scent would be difficult for the best dog to follow. Do you think Sammy went early this morning?" "That dog began to howl soon after we went to bed. Mr. Pinkney sleeps so soundly that it did not annoy him. But I _knew_ something was wrong when Buster howled so. "Perhaps I'm superstitious. But we had an old dog that howled like that years ago when my grandmother died. She was ninety-six and had been bedridden for ten years, and the doctors said of course that she was likely to die almost any time. But that old Towser _did_ howl the night grandma was taken." "So you think," Agnes asked, without commenting upon Mrs. Pinkney's possible trend toward superstition, "that Sammy has been gone practically all night?" "I fear so. He must have waited for his father and me to go to bed. Then he slipped down the back stairs, tied Buster, and went out by the cellar door. All night long he's been wandering somewhere. The poor, foolish boy!" She took Agnes up to the boy's room--a museum of all kinds of "useless truck," as his mother said, but dear to the boyish heart. "Oh, he's gone sure enough," she said, pointing to the bank which was supposed to be incapable of being opened until five dollars in dimes had been deposited within it. A screw-driver, however, had satisfied the burglarious intent of Sammy. She pointed out the fact, too, that a certain extension bag that had figured before in her son's runaway escapades was missing. "The silly boy has taken his bathing suit and that cowboy play-suit his father bought him. I never did approve of that. Such things only give boys crazy notions about catching dogs and little girls with a rope, or shooting stray cats with a popgun. "Of course, he has taken his gun with him and a bag of shot that he had to shoot in it. The gun shoots with a spring, you know. It doesn't use real powder, of course. I have always believed such things are dangerous. But, you know, his father-- "Well, he wore his best shoes, and they will hurt him dreadfully, I am sure, if he walks far. And I can't find that new cap I bought him only last week." All the time she was searching in Sammy's closet and in the bureau drawers. She stood up suddenly and began to peer at the conglomeration of articles on the top of the bureau. "Oh!" she cried. "It's gone!" "What is it, Mrs. Pinkney?" asked Agnes sympathetically, seeing that the woman's eyes were overflowing again. "What is it you miss?" "Oh! he is determined I am sure to run away for good this time," sobbed Mrs. Pinkney. "The poor, foolish boy! I wish I had said nothing to him about the beets--I do. I wonder if both his father and I have not been too harsh with him. And I'm sure he loves us. Just think of his taking _that_." "But what is it?" cried Agnes again. "It stood right here on his bureau propped up against the glass. Sammy must have thought a great deal of it," flowed on the verbal torrent. "Who would have thought of that boy being so sentimental about it?" "Mrs. Pinkney!" begged the curious Agnes, almost distracted herself now, "_do_ tell me what it is that is missing?" "That picture. We had it taken--his father and Sammy and me in a group together--the last time we went to Pleasure Cove. Sammy begged to keep it up here. And--now--the dear child--has--has carried--it--away with him!" Mrs. Pinkney broke down utterly at this point. She was finally convinced that at last Sammy had fulfilled his oft-repeated threat to "run away for good and all"--whether to be a pirate or not, being a mooted question. Agnes comforted her as well as she could. But the poor woman felt that she had not taken her son seriously enough, and that she could have averted this present disaster in some way. "She is quite distracted," Agnes said, on arriving home, repeating Aunt Sarah's phrase. "Quite distracted." "But if she is extracted," Dot proposed, "why doesn't she have Dr. Forsyth come to see her?" "Mercy, Dot!" admonished Tess. "_Dis_tracted, not _ex_tracted. You do so mispronounce the commonest words." "I don't, either," the smaller girl denied vigorously. "I don't mispernounce any more than you do, Tess Kenway! You just make believe you know so much." "Dot! Mis_per_nounce! There you go again!" This was a sore subject, and Ruth attempted to change the trend of the little girls' thoughts by suggesting that Mrs. McCall needed some groceries from a certain store situated away across town. "If you can get Uncle Rufus to harness Scalawag you girls can drive over to Penny & Marchant's for those things. And you can stop at Mr. Howbridge's house with this note. He must be told about poor Luke's injury." "Why, Ruthie?" asked little Miss Inquisitive, otherwise Dot Kenway. "Mr. Howbridge isn't Luke Shepard's guardian, too, is he?" "Now, don't be a chatterbox!" exclaimed the elder sister, who was somewhat harassed on this morning and did not care to explain to the little folk just what she had in her mind. Ruth was not satisfied to know that Cecile had gone to attend her brother. The oldest Kenway girl longed to go herself to the resort in the mountains where Luke Shepard lay ill. But she did not wish to do this without first seeking their guardian's permission. Tess and Dot ran off in delight, forgetting their small bickerings, to find Uncle Rufus. The old colored man, as long as he could get about, would do anything for "his chillun," as he called the four Kenway sisters. It needed no coaxing on the part of Tess and Dot to get their will of the old man on this occasion. Scalawag was fat and lazy enough in any case. In the spring Neale had plowed and harrowed the garden with him and on occasion he was harnessed to a light cart for work about the place. His main duty, however, was to draw the smaller girls about the quieter streets of Milton in a basket phaeton. To this vehicle he was now harnessed by Uncle Rufus. "You want to be mought' car'ful 'bout them automobiles, chillun," the old man admonished them. "Dat Sammy Pinkney boy was suah some good once in a while. He was a purt' car'ful driber." "But he's a good driver _now_--wherever he is," said Dot. "You talk as though Sammy would never get back home from being a pirate. Of course he will. He always does!" Secretly Tess felt herself to be quite as able to drive the pony as ever Sammy Pinkney was. She was glad to show her prowess. Scalawag shook his head, danced playfully on the old stable floor, and then proceeded to wheel the basket phaeton out of the barn and into Willow Street. By a quieter thoroughfare than Main Street, Tess Kenway headed him for the other side of town. "Maybe we'll run across Sammy," suggested Dot, sitting sedately with her ever-present Alice-doll. "Then we can tell his mother where he is being a pirate. She won't be so extracted then." Tess overlooked this mispronunciation, knowing it was useless to object, and turned the subject by saying: "Or maybe we'll see those Gypsies." "Oh, I hope not!" cried the smaller girl. "I hope we'll never see those Gypsy women again." For just at this time the Alice-doll was wearing the fretted silver bracelet for a girdle. CHAPTER VI--THE GYPSY'S WORDS That very forenoon after the two smallest girls had set out on their drive with Scalawag a telegram came to the old Corner House for Ruth. As Agnes said, a telegram was "an event in their young sweet lives." And this one did seem of great importance to Ruth. It was from Cecile Shepard and read: "Arrived Oakhurst. They will not let me see Luke." Aside from the natural shock that the telegram itself furnished, Cecile's declaration that she was not allowed to see her brother was bound to make Ruth Kenway fear the worst. "Oh!" she cried, "he must be very badly hurt indeed. It is much worse than Cecile thought when she wrote. Oh, Agnes! what shall I do?" "Telegraph her for particulars," suggested Agnes, quite practically. "A broken wrist can't be such an awful thing, Ruthie." "But his back! Suppose he has seriously hurt his back?" "Goodness me! That would be awful, of course. He might grow a hump like poor Fred Littleburg. But I don't believe that anything like that has happened to Luke, Ruthie." Her sister was not to be easily comforted. "Think! There must be something very serious the matter or they would not keep his own sister from seeing him." Ruth herself had had no word from Luke since the accident. Neither of the sisters knew that Cecile Shepard had never had occasion to send a telegram before and had never received one in all her life. But she learned that a message of ten words could be sent for thirty-two cents to Milton, so she had divided what she wished to say in two equal parts! The second half of her message, however, because of the mistake of the filing clerk at the telegraph office in Oakhurst, did not arrive at the Corner House for several hours after the first half of the message. Ruth Kenway meanwhile grew almost frantic as she considered the possible misfortune that might have overtaken Luke Shepard. She grew quite as "extracted"--to quote Dot--as Mrs. Pinkney was about the absence of Sammy. "Well," Agnes finally declared, "if I felt as you do about it I would not wait to hear from Mr. Howbridge. I'd start right now. Here's the time table. I've looked up the trains. There is one at ten minutes to one--twelve-fifty. I'll call Neale and he'll drive you down to the station. You might have gone with the children if that telegram had come earlier." Agnes was not only practical, she was helpful on this occasion. She packed Ruth's bag--and managed to get into it a more sensible variety of articles than Sammy Pinkey had carried in his! "Now, don't be worried about _us_," said Agnes, when Ruth, dressed for departure, began to speak with anxiety about domestic affairs, including the continued absence of the little girls. "Haven't we got Mrs. McCall--and Linda? You _do_ take your duties so seriously, Ruth Kenway." "Do you think so?" rejoined Ruth, smiling rather wanly at the flyaway sister. "If anything should happen while I am gone--" "Nothing will happen that wouldn't happen anyway, whether you are at home or not," declared the positive Agnes. Ruth made ready to go in such a hurry that nobody else in the Corner House save Agnes herself realized that the older sister was going until the moment that Neale O'Neil drove around to the front gate with the car. Then Ruth ran into Aunt Sarah's room to kiss her good-bye. But Aunt Sarah had always lived a life apart from the general existence of the Corner House family and paid little attention to what her nieces did save to criticise. Mrs. McCall was busy this day preserving--"up tae ma eyen in wark, ma lassie"--and Ruth kissed her, called good-bye to Linda, and ran to the front door before any of the three actually realized what was afoot. Agnes ran with her to the street. At the gate stood a dark-faced, brilliantly dressed young woman, with huge gold rings in her ears, several other pieces of jewelry worn in sight, and a flashing smile as she halted the Kenway sisters with outstretched hand. "Will the young ladies let me read their palms?" she said suavely. "I can tell them the good fortune." "Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Agnes, pushing by the Gypsy. "We can't stop to have our fortunes told now." Ruth kept right on to the car. "Do not neglect the opportunity of having the good fortune told, young ladies," said the Gypsy girl shrewdly. "I can see that trouble is feared. The dark young lady goes on a journey because of the threat of _ill_ fortune. Perhaps it is not so bad as it seems." Agnes was really impressed. Left to herself she actually would have heeded the Gypsy's words. But Ruth hurried into the car, Neale reached back and slammed the tonneau door, and they were off for the station with only a few minutes to catch the twelve-fifty train. "There!" ejaculated Agnes, standing at the curb to wave her hand and look after the car. "The blonde young lady does not believe the Gypsy can tell her something that will happen--and in the near future?" "Oh!" exclaimed Agnes. "I don't know." And she dragged her gaze from the car and looked doubtfully upon the dark face of the Gypsy girl which was now serious. The latter said: "Something has sent the dark young lady from home in much haste and anxiety?" The question was answered of course before it was asked. Any observant person could have seen as much. But Agnes's interest was attracted and she nodded. "Had your sister," the Gypsy girl said, guessing easily enough at the relationship of the two Corner House girls, "not been in such haste, she could have learned something that will change the aspect of the threatened trouble. More news is on the way." Agnes was quite startled by this statement. Without explaining further the Gypsy girl glided away, disappearing into Willow Street. Agnes failed to see, as the Gypsy quite evidently did, the leisurely approach of the telegraph messenger boy with the yellow envelope in his hand and his eyes fixed upon the old Corner House. Agnes ran within quickly. She was more than a little impressed by the Gypsy girl's words, and a few minutes later when the front doorbell rang and she took in the second telegram addressed to Ruth, she was pretty well converted to fortune telling as an exact science. * * * * * Sammy Pinkney had marched out of the house late at night, as his mother suspected, lugging his heavy extension-bag, with a more vague idea of his immediate destination than was even usual when he set forth on such escapades. To "run away" seemed to Sammy the only thing for a boy to do when home life and restrictions became in his opinion unbearable. It might be questioned by stern disciplinarians if Mr. and Mrs. Pinkney had properly punished Sammy after he had run away the first few times, the boy would not have been cured of his wanderlust. Fortunately, although Sammy's father was stern enough, he very well knew that this desire for wandering could not be beaten out of the boy. Merely if he were beaten, when he grew big enough to fend for himself in the world, he would leave home and never return rather than face corporal punishment. "I was just such a kid when I was his age," admitted Mr. Pinkney. "My father licked me for running away, so finally I ran away when I was fourteen, and stayed away. Sammy has less reason for leaving home than I had, and he'll get over his foolishness, get a better education than I obtained, and be a better man, I hope, in the end. It's in the Pinkney blood to rove." This, of course, while perhaps being satisfactory to a man, did not at all calm Sammy's mother. She expected the very worst to happen to her son every time he disappeared; and as has been shown on this occasion, the boy's absence stirred the community to its very dregs. Had Mrs. Pinkney known that after tramping as far as the outskirts of the town, and almost dropping from exhaustion, Sammy had gone to bed on a pile of straw in an empty cow stable, she would have been even more troubled than she was. Sammy, however, came to no harm. He slept so soundly in fact on the rude couch that it was mid-forenoon before he awoke--stiff, sore in muscles, clamorously hungry, and in a frame of mind to go immediately home and beg for breakfast. He had more money tied up in his handkerchief, however, than he had ever possessed before when he had run away. There was a store in sight at the roadside not far ahead. He hid his bag in the bushes and bought crackers, ham, cheese, and a big bottle of sarsaparilla, and so made a hearty if not judicious breakfast and lunch. At least, this picnic meal cured the slight attack of homesickness which he suffered. He was no longer for turning back. The whole world was before him and he strode away into it--lugging that extension-bag. While his troubled mother was showing Agnes Kenway the unmistakable traces of his departure for parts unknown, Sammy was trudging along pretty contentedly, the bag awkwardly knocking against his knees, and his sharp eyes alive to everything that went on along the road. Sammy had little love for natural history or botany, or anything like that. He suffered preparatory lessons in those branches of enforced knowledge during the school year. He did not care a bit to know the difference between a gray squirrel and a striped chipmunk. They both chattered at him saucily, and he stopped to try a shot at each of them with his gun. To Sammy's mind they were legitimate game. He visualized himself building a fire in a fence corner, skinning and cleaning his game and roasting it over the flames for supper. But the squirrel and the chipmunk visualized quite a different outcome to the adventure and they refused to be shot by the amateur sportsman. Sammy struck into a road that led across the canal by a curved bridge and right out into a part of the country with which he was not at all familiar. The houses were few and far between, and most of them were set well back from the road. Sometimes dogs barked at him, but he was not afraid of watch dogs. He did not venture into the yards or up the private lanes. He had bought enough crackers and cheese to make another meal when he should want it. And there were sweet springs beside the road, or in the pastures where the cattle grazed. Few vehicles passed him in either direction. It was the time of the late hay harvest and everybody was at work in the fields--and usually when he saw the haymakers at all, they were far from the road. He met no pedestrians at all. Being quite off the line of the railroad, there were no tramps on this road, and of course there was nothing else to harm the boy. His mother, in her anxiety, peopled the world with those that would do Sammy harm. In truth, he was never safer in his life! But adventure? Why, the world was full of it, and Sammy Pinkney expected to meet any number of exciting incidents as he went on. "Sammy," Dot Kenway once said, "has just a _wunnerful_ 'magination. Why! if he sees our old Sandyface creeping through the grass after a poor little field mouse, Sammy can think she's a whole herd of tigers. His 'magination is just wunnerful!" CHAPTER VII--THE BRACELET AGAIN TO THE FORE While Sammy's sturdy, if short, legs were leaving home and Milton steadily behind him, Dot and Tess were driving Scalawag, the calico pony, to Penny & Marchant's store, and later to Mr. Howbridge's house to deliver the note Ruth had entrusted to them. Their guardian had always been fond of the Kenway sisters--since he had been appointed their guardian by the court, of course--and Tess and Dot could not merely call at Mr. Howbridge's door and drive right away again. Besides, there were Ralph and Rowena Birdsall. The Birdsall twins had of late likewise come under Mr. Howbridge's care, and circumstances were such that it was best for their guardian to take the twins into his own home. Having two extremely active and rather willful children in his household had most certainly disturbed Mr. Howbridge out of the rut of his old existence. And Ralph and Rowena quite "turned the 'ouse hupside down," to quote Hedden, Mr. Howbridge's butler. The moment the twins spied Tess and Dot in the pony phaeton they tore down the stairs from their quarters at the top of the Howbridge house, and flew out of the door to greet the little Corner House girls. "Oh, Tessie and Dot!" cried Rowena, who looked exactly like her brother, only her hair was now grown long again and she no longer wore boy's garments, as she had when the Kenways first knew her. "How nice to see you!" "Where's Sammy?" Ralph demanded. "Why didn't he come along, too?" "We're glad to see you, Rowena and Rafe," Tess said sedately. But Dot replied eagerly to the boy twin: "Oh, Rafe! what do you think? Sammy's run away again." "Get out!" "I'm going to," said Dot, considering Ralph's ejaculation of amazement an invitation to alight, and she forthwith jumped down from the step of the phaeton. "You can't mean that Sammy has run off?" cried Ralph. "Listen to this, Rowdy." "What a silly boy!" criticised his sister. "I don't know," chuckled Ralph Birdsall. "'Member how you and I ran away that time, Rowdy?" "Oh--well," said his sister. "We had reason for doing so. But you know Sammy Pinkney's got a father and a mother--And for pity's sake, Rafe, stop calling me Rowdy." "And he's got a real nice bulldog, too," added Dot, reflectively considering any possibility why Sammy should run away. "I can't understand why he does it. He only has to come back home again. I did it once, and I never mean to run away from home again." Meanwhile Tess left Ralph to hitch Scalawag while she marched up the stone steps of the Howbridge house to deliver Ruth's note into Hedden's hand, who took it at once to Mr. Howbridge. Dot interested the twins almost immediately in another topic. Rowena naturally was first to spy the silver girdle around the Alice-doll's waist. "What a splendid belt!" cried Rowena Birdsall. "Is it real silver, Dot?" "It--it's fretful silver," replied the littlest Corner House girl. "Isn't it pretty?" "Why," declared Ralph after an examination, "it's an old, old bracelet." "Well, it is old, I s'pose," admitted Dot. "But my Alice-doll doesn't know that. _She_ thinks it is a brand new belt. But of course she can't wear it every day, for half the time the bracelet belongs to Tess." This statement naturally aroused the twins' curiosity, and when Tess ran back to join them in the front yard the story of the Gypsy basket and the finding of the bracelet lost nothing of detail by being narrated by both of the Corner House girls. "Oh, my!" cried Rowena. "Maybe those Gypsies are just waiting to grab you. Gypsies steal children sometimes. Don't they, Rafe?" "Course they do," agreed her twin. Dot looked rather frightened at this suggestion, but Tess scorned the possibility. "Why, how foolish," she declared. "Dot and I were lost once--all by ourselves. Even Tom Jonah wasn't with us. Weren't we, Dot? And we slept out under a tree all night, and a nice Gypsy woman found us in the morning and took us to her camp. Didn't she, Dot?" "Oh, yes! And an owl howled at us," agreed the smaller girl. "And I'd much rather sleep in a Gypsy tent than have owls howl at me." "The owl _hooted_, Dot," corrected Tess. "Well, what's the difference between a hoot and a howl?" demanded Dot, rather crossly. She did so hate to be corrected! "Well, of course," said Rowena Birdsall thoughtfully, "if you are acquainted with Gypsies maybe you wouldn't be scared. But I don't believe they gave you this bracelet for nothing." "No," agreed Dot quickly. "For forty-five cents. And we still owe Sammy Pinkney twenty-five cents of it. And he's run away." So they got around again to the first exciting piece of news Tess and Dot had brought, and were discussing that when Mr. Howbridge came out to speak to the little visitors, giving them his written answer to Ruth's note. He heard about Sammy's escapade and some mention of the Gypsies. "Well," he chuckled, "if Sammy Pinkney has been carried off by the Gypsies, I sympathize with the Gypsies. I have a very vivid recollection of how much trouble Sammy can make--and without half trying. "Now, children, give my note to Ruth. I am very sorry that Luke Shepard is ill. If he does not at once recover it may be well to bring him here to Milton. With his aunt only just recovering from her illness, it would be unwise to take the boy home." This he said more to himself than to the little girls. Because of their errand Tess and Dot could remain no longer. Ralph unhitched the pony and Tess drove away. Around the very first corner they spied a dusty, rather battered touring-car just moving away. A big, dark man, with gold hoops in his ears, was driving it. There was a brilliantly dressed young woman in the tonneau, which was otherwise filled with boxes, baskets, a crate of fruit, and odd-shaped packages. "Oh, Tess!" squealed Dot. "See there!" "Oh, Dot!" rejoined her sister quite as excitedly. "That is the young Gypsy lady." "Oh-oo!" moaned Dot. "Have we _got_ to give her back this fretful silver bracelet, Tessie?" "We must _try_," declared Tess firmly. "Ruth says so. Get up, Scalawag! Come on--hurry! We must catch them." The touring-car was going away from the pony-phaeton. Scalawag objected very much to going faster than his usual easy jog trot--unless it were to dance behind a band! _He_ didn't care to overtake the Gypsies' motor-car. And that car was going faster and faster. Tess stopped talking to the aggravating Scalawag and lifted up her voice to shout after the Gypsies. "Oh, stop! Stop!" she called. "Miss--Miss Gypsy! We've got something for you! Why, Dot, you are not hollering at all!" "I--I'm trying to," wailed the smaller girl. "But I do so hate to make Alice give up her belt." The Gypsy turned his car into a cross street ahead and disappeared. When Scalawag brought the Corner House girls to that corner the car was so far away that the girls' voices at their loudest pitch could not have reached the ears of the Romany folk. "Now, just see! We'll never be able to give that bracelet back if you don't do your share of the hollering, Dot Kenway," complained Tess. "I--I will," promised Dot. "Anyway, I will when it's your turn to wear the bracelet." The little girls reached home again at a time when the whole Corner House family seemed disrupted. To the amazement of Tess and Dot their sister Ruth had departed for the mountains. Neale had only just then returned from seeing her aboard the train. "And it's too late to stop her, never mind what Mr. Howbridge says in this note," cried Agnes. "That foolish Cecile! Here is the second half of her telegraph message," and she read it aloud again: "Until afternoon; will wire you then how he is." "Crickey!" gasped Neale, red in the face with laughter, and taking the two telegrams to read them in conjunction: "Arrived Oakhurst. They will not let me see Luke until afternoon. Will wire you then how he is." "Isn't that just like a girl?" "No more like a girl than it is like a boy," snapped Agnes. "I'm sure all the brains in the world are not of the masculine gender." "I stand corrected," meekly agreed her friend. "Just the same, I don't think that even you, Aggie, would award Cecile Shepard a medal for perspicuity." "Why--_why_," gasped the listening Dot, "has Cecile got one of those things the matter with her? I thought it was Luke who got hurt?" "You are perfectly right, Dottie," said Agnes, before Neale could laugh at the little girl. "It _is_ Luke who is hurt. But this Neale O'Neil is very likely to dislocate his jaw if he pronounces many such big words. He is only showing off." "Squelched!" admitted Neale good-naturedly. "Well, what do you wish done with the car? Shall I put it up? Can't chase Ruth's train in it, and bring her back." "You might chase the Gypsies," suggested Tess slowly. "We saw them again--Dot and me." "Oh! The Gypsies? What do you think, Neale? I do believe there is something in that fortune-telling business," Agnes cried. "I bet there is," agreed Neale. "Money for the Gypsies." But Agnes repeated what the Gypsy girl had said to Ruth and herself just as the elder Corner House girl was starting for the train. "I saw that Gyp of course," agreed Neale. "But, pshaw! she only just _guessed_. Of course there isn't any truth in what those fortune tellers hand you. Not much!" "There was something in that basket they handed Tess and me," said Dot, complacently eyeing the silver girdle on the Alice-doll. "Say! About that bracelet, Aggie," broke in Neale. "Do you know what I believe?" "What, Neale?" "I believe those Gypsies must have stolen it. Then they got scared, thinking that the police were after them, and the women dropped it into the basket the kids bought, believing they could get the bracelet back when it was safe for them to do so." "Do you really suppose that is the explanation?" "I am afraid the bracelet is 'stolen goods.' Perhaps the children had better not carry it away from the house any more. Or until we are sure. The police--" "Mercy me, Neale! you surely would not tell the police about the bracelet?" "Not yet. But I was going to suggest to Ruth that she advertise the bracelet in the Milton _Morning Post_. Advertise it in the 'Lost and Found' column, just as though it had been picked up somewhere. Then let us see if the Gypsies--or somebody else--comes after it." "And if somebody does?" "Well, we can always refuse to give it up until ownership is proved," declared Neale. "All right. Let's advertise it at once. We needn't wait for Ruth to come back," said the energetic Agnes. "How should such an advertisement be worded, Neale?" They proceeded to evolve a reading notice advertising the finding of the silver bracelet, which when published added not a little to the complications of the matter. CHAPTER VIII--THE MISFORTUNES OF A RUNAWAY In this present instance Sammy Pinkney was not obliged to exert his imagination to any very great degree to make himself believe that he was having real adventure. Romance very soon took the embryo pirate by the hand and led him into most exciting and quite unlooked-for events. Sammy's progress was slow because of the weight of the extension-bag. Yet as he trudged on steadily he put a number of miles behind him that afternoon. Had his parents known in which direction to look for him they might easily have overtaken the runaway. Neale O'Neil could have driven out this road in the Kenway's car and brought Sammy back before supper time. Mr. Pinkney, however, labored under the delusion that because Sammy was piratically inclined, he would head toward the sea. So he got in touch with people all along the railroad line to Pleasant Cove, suspecting that the boy might have purchased a ticket in that direction with a part of the contents of his burglarized bank. The nearest thing to the sea that Sammy came to after passing the canal on the edge of Milton was a big pond which he sighted about mid-afternoon. Its dancing blue waters looked very cool and refreshing, and the young traveler thought of his bathing suit right away. "I can hide this bag and take a swim," he thought eagerly. "I bet that pond is all right. Hullo! There's some kids. I wonder if they would steal my things if I go in swimming?" He was not incautious. Being mischievously inclined himself, he suspected other boys of having similar propensities. The boys he had observed were playing down by the water's edge where an ice-house had once stood. But the building had been destroyed by fire, all but its roof. The eaves of this shingled roof, which was quite intact, now rested on the ground. The boys were sliding from the ridge of the roof to the ground, and then climbing up again to repeat the performance. It looked to be a lot of fun. After Sammy had hidden his extension-bag in a clump of bushes, he approached the slide. One boy, who was the largest and oldest of the group, called to Sammy: "Come on, kid. Try it. The slide's free." It looked to be real sport, and Sammy could not resist the invitation given so frankly. He saw that the bigger boy sat on a piece of board when he slid down the shingles; but the others slid on the seat of their trousers--and so did Sammy. It proved to be an hilarious occasion. One might have heard those boys shouting and laughing a mile away. A series of races were held, and Sammy Pinkney managed to win his share of them. This so excited him that he failed for all of the time to notice what fatal effect the friction was having upon his trousers. He was suddenly reminded, however, by a startling happening. All the shingles on that roof were not worn smooth. Some were "splintery." Sammy emitted a sharp cry as he reached the ground after a particularly swift descent of the roof, and rising, he clapped his hand to that part of his anatomy upon which he had been tobogganing, with a most rueful expression on his countenance. "Oh, my! Oh, my!" cried Sammy. "I've got two big holes worn right through my pants! My good pants, too. My maw will give me fits, so she will. I'll never _dare_ go home now." The big boy who had saved his own trousers from disaster by using the piece of board to slide on, shouted with laughter. But another of the party said to Sammy: "Don't tell your mother. I aren't going to tell _my_ mother, you bet. By and by she'll find the holes and think they just wore through naturally." "Well," said Sammy, with a sigh, "I guess I've slid down enough for to-day, anyway. Good-bye, you fellers, I'll see you later." He did not feel at all as cheerful as he spoke. He was really smitten with remorse, for this was almost a new suit he had on. He wished heartily that he had put on that cowboy suit--even his bathing suit--before joining that coasting party. "That big feller," grumbled Sammy, "is a foxy one, he is! He didn't wear through his pants, you bet. But _me_--" Sammy was very much lowered in his own estimation over this mishap. He was by no means so smart as he had believed himself to be. He felt gingerly from time to time of the holes in his trousers. They were of such a nature that they could scarcely be hidden. "Crickey!" he muttered, "she sure will give me fits." The boys he had been playing with disappeared. Sammy secured his bag and suddenly found it very, very heavy. Evening was approaching. The sun was so low now that its almost level rays shone into his eyes as he plodded along the road. A farmer going to Milton market in an auto-truck, its load covered with a brown tarpaulin, passed Sammy. If it had not been for the holes in his trousers, and what his mother would do and say about it, the boy surely would have asked the farmer for a ride back home! His hesitancy cost him the ride. And he met nobody else on this road he was traveling. He struggled on, his courage beginning to ebb. He had eaten the last crumbs of his lunch. After the pond was out of sight behind him the runaway saw no dwellings at all. The road had entered a wood, and that wood grew thicker and darker as he advanced. Fireflies twinkled in the bushes. There was a hum of insect life and somewhere a big bullfrog tuned his bassoon--a most eerie sound. A bat flew low above his head and Sammy dodged, uttering a startled squawk. "Crickey! I don't like this a bit," he panted. But the runaway was no coward. He was quite sure that there was nothing in these woods that would really hurt him. He could still see some distance back from the road on either hand, and he selected a big chestnut tree at the foot of which, between two roots, there was a hollow filled with leaves and trash. This made not a bad couch, as he very soon found. He thrust the bag that had become so heavy farther into the hollow and lay down before it. But tired as he was, he could not at once go to sleep. Somewhere near he heard a trickle of water. The sound made the boy thirsty. He finally got up and stumbled through the brush, along the roadside in the direction of the running water. He found it--a spring rising in the bank above the road. Sammy carried a pocket-cup and soon satisfied his thirst by its aid. He had some difficulty in finding his former nest; but when he did come to the hollow between two huge roots, with the broadly spreading chestnut tree boughs overhead, he soon fell asleep. Nothing disturbed Sammy thereafter until it was broad daylight. He awoke as much refreshed as though he had slept in his own bed at home. Young muscles recover quickly from strain. All he remembered, too, was the fun he had had the day before, while he was foot-loose. Even the disaster to his trousers seemed of little moment now. He had always envied ragged urchins; they seemed to have so few cares and nobody to bother them. He ran with a whoop to the spring, drank his fill from it, and then doused his face and hands therein. The sun and air dried his head after his ablutions and there was nobody to ask if "he had washed behind his ears." He returned to the chestnut tree where he had lain all night, whistling. Of course he was hungry; but he believed there must be some house along the road where he could buy breakfast. Sammy Pinkney was not at all troubled by his situation until, stooping to look into the cavity near which he had slept, he made the disconcerting discovery that his extension-bag was not there! "Wha--wha--_what_?" stammered Sammy. "It's gone! Who took it?" That he had been robbed while he went to the spring was the only explanation there could be of this mysterious disappearance. At least, so thought Sammy. He ran around the tree, staring all about--even up into the thickly leaved branches where the clusters of green burrs were already formed. Then he plunged through the fringe of bushes into the road to see if he could spy the robber making away in either direction. All he saw was a rabbit hopping placidly across the highway. A jay flew overhead with raucous call, as though he laughed at the bereft boy. And Sammy Pinkney was in no mood to stand being laughed at! "You mean old thing!" he shouted at the flashing jay--which merely laughed at him again, just as though he did know who had stolen Sammy's bag and hugely enjoyed the joke. In that bag were many things that Sammy considered precious as well as necessary articles of clothing. There was his gun and the shot for it! How could he defend himself from attack or shoot game in the wilds, if either became necessary? "Oh, dear!" Sammy finally sniffed, not above crying a few tears as there was nobody by to see. "Oh, dear! Now I've _got_ to wear this good suit--although 'tain't so good anyway with holes in the pants. "But all my other things--crickey! Ain't it just mean? Whoever took my bag, I hope he'll have the baddest kind of luck. I--I hope he'll have to go to the dentist's and have all his teeth pulled, so I do!" which, from a recent experience of the runaway, seemed the most painful punishment that could be exacted from the thief. Wishing any amount of ill-fortune for the robber would not bring back his bag. Sammy quite realized this. He had his money safely tied into a very grubby handkerchief, so that was all right. But when he started off along the road at last, he was in no very cheerful frame of mind. CHAPTER IX--THINGS GO WRONG Of course there was no real reason why life at the old Corner House should not flow quite as placidly with Ruth away as when the elder sister was at home. It was a fact, however, that things seemed to begin to go wrong almost at once. Having written the notice advertising the silver bracelet as though it had been found by chance, Agnes made Neale run downtown again at once with it so as to be sure the advertisement would be inserted in the next morning's _Post_. As the automobile had not been put into the garage after the return from taking Ruth to the station, Neale used it on this errand, and on his way back there was a blowout. Of course if Ruth had been at home she could scarcely have averted this misfortune. However, had she been at home the advertisement regarding the bracelet might not have been written at all. Meanwhile, Mrs. McCall's preserve jars did not seal well, and the next day the work had to be done all over again. Linda cut her finger "to the bone," as she gloomily announced. And Uncle Rufus lost a silver dollar somewhere in the grass while he was mowing the lawn. "An' dollars is as scarce wid me as dem hen's teef dey talks about," said the old darkey. "An' I never yet did see a hen wid teef--an' Ah reckon I've seen a million of 'em." "Oh-oo!" murmured Dot Kenway. "A million hens, Unc' Rufus? _Is_ there that many?" "He, he!" chuckled the old man. "Ain't that the beatenes' chile dat ever was? Always a-questionin' an' a-questionin'. Yo' can't git by wid any sprodigious statement when she is around--no, suh!" Nor could such an expression as "sprodigious" go unchallenged with Dot on the scene--no, indeed! A big word in any case attracted Miss Dorothy. "What does that mean, Unc' Rufus?" she promptly demanded. "Is--is 'sprodigious' a dictionary word, or just one of your made-up words?" "Go 'long chile!" chuckled the old man. "Can't Uncle Rufus make up words just as good as any dictionary-man? If I knows what Ah wants to say, Ah says it, ne'er mind de dictionary!" "That's all very well, Unc' Rufus," Tess put in. "But Ruthie only wants us to use language that you find in books. So I guess you'd better not take that one from Uncle Rufus, Dottie." "Howcome Missy Ruth so pertic'lar?" grumbled the old man. "Yo' little gals is gettin' too much l'arnin'--suah is! But none of hit don't find de ol' man his dollar." At this complaint Tess and Dot went to work immediately to hunt for the missing dollar. It was while they were searching along the hedgerow next to the Creamers' premises that the little girls got into their memorable argument with Mabel Creamer about the lobster--an argument, which, being overheard by Agnes, was reported to the family with much hilarity. Mabel, an energetic and sharp-tongued child, and Bubby, her little brother, were playing in their yard. That is, Bubby was playing while Mabel nagged and thwarted him in almost everything he wanted to do. "Now, don't stoop over like that, Bubby. Your face gets all red like a lobster does. Maybe you'll turn into one." "I _ain't_ a lobs'er," shouted Bubby. "You will be one if you get red like that," repeated his sister in a most aggravating way. "I won't be a lobs'er!" wailed Bubby. "Of course you won't be a lobster, Bubby," spoke up Tess from across the hedge. "You're just a boy." "Course I's a boy," declared Bubby stoutly, sensing that Tess Kenway's assurance was half a criticism. "I don't want to be a lobs'er--nor a dirl, so there!" "Oh-oo!" gasped Dot. "You will be a lobster and turn all red if you are a bad boy," declared Mabel, who was always in a bad temper when she was made to mind Bubby. "Why, Mabel," murmured Dot, who knew a thing or two about lobsters herself, "you wouldn't boil Bubby, would you?" "Don't have to boil 'em to make 'em turn red," declared Mabel, referring to the lobster, not the boy. "My father brought home live lobsters once and the big one got out of the basket on to the kitchen floor." "Oh, my!" exclaimed the interested Dot. "What happened?" With her imagination thus spurred by appreciation, Mabel pursued the fancy: "And there were three little ones in the basket, and that old, big lobster tried to make them get out on the floor too. And when they wouldn't, what do you think?" "I don't know," breathed Dot. "Why, he got so mad at them that he turned red all over. I saw him--" "Why, Mabel Creamer!" interrupted Tess, unable to listen further to such a flight of fancy without registering a protest. "That can't be so--you know it can't." "I'd like to know why it can't be so?" demanded Mabel. "'Cause lobsters only turn red when they are boiled. They are all green when they are alive." "How do you know so much, Tess Kenway?" cried Mabel. "These are my lobsters and I'll have them turn blue if I want to--so there!" There seemed to be no room for further argument. Besides, Mabel grabbed Bubby by the hand and dragged him away from the hedge. "My!" murmured Dot, "Mabel has _such_ a 'magination. And maybe that lobster did get mad, Tess. We don't know." "She never had a live lobster in her family," declared Tess, quite emphatically. "You know very well, Dot Kenway, that Mr. Creamer wouldn't bring home such a thing as a live lobster, when there are little children in his house." "M--mm--I guess that's so," agreed Dot. "A live lobster would be worse than Sammy Pinkney's bulldog." Thus reminded of the absent Sammy the two smaller Corner House girls postponed any further search for Uncle Rufus's dollar and went across the street to learn if any news had been gained of their runaway playmate. Mrs. Pinkney was still despairing. She had imagined already a score of misfortunes that might have befallen her absent son, ranging from his eating of green apples to being run over by an automobile. "But, Mrs. Pinkney!" burst forth Tess at last, "if Sammy has run away to sea to be a pirate, there won't be any green apples for him to eat--and no automobiles." "Oh, you can never tell what trouble Sammy Pinkney will manage to get into," moaned his mother. "I can only expect the very worst." "Well," Dot remarked with a sigh, as she and Tess trudged home to supper, "I'm glad there is only one boy in _my_ family. My boy doll, Nosmo King Kenway, will probably be a source of great anxiety when he is older." "I wouldn't worry about that," Tess told her placidly. "If he is very bad you can send him to the reform school." "Oh--oo!" gasped Dot, all her maternal instincts aroused at such a suggestion. "That would be awful." "I don't know. They do send boys to the reform school. Jimmy Mulligan, whose mother lives in that little house on Willow Wythe, is in the reform school because he wouldn't mind his mother." "But they don't send Sammy there," urged Dot. "No--o. Of course," admitted the really tender-hearted Tess, "we know Sammy isn't really naughty. He is only silly to run away every once in a while." There was much bustle inside the old Corner House that evening. Because they really missed Ruth so much, her sisters invented divers occupations to fill the hours until bedtime. Tess and Dot, for instance, had never cut out so many paper-dolls in all their lives. Another telegram had arrived from Cecile Shepard (sent, of course, before Ruth had reached Oakhurst), stating that she had been allowed to see her brother and that, although he could not be immediately moved, he was improving and was absolutely in no danger. "If Ruthie had only waited to get _this_ message," complained Agnes, "she would not have gone up there to the mountains at all. And just see, Neale, how right that Gypsy girl was. There was news on the way that changed the whole aspect of affairs. She was quite wonderful, _I_ think." By this time Neale saw that it was better not to try to ridicule Agnes' budding belief in fortune telling. "Less said, the soonest mended," was his wise opinion. "I like Cecile Shepard," Agnes went on to say, "and always shall; but I don't think she has shown much sense about her brother's illness. Scaring everybody to death, and sending telegrams like a patch-work quilt!" "Maybe Ruth will come right home again when she finds Luke is all right," said Tess hopefully. "Dear, me! aren't boys a lot of trouble?" "Sammy and Luke are," agreed Dot. "All but Neale," said the loyal Agnes, her boy chum having departed. "I don't see what this family would do without Neale O'Neil." In the morning the older sister's absence seemed to make quite as great a gap in the household of the old Corner House as at night. But Neale rushed in early with the morning paper to show Agnes their advertisement in print. Under the "Lost and Found" heading appeared the following: "FOUND:--Silver bracelet, antique design. Owner can regain it by proving property and paying for this advertisement. Apply Kenway, Willow and Main Streets." "It sounds quite dignified," decided Agnes admiringly. "I guess Ruth would approve." "Crickey!" ejaculated Neale O'Neil, "this is _one_ thing Ruth is not bossing. We did this off our own bat, Aggie." "Just the same," ruminated Agnes, "I wonder what Mr. Howbridge will say if he reads it?" "I am glad," said Neale with gratitude, "that my father doesn't interfere with what I do. And I haven't any guardian, unless it is dear old Con Murphy. Folks let me pretty much alone." "If they didn't," said Agnes saucily, "I suppose you would run away as you did from the circus." "No," laughed her chum. "One runaway in the neighborhood is enough. Mr. Pinkney has been up half the night, he tells me, telephoning and sending telegrams. He has about made up his mind that Sammy hasn't gone in the direction of Pleasant Cove, after all." "We ought to help hunt for Sammy," cried Agnes eagerly. "Let us take Mrs. Pinkney in the auto, Neale, and search for that little rascal." "No. She will not leave the house. She wants to greet Sammy when he comes back--no matter whether it is day or night," chuckled Neale. "But Mr. Pinkney is going to get away from the office this afternoon, and we'll take him. He is afraid his wife will be really ill." "Poor woman!" "She cannot be contented to sit down and wait for Sammy to turn up--as he always does." "You mean, he always gets turned up," giggled Agnes. "Somebody is sure to find him." "Well, then, it might as well be us," agreed Neale. "I'll tune up the engine, and see that the car is all right. We should be able to go over a lot of these roads in an afternoon. Sammy could not have got very far from Milton in two days, or less." CHAPTER X--ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS Quite unsuspicious of the foregoing plans for his apprehension, Sammy Pinkney was journeying on, going steadily away from Milton, and traveling much faster now that he did not have to carry the extension-bag. The boy had no idea who could have stolen his possessions; but he rubbed his knuckles in his eyes, forced back the tears, and pressed on, feeling that freedom even without a change of garments was preferable to the restrictions of home and all the comforts there to be found. He walked two miles or more and was very hungry before he came to the first house. It stood just at the edge of the big wood in which Sammy had spent the night. It was scarcely more than a tumbled-down hut, with broken panes of glass more common than whole ones in the windows, these apertures stuffed with hats and discarded garments, while half the bricks had fallen from the chimney-top. There were half a dozen barefooted children running about, while a very wide and red-faced woman stood in the doorway. "Hullo, me bye!" she called to Sammy, as he lingered outside the broken fence with a longing eye upon her. "Where be yez bound so airly in the marnin'?" "I'm just traveling, Ma'am," Sammy returned with much dignity. "Could--could you sell me some breakfast?" "Breakfast, is it?" repeated the smiling woman. "Shure, I'd give yez it, if mate wasn't so high now. Come in me kitchen and sit ye down. There's tay in the pot, and I'll fry yez up a spider full o' pork and taters, if that'll do yez?" The menu sounded tempting indeed to Sammy. He accepted the woman's invitation instantly and entered the house, past the staring children. The two oldest of the group, a shrewd-faced boy and a sharp-featured girl, stood back and whispered together while they watched the visitor. Sammy was so much interested in the bountiful breakfast with which the housewife supplied him that he thought very little about the children peering in at the door and open windows. When he had eaten the last crumb he asked his hostess how much he should pay her. "Well, me bye, I'll not overcharge ye," she replied. "If yez have ten cents about ye we'll call it square--an' that's only for the mate, as I said before is so high, I dunno." Sammy produced the knotted handkerchief, put it on the table and untied it, displaying the coins it held with something of a flourish. The jingle of so many dimes brought a sigh of wonder in unison from the young spectators at door and windows. The woman accepted her dime without comment. Sammy thanked her politely, wiped his mouth on his sleeve (napery was conspicuous by its absence in this household) and started out the door. The smaller children scattered to give him passage; the older boy and girl had already gone out of the badly fenced yard and were loitering along the road in the direction Sammy was traveling. "Hullo! Here's raggedy-pants," said the girl saucily, when Sammy came along. "How did you get them holes in your breeches, kid?" added the boy. "Never you mind," rejoined Sammy gruffly. "They're _my_ pants." "Stuck up, ain't you?" jeered the girl and stuck out her tongue at him. Sammy thought these were two very impolite children, and although he was not rated at home for his own chivalrous conduct, he considered these specimens in the road before him quite unpleasant young people. "Ne'er mind," said the boy, looking at Sammy slyly, "he don't know everything. He ain't seen everything if he is traveling all by himself. I bet he's run away." "I ain't running away from you," was Sammy's belligerent rejoinder. "You would if I said 'Boo!' to you." "No, I wouldn't." "Ya!" scoffed the girl, leering at Sammy, "don't talk so much. Do something to him, Peter." Peter glanced warily back at the house. Perhaps he knew the large, red-faced woman might take a hand in proceedings if he pitched upon the strange boy. "I bet," he said, starting on another tack, "that he never saw a cherry-colored calf like our'n." "I bet he never did," crowed the girl in delight. "A cherry-colored calf," scoffed Sammy. "Get out! There ain't such a thing. A calf might be red; there _are_ red cows--" "This calf is cherry-colored," repeated the boy earnestly. "It's down there in our pasture." "Don't believe it," said Sammy flatly. "'Tis so!" cried the girl. "I tell you," said the very shrewd-looking boy. "We'll show it to you for ten cents." "I don't believe it," repeated Sammy, but more doubtfully. The girl laughed at him more scornfully than before. "He's afraid to spend a dime--an' him with so much money," she cried. "I don't believe you've got a cherry-colored calf to show me." "Gimme the dime and I'll show you whether we have or not," said Peter. "No," said the cautious Sammy. "I'll give you a dime _if_ you show it to me. But no foolin'. I won't give you a cent if the calf is any other color." "All right," shouted the other boy. "Come on and I'll show you. Come on, Liz." "All right, Peter," said the girl, quite as eagerly. "Hurry up, raggedy-pants. We can use that dime, Peter and me can." The bare-legged youngsters got through a rail fence and darted down a path into a scrubby pasture, as wild as unbroken colts. Sammy, feeling fine after the bountiful breakfast he had eaten, chased after them wishing that he had thought to remove his shoes and stockings too. Peter and Liz seemed so much more free and untrammeled than he! "Hold on!" puffed Sammy, coming finally to the bottom of the slope. "I ain't going to run my head off for any old calf--Huh!" From behind a clump of brush appeared suddenly a cow--a black and white cow, probably of the Holstein breed. There followed a scrambling in the bushes. Liz jumped into them with a shriek and drove out a little, blatting, stiff-legged calf. It was all of a glossy black, from its nose to the tip of its tail. "That's him! That's him!" shrieked Liz. "A cherry-colored calf." "What did I tell you?" demanded the boy, Peter. "Give us the dime." "You go on!" exclaimed Sammy. "I knew all the time you were story-telling. That's no cherry-colored calf." "'Tis too! It's just the color of a black-heart cherry," giggled Liz. "You got to give up ten cents." "Won't neither," Sammy declared. "I'll take it off you," threatened Peter, growing belligerent. "You won't," stubbornly declared Sammy, who did not propose to be cheated. Peter jumped for him and Sammy could not run. One reason why he could not retreat was because Liz grabbed him from the rear, holding him around the waist. She pulled him over backward, while her brother began to pummel Sammy most heartily from above. It was a most unfair attack and a most uncomfortable situation for the runaway. Although he managed to defend his face for the most part from Peter's blows, he could do little else. "Lemme up! Lemme up!" bawled Sammy. "Gimme the dime," panted Peter. "I won't! 'Tain't fair!" gasped Sammy, too plucky to give in. Liz had now squirmed from under the struggling boys. She must have seen at the house in which pocket Sammy kept the knotted handkerchief, for she thrust her hand into that pocket and snatched out the hoard of dimes before the owner realized what she was doing. "Hey! Stop! Lemme up!" roared Sammy again. "I got it, Peter!" shrieked Liz, and, springing up, she darted into the bushes and disappeared. "Stop! She's stole my money," gasped Sammy in horror and alarm. "She never! You didn't have no money!" declared Peter, and with a final blow that stunned Sammy for the moment, the other leaped up and followed his wild companion into the brush. Sammy, weeping in good earnest now, bruised and scratched in body and sore in spirit, climbed slowly to his feet. Never before in any of his runaway escapades had he suffered such ignominy and loss. Why! he had actually fallen among thieves. First his bag and all his chattels therein had been stolen. Now these two ragamuffins had robbed him of every penny he possessed. He dared not go back to the house where he had bought breakfast and complain. The other youngsters there might fall upon and beat him again! Sammy Pinkney at last was tasting the bitter fruits of wrong doing. Even weeding another beet-bed could have been no more painful than these experiences which he was now suffering. CHAPTER XI--MYSTERIES ACCUMULATE "And if you go to the store, or anywhere else for Mrs. McCall or Linda, remember _don't_ take that bracelet with you," commanded Agnes in a most imperative manner, fairly transfixing her two smaller sisters with an index finger. "Remember!" "Ruthie didn't say so," complained Dot. "Did she, Tess?" "But I guess we'd better mind what Agnes says when Ruth isn't at home," confessed Tess, more amenable to discipline. "You know, Aggie has got to be responsible now." "Well," muttered the rebellious Dot, "never mind if she is 'sponserble, she needn't be so awful bossy about it!" Agnes did, of course, feel her importance while Ruth was away. It was not often that she was made responsible for the family welfare in any particular. And just now the matter of the silver bracelet loomed big on her horizon. She scarcely expected the advertisement in the _Morning Post_ to bring immediate results. Yet, it might. The Gypsies' gift to the little girls was a very queer matter indeed. The suggestion that the bracelet had been stolen by the Romany folk did not seem at all improbable. And if this was so, whoever had lost the ornament would naturally be watching the "Lost and Found" column in the newspaper. "Unless the owner doesn't know he has lost it," Agnes suggested to Neale. "How's that? He'd have to be more absent-minded than Professor Ware not to miss a bracelet like that," scoffed her boy chum. "Oh, Professor Ware!" giggled Agnes, suddenly. "_He_ would forget anything, I do believe. Do you know what happened at his house the other evening when the Millers and Mr. and Mrs. Crandall went to call?" "The poor professor made a bad break I suppose," grinned Neale. "What did he do?" "Why, Mrs. Ware saw the callers coming just before they rang the bell and the professor had been digging in the garden. Of course she straightened things up a little before she appeared in the parlor to welcome the visitors. But the professor did not appear. Somebody asked for him at last and Mrs. Ware went to the foot of the stairs to call him. "'Oh, Professor!' she called up the stairs, and the company heard him answer back just as plain: "'Maria, I can't remember whether you sent me up here to change my clothes or to go to bed.'" "I can believe it!" chortled Neale O'Neil. "He has made some awful breaks in school. But I don't believe _he_ ever owned that bracelet, Aggie." * * * * * The first person who displayed interest in the advertisement in the _Post_ about the bracelet, save the two young people who put it in the paper, proved to add much to the mystery of the affair and nothing at all to the peace of mind of Agnes, at least. Agnes was busy at some mending--actually hose-darning, for Ruth insisted that the flyaway sister should mend her own stockings, which Aunt Sarah's keen eyes inspected--when she chanced to raise her head to glance out of the front window of the sewing room. A strange looking turnout had halted before the front gate. The vehicle itself was a decrepit express wagon on the side of which in straggling blue letters was painted the one word "JUNK," but the horse drawing the wagon was a surprisingly well-kept and good looking animal. The back of the wagon was piled high with bundles of newspapers, and bags, evidently stuffed with rags, were likewise in the wagon body. The man climbing down from the seat just as Agnes looked did not seem at all like the usual junk dealer who passed through Milton's streets heralded by a "chime" of tin-can bells. He was a small, swarthy man, and even at the distance of the front gate from Agnes' window the girl could see that he wore gold hoops in his ears. He was quick but furtive in his motions. He glanced in a birdlike way down the street and across the Parade Ground, which was diagonally opposite the old Corner House, before he entered the front gate. "He'd better go around to the side door," thought Agnes aloud. "He must be a very fashionable junkman to come to the front of the house. And at that I don't believe Mrs. McCall has any rags or papers to sell just now." The swarthy man came straight on to the porch and up the steps. Agnes heard the bell, and knowing Linda was busy and being likewise rather curious, she dropped her stocking darning and ran into the front hall. The moment she unlatched the big door the swarthy stranger inserted himself into the house. "Why! who are you?" she demanded, fairly thrust aside by the man's eagerness. She saw then that he had a folded paper in one hand. He thrust it before her eyes, pointing to a place upon it with a very grimy finger. "You have found it!" he chattered with great excitement. "That ancient bracelet which has for so many generations been an heirloom--yes?--of the Costello. Queen Alma herself wore it at a time long ago. You have found it?" Agnes was made almost speechless by his vehemence as well as by the announcement itself. "I--I--What _do_ you mean?" she finally gasped. "You know!" he ejaculated, rapping on the newspaper with his finger like a woodpecker on a dead limb. "You put in the paper--_here_. It is lost. You find. _You_ are Kenway, and you say the so-antique bracelet shall be give to who proves property." "We will return it to the owner. Only to the owner," interrupted Agnes, backing away from him again, for his vehemence half frightened her. "Shall I bring Queen Alma here to say it was her property?" he cried. [Illustration: "You have found it!" he chattered with great excitement.] "That would be better. If Queen Alma--whoever she is--owns the bracelet we will give it to her when she proves property." The little man uttered a staccato speech in a foreign tongue. Agnes did not understand. He spread wide his arms in a gesture of seemingly utter despair. "And Queen Alma!" he sputtered. "She is dead these two--no! t'ree hundred year!" "Mercy me!" gasped Agnes, backing away from him and sitting suddenly down in one of the straight-backed hall chairs. "Mercy me!" CHAPTER XII--GETTING IN DEEPER "You see, Mees Kenway," sputtered the swarthy man eagerly, "I catch the paper, here." He rapped the _Post_ again with his finger. "I read the Engleesh--yes. I see the notice you, the honest Kenway, have put in the paper--" "Let me tell you, sir," said Agnes, starting up, "_all_ the Kenways are honest. I am not the only honest person in our family I should hope!" Agnes was much annoyed. The excitable little foreigner spread abroad his hands again and bowed low before her. "Please! Excuse!" he said. "I admire all your family, oh, so very much! But it is to you who put in the paper the words here, about the very ancient silver bracelet." Again that woodpecker rapping on the Lost and Found column in the _Post_. "No?" "Yes. I put the advertisement in the paper," acknowledged Agnes, but wishing very much that she had not, or that Neale O'Neil was present at this exciting moment to help her handle the situation. "So! I have come for it," cried the swarthy man, as though the matter were quite settled. But Agnes' mind began to function pretty well again. She determined not to be "rushed." This strange foreigner might be perfectly honest. But there was not a thing to prove that the bracelet given to Tess and Dot by the Gypsy women belonged to him. "How do you know," she asked, "that the bracelet we have in our possession is the one you have lost?" "I? Oh, no, lady! I did not lose the ancient heirloom. Oh, no." "But you say--" "I am only its rightful owner," he explained. "Had Queen Alma's bracelet been in my possession it never would have been lost and so found by the so--gracious Kenway. Indeed, no!" "Then, what have you come here for?" cried Agnes, in some desperation. "I cannot give the bracelet to anybody but the one who lost it--" "You say here the owner!" cried the man, beginning again the woodpecker tapping on the paper. "But how do I know you own it?" she gasped. "Show it me. In one moment's time can I tell--at the one glance," was the answer of assurance. "Oh, yes, yes, yes!" These "yeses" were accompanied by the emphatic tapping on the paper. Agnes wondered that the _Post_ at that spot was not quite worn through. Perhaps it was fortunate that at this moment Neale O'Neil came in. That he came direct from the garage and apparently from a struggle with oily machinery, both his hands and face betrayed. "Hey!" he exploded. "If we are going to take Mr. Pinkney out on a cross-country chase after that missing pirate this afternoon, we've got to get a hustle on. You going to be ready, Aggie? Mr. Pinkney gets home at a quarter to one." "Oh, Neale!" cried Agnes, turning eagerly to greet the boy. "Talk to this man--do! I don't know what to say to him." The boy's countenance broadened in a smile. "'Say "Hullo!" and "How-de-do!" "How's the world a-using you?"'" quoted Neale, and chuckled outright. "What's his name? What does he want?" "Costello--that me," interposed the strange junkman. He gazed curiously at Neale with his snapping black eyes. "_You_ are not Kenway--here in the pape'?" Again the finger tapped upon the Lost and Found column in the _Post_. Neale shook his head. He glanced out of the open door and spied the wagon and its informative sign. "You are a junkman, are you, Mr. Costello?" "Yes, yes, yes! I buy the pape', buy the rag and bot'--buy anytheeng I get cheap. But not to buy do I come this time to Mees Kenway. No, no! I come because of this in the paper." His tapping finger called attention again to the advertisement of the bracelet. Neale expelled a surprised whistle. "Oh, Aggie!" he said, "is he after the Gypsy bracelet?" The swarthy man's face was all eagerness again. "Yes, yes, yes!" he sputtered. "I am Gypsy. Spanish Gypsy. Of the tribe of Costello. I am--what you say?--direct descendent of Queen Alma who live three hunder'--maybe more--year ago, and she own that bracelet the honest Kenway find!" "She--she's dead, then? This Queen Alma?" stammered Neale. "_Si, si!_ Yes, yes! But the so-antique bracelet descend by right to our family. That Beeg Jeem--" He burst again into the language he had used before which was quite unintelligible to either of his listeners; but Neale thought by the man's expression of countenance that his opinion of "Beeg Jeem" was scarcely to be told in polite English. "Wait!" Neale broke in. "Let's get this straight. We--we find a bracelet which we advertise. You say the bracelet is yours. Where and how did you lose it?" "I already tell the honest Kenway, I do _not_ lose it." "It was stolen from you, then?" "Yes, yes, yes! It was stole. A long ago it was stole. And now Beeg Jeem say he lose it. You find--yes?" "This seems to be complicated," Neale declared, shaking his head and gazing wonderingly at Agnes. "If you did not lose it yourself, Mr. Costello--" "But it is mine!" cried the man. "We don't know that," said Neale, somewhat bruskly. "You must prove it." "Prove it?" "Yes. In the first place, describe the bracelet. Tell us just how it is engraved, or ornamented, or whatever it is. How wide and thick is it? What kind of a bracelet is it, aside from its being made of silver?" "Ah! Queen Alma's bracelet is so well known to the Costello--how shall I say? Yes, yes, yes!" cried the man, with rather graceful gestures. "And when Beeg Jeem tell me she is lost--" "All right. Describe it," put in Neale. Agnes suddenly tugged at Neale's sleeve. Her pretty face was aflame with excitement. "Oh, Neale!" she interposed in a whisper. "Even if he can describe it exactly we do not know that he is the real owner." "Shucks! That's right," agreed the boy. He turned to Costello again demanding: "How can you prove that this bracelet--if it is the one you think it is--belongs to you?" "She belong to the Costello family. It is an heirloom. I tell it you." "That's all right. But you've got to prove it. Even if you describe the thing that only proves that you have seen it, or heard it described yourself. It might be so, you know, Mr. Costello. You must give us some evidence of ownership." "Queen Alma's bracelet--" began Costello. The junkman made a despairing gesture with wide-spread arms. "Me? How can I tell you, sir, and the honest Kenway? It has always belong to the Costello. Yes, yes, yes! That so-ancient bracelet, Beeg Jeem have no right to it." "But he was the one who lost it!" exclaimed Neale, being quite confident now of the identity of "Beeg Jeem." "Yes, yes, yes! So he say. I no believe. Then I see the reading here in the pape', of the honest Kenway"--tap, tap, tapping once more of the forefinger--"and I see it must be so. I--" "Hold on!" exclaimed Neale. "You did not lose the bracelet. This other fellow did. You bring him here and let him prove ownership." "No, no!" raved Costello, shaking both clenched hands above his head. "He shall not have it. It is mine. I am _the_ Costello. Queen Alma, she give it to the great, great, great gran'mudder of _my_ great, great, great--" "Shucks!" ejaculated Neale. "Now you are going too deep into the family records for me. I can't follow you. It looks to me like a case for the courts to settle." "Oh, Neale!" gasped Agnes. "Why, Aggie, we'd get into hot water if we let this fellow, or any of those other Gypsies, have the bracelet offhand. If this chap wants it, he will have to see Mr. Howbridge." "Oh, yes!" murmured the girl with sudden relief in her voice. "We can tell Mr. Howbridge." "Guess we'll have to," agreed Neale. "We certainly have bit off more than we can chew, Aggie. I'll say we have. I guess maybe we'd have been wiser if we had told your guardian about the old bracelet before advertising it. And Ruth has nothing on us, at that! She did not tell him. "We're likely," concluded Neale, with a side glance at the swarthy man, "to have a dozen worse than this one come here to bother us. We surely did start something when we had that ad. printed, Aggie." CHAPTER XIII--OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY Costello, the junkman, could not be further ignored, for at this point he began another excitable harangue. The Queen Alma bracelet, "Beeg Jeem," his own sorrows, and the fact that he saw no reason why Agnes should not immediately give up to him the silver bracelet, were all mixed up together in a clamor that became almost deafening. "Oh, what shall I do? What _shall_ I do?" exclaimed the Corner House girl. But Neale O'Neil was quite level-headed. Like Agnes, at first he had for a little while been swept off his feet by the swarthy man's vehemence. He regained his balance now. "We're not going to do anything. We won't even show him the bracelet," said the boy firmly. "But it is mine! It is the heirloom of the Costello! I, myself, tell you so," declared the junkman, beating his breast now instead of the newspaper. "All right. I believe you. Don't yell so about it," said Neale, but quite calmly. "That does not alter the fact that we cannot give the bracelet up. That is, Miss Kenway cannot." "But she say here--in the paper--" "Oh, stop it!" exclaimed the exasperated boy. "It doesn't say in that paper that she will hand the thing out to anybody who comes and asks for it. If this other fellow you have been talking about should come here, do you suppose we would give it up to him, just on his say so?" "No, no! It is not his. It never should have been in the possession of his family, sir. I assure you _I_ am the Costello to whose ancestors the great Queen Alma of our tribe delivered the bracelet." "All right. Let it go at that," answered Neale. "All the more reason why we must be careful who gets it now. If it is honestly your bracelet you will get it, Mr. Costello. But you will have to see Miss Kenway's guardian and let him decide." "Her--what you call it--does he have the bracelet?" cried the man. "He will have it. You go there to-morrow. I will give you his address. To-morrow he will talk to you. He is not in his office to-day. He is a lawyer." "Oh, la, la! The law! I no like the law," declared Costello. "No, I presume you Gypsies don't," muttered Neale, pulling out an envelope and the stub of a pencil with which to write the address of Mr. Howbridge's office. "There it is. Now, that is the best we can do for you. Only, nobody shall be given the bracelet until you have talked with Mr. Howbridge." "But, I no like! The honest Kenway say here, in the paper--" As he began to tap upon the newspaper again Neale, who was a sturdy youth, crowded him out upon the veranda of the old Corner House. "Now, go!" advised Neale, when he heard the click of the door latch behind him. "You'll make nothing by lingering here and talking. There's your horse starting off by himself. Better get him." This roused the junk dealer's attention. The horse was tired of standing and was half a block away. Costello uttered an excited yelp and darted after his junk wagon. Agnes let Neale inside the house again. She was much relieved. "There! isn't this a mess?" she said. "I am glad you thought of Mr. Howbridge. But I _do_ wish Ruth had been at home. She would have known just what to say to that funny little man." "Humph! Maybe it would have been a good idea if she had been here," admitted Neale slowly. "Ruth is awfully bossy, but things do go about right when she is on the job." "We'll have to see Mr. Howbridge--" "But that can wait until to-morrow morning," Neale declared. "We can't do so this afternoon in any case. I happen to know he is out of town. And we have promised Mr. Pinkney to take him on a hunt for Sammy." "All right. It is almost noon. You'd better go and wash your face, Neale," and she began to giggle at him. "Don't I know that? I came in here just to remind you to begin to prink before dinner or you'd never be ready." She was already halfway up the stairs and she leaned over the balustrade to make a gamin's face at him. "Just you tend to your own apple cart, Neale O'Neil!" she told him. "I will be ready as soon as you are." At dinner, which was eaten in the middle of the day at this time of year at the old Corner House, Agnes appeared ready all but her hat for the car. "Oh, Aggie! can we go too?" cried Dot. "We want to ride in the automobile, don't we, Tess?" "We maybe want to go riding," confessed the other sister slowly. "But I guess we can't, Dot. You forget that Margie and Holly Pease are coming over at three o'clock. They haven't seen the fretted silver bracelet." "That reminds me," said Agnes firmly. "You must not take that bracelet out of the house. Understand? Not at all." "Why, Aggie!" murmured Tess, while Dot grew quite red with indignation. "If you wish to play with it indoors, all right," Agnes said. "Whose turn to have it, is it to-day?" "Mine," admitted Tess. "Then I hold you responsible. Not out of the house. We have got to get Mr. Howbridge's advice about it, in any case." "Ruth didn't say we couldn't wear the bracelet out-of-doors," declared Dot, pouting. "I am in Ruth's place," responded the older sister promptly. "Now, remember! You might lose it anyway. And _then_ what would we do if the owner really comes for it?" "But they won't!" cried Dot, confidently. "Those Gypsy ladies gave it to us for keeps. I am sure." "You certainly would not wish to keep the bracelet if the person the Gypsies stole it from came here to get it?" said Agnes sternly. "Oh--oo! No-o," murmured Dot. "Of course we would not, Sister," Tess declared briskly. "If we knew just where their camp is we would take it to them anyway. Of course we would, Dot!" "Oh, of course," agreed Dot, but very faintly. "You children are so seldom observant," went on Agnes in her most grown-up manner. "You should have looked into that basket when you bought it of the Gypsies. Then you would have seen the bracelet before the women got away. You are almost _never_ observant." "Why, Aggie!" Tess exclaimed, rather hurt by the accusation of her older sister. "That is what your Mr. Marks said when he came into our grade at school just before the end of term last June." Mr. Curtis G. Marks was the principal of the High School which Agnes attended. "What was Mr. Marks doing over in your room, Tess?" Agnes asked curiously. "Visiting. Our teacher asked him to 'take the class.' You know, visiting teachers always _are_ so nosey," added Tess with more frankness than good taste. "Better not let Ruth hear you use that expression, child," laughed Agnes. "But what about being observant--or _un_observant?" "He told us," Tess went on to say, "to watch closely, and then asked for somebody to give him a number. So somebody said thirty-two." "Yes?" "And Mr. Marks went to the board and wrote twenty-three on it. Of course, none of us said anything. Then Mr. Marks asked for another number and somebody gave him ninety-four. Then he wrote forty-nine on the board, and nobody said a word." "Why didn't you?" asked Agnes in wonder. "Did you think he was teaching you some new game?" "I--I guess we were too polite. You see, he was a visitor. And he said right out loud to our teacher: 'You see, they do not observe. Is it dense stupidity, or just inattention?' That's _just_ what he said," added Tess, her eyes flashing. "Oh!" murmured Dot. "Didn't he know how to write the number right?" "So," continued Tess, "I guess we all felt sort of hurt. And Belle Littleweed got so fidgety that she raised her hand. Mr. Marks says: 'Very well, you give me a number.' "Belle lisps a little, you know, Aggie, and she said right out: 'Theventy-theven; thee if you can turn that around!' He didn't think we noticed anything, and were stupid; but I guess he knows better now," added Tess with satisfaction. "That is all right," said Agnes with a sigh. "I heartily wish you and Dot had been observant when those women gave you the basket and you had found the bracelet in it before they got away. It is going to make us trouble I am afraid." Agnes told the little ones nothing about the strange junkman and his claim. Nor did she mention the affair to any of the remainder of the Corner House family. She only added: "So don't you take the bracelet out of the house or let anybody at all have it--if Neale or I are not here." "Why, it would not be right to give the bracelet to anybody but the Gypsy ladies, would it?" said Tess. "Of course not," agreed Dot. "And _they_ haven't come after it." Agnes did not notice these final comments of the two smaller girls. She had given them instructions, and those instructions were sufficient, she thought, to avert any trouble regarding the mysterious bracelet--whether it was "Queen Alma's" or not. The junkman, Costello, certainly had filled Agnes' mind with most romantic imaginations! If the old silver bracelet was a Gypsy heirloom and had been handed down through the Costello tribe--as the junkman claimed--for three hundred years and more, of course it would not be considered stolen property. The mystery remained why the Gypsy women had left the bracelet in the basket they had almost forced upon the Kenway children. The explanation of this was quite beyond Agnes, unless it had been done because the Gypsy women feared that this very Costello was about to claim the heirloom, and they considered it safer with Tess and Dot than in their own possession. True, this seemed a far-fetched explanation of the affair; yet what so probable? The Gypsies might be quite familiar with Milton, and probably knew a good deal about the old Corner House and the family now occupying it. The little girls would of course be honest. The Gypsies were shrewd people. They were quite sure, no doubt, that the Kenways would not give the bracelet to any person but the women who sold the basket, unless the right to the property could be proved. "And even if that Costello man does own the bracelet, how is he going to prove it?" Agnes asked Neale, as they ran the car out of the garage after dinner. "I guess we are going to hand dear old Mr. Howbridge a big handful of trouble." "Crickey! isn't that a fact?" grumbled Neale. "The more I think of it, the sorrier I am we put that advertisement in the paper, Aggie." There was nothing more to be said about that at the time, for Mr. Pinkney was already waiting for them on his front steps. His wife was at the door and she looked so weary-eyed and pale of face that Agnes at least felt much sympathy for her. "Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Pinkney!" cried the girl from her seat beside Neale. "I am sure Sammy will turn up all right. Neale says so--everybody says so! He is such a plucky boy, anyway. Nothing would happen to him." "But this seems worse than any other time," said the poor woman. "He must have never meant to come back, or he would not have taken that picture with him." "Nonsense!" exclaimed her husband cheerfully. "Sammy sort of fancied himself in that picture, that is all. He is not without his share of vanity." "That is what _you_ say," complained Sammy's mother. "But I just feel that something dreadful has happened to him this time." "Never mind," called Neale, starting the engine, "we'll go over the hills and far away, but we'll find some trace of him, Mrs. Pinkney. Sammy can't have hidden himself so completely that we cannot discover where he has been and where he is going." That is exactly what they did. They flew about the environs of Milton in a rapid search for the truant. Wherever they stopped and made inquiries for the first hour or so, however, they gained no word of Sammy. It was three o'clock, and they were down toward the canal on the road leading to Hampton Mills, when they gained the first possible clue of the missing one. And that clue was more than twenty-four hours old. A storekeeper remembered a boy who answered to Sammy's description buying something to eat the day before, and sitting down on the store step to eat it. That boy carried a heavy extension-bag and went on after he had eaten along the Hampton Mills road. "We've struck his trail!" declared Neale with satisfaction. "Don't you think so, Mr. Pinkney?" "How did he pay you for the things he bought?" asked the father of the runaway, addressing the storekeeper again. "What kind of money did he have?" "He had ten cent pieces, I remember. And he had them tied in a handkerchief. Nicked his bank before he started, did he?" and the man laughed. "That is exactly what he did," admitted Mr. Pinkney, returning hurriedly to the car. "Drive on, Neale. I guess we are on the right trail." CHAPTER XIV--ALMOST HAD HIM Neale drove almost recklessly for the first few miles after passing the roadside store; but the eyes of all three people in the car were very wide open and their minds observant. Anything or anybody that might give trace of the truant Sammy were scrutinized. "He was at that store before noon," Agnes shouted into Neale's ear. "How long before he would be hungry again?" "No knowing. Pretty soon, of course," admitted her chum. "But I heard that storekeeper tell Mr. Pinkney that the boy bought more than he could eat at once and he carried the rest away in a paper bag." "That is so," admitted Mr. Pinkney, leaning over the forward seat. "But he has an appetite like a boa constrictor." "A _boy_-constrictor," chuckled Neale. "I'll say he has!" "He would not likely stop anywhere along here to buy more food, then," Agnes said. "He could have gone off the road, however, for a dozen different things," said the missing boy's father. "That child has got more crotchets in his head than you can shake a stick at. There is no knowing--" "Hold on!" ejaculated Neale suddenly. "There are some kids down there by that pond. Suppose I run down and interview them?" "I don't see anybody among them who looks like Sammy," observed Agnes, standing up in the car to look. "Never mind. You go ahead, Neale. They will talk to you more freely, perhaps, than they will to me. Boys are that way." "I'll try," said Neale, and jumped out of the car and ran down toward the roof of the old ice-house that the afternoon before had so attracted Sammy Pinkney--incidentally wrecking his best trousers. As it chanced, Neale had seen and now interviewed the very party of boys with whom Sammy had previously made friends. But Neale said nothing at first to warn these boys that he was searching for one whom they all considered "a good kid." "Say, fellows," Neale began, "was this an ice-house before it got burned down?" "Yep," replied the bigger boy of the group. "And only the roof left? Crickey! What have you chaps been doing? Sliding down it?" For he had observed as he came down from the car two of the smaller boys doing just that. "It's great fun," said the bigger boy, grinning, perhaps at the memory of what had happened to Sammy Pinkney's trousers the previous afternoon. "Want to try?" Neale grinned more broadly, and gave the shingled roof another glance. "I bet _you_ don't slide down it like those little fellows I just saw doing it. How do their pants stand it?" The boys giggled at that. "Say!" the bigger one said, "there was a kid came along yesterday that didn't get on to that--_till afterward_." "Oh, ho!" chuckled Neale. "He wore 'em right through, did he?" "Yes, he did. And then he was sore. Said his mother would give him fits." "Where does he live? Around here?" asked Neale carelessly. "I never saw him before," admitted the bigger boy. "He was a good fellow just the same. You looking for him?" he asked with sudden suspicion. "I don't know. If he's the boy I mean he needn't be afraid to go home because of his torn pants. You tell him so if you see him again." "Sure. I didn't know he was running away. He didn't say anything." "Didn't he have a bag with him--sort of a suitcase?" "Didn't see it," replied the boy. "We all went home to supper and he went his way." "Which way?" "Could not tell you that," the other said reflectively, and was evidently honest about it. "He was coming from that way," and he pointed back toward Milton, "when he joined us here at the slide." "Then he probably kept on toward--What is in that direction?" and Neale pointed at the nearest road, the very one into which Sammy had turned. "Oh, that goes up through the woods," said the boy. "Hampton Mills is over around the pond--you follow yonder road." "Yes, I know. But you think this fellow you speak of might have gone into that by road?" "He was headed that way when we first saw him," said the boy. "Wasn't he, Jimmy?" "Sure," agreed the smaller boy addressed. "And, Tony, I bet he _did_ go that way. When I looked back afterward I remember I saw a boy lugging something heavy going up that road." "I didn't see that that fellow had a bag," argued the bigger boy. "But he might have hid it when he came down here." "Likely he did," admitted Neale. "Anyway, we will go up that road through the woods and see." "_Is_ his mother going to give him fits for those torn pants?" asked another of the group. "She'll be so glad to see him home again," confessed Neale, "that he could tear every pair of pants he's got and she wouldn't say a word!" He made his way up the bank to the car and reported. "I don't know where that woods-road leads to. I neglected to bring a map. But it looks as though we could get through it with the car. We'll try, sha'n't we?" "Oh, do, Neale," urged Agnes. "I guess it is as good a lead as any," observed Mr. Pinkney. "Somehow, I begin to feel as though the boy had got a good way off this time. Even this clue is almost twenty-four hours old." "He must have stayed somewhere last night," cried Agnes suddenly. "If there is a house up there in the woods--or beyond--we can ask." "Right you are, Aggie," agreed Neale, starting the car again. "Sammy Pinkney is an elusive youngster, sure enough," said the truant's father. "Something has got to stop him from running away. It costs too much time and money to overtake him and bring him back." "And we haven't done that yet," murmured Agnes. The car struck heavy going in the road through the woods before they had gone very far up the rise. In places the road was soft and had been cut up by the wheels of heavy trucks or wagons. And they did not pass a single house--not even a cleared spot in the wood--on either hand. "If he started up this way so near supper time last evening, as those boys say," Mr. Pinkney ruminated, "where was he at supper time?" "Here, or hereabout, I should say!" exclaimed Neale O'Neil. "Why, it must have been pretty dark when he got this far." "If he really came this far," added Agnes. "Well, let us run along and see if there is a house anywhere," Mr. Pinkney said. "Of course, Sammy might have slept out--" "It wouldn't be the first time, I bet!" chuckled Neale. "And of course there would be nothing to hurt him in these woods?" suggested Agnes. "Nothing bigger than a rabbit, I guess," agreed their neighbor. "Well--" Neale increased the speed of the car again, turned a blind corner, and struck a soft place in the road before he could stop. Having no skidding chains on the rear wheels of course, the car was out of control in an instant. It slued around. Agnes screamed. Mr. Pinkney shouted his alarm. The car slid over the bank of the ditch beside the road and both right wheels sank in mud and water to the hubs. "Some pretty mess--I'll tell the world!" groaned Neale O'Neil, shutting off the engine, while Agnes clung to his arm grimly to keep from sliding out into the ditch, too. "Now, you _have_ done it!" shrilled the girl. "Thanks. Many thanks. I expected you to say that, Aggie," he replied. "M-mm! Well, I don't suppose you meant to--" "No use worrying about how it was done or who did it," interposed Mr. Pinkney, briskly getting out of the tonneau on the left side. "The question is, how are we going to right the car and get under way again?" "A truer word was never spoken," agreed Neale O'Neil. "Come on, Agnes. We'll creep out on this side, too. That's it. Looks to me, Mr. Pinkney, as though we should need a couple of good, strong levers to pry up the wheels. You and I can do that while Agnes gets in under the wheel and manipulates the mechanism, as it were." "You are the boss, here, Neale," said the older man, immediately entering the wood on the right side of the road. "I see a stick here that looks promising." He passed under the broadly spreading branches of a huge chestnut tree. There were several of these monsters along the edge of the wood. Mr. Pinkney suddenly shouted something, and dropped upon his knees between two outcropping roots of the tree. "What is it, Mr. Pinkney?" cried Agnes, running across the road. Their neighbor appeared, erect again. In his hand he bore the well-remembered extension-bag which Sammy Pinkney had so often borne away from home upon his truant escapades. "What do you know about this?" demanded Sammy's father. "Here's his bag--filled with his possessions, by the feel of it. But where is the boy?" "He--he's got away!" gasped Agnes. "And we almost had him," was Neale's addition to the amazed remarks of the trio of searchers. CHAPTER XV--UNCERTAINTIES The secret had now been revealed! But of course it did not do Sammy Pinkney the least bit of good. His extension-bag had not been stolen at all. Merely, when that sleepy boy had stumbled away the night before to the spring for a drink of water, he had not returned to the right tree for the remainder of the night. In his excitement in the morning, after discovering his loss, Sammy ran about a good deal (as Uncle Rufus would have said) "like a chicken wid de haid cut off." He did not manage to find the right tree at all. The extension-bag was now in his father's hands. Mr. Pinkney brought it to the mired car and opened it. There was no mistaking the contents of the bag for anything but Sammy's possessions. "What do you know about that?" murmured the amazed father of the embryo pirate. He rummaged through the conglomeration of chattels in the bag. "No, it is not here." "What are you looking for, Mr. Pinkney?" demanded Agnes, feeling rather serious herself. Something might have happened to the truant. "That picture his mother spoke of," the father answered, with a sigh. "Hoh!" exclaimed Neale O'Neil, "if the kid thinks as much of it as Mrs. Pinkney says, he's got it with him. Of course." "It looks so," admitted Mr. Pinkney. "But why should he abandon his clothes--and all?" "Oh, maybe he hasn't!" cried Agnes eagerly. "Maybe he is coming back here." "You think this old tree," said Mr. Pinkney in doubt, "is Sammy's headquarters?" "I--don't--know--" "That wouldn't be like Sammy," declared Neale, with conviction. "He always keeps moving--even when he is stowaway on a canalboat," and he chuckled at the memory of that incident. "For some reason he was chased away from here. Or," hitting the exact truth without knowing it, "he tucked the bag under that tree root and forgot where he put it." "Does that sound reasonable?" gasped Agnes. "Quite reasonable--for Sammy," grumbled Mr. Pinkney. "He is just so scatter-brained. But what shall I tell his mother when I take this bag home to her? She will feel worse than she has before." "Maybe we will find him yet," Agnes interposed. "That's what we are out for," Neale added with confidence. "Let's not give up hope. Why, we're finding clues all the time." "And now you manage to get us stuck in the mud," put in Agnes, giving her boy friend rather an unfair dig. "Have a heart! How could I help it? Anyway, we'll get out all right. We sha'n't have to camp here all night, if Sammy did." "That is it," interposed Sammy's father. "I wonder if he stayed here all night or if he abandoned the bag here and kept on. Maybe the woods were too much for his nerves," and he laughed rather uncertainly. "I bet Sammy was not scared," announced Neale, with confidence. "He is a courageous chap. If he wasn't, he would not start out alone this way." "True enough," said Mr. Pinkney, not without some pride. "But nevertheless it would help some if we were sure he was here only twelve hours ago, instead of twenty-four." "Let's get the car out of the ditch and see if we can go on," Neale suggested. "I'll get that pole you saw, Mr. Pinkney. And I see another lever over there." While Mr. Pinkney buckled the straps of the extension-bag again and stowed the bag under the seat, Neale brought the two sticks of small timber which he thought would be strong enough to lift the wheels of the stalled car out of the ditch. But first he used the butt of one of the sticks to knock down the edge of the bank in front of each wheel. "You see," he said to Agnes, "when you get it started you want to turn the front wheels, if you can, to the left and climb right out on to the road. Mr. Pinkney and I will do the best we can for you; but it is the power of the engine that must get us out of the ditch." "I--I don't know that I can handle it right, Neale," hesitated Agnes. "Sure you can. You've got to!" he told her. "Come on, Mr. Pinkney! Let's see if we can get these sticks under the wheels on this side." "Wait a moment," urged the man, who was writing hastily on a page torn from his notebook. "I must leave a note for Sammy--if perhaps he should come back here looking for his bag." "Better not say anything about his torn trousers, Mr. Pinkney," giggled Agnes. "He will shy at that." "He can tear all his clothes to pieces if he'll only come home and stop his mother's worrying. Only, the little rascal ought to be soundly trounced just the same for all the trouble he is causing us." "If only I had stayed with him at that beet bed and made sure he knew what he was doing," sighed Agnes, who felt somewhat condemned. "It would have been something else that sent him off in this way, if it hadn't been beets," grumbled Mr. Pinkney. "He was about due for a break-away. I should have paid more attention to him myself. But business was confining. "Oh, well; we always see our mistakes when it is too late. But that boy needs somebody's oversight besides his mother's. She is always afraid I will be too harsh with him. But she doesn't manage him, that is sure." "We'd better catch the rabbit before we make the rabbit stew," chuckled Neale O'Neil. "Sammy is a good kid, I tell you. Only he has crazy notions." "Pooh!" put in Agnes. "You need not talk in so old-fashioned a way. You used to have somewhat similar 'crazy notions' yourself. You ran away a couple of times." "Well, did I have a real home and a mother and father to run from?" demanded the boy. "Guess not!" "You've got a father now," laughed Agnes. "But he isn't like a real father," sighed Neale. "He has run away from me! I know it is necessary for him to go back to Alaska to attend to that mine. But I'll be glad when he comes home for good--or I can go to him." "Oh, Neale! You wouldn't?" gasped the girl. "Wouldn't what?" he asked, surprised by her vehemence. "Go away up to Alaska?" "I'd like to," admitted the boy. "Wouldn't you?" "Oh--well--if you can take me along," rejoined Agnes with satisfaction, "all right. But under no other circumstances can you go, Neale O'Neil." CHAPTER XVI--THE DEAD END OF NOWHERE Mr. Pinkney and Neale went to work to hoist the motor-car into the road again. No easy nor brief struggle was this. A dozen times Agnes started the car and the wheels slipped off the poles or Neale or Mr. Pinkney lost his grip. Before long they were well bespattered with mud (for there was considerable water in the ditch) and so was the automobile. Neale and their neighbor worked to the utmost of their muscular strength, and Agnes was in tears. "Pluck up your courage, Aggie," panted her boy friend. "We'll get it yet." "I just feel that it is my fault," sobbed the girl. "All this slipping and sliding. If I could only just get it to start right--" "Again!" cried Neale cheerfully. And this time the forewheels really got on solid ground. Mr. Pinkney thrust his lever in behind the sloughed hind wheel and blocked it from sliding back. "Great!" yelled Neale. "Once more, Aggie!" She obeyed his order, and although the automobile engine rattled a good deal and the car itself plunged like a bucking broncho, they finally got all the wheels out of the mud and on the firm road. "Crickey!" gasped Neale. "It looks like a battlefield." "And we look as though we had been in the battle all right," said Mr. Pinkney. "Guess Mamma Pinkney will have something to say about _my_ trousers when we get home, let alone Sammy's." "Do you suppose the car will run all right?" asked the anxious Agnes. "I don't know what Ruth would say if we broke down." "She'd say a-plenty," returned Neale. "But wait till I get some of this mud off me and I'll try her out again. By the way she bucked that last time I should say there was nothing much the matter with her machinery." This proved to be true. If anything was strained about the mechanism it did not immediately show up. Neale got the automobile under way without any difficulty and they drove ahead through the now fast darkening road. The belt of woods was not very wide, but the car ran slowly and when the searchers came out upon the far side, the old shack which housed the big, red-faced woman, who had been kind to Sammy, and her brood of children, some of whom had been not at all kind, the place looked to be deserted. In truth, the family were berry pickers and had been gone all day (after Sammy's adventure with the cherry-colored calf) up in the hills after berries. They had not yet returned for the evening meal, and although Neale stopped the car in front of the shack Mr. Pinkney decided Sammy would not have remained at the abandoned place. And, of course, Sammy had not remained here. After his exciting fight with Peter and Liz, and fearing to return to the house to complain, he had gone right on. Where he had gone was another matter. The automobile party drove to the town of Crimbleton, which was the next hamlet, and there Mr. Pinkney made exhaustive inquiries regarding his lost boy, but to no good result. "We'll try again to-morrow, Mr. Pinkney, if you say so," urged Neale. "Of course we will," agreed Agnes. "We'll go every day until you find him." Their neighbor shook his head with some sadness. "I am afraid it will do no good. Sammy has given us the slip this time. Perhaps I would better put the matter in the hands of a detective agency. For myself, I should be contented to wait until he shows up of his own volition. But his mother--" Agnes and Neale saw, however, that the man was himself very desirous of getting hold of his boy again. They made a hasty supper at the Crimbleton Inn and then started homeward at a good rate of speed. When they came up the grade toward the old house beside the road, at the edge of the wood, the big woman and her family had returned, made their own supper, and gone to bed. The place looked just as deserted as before. "The dead-end of nowhere," Neale called it, and the automobile gathered speed as it went by. So the searchers missed making inquiry at the very spot where inquiry might have done the most good. The trail of Sammy Pinkney was lost. Neale O'Neil wanted to satisfy himself about one thing. He said nothing to Agnes about it, but after he had put up the car and locked the garage, he walked down Main Street to Byburg's candy store. June Wildwood was always there until half past nine, and Saturday nights until later. She was at her post behind the sweets counter on this occasion when Neale entered. "I am glad to see you, Neale," she said. "I'm awfully curious." "About that bracelet?" "Yes," she admitted. "What has come of it? Anything?" "Enough. Tell me," began Neale, before she could put in any further question, "while you were with the Gypsies did you hear anything about Queen Alma?" "Queen Zaliska. I was Queen Zaliska. They dressed me up and stained my face to look the part." "Oh, I know all about that," Neale returned. "But this Queen Alma was some ancient lady. She lived three hundred years ago." "Goodness! How you talk, Neale O'Neil. Of course I don't know anything about such a person." "Those Gypsies you were with never talked of her?" "I didn't hear them. I never learned much of the language they use among themselves." "Well, we got a tip," said the boy, "that the bracelet belonged to this Queen Alma, and that there is a row among the Gypsies over the ownership of it." "You don't tell me!" "I am telling you. We heard so. Say, is that Big Jim a Spaniard? A Spanish Gypsy, I mean?" "I don't know. Maybe. He looks like a Spaniard, or a Mexican, or an Italian." "Yes. I thought he did. He comes of some Latin race, anyway. What is his last name?" "Why--I--I am not sure that I know." "Is it Costello? Did you hear that name while you were with the Gypsies, June?" "Some of them are named Costello. It is a family name among them I guess. And about that Jim. Do you know that I saw him yesterday driving down Main Street in an automobile?" "You don't mean it? Gypsies are going to become flivver traders instead of horse swappers, are they?" and Neale laughed. "Oh, it was a big, seven-passenger car," said June. "Those Gypsies have money, if they want to spend it." "Did you ever hear of a Gypsy junkman?" chuckled Neale. "Of course not. Although I guess junkmen make good money nowadays," drawled June Wildwood, laughing too. "You are a funny boy, Neale O'Neil. Do you want to know anything else?" "Lots of things. But I guess you cannot tell me much more about the Gypsies that would be pertinent to the bracelet business. We hear that the Costello Gypsies are fighting over the possession of the heirloom--the bracelet, you know. That is why one bunch of them wanted to get it off their hands for a while--and so gave it into the keeping of Tess and Dot." "Mercy!" "Does that seem improbable to you, June?" "No-o. Not much. They might. It makes me think that maybe the Gypsies have been watching the old Corner House and know all about the Kenways." "They might easily do that. You know, they might know us all from that time away back when we brought you home from Pleasant Cove with us. This is some of the same tribe you were with--sure enough!" "I know it," sighed June Wildwood. "I've been scared a little about them too. But for my own sake. I haven't dared tell Rosa; but pap comes down here to the store for me every evening and beaus me home. I feel safer." "The bracelet business has nothing to do with you, of course?" "Of course not. But those Gypsies might have some evil intent about Ruth and her sisters." "Guess they are just trying to use them for a convenience. While that bracelet is in the Corner House no other claimant but those Gypsy women are likely to get hold of it. Believe me, it is a puzzle," he concluded. "I guess we will have to put it up to Mr. Howbridge, sure enough." "Oh! The Kenways's lawyer?" cried June. "Their guardian. Sure enough. That is what we will have to do." But when Neale and Agnes Kenway, after an early breakfast, hurried downtown to Mr. Howbridge's office the next morning to tell the lawyer all about the Gypsies and Queen Alma's bracelet, they made a surprising discovery. Mr. Howbridge had left town the evening before on important business. He might not return for a week. CHAPTER XVII--RUTH BEGINS TO WORRY Oakhurst, in the mountains, was a very lovely spot. Besides the hotel where Luke Shepard had worked and where he had met with his accident, there were bungalows and several old-fashioned farmhouses where boarders were received. There was a lake, fine golf links, bridlepaths through the woods, and mountains to climb. It was a popular if quiet resort. Ruth and Cecile Shepard had rooms in one of the farmhouses, for the hotel was expensive. Besides, the farmer owned a beautifully shaded lawn overlooking the lake and the girls could sit there under the trees while the invalid, as they insisted upon calling Luke, reclined on a swinging cot. "Believe me!" Cecile often insisted, "I will never send another telegram as long as I live. I cannot forgive myself for making such a mess of it. But then, if I hadn't done so, you would not be here now, Ruthie." "Isn't that a fact?" agreed her brother. "You are all right, Sis! I am for you, strong." Ruth laughed. Yet there were worried lines between her eyes. "It is all right," she murmured. "I might have come in any case--for Mr. Howbridge advised it by this letter that they remailed to me. But I should not have left in such haste, and I should have left somebody besides Mrs. McCall to look after the girls." "Pooh!" ejaculated Luke. "What is the matter with Agnes?" "That is just it," laughed Ruth again, but shaking her head too. "It is Agnes, and what she may do, that troubles me more than anything else." "Goodness me! She is a big girl," declared Cecile. "And she has lots of sense." "She usually succeeds in hiding her good sense, then," rejoined Ruth. "Of course she can take care of herself. But will she give sufficient attention to the little ones. That is the doubt that troubles me." "Well, you just can't go away now!" wailed Cecile. "You have got to stay till the doctor says we can move Luke. I can't take him back alone." "Now, don't make me out so badly off. I am lying here like a poor log because that sawbones and you girls make me. But I know I could get up and play baseball." [Illustration: The girls could sit under the tree while Luke reclined on a swinging cot.] "Don't you dare!" cried his sister. "You would not be so unwise," said Ruth promptly. "All right. Then you stop worrying, Ruth," the young fellow said. "Otherwise I shall 'take up my bed and walk'--you see! This lying around like an ossified man is a nuisance, and it's absurd, anyway." Ruth had immediately written to Mr. Howbridge asking him to look closely after family affairs at the Corner House. Had she known the lawyer was not at home when her letter arrived in Milton she certainly would have started back by the very next train. She wrote Mrs. McCall, too, for exact news. And naturally she poured into her letter to Agnes all the questions and advice of which she could think. Agnes was too busy when that letter arrived to answer it at all. Things were happening at the old Corner House at that time of which Ruth had never dreamed. Ruth was really glad to be with Cecile and Luke in the mountains. And she tried to throw off her anxiety. Luke insisted that his sister and Ruth should go over to the hotel to dance in the evening when he had to go to bed, as the doctor ordered. He had become acquainted with most of the hotel guests before his injury, and the young people liked Luke Shepard. They welcomed his sister and Ruth as one of themselves, and the two girls had the finest kind of a time. At least, Cecile did, and she said that Ruth might have had, had she not been thinking of the home-folk so much. Several days passed, and although Ruth heard nothing from home save a brief and hurried note from Agnes, telling of their unsuccessful search for Sammy--and nothing much else--the older Kenway girl began to feel that her anxiety had been unnecessary. Then came Mrs. McCall's labored letter. The old Scotchwoman was never an easy writer. And her thoughts did not run to the way of clothing facts in readable English. She was plain and blunt. At least a part of her letter immediately made Ruth feel that she was needed at home, and that even her interest in Luke Shepard should not detain her longer at Oakhurst. * * * * * "We have got to have another watchdog. Old Tom Jonah is too old; it is my opinion. I mind he is getting deaf, or something, or he wouldn't have let that man come every night and stare in at the window. Faith, he is a nuisance--the man, I mean, Ruth, not the old dog. "I have spoke to the police officer on the beat; but Mr. Howbridge being out of town I don't know what else to do about that man. And such a foxy looking man as he is! "Neale O'Neil, who is a good lad, I'm saying, and no worse than other boys of his age for sure, offers to watch by night. But I have not allowed it. He and Aggie talk of Gypsies, and they show me that silver bracelet--a bit barbarous thing that you remember the children had to play with--and say the dark man who comes to the window nights is a Gypsy. I think he is a plain tramp, that is all, my lass. "Don't let these few lines worry you. Linda goes to bed with the stove poker every night, and Uncle Rufus says he has oiled up your great uncle's old shotgun. But I know that gun has no hammer to it, so I am not afraid of the weapon at all. I just want to make that black-faced man go away from the house and mind his own business. It is a nuisance he is." * * * * * "I must go home--oh, I must!" Ruth said to Cecile as soon as she had read this effusion from the old housekeeper. "Just think! A man spying on them--and a Gypsy!" "Pooh! it can't be anything of importance," scoffed Cecile. "It must be. Think! I told you about the Gypsy bracelet. There must be more of importance connected with that than we thought." She had already told Luke and Cecile about the mystery of the silver ornament. "Why, I thought you had told Mr. Howbridge about it," Cecile said. "I did not. I really forgot to when the news of Luke's illness came," and Ruth blushed. "That quite drove everything else out of your head, did it?" laughed the other girl. "But now why let it bother you? Of course Mr. Howbridge will attend to things--" "But he seems to be away," murmured Ruth. "Evidently Mrs. McCall and Agnes have not been able to reach him. Oh, Cecile! I must really go home." "Then you will have to come back," declared Cecile Shepard. "I could not possibly travel with Luke alone." The physician had confided more to the girls than to Luke himself about the young man's physical condition. The medical man feared some spinal trouble if Luke did not remain quiet and lie flat on his back for some time to come. But the day following Ruth's receipt of Mrs. McCall's anxiety-breeding letter, Dr. Moline agreed to the young man's removal. "But only in a compartment. You must take the afternoon train on which you can engage a compartment. He must lie at ease all the way. I will take him to the station in my car. And have a car to meet him when you get to the Milton station." The first of these instructions Ruth was able to follow faithfully. The cost of such a trip was not to be considered. She would not even allow Luke and Cecile to speak about it. Ruth had her own private bank account, arranged for and supervised, it was true, by Mr. Howbridge, and she prided herself upon doing business in a businesslike way. Just before they boarded the train at Oakhurst station she telegraphed home that they were coming and for Neale to meet them with the car, late though their arrival would be. If on time, the train would stop at Milton just after midnight. When that telegram arrived at the old Corner House it failed to make much of a disturbance in the pool of the household existence. And for a very good reason. So much had happened there during the previous few hours that the advent of the King and Queen of England (and this Mrs. McCall herself said) would have created a very small "hooroo." As for Neale O'Neil's getting out the car and going down to the station to meet Ruth and her friends when they arrived, that seemed to be quite impossible. The coming of the telegram was at an hour when already the Kenway automobile was far away from Milton, and Neale and Agnes in it were having high adventure. CHAPTER XVIII--THE JUNKMAN AGAIN When Ruth started home with Luke and Cecile Shepard several days had elapsed since Neale O'Neil and Agnes had discovered that Mr. Howbridge was out of town. The chief clerk at the lawyer's office had little time to give to the youthful visitors, for just then he had his hands full with a caller whom Neale and Agnes had previously found was a person not easily to be pacified. "There is a crazy man in here," grumbled the clerk. "I don't know what he means. He says he 'comes from Kenway,' and there is something about Queen Alma and her bracelet. What do you know about this, Miss Kenway?" "Oh, my prophetic soul!" gasped Neale O'Neil. "Costello, the junkman!" "Dear, me! We thought we could see Mr. Howbridge before that man came." "Tell me what it means," urged the clerk. "Then I will know what to say to the lunatic." "I guess he's a nut all right," admitted Neale. He told the lawyer's clerk swiftly all they knew about the junkman, and all they knew about the silver bracelet. "All right. It is something for Mr. Howbridge to attend to himself," declared the clerk. "You hang on to that bracelet and don't let anybody have it. I'll try to shoo off this fellow. Anyway, it may not belong to his family at all. I'll hold him here till you two get away." Neale and Agnes were glad to escape contact with the junkman again. He was too vehement. "He'll walk right in and search the house for the thing," grumbled Neale. "We can't have him frightening the children." "And I don't want to be frightened myself," added Agnes. They hurried home, and all that day, every time the bell rang or she heard a voice at the side door, the girl felt a sudden qualm. "Wish we had never advertised that bracelet at all," she confessed in secret. "Dear, me! I wonder what Ruth will say?" Nevertheless she failed to take her older sister into her confidence regarding Queen Alma's bracelet when she wrote to her. She felt quite convinced that Ruth would not approve of what she and Neale had done, so why talk about it? This was the attitude Agnes maintained. Perhaps the whole affair would be straightened out before Ruth came back. And otherwise, she considered, everything was going well at the Corner House in Milton. It was Miss Ann Titus who evinced interest next in the "lost and found" advertisement. Miss Ann Titus was the woman whom Dot called "such a fluid speaker" and who said so many "and-so's" that "ain't-so's." In other words, Miss Titus, the dressmaker, was a very gossipy person, although she was not intentionally unkind. She came in this afternoon, "stopping by" as she termed it, from spending a short sewing day with Mrs. Pease, a Willow Street neighbor of the Corner House girls. "And I must say that Mrs. Pease, for a woman of her age, has young idees about dress," Miss Titus confided to Mrs. McCall and Agnes, who were in the sewing room. Aunt Sarah "couldn't a-bear" Miss Ann Titus, so they did not invite the seamstress to go upstairs. "Yes, her idees is some young," repeated Miss Titus. "But then, nowadays if you foller the styles in the fashion papers nobody can tell you and your grandmother apart, back to! Skirts are so skimpy--and _short_!" Miss Titus fanned herself rapidly, and allowed her emphasis to suggest her own opinion of modern taste in dress. "Of course, Mrs. Pease is slim and ain't lost all her good looks; but it does seem to me if I was a married woman," she simpered here a little, for Miss Titus had by no means given up all hope of entering the wedded state, "I should consider my husband's feelings. I would not go on the street looking below my knees as though I was twelve year old instead of thirty-two." "Maybe Mr. Pease likes her to look young," suggested Agnes. "Hech! Hech!" clucked Mrs. McCall placidly. "Thirty-twa is not so very auld. Not as we live these days, at any rate." "But think of the example she sets her children," sniffed Miss Titus, bridling. "Tut, tut! How much d'you expect Margie and Holly Pease is influenced by their mother's style o' dress?" exclaimed the housekeeper. "The twa bairns scarce know much about that." "I guess that is so," chimed in Agnes. "And I think she is a pretty woman and dresses nicely. So there!" "Ah, you young things cannot be expected to think as I do," smirked Miss Titus. "I take that as a compliment, my dear," said the housekeeper comfortably. "And I never expect tae be vairy old until I die. Still and all, I am some older than Agnes." "That reminds me," said Miss Titus, more briskly (though it did not remind her, for she had come into the Corner House for the special purpose of broaching the subject that she now announced), "which of you Kenways is it has found a silver bracelet?" "Now, _that_ is Agnes' affair," chuckled Mrs. McCall. "Oh! It is not Ruth that advertised?" queried the curious Miss Titus. "Na, na! Tell it her, Agnes," said the housekeeper. But Agnes was not sure she wished to describe to this gossipy seamstress all the incidents connected with Queen Alma's bracelet. She only said: "Of course, you do not know anybody who has lost such a bracelet?" "How can I tell till I have seen it?" demanded Miss Titus. "Well, we have about decided that until somebody comes who describes the bracelet and can explain how and where it was lost that we had better not display it at all," Agnes said, with more firmness than was usual with her. "Oh!" sniffed Miss Titus. "I hope you do not think that _I_ have any interest--any personal interest--in inquiring about it?" "If I thought it was yours, Miss Titus, I would let you see it immediately," Agnes hastened to assure her. "But of course--" "There was a bracelet lost right on this street," said Miss Titus earnestly, meaning Willow Street and pointing that way, "that never was recovered to my knowledge." "Oh! You don't mean it?" cried the puzzled girl. "Of course, we don't _know_ that this one belongs to any of those Gypsies--" "I should say not!" clucked Miss Titus. "The bracelet I mean was worn by Sarah Turner. She and I went together regular when we were girls. And going to prayer meeting one night, walking along here by the old Corner House, Sarah dropped her bracelet." "But--but!" gasped Agnes, "that must have been some time ago, Miss Titus." "It is according to how you compute time," the dressmaker said. "Sarah and I were about of an age. And she isn't more than forty years old right now!" "I don't think this bracelet we have is the one your friend lost," Agnes said faintly, but confidently. She wanted to laugh but did not dare. "How do you know?" demanded Miss Ann Titus in her snappy way--like the biting off of a thread when she was at work. "I should know it, even so long after it was lost, I assure you." "Why--how?" asked the Corner House girl curiously. "By the scratches on it," declared Miss Titus. "Sarah's brother John made them with his pocketknife--on the inside of the bracelet--to see if it was real silver. Oh! he was a bad boy--as bad as Sammy Pinkney. And what do you think of _his_ running away again?" Agnes was glad the seamstress changed the subject right here. It seemed to her as though she had noticed scratches on the bracelet the Gypsies had placed in the basket the children bought. Could it be possible-- "No! That is ridiculous!" Agnes told herself. "It could not be possible that a bracelet lost forty years ago on Willow Street should turn up at this late date. And, having found it, why should those Gypsy women give it to Tess and Dot? There would be no sense in that." Yet, when the talkative Miss Titus had gone Agnes went to the room the little folks kept their playthings and doll families in, and picked up the Alice-doll which chanced that day to be wearing the silver band. She removed it from the doll and took it to the window where the light was better. Yes! It was true as she had thought. There were several crosswise scratches on the inside of the circlet. They might easily have been made by a boy's jackknife. "I declare! Who really knows where this bracelet came from, and who actually owns it? Maybe it is not Queen Alma's ornament after all. Dear, me! this Kenway family is forever getting mixed up in difficulties that positively have nothing to do with _us_. "The silly old bracelet! Why couldn't those Gypsy women have sold that basket to Margaret and Holly Pease, or to some other little girls instead of to our Tess and Dot. Mrs. McCall says that some people seem to attract trouble, just as lightning-rods attract lightning, and I guess the Kenways are some of those people!" Neale did not come over again that day, so she had nobody to discuss this new slant in the matter with. And if Agnes could not "talk out loud" about her troubles, she was apt to grow irritable. At least, the little girls said after supper that she was cross. "Ruth doesn't talk that way to us," declared Tess, quite hurt, and gathering up her playthings from the various chairs in the sitting room where the family usually gathered in the evenings. "I don't think I should like her to be away all the time." This was Tess's polite way of criticising Agnes. But Dot was not so hampered by politeness. "Crosspatch!" she exclaimed. "That's just what you are, Aggie Kenway." And she started for bed in quite a huff. Agnes was glad, a few minutes later, that the two smaller girls had gone upstairs, even if they had gone away in this unhappy state of mind. Mrs. McCall had come in and sat down at some mending and the room was very quiet. Suddenly a noise outside on the porch made Agnes raise her head and look at the nearest window. "What is the matter wi' ye, lassie?" asked Mrs. McCall, startled. "Did you hear that?" whispered the girl, staring at the window. The shade was not drawn down to the sill, and the curtains were the very thinnest of scrim. At the space of four inches below the shade Agnes saw a white splotch against the pane. "Oh! See! A face!" gasped Agnes in three smothered shrieks. "Hech, mon! Such a flibbertigibbet as the lass is." Mrs. McCall adjusted her glasses and stared, first at the frightened girl, then at the window. But she, too, saw the face. "What can the matter be?" she demanded, half rising. "Is that Neale O'Neil up tae some o' his jokes?" "Oh, no, Mrs. Mac! It's not Neale," half sobbed Agnes. "I know who it is. It's that awful junkman!" "A junkman?" repeated Mrs. McCall. "At this time o' night? We've naethin' tae sellit him. The impudence!" She rose, quite determined to drive the importunate junkman away. CHAPTER XIX--THE HOUSE IS HAUNTED "Why do ye fash yoursel' so?" demanded Mrs. McCall in growing wonder and exasperation. "Let me see the foolish man." She approached the window and raised the shade sharply. Then she hoisted the sash itself. But Costello, the junkman, was gone. "There is naebody here," she complained, looking out on the side porch. "But he _was_ there! You saw him," faintly declared Agnes. "He was nae ghost, if that's what you mean," said the housekeeper dryly. "But what and who is he? A junkman? How do you come to know junkmen, lassie?" "I only know that junkman," explained Agnes. "Aye?" The housekeeper's eyes as well as her voice was sharp. "And when did you make his acquaintance? Costello, d'you say?" "So he said his name was. He--he is one of the Gypsies, I do believe!" "Gypsies! The idea! Is the house surrounded by Gypsies?" "I don't know, Mrs. McCall," said Agnes faintly. "I only know they are giving us a lot of trouble." "Who are?" "The Gypsies." "Hear the lass!" exclaimed the troubled housekeeper. "Who ever heard the like? Why should Gypsies give us any trouble? Is it that bit bracelet the bairns play wi'? Then throw it out and let the Gypsies have it." "But that would not be right, would it, Mrs. McCall?" demanded the troubled girl. "If--if the bracelet belongs to them--" "Hech! To this junkman?" "He claims it," confessed Agnes. "Tut, tut! What is going on here that I do not know about?" demanded the Scotch woman with deeper interest. She closed the window, drew the shade again, and returned to her seat. She stared at Agnes rather sternly over her glasses. "Come now, my lass," said the housekeeper, "what has been going on so slyly here? I never heard of any Costello, junkman or not. Who is he? What does he want, peering in at a body's windows at night?" Agnes told the whole story then--and managed to tell it clearly enough for the practical woman to gain a very good idea of the whole matter. "Of course," was her comment, grimly said, "you and that Neale could not let well enough alone. You never can. If you had not advertised the bit bracelet, this junkman would not have troubled you." "But we thought it ought to be advertised," murmured Agnes in defense. "Aye, aye! Ye thought mooch I've nae doot. And to little good purpose. Well, 'tis a matter for Mr. Howbridge now, sure enough. And what he'll say--" "But I hope that Costello does not come to the house again," ventured the girl, in some lingering alarm. "You or Neale go to Mr. Howbridge's clerk in the morning and tell him. He should tell the police of this crazy man. A Gypsy, too, you say?" "I think he must be. The bracelet seems to be a bone of contention between two branches of the Gypsy tribe. If it belonged to that old Queen Alma--" "Fiddle-faddle!" exclaimed the housekeeper. "Who ever heard of a queen among those dirty Gypsies? 'Tis foolishness." The fact that Costello, the junkman, was lingering about the old Corner House was not to be denied. They saw him again before bedtime. Uncle Rufus had gone to bed and Linda was so easily frightened that Mrs. McCall did not want to tell her. So the housekeeper grabbed a broom and started out on the side porch with the avowed intention of "breaking the besom over the chiel's head!" But the lurker refused to be caught and darted away into the shadows. And all without making a sound, or revealing in any way what his intention might be. Mrs. McCall and the trembling Agnes went all about the house, locking each lower window, and of course all the doors. Tom Jonah, the old Newfoundland dog, slept out of doors these warm nights, and sometimes wandered away from the premises. "We ought to have Buster, Sammy Pinkney's bulldog, over here. Then that horrid man would not dare come into the yard," Agnes said. "You might as well turn that old billy-goat loose," sniffed Mrs. McCall. "He'd do little more harm than that bull pup--and nae more good, either." They went to bed--earlier than usual, perhaps. And that may be the reason why Agnes could not sleep. She considered the possibility of Costello's climbing up the porch posts to the roof, and so reaching the second story windows. "If he is going to haunt the house like this," Agnes declared to the housekeeper in the morning, "let us make Neale come here and stay at night." "That lad?" returned the housekeeper, who had no very exalted opinion of boys in any case--no more than had Ruth. "Haven't we all troubles enough, I want to know? This is a case for the police. You go tell Mr. Howbridge's clerk about the Gypsy, that is what you do." But Agnes would not do even that without taking Neale into her confidence. Neale at once was up in arms when he heard of the lurking junkman. He declared he would come over and hide in the closet on the Kenways' back porch and try to catch the man if he appeared again at night. "He is a very strong man, Neale," objected Agnes. "And he might have a knife, too. You know, those Gypsies are awfully fierce-tempered." "I don't know that he is," objected Neale. "He looked to me like just plain crazy." "Well, you come down to the office with me," commanded Agnes. "I don't even want to meet that excitable Costello man on the street when I am alone." "I suppose you are scared, Aggie. But I don't think he would really hurt you. Come on!" So they went down to Mr. Howbridge's office again and interviewed the clerk, telling him first of all of the appearance of the junkman the night before. "I had fairly to drive him out of these offices," said the clerk. "He is of a very excitable temperament, to say the least. But I did not think there was any real harm in him." "Just the same," Neale objected, "he wants to keep away from the house and not frighten folks at night." "Oh, we will soon stop that," said Mr. Howbridge's representative. "I will report it to the police." "But perhaps he does not mean any harm," faltered Agnes. "I do not think he does," said the man. "Nevertheless, we will warn him." This promise relieved Agnes a good deal. She was tender-hearted and she did not wish the junkman arrested. But when evening came and he once more stared in at the windows, and tapped on the panes, and wandered around and around the house-- "Well, this is too much!" cried the girl, when Neale and Mrs. McCall both ran out to try to apprehend the marauder. "I do wish we had a telephone. I am going to _beg_ Ruth to have one put in just as soon as she comes back. We could call the police and they would catch that man." Perhaps the police, had they been informed, might have caught Costello. But Mrs. McCall and Neale did not. The latter remained until the family went to bed and then the boy did a little lurking in the bushes on his own account. But he did not spy the strange man again. In the morning, without saying anything to the Kenway family about it, Neale O'Neil set out to find Costello, the junkman. He certainly was not afraid of the man by daylight. He had had experience with him. From Mr. Howbridge's clerk he had already obtained the address the junkman had given when he was at the office. The place was down by the canal in the poorer section of the town, of course. There were several cellars and first-floors of old houses given up to ragpickers and dealers in junk of all kinds. After some inquiry among a people who quite evidently were used to dodging the answering of incriminating questions, Neale learned that there had been a junkman living in a certain room up to within a day or two before, whose name was Costello. But he had disappeared. Oh, yes! Neale's informant was quite sure that Costello had gone away for good. "But he had a horse and wagon. He had a business of his own. Where has he gone?" demanded the boy. He was gone. That was all these people would tell him. They pointed out the old shed where Costello had kept his horse. Was it a good horse? It was a good looking horse, with smiles which seemed to indicate that Costello was a true Gypsy and was not above "doctoring" a horse into a deceiving appearance of worthiness. "He drove away with that horse. He did not say where he was going. I guess he go to make a sale, eh? He will come back with some old plug that he make look fine, eh?" This was the nearest to real information that Neale could obtain, and this from a youth who worked for one of the established junk dealers. So Neale had to give up the inquiry as useless. When he came back to the old Corner House he confessed to Agnes: "He is hiding somewhere, and coming around here after dark. Wish I had a shotgun--" "Oh, Neale! How wicked!" "Loaded with rock-salt," grinned the boy. "A dose of that might do the Gyp. a world of good." CHAPTER XX--PLOTTERS AT WORK The adventures of the Corner House girls and their friends did not usually include anything very terrible. Perhaps there was no particular peril threatened by Costello, the Gypsy junkman, who was lurking about the premises at night. Just the same, Agnes Kenway was inclined to do what Mrs. McCall suggested and throw the silver bracelet out upon the ash heap. Of course they had no moral right to do that, and the housekeeper's irritable suggestion was not to be thought of for a serious moment. Yet Agnes would have been glad to get rid of the responsibility connected with possession of Queen Alma's ornament. "If it is that Costello heirloom!" she said. "Maybe after all it belongs to Miss Ann Titus's friend, Sarah Whatshername. Goodness! I wonder how many other people will come to claim the old thing. I do wish Ruth would return." "Just so you could hand the responsibility over to her," accused Neale. "M-mm. Well?" "We ought to hunt up those Gypsies--'Beeg Jeem' and his crowd--and get their side of the story," declared Neale. "No! I will not!" cried Agnes. "I have met all the Gypsies I ever want to meet." But within the hour she met another. She was in the kitchen, and Linda and Mrs. McCall were both in the front of the house, cleaning. There came a timid-sounding rap on the door. Agnes unthinkingly threw it open. A slender girl stood there--a girl younger than Agnes herself. This stranger was very ragged, not at all clean looking, and very brown. She had flashing white teeth and flashing black eyes. Agnes actually started back when she saw her and suppressed a scream. For she instantly knew the stranger was one of the Gypsy tribe. That she seemed to be alone was the only thing that kept Agnes from slamming the door again right in the girl's face. "Will the kind lady give me something to eat?" whined the beggar. "I am hungry. I eat nothing all the day." Agnes was doubtful of the truth of this. The dark girl did not look ill-fed. But she had an appearance of need just the same; and it was a rule of the Corner House household never to turn a hungry person away. "Stay there on the mat," Agnes finally said. "Don't come in. I will see what I can find for you." "Yes, Ma'am," said the girl. "Haven't you had any breakfast?" asked Agnes, moving toward the pantry, and her sympathies becoming excited. "No, Ma'am. And no supper last night. Nobody give me nothing." "Well," said Agnes, with more warmth, expanding to this tale of woe, as was natural, "I will see what I can find." She found a plate heaped with bread and meat and a wedge of cake, which she brought to the screen door. The girl had stood there motionless, only her black eyes roved about the kitchen and seemed to mark everything in it. "Sit down there on the steps and eat it," said Agnes, passing the plate through a narrow opening, as she might have handed food into the cage of an animal at a menagerie. She really was half afraid of the girl just because she looked so much like a Gypsy. The stranger ate as though she was quite as ravenously hungry as she had claimed to be. There could be no doubt that the food disappeared with remarkable celerity. She sat for a moment or two after she had eaten the last crumb with the plate in her lap. Then she rose and brought it timidly to the door. "Did you have enough?" asked Agnes, feeling less afraid now. "Oh, yes, Lady! It was so nice," and the girl flashed her teeth in a beaming smile. She was quite a pretty girl--if she had only been clean and decently dressed. She handed the plate to Agnes, and then turned and ran out of the yard and down the street as fast as she could run. Agnes stared after her in increased amazement. Why had she run away? "If she is a Gypsy--Well, they are queer people, that is sure. Oh! What is this?" Her fingers had found something on the under side of the plate. She turned it up and saw a soiled piece of paper sticking there. Agnes, wondering, if no longer alarmed, drew the paper from the plate, turned it over, and saw that some words were scrawled in blue pencil on the paper. "Goodness me! More mysteries!" gasped the Corner House girl. Briefly and plainly the message read: _Do not_ _give the bracelet to Miguel. He is a thief._ Agnes sat down and stared almost breathlessly at the paper. That it was a threatening command from one crowd of Gypsies or the other, she was sure. But whether it was from Big Jim's crowd or from Costello, the junkman, she did not know. Her first thought, after she had digested the matter for a few moments, was to run with the paper to Mrs. McCall. But Mrs. McCall was not at all sympathetic about this bracelet matter. She was only angry with the Gypsies, and, perhaps, a little angry with Agnes for having unwittingly added to the trouble by putting the advertisement in the paper. Neale, after all, could be her only confident; and, making sure that no other dark-visaged person was in sight about the house, the girl ran down the long yard beyond the garden to the stable and Billy Bumps' quarters, and there climbed the board fence that separated the Kenway yard from that of Con Murphy, the cobbler. "Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo!" Agnes called, looking over the top rail of the fence. "Hoo, hoo, yerself!" croaked a voice. "I'd have yez know we kape no owls on these premises." The bent figure of Mr. Murphy, always busy at his bench, was visible through the back window of his shop. "Is it that young yahoo called Neale O'Neil that yez want, Miss Aggie?" added the smiling cobbler. "If so--" But Neale O'Neil appeared just then to answer to the summons of his girl friend. He had been to the store, and he tumbled all his packages on Con's bench to run out into the yard to greet Agnes. "What's happened now?" he cried, seeing in the girl's face that something out of the ordinary troubled her. "Oh, Neale! what do you think?" she gasped. "There's been another of them at the house." "Not one of those Gypsies?" "I believe she was." "Oh! A _she_!" said the boy, much relieved. "Well, she didn't bite you, of course?" "Come here and look at this," commanded his friend. Neale went to the fence, climbed up and took the paper that Agnes had found stuck to the plate on which she had placed the food for the Gypsy girl. When he had read the abrupt and unsigned message, Neale began to grow excited, too. "Where did you get this?" Agnes told him about it. Of course, the hungry girl had been a messenger from one party of Gypsies or the other. Which? was Agnes' eager question. "Guess I can answer that," Neale said gravely. "It does look as though things were getting complicated. I bet this girl you fed is one of Big Jim's bunch." "How can you be so positive?" "There are probably only two parties of Gypsies fighting over the possession of that old bracelet. Now, I learned down there in that junk neighborhood that Costello--the Costello who is bothering us--is called Miguel. They are all Costellos--Big Jim's crowd and all. June Wildwood says so. They distinguish our junkman from themselves by calling him by his first name. Therefore--" "Oh, of course I see," sighed Agnes. "It is a terrible mess, Neale! I do wish Mr. Howbridge would get back. Or that the police would find that junkman and shut him up. Or--or that Ruthie would come home!" "Oh, don't be a baby, Aggie!" ejaculated Neale. "Who is the baby, I want to know?" flashed back the girl. "I'm not!" "Then pluck up your spirits and don't turn on the sprinkler," said the slangy youth. "Why, this is nothing to cry about. When it is all over we shall be looking back at the mystery as something great in our young lives." "You can try to laugh if you want to," snapped Agnes. "But being haunted by a junkman, and getting notes from Gypsies like that! Huh! who wouldn't be scared? Why, we don't know what those people might do to us if we give up the bracelet to the wrong person." "It doesn't belong to any of the Gypsies, perhaps." "That is exactly it!" she cried. "Maybe, after all, it is the property of Miss Ann Titus' friend, Sarah." "And was lost somewhere on Willow Street--about where your garage now stands--forty years ago!" scoffed Neale. "Well, you are pretty soft, Agnes Kenway." This naturally angered the girl, and she pouted and got down from the fence without replying. As she went back up the yard she saw Mrs. Pinkney, with her head tied up with a towel, shaking a dustcloth at one of her front windows. It at least changed the current of the girl's thought. "Oh, Mrs. Pinkney!" she cried, running across the street to speak to Sammy's mother, "have you heard anything?" "About Sammy? Not a word," answered the woman. "I have to keep working all the time, Agnes Kenway, or I should go insane. I know I should! I have cleaned this whole house, from attic to cellar, three times since Sammy ran away." "Why, Mrs. Pinkney! If you don't go insane--and I don't believe you will--I am sure you will overwork and be ill." "I must keep doing. I must keep going. If I sit down to think I imagine the most horrible things happening to the dear child. It is awful!" Agnes knew that never before had the woman been so much disturbed by her boy's absences from home. It seemed as though she really had lost control of herself, and the Corner House girl was quite worried over Mrs. Pinkney. "If we could only help you and Mr. Pinkney," said Agnes doubtfully. "Do you suppose it would do any good to go off in the car again--Neale and me and your husband--to look for Sammy?" "Mr. Pinkney is so tied down by his business that he cannot go just now," she sighed. "And he has put the search into the hands of an agency. I did not want the police to get after Sammy. But what could we do? And they say there are Gypsies around." "Oh!" gasped Agnes. "Do you suppose--?" "You never can tell what those people will do. I am told they have stolen children." "Isn't that more talk than anything else?" asked Agnes, trying to speak quite casually. "I don't know. One of my neighbors tells me she hears that there is a big encampment of Gypsies out on the Buckshot Road. You know, out beyond the Poole farm. They have autovans instead of horses, so they say, and maybe could carry any children they stole out of the state in a very short time." "Oh, dear me, Mrs. Pinkney! I would not think of such things," Agnes urged. "It does not sound reasonable." "That the Gypsies should travel by auto instead of behind horse?" rejoined Sammy's mother. "Why not? Everybody else is using automobiles for transportation. I tell Mr. Pinkney that if we had a machine perhaps Sammy might not have been so eager to leave home." "Oh, dear, me!" thought Agnes, as she made her way home again, "I am sorry for Mr. Pinkney. Just now I guess he is having a hard time at home as well as at business!" But she treasured up what she had heard about the Gypsy encampment on the Buckshot Road to tell Neale--when she should not be so "put-out" with him. The Buckshot Road was in an entirely different direction from Milton than that they had followed in their automobile on the memorable search for Sammy. Agnes did not suppose for a moment that the missing boy had gone with the Gypsies. CHAPTER XXI--TESS AND DOT TAKE A HAND Up to this time Tess and Dot Kenway had heard nothing about the Gypsy junkman haunting the house at night, or about other threatening things connected with the wonderful silver bracelet. Their young minds were quite as excited about the ornament as in the beginning, however; for in the first place they had to keep run exactly of whose turn it was to "wear" the Gypsies' gift. "I don't see what we'll do about it when Alice grows up," Dot said. She was always looking forward in imagination to the time when her favorite doll should become adult. "She will want to wear that belt, Tess, for evening dress. You know, a lady's jewelry should belong to her." "I'm not going to give up my share to your Alice-doll," announced Tess, quite firmly for her. "And, anyway, you must not be so sure that it is going to be ours all the time. See! Aggie says we can't take it out of the house to play with." "I don't care!" whined Dot. "I don't want to give it back to those Gypsy ladies." "Neither do I. But we must of course, if we can find them. Honest is honest." "It--it's awful uncomfortable to be so dreadful' honest," blurted out the smaller girl. "And I think they meant us to have the bracelet." "All right, then. It's only polite to offer it back to them. Then if they don't want it we'll know that it is ours and even Ruth won't say anything." "But--but when my Alice-doll grows up--" "Now, don't be a little piggie, Dot Kenway!" exclaimed Tess, rather crossly. "When your wrist gets big enough so the bracelet won't slip over your hand so easy, you will want to wear it yourself--just as I do. And Agnes wants it, too." "Oh! But it's ours--if it isn't the Gypsy ladies'," Dot hastened to say. Two claimants for the ornament were quite enough. She did not wish to hear of any other people desiring to wear it. As it chanced, Tess and Dot heard about the Gypsy encampment on the Buckshot Road through the tongue of neighborhood gossip, quite as had Sammy's mother. Margaret and Holly Pease heard the store man tell their mother; and having enviously eyed the silver bracelet in the possession of the Kenway girls, they ran to tell the latter about the Gypsies. "They've come back," declared Margaret decidedly, "to look for that bracelet you've got. You'll see them soon enough." "Oh, Margie! do you think so?" murmured Tess, while Dot was immediately so horror-stricken that tears came to her eyes. "Maybe they will bring the police and have you locked up," continued the cheerful Pease child. "You know they might accuse you of stealing the bracelet." "We never!" wailed Dot. "We never! They gave it to us!" "Well, they are going to take it back, so now!" Margaret Pease declared. "I don't think it is nice of you to say what you do, Margie," said Tess. "Everybody knows we are honest. Why! if Dot and I knew how to find them, we would take the bracelet right to the Gypsy ladies. Wouldn't we, Dot?" "But--but we don't know where to find them," blurted out the youngest Corner House girl. "You can find them I guess--out on the Buckshot Road." "We don't know that _our_ Gypsy ladies are there," said Tess, with some defiance. "You don't dare go to see," said Margaret Pease. It was a question to trouble the minds of Tess and Dot. Should they try to find the Gypsies, and see if the very ladies who had given them the bracelet were in that encampment? At least it was a leading question in Tess Kenway's mind. It must be confessed that Dot only hoped it would prove a false alarm. She was very grateful to the strange Gypsy women for having put the silver ornament in the green and yellow basket; but she hoped never to see those two kind women again! The uncertainty was so great in both of the small girls' minds that they said nothing at all about it in the hearing of any other member of the family. Had Ruth been at home they might have confided in her. They had always confided everything to their eldest sister. But just now the two smaller Corner House girls were living their own lives, very much shut away from the existence Agnes, for instance, was leading. Agnes had a secret--several of them, indeed. She did not take Tess and Dot into her confidence. So, if for no other reason, the smaller girls did not talk to Agnes about the Gypsies. The Kenways owned some tenement property in a much poorer part of the town than that prominent corner on which the Corner House stood. Early in their coming to Milton from Bloomsburg, the Corner House girls had become acquainted with the humble tenants whose rents helped swell the funds which Mr. Howbridge cared for and administered. Some of these poorer people, especially the children near their own age, interested the Kenway girls very much because they met these poorer children in school. So when news was brought to Agnes one afternoon (it was soon after lunch) that Maria Maroni, whose father kept the coal, wood, ice and vegetable cellar in one of the Stower houses and who possessed a wife and big family of children as well, had been taken ill, Agnes was much disturbed. Agnes liked Maria Maroni. Maria was very bright and forward in her studies and was a pretty Italian girl, as well. The Maronis lived much better than they once had, too. They now occupied one of the upstairs tenements over Mrs. Kranz's delicatessen store, instead of all living in the basement. The boy who ran into the Kenway yard and told Agnes this while she was tying up the gladioli stems after a particularly hard night's rain, did not seem to be an Italian. Indeed, he was no boy that Agnes ever remembered having seen before. But tenants were changing all the time over there where Maria lived. This might be a new boy in that neighborhood. And, anyway, Agnes was not bothered in her mind much about the boy. It was Maria's illness that troubled her. "What is the matter with the poor girl?" Agnes wanted to know. "What does the doctor say it is?" "They ain't got no doc," said the boy. "She's just sick, Maria is. I don't know what she's got besides." This sounded bad enough to Agnes. And the fact that the sick girl had no medical attention was the greater urge for the Kenway girl to do something about it. Of course, Joe and his wife must have a doctor for Maria at once. Agnes went into the house and told Mrs. McCall about it. She even borrowed the green and yellow basket from the little girls and packed some jelly and a bowl of broth and other nice things to take to Maria Maroni. The Kenways seldom went to the tenements empty-handed. She would have taken Neale with her, only she felt that after their incipient "quarrel" of the previous morning she did not care immediately to make up with the boy. Sometimes she felt that Neale O'Neil took advantage of her easy disposition. So Agnes went off alone with her basket. Half an hour later a boy rang the front door bell of the Corner House. He had a note for Mrs. McCall. It was written in blue pencil, and while the housekeeper was finding her reading glasses the messenger ran away so that she could not question him. The note purported to be from Hedden, Mr. Howbridge's butler. It said that the lawyer had been "brought home" and had asked for Mrs. McCall to be sent for. It urged expedition in her answer to the request, and it threw Mrs. McCall into "quite a flutter" as she told Linda and Aunt Sarah Maltby. "The puir mon!" wailed the Scotch woman who before she came to the old Corner House to care for the Kenway household had been housekeeper for Mr. Howbridge himself for many years. "There is something sad happened to him, nae doot. I must go awa' wi' me at aince. See to the bairns, Miss Maltby, that's the good soul. Even Agnes is not in the hoose." "Of course I will see to them--if it becomes necessary," said Aunt Sarah. Her idea of attending to the younger children, however, was to remain in her own room knitting, only occasionally going to the head of the back stairs to ask Linda if Tess and Dot were all right. The Finnish girl's answer was always "Shure, Mum," and in her opinion Tess and Dot were all right as long as she did not see that they were in trouble. To tell the truth, Linda saw the smaller girls very little after Mrs. McCall hurried out of the house to take the street car for the lawyer's residence. Once Linda observed Tess and Dot in the side yard talking to a boy through the pickets. She had no idea that the sharp-featured boy was the same who had brought the news of Maria Maroni's illness to Agnes, and the message from Hedden to Mrs. McCall! The boy in question had come slowly along the pavement on Willow Street, muttering to himself as he approached as though saying over several sentences that he had learned by rote. He was quite evidently a keen-minded boy, but he was not at all a trustworthy looking one. Tess and Dot both saw him, and that he was a stranger made the little girls eye him curiously. When he hailed them they were not quite sure whether they ought to reply or not. [Illustration: "They want that silver thing back. It wasn't meant for you."] "I guess you don't know us," Tess said doubtfully. "You don't belong in this neighborhood." "I know you all right," said the boy. "You're the two girls those women sold the basket to. I know you." "Oh!" gasped Tess. "The Gypsy ladies!" murmured Dot. "That's the one. They sold you the basket for forty-five cents. Didn't they?" "Yes," admitted Tess. "And it's _ours_," cried Dot. "We paid for it." "That's all right," said the boy slowly. "But you didn't buy what was in it. No, sir! They want it back." "Oh! The basket?" cried Tess. "What you found in it." The boy seemed very sure of what he was saying, but he spoke slowly. "They want that silver thing back. It wasn't meant for you. It was a mistake. You know very well it isn't yours. If you are honest--and you told them you were--you will bring it back to them." "Oh! They did ask us if we were honest," Tess said faintly. "And of course we are. Aren't we, Dot?" "Why--why-- Do we have to be so dreadful' honest," whispered the smallest Corner House girl, quite borne down with woe. "Of course we have. Just think of what Ruthie would say," murmured Tess. Then to the boy: "Where are those ladies?" "Huh?" he asked. "What ladies?" "The Gypsy ladies we bought the basket from?" "Oh, _them_?" he rejoined hurriedly, glancing along the street with eagerness. "You go right out along this street," and he pointed in the direction from which he had come. "You keep on walking until you reach the brick-yard." "Oh! Are they camped there?" asked Tess. "No. But a man with an automobile will meet you there. He is a man who will take you right to the Gypsy camp and bring you back again. Don't be afraid, kids. It's all right." He went away then, and the little girls could not call him back. They wanted to ask further questions; but it was evident that the boy had delivered his message and was not to be cross-examined. "What _shall_ we do?" Tess exclaimed. "Oh, let's wait. Let's wait till Ruth comes home," cried Dot, saying something very sensible indeed. But responsibility weighed heavily on Tess's mind. She considered that if the Gypsy women wished their bracelet returned, it was her duty to take it to them without delay. Besides, there was the man in the automobile waiting for them. Why the man had not come to the house with the car, or why he had not brought the two Gypsy women to the Corner House, were queries that did not occur to the little girls. If Tess Kenway was nothing else, she was strictly honest. "No," she sighed, "we cannot wait. We must go and see the women now. I will go in and get the bracelet, Dot. Do you want your hat? Mrs. McCall and Agnes are both away. We will have to go right over and tend to this ourselves." CHAPTER XXII--EXCITEMENT GALORE When Agnes Kenway reached the tenement where Maria Maroni resided and found that brisk young person helping in the delicatessen store as she did almost every day during the busy hours and when there was no school, the Corner House girl was surprised; but she was not suspicious. That is, she was not suspicious of any plot really aimed at the happiness of the Corner House family. She merely believed that the strange boy had deliberately fooled her for an idle purpose. "Maria Maroni! What do you think?" Agnes burst out. "Who could that boy be? Oh, I'd like to catch him! I'd make him sorry he told me such a story." "It is too bad you were troubled so, Agnes," said Maria, when she understood all about it. "I can't imagine who that boy could be. But I am glad you came over to see us, never mind what the reason is that brings you." "A sight you are for sore eyes yet," declared the ponderous Mrs. Kranz, who had kissed Agnes warmly when she first appeared. "Come the back room in and sit down. Let Ikey tend to the customers yet, Maria. We will visit with Agnes, and have some tea and sweet crackers." "And you must tell me of somebody in the row, Mrs. Kranz, who needs these delicacies. Somebody who is ill," said Agnes. "I must not take them home again. And Maria looks altogether too healthy for jelly and chicken broth." Mrs. Kranz laughed at that. But she added with seriousness: "There is always somebody sick here in the tenements, Miss Agnes. They will not take care themselfs of--no! I tell them warm flannels and good food is better than doctors yet. But they will not mind me." She sighed. "Who is ill now?" asked Agnes, at once interested. She loved to play "Lady Bountiful"; and, really, the Kenway sisters had done a great deal of good among their poor tenants and others in the row. "Mrs. Leary. You know, her new baby died and the poor woman," said Maria quickly, "is sick of grief, I do believe." "Ach, yes!" cried Mrs. Kranz. "She needs the cheerful word. You see her, Miss Agnes. Then she be better--sure!" "Thank you!" cried Agnes, dimpling and blushing. "Do you really think I can help her?" "And there is little Susie Marowsky," urged the delicatessen shopkeeper. "That child is fading away like a sick rose. She iss doing just that! If she could have country eggs and country milk--Ach! If we were all rich!" and she sighed ponderously again. "I'll tell our Ruth about her," said Agnes eagerly. "And I'll see her, too, before I go home. I'll give her the broth, yes? And Mrs. Leary the jelly, bread, and fruit?" "No!" cried Mrs. Kranz. "The fruit to Dominic Nevin, the scissors grinder. He craves fruit. You know, he cut his hand and got blood poisoning, and it was so long yet that he could not work. You see him, too, Miss Agnes." So altogether, what with the tea and cakes and the visits to the sick, Agnes was away from the Corner House quite three hours. When she was on her way home she was delayed by an unforeseen incident too. At the corner of Willow Street not far from the brick-yard a figure suddenly darted into Agnes' path. She was naturally startled by the sudden appearance of this figure, and doubly so when she saw it was the Costello that she knew as the junkman, and whose first name she now believed to be Miguel. "What do you want? Go away!" cried the girl faintly, backing away from the vehement little man. "Oh, do not be afraid! You are the honest Kenway I am sure. You have Queen Alma's bracelet," urged the little man. "You will give her to me--yes?" "I--I haven't it," cried Agnes, looking all about for help and seeing nobody near. "Ha!" ejaculated the man. "You have not give it to Beeg Jeem?" "We have given it to nobody. And we will not let you or anybody have it until Mr. Howbridge tells us what to do. Go away!" begged Agnes. "I go to that man. He no have the Queen Alma bracelet. _You_ have it--" "Just as sure as I get home," cried the frightened Agnes, "I will send that bracelet down to the lawyer's office and they must keep it. It shall be in the house no longer! Don't you dare come there for it!" She got past him then and ran as hard as she could along Willow Street. When she finally looked back she discovered that the man had not followed her, but had disappeared. "Oh, dear me! I don't care what the children say. That bracelet goes into Mr. Howbridge's safe this very afternoon. Neale must take it there for me," Agnes Kenway decided. She reached the side door of the Corner House just as Mrs. McCall entered the front door, having got off the car at the corner. The housekeeper came through the hall and into the rear premises a good deal like a whirlwind. She was so excited that Agnes forgot her own fright and stared at the housekeeper breathlessly. "Is it you home again, Agnes Kenway?" cried Mrs. McCall. "Well, thanks be for _that_. Then you are all right." "Why, of course! Though he did scare me. But what is the matter with you, Mrs. McCall?" "What is the matter wi' me? A plenty. A plenty, I tellit ye. If I had that jackanapes of a boy I'd shake him well, so I would!" "What has Neale been doing now?" cried the girl. "Not Neale." "Then is it Sammy?" "Nor Sammy Pinkney. 'Tis that other lad that came here wi' a lying note tae get me clear across town for naething!" "Why, Mrs. McCall! what can you mean? Did a boy fool you, too?" "Hech!" The woman started and stared at the girl. "Who brought you news of that little girl being sick?" "But she wasn't sick!" cried Agnes. "That boy was an awful little story-teller." "Ye was fooled then? That Maria Maroni--" "Was not ill at all." "And," cried Mrs. McCall, "that boy who brought a note to me from Hedden never came from Mr. Howbridge's house at all. It nearly scar't me tae death! It said Mr. Howbridge was ill. He isn't even at home yet, and when Mr. Hedden heard from his master this morning he was all right--the gude mon!" "Oh, Mrs. McCall!" gasped Agnes, gazing at the housekeeper with terrified visage. "What can it mean?" "Somebody has foolit us weel," ejaculated the enraged housekeeper. "But why?" The woman turned swiftly. She had grown suddenly pale. She called up the back stairs for Linda. A sleepy voice replied: "Here I be, mum!" "Where are the children? Where are Tess and Dot?" demanded Mrs. McCall, her voice husky. "They was in the yard, mum, the last I see of them." "That girl!" ejaculated the housekeeper angrily. "She neglects everything. If there's harm happened to those bairns--" She rushed to the porch. Uncle Rufus was coming slowly up from the garden, hoe and rake over his shoulder. It was evident that the old colored man had been working steadily, and for some time, among the vegetables. "Oh, Uncle Rufus!" cried the excited woman. "Ya-as'm! Ya-as'm! I's a-comin'," said the old man rather querulously. "Step here a minute," said Mrs. McCall. "I's a-steppin', Ma'am," grumbled the other. "Does seem as though dey wants me for fust one t'ing an' den anudder. I don't no more'n git t'roo one chore den sumpin' else hops right out at me. Lawsy me!" and he mopped his bald brown brow with a big bandanna. "I only want to ask you something," said the housekeeper, less raspingly. "Are the little ones down there? Have you seen them?" "Them chillun? No'm. I ain't seen 'em fo' some time. They was playin' up this-a-way den." "How long ago?" "I done reckon it was nigh two hours ago." "Hunt for them, Agnes!" gasped the housekeeper. "I fear me something bad has happened. You, Linda," for the Finnish girl now appeared, "run to the neighbors--all of them! See if you can find those bairns." "Tess and Dottie, mum?" cried the Finnish girl, already in tears. "Oh! they ain't losted are they?" "For all _you_ know they are!" declared Mrs. McCall. "Look around the house for them, Uncle Rufus. I will look inside--" "They may be upstairs with Aunt Sarah," cried Agnes, getting her breath at last. "I'll know that in a moment!" declared Mrs. McCall, and darted within. Agnes ran in the other direction. She felt such a lump in her throat that she could scarcely speak or breathe. The possibility of something having happened to the little girls--and with Ruth away!--cost the second Corner House girl every last bit of her self-control. "Oh, Neale! Neale!" she murmured over and over again, as she ran to the lower end of the premises. She fairly threw herself at the fence and scrambled to her usual perch. There he was cleaning Mr. Con Murphy's yard. "Neale!" she gasped. At first he did not hear her, but she drubbed upon the fence with the toes of her shoes. "Neale!" "Why, hullo, Aggie!" exclaimed the boy, turning around and seeing her. "Oh, Neale! Come here!" He was already coming closer. He saw that again she was much overwrought. "What has happened now?" "Have you seen Tess and Dot?" "Not to-day." "I--I mean within a little while? Two hours?" "I tell you I have not seen them at all to-day. I have been busy right here for Con." "Then they are gone! The Gypsies have got them!" For Agnes, without much logic of thought, had immediately jumped to this conclusion. Neale stared. "What sort of talk is that, Agnes?" he demanded. "You know that can't be so." "I tell you it is so! It must be so! They got Mrs. McCall and me out of the house--" "Who did?" interrupted Neale, getting hastily over the fence and taking the girl's hand. "Now, tell me all about it--everything!" As well as she could for her excitement and fear, the girl told the story of the boy who had brought her the false message about Maria Maroni, and then about the message Mrs. McCall had received calling her across town. "It must be that they have kidnapped the children!" moaned Agnes. "Not likely," declared the boy. "The kids have just gone visiting without asking leave. In fact, there was nobody to ask. But I see that there is a game on just the same." He started hastily for the Corner House and Agnes trotted beside him. "But where _are_ Tess and Dot?" she demanded. "How do I know?" he returned. "I want to find out if there is something else missing." "What do you mean?" "That bracelet." "Goodness, Neale! Is it that bracelet that has brought us trouble again?" "It looks like a plot all right to me. A plot to get you and Mrs. McCall out of the house so that somebody could slip in and steal the bracelet. Didn't that ever occur to you?" "Goodness me, Neale!" cried Agnes again, but with sudden relief in her voice. "If that is all it is I'll be glad if the old bracelet is stolen. Then it cannot make us any more trouble, that is one sure thing!" CHAPTER XXIII--A SURPRISING MEETING Tess and Dot Kenway, with no suspicion that anything was awaiting them save the possible loss of the silver bracelet, but otherwise quite enjoying the adventure, walked hurriedly along Willow Street as far as the brick-yard. That they were disobeying a strict injunction in taking the bracelet out of the house was a matter quite overlooked at the time. They came to the corner and there, sure enough, was a big, dusty automobile, with a big, dark man in the driver's seat. He smiled at the two little girls and Tess remembered him instantly. "Oh, Dot!" she exclaimed, "it is the man we saw in this auto with the young Gypsy lady when we were driving home with Scalawag from Mr. Howbridge's the other day. Don't you remember?" "Yes," said Dot, with a sigh. "I guess it is the same one. Oh, dear, me!" For the nearer the time came to give up the silver bracelet, the worse Dot felt about it. The big Gypsy looked around at the two little girls and smiled broadly. "You leetle ladies tak' ride with Beeg Jeem?" he asked. "You go to see the poor Gypsy women who let you have the fine bracelet to play with? Yes?" "He knows all about it, Tess," murmured Dot. "Yes, we will give them back the bracelet," Tess said firmly to the Gypsy man. "But we will not give it up to anybody else." "Get right into my car," said Big Jim, reaching back to open the tonneau door. "You shall be taken to the camp and there find the ones who gave you the bracelet. Sure!" There was something quite "grownupish" in thus getting into the big car all alone, and Tess and Dot were rather thrilled as they seated themselves on the back seat and the Gypsy drove them away. Fifteen minutes or so later Agnes came to this very corner and had her unpleasant interview with Miguel Costello. But of course by that time the children were far away. The big Gypsy drove them very rapidly and by lonely roads into a part of the country that Tess and Dot never remembered having seen before. Whenever he saw anybody on the road, either afoot or in other cars, Big Jim increased his speed and flashed by them so that there was little likelihood of these other people seeing that the two little girls were other than Gypsy girls. He did nothing to frighten Tess and Dot. Indeed, he was so smiling and so pleasant that they enjoyed the drive immensely and came finally in a state of keen enjoyment to the camp which was made a little back from the highway. "Well, if we have to give up the bracelet," sighed Tess, as they got out of the car, "we can say that we have had a fine ride." "That is all right. But how will my Alice-doll feel when she finds out she can't wear that pretty belt again?" said Dot. There were many people in the camp, both men and women and children. The latter kept at a distance from Tess and Dot, but stared at them very curiously. They kept the dogs away from the visitors, too, and the little girls were glad of that. "Where can we find the two ladies that--that sold us the basket?" asked Tess politely, of Big Jim. "You look around, leetle ladies. You find," he assured them. There were four or five motor vans of good size in which the Gypsies evidently lived while they were traveling. But there were several tents set up as well. It was a big camp. Timidly at first the two sisters, hand in hand, the silver bracelet firmly clutched inside Tess's dress against her side, began walking about. They tried to ask questions about the women they sought; but nobody seemed to understand. They all smiled and shook their heads. "Dear me! it must be dreadful to be born a foreigner," Dot finally said. "How can they make themselves understood _at all_?" "But they seem to be very pleasant persons," Tess rejoined decidedly. The children ran away from them. Perhaps they had been ordered to by the older Gypsies. By and by Tess, at least, grew somewhat worried when they did not find either of the women who had sold them the yellow and green basket. Dot, secretly, hoped the two in question had gone away. Suddenly, however, the two Kenway girls came face to face with somebody they did know. But so astonished were they by this discovery that for a long minute neither could believe her eyes! "Sammy Pinkney!" gasped Tess at last. "It--ain't--_never_!" murmured the smaller girl. The figure which had tried to dodge around the end of a motor van to escape observation looked nothing at all like the Sammy Pinkney the Kenway girls had formerly known. Never in their experience of Sammy--not even when he had slipped down the chimney at the old Corner House and landed on the hearth, a very sooty Santa Claus--had the boy looked so disgracefully ragged and dirty. "Well, what's the matter with me?" he demanded defiantly. "Why--why there looks to be most _every_thing the matter with you, Sammy Pinkney," declared Tess, with disgust. "What _do_ you s'pose your mother would say to you?" "I ain't going home to find out," said Sammy. "And--and your pants are all tored," gasped Dot. "Oh, that happened long ago," said Sammy, quite as airy as the trousers. "And I'm having the time of my life here. Nobody sends me errands, or makes me--er--weed beet beds! So there! I can do just as I please." "You look as though you had, Sammy," was Tess's critical speech. "I guess your mother wouldn't want you home looking the way you do." "I look well enough," he declared defiantly. "And don't you tell where I am. Will you?" "But, Sammy!" exclaimed Dot, "you ran away to be a pirate." "What if I did?" "But you can't be a pirate here." "I can be a Gypsy. And that's lots more fun. If I joined a pirate crew I couldn't get to be captain right away of course, so I would have to mind somebody. Here I don't have to mind anybody at all." "Well, I never!" ejaculated Tess Kenway. "Well, I never!" repeated Dot, with similar emphasis. "Say, what are you kids here for?" demanded Sammy, with an attempt to turn the conversation from his own evident failings. "Oh, we were brought here on a visit," Tess returned rather haughtily. "Huh! You _was_? Who you visiting? Is Aggie with you? Or Neale?" and he looked around suddenly as though choosing a way of escape. "We are here all alone," said Dot reassuringly. "You needn't be afraid, Sammy." "Who's afraid?" he said gruffly. "You would be if Neale was with us, for Neale would make you go home," said the smallest Kenway girl. "But who brought you? What you here for? Oh! That old bracelet I bet!" "Yes," sighed Dot. "They want it back." "Who want it back?" "Those two ladies that sold us the basket," explained Tess. "Are they with this bunch of Gypsies?" asked Sammy in surprise. "I haven't seen them. And I've been here two whole days." "How did you come to be a Gypsy, Sammy?" asked Dot with much curiosity. "Why, I--er--Well, I lost my clothes and my money and didn't have much to eat and that big Gypsy saw me on the road and asked me if I wanted to ride. So I came here with him and he let me stay. And nobody does a thing to me. I licked one boy," added Sammy with satisfaction, "so the others let me alone." "But haven't you seen either of those two ladies that sold us the basket?" demanded Tess, beginning to be worried a little. "Nope. I don't believe they are here." "But that man says they are here," cried Tess. "Let's go ask him. I--I won't give that bracelet to anybody else but one of those ladies." "Crickey!" exclaimed Sammy. "Don't feel so bad about it. Course there is a mistake somehow. These folks are real nice folks. They wouldn't fool you." The three, Sammy looking very important, went to find Big Jim. He was just as smiling as ever. "Oh, yes! The little ladies are not to be worried. The women they want will soon come." "You see?" said Sammy, boldly. "It will be all right. Why, these people treat you _right_. I tell you! You can do just as you please in a Gypsy camp and nobody says anything to you." "See!" exclaimed Tess suddenly. "Are they packing up to leave? Or do they stay here all the time?" It was now late afternoon. Instead of the supper fires being revived, they were smothered. Men and women had begun loading the heavier vans. The tents were coming down. Clotheslines stretched between the trees were now being coiled by the children. All manner of rubbish was being thrown into the bushes. "I don't know if they are moving. I'll ask," said Sammy, somewhat in doubt. He went to a boy bigger than himself, but who seemed to be friendly. The little girls waited, staring all about for the two women with whom they had business. "I don't care," whispered Dot. "If they don't come pretty soon, and these Gypsies are going away from here, we'll just go back home, Tess. We _can't_ give them the bracelet if we don't see them." "But we do not want to walk home," her sister said slowly in return. "And we ought to make Sammy go with us." "You try to _make_ Sammy do anything!" exclaimed Dot, with scorn. Their boy friend returned, swaggering as usual. "Well, they are going to move," he said. "But I'm going with them. That boy--he was the one I licked, but he's a good kid--says they are going to a pond where the fishing is great. Wish I had my fishpole." "But you must come back home with us, Sammy," began Tess gravely. "Not much I won't! Don't you think it," cried Sammy. "But you might get my fishing tackle and jointed pole and sneak 'em out to me. There's good kids!" "We will do nothing sneaky for you at all, Sammy Pinkney!" exclaimed Tess indignantly. "Aw, go on! You can just as easy." "We can, but we won't. So there! And if you don't go home with us when the man takes us back in his car we certainly will tell where you are." "Be a telltale. _I_ don't care," cried Sammy, roughly. "And I won't say just where we are going from here, so you needn't think my folks will find me." One of the closed vans--something like a moving van only with windows in the sides, a stove-pipe sticking out of the roof, and a door at the rear, with steps--seemed now to be ready to start. A man climbed into the front seat to drive it. Several women and smaller children got in at the rear after the various bales and packages that had been tossed in. The big man suddenly shouted and beckoned to Tess and Dot. "Here, little ladies," he said, still smiling his wide smile. "You come go wit' my mudder, eh? Take you to find the Gypsy women you want to see." "But--er--Mr. Gypsy," said Tess, somewhat disturbed now, "we must go back home." "Sure. Tak' you home soon as you see those women and give them what you got for them." He strode across the camp to them. His smile was quite as wide, but did not seem to forecast as much good-nature as at first. "Come now! Get in!" he commanded. "Hey!" cried Sammy. "What you doing? Those little girls are friends of mine. You want to let them ride in that open car--not in that box. What d'you think we are?" "Get out the way, boy!" commanded Big Jim. He seized Tess suddenly by the shoulders, swung her up bodily despite her screams and tossed her through the rear door of the Gypsy van. Dot followed so quickly that she could scarcely utter a frightened gasp. "Hey! Stop that! Those are the Kenway girls. Why! Mr. Howbridge will come after them and he'll--he'll--" Sammy's excited threat was stopped in his throat. Big Jim's huge hand caught the boy a heavy blow upon the side of his head. The next moment he was shot into the motor-van too and the door was shut. He heard Tess and Dot sobbing somewhere among the women and children already crowded into the van. It was a stuffy place, for none of the windows were open. Although this nomadic people lived mostly out of doors, and never under a real roof if they could help it, they did not seem to mind the smothering atmosphere of the van which now, with a sudden lurch, started out of the place of encampment. "Never you mind, Tess and Dot, they won't dare carry you far. Maybe they are taking you home anyway," said Sammy in a low voice. "The first time they stop and let us out we'll run away. I will get you home all right." "You--you can't get yourself home, Sammy," sobbed Dot. "Maybe you like it being a Gypsy, but we don't," added Tess. "I'll fix it for you all right--" One of the old crones reached out in the semi-darkness and slapped Sammy across the mouth. "Shut up!" she commanded harshly. But when she tried to slap the boy again she screamed. It must be confessed that Sammy bit her! "You lemme alone," snarled the boy captive. "And don't you hit those girls. If you do I--I'll bite the whole lot of you!" The women jabbered a good deal together in their own tongue; but nobody tried to interfere with Sammy thereafter. He shoved his way into the van until he stood beside Tess and Dot. "Let's not cry about it," he whispered. "That won't get us anywhere, that is sure. But the very first chance we get--" No chance for escape however was likely to arise while the Gypsy troop were en route. The children could hear the rumble of the vans behind. Soon Big Jim in his touring car passed this first van and shouted to the driver. Then the procession settled into a steady rate of speed and the three little captives had not the least idea in which direction they were headed nor where they were bound. * * * * * Back at the old Corner House affairs were in a terrible state of confusion. Linda had returned from her voyage among the neighbors with absolutely no news of the smaller girls. And Agnes had discovered that the silver bracelet was missing. "It was Tess's day for wearing it, but she did not have it on when she went out to play," the older sister explained. "Do you suppose the house has been robbed, Neale O'Neil?" Neale had been examining closely the piece of paper that Agnes had found stuck to the plate on which she had fed the beggar girl the day before and also the note Mrs. McCall had received purporting to come from Mr. Howbridge's butler. Both were written in blue pencil, and by the same hand without any doubt. "It's a plot clear enough. And naturally we may believe that it was not hatched by that Miguel Costello, the junkman. It looks as though it was done by Big Jim's crowd." "But what have they done with the bairns?" demanded the housekeeper, in horror. "Oh, Neale! have they stolen Tess and Dot, as well as the silver bracelet?" was Agnes' bitter cry. "Got me. Don't know," muttered the boy. "And what would they want the children for, anyway?" "Let us find out if any Gypsies have been seen about the house this afternoon," Agnes proposed. "You see, Neale. Don't send Linda." Linda, indeed, was in a hopeless state. She didn't know, declared Mrs. McCall, whether she was on her head or her heels! Neale ran out and searched the neighborhood over. When he came back he had found nobody who had set eyes on any Gypsies; but he had heard from Mrs. Pease that Gypsies were camped out of town. The store man had told her so. "Oh!" gasped Agnes, suddenly remembering. "I heard about that. Mrs. Pinkney told me. They are on the Buckshot Road, out beyond where Carrie Poole lives. You know, Neale." "Sure I know where the Poole place is," admitted Neale. "We have all been there often enough. And I can get the car--" "Do! Do!" begged Mrs. McCall. "You cannot go too quickly, Neale O'Neil. And take the police wi' ye, laddie!" "Take me with you, Neale!" commanded Agnes. "We can find a constable out that way if we need one. I know Mr. Ben Stryker who lives just beyond the Pooles. And he is a constable, for he stopped the car once when I was driving and said he would have to arrest me if I did not drive slower." "Sure!" said Neale. "Agnes knows all the traffic cops on the route, I bet. But we don't _know_ that the children have gone with the Gypsies." "And we never will know if you stand here and argue. Anyway, it looks as though the silver bracelet has been stolen by them." "Or by somebody," granted the boy. "Ne'er mind the bit bracelet," commanded the housekeeper. "Find Tess and Dot. I am going to put on my bonnet and shawl and go to the police station mysel'. Do you children hurry away in the car as you promised." It was already supper time, but nobody thought of that meal, unless it was Aunt Sarah. When she came down to see what the matter was--why the evening meal was so delayed--she found Linda sobbing with her apron over her head in the kitchen and the tea kettle boiled completely dry. That was nothing, however, to the condition of affairs at one o'clock that night when Ruth, with Luke and Cecile Shepard, arrived at the old Corner House. They had been delayed at the station half an hour while Ruth telephoned for and obtained a comfortable touring car for her visitors and herself. Agnes did not have to beg her older sister to put in a telephone. After this experience Ruth was determined to do just that. The party arrived home to find the Corner House lit up as though for a reception. But it was not in honor of their arrival. The telegram announcing Ruth's coming had scarcely been noticed by Mrs. McCall. Mrs. McCall had recovered a measure of her composure and good sense; but she could scarcely welcome the guests properly. Aunt Sarah Maltby had gone to bed, announcing that she was utterly prostrated and should never get up again unless Tess and Dot were found. Linda and Uncle Rufus were equally distracted. "But where are Agnes and Neale?" Ruth demanded, very white and determined. "What are they doing?" "They started out in the machine around eight o'clock," explained Mrs. McCall. "They are searching high and low for the puir bairns." "All alone?" gasped Ruth. "Mr. Pinkney has gone with them. And I believe they were to pick up a constable. That Neale O'Neil declares he will raid every Gypsy camp and tramp's roost in the county. And Sammy's father took a pistol with him." "And you let Agnes go with them!" murmured Ruth. "Suppose she gets shot?" "My maircy!" cried the housekeeper, clasping her hands. "I never thought about that pistol being dangerous, any more than Uncle Rufus's gun with the broken hammer." CHAPTER XXIV--THE CAPTIVES That ride, shut in the Gypsy van, was one that neither Tess nor Dot nor Sammy Pinkney were likely soon to forget. The car plunged along the country road, and the distance the party traveled was considerable, although the direction was circuitous and did not, after two hours, take the Gypsy clan much farther from Milton than they had been at the previous camp. By eleven o'clock they pulled off the road into a little glade that had been well known to the leaders of the party. A new camp was established in a very short time. Tents were again erected, fires kindled for the late supper, and the life of the Gypsy town was re-begun. But Sammy and the two little Corner House girls were forbidden to leave the van in which they had been made to ride. Big Jim came over himself, banged Sammy with his broad palm, and told him: "You keep-a them here--you see? If those kids get out, I knock you good. See?" Sammy saw stars at least! He would not answer the man. There was something beside stubbornness to Sammy Pinkney. But stubbornness stood him in good stead just now. "Don't you mind, Tess and Dot," he whispered, his own voice broken with half-stifled sobs. "I'll get you out of it. We'll run away first chance we get." "But it never does _you_ any good to run away, Sammy," complained Tess. "You only get into trouble. Dot and I don't want to be beaten by that man. He is horrid." "I wish we could see those nice ladies who sold us the basket," wailed Dot, quite desperate now. "I--I'd be _glad_ to give 'em back the bracelet." "Sh!" hissed Sammy. "We'll run away and we'll take the bracelet along. These Gyps sha'n't ever get it again, so there!" "Humph! I don't see what you have to say about _that_, Sammy," scoffed Tess. "If the women own it, of course they have got to have it. But I don't want that Big Jim to have it--not at all!" "He won't get it. You leave it to me," said Sammy, with recovered assurance. The van door was neither locked nor barred. But if the children had stepped out of it the firelight would have revealed their figures instantly to the Gypsies. Either the women bending over the pots and pans at the fires or the children running about the encampment would have raised a hue and cry if the little captives had attempted to run away. And there were a dozen burly men sitting about, smoking and talking and awaiting the call to supper. This meal was finally prepared. The fumes from the pots reached the nostrils of Tess, Dot, and Sammy, and they were all ravenously hungry. Nor were they denied food. The Gypsies evidently had no intention of maltreating the captives in any particular as long as they obeyed and did not try to escape. One young woman brought a great pan of stew and bread and three spoons to the van and set it on the upper step for the children. "You eat," said she, smiling, and the firelight shining on her gold earrings. "It do you goot--yes?" "Oh, Miss Gypsy!" begged Tess, "we want to go home." "That all right. Beeg Jeem tak-a you. To-morrow, maybe." She went away hurriedly. But she had left them a plentiful supper. The three were too ravenous to be delicate. They each seized a spoon and, as Sammy advised, "dug in." "This is the way all Gypsies eat," he said, proud of his knowledge. "Sometimes the men use their pocket knives to cut up the meat. But they don't seem to have any forks. And I guess forks aren't necessary anyway." "But they are nicer than fingers," objected Tess. "Huh? Are they?" observed the young barbarian. After they had completely cleared the pan of every scrap and eaten every crumb of bread and drunk the milk that had been brought to them in a quart cup, Dot naturally gave way to sleepiness. She began to whimper a little too. "If that big, bad Gypsy man doesn't take us home pretty soon I shall have to sleep here, Sister," she complained. "You lie right down on this bench," said Tess kindly, "and I will cover you up and you can sleep as long as you want to." So Dot did this. But Sammy was not at all sleepy. His mind was too active for that. He was prowling about the more or less littered van. "Say!" he whispered to Tess, "there is a little window here in the front overlooking the driver's seat. And it swings on a hinge like a door." "I don't care, Sammy. I--I'm sleepy, too," confessed Tess, with a yawn behind her hand. "Say! don't _you_ go to sleep like a big kid," snapped the boy. "We've got to get away from these Gyps." "I thought you were going to stay with them forever." "Not to let that Big Jim bang me over the head. Not much!" ejaculated Sammy fiercely. "If my father saw him do that--" "But your father isn't here. If he was--" "If he was you can just bet," said Sammy with confidence, "that Big Jim would not dare hit me." "I--I wish your father would come and take us all home then," went on Tess, with another yawn. "Well," admitted Sammy, "I wish he would, too. Crickey! but it's awful to have girls along, whether you are a pirate or a Gypsy." "You needn't talk!" snapped Tess, quite tart for her. "We did not ask to come. And you were here 'fore we got here. And now you can't get away any more than Dot and I can." "Sh!" advised Sammy again, and earnestly. "I got an idea." "What is it?" asked Tess, without much curiosity. "This here window in front!" whispered the boy. "We can open it. It is all dark at that end of the van. If we can slide out on to the seat we'll climb down in the dark and get into the woods. I know the way to the road. I can see a patch of it through the window. What say?" "But Dot? She sleeps so hard," breathed Tess. "We can poke her through the window on to the seat. Then we will crawl through. If she doesn't wake up and holler--" "I'll stop her from hollering," agreed Tess firmly. "We'll try it, Sammy, before those awful women get back into the van." Fortunately for the attempt of the captives their own supper had been dispatched with promptness. The Gypsies were still sitting about over the meal when Sammy opened that front window in the van. He and Tess lifted Dot, who complained but faintly and kept her eyes tightly closed, and pushed her feet first through the small window. The driver's seat was broad and roomy. The little girl lay there all right while first Tess and then Sammy crept through the window. It was dark here, and they could scarcely see the way to the ground. But Sammy ventured down first, and after barking his shins a little found the step and whispered his directions to Tess about passing Dot down to him. They actually got to the ground themselves and brought the smallest Corner House girl with them without any serious mishap. Sammy tried to carry Dot over his shoulder, but he could not stagger far with her. And, too, the sleepy child began to object. "Sh! Keep still!" hissed her sister in Dot's ear. "Do you want the Gypsies to get you again?" She had to help Sammy carry the child, however. Dot was such a heavy sleeper--especially when she first went to sleep--that nothing could really bring her back to realities. The two stumbled along with her in the deep shadows and actually reached the woods that bordered the encampment. Suddenly a dog barked. Somebody shouted to the animal and it subsided with a sullen growl. But in a moment another dog began to yap. The guards of the camp realized that something was going wrong, although as yet none of the dogs had scented the escaping children exactly. "Oh, hurry! Hurry!" gasped Tess. "The dogs will chase us." "I am afraid they will," admitted Sammy. "We got to hide our trail." "How'll we do that, Sammy?" gasped Tess. "Like the Indians do," declared the boy. "We got to find a stream of water and wade in it." "But I've got shoes and stockings on. And Mrs. McCall says we can't go wading without asking permission." "Crickey! how you going to run away from these Gypsies if you've got to mind what you're told all the time?" asked Sammy desperately. "But won't the water be cold? And why wade in it, anyway?" "So the dogs can't follow our scent. They can't follow scent through water. Come on. We got to find a brook or something." "There's the canal," ventured Tess, in an awed whisper. "The canal, your granny!" exclaimed the exasperated boy. "That's over your head, Tess Kenway." "Well! I don't know of any other water. Oh! Hear those dogs bark." "Don't you s'pose I've got ears?" snapped Sammy. "They sound awful savage." "Yes. They've got some savage dogs," admitted the boy. "Will they bite us? Oh, Sammy! will they bite us?" "Not if they don't catch us," replied the boy, staggering on, bearing the heavier end of Dot while Tess carried her sister's feet. They suddenly burst through a fringe of bushes upon the open road. There was just starlight enough to show them the way. The dogs were still barking vociferously back at the Gypsy camp. But there seemed to be no pursuit. "Oh, my gracious! I've torn my frock," gasped Tess. "Do wait, Sammy." The boy stopped. Indeed he had to, for his own breath had given out. The three fell right down on the grass beside the road, and Dot began to whimper. "You stop her, Tess!" exclaimed Sammy. "You said you could. She will bring those Gypsies right here." "Dot! Dot!" whispered Tess, shaking the smaller girl. "Do you want to be a prisoner again? Keep still!" "My--my knees are cold," whined Dot. "Je-ru-sa-lem!" gasped Sammy explosively. "_Now_ she's done it! We're caught again." He jumped to his feet, but not quickly enough to escape the outstretched hand of the figure that had suddenly appeared beside them. A dark face bent over the trio of frightened children. "He's a Gyp!" cried Sammy. "We're done for, Tess!" CHAPTER XXV--IT MUST BE ALL RIGHT As Mrs McCall told Ruth Kenway when she arrived with Luke and Cecile at the old Corner House, the other Kenway sister and Neale O'Neil had not started out on their hunt for the Gypsy encampment alone. Mr. Pinkney, hearing of the absence of the smaller girls, had volunteered to go with the searchers. "Somehow, my wife feels that Sammy may be with Tess and Dot," he explained to Neale and Agnes. "I never contradict her at such times. And perhaps he is. No knowing where that boy of mine is likely to turn up, anyway." "But you do not suppose for one instant, Mr. Pinkney, that Sammy has come and coaxed my sisters to run away?" cried Agnes from the tonneau, as the car started out through Willow Street. "I am not so sure about that. You know, he got Dot to run away with him once," chuckled Mr. Pinkney. "This is nothing like that, I am sure!" declared Agnes. "I am with you there, Aggie," admitted Neale. "I guess this is a serious affair. The Gypsies are in it." Between the two, the boy and the girl told Mr. Pinkney all about the silver bracelet and the events connected with it. The man listened with appreciation. "I don't know, of course, anything about the fight between the two factions of Gypsies over what you call Queen Alma's bracelet--" "If it doesn't prove to be Sarah Turner's bracelet," interjected Agnes. "Yes. That is possible. They may have just found it--those Gypsy women. And the story Costello, the junkman, told us might be a fake," said Neale. "However," broke in Mr. Pinkney again, "there is a chance that the bracelet was given to Tess and Dot for a different purpose from any you have suggested." "What do you mean by that?" asked Neale and Agnes in unison. "It is a fact that some Gypsies do steal children. Now, don't be startled! It isn't commonly done. They are often accused without good reason. But Gypsies are always more or less mixed up with traveling show people. There are many small tent shows traveling about the country at this time of year." "Like Twomley & Sorber's circus," burst out Agnes. "Smaller than that. Just one-ring affairs. And the shows are regular 'fly-by-nights.' Gypsies fraternize with them of course. And often children are trained in those shows to be acrobats who are doubtless picked up around the country--usually children who have no guardians. And the Gypsies sometimes pick up such." "Oh, but, Mr. Pinkney!" cried Agnes, "we are so careful of Tess and Dot. Usually, I mean. I don't know what Ruth will say when she gets home to-night. It looks as though we had been very careless while she was gone." "I know what children have to go through in a circus," said Neale soberly. "But why should the Gypsies have selected Tess and Dot?" "Because, you tell me, they were playing circus, and doing stunts at the very time the Gypsy women sold them the basket." "Oh! So they were," agreed Agnes. "Oh, Neale!" "Crickey! It might be, I suppose. I never thought of that," admitted the boy. He was carefully running the car while this talk was going on. He soon drove past the Poole place and later stopped at a little house where the constable lived. Mr. Ben Stryker was at home. It was not often that automobile parties called at his door. Usually they did not want to see Mr. Stryker, who was a stickler for the "rules of the road." "What's the matter?" asked the constable, coming out to the car. "Want to pay me your fine, so as not to have to wait to see the Justice of the Peace?" He said it jokingly. When he heard about the missing Kenway children and of the reason to fear Gypsies had something to do with it, he jumped into the car, taking Mr. Pinkney's place in the front seat beside Neale. "I've had my eye on Big Jim Costello ever since he has been back here," Stryker declared. "I sent him away to jail once. He is a bad one. And if he is mixed up in any kidnapping, I'll put him into the penitentiary for a long term." "But of course we would not want to make them trouble if the children went to the camp alone," ventured Agnes. "You know, they might have been hunting for the two women who sold them the basket." "Those Gypsies know what to do in such a case. They know where I live, and they should have brought the two little girls to me. I certainly have it in for Big Jim." But as we have seen, when the party arrived at the spot where the Gypsies had been encamped, not a trace of them was left. That is, no trace that pointed to the time or the direction of their departure. "Maybe these Gypsies did not have a thing to do with the absence of Tess and Dot," whispered Agnes. "And maybe they had everything to do with it," declared Neale, aloud. "Looks to me as though they had turned the trick and escaped." "And in those motor-vans they can cover a deal of ground," suggested Mr. Pinkney. Agnes broke down at this point and wept. The constable had got out and with the aid of his pocket lamp searched the vicinity. He saw plainly where the vans had turned into the dusty road and the direction they had taken. "The best we can do is to follow them," he advised. "If I can catch them inside the county I'll be able to handle them. And if they go into the next county I'll get help. Well search their vans, no matter where we catch them. All ready?" The party went on. To catch the moving Gypsies was no easy matter. Frequently Mr. Stryker got down to look at the tracks. This was at every cross road. Fortunately the wheels of one of the Gypsy vans had a peculiar tread. It was easy to see the marks of these wheels in the dust. Therefore, although the pursuit was slow, they managed to be sure they were going right. From eleven o'clock until three in the morning the motor-car was driven over the circuitous route the nomad procession had taken earlier in the night. Then they came to the new encampment. Their approach was announced by the barking of the mongrel dogs that guarded the camp. Half the tribe seemed to be awake when the car slowed down and stopped on the roadway. Mr. Stryker got out and shouted for Big Jim. "Come out here!" said the constable threateningly. "I know you are here, and I want to talk with you, Jim Costello." "Well, whose chicken roost has been raided now?" demanded Big Jim, approaching with his smile and his impudence both in evidence. "No chicken thievery," snapped Stryker, flashing his electric light into the big Gypsy's face. "Where are those kids?" "What kids? I got my own--and there's a raft of them. I'll give you a couple if you want." Big Jim seemed perfectly calm and the other Gypsies were like him. They routed out every family in the camp. The constable and Neale searched the tents and the vans. No trace of Tess and Dot was to be found. "Everything you lay to the poor Gypsy," said Big Jim complainingly. "Now it is not chickens--it is kids. Bah!" He slouched away. Stryker called after him: "Never mind, Jim. We'll get you yet! You watch your step." He came back to the Kenway car shaking his head. "I guess they have not been here. I'll come back to-morrow when the Gypsies don't expect me and look again if your little sisters do not turn up elsewhere. What shall we do now?" Agnes was weeping so that she could not speak. Neale shook his head gloomily. Mr. Pinkney sighed. "Well," the latter said, "we might as well start for home. No good staying here." "I'll get you to Milton in much shorter time than it took to get here," said the constable. "Keep right ahead, Mr. O'Neil. We'll take the first turn to the right and run on till we come to Hampton Mills. It's pretty near a straight road from there to Milton. And I can get a ride from the Mills to my place with a fellow I know who passes my house every morning." Neale started the car and they left the buzzing camp behind them. They had no idea that the moment the sound of the car died away the Gypsies leaped to action, packed their goods and chattels again, and the tribe started swiftly for the State line. Big Jim did not mean to be caught if he could help it by Constable Stryker, who knew his record. The Corner House car whirred over the rather good roads to Hampton Mills and there the constable parted from them. He promised to report any news he might get of the absent children, and they were to send him word if Tess and Dot were found. The car rounded the pond where Sammy had had his adventure at the ice-house and had ruined his knickerbockers. It was a straight road from that point to Milton. Going up the hill beside the pond in the gray light of dawn, they saw ahead of them a man laboring on in the middle of the road with a child upon his shoulders, while two other small figures walked beside him, clinging to his coat. "There's somebody else moving," said Mr. Pinkney to Agnes. "What do you know about little children being abroad at this time of the morning?" "Shall we give them a lift?" asked Neale. "Only I don't want to stop on this hill." But he did. He stopped in another minute because Agnes uttered a piercing scream. "Oh, Tessie! Oh, Dot! It's them! It's the children!" "Great Moses!" ejaculated Mr. Pinkney, forced likewise into excitement, "is that Sammy Pinkney?" The man carrying Dot turned quickly. Tess and Sammy both uttered eager yelps of recognition. Dot bobbed sleepily above the head of the man who carried her pickaback. "Oh, Agnes! isn't this my day for wearing that bracelet? Say, isn't it?" she demanded. The dark man came forward, speaking very politely and swiftly. "It is the honest Kenway--yes? You remember Costello? I am he. I find your sisters with the bad Gypsies--yes. Then you will give me Queen Alma's bracelet--the great heirloom of our family? I am friend--I bring children back for you. You give me bracelet?" Tess and Dot were tumbled into their sister's arms. Mr. Pinkney jumped out of the car and grabbed Sammy before he could run. Costello, the junkman, repeated his request over and over while Agnes was greeting the two little girls as they deserved to be greeted. Finally he made some impression upon her mind. "Oh, dear me!" Agnes cried in exasperation, "how can I give it you? I don't know where it is. It's been stolen." "Stolen? That Beeg Jeem!" Again Costello exploded in his native tongue. Tess nestled close to Agnes. She lifted her lips and whispered in her sister's ear: "Don't tell him. He's a Gypsy, too, though I guess he is a good one. I have got that bracelet inside my dress. It's safe." They did not tell Costello, the junkman, that at this time. In fact, it was some months before Mr. Howbridge, by direction of the Court, gave Queen Alma's bracelet into the hands of Miguel Costello, who really proved in the end that he had the better right to the bracelet that undoubtedly had once belonged to the Queen of the Spanish Gypsies. It had not been merely by chance that the young Gypsy woman who had sold the green and yellow basket to Tess and Dot had dropped that ornament into the basket. She had worn the bracelet, for she was Big Jim's daughter. Without doubt it was the intention of the Gypsies to engage the little girls' interest through this bracelet and get their confidence, to bring about the very situation which they finally consummated. One of the women confessed in court that they could sell Tess and Dot for acrobats. Or they thought they could. The appearance of Miguel Costello in Milton, claiming the rightful ownership of the silver bracelet, made the matter unexpectedly difficult for Big Jim and his clan. Indeed, the Kenways had much to thank Miguel Costello for. However, these mysteries were explained long after this particular morning on which the children were recovered. No such home-coming had ever been imagined, and the old Corner House and vicinity staged a celebration that will long be remembered. Luke Shepard had been put to bed soon after his arrival. But he would not be content until he got up again and came downstairs in his bathrobe to greet the returned wanderers. Agnes just threw herself into Ruth's arms when she first saw her elder sister, crying: "Oh! don't you _dare_ ever go away again, Ruth Kenway, without taking the rest of us with you. We're not fit to be left alone." "I am afraid some day, Agnes, you will have to get along without me," said Ruth placidly, but smiling into Luke's eyes as she said it. "You know, we are growing up." "Aggie isn't ever going to grow up," grumbled Neale. "She is just a kid." "Oh, is _that_ so, Mr. Smartie?" cried Agnes, suddenly drying her eyes. "I'd have you know I am just as much grown up as you are." "Oh, dear, me, I'm so sleepy," moaned Dot. "I--I didn't sleep very well at all last night." "Goodness! I should think Sammy and I ought to be the ones to be sleepy. We didn't have any chance at all!" Tess exclaimed. As for Sammy, he was taken home by an apparently very stern father to meet a wildly grateful mother. Mrs. Pinkney drew the sting from all verbal punishment Mr. Pinkney might have given his son. "And the dear boy! I knew he had not forgotten us when I found he had taken that picture with him. Did you, Sammy?" "Did I what, Mom?" asked Sammy, his mouth comfortably filled with cake. "That picture. You know, the one we all had taken down at Pleasant Cove that time. The one of your father and you and me that you kept on your bureau. When I saw that you had taken that with you to remember us by----" "Oh, crickey, Mom! Buster, the bull pup, ate that old picture up a month ago," said the nonsentimental Sammy. THE END Charming Stories for Girls THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SERIES By Grace Brooks Hill Four girls from eight to fourteen years of age receive word that a rich bachelor uncle has died, leaving them the old Corner House he occupied. They move into it and then the fun begins. What they find and do will provoke many a hearty laugh. Later, they enter school and make many friends. One of these invites the girls to spend a few weeks at a bungalow owned by her parents, and the adventures they meet with make very interesting reading. Clean, wholesome stories of humor and adventure, sure to appeal to all young girls. 1 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS. 2 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL. 3 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS. 4 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS IN A PLAY. 5 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS' ODD FIND. 6 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A TOUR. 7 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS GROWING UP. 8 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SNOWBOUND. 9 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A HOUSEBOAT. 10 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AMONG THE GYPSIES. 11 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON PALM ISLAND. 12 THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SOLVE A MYSTERY. BARSE & HOPKINS New York, N.Y., Newark, N.J. "THE POLLY" SERIES By Dorothy Whitehill Polly Pendleton is a resourceful, wide-awake American girl who goes to a boarding school on the Hudson River some miles above New York. By her pluck and resourcefulness, she soon makes a place for herself and this she holds right through the course. The account of boarding school life is faithful and pleasing and will attract every girl in her teens. Cloth, large 12 mo. Illustrated 1 POLLY'S FIRST SUMMER YEAR AT BOARDING SCHOOL 2 POLLY'S SUMMER VACATION 3 POLLY'S SENIOR YEAR AT BOARDING SCHOOL 4 POLLY SEES THE WORLD AT WAR 5 POLLY AND LOIS 6 POLLY AND BOB 7 POLLY'S RE-UNION 8 POLLY'S POLLY BARSE & HOPKINS Publishers New York, N.Y., Newark, N.J. 
58465	----	GYPSY SORCERY AND FORTUNE TELLING ILLUSTRATED BY NUMEROUS INCANTATIONS, SPECIMENS OF MEDICAL MAGIC, ANECDOTES AND TALES BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND PRESIDENT OF THE GIPSY-LORE SOCIETY, &c., &c. COPIOUSLY ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS MDCCCXCI DEDICATION. THIS WORK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO MY COLLEAGUES OF THE CONGRÈS DES TRADITIONS POPULAIRES, HELD AT PARIS, JULY, 1889; AND ESPECIALLY TO THE FRENCH MEMBERS OF THAT BODY, IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF THEIR GENEROUS HOSPITALITY, AND UNFAILING KINDNESS AND COURTESY, BY CHARLES G. LELAND. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. THE ORIGIN OF WITCHCRAFT, SHAMANISM, AND SORCERY.-- VINDICTIVE AND MISCHIEVOUS MAGIC 1 II. CHARMS AND CONJURATIONS TO CURE THE DISORDERS OF GROWN PEOPLE.--HUNGARIAN GYPSY MAGIC 12 III. GYPSY CONJURATIONS AND EXORCISMS--THE CURE OF CHILDREN-- HUNGARIAN GYPSY SPELLS--A CURIOUS OLD ITALIAN "SECRET"-- THE MAGIC VIRTUE OF GARLIC--A FLORENTINE INCANTATION LEARNED FROM A WITCH--LILITH, THE CHILD-STEALER, AND QUEEN OF THE WITCHES 41 IV. SOUTH SLAVONIAN AND OTHER GYPSY WITCH-LORE.--THE WORDS FOR A WITCH--VILAS AND THE SPIRITS OF EARTH AND AIR-- WITCHES, EGG-SHELLS, AND EGG-LORE--EGG PROVERBS--OVA DE CRUCIBUS 65 V. CHARMS OR CONJURATIONS TO CURE OR PROTECT ANIMALS 79 VI. OF PREGNANCY AND CHARMS, OR FOLK-LORE CONNECTED WITH IT--BOARS' TEETH AND CHARMS FOR PREVENTING THE FLOW OF BLOOD 100 VII. THE RECOVERY OF STOLEN PROPERTY--LOVE-CHARMS--SHOES AND LOVE-POTIONS, OR PHILTRES 108 VIII. ROUMANIAN AND TRANSYLVANIAN SORCERIES AND SUPERSTITIONS, CONNECTED WITH THOSE OF THE GYPSIES 122 IX. THE RENDEZVOUS OR MEETINGS OF WITCHES, SORCERERS, AND VILAS.--A CONTINUATION OF SOUTH SLAVONIAN GYPSY-LORE 142 X. OF THE HAUNTS, HOMES, AND HABITS OF WITCHES IN THE SOUTH SLAVIC LANDS.--BOGEYS AND HUMBUGS 152 XI. GYPSY WITCHCRAFT.--THE MAGICAL POWER WHICH IS INNATE IN ALL MEN AND WOMEN--HOW IT MAY BE CULTIVATED AND DEVELOPED--THE PRINCIPLES OF FORTUNE-TELLING 162 XII. FORTUNE-TELLING (continued).--ROMANCE BASED ON CHANCE, OR HOPE, AS REGARDS THE FUTURE--FOLK- AND SORCERY-LORE --AUTHENTIC INSTANCES OF GYPSY PREDICTION 186 XIII. PROVERBS REFERRING TO WITCHES, GYPSIES, AND FAIRIES 194 XIV. A GYPSY MAGIC SPELL.--HOKKANI BARO--LELLIN DUDIKABIN, OR THE GREAT SECRET--CHILDREN'S RHYMES AND INCANTATIONS --TEN LITTLE INDIAN BOYS AND TEN LITTLE ACORN GIRLS OF MARCELLUS BURDIGALENSIS 209 XV. GYPSY AMULETS 230 XVI. GYPSIES, TOADS, AND TOAD-LORE 255 PREFACE. This work contains a collection of the customs, usages, and ceremonies current among gypsies, as regards fortune-telling, witch-doctoring, love-philtering, and other sorcery, illustrated by many anecdotes and instances, taken either from works as yet very little known to the English reader or from personal experiences. Within a very few years, since Ethnology and Archæology have received a great inspiration, and much enlarged their scope through Folk-lore, everything relating to such subjects is studied with far greater interest and to much greater profit than was the case when they were cultivated in a languid, half-believing, half-sceptical spirit which was in reality rather one of mere romance than reason. Now that we seek with resolution to find the whole truth, be it based on materialism, spiritualism, or their identity, we are amazed to find that the realm of marvel and mystery, of wonder and poetry, connected with what we vaguely call "magic," far from being explained away or exploded, enlarges before us as we proceed, and that not into a mere cloudland, gorgeous land, but into a country of reality in which men of science who would once have disdained the mere thought thereof are beginning to stray. Hypnotism has really revealed far greater wonders than were ever established by the fascinatores of old or by mesmerists of more modern times. Memory, the basis of thought according to Plato, which was once held to be a determined quantity, has been proved, (the word is not too bold), by recent physiology, to be practically infinite, and its perfect development to be identical with that of intellect, so that we now see plainly before us the power to perform much which was once regarded as miraculous. Not less evident is it that men of science or practical inventors, such as Darwin, Wallace, Huxley, Tyndale, Galton, Joule, Lockyer, and Edison, have been or are all working in common with theosophists, spiritualists, Folk-lorists, and many more, not diversely but all towards a grand solution of the Unknown. Therefore there is nothing whatever in the past relating to the influences which have swayed man, however strange, eccentric, superstitious, or even repulsive they may seem, which is not of great and constantly increasing value. And if we of the present time begin already to see this, how much more important will these facts be to the men of the future, who, by virtue of more widely extended knowledge and comparison, will be better able than we are to draw wise conclusions undreamed of now. But the chief conclusion for us is to collect as much as we can, while it is yet extant, of all the strange lore of the olden time, instead of wasting time in forming idle theories about it. In a paper read before the Congrès des Traditions populaires in Paris, 1889, on the relations of gypsies to Folk-lore, I set forth my belief that these people have always been the humble priests of what is really the practical religion of all peasants and poor people; that is their magical ceremonies and medicine. Very few have any conception of the degree to which gypsies have been the colporteurs of what in Italy is called "the old faith," or witchcraft. As regards the illustrative matter given, I am much indebted to Dr. Wlislocki, who has probably had far more intimate personal experience of gypsies than any other learned man who ever lived, through our mutual friend, Dr. Anthon Herrmann, editor of the Ethnologische Mitteilungen, Budapest, who is also himself an accomplished Romany scholar and collector, and who has kindly taken a warm interest in this book, and greatly aided it. To these I may add Dr. Friedrich S. Krauss, of Vienna, whose various works on the superstitions and Folk-lore of the South Slavonians--kindly presented by him to me--contain a vast mine of material, nearly all that of which he treats being common property between peasants and the Romany, as other sources abundantly indicate. With this there is also much which I collected personally among gypsies and fortune-tellers, and similar characters, it being true as regards this work and its main object, that there is much cognate or allied information which is quite as valuable as gypsy-lore itself, as all such subjects mutually explain one of the others. Gypsies, as I have said, have done more than any race or class on the face of the earth to disseminate among the multitude a belief in fortune-telling, magical or sympathetic cures, amulets and such small sorceries as now find a place in Folk-lore. Their women have all pretended to possess occult power since prehistoric times. By the exercise of their wits they have actually acquired a certain art of reading character or even thought, which, however it be allied to deceit, is in a way true in itself, and well worth careful examination. Matthew Arnold has dwelt on it with rare skill in his poem of "The Gypsy Scholar." Even deceit and imposture never held its own as a system for ages without some ground-work of truth, and that which upheld the structure of gypsy sorcery, has never been very carefully examined. I trust that I have done this in a rational and philosophic spirit, and have also illustrated my remarks in a manner which will prove attractive to the general reader. There are many good reasons for believing that the greatest portion of gypsy magic was brought by the Romany from the East or India. This is specially true as regards those now dwelling in Eastern Europe. And it is certainly interesting to observe that among these people there is still extant, on a very extended scale indeed, a Shamanism which seems to have come from the same Tartar-Altaic source which was found of yore among the Accadian-Babylonians, Etruscan races, and Indian hill-tribes. This, the religion of the drum and the demon as a disease--or devil doctoring--will be found fully illustrated in many curious ways in these pages. I believe that in describing it I have also shown how many fragments of this primitive religion, or cult, still exist, under very different names, in the most enlightened centres of civilization. And I respectfully submit to my reader, or critic, that I have in no instance, either in this or any other case, wandered from my real subject, and that the entire work forms a carefully considered and consistent whole. To perfect my title, I should perhaps have added a line or two to the effect that I have illustrated many of the gypsy sorceries by instances of Folk-lore drawn from other sources; but I believe that it is nowhere inappropriate, considering the subject as a whole. For those who would lay stress on omissions in my book, I would say that I have never intended or pretended to exhaust gypsy superstitions. I have not even given all that may be found in the works of Wlislocki alone. I have, according to the limits of the book, cited so much as to fully illustrate the main subject already described, and this will be of more interest to the student of history than the details of gypsy chiromancy or more spells and charms than are necessary to explain the leading ideas. What is wanted in the present state of Folk-lore, I here repeat, is collection from original sources, and material, that is from people and not merely from books. The critics we have--like the poor--always with us, and a century hence we shall doubtless have far better ones than those in whom we now rejoice--or sorrow. But material abides no time, and an immense quantity of it which is world-old perishes every day. For with general culture and intelligence we are killing all kinds of old faiths, with wonderful celerity. The time is near at hand when it will all be incredibly valuable, and then men will wish sorrowfully enough that there had been more collectors to accumulate and fewer critics to detract from their labours and to discourage them. For the collector must form his theory, or system great or small, good or bad, such as it is, in order to gather his facts; and then the theory is shattered by the critic and the collection made to appear ridiculous. And so collection ends. There is another very curious reflection which has been ever present to my mind while writing this work, and which the reader will do well carefully to think out for himself. It is that the very first efforts of the human mind towards the supernatural were gloomy, strange, and wild; they were of witchcraft and sorcery, dead bodies, defilement, deviltry, and dirt. Men soon came to believe in the virtue of the repetition of certain rhymes or spells in connection with dead men's bones, hands, and other horrors or "relics." To this day this old religion exists exactly as it did of yore, wherever men are ignorant, stupid, criminal, or corresponding to their prehistoric ancestors. I myself have seen a dead man's hand for sale in Venice. According to Dr. Block, says a writer in The St. James's Gazette, January 16, 1889, the corpse-candle superstition is still firmly enshrined among the tenets of thieves all over Europe. In reality, according to The Standard, we know little about the strange thoughts which agitate the minds of the criminal classes. Their creeds are legends. Most of them are the children and grandchildren of thieves who have been brought up from their youth in the densest ignorance, and who, constantly at war with society, seek the aid of those powers of darkness in the dread efficacy of which they have an unshaken confidence. "Fetishism of the rudest type, or what the mythologists have learned to call 'animism' is part and parcel of the robber's creed. A 'habit and repute' thief has always in his pocket, or somewhere about his person, a bit of coal, or chalk, or a 'lucky stone,' or an amulet of some sort on which he relies for safety in his hour of peril. Omens he firmly trusts in. Divination is regularly practised by him, as the occasional quarrels over the Bible and key, and the sieve and shears, testify. The supposed power of witches and wizards make many of them live in terror, and pay blackmail, and although they will lie almost without a motive, the ingenuity with which the most depraved criminal will try to evade 'kissing the book,' performing this rite with his thumb instead, is a curious instance of what may be termed perverted religious instincts. As for the fear of the evil eye, it is affirmed that most of the foreign thieves of London dread more being brought before a particular magistrate who has the reputation of being endowed with that fatal gift than of being summarily sentenced by any other whose judicial glare is less severe." This is all true, but it tells only a small part of the truth. Not only is Fetish or Shamanism the real religion of criminals, but of vast numbers who are not suspected of it. There is not a town in England or in Europe in which witchcraft (its beginning) is not extensively practised, although this is done with a secrecy the success of which is of itself almost a miracle. We may erect churches and print books, but wherever the prehistoric man exists--and he is still to be found everywhere by millions--he will cling to the old witchcraft of his remote ancestors. Until you change his very nature, the only form in which he can realize supernaturalism will be by means of superstition, and the grossest superstition at that. Research and reflection have taught me that this sorcery is far more widely and deeply extended than any cultivated person dreams--instead of yielding to the progress of culture it seems to actually advance with it. Count Angelo de Gubernatis once remarked to one of the most distinguished English statesmen that there was in the country in Tuscany ten times as much heathenism as Christianity. The same remark was made to me by a fortune-teller in Florence. She explained what she meant. It was the vecchia religione--"the old religion"--not Christianity, but the dark and strange sorceries of the stregha, or witch, the compounding of magical medicine over which spells are muttered, the making love-philters, the cursing enemies, the removing the influence of other witches, and the manufacture of amulets in a manner prohibited by the Church. It would seem as if, by some strange process, while advanced scientists are occupied in eliminating magic from religion, the coarser mind is actually busy in reducing it to religion alone. It has been educated sufficiently to perceive an analogy between dead man's hands and "relics" as working miracles, and as sorcery is more entertaining than religion, and has, moreover, the charm of secrecy, the prehistoric man, who is still with us, prefers the former. Because certain forms of this sorcery are no longer found among the educated classes we think that superstition no longer exists; but though we no longer burn witches or believe in fairies, it is a fact that of a kind and fashion proportionate to our advanced culture, it is, with a very few exceptions, as prevalent as ever. Very few persons indeed have ever given this subject the attention which it merits, for it is simply idle to speculate on the possibility of cultivating or sympathizing with the lowest orders without really understanding it in all its higher forms. And I venture to say that, as regards a literal and truthful knowledge of its forms and practices, this work will prove to be a contribution to the subject not without value. I have, in fact, done my best to set forth in it a very singular truth which is of great importance to every one who takes any real interest in social science, or the advance of intelligence. It is that while almost everybody who contributes to general literature, be it books of travel or articles in journals, has ever and anon something clever to say about superstition among the lower orders at home or abroad, be it in remote country places or in the mountains of Italy, with the usual cry of "Would it be believed--in the nineteenth century?" &c.; it still remains true that the amount of belief in magic--call it by what name we will--in the world is just as great as ever it was. And here I would quote with approbation a passage from "The Conditions for the Survival of Archaic Customs," by G. L. Gomme, in The Archæological Review of January, 1890:-- "If Folk-lore has done nothing else up to this date it has demonstrated that civilization, under many of its phases, while elevating the governing class of a nation, and thereby no doubt elevating the nation, does not always reach the lowest or even the lower strata of the population. As Sir Arthur Mitchell puts it, 'There is always a going up of some and a going down of others,' and it is more than probable that just as the going up of the few is in one certain direction, along certain well-ascertained lines of improvement or development, so the going down of the many is in an equally well-ascertained line of degradation or backwardness. The upward march is always towards political improvement, carrying with it social development; the downward march is always towards social degradation, carrying with it political backwardness. It seems difficult indeed to believe that monarchs like Ælfred, Eadward, William, and Edward, could have had within their Christianized kingdom groups of people whose status was still that of savagery; it seems difficult to believe that Raleigh and Spenser actually beheld specimens of the Irish savage; it seems impossible to read Kemble and Green and Freeman and yet to understand that they are speaking only of the advanced guard of the English nation, not of the backward races within the boundary of its island home. The student of archaic custom has, however, to meet these difficulties, and it seems necessary, therefore, to try and arrive at some idea as to what the period of savagery in these islands really means." Which is a question that very few can answer. There is to be found in almost every cheap book, or "penny dreadful" and newspaper shop in Great Britain and America, for sale at a very low price a Book of Fate--or something equivalent to it, for the name of these works is legion--and one publisher advertises that he has nearly thirty of them, or at least such books with different titles. In my copy there are twenty-five pages of incantations, charms, and spells, every one of them every whit as "superstitious" as any of the gypsy ceremonies set forth in this volume. I am convinced, from much inquiry, that next to the Bible and the Almanac there is no one book which is so much disseminated among the million as the fortune-teller, in some form or other. [1] That is to say, there are, numerically, many millions more of believers in such small sorcery now in Great Britain than there were centuries ago, for, be it remembered, the superstitions of the masses were always petty ones, like those of the fate-books; it was only the aristocracy who consulted Cornelius Agrippa, and could afford la haute magie. We may call it by other names, but fry, boil, roast, powder or perfume it as we will, the old faith in the supernatural and in "occult" means of getting at it still exists in one form or another--the parable or moral of most frequent occurrence in it being that of the Mote and the Beam, of the real and full meaning of which I can only reply in the ever-recurring refrain of the Edda: "Understand ye this--or what?" CHAPTER I. THE ORIGIN OF WITCHCRAFT, SHAMANISM, AND SORCERY.--VINDICTIVE AND MISCHIEVOUS MAGIC. As their peculiar perfume is the chief association with spices, so sorcery is allied in every memory to gypsies. And as it has not escaped many poets that there is something more strangely sweet and mysterious in the scent of cloves than in that of flowers, so the attribute of inherited magic power adds to the romance of these picturesque wanderers. Both the spices and the Romany come from the far East--the fatherland of divination and enchantment. The latter have been traced with tolerable accuracy, if we admit their affinity with the Indian Dom and Domar, back to the threshold of history, or well-nigh into prehistoric times, and in all ages they, or their women, have been engaged, as if by elvish instinct, in selling enchantments, peddling prophecies and palmistry, and dealing with the devil generally in a small retail way. As it was of old so it is to-day-- Ki shan i Romani Adoi san' i chov'hani. Wherever gypsies go, There the witches are, we know. It is no great problem in ethnology or anthropology as to how gypsies became fortune-tellers. We may find a very curious illustration of it in the wren. This is apparently as humble, modest, prosaic little fowl as exists, and as far from mystery and wickedness as an old hen. But the ornithologists of the olden time, and the myth-makers, and the gypsies who lurked and lived in the forest, knew better. They saw how this bright-eyed, strange little creature in her elvish way slipped in and out of hollow trees and wood shade into sunlight, and anon was gone, no man knew whither, and so they knew that it was an uncanny creature, and told wonderful tales of its deeds in human form, and to-day it is called by gypsies in Germany, as in England, the witch-bird, or more briefly, chorihani, "the witch." Just so the gypsies themselves, with their glittering Indian eyes, slipping like the wren in and out of the shadow of the Unknown, and anon away and invisible, won for themselves the name which now they wear. Wherever Shamanism, or the sorcery which is based on exorcising or commanding spirits, exists, its professors from leading strange lives, or from solitude or wandering, become strange and wild-looking. When men have this appearance people associate with it mysterious power. This is the case in Tartary, Africa, among the Eskimo, Lapps, or Red Indians, with all of whom the sorcerer, voodoo or medaolin, has the eye of the "fascinator," glittering and cold as that of a serpent. So the gypsies, from the mere fact of being wanderers and out-of-doors livers in wild places, became wild-looking, and when asked if they did not associate with the devils who dwell in the desert places, admitted the soft impeachment, and being further questioned as to whether their friends the devils, fairies, elves, and goblins had not taught them how to tell the future, they pleaded guilty, and finding that it paid well, went to work in their small way to improve their "science," and particularly their pecuniary resources. It was an easy calling; it required no property or properties, neither capital nor capitol, shiners nor shrines, wherein to work the oracle. And as I believe that a company of children left entirely to themselves would form and grow up with a language which in a very few years would be spoken fluently, [2] so I am certain that the shades of night, and fear, pain, and lightning and mystery would produce in the same time conceptions of dreaded beings, resulting first in demonology and then in the fancied art of driving devils away. For out of my own childish experiences and memories I retain with absolute accuracy material enough to declare that without any aid from other people the youthful mind forms for itself strange and seemingly supernatural phenomena. A tree or bush waving in the night breeze by moonlight is perhaps mistaken for a great man, the mere repetition of the sight or of its memory make it a personal reality. Once when I was a child powerful doses of quinine caused a peculiar throb in my ear which I for some time believed was the sound of somebody continually walking upstairs. Very young children sometimes imagine invisible playmates or companions talk with them, and actually believe that the unseen talk to them in return. I myself knew a small boy who had, as he sincerely believed, such a companion, whom he called Bill, and when he could not understand his lessons he consulted the mysterious William, who explained them to him. There are children who, by the voluntary or involuntary exercise of visual perception or volitional eye-memory, [3] reproduce or create images which they imagine to be real, and this faculty is much commoner than is supposed. In fact I believe that where it exists in most remarkable degrees the adults to whom the children describe their visions dismiss them as "fancies" or falsehoods. Even in the very extraordinary cases recorded by Professor Hale, in which little children formed for themselves spontaneously a language in which they conversed fluently, neither their parents nor anybody else appears to have taken the least interest in the matter. However, the fact being that babes can form for themselves supernatural conceptions and embryo mythologies, and as they always do attribute to strange or terrible-looking persons power which the latter do not possess, it is easy, without going further, to understand why a wild Indian gypsy, with eyes like a demon when excited, and unearthly-looking at his calmest, should have been supposed to be a sorcerer by credulous child-like villagers. All of this I believe might have taken place, or really did take place, in the very dawn of man's existence as a rational creature--that as soon as "the frontal convolution of the brain which monkeys do not possess," had begun with the "genial tubercule," essential to language, to develop itself, then also certain other convolutions and tubercules, not as yet discovered, but which ad interim I will call "the ghost-making," began to act. "Genial," they certainly were not--little joy and much sorrow has man got out of his spectro-facient apparatus--perhaps if it and talk are correlative he might as well, many a time, have been better off if he were dumb. So out of the earliest time, in the very two o'clock of a misty morning in history, man came forth believing in non-existent terrors and evils as soon as he could talk, and talking about them as fast as he formed them. Long before the conception of anything good or beneficent, or of a Heavenly Father or benevolent angels came to him, he was scared with nightmares and spirits of death and darkness, hell, hunger, torture, and terror. We all know how difficult it is for many people when some one dies out of a house-hold to get over the involuntary feeling that we shall unexpectedly meet the departed in the usual haunts. In almost every family there is a record how some one has "heard a voice they cannot hear," or the dead speaking in the familiar tones. Hence the belief in ghosts, as soon as men began to care for death at all, or to miss those who had gone. So first of all came terrors and spectres, or revenants, and from setting out food for the latter, which was the most obvious and childlike manner to please them, grew sacrifices to evil spirits, and finally the whole system of sacrifice in all its elaboration. It may therefore be concluded that as soon as man began to think and speak and fear the mysterious, he also began to appease ghosts and bugbears by sacrifices. Then there sprung up at once--quite as early--the magus, or the cleverer man, who had the wit to do the sacrificing and eat the meats sacrificed, and explain that he had arranged it all privately with the dead and the devils. He knew all about them, and he could drive them away. This was the Shaman. He seems to have had a Tartar-Mongol-mongrel-Turanian origin, somewhere in Central Asia, and to have spread with his magic drum, and songs, and stinking smoke, exorcising his fiends all over the face of the earth, even as his descendant, General Booth, with his "devil-drivers" is doing at the present day. But the earliest authentic records of Shamanism are to be found in the Accadian, proto-Chaldæan and Babylon records. According to it all diseases whatever, as well as all disasters, were directly the work of evil spirits, which were to be driven away by songs of exorcism, burning of perfumes or evil-smelling drugs, and performing ceremonies, many of which, with scraps of the exorcisms are found in familiar use here and there at the present day. Most important of all in it was the extraordinary influence of the Shaman himself on his patient, for he made the one acted on sleep or wake, freed him from many apparently dire disorders in a minute, among others of epilepsies which were believed to be caused by devils dwelling in man--the nearest and latest explanation of which magic power is given in that very remarkable book, "Psycho-Therapeutics, or Treatment by Sleep and Suggestion," by C. Lloyd Tuckey, M.D. (London: Bailliere and Co., 1889), which I commend to all persons interested in ethnology as casting light on some of the most interesting and perplexing problems of humanity, and especially of "magic." It would seem, at least among the Laplanders, Finns, Eskimo, and Red Indians, that the first stage of Shamanism was a very horrible witchcraft, practised chiefly by women, in which attempts were made to conciliate the evil spirits; the means employed embracing everything which could revolt and startle barbarous men. Thus fragments of dead bodies and poison, and unheard-of terrors and crimes formed its basis. I think it very probable that this was the primitive religion among savages everywhere. An immense amount of it in its vilest conceivable forms still exists among negroes as Voodoo. After a time this primitive witchcraft or voodooism had its reformers--probably brave and shrewd men, who conjectured that the powers of evil might be "exploited" to advantage. There is great confusion and little knowledge as yet as regards primitive man, but till we know better we may roughly assume that witch-voodooism was the religion of the people of the paleolithic period, if they could talk at all, since language is denied to the men of the Neanderthal, Canstadt, Egnisheim, and Podhava type. All that we can declare with some certainty is that we find the advanced Shamanism the religion of the early Turanian races, among whose descendants, and other people allied to them, it exists to this day. The grandest incident in the history of humanity is the appearance of the Man of Cromagnon. He it was who founded what M. de Quatrefages calls "a magnificent race," probably one which speedily developed a high civilization, and a refined religion. But the old Shamanism with its amulets, exorcisms, and smoke, its noises, more or less musical, of drums and enchanted bells, and its main belief that all the ills of life came from the action of evil spirits, was deeply based among the inferior races and the inferior scions of the Cromagnon stock clung to it in forms more or less modified. Just as the earlier witchcraft, or the worship and conciliation of evil, overlapped in many places the newer Shamanism, so the latter overlapped the beautiful Nature-worship of the early Aryans, the stately monotheism of the Shemites, and the other more advanced or ingenious developments of the idea of a creative cause. There are, in fact, even among us now, minds to whom Shamanism or even witchcraft is deeply, or innately adapted by nature, and there are hundred of millions who, while professing a higher and purer doctrine, cling to its forms or essentials, believing that because the apparatus is called by a different name it is in no respect whatever the same thing. Finally there are men who, with no logical belief whatever in any kind of supernaturalism, study it, and love it, and are moved by it, owing to its endless associations with poetry, art, and all the legends of infancy or youth. Heine was not in his reasoning moments anything more or less than a strict Deist or Monotheist, but all the dreams and spectres, fairies and goblins, whether of the Middle Ages or the Talmud, were inexpressibly dear to him, and they move like myriad motes through the sunshine of his poetry and prose, often causing long rays when there were bars at the window--like that on which the saint hung his cloak. It is probable or certain that Shamanism (or that into which it has very naturally developed) will influence all mankind, until science, by absorbing man's love of the marvellous in stupendous discoveries shall so put to shame the old thaumaturgy, or wonder-working, that the latter will seem poor and childish. In all the "Arabian Nights" there is nothing more marvellous than the new idea that voices and sounds may be laid aside like real books, and made to speak and sing again years afterwards. And in all of that vast repertory of occult lore, "Isis Unveiled," there is nothing so wonderful as the simple truth that every child may be educated to possess an infinitely developed memory of words, sights, sounds, and ideas, allied to incredible quickness of perception and practice of the constructive faculties. These, with the vast fields of adjusting improved social relations and reforms--all of which in a certain way opens dazzling vistas of a certain kind of enchantment or brilliant hope--will go fast and far to change the old romance to a radically different state of feeling and association. It is coming--let it come! Doubtless there was an awful romance of darkness about the old witchcraft which caused its worshippers to declare that the new lights of Shamanism could never dissipate it. Just so many millions of educated people at present cannot be brought to understand that all things to which they are used are not based on immutable laws of nature, and must needs be eternal. They will find it hard to comprehend that there can ever be any kind of poetry, art, or sentiment, utterly different from that to which they and their ancestors have been accustomed. Yet it is clear and plain before them, this New Era, looking them directly in the face, about to usher in a reformation compared to which all the reformations and revolutions, and new religions which the world has ever seen were as nothing; and the children are born who will see more than the beginning of it. In the next chapter I will examine the Shamanic spells and charms still used among certain gypsies. For, be it observed, all the gypsy magic and sorcery here described is purely Shamanic--that is to say, of the most primitive Tartar type--and it is the more interesting as having preserved from prehistoric times many of the most marked characteristics of the world's first magic or religion. It treats every disease, disorder, trouble, or affliction as the work of an evil spirit; it attempts to banish these influences by the aid of ceremonies, many of which, by the disgusting and singular nature of the ingredients employed, show the lingering influences of the black witchcraft which preceded Shamanism; and it invokes favourable supernatural agencies, such as the spirits of the air and Mashmurdalo', the giant of the forests. In addition to this there will be found to be clearly and unmistakably associated with all their usages, symbols and things nearly connected with much which is to be found in Greek, Roman, and Indian mythology or symbolism. Now whether this was drawn from "classic" sources, or whether all came from some ancient and obscure origin, cannot now be accurately determined. But it certainly cannot be denied that Folk-lore of this kind casts a great deal of light on the early history of mankind, and the gradual unfolding or evolution of religion and of mind, and that, if intelligently studied, this of the gypsies is as important as any chapter in the grand work. The gypsies came, historically speaking, very recently from India. It has not been so carefully observed as it might that all Indians are not of the religion of Brahma, much less of Buddha or of Mahommed, and that among the lower castes, the primæval Altaic Shamanism, with even earlier witchcraft, still holds its own. Witchcraft, or Voodoo, or Obi, relies greatly on poisoning for its magic, and the first gypsies were said to poison unscrupulously. Even to this day there is but one word with them as with many Hindoos for both medicine and poison--id est drab. How exactly this form of witchcraft and Shamanism exists to-day in India appears from the following extract from The St. James's Gazette, September 8, 1888:-- THE HINDOO PRIEST. In India, the jadoo-wallah, or exorcist, thrives apace; and no wonder, for is not the lower-caste Hindoo community bhut, or demon-ridden? Every village, graveyard, burning-ghat, has its special bhut or bhuts; and the jadoo-wallah is the earthly mediator between their bhutships and the common folk. The exorcist is usually the spiritual adviser to the population of a low-caste village, and is known as a gooroo, or priest: that is to say, he professes to hold commune with the spirits of defunct Hindoos which have qualified for their unique position in the other world--by their iniquity in this one, perhaps. Every Hindoo has a guardian bhut that requires propitiating, and the gooroo is the medium. Amongst the Jaiswars and other low-caste Hindoos, caste is regulated by carnal pice, and a man is distinguished amongst them by a regulated monetary scale. One person may be a 14-anna caste man while another may only be a 12-anna caste man. Does the 12-anna caste man wish to supersede the 14-anna caste man, then he consults the gooroo, who will, in consideration of a certain contribution, promote him to a higher-caste grade. A moneyed man having qualms about his future state should join the Jaiswars, where at least he would have an opportunity of utilizing his spare cash for the good of his soul. The average gooroo will be only too glad to procure him everlasting glory for a matter of a few rupees. The gooroo, then, serves as regulator of the lower-caste Hindoo system. But it is our intention to exhibit him in his peculiar position of exorcist-general to the people. This will perhaps be best explained by an account of the case of one Kaloo. Kaloo was a grass-cutter, and had been offended by Kasi, a brother grass-cutter. Kasi, it appears, had stolen Kaloo's quilt one night during his temporary absence at a neighbouring liquor-shop. Kaloo, on his return, finding his quilt gone, raised the hue-and-cry; and Mooloo, the village policeman, traced the robbery to Kasi's hut. Yet, in spite of this damning proof, the village panchayet, or bench of magistrates, decided that, as Kaloo could not swear to the exact colour of his lost quilt--Kaloo was colour-blind--it could not possibly be his. Anyhow, Kaloo kept Kasi in view and hit upon a plan to do him a grievous bodily injury. Scraping together a few rupees, he went to the village gooroo and promised that worthy a reward if he would only exorcise the bhuts and get them to "make Kasi's liver bad." The gooroo, in consideration of five rupees cash, promised compliance. So that night we find the gooroo busy with sandal-wood and pig's blood propitiating the neighbouring bhuts. Needless to say that Kasi had in a very short space of time all the symptoms of liver complaint. Whether the bhuts gave Kasi a bad liver or the gooroo gave him a few doses of poison is a question. Anyhow, Kasi soon died. Another case in point is that of Akuti. Akuti was a retired courtesan who had long plied a profitable trade in the city. We find her, however, at her native village of Ramghur, the wife of one Balu. Balu soon got tired of his Akuti, and longed for the contents of her strong box wherein she kept her rupees, bracelets, nose-rings, and other valuables. This was a rather awkward matter for Balu, for Akuti was still in the prime of life. Balu accordingly visits the gooroo and wants Akuti's liver made bad. "Nothing easier," says the gooroo: "five rupees." Balu has reckoned without his host, however: for the gooroo, as general spiritual adviser to the Ramghur community, visits Akuti and tells her of Balu's little scheme. Naturally Balu's liver is soon in a decline, for Akuti's ten rupees were put in the opposite side of the gooroo's scales. Knaves of the gooroo genus flourish in India, and when their disposition is vicious the damage they can do is appalling. That these priests exist and do such things as I have illustrated is beyond question. Ask any native of India his views on the bhut question, and he will tell you that there are such things, and, further, that the gooroo is the only one able to lay them, so to speak. According to the low-caste Hindoo, the bhut is a spiteful creature which requires constant supplies of liquor and pork; otherwise it will wreak its vengeance on the forgetful votary who neglects the supply. A strange idea, too, is this of pork being pleasing to the bhuts; but when it is remembered that the Jaiswars, Chamars, and other low-caste Hindoos are inordinately fond of that meat themselves, they are right in supposing pig to be the favourite dish of the bhuts, who, after all, are but the departed spirits of their own people. Naturally bhai (brother) Kaloo, or bahin (sister, English gypsy pen) Akuti, the quondam grass-cutter and courtesan of Ramghur village, who in this life liked nothing better than a piece of bacon and a dram of spirits, will, in their state of bhuthood hanker after those things still. Acting on these notions of the people, the gooroo lives and thrives exceedingly. Yet of all this there is nothing "Hindoo," nothing of the Vedas. It is all pre-Aryan, devil-worshipping, poisoning, and Turanian; and it is exactly like voodooing in Philadelphia or any other city in America. It is the old faith which came before all, which existed through and under Brahminism, Buddhism, and Mahommedanism, and which, as is well known, has cropped out again and flourishes vigorously under British toleration. And this is the faith which forms the basis of European gypsy sorcery, as it did of yore that of the Chaldæan and Etrurian, which still survive in the witchcraft of the Tuscan Romagna. Every gypsy who came to Europe a few centuries ago set up as a gooroo, and did his sorceries after the same antique fashion. Even to-day it is much the same, but with far less crime. But the bhut or malignant spirit is, under other names, still believed in, still doctored by gypsies with herbs and smoke, and "be-rhymed like an Irish rat," and conjured into holes bored in trees, and wafted away into running streams, and naïvely implored to "go where he is wanted," to where he was nursed, and to no longer bother honest folk who are tired of him. And for all this the confiding villager must pay the gypsy wise-woman "so much monies"--as it was in the beginning and is now in good faith among millions in Europe who are in a much better class of society. And from this point of view I venture to say that there is not a charm or spell set down in this work or extant which will not be deeply interesting to every sincere student of the history of culture. Let me, however, say in this beginning once for all that I have only given specimens sufficient to illustrate my views, for my prescribed limits quite forbid the introduction of all the gypsy cures, spells, &c., which I have collected. CHAPTER II. CHARMS AND CONJURATIONS TO CURE THE DISORDERS OF GROWN PEOPLE. HUNGARIAN GYPSY MAGIC. Though not liable to many disorders, the gypsies in Eastern Europe, from their wandering, out-of-doors life, and camping by marshes and pools where there is malaria, suffer a great deal from fevers, which in their simple system of medicine are divided into the shilale--i.e., chills or cold--and the tate shilalyi, "hot-cold," or fever and ague. For the former, the following remedy is applied: Three lungs and three livers of frogs are dried and powdered and drunk in spirits, after which the sick man or woman says:-- "Cuckerdya pal m're per Cáven save miseçe! Cuckerdya pal m're per Den miseçeske drom odry prejiál!" "Frogs in my belly Devour what is bad! Frogs in my belly Show the evil the way out!" By "the evil" is understood evil spirits. According to the old Shamanic belief, which was the primæval religion of all mankind, every disease is caused by an evil spirit which enters the body and can only be driven out by magic. We have abundant traces of this left in our highest civilization and religion among people who gravely attribute every evil to the devil instead of the unavoidable antagonisms of nature. Nothing is more apparent in the New Testament than that all diseases were anciently regarded as coming from devils, or evil occult, spiritual influences, their negative or cure being holiness in some form. This the Jews, if they did not learn it from the Assyrians in the first place, had certainly studied deeply in Babylon, where it formed the great national cult. "It was the devil put it into my head," says the criminal; and there is not a point of this old sorcery which is not earnestly and seriously advocated by the Roman Catholic Church and the preachers of the Salvation Army. Among the American Red Indians the idea of evil spirits is carried to logical extremes. If a pen drops from our fingers, or a penny rolls from our grasp, the former of course falls on our new white dress, while the latter nine times out of ten goes directly to the nearest grating, or crack or rat-hole. I aver that it is literally true, if I ever search for a letter or paper it is almost always at the bottom of the rest, while ink-wipers and pens seem to be endowed with more than mere instinct or reason--they manifest genius in concealing themselves. The Indians having observed this have come to the conclusion that it is all the work of certain busy little mischievous goblins, in which I, to a certain extent, agree with them, holding, however, that the dwelling-place of these devilkins, is in our own brain. What are our dreams but the action of our other mind, or a second Me in my brain? Certainly it is with no will or effort, or act of mine, that I go through a diabolical torturing nightmare, or a dreadful dream, whose elaborate and subtle construction betrays very often more ingenuity than I in my waking hours possess. I have had philosophical and literary dreams, the outlines of which I have often remembered waking, which far transcended anything of the kind which I could ever hope to write. The maker of all this is not I or my will, and he is never about, or on hand, when I am self-conscious. But in the inadvertent moments of oblivion, while writing, or while performing any act, this other I, or I's, (for there may be a multitude of them for aught I know) step in and tease--even as they do in dreams. Now the distinction between this of subjective demons acting objectively, and objective or outside spirits, is really too fine to be seen even by a Darwinian-Carpenterian-Häeckelite, and therefore one need not be amazed that Piel Sabadis or Tomaquah, of the Passamaquoddy tribe, or Obeah Gumbo of New Orleans, should, with these experiences, jump at ghosts and "gobblers," is not to be wondered at; still less that they should do something to conciliate or compel these haunting terrors, or "buggs," as they were once called--whence bogeys. It is a fact that if one's ink-wipers get into the habit of hiding all we have to do is to deliberately destroy them and get others, or at least watch them carefully, and they will soon be cured of wandering. On the other hand, sacrifices to conciliate and please naturally occur, and the more expensive these are the better are they supposed to be. And as human beings were of old the most valuable property, they were as naturally supposed to be most acceptable to the gods, or, by the monotheists, to God. A West Indian voodoo on being reproached for human sacrifices to the serpent, and for eating the bodies slain, replied, "Do you believe that the Son of God was sacrificed to save man, and do you not eat what your priests say is His very body?" So difficult is it to draw distinctions between that which is spiritual and the mockeries which appear to be such! The scape-goat, or sufferer, who is martyred that many may escape--or in other words, the unfortunate minority--is a natural result of sacrifice. There is a curious trace of it in Hungarian Gypsy Shamanism. On Easter Monday they make a wooden box or receptacle which is called the bicápen, pronounced like the English gypsy word bitchapen and meaning the same, that is--a sending, a thing sent or gift. In this, at the bottom, are two sticks across, "as in a cradle," and on these are laid herbs and other fetish stuff which every one touches with the finger; then the whole is enveloped in a winding of white and red wool, and carried by the oldest person of the tribe from tent to tent; after which it is borne to the next running stream and left there, after every one has spat upon it. By doing this they think that all the diseases and disorders which would have befallen them during the coming year are conjured into the box. But woe to him who shall find the box and open it, instead of throwing it at once into the stream! All the diseases exorcised by the gypsy band will fall upon him and his in full measure. It would be an interesting question to know how many good people there are, let us say in London, who, if they had an opportunity to work off all their colds, gouts, scarlet-fevers, tooth- head- and stomach-aches, with the consequent doctors' bills, or all suffering and expenses, on some other family by means of secret sorcery, would or would not "try it on"? It is curious to observe the resemblance of the gypsy ceremony, with its box full of mischief, and the Jewish goat; not forgetting the red wool handed down from heathen sacrifice and sorcery of old. In the Bible white wool is the symbol of purification (Isaiah i. 18). The feet of the statues of the gods were enveloped in wool--Dii laneos habent pedes--to signify that they are slow to avenge, if sure. It is altogether an interesting object, this gypsy casket, and one would like to know what all the channels were through which the magic ran ere it came to them. Another cure against the fever is to go to a running stream and cast pieces of wood nine times backwards into the running water, repeating the rhymes:-- "Shilályi prejiá, Páñori me tut 'dáv! Náñi me tut kámáv; Andakode prejiá, Odoy tut cuciden, Odoy tut ferinen, Odoy tut may kámen! Mashurdalo sástyár!" "Fever go away from me, I give it, water, unto thee! Unto me thou art not dear, Therefore go away from here To where they nursed thee, Where they shelter thee, Where they love thee, Mashurdalo--help!" This is a very remarkable invocation which takes us into true heathenism. Mashurdálo, or, correctly speaking, Mashmurdálo (it would be Masmérdo in English gypsy), means meat-killer. He is a sylvan giant--he has his hold by wode and wolde as outlawes wont to do, in far-away forests and lonely rocky places, where he lurks to catch beast and men in order to devour them. It is needless to say to those who are aware that the taste of white people's flesh is like that of very superior chicken, and a negro's something much better than grouse, that Mashmurdálo prefers, like a simple, unsophisticated savage as he is, men to animals. Like the German peasant who remarked, "It's all meat, anyhow," when he found a mouse in his soup, Mashmurdálo is not particular. He is the guardian of great treasures; like most men in the "advance business" he knows where the "money" is to be found--unlike them he is remarkably stupid, and can be easily cheated of his valuables. But if anybody does this Morgante a service he is very grateful, and aids his benefactor either with a loan or with his enormous strength. In many respects he bears a remarkable resemblance to two giants in the American Algonkin mythology, especially to At-was-kenni ges--the Spirit of the Forest--who is equally powerful, good-natured, and stupid, and to the Chenoo, who is a cannibal giant and yet grateful to friends, and also to several Hindoo gods. The gypsies have here evidently fused several Oriental beings into one. This is a process which occurs in the decline of mythologies as in languages. In the infancy of a speech, as in its old age, many words expressing different ideas, but which sound somewhat alike, become a single term. In English gypsy I have found as many as eight or ten Hindi words thus concentrated into one. Another cure for a fever. The sufferer goes in the forest and finds a young tree. When the first rays of the rising sun fall on it the patient shakes it with all his might and exclaims:-- "Shilályi, shilályi prejia Káthe tu beshá, káthe tu beshá!" "Fever, fever, go away! Here shalt thou stay. Here shalt thou stay!" It is here plain that the shaking the sapling is intended to transfer the shakes, as the chill and shuddering of the fever is called in America, to the tree. "Then the fever passes into the tree." Perhaps it was in this way that the aspen learned to tremble. But among the gypsies in the south of Hungary, among whom the vaccination or inoculation of trees is greatly the fashion, a hole is bored into the wood, into which the patient spits thrice, repeats the spell, and then stops the hole with a plug. The boring of holes in trees or transferring illness to them is also practised without formulas of speech. Thus, if while a man is lying down or sitting in the spring he hears the song of the cuckoo he believes that he will be ill all the time for a year to come, especially with fevers, unless he goes nine times to a tree, bores a hole in it, and spits into it three times. Then he is safe. In German mythology "the cuckoo is a bird which brings bad luck" (Friedrich), and the inhabitants of Haiterbach were so persuaded of this that they introduced a prayer against it into their church service, whence they got the name of cuckoos (Wolf, "Zeitschrift für Deutsche Myth.," vol. i. p. 440). It announces to men the infidelity of wives, and tells listeners how many years they have to live. It is possible that this is a relic of an old form of sacrifice, or proof that the idea occurs to all men of thus making a casket of a tree. The occasional discovery of stone axe-heads in very old trees in America renders this probable. And where the wood grows up and encloses the object it would very rarely happen that it would ever be discovered. It should be added to the previous instance that when they have closed the hole, the Transylvanian gypsies eat some of the bark of the next tree. Another cure for fever is effected by going in the morning before sunrise to the bank of a stream, and digging a hole with some object--for instance, a knife--which has never been used. Into this hole the patient makes water, then fills up the hole, saying:-- "Shilályi ác kathe Ná ává kiyá mánge! Sutyárá andré cik! Avá kiyá mánge Káná káthe ná hin páñi!" "Fever stay here! Do not come to me! Dry up in dust, Come unto me When no water is here." Dr. Wlislocki translates this last line, "When there is no more water in the river," which is certainly what is meant. "While water runs or grass grows," &c. is a formula common to all countries. Another cure for fever is this: the patient must take a kreutzer, an egg, and a handful of salt, and before sunrise go with them to a cross-road, throw them away backwards, and repeat:-- "Káná ádálá kiyá mánge áven Ava tu kiya mánge shilályi." "When these things again I see, Fever then return to me." Or literally, "When these things to me come." For the next three days the invalid must not touch money, eggs, or salt. There is an old MS. collection of English charms and ceremonies, professedly of "black witchcraft," in which we are told that if a girl will walk stark-naked by the light of the full moon round a field or a house, and cast behind her at every step a handful of salt, she will get the lover whom she desires. Salt, says Moresinus, was sacred to the infernal deities, and it was a symbol of the soul, or of life, because it preserved the body while in it (Pitiscus, "Leg. Ant. Rom." ii. p. 675). The devil never eats salt. Once there was in Germany a peasant who had a witch for a wife, and the devil invited them to supper. But all the dishes were without any seasoning, and the peasant, despite all nudges and hints to hold his tongue kept crying for salt. And when it was brought and he said, "Thank God, here is salt at last!" the whole Spuck, or ghastly scene, vanished (Horst, "Dæmonomagie," Frankfurt, 1818, vol. ii. p. 213). For a great deal of further information and symbolism on and of salt, including all the views of the ancient Rabbis and modern rationalists on the subject of Lot's wife, the reader may consult "Symbolik und Mythologie der Natur," by J. B. Friedrich, Würzburg, 1859: "Salt is put into love-philtres and charms to ensure the duration of an attachment; in some Eastern countries it is carried in a little bag as an amulet to preserve health." Another cure for fever. The patient must drink, from a new jug, water from three brooks, and after every drink throw into the running stream a handful of salt. Then he must make water into the first and say:-- "Káthe hin t'ro sherro!" "Here is thy head!" At the second he repeats the sacred ceremony and murmurs:-- "Káthe hin t'ro perá!" "Here is thy belly!" And again at the third he exclaims:-- "Te kathehin t're punrá. Já átunci ándre páñi!" "And here are thy feet. Go now into the water!" But while passing from one stream to another he must not look back once, for then he might behold the dread demon of the fever which follows him, neither must he open his mouth, except while uttering the charm, for then the fever would at once enter his body again through the portal thus left unclosed. This walking on in apprehension of beholding the ugly spectre will recall to the reader a passage in the "Ancient Mariner," of the man who walks in fear and dread, "Nor turns around his head, For well he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread." The wise wives among the gypsies in Hungary have many kinds of miraculous salves for sale to cure different disorders. These they declare are made from the fat of dogs, bears, wolves, frogs, and the like. As in all fetish remedies they are said to be of strange or revolting materials, like those used by Canidia of yore, the witches of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson, and of Burns in Tam O'Shanter. When a man has been "struck by a spirit" there results a sore, swelling or boil, which is cured by a sorceress as follows: The patient is put into a tent by himself, and is given divers drinks by his attendant; then she rubs the sufferer with a salve, the secret of which is known only to her, while she chants:-- "Prejiá, prejiá, prejiá, Kiyá miseçeske, ác odoy; Trianda sapa the çaven tut, Trianda jiuklá tut cingeren, Trianda káçná tut cunáven!" "Begone, begone, begone To the Evil One; stay there. May thirty snakes devour thee, Thirty dogs tear thee, Thirty cocks swallow thee!" After this she slaughters a black hen, splits it open, and lays it on the boil. Then the sufferer must drink water from three springs or rivulets, and throw wood nine times into the fire daily until he is well. But black hens cost money, according to Wlislocki; albeit the gypsies, like the children of the Mist in "Waverley," are believed to be acquainted with a far more economical and direct method of obtaining such commodities. Therefore this expensive and high-class cure is not often resorted to, and when it is the sorceress generally substitutes something cheaper than poultry. It may be here observed that the black hen occurs frequently in mediæval witch-lore and legend as a demon-symbol (Wolf, "Niederländische Sagen," pp. 647, 650). Thus the bones of sorcerors turn into black hens and chickens, and it is well if your black hen dies, for if she had not you would have perished in her place. Black hens were walled up in castles as sacrifices to the devil, that the walls might long endure; hence the same fowl occurs in the arms of the family of Henneberg (Nork, "Mythologie der Volkssagen," p. 381). The lore on this subject is very extensive. The following remedy against headache is in general use among Transylvanian gypsies. The patient's head is rubbed, and then washed, with vinegar or hot water while the following charm is repeated:-- "Oh duk ándro m'ro shero The o dád miseçescro, Adá dikhel ákáná, Man tu máy dostá, márdyás, Miro shero tu márdyás! Tu ná ac tu ándre me. Já tu, já tu, já kere. Káy tu miseç cucides, Odoy, odoy sikoves! Ko jál pro m'ro ushályin, Adáleske e duk hin!" "Oh, pain in my head, The father of all evil, Look upon thee now! Thou hast greatly pained me, Thou tormentest my head, Remain not in me! Go thou, go thou, go home, Whence thou, Evil One, didst suck, Thither, thither hasten! Who treads upon my shadow, To him be the pain!" It will be seen that the principle of treading on the tail of the coat practised in Ireland is much outdone by the gypsies who give a headache to any one who so much as treads on their shadows. And it is not difficult to understand that, as with children, the rubbing the head, the bathing it with warm water or vinegar, and, finally, the singing a soothing song, may all conduce to a cure. The readers of "Helen's Babies" will remember the cures habitually wrought on Budge by singing to him, "Charley boy one day." Gypsies are in many respects mere children, or little Budges. There can be no doubt that where faith is very strong, and imagination is lively, cures which seem to border on the miraculous are often effected--and this is, indeed, the basis of all miracle as applied to relieving bodily afflictions. All of this may be, if not as yet fully explained by physiology, at least shown to probably rest on a material basis. But no sound system of cure can be founded on it, because there is never any certainty, especially for difficult and serious disorders, that they can ever be healed twice in succession. The "faith" exacted is sometimes a purely hereditary gift, at other times merely a form of blind ignorance and credulity. It may vividly influence all the body, and it may fail to act altogether. But the "Faith Healer" and "Christian Scientist," or "Metaphysical Doctor," push boldly on, and when they here and there heal a patient once, it is published to the four winds as a proof of invariable infallibility. And as everybody believes that he has "faith," so he hopes to be cured. In popular custom for a man to say he believes in anything, and to be sure that he really has nothing against it, constitutes as much "faith" as most men understand. A man may be utterly destitute of any moral principle and yet live in a constant state of "faith" and pious conviction. Here the capacity for cure by means of charms is complete. In connection with these charms for the head we may find not less interesting those in reference to the hair, as given by the same authority, Dr. von Wlislocki. The greatest pains are taken to ensure even for the new-born child what is called a full head, because every one who dies bald is turned into a fish, and must remain in this form till he has collected as many hairs as would make an ordinary wig. But this lasts a long time, since he can find but a single hair every month or moon. The moon is in many ways connected in gypsy faith with the hair. He who sleeps bare-headed in its light will lose his hair, or else it will become white. To have a heavy growth a man must scoop up with his left hand water from a running brook, against the current, and pour it on his head. Immediately after the first bathing of a newly-born child, and its anointing, its forehead and neck are marked with a semicircle--perhaps meant to indicate the moon--made with a salve called barcali, intended to promote the growth of the hair. A brew, or mess, is made from beans and the blood of a cow. Hairs are taken from the heads of the father and mother, which hairs are burnt to a powder and mixed with the brew. It is remarkable that the beans are only used for a boy, their object being to insure for him great virile or sexual power. "The bean," says Friedrich ("Sym. d. N."), "is an erotic symbol, or one signifying sexual pleasure." Hence it was forbidden to the Egyptian priests, the Pythagoreans, the priests of Jupiter in Rome, and to the Jewish high priests on certain festivals. But if the child is a girl, the seeds of the pumpkin or sunflower are substituted for beans, because the latter would make her barren. It is an old belief, and one widely spread, that if the witches or the devil can get a lock of anybody's hair, they can work him evil. The gypsies have the following articles of faith as regards hairs:-- Should birds find any, and build them into their nests, the man who lost them will suffer from headaches until, during the wane of the moon, he rubs his head with the yolk of eggs and washes it clean in running water. It would be very curious if this method of cleaning the hair and giving it a soft gloss, so much in vogue among English ladies, should have originated in sorcery. Beyond this, the sufferer must mix some of his hairs with food and give them to a white dog to eat. If hairs which have fallen or been cut away are found by a snake and carried into its hole, the man from whom they came will continue to lose more until those in the snake's nest are quite decayed. If you see human hairs in the road do not tread on them, since, in that case, if they came from a lunatic, you, too, will go mad. According to Marcellus Burdigalensis, if you pick up some hairs in the road just before entering a city gate, tie one to your own head, and, throwing the rest away, walk on without looking behind you, you can cure a headache. I have found nearly the same charm for the same purpose in Florence, but accompanied by the incantation which is wanting in Marcellus. Also his cure for headache with ivy from the head of a statue, which is still used in Tuscany with the incantation which the Roman omits. Finding a hair hanging to your coat, carefully burn it, since you may by so doing escape injury by witchcraft. And we may remark in confirmation of this, that when you see a long hair on a man's coat it is an almost certain sign that he has been among the witches, or is bewitched; as the Countess thought when she found one clinging to the button of her lover, Von Adelstein, as set forth in "Meister Karl's Sketch-book." But to bewitch your enemy get some of his combed-out hair, steep it in your own water, and then throw it on his garments. Then he will have no rest by night or day. I have observed that in all the Tuscan charms intended to torment a foe, the objects employed are like this of a disgusting nature. If a wife will hold her husband to her in love, she must take of her own hair and bind it to his. This must be done three times by full moonlight. Or if a maid will win the love of a young man, she must take of her own hair, mix it with earth from his footsteps--"und mischt diese mit dem Speichel einer läufigen Hundinn auf"--burn the whole to powder, and so manage that the victim shall eat it--which, it is needless to say, it is not likely that he will do, knowing what it is. Earth from the footsteps of any one is regarded as a very powerful means of bewitching him in Italian and ancient sorcery. If a man bind the combings of his hair to the mane of a strange horse it will be wild and shy till the hairs are removed. For easy childbirth red hair is sewed in a small bag and carried on the belly next the skin during pregnancy. Red hair indicates good luck, and is called bálá kámeskro, or sun-hairs, which indicates its Indian origin. If any one dreams much of the dead, let him sew some of his hair into an old shoe, and give it to any beggar. Thereby he will prevent evil spirits from annoying him. If a child suffers from sleeplessness, some of its mother's hair should be sewed into its wrappings, and others pulverized, mixed with a decoction of elderberries, be given it to drink. In German Folk-lore, as I shall show more fully anon, the elder often occurs as a plant specially identified with sorcery. In gypsy it is called yakori bengeskro, or the devil's eye, from its berries. Nails cut on Friday should be burned, and the ashes mingled with the fodder of cattle, who are thus ensured against being stolen or attacked by wild beasts. If children are dwarfish, the same ashes in their food will make them grow. If a child suffers from pains in the stomach, a bit of nail must be clipped from its every finger; this is mixed with the dried dung of a foal, and the patient exposed to the smoke while it is burned. A child's first tooth must, when it falls out, be thrown into a hollow tree. Those which come out in the seventh year are carefully kept, and whenever the child suffers from toothache, one is thrown into a stream. Teeth which have been buried for many years, serve to make a singular fetish. They are mingled with the bones of a tree-frog, and the whole then sewed up in a little bag. If a man has anything for sale, and will draw or rub this bag over it, he will have many offers or customers for the articles thus enchanted. The bones are prepared by putting the frog into a glass or earthen receptacle full of small holes. This is buried in an ant-hill. The ants enter the holes and eat away all the flesh, leaving the bones which after a few weeks are removed. [4] To bear healthy and strong children women wear a string of bears' claws and children's teeth. Dr. von Wlislocki cites, apropos of this, a passage from Jacobus Rueff, "Von Empfengnussen": "Etlich schwanger wyber pflägend einen bären klauen von einem bären tapen yngefaszet am hals zuo tragen" (Some women when with child are accustomed to wear mounted bears' claws on their necks). In like manner boars' teeth, which much resemble them, are still very commonly worn in Austria and Italy and almost over all Europe and the East. It is but a few days since I here, in Florence, met with a young English lady who had bought a very large one mounted in silver as a brooch, but who was utterly unaware that there was any meaning attached to it. [5] I have a very ancient bear's tooth and whistle in silver, meant for a teething child. It came from Munich. Pain in the eyes is cured with a wash made of spring or well water and saffron. During the application the following is recited:-- "Oh dukh ándrál yákhá Já ándré páñi Já andrál páñi André safráne André pçuv. Já andrál pçuv Kiyá Pçuvusheske.-- Odoy hin cerçá, Odoy ja te ça." "Oh, pain from the eyes Go into the water, Go out of the water Into the saffron, Go out of the saffron Into the earth. To the Earth-Spirit. There's thy home. There go and eat." This incantation casts light upon the earliest Shamanic remedies. When it was discovered that certain herbs really possessed curative qualities, this was attributed to inherent magic virtues. The increase of their power by combining them with water, or mingling them, was due to mystic affinities by which a spirit passed from one to another. The Spirit of Earth went into saffron, that of saffron into water. The magician thus by a song sent the pain into its medical affinity, and so on back to the source whence it came. From early times saffron, as one of the earliest flowers of spring, owing to its colour, was consecrated to magic and love. Eos, the goddess of the Aurora, was called krokotieplos, the one with the saffron garment. Therefore the public women wore a yellow robe. Even in Christian symbolism it meant love, as Portalis declares: "In the Christian religion the colours saffron and orange were the symbols of God embracing the heart and illuminating the souls of the faithful" ("Des Couleurs Symboliques," Paris, 1837, p. 240). So we can trace the chain from the prehistoric barbarous Shamanism, preserved by the gypsies, to the Greek, and from the Greek to the mediæval form still existent. The same sympathetic process of transmission may be traced in the remedy for the erysipelas. The blood of a bullfinch is put into a new vessel with scraped elder-bark, and then laid on a cloth with which the eyes are bound up overnight. Meanwhile the patient repeats:-- "Duy yákhá hin mánge Duy punrá hin mánge Dukh ándrál yákhá Já ándre punrá Já ándrál punrá. Já ándre pçuv, Já ándrál pçuv Andro meriben!" "I have two eyes, I have two feet, Pain from my eyes Go into my feet! Go from my feet, Go into the earth! Go from the earth Into death!" We have here in the elder-bark associations of magic which are ancient and widely spread, and which still exist; for at the present day country people in New England attribute to it curative virtues which it really does not possess. From the earliest times among the Northern races the Lady Elder, as we may learn from the Edda, or Fin Magnusen ("Priscæ veterum Borealium Mythologiæ Lexicon," pp. 21, 239), and Nyerup ("Worterbuch der Scandinavischen Mythologie"), had an unearthly, ghostly reputation. Growing in lonely, gloomy places its form and the smell of its flowers seemed repulsive, so that it was associated with death, and some derived its name from Frau Holle, the sorceress and goddess of death. But Schwenki ("Mythologie der Slaven") with more probability traces it from hohl, i.e., hollow, and as spirits were believed to dwell in all hollow trees, they were always in its joints. The ancient Lithuanians, he informs us, worshipped their god Puschkeit, who was a form of Pluto, in fear and trembling at dusk, and left their offerings under the elder-tree. Everybody has seen the little puppets made of a piece of elder-pith with half a bullet under them, so that they always stand upright, and jump up when thrown down. Among the Slovaks these seem to have had some magical application. Perhaps their priests persuaded them that these jumping Jacks were miraculous, for they called them Pikuljk, a name derived from Peklo, the under-world. They still believe in a Pikuljk, who is a servant of the Evil One. He does all kinds of favours for men, but ends by getting their souls. The ancestors of the Poles were accustomed to bury all their sins and sorrows under elder-trees, thinking that they thereby gave to the lower world what properly belonged to it. This corresponds accurately to the gypsy incantation which passes the disease on from the elder bark into the earth, and from earth unto death. Frau Ellhorn, or Ellen, was the old German name for this plant. "Frau, perhaps, as appropriate to the female elf who dwelt in it" (Friedrich, "Symbolik," p. 293). When it was necessary to cut one down, the peasant always knelt first before it and prayed: "Lady Ellhorn, give me of thy wood, and I will give thee of mine when it shall grow in the forest." Grimm ("Deutsche Mythologie," cxvi.) cites from a MS. of 1727 the following: "Paga nismo ortum debet superstitio, sambucam non esse exscindendum nisi prius rogata permissione his verbis: Mater Sambuci permitte mihi tuæ coedere sylvam!" On the other hand, Elder had certain protective and healing virtues. Hung before a stable door it warded off witchcraft, and he who planted it conciliated evil spirits. And if a twig of it were planted on a grave and it grew, that was a sign that the soul of the deceased was happy, which is the probable reason why the very old Jewish cemetery in Prague was planted full of elders. In a very curious and rare work, entitled "Blockesberge Berichtung" (Leipzig, 1669), by John Prætorius, devoted to "the Witch-ride and Sorcery-Sabbath," the author tells us that witches make great use of nine special herbs--"nam in herbis, verbis et lapidibus magna vis est." Among these is Elder, of which the peasants make wreaths, which, if they wear on Walpurgis night, they can see the sorceresses as they sweep through the air on their brooms, dragons, goats, and other strange steeds to the Infernal Dance. Or when they anderswo herumvagiren--"go vagabonding anywhere else." "Yea, and I know one fellow who sware unto men, that by means of this herb he once saw certain witches churning butter busily, and that on a roof, but I mistrust that this was a sell (Schnake), and that the true name of this knave was Butyrolambius" ("Blocksberg," p. 475). The same author informs us that Hollunder (or Elder) is so called from hohl, or hollow, or else is an anagram of Unholden, unholy spirits, and some people call it Alhuren, from its connection with witches and debauchery, even as Cordus writes:-- "When elder blossoms bloom upon the bush, Then women's hearts to sensual pleasure rush." He closes his comments on this subject with the dry remark that if the people of Leipzig wear, as is their wont, garlands of elder with the object of preventing breaches of the seventh commandment among them, it has in this instance, at least, utterly failed to produce the expected effect. "Quasi! creadt Judæus Apella!" It should be mentioned that in the gypsy spell the next morning the cloth with the elder-bark must be thrown into the next running water. To cure toothache the Transylvanian gypsies wind a barley-straw round a stone, which is thrown into a running stream, while saying:-- "Oh dukh ándre m're dándá, Tu ná báres cingerá! Ná ává kiyá mánge, Mire muy ná hin kere! Tut ñikáná me kámáv, Ac tu mánge pál pácá; Káná e pçus yárpakri Avel tele páñori!" "Oh, pain in my teeth, Trouble me not so greatly! Do not come to me, My mouth is not thy house. I love thee not all, Stay thou away from me; When this straw is in the brook Go away into the water!" Straw was anciently a symbol of emptiness, unfruitfulness, and death, and it is evidently used in this sense by the gypsies, or derived by them from some tradition connected with it. A feigned or fruitless marriage is indicated in Germany by the terms Strohwittwer and Strohwittwe. From the earliest times in France the breaking a straw signified that a compact was broken with a man because there was nothing in him. Thus in 922 the barons of Charles the Simple, in dethroning him, broke the straws which they held (Charlotte de La Tour, "Symbols of Flowers"). Still, straws have something in them. She who will lay straws on the table in the full moonlight by an open window, especially on Saturday night, and will repeat-- "Straw, draw, crow craw, By my life I give thee law"-- then the straws will become fairies and dance to the cawing of a crow who will come and sit on the ledge of the window. And so witches were wont to make a man of straw, as did Mother Gookin, in Hawthorne's tale, and unto these they gave life, whence the saying of a man of straw and straw bail, albeit this latter is deemed by some to be related to the breaking of straws and of dependence, as told in the tale of Charles the Simple. Straw-lore is extensive and curious. As in elder-stalks, small fairies make their homes in its tubes. To strew chopped straw before the house of a bride was such an insult to her character, in Germany, and so common that laws were passed against it. I possess a work printed about 1650, entitled "De Injuriis quæ haud raro Novis Nuptis inferri solent. I. Per sparsionem dissectorum culmorum frugum. Germ. Dusch das Werckerling Streuen," &c. An immense amount of learned quotation and reference by its author indicates that this custom which was influenced by superstition, was very extensively written on in its time. It was allied to the binding of knots and other magic ceremonies to prevent the consummation of marriages. There is a very curious principle involved in curing certain disorders or afflictions by means of spells or verses. A certain word is repeated many times in a mysterious manner, so that it strikes the imagination of the sufferer. There is found in the Slavonian countries a woolly caterpillar called Wolos, whose bite, or rather touch, is much dreaded. I have myself, when a boy, been stung by such a creature in the United States. As I remember, it was like the sting of a bee. The following (Malo Russian) spell against it was given me by Prof. Dragomanoff in Geneva. It is supposed that a certain kind of disorder, or cutaneous eruption, is caused by the Wolos:-- "Wolosni--Wolosnicéh! Holy Wolos. Once a man drove over empty roads With empty oxen, To an empty field, To harvest empty corn, And gather it in empty ricks. He gathered the empty sheaves, Laid them in empty wagons, Drove over empty roads, Unto an empty threshing-floor. The empty labourers threshed it, And bore it to the empty mill. The empty baker (woman) Mixed it in an empty trough, And baked it in an empty oven. The empty people ate the empty bread. So may the Wolos swallow this disorder From the empty ---- (here the name of the patient.) What is here understood by "empty" is that the swelling is taken away, subtracted, or emptied, by virtue of the repetition of the word, as if one should say, "Be thou void. Depart! depart! depart! Avoid me!" There is a very curious incantation also apparently of Indian-gypsy origin, since it refers to the spirits of the water who cause diseases. In this instance they are supposed to be exorcised by Saint Paphnutius, who is a later Slavonian-Christian addition to the old Shamanic spell. In the Accadian-Chaldæan formulas these spirits are seven; here they are seventy. The formula in question is against the fever:-- "In the name of God and his Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen! "Seventy fair maids went up out of the ocean. "They met the Saint Paphnutius, who asked: "'Whence come ye, oh Maidens?' "They answered, 'From the ocean-sea. "'We go into the world to break the bones of men. "'To give them the fever. (To make hot and cold).'" Then the holy Paphnutius began to beat them, and gave them every one seventy-seven days:-- "They began to pray, 'O holy Paphnutius! "'Forgive us, (and) whoever shall bear with him (thy) name, or write it, him we will leave in peace. "'We will depart from him "Over the streams, over the seas. "'Over the reeds (canes) and marshes. "'O holy Paphnutius, sua misericordia, of thy mercy, "'Have pity on thy slave, even on the sick man ---- (the name is here uttered), "'Free him from fever!'" It is remarkable that, as a certain mysterious worm, caterpillar, or small lizard (accounts differ) among the Algonkin Indians is supposed to become at will a dragon, or sorcerer, or spirit, to be invoked or called on, so the Wolos worm is also invoked, sometimes as a saint or sorcerer, and sometimes as a spirit who scatters disease. The following gypsy-Slavonian incantation over an invalid has much in common with the old Chaldæan spells:-- "Wolosni, Wolosnicéh! Thou holy Wolos! God calls thee unto his dwelling, Unto his seat. Thou shalt not remain here, To break the yellow bones. To drink the red blood, To dry up the white body. Go forth as the bright sun Goes forth over the mountains, Out from the seventy-seven veins, Out from the seventy limbs (parts of the body). Before I shall recognize thee, Before I did not name thee (call on thee). But now I know who thou art; I began to pray to the mother of God, And the mother of God began to aid me. Go as the wind goes over the meadows or the shore (or banks), As the waves roll over the waters, So may the Wolos go from ---- The man who is born, Who is consecrated with prayer." The Shamanic worship of water as a spirit is extremely ancient, and is distinctly recognized as such by the formulas of the Church in which water is called "this creature." The water spirits play a leading part in the gypsy mythology. The following gypsy-Slav charm, to consecrate a swarm of bees, was also given to me by Prof. Dragomanoff, who had learned it from a peasant:-- "One goes to the water and makes his prayer and greets the water thus:-- "Hail to thee, Water! Thou Water, Oliana! Created by God, And thou, oh Earth, Titiana! And ye the near springs, brooks and rivulets, Thou Water, Oliana, Thou goest over the earth, Over the neighbouring fountains and streams, Down unto the sea, Thou dost purify the sea, The sand, the rocks, and the roots-- I pray thee grant me Of the water of this lake, To aid me, To sprinkle my bees. I will speak a word, And God will give me help, The all-holy Mother of God, The mother of Christ, Will aid me, And the holy Father The holy Zosimos, Sabbateus and the holy Friday Parascabeah! "When this is said take the water and bear it home without looking back. Then the bees are to be sprinkled therewith." The following Malo-Russian formula from the same authority, though repointed and gilt with Greek Christianity, is old heathen, and especially interesting since Prof. Dragomanoff traces it to a Finnic Shaman source:-- "Charm Against the Bite of a Serpent. "The holy Virgin sent a man Unto Mount Sion, Upon this mountain Is the city of Babylon, And in the city of Babylon Lives Queen Volga. Oh Queen Volga, Why dost thou not teach This servant of God (Here the name of the one bitten by a serpent is mentioned) So that he may not be bitten By serpents?" (The reply of Queen Volga) "Not only will I teach my descendants But I also will prostrate myself Before the Lord God." "Volga is the name of a legendary heathen princess of Kief, who was baptized and sainted by the Russian Church. The feminine form, Olga, or Volga, corresponds to the masculine name Oleg, or Olg, the earliest legendary character of Kief. His surname was Viechtchig--the sage or sorcerer" (i.e., wizard, and from a cognate root). "In popular songs he is called Volga, or Volkh, which is related to Volkv, a sorcerer. The Russian annals speak of the Volkv of Finland, who are represented as Shamans." Niya Predania i Raskazi ("Traditions and Popular Tales of Lesser Russia," by M. Dragomanoff, Kief, 1876) in Russian. I have in the chapter on curing the disorders of children spoken of Lilith, or Herodias, who steals the new-born infants. She and her twelve daughters are also types of the different kinds of fever for which the gypsies have so many cures of the same character, precisely as those which were used by the old Bogomiles. The characteristic point is that this female spirit is everywhere regarded as the cause of catalepsy or fits. Hence the invocation to St. Sisinie is used in driving them away. This invocation written, is carried as an amulet or fetish. I give the translation of one of these from the Roumanian, in which the Holy Virgin is taken as the healer. It is against cramp in the night:-- "Spell Against Night-cramp. "There is a mighty hill, and on this hill is a golden apple-tree. "Under the golden apple-tree is a golden stool. "On the stool--who sits there? "There sits the Mother of God with Saint Maria; with the boxes in her right hand, with the cup in her left. "She looks up and sees naught, she looks down and sees my Lord and Lady Disease. "Lords and Ladies Cramp, Lord and Lady Vampire--Lord Wehrwolf and his wives. "They are going to ---- (the sufferer), to drink his blood and put in him a foul heart. "The Mother of God, when she saw them, went down to them, spoke to them, and asked them, 'Whither go ye, Lord and Lady Disease, Lords and Ladies Cramp, &c.?' "'We go to ---- to drink his blood, to change his heart to a foul one.' "'No, ye shall return; give him his blood back, restore him his own heart, and leave him immediately.' "Cramps of the night, cramps of the midnight, cramps of the day, cramps wherever they are. From water, from the wind, go out from the brain, from the light of the face, from the hearing of the ears, from his heart, from his hands and feet, from the soles of his feet. "Go and hide where black cocks never crow, [6] where men never go, where no beast roars. "Hide yourself there, stop there, and never show yourself more! "May ---- remain pure and glad, as he was made by God, and was fated by the Mother of God! "The spell is mine--the cure is God's." In reference to the name Herodias (here identified with Lilith, the Hebrew mother of all devils and goblins); it was a great puzzle to the writers on witchcraft why the Italian witches always said they had two queens whom they worshipped--Diana and Herodias. The latter seems to have specially presided at the witch-dance. In this we can see an evident connection with the Herodias of the New Testament. I add to this a few more very curious old Slavonian spells from Dr. Gaster's work, as they admirably illustrate one of the principal and most interesting subjects connected with the gypsy witchcraft; that is to say, its relation to early Shamanism and the forms in which its incantations were expressed. In all of these it may be taken for granted, from a great number of closely-allied examples, that the Christianity in them is recent and that they all go back to the earliest heathen times. The following formula, dating from 1423, against snake-bites bears the title:-- "Prayer of St. Paul against Snakes. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. I once was a persecutor, but am now a true follower; and I went from my dwelling-place in Sicily, and they set light to a trunk, and a snake came therefrom and bit my right hand and hung from it. But I had in me the power of God, and I shook it off into the burning fire and it was destroyed, and I suffered no ill from the bite. I laid myself down to sleep; then the mighty angel said: 'Saul, Paul, stand up and receive this writing'; and I found in it the following words: "'I exorcise you, sixty and a half kinds of beasts that creep on the earth, in the name of God, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, and in the name of the immovable throne. "'Serpent of Evil, I exorcise thee in the name of the burning river which rises under the footstool of the Saviour, and in the name of His incorporeal angels! "'Thou snake of the tribe of basilisks, thou foul-headed snake, twelve-headed snake, variegated snake, dragon-like snake, that art on the right side of hell, whomsoever thou bitest thou shalt have no power to harm, and thou must go away with all the twenty-four kinds. If a man has this prayer and this curse of the true, holy apostle, and a snake bites him, then it will die on the spot, and the man that is bitten shall remain unharmed, to the honour of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, now and for all time. Amen.'" It is not improbable that we have in Paul and the Serpent and the formula for curing its bite (which is a common symbol for all disease) a souvenir of Esculapius, the all-healer, and his serpent. The following is "a prayer against the toothache, to be carried about with one," i.e., as an amulet prayer:-- "Spell for the Toothache. "Saint Peter sat on a stone and wept. Christ came to him and said, 'Peter, why weepest thou?' Peter answered, 'Lord, my teeth pain me.' The Lord thereupon ordered the worm in Peter's tooth to come out of it and never more go in again. Scarcely had the worm come out when the pain ceased. Then spoke Peter, 'I pray you, O Lord, that when these words be written out and a man carries them he shall have no toothache.' And the Lord answered, ''Tis well, Peter; so may it be!'" It will hardly be urged that this Slavonian charm of Eastern origin could have been originated independently in England. The following, which is there found in the north, is, as Gaster remarks, "in the same wording":-- "Peter was sitting on a marble stone, And Jesus passed by. Peter said, 'My Lord, my God, How my tooth doth ache!' Jesus said, 'Peter art whole! And whosoever keeps these words for My sake Shall never have the toothache.'" The next specimen is a-- "Charm against Nose-bleeding. "Zachariah was slain in the Lord's temple, and his blood turned into stone. Then stop, O blood, for the Lord's servant, ----. I exorcise thee, blood, that thou stoppest in the name of the Saviour, and by fear of the priests when they perform the liturgy at the altar." Those who sell these charms are almost universally supposed to be mere quacks and humbugs. If this were the case, why do they so very carefully learn and preserve these incantations, transmitting them "as a rich legacy Unto their issue." But they really do believe in them, and will give great prices for them. Prof. Dragomanoff told me that once in Malo-Russia it became generally known that he had made a MS. collection of such spells. A peasant who was desirous of becoming a sorcerer, but who had very few incantations of his own, went whenever he could by stealth into the Professor's library and surreptitiously copied his incantations. And when Prof. Dragomanoff returned the next year to that neighbourhood, he found the peasant doing a very good business as a conjuring doctor, or faith-healer. I have a lady correspondent in the United States who has been initiated into Voodoo and studied Indian-negro witchcraft under two eminent teachers, one a woman, the other a man. The latter, who was at the very head of the profession, sought the lady's acquaintance because he had heard that she possessed some very valuable spells. In the fourth or highest degree, as in Slavonian or Hungarian gypsy-magic, this Indian-Voodoo deals exclusively with the spirits of the forest and stream. M. Kounavine, as set forth by Dr. A. Elysseeff (Gypsy-Lore Journal, July, 1890), gives a Russian gypsy incantation by which the fire is invoked to cure illness. It is as follows:-- "Great Fire, my defender and protector, son of the celestial fire, equal of the sun who cleanses the earth of foulness, deliver this man from the evil sickness that torments him night and day!" The fire is also invoked to punish, or as an ordeal, e.g.:-- "Fire, who punishest the evil-doer, who hatest falsehood, who scorchest the impure, thou destroyest offenders; thy flame devoureth the earth. Devour ---- if he says what is not true, if he thinks a lie, and if he acts deceitfully." These are pronounced by the gypsy sorcerer facing the burning hearth. There is another in which fire is addressed as Jandra, and also invoked to punish an offender:-- "Jandra, bearer of thunderbolts, great Periani (compare Parjana, an epithet of Indra, Slavonic Perun), bearer of lightning, slay with thy thunderbolt and burn with thy celestial fire him who dares to violate his oath." CHAPTER III. GYPSY CONJURATIONS AND EXORCISMS--THE CURE OF CHILDREN--HUNGARIAN GYPSY SPELLS--A CURIOUS OLD ITALIAN "SECRET"--THE MAGIC VIRTUE OF GARLIC--A FLORENTINE INCANTATION LEARNED FROM A WITCH--LILITH, THE CHILD-STEALER, AND QUEEN OF THE WITCHES. In all the schools of Shamanic sorcery, from those of the Assyrian-Accadian to the widely-spread varieties of the present day, the Exorcism forms the principal element. An exorcism is a formula, the properties or power of which is that when properly pronounced, especially if this be done with certain fumigations and ceremonies, it will drive away devils, diseases, and disasters of every description; nay, according to very high, and that by no means too ancient, authority, it is efficacious in banishing bugs, mice, or locusts, and it is equal to Persian powder as a fuge for fleas, but is, unfortunately, too expensive to be used for that purpose save by the very wealthy. It has been vigorously applied against the grape disease, the Colorado beetle, the army worm, and the blizzard in the United States, but, I believe, without effect, owing possibly to differences of climate or other antagonistic influences. Closely allied to the Exorcism is the Benediction, which soon grew out of it as a cure. The former being meant to repel and drive away evil, the latter very naturally suggested itself, by a law of moral polarity, as a means of attracting good fortune, blessings, health, and peace. As the one was violently curative, the other was preventive. The benediction would keep the devils and all their works away from a man or his home--in fact, if stables be only well blessed once a year, no mishaps can come to any of the animals who inhabit them; and I myself have known a number of donkeys to receive a benediction in Rome, the owner being assured that it would keep them safe from all the ills which donkeys inherit. And in the year 1880, in one of the principal churches of Philadelphia, blessed candles were sold to a congregation under guarantee that the purchase of one would preserve its possessor for one year against all disorders of the throat, on which occasion a sermon was preached, in the which seven instances were given in which people had thus been cured. Between blessing and banning it soon became evident that many formulas of words could be used to bring about mysterious results. It is probable that the Exorcism in its original was simply the angry, elevated tone of voice which animals as well as men instinctively employ to repel an enemy or express a terror. For this unusual language would be chosen, remembered, and repeated. With every new utterance this outcry or curse would be more seriously pronounced or enlarged till it became an Ernulphian formula. The next step would be to give it metric form, and its probable development is very interesting. It does not seem to have occurred to many investigators that in early ages all things whatever which were remembered and repeated were droned and intoned, or sing-sung, until they fell of themselves into a kind of metre. In all schools at the present day, where boys are required to repeat aloud and all together the most prosaic lessons, they end by chanting them in rude rhythm. All monotone, be it that of a running brook, falls into cadence and metre. All of the sagas, or legends, of the Algonkin-Wabanaki were till within even fifty years chants or songs, and if they are now rapidly losing that character it is because they are no longer recited with the interest and accuracy which was once observed in the narrators. But it was simply because all things often repeated were thus intoned that the exorcisms became metrical. It is remarkable that among the Aryan races it assumed what is called the staff-rhyme, like that which Shakespeare, and Ben Jonson, and Byron, and many more employ, as it would seem, instinctively, whenever witches speak or spells or charms are uttered. It will not escape the reader that, in the Hungarian gypsy incantations in this work, the same measure is used as that which occurs in the Norse sagas, or in the scenes of Macbeth. It is also common in Italy. This is intelligible--that its short, bold, deeply-marked movement has in itself something mysterious and terrible. If that wofully-abused word "weird" has any real application to anything, it is to the staff-rhyme. I believe that when a man, and particularly a woman, does not know what else to say, he or she writes "lurid," or "weird," and I lately met with a book of travels in which I found the latter applied seventy-six times to all kinds of conundrums, until I concluded that, like the coachman's definition of an idea in Heine's "Reisebilder," it meant simply "any d----d nonsense that a man gets into his head." But if weird really and only means that which is connected with fate or destiny, from the Anglo-Saxon Weordan, to become, German, Werden, then it is applicable enough to rhymes setting forth the future and spoken by the "weird sisters," who are so-called not because they are awful or nightmarish, or pokerish, or mystical, or bug-a-boorish, but simply because they predict the future or destiny of men. "The Athenians as well as Gentiles excelled in these songs of sorcery, hence we are told (Varro, "Q. de Fascin") that in Achaia, when they learned that a certain woman who used them was an Athenian they stoned her to death, declaring that the immortal gods bestowed on man the power of healing with stones, herbs, and animals, not with words" ("De Rem. Superstit. Cognos cendis"). Truly, doctors never agree. It was in 1886 that I learned from a girl in Florence two exorcisms or invocations which she was accustomed to repeat before telling fortunes by cards. This girl, who was of the Tuscan Romagna and who looked Etruscan with a touch of gypsy blood, was a repertory of popular superstitions, especially witch-lore, and a maker and wearer of fetishes, always carrying a small bag full of them. Bon sang ne peut mentir. The two formulas were as follows. I omit a portion from each:-- "Venti cinque carte siete! Venti cinque diavoli diventerete, Diventerete, anderete Nel' corpo, nel' sangue nell' anima, Nell' sentimenti del corpo; Del mio amante non posso vivere, Non passa stare ne bere, Ne mangiare ne ... Ne con uomini ne con donne non passa favellare, Finche a la porta di casa mia Non viene picchiare!" "Ye are twenty-five cards, Become twenty-five devils! Enter into the body, into the blood, into the soul; Into the feelings of the body Of my lover, from whom I cannot live. For I cannot stand (exist), or drink, Or eat ... Nor can I converse with men or women Till at the door of my house He shall come to knock." The second incantation was the same, but beginning with these words:-- "I put five fingers on the wall, I conjure five devils, Five monks and five friars, That they may enter the body Into the blood, into the soul," &c. If the reader will take Le Normant's "Magie Chaldaienne," and carefully compare these Italian spells with those of ancient Nineveh, he will not only find a close general resemblance, but all the several details or actual identity of words. And it is not a little curious that the same formulas which were repeated-- "Once on a time when Babylon was young"-- should still be current in Italy. So it passed through the ages--races came and went--and among the people the old sorcery was handed across and adown, so that it still lives. But in a few years more the Folk-lorist will be its only repository. This chapter is devoted to conjuring diseases of children by gypsies. It bears a great likeness to one in the very devout work of Peter Pipernus, "De Pueris affectis morbis magicis" ("Of Boys who have been Bewitched into Disease"), only that Pipernus uses Catholic incantations, which he also employs "pro ligatis in matrimonio," "pro incubo magico," "de dolóribus stomachi magicis," &c., for to him, as he declares, all disease is of magic origin. The magic of the gypsies is not all deceit, though they deceive with it. They put faith themselves in their incantations, and practise them on their own account. "And they believe that there are women, and sometimes men, who possess supernatural power, partly inherited and partly acquired." The last of seven daughters born in succession, without a boy's coming into the series, is wonderfully gifted, for she can see hidden treasure or spirits, or enjoy second sight of many things invisible to men. And the same holds good for the ninth in a series of boys, who may become a seer of the same sort. Such a girl, i.e., a seventh daughter, being a fortune in herself, never lacks lovers. In 1883 the young Vojvode, or leader, of the Kukaya gypsy tribe, named Danku Niculai, offered the old gypsy woman, Pale Boshe, one hundred ducats if she would persuade her seventh daughter to marry him. In the United States of America there are many women who advertise in the newspapers that they also are seventh daughters of seventh daughters at that, and who make a good thing of it as fortune-tellers; but they have a far more speedy, economical, and effective way of becoming the last note in an octave, than by awaiting the slow processes of being begotten or born, inasmuch as they boldly declare themselves to be sevenths, which I am assured answers every purpose, as nobody ever asks to see their certificates of baptism any more than of marriage. [7] Most of these witch-wives--also known in Hungary as cohalyi, or "wise women," or gule romni, "sweet" or "charming women"--are trained up from infancy by their mothers in medicine and magic. A great part of this education consists in getting by heart the incantations or formulas of which specimens will be given anon, and which, in common with their fairy tales, show intrinsic evidence of having been drawn at no very distant period from India, and probably in common with the lower or Shamanic religion of India from Turanian sources. But there is among the Hungarian gypsies a class of female magicians who stand far above their sisters of the hidden spell in power. These are the lace romni, or "good women," who draw their power directly from the Nivasi or Pchuvusi, the spirits of water and earth, or of flood and fell. For the Hungarian gypsies have a beautiful mythology of their own which at first sight would seem to be a composition of the Rosicrucian as set forth by Paracelsus and the Comte de Gabalis, with the exquisite Indo-Teutonic fairy tales of the Middle Ages. In fact, in some of the incantations used we find the Urme, or fairies, directly appealed to for help. With the gypsies, as among the early Accadians, diseases are supposed to be caused by evil supernatural influences. This is more naturally the case among people who lead very simple lives, and with whom sickness is not almost a natural or normal condition, as it is with ladies and gentlemen, or the inhabitants of cities, who have "always something the matter with them." Nomadic life is conducive to longevity. "Our grandfathers died on the gallows--we die from losing our teeth," said an old gypsy to Doctor von Wlislocki, when asked what his age was. Therefore among all people who use charms and spells those which are devoted to cure occupy the principal position. However, the Hungarian Romany have many medicines, more or less mysterious, which they also apply in connection with the "healing rhymes." And as in the struggle for life the weakest go first to the wall, the remedies for the diseases of children are predominant. When a mother begins to suffer the pangs of childbirth, a fire is made before her tent, which is kept up till the infant is baptized, in order to drive away evil spirits. Certain women feed this fire, and while fanning it (fans being used for bellows) murmur the following rhyme:-- "Oh yakh, oh yakh pçabuva, Pçabuva, Te cavéstár tu trádá, Tu trada, Pçúvushen te Nivashen Tire tçuva the traden! Lace Urmen ávená, Caves báçtáles dena, Káthe hin yov báçtáles, Andre lime báçtáles! Motura te ráná, Te átunci but' ráná, Motura te ráná, Te átunci, but' ráná, Me dav' andre yákherá! Oh yákh, oh yákh pçabuva, Rovel cavo: áshuna!" It may here be remarked that the pronunciation of all these words is the same as in German, with the following additions. C = teh in English, or to ch in church. C = ch in German as in Buch. J = azs, or the English j, in James; n, as in Spanish, or nj in German, while sh and y are pronounced as in English. Á is like ah. The literal translation is:-- "Oh Fire, oh Fire, burn! Burn! And from the child (do) thou drive away Drive away! Pçuvuse and Nivashi And drive away thy smoke (pl.) (Let) good fairies come (and) Give luck to the child, Here it is lucky (or fortunate) In the world fortunate Brooms and twigs (fuel) And then more twigs, And then yet more twigs I put (give) to the fire. Oh fire, oh fire--burn! The child weeps: listen!" In South Hungary the gypsy women on similar occasions sing the following charm:-- "Eftá Pçuvushá, efta Niváshá André mal avená Pçabuven, pçabuven, oh yákhá! Dáyákri punro dindálen, Te gule caves mudáren; Pçabuven, pçabuven, oh yákhá; Ferinen o caves te daya!" "Seven Pçuvushe, seven Nivasi Come into the field, Burn, burn, oh fire! They bite the mother's foot, They destroy the sweet child; Fire, fire, oh burn! Protect the child and the mother!" When the birth is very difficult, the mother's relations come to help, and one of them lets an egg fall, zwischen den Beinen derselben. On this occasion the gypsy women in Southern Hungary sing:-- "Ánro, ánro in obles, Te e pera in obles: Ava cavo sástávestes! Devlá, devlá, tut akharel!" "The egg, the egg is round, And the belly is round, Come child in good health! God, God calls thee!" If a woman dies in child-bed two eggs are placed under her arms and the following couplet is muttered:-- "Kana anro kirnes hin, Kathe nañi tçudá hin!" "When this egg is (shall be) decayed, Here (will be) is no milk!" When the after-pains begin it is the custom with some of the gypsy tribes in the Siebenburgen to smoke the sufferer with decayed willow-wood which is burned for the purpose while the women in attendance sing:-- "Sik te sik o tçu urál, Te urál o con urál! Kana len hádjináven Sascipená tut' áven; Káná o tçu ná urál-- Tute náñi the dukhal, Tute náñi the dukhal." "Fast and fast the smoke flies, And flies, the moon flies, When they find (themselves) Health (yet) will come to thee, "When the smoke no (longer) flies Thou wilt feel pain no more!" There is a strange, mysterious affinity between gypsies and the moon. A wonderful legend, which they certainly brought from India since in it Mekran is mentioned as the place where its incident occurred, details that there, owing to the misrepresentations of a sorcerer, the gypsy leader, Chen, was made to marry his sister Guin, or Kan, which brought the curse of wandering upon his people. Hence the Romany are called Chen-Guin. It is very evident that here we have Chon and Kan, or Kam, the Moon and Sun, which is confirmed by another gypsy legend which declares that the Sun, because he once violated or still seeks to seduce his sister, the Moon, continually follows her, being destined to wander for ever. And as the name Chen-Kan, or Zingan, or Zigeuner, is known all over the East, and, as this legend shows, is of Indian origin, it is hardly worth while to believe with Miklosich that it is derived from an obscure Greek heretical sect of Christians--the more so as it is most difficult to believe that the Romany were originally either Greeks or Christians or Christian heretics. When a gypsy woman is with child she will not, if she can help it, leave her tent by full moonshine. A child born at this time it is believed will make a happy marriage. So it is said of birth in the Western World:-- "Full moon, high sea, Great man thou shalt be; Red dawning, cloudy sky, Bloody death shalt thou die. "Pray to the Moon when she is round, Luck with you will then abound, What you seek for shall be found On the sea or solid ground." Moon-worship is very ancient; it is alluded to as a forbidden thing in the Book of Job. From early times witches and other women worked their spells when stark-naked by the light of the full moon, which is evidently derived from the ancient worship of that planet and the shameless orgies connected with it. Dr. Wlislocki simply remarks on this subject that the moon has, in the gypsy incantation, "eine Phallische Bedeutung." In ancient symbolism the horns of the moon were regarded as synonymous with the horns of the ox--hence their connection with agriculture, productiveness, and fertility, or the generative principle, and from this comes the beneficent influence not only of the horns, but of horse-shoes, boars' tusks, crabs' claws, and pieces of coral resembling them. The great love of gypsy mothers for their children, says Wlislocki, induces their friends to seek remedies for the most trifling disorders. At a later period, mother and child are left to Mother Nature--or the vis medicatrix Naturæ. What is greatly dreaded is the Berufen, or being called on, "enchanted," in English "overlooked," or subjected to the evil eye. An universal remedy for this is the following:-- A jar is filled with water from a stream, and it must be taken with, not against, the current as it runs. In it are placed seven coals, seven handfuls of meal, and seven cloves of garlic, all of which is put on the fire. When the water begins to boil it is stirred with a three-forked twig, while the wise woman repeats:-- "Miseç' yakhá tut dikhen, Te yon káthe mudáren! Te átunci eftá coká Te çaven miseçe yakhá; Miseç' yakhá tut dikhen, Te yon káthe mudáren! But práhestár e yakhá Atunci kores th'ávená; Miseç' yakhá tut dikhen Te yon káthe mudáren! Pçábuvená pçábuvená Andre develeskero yakhá!" "Evil eyes look on thee, May they here extinguished be! And then seven ravens Pluck out the evil eyes; Evil eyes (now) look on thee, May they soon extinguished be! Much dust in the eyes, Thence may they become blind, Evil eyes now look on thee; May they soon extinguished be! May they burn, may they burn In the fire of God!" Dr. Wlislocki remarks that the "seven ravens" are probably represented by the seven coals, while the three-pointed twig, the meal and the garlic, symbolize lightning. He does not observe that the stick may be the triçula or trident of Siva--whence probably the gipsy word trushul, a cross; but the connection is very obvious. It is remarkable that the gypsies assert that lightning leaves behind it a smell like that of garlic. As garlic forms an important ingredient in magic charms, the following from "The Symbolism of Nature" ("Die Symbolik und Mythologie der Natur"), by J. B. Friedrich, will be found interesting:-- "We find in many forms spread far and wide the belief that garlic possesses the magic power of protection against poison and sorcery. This comes, according to Pliny, from the fact that when it is hung up in the open air for a time, it turns black, when it is supposed to attract evil into itself--and, consequently, to withdraw it from the wearer. The ancients believed that the herb which Mercury gave to Ulysses to protect him from the enchantment of Circe, and which Homer calls moly, was the alium nigrum, or garlic, the poison of the witch being a narcotic. Among the modern Greeks and Turks, garlic is regarded as the most powerful charm against evil spirits, magic, and misfortune. For this reason they carry it with them, and hang it up in their houses as a protection against storms and bad weather. So their sailors carry with them a sack of it to avert shipwreck. If any one utters a word of praise with the intention of fascinating or of doing harm, they cry aloud 'Garlic!' or utter it three times rapidly. In Aulus Persius Flaccus (Satyr. V.) to bite garlic averts magic and the evils which the gods send to those who are wanting in reverence for them. According to a popular belief the mere pronunciation of 'Garlic!' protects one from poison." It appears to be generally held among them and the Poles that this word prevents children from "beschreien werden" that is, from being banned, or overlooked, or evil-eyed. And among the Poles garlic is laid under children's pillows to protect them from devils and witches. (Bratraneck, "Beiträge zur Æsthetik der Pflanzenwelt," p. 56). The belief in garlic as something sacred appears to have been very widely spread, since the Druids attributed magic virtues to it; hence the reverence for the nearly allied leek, which is attached to King David and so much honoured by the Welsh. "Tell him I'll knock his leek about his pate Upon Saint David's Day."--Shakespeare. The magic virtues of garlic were naturally enough also attributed to onions and leeks, and in a curious Italian work, entitled "Il Libro del Comando," attributed (falsely) to Cornelius Agrippa, I find the following:-- "Segreto magico d'indovinare, colle cipole, la salute d'una persona lontana. A magic secret to divine with onions the health of a person far distant. Gather onions on the Eve of Christmas and put them on an altar, and under every onion write the name of the persons as to whom one desires to be informed, ancorche non scrivano, even if they do not write. "The onion (planted) which sprouts the first will clearly announce that the person whose name it bears is well. "And in the same manner we can learn the name of the husband or wife whom we should choose, and this divination is in use in many cantons of Germany." Very much allied to this is the following love charm from an English gypsy:-- "Take an onion, a tulip, or any root of the kind (i.e. a bulbous root?), and plant it in a clean pot never used before; and while you plant it repeat the name of the one whom you love, and every day, morning and evening, say over it:-- "'As this root grows And as this blossom blows, May her heart be Turned unto me!' "And it will come to pass that every day the one whom you love will be more and more inclined to you, till you get your heart's desire." A similar divination is practised by sowing cress or lettuce seed in the form of names in gardens. If it grows well the one who plants it will win the love of the person indicated. As regards the use of coals in incantations, Marcellus Burdigalensis, [8] a Latin physician of the third century, who has left us a collection of Latin and Gaelic charms, recommends for a cure for toothache: "Salis granum, panis micam, carbonem mortuum in phoenicio alligabis," i.e., to carry a grain of salt, a crumb of bread, and a coal, in a red bag. When the witch-brew of coals, garlic, and meal is made, and boiled down to a dry residuum, it is put into a small three-cornered bag, and hung about the child's neck, on which occasion the appropriate rhyme is repeated nine times. "And it is of special importance that the bag shall be made of a piece of linen, which must be stolen, found, or begged." To learn whether a child has been overlooked, or evil-eyed, or enchanted, the "wise woman" takes it in her arms, and goes to the next running stream. There she holds the face of the babe as nearly as she can to the water, and repeats:-- "Páñi, páñi sikova, Dikh the upré, dikh télé! Buti páñi sikovel Buti pál yákh the dikhel Te ákáná mudárel." "Water, water, hasten! Look up, look down! Much water hastens (May) as much come into the eye Which looked evil on thee, And may it now perish." If the running brook makes a louder sound than usual then it is supposed to say that the child is enchanted, but if it runs on as before then something else is the matter, and to ascertain what it is other charms and ceremonies are had recourse to. This incantation indicates, like many others, a constant dwelling in lonely places, by wood and stream, as gypsies wont to do, and sweet familiarity with Nature, until one hears sermons in stones, books in the running brooks, and voices in the wind. [9] Civilized people who read about Red Indian sorcerers and gypsy witches very promptly conclude that they are mere humbugs or lunatics--they do not realize how these people, who pass half their lives in wild places watching waving grass and falling waters, and listening to the brook until its cadence speaks in real song, believe in their inspirations, and feel that there is the same mystical feeling and presence in all things that live and move and murmur as well as in themselves. Now we have against this the life of the clubs and family, of receptions and business, factories and stock-markets, newspapers and "culture." Absolutely no one who lives in "the movement" can understand this sweet old sorcery. But nature is eternal, and while grass grows and rivers run man is ever likely to fall again into the eternal enchantments. And truly until he does he will have no new poetry, no fresh art, and must go on copying old ideas and having wretchedly worn-out exhibitions in which there is not one original idea. If it appears that the child is overlooked, or "berufen," many means are resorted to, "one good if another fails," but we have here to do only with those which are connected with incantations. A favourite one is the following: Three twigs are cut, each one from a different tree, and put into a pipkin which has been filled with water dipped or drawn with, not against, the current of a stream. Three handfuls of meal are then put in and boiled down to a Brei, or pudding. A horse hair is then wound round a needle, which is stuck not by the point but by the head into the inner bottom of a tub, which is filled with water, and placed upon this is the pipkin with the pudding. Then the "overlooked," or evil-seen child is held over the tub while the following rhyme is chanted:-- "Páñi, páñi lunjárá, Páñi, páñi isbiná; Te náshválipen çucá Náshválipen mudárá, Mudára te ákáná, Káthe beshá ñikáná, Sár práytiña sutyárel, Káthe ándre piri, ándre piri, Nivasheshe les dávás!" "Water, water, spread! Water, water, stretch! And sickness disappear, Sickness be destroyed, Be destroyed now. Remain not here at all! Who ever has overlooked this child As this leaf in the pot (maybe) Be given to the Nivashi!" This is repeated nine times, when the water in the tub, with the pipkin and its contents, are all thrown into the stream from which the water was drawn. This is a widely-spread charm, and it is extremely ancient. The pipkin placed across the tub or trough--trog--here signifies a bridge, and Wlislocki tells us that no Transylvanian tent-gypsy will cross a bridge without first spitting thrice over the rails into the water. The bridge plays an important part in the mythology and Folk-lore of many races. The ancient Persians had their holy mountain, Albordi, or Garotman, the abode of gods and blessed souls, to which they passed by the bridge Cin-vat, or Chinevad, whence the creed: "I believe in the resurrection of the dead; that all bodies shall live renewed again, and I believe that by the bridge Cin-vat all good deeds will be rewarded, and all evil deeds punished." The punishment is apparent from the parallel of the bridge Al Sirat, borrowed by the Mahommedans from the Persians, over which the good souls passed to reward, and from which the wicked tumbled down into hell. When I first met Emerson in 1849 I happened to remark that a bridge in a landscape was like a vase in a room, the point on which an eye trained to the picturesque involuntarily rested. Nearly thirty years after, when we were both living at Shepherd's Hotel in Cairo, he reminded me of this one day when by the Nile we were looking at a bridge. As a bridge must cross a stream, or a torrent which is generally beautiful by itself, and as the cross or span has the effect of defining and framing the picture, as a circlet or tiara sets off a beautiful head, it is not remarkable that in all ages men have made such objects subjects of legend and song. Hence the oft-repeated Devil's Bridge, so-called because it seemed to simple peasants impossible for mere mortals to build, although bridges are habitually and more naturally connected with salvation and saints. He who in early ages built a bridge, did a great deed in times when roads were rare; hence the great priest was called the Pontifex. Another spell for the purpose of averting the effects of the evil eye is as follows: The mother of the overlooked child fills her mouth with salt water, and lets it drop or trickle on the limbs of the infant, and when this has been done, repeats:-- "Miseç yákhá tut dikhen Sár páñori-- Mudaren! Náshvalipen prejia: Andral t'ro shero Andral t're kolyin, Andral t're por Andral t're punrá Andral t're vástá Kathe prejánen,-- Andre yákhá yon jánen!" "False (evil) eyes see thee, Like this water May they perish! Sickness depart From thy head, From thy breast, From thy belly, From thy feet, From thy hands, May they go hence Into the evil eyes!" It may be observed that meal forms an ingredient in several of these sorceries. It is a very ancient essential to sacrifices, and is offered to the spirits of the stream to appease them, as it was often given for the same purpose to the wind. The old Germans, says Prætorius, imagined the storm-wind as a starving, ravenous being, and sought to appease it by throwing meal to it. So it happened once even of later years near Bamberg when a mighty wind was raging one night that an old woman took her meal-bag and threw its contents out of the window, saying:-- "Lege dich, lieber Wind, Bringe dies deinem Kind!" "Dear Wind, be not so wild, Take that unto thy child!" "In which thing," adds the highly Protestant Prætorius ("Anthropodemus Plutonicus," p. 429), "she was like the Papists who would fain appease the Donnerwetter, or thunderstorms, with the sound of baptized bells, as though they were raging round like famished lions, or grim wolves, or a soldier foraging, seeking what they may devour." The Wind here represents the Wild Hunter, or the Storm, the leader of the Wüthende Heer, or "raging army," who, under different names, is the hero of so many German legends. That the voice of the wind should seem like that of wild beasts roaring for food would occur naturally enough to any one who was familiar with both. When a child refuses the breast the gypsies believe that a Pçuvus-wife, or a female spirit of the earth has secretly sucked it. In such a case they place between the mother's breasts onions, and repeat these words:-- "Pçuvushi, Pçuvushi, Ac tu náshvályi Tiro tçud ac yakhá, Andre pçuv tu pçábuvá! Thávdá, thávdá miro tçud, Thávdá, thávdá, parno tçud, Thávdá, thávdá, sár kámáv,-- Mre cáveske bokhale!" "Earth-spirit! Earth-spirit! Be thou ill. Let thy milk be fire! Burn in the earth! Flow, flow, my milk! Flow, flow, white milk! Flow, flow, as I desire To my hungry child!" The same is applied when the milk holds back or will not flow, as it is then supposed that a Pçuvus-wife has secretly suckled her own child at the mother's breast. It is an old belief that elves put their own offspring in the place of infants, whom they sometimes steal. This subject of elf-changelings is extensively treated by all the writers on witchcraft. There is even a Latin treatise, or thesis, devoted to defining the legal and social status, rights, &c., of such beings. It is entitled, "De Infantibus Supposititiis, vulgo Wechsel-Bälgen," Dresden, 1678. "Such infants," says the author (John Valentine Merbitz), "are called Cambiones, Vagiones (à continuo vagitu), Germanis Küllkräpfe, Wechselkinder, Wechselbälge, all of which indicates, in German belief, children which have nothing human about them except the skin." When the child is subject to convulsive weeping or spasms, and loses its sleep, the mother takes a straw from the child's sleeping-place and puts into her mouth. Then, while she is fumigated with dried cow-dung, into which the hair of the father and mother have been mingled, she chants:-- "Bala, bálá pçubuven, Cik te bálá pçubuven, Cik te bálá pçubuven, Pçábuvel náshvályipen!" "Hair, hair, burn! Dirt and hair burn! Dirt and hair burn! Illness be burned!" This bears manifest mark of Hindoo origin, and I have no doubt that the same ceremony in every detail is practised in India at the present day. In Southern Hungary convulsive weeping in children is cured as follows: In the evening, when the fire burns before the tent, the mother takes her child in her arms and carries it three times around the fire, putting on it a pipkin full of water, into which she puts three coals. With this water she washes the head of her child, and pours some of it on a black dog. Then she goes to the next stream or brook, and lets fall into it a red twist, saying:-- "Lává Niváshi ádá bolditori te láhá m're caveskro rovipen! Káná sástavestes ánáv me tute pçábáyá te yándrá." "Nivashi take this twist, and with it the weeping of my child. When it is well I will bring thee apples and eggs." When a child "bumps" its head the swelling is pressed with the blade of a knife, and the following spell is muttered thrice, seven, or nine times, according to the gravity of the injury:-- "Ac tu, ac tu, ac kovles, The may sik tu mudarés! Andre pcuv tu jiá, Dikav tut me ñikáná! Shuri, shuri, áná, De pal pçuv!" "Be thou, be thou, be thou weak (i.e., soft) and very soon perish! Go thou into the earth, May I see thee never more! Bring knives, knives, Give (i.e., put) into the earth." Then the knife is stuck three, seven, or nine times into the earth. If the child or a grown person has a bleeding at the nose, some of the blood is covered with earth, and the following verse repeated:-- "Pçuvush, dáv tute Pçuvush, lává mánge, De tre cáveske Hin may táte! Sik lava!" "Pcuvus, I give to thee, Pcuvus, oh take from me, Give it to thy child, It is very warm, Take it quickly!" If the child has pains in the stomach, the hair of a black dog is burned to powder and kneaded with the mother's milk and some of the fæces of the child into a paste. This prescription occurs in the magical medical formulas of Marcellus Burdigalenis, the court-physician at Rome in the fourth century: "Cape mel atticum et stercus infantis quod primum demittit, statim ex lacte mulieris quoe puerum allactat permiscebis et sic inunges," &c. Most of the prescriptions of Marcellus were of ancient Etrurian origin, and I have found many of them still in use in the Romagna Toscana. This is put into a cloth and bound on the belly of the child. When it falls asleep a hole is bored in a tree and the paste put into it. The hole is then stopped up with a wooden plug, and while this is being done the following is repeated:-- "Andrál por prejiá, André selene beshá! Beshá beshá tu káthe! Penáv, penáv me tute!" "Depart from the belly Live in the green! (tree) Remain, remain thou here! I say, I say to thee!" The black dog is in many countries associated with sorcery and diabolical influences, and "in European heathendom it was an emblem of the evil principle. The black demon Cernobog was represented by the Slavs as a black dog. Among the Wallachians there is a horrible vampire-like creature called Priccolitsh, or Priculics, who appears as a man in fine healthy condition, but by night he becomes a dog, kills people by the mere touch, and devours them." The black dogs of Faust and of Cornelius Agrippa will occur to most readers. Gypsies have always been regarded as sorcerers and child-stealers, and it is remarkable that Lilith, the mother of all witchcraft, did the same. At the present day the Slavonian gypsies have spells against such a spirit. In the Chaldæan magic, as set forth by Lenormant, as I have already stated, the powers of evil are incarnate diseases, they are seven in number, and they are invoked by means of verses which bear an extraordinary resemblance to those which are still current in Italy as well as in other countries. According to some writers this is all mere chance coincidence, or due to concurrent causes and similar conditions in different countries. That diseases, like hunger, or death, or the terrors of the night, may have been incarnated as evil spirits naturally by all mankind may be granted, but when we find them arranged in categories of numbers, in widely different countries, employing the same means of banishing them--that is, by short songs and drum-beating--when we find these incantations in the same general forms, often with the same words, our belief as to the identity of origin is confirmed at every step. We can admit that the Jews were in Babylon and wandered thence all over the world, but that any other religious or superstitious system should have done the same would be obstinately denied. And by an incredible inconsistency, scholars who admit the early migrations of whole races on a vast scale, from the remotest regions of the East to Western Europe, deny that legends and myths come with them or that they could have spread in like manner. One of the attributes of the witch of the Middle Ages in which she has been confused with the Queen of the Fairies, and fairies in general, is that she steals newly-born children. This is a very ancient attribute of the female demon or sorceress or strega, and it is found among Jews at the present day who believe in the Benemmerinnen, or witches who haunt women in childbirth as well as in Lilith. "The Jews banish this first wife of Adam by writing on the walls, 'Adam chava chuz Lilith,' ('Keep away from here, Lilith!')" ("Anthropodemus Plutonicus," by John Prætorius, 1666). That it is very ancient is rendered probable because the famous Bogomile formula of incantation against the twelve fever-fits (Tresevica), or kinds of fever, turns entirely on the legend of six children stolen by the demon who is compelled to restore them. Here we have the very oldest form of witchcraft known, that is incarnate disease in numbers allied to child-stealing. This spell of the Tresevica is attributed, says Dr. Gaster, to Pope Jeremia, the founder of Bogomilism (the great Oriental Slavonian heresy which spread over Europe in the Middle Ages and prepared the way for Protestanism). "There is no doubt, therefore, that the spell is derived from the East, and I have elsewhere proved its existence in that quarter as early as the eighth century. It may have been of Manichæan origin. It has been preserved up to the present day in all the lands of Eastern Europe and, with certain modifications, exists among Germans and Jews." Though attributed to Sisynios, the immediate follower of Manes, as chief of the Manichæans, it seems to have been derived from an earlier Oriental tale which became the basis of all later formulæ. I give it here in the Roumanian form, which closely resembles the old one. Here, as in all the other variants, the demon is a feminine one. The following is the legend:-- "I, Sisveas, I came down from the Mount of Olives, saw the Archangel Gabriel as he met the Avestitza, wing of Satan, and seized her by the hair and asked her where she was going. And she answered that she was going to cheat the holy Virgin by her tricks, steal the new-born child, and drink its blood. The archangel asked her how she could get into houses so as to steal the children, and she answered that she changed herself into a fly or a cat or such forms. But whosoever knew her twelve and a half (nineteen) names and wrote them out she could not touch. She told him these names, and they were written down." There is a Coptic as well as a Greek parallel to this. The fairy who steals the children is called Lilith, and is further identified with Herodias and her twelve daughters as personifications of different kinds of fever. This is extremely interesting, as it casts some light on a question which has greatly puzzled all writers on witchcraft as to how or why Herodias was so generally worshipped in company with Diana by witches as a goddess in Italy. This is mentioned by Pipernus, Grillandus, Mirandola, and Horst. The name is probably much older than that of the Herodias of the New Testament. CHAPTER IV. SOUTH SLAVONIAN AND OTHER GYPSY WITCH-LORE.--THE WORDS FOR A WITCH--VILAS AND THE SPIRITS OF EARTH AND AIR--WITCHES, EGG-SHELLS, AND EGG-LORE--EGG PROVERBS--OVA DE CRUCIBUS. There is current in the whole of the Southern Slavonian provinces a vast mass of legends and other lore relating to witches, which, in the opinion of Dr. Friedrich S. Krauss, may also be regarded as Romany, since it is held in common with the gypsies. There can, indeed, be very little doubt that most of it was derived from, or disseminated by, them, since they have been the principal masters in magic and doctors in medicine in the Slavonic lands for many centuries. There are others deeply learned in this subject who share the same opinion, it being certain that the gypsies could hardly have a separate lore for themselves and one for magic practices on others, and I entertain no doubt that they are substantially the same; but to avoid possible error and confusion, I give what I have taken in this kind from Dr. Krauss [10] and others by itself. As the English word witch, Anglo-Saxon Wicca, comes from a root implying wisdom, [11] so the pure Slavonian word vjestica, Bulgarian, vjescirica (masculine, viestae), meant originally the one knowing or well informed, and it has preserved the same power in allied languages, as Veaa (New Slovenish), knowledge, Vedavica, a fortune-teller by cards, Viedma (Russian), a witch, and Vedwin, fatidicus. In many places, especially in Dalmatia, witches are more gently or less plainly called Krstaca, the crossed, from Krst, a cross, i.e., christos, or Rogulja, "horned," derived from association with the horns of devils. In Croatia the Italian Striga is used, while among the Slovenes and Kai-Kroats the term copernica (masculine, coprnjak). "But it enrages the witches so much to be called by this word that when they hear that any one has used it they come to his house by night and tear him in four pieces, which they cast afar into the four quarters of the earth, yea, and thereunto carry away all the swine, horses, and cattle, so intolerable is their wrath." Therefore men use the word hmana zena, or "common woman," hmana being the Slavonic pronunciation of the German word gemein, or common. In Dalmatia and far into Servia a witch is called macisnica, and magic, macija, which is, evidently enough, the Italian magia. But there are witches and witches, and it appears that among the learned the vjestica differs from the macionica, and this from the Zlokobnica who, as the "evil-meeter," or one whom it is unlucky to encounter in the morning, is probably only one who has the evil eye. A quotation from a Servian authority, given by Dr. Krauss, is as follows:-- "I have often heard from old Hodzas and Kadijas, that every female Wallach, as soon as she is forty years old, abandons the 'God be with us!' and becomes a witch (vjestica), or at least a zlokobnica or macionica. A real witch has a mark of a cross under her nose, a zlokobnica has some hairs of a beard, and a macionica may be known by a forehead full of dark folds (frowns), with blood-spots in her face" ("Niz srpskih pripoviedaka. Vuk. vit. Vecevica. Pancevo," p, 93. 1881). Of the great number of South Slavonian terms for the verb to enchant or bewitch, it may suffice to say that the commencement, carati, cari carani, carovnik, &c., appear to have much more affinity to the gypsy chor-ava, to steal or swindle, and chov-hani, a witch, than to the Italian ciarlatano, and the French and English charlatan, from which Dr. Krauss derives them. THE VILAS-SYLVANA ELEMENTARY SPIRITS. Among the Slavonic and gypsy races all witchcraft, fairy- and Folk-lore rests mainly upon a belief in certain spirits of the wood and wold, of earth and water, which has much in common with that of the Rosicrucians and Paracelsus, but much more with the gypsy mythology (as given by Wlislocki, "Vom Wandernden Zigeunervolke," pp. 49-309), which is apparently in a great measure of directly Indian origin. "In the Vile" says Dr. Krauss, "also known as Samovile, Samodivi, and Vilevrjaci, we have near relations to the forest and field spirits, or the 'wood-' and 'moss-folk' of Middle Germany, France, and Bavaria; the 'wild people' of Eifel, Hesse, Salzburg, and the Tyrol; the wood-women and wood-men of Bohemia; the Tyrolese Fanggen, Fänken, Nörkel, and Happy Ladies; the Roumanish Orken, Euguane, and Dialen; the Danish Ellekoner; the Swedish Skogsnufvaz; and the Russian Ljesje; while in certain respects they have affinity with the Teutonic Valkyries." Yet they differ on the whole from all of these, as from English fairies, in being more like divinities, who exert a constant and familiar influence for good or evil on human beings, and who are prayed to or exorcised on all occasions. They have, however, their exact parallel among the Red Indians of North America as among the Eskimo, and it is evident that they are originally derived from the old or primeval Shamanic faith, which once spread all over the earth. It is very true, as Dr. Krauss remarks, that in the West of Europe it is becoming almost impossible to trace this true origin of spirits now regarded as merely diabolical, or otherwise put into new rôles; but among the South Slavonians and gypsies we can still find them in very nearly their old form and playing the same parts. We can still find the Vila as set forth in old ballads, the incarnation of beauty and power, the benevolent friends of sufferers, the geniuses of heroes, the dwellers by rock and river and greenwood tree. But they are implacable in their wrath to all who deceive them, or who break a promise; nay, they inflict terrible punishment even on those who disturb their rings or the dances which they make by midsummer moonlight. Hence the proverb applied to any man who suddenly fell ill: "Naiso je na vilinsko kolo" ("He stepped on a fairy-ring"). From this arbitrary exercise of power we find the Vila represented at times as a spirit who punishes and torments. Thus we are told that there was once a shepherd named Stanko, who played beautifully on the flute. One evening he was so absorbed in his own music that when the Ave Maria bell rung, instead of repeating the prayer he played it. As he ended he saw a Vila sitting on a hedge. And from that hour she never left him. By table, by his bed, at work or play, the white form and unearthly eyes of the spirit were close to him. "By a spell to him unknown, He could never be alone." Witches and wizards were summoned to aid him, but to no avail; nay, it made matters worse, for the Vila now often beat him, and when people asked him why it was, he replied that the Vila did so because he refused to wander out into the world with her. And yet again he would be discovered in the top of a tree, bound with bast; and so it went on for years, till he was finally found one morning drowned in a ditch. So in the Wolf Dietrich legend the hero refuses the love of die rauhe Else, and is made mad by the witch and runs wild. All of which is identical with what is told in an Algonkin tale (vide "The Algonkin Legends of New England"). There are three kinds of witches or spirits among the Southern Slavonians which correspond in every respect exactly to those in which the gypsies believe. The first of these are the Zracne Vile, or aerial spirits. These, like the spirits of the air of Scripture, are evily-disposed to human beings, playing them mischievous tricks or inflicting on them fatal injuries. They lead them astray by night, like Friar Rush and Robin Goodfellow, or the English gypsy Mullo doods, or bewilder and frighten them into madness. Of the second kind are the Earth spirits, Pozemne Vile, in gypsy Pcuvushi or Puvushi. These are amiable, noble, and companionable beings, who often give sage counsel to men. Thirdly are the Water sprites, in Slavonic Povodne Vile, in gypsy Nivashi, who are to the highest degree vindictive at times, yet who behave kindly to men when they meet them on land. But woe to those who, while swimming, encounter them in streams or lakes, for then the goblins grasp and whirl them about until they perish. From this account by Dr. Krauss, it appears as if this Slavonic mythology were derived from the gypsy, firstly, because it is more imperfect than the latter, and secondly, because in it Vilas, or spirits, are confused with witches, while among the gypsies they are clearly separated and distinctly defined. Dr. Wlislocki says ("Vom Wand. Zigeunervolke," p. 253) that "gypsies are still a race given to Shamanism, but yet they reverence a highest being under the name of devla or del." This is, however, the case to-day with all believers in Shaman or Sorcery-religion, the difference between them and monotheists being that this highest god is little worshipped or even thought of, all practical devotion being paid to spirits who are really their saints. By close examination the Gypsy religion, like that of the country-folk in India, appears to be absolutely identical in spirit with that of American Indians. And I should say that the monk mentioned by Prætorius, who declared that though God and Christ should damn him, yet he could be saved by appealing to Saint Joseph, was not very far removed from being a Shamanist. The Hungarian gypsies are divided into tribes, and one of these, the Kukaya, believes itself to be descended from the Pçuvushi, or earth-fairies, according to the following story, narrated by Dr. H. von Wlislocki in his paper on the genealogy and family relations of the Transylvanian Tent Gypsies:-- "Many thousand years ago there were as yet in the world very few Pchuvushi. These are beings of human form dwelling under the earth. There they have cities, but they very often come to the world above. They are ugly, and their men are covered with hair. (All of this indicates a prehistoric subterranean race like the Eskimo, fur-clad. [12]) They carry off mortal girls for wives. Their life is hidden in the egg of a black hen." This is the same as that of the Orco or Ogre in the Italian tale, "I Racconti delle Fate, Cesare da Causa," Florence, 1888. Whoever kills the hen and throws the egg into a running stream, kills the pchuvush. "Once a young Pchuvush woman came up to the world and sat in a fair green forest. She saw a very beautiful youth sleeping in the shade, and said: 'What happiness it must be to have such a husband. Mine is so ugly!' Her husband, who had stolen silently after her, heard this, and reflected: 'What a good idea it would be to lend my wife to this young man till she shall have borne a family of beautiful children! Then I could sell them to my rich Pchuvus friends.' So he said to his wife: 'You may live with this youth for ten years if you will promise to give me either the boys or the girls which you may bear to him.' She agreed to this. Then the Pchuvus began to sing:-- "'Kuku, kukáya Kames to adala? Kuku, kukaya.' "That is in English:-- "'Kuku, kukaya Do you want this (one) here? Kuku, kukaya.' "Then the young man awoke, and as the goblin offered him much gold and silver with his wife, he took her and lived with her ten years, and every year she bore him a son. Then came the Pchuvush to get the children. But the wife said she had chosen to keep all the sons, and was very sorry but she had no girls to give him! So he went away sorrowfully, howling:-- "'Kuku, kukáya! Ada kin jirklá! Kuku, kukaya!' "That is to say:-- "'Kuku, kukaya! These are dogs here! Kuku, kukaya!' "Then the ten boys laughed and said to their father: 'We will call ourselves Kukaya.' And so from them came the race." Dr. Wlislocki points out that there are races which declare themselves to be descended from dogs, or, like the Romans, from wolves. It is a curious coincidence that the Eskimo are among the former. In all parts of Eastern Europe, as in the West, many people are not only careful to burn the parings of their nails [13] and the combings of hair, for fear lest witches and imps should work sorcery with them to the injury of those from whom they came, but they also destroy the shells of eggs when they have eaten their contents. So A. Wuttke tells us in his book, "Der Deutsche Volks Aberglaube der Gegenwart," 1869: "When one has eaten eggs the shells must be broken up or burned, or else the hens will lay no more, or evil witches will come over them." And in England, Spain, the Netherlands, or Portugal, there are many who believe or say that if the witches can get such shells from which people have eaten, unbroken, they can, by muttering spells, cause them to grow so large that they can use them as boats. Dom Leitas Ganet ("Dona Branca ou a Conquista do Algarve," Paris, 1826), however, assures us that is a very risky thing for the witches, because if they do not return home before midnight the shell-boat perishes, "whence it hath come to pass that many of these sorceresses have been miserably drowned." However, an egg hung up in a house is a lucky amulet, hence the ostrich eggs and cocoanuts resembling them which are so common in the East. And it is to be observed that every gypsy in England declares that a pivilioi, or cocoanut, as a gift brings bak or luck, I myself having had many given to me with this assurance. This is evidently and directly derived from India, in which country there are a mass of religious traditions referring to it. "Once there was a gypsy girl who noticed that when anybody ate eggs they broke up the shells, and asking why this was done received for answer:-- "'You must break the shell to bits for fear Lest the witches should make it a boat, my dear. For over the sea away from home, Far by night the witches roam.' "Then the girl said: 'I don't see why the poor witches should not have boats as well as other people.' And saying this she threw the shell of an egg which she had been eating as far as she could, and cried, 'Chovihani, lav tro bero!' ('Witch--there is your boat!') But what was her amazement to see the shell caught up by the wind and whirled away on high till it became invisible, while a voice cried, 'Paraka!' ('I thank you!') "Now it came to pass some time after that the gypsy girl was on an island, where she remained some days. And when she wished to return, behold a great flood was rising, and it had washed her boat away, she could see nothing of it. But the water kept getting higher and higher, and soon there was only a little bit of the island above the flood, and the girl thought she must drown. Just then she saw a white boat coming; there sat in it a woman with witch eyes; she was rowing with a broom, and a black cat sat on her shoulder. 'Jump in!' she cried to the girl, and then rowed her to the firm land. "When she was on the shore the woman said: 'Turn round three times to the right and look every time at the boat.' She did so, and every time she looked she saw the boat grow smaller till it was like an egg. Then the woman sang:-- "'That is the shell you threw to me, Even a witch can grateful be.' "Saying this she vanished, cat, broom, shell, and all. "Now my story is fairly done, I beg you to tell a better one." As regards these boats which grow large or small at will we find them in the Norse ship Skidbladnir, which certain dwarfs made and gave to Frey. It is so large that all the gods and their army can embark in it. But when not in use it may be so contracted that one may hava i pungi sino--put it in his purse or pocket. The Algonkin god Glooskap has not only the counterpart of Skidbladnir, but the hammer of Thor and his belt of strength. He has also the two attendant birds which bring him news, and the two wolves which mean Day and Night. Another legend given by Dr. Krauss, relative to witches and egg-shells is as follows:-- "By the Klek lived a rich tavern-keeper and his wife. He was thin and lean--hager und mager--while she was as fat as a well-fed pig. "One day there came a gypsy woman by. She began to tell his fortune by his hand. And as she studied it seriously she became herself serious, and then said to him, 'Listen, you good-natured dolt (moré)! Do you know why you are so slim and your wife so stout?' 'Not I.' 'My good friend (Latcho pral), your wife is a witch. Every Friday when there is a new moon (mladi petak) she rides you up along the Klek to the devil's dance' (Uraze kolo). 'How can that be?' 'Simply enough. As soon as you fall asleep, she slips a magic halter over your head. Then you become a horse, and she rides you over the hills and far away over mountains and woods, cities and seas, to the witches' gathering. "'Little you know where you have been, Little you think of what you have seen, "'For when you awake it is all forgotten, but the ride is hard for you, and you are wasting away, and dying. Take great care of yourself on the next Friday when there is a new moon!' "So the gypsy went her way, and he thought it over. On the next Friday when the moon was new he went to bed early, but only pretended to sleep. Then his wife came silently as a cat to the bed-side with the magic halter in her hand. As quick as lightning he jumped up, snatched it from her, and threw it over her head. Then she became, in a second, a mare. He mounted her, and away she flew through the air--over hills and dales like the wind, till they came to the witches' meeting. "He dismounted, bound the mare to a tree, and, unseen by the company, watched them at a little distance. All the witches carried pots or jars. First they danced in a ring, then every one put her pot on the ground and danced alone round it. And these pots were egg-shells. "While he watched, there came flying to him a witch in whom he recognized his old godmother. 'How did you come here?' she inquired. 'Well, I came here on my mare, I know not how.' 'Woe to you--begone as soon as possible. If the witches once see you it will be all up with you. Know that we are all waiting for one' (this one was his wife), 'and till she comes we cannot begin.' Then the landlord mounted his mare, cried 'Home!' and when he was there tied her up in the stable and went to bed. "In the morning his servant-man said to him: 'There is a mare in the stable.' 'Yes,' replied the master; 'it is mine.' So he sent for a smith, and made him shoe the mare. Now, whatever is done to a witch while she is in the form of an animal remains on or in her when she resumes her natural shape. "Then he went out and assembled a judicial or legal commission. He led the members to his house, told them all his story, led forth the mare, and took off the halter. She became a woman as before, but horse-shoes were affixed to her feet and hands. She began to weep and wail, but the judge was pitiless. He had her thrown into a pit full of quicklime, and thus she was burnt to death. And since that time people break the shells of eggs after eating their contents, lest witches should make jars or pots of them." The following story on the same subject is from a different source:-- "There was once a gypsy girl who was very clever, and whenever she heard people talk about witches she remembered it well. One day she took an egg-shell and made a small round hole in it very neatly, and ate the yolk and white, but the shell she put on a heap of white sand by a stream, where it was very likely to be seen. Then she hid herself behind a bush. By and by, when it was night, there came a witch, who, seeing the shell, pronounced a word over it, when it changed to a beautiful boat, into which the witch got and sailed on the water, over the sea. "The girl remembered the word, and soon ate another egg and turned it into a boat. Whenever she willed it went over the world to places where fruit and flowers abounded, or where people gave her much gold for such things as knives and scissors. So she grew rich and had a fine house. The boat she hid away carefully in a bush. "There was a very envious, wicked woman, whom the girl had befriended many a time, and who hated her all the more for it. And this creature set to work, spying and sneaking, to find out the secret of the girl's prosperity. And at last she discovered the boat, and, suspecting something, hid herself in the bush hard by to watch. "By and by the girl came with a basket full of wares for her trade, and, drawing out the boat, said, 'To Africa!'--when off it flew. The woman watched and waited. After a few hours the girl returned. Her boat was full of fine things, ostrich feathers and gold, fruit and strange flowers, all of which she carried into her house. "Then the woman put the boat on the water, and said, 'To Africa!' But she did not know the word by means of which it was changed from an egg-shell, and which made it fly like thought. So as it went along the woman cried, 'Faster!' but it never heeded her. Then she cried again in a great rage, and at last exclaimed, 'In God's name get on with you!' Then the spell was broken, and the boat turned into an egg-shell, and the woman was drowned in the great rolling sea." Egg-lore is inexhaustible. The eggs of Maundy Thursday (Witten Donnertag), says a writer in The Queen, protect a house against thunder and lightning, but, in fact, an egg hung up is a general protection, hence the ostrich eggs and cocoanuts of the East. Some other very interesting items in the communication referred to are as follows:-- "Witches and Eggs.--'To hang an egg laid on Ascension Day in the roof of a house,' says Reginald Scot in 1584, 'preserveth the same from all hurts.' Probably this was written with an eye to the 'hurts' arising from witchcraft, in connection with which eggs were supposed to possess certain mysterious powers. In North Germany, if you have a desire to see the ladies of the broomstick on May Day, their festival, you must take an egg laid on Maundy Thursday, and stand where four roads meet; or else you must go into church on Good Friday, but come out before the blessing. It was formerly quite an article of domestic belief that the shells must be broken after eating eggs, lest the witches should sail out to sea in them; or, as Sir Thomas Browne declared, lest they 'should draw or prick their names therein, and veneficiously mischief' the person who had partaken of the egg. North Germans, ignoring this side of the question, say, 'Break the shells or you will get the ague;' and Netherlanders advise you to secure yourself against the attacks of this disagreeable visitor by eating on Easter Day a couple of eggs which were laid on Good Friday. "Scottish Superstitions.--Scotch fishers, who may be reckoned among the most superstitious of folks, believe that contrary winds and much consequent vexation of spirit will be the result of having eggs on board with them; while in the west of England it is considered very unlucky to bring birds' eggs into the house, although they may be hung up with impunity outside. Mr. Gregor, in his 'Folklore of the North-East of Scotland,' gives us some curious particulars concerning chickens, and the best methods of securing a satisfactory brood. The hen, it seems, should be set on an odd number of eggs, or the chances are that most, if not all, will be addled--a mournful prospect for the henwife; also they must be placed under the mother bird after sunset, or the chickens will be blind. If the woman who performs this office carries the eggs wrapped up in her chemise, the result will be hen birds; if she wears a man's hat, cocks. Furthermore, it is as well for her to repeat a sort of charm, 'A' in thegeethir, A' oot thegeethir.' "Unlucky Eggs.--There are many farmers' wives, even in the present day, who would never dream of allowing eggs to be brought into the house or taken out after dark--this being deemed extremely unlucky. Cuthbert Bede mentions the case of a farmer's wife in Rutland who received a setting of ducks' eggs from a neighbour at nine o'clock at night. 'I cannot imagine how she could have been so foolish,' said the good woman, much distressed, and her visitor, upon inquiry, was told that ducks' eggs brought into a house after sunset would never be hatched. A Lincolnshire superstition declares that if eggs are carried over running water they will be useless for setting purposes; while in Aberdeen there is an idea prevalent among the country folks that should it thunder a short time before chickens are hatched, they will die in the shell. The same wiseacres may be credited with the notion that the year the farmer's gudewife presents him with an addition to his family is a bad season for the poultry yard. 'Bairns an' chuckens,' say they, 'dinna thrive in ae year.' The probable explanation being that the gudewife, taken up with the care of her bairn, has less time to attend to the rearing of the 'chuckens.' "Fortune-telling in Northumberland.--Besides the divination practised with the white of an egg, which certainly appears of a vague and unsatisfactory character, another species of fortune-telling with eggs is in vogue in Northumberland on the eve of St. Agnes. A maiden desirous of knowing what her future lord is like, is enjoined to boil an egg, after having spent the whole day fasting and in silence, then to extract the yolk, fill the cavity with salt, and eat the whole, including the shell. This highly unpalatable supper finished, the heroic maid must walk backwards, uttering this invocation to the saint:-- "'Sweet St. Agnes, work thy fast, If ever I be to marry man, Or man be to marry me, I hope him this night to see.'" Friedrich and others assert that the saying in Luke xi. 12--"Or if he shall ask an egg shall he give him a scorpion?"--is a direct reference to ancient belief that the egg typified the good principle, and the scorpion evil, and which is certainly supported by a cloud of witnesses in the form of classic folk-lore. The egg, as a cosmogenic symbol, and indicating the origin of all things, finds a place in the mythologies of many races. These are indicated with much erudition by Friedrich, "Symbolik der Natur," p. 686. In Lower Alsatia it is believed that if a man will take an Easter egg into the church and look about him, if there be any witches in the congregation he may know them by their having in their hands pieces of pork instead of prayer-books, and milk-pails on their heads for bonnets (Wolf, "Deutsche Mährchen und Sagen," p. 270). There is also an ancient belief that an egg built into a new building will protect it against evil and witchcraft. Such eggs were found in old houses in Altenhagen and Iserlohen, while in the East there is a proverb, "the egg of the chamber" ("Hamasa" of Abu Temman, v. Rückert, Stuttgart, 1846), which seems to point to the same practice. The Romans expressed a disaster by saying, "Ovum ruptum est" ("The egg is smashed"). Among other egg-proverbs I find the following:-- His eggs are all omelettes (French); i.e., broken up. Eggs in the pan give pancakes but nevermore chicks (Low German). Never a chicken comes from broken eggs (Low German). Bad eggs, bad chickens. Hence in America "a bad egg" for a man who is radically bad, and "a good egg" for the contrary. Eggs not yet laid are uncertain chickens; i.e., "Do not count your chickens before they are hatched." Tread carefully among eggs (German). The egg pretends to be cleverer than the hen. He waits for the eggs and lets the hen go. He who wants eggs must endure the clucking of the hen (Westphalian). He thinks his eggs are of more account than other people's hens. One rotten egg spoils all the pudding. Rotten eggs and bad butter always stand by one another; or "go well together." Old eggs, old lovers, and an old horse, Are either rotten or for the worse. (Original: Alte Eyer Alte Freier-- Alter Gaul Sind meistens faul.) "All eggs are of the same size" (Eggs are all alike), he said, and grabbed the biggest. As like as eggs (Old Roman). As sure as eggs. His eggs all have two yolks. If you have many eggs you can have many cakes. He who has many eggs scatters many shells. To throw an egg at a sparrow. To borrow trouble for eggs not yet hatched. Half an egg is worth more than all the shell. A drink after an egg, and a leap after an apple. A rotten egg in his face. In the early mythology, the egg, as a bird was hatched from it, and as it resembled seeds, nuts, &c., from which new plants come, was regarded as the great type of production. This survives in love-charms, as when a girl in the Tyrol believes she can secure a man's love by giving him a red Easter egg. This giving red eggs at Easter is possibly derived from the ancient Parsees, who did the same at their spring festival. Among the Christians the reproductive and sexual symbolism, when retained, was applied to the resurrection of the body and the immortality of the soul. Hence Easter eggs. And as Christ by His crucifixion caused this, or originated the faith, we have the ova de crucibus, the origin of which has puzzled so many antiquaries; for the cross itself was, like the egg, a symbol of life, in earlier times of reproduction, and in a later age of life eternal. These eggs are made of a large size of white glass by the Armenian Christians. CHAPTER V. CHARMS OR CONJURATIONS TO CURE OR PROTECT ANIMALS. From the earliest ages a drum or tambourine has formed such an indispensable adjunct of Shamanic sorcery among Tartars, Lapps, Samoyedes, Eskimo, and Red Indians, that, taking it with other associations, I can hardly believe that it has not been transmitted from one to the other. In Hungary the gypsies when they wish to know if an invalid will recover, have recourse to the cováçanescro buçlo (chovihanescro buklo) or "witch-drum." This is a kind of rude tambourine covered with the skin of an animal, and marked with stripes which have a special meaning. On this are placed from nine to twenty-one seeds of the thorn-apple (stramonium). The side of the drum is then gently struck with a little hammer, and according to the position which the seeds take on the marks, the recovery or death of the patient is predicted. The following is a picture of a gypsy drum as given by Dr. Wlislocki. The wood for this is cut on Whitsunday. A is turned towards the fortune-teller; nine seeds are now thrown on the drum, and with the left hand, or with a hammer held in it, the tambourine is tapped. Should all the seeds come within the four lines all will go well, especially if three come within a, d, e, f. If two roll into the space between a, i, it is lucky for a woman, between i and f for a man. But if nearly all fall outside of b, c, g, h, all is unfavourable. The same divination is used to know whether animals will get well, and where stolen property is concealed. All of this corresponds exactly to the use of the same instrument by the Laplanders for the same purposes. The thorn-apple is a very poisonous plant, and the gypsies are said to have first brought it to England. This is not true, but it is extremely possible that they used it in stupefying, killing, and "bewitching." It is very much employed at present by the Voodoo poisoners in America. The Turks are a Tartar race, and the drum is used among them very generally for magical purposes. I have one of these tambouri which, I was assured when I bought it, was made for incantations. It is of a diamond shape, has parchment on both sides, and is inscribed with the name Allah, in Arabic, and the well-known double triangle of Solomon, with the moon and star. To keep domestic animals from straying or being stolen, or falling ill, they are, when a gypsy first becomes their owner, driven up before a fire by his tent. Then they are struck with a switch, which is half blacked with coal, across the back, while the following is repeated:-- "Ac tu, ac kathe! Tu hin mange! Te Nivasa the jiánen-- Ná dikh tu ádálen! Trin lánca hin mánge, Me pçándáv tute: Yeká o devlá, ávri O Kristus, trite Maria!" "Stay thou, stay here! Thou art mine! And the Nivasi when they go-- Thou shalt not see them! Three chains I have, I bind thee: One is God, the other (beyond) The Christ, the third, Maria!" To charm a horse, they draw, with a coal, a ring on the left hoof and on the right a cross, and murmur:-- "Obles, obles te obles! Ac tu, ac tù máy sástes Ná th' ávehás beng tute Devlá, devlá ac tute! Gule devlá bishálá E gráyeskro perá Miseçescro dád! Niko mánushenge ác Káske me dáv, leske ac Shukáres tu ác, Voyesá te láccs ac, Ashunen eftá Pçuvuse: Eftá láncá hin mánge, Ferinen ádálá Táysá, táysá e pedá!" "Round, round, and round! Be thou, be thou very sound The devil shall not come to thee, God, God shall be with thee! Sweet God drive away From the horse's body The Father of Evil! Be to (go not to) any other man To whom I give (sell) unto him Be beautiful! Frolicsome and good, Seven spirits of earth hear! I have seven chains, Protect this animal Ever, ever!" Then a piece of salted bread is given to the horse, and the owner spits seven times into his eyes, by which he is supposed to lose all fear for supernatural beings. According to the gypsies, horses, especially black ones, can see beings which are invisible to human eyes. I have known an old English gypsy who believed that dogs could see ghosts when men could not. The mysterious manner in which dogs and horses betray fear when there is apparently nothing to dread, the howling of the former by night, and the wild rushes of the latter, doubtless led to this opinion. The bread and salt will recall to the reader the fact that the same was given at the ancient mysteries apparently for the purpose of strengthening the neophyte so that he should not fear the supernatural beings whom he was supposed to meet. It is curious to find this peculiar form of the sacrament administered to a horse. Another protective charm is common among the Southern Hungarian gypsies. The dung of a she-goat dried and powdered is sifted on a horse's back and this spell recited:-- "Miseçes prejiá, Andrál t're perá! Trádá cik buscákri Miseçes perákri,-- Andral punrá, andral dumno, Andral yákhá, andral kánná! Nevkerádyi av ákána, Ac tu, ac tu cá mánge: Ác tu, ác tu, ác káthe!" "Evil be gone From thy belly! Drive away she-goat's dung Evil from the belly, From the feet, from the back, From the eyes, from the ears! New-born be now, Be thou, be thou only mine: Stay thou, stay thou, stay here!" There is evidently a relation here between the dung of the she-goat and certain ancient symbols. Whatever was a sign of fruitfulness, generation, or productiveness, whether it was set forth by the generative organs, sexual passion, or even manure which fertilises, was connected with Life which is the good or vital principle opposed to death. As the goat was eminently a type of lechery, so the she-goat, owing to the great proportion of milk which she yielded, set forth abundance; hence the cornucopia of Amalthea, the prototype of the she-goat Heidrun of the Northern mythology, who yielded every day so much milk that all the Einheriar, or dwellers in Valhall, could satisfy themselves therewith. [14] But the forms or deities indicating life were also those which shielded and protected from evil, therefore Here, the mother of life and of birth, had in Sparta a shrine where she-goats were sacrificed to her, while at Canuvium the statue of Juno Sospita (who was also Here), was covered with a she-goat's skin. It is in the ancient sense of fertility identified with protection, that the she-goat's dung is used to exorcise evil from the horse by the gypsies. There is, in fact, in all of these charms and exorcisms a great deal which evidently connects them with the earliest rites and religions. In the Hungarian gypsy-tribe of the Kukuya, the following method of protecting horses is used: The animal is placed by the tent-fire and there a little hole is dug before him into which ninefold grass and some hairs from his mane and tail are put. Then his left fore-hoof is traced on the ground, and the earth within it is carefully taken out and shaken into the hole, while these lines are repeated:-- "Yeká cunul yeká bál, Tute e bokh náñi sál, Ko tut corel, the merel Sar e bálá, cunulá, Pal e pçuv the yov ável! Pçuvus, adalen tute, Sástes gráy ác mánge!" "A straw, a hair! May you never be hungry! May he who steals you die! Like the hair and the straw, May he go to the ground! Earth, these things to thee! May a sound horse be mine!" If the animal be a mare and it is desired that she shall be with foal, they give her oats to eat out of an apron or a gourd, and say:-- "Trin kánályá, trin jiuklá, Jiánen upre pláyá! Cábá, pçares hin perá! Trin kánályá, trin jiuklá Jiánen tele pláyá, É çevá ándrasaváren Yek cumut ándre çasáren, Tre perá sik pçáreven!" "Three asses, three dogs, Go up the hill! Eat, fill thy belly with young! Three asses, three dogs, Go down the hill, They close the holes, They put the moon in (them) Thy belly be soon fruitful!" "The moon has here," remarks Wlislocki, "a phallic meaning, the mention of the ass, and the use of the gourd and apron are symbols of fertility. Vide De Gubernatis, 'Animals in Indian Mythology,' in the chapter on the ass." There is another formula for protecting and aiding cattle, which is practised among other races besides that of the gypsies; as, for instance, among the Slovacks of Northern Hungary. This I shall leave in the original:-- "Dieses Verwahrungsmittel besteht darin, dass dem gekauften weiblichen Thiere der Mann den blanken Hintern zeigt, einem männlichen Thiere aber eine weibliche Person. Hiebei werden die Worte gesagt:-- "Sár o kár pál e punrá, Kiyá mánge ác táysá! Wie der Schwantz am Bein, Sollst du stets bei mir sein!" Or else:-- "Sár e minc pal e per, Kiyá mánge ác buter! Wie das Loch im Leib, Also bei mir bleib!" To secure swine to their owner a hole is dug in the turf which is filled with salt and charcoal dust, which is covered with earth, and these words uttered:-- "Adá hin tute Ná ává pál menge Dáv tute, so kámáv Pçuvusheyá, áshuná, Cores tuna muká Hin menge trin láncá, Trin máy láce Urmá, Ke ferinen men!" "This is thine, Come not to us! I give thee what I can Oh Spirit of earth, hear! Let not the thief go! We have three chains, Three very good fairies Who protect us." If the swine find the hole and root it up--as they will be tolerably certain to do owing to their fondness for salt and charcoal--they will not be stolen or run away. The Urmen, or Fairies, are supposed to be very favourable to cattle, therefore children who torment cows are told "Urme tute ná bica somnakune pçábáy"--"The fairies will not send you any golden apples!" If the English gypsies had the word Urme (and it may be that it exists among them even yet), this would be, "I Urme ná bitcher tute sonnakai pábya!" But the mighty charm of charms to protect cattle from theft is the following: Three drops of blood are made to fall from the finger of a little child on a piece of bread which is given to the animal to eat, with these words:-- "Dav tute trinen rátá Ternes te láces ávná! Ko tut corel, ádáleske Hin rát te más shutyárdye! Káná rátá te rátá Paltire per ávná, Yákh te yákh te báre yákh Sikoves çál te çál Ko kámel tut te çál!" "I give three (drops of) blood To become young and good; Who steals thee to him Shall be (is) blood and flesh dried up! When blood and blood Pass into thy belly, Fire and fire and great fire Shall devour and devour all Who will eat thee!" This incantation takes us back to grim old heathenism with hints of human sacrifice. When the thief was suspected or privately detected it is probable that a dose of some burning poison made good the prediction. "The word young" remarks Dr. Wlislocki, "may be here understood to mean innocent, since, according to ancient belief, there was a powerful magic virtue in the blood of virgins and of little children. Every new tent is therefore sprinkled by the gypsies with a few drops of a child's blood to protect it from magic or any other accident." So in prehistoric times, and through the Middle Ages, a human being was often walled up alive in the foundations of a castle to insure its durability. (Vide P. Cassel, "Die Symbolik des Blutes," p. 157.) When the wandering, or tent-gypsies, find that cattle are ill and do not know the nature of the disease, they take two birds--if possible quails, called by them bereçto or füryo--one of which is killed, but the other, besprinkled with its blood, is allowed to fly away. With what remains of the blood they sprinkle some fodder, which is put before the animal, with the words:-- "So ándre tu miseç hin Avri ává! Káthe ker ná ávlá, Miseçeske! Káná rátá ná ávná, Násvályipen ná ávná! Miseç, tu ávri ává, Ada ker ná láce; Dáv rátá me káthe!" "What in thee is evil Come forth! Here is no home For the evil one! When (drops of) blood come not, Sickness comes not, Thou evil one, come forth!' "Trin párne, trin kále, Trin tçule páshlajen káthe, Ko len hádjinel Ac kivá mánge!" "Three white, three black, Three fat lie together here. Whoever disturbs them Remain to me! (Be mine!)" To insure pigs thriving by a new owner, some charcoal-dust is mingled with their food and these words spoken:-- "Nivaseske ná muká, The çál t're çábená! Miseç yákhá tut díkhen, The yon káthe mudáren, Tu atunci çábá len!" "Do not let the Nivasi Eat thy food, Evil eyes see thee, And they here shall perish, Then do thou eat them!" As a particularly powerful conjuration against thieves, the owner runs thrice, while quite naked, round the animal or object which he wishes to protect, and repeats at every turn:-- "Oh coreyá ná prejiá. Dureder ná ává! T're vástá, t're punrá Avená kirñodyá Te ádá pedá láves!" "Oh, thief, do not go, Further do not come! Thy hands, thy feet Shall decay If thou takest this animal!" Another "thieves' benediction" is as follows: The owner goes at midnight with the animal or object to be protected to a cross-roads, and while letting fall on the ground a few hairs of the beast, or a bit of the thing whatever it be, repeats:-- "Ada hin tute, Ná ává pál menge, Dav tute, so kámáv; Pçuvuseyá áshuná!" "This home is not good, Here I give (thee) blood!" "The gypsies call the quail the devil's bird (Ciriclo bengeskro), and ascribe diabolic properties to it. (Vide Cassel, 6 and 162.) The daughters of the Nivasi appear as quails in the fields by day, but during the night they steal the corn. To keep them away it is held good during sowing-time to place in each of the four corners of the field, parts of a quail, or at least some of the feathers of a black hen which has never laid an egg. This superstition is also current among the Roumanian peasants of the Siebenbürgen." The primitive meaning of the myth may perhaps be found in the Greek tradition which regarded the quail, because it was a bird of passage, as a type of revival of spring or of life. Hercules awakes from his swoon when his companion Iolaus (from the Greek ioulos, youth), holds a quail to his nose. Hercules suffered from epilepsy, for which disease the ancients thought the brain of a quail was a specific. The placing pieces of a quail, by the gypsies, in the corners of a field when corn is sown, connects the bird with spring. Artemis, a goddess of spring and life, was called by the Romans Ortygyia, from ortyx, a quail. Therefore, as signifying new life, the quail became itself a cure for many diseases. And it seems to be like the Wren, also a bird of witchcraft and sorcery, or a kind of witch itself. It is a protector, because, owing to its pugnacity, it was a type of pluck, battle and victory. In Phoenicia it was sacrificed to Hercules, and the Romans were so fanatical in regard to it that Augustus punished a city-father for serving upon his table a quail which had become celebrated for its prowess. And so it has become a devil's bird among the gypsies because in the old time it was regarded as a devil of a bird for fighting. The gypsies are hardly to be regarded as Christians, but when they wish to contend against the powers of darkness they occasionally invoke Christian influences. If a cow gives bloody milk it is thought to be caused by her eating Wachtelkraut, or quail weed, which is a poison. In such a case they sprinkle the milk on a field frequented by quails and repeat:-- "Dav rátá tumenge Adá ná hin láce! Ráyeskro Kristeskro rátá Adá hin máy láce Adá hin ámenge!" "I give to you blood, Which is not good! The Lord Christ's blood Is truly good, That is ours!" If a cow makes water while being milked, she is bewitched, and it is well in such a case to catch some of the urine, mix it with onion-peelings and the egg of a black hen. This is boiled and mixed with the cow's food while these lines are repeated:-- "Ko ándré hin, avriává, Trin Urma cingárden les, Trin Urma tráden les Andre yándengré ker Beshel yov ándre ker Hin leske máy yakhá, Hin leske máy páña!" "Who is within, let him come out! Three Urme call him, Three Urme drive him Into the egg-shell house, There he lives in the house; He has much fire, He has much water!" Then half the shell of the egg of the black hen is thrown into a running stream and the other half into a fire. Next to the Nivasi and Pçuvuse, or spirits of earth and air, and human sorcerers or witches, the being who is most dreaded as injuring cattle is the Chagrin or Cagrino. These demons have the form of a hedgehog, are of yellowish colour, and are half a yard in length, and a span in breadth. "I am certain," says Wlislocki, "that this creature is none other than the equally demoniac being called Harginn, still believed in by the inhabitants of North-western India. (Vide Liebrecht, p. 112, and Leitner, 'Results of a Tour in Dardistan Kashmir,' &c., vol. i. p. 13.) The exact identity of the description of the two, as well as that of the name, prove that the gypsies brought the belief from their Indian home." It may here be observed that the Indian name is Harginn, and the true gypsy word is pronounced very nearly like 'Hágrin--the o being an arbitrary addition. The transposition of letters in a word is extremely common among the Hindu gypsies. The Chagrin specially torments horses, by sitting on their backs and making water on their bodies. The next day they appear to be weary, sad, sick, and weak, bathed in sweat, with their manes tangled. When this is seen the following ceremony is resorted to: The horse is tied to a stake which has been rubbed with garlic juice, then a red thread is laid in the form of a cross on the ground, but so far from the heels of the horse that he cannot disturb it. And while laying it down the performer sings:-- "Sáve miseç ac káthe, Ác ándre lunge táve, Andre leg páshader páñi. De tu tire páñi Andre çuca Cháriñeyá, Andre tu sik mudárá!" "All evil stay here, Stay in the long thread, In the next brook (water). Give thy water, Jump in Chagrin! Therein perish quickly!" Of the widely-spread and ancient belief in the magic virtues of garlic and red wool I have elsewhere spoken. That witches and goblins or imps ride horses by night and then restore them in the morning to their stalls in a wretched condition--trembling, enfeebled, and with tangled manes--is believed all the world over, and it would probably be found that the Chagrin also gallops them. Another charm against this being consists of taking some of the hair of the animal, a little salt, and the blood of a bat, which is all mixed with meal and cooked to a bread. With this the foot of the horse is smeared, and then the empty pipkin is put into the trunk of a high tree while these words are uttered:-- "Ac tu cin kathe, Cin ádá tçutes ávlá!" "Stay so long here, Till it shall be full!" The blood of the bat may be derived from an Oriental belief that the bat being the most perfect of birds, because it has breasts and suckles its young, it is specially adapted to magical uses. In the Tyrol he who bears the left eye of a bat may become invisible, and in Hesse he who wears the heart of a bat bound to his arm with red thread will always win at cards. The manes of the horses which have been tangled and twisted by the Chagrin must not be cut off or disentangled unless these words are spoken:-- "Cin tu jid', cin ádá bálá jiden." "So long live thou, long as these hairs shall live." It is an European belief that knots of hair made by witches must not be disentangled. The belief that such knots are made intentionally by some intelligence is very natural. I have often been surprised to find how frequently knots form themselves in the cord of my eye-glass, even when pains are taken at night to lay it down so as to be free of them. Apropos of which I may mention that this teasing personality of the eye-glass and cord seems to have been noted by others. I was once travelling on the Nile in company with a Persian prince, who became convinced that his eye-glass was very unlucky, and therefore threw it into the river. The Chagrin specially torments mares which have recently foaled; therefore it is held needful, soon after the birth, to put into the water which the mother drinks glowing hot coals, which are thrice taken from the fire. With these are included pieces of iron, such as nails, knives, &c., and the following words are solemnly murmured:-- "Piyá tu te ña ac sovnibnastár!" "Drink, and do not be sleepy!" Many readers may here observe that charcoal and iron form a real tonic, or very practical strengthening dose for the enfeebled mare. But here, as in many cases medicine makes a cure and the devil or the doctor gets the credit. The Chagrin is supposed to attack horses only while they are asleep. Its urine often causes swellings or sores. These are covered by day with a patch of red cloth, which is stuck at night into a hole in a tree, which is closed with a cork, while these words are pronounced:-- "Ac tu káthe Cin áulá táv pedá Cin pedá yek ruk Cin ruk yek mánush Ko mudarel tut." "Remain thou here Till the rag become an animal, Till the animal, a tree, Till the tree, a man, Who will destroy thee!" Dr. Wlislocki suggests that "the idea of the tree's becoming a man, is derived from the old gypsy belief that the first human beings were made from the leaves of trees," and refers to what he has elsewhere written on a tradition of the creation of the world, as held by Transylvanian gypsies. The following is a children's song, in which the belief may be traced:-- "Amaro dád jál ándro bes Cingerel odoy caves, Del dáyákri andre pádá Yek cavoro ádá ávla." "Our father went into a wood, There he cut a boy, Laid it in mother's bed, So a boy comes." The Greeks believed that man was made from an ash-tree, and the Norsemen probably derived it from the same source with them. In 1862 I published in The Continental Magazine (New York) a paper on the lore connected with the ash, in which effort was made to show that in early times in India the Banyan was specially worshipped, and that the descendants of men familiar with this cult had, after migrating to the Far West, transferred the worship and traditions of the banyan to the ash. It has been observed that the ash-tree sometimes--like the banyan--sends its shoots down to the ground, where they take root. The Algonkin Indians seem to have taken this belief of man's origin from the ash from the Norsemen, as a very large proportion of their myths correspond closely to those of the Edda. But, in brief, if the Greeks and Norsemen were of Aryan origin, and had ever had a language in common, they probably had common myths. The following is the remedy for the so-called Würmer, or worms, i.e., external sores. Before sunrise wolf's milk (Wolfsmilch, rukeskro tçud) is collected, mixed with salt, garlic, and water, put into a pot, and boiled down to a brew. With a part of this the afflicted spot is rubbed, the rest is thrown into a brook, with the words:-- "Kirmora jánen ándre tçud Andrál tçud, andré sir Andrál sir, andré páñi, Panensá kiyá dádeske, Kiyá Niváseske Pçándel tumen shelehá Eñávárdesh teñá!" "Worms go in the milk, From the milk into the garlic, From the garlic into the water, With the water to (your) father, To the Nivasi, He shall bind you with a rope, Ninety-nine (yards long)." A common cure of worms in swine among the Transylvanian tent-gypsies is to stand ere the sun rises before a çadcerli, or nettle, and while pouring on it the urine of the animal to be cured, repeat:-- "Láce, láce detehárá! Hin mánge máy bute trásha Kirmora hin [báleceske], Te me penáv, penáv tute! Káles hin yon, loles, párnes, Deisislá hin yon mulánes!" "Good, good morrow! I have much sorrow. Worms are in [my swine to-day] And I say, to you I say, Black are they or white or red By to-morrow be they dead!" The nettle has its own peculiar associations. According to the gypsies it grows chiefly in places where there is a subterranean passage to the dwellings of the Pçuvus, or Earth-fairies, therefore it is consecrated to them and called Kásta Pçuvasengré, Pcuvus-wood. Hence the gypsy children while gathering nettles for pigs sing:-- "Cádcerli ná pçábuvá! André ker me ná jiáv, Kiyá Pçuvus ná jiáv, Tráden, tráden kirmorá!" "Nettle, nettle do not burn, In your house no one shall go, No one to the Pcuvus goes, Drive, drive away the worms!" "The nettle," says Friedrich ("Symbolik der Natur," p. 324), "because it causes a burning pain is among the Hindoos a demoniac symbol, for, as they say, the great serpent poured out its poison on it. But as evil is an antidote for evil, the nettle held in the hand is a guard against ghosts, and it is good for beer when laid upon the barrel." "From its employment as an aphrodisiac, and its use in flagellation to restore sexual power, it is regarded as sacred to Nature by the followers of a secret sect or society still existing in several countries, especially Persia" (MS. account of certain Secret Societies). The gypsies believe that the Earth-fairies are the foes of every kind of worm and creeping insect with the exception of the snail, which they therefore call the "gráy Pçuvusengré," the Pçuvus-horse. Gry-puvusengree would in English gypsy mean the earthy-horse. English gypsies, and the English peasantry, as well as gypsies, call snails "cattle, because they have horns." Snails are a type of voluptuousness, because they are hermaphrodite, and exceedingly giving to sexual indulgence, so that as many as half a dozen may be found mutually giving and taking pleasure. Hence in German Schnecke, a snail, is a term applied to the pudendum muliebre. And as anything significant of fertility, generation, and sexual enjoyment was supposed to constitute a charm or amulet against witchcraft, i.e., all evil influences, which are allied to sterility, chastity, and barrenness, a snail's shell forms a powerful fetish for a true believer. The reference to white, black, or red in the foregoing charm, or rather the one before it, refers, says Dr. Wlislocki, to the gypsy belief that there are white, black, and red Earth-fairies. A girl can win (illicit) love from a man by inducing him to carry a snail shell which she has had for some time about her person. To present a snail shell is to make a very direct but not very delicate declaration of love to any one. I have heard of a lady who caused an intense excitement in a village by collecting about a hundred large snails, gilding their shells, and then turning them loose in several gardens, where their discovery excited, as may be supposed, great excitement among the finders. If pigs lose their appetites a brew is made of milk, charcoal dust, and their own dung, which is put before them with the words: "Friss Hexe und verreck!" "In this place I must remark that the Transylvanian tent-gypsies use for grumus merdoe also the expression Hirte (feris)" (Wlislocki). To cure a cough in animals one should take from the hoofs of the first riding horse, dirt or dust, and put it into the mouth of the suffering animal with the words:-- "Prejiál te náñi yov ável!" "May he go away and never return!" To have a horse always in good spirits and lively during the waning moon his spine is rubbed with garlic, while these words are uttered:-- "Miseç ándre tut, O beng the çal but! Laces ándre tut Acel ándre tut!" "(What is) evil in thee, May the devil eat it much! (What is) good in thee, May it remain in thee!" But it is far more effective when the garlic is put on a rag of the clothes of one who has been hanged, and the place rubbed with it: in which we have a remnant of the earliest witchcraft, before Shamanism, which had recourse to the vilest and most vulgar methods of exciting awe and belief. This is in all probability the earliest form in which magic, or the power of controlling invisible or supernatural influences manifested itself, and it is very interesting to observe that it still survives, and that the world still presents every phase of its faiths, ab initio. There is a very curious belief or principle attached to the use of songs in conjuring witches, or in averting their own sorcery. It is that the witch is obliged, willy nilly, to listen to the end to what is in metre, an idea founded on the attraction of melody, which is much stronger among savages and children than with civilized adults. Nearly allied to this is the belief that if the witch sees interlaced or bewildering and confused patterns she must follow them out, and by means of this her thoughts are diverted or scattered. Hence the serpentine inscriptions of the Norsemen and their intertwining bands which were firmly believed to bring good luck or avert evil influence. A traveller in Persia states that the patterns of the carpets of that country are made as bewildering as possible "to avert the evil eye." And it is with this purpose that in Italian, as in all other witchcraft, so many spells and charms depend on interwoven braided cords. "Twist ye, twine ye, even so, Mingle threads of joy and woe." The basis for this belief is the fascination, or instinct, which many persons, especially children, feel to trace out patterns, to thread the mazes of labyrinths or to analyze and disentangle knots and "cat's cradles." Did space permit, nor inclination fail, I could point out some curious proofs that the old belief in the power of long and curling hair to fascinate was derived not only from its beauty but also because of the magic of its curves and entanglements. The gypsies believe that the Earth-spirits are specially interested in animals. They also teach women the secrets of medicine and sorcery. There are indications of this in the negro magic. Miss Mary Owen, an accomplished Folk-lorist of St. Joseph, Missouri, who has been deeply instructed in Voodooism, informs me that a woman to become a witch must go by night into a field and pull up a weed by the roots. From the quantity of soil which clings to it, is inferred the degree of magic power which the pupil will attain. I am not astonished to learn that when this lady was initiated, the amount of earth collected was unusually great. In such cases the Pchuvus (or Poovus in English gypsy), indicate their good-will by bestowing "earth," which, from meaning luck or good-fortune, has passed in popular parlance to signifying money. CHAPTER VI. OF PREGNANCY AND CHARMS, OR FOLK-LORE CONNECTED WITH IT--BOARS' TEETH AND CHARMS FOR PREVENTING THE FLOW OF BLOOD. Like all Orientals the gypsy desires intensely to have a family. Superstition comes in to increase the wish, for a barren woman in Eastern Europe is generally suspected of having had intercourse with a vampire or spirit before her marriage, and she who has done this, willingly or unconsciously, never has children. They have recourse to many magic medicines or means to promote conception; one of the most harmless in Hungary is to eat grass from the grave in which a woman with child has been buried. While doing this the woman repeats:-- "Dui riká hin mire minc, Dui yará hin leskro kor, Avnás dui yek jelo, Keren ákána yek jeles." Or else the woman drinks the water in which the husband has cast hot coals, or, better still, has spit, saying:-- "Káy me yákh som Ac tu ángár, Káy me brishind som, Ac tu pani!" "Where I am flame Be thou the coals! Where I am rain Be thou the water!" Or at times the husband takes an egg, makes a small hole at each end, and then blows the yolk and white into the mouth of his wife who swallows them. There are innumerable ways and means to ensure pregnancy, some of which are very dangerous. Faith in the so-called "artificial propagation" is extensively spread. "Will der Zigeuner einen Sohn erzielen, so gürtet er sich mit dem Halfterzaume eines männlichen Pferdes und umgekehrt mit dem einer Stute, will er eine Tochter erzeugen." ("Gebräuche d. Trans. Zig." Dr. H. von Wlislocki. "Ill. Zeitschrift. Band," 51. No. 16.) If a gypsy woman in Transylvania wishes to know whether she be with child, she must stand for nine evenings at a cross-road with an axe or hammer, which she must wet with her own water, and then bury there. Should it be dug up on the ninth morning after, and found rusty, it is a sign that she is "in blessed circumstances." To bring on the menses a gypsy woman must, while roses are in bloom, wash herself all over with rose-water, and then pour the water over a rose-bush. Or she takes an egg, pours its contents into a jug, and makes water on it. If the egg swims the next morning on the surface she is enceinte; if the yolk is separate from the white she will bear a son, if they are mingled a daughter. In Tuscany women wishing for children go to a priest, get a blessed apple and pronounce over it an incantation to Santa Anna, which was probably addressed in Roman days to Lucina, who was very probably, according to the Romagna dialect, lu S'anna--Santa Anna herself. I have several old Roman spells from Marcellus, which still exist word for word in Italian, but fitted to modern usage in this manner like old windows to new houses. Should a woman eat fish while pregnant the child will be slow in learning to speak, but if she feed on snails it will be slow in learning to walk. The proverbs, "Dumb as a fish," and "Slow as a snail," appear here. To protect a child against the evil eye it is hung with amulets, generally with shells (die eine Aehnlichkeit mit der weiblichen Scham haben). And these must be observed on all occasions, and for everything, ceremonies, of which there are literally hundreds, showing that gypsies, notwithstanding their supposed freedom from conventionalisms, are, like all superstitious people, harassed and vexed to a degree which would seem incredible to educated Europeans, with observances and rites of the most ridiculous and vexatious nature. The shells alluded to are, however, of great interest, as they indicate the transmission of the old belief that symbols typical of generation, pleasure, and reproductiveness, are repugnant to witchcraft which is allied to barrenness, destruction, negation, and every kind of pain and sterility. Hence a necklace of shells, especially cowries or snail shells, or the brilliant and pretty conchiglie found in such abundance near Venice, are regarded as protecting animals or children from the evil eye, and facilitating love, luxury, and productiveness. I have read an article in which a learned writer rejects with indignation the "prurient idea" that the cowrie, which gave its name porcellana to porcelain, derived it from porcella, in sensu obsceno; porcella being a Roman word not only for pig but for the female organ. But every donkey-boy in Cairo could have told him that the cowrie is used in strings on asses as on children because the shell has the likeness which the writer to whom I refer rejects with indignation. The pig, as is well known, is a common amulet, the origin thereof being that it is extremely prolific. It has within a few years been very much revived in silver as a charm for ladies, and may be found in most shops where ornaments for watch-chains are sold. The boar's tooth, as I have before mentioned, has been since time immemorial a charm; I have found them attached to chatelaines and bunches of keys, especially in Austria, from one to four or five centuries past. They are found in prehistoric graves. The tusk is properly a male emblem; a pig is sometimes placed on the base. These are still very commonly made and sold. I saw one worn by the son of a travelling basket-maker, who spoke Romany, and I purchased several in Vienna (1888), also in Copenhagen in 1889. In Florence very large boars' tusks are set as brooches, and may be found generally in the smaller jewellers' shops and on the Ponte Vecchio. They are regarded as protective against malocchio--a general term for evil influences--especially for women during pregnancy, and as securing plenty, i.e., prosperity and increase, be it of worldly goods, honour, or prosperity. There is in the museum at Budapest a boar's tusk, mounted or set as an amulet, which is apparently of Celtic origin, and which certainly belongs to the migration of races, or a very early period. And it is in this eastern portion of Europe that it is still most generally worn as a charm. In connection with pregnancy and childbirth there is the profluvium, excessive flow of blood, or menses or hemorrhages, for which there exist many charms, not only among gypsies but all races. This includes the stopping any bleeding--an art in which Scott's Lady of Deloraine was an expert, and which many practised within a century. "Tom Potts was but a serving man, And yet he was a doctor good, He bound a handkerchief on the wound, And with some kind of words he staunched the blood." What these same kind of words were among old Germans and Romans may be learned from the following: Jacob Grimm had long been familiar with a German magic spell of the eleventh century--ad stringendum sanguinem, or stopping bleeding--but, as he says, "noch nicht zu deuten vermochte," could not explain them. They were as follows:-- "Tumbo saz in berke, Mit tumbemo kinde in arme, Tumb hiez der berc Tumb hiez daz kint, Der heiligo Tumbo Versegne dise wunta." "Tumbo (i.e., dumm or stupid) sat in the hill With a stupid child in arms, Dumb (stupid) the hill was called Dumb was called the child, The holy Tumbo (or dumb). Heal (bless) this wound!" Some years after he found the following among the magic formulas of Marcellus Burdigalensis:-- "Carmen utile profluvio mulieri:-- "Stupidus in monte ibat, Stupidus stupuit, Adjuro te matrix Ne hoc iracunda suscipias. "Pari ratione scriptum ligabis." I.e.: "A song useful for a flow of blood in woman:-- "The stupid man went into the mountain, The stupid man was amazed; I adjure thee, oh womb, Be not angry!" "Which shall also be bound as a writing," i.e., according to a previous direction that it shall be written on virgin parchment, and bound with a linen cord about the waist of him or of her--quæ patietur de qualibet parte corporis sanguinis fluxum--who suffers anywhere from flow of blood. It is possible that the Stupidus and his blessing of women has here some remotely derived reference to the reverence amounting to worship of idiots in the East, who are described as being surrounded in some parts of India by matrons seeking for their touch and benediction, and soliciting their embraces. This is effected very often in an almost public manner; that is to say, by a crowd of women closely surrounding the couple, i.e., the idiot or lunatic and one of their number are joined, so that passers-by cannot see what is going on. The children born of these casual matches are not unusually themselves of weak mind, but are considered all the more holy. This recalls the allusion in the charm:-- "Stupid sat in the hill With a stupid child in arms." This obscure myth of the stupid god appears to be very ancient. "This Tritas is called intelligent. How then does he appear sometimes stupid? The language itself supplies the explanation. In Sanskrit bâlas means both child and stolid, and the third brother is supposed to be stolid because, at his first appearance especially, he is a child. (Tritas is one of the three brothers or gods, i.e., the trinity)." ("Zoological Mythology," by Angelo de Gubernatis, 1872). I am indebted to the as yet unpublished collection of Gypsyana made by Prof. Anton Herrmann for the following:-- There is a superstition among our gypsies that if the shadow of a cross on a grave falls on a woman with child she will have a miscarriage, and this seems to be peculiarly appropriate to girls who have "anticipated the privileges of matrimony." The following rhyme seems to describe the hesitation of a girl who has gone to a cross to produce the result alluded to, but who is withheld by love for her unborn infant:-- "Cigno trussul pal handako Hin ada usalinako; The ziav me pro usalin, Ajt' mange lasavo na kin. Sar e praytin kad' chasarel, Save sile barval marel, Pal basavo te prasape, Mre cajori mojd kamale." "Cross upon a grave so small Here I see thy shadow fall, If it fall on me they say All my shame will pass away. As the autumn leaf is blown, By the wind to die alone, Yet in shame and misery, My baby will be dear to me!" There is a belief allied to this of the power of the dead in graves to work wonders, to the effect that if any one plucks a rose from a grave, he or she will soon die. In the following song a gypsy picks a rose from the grave of the one he loved, hoping that it will cause his death:-- "Cignoro hrobosa Hin sukares rosa Mange la pchagavas, Doi me na kamavas. Bes'las piranake, Hrobas hin joy mange, Pchgavas, choc zanav Pal lele avava Te me ne brinzinav. The me pocivinav." "On her little tomb there grows By itself a lovely rose, All alone the rose I break, And I do it for her sake. I sat by her I held so dear, Now her grave and mine are near, I break the rose because I know That to her I soon must go, Grief cannot my spirit stir, Since I know I go to her!" M. Kounavine (contribution by Dr. A. Elysseeff, Gypsy-Lore Journal, July, 1890), gives the following as a Russian gypsy spell against barrenness:-- "Laki, thou destroyest and dost make everything on earth; thou canst see nothing old, for death lives in thee, thou givest birth to all upon the earth for thou thyself art life. By thy might cause me ---- to bear good fruit, I who am deprived of the joy of motherhood, and barren as a rock." According to Dr. Elysseeff, Laki is related to the Indian goddess Lakshmi, although differing from her in character. Another incantation of the same nature is as follows:-- "Thou art the mother of every living creature and the distributor of good: thou doest according to thy wisdom in destroying what is useless or what has lived its destined time; by thy wisdom thou makest the earth to regenerate all that is new.... Thou dost not seek the death of any one, for thou art the benefactress of mankind." CHAPTER VII. THE RECOVERY OF STOLEN PROPERTY--LOVE-CHARMS--SHOES AND LOVE-POTIONS, OR PHILTRES. When a man has lost anything, or been robbed, he often has in his own mind, quite unconsciously, some suspicion or clue to it. A clever fortune-teller or gypsy who has made a life-long study of such clues, can often elicit from the loser, hints which enable the magician to surmise the truth. Many people place absolute confidence in their servants, and perhaps suspect nobody. The detective or gypsy has no such faith in man, and suspects everybody. Where positive knowledge cannot be established there is, however, another resource. The thief is often as superstitious as his victim. Hence he fears that some mysterious curse may be laid on him, which he cannot escape. In the Pacific Islands, as among negroes everywhere, a man will die if taboo or voodoo attaches to the taking of objects which have been consecrated by a certain formula. Therefore such formulas are commonly employed. Among the Hungarian gypsies to recover a stolen animal, some of its dung is taken and thrown to the East and the West with the words:-- "Kay tut o kam dikhel: Odoy ává kiyá mánge!" "Where the sun sees thee, Hence return to me!" But when a horse has been stolen, they take what is left of his harness, bury it in the earth and make a fire over it, saying:-- "Kó tut cordyás Nasvales th' ávlás Leske sor ná ávlás, Tu ná ac kiyá leske Avá sástes kiyá mánge! Leskro sor káthe pashlyol Sár e tçuv avriurál!" "Who stole thee Sick may he be May his strength depart! Do not thou remain by him, Come (back) sound to me, His strength lies here As the smoke goes away!" To know in which direction the stolen thing lies, they carry a sucking babe to a stream, hold it over the water and say:-- "Pen mánge, oh Nivaseya Caveskro vástehá Kay hin m'ro gráy, Ujes hin cavo, Ujes sár o kam Ujes sár páni Ujes sár cumut Ujes sár legujes? Pen mánge, oh Niváseyá, Cáveskro vastehá Kay hin m'ro gráy!" "Tell me, oh Nivaseha, By the child's hand! Where is my horse? Pure is the child Pure as the sun, Pure as water, Pure as the moon, Pure as the purest. Tell me, oh Nivaseha, By the child's hand! Where is my horse?" In this we have an illustration of the widely spread belief that an innocent child is a powerful agent in prophecy and sorcery. The oath "by the hand" is still in vogue among all gypsies. "Apo miro dadeskro vast!" ("By my father's hand!") is one of their greatest oaths in Germany, ("Die Zigeuner," von Richard Liebich), and I have met with an old gypsy in England who knew it. If a man who is seeking for stolen goods finds willow twigs grown into a knot, he ties it up and says:-- "Me avri pçándáv coreskro báçht!" "I tie up the thief's luck!" There is also a belief among the gypsies that these knots are twined by the fairies, and that whoever undoes them undoes his own luck, or that of the person on whom he is thinking. (Vide Rocholz, "Alemannisches Kinderlied und Kinderspiel aus der Schweiz," p. 146). These willow-knots are much used in love-charms. To win the love of a maid, a man cuts one of them, puts it into his mouth, and says:-- "T're báçt me çáv, T're baçt me piyáv, Dáv tute m're baçt, Káná tu mánge sál." "I eat thy luck, I drink thy luck; Give me that luck of thine, Then thou shalt be mine." Then the lover, if he can, secretly hides this knot in the bed of the wished-for bride. It is worth noting that these lines are so much like English Gypsy as it was once spoken that there are still men who would, in England, understand every word of it. Somewhat allied to this is another charm. The lover takes a blade of grass in his mouth, and turning to the East and the West, says:-- "Kay o kám, avriável, Kiya mánge lele beshel! Kay o kám tel' ável, Kiya lelákri me beshav." "Where the sun goes up Shall my love be by me! Where the sun goes down There by her I'll be." Then the blade of grass is cut up into pieces and mingled with some food which the girl must eat, and if she swallow the least bit of the grass, she will be gewogen und treugesinnt--moved to love, and true-hearted. On which Dr. Wlislocki remarks on the old custom "also known to the Hindoos," by which any one wishing to deprecate the wrath of another, or to express complete subjection, takes a blade of grass in his mouth. Of which Grimm writes: "This custom may have sprung from the idea that the one conquered gave himself up like a domestic animal to the absolute power of another. And with this appears to be connected the ancient custom of holding out grass as a sign of surrender. The conquered man took the blade of grass in his mouth and then transferred it to his conqueror." If a gypsy girl be in love she finds the foot-print of her "object," digs out the earth which is within its outline and buries this under a willow-tree, saying:-- "Upro pçuv hin but pçuvá; Kás kámáv, mange th' ávlá! Bárvol, bárvol, sálciye, Brigá ná hin mánge! Yov tover, me pori, Yov kokosh, me cátrá, Ádá, ádá me kamav!" "Many earths on earth there be, Whom I love my own shall be, Grow, grow willow tree! Sorrow none unto me! He the axe, I the helve, He the cock, I the hen, This, this (be as) I will!" Another love-charm which belongs to ancient black witchcraft, and is known far and wide, is the following: When dogs are coupling (Wenn Hund und Hündin bei der Paarung zusammenhängen) the lover suddenly covers them with a cloth, if possible, one which is afterwards presented to the girl whom he seeks, while he says:-- "Me jiuklo, yoy jiukli, Yoy tover, me pori, Me kokosh, yoy cátrá, Ádá, ádá me kamáv!" "I the dog, she the bitch, I the helve, she the axe, I the cock (and) she the hen, That, that I desire." He or she who finds a red ribbon, tape, or even a piece of red stuff of any kind, especially if it be wool, will have luck in love. It must be picked up and carried as an amulet, and when raising it from the ground the finder must make a wish for the love of some person, or if he have no particular desire for any one, he may wish for luck in love, or a sweetheart. This is, I believe, pretty generally known in some form all over the world. A yellow ribbon or flower, especially if it be floating on water, presages gold; a white object, silver, or peace or reconciliation with enemies. It is also lucky for love to find a key. In Tuscany there is a special formula which must be spoken while picking it up. Very old keys are valuable amulets. Those who carry them will learn secrets, penetrate mysteries, and succeed in what they undertake. If you can get a shoe which a girl has worn you may make sad havoc with her heart if you carry it near your own. Also hang it up over your bed and put into it the leaves of rue. During November, 1889, not a few newspaper commentators busied themselves with conjectures as to why a Scotch constable buried the boots of a murdered man. That it was done through some superstitious belief is conceded; but what the fashion of the superstition is seems unknown. It originated, beyond question, in the old Norse custom of always burying the dead in their shoes or with them. For they believed that the deceased would have, when he arrived in the other world, to traverse broad and burning plains before he could reach his destination, be it Valhalla or the dreary home of Hel; and to protect his feet from the fire his friends bound on them the "hell-shoon." Other cares were also taken: and in the saga of Olof Tryggvasen we are told that one monarch was thoughtfully provided with a cow; while the Vikings were buried in their ships, so that they could keep on pirating "for ever and ever." The superstition of the burial of the boots probably survives in England. It is about seventeen years since the writer heard from an old gypsy that when another gypsy was "pûvado," or "earthed," a very good pair of boots was placed by him in the grave. The reason was not given; perhaps it was not known. These customs often survive after the cause is forgotten, simply from some feeling that good or bad luck attends their observance or the neglect of it. Many years since a writer in an article on shoes in The English Magazine stated that, "according to an Aryan tradition, the greater part of the way from the land of the living to that of death lay through morasses and vast moors overgrown with furzes and thorns. That the dead might not pass over them bare-foot, a pair of shoes was laid with them in the grave." The shoe was of old in many countries a symbol of life, liberty, or entire personal control. In Ruth we are told that "it was the custom in Israel concerning changing, that a man plucked off his shoe and delivered it to his neighbour." So the bride, who was originally always a slave, transferred herself by the symbol of the shoe. When the Emperor Waldimir made proposals of marriage to the daughter of Ragnald, she replied scornfully that she would not take off her shoes to the son of a slave. Gregory of Tours, in speaking of wedding, says: "The bridegroom, having given a ring to the bride, presents her with a shoe." As regards the Scandinavian hel-shoe, or hell-shoon, Kelley, in his "Indo-European Folk-lore," tells us that a funeral is still called a dead shoe in the Henneberg district; and the writer already cited adds that in a MS. of the Cotton Library, containing an account of Cleveland in Yorkshire, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, there is a passage which illustrates this curious custom. It was quoted by Sir Walter Scott in the notes to "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," and runs thus:-- "When any dieth certaine women sing a song to the dead bodie, reciting the journey that the partye deceased must goe; and they are of beliefe that once in their lives it is goode to give a pair of new shoes to a poor man; forasmuch as before this life they are to pass bare-foote through a great lande, full of thornes and furzen--excepte by the meryte of the almes aforesaid they have redeemed the forfeyte--for at the edge of the launde an oulde man shall meet them with the same shoes that were given by the partie when he was lyving, and after he hath shodde them dismisseth them to go through thick and thin without scratch or scalle. This must be a very agreeable reflection to all gentlemen who have bestowed their old boots on waiters, or ladies who have in like fashion gifted their maids. It is true, the legend specifies new shoes; but surely a pair of thirty-shilling boots only half worn count for as much as a new pair of half a sovereign chaussures. However, if one is to go "through thick and thin without scratch or scalle," it may be just as well to be on the safe side, and give a good new extra stout pair to the gardener for Christmas. For truly these superstitions are strange things, and no one knows what may be in them. There are one or two quaint shoe stories of the olden time which may be of value to the collector. It befell once in the beginnings of Bohemia, that, according to Schafarik ("Slawische Alterthümer," vol. ii. p. 422), Lïbussa, queen of that land, found herself compelled by her council to wed. And the wise men, being consulted, declared that he who was to marry the queen would be found by her favourite horse, who would lead the way till he found a man eating from an iron table, and kneel to him. So the horse went on, and unto a field where a man sat eating a peasant's dinner from a ploughshare. This was the farmer Prschemischl. So they covered him with the royal robes and led him to the queen expectant. But ere going he took his shoes of willow-wood and placed them in his bosom and kept them to remind him ever after of his low origin. It will, of course, at once strike the reader, as it has the learned, that this is a story which would naturally originate in any country where there are iron ploughshares, horses, queens, and wooden shoes: and, as Schafarik shrewdly suggests, that it was all "a put-up job;" since, of course, Prschemischl was already a lover of the queen, the horse was trained to find him and to kneel before him, and, finally, that the ploughshare and wooden shoes were the prepared properties of the little drama. The only little flaw in this evidence is the name Prschemischl, which, it must be admitted, is extremely difficult to get over. The Seven League Boots and the shoes of Peter Schlemihl, which take one over the world at will, have a variation in a pair recorded in another tale. There was a beautiful and extremely proud damsel, who refused a young man with every conceivable aggravation of the offence, informing him that when she ran after him, and not before that, he might hope to marry her; and at the same time meeting a poor old gypsy woman who begged her for a pair of old shoes. To which the proud Princess replied:-- "Shoes here, shoes there; Give me a couple, I'll give thee a pair." To which the old gypsy, who was a witch, grimly muttered, "I'll give thee a pair which----" The rest of the expression was really too unamiable to repeat. Well, the youth and the witch met, and, going to the lady's shoemaker, "made him make" a superbly elegant pair of shoes, which were sent to the damsel as a gift. Such a gift! No sooner were they put on than off they started, carrying the Princess, malgré elle, over hill and dale. By and by she saw that a man--the man, of course, whom she had refused--was in advance of her. As in the song of the Cork Leg, "the shoes never stopped, but kept on the pace." And the young man led her to a lonely castle and reasoned with her. And as she had promised to marry should she ever run after him, and as she had pursued him a whole day, she kept her word. The shoes she sent to the witch filled with gold; and they were wedded, and all went as merry as a thousand grigs in a duck-pond. The shoe, as has been shown by a Danish writer in a book chiefly devoted to the subject, is a type of life, especially as shown in productiveness and fertility. Hence old shoes and grain are thrown after a bride, as people say, for luck; but the Jews do it crying, "Peru urphu"--"Increase and multiply." For this, and much more, the reader may consult that wonderful treasury of Folk-lore, "Die Symbolik und Mythologie der Natur," J. B. Friedrich, Würzburg, 1859. To which we would add our mite by remarking as a curious confirmation of this theory, that-- There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, Who had so many children she didn't know what to do. This passes now for a mere nursery-rhyme; but doubtless there are those who will trace it back to the early morning of mythology, and prove that it was once a Himaritic hymn, sung to some Melitta who has long passed away down the back entry of time. For several additional Hungarian gypsy love-charms and spells, collected by Dr. Wlislocki, published in Ethnographia, and subsequently in The Gipsy-Lore Journal for June, 1890, I am greatly indebted to the kindness of Mr. D. MacRitchie:-- "The gypsy girls of Transylvania believe that spells to 'know your future husband' can be best carried out on the eves of certain days, such as New Year, Easter, and Saint George. 'On New Year's Eve they throw shoes or boots on a willow tree, but are only allowed to throw them nine times.' Compare this with the throwing of the old shoe after the bride in many countries. 'If the shoe catches in the branches the girl who threw it will be married within a year.' "On the same eve they go to a tree and shake it by turns, singing:-- "'Per de, per de prájtina, Varekaj hin, hász kamav? Basá, párro dzsiuklo, Pirano dzsal mai szigo.' "'Scattered leaves around I see, Where can my true lover be? Ah, the white dog barks at last! And my love comes running fast!' "If during the singing the bark of a dog should be heard, the damsel will be 'wedded and bedded ere New Year comes again. This is virtually the same with a charm practised in Tuscany, which from other ancient witness I believe to be of Etruscan origin. Allied to this is the following: On the night of Saint George's Day (query, Saint George's Eve?) gypsy girls blindfold a white dog, then, letting it loose, place themselves quietly in several places. She to whom the dog runs first will be the first married. Blindman's buff was anciently an amorous, semi-magical, or witches' game, only that in place of the dog a man was blindfolded. "'Or the girl pulls a hair from her head, fastens a ring to it, and dangles it in a jug. The ring vibrates or swings, and so often as it touches the side of the jug so many years will it be before she marries.' This is an ancient spell of Eastern origin. As performed according to old works the thread must be wound around the ring-finger and touch the pulse. On the edge of a bowl the letters of the alphabet, or numerals, are marked, and the ring swinging against these spells words or denotes numbers. The touching of the latter indicates the number of lovers a girl is to have. "Early on Whitsunday morning the girls go out, and if they see clouds in the East they throw twigs in that direction, saying:-- "'Predzsia, csirik leja, Te ná tráda m're píranes.' "'Fly my bird--fly, I say, Do not chase my love away.' "For they think that if on Whitsun-morn there are many clouds in the East few girls will be married during the coming year. This peculiar, seemingly incomprehensible, custom of the gypsies originated in an old belief, the germ of which we find in the Hindoo myth, according to which the spring morning which spreads brightness and blessings descends from the blue bird of heaven, who, on the other hand, also represents night or winter. Special preparations are made so that the predictions shall be fulfilled. On the days mentioned the girls are neither allowed to wash themselves, nor to kiss any one, nor go to church. At Easter, or on the Eve of Saint George, the girl must eat fish, in order to see the future in her dreams. "On Easter morning the girls boil water, in the bubbles of which they try to make out the names of their future husbands. "To find out whether the future husband is young or old the girl must take nine seeds of the thorn-apple, ploughed-up earth of nine different places, and water from as many more. With these she kneads a cake, which is laid on a cross-road on Easter or Saint George's morning. If a woman steps first on the cake her husband will be a widower or an old man, but if a man the husband will be single or young. "To see the form of a future husband a girl must go on the night of Saint George to a cross-road. Her hair is combed backwards, and, pricking the little finger of the left hand, she must let three drops of blood fall on the ground while saying:-- "'Mro rat dav piraneszke, Kász dikhav, avava adaleske.' "'I give my blood to my loved one, Whom I shall see shall be mine own!' "Then the form of her future husband will rise slowly out of the blood and fade as slowly away. She must then gather up the dust, or mud-blood, and throw it into a river, otherwise the Nivashi, or Water-spirits, will lick up the blood, and the girl be drowned within the year. It is said that about twenty years ago the beautiful Roszi (Rosa), the daughter of Peter Danku, the waywode, or chief of the Kukuja tribe, was drowned during the time of her betrothal because when she performed this ceremony she had neglected to gather up the sprinkled blood. "If a girl wishes to see the form of her future husband, and also to know what luck awaits her love, she goes on any of the fore-named nights to a cross-road, and sits down on the ground, putting before her a fried fish and a glass of brandy. Then the form of her future husband will appear and stand before her for a time, silent and immovable. Should he then take the fish the marriage will be happy, but if he begin with the brandy it will be truly wretched. But if he takes neither, one of the two will die during the year. "That the laying of cards, the interpretation of dreams, the reading of the future in the hand, and similar divinations are constantly practised is quite natural, but it would lead us too far to enlarge on all these practices. But there are charms to win or cause love which are more interesting. Among these are the love-potions or philtres, for preparing which gypsies have always been famed. "The simplest and least hurtful beverage which they give unknown to persons to secure love is made as follows:--On any of the nights mentioned they collect in the meadows gander-goose (Romání, vast bengeszkero--devil's hand; in Latin, Orchis maculata; German, Knabenkraut), the yellow roots of which they dry and crush and mix with their menses, and this they introduce to the food of the person whose love they wish to secure." Of the same character is a potion which they prepare as follows: On the day of Saint John they catch a green frog and put it in a closed earthen receptacle full of small holes, and this they place in an ant-hill. The ants eat the frog and leave the skeleton. This is ground to powder, mixed with the blood of a bat and dried bath-flies and shaped into small buns, which are, as the chance occurs, put secretly into the food of the person to be charmed. There is yet another charm connected with this which I leave in the original Latin in which it is modestly given by Dr. Wlislocki: "Qualibet supradictarum noctium occiduntur duo canes nigri, mas et femina, quorum genitalia exstirpata ad condensationem coquntur. Hujus materiæ particula consumpta quemvis invincibili amore facit exardescare in eam eamve, qui hoc medio prodigioso usus est." It may be remarked that these abominable charms are also not only known to the Tuscan witches of the present day, but are found in Voodoo sorcery, and are indeed all over the world. To use revolting means in black sorcery may be, or perhaps certainly is, spontaneous-sporadic, but when we find the peculiar details of the processes identical, we are so much nearer to transmission or history that the burden of disproving must fall on the doubter. "To the less revolting philtres belongs one in which the girl puts the ashes of a burnt piece of her dress which had been wet with perspiration and has, perhaps, hair adhering to it, into a man's food or drink (also Tuscan). "To bury the foot of a badger (also Voodoo), or the eye of a crow, under one's sleeping-place is believed to excite or awaken love. "According to gypsy belief one can spread love by transplanting blood, perspiration, or hair into the body of a person. "By burning the hair, blood, or saliva of any one, his or her love can be extinguished. "The following is a charm used to punish a faithless lover. The deceived maid lights a candle at midnight and pricks it several times with a needle, saying:-- "'Pchagerav momely Pchagera tre vodyi!' "'Thrice the candle's broke by me Thrice thy heart shall broken be!' "If the faithless lover marries another, the girl mixes the broken shell of a crab in his food or drink, or hides one of her hairs in a bird's nest. This will make the marriage unhappy, and the husband will continually pine for his neglected sweetheart." This last charm is allied to another current among the Slavonians, and elsewhere mentioned, by which it is believed that if a bird gets any of a man's hair and works it into a nest he will suffer terribly till it is completely decayed. CHAPTER VIII. ROUMANIAN AND TRANSYLVANIAN SORCERIES AND SUPERSTITIONS, CONNECTED WITH THOSE OF THE GYPSIES. In her very interesting account of Roumanian superstitions, Mrs. E. Gerard ("The Land Beyond the Forest"), finds three distinct sources for them: firstly, the indigenous, which seems to have been formed by or adapted to the wild and picturesque scenery and character of the country; secondly, those derived from the old German customs and beliefs brought by the so-called Saxon, in reality Lower Rhenish colonists; and thirdly, the influence of the gypsies, "themselves a race of fortune-tellers and witches." All these kinds of superstition have twined and intermingled, acted and reacted upon one another so that in many cases it becomes a difficult matter to determine the exact parentage of some particular belief or custom. It may be often difficult to ascertain in what particular country or among what people a superstition was last found, but there is very little trouble when we compare the great body of all such beliefs of all races and ages and thereby find the parent sources. It is not many years since philologists, having taken up some favourite language--for instance, Irish--discovering many words in many tongues almost identical with others in "Earse," boldly claimed that this tongue was the original of all the others. Now we find the roots of them all in the Aryan. So when we examine Folk-lore, it is doubtless of great importance that we should learn where a tradition last lived; but we must not stop there--we must keep on inquiring till we reach the beginning. As a rule, with little exception, when we find anywhere the grosser forms of fetish and black witchcraft, we may conclude that we have remains of the world's oldest faith, or first beginning of supernaturalism in suffering and terror, a fear of mysterious evil influences. For with all due respect to the fact that such superstitions might have sprung up sporadically wherever similar causes existed to create them, it is, in the first place, a very rare chance that they should assume exactly like forms. Secondly, we must consider that as there are even now millions of people who receive with ready faith and carefully nurse these primæval beliefs, so there has been from the beginning of time abundant opportunity for their transmission and growth. Thirdly, nothing is so quickly transmitted as Folk-lore, which in one sense includes myths and religion. If jade was in the prehistoric stone age carried from Iona or Tartary all over Europe, it is even more probable that myths went with it quite as far and fast. It is not by loose, fanciful, and careless guess-work as to how the resemblance of Greek or Norse legends to those of the Red Indians is due to similar conditions of climate and life, that we shall arrive at facts; neither will the truth be ascertained by assuming that there was a certain beginning of them all in a certain country, or that they were all developed out of one mythology, be it solar or Shemitic, Hindoo or Hebrew. What we want is impartial examination--comparison and analysis. On this basis we find that all the Folk-lore or magic of Europe, and especially of its Eastern portion, has a great deal which is derived from black witchcraft, or from the succeeding Shamanism. When we find that a superstition is based on fertility, the "mystery of generation," or "Phallic worship"--as, for instance, wearing boars' teeth or a little pig for a charm--we may conclude that it is very ancient, but still not older than the time when wise men had begun to reflect on the mysteries of birth and death and weave them into myths. The exorcism of diseases as devils, and the belief that they, in common with other evils, may be drummed, or smoked, or incanted away into animals, trees, and streams, belongs in most cases to Shamanism. In all probability the oldest sorcery of all was entirely concerned with driving out devils and injuring enemies--just as most of the play of small boys runs to fighting or the semblance of it, or as the mutual relations of most animals in the lower stages consist of devouring one another. This was the very beginning of the beginnings, and it would be really marvellous that so much of it has survived were it not that to the one who is not quite dazzled or blinded by modern enlightenment there is still existent a great outer circle of human darkness, and that this darkness may be found in thousands of intermittent varying shadows or marvellous chiaroscuro, even in the brightest sun-pictures of modern life. As I write I have before me a copy of the Philadelphia Press, of April 14, 1889, in which a J. C. Batford, M.D., advertises that if any one will send him two two-cent postage stamps--i.e., twopence--"with a lock of your hair, name, age, and sex," he will send a clairvoyant diagnosis of your disease. This divining by the lock of hair is extremely ancient, and had its origin in the belief that he who could obtain one from an enemy could reach his soul and kill him. From communicating a disease by means of such a lock, and ascertaining what was the matter with a man, in the same manner, was a very obvious step forward. Of all people living in Europe the peasantry of Italy and Sicily and the gypsies seem to have retained most of this Shamanism and witchcraft, and as the latter have been for centuries its chief priests, travelling here and there disseminating it, we may conclude that even where they did not originate it they have been active in keeping the old faith alive. In Roumania, where the gypsy is called in to conjure on all occasions, "people believe themselves to be surrounded by whole legions of devils, witches, and goblins." There is scarcely a day or hour in which these bad spirits have not power, "and a whole complicated system, about as laborious as the mastering an unknown language, is required in order to teach an unfortunate peasant to steer clear of the dangers by which he supposes himself to be beset." On Wednesday and Friday no one should use needle or scissors, bake bread, or sow flax. No bargain should ever be concluded on a Friday, and Venus, here called Paraschiva, to whom this day is sacred, punishes all infractions of the law. There was among the Wends a flax-goddess, Pscipolnitza, and the shears as emblematic of death are naturally antipathetic to Venus, the source of life. Whether Mars has anything in common with Mors I know not, but in Roumania he is decidedly an evil spirit of death, whence Marti, or Tuesday, is one, when spinning is positively prohibited (here we have Venus again), and washing the hands and combing the hair are not unattended with danger. Whence it appears that the devil agrees with not a few saints in detesting neatness of the person. And as it is unlucky to wash anything on Saturday, or to spin on Thursday, or to work in the fields on Thursday between Easter and Pentecost, it will be seen that Laziness and Dirt have between them a fine field in Roumania. Add to this that, as in Russia, more than half the days in the year are Saints' days, or fast days or festivals on which it is "unlucky" to work at all, and we find that industry cannot be said to be much encouraged by Faith in any of its forms. This belief in holy days which bring ill-luck to those who work on them, which is still flourishing in every country in the world, goes back to time whereof the memory of man hath naught to the contrary. A distinct difference is here to be observed however between naturally resting from work on certain days, which is of course an inherent instinct in all mankind, and the declaring such rest to be obligatory, and its infraction punishable by death, disaster, and bad luck, and still more the increasing such Sabbaths to such an extent as to interfere with industry, or the turning them into fast days or Saints' days with "observances." Here the old Shamanism comes in, if not the evil witchcraft itself which exacted penance and fasting, and ceremonies to exorcise the devils. The first belief was that evil spirits inflicted pain on man, and that man, by efforts which cost him suffering, could repel or retaliate on them. This was simple action and reaction, and the repulsion was effected with starving, enduring smoke, or using repulsive and filthy objects. Out of this in due time came penance of all kinds. The Oriental or Greek Church is found at every turn, even more than the Catholic, interchanged, twined, and confused with ancient sorcery. Theodore, like Saint Simeon and Anthony in Tuscany, is very much more of a goblin than a holy man. His weakness is young women, and sometimes in the shape of a beautiful youth, at others of a frightful monster, he carries off those who are found working on his day--that is the 23rd of January. Theodore, according to the Solar mythologists personifies the sun. (De Gubernatis, "Zoological Mythology," vol. ii. p. 296). In any case the saint who seizes girls is the Hindoo Krishna or his prototype, and therefore may have come through the gypsies. The overworked solar myth derives some support from the fact that among the Serbs on Theodore's day the Sintotere--or centaur, as the name declares--who is half horse and half man, rides over the people who fall in his power. The Centaurs were connected with the "rape of maidens," as shown in the legend of the Lapithæ, and it is very probable that Theodore himself is, in the language of the Western Americans, "half a horse," which they regard as the greatest compliment which can be paid to a man. [15] "Wonderful potions and salves," says Mrs. Gerard, "composed of the fat of bears, dogs, snakes, and snails, with the oil of rain-worms, spiders, and midges, rubbed into a paste, are concocted by these Bohemians (i.e., gypsies). Saxon and Roumanian mothers are often in the habit of giving a child to be nursed for nine days to some Tzigane women supposed to have power to undo the spell." These revolting ingredients are not the result of modern invention, but relics of the primitive witchcraft or Ur-religion, which was founded on pain, terror, and the repulsive. Among other Roumanian-Romany traditions are the following:-- Swallows here as elsewhere are luck-bringing birds, and termed Galiniele lui Dieu--fowls of the Lord. So in England we hear that:-- "The robin and the wren Are God Almighty's cock and hen." There is always a treasure to be found where the first swallow is seen. Among the Romans when it was observed one ran to the nearest fountain and washed his eyes, and then during the whole year to come, dolorem omnem oculorum tuorum hirundines auferant--the swallows will carry away all your complaints of the eyes. The skull of a horse over the gate of a courtyard, or the bones of fallen animals buried under the doorstep are preservatives against ghosts. In Roman architecture the skulls of oxen, rams, and horses continually occur as a decoration, and they are used as charms to-day in Tuscany. Black fowls are believed to be in the service of witches. The skull of a ram placed at the boundary of a parish in Roumania keeps off disease from cattle; it was evidently a fetish in all ages. In Slavonian, Esthonian, and Italian tales black poultry occur as diabolical--to appease the devil a black cock must be sacrificed. But in Roumania the (black) Brahmaputra fowl is believed, curiously enough, to be the offspring of the devil and a Jewish girl--truly an insignificant result of such clever parentage. A cow that has wandered away will be safe from witches if the owner sticks a pair of scissors or shears in the centre crossbeam of the dwelling-room. The Folk-lore of shears is extensive; Friedrich derives it from the cutting of the threads of life by the Fates. Thus Juno appears on a Roman coin (Eckhel, "Numis. Vet." viii. p. 358) as holding the shears of death. The swallow is said in a Swedish fairy tale to have been the handmaid of the Virgin Mary, and to have stolen her scissors, for which reason she was turned into a bird--the swallow's tail being supposed to resemble that article. Gypsies in England use the shears in incantations. A whirlwind denotes that the devil is dancing with a witch, and he who approaches too near it may be carried off bodily to hell (as has indeed happened to many a wicked Pike in a cyclone or blizzard in Western America), though he may escape by losing his cap. It is very dangerous to point at a rainbow or an approaching thunderstorm. Probably the devil who here guides the whirlwind or directs the storm regards the act as impolite. He punishes those who thus indicate the rainbow by a gnawing disease. Lightning is averted by sticking a knife in a loaf of bread and spinning the two on the floor of the loft of the house while the storm lasts. The knife appears not only in many gypsy spells, but in the Etruscan-Florentine magic. The legends of Domdaniel and the College of Sorcery in Salamanca appear in the gypsy Roumanian Scholomance, or school which exists somewhere far away deep in the heart of the mountains, "where the secrets of nature, the language of animals, and all magic spells are taught by the devil in person." Only ten scholars are admitted at a time, and when the course of learning has expired nine are dismissed to their homes, but the tenth is detained by the professor in payment. Henceforth, mounted on an ismeju, or dragon, he becomes the devil's aide-de-camp, and assists him in preparing thunderbolts and managing storms and tempests. "A small lake, immeasurably deep, high up in the mountains, south of Hermanstadt, is supposed to be the caldron in which the dragon lies sleeping and where the thunder is brewed." "Whoever turns three somersaults the first time he hears thunder will be free from pains in the back during the twelvemonth." Of this prescription--which reads as if it had originated with Timothy, in "Japhet in Search of a Father," when he practised as a mountebank--it may be said that it is most unlikely that any person who is capable of putting it in practice should suffer with such pains. To be free from headache rub the forehead with a piece of iron or stone. This may be a presage of the electric cure or of that by "metallic tractors." It is unfortunate in all Catholic countries to meet with a priest or nun, especially when he or she is the first person encountered in the morning. In Roumania this is limited to the Greek popa. But to be first met by a gypsy on going forth is a very fortunate omen indeed. According to a widely-spread and ancient belief it is also very lucky to meet with any woman of easy virtue--the easier the better. This is doubtless derived from the ancient worship of Venus, and the belief that any thing or person connected with celibacy and chastity, such as a nun, is unlucky. It would appear from this that the Roumanians, or their gypsy oracles, have formed an opinion that their own popas are strictly abstinent as regards love, while Protestant priests marry and are accordingly productive. Why the Catholic clergy are included with the latter is not at all clear. It is lucky also to meet a gypsy at any time, and doubtless this belief has been well encouraged by the Romany. "It's kushti bak to wellán a Rom, When tute's a pirryin pré the drom." "When you are going along the street It's lucky a gypsy man to meet." Likewise, it is lucky to meet with a woman carrying a jug full of water, &c., but unlucky if it be empty. So in the New Testament the virgins whose lamps were full of oil received great honour. The lamp was an ancient symbol of life; hence it is very often found covered with aphrodisiac symbols or made in Phallic forms. It is barely possible that common old popular simile of "Not by a jug-full"--meaning "not by a great deal"--is derived from this association of a full vessel with abundance. It is a Roumanian gypsy custom to do homage to the Wodna zena, or "Water-woman" (Hungarian gypsy, Nivashi), by spilling a few drops of water on the ground after filling a jug, and it is regarded as an insult to offer drink without observing this ceremony. A Roumanian will never draw water against the current (also as in the Hungarian gypsy charms), as it would provoke the water-spirit. If water is drawn in the night-time, whoever does so must blow three times over the brimming jug, and pour a few drops on the coals. The mythology of the Roumanians agrees with that of the gypsies. It is sylvan, and Indian. In deep pools of water lurks the dreadful balaur or Wodna muz--i.e., the Waterman (Muz is both gypsy and Slavonian)--who lies in wait for victims. In every forest lives the mama padura, or weshni dye--"the forest mother"--who is believed to be benevolent to human beings, especially towards children who have lost their way in the wood. But the Panusch is an amorous spirit who, like the wanton satyrs of old, haunts the silent woodland shades, and lies in wait for helpless maids. "Surely," observes Mrs. Gerard, "this is a corruption of 'great Pan,' who is not dead after all, but merely banished to the land beyond the forest." What a find this would have been for Heine when writing "The Gods in Exile"! "In deep forests and lonely mountain gorges there wanders about a wild huntsman of superhuman size." He appears to be of a mysterious nature, and is very seldom seen. Once he met a peasant who had shot ninety-nine bears, and warned him never to attempt to kill another. But the peasant disregarded his advice, and, missing his aim, was torn in pieces by the bear. Very singular is the story that this Lord of the Forest once taught a hunter--that if he loaded his gun on New Year's Night with a live adder he would never miss a shot during the ensuing year. It is not probable that he was told to put a live and "wiggling" snake into his gun. The story of itself suggests the firing out the ramrod for luck. It has been observed by C. Lloyd Morgan that if a drop of the oil of a foul tobacco pipe be placed in the mouth of a snake the muscles instantly become set in knotted lumps and the creature becomes rigid. If much is given the snake dies, but if only a small amount is employed it may be restored. This, as Mr. Oakley has suggested, may explain the stories of Indian snake-charmers being able to turn a snake into a stick. It is performed by spitting into the snake's mouth and then placing the hand on its head till it becomes stiffened. "The effect may be produced by opium or some other narcotic." And it may also occur to the reader that the jugglers who performed before Pharaoh were not unacquainted with this mystery. It is probable that the hunter in the gypsy Roumanian story first gave his adder tobacco before firing it off. The Om ren, or wild man, is a malevolent forest spectre, the terror of hunters and shepherds. He is usually seen in winter, and when he finds an intruder on his haunts, he tears up pine trees by the roots with which he slays the victim, or throws him over a precipice, or overwhelms him with rocks. In every detail he corresponds to a being greatly feared by the Algonkin Indians of America. The oameni micuti, or "small men," are grey-bearded dwarfs, dressed like miners. They are the kobolds or Bergmännchen of Germany. They seldom harm a miner, and when one has perished in the mine they make it known to his family by three knocks on his door. They may be heard quarrelling among themselves and hitting at one another with their axes, or blowing their horns as a signal of battle. These "horns of Elf-land blowing" connect them with the Korriagan of Brittany, who are fairies who always carry and play on the same instrument. Prætorius devotes a long chapter to all the learning extant on the subject of these Bergmännrigen, or Subterraneans. The mountain monk is the very counterpart of Friar Rush in English fairy-lore, and is also of Indian origin. He delights in kicking over water-pails, putting out lamps, and committing mischief, merry, mad, or sad. Sometimes he has been known to strangle workmen whom he dislikes, though, on the other hand, he often helps distressed miners by filling their empty lamps or guiding those who have lost their way. But he always bids them keep it a secret, and if they tell they suffer for it. Gana is queen of the witches, and corresponds to the Diana of the Italians. Gana is probably only a variation of the word Diana. Among the Wallachians this goddess is in fact known as Dina and Sina. She, like the wilde Jäger, rushes in headlong hunt over the heavens or through the skies followed by a throng of witches and fairies. "People show the places where she has passed, and where the grass and leaves are dry" (Friedrich). She is a powerful enchantress, and is strongest in her sorcery about Easter-tide. To guard against her the Wallachians at this time carry a piece of lime-tree or linden wood. She is a beautiful but terrible enchantress, who presides over the evil spirits who meet on May eve. She was the ruler of all Transylvania (a hunting country) before Christianity prevailed there. Her beauty bewitched many, but whoever let himself be lured into drinking mead from her urus (or wild ox) drinking-horn perished. She is like the Norse Freya, a cat goddess, and seems to be allied to the Chesme, or cat, or fountain-spirit of the Turks. According to ancient Indian mythology the moon is a cat who chases the mice (stars) of night, and in the fifth book of Ovid's "Metamorphoses," when the gods fled from the giants Diana took the form of a cat:-- "Fele soror Phoebi, nivea Saturni a vacca Pisce Venus latuit." (V. 325, 332.) "According to the Hellenic cosmogony the sun and moon created the animals--the sun creating the lion and the moon the cat" (De Gubernatis, "Zoological Mythology," ii. 58). Gertrude, the chief sorceress or queen of the witches in old German lore, appears when dead as surrounded by mice; she is, in fact, a cat. The Turkish Chesme, or fountain-cat, inveigles youths to death like the Gana, Diana, or Lorelei, who does the same, and is also a water-sprite. The Dschuma is a fierce virgin, or sometimes an old witch, who is incarnate disease, such as the cholera. She is supposed to suffer from cold and nakedness, and may be heard at night when disease is raging, wailing for want. Then the maidens make garments and hang them out; but it is a most effective charm when seven old women spin, weave, and sew for her a scarlet shirt all in one night without once speaking. A curious book might be written on the efficacy of nakedness in witch-spells. In some places in Roumania there is a spirit always naked (at least appearing such), who requires a new suit of clothes every year. These are given by the inhabitants of the district haunted by such an elf, who on New Year's Night lay them out in some place supposed to be frequented by him or her. In 1866, in a Wallachian village in the district of Bihar, to avert the cholera, six youths and maidens, all quite naked, traced with a ploughshare a furrow round their village to form a charmed circle over which the disease could not pass. When the land is suffering from long droughts the Roumanians ascribe it to the gypsies, who by occult means make dry weather in order to favour their own trade of brickmaking. When the necessary rain cannot be obtained by beating the guilty Tziganes, the peasants resort to the Papaluga, or Rain-maiden. For this they strip a young gypsy girl stark-naked, and then cover her up in flowers and leaves, leaving only the head visible. Thus adorned the Papaluga, or Miss Jack-in-the-Green, is conducted with music round the village, every person pouring water on her as she passes. When a gypsy girl cannot be had, or the Tziganes are supposed to be innocent, a Roumanian maiden may be taken. This custom is very widely spread. Forty years ago there was a strange mania in the northern cities of the United States for "fast" girls of the most reckless kind to go out naked very late by night into the street to endeavour to run around a public square or block of houses and regain their homes without being caught by the police. I suspect that superstition suggested this strange risk. It is an old witch-charm that if a girl can, when the moon is full, go forth and run around a certain enclosure, group of trees, or dwelling, without being seen, she will marry the man whom she loves. There are also many magical ceremonies which, to ensure success, must be performed in full moonlight and when quite naked. "Among the Saxons in Transylvania when there is a very severe drought it is customary in some places for several girls, led by an old woman, and all of them absolutely naked, to go at midnight to the courtyard of some peasant and steal his harrow. With this they walk across fields to the nearest stream, where the harrow is put afloat with a burning light on each corner" (Mrs. Gerard, "Land Beyond," &c.). This is evidently the old Hindoo floating of lamps by maidens on the Ganges, and in all probability of gypsy importation. She who will pronounce a certain spell, strip herself quite naked, and can steal into the room where a man is lying sound asleep and can clip from his head a lock of hair and escape without awakening him or meeting any one will obtain absolute mastery over him, or at least over his affections. The hair must be worn in a bag or ring on the person. But woe unto her who is caught, since in that case the enchantment "all goes the other way." Once a beautiful but very poor Hungarian maid gave all she had to a young gypsy girl for a charm to win the love of a certain lord, and was taught this, which proved to be a perfect success. Having clipped the lock of hair she wove it in a ring and wedded him. After a time she died, and the gypsy being called in to dress the corpse found and kept the ring. Then the lord fell in love with the gypsy and married her. But ere long she too died, and was buried, and the ring with her. And from that day the lord seemed as if possessed to sit by her grave, and finally built a house there, and never seemed happy save when in it. "If a Roumanian maid," says Mrs. Gerard, "desires to see her future husband's face in the water she has only to step naked at midnight into the nearest lake or river, or, if she shrink from this, let her take a stand on the more congenial dung-hill with a piece of Christmas cake in her mouth, and as the clock strikes twelve listen attentively for the first sound of a dog's bark. From whichever side it proceeds will also come the expected suitor." A naked maid standing on a "congenial dung-hill" with a piece of Christmas cake in her mouth would be a subject for an artist which should be eagerly seized in these days when "excuses for the nude in art" are becoming so rare. It is worth observing that this conjuration is very much like one observed in Tuscany, in which Saint Anthony is invoked to manifest by a dog's barking at night, as by other sounds, whether the applicant, or invoker, shall obtain her desire. At the birth of a child in Wallachia every one present takes a stone and throws it behind him, saying, "This into the jaws of the Streghoi" [16]--"a custom," says Mrs. Gerard, "which would seem to suggest Saturn and the swaddled up stones." It is much more suggestive of the stones thrown by Deucalion and Pyrrha. Strigoi is translated as "evil spirits"--it is evidently, originally at least, the streghe, or witches of Italy, from the Latin strix, the dreaded witch-bird of Ovid. "Festus derives the word à stringendo from the opinion that they strangle children." Middle Latin strega (Paulus Grillandus). For much learning on this subject of the Strix the reader may consult De Gubernatis, "Myth of Animals," vol. ii. p. 202. "As long as the child is unbaptized it must be carefully watched for fear lest it be changed or stolen away." This is common to Christians, heathen, and gypsies to watch it for several days. "A piece of iron, or a broom laid beneath the pillow will keep spirits away." So in Roumania and Tuscany. Quintus Serenus, however, recommends that when the striga atra presses the infant, garlic be used, the strong odour of which (to their credit be it said) is greatly detested by witches. "The Romans used to cook their coena demonum for the house-spirits, and the Hindoos prepared food for them." From them it has passed through the gypsies to Eastern Europe, and now the Roumanian, who has by a simple ceremony made a contract with the devil, receives from him an attendant spirit called a spiridsui or spiridush which will "Serve his master faithfully For seven long year," but in return expecting the first mouthful of every dish eaten by his master. "So many differing fancies have mankind, That they the master-sprites may spell and bind." Nearly connected with the Roumanian we have the beliefs in magic of the Transylvanian Saxons, all of them shared with the gypsies and probably partially derived from them. Many people must have wondered what could have been the origin of the saying in reference to a very small place that "there was not room to swing a cat in it." "But I don't want to swing a cat in it," was the very natural rejoinder of a well-known American litterateur to this remark applied to his house. It is possible that we may find the origin of this odd saying in a superstition current in Transylvania, whither it in all probability was carried by the gypsies, whose specialty it is to bear the seeds of superstitions about here and there as the winds do those of plants. In this country it is said that if a cat runs away, when recovered she must be swung three times round to attach her to the dwelling. The same is done by a stolen cat by the thief if he would retain it. Truly this seems a strange way to induce an attachment--or pour encourager les autres. It is evident, however, that to the professional cat-stealer the size of his room must be a matter of some importance. It is a pity that this saying and faith were unknown to Moncrief-Maradan, "the Historiogriffe of Cats," ("OEuvres," Paris, 1794), who would assuredly have made the most of it. As regards entering new houses in Transylvania the rule is not "Devil take the hindmost," but the foremost. The first person or being who enters the maiden mansion must die, therefore it is safe to throw in a preliminary dog or cat. The scape-cat is, however, to be preferred. I can remember once, when about six years of age, looking down into a well in Massachusetts and being told that the reflection which I saw was the face of a little boy who lived there. This made a deep impression on me, and I reflected that it was very remarkable that the dweller in the well could assume the appearance of every one who looked at him. In Transylvania it is, says Mrs. E. Gerard, "dangerous to stare down long into a well, for the well-dame who dwells at the bottom is easily offended. But children are often curious, and so, bending over the edge, they call out mockingly, 'Dame of the Well, pull me down into it!' and then run away rapidly." Whoever has been robbed and wishes to find the thief should take a black hen, and for nine Fridays must with the hen fast strictly; the thief will then either bring back the plunder or die. This is called "taking up the black fast" against any one. It is said that a peasant of Petersdorf returned one day from Bistritz with 200 florins, which he had received for oxen. Being very tipsy he laid down to sleep, having first hidden his money in a hole in the kitchen wall. When he awoke he missed his coin, and having quite forgotten what he had done with it believed it had been stolen. So he went to an old Wallachian, probably a gypsy, and induced him to take up the black fast against the thief. But as he himself had the money the spell worked against him and he grew weaker and pined away as it went on. By some chance at the last moment he found his money, but it was too late, and he died. Pages of black hen-lore may be gathered from the works of Friedrich, De Gubernatis and others; suffice it to say that Bubastis, the Egyptian moon-goddess, appears to have been the original mistress of the mysterious animal, if not the black hen as well as cat herself, and mother of all the witches. Magic qualities are attached in Hungary as in Germany to the lime or linden tree; in some villages it is usual to plant one before a house to prevent witches from entering. From very early times the lime tree was sacred to Venus among the Greeks, as it was to Lada among the Slavonians. This, it is said, was due to its leaves being of the shape of a heart. In a Slavonian love-song the wooer exclaims:-- "As the bee is drawn by the lime-perfume (or linden-bloom) My heart is drawn by thee." This was transmitted to Christian symbolism, whence the penance laid by Christ on Mary Magdalen was that "she should have no other food save lime-tree leaves, drink naught except the dew which hung on them, and sleep on no other bed save one made of its leaves" (Menzel, "Christliche Symbolik," vol. ii. p. 57). "For Magdalena had loved much, therefore her penance was by means of that which is a symbol of love." Mrs. Gerard tells us that "a particular growth of vine leaf, whose exact definition I have not succeeded in rightly ascertaining, is eagerly sought by Saxon girls in some villages. Whoever finds it, puts it in her hair, and if she then kisses the first man she meets on her way home she will soon be married. A story is related of a girl, who having found this growth, meeting a nobleman in a carriage stopped the horses and begged leave to kiss him." To which he consented. This particular growth, unknown to Mrs. Gerard, is when the leaves or tendrils or shoots form a natural knot. Among the gypsies in Hungary, as may be elsewhere read, such knots in the willow are esteemed as of great magic efficacy in love. A knot is a symbol of true love in all countries. "This knot I tie, this knot I knit, For that true love whom I know not yet." On Easter Monday in Transylvania the lads run about the towns and villages sprinkling with water all the girls or women whom they meet. This is supposed to cause the flax to grow well. On the following day the girls return the attention by watering the boys. "This custom, which appears to be a very old one," says Mrs. Gerard, "is also prevalent among various Slav races, such as Poles and Serbs. In Poland it used to be de rigeur that water be poured over a girl who was still asleep, so in every house a victim was selected who had to feign sleep and patiently receive the cold shower-bath, which was to ensure the luck of the family during the year. The custom has now become modified to suit a more delicate age, and instead of formidable horse-buckets of water, dainty little perfume squirts have come to be used in many places." As the custom not only of sprinkling water, but also of squirting or spraying perfumes is from ancient India (as it is indeed prevalent all over the East), it is probable that the gypsies who are always foremost in all festivals may have brought this "holi" custom to Eastern Europe. Of late it has extended to London, as appears by the following extract from The St. James's Gazette, April, 1889. "The newest weapon of terror in the West End is the 'scent revolver.' Its use is simple. You dine--not wisely but the other thing--and then you stroll into the Park, with your nickel-plated scent revolver in your pocket. Feeling disposed for a frolic, you walk up to a woman, present your weapon, pull the trigger, and in a moment she is drenched, not with gore but with scent, which is nearly as unpleasant if not quite so deadly. Mr. Andrew King, who amused himself in that way, has been fined 10s. at Marlborough Street. Let us hope that the 'revolver' was confiscated into the bargain." One way of interrogating fate in love affairs is to slice an apple in two with a sharp knife; if this can be done without cutting a seed the wish of the heart will be fulfilled. Of yore, in many lands the apple was ever sacred to love, wisdom, and divination. Once in Germany a well-formed child became, through bewitchment, sorely crooked and cramped; by the advice of a monk the mother cut an apple in three pieces and made the child eat them, whereupon it became as before. In Illzach, in Alsace, there is a custom called "Andresle." On Saint Andrew's Eve a girl must take from a widow, and without returning thanks for it, an apple. As in Hungary she cuts it in two and must eat one half of it before midnight, and the other half after it; then in sleep she will see her future husband. And there is yet another love-spell of the split apple given by Scheible ("Die gute alte Zeit," Stuttgart, 1847, p. 297) which runs as follows:-- "On Friday early as may be, Take the fairest apple from a tree, Then in thy blood on paper white Thy own name and thy true love's write, That apple thou in two shalt cut, And for its cure that paper put, With two sharp pins of myrtle wood Join the halves till it seem good, In the oven let it dry, And wrapped in leaves of myrtle lie, Under the pillow of thy dear, Yet let it be unknown to her; And if it a secret be She soon will show her love for thee." Similar apple sorceries were known to the Norsemen. Because the apple was so nearly connected with love and luxury--"Geschlechtsliebe und Zeugungslust"--those who were initiated in the mysteries and vowed to chastity were forbidden to eat it. And for the same reason apples, hares, and Cupids, or "Amorets," were often depicted together. In Genesis, as in the Canticles of Solomon, apples, or at least the fruit from which the modern apple inherited its traditions are a symbol of sexual love. In Florence women wishing for children go to a priest and get from him a blessed apple, over which they pronounce an incantation to Santa Anna--la San' Na--who was the Lucina of the Latins. CHAPTER IX. THE RENDEZVOUS OR MEETINGS OF WITCHES, SORCERERS, AND VILAS.--A CONTINUATION OF SOUTH SLAVONIAN GYPSY-LORE. In Eastern Europe witches and their kin, or kind, assemble on the eve of Saint John and of Saint George, Christmas and Easter, at cross-roads on the broad pustas, or prairies, and there brew their magic potions. This, as Dr. Krauss observes, originated in feasts held at the same time in pre-Christian times. "So it was that a thousand years ago old and young assembled in woods or on plains to bring gifts to their gods, and celebrated with dances, games, and offerings the festival of spring, or of awaking and blooming Nature. These celebrations have taken Christian names, but innumerable old heathen rites and customs are still to be found in them." It may be here observed that mingled with these are many of a purely gypsy-Oriental origin, which came from the same source and which it remains for careful ethnologists and critical Folk-lorists to disentangle and make clear. The priestesses of prehistoric times on these occasions performed ceremonies, as was natural, to protect cattle or land from evil influences. To honour their deities the "wise women" bore certain kinds of boughs and adorned animals with flowers and wreaths. The new religion declared that this was all sorcery and devil-work, but the belief in the efficacy of the rites continued. The priestesses became witches, or Vilas, the terms being often confused, but they were still feared and revered. In all the South Slavonian country the peasants on Saint George's Day adorn the horns of cattle with garlands, in gypsy Indian style, to protect them from evil influences. I have observed that even in Egypt among Mahometans Saint George is regarded with great reverence, and I knew one who on this day always sacrificed a sheep. The cow or ox which is not thus decorated becomes a prey in some way to witches. The garlands are hung up at night over the stable door, where they remain all the ensuing year. If a peasant neglects to crown his cow, he not only does not receive a certain fee from its owner, but is in danger of being beaten. On the same day the shepherdess, or cow-herd, takes in one hand salt, in the other a potsherd containing live coals. In the coals roses are burned. By this means witches lose all power over the animal. Near Karlstadt the mistress of the family merely strikes it with a cross to produce the same effect. Among the Transylvanian Hungarian gypsies there is a magical ceremony performed on Saint George's Day, traces of which may be found in England. Then the girls bake a peculiar kind of cake, in which certain herbs are mixed, and which Dr. von Wlislocki declares has an agreeable taste. This is divided among friends and foes, and it is believed to have the property of reconciling the bitterest enemies and of increasing the love of friends. But it is most efficient as a love-charm, especially when given by women to men. The following gypsy song commemorates a deed of this kind by a husband, who recurred to it with joy:-- "Kásáve romñi ná jidel, Ke kásávo maro the del; Sar m're gule lele pekel Káná Sváto Gordye ável. "Furmuntel bute luludya Furmuntel yoy bute charma Andre petrel but kámábe Ko chal robo avla bake." "No one bakes such bread as my wife, such as she baked me on St. George's Day. Many flowers and dew were kneaded into the cake with love. Whoever eats of it will be her slave." In England I was told by an old gypsy woman named Lizzie Buckland, that in the old time gypsy girls made a peculiar kind of cake, a Romany morriclo, which they baked especially for their lovers, and used to throw to them over the hedge by night. To make it more acceptable, and probably to facilitate the action of the charm, they would put money into the cake. It was observed of old among the Romans that fascinatio began with flattery, compliments, and presents! On the night of Saint John the witch climbs to the top of the hurdle fence which surrounds the cow-yard, and sings the following spell:-- "K meni sir, K meni maslo, K meni puter, K meni mleko Avam pak kravsku kozu!" "To me the cheese, To me the tallow (or meat), To me the butter, To me the milk, To you only the cowhide." Or, as it may be expressed in rhyme:-- "The cheese, meat, butter, and milk for me, But only the cowhide left for thee." Then the cow will die, the carcass be buried, and the skin sold. To prevent all this the owner goes early on St. John's Day to the meadow and gathers the morning dew in a cloak. This he carries home, and after binding the cow to a beam washes her with it. She is then milked, and it is believed that if all has gone right she will yield four bucketsful. In the chapter on "Conjurations and Exorcisms among the Hungarian Gypsies," I have mentioned the importance which they attach to the being born a seventh or twelfth child. This is the same throughout South Slavonia, where the belief that such persons in a series of births are exceptionally gifted is "shared by both gypsies, with whom it probably originated, and the peasants. What renders this almost certain is that Dr. Krauss mentions that the oldest information as to the subject among the Slavs dates only from 1854, while the faith is ancient among the gypsies. He refers here to the so-called Kerstniki, who on the eve of St. John do battle with the witches. Krstnik is a Greek word, meaning, literally, one who has been baptized. But the Krstnik proper is the youngest of twelve brothers, all sons of the same father. There appears to be some confusion and uncertainty among the Slavs as to whether all the twelve brothers or only the twelfth are "Krstnik"--according to the gypsy faith it would be the latter. These "twelvers" are the great protectors of the world from witchcraft. [17] But they are in great danger on Saint John's Eve, for then the witches, having most power, assail them with sticks and stakes, or stumps of saplings, for which reason it is usual in the autumn to carefully remove everything of the kind from the ground. A krstnik is described by Miklosic as "Clovek kterega vile obljubiju"--"A man who has won the love of a Vila." The Vila ladies, or a certain class of them, are extremely desirous of contracting the closest intimacy--in short, of becoming the mistresses, of superior men. The reader may find numerous anecdotes of such amours in the "Curiosa" of Heinrich Kornmann, 1666, and in my "Egyptian Sketch Book" (Trübner & Co., London, 1874). In the heathen days, as at present among all gypsies and Orientals, it was believed to be a wonderfully lucky thing for a man to get the love of one of these beautiful beings. What the difficulties were which kept them from finding lovers is not very clear, unless it were that the latter must be twelfth sons, or, what is far more difficult to find, young men who would not gossip about their supernatural sweethearts to other mortals, who would remain true to them, and who finally would implicitly obey all their commands and follow their advice. There is a vast array of tales--Gypsy, Arab, Provençal, Norman, German, and Scandinavian, which show that on these points the Vila, or forest-maiden, or spirit of earth or air, or fairy, was absolutely exacting and implacable, being herself probably allowed by occult laws to contract an intimacy only with men of a high order, or such as are-- "Few in a heap and very hard to find." On the other hand, the Vila yearns intensely for men and their near company, because there is about those who have been baptized a certain perfume or odour of sanctity, and as the unfortunate nymph is not immortal herself, she likes to get even an association or sniff of it from those who are. According to the Rosicrucian Mythology, as set forth in the "Undine" of La Motte Fouqué, she may acquire a soul by marrying a man who will be faithful to her--which accounts for the fact that so few Undines live for ever. However this may be, it appears that the Krstniki are specially favoured, and frequently invited by the Vilas to step in--generally to a hollow tree--and make a call. The hollow tree proves to be a door to Fairyland, and the call a residence of seven days, which on returning home the caller finds were seven years, for-- "When we are pleasantly employed, time flies." These spirits have one point in common with their gypsy friends--they steal children--with this difference, that the Vila only takes those which have been baptized, while the gypsy--at present, at least--is probably not particular in this respect. But I have very little doubt that originally one motive, and perhaps the only one which induced these thefts, was the desire of the gypsies, as heathens and sorcerers, to have among them, "for luck," a child which had received the initiation into that mysterious religion from which they were excluded, and which, as many of their charms and spells prove, they really regarded as a higher magic. It is on this ground only, or for this sole reason, that we can comprehend many of the child-stealings effected by gypsies; for it is absolutely true that, very often when they have large families of their own, they will, for no apparent cause whatever, neither for the sake of plunder, profit, or revenge, adopt or steal some poor child and bring it up, kindly enough after their rough fashion; and in doing this they are influenced, as I firmly believe, far more by a superstitious feeling of bak, or luck, and the desire to have a Mascot in the tent, than any other. That children have been robbed or stolen for revenge does not in the least disprove what I believe--that in most cases the motive for the deed is simply superstition. On the eve of Saint George old women cut thistle-twigs and bring them to the door of the stall. This is only another form of the nettle which enters so largely into the Hungarian gypsy incantations, and they also make crosses with cowdung on the doors. This is directly of Indian origin, and points to gypsy tradition. Others drive large nails into the doors--also a curious relic of a widely-spread ancient custom, of which a trace may be found in the Vienna Stock im Eisen, or trunk driven full of nails by wandering apprentices, which may be seen near the church of Saint Stephen. But the thistle-twigs are still held to be by far the most efficacious. In Vinica, or near it, these twigs are cut before sunset. They are laid separately in many places, but are especially placed in garlands on the necks of cattle. If a witch, in spite of these precautions, contrives to get into the stable, all will go wrong with the beasts during the coming year. Now there was once a man who would have none of this thistle work--nay, he mocked at those who believed in it. So it came to pass that all through the year witches came every night and milked his cows. And he reflected, "I must find out who does this!" So he hid himself in the hay and kept sharp watch. All at once, about eleven o'clock, there came in a milk-pail, which moved of its own accord, and the cows began to let down their milk into it. The farmer sprang out and kicked it over. Then it changed into a tremendous toad which turned to attack him, so that in terror he took refuge in his house. That proved to be a lucky thing for him. A week after came the day of Saint George. Then he hung thistle-twigs on his stable door, and after that his cows gave milk in plenty. Witches may be seen on Saint George's Day, and that unseen by them if a man will do as follows: He must rise before the sun, turn all his clothes inside out and then put them on. Then he must cut a green turf and place it on his head. Thus he becomes invisible, for the witches believe he is under the earth, being themselves apparently bewitched by this. Very early on the day of Saint George, or before sunrise, the witches climb into the church belfry to get the grease from the axle on which the bell swings, and a piece of the bell-rope, for these things are essential to them. Dr. Krauss observes that in the MS. from which he took this, schmierfetet or axle-grease, is indicated by the word svierc, "in which one at once recognizes the German word schwartz, a black." It is remarkable that the Chippeway and other Algonkin Indians attach particular value to the black dye made from the grease of the axle of a grindstone. The extraordinary pains which they took to obtain this had attracted the attention of a man in Minnesota, who told me of it. It required a whole day to obtain a very little of it. The Indians, when asked by curious white people what this was for, said it was for dyeing baskets, but, as my informant observed, the quantity obtained was utterly inadequate to any such purpose, and even better black dyes (e.g., hickory bark and alum) are known to, and can be very easily obtained by, them. The real object was to use the grease in "medicine," i.e., for sorcery. The eagerness of both witches in Europe and Indians in America to obtain such a singular substance is very strange. However, the idea must be a recent one among the Indians, for there were certainly no grindstones among them before the coming of the white men. "For all that I can tell, said he, Is that it is a mystery." Heathens though they be, many gypsies have a superstitious belief in the efficacy of the sacramental bread and wine, and there are many instances of their stealing them for magical purposes. So in the Middle Ages witches and sorcerers used these objects for the most singular purposes, Paulus Grillandus, in his "Tractatus de Hereticis et Sortilegiis," &c. (Lyons, 1547), assuring his readers that he had known a witch who had two holy wafers inscribed with magical characters which she used for debauching innocent girls and betraying them to men, and that it was a belief that if a woman had the sacred oil fresh on her lips no man could refrain from kissing her. This is the union of two kinds of magic; a view which never once occurred to theological writers. And here I may appropriately mention that while the proofs of this work were passing through my hands accident threw into my way an extremely rare work, which illustrates to perfection the identity of popular and ecclesiastical sorcery. This is entitled "De Effectibus Magicis, ac de Nuce Maga Beneventana," "Six Books of Magic Effects and of the Witch Walnut-tree of Benevento. A work necessary, joyous, and useful to Astrologists, Philosophers, Physicians, Exorcists, and Doctors, and Students of Holy Scriptures. By the Chief Physician, Peter Piperno." It appears to have been privately printed at Naples in 1647, and came from a conventual library. It bore, written on a fly-leaf, the word Proibito. In it every kind of disorder or disease is declared to be caused by devils and witches. The author believes with Delrio that disease entered into the world as a consequence of sin (referenda sit ad primæ nostræ matris peccatum)--a view held by John Milton; hence, of course, all disease is caused solely by the devil. In his volume of two hundred large and close pages, our Peter Piperno displays a vast erudition on the origin of devils and diseases, is bitter on the rival school of magical practitioners who use cures and incantations unlike his own, and then gives us the name and nature of all diseases, according to the different parts of the body, &c., the medical prescriptions proper for them, and what is, in his opinion, most needful of all, the incantation or exorcism to be pronounced. Sometimes there are several of these, as one for making up a pill, another on taking it, &c. There are also general conjurations--I mean benedictions--for the medicines altogether or in particular, such as the Benedictio Syruporum, "The Blessing of the Syrups," and there is a very affecting and appropriately moving one for making or taking Castor Oil, and oils of all kinds, as follows:-- "Benedictio Olei. "This begins with the In nomine Patris, &c., and Adjutorium nostrum, &c., and then: "I exorcise you all aromatics, herbs, roots, seeds, stones, gums, and whatever is to be compounded with this oil, by God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, by the God triune yet one, by the holy and single Trinity, that the impure Spirit depart from you, and with it every incursion of Satan, every fraud of the Enemy, every evil of the Devil, and that mixed with oil you may free the subject from all infirmities, incantations, bindings, witchcrafts, from all diabolical fraud, art, and power, by the merits of our Lord Jesus Christ and the most beloved Virgin Mary, and of all the saints. Amen." The curses for the devils of colds, fevers, rheumatisms, gouts, stomach-aches, &c., are awful, both in number, length, and quality; enough to frighten a cowboy or "exhort an impenitent mule" into docility. There is the Exorcismus terribilis, or "Terrible Exorcism" of Saint Zeno, in which the disorder is addressed literally as "A dirty, false, heretical, drunken, lewd, proud, envious, deceitful, vile, swindling, stupid devil"--with some twenty more epithets which, if applied in these our days to the devil himself, would ground an action for libel and bring heavy damages in any court. It is to be remarked that in many prescriptions the author adds to legitimate remedies, ingredients which are simply taken from popular necromancy, or witchcraft, as for instance, rue--fugæ dæmonum--verbena, and artemisia, all of which are still in use in Tuscany against sorcery and the evil eye. The really magical character of these exorcisms is shown by the vast array of strange words used in them, many of which have a common source with those used by sorcerers of the Cabalistic or Agrippa school, such as Agla, Tetragrammaton, Adonai, Fons, Origo, Serpens, Avis, Leo, Imago, Sol, Floy, Vitis, Mons, Lapis, Angularis, Ischyros, Pantheon, all of which are old heathen terms of incantation. These are called in the exorcism "words by virtue of which"--per virtutem istorum verborum--the devils are invited to depart. The whole is as much a work of sorcery as any ever inscribed in a catalogue of occulta, and it was as a specimen of occulta that I bought it. CHAPTER X. OF THE HAUNTS, HOMES, AND HABITS OF WITCHES IN THE SOUTH SLAVIC LANDS.--BOGEYS AND HUMBUGS. The witches in Slavonian gipsy-lore have now and then parties which meet to spin, always by full moonlight on a cross-road. But it is not advisable, says Krauss, to pass by on such occasions, as the least they do to the heedless wayfarer is to bewitch and sink him into a deep sleep. But they are particularly fond of assembling socially in the tops of trees, especially of the ash, walnut, and linden or lime kinds, preferring those whose branches grow in the manner here depicted. It is but a few days ago, as I write, that I observed all along the route from Padua to Florence thousands of trees supporting vines, which trees had been trained to take this form, the farmers being as much influenced by "luck" in so doing as utility; for it is not really essential that the tree shall so exactly receive this shape, to hold a vine, as is proved by the fact that there are plantations here and there where this method of training the trees is not observed. It is very suggestive of the triçula or trident of Siva, which originated the trushul, or cross of the gypsies. As regards the properties of the ash tree Krauss remarks that "roots with magic power grew under ash trees," and quotes a song of a maiden who, having learned that her lover is untrue, replies:-- "Ima trava u okolo Save, I korenja okolo jasenja," "There are herbs by the Save, And roots around ash trees," --meaning that she can prepare a love-potion from these. There is in the Edda a passage in which we are also told that there are magic powers in the roots of trees, the reference being probably to the ash, and possibly to the alraun, or images made of its roots, which are sometimes misnamed mandrakes. Other resorts of Slavonian gypsy witches are near or in deep woods and ravines, also on dung-hills, or places where ashes, lye, or rubbish is thrown, or among dense bushes. Or as soon as the sun sets they assemble in orchards of plum trees, or among ancient ruins, while on summer nights they hold their revels in barns, old hollow trees, by dark hedges or in subterranean caverns. The peasants greatly dread dung-hills after dark, for fear of cruel treatment by them. When a wild wind is blowing the witches love dearly to dance. Then they whirl about in eddying figures and capers, and when the sweat falls from them woe to the man who treads upon it!--for he will become at once dumb or lame, and may be called lucky should he escape with only an inflammation of the lungs. In fact, if a man even walks in a place where witches have been he will become bewildered or mad, and remain so till driven homeward by hunger. But such places may generally be recognized by their footprints in the sand; for witches have only four toes--the great toe being wanting. These mysterious four toe-tracks, which are indeed often seen, are supposed by unbelievers to be made by wild geese, swans, or wild ducks, but in reply to this the peasant or gypsy declares that witches often take the form of such fowl. And there is, moreover, much Rabbinical tradition which proves that the devil and his friends have feet like peacocks, which are notoriously birds of evil omen, as is set forth by a contributor to The St. James's Gazette, November 16, 1888:-- "Again, take peacocks. Nobody who has not gone exhaustively into the subject can have any adequate idea of the amount of general inconvenience diffused by a peacock. Broken hearts, broken limbs, pecuniary reverses, and various forms of infectious disease have all been traced to the presence of a peacock, or even a peacock feather, on the premises." The evil reputation of the peacock is due to his having been the only creature who was induced to show Satan the way into Paradise. (For a poem on this subject, vide "Legends of the Birds," by C. G. Leland, Philadelphia, 1864). If any one should by chance pop in--like Tam O'Shanter--to an assembly of witches, he must at once quickly cover his head, make the sign of the cross, take three steps backwards and a fourth forwards. Then the witches cannot injure him. Should a gentleman in London or Brighton abruptly intrude into a five o'clock tea, while Peel or Primrose witches are discussing some specially racy scandal, he should, however, make instantly so many steps backwards as will take him to his overcoat or cane, and then, after a turn, so many down-stairs as will bring him into the street. If any man should take in his hand from the garden fence anything which a witch has laid there, he will in the same year fall sick, and if he has played with it he must die. There be land-witches and water-witches--whoever goes to swim in a place where these latter are found will drown and his body never be recovered. Sometimes in these places the water is very deep, but perfectly clear, in others it is still and very muddy, to which no one can come within seven paces because of an abominable and stifling vapour. And, moreover, as a dead cat is generally seen swimming on the top of such pools, no one need be endangered by them. The fact that the gypsy and South Slavonian or Hungarian Folklore is directly derived from classic or Oriental sources is evident from the fact that the Shemitic-Persian devil, who is the head and body of all witchcraft in Western Europe, very seldom appears in that of the Eastern parts. The witches there seem invariably to derive their art from one another; even in Venice they have no unusual fear of death or of a future state. A witch who has received the gift or power of sorcery cannot die till she transfers it to another, and this she often finds it difficult to do, as is illustrated by a story told me in Florence in 1886 by the same girl to whom I have already referred. "There was a girl here in the city who became a witch against her will. And how? She was ill in a hospital, and by her in a bed was una vecchia, ammalata gravamente, e non poteva morire--an old woman seriously ill, yet who could not die. And the old woman groaned and cried continually, 'Oimé! muoio! A chi lasció? non diceva che.' 'Alas! to whom shall I leave?'--but she did not say what. Then the poor girl, thinking of course she meant property, said: 'Lasciate à me--son tanto povera!' ('Leave it to me--I am so poor.') At once the old woman died, and 'La povera giovana se é trovato in eredita delta streghoneria'--the poor girl found she had inherited witchcraft. "Now the girl went home, where she lived with her brother and mother. And having become a witch she began to go out often by night, which the mother observing, said to her son, 'Qualche volta tu troverai tua sorella colla pancia grossa.' ('Some day you will find your sister with child.') 'Don't think such a thing, mamma,' he replied. 'However, I will find out where it is she goes.' "So he watched, and one night he saw his sister go out of the door, sullo punto delta mezza notte--just at midnight. Then he caught her by the hair, and twisted it round his arm. She began to scream terribly, when--ecco! there came running a great number of cats--e cominciarono a miolare, e fare un gran chiasso--they began to mew and make a great row, and for an hour the sister struggled to escape--but in vain, for her hair was fast--and screamed while the cats screeched, till it struck one, when the cats vanished and the sorella was insensible. But from that time she had no witchcraft in her, and became a buona donna, or good girl, as she had been before--'come era prima.'" It is very evident that in this story there is no diabolical agency, and that the witchcraft is simply a quality which is transferred like a disease, and which may be removed. Thus in Venice--where, as is evident from the works of Bernoni, the witches are of Gypsy-Slavic-Greek origin--a witch loses all her power if made to shed even one drop of blood, or sometimes if she be defeated or found out to be a witch. In none of these countries has she received the horrible character of a mere instrument of a stupendous evil power, whose entire will and work is to damn all mankind (already full of original sin) to eternal torture. For this ne plus ultra of horror could only result from the Hebrew-Persian conception of perfect malignity, incarnate as an anti-god, and be developed by gloomy ascetics who begrudged mankind every smile and every gleam of sunlight. In India and Eastern Europe the witch and demon are simply awful powers of nature, like thunder and pestilence, darkness and malaria, they nowhere appear as aiming at destroying the soul. For such an idea as this it required a theology and mythology emanating from the basis of an absolutely perfect monotheos, which gave birth to an antithesis; infinite good, when concentrated, naturally suggesting a shadow counterpart of evil. In Eastern Europe the witch is, indeed, still confused with the Vila, who was once, and often still is, a benevolent elementary spirit, who often punishes only the bad, and gladly favours the good. It is as curious as it is interesting to see how, under the influence of the Church, everything which was not directly connected with the current theology was made to turn sour and bitter and poisonous, and how darkness and frost stole over flowery fields which once were gay in genial sunshine. It is a necessary result that in attaining higher ideals the lesser must fade or change. Devilism, or the dread of the child and savage of the powers of darkness and mysterious evil, ends by incarnating all that is painful or terrible in evil spirits, which suggest their opposites. From Devilism results Polytheism, with one leading and good spirit, who in time becomes supreme. Then we have Monotheism. But as evil still exists, it is supposed that there are innately evil powers or spirits who oppose the good. By following the same process the leader of these becomes an anti-type, Lucifer, or Satan, or arch-devil, the result being Dualism. In this we have a spirit endowed with incredible activity and power, who is only not omnipotent, and whose malignity far transcends anything attributed to the gods or devils of Polytheism. His constant aim is to damn all mankind to all eternity, and his power is so great that to save even a small portion of mankind from this fate, God himself, or His own Son, must undergo penance as a man--an idea found in the Buddhism of India. This is all the regular and logical sequence of Fetishism and Shamanism. Witchcraft, and the tales told of it, follow in the path of the religion of the age. In the earliest time women were apparently the only physicians--that is to say magicians--and as man was in his lowest stage the magic was a vile witchcraft. Then came the Shaman--a man who taught in Animism a more refined sorcery, which was, however, as yet the only religion. But the witch still existed, and so she continued to exist, pari passu, through all the developments of religion. And to this, day every form and phase of the magician and witch exist somewhere, it sometimes happening that traces of the earliest and most barbarous sorcery are plain and palpable in the most advanced faith. There may be changes of name and of association, but in simple truth it is all "magic" and nothing else. Gypsy, Hungarian, Slavonian, Indian, and Italian witches, however they may differ from those of Western Europe on theological grounds, agree with them in meeting for the purposes of riotous dancing and debauchery. It has been observed that this kind of erotic dancing appears to have been cultivated in the East, and even in Europe, from the earliest times, by a class of women who, if not absolutely proved to be gypsies, had at any rate many points of resemblance with them. "The Syrian girl who haunts the taverns round," described by Virgil, suggests the Syrian and Egyptian dancer, who is evidently of Indo-Persian--that is to say of Nuri, or gypsy--origin. The Spanish dancing girls of remote antiquity have been conjectured to have come from this universal Hindoo Romany stock. I have seen many of the Almeh in Egypt--they all seemed to be gypsyish, and many were absolutely of the Helebi, Nauar, or Rhagarin stocks. This is indeed not proved--that all the deliberately cultivated profligate dancing of the world is of Indo-Persian, or gypsy origin, but there is a great deal, a very great deal, which renders it probable. And it is remarkable that it occurred to Pierre Delancre that the Persian ballerine had much in common with witches. Now the dancers of India are said to have originated in ten thousand gypsies sent from Persia, and who were of such vagabond habits that they could not be persuaded to settle down anywhere. Of these Delancre says:-- "The Persian girls dance at their sacrifices like witches at a Sabbat--that is naked--to the sound of an instrument. And the witches in their accursed assemblies are either entirely naked or en chemise, with a great cat clinging to their back, as many have at divers times confessed. The dame called Volta is the commonest and the most indecent. It is believed that the devil taught three kinds of dances to the witches of Ginevra, and these dances were very wild and rude, since in them they employed switches and sticks, as do those who teach animals to dance. "And there was in this country a girl to whom the devil had given a rod of iron, which had the power to make any one dance who was touched with it. She ridiculed the judges during her trial, declaring they could not make her die, but they found a way to blunt her petulance. "The devils danced with the most beautiful witches, in the form of a he-goat, or of any other animal, and coupled with them, so that no married woman or maid ever came back from these dances chaste as they had gone. They generally dance in a round, back to back, rarely a solo, or in pairs. "There are three kinds of witch-dances; the first is the trescone alia Boema, or the Bohemian rigadoon" (perhaps the polka), "the second is like that of some of our work-people in the country, that is to say by always jumping" (this may be like the Tyrolese dances), "the third with the back turned, as in the second rigadoon, in which all are drawn up holding one another by the hand, and in a certain cadence hustling or bumping one another, deretano contro deretano. These dances are to the sound of a tambourine, a flute, a violin, or of another instrument which is struck with a stick. Such is the only music of the Sabbat, and all witches assert that there are in the world no concerts so well executed." "A tambourine, a violin, a flute," with perhaps a zimbel, which is struck with a stick. Does not this describe to perfection gypsy music, and is not the whole a picture of the wildest gypsy dancing wherever found? Or it would apply to the Hindoo debauches, as still celebrated in honour of Sakktya, "the female principle" in India. In any case the suggestion is a very interesting one, since it leads to the query as to whether the entire sisterhood of ancient strolling, licentious dancers, whether Syrian, Spanish, or Egyptian, were not possibly of Indian-gypsy origin, and whether, in their character as fortune-tellers and sorceresses, they did not suggest the dances said to be familiar to the witches. Mr. David Ritchie, the editor, with Mr. Francis Groome, of the Journal of the Gypsy-Lore Society, has mentioned (vol. i. No. 2) that Klingsohr, a reputed author of the "Nibelungen Lied," was described as a "Zingar wizard" by Dietrich the Thuringian. Like Odin, this Klingsohr rode upon a wolf--a kind of steed much affected by witches and sorcerers. There is an old English rhyming romance in which a knight is represented as disguising himself as an Ethiopian minstrel. These and other stories--as, for instance, that of Sir Estmere--not only indicate a connection between the characters of minstrel and magician, but suggest that some kind of men from the far East first suggested the identity between them. Of course there have been wild dancers and witches, and minstrel-sorcerers, or vates, prophet-poets, in all countries, but it may also be borne in mind that nowhere in history do we find the female erotic dancer and fortune-teller, or witch, combined in such vast numbers as in India and Persia, and that these were, and are, what may be truly called gypsies. Forming from prehistoric times a caste, or distinct class, it is very probable that they roamed from India to Spain, possibly here and there all over Europe. The extraordinary diplomatic skill, energy, and geographic knowledge displayed by the first band of gypsies who, about 1417, succeeded in rapidly obtaining permits for their people to wander in every country in Europe except England, indicate great unity of plan and purpose. That these gypsies, as supposed sorcerers, appearing in every country in Europe, should not have influenced and coloured in some way the conceptions of witchcraft seems to be incredible. If a superstitious man had never before in his life thought of witches dancing to the devil's music, it might occur to him when looking on at some of the performances of Spanish and Syrian gypsy women, and if the man had previously been informed--as everybody was in the fifteenth century or later--that these women were all witches and sorceresses, it could hardly fail to occur to him that it was after this fashion that the sisters danced at the Sabbat. Of which opinion all that can be said is, that if not proved it is extremely possible, and may be at least probed and looked into by those of the learned who are desirous of clearly establishing all the grounds and origins of ancient religious beliefs and superstitions, in which pies it may be found that witches and gypsies have had fingers to a far greater extent than grave historians have ever imagined. The English gypsies believe in witches, among their own people, and it is very remarkable that in such cases at least as I have heard of, they do not regard them as âmes damnées or special limbs of Satan, but rather as some kinds of exceptionally gifted sorceresses or magicians. They are, however, feared from their supposed power to make mischief. Such a witch may be known by her hair, which is straight for three or four inches and then begins to curl--like a waterfall which comes down smoothly and then rebounds roundly on the rocks. It may be here remarked that all this gypsy conception of the witch is distinctly Hindoo and not in the least European or of Christians, with whom she is simply a human devil utterly given over to the devil's desires. And it is very remarkable that even the English gypsies do not associate such erring sisters--or any other kind--with the devil, as is done by their more cultivated associates. The witch, in gypsy as in other lore, is a haunting terror of the night. It has not, that I am aware, ever been conjectured that the word Humbug is derived from the Norse hum, meaning night, or shadows (tenebræ) (Jonæo, "Icelandic Latin glossary in Niall's Saga"), and bog, or bogey, termed in several old editions of the Bible a bug, or "bugges." And as bogey came to mean a mere scarecrow, so the hum-bugges or nightly terrors became synonymes for feigned frights. "A humbug, a false alarm, a bug-bear" ("Dean Milles MS." Halliwell). The fact that bug is specially applied to a nocturnal apparition, renders the reason for the addition of hum very evident. There is a great deal that is curious in this word Bogey. Bug-a-boo is suggestive of the Slavonian Bog and Buh, both meaning God or a spirit. Boo or bo is a hobgoblin in Yorkshire, so called because it is said to be the first word which a ghost or one of his kind utters to a human being, to frighten him. Hence, "he cannot say bo to a goose." Hence boggart, bogle, boggle, bo-guest, i.e., bar-geist, boll, boman, and, probably allied, bock (Devon), fear. Bull-beggar is probably a form of bu and bogey or boge, allied to boll (Northern), an apparition. CHAPTER XI. GYPSY WITCHCRAFT.--THE MAGICAL POWER WHICH IS INNATE IN ALL MEN AND WOMEN--HOW IT MAY BE CULTIVATED AND DEVELOPED--THE PRINCIPLES OF FORTUNE-TELLING. Women excel in the manifestation of certain qualities which are associated with mystery and suggestive of occult influences or power. Perhaps the reader will pardon me if I devote a few pages to what I conceive to be, to a certain degree, an explanation of this magic; though, indeed, it may be justly said that in so doing we only pass the old boundary of "spiritual" sorcery to find ourselves in the wider wonderland of Science. Whether it be the action of a faculty, a correlative action of physical functions, or a separate soul in us, the fact is indisputable that when our ordinary waking consciousness or will goes to sleep or rest, or even dozes, that instant an entirely different power takes command of the myriad forces of memory, and proceeds to make them act, wheel, evolute, and perform dramatic tricks, such as the Common Sense of our daily life would never admit. This power we call the Dream, but it is more than that. It can do more than make Us, or Me, or the Waking Will, believe that we are passing through fantastic scenes. It can remember or revive the memory of things forgotten by us; it can, when he is making no effort, solve for the geometrician problems which are far beyond his waking capacity--it sometimes teaches the musician airs such as he could not compose. That is to say, within ourself there dwells a more mysterious Me, in some respects a more gifted Self. There is not the least reason, in the present state of Science, to assume that this is either a "spiritual" being or an action of material forces. It puzzled Wigan as the dual action of the brain; and a great light is thrown on it by the "Physiology" of Carpenter and the "Memory" of David Kay (one of the most remarkable works of modern times), as well as in the "Psycho Therapeutics" of Dr. Tuckey. This power, therefore, knows things hidden from Me, and can do what I cannot. Let no one incautiously exclaim here that what this really means is, that I possess higher accomplishments which I do not use. The power often actually acts against Me--it plays at fast and loose with me--it tries to deceive me, and when it finds that in dreams I have detected a blunder in the plot of the play which it is spinning, it brings the whole abruptly to an end with the convulsion of a nightmare, or by letting the curtain fall with a crash, and--scena est deserta--I am awake! And then "how the phantoms flee--how the dreams depart!" as Westwood writes. With what wonderful speed all is washed away clean from the blackboard! Our waking visions do not fly like this. But--be it noted, for it is positively true--the evanescence of our dreams is, in a vast majority of instances, exactly in proportion to their folly. I am coming to my witchcraft directly, but I pray you have patience with my proeme. I wish to narrate a dream which I had a few years ago (September 5, 1887), which had an intensity of reality. Dreams, you know, reader, vary from rainbow mist to London fog, and so on to clouds, or mud. This one was hard as marble in comparison to most. A few days previously I had written a letter to a friend, in which I had discussed this subject of the dual-Me, and it seemed as if the Dream were called forth by it in answer. I thought I was in my bed--a German one, for I was in Homburg vor der Höhe--yet I did not know exactly where I was. I at once perceived the anomaly, and was in great distress to know whether I was awake or in a dream. I seemed to be an invalid. I realized, or knew, that in another bed near mine was a nurse or attendant. I begged her to tell me if I were dreaming, and to awake me if I were. She tried to persuade me that I was in my ordinary life, awake. I was not at all satisfied. I arose and went into the street. There I met with two or three common men. I felt great hesitation in addressing them on such a singular subject, but told them that I was in distress because I feared that I was in a dream, and begged them to shake or squeeze my arm. I forget whether they complied, but I went on and met three gentlemen, to whom I made the same request. One at once promptly declared that he remembered me, saying that we had met before in Cincinnatti. He pressed my arm, but it had no effect. I began to believe that I was really awake. I returned to the room. I heard a child speaking or murmuring by the nurse. I asked her again to shake my hand. This she did so forcibly that I was now perfectly convinced that it was no dream. And the instant it came home to me that it was a reality, there seized me the thrill or feeling as of a coming nightmare--and I awoke! Reviewing my dream when awake, I had the deepest feeling of having been joué or played with by a master-mocker. I recalled that, when I rose in my night-robe from the bed, I did not dress--and yet found myself fully dressed when in the street. Then I remembered that when I returned to America, in 1879, I was in great apprehension lest I should have trouble and delay with our sixteen trunks, because there was under my charge a lady who was dying. To my great relief and amazement, the officer whose duty it was to search claimed me as an old acquaintance, who had met me and T. Buchanan Read, the poet, in Cincinnatti in 1864. But what impressed me most of all, at once, was that the whole was caused by, and was a keen and subtle mockery of my comments in my letter, of the other Ego, and of its sarcastic power. For I had been led, step by step, through the extremest doubt, to a full conviction of being awake, and then dismissed, as it were, with a snap or sneer into wakefulness itself! Now this Dream Artist is, to judge by his works, a very different kind of a person from Me. We are not sympathetic, and herein lies a great and serious subject of study. "Dreams," says a writer, "are the novels which we read when we are fast asleep," and, at the risk of receiving punishment, I declare that my writer belongs to a school of novelists with which I have no feelings in common. If, as everybody assumes, it is always I who dream--only using other material--how is it that I always invariably disagree with, thwart, contradict, vex, and mock myself? I had rather be hanged and be done with it, before I would wrong my worst enemy with such pitiful, silly, degrading dreams and long-forgotten follies, as I am called on to endure. If this alter-ego were a lunatic, he could not be a more thoroughly uncongenial inmate of my brain than he often is. Our characters are radically different. Why has he a mind so utterly unlike mine? His tastes, his thoughts, dispositions, and petty peculiarities are all unlike mine. If we belonged to the same club, I should never talk with him. Now we are coming to our Witchcraft. This alter-ego does not confine himself to dreams. A lunatic is a man who dreams wide-awake. He has lost his will or the controlling power resulting from the just co-relation of brain forces. Then the stored-up images stray out and blend. I have dreamed of telling or seeing things and of acting them at the same time. A fish and a watch and a man may seem to be the same thing at once in a dream, as they often are to a waking lunatic. A poet is a man who dreams wide-awake; but he can guide his dreams or imaginings to symmetrical form, and to a logical conclusion or coherence. With the painter and sculptor it is the same. When the alter-ego works harmoniously with the waking will, we call it Imagination. But when the alter-ego draws decidedly on latent forces, or powers unknown to the waking Me, I am amazed. He does it often enough, that is certain. Then we have Mystery. And it is out of this that men have drawn the conclusion that they have two or three souls--an astral spirit, a power of prophecy, the art of leaving the body, and the entire machinery of occultism. Physiology is probably on the high road to explain it all, but as yet it is not explained. Meanwhile it steals into our waking life in many ways. It comes in emotions, presentiments, harp tones, mystical conceptions, and minglings of images or ideas, and incomprehensible deductions, which are sometimes, of course, prophetic. It has nothing in common with common sense; therefore it is to some un-common sense, or to others non-sense. Sometimes it is one or the other. Agreeable sensations and their harmony become the Beautiful. These blend and produce a general æsthetic sense. It becomes mystical, and is easily worked on by the alter-ego. The most inspired passages of every poet on the beauty of Nature betray clearly the influence and hidden power of the Dream in waking life. Shelley, Wordsworth, Keats, Byron, were all waking dreamers de la première force. He who has heard an Æolian harp play--and I have heard the seven of Justinus Kerner in the old castle of Weibertreu when I was his guest--if he be a "tone-artist," has often caught series of chords which were almost melodies. This music has the same relation to definite composition which the dream has to waking common sense. There are two things which I do not understand. One is, why composers of music make so little use of the suggestive Æolian harp; the second is, why decorative designers never employ the folding mirror [18] to produce designs. The one is an exact counterpart of the other, and both are capable of revealing inexhaustible harmonies, for both are deeply in accordance with the evolving processes of Nature. The poetic or artistic faculty is, we therefore assume, the action on the myriad cells of memory by a strange--sometimes apparently involuntary--fantastic power, which is at the same time higher and lower than common sense or waking consciousness. Every image which man has received from sensation lies stored away in a cell, and is, in fact, a memory by itself. There is a faculty of association or sympathy by which groups of these images are called up, and there is perception which receives them, more or less vividly, like a photographic plate. When awake, Will, or coherent Common Sense, regulates all this machinery. When asleep, the Images seem to steal out and blend and frisk about by themselves in quaint dances, guided apparently by a kind of power whom I have conventionally called the alter-ego. This power throws open brain or memory-cells, which waking Common Sense has forgotten; in their chaotic or fantastic searches and mingling they produce poetry; they may chance on prophecy, for if our waking self had at command the immense latent knowledge in which these elves revel, it would detect sequences and know to what many things would lead, now unto us all unknown. I once knew a nobleman who inherited in Italy a palace which he had never seen. There were in it three hundred rooms, and it had belonged to a family which had for six hundred years collected and handed down to their descendants every kind of object, as if they had been magpies or ravens. The heir, as a grave, earnest man, only concerned himself with the armoury and picture gallery and principal rooms. But his young daughter Bertha ranged all over the place and made hundreds of the most singular discoveries. One day she came to me very much delighted. She had found an obscure room or garret, in which there were ranged about on shelves, "sitting up and all looking at her," several hundred old dolls and marionettes. For two hundred years or more the family had kept its old dolls. In this case the father was the waking reason, the rooms the brain cells, and Bertha the sprite who ranges over all and knows where to find forgotten images in store. Many of those whom we meet in dreams are like the ghosts of dolls. This is the only true Night side of Nature, but its shadows and dusky twilight, and strangely-hued chiaroscuros and long pauses of gloom, come constantly into the sunlight of our waking life. Some lives have too much of it, some too little. Some receive it in coarse and evil forms, as lunatics, and sufferers from mania à potu; some canny people--happy Scotchmen, for instance--succeed in banishing it from life as nearly as is possible for a human being to do. Now to speak clearly, and to recapitulate distinctly, I set forth the following propositions:-- I. We have a conscious will which, whether it be an independent incomprehensible spirit, or simply the correlative result or action of all our other brain powers, exists, and during our waking hours directs our thoughts and acts. While it is at work in the world with social influences, its general tendency is towards average common sense. II. This conscious will sleeps when we sleep. But the collective images which form memory, each being indeed a separate memory, as an aggregate of bees' cells form a comb, are always ready to come forth, just as honey is always sweet, limpid, and fluid. There is between them all an associative faculty, or a strange and singular power, which begins to act when the will sleeps. Whether it be also an independent Self which plays capriciously while conscious will sleeps, or a result of correlated forces, it is not as yet possible to determine. What we know is, that it calls forth the images by association, and in a fantastic, capricious manner, imitates and combines what we have experienced, or read, or thought, during our waking hours. III. Our waking will can only realize or act on such images as it has kept familiarly before it, or such as have been so often recalled that they recur spontaneously. But all the treasures of memory seem to be available to the dream ruler, and with them a loose facile power of grouping them into kaleidoscopic combinations. Thus, if one could imagine a kaleidoscope which at every turn made varied groups of human or other figures in different attitudes, with changing scenery; and then suppose this to be turned round by some simple vital or mechanical action, he would have an idea of the action of dreams. It is probable that the radical function of the dream-power is to prevent images from becoming utterly forgotten or rusty; and by exercising the faculty of facile or chance combination to keep awake in man originality and creativeness. For it is almost certain that, but for the intrusion of this faculty into our waking thoughts, man would become a mere animal, without an idea beyond the joint common appetites, instincts, and emotions of the lowest of his kind. IV. The dream-power intrudes more or less into all waking life. Then it acts, though irregularly, yet in harmony, with conscious will. When it is powerful and has great skill in forming associations of images--and by images I mean, with Kay, "ideas"--and can also submit these to waking wisdom, the result is poetry or art. In recalling strange, beautiful images, and in imagining scenes, we partly lapse into dreaming; in fact, we do dream, though conscious will sits by us all the time and even aids our work. And most poets and artists, and many inventors, will testify that, while imagining or inventing, they abstract the "mind" from the world and common-place events, seek calm and quiet, and try to get into a "brown study," which is a waking dream. That is to say, a condition which is in some respects analogous to sleep is necessary to stimulate the flow and combination of images. This brown study is a state of mind in which images flow and blend and form new shapes far more easily than when Will and Reason have the upper hand. For they act only in a conventional beaten track, and deal only with the known and familiar. V. Magic is the production of that which is not measured by the capacity of the conscious working will. The dream spirit, or that which knows all our memories, and which combines, blends, separates, scatters, unites, confuses, intensifies, beautifies, or makes terrible all the persons, scenes, acts, events, tragedies, or comedies known to us, can, if it pleases, by instantaneous reasoning or intuition, perceive what waking common sense does not. We visit a sick man, and the dream spirit, out of the inexhaustible hoards of memory aided by association, which results in subtle, occult reasoning, perceives that the patient will die in a certain time, and this result is served up in a dramatic dream. The amount of miracles, mysteries, apparitions, omens, and theurgia which the action of these latent faculties cause, or seem to cause, is simply illimitable, for no man knows how much he knows. Few, indeed, are the ordinary well-educated Europeans of average experience of life, whose memories are not inexhaustible encyclopædias, and whose intellects are not infinite; if all that is really in them could be wakened from slumber, "know thyself" would mean "know the universe." Now, there are people who, without being able to say why, are often inspired by this power which intuitively divines or guesses without revealing the process to common sense. They look into the eye of a person--something in glances and tones, gestures, mien, and address, suggests at once an assertion or a prediction which proves to be true. Considering that the dream-power has millions of experiences or images at its command, that it flits over them all like lightning, that it can combine, abstract, compare, and deduct, that it being, so to speak, more of a thaumaturgical artist than anything else, excels waking wisdom in subtle trickery, the wonder is, not that we so often hear of marvellous, magical, inexplicable wonders, but that they are not of daily or hourly occurrence. When we think of what we might be if we could master ourselves, and call on the vast sea of knowledge which is in the brain of every one who reads these lines, to give strict reckoning of its every wave and every drop of water, and every shell, pebble, wreck, weed, or grain of sand over which it rolls, and withal master the forces which make its tides and storms, then we may comprehend that all the wonder-working power attributed to all the sorcerers of olden time was nothing compared to what we really have within us. It is awful, it is mysterious, it is terrible to learn this tremendous truth that we are indeed within ourselves magicians gifted with infinite intellectual power--which means the ability to know and do all things. In the past men surmised the existence of this infinite memory, this power of subtle research and combination, but between them and the truth in every land and time interposed the idea of objective spiritual or supernatural existences whose aid or medium was necessary to attain to wisdom. Outside of us was always Somebody Else to be invoked, conciliated, met in vision or trance, united to in spiritual unity or syncope. Sometimes they hit upon some form of hypnotism or mesmerism, opiates or forced swoons and convulsions, and so extorted from the nerves and dream-power some of their secrets which were all duly attributed to the "spirits." But in the whole range of occult literature from Hermes Trismegistus down to Madame Blavatsky there is not a shade of a suspicion that all the absolutely authentic marvels of magic began and ended with man himself. Least of all did any speculator yet conjecture how to set forth on the path which leads us to this wonderland. For there is a way to it, and a power to master the infinite stores of memory and render the dream-power a willing servant, if we take the pains to do it. Firstly--as may be found asserted, and I think fairly proved, in my work on "Practical Education," and in the "Memory of David Kay" (London, 1888)--every child by a very easy gradual process, simply that of learning by heart, and reviewing, can develope its memory to such a degree that all which that child reads, hears, or sees can be literally retained for life. Secondly, quickness of perception, which is allied to memory, can be taught so as to develope intuitive observation and intelligence to an equally incredible extent. Thirdly--and for this I have had abundant personal experience--every child can learn Design and the Minor Arts or develope the Constructive faculties, and by doing this alone a pupil becomes exceptionally clever in all studies. The proof of this is that the 200 pupils who attended an industrial or art school in Philadelphia took precedence in studies among 110,000 others in the public schools. If all the stores of our memory were distinctly cognized by our waking will when they first came into our possession, we should have the first great element of power beyond all our present dreams of greatness. That this can be done has been recognized by many of the most advanced thinkers of the day. If a child be trained to exercise quickness of perception so that at last it observes and remembers everything--and experiment has proved this also--it will make the Dream Power a waking power absolutely in harmony and accordance with waking wisdom or conscious will. For the reason why the capricious, wild, strange fitful faculty has always remained foreign to us, is because in all our culture we have never sought to subdue and train the powers allied to it. Catch and tame one water-fairy, says the Red Indian legend, and you may get all her sisters. Waking quickness of perception is a wonderful ability. It can be trained to flit like lightning over illimitable fields of thought (supplied by a vast memory), and with them it spontaneously developes comparison and deduction. Now all of this is marvellously akin to the habitual action of the dream power plus that of reflection. And it is not possible to conceive that with waking quickness of perception, or voluntary subtlety of thought, cultivated in infancy to the highest power, its twin which sports in sleep should not feel its influence and act under it. The result of this culture would inevitably be that the marvels, mysteries, and magic as they seem to us of the dream, or intuitive power, would be perfectly under our waking control, or to such an extent that we could secure all that is profitable in them. It is a very curious fact that while Reflection or Waking Wisdom slumbers, Quickness of Perception or Perception and Association seem to be always awake--in dreams or waking. A very extended series of observations has convinced me that the acquisition of a very great degree of Observation itself, or of Attention, is as possible as to learn French, and no harder; yet as a branch of study it literally does not exist. As a writer in the New York Tribune remarks: "In fact, observation is almost an atrophied faculty, and when a writer practises it for the purposes of his art, we regard the matter as in some sense wonderful." Interest, as Maudsley has shown, is a natural result of Attention, and the two generate Will. Whether we can actually control the Dream-power is not as yet proved by experiment. All that we can say is that it is probable. But that this power manifests itself in waking hours when it submits to Reflection, is an established fact. It shows itself in all imagination, in all originality, brave art or "fantasy." Therefore it is no extravagant deduction to conclude that all of its action which now seems so wonderful, and which has furnished the ground-work for what we call magic, is perfectly within our grasp, and may be secured by simple methods of training which require only perseverance to perfect them. The gypsy fortune-teller is accustomed for years to look keenly and earnestly into the eyes of those whom she dukkers or "fortune-tells." She is accustomed to make ignorant and credulous or imaginative girls feel that her mysterious insight penetrates "with a power and with a sign" to their very souls. As she looks into their palms, and still more keenly into their eyes, while conversing volubly with perfect self-possession, ere long she observes that she has made a hit--has chanced upon some true passage or relation to the girl's life. This emboldens her. Unconsciously the Dream Spirit, or the Alter-Ego, is awakened. It calls forth from the hidden stores of Memory strange facts and associations, and with it arises the latent and often unconscious quickness of Perception, and the gypsy actually apprehends and utters things which are "wonderful." There is no clairvoyance, illumination or witchcraft in such cases. If such powers existed as they are generally understood to do, we should for one case of curious prediction hear of twenty thousand. But the Dream-power is at best fitful, irregular and fantastic in its action; it is at all times untrustworthy, for it has never been trained unless of yore by Chaldæan priests and magi. In some wonderful way facts do, however, manifest themselves, evoked out of the unknown by "occult," though purely material, mental faculties; and the result is that wonder at the inexplicable--which makes miracles--until we are accustomed to them. That gypsy women often do surmise or arrive at very curious and startling truths I know by my own experience, and also know that I myself when reading character in people's hands according to the laws laid down in books on chiromancy, when I have felt deeply interested, or as one may say excited or inspired, and have gone a little beyond mere description into conjecture and deduction, have been amazed at my own successes. It happened once that when in company with several ladies it was proposed after lunch to go to a gypsy camp on the Thames, and have fortunes told. Among these ladies was one of a very imaginative temperament, who had not only lived many years in the East, but had resided several winters as a guest in Arab families. As she was very much disappointed at not finding the gypsies, I offered to tell her fortune by onomancy, i.e., by taking the letters of her name according to numbers, and deducing from them her past and future. This I did in a most reckless manner, freely setting down whatever came into my mind. It seems to me now that a kind of inspiration suggested what I wrote and predicted. What was my amazement to hear the lady declare that all which had been written as to her past life was literally true, and I saw that she was simply awed at my supposed power of prediction, and had the fullest faith in what I had declared as regarded the future. What I had intended for a jest or mere entertainment turned out to be serious enough. And reflecting on the evil consequences of such belief on a person who naturally attributed it all to magic, I deeply regretted what I had done, and have not since attempted any renewal of such oracle-work. It had previously occurred that I wrote out such a prediction for another lady which I did not clearly explain to her, but in which there was a regular recurrence and repetition of something unfortunate. This was shown in after years, and the troubles all came to pass as I had written. Now the more I studied this case the more I was convinced that it was based on unconscious observation, comparison, and deduction. Fichte has said that no bird can fly beyond itself, but the mind sometimes does actually precede its own conscious reasoning and throw back facts to it. It may be urged by those who still cling to the old-fashioned fetish of a distinction between Spirit and Matter, that this explanation of predictions, oracles, and insight, is simply materialistic and utterly destructive of all the poetry, grandeur, and beauty which is associated with mysterious divination. But for those who believe with Maudsley, et sui generis, that all such distinctions are not seriously worth considering, and to him who can rise to the great philosophy now dawning on the world, there is perceptible in it something far more wonderful and poetical, beautiful and even awful, than ever was known to any occultist of old--for it is scientific and true. It is also true that man can now talk across the world and hear all sounds conveyed to him through the depths of ocean. He can catch these sounds and keep them for centuries. How long will it be before sights, scents, and tastes will be thus transferred, and the man sitting in London will see all things passing in Asia, or wherever it pleases him or an agent to turn a mirror on a view? It will be. [19] Or how long before the discovery of cheap and perfect aerial navigation will change all society and annihilate national distinctions? That, too, will be. These and a thousand stranger discoveries will during the ensuing century burst upon the world, changing it utterly. We go on as of old in our little petty narrow grooves, declaring that this will be, and that will never come to pass, and that this or that kind of hop-scotch lines, and tip-cat and marbles rules, are the eternal laws of humanity, and lo! all the while in his study some man whom you regard as a dreamer or dolt is preparing that which will be felt forever. One of these great discoveries, and that not the least, will be the development and mastery of memory and perception, attention, interest, and will in children, with the constructive faculty which stimulates the whole by means of easy gradual series of instructions. When this system shall be perfected, we shall advance to understanding, controlling, and disciplining the subtler and stranger powers of the brain, which now puzzle us as dreams, intuitions, poetic inspiration, and prophecy. But this prophecy comes not from it, nor from any vague guessing or hoping. It is based on facts and on years of careful study of a thousand children's minds, and from a conviction derived from calm observation, that the powers of the human mind are infinite and capable of being developed by science. And they will be! There is very little knowledge among gypsies of real chiromancy, such as is set forth in the literature of occult or semi-occult science. Two centuries ago, when chiromancy was studied seriously and thoroughly by learned and wise men, the latter compared thousands of hands, and naturally enough evolved certain truths, such as you, reader, would probably evolve for yourself if you would do the same. Firstly they observed, as you may do, that the hand of a boor is not marked like that of a gentleman, nor that of an ignoramus like the palm of an artist or scholar. The line which indicates brain is on an average shorter in women than in men; in almost every instance certain signs infallibly indicate great sensuality, Others show a disposition to dreaminess, sentimentalism, the occult. Now as Love, Wisdom, Strength of Will, or Inertness, are associable with Venus, Apollo, Jupiter, or Saturn, and as astrology was then seriously believed in, it came to pass that the signs of chiromancy were distributed to the seven planets, and supposed to be under their dominion. It was an error, but after all it amounts to a mere classification. Properly considered, the names Jupiter, Saturn, Apollo, Mercury, Venus, and Mars are only synonymes of qualities, meaning masculine virtue and character, aptitude, art, cleverness, sexual passion, and combativeness. He who would, without a trace of superstition, analyze and describe many hands compared with the characters of their owners, would adopt effectively the same arrangement. When we remember the age in which they lived and the popular yearning for wonders and marvels which then characterized even the wisest men, the old chiromancers were singularly free from superstition. There were many among them who would have regarded with supreme contempt a Desbarolles, with his fortune-telling for twenty francs. To these truly honest men, the gypsies, with their pretended chiromancy, were at first a great puzzle. The learned Prætorius, in his vast work on Chiromancy and Physiognomy, devotes seventy-five pages to this "foreign element in our midst," and comes to the conclusion that they are humbugs. They do not know the lines--they know nothing. The intrusion of the latent powers of the mind had no place in the philosophy of Prætorius, therefore he did not perceive the back door by which the Romany slipped into the oracle. Yet there is abundant evidence even in his own valuable collection of the works of his predecessors, that many of them when tempted from merely describing character to straying into prophecy, were guided by something more mysterious than the laws of the lines of life, of the head, heart, the circle of Venus, the "hepatic," and viâ lactea. The Hungarian gypsies have a system of chiromancy of their own which the reader may find in the book "Vom Wandernden Zigeunervolke," by Dr. von Wlislocki, Hamburg, 1890. I had translated this and more of the kind for this chapter, but omitted it, thinking, firstly, that its place is supplied by more important matter; and, secondly, because it is, save as perhaps indicative of Indian origin, quite valueless, being merely of the prophetic kind. I have more than once known gypsies to tell me things of my past life which were certainly remarkable, bewildering, or inexplicable. And for the ordinary seeker of "voonders oopon voonders" it is all-sufficient that a thing shall be beyond clear intelligence. "How do you explain that?" is their crucial question, and their cry of triumph when relating some case of an authentic apparition, a spiritual feat of thaumaturgy, or a dream fulfilled. In fact they would rather not have it explained. I well remember how Professor Joseph Henry, when lecturing on natural science, narrated to us, his hearers, how when he told certain people how certain tricks of a common conjuror were executed, they all protested that it could not be the way it was done. They did not wish to be disillusioned. Raise a man from the dead, make him fly through the air, and it is for everybody a miracle. Give them the power to do the same, and in a month's time it will be no longer miraculous, but something "in the due course of nature." And what single fact is there in the due course of nature which is not as inexplicable if we seek for a full explanation of it? Consider this thing every day till you are penetrated with it, bear it in mind constantly, and in due time all phenomena will be miracles. We can apparently get a little nearer to the causes and give our discoveries names, but the primal causes as constantly recede and are continually buried in deeper mystery. But with most people names pass for explanations. "Can you tell me what a hypothesis is?" asked a young gentleman at a dinner party of a friend who passed for being well-informed. "Hush," was the reply. "Not now--ladies present." "Mon caporal," asked a French soldier, "can you tell me what is meant by an equilateral?" "Certainly--mais d'abord--do you know Hebrew?" "No." "Ah, then it would be impossible to explain it to you." "What is it that makes people's heads ache?" inquired an old lady of a youth who had just begun his medical studies. "Oh, it is only the convolution of the anomalies of the ellipsoid," replied the student. "Just see now what it is to git larnin!" commented the dame. "He knows it all in a straight line?" The one is satisfied that a hypothesis is something improper, the other that an equilateral is a matter which he might understand if he were as learned as his corporal, and the third is pleased to find that the mystery has at least a name. And human beings are satisfied in the same way as to the mysteries of Nature. Give them a name and assure them that the learned understand it, and they are satisfied. It is a fundamental principle of human folly to assume that any alleged marvel is a "violation of the laws of Nature," or the work of supernatural influences, until it is proved not to be such. Nature cannot be violated. She is ever virgin. And "how do you account for that?" is always assumed to be a test question. It cannot be denied that in almost every case, the narrator assumes the absolute truth of all which he states, when, as is well known, even in the most commonplace incidents of ordinary life, such truth can very rarely be obtained. Secondly, he assumes that all the persons who were cognizant of the miracle, or were concerned in it, were not only perfectly truthful, but endowed with perfect perfections, and absolutely sound judgments. If there is the least shadow of a possibility that one of them could have erred in the least particular, the whole must fall to the ground as a proof or test--for we must have irrefragible and complete evidence before we adopt a faith on which all our life may depend. But, thirdly, by asking any one to account for a marvel, he assumes that the one thus called on knows everything short of the supernatural or Infinite, which is simply silly. But there is a higher source of admiration and wonder than could ever be established by vulgar fetish, Animism, or supernaturalism, and this is to be found in the mysteries of Nature which man has never penetrated, and which, as soon as they are overcome, reveal others far grander or deeper. Thus as Alps rise beyond Alps, and seas of stars and solar systems spread in proportions of compound multiplication, our powers of vision increase. And it often happens to him who looks deeply into causes, that one of the myriad test cases of so-called "supernaturalism," when it has ignominiously broken down--as all do sooner or later--often reveals a deeper marvel or mystery than it was intended to support. Thus some Red Indians in North America, on being told how certain juggling tricks which they had accepted for magic were performed, calmly replied that it did not make the least difference--that a man must have been a magician (or divinely inspired) to be able to find out such tricks. And I myself knew an Indian trader named Ross, who, being once among a wild tribe, put on a mask of papier maché, which caused tremendous excitement and awe, which was not in the least diminished when he took it off and put it into their hands and explained its nature, for they maintained that the thing which could cause such terror indicated the existence of superior mental power, or magic, in the maker. In which there is, as it seems to me, indications of a much higher wisdom or sagacity than is to be found in the vulgar spiritualist who takes the event or thing itself for the miracle, and who, when found out in his tricks, ignominiously collapses. The conclusion from all this is, that I have seen and heard of much in gypsy witchcraft and fortune-telling which, while it was directly allied to humbug of the shallowest kind, also rested on, or was inspired by, mental action or power which, in our present state of knowledge, must be regarded as strangely mysterious and of the deepest interest. And this is indeed weird, in the fullest and truest sense, since it is used for prophecy. I will now endeavour to illustrate this. It is but natural that there should be "something in" gypsy fortune-telling. If the reader were to tell ten fortunes a day for twenty years it would be very remarkable indeed if in that time he had not learned some things which would seem wonderful to the world. He would detect at a glance the credulous, timid, bold, doubtful, refined or vulgar nature, just as a lawyer learns to detect character by cross-examination. Many experiments of late years have gone very far to establish the existence of a power of divining or reading thought; how this is really done I know not; perhaps the experts in it are as ignorant as I am, but it is very certain that certain minds, in some (as yet) marvellous way, betray their secrets to the master. That there are really gypsies who have a very highly cultivated faculty of reading the mind by the eye is certainly true. Sometimes they seem to be themselves uncertain, and see as through a glass darkly, and will reveal remarkable facts doubtfully. I remember a curious illustration of this. Once I was walking near Bath, and meeting a tinker asked him if there were any gypsies in the vicinity. He gave me the address of a woman who lived in a cottage at no great distance. I found it with some trouble, and was astonished on entering at the abominably miserable, reckless, squalid appearance of everything. There was a half or quarter-bred gypsy woman, ragged, dirty, and drunk, a swarm of miserable children, and a few articles of furniture misplaced or upset as if the inmates had really no idea of how a room should be lived in. I addressed the woman civilly, but she was too vulgar and degraded to be capable of sensible or civil conversation with a superior. Such people actually exist among the worst class of vagabonds. But as I, disgusted, was about to leave, and gave her a small gratuity, she offered to tell my fortune, which I declined, whereupon she cried, "You shall see that I know something;" and certainly told me something which astonished me, of an event which had taken place two years before at a great distance. To test her I coolly denied it all, at which she seemed astonished and bewildered, saying, "Can I have made a mistake? You are certainly the person." All of this may be explained by causes which I shall set forth. But it cannot be too earnestly insisted on to people who habitually doubt, that because a thing can be explained in a certain way (i.e., by humbug) that it necessarily follows that that is the only explanation of it. Yet this is at the present day actually and positively the popular method, and it obtains very largely indeed with the small critics of the "safe school." Mrs. Million has diamonds; she may have stolen them--a great many people have stolen diamonds--therefore she is probably a thief. The Icelandic sagas describe journies to America; but the writers of the sagas were often mythical, exaggerative, and inaccurate--therefore all they narrate as regards America must be, of course, untrue. Jack Stripe Eats tripe, It is therefore credible That tripe is edible; And it follows perforce, As a matter of course, That the devil will gripe All who do not eat tripe. But I do not insist that there is anything "miraculous" in gypsy fortune-telling. It may be merely the result of great practical experience and of a developed intuition, it may be mind or "thought-reading"--whatever that really is--or it may result from following certain regular rules. This latter method will be pronounced pure humbug, but of that I will speak anon. These rules followed by anybody, even the feeblest dilettante who has only read Desbarolles for drawing-room entertainment, will often astonish the dupe. They are, "in few," as follows:-- 1. It is safe in most cases with middle-aged men to declare that they have had a law-suit, or a great dispute as to property, which has given them a great deal of trouble. This must be impressively uttered. Emphasis and sinking the voice are of great assistance in fortune-telling. If the subject betray the least emotion, or admit it, promptly improve the occasion, express sympathy, and "work it up." 2. Declare that a great fortune, or something greatly to the advantage of the subject, or something which will gratify him, will soon come in his way, but that he must be keen to watch his opportunity and be bold and energetic. 3. He will have three great chances, or fortunes, in his life. If you know that he has inherited or made a fortune, or had a good appointment, you may say that he has already realized one of them. This seldom fails. 4. A lady of great wealth and beauty, who is of singularly sympathetic disposition, is in love with him, or ready to be, and it will depend on himself to secure his happiness. Or he will soon meet such a person when he shall least expect it. 5. "You had at one time great trouble with your relations (or friends). They treated you very unkindly." Or, "They were prepared to do so, but your resolute conduct daunted them." 6. "You have been three times in great danger of death." Pronounce this very impressively. Everybody, though it be a schoolboy believes, or likes to believe, that he has encountered perils. This is infallible, or at least it takes in most people. If the subject can be induced to relate his hairbreadth escapes, you may foretell future perils. 7. "You have had an enemy who has caused you great trouble. But he--or she--it is well not to specify which till you find out the sex--will ere long go too far, and his or her effort to injure you will recoil on him or her." Or, briefly, "It is written that some one, by trying to wrong you, will incur terrible retribution." Or, "You have had enemies, but they are all destined to come to grief." Or, "You had an enemy but you outlived him." 8. "You got yourself once into great trouble by doing a good act." 9. "Your passions have thrice got you into great trouble. Once your inconsiderate anger (or pursuit of pleasure) involved you in great suffering which, in the end, was to your advantage." Or else, "This will come to pass; therefore be on your guard." 10. "You will soon meet with a person who will have a great influence on your future life if you cultivate his friendship. You will ere long meet some one who will fall in love with you, if encouraged." 11. "You will find something very valuable if you keep your eyes open and watch closely. You have twice passed over a treasure and missed it, but you will have a third opportunity." 12. "You have done a great deal of good, or made the fortune or prosperity of persons who have been very ungrateful." 13. "You have been involved in several love affairs, but your conduct in all was really perfectly blameless." 14. "You have great capacity for something, and before long an occasion will present itself for you to exert it to your advantage." By putting these points adroitly, and varying or combining them, startling cases of conviction may be made. Yet even into this deception will glide intuition, or the inexplicable insight to character, and the deceiver himself be led to marvel, so true is it that he who flies from Brama goes towards him, let him do what he will, for Truth is everywhere, and even lies lead to it. The reader has often seen in London Italian women who have small birds, generally parrakeets, or paraquitos, which will for a penny pick out for her or for him slips of paper on which is printed a "fortune." If he will invest his pence in these he will in most instances find that they "fit his case" exactly, because they are framed on these or other rules, which are of very general application. There was, in 1882, an Italian named Toricelli. Whether he was a descendant of the great natural philosopher of the same name who discovered the law of the vacuum I do not know, but he certainly exhibited--generally in Piccadilly--an ingenious application of it. He had a long glass cylinder, filled with water, in which there was a blown glass image of an imp. By pressing his hand on the top of the cover of the tube the folletto or diavoletto was made to rise or fall--from which the prediction was drawn. It will hardly be believed, but the unfortunate Toricelli was actually arrested by the police and punished for "fortune-telling." [20] After this he took to trained canaries or parrakeets, which picked out printed fortunes, for a living. Whether the stern arm of British justice descended on him for this latter form of sorcery and crime I do not know. "Forse fu dal demonio trasportato, Fiancheggiandosi del' autorita Di Origene o di San Girolamo." Now it may be admitted that to form such rules (and there are many more far more ingenious and generally applicable) and to put them into practice with tact, adapting them to intuitions of character, not only as seen in the face but as heard in the voice or betrayed by gestures and dress and manner, must in the end develop a power. And, further still, this power by frequent practice enables its possessor to perform feats which are really marvellous and perhaps inexplicable, as yet, to men of science. I have, I think, indicated the road by which they travel to produce this result, but to what they arrived I do not know. Nor do they all get there. What genius is, physiology, with all the vast flood of light spread by Francis Galton on hereditary gifts, cannot as yet explain. It is an absolute thing of itself, and a "miracle." Sometimes this wonderful power of prediction and of reading thought and quickly finding and applying rules falls into the hands of a genius. Then all our explanations of "humbug" and "trickery" and juggling fall to the ground, because he or she works what are absolutely as much miracles as if the artist had raised the dead. Such geniuses are the prophets of old; sometimes they are poets. There are as many clearly-defined and admirable predictions as to events in art and politics in the works of Heine, which were fulfilled, as can be found anywhere. By the constant application of such rules, promptly and aptly, or boldly, the fortune-teller acquires a very singular quickness of perception. There are very few persons living who really know what this means and to what apparently marvellous results constant practice in it may lead. Beginning with very simple and merely mechanical exercises ("Practical Education," p. 151. London: Whittaker & Co.), perception may be gradually developed until not only the eye and ear observe a thousand things which escape ordinary observation, and also many "images" at once, but finally the mind notes innumerable traits of character which would have once escaped it, combines these, and in a second draws conclusions which would amuse those who are ignorant--as indeed all men are as yet--of the extraordinary faculties latent in every man. I beg the reader to pay special attention to this fact. There is nothing in all the annals of prophecy, divination, fortune-telling, or prediction, which is nearly so wonderful as what we may all do if we would by practice and exercise bring out of ourselves our own innate power of perception. This is not an assertion based on metaphysical theory; it is founded on fact, and is in strict accordance with the soundest conclusions of modern physiology. By means of it, joined to exercises in memorizing, all that there is in a child of ordinary intellect may be unerringly drawn out; and when in due time knowledge or information is gradually adduced, there is perhaps no limit to what that intellect may become. The study, therefore, of quickness of perception, as set forth or exercised in gypsy fortune-telling, is indeed curious; but to the far-reaching observer who is interested in education it is infinitely more useful, for it furnishes proof of the ability latent in every mind to perform what appear to be more than feats of intelligence or miracles, yet which often are all mere trifles compared to what man could effect if he were properly trained to it. Sorcery! We are all sorcerers, and live in a wonderland of marvel and beauty if we did but know it. For the seed sprouting from the ground is as strange a truth as though we saw the hosts of heaven sweeping onward in glory, or could commune with fairies, or raise from his grave the master magician of song who laid a curse on all who should dig his dust. But like children who go to sleep in the grand opera, and are wild with delight at Punch, we turn aside from the endless miracle of nature to be charmed and bewildered with the petty thaumaturgy of guitars in the dark, cigarettes, and rope-tying, because it corresponds to and is miracle enough for us. And perhaps it is as well; for much thought on the Infinites made Jean Paul Richter and Thomas Carlyle half mad and almost unfit for common life. Seek truth in Science and we shall be well balanced in the little as well as the great. CHAPTER XII. FORTUNE-TELLING (continued).--ROMANCE BASED ON CHANCE, OR HOPE, AS REGARDS THE FUTURE--FOLK- AND SORCERY-LORE--AUTHENTIC INSTANCES OF GYPSY PREDICTION. It would seem to all who now live that life would be really intolerably dry were it utterly deprived of mystery, marvel, or romance. This latter is the sentiment of hopeful chance allied to the beautiful. Youth is willing or eager to run great risks if the road to or through them passes by dark ravines, under castled rocks-- "o'er dewy grass And waters wild and fleet" --and ever has been from the beginning. Now, it is a matter of serious importance to know whether this romance is so deeply inherent in man that it can never be removed. For, rightly viewed, it means current religion, poetry, and almost all art--as art at least was once understood--and it would seem as if we had come, or are coming, to a time when science threatens to deprive us of it all. Such is the hidden fear of many a priest and poet--it may be worth while to consider whether it is all to pass away into earnest prose or assume new conditions. Has the world been hitherto a child, or a youth, were poetry and supernaturalism its toys, and has the time come when it is to put away childish things? We can only argue from what we are, and what we clearly know or understand. And we know that there are in Nature, though measured by the senses alone, phenomena which awake delightful or terrible, sublime or beautiful, grave or gay feelings, or emotions, which inspire corresponding thoughts. There is for us "an elf-home glory-land," far over setting suns, mysterious beauty in night and stars in their eternal course, grandeur of God in the ocean, loveliness in woman, chiaroscuro in vapoury valleys and the spray of waterfalls by moonlight, exciting emotions which are certainly not within the domain of science--as yet--and which it is impossible for us, as we are at present constituted, to imagine as regarded entirely from the standpoint of chemical and physical analysis. To see in all this--as we are--only hydro-carbons, oxygen, silex and aluminium, atoms, molecules, and "laws"--that is to say, always the parts and combinations and no sense as regards man that he is, with his emotional sense of beauty, anywhere in the game or of any account--is going far too far. Setting teleology and theology entirely aside, Man, as the highest organism, has a right to claim that, as the highest faculties which have been as yet developed in him were caused by natural phenomena, therefore there is in the phenomena a certain beauty which is far more likely to lead to more advanced enjoyment of form, colour, or what we call the æsthetic sense, than to shrink away and disappear. And it seems to me that the most extended consideration of science leads to the result or conclusion that under its influence we shall find that the chemical and physical analyses of which I have spoken are only the dry A B C of a marvellously grand literature, or of a Romance and Poetry and Beauty--perhaps even of a wondrous "occult" philosophy, of whose beginning even we have, as yet, no idea. But, great as it may be, those who will make it must derive their summary of facts or bases of observation from the past, and therefore I urge the importance of every man who can write doing what he can to collect all that illustrates Humanity as it is and as it was in by-gone ages. It hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive what a Folk-lore or ethnological society in ancient Greece, Rome, or Egypt might not have collected and preserved for the delight of every civilized human being of the present day. It is very true that the number of persons, as yet, who understand this--still less of those who take a real interest in it--is extremely limited, and they do not extend in England, America, or any other country, to more than a few hundreds. To the vast multitude, even of learned men, Folk-lore is only a "craze" for small literary bric-à-brac, a "fancy" which will have its run, and nothing more. To its earnest devotees it is the last great development of the art of learning and writing history, and a timely provision for future social science. It sets forth the most intimate inner life of people as they were, and the origins of our life as it is. In Folk-lore, Philology, Ethnology, and the study of Mythology or Religion find their greatest aid. The amount of Red Indian Folk-lore which has been suffered to perish in the United States without exciting the least interest is beyond all belief. Thoreau could find in the Algonkin legends of New England nothing but matter for feeble-minded ridicule. But there are men coming, or a generation rising, to whom every record of the past will be of value, for they are beginning to perceive that while the collector is doing work of value the mere theorist, who generally undervalues if he does not actually oppose the collector, will with his rubbish be swept away "down the back-entry of time," to be utterly forgotten. Gypsy sorcery-lore is of great value because all over the Aryan world gypsies have in ancient or modern times been, so to speak, the wandering priests of that form of popular religion which consists of a faith in fortune-telling. This is really a very important part in every cult; the most remarkable thing connected with it; as with charms, fetishes, incantations and protective spells, being the extraordinary success with which the more respectable magi have succeeded in convincing their followers that their own sorcery was not "magic" at all, and that the world-old heathen rites, which are substantially the same, are mere modern thieveries from the "established religion." Prediction and prophecy were the cornerstones of the classic mythology and of the Jewish law; they were equally dear to the Celtic races, and all men seem from the earliest times to have believed that coming events cast their shadows before. How this began and grew requires no deep study. Many disorders are prefaced by uneasy dreams or unaccountable melancholy, even as the greatest disaster which befel the gods of Valhalla was preceded by the troubled dreams of Balder. Sometimes the first symptom of gout is a previous irritability. But if diseases are believed to be caused by the literal occupation of the body by evil spirits these presages will be ascribed to occult spiritual influences. A man in excellent health feels gay--he goes hunting and has luck--of course his guardian spirit is believed to have inspired him to go. Then comes the priest or the gypsy to predict, and the hits are recorded and the misses are promptly forgotten. The following instance has been related to me in good faith by a learned friend, whose books are well known to all Folk-lorists:-- "I can quote from my own experience a strange event founded on a prediction made to me by a gypsy in 1863. This was before I had learned the language of the Romany or had begun to take any interest in them. At the time of which I speak, I met one day here, in T----, one or two gypsy women bearing as usual babies on their shoulders, when the oldest as I was passing by pointed me out to the bystanders, saying in German, 'Der Herr hat viel Kummer gehabt' ('That gentleman has had much trouble'--or sorrow). "This was true enough, as I was suffering greatly at the time from a previous bereavement, though I was no longer in mourning, nor was there at the instant any indication of gloom in my looks, for I was in a cheerful humour. So I stopped to ask her why she had made her remark. She replied, 'Ja, geben Sie mir die linke Hand und legen Sie drei Silbermünze darauf, wenn Sie weiteres hören wollen' ('Yes, give me your hand, and put three silver coins on it, if you would hear more'). I did so, when she repeated her assertion as to my sorrow, and added, 'Aber eine Gräfinn steht für Ihnen' ('But there is a countess awaiting you'). "I laughed at myself for listening to this, and for the strange feeling of interest or faith which I felt in it, and which my common sense told me was ridiculous. And yet the prediction, strangely enough, was fulfilled, though not in the sense in which I suppose most people would have taken it. Soon after I lost another relative, and was overwhelmed with that and other troubles when Providence sent me a friend in that most amiable and remarkable woman the Countess B----, who, with that noble and gracious affability which distinguishes her, as well as her husband, Sir ----, relieved my mind and cheered my depressed spirits. "I add to this a marvellous story of a gypsy prediction which was uttered here in T---- and published last year in a small biography, but which is worth consideration because I have heard it apparently well authenticated by trustworthy people. A very great disgrace to our town--I am happy to say he was the only one--was a Mr. M----, of very good family. This man kept a mistress named R. M----, who became acquainted with a young man who was employed as a clerk at the Credit Anstalt, and who always at night carried on his person its keys. This M---- learned, and formed the following plot: The victim was to be enticed by the woman to her room, where she proposed to cut his throat, take the keys, and with the aid of M---- to rob the bank and escape. It succeeded so far as that the young man was brought to her room, but when she began to attempt to kill him he struggled, and was overpowering her when M---- entered the room and shot him dead. "The precious pair were subsequently arrested and tried, and in the report of the proceedings there appears the following curious statement:-- "'It is a singular thing (cosa piu singolare) that to this woman (M----'s mistress, Miss R----), a gypsy woman who pretended to palmistry predicted that she would come to a bad end (ch'essa finirebbe assai male).' Which she effectually did, being condemned to fourteen years' hard labour, and would have been hung had not her "interesting state" inclined the judge to mercy. "There is the following addition in the pamphlet to what has been quoted: 'Being begged by the said Maria R---- to look more closely into the hand, the Zingara refused to do so, and went away muttering strange or foreign words.' (Borbottanda strane parole)." To this my informant adds:-- "I know of a more cheerful case of gypsy prediction, and of quite another kind, and which happened to a friend's friend of mine, also here in T----. The 'subject' was a young lady, who was 'intended' or betrothed, to an Italian actor, who had gone to play at Madrid; but for two months she heard nothing from him, and, believing that he had neglected her, was in despair. "One morning she was passing through one of the main streets, and was talking with my friend, when a dark gypsy girl going by, whispered to her in a hurried manner: 'Domani avrai una lettera e sarai felice' ('To-morrow you will receive a letter and be happy'). Having said this and nothing more, without asking for money, she went away. The promised letter was in fact received, all went well, and the lady is now married to the gentleman. This is all simply true. I leave the comments on the case to investigators. Can it be that gypsies are sometimes clairvoyant?" My own comment on the case is that, admitting that the gypsy knew beforehand all the circumstances or even the "parties" in the affair, she had divined or "intuited" a result, and risked, as some might call it, or else uttered from a real conviction, her prophecy. How the mind, without any miracle--as miracles are commonly regarded--often arrives quite unconsciously to such conclusions, I have already considered in another chapter. Making every allowance for unconscious exaggeration and the accretive power of transmission, I am willing to believe that the story is actually true. The following is also perfectly authentic: An English lady of excellent family, meeting a gypsy, was told by the latter that in six months the most important event of her life would come to pass. At the end of the time she died. On her death-bed she said, "I thought the gypsy meant a marriage, but I feel that something far more important is coming, for death is the great end of life." The following was told me by a Hungarian gentleman of Szegedin:-- "There was in Arad a lady who went to a ball. She had a necklace to which were attached four rings. During the evening she took this from her neck, and doubling it, wore it on her arm as a bracelet. In the house where she lived was a young gentleman who came to accompany her home from the ball. All at once, late at night, she missed her necklace and the rings, which were of great value. "The next day she sent for a gypsy woman, who, being consulted, declared that the collar had been stolen by some one who was very intimate in her house. Her suspicions rested on the young man who had accompanied her home. He was arrested, but discharged for want of evidence. "Three months after there came a kellner, a waiter, from some other city, to Arad. The lady, being in a café or some such place of resort, was waited on by this man, and saw one of her rings on his hand. He was arrested, and before the police declared that he held the ring in pledge, having advanced money upon it to a certain gentleman. This gentleman was the lady's betrothed, and he had stolen her necklace and rings. The gypsy had truly enough said that the articles had been taken by some one who was intimate in her house." The gentleman who told me this story also said that the death of his father had been foretold by a gypsy--that is, by a lady who was of half-gypsy blood. It should be borne in mind, though few realize its truth, that in stages of society where people believe earnestly in anything--for example, in witchcraft or the evil eye--there results in time a state of mind or body in which they are actually capable of being killed with a curse, or a fear of seeing what is not before them in the body, and of many nervous conditions which are absolutely impossible and incomprehensible to the world of culture at the present day. But there are still places where witchcraft may be said to exist literally, for there the professors of the art to all intents work miracles, because they are believed in. There is abundance of such faith extant, even in England. I have heard the names of three "white" witch doctors in as many towns in the West of England, who are paid a guinea a visit, their specialty being to "unlock," or neutralize, or defeat the evil efforts of black witches. This, as is indeed true, indicates that a rather high class of patients put faith in them. In Hungary, in the country, the majority, even of the better class, are very much influenced by gypsy-witches. Witness the following, which is interesting simply because, while there is very little indeed in it, it was related to me as a most conclusive proof of magic power:-- "In a suburb of Szegedin, inhabited only by peasants, there is a school with a farm attached to it. The pay of the teacher is trifling, but he can make a comfortable living from the land. This was held by an old man, who had a young assistant. The old man died; the youth succeeded him, and as he found himself doing well, in due time he took a wife. They lived happily together for a year and had a daughter. In the spring the teacher had to work very hard, not only in school but on his farm, and so for the first time contracted the habit of going to the tavern to refresh himself, and what was worst, of concealing it from his wife under plausible tales, to which she gave no trust. She began to be very unhappy, and, naturally enough, suspected a rival. "Of course she took advice from a gypsy woman, who heard all the story and consulted her cards. 'There is,' she said, 'no woman whatever in the way. There is no sign of one for good or evil, na latchi na misec, in the cards. But beware! for there is a great and unexpected misfortune coming, and more than this I cannot see.' So she took her pay and departed. Suddenly her child fell ill and died after eight days. Then the husband reformed his ways, and all went well with them. So, you see, the gypsy foretold it all, wonderfully and accurately." It requires no sorcery to conjecture that the gypsy already knew the habits of the schoolmaster, as the Romany is generally familiar with the tavern of every town. To predict a misfortune at large is a sure card for every prophetess. What is remarkable is that a man of the world and one widely travelled, as was my informant, attached great importance to the story. It is evident that where so much of the sherris sack of faith accompanies such a small crust of miracle there must be a state of society in which miracles in their real sense are perfectly capable of being worked. CHAPTER XIII. PROVERBS REFERRING TO WITCHES, GYPSIES, AND FAIRIES. "Of Fairies, Witches, Gypsies, My nourrice sang to me, Sua Gypsies, Fairies, Witches, I alsua synge to thee." ("Denham Tract.") Dr. Krauss has in his work, "Sreca, Gluck und Schicksal im Volksglauben der Südslaven," collected a number of sayings in reference to his subject, from which I have taken some, and added more from other sources. Of an evil woman one says, as in all languages, "To je vila"--that is, "a witch"; or it is uttered or muttered as, "To je vila ljutica"--that is, "a biting (or bitter) witch"; or to a woman whom one dislikes, "Idi vilo!"--"Begone, witch!" as in gypsy, "Jasa tu chovihani!" Also, as in German, "Ako i je baba, nije vjestica"--"Though she is an old woman she is no witch"; while, on the other hand, we have, "Svake baba viestica, a djed vjestac"--"Every old woman is a witch, and every old man a wizard." The proverb, "Bizi ko vistica od biloga luka"--"she runs from it like a witch from white garlic"--will be found fully explained in the chapter on "The Cure of Children," in which it is shown that from early times garlic has been a well-known witch-antidote. Another saying is, "Uzkostrsila se ko vistica"--"Her hair is as tangled, or twisted, as that of a witch"; English gypsy, "Lakis balia shan risserdi sar i chovihanis." But this has a slightly different meaning, since in the Slavonian it refers to matted, wild-looking locks, while the Romany is according to a belief that the hair of a witch is curled at the ends only. Allied to this is the proverb, "Izgleda kao aa su ga coprnice doniele sa Ivanjscica"--"He looks as if the witches had done for him (or brought him away, 'fetched' him) on Saint John's Eve"; English Romany, "Yuv dikela sá soved a lay sar a chovihani"--"He looks as if he had lain with a witch." "Svaka vracara s vrazje strane"--"Every witch belongs to the devil's gang"--that is, she has, sold her soul to him and is in his interests. This is allied to the saying, "Kud ce vjestica do u svoj rod?"--"Where should a witch go if not to her kin?" or, "Birds of a feather flock together." "Jasa ga vjestice"--"The witches ride him"--refers to the ancient and world-wide belief that witches turn men into animals and ride them in sleep. The hazel tree and nut are allied to the supernatural or witchly in many lands. For the divining rod, which is, according to "La Grande Bacchetta Divinatoria O Verga rivelatrice" of the Abbate Valmont, the great instrument for all magic and marvels, must be made of "un ramo forcuto di nocciuòlo"--"a forked branch of hazel-nut"--whence a proverb, "Vracarice, coprnjice, kuko ljeskova!"--"Sorceress, witch, hazel-stick." This is a reproach or taunt to a woman who pays great attention to magic and witchcraft. "This reveals a very ancient belief of the witch as a wood-spirit or fairy who dwells in the nut itself." More generally it is the bush which, in old German ballads, is often addressed as Lady Hazel. In this, as in Lady Nightingale, we have a relic of addressing certain animals or plants as if they were intelligences or spirits. In one very old song in "Des Knaben Wunderhorn," a girl, angry at the hazel, who has reproached her for having loved too lightly or been too frail, says that her brother will come and cut the bush down. To which Lady Hazel replies:-- "Although he comes and cuts me down, I'll grow next spring, 'tis plain, But if a virgin wreath should fade, 'Twill never bloom again." To keep children from picking unripe hazel-nuts in the Canton of Saint Gall they cry to them, "S' Haselnussfràuli chumt"--"The hazel-nut lady is coming!" Hence a rosary of hazel-nuts or a hazel rod brings luck, and they may be safely hung up in a house. The hazel-nut necklaces found in prehistoric tombs were probably amulets as well as ornaments. Among popular sayings we may include the following from the Gorski Vijenac:-- "A eto si udrijo vladiko, U nekakve smucene vjetrove, Ko u marcu sto udre vjestice." "But behold, O Vladika, Thou hast thrown thyself into every storm, As witches throw or change themselves to cattle." And with these we may include the curse, "Izjele te viestice"--"May the witches eat you!" which has its exact parallel in Romany. Also the Scottish saying, "Witches, warlocks, and gypsies soon ken ae the ither":-- "Witches and warlocks without any bother, Like gypsies on meeting well know one another." I may appropriately add to these certain proverbs which are given in an extremely rare "Denham Tract," of which only fifty copies were printed by John Bell Richmond, "in. Com. Ebor." This quaint little work of only six pages is entitled, "A Few Popular Rhymes, Proverbs, and Sayings relating to Fairies, Witches, and Gypsies," and bears the dedication, "To every individual Fairy, Witch, and Gypsy from the day of the Witch of Endor down to that of Billy Dawson, the Wise Man of Stokesley, lately defunct, this tract is inscribed." WITCHES. Vervain and Dill Hinder witches from their will. The following refers to rowan or mountain-ash wood, which is supposed to be a charm against witchcraft:-- If your whipstick's made of rowan You can ride your nag thro' any town. Much about a pitch, Quoth the devil to the witch. A hairy man's a geary man, But a hairy wife's a witch. Woe to the lad Without a rowan-tree god. A witch-wife and an evil Is three-halfpence worse than the devil. Hey-how for Hallow-e'en! When all the witches are to be seen, Some in black and some in green, Hey-how for Hallow-e'en! Thout! tout! a tout, tout! Throughout and about. Cummer goe ye before, cummer goe ye, Gif ye will not goe before, cummer let me! "These lines are said to have been sung by witches at North Berwick in Lothian, accompanied by the music of a Jew's harp or trump, which was played by Geilles Duncan, a servant girl, before two hundred witches, who joined hands in a short daunce or reel, singing (also) these lines with one voice:-- "'Witchy, witchy, I defy thee, Four fingers round my thumb, Let me go quietly by thee.' "It will be seen that this is a phallic sign, and as such dreaded by witches. It is difficult to understand why these verses with the sign should have been given by witches." "The anti-witch rhyme used in Tweedesdale some sixty or seventy years ago was:-- "'Black-luggie, lammer bead, Rowan-tree and reed thread, Put the witches to their speed.' "The meaning of 'black-luggie' I know not. 'Lammer bead' is a corruption of 'amber-bead.' They are still worn by a few old people in Scotland as a preservative against a variety of diseases, especially asthma, dropsy, and toothache. They also preserve the wearer from the effects of witchcraft, as stated in the text. I have seen a twig of rowan-tree, witch-wood, quick-bane, wild ash, wicken-tree, wicky, wiggy, witchen, witch-bane, royne-tree, mountain-ash, whitty, wiggin, witch-hazel, roden-quicken, roden-quicken-royan, roun, or ran-tree, which had been gathered on the second of May (observe this), wound round with some dozens of yards of red thread, placed visible in the window to act as a charm in keeping witches and Boggle-boes from the house. So also we have-- "'Rowan-ash and reed thread Keep the devils from their speed.'" Ye brade o' witches, ye can do no good to yourself. Fair they came, Fair they go, And always their heels behind them. Neither so sinful as to sink, nor so godly as to swim. Falser than Waghorn, and he was nineteen times falser than the devil. Ingratitude is worse than witchcraft. Ye're as mitch As half a witch. To milk the tether (i.e., the cow-tie). This refers to a belief that witches can carry off the milk from any one's cow by milking at the end of the tether. Go in God's name--so you ride no witches. "Rynt, you witch!" quoth Bess Lockit to her mother. Rynt, according to Skeat, is the original Cumberland word for "aroint," i.e., "aroint thee, get thee gone." Icelandic ryma--"to make room, to clear the way"--given, however, only as a guess. It seems to have been specially applied to witches. "'Aroint thee, witch!' the rump-fed ronyon cried." ("Macbeth"). Halliwell gives the word as rynt, and devotes a column to it, without coming to any satisfactory conclusion. I think it is simply the old word rynt or wrynt, another form of writhe, meaning to twist or strangle, as if one should say, "Be thou strangled!" which was indeed a frequent malediction. Halliwell himself gives "wreint" as meaning "awry," and "wreith destordre"--"to wring or wreith" ("Hollyband's Dictionarie," 1593). The commonest curse of English gypsies at the present day is "Beng tasser tute!" "May the devil strangle you"--literally twist, which is an exact translation of wrinthe or rynt. "The gode man to hys cage can goo And wrythed the pye's neck yn to." ("MS. Cantab." ap. H.) Rynt may mean twist away, i.e., begone, as they say in America, "he wriggled away." They that burn you for a witch lose all their coals. Never talk of witches on a Friday. Ye're ower aude ffarand to be fraid o' witches. Witches are most apt to confess on a Friday. Friday is the witches' Sabbath. To hug one as the devil hugs a witch. As black } As cross } As ugly } as a witch. As sinful } Four fingers and a thumb--witch, I defy thee. In Italy the signs are made differently. In Naples the gettatura consists of throwing out the fore and middle fingers, so as to imitate horns, with the thumb and fingers closed. Some say the thumb should be within the middle and third fingers. In Florence the anti-witch gesture is to fare la fica, or stick the thumb out between the fore and middle fingers. You're like a witch, you say your prayers backward. Witch-wood (i.e., the mountain ash). You're half a witch--i.e., very cunning. Buzz! buzz! buzz! "In the middle of the sixteenth century if a person waved his hat or bonnet in the air and cried 'Buzz!' three times, under the belief that by this act he could take the life of another, the old law and law-makers considered the person so saying and acting to be worthy of death, he being a murderer in intent, and having dealings with witches" ("Denham Tract"). Very doubtful, and probably founded on a well known old story. "I wish I was as far from God as my nails are free from dirt!" Said to have been a witch's prayer whilst she was in the act of cleaning her nails. In logical accuracy this recalls the black boy in America, who on being asked if he knew the way to a certain place, replied, "I only wish I had as many dollars as I know my way there." A witch is afraid of her own blood. A Pendle forest witch. A Lancashire witch. A witch cannot greet (i.e., weep). To be hog, or witch-ridden. GYPSIES. So many gypsies, so many smiths. The gypsies are all akin. One of the Faw gang, Worse than the Faw gang. The Faws or Faas are a gypsy family whose head-quarters are at Yetholme. I have been among them and knew the queen of the gypsies and her son Robert, who were of this clan or name. "It is supposed the Faws acquired this appellation from Johnnie Faw, lord and earl of Little Egypt; with whom James the Fourth and Queen Mary, sovereigns of Scotland, saw not only the propriety, but also the necessity of entering into special treaty" ("Denham Tract"). "Francis Heron, king of the Faws, bur. (Yarrow) xiii. Jan., 1756" (Sharp's "Chron. Mir"). FAIRIES. Where the scythe cuts and the sock rives, No more fairies and bee-hives. Laugh like a pixy (i.e., fairy). Waters locked! waters locked! (A favourite cry of fairies.) Borram! borram! borram! (The cry of the Irish fairies after mounting their steeds. Equivalent to the Scottish cry, "Horse! horse and hattock!") To live in the land of the Fair family. (A Welsh fairy saying.) God grant that the fairies may put money in your shoes and keep your house clean. (One of the good wishes of the old time.) Fairies comb goats' beards every Friday. He who finds a piece of money will always find another in the same place, so long as he keeps it a secret. (In reference to fairy gifts.) It's going on, like Stokepitch's can. A pixey or fairy saying, used in Devonshire. The family of Stokespitch or Sukespic resided near Topsham, and a barrel of ale in their cellars had for many years run freely without being exhausted. It was considered a valuable heirloom, and was esteemed accordingly, till an inquisitive maidservant took out the bung to ascertain the cause why it never run dry. On looking into the cask she found it full of cobwebs, but the fairies, it would seem, were offended, for on turning the cock, as usual, the ale had ceased to flow. It was a common reply at Topsham to the inquiry how any affair wen on: "It's going on like Stokepitch's can," or proceeding prosperously. To laugh like Robin Goodfellow. To laugh like old Bogie; He caps Bogie. (Amplified to "He caps Bogie, and Bogie capped old Nick.") To play the Puck. (An Irish saying, equivalent to the English one, "To play the deuce or devil." Keightley's "Fairy Mythology.") He has got into Lob's pound or pond. (That is, into the fairies' pinfold. Keightley's "Fairy Mythology.") Pinch like a fairy. ("Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins." "Merry Wives of Windsor.") To be fairy-struck. (The paralysis is, or rather perhaps was, so called. Keightley's "Fairy Mythology.") There has never been a merry world since the Phynoderee lost his ground. [A Manx fairy saying. See Train's "Isle of Man," ii. p. 148. "Popular Rhymes of the Isle of Man," pp. 16, 17.] To be pixey-led. Led astray by fairies or goblins. "When a man has got a wee drap ower muckle whuskey, misses his way home, and gets miles out of his direct course, he tells a tale of excuse and whiles lays the blame on the innocent pixies" (see Keightley's "Fairy Mythology"). Also recalling Feufollet, or the Will o' the Wisp, and the traveller who "thro' bog and bush Was lantern-led by Friar Rush." Gypsies have from their out of doors life much familiarity with these "spirits" whom they call mullo dudia, or mullo doods, i.e., dead or ghost lights. For an account of the adventure of a gypsy with them, see "The English Gypsies and their Language," by C. G. Leland. London: Trübner & Co. "Pyxie-led is to be in a maze, to be bewildered as if led out of the way by hobgoblins or puck, or one of the fairies. The cure is to turn one of your garments the inside outward; some say that is for a woman to turn her cap inside outward, and for a man to do the same with some of his clothes" (MS. "Devon Glimpses"--Halliwell). "Thee pixie-led in Popish piety" (Clobery's "Divine Glimpses," 1659). The fairies' lanthorn. That is the glow-worm. In America a popular story represents an Irishman as believing that a fire-fly was a mosquito "sakin' his prey wid a lanthorn." God speed you, gentlemen! "When an Irish peasant sees a cloud of dust sweeping along the road, he raises his hat and utters this blessing in behoof of ye company of invisible fairies who, as he believes, caused it" ("Fairy Mythology"). The Phooka have dirtied the blackberries. Said when the fruit of the blackberry is spoiled through age or covered with dust at the end of the season. In the North of England we say "the devil has set his foot on the Bumble-Kites" ("Denham Tract"). Fairy, fairy, bake me a bannock and roast me a collop, And I'll give ye a spintle off my god end. "This is spoken three times by the Clydesdale peasant when ploughing, because he believes that on getting to the end of the fourth furrow those good things will be found spread out on the grass" (Chambers' "Popular Rhymes, Scotland," 3rd ed. p. 106). Turn your clokes (i.e., coats), For fairy folkes Are in old oakes. "I well remember that on more occasions than one, when a schoolboy, I have turned and worn my coat inside out in passing through a wood in order to avoid the 'good people.' On nutting days, those glorious red-letter festivals in the schoolboy's calendar, the use pretty generally prevailed. The rhymes in the text are the English formula" ("Denham Tract"). He's got Pigwiggan. "Vulgarly called Peggy Wiggan. A severe fall or somerset is so termed in the B'prick. The fairy Pigwiggan is celebrated by Drayton in his Nymphidia" ("Denham Tract"). To which may be added a few more from other sources. Do what you may, say what you can, No washing e'er whitens the black Zingan. ("Firdusi.") For every gypsy that comes to toon, A hen will be a-missing soon, And for every gypsy woman old, A maiden's fortune will be told. Gypsy hair and devil's eyes, Ever stealing, full of lies, Yet always poor and never wise. He who has never lived like a gypsy does not know how to enjoy life as a gentleman. I never enjoyed the mere living as regards all that constitutes ordinary respectable life so keenly as I did after some weeks of great hunger, exposure, and misery, in an artillery company in 1863, at the time of the battle of Gettysburg. Zigeuner Leben Greiner Leben. (Gipsy life a groaning life. Korte's "Sprichwörter d. D.") Er taugt nicht zum Zigeuner. Spottisch vom Lügner gesagt weil er nicht wahr-sagt. (Korte, "Sprichwörter.") "He would not do for a gypsy." Said of a liar because he cannot tell the truth. In German to predict or tell fortunes also means to speak truly, i.e., wahr = true, and sprechen = to speak. Gypsy repentance for stolen hens is not worth much. (Old German Saying.) The Romany chi And the Romany chal Love luripen And lutchipen And dukkeripen And huknipen And every pen But latchipen And tatchipen. The gypsy woman And gypsy man Love stealing And lewdness And fortune telling And lying And every pen But shame And truth. Pen is the termination of all verbal nouns. (George Borrow, Quoted from memory.) It's a winter morning. Meaning a bad day, or that matters look badly. In allusion to the Winters, a gypsy clan with a bad name. As wild as a gypsy. Puro romaneskoes. (In the old gypsy fashion.) Sie hat 'nen Kobold. ("She has a brownie, or house-fairy.") "Said of a girl who does everything deftly and readily. In some places the peasants believe that a fairy lives in the house, who does the work, brings water or wood, or curries the horses. Where such a fairy dwells, all succeeds if he or she is kindly treated" (Korte's "German Proverbs"). "Man siehet wohl wess Geisters Kind Sie (Er) ist." "One can well see what spirit was his sire." In allusion to men of singular or eccentric habits, who are believed to have been begotten by the incubus, or goblins, or fairies. There are ceremonies by which spirits may be attracted to come to people in dreams. "There was a young man who lived near Monte Lupo, and one day he found in a place among some old ruins a statue of a fate (fairy or goddess) all naked. He set it up in its shrine, and admiring it greatly embraced it with love (ut semen ejus profluit super statuam). And that night and ever after the fate came to him in his dreams and lay with him, and told him where to find treasures, so that he became a rich man. But he lived no more among men, nor did he after that ever enter a church. And I have heard that any one who will do as he did can draw the fate to come to him, for they are greatly desirous to be loved and worshipped by men as they were in the Roman times." The following are Hungarian or Transylvanian proverbs:-- False as a Tzigane, i.e., gypsy. Dirty as a gypsy. They live like gypsies (said of a quarrelsome couple). He moans like a guilty Tzigane (said of a man given to useless lamenting). He knows how to plow with the gypsies (said of a liar). Also: "He knows how to ride the gypsies' horse." He knows the gypsy trade (i.e., he is a thief). Tzigane weather (i.e., a showery day). It is gypsy honey (i.e., adulterated). A gypsy duck i.e., a poor sort of wild duck. "The gypsy said his favourite bird would be the pig if it had only wings" (in allusion to the gypsy fondness for pork). Mrs. Gerard gives a number of proverbs as current among Hungarian gypsies which appear to be borrowed by them from those of other races. Among them are:-- Who would steal potatoes must not forget the sack. The best smith cannot make more than one ring at a time. Nothing is so bad but it is good enough for somebody. Bacon makes bold. "He eats his faith as the gypsies ate their church." A Wallach proverb founded on another to the effect that the gypsy church was made of pork and the dogs ate it. I shall never forget how an old gypsy in Brighton laughed when I told her this, and how she repeated: "O Romani kangri sos kerdo ballovas te i juckli hawde lis." "No entertainment without gypsies." In reference to gypsy musicians who are always on hand at every festivity. The Hungarian wants only a glass of water and a gypsy fiddler to make him drunk. In reference to the excitement which Hungarians experience in listening to gypsy music. With a wet rag you can put to flight a whole village of gypsies (Hungarian). It would not be advisable to attempt this with any gypsies in Great Britain, where they are almost, without exception, only too ready to fight with anybody. Every gypsy woman is a witch. "Every woman is at heart a witch." In the "Materials for the Study of the Gypsies," by M. I. Kounavine, which I have not yet seen, there are, according to A. B. Elysseeff (Gypsy-Lore Journal, July, 1890), three or four score of gypsy proverbial sayings and maxims. These refer to Slavonian or far Eastern Russian Romanis. I may here state in this connection that all who are interested in this subject, or aught relating to it, will find much to interest them in this journal of the Gypsy-Lore Society, printed by T. & A. Constable, Edinburgh. The price of subscription, including membership of the society, is £1 a year--Address: David Mac Ritchie, 4, Archibald Place, Edinburgh. CHAPTER XIV. [21] A GYPSY MAGIC SPELL.--HOKKANI BASO--LELLIN DUDIKABIN, OR THE GREAT SECRET--CHILDREN'S RHYMES AND INCANTATIONS--TEN LITTLE INDIAN BOYS AND TEN LITTLE ACORN GIRLS OF MARCELLUS BURDIGALENSIS. There is a meaningless rhyme very common among children. It is repeated while "counting off"--or "out"--those who are taking part in a game, and allotting to each a place. There are many versions of it, but the following is exactly word for word what I learned when a boy in Philadelphia:-- Ekkeri (or ickery), akkery, u-kéry an, Fillisi', follasy, Nicholas John, Queebee-quabee--Irishman (or, Irish Mary), Stingle 'em--stangle 'em--buck! With a very little alteration in sounds, and not more than children make of these verses in different places, this may be read as follows:-- Ek-keri (yekori) akairi, you kair an, Fillissin, follasy, Nákelas jan Kivi, kávi--Irishman, Stini, stani--buck! This is, of course, nonsense, but it is Romany or gypsy nonsense, and it may be thus translated very accurately:-- First--here--you begin! Castle, gloves. You don't play! Go on! Kivi--a kettle. How are you? Stáni, buck. The common version of the rhyme begins with-- "One--ery--two--ery, ickery an." But one-ery is an exact translation of ek-keri; ek, or yek, meaning one in gypsy. (Ek-orus, or yek-korus, means once). And it is remarkable that in-- "Hickory dickory dock, The rat ran up the clock, The clock struck one, And down he run, Hickory dickory dock." We have hickory, or ek-keri, again followed by a significant one. It may be observed that; while my first quotation abounds in what are unmistakably Romany words, I can find no trace of any in any other child-rhymes of the kind. I lay stress on this, for if I were a great Celtic scholar I should not have the least difficulty in proving that every word in every rhyme, down to "Tommy, make room for your uncle," was all old Irish or Gaelic. Word for word every person who understands Romany will admit the following:-- Ek, or yek, means one. Yekorus, ekorus, or yeckori, or ekkeri, once. U-kair-an. You kair an, or begin. Kair is to make or do, ankair to begin. "Do you begin?" Fillissin is a castle, or gentleman's country seat (H. Smith). Follasi, or follasy, is a lady's glove. Nakelas. I learned this word from an old gypsy. It is used as equivalent to don't, but also means ná (kélas), you don't play. From kel-ava, I play. Ján, Ja-an, Go on. From java, I go. Hindu, jána, and jáo. Kivi, or keevy. No meaning. Kavi, a kettle, from kekavi, commonly given as kavi. Greek, kekkabos. Hindu, kal, a box. Stini. No meaning that I know. Stáni. A buck. Of the last line it may be remarked that if we take from ingle 'em (angle 'em), which is probably added for mere jingle, there remains stán, or stáni, "a buck," followed by the very same word in English. With the mournful examples of Mr. Bellenden Kerr's efforts to show that all our old proverbs, saws, sayings, and tavern signs are Dutch, and Sir William Betham's Etruscan-Irish, and the works of an army of "philologists," who consider mere chance resemblance to be a proof of identical origin, I should be justly regarded as one of the seekers for mystery in moonshine if I declared that I positively believed this to be Romany. But it certainly contains words which, without any stretching or fitting, are simply gypsy, and I think it not improbable that it was some sham charm used by some Romany fortune-teller to bewilder Gorgios. Let the reader imagine the burnt-sienna, wild-cat-eyed old sorceress performing before a credulous farm-wife and her children, the great ceremony of hakkni pánki--which Mr. Borrow calls hokkani baro, but for which there is a far deeper name--that of "the great secret"--which even my best Romany friends tried to conceal from me. This is to lel dudikabin--to "take lightment." In the oldest English canting, lightment occurs as an equivalent for theft--whether it came from Romany, or Romany from it, I cannot tell. This feat--which is described by almost every writer on Gypsies--is performed by inducing some woman of largely magnified faith to believe that there is hidden in her house a magic treasure, which can only be made "to come to hand" by depositing in the cellar another treasure, to which it will come by natural affinity and attraction. "For gold, as you sees, draws gold, my deari, and so if you ties up all your money in a pocket-handkercher, an' leaves it, you'll find it doubled. An' wasn't there the Squire's lady--you know Mrs. Trefarlo, of course--and didn't she draw two hundred old gold guineas out of the ground where they'd laid in an old grave--and only one guinea she gave me for all my trouble; an' I hope you'll do better than that for the poor old gypsy, my deari----." The gold and the spoons are all tied up--for, as the enchantress sagely observes, "there may be silver to"--and she solemnly repeats over it magical rhymes, while the children, standing around in awe, listen to every word. It is a good subject for a picture. Sometimes the windows are closed, and candles lighted--to add to the effect. The bundle is left or buried in a certain place. The next day the gypsy comes and sees how the charm is working. Could any one look under her cloak, he might find another bundle precisely resembling the one containing the treasure. She looks at the precious deposit, repeats her rhyme again solemnly and departs, after carefully charging the house-wife that the bundle must not be touched, looked at, or spoken of for three weeks. "Every word you tell about it, my deari, will be a guinea gone away." Sometimes she exacts an oath on the Bible, when she chivs o manzin apré laatti--that nothing shall be said. Back to the farmer's house never again. After three weeks another Extraordinary Instance of Gross Credulity appears in the country paper, and is perhaps repeated in a colossal London daily, with a reference to the absence of the schoolmaster. There is wailing and shame in the house--perhaps great suffering--for it may be that the savings of years, and bequeathed tankards, and marriage rings, and inherited jewellery, and mother's souvenirs have been swept away. The charm has worked. "How can people be such fools!" Yea--how can they? How can fully ninety-nine out of one hundred, and I fear me nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand, be capable of what amounts to precisely the same thing--paying out their cash in the hopes that the Invisible Influences in the Inscrutable Cellar or Celestial Garret will pay it back to them, cent. per cent.? Oh, reader, if you be of middle age (for there are perhaps some young agnostics beginning to appear to whom the cap does not fit), and can swear on your hat that you never in your life have been taken in by a dudikabin in any form--send me your name and I will award you for an epitaph that glorious one given in the Nugæ Venales: "Hic jacet ille qui unus fuit inter mille!" The charm has worked. But the little sharp-eared children remember it, and sing it over, and the more meaningless it sounds in their ears, the more mysterious does it become. And they never talk about the bundle--which when opened was found to contain only stones, sticks, and rags--without repeating it. So it goes from mouth to mouth, until, all mutilated, it passes current for even worse nonsense than it was at first. It may be observed, however--and the remark will be fully substantiated by any one who knows the gypsy language--that there is a Romany turn to even the roughest corners of these rhymes. Kivi, stingli, stangli, are all gypsyish. But, as I have already intimated, this does not appear in any other nonsense verses of the kind. There is nothing of it in-- "Intery, mintery, cutery corn," or in anything else in "Mother Goose." It is alone in its sounds and sense--or nonsense. But there is not a wanderer on the roads in England who on hearing it would not exclaim, "There's a great deal of Romanes in that ere!" And if any one doubts it let him try it on any gypsy who has an average knowledge of Romany. I should say that the word Na-Kelas, which means literally "Do not play," or, "You do not play," was explained to me by a gypsy as signifying not speaking, or keeping quiet. Nicholas John has really no meaning, but "You don't play--go on," fits exactly into a counting-out game. The mystery of mysteries in the Romany tongue--of which I have spoken--is this: The hokkani baro, or huckeny boro, or great trick, consists of three parts. Firstly, the getting into a house or into the confidence of its owner, which is effected in England by offering small wares for sale, or by begging for food, but chiefly by fortune-telling, the latter being the usual pretence in America. If the gypsy woman be at all prepared, she will have learned enough to amaze "the lady of the house," who is thereby made ready to believe anything. The second part of the trick is the conveying away the property, which is, as I have said, to lel dudikabin, or "take lightning," possibly connected with the old canting term for conveyance of bien lightment. There is evidently a confusion of words here. And third is to "chiv o manzin apré lati" to put the oath upon her--the victim--by which she binds herself not to speak of the affair for some weeks. When the deceived are all under oath not to utter a word about the trick, the gypsy mother has a safe thing of it. The hakkani boro, or great trick, or dudikabin, was brought by the gypsies from the East. It has been practised by them all over the world, and is still played every day somewhere. And I have read in the Press of Philadelphia that a Mrs. Brown--whom I sadly and reluctantly believe is the wife of an acquaintance of mine who walks before the world in other names--was arrested for the same old game of fortune-telling, and persuading a simple dame that there was treasure in the house, and all the rest of the "grand deception." And Mrs. Brown--"good old Mrs. Brown"--went to prison, where she doubtless lingered until a bribed alderman, or a purchased pardon, or some one of the numerous devices by which justice is easily evaded in Pennsylvania, delivered her. Yet it is not a good country on the whole for hakkani boro, since the people, especially in the rural districts, have a rough and ready way of inflicting justice, which sadly interferes with the profits of aldermen and other politicians. Some years ago, in Tennessee, a gypsy woman robbed a farmer of all he was worth. Now it is no slander to say that the rural folk of Tennessee resemble Indians in several respects, and when I saw thousands of them during the Civil War, mustered out in Nashville, I often thought, as I studied these dark brown faces, high cheek-bones, and long, straight, wiry hair, that the American is indeed reverting to the aboriginal type. The Tennessee farmer and his friends reverted to it at any rate with a vengeance, for they turned out altogether, hunted the gypsies down, and having secured the sorceress, burned her alive at the stake. Which has been, as I believe, "an almighty warning" to the Romany in that sad section of the world. And thus in a single crime, and its consequence, we have curiously combined a world-old Oriental offence, an European Middle Age penalty for witchcraft, and the fierce torture of the Red Indian. In the United States there is often to be found in a gypsy camp a negro or two who has with no great trouble adopted a life of perfect laziness. I infer that these men and brothers have not improved much in their morals, since a few years ago a coloured sorcerer appeared in Philadelphia, who, as I was assured, "persuaded half the niggers in Lombard Street to dig up their cellars to find treasure--and carried off all the treasures they had." He had been, like Matthew Arnold's scholar, among the tents of the Romany, and had learned their peculiar wisdom, and turned it to profit. In Germany the Great Sorcery is practised with variations, and indeed in England or America or anywhere it is modified in many ways to suit the victims. The following methods are described by Dr. Richard Liebich, in "Die Zigeuner in ihrem Wesen und in ihrer Sprache" (Leipzig, 1863):-- "When a gypsy has found some old peasant who has the reputation of being rich or very well-to-do he sets himself to work with utmost care to learn the disposition of the man with every possible detail as to his house and habits." (It is easy and congenial work to people who pass their lives in learning all they can of other folks' affairs to aid in fortune-telling, to find out the soft spots, as Sam Slick calls the peculiarities by which a man may be influenced.) "And so some day, when all the rest of the family are in the fields, the gypsy--man or woman--comes, and entering into a conversation, leads it to the subject of the house, remarking that it is a belief among his people that in it a treasure lies buried. He offers, if he may have permission to take it away, to give one-fourth, a third, or a half its value. This all seems fair enough, but the peasant is greedy and wants more. The gypsy, on his side, also assumes suspicion and distrust. He proves that he is a conjuror by performing some strange tricks--thus he takes an egg from under a hen, breaks it, and apparently brings out a small human skull or some strange object, and finally persuades the peasant to collect all his coin and other valuables in notes, gold, or silver, into a bundle, cautioning him to hold them fast. He must go to bed and put the packet under his pillow, while he, the conjuror, finds the treasure. This done--probably in a darkened room--he takes a bundle of similar appearance which he has quickly prepared, and under pretence of facilitating the operation and putting the man into a proper position, takes the original package and substitutes another. Then the victim is cautioned that it is of the utmost importance for him to lie perfectly still;" "Nor move his hand nor blink his 'ee If ever he hoped the goud to see; For aye aboot on ilka limb, The fairies had their 'een on him." The gypsy is over the hills and far far away ere the shades of evening fall, and the family returning from their fields find the father in bed refusing to speak a word; for he has been urgently impressed with the assertion that the longer he holds his tongue and keeps the affair a secret the more money he will make. And the extreme superstition of the German peasant is such that when obliged to tell the truth he often believes that all his loss is due to a premature forced revelation of what he has done--for the gypsy in many cases has the cheek to caution the victim that if he speaks too soon the contents of the package will be turned to sand or rags--accordingly as he has prepared it. Another and more impudent manner of playing this pretended sorcery, is to persuade the peasant that he must have a thick cloth tied around his head, and if any one addresses him to reply only by what in German is called brummen--uttering a kind of growl. This he does, when the entire party proceed to carry off everything portable-- "Chairs and tables knives and forks, Tankards and bottles and cups and corks, Beds and dishes and boots and kegs, Bacon and puddings and milk and eggs, The carpet lying on the floor, And the hams hung up for the winter store, Every pillow and sheet and bed, The dough in the trough and the baken bread, Every bit of provant or pelf; All that they left was the house itself." One may imagine what the scene is like when the rest return and find the house plundered, the paterfamilias sitting in the ruins with his head tied up, answering all frantic queries with brum--brum--brum! It may recall the well-known poem--I think it is by Peter Pindar Wolcott--of the man who was persuaded by a bet to make the motion of a pendulum, saying, "Here she goes--there she goes!" while the instigator "cleared out the house and then cleared out himself." I have little doubt that this poem was drawn from a Romany original. Or yet, again, the gypsy having obtained the plunder and substituted the dummy packet, persuades the true believer to bury it in the barn, garden, field, or a forest, performs magic ceremonies and repeats incantations over it, and cautions him to dig it up again, perhaps six months later on a certain day, it may be his saint's or birth day, and to keep silence till then. The gypsy makes it an absolute condition--nay, he insists very earnestly on it--that the treasure shall not be dug up unless he himself is on the spot to share the spoil. But as he may possibly be prevented from coming, he tells the peasant how to proceed: he leaves with him several pieces of paper inscribed with cabalistic characters which are to be burnt when the money is removed, and teaches him what he is to repeat while doing it. With sequence as before. It might be urged by the gypsy that the taking a man's money from him under the conditions that he shall get it all back with immense interest six months after, does not differ materially from persuading him to give his property to Brahmins, or even priests, with the understanding that he is to be amply rewarded for it in a future state. In both cases the temptation to take the money down is indeed great--as befel a certain very excellently honest but extremely cautious Scotch clergyman, to whom there once came a very wicked and wealthy old reprobate who asked him, "If I gie a thousand puns till the kirk d'ye think it wad save my soul?" "I'm na preparit to preceesely answer that question," said the shrewd dominie, "but I would vara urgently advise ye to try it." Oh thou who persuadest man that for money down great good shall result to him from any kind of spiritual incantation--twist and turn it as ye will--mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur: "With but a single change of name, The story fits thee quite the same." And few and far between are the Romanys--or even the Romans--who would not "vara earnestly advise ye to try it." Since I wrote that last line I have met, in the Journal of American Folk-Lore, with a very interesting article on the Counting-out Rhymes of Children, in which the writer, H. Carrington Bolton, avows his belief that these doggerel verses or rhymes are the survivals of sortileges or divination by lot, and that it was practised among the ancient heathen nations as well as the Israelites:-- "The use of the lot at first received divine sanction, as in the story of Achan related by Joshua, but after this was withheld the practice fell into the hands of sorcerers--which very name signifies lot-taker. The doggerels themselves I regard as a survival of the spoken charms used by sorcerers in ancient times in conjunction with their mystic incantations. There are numerous examples of these charms, such as-- "'Huat Hanat Huat ista pista sista domiabo damnaustra.' (Cato, 235 B.C.) "And-- "'Irriori, ririori essere rhuder fere.' "And-- "'Meu, treu, mor, phor Teux, za, zor Phe, lou, chri, Ge, ze, on.' (Alexander of Tralles.) "Tylor in his 'Primitive Culture' holds that things which occupy an important place in the life-history of grown men in a savage state become the playthings of children in a period of civilization; thus the sling and the bow and arrow, which formed the weapons of mankind in an early stage of its existence, and are still the reliance of savage tribes, have become toys in the hands of all civilized children at the present day. Many games current in Europe and America are known to be sportive imitations of customs which formerly had a significant and serious aspect. "Adopting this theory, I hold that counting-out is a survival of the practice of the sorcerer, using this word in its restricted and etymological meaning, and that the spoken and written charms originally used to enforce priestly power have become adjuncts to these puerile games, and the basis of the counting-out doggrels under consideration. "The idea that European and American children engaged in 'counting-out' for games, are repeating in innocent ignorance the practices and language of a sorcerer of a dark age, is perhaps startling, but can be shown to have a high degree of probability. The leader in 'counting out' performs an incantation, but the children grouped round him are free from that awe and superstitious reverence which characterized the procedure in its earlier state. Many circumstances make this view plausible, and clothe the doggrels with a new and fascinating interest." Mr. Bolton remarks, however, that "in only one instance have I been able to directly connect a child's counting-out rhyme with a magic spell. According to Leland the rhyme beginning with 'One-ery, two-ery, ickery, Ann,' is a gypsy magic spell in the Romany language." It occurred to me long, long ago, or before ever the name "Folk-lore" existed, that children's rhymes were a survival of incantations, and that those which are the same backward and forward were specially adapted to produce marvellous effects in lots. But there was one form of counting-out which was common as it was terrible. This was used when after a victory it was usual to put every tenth captive to death--whence the greatly abused word to "decimate"--or any other number selected. When there was a firm belief in the virtues of numbers as set forth by Pythagoras, and Plato in the Timæus, and of cabalistic names inspired by the "Intelligences," it is not remarkable that the diviners or priests or sorcerers or distributors of sortes and sortileges should endeavour to prove that life and death lay bound up in mystic syllables. That there were curious and occult arithmetical means of counting-out and saving elected persons is shown in certain mystic problems still existent in Boys Own Books, and other handbooks of juvenile sports. It was the one on whom the fatal word of life or death fell who was saved or condemned, so that it was no wonder that the word was believed to be a subtle, mysterious existence: an essence or principle, yea, a spirit or all in one--diversi aspetti in un, confuse e misti. He who knew the name of Names which, as the Chaldæan oracles of old declared, "rushes into the infinite worlds," knew all things and had all power; even in lesser words there lingered the fragrance of God and some re-echo of the Bath Kol--the Daughter of the Voice who was herself the last echo of the divine utterance. So it went down through the ages--coming, like Cæsar's clay, to base uses--till we now find the sacred divination by words a child's play: only that and nothing more. Truly Mr. Bolton spoke well when he said that such reflection clothes these doggerels with a new and fascinating interest. Now and then some little thing awakens us to the days of old, the rosy, early morning of mankind, when the stars of magic were still twinkling in the sky, and the dreamer, hardly awake, still thought himself communing with God. So I was struck the other day when a gypsy, a deep and firm believer in the power of the amulet, and who had long sought, yet never found, his ideal, was deeply moved when I showed him the shell on which Nav, or the Name, was mystically inscribed by Nature. Through the occult and broken traditions of his tribe there had come to him also, perhaps from Indian or Chaldæan sources, some knowledge of the ancient faith in its power. I think that I can add to the instance of a child's counting-out game based on a magic spell, yet another. Everybody knows the song of John Brown who had "Ten little, nine little, eight little, seven little, Six little Indian boys; Five little, four little, three little, two little, One little Indian boy, [22] And of the fate which overtook them all, one by one, inevitable as the decrees of Nemesis. This song is in action a game. I have heard it in Romany from a gypsy, and have received from a gypsy scholar another version of it, though I am sure that both were versions from the English. But in Romany, as in all languages, there have existed what may be called additional and subtractive magic songs, based on some primæval Pythagorean principle of the virtues of numbers, and, as regards form, quite like that of the ten little Indians. In the charms of Marcellus Burdigalensis (third century), it appears as a cure for pains or disorders in the jaws (remedium valde certum et utile faucium doloribus), in the Song of the Seven Acorn Sisters, which the Latin-Gaul doctor describes as carmen mirum, in which opinion the lover of Folk-lore will heartily concur. "Carmen mirum ad Glandulas. "Glandulas mane carminabis, si dies minuetur, si nox ad vesperam, et digito medicinali ac pollice continens eas dices:-- "Novem glandulæ sorores, Octo glandulæ sorores, Septem glandulæ sorores, Sex glandulæ sorores, Quinque glandulæ sorores, Quatuor glandulæ sorores, Tres glandulæ sorores, Duæ glandulæ sorores, Una glandula soror! Novem fiunt glandulæ, Octo fiunt glandulæ, Septem fiunt glandulæ, Sex fiunt glandulæ, Quinque fiunt glandulæ, Quattuor fiunt glandulæ, Tres fiunt glandulæ, Duæ fiunt glandulæ, Una fit glandula, Nulla fit glandula!" (I.e., "Nine little acorn sisters (or girls), Eight little acorn sisters," &c.) This is simply the same count, forwards and backwards. It rises before us as we read--a chorus of rosy little Auluses and Marcellas, Clodias, and Manliuses, screaming in chorus:-- "Ten little, nine little, eight little, seven little, Six little acorn girls!" Until it was reduced to una glandula et nulla fit--"then there was none." They too had heard their elders repeat it as a charm against the jaw-ache--and can any man in his senses doubt that they applied it in turn to the divine witchcraft of fun and the sublime sorcery of sport, which are just as magical and wonderful in their way as anything in all theurgia or occultism, especially when the latter is used only to excite marvels and the amazement which is only a synonym for amusement. But it is not credible that such a palpable "leaving out" song as that of the Ten Little Acorn Girls should not having been utilized by such intelligent children as grew up into being the conquerors of the world--"knowing Latin at that." There is yet another old Roman "wonderful song to the Acorns," apparently for the same disorder, given by the same author. "Albula glandula, Nec doleas nec noceas. Nec paniculas facias, Sed liquescas tanquam salis (mica) in aqua! "Hoc ter novies dicens spues ad terram et glandulas ipsas pollice et digito medicinali perduces, dum carmen dices, sedante solis ortum et post occasum facies id, prout dies aut nox minuetur." There appears in these formulas to be either a confusion or affinity as regards glandulas, the tonsils, and the same word signifying small acorns. As is very often the case, the similarity of name caused an opinion that there must be sympathetic curative qualities. Perhaps acorns were also used in this ceremony. In a comment on this Grimm remarks: "Die Glandula wird angeredet, die Glandulæ gelten fur Schwestern, wie wenn das alt hoch-deutsch druos glandula (Graff 5, 263) personification ankündigte? Alt Nordisch ist drôs, femina." There is another child's rhyme which is self-evidently drawn from an exorcism, that is to say an incantation. All my readers know the nursery song:-- "Snail, snail, come out of your hole, Or else I'll beat you as black as a coal! Snail, snail, put out your head, Or else I'll beat you till you are dead!" It is very remarkable that in Folk-lore the mole and the snail are identified, and, as De Gubernatis states, both are the same with the grey mouse, or, as he might more accurately have declared with the mouse in general. A critic objects to this simply because it occurs in the work of De Gubernatis, among his "fanciful theories," but it need not follow that every citation or opinion in his book is false. Friedrich, who certainly is not a fanciful theorist, asserted nearly thirty years ago that the mouse, owing to its living underground and in dark places as well as to its gnawing and destroying everything, is a chthonisches Thier, one of the animals of darkness and evil. Also "the mole, because it is of subterranean life, has received a chthonic, demoniac, misanthropic reputation." In support of these statements he cites a great array of authorities. The connection between the mole and mouse is evident enough, that between both and the snail is also clear: firstly, from the fact that "the snail of popular superstition is demoniacal," or evil; and secondly, from the rhyme which I now quote, which is applied to both moles and snails. According to Du Cange it was usual in the Middle Ages for children to go about carrying poles, on the ends of which was straw, which they lighted, and going round the gardens and under the trees shouted:-- "Taupes et mulots, Sortez de vos clos, Sinon je vous brulerai la barbe et les os!" But in Germany there are two and in Italy five versions of the same song addressed to snails. It is evidently a Roman Catholic formula, based on some early heathen incantation. Thus in Tuscany they sing:-- "Chiocciola marinella Tira fuori le tue cornelle, E se tu non le tirerai Calcie pugni tu buscherai." Both the snail and mole and mouse were, as I have said, chthonic, that is diabolical or of darkness. The horns of the former were supposed to connect it with the devil. "In Tuscany it is believed that in the month of April the snail makes love with serpents." There is another nursery counting-out rhyme whose antiquity and connection with sorcery is very evident. It is as follows:-- "One, two, three, four, five, I caught a hare all alive. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, I let her go again." The following from the medical spells and charms of Marcellus Burdigalensis manifestly explains it:-- "Lepori vivo talum abstrahes, pilósque ejus de subventre tolles atque ipsum vivum dimittes. De illis pilis, vel lana filum validum facies et ex eo talum leporis conligabis corpusque laborantis præcinges; miro remedio subvenies. Efficacius tamen erit remedium, ita ut incredibile sit, si casu os ipsum, id est talum leporis in stercore lupi inveneris, quod ita custodire debes, ne aut terram tangat aut a muliere contingatur, sed nec filum illud de lana leporis debet mulier ulla contigere. Hoc autem remedium cum uni profuerit ad alias translatum cum volueris, et quotiens volueris proderit. Filum quoque, quod ex lana vel pilis, quos de ventre leporis tuleris, solus purus et nitidus facies, quod si ita ventri laborantis subligaveris plurimum proderit, ut sublata lana leporem vivum dimmittas, et dicas ei dum dimittis eum: "'Fuge, fuge, lepuscule, et tecum aufer coli dolorem!'" That is to say, you must "first catch your hare," then pluck from it the fur needed ad dolorem coli, then "let it go again," bidding it carry the disorder with it. In which the hare appears as a scape-goat. It may be observed that all this ceremony of catching the hare, letting it go and bidding it run and carry away the disorder, is still in familiar use in Tuscany. It has been observed to me that "any nursery rhyme may be used as a charm." To this we may reply that any conceivable human utterance may be taken for the same purpose, but this is an unfair special pleading not connected with the main issue. Mr. Carrington Bolton admits that he has only found one instance of coincidence between nursery rhymes and spells, and I have compared hundreds of both with not much more result than what I have here given. But those who are practically familiar with such formulas recognize this affinity. On asking the Florentine fortune-teller if she knew any children's counting-out rhymes which deemed to her to be the same with incantations, she at once replied:-- "In witchcraft you sometimes call on people one by one by name to bewitch them. And the little girls have a song which seems to be like it." Then she sang to a very pretty tune:-- "Ecco l'imbasciatore, Col tra le vi la lera, Ecco l'imbasciatrice, Col tra la li ra la! Cosa volete col tua la li la, Col tra le li va la, Voglio Giuseppina, Col tra le li va le va. Voglio la Cesarina, Col tra le li ra le ra. Voglio la Armida, &c. Voglio la Gesualda, Voglio la Barbera, Voglio la Bianca, Voglio la Fortunata, Voglio la Uliva, Voglio la Filomena, Voglio la Maddalena, Voglio la Pia, Voglio la Gemma, Voglio la Ida, Voglio la Lorenzina, Voglio la Carolina, Voglio la Annunciatina, Voglio la Margo," &c. There is one thing of which those who deny the identity of any counting-out rhymes with spells are not aware. These incantations are very much in vogue with the Italian peasantry, as with the gypsies. They are repeated on all occasions for every disorder, for every trifle lost, for every want. Every child has heard them, and their jingle and even their obscurity make them attractive. They are just what children would be likely to remember and to sing over, and the applying them to games and to "counting-out" would follow as a matter of course. In a country where every peasant, servant-girl and child knows at least a few spells, the wonder would be if some of these were not thus popularized or perverted. It is one thing to sit in one's library and demonstrate that this or that ought not to be, because it is founded on a "theory" or "idea," and quite another to live among people where these ideas are in active operation. Washington Irving has recorded that one of the Dutch governors of New York achieved a vast reputation for wisdom by shrugging his shoulders at everything and saying, "I have my doubts as to that." And truly the race of Wouter van Twiller is not extinct as yet by any means among modern critics. It is worth noting in this connection that in Mrs. Valentine's Nursery Rhymes (Camden edition) there are fifteen charms given which are all of a magical nature. Since the foregoing chapter was written I have obtained in Florence several additional instances of children's rhymes which were spells. Nearly allied to this subject of sorcery in the nursery is The Game of the Child-stealing Witch, which, as W. Wells Newell has shown in a very interesting and valuable contribution to the American Folk-Lore Journal, vol. iii., April, 1890, is found in many languages and lands. In connection with divination, deceit, and robbery, it may be observed that gypsies in Eastern Europe, as in India, often tell fortunes or answer questions by taking a goblet or glass, tapping it, and pretending to hear a voice in the ring which speaks to them. This method of divination is one of the few which may have occurred sporadically, or independently in different places, as there is so much in a ringing, vibrating sound which resembles a voice. The custom is very ancient and almost universal; so Joseph (Genesis xliv. 5) says ("Vulgate"), "Scyphus quam furati estis, ipse est, in quo bibit Dominus meus, et in quo augurari solet." "The goblet which ye have stolen, is it not this wherein my lord drinketh and in which he is wont to divine?" Joseph says again (ver. 15), "Know ye not that such a man as I can certainly divine." A great number of very orthodox scholars have endeavoured to show that "divine" here means merely "to conjecture wisely," or "to see into," in order to clear Joseph from the accusation of fortune-telling: but the cup and his interpretation of dreams tell another story. In those days in the East, as now, clever men made their way very often by fortune-telling and theurgia in different forms in great families, just as ladies and gentlemen are "invited out" in London and Paris to please the company with palmistry. This divining by goblets is still common in the East. In Norden's "Reise nach Egypten," &c., we are told that a native said to the travellers that he had interrogated his coffee-cup, and it had replied that the travellers were those of whom the Prophet had predicted they would come as spies and lead the way for a great immigration of Franks. In an Arabic commentary of the twelfth century the replies which the goblet gave to Joseph when it tapped on it are given in full. As coffee-drinking is very ancient it is probable that divination by means of the grounds grew out of foretelling with the cup. Horst ("Dæmonomagie," vol. ii.) remarks that "prediction by means of drinking or coffee-cups," &c., is called in magic, Scyphomancy, and that the reader may judge how common it was in Germany in the first half of the eighteenth century by consulting the famous humorous poem of the "Renomist," Song iii. ver. 47. Certain goblets of thin glass will give out quite a loud ring if only blown upon, and by blowing or breathing in a peculiar way the sound may be greatly increased or modified, so as to sound like the human voice. This was shown me by an old custode in the museum at the Hague. It is a curious trick worth trying--especially by those who would pass for magicians! There is yet another kind of magic cup known only by tradition, the secret of which, I believe, I was the first to re-discover. It is said that the Chinese knew of old how to make bottles, &c., which appeared to be perfectly plain, but on which, when filled with wine, inscriptions or figures appeared, and which were used in divination as to answer questions. In the winter of 1886-87, Sir Henry Austin Layard went with me through his glass factory at Venice. [23] As we were standing by the furnace watching the workmen it flashed upon me quite in a second how the mysterious old goblets of the Chinese could be made. This would be by blowing a bottle, &c., of thin white glass and putting on the interior in all parts except the pattern, a coating of glass half an inch in thickness. The outside should then be lightly ground, to conceal the heavy portion. If red wine or any dark fluid should then be poured into the bottle the pattern would appear of the same colour. Sir Austin Layard at once sent for his very intelligent foreman, Signor Castellani, who said that he had indeed read of such goblets, but that he regarded it as a fable. But when I explained to him what had occurred to me, he said that it was perfectly possible, but that the great expense of making such objects would probably make the manufacture practically impossible. Apropos of which I may mention that those who would investigate the curiosities of glass, especially the art of making it malleable, may find a great deal in A. Nevi, "De Arte Vitraria" (Amsterdam), and its German translation of 1678 (which contains a chapter, "Wie die Malleabilität dem Glase beygebracht werden könne"). It is probable that the celebrated cup of Djemschid, in Persian story, which showed on its surface all that passed in the world, owed its origin to these Chinese bottles. CHAPTER XV. GYPSY AMULETS. "Knew many an amulet and charm Which would do neither good nor harm, In Rosicrucian lore as learned As he that veré adeptus earned."--Hudibras. With pleasant plausibility Heine has traced the origin of one kind of fairy-lore to the associations and feelings which we form for familiar objects. A coin, a penknife, a pebble, which has long been carried in the pocket or worn by any one, seems to become imbued with his or her personality. If it could speak, we should expect to hear from it an echo of the familiar voice of the wearer; as happened, indeed, in Thuringia in the year 1562, when a fair maid, Adelhait von Helbach, was carried into captivity by certain ill-mannered persons. "Now her friends, pursuing, knew not whither to go, when they heard her voice, albeit very small and feeble, calling to them; and, seeking, they found in the bush by the road a silver image of the Virgin, which she had worn: and this image told them which road to take. Following the direction, they recovered her; the Raubritter who bore her away being broken on the wheel, and the image hung up for the glory of the Virgin, who had spoken by it, in the Church of our Lady of Kalbrunn." Again, these objects have such strange ways of remaining with one that we end by suspecting that they have a will of their own. With certain persons these small familiar friends become at last fetishes, which bring luck, giving to those who firmly believe in them great comfort and endurance in adversity. Who has not been amazed at the persistency with which some button or pebble picked up, or placed perchance in the pocket, remains in all the migrations of keys and pencils and coins, faithful to the charge? How some card or counter will lurk in our pocket-book (misnamed "purse") or porte-monnaie, until it becomes clear as daylight that it has a reasonable intelligence, and stays with us because it wants to. As soon as this is recognized--especially by some person who is accustomed to feel mystery in everything, and who doubts nothing--the object becomes something which knows, possibly, a great deal which we do not. Therefore it is to be treated with care and respect, and in due time it becomes a kind of god, or at least the shrine of a small respectable genius, or fairy. I have heard of a gentleman in the Western United States who had a cane in which, as he seriously believed, a spirit had taken up its abode, and he reverenced it accordingly. The very ancient and widely-spread belief in the efficiency of magic wands probably came from an early faith in such implements as had been warranted to have magic virtues as weapons, or to aid a pedestrian in walking. Hence it happened that swords which had been enchanted, or which had taken lives, were supposed to have some indwelling intelligence. Hence also the names given to swords, and indeed to all weapons, by the Norsemen. It was believed that the sword of an executioner, after it had beheaded a certain number of men, pined for more victims, and manifested its desire by unearthly rattling or ringing. Apropos of which I have in my possession such a gruesome implement, which if experience in death could give it life, or make it ring in the silent watches of the night, would be a ghastly, noisy guest indeed. I once told the story in "The Gypsies" (Boston, 1881)--now I have something to add to it. I had met in London with an Indian gypsy named Nano, who informed me that in India he had belonged to a wandering tribe or race who called themselves Rom, or Romani, who spoke Romani jib, and who were the Gypsies of the Gypsies. I have in my possession a strange Hindu knife with an enormously broad blade, six inches across towards the end, with a long handle richly mounted in bronze with a little silver. I never could ascertain till I knew Nano what it had been used for. Even the old king of Oude, when he examined it, went wrong and was uncertain. Not so the gypsy. When he was in my library, and his keen black eyes rested on it, he studied it for a moment, and then said: "I know well enough that knife. I have seen it before; it is very old, and it was long in use--it was the knife used by the public executioner in Bhotan. It is Bhotani." Nano had volunteered the explanation, and whatever his moral character might be, he was not given to romantic invention. Time passed, I went to America, stayed there four years, and returned. In 1888 I became a member of the National Association for the Advancement of Art, and was on the Central Committee. One day we had a meeting at the house of a distinguished architect. When it was over, my host showed me his many treasures of art, or archæology. While examining these, my attention was attracted by an Indian knife. It was precisely like mine, but smaller. I asked what it was, and learned that it had long been used in some place in the East for the express purpose of sacrificing young girls. And in all respects it was what we might call the feminine counterpart of my knife. And if I ever had any lingering doubt as to the accuracy of Nano's account, it disappeared when I saw the one whose history was perfectly authentic. A few years ago in Heidelburg there were sold at auction a great number of executioners' swords, some of which had been used for centuries. A gentleman who had a special fondness for this kind of bric-à-brac, had for many years collected them. It may be here observed that the knife forms a special feature in all witch-lore, and occurs frequently among the Hungarian and Italian gypsy charms, or spells. It is sometimes stuck into a table, while a spell is muttered, protesting that it is not the wood which one wishes to hurt, but the heart of an enemy. Here the knife is supposed in reality to have an indwelling spirit which will pass to the heart or health of the one hated. In Tam O'Shanter there is a knife on the witches' table, and in Transylvania, as in Tuscany, a new knife, not an old one, is used in divers ceremonies. Sometimes an old and curious knife becomes an amulet and is supposed to bring luck, although the current belief is that any pointed gift causes a quarrel. But to return to the fetish or pocket-deity which is worn in so many forms, be they written scrolls, crosses, medals or relics--c'est tout un. Continental gypsies are notable believers in amulets. Being in a camp of very wild Cigany in Hungary a few years ago, I asked them what they wore for bakt, or luck; whereupon they all produced small seashells, which I was assured were potent against ordinary misfortunes. But for a babe which was really ill they had provided an "appreciable" dose in the form of three Maria Theresa silver dollars, which were hung round its neck, but hidden under its clothes. And I may here remark that all through many lands, even into the heart of Africa, this particular dollar is held in high esteem for magical purposes. From one to another the notion has been transferred, and travellers and traders are often puzzled to know why the savages will have no coin save this. From Russia to the Cape it is the same story, and one to be specially studied by those ethnologists who do not believe in transmission, and hold that myths and legends are of local growth and accounted for by similar local conditions. The gypsies were very desirous to know what my charm was. Fortunately I had in my pocket a very fine fossil shark's tooth which I had purchased in Whitby, and this was greatly admired by the learned of the tribe. Mindful of good example, I obtained for myself specimens of the mystic shells, foreseeing that they would answer as passes and signs among the fraternity in Germany and elsewhere. Which, indeed, came to pass a few days ago in the town of Homburg, when looking from my window in the Schwedenpfad I saw two very honest-looking gypsies go by. Walking forth, I joined them, and led them into a garden, where over beer and cigars we discussed "the affairs of Egypt." These Romanys were from the Tyrol, and had the frank bold manner of the mountain-men blended with the natural politeness of the better class of gypsy. I had taken with me in my pocket, foreseeing its use, a small bag or purse, containing an assortment of objects such as would have puzzled anybody except a Red Indian, a negro, or any believer in medaolin or Voodoo, or my new acquaintance; and after a conversation on dúrkepen (in Anglo-gypsy, dukkerin) or fortune-telling, I asked the men what they wore. They wished to see my amulets first. So I produced the shells; which were at once recognized and greatly admired, especially one, which is something of a curiosity, since in its natural markings is the word NAV very plainly inscribed: Nav, in gypsy, meaning "the name." The elder gypsy said he had no charm; he had long been seeking a good one, but had not as yet met with the correct article. And then he begged me--gracious powers, how he did beg!--to bestow on him one of my shells. I resolved to do so--but at another time. The younger gypsy, who was a pasche-paskero, a musician, and had with him a rare old violin in a wonderfully carved wooden case at least two centuries old, was "all right" on the fetish question. He had his shell, sewn up in a black leather bag, which he wore by a cord round his neck. Then I exhibited my small museum. Every object in it was carefully and seriously examined. My shark's tooth was declared to be a very good fetish, a black pebble almost equal to the shell, and an American Indian arrow-head of quartz passed muster as of possible though somewhat doubtful virtue. But an English sixpence with a hole in it was rejected as a very petty and contemptible object. I offered it in vain as a present to my friends: they would not accept it. Neither did they want money: my dross might perish with me. It was the shell--the precious beautiful little shell on which the Romany in search of a fetish had set his heart; the shell which would bring him luck, and cause him to be envied, and ensure him admiration in the tents of the wanderers from Paris to Constantinople. He admitted that it was the very shell of shells--a baro seréskeri sharkuni, or famous sea-snail. I believe the gypsies would have given me their fine old Stainer violin and the carved case for it. Failing to get the shell, he implored me to give him the black pebble. I resolved to give him both in free gift the next time we met, or as a parting souvenir. Alas for the Romany chal!--we never met again. The police allow no gypsies in Homburg, and so they had to move on. I sought them that night and I sought them next day; but they were over the hills and far away. But I have no doubt that the fame of the shell on which Nature has written the Name--the very logos of magic itself--spread ere the summer was past even to the Carpathians. Something tells me that it is not played out yet, and that I shall hear anon something regarding it. The cult of the shell is widely spread. One day in a public-house, in the West End of London, I, while taking my glass of bitter, entered into conversation with a rather tall, decently-attired brunette Alsatian girl, who spoke French and German, and who knew a few words of Romany, which she said she had picked up by accident--at least she professed not to be gypsy, and to know no more. Being minded to test the truth of this, I casually exhibited one of my shells and said it was a Hungarian gypsy amulet for la bonne fortune. She began to beg earnestly for it, without getting it. On several occasions at long intervals, when I met her in the street, she again implored me for the treasure, saying that she believed "if she had it, her luck would turn to good." And, being convinced of her gypsyism, I said, "It will do you no good unless you have faith." To which she replied, in a tone which indicated truth itself: "But I have faith--absolute, entire faith in it." Which seeing, and finding that she was a true convert to the power of the holy shell, I gave it to her with my blessing, knowing that it would be a joy and comfort to her in all the trials of life. This reminds me that I have seen, and indeed possess, a pearl-shell bearing the image of Saint Francis of Assisi, such as is sold by thousands at his shrine, and which are supposed to possess certain miraculous innate or intrinsic virtues. Thus, if worn by children, they are a cure for croup. "Ah--but that is a very different thing, you know." An idol is an object, generally an image, worshipped for its own sake--being supposed to not only represent a god, but to have some immanent sanctity. The Catholic priest, and for that matter all Brahmins or bonzes, assure us that their sacred images are "only symbols, not regarded as really dwelling-places of divinity." They are not, so to speak, magnified amulets. Yet how is it that, if this be true, so many images and pictures are regarded and represented by priests as being able of themselves by the touch to cure tooth-ache, and all other ills which flesh and bones are heirs to. Why is one image especially good for tooth-ache, while another of the same person cures cramp? Why, if they are all only "symbols," is one more healing or holy than another? How can our Lady of Embrun be of greater aid than our Lady of Paris? The instant we ascribe to an image or a shell real power to act, we make of it an inspired being in itself, and all the sophistry in the world as to its being a means of faith, or a symbol, or causing a higher power to act on the suppliant, is rubbish. The devotee believes tout bonnement that the image works the cure, and if he did not, any other image of the Virgin or Saint would answer the same purpose. This chaff has been thrashed out a thousand times--or many tens of thousand times in vain,--as vain so far as effects go as is the remarkably plain First Commandment. And it will last, while one fetish endures, that the hierophant will call it a mere "symbol," and the ignorant worshipper, absolutely unable to comprehend him, will worship the symbol as the thing itself--as he is really expected to do. According to J. B. Friedrich, "Symbolik der Natur," the sea-shell, on account of its being a product of the sea, or of the all-generating moisture; and much more probably from its shape, is an emblem of woman herself. Therefore as "Venus, Love's goddess, was born of the sea," shells are dedicated to her. ("Museo Bourbonico," vol. vi. p. 10. Kugler, "Handbuch Geschichte der Malerei," Berlin, 1837, vol. iv. p. 311. Also translated by Sir H. Austin Layard). Being one of the great emblems of productive Nature, or of life and light, and opposed to barrenness, absence of pleasure, darkness, or negation, it was of course a charm against witchcraft or evil. That the gypsies have retained it as a powerful agent for "luck," is extremely interesting, showing to what a degree they are still influenced by the early symbolism which effectively formed not one but many mythologies. Among the Hungarian gypsies the virtue or magical power of a shell is in proportion to the degree of resemblance above mentioned, which it possesses, as Wlislocki expressly declares. This association of shells, with the mysterious and magical, is to be found among gypsies in the East, as is shown by the following: from my work entitled "The Gypsies." It describes something which I saw many times in Cairo:-- "Beyond the door which, when opened, gave this sight, was a dark, ancient archway, twenty yards long, which opened on the glaring, dusty street, where camels with their drivers, and screaming saïs or carriage-runners and donkey-boys and crying venders kept up the wonted Oriental din. But in the archway, in its duskiest corner, there sat in silence and immovable, a living picture--a dark, handsome woman, of thirty years, who was unveiled. She had before her on the gateway floor, a square of cloth and a few shells. Sometimes an Egyptian of the lower class stopped, and there would be a grave consultation. She was a fortune-teller, and from the positions which the shells assumed when thrown she predicted what would come to pass. And then there would be a solemn conference and a thoughtful stroking of the beard, if the applicant was a man, and then the usual payment to the oracle, and a departure. And it was all world-old primæval Egyptian, as it was Chaldæan, for the woman was a Rhagarin, or gypsy, and as she sat so sat the diviners of ancient days by the wayside, casting shells for auspices, even as arrows were cast of old, to be cursed by Israel. "It is not remarkable that among the myriad manteias of olden days there should have been one by shells. The sound of the sea when heard in a nautilus or conch is marvellously "like that of ocean surges murmuring far." "Shake me and it awakens--then apply Its polished lips to your attentive ear, And it remembers its august abodes And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there." All of this is very strange to children and not less so to all unsophisticated folk, and I can remember how in boyhood I was told and listened with perfect faith to the distant roaring, and marvelled at the mystery of the ocean song being thus for ever kept alive inland. The next step to this is to hear in the sea-murmuring something like voices, and this is as curious as it is true--that if the mind be earnestly given to it, and the process be continued for a long time during several days, many persons, and probably all in time, will come to distinguish or hear human utterances and eventually words. There is no special faith required here; the mind even of the most sceptical or unimaginative will often turn back on itself, and by dint of mere perseverance produce such effects. An old pitcher or jug of a peculiar shape is also declared to be admirably adapted for this purpose, and I have one of Elizabeth's time which was trawled up from the sea near Lowestoft which would fulfil every requisition. In 1886 I was by moonlight in a camp of gypsies in the old Roman amphitheatre near Budapest. It was a very picturesque sight, what with the blazing fire, the strangely-dressed men, the wild shrieking, singing, and dancing women. And when, as I have before mentioned, they showed me the shells which they carried for amulets, they exhibited one much larger of conch-like form, the tip of which had been removed and to which there was attached a flexible tube. This was used in a very remarkable trick. The shell, or one like it, is put into the hands of the person consulting the oracle, who is directed to listen to the voice of the Nivashi, or spirit of the air. Then he is blindfolded, the tube applied, and through it the gypsy speaks in a trained soft voice. Thus, in conchomanteia, the oracles still live and devotees still hear the fairies talk. Now, be it observed that hearing is the most deceptive of the senses--as the reader may have seen exemplified by a lecturer, when the audience were persuaded that he was fiddling on one cane with another, or blowing a flute tune on one, when the music was made by a confederate behind a screen. I myself, a few days since, when in the Köppern Thal, verily believed I heard the murmur and music of children's voices--when lo! it proved to be the babbling brook. Some years ago--I forget where it happened in England, but I guarantee the truth of what I tell--it was found that the children in a certain village were in the habit of going to an ancient tomb in which there was a round hole, putting their ears to it, and, as they said, of listening to what the dead people were saying. It is facile enough to understand that among them there would be some whose unconscious creative faculty would lead them to literally hearing words or songs. There is another ancient and beautiful mystical association with shells. The conch when pierced formed a trumpet, whose notes seemed to be allied to the murmuring of the wind and waves heard in the shell when applied to the ear. The sea-god Triton blew upon a shell--"meaning thereby the roaring of the waves." "And in analogous wise a shell is represented on the Tower of the Winds in Athens, to represent Boreas, the north-east wind, and the roaring of the storm" (Millin, "Gallerie Mythologique"). The resemblance of wind to the human voice has probably occurred to every human being, and has furnished similes for every poet. That these voices should be those of spirits is a natural following. So the last Hebrew oracle, the Bath Kol, or Daughter of the Voice, survives in shells and lives in gypsy-lore. And so we find in rags and patches on the garments of Egyptian fellahin the edges of Pharaoh's garment, which in olden time it was an honour for kings to kiss. Deception of this kind by means of voices, apparently supernatural, is of great antiquity. The high priest Savan the Asmunian, of Egypt, is said to have used acoustic tubes for this purpose, and it is very evident that the long corridors or passages in the stone temples must have suggested it as well as whispering galleries. The Hebrew Cabalists are believed to have made one form of the mysterious Teraphim by taking the head of a child and so preparing it by magic ceremonies that when interrogated it would reply. These ceremonies consisted in fact of skilfully adjusting a phonetic tube to the head. It is very probable that the widely-spread report of this oracle gave rise to the belief that the Jews slaughtered and sacrificed children. "Eliphaz Levi," or the Abbé Constant, a writer of no weight whatever as an authority, but not devoid of erudition, and with occasional shrewd insights, gives it as his belief that the terrible murders of hundreds of children by Gilles de Retz--the absurdly so-called original of Blue-beard--were suggested by a recipe for sanguinary sorcery, drawn from some Hebrew Cabalistical book. Nicephorus (Lib. 7 c. 33) and Cedrenus, as cited by Grosius in his "Magica" (1597), tell us that when Constantine was ill a number of children were collected to be slain that the emperor might bathe in their blood (in quo si se Imperator ablueret, certo recuperaret), and that because he was moved by the tears of their mothers to spare their lives, was restored to health by the saints. It seems to have escaped the attention of writers that at the very time during the Middle Ages when the Jews were being most bitterly persecuted for offering children at the Passover, it was really a common thing among Christians to sacrifice children, maids, or grown-up people, by burying them alive under the foundations of castles, &c., to insure their stability--a ghastly sacrifice, which in after-times took the form of walling-up a cock and finally an egg. But from an impartial and common-sense standpoint, there could be no difference between the sacrifice of a child by a Cabalist and the torturing and burning witches and heretics by ecclesiastics, unless, indeed, that the latter was the wickeder of the two, since the babes were simply promptly killed, while the Inquisitors put their victims to death with every refinement of mental and physical torture. Both Cabalist and priest were simply engaged in different forms of one and the same fetish-work which had been handed down from the days of witchcraft. Nor did Calvin, when he burnt Servetus, differ in anything from a Voodoo sacrificing "a goat without horns." Punishing a heretic to please or placate the Deity differs in nothing from killing any victim to get luck. Other sentiments may be mingled with this "conjuring," but the true foundation of black witchcraft (and all witchcraft is black which calls for blood, suffering, starvation, and the sacrifice of natural instincts), is the mortar of the fear of punishment, and the stones of the hope of reward, the bulk of the latter being immeasurably greater than that of the former, which is a mere Bindemittel, or means of connection. It is remarkable that nowhere, not even in England, do the gypsies regard the witch as utterly horrible, diabolical, and damnable. She is with them simply a woman who has gained supernatural power, which she uses for good or misuses for evil according to her disposition. The witch of the Church--Catholic or Protestant--when closely examined is a very childish conception. She sets forth personal annoyance without any regard whatever as to whether it is really good in disguise or a natural result of our own follies. Thus witches caused thunder-storms, which, because they were terrifying and more or less destructive, were seriously treated by the Church as unmitigated evils, therefore as phenomena directly due to the devil and his servants. Theology the omniscient did not know that storms cleared the air. Witches were responsible for all pestilences, and very often for all disorders of any kind--as it was very convenient for the ignorant leech to attribute to sorcery or moral delinquency or to God, a disease which he could not cure. For "Theology, the science of sciences," had not as yet ascertained that plagues and black deaths, and most of the ills of man are the results of neglect of cleanliness, temperance, and other sanitary laws. It is only a few years since a very eminent clergyman and president of a college in America attributed to "Divine dispensation" the deaths of a number of students, which were directly due to palpable neglect of proper sanitary arrangements by the reverend gentleman himself, and his colleagues. But, admitting the "divine dispensation," according to the mediæval theory, the president, as the agent, must have been a "wizard"--or conjuror--a delusion which the most superficial examination of his works would at once dissipate. But to return--there can be no denial whatever that according to what is admitted to be absolutely true to-day by everybody, be he orthodox or liberal, witches, had they existed, must have been agents of God, busied in preventing plagues instead of causing them--by raising storms which cleared the air. Even the Algonkin Indians knew more than the Church in this respect, for they have a strange old legend to the effect that when the god of Storms, Wuch-ow-sen, the giant eagle, was hindered by a magician from his accustomed work, the sea and air grew stagnant, and people died. [24] The witch was simply another form of the Hebrew Azrael, God's Angel of Death. Which may all lead to the question: If a belief in witches as utterly evil servants of the devil could be held as an immutable dogma of the Church and a matter of eternal truth for eternal belief--to prove which there is no end of ingenious argument and an appalling array of ecclesiastical authority cited in the black-letter "Liber de Sortilegiis" of Paulus Grillandus, now lying before me (Lyons, 1547), as well as in the works of Sprenger, Bodinus, Delrio, and the Witch-bull of Pope Innocent--and if this belief be now exploded even among the priests, what proof have we that any of the dogmas which went with it are absolutely and for ever true? This is the question of dogmatik, versus development or evolution, and witchcraft is its greatest solvent. For when people believe, or make believe, in a thing so very much as to torture like devils and put to death hundreds of thousands of fellow-beings, mostly helpless and poor old women, not to mention many children, it becomes a matter of very serious import to all humanity to determine once for all whether the system or code according to which this was done was absolutely right for ever, or not. For if it was true, these executions and the old theory of witchcraft were all quite right, as the Roman Church still declares, since the Pope has sanctioned of late years several very entertaining works in which modern spiritualists, banjo-twangers, table-turners, &c., are declared to be really wizards, who perform their stupendous and appalling miracles directly by the aid of devils. And, by the way, somebody might make an interesting work not only on the works in the Index Librum Prohibitorum, which it entails seventy-six distinct kinds of damnation to read, but also on those which the Pope sanctions--I believe, blesses. Among the later of the latter is one which pretends to prove that Jews do really still continue to sacrifice Christian children at the Passover feast--and, for aught I know, to eat them, fried in oil, or "buttered with goose-grease"--apropos of which, I marvel that the Hebrews, instead of tamely denying it, do not boldly retort on the Christians the charge of torturing their own women and children to death as witches, which was a thousand times wickeder than simply bleeding them with a penknife, as young Hugh of Lincoln was said to have been disposed of by the Jew's daughter. But people all say now--that was the age, and the Church was still under the influence of barbarism, and so on. Exactly; but that admission plainly knocks down and utterly destroys the whole platform of dogmatism and the immutable and eternal truth of any dogma whatever, for it admits evolution--and to seize on its temporary fleeting forms and proclaim that they are immutable, is to mistake the temporal for the eternal, the infinitesimal fraction for the whole. This is not worshipping God, the illimitable, unknown tremendous Source of Life, but His minor temporary forms, "essences," or "angels," as the Cabalists termed the successive off-castings of His manifestations. In Being's flood, in action's storm I work and weave--above, beneath, Work and weave in endless motion Birth and death, an infinite ocean A seizing and giving The fire of the living. 'Tis thus at the roaring loom of Time I ply And weave for God the garment thou seest Him by. Now there are infinite numbers of these garments, but none of them are God, though the Church declared that what they had of them were truly Divine. So Oriental princes sent their old clothes to distant provinces to be worshipped, as Gessler sent his hat: it is an old, old story, and one which will be long repeated in many lands. I have, not far back, mentioned a work on witchcraft by Paulus Grillandus. Its full title is "Tractatus de Hereticis et sortilegiis, omnifariam Coitio eorumque penis. Item de Questionibus et Tortura ac de Relaxatione Carceratorum"--that is, in brief, a work on Heretics, Witches breakers of the Seventh Commandment of all kinds, Examination by Torture, and Imprisonment. It was a leading vade mecum, or standard guide, in its time for lawyers and the clergy, especially the latter, and reads as if it had come from the library of hell, and been written by a devil, though composed, according to the preface, to promote the dignity and glory of the Christian Church. I can well believe that a sensitive humane person could be really maddened by a perusal and full comprehension of all the diabolical horrors which this book reveals, and the glimpses which it gives of what must have been endured literally by millions of heretics and "witches," and all men or women merely accused by anybody of any kind of "immorality," especially of "heresy." I say suspected or accused--for either was sufficient to subject a victim to horrible agonies until he or she confessed. What is most revolting is the calm, icy-cold-blooded manner in which the most awful, infernal cruelties are carefully discussed--as, for instance, if one has already had any limbs amputated for punishment whether further tortures may then be inflicted? It is absolutely a relief to find that among the six kinds of persons legally exempted from the rack, &c.--there are only six and these do not include invalids--are pregnant women. But such touches of common humanity are rare indeed in it. I do not exaggerate in the least when I say that the whole spirit of this work--which faithfully reflects the whole spirit of the "justice" of the Middle Ages--inclines in a ferocious, wolfish manner to extend and multiply punishment of the most horrible kinds to every small offence against the Church--to manufacture and increase crime as if it were capital for business, and enlarge the sphere of torture so as to create power and awe. Nous avons changé tout cela, say the descendants of those fiends in human form. But if it was wrong then why did you do it if you were infallible inspired judges? And if you now believe that to be atrocious which was once holy, and a vast portion of your whole system, how can you say that the Church does not follow the laws of evolution and progress--and if so, where will it stop? It is a curious reflection that if the Pope and Cardinals of 1890 had lived four hundred years ago they would (with the exception, perhaps, of the Spaniards) have all been burned alive for heresy. Which is literally true. Within a minute's walk from where I sit, and indeed visible from my window in this town of Homburg vor der Höhe, are two round towers of other days--grim and picturesque relics of the early Middle Ages. One is called the Hexenthurm or Witches' Tower. In it gypsies, witches, and heretics were confined--it was the hotel specially reserved for them when they visited Homburg, and in its cells which are of the smallest between walls of the thickest, I or you, reader, might be confined to-day, but for one Martin Luther and certain laws of evolution or progress of which Paulus Grillandus did not dream. As I was sketching the tower, an old woman told me that there were many strange tales about it. That I can well believe but I dare say they are all summed up in the following ballad from the German of Heine:-- "The Witch." "Folks said when my granny Eliza bewitched, She must die for her horrid transgression; Much ink from his pen the old magistrate pitched, But he could not extort a confession. And when in the kettle my granny was thrown She yelled 'Death' and 'Murder!' while dying; And when the black smoke all around us was blown, As a raven she rose and went flying. Little black grandmother, feathered so well, Oh, come to the tower where I'm sitting: Bring cakes and bring cheese to me here in the cell, Through the iron-barred window flitting. Little black grandmother, feathered and wise, Just give my aunt a warning, Lest she should come flying and pick out my eyes When I merrily swing in the morning." Horst in his "Dæmonomagie," a History of the Belief in Magic, Demoniac marvels, Witchcraft, &c., gives the picture of a Witch-tower, at Lindheim in the Wetterau, with all its terrible history, extracted from the town archives. It is a horrible history of torturing and burning at the stake of innumerable women of all ages, the predominant feature being that any accusation by anybody whatever, or any rumour set afloat in any way, amply sufficed to bring an enemy to death, or to rob a person who had money. Hysterical women and perverse or eccentric children frequently originated these accusations merely to bring themselves into notice. There was till within a few years a Witches' Tower in Heidelberg. It was a very picturesque structure in an out-of-the-way part of the town, in nobody's way, and was therefore of course pulled down by the good Philistine citizens, who have the same mania in Heidelberg as "their ignorant-like" in London, Philadelphia, or any other town, for removing all relics of the olden time. In connection with sorcery and gypsies, it is worth observing that in 1834 the latter, in Swabia, or South Germany, frequently went about among the country-people, with puppet-shows, very much of the Punch kind, and that they had a rude drama of Faust, the great wizard, which had nothing to do with that of Goethe. It was derived from the early sources, and had been little by little gypsified into a melodrama peculiar to the performers. August Zoller, in his "Bilder aus Schwaben" (Stuttgard, 1834), gives the following description of it. The book has a place in all Faust libraries, and has been kept alive by this single passage:-- "There is a blast of a trumpet, and the voice of a man proclaims behind the scenes that the play is to begin. The curtain is drawn, and Faust leaning against the background--which represents a city--soliloquizes: "'I am the cleverest doctor in the world, but all my cleverness does not help me to make the beautiful princess love me. I will call up Satan from the under-world to aid me in my plans to win her. Devil--I call thee!' "Meanwhile Faust's servant--the funny man--has entered and amused the public with comical gestures. The appearance of the devil is announced by a firework (Sprühteufel) fizzing and cracking. He descends from the air, there being no arrangements for his coming up. The servant bursts into a peal of laughter, and the devil asks: "'Faust thou hast called me; now, what is thy wish?' "'I love the lovely princess--canst thou make her love me?' "'Nothing is easier. Cut thy finger and sign to me thy life; then all my devilish art will be at thy service till thou hast committed four murders.' "Faust and the devil fly forth, the servant making sarcastic remarks as to the folly of his master, and the curtain falls. "In the second act the fair princess enters--she is three times as large as Faust, but bewails his absence in a plaintive voice and departs. Faust enters and calls for a Furio who shall carry him to Mantua. Enter three Furios (witches) who boast their power. 'I can carry you as swiftly as a moor-cock flies,' says one. This is not swift enough for Faust. 'I fly as fast as bullet from a gun,' says the second. The master answers: "'A right good pace, but not enough for Faust.' To the third: 'How fast art thou?' "'As quick as Thought.' "'That will suffice--there's naught so swift as Thought. Bear me to Mantua, to her I love, the princess of my heart!' "The Furio takes Faust on her back, and they fly through the air. The servant makes, as before, critical and sarcastic remarks on what has passed, and the curtain falls. "In the third act the devil persuades Faust to murder his father, so as to inherit his treasures, 'for the old man has a tough life.' In the fourth, maddened by jealousy, he stabs the princess and her supposed lover. The small sarcastic servant takes the murdered pair by the legs, and drags them about, cracking jokes, and giving the corpses cuffs on their ears to bring them again to life. "In the fifth act, the clock strikes eleven. Faust has now filled to the brim the measure of his iniquity. The devil appears, proves to him that it is time to depart; it strikes twelve; the smoke of a fizzling squib and several diabolical fire-crackers fills the air, and Faust is carried away, while the small servant, as satanical and self-possessed as ever, makes his jokes on the folly of Faust--and the curtain falls." This is the true Faust drama of the Middle Ages, with the ante-Shakespearian blending of tragedy and ribald fun. But this same mixture is found to perfection in the early Indian drama--for instance, in "Sakuntala"--and it would be indeed a very curious thing should it be discovered that the gypsies, who were in all ages small actors and showmen of small plays, had brought from the East some rude drama of a sorcerer, who is in the end cheated by his fiend. Such is, in a measure, the plot of the Baital Pachisi or Vikram and the Vampire, which is borrowed from or founded on old traditions, and the gypsies, from their familiarity with magic, and as practical actors, would, in all probability, have a Faust play of some kind, according to the laws of cause and effect. In any case the suggestion may be of value to some investigator. Gypsies in England--that is those "of the old sort"--regard a shoe-string as a kind of amulet or protection. Many think it is unlucky to have one's photograph taken, but no harm can come of it if the one who receives the picture gives the subject a shoe-string or a pair of laces. Dr. F. S. Krauss in his curious work, "Sreca, or Fortune and Fate in the popular belief of the South Slavonians" (Vienna, 1886), draws a line of distinction between the fetish and amulet. "The fetish," he declares, "has virtue from being the dwelling of a protecting spirit. The amulet, however, is only a symbol of a higher power," that is of a power whose attention is drawn by or through it to the believer or wearer. This, however, like the distinction between idolatry and worshipping images as symbols of higher beings, becomes in the minds of the multitude (and for that matter, in all minds), a distinction without a dot of difference. The amulet may "rest upon a higher range of ideas, while the fetish stands on its own feet," but if both are regarded as bringing luck and if, for instance, one rosary or image of the same person is believed to bring more luck than another, it is a fetish and nothing else. An amulet may pretend to be a genteeler kind of fetish, but they are all of the same family. The gypsies prepare among the Bosniacs, "on the high plains of Malwan," a fetish in the form of a cradle made of nine kinds of wood, to bring luck to the child who sleeps in it. But Dr. Krauss falls, I presume, into a very great error, when he attributes to her Majesty the Queen of England a belief in fetish, on the strength of the following remarkable passage from the Wiener Allgemeine Zeitung:-- "By command of Queen Victoria, Mr. Martin, Director of the Institute for the Blind, has attended to the making a cradle for the newly-born child of the Princess of Battenberg. The cradle is to be made entirely by blind men and women. The Queen firmly believes that objects made by blind people bring luck." Truly, if anything could bring luck it ought to be something ordered with a kind and charitable view from poor and suffering people, but it is rather hard to promptly conclude that her Majesty believes in fetish because she benevolently ordered a cradle from the blind, and that she had no higher motive than to get something which would bring luck to her grandchild. It may be observed in connection with this superstition that among the Hungarian gypsies several spells depend on using different kinds of wood, and that four are said to have been taken for the true cross. Gypsies, in common with the rest of the "fetishioners" of all the world, believe in the virtue of a child's caul. Dr. Krauss found in Kobas on the Save an amulet which contained such a caul with garlic and four-leaved clover. This must have been a very strong charm indeed, particularly if the garlic was fresh. Another very great magic protector in every country among gypsies as well as Gentiles, is the thunderbolt, known in Germany as the Donneraxt, Donnerstein, Donnerkeil, Albschoss, Strahlstein, and Teufelsfinger. It was called by the Greeks Astropelákia, by the Latins Gemma cerauniæ, by the Spaniards Piedras de rayo, by the dwellers in the French High Alps Peyras del tron (pierres de tonerre), by the Birmans Mogio (the child of lightning), by the Chinese Rai-fu-seki (the battle-axe of Tengu, the guardian of Heaven), by the Hindoos Swayamphu, or "the self-originated." Dr. Krauss, from whom I have taken these remarks, adds that in America and Australia it is also regarded as a charm protective and luck-bringing. But here there is a confusion of objects. The thunderbolt described by Dr. Krauss is, I believe, a petrified shell, a kind of mucro or belemnite. The thunderbolt of the Red Indians really resembles it, but is entirely different in its nature. The latter results from lightning entering the sand fusing it. It sometimes makes in this way a very long tube or rod, with a point. People, finding these, naturally believed that they were thunderbolts. I knew an old Penobscot Indian who, seeing the lightning strike the earth, searched and found such a thunderbolt, which he greatly prized. In process of time people who found mucrones in rocks believed them to be the same as the glass-like points of fused sand which they so much resembled. The so-called thunderbolt is confused with the prehistoric stone axe, both bearing the same name in many lands. As this axe is often also a hammer it is evident that it may have been sacred to Thor. "The South Slavonian"--or gypsy--"does not distinguish," says Dr. Krauss, "between the thunderbolt and prehistoric axe. He calls both strelica." The possession of one brings luck and prosperity in all business, but it must be constantly carried on the person. Among the "thirties" there lived in Gaj in Slavonia a poor Jewish peddler named David. Once he found a strelica. He always carried it about with him. The peasants envied him greatly its possession. They came to him in the market-place and cried, "Al si sretan, Davide!" ("Ha, how lucky thou art, David!") The Slavonian Jews called him, for a joke, "Strelica." The prehistoric axe was probably regarded as gifted with fetish power, even in the earliest age, especially when it was made of certain rare materials. Thus among the Red Indians of Massachusetts stone "tomahawks" of veined, petrified wood were specially consecrated to burial-places, while in Europe axe-heads of jade were the most coveted of possessions. A. B. Meyer has written a large work, "Jade und Nephrit Objecte aus dem Ethnographische Museum zu Dresden, America und Europe" (Leipzig, 1882). It has always been supposed that the objects of true jade came only from Tartary, and I believe that I was the first person to discover that it existed in quantities in Western Europe. The history of this "finding" is not without interest. It has been usual--it is said for a thousand years--for pilgrims to Iona to bring away with them as souvenirs a few green pebbles of a peculiar kind, and to this day, as every tourist will remember, the children who come to the steamboat offer handsful of them for sale. When I was there many years ago--in Iona--I also went away with perhaps twenty of them. One evening, after returning to London, there were at my home three Chinese gentlemen attached to the Legation. The conversation turned on Buddhist pilgrimages and Fusang, and the question, founded on passages in the Chinese annals, as to whether certain monks had really passed from the Celestial Kingdom to Mexico in the fifth century and returned. This reminded me of Iona, and I produced my green pebbles, and told what I knew about them. My visitors regarded the stones with great interest and held an animated conversation over them in Chinese, which I did not understand. Observing this I made them presents of the pebbles, and was thanked with an earnestness which seemed to me to be out of all proportion to the value of the gifts. Thinking this over the next day, I wrote to the clergyman at Iona asking him to be so kind as to send me some of the pebbles, and offering to pay for them. He did so, sending me by mail a box of the stones. Two or three were very pretty, one especially. It is of a dark green colour and slightly transparent. Two years after, when in Philadelphia, meeting with an old friend, Dr. Joseph Leidy, well known as a man of science, and, inter alia, as a mineralogist. I showed him my pebble and asked him what it was. He replied, "It is jade." To my query whether it might not be nephrite he answered no, that it was true jade of fine quality. Jade is in China a talismanic stone, many occult virtues and luck-bringing qualities being ascribed to it. It is very curious, and possibly something more than a mere chance coincidence, that the green pebbles of Iona were also carried as charms. It would be remarkable if even in prehistoric times, or in the stone age, Iona and Tartary had been connected by superstition and tradition. Among the gypsies as well as Christians in Servia, nuts, especially those which are heart-shaped (i.e., double), are carried as fetishes or amulets. In very early times a nut, as containing like a seed the principle of germination and self-reproduction, was typical of life. Being enclosed in a shell it seemed to be in a casket or box which was of itself a mystical symbol. Hence nuts are often found in ancient graves. There are many stories accordingly in all countries in which a nut or egg is represented as being connected with the life of some particular being or person. The ogre in several tales can live until a certain egg is broken. In the Graubunden or Grisons there is the following legend:-- "Once there lived near Fideriseau a rich peasant. To him came a poor beggar, who asked for alms in vain. Then the man replied, 'If thou wilt give me nothing yet will I give thee something. Thou shalt keep thy treasure and also thy daughter after thee; yea, and for years after she is dead her spirit shall know no rest for taking care of it. But I give thee this nut. Plant it by yonder great stone, thou stony-hearted fool. From the nut will grow a tree, and from the tree twigs from which a cradle will be made in which a child will be rocked who will redeem thy daughter from her penance.' And after the girl died, a spirit of a pale woman with dark hair was seen flying nightly near Fideris, and that for many years, for it takes a long time for an acorn to grow up into an oak. But as she is no longer seen it is believed that the cradle has been made and the child born who became the deliverer." A. B. Elysseeff, in his very interesting article based on Kounavine's "Materials for the Study of the Gypsies," gives the representation of four gypsy amulets, also "a cabalistic token" that brings good luck to its wearer. "The amulets," writes M. Elysseeff, "are made of wrought iron and belong to M. Kounavine. The cabalistic sign is designed" (copied?) "by ourselves, thanks to the amiability of a gypsy djecmas (sorcerer) of the province of Novogorod. The amulet A was found by M. Kounavine among the gypsies who roam with their camps in the Ural neighbourhood; some Bessarabian gypsies supplied B; C was obtained from a gypsy sorcerer of the Persian frontier, and D formed a part of some ornaments placed with their dead by gypsies of Southern Russia. "The cabalistic sign" (vide illustration at head of chapter) "represents roughly a serpent, the symbol of Auromori, the evil principle in gypsy mythology. The figure of an arch surrounded with stars is, according to M. Kounavine, held by the gypsies as symbolizing the earth, the meaning of the triangle △ is not known. The moon and stars which surround the earth and which are, so to speak, enclosed in the serpent's coils, symbolize the world lying in evil. This sign is engraved by gypsies upon the plates of the harness of the horses, of garments, and as designed ornaments." It may be here remarked that the symbolism of M. Kounavine, while it may be quite accurate, must be taken with great reserve. If the "arch" be simply a horse-shoe, all these ornaments, except the serpent, may be commonly found on the trappings of London dray-horses. "Amulet A, which also represents the sun, the moon, the stars, earth, and a serpent, can equally serve as a symbol of the universe. According to M. Kounavine, Ononi" (the Ammon of the Egyptians) "and Auromori, are symbolized upon this amulet. Amulet B represents a man surrounded by a halo, aided by the moon and the stars, and armed with a sword and arrows. Beneath is represented the horse; the serpent symbolizes Auromori. As a whole this amulet represents the conflict between the good and evil principle, Jandra (Indra) against Auromori. "Amulet C represents a gleaming star and the serpent, and is called Baramy (Brama), symbolizing, according to M. Kounavine, the gypsy proto-divinity. "Or amulet D, which represents a flaming pyre and some hieroglyphics, may also symbolize the prayer addressed to the divinity of the fire." If these explanations were given by gypsy sorcerers the amulets are indeed very curious. But, abstractly, the serpent, arrows, stars, the moon, an archer, a fox, and a plant, occur, all the world over, on coins or in popular art, with or without symbolism, and I confess that I should have expected something very different as illustrating such a remarkable mythology as that given by M. Kounavine. However, the art of a nation--as, for instance, that of the Algonkin Indians--may be very far indeed behind its myths and mental conceptions. CHAPTER XVI. GYPSIES, TOADS, AND TOAD-LORE. "I went to the toad that lies under the wall, I charmed him out, and he came at my call." ("Masque of Queens," Ben Johnson.) The toad plays a prominent part in gypsy (as in other) witchcraft, which it may well do, since in most Romany dialects there is the same word for a toad or frog and the devil. Paspati declares that the toad suggested Satan, but I incline to think that there is some as yet undiscovered Aryan word, such as beng, for the devil, and that the German Bengel, a rascal, is a descendant from it. However, gypsies and toads are "near allied and that not wide" from one another, and sometimes their children have them for pets, which recalls the statements made in the celebrated witch trials in Sweden, where it was said by those who professed to have been at the Blockula, or Sabbat, that the little witch children were set to play at being shepherds, their flocks being of toads. I have been informed by gypsies that toads do really form unaccountable predilections for persons and places. The following is accurately related as it was told me in Romany fourteen years ago, in Epping Forest, by a girl. "You know, sir, that people who live out of doors all the time, as we do, see and know a great deal about such creatures. One day we went to a farmhouse, and found the wife almost dying because she thought she was bewitched by a woman who came every day in the form of a great toad to her door and looked in. And, sure enough, while she was talking the toad came, and the woman was taken in such a way with fright that I thought she'd have died. But I had a laugh to myself; for I knew that toads have such ways, and can not only be tamed, but will almost tame themselves. So we gypsies talked together in Romany, and then said we could remove the spell if she would get us a pair of shears and a cup of salt. Then we caught the toad, and tied the shears so as to make a cross--you see!--and with it threw the toad into the fire, and poured the salt on it. So the witchcraft was ended, and the lady gave us a good meal and ten shillings." (For a Romany poem on this incident vide "English Gypsy Songs," Trübner and Co., 1875). And there is a terrible tale told by R. H. Stoddard, in a poem, that one day a gentleman accidentally trod on a toad and killed it. Hearing a scream at that instant in the woods at a little distance, followed by an outcry, he went to see what was the matter, and found a gypsy camp where they were lamenting the sudden death of a child. On looking at the corpse he was horrified to observe that it presented every appearance of having been trampled to death, its wounds being the same as those he had inflicted on the toad. This story being told by me to the gypsy girl, she in no wise doubted its truth, being in fact greatly horrified at it; but was amazed at the child chovihani, or witch, being in two places at once. In the Spanish Association of Witches in the year 1610 (vide Lorent, "Histoire de l'Inquisition") the toad played a great part. One who had taken his degrees in this Order testified that, on admission, a mark like a toad was stamped on his eyelid, and that a real toad was given to him which had the power to make its master invisible, to transport him to distant places, and change him to the form of many kinds of animals. There is a German interjection or curse "Kroten-düvel!" or "toad-devil," which is supposed to have originated as follows: When the Emperor Charlemagne came into the country of the East Saxons and asked them whom they worshipped they replied, "Krodo is our god;" to which the Emperor replied "Krodo is all the same as Kroten-düvel!" "And he made them pay bitterly by the sword and the rope for the crime of calling God, according to their language, by a name different from that which he used; for he put many thousands of them to death, like King Olof of Norway, to show that his faith was one of meekness and mercy." It is bad to have one's looks against one. The personal appearance of the toad is such as to have given it a bad place in the mythology of all races. The Algonkin Indians--who, like Napoleon and Slawkenbergius, were great admirers of men with fine bold noses--after having studied the plane physiognomy of the toad, decided that it indicated all the vices, and made of the creature the mother of all the witches. Nothing could have been more condemnatory; since in their religion--as in that of the Accadians, Laps, and Eskimo--a dark and horrible sorcery, in which witches conciliated evil spirits, was believed to have preceded their own nobler Shamanism, by which these enemies of mankind were forced or conquered by magic. Once the Great Toad had, as she thought, succeeded in organizing a conspiracy by which Glooskap, the Shamanic god of Nature, was to be destroyed. Then he passed his hand over her face and that of her fellow-conspirator the Porcupine; and from that time forth their noses were flat, to the great scorn of all honest well-beaked Indians. The old Persians made the toad the symbol and pet of Ahriman, the foe of light, and declared that his Charfester, or attendant demons, took that form when they persecuted Ormuzd. Among the Tyrolese it is a type of envy; whence the proverb, "Envious as a toad." In the Middle Ages, among artists and in many Church legends, it appears as Greed or Avarice: there is even to this day, in some mysterious place on the right bank of the Rhine between Laufenberg and Binzgau, a pile of coals on which sits a toad. That is to say, coals they seem to the world. But the pile is all pure gold, and the toad is a devil who guards it; and he who knows how can pronounce a spell which shall ban the grim guardian. And there is a story told by Menzel ("Christliche Symbolik," vol. i. p. 530), that long ago there lived in Cologne a wicked miser, who when old repented and wished to leave his money to the poor. But when he opened his great iron chest, he found that every coin in it had turned to a horrible toad with sharp teeth. This story being told to his confessor, the priest saw in it divine retribution, and told him that God would have none of his money--nay, that it would go hard with him to save his soul. And he, being willing to do anything to be free of sin, was locked up in the chest with the toads; and lo! the next day when it was opened the creatures had eaten him up. Only his clean-picked bones remained. But in the Tyrol it is believed that the toads are themselves poor sinners, undergoing penance as Hoetschen or Hoppinen--as they are locally called--for deeds done in human form. Therefore, they are regarded with pity and sympathy by all good Christians. And it is well known that in the Church of Saint Michael in Schwatz, on the evening before the great festivals, but when no one is present, an immense toad comes crawling before the altar, where it kneels and prays, weeping bitterly. The general belief is that toads are for the most part people who made vows to go on pilgrimages, and died with the vows unfulfilled. So the poor creatures go hopping about astray, bewildered and perplexed, striving to find their way to shrines which have perchance long since ceased to exist. Once there was a toad who took seven years to go from Leifers to Weissenstein; and when the creature reached the church it suddenly changed to a resplendent white dove, which, flying up to heaven, vanished before the eyes of a large company there assembled, who bore witness to the miracle. And one day as a wagoner was going from Innsbruck to Seefeld, as he paused by the wayside a toad came hopping up and seemed to be desirous of getting into the wagon; which he, being a benevolent man, helped it to do, and gave it a place on the seat beside him. There it sat like any other respectable passenger, until they came to the side-path which leads to the church of Seefeld; when, wonderful to relate! the toad suddenly turned to a maiden of angelic beauty clad in white, who, thanking the wagoner for his kindness to her when she was but a poor reptile, told him that she had once been a young lady who had vowed a pilgrimage to the church of Seefeld. In common with the frog, the toad is an emblem of productiveness, and ranks among creatures which are types of erotic passion. I have in my possession a necklace of rudely made silver toads, of Arab workmanship, intended to be worn by women who wish to become mothers. Therefore the creature, in the Old World as well as in the New, appears as a being earnestly seeking the companionship of men. Thus it happened to a youth of Aramsach, near Kattenberg, that, being one day in a lonely place by a lake, there looked up at him from the water a being somewhat like a maid but more like a hideous toad, with whom he entered into conversation; which became at last friendly and agreeable, for the strange creature talked exceeding well. Then she, thinking he might be hungry, asked him if he would fain have anything in particular to eat. He mentioned in jest a kind of cakes; whereupon, diving into the lake, she brought some up, which he ate. So he met her many times; and whenever he wished for anything, no matter what, she got it for him from the waters: the end of it all being that, despite her appalling ugliness, the youth fell in love with her and offered marriage, to which she joyfully consented. But no sooner had the ceremony been performed than she changed to a lady of wonderful beauty; and, taking him by the hand, she conducted him to the lake, into which she led him, and "in this life they were seen never more." This legend evidently belongs to frog-lore. According to one version, the toad after marriage goes to a lake, washes away her ugliness, and returns as a beauty with the bridegroom to his castle, where they live in perfect happiness. I have also a very old silver ring, in which there is set a toad rudely yet artistically carved in hæmatite, or blood-stone. These were famous amulets until within two or three hundred years. If you are a gypsy and have a tame toad it is a great assistance in telling fortunes, and brings luck--that commodity which, as Callot observed, the gypsies are always selling to everybody while they protest they themselves have none. As I tested with the last old gypsy woman whom I met: "What bak the divvus?"--"What luck to-day?" "Kekker rya"--"None, sir," was the reply, as usual, "I never have any luck." So like a mirror they reflect all things save themselves, and show you what they know not. "I've seen you where you never were And where you never will be; And yet within that very place You can be seen by me. For to tell what they do not know Is the art of the Romany." NOTES [1] I was once myself made to contribute, involuntarily, to this kind of literature. Forty years ago I published a Folk-lore bock entitled "The Poetry and Mystery of Dreams," in which the explanations of dreams, as given by Astrampsychius, Artemidorus, and other ancient oneirologists, were illustrated by passages from many poets and popular ballads, showing how widely the ancient symbolism had extended. A few years ago I found that some ingenious literary hack had taken my work (without credit), and, omitting what would not be understood by servant girls, had made of it a common sixpenny dream-book. [2] Vide an extremely interesting paper on "The Origin of Languages and the Antiquity of Speaking Man," by Horatio Hale. ["Proceedings of the American Association for the Advancement of Science," vol. xxv.] As I had, owing to studies for many years of baby-talk and jargons, long ago arrived at Mr. Hale's conclusions, I was astonished to learn that they have been so recently formed by anybody. [3] Vide "Practical Education," by C. G. Leland (London: Whittaker and Co., 1888), in which this faculty is fully discussed, pp. 184-213. [4] "It is said that if the bones of a green frog which has been eaten by ants are taken, those on the left side will provoke hatred, and those on the right side excite love" ("Div. Cur.," c. 23).... "One species of frog called rubeta, because it lives among brambles, is said to have wonderful powers. Brought into an assembly of people it imposes silence. If the little bone in its right side be thrown into boiling water it chills it at once. It excites love when put into a draught" ("Castle Saint Angelo and the Evil Eye," by W. W. Story). [5] According to Pliny, the tooth of a wolf hung to the neck of an infant was believed to be an efficient amulet against disease; and a child's tooth caught before it falls to the ground and set in a bracelet was considered to be beneficial to women. Nat. Hist. lib. xxvi., cap. 10 ("Castle Saint Angelo and the Evil Eye," by W. W. Story). [6] This cannot fail to remind many readers of the land-- "Where the cock never crew, Where the sun never shone and the wind never blew." [7] Of the seventh son, Pipernus remarks in his book, "De Effectibus Magicis" (1647): "Est ne sanandi superstitiosus modus eorum, qui orti sunt die Parasceves, et quotquot nullo foemines sexu intercedente, ac ab ortu septimi masculi legitimo thoro sunt nati? memorat Vairus, I. de fascinatione, II. Del Rius, lib. i., part 21. Garzonius nel Serraglio. J. Cæsar Baricellus secundus scriptor in hort. genialé." [8] "Über Marcellus Burdigalensis, von Jacob Grimm. Gelesen in der Academie der Wissenschaften," 28 Juni, 1847 (Berlin. Dummler). In this work, as well as in the German Mythology, by the same author, and in Rudolf Roth's "Litteratur und Geschichte des Veda" (Stuttgart, 1846), the reader will find, as also in the works of the elder Cato and Pliny, numbers of these incantations. [9] The divination by the running brook has been known in other lands. The Highlanders when they consulted an oracle took their seer, wrapped him in the hide of a newly-killed ox or sheep, and left him in some wild ravine by a roaring torrent to pass the night. From such sights and sounds there resulted impressions which were reflected in his dreams (Vide Scott, "Lady of the Lake," and notes). The fact that running water often makes sounds like the human voice has been observed by the Algonkin Indians of Maine and Nova Scotia (Vide "The Algonkin Legends of New England," by Charles G. Leland). [10] "Südslavische Hexensagen, Mittheilungen der Anthropologischen Gesellschaft in Wien." xiv. Bande, 1884. "Medizinische Zaubersprüche aus Slavonien, Bosnien, der Hercegovina und Dalmatien." Wien, 1887. "Sreca, Glück und Schicksal im Volksglauben der Südslaven." Wien, 1886. "Südslavische Pestsagen." Wien, 1883. [11] "Witch. Mediæval English wicche, both masculine and feminine, a wizard, a witch. Anglo-Saxon wicca, masculine, wicce, feminine. Wicca is a corruption of wítga, commonly used as a short form of witega, a prophet, seer, magician, or sorcerer. Anglo-Saxon witan, to see, allied to wítan, to know. Similarly Icelandic vitki, a wizard, is from vita, to know. Wizard, Norman-French wischard, the original Old French being guiscart, sagacious. Icelandic, vizkr, clever or knowing, ... with French suffix ard as German hart, hard, strong" (Skeat, "Etymol. Dictionary"). That is wiz-ard, very wise. Wit and wisdom here are near allied to witchcraft, and thin partitions do the bounds divide. [12] For a very interesting account of the mysterious early dwarfs of Great Britain the reader may consult "Earth Houses and their Inhabitants," by David MacRitchie, in "The Testimony of Tradition." London: Trübner and Co., 1890. [13] The many superstitions relating to cutting nails may be referred in part to the very wild legend of the ship Naglfara given in Sturleson's "Edda." "Then in that Twilight of the Gods (the Norse Day of Judgment) will come the ship Naglfara, which is made of dead men's nails. In that sea it will go forth. Hrymer steereth it. And for this cause no man should die with his nails unshorn, for so the ship is made, and the gods would fain put that off as long as possible" ("Edda, Gylfesgynning," 26th tale). [14] "Geit suer Heidrun heitr stendr uppi a Valholl.... En or spenum hennar rennr moilk ... tháer ero sva miklar at allir einheria verda fuldrucknir af." ("A ewe named Heidrun stands up in Valhalla. And from her udders runs milk; there is so much that all the heroes may drink their fill of it"). (Snorro Sturleson's "Edda," 20th tale). [15] Though not connected with this work, I cannot help observing that this extraordinary simile probably originated in a very common ornament used as a figure-head, or in decorations, on Mississippi steamboats, as well as ships. This is the sea-horse (hippocampus), which may be often seen of large size, carved and gilt. Its fish tail might be easily confused with that of an alligator. Prætorius (1666) enumerates, among other monsters, the horse-crocodile. [16] Schott, "Wallachische Mährchen," p. 297. Stuttgart, 1845. [17] In Northern Sagas it appeared that Berserkers, or desperate warriors, frequently bound themselves together in companies of twelve. Vide the Hervor Saga, Olaf Tryggvason's and the Gautrek Saga. So there were the twelve Norse gods and the twelve apostles. [18] Vide "Drawing and Designing." London: Whittaker & Co., 1888. [19] This was written long before I heard that the same idea had occurred to others. [20] Another Italian was fined or imprisoned for the same thing in London in July, 1890--i.e., for telling penny fortunes by the same machine. [21] This chapter is reproduced, but with much addition, from one in my work entitled "The Gypsies," published in Boston, 1881, by Houghton and Mifflin. London: Trübner & Co. The addition will be the most interesting portion to the folk-lorist. [22] This song which, with its air, is very old in the United States, has been vulgarized by being turned into a ballad of ten little nigger boys. It is given in Mrs. Valentine's Nursery Rhymes as "Indian boys." [23] It is not generally known that Sir H. A. Layard and Sir William Drake were the true revivers of the glass manufacture of Venice. [24] See the "Algonkin Legends of New England," by Charles G. Leland. 
5093	----	This eBook was produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading team. THE LITTLE MINISTER BY J. M. BARRIE AUTHOR OF "WINDOW IN THRUMS," "AULD LIGHT IDYLLS," "WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE." ETC. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. The Love-Light II. Runs Alongside the Making of a Minister III. The Night-Watchers IV. First Coming of the Egyptian Woman V. A Warlike Chapter, Culminating in the Flouting of the Minister by the Woman VI. In which the Soldiers Meet the Amazons of Thrums VII. Has the Folly of Looking into a Woman's Eyes by Way of Text VIII. 3 A.M.--Monstrous Audacity of the Woman IX. The Woman Considered in Absence--Adventures of a Military Cloak X. First Sermon against Women XI. Tells in a Whisper of Man's Fall during the Curling Season XII. Tragedy of a Mud House XIII. Second Coming of the Egyptian Woman XIV. The Minister Dances to the Woman's Piping XV. The Minister Bewitched--Second Sermon against Women XVI. Continued Misbehavior of the Egyptian Woman XVII. Intrusion of Haggart into these Pages against the Author's Wish XVIII. Caddam--Love Leading to a Rupture XIX. Circumstances Leading to the First Sermon in Approval of Women XX. End of the State of Indecision XXI. Night--Margaret--Flashing of a Lantern XXII. Lovers XXIII. Contains a Birth, Which is Sufficient for One Chapter XXIV. The New World, and the Women who may not Dwell therein XXV. Beginning of the Twenty-four Hours XXVI. Scene at the Spittal XXVII. First Journey of the Dominie to Thrums during the Twenty-four Hours XXVIII. The Hill before Darkness Fell--Scene of the Impending Catastrophe XXIX. Story of the Egyptian XXX. The Meeting for Rain XXXI. Various Bodies Converging on the Hill XXXII. Leading Swiftly to the Appalling Marriage XXXIII. While the Ten o'Clock Bell was Ringing XXXIV. The Great Rain XXXV. The Glen at Break of Day XXXVI. Story of the Dominie XXXVII. Second Journey of the Dominie to Thrums during the Twenty-four Hours XXXVIII. Thrums during the Twenty-four Hours--Defence of the Manse XXXIX. How Babbie Spent the Night of August Fourth XL. Babbie and Margaret--Defence of the Manse continued XLI. Rintoui and Babbie--Break-down of the Defence of the Manse XLII. Margaret, the Precentor, and God between XLIII. Rain--Mist--The Jaws XLIV. End of the Twenty-four Hours XLV. Talk of a Little Maid since Grown Tall CHAPTER I. THE LOVE-LIGHT. Long ago, in the days when our caged blackbirds never saw a king's soldier without whistling impudently, "Come ower the water to Charlie," a minister of Thrums was to be married, but something happened, and he remained a bachelor. Then, when he was old, he passed in our square the lady who was to have been his wife, and her hair was white, but she, too, was still unmarried. The meeting had only one witness, a weaver, and he said solemnly afterwards, "They didna speak, but they just gave one another a look, and I saw the love-light in their een." No more is remembered of these two, no being now living ever saw them, but the poetry that was in the soul of a battered weaver makes them human to us for ever. It is of another minister I am to tell, but only to those who know that light when they see it. I am not bidding good-bye to many readers, for though it is true that some men, of whom Lord Rintoul was one, live to an old age without knowing love, few of us can have met them, and of women so incomplete I never heard. Gavin Dishart was barely twenty-one when he and his mother came to Thrums, light-hearted like the traveller who knows not what awaits him at the bend of the road. It was the time of year when the ground is carpeted beneath the firs with brown needles, when split-nuts patter all day from the beech, and children lay yellow corn on the dominie's desk to remind him that now they are needed in the fields. The day was so silent that carts could be heard rumbling a mile away. All Thrums was out in its wynds and closes-- a few of the weavers still in knee-breeches--to look at the new Auld Licht minister. I was there too, the dominie of Glen Quharity, which is four miles from Thrums; and heavy was my heart as I stood afar off so that Gavin's mother might not have the pain of seeing me. I was the only one in the crowd who looked at her more than at her son. Eighteen years had passed since we parted. Already her hair had lost the brightness of its youth, and she seemed to me smaller and more fragile; and the face that I loved when I was a hobbledehoy, and loved when I looked once more upon it in Thrums, and always shall love till I die, was soft and worn. Margaret was an old woman, and she was only forty-three: and I am the man who made her old. As Gavin put his eager boyish face out at the carriage window, many saw that he was holding her hand, but none could be glad at the sight as the dominie was glad, looking on at a happiness in which he dared not mingle. Margaret was crying because she was so proud of her boy. Women do that. Poor sons to be proud of, good mothers, but I would not have you dry those tears. When the little minister looked out at the carriage window, many of the people drew back humbly, but a little boy in a red frock with black spots pressed forward and offered him a sticky parly, which Gavin accepted, though not without a tremor, for children were more terrible to him then than bearded men. The boy's mother, trying not to look elated, bore him away, but her face said that he was made for life. With this little incident Gavin's career in Thrums began. I remembered it suddenly the other day when wading across the wynd where it took place. Many scenes in the little minister's life come back to me in this way. The first time I ever thought of writing his love story as an old man's gift to a little maid since grown tall, was one night while I sat alone in the school-house; on my knees a fiddle that has been my only living companion since I sold my hens. My mind had drifted back to the first time I saw Gavin and the Egyptian together, and what set it wandering to that midnight meeting was my garden gate shaking in the wind. At a gate on the hill I had first encountered these two. It rattled in his hand, and I looked up and saw them, and neither knew why I had such cause to start at the sight. Then the gate swung to. It had just such a click as mine. These two figures on the hill are more real to me than things that happened yesterday, but I do not know that I can make them live to others. A ghost-show used to come yearly to Thrums on the merry Muckle Friday, in which the illusion was contrived by hanging a glass between the onlookers and the stage. I cannot deny that the comings and goings of the ghost were highly diverting, yet the farmer of T'nowhead only laughed because he had paid his money at the hole in the door like the rest of us. T'nowhead sat at the end of a form where he saw round the glass and so saw no ghost. I fear my public may be in the same predicament. I see the little minister as he was at one-and-twenty, and the little girl to whom this story is to belong sees him, though the things I have to tell happened before she came into the world. But there are reasons why she should see; and I do not know that I can provide the glass for others. If they see round it, they will neither laugh nor cry with Gavin and Babbie. When Gavin came to Thrums he was as I am now, for the pages lay before him on which he was to write his life. Yet he was not quite as I am. The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it. But the biographer sees the last chapter while he is still at the first, and I have only to write over with ink what Gavin has written in pencil. How often is it a phanton woman who draws the man from the way he meant to go? So was man created, to hunger for the ideal that is above himself, until one day there is magic in the air, and the eyes of a girl rest upon him. He does not know that it is he himself who crowned her, and if the girl is as pure as he, their love is the one form of idolatry that is not quite ignoble. It is the joining of two souls on their way to God. But if the woman be bad, the test of the man is when he wakens from his dream. The nobler his ideal, the further will he have been hurried down the wrong way, for those who only run after little things will not go far. His love may now sink into passion, perhaps only to stain its wings and rise again, perhaps to drown. Babbie, what shall I say of you who make me write these things? I am not your judge. Shall we not laugh at the student who chafes when between him and his book comes the song of the thrushes, with whom, on the mad night you danced into Gavin's life, you had more in common than with Auld Licht ministers? The gladness of living was in your step, your voice was melody, and he was wondering what love might be. You were the daughter of a summer night, born where all the birds are free, and the moon christened you with her soft light to dazzle the eyes of man. Not our little minister alone was stricken by you into his second childhood. To look upon you was to rejoice that so fair a thing could be; to think of you is still to be young. Even those who called you a little devil, of whom I have been one, admitted that in the end you had a soul, though not that you had been born with one. They said you stole it, and so made a woman of yourself. But again I say I am not your judge, and when I picture you as Gavin saw you first, a bare-legged witch dancing up Windyghoul, rowan berries in your black hair, and on your finger a jewel the little minister could not have bought with five years of toil, the shadows on my pages lift, and I cannot wonder that Gavin loved you. Often I say to myself that this is to be Gavin's story, not mine. Yet must it be mine too, in a manner, and of myself I shall sometimes have to speak; not willingly, for it is time my little tragedy had died of old age. I have kept it to myself so long that now I would stand at its grave alone. It is true that when I heard who was to be the new minister I hoped for a day that the life broken in Harvie might be mended in Thrums, but two minutes' talk with Gavin showed me that Margaret had kept from him the secret which was hers and mine and so knocked the bottom out of my vain hopes. I did not blame her then, nor do I blame her now, nor shall anyone who blames her ever be called friend by me; but it was bitter to look at the white manse among the trees and know that I must never enter it. For Margaret's sake I had to keep aloof, yet this new trial came upon me like our parting at Harvie. I thought that in those eighteen years my passions had burned like a ship till they sank, but I suffered again as on that awful night when Adam Dishart came back, nearly killing Margaret and tearing up all my ambitions by the root in a single hour. I waited in Thrums until I had looked again on Margaret, who thought me dead, and Gavin, who had never heard of me, and then I trudged back to the school-house. Something I heard of them from time to time during the winter--for in the gossip of Thrums I was well posted--but much of what is to be told here I only learned afterwards from those who knew it best. Gavin heard of me at times as the dominie in the glen who had ceased to attend the Auld Licht kirk, and Margaret did not even hear of me. It was all I could do for them. CHAPTER II. RUNS ALONGSIDE THE MAKING OF A MINISTER. On the east coast of Scotland, hidden, as if in a quarry, at the foot of cliffs that may one day fall forward, is a village called Harvie. So has it shrunk since the day when I skulked from it that I hear of a traveller's asking lately at one of its doors how far he was from a village; yet Harvie throve once and was celebrated even in distant Thrums for its fish. Most of our weavers would have thought it as unnatural not to buy harvies in the square on the Muckle Friday, as to let Saturday night pass without laying in a sufficient stock of halfpennies to go round the family twice. Gavin was born in Harvie, but left it at such an early age that he could only recall thatched houses with nets drying on the roofs, and a sandy shore in which coarse grass grew. In the picture he could not pick out the house of his birth, though he might have been able to go to it had he ever returned to the village. Soon he learned that his mother did not care to speak of Harvie, and perhaps he thought that she had forgotten it too, all save one scene to which his memory still guided him. When his mind wandered to Harvie, Gavin saw the door of his home open and a fisherman enter, who scratched his head and then said, "Your man's drowned, missis." Gavin seemed to see many women crying, and his mother staring at them with a face suddenly painted white, and next to hear a voice that was his own saying, "Never mind, mother; I'll be a man to you now, and I'll need breeks for the burial." But Adam required no funeral, for his body lay deep in the sea. Gavin thought that this was the tragedy of his mother's life, and the most memorable event of his own childhood. But it was neither. When Margaret, even after she came to Thrums, thought of Harvie, it was not at Adam's death she shuddered, but at the recollection of me. It would ill become me to take a late revenge on Adam Dishart now by saying what is not true of him. Though he died a fisherman he was a sailor for a great part of his life, and doubtless his recklessness was washed into him on the high seas, where in his time men made a crony of death, and drank merrily over dodging it for another night. To me his roars of laughter without cause were as repellent as a boy's drum; yet many faces that were long in my company brightened at his coming, and women, with whom, despite my yearning, I was in no wise a favorite, ran to their doors to listen to him as readily as to the bell-man. Children scurried from him if his mood was savage, but to him at all other times, while me they merely disregarded. There was always a smell of the sea about him. He had a rolling gait, unless he was drunk, when he walked very straight, and before both sexes he boasted that any woman would take him for his beard alone. Of this beard he took prodigious care, though otherwise thinking little of his appearance, and I now see that he understood women better than I did, who had nevertheless reflected much about them. It cannot be said that he was vain, for though he thought he attracted women strangely, that, I maintain, is a weakness common to all men, and so no more to be marvelled at than a stake in a fence. Foreign oaths were the nails with which he held his talk together, yet I doubt not they were a curiosity gathered at sea, like his chains of shells, more for his own pleasure than for others' pain. His friends gave them no weight, and when he wanted to talk emphatically he kept them back, though they were then as troublesome to him as eggs to the bird-nesting boy who has to speak with his spoil in his mouth. Adam was drowned on Gavin's fourth birthday, a year after I had to leave Harvie. He was blown off his smack in a storm, and could not reach the rope his partner flung him. "It's no go, lad," he shouted; "so long, Jim," and sank. A month afterwards Margaret sold her share in the smack, which was all Adam left her, and the furniture of the house was rouped. She took Gavin to Glasgow, where her only brother needed a housekeeper, and there mother and son remained until Gavin got his call to Thrums. During those seventeen years I lost knowledge of them as completely as Margaret had lost knowledge of me. On hearing of Adam's death I went back to Harvie to try to trace her, but she had feared this, and so told no one where she was going. According to Margaret, Gavin's genius showed itself while he was still a child. He was born with a brow whose nobility impressed her from the first. It was a minister's brow, and though Margaret herself was no scholar, being as slow to read as she was quick at turning bannocks on the girdle, she decided, when his age was still counted by months, that the ministry had need of him. In those days the first question asked of a child was not, "Tell me your name," but "What are you to be?" and one child in every family replied, "A minister." He was set apart for the Church as doggedly as the shilling a week for the rent, and the rule held good though the family consisted of only one boy. From his earliest days Gavin thought he had been fashioned for the ministry as certainly as a spade for digging, and Margaret rejoiced and marvelled thereat, though she had made her own puzzle. An enthusiastic mother may bend her son's mind as she chooses if she begins it once; nay, she may do stranger things. I know a mother in Thrums who loves "features," and had a child born with no chin to speak of. The neighbors expected this to bring her to the dust, but it only showed what a mother can do. In a few months that child had a chin with the best of them. Margaret's brother died, but she remained in his single room, and, ever with a picture of her son in a pulpit to repay her, contrived to keep Gavin at school. Everything a woman's fingers can do Margaret's did better than most, and among the wealthy people who employed her--would that I could have the teaching of the sons of such as were good to her in those hard days!--her gentle manner was spoken of. For though Margaret had no schooling, she was a lady at heart, moving and almost speaking as one even in Harvie, where they did not perhaps like her the better for it. At six Gavin hit another boy hard for belonging to the Established Church, and at seven he could not lose himself in the Shorter Catechism. His mother expounded the Scriptures to him till he was eight, when he began to expound them to her. By this time he was studying the practical work of the pulpit as enthusiastically as ever medical student cut off a leg. From a front pew in the gallery Gavin watched the minister's every movement, noting that the first thing to do on ascending the pulpit is to cover your face with your hands, as if the exalted position affected you like a strong light, and the second to move the big Bible slightly, to show that the kirk officer, not having had a university education, could not be expected to know the very spot on which it ought to lie. Gavin saw that the minister joined in the singing more like one countenancing a seemly thing than because he needed it himself, and that he only sang a mouthful now and again after the congregation was in full pursuit of the precentor. It was noteworthy that the first prayer lasted longer than all the others, and that to read the intimations about the Bible-class and the collection elsewhere than immediately before the last Psalm would have been as sacrilegious as to insert the dedication to King James at the end of Revelation. Sitting under a minister justly honoured in his day, the boy was often some words in advance of him, not vainglorious of his memory, but fervent, eager, and regarding the preacher as hardly less sacred than the Book. Gavin was encouraged by his frightened yet admiring mother to saw the air from their pew as the minister sawed it in the pulpit, and two benedictions were pronounced twice a Sabbath in that church, in the same words, the same manner, and simultaneously. There was a black year when the things of this world, especially its pastimes, took such a grip of Gavin that he said to Margaret he would rather be good at the high jump than the author of "The Pilgrim's Progress." That year passed, and Gavin came to his right mind. One afternoon Margaret was at home making a glen-garry for him out of a piece of carpet, and giving it a tartan edging, when the boy bounded in from school, crying, "Come quick, mother, and you'll see him." Margaret reached the door in time to see a street musician flying from Gavin and his friends. "Did you take stock of him, mother?" the boy asked when he reappeared with the mark of a muddy stick on his back. "He's a Papist!--a sore sight, mother, a sore sight. We stoned him for persecuting the noble Martyrs." "When Gavin was twelve he went to the university, and also got a place in a shop as errand boy. He used to run through the streets between his work and his classes. Potatoes and salt fish, which could then be got at two pence the pound if bought by the half- hundred weight, were his food. There was not always a good meal for two, yet when Gavin reached home at night there was generally something ready for him, and Margaret had supped "hours ago." Gavin's hunger urged him to fall to, but his love for his mother made him watchful. "What did you have yourself, mother?" he would demand suspiciously. "Oh, I had a fine supper, I assure you." "What had you?" "I had potatoes, for one thing." "And dripping?" "You may be sure." "Mother, you're cheating me. The dripping hasn't been touched since yesterday." "I dinna--don't--care for dripping--no much." Then would Gavin stride the room fiercely, a queer little figure. "Do you think I'll stand this, mother? Will I let myself be pampered with dripping and every delicacy while you starve?" "Gavin, I really dinna care for dripping." "Then I'll give up my classes, and we can have butter." "I assure you I'm no hungry. It's different wi' a growing laddie." "I'm not a growing laddie," Gavin would say, bitterly; "but, mother, I warn you that not another bite passes my throat till I see you eating too." So Margaret had to take her seat at the table, and when she said "I can eat no more," Gavin retorted sternly, "Nor will I, for fine I see through you." These two were as one far more than most married people, and, just as Gavin in his childhood reflected his mother, she now reflected him. The people for whom she sewed thought it was contact with them that had rubbed the broad Scotch from her tongue, but she Was only keeping pace with Gavin. When she was excited the Harvie words came back to her, as they come back to me. I have taught the English language all my life, and I try to write it, but everything I say in this book I first think to myself in the Doric. This, too, I notice, that in talking to myself I am broader than when gossiping with the farmers of the glen, who send their children to me to learn English, and then jeer at them if they say "old lights" instead of "auld lichts." To Margaret it was happiness to sit through the long evenings sewing, and look over her work at Gavin as he read or wrote or recited to himself the learning of the schools. But she coughed every time the weather changed, and then Gavin would start. "You must go to your bed, mother," he would say, tearing himself from his books; or he would sit beside her and talk of the dream that was common to both--a dream of a manse where Margaret was mistress and Gavin was called the minister. Every night Gavin was at his mother's bedside to wind her shawl round her feet, and while he did it Margaret smiled. "Mother, this is the chaff pillow you've taken out of my bed, and given me your feather one." "Gavin, you needna change them. I winna have the feather pillow." "Do you dare to think I'll let you sleep on chaff? Put up your head. Now, is that soft?" "It's fine. I dinna deny but what I sleep better on feathers. Do you mind, Gavin, you bought this pillow for me the moment you got your bursary money?" The reserve that is a wall between many of the Scottish poor had been broken down by these two. When he saw his mother sleeping happily, Gavin went back to his work. To save the expense of a lamp, he would put his book almost beneath the dying fire, and, taking the place of the fender, read till he was shivering with cold. "Gavin, it is near morning, and you not in your bed yet! What are you thinking about so hard?" "Oh, mother, I was wondering if the time would ever come when I would be a minister, and you would have an egg for your breakfast every morning." So the years passed, and soon Gavin would be a minister. He had now sermons to prepare, and every one of them was first preached to Margaret. How solemn was his voice, how his eyes flashed, how stern were his admonitions. "Gavin, such a sermon I never heard. The spirit of God is on you. I'm ashamed you should have me for a mother." "God grant, mother," Gavin said, little thinking what was soon to happen, or he would have made this prayer on his knees, "that you may never be ashamed to have me for a son." "Ah, mother," he would say wistfully, "it is not a great sermon, but do you think I'm preaching Christ? That is what I try, but I'm carried away and forget to watch myself." "The Lord has you by the hand, Gavin; and mind, I dinna say that because you're my laddie." "Yes, you do, mother, and well I know it, and yet it does me good to hear you." That it did him good I, who would fain have shared those days with them, am very sure. The praise that comes of love does not make us vain, but humble rather. Knowing what we are, the pride that shines in our mother's eyes as she looks at us is about the most pathetic thing a man has to face, but he would be a devil altogether if it did not burn some of the sin out of him. Not long before Gavin preached for our kirk and got his call, a great event took place in the little room at Glasgow. The student appeared for the first time before his mother in his ministerial clothes. He wore the black silk hat, that was destined to become a terror to evil-doers in Thrums, and I dare say he was rather puffed up about himself that day. You would probably have smiled at him. "It's a pity I'm so little, mother," he said with a sigh. "You're no what I would call a particularly long man," Margaret said, "but you're just the height I like." Then Gavin went out in his grandeur, and Margaret cried for an hour. She was thinking of me as well as of Gavin, and as it happens, I know that I was thinking at the same time of her. Gavin kept a diary in those days, which I have seen, and by comparing it with mine, I discovered that while he was showing himself to his mother in his black clothes, I was on my way back from Tilliedrum, where I had gone to buy a sand-glass for the school. The one I bought was so like another Margaret had used at Harvie that it set me thinking of her again all the way home. This is a matter hardly worth mentioning, and yet it interests me. Busy days followed the call to Thrums, and Gavin had difficulty in forcing himself to his sermons when there was always something more to tell his mother about the weaving town they were going to, or about the manse or the furniture that had been transferred to him by the retiring minister. The little room which had become so familiar that it seemed one of a family party of three had to be stripped, and many of its contents were sold. Among what were brought to Thrums was a little exercise book, in which Margaret had tried, unknown to Gavin, to teach herself writing and grammar, that she might be less unfit for a manse. He found it accidentally one day. It was full of "I am, thou art, he is," and the like, written many times in a shaking hand. Gavin put his arms round his mother when he saw what she had been doing. The exercise book is in my desk now, and will be my little maid's when I die. "Gavin, Gavin," Margaret said many times In those last days at Glasgow, "to think it has all come true!" "Let the last word you say in the house be a prayer of thankfulness," she whispered to him when they were taking a final glance at the old home. In the bare room they called the house, the little minister and his mother went on their knees, but, as it chanced, their last word there was not addressed to God. "Gavin," Margaret whispered as he took her arm, "do you think this bonnet sets me?" CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT-WATCHERS. What first struck Margaret in Thrums was the smell of the caddis. The town smells of caddis no longer, but whiffs of it may be got even now as one passes the houses of the old, where the lay still swings at little windows like a great ghost pendulum. To me it is a homely smell, which I draw in with a great breath, but it was as strange to Margaret as the weavers themselves, who, in their colored nightcaps and corduroys streaked with threads, gazed at her and Gavin. The little minister was trying to look severe and old, but twenty-one was in his eye. "Look, mother, at that white house with the green roof. That is the manse." The manse stands high, with a sharp eye on all the town. Every back window in the Tenements has a glint of it, and so the back of the Tenements is always better behaved than the front. It was in the front that Jamie Don, a pitiful bachelor all his life because he thought the women proposed, kept his ferrets, and here, too, Beattie hanged himself, going straight to the clothes-posts for another rope when the first one broke, such was his determination. In the front Sanders Gilruth openly boasted (on Don's potato-pit) that by having a seat in two churches he could lie in bed on Sabbath and get the credit of being at one or other. (Gavin made short work of him.) To the right-minded the Auld Licht manse was as a family Bible, ever lying open before them, but Beattie spoke for more than him-self when he said, "Dagone that manse! I never gie a swear but there it is glowering at me." The manse looks down on the town from the northeast, and is reached from the road that leaves Thrums behind it in another moment by a wide, straight path, so rough that to carry a fraught of water to the manse without spilling was to be superlatively good at one thing. Packages in a cart it set leaping like trout in a fishing-creel. Opposite the opening of the garden wall in the manse, where for many years there had been an intention of putting up a gate, were two big stones a yard apart, standing ready for the winter, when the path was often a rush of yellow water, and this the only bridge to the glebe dyke, down which the minister walked to church. When Margaret entered the manse on Gavin's arm, it was a whitewashed house of five rooms, with a garret in which the minister could sleep if he had guests, as during the Fast week. It stood with its garden within high walls, and the roof awing southward was carpeted with moss that shone in the sun in a dozen shades of green and yellow. Three firs guarded the house from west winds, but blasts from the north often tore down the steep fields and skirled through the manse, banging all its doors at once. A beech, growing on the east side, leant over the roof as if to gossip with the well in the courtyard. The garden was to the south, and was over full of gooseberry and currant bushes. It contained a summer seat, where strange things were soon to happen. Margaret would not even take off her bonnet until she had seen through the manse and opened all the presses. The parlour and kitchen were downstairs, and of the three rooms above, the study was so small that Gavin's predecessor could touch each of its walls without shifting his position. Every room save Margaret's had long-lidded beds, which close as if with shutters, but hers was coff-fronted, or comparatively open, with carving on the wood like the ornamentation of coffins. Where there were children in a house they liked to slope the boards of the closed-in bed against the dresser, and play at sliding down mountains on them. But for many years there had been no children in the manse. He in whose ways Gavin was to attempt the heavy task of walking had been a widower three months after his marriage, a man narrow when he came to Thrums, but so large-hearted when he left it that I, who know there is good in all the world because of the lovable souls I have met in this corner of it, yet cannot hope that many are as near to God as he. The most gladsome thing in the world is that few of us fall very low; the saddest that, with such capabilities, we seldom rise high. Of those who stand perceptibly above their fellows I have known very few; only Mr. Carfrae and two or three women. Gavin only saw a very frail old minister who shook as he walked, as if his feet were striking against stones. He was to depart on the morrow to the place of his birth, but he came to the manse to wish his successor God-speed. Strangers were so formidable to Margaret that she only saw him from her window. "May you never lose sight of God, Mr. Dishart," the old man said in the parlour. Then he added, as if he had asked too much, "May you never turn from Him as I often did when I was a lad like you." As this aged minister, with the beautiful face that God gives to all who love Him and follow His commandments, spoke of his youth, he looked wistfully around the faded parlour. "It is like a dream," he said. "The first time I entered this room the thought passed through me that I would cut down that cherry- tree, because it kept out the light, but, you see, it outlives me. I grew old while looking for the axe. Only yesterday I was the young minister, Mr. Dishart, and to-morrow you will be the old one, bidding good-bye to your successor." His eyes came back to Gavin's eager face. "You are very young, Mr. Dishart?" "Nearly twenty-one." "Twenty-one! Ah, my dear sir, you do not know how pathetic that sounds to me. Twenty-one! We are children for the second time at twenty-one, and again when we are grey and put all our burden on the Lord. The young talk generously of relieving the old of their burdens, but the anxious heart is to the old when they see a load on the back of the young. Let me tell you, Mr. Dishart, that I would condone many things in one-and-twenty now that I dealt hardly with at middle age. God Himself, I think, is very willing to give one-and-twenty a second chance." "I am afraid," Gavin said anxiously, "that I look even younger." "I think," Mr. Carfrae answered, smiling, "that your heart is as fresh as your face; and that is well. The useless men are those who never change with the years. Many views that I held to in my youth and long afterwards are a pain to me now, and I am carrying away from Thrums memories of errors into which I fell at every stage of my ministry. When you are older you will know that life is a long lesson in humility." He paused. "I hope," he said nervously, "that you don't sing the Paraphrases?" Mr. Carfrae had not grown out of all his prejudices, you see; indeed, if Gavin had been less bigoted than he on this question they might have parted stiffly. The old minister would rather have remained to die in his pulpit than surrender it to one who read his sermons. Others may blame him for this, but I must say here plainly that I never hear a minister reading without wishing to send him back to college. "I cannot deny," Mr. Carfrae said, "that I broke down more than once to-day. This forenoon I was in Tillyloss, for the last time, and it so happens that there is scarcely a house in it in which I have not had a marriage or prayed over a coffin. Ah, sir, these are the scenes that make the minister more than all his sermons. You must join the family, Mr. Dishart, or you are only a minister once a week. And remember this, if your call is from above, it is a call to stay. Many such partings in a lifetime as I have had to- day would be too heartrending." "And yet," Gavin said, hesitatingly, "they told me in Glasgow that I had received a call from the mouth of hell." "Those were cruel words, but they only mean that people who are seldom more than a day's work in advance of want sometimes rise in arms for food. Our weavers are passionately religious, and so independent that they dare any one to help them, but if their wages were lessened they could not live. And so at talk of reduction they catch fire. Change of any kind alarms them, and though they call themselves Whigs, they rose a few years ago over the paving of the streets and stoned the workmen, who were strangers, out of the town." "And though you may have thought the place quiet to-day, Mr. Dishart, there was an ugly outbreak only two months ago, when the weavers turned on the manufacturers for reducing the price of the web, made a bonfire of some of their doors, and terrified one of them into leaving Thrums. Under the command of some Chartists, the people next paraded the streets to the music of fife and drum, and six policemen who drove up from Tilliedrum in a light cart were sent back tied to the seats." "No one has been punished?" "Not yet, but nearly two years ago there was a similar riot, and the sheriff took no action for months. Then one night the square suddenly filled with soldiers, and the ringleaders were seized in their beds, Mr. Dishart, the people are determined not to be caught in that way again, and ever since the rising a watch has been kept by night on every road that leads to Thrums. The signal that the soldiers are coining is to be the blowing of a horn. If you ever hear that horn, I implore you to hasten to the square." "The weavers would not fight?" "You do not know how the Chartists have fired this part of the country. One misty day, a week ago, I was on the hill; I thought I had it to myself, when suddenly I heard a voice cry sharply, 'Shoulder arms.' I could see no one, and after a moment I put it down to a freak of the wind. Then all at once the mist before me blackened, and a body of men seemed to grow out of it. They were not shadows; they were Thrums weavers drilling, with pikes in their hands. "They broke up," Mr. Carfrae continued, after a pause, "at my entreaty, but they have met again since then." "And there were Auld Lichts among them?" Gavin asked. "I should have thought they would be frightened at our precentor, Lang Tammas, who seems to watch for backsliding in the congregation as if he had pleasure in discovering it." Gavin spoke with feeling, for the precentor had already put him through his catechism, and it was a stiff ordeal. "The precentor!" said Mr. Carfrae. "Why, he was one of them." The old minister, once so brave a figure, tottered as he rose to go, and reeled in a dizziness until he had walked a few paces. Gavin went with him to the foot of the manse road; without his hat, as all Thrums knew before bedtime. "I begin," Gavin said, as they were parting, "where you leave off, and my prayer is that I may walk in your ways." "Ah, Mr. Dishart," the white-haired minister said, with a sigh, "the world does not progress so quickly as a man grows old. You only begin where I began." He left Gavin, and then, as if the little minister's last words had hurt him, turned and solemnly pointed his staff upward. Such men are the strong nails that keep the world together. The twenty-one-years-old minister returned to the manse somewhat sadly, but when he saw his mother at the window of her bed-room, his heart leapt at the thought that she was with him and he had eighty pounds a year. Gaily he waved both his hands to her, and she answered with a smile, and then, in his boyishness, he jumped over a gooseberry bush. Immediately afterwards he reddened and tried to look venerable, for while in the air he had caught sight of two women and a man watching him from the dyke. He walked severely to the door, and, again forgetting himself, was bounding upstairs to Margaret, when Jean, the servant, stood scandalised in his way. "I don't think she caught me," was Gavin's reflection, and "The Lord preserves!" was Jean's. Gavin found his mother wondering how one should set about getting a cup of tea in a house that had a servant in it. He boldly rang the bell, and the willing Jean answered it so promptly (in a rush and jump) that Margaret was as much startled as Aladdin the first time he rubbed his lamp. Manse servants of the most admired kind move softly, as if constant contact with a minister were goloshes to them; but Jean was new and raw, only having got her place because her father might be an elder any day. She had already conceived a romantic affection for her master; but to say "sir" to him-as she thirsted to do--would have been as difficult to her as to swallow oysters. So anxious was she to please that when Gavin rang she fired herself at the bed-room, but bells were novelties to her as well as to Margaret, and she cried, excitedly, "What is it?" thinking the house must be on fire. "There's a curran folk at the back door," Jean announced later, "and their respects to you, and would you gie them some water out o' the well? It has been a drouth this aucht days, and the pumps is locked. Na," she said, as Gavin made a too liberal offer, "that would toom the well, and there's jimply enough for oursels. I should tell you, too, that three o' them is no Auld Lichts." "Let that make no difference," Gavin said grandly, but Jean changed his message to: "A bowlful apiece to Auld Lichts; all other denominations one cupful." "Ay, ay," said Snecky Hobart, letting down the bucket, "and we'll include atheists among other denominations." The conversation came to Gavin and Margaret through the kitchen doorway. "Dinna class Jo Cruickshanks wi' me," said Sam'l Langlands the U. P. "Na, na," said Cruickshanks the atheist, "I'm ower independent to be religious. I dinna gang to the kirk to cry, 'Oh, Lord, gie, gie, gie.'" "Take tent o' yoursel', my man," said Lang Tammas sternly, "or you'll soon be whaur you would neifer the warld for a cup o' that cauld water." "Maybe you've ower keen an interest in the devil, Tammas," retorted the atheist; "but, ony way, if it's heaven for climate, it's hell for company." "Lads," said Snecky, sitting down on the bucket, "we'll send Mr. Dishart to Jo. He'll make another Rob Dow o' him." "Speak mair reverently o' your minister," said the precentor. "He has the gift." --I hinna naturally your solemn rasping word, Tammas, but in the heart I speak in all reverence. Lads, the minister has a word! I tell you he prays near like one giving orders." "At first," Snecky continued, "I thocht yon lang candidate was the earnestest o' them a", and I dinna deny but when I saw him wi' his head bowed-like in prayer during the singing I says to rnysel', 'Thou art the man.' Ay, but Betsy wraxed up her head, and he wasna praying. He was combing his hair wi' his fingers on the sly." "You ken fine, Sneck," said Cruickshanks, "that you said, 'Thou art the man' to ilka ane o' them, and just voted for Mr. Dishart because he preached hinmost." "I didna say it to--Mr. Urquhart, the ane that preached second," Sneck said. "That was the lad that gaed through ither." "Ay," said Susy Tibbits, nicknamed by Haggart "the Timidest Woman" because she once said she was too young to marry, "but I was fell sorry for him, just being over anxious. He began bonny, flinging himself, like ane Inspired, at the pulpit door, but after Hendry Munn pointed at it and cried out, 'Be cautious, the sneck's loose,' he a' gaed to bits. What a coolness Hendry has, though I suppose it was his duty, him being kirk-officer." "We didna want a man," Lang Tammas said, "that could be put out by sic a sma' thing as that. Mr. Urquhart was in sic a ravel after it that when he gies out the first line o' the hunder and nineteenth psalm for singing, says he, 'And so on to the end.' Ay, that finished his chance." "The noblest o' them to look at," said Tibbie Birse, "was that ane frae Aberdeen, him that had sic a saft side to Jacob." "Ay," said Snecky, "and I speired at Dr. McQueen if I should vote for him. 'Looks like a genius, does he?' says the Doctor. 'Weel, then,' says he, 'dinna vote for him, for my experience is that there's no folk sic idiots as them that looks like geniuses.'" "Sal," Susy said, "it's a guid thing we've settled, for I enjoyed sitting like a judge upon them so muckle that I sair doubt it was a kind o' sport to me." "It was no sport to them, Susy, I'se uphaud, but it is a blessing we've settled, and ondoubtedly we've got the pick o' them. The only thing Mr. Dishart did that made me oneasy was his saying the word Caesar as if it began wi' a k." "He'll startle you mair afore you're done wi' him," the atheist said maliciously. "I ken the ways o' thae ministers preaching for kirks. Oh, they're cunning. You was a' pleased that Mr. Dishart spoke about looms and webs, but, lathies, it was a trick. Ilka ane o' thae young ministers has a sermon about looms for weaving congregations, and a second about beating swords into ploughshares for country places, and another on the great catch of fishes for fishing villages. That's their stock-in-trade; and just you wait and see if you dinna get the ploughshares and the fishes afore the month's out. A minister preaching for a kirk is one thing, but a minister placed in't may be a very different berry." "Joseph Cruickshanks," cried the precentor, passionately, "none o' your d----d blasphemy!" They all looked at Whamond, and he dug his teeth into his lips in shame. "Wha's swearing now?" said the atheist. But Whamond was quick. "Matthew, twelve and thirty-one," he said. "Dagont, Tammas," exclaimed the baffled Cruickshanks, "you're aye quoting Scripture. How do you no quote Feargus O'Connor?" "Lads," said Snecky, "Jo hasna heard Mr. Dishart's sermons. Ay, we get it scalding when he comes to the sermon. I canna thole a minister that preaches as if heaven was round the corner." "If you're hitting at our minister, Snecky," said James Cochrane, "let me tell you he's a better man than yours." "A better curler, I dare say." "A better prayer." "Ay, he can pray for a black frost as if it was ane o' the Royal Family. I ken his prayers, 'O Lord, let it haud for anither day, and keep the snaw awa'.' Will you pretend, Jeames, that Mr. Duthie could make onything o' Rob Dow?" "I admit that Rob's awakening was an extraordinary thing, and sufficient to gie Mr. Dishart a name. But Mr. Carfrae was baffled wi' Rob too." "Jeames, if you had been in our kirk that day Mr. Dishart preached for't you would be wearying the now for Sabbath, to be back in't again. As you ken, that wicked man there, Jo Cruickshanks, got Rob Dow, drucken, cursing, poaching--Rob Dow, to come to the kirk to annoy the minister. Ay, he hadna been at that work for ten minutes when Mr. Dishart stopped in his first prayer and ga'e Rob a look. I couldna see the look, being in the precentor's box, but as sure as death I felt it boring through me. Rob is hard wood, though, and soon he was at his tricks again. Weel, the minister stopped a second time in the sermon, and so awful was the silence that a heap o' the congregation couldna keep their seats. I heard Rob breathing quick and strong. Mr. Dishart had his arm pointed at him a' this time, and at last he says sternly, 'Come forward.' Listen, Joseph Cruickshanks, and tremble. Rob gripped the board to keep himsel' frae obeying, and again Mr. Dishart says, 'Come forward,' and syne Rob rose shaking, and tottered to the pulpit stair like a man suddenly shot into the Day of Judgment. 'You hulking man of sin,' cries Mr. Dishart, not a tick fleid, though Rob's as big as three o' him, 'sit down on the stair and attend to me, or I'll step doun frae the pulpit and run you out of the house of God,'" "And since that day," said Hobart, "Rob has worshipped Mr. Dishart as a man that has stepped out o' the Bible. When the carriage passed this day we was discussing the minister, and Sam'l Dickie wasna sure but what Mr. Dishart wore his hat rather far back on his head. You should have seen Rob. 'My certie,' he roars, 'there's the shine frae Heaven on that little minister's face, and them as says there's no has me to fecht.'" "Ay, weel," said the U. P., rising, "we'll see how Rob wears--and how your minister wears too. I wouldna like to sit in a kirk whaur they daurna sing a paraphrase." "The Psalms of David," retorted Whamond, "mount straight to heaven, but your paraphrases sticks to the ceiling o' the kirk." "You're a bigoted set, Tammas Whamond, but I tell you this, and it's my last words to you the nicht, the day'll come when you'll hae Mr. Duthie, ay, and even the U. P. minister, preaching in the Auld Licht kirk." "And let this be my last words to you," replied the precentor, furiously; "that rather than see a U. P. preaching in the Auld Licht kirk I would burn in hell fire for ever!" This gossip increased Gavin's knowledge of the grim men with whom he had now to deal. But as he sat beside Margaret after she had gone to bed, their talk was pleasant. "You remember, mother," Gavin said, "how I almost prayed for the manse that was to give you an egg every morning. I have been telling Jean never to forget the egg." "Ah, Gavin, things have come about so much as we wanted that I'm a kind o' troubled. It's hardly natural, and I hope nothing terrible is to happen now." Gavin arranged her pillows as she liked them, and when he next stole into the room in his stocking soles to look at her, he thought she was asleep. But she was not. I dare say she saw at that moment Gavin in his first frock, and Gavin in knickerbockers, and Gavin as he used to walk into the Glasgow room from college, all still as real to her as the Gavin who had a kirk. The little minister took away the lamp to his own room, shaking his fist at himself for allowing his mother's door to creak. He pulled up his blind. The town lay as still as salt. But a steady light showed in the south, and on pressing his face against the window he saw another in the west. Mr. Carfrae's words about the night-watch came back to him. Perhaps it had been on such a silent night as this that the soldiers marched into Thrums. Would they come again? CHAPTER IV. FIRST COMING OF THE EGYPTIAN WOMAN. A learned man says in a book, otherwise beautiful with truth, that villages are family groups. To him Thrums would only be a village, though town is the word we have ever used, and this is not true of it. Doubtless we have interests in common, from which a place so near (but the road is heavy) as Tilliedrum is shut out, and we have an individuality of our own too, as if, like our red houses, we came from a quarry that supplies no other place. But we are not one family. In the old days, those of us who were of the Tenements seldom wandered to the Croft head, and if we did go there we saw men to whom we could not always give a name. To flit from the Tanage brae to Haggart's road was to change one's friends. A kirk- wynd weaver might kill his swine and Tillyloss not know of it until boys ran westward hitting each other with the bladders. Only the voice of the dulsemen could be heard all over Thrums at once. Thus even in a small place but a few outstanding persons are known to everybody. In eight days Gavin's figure was more familiar in Thrums than many that had grown bent in it. He had already been twice to the cemetery, for a minister only reaches his new charge in time to attend a funeral. Though short of stature he cast a great shadow. He was so full of his duties, Jean said, that though he pulled to the door as he left the manse, he had passed the currant bushes before it snecked. He darted through courts, and invented ways into awkward houses. If you did not look up quickly he was round the corner. His visiting exhausted him only less than his zeal in the pulpit, from which, according to report, he staggered damp with perspiration to the vestry, where Hendry Munn wrung him like a wet cloth. A deaf lady, celebrated for giving out her washing, compelled him to hold her trumpet until she had peered into all his crannies, with the Shorter Catechism for a lantern. Janet Dundas told him, in answer to his knock, that she could not abide him, but she changed her mind when he said her garden was quite a show. The wives who expected a visit scrubbed their floors for him, cleaned out their presses for him, put diamond socks on their bairns for him, rubbed their hearthstones blue for him, and even tidied up the garret for him, and triumphed over the neighbours whose houses he passed by. For Gavin blundered occasionally by inadvertence, as when he gave dear old Betty Davie occasion to say bitterly-- "Ou ay, you can sail by my door and gang to Easie's, but I'm thinking you would stop at mine too if I had a brass handle on't." So passed the first four weeks, and then came the fateful night of the seventeenth of October, and with it the strange woman. Family worship at the manse was over and Gavin was talking to his mother, who never crossed the threshold save to go to church (though her activity at home was among the marvels Jean sometimes slipped down to the Tenements to announce). when Wearyworld the policeman came to the door "with Rob Dow's compliments, and if you're no wi' me by ten o'clock I'm to break out again." Gavin knew what this meant, and at once set off for Rob's. "You'll let me gang a bit wi' you," the policeman entreated, "for till Rob sent me on this errand not a soul has spoken to me the day; ay, mony a ane hae I spoken to, but not a man, woman, nor bairn would fling me a word." "I often meant to ask you," Gavin said as they went along the Tenements, which smelled at that hour of roasted potatoes, "why you are so unpopular." "It's because I'm police. I'm the first ane that has ever been in Thrums, and the very folk that appointed me at a crown a week looks upon me as a disgraced man for accepting. It's Gospel that my ain wife is short wi' me when I've on my uniform, though weel she kens that I would rather hae stuck to the loom if I hadna ha'en sic a queer richt leg. Nobody feels the shame o' my position as I do mysel', but this is a town without pity." "It should be a consolation to you that you are discharging useful duties." "But I'm no. I'm doing harm. There's Charles Dickson says that the very sicht o' my uniform rouses his dander so muckle that it makes him break windows, though a peaceably-disposed man till I was appointed. And what's the use o' their haeing a policeman when they winna come to the lock-up after I lay hands on them?" "Do they say they won't come?" "Say? Catch them saying onything! They just gie me a wap into the gutters. If they would speak I wouldna complain, for I'm nat'rally the sociablest man in Thrums." "Rob, however, had spoken to you." "Because he had need o' me. That was ay Rob's way, converted or no converted. When he was blind drunk he would order me to see him safe hame, but would he crack wi' me? Na, na." Wearyworld, who was so called because of his forlorn way of muttering, "It's a weary warld, and nobody bides in't," as he went his melancholy rounds, sighed like one about to cry, and Gavin changed the subject. "Is the watch for the soldiers still kept up?" he asked. "It is, but the watchers winna let me in aside them. I'll let you see that for yoursel' at me head o' the Roods, for they watch there in the auld windmill." Most of the Thrums lights were already out, and that in the windmill disappeared as footsteps were heard. "You're desperate characters," the policeman cried, but got no answer. He changed his tactics. "A fine nicht for the time o' year," he cried. No answer. "But I wouldna wonder," he shouted, "though we had rain afore morning." No answer. "Surely you could gie me a word frae ahint the door. You're doing an onlawful thing, but I dinna ken wha you are." "You'll swear to that?" some one asked gruffly. "I swear to it, Peter." Wearyworld tried another six remarks in vain. "Ay," he said to the minister, "that's what it is to be an onpopular man. And now I'll hae to turn back, for the very anes that winna let me join them would be the first to complain if I gaed out o' bounds." Gavin found Dow at New Zealand, a hamlet of mud houses, whose tenants could be seen on any Sabbath morning washing themselves in the burn that trickled hard by. Rob's son, Micah, was asleep at the door, but he brightened when he saw who was shaking him. "My father put me out," he explained, "because he's daft for the drink, and was fleid he would curse me. He hasna cursed me," Micah added, proudly, "for an aught days come Sabbath. Hearken to him at his loom. He daurna take his feet off the treadles for fear o' running straucht to the drink." Gavin went in. The loom, and two stools, the one four-footed and the other a buffet, were Rob's most conspicuous furniture. A shaving-strap hung on the wall. The fire was out, but the trunk of a tree, charred at one end, showed how he heated his house. He made a fire of peat, and on it placed one end of a tree trunk that might be six feet long. As the tree burned away it was pushed further into the fireplace, and a roaring fire could always be got by kicking pieces of the smouldering wood and blowing them into flame with the bellows. When Rob saw the minister he groaned relief and left his loom. He had been weaving, his teeth clenched, his eyes on fire, for seven hours. "I wasna fleid," little Micah said to the neighbours afterwards, "to gang in wi' the minister. He's a fine man that. He didna ca' my father names. Na, he said, 'You're a brave fellow, Rob,' and he took my father's hand, he did. My father was shaking after his fecht wi' the drink, and, says he. 'Mr. Dishart,' he says, 'if you'll let me break out nows and nans, I could, bide straucht atween times, but I canna keep sober if I hinna a drink to look forrit to.' Ay, my father prigged sair to get one fou day in the month, and he said, 'Syne if I die sudden, there's thirty chances to one that I gang to heaven, so it's worth risking.' But Mr. Dishart wouldna hear o't, and he cries, 'No, by God,' he cries, 'we'll wrestle wi' the devil till we throttle him,' and down him and my father gaed on their knees. "The minister prayed a lang time till my father said his hunger for the drink was gone, 'but', he says, 'it swells up in me o' a sudden aye, and it may be back afore you're hame.' 'Then come to me at once,' says Mr. Dishart; but my father says, 'Na, for it would haul me into the public-house as if it had me at the end o' a rope, but I'll send the laddie." "You saw my father crying the minister back? It was to gie him twa pound, and, says my father, 'God helping me,' he says, 'I'll droon mysel in the dam rather than let the drink master me, but in case it should get haud o' me and I should die drunk, it would be a michty gratification to me to ken that you had the siller to bury me respectable without ony help frae the poor's rates.' The minister wasna for taking it at first, but he took it when he saw how earnest my father was. Ay, he's a noble man. After he gaed awa my father made me learn the names o' the apostles frae Luke sixth, and he says to me, 'Miss out Bartholomew,' he says, 'for he did little, and put Gavin Dishart in his place.'" Feeling as old as he sometimes tried to look, Gavin turned homeward. Margaret was already listening for him. You may be sure she knew his step. I think our steps vary as much as the human face. My book-shelves were made by a blind man who could identify by their steps nearly all who passed his window. Yet he has admitted to me that he could not tell wherein my steps differed from others; and this I believe, though rejecting his boast that he could distinguish a minister's step from a doctor's, and even tell to which denomination the minister belonged. I have sometimes asked myself what would have been Gavin's future had he gone straight home that night from Dow's. He would doubtless have seen the Egyptian before morning broke, but she would not have come upon him like a witch. There are, I dare say, many lovers who would never have been drawn to each other had they met for the first time, as, say, they met the second time. But such dreaming is to no purpose. Gavin met Sanders Webster, the mole-catcher, and was persuaded by him to go home by Caddam Wood. Gavin took the path to Caddam, because Sanders told him the Wild Lindsays were there, a gypsy family that threatened the farmers by day and danced devilishly, it was said, at night. The little minister knew them by repute as a race of giants, and that not many persons would have cared to face them alone at midnight; but he was feeling as one wound up to heavy duties, and meant to admonish them severely. Sanders, an old man who lived with his sister Nanny on the edge of the wood, went with him, and for a time both were silent. But Sanders had something to say. "Was you ever at the Spittal, Mr. Dishart?" he asked. "Lord Rintoul's house at the top of Glen Quharity? No." "Hae you ever looked on a lord?" "No." "Or on an auld lord's young leddyship? I have." "What is she?" "You surely ken that Rintoul's auld, and is to be married on a young leddyship. She's no' a leddyship yet, but they're to be married soon, so I may say I've seen a leddyship. Ay, an impressive sicht. It was yestreen." "Is there a great difference in their ages?" "As muckle as atween auld Peter Spens and his wife, wha was saxteen when he was saxty, and she was playing at dumps in the street when her man was waiting for her to make his porridge. Ay, sic a differ doesna suit wi' common folk, but of course earls can please themsels. Rintoul's so fond o' the leddyship 'at is to be, that when she was at the school in Edinbury he wrote to her ilka day. Kaytherine Crummie telled me that, and she says aince you're used to it, writing letters is as easy as skinning moles. I dinna ken what they can write sic a heap about, but I daur say he gies her his views on the Chartist agitation and the potato disease, and she'll write back about the romantic sichts o' Edinbury and the sermons o' the grand preachers she hears. Sal, though, thae grand folk has no religion to speak o', for they're a' English kirk. You're no' speiring what her leddyship said to me?" "What did she say?" "Weel, you see, there was a dancing ball on, and Kaytherine Crummie took me to a window whaur I could stand on a flower-pot and watch the critturs whirling round in the ball like teetotums. What's mair, she pointed out the leddyship that's to be to me, and I just glowered at her, for thinks I, 'Take your fill, Sanders, and whaur there's lords and leddyships, dinna waste a minute on colonels and honourable misses and sic like dirt.' Ay, but what wi' my een blinking at the blaze o' candles, I lost sicht o' her till all at aince somebody says at my lug, 'Well, my man, and who is the prettiest lady in the room?' Mr. Dishart, it was her leddyship. She looked like a star." "And what did you do?" "The first thing I did was to fall aff the flower-pot; but syne I came to, and says I, wi' a polite smirk, 'I'm thinking your leddyship,' says I, 'as you're the bonniest yourself.'" "I see you are a cute man, Sanders.'" "Ay, but that's no' a'. She lauched in a pleased way and tapped me wi' her fan, and says she, 'Why do you think me the prettiest?' I dinna deny but what that staggered me, but I thocht a minute, and took a look at the other dancers again, and syne I says, michty sly like, 'The other leddies,' I says, 'has sic sma' feet.'" Sanders stopped here and looked doubtingly at Gavin. "I canna make up my mind," he said, "whether she liked that, for she rapped my knuckles wi' her fan fell sair, and aff she gaed. Ay, I consulted Tammas Haggart about it, and he says, 'The flirty crittur,' he says. What would you say, Mr. Dishart?" Gavin managed to escape without giving an answer, for here their roads separated. He did not find the Wild Lindsays, however. Children of whim, of prodigious strength while in the open, but destined to wither quickly in the hot air of towns, they had gone from Caddam, leaving nothing of themselves behind but a black mark burned by their fires into the ground. Thus they branded the earth through many counties until some hour when the spirit of wandering again fell on them, and they forsook their hearths with as little compunction as the bird leaves its nest. Gavin had walked quickly, and he now stood silently in the wood, his hat in his hand. In the moonlight the grass seemed tipped with hoar frost. Most of the beeches were already bare, but the shoots, clustering round them, like children at their mother's skirts, still retained their leaves red and brown. Among the pines these leaves were as incongruous as a wedding-dress at a funeral. Gavin was standing on grass, but there were patches of heather within sight, and broom, and the leaf of the blaeberry. Where the beeches had drawn up the earth with them as they grew, their roots ran this way and that, slippery to the feet and looking like disinterred bones. A squirrel appeared suddenly on the charred ground, looked doubtfully at Gavin to see if he was growing there, and then glided up a tree, where it sat eyeing him, and forgetting to conceal its shadow. Caddam was very still. At long intervals came from far away the whack of an axe on wood. Gavin was in a world by himself, and this might be someone breaking into it. The mystery of woods by moonlight thrilled the little minister. His eyes rested on the shining roots, and he remembered what had been told him of the legend of Caddam, how once on a time it was a mighty wood, and a maiden most beautiful stood on its confines, panting and afraid, for a wicked man pursued her; how he drew near, and she ran a little way into the wood, and he followed her, and she still ran, and still he followed, until both were for ever lost, and the bones of her pursuer lie beneath a beech, but the lady may still be heard singing in the woods if the night be fine, for then she is a glad spirit, but weeping when there is wild wind, for then she is but a mortal seeking a way out of the wood. The squirrel slid down the fir and was gone. The axe's blows ceased. Nothing that moved was in sight. The wind that has its nest in trees was circling around with many voices, that never rose above a whisper, and were often but the echo of a sigh. Gavin was in the Caddam of past days, where the beautiful maiden wanders ever, waiting for him who is so pure that he may find her. He will wander over the tree-tops looking for her, with the moon for his lamp, and some night he will hear her singing. The little minister drew a deep breath, and his foot snapped a brittle twig. Then he remembered who and where he was, and stooped to pick up his staff. But he did not pick it up, for as his fingers were closing on it the lady began to sing. For perhaps a minute Gavin stood stock still, like an intruder. Then he ran towards the singing, which seemed to come from Windy ghoul, a straight road through Caddam that farmers use in summer, but leave in the back end of the year to leaves and pools. In Windyghoul there is either no wind or so much that it rushes down the sieve like an army, entering with a shriek of terror, and escaping with a derisive howl. The moon was crossing the avenue. But Gavin only saw the singer. She was still fifty yards away, sometimes singing gleefully, and again letting her body sway lightly as she came dancing up Windyghoul. Soon she was within a few feet of the little minister, to whom singing, except when out of tune, was a suspicious thing, and dancing a device of the devil. His arm went out wrathfully, and his intention was to pronounce sentence on this woman. But she passed, unconscious of his presence, and he had not moved nor spoken. Though really of the average height, she was a little thing to the eyes of Gavin, who always felt tall and stout except when he looked down. The grace of her swaying figure was a new CHAPTER V. A WARLIKE CHAPTER, CULMINATING IN THE FLOUTING OF THE MINISTER BY THE WOMAN. "Mr. DISHART!" Jean had clutched at Gavin in Bank Street. Her hair was streaming, and her wrapper but half buttoned. "Oh, Mr. Dishart, look at the mistress! I couldna keep her in the manse." Gavin saw his mother beside him, bare-headed, trembling. "How could I sit still, Gavin, and the town full o' the skirls of women and bairns? Oh, Gavin, what can I do for them? They will suffer most this night." As Gavin took her hand he knew that Margaret felt for the people more than he. "But you must go home, mother," he said, "and leave me to do my duty. I will take you myself if you will not go with Jean. Be careful of her, Jean." "Ay, will I," Jean answered, then burst into tears. "Mr. Dishart,"' she cried, "if they take my father they'd best take my mither too." The two women went back to the manse, where Jean re-lit the fire, having nothing else to do, and boiled the kettle, while Margaret wandered in anguish from room to room. Men nearly naked ran past Gavin, seeking to escape from Thrums by the fields he had descended. When he shouted to them they only ran faster. A Tillyloss weaver whom he tried to stop struck him savagely and sped past to the square. In Bank Street, which was full move. He had heard the horn. Thrice it sounded, and thrice it struck him to the heart. He looked again and saw a shadow stealing along the Tenements, then, another, then half-a-dozen. He remembered Mr. Carfrae's words, "If you ever hear that horn, I implore you to hasten to the square," and in another minute he had reached the Tenements. Now again he saw the gypsy. She ran past him, half-a-score of men, armed with staves and pikes, at her heels. At first he thought they were chasing her. but they were following her as a leader. Her eyes sparkled as she waved them to the square with her arms. "The soldiers, the soldiers!" was the universal cry. "Who is that woman?" demanded Gavin, catching hold of a frightened old man. "Curse the Egyptian limmer," the man answered, "she's egging my laddie on to fecht." "Bless her rather," the son cried, "for warning us that the sojers is coming. Put your ear to the ground, Mr. Dishart, and you'll hear the dirl o' their feet." The young man rushed away to the square, flinging his father from him. Gavin followed. As he turned into the school wynd, the town drum began to beat, windows were thrown open, and sullen men ran out of closes where women were screaming and trying to hold them back. At the foot of the wynd Gavin passed Sanders Webster. "Mr. Dishart," the mole-catcher cried, "hae you seen that Egyptian? May I be struck dead if it's no' her little leddyship." But Gavin did not hear him. thing in the world to him. Only while she passed did he see her as a gleam of colour, a gypsy elf poorly clad, her bare feet flashing beneath a short green skirt, a twig of rowan berries stuck carelessly into her black hair. Her face was pale. She had an angel's loveliness. Gavin shook. Still she danced onwards, but she was very human, for when she came to muddy water she let her feet linger in it, and flung up her arms, dancing more wantonly than before. A diamond on her finger shot a thread of fire over the pool. Undoubtedly she was the devil. Gavin leaped into the avenue, and she heard him and looked behind. He tried to cry "Woman!" sternly, but lost the word, for now she saw him, and laughed with her shoulders, and beckoned to him, so that he shook his fist at her. She tripped on, but often turning her head beckoned and mocked him, and he forgot his dignity and his pulpit and all other things, and ran after her. Up Windyghoul did he pursue her, and it was well that the precentor was not there to see. She reached the mouth of the avenue, and kissing her hand to Gavin, so that the ring gleamed again, was gone. The minister's one thought was to find her, but he searched in vain. She might be crossing the hill on her way to Thrums, or perhaps she was still laughing at him from behind a tree. After a longer time than he was aware of, Gavin realised that his boots were chirping and his trousers streaked with mud. Then he abandoned the search and hastened homewards in a rage. From the hill to the manse the nearest way is down two fields, and the little minister descended them rapidly. Thrums, which is red in daylight, was grey and still as the cemetery. He had glimpses of several of its deserted streets. To the south the watch-light showed brightly, but no other was visible. So it seemed to Gavin, and then--suddenly--he lost the power to of people at one moment and empty the next, the minister stumbled over old Charles Yuill, "Take me and welcome," Yuill cried, mistaking Gavin for the enemy. He had only one arm through the sleeve of his jacket, and his feet were bare. "I am Mr. Dishart. Are the soldiers already in the square, Yuill?" "They'll be there in a minute." The man was so weak that Gavin had to hold him. "Be a man, Charles. You have nothing to fear. It is not such as you the soldiers have come for. If need be, I can swear that you had not the strength, even if you had the will, to join in the weavers' riot." "For Godsake, Mr. Dishart," Yuill cried, his hands chattering on Gavin's coat, "dinna swear that. My laddie was in the thick o' the riot; and if he's ta'en there's the poor's-house gaping for Kitty and me, for I couldna weave half a web a week. If there's a warrant agin onybody o' the name of Yuill, swear it's me; swear I'm a desperate character, swear I'm michty strong for all I look palsied; and if when they take me, my courage breaks down, swear the mair, swear I confessed my guilt to you on the Book." As Yuill spoke the quick rub-a-dub of a drum was heard. "The soldiers!" Gavin let go his hold of the old man, who hastened away to give himself up. "That's no the sojers," said a woman; "it's the folk gathering in the square. This'll be a watery Sabbath In Thrums." "Rob Dow," shouted Gavin, as Dow flung past with a scythe in his hand, "lay down that scythe." "To hell wi' religion!" Rob retorted, fiercely; "it spoils a' thing." "Lay down that scythe; I command you." Rob stopped undecidedly, then cast the scythe from him, but its rattle on the stones was more than he could bear. "I winna," he cried, and, picking it up, ran to the square. An upper window in Bank Street opened, and Dr. McQueen put out his head. He was smoking as usual. "Mr. Dishart," he said, "you will return home at once if you are a wise man; or, better still, come in here. You can do nothing with these people to-night." "I can stop their fighting." "You will only make black blood between them and you." "Dinna heed him, Mr. Dishart," cried some women. "You had better heed him," cried a man. "I will not desert my people," Gavin said. "Listen, then, to my prescription," the doctor replied. "Drive that gypsy lassie out of the town before the soldiers reach it. She is firing the men to a red-heat through sheer devilry." "She brocht the news, or we would have been nipped in our beds," some people cried. "Does any one know who she is?" Gavin demanded, but all shook their heads. The Egyptian, as they called her, had never been seen in these parts before. "Has any other person seen the soldiers?" he asked. "Perhaps this is a false alarm." "Several have seen them within the last few minutes," the doctor answered. "They came from Tilliedrum, and were advancing on us from the south, but when they heard that we had got the alarm they stopped at the top of the brae, near T'nowhead's farm. Man, you would take these things more coolly if you smoked." "Show me this woman," Gavin said sternly to those who had been listening. Then a stream of people carried him into the square. The square has altered little, even in these days of enterprise, when Tillyloss has become Newton Bank. and the Craft Head Croft Terrace, with enamelled labels on them for the guidance of slow people, who forget their address and have to run to the end of the street and look up every time they write a letter. The stones on which the butter-wives sat have disappeared, and with them the clay walls and the outside stairs. Gone, too, is the stair of the town-house, from the top of which the drummer roared the gossip of the week on Sabbaths to country folk, to the scandal of all who knew that the proper thing on that day is to keep your blinds down; but the townhouse itself, round and red, still makes exit to the south troublesome. Wherever streets meet the square there is a house in the centre of them, and thus the heart of Thrums is a box, in which the stranger finds himself suddenly, wondering at first how he is to get out, and presently how he got in. To Gavin, who never before had seen a score of people in the square at once, here was a sight strange and terrible. Andrew Struthers, an old soldier, stood on the outside stair of the town- house, shouting words of command to some fifty weavers, many of them scantily clad, but all armed with pikes and poles. Most were known to the little minister, but they wore faces that were new to him. Newcomers joined the body every moment. If the drill was clumsy the men were fierce. Hundreds of people gathered around, some screaming, some shaking their fists at the old soldier, many trying to pluck their relatives out of danger. Gavin could not see the Egyptian. Women and old men, fighting for the possession of his ear, implored him to disperse the armed band. He ran up the town-house stair, and in a moment it had become a pulpit. "Dinna dare to interfere, Mr. Dishart," Struthers said savagely. "Andrew Struthers," said Gavin solemnly, "in the name of God I order you to leave me alone. If you don't," he added ferociously, "I'll fling you over the stair." "Dinna heed him, Andrew," some one shouted and another cried, "He canna understand our sufferings; he has dinner ilka day." Struthers faltered, however, and Gavin cast his eye over the armed men. "Rob Dow," he said, "William Carmichael, Thomas Whamond, William Munn, Alexander Hobart, Henders Haggart, step forward." These were Auld Lichts, and when they found that the minister would not take his eyes off them, they obeyed, all save Rob Dow. "Never mind him, Rob," said the atheist, Cruickshanks, "it's better playing cards in hell than singing psalms in heaven." "Joseph Cruickshanks," responded Gavin grimly, "you will find no cards down there." Then Rob also came to the foot of the stair. There was some angry muttering from the crowd, and young Charles Yuill exclaimed, "Curse you, would you lord it ower us on week-days as weel as on Sabbaths?" "Lay down your weapons," Gavin said to the six men. They looked at each other. Hobart slipped his pike behind his back. "I hae no weapon," he said slily. "Let me hae my fling this nicht," Dow entreated, "and I'll promise to bide sober for a twelvemonth." "Oh, Rob, Rob!" the minister said bitterly, "are you the man I prayed with a few hours ago?" The scythe fell from Rob's hands. "Down wi' your pikes," he roared to his companions, "or I'll brain you wi' them." "Ay, lay them down," the precentor whispered, "but keep your feet on them." Then the minister, who was shaking with excitement, though he did not know it, stretched forth his arms for silence, and it came so suddenly as to frighten the people in the neighboring streets. "If he prays we're done for," cried young Charles Yuill. but even in that hour many of the people were unbonneted. "Oh, Thou who art the Lord of hosts," Gavin prayed, "we are in Thy hands this night. These are Thy people, and they have sinned; but Thou art a merciful God, and they were sore tried, and knew not what they did. To Thee, our God, we turn for deliverance, for without Thee we are lost." The little minister's prayer was heard all round the square, and many weapons were dropped as an Amen to it. "If you fight," cried Gavin, brightening as he heard the clatter of the iron on the stones, "your wives and children may be shot in the streets. These soldiers have come for a dozen of you; will you be benefited if they take away a hundred?" "Oh, hearken to him," cried many women. "I winna," answered a man, "for I'm ane o' the dozen. Whaur's the Egyptian?" "Here." Gavin saw the crowd open, and the woman of Windy ghoul come out of it, and, while he should have denounced her, he only blinked, for once more her loveliness struck him full in the eyes. She was beside him on the stair before he became a minister again. "How dare you, woman?" he cried; but she flung a rowan berry at him. "If I were a man," she exclaimed, addressing the people, "I wouldna let myself be catched like a mouse in a trap." "We winna," some answered. "What kind o' women are you," cried the Egyptian, her face gleaming as she turned to her own sex, "that bid your men folk gang to gaol when a bold front would lead them to safety? Do you want to be husbandless and hameless?" "Disperse, I command you!" cried Gavin. "This abandoned woman is inciting you to riot." "Dinna heed this little man," the Egyptian retorted. It is curious to know that even at that anxious moment Gavin winced because she called him little. "She has the face of a mischief-maker," he shouted, "and her words are evil." "You men and women o' Thrums," she responded, "ken that I wish you weel by the service I hae done you this nicht. Wha telled you the sojers was coming?" "It was you; it was you!" "Ay, and mony a mile I ran to bring the news, Listen, and I'll tell you mair." "She has a false tongue," Gavin cried; "listen not to the brazen woman." "What I have to tell," she said, "is as true as what I've telled already, and how true that is you a' ken. You're wondering how the sojers has come to a stop at the tap o' the brae instead o' marching on the town. Here's the reason. They agreed to march straucht to the square if the alarm wasna given, but if it was they were to break into small bodies and surround the town so that you couldna get out. That's what they're doing now." At this the screams were redoubled, and many men lifted the weapons they had dropped. "Believe her not," cried Gavin. "How could a wandering gypsy know all this?" "Ay, how can you ken?" some demanded. "It's enough that I do ken," the Egyptian answered. "And this mair I ken, that the captain of the soldiers is confident he'll nab every one o' you that's wanted anless you do one thing." "What is 't?" "If you a' run different ways you're lost, but if you keep thegither you'll be able to force a road into the country, whaur you can scatter. That's what he's fleid you'll do." "Then it's what we will do." "It is what you will not do," Gavin said passionately. "The truth is not in this wicked woman." But scarcely had he spoken when he knew that startling news had reached the square. A murmur arose on the skirts of the mob, and swept with the roar of the sea towards the town-house. A detachment of the soldiers were marching down the Roods from the north. "There's some coming frae the east-town end," was the next intelligence; "and they've gripped Sanders Webster, and auld Charles Yuill has given himsel' up." "You see, you see," the gypsy said, flashing triumph at Gavin. "Lay down your weapons," Gavin cried, but his power over the people had gone. "The Egyptian spoke true," they shouted; "dinna heed the minister." Gavin tried to seize the gypsy by the shoulders, but she slipped past him down the stair, and crying "Follow me!" ran round the town-house and down the brae. "Woman!" he shouted after her, but she only waved her arms scornfully. The people followed her, many of the men still grasping their weapons, but all in disorder. Within a minute after Gavin saw the gleam of the ring on her finger, as she waved her hands, he and Dow were alone in the square. "She's an awfu' woman that," Rob said." I saw her lauching." Gavin ground his teeth. "Rob Dow," he said, slowly, "if I had not found Christ I would have throttled that woman. You saw how she flouted me?" CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH THE SOLDIERS MEET THE AMAZONS OF THRUMS Dow looked shamefacedly at the minister, and then set off up the square. "Where are you going, Rob?" "To gie myself up. I maun do something to let you see there's one man in Thrums that has mair faith in you than in a fliskmahoy." "And only one, Rob. But I don't know that they want to arrest you." "Ay, I had a hand in tying the polissman to the--" "I want to hear nothing about that," Gavin said, quickly. "Will I hide, then?" "I dare not advise you to do that. It would be wrong." Half a score of fugitives tore past the town-house, and were out of sight without a cry. There was a tread of heavier feet, and a dozen soldiers, with several policemen and two prisoners, appeared suddenly on the north side of the square. "Rob," cried the minister in desperation, "run!" When the soldiers reached the town-house, where they locked up their prisoners, Dow was skulking east-ward, and Gavin running down the brae. "They're fechting," he was told, "they're fechting on the brae, the sojers is firing, a man's killed!" But this was an exaggeration. The brae, though short, is very steep. There is a hedge on one side of it, from which the land falls away, and on the other side a hillock. Gavin reached the scene to see the soldiers marching down the brae, guarding a small body of policemen. The armed weavers were retreating before them. A hundred women or more were on the hillock, shrieking and gesticulating. Gavin joined them, calling on them not to fling the stones they had begun to gather. The armed men broke into a rabble, flung down their weapons, and fled back towards the town-house. Here they almost ran against the soldiers in the square, who again forced them into the brae. Finding themselves about to be wedged between the two forces, some crawled through the hedge, where they were instantly seized by policemen. Others sought to climb up the hillock and then escape into the country. The policemen clambered after them. The men were too frightened to fight, but a woman seized a policeman by the waist and flung him head foremost among the soldiers. One of these shouted "Fire!" but the captain cried "No." Then came showers of missiles from the women. They stood their ground and defended the retreat of the scared men. Who flung the first stone is not known, but it is believed to have been the Egyptian. The policemen were recalled, and the whole body ordered to advance down the brae. Thus the weavers who had not escaped at once were driven before them, and soon hemmed in between the two bodies of soldiers, when they were easily captured. But for two minutes there was a thick shower of stones and clods of earth. It was ever afterwards painful to Gavin to recall this scene, but less on account of the shower of stones than because of the flight of one divit in it. He had been watching the handsome young captain, Halliwell, riding with his men; admiring him, too, for his coolness. This coolness exasperated the gypsy, who twice flung at Halliwell and missed him. He rode on smiling contemptuously. "Oh, if I could only fling straight!" the Egyptian moaned. Then she saw the minister by her side, and in the tick of a clock something happened that can never be explained. For the moment Gavin was so lost in misery over the probable effect of the night's rioting that he had forgotten where he was. Suddenly the Egyptian's beautiful face was close to his, and she pressed a divit into his hand, at the same time pointing at the officer, and whispering "Hit him." Gavin flung the clod of earth, and hit Halliwell on the head. I say I cannot explain this. I tell what happened, and add with thankfulness that only the Egyptian witnessed the deed. Gavin, I suppose, had flung the divit before he could stay his hand. Then he shrank in horror. "Woman!" he cried again. "You are a dear," she said, and vanished. By the time Gavin was breathing freely again the lock-up was crammed with prisoners, and the Riot Act had been read from the town-house stair. It is still remembered that the baron-bailie, to whom this duty fell, had got no further than, "Victoria, by the Grace of God," when the paper was struck out of his hands. When a stirring event occurs up here we smack our lips over it for months, and so I could still write a history of that memorable night in Thrums. I could tell how the doctor, a man whose shoulders often looked as if they had been caught in a shower of tobacco ash, brought me the news to the school-house, and now, when I crossed the fields to dumfounder Waster Lunny with it, I found Birse, the post, reeling off the story to him as fast as a fisher could let out line. I know who was the first woman on the Marywell brae to hear the horn, and how she woke her husband, and who heard it first at the Denhead and the Tenements, with what they immediately said and did. I had from Dite Deuchar's own lips the curious story of his sleeping placidly throughout the whole disturbance, and on wakening in the morning yoking to his loom as usual; and also his statement that such ill-luck was enough to shake a man's faith in religion. The police had knowledge that enabled them to go straight to the houses of the weavers wanted, but they sometimes brought away the wrong man, for such of the people as did not escape from the town had swopped houses for the night--a trick that served them better than all their drilling on the hill. Old Yuill's son escaped by burying himself in a peat- rick, and Snecky Hobart by pretending that he was a sack of potatoes. Less fortunate was Sanders Webster, the mole-catcher already mentioned. Sanders was really an innocent man. He had not even been in Thrums on the night of the rising against the manufacturers, but thinking that the outbreak was to be left unpunished, he wanted his share in the glory of it. So he had boasted of being a ringleader until many believed him, including the authorities. His braggadocio undid him. He was run to earth in a pig-sty, and got nine months. With the other arrests I need not concern myself, for they have no part in the story of the little minister. While Gavin was with the families whose bread-winners were now in the lock-up, a cell that was usually crammed on fair nights and empty for the rest of the year, the sheriff and Halliwell were in the round-room of the town-house, not in a good temper. They spoke loudly, and some of their words sank into the cell below. "The whole thing has been a fiasco," the sheriff was heard saying, "owing to our failing to take them by surprise. Why, three-fourths of those taken will have to be liberated, and we have let the worst offenders slip through our hands." "Well," answered Halliwell, who was wearing a heavy cloak, "I have brought your policemen into the place, and that is all I undertook to do." "You brought them, but at the expense of alarming the country- side. I wish we had come without you." "Nonsense! My men advanced like ghosts. Could your police have come down that brae alone to-night?" "Yes, because it would have been deserted. Your soldiers, I tell you, have done the mischief. This woman, who, so many of our prisoners admit, brought the news of our coming, must either have got it from one of your men or have seen them on the march." "The men did not know their destination. True, she might have seen us despite our precautions, but you forget that she told them how we were to act in the event of our being seen. That is what perplexes me." "Yes, and me too, for it was a close secret between you and me and Lord Rintoul and not half-a-dozen others." "Well, find the woman, and we shall get the explanation. If she is still in the town she cannot escape, for my men are everywhere." "She was seen ten minutes ago." "Then she is ours. I say, Riach, if I were you I would set all my prisoners free and take away a cartload of their wives instead. I have only seen the backs of the men of Thrums, but, on my word, I very nearly ran away from the women. Hallo! I believe one of your police has caught our virago single-handed." So Halliwell exclaimed, hearing some one shout, "This is the rascal!" But it was not the Egyptian who was then thrust into the round-room. It was John Dunwoodie, looking very sly. Probably there was not, even in Thrums, a cannier man than Dunwoodie. His religious views were those of Cruickshanks, but he went regularly to church "on the off-chance of there being a God after all; so I'm safe, whatever side may be wrong." "This is the man," explained a policeman, "who brought the alarm. He admits himself having been in Tilliedrum just before we started." "Your name, my man?" the sheriff demanded. "It micht be John Dunwoodie," the tinsmith answered cautiously. "But is it?" "I dinna say it's no." "You were in Tilliedrum this evening?" "I micht hae been." "Were you?" "I'll swear to nothing." "Why not?" "Because I'm a canny man." "Into the cell with him," Halliwell cried, losing patience. "Leave him to me," said the sheriff. "I understand the sort of man. Now, Dunwoodie, what were you doing in Tilliedrum?" "I was taking my laddie down to be prenticed to a writer there," answered Dunwoodie, falling into the sheriff's net. "What are you yourself?" "I micht be a tinsmith to trade." "And you, a mere tinsmith, dare to tell me that a lawyer was willing to take your son into his office? Be cautious, Dunwoodie." "Weel, then, the laddie's highly edicated and I hae siller, and that's how the writer was to take him and make a gentleman o' him." "I learn from the neighbours," the policeman explained, "that this is partly true, but what makes us suspect him is this. He left the laddie at Tilliedrum, and yet when he came home the first person he sees at the fireside is the laddie himself. The laddie had run home, and the reason plainly was that he had heard of our preparations and wanted to alarm the town." "There seems something in this, Dunwoodie," the sheriff said, "and if you cannot explain it I must keep you in custody." "I'll make a clean breast o't," Dunwoodie replied, seeing that in this matter truth was best. "The laddie was terrible against being made a gentleman, and when he saw the kind o' life he would hae to lead, clean hands, clean dickies, and no gutters on his breeks, his heart took mair scunner at genteelity than ever, and he ran hame. Ay, I was mad when I saw him at the fireside, but he says to me, 'How would you like to be a gentleman yoursel', father?' he says, and that so affected me 'at I'm to gie him his ain way." Another prisoner, Dave Langlands, was confronted with Dunwoodie. "John Dunwoodie's as innocent as I am mysel," Dave said, "and I'm most michty innocent. It wasna John but the Egyptian that gave the alarm. I tell you what, sheriff, if it'll make me innocenter-like I'll picture the Egyptian to you just as I saw her, and syne you'll be able to catch her easier." "You are an honest fellow," said the sheriff. "I only wish I had the whipping of him," growled Halliwell, who was of a generous nature. "For what business had she," continued Dave righteously, "to meddle in other folks' business? She's no a Thrums lassie, and so I say, 'Let the law take its course on her.'" "Will you listen to such a cur, Riach?" asked Halliwell. "Certainly. Speak out, Langlands." "Weel, then, I was in the windmill the nicht." "You were a watcher?" "I happened to be in the windmill wi' another man," Dave went on, avoiding the officer's question. "What was his name?" demanded Halliwell. "It was the Egyptian I was to tell you about," Dave said, looking to the sheriff. "Ah, yes, you only tell tales about women," said Halliwell. "Strange women," corrected Dave. "Weel, we was there, and it would maybe be twal o'clock, and we was speaking (but about lawful things) when we heard some ane running yont the road. I keeked through a hole in the door, and I saw it was an Egyptian lassie 'at I had never clapped een on afore. She saw the licht in the window, and she cried, 'Hie, you billies in the windmill, the sojers is coming!' I fell in a fricht, but the other man opened the door, and again she cries, 'The sojers is coming; quick, or you'll be ta'en.' At that the other man up wi' his bonnet and ran, but I didna make off so smart." "You had to pick yourself up first," suggested the officer. "Sal, it was the lassie picked me up; ay, and she picked up a horn at the same time." "'Blaw on that,' she cried, 'and alarm the town.' But, sheriff, I didna do't. Na, I had ower muckle respect for the law." "In other words," said Halliwell, "you also bolted, and left the gypsy to blow the horn herself." "I dinna deny but what I made my feet my friend, but it wasna her that blew the horn. I ken that, for I looked back and saw her trying to do't, but she couldna, she didna ken the way." "Then who did blow it?" "The first man she met, I suppose. We a' kent that the horn was to be the signal except Wearywarld. He's police, so we kept it frae him." "That is all you saw of the woman?" "Ay, for I ran straucht to my garret, and there your men took me. Can I gae hame now, sheriff?" "No. you cannot. Describe the woman's appearance." "She had a heap o' rowan berries stuck in her hair, and, I think, she had on a green wrapper and a red shawl. She had a most extraordinary face. I canna exact describe it, for she would be lauchin' one second and syne solemn the next. I tell you her face changed as quick as you could turn the pages o' a book. Ay, here comes Wearywarld to speak up for me." Wearyworld entered cheerfully. "This is the local policeman," a Tilliedrum officer said; "we have been searching for him everywhere, and only found him now." "Where have you been?" asked the sheriff, wrathfully. "Whaur maist honest men is at this hour," replied Wearyworld; "in my bed." "How dared yon ignore your duty at such a time?" "It's a long story," the policeman answered, pleasantly, in anticipation of a talk at last. "Answer me in a word." "In a word!" cried the policeman, quite crestfallen. "It canna be done. You'll need to cross-examine me, too. It's my lawful richt." "I'll take you to the Tilliedrum gaol for your share in this night's work if you do not speak to the purpose. Why did you not hasten to our assistance?" "As sure as death I never kent you was here. I was up the Roods on my rounds when I heard an awfu' din down in the square, and thinks I, there's rough characters about, and the place for honest folk is their bed. So to my bed I gaed, and I was in't when your men gripped me." "We must see into this before we leave. In the meantime you will act as a guide to my searchers. Stop! Do you know anything of this Egyptian?" "What Egyptian? Is't a lassie wi' rowans in her hair?" "The same. Have you seen her?" "That I have. There's nothing agin her, is there? Whatever it is, I'll uphaud she didna do't, for a simpler, franker-spoken crittur couldna be." "Never mind what I want her for. When did you see her?" "It would be about twal o'clock," began Wearyworld unctuously, "when I was in the Roods, ay, no lang afore I heard the disturbance in the square. I was standing in the middle o' the road, wondering how the door o' the windmill was swinging open, when she came up to me. "'A fine nicht for the time o' year,' I says to her, for nobody but the minister had spoken to me a' day. "'A very fine nicht,' says she, very frank, though she was breathing quick like as if she had been running, 'You'll be police?' says she. "'I am,' says I, 'and wha be you?' "'I'm just a puir gypsy lassie,' she says. "'And what's that in your hand?' says I. "'It's a horn I found in the wood,' says she, 'but it's rusty and winna blaw.' "I laughed at her ignorance, and says I, 'I warrant I could blaw it,' "'I dinna believe you,' says she. "'Gie me haud o't,' says I, and she gae it to me, and I blew some bonny blasts on't. Ay, you see she didna ken the way o't. 'Thank you kindly,' says she, and she ran awa without even minding to take the horn back again." "You incredible idiot!" cried the sheriff. "Then it was you who gave the alarm?" "What hae I done to madden you?" honest Wearyworld asked in perplexity. "Get out of my sight, sir!" roared the sheriff. But the captain laughed. "I like your doughty policeman, Riach," he said. "Hie, obliging friend, let us hear how this gypsy struck you. How was she dressed?" "She was snod, but no unca snod," replied Weary. world, stiffly. "I don't understand you." "I mean she was couthie, but no sair in order." "What on earth is that?" "Weel, a tasty stocky, but gey orra put on." "What language are you speaking, you enigma?" "I'm saying she was naturally a bonny bit kimmer rather than happit up to the nines." "Oh, go away," cried Halliwell; whereupon Weary-world descended the stair haughtily, declaring that the sheriff was an unreasonable man, and that he was a queer captain who did not understand the English language. "Can I gae hame now, sheriff?" asked Langlands, hopefully. "Take this fellow back to his cell," Riach directed shortly, "and whatever else you do, see that you capture this woman. Halliwell, I am going out to look for her myself. Confound it, what are you laughing at?" "At the way this vixen has slipped through your fingers." "Not quite that, sir, not quite that. She is in Thrums still, and I swear I'll have her before day breaks. See to it, Halliwell, that if she is brought here in my absence she does not slip through your fingers." "If she is brought here," said Halliwell, mocking him, "you must return and protect me. It would be cruelty to leave a poor soldier in the hands of a woman of Thrums." "She is not a Thrums woman. You have been told so a dozen times." "Then I am not afraid." In the round-room (which is oblong) there is a throne on which the bailie sits when he dispenses justice. It is swathed in red cloths that give it the appearance of a pulpit. Left to himself, Halliwell flung off his cloak and taking a chair near this dais rested his legs on the bare wooden table, one on each side of the lamp. He was still in this position when the door opened, and two policemen thrust the Egyptian into the room. CHAPTER VII. HAS THE FOLLY OF LOOKING INTO A WOMAN'S EYES BY WAY OF TEXT. "This is the woman, captain," one of the policemen said in triumph; "and, begging your pardon, will you keep a grip of her till the sheriff comes back?" Halliwell did not turn his head. "You can leave her here." he said carelessly, "Three of us are not needed to guard a woman." "But she's a slippery customer." "You can go," said Halliwell; and the policemen withdrew slowly, eyeing their prisoner doubtfully until the door closed. Then the officer wheeled round languidly, expecting to find the Egyptian gaunt and muscular. "Now then," he drawled, "why--By Jove!" The gallant soldier was as much taken aback as if he had turned to find a pistol at his ear. He took his feet off the table. Yet he only saw the gypsy's girlish figure in its red and green, for she had covered her face with her hands. She was looking at him intently between her fingers, but he did not know this. All he did want to know just then was what was behind the hands. Before he spoke again she had perhaps made up her mind about him, for she began to sob bitterly. At the same time she slipped a finger over her ring. "Why don't you look at me?" asked Halliwell, selfishly. "I daurna." "Am I so fearsome?" "You're a sojer, and you would shoot me like a craw." Halliwell laughed, and taking her wrists in his hands, uncovered her face. "Oh, by Jove!" he said again, but this time to himself. As for the Egyptian, she slid the ring into her pocket, and fell back before the officer's magnificence. "Oh," she cried, "is all sojers like you?" There was such admiration in her eyes that it would have been self-contempt to doubt her. Yet having smiled complacently, Halliwell became uneasy. "Who on earth are you?" he asked, finding it wise not to look her in the face. "Why do you not answer me more quickly?" "Dinna be angry at that, captain," the Egyptian implored. "I promised my mither aye to count twenty afore I spoke, because she thocht I was ower glib. Captain, how is't that you're so fleid to look at me?" Thus put on his mettle, Halliwell again faced her, with the result that his question changed to "Where did you get those eyes?" Then was he indignant with himself. "What I want to know," he explained severely, "is how you were able to acquaint the Thrums people with our movements? That you must tell me at once, for the sheriff blames my soldiers. Come now, no counting twenty!" He was pacing the room now, and she had her face to herself. It said several things, among them that the officer evidently did not like this charge against his men. "Does the shirra blame the sojers?" exclaimed this quick-witted Egyptian. "Weel, that cows, for he has nane to blame but himsel'." "What!" cried Halliwell, delighted. "It was the sheriff who told tales? Answer me. You are counting a hundred this time." Perhaps the gypsy had two reasons for withholding her answer. If so, one of them was that as the sheriff had told nothing, she had a story to make up. The other was that she wanted to strike a bargain with the officer. "If I tell you," she said eagerly, "will you set me free?" "I may ask the sheriff to do so." "But he mauna see me," the Egyptian said in distress. "There's reasons, captain." "Why, surely you have not been before him on other occasions," said Halliwell, surprised. "No in the way you mean," muttered the gypsy, and for the moment her eyes twinkled. But the light in them went out when she remembered that the sheriff was near, and she looked desperately at the window as if ready to fling herself from it. She had very good reasons for not wishing to be seen by Riach, though fear that he would put her in gaol was not one of them. Halliwell thought it was the one cause of her woe, and great was his desire to turn the tables on the sheriff. "Tell me the truth," he said, "and I promise to befriend you." "Weel, then," the gypsy said, hoping still to soften his heart, and making up her story as she told it, "yestreen I met the shirra, and he tolled me a' I hae telled the Thrums folk this nicht." "You can scarcely expect me to believe that. Where did you meet him?" "In Glen Quharity. He was riding on a horse." "Well, I allow he was there yesterday, and on horseback. He was on his way back to Tilliedrum from Lord Rintoul's place. But don't tell me that he took a gypsy girl into his confidence." "Ay, he did, without kenning. He was gieing his horse a drink when I met him, and he let me tell him his fortune. He said he would gaol me for an impostor if I didna tell him true, so I gaed about it cautiously, and after a minute or twa I telled him he was coming to Thrums the nicht to nab the rioters." "You are trifling with me," interposed the indignant soldier. "You promised to tell me not what you said to the sheriff, but how he disclosed our movements to you." "And that's just what I am telling you, only you hinna the rumelgumption to see it. How do you think fortunes is telled? First we get out o' the man, without his seeing what we're after, a' about himsel", and syne we repeat it to him. That's what I did wi' the shirra." "You drew the whole thing out of him without his knowing?" "'Deed I did, and he rode awa' saying I was a witch." The soldier heard with the delight of a schoolboy. "Now if the sheriff does not liberate you at my request," he said, "I will never let him hear the end of this story. He was right; you are a witch. You deceived the sheriff; yes, undoubtedly you are a witch." He looked at her with fun in his face, but the fun disappeared, and a wondering admiration took its place. "By Jove!" he said, "I don't wonder you bewitched the sheriff. I must take care or you will bewitch the captain, too." At this notion he smiled, but he also ceased looking at her. Suddenly the Egyptian again began to cry. "You're angry wi' me," she sobbed. "I wish I had never set een on you." "Why do you wish that?" Halliwell asked. "Fine you ken," she answered, and again covered her face with her hands. He looked at her undecidedly. "I am not angry with you," he said, gently. "You are an extraordinary girl." Had he really made a conquest of this beautiful creature? Her words said so, but had he? The captain could not make up his mind. He gnawed his moustache in doubt. There was silence, save for the Egyptian's sobs. Halliwell's heart was touched, and he drew nearer her, "My poor girl--" He stopped. Was she crying? Was she not laughing at him rather? He became red. The gypsy peeped at him between her fingers, and saw that he was of two minds. She let her hands fall from her face, and undoubtedly there were tears on her cheeks. "If you're no angry wi' me," she said, sadly, "how will you no look at me?" "I am looking at you now." He was very close to her, and staring into her wonderful eyes. I am older than the Captain, and those eyes have dazzled me. "Captain dear." She put her hand in his. His chest rose. He knew she was seeking to beguile him, but he could not take his eyes off hers. He was in a worse plight than a woman listening to the first whisper of love. Now she was further from him, but the spell held. She reached the door, without taking her eyes from his face. For several seconds he had been as a man mesmerised. Just in time he came to. It was when she turned from him to find the handle of the door. She was turning it when his hand fell on hers so suddenly that she screamed. He twisted her round. "Sit down there," he said hoarsely, pointing to the chair upon which he had flung his cloak. She dared not disobey. Then he leant against the door, his back to her, for just then he wanted no one to see his face. The gypsy sat very still and a little frightened. Halliwell opened the door presently, and called to the soldier on duty below. "Davidson, see if you can find the sheriff. I want him. And Davidson--" The captain paused. "Yes," he muttered, and the old soldier marvelled at his words, "it is better. Davidson, lock this door on the outside." Davidson did as he was ordered, and again the Egyptian was left alone with Halliwell. "Afraid of a woman!" she said, contemptuously, though her heart sank when she heard the key turn in the lock. "I admit it," he answered, calmly. He walked up and down the room, and she sat silently Watching him. "That story of yours about the sheriff was not true," he said at last. "I suspect it wasna," answered the Egyptian coolly, "Hae you been thinking about it a' this time? Captains I could tell you what you're thinking now. You're wishing it had been true, so that the ane o' you couldna lauch at the other." "Silence!" said the captain, and not another word would he speak until he heard the sheriff coming up the stair. The Egyptian trembled at his step, and rose in desperation. "Why is the door locked?" cried the sheriff, shaking it. "All right," answered Halliwell; "the key is on your side." At that moment the Egyptian knocked the lamp off the table, and the room was at once in darkness. The officer sprang at her, and, catching her by the skirt, held on. "Why are you in darkness?" asked the sheriff, as he entered. "Shut the door," cried Halliwell. "Put your back to it." "Don't tell me the woman has escaped?" "I have her, I have her! She capsized the lamp, the little jade. Shut the door." Still keeping firm hold of her, as he thought, the captain relit the lamp with his other hand. It showed an extraordinary scene. The door was shut, and the sheriff was guarding it. Halliwell was clutching the cloth of the bailie's seat. There was no Egyptian. A moment passed before either man found his tongue. "Open the door. After her!" cried Halliwell. But the door would not open. The Egyptian had fled and locked it behind her. What the two men said to each other, it would not be fitting to tell. When Davidson, who had been gossiping at the corner of the town-house, released his captain and the sheriff, the gypsy had been gone for some minutes. "But she shan't escape us," Riach cried, and hastened out to assist in the pursuit. Halliwell was in such a furious temper that he called up Davidson and admonished him for neglect of duty. CHAPTER VIII. 3 A.M.--MONSTROUS AUDACITY OF THE WOMAN. Not till the stroke of three did Gavin turn homeward, with the legs of a ploughman, and eyes rebelling against over-work. Seeking to comfort his dejected people, whose courage lay spilt on the brae, he had been in as many houses as the policemen. The soldiers marching through the wynds came frequently upon him, and found it hard to believe that he was always the same one. They told afterwards that Thrums was remarkable for the ferocity of its women, and the number of its little ministers. The morning was nipping cold, and the streets were deserted, for the people had been ordered within doors. As he crossed the Roods, Gavin saw a gleam of red-coats. In the back wynd he heard a bugle blown. A stir in the Banker's close spoke of another seizure. At the top of the school wynd two policeman, of whom one was Wearyworld, stopped the minister with the flash of a lantern. "We dauredna let you pass, sir," the Tilliedrum man said, "without a good look at you. That's the orders." "I hereby swear," said Wearyworld, authoritatively, "that this is no the Egyptian. Signed, Peter Spens, policeman, called by the vulgar, Wearyworld. Mr. Dishart, you can pass, unless you'll bide a wee and gie us your crack." "You have not found the gypsy, then?" Gavin asked. "No," the other policeman said, "but we ken she's within cry o' this very spot, and escape she canna." "What mortal man can do," Wearyworld said, "we're doing: ay, and mair, but she's auld wecht, and may find bilbie in queer places. Mr. Dishart, my official opinion is that this Egyptian is fearsomely like my snuff-spoon. I've kent me drap that spoon on the fender, and be beat to find it in an hour. And yet, a' the time I was sure it was there. This is a gey mysterious world, and women's the uncanniest things in't. It's hardly mous to think how uncanny they are." "This one deserves to be punished," Gavin said, firmly; "she incited the people to riot." "She did," agreed Weary world, who was supping ravenously on sociability; "ay, she even tried her tricks on me, so that them that kens no better thinks she fooled me. But she's cracky. To gie her her due, she's cracky, and as for her being a cuttie, you've said yoursel, Mr. Dishart, that we're all desperately wicked, But we're sair tried. Has it ever struck you that the trouts bites best on the Sabbath? God's critturs tempting decent men." "Come alang," cried the Tilliedrum man, impatiently. "I'm coming, but I maun give Mr. Dishart permission to pass first. Hae you heard, Mr. Dishart," Wearyworld whispered, "that the Egyptian diddled baith the captain and the shirra? It's my official opinion that she's no better than a roasted onion, the which, if you grip it firm, jumps out o' sicht, leaving its coat in your fingers. Mr. Dishart, you can pass." The policeman turned down the school wynd, and Gavin, who had already heard exaggerated accounts of the strange woman's escape from the town-house, proceeded along the Tenements. He walked in the black shadows of the houses, though across the way there was the morning light. In talking of the gypsy, the little minister had, as it were, put on the black cap; but now, even though he shook his head angrily with every thought of her, the scene in Windyghoul glimmered before his eyes. Sometimes when he meant to frown he only sighed, and then having sighed he shook himself. He was unpleasantly conscious of his right hand, which had flung the divit. Ah, she was shameless, and it would be a bright day for Thrums that saw the last of her. He hoped the policemen would succeed in--. It was the gladsomeness of innocence that he had seen dancing in the moonlight. A mere woman could not be like that. How soft--. And she had derided him; he, the Auld Licht minister of Thrums, had been flouted before his people by a hussy. She was without reverence, she knew no difference between an Auld Licht minister, whose duty it was to speak and hers to listen, and herself. This woman deserved to be--. And the look she cast behind her as she danced and sang! It was sweet, so wistful; the presence of purity had silenced him. Purity! Who had made him fling that divit? He would think no more of her. Let it suffice that he knew what she was. He would put her from his thoughts. Was it a ring on her finger? Fifty yards in front of him Gavin saw the road end in a wall of soldiers. They were between him and the manse, and he was still in darkness. No sound reached him, save the echo of his own feet. But was it an echo? He stopped, and turned round sharply. Now he heard nothing, he saw nothing. Yet was not that a human figure standing motionless in the shadow behind? He walked on, and again heard the sound. Again he looked behind, but this time without stopping. The figure was following him. He stopped. So did it. He turned back, but it did not move. It was the Egyptian! Gavin knew her, despite the lane of darkness, despite the long cloak that now concealed even her feet, despite the hood over her head. She was looking quite respectable, but he knew her. He neither advanced to her nor retreated. Could the unhappy girl not see that she was walking into the arms of the soldiers? But doubtless she had been driven from all her hiding-places. For a moment Gavin had it in his heart to warn her. But it was only for a moment. The nest a sudden horror shot through him. She was stealing toward him, so softly that he had not seen her start. The woman had designs on him! Gavin turned from her. He walked so quickly that judges would have said he ran. The soldiers, I have said, stood in the dim light. Gavin had almost reached them, when a little hand touched his arm. "Stop," cried the sergeant, hearing some one approaching, and then Gavin stepped out of the darkness with the gypsy on his arm. "It is you, Mr. Dishart," said the sergeant, "and your lady?" "I--." said Gavin. His lady pinched his arm. "Yes," she answered, in an elegant English voice that made Gavin stare at her, "but, indeed, I am sorry I ventured into the streets to-night. I thought I might be able to comfort some of these unhappy people, captain, but I could do little, sadly little." "It is no scene for a lady, ma'am, but your husband has--. Did you speak, Mr. Dishart?" "Yes, I must inf--" "My dear," said the Egyptian, "I quite agree witfe you, so we need not detain the captain." "I'm only a sergeant, ma'am." "Indeed!" said the Egyptian, raising her pretty eyebrows, "and how long are you to remain in Thrums, sergeant?" "Only for a few hours, Mrs. Dishart. If this gypsy lassie had not given us so much trouble, we might have been gone by now." "Ah, yes, I hope you will catch her, sergeant." "Sergeant," said Gavin, firmly, "I must--" "You must, indeed, dear," said the Egyptian, "for you are sadly tired. Good-night, sergeant." "Your servant, Mrs. Dishart. Your servant, sir." "But--," cried Gavin. "Come, love," said the Egyptian, and she walked the distracted minister through the soldiers and up the manse road. The soldiers left behind, Gavin flung her arm from him, and, standing still, shook his fist in her face. "You--you--woman!" he said. This, I think, was the last time he called her a woman. But she was clapping her hands merrily. "It was beautiful!" she exclaimed. "It was iniquitous!" he answered. "And I a minister!" "You can't help that," said the Egyptian, who pitied all ministers heartily. "No," Gavin said, misunderstanding her, "I could not help it. No blame attaches to me." "I meant that you could not help being a minister, You could have helped saving me, and I thank you so much." "Do not dare to thank me. I forbid you to say that I saved you. I did my best to hand you over to the authorities." "Then why did you not hand me over?" Gavin groaned. "All you had to say," continued the merciless Egyptian, "was, 'This is the person you are in search of.' I did not have my hand over your mouth. Why did you not say it?" "Forbear!" said Gavin, woefully. "It must have been," the gypsy said, "because you really wanted to help me." "Then it was against my better judgment," said Gavin. "I am glad of that," said the gypsy. "Mr. Dishart, I do believe you like me all the time." "Can a man like a woman against his will?" Gavin blurted out. "Of course he can," said the Egyptian, speaking as one who knew. "That is the very nicest way to be liked." Seeing how agitated Gavin was, remorse filled her, and she said in a wheedling voice-- "It is all over, and no one will know." Passion sat on the minister's brow, but he said nothing, for the gypsy's face had changed with her voice, and the audacious woman was become a child. "I am very sorry," she said, as if he had caught her stealing jam. The hood had fallen back, and she looked pleadingly at him. She had the appearance of one who was entirely in his hands. There was a torrent of words in Gavin, but only these trickled forth-- "I don't understand you." "You are not angry any more?" pleaded the Egyptian. "Angry!" he cried, with the righteous rage of one who when his leg is being sawn off is asked gently if it hurts him. "I know you are,' she sighed, and the sigh meant that men are strange. "Have you no respect for law and order?" demanded Gavin. "Not much," she answered, honestly. He looked down the road to where the red-coats were still visible, and his face became hard. She read his thoughts. "No," she said, becoming a woman again, "it is not yet too late. Why don't you shout to them?" She was holding herself like a queen, but there was no stiffness in her. They might have been a pair of lovers, and she the wronged one. Again she looked timidly at him, and became beautiful in a new way. Her eyes said that lie was very cruel, and she was only keeping back her tears till he had gone. More dangerous than her face was her manner, which gave Gavin the privilege of making her unhappy; it permitted him to argue with her; it never implied that though he raged at her he must stand afar off; it called him a bully, but did not end the conversation. Now (but perhaps I should not tell this) unless she is his wife a man is shot with a thrill of exultation every time a pretty woman allows him to upbraid her. "I do not understand you," Gavin repeated weakly, and the gypsy bent her head under this terrible charge. "Only a few hours ago," he continued, "you were a gypsy girl in a fantastic dress, barefooted--" The Egyptian's bare foot at once peeped out mischievously from beneath the cloak, then again retired into hiding. "You spoke as broadly," complained the minister, somewhat taken aback by this apparition, "as any woman in Thrums, and now you fling a cloak over your shoulders, and immediately become a fine lady. Who are you?" "Perhaps," answered the Egyptian, "it is the cloak that has bewitched me." She slipped out of it. "Ay, ay, ou losh?" she said, as if surprised, "it was just the cloak that did it, for now I'm a puir ignorant bit lassie again. My, certie, but claithes does make a differ to a woman?" This was sheer levity, and Gavin walked scornfully away from it. "Yet, if you will not tell me who you are," he said, looking over his shoulder, "tell me where you got the cloak." "Na faags," replied the gypsy out of the cloak. "Really, Mr. Dishart, you had better not ask," she added, replacing it over her. She followed him, meaning to gain the open by the fields to the north of the manse. "Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand, "if you are not to give me up." "I am not a policeman," replied Gavin, but he would not take her hand. "Surely, we part friends, then?" said the Egyptian, sweetly. "No," Gavin answered. "I hope never to see your face again." "I cannot help," the Egyptian said, with dignity, "your not liking my face." Then, with less dignity, she added, "There is a splotch of mud on your own, little minister; it came off the divit you flung at the captain." With this parting shot she tripped past him, and Gavin would not let his eyes follow her. It was not the mud on his face that distressed him, nor even the hand that had flung the divit. It was the word "little." Though, even Margaret was not aware of it, Gavin's shortness had grieved him all his life. There had been times when he tried to keep the secret from himself. In his boyhood he had sought a remedy by getting his larger comrades to stretch him. In the company of tall men he was always self- conscious. In the pulpit he looked darkly at his congregation when he asked them who, by taking thought, could add a cubit to his stature. When standing on a hearthrug his heels were frequently on the fender. In his bedroom he has stood on a footstool and surveyed himself in the mirror. Once he fastened high heels to his boots, being ashamed to ask Hendry Munn to do it for him; but this dishonesty shamed him, and he tore them off. So the Egyptian had put a needle into his pride, and he walked to the manse gloomily. Margaret was at her window, looking for him, and he saw her though she did not see him. He was stepping into the middle of the road to wave his hand to her, when some sudden weakness made him look towards the fields instead. The Egyptian saw him and nodded thanks for his interest in her, but he scowled and pretended to be studying the sky. Next moment he saw her running back to him. "There are soldiers at the top of the field," she cried. "I cannot escape that way." "There is no other way," Gavin answered. "Will you not help me again?" she entreated. She should not have said "again." Gavin shook his head, but pulled her closer to the manse dyke, for his mother was still in sight. "Why do you do that?" the girl asked, quickly, looking round to see if she were pursued. "Oh, I see," she said, as her eyes fell on the figure at the window. "It is my mother," Gavin said, though he need not have explained, unless he wanted the gypsy to know that he was a bachelor. "Only your mother?" "Only! Let me tell you she may suffer more than you for your behaviour to-night!" "How can she?" "If you are caught, will it not be discovered that I helped you to escape?" "But you said you did not." "Yes, I helped you," Gavin admitted. "My God! what would my congregation say if they knew I had let you pass yourself off as-- as my wife?" He struck his brow, and the Egyptian had the propriety to blush. "It is not the punishment from men I am afraid of," Gavin said, bitterly, "but from my conscience. No, that is not true. I do fear exposure, but for my mother's sake. Look at her; she is happy, because she thinks me good and true; she has had such trials as you cannot know of, and now, when at last I seemed able to do something for her, you destroy her happiness. You have her life in your hands." The Egyptian turned her back upon him, and one of her feet tapped angrily on the dry ground. Then, child of impulse as she always was, she flashed an indignant glance at him, and walked quickly down the road. "Where are you going?" he cried. "To give myself up. You need not be alarmed; I will clear you." There was not a shake in her voice, and she spoke without looking back. "Stop!" Gavin called, but she would not, until his hand touched her shoulder. "What do you want?" she asked. "Why--" whispered Gavin, giddily, "why--why do you not hide in the manse garden?--No one will look for you there." There were genuine tears in the gypsy's eyes now. "You are a good man," she said; "I like you." "Don't say that," Gavin cried in horror. "There is a summer-seat in the garden." Then he hurried from her, and without looking to see if she took his advice, hastened to the manse. Once inside, he snibbed the door. CHAPTER IX. THE WOMAN CONSIDERED IN ABSENCE--ADVENTURES OF A MILITARY CLOAK. About six o'clock Margaret sat up suddenly in bed, with the conviction that she had slept in. To her this was to ravel the day: a dire thing. The last time it happened Gavin, softened by her distress, had condensed morning worship into a sentence that she might make up on the clock. Her part on waking was merely to ring her bell, and so rouse Jean, for Margaret had given Gavin a promise to breakfast in bed, and remain there till her fire was lit. Accustomed all her life, however, to early rising, her feet were usually on the floor before she remembered her vow, and then it was but a step to the window to survey the morning. To Margaret, who seldom went out, the weather was not of great moment, while it mattered much to Gavin, yet she always thought of it the first thing, and he not at all until he had to decide whether his companion should be an umbrella or a staff. On this morning Margaret only noticed that there had been rain since Gavin came in. Forgetting that the water obscuring the outlook was on the other side of the panes, she tried to brush it away with her fist. It was of the soldiers she was thinking. They might have been awaiting her appearance at the window as their signal to depart, for hardly had she raised the blind when they began their march out of Thrums. From the manse she could not see them, but she heard them, and she saw some people at the Tenements run to their houses at sound of the drum. Other persons, less timid, followed the enemy with execrations halfway to Tilliedrum. Margaret, the only person, as it happened, then awake in the manse, stood listening for some time. In the summer-seat of the garden, however, there was another listener protected from her sight by thin spars. Despite the lateness of the hour Margaret was too soft-hearted to rouse Jean, who had lain down in her clothes, trembling for her father. She went instead into Gavin's room to look admiringly at him as he slept. Often Gavin woke to find that his mother had slipped in to save him the enormous trouble of opening a drawer for a clean collar, or of pouring the water into the basin with his own hand. Sometimes he caught her in the act of putting thick socks in the place of thin ones, and, it must be admitted that her passion for keeping his belongings in boxes, and the boxes in secret places, and the secret places at the back of drawers, occasionally led to their being lost when wanted. "They are safe, at any rate, for I put them away some gait," was then Magaret's comfort, but less soothing to Gavin. Yet if he upbraided her in his hurry, it was to repent bitterly his temper the next instant, and to feel its effects more than she, temper being a weapon that we hold by the blade. When he awoke and saw her in his room he would pretend, unless he felt called upon to rage at her for self- neglect, to be still asleep, and then be filled with tenderness for her. A great writer has spoken sadly of the shock it would be to a mother to know her boy as he really is, but I think she often knows him better than he is known to cynical friends. We should be slower to think that the man at his worst is the real man, and certain that the better we are ourselves the less likely is he to be at his worst in our company. Every time he talks away his own character before us he is signifying contempt for ours. On this morning Margaret only opened Gavin's door to stand and look, for she was fearful of awakening him after his heavy night. Even before she saw that he still slept she noticed with surprise that, for the first time since he came to Thrums, he had put on his shutters. She concluded that he had done this lest the light should rouse him. He was not sleeping pleasantly, for now he put his open hand before his face, as if to guard himself, and again he frowned and seemed to draw back from something. He pointed his finger sternly to the north, ordering the weavers, his mother thought, to return to their homes, and then he muttered to himself so that she heard the words, "And if thy right hand offend thee cut it off, and cast it from thee, for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell." Then suddenly he bent forward, his eyes open and fixed on the window. Thus he sat, for the space of half a minute, like one listening with painful intentness. When he lay back Margaret slipped away. She knew he was living the night over again, but not of the divit his right hand had cast, nor of the woman in the garden. Gavin was roused presently by the sound of voices from Margaret's room, where Jean, who had now gathered much news, was giving it to her mistress. Jean's cheerfulness would have told him that her father was safe had he not wakened to thoughts of the Egyptian. I suppose he was at the window in an instant, unsnibbing the shutters and looking out as cautiously as a burglar might have looked in. The Egyptian was gone from the summer-seat. He drew a great breath. But his troubles were not over. He had just lifted his ewer of water when these words from the kitchen capsized it:-- "Ay, an Egyptian. That's what the auld folk call a gypsy. Weel, Mrs. Dishart, she led police and sojers sic a dance through Thrums as would baffle description, though I kent the fits and fors o't as I dinna. Ay, but they gripped her in the end, and the queer thing is--" Gavin listened to no more. He suddenly sat down. The queer thing, of course, was that she had been caught in his garden. Yes, and doubtless queerer things about this hussy and her "husband" were being bawled from door to door. To the girl's probable sufferings he gave no heed. What kind of man had he been a few hours ago to yield to the machinations of a woman who was so obviously the devil? Now he saw his folly in the face. The tray in Jean's hands clattered against the dresser, and Gavin sprang from his chair. He thought it was his elders at the front door. In the parlour he found Margaret sorrowing for those whose mates had been torn from them, and Jean with a face flushed by talk. On ordinary occasions the majesty of the minister still cowed Jean, so that she could only gaze at him without shaking when in church, and then because she wore a veil. In the manse he was for taking a glance at sideways and then going away comforted, as a respectable woman may once or twice in a day look at her brooch in the pasteboard box as a means of helping her with her work. But with such a to-do in Thrums, and she the possessor of exclusive information, Jean's reverence for Gavin only took her to-day as far as the door, where she lingered half in the parlour and half in the lobby, her eyes turned politely from the minister, but her ears his entirely. "I thought I heard Jean telling you about the capture of the--of an Egyptian woman," Gavin said to his mother, nervously. "Did you cry to me?" Jean asked, turning round longingly. "But maybe the mistress will tell you about the Egyptian hersel." "Has she been taken to Tilliedrum?" Gavin asked in a hollow voice. "Sup up your porridge, Gavin," Margaret said. "I'll have no speaking about this terrible night till you've eaten something." "I have no appetite," the minister replied, pushing his plate from him. "Jean, answer me." "'Deed, then," said Jean willingly, "they hinna ta'en her to Tilliedrum." "For what reason?" asked Gavin, his dread increasing. "For the reason that they couldna catch her," Jean answered. "She spirited hersel awa', the magerful crittur." "What! But I heard you say----" "Ay, they had her aince, but they couldna keep her. It's like a witch story. They had her safe in the townhouse, and baith shirra and captain guarding her, and syne in a clink she wasna there. A' nicht they looked for her, but she hadna left so muckle as a foot- print ahint her, and in the tail of the day they had to up wi' their tap in their lap and march awa without her." Gavin's appetite returned. "Has she been seen since the soldiers went away?" he asked, laying down his spoon with a new fear. "Where is she now?" "No human eye has seen her," Jean answered impressively. "Whaur is she now? Whaur does the flies vanish to in winter? We ken they're some gait, but whaur?" "But what are the people saying about her?" "Daft things," said Jean. "Old Charles Yuill gangs the length o' hinting that she's dead and buried." "She could not have buried herself, Jean," Margaret said, mildly. "I dinna ken. Charles says she's even capable o' that." Then Jean retired reluctantly (but leaving the door ajar) and Gavin fell to on his porridge. He was now so cheerful that Margaret wondered. "If half the stories about this gypsy be true," she said, "she must be more than a mere woman." "Less, you mean, mother," Gavin said, with conviction. "She is a woman, and a sinful one." "Did you see her, Gavin?" "I saw her. Mother, she flouted me!" "The daring tawpie!" exclaimed Margaret. "She is all that," said the minister. "Was she dressed just like an ordinary gypsy body? But you don't notice clothes much, Gavin." "I noticed hers," Gavin said, slowly, "she was in a green and red, I think, and barefooted." "Ay," shouted Jean from the kitchen, startling both of them; "but she had a lang grey-like cloak too. She was seen jouking up closes in't." Gavin rose, considerably annoyed, and shut the parlour door. "Was she as bonny as folks say?" asked Margaret. "Jean says they speak of her beauty as unearthly." "Beauty of her kind," Gavin explained learnedly, "is neither earthly nor heavenly." He was seeing things as they are very clearly now. "What," he said, "is mere physical beauty? Pooh!" "And yet," said Margaret, "the soul surely does speak through the face to some extent." "Do you really think so, mother?" Gavin asked, a little uneasily. "I have always noticed it," Margaret said, and then her son sighed. "But I would let no face influence me a jot," he said, recovering. "Ah, Gavin, I'm thinking I'm the reason you pay so little regard to women's faces. It's no natural." "You've spoilt me, you see, mother, for ever caring for another woman. I would compare her to you, and then where would she be?" "Sometime," Margaret said, "you'll think differently." "Never," answered Gavin, with a violence that ended the conversation. Soon afterwards he set off for the town, and in passing down the garden walk cast a guilty glance at the summer-seat. Something black was lying in one corner of it. He stopped irresolutely, for his mother was nodding to him from her window. Then he disappeared into the little arbour. What had caught his eye was a Bible. On the previous day, as he now remembered, he had been called away while studying in the garden, and had left his Bible on the summer-seat, a pencil between its pages. Not often probably had the Egyptian passed a night in such company. But what was this? Gavin had not to ask himself the question. The gypsy's cloak was lying neatly folded at the other end of the seat. Why had the woman not taken it with her? Hardly had he put this question when another stood in front of it. What was to be done with the cloak? He dared not leave it there for Jean to discover. He could not take it into the manse in daylight. Beneath the seat was a tool-chest without a lid, and into this he crammed the cloak. Then, having turned the box face downwards, he went about his duties. But many a time during the day he shivered to the marrow, reflecting suddenly that at this very moment Jean might be carrying the accursed thing (at arms' length, like a dog in disgrace) to his mother. Now let those who think that Gavin has not yet paid toll for taking the road with the Egyptian, follow the adventures of the cloak. Shortly after gloaming fell that night Jean encountered her master in the lobby of the manse. He was carrying something, and when he saw her he slipped it behind his back. Had he passed her openly she would have suspected nothing, but this made her look at him. "Why do you stare so, Jean?" Gavin asked, conscience-stricken, and he stood with his back to the wall until she had retired in bewilderment. "I have noticed her watching me sharply all day," he said to himself, though it was only he who had been watching her. Gavin carried the cloak to his bed-room, thinking to lock it away in his chest, but it looked so wicked lying there that he seemed to see it after the lid was shut. The garret was the best place for it. He took it out of the chest and was opening his door gently, when there was Jean again. She had been employed very innocently in his mother's room, but he said tartly-- "Jean, I really cannot have this," which sent Jean to the kitchen with her apron at her eyes. Gavin stowed the cloak beneath the garret bed, and an hour afterwards was engaged on his sermon, when he distinctly heard some one in the garret. He ran up the ladder with a terrible brow for Jean, but it was not Jean; it was Margaret. "Mother," he said in alarm, "what are you doing here?" "I am only tidying up the garret, Gavin." "Yes, but--it is too cold for you. Did Jean--did Jean ask you to come up here?" "Jean? She knows her place better." Gavin took Margaret down to the parlour, but his confidence in the garret had gone. He stole up the ladder again, dragged the cloak from its lurking place, and took it into the garden. He very nearly met Jean in the lobby again, but hearing him coming she fled precipitately, which he thought very suspicious. In the garden he dug a hole, and there buried the cloak, but even now he was not done with it. He was wakened early by a noise of scraping in the garden, and his first thought was "Jean!" But peering from the window, he saw that the resurrectionist was a dog which already had its teeth in the cloak. That forenoon Gavin left the manse unostentatiously carrying a brown-paper parcel. He proceeded to the hill, and having dropped the parcel there, retired hurriedly. On his way home, nevertheless, he was overtaken by D. Fittis, who had been cutting down whins. Fittis had seen the parcel fall, and running after Gavin, returned it to him. Gavin thanked D. Fittis, and then sat down gloomily on the cemetery dyke. Half an hour afterwards he flung the parcel into a Tillyloss garden. In the evening Margaret had news for him, got from Jean. "Do you remember, Gavin, that the Egyptian every one is still speaking of, wore a long cloak? Well, would you believe it, the cloak was Captain Halliwell's, and she took it from the town-house when she escaped. She is supposed to have worn it inside out. He did not discover that it was gone until he was leaving Thrums." "Mother, is this possible?" Gavin said. "The policeman, Wearyworld, has told it. He was ordered, it seems, to look for the cloak quietly, and to take any one into custody in whose possession it was found." "Has it been found?" "No." The minister walked out of the parlour, for he could not trust his face. What was to be done now? The cloak was lying in mason Baxter's garden, and Baxter was therefore, in all probability, within four-and-twenty hours of the Tilliedrum gaol. "Does Mr. Dishart ever wear a cap at nichts?" Femie Wilkie asked Sam'l Fairweather three hours later. "Na, na, he has ower muckle respect for his lum hat," answered Sam'l; "and richtly, for it's the crowning stone o' the edifice." "Then it couldna hae been him I met at the back o' Tillyloss the now," said Femie, "though like him it was. He joukit back when he saw me." While Femie was telling her story in the Tenements, mason Baxter, standing at the window which looked into his garden, was shouting, "Wha's that in my yard?" There was no answer, and Baxter closed his window, under the impression that he had been speaking to a cat. The man in the cap then emerged from the corner where he had been crouching, and stealthily felt for something among the cabbages and pea sticks. It was no longer there, however, and by- and-by he retired empty-handed. "The Egyptian's cloak has been found," Margaret was able to tell Gavin next day. "Mason Baxter found it yesterday afternoon." "In his garden?" Gavin asked hurriedly. "No; in the quarry, he says, but according to Jean he is known not to have been at the quarry to-day. Some seem to think that the gypsy gave him the cloak for helping her to escape, and that he has delivered it up lest he should get into difficulties." "Whom has he given it to, mother?" Gavin asked. "To the policeman." "And has Wearyworld sent it back to Halliwell?" "Yes. He told Jean he sent it off at once, with the information that the masons had found it in the quarry." The next day was Sabbath, when a new trial, now to be told, awaited Gavin in the pulpit; but it had nothing to do with the cloak, of which I may here record the end. Wearyworld had not forwarded it to its owner; Meggy, his wife, took care of that. It made its reappearance in Thrums, several months after the riot, as two pairs of Sabbath breeks for her sons, James and Andrew. CHAPTER X. FIRST SERMON AGAINST WOMEN. On the afternoon of the following Sabbath, as I have said, something strange happened in the Auld Licht pulpit. The congregation, despite their troubles, turned it over and peered at it for days, but had they seen into the inside of it they would have weaved few webs until the session had sat on the minister. The affair baffled me at the time, and for the Egyptian's sake I would avoid mentioning it now, were it not one of Gavin's milestones. It includes the first of his memorable sermons against Woman. I was not in the Auld Licht church that day, but I heard of the sermon before night, and this, I think, is as good an opportunity as another for showing how the gossip about Gavin reached me up here in the Glen school-house. Since Margaret and her son came to the manse I had kept the vow made to myself and avoided Thrums. Only once had I ventured to the kirk, and then, instead of taking my old seat, the fourth from the pulpit, I sat down near the plate, where I could look at Margaret without her seeing me. To spare her that agony I even stole away as the last word of the benediction was pronounced, and my haste scandalised many, for with Auld Lichts it is not customary to retire quickly from the church after the manner of the godless U. P.'s (and the Free Kirk is little better), who have their hats in their hand when they rise for the benediction, so that they may at once pour out like a burst dam. We resume our seats, look straight before us, clear our throats and stretch out our hands for our womenfolk to put our hats into them. In time we do get out, but I am never sure how. One may gossip in a glen on Sabbaths, though not in a town, without losing his character, and I used to await the return of my neighbour, the farmer of Waster Lunny, and of Silva Birse, the Glen Quharity post, at the end of the school-house path. Waster Lunny was a man whose care in his leisure hours was to keep from his wife his great pride in her. His horse, Catlaw, on the other hand, he told outright what he thought of it, praising it to its face and blackguarding it as it deserved, and I have seen him when completely baffled by the brute, sit down before it on a stone and thus harangue: "You think you're clever, Catlaw, my lass, but you're mista'en. You're a thrawn limmer, that's what you are. You think you have blood in you. You hae blood! Gae away, and dinna blether. I tell you what, Catlaw, I met a man yestreen that kent your mither, and he says she was a feikie fushionless besom. What do you say to that?" As for the post, I will say no more of him than that his bitter topic was the unreasonableness of humanity, which treated him graciously when he had a letter for it, but scowled at him when he had none. "aye implying that I hae a letter, but keep it back." On the Sabbath evening after the riot, I stood at the usual place awaiting my friends, and saw before they reached me that they had something untoward to tell. The farmer, his wife and three children, holding each other's hands, stretched across the road. Birse was a little behind, but a conversation was being kept up by shouting. All were walking the Sabbath pace, and the family having started half a minute in advance, the post had not yet made up on them. "It's sitting to snaw," Waster Lunny said, drawing near, and just as I was to reply, "It is so," Silva slipped in the words before me. "You wasna at the kirk," was Elspeth's salutation. I had been at the Glen church, but did not contradict her, for it is Established, and so neither here nor there. I was anxious, too, to know what their long faces meant, and so asked at once-- "Was Mr. Dishart on the riot?" "Forenoon, ay; afternoon, no," replied Waster Lunny, walking round his wife to get nearer me. "Dominie, a queery thing happened in the kirk this day, sic as--" "Waster Lunny," interrupted Elspeth sharply; "have you on your Sabbath shoon or have you no on your Sabbath shoon?" "Guid care you took I should hae the dagont oncanny things on," retorted the farmer. "Keep out o' the gutter, then," said Elspeth, "on the Lord's day." "Him," said her man, "that is forced by a foolish woman to wear genteel 'lastic-sided boots canna forget them till he takes them aff. Whaur's the extra reverence in wearing shoon twa sizes ower sma?" "It mayna be mair reverent," suggested Birse, to whom Elspeth's kitchen was a pleasant place, "but it's grand, and you canna expect to be baith grand and comfortable." I reminded them that they were speaking of Mr. Dishart. "We was saying," began the post briskly, "that--" "It was me that was saying it," said Waster Lunny. "So, dominie--" "Haud your gabs, baith o' you," interrupted Elspeth, "You've been roaring the story to ane another till you're hoarse." "In the forenoon," Waster Lunny went on determinedly, "Mr. Dishart preached on the riot, and fine he was. Oh, dominie, you should hae heard him ladling it on to Lang Tammas, no by name but in sic a way that there was no mistaking wha he was preaching at, Sal! oh losh! Tammas got it strong." "But he's dull in the uptake," broke in the post, "by what I expected. I spoke to him after the sermon, and I says, just to see if he was properly humbled, 'Ay, Tammas,' I says, 'them that discourse was preached against, winna think themselves seven feet men for a while again.' 'Ay, Birse,' he answers, 'and glad I am to hear you admit it, for he had you in his eye.' I was fair scunnered at Tammas the day." "Mr. Dishart was preaching at the whole clanjamfray o' you," said Elspeth. "Maybe he was," said her husband, leering; "but you needna cast it at us, for, my certie, if the men got it frae him in the forenoon, the women got it in the afternoon." "He redd them up most michty," said the post. "Thae was his very words or something like them. 'Adam,' says he, 'was an erring man, but aside Eve he was respectable.'" "Ay, but it wasna a' women he meant," Elspeth explained, "for when he said that, he pointed his finger direct at T'nowhead's lassie, and I hope it'll do her good." "But I wonder," I said, "that Mr. Dishart chose such a subject to- day. I thought he would be on the riot at both services." "You'll wonder mair," said Elspeth, "when you hear what happened afore he began the afternoon sermon. But I canna get in a word wi' that man o' mine." "We've been speaking about it," said Birse, "ever since we left the kirk door. Tod, we've been sawing it like seed a' alang the glen." "And we meant to tell you about it at once," said Waster Lunny; "but there's aye so muckle to say about a minister. Dagont, to hae ane keeps a body out o' langour. Ay, but this breaks the drum. Dominie, either Mr. Dishart wasna weel, or he was in the devil's grip." This startled me, for the farmer was looking serious. "He was weel eneuch," said Birse, "for a heap o' fowk speired at Jean if he had ta'en his porridge as usual, and she admitted he had. But the lassie was skeered hersel', and said it was a mercy Mrs. Dishart wasna in the kirk." "Why was she not there?" I asked anxiously. "Oh, he winna let her out in sic weather." "I wish you would tell me what happened," I said to Elspeth. "So I will," she answered, "if Waster Lunny would haud his wheesht for a minute. You see the afternoon diet began in the ordinary way, and a' was richt until we came to the sermon. 'You will find my text,' he says, in his piercing voice, 'in the eighth chapter of Ezra.'" "And at thae words," said Waster Lunny, "my heart gae a loup, for Ezra is an unca ill book to find; ay, and so is Ruth." "I kent the books o' the Bible by heart," said Elspeth, scornfully, "when I was a sax year auld." "So did I," said Waster Lunny, "and I ken them yet, except when I'm hurried. When Mr. Dishart gave out Ezra he a sort o' keeked round the kirk to find out if he had puzzled onybody, and so there was a kind o' a competition among the congregation wha would lay hand on it first. That was what doited me. Ay, there was Ruth when she wasna wanted, but Ezra, dagont, it looked as if Ezra had jumped clean out o' the Bible." "You wasna the only distressed crittur," said his wife. "I was ashamed to see Eppie McLaren looking up the order o' the books at the beginning o' the Bible." "Tibbie Birse was even mair brazen," said the post, "for the sly cuttie opened at Kings and pretended it was Ezra." "None o' thae things would I do," said Waster Lunny," and sal, I dauredna, for Davit Lunan was glowering over my shuther. Ay, you may scrowl at me, Elspeth Proctor, but as far back as I can mind, Ezra has done me. Mony a time afore I start for the kirk I take my Bible to a quiet place and look Ezra up. In the very pew I says canny to mysel', 'Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther, Job,' the which should be a help, but the moment the minister gi'es out that awfu' book, away goes Ezra like the Egyptian." "And you after her," said Elspeth, "like the weavers that wouldna fecht. You make a windmill of your Bible." "Oh, I winna admit I'm beat. Never mind there's queer things in the world forby Ezra. How is cripples aye so puffed up mair than other folk? How does flour-bread aye fall on the buttered side?" "I will mind," Elspeth said, "for I was terrified the minister would admonish you frae the pulpit." "He couldna hae done that, for was he no baffled to find Ezra himsel'?" "Him no find Ezra!" cried Elspeth. "I hae telled you a dozen times he found it as easy as you could yoke a horse." "The thing can be explained in no other way," said her husband, doggedly, "if he was weel and in sound mind." "Maybe the dominie can clear it up," suggested the post, "him being a scholar." "Then tell me what happened," I asked. "Godsake, hae we no telled you?" Birse said. "I thocht we had." "It was a terrible scene," said Elspeth, giving her husband a shove. "As I said, Mr. Dishart gave out Ezra eighth. Weel, I turned it up in a jiffy, and syne looked cautiously to see how Eppie McLaren was getting on. Just at that minute I heard a groan frae the pulpit. It didna stop short o' a groan. Ay, you may be sure I looked quick at the minister, and there I saw a sicht that would hae made the grandest gape. His face was as white as a baker's, and he had a sort of fallen against the back o' the pulpit, staring demented-like at his open Bible." "And I saw him," said Birse, "put up his hand atween him and the Book, as if he thocht it was to jump at him." "Twice," said Elspeth, "he tried to speak, and twice he let the words fall." "That," says Waster Lunny, "the whole congregation admits, but I didna see it mysel', for a' this time you may picture me hunting savage-like for Ezra. I thocht the minister was waiting till I found it." "Hendry Munn," said Birse, "stood upon one leg, wondering whether he should run to the session-house for a glass of water." "But by that time," said Elspeth, "the fit had left Mr. Dishart, or rather it had ta'en a new turn. He grew red, and it's gospel that he stamped his foot." "He had the face of one using bad words," said the post, "He didna swear, of course, but that was the face he had on." "I missed it," said Waster Lunny, "for I was in full cry after Ezra, with the sweat running down my face." "But the most astounding thing has yet to be telled," went on Elspeth. "The minister shook himsel' like one wakening frae a nasty dream, and he cries in a voice of thunder, just as if he was shaking his fist at somebody--" "He cries," Birse interposed, cleverly, "he cries, 'You will find the text in Genesis, chapter three, verse six.'" "Yes," said Elspeth, "first he gave out one text, and then he gave out another, being the most amazing thing to my mind that ever happened in the town of Thrums. What will our children's children think o't? I wouldna hae missed it for a pound note." "Nor me," said Waster Lunny, "though I only got the tail o't. Dominie, no sooner had he said Genesis third and sixth, than I laid my finger on Ezra. Was it no provoking? Onybody can turn up Genesis, but it needs an able-bodied man to find Ezra." "He preached on the Fall," Elspeth said, "for an hour and twenty- five minutes, but powerful though he was I would rather he had telled us what made him gie the go-by to Ezra." "All I can say," said Waster Lunny, "is that I never heard him mair awe-inspiring. Whaur has he got sic a knowledge of women? He riddled them, he fair riddled them, till I was ashamed o' being married." "It's easy kent whaur he got his knowledge of women," Birse explained, "it's a' in the original Hebrew. You can howk ony mortal thing out o' the original Hebrew, the which all ministers hae at their finger ends. What else makes them ken to jump a verse now and then when giving out a psalm?" "It wasna women like me he denounced," Elspeth insisted, "but young lassies that leads men astray wi' their abominable wheedling ways." "Tod," said her husband, "if they try their hands on Mr. Dishart they'll meet their match." "They will," chuckled the post. "The Hebrew's a grand thing, though teuch, I'm telled, michty teuch." "His sublimest burst," Waster Lunny came back to tell me, "was about the beauty o' the soul being everything and the beauty o' the face no worth a snuff. What a scorn he has for bonny faces and toom souls! I dinna deny but what a bonny face fell takes me, but Mr. Dishart wouldna gie a blade o' grass for't. Ay, and I used to think that in their foolishness about women there was dagont little differ atween the unlearned and the highly edicated." The gossip about Gavin brought hitherto to the schoolhouse had been as bread to me, but this I did not like. For a minister to behave thus was as unsettling to us as a change of Government to Londoners, and I decided to give my scholars a holiday on the morrow and tramp into the town for fuller news. But all through the night it snowed, and next day, and then intermittingly for many days, and every fall took the school miles farther away from Thrums. Birse and the crows had now the glen road to themselves, and even Birse had twice or thrice to bed with me. At these times had he not been so interested in describing his progress through the snow, maintaining that the crying want of our glen road was palings for postmen to kick their feet against, he must have wondered why I always turned the talk to the Auld Licht minister. "Ony explanation o' his sudden change o' texts?' Birse said, repeating my question. "Tod, and there is and to spare, for I hear tell there's saxteen explanations in the Tenements alone. As Tammas Haggart says, that's a blessing, for if there had just been twa explanations the kirk micht hae split on them." "Ay," he said at another time, "twa or three even dared to question the minister, but I'm thinking they made nothing o't. The majority agrees that he was just inspired to change his text. But Lang Tammas is dour. Tammas telled the session a queer thing. He says that after the diet o' worship on that eventful afternoon Mr. Dishart carried the Bible out o' the pulpit instead o' leaving that duty as usual to the kirk-officer. Weel, Tammas, being precentor, has a richt, as you ken, to leave the kirk by the session-house door, just like the minister himsel'. He did so that afternoon, and what, think you, did he see? He saw Mr. Dishart tearing a page out o' the Bible, and flinging it savagely into the session-house fire. You dinna credit it? Weel, it's staggering, but there's Hendry Munn's evidence too. Hendry took his first chance o' looking up Ezra in the minister's Bible, and, behold, the page wi' the eighth chapter was gone. Them that thinks Tammas wasna blind wi' excitement hauds it had been Ezra eighth that gaed into the fire. Onyway, there's no doubt about the page's being missing, for whatever excitement Tammas was in, Hendry was as cool as ever." A week later Birse told me that the congregation had decided to regard the incident as adding lustre to their kirk. This was largely, I fear, because it could then be used to belittle the Established minister. That fervent Auld Licht, Snecky Hobart, feeling that Gavin's action was unsound, had gone on the following Sabbath to the parish kirk and sat under Mr. Duthie. But Mr. Duthie was a close reader, so that Snecky flung himself about in his pew in misery. The minister concluded his sermon with these words: "But on this subject I will say no more at present." "Because you canna," Snecky roared, and strutted out of the church. Comparing the two scenes, it is obvious that the Auld Lichts had won a victory. After preaching impromptu for an hour and twenty-five minutes, it could never be said of Gavin that he needed to read. He became more popular than ever. Yet the change of texts was not forgotten. If in the future any other indictments were brought against him, it would certainly be pinned to them. I marvelled long over Gavin's jump from Ezra to Genesis, and at this his first philippic against Woman, but I have known the cause for many a year. The Bible was the one that had lain on the summer-seat while the Egyptian hid there. It was the great pulpit Bible which remains in the church as a rule, but Gavin had taken it home the previous day to make some of its loose pages secure with paste. He had studied from it on the day preceding the riot, but had used a small Bible during the rest of the week. When he turned in the pulpit to Ezra, where he had left the large Bible open in the summer-seat, he found this scrawled across chapter eight:-- "I will never tell who flung the clod at Captain Halliwell. But why did you fling it? I will never tell that you allowed me to be called Mrs. Dishart before witnesses. But is not this a Scotch marriage? Signed, Babbie the Egyptian." CHAPTER XI. TELLS IN A WHISPER OF MAN'S FALL DURING THE CURLING SEASON. No snow could be seen in Thrums by the beginning of the year, though clods of it lay in Waster Lunny's fields, where his hens wandered all day as if looking for something they had dropped. A black frost had set in, and one walking on the glen road could imagine that through the cracks in it he saw a loch glistening. From my door I could hear the roar of curling stones at Rashie- bog, which is almost four miles nearer Thrums. On the day I am recalling, I see that I only made one entry in my diary, "At last bought Waster Lunny's bantams." Well do I remember the transaction, and no wonder, for I had all but bought the bantams every day for a six months. About noon the doctor's dog-cart was observed by all the Tenements standing at the Auld Licht manse. The various surmises were wrong. Margaret had not been suddenly taken ill; Jean had not swallowed a darning-needle; the minister had not walked out at his study window in a moment of sublime thought. Gavin stepped into the dog- cart, which at once drove off in the direction of Rashie-bog, but equally in error were those who said that the doctor was making a curler of him. There was, however, ground for gossip; for Thrums folk seldom called in a doctor until it was too late to cure them, and McQueen was not the man to pay social visits. Of his skill we knew fearsome stories, as that, by looking at Archie Allardyce, who had come to broken bones on a ladder, he discovered which rung Archie fell from. When he entered a stuffy room he would poke his staff through the window to let in fresh air, and then fling down a shilling to pay for the breakage. He was deaf in the right ear, and therefore usually took the left side of prosy people, thus, as he explained, making a blessing of an affliction. "A pity I don't hear better?" I have heard him say. "Not at all. If my misfortune, as you call it, were to be removed, you can't conceive how I should miss my deaf ear." He was a fine fellow, though brusque, and I never saw him without his pipe until two days before we buried him, which was five-and-twenty years ago come Martinmas. "We're all quite weel," Jean said apprehensively as she answered his knock on the manse door, and she tried to be pleasant, too, for well she knew that, if a doctor willed it, she could have fever in five minutes. "Ay, Jean, I'll soon alter that," he replied ferociously. "Is the master in?" "He's at his sermon," Jean said with importance. To interrupt the minister at such a moment seemed sacrilege to her, for her up-bringing had been good. Her mother had once fainted in the church, but though the family's distress was great, they neither bore her out, nor signed to the kirk-officer to bring water. They propped her up in the pew in a respectful attitude, joining in the singing meanwhile, and she recovered in time to look up 2nd Chronicles, 21st and 7th. "Tell him I want to speak to him at the door," said the doctor fiercely, "or I'll bleed you this minute." McQueen would not enter, because his horse might have seized the opportunity to return stablewards. At the houses where it was accustomed to stop, it drew up of its own accord, knowing where the Doctor's "cases" were as well as himself, but it resented new patients. "You like misery, I think, Mr. Dishart," McQueen said when Gavin came to him, "at least I am always finding you in the thick of it, and that is why I am here now. I have a rare job for you if you will jump into the machine. You know Nanny Webster, who lives on the edge of Windyghoul? No, you don't, for she belongs to the other kirk. Well, at all events, you knew her brother, Sanders, the mole-catcher?" "I remember him. You mean the man who boasted so much about seeing a ball at Lord Rintoul's place?" "'The same, and, as you may know, his boasting about maltreating policemen whom he never saw led to his being sentenced to nine months in gaol lately." "That is the man," said Gavin. "I never liked him." "No, but his sister did," McQueen answered, drily, "and with reason, for he was her breadwinner, and now she is starving." "Anything I can give her--" "Would be too little, sir." "But the neighbours--" "She has few near her, and though the Thrums poor help each other bravely, they are at present nigh as needy as herself. Nanny is coming to the poorhouse, Mr. Dishart." "God help her!" exclaimed Gavin. "Nonsense," said the doctor, trying to make himself a hard man. "She will be properly looked after there, and--and in time she will like it." "Don't let my mother hear you speaking of taking an old woman to that place," Gavin said, looking anxiously up the stair. I cannot pretend that Margaret never listened. "You all speak as if the poorhouse was a gaol," the doctor said testily. "But so far as Nanny is concerned, everything is arranged. I promised to drive her to the poorhouse to-day, and she is waiting for me now. Don't look at me as if I was a brute. She is to take some of her things with her to the poorhouse, and the rest is to be left until Sanders's return, when she may rejoin him. At least we said that to her to comfort her." "You want me to go with you?" "Yes, though I warn you it may be a distressing scene; indeed, the truth is that I am loth to face Nanny alone to-day. Mr. Duthie should have accompanied me, for the Websters are Established Kirk; ay, and so he would if Rashie-bog had not been bearing. A terrible snare this curling, Mr. Dishart"--here the doctor sighed--"I have known Mr. Duthie wait until midnight struck on Sabbath and then be off to Rashie-bog with a torch." "I will go with you," Gavin said, putting on his coat. "Jump in then. You won't smoke? I never see a respectable man not smoking, sir, but I feel indignant with him for such sheer waste of time." Gavin smiled at this, and Snecky Hobart, who happened to be keeking over the manse dyke, bore the news to the Tenements. "I'll no sleep the nicht," Snecky said, "for wondering what made the minister lauch. Ay, it would be no trifle." A minister, it is certain, who wore a smile on his face would never have been called to the Auld Licht kirk, for life is a wrestle with the devil, and only the frivolous think to throw him without taking off their coats. Yet, though Gavin's zeal was what the congregation reverenced, many loved him privately for his boyishness. He could unbend at marriages, of which he had six on the last day of the year, and at every one of them he joked (the same joke) like a layman. Some did not approve of his playing at the teetotum for ten minutes with Kitty Dundas's invalid son, but the way Kitty boasted about it would have disgusted anybody. At the present day there are probably a score of Gavins in Thrums, all called after the little minister, and there is one Gavinia, whom he hesitated to christen. He made humorous remarks (the same remark) about all these children, and his smile as he patted their heads was for thinking over when one's work was done for the day. The doctor's horse clattered up the Backwynd noisily, as if a minister behind made no difference to it. Instead of climbing the Roods, however, the nearest way to Nanny's, it went westward, which Gavin, in a reverie, did not notice. The truth must be told. The Egyptian was again in his head. "Have I fallen deaf in the left ear, too?" said the doctor. "I see your lips moving, but I don't catch a syllable." Gavin started, coloured, and flung the gypsy out of the trap. "Why are we not going up the Roods?" he asked. "Well," said the doctor slowly, "at the top of the Roods there is a stance for circuses, and this old beast of mine won't pass it. You know, unless you are behind in the clashes and clavers of Thrums, that I bought her from the manager of a travelling show. She was the horse ('Lightning' they called her) that galloped round the ring at a mile an hour, and so at the top of the Roods she is still unmanageable. She once dragged me to the scene of her former triumphs, and went revolving round it, dragging the machine after her." "If you had not explained that," said Gavin, "I might have thought that you wanted to pass by Rashie-bog." The doctor, indeed, was already standing up to catch a first glimpse of the curlers. "Well," he admitted, "I might have managed to pass the circus ring, though what I have told you is true. However, I have not come this way merely to see how the match is going. I want to shame Mr. Duthie for neglecting his duty. It will help me to do mine, for the Lord knows I am finding it hard, with the music of these stones in my ears." "I never saw it played before," Gavin said, standing up in his turn. "What a din they make! McQueen, I believe they are fighting!" "No, no," said the excited doctor, "they are just a bit daft. That's the proper spirit for the game. Look, that's the baron- bailie near standing on his head, and there's Mr. Duthie off his head a' thegither. Yon's twa weavers and a mason cursing the laird, and the man wi' the besom is the Master of Crumnathie." "A democracy, at all events," said Gavin. "By no means," said the doctor, "it's an aristocracy of intellect. Gee up, Lightning, or the frost will be gone before we are there." "It is my opinion, doctor," said Gavin, "that you will have bones to set before that game is finished. I can see nothing but legs now." "Don't say a word against curling, sir, to me," said McQueen, whom the sight of a game in which he must not play had turned crusty. "Dangerous! It's the best medicine I know of. Look at that man coming across the field. It is Jo Strachan. Well, sir, curling saved Jo's life after I had given him up. You don't believe me? Hie, Jo, Jo Strachan, come here and tell the minister how curling put you on your legs again." Strachan came forward, a tough, little, wizened man, with red flannel round his ears to keep out the cold. "It's gospel what the doctor says, Mr. Dishart," he declared. "Me and my brither Sandy was baith ill, and in the same bed, and the doctor had hopes o' Sandy, but nane o' me. Ay, weel, when I heard that, I thocht I micht as weel die on the ice as in my bed, so I up and on wi' my claethes. Sandy was mad at me, for he was no curler, and he says, 'Jo Strachan, if you gang to Rashie-bog you'll assuredly be brocht hame a corp.' I didna heed him, though, and off I gaed." "And I see you did not die," said Gavin. "Not me," answered the fish cadger, with a grin. "Na, but the joke o't is, it was Sandy that died." "Not the joke, Jo," corrected the doctor, "the moral." "Ay, the moral; I'm aye forgetting the word." McQueen, enjoying Gavin's discomfiture, turned Lightning down the Rashie-bog road, which would be impassable as soon as the thaw came. In summer Rashie-bog is several fields in which a cart does not sink unless it stands still, but in winter it is a loch with here and there a spring where dead men are said to lie, There are no rushes at its east end, and here the dog-cart drew up near the curlers, a crowd of men dancing, screaming, shaking their fists and sweeping, while half a hundred onlookers got in their way, gesticulating and advising. "Hold me tight," the doctor whispered to Gavin, "or I'll be leaving you to drive Nanny to the poorhouse by yourself." He had no sooner said this than he tried to jump out of the trap. "You donnert fule, John Robbie," he shouted to a player, "soop her up, man, soop her up; no, no, dinna, dinna; leave her alane. Bailie, leave her alane, you blazing idiot. Mr. Dishart, let me go; what do you mean, sir, by hanging on to my coat tails? Dang it all, Duthie's winning. He has it, he has it!" "You're to play, doctor?" some cried, running to the dog-cart. "We hae missed you sair." "Jeames, I--I--. No, I daurna." "Then we get our licks. I never saw the minister in sic form. We can do nothing against him." "Then," cried McQueen, "I'll play. Come what will, I'll play. Let go my tails, Mr. Dishart, or I'll cut them off. Duty? Fiddlesticks!" "Shame on you, sir," said Gavin; "yes, and on you others who would entice him from his duty." "Shame!" the doctor cried. "Look at Mr. Duthie. Is he ashamed? And yet that man has been reproving me for a twelvemonths because I've refused to become one of his elders. Duthie," he shouted," think shame of yourself for curling this day." Mr. Duthie had carefully turned his back to the trap, for Gavin's presence in it annoyed him. We seldom care to be reminded of our duty by seeing another do it. Now, however, he advanced to the dog-cart, taking the far side of Gavin. "Put on your coat, Mr. Duthie," said the doctor, "and come with me to Nanny Webster's. You promised." Mr. Duthie looked quizzically at Gavin, and then at the sky. "The thaw may come at any moment," he said. "I think the frost is to hold," said Gavin. "It may hold over to-morrow," Mr. Duthie admitted; "but to- morrow's the Sabbath, and so a lost day." "A what?" exclaimed Gavin, horrified. "I only mean," Mr. Duthie answered, colouring, "that we can't curl on the Lord's day. As for what it may be like on Monday, no one can say. No, doctor, I won't risk it. We're in the middle of a game, man." Gavin looked very grave. "I see what you are thinking, Mr. Dishart," the old minister said doggedly; "but then, you don't curl. You are very wise. I have forbidden my sons to curl." "Then you openly snap your fingers at your duty, Mr. Duthie?" said the doctor, loftily. ("You can let go my tails now, Mr. Dishart, for the madness has passed.") "None of your virtuous airs, McQueen," said Mr. Duthie, hotly. "What was the name of the doctor that warned women never to have bairns while it was hauding?" "And what," retorted McQueen, "was the name of the minister that told his session he would neither preach nor pray while the black frost lasted?" "Hoots, doctor," said Duthie, "don't lose your temper because I'm in such form." "Don't lose yours, Duthie, because I aye beat you." "You beat me, McQueen! Go home, sir, and don't talk havers. Who beat you at--" "Who made you sing small at--" "Who won--" "Who--" "Who--" "I'll play you on Monday for whatever you like!" shrieked the doctor. "If it holds," cried the minister, "I'll be here the whole day. Name the stakes yourself. A stone?" "No," the doctor said, "but I'll tell you what we'll play for. You've been dinging me doited about that eldership, and we'll play for't. If you win I accept office." "Done," said the minister, recklessly. The dog-cart was now turned toward Windyghoul, its driver once more good-humoured, but Gavin silent. "You would have been the better of my deaf ear just now, Mr. Dishart," McQueen said after the loch had been left behind. "Aye, and I'm thinking my pipe would soothe you. But don't take it so much to heart, man. I'll lick him easily. He's a decent man, the minister, but vain of his play, ridiculously vain. However, I think the sight of you, in the place that should have been his, has broken his nerve for this day, and our side may win yet." "I believe," Gavin said, with sudden enlightenment, "that you brought me here for that purpose." "Maybe," chuckled the doctor; "maybe." Then he changed the subject suddenly. "Mr. Dishart," he asked, "were you ever in love?" "Never!" answered Gavin violently. "Well, well," said the doctor, "don't terrify the horse. I have been in love myself. It's bad, but it's nothing to curling." CHAPTER XII. TRAGEDY OF A MUD HOUSE. THE dog-cart bumped between the trees of Caddam, flinging Gavin and the doctor at each other as a wheel rose on some beech-root or sank for a moment in a pool. I suppose the wood was a pretty sight that day, the pines only white where they had met the snow, as if the numbed painter had left his work unfinished, the brittle twigs snapping overhead, the water as black as tar. But it matters little what the wood was like. Within a squirrel's leap of it an old woman was standing at the door of a mud house listening for the approach of the trap that was to take her to the poorhouse. Can you think of the beauty of the day now? Nanny was not crying. She had redd up her house for the last time and put on her black merino. Her mouth was wide open while she listened. If yon had, addressed her you would have thought her polite and stupid. Look at her. A flabby-faced woman she is now, with a swollen body, and no one has heeded her much these thirty years. I can tell you something; it is almost droll. Nanny Webster was once a gay flirt, and in Airlie Square there is a weaver with an unsteady head who thought all the earth of her. His loom has taken a foot from his stature, and gone are Nanny's raven locks on which he used to place his adoring hand. Down in Airlie Square he is weaving for his life, and here is Nanny, ripe for the poorhouse, and between them is the hill where they were lovers. That is all the story save that when Nanny heard the dog-cart she screamed. No neighbour was with her. If you think this hard, it is because you do not understand. Perhaps Nanny had never been very lovable except to one man, and him, it is said, she lost through her own vanity; but there was much in her to like. The neighbours, of whom there were two not a hundred yards away, would have been with her now but they feared to hurt her feelings. No heart opens to sympathy without letting in delicacy, and these poor people knew that Nanny would not like them to see her being taken away. For a week they had been aware of what was coming, and they had been most kind to her, but that hideous word, the poorhouse, they had not uttered. Poorhouse is not to be spoken in Thrums, though it is nothing to tell a man that you see death in his face. Did Nanny think they knew where she was going? was a question they whispered to each other, and her suffering eyes cut scars on their hearts. So now that the hour had come they called their children into their houses and pulled down their blinds. "If you would like to see her by yourself," the doctor said eagerly to Gavin, as the horse drew up at Nanny's gate, "I'll wait with the horse. Not," he added, hastily, "that I feel sorry for her. We are doing her a kindness." They dismounted together, however, and Nanny, who had run from the trap into the house, watched them from her window. McQueen saw her and said glumly, "I should have come alone, for if you pray she is sure to break down. Mr. Dishart, could you not pray cheerfully?" "You don't look very cheerful yourself," Gavin said sadly. "Nonsense," answered the doctor. "I have no patience with this false sentiment. Stand still, Lightning, and be thankful you are not your master today." The door stood open, and Nanny was crouching against the opposite wall of the room, such a poor, dull kitchen, that you would have thought the furniture had still to be brought into it. The blanket and the piece of old carpet that was Nanny's coverlet were already packed in her box. The plate rack was empty. Only the round table and the two chairs, and the stools and some pans were being left behind. "Well, Nanny," the doctor said, trying to bluster, "I have come, and you see Mr. Dishart is with me." Nanny rose bravely. She knew the doctor was good to her, and she wanted to thank him. I have not seen a great deal of the world myself, but often the sweet politeness of the aged poor has struck me as beautiful. Nanny dropped a curtesy, an ungainly one maybe, but it was an old woman giving the best she had. "Thank you kindly, sirs," she said; and then two pairs of eyes dropped before hers. "Please to take a chair," she added timidly. It is strange to know that at that awful moment, for let none tell me it was less than awful, the old woman was the one who could speak. Both men sat down, for they would have hurt Nanny by remaining standing. Some ministers would have known the right thing to say to her, but Gavin dared not let himself speak. I have again to remind you that he was only one-and-twenty. "I'm drouthy, Nanny," the doctor said, to give her something to do, "and I would be obliged for a drink of water." Nanny hastened to the pan that stood behind her door, but stopped before she reached it. "It's toom," she said. "I--I didna think I needed to fill it this morning." She caught the doctor's eye, and could only half restrain a sob._ "I couldna help that," she said, apologetically. "I'm richt angry at myself for being so ungrateful like." The doctor thought it best that they should depart at once. He rose. "Oh, no, doctor," cried Nanny in alarm. "But you are ready?" "Ay," she said, "I have been ready this twa hours, but you micht wait a minute. Hendry Munn and Andrew Allardyce is coming yont the road, and they would see me." "Wait, doctor," Gavin said. "Thank you kindly, sir," answered Nanny. "But Nanny," the doctor said, "you must remember what I told you about the poo--, about the place you are going to. It is a fine house, and you will be very happy in it." "Ay, I'll be happy in't," Nanny faltered, "but, doctor, if I could just hae bidden on here though I wasna happy!" "Think of the food you will get: broth nearly every day." "It--it'll be terrible enjoyable," Nanny said. "And there will be pleasant company for you always," continued the doctor, "and a nice room to sit in. Why, after you have been there a week, you won't be the same woman." "That's it!" cried Nanny with sudden passion. "Na, na; I'll be a woman on the poor's rates. Oh, mither, mither, you little thocht when you bore me that I would come to this!" "Nanny," the doctor said, rising again, "I am ashamed of you." "I humbly speir your forgiveness, sir," she said, "and you micht bide just a wee yet. I've been ready to gang these twa hours, but now that the machine is at the gate, I dinna ken how it is, but I'm terrible sweer to come awa'. Oh, Mr. Dishart, it's richt true what the doctor says about the--the place, but I canna just take it in. I'm--I'm gey auld." "You will often get out to see your friends," was all Gavin could say. "Na, na, na," she cried, "dinna say that; I'll gang, but you mauna bid me ever come out, except in a hearse. Dinna let onybody in Thrums look on my face again." "We must go," said the doctor firmly. "Put on your mutch, Nanny." "I dinna need to put on a mutch," she answered, with a faint flush of pride. "I have a bonnet." She took the bonnet from her bed, and put it on slowly. "Are you sure there's naebody looking?" she asked. The doctor glanced at the minister, and Gavin rose. "Let us pray," he said, and the three went down on their knees. It was not the custom of Auld Licht ministers to leave any house without offering up a prayer in it, and to us it always seemed that when Gavin prayed, he was at the knees of God. The little minister pouring himself out in prayer in a humble room, with awed people around him who knew much more of the world than he, his voice at times thick and again a squeal, and his hands clasped not gracefully, may have been only a comic figure, but we were old- fashioned, and he seemed to make us better men. If I only knew the way, I would draw him as he was, and not fear to make him too mean a man for you to read about. He had not been long in Thrums before he knew that we talked much of his prayers, and that doubtless puffed him up a little. Sometimes, I daresay, he rose from his knees feeling that he had prayed well to-day, which is a dreadful charge to bring against anyone. But it was not always so, nor was it so now. I am not speaking harshly of this man, whom I have loved beyond all others, when I say that Nanny came between him and his prayer. Had he been of God's own image, unstained, he would have forgotten all else in his Maker's presence, but Nanny was speaking too, and her words choked his. At first she only whispered, but soon what was eating her heart burst out painfully, and she did not know that the minister had stopped. They were such moans as these that brought him back to earth:-- "I'll hae to gang... I'm a base woman no' to be mair thankfu' to them that is so good to me... I dinna like to prig wi' them to take a roundabout road, and I'm sair fleid a' the Roods will see me... If it could just be said to poor Sanders when he comes back that I died hurriedly, syne he would be able to haud up his head ... Oh, mither! ... I wish terrible they had come and ta'en me at nicht... It's a dog-cart, and I was praying it micht be a cart, so that they could cover me wi' straw." "This is more than I can stand," the doctor cried. Nanny rose frightened. "I've tried you, sair," she said, "but, oh, I'm grateful, and I'm ready now." They all advanced toward the door without another word, and Nanny even tried to smile. But in the middle of the floor something came over her, and she stood there. Gavin took her hand, and it was cold. She looked from one to the other, her mouth opening and shutting. "I canna help it," she said. "It's cruel hard," muttered the doctor. "I knew this woman when she was a lassie." The little minister stretched out his hands. "Have pity on her, O God!" he prayed, with the presumptuousness of youth. Nanny heard the words. "Oh, God," she cried, "you micht!" God needs no minister to tell Him what to do, but it was His will that the poorhouse should not have this woman. He made use of a strange instrument, no other than the Egyptian, who now opened the mud-house door. CHAPTER XIII. SECOND COMING OF THE EGYPTIAN WOMAN. The gypsy had been passing the house, perhaps on her way to Thrums for gossip, and it was only curiosity, born suddenly of Gavin's cry, that made her enter. On finding herself in unexpected company she retained hold of the door, and to the amazed minister she seemed for a moment to have stepped into the mud house from his garden. Her eyes danced, however, as they recognised him, and then he hardened. "This is no place for you," he was saying fiercely, when Nanny, too distraught to think, fell crying at the Egyptian's feet. "They are taking me to the poorhouse," she sobbed; "dinna let them, dinna let them." The Egyptian's arms clasped her, and the Egyptian kissed a sallow cheek that had once been as fair as yours, madam, who may read this story. No one had caressed Nanny for many years, but do you think she was too poor and old to care for these young arms around her neck? There are those who say that women cannot love each other, but it is not true. Woman is not undeveloped man, but something better, and Gavin and the doctor knew it as they saw Nanny clinging to her protector. When the gypsy turned with flashing eyes to the two men she might have been a mother guarding her child. "How dare you!" she cried, stamping her foot; and they quaked like malefactors. "You don't see--" Gavin began, but her indignation stopped him. "You coward!" she said. Even the doctor had been impressed, so that he now addressed the gypsy respectfully. "This is all very well," he said, "but a woman's sympathy--" "A woman!--ah, if I could be a man for only five minutes!" She clenched her little fists, and again turned to Nanny. "You poor dear," she said tenderly, "I won't let them take you away." She looked triumphantly at both minister and doctor, as one who had foiled them in their cruel designs. "Go!" she said, pointing grandly to the door. "Is this the Egyptian of the riots," the doctor said in a low voice to Gavin, "or is she a queen? Hoots, man, don't look so shamefaced. We are not criminals. Say something." Then to the Egyptian Gavin said firmly-- "You mean well, but you are doing this poor woman a cruelty in holding out hopes to her that cannot be realised. Sympathy is not meal and bedclothes, and these are what she needs." "And you who live in luxury," retorted the girl, "would send her to the poorhouse for them. I thought better of you!" "Tuts!" said the doctor, losing patience, "Mr. Dishart gives more than any other man in Thrums to the poor, and he is not to be preached to by a gypsy. We are waiting for you, Nanny." "Ay, I'm coming," said Nanny, leaving the Egyptian. "I'll hae to gang, lassie. Dinna greet for me." But the Egyptian said, "No, you are not going. It is these men who are going. Go, sirs, and leave us." "And you will provide for Nanny?" asked the doctor contemptuously. "Yes." "And where is the siller to come from?" "That is my affair, and Nanny's. Begone, both of you. She shall never want again. See how the very mention of your going brings back life to her face." "I won't begone," the doctor said roughly, "till I see the colour of your siller." "Oh, the money," said the Egyptian scornfully. She put her hand into her pocket confidently, as if used to well-filled purses, but could only draw out two silver pieces. "I had forgotten," she said aloud, though speaking to herself. "I thought so," said the cynical doctor. "Come, Nanny." "You presume to doubt me!" the Egyptian said, blocking his way to the door. "How could I presume to believe you?" he answered. "You are a beggar by profession, and yet talk as if--pooh, nonsense." "I would live on terrible little," Nanny whispered, "and Sanders will be out again in August month." "Seven shillings a week," rapped out the doctor. "Is that all?" the Egyptian asked. "She shall have it." "When?" "At once. No, it is not possible to-night, but to-morrow I will bring five pounds; no, I will send it; no, you must come for it." "And where, O daughter of Dives, do you reside?" the doctor asked. No doubt the Egyptian could have found a ready answer had her pity for Nanny been less sincere; as it was, she hesitated, wanting to propitiate the doctor, while holding her secret fast. "I only asked," McQueen said, eyeing her curiously, "because when I make an appointment I like to know where it is to be held. But I suppose you are suddenly to rise out of the ground as you have done to-day, and did six weeks ago." "Whether I rise out of the ground or not," the gypsy said, keeping her temper with an effort, "there will be a five-pound note in my hand. You will meet me tomorrow about this hour at--say the Kaims of Cushie?" "No," said the doctor after a moment's pause; "I won't. Even if I went to the Kaims I should not find you there. Why can you not come to me?" "Why do you carry a woman's hair," replied the Egyptian, "in that locket on your chain?" Whether she was speaking of what she knew, or this was only a chance shot, I cannot tell, but the doctor stepped back from her hastily, and could not help looking down at the locket. "Yes," said the Egyptian calmly, "it is still shut; but why do you sometimes open it at nights?" "Lassie," the old doctor cried, "are you a witch?" "Perhaps," she said; "but I ask for no answer to my questions. If you have your secrets, why may I not have mine? Now will you meet me at the Kaims?" "No; I distrust you more than ever. Even if you came, it would be to play with me as you have done already. How can a vagrant have five pounds in her pocket when she does not have five shillings on her back?" "You are a cruel, hard man," the Egyptian said, beginning to lose hope. "But, see," she cried, brightening, "look at this ring. Do you know its value?" She held up her finger, but the stone would not live in the dull light. "I see it is gold," the doctor said cautiously, and she smiled at the ignorance that made him look only at the frame. "Certainly, it is gold," said Gavin, equally stupid. "Mercy on us!" Nanny cried; "I believe it's what they call a diamond." "How did you come by it?" the doctor asked suspiciously. "I thought we had agreed not to ask each other questions," the Egyptian answered drily. "But, see, I will give it to you to hold in hostage. If I am not at the Kaims to get it back you can keep it." The doctor took the ring in his hand and examined it curiously. "There is a quirk in this," he said at last, "that I don't like. Take back your ring, lassie. Mr. Dishart, give Nanny your arm, and I'll carry her box to the machine." Now all this time Gavin had been in the dire distress of a man possessed of two minds, of which one said, "This is a true woman," and the other, "Remember the seventeenth of October." They were at war within him, and he knew that he must take a side, yet no sooner had he cast one out than he invited it back. He did not answer the doctor. "Unless," McQueen said, nettled by his hesitation, "you trust this woman's word." Gavin tried honestly to weigh those two minds against each other, but could not prevent impulse jumping into one of the scales. "You do trust me," the Egyptian said, with wet eyes; and now that he looked on her again-- "Yes," he said firmly, "I trust you," and the words that had been so difficult to say were the right words. He had no more doubt of it. "Just think a moment first," the doctor warned him. "I decline to have anything to do with this matter. You will go to the Kaims for the siller?" "If it is necessary," said Gavin. "It is necessary," the Egyptian said. "Then I will go." Nanny took his hand timidly, and would have kissed it had he been less than a minister. "You dare not, man," the doctor said gruffly, "make an appointment with this gypsy. Think of what will be said in Thrums." I honour Gavin for the way in which he took this warning. For him, who was watched from the rising of his congregation to their lying down, whose every movement was expected to be a text to Thrums, it was no small thing that he had promised. This he knew, but he only reddened because the doctor had implied an offensive thing in a woman's presence, "You forget yourself, doctor," he said sharply. "Send some one in your place," advised the doctor, who liked the little minister. "He must come himself and alone," said the Egyptian. "You must both give me your promise not to mention who is Nanny's friend, and she must promise too." "Well," said the doctor, buttoning up his coat, "I cannot keep my horse freezing any longer. Remember, Mr. Dishart, you take the sole responsibility of this." "I do," said Gavin, "and with the utmost confidence." "Give him the ring then, lassie," said McQueen. She handed the minister the ring, but he would not take it. "I have your word," he said; "that is sufficient." Then the Egyptian gave him the first look that he could think of afterwards without misgivings. "So be it," said the doctor. "Get the money, and I will say nothing about it, unless I have reason to think that it has been dishonestly come by. Don't look so frightened at me, Nanny. I hope for your sake that her stocking-foot is full of gold." "Surely it's worth risking," Nanny said, not very brightly, "when the minister's on her side." "Ay, but on whose side, Nanny?" asked the doctor. "Lassie, I bear you no grudge; will you not tell me who you are?" "Only a puir gypsy, your honour," said the girl, becoming mischievous now that she had gained her point; "only a wandering hallen-shaker, and will I tell you your fortune, my pretty gentleman?" "No, you shan't," replied the doctor, plunging his hands so hastily into his pockets that Gavin laughed. "I don't need to look at your hand," said the gypsy, "I can read your fortune in your face." She looked at him fixedly, so that he fidgeted. "I see you," said the Egyptian in a sepulchral voice, and speaking slowly, "become very frail. Your eyesight has almost gone. You are sitting alone in a cauld room, cooking your ain dinner ower a feeble fire. The soot is falling down the lum. Your bearish manners towards women have driven the servant lassie frae your house, and your wife beats you." "Ay, you spoil your prophecy there," the doctor said, considerably relieved, "for I'm not married; my pipe's the only wife I ever had." "You will be married by that time," continued the Egyptian, frowning at this interruption, "for I see your wife. She is a shrew. She marries you in your dotage. She lauchs at you in company. She doesna allow you to smoke." "Away with you, you jade," cried the doctor in a fury, and feeling nervously for his pipe, "Mr. Dishart, you had better stay and arrange this matter as you choose, but I want a word with you outside." "And you're no angry wi' me, doctor, are you?" asked Nanny wistfully. "You've been richt good to me, but I canna thole the thocht o' that place. And, oh, doctor, you winna tell naebody that I was so near taen to it?" In the garden McQueen said to Gavin:-- "You may be right, Mr. Dishart, in this matter, for there is this in our favour, that the woman can gain nothing by tricking us. She did seem to feel for Nanny. But who can she be? You saw she could put on and off the Scotch tongue as easily as if it were a cap." "She is as much a mystery to me as to you," Gavin answered, "but she will give me the money, and that is all I ask of her." "Ay, that remains to be seen. But take care of yourself; a man's second childhood begins when a woman gets hold of him." "Don't alarm yourself about me, doctor. I daresay she is only one of those gypsies from the South. They are said to be wealthy, many of them, and even, when they like, to have a grand manner. The Thrums people had no doubt but that she was what she seemed to be." "Ay, but what does she seem to be? Even that puzzles me. And then there is this mystery about her which she admits herself, though perhaps only to play with us." "Perhaps," said Gavin, "she is only taking precautions against her discovery by the police. You must remember her part in the riots." "Yes, but we never learned how she was able to play that part. Besides, there is no fear in her, or she would not have ventured back to Thrums. However, good luck attend you. But be wary. You saw how she kept her feet among her shalls and wills? Never trust a Scotch man or woman who does not come to grief among them." The doctor took his seat in the dog-cart. "And, Mr. Dishart," he called out, "that was all nonsense about the locket." CHAPTER XIV. THE MINISTER DANCES TO THE WOMAN'S PIPING. Gavin let the doctor's warnings fall in the grass. In his joy over Nanny's deliverance he jumped the garden gate, whose hinges were of yarn, and cleverly caught his hat as it was leaving his head in protest. He then re-entered the mud house staidly. Pleasant was the change. Nanny's home was as a clock that had been run out, and is set going again. Already the old woman was unpacking her box, to increase the distance between herself and the poorhouse. But Gavin only saw her in the background, for the Egyptian, singing at her work, had become the heart of the house. She had flung her shawl over Nanny's shoulders, and was at the fireplace breaking peats with the leg of a stool. She turned merrily to the minister to ask him to chop up his staff for firewood, and he would have answered wittily but could not. Then, as often, the beauty of the Egyptian surprised him into silence. I could never get used to her face myself in the after-days. It has always held me wondering, like my own Glen Quharity on a summer day, when the sun is lingering and the clouds are on the march, and the glen is never the same for two minutes, but always so beautiful as to make me sad. Never will I attempt to picture the Egyptian as she seemed to Gavin while she bent over Nanny's fire, never will I describe my glen. Yet a hundred times have I hankered after trying to picture both. An older minister, believing that Nanny's anguish was ended, might have gone on his knees and finished the interrupted prayer, but now Gavin was only doing this girl's bidding. "Nanny and I are to have a dish of tea, as soon as we have set things to rights," she told him, "Do you think we should invite the minister, Nanny?" "We couldna dare," Nanny answered quickly, "You'll excuse her, Mr. Dishart, for the presumption?" "Presumption!" said the Egyptian, making a face. "Lassie," Nanny said, fearful to offend her new friend, yet horrified at this affront to the minister, "I ken you mean weel, but Mr. Dishart'll think you're putting yoursel' on an equality wi' him." She added in a whisper, "Dinna be so free; he's the Auld Licht minister." The gypsy bowed with mock awe, but Gavin let it pass. He had, indeed, forgotten that he was anybody in particular, and was anxious to stay to tea. "But there is no water," he remembered, "and is there any tea?" "I am going out for them and for some other things," the Egyptian explained. "But no," she continued, reflectively, "if I go for the tea, you must go for the water." "Lassie," cried Nanny, "mind wha you're speaking to. To send a minister to the well!" "I will go," said Gavin, recklessly lifting the pitcher. "The well is in the wood, I think?" "Gie me the pitcher, Mr. Dishart," said Nanny, in distress. "What a town there would be if you was seen wi't!" "Then he must remain here and keep the house till we come back," said the Egyptian, and thereupon departed, with a friendly wave of her hand to the minister. "She's an awfu' lassie," Nanny said, apologetically, "but it'll just be the way she has been brought up." "She has been very good to you, Nanny." "She has; leastwise, she promises to be. Mr. Dishart, she's awa'; what if she doesna come back?" Nanny spoke nervously, and Gavin drew a long face. "I think she will," he said faintly. "I am confident of it," he added in the same voice. "And has she the siller?" "I believe in her," said Gavin, so doggedly that his own words reassured him. "She has an excellent heart." "Ay," said Nanny, to whom the minister's faith was more than the Egyptian's promise, "and that's hardly natural in a gaen-aboot body. Yet a gypsy she maun be, for naebody would pretend to be ane that wasna. Tod, she proved she was an Egyptian by dauring to send you to the well." This conclusive argument brought her prospective dower so close to Nanny's eyes that it hid the poorhouse. "I suppose she'll gie you the money," she said, "and syne you'll gie me the seven shillings a week?" "That seems the best plan," Gavin answered. "And what will you gie it me in?" Nanny asked, with something on her mind. "I would be terrible obliged if you gae it to me in saxpences." "Do the smaller coins go farther?" Gavin asked, curiously. "Na, it's no that. But I've heard tell o' folk giving away half- crowns by mistake for twa-shilling bits; ay, and there's something dizzying in ha'en fower-and-twenty pennies In one piece; it has sic terrible little bulk. Sanders had aince a gold sovereign, and he looked at it so often that it seemed to grow smaller and smaller in his hand till he was feared it micht just be a half after all." Her mind relieved on this matter, the old woman set off for the well. A minute afterwards Gavin went to the door to look for the gypsy, and, behold, Nanny was no further than the gate. Have you who read ever been sick near to death, and then so far recovered that you could once again stand at your window? If so, you have not forgotten how the beauty of the world struck you afresh, so that you looked long and said many times, "How fair a world it is!" like one who had made a discovery. It was such a look that Nanny gave to the hill and Caddam while she stood at her garden gate. Gavin returned to the fire and watched a girl in it in an officer's cloak playing at hide and seek with soldiers. After a time he sighed, then looked round sharply to see who had sighed, then, absent-mindedly, lifted the empty kettle and placed it on the glowing peats. He was standing glaring at the kettle, his arms folded, when Nanny returned from the well. "I've been thinking," she said, "o' something that proves the lassie to be just an Egyptian. Ay, I noticed she wasna nane awed when I said you was the Auld Licht minister. Weel, I'se uphaud that came frae her living ower muckle in the open air. Is there no' a smell o' burning in the house?" "I have noticed it," Gavin answered, sniffing, "since you came in. I was busy until then, putting on the kettle. The smell is becoming worse." Nanny had seen the empty kettle on the fire as he began to speak, and so solved the mystery. Her first thought was to snatch the kettle out of the blaze, but remembering who had put it there, she dared not. She sidled toward the hearth instead, and saying craftily, "Ay, here it is; it's a clout among the peats," softly laid the kettle on the earthen floor. It was still red with sparks, however, when the gypsy reappeared. "Who burned the kettle?" she asked, ignoring Nanny's signs. "Lassie," Nanny said, "it was me;" but Gavin, flushing, confessed his guilt. "Oh, you stupid!" exclaimed the Egyptian, shaking her two ounces of tea (which then cost six shillings the pound) in his face. At this Nanny wrung her hands, crying, "That's waur than swearing." "If men," said the gypsy, severely, "would keep their hands in their pockets all day, the world's affairs would be more easily managed." "Wheesht!" cried Nanny, "if Mr. Dishart cared to set his mind to it, he could make the kettle boil quicker than you or me. But his thochts is on higher things." "No higher than this," retorted the gypsy, holding her hand level with her brow. "Confess, Mr. Dishart, that this is the exact height of what you were thinking about. See, Nanny, he is blushing as if I meant that he had been thinking about me. He cannot answer, Nanny: we have found him out." "And kindly of him it is no to answer," said Nanny, who had been examining the gypsy's various purchases; "for what could he answer, except that he would need to be sure o' living a thousand years afore he could spare five minutes on you or me? Of course it would be different if we sat under him." "And yet," said the Egyptian, with great solemnity, "he is to drink tea at that very table. I hope you are sensible of the honour, Nanny." "Am I no?" said Nanny, whose education had not included sarcasm. "I'm trying to keep frae thinking o't till he's gone, in case I should let the teapot fall." "You have nothing to thank me for, Nanny," said Gavin, "but much for which to thank this--this--" "This haggarty-taggarty Egyptian," suggested the girl. Then, looking at Gavin curiously, she said, "But my name is Babbie." "That's short for Barbara," said Nanny; "but Babbie what?" "Yes, Babbie Watt," replied the gypsy, as if one name were as good as another. "Weel, men, lift the lid off the kettle, Babbie," said Nanny, "for it's boiling ower." Gavin looked at Nanny with admiration and envy, for she had said Babbie as coolly as if it was the name of a pepper-box. Babbie tucked up her sleeves to wash Nanny's cups and saucers, which even in the most prosperous days of the mud house had only been in use once a week, and Gavin was so eager to help that he bumped his head on the plate-rack. "Sit there," said Babbie, authoritatively, pointing, with a cup in her hand, to a stool, "and don't rise till I give you permission. " To Nanny's amazement, he did as he was bid. "I got the things in the little shop you told me of," the Egyptian continued, addressing the mistress of the house, "but the horrid man would not give them to me until he had seen my money." "Enoch would be suspicious o' you," Nanny explained, "you being an Egyptian." "Ah," said Babbie, with a side-glance at the minister, "I am only an Egyptian. Is that why you dislike me, Mr. Dishart?" Gavin hesitated foolishly over his answer, and the Egyptian, with a towel round her waist, made a pretty gesture of despair. "He neither likes you nor dislikes you," Nanny explained; "you forget he's a minister." "That is what I cannot endure," said Babbie, putting the towel to her eyes, "to be neither liked nor disliked. Please hate me, Mr. Dishart, if you cannot lo--ove me." Her face was behind the towel, and Gavin could not decide whether it was the face or the towel that shook with agitation. He gave Nanny a look that asked, "Is she really crying?" and Nanny telegraphed back, "I question it." "Come, come," said the minister, gallantly, "I did not say that I disliked you." Even this desperate compliment had not the desired effect, for the gypsy continued to sob behind her screen. "I can honestly say," went on Gavin, as solemnly as if he were making a statement in a court of justice, "that I like you." Then the Egyptian let drop her towel, and replied with equal solemnity: "Oh, tank oo! Nanny, the minister says me is a dood 'ittle dirl." "He didna gang that length," said Nanny, sharply, to cover Gavin's confusion. "Set the things, Babbie, and I'll make the tea." The Egyptian obeyed demurely, pretending to wipe her eyes every time Gavin looked at her. He frowned at this, and then she affected to be too overcome to go on with her work. "Tell me, Nanny," she asked presently, "what sort of man this Enoch is, from whom I bought the things?" "He is not very regular, I fear," answered Gavin, who felt that he had sat silent and self-conscious on his stool too long. "Do you mean that he drinks?" asked Babbie. "No, I mean regular in his attendance." The Egyptian's face showed no enlightenment. "His attendance at church," Gavin explained. "He's far frae it," said Nanny, "and as a body kens, Joe Cruickshanks, the atheist, has the wite o' that. The scoundrel telled Enoch that the great ministers in Edinbury and London believed in no hell except sic as your ain conscience made for you, and ever since syne Enoch has been careless about the future state." "Ah," said Babbie, waving the Church aside, "what I want to know is whether he is a single man." "He is not," Gavin replied; "but why do you want to know that?" "Because single men are such gossips. I am sorry he is not single, as I want him to repeat to everybody what I told him." "Trust him to tell Susy," said Nanny, "and Susy to tell the town." "His wife is a gossip?" "Ay, she's aye tonguing, especially about her teeth. They're folk wi' siller, and she has a set o' false teeth. It's fair scumfishing to hear her blawing about thae teeth, she's so fleid we dinna ken that they're false." Nanny had spoken jealously, but suddenly she trembled with apprehension. "Babbie," she cried, "you didna speak about the poorhouse to Enoch?" The Egyptian shook her head, though of the poorhouse she had been forced to speak, for Enoch, having seen the doctor going home alone, insisted on knowing why. "But I knew," the gypsy said, "that the Thrums people would be very unhappy until they discovered where you get the money I am to give you, and as that is a secret, I hinted to Enoch that your benefactor is Mr. Dishart." "You should not have said that," interposed Gavin. "I cannot foster such a deception." "They will foster it without your help," the Egyptian said. "Besides, if you choose, you can say you get the money from a friend." "Ay, you can say that," Nanny entreated with such eagerness that Babbie remarked a little bitterly: "There is no fear of Nanny's telling any one that the friend is a gypsy girl." "Na, na," agreed Nanny, again losing Babbie's sarcasm. "I winna let on. It's so queer to be befriended by an Egyptian." "It is scarcely respectable," Babbie said. "It's no," answered simple Nanny. I suppose Nanny's unintentional cruelty did hurt Babbie as much as Gavin thought. She winced, and her face had two expressions, the one cynical, the other pained. Her mouth curled as if to tell the minister that gratitude was nothing to her, but her eyes had to struggle to keep back a tear. Gavin was touched, and she saw it, and for a moment they were two people who understood each other. "I, at least," Gavin said in a low voice, "will know who is the benefactress, and think none the worse of her because she is a gypsy." At this Babbie smiled gratefully to him, and then both laughed, for they had heard Nanny remarking to the kettle, "But I wouldna hae been nane angry if she had telled Enoch that the minister was to take his tea here. Susy'll no believe't though I tell her, as tell her I will." To Nanny the table now presented a rich appearance, for besides the teapot there were butter and loaf-bread and cheesies: a biscuit of which only Thrums knows the secret. "Draw in your chair, Mr. Dishart," she said, in suppressed excitement. "Yes," said Babbie, "you take this chair, Mr. Dishart, and Nanny will have that one, and I can sit humbly on the stool." But Nanny held up her hands in horror. "Keep us a'!" she exclaimed; "the lassie thinks her and me is to sit down wi' the minister! We're no to gang that length, Babbie; we're just to stand and serve him, and syne we'll sit down when he has risen." "Delightful!" said Babbie, clapping her hands. "Nanny, you kneel on that side of him, and I will kneel on this. You will hold the butter and I the biscuits." But Gavin, as this girl was always forgetting, was a lord of creation. "Sit down both of you at once!" he thundered, "I command you." Then the two women fell into their seats; Nanny in terror, Babbie affecting it. CHAPTER XV. THE MINISTER BEWITCHED--SECOND SERMON AGAINST WOMEN. To Nanny it was a dizzying experience to sit at the head of her own table, and, with assumed calmness, invite the minister not to spare the loaf-bread. Babbie's prattle, and even Gavin's answers, were but an indistinct noise to her, to be as little regarded, in the excitement of watching whether Mr. Dishart noticed that there was a knife for the butter, as the music of the river by a man who is catching trout. Every time Gavin's cup went to his lips Nanny calculated (correctly) how much he had drunk, and yet, when the right moment arrived, she asked in the English voice that is fashionable at ceremonies, "if his cup was toom." Perhaps it was well that Nanny had these matters to engross her, for though Gavin spoke freely, he was saying nothing of lasting value, and some of his remarks to the Egyptian, if preserved for the calmer contemplation of the morrow, might have seemed frivolous to himself. Usually his observations were scrambled for, like ha'pence at a wedding, but to-day they were only for one person. Infected by the Egyptian's high spirits, Gavin had laid aside the minister with his hat, and what was left was only a young man. He who had stamped his feet at thought of a soldier's cloak now wanted to be reminded of it. The little minister, who used to address himself in terms of scorn every time he wasted an hour, was at present dallying with a teaspoon. He even laughed boisterously, flinging back his head, and little knew that behind Nanny's smiling face was a terrible dread, because his chair had once given way before. Even though our thoughts are not with our company, the mention of our name is a bell to which we usually answer. Hearing hers Nanny started. "You can tell me, Nanny," the Egyptian had said, with an arch look at the minister. "Oh, Nanny, for shame! How can you expect to follow our conversation when you only listen to Mr. Dishart?" "She is saying, Nanny," Gavin broke in, almost gaily for a minister, "that she saw me recently wearing a cloak. You know I have no such thing." "Na," Nanny answered artlessly, "you have just the thin brown coat wi' the braid round it, forby the ane you have on the now." "You see," Gavin said to Babbie, "I could not have a new neckcloth, not to speak of a cloak, without everybody in Thrums knowing about it. I dare say Nanny knows all about the braid, and even what it cost." "Three bawbees the yard at Kyowowy's shop," replied Nanny, promptly, "and your mother sewed it on. Sam'l Fairweather has the marrows o't on his top coat. No that it has the same look on him." "Nevertheless," Babbie persisted, "I am sure the minister has a cloak; but perhaps he is ashamed of it. No doubt it is hidden away in the garret." "Na, we would hae kent o't if it was there," said Nanny. "But it may be in a chest, and the chest may be locked," the Egyptian suggested. "Ay, but the kist in the garret isna locked," Nanny answered. "How do you get to know all these things, Nanny?" asked Gavin, sighing. "Your congregation tells me. Naebody would lay by news about a minister." "But how do they know?" "I dinna ken. They just find out, because they're so fond o' you." "I hope they will never become so fond of me as that," said Babbie. "Still, Nanny, the minister's cloak is hidden somewhere." "Losh, what would make him hod it?" demanded the old woman. "Folk that has cloaks doesna bury them in boxes." At the word "bury" Gavin's hand fell on the table, and he returned to Nanny apprehensively. "That would depend on how the cloak was got," said the cruel Egyptian. "If it was not his own--" "Lassie," cried Nanny, "behave yoursel'." "Or if he found it in his possession against his will?" suggested Gavin, slyly. "He might have got it from some one who picked it up cheap." "From his wife, for instance," said Babbie, whereupon Gavin suddenly became interested in the floor. "Ay, ay, the minister was hitting at you there, Babbie," Nanny explained, "for the way you made off wi' the captain's cloak. The Thrums folk wondered less at your taking it than at your no keeping it. It's said to be michty grand." "It was rather like the one the minister's wife gave him," said Babbie. "The minister has neither a wife nor a cloak," retorted Nanny. "He isn't married?" asked Babbie, the picture of incredulity. Nanny gathered from the minister's face that he deputed to her the task of enlightening this ignorant girl, so she replied with emphasis, "Na, they hinna got him yet, and I'm cheated if it doesna tak them all their time." Thus do the best of women sell their sex for nothing. "I did wonder," said the Egyptian, gravely, "at any mere woman's daring to marry such a minister." "Ay," replied Nanny, spiritedly, "but there's dauring limmers wherever there's a single man." "So I have often suspected," said Babbie, duly shocked. "But, Nanny, I was told the minister had a wife, by one who said he saw her." "He lied, then," answered Nanny turning to Gavin for further instructions. "But, see, the minister does not deny the horrid charge himself." "No, and for the reason he didna deny the cloak: because it's no worth his while. I'll tell you wha your friend had seen. It would be somebody that would like to be Mrs. Dishart. There's a hantle o' that kind. Ay, lassie, but wishing winna land a woman in a manse." "It was one of the soldiers," Babbie said, "who told me about her. He said Mr. Dishart introduced her to him." "Sojers!" cried Nanny. "I could never thole the name o' them. Sanders in his young days hankered after joining them, and so he would, if it hadna been for the fechting. Ay, and now they've ta'en him awa to the gaol, and sworn lies about him. Dinna put any faith in sojers, lassie." "I was told," Babbie went on, "that the minister's wife was rather like me." "Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Nanny, so fervently that all three suddenly sat back from the table. "I'm no meaning," Nanny continued hurriedly, fearing to offend her benefactress, "but what you're the bonniest tid I ever saw out o' an almanack. But you would ken Mr. Dishart's contempt for bonny faces if you had heard his sermon against them. I didna hear it mysel', for I'm no Auld Licht, but it did the work o' the town for an aucht days." If Nanny had not taken her eyes off Gavin for the moment she would have known that he was now anxious to change the topic. Babbie saw it, and became suspicious. "When did he preach against the wiles of women, Nanny?" "It was long ago," said Gavin, hastily. "No so very lang syne," corrected Nanny. "It was the Sabbath after the sojers was in Thrums; the day you changed your text so hurriedly. Some thocht you wasna weel, but Lang Tammas--" "Thomas Whamond is too officious," Gavin said with dignity. "I forbid you, Nanny, to repeat his story." "But what made you change your text?" asked Babbie. "You see he winna tell," Nanny said, wistfully. "Ay, I dinna deny but what I would like richt to ken. But the session's as puzzled as yoursel', Babbie." "Perhaps more puzzled," answered the Egyptian, with a smile that challenged Gavin's frowns to combat and overthrow them. "What surprises me, Mr. Dishart, is that such a great man can stoop to see whether women are pretty or not. It was very good of you to remember me to-day. I suppose you recognized me by my frock?" "By your face," he replied, boldly; "by your eyes." "Nanny," exclaimed the Egyptian, "did you hear what the minister said?" "Woe is me," answered Nanny, "I missed it." "He says he would know me anywhere by my eyes." "So would I mysel'," said Nanny. "Then what colour are they, Mr. Dishart?" demanded Babbie. "Don't speak, Nanny, for I want to expose him." She closed her eyes tightly. Gavin was in a quandary. I suppose he had looked at her eyes too long to know much about them. "Blue," he guessed at last. "Na, they're black," said Nanny, who had doubtless known this for an hour. I am always marvelling over the cleverness of women, as every one must see who reads this story. "No but what they micht be blue in some lichts," Nanny added, out of respect to the minister. "Oh, don't defend him, Nanny," said Babbie, looking reproachfully at Gavin. "I don't see that any minister has a right to denounce women when he is so ignorant of his subject. I will say it, Nanny, and you need not kick me beneath the table." Was not all this intoxicating to the little minister, who had never till now met a girl on equal terms? At twenty-one a man is a musical instrument given to the other sex, but it is not as instruments learned at school, for when She sits down to it she cannot tell what tune she is about to play. That is because she has no notion of what the instrument is capable. Babbie's kind- heartedness, her gaiety, her coquetry, her moments of sadness, had been a witch's fingers, and Gavin was still trembling under their touch. Even in being taken to task by her there was a charm, for every pout of her mouth, every shake of her head, said, "You like me, and therefore you have given me the right to tease you." Men sign these agreements without reading them. But, indeed, man is a stupid animal at the best, and thinks all his life that he did not propose until he blurted out, "I love you." It was later than it should have been when the minister left the mud house, and even then he only put on his hat because Babbie said that she must go. "But not your way," she added. "I go into the wood and vanish. You know, Nanny, I live up a tree." "Dinna say that," said Nanny, anxiously, "or I'll be fleid about the siller." "Don't fear about it. Mr. Dishart will get some of it to-morrow at the Kaims. I would bring it here, but I cannot come so far to- morrow." "Then I'll hae peace to the end o' my days," said the old woman, "and, Babbie, I wish the same to you wi' all my heart." "Ah," Babbie replied, mournfully, "I have read my fortune, Nanny, and there is not much happiness in it."" "I hope that is not true," Gavin said, simply. They were standing at the door, and she was looking toward the hill, perhaps without seeing it. All at once it came to Gavin that this fragile girl might have a history far sadder and more turbulent than his. "Do you really care?" she asked, without looking at him. "Yes," he said stoutly, "I care." "Because you do not know me," she said. "Because I do know you," he answered. Now she did look at him. "I believe," she said, making a discovery, "that you misunderstand me less than those who have known me longer." This was a perilous confidence, for it at once made Gavin say "Babbie." "Ah," she answered, frankly, "I am glad to hear that. I thought you did not really like me, because you never called me by my name." Gavin drew a great breath. "That was not the reason," he said. The reason was now unmistakable. "I was wrong," said the Egyptian, a little alarmed; "you do not understand me at all." She returned to Nanny, and Gavin set off, holding his head high, his brain in a whirl. Five minutes afterwards, when Nanny was at the fire, the diamond ring on her little finger, he came back, looking like one who had just seen sudden death. "I had forgotten," he said, with a fierceness aimed at himself, "that to-morrow is the Sabbath." "Need that make any difference?" asked the gypsy. "At this hour on Monday," said Gavin, hoarsely, "I will be at the Kaims." He went away without another word, and Babbie watched him from the window. Nanny had not looked up from the ring. "What a pity he is a minister!" the girl said, reflectively. "Nanny, you are not listening." The old woman was making the ring flash by the light of the fire. "Nanny, do you hear me? Did you see Mr. Dishart come back?" "I heard the door open," Nanny answered, without taking her greedy eyes off the ring. "Was it him? Whaur did you get this, lassie?" "Give it me back, Nanny, I am going now." But Nanny did not give it back; she put her other hand over it to guard it, and there she crouched, warming herself not at the fire, but at the ring. "Give it me, Nanny." "It winna come off my finger." She gloated over it, nursed it, kissed it. "I must have it, Nanny." The Egyptian put her hand lightly on the old woman's shoulder, and Nanny jumped up, pressing the ring to her bosom. Her face had become cunning and ugly; she retreated into a corner. "Nanny, give me back my ring or I will take it from you." The cruel light of the diamond was in Nanny's eyes for a moment, and then, shuddering, she said, "Tak your ring awa, tak it out o' my sicht." In the meantime Gavin was trudging home gloomily composing his second sermon against women. I have already given the entry in my own diary for that day: this is his:--"Notes on Jonah. Exchanged vol. xliii., 'European Magazine,' for Owen's 'Justification' (per flying stationer). Began Second Samuel. Visited Nanny Webster." There is no mention of the Egyptian. CHAPTER XVI. CONTINUED MISBEHAVIOUR OF THE EGYPTIAN WOMAN. BY the following Monday it was known at many looms that something sat heavily on the Auld Licht minister's mind. On the previous day he had preached his second sermon of warning to susceptible young men, and his first mention of the word "woman" had blown even the sleepy heads upright. Now he had salt fish for breakfast, and on clearing the table Jean noticed that his knife and fork were uncrossed. He was observed walking into a gooseberry bush by Susy Linn, who possessed the pioneer spring-bed of Thrums, and always knew when her man jumped into it by suddenly finding herself shot to the ceiling. Lunan, the tinsmith, and two women, who had the luck to be in the street at the time, saw him stopping at Dr. McQueen's door, as if about to knock, and then turning smartly away. His hat blew off in the school wynd, where a wind wanders ever, looking for hats, and he chased it so passionately that Lang Tammas went into Allardyce's smiddy to say-- "I dinna like it. Of course he couldna afford to lose his hat, but he should hae run after it mair reverently." Gavin, indeed, was troubled. He had avoided speaking of the Egyptian to his mother. He had gone to McQueen's house to ask the doctor to accompany him to the Kaims, but with the knocker in his hand he changed his mind, and now he was at the place of meeting alone. It was a day of thaw, nothing to be heard from a distance but the swish of curling-stones through water on Rashie-bog, where the match for the eldership was going on. Around him. Gavin saw only dejected firs with drops of water falling listlessly from them, clods of snow, and grass that rustled as if animals were crawling through it. All the roads were slack. I suppose no young man to whom society has not become a cheap thing can be in Gavin's position, awaiting the coming of an attractive girl, without giving thought to what he should say to her. When in the pulpit or visiting the sick, words came in a rush to the little minister, but he had to set his teeth to determine what to say to the Egyptian. This was because he had not yet decided which of two women she was. Hardly had he started on one line of thought when she crossed his vision in a new light, and drew him after her. Her "Need that make any difference?" sang in his ear like another divit, cast this time at religion itself, and now he spoke aloud, pointing his finger at a fir: "I said at the mud house that I believed you because I knew you. To my shame be it said that I spoke falsely. How dared you bewitch me? In your presence I flung away the precious hours in frivolity; I even forgot the Sabbath. For this I have myself to blame. I am an unworthy preacher of the Word. I sinned far more than you who have been brought up godlessly from your cradle. Nevertheless, whoever you are, I call upon you, before we part never to meet again, to repent of your--" And then it was no mocker of the Sabbath he was addressing, but a woman with a child's face, and there were tears in her eyes. "Do you care?" she was saying, and again he answered, "Yes, I care." This girl's name was not Woman, but Babbie. Now Gavin made an heroic attempt to look upon both these women at once. "Yes, I believe in you," he said to them, "but henceforth you must send your money to Nanny by another messenger. You are a gypsy and I am a minister; and that must part us. I refuse to see you again. I am not angry with you, but as a minister--" It was not the disappearance of one of the women that clipped this argument short; it was Babbie singing-- "It fell on a day, on a bonny summer day, When the corn grew green and yellow, That there fell out a great dispute Between Argyle and Airly. "The Duke of Montrose has written to Argyle To come in the morning early, An' lead in his men by the back o' Dunkeld To plunder the bonny house o' Airly." "Where are you?" cried Gavin in bewilderment. "I am watching you from my window so high," answered the Egyptian; and then the minister, looking up, saw her peering at him from a fir. "How did you get up there?" he asked in amazement. "On my broomstick," Babbie replied, and sang on-- "The lady looked o'er her window sae high, And oh! but she looked weary, And there she espied the great Argyle Come to plunder the bonny house o' Airly." "What are you doing there?" Gavin said, wrathfully. "This is my home," she answered. "I told you I lived in a tree." "Come down at once," ordered Gavin. To which the singer responded- - "'Come down, come down, Lady Margaret,' he says; 'Come down and kiss me fairly Or before the morning clear day light I'll no leave a standing stane in Airly.'" "If you do not come down this instant," Gavin said in a rage, "and give me what I was so foolish as to come for, I--" The Egyptian broke in-- "'I wouldna kiss thee, great Argyle, I wouldna kiss thee fairly; I wouldna kiss thee, great Argyle, Gin you shouldna leave a standing stane in Airly.'" "You have deceived Nanny," Gavin cried, hotly, "and you have brought me here to deride me. I will have no more to do with you." He walked away quickly, but she called after him, "I am coming down. I have the money," and next moment a snowball hit his hat. "That is for being cross," she explained, appearing so unexpectedly at his elbow that he was taken aback. "I had to come close up to you before I flung it, or it would have fallen over my shoulder. Why are you so nasty to-day? and, oh, do you know you were speaking to yourself?" "You are mistaken," said Gavin, severely. "I was speaking to you." "You didn't see me till I began to sing, did you?" "Nevertheless I was speaking to you, or rather, I was saying to myself what--" "What you had decided to say to me?" said the delighted gypsy. "Do you prepare your talk like sermons? I hope you have prepared something nice for me. If it is very nice I may give you this bunch of holly." She was dressed as he had seen her previously, but for a cluster of holly berries at her breast. "I don't know that you will think it nice," the minister answered, slowly, "but my duty--" "If it is about duty," entreated Babbie, "don't say it. Don't, and I will give you the berries." She took the berries from her dress, smiling triumphantly the while like one who had discovered a cure for duty; and instead of pointing the finger of wrath at her, Gavin stood expectant. "But no," he said, remembering who he was, and pushing the gift from him, "I will not be bribed. I must tell you--" "Now," said the Egyptian, sadly, "I see you are angry with me. Is it because I said I lived in a tree? Do forgive me for that dreadful lie." She had gone on her knees before he could stop her, and was gazing imploringly at him, with her hands clasped. "You are mocking me again," said Gavin, "but I am not angry with you. Only you must understand--" She jumped up and put her fingers to her ears. "You see I can hear nothing," she said. "Listen while I tell you--" "I don't hear a word. Why do you scold me when I have kept my promise? If I dared to take my fingers from my ears I would give you the money for Nanny. And, Mr. Dishart, I must be gone in five minutes." "In five minutes!" echoed Gavin, with such a dismal face that Babbie heard the words with her eyes, and dropped her hands. "Why are you in such haste?" he asked, taking the five pounds mechanically, and forgetting all that he had meant to say. "Because they require me at home," she answered, with a sly glance at her fir. "And, remember, when I run away you must not follow me." "I won't," said Gavin, so promptly that she was piqued. "Why not?" she asked. "But of course you only came here for the money. Well, you have got it. Good-bye." "You know that was not what I meant," said Gavin, stepping after her. "I have told you already that whatever other people say, I trust you. I believe in you, Babbie." "Was that what you were saying to the tree?" asked the Egyptian, demurely. Then, perhaps thinking it wisest not to press this point, she continued irrelevantly, "It seems such a pity that you are a minister." "A pity to be a minister!" exclaimed Gavin, indignantly. "Why, why, you--why, Babbie, how have you been brought up?" "In a curious way," Babbie answered, shortly, "but I can't tell you about that just now. Would you like to hear all about me?" Suddenly she seemed to have become confidential. "Do you really think me a gypsy?" she asked. "I have tried not to ask myself that question." "Why?" "Because it seems like doubting your word." "I don't see how you can think of me at all without wondering who I am." "No, and so I try not to think of you at all." "Oh, I don't know that you need do that." "I have not quite succeeded." The Egyptian's pique had vanished, but she may have thought that the conversation was becoming dangerous, for she said abruptly-- "Well, I sometimes think about you." "Do you?" said Gavin, absurdly gratified. "What do you think about me?" "I wonder," answered the Egyptian, pleasantly, "which of us is the taller." Gavin's fingers twitched with mortification, and not only his fingers but his toes. "Let us measure," she said, sweetly, putting her back to his. "You are not stretching your neck, are you?" But the minister broke away from her. "There is one subject," he said, with great dignity, "that I allow no one to speak of in my presence, and that is my--my height." His face was as white as his cravat when the surprised Egyptian next looked at him, and he was panting like one who has run a mile. She was ashamed of herself, and said so. "It is a topic I would rather not speak about," Gavin answered, dejectedly, "especially to you." He meant that he would rather be a tall man in her company than in any other, and possibly she knew this, though all she answered was-- "You wanted to know if I am really a gypsy. Well, I am." "An ordinary gypsy?" "Do you think me ordinary?" "I wish I knew what to think of you." "Ah, well, that is my forbidden topic. But we have a good many ideas in common after all, have we not, though you are only a minis--I mean, though I am only a gypsy?" There fell between them a silence that gave Babbie time to remember she must go. "I have already stayed too long," she said. "Give my love to Nanny, and say that I am coming to see her soon, perhaps on Monday. I don't suppose you will be there on Monday, Mr. Dishart?" "I--I cannot say." "No, you will be too busy. Are you to take the holly berries?" "I had better not," said Gavin, dolefully. "Oh, if you don't want them--" "Give them to me," he said, and as he took them his hand shook. "I know why you are looking so troubled," said the Egyptian, archly. "You think I am to ask you the colour of my eyes, and you have forgotten again." He would have answered, but she checked him. "Make no pretence," she said, severely; "I know you think they are blue." She came close to him until her face almost touched his. "Look hard at them," she said, solemnly, "and after this you may remember that they are black, black, black!" At each repetition of the word she shook her head in his face. She was adorable. Gavin's arms--but they met on nothing. She had run away. When the little minister had gone, a man came from behind a tree and shook his fist in the direction taken by the gypsy. It was Rob Dow, black with passion. "It's the Egyptian!" he cried. "You limmer, wha are you that hae got haud o' the minister?" He pursued her, but she vanished as from Gavin is Windyghoul. "A common Egyptian!" he muttered when he had to give up the search. "But take care, you little devil," he called aloud; "take care; if I catch you playing pranks wi' that man again I'll wring your neck like a hen's!" CHAPTER XVII. INTRUSION OF HAGGART INTO THESE PAGES AGAINST THE AUTHOR'S WISH. Margaret having heard the doctor say that one may catch cold in the back, had decided instantly to line Gavin's waistcoat with flannel. She was thus engaged, with pins in her mouth and the scissors hiding from her every time she wanted them, when Jean, red and flurried, abruptly entered the room. "There! I forgot to knock at the door again," Jean exclaimed, pausing contritely. "Never mind. Is it Rob Dow wanting the minister?" asked Margaret, who had seen Rob pass the manse dyke. "Na, he wasna wanting to see the minister." "Ah, then, he came to see you, Jean," said Margaret, archly. "A widow man!" cried Jean, tossing her head. "But Rob Dow was in no condition to be friendly wi' onybody the now." "Jean, you don't mean that he has been drinking again?" "I canna say he was drunk." "Then what condition was he in?" "He was in a--a swearing condition," Jean answered, guardedly. "But what I want to speir at you is, can I gang down to the Tenements for a minute? I'll run there and back." "Certainly you can go, Jean, but you must not run. You are always running. Did Dow bring you word that you were wanted in the Tenements?" "No exactly, but I--I want to consult Tammas Haggart about--about something." "About Dow, I believe, Jean?" "Na, but about something he has done. Oh, ma'am, you surely dinna think I would take a widow man?" It was the day after Gavin's meeting with the Egyptian at the Kaims, and here is Jean's real reason for wishing to consult Haggart. Half an hour before she hurried to the parlour she had been at the kitchen door wondering whether she should spread out her washing in the garret or risk hanging it in the courtyard. She had just decided on the garret when she saw Rob Dow morosely regarding her from the gateway. "Whaur is he?" growled Rob. "He's out, but it's no for me to say whaur he is," replied Jean, whose weakness was to be considered a church official. "No that I ken," truthfulness compelled her to add, for she had an ambition to be everything she thought Gavin would like a woman to be. Rob seized her wrists viciously and glowered into her face. "You're ane o' them," he said. "Let me go. Ane o' what?" "Ane o' thae limmers called women." "Sal," retorted Jean with spirit, "you're ane o' thae brutes called men. You're drunk, Rob Dow." "In the legs maybe, but no higher. I haud a heap." "Drunk again, after all your promises to the minister! And you said yoursel' that he had pulled you out o' hell by the root." "It's himsel' that has flung me back again," Rob said, wildly. "Jean Baxter, what does it mean when a minister carries flowers in his pouch; ay, and takes them out to look at them ilka minute?" "How do you ken about the holly?" asked Jean, off her guard. "You limmer," said Dow, "you've been in his pouches." "It's a lie!" cried the outraged Jean. "I just saw the holly this morning in a jug on his chimley." "Carefully put by? Is it hod on the chimley? Does he stand looking at it? Do you tell me he's fond-like o't?" "Mercy me!" Jean exclaimed, beginning to shake; "wha is she, Rob Dow?" "Let me see it first in its jug," Rob answered, slyly, "and syne I may tell you." This was not the only time Jean had been asked to show the minister's belongings. Snecky Hobart, among others, had tried on Gavin's hat in the manse kitchen, and felt queer for some time afterwards. Women had been introduced on tiptoe to examine the handle of his umbrella. But Rob had not come to admire. He snatched the holly from Jean's hands, and casting it on the ground pounded it with his heavy boots, crying, "Greet as you like, Jean. That's the end o' his flowers, and if I had the tawpie he got them frae I would serve her in the same way." "I'll tell him what you've done," said terrified Jean, who had tried to save the berries at the expense of her fingers. "Tell him," Dow roared; "and tell him what I said too. Ay, and tell him I was at the Kaims yestreen. Tell him I'm hunting high and low for an Egyptian woman." He flung recklessly out of the courtyard, leaving Jean looking blankly at the mud that had been holly lately. Not his act of sacrilege was distressing her, but his news. Were these berries a love token? Had God let Rob Dow say they were a gypsy's love token, and not slain him? That Rob spoke of the Egyptian of the riots Jean never doubted. It was known that the minister had met this woman in Nanny Webster's house, but was it not also known that he had given her such a talking-to as she could never come above? Many could repeat the words in which he had announced to Nanny that his wealthy friends in Glasgow were to give her all she needed. They could also tell how majestic he looked when he turned the Egyptian out of the house. In short, Nanny having kept her promise of secrecy, the people had been forced to construct the scene in the mud house for themselves, and it was only their story that was known to Jean. She decided that, so far as the gypsy was concerned, Rob had talked trash. He had seen the holly in the minister's hand, and, being in drink, had mixed it up with the gossip about the Egyptian. But that Gavin had preserved the holly because of the donor was as obvious to Jean as that the vase in her hand was empty. Who could she be? No doubt all the single ladies in Thrums were in love with him, but that, Jean was sure, had not helped them a step forward. To think was to Jean a waste of time. Discovering that she had been thinking, she was dismayed. There were the wet clothes in the basket looking reproachfully at her. She hastened back to Gavin's room with the vase, but it too had eyes, and they said, "When the minister misses his holly he will question you." Now Gavin had already smiled several times to Jean, and once he had marked passages for her in her "Pilgrim's Progress," with the result that she prized the marks more even than the passages. To lose his good opinion was terrible to her. In her perplexity she decided to consult wise Tammas Haggart, and hence her appeal to Margaret. To avoid Chirsty, the humourist's wife, Jean sought Haggart at his workshop window, which was so small that an old book sufficed for its shutter. Haggart, whom she could see distinctly at his loom, soon guessed from her knocks and signs (for he was strangely quick in the uptake) that she wanted him to open the window. "I want to speak to you confidentially," Jean said in a low voice. "If you saw a grand man gey fond o' a flower, what would you think?" "I would think, Jean," Haggart answered, reflectively, "that he had gien siller for't; ay, I would wonder--" "What would you wonder?" "I would wonder how muckle he paid." "But if he was a--a minister, and keepit the flower--say it was a common rose--fond-like on his chimley, what would you think?" "I would think it was a black-burning disgrace for a minister to be fond o' flowers." "I dinna haud wi' that." "Jean," said Haggart, "I allow no one to contradict me." "It wasna my design. But, Tammas, if a--a minister was fond o' a particular flower--say a rose--and you destroyed it by an accident, when he wasna looking, what would you do?" "I would gie him another rose for't." "But if you didna want him to ken you had meddled wi't on his chimley, what would you do?" "I would put the new rose on the chimley, and he would never ken the differ." "That's what I'll do." muttered Jean, but she said aloud-- "But it micht be that particular rose he liked?" "Havers, Jean. To a thinking man one rose is identical wi' another rose. But how are you speiring?" "Just out o' curiosity, and I maun be stepping now. Thank you kindly, Tammas, for your humour." "You're welcome," Haggart answered, and closed his window. That day Rob Dow spent in misery, but so little were his fears selfish that he scarcely gave a thought to his conduct at the manse. For an hour he sat at his loom with his arms folded. Then he slouched out of the house, cursing little Micah, so that a neighbour cried "You drunken scoundrel!" after him. "He may be a wee drunk," said Micah in his father's defense, "but he's no mortal." Rob wandered to the Kaims in search of the Egyptian, and returned home no happier. He flung himself upon his bed and dared Micah to light the lamp. About gloaming he rose, unable to keep his mouth shut on his thoughts any longer, and staggered to the Tenements to consult Haggart. He found the humourist's door ajar, and Wearyworld listening at it. "Out o' the road!" cried Rob, savagely, and flung the policeman into the gutter. "That was ill-dune, Rob Dow," Wearyworld said, picking himself up leisurely. "I'm thinking it was weel-dune," snarled Rob. "Ay," said Weary world, "we needna quarrel about a difference o' opeenion; but, Rob--" Dow, however, had already entered the house and slammed the door. "Ay, ay," muttered Wearyworld, departing, "you micht hae stood still, Rob, and argued it out wi' me." In less than an hour after his conversation with Jean at the window it had suddenly struck Haggart that the minister she spoke of must be Mr. Dishart. In two hours he had confided his suspicions to Chirsty. In ten minutes she had filled the house with gossips. Rob arrived to find them in full cry. "Ay, Rob," said Chirsty, genially, for gossip levels ranks, "you're just in time to hear a query about the minister." "Rob," said the Glen Quharity post, from whom I subsequently got the story, "Mr. Dishart has fallen in--in--what do you call the thing, Chirsty?" Birse knew well what the thing was called, but the word is a staggerer to say in company. "In love," answered Chirsty, boldly. "Now we ken what he was doing in the country yestreen," said Snecky Hobart, "the which has been, bothering us sair." "The manse is fu' o' the flowers she sends him," said Tibbie Craik. "Jean's at her wits'-end to ken whaur to put them a'." "Wha is she?" It was Rob Dow who spoke. All saw he had been drinking, or they might have wondered at his vehemence. As it was, everybody looked at every other body, and then everybody sighed. "Ay, wha is she?" repeated several. "I see you ken nothing about her," said Rob, much relieved; and he then lapsed into silence. "We ken a' about her," said Snecky, "except just wha she is. Ay, that's what we canna bottom. Maybe you could guess, Tammas?" "Maybe I could, Sneck," Haggart replied, cautiously; "but on that point I offer no opinion." "If she bides on the Kaims road," said Tibbie Craik, "she maun be a farmer's dochter. What say you to Bell Finlay?" "Na; she's U. P. But it micht be Loups o' Malcolm's sister. She's promised to Muckle Haws; but no doubt she would gie him the go-by at a word frae the minister." "It's mair likely," said Chirsty, "to be the factor at the Spittal's lassie. The factor has a grand garden, and that would account for such basketfuls o' flowers." "Whaever she is," said Birse, "I'm thinking he could hae done better." "I'll be fine pleased wi' ony o' them," said Tibbie, who had a magenta silk, and so was jealous of no one. "It hasna been proved," Haggart pointed out, "that the flowers came frae thae parts. She may be sending them frae Glasgow." "I aye understood it was a Glasgow lady," said Snecky. "He'll be like the Tilliedrum minister that got a lady to send him to the college on the promise that he would marry her as soon as he got a kirk. She made him sign a paper." "The far-seeing limmer," exclaimed Chirsty. "But if that's what Mr. Dishart has done, how has he kept it so secret?" "He wouldna want the women o' the congregation to ken he was promised till after they had voted for him." "I dinna haud wi' that explanation o't," said Haggart, "but I may tell you that I ken for sure she's a Glasgow leddy. Lads, ministers is near aye bespoke afore they're licensed. There's a michty competition for them in the big toons. Ay, the leddies just stand at the college gates, as you may say, and snap them up as they come out." "And just as well for the ministers, I'se uphaud," said Tibbie, "for it saves them a heap o' persecution when they come to the like o' Thrums. There was Mr. Meiklejohn, the U. P. minister: he was no sooner placed than every genteel woman in the town was persecuting him. The Miss Dobies was the maist shameless; they fair hunted him." "Ay," said Snecky; "and in the tail o' the day ane o' them snacked him up. Billies, did you ever hear o' a minister being refused?" "Never." "Weel, then, I have; and by a widow woman too. His name was Samson, and if it had been Tamson she would hae ta'en him. Ay, you may look, but it's true. Her name was Turnbull, and she had another gent after her, name o' Tibbets. She couldna make up her mind atween them, and for a while she just keeped them dangling on. Ay, but in the end she took Tibbets. And what, think you, was her reason? As you ken, thae grand folk has their initials on their spoons and nichtgowns. Ay, weel, she thocht it would be mair handy to take Tibbets, because if she had ta'en the minister the T's would have had to be changed to S's. It was thoctfu' o' her." "Is Tibbets living?" asked Haggart sharply. "No; he's dead." "What," asked Haggart, "was the corp to trade?" "I dinna ken." "I thocht no," said Haggart, triumphantly. "Weel, I warrant he was a minister too. Ay, catch a woman giving up a minister, except for another minister." All were looking on Haggart with admiration, when a voice from the door cried-- "Listen, and I'll tell you a queerer ane than that." "Dagont," cried Birse, "it's Wearywarld, and he has been hearkening. Leave him to me." When the post returned, the conversation was back at Mr. Dishart. "Yes, lathies," Haggart was saying, "daftness about women comes to all, gentle and simple, common and colleged, humourists and no humourists. You say Mr. Dishart has preached ower muckle at women to stoop to marriage, but that makes no differ. Mony a humorous thing hae I said about women, and yet Chirsty has me. It's the same wi' ministers. A' at aince they see a lassie no' unlike ither lassies, away goes their learning, and they skirl out, 'You dawtie!' That's what comes to all." "But it hasna come to Mr. Dishart," cried Rob Dow, jumping to his feet. He had sought Haggart to tell him all, but now he saw the wisdom of telling nothing. "I'm sick o' your blathers. Instead o' the minister's being sweethearting yesterday, he was just at the Kaims visiting the gamekeeper. I met him in the Wast town-end, and gaed there and back wi' him." "That's proof it's a Glasgow leddy," said Snecky. "I tell you there's no leddy ava!" swore Rob. "Yea, and wha sends the baskets o' flowers, then?" "There was only one flower," said Rob, turning to his host. "I aye understood," said Haggart heavily, "that there was only one flower." "But though there was just ane," persisted Chirsty, "what we want to ken is wha gae him it." "It was me that gae him it," said Rob; "it was growing on the roadside, and I plucked it and gae it to him." The company dwindled away shamefacedly, yet unconvinced; but Haggart had courage to say slowly-- "Yes, Rob, I had aye a notion that he got it frae you." Meanwhile, Gavin, unaware that talk about him and a woman unknown had broken out in Thrums, was gazing, sometimes lovingly and again with scorn, at a little bunch of holly-berries which Jean had gathered from her father's garden. Once she saw him fling them out of his window, and then she rejoiced. But an hour afterwards she saw him pick them up, and then she mourned. Nevertheless, to her great delight, he preached his third sermon against Woman on the following Sabbath. It was universally acknowledged to be the best of the series. It was also the last. CHAPTER XVIII. CADDAM--LOVE LEADING TO A RUPTURE. Gavin told himself not to go near the mud house on the following Monday; but he went. The distance is half a mile, and the time he took was two hours. This was owing to his setting out due west to reach a point due north; yet with the intention of deceiving none save himself. His reason had warned him to avoid the Egyptian, and his desires had consented to be dragged westward because they knew he had started too soon. When the proper time came they knocked reason on the head and carried him straight to Caddam. Here reason came to, and again began to state its case. Desires permitted him to halt, as if to argue the matter out, but were thus tolerant merely because from where he stood he could see Nanny's doorway. When Babbie emerged from it reason seems to have made one final effort, for Gavin quickly took that side of a tree which is loved of squirrels at the approach of an enemy. He looked round the tree-trunk at her, and then reason discarded him. The gypsy had two empty pans in her hands, For a second she gazed in the minister's direction, then demurely leaped the ditch of leaves that separated Nanny's yard from Caddam, and strolled into the wood. Discovering with indignation that he had been skulking behind the tree, Gavin came into the open. How good of the Egyptian, he reflected, to go to the well for water, and thus save the old woman's arms! Reason shouted from near the manse (he only heard the echo) that he could still make up on it. "Come along." said his desires, and marched him prisoner to the well. The path which Babbie took that day is lost in blaeberry leaves now, and my little maid and I lately searched for an hour before we found the well. It was dry, choked with broom and stones, and broken rusty pans, but we sat down where Babbie and Gavin had talked, and I stirred up many memories. Probably two of those pans, that could be broken in the hands to-day like shortbread, were Nanny's, and almost certainly the stones are fragments from the great slab that used to cover the well. Children like to peer into wells to see what the world is like at the other side, and so this covering was necessary. Rob Angus was the strong man who bore the stone to Caddam, flinging it a yard before him at a time. The well had also a wooden lid with leather hinges, and over this the stone was dragged. Gavin arrived at the well in time to offer Babbie the loan of his arms. In her struggle she had taken her lips into her mouth, but in vain did she tug at the stone, which refused to do more than turn round on the wood. But for her presence, the minister's efforts would have been equally futile. Though not strong, however, he had the national horror of being beaten before a spectator, and once at school he had won a fight by telling his big antagonist to come on until the boy was tired of pummelling him. As he fought with the stone now, pains shot through his head, and his arms threatened to come away at the shoulders; but remove it he did. "How strong you are!" Babbie said with open admiration. I am sure no words of mine could tell how pleased the minister was; yet he knew he was not strong, and might have known that she had seen him do many things far more worthy of admiration without admiring them. This, indeed, is a sad truth, that we seldom give our love to what is worthiest in its object. "How curious that we should have met here," Babbie said, in her dangerously friendly way, as they filled the pans. "Do you know I quite started when your shadow fell suddenly on the stone. Did you happen to be passing through the wood?" "No," answered truthful Gavin, "I was looking for you. I thought you saw me from Nanny's door." "Did you? I only saw a man hiding behind a tree, and of course I knew it could not be you." Gavin looked at her sharply, but she was not laughing at him. "It was I," he admitted; "but I was not exactly hiding behind the tree." "You had only stepped behind it for a moment," suggested the Egyptian. Her gravity gave way to laughter under Gavin's suspicious looks, but the laughing ended abruptly. She had heard a noise in the wood, Gavin heard it too, and they both turned round in time to see two ragged boys running from them. When boys are very happy they think they must be doing wrong, and in a wood, of which they are among the natural inhabitants, they always take flight from the enemy, adults, if given time. For my own part, when I see a boy drop from a tree I am as little surprised as if he were an apple or a nut. But Gavin was startled, picturing these spies handing in the new sensation about him at every door, as a district visitor distributes tracts. The gypsy noted his uneasiness and resented it. "What does it feel like to be afraid?" she asked, eyeing him. "I am afraid of nothing," Gavin answered, offended in turn. "Yes, you are. When you saw me come out of Nanny's you crept behind a tree; when these boys showed themselves you shook. You are afraid of being seen with me. Go away, then; I don't want you." "Fear," said Gavin, "is one thing, and prudence is another." "Another name for it," Babbie interposed. "Not at all; but I owe it to my position to be careful. Unhappily, you do not seem to feel--to recognise--to know--" "To know what?" "Let us avoid the subject." "No," the Egyptian said, petulantly. "I hate not to be told things. Why must you be 'prudent?'" "You should see," Gavin replied, awkwardly, "that there is a--a difference between a minister and a gypsy." "But if I am willing to overlook it?" asked Babbie, impertinently. Gavin beat the brushwood mournfully with his staff. "I cannot allow you," he said, "to talk disrespectfully of my calling. It is the highest a man can follow. I wish--" He checked himself; but he was wishing she could see him in his pulpit. "I suppose," said the gypsy, reflectively, "one must be very clever to be a minister." "As for that--" answered Gavin, waving his hand grandly. "And it must be nice, too," continued Babbie, "to be able to speak for a whole hour to people who can neither answer nor go away. Is it true that before you begin to preach you lock the door to keep the congregation in?" "I must leave you if you talk in that way." "I only wanted to know." "Oh, Babbie, I am afraid you have little acquaintance with the inside of churches. Do you sit under anybody?" "Do I sit under anybody?" repeated Babbie, blankly. Is it any wonder that the minister sighed? "Whom do you sit under?" was his form of salutation to strangers. "I mean, where do you belong?" he said. "Wanderers," Babbie answered, still misunderstanding him, "belong to nowhere in particular." "I am only asking you if you ever go to church?" "Oh, that is what you mean. Yes, I go often." "What church?" "You promised not to ask questions." "I only mean what denomination do you belong to?" "Oh, the--the--Is there an English church denomination?" Gavin groaned. "Well, that is my denomination," said Babbie, cheerfully. "Some day, though, I am coming to hear you preach. I should like to see how you look in your gown." "We don't wear gowns." "What a shame! But I am coming, nevertheless. I used to like going to church in Edinburgh." "You have lived in Edinburgh?" "We gypsies have lived everywhere," Babbie said, lightly, though she was annoyed at having mentioned Edinburgh. "But all gypsies don't speak as you do," said Gavin, puzzled again. "I don't understand you." "Of course you dinna," replied Babbie, in broad Scotch. "Maybe, if you did, you would think that it's mair imprudent in me to stand here cracking clavers wi' the minister than for the minister to waste his time cracking wi' me." "Then why do it?" "Because--Oh, because prudence and I always take different roads." "Tell me who you are, Babbie," the minister entreated; "at least, tell me where your encampment is." "You have warned me against imprudence," she said. "I want," Gavin continued, earnestly, "to know your people, your father and mother." "Why?" "Because," he answered, stoutly, "I like their daughter." At that Babbie's fingers played on one of the pans, and, for the moment, there was no more badinage in her. "You are a good man," she said, abruptly; "but you will never know my parents." "Are they dead?" "They may be; I cannot tell." "This is all incomprehensible to me." "I suppose it is. I never asked any one to understand me." "Perhaps not," said Gavin, excitedly; "but the time has come when I must know everything of you that is to be known." Babbie receded from him in quick fear. "You must never speak to me in that way again," she said, in a warning voice. "In what way?" Gavin knew what way very well, but he thirsted to hear in her words what his own had implied. She did not choose to oblige him, however. "You never will understand me," she said. "I daresay I might be more like other people now, if--if I had been brought up differently. Not," she added, passionately, "that I want to be like others. Do you never feel, when you have been living a humdrum life for months, that you must break out of it, or go crazy?" Her vehemence alarmed Gavin, who hastened to reply-- "My life is not humdrum. It is full of excitement, anxieties, pleasures, and I am too fond of the pleasures. Perhaps it is because I have more of the luxuries of life than you that I am so content with my lot." "Why, what can you know of luxuries?" "I have eighty pounds a year." Babble laughed. "Are ministers so poor?" she asked, calling back her gravity. "It is a considerable sum," said Gavin, a little hurt, for it was the first time he had ever heard any one speak disrespectfully of eighty pounds. The Egyptian looked down at her ring, and smiled. "I shall always remember your saying that," she told him, "after we have quarrelled." "We shall not quarrel," said Gavin, decidedly. "Oh, yes, we shall." "We might have done so once, but we know each other too well now." "That is why we are to quarrel." "About what?" said the minister. "I have not blamed you for deriding my stipend, though how it can seem small in the eyes of a gypsy--" "Who can afford," broke in Babbie, "to give Nanny seven shillings a week?" "True," Gavin said, uncomfortably, while the Egyptian again toyed with her ring. She was too impulsive to be reticent except now and then, and suddenly she said, "You have looked at this ring before now. Do you know that if you had it on your finger you would be more worth robbing than with eighty pounds in each of your pockets?" "Where did you get it?" demanded Gavin, fiercely. "I am sorry I told you that," the gypsy said, regretfully. "Tell me how you got it," Gavin insisted, his face now hard. "Now, you see, we are quarrelling." "I must know." "Must know! You forget yourself," she said haughtily. "No, but I have forgotten myself too long. Where did you get that ring?" "Good afternoon to you," said the Egyptian, lifting her pans. "It is not good afternoon," he cried, detaining her. "It is good- bye for ever, unless you answer me." "As you please," she said. "I will not tell you where I got my ring. It is no affair of yours." "Yes, Babbie, it is." She was not, perhaps, greatly grieved to hear him say so, for she made no answer. "You are no gypsy," he continued, suspiciously. "Perhaps not," she answered, again taking the pans. "This dress is but a disguise." "It may be. Why don't you go away and leave me?" "I am going," he replied, wildly. "I will have no more to do with you. Formerly I pitied you, but--" He could not have used a word more calculated to rouse the Egyptian's ire, and she walked away with her head erect. Only once did she look back, and it was to say-- "This is prudence--now." CHAPTER XIX. CIRCUMSTANCES LEADING TO THE FIRST SERMON IN APPROVAL OF WOMEN. A young man thinks that he alone of mortals is impervious to love, and so the discovery that he is in it suddenly alters his views of his own mechanism. It is thus not unlike a rap on the funny-bone. Did Gavin make this discovery when the Egyptian left him? Apparently he only came to the brink of it and stood blind. He had driven her from him for ever, and his sense of loss was so acute that his soul cried out for the cure rather than for the name of the malady. In time he would have realised what had happened, but time was denied him, for just as he was starting for the mud house Babbie saved his dignity by returning to him. It was not her custom to fix her eyes on the ground as she walked, but she was doing so now, and at the same time swinging the empty pans. Doubtless she had come back for more water, in the belief that Gavin had gone. He pronounced her name with a sense of guilt, and she looked up surprised, or seemingly surprised, to find him still there. "I thought you had gone away long ago," she said stiffly. "Otherwise," asked Gavin the dejected, "you would not have come back to the well?" "Certainly not." "I am very sorry. Had you waited another moment I should have been gone." This was said in apology, but the wilful Egyptian chose to change its meaning. "You have no right to blame me for disturbing you," she declared with warmth. "I did not. I only--" "You could have been a mile away by this time. Nanny wanted more water." Babbie scrutinised the minister sharply as she made this statement. Surely her conscience troubled her, for on his not answering immediately she said, "Do you presume to disbelieve me? What could have made me return except to fill the pans again?" "Nothing," Gavin admitted eagerly, "and I assure you--" Babbie should have been grateful to his denseness, but it merely set her mind at rest. "Say anything against me you choose," she told him. "Say it as brutally as you like, for I won't listen." She stopped to hear his response to that, and she looked so cold that it almost froze on Gavin's lips. "I had no right," he said, dolefully, "to speak to you as I did." "You had not," answered the proud Egyptian. She was looking away from him to show that his repentance was not even interesting to her. However, she had forgotten already not to listen. "What business is it of mine?" asked Gavin, amazed at his late presumption, "whether you are a gypsy or no?" "None whatever." "And as for the ring--" Here he gave her an opportunity of allowing that his curiosity about the ring was warranted. She declined to help him, however, and so he had to go on. "The ring is yours," he said, "and why should you not wear it?" "Why, indeed?" "I am afraid I have a very bad temper." He paused for a contradiction, but she nodded her head in agreement. "And it is no wonder," he continued, "that you think me a--a brute." "I'm sure it is not." "But, Babbie, I want you to know that I despise myself for my base suspicions. No sooner did I see them than I loathed them and myself for harbouring them. Despite this mystery, I look upon you as a noble-hearted girl. I shall always think of you so." This time Babbie did not reply. "That was all I had to say," concluded Gavin, "except that I hope you will not punish Nanny for my sins. Good-bye." "Good-bye," said the Egyptian, who was looking at the well. The minister's legs could not have heard him give the order to march, for they stood waiting. "I thought," said the Egyptian, after a moment, "that you said you were going." "I was only--brushing my hat," Gavin answered with dignity. "You want me to go?" She bowed, and this time he did set off. "You can go if you like," she remarked now. He turned at this. "But you said--" he began, diffidently. "No, I did not," she answered, with indignation. He could see her face at last. "You--you are crying!" he exclaimed, in bewilderment. "Because you are so unfeeling," sobbed Babbie. "What have I said, what have I done?" cried Gavin, in an agony of self-contempt "Oh, that I had gone away at once!" "That is cruel." "What is?" "To say that." "What did I say?" "That you wished you had gone away." "But surely," the minister faltered, "you asked me to go." "How can you say so?" asked the gypsy, reproachfully. Gavin was distracted. "On my word," he said, earnestly, "I thought you did. And now I have made you unhappy. Babbie, I wish I were anybody but myself; I am a hopeless lout." "Now you are unjust," said Babbie, hiding her face. "Again? To you?" "No, you stupid," she said, beaming on him in her most delightful manner, "to yourself!" She gave him both her hands impetuously, and he did not let them go until she added: "I am so glad that you are reasonable at last. Men are so much more unreasonable than women, don't you think?" "Perhaps we are," Gavin said, diplomatically. "Of course you are. Why, every one knows that. Well, I forgive you; only remember, you have admitted that it was all your fault?" She was pointing her finger at him like a schoolmistress, and Gavin hastened to answer-- "You were not to blame at all." "I like to hear you say that," explained the representative of the more reasonable sex, "because it was really all my fault." "No, no." "Yes, it was; but of course I could not say so until you had asked my pardon. You must understand that?" The representative of the less reasonable sex could not understand it, but he agreed recklessly, and it seemed so plain to the woman that she continued confidentially-- "I pretended that I did not want to make it up, but I did." "Did you?" asked Gavin, elated. "Yes, but nothing could have induced me to make the first advance. You see why?" "Because I was so unreasonable?" asked Gavin, doubtfully. "Yes, and nasty. You admit you were nasty?" "Undoubtedly, I have an evil temper. It has brought me to shame many times." "Oh, I don't know," said the Egyptian, charitably. "I like it. I believe I admire bullies." "Did I bully you?" "I never knew such a bully. You quite frightened me." Gavin began to be less displeased with himself. "You are sure," inquired Babbie, "that you had no right to question me about the ring?" "Certain," answered Gavin. "Then I will tell you all about it," said Babbie, "for it is natural that you should want to know." He looked eagerly at her, and she had become serious and sad. "I must tell you at the same time," she said, "who I am, and then- -then we shall never see each other any more." "Why should you tell me?" cried Gavin, his hand rising to stop her. "Because you have a right to know," she replied, now too much in earnest to see that she was yielding a point. "I should prefer not to tell you; yet there is nothing wrong in my secret, and it may make you think of me kindly when I have gone away." "Don't speak in that way, Babbie, after you have forgiven me." "Did I hurt you? It was only because I know that you cannot trust me while I remain a mystery. I know you would try to trust me, but doubts would cross your mind. Yes, they would; they are the shadows that mysteries cast. Who can believe a gypsy if the odds are against her?" "I can," said Gavin; but she shook her head, and so would he had he remembered three recent sermons of his own preaching. "I had better tell you all," she said, with an effort. "It is my turn now to refuse to listen to you," exclaimed Gavin, who was only a chivalrous boy. "Babbie, I should like to hear your story, but until you want to tell it to me I will not listen to it. I have faith in your honour, and that is sufficient." It was boyish, but I am glad Gavin said it; and now Babbie admired something in him that deserved admiration. His faith, no doubt, made her a better woman. "I admit that I would rather tell you nothing just now," she said, gratefully. "You are sure you will never say again that you don't understand me?" "Quite sure," said Gavin, bravely. "And by-and-by you will offer to tell me of your free will?" "Oh, don't let us think of the future," answered Babbie. "Let us be happy for the moment." This had been the Egyptian's philosophy always, but it was ill- suited for Auld Licht ministers, as one of them was presently to discover. "I want to make one confession, though," Babbie continued, almost reluctantly. "When you were so nasty a little while ago, I didn't go back to Nanny's. I stood watching you from behind a tree, and then, for an excuse to come back, I--I poured out the water. Yes, and I told you another lie. I really came back to admit that it was all my fault, if I could not get you to say that it was yours. I am so glad you gave in first." She was very near him, and the tears had not yet dried on her eyes. They were laughing eyes, eyes in distress, imploring eyes. Her pale face, smiling, sad, dimpled, yet entreating forgiveness, was the one prominent thing in the world to him just then. He wanted to kiss her. He would have done it as soon as her eyes rested on his, but she continued without regarding him-- "How mean that sounds! Oh, if I were a man I should wish to be everything that I am not, and nothing that I am. I should scorn to be a liar, I should choose to be open in all things, I should try to fight the world honestly. But I am only a woman, and so--well, that is the kind of man I should like to marry." "A minister may be all these things," said Gavin, breathlessly. "The man I could love," Babbie went on, not heeding him, almost forgetting that he was there, "must not spend his days in idleness as the men I know do." "I do not." "He must be brave, no mere worker among others, but a leader of men." "All ministers are." "Who makes his influence felt." "Assuredly." "And takes the side of the weak against the strong, even though the strong be in the right." "Always my tendency." "A man who has a mind of his own, and having once made it up stands to it in defiance even of--" "Of his session." "Of the world. He must understand me." "I do." "And be my master." "It is his lawful position in the house." "He must not yield to my coaxing or tempers." "It would be weakness." "But compel me to do his bidding; yes, even thrash if--" "If you won't listen to reason. Babbie," cried Gavin, "I am that man!" Here the inventory abruptly ended, and these two people found themselves staring at each other, as if of a sudden they had heard something dreadful. I do not know how long they stood thus, motionless and horrified. I cannot tell even which stirred first. All I know is that almost simultaneously they turned from each other and hurried out of the wood in opposite directions. CHAPTER XX. END OF THE STATE OF INDECISION. Long before I had any thought of writing this story, I had told it so often to my little maid that she now knows some of it better than I. If you saw me looking up from my paper to ask her, "What was it that Birse said to Jean about the minister's flowers?" or, "Where was Hendry Munn hidden on the night of the riots?" and heard her confident answers, you would conclude that she had been in the thick of these events, instead of born many years after them. I mention this now because I have reached a point where her memory contradicts mine. She maintains that Rob Dow was told of the meeting in the wood by the two boys whom it disturbed, while my own impression is that he was a witness of it. If she is right, Rob must have succeeded in frightening the boys into telling no other person, for certainly the scandal did not spread in Thrums. After all, however, it is only important to know that Rob did learn of the meeting. Its first effect was to send him sullenly to the drink. Many a time since these events have I pictured what might have been their upshot had Dow confided their discovery to me. Had I suspected why Rob was grown so dour again, Gavin's future might have been very different. I was meeting Rob now and again in the glen, asking, with an affected carelessness he did not bottom, for news of the little minister, but what he told me was only the gossip of the town; and what I should have known, that Thrums might never know it, he kept to himself. I suppose he feared to speak to Gavin, who made several efforts to reclaim him, but without avail. Yet Rob's heart opened for a moment to one man, or rather was forced open by that man. A few days after the meeting at the well, Rob was bringing the smell of whisky with him down Banker's Close when he ran against a famous staff, with which the doctor pinned him to the wall. "Ay," said the outspoken doctor, looking contemptuously into Rob's bleary eyes, "so this is what your conversion amounts to? Faugh! Rob Dow, if you, were half a man the very thought of what Mr. Dishart has done for you would make you run past the public houses." "It's the thocht o' him that sends me running to them," growled Rob, knocking down the staff. "Let me alane." "What do you mean by that?" demanded McQueen, hooking him this time. "Speir at himsel'; speir at the woman." "What woman?" "Take your staff out o' my neck." "Not till you tell me why you, of all people, are speaking against the minister." Torn by a desire for a confidant and loyalty to Gavin, Rob was already in a fury. "Say again," he burst forth, "that I was speaking agin the minister and I'll practise on you what I'm awid to do to her." "Who is she?" "Wha's wha?" "The woman whom the minister--" "I said nothing about a woman," said poor Rob, alarmed for Gavin. "Doctor, I'm ready to swear afore a bailie that I never saw them thegither at the Kaims." "The Kaims!" exclaimed the doctor suddenly enlightened. "Pooh! you only mean the Egyptian. Rob, make your mind easy about this. I know why he met her there." "Do you ken that she has bewitched him; do you ken I saw him trying to put his arms round her; do you ken they have a trysting- place in Caddam wood?" This came from Rob in a rush, and he would fain have called it all back. "I'm drunk, doctor, roaring drunk," he said, hastily, "and it wasna the minister I saw ava; it was another man." Nothing more could the doctor draw from Rob, but he had heard sufficient to smoke some pipes on. Like many who pride themselves on being recluses, McQueen loved the gossip that came to him uninvited; indeed, he opened his mouth to it as greedily as any man in Thrums. He respected Gavin, however, too much to find this new dish palatable, and so his researches to discover whether other Auld Lichts shared Rob's fears were conducted with caution. "Is there no word of your minister's getting a wife yet?" he asked several, but only got for answers, "There's word o' a Glasgow leddy's sending him baskets o' flowers," or "He has his een open, but he's taking his time; ay, he's looking for the blade o' corn in the stack o' chaff." This convinced McQueen that the congregation knew nothing of the Egyptian, but it did not satisfy him, and he made an opportunity of inviting Gavin into the surgery. It was, to the doctor, the cosiest nook in his house, but to me and many others a room that smelled of hearses. On the top of the pipes and tobacco tins that littered the table there usually lay a death certificate, placed there deliberately by the doctor to scare his sister, who had a passion for putting the surgery to rights. "By the way," McQueen said, after he and Gavin had talked a little while, "did I ever advise you to smoke?" "It is your usual form of salutation," Gavin answered, laughing. "But I don't think you ever supplied me with a reason." "I daresay not. I am too experienced a doctor to cheapen my prescriptions in that way. However, here is one good reason. I have noticed, sir, that at your age a man is either a slave to a pipe or to a woman. Do you want me to lend you a pipe now?" "Then I am to understand," asked Gavin, slyly, "that your locket came into your possession in your pre-smoking days, and that you merely wear it from habit?" "Tuts!" answered the doctor, buttoning his coat. "I told you there was nothing in the locket. If there is, I have forgotten what it is." "You are a hopeless old bachelor, I see," said Gavin, unaware that the doctor was probing him. He was surprised next moment to find McQueen in the ecstasies of one who has won a rubber. "Now, then," cried the jubilant doctor, "as you have confessed so much, tell me all about her. Name and address, please." "Confess! What have I confessed?" "It won't do, Mr. Dishart, for even your face betrays you. No, no, I am an old bird, but I have not forgotten the ways of the fledgelings. 'Hopeless bachelor,' sir, is a sweetmeat in every young man's mouth until of a sudden he finds it sour, and that means the banns. When is it to be?" "We must find the lady first," said the minister, uncomfortably. "You tell me, in spite of that face, that you have not fixed on her?" "The difficulty, I suppose, would be to persuade her to fix on me." "Not a bit of it. But you admit there is some one?" "Who would have me?" "You are wriggling out of it. Is it the banker's daughter?" "No," Gavin cried. "I hear you have walked up the back wynd with her three times this week. The town is in a ferment about it." "She is a great deal in the back wynd." "Fiddle-de-dee! I am oftener in the back wynd than you, and I never meet her there." "That is curious." "No, it isn't, but never mind. Perhaps you have fallen to Miss Pennycuick's piano? Did you hear it going as we passed the house?" "She seems always to be playing on her piano." "Not she; but you are supposed to be musical, and so when she sees you from her window she begins to thump. If I am in the school wynd and hear the piano going, I know you will turn the corner immediately. However, I am glad to hear it is not Miss Pennycuick. Then it is the factor at the Spittal's lassie? Well done, sir. You should arrange to have the wedding at the same time as the old earl's, which comes off in summer, I believe." "One foolish marriage is enough in a day, doctor." "Eh? You call him a fool far marrying a young wife? Well, no doubt he is, but he would have been a bigger fool to marry an old one. However, it is not Lord Rintoul we are discussing, but Gavin Dishart. I suppose you know that the factor's lassie is an heiress?" "And, therefore, would scorn me." "Try her," said the doctor, drily. "Her father and mother, as I know, married on a ten-pound note. But if I am wrong again, I must adopt the popular view in Thrums. It is a Glasgow lady after all? Man, you needn't look indignant at hearing that the people are discussing your intended. You can no more stop it than a doctor's orders could keep Lang Tammas out of church. They have discovered that she sends you flowers twice every week." "They never reach me," answered Gavin, then remembered the holly and winced. "Some," persisted the relentless doctor, "even speak of your having been seen together; but of course, if she is a Glasgow lady, that is a mistake." "Where did they see us?" asked Gavin, with a sudden trouble in his throat. "You are shaking," said the doctor, keenly, "like a medical student at his first operation. But as for the story that you and the lady have been seen together, I can guess how it arose. Do you remember that gypsy girl?" The doctor had begun by addressing the fire, but he suddenly wheeled round and fired his question in the minister's face. Gavin, however, did not even blink. "Why should I have forgotten her?" he replied, coolly. "Oh, in the stress of other occupations. But it was your getting the money from her at the Kaims for Nanny that I was to speak of. Absurd though it seems, I think some dotard must have seen you and her at the Kaims, and mistaken her for the lady." McQueen flung himself back in his chair to enjoy this joke. "Fancy mistaking that woman for a lady!" he said to Gavin, who had not laughed with him. "I think Nanny has some justification for considering her a lady," the minister said, firmly. "Well, I grant that. But what made me guffaw was a vision of the harum-scarum, devil-may-care little Egyptian mistress of an Auld Licht manse!" "She is neither harum-scarum nor devil-may-care," Gavin answered, without heat, for he was no longer a distracted minister. "You don't understand her as I do." "No, I seem to understand her differently. "What do you know of her?" "That is just it," said the doctor, irritated by Gavin's coolness. "I know she saved Nanny from the poor-house, but I don't know where she got the money. I know she can talk fine English when she chooses, but I don't know where she learned it. I know she heard that the soldiers were coming to Thrums before they knew of their destination themselves, but I don't know who told her. You who understand her can doubtless explain these matters?" "She offered to explain them to me," Gavin answered, still unmoved, "but I forbade her." "Why?" "It is no business of yours, doctor. Forgive me for saying so." "In Thrums," replied McQueen, "a minister's business is everybody's business. I have often wondered who helped her to escape from the soldiers that night. Did she offer to explain that to you?" "She did not." "Perhaps," said the doctor, sharply, "because it was unnecessary?" "That was the reason." "You helped her to escape?" "I did." "And you are not ashamed of it?" "I am not." "Why were you so anxious to screen her?" "She saved some of my people from gaol." "Which was more than they deserved." "I have always understood that you concealed two of them in your own stable." "Maybe I did," the doctor had to allow. "But I took my stick to them next morning. Besides, they were Thrums folk, while you had never set eyes on that imp of mischief before." "I cannot sit here, doctor, and hear her called names," Gavin said, rising, but McQueen gripped him by the shoulder. "For pity's sake, sir, don't let us wrangle like a pair of women. I brought you here to speak my mind to you, and speak it I will. I warn you, Mr. Dishart, that you are being watched. You have been seen meeting this lassie in Caddam as well as at the Kaims." "Let the whole town watch, doctor. I have met her openly." "And why? Oh, don't make Nanny your excuse." "I won't. I met her because I love her." "Are you mad?" cried McQueen. "You speak as if you would marry her." "Yes," replied Gavin, determinedly, "and I mean to do it." The doctor flung up his hands. "I give you up," he said, raging. "I give you up. Think of your congregation, man." "I have been thinking of them, and as soon as I have a right to do so I shall tell them what I have told you." "And until you tell them I will keep your madness to myself, for I warn you that, as soon as they do know, there will be a vacancy in the Auld Licht kirk of Thrums." "She is a woman," said Gavin, hesitating, though preparing to go, "of whom any minister might be proud." "She is a woman," the doctor roared, "that no congregation would stand. Oh, if you will go, there is your hat." Perhaps Gavin's face was whiter as he left the house than when he entered it, but there was no other change. Those who were watching him decided that he was looking much as usual, except that his mouth was shut very firm, from which they concluded that he had been taking the doctor to task for smoking. They also noted that he returned to McQueen's house within half a hour after leaving it, but remained no time. Some explained this second visit by saying that the minister had forgotten his cravat, and had gone back for it. What really sent him back, however, was his conscience. He had said to McQueen that he helped Babbie to escape from the soldiers because of her kindness to his people, and he returned to own that it was a lie. Gavin knocked at the door of the surgery, but entered without waiting for a response. McQueen was no longer stamping through the room, red and furious. He had even laid aside his pipe. He was sitting back in his chair, looking half-mournfully, half- contemptuously, at something in his palm. His hand closed instinctively when he heard the door open, but Gavin had seen that the object was an open locket. "It was only your reference to the thing," the detected doctor said, with a grim laugh, "that made me open it. Forty fears ago, sir, I--Phew! it is forty-two years, and I have not got over it yet." He closed the locket with a snap. "I hope you have come back, Dishart, to speak more rationally?" Gavin told him why he had come back, and the doctor said he was a fool for his pains. "Is it useless, Dishart, to make another appeal to you?" "Quite useless, doctor," Gavin answered, promptly. "My mind is made up at last." CHAPTER XXI. NIGHT--MARGARET--FLASHING OF A LANTERN. That evening the little minister sat silently in his parlour. Darkness came, and with it weavers rose heavy-eyed from their looms, sleepy children sought their mothers, and the gate of the field above the manse fell forward to let cows pass to their byre; the great Bible was produced in many homes, and the ten o'clock bell clanged its last word to the night. Margaret had allowed the lamp to burn low. Thinking that her boy slept, she moved softly to his side and spread her shawl over his knees. He had forgotten her. The doctor's warnings scarcely troubled him. He was Babbie's lover. The mystery of her was only a veil hiding her from other men, and he was looking through it upon the face of his beloved. It was a night of long ago, but can you not see my dear Margaret still as she bends over her son? Not twice in many days dared the minister snatch a moment's sleep from grey morning to midnight, and, when this did happen, he jumped up by-and-by in shame, to revile himself for an idler and ask his mother wrathfully why she had not tumbled him out of his chair? Tonight Margaret was divided between a desire to let him sleep and a fear of his self-reproach when he awoke; and so, perhaps, the tear fell that roused him. "I did not like to waken you," Margaret said, apprehensively. "You must have been very tired, Gavin?" "I was not sleeping, mother," he said, slowly. "I was only thinking." "Ah, Gavin, you never rise from your loom. It is hardly fair that your hands should be so full of other people's troubles." "They only fill one hand, mother; I carry the people's joys in the other hand, and that keeps me erect, like a woman between her pan and pitcher. I think the joys have outweighed the sorrows since we came here." "It has been all joy to me, Gavin, for you never tell me of the sorrows. An old woman has no right to be so happy." "Old woman, mother!" said Gavin. But his indignation was vain. Margaret was an old woman. I made her old before her time. "As for these terrible troubles," he went on, "I forget them the moment I enter the garden and see you at your window. And, maybe, I keep some of the joys from you as well as the troubles." Words about Babbie leaped to his mouth, but with an effort he restrained them. He must not tell his mother of her until Babbie of her free will had told him all there was to tell. "I have been a selfish woman, Gavin." "You selfish, mother!" Gavin said, smiling. "Tell me when you did not think of others before yourself?" "Always, Gavin. Has it not been selfishness to hope that you would never want to bring another mistress to the manse? Do you remember how angry you used to be in Glasgow when I said that you would marry some day?" "I remember," Gavin said, sadly. "Yes; you used to say, 'Don't speak of such a thing, mother, for the horrid thought of it is enough to drive all the Hebrew out of my head.' Was not that lightning just now?" "I did not see it. What a memory you have, mother, for all the boyish things I said." "I can't deny," Margaret admitted with a sigh, "that I liked to hear you speak in that way, though I knew you would go back on your word. You see, you have changed already." "How, mother?" asked Gavin, surprised. "You said just now that those were boyish speeches. Gavin, I can't understand the mothers who are glad to see their sons married; though I had a dozen I believe it would be a wrench to lose one of them. It would be different with daughters. You are laughing, Gavin!" "Yes, at your reference to daughters. Would you not have preferred me to be a girl?" "'Deed I would not," answered Margaret, with tremendous conviction. "Gavin, every woman on earth, be she rich or poor, good or bad, offers up one prayer about her firstborn, and that is, 'May he be a boy!'" "I think you are wrong, mother. The banker's wife told me that there is nothing for which she thanks the Lord so much as that all her children are girls." "May she be forgiven for that, Gavin!" exclaimed Margaret; "though she maybe did right to put the best face on her humiliation. No, no, there are many kinds of women in the world, but there never was one yet that didn't want to begin with a laddie. You can speculate about a boy so much more than about a girl. Gavin, what is it a woman thinks about the day her son is born? yes, and the day before too? She is picturing him a grown man, and a slip of a lassie taking him from her. Ay, that is where the lassies have their revenge on the mothers. I remember as if it were this morning a Harvie fishwife patting your head and asking who was your sweetheart, and I could never thole the woman again. We were at the door of the cottage, and I mind I gripped you up in my arms. You had on a tartan frock with a sash and diamond socks. When I look back, Gavin, it seems to me that you have shot up from that frock to manhood in a single hour." "There are not many mothers like you," Gavin said, laying his hand fondly on Margaret's shoulder. "There are many better mothers, but few such sons. It is easily seen why God could not afford me another. Gavin, I am sure that was lightning." "I think it was; but don't be alarmed, mother." "I am never frightened when you are with me." "And I always will be with you." "Ah, if you were married--" "Do you think," asked Gavin, indignantly, "that it would make any difference to you?" Margaret did not answer. She knew what a difference it would make. "Except," continued Gavin, with a man's obtuseness, "that you would have a daughter as well as a son to love you and take care of you." Margaret could have told him that men give themselves away needlessly who marry for the sake of their mother, but all she said was-- "Gavin, I see you can speak more composedly of marrying now than you spoke a year ago. If I did not know better, I should think a Thrums young lady had got hold of you." It was a moment before Gavin replied: then he said, gaily-- "Really, mother, the way the best of women speak of each other is lamentable. You say I should be better married, and then you take for granted that every marriageable woman in the neighbourhood is trying to kidnap me. I am sure you did not take my father by force in that way." He did not see that Margaret trembled at the mention of his father. He never knew that she was many times pining to lay her head upon his breast and tell him of me. Yet I cannot but believe that she always shook when Adam Dishart was spoken of between them. I cannot think that the long-cherishing of the secret which was hers and mine kept her face steady when that horror suddenly confronted her as now. Gavin would have suspected much had, he ever suspected anything. "I know," Margaret said, courageously, "that you would be better married; but when it comes to selecting the woman I grow fearful. O Gavin!" she said, earnestly, "it is an awful thing to marry the wrong man!" Here in a moment had she revealed much, though far from all, and there must have been many such moments between them. But Gavin was thinking of his own affairs. "You mean the wrong woman, don't you, mother?" he said, and she hastened to agree. But it was the wrong man she meant. "The difficulty, I suppose, is to hit upon the right one?" Gavin said, blithely. "To know which is the right one in time," answered Margaret, solemnly. "But I am saying nothing against the young ladies of Thrums, Gavin. Though I have scarcely seen them, I know there are good women among them. Jean says---" "I believe, mother," Gavin interposed, reproachfully, "that you have been questioning Jean about them?" "Just because I was afraid--I mean because I fancied--you might be taking a liking to one of them." "And what is Jean's verdict?" "She says every one of them would jump at you, like a bird at a berry." "But the berry cannot be divided. How would Miss Pennycuick please you, mother?" "Gavin!" cried Margaret, in consternation, "you don't mean to--But you are laughing at me again." "Then there is the banker's daughter?" "I can't thole her." "Why, I question if you ever set eyes on her, mother." "Perhaps not, Gavin; but I have suspected her ever since she offered to become one of your tract distributors." "The doctor," said Gavin, not ill-pleased, "was saying that either of these ladies would suit me." "What business has he," asked Margaret, vindictively, "to put such thoughts into your head?" "But he only did as you are doing. Mother, I see you will never be satisfied without selecting the woman for me yourself." "Ay, Gavin," said Margaret, earnestly; "and I question if I should be satisfied even then. But I am sure I should be a better guide to you than Dr. McQueen is." "I am convinced of that. But I wonder what sort of woman would content you?" "Whoever pleased you, Gavin, would content me," Margaret ventured to maintain. "You would only take to a clever woman." "She must be nearly as clever as you, mother." "Hoots, Gavin," said Margaret, smiling, "I'm not to be caught with chaff. I am a stupid, ignorant woman." "Then I must look out for a stupid, ignorant woman, for that seems to be the kind I like," answered Gavin, of whom I may confess here something that has to be told sooner or later. It is this: he never realised that Babbie was a great deal cleverer than himself. Forgive him, you who read, if you have any tolerance for the creature, man. "She will be terribly learned in languages," pursued Margaret, "so that she may follow you in your studies, as I have never been able to do." "Your face has helped me more than Hebrew, mother," replied Gavin. "I will give her no marks for languages." "At any rate," Margaret insisted, "she must be a grand housekeeper, and very thrifty." "As for that," Gavin said, faltering a little, "one can't expect it of a mere girl." "I should expect it," maintained his mother. "No, no; but she would have you," said Gavin, happily, "to teach her housekeeping." "It would be a pleasant occupation to me, that," Margaret admitted. "And she would soon learn; she would be so proud of her position as mistress of a manse." "Perhaps," Gavin said, doubtfully. He had no doubt on the subject in his college days. "And we can take for granted," continued his mother, "that she is a lassie of fine character." "Of course," said Gavin, holding his head high, as if he thought the doctor might be watching him. "I have thought," Margaret went on, "that there was a great deal of wisdom in what you said at that last marriage in the manse, the one where, you remember, the best man and the bridesmaid joined hands instead of the bride and bridegroom." "What did I say?" asked the little minister, with misgivings. "That there was great danger when people married out of their own rank of life." "Oh--ah--well, of course, that would depend on circumstances." "They were wise words, Gavin. There was the sermon, too, that you preached a month or two ago against marrying into other denominations. Jean told me that it greatly impressed the congregation. It is a sad sight, as you said, to see an Auld Licht lassie changing her faith because her man belongs to the U. P.'s." "Did I say that?" "You did, and it so struck Jean that she told me she would rather be an old maid for life, 'the which,' she said, 'is a dismal prospect,' than marry out of the Auld Licht kirk." "It is harmless," Gavin answered, going to the window. He started back next moment, and crying, "Don't look out, mother," hastily pulled down the blind. "Why, Gavin," Margaret said in fear, "you look as if it had struck you." "Oh, no," Gavin answered, with a forced laugh, and he lit her lamp for her. But it had struck him, though it was not lightning. It was the flashing of a lantern against the window to attract his attention, and the holder of the lantern was Babbie. "Good-night, mother." "Good-night, Gavin. Don't sit up any later." Tammas, though he is so obstinate, has a love for you passing the love of woman. These were her words. Jean is more sentimental than you might think." "I wish he would show his love," said Gavin, "by contradicting me less frequently." "You have Rob Dow to weigh against him." "No; I cannot make out what has come over Rob lately. He is drinking heavily again, and avoiding me. The lightning is becoming very vivid." "Yes, and I hear no thunder. There is another thing, Gavin. I am one of those that like to sit at home, but if you had a wife she would visit the congregation. A truly religious wife would be a great help to you." "Religious," Gavin repeated slowly. "Yes, but some people are religious without speaking of it. If a woman is good she is religious. A good woman who has been, let us say, foolishly brought up, only needs to be shown the right way to tread it. Mother, I question if any man, minister or layman, ever yet fell in love because the woman was thrifty, or clever, or went to church twice on Sabbath." "I believe that is true," Margaret said, "and I would not have it otherwise. But it is an awful thing, Gavin, as you said from the pulpit two weeks ago, to worship only at a beautiful face." "You think too much about what I say in the pulpit, mother," Gavin said, with a sigh, "though of course a man who fell in love merely with a face would be a contemptible creature. Yet I see that women do not understand how beauty affects a man." "Yes, yes, my boy--oh, indeed, they do," said Margaret, who on some matters knew far more than her son. Twelve o'clock struck, and she rose to go to bed, alarmed lest she should not waken early in the morning. "But I am afraid I shan't sleep," she said, "if that lightning continues." "It is harmless," Gavin answered, going to the window. He started back next moment, and crying, "Don't look out, mother," hastily pulled down the blind. "Why, Gavin," Margaret said in fear, "you look as if it had struck you." "Oh, no," Gavin answered, with a forced laugh, and he lit her lamp for her. But it had struck him, though it was not lightning. It was the flashing of a lantern against the window to attract his attention, and the holder of the lantern was Babbie. "Good-night, mother." "Good-night, Gavin. Don't sit up any later." CHAPTER XXII. LOVERS. Only something terrible, Gavin thought, could have brought Babbie to him at such an hour; yet when he left his mother's room it was to stand motionless on the stair, waiting for a silence in the manse that would not come. A house is never still in darkness to those who listen intently; there is a whispering in distant chambers, an unearthly hand presses the snib of the window, the latch rises. Ghosts were created when the first man woke in the night. Now Margaret slept. Two hours earlier, Jean, sitting on the salt- bucket, had read the chapter with which she always sent herself to bed. In honour of the little minister she had begun her Bible afresh when he came to Thrums, and was progressing through it, a chapter at night, sighing, perhaps, on washing days at a long chapter, such as Exodus twelfth, but never making two of it. The kitchen wag-at-the-wall clock was telling every room in the house that she had neglected to shut her door. As Gavin felt his way down the dark stair, awakening it into protest at every step, he had a glimpse of the pendulum's shadow running back and forward on the hearth; he started back from another shadow on the lobby wall, and then seeing it start too, knew it for his own. He opened the door and passed out unobserved; it was as if the sounds and shadows that filled the manse were too occupied with their game to mind an interloper. "Is that you?" he said to a bush, for the garden was in semi- darkness. Then the lantern's flash met him, and he saw the Egyptian in the summer-seat. "At last!" she said, reproachfully. "Evidently a lantern is a poor door-bell." "What is it?" Gavin asked, in suppressed excitement, for the least he expected to hear was that she was again being pursued for her share in the riot. The tremor in his voice surprised her into silence, and he thought she faltered because what she had to tell him was so woeful. So, in the darkness of the summer-seat, he kissed her, and she might have known that with that kiss the little minister was hers forever. Now Babbie had been kissed before, but never thus, and she turned from Gavin, and would have liked to be alone, for she had begun to know what love was, and the flash that revealed it to her laid bare her own shame, so that her impulse was to hide herself from her lover. But of all this Gavin was unconscious, and he repeated his question. The lantern was swaying in her hand, and when she turned fearfully to him its light fell on his face, and she saw how alarmed he was. "I am going away back to Nanny's," she said suddenly, and rose cowed, but he took her hand and held her. "Babbie," he said, huskily, "tell me what has happened to bring you here at this hour." She sought to pull her hand from him, but could not. "How you are trembling!" he whispered. "Babbie," he cried, "something terrible has happened to you, but do not fear. Tell me what it is, and then--then I will take you to my mother: yes, I will take you now." The Egyptian would have given all she had in the world to be able to fly from him then, that he might never know her as she was, but it could not be, and so she spoke out remorselessly. If her voice had become hard, it was a new-born scorn of herself that made it so. "You are needlessly alarmed," she said; "I am not at all the kind of person who deserves sympathy or expects it. There is nothing wrong. I am staying with Nanny over-night, and only came to Thrums to amuse myself. I chased your policeman down the Roods with my lantern, and then came here to amuse myself with you. That is all." "It was nothing but a love of mischief that brought you here?" Gavin asked, sternly, after an unpleasant pause. "Nothing," the Egyptian answered, recklessly. "I could not have believed this of you," the minister said; "I am ashamed of you." "I thought," Babbie retorted, trying to speak lightly until she could get away from him, "that you would be glad to see me. Your last words in Caddam seemed to justify that idea." "I am very sorry to see you," he answered, reproachfully. "Then I will go away at one," she said, stepping out of the summer-seat. "Yes," he replied, "you must go at once." "Then I won't," she said, turning back defiantly. "I know what you are to say: that the Thrums people would be shocked if they knew I was here; as if I cared what the Thrums people think of me." "I care what they think of you," Gavin said, as if that were decisive, "and I tell you I will not allow you to repeat this freak." "You 'will not allow me,'" echoed Babbie, almost enjoying herself, despite her sudden loss of self-respect, "I will not," Gavin said, resolutely. "Henceforth you must do as I think fit." "Since when have you taken command of me?" demanded Babbie. "Since a minute ago," Gavin replied, "when you let me kiss you." "Let you!" exclaimed Babbie, now justly incensed. "You did it yourself. I was very angry." "No, you were not." "I am not allowed to say that even?" asked the Egyptian. "Tell me something I may say, then, and I will repeat it after you." "I have something to say to you," Gavin told her, after a moment's reflection; "yes, and there is something I should like to hear you repeat after me, but not to-night." "I don't want to hear what it is," Babbie said, quickly, but she knew what it was, and even then, despite the new pain at her heart, her bosom swelled with pride because this man still loved her. Now she wanted to run away with his love for her before he could take it from her, and then realising that this parting must be forever, a great desire filled her to hear him put that kiss into words, and she said, faltering: "You can tell me what it is if you like." "Not to-night," said Gavin. "To-night, if at all," the gypsy almost entreated. "To-morrow, at Nanny's," answered Gavin, decisively: and this time he remembered without dismay that the morrow was the Sabbath. In the fairy tale the beast suddenly drops his skin and is a prince, and I believed it seemed to Babbie that some such change had come over this man, her plaything. "Your lantern is shining on my mother's window," were the words that woke her from this discovery, and then she found herself yielding the lantern to him. She became conscious vaguely that a corresponding change was taking place in herself. "You spoke of taking me to your mother," she said, bitterly. "Yes," he answered at once, "to-morrow"; but she shook her head, knowing that to-morrow he would be wiser. "Give me the lantern," she said, in a low voice, "I am going back to Nanny's now." "Yes," he said, "we must set out now, but I can carry the lantern." "You are not coming with me!" she exclaimed, shaking herself free of his hand. "I am coming," he replied, calmly, though he was not calm. "Take my arm, Babbie." She made a last effort to free herself from bondage, crying passionately, "I will not let you come." "When I say I am coming," Gavin answered between his teeth, "I mean that I am coming, and so let that be an end of this folly. Take my arm." "I think I hate you," she said, retreating from him. "Take my arm," he repeated, and, though her breast was rising rebelliously, she did as he ordered, and so he escorted her from the garden. At the foot of the field she stopped, and thought to frighten him by saying, "What would the people say if they saw you with me now?" "It does not much matter what they would say," he answered, still keeping his teeth together as if doubtful of their courage. "As for what they would do, that is certain; they would put me out of my church." "And it is dear to you?" "Dearer than life." "You told me long ago that your mother's heart would break if----" "Yes, I am sure it would." They had begun to climb the fields, but she stopped him with a jerk. "Go back, Mr. Dishart," she implored, clutching his arm with both hands. "You make me very unhappy for no purpose. Oh, why should you risk so much for me?" "I cannot have you wandering here alone at midnight," Gavin answered, gently. "That is nothing to me," she said, eagerly, but no longer resenting his air of proprietorship. "You will never do it again if I can prevent it." "But you cannot," she said, sadly. "Oh, yes, you can, Mr. Dishart. If you will turn back now I shall promise never to do anything again without first asking myself whether it would seem right to you. I know I acted very wrongly to-night." "Only thoughtlessly," he said. "Then have pity on me," she besought him, "and go back. If I have only been thoughtless, how can you punish me thus? Mr. Dishart," she entreated, her voice breaking, "if you were to suffer for this folly of mine, do you think I could live?" "We are in God's hands, dear," he answered, firmly, and he again drew her arm to him. So they climbed the first field, and were almost at the hill before either spoke again. "Stop," Babbie whispered, crouching as she spoke; "I see some one crossing the hill." "I have seen him for some time," Gavin answered, quietly; "but I am doing no wrong, and I will not hide." The Egyptian had to walk on with him, and I suppose she did not think the less of him for that. Yet she said, warningly-- "If he sees you, all Thrums will be in an uproar before morning." "I cannot help that," Gavin replied. "It is the will of God." "To ruin you for my sins?" "If He thinks fit." The figure drew nearer, and with every step Babbie's distress doubled. "We are walking straight to him," she whispered. "I implore you to wait here until he passes, if not for your own sake, for your mother's." At that he wavered, and she heard his teeth sliding against each other, as if he could no longer clench them. "But, no," he said moving on again, "I will not be a skulker from any man. If it be God's wish that I should suffer for this, I must suffer." "Oh, why," cried Babbie, beating her hands together in grief, "should you suffer for me?" "You are mine," Gavin answered. Babbie gasped. "And if you act foolishly," he continued, "it is right that I should bear the brunt of it. No, I will not let you go on alone; you are not fit to be alone. You need some one to watch over you and care for you and love you, and, if need be, to suffer with you." "Turn back, dear, before he sees us." "He has seen us." Yes, I had seen them, for the figure on the hill was no other than the dominie of Glen Quharity. The park gate clicked as it swung to, and I looked up and saw Gavin and the Egyptian. My eyes should have found them sooner, but it was to gaze upon Margaret's home, while no one saw me, that I had trudged into Thrums so late, and by that time, I suppose, my eyes were of little service for seeing through. Yet, when I knew that of these two people suddenly beside me on the hill one was the little minister and the other a strange woman, I fell back from their side with dread before I could step forward and cry "Gavin!" "I am Mr. Dishart," he answered, with a composure that would not have served him for another sentence. He was more excited than I, for the "Gavin" fell harmlessly on him, while I had no sooner uttered it than there rushed through me the shame of being false to Margaret. It was the only time in my life that I for-got her in him, though he has ever stood next to her in my regard. I looked from Gavin to the gypsy woman, and again from her to him, and she began to tell a lie in his interest. But she got no farther than "I met Mr. Dis-bart accid--" when she stopped, ashamed. It was reverence for Gavin that checked the lie. Not every man has had such a compliment paid him. "It is natural," Gavin said, slowly, "that you, sir, should wonder why I am here with this woman at such an hour, and you may know me so little as to think ill of me for it." I did not answer, and he misunderstood my silence. "No," he continued, in a harder voice, as if I had asked him a question, "I will explain nothing to you. You are not my judge. If you would do me harm, sir, you have it in your power." It was with these cruel words that Gavin addressed me. He did not know how cruel they were. The Egyptian, I think, must have seen that his suspicions hurt me, for she said, softly, with a look of appeal in her eyes-- "You are the schoolmaster in Glen Quharity? Then you will perhaps save Mr. Dishart the trouble of coming farther by showing me the way to old Nanny Webster's house at Windyghoul?" "I have to pass the house at any rate," I answered eagerly, and she came quickly to my side. I knew, though in the darkness I could see but vaguely, that Gavin was holding his head high and waiting for me to say my worst. I had not told him that I dared think no evil of him, and he still suspected me. Now I would not trust myself to speak lest I should betray Margaret, and yet I wanted him to know that base doubts about him could never find a shelter in me. I am a timid man who long ago lost the glory of my life by it, and I was again timid when I sought to let Gavin see that my faith in him was unshaken. I lifted my bonnet to the gypsy, and asked her to take my arm. It was done clumsily, I cannot doubt, but he read my meaning and held out his hand to me. I had not touched it since he was three years old, and I trembled too much to give it the grasp I owed it. He and I parted without a word, but to the Egyptian he said, "To- morrow, dear, I will see you at Nanny's," and he was to kiss her, but I pulled her a step farther from him, and she put her hands over her face, crying, "No, no!" If I asked her some questions between the hill and Windyghoul you must not blame me, for this was my affair as well as theirs. She did not answer me; I know now that she did not hear me. But at the mud house she looked abruptly into my face, and said-- "You love him, too!" I trudged to the school-house with these words for company, and it was less her discovery than her confession that tortured me. How much I slept that night you may guess. CHAPTER XXIII. CONTAINS A BIRTH, WHICH IS SUFFICIENT FOR ONE CHAPTER. "The kirk bell will soon be ringing," Nanny said on the following morning, as she placed herself carefully on a stool, one hand holding her Bible and the other wandering complacently over her aged merino gown. "Ay, lassie, though you're only an Egyptian I would hae ta'en you wi' me to hear Mr. Duthie, but it's speiring ower muckle o' a woman to expect her to gang to the kirk in her ilka day claethes." The Babbie of yesterday would have laughed at this, but the new Babbie sighed. "I wonder you don't go to Mr. Dishart's church now. Nanny," she said, gently. "I am sure you prefer him." "Babbie, Babbie," exclaimed Nanny, with spirit, "may I never be so far left to mysel' as to change my kirk just because I like another minister better! It's easy seen, lassie, that you ken little o' religious questions." "Very little," Babbie admitted, sadly. "But dinna ba so waeful about it," the old woman continued, kindly, "for that's no nane like you. Ay, and if you see muckle mair o' Mr. Dishart he'll soon cure your ignorance." "I shall not see much more of him," Babbie answered, with averted head. "The like o' you couldna expect it," Nanny said, simply, whereupon Babbie went to the window. "I had better be stepping," Nanny said, rising, "for I am aye late unless I'm on the hill by the time the bell begins. Ay, Babbie, I'm doubting my merino's no sair in the fashion?" She looked down at her dress half despondently, and yet with some pride. "It was fowerpence the yard, and no less," she went on, fondling the worn merino, "when we bocht it at Sam'l Curr's. Ay, but it has been turned sax times since syne." She sighed, and Babbie came to her and put her arms round her, saying, "Nanny, you are a dear." "I'm a gey auld-farrant-looking dear, I doubt," said Nanny, ruefully. "Now, Nanny," rejoined Babbie, "you are just wanting me to flatter you. You know the merino looks very nice." "It's a guid merino yet," admitted the old woman, "but, oh, Babbie, what does the material matter if the cut isna fashionable? It's fine, isn't it, to be in the fashion?" She spoke so wistfully that, instead of smiling, Babbie kissed her. "I am afraid to lay hand on the merino, Nanny, but give me off your bonnet and I'll make it ten years younger in as many minutes." "Could you?" asked Nanny, eagerly, unloosening her bonnet-strings. "Mercy on me!" she had to add; "to think about altering bonnets on the Sabbath-day! Lassie, how could you propose sic a thing?" "Forgive me, Nanny," Babbie replied, so meekly that the old woman looked at her curiously. "I dinna understand what has come ower you," she said. "There's an unca difference in you since last nicht. I used to think you were mair like a bird than a lassie, but you've lost a' your daft capers o' singing and lauching, and I take ill wi't. Twa or three times I've catched you greeting. Babbie, what has come ower you?" "Nothing, Nanny. I think I hear the bell." Down in Thrums two kirk-officers had let their bells loose, waking echoes in Windyghoul as one dog in country parts sets all the others barking, but Nanny did not hurry off to church. Such a surprising notion had filled her head suddenly that she even forgot to hold her dress off the floor. "Babbie," she cried, in consternation, "dinna tell me you've gotten ower fond o' Mr. Dishart." "The like of me, Nanny!" the gypsy answered, with affected raillery, but there was a tear in her eye. "It would be a wild, presumptious thing," Nanny said, "and him a grand minister, but--" Babbie tried to look her in the face, but failed, and then all at once there came back to Nanny the days when she and her lover wandered the hill together. "Ah, my dawtie," she cried, so tenderly, "what does it matter wha he is when you canna help it!" Two frail arms went round the Egyptian, and Babbie rested her head on the old woman's breast. But do you think it could have happened had not Nanny loved a weaver two-score years before? And now Nanny has set off for church and Babbie is alone in the mud house. Some will pity her not at all, this girl who was a dozen women in the hour, and all made of impulses that would scarce stand still to be photographed. To attempt to picture her at any time until now would have been like chasing a spirit that changes to something else as your arms clasp it; yet she has always seemed a pathetic little figure to me. If I understand Babbie at all, it is, I think, because I loved Margaret, the only woman I have ever known well, and one whose nature was not, like the Egyptian's, complex, but most simple, as if God had told her only to be good. Throughout my life since she came into it she has been to me a glass in which many things are revealed that I could not have learned save through her, and something of all womankind, even of bewildering Babbie, I seem to know because I knew Margaret. No woman is so bad but we may rejoice when her heart thrills to love, for then God has her by the hand. There is no love but this. She may dream of what love is, but it is only of a sudden that she knows. Babbie, who was without a guide from her baby days, had dreamed but little of it, hearing its name given to another thing. She had been born wild and known no home; no one had touched her heart except to strike it, she had been educated, but never tamed; her life had been thrown strangely among those who were great in the world's possessions, but she was not of them. Her soul was in such darkness that she had never seen it; she would have danced away cynically from the belief that there is such a thing, and now all at once she had passed from disbelief to knowledge. Is not love God's doing? To Gavin He had given something of Himself, and the moment she saw it the flash lit her own soul. It was but little of his Master that was in Gavin, but far smaller things have changed the current of human lives; the spider's thread that strikes our brow on a country road may do that. Yet this I will say, though I have no wish to cast the little minister on my pages larger than he was, that he had some heroic hours in Thrums, of which one was when Babbie learned to love him. Until the moment when he kissed her she had only conceived him a quaint fellow whose life was a string of Sundays, but behold what she saw in him now. Evidently to his noble mind her mystery was only some misfortune, not of her making, and his was to be the part of leading her away from it into the happiness of the open life. He did not doubt her, for he loved, and to doubt is to dip love in the mire. She had been given to him by God, and he was so rich in her possession that the responsibility attached to the gift was not grievous. She was his, and no mortal man could part them. Those who looked askance at her were looking askance at him; in so far as she was wayward and wild, he was those things; so long as she remained strange to religion, the blame lay on him. All this Babbie read in the Gavin of the past night, and to her it was the book of love. What things she had known, said and done in that holy name! How shamefully have we all besmirched it! She had only known it as the most selfish of the passions, a brittle image that men consulted because it could only answer in the words they gave it to say. But here was a man to whom love was something better than his own desires leering on a pedestal. Such love as Babbie had seen hitherto made strong men weak, but this was a love that made a weak man strong. All her life, strength had been her idol, and the weakness that bent to her cajolery her scorn. But only now was it revealed to her that strength, instead of being the lusty child of passions, grows by grappling with and throwing them. So Babbie loved the little minister for the best that she had ever seen in man. I shall be told that she thought far more of him than he deserved, forgetting the mean in the worthy: but who that has had a glimpse of heaven will care to let his mind dwell henceforth on earth? Love, it is said, is blind, but love is not blind. It is an extra eye, which shows us what is most worthy of regard. To see the best is to see most clearly, and it is the lover's privilege. Down in the Auld Licht kirk that forenoon Gavin preached a sermon in praise of Woman, and up in the mudhouse in Windyghoul Babbie sat alone. But it was the Sabbath day to her: the first Sabbath in her life. Her discovery had frozen her mind for a time, so that she could only stare at it with eyes that would not shut; but that had been in the night. Already her love seemed a thing of years, for it was as old as herself, as old as the new Babbie. It was such a dear delight that she clasped it to her, and exulted over it because it was hers, and then she cried over it because she must give it up. For Babbie must only look at this love and then turn from it. My heart aches for the little Egyptian, but the Promised Land would have remained invisible to her had she not realized that it was only for others. That was the condition of her seeing. CHAPTER XXIV. NEW WORLD, AND THE WOMAN WHO MAY NOT DWELL THEREIN. Up here in the glen school-house after my pupils have straggled home, there comes to me at times, and so sudden that it may be while I am infusing my tea, a hot desire to write great books. Perhaps an hour afterwards I rise, beaten, from my desk, flinging all I have written into the fire (yet rescuing some of it on second thought), and curse myself as an ingle-nook man, for I see that one can only paint what he himself has felt, and in my passion I wish to have all the vices, even to being an impious man, that I may describe them better. For this may I be pardoned. It comes to nothing in the end, save that my tea is brackish. Yet though my solitary life in the glen is cheating me of many experiences, more helpful to a writer than to a Christian, it has not been so tame but that I can understand why Babbie cried when she went into Nanny's garden and saw the new world. Let no one who loves be called altogether unhappy. Even love unreturned has its rainbow, and Babbie knew that Gavin loved her. Yet she stood in woe among the stiff berry bushes, as one who stretches forth her hands to Love and sees him looking for her, and knows she must shrink from the arms she would lie in, and only call to him in a voice he cannot hear. This is not a love that is always bitter. It grows sweet with age. But could that dry the tears of the little Egyptian, who had only been a woman for a day? Much was still dark to her. Of one obstacle that must keep her and Gavin ever apart she knew, and he did not; but had it been removed she would have given herself to him humbly, not in her own longing, but because he wanted her. "Behold what I am," she could have said to him then, and left the rest to him, believing that her unworthiness would not drag him down, it would lose itself so readily in his strength. That Thrums could rise against such a man if he defied it, she did not believe; but she was to learn the truth presently from a child. To most of us, I suppose, has come some shock that was to make us different men from that hour, and yet, how many days elapsed before something of the man we had been leapt up in us? Babbie thought she had buried her old impulsiveness, and then remembering that from the top of the field she might see Gavin returning from church, she hastened to the hill to look upon him from a distance. Before she reached the gate where I had met her and him, however, she stopped, distressed at her selfishness, and asked bitterly, "Why am I so different from other women; why should what is so easy to them be so hard to me?" "Gavin, my beloved!" the Egyptian cried in her agony, and the wind caught her words and flung them in the air, making sport of her. She wandered westward over the bleak hill, and by-and-by came to a great slab called the Standing Stone, on which children often sit and muse until they see gay ladies riding by on palfreys--a kind of horse--and knights in glittering armour, and goblins, and fiery dragons, and other wonders now extinct, of which bare-legged laddies dream, as well as boys in socks. The Standing Stone is in the dyke that separates the hill from a fir wood, and it is the fairy-book of Thrums. If you would be a knight yourself, you must sit on it and whisper to it your desire. Babbie came to the Standing Stone, and there was a little boy astride it. His hair stood up through holes in his bonnet, and he was very ragged and miserable. "Why are you crying, little boy?" Babbie asked him, gently; but he did not look up, and the tongue was strange to him. "How are you greeting so sair?" she asked. "I'm no greeting very sair," he answered, turning his head from her that a woman might not see his tears. "I'm no greeting so sair but what I grat sairer when my mither died." "When did she die?" Babbie inquired. "Lang syne," he answered, still with averted face. "What is your name?" "Micah is my name. Rob Dow's my father." "And have you no brothers nor sisters?" asked Babbie, with a fellow-feeling for him. "No, juist my father," he said. "You should be the better laddie to him then. Did your mither no tell you to be that afore she died?" "Ay," he answered, "she telled me ay to hide the bottle frae him when I could get haed o't. She took me into the bed to make me promise that, and syne she died." "Does your father drina?" "He hauds mair than ony other man in Thrums," Micah replied, almost proudly. "And he strikes you?" Babbie asked, compassionately. "That's a lie," retorted the boy, fiercely. "Leastwise, he doesna strike me except when he's mortal, and syne I can jouk him." "What are you doing there?" "I'm wishing. It's a wishing stane." "You are wishing your father wouldna drink." "No, I'm no," answered Micah. "There was a lang time he didna drink, but the woman has sent him to it again. It's about her I'm wishing. I'm wishing she was in hell." "What woman is it?" asked Babbie, shuddering. "I dinna ken," Micah said, "but she's an ill ane." "Did you never see her at your father's house?" "Na; if he could get grip o' her he would break her ower his knee. I hearken to him saying that, when he's wild. He says she should be burned for a witch." "But if he hates her," asked Babbie, "how can she have sic power ower him?" "It's no him that she has haud o'," replied Micah. still looking away from her. "Wha is it then?" "It's Mr. Dishart." Babbie was struck as if by an arrow from the wood. It was so unexpected that she gave a cry, and then for the first time Micah looked at her. "How should that send your father to the drink?" she asked, with an effort. "Because my father's michty fond o' him," answered Micah, staring strangely at her; "and when the folk ken about the woman, they'll stane the minister out o' Thrums." The wood faded for a moment from the Egyptian's sight. When it came back, the boy had slid off the Standing Stone and was stealing away. "Why do you run frae me?" Babbie asked, pathetically. "I'm fleid at you," he gasped, coming to a standstill at a safe distance: "you're the woman!" Babbie cowered before her little judge, and he drew nearer her slowly. "What makes you think that?" she said. It was a curious time for Babbie's beauty to be paid its most princely compliment. "Because you're so bonny," Micah whispered across the dyke. Her tears gave him courage. "You might gang awa," he entreated. "If you kent what a differ Mr. Dishart made in my father till you came, you would maybe gang awa. When lie's roaring fou I have to sleep in the wood, and it's awful cauld. I'm doubting he'll kill me, woman, if you dinna gang awa." Poor Babbie put her hand to her heart, but the innocent lad continued mercilessly-- "If ony shame comes to the minister, his auld mither'll die. How have you sic an ill will at the minister?" Babbie held up her hands like a supplicant. "I'll gie you my rabbit." Micah said, "if you'll gang awa. I've juist the ane." She shook her head, and, misunderstanding her, he cried, with his knuckles in his eye, "I'll gie you them baith, though I'm michty sweer to part wi' Spotty." Then at last Babbie found her voice. "Keep your rabbits, laddie," she said, "and greet no more. I'm gaen awa." "And you'll never come back no more a' your life?" pleaded Micah. "Never no more a' my life," repeated Babbie. "And ye'll leave the minister alane for ever and ever?" "For ever and ever." Micah rubbed his face dry, and said, "Will you let me stand on the Standing Stane and watch you gaen awa for ever and ever?" At that a sob broke from Babbie's heart, and looking at her doubtfully Micah said-- "Maybe you're gey ill for what you've done?" "Ay," Babbie answered, "I'm gey ill for what I've done." A minute passed, and in her anguish she did not know that still she was standing at the dyke. Micah's voice roused her: "You said you would gang awa, and you're no gaen," Then Babbie went away. The boy watched her across the hill. He climbed the Standing Stone and gazed after her until she was but a coloured ribbon among the broom. When she disappeared into Windyghoul he ran home, joyfully, and told his father what a good day's work he had done. Rob struck him for a fool for taking a gypsy's word, and warned him against speaking of the woman in Thrums. But though Dow believed that Gavin continued to meet the Egyptian secretly, he was wrong. A sum of money for Nanny was sent to the minister, but he could guess only from whom it came. In vain did he search for Babbie. Some months passed and he gave up the search, persuaded that he should see her no more. He went about his duties with a drawn face that made many folk uneasy when it was stern, and pained them when it tried to smile. But to Margaret, though the effort was terrible, he was as he had ever been, and so no thought of a woman crossed her loving breast. CHAPTER XXV. BEGINNING OF THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. I can tell still how the whole of the glen was engaged about the hour of noon on the fourth of August month; a day to be among the last forgotten by any of us, though it began as quietly as a roaring March. At the Spittal, between which and Thrums this is a halfway house, were gathered two hundred men in kilts, and many gentry from the neighboring glens, to celebrate the earl's marriage, which was to take place on the morrow, and thither, too, had gone many of my pupils to gather gossip, at which girls of six are trustier hands than boys of twelve. Those of us, however, who were neither children nor of gentle blood, remained at home, the farmers more taken up with the want of rain, now become a calamity, than with an old man's wedding, and their women-folk wringing their hands for rain also, yet finding time to marvel at the marriage's taking place at the Spittal instead of in England, of which the ignorant spoke vaguely as an estate of the bride's. For my own part I could talk of the disastrous drought with Waster Lunny as I walked over his parched fields, but I had not such cause as he to brood upon it by day and night; and the ins and outs of the earl's marriage were for discussing at a tea-table, where there were women to help one to conclusions, rather than for the reflections of a solitary dominie, who had seen neither bride nor bridegroom. So it must be confessed that when I might have been regarding the sky moodily, or at the Spittal, where a free table that day invited all, I was sitting in the school-house, heeling my left boot, on which I have always been a little hard. I made small speed, not through lack of craft, but because one can no more drive in tackets properly than take cities unless he gives his whole mind to it; and half of mine was at the Auld Licht manse. Since our meeting six months earlier on the hill I had not seen Gavin, but I had heard much of him, and of a kind to trouble me. "I saw nothing queer about Mr. Dishart," was Waster Lunny's frequent story, "till I hearkened to Elspeth speaking about it to the lasses (for I'm the last Elspeth would tell anything to, though I'm her man), and syne I minded I had been noticing it for months. Elspeth says," he would go on, for he could no more forbear quoting his wife than complaining of her, "that the minister'll listen to you nowadays wi' his een glaring at you as if he had a perfectly passionate interest in what you were telling him (though it may be only about a hen wi' the croup), and then, after all, he hasna heard a sylib. Ay, I listened to Elspeth saying that, when she thocht I was at the byre, and yet, would you believe it, when I says to her after lousing times, 'I've been noticing of late that the minister loses what a body tells him,' all she answers is 'Havers.' Tod, but women's provoking." "I allow," Birse said, "that on the first Sabbath o' June month, and again on the third Sabbath, he poured out the Word grandly, but I've ta'en note this curran Sabbaths that if he's no michty magnificent he's michty poor. There's something damming up his mind, and when he gets by it he's a roaring water, but when he doesna he's a despizable trickle. The folk thinks it's a woman that's getting in his way, but dinna tell me that about sic a scholar; I tell you he would gang ower a toon o' women like a loaded cart ower new-laid stanes." Wearyworld hobbled after me up the Roods one day, pelting me with remarks, though I was doing my best to get away from him. "Even Rob Dow sees there's something come ower the minister," he bawled, "for Rob's fou ilka Sabbath now. Ay, but this I will say for Mr. Dishart, that he aye gies me a civil word," I thought I had left the policeman behind with this, but next minute he roared, "And whatever is the matter wi' him it has made him kindlier to me than ever." He must have taken the short cut through Lunan's close, for at the top of the Roods his voice again made up on me. "Dagone you, for a cruel pack to put your fingers to your lugs ilka time I open my mouth." As for Waster Lunny's daughter Easie, who got her schooling free for redding up the school-house and breaking my furniture, she would never have been off the gossip about the minister, for she was her mother in miniature, with a tongue that ran like a pump after the pans are full, not for use but for the mere pleasure of spilling. On that awful fourth of August I not only had all this confused talk in my head but reason for jumping my mind between it and the Egyptian (as if to catch them together unawares), and I was like one who, with the mechanism of a watch jumbled in his hand, could set it going if he had the art. Of the gypsy I knew nothing save what I had seen that night, yet what more was there to learn? I was aware that she loved Gavin and that he loved her. A moment had shown it to me. Now with the Auld Lichts, I have the smith's acquaintance with his irons, and so I could not believe that they would suffer their minister to marry a vagrant. Had it not been for this knowledge, which made me fearful for Margaret, I would have done nothing to keep these two young people apart. Some to whom I have said this maintain that the Egyptian turned my head at our first meeting. Such an argument is not perhaps worth controverting. I admit that even now I straighten under the fire of a bright eye, as a pensioner may salute when he sees a young officer. In the shooting season, should I chance to be leaning over my dyke while English sportsmen pass (as is usually the case if I have seen them approaching), I remember nought of them save that they call me "she," and end their greetings with "whatever" (which Waster Lunny takes to be a southron mode of speech), but their ladies dwell pleasantly in my memory, from their engaging faces to the pretty crumpled thing dangling on their arms, that is a hat or a basket, I am seldom sure which. The Egyptian's beauty, therefore, was a gladsome sight to me, and none the less so that I had come upon it as unexpectedly as some men step into a bog. Had she been alone when I met her I cannot deny that I would have been content to look on her face, without caring what was inside it; but she was with her lover, and that lover was Gavin, and so her face was to me as little for admiring as this glen in a thunderstorm, when I know that some fellow-creature is lost on the hills. If, however, it was no quick liking for the gypsy that almost tempted me to leave these two lovers to each other, what was it? It was the warning of my own life. Adam Dishart had torn my arm from Margaret's, and I had not recovered the wrench in eighteen years. Rather than act his part between these two I felt tempted to tell them, "Deplorable as the result may be, if you who are a minister marry this vagabond, it will be still more deplorable if you do not." But there was Margaret to consider, and at thought of her I cursed the Egyptian aloud. What could I do to keep Gavin and the woman apart? I could tell him the secret of his mother's life. Would that be sufficient? It would if he loved Margaret, as I did not doubt. Pity for her would make him undergo any torture rather than she should suffer again. But to divulge our old connection would entail her discovery of me. and I questioned if even the saving of Gavin could destroy the bitterness of that. I might appeal to the Egyptian. I might tell her even what I shuddered to tell him. She cared for him, I was sure, well enough to have the courage to give him up. But where was I to find her? Were she and Gavin meeting still? Perhaps the change which had come over the little minister meant that they had parted. Yet what I had heard him say to her on the hill warned me not to trust in any such solution of the trouble. Boys play at casting a humming-top into the midst of others on the ground, and if well aimed it scatters them prettily. I seemed to be playing such a game with my thoughts, for each new one sent the others here and there, and so what could I do in the end but fling my tops aside, and return to the heeling of my boot? I was thus engaged when the sudden waking of the glen into life took me to my window. There is seldom silence up here, for if the wind be not sweeping the heather, the Quharity, that I may not have heard for days, seems to have crept nearer to the school- house in the night, and if both wind and water be out of earshot, there is the crack of a gun, or Waster Lunny's shepherd is on a stone near at hand whistling, or a lamb is scrambling through a fence, and kicking foolishly with its hind legs. These sounds I am unaware of until they stop, when I look up. Such a stillness was broken now by music. From my window I saw a string of people walking rapidly down the glen, and Waster Lunny crossing his potato-field to meet them. Remembering that, though I was in my stocking soles, the ground was dry, I hastened to join the farmer, for I like to miss nothing. I saw a curious sight. In front of the little procession coming down the glen road, and so much more impressive than his satellites that they may be put of mind as merely ploughman and the like following a show, was a Highlander that I knew to be Lauchlan Campbell, one of the pipers engaged to lend music to the earl's marriage. He had the name of a thrawn man when sober, but pretty at the pipes at both times, and he came marching down the glen blowing gloriously, as if he had the clan of Campbell at his heels. I know no man who is so capable on occasion of looking like twenty as a Highland piper, and never have I seen a face in such a blaze of passion as was Lauchlan Campbell's that day. His following were keeping out of his reach, jumping back every time he turned round to shake his fist in the direction of the Spittal. While this magnificent man was yet some yards from us, I saw Waster Lunny, who had been in the middle of the road to ask questions, fall back in fear, and not being a fighting man myself, I jumped the dyke. Lauchlan gave me a look that sent me farther into the field, and strutted past, shrieking defiance through his pipes, until I lost him and his followers in a bend of the road. "That's a terrifying spectacle," I heard Waster Lunny say when the music had become but a distant squeal. "You're bonny at louping dykes, dominie, when there is a wild bull in front o' you. Na, I canna tell what has happened, but at the least Lauchlan maun hae dirked the earl. Thae loons cried out to me as they gaed by that he has been blawing awa' at that tune till he canna halt. What a wind's in the crittur! I'm thinking there's a hell in ilka Highlandman." "Take care then, Waster Lunny, that you dinna licht it," said an angry voice that made us jump, though it was only Duncan, the farmer's shepherd, who spoke. "I had forgotten you was a Highlandman yoursel', Duncan," Waster Lunny said nervously; but Elspeth, who had come to us unnoticed, ordered the shepherd to return to the hillside, which he did haughtily. "How did you no lay haud on that blast o' wind, Lauchlan Campbell," asked Elspeth of her husband, "and speir at him what had happened at the Spittal? A quarrel afore a marriage brings ill luck." "I'm thinking," said the farmer, "that Rintoul's making his ain ill luck by marrying on a young leddy." "A man's never ower auld to marry," said Elspeth. "No, nor a woman," rejoined Waster Lunny, "when she gets the chance. But, Elspeth, I believe I can guess what has fired that fearsome piper. Depend upon it, somebody has been speaking disrespectful about the crittur's ancestors." "His ancestors!" exclaimed Elspeth, scornfully. "I'm thinking mine could hae bocht them at a crown the dozen." "Hoots," said the farmer, "you're o' a weaving stock, and dinna understand about ancestors. Take a stick to a Highland laddie, and it's no him you hurt, but his ancestors. Likewise it's his ancestors that stanes you for it. When Duncan stalked awa the now, what think you he saw? He saw a farmer's wife dauring to order about his ancestors; and if that's the way wi' a shepherd, what will it be wi' a piper that has the kilts on him a' day to mind him o' his ancestors ilka time he looks down?" Elspeth retired to discuss the probable disturbance at the Spittal with her family, giving Waster Lunny the opportunity of saying to me impressively-- "Man, man, has it never crossed you that it's a queer thing the like o' you and me having no ancestors? Ay, we had them in a manner o' speaking, no doubt, but they're as completely lost sicht o' as a flagon lid that's fallen ahint the dresser. Hech, sirs, but they would need a gey rubbing to get the rust off them now, I've been thinking that if I was to get my laddies to say their grandfather's name a curran times ilka day, like the Catechism, and they were to do the same wi' their bairns, and it was continued in future generations, we micht raise a fell field o' ancestors in time. Ay, but Elspeth wouldna hear o't. Nothing angers her mair than to hear me speak o' planting trees for the benefit o' them that's to be farmers here after me; and as for ancestors, she would howk them up as quick as I could plant them. Losh, dominie, is that a boot in your hand?" To my mortification I saw that I had run out of the school-house with the boot on my hand as if it were a glove, and back I went straightway, blaming myself for a man wanting in dignity. It was but a minor trouble this, however, even at the time; and to recall it later in the day was to look back on happiness, for though I did not know it yet, Lauchlan's playing raised the curtain on the great act of Gavin's life, and the twenty-four hours had begun, to which all I have told as yet is no more than the prologue. CHAPTER XXVI. SCENE AT THE SPITTAL. Within an hour after I had left him, Waster Lunny walked into the school-house and handed me his snuff-mull, which I declined politely. It was with this ceremony that we usually opened our conversations. "I've seen the post," he said, and he tells me there has been a queer ploy at the Spittal. It's a wonder the marriage hasna been turned into a burial, and all because o' that Highland stirk, Lauchlan Campbell. Waster Lunny was a man who had to retrace his steps in telling a story if he tried short cuts, and so my custom was to wait patiently while he delved through the ploughed fields that always lay between him and his destination. "As you ken, Rintoul's so little o' a Scotchman that he's no muckle better than an Englisher. That maun be the reason he hadna mair sense than to tramp on a Highlandman's ancestors, as he tried to tramp on Lauchlan's this day." "If Lord Rintoul insulted the piper," I suggested, giving the farmer a helping hand cautiously, "it would be through inadvertence. Rintoul only bought the Spittal a year ago, and until then, I daresay, he had seldom been on our side of the Border." This was a foolish, interruption, for it set Walter Lunny off in a new direction. "That's what Elspeth says. Says she, 'When the earl has grand estates in England, what for does he come to a barren place like the Spittal to be married! It's gey like,' she says, 'as if he wanted the marriage to be got by quietly; a thing,' says she, 'that no woman can stand. Furthermore,' Elspeth says, 'how has the marriage been postponed twice?' We ken what the servants at the Spittal says to that, namely, that the young lady is no keen to take him, but Elspeth winna listen to sic arguments. She says either the earl had grown timid (as mony a man does) when the wedding-day drew near, or else his sister that keeps his house is mad at the thocht o' losing her place; but as for the young leddy's being sweer, says Elspeth, 'an earl's an earl however auld he is, and a lassie's a lassie however young she is, and weel she kens you're never sure o' a man's no changing his mind about you till you're tied to him by law, after which it doesna so muckle matter whether he changes his mind about you or no.' Ay, there's a quirk in it some gait, dominie; but it's a deep water Elspeth canna bottom." "It is," I agreed; "but you were to tell me what Birse told you of the disturbance at the Spittal." "Ay, weel." he answered, "the post puts the wite o't on her little leddyship, as they call her, though she winna be a leddyship till the morn. All I can say is that if the earl was saft enough to do sic a thing out of fondness for her, it's time he was married on her, so that he may come to his senses again. That's what I say; but Elspeth conters me, of course, and says she, 'If the young leddy was so careless o' insulting other folks' ancestors, it proves she has nane o' her ain; for them that has china plates themsel's is the maist careful no to break the china plates of others.'" "But what was the insult? Was Lauchlan dismissed?" "Na, faags! It was waur than that. Dominie, you're dull in the uptake compared to Elspeth. I hadna telled her half the story afore she jaloused the rest. However, to begin again; there's great feasting and rejoicings gaen on at the Spittal the now, and also a banquet, which the post says is twa dinners in one. Weel, there's a curran Ogilvys among the guests, and it was them that egged on her little leddyship to make the daring proposal to the earl. What was the proposal? It was no less than that the twa pipers should be ordered to play 'The Bonny House o' Airlie.' Dominie, I wonder you can tak it so calm when you ken that's the Ogilvy's sang, and that it's aimed at the clan o' Campbell." "Pooh!" I said. "The Ogilvys and the Campbells used to be mortal enemies, but the feud has been long forgotten." "Ay, I've heard tell," Waster Lunny said sceptically, "that Airlie and Argyle shakes hands now like Christians; but I'm thinking that's just afore the Queen. Dinna speak now, for I'm in the thick o't. Her little leddyship was all hinging in gold and jewels, the which winna be her ain till the morn; and she leans ower to the earl and whispers to him to get the pipers to play 'The Bonny House.' He wasna willing, for says he, 'There's Ogilvys at the table, and ane o' the pipers is a Campbell, and we'll better let sleeping dogs lie.' However, the Ogilvys lauched at his caution; and he was so infatuated wi' her little leddyship that he gae in, and he cried out to the pipers to strike up 'The Bonny House.'" Waster Lunny pulled his chair nearer me and rested his hand on my knees. "Dominie," he said in a voice that fell now and again into a whisper, "them looking on swears that when Lauchlan Campbell heard these monstrous orders his face became ugly and black, so that they kent in a jiffy what he would do. It's said a' body jumped back frae him in a sudden dread, except poor Angus, the other piper, wha was busy tuning up for 'The Bonny House.' Weel, Angus had got no farther in the tune than the first skirl when Lauchlan louped at him, and ripped up the startled crittur's pipes wi' his dirk. The pipes gae a roar o' agony like a stuck swine, and fell gasping on the floor. What happened next was that Lauchlan wi' his dirk handy for onybody that micht try to stop him, marched once round the table, playing 'The Campbells are Coming,' and then straucht out o' the Spittal, his chest far afore him, and his head so weel back that he could see what was going on ahint. Frae the Spittal to here he never stopped that fearsome tune, and I'se warrant he's blawing away at it at this moment through the streets o' Thrums." Waster Lunny was not in his usual spirits, or he would have repeated his story before he left me, for he had usually as much difficulty in coming to an end as in finding a beginning. The drought was to him as serious a matter as death in the house, and as little to be forgotten for a lengthened period. "There's to be a prayer-meeting for rain in the Auld Licit kirk the night," he told me as I escorted him as far as my side of the Quharity, now almost a dead stream, pitiable to see, "and I'm gaen; though I'm sweer to leave thae puir cattle o' mine. You should see how they look at me when I gie them mair o' that rotten grass to eat. It's eneuch to mak a man greet, for what richt hae I to keep kye when I canna meat them?" Waster Lunny has said to me more than once that the great surprise of his life was when Elspeth was willing to take him. Many a time, however, I have seen that in him which might have made any weaver's daughter proud of such a man, and I saw it again when we came to the river side. "I'm no ane o' thae farmers," he said, truthfully, "that's aye girding at the weather, and Elspeth and me kens that we hae been dealt wi' bountifully since we took this farm wi' gey anxious hearts. That woman, dominie, is eneuch to put a brave face on a coward, and it's no langer syne than yestreen when I was sitting in the dumps, looking at the aurora borealis, which I canna but regard as a messenger o' woe, that she put her hand on my shoulder and she says, 'Waster Lunny, twenty year syne we began life thegither wi' nothing but the claethes on our back, and an it please God we can begin it again, for I hae you and you hae me, and I'm no cast down if you're no.' Dominie, is there mony sic women in the warld as that?" "Many a one," I said. "Ay, man, it shamed me, for I hae a kind o' delight in angering Elspeth, just to see what she'll say. I could hae ta'en her on my knee at that minute, but the bairns was there, and so it wouldna hae dune. But I cheered her up, for, after all, the drought canna put us so far back as we was twenty years syne, unless it's true what my father said, that the aurora borealis is the devil's rainbow. I saw it sax times in July month, and it made me shut my een. You was out admiring it, dominie, but I can never forget that it was seen in the year twelve just afore the great storm. I was only a laddie then, but I mind how that awful wind stripped a' the standing corn in the glen in less time than we've been here at the water's edge. It was called the deil's besom. My father's hinmost words to me was, 'It's time eneuch to greet, laddie, when you see the aurora borealis.' I mind he was so complete ruined in an hour that he had to apply for relief frae the poor's rates. Think o' that, and him a proud man. He would tak' nothing till one winter day when we was a' starving, and syne I gaed wi' him to speir for't, and he telled me to grip his hand ticht, so that the cauldness o' mine micht gie him courage. They were doling out the charity in the Town's House, and I had never been in't afore. I canna look at it now without thinking o' that day when me and my father gaed up the stair thegither. Mr. Duthie was presiding at the time, and he wasna muckle older than Mr. Dishart is now. I mind he speired for proof that we was needing, and my father couldna speak. He just pointed at me. 'But you have a good coat on your back yoursel',' Mr. Duthie said, for there were mony waiting, sair needing. 'It was lended him to come here,' I cried, and without a word my father opened the coat, and they saw he had nothing on aneath, and his skin blue wi' cauld. Dominie, Mr. Duthie handed him one shilling and saxpence, and my father's fingers closed greedily on't for a minute, and syne it fell to the ground. They put it back in his hand, and it slipped out again, and Mr. Duthie gave it back to him, saying, 'Are you so cauld as that?' But, oh, man, it wasna cauld that did it, but shame o' being on the rates. The blood a' ran to my father's head, and syne left it as quick, and he flung down the siller and walked out o' the Town House wi' me running after him. We warstled through that winter, God kens how, and it's near a pleasure to me to think o't now, for, rain or no rain, I can never be reduced to sic straits again." The farmer crossed the water without using the stilts which were no longer necessary, and I little thought, as I returned to the school-house, what terrible things were to happen before he could offer me his snuff-mull again. Serious as his talk had been it was neither of drought nor of the incident at the Spittal that I sat down to think. My anxiety about Gavin came back to me until I was like a man imprisoned between walls of his own building. It may be that my presentiments of that afternoon look gloomier now than they were, because I cannot return to them save over a night of agony, black enough to darken any time connected with it. Perhaps my spirits only fell as the wind rose, for wind ever takes me back to Harvie, and when I think of Harvie my thoughts are of the saddest. I know that I sat for some hours, now seeing Gavin pay the penalty of marrying the Egyptian, and again drifting back to my days with Margaret, until the wind took to playing tricks with me, so that I heard Adam Dishart enter our home by the sea every time the school-house door shook. I became used to the illusion after starting several times, and thus when the door did open, about seven o'clock, it was only the wind rushing to my fire like a shivering dog that made me turn my head. Then I saw the Egyptian staring at me, and though her sudden appearance on my threshold was a strange thing, I forgot it in the whiteness of her face. She was looking at me like one who has asked a question of life or death, and stopped her heart for the reply. "What is it?" I cried, and for a moment I believe I was glad she did not answer. She seemed to have told me already as much as I could bear. "He has not heard," she said aloud in an expressionless voice, and, turning, would have slipped away without another word. "Is any one dead?" I asked, seizing her hands and letting them fall, they were so clammy. She nodded, and trying to speak could not. "He is dead," she said at last in a whisper. "Mr. Dishart is dead," and she sat down quietly. At that I covered my face, crying, "God help Margaret!" and then she rose, saying fiercely, so that I drew back from her, "There is no Margaret; he only cared for me." "She is his mother," I said hoarsely, and then she smiled to me, so that I thought her a harmless mad thing. "He was killed by a piper called Lauchlan Campbell," she said, looking up at me suddenly. "It was my fault." "Poor Margaret!" I wailed. "And poor Babbie," she entreated pathetically; "will no one say, 'Poor Babbie'?" CHAPTER XXVII. FIRST JOURNEY OF THE DOMINIE TO THRUMS DURING THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. "How did it happen?" I asked more than once, but the Egyptian was only with me in the body, and she did not hear. I might have been talking to some one a mile away whom a telescope had drawn near my eyes. When I put on my bonnet, however, she knew that I was going to Thrums, and she rose and walked to the door, looking behind to see that I followed. "You must not come," I said harshly, but her hand started to her heart as if I had shot her, and I added quickly, "Come." We were already some distance on our way before I repeated my question. "What matter how it happened?" she answered piteously, and they were words of which I felt the force. But when she said a little later, "I thought you would say it is not true," I took courage, and forced her to tell me all she knew. She sobbed while she spoke, if one may sob without tears. "I heard of it at the Spittal," she said. "The news broke out suddenly there that the piper had quarrelled with some one in Thrums, and that in trying to separate them Mr. Dishart was stabbed. There is no doubt of its truth." "We should have heard of it here," I said hopefully, "before the news reached the Spittal. It cannot be true." "It was brought to the Spittal," she answered, "by the hill road." Then my spirits sank again, for I knew that this was possible. There is a path, steep but short, across the hills between Thrums and the top of the glen, which Mr. Glendinning took frequently when he had to preach at both places on the same Sabbath. It is still called the Minister's Road. "Yet if the earl had believed it he would have sent some one into Thrums for particulars," I said, grasping at such comfort as I could make. "He does believe it," she answered. "He told me of it himself." You see the Egyptian was careless of her secret now; but what was that secret to me? An hour ago it would have been much, and already it was not worth listening to. If she had begun to tell me why Lord Rintoul took a gypsy girl into his confidence I should not have heard her. "I ran quickly," she said. "Even if a messenger was sent he might be behind me." Was it her words or the tramp of a horse that made us turn our heads at that moment? I know not. But far back in a twist of the road we saw a horseman approaching at such a reckless pace that I thought he was on a runaway. We stopped instinctively, and waited for him, and twice he disappeared in hollows of the road, and then was suddenly tearing down upon us. I recognised in him young Mr. McKenzie, a relative of Rintoul, and I stretched out my arms to compel him to draw up. He misunderstood my motive, and was raising his whip threateningly, when he saw the Egyptian, It is not too much to say that he swayed in the saddle. The horse galloped on, though he had lost hold of the reins. He looked behind until he rounded a corner, and I never saw such amazement mixed with incredulity on a human face. For some minutes I expected to see him coming back, but when he did not I said wonderingly to the Egyptian-- "He knew you." "Did he?" she answered indifferently, and I think we spoke no more until we were in Windyghoul. Soon we were barely conscious of each other's presence. Never since have I walked between the school- house and Thrums in so short a time, nor seen so little on the way. In the Egyptian's eyes, I suppose, was a picture of Gavin lying dead; but if her grief had killed her thinking faculties, mine, that was only less keen because I had been struck down once before, had set all the wheels of my brain in action. For it seemed to me that the hour had come when I must disclose myself to Margaret. I had realised always that if such a necessity did arise it could only be caused by Gavin's premature death, or by his proving a bad son to her. Some may wonder that I could have looked calmly thus far into the possible, but I reply that the night of Adam Dishart's home-coming had made of me a man whom the future could not surprise again. Though I saw Gavin and his mother happy in our Auld Licht manse, that did not prevent my considering the contingencies which might leave her without a son. In the school- house I had brooded over them as one may think over moves on a draught-board. It may have been idle, but it was done that I might know how to act best for Margaret if any thing untoward occurred. The time for such action had come. Gavin's death had struck me hard, but it did not crush me. I was not unprepared. I was going to Margaret now. What did I see as I walked quickly along the glen road, with Babbie silent by my side, and I doubt not pods of the broom cracking all around us? I saw myself entering the Auld Licht manse, where Margaret sat weeping over the body of Gavin, and there was none to break my coming to her, for none but she and I knew what had been. I saw my Margaret again, so fragile now, so thin the wrists, her hair turned grey. No nearer could I go, but stopped at the door, grieving for her, and at last saying her name aloud. I saw her raise her face, and look upon me for the first time for eighteen years. She did not scream at sight of me, for the body of her son lay between us, and bridged the gulf that Adam Dishart had made. I saw myself draw near her reverently and say, "Margaret, he is dead, and that is why I have come back," and I saw her put her arms around my neck as she often did long ago. But it was not to be. Never since that night at Harvie have I spoken to Margaret. The Egyptian and I were to come to Windyghoul before I heard her speak. She was not addressing me. Here Gavin and she had met first, and she was talking of that meeting to herself. "It was there," I heard her say softly, as she gazed at the bush beneath which she had seen him shaking his fist at her on the night of the riots. A little farther on she stopped where a path from Windyghoul sets off for the well in the wood. She looked up it wistfully, and there I left her behind, and pressed on to the mud-house to ask Nanny Webster if the minister was dead. Nanny's gate was swinging in the wind, but her door was shut, and for a moment I stood at it like a coward, afraid to enter and hear the worst. The house was empty. I turned from it relieved, as if I had got a respite, and while I stood in the garden the Egyptian came to me shuddering, her twitching face asking the question that would not leave her lips. "There is no one in the house," I said. "Nanny is perhaps at the well." But the gypsy went inside, and pointing to the fire said, "It has been out for hours. Do you not see? The murder has drawn every one into Thrums." So I feared. A dreadful night was to pass before I knew that this was the day of the release of Sanders Webster, and that frail Nanny had walked into Tilliedrum to meet him at the prison gate. Babbie sank upon a stool, so weak that I doubt whether she heard me tell her to wait there until my return. I hurried into Thrums, not by the hill, though it is the shorter way, but by the Roods, for I must hear all before I ventured to approach the manse. From Windyghoul to the top of the Roods it is a climb and then a steep descent. The road has no sooner reached its highest point than it begins to fall in the straight line of houses called the Roods, and thus I came upon a full view of the street at once. A cart was laboring up it. There were women sitting on stones at their doors, and girls playing at palaulays, and out of the house nearest me came a black figure. My eyes failed me; I was asking so much from them. They made him tall and short, and spare and stout, so that I knew it was Gavin, and yet, looking again, feared, but all the time, I think, I knew it was he. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HILL BEFORE DARKNESS FELL--SCENE OF THE IMPENDING CATASTROPHE. "You are better now?" I heard Gavin ask, presently. He thought that having been taken ill suddenly I had waved to him for help because he chanced to be near. With all my wits about me I might have left him in that belief, for rather would I have deceived him than had him wonder why his welfare seemed so vital to me. But I, who thought the capacity for being taken aback had gone from me, clung to his arm and thanked God audibly that he still lived. He did not tell me then how my agitation puzzled him, but led me kindly to the hill, where we could talk without listeners. By the time we reached it I was again wary, and I had told him what had brought me to Thrums, without mentioning how the story of his death reached my ears, or through whom. "Mr. McKenzie," he said, interrupting me, "galloped all the way from the Spittal on the same errand. However, no one has been hurt much, except the piper himself." Then he told me how the rumor arose. "You know of the incident at the Spittal, and that Campbell marched off in high dudgeon? I understand that he spoke to no one between the Spittal and Thrums, but by the time he arrived here he was more communicative; yes, and thirstier. He was treated to drink in several public-houses by persons who wanted to hear his story, and by-and-by he began to drop hints of knowing something against the earl's bride. Do you know Rob Dow?" "Yes," I answered, "and what you have done for him." "Ah, sir!" he said, sighing, "for a long time I thought I was to be God's instrument in making a better man of Rob, but my power over him went long ago. Ten short months of the ministry takes some of the vanity out of a man." Looking sideways at him I was startled by the unnatural brightness of his eyes. Unconsciously he had acquired the habit of pressing his teeth together in the pauses of his talk, shutting them on some woe that would proclaim itself, as men do who keep their misery to themselves. "A few hours ago," he went on, "I heard Rob's voice in altercation as I passed the Bull tavern, and I had, a feeling that if I failed with him so should I fail always throughout my ministry. I walked into the public-house, and stopped at the door of a room in which Dow and the piper were sitting drinking. I heard Rob saying, fiercely, 'If what you say about her is true, Highlandman, she's the woman I've been looking for this half year and mair; what is she like?' I guessed, from what I had been told of the piper, that they were speaking of the earl's bride; but Rob saw me and came to an abrupt stop, saying to his companion, 'Dinna say another word about her afore the minister.' Rob would have come away at once in answer to my appeal, but the piper was drunk and would not be silenced. 'I'll tell the minister about her, too,' he began. 'You dinna ken what you're doing," Rob roared, and then, as if to save my ears from scandal at any cost, he struck Campbell a heavy blow on the mouth. I tried to intercept the blow, with the result that I fell, and then some one ran out of the tavern crying, 'He's killed!' The piper had been stunned, but the story went abroad that he had stabbed me for interfering with him. That is really all. Nothing, as you know, can overtake an untruth if it has a minute's start." "Where is Campbell now?" "Sleeping off the effect of the blow: but Dow has fled. He was terrified at the shouts of murder, and ran off up the West Town end. The doctor's dogcart was standing at a door there and Rob jumped into it and drove off. They did not chase him far, because he is sure to hear the truth soon, and then, doubtless, he will come back." Though in a few hours we were to wonder at our denseness, neither Gavin nor I saw why Dow had struck the Highlander down rather than let him tell his story in the minister's presence. One moment's suspicion would have lit our way to the whole truth, but of the spring to all Rob's behavior in the past eight months we were ignorant, and so to Gavin the Bull had only been the scene of a drunken brawl, while I forgot to think in the joy of finding him alive. "I have a prayer-meeting for rain presently," Gavin said, breaking a picture that had just appeared unpleasantly before me of Babbie still in agony at Nanny's, "but before I leave you tell me why this rumor caused you such distress." The question troubled me, and I tried to avoid it. Crossing the hill we had by this time drawn near a hollow called the Toad's- hole, then gay and noisy with a caravan of gypsies. They were those same wild Lindsays, for whom Gavin had searched Caddam one eventful night, and as I saw them crowding round their king, a man well known to me, I guessed what they were at. "Mr. Dishart," I said abruptly, "would you like to see a gypsy marriage? One is taking place there just now. That big fellow is the king, and he is about to marry two of his people over the tongs. The ceremony will not detain us five minutes, though the rejoicings will go on all night." I have been present at more than one gypsy wedding in my time, and at the wild, weird orgies that followed them, but what is interesting to such as I may not be for a minister's eyes, and, frowning at my proposal, Gavin turned his back upon the Toad's- hole. Then, as we recrossed the hill, to get away from the din of the camp, I pointed out to him that the report of his, death had brought McKenzie to Thrums, as well as me. "As soon as McKenzie heard I was not dead," he answered, "he galloped off to the Spittal, without ever seeing me. I suppose he posted back to be in time for the night's rejoicings there. So you see, it was no solicitude for me that brought him. He came because a servant at the Spittal was supposed to have done the deed." "Well, Mr. Dishart," I had to say, "why should deny that I have a warm regard for you? You have done brave work in our town." "It has been little," he replied. "With God's help it will be more in future." He meant that he had given time to his sad love affair that he owed to his people. Of seeing Babbit again I saw that he had given up hope. Instead of repining, he was devoting his whole soul to God's work. I was proud of him, and yet I grieved, for I could no think that God wanted him to bury his youth so soon. "I had thought," he confessed to me, "that you were one of those who did not like my preaching." "You were mistaken," I said, gravely. I dared not tell him that, except his mother, none would have saw under him so eagerly as I. "Nevertheless," he said, "you were a member of the Auld Licht church in Mr. Carfrae's time, and you left it when I came." "I heard your first sermon," I said. "Ah," he replied. "I had not been long in Thrums before I discovered that if I took tea with any of my congregation and declined a second cup, they thought it a reflection on their brewing." "You must not look upon my absence in that light," was all I could say. "There are reasons why I cannot come." He did not press me further, thinking I meant that the distance was too great, though frailer folk than I walked twenty miles to hear him. We might have parted thus had we not wandered by chance to the very spot where I had met him and Babbie. There is a seat there now for those who lose their breath on the climb up, and so I have two reasons nowadays for not passing the place by. We read each other's thoughts, and Gavin said calmly, "I have not seen her since that night. She disappeared as into a grave." How could I answer when I knew that Babbie was dying for want of him, not half a mile away? "You seemed to understand everything that night," he went on; "or if you did not, your thoughts were very generous to me." In my sorrow for him I did not notice that we were moving on again, this time in the direction of Windyghoul. "She was only a gypsy girl," he said, abruptly, and I nodded. "But I hoped," he continued," that she would be my wife." "I understood that," I said. "There was nothing monstrous to you," he asked, looking me in the face, "in a minister's marrying a gypsy?" I own that if I had loved a girl, however far below or above me in degree, I would have married her had she been willing to take me. But to Gavin I only answered, "These are matters a man must decide for himself." "I had decided for myself," he said, emphatically. "Yet," I said, wanting him to talk to me of Margaret, "in such a case one might have others to consider besides himself." "A man's marriage," he answered, "is his own affair, I would have brooked no interference from my congregation." I thought, "There is some obstinacy left in him still;" but aloud I said, "It was of your mother I was thinking." "She would have taken Babbie to her heart," he said, with the fond conviction of a lover. I doubted it, but I only asked, "Your mother knows nothing of her?" "Nothing," he rejoined. "It would be cruelty to tell my mother of her now that she is gone." Gavin's calmness had left him, and he was striding quickly nearer to Windyghoul. I was in dread lest he should see the Egyptian at Nanny's door, yet to have turned him in another direction might have roused his suspicions. When we were within a hundred yards of the mudhouse, I knew that there was no Babbie in sight. We halved the distance and then I saw her at the open window. Gavin's eyes were on the ground, but she saw him. I held my breath, fearing that she would run out to him. "You have never seen her since that night?" Gavin asked me, without hope in his voice. Had he been less hopeless he would have wondered why I did not reply immediately. I was looking covertly at the mudhouse, of which we were now within a few yards. Babbie's face had gone from the window, and. the door remained shut. That she could hear every word we uttered now, I could not doubt. But she was hiding from the man for whom her soul longed. She was sacrificing herself for him. "Never," I answered, notwithstanding my pity of the brave girl, and then while I was shaking lest he should go in to visit Nanny, I heard the echo of the Auld Licht bell. "That calls me to the meeting for rain," Gavin said, bidding me good-night. I had acted for Margaret, and yet I had hardly the effrontery to take his hand. I suppose he saw sympathy in my face, for suddenly the cry broke from him-- "If I could only know that nothing evil had befallen her!" Babbie heard him and could not restrain a heartbreaking sob. "What was that?" he said, starting. A moment I waited, to let her show herself if she chose. But the mudhouse was silent again. "It was some boy in the wood," I answered. "Good-bye," he said, trying to smile. Had I let him go, here would have been the end of his love story, but that piteous smile unmanned me, and I could not keep the words back. "She is in Nanny's house," I cried. In another moment these two were together for weal or woe, and I had set off dizzily for the school-house, feeling now that I had been false to Margaret, and again exulting in what I had done. By and by the bell stopped, and Gavin and Babbie regarded it as little as I heeded the burns now crossing the glen road noisily at places that had been dry two hours before. CHAPTER XXIX. STORY OF THE EGYPTIAN. God gives us more than, were we not overbold, we should dare to ask for, and yet how often (perhaps after saying "Thank God" so curtly that it is only a form of swearing) we are suppliants again within the hour. Gavin was to be satisfied if he were told that no evil had befallen her he loved, and all the way between the school-house and Windyghoul Babbie craved for no more than Gavin's life. Now they had got their desires; but do you think they were content? The Egyptian had gone on her knees when she heard Gavin speak of her. It was her way of preventing herself from running to him. Then, when she thought him gone, he opened the door. She rose and shrank back, but first she had stepped toward him with a glad cry. His disappointed arms met on nothing. "You, too, heard that I was dead?" he said, thinking her strangeness but grief too sharply turned to joy. There were tears in the word with which she answered him, and he would have kissed her, but she defended her face with her hand. "Babbie," he asked, beginning to fear that he had not sounded her deepest woe, "why have you left me all this time? You are not glad to see me now?" "I was glad," she answered in a low voice, "to see you from the window, but I prayed to God not to let you see me." She even pulled away her hand when he would have taken it. "No, no, I am to tell you everything now, and then--" "Say that you love me first," he broke in, when a sob checked her speaking. "No," she said, "I must tell you first what I have done, and then you will not ask me to say that. I am not a gypsy." "What of that?" cried Gavin. "It was not because you were a gypsy that I loved you." "That is the last time you will say you love me," said Babbie. "Mr. Dishart, I am to be married to-morrow." She stopped, afraid to say more lest he should fall, but except that his arms twitched he did not move. "I am to be married to Lord Rintoul," she went on. "Now you know who I am." She turned from him, for his piercing eyes frightened her. Never again, she knew, would she see the love-light in them. He plucked himself from the spot where he had stood looking at her and walked to the window. When he wheeled round there was no anger on his face, only a pathetic wonder that he had been deceived so easily. It was at himself that he was smiling grimly rather than at her, and the change pained Babbie as no words could have hurt her. He sat down on a chair and waited for her to go on. "Don't look at me," she said, "and I will tell you everything." He dropped his eyes listlessly, and had he not asked her a question from time to time, she would have doubted whether he heard her. "After all," she said, "a gypsy dress is my birthright, and so the Thrums people were scarcely wrong in calling me an Egyptian. It is a pity any one insisted on making me something different. I believe I could have been a good gypsy." "Who were your parents?" Gavin asked, without looking up. "You ask that," she said, "because you have a good mother. It is not a question that would occur to me. My mother--If she was bad, may not that be some excuse for me? Ah, but I have no wish to excuse myself. Have you seen a gypsy cart with a sort of hammock swung beneath it in which gypsy children are carried about the country? If there are no children, the pots and pans are stored in it. Unless the roads are rough it makes a comfortable cradle, and it was the only one I ever knew. Well, one day I suppose the road was rough, for I was capsized. I remember picking myself up after a little and running after the cart, but they did not hear my cries. I sat down by the roadside and stared after the cart until I lost sight of it. That was in England, and I was not three years old." "But surely," Gavin said, "they came back to look for you?" "So far as I know," Babbie answered hardly, "they did not come back. I have never seen them since. I think they were drunk. My only recollection of my mother is that she once took me to see the dead body of some gypsy who had been murdered. She told me to dip my hand in the blood, so that I could say I had done so when I became a woman. It was meant as a treat to me, and is the one kindness I am sure I got from her. Curiously enough, I felt the shame of her deserting me for many years afterwards. As a child I cried hysterically at thought of it; it pained me when I was at school in Edinburgh every time I saw the other girls writing home; I cannot think of it without a shudder even now. It is what makes me worse than other women." Her voice had altered, and she was speaking passionately. "Sometimes," she continued, more gently, "I try to think that my mother did come back for me, and then went away because she heard I was in better hands than hers. It was Lord Rintoul who found me, and I owe everything to him. You will say that he has no need to be proud of me. He took me home on his horse, and paid his gardener's wife to rear me. She was Scotch, and that is why I can speak two languages. It was he, too, who sent me to school in Edinburgh." "He has been very kind to you," said Gavin, who would have preferred to dislike the earl. "So kind," answered Babbie, "that now he is to marry me. But do you know why he has done all this?" Now again she was agitated, and spoke indignantly. "It is all because I have a pretty face," she said, her bosom rising and falling. "Men think of nothing else. He had no pity for the deserted child. I knew that while I was yet on his horse. When he came to the gardener's afterwards, it was not to give me some one to love, it was only to look upon what was called my beauty; I was merely a picture to him, and even the gardener's children knew it and sought to terrify me by saying, 'You are losing your looks; the earl will not care for you any more.' Sometimes he brought his friends to see me, 'because I was such a lovely child,' and if they did not agree with him on that point he left without kissing me. Throughout my whole girlhood I was taught nothing but to please him, and the only way to do that was to be pretty. It was the only virtue worth striving for; the others were never thought of when he asked how I was getting on. Once I had fever and nearly died, yet this knowledge that my face was everything was implanted in me so that my fear lest he should think me ugly when I recovered terrified me into hysterics. I dream still that I am in that fever and all my fears return. He did think me ugly when he saw me next. I remember the incident so well still. I had run to him, and he was lifting me up to kiss me when he saw that my face had changed. 'What a cruel disappointment,' he said, and turned his back on me. I had given him a child's love until then, but from that day I was hard and callous." "And when was it you became beautiful again?" Gavin asked, by no means in the mind to pay compliments. "A year passed," she continued, "before I saw him again. In that time he had not asked for me once, and the gardener had kept me out of charity. It was by an accident that we met, and at first he did not know me. Then he said, 'Why, Babbie, I believe you are to be a beauty, after all!' I hated him for that, and stalked away from him, but he called after me, 'Bravo! she walks like a queen'; and it was because I walked like a queen that he sent me to an Edinburgh school. He used to come to see me every year, and as I grew up the girls called me Lady Rintoul. He was not fond of me; he is not fond of me now. He would as soon think of looking at the back of a picture as at what I am apart from my face, but he dotes on it, and is to marry it. Is that love? Long before I left school, which was shortly before you came to Thrums, he had told his sister that he was determined to marry me, and she hated me for it, making me as uncomfortable as she could, so that I almost looked forward to the marriage because it would be such a humiliation to her." In admitting this she looked shamefacedly at Gavin, and then went on: "It is humiliating him too. I understand him. He would like not to want to marry me, for he is ashamed of my origin, but he cannot help it. It is this feeling that has brought him here, so that the marriage may take place where my history is not known." "The secret has been well kept," Gavin said, "for they have failed to discover it even in Thrums." "Some of the Spittal servants suspect it, nevertheless," Babbie answered, "though how much they know I cannot say. He has not a servant now, either here or in England, who knew me as a child. The gardener who befriended me was sent away long ago. Lord Rintoul looks upon me as a disgrace to him that he cannot live without." "I dare say he cares for you more than you think," Gavin said gravely. "He is infatuated about my face, or the pose of my head, or something of that sort," Babbie said bitterly, "or he would not have endured me so long. I have twice had the wedding postponed, chiefly, I believe, to enrage my natural enemy, his sister, who is as much aggravated by my reluctance to marry him as by his desire to marry me. However, I also felt that imprisonment for life was approaching as the day drew near, and I told him that if he did not defer the wedding I should run away. He knows I am capable of it, for twice I ran away from school. If his sister only knew that!" For a moment it was the old Babbie Gavin saw; but her glee was short-lived, and she resumed sedately: "They were kind to me at school, but the life was so dull and prim that I ran off in a gypsy dress of my own making. That is what it is to have gypsy blood in one. I was away for a week the first time, wandering the country alone, telling fortunes, dancing and singing in woods, and sleeping in barns. I am the only woman in the world well brought up who is not afraid of mice or rats. That is my gypsy blood again. After that wild week I went back to the school of my own will, and no one knows of the escapade but my school-mistress and Lord Rintoul. The second time, however, I was detected singing in the street, and then my future husband was asked to take me away. Yet Miss Feversham cried when I left, and told me that I was the nicest girl she knew, as well as the nastiest. She said she should love me as soon as I was not one of her boarders." "And then you came to the Spittal?" "Yes; and Lord Rintoul wanted me to say I was sorry for what I had done, but I told him I need not say that, for I was sure to do It again. As you know, I have done it several times since then; and though I am a different woman since I knew you, I dare say I shall go on doing it at times all my life. You shake your head because you do not understand. It is not that I make up my mind to break out in that way; I may not have had the least desire to do it for weeks, and then suddenly, when I am out riding, or at dinner, or at a dance, the craving to be a gypsy again is so strong that I never think of resisting it; I would risk my life to gratify it. Yes, whatever my life in the future is to be, I know that must be a part of it. I used to pretend at the Spittal that I had gone to bed, and then escape by the window. I was mad with glee at those times, but I always returned before morning, except once, the last time I saw you, when I was away for nearly twenty-four hours. Lord Rintoul was so glad to see me come back then that he almost forgave me for going away. There is nothing more to tell except that on the night of the riot it was not my gypsy nature that brought me to Thrums, but a desire to save the poor weavers. I had heard Lord Rintoul and the sheriff discussing the contemplated raid. I have hidden nothing from you. In time, perhaps, I shall have suffered sufficiently for all my wickedness." Gavin rose weariedly, and walked through the mudhouse looking at her. "This is the end of it all," he said harshly, coming to a standstill. "I loved you, Babbie." "No," she answered, shaking her head. "You never knew me until now, and so it was not me you loved. I know what you thought I was, and I will try to be it now." "If you had only told me this before," the minister said sadly, "it might not have been too late." "I only thought you like all the other men I knew," she replied, "until the night I came to the manse. It was only my face you admired at first." "No, it was never that," Gavin said with such conviction that her mouth opened in alarm to ask him if he did not think her pretty. She did not speak, however, and he continued, "You must have known that I loved you from the first night." "No; you only amused me," she said, like one determined to stint nothing of the truth. "Even at the well I laughed at your vows." This wounded Gavin afresh, wretched as her story had made him, and he said tragically, "You have never cared for me at all." "Oh, always, always," she answered, "since I knew what love was; and it was you who taught me." Even in his misery he held his head high with pride. At least she did love him. "And then," Babbie said, hiding her face, "I could not tell you what I was because I knew you would loathe me. I could only go away." She looked at him forlornly through her tears, and then moved toward the door. He had sunk upon a stool, his face resting on the table, and it was her intention to slip away unnoticed. But he heard the latch rise, and jumping up, said sharply, "Babbie, I cannot give you up." She stood in tears, swinging the door unconsciously with her hand. "Don't say that you love me still," she cried; and then, letting her hand fall from the door, added imploringly, "Oh, Gavin, do you?" CHAPTER XXX. THE MEETING FOR RAIN. Meanwhile the Auld Lichts were in church, waiting for their minister, and it was a full meeting, because nearly every well in Thrums had been scooped dry by anxious palms. Yet not all were there to ask God's rain for themselves. Old Charles Yuill was in his pew, after dreaming thrice that he would break up with the drought; and Bell Christison had come, though her man lay dead at home, and she thought it could matter no more to her how things went in the world. You, who do not love that little congregation, would have said that they were waiting placidly. But probably so simple a woman as Meggy Rattray could have deceived you into believing that because her eyes were downcast she did not notice who put the three-penny- bit in the plate. A few men were unaware that the bell was working overtime, most of them farmers with their eyes on the windows, but all the women at least were wondering. They knew better, however, than to bring their thoughts to their faces, and none sought to catch another's eye. The men-folk looked heavily at their hats in the seats in front. Even when Hendry Munn, instead of marching to the pulpit with the big Bible in his hands, came as far as the plate and signed to Peter Tosh, elder, that he was wanted in the vestry, you could not have guessed how every woman there, except Bell Christison, wished she was Peter Tosh. Peter was so taken aback that he merely gaped at Hendry, until suddenly he knew that his five daughters were furious with him, when he dived for his hat and staggered to the vestry with his mouth open. His boots cheeped all the way, but no one looked up. "I hadna noticed the minister was lang in coming," Waster Lunny told me afterward, "but Elspeth noticed it, and with a quickness that baffles me she saw I was thinking o' other things. So she let out her foot at me. I gae a low cough to let her ken I wasna sleeping, but in a minute out goes her foot again. Ay, syne I thocht I micht hae dropped my hanky into Snecky Hobart's pew, but no, it was in my tails. Yet her hand was on the board, and she was working her fingers in a way that I kent meant she would like to shake me. Next I looked to see if I was sitting on her frock, the which tries a woman sair, but I wasna, 'Does she want to change Bibles wi' me?' I wondered; 'or is she sliding yont a peppermint to me?' It was neither, so I edged as far frae her as I could gang. Weel, would you credit it, I saw her body coming nearer me inch by inch, though she was looking straucht afore her, till she was within kick o' me, and then out again goes her foot. At that, dominie, I lost patience, and I whispered, fierce-like, 'Keep your foot to yoursel', you limmer!' Ay, her intent, you see, was to waken me to what was gaen on, but I couldna be expected to ken that." In the vestry Hendry Munn was now holding counsel with three elders, of whom the chief was Lang Tammas. "The laddie I sent to the manse," Hendry said, "canna be back this five minutes, and the question is how we're to fill up that time. I'll ring no langer, for the bell has been in a passion ever since a quarter-past eight. It's as sweer to clang past the quarter as a horse to gallop by its stable." "You could gang to your box and gie out a psalm, Tammas," suggested John Spens. "And would a psalm sung wi' sic an object," retorted the precentor, "mount higher, think you, than a bairn's kite? I'll insult the Almighty to screen no minister." "You're screening him better by standing whaur you are," said the imperturbable Hendry; "for as lang as you dinna show your face they'll think it may be you that's missing instead o' Mr. Dishart." Indeed, Gavin's appearance in church without the precentor would have been as surprising as Tammas's without the minister. As certainly as the shutting of a money-box is followed by the turning of the key, did the precentor walk stiffly from the vestry to his box a toll of the bell in front of the minister. Tammas's halfpenny rang in the plate as Gavin passed T'nowhead's pew, and Gavin's sixpence with the snapping-to of the precentor's door. The two men might have been connected by a string that tightened at ten yards. "The congregation ken me ower weel," Tammas said, "to believe I would keep the Lord waiting." "And they are as sure o' Mr. Dishart," rejoined Spens, with spirit, though he feared the precentor on Sabbaths and at prayer- meetings. "You're a hard man." "I speak the blunt truth," Whamond answered. "Ay," said Spens, "and to tak' credit for that may be like blawing that you're ower honest to wear claethes." Hendry, who had gone to the door, returned now with the information that Mr. Dishart had left the manse two hours ago to pay visits, meaning to come to the prayer-meeting before he returned home. "There's a quirk in this, Hendry," said Tosh. "Was it Mistress Dishart the laddie saw?" "No," Hendry replied. "It was Jean. She canna get to the meeting because the mistress is nervous in the manse by herself; and Jean didna like to tell her that he's missing, for fear o' alarming her. What are we to do now?" "He's an unfaithful shepherd," cried the precentor, while Hendry again went out. "I see it written on the walls." "I dinna," said Spens doggedly. "Because," retorted Tammas, "having eyes you see not." "Tammas, I aye thocht you was fond o' Mr. Dishart." "If my right eye were to offend me," answered the precentor. "I would pluck it out. I suppose you think, and baith o' you farmers too, that there's no necessity for praying for rain the nicht? You'll be content, will ye, if Mr. Dishart just drops in to the kirk some day, accidental-like, and offers up a bit prayer?" "As for the rain," Spens said, triumphantly, "I wouldna wonder though it's here afore the minister. You canna deny, Peter Tosh, that there's been a smell o' rain in the air this twa hours back." "John," Peter said agitatedly, "dinna speak so confidently. I've kent it," he whispered, "since the day turned; but it wants to tak' us by surprise, lad, and so I'm no letting on." "See that you dinna make an idol o' the rain," thundered Whamond. "Your thochts is no wi' Him, but wi' the clouds; and, whaur your thochts are, there will your prayers stick also." "If you saw my lambs," Tosh began; and then, ashamed of himself, said, looking upward, "He holds the rain in the hollow of His hand." "And He's closing His neive ticht on't again," said the precentor solemnly. "Hearken to the wind rising!" "God help me!" cried Tosh, wringing his hands. "Is it fair, think you," he said, passionately addressing the sky, "to show your wrath wi' Mr. Dishart by ruining my neeps?" "You were richt, Tammas Whamond," Spens said, growing hard as he listened to the wind, "the sanctuary o' the Lord has been profaned this nicht by him wha should be the chief pillar o' the building." They were lowering brows that greeted Hendry when he returned to say that Mr. Dishart had been seen last on the hill with the Glen Quharity dominie. "Some thinks," said the kirk officer, "that he's awa hunting for Rob Dow." "Nothing'll excuse him," replied Spens, "short o' his having fallen over the quarry." Hendry's was usually a blank face, but it must have looked troubled now, for Tosh was about to say, "Hendry, you're keeping something back," when the precentor said it before him. "Wi' that story o' Mr. Dishart's murder, no many hours auld yet," the kirk officer replied evasively, "we should be wary o' trusting gossip." "What hae you heard?" "It's through the town," Hendry answered, "that a woman was wi' the dominie." "A woman!" cried Tosh, "The woman there's been sic talk about in connection wi' the minister? Whaur are they now?" "It's no kent, but--the dominie was seen goin' hame by himsel'." "Leaving the minister and her thegither!" cried the three men at once. "Hendry Munn," Tammas said sternly, "there's mair about this; wha is the woman?" "They are liars," Hendry answered, and shut his mouth tight. "Gie her a name, I say," the precentor ordered, "or, as chief elder of this kirk, supported by mair than half o' the Session, I command you to lift your hat and go." Hendry gave an appealing look to Tosh and Spens, but the precentor's solemnity had cowed them. "They say, then," he answered sullenly, "that it's the Egyptian. Yes, and I believe they ken." The two farmers drew back from this statement incredulously; but Tammas Whamond jumped at the kirk officer's throat, and some who were in the church that night say they heard Hendry scream. Then the precentor's fingers relaxed their grip, and he tottered into the middle of the room. "Hendry," he pleaded, holding out his arms pathetically, "tak' back these words. Oh, man, have pity, and tak' them back!" But Hendry would not, and then Lang Tammas's mouth worked convulsively, and he sobbed, crying, "Nobody kent it, but mair than mortal son, O God, I did love the lad!" So seldom in a lifetime had any one seen into this man's heart that Spens said, amazed: "Tammas, Tammas Whamond, it's no like you to break down." The rusty door of Whamond's heart swung to. "Who broke down?" he asked fiercely. "Let no member of this Session dare to break down till his work be done." "What work?" Tosh said uneasily. "We canna interfere." "I would rather resign," Spens said, but shook when Whamond hurled these words at him: "'And Jesus said unto him, No man, having put his hand to the plough and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.'" "It mayna be true," Hendry said eagerly. "We'll soon see." "He would gie her up," said Tosh. "Peter Tosh," answered Whamond sternly, "I call upon you to dismiss the congregation." "Should we no rather haud the meeting oursel's?" "We have other work afore us," replied the precentor. "But what can I say?" Tosh asked nervously, "Should I offer up a prayer?" "I warn you all," broke in Hendry, "that though the congregation is sitting there quietly, they'll be tigers for the meaning o' this as soon as they're in the street." "Let no ontruth be telled them," said the precentor. "Peter Tosh, do your duty. John Spens, remain wi' me." The church emptied silently, but a buzz of excitement arose outside. Many persons tried to enter the vestry, but were ordered away, and when Tosh joined his fellow-elders the people were collecting in animated groups in the square, or scattering through the wynds for news. "And now," said the precentor, "I call upon the three o' you to come wi' me. Hendry Munn, you gang first." "I maun bide ahint," Hendry said, with a sudden fear, "to lock up the kirk." "I'll lock up the kirk," Whamond answered harshly. "You maun gie me the keys, though," entreated the kirk officer. "I'll take care o' the keys," said Whamond. "I maun hae them," Hendry said, "to open the kirk on Sabbath." The precentor locked the doors, and buttoned up the keys in his trousers pockets. "Wha kens," he said, in a voice of steel, "that the kirk'll be open next Sabbath?" "Hae some mercy on him, Tamtnas," Spens implored. "He's no twa- and-twenty." "Wha kens," continued the precentor, "but that the next time this kirk is opened will be to preach it toom?" "What road do we tak'?" "The road to the hill, whaur he was seen last." CHAPTER XXXI. VARIOUS BODIES CONVERGING ON THE HILL. It would be coming on for a quarter-past nine, and a misty night, when I reached the school-house, and I was so weary of mind and body that I sat down without taking off my bonnet. I had left the door open, and I remember listlessly watching the wind making a target of my candle, but never taking a sufficiently big breath to do more than frighten it. From this lethargy I was roused by the sound of wheels. In the daytime our glen road leads to many parts, but in the night only to the doctor's. Then the gallop of a horse makes farmers start up in bed and cry, "Who's ill?" I went to my door and listened to the trap coming swiftly down the lonely glen, but I could not see it, for there was a trailing scarf of mist between the school-house and the road. Presently I heard the swish of the wheels in water, and so learned that they were crossing the ford to come to me. I had been unstrung by the events of the evening, and fear at once pressed thick upon me that this might be a sequel to them, as indeed it was. While still out of sight the trap stopped, and I heard some one jump from it. Then came this conversation, as distinct as though it had been spoken into my ear: "Can you see the school-house now, McKenzie?" "I am groping for it, Rintoul. The mist seems to have made off with the path." "Where are you, McKenzie? I have lost sight of you." It was but a ribbon of mist, and as these words were spoken McKenzie broke through it. I saw him, though to him I was only a stone at my door. "I have found the house, Rintoul," he shouted, "and there is a light in it, so that the fellow has doubtless returned." "Then wait a moment for me." "Stay where you are, Rintoul, I entreat you, and leave him to me. He may recognize you." "No, no, McKenzie, I am sure he never saw me before. I insist on accompanying you." "Your excitement, Rintoul, will betray you. Let me go alone. I can question him without rousing his suspicions. Remember, she is only a gypsy to him." "He will learn nothing from me. I am quite calm now." "Rintoul, I warn you your manner will betray you, and to-morrow it will be roared through the countryside that your bride ran away from the Spittal in a gypsy dress, and had to be brought back by force." The altercation may have lasted another minute, but the suddenness with which I learned Babbie's secret had left my ears incapable of learning more. I daresay the two men started when they found me at my door, but they did not remember, as few do remember who have the noisy day to forget it in, how far the voice carries in the night. They came as suddenly on me as I on them, for though they had given unintentional notice of their approach, I had lost sight of the speakers in their amazing words. Only a moment did young McKenzie's anxiety to be spokesman give me to regard Lord Rintoul. I saw that he was a thin man and tall, straight in the figure, but his head began to sink into his shoulders and not very steady on them. His teeth had grip of his under-lip, as if this was a method of controlling his agitation, and he was opening and shutting his hands restlessly. He had a dog with him which I was to meet again. "Well met, Mr. Ogilvy," said McKenzie, who knew me slightly, having once acted as judge at a cock-fight in the school-house. "We were afraid we should have to rouse you." "You will step inside?" I asked awkwardly, and while I spoke I was wondering how long it would be before the earl's excitement broke out. "It is not necessary," McKenzie answered hurriedly. "My friend and I (this is Mr. McClure) have been caught in the mist without a lamp, and we thought you could perhaps favor us with one." "Unfortunately I have nothing of the kind," I said, and the state of mind I was in is shown by my answering seriously. "Then we must wish you a good-night and manage as best we can," he said; and then before he could touch, with affected indifference, on the real object of their visit, the alarmed earl said angrily, "McKenzie, no more of this." "No more of this delay, do you mean, McClure?" asked McKenzie, and then, turning to me said, "By the way, Mr. Ogilvy, I think this is our second meeting to-night. I met you on the road a few hours ago with your wife. Or was it your daughter?" "It was neither, Mr. McKenzie," I answered, with the calmness of one not yet recovered from a shock. "It was a gypsy girl." "Where is she now?" cried Rintoul feverishly; but McKenzie, speaking loudly at the same time, tried to drown his interference as one obliterates writing by writing over it. "A strange companion for a schoolmaster," he said. "What became of her?" "I left her near Caddam Wood," I replied, "but she is probably not there now" "Ah, they are strange creatures, these gypsies!" he said, casting a warning look at the earl. "Now I wonder where she had been bound for." "There is a gypsy encampment on the hill," I answered, though I cannot say why. "She is there!" exclaimed Rintoul, and was done with me. "I daresay," McKenzie said indifferently. "However, it is nothing to us. Good-night, sir." The earl had started for the trap, but McKenzie's salute reminded him of a forgotten courtesy, and, despite his agitation, he came back to apologize. I admired him for this. Then my thoughtlessness must needs mar all. "Good-night, Mr. McKenzie," I said. "Good-night, Lord Rintoul." I had addressed him by his real name. Never a turnip fell from a bumping, laden cart, and the driver more unconscious of it, than I that I had dropped that word. I re-entered the house, but had not reached my chair when McKenzie's hand fell roughly on me, and I was swung round. "Mr. Ogilvy," he said, the more savagely I doubt not because his passions had been chained so long, "you know more than you would have us think. Beware, sir, of recognising that gypsy should you ever see her again in different attire. I advise you to have forgotten this night when you waken to-morrow morning." With a menacing gesture he left me, and I sank into a chair, glad to lose sight of the glowering eyes with which he had pinned me to the wall. I did not hear the trap cross the ford and renew its journey. When I looked out next, the night had fallen very dark, and the glen was so deathly in its drowsiness that I thought not even the cry of murder could tear its eyes open. The earl and McKenzie would be some distance still from the hill when the office-bearers had scoured it in vain for their minister. The gypsies, now dancing round their fires to music that, on ordinary occasions, Lang Tammas would have stopped by using his fists to the glory of God, had seen no minister, they said, and disbelieved in the existence of the mysterious Egyptian. "Liars they are to trade," Spens declared to his companions, "but now and again they speak truth, like a standing clock, and I'm beginning to think the minister's lassie was invented in the square." "Not so," said the precentor, "for we saw her oursel's a short year syne, and Hendry Munn there allows there's townsfolk that hae passed her in the glen mair recently." "I only allowed," Hendry said cautiously, "that some sic talk had shot up sudden-like in the town. Them that pretends they saw her says that she joukit quick out o' sicht." "Ay, and there's another quirk in that," responded the suspicious precentor. "I'se uphaud the minister's sitting in the manse in his slippers by this time," Hendry said. "I'm willing," replied Whamond, "to gang back and speir, or to search Caddam next; but let the matter drop I winna, though I ken you're a' awid to be hame now." "And naturally," retorted Tosh, "for the nicht's coming on as black as pick, and by the time we're at Caddam we'll no even see the trees." Toward Caddam, nevertheless, they advanced, hearing nothing but a distant wind and the whish of their legs in the broom. "Whaur's John Spens?" Hendry said suddenly. They turned back and found Spens rooted to the ground, as a boy becomes motionless when he thinks he is within arm's reach of a nest and the bird sitting on the eggs. "What do you see, man?" Hendry whispered. "As sure as death," answered Spens, awe-struck, "I felt a drap o' rain." "It's no rain we're here to look for," said the precentor. "Peter Tosh," cried Spens, "it was a drap! Oh, Peter! how are you looking at me so queer, Peter, when you should be thanking the Lord for the promise that's in that drap?" "Come away," Whamond said, impatiently; "but Spens answered, "No till I've offered up a prayer for the promise that's in that drap. Peter Tosh, you've forgotten to take off your bonnet." "Think twice, John Spens," gasped Tosh, "afore you pray for rain this nicht." The others thought him crazy, but he went on, with a catch in his voice: "I felt a drap o' rain mysel', just afore it came on dark so hurried, and my first impulse was to wish that I could carry that drap about wi' me and look at it. But, John Spens, when I looked up I saw sic a change running ower the sky that I thocht hell had taken the place o' heaven, and that there was waterspouts gathering therein for the drowning o' the world." "There's no water in hell," the precentor said grimly. "Genesis ix.," said Spens, "verses 8 to 17. Ay, but, Peter, you've startled me, and I'm thinking we should be stepping hame. Is that a licht?" "It'll be in Nanny Webster's," Hendry said, after they had all regarded the light. "I never heard that Nanny needed a candle to licht her to her bed," the precentor muttered. "She was awa to meet Sanders the day as he came out o' the Tilliedrum gaol," Spens remembered, "and I daresay the licht means they're hame again." "It's well kent--" began Hendry, and would have recalled his words. Hendry Munn, "cried the precentor," if you hae minded onything that may help us, out wi't." "I was just minding," the kirk officer answered reluctantly, "that Nanny allows it's Mr. Dishart that has been keeping her frae the poorhouse. You canna censure him for that, Tammas." "Can I no?" retorted Whamond. "What business has he to befriend a woman that belongs to another denomination? I'll see to the bottom o' that this nicht. Lads, follow me to Nanny's, and dinna be surprised if we find baith the minister and the Egyptian there." They had not advanced many yards when Spens jumped to the side, crying, "Be wary, that's no the wind; it's a machine!" Immediately the doctor's dogcart was close to them, with Rob Dow for its only occupant. He was driving slowly, or Whamond could not have escaped the horse's hoofs. "Is that you, Rob Dow?" said the precentor sourly. "I tell you, you'll be gaoled for stealing the doctor's machine." "The Hielandman wasna muckle hurt, Rob," Hendry said, more good- naturedly. "I ken that," replied Rob, scowling at the four of them. "What are you doing here on sic a nicht?" "Do you see anything strange in the nicht, Rob?" Tosh asked apprehensively. "It's setting to rain," Dow replied. "I dinna see it, but I feel it." "Ay," said Tosh, eagerly, "but will it be a saft, cowdie sweet ding-on?" "Let the heavens open if they will," interposed Spens recklessly. "I would swap the drought for rain, though it comes down in a sheet as in the year twelve." "And like a sheet it'll come," replied Dow, "and the deil'll blaw it about wi' his biggest bellowses." Tosh shivered, but Whamond shook him roughly, saying-- "Keep your oaths to yoursel', Rob Dow, and tell me, hae you seen Mr. Dishart?" "I hinna," Rob answered curtly, preparing to drive on. "Nor the lassie they call the Egyptian?" Rob leaped from the dogcart, crying, "What does that mean?" "Hands off," said the precentor, retreating from him. "It means that Mr. Dishart neglected the prayer-meeting this nicht to philander after that heathen woman." "We're no sure o't, Tammas," remonstrated the kirk officer. Dow stood quite still. "I believe Rob kens it's true," Hendry added sadly, "or he would hae flown at your throat, Tammas Whamond, for saying these words." Even this did not rouse Dow. "Rob doesna worship the minister as he used to do," said Spens. "And what for no?" cried the precentor. "Rob Dow, is it because you've found out about this woman?" "You're a pack o' liars," roared Rob, desperately, "and if you say again that ony wandering hussy has haud o' the minister, I'll let you see whether I can loup at throats." "You'll swear by the Book." asked Whamond, relentlessly, "that you've seen neither o' them this nicht, nor them thegither at any time?" "I so swear by the Book," answered poor loyal Rob. "But what makes you look for Mr. Dishart here?" he demanded, with an uneasy look at the light in the mudhouse. "Go hame," replied the precentor, "and deliver up the machine you stole, and leave this Session to do its duty. John, we maun fathom the meaning o' that licht." Dow started, and was probably at that moment within an ace of felling Whamond. "I'll come wi' you," he said, hunting in his mind for a better way of helping Gavin. They were at Nanny's garden, but in the darkness Whamond could not find the gate. Rob climbed the paling, and was at once lost sight of. Then they saw his head obscure the window. They did not, however, hear the groan that startled Babbie. "There's nobody there," he said, coming back, "but Nanny and Sanders. You'll mind Sanders was to be freed the day." "I'll go in and see Sanders," said Hendry, but the precentor pulled him back, saying, "You'll do nothing o' the kind, Hendry Munn; you'll come awa wi' me now to the manse." "It's mair than me and Peter'll do, then," said Spens, who had been consulting with the other farmer. "We're gaun as straucht hame as the darkness 'll let us." With few more words the Session parted, Spens and Tosh setting off for their farms, and Hendry accompanying the precentor. No one will ever know where Dow went. I can fancy him, however, returning to the wood, and there drawing rein. I can fancy his mind made up to watch the mudhouse until Gavin and the gypsy separated, and then pounce upon her. I daresay his whole plot could be condensed into a sentence, "If she's got rid o' this nicht, we may cheat the Session yet," But this is mere surmise. All I know is that he waited near Nanny's house, and by and by heard another trap coming up Windyghoul. That was just before the ten o'clock bell began to ring. CHAPTER XXXII. LEADING SWIFTLY TO THE APPALLING MARRIAGE. The little minister bowed his head in assent when Babbie's cry, "Oh, Gavin, do you?" leapt in front of her unselfish wish that he should care for her no more. "But that matters very little now," he said. She was his to do with as he willed; and, perhaps, the joy of knowing herself loved still, begot a wild hope that he would refuse to give her up. If so, these words laid it low, but even the sentence they passed upon her could not kill the self-respect that would be hers henceforth. "That matters very little now," the man said, but to the woman it seemed to matter more than anything else in the world. Throughout the remainder of this interview until the end came, Gavin never faltered. His duty and hers lay so plainly before him that there could be no straying from it. Did Babbie think him strangely calm? At the Glen Quharity gathering I once saw Rob Angus lift a boulder with such apparent ease that its weight was discredited, until the cry arose that the effort had dislocated his arm. Perhaps Gavin's quietness deceived the Egyptian similarly. Had he stamped, she might have understood better what he suffered, standing there on the hot embers of his passion. "We must try to make amends now," he said gravely, "for the wrong we have done." "The wrong I have done," she said, correcting him. "You will make it harder for me if you blame yourself. How vile I was in those days!" "Those days," she called them, they seemed so far away. "Do not cry, Babbie," Gavin replied, gently. "He knew what you were, and why, and He pities you. 'For His anger endureth but a moment: in His favor is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.'" "Not to me." "Yes, to you," he answered. "Babbie, you will return to the Spittal now, and tell Lord Rintoul everything." "If you wish it." "Not because I wish it, but because it is right. He must be told that you do not love him." "I never pretended to him that I did," Babbie said, looking up. "Oh," she added, with emphasis, "he knows that. He thinks me incapable of caring for any one." "And that is why he must be told of me," Gavin replied. "You are no longer the woman you were, Babbie, and you know it, and I know it, but he does not know it. He shall know it before he decides whether he is to marry you." Babbie looked at Gavin, and wondered he did not see that this decision lay with him. "Nevertheless," she said, "the wedding will take place to-morrow: if it did not, Lord Rintoul would be the scorn of his friends." "If it does," the minister answered, "he will be the scorn of himself. Babbie, there is a chance." "There is no chance," she told him. "I shall be back at the Spittal without any one's knowing of my absence, and when I begin to tell him of you, he will tremble, lest it means my refusal to marry him; when he knows it does not, he will wonder only why I told him anything." "He will ask you to take time--" "No, he will ask me to put on my wedding-dress. You must not think anything else possible." "So be it, then," Gavin said firmly. "Yes, it will be better so," Babbie answered, and then, seeing him misunderstand her meaning, exclaimed reproachfully, "I was not thinking of myself. In the time to come, whatever be my lot, I shall have the one consolation, that this is best for you. Think of your mother." "She will love you," Gavin said, "when I tell her of you." "Yes," said Babbie, wringing her hands; "she will almost love me, but for what? For not marrying you. That is the only reason any one in Thrums will have for wishing me well." "No others," Gavin answered, "will ever know why I remained unmarried." "Will you never marry?" Babbie asked, exultingly. "Ah!" she cried, ashamed, "but you must." "Never." Well, many a man and many a woman has made that vow in similar circumstances, and not all have kept it. But shall we who are old smile cynically at the brief and burning passion of the young? "The day," you say, "will come when--" Good sir, hold your peace. Their agony was great and now is dead, and, maybe, they have forgotten where it lies buried; but dare you answer lightly when I ask you which of these things is saddest? Babbie believed his "Never," and, doubtless, thought no worse of him for it; but she saw no way of comforting him save by disparagement of herself. "You must think of your congregation," she said. "A minister with a gypsy wife--" "Would have knocked them about with a flail," Gavin interposed, showing his teeth at the thought of the precentor, "until they did her reverence." She shook her head, and told him of her meeting with Micah Dow. It silenced him; not, however, on account of its pathos, as she thought, but because it interpreted the riddle of Rob's behavior. "Nevertheless," he said ultimately, "my duty is not to do what is right in my people's eyes, but what seems right in my own." Babbie had not heard him. "I saw a face at the window just now," she whispered, drawing closer to him. "There was no face there; the very thought of Rob Dow raises him before you," Gavin answered reassuringly, though Rob was nearer at that moment than either of them thought. "I must go away at once," she said, still with her eyes in the window. "No, no, you shall not come or stay with me; it is you who are in danger." "Do not fear for me." "I must, if you will not. Before you came in, did I not hear you speak of a meeting you had to attend to-night?" "My pray--" His teeth met on the word; so abruptly did it conjure up the forgotten prayer-meeting that before the shock could reach his mind he stood motionless, listening for the bell. For one instant all that had taken place since he last heard it might have happened between two of its tinkles; Babbie passed from before him like a figure in a panorama, and he saw, instead, a congregation in their pews. "What do you see?" Babbie cried in alarm, for he seemed to be gazing at the window. "Only you," he replied, himself again; "I am coming with you." "You must let me go alone," she entreated; "if not for your own safety"--but it was only him she considered--"then for the sake of Lord Rintoul. Were you and I to be seen together now, his name and mine might suffer." It was an argument the minister could not answer save by putting his hands over his face; his distress made Babbie strong; she moved to the door, trying to smile. "Go, Babbie!" Gavin said, controlling his voice, though it had been a smile more pitiful than her tears. "God has you in His keeping; it is not His will to give me this to bear for you." They were now in the garden. "Do not think of me as unhappy," she said; "it will be happiness to me to try to be all you would have me be." He ought to have corrected her. "All that God would have me be," is what she should have said. But he only replied, "You will be a good woman, and none such can be altogether unhappy; God sees to that." He might have kissed her, and perhaps she thought so. "I am--I am going now, dear," she said, and came back a step because he did not answer; then she went on, and was out of his sight at three yards' distance. Neither of them heard the approaching dogcart. "You see, I am bearing it quite cheerfully," she said. "I shall have everything a woman loves; do not grieve for me so much." Gavin dared not speak nor move. Never had he found life so hard; but he was fighting with the ignoble in himself, and winning. She opened the gate, and it might have been a signal to the dogcart to stop. They both heard a dog barking, and then the voice of Lord Rintoul: "That is a light in the window. Jump down, McKenzie, and inquire." Gavin took one step nearer Babbie and stopped. He did not see how all her courage went from her, so that her knees yielded, and she held out her arms to him, but he heard a great sob and then his name. "Gavin, I am afraid." Gavin understood now, and I say he would have been no man to leave her after that; only a moment was allowed him, and it was their last chance on earth. He took it. His arm went round his beloved, and he drew her away from Nanny's. McKenzie found both house and garden empty. "And yet," he said, "I swear some one passed the window as we sighted it." "Waste no more time," cried the impatient earl. "We must be very near the hill now. You will have to lead the horse, McKenzie, in this darkness; the dog may find the way through the broom for us." "The dog has run on," McKenzie replied, now in an evil temper. "Who knows, it may be with her now? So we must feel our way cautiously; there is no call for capsizing the trap in our haste." But there was call for haste if they were to reach the gypsy encampment before Gavin and Babbie were made man and wife over the tongs. The Spittal dogcart rocked as it dragged its way through the broom. Rob Dow followed. The ten o'clock bell began to ring. CHAPTER XXXIII. WHILE THE TEN O'CLOCK BELL WAS RINGING. In the square and wynds--weavers in groups: "No, no, Davit, Mr. Dishart hadna felt the blow the piper gave him till he ascended the pulpit to conduct the prayer-meeting for rain, and then he fainted awa. Tammas Whamond and Peter Tosh carried him to the Session-house. Ay, an awful scene." "How did the minister no come to the meeting? I wonder how you could expect it, Snecky, and his mother taen so suddenly ill; he's at her bedside, but the doctor has little hope." "This is what has occurred, Tailor: Mr. Dishart never got the length of the pulpit. He fell in a swound on the vestry floor. What caused it? Oh, nothing but the heat. Thrums is so dry that one spark would set it in a blaze." "I canna get at the richts o' what keeped him frae the meeting, Femie, but it had something to do wi' an Egyptian on the hill. Very like he had been trying to stop the gypsy marriage there. I gaed to the manse to speir at Jean what was wrang, but I'm thinking I telled her mair than she could tell me." "Man, man, Andrew, the wite o't lies wi' Peter Tosh. He thocht we was to hae sic a terrible rain that he implored the minister no to pray for it, and so angry was Mr. Dishart that he ordered the whole Session out o' the kirk. I saw them in Couthie's close, and michty dour they looked." "Yes, as sure as death, Tammas Whamond locked the kirk-door in Mr. Dishart's face." "I'm a' shaking! And small wonder, Marget, when I've heard this minute that Mr. Dishart's been struck by lichtning while looking for Rob Dow. He's no killed, but, woe's me! they say he'll never preach again." "Nothing o' the kind. It was Rob that the lichtning struck dead in the doctor's machine. The horse wasna touched; it came tearing down the Roods wi' the corpse sitting in the machine like a living man." "What are you listening to, woman? Is it to a dog barking? I've heard it this while, but it's far awa." In the manse kitchen: "Jean, did you not hear me ring? I want you to--Why are you staring out at the window, Jean?" "I--I was just hearkening to the ten o'clock bell, ma'am." "I never saw you doing nothing before! Put the heater in the fire, Jean. I want to iron the minister's neckcloths. The prayer-meeting is long in coming out, is it not?" "The--the drouth, ma'am, has been so cruel hard." "And, to my shame, I am so comfortable that I almost forgot how others are suffering. But my son never forgets, Jean. You are not crying, are you?" "No, ma'am." "Bring the iron to the parlor, then. And if the minis--Why did you start, Jean? I only heard a dog barking." "I thocht, ma'am--at first I thocht it was Mr. Dishart opening the door. Ay, it's just a dog; some gypsy dog on the hill, I'm thinking, for sound would carry far the nicht." "Even you, Jean, are nervous at nights, I see, if there is no man in the house. We shall hear no more distant dogs barking, I warrant, when the minister comes home." "When he comes home, ma'am." On the middle of a hill--a man and a woman: "Courage, beloved; we are nearly there." "But, Gavin, I cannot see the encampment." "The night is too dark." "But the gypsy fires?" "They are in the Toad's-hole." "Listen to that dog barking." "There are several dogs at the encampment, Babbie." "There is one behind us. See, there it is!" "I have driven it away, dear. You are trembling." "What we are doing frightens me, Gavin. It is at your heels again!" "It seems to know you." "Oh, Gavin, it is Lord Rintoul's collie Snap. It will bite you." "No, I have driven it back again. Probably the earl is following us." "Gavin, I cannot go on with this." "Quicker, Babbie." "Leave me, dear, and save yourself." "Lean on me, Babbie." "Oh, Gavin, is there no way but this?" "No sure way." "Even though we are married to-night--" "We shall be maried in five minutes, and then, whatever befall, he cannot have you." "But after?" "I will take you straight to the manse, to my mother." "Were it not for that dog, I should think we were alone on the hill." "But we are not. See, there are the gypsy fires." On the west side of the hill--two figures: "Tammas, Tammas Whamond, I've lost you. Should we gang to the manse down the fields?" "Wheesht, Hendry!" "What are you listening for?" "I heard a dog barking." "Only a gypsy dog, Tammas, barking at the coming storm." "The gypsy dogs are all tied up, and this one's atween us and the Toad's-hole. What was that?" "It was nothing but the rubbing of the branches in the cemetery on ane another. It's said, trees mak' that fearsome sound when they're terrified." "It was a dog barking at somebody that's stoning it. I ken that sound, Hendry Munn." "May I die the death, Tammas Whamond, if a great drap o' rain didna strike me the now, and I swear it was warm. I'm for running hame." "I'm for seeing who drove awa that dog. Come back wi' me, Hendry." "I winna. There's no a soul on the hill but you and me and thae daffing and drinking gypsies. How do you no answer me, Tammas? Hie, Tammas Whamond, whaur are you? He's gone! Ay, then I'll mak' tracks hame." In the broom--a dogcart: "Do you see nothing yet, McKenzie?" "Scarce the broom at my knees, Rintoul. There is not a light on the hill." "McKenzie, can that schoolmaster have deceived us?" "It is probable." "Urge on the horse, however. There is a road through the broom, I know. Have we stuck again?" "Rintoul, she is not here. I promised to help you to bring her back to the Spittal before this escapade became known, but we have failed to find her. If she is to be saved, it must be by herself. I daresay she has returned already. Let me turn the horse's head. There is a storm brewing." "I will search this gypsy encampment first, if it is on the hill. Hark! that was a dog's bark. Yes, it is Snap; but he would not bark at nothing. Why do you look behind you so often, McZenzie?" "For some time, Rintoul, it has seemed to me that we are being followed. Listen!" "I hear nothing. At last, McKenzie, at last, we are out of the broom." "And as I live, Rintoul, I see the gypsy lights!" It might have been a lantern that was flashed across the hill. Then all that part of the world went suddenly on fire. Everything was horribly distinct in that white light. The firs of Caddam were so near that it seemed to have arrested them in a silent march upon the hill. The grass would not hide a pebble. The ground was scored with shadows of men and things. Twice the light flickered and recovered itself. A red serpent shot across it, and then again black night fell. The hill had been illumined thus for nearly half a minute. During that time not even a dog stirred. The shadows of human beings lay on the ground as motionless as logs. What had been revealed seemed less a gypsy marriage than a picture. Or was it that during the ceremony every person on the hill had been turned into stone? The gypsy king, with his arm upraised, had not had time to let it fall. The men and women behind him had their mouths open, as if struck when on the point of calling out. Lord Rintoul had risen in the dogcart and was leaning forward. One of McKenzie's feet was on the shaft. The man crouching in the dogcart's wake had flung up his hands to protect his face. The precentor, his neck outstretched, had a hand on each knee. All eyes were fixed, as in the death glare, on Gavin and Babbie, who stood before the king, their hands clasped over the tongs. Fear was petrified on the woman's face, determination on the man's. They were all released by the crack of the thunder, but for another moment none could have swaggered. "That was Lord Rintoul in the dogcart," Babbie whispered, drawing in her breath. "Yes, dear," Gavin answered resolutely, "and now is the time for me to have my first and last talk with him. Remain here, Babbie. Do not move till I come back." "But, Gavin, he has seen. I fear him still." "He cannot touch you now, Babbie. You are my wife." In the vivid light Gavin had thought the dogcart much nearer than it was. He called Lord Rintoul's name, but got no answer. There were shouts behind, gypsies running from the coming rain, dogs whining, but silence in front. The minister moved on some paces. Away to the left he heard voices-- "Who was the man, McKenzie?" "My lord, I have lost sight of you. This is not the way to the camp." "Tell me, McKenzie, that you did not see what I saw." "Rintoul, I beseech you to turn back. We are too late." "We are not too late." Gavin broke through the darkness between them and him, but they were gone. He called to them, and stopped to listen to their feet. "Is that you, Gavin?" Babbie asked just then. For reply, the man who had crept up to her clapped his hand upon her mouth. Only the beginning of a scream escaped from her. A strong arm drove her quickly southward. Gavin heard her cry, and ran back to the encampment. Babbie was gone. None of the gypsies had seen her since the darkness cause back. He rushed hither and thither with a torch that only showed his distracted face to others. He flung up his arms in appeal for another moment of light; then he heard Babbie scream again, and this time it was from a distance. He dashed after her; he heard a trap speeding down the green sward through the broom. Lord Rintoul had kidnapped Babbie. Gavin had no other thought as he ran after the dogcart from which the cry had come. The earl's dog followed him, snapping at his heels. The rain began. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE GREAT RAIN. Gavin passed on through Windyghoul, thinking in his frenzy that he still heard the trap. In a rain that came down like iron rods every other sound was beaten dead. He slipped, and before he could regain his feet the dog bit him. To protect himself from dikes and trees and other horrors of the darkness he held his arm before him, but soon it was driven to his side. Wet whips cut his brow so that he had to protect it with his hands, until it had to bear the lash again, for they would not. Now he had forced up his knees, and would have succumbed but for a dread of being pinned to the earth. This fight between the man and the rain went on all night, and long before it ended the man was past the power of thinking. In the ringing of the ten o'clock bell Gavin had lived the seventh part of a man's natural life. Only action was required of him. That accomplished, his mind had begun to work again, when suddenly the loss of Babbie stopped it, as we may put out a fire with a great coal. The last thing he had reflected about was a dogcart in motion, and, consequently, this idea clung to him. His church, his mother, were lost knowledge of, but still he seemed to hear the trap in front. The rain increased in violence, appalling even those who heard it from under cover. However rain may storm, though it be an army of archers battering roofs and windows, it is only terrifying when the noise swells every instant. In those hours of darkness it again and again grew in force and doubled its fury, and was louder, louder, and louder, until its next attack was to be more than men and women could listen to. They held each other's hands and stood waiting. Then abruptly it abated, and people could speak. I believe a rain that became heavier every second for ten minutes would drive many listeners mad. Gavin was in it on a night that tried us repeatedly for quite half that time. By and by even the vision of Babbie in the dogcart was blotted out. If nothing had taken its place, he would not have gone on probably; and had he turned back objectless, his strength would have succumbed to the rain. Now he saw Babbie and Rintoul being married by a minister who was himself, and there was a fair company looking on, and always when he was on the point of shouting to himself, whom he could see clearly, that this woman was already married, the rain obscured his words and the light went out. Presently the ceremony began again, always to stop at the same point. He saw it in the lightning-flash that had startled the hill. It gave him courage to fight his way onward, because he thought he must be heard if he could draw nearer to the company. A regiment of cavalry began to trouble him. He heard it advancing from the Spittal, but was not dismayed, for it was, as yet, far distant. The horsemen came thundering on, filling the whole glen of Quharity. Now he knew that they had been sent out to ride him down. He paused in dread, until they had swept past him. They came back to look for him, riding more furiously than ever, and always missed him, yet his fears of the next time were not lessened. They were only the rain. All through the night the dog followed him. He would forget it for a time, and then it would be so close that he could see it dimly. He never heard it bark, but it snapped at him, and a grin had become the expression of its face. He stoned it, he even flung himself at it, he addressed it in caressing tones, and always with the result that it disappeared, to come back presently. He found himself walking in a lake, and now even the instinct of self-preservation must have been flickering, for he waded on, rejoicing merely in getting rid of the dog. Something in the water rose and struck him. Instead of stupefying him, the blow brought him to his senses, and he struggled for his life. The ground slipped beneath his feet many times, but at last he was out of the water. That he was out in a flood he did not realize; yet he now acted like one in full possession of his faculties. When his feet sank in water, he drew back; and many times he sought shelter behind banks and rocks, first testing their firmness with his hands. Once a torrent of stones, earth, and heather carried him down a hillside until he struck against a tree. He twined his arms round it, and had just done so when it fell with him. After that, when he touched trees growing in water, he fled from them, thus probably saving himself from death. What he heard now might have been the roll and crack of the thunder. It sounded in his ear like nothing else. But it was really something that swept down the hill in roaring spouts of water, and it passed on both sides of him so that at one moment, had he paused, it would have crashed into him, and at another he was only saved by stopping. He felt that the struggle in the dark was to go on till the crack of doom. Then he cast himself upon the ground. It moved beneath him like some great animal, and he rose and stole away from it. Several times did this happen. The stones against which his feet struck seemed to acquire life from his touch. So strong had he become, or so weak all other things, that whatever clump he laid hands on by which to pull himself out of the water was at once rooted up. The daylight would not come. He longed passionately for it. He tried to remember what it was like, and could not; he had been blind so long. It was away in front somewhere, and he was struggling to overtake it. He expected to see it from a dark place, when he would rush forward to bathe his arms in it, and then the elements that were searching the world for him would see him and he would perish. But death did not seem too great a penalty to pay for light. And at last day did come back, gray and drear. He saw suddenly once more. I think he must have been wandering the glen with his eyes shut, as one does shut them involuntarily against the hidden dangers of black night. How different was daylight from what he had expected! He looked, and then shut his dazed eyes again, for the darkness was less horrible than the day. Had he indeed seen, or only dreamed that he saw? Once more he looked to see what the world was like; and the sight that met his eyes was so mournful that he who had fought through the long night now sank hopeless and helpless among the heather. The dog was not far away, and it, too, lost heart. Gavin held out his hand, and Snap crept timidly toward him. He unloosened his coat, and the dog nestled against him, cowed and shivering, hiding its head from the day, Thus they lay, and the rain beat upon them. CHAPTER XXXV. THE GLEN AT BREAK OF DAY. My first intimation that the burns were in flood came from Waster Lunny, close on the strike of ten o'clock. This was some minutes before they had any rain in Thrums. I was in the school-house, now piecing together the puzzle Lord Rintoul had left with me, and anon starting upright as McKenzie's hand seemed to tighten on my arm. Waster Lunny had been whistling to me (with his fingers in his mouth) for some time before I heard him and hurried out. I was surprised and pleased, knowing no better, to be met on the threshold by a whisk of rain. The night was not then so dark but that when I reached the Quharity I could see the farmer take shape on the other side of it. He wanted me to exult with him, I thought, in the end of the drought, and I shouted that I would fling him the stilts. "It's yoursel' that wants them," he answered excitedly, "if you're fleid to be left alone in the school-house the nicht. Do you hear me, dominie? There has been frichtsome rain among the hills, and the Bog burn is coming down like a sea. It has carried awa the miller's brig, and the steading o' Muckle Pirley is standing three feet in water." "You're dreaming, man," I roared back, but beside his news he held my doubts of no account. "The Retery's in flood," he went on, "and running wild through Hazel Wood; T'nowdunnie's tattie field's out o' sicht, and at the Kirkton they're fleid they've lost twa kye." "There has been no rain here," I stammered, incredulously. "It's coming now." he replied. "And listen: the story's out that the Backbone has fallen into the loch. You had better cross, dominie, and thole out the nicht wi' us." The Backbone was a piece of mountain-side overhanging a loch among the hills, and legend said that it would one day fall forward and squirt all the water into the glen. Something of the kind had happened, but I did not believe it then; with little wit I pointed to the shallow Quharity. "It may come down at any minute," the farmer answered, "and syne, mind you, you'll be five miles frae Waster Lunny, for there'll be no crossing but by the Brig o' March. If you winna come, I maun awa back. I mauna bide langer on the wrang side o' the Moss ditch, though it has been as dry this month back as a tabbit's roady. But if you--" His voice changed. "God's sake, man," he cried, "you're ower late. Look at that! Dinna look--run, run!" If I had not run before he bade me, I might never have run again on earth. I had seen a great shadowy yellow river come riding down the Quharity. I sprang from it for my life; and when next I looked behind, it was upon a turbulent loch, the further bank lost in darkness. I was about to shout to Waster Lunny, when a monster rose in the torrent between me and the spot where he had stood. It frightened me to silence until it fell, when I knew it was but a tree that had been flung on end by the flood. For a time there was no answer to my cries, and I thought the farmer had been swept away. Then I heard his whistle, and back I ran recklessly through the thickening darkness to the school-house. When I saw the tree rise, I had been on ground hardly wet as yet with the rain; but by the time Waster Lunny sent that reassuring whistle to me I was ankle-deep in water, and the rain was coming down like hail. I saw no lightning. For the rest of the night I was only out once, when I succeeded in reaching the hen-house and brought all my fowls safely to the kitchen, except a hen which would not rise off her young. Between us we had the kitchen floor, a pool of water; and the rain had put out my fires already, as effectually as if it had been an overturned broth-pot. That I never took off my clothes that night I need not say, though of what was happening in the glen I could only guess. A flutter against my window now and again, when the rain had abated, told me of another bird that had flown there to die; and with Waster Lunny, I kept up communication by waving a light, to which he replied in a similar manner. Before morning, however, he ceased to answer my signals, and I feared some catastrophe had occurred at the farm. As it turned out, the family was fighting with the flood for the year's shearing of wool, half of which eventually went down the waters, with the wool-shed on top of it. The school-house stands too high to fear any flood, but there were moments when I thought the rain would master it. Not only the windows and the roof were rattling then, but all the walls, and I was like one in a great drum. When the rain was doing its utmost, I heard no other sound; but when the lull came, there was the wash of a heavy river, or a crack as of artillery that told of landslips, or the plaintive cry of the peesweep as it rose in the air, trying to entice the waters away from its nest. It was a dreary scene that met my gaze at break of day. Already the Quharity had risen six feet, and in many parts of the glen it was two hundred yards wide. Waster Lunny's corn-field looked like a bog grown over with rushes, and what had been his turnips had become a lake with small islands in it. No dike stood whole except one that the farmer, unaided, had built in a straight line from the road to the top of Mount Bare, and my own, the further end of which dipped in water. Of the plot of firs planted fifty years earlier to help on Waster Lunny's crops, only a triangle had withstood the night. Even with the aid of my field-glass I could not estimate the damage on more distant farms, for the rain, though now thin and soft, as it continued for six days, was still heavy and of a brown color. After breakfast--which was interrupted by my bantam cock's twice spilling my milk--saw Waster Lunny and his son, Matthew, running towards the shepherd's house with ropes in their hands. The house, I thought, must be in the midst beyond; and then I sickened, knowing all at once that it should be on this side of the mist. When I had nerve to look again, I saw that though the roof had fallen in, the shepherd was astride one of the walls, from which he was dragged presently through the water by the help of the ropes. I remember noticing that he returned to his house with the rope still about him. and concluded that he had gone back to save some of his furniture. I was wrong, however. There was too much to be done at the farm to allow this, but Waster Lunny had consented to Duncan's forcing his way back to the shieling to stop the clock. To both men it seemed horrible to let a clock go on ticking in a deserted house. Having seen this rescue accomplished, I was letting my glass roam in the opposite direction, when one of its shakes brought into view something on my own side of the river. I looked at it long, and saw it move slightly. Was it a human being? No, it was a dog. No, it was a dog and something else. I hurried out to see more clearly, and after a first glance the glass shook so in my hands that I had to rest it on the dike. For a full minute, I daresay, did I look through the glass without blinking, and then I needed to look no more, That black patch was, indeed, Gavin. He lay quite near the school-house, but I had to make a circuit of half a mile to reach him. It was pitiful to see the dog doing its best to come to me, and falling every few steps. The poor brute was discolored almost beyond recognition; and when at last it reached me, it lay down at my feet and licked them. I stepped over it and ran on recklessly to Gavin. At first I thought he was dead. If tears rolled down my cheeks, they were not for him. I was no strong man even in those days, but I carried him to the school-house, the dog crawling after us. Gavin I put upon my bed, and I lay down beside him, holding him close to me, that some of the heat of my body might be taken in by his. When he was able to look at me, however, it was not with understanding, and in vain did my anxiety press him with questions. Only now and again would some word in my speech strike upon his brain and produce at least an echo. To "Did you meet Lord Rintoul's dogcart?" he sat up, saying quickly: "Listen, the dogcart!" "Egyptian" was not that forenoon among the words he knew, and I did not think of mentioning "hill." At "rain" he shivered; but "Spittal" was what told me most. "He has taken her back," he replied at once, from which I learned that Gavin now knew as much of Babbie as I did. I made him as comfortable as possible, and despairing of learning anything from him in his present state, I let him sleep. Then I went out into the rain, very anxious, and dreading what he might have to tell me when he woke. I waded and jumped my way as near to the farm as I dared go, and Waster Lunny, seeing me, came to the water's edge. At this part the breadth of the flood was not forty yards, yet for a time our voices could no more cross its roar than one may send a snowball through a stone wall. I know not whether the river then quieted for a space, or if it was only that the ears grow used to dins as the eyes distinguish the objects in a room that is at first black to them; but after a little we were able to shout our remarks across, much as boys fling pebbles, many to fall into the water, but one occasionally to reach the other side. Waster Lunny would have talked of the flood, but I had not come here for that. "How were you home so early from the prayer-meeting last night?" I bawled. "No meeting ... I came straucht hame ... but terrible stories ... Mr. Dishart," was all I caught after Waster Lunny had flung his words across a dozen times. I could not decide whether it would be wise to tell him that Gavin was in the school-house, and while I hesitated he continued to shout: "Some woman ... the Session ... Lang Tammas ... God forbid ... maun back to the farm ... byre running like a mill-dam." He signed to me that he must be off, but my signals delayed him, and after much trouble he got my question, "Any news about Lord Rintoul?" My curiosity about the earl must have surprised him, but he answered: "Marriage is to be the day ... cannon." I signed that I did not grasp his meaning. "A cannon is to be fired as soon as they're man and wife," he bellowed. "We'll hear it." With that we parted. On my way home, I remember, I stepped on a brood of drowned partridge. I was only out half an hour, but I had to wring my clothes as if they were fresh from the tub. The day wore on, and I did not disturb the sleeper. A dozen times, I suppose, I had to relight my fire of wet peats and roots; but I had plenty of time to stare out at the window, plenty of time to think. Probably Gavin's life depended on his sleeping, but that was not what kept my hands off him. Knowing so little of what had happened in Thrums since I left it, I was forced to guess, and my conclusion was that the earl had gone off with his own, and that Gavin in a frenzy had followed them. My wisest course, I thought, was to let him sleep until I heard the cannon, when his struggle for a wife must end. Fifty times at least did I stand regarding him as he slept; and if I did not pity his plight sufficiently, you know the reason. What were Margaret's sufferings at this moment? Was she wringing her hands for her son lost in the flood, her son in disgrace with the congregation? By one o'clock no cannon had sounded, and my suspense had become intolerable. I shook Gavin awake, and even as I shook him demanded a knowledge of all that had happened since we parted at Nanny's gate. "How long ago is that?" he asked, with bewilderment. "It was last night," I answered. "This morning I found you senseless on the hillside, and brought you here, to the Glen Quharity school-house. That dog was with you." He looked at the dog, but I kept my eyes on him, and I saw intelligence creep back, like a blush, into his face. "Now I remember," he said, shuddering. "You have proved yourself my friend, sir, twice in the four and twenty hours." "Only once, I fear," I replied gloomily. "I was no friend when I sent you to the earl's bride last night." "You know who she is?" he cried, clutching me, and finding it agony to move his limbs. "I know now," I said, and had to tell him how I knew before he would answer another question. Then I became listener, and you who read know to what alarming story. "And all that time," I cried reproachfully, when he had done, "you gave your mother not a thought." "Not a thought," he answered; and I saw that he pronounced a harsher sentence on himself than could have come from me. "All that time!" he repeated, after a moment. "It was only a few minutes, while the ten o'clock bell was ringing." "Only a few minutes," I said, "but they changed the channel of the Quharity, and perhaps they have done not less to you." "That may be," he answered gravely, "but it is of the present I must think just now. Mr. Ogilvy, what assurance have I, while lying here helpless, that the marriage at the Spittal is not going on?" "None, I hope," I said to myself, and listened longingly for the cannon. But to him I only pointed out that no woman need go through a form of marriage against her will. "Rintoul carried her off with no possible purport," he said, "but to set my marriage at defiance, and she has had a conviction always that to marry me would be to ruin me. It was only in the shiver Lord Rintoul's voice in the darkness sent through her that she yielded to my wishes. If she thought that marriage last night could be annulled by another to-day, she would consent to the second, I believe, to save me from the effects of the first. You are incredulous, sir; but you do not know of what sacrifices love is capable." Something of that I knew, but I did not tell him. I had seen from his manner rather than his words that he doubted the validity of the gypsy marriage, which the king had only consented to celebrate because Babbie was herself an Egyptian. The ceremony had been interrupted in the middle. "It was no marriage," I said, with a confidence I was far from feeling. "In the sight of God," he replied excitedly, "we took each other for man and wife." I had to hold him down in bed. "You are too weak to stand, man," I said, "and yet you think you could start off this minute for the Spittal." "I must go," he cried. "She is my wife. That impious marriage may have taken place already." "Oh, that it had!" was my prayer. "It has not," I said to him. "A cannon is to be fired immediately after the ceremony, and all the glen will hear it." I spoke on the impulse, thinking to allay his desire to be off; but he said, "Then I may yet be in time." Somewhat cruelly I let him rise, that he might realize his weakness. Every bone in him cried out at his first step, and he sank into a chair. "You will go to the Spittal for me?" he implored. "I will not," I told him. "You are asking me to fling away my life." To prove my words I opened the door, and he saw what the flood was doing. Nevertheless, he rose and tottered several times across the room, trying to revive his strength. Though every bit of him was aching, I saw that he would make the attempt. "Listen to me," I said. "Lord Rintoul can maintain with some reason that it was you rather than he who abducted Babbie. Nevertheless, there will not, I am convinced, be any marriage at the Spittal to-day, When he carried her off from the Toad's-hole, he acted under impulses not dissimilar to those that took you to it. Then, I doubt not, he thought possession was all the law, but that scene on the hill has staggered him by this morning. Even though she thinks to save you by marrying him, he will defer his wedding until he learns the import of yours." I did not believe in my own reasoning, but I would have said anything to detain him until that cannon was fired. He seemed to read my purpose, for he pushed my arguments from him with his hands, and continued to walk painfully to and fro. "To defer the wedding," he said, "would be to tell all his friends of her gypsy origin, and of me. He will risk much to avoid that." "In any case," I answered, "you must now give some thought to those you have forgotten, your mother and your church." "That must come afterwards," he said firmly. "My first duty is to my wife." The door swung to sharply just then, and he started. He thought it was the cannon. "I wish to God it had been!" I cried, interpreting his thoughts. "Why do you wish me ill?" he asked. "Mr. Dishart," I said solemnly, rising and facing him, and disregarding his question, "if that woman is to be your wife, it will be at a cost you cannot estimate till you return to Thrums. Do you think that if your congregation knew of this gypsy marriage they would have you for their minister for another day? Do you enjoy the prospect of taking one who might be an earl's wife into poverty--ay, and disgraceful poverty? Do you know your mother so little as to think she could survive your shame? Let me warn you, sir, of what I see. I see another minister in the Auld Licht kirk, I see you and your wife stoned through our wynds, stoned from Thrums, as malefactors have--been chased out of it ere now; and as certainly as I see these things I see a hearse standing at the manse door, and stern men denying a son's right to help to carry his mother's coffin to it. Go your way, sir; but first count the cost." His face quivered before these blows, but all he said was, "I must dree my dreed." "God is merciful," I went on, "and these things need not be. He is more merciful to you, sir, than to some, for the storm that He sent to save you is ruining them. And yet the farmers are to-day thanking Him for every pound of wool, every blade of corn He has left them, while you turn from Him because He would save you, not in your way, but in His. It was His hand that stayed your marriage. He meant Babbie for the earl; and if it is on her part a loveless match, she only suffers for her own sins. Of that scene on the hill no one in. Thrums, or in the glen, need ever know. Rintoul will see to it that the gypsies vanish from these parts forever, and you may be sure the Spittal will soon be shut up. He and McKenzie have as much reason as yourself to be silent. You, sir, must go back to your congregation, who have heard as yet only vague rumors that your presence will dispel. Even your mother will remain ignorant of what has happened. Your absence from the prayer-meeting you can leave to me to explain." He was so silent that I thought him mine, but his first words undeceived me. "I thought I had nowhere so keen a friend," he said; "but, Mr. Ogilvy, it is devil's work you are pleading. Am I to return to my people to act a living lie before them to the end of my days? Do you really think that God devastated a glen to give me a chance of becoming a villain? No, sir, I am in His hands, and I will do what I think right." "You will be dishonored," I said, "in the sight of God and man." "Not in God's sight," he replied. "It was a sinless marriage, Mr. Ogilvy, and I do not regret it. God ordained that she and I should love each other, and He put it into my power to save her from that man. I took her as my wife before Him, and in His eyes I am her husband. Knowing that, sir, how could I return to Thrums without her?" I had no answer ready for him. I knew that in my grief for Margaret I had been advocating an unworthy course, but I would not say so. I went gloomily to the door, and there, presently, his hand fell on my shoulder. "Your advice came too late, at any rate," he said. "You forget that the precentor was on the hill and saw everything." It was he who had forgotten to tell me this, and to me it was the most direful news of all. "My God!" I cried. "He will have gone to your mother and told her." And straightway I began to lace my boots. "Where are you going?" he asked, staring at me. "To Thrums," I answered harshly. "You said that to venture out into the glen was to court death," he reminded me. "What of that?" I said, and hastily put on my coat. "Mr. Ogilvy," he cried, "I will not allow you to do this for me." "For you?" I said bitterly. "It is not for you." I would have gone at once, but he got in front of me, asking, "Did you ever know my mother?" "Long ago," I answered shortly, and he said no more, thinking, I suppose, that he knew all. He limped to the door with me, and I had only advanced a few steps when I understood better than before what were the dangers I was to venture into. Since I spoke to Waster Lunny the river had risen several feet, and even the hillocks in his turnip-field were now submerged. The mist was creeping down the hills. But what warned me most sharply that the flood was not satisfied yet was the top of the school-house dike; it was lined with field-mice. I turned back, and Gavin, mistaking my meaning, said I did wisely. "I have not changed my mind," I told him, and then had some difficulty in continuing. "I expect," I said, "to reach Thrums safely, even though I should be caught in the mist, but I shall have to go round by the Kelpie brig in order to get across the river, and it is possible that--that something may befall me." I have all my life been something of a coward, and my voice shook when I said this, so that Gavin again entreated me to remain at the school-house, saying that if I did not he would accompany me. "And so increase my danger tenfold?" I pointed out. "No, no, Mr. Dishart, I go alone; and if I can do nothing with the congregation, I can at least send your mother word that you still live. But if anything should happen to me, I want you--" But I could not say what I had come back to say. I had meant to ask him, in the event of my death, to take a hundred pounds which were the savings of my life; but now I saw that this might lead to Margaret's hearing of me, and so I stayed my words. It was bitter to me this, and yet, after all, a little thing when put beside the rest. "Good-by, Mr. Dishart," I said abruptly. I then looked at my desk, which contained some trifles that were once Margaret's. "Should anything happen to me," I said, "I want that old desk to be destroyed unopened." "Mr. Ogilvy," he answered gently, "you are venturing this because you loved my mother. If anything does befall you, be assured that I will tell her what you attempted for her sake." I believe he thought it was to make some such request that I had turned back. "You must tell her nothing about me," I exclaimed, in consternation. "Swear that my name will never cross your lips before her. No, that is not enough. You must forget me utterly, whether I live or die, lest some time you should think of me and she should read your thoughts. Swear, man!" "Must this be?" he said, gazing at me. "Yes," I answered more calmly, "it must be. For nearly a score of years I have been blotted out of your mother's life, and since she came to Thrums my one care has been to keep my existence from her. I have changed my burying-ground even from Thrums to the glen, lest I should die before her, and she, seeing the hearse go by the Tenements, might ask, 'Whose funeral is this?'" In my anxiety to warn him, I had said too much. His face grew haggard, and there was fear to speak on it; and I saw, I knew, that some damnable suspicion of Margaret--- "She was my wife!" I cried sharply. "We were married by the minister of Harvie. You are my son." CHAPTER XXXVI. STORY OF THE DOMINIE. When I spoke next, I was back in the school-house, sitting there with my bonnet on my head, Gavin looking at me. We had forgotten the cannon at last. In that chair I had anticipated this scene more than once of late. I had seen that a time might come when Gavin would have to be told all, and I had even said the words aloud, as if he were indeed opposite me. So now I was only repeating the tale, and I could tell it without emotion, because it was nigh nineteen years old; and I did not look at Gavin, for I knew that his manner of taking it could bring no change to me. "Did you never ask your mother," I said, addressing the fire rather than him, "why you were called Gavin?" "Yes," he answered, "it was because she thought Gavin a prettier name than Adam." "No," I said slowly, "it was because Gavin is my name. You were called after your father. Do you not remember my taking you one day to the shore at Harvie to see the fishermen carried to their boats upon their wives' backs, that they might start dry on their journey?" "No," he had to reply. "I remember the women carrying the men through the water to the boats, but I thought it was my father who--I mean---" "I know whom you mean," I said. "That was our last day together, but you were not three years old. Yet you remembered me when you came to Thrums. You shake your head, but it is true. Between the diets of worship that first Sabbath I was introduced to you, and you must have had some shadowy recollection of my face, for you asked, 'Surely I saw you in church in the forenoon, Mr. Ogilvy?' I said 'Yes,' but I had not been in the church in the forenoon. You have forgotten even that, and yet I treasured it." I could hear that he was growing impatient, though so far he had been more indulgent than I had any right to expect. "It can all be put into a sentence," I said calmly. "Margaret married Adam Dishart, and afterwards, believing herself a widow, she married me. You were born, and then Adam Dishart came back." That is my whole story, and here was I telling it to my son, and not a tear between us. It ended abruptly, and I fell to mending the fire. "When I knew your mother first," I went on, after Gavin had said some boyish things that were of no avail to me, "I did not think to end my days as a dominie. I was a student at Aberdeen, with the ministry in my eye, and sometimes on Saturdays I walked forty miles to Harvie to go to church with her. She had another lover, Adam Dishart, a sailor turned fisherman; and while I lingered at corners, wondering if I could dare to meet her and her mother on their way to church, he would walk past with them. He was accompanied always by a lanky black dog, which he had brought from a foreign country. He never signed for any ship without first getting permission to take it with him, and in Harvie they said it did not know the language of the native dogs. I have never known a man and dog so attached to each other." "I remember that black dog," Gavin said. "I have spoken of it to my mother, and she shuddered, as if it had once bitten her." "While Adam strutted by with them," I continued. "I would hang back, raging at his assurance or my own timidity; but I lost my next chance in the same way. In Margaret's presence something came over me, a kind of dryness in the throat, that made me dumb. I have known divinity students stricken in the same way, just as they were giving out their first text. It is no aid in getting a kirk or wooing a woman. "If any one in Harvie recalls me now, it is as a hobbledehoy who strode along the cliffs, shouting Homer at the sea-mews. With all my learning, I, who gave Margaret the name of Lalage, understood women less than any fisherman who bandied words with them across a boat. I remember a Yule night when both Adam and I were at her mother's cottage, and, as we were leaving, he had the audacity to kiss Margaret. She ran out of the room, and Adam swaggered off, and when I recovered from my horror, I apologized for what he had done. I shall never forget how her mother looked at me, and said, 'Ay, Gavin, I see they dinna teach everything at Aberdeen.' You will not believe it, but I walked away doubting her meaning. I thought more of scholarship then than I do now. Adam Dishart taught me its proper place. "Well, that is the dull man I was; and yet, though Adam was always saying and doing the things I was making up my mind to say and do, I think Margaret cared more for me. Nevertheless, there was something about him that all women seemed to find lovable, a dash that made them send him away and then well-nigh run after him. At any rate, I could have got her after her mother's death if I had been half a man. But I went back to Aberdeen to write a poem about her, and while I was at it Adam married her." I opened my desk and took from it a yellow manuscript. "Here," I said, "is the poem. You see, I never finished it." I was fingering the thing grimly when Gavin's eye fell on something else in the desk. It was an ungainly clasp-knife, as rusty as if it had spent a winter beneath a hedge. "I seem to remember that knife," he said. "Yes," I answered, "you should remember it. Well, after three months Adam tired of his wife." I stopped again. This was a story in which only the pauses were eloquent. "Perhaps I have no right to say he tired of her. One day, however, he sauntered away from Harvie whistling, his dog at his heels as ever, and was not seen again for nearly six years. When I heard of his disappearance I packed my books in that kist and went to Harvie, where I opened a school. You see, every one but Margaret believed that Adam had fallen over the cliffs and been drowned." "But the dog?" said Gavin. "We were all sure that, if he had fallen over, it had jumped after him. The fisher-folk said that he could have left his shadow behind as easily as it. Yet Margaret thought for long that he had tired of Harvie merely and gone back to sea, and not until two years had passed would she marry me. We lived in Adam's house. It was so near the little school that when I opened the window in summer-time she could hear the drone of our voices. During the weeks before you were born I kept that window open all day long, and often I went to it and waved my hand to her. "Sometimes, when she was washing or baking, I brought you to the school. The only quarrel she and I ever had was about my teaching you the Lord's Prayer in Greek as soon as you could say father and mother. It was to be a surprise for her on your second birthday. On that day, while she was ironing, you took hold of her gown to steady yourself, and began, 'IIater haemon ho en tois ohuranois,' and to me, behind the door, it was music. But at agiasthaeto, of which you made two syllables, you cried, and Margaret snatched you up, thinking this was some new ailment. After I had explained to her that it was the Lord's Prayer in Greek, she would let me take you to the school-house no more. "Not much longer could I have taken you in any case, for already we are at the day when Adam Dishart came back. It was the 7th of September, and all the week most of the women in Harvie had been setting off at dawn to the harvest fields and straggling home at nights, merry and with yellow corn in their hair. I had sat on in the school-house that day after my pupils were gone. I still meant to be a minister, and I was studying Hebrew, and so absorbed in my book that as the daylight went, I followed it step by step as far as my window, and there I read, without knowing, until I chanced to look up, that I had left my desk. I have not opened that book since. "From the window I saw you on the waste ground that separated the school from our home. You were coming to me on your hands and feet, and stopping now and again to look back at your mother, who was at the door, laughing and shaking her fist at you. I beckoned to you, and took the book back to my desk to lock it up. While my head was inside the desk I heard the school-house door pushed open, and thinking it was you I smiled, without looking up. Then something touched my hand, and I still thought it was you; but I looked down, and I saw Adam Dishart's black dog. "I did not move. It looked up at me and wagged its tail. Then it drew back--I suppose because I had no words for it. I watched it run half-round the room and stop and look at me again. Then it slunk out. "All that time one of my hands had been holding the desk open. Now the lid fell. I put on my bonnet and went to the door. You were only a few yards away, with flowers in your fist. Margaret was laughing still. I walked round the school and there was no dog visible. Margaret nodded to me, meaning that I should bring you home. You thrust the flowers into my hand, but they fell. I stood there, dazed. "I think I walked with you some way across the waste ground. Then I dropped your hand and strode back to the school. I went down on my knees, looking for marks of a dog's paws, and I found them. "When I came out again your mother was no longer at our door, and you were crying because I had left you. I passed you and walked straight to the house. Margaret was skinning rushes for wicks. There must have been fear in my face, for as soon as she saw it she ran to the door to see if you were still alive. She brought you in with her, and so had strength to cry, 'What is it? Speak!' "'Come away,' I said, 'come away,' and I was drawing her to the door, but she pressed me into a chair. I was up again at once. "'Margaret,' I said, 'ask no questions. Put on your bonnet, give me the boy, and let us away.' "I could not take my eyes off the door, and she was walking to it to look out when I barred the way with my arm. "'What have you seen?' she cried; and then, as I only pointed to her bonnet, she turned to you, and you said, 'Was it the black dog, father?' "Gavin, then she knew; and I stood helpless and Watched my wife grow old. In that moment she lost the sprightliness I loved the more because I had none of it myself, and the bloom went from her face never to return. "'He has come back,' she said. "I told her what I had seen, and while I spoke she put on her bonnet, and I exulted, thinking--and then she took off her bonnet, and I knew she would not go away with me. "'Margaret,' I cried, 'I am that bairn's father.' "'Adam's my man,' she said, and at that I gave her a look for which God might have struck me dead. But instead of blaming me she put her arms round my neck. "After that we said very little. We sat at opposite sides of the fire, waiting for him, and you played on the floor. The harvesters trooped by, and there was a fiddle; and when it stopped, long stillness, and then a step. It was not Adam. You fell asleep, and we could hear nothing but the sea. There was a harvest moon. "Once a dog ran past the door, and we both rose. Margaret pressed her hands on her breast. Sometimes she looked furtively at me, and I knew her thoughts. To me it was only misery that had come, but to her it was shame, so that when you woke and climbed into her lap she shivered at your touch. I could not look at her after that, for there was a horror of me growing in her face. "Ten o'clock struck, and then again there was no sound but the sea pouring itself out on the beach. It was long after this, when to me there was still no other sound, that Margaret screamed, and you hid behind her. Then I heard it. "'Gavin,' Margaret said to me, 'be a good man all your life.' "It was louder now, and then it stopped. Above the wash of the sea we heard another sound--a sharp tap, tap. You said, 'I know what sound that is; it's a man knocking the ashes out of his pipe against his boot.' "Then the dog pushed the door off the latch, and Adam lurched in. He was not drunk, but he brought the smell of drink into the room with him. He was grinning like one bringing rare news, and before she could shrink back or I could strike him he had Margaret in his arms. "'Lord, lass,' he said, with many jovial oaths, 'to think I'm back again! There, she's swounded. What folks be women, to be sure.' "'We thought you were dead, Adam," she said, coming to. '"Bless your blue eyes," he answered gleefully; 'often I says to myself, "Meggy will be thinking I'm with the fishes," and then I chuckles.' "'Where have you been all this time?' I demanded sternly. "'Gavin,' he said effusively, 'your hand. And don't look so feared, man; I bear no malice for what you've done. I heard all about it at the Cross Anchors.' "'Where have you been these five years and a half?' I repeated. "'Where have I no been, lad?' he replied. "'At Harvie,' I said. "'Right you are,' said he good-naturedly. 'Meggie, I had no intention of leaving you that day, though I was yawning myself to death in Harvie; but I sees a whaler, and I thinks, "That's a tidy boat, and I'm a tidy man, and if they'll take me and the dog, off we go."' "'You never wrote to me,' Margaret said." '"I meant to send you some scrapes,' he answered, 'but it wasna till I changed ships that I had the chance, and then I minds, "Meggy kens I'm no hand with the pen." But I swear I often thought of you, lass; and look you here, that's better than letters, and so is that, and every penny of it is yours.'" "He flung two bags of gold upon the table, and their chink brought you out from behind your mother. "'Hallo!' Adam cried. "'He is mine,' I said. 'Gavin, come here.' But Margaret held you back. "'Here's a go,' Adam muttered, and scratched his head. Then he slapped his thigh. 'Gavin,' he said, in his friendliest way, 'we'll toss for him.' "He pulled the knife that is now in my desk from his pocket, spat on it, and flung it up. 'Dry, the kid's ours, Meggy,' he explained; 'wet, he goes to Gavin,' I clinched my fist to---But what was the use? He caught the knife, and showed it to me. "'Dry,' he said triumphantly; 'so he is ours, Meggy. Kiddy, catch the knife. It is yours; and, mind, you have changed dads. And now that we have settled that, Gavin, there's my hand again.' "I went away and left them, and I never saw Margaret again until the day you brought her to Thrums. But I saw you once, a few days after Adam came back. I was in the school-house, packing my books, and you were playing on the waste ground. I asked you how your mother was, and you said, 'She's fleid to come to the door till you gang awa, and my father's buying a boat.' "'I'm your father,' I said; but you answered confidently: "'You're no a living man. You're just a man I dreamed about; and I promised my mother no to dream about you again.' "'I am your father,' I repeated. "'My father's awa buying a fishing-boat,' you insisted; 'and when I speir at my mother whaur my first father is, she says I'm havering.' "'Gavin Ogilvy is your name,' I said. 'No,' you answered, 'I have a new name. My mother telled me my name is aye to be Gavin Dishart now. She telled me, too, to fling awa this knife my father gave me, and I've flung it awa a lot o' times, but I aye pick it up again.' "'Give it to me,' I said, with the wicked thoughts of a fool in my head. "That is how your knife came into my possession. I left Harvie that night in the carrier's cart, but I had not the heart to return to college. Accident brought me here, and I thought it a fitting place in which to bury myself from Margaret." Chapter XXXVII SECOND JOURNEY OF THE DOMINIE TO THRUMS DURING THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. Here was a nauseous draught for me. Having finished my tale, I turned to Gavin for sympathy; and, behold, he had been listening for the cannon instead of to my final words. So, like an old woman at her hearth, we warm our hands at our sorrows and drop in faggots, and each thinks his own fire a sun, in presence of which all other fires should go out. I was soured to see Gavin prove this, and then I could have laughed without mirth, for had not my bitterness proved it too? "And now," I said, rising, "whether Margaret is to hold up her head henceforth lies no longer with me, but with you." It was not to that he replied. "You have suffered long, Mr. Ogilvy," he said. "Father," he added, wringing my hand. I called him son; but it was only an exchange of musty words that we had found too late. A father is a poor estate to come into at two and twenty. "I should have been told of this," he said. "Your mother did right, sir," I answered slowly, but he shook his head. "I think you have misjudged her," he said. "Doubtless while my fa- -, while Adam Dishart lived, she could only think of you with pain; but after his death--" "After his death," I said quietly, "I was still so horrible to her that she left Harvie without letting a soul know whither she was bound. She dreaded my following her." "Stranger to me," he said, after a pause, "than even your story is her being able to keep it from me. I believed no thought ever crossed her mind that she did not let me share." "And none, I am sure, ever did," I answered, "save that, and such thoughts as a woman has with God only. It was my lot to bring disgrace on her. She thought it nothing less, and she has hidden it all these years for your sake, until now it is not burdensome. I suppose she feels that God has taken the weight off her. Now you are to put a heavier burden in its place." He faced me boldly, and I admire him for it now. "I cannot admit," he said, "that I did wrong in forgetting my mother for that fateful quarter of an hour. Babbie and I loved each other, and I was given the opportunity of making her mine or losing her forever. Have you forgotten that all this tragedy you have told me of only grew out of your own indecision? I took the chance that you let slip by." "I had not forgotten," I replied. "What else made me tell you last night that Babbie was in Nanny's house?" "But now you are afraid--now when the deed is done, when for me there can be no turning back. Whatever be the issue, I should be a cur to return to Thrums without my wife. Every minute I feel my strength returning, and before you reach Thrums I will have set out to the Spittal." There was nothing to say after that. He came with me in the rain as far as the dike, warning me against telling his people what was not true. "My first part," I answered, "will be to send word to your mother that you are in safety. After that I must see Whamond. Much depends on him." "You will not go to my mother?" "Not so long as she has a roof over her head," I said, "but that may not be for long." So, I think, we parted--each soon to forget the other in a woman. But I had not gone far when I heard something that stopped me as sharply as if it had been McKenzie's hand once more on my shoulder. For a second the noise appalled me, and then, before the echo began, I knew it must be the Spittal cannon. My only thought was one of thankfulness. Now Gavin must see the wisdom of my reasoning. I would wait for him until he was able to come with me to Thrums. I turned back, and in my haste I ran through water I had gone round before. I was too late. He was gone, and into the rain I shouted his name in vain. That he had started for the Spittal there could be no doubt; that he would ever reach it was less certain. The earl's collie was still crouching by the fire, and, thinking it might be a guide to him, I drove the brute to the door, and chased it in the direction he probably had taken. Not until it had run from me did I resume my own journey. I do not need to be told that you who read would follow Gavin now rather than me; but you must bear with the dominie for a little while yet, as I see no other way of making things clear. In some ways I was not ill-equipped for my attempt. I do not know any one of our hillsides as it is known to the shepherd, to whom every rabbit-hole and glimmer of mica is a landmark; but he, like his flock, has only to cross a dike to find himself in a strange land, while I have been everywhere in the glen. In the foreground the rain slanted, transparent till it reached the ground, where a mist seemed to blow it along as wind ruffles grass. In the distance all was a driving mist. I have been out for perhaps an hour in rains as wetting, and I have watched floods from my window, but never since have I known the fifth part of a season's rainfall in eighteen hours; and if there should be the like here again, we shall be found better prepared for it. Men have been lost in the glen in mists so thick that they could plunge their fingers out of sight in it as into a meal girnel; but this mist never came within twenty yards of me. I was surrounded by it, however, as if I was in a round tent; and out of this tent I could not walk, for it advanced with me. On the other side of this screen were horrible noises, at whose cause I could only guess, save now and again when a tongue of water was shot at my feet, or great stones came crashing through the canvas of mist. Then I ran wherever safety prompted, and thus tangled my bearings until I was like that one in the child's game who is blindfolded and turned round three times that he may not know east from west. Once I stumbled over a dead sheep and a living lamb; and in a clump of trees which puzzled me--for they were where I thought no trees should be--a wood-pigeon flew to me, but struck my breast with such force that I picked it up dead. I saw no other living thing, though half a dozen times I must have passed within cry of farmhouses. At one time I was in a cornfield, where I had to lift my hands to keep them out of water, and a dread filled me that I had wandered in a circle, and was still on Waster Lunny's land. I plucked some corn and held it to my eyes to see if it was green; but it was yellow, and so I knew that at last I was out of the glen. People up here will complain if I do not tell how I found the farmer of Green Brae's fifty pounds. It is one of the best- remembered incidents of the flood, and happened shortly after I got out of the cornfield. A house rose suddenly before me, and I was hastening to it when as suddenly three of its walls fell. Before my mind could give a meaning to what my eyes told it, the water that had brought down the house had lifted me off my feet and flung me among waves. That would have been the last of the dominie had I not struck against a chest, then half-way on its voyage to the sea. I think the lid gave way tinder me; but that is surmise, for from the time the house fell till I was on the river in a kist that was like to be my coffin, is almost a blank. After what may have been but a short journey, though I had time in it to say my prayers twice, we stopped, jammed among fallen trees; and seeing a bank within reach, I tried to creep up it. In this there would have been little difficulty had not the contents of the kist caught in my feet and held on to them, like living things afraid of being left behind. I let down my hands to disentangle my feet, but failed; and then, grown desperate, I succeeded in reaching firm ground, dragging I knew not what after me. It proved to be a pillow-slip. Green Brae still shudders when I tell him that my first impulse was to leave the pillow-slip unopened. However, I ripped it up, for to undo the wet strings that had ravelled round my feet would have wearied even a man with a needle to pick open the knots; and among broken gimlets, the head of a grape, and other things no beggar would have stolen, I found a tin canister containing fifty pounds. Waster Lunny says that this should have made a religious man of Green Brae, and it did to this extent, that he called the fall of the cotter's house providential. Otherwise the cotter, at whose expense it may be said the money was found, remains the more religious man of the two. At last I came to the Kelpie's brig, and I could have wept in joy (and might have been better employed), when, like everything I saw on that journey, it broke suddenly through the mist, and seemed to run at me like a living monster. Next moment I ran back, for as I stepped upon the bridge I saw that I had been about to walk into the air. What was left of the Kelpie's brig ended in mid-stream. Instead of thanking God for the light without which I should have gone abruptly to my death, I sat down miserable and hopeless. Presently I was up and trudging to the Loups of Malcolm. At the Loups the river runs narrow and deep between cliffs, and the spot is so called because one Malcolm jumped across it when pursued by wolves. Next day he returned boastfully to look at his jump, and gazing at it turned dizzy and fell into the river. Since that time chains have been hung across the Loups to reduce the distance between the farms of Carwhimple and Keep-What-You-Can from a mile to a hundred yards. You must cross the chains on your breast. They were suspended there by Rob Angus, who was also the first to breast them. But I never was a Rob Angus. When my pupils practise what they call the high jump, two small boys hold a string aloft, and the bigger ones run at it gallantly until they reach it, when they stop meekly and creep beneath. They will repeat this twenty times, and yet never, when they start for the string, seem to know where their courage will fail. Nay, they will even order the small boys to hold the string higher. I have smiled at this, but it was the same courage while the difficulty is far off that took me to the Loups. At sight of them I turned away. I prayed to God for a little of the mettle of other men, and He heard me, for with my eyes shut I seemed to see Margaret beckoning from across the abyss as if she had need of me. Then I rose calmly and tested the chains, and crossed them on my breast. Many have done it with the same danger, at which they laugh, but without that vision I should have held back. I was now across the river, and so had left the chance of drowning behind, but I was farther from Thrums than when I left the school-house, and this countryside was almost unknown to me. The mist had begun to clear, so that I no longer wandered into fields; but though I kept to the roads, I could not tell that they led toward Thrums, and in my exhaustion I had often to stand still. Then to make a new start in the mud was like pulling stakes out of the ground. So long as the rain faced me I thought I could not be straying far; but after an hour I lost this guide, for a wind rose that blew it in all directions. In another hour, when I should have been drawing near Thrums, I found myself in a wood, and here I think my distress was greatest; nor is this to be marvelled at, for instead of being near Thrums, I was listening to the monotonous roar of the sea. I was too spent to reason, but I knew that I must have travelled direct east, and must be close to the German Ocean. I remember putting my back against a tree and shutting my eyes, and listening to the lash of the waves against the beach, and hearing the faint toll of a bell, and wondering listlessly on what lighthouse it was ringing. Doubtless I would have lain down to sleep forever had I not heard another sound near at hand. It was the knock of a hammer on wood, and might have been a fisherman mending his boat. The instinct of self-preservation carried me to it, and presently I was at a little house. A man was standing in the rain, hammering new hinges to the door; and though I did not recognize him, I saw with bewilderment that the woman at his side was Nanny. "It's the dominie," she cried, and her brother added: "Losh, sir, you hinna the look o' a living man." "Nanny," I said, in perplexity, "what are you doing here?" "Whaur else should I be?" she asked. I pressed my hands over my eyes, crying, "Where am I?" Nanny shrank from me, but Sanders said, "Has the rain driven you gyte, man? You're in Thrums." "But the sea," I said, distrusting him. "I hear it, Listen!" "That's the wind in Windyghoul," Sanders answered, looking at me queerly. "Come awa into the house." THRUMS DURING THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS-DEFENCE OF THE MANSE. Hardly had I crossed the threshold of the mudhouse when such a sickness came over me that I could not have looked up, though Nanny's voice had suddenly changed to Margaret's. Vaguely I knew that Nanny had put the kettle on the fire--a woman's first thought when there is illness in the house--and as I sat with my hands over my face I heard the water dripping from my clothes to the floor. "Why is that bell ringing?" I asked at last, ignoring all questions and speaking through my fingers. An artist, I suppose, could paint all expression out of a human face. The sickness was having that effect on my voice. "It's the Auld Licht bell." Sanders said; "and it's almost as fearsome to listen to as last nicht's rain. I wish I kent what they're ringing it for." "Wish no sic things," said Nanny nervously. "There's things it's best to put off kenning as lang as we can." "It's that ill-cleakit witch, Erne McBean, that makes Nanny speak so doleful," Sanders told me. "There was to be a prayer-meeting last nicht, but Mr. Dishart never came to 't, though they rang till they wraxed their arms; and now Effie says it'll ring on by itsel' till he's brocht hame a corp. The hellicat says the rain's a dispensation to drown him in for neglect o' duty. Sal, I would think little o' the Lord if He needed to create a new sea to drown one man in. Nanny, yon cuttie, that's no swearing; I defy you to find a single lonely oath in what I've said." "Never mind Effie McBean," I interposed. "What are the congregation saying about the minister's absence?" "We ken little except what Effie telled us," Nanny answered. "I was at Tilliedrum yestreen, meeting Sanders as he got out o' the gaol, and that awfu onding began when we was on the Bellies Braes. We focht our way through it, but not a soul did we meet; and wha would gang out the day that can bide at hame? Ay, but Effie says it's kent in Thrums that Mr. Dishart has run off wi'--wi' an Egyptian." "You're waur than her, Nanny," Sanders said roughly, "for you hae twa reasons for kenning better. In the first place, has Mr. Dishart no keeped you in siller a' the time I was awa? and for another, have I no been at the manse?" My head rose now. "He gaed to the manse," Nanny explained, "to thank Mr. Dishart for being so good to me. Ay, but Jean wouldna let him in. I'm thinking that looks gey gray." "Whatever was her reason," Sanders admitted, "Jean wouldna open the door; but I keeked in at the parlor window, and saw Mrs. Dishart in't looking very cosy-like and lauching; and do you think I would hae seen that if I had come ower the minister?" "Not if Margaret knew of it," I said to myself, and wondered at Whamond's forbearance. "She had a skein o' worsted stretched out on her hands," Sanders continued, "and a young leddy was winding it. I didna see her richt, but she wasna a Thrums leddy." "Effie McBean says she's his intended, come to call him to account," Nanny said; but I hardly listened, for I saw that I must hurry to Tammas Whamond's. Nanny followed me to the gate with her gown pulled over her head, and said excitedly: "Oh, dominie, I warrant it's true. It'll be Babbie. Sanders doesna suspect, because I've telled him nothing about her. Oh, what's to be done? They were baith so good to me." I could only tell her to keep what she knew to herself. "Has Rob Dow come back?" I called out after I had started. "Whaur frae?" she replied; and then I remembered that all these things had happened while Nanny was at Tilliedrum. In this life some of the seven ages are spread over two decades, and others pass as quickly as a stage play. Though a fifth of a season's rain had fallen in a night and a day, it had scarcely kept pace with Gavin. I hurried to the town by the Roods. That brae was as deserted as the country roads, except where children had escaped from their mothers to wade in it. Here and there dams were keeping the water away from one door to send it with greater volume to another, and at points the ground had fallen in. But this I noticed without interest. I did not even realize that I was holding my head painfully to the side where it had been blown by the wind and glued by the rain. I have never held my head straight since that journey. Only a few looms were going, their pedals in water. I was addressed from several doors and windows, once by Charles Yuill. "Dinna pretend," he said, "that you've walked in frae the school- house alane. The rain chased me into this house yestreen, and here it has keeped me, though I bide no further awa than Tillyloss." "Charles," I said in a low voice, "why is the Auld Licht bell ringing?" "Hae you no heard about Mr. Dishart?" he asked. "Ob, man! that's Lang Tammas in the kirk by himsel', tearing at the bell to bring the folk thegither to depose the minister." Instead of going to Whamond's house in the school wynd I hastened down the Banker's close to the kirk, and had almost to turn back, so choked was the close with floating refuse. I could see the bell swaying, but the kirk was locked, and I battered on the door to no purpose. Then, remembering that Henry Munn lived in Coutt's trance, I set off for his house. He saw me crossing the square, but would not open his door until I was close to it. "When I open," he cried, "squeeze through quick"; but though I did his bidding, a rush of water darted in before me. Hendry reclosed the door by flinging himself against it. "When I saw you crossing the square," he said, "it was surprise enough to cure the hiccup." "Hendry," I replied instantly, "why is the Auld Licht bell ringing?" He put his finger to his lip. "I see," he said imperturbably, "you've met our folk in the glen and heard frae them about the minister." "What folk?" "Mair than half the congregation," he replied, "I started for Glen Quharity twa hours syne to help the farmers. You didna see them?" "No; they must have been on the other side of the river." Again that question forced my lips, "Why is the bell ringing?" "Canny, dominie," he said, "till we're up the stair. Mysy Moncur's lug's at her keyhole listening to you." "You lie, Hendry Munn," cried an invisible woman. The voice became more plaintive: "I ken a heap, Hendry, so you may as well tell me a'." "Lick away at the bone you hae," the shoemaker replied heartlessly, and conducted me to his room up one of the few inside stairs then in Thrums. Hendry's oddest furniture was five boxes, fixed to the wait at such a height that children could climb into them from a high stool. In these his bairns slept, and so space was economized. I could never laugh at the arrangement, as I knew that Betty had planned it on her deathbed for her man's sake. Five little heads bobbed up in their beds as I entered, but more vexing to me was Wearyworld on a stool. "In by, dominie," he said sociably. "Sal, you needna fear burning wi' a' that water on you, You're in mair danger o' coming a-boil." "I want to speak to you alone, Hendry," I said bluntly. "You winna put me out, Hendry?" the alarmed policeman entreated. "Mind, you said in sic weather you would be friendly to a brute beast. Ay, ay, dominie, what's your news? It's welcome, be it good or bad. You would meet the townsfolk in the glen, and they would tell you about Mr. Dishart. What, you hinna heard? Oh, sirs, he's a lost man. There would hae been a meeting the day to depose him if so many hadna gaen to the glen. But the morn'll do as weel. The very women is cursing him, and the laddies has begun to gather stanes. He's married on an Egyp--" "Hendry!" I cried, like one giving an order. "Wearyworld, step!" said Hendry sternly, and then added soft- heartedly: "Here's a bit news that'll open Mysy Moncur's door to you. You can tell her frae me that the bell's ringing just because I forgot to tie it up last nicht, and the wind's shaking it, and I winna gang out in the rain to stop it." "Ay," the policeman said, looking at me sulkily, "she may open her door for that, but it'll no let me in. Tell me mair. Tell me wha the leddy at the manse is." "Out you go," answered Hendry. "Once she opens the door, you can shove your foot in, and syne she's in your power." He pushed Wearyworld out, and came back to me, saying, "It was best to tell him the truth, to keep him frae making up lies." "But is it the truth? I was told Lang Tammas--" "Ay, I ken that story; but Tammas has other work on hand." "Then tie up the bell at once, Hendry," I urged. "I canna," he answered gravely. "Tammas took the keys o' the kirk fram me yestreen, and winna gie them up. He says the bell's being rung by the hand o' God." "Has he been at the manse? Does Mrs. Dishart know--?" "He's been at the manse twa or three times, but Jean barred him out. She'll let nobody in till the minister comes back, and so the mistress kens nothing. But what's the use o' keeping it frae her ony langer?" "Every use," I said. "None," answered Hendry sadly. "Dominie, the minister was married to the Egyptian on the hill last nicht, and Tammas was witness. Not only were they married, but they've run aff thegither." "You are wrong, Hendry," I assured him, telling as much as I dared. "I left Mr. Dishart in my house." "What! But if that is so, how did he no come back wi' you?" "Because he was nearly drowned in the flood." "She'll be wi' him?" "He was alone." Hendry's face lit up dimly with joy, and then he shook his head. "Tammas was witness," he said. "Can you deny the marriage?" "All I ask of you," I answered guardedly, "is to suspend judgment until the minister returns." "There can be nothing done, at ony rate," he said, "till the folk themsel's come back frae the glen; and I needna tell you how glad we would a' be to be as fond o' him as ever. But Tammas was witness." "Have pity on his mother, man." "We've done the best for her we could," he replied. "We prigged wi' Tammas no to gang to the manse till we was sure the minister was living. 'For if he has been drowned, "we said, 'his mother need never ken what we were thinking o' doing.' Ay, and we're sorry for the young leddy, too." "What young lady is this you all talk of?" I asked. "She's his intended. Ay, you needna start. She has come a' the road frae Glasgow to challenge him about the gypsy. The pitiful thing is that Mrs. Dishart lauched awa her fears, and now they're baith waiting for his return, as happy as ignorance can make them." "There is no such lady," I said. "But there is," he answered doggedly, "for she came in a machine late last nicht, and I was ane o' a dozen that baith heard and saw it through my window. It stopped at the manse near half an hour. What's mair, the lady hersel' was at Sam'l Farquharson's in the Tenements the day for twa hours." I listened in bewilderment and fear. "Sam'l's bairn's down wi' scarlet fever and like to die, and him being a widow-man he has gone useless. You mauna blame the wives in the Tenements for hauding back. They're fleid to smit their ain litlins; and as it happens, Sam'l's friends is a' aff to the glen. Weel, he ran greeting to the manse for Mr. Dishart, and the lady heard him crying to Jean through the door, and what does she do but gang straucht to the Tenements wi' Sam'l. Her goodness has naturally put the folk on her side against the minister." "This does not prove her his intended," I broke in. "She was heard saying to Sam'l," answered the kirk officer," that the minister being awa, it was her duty to take his place. Yes, and though she little kent it, he was already married." "Hendry," I said, rising, "I must see this lady at once. Is she still at Farquharson's house?" "She may be back again by this time. Tammas set off for Sam'l's as soon as he heard she was there, but he just missed her, I left him there an hour syne. He was waiting for her, determined to tell her all." I set off for the Tenements at once, declining Hendry's company. The wind had fallen, so that the bell no longer rang, but the rain was falling doggedly. The streets were still deserted. I pushed open the precentor's door in the school wynd, but there was no one in the house. Tibbie Birse saw me, and shouted from her door: "Hae you heard o' Mr. Dishart? He'll never daur show face in Thrums again." Without giving her a word I hastened to the Tenements. "The leddy's no here," Sam'l Farquharson told me, "and Tammas is back at the manse again, trying to force his way in." From Sam'l, too, I turned, with no more than a groan; but he cried after me, "Perdition on the man that has played that leddy false." Had Margaret been at her window she must have seen me, so recklessly did I hurry up the minister's road, with nothing in me but a passion to take Whamond by the throat. He was not in the garden. The kitchen door was open. Jean was standing at it with her apron to her eyes. "Tammas Whamond?" I demanded, and my face completed the question. "You're ower late," she wailed. "He's wi' her. Oh, dominie, whaur's the minister?" "You base woman!" I cried, "why did you unbar the door?" "It was the mistress," she answered. "She heard him shaking it, and I had to tell her wha it was. Dominie, it's a' my wite! He tried to get in last nicht, and roared threats through the door, and after he had gone awa she speired wha I had been speaking to. I had to tell her, but I said he had come to let her ken that the minister was taking shelter frae the rain in a farmhouse. Ay, I said he was to bide there till the flood gaed down, and that's how she has been easy a day. I acted for the best, but I'm sair punished now; for when she heard Tammas at the door twa or three minutes syne, she ordered me to let him in, so that she could thank him for bringing--the news last nicht, despite the rain. They're in the parlor. Oh, dominie, gang in and stop his mouth." This was hard. I dared not go to the parlor. Margaret might have died at sight of me. I turned my face from Jean. "Jean," said some one, opening the inner kitchen door, "why did you--?" She stopped, and that was what turned me round. As she spoke I thought it was the young lady; when I looked I saw it was Babbie, though no longer in a gypsy's dress. Then I knew that the young lady and Babbie were one. HOW BABBIE SPENT THE NIGHT OF AUGUST FOURTH. How had the Egyptian been spirited here from the Spittal? I did not ask the question. To interest myself in Babbie at that dire hour of Margaret's life would have been as impossible to me as to sit down to a book. To others, however, it is only an old woman on whom the parlor door of the manse has closed, only a garrulous dominie that is in pain outside it. Your eyes are on the young wife. When Babbie was plucked off the hill, she thought as little as Gavin that her captor was Rob Dow. Close as he was to her, he was but a shadow until she screamed the second time, when he pressed her to the ground and tied his neckerchief over her mouth. Then, in the moment that power of utterance was taken from her, she saw the face that had startled her at Nanny's window. Half-carried, she was borne forward rapidly, until some one seemed to rise out of the broom and strike them both. They had only run against the doctor's trap; and huddling her into it, Dow jumped up beside her. He tied her hands together with a cord. For a time the horse feared the darkness in front more than the lash behind; but when the rains became terrific, it rushed ahead wildly--probably with its eyes shut. In three minutes Babbie went through all the degrees of fear. In the first she thought Lord Rintoul had kidnapped her; but no sooner had her captor resolved himself into Dow, drunk with the events of the day and night, than in the earl's hands would have lain safety. Next, Dow was forgotten in the dread of a sudden death which he must share. And lastly, the rain seemed to be driving all other horrors back, that it might have her for its own. Her perils increased to the unbearable as quickly as an iron in the fire passes through the various stages between warmth and white heat. Then she had to do something; and as she could not cry out, she flung herself from the dogcart. She fell heavily in Caddani Wood, but the rain would not let her lie there stunned. It beat her back to consciousness, and she sat up on her knees and listened breathlessly, staring in the direction the trap had taken, as if her eyes could help her ears. All night, I have said, the rain poured, but those charges only rode down the deluge at intervals, as now and again one wave greater than the others stalks over the sea. In the first lull it appeared to Babbie that the storm had swept by, leaving her to Dow. Now she heard the rubbing of the branches, and felt the torn leaves falling on her gown. She rose to feel her way out of the wood with her bound hands, then sank in terror, for some one had called her name. Next moment she was up again, for the voice was Gavin's, who was hurrying after her, as he thought, down Windyghoul. He was no farther away than a whisper might have carried on a still night, but she dared not pursue him, for already Dow was coming back. She could not see him, but she heard the horse whinny and the rocking of the dogcart. Dow was now at the brute's head, and probably it tried to bite him, for he struck it, crying: "Would you? Stand still till I find her. I heard her move this minute." Babbie crouched upon a big stone and sat motionless while he groped for her. Her breathing might have been tied now, as well as her mouth. She heard him feeling for her, first with his feet and then with his hands, and swearing when his head struck against a tree. "I ken you're within hearing," he muttered, "and I'll hae you yet. I have a gully-knife in my hand. Listen!" He severed a whin-stalk with the knife, and Babbie seemed to see the gleam of the blade. "What do I mean by wanting to kill you?" he said, as if she had asked the question. "Do you no ken wha said to me, 'Kill this woman?' It was the Lord. 'I winna kill her,' I said, 'but I'll cart her out o' the country.' 'Kill her,' says He; 'why encumbereth she the ground?'" He resumed his search, but with new tactics. "I see you now," he would cry, and rush forward perhaps within a yard of her. Then she must have screamed had she had the power. When he tied that neckerchief round her mouth he prolonged her life. Then came the second hurricane of rain, so appalling that had Babbie's hands been free she would have pressed them to her ears. For a full minute she forgot Dow's presence. A living thing touched her face. The horse had found her. She recoiled from it, but its frightened head pressed heavily on her shoulder. She rose and tried to steal away, but the brute followed, and as the rain suddenly exhausted itself she heard the dragging of the dogcart. She had to halt. Again she heard Dow's voice. Perhaps he had been speaking throughout the roar of the rain. If so, it must have made him deaf to his own words. He groped for the horse's head, and presently his hand touched Babbie's dress, then jumped from it, so suddenly had he found her. No sound escaped him, and she was beginning to think it possible that he had mistaken her for a bush when his hand went over her face. He was making sure of his discovery. "The Lord has delivered you into my hands," he said in a low voice, with some awe in it. Then he pulled her to the ground, and, sitting down beside her, rocked himself backward and forward, his hands round his knees. She would have bartered the world for power to speak to him. "He wouldna hear o' my just carting you to some other countryside," he said confidentially. "'The devil would just blaw her back again, says He, 'therefore kill her.' 'And if I kill her,' I says, 'they'll hang me.' 'You can hang yoursel',' says He. 'What wi'?' I speirs. 'Wi' the reins o' the dogcart,' says He. 'They would break,' says I. 'Weel, weel,' says He, 'though they do hang you, nobody'll miss you.' 'That's true,' says I, 'and You are a just God.'" He stood up and confronted her. "Prisoner at the bar," he said, "hae ye onything to say why sentence of death shouldna be pronounced against you? She doesna answer. She kens death is her deserts." By this time he had forgotten probably why his victim was dumb. "Prisoner at the bar, hand back to me the soul o' Gavin Dishart. You winna? Did the devil, your master, summon you to him and say, 'Either that noble man or me maun leave Thrums?' He did. And did you, or did you no, drag that minister, when under your spell, to the hill, and there marry him ower the tongs? You did. Witnesses, Rob Dow and Tammas Whamond." She was moving from him on her knees, meaning when out of arm's reach to make a dash for life. "Sit down," he grumbled, "or how can you expect a fair trial? Prisoner at the bar, you have been found guilty of witchcraft." For the first time his voice faltered. "That's the difficulty, for witches canna die, except by burning or drowning. There's no blood in you for my knife, and your neck wouldna twist. Your master has brocht the rain to put out a' the fires, and we'll hae to wait till it runs into a pool deep enough to drown you. "I wonder at You, God. Do You believe her master'll mak' the pool for her? He'll rather stop his rain. Mr. Dishart said You was mair powerful than the devil, but--it doesna look like it. If You had the power, how did You no stop this woman working her will on the minister? You kent what she was doing, for You ken a' things. Mr. Dishart says You ken a' things. If You do, the mair shame to You. Would a shepherd, that could help it. let dogs worry his sheep? Kill her! It's fine to cry 'Kill her,' but whaur's the bonfire, whaur's the pool? You that made the heaven and the earth and all that in them is, can You no set fire to some wet whins, or change this stane into a mill-dam?" He struck the stone with his fist, and then gave a cry of exultation. He raised the great slab in his arms and flung it from him. In that moment Babbie might have run away, but she fainted. Almost simultaneously with Dow she knew this was the stone which covered the Caddam well. When she came to, Dow was speaking, and his voice had become solemn. "You said your master was mair powerful than mine, and I said it too, and all the time you was sitting here wi' the very pool aneath you that I have been praying for. Listen!" He dropped a stone into the well, and she heard it strike the water. "What are you shaking at?" he said in reproof. "Was it no yoursel' that chose the spot? Lassie, say your prayers. Are you saying them?" He put his hand over her face, to feel if her lips were moving, and tore off the neckerchief. And then again the rain came between them. In that rain one could not think. Babbie did not know that she had bitten through the string that tied her hands. She planned no escape. But she flung herself at the place where Dow had been standing. He was no longer there, and she fell heavily, and was on her feet again in an instant and running recklessly. Trees intercepted her, and she thought they were Dow, and wrestled with them. By and by she fell into Windyghoul, and there she crouched until all her senses were restored to her, when she remembered that she had been married lately. How long Dow was in discovering that she had escaped, and whether he searched for her, no one knows. After a time he jumped into the dogcart again, and drove aimlessly through the rain. That wild journey probably lasted two hours, and came to an abrupt end only when a tree fell upon the trap. The horse galloped off, but one of Dow's legs was beneath the tree, and there he had to lie helpless, for though the leg was little injured, he could not extricate himself. A night and day passed, and he believed that he must die; but even in this plight he did not forget the man he loved. He found a piece of slate, and in the darkness cut these words on it with his knife: "Me being about to die, I solemnly swear I didna see the minister marrying an Egyptian on the hill this nicht. May I burn in Hell if this is no true." (Signed) "ROB DOW." This document he put in his pocket, and so preserved proof of what he was perjuring himself to deny. CHAPTER XL. BABBIE AND MARGARET--DEFENCE OF THE MANSE CONTINUED. The Egyptian was mournful in Windyghoul, up which she had once danced and sung; but you must not think that she still feared Dow. I felt McKenzie's clutch on any arm for hours after he left me, but she was far braver than I; indeed, dangers at which I should have shut my eyes only made hers gleam, and I suppose it was sheer love of them that first made her play the coquette with Gavin. If she cried now, it was not for herself; it was because she thought she had destroyed him. Could I have gone to her then and said that Gavin wanted to blot out the gypsy wedding, that throbbing little breast would have frozen at once, and the drooping head would have been proud again, and she would have gone away forever without another tear. What do I say? I am doing a wrong to the love these two bore each other. Babbie would not have taken so base a message from my lips. He would have had to say the words to her himself before she believed them his. What would he want her to do now? was the only question she asked herself. To follow him was useless, for in that rain and darkness two people might have searched for each other all night in a single field. That he would go to the Spittal, thinking her in Rintoul's dogcart, she did not doubt; and his distress was painful to her to think of. But not knowing that the burns were in flood, she underestimated his danger. Remembering that the mudhouse was near, she groped her way to it, meaning to pass the night there; but at the gate she turned away hastily, hearing from the door the voice of a man she did not know to be Nanny's brother. She wandered recklessly a short distance, until the rain began to threaten again, and then, falling on her knees in the broom, she prayed to God for guidance. When she rose she set off for the manse. The rain that followed the flash of lightning had brought Margaret to the kitchen. "Jean, did you ever hear such a rain? It is trying to break into the manse." "I canna hear you, ma'am; is it the rain you're feared at?" "What else could it be?" Jean did not answer. "I hope the minister won't leave the church, Jean, till this is over?" "Nobody would daur, ma'am. The rain'll turn the key on them all." Jean forced out these words with difficulty, for she knew that the church had been empty and the door locked for over an hour. "This rain has come as if in answer to the minister's prayer, Jean." "It wasna rain like this they wanted." "Jean, you would not attempt to guide the Lord's hand. The minister will have to reprove the people for thinking too much of him again, for they will say that he induced God to send the rain. To-night's meeting will be remembered long in Thrums." Jean shuddered, and said, "It's mair like an ordinary rain now, ma'am." "But it has put out your fire, and I wanted another heater. Perhaps the one I have is hot enough, though.'" Margaret returned to the parlor, and from the kitchen Jean could hear the heater tilted backward and forward in the box-iron--a pleasant, homely sound when there is happiness in the house. Soon she heard a step outside, however, and it was followed by a rough shaking of the barred door. "Is it you, Mr. Dishart?" Jean asked nervously. "It's me, Tammas Whamond," the precentor answered. "Unbar the door." "What do you want? Speak low." "I winna speak low. Let me in. I hae news for the minister's mother." "What news?" demanded Jean. "Jean Proctor, as chief elder of the kirk I order you to let me do my duty." "Whaur's the minister?" "He's a minister no longer. He's married a gypsy woman and run awa wi' her." "You lie, Tammas Whamond. I believe--" "Your belief's of no consequence. Open the door, and let me in to tell your mistress what I hae seen." "She'll hear it first frae his ain lips if she hears it ava. I winna open the door." "Then I'll burst it open," Whamond flung himself at the door, and Jean, her fingers rigid with fear, stood waiting for its fall. But the rain came to her rescue by lashing the precentor until even he was forced to run from it. "I'll be back again," he cried. "Woe to you, Jean Proctor, that hae denied your God this nicht." "Who was that speaking to you, Jean?" asked Margaret, re-entering the kitchen. Until the rain abated Jean did not attempt to answer. "I thought it was the precentor's voice," Margaret said. Jean was a poor hand at lying, and she stuttered in her answer. "There is nothing wrong, is there?" cried Margaret, in sudden fright. "My son--" "Nothing, nothing." The words jumped from Jean to save Margaret from falling. Now she could not take them back. "I winna believe it o' him," said Jean to herself. "Let them say what they will, I'll be true to him; and when he comes back he'll find her as he left her." "It was Lang Tammas," she answered her mistress; "but he just came to say that--" "Quick, Jean! what?" "Mr. Dishart has been called to a sick-bed in the country, ma'am-- to the farm o' Look-About-You; and as it's sic a rain, he's to bide there a' nicht." "And Whamond came through that rain to tell me this? How good of him. Was there any other message?" "Just that the minister hoped you would go straight to your bed, ma'am," said Jean, thinking to herself, "There can be no great sin in giving her one mair happy nicht; it may be her last." The two women talked for a short time, and then read verse about in the parlor from the third chapter of Mark. "This is the first night we have been left alone in the manse," Margaret said, as she was retiring to her bedroom," and we must not grudge the minister to those who have sore need of him. I notice that you have barred the doors." "Ay, they're barred. Nobody can win in the nicht." "Nobody will want in, Jean," Margaret said, smiling. "I dinna ken about that," answered Jean below her breath. "Ay, ma'am, may you sleep for baith o' us this nicht, for I daurna gang to my bed." Jean was both right and wrong, for two persons wanted in within the next half-hour, and she opened the door to both of them. The first to come was Babbie. So long as women sit up of nights listening for a footstep, will they flatten their faces at the window, though all without be black. Jean had not been back in the kitchen for two minutes before she raised the blind. Her eyes were close to the glass, when she saw another face almost meet hers, as you may touch your reflection in a mirror. But this face was not her own. It was white and sad. Jean suppressed a cry, and let the blind fall, as if shutting the lid on some uncanny thing. "Won't you let me in?" said a voice that might have been only the sob of a rain-beaten wind; "I am nearly drowned." Jean stood like death; but her suppliant would not pass on. "You are not afraid?" the voice continued. "Raise the blind again, and you will see that no one need fear me." At this request Jean's hands sought each other's company behind her back. "Wha are you?" she asked, without stirring. "Are you--the woman?" "Yes." "Whaur's the minister?" The rain again became wild, but this time it only tore by the manse as if to a conflict beyond. "Are you aye there? I daurna let you in till I'm sure the mistress is bedded. Gang round to the front, and see if there's ony licht burning in the high west window." "There was a light," the voice said presently, "but it was turned out as I looked." "Then I'll let you in, and God kens I mean no wrang by it." Babbie entered shivering, and Jean rebarred the door. Then she looked long at the woman whom her master loved. Babbie was on her knees at the hearth, holding out her hands to the dead fire. "What a pity it's a fause face." "Do I look so false?" "Is it true? You're no married to him?" "Yes, it is true." "And yet you look as if you was fond o' him. If you cared for him, how could you do it?" "That was why I did it." "And him could hae had wha he liked." "I gave up Lord Rintoul for him." "What? Na, na; you're the Egyptian." "You judge me by my dress." "And soaking it is. How you're shivering--what neat fingers--what bonny little feet. I could near believe what you tell me. Aff wi' these rags, an I'll gie you on my black frock, if--if you promise me no to gang awa wi't." So Babbie put on some clothes of Jean's, including the black frock, and stockings and shoes. "Mr. Dishart cannot be back, Jean," she said, "before morning, and I don't want his mother to see me till he comes." "I wouldna let you near her the nicht though you gaed on your knees to me. But whaur is he?" Babbie explained why Gavin had set off for the Spittal; but Jean shook her head incredulously, saying, "I canna believe you're that grand leddy, and yet ilka time I look at you I could near believe it." In another minute Jean had something else to think of, for there came a loud rap upon the front door. "It's Tammas Whamond back again," she moaned; "and if the mistress hears, she'll tell me to let him in." "You shall open to me," cried a hoarse voice. "That's no Tammas' word," Jean said in bewilderment. "It is Lord Rintoul," Babbie whispered. "What? Then it's truth you telled me." The knocking continued; a door upstairs opened, and Margaret spoke over the banisters. "Have you gone to bed, Jean? Some one is knocking at the door, and a minute ago I thought I heard a carriage stop close by. Perhaps the farmer has driven Mr. Dishart home." "I'm putting on my things, ma'am," Jean answered; then whispered to Babbie, "What's to be done?" "He won't go away," Babbie answered, "You will have to let him into the parlor, Jean. Can she see the door from up there?" "No; but though he was in the parlor?" "I shall go to him there." "Make haste, Jean," Margaret called. "If it is any persons wanting shelter, we must give it them on such a night." "A minute, ma'am," Jean answered. To Babbie she whispered, "What shall I say to her?" "I--I don't know," answered Babbie ruefully. "Think of something, Jean. But open the door now. Stop, let me into the parlor first." The two women stole into the parlor. "Tell me what will be the result o' his coming here," entreated Jean. "The result," Babbie said firmly, "will be that he shall go away and leave me here." Margaret heard Jean open the front door and speak to some person or persons whom she showed, into the parlor. CHAPTER XLI. RINTOUL AND BABBIE--BREAKDOWN OF THE DEFENCE OF THE MANSE. "You dare to look me in the face!" They were Rintoul's words. Yet Babbie had only ventured to look up because he was so long in speaking. His voice was low but harsh, like a wheel on which the brake is pressed sharply. "It seems to be more than the man is capable of," he added sourly. "Do you think," Babbie exclaimed, taking fare, "that he is afraid of you?" "So it seems; but I will drag him into the light, wherever he is skulking." Lord Rintoul strode to the door, and the brake was off his tongue already. "Go," said Babbie coldly, "and shout and stamp through the house; you may succeed in frightening the women, who are the only persons in it." "Where is he?" "He has gone to the Spittal to see you." "He knew I was on the hill." "He lost me in the darkness, and thought you had run away with me in your trap." "Ha! So he is off to the Spittal to ask me to give you back to him." "To compel you," corrected Babbie. "Pooh!" said the earl nervously, "that was but mummery on the hill." "It was a marriage." "With gypsies for witnesses. Their word would count for less than nothing. Babbie, I am still in time to save you." "I don't want to be saved. The marriage had witnesses no court could discredit." "What witnesses?" "Mr. McKenzie and yourself." She heard his teeth meet. When next she looked at him, there were tears in his eyes as well as in her own. It was perhaps the first time these two had, ever been in close sympathy. Both were grieving for Rintoul. "I am so sorry," Babbie began in a broken voice; then stopped, because they seemed such feeble words. "If you are sorry," the earl answered eagerly, "it is not yet too late. McKenzie and I saw nothing. Come away with me, Babbie, if only in pity for yourself." "Ah, but I don't pity myself." "Because this man has blinded you." "No, he has made me see." "This mummery on the hill--" "Why do you call it so? I believe God approved of that marriage, as He could never have countenanced yours and mine." "God! I never heard the word on your lips before." "I know that." "It is his teaching, doubtless?" "Yes." "And he told you that to do to me as you have done was to be pleasing in God's sight?" "No; he knows that it was so evil in God's sight that I shall suffer for it always." "But he has done no wrong, so there is no punishment for him?" "It is true that he has done no wrong, but his punishment will be worse, probably, than mine." "That," said the earl, scoffing, "is not just." "It is just. He has accepted responsibility for my sins by marrying me." "And what form is his punishment to take?" "For marrying me he will be driven from his church and dishonored in all men's eyes, unless--unless God is more merciful to us than we can expect." Her sincerity was so obvious that the earl could no longer meet it with sarcasm. "It is you I pity now," he said, looking wonderingly at her. "Do you not see that this man has deceived you? Where was his boasted purity in meeting you by stealth, as he must have been doing, and plotting to take you from me?" "If you knew him," Babbie answered, "you would not need to be told that he is incapable of that. He thought me an ordinary gypsy until an hour ago." "And you had so little regard for me that you waited until the eve of what was to be our marriage, and then, laughing at my shame, ran off to marry him." "I am not so bad as that," Babbie answered, and told him what had brought her to Thrums. "I had no thought but of returning to you, nor he of keeping me from you. We had said good-by at the mudhouse door--and then we heard your voice." "And my voice was so horrible to you that it drove you to this?" "I--I love him so much." What more could Babbie answer? These words told him that, if love commands, home, the friendships of a lifetime, kindnesses incalculable, are at once as naught. Nothing is so cruel as love if a rival challenges it to combat. "Why could you not love me, Babbie?" said the earl sadly. "I have done so much for you." It was little he had done for her that was not selfish. Men are deceived curiously in such matters. When, they add a new wing to their house, they do not call the action virtue; but if they give to a fellow-creature for their own gratification, they demand of God a good mark for it. Babbie, however, was in no mood to make light of the earl's gifts, and at his question she shook her head sorrowfully. "Is it because I am too--old?" This was the only time he ever spoke of his age to her. "Oh no, it is not that," she replied hastily, "I love Mr. Dishart- -because he loves me, I think." "Have I not loved you always?" "Never," Babbie answered simply. "If you had, perhaps then I should have loved you." "Babbie," he exclaimed, "if ever man loved woman, and showed it by the sacrifices he made for her, I--" "No," Babbie said, "you don't understand what it is. Ah! I did not mean to hurt you." "If I don't know what it is, what is it?" he asked, almost humbly. "I scarcely know you now." "That is it," said Babbie. She gave him back his ring, and then he broke down pitifully. Doubtless there was good in him, but I saw him only once; and with nothing to contrast against it, I may not now attempt to breathe life into the dust of his senile passion. These were the last words that passed between him and Babbie: "There was nothing," he said wistfully, "in this wide world that you could not have had by asking me for it. Was not that love?" "No," she answered. "What right have I to everything I cry for?" "You should never have had a care had you married me. That is love." "It is not. I want to share my husband's cares, as I expect him to share mine." "I would have humored you in everything." "You always did: as if a woman's mind were for laughing at, like a baby's passions." "You had your passions, too, Babbie. Yet did I ever chide you for them? That was love." "No, it was contempt. Oh," she cried passionately, "what have not you men to answer for who talk of love to a woman when her face is all you know of her; and her passions, her aspirations, are for kissing to sleep, her very soul a plaything? I tell you, Lord Rintoul, and it is all the message I send back to the gentlemen at the Spittal who made love to me behind your back, that this is a poor folly, and well calculated to rouse the wrath of God." Now, Jean's ear had been to the parlor keyhole for a time, but some message she had to take to Margaret, and what she risked saying was this: "It's Lord Rintoul and a party that has been catched in the rain, and he would be obliged to you if you could gie his bride shelter for the nicht." Thus the distracted servant thought to keep Margaret's mind at rest until Gavin came back. "Lord Rintoul!" exclaimed Margaret. "What a pity Gavin has missed him. Of course she can stay here. Did you say I bad gone to bed? I should not know What to say to a lord. But ask her to come up to me after he has gone--and, Jean, is the parlor looking tidy?" Lord Rintoul having departed, Jean told Babbie how she had accounted to Margaret for his visit. "And she telled me to gie you dry claethes and her compliments, and would you gang up to the bedroom and see her?" Very slowly Babbie climbed the stairs. I suppose she is the only person who was ever afraid of Margaret. Her first knock on the bedroom door was so soft that Margaret, who was sitting up in bed, did not hear it. When Babbie entered the room, Margaret's first thought was that there could be no other so beautiful as this, and her second was that the stranger seemed even more timid than herself. After a few minutes' talk she laid aside her primness, a weapon she had drawn in self-defence lest this fine lady should not understand the grandeur of a manse, and at a "Call me Babbie, won't you?" she smiled. "That is what some other person calls you," said Margaret archly. "Do you know that he took twenty minutes to say good-night? My dear," she added hastily, misinterpreting Babbie's silence, "I should have been sorry had he taken one second less. Every tick of the clock was a gossip, telling me how he loves you." In the dim light a face that begged for pity was turned to Margaret. "He does love you, Babbie?" she asked, suddenly doubtful. Babbie turned away her face, then shook her head. "But you love him?" Again Babbie shook her head. "Oh, my dear," cried Margaret, in distress, "if this is so, are you not afraid to marry him?" She knew now that Babbie was crying, but she did not know why Babbie could not look her in the face. "There may be times," Babbie said, most woeful that she had not married Rintoul, "when it is best to marry a man though we do not love him." "You are wrong, Babbie," Margaret answered gravely; "if I know anything at all, it is that." "It may be best for others." "Do you mean for one other?" Margaret asked, and the girl bowed her head. "Ah, Babbie, you speak like a child." "You do not understand." "I do not need to be told the circumstances to know this--that if two people love each other, neither has any right to give the other up." Babbie turned impulsively to cast herself on the mercy of Gavin's mother, but no word could she say; a hot tear fell from her eyes "upon the coverlet, and then she looked at the door, as if to run away. "But I have been too inquisitive," Margaret began; whereupon Babbie cried, "Oh no, no, no: you are very good. I have no one who cares whether I do right or wrong." "Your parents--" "I have had none since I was a child." "It is the more reason why I should be your friend," Margaret said, taking the girl's hand. "You do not know what you are saying. You cannot be my friend." "Yes, dear, I love you already. You have a good face, Babbie, as well as a beautiful one." Babbie could remain in the room no longer. She bade Margaret good- night and bent forward to kiss her; then drew back, like a Judas ashamed. "Why did you not kiss me?" Margaret asked in surprise, but poor Babbie walked out of the room without answering. Of what occurred at the manse on the following day until I reached it, I need tell little more. When Babbie was tending Sam'l Farquharson's child in the Tenements she learned of the flood in Glen Quharity, and that the greater part of the congregation had set off to the assistance of the farmers; but fearful as this made her for Gavin's safety, she kept the new anxiety from his mother. Deceived by another story of Jean's, Margaret was the one happy person in the house. "I believe you had only a lover's quarrel with Lord Rintoul last night," she said to Babbie in the afternoon. "Ah, you see I can guess what is taking you to the window so often. You must not think him long in coming for you. I can assure you that the rain which keeps my son from me must be sufficiently severe to separate even true lovers. Take an old woman's example, Babbie. If I thought the minister's absence alarming, I should be in anguish; but as it is, my mind is so much at ease that, see, I can thread my needle." It was in less than an hour after Margaret spoke thus tranquilly to Babbie that the precentor got into the manse. CHAPTER XLII. MARGARET, THE PRECENTOR. AND GOD BETWEEN. Unless Andrew Luke, who went to Canadas be still above ground, I am now the only survivor of the few to whom Lang Tammas told what passed in the manse parlor after the door closed on him and Margaret. With the years the others lost the details, but before I forget them the man who has been struck by lightning will look at his arm without remembering what shrivelled it. There even came a time when the scene seemed more vivid to me than to the precentor, though that was only after he began to break up. "She was never the kind o' woman," Whamond said, "that a body need be nane feared at. You can see she is o' the timid sort. I couldna hae selected a woman easier to speak bold out to, though I had ha'en my pick o' them." He was a gaunt man, sour and hard, and he often paused in his story with a puzzled look on his forbidding face. "But, man, she was so michty windy o' him. If he had wanted to put a knife into her, I believe that woman would just hae telled him to take care no to cut his hands. Ay, and what innocent-like she was! If she had heard enough, afore I saw her, to make her uneasy, I could hae begun at once; but here she was, shaking my hand and smiling to me, so that aye when I tried to speak I gaed through ither. Nobody can despise me for it, I tell you, mair than I despise mysel'. "I thocht to mysel', 'Let her hae her smile out, Tammas Whamond; it's her hinmost,' Syne wi' shame at my cowardliness, I tried to yoke to my duty as chief elder o' the kirk, and I said to her, as thrawn as I could speak, 'Dinna thank me; I've done nothing for you.' "'I ken it wasna for me you did it,' she said, 'but for him; but, oh, Mr. Whamond, will that make me think the less o' you? He's my all,' she says, wi' that smile back in her face, and a look mixed up wi't that said as plain, 'and I need no more.' I thocht o' saying that some builds their house upon the sand, but--dagont, dominie, it's a solemn thing the pride mithers has in their laddies. I mind aince my ain mither--what the devil are you glowering at, Andrew Luke? Do you think I'm greeting? "'You'll sit down, Mr. Whamond,' she says next." '"No, I winna,' I said, angry-like. 'I didna come here to sit.'" "I could see she thocht I was shy at being in the manse parlor; ay, and I thocht she was pleased at me looking shy. Weel, she took my hat out o' my hand, and she put it on the chair at the door, whaur there's aye an auld chair in grand houses for the servant to sit on at family exercise. "'You're a man, Mr. Whamond,' says she, 'that the minister delights to honor, and so you'll oblige me by sitting in his own armchair.'" Gavin never quite delighted to honor the precentor, of whom he was always a little afraid, and perhaps Margaret knew it. But you must not think less of her for wanting to gratify her son's chief elder. She thought, too, that he had just done her a service. I never yet knew a good woman who did not enjoy flattering men she liked. "I saw my chance at that," Whamond went on, "and I says to her sternly, 'In worldly position,' I says, 'I'm a common man, and it's no for the like o' sic to sit in a minister's chair; but it has been God's will,' I says,' to wrap around me the mantle o' chief elder o' the kirk, and if the minister falls awa frae grace, it becomes my duty to take his place.' "If she had been looking at me, she maun hae grown feared at that, and syne I could hae gone on though my ilka word was a knockdown blow. But she was picking some things aff the chair to let me down on't. "'It's a pair o' mittens I'm working for the minister,' she says, and she handed them to me. Ay, I tried no to take them, but--Oh, lads, it's queer to think how saft I was. "'He's no to ken about them till they're finished,' she says, terrible fond-like. "The words came to my mouth, 'They'll never be finished,' and I could hae cursed mysel' for no saying them. I dinna ken how it was, but there was something; pitiful in seeing her take up the mittens and begin working cheerily at one, and me kenning all the time that they would never be finished. I watched her fingers, and I said to mysel', 'Another stitch, and that maun be your last.' I said that to mysel' till I thocht it was the needle that said it, and I wondered at her no hearing. "In the tail o' the day I says, 'You needna bother; he'll never wear them,' and they sounded sic words o' doom that I rose up off the chair. Ay, but she took me up wrang, and she said, 'I see you have noticed how careless o' his ain comforts he is, and that in his zeal he forgets to put on his mittens, though they may be in his pocket a' the time. Ay,' says she, confident-like, 'but he winna forget these mittens, Mr. Whamond, and I'll tell you the reason: it's because they're his mother's work.' "I stamped my foot, and she gae me an apologetic look, and she says, 'I canna help boasting about his being so fond o' me.' "Ay, but here was me saying to mysel', 'Do your duty, Tammas Whamond; you sluggard, your duty, and without lifting my een frae her fingers I said sternly, 'The chances are,' I said, 'that these mittens will never be worn by the hands they are worked for.' "'You mean,' says she,' that he'll gie them awa to some ill-off body, as he gies near a' thing he has? Ay, but there's one thing he never parts wi', and that's my work. There's a young lady in the manse the now,' says she, 'that offered to finish the mittens for me, but he would value them less if I let ony other body put a stitch into them.' "I thocht to mysel', 'Tammas Whamond, the Lord has opened a door to you, and you'll be disgraced forever if you dinna walk straucht in.' So I rose again, and I says, boldly this time, 'Whaur's that young leddy? I hae something to say to her that canna be kept waiting.' "'She's up the stair,' she says, surprised, 'but you canna ken her, Mr. Whamond, for she just came last nicht.'" '"I ken mair o' her than you think,' says I; 'I ken what brocht her here, and ken wha she thinks she is to be married to, and I've come to tell her that she'll never get him.'" '"How no?' she said, amazed like. "'Because,' said I, wi' my teeth thegither, 'he is already married.' "Lads, I stood waiting to see her fall, and when she didna fall I just waited langer, thinking she was slow in taking it a' in. "'I see you ken wha she is,' she said, looking at me, 'and yet I canna credit your news.' "'They're true,' I cries. "'Even if they are,' says she, considering, 'it may be the best thing that could happen to baith o' them.' "I sank back in the chair in fair bewilderment, for I didna ken at that time, as we a' ken now, that she was thinking o' the earl when I was thinking o' her son. Dominie, it looked to me as if the Lord had opened a door to me, and syne shut it in my face. "Syne wi' me sitting there in a kind o' awe o' the woman's simpleness, she began to tell me what the minister was like when he was a bairn, and I was saying a' the time to mysel', 'You're chief elder o' the kirk, Tammas Whamond, and you maun speak out the next time she stops to draw breath.' They were terrible sma', common things she telled me, sic as near a' mithers minds about their bairns, but the kind o' holy way she said them drove my words down my throat, like as if I was some infidel man trying to break out wi' blasphemy in a--kirk. "'I'll let you see something,' says she, 'that I ken will interest you .' She brocht it out o' a drawer, and what do you thitik it was? As sure as death it was no more than some o' his hair when he was a litlin, and it was tied up sic carefully in paper that you would hae thocht it was some valuable thing. "'Mr. Whamond,' she says solemnly, 'you've come thrice to the manse to keep me frae being uneasy about my son's absence, and you was the chief instrument under God in bringing him to Thrums, and I'll gie you a little o' that hair.' "Dagont, what did I care about his hair? and yet to see her fondling it! I says to myself, 'Mrs. Dishart,' I says to mysel', 'I was the chief instrument under God in bringing him to Thrums, and I've come here to tell you that I'm to be the chief instrument under God in driving him out o't.' Ay, but when I focht to bring out these words, my mouth snecked like a box. "'Dinna gie me his hair,' was a' I could say, and I wouldna take it frae her; but she laid it in my hand, and--and syne what could I do? Ay, it's easy to speak about thae things now, and to wonder how I could hae so disgraced the position o' chief elder o' the kirk, but I tell you I was near greeting for the woman. Call me names, dominie; I deserve them all." I did not call Whamond names for being reluctant to break Margaret's heart. Here is a confession I may make. Sometimes I say my prayers at night in a hurry, going on my knees indeed, but with as little reverence as I take a drink of water before jumping into bed, and for the same reason, because it is my nightly habit. I am only pattering words I have by heart to a chair then, and should be as well employed writing a comic Bible. At such times I pray for the earthly well-being of the precentor, though he has been dead for many years. He crept into my prayers the day he told me this story, and was part of them for so long that when they are only a recitation he is part of them still. "She said to me," Whamond continued, "that the women o' the congregation would be fond to handle the hair. Could I tell her that the women was waur agin him than the men? I shivered to hear her. "'Syne when they're a'sitting breathless listening to his preaching,' she says, 'they'll be able to picture him as a bairn, just as I often do in the kirk mysel'.' "Andrew Luke, you're sneering at me, but I tell you if you had been there and had begun to say, 'He'll preach in our kirk no more,' I would hae struck you. And I'm chief elder o' the kirk. "She says, 'Oh, Mr. Whamond, there's times in the kirk when he is praying, and the glow on his face is hardly mortal, so that I fall a-shaking, wi' a mixture fear and pride, me being his mother; and sinful though I am to say it, I canna help thinking at sic times that I ken what the mother o' Jesus had in her heart when she found Him in the temple.' "Dominie, it's sax-and-twenty years since I was made an elder o' the kirk. I mind the day as if it was yestreen. Mr. Carfrae made me walk hame wi' him, and he took me into the manse parlor, and he set me in that very chair. It was the first time I was ever in the manse. Ay, he little thocht that day in his earnestness, and I little thocht mysel' in the pride o' my lusty youth, that the time was coming when I would sweat in that reverenced parlor. I say swear, dominie, for when she had finished I jumped to my feet, and I cried, 'Hell!' and I lifted up my hat. And I was chief elder. "She fell back frae my oath," he said, "and syne she took my sleeve and speired, 'What has come ower you, Mr. Whamond? Hae you onything on your mind?' "'I've sin on it,' I roared at her. 'I have neglect o' duty on it. I am one o' them that cries "Lord, Lord," and yet do not the things which He commands. He has pointed out the way to me, and I hinna followed it.' "'What is it you hinna done that you should hae done?' she said. 'Oh, Mr. Whamond, if you want my help, it's yours.' "'Your son's a' the earth to you,' I cried, 'but my eldership's as muckle to me. Sax-and-twenty years hae I been an elder, and now I maun gie it up.' "'Wha says that?" she speirs. "'I say it,' I cried. 'I've shirked my duty. I gie ap my eldership now. Tammas Whamond is no langer an elder o' the kirk;' ay, and I was chief elder. "Dominie, I think she began to say that when the minister came hame he wouldna accept my resignation, but I paid no heed to her. You ken what was the sound that keeped my ears frae her words; it was the sound o' a machine coming yont the Tenements. You ken what was the sicht that made me glare through the window instead o' looking at her; it was the sicht o' Mr. Dishart in the machine. I couldna speak, but I got my body atween her and the window, for I heard shouting, and I couldna doubt that it was the folk cursing him. "But she heard too, she heard too, and she squeezed by me to the window, I couldna look out; I just walked saft-like to the parlor door, but afore I reached it she cried joyously-- "'It's my son come back, and see how fond o' him they are! They are running at the side o' the machine, and the laddies are tossing their bonnets in the air.' "'God help you, woman!' I said to mysel', 'it canna be bonnets-- it's stanes and divits mair likely that they're flinging at him.' Syne I creeped out o' the manse. Dominie, you mind I passed you in the kitchen, and didna say a word?" Yes, I saw the precentor pass through the kitchen, with such a face on him as no man ever saw him wear again. Since Tammas Whamond died we have had to enlarge the Thrums cemetery twice; so it can matter not at all to him, and but little to me, what you who read think of him. All his life children ran from him. He was the dourest, the most unlovable man in Thrums. But may my right hand wither, and may my tongue be cancer-bitten, and may my mind be gone into a dry rot, before I forget what he did for me and mine that day! CHAPTER XLIII. RAIN--MIST--THE JAWS. To this day we argue in the glen about the sound mistaken by many of us for the firing of the Spittal cannon, some calling it thunder and others the tearing of trees in the torrent. I think it must have been the roll of stones into the Quharity from Silver Hill, of which a corner has been missing since that day. Silver Hill is all stones, as if creation had been riddled there, and in the sun the mica on them shines like many pools of water. At the roar, as they thought, of the cannon, the farmers looked up from their struggle with the flood to say, "That's Rintoul married," as clocks pause simultaneously to strike the hour. Then every one in the glen save Gavin and myself was done with Rintoul. Before the hills had answered the noise, Gavin was on his way to the Spittal. The dog must have been ten minutes in overtaking him, yet he maintained afterward that it was with him from the start. From this we see that the shock he had got carried him some distance before he knew that he had left the school-house. It also gave him a new strength, that happily lasted longer than his daze of mind. Gavin moved northward quicker than I came south, climbing over or wading through his obstacles, while I went round mine. After a time, too, the dog proved useful, for on discovering that it was going homeward it took the lead, and several times drew him to the right road to the Spittal by refusing to accompany him on the wrong road. Yet in two hours he had walked perhaps nine miles without being four miles nearer the Spittal. In that flood the glen milestones were three miles apart. For some time he had been following the dog doubtfully, for it seemed to be going too near the river. When they struck a cart- track, however, he concluded rightly that they were nearing a bridge. His faith in his guide was again tested before they had been many minutes on this sloppy road. The dog stopped, whined, looked irresolute, and then ran to the right, disappearing into the mist in an instant. He shouted to it to come back, and was surprised to hear a whistle in reply. This was sufficient to make him dash after the dog, and in less than a minute he stopped abruptly by the side of a shepherd. "Have you brocht it?" the man cried almost into Gavin's ear; yet the roar of the water was so tremendous that the words came faintly, as if from a distance. "Wae is me; is it only you, Mr. Dishart?" "Is it only you!" No one in the glen would have addressed a minister thus except in a matter of life of death, and Gavin knew it. "He'll be ower late," the shepherd exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in distress. "I'm speaking o' Whinbusses' grieve. He has run for ropes, but he'll be ower late." "Is there some one in danger?" asked Gavin, who stood, he knew not where, with this man, enveloped in mist. "Is there no? Look!" "There is nothing to be seen but mist; where are we?" "We're on the high bank o' the Quharity. Take care, man; you was stepping ower into the roaring water. Lie down and tell me if he's there yet. Maybe I just think that I see him, for the sicht is painted on my een." Gavin lay prone and peered at the river, but the mist came up to his eyes. He only knew that the river was below from the sound. "Is there a man down there?" he asked, shuddering. "There was a minute syne; on a bit island." "Why does he not speak?" "He is senseless. Dinna move; the mist's clearing, and you'll see if he's there syne. The mist has been lifting and falling that way ilka minute since me and the grieve saw him." The mist did not rise. It only shook like a blanket, and then again remained stationary. But in that movement Gavin had seen twice, first incredulously. and then with conviction. "Shepherd," he said, rising, "it is Lord Rintoul." "Ay, it's him; and you saw his feet was in the water. They were dry when the grieve left me. Mr. Dishart, the ground he is on is being washed awa bit by bit. I tell you, the flood's greedy for him, and it'll hae him---Look, did you see him again?" "Is he living?" "We saw him move. Hst! Was that a cry?" It was only the howling of the dog, which had recognized its master and was peering over the bank, the body quivering to jump, but the legs restless with indecision. "If we were down there," Gavin said, "we could hold him secure till rescue comes. It is no great jump." "How far would you make it? I saw him again!" "It looked further that time." "That's it! Sometimes the ground he is on looks so near that you think you could almost drop on it, and the next time it's yards and yards awa. I've stood ready for the spring, Mr. Dishart, a dozen times, but I aye sickened. I daurna do it. Look at the dog; just when it's starting to jump, it pulls itsel' back." As if it had heard the shepherd, the dog jumped at that instant. "It sprang too far," Gavin said. "It didna spring far enough." They waited, and presently the mist thinned for a moment, as if it was being drawn out. They saw the earl, but there was no dog. "Poor brute," said the shepherd, and looked with awe at Gavin. "Rintotil is slipping into the water," Gavin answered. "You won't jump?" "No, I'm wae for him, and--" "Then I will," Gavin was about to say, but the shepherd continued, "And him only married twa hours syne." That kept the words in Gavin's mouth for half a minute, and then he spoke them. "Dinna think o't," cried the shepherd, taking him by the coat. "The ground he is on is slippery. I've flung a dozen stanes at it, and them that hit it slithered off. Though you landed in the middle o't, you would slide into the water." "He shook himsel' free o' me," the shepherd told afterward, "and I saw him bending down and measuring the distance wi' his een as cool as if he was calculating a drill o' tatties. Syne I saw his lips moving in prayer. It wasna spunk he needed to pray for, though. Next minute there was me, my very arms prigging wi' him to think better o't, and him standing ready to loup, has knees bent, and not a tremble in them. The mist lifted, and I---Lads, I couldna gie a look to the earl. Mr. Dishart jumped; I hardly saw him, but I kent, I kent, for I was on the bank alane. What did I do? I flung mysel' down in a sweat, and if een could bore mist mine would hae done it. I thocht I heard the minister's death-cry, and may I be struck if I dinna believe now that it was a skirl o' my ain. After that there was no sound but the jaw o' the water; and I prayed, but no to God, to the mist to rise, and after an awful time it rose, and I saw the minister was safe; he had pulled the earl into the middle o' the bit island and was rubbing him back to consciousness. I sweat when I think o't yet." The Little Minister's jump is always spoken of as a brave act in the glen, but at such times I am silent. This is not because, being timid myself, I am without admiration for courage. My little maid says that three in every four of my poems are to the praise of prowess, and she has not forgotten how I carried her on my shoulder once to Tilliedrum to see a soldier who had won the Victoria Cross, and made her shake hands with him, though he was very drunk. Only last year one of my scholars declared to me that Nelson never said "England expects every man this day to do his duty," for which I thrashed the boy and sent him to the cooling- stone. But was it brave of Gavin to jump? I have heard some maintain that only misery made him so bold, and others that he jumped because it seemed a fine thing to risk his life for an enemy. But these are really charges of cowardice, and my boy was never a coward. Of the two kinds of courage, however, he did not then show the nobler. I am glad that he was ready for such an act, but he should have remembered Margaret and Babbie. As it was, he may be said to have forced them to jump with him. Not to attempt a gallant deed for which one has the impulse, may be braver than the doing of it. "Though it seemed as lang time," the shepherd says, "as I could hae run up a hill in, I dinna suppose it was many minutes afore I saw Rintoul opening and shutting his een. The next glint I had o' them they were speaking to ane another; ay, and mair than speaking. They were quarrelling. I couldna hear their words, but there was a moment when I thocht they were to grapple. Lads, the memory o' that'll hing about deathbed. There was twa men, edicated to the highest pitch, ane a lord and the other a minister, and the flood was taking awa a mouthful o' their footing ilka minute, and the jaws o' destruction was gaping for them, and yet they were near fechting. We ken now it was about a woman. Ay, but does that make it less awful?" No, that did not make it less awful. It was even awful that Gavin's first words when Rintoul opened his eyes and closed them hastily were, "Where is she?" The earl did not answer; indeed, for the moment the words had no meaning to him. "How did I come here?" he asked feebly. "You should know better than I. Where is my wife?" "I remember now," Rintoul repeated several times. "Yes, I had left the Spittal to look for you--you were so long in coming. How did I find you?" "It was I who found you," Gavin answered. "You must have been swept away by the flood." "And you too?" In a few words Gavin told how he came to be beside the earl. "I suppose they will say you have saved my life," was Rintoul's commentary. "It is not saved yet. If help does not come, we shall be dead men in an hour. What have you done with my wife?" Rintoul ceased to listen to him, and shouted sums of money to the shepherd, who shook his head and bawled an answer that neither Gavin nor the earl heard. Across that thundering water only Gavin's voice could carry, the most powerful ever heard in a Thrums pulpit, the one voice that could be heard all over the Commonty during the time of the tent-preaching. Yet he never roared, as some preachers do of whom we say, "Ah, if they could hear the Little Minister's word!" Gavin caught the gesticulating earl by the sleeve. and said, "Another man has gone for ropes. Now, listen to me; how dared you go through a marriage ceremony with her, knowing her already to be my wife?" Rintoul did listen this time. "How do you know I married her?" he asked sharply, "I heard the cannon." Now the earl understood, and the shadow on his face shook and lifted, and his teeth gleamed. His triumph might be short-lived, but he would enjoy it while he could. "Well," he answered, picking the pebbles for his sling with care, "you must know that I could not have married her against her will. The frolic on the hill amused her, but she feared you might think it serious, and so pressed me to proceed with her marriage to-day despite the flood." This was the point at which the shepherd saw the minister raise his fist. It fell, however, without striking. "Do you really think that I could doubt her?" Gavin, said compassionately, and for the second time in twenty-four hours the earl learned that he did not know what love is. For a full minute they had forgotten where they were. Now, again, the water seemed to break loose, so that both remembered their danger simultaneously and looked up. The mist parted for long enough to show them that where had only been the shepherd was now a crowd of men, with here and there a woman. Before the mist again came between the minister had recognized many members of his congregation. In his unsuccessful attempt to reach Whinbusses. the grieve had met the relief party from Thrums. Already the weavers had helped Waster Lunny to stave off ruin, and they were now on their way to Whinbusses, keeping together through fear of mist and water. Every few minutes Snecky Hobart rang his bell to bring in stragglers. "Follow me," was all the panting grieve could say at first, but his agitation told half his story. They went with turn patiently, only stopping once, and then excitedly, for they come suddenly on Rob Dow. Rob was still lying a prisoner beneath the tree, and the grieve now remembered that he had fallen over this tree, and neither noticed the man under it nor been noticed by the man. Fifty hands released poor Dow, and two men were commissioned to bring him along slowly while the others hurried to the rescue of the earl. They were amazed to learn from the shepherd that Mr. Dishart also was in danger, and after" Is there a woman wi' him?" some cried," He'll get off cheap wi' drowning," and "It's the judgment o' God." The island on which the two men stood was now little bigger than the round tables common in Thrums, and its centre was some feet farther from the bank than when Gavin jumped. A woman, looking down at it, sickened, and would have toppled into the water, had not John Spens clutched her. Others were so stricken with awe that they forgot they had hands. Peter Tosh, the elder, cast a rope many times, but it would not carry. The one end was then weighted with a heavy stone, and the other tied round the waists of two men. But the force of the river had been underestimated. The stone fell short into the torrent, which rushed off with it so furiously that the men were flung upon their faces and trailed to the verge of the precipice. A score of persons sprang to their rescue, and the rope snapped. There was only one other rope, and its fate was not dissimilar. This time the stone fell into the water beyond the island, and immediately rushed down stream. Gavin seized the rope, but it pressed against his body, and would have pushed him off his feet had not Tosh cut it. The trunk of the tree that had fallen on Rob Dow was next dragged to the bank and an endeavor made to form a sloping bridge of it. The island, however, was now soft and unstable, and, though the trunk was successfully lowered, it only knocked lumps off the island, and finally it had to be let go, as the weavers could not pull it back. It splashed into the water, and was at once whirled out of sight. Some of the party on the bank began hastily to improvise a rope of cravats and the tags of the ropes still left, but the mass stood helpless and hopeless. "You may wonder that we could have stood still, waiting to see the last o' them," Birse, the post, has said to me in the school- house, "but, dominie, I couldna hae moved, magre my neck. I'm a hale man, but if this minute we was to hear the voice o' the Almighty saying solemnly, 'Afore the clock strikes again, Birse, the post, will fall down dead of heart disease,' what do you think you would do? I'll tell you. You would stand whaur you are, and stare, tongue-tied, at me till I dropped. How do I ken? By the teaching o' that nicht. Ay, but there's a mair important thing I dinna ken, and that is whether I would be palsied wi' fear like the earl, or face death with the calmness o' the minister." Indeed, the contrast between Rintoul and Gavin was now impressive. When Tosh signed that the weavers had done their all and failed, the two men looked in each other's faces, and Gavin's face was firm and the earl's working convulsively. The people had given up attempting to communicate with Gavin save by signs, for though they heard his sonorous voice, when he pitched it at them, they saw that he caught few words of theirs. "He heard our skirls," Birse said, "but couldna grip the words ony mair than we could hear the earl. And yet we screamed, and the minister didna. I've heard o' Highlandmen wi' the same gift, so that they could be heard across a glen." "We must prepare for death," Gavin said solemnly to the earl, "and it is for your own sake that I again ask you to tell me the truth. Worldly matters are nothing to either of us now, but I implore you not to carry a lie into your Maker's presence." "I will not give up hope," was all Rintoul's answer, and he again tried to pierce the mist with offers of reward. After that he became doggedly silent, fixing his eyes on the ground at his feet. I have a notion that he had made up his mind to confess the truth about Babbie when the water had eaten the island as far as the point at which he was now looking. CHAPTER XLIV. END OF THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. Out of the mist came the voice of Gavin, clear and strong-- "If you hear me, hold up your hands as a sign." They heard, and none wondered at his voice crossing the chasm while theirs could not. When the mist cleared, they were seen to have done as he bade them. Many hands remained up for a time because the people did not remember to bring them down, so great was the awe that had fallen on all, as if the Lord was near. Gavin took his watch from his pocket, and he said-- "I am to fling this to you. You will give it to Mr. Ogilvy, the schoolmaster, as a token of the love I bear him." The watch was caught by James Langlands, and handed to Peter Tosh, the chief elder present. "To Mr. Ogilvy," Gavin continued, "you will also give the chain. You will take it off my neck when you find the body. "To each of my elders, and to Hendry Munn, kirk officer, and to my servant Jean, I leave a book, and they will go to my study and choose it for themselves. "I also leave a book for Nanny Webster, and I charge you, Peter Tosh, to take it to her, though she be not a member of my church. "The pictorial Bible with 'To my son on his sixth birthday' on it, I bequeath to Rob Dow. No, my mother will want to keep that. I give to Rob Dow my Bible with the brass clasp. "It is my wish that every family in the congregation should have some little thing to remember me by. This you will tell my mother. "To my successor I leave whatsoever of my papers he may think of any value to him, including all my notes on Revelation, of which I meant to make a book. I hope he will never sing the paraphrases. "If Mr. Carfrae's health permits, you will ask him to preach the funeral sermon; but if he be too frail, then you will ask Mr. Trail, under whom I sat in Glasgow. The illustrated 'Pilgrim's Progress' on the drawers in my bedroom belongs to Mr. Trail, and you will return it to him with my affection and compliments. "I owe five shillings to Hendry Munn for mending my boots, and a smaller sum to Baxter, the mason. I have two pounds belonging to Rob Dow, who asked me to take charge of them for him. I owe no other man anything, and this you will bear in mind if Matthew Cargill, the flying stationer, again brings forward a claim for the price of Whiston's 'Josephus,' which I did not buy from him. "Mr. Moncur, of Aberbrothick, had agreed to assist me at the Sacrament, and will doubtless still lend his services. Mr. Carfrae or Mr. Trail will take my place if my successor is not elected by that time. The Sacrament cups are in the vestry press, of which you will find the key beneath the clock in my parlor. The tokens are in the topmost drawer in my bedroom. "The weekly prayer-meeting will be held as usual on Thursday at eight o'clock, and the elders will officiate. "It is my wish that the news of my death be broken to my mother by Mr. Ogilvy, the schoolmaster, and by no other. You will say to him that this is my solemn request, and that I bid him discharge it without faltering and be of good cheer. "But if Mr. Ogilvy be not now alive, the news of my death will be broken to my mother by my beloved wife. Last night I was married on the hill, over the tongs, but with the sanction of God, to her whom you call the Egyptian, and despite what has happened since then, of which you will soon have knowledge, I here solemnly declare that she is my wife, and you will seek for her at the Spittal or elsewhere till you find her, and you will tell her to go to my mother and remain with her always, for these are the commands of her husband." It was then that Gavin paused, for Lord Rintoul had that to say to him which no longer could be kept back. All the women were crying sore, and also some men whose eyes had been dry at the coffining of their children. "Now I ken," said Cruickshanks, who had been an atheist, "that it's only the fool wha' says in his heart, 'There is no God.'" Another said, "That's a man." Another said, "That man has a religion to last him all through." A fourth said, "Behold, the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand." A fifth said, "That's our minister. He's the minister o' the Auld Licht Kirk o' Thrums. Woe is me, we're to lose him." Many cried, "Our hearts was set hard against him. O Lord, are you angry wi' your servants that you're taking him frae us just when we ken what he is?" Gavin did not hear them, and again he spoke: "My brethren, God is good. I have just learned that my wife is with my dear mother at the manse. I leave them in your care and in His." No more he said of Babbie, for the island was become very small. "The Lord calls me hence. It is only for a little time I have been with you, and now I am going away, and you will know me no more. Too great has been my pride because I was your minister, but He who sent me to labor among you is slow to wrath; and He ever bore in mind that you were my first charge. My people, I must say to you, 'Farewell.'" Then, for the first time, his voice faltered, and wanting--to go on he could not. "Let us read," he said, quickly, "in the Word of God in the fourteenth of Matthew, from the twenty-eighth verse." He repeated these four verses:-- "'And Peter answered Him and said, Lord, if it be Thou, bid me come unto Thee on the water. "'And He said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. "'But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me. "'And immediately Jesus stretched forth His hand and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?'" After this Gavin's voice was again steady, and he said, "The sand- glass is almost run out. Dearly beloved, with what words shall I bid you good-by?" Many thought that these were to be the words, for the mist parted, and they saw the island tremble and half of it sink. "My people," said the voice behind the mist, "this is the text I leave with you: 'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.' That text I read in the flood, where the hand of God has written it. All the pound-notes in the world would not dam this torrent for a moment, so that we might pass over to you safely. Yet it is but a trickle of water, soon to be dried up. Verily, I say unto you, only a few hours ago the treasures of earth stood between you and this earl, and what are they now compared to this trickle of water? God only can turn rivers into a wilderness, and the water-springs into dry ground. Let His Word be a lamp unto your feet and a light unto your path; may He be your refuge and your strength. Amen." This amen he said quickly, thinking death was now come. He was seen to raise his hands, but whether to Heaven or involuntarily to protect his face as he fell none was sure, for the mist again filled the chasm. Then came a clap of stillness. No one breathed. But the two men were not yet gone, and Gavin spoke once more. "Let us sing in the twenty-third Psalm." He himself raised the tune and so long as they heard Ms voice they sang-- "The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want; He makes me down to lie In pastures green; He leadeth me The quiet waters by. "My soul He doth restore again; And me to walk doth make Within the paths of righteousness Ev'n for His own name's sake. "Yea, though I walk in Death's dark vale, Yet will I fear none ill; For Thou art with me; and Thy rod And staff--" But some had lost the power to sing in the first verse, and others at "Death's dark vale," and when one man found himself singing alone he stopped abruptly. This was because they no longer heard the minister. "O Lord!" Peter Tosh cried, "lift the mist, for it's mair than we can bear." The mist rose slowly, and those who had courage to look saw Gavin praying with the earl. Many could not look, and some of them did not even see Rob Dow jump. For it was Dow, the man with the crushed leg, who saved Gavin's life, and flung away his own for it. Suddenly he was seen on the edge of the bank, holding one end of the improvised rope in his hand. As Tosh says-- "It all happened in the opening and shutting o' an eye. It's a queer thing to say, but though I prayed to God to take awa the mist, when He did raise it I couldna look. I shut my een tight, and held my arm afore my face, like ane feared o' being struck. Even when I daured to look, my arm was shaking so that I could see Rob both above it and below it. He was on the edge, crouching to leap. I didna see wha had haud o' the other end o' the rope. I heard the minister cry, 'No, Dow, no!' and it gae through me as quick as a stab that if Rob jumped he would knock them both into the water. But he did jump, and you ken how it was that he didna knock them off." It was because he had no thought of saving his own life. He jumped, not at the island, now little bigger than the seat of a chair, but at the edge of it, into the foam, and with his arm outstretched. For a second the hand holding the rope was on the dot of land. Gavin tried to seize the hand; Rintoul clutched the rope. The earl and the minister were dragged together into safety, and both left the water senseless. Gavin was never again able to lift his left hand higher than his head. Dow's body was found next day near the school-house. TALK OF A LITTLE MAID SINCE GROWN TALL, My scholars have a game they call "The Little Minister," in which the boys allow the girls as a treat to join. Some of the characters in the real drama are omitted as of no importance--the dominie, for instance--and the two best fighters insist on being Dow and Gavin. I notice that the game is finished when Dow dives from a haystack, and Gavin and the earl are dragged to the top of it by a rope. Though there should be another scene, it is only a marriage, which the girls have, therefore, to go through without the help of the boys. This warns me that I have come to an end of my story for all except my little maid. In the days when she sat on my knee and listened it had no end, for after I told her how her father and mother were married a second time she would say, "And then I came, didn't I? Oh, tell me about me!" So it happened that when she was no higher than my staff she knew more than I could write in another book, and many a time she solemnly told me what I had told her, as-- "Would you like me to tell you a story? Well, it's about a minister, and the people wanted to be bad to him, and then there was a flood, and a flood is lochs falling instead of rain, and so of course he was nearly drownded, and he preached to them till they liked him again, and so they let him marry her, and they like her awful too, and, just think! it was my father; and that's all. Now tell me about grandmother when father came home." I told her once again that Margaret never knew how nearly Gavin was driven from his kirk. For Margaret was as one who goes to bed in the daytime and wakes in it, and is not told that there has been a black night while she slept. She had seen her son leave the manse the idol of his people, and she saw them rejoicing as they brought him back. Of what occurred at the Jaws, as the spot where Dow had saved two lives is now called, she learned, but not that these Jaws snatched him and her from an ignominy more terrible than death, for she never knew that the people had meditated driving him from his kirk. This Thrums is bleak and perhaps forbidding, but there is a moment of the day when a setting sun dyes it pink, and the people are like their town. Thrums was never colder in times of snow than were his congregation to their minister when the Great Rain began, but his fortitude rekindled their hearts. He was an obstinate minister, and love had led him a dance, but in the hour of trial he had proved himself a man. When Gavin reached the manse, and saw not only his mother but Babbie, he would have kissed them both; but Babbie could only say, "She does not know," and then run away crying. Gavin put his arm round his mother, and drew her into the parlor, where he told her who Babbie was. Now Margaret had begun to love Babbie already, and had prayed to see Gavin happily married; but it was a long time before she went upstairs to look for his wife and kiss her and bring her down. "Why was it a long time?" my little maid would ask, and I had to tell her to wait until she was old, and had a son, when she would find out for herself. While Gavin and the earl were among the waters, two men were on their way to Mr. Carfrae's home, to ask him to return with them and preach the Auld Licht kirk of Thrums vacant; and he came, though now so done that he had to be wheeled about in a little coach. He came in sorrow, yet resolved to perform what was asked of him if it seemed God's will; but, instead of banishing Gavin, all he had to do was to remarry him and kirk him, both of which things he did, sitting in his coach, as many can tell. Lang Tammas spoke no more against Gavin, but he would not go to the marriage, and he insisted on resigning his eldership for a year and a day. I think he only once again spoke to Margaret. She was in the manse garden when he was passing, and she asked him if he would tell her now why he had been so agitated when he visited her on the day of the flood. He answered gruffly, "It's no business o' yours." Dr. McQueen was Gavin's best man. He died long ago of scarlet fever. So severe was the epidemic that for a week he was never in bed. He attended fifty cases without suffering, but as soon as he had bent over Hendry Munn's youngest boys, who both had it, he said, "I'm smitted," and went home to die. You may be sure that Gavin proved a good friend to Micah Dow. I have the piece of slate on which Rob proved himself a good friend to Gavin; it was in his pocket when we found the body. Lord Rintoul returned to his English estates, and never revisited the Spittal. The last thing I heard of him was that he had been offered the Lord-Lieutenantship of a county, and had accepted it in a long letter, in which he began by pointing out his unworthiness. This undid him, for the Queen, or her councillors, thinking from his first page that he had declined the honor, read no further, and appointed another man. Waster Lunny is still alive, but has gone to another farm. Sanders Webster, in his gratitude, wanted Nanny to become an Auld Licht, but she refused, saying, "Mr. Dishart is worth a dozen o' Mr. Duthie, and I'm terrible fond o' Mrs. Dishart, but Established I was born and Established I'll remain till I'm carried out o' this house feet foremost." "But Nanny went to Heaven for all that," my little maid told me. "Jean says people can go to Heaven though they are not Auld Lichts, but she says it takes them all their time. Would you like me to tell you a story about my mother putting glass on the manse dike? Well, my mother and my father is very fond of each other, and once they was in the garden, and my father kissed my mother, and there was a woman watching them over the dike, and she cried out--something naughty." "It was Tibbie Birse," I said, "and what she cried was, 'Mercy on us, that's the third time in half an hour!' So your mother, who heard her, was annoyed, and put glass on the wall." "But it's me that is telling you the story. You are sure you don't know it? Well, they asked father to take the glass away, and he wouldn't; but he once preached at mother for having a white feather in her bonnet, and another time he preached at her for being too fond of him. Jean told me. That's all." No one seeing Babbie going to church demurely on Gavin's arm could guess her history. Sometimes I wonder whether the desire to be a gypsy again ever comes over her for a mad hour, and whether, if so, Gavin takes such measures to cure her as he threatened in Caddam Wood. I suppose not; but here is another story: "When I ask mother to tell me about her once being a gypsy she says I am a bad 'quisitive little girl, and to put on my hat and come with her to the prayer-meeting; and when I asked father to let me see mother's gypsy frock he made me learn Psalm forty-eight by heart. But once I see'd it, and it was a long time ago, as long as a week ago. Micah Dow gave me rowans to put in my hair, and I like Micah because he calls me Miss, and so I woke in my bed because there was noises, and I ran down to the parlor, and there was my mother in her gypsy frock, and my rowans was in her hair, and my father was kissing her, and when they saw me they jumped; and that's all." "Would you like me to tell you another story? It is about a little girl. Well, there was once a minister and his wife, and they hadn't no little girls, but just little boys, and God was sorry for them, so He put a little girl in a cabbage in the garden, and when they found her they were glad. Would you like me to tell you who the little girl was? Well, it was me, and, ugh! I was awful cold in the cabbage. Do you like that story?" "Yes; I like it best of all the stories I know." "So do I like it, too. Couldn't nobody help loving me, 'cause I'm so nice? Why am I so fearful nice?" "Because you are like your grandmother." "It was clever of my father to know when he found me in the cabbage that my name was Margaret. Are you sorry grandmother is dead?" "I am glad your mother and father were so good to her and made her so happy." "Are you happy?" "Yes." "But when I am happy I laugh." "I am old, you see, and you are young." "I am nearly six. Did you love grandmother? Then why did you never come to see her? Did grandmother know you was here? Why not? Why didn't I not know about you till after grandmother died?" "I'll tell you when you are big." "Shall I be big enough when I am six?" "No, not till your eighteenth birthday." "But birthdays comes so slow. Will they come quicker when I am big?" "Much quicker." On her sixth birthday Micah Dow drove my little maid to the school-house in the doctor's gig, and she crept beneath the table and whispered-- "Grandfather!" "Father told me to call you that if I liked, and I like," she said when I had taken her upon my knee. "I know why you kissed me just now. It was because I looked like grandmother. Why do you kiss me when I look like her?" "Who told you I did that?" "Nobody didn't tell me. I just found out. I loved grandmother too. She told me all the stories she knew." "Did she ever tell you a story about a black dog?" "No. Did she know one?" "Yes, she knew it," "Perhaps she had forgotten it?" "No, she remembered it." "Tell it to me." "Not till you are eighteen." "But will you not be dead when I am eighteen? When you go to Heaven, will you see grandmother?" "Yes." "Will she be glad to see you?" My little maid's eighteenth birthday has come, and I am still in Thrums, which I love, though it is beautiful to none, perhaps, save to the very done, who lean on their staves and look long at it, having nothing else to do till they die. I have lived to rejoice in the happiness of Gavin and Babbie: and if at times I have suddenly had to turn away my head after looking upon them in their home surrounded by their children, it was but a moment's envy that I could not help. Margaret never knew of the dominie in the glen. They wanted to tell her of me, but I would not have it. She has been long gone from this world; but sweet memories of her still grow, like honeysuckle, up the white walls of the manse, smiling in at the parlor window and beckoning from the door, and for some filling all the air with fragrance. It was not she who raised the barrier between her and me, but God Himself; and to those who maintain otherwise, I say they do not understand the purity of a woman's soul. During the years she was lost to me her face ever came between me and ungenerous thoughts; and now I can say, all that is carnal in me is my own, and all that is good I got from her. Only one bitterness remains. When I found Gavin in the rain, when I was fighting my way through the flood, when I saw how the hearts of the people were turned against him--above all, when I found Whamond in the manse--I cried to God, making promises to Him, if He would spare the lad for Margaret's sake, and He spared him; but these promises I have not kept. THE END 
23287	----	Transcribed from the 1911 John Murray edition, by David Price, ccx074@pglaf.org LAVENGRO THE SCHOLAR, THE GYPSY, THE PRIEST BY GEORGE BORROW A NEW EDITION CONTAINING THE UNALTERED TEXT OF THE ORIGINAL ISSUE; SOME SUPPRESSED EPISODES, MS. VARIORUM, VOCABULARY AND NOTES BY THE AUTHOR OF THE LIFE OF GEORGE BORROW LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET 1911 {Rackman's Offices, Tuck's Court, St. Giles', Norwich: p0.jpg} FIRST EDITION . . . 1851 SECOND EDITION . . . ---- THIRD EDITION . . . 1872 FOURTH EDITION . . . 1888 FIFTH EDITION . . . 1896 SIXTH (DEFINITIVE) EDITION . . . 6/- _March_, 1900 _Reprinted_ . . . _July_, 1902 _Reprinted_ . . . _May_, 1904 _Reprinted_ . . . Thin Paper . _Aug._, 1905 _Reprinted_ . . . 6/- . _Jan._, 1907 _Reprinted_ . . . _Sept._, 1907 _Reprinted_ . . . 2/6 net . _Sept._, 1907 _Reprinted_ . . . Thin Paper . _June_ 1908 _Reprinted_ . . . 1/- net . _Feb._, 1911 [ORIGINAL TITLE PAGE.] LAVENGRO; THE SCHOLAR--THE GYPSY--THE PRIEST. BY GEORGE BORROW, AUTHOR OF "THE BIBLE IN SPAIN" AND "THE GYPSIES OF SPAIN" IN THREE VOLUMES--VOL. I. LONDON: JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 1851. ADVERTISEMENT. (1851.) In compliance with the advice of certain friends who are desirous that it may not be supposed that the following work has been written expressly for the present times, the author begs leave to state that it was planned in the year 1842, and all the characters sketched before the conclusion of the year 1843. The contents of the volumes here offered to the public have, with the exception of the Preface, existed in manuscript for a very considerable time. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. (1851.) In the following pages I have endeavoured to describe a dream, partly of study, partly of adventure, in which will be found copious notices of books, and many descriptions of life and manners, some in a very unusual form. The scenes of action lie in the British Islands. Pray be not displeased, gentle reader, if perchance thou hast imagined that I was about to conduct thee to distant lands, and didst promise thyself much instruction and entertainment from what I might tell thee of them. I do assure thee that thou hast no reason to be displeased, inasmuch as there are no countries in the world less known by the British than these selfsame British Islands, or where more strange things are every day occurring, whether in road or street, house or dingle. The time embraces nearly the first quarter of the present century. This information, again, may perhaps be anything but agreeable to thee; it is a long time to revert to--but fret not thyself, many matters which at present much occupy the public mind originated in some degree towards the latter end of that period, and some of them will be treated of. The principal actors in this dream, or drama, are, as you will have gathered from the title-page, a Scholar, a Gypsy, and a Priest. Should you imagine that these three form one, permit me to assure you that you are very much mistaken. Should there be something of the Gypsy manifest in the Scholar, there is certainly nothing of the Priest. With respect to the Gypsy--decidedly the most entertaining character of the three--there is certainly nothing of the Scholar or the Priest in him; and as for the Priest, though there may be something in him both of scholarship and gypsyism, neither the Scholar nor the Gypsy would feel at all flattered by being confounded with him. Many characters which may be called subordinate will be found, and it is probable that some of these characters will afford much more interest to the reader than those styled the principal. The favourites with the writer are a brave old soldier and his helpmate, an ancient gentlewoman who sold apples, and a strange kind of wandering man and his wife. Amongst the many things attempted in this book is the encouragement of charity, and free and genial manners, and the exposure of humbug, of which there are various kinds, but of which the most perfidious, the most debasing, and the most cruel, is the humbug of the Priest. Yet let no one think that irreligion is advocated in this book. With respect to religious tenets, I wish to observe that I am a member of the Church of England, into whose communion I was baptised, and to which my forefathers belonged. Its being the religion in which I was baptised, and of my forefathers, would be a strong inducement to me to cling to it; for I do not happen to be one of those choice spirits "who turn from their banner when the battle bears strongly against it, and go over to the enemy," and who receive at first a hug and a "viva," and in the sequel contempt and spittle in the face; but my chief reason for belonging to it is, because, of all Churches calling themselves Christian ones, I believe there is none so good, so well founded upon Scripture, or whose ministers are, upon the whole, so exemplary in their lives and conversation, so well read in the Book from which they preach, or so versed in general learning, so useful in their immediate neighbourhoods, or so unwilling to persecute people of other denominations for matters of doctrine. In the communion of this Church, and with the religious consolation of its ministers, I wish and hope to live and die, and in its and their defence will at all times be ready, if required, to speak, though humbly, and to fight, though feebly, against enemies, whether carnal or spiritual. And is there no priestcraft in the Church of England? There is certainly, or rather there was, a modicum of priestcraft in the Church of England, but I have generally found that those who are most vehement against the Church of England are chiefly dissatisfied with her because there is only a modicum of that article in her. Were she stuffed to the very cupola with it, like a certain other Church, they would have much less to say against the Church of England. By the other Church I mean Rome. Its system was once prevalent in England, and, during the period that it prevailed there, was more prolific of debasement and crime than all other causes united. The people and the government at last becoming enlightened by means of the Scripture, spurned it from the island with disgust and horror, the land instantly after its disappearance becoming a fair field, in which arts, sciences, and all the amiable virtues flourished, instead of being a pestilent marsh where swine-like ignorance wallowed, and artful hypocrites, like so many wills-o'-the-wisp, played antic gambols about, around and above debased humanity. But Popery still wished to play her old part, to regain her lost dominion, to reconvert the smiling land into the pestilential morass, where she could play again her old antics. From the period of the Reformation in England up to the present time, she has kept her emissaries here--individuals contemptible in intellect, it is true, but cat-like and gliding, who, at her bidding, have endeavoured, as much as in their power has lain, to damp and stifle every genial, honest, loyal and independent thought, and to reduce minds to such a state of dotage as would enable their old Popish mother to do what she pleased with them. And in every country, however enlightened, there are always minds inclined to grovelling superstition--minds fond of eating dust and swallowing clay--minds never at rest, save when prostrate before some fellow in a surplice; and these Popish emissaries found always some weak enough to bow down before them, astounded by their dreadful denunciations of eternal woe and damnation to any who should refuse to believe their Romania; but they played a poor game--the law protected the servants of Scripture, and the priest with his beads seldom ventured to approach any but the remnant of those of the eikonolatry--representatives of worm-eaten houses, their debased dependants and a few poor crazy creatures among the middle classes--he played a poor game, and the labour was about to prove almost entirely in vain, when the English Legislature, in compassion or contempt, or, yet more probably, influenced by that spirit of toleration and kindness which is so mixed up with Protestantism, removed almost entirely the disabilities under which Popery laboured, and enabled it to raise its head and to speak out almost without fear. And it did raise its head, and, though it spoke with some little fear at first, soon discarded every relic of it; went about the land uttering its damnation cry, gathering around it--and for doing so many thanks to it--the favourers of priestcraft who lurked within the walls of the Church of England; frightening with the loudness of its voice the weak, the timid and the ailing; perpetrating, whenever it had an opportunity, that species of crime to which it has ever been most partial--_deathbed robbery_; for as it is cruel, so is it dastardly. Yes, it went on enlisting, plundering and uttering its terrible threats till--till it became, as it always does when left to itself, a fool, a very fool. Its plunderings might have been overlooked, and so might its insolence, had it been common insolence, but it--, and then the roar of indignation which arose from outraged England against the viper, the frozen viper which it had permitted to warm itself upon its bosom. But thanks, Popery, you have done all that the friends of enlightenment and religious liberty could wish; but if ever there were a set of foolish ones to be found under Heaven, surely it is the priestly rabble who came over from Rome to direct the grand movement, so long in its getting up. But now again the damnation cry is withdrawn, there is a subdued meekness in your demeanour, you are now once more harmless as a lamb. Well, we shall see how the trick--"the old trick"--will serve you. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. (1872.) _Lavengro_ made its first appearance more than one and twenty years ago. It was treated in anything but a courteous manner. Indeed, abuse ran riot, and many said that the book was killed. If by killed was meant knocked down and stunned, which is the Irish acceptation of the word--there is a great deal about Ireland in the book--they were right enough. It was not dead, however, oh dear no! as is tolerably well shown by the present edition, which has been long called for. The chief assailants of the book were the friends of Popery in England. They were enraged because the author stood up for the religion of his fathers, his country, and the Bible, against the mythology of a foreign priest. As for the Pope--but the Pope has of late had his misfortunes, so no harsh language. To another subject! From the Pope to the Gypsies! From the Roman Pontiff to the Romany Chals! A very remarkable set of people are the Gypsies; frequent mention is made of them in _Lavengro_, and from their peculiar language the word "Lavengro" is taken. They first attracted notice in Germany, where they appeared in immense numbers in the early part of the fifteenth century, a period fraught with extraordinary events: the coming of the Black Death; the fortunes and misfortunes of the Emperor Sigismund; the quarrels of the Three Popes--the idea of three Popes at one time!--the burning alive of John Huss; the advance of the Crescent, and the battle of Agincourt. They were of dark complexion, some of them of nearly negro blackness, and spoke a language of their own, though many could converse in German and other tongues. They called themselves Zingary and Romany Chals, and the account they gave of themselves was that they were from Lower Egypt, and were doing penance, by a seven years' wandering, for the sin of their forefathers, who of old had refused hospitality to the Virgin and Child. They did not speak truth, however; the name they bore, Zingary, and which, slightly modified, is still borne by their descendants in various countries, shows that they were not from Egypt, but from a much more distant land, Hindostan; for Zingaro is Sanscrit, and signifies a man of mixed race, a mongrel; whilst their conduct was evidently not that of people engaged in expiatory pilgrimage; for the women told the kosko bokht, the good luck, the _buena ventura_; kaured, that is, filched money and valuables from shop-boards and counters by a curious motion of the hands, and poisoned pigs and hogs by means of a certain drug, and then begged, and generally obtained, the carcases, which cut up served their families for food; the children begged and stole; whilst the men, who it is true professed horse-clipping, farriery and fiddling, not unfrequently knocked down travellers and plundered them. The hand of justice of course soon fell heavily upon them; men of Egypt, as they were called, were seized, hung, or maimed; women scourged or branded; children whipped; but no severity appeared to have any effect upon the Zingary; wherever they went (and they soon found their way to almost every country in Europe), they adhered to their evil practices. Before the expiration of the fifteenth century bands of them appeared in England with their horses, donkeys and tilted carts. How did they contrive to cross the sea with their carts and other property? By means very easy to people with money in their pockets, which the Gypsies always have, by paying for their passage; just as the Hungarian tribe did, who a few years ago came to England with their horses and vehicles, and who, whilst encamping with their English brethren in the loveliest of all forests, Epping Wesh, exclaimed "Sore si mensar si men". {0a} The meaning of Zingary, one of the names by which the pseudo-penitents from Lower Egypt called themselves, has been given above. Now for that of the other, Romany Chals, a name in which the English Gypsies delight, who have entirely dropped that of Zingary. The meaning of Romany Chals is lads of Rome or Rama; Romany signifying that which belongs to Rama or Rome, and Chal a son or lad, being a Zingaric word connected with the _Shilo_ of Scripture, the meaning of which may be found in the Lexicon of the brave old Westphalian Hebraist, Johannes Buxtorf. {0b} The Gypsies of England, the Zigany, Zigeuner, and other tribes of the Continent, descendants of the old Zingary and Romany Chals, retain many of the characteristics of their forefathers, and, though differing from each other in some respects, resemble each other in many. They are much alike in hue and feature; speak amongst themselves much the same tongue; exercise much the same trades, and are addicted to the same evil practices. There is a little English Gypsy gillie, or song, of which the following quatrain is a translation, containing four queries, to all of which the English Romano might respond by Ava, and the foreign Chal by the same affirmative to the three first, if not to the last:-- Can you speak the Roman tongue? Can you make the fiddle ring? Can you poison a jolly hog? And split the stick for the linen string? So much for the Gypsies. There are many other things in the book to which perhaps the writer ought to advert; but he is weary, and, moreover, is afraid of wearying others. He will, therefore, merely add that every book must eventually stand or fall by its deserts; that praise, however abundant, will not keep a bad book alive for any considerable time, nor abuse, however virulent, a good one for ever in the dust; and he thinks himself justified in saying, that were there not some good in _Lavengro_, it would not again be raising its head, notwithstanding all it underwent one and twenty years ago. LAVENGRO. (1851.) CHAPTER I. On an evening of July, in the year 18--, at East D---, a beautiful little town in a certain district of East Anglia, I first saw the light. {1a} My father was a Cornish man, the youngest, as I have heard him say, of seven brothers. He sprang from a family of gentlemen, or, as some people would call them, _gentillatres_, for they were not very wealthy; they had a coat of arms, however, and lived on their own property at a place called Tredinnock, which being interpreted means _the house on the hill_, which house and the neighbouring acres had been from time immemorial in their possession. I mention these particulars that the reader may see at once that I am not altogether of low and plebeian origin; the present age is highly aristocratic, and I am convinced that the public will read my pages with more zest from being told that I am a _gentillatre_ by birth with Cornish blood {1b} in my veins, of a family who lived on their own property at a place bearing a Celtic name, signifying the house on the hill, or more strictly the house on the _hillock_. My father was what is generally termed a posthumous child--in other words, the _gentillatre_ who begot him never had the satisfaction of invoking the blessing of the Father of All upon his head, having departed this life some months before the birth of his youngest son. The boy, therefore, never knew a father's care; he was, however, well tended by his mother, whose favourite he was; so much so, indeed, that his brethren, the youngest of whom was considerably older than himself, were rather jealous of him. I never heard, however, that they treated him with any marked unkindness; and it will be as well to observe here that I am by no means well acquainted with his early history, of which, indeed, as I am not writing his life, it is not necessary to say much. Shortly after his mother's death, which occurred when he was eighteen, he adopted the profession of arms, which he followed during the remainder of his life, and in which, had circumstances permitted, he would probably have shone amongst the best. By nature he was cool and collected, slow to anger, though perfectly fearless, patient of control, of great strength, and, to crown all, a proper man with his hands. With far inferior qualifications many a man has become a field-marshal or general; similar ones made Tamerlane, who was not a _gentillatre_, but the son of a blacksmith, emperor of one-third of the world; but the race is not always for the swift, nor the battle for the strong, indeed I ought rather to say very seldom; certain it is, that my father, with all his high military qualifications, never became emperor, field-marshal, or even general; indeed, he had never an opportunity of distinguishing himself save in one battle, and that took place neither in Flanders, Egypt, nor on the banks of the Indus or Oxus, but in Hyde Park. Smile not, gentle reader, many a battle has been fought in Hyde Park, in which as much skill, science and bravery have been displayed as ever achieved a victory in Flanders or by the Indus. In such a combat as that to which I allude, I opine that even Wellington or Napoleon would have been heartily glad to cry for quarter ere the lapse of five minutes, and even the Blacksmith Tartar would, perhaps, have shrunk from the opponent with whom, after having had a dispute with him, {2a} my father engaged in single combat for one hour, at the end of which time the champions shook hands and retired, each having experienced quite enough of the other's prowess. The name of my father's antagonist was Brain. What! still a smile? did you never hear that name before? I cannot help it! Honour to Brain, who four months after the event which I have now narrated was champion of England, having conquered the heroic Johnson. Honour to Brain, who at the end of other four months, worn out by the dreadful blows which he had received in his many {2b} combats, expired in the arms of my father, who read the Bible to him in his latter moments--Big Ben Brain. You no longer smile, even _you_ have heard of Big Ben. I have already hinted that my father never rose to any very exalted rank in his profession, notwithstanding his prowess and other qualifications. After serving for many years in the line, he at last entered as captain in the militia regiment of the Earl of ---, {3} at that period just raised, and to which he was sent by the Duke of York to instruct the young levies in military manoeuvres and discipline; and in this mission I believe he perfectly succeeded, competent judges having assured me that the regiment in question soon came by his means to be considered as one of the most brilliant in the service, and inferior to no regiment of the line in appearance or discipline. As the head-quarters of this corps were at D---, the duties of my father not unfrequently carried him to that place, and it was on one of these occasions that he became acquainted with a young person of the neighbourhood, for whom he formed an attachment, which was returned; and this young person was my mother. She was descended from a family of French Protestants, natives of Caen, who were obliged to leave their native country when old Louis, at the instigation of the Pope, thought fit to revoke the Edict of Nantes. Their name was Petrement, and I have reason for believing that they were people of some consideration; that they were noble hearts and good Christians they gave sufficient proof in scorning to bow the knee to the tyranny of Rome. So they left beautiful Normandy for their faith's sake, and with a few louis d'ors in their purse, a Bible in the vulgar tongue, and a couple of old swords, which, if report be true, had done service in the Huguenot wars, they crossed the sea to the isle of civil peace and religious liberty, and established themselves in East Anglia. And many other Huguenot families bent their steps thither, and devoted themselves to agriculture or the mechanical arts; and in the venerable old city, the capital of the province, in the northern shadow of the Castle of De Burgh, the exiles built for themselves a church where they praised God in the French tongue, and to which, at particular seasons of the year, they were in the habit of flocking from country and from town to sing-- "Thou hast provided for us a goodly earth; Thou waterest her furrows, Thou sendest rain into the little valleys thereof, Thou makest it soft with the drops of rain, and blesset the increase of it". I have been told that in her younger days my mother was strikingly handsome; this I can easily believe. I never knew her in her youth, for though she was very young when she married my father (who was her senior by many years) she had attained the middle age before I was born, no children having been vouchsafed to my parents in the early stages of their union. Yet even at the present day, now that years threescore and ten have passed over her head, attended with sorrow and troubles manifold, poorly chequered with scanty joys, can I look on that countenance and doubt that at one time beauty decked it as with a glorious garment? Hail to thee, my parent! as thou sittest there, in thy widow's weeds, in the dusky parlour in the house overgrown with the lustrous ivy of the sister isle, the solitary house at the end of the retired court shaded by lofty poplars. Hail to thee, dame of the oval face, olive complexion, and Grecian forehead; by thy table seated with the mighty volume of the good Bishop Hopkins spread out before thee; there is peace in thy countenance, my mother; it is not worldly peace, however, not the deceitful peace which lulls to bewitching slumbers, and from which, let us pray, humbly pray, that every sinner may be roused in time to implore mercy not in vain! Thine is the peace of the righteous, my mother, of those to whom no sin can be imputed, the score of whose misdeeds has been long since washed away by the blood of atonement, which imputeth righteousness to those who trust in it. It was not always thus, my mother; a time was, when the cares, pomps and vanities of this world agitated thee too much; but that time is gone by, another and a better has succeeded, there is peace now on thy countenance, the true peace; peace around thee, too, in thy solitary dwelling, sounds of peace, the cheerful hum of the kettle and the purring of the immense Angola, which stares up at thee from its settle with its almost human eyes. No more earthly cares and affections now, my mother? Yes, one. Why dost thou suddenly raise thy dark and still brilliant eye from the volume with a somewhat startled glance? What noise is that in the distant street? Merely the noise of a hoof--a sound common enough; it draws nearer, nearer, and now it stops before thy gate. Singular! And now there is a pause, a long pause. Ha! thou hearest something--a footstep, a swift but heavy footstep! thou risest, thou tremblest; there is a hand on the pin of the outer door; there is some one in the vestibule; and now the door of thy apartment opens; there is a reflection on the mirror behind thee--a travelling hat, a grey head and sunburnt face. "My dearest Son!" "My darling Mother!" Yes, mother, thou didst recognise in the distant street the hoof-tramp of the wanderer's horse. I was not the only child of my parents; I had a brother some three years older than myself. He was a beautiful child; one of those occasionally seen in England, and in England alone; a rosy, angelic face, blue eyes, and light chestnut hair. It was not exactly an Anglo-Saxon countenance, in which, by-the-bye, there is generally a cast of loutishness and stupidity; it partook, to a certain extent, of the Celtic character, particularly in the fire and vivacity which illumined it; his face was the mirror of his mind; perhaps no disposition more amiable was ever found amongst the children of Adam, united, however, with no inconsiderable portion of high and dauntless spirit. So great was his beauty in infancy, that people, especially those of the poorer classes, would follow the nurse who carried him about in order to look at and bless his lovely face. At the age of three months an attempt was made to snatch him from his mother's arms in the streets of London, at the moment she was about to enter a coach; indeed, his appearance seemed to operate so powerfully upon every person who beheld him, that my parents were under continual apprehension of losing him; his beauty, however, was perhaps surpassed by the quickness of his parts. He mastered his letters in a few hours, and in a day or two could decipher the names of people on the doors of houses and over the shop windows. As he grew up, his personal appearance became less prepossessing, his quickness and cleverness, however, rather increased; and I may say of him, that with respect to everything which he took in hand he did it better and more speedily than any other person. Perhaps it will be asked here, what became of him? Alas! alas! his was an early and a foreign grave. As I have said before, the race is not always for the swift, nor the battle for the strong. And now, doubtless, after the above portrait of my brother, painted in the very best style of Rubens, the reader will conceive himself justified in expecting a full-length one of myself, as a child, for as to my present appearance, I suppose he will be tolerably content with that flitting glimpse in the mirror. But he must excuse me; I have no intention of drawing a portrait of myself in childhood; indeed it would be difficult, for at that time I never looked into mirrors. No attempts, however, were ever made to steal me in my infancy, and I never heard that my parents entertained the slightest apprehension of losing me by the hands of kidnappers, though I remember perfectly well that people were in the habit of standing still to look at me, ay, more than at my brother; from which premises the reader may form any conclusion with respect to my appearance which seemeth good unto him and reasonable. Should he, being a good-natured person and always inclined to adopt the charitable side in any doubtful point, be willing to suppose that I, too, was eminently endowed by nature with personal graces, I tell him frankly that I have no objection whatever to his entertaining that idea; moreover, that I heartily thank him, and shall at all times be disposed, under similar circumstances, to exercise the same species of charity towards himself. With respect to my mind and its qualities I shall be more explicit; for, were I to maintain much reserve on this point, many things which appear in these memoirs would be highly mysterious to the reader, indeed incomprehensible. Perhaps no two individuals were ever more unlike in mind and disposition than my brother and myself. As light is opposed to darkness, so was that happy, brilliant, cheerful child to the sad and melancholy being who sprang from the same stock as himself, and was nurtured by the same milk. Once, when travelling in an Alpine country, I arrived at a considerable elevation; I saw in the distance, far below, a beautiful stream hastening to the ocean, its rapid waters here sparkling in the sunshine, and there tumbling merrily in cascades. On its banks were vineyards and cheerful villages; close to where I stood, in a granite basin with steep and precipitous sides, slumbered a deep, dark lagoon, shaded by black pines, cypresses and yews. It was a wild, savage spot, strange and singular; ravens hovered above the pines, filling the air with their uncouth notes, pies chattered, and I heard the cry of an eagle from a neighbouring peak; there lay the lake, the dark, solitary and almost inaccessible lake; gloomy shadows were upon it, which, strangely modified as gusts of wind agitated the surface, occasionally assumed the shape of monsters. So I stood on the Alpine elevation, and looked now on the gay distant river, and now at the dark granite-encircled lake close beside me in the lone solitude, and I thought of my brother and myself. I am no moraliser; but the gay and rapid river and the dark and silent lake, were, of a verity, no bad emblems of us two. So far from being quick and clever like my brother, and able to rival the literary feat which I have recorded of him, many years elapsed before I was able to understand the nature of letters, or to connect them. A lover of nooks and retired corners, I was as a child in the habit of fleeing from society, and of sitting for hours together with my head on my breast. What I was thinking about, it would be difficult to say at this distance of time; I remember perfectly well, however, being ever conscious of a peculiar heaviness within me, and at times of a strange sensation of fear, which occasionally amounted to horror, and for which I could assign no real cause whatever. By nature slow of speech, I took no pleasure in conversation, nor in hearing the voices of my fellow-creatures. When people addressed me I not unfrequently, especially if they were strangers, turned away my head from them, and if they persisted in their notice burst into tears, which singularity of behaviour by no means tended to dispose people in my favour. I was as much disliked as my brother was deservedly beloved and admired. My parents, it is true, were always kind to me; and my brother, who was good nature itself, was continually lavishing upon me every mark of affection. There was, however, one individual who, in the days of my childhood, was disposed to form a favourable opinion of me. One day, a Jew--I had quite forgotten the circumstance, but I was long subsequently informed of it--one day a travelling Jew knocked at the door of a farmhouse in which we had taken apartments. I was near at hand, sitting in the bright sunshine, drawing strange lines on the dust with my fingers, an ape and dog were my companions. The Jew looked at me and asked me some questions, to which, though I was quite able to speak, I returned no answer. On the door being opened, the Jew, after a few words, probably relating to pedlary, demanded who the child was, sitting in the sun; the maid replied that I was her mistress's youngest son, a child weak _here_, pointing to her forehead. The Jew looked at me again, and then said: "'Pon my conscience, my dear, I believe that you must be troubled there yourself to tell me any such thing. It is not my habit to speak to children, inasmuch as I hate them, because they often follow me and fling stones after me; but I no sooner looked at that child than I was forced to speak to it. His not answering me shows his sense, for it has never been the custom of the wise to fling away their words in indifferent talk and conversation. The child is a sweet child, and has all the look of one of our people's children. Fool, indeed! did I not see his eyes sparkle just now when the monkey seized the dog by the ear? they shone like my own diamonds--does your good lady want any, real and fine? Were it not for what you tell me, I should say it was a prophet's child. Fool, indeed! he can write already, or I'll forfeit the box which I carry on my back, and for which I should be loth to take two hundred pounds!" He then leaned forward to inspect the lines which I had traced. All of a sudden he started back, and grew white as a sheet; then, taking off his hat, he made some strange gestures to me, cringing, chattering, and showing his teeth, and shortly departed, muttering something about "holy letters," and talking to himself in a strange tongue. The words of the Jew were in due course of time reported to my mother, who treasured them in her heart, and from that moment began to entertain brighter hopes of her youngest-born than she had ever before ventured to foster. CHAPTER II. I have been a wanderer the greater part of my life; indeed I remember only two periods, and these by no means lengthy, when I was, strictly speaking, stationary. I was a soldier's son, and as the means of my father were by no means sufficient to support two establishments, his family invariably attended him wherever he went, so that from my infancy I was accustomed to travelling and wandering, and looked upon a monthly change of scene and residence as a matter of course. Sometimes we lived in barracks, sometimes in lodgings, but generally in the former, always eschewing the latter from motives of economy, save when the barracks were inconvenient and uncomfortable; and they must have been highly so indeed to have discouraged us from entering them; for though we were gentry (pray bear that in mind, gentle reader), gentry by birth, and incontestably so by my father's bearing the commission of good old George the Third, we were not _fine gentry_, but people who could put up with as much as any genteel Scotch family who find it convenient to live on a third floor in London, or on a sixth at Edinburgh or Glasgow. It was not a little that could discourage us. We once lived within the canvas walls of a camp, at a place called Pett, in Sussex; and I believe it was at this place that occurred the first circumstance, or adventure, call it which you will, that I can remember in connection with myself. It was a strange one, and I will relate it. It happened that my brother and myself were playing one evening in a sandy lane, in the neighbourhood of this Pett camp; our mother was at a slight distance. All of a sudden, a bright yellow, and, to my infantine eye, beautiful and glorious object made its appearance at the top of the bank from between the thick quickset, and, gliding down, began to move across the lane to the other side, like a line of golden light. Uttering a cry of pleasure, I sprang forward, and seized it nearly by the middle. A strange sensation of numbing coldness seemed to pervade my whole arm, which surprised me the more as the object to the eye appeared so warm and sunlike. I did not drop it, however, but, holding it up, looked at it intently, as its head dangled about a foot from my hand. It made no resistance; I felt not even the slightest struggle; but now my brother began to scream and shriek like one possessed. "O mother, mother!" said he, "the viper! my brother has a viper in his hand!" He then, like one frantic, made an effort to snatch the creature away from me. The viper now hissed amain, and raised its head, in which were eyes like hot coals, menacing, not myself, but my brother. I dropped my captive, for I saw my mother running towards me; and the reptile, after standing for a moment nearly erect, and still hissing furiously, made off, and disappeared. The whole scene is now before me, as vividly as if it occurred yesterday--the gorgeous viper, my poor dear frantic brother, my agitated parent, and a frightened hen clucking under the bushes; and yet I was not three years old. It is my firm belief that certain individuals possess an inherent power, or fascination, over certain creatures, otherwise I should be unable to account for many feats which I have witnessed, and, indeed, borne a share in, connected with the taming of brutes and reptiles. I have known a savage and vicious mare, whose stall it was dangerous to approach, even when bearing provender, welcome, nevertheless, with every appearance of pleasure, an uncouth, wiry-headed man, with a frightfully seamed face, and an iron hook supplying the place of his right hand, one whom the animal had never seen before, playfully bite his hair and cover his face with gentle and endearing kisses; and I have already stated how a viper would permit, without resentment, one child to take it up in his hand, whilst it showed its dislike to the approach of another by the fiercest hissings. Philosophy can explain many strange things, but there are some which are a far pitch above her, and this is one. I should scarcely relate another circumstance which occurred about this time but for a singular effect which it produced upon my constitution. Up to this period I had been rather a delicate child; whereas, almost immediately after the occurrence to which I allude, I became both hale and vigorous, to the great astonishment of my parents, who naturally enough expected that it would produce quite a contrary effect. It happened that my brother and myself were disporting ourselves in certain fields near the good town of Canterbury. A female servant had attended us, in order to take care that we came to no mischief. She, however, it seems, had matters of her own to attend to, and, allowing us to go where we listed, remained in one corner of a field, in earnest conversation with a red-coated dragoon. Now it chanced to be blackberry time, and the two children wandered under the hedges, peering anxiously among them in quest of that trash so grateful to urchins of their degree. We did not find much of it, however, and were soon separated in the pursuit. All at once I stood still, and could scarcely believe my eyes. I had come to a spot where, almost covering the hedge, hung clusters of what seemed fruit, deliciously-tempting fruit--something resembling grapes of various colours, green, red and purple. Dear me, thought I, how fortunate! yet have I a right to gather it? is it mine? for the observance of the law of _meum_ and _tuum_ had early been impressed upon my mind, and I entertained, even at that tender age, the utmost horror for theft; so I stood staring at the variegated clusters, in doubt as to what I should do. I know not how I argued the matter in my mind; the temptation, however, was at last too strong for me, so I stretched forth my hand and ate. I remember perfectly well, that the taste of this strange fruit was by no means so pleasant as the appearance; but the idea of eating fruit was sufficient for a child, and, after all, the flavour was much superior to that of sour apples, so I ate voraciously. How long I continued eating I scarcely know. One thing is certain, that I never left the field as I entered it, being carried home in the arms of the dragoon in strong convulsions, in which I continued for several hours. About midnight I awoke, as if from a troubled sleep, and beheld my parents bending over my couch, whilst the regimental surgeon, with a candle in his hand, stood nigh, the light feebly reflected on the whitewashed walls of the barrack-room. Another circumstance connected with my infancy, and I have done. I need offer no apology for relating it, as it subsequently exercised considerable influence over my pursuits. We were, if I remember right, in the vicinity of a place called Hythe, in Kent. One sweet evening, in the latter part of summer, our mother took her two little boys by the hand, for a wander about the fields. In the course of our stroll we came to the village church; an old grey-headed sexton stood in the porch, who, perceiving that we were strangers, invited us to enter. We were presently in the interior, wandering about the aisles, looking on the walls, and inspecting the monuments of the notable dead. I can scarcely state what we saw; how should I? I was a child not yet four years old, and yet I think I remember the evening sun streaming in through a stained window upon the dingy mahogany pulpit, and flinging a rich lustre upon the faded tints of an ancient banner. And now once more we were outside the building, where, against the wall, stood a low-eaved pent-house, into which we looked. It was half-filled with substances of some kind, which at first looked like large grey stones. The greater part were lying in layers; some, however, were seen in confused and mouldering heaps, and two or three, which had perhaps rolled down from the rest, lay separately on the floor. "Skulls, madam," said the sexton; "skulls of the old Danes! Long ago they came pirating into these parts; and then there chanced a mighty shipwreck, for God was angry with them, and He sunk them; and their skulls, as they came ashore, were placed here as a memorial. There were many more when I was young, but now they are fast disappearing. Some of them must have belonged to strange fellows, madam. Only see that one; why, the two young gentry can scarcely lift it!" And, indeed, my brother and myself had entered the Golgotha, and commenced handling these grim relics of mortality. One enormous skull, lying in a corner, had fixed our attention, and we had drawn it forth. Spirit of eld, what a skull was yon! I still seem to see it, the huge grim thing; many of the others were large, strikingly so, and appeared fully to justify the old man's conclusion that their owners must have been strange fellows; but, compared with this mighty mass of bone, they looked small and diminutive, like those of pigmies; it must have belonged to a giant, one of those red- haired warriors of whose strength and stature such wondrous tales are told in the ancient chronicles of the north, and whose grave-hills, when ransacked, occasionally reveal secrets which fill the minds of puny moderns with astonishment and awe. Reader, have you ever pored days and nights over the pages of Snorro? probably not, for he wrote in a language which few of the present day understand, and few would be tempted to read him tamed down by Latin dragomans. A brave old book is that of Snorro, containing the histories and adventures of old northern kings and champions, who seemed to have been quite different men, if we may judge from the feats which they performed, from those of these days. One of the best of his histories is that which describes the life of Harald Haardraade, who, after manifold adventures by land and sea, now a pirate, now a mercenary of the Greek emperor, became King of Norway, and eventually perished at the battle of Stanford Bridge, whilst engaged in a gallant onslaught upon England. Now, I have often thought that the old Kemp, whose mouldering skull in the golgotha of Hythe my brother and myself could scarcely lift, must have resembled in one respect at least this Harald, whom Snorro describes as a great and wise ruler and a determined leader, dangerous in battle, of fair presence, and measuring in height just _five ells_, {13} neither more nor less. I never forgot the Daneman's skull; like the apparition of the viper in the sandy lane, it dwelt in the mind of the boy, affording copious food for the exercise of imagination. From that moment with the name of Dane were associated strange ideas of strength, daring, and superhuman stature; and an undefinable curiosity for all that is connected with the Danish race began to pervade me; and if, long after, when I became a student, I devoted myself with peculiar zest to Danish lore and the acquirement of the old Norse tongue and its dialects, I can only explain the matter by the early impression received at Hythe from the tale of the old sexton, beneath the pent-house, and the sight of the Danish skull. And thus we went on straying from place to place, at Hythe to-day, and perhaps within a week looking out from our hostel-window upon the streets of old Winchester, our motions ever in accordance with the "route" of the regiment, so habituated to change of scene that it had become almost necessary to our existence. Pleasant were those days of my early boyhood; and a melancholy pleasure steals over me as I recall them. Those were stirring times of which I am speaking, and there was much passing around me calculated to captivate the imagination. The dreadful struggle which so long convulsed Europe, and in which England bore so prominent a part, was then at its hottest; we were at war, and determination and enthusiasm shone in every face; man, woman and child were eager to fight the Frank, the hereditary, but, thank God, never dreaded enemy of the Anglo-Saxon race. "Love your country and beat the French, and then never mind what happens," was the cry of entire England. Oh, those were days of power, gallant days, bustling days, worth the bravest days of chivalry, at least; tall battalions of native warriors were marching through the land; there was the glitter of the bayonet and the gleam of the sabre; the shrill squeak of the fife and loud rattling of the drum were heard in the streets of country towns, and the loyal shouts of the inhabitants greeted the soldiery on their arrival, or cheered them at their departure. And now let us leave the upland, and descend to the sea- bord; there is a sight for you upon the billows! A dozen men-of-war are gliding majestically out of port, their long buntings streaming from the top-gallant masts, calling on the skulking Frenchman to come forth from his bights and bays; and what looms upon us yonder from the fog-bank in the east? a gallant frigate towing behind her the long low hull of a crippled privateer, which but three short days ago had left Dieppe to skim the sea, and whose crew of ferocious hearts are now cursing their imprudence in an English hold. Stirring times those, which I love to recall, for they were days of gallantry and enthusiasm, and were moreover the days of my boyhood. CHAPTER III. And when I was between six and seven years of age we were once more at D---, the place of my birth, whither my father had been despatched on the recruiting service. I have already said that it was a beautiful little town--at least it was at the time of which I am speaking; what it is at present I know not, for thirty years and more have elapsed since I last trod its streets. It will scarcely have improved, for how could it be better than it then was? I love to think on thee, pretty, quiet D---, thou pattern of an English country town, with thy clean but narrow streets branching out from thy modest market-place, with thine old-fashioned houses, with here and there a roof of venerable thatch, with thy one half-aristocratic mansion, where resided thy Lady Bountiful--she, the generous and kind, who loved to visit the sick, leaning on her golden-headed cane, whilst the sleek old footman walked at a respectful distance behind. Pretty, quiet D---, with thy venerable church, in which moulder the mortal remains of England's sweetest and most pious bard. Yes, pretty D---, I could always love thee, were it but for the sake of him who sleeps beneath the marble slab in yonder quiet chancel. It was within thee that the long-oppressed bosom heaved its last sigh, and the crushed and gentle spirit escaped from a world in which it had known nought but sorrow. Sorrow! do I say? How faint a word to express the misery of that bruised reed; misery so dark that a blind worm like myself is occasionally tempted to exclaim, Better had the world never been created than that one so kind, so harmless, and so mild, should have undergone such intolerable woe! But it is over now, for, as there is an end of joy, so has affliction its termination. Doubtless the All-wise did not afflict him without a cause. Who knows but within that unhappy frame lurked vicious seeds which the sunbeams of joy and prosperity might have called into life and vigour? Perhaps the withering blasts of misery nipped that which otherwise might have terminated in fruit noxious and lamentable. But peace to the unhappy one, he is gone to his rest; the deathlike face is no longer occasionally seen timidly and mournfully looking for a moment through the window-pane upon thy market-place, quiet and pretty D---; the hind in thy neighbourhood no longer at evening-fall views, and starts as he views, the dark lathy figure moving beneath the hazels and alders of shadowy lanes, or by the side of murmuring trout streams; and no longer at early dawn does the sexton of the old church reverently doff his hat, as, supported by some kind friend, the death- stricken creature totters along the church-path to that mouldering edifice with the low roof, inclosing a spring of sanatory waters, built and devoted to some saint--if the legend over the door be true, by the daughter of an East Anglian king. But to return to my own history. I had now attained the age of six. Shall I state what intellectual progress I had been making up to this period? Alas! upon this point I have little to say calculated to afford either pleasure or edification. I had increased rapidly in size and in strength; the growth of the mind, however, had by no means corresponded with that of the body. It is true, I had acquired my letters, and was by this time able to read imperfectly, but this was all; and even this poor triumph over absolute ignorance would never have been effected but for the unremitting attention of my parents, who, sometimes by threats, sometimes by entreaties, endeavoured to rouse the dormant energies of my nature, and to bend my wishes to the acquisition of the rudiments of knowledge; but in influencing the wish lay the difficulty. Let but the will of a human being be turned to any particular object, and it is ten to one that sooner or later he achieves it. At this time I may safely say that I harboured neither wishes nor hopes; I had as yet seen no object calculated to call them forth, and yet I took pleasure in many things which perhaps unfortunately were all within my sphere of enjoyment. I loved to look upon the heavens, and to bask in the rays of the sun, or to sit beneath hedgerows and listen to the chirping of the birds, indulging the while in musing and meditation as far as my very limited circle of ideas would permit; but, unlike my brother, who was at this time at school, and whose rapid progress in every branch of instruction astonished and delighted his preceptors, I took no pleasure in books, whose use, indeed, I could scarcely comprehend, and bade fair to be as arrant a dunce as ever brought the blush of shame into the cheeks of anxious and affectionate parents. But the time was now at hand when the ice which had hitherto bound the mind of the child with its benumbing power was to be thawed, and a world of sensations and ideas awakened to which it had hitherto been an entire stranger. One day a young lady, an intimate acquaintance of our family, and godmother to my brother, drove up to the house in which we dwelt; she staid some time conversing with my mother, and on rising to depart she put down on the table a small packet, exclaiming: "I have brought a little present for each of the boys: the one is a History of England, which I intend for my godson when he returns from school, the other is--" and here she said something which escaped my ear, as I sat at some distance, moping in a corner: "I intend it for the youngster yonder," pointing to myself; she then departed, and, my mother going out shortly after, I was left alone. I remember for some time sitting motionless in my corner, with my eyes bent upon the ground; at last I lifted my head and looked upon the packet as it lay on the table. All at once a strange sensation came over me, such as I had never experienced before--a singular blending of curiosity, awe and pleasure, the remembrance of which, even at this distance of time, produces a remarkable effect upon my nervous system. What strange things are the nerves--I mean those more secret and mysterious ones in which I have some notion that the mind or soul, call it which you will, has its habitation; how they occasionally tingle and vibrate before any coming event closely connected with the future weal or woe of the human being. Such a feeling was now within me, certainly independent of what the eye had seen or the ear had heard. A book of some description had been brought for me, a present by no means calculated to interest me; what cared I for books? I had already many into which I never looked but from compulsion; friends, moreover, had presented me with similar things before, which I had entirely disregarded, and what was there in this particular book, whose very title I did not know, calculated to attract me more than the rest? yet something within told me that my fate was connected with the book which had been last brought; so, after looking on the packet from my corner for a considerable time, I got up and went to the table. The packet was lying where it had been left--I took it up; had the envelope, which consisted of whitish brown paper, been secured by a string or a seal, I should not have opened it, as I should have considered such an act almost in the light of a crime; the books, however, had been merely folded up, and I therefore considered that there could be no possible harm in inspecting them, more especially as I had received no injunction to the contrary. Perhaps there was something unsound in this reasoning, something sophistical; but a child is sometimes as ready as a grown-up person in finding excuses for doing that which he is inclined to. But whether the action was right or wrong, and I am afraid it was not altogether right, I undid the packet. It contained three books, two from their similarity seemed to be separate parts of one and the same work; they were handsomely bound, and to them I first turned my attention. I opened them successively and endeavoured to make out their meaning; their contents, however, as far as I was able to understand them, were by no means interesting: whoever pleases may read these books for me, and keep them too, into the bargain, said I to myself. I now took up the third book. It did not resemble the others, being longer and considerably thicker; the binding was of dingy calf-skin. I opened it, and as I did so another strange thrill of pleasure shot through my frame. The first object on which my eyes rested was a picture; it was exceedingly well executed, at least the scene which it represented made a vivid impression upon me, which would hardly have been the case had the artist not been faithful to nature. A wild scene it was--a heavy sea and rocky shore, with mountains in the background, above which the moon was peering. Not far from the shore, upon the water, was a boat with two figures in it, one of which stood at the bow, pointing with what I knew to be a gun at a dreadful shape in the water; fire was flashing from the muzzle of the gun, and the monster appeared to be transfixed. I almost thought I heard its cry. I remained motionless, gazing upon the picture, scarcely daring to draw my breath, lest the new and wondrous world should vanish of which I had now obtained a glimpse. "Who are those people, and what could have brought them into that strange situation?" I asked of myself; and now the seed of curiosity, which had so long lain dormant, began to expand, and I vowed to myself to become speedily acquainted with the whole history of the people in the boat. After looking on the picture till every mark and line in it were familiar to me, I turned over various leaves till I came to another engraving; a new source of wonder--a low sandy beach on which the furious sea was breaking in mountain-like billows; cloud and rack deformed the firmament, which wore a dull and leaden-like hue; gulls and other aquatic fowls were toppling upon the blast, or skimming over the tops of the maddening waves--"Mercy upon him! he must be drowned!" I exclaimed, as my eyes fell upon a poor wretch who appeared to be striving to reach the shore; he was upon his legs but was evidently half-smothered with the brine; high above his head curled a horrible billow, as if to engulf him for ever. "He must be drowned! he must be drowned!" I almost shrieked, and dropped the book. I soon snatched it up again, and now my eye lighted on a third picture: again a shore, but what a sweet and lovely one, and how I wished to be treading it; there were beautiful shells lying on the smooth white sand, some were empty like those I had occasionally seen on marble mantelpieces, but out of others peered the heads and bodies of wondrous crayfish; a wood of thick green trees skirted the beach and partly shaded it from the rays of the sun, which shone hot above, while blue waves slightly crested with foam were gently curling against it; there was a human figure upon the beach, wild and uncouth, clad in the skins of animals, with a huge cap on his head, a hatchet at his girdle, and in his hand a gun; his feet and legs were bare; he stood in an attitude of horror and surprise; his body was bent far back, and his eyes, which seemed starting out of his head, were fixed upon a mark on the sand--a large distinct mark--a human footprint! Reader, is it necessary to name the book which now stood open in my hand, and whose very prints, feeble expounders of its wondrous lines, had produced within me emotions strange and novel? Scarcely, for it was a book which has exerted over the minds of Englishmen an influence certainly greater than any other of modern times, which has been in most people's hands, and with the contents of which even those who cannot read are to a certain extent acquainted; a book from which the most luxuriant and fertile of our modern prose writers have drunk inspiration; a book, moreover, to which, from the hardy deeds which it narrates, and the spirit of strange and romantic enterprise which it tends to awaken, England owes many of her astonishing discoveries both by sea and land, and no inconsiderable part of her naval glory. Hail to thee, spirit of De Foe! What does not my own poor self owe to thee? England has better bards than either Greece or Rome, yet I could spare them easier far than De Foe, "unabashed De Foe," as the hunchbacked rhymer styled him. The true chord had now been touched. A raging curiosity with respect to the contents of the volume, whose engravings had fascinated my eye, burned within me, and I never rested until I had fully satisfied it. Weeks succeeded weeks, months followed months, and the wondrous volume was my only study and principal source of amusement. For hours together I would sit poring over a page till I had become acquainted with the import of every line. My progress, slow enough at first, became by degrees more rapid, till at last, under "a shoulder of mutton sail," I found myself cantering before a steady breeze over an ocean of enchantment, so well pleased with my voyage that I cared not how long it might be ere it reached its termination. And it was in this manner that I first took to the paths of knowledge. About this time I began to be somewhat impressed with religious feelings. My parents were, to a certain extent, religious people; but, though they had done their best to afford me instruction on religious points, I had either paid no attention to what they endeavoured to communicate, or had listened with an ear far too obtuse to derive any benefit. But my mind had now become awakened from the drowsy torpor in which it had lain so long, and the reasoning powers which I possessed were no longer inactive. Hitherto I had entertained no conception whatever of the nature and properties of God, and with the most perfect indifference had heard the Divine name proceeding from the mouths of the people--frequently, alas! on occasions when it ought not to be employed; but I now never heard it without a tremor, for I now knew that God was an awful and inscrutable being, the maker of all things; that we were His children, and that we by our sins, had justly offended Him; that we were in very great peril from His anger, not so much in this life, as in another and far stranger state of being yet to come; that we had a Saviour withal to whom it was necessary to look for help: upon this point, however, I was yet very much in the dark, as, indeed, were most of those with whom I was connected. The power and terrors of God were uppermost in my thoughts; they fascinated though they astounded me. Twice every Sunday I was regularly taken to the church, where from a corner of the large, spacious pew, lined with black leather, I would fix my eyes on the dignified high-church rector, and the dignified high-church clerk, and watch the movement of their lips, from which, as they read their respective portions of the venerable liturgy, would roll many a portentous word descriptive of the wondrous works of the Most High. _Rector_. "Thou didst divide the sea, through Thy power: Thou brakest the heads of the dragons in the waters." _Philoh_. "Thou smotest the heads of Leviathan in pieces: and gavest him to be meat for the people in the wilderness." _Rector_. "Thou broughtest out fountains and waters out of the hard rocks: Thou driedst up mighty waters." _Philoh_. "The day is Thine, and the night is Thine: Thou hast prepared the light and the sun." Peace to your memories dignified rector and yet more dignified clerk! by this time ye are probably gone to your long homes, and your voices are no longer heard sounding down the aisles of the venerable church; nay, doubtless, this has already long since been the fate of him of the sonorous "Amen!"--the one of the two who, with all due respect to the rector, principally engrossed my boyish admiration--he, at least, is scarcely now among the living! Living! why, I have heard say that he blew a fife--for he was a musical as well as a Christian professor--a bold fife, to cheer the Guards and the brave Marines as they marched with measured step, obeying an insane command, up Bunker's height, whilst the rifles of the sturdy Yankees were sending the leaden hail sharp and thick amidst the red-coated ranks; for Philoh had not always been a man of peace, nor an exhorter to turn the other cheek to the smiter, but had even arrived at the dignity of a halberd in his country's service before his six-foot form required rest, and the grey-haired veteran retired, after a long peregrination, to his native town, to enjoy ease and respectability on a pension of "eighteen-pence a day"; and well did his fellow-townsmen act when, to increase that ease and respectability, and with a thoughtful regard for the dignity of the good church service, they made him clerk and precentor--the man of the tall form and of the audible voice, which sounded loud and clear as his own Bunker fife. Well, peace to thee, thou fine old chap, despiser of dissenters, and hater of papists, as became a dignified and high-church clerk; if thou art in thy grave the better for thee; thou wert fitted to adore a bygone time, when loyalty was in vogue, and smiling content lay like a sunbeam upon the land, but thou wouldst be sadly out of place in these days of cold philosophic latitudinarian doctrine, universal tolerism, and half-concealed rebellion--rare times, no doubt, for papists and dissenters, but which would assuredly have broken the heart of the loyal soldier of George the Third, and the dignified high-church clerk of pretty D---. We passed many months at this place. Nothing, however, occurred requiring any particular notice, relating to myself, beyond what I have already stated, and I am not writing the history of others. At length my father was recalled to his regiment, which at that time was stationed at a place called Norman Cross, in Lincolnshire, or rather Huntingdonshire, at some distance from the old town of Peterborough. For this place he departed, leaving my mother and myself to follow in a few days. Our journey was a singular one. On the second day we reached a marshy and fenny country, which owing to immense quantities of rain which had lately fallen, was completely submerged. At a large town we got on board a kind of passage-boat, crowded with people; it had neither sails nor oars, and those were not the days of steam-vessels; it was a treck-schuyt, and was drawn by horses. Young as I was, there was much connected with this journey which highly surprised me, and which brought to my remembrance particular scenes described in the book which I now generally carried in my bosom. The country was, as I have already said, submerged--entirely drowned--no land was visible; the trees were growing bolt upright in the flood, whilst farmhouses and cottages were standing insulated; the horses which drew us were up to the knees in water, and, on coming to blind pools and "greedy depths," were not unfrequently swimming, in which case the boys or urchins who mounted them sometimes stood, sometimes knelt, upon the saddle and pillions. No accident, however, occurred either to the quadrupeds or bipeds, who appeared respectively to be quite _au fait_ in their business, and extricated themselves with the greatest ease from places in which Pharaoh and all his host would have gone to the bottom. Nightfall brought us to Peterborough, and from thence we were not slow in reaching the place of our destination. CHAPTER IV. And a strange place it was, this Norman Cross, and, at the time of which I am speaking, a sad cross to many a Norman, being what was then styled a French prison, that is, a receptacle for captives made in the French war. It consisted, if I remember right, of some five or six casernes, very long, and immensely high; each standing isolated from the rest, upon a spot of ground which might average ten acres, and which was fenced round with lofty palisades, the whole being compassed about by a towering wall, beneath which, at intervals, on both sides sentinels were stationed, whilst, outside, upon the field, stood commodious wooden barracks, capable of containing two regiments of infantry, intended to serve as guards upon the captives. Such was the station or prison at Norman Cross, where some six thousand French and other foreigners, followers of the grand Corsican, were now immured. What a strange appearance had those mighty casernes, with their blank blind walls, without windows or grating, and their slanting roofs, out of which, through orifices where the tiles had been removed, would be protruded dozens of grim heads, feasting their prison-sick eyes on the wide expanse of country unfolded from that airy height. Ah! there was much misery in those casernes; and from those roofs, doubtless, many a wistful look was turned in the direction of lovely France. Much had the poor inmates to endure, and much to complain of, to the disgrace of England be it said--of England, in general so kind and bountiful. Rations of carrion meat, and bread from which I have seen the very hounds occasionally turn away, were unworthy entertainment even for the most ruffian enemy, when helpless and a captive; and such, alas! was the fare in those casernes. And then, those visits, or rather ruthless inroads, called in the slang of the place {23} "straw-plait hunts," when, in pursuit of a contraband article, which the prisoners, in order to procure themselves a few of the necessaries and comforts of existence, were in the habit of making, red-coated battalions were marched into the prisons, who, with the bayonet's point, carried havoc and ruin into every poor convenience which ingenious wretchedness had been endeavouring to raise around it; and then the triumphant exit with the miserable booty; and, worst of all, the accursed bonfire, on the barrack parade, of the plait contraband, beneath the view of the glaring eyeballs from those lofty roofs, amidst the hurrahs of the troops, frequently drowned in the curses poured down from above like a tempest-shower, or in the terrific war-whoop of "_Vive l'Empereur_!" It was midsummer when we arrived at this place, and the weather, which had for a long time been wet and gloomy, now became bright and glorious. I was subjected to but little control, and passed my time pleasantly enough, principally in wandering about the neighbouring country. It was flat and somewhat fenny, a district more of pasture than agriculture, and not very thickly inhabited. I soon became well acquainted with it. At the distance of two miles from the station was a large lake, styled in the dialect of the country a "mere," about whose borders tall reeds were growing in abundance. This was a frequent haunt of mine; but my favourite place of resort was a wild sequestered spot at a somewhat greater distance. Here, surrounded with woods, and thick groves, was the seat of some ancient family, deserted by the proprietor, and only inhabited by a rustic servant or two. A place more solitary and wild could scarcely be imagined; the garden and walks were overgrown with weeds and briars, and the unpruned woods were so tankled as to be almost impervious. About this domain I would wander till overtaken by fatigue, and then I would sit down with my back against some beech, elm or stately alder tree, and, taking out my book, would pass hours in a state of unmixed enjoyment, my eyes now fixed on the wondrous pages, now glancing at the sylvan scene around; and sometimes I would drop the book and listen to the voice of the rooks and wild pigeons, and not unfrequently to the croaking of multitudes of frogs from the neighbouring swamps and fens. In going to and from this place I frequently passed a tall, elderly individual, dressed in rather a quaint fashion, with a skin cap on his head and stout gaiters on his legs; on his shoulders hung a moderate sized leathern sack; he seemed fond of loitering near sunny banks, and of groping amidst furze and low scrubby bramble bushes, of which there were plenty in the neighbourhood of Norman Cross. Once I saw him standing in the middle of a dusty road, looking intently at a large mark which seemed to have been drawn across it, as if by a walking-stick. "He must have been a large one," the old man muttered half to himself, "or he would not have left such a trail, I wonder if he is near; he seems to have moved this way." He then went behind some bushes which grew on the right side of the road, and appeared to be in quest of something, moving behind the bushes with his head downwards, and occasionally striking their roots with his foot. At length he exclaimed, "Here he is!" and forthwith I saw him dart amongst the bushes. There was a kind of scuffling noise, the rustling of branches, and the crackling of dry sticks. "I have him!" said the man at last; "I have got him!" and presently he made his appearance about twenty yards down the road, holding a large viper in his hand. "What do you think of that, my boy?" said he, as I went up to him; "what do you think of catching such a thing as that with the naked hand?" "What do I think?" said I. "Why, that I could do as much myself." "You do," said the man, "do you? Lord! how the young people in these days are given to conceit; it did not use to be so in my time; when I was a child, childer knew how to behave themselves; but the childer of these days are full of conceit, full of froth, like the mouth of this viper"; and with his forefinger and thumb he squeezed a considerable quantity of foam from the jaws of the viper down upon the road. "The childer of these days are a generation of--God forgive me, what was I about to say!" said the old man; and opening his bag he thrust the reptile into it, which appeared far from empty. I passed on. As I was returning, towards the evening, I overtook the old man, who was wending in the same direction. "Good-evening to you, sir," said I, taking off a cap which I wore on my head. "Good-evening," said the old man; and then, looking at me, "How's this?" said he, "you ar'n't, sure, the child I met in the morning?" "Yes," said I, "I am; what makes you doubt it?" "Why, you were then all froth and conceit," said the old man, "and now you take off your cap to me." "I beg your pardon," said I, "if I was frothy and conceited; it ill becomes a child like me to be so." "That's true, dear," said the old man; "well, as you have begged my pardon, I truly forgive you." "Thank you," said I; "have you caught any more of those things?" "Only four or five," said the old man; "they are getting scarce, though this used to be a great neighbourhood for them." "And what do you do with them?" said I; "do you carry them home and play with them!" "I sometimes play with one or two that I tame," said the old man; "but I hunt them mostly for the fat which they contain, out of which I make unguents which are good for various sore troubles, especially for the rheumatism." "And do you get your living by hunting these creatures?" I demanded. "Not altogether," said the old man; "besides being a viper-hunter, I am what they call a herbalist, one who knows the virtue of particular herbs; I gather them at the proper season, to make medicines with for the sick." "And do you live in the neighbourhood?" I demanded. "You seem very fond of asking questions, child. No, I do not live in this neighbourhood in particular, I travel about; I have not been in this neighbourhood till lately for some years." From this time the old man and myself formed an acquaintance; I often accompanied him in his wanderings about the neighbourhood, and on two or three occasions assisted him in catching the reptiles which he hunted. He generally carried a viper with him which he had made quite tame, and from which he had extracted the poisonous fangs; it would dance and perform various kinds of tricks. He was fond of telling me anecdotes connected with his adventures with the reptile species. "But," said he one day, sighing, "I must shortly give up this business, I am no longer the man I was, I am become timid, and when a person is timid in viper-hunting he had better leave off, as it is quite clear his virtue is leaving him. I got a fright some years ago, which I am quite sure I shall never get the better of; my hand has been shaky more or less ever since." "What frightened you?" said I. "I had better not tell you," said the old man, "or you may be frightened too, lose your virtue, and be no longer good for the business." "I don't care," said I; "I don't intend to follow the business; I dare say I shall be an officer, like my father." "Well," said the old man, "I once saw the king of the vipers, and since then--" "The king of the vipers!" said I, interrupting him; "have the vipers a king?" "As sure as we have," said the old man, "as sure as we have King George to rule over us, have these reptiles a king to rule over them." "And where did you see him?" said I. "I will tell you," said the old man, "though I don't like talking about the matter. It may be about seven years ago that I happened to be far down yonder to the west, on the other side of England, nearly two hundred miles from here, following my business. It was a very sultry day, I remember, and I had been out several hours catching creatures. It might be about three o'clock in the afternoon, when I found myself on some heathy land near the sea, on the ridge of a hill, the side of which, nearly as far down as the sea, was heath; but on the top there was arable ground, which had been planted, and from which the harvest had been gathered--oats or barley, I know not which--but I remember that the ground was covered with stubble. Well, about three o'clock, as I told you before, what with the heat of the day and from having walked about for hours in a lazy way, I felt very tired; so I determined to have a sleep, and I laid myself down, my head just on the ridge of the hill, towards the field, and my body over the side down amongst the heath; my bag, which was nearly filled with creatures, lay at a little distance from my face; the creatures were struggling in it, I remember, and I thought to myself, how much more comfortably off I was than they; I was taking my ease on the nice open hill, cooled with the breezes, whilst they were in the nasty close bag, coiling about one another, and breaking their very hearts, all to no purpose; and I felt quite comfortable and happy in the thought, and little by little closed my eyes, and fell into the sweetest snooze that ever I was in in all my life; and there I lay over the hill's side, with my head half in the field, I don't know how long, all dead asleep. At last it seemed to me that I heard a noise in my sleep, something like a thing moving, very faint, however, far away; then it died, and then it came again upon my ear as I slept, and now it appeared almost as if I heard crackle, crackle; then it died again, or I became yet more dead asleep than before, I know not which, but I certainly lay some time without hearing it. All of a sudden I became awake, and there was I, on the ridge of the hill, with my cheek on the ground towards the stubble, with a noise in my ear like that of something moving towards me, amongst the stubble of the field; well, I lay a moment or two listening to the noise, and then I became frightened, for I did not like the noise at all, it sounded so odd; so I rolled myself on my belly, and looked towards the stubble. Mercy upon us! there was a huge snake, or rather a dreadful viper, for it was all yellow and gold, moving towards me, bearing its head about a foot and a half above the ground, the dry stubble crackling beneath its outrageous belly. It might be about five yards off when I first saw it, making straight towards me, child, as if it would devour me. I lay quite still, for I was stupefied with horror, whilst the creature came still nearer; and now it was nearly upon me, when it suddenly drew back a little, and then--what do you think?--it lifted its head and chest high in the air, and high over my face as I looked up, flickering at me with its tongue as if it would fly at my face. Child, what I felt at that moment I can scarcely say, but it was a sufficient punishment for all the sins I ever committed; and there we two were, I looking up at the viper, and the viper looking down upon me, flickering at me with its tongue. It was only the kindness of God that saved me: all at once there was a loud noise, the report of a gun, for a fowler was shooting at a covey of birds, a little way off in the stubble. Whereupon the viper sunk its head, and immediately made off over the ridge of the hill, down in the direction of the sea. As it passed by me, however--and it passed close by me--it hesitated a moment, as if it was doubtful whether it should not seize me; it did not, however, but made off down the hill. It has often struck me that he was angry with me, and came upon me unawares for presuming to meddle with his people, as I have always been in the habit of doing." "But," said I, "how do you know that it was the king of the vipers?" "How do I know?" said the old man, "who else should it be? There was as much difference between it and other reptiles as between King George and other people." "Is King George, then, different from other people?" I demanded. "Of course," said the old man; "I have never seen him myself, but I have heard people say that he is a ten times greater man than other folks; indeed, it stands to reason that he must be different from the rest, else people would not be so eager to see him. Do you think, child, that people would be fools enough to run a matter of twenty or thirty miles to see the king, provided King George--" "Haven't the French a king?" I demanded. "Yes," said the old man, "or something much the same, and a queer one he is; not quite so big as King George, they say, but quite as terrible a fellow. What of him?" "Suppose he should come to Norman Cross!" "What should he do at Norman Cross, child?" "Why, you were talking about the vipers in your bag breaking their hearts, and so on, and their king coming to help them. Now, suppose the French king should hear of his people being in trouble at Norman Cross, and--" "He can't come, child," said the old man, rubbing his hands, "the water lies between. The French don't like the water; neither vipers nor Frenchmen take kindly to the water, child." When the old man left the country, which he did a few days after the conversation which I have just related, he left me the reptile which he had tamed and rendered quite harmless by removing the fangs. I was in the habit of feeding it with milk, and frequently carried it abroad with me in my walks. CHAPTER V. One day it happened that, being on my rambles, I entered a green lane which I had never seen before; at first it was rather narrow, but as I advanced it became considerably wider; in the middle was a drift-way with deep ruts, but right and left was a space carpeted with a sward of trefoil and clover; there was no lack of trees, chiefly ancient oaks, which, flinging out their arms from either side, nearly formed a canopy, and afforded a pleasing shelter from the rays of the sun, which was burning fiercely above. Suddenly a group of objects attracted my attention. Beneath one of the largest of the trees, upon the grass, was a kind of low tent or booth, from the top of which a thin smoke was curling; beside it stood a couple of light carts, whilst two or three lean horses or ponies were cropping the herbage which was growing nigh. Wondering to whom this odd tent could belong, I advanced till I was close before it, when I found that it consisted of two tilts, like those of waggons, placed upon the ground and fronting each other, connected behind by a sail or large piece of canvas, which was but partially drawn across the top; upon the ground, in the intervening space, was a fire, over which, supported by a kind of iron crowbar, hung a caldron. My advance had been so noiseless as not to alarm the inmates, who consisted of a man and woman, who sat apart, one on each side of the fire; they were both busily employed--the man was carding plaited straw, whilst the woman seemed to be rubbing something with a white powder, some of which lay on a plate beside her. Suddenly the man looked up, and, perceiving me, uttered a strange kind of cry, and the next moment both the woman and himself were on their feet and rushing upon me. I retreated a few steps, yet without turning to flee. I was not, however, without apprehension, which, indeed, the appearance of these two people was well calculated to inspire. The woman was a stout figure, seemingly between thirty and forty; she wore no cap, and her long hair fell on either side of her head, like horse-tails, half-way down her waist; her skin was dark and swarthy, like that of a toad, and the expression of her countenance was particularly evil; her arms were bare, and her bosom was but half-concealed by a slight bodice, below which she wore a coarse petticoat, her only other article of dress. The man was somewhat younger, but of a figure equally wild; his frame was long and lathy, but his arms were remarkably short, his neck was rather bent, he squinted slightly, and his mouth was much awry; his complexion was dark, but, unlike that of the woman, was more ruddy than livid; there was a deep scar on his cheek, something like the impression of a halfpenny. The dress was quite in keeping with the figure: in his hat, which was slightly peaked, was stuck a peacock's feather; over a waistcoat of hide, untanned and with the hair upon it, he wore a rough jerkin of russet hue; smallclothes of leather, which had probably once belonged to a soldier, but with which pipeclay did not seem to have come in contact for many a year, protected his lower man as far as the knee; his legs were cased in long stockings of blue worsted, and on his shoes he wore immense old-fashioned buckles. Such were the two beings who now came rushing upon me; the man was rather in advance, brandishing a ladle in his hand. "So I have caught you at last," said he; "I'll teach ye, you young highwayman, to come skulking about my properties!" Young as I was, I remarked that his manner of speaking was different from that of any people with whom I had been in the habit of associating. It was quite as strange as his appearance, and yet it nothing resembled the foreign English which I had been in the habit of hearing through the palisades of the prison; he could scarcely be a foreigner. "Your properties!" said I; "I am in the King's Lane. Why did you put them there, if you did not wish them to be seen?" "On the spy," said the woman, "hey? I'll drown him in the sludge in the toad-pond over the hedge." "So we will," said the man, "drown him anon in the mud!" "Drown me, will you?" said I; "I should like to see you! What's all this about? Was it because I saw you with your hands full of straw plait, and my mother there--" "Yes," said the woman; "what was I about?" _Myself_. How should I know? Making bad money, perhaps! And it will be as well here to observe, that at this time there was much bad money in circulation in the neighbourhood, generally supposed to be fabricated by the prisoners, so that this false coin and straw plait formed the standard subjects of conversation at Norman Cross. "I'll strangle thee," said the beldame, dashing at me. "Bad money, is it?" "Leave him to me, wifelkin," said the man, interposing; "you shall now see how I'll baste him down the lane." _Myself_. I tell you what, my chap, you had better put down that thing of yours; my father lies concealed within my tepid breast, and if to me you offer any harm or wrong, I'll call him forth to help me with his forked tongue. _Man_. What do you mean, ye Bengui's bantling? I never heard such discourse in all my life; playman's speech or Frenchman's talk--which, I wonder? Your father! tell the mumping villain that if he comes near my fire I'll serve him out as I will you. Take that--Tiny Jesus! what have we got here? Oh, delicate Jesus! what is the matter with the child? I had made a motion which the viper understood; and now, partly disengaging itself from my bosom, where it had lain perdu, it raised its head to a level with my face, and stared upon my enemy with its glittering eyes. The man stood like one transfixed, and the ladle with which he had aimed a blow at me, now hung in the air like the hand which held it; his mouth was extended, and his cheeks became of a pale yellow, save alone that place which bore the mark which I have already described, and this shone now portentously, like fire. He stood in this manner for some time; at last the ladle fell from his hand, and its falling appeared to rouse him from his stupor. "I say, wifelkin," said he in a faltering tone, "did you ever see the like of this here?" But the woman had retreated to the tent, from the entrance of which her loathly face was now thrust, with an expression partly of terror and partly of curiosity. After gazing some time longer at the viper and myself, the man stooped down and took up the ladle; then, as if somewhat more assured, he moved to the tent, where he entered into conversation with the beldame in a low voice. Of their discourse, though I could hear the greater part of it, I understood not a single word; and I wondered what it could be, for I knew by the sound that it was not French. At last the man, in a somewhat louder tone, appeared to put a question to the woman, who nodded her head affirmatively, and in a moment or two produced a small stool, which she delivered to him. He placed it on the ground, close by the door of the tent, first rubbing it with his sleeve, as if for the purpose of polishing its surface. _Man_. Now, my precious little gentleman, do sit down here by the poor people's tent; we wish to be civil in our slight way. Don't be angry, and say no; but look kindly upon us, and satisfied, my precious little God Almighty. _Woman_. Yes, my gorgious angel, sit down by the poor bodies' fire, and eat a sweetmeat. We want to ask you a question or two; only first put that serpent away. _Myself_. I can sit down, and bid the serpent go to sleep, that's easy enough; but as for eating a sweetmeat, how can I do that? I have not got one, and where am I to get it? _Woman_. Never fear, my tiny tawny, we can give you one, such as you never ate, I dare say, however far you may have come from. The serpent sunk into its usual resting-place, and I sat down on the stool. The woman opened a box, and took out a strange little basket or hamper, not much larger than a man's fist, and formed of a delicate kind of matting. It was sewed at the top; but, ripping it open with a knife, she held it to me, and I saw, to my surprise, that it contained candied fruits of a dark green hue, tempting enough to one of my age. "There, my tiny," said she; "taste, and tell me how you like them." "Very much," said I; "where did you get them?" The beldame leered upon me for a moment, then, nodding her head thrice, with a knowing look, said: "Who knows better than yourself, my tawny?" Now, I knew nothing about the matter; but I saw that these strange people had conceived a very high opinion of the abilities of their visitor, which I was nothing loath to encourage. I therefore answered boldly, "Ah! who indeed!" "Certainly," said the man; "who should know better than yourself, or who so well? And now my tiny one, let me ask you one thing--you didn't come to do us any harm?" "No," said I, "I had no dislike to you; though, if you were to meddle with me--" _Man_. Of course, my gorgious, of course you would; and quite right too. Meddle with you!--what right have we? I should say it would not be quite safe. I see how it is; you are one of them there;--and he bent his head towards his left shoulder. _Myself_. Yes, I am one of them--for I thought he was alluding to the soldiers,--you had best mind what you are about, I can tell you. _Man_. Don't doubt we will for our own sake; Lord bless you, wifelkin, only think that we should see one of them there when we least thought about it. Well, I have heard of such things, though I never thought to see one; however, seeing is believing. Well! now you are come, and are not going to do us any mischief, I hope you will stay; you can do us plenty of good if you will. _Myself_. What good can I do you? _Man_. What good? plenty! Would you not bring us luck? I have heard say, that one of them there always does, if it will but settle down. Stay with us, you shall have a tilted cart all to yourself if you like. We'll make you our little God Almighty, and say our prayers to you every morning! _Myself_. That would be nice; and if you were to give me plenty of these things, I should have no objection. But what would my father say? I think he would hardly let me. _Man_. Why not? he would be with you; and kindly would we treat him. Indeed, without your father you would be nothing at all. _Myself_. That's true; but I do not think he could be spared from his regiment. I have heard him say that they could do nothing without him. _Man_. His regiment! What are you talking about?--what does the child mean? _Myself_. What do I mean! why, that my father is an officer man at the barracks yonder, keeping guard over the French prisoners. _Man_. Oh! then that sap is not your father! _Myself_. What, the snake? Why, no! Did you think he was? _Man_. To be sure we did. Didn't you tell me so? _Myself_. Why, yes; but who would have thought you would have believed it? It is a tame one. I hunt vipers and tame them. _Man_. O--h! "O--h!" grunted the woman, "that's it, is it?" The man and woman, who during this conversation had resumed their former positions within the tent, looked at each other with a queer look of surprise, as if somewhat disconcerted at what they now heard. They then entered into discourse with each other in the same strange tongue which had already puzzled me. At length the man looked me in the face, and said, somewhat hesitatingly, "so you are not one of them there, after all?" _Myself_. One of them there? I don't know what you mean. _Man_. Why, we have been thinking you were a goblin--a devilkin! However, I see how it is: you are a sap-engro, a chap who catches snakes, and plays tricks with them! Well, it comes very nearly to the same thing; and if you please to list with us, and bear us pleasant company, we shall be glad of you. I'd take my oath upon it that we might make a mort of money by you and that sap, and the tricks it could do; and, as you seem fly to everything, I shouldn't wonder if you would make a prime hand at telling fortunes. "I shouldn't wonder," said I. _Man_. Of course. And you might still be our God Almighty, or at any rate our clergyman, so you should live in a tilted cart by yourself and say prayers to us night and morning--to wifelkin here, and all our family; there's plenty of us when we are all together; as I said before, you seem fly, I shouldn't wonder if you could read. "Oh, yes!" said I, "I can read;" and, eager to display my accomplishments, I took my book out of my pocket, and opening it at random, proceeded to read how a certain man whilst wandering about a certain solitary island, entered a cave, the mouth of which was overgrown with brushwood, and how he was nearly frightened to death in that cave by something which he saw. "That will do," said the man; "that's the kind of prayers for me and my family, ar'n't they, wifelkin? I never heard more delicate prayers in all my life! Why, they beat the rubricals hollow!--and here comes my son Jasper. {34} I say, Jasper, here's a young sap-engro that can read, and is more fly than yourself. Shake hands with him; I wish ye to be two brothers." With a swift but stealthy pace Jasper came towards us from the farther part of the lane; on reaching the tent he stood still, and looked fixedly upon me as I sat upon the stool; I looked fixedly upon him. A queer look had Jasper; he was a lad of some twelve or thirteen years, with long arms, unlike the singular being who called himself his father; his complexion was ruddy, but his face was seamed, though it did not bear the peculiar scar which disfigured the countenance of the other; nor, though roguish enough, a certain evil expression which that of the other bore, and which the face of the woman possessed in a yet more remarkable degree. For the rest, he wore drab breeches, with certain strings at the knee, a rather gay waistcoat, and tolerably white shirt; under his arm he bore a mighty whip of whalebone with a brass knob, and upon his head was a hat without either top or brim. "There, Jasper! shake hands, with the sap-engro." "Can he box, father?" said Jasper, surveying me rather contemptuously. "I should think not, he looks so puny and small." "Hold your peace, fool!" said the man; "he can do more than that--I tell you he's fly; he carries a sap about, which would sting a ninny like you to dead." "What, a sap-engro!" said the boy, with a singular whine, and, stooping down, he leered curiously in my face, kindly, however, and then patted me on the head. "A sap-engro," he ejaculated; "lor!" "Yes, and one of the right sort," said the man; "I am glad we have met with him; he is going to list with us, and be our clergyman and God Almighty, a'n't you, my tawny?" "I don't know," said I; "I must see what my father will say." "Your father; bah!"--but here he stopped, for a sound was heard like the rapid galloping of a horse, not loud and distinct as on a road, but dull and heavy as if upon a grass sward; nearer and nearer it came, and the man, starting up, rushed out of the tent, and looked around anxiously. I arose from the stool upon which I had been seated, and just at that moment, amidst a crashing of boughs and sticks, a man on horseback bounded over the hedge into the lane at a few yards' distance from where we were; from the impetus of the leap the horse was nearly down on his knees; the rider, however, by dint of vigorous handling of the reins, prevented him from falling, and then rode up to the tent. "'Tis Nat," said the man; "what brings him here?" The new comer was a stout, burly fellow, about the middle age; he had a savage, determined look, and his face was nearly covered over with carbuncles; he wore a broad slouching hat, and was dressed in a grey coat, cut in a fashion which I afterwards learnt to be the genuine Newmarket cut, the skirts being exceedingly short; his waistcoat was of red plush, and he wore broad corduroy breeches and white top-boots. The steed which carried him was of iron grey, spirited and powerful, but covered with sweat and foam. The fellow glanced fiercely and suspiciously around, and said something to the man of the tent in a harsh and rapid voice. A short and hurried conversation ensued in the strange tongue. I could not take my eyes off this new comer. Oh, that half-jockey half-bruiser countenance, I never forgot it! More than fifteen years afterwards I found myself amidst a crowd before Newgate; a gallows was erected, and beneath it stood a criminal, a notorious malefactor. I recognised him at once; the horseman of the lane is now beneath the fatal tree, but nothing altered; still the same man; jerking his head to the right and left with the same fierce and under glance, just as if the affairs of this world had the same kind of interest to the last; grey coat of Newmarket cut, plush waistcoat, corduroys, and boots, nothing altered; but the head, alas! is bare and so is the neck. Oh, crime and virtue, virtue and crime!--it was old John Newton, I think, who, when he saw a man going to be hanged, said: "There goes John Newton, but for the grace of God!" But the lane, the lane, all was now in confusion in the lane; the man and woman were employed in striking the tents and in making hurried preparations for departure; the boy Jasper was putting the harness upon the ponies and attaching them to the carts; and, to increase the singularity of the scene, two or three wild-looking women and girls, in red cloaks and immense black beaver bonnets, came from I know not what direction, and, after exchanging a few words with the others, commenced with fierce and agitated gestures to assist them in their occupation. The rider meanwhile sat upon his horse, but evidently in a state of great impatience; he muttered curses between his teeth, spurred the animal furiously, and then reigned it in, causing it to rear itself up nearly perpendicular. At last he said: "Curse ye, for Romans, how slow ye are! well, it is no business of mine, stay here all day if you like; I have given ye warning, I am off to the big north road. However, before I go, you had better give me all you have of that." "Truly spoken, Nat, my pal," said the man; "give it him, mother. There it is; now be off as soon as you please, and rid us of evil company." The woman had handed him two bags formed of stocking, half full of something heavy, which looked through them for all the world like money of some kind. The fellow, on receiving them, thrust them without ceremony into the pockets of his coat, and then, without a word of farewell salutation, departed at a tremendous rate, the hoofs of his horse thundering for a long time on the hard soil of the neighbouring road, till the sound finally died away in the distance. The strange people were not slow in completing their preparations, and then, flogging their animals terrifically, hurried away seemingly in the same direction. The boy Jasper was last of the band. As he was following the rest, he stopped suddenly, and looked on the ground appearing to muse; then, turning round, he came up to me where I was standing, leered in my face, and then, thrusting out his hand, he said, "Good-bye, Sap, I dare say we shall meet again, remember we are brothers, two gentle brothers." Then whining forth, "What a sap-engro, lor!" he gave me a parting leer, and hastened away. I remained standing in the lane gazing after the retreating company. "A strange set of people," said I at last, "I wonder who they can be." CHAPTER VI. Years passed on, even three years; during this period I had increased considerably in stature and in strength, and, let us hope, improved in mind; for I had entered on the study of the Latin language. The very first person to whose care I was entrusted for the acquisition of Latin was an old friend of my father's, a clergyman who kept a seminary at a town the very next we visited after our departure from "the Cross". Under his instruction, however, I continued only a few weeks, as we speedily left the place. "Captain," said this divine, when my father came to take leave of him on the eve of our departure, "I have a friendship for you, and therefore wish to give you a piece of advice concerning this son of yours. You are now removing him from my care; you do wrong, but we will let that pass. Listen to me: there is but one good school book in the world--the one I use in my seminary--Lilly's Latin Grammar, in which your son has already made some progress. If you are anxious for the success of your son in life, for the correctness of his conduct and the soundness of his principles, keep him to Lilly's Grammar. If you can by any means, either fair or foul, induce him to get by heart Lilly's Latin Grammar, you may set your heart at rest with respect to him; I, myself, will be his warrant. I never yet knew a boy that was induced, either by fair means or foul, to learn Lilly's Latin Grammar by heart, who did not turn out a man, provided he lived long enough." My father, who did not understand the classical languages, received with respect the advice of his old friend, and from that moment conceived the highest opinion of Lilly's Latin Grammar. During three years I studied Lilly's Latin Grammar under the tuition of various schoolmasters, for I travelled with the regiment, and in every town in which we were stationary I was invariably (God bless my father!) sent to the classical academy of the place. It chanced, by good fortune, that in the generality of these schools the grammar of Lilly was in use; when, however, that was not the case, it made no difference in my educational course, my father always stipulating with the masters that I should be daily examined in Lilly. At the end of the three years I had the whole by heart; you had only to repeat the first two or three words of any sentence in any part of the book, and forthwith I would open cry, commencing without blundering and hesitation, and continue till you were glad to beg me to leave off, with many expressions of admiration at my proficiency in the Latin language. Sometimes, however, to convince you how well I merited these encomiums, I would follow you to the bottom of the stair, and even into the street, repeating in a kind of sing-song measure the sonorous lines of the golden schoolmaster. If I am here asked whether I understood anything of what I had got by heart, I reply--"Never mind, I understand it all now, and believe that no one ever yet got Lilly's Latin Grammar by heart when young, who repented of the feat at a mature age". And when my father saw that I had accomplished my task, he opened his mouth, and said, "Truly this is more than I expected. I did not think that there had been so much in you, either of application or capacity; you have now learnt all that is necessary, if my friend Dr. B---'s opinion was sterling, as I have no doubt it was. You are still a child, however, and must yet go to school, in order that you may be kept out of evil company. Perhaps you may still contrive, now you have exhausted the barn, to pick up a grain or two in the barnyard. You are still ignorant of figures, I believe, not that I would mention figures in the same day with Lilly's Grammar." These words were uttered in a place called ---, in the north, or in the road to the north, to which, for some time past, our corps had been slowly advancing. I was sent to the school of the place, which chanced to be a day school. It was a somewhat extraordinary one, and a somewhat extraordinary event occurred to me within its walls. It occupied part of the farther end of a small plain, or square, at the outskirts of the town, close to some extensive bleaching fields. It was a long low building of one room, with no upper storey; on the top was a kind of wooden box, or sconce, which I at first mistook for a pigeon-house, but which in reality contained a bell, to which was attached a rope, which, passing through the ceiling, hung dangling in the middle of the school-room. I am the more particular in mentioning this appurtenance, as I had soon occasion to scrape acquaintance with it in a manner not very agreeable to my feelings. The master was very proud of his bell, if I might judge from the fact of his eyes being frequently turned to that part of the ceiling from which the rope depended. Twice every day, namely, after the morning and evening tasks had been gone through, were the boys rung out of school by the monotonous jingle of this bell. This ringing out was rather a lengthy affair, for, as the master was a man of order and method, the boys were only permitted to go out of the room one by one; and as they were rather numerous, amounting, at least, to one hundred, and were taught to move at a pace of suitable decorum, at least a quarter of an hour elapsed from the commencement of the march before the last boy could make his exit. The office of bell- ringer was performed by every boy successively; and it so happened that, the very first day of my attendance at the school, the turn to ring the bell had, by order of succession, arrived at the place which had been allotted to me; for the master, as I have already observed, was a man of method and order, and every boy had a particular seat, to which he became a fixture as long as he continued at the school. So, upon this day, when the tasks were done and completed, and the boys sat with their hats and caps in their hands, anxiously expecting the moment of dismissal, it was suddenly notified to me, by the urchins who sat nearest to me, that I must get up and ring the bell. Now, as this was the first time that I had been at the school, I was totally unacquainted with the process, which I had never seen, and, indeed, had never heard of till that moment. I therefore sat still, not imagining it possible that any such duty could be required of me. But now, with not a little confusion, I perceived that the eyes of all the boys in the school were fixed upon me. Presently there were nods and winks in the direction of the bell-rope; and, as these produced no effect, uncouth visages were made, like those of monkeys when enraged; teeth were gnashed, tongues thrust out, and even fists were bent at me. The master, who stood at the end of the room, with a huge ferule under his arm, bent full upon me a look of stern appeal; and the ushers, of whom there were four, glared upon me, each from his own particular corner, as I vainly turned, in one direction and another, in search of one reassuring look. But now, probably in obedience to a sign from the master, the boys in my immediate neighbourhood began to maltreat me. Some pinched me with their fingers, some buffeted me, whilst others pricked me with pins or the points of compasses. These arguments were not without effect. I sprang from my seat, and endeavoured to escape along a double line of benches, thronged with boys of all ages, from the urchin of six or seven, to the nondescript of sixteen or seventeen. It was like running the gauntlet; every one, great or small, pinching, kicking, or otherwise maltreating me as I passed by. Goaded on in this manner, I at length reached the middle of the room, where dangled the bell-rope, the cause of all my sufferings. I should have passed it--for my confusion was so great, that I was quite at a loss to comprehend what all this could mean, and almost believed myself under the influence of an ugly dream--but now the boys who were seated in advance in the row, arose with one accord, and barred my farther progress; and one, doubtless more sensible that the rest, seizing the rope, thrust it into my hand. I now began to perceive that the dismissal of the school, and my own release from torment, depended upon this self same rope. I therefore in a fit of desperation, pulled it once or twice, and then left off, naturally supposing that I had done quite enough. The boys who sat next the door, no sooner heard the bell, than, rising from their seats, they moved out at the door. The bell, however, had no sooner ceased to jingle, than they stopped short, and, turning round, stared at the master, as much as to say, "What are we to do now?" This was too much for the patience of the man of method, which my previous stupidity had already nearly exhausted. Dashing forward into the middle of the room, he struck me violently on the shoulders with his ferule, and snatching the rope out of my hand, exclaimed, with a stentorian voice, and genuine Yorkshire accent, "Prodigy of ignorance! dost not even know how to ring a bell? Must I myself instruct thee?" He then commenced pulling at the bell with such violence, that long before half the school was dismissed the rope broke, and the rest of the boys had to depart without their accustomed music. But I must not linger here, though I could say much about the school and the pedagogue highly amusing and diverting, which, however, I suppress, in order to make way for matters of yet greater interest. On we went, northwards, northwards! and, as we advanced, I saw that the country was becoming widely different from those parts of merry England in which we had previously travelled. It was wilder and less cultivated, and more broken with hills and hillocks. The people, too, of these regions appeared to partake of something of the character of their country. They were coarsely dressed; tall and sturdy in frame; their voices were deep and guttural; and the half of the dialect which they spoke was unintelligible to my ears. I often wondered where we could be going, for I was at this time about as ignorant of geography as I was of most other things. However, I held my peace, asked no questions, and patiently awaited the issue. Northward, northward, still! And it came to pass that, one morning, I found myself extended on the bank of a river. It was a beautiful morning of early spring; small white clouds were floating in the heaven, occasionally veiling the countenance of the sun, whose light, as they retired, would again burst forth, coursing like a race-horse over the scene--and a goodly scene it was! Before me, across the water, on an eminence, stood a white old city, surrounded with lofty walls, above which rose the tops of tall houses, with here and there a church or steeple. To my right hand was a long and massive bridge, with many arches and of antique architecture, which traversed the river. The river was a noble one, the broadest that I had hitherto seen. Its waters, of a greenish tinge, poured with impetuosity beneath the narrow arches to meet the sea, close at hand, as the boom of the billows breaking distinctly upon a beach declared. There were songs upon the river from the fisher- barks; and occasionally a chorus, plaintive and wild, such as I had never heard before, the words of which I did not understand, but which, at the present time, down the long avenue of years, seem in memory's ear to sound like "Horam, coram, dago". Several robust fellows were near me, some knee-deep in water, employed in hauling the seine upon the strand. Huge fish were struggling amidst the meshes--princely salmon,--their brilliant mail of blue and silver flashing in the morning beam; so goodly and gay a scene, in truth, had never greeted my boyish eye. And, as I gazed upon the prospect, my bosom began to heave, and my tears to trickle. Was it the beauty of the scene which gave rise to these emotions? Possibly; for though a poor ignorant child--a half-wild creature--I was not insensible to the loveliness of nature, and took pleasure in the happiness and handiworks of my fellow-creatures. Yet, perhaps, in something more deep and mysterious the feelings which then pervaded me might originate. Who can lie down on Elvir Hill without experiencing something of the sorcery of the place? Flee from Elvir Hill, young swain, or the maids of Elle will have power over you, and you will go elf-wild!--so say the Danes. I had unconsciously laid myself down upon haunted ground; and I am willing to imagine that what I then experienced was rather connected with the world of spirits and dreams than with what I actually saw and heard around me. Surely the elves and genii of the place were conversing, by some inscrutable means, with the principle of intelligence lurking within the poor uncultivated clod! Perhaps to that ethereal principle, the wonders of the past, as connected with that stream, the glories of the present, and even the history of the future, were at that moment being revealed. Of how many feats of chivalry had those old walls been witness, when hostile kings contended for their possession?--how many an army from the south and from the north had trod that old bridge?--what red and noble blood had crimsoned those rushing waters?--what strains had been sung, ay, were yet being sung, on its banks?--some soft as Doric reed; some fierce and sharp as those of Norwegian Skaldaglam; some as replete with wild and wizard force as Finland's runes, singing of Kalevala's moors, and the deeds of Woinomoinen! Honour to thee, thou island stream! Onward may thou ever roll, fresh and green, rejoicing in thy bright past, thy glorious present, and in vivid hope of a triumphant future! Flow on, beautiful one!--which of the world's streams canst thou envy, with thy beauty and renown? Stately is the Danube, rolling in its might through lands romantic with the wild exploits of Turk, Polak, and Magyar! Lovely is the Rhine! on its shelvy banks grows the racy grape; and strange old keeps of robber-knights of yore are reflected in its waters, from picturesque crags and airy headlands!--yet neither the stately Danube, nor the beauteous Rhine, with all their fame, though abundant, needst thou envy, thou pure island stream!--and far less yon turbid river of old, not modern, renown, gurgling beneath the walls of what was once proud Rome, towering Rome, Jupiter's town, but now vile Rome, crumbling Rome, Batuscha's town, far less needst thou envy the turbid Tiber of bygone fame, creeping sadly to the sea, surcharged with the abominations of modern Rome--how unlike to thee, thou pure island stream! And, as I lay on the bank and wept, there drew nigh to me a man in the habiliments of a fisher. He was bare-legged, of a weather-beaten countenance, and of stature approaching to the gigantic. "What is the callant greeting for?" said he, as he stopped and surveyed me. "Has ony body wrought ye ony harm?" "Not that I know of," I replied, rather guessing at than understanding his question; "I was crying because I could not help it! I say, old one, what is the name of this river?" "Hout! I now see what you was greeting at--at your ain ignorance, nae doubt--'tis very great! Weel, I will na fash you with reproaches, but even enlighten ye, since you seem a decent man's bairn, and you speir a civil question. Yon river is called the Tweed; and yonder, over the brig, is Scotland. Did ye never hear of the Tweed, my bonny man?" "No," said I, as I rose from the grass, and proceeded to cross the bridge to the town at which we had arrived the preceding night; "I never heard of it; but now I have seen it, I shall not soon forget it!" CHAPTER VII. It was not long before we found ourselves at Edinburgh, or rather in the Castle, into which the regiment marched with drums beating, colours flying, and a long train of baggage-waggons behind. The Castle was, as I suppose it is now, a garrison for soldiers. Two other regiments were already there; the one an Irish, if I remember right, the other a small Highland corps. It is hardly necessary to say much about this Castle, which everybody has seen; on which account, doubtless, nobody has ever yet thought fit to describe it--at least that I am aware. Be this as it may, I have no intention of describing it, and shall content myself with observing, that we took up our abode in that immense building, or caserne, of modern erection, which occupies the entire eastern side of the bold rock on which the Castle stands. A gallant caserne it was--the best and roomiest that I had hitherto seen--rather cold and windy, it is true, especially in the winter, but commanding a noble prospect of a range of distant hills, which I was told were "the hieland hills," and of a broad arm of the sea, which I heard somebody say was the Firth of Forth. My brother, who, for some years past, had been receiving his education in a certain celebrated school in England, was now with us; and it came to pass, that one day my father, as he sat at table, looked steadfastly on my brother and myself, and then addressed my mother: "During my journey down hither I have lost no opportunity of making inquiries about these people, the Scotch, amongst whom we now are, and since I have been here I have observed them attentively. From what I have heard and seen, I should say that upon the whole they are a very decent set of people; they seem acute and intelligent, and I am told that their system of education is so excellent, that every person is learned--more or less acquainted with Greek and Latin. There is one thing, however, connected with them, which is a great drawback--the horrid jargon which they speak. However learned they may be in Greek and Latin, their English is execrable; and yet I'm told it is not so bad as it was. I was in company the other day with an Englishman who has resided here many years. We were talking about the country and its people. 'I should like both very well,' said I, 'were it not for the language. I wish sincerely our Parliament, which is passing so many foolish acts every year, would pass one to force these Scotch to speak English.' 'I wish so too,' said he. 'The language is a disgrace to the British Government; but, if you had heard it twenty years ago, captain!--if you had heard it as it was spoken when I first came to Edinburgh!'" "Only custom," said my mother. "I dare say the language is now what it was then." "I don't know," said my father; "though I dare say you are right; it could never have been worse than it is at present. But now to the point. Were it not for the language, which, if the boys were to pick it up, might ruin their prospects in life,--were it not for that, I should very much like to send them to a school there is in this place, which everybody talks about--the High School, I think they call it. 'Tis said to be the best school in the whole island; but the idea of one's children speaking Scotch--broad Scotch! I must think the matter over." And he did think the matter over; and the result of his deliberation was a determination to send us to the school. Let me call thee up before my mind's eye, High School, to which, every morning, the two English brothers took their way from the proud old Castle through the lofty streets of the Old Town. High School!--called so, I scarcely know why; neither lofty in thyself, nor by position, being situated in a flat bottom; oblong structure of tawny stone, with many windows fenced with iron netting--with thy long hall below, and thy five chambers above, for the reception of the five classes, into which the eight hundred urchins, who styled thee instructress, were divided. Thy learned rector and his four subordinate dominies; thy strange old porter of the tall form and grizzled hair, hight Boee, and doubtless of Norse ancestry, as his name declares; perhaps of the blood of Bui hin Digri, the hero of northern song--the Jomsborg Viking who clove Thorsteinn Midlangr asunder in the dread sea battle of Horunga Vog, and who, when the fight was lost and his own two hands smitten off, seized two chests of gold with his bloody stumps, and, springing with them into the sea, cried to the scanty relics of his crew, "Overboard now, all Bui's lads!" Yes, I remember all about thee, and how at eight of every morn we were all gathered together with one accord in the long hall, from which, after the litanies had been read (for so I will call them, being an Episcopalian), the five classes from the five sets of benches trotted off in long files, one boy after the other, up the five spiral staircases of stone, each class to its destination; and well do I remember how we of the third sat hushed and still, watched by the eye of the dux, until the door opened, and in walked that model of a good Scotchman, the shrewd, intelligent, but warmhearted and kind dominie, the respectable Carson. And in this school I began to construe the Latin language, which I had never done before, notwithstanding my long and diligent study of Lilly, which illustrious grammar was not used at Edinburgh, nor indeed known. Greek was only taught in the fifth or highest class, in which my brother was; as for myself, I never got beyond the third during the two years that I remained at this seminary. I certainly acquired here a considerable insight in the Latin tongue; and, to the scandal of my father and horror of my mother, a thorough proficiency in the Scotch, which, in less than two months, usurped the place of the English, and so obstinately maintained its ground, that I still can occasionally detect its lingering remains. I did not spend my time unpleasantly at this school, though, first of all, I had to pass through an ordeal. "Scotland is a better country than England," said an ugly, blear-eyed lad, about a head and shoulders taller than myself, the leader of a gang of varlets who surrounded me in the play-ground, on the first day, as soon as the morning lesson was over. "Scotland is a far better country than England, in every respect." "Is it?" said I. "Then you ought to be very thankful for not having been born in England." "That's just what I am, ye loon; and every morning when I say my prayers, I thank God for not being an Englishman. The Scotch are a much better and braver people than the English." "It may be so," said I, "for what I know--indeed, till I came here, I never heard a word either about the Scotch or their country." "Are ye making fun of us, ye English puppy?" said the blear-eyed lad; "take that!" and I was presently beaten black and blue. And thus did I first become aware of the difference of races and their antipathy to each other. "Bow to the storm, and it shall pass over you." I held my peace, and silently submitted to the superiority of the Scotch--_in numbers_. This was enough; from an object of persecution I soon became one of patronage, especially amongst the champions of the class. "The English," said the blear-eyed lad, "though a wee bit behind the Scotch in strength and fortitude, are nae to be sneezed at, being far ahead of the Irish, to say nothing of the French, a pack of cowardly scoundrels. And with regard to the English country, it is na Scotland, it is true, but it has its gude properties; and, though there is ne'er a haggis in a' the land, there's an unco deal o' gowd and siller. I respect England, for I have an auntie married there." The Scotch are certainly a most pugnacious people; their whole history proves it. Witness their incessant wars with the English in the olden time, and their internal feuds, highland and lowland, clan with clan, family with family, Saxon with Gael. In my time, the school-boys, for want, perhaps, of English urchins to contend with, were continually fighting with each other; every noon there was at least one pugilistic encounter, and sometimes three. In one month I witnessed more of these encounters than I had ever previously seen under similar circumstances in England. After all, there was not much harm done. Harm! what harm could result from short chopping blows, a hug, and a tumble? I was witness to many a sounding whack, some blood shed, "a blue ee" now and then, but nothing more. In England, on the contrary, where the lads were comparatively mild, gentle, and pacific, I had been present at more than one death caused by blows in boyish combats, in which the oldest of the victors had scarcely reached thirteen years; but these blows were in the jugular, given with the full force of the arm shot out horizontally from the shoulder. But, the Scotch--though by no means proficients in boxing (and how should they box, seeing that they have never had a teacher?)--are, I repeat, a most pugnacious people; at least they were in my time. Anything served them, that is, the urchins, as a pretence for a fray, or, Dorically speaking, a _bicker_; every street and close was at feud with its neighbour; the lads of the school were at feud with the young men of the college, whom they pelted in winter with snow, and in summer with stones; and then the feud between the Old and New Town! One day I was standing on the ramparts of the castle on the south-western side which overhangs the green brae, where it slopes down into what was in those days the green swamp or morass, called by the natives of Auld Reekie the Nor Loch; it was a dark gloomy day, and a thin veil of mist was beginning to settle down upon the brae and the morass. I could perceive, however, that there was a skirmish taking place in the latter spot. I had an indistinct view of two parties--apparently of urchins--and I heard whoops and shrill cries. Eager to know the cause of this disturbance, I left the castle, and descending the brae reached the borders of the morass, where was a runnel of water and the remains of an old wall, on the other side of which a narrow path led across the swamp; upon this path at a little distance before me there was "a bicker". I pushed forward, but had scarcely crossed the ruined wall and runnel, when the party nearest to me gave way, and in great confusion came running in my direction. As they drew nigh, one of them shouted to me, "Wha are ye, mon? are ye o' the Auld Toon?" I made no answer. "Ha! ye are o' the New Toon; De'il tak ye, we'll moorder ye;" and the next moment a huge stone sung past my head. "Let me be, ye fule bodies," said I, "I'm no of either of ye, I live yonder aboon in the castle." "Ah! ye live in the castle; then ye're an auld tooner; come gie us your help, mon, and dinna stand there staring like a dunnot, we want help sair eneugh. Here are stanes." For my own part I wished for nothing better, and, rushing forward, I placed myself at the head of my new associates, and commenced flinging stones fast and desperately. The other party now gave way in their turn, closely followed by ourselves; I was in the van and about to stretch out my hand to seize the hindermost boy of the enemy, when, not being acquainted with the miry and difficult paths of the Nor Loch, and in my eagerness taking no heed of my footing, I plunged into a quagmire, into which I sank as far as my shoulders. Our adversaries no sooner perceived this disaster, than, setting up a shout, they wheeled round and attacked us most vehemently. Had my comrades now deserted me, my life had not been worth a straw's purchase, I should either have been smothered in the quag, or, what is more probable, had my brains beaten out with stones; but they behaved like true Scots, and fought stoutly around their comrade, until I was extricated, whereupon both parties retired, the night being near at hand. "Ye are na a bad hand at flinging stanes," said the lad who first addressed me, as we now returned up the brae; "your aim is right dangerous, mon, I saw how ye skelpit them, ye maun help us agin thae New Toon blackguards at our next bicker." So to the next bicker I went, and to many more, which speedily followed as the summer advanced; the party to which I had given my help on the first occasion consisted merely of outlyers, posted about half way up the hill, for the purpose of overlooking the movements of the enemy. Did the latter draw nigh in any considerable force, messengers were forthwith despatched to the "auld toon," especially to the filthy alleys and closes of the High Street, which forthwith would disgorge swarms of bare-headed and bare-footed "callants," who, with gestures wild and "eldrich screech and hollo," might frequently be seen pouring down the sides of the hill. I have seen upwards of a thousand engaged on either side in these frays, which I have no doubt were full as desperate as the fights described in the Iliad, and which were certainly much more bloody than the combats of modern Greece in the war of independence. The callants not only employed their hands in hurling stones, but not unfrequently slings; at the use of which they were very expert, and which occasionally dislodged teeth, shattered jaws, or knocked out an eye. Our opponents certainly laboured under considerable disadvantage, being compelled not only to wade across a deceitful bog, but likewise to clamber up part of a steep hill before they could attack us; nevertheless, their determination was such, and such their impetuosity, that we had sometimes difficulty enough to maintain our own. I shall never forget one bicker, the last indeed which occurred at that time, as the authorities of the town, alarmed by the desperation of its character, stationed forthwith a body of police on the hill side to prevent, in future, any such breaches of the peace. It was a beautiful Sunday evening, the rays of the descending sun were reflected redly from the grey walls of the castle, and from the black rocks on which it was founded. The bicker had long since commenced, stones from sling and hand were flying; but the callants of the New Town were now carrying everything before them. A full-grown baker's apprentice was at their head; he was foaming with rage, and had taken the field, as I was told, in order to avenge his brother, whose eye had been knocked out in one of the late bickers. He was no slinger, or flinger, but brandished in his right hand the spoke of a cart-wheel, like my countryman Tom Hickathrift of old in his encounter with the giant of the Lincolnshire fen. Protected by a piece of wicker- work attached to his left arm, he rushed on to the fray, disregarding the stones which were showered against him, and was ably seconded by his followers. Our own party was chased half way up the hill, where I was struck to the ground by the baker, after having been foiled in an attempt which I had made to fling a handful of earth into his eyes. All now appeared lost, the Auld Toon was in full retreat. I myself lay at the baker's feet, who had just raised his spoke, probably to give me the _coup de grace_,--it was an awful moment. Just then I heard a shout and a rushing sound. A wild-looking figure is descending the hill with terrible bounds; it is a lad of some fifteen years; he is bare-headed, and his red uncombed hair stands on end like hedgehogs' bristles; his frame is lithy, like that of an antelope, but he has prodigious breadth of chest; he wears a military undress, that of the regiment, even of a drummer, for it is wild Davy, whom a month before I had seen enlisted on Leith Links to serve King George with drum and drumstick as long as his services might be required, and who, ere a week had elapsed, had smitten with his fist Drum-Major Elzigood, who, incensed at his own inaptitude, had threatened him with the cane; he has been in confinement for weeks, this is the first day of his liberation, and he is now descending the hill with horrid bounds and shoutings; he is now about five yards distant, and the baker, who apprehends that something dangerous is at hand prepares himself for the encounter; but what avails the strength of a baker, even full grown?--what avails the defence of a wicker shield? what avails the wheel-spoke, should there be an opportunity of using it, against the impetus of an avalanche or a cannon ball?--for to either of these might that wild figure be compared, which, at the distance of five yards, sprang at once with head, hands, feet and body, all together, upon the champion of the New Town, tumbling him to the earth amain. And now it was the turn of the Old Town to triumph. Our late discomfited host, returning on its steps, overwhelmed the fallen champion with blows of every kind, and then, led on by his vanquisher who had assumed his arms, namely, the wheelspoke and wicker shield, fairly cleared the brae of their adversaries, whom they drove down headlong into the morass. CHAPTER VIII. Meanwhile I had become a daring cragsman, a character to which an English lad has seldom opportunities of aspiring; for in England there are neither crags nor mountains. Of these, however, as is well known, there is no lack in Scotland, and the habits of individuals are invariably in harmony with the country in which they dwell. The Scotch are expert climbers, and I was now a Scot in most things, particularly in language. The castle in which I dwelt stood upon a rock, a bold and craggy one, which, at first sight, would seem to bid defiance to any feet save those of goats and chamois; but patience and perseverance generally enable mankind to overcome things which, at first sight, appear impossible. Indeed, what is there above man's exertions? Unwearied determination will enable him to run with the horse, to swim with the fish, and assuredly to compete with the chamois and the goat in agility and sureness of foot. To scale the rock was merely child's play for the Edinbro' callants. It was my own favourite diversion. I soon found that the rock contained all manner of strange crypts, crannies, and recesses, where owls nestled, and the weasel brought forth her young; here and there were small natural platforms, overgrown with long grass and various kinds of plants, where the climber, if so disposed, could stretch himself, and either give his eyes to sleep or his mind to thought; for capital places were these same platforms either for repose or meditation. The boldest features of the rock are descried on the southern side, where, after shelving down gently from the wall for some distance, it terminates abruptly in a precipice, black and horrible, of some three hundred feet at least, as if the axe of nature had been here employed cutting sheer down, and leaving behind neither excrescence nor spur--a dizzy precipice it is, assimilating much to those so frequent in the flinty hills of Northern Africa, and exhibiting some distant resemblance to that of Gibraltar, towering in its horridness above the neutral ground. It was now holiday time, and having nothing particular wherewith to occupy myself, I not unfrequently passed the greater part of the day upon the rocks. Once, after scaling the western crags, and creeping round a sharp angle of the wall, overhung by a kind of watch tower, I found myself on the southern side. Still keeping close to the wall, I was proceeding onward, for I was bent upon a long excursion which should embrace half the circuit of the castle, when suddenly my eye was attracted by the appearance of something red, far below me; I stopped short, and, looking fixedly upon it, perceived that it was a human being in a kind of red jacket, seated on the extreme verge of the precipice, which I have already made a faint attempt to describe. Wondering who it could be, I shouted; but it took not the slightest notice, remaining as immovable as the rock on which it sat. "I should never have thought of going near that edge," said I to myself; "however, as you have done it, why should not I? And I should like to know who you are." So I commenced the descent of the rock, but with great care, for I had as yet never been in a situation so dangerous; a slight moisture exuded from the palms of my hands, my nerves were tingling, and my brain was somewhat dizzy--and now I had arrived within a few yards of the figure, and had recognised it: it was the wild drummer who had turned the tide of battle in the bicker on the Castle Brae. A small stone which I dislodged now rolled down the rock, and tumbled into the abyss close beside him. He turned his head, and after looking at me for a moment somewhat vacantly, he resumed his former attitude. I drew yet nearer to the horrible edge; not close, however, for fear was on me. "What are you thinking of, David?" said I, as I sat behind him and trembled, for I repeat that I was afraid. _David Haggart_. I was thinking of Willie Wallace. _Myself_. You had better be thinking of yourself, man. A strange place this to come to and think of William Wallace. _David Haggart_. Why so? Is not his tower just beneath our feet? _Myself_. You mean the auld ruin by the side of the Nor Loch--the ugly stane bulk, from the foot of which flows the spring into the dyke, where the watercresses grow? _David Haggart_. Just sae, Geordie. _Myself_. And why were ye thinking of him? The English hanged him long since, as I have heard say. _David Haggart_. I was thinking that I should wish to be like him. _Myself_. Do ye mean that ye would wish to be hanged? _David Haggart_. I wad na flinch from that, Geordie, if I might be a great man first. _Myself_. And wha kens, Davie, how great you may be, even without hanging? Are ye not in the high road of preferment? Are ye not a bauld drummer already? Wha kens how high ye may rise? perhaps to be general, or drum-major. _David Haggart_. I hae na wish to be drum-major; it were na great things to be like the doited carle, Else-than-gude, as they call him; and, troth, he has nae his name for naething. But I should have nae objection to be a general, and to fight the French and Americans, and win myself a name and a fame like Willie Wallace, and do brave deeds, such as I have been reading about in his story book. _Myself_. Ye are a fule, Davie; the story book is full of lies. Wallace, indeed! the wuddie rebel! I have heard my father say that the Duke of Cumberland was worth twenty of Willie Wallace. _David Haggart_. Ye had better sae naething agin Willie Wallace, Geordie, for, if ye do, De'il hae me, if I dinna tumble ye doon the craig. * * * * * Fine materials in that lad for a hero, you will say. Yes, indeed, for a hero, or for what he afterwards became. In other times, and under other circumstances, he might have made what is generally termed a great man, a patriot, or a conqueror. As it was, the very qualities which might then have pushed him on to fortune and renown were the cause of his ruin. The war over, he fell into evil courses; for his wild heart and ambitious spirit could not brook the sober and quiet pursuits of honest industry. "Can an Arabian steed submit to be a vile drudge?" cries the fatalist. Nonsense! A man is not an irrational creature, but a reasoning being, and has something within him beyond mere brutal instinct. The greatest victory which a man can achieve is over himself, by which is meant those unruly passions which are not convenient to the time and place. David did not do this; he gave the reins to his wild heart, instead of curbing it, and became a robber, and, alas! alas! he shed blood--under peculiar circumstances, it is true, and without _malice prepense_--and for that blood he eventually died, and justly; for it was that of the warden of a prison from which he was escaping, and whom he slew with one blow of his stalwart arm. Tamerlane and Haggart! Haggart and Tamerlane! Both these men were robbers, and of low birth, yet one perished on an ignoble scaffold, and the other died emperor of the world. Is this justice? The ends of the two men were widely dissimilar--yet what is the intrinsic difference between them? Very great indeed; the one acted according to his lights and his country, not so the other. Tamerlane was a heathen, and acted according to his lights; he was a robber where all around were robbers, but he became the avenger of God--God's scourge on unjust kings, on the cruel Bajazet, who had plucked out his own brothers' eyes; he became to a certain extent the purifier of the East, its regenerator; his equal never was before, nor has it since been seen. Here the wild heart was profitably employed, the wild strength, the teeming brain. Onward, Lame one! Onward, Tamur--lank! Haggart . . . But peace to thee, poor David! why should a mortal worm be sitting in judgment over thee? The Mighty and Just One has already judged thee, and perhaps above thou hast received pardon for thy crimes, which could not be pardoned here below; and now that thy feverish existence has closed, and thy once active form become inanimate dust, thy very memory all but forgotten, I will say a few words about thee, a few words soon also to be forgotten. Thou wast the most extraordinary robber that ever lived within the belt of Britain; Scotland rang with thy exploits, and England, too, north of the Humber; strange deeds also didst thou achieve when, fleeing from justice, thou didst find thyself in the Sister Isle; busy wast thou there in town and on curragh, at fair and race-course, and also in the solitary place. Ireland thought thee her child, for who spoke her brogue better than thyself?--she felt proud of thee, and said, "Sure, O'Hanlon is come again." What might not have been thy fate in the far west in America, whither thou hadst turned thine eye, saying, "I will go there, and become an honest man!" But thou wast not to go there, David--the blood which thou hadst shed in Scotland was to be required of thee; the avenger was at hand, the avenger of blood. Seized, manacled, brought back to thy native land, condemned to die, thou wast left in thy narrow cell and told to make the most of thy time, for it was short: and there, in thy narrow cell, and thy time so short, thou didst put the crowning stone to thy strange deeds, by that strange history of thyself, penned by thy own hand in the robber tongue. Thou mightest have been better employed, David!--but the ruling passion was strong with thee, even in the jaws of death. Thou mightest have been better employed!--but peace be with thee, I repeat, and the Almighty's grace and pardon. CHAPTER IX. Onward, onward! and after we had sojourned in Scotland nearly two years, the long continental war had been brought to an end; Napoleon was humbled for a time, and the Bourbons restored to a land which could have well have dispensed with them. We returned to England, where the corps was disbanded, and my parents with their family retired to private life. I shall pass over in silence the events of a year, which offer little of interest as far as connected with me and mine. Suddenly, however, the sound of war was heard again; Napoleon had broken forth from Elba, and everything was in confusion. Vast military preparations were again made, our own corps was levied anew, and my brother became an officer in it; but the danger was soon over, Napoleon was once more quelled and chained for ever, like Prometheus, to his rock. As the corps, however, though so recently levied, had already become a very fine one, thanks to my father's energetic drilling, the Government very properly determined to turn it to some account, and, as disturbances were apprehended in Ireland about this period, it occurred to them that they could do no better than despatch it to that country. In the autumn of the year 1815 we set sail from a port in Essex; we were some eight hundred strong, and were embarked in two ships, very large, but old and crazy; a storm overtook us when off Beachy Head, in which we had nearly foundered. I was awakened early in the morning by the howling of the wind, and the uproar on deck. I kept myself close, however, as is still my constant practice on similar occasions, and waited the result with that apathy and indifference which violent sea-sickness is sure to produce. We shipped several seas, and once the vessel missing stays--which, to do it justice, it generally did at every third or fourth tack--we escaped almost by a miracle from being dashed upon the foreland. On the eighth day of our voyage we were in sight of Ireland. The weather was now calm and serene, the sun shone brightly on the sea and on certain green hills in the distance, on which I descried what at first sight I believed to be two ladies gathering flowers, which, however, on our nearer approach, proved to be two tall white towers, doubtless built for some purpose or other, though I did not learn for what. We entered a kind of bay, or cove, by a narrow inlet; it was a beautiful and romantic place this cove, very spacious, and being nearly land-locked, was sheltered from every wind. A small island, every inch of which was covered with fortifications, appeared to swim upon the waters, whose dark blue denoted their immense depth; tall green hills, which ascended gradually from the shore, formed the background to the west; they were carpeted to the top with turf of the most vivid green, and studded here and there with woods, seemingly of oak; there was a strange old castle half-way up the ascent, a village on a crag--but the mists of morning were half veiling the scene when I surveyed it, and the mists of time are now hanging densely between it and my no longer youthful eye; I may not describe it;--nor will I try. Leaving the ship in the cove, we passed up a wide river in boats till we came to a city where we disembarked. It was a large city, as large as Edinburgh to my eyes; there were plenty of fine houses, but little neatness; the streets were full of impurities; handsome equipages rolled along, but the greater part of the population were in rags; beggars abounded; there was no lack of merriment, however; boisterous shouts of laughter were heard on every side. It appeared a city of contradictions. After a few days' rest we marched from this place in two divisions. My father commanded the second; I walked by his side. Our route lay up the country; the country at first offered no very remarkable feature; it was pretty, but tame. On the second day, however, its appearance had altered, it had become more wild; a range of distant mountains bounded the horizon. We passed through several villages, as I suppose I may term them, of low huts, the walls formed of rough stones without mortar, the roof of flags laid over wattles and wicker-work; they seemed to be inhabited solely by women and children; the latter were naked, the former, in general, blear-eyed beldames, who sat beside the doors on low stools, spinning. We saw, however, both men and women working at a distance in the fields. I was thirsty; and going up to an ancient crone, employed in the manner which I have described, I asked her for water; she looked me in the face, appeared to consider for a moment, then tottering into her hut, presently reappeared with a small pipkin of milk, which she offered to me with a trembling hand. I drank the milk; it was sour, but I found it highly refreshing. I then took out a penny and offered it to her, whereupon she shook her head, smiled, and, patting my face with her skinny hand, murmured some words in a tongue which I had never heard before. I walked on by my father's side, holding the stirrup-leather of his horse; presently several low uncouth cars passed by, drawn by starved cattle; the drivers were tall fellows, with dark features and athletic frames--they wore long loose blue cloaks with sleeves, which last, however, dangled unoccupied; these cloaks appeared in tolerably good condition, not so their under garments. On their heads were broad slouching hats; the generality of them were bare-footed. As they passed, the soldiers jested with them in the patois of East Anglia, whereupon the fellows laughed and appeared to jest with the soldiers; but what they said who knows, it being in a rough guttural language, strange and wild. The soldiers stared at each other, and were silent. "A strange language that!" said a young officer to my father, "I don't understand a word of it; what can it be?" "Irish," said my father, with a loud voice, "and a bad language it is; I have known it of old, that is, I have often heard it spoken when I was a guardsman in London. There's one part of London where all the Irish live--at least all the worst of them--and there they hatch their villanies and speak this tongue; it is that which keeps them together and makes them dangerous. I was once sent there to seize a couple of deserters--Irish--who had taken refuge among their companions; we found them in what was in my time called a _ken_, that is, a house where only thieves and desperadoes are to be found. Knowing on what kind of business I was bound, I had taken with me a sergeant's party; it was well I did so. We found the deserters in a large room, with at least thirty ruffians, horrid-looking fellows, seated about a long table, drinking, swearing, and talking Irish. Ah! we had a tough battle, I remember; the two fellows did nothing, but sat still, thinking it best to be quiet; but the rest, with an ubbubboo, like the blowing up of a powder-magazine, sprang up, brandishing their sticks; for these fellows always carry sticks with them, even to bed, and not unfrequently spring up in their sleep, striking left and right." "And did you take the deserters?" said the officer. "Yes," said my father; "for we formed at the end of the room, and charged with fixed bayonets, which compelled the others to yield notwithstanding their numbers; but the worst was when we got out into the street; the whole district had become alarmed, and hundreds came pouring down upon us--men, women, and children. Women, did I say!--they looked fiends, half naked, with their hair hanging down over their bosoms; they tore up the very pavement to hurl at us, sticks rang about our ears, stones, and Irish--I liked the Irish worst of all, it sounded so horrid, especially as I did not understand it. It's a bad language." "A queer tongue," said I, "I wonder if I could learn it?" "Learn it!" said my father; "what should you learn it for?--however, I am not afraid of that. It is not like Scotch; no person can learn it, save those who are born to it, and even in Ireland the respectable people do not speak it, only the wilder sort, like those we have passed." Within a day or two we had reached a tall range of mountains running north and south, which I was told were those of Tipperary; along the skirts of these we proceeded till we came to a town, the principal one of these regions. It was on the bank of a beautiful river, which separated it from the mountains. It was rather an ancient place, and might contain some ten thousand inhabitants; I found that it was our destination; there were extensive barracks at the farther end, in which the corps took up its quarters; with respect to ourselves, we took lodgings in a house which stood in the principal street. "You never saw more elegant lodgings than these, captain," said the master of the house, a tall, handsome, and athletic man who came up whilst our little family were seated at dinner late in the afternoon of the day of our arrival; "they beat anything in this town of Clonmel. I do not let them for the sake of interest, and to none but gentlemen in the army, in order that myself and my wife, who is from Londonderry, may have the advantage of pleasant company, genteel company; ay, and Protestant company, captain. It did my heart good when I saw your honour ride in at the head of all those fine fellows, real Protestants, I'll engage, not a Papist among them--they are too good-looking and honest- looking for that. So I no sooner saw your honour at the head of your army, with that handsome young gentleman holding by your stirrup, than I said to my wife, Mistress Hyne, who is from Londonderry, 'God bless me,' said I, 'what a truly Protestant countenance, what a noble bearing, and what a sweet young gentleman. By the silver hairs of his honour--and sure enough I never saw hairs more regally silver than those of your honour--by his honour's gray silver hairs, and by my own soul, which is not worthy to be mentioned in the same day with one of them--it would be no more than decent and civil to run out and welcome such a father and son coming in at the head of such a Protestant military.' And then my wife, who is from Londonderry, Mistress Hyne, looking me in the face like a fairy as she is, 'You may say that,' says she. 'It would be but decent and civil, honey.' And your honour knows how I ran out of my own door and welcomed your honour riding, in company with your son who was walking; how I welcomed ye both at the head of your royal regiment, and how I shook your honour by the hand, saying, I am glad to see your honour, and your honour's son, and your honour's royal military Protestant regiment. And now I have you in the house, and right proud I am to have ye one and all: one, two, three, four, true Protestants every one, no Papists here; and I have made bold to bring up a bottle of claret which is now waiting behind the door; and, when your honour and your family have dined, I will make bold too to bring up Mistress Hyne, from Londonderry, to introduce to your honour's lady, and then we'll drink to the health of King George, God bless him; to the 'glorious and immortal'--to Boyne water--to your honour's speedy promotion to be Lord Lieutenant, and to the speedy downfall of the Pope and Saint Anthony of Padua." Such was the speech of the Irish Protestant addressed to my father in the long lofty dining-room with three windows, looking upon the High street of the good town of Clonmel, as he sat at meat with his family, after saying grace like a true-hearted respectable soldier as he was. "A bigot and an Orangeman!" Oh, yes! It is easier to apply epithets of opprobrium to people than to make yourself acquainted with their history and position. He was a specimen, and a fair specimen, of a most remarkable body of men, who during two centuries have fought a good fight in Ireland in the cause of civilisation and religious truth; they were sent as colonists, few in number, into a barbarous and unhappy country, where ever since, though surrounded with difficulties of every kind, they have maintained their ground; theirs has been no easy life, nor have their lines fallen upon very pleasant places; amidst darkness they have held up a lamp, and it would be well for Ireland were all her children like these her adopted ones. "But they are fierce and sanguinary," it is said. Ay, ay! they have not unfrequently opposed the keen sword to the savage pike. "But they are bigoted and narrow-minded." Ay, ay! they do not like idolatry, and will not bow the knee before a stone! "But their language is frequently indecorous." Go to, my dainty one, did ye ever listen to the voice of Papist cursing? The Irish Protestants have faults, numerous ones; but the greater number of these may be traced to the peculiar circumstances of their position. But they have virtues, numerous ones; and their virtues are their own, their industry, their energy, and their undaunted resolution are their own. They have been vilified and traduced--but what would Ireland be without them? I repeat, that it would be well for her were all her sons no worse than these much calumniated children of her adoption. CHAPTER X. We continued at this place for some months, during which time the soldiers performed their duties, whatever they were; and I, having no duties to perform, was sent to school. I had been to English schools, and to the celebrated one of Edinburgh; but my education, at the present day, would not be what it is--perfect, had I never had the honour of being _alumnus_ in an Irish seminary. "Captain," said our kind host, "you would, no doubt, wish that the young gentleman should enjoy every advantage which the town may afford towards helping him on in the path of genteel learning. It's a great pity that he should waste his time in idleness--doing nothing else than what he says he has been doing for the last fortnight--fishing in the river for trouts which he never catches, and wandering up the glen in the mountain in search of the hips that grow there. Now, we have a school here, where he can learn the most elegant Latin, and get an insight into the Greek letters, which is desirable; and where, moreover, he will have an opportunity of making acquaintance with all the Protestant young gentlemen of the place, the handsome well-dressed young persons whom your honour sees in the church on the Sundays, when your honour goes there in the morning, with the rest of the Protestant military; for it is no Papist school, though there may be a Papist or two there--a few poor farmers' sons from the country, with whom there is no necessity for your honour's child to form any acquaintance at all, at all!" And to the school I went, where I read the Latin tongue and the Greek letters, with a nice old clergyman, who sat behind a black oaken desk, with a huge Elzevir Flaccus before him, in a long gloomy kind of hall, with a broken stone floor, the roof festooned with cobwebs, the walls considerably dilapidated, and covered over with strange figures and hieroglyphics, evidently produced by the application of burnt stick; and there I made acquaintance with the Protestant young gentlemen of the place, who, with whatever _eclat_ they might appear at church on a Sunday, did assuredly not exhibit to much advantage in the school-room on the week days, either with respect to clothes or looks. And there I was in the habit of sitting on a large stone, before the roaring fire in the huge open chimney, and entertaining certain of the Protestant young gentlemen of my own age, seated on similar stones, with extraordinary accounts of my own adventures and those of the corps, with an occasional anecdote extracted from the story-books of Hickathrift and Wight Wallace, pretending to be conning the lesson all the while. And there I made acquaintance, notwithstanding the hint of the landlord, with the Papist "gasoons," as they were called, the farmers' sons from the country; and of these gasoons, of which there were three, two might be reckoned as nothing at all; in the third, however, I soon discovered that there was something extraordinary. He was about sixteen years old, and above six feet high, dressed in a gray suit; the coat, from its size, appeared to have been made for him some ten years before. He was remarkably narrow-chested and round-shouldered, owing, perhaps, as much to the tightness of his garment as to the hand of nature. His face was long, and his complexion swarthy relieved, however, by certain freckles, with which the skin was plentifully studded. He had strange wandering eyes, gray, and somewhat unequal in size; they seldom rested on the book, but were generally wandering about the room from one object to another. Sometimes he would fix them intently on the wall; and then suddenly starting, as if from a reverie, he would commence making certain mysterious movements with his thumbs and forefingers, as if he were shuffling something from him. One morning, as he sat by himself on a bench, engaged in this manner, I went up to him and said, "Good day, Murtagh; you do not seem to have much to do." "Faith, you may say that, Shorsha dear! it is seldom much to do that I have." "And what are you doing with your hands?" "Faith, then, if I must tell you, I was e'en dealing with the cards." "Do you play much at cards?" "Sorra a game, Shorsha, have I played with the cards since my uncle Phelim, the thief, stole away the ould pack, when he went to settle in the county Waterford!" "But you have other things to do?" "Sorra anything else has Murtagh to do that he cares about; and that makes me dread so going home at nights." "I should like to know all about you; where do you live, joy?" "Faith, then, ye shall know all about me, and where I live. It is at a place called the Wilderness that I live, and they call it so, because it is a fearful wild place, without any house near it but my father's own; and that's where I live when at home." "And your father is a farmer, I suppose?" "You may say that; and it is a farmer I should have been, like my brother Denis, had not my uncle Phelim, the thief! tould my father to send me to school, to learn Greek letters, that I might be made a saggart of and sent to Paris and Salamanca." "And you would rather be a farmer than a priest?" "You may say that! for, were I a farmer, like the rest, I should have something to do, like the rest, something that I cared for, and I should come home tired at night and fall asleep, as the rest do, before the fire; but when I comes home at night I am not tired, for I have been doing nothing all day that I care for; and then I sits down and stares about me, and at the fire, till I become frighted; and then I shouts to my brother Denis, or to the gasoons, 'Get up, I say, and let's be doing something; tell us a tale of Finn-ma-Coul, and how he lay down in the Shannon's bed and let the river flow down his jaws!' Arrah, Shorsha, I wish you would come and stay with us, and tell us some o' your sweet stories of your ownself and the snake ye carried about wid ye. Faith, Shorsha dear! that snake bates anything about Finn-ma-Coul or Brian Boroo, the thieves two, bad luck to them!" "And do they get up and tell you stories?" "Sometimes they does, but oftenmost they curses me and bids me be quiet! But I can't be quiet, either before the fire or abed; so I runs out of the house, and stares at the rocks, at the trees, and sometimes at the clouds, as they run a race across the bright moon; and the more I stares, the more frighted I grows, till I screeches and holloas. And last night I went into the barn and hid my face in the straw; and there, as I lay and shivered in the straw, I heard a voice above my head singing out 'To whit, to whoo!' and then up I starts and runs into the house, and falls over my brother Denis, as he lies at the fire. 'What's that for?' says he. 'Get up, you thief!' says I, 'and be helping me. I have been out in the barn, and an owl has crow'd at me!'" "And what has this to do with playing cards?" "Little enough, Shorsha dear!--If there were card-playing, I should not be frighted." "And why do you not play at cards?" "Did I not tell you that the thief, my uncle Phelim, stole away the pack? If we had the pack, my brother Denis and the gasoons would be ready enough to get up from their sleep before the fire, and play cards with me for ha'pence, or eggs, or nothing at all; but the pack is gone--bad luck to the thief who took it!" "And why don't you buy another?" "Is it of buying you are speaking? And where am I to get the money?" "Ah! that's another thing!" "Faith it is, honey!--And now the Christmas holidays is coming, when I shall be at home by day as well as night, and then what am I to do? Since I have been a saggarting, I have been good for nothing at all--neither for work nor Greek--only to play cards! Faith, it's going mad I will be!" "I say, Murtagh!" "Yes, Shorsha dear!" "I have a pack of cards." "You don't say so, Shorsha mavourneen! you don't say that you have cards fifty-two?" "I do, though; and they are quite new--never been once used." "And you'll be lending them to me, I warrant?" "Don't think it! But I'll sell them to you, joy, if you like." "_Hanam mon Dioul_! am I not after telling you that I have no money at all?" "But you have as good as money, to me, at least; and I'll take it in exchange." "What's that, Shorsha dear?" "Irish!" "Irish?" "Yes, you speak Irish; I heard you talking it the other day to the cripple. You shall teach me Irish." "And is it a language-master you'd be making of me?" "To be sure!--what better can you do?--it would help you to pass your time at school. You can't learn Greek, so you must teach Irish!" Before Christmas, Murtagh was playing at cards with his brother Denis, and I could speak a considerable quantity of broken Irish. CHAPTER XI. When Christmas was over, and the new year commenced, we broke up our quarters, and marched away to Templemore. This was a large military station, situated in a wild and thinly inhabited country. Extensive bogs were in the neighbourhood, connected with the huge bog of Allan, the Palus Maeotis of Ireland. Here and there was seen a ruined castle looming through the mists of winter; whilst, at the distance of seven miles, rose a singular mountain, exhibiting in its brow a chasm, or vacuum, just, for all the world, as if a piece had been bitten out; a feat which, according to the tradition of the country, had actually been performed by his Satanic majesty, who, after flying for some leagues with the morsel in his mouth, becoming weary, dropped it in the vicinity of Cashel, where it may now be seen in the shape of a bold bluff hill, crowned with the ruins of a stately edifice, probably built by some ancient Irish king. We had been here only a few days, when my brother, who, as I have before observed, had become one of his Majesty's officers, was sent on detachment to a village at about ten miles' distance. He was not sixteen, and, though three years older than myself, scarcely my equal in stature, for I had become tall and large-limbed for my age; but there was a spirit in him that would not have disgraced a general; and, nothing daunted at the considerable responsibility which he was about to incur, he marched sturdily out of the barrack-yard at the head of his party, consisting of twenty light-infantry men, and a tall grenadier sergeant, selected expressly by my father for the soldier-like qualities which he possessed, to accompany his son on this his first expedition. So out of the barrack-yard, with something of an air, marched my dear brother, his single drum and fife playing the inspiring old melody, Marlbrouk is gone to the wars, He'll never return no more! I soon missed my brother, for I was now alone, with no being at all assimilating in age, with whom I could exchange a word. Of late years, from being almost constantly at school, I had cast aside, in a great degree, my unsocial habits and natural reserve, but in the desolate region in which we now were there was no school; and I felt doubly the loss of my brother, whom, moreover, I tenderly loved for his own sake. Books I had none, at least such "as I cared about;" and with respect to the old volume, the wonders of which had first beguiled me into common reading, I had so frequently pored over its pages, that I had almost got its contents by heart. I was therefore in danger of falling into the same predicament as Murtagh, becoming "frighted" from having nothing to do! Nay, I had not even his resources; I cared not for cards, even if I possessed them, and could find people disposed to play with them. However, I made the most of circumstances, and roamed about the desolate fields and bogs in the neighbourhood, sometimes entering the cabins of the peasantry, with a "God's blessing upon you, good people!" where I would take my seat on the "stranger's stone" at the corner of the hearth, and, looking them full in the face, would listen to the carles and carlines talking Irish. Ah, that Irish! How frequently do circumstances, at first sight the most trivial and unimportant, exercise a mighty and permanent influence on our habits and pursuits!--how frequently is a stream turned aside from its natural course by some little rock or knoll, causing it to make an abrupt turn! On a wild road in Ireland I had heard Irish spoken for the first time; and I was seized with a desire to learn Irish, the acquisition of which, in my case, became the stepping-stone to other languages. I had previously learnt Latin, or rather Lilly; but neither Latin nor Lilly made me a philologist. I had frequently heard French and other languages, but had felt little desire to become acquainted with them; and what it may be asked, was there connected with the Irish calculated to recommend it to my attention? First of all, and principally, I believe, the strangeness and singularity of its tones; then there was something mysterious and uncommon associated with its use. It was not a school language, to acquire which was considered an imperative duty; no, no; nor was it a drawing-room language, drawled out occasionally, in shreds and patches, by the ladies of generals and other great dignitaries, to the ineffable dismay of poor officers' wives. Nothing of the kind; but a speech spoken in out-of-the- way desolate places, and in cut-throat kens, where thirty ruffians, at the sight of the king's minions, would spring up with brandished sticks and an "ubbubboo, like the blowing up of a powder-magazine". Such were the points connected with the Irish, which first awakened in my mind the desire of acquiring it; and by acquiring it I became, as I have already said, enamoured of languages. Having learnt one by choice, I speedily, as the reader will perceive, learnt others, some of which were widely different from Irish. Ah, that Irish! I am much indebted to it in more ways than one. But I am afraid I have followed the way of the world, which is very much wont to neglect original friends and benefactors. I frequently find myself, at present, turning up my nose at Irish, when I hear it in the street; yet I have still a kind of regard for it, the fine old language: _A labhair Padruic n'insefail nan riogh_. One of the most peculiar features of this part of Ireland is the ruined castles, which are so thick and numerous that the face of the country appears studded with them, it being difficult to choose any situation from which one, at least, may not be descried. They are of various ages and styles of architecture, some of great antiquity, like the stately remains which crown the Crag of Cashel; others built by the early English conquerors; others, and probably the greater part, erections of the times of Elizabeth and Cromwell. The whole, speaking monuments of the troubled and insecure state of the country, from the most remote periods to a comparatively modern time. From the windows of the room where I slept I had a view of one of these old places--an indistinct one, it is true, the distance being too great to permit me to distinguish more than the general outline. I had an anxious desire to explore it. It stood to the south-east; in which direction, however, a black bog intervened, which had more than once baffled all my attempts to cross it. One morning, however, when the sun shone brightly upon the old building, it appeared so near, that I felt ashamed at not being able to accomplish a feat seemingly so easy; I determined, therefore, upon another trial. I reached the bog, and was about to venture upon its black surface, and to pick my way amongst its innumerable holes, yawning horribly, and half filled with water black as soot, when it suddenly occurred to me that there was a road to the south, by following which I might find a more convenient route to the object of my wishes. The event justified my expectations, for, after following the road for some three miles, seemingly in the direction of the Devil's Mountain, I suddenly beheld the castle on my left. {A typical Irish Castle (Cashel): p68.jpg} I diverged from the road, and, crossing two or three fields, came to a small grassy plain, in the midst of which stood the castle. About a gun- shot to the south was a small village, which had, probably, in ancient days, sprung up beneath its protection. A kind of awe came over me as I approached the old building. The sun no longer shone upon it, and it looked so grim, so desolate and solitary; and here was I in that wild country, alone with that grim building before me. The village was within sight, it is true; but it might be a village of the dead for what I knew; no sound issued from it, no smoke was rising from its roofs, neither man nor beast was visible, no life, no motion--it looked as desolate as the castle itself. Yet I was bent on the adventure, and moved on towards the castle across the green plain, occasionally casting a startled glance around me; and now I was close to it. It was surrounded by a quadrangular wall, about ten feet in height, with a square tower at each corner. At first I could discover no entrance; walking round, however, to the northern side, I found a wide and lofty gateway with a tower above it, similar to those at the angles of the wall; on this side the ground sloped gently down towards the bog, which was here skirted by an abundant growth of copsewood, and a few evergreen oaks. I passed through the gateway, and found myself within a square enclosure of about two acres. On one side rose a round and lofty keep, or donjon, with a conical roof, part of which had fallen down, strewing the square with its ruins. Close to the keep, on the other side, stood the remains of an oblong house, built something in the modern style, with various window-holes; nothing remained but the bare walls and a few projecting stumps of beams, which seemed to have been half burnt. The interior of the walls was blackened, as if by fire; fire also appeared at one time to have raged out of the window-holes, for the outside about them was black, portentously so. "I wonder what has been going on here!" I exclaimed. There were echoes along the walls as I walked about the court. I entered the keep by a low and frowning doorway: the lower floor consisted of a large dungeon-like room, with a vaulted roof; on the left hand was a winding staircase in the thickness of the wall; it looked anything but inviting; yet I stole softly up, my heart beating. On the top of the first flight of stairs was an arched doorway; to the left was a dark passage; to the right, stairs leading still higher. I stepped under the arch and found myself in an apartment somewhat similar to the one below, but higher. There was an object at the farther end. An old woman, at least eighty, was seated on a stone, cowering over a few sticks burning feebly on what had once been a right noble and cheerful hearth; her side-glance was towards the doorway as I entered, for she had heard my footsteps. I stood suddenly still, and her haggard glance rested on my face. "Is this your house, mother?" I at length demanded, in the language which I thought she would best understand. "Yes, my house, my own house; the house of the broken-hearted." "Any other person's house?" I demanded. "My own house, the beggar's house--the accursed house of Cromwell!" CHAPTER XII. One morning I set out, designing to pay a visit to my brother at the place where he was detached; the distance was rather considerable, yet I hoped to be back by evening fall, for I was now a shrewd walker, thanks to constant practice. I set out early, and directing my course towards the north, I had in less than two hours accomplished considerably more than half of the journey. The weather had at first been propitious: a slight frost had rendered the ground firm to the tread, and the skies were clear; but now a change came over the scene: the skies darkened and a heavy snow-storm came on; the road then lay straight through a bog, and was bounded by a deep trench on both sides; I was making the best of my way, keeping as nearly as I could in the middle of the road, lest, blinded by the snow which was frequently borne into my eyes by the wind, I might fall into the dyke, when all at once I heard a shout to windward, and turning my eyes I saw the figure of a man, and what appeared to be an animal of some kind, coming across the bog with great speed, in the direction of myself; the nature of the ground seemed to offer but little impediment to these beings, both clearing the holes and abysses which lay in their way with surprising agility; the animal was, however, some slight way in advance, and, bounding over the dyke, appeared on the road just before me. It was a dog, of what species I cannot tell, never having seen the like before or since; the head was large and round, the ears so tiny as scarcely to be discernible, the eyes of a fiery red; in size it was rather small than large, and the coat, which was remarkably smooth, as white as the falling flakes. It placed itself directly in my path, and showing its teeth, and bristling its coat, appeared determined to prevent my progress. I had an ashen stick in my hand, with which I threatened it; this, however, only served to increase its fury; it rushed upon me, and I had the utmost difficulty to preserve myself from its fangs. "What are you doing with the dog, the fairy dog?" said a man who at this time likewise cleared the dyke at a bound. He was a very tall man, rather well-dressed as it should seem; his garments, however, were like my own, so covered with snow that I could scarcely discern their quality. "What are ye doing with the dog of peace?" "I wish he would show himself one," said I; "I said nothing to him, but he placed himself in my road, and would not let me pass." "Of course he would not be letting you till he knew where ye were going." "He's not much of a fairy," said I, "or he would know that without asking; tell him that I am going to see my brother." "And who is your brother, little Sas?" "What my father is, a royal soldier." "Oh, ye are going then to the detachment at ---; by my shoul, I have a good mind to be spoiling your journey." "You are doing that already," said I, "keeping me here talking about dogs and fairies; you had better go home and get some salve to cure that place over your eye; it's catching cold you'll be, in so much snow." On one side of the man's forehead there was a raw and staring wound, as if from a recent and terrible blow. "Faith, then I'll be going, but it's taking you wid me I will be.' "And where will you take me?" "Why, then, to Ryan's Castle, little Sas." "You do not speak the language very correctly," said I; "it is not _Sas_ you should call me--'tis _Sassannach_," and forthwith I accompanied the word with a speech full of flowers of Irish rhetoric. The man looked upon me for a moment, fixedly, then, bending his head towards his breast, he appeared to be undergoing a kind of convulsion, which was accompanied by a sound something resembling laughter; presently he looked at me, and there was a broad grin on his features. "By my shoul, it's a thing of peace I'm thinking ye." But now with a whisking sound came running down the road a hare; it was nearly upon us before it perceived us; suddenly stopping short, however, it sprang into the bog on the right-hand side; after it amain bounded the dog of peace, followed by the man, but not until he had nodded to me a farewell salutation. In a few moments I lost sight of him amidst the snow-flakes. The weather was again clear and fine before I reached the place of detachment. It was a little wooden barrack, surrounded by a wall of the same material; a sentinel stood at the gate, I passed by him, and, entering the building, found myself in a rude kind of guard-room; several soldiers were lying asleep on a wooden couch at one end, others lounged on benches by the side of a turf fire. The tall sergeant stood before the fire, holding a cooking utensil in his left hand; on seeing me, he made the military salutation. "Is my brother here?" said I, rather timidly, dreading to hear that he was out, perhaps for the day. "The ensign is in his room, sir," said Bagg, "I am now preparing his meal, which will presently be ready; you will find the ensign above stairs," and he pointed to a broken ladder which led to some place above. And there I found him--the boy soldier--in a kind of upper loft, so low that I could touch with my hands the sooty rafters; the floor was of rough boards, through the joints of which you could see the gleam of the soldiers' fire, and occasionally discern their figures as they moved about; in one corner was a camp bedstead, by the side of which hung the child's sword, gorget, and sash; a deal table stood in the proximity of the rusty grate, where smoked and smouldered a pile of black turf from the bog--a deal table without a piece of baize to cover it, yet fraught with things not devoid of interest: a Bible, given by a mother; the Odyssey, the Greek Odyssey; a flute, with broad silver keys; crayons, moreover, and water colours, and a sketch of a wild prospect near, which, though but half finished, afforded ample proof of the excellence and skill of the boyish hand now occupied upon it. Ah! he was a sweet being, that boy soldier, a plant of early promise, bidding fair to become in after time all that is great, good, and admirable. I have read of a remarkable Welshman, of whom it was said, when the grave closed over him, that he could frame a harp, and play it; build a ship, and sail it; compose an ode, and set it to music. A brave fellow that son of Wales--but I had once a brother who could do more and better than this, but the grave has closed over him, as over the gallant Welshman of yore; there are now but two that remember him--the one who bore him, and the being who was nurtured at the same breast. He was taken, and I was left! Truly, the ways of Providence are inscrutable. "You seem to be very comfortable, John," said I, looking around the room and at the various objects which I have described above: "you have a good roof over your head, and have all your things about you." "Yes, I am very comfortable, George, in many respects; I am, moreover, independent, and feel myself a man for the first time in my life--independent did I say?--that's not the word, I am something much higher than that; here am I, not sixteen yet, a person in authority, like the centurion in the book there, with twenty Englishmen under me, worth a whole legion of his men, and that fine fellow Bagg to wait upon me, and take my orders. Oh! these last six weeks have passed like hours of heaven." "But your time must frequently hang heavy on your hands; this is a strange wild place, and you must be very solitary?" "I am never solitary; I have, as you see, all my things about me, and there is plenty of company below stairs. Not that I mix with the soldiers; if I did, good-bye to my authority; but when I am alone I can hear all their discourse through the planks, and I often laugh to myself at the funny things they say." "And have you any acquaintance here?" "The very best; much better than the Colonel and the rest, at their grand Templemore; I had never so many in my whole life before. One has just left me, a gentleman who lives at a distance across the bog; he comes to talk with me about Greek, and the Odyssey, for he is a very learned man, and understands the old Irish and various other strange languages. He has had a dispute with Bagg. On hearing his name, he called him to him, and, after looking at him for some time with great curiosity, said that he was sure he was a Dane. Bagg, however, took the compliment in dudgeon, and said that he was no more a Dane than himself, but a true- born Englishman, and a sergeant of six years' standing." "And what other acquaintance have you?" "All kinds; the whole neighbourhood can't make enough of me. Amongst others there's the clergyman of the parish and his family; such a venerable old man, such fine sons and daughters! I am treated by them like a son and a brother--I might be always with them if I pleased; there's one drawback, however, in going to see them; there's a horrible creature in the house, a kind of tutor, whom they keep more from charity than anything else; he is a Papist and, they say, a priest; you should see him scowl sometimes at my red coat, for he hates the king, and not unfrequently, when the king's health is drunk, curses him between his teeth. I once got up to strike him, but the youngest of the sisters, who is the handsomest, caught my arm and pointed to her forehead." "And what does your duty consist of? Have you nothing else to do than pay visits and receive them?" "We do what is required of us: we guard this edifice, perform our evolutions, and help the excise; I am frequently called up in the dead of night to go to some wild place or other in quest of an illicit still; this last part of our duty is poor mean work, I don't like it, nor more does Bagg; though without it, we should not see much active service, for the neighbourhood is quiet; save the poor creatures with their stills, not a soul is stirring. 'Tis true, there's Jerry Grant." "And who is Jerry Grant?" "Did you never hear of him? that's strange, the whole country is talking about him; he is a kind of outlaw, rebel, or robber, all three, I daresay; there's a hundred pounds offered for his head." "And where does he live?" "His proper home, they say, is in the Queen's County, where he has a band; but he is a strange fellow, fond of wandering about by himself amidst the bogs and mountains, and living in the old castles; occasionally he quarters himself in the peasants' houses, who let him do just what he pleases; he is free of his money, and often does them good turns, and can be good-humoured enough, so they don't dislike him. Then he is what they call a fairy man, a person in league with fairies and spirits, and able to work much harm by supernatural means, on which account they hold him in great awe; he is, moreover, a mighty strong and tall fellow. Bagg has seen him." "Has he?" "Yes! and felt him; he too is a strange one. A few days ago he was told that Grant had been seen hovering about an old castle some two miles off in the bog; so one afternoon what does he do but, without saying a word to me--for which, by-the-bye, I ought to put him under arrest, though what I should do without Bagg I have no idea whatever--what does he do but walk off to the castle, intending, as I suppose, to pay a visit to Jerry. He had some difficulty in getting there on account of the turf- holes in the bog, which he was not accustomed to; however, thither at last he got and went in. It was a strange lonesome place, he says, and he did not much like the look of it; however, in he went, and searched about from the bottom to the top and down again, but could find no one; he shouted and hallooed, but nobody answered, save the rooks and choughs, which started up in great numbers. 'I have lost my trouble,' said Bagg, and left the castle. It was now late in the afternoon, near sunset, when about half-way over the bog he met a man--" "And that man was--" "Jerry Grant! there's no doubt of it. Bagg says it was the most sudden thing in the world. He was moving along, making the best of his way, thinking of nothing at all save a public-house at Swanton Morley, which he intends to take when he gets home and the regiment is disbanded--though I hope that will not be for some time yet: he had just leaped a turf-hole, and was moving on, when, at the distance of about six yards before him, he saw a fellow coming straight towards him. Bagg says that he stopped short, as suddenly as if he had heard the word halt, when marching at double-quick time. It was quite a surprise, he says, and he can't imagine how the fellow was so close upon him before he was aware. He was an immense tall fellow--Bagg thinks at least two inches taller than himself--very well dressed in a blue coat and buff breeches, for all the world like a squire when going out hunting. Bagg, however, saw at once that he had a roguish air, and he was on his guard in a moment. 'Good evening to ye, sodger,' says the fellow, stepping close up to Bagg, and staring him in the face. 'Good evening to you, sir! I hope you are well,' says Bagg. 'You are looking after some one?' says the fellow. 'Just so, sir,' says Bagg, and forthwith seized him by the collar; the man laughed, Bagg says it was such a strange awkward laugh. 'Do you know whom you have got hold of, sodger?' said he. 'I believe I do, sir,' said Bagg, 'and in that belief will hold you fast in the name of King George, and the quarter sessions;' the next moment he was sprawling with his heels in the air. Bagg says there was nothing remarkable in that; he was only flung by a kind of wrestling trick, which he could easily have baffled, had he been aware of it. 'You will not do that again, sir,' said he, as he got up and put himself on his guard. The fellow laughed again more strangely and awkwardly than before; then, bending his body and moving his head from one side to the other as a cat does before she springs, and crying out, 'Here's for ye, sodger!' he made a dart at Bagg, rushing in with his head foremost. 'That will do, sir,' says Bagg, and drawing himself back he put in a left-handed blow with all the force of his body and arm, just over the fellow's right eye--Bagg is a left-handed hitter, you must know--and it was a blow of that kind which won him his famous battle at Edinburgh with the big Highland sergeant. Bagg says that he was quite satisfied with the blow, more especially when he saw the fellow reel, fling out his arms, and fall to the ground. 'And now, sir,' said he, 'I'll make bold to hand you over to the quarter sessions, and, if there is a hundred pounds for taking you, who has more right to it than myself?' So he went forward, but ere he could lay hold of his man the other was again on his legs, and was prepared to renew the combat. They grappled each other--Bagg says he had not much fear of the result, as he now felt himself the best man, the other seeming half stunned with the blow--but just then there came on a blast, a horrible roaring wind bearing night upon its wings, snow, and sleet, and hail. Bagg says he had the fellow by the throat quite fast, as he thought, but suddenly he became bewildered, and knew not where he was; and the man seemed to melt away from his grasp, and the wind howled more and more, and the night poured down darker and darker, the snow and the sleet thicker and more blinding. 'Lord have mercy upon us!' said Bagg." _Myself_. A strange adventure that; it is well that Bagg got home alive. _John_. He says that the fight was a fair fight, and that the fling he got was a fair fling, the result of a common enough wrestling trick. But with respect to the storm, which rose up just in time to save the fellow, he is of opinion that it was not fair, but something Irish and supernatural. _Myself_. I dare say he's right. I have read of witchcraft in the Bible. _John_. He wishes much to have one more encounter with the fellow; he says that on fair ground, and in fine weather, he has no doubt that he could master him, and hand him over to the quarter sessions. He says that a hundred pounds would be no bad thing to be disbanded upon; for he wishes to take an inn at Swanton Morley, keep a cock-pit, and live respectably. _Myself_. He is quite right; and now kiss me, my darling brother, for I must go back through the bog to Templemore. CHAPTER XIII. And it came to pass that, as I was standing by the door of the barrack stable, one of the grooms came out to me, saying, "I say, young gentleman, I wish you would give the cob a breathing this fine morning." "Why do you wish me to mount him?" said I; "you know he is dangerous. I saw him fling you off his back only a few days ago." "Why, that's the very thing, master. I'd rather see anybody on his back than myself; he does not like me; but, to them he does, he can be as gentle as a lamb." "But suppose," said I, "that he should not like me?" "We shall soon see that, master," said the groom; "and, if so be he shows temper, I will be the first to tell you to get down. But there's no fear of that; you have never angered or insulted him, and to such as you, I say again, he'll be as gentle as a lamb." "And how came you to insult him," said I, "knowing his temper as you do?" "Merely through forgetfulness, master. I was riding him about a month ago, and having a stick in my hand, I struck him, thinking I was on another horse, or rather thinking of nothing at all. He has never forgiven me, though before that time he was the only friend I had in the world; I should like to see you on him, master." "I should soon be off him; I can't ride." "Then you are all right, master; there's no fear. Trust him for not hurting a young gentleman, an officer's son who can't ride. If you were a blackguard dragoon, indeed, with long spurs, 'twere another thing; as it is, he'll treat you as if he were the elder brother that loves you. Ride! he'll soon teach you to ride, if you leave the matter with him. He's the best riding master in all Ireland, and the gentlest." The cob was led forth; what a tremendous creature! I had frequently seen him before, and wondered at him; he was barely fifteen hands, but he had the girth of a metropolitan dray-horse, his head was small in comparison with his immense neck, which curved down nobly to his wide back. His chest was broad and fine, and his shoulders models of symmetry and strength; he stood well and powerfully upon his legs, which were somewhat short. In a word, he was a gallant specimen of the genuine Irish cob, a species at one time not uncommon, but at the present day nearly extinct. "There!" said the groom, as he looked at him, half-admiringly, half-sorrowfully, "with sixteen stone on his back, he'll trot fourteen miles in one hour; with your nine stone, some two and half more, ay, and clear a six-foot wall at the end of it." "I'm half afraid," said I; "I had rather you would ride him." "I'd rather so, too, if he would let me; but he remembers the blow. Now, don't be afraid, young master, he's longing to go out himself. He's been trampling with his feet these three days, and I know what that means; he'll let anybody ride him but myself, and thank them; but to me he says, 'No! you struck me'". "But," said I, "where's the saddle?" "Never mind the saddle; if you are ever to be a frank rider, you must begin without a saddle; besides, if he felt a saddle, he would think you don't trust him, and leave you to yourself. Now, before you mount, make his acquaintance--see there, how he kisses you and licks your face, and see how he lifts his foot, that's to shake hands. You may trust him--now you are on his back at last; mind how you hold the bridle--gently, gently! It's not four pair of hands like yours can hold him if he wishes to be off. Mind what I tell you--leave it all to him." Off went the cob at a slow and gentle trot, too fast and rough, however, for so inexperienced a rider. I soon felt myself sliding off, the animal perceived it too, and instantly stood stone still till I had righted myself; and now the groom came up: "When you feel yourself going," said he, "don't lay hold of the mane, that's no use; mane never yet saved man from falling, no more than straw from drowning; it's his sides you must cling to with your calves and feet, till you learn to balance yourself. That's it, now abroad with you; I'll bet my comrade a pot of beer that you'll be a regular rough rider by the time you come back." And so it proved; I followed the directions of the groom, and the cob gave me every assistance. How easy is riding, after the first timidity is got over, to supple and youthful limbs; and there is no second fear. The creature soon found that the nerves of his rider were in proper tone. Turning his head half round he made a kind of whining noise, flung out a little foam, and set off. In less than two hours I had made the circuit of the Devil's Mountain, and was returning along the road, bathed with perspiration, but screaming with delight; the cob laughing in his equine way, scattering foam and pebbles to the left and right, and trotting at the rate of sixteen miles an hour. Oh, that ride! that first ride!--most truly it was an epoch in my existence; and I still look back to it with feelings of longing and regret. People may talk of first love--it is a very agreeable event, I dare say--but give me the flush, and triumph, and glorious sweat of a first ride, like mine on the mighty cob! My whole frame was shaken, it is true; and during one long week I could hardly move foot or hand; but what of that? By that one trial I had become free, as I may say, of the whole equine species. No more fatigue, no more stiffness of joints, after that first ride round the Devil's Hill on the cob. Oh, that cob! that Irish cob!--may the sod lie lightly over the bones of the strongest, speediest, and most gallant of its kind! Oh! the days when, issuing from the barrack-gate of Templemore, we commenced our hurry- skurry just as inclination led--now across the fields--direct over stone walls and running brooks--mere pastime for the cob!--sometimes along the road to Thurles and Holy Cross, even to distant Cahir!--what was distance to the cob? It was thus that the passion for the equine race was first awakened within me--a passion which, up to the present time, has been rather on the increase than diminishing. It is no blind passion; the horse being a noble and generous creature, intended by the All-Wise to be the helper and friend of man, to whom he stands next in the order of creation. On many occasions of my life I have been much indebted to the horse, and have found in him a friend and coadjutor, when human help and sympathy were not to be obtained. It is therefore natural enough that I should love the horse; but the love which I entertain for him has always been blended with respect; for I soon perceived that, though disposed to be the friend and helper of man, he is by no means inclined to be his slave; in which respect he differs from the dog, who will crouch when beaten; whereas the horse spurns, for he is aware of his own worth, and that he carries death within the horn of his heel. If, therefore, I found it easy to love the horse, I found it equally natural to respect him. I much question whether philology, or the passion for languages, requires so little of an apology as the love for horses. It has been said, I believe, that the more languages a man speaks, the more a man is he; which is very true, provided he acquires languages as a medium for becoming acquainted with the thoughts and feelings of the various sections into which the human race is divided; but, in that case, he should rather be termed a philosopher than a philologist--between which two the difference is wide indeed! An individual may speak and read a dozen languages, and yet be an exceedingly poor creature, scarcely half a man; and the pursuit of tongues for their own sake, and the mere satisfaction of acquiring them, surely argues an intellect of a very low order; a mind disposed to be satisfied with mean and grovelling things; taking more pleasure in the trumpery casket than in the precious treasure which it contains, in the pursuit of words, than in the acquisition of ideas. I cannot help thinking that it was fortunate for myself, who am, to a certain extent, a philologist, that with me the pursuit of languages has been always modified by the love of horses; for scarcely had I turned my mind to the former, when I also mounted the wild cob, and hurried forth in the direction of the Devil's Hill, scattering dust and flint-stones on every side; that ride, amongst other things, taught me that a lad with thews and sinews was intended by nature for something better than mere word-culling; and if I have accomplished anything in after life worthy of mentioning, I believe it may partly be attributed to the ideas which that ride, by setting my blood in a glow, infused into my brain. I might, otherwise, have become a mere philologist; one of those beings who toil night and day in culling useless words for some _opus magnum_ which Murray will never publish, and nobody ever read--beings without enthusiasm, who, having never mounted a generous steed, cannot detect a good point in Pegasus himself; like a certain philologist, who, though acquainted with the exact value of every word in the Greek and Latin languages, could observe no particular beauty in one of the most glorious of Homer's rhapsodies. {81} What knew he of Pegasus? he had never mounted a generous steed; the merest jockey, had the strain been interpreted to him, would have called it a brave song!--I return to the brave cob. On a certain day I had been out on an excursion. In a cross-road, at some distance from the Satanic hill, the animal which I rode cast a shoe. By good luck a small village was at hand, at the entrance of which was a large shed, from which proceeded a most furious noise of hammering. Leading the cob by the bridle, I entered boldly. "Shoe this horse, and do it quickly, a gough," said I to a wild grimy figure of a man, whom I found alone, fashioning a piece of iron. "_Arrigod yuit_?" said the fellow, desisting from his work and staring at me. "O yes, I have money," said I, "and of the best;" and I pulled out an English shilling. "_Tabhair chugam_," said the smith, stretching out his grimy hand. "No, I sha'n't," said I; "some people are glad to get their money when their work is done." The fellow hammered a little longer and then proceeded to shoe the cob, after having first surveyed it with attention. He performed his job rather roughly, and more than once appeared to give the animal unnecessary pain, frequently making use of loud and boisterous words. By the time the work was done, the creature was in a state of high excitement, and plunged and tore. The smith stood at a short distance, seeming to enjoy the irritation of the animal, and showing, in a remarkable manner, a huge fang, which projected from the under jaw of a very wry mouth. "You deserve better handling," said I, as I went up to the cob and fondled it; whereupon it whinnied, and attempted to touch my face with its nose. "Are ye not afraid of that beast?" said the smith, showing his fang. "Arrah, it's vicious that he looks!" "It's at you, then!--I don't fear him;" and thereupon I passed under the horse, between his hind legs. "And is that all you can do, agrah?" said the smith. "No," said I, "I can ride him." "Ye can ride him, and what else, agrah?" "I can leap him over a six-foot wall," said I. "Over a wall, and what more, agrah?" "Nothing more," said I; "what more would you have?" "Can you do this, agrah?" said the smith, and he uttered a word which I had never heard before, in a sharp pungent tone. The effect upon myself was somewhat extraordinary, a strange thrill ran through me; but with regard to the cob it was terrible; the animal forthwith became like one mad, and reared and kicked with the utmost desperation. "Can you do that, agrah?" said the smith. "What is it?" said I, retreating, "I never saw the horse so before." "Go between his legs, agrah," said the smith, "his hinder legs;" and he again showed his fang. "I dare not," said I, "he would kill me." "He would kill ye! and how do ye know that, agrah?" "I feel he would," said I, "something tells me so." "And it tells ye truth, agrah; but it's a fine beast, and it's a pity to see him in such a state: _Is agam an't leigeas_"--and here he uttered another word in a voice singularly modified, but sweet and almost plaintive; the effect of it was as instantaneous as that of the other, but how different!--the animal lost all its fury and became at once calm and gentle. The smith went up to it, coaxed and patted it, making use of various sounds of equal endearment; then turning to me, and holding out once more the grimy hand, he said: "And now ye will be giving me the Sassanach tenpence, agrah?" CHAPTER XIV. From the wild scenes which I have attempted to describe in the latter pages I must now transport the reader to others of a widely different character. He must suppose himself no longer in Ireland, but in the eastern corner of merry England. Bogs, ruins and mountains have disappeared amidst the vapours of the west: I have nothing more to say of them; the region in which we are now is not famous for objects of that kind; perhaps it flatters itself that it can produce fairer and better things, of some of which let me speak; there is a fine old city before us, and first of that let me speak. {Entrance to Grammar School, Norwich: p84.jpg} A fine old city, truly, is that, view it from whatever side you will; but it shows best from the east, where the ground, bold and elevated, overlooks the fair and fertile valley in which it stands. Gazing from those heights, the eye beholds a scene which cannot fail to awaken, even in the least sensitive bosom, feelings of pleasure and admiration. At the foot of the heights flows a narrow and deep river, with an antique bridge communicating with a long and narrow suburb, flanked on either side by rich meadows of the brightest green, beyond which spreads the city, the fine old city, perhaps the most curious specimen at present extant of the genuine old English town. Yes, there it spreads from north to south, with its venerable houses, its numerous gardens, its thrice twelve churches, its mighty mound, which, if tradition speaks true, was raised by human hands to serve as the grave heap of an old heathen king, who sits deep within it, with his sword in his hand and his gold and silver treasures about him. There is a grey old castle upon the top of that mighty mound; and yonder, rising three hundred feet above the soil, from among those noble forest trees, behold that old Norman master-work, that cloud-encircled cathedral spire, around which a garrulous army of rooks and choughs continually wheel their flight. Now, who can wonder that the children of that fine old city are proud of her, and offer up prayers for her prosperity? I, myself, who was not born within her walls, offer up prayers for her prosperity, that want may never visit her cottages, vice her palaces, and that the abomination of idolatry may never pollute her temples. Ha, idolatry! the reign of idolatry has been over there for many a long year, never more, let us hope, to return; brave hearts in that old town have borne witness against it and sealed their testimony with their hearts' blood--most precious to the Lord is the blood of His saints! we are not far from hallowed ground. Observe ye not yon chalky precipice to the right of the Norman bridge? On this side of the stream, upon its brow, is a piece of ruined wall, the last relic of what was of old a stately pile, whilst at its foot is a place called the Lollards' Hole; and with good reason, for many a saint of God has breathed his last beneath that white precipice, bearing witness against Popish idolatry, midst flame and pitch; many a grisly procession has advanced along that suburb, across the old bridge, towards the Lollards' Hole: furious priests in front, a calm pale martyr in the midst, a pitying multitude behind. It has had its martyrs, the venerable old town! Ah! there is good blood in that old city, and in the whole circumjacent region of which it is the capital. The Angles possessed the land at an early period, which, however, they were eventually compelled to share with hordes of Danes and Northmen, who flocked thither across the sea to found hearthsteads on its fertile soil. The present race, a mixture of Angles and Danes, still preserve much which speaks strongly of their northern ancestry; amongst them ye will find the light-brown hair of the north, the strong and burly forms of the north, many a wild superstition, ay, and many a wild name connected with the ancient history of the north and its sublime mythology; the warm heart and the strong heart of the old Danes and Saxons still beats in those regions, and there ye will find, if anywhere, old northern hospitality and kindness of manner, united with energy, perseverance and dauntless intrepidity; better soldiers or mariners never bled in their country's battles than those nurtured in those regions and within those old walls. It was yonder, to the west, that the great naval hero of Britain first saw the light; he who annihilated the sea pride of Spain and dragged the humbled banner of France in triumph at his stern. He was born yonder towards the west, and of him there is a glorious relic in that old town; in its dark flint guildhouse, the roof of which you can just descry rising above that maze of buildings, in the upper hall of justice, is a species of glass shrine, in which the relic is to be seen: a sword of curious workmanship, the blade is of keen Toledan steel, the heft of ivory and mother-of-pearl. 'Tis the sword of Cordova, won in bloodiest fray off St. Vincent's promontory, and presented by Nelson to the old capital of the much-loved land of his birth. Yes, the proud Spaniard's sword is to be seen in yonder guildhouse, in the glass case affixed to the wall; many other relics has the good old town, but none prouder than the Spaniard's sword. Such was the place to which, when the war was over, my father retired: it was here that the old tired soldier set himself down with his little family. He had passed the greater part of his life in meritorious exertion in the service of his country, and his chief wish now was to spend the remainder of his days in quiet and respectability; his means, it is true, were not very ample; fortunate it was that his desires corresponded with them: with a small fortune of his own, and with his half-pay as a royal soldier, he had no fears for himself or for his faithful partner and helpmate; but then his children! how was he to provide for them? how launch them upon the wide ocean of the world? This was, perhaps, the only thought which gave him uneasiness, and I believe that many an old retired officer at that time, and under similar circumstances, experienced similar anxiety; had the war continued, their children would have been, of course, provided for in the army, but peace now reigned, and the military career was closed to all save the scions of the aristocracy, or those who were in some degree connected with that privileged order, an advantage which few of these old officers could boast of; they had slight influence with the great, who gave themselves very little trouble either about them or their families. "I have been writing to the Duke," said my father one day to my excellent mother, after we had been at home somewhat better than a year, "I have been writing to the Duke of York about a commission for that eldest boy of ours. He, however, affords me no hopes; he says that his list is crammed with names, and that the greater number of the candidates have better claims than my son." "I do not see how that can be," said my mother. "Nor do I," replied my father. "I see the sons of bankers and merchants gazetted every month, and I do not see what claims they have to urge, unless they be golden ones. However, I have not served my king fifty years to turn grumbler at this time of life. I suppose that the people at the head of affairs know what is most proper and convenient; perhaps when the lad sees how difficult, nay, how impossible it is that he should enter the army, he will turn his mind to some other profession; I wish he may!" "I think he has already," said my mother; "you see how fond he is of the arts, of drawing and painting, and, as far as I can judge, what he has already done is very respectable; his mind seems quite turned that way, and I heard him say the other day that he would sooner be a Michael Angelo than a general officer. But you are always talking of him; what do you think of doing with the other child?" "What, indeed!" said my father; "that is a consideration which gives me no little uneasiness. I am afraid it will be much more difficult to settle him in life than his brother. What is he fitted for, even were it in my power to provide for him? God help the child! I bear him no ill- will, on the contrary all love and affection; but I cannot shut my eyes; there is something so strange about him! How he behaved in Ireland! I sent him to school to learn Greek, and he picked up Irish!" "And Greek as well," said my mother. "I heard him say the other day that he could read St. John in the original tongue." "You will find excuses for him, I know," said my father. "You tell me I am always talking of my first-born; I might retort by saying you are always thinking of the other; but it is the way of women always to side with the second-born. There's what's-her-name in the Bible, by whose wiles the old blind man was induced to give to his second son the blessing which was the birthright of the other. I wish I had been in his place! I should not have been so easily deceived! no disguise would ever have caused me to mistake an impostor for my first-born. Though I must say for this boy that he is nothing like Jacob; he is neither smooth nor sleek, and, though my second-born, is already taller and larger than his brother." "Just so," said my mother, "his brother would make a far better Jacob than he." "I will hear nothing against my first-born," said my father, "even in the way of insinuation: he is my joy and pride--the very image of myself in my youthful days, long before I fought Big Ben, though perhaps not quite so tall or strong built. As for the other, God bless the child! I love him, I'm sure; but I must be blind not to see the difference between him and his brother. Why, he has neither my hair nor my eyes; and then his countenance! why, 'tis absolutely swarthy, God forgive me! I had almost said like that of a gypsy, but I have nothing to say against that; the boy is not to be blamed for the colour of his face, nor for his hair and eyes; but, then, his ways and manners! I confess I do not like them, and that they give me no little uneasiness. I know that he kept very strange company when he was in Ireland; people of evil report, of whom terrible things were said--horse-witches and the like. I questioned him once or twice upon the matter, and even threatened him, but it was of no use; he put on a look as if he did not understand me, a regular Irish look, just such a one as those rascals assume when they wish to appear all innocence and simplicity, and they full of malice and deceit all the time. I don't like them; they are no friends to old England, or its old king, God bless him! They are not good subjects, and never were; always in league with foreign enemies. When I was in the Coldstream, long before the Revolution, I used to hear enough about the Irish brigades kept by the French kings, to be a thorn in the side of the English whenever opportunity served. Old Sergeant Meredith once told me, that in the time of the Pretender there were always in London alone, a dozen of fellows connected with these brigades, with the view of seducing the king's soldiers from their allegiance, and persuading them to desert to France to join the honest Irish, as they were called. One of these traitors once accosted him and proposed the matter to him, offering handfuls of gold if he could induce any of his comrades to go over. Meredith appeared to consent, but secretly gave information to his colonel; the fellow was seized, and certain traitorous papers found upon him; he was hanged before Newgate, and died exulting in his treason. His name was Michael Nowlan. That ever son of mine should have been intimate with the Papist Irish, and have learnt their language!" "But he thinks of other things now," said my mother. "Other languages, you mean," said my father. "It is strange that he has conceived such a zest for the study of languages; no sooner did he come home than he persuaded me to send him to that old priest to learn French and Italian, and, if I remember right, you abetted him; but, as I said before, it is in the nature of women invariably to take the part of the second-born. Well, there is no harm in learning French and Italian, perhaps much good in his case, as they may drive the other tongue out of his head. Irish! why, he might go to the university but for that; but how would he look when, on being examined with respect to his attainments, it was discovered that he understood Irish? How did you learn it? they would ask him; how did you become acquainted with the language of Papists and rebels? The boy would be sent away in disgrace." "Be under no apprehension, I have no doubt that he has long since forgotten it." "I am glad to hear it," said my father; "for, between ourselves, I love the poor child; ay, quite as well as my first-born. I trust they will do well, and that God will be their shield and guide; I have no doubt He will, for I have read something in the Bible to that effect. What is that text about the young ravens being fed?" "I know a better than that," said my mother; "one of David's own words, 'I have been young and now am grown old, yet never have I seen the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread'." {The Erpingham Gate, Norwich: p88.jpg} I have heard talk of the pleasures of idleness, yet it is my own firm belief that no one ever yet took pleasure in it. Mere idleness is the most disagreeable state of existence, and both mind and body are continually making efforts to escape from it. It has been said that idleness is the parent of mischief, which is very true; but mischief itself is merely an attempt to escape from the dreary vacuum of idleness. There are many tasks and occupations which a man is unwilling to perform, but let no one think that he is therefore in love with idleness; he turns to something which is more agreeable to his inclination, and doubtless more suited to his nature; but he is not in love with idleness. A boy may play the truant from school because he dislikes books and study; but, depend upon it, he intends doing something the while--to go fishing, or perhaps to take a walk; and who knows but that from such excursions both his mind and body may derive more benefit than from books and school? Many people go to sleep to escape from idleness; the Spaniards do; and, according to the French account, John Bull, the 'squire, hangs himself in the month of November; but the French, who are a very sensible people, attribute the action, "_a une grande envie de se desennuyer_;" he wishes to be doing something, say they, and having nothing better to do, he has recourse to the cord. It was for want of something better to do that, shortly after my return home, I applied myself to the study of languages. By the acquisition of Irish, with the first elements of which I had become acquainted under the tuition of Murtagh, I had contracted a certain zest and inclination for the pursuit. Yet it is probable, that had I been launched about this time into some agreeable career, that of arms, for example, for which, being the son of a soldier, I had, as was natural, a sort of penchant, I might have thought nothing more of the acquisition of tongues of any kind; but, having nothing to do, I followed the only course suited to my genius which appeared open to me. So it came to pass that one day, whilst wandering listlessly about the streets of the old town, I came to a small book-stall, and stopping, commenced turning over the books; I took up at least a dozen, and almost instantly flung them down. What were they to me? At last, coming to a thick volume, I opened it, and after inspecting its contents for a few minutes, I paid for it what was demanded, and forthwith carried it home. It was a tessara-glot grammar--a strange old book, printed somewhere in Holland, which pretended to be an easy guide to the acquirement of the French, Italian, Low Dutch, and English tongues, by means of which any one conversant in any one of these languages could make himself master of the other three. I turned my attention to the French and Italian. The old book was not of much value; I derived some benefit from it, however, and, conning it intensely, at the end of a few weeks obtained some insight into the structure of these two languages. At length I had learnt all that the book was capable of informing me, yet was still far from the goal to which it had promised to conduct me. "I wish I had a master!" I exclaimed; and the master was at hand. In an old court of the old town lived a certain elderly personage, perhaps sixty, or thereabouts; he was rather tall, and something of a robust make, with a countenance in which bluffness was singularly blended with vivacity and grimace; and with a complexion which would have been ruddy, but for a yellow hue which rather predominated. His dress consisted of a snuff- coloured coat and drab pantaloons, the former evidently seldom subjected to the annoyance of a brush, and the latter exhibiting here and there spots of something which, if not grease, bore a strong resemblance to it; add to these articles an immense frill, seldom of the purest white, but invariably of the finest French cambric, and you have some idea of his dress. He had rather a remarkable stoop, but his step was rapid and vigorous, and as he hurried along the streets, he would glance to the right and left with a pair of big eyes like plums, and on recognising any one would exalt a pair of grizzled eyebrows, and slightly kiss a tawny and ungloved hand. At certain hours of the day he might be seen entering the doors of female boarding-schools, generally with a book in his hand, and perhaps another just peering from the orifice of a capacious back pocket; and at a certain season of the year he might be seen, dressed in white, before the altar of a certain small popish chapel, chanting from the breviary in very intelligible Latin, or perhaps reading from the desk in utterly unintelligible English. Such was my preceptor in the French and Italian tongues. "_Exul sacerdos_; vone banished esprit. I came into England twenty-five years ago, 'my dear.'" CHAPTER XV. So I studied French and Italian under the tuition of the banished priest, to whose house I went regularly every evening to receive instruction. I made considerable progress in the acquisition of the two languages. I found the French by far the most difficult, chiefly on account of the accent, which my master himself possessed in no great purity, being a Norman by birth. The Italian was my favourite. "_Vous serez un jour un grand philologue_, _mon cher_," said the old man, on our arriving at the conclusion of Dante's Hell. "I hope I shall be something better," said I, "before I die, or I shall have lived to little purpose." "That's true, my dear! philologist--one small poor dog. What would you wish to be?" "Many things sooner than that; for example, I would rather be like him who wrote this book." "_Quoi_, _Monsieur Dante_? He was a vagabond, my dear, forced to fly from his country. No, my dear, if you would be like one poet, be like Monsieur Boileau; he is the poet." "I don't think so." "How, not think so! He wrote very respectable verses; lived and died much respected by everybody. T'other, one bad dog, forced to fly from his country--died with not enough to pay his undertaker." "Were you not forced to flee from your country?" "That very true; but there is much difference between me and this Dante. He fled from country because he had one bad tongue which he shook at his betters. I fly because benefice gone, and head going; not on account of the badness of my tongue." "Well," said I, "you can return now; the Bourbons are restored." "I find myself very well here; not bad country. _Il est vrai que la France sera toujours la France_; but all are dead there who knew me. I find myself very well here. Preach in popish chapel, teach schismatic, that is Protestant, child tongues and literature. I find myself very well; and why? Because I know how to govern my tongue; never call people hard names. _Ma foi_, _il y a beaucoup de difference entre moi et ce sacre de Dante_." Under this old man, who was well versed in the southern languages, besides studying French and Italian, I acquired some knowledge of Spanish. But I did not devote my time entirely to philology; I had other pursuits. I had not forgotten the roving life I had led in former days, nor its delights; neither was I formed by Nature to be a pallid indoor student. No, no! I was fond of other and, I say it boldly, better things than study. I had an attachment to the angle, ay, and to the gun likewise. In our house was a condemned musket, bearing somewhere on its lock, in rather antique characters, "Tower, 1746"; with this weapon I had already, in Ireland, performed some execution among the rooks and choughs, and it was now again destined to be a source of solace and amusement to me, in the winter season, especially on occasions of severe frost when birds abounded. Sallying forth with it at these times, far into the country, I seldom returned at night without a string of bullfinches, blackbirds, and linnets hanging in triumph round my neck. When I reflect on the immense quantity of powder and shot which I crammed down the muzzle of my uncouth fowling-piece, I am less surprised at the number of birds which I slaughtered, than that I never blew my hands, face, and old honey-combed gun, at one and the same time, to pieces. But the winter, alas! (I speak as a fowler) seldom lasts in England more than three or four months; so, during the rest of the year, when not occupied with my philological studies, I had to seek for other diversions. I have already given a hint that I was also addicted to the angle. Of course there is no comparison between the two pursuits, the rod and line seeming but very poor trumpery to one who has had the honour of carrying a noble firelock. There is a time, however, for all things; and we return to any favourite amusement with the greater zest, from being compelled to relinquish it for a season. So, if I shot birds in winter with my firelock, I caught fish in summer, or attempted so to do, with my angle. I was not quite so successful, it is true, with the latter as with the former--possibly because it afforded me less pleasure. It was, indeed, too much of a listless pastime to inspire me with any great interest. I not unfrequently fell into a doze whilst sitting on the bank, and more than once let my rod drop from my hands into the water. {Earlham Hall, near Norwich. "The Earl's Home.": p92.jpg} At some distance from the city, behind a range of hilly ground which rises towards the south-west, is a small river, the waters of which, after many meanderings, eventually enter the principal river of the district, and assist to swell the tide which it rolls down to the ocean. It is a sweet rivulet, and pleasant it is to trace its course from its spring-head, high up in the remote regions of Eastern Anglia, till it arrives in the valley behind yon rising ground; and pleasant is that valley, truly a goodly spot, but most lovely where yonder bridge crosses the little stream. Beneath its arch the waters rush garrulously into a blue pool, and are there stilled for a time, for the pool is deep, and they appear to have sunk to sleep. Farther on, however, you hear their voice again, where they ripple gaily over yon gravelly shallow. On the left, the hill slopes gently down to the margin of the stream. On the right is a green level, a smiling meadow, grass of the richest decks the side of the slope; mighty trees also adorn it, giant elms, the nearest of which, when the sun is nigh its meridian, fling a broad shadow upon the face of the pool; through yon vista you catch a glimpse of the ancient brick of an old English hall. It has a stately look, that old building, indistinctly seen, as it is, among those umbrageous trees; you might almost suppose it an earl's home; and such it was, or rather upon its site stood an earl's home, in days of old, for there some old Kemp, some Sigurd, or Thorkild, roaming in quest of a hearthstead, settled down in the gray old time, when Thor and Freya were yet gods, and Odin was a portentous name. Yon old hall is still called the Earl's Home, though the hearth of Sigurd is now no more, and the bones of the old Kemp, and of Sigrith his dame, have been mouldering for a thousand years in some neighbouring knoll--perhaps yonder, where those tall Norwegian pines shoot up so boldly into the air. It is said that the old earl's galley was once moored where is now that blue pool, for the waters of that valley were not always sweet; yon valley was once an arm of the sea, a salt lagoon, to which the war-barks of "Sigurd, in search of a home," found their way. I was in the habit of spending many an hour on the banks of that rivulet, with my rod in my hand, and, when tired with angling, would stretch myself on the grass, and gaze upon the waters as they glided past; and not unfrequently, divesting myself of my dress, I would plunge into the deep pool which I have already mentioned, for I had long since learned to swim. And it came to pass, that on one hot summer's day, after bathing in the pool, I passed along the meadow till I came to a shallow part, and, wading over to the opposite side, I adjusted my dress, and commenced fishing in another pool, beside which was a small clump of hazels. And there I sat upon the bank, at the bottom of the hill which slopes down from "the Earl's Home"; my float was on the waters, and my back was towards the old hall. I drew up many fish, small and great, which I took from off the hook mechanically and flung upon the bank, for I was almost unconscious of what I was about, for my mind was not with my fish. I was thinking of my earlier years--of the Scottish crags and the heaths of Ireland--and sometimes my mind would dwell on my studies--on the sonorous stanzas of Dante, rising and falling like the waves of the sea--or would strive to remember a couplet or two of poor Monsieur Boileau. "Canst thou answer to thy conscience for pulling all those fish out of the water, and leaving them to gasp in the sun?" said a voice, clear and sonorous as a bell. I started, and looked round. Close behind me stood the tall figure of a man, dressed in raiment of quaint and singular fashion, but of goodly materials. He was in the prime and vigour of manhood; his features handsome and noble, but full of calmness and benevolence; at least I thought so, though they were somewhat shaded by a hat of finest beaver, with broad drooping eaves. "Surely that is a very cruel diversion in which thou indulgest, my young friend," he continued. "I am sorry for it, if it be, sir," said I, rising; "but I do not think it cruel to fish." "What are thy reasons for not thinking so?" "Fishing is mentioned frequently in Scripture. Simon Peter was a fisherman." "True; and Andrew and his brother. But thou forgettest: they did not follow fishing as a diversion, as I fear thou doest. Thou readest the Scriptures?" "Sometimes." "Sometimes? not daily? that is to be regretted. What profession dost thou make? I mean to what religious denomination dost thou belong, my young friend?" "Church." "It is a very good profession--there is much of Scripture contained in its liturgy. Dost thou read aught besides the Scriptures?" "Sometimes." "What dost thou read besides?" "Greek, and Dante." "Indeed! then thou hast the advantage over myself; I can only read the former. Well, I am rejoiced to find that thou hast other pursuits besides thy fishing. Dost thou know Hebrew?" "No." "Thou shouldst study it. Why dost thou not undertake the study?" "I have no books." "I will lend thee books, if thou wish to undertake the study. I live yonder at the hall, as perhaps thou knowest. I have a library there, in which are many curious books, both in Greek and Hebrew, which I will show to thee, whenever thou mayest find it convenient to come and see me. Farewell! I am glad to find that thou hast pursuits more satisfactory than thy cruel fishing." And the man of peace departed, and left me on the bank of the stream. Whether from the effect of his words, or from want of inclination to the sport, I know not, but from that day I became less and less a practitioner of that "cruel fishing". I rarely flung line and angle into the water, but I not unfrequently wandered by the banks of the pleasant rivulet. It seems singular to me, on reflection, that I never availed myself of his kind invitation. I say singular, for the extraordinary, under whatever form, had long had no slight interest for me; and I had discernment enough to perceive that yon was no common man. Yet I went not near him, certainly not from bashfulness, or timidity, feelings to which I had long been an entire stranger. Am I to regret this? perhaps, for I might have learned both wisdom and righteousness from those calm, quiet lips, and my after-course might have been widely different. As it was, I fell in with other guess companions, from whom I received widely different impressions than those I might have derived from him. When many years had rolled on, long after I had attained manhood, and had seen and suffered much, and when our first interview had long since been effaced from the mind of the man of peace, I visited him in his venerable hall, and partook of the hospitality of his hearth. And there I saw his gentle partner and his fair children, and on the morrow he showed me the books of which he had spoken years before, by the side of the stream. In the low quiet chamber, whose one window, shaded by a gigantic elm, looks down the slope towards the pleasant stream, he took from the shelf his learned books, Zohar and Mishna, Toldoth Jesu and Abarbenel. "I am fond of these studies," said he, "which, perhaps, is not to be wondered at, seeing that our people have been compared to the Jews. In one respect I confess we are similar to them: we are fond of getting money. I do not like this last author, this Abarbenel, the worse for having been a money-changer. I am a banker myself, as thou knowest." And would there were many like him, amidst the money-changers of princes! The hall of many an earl lacks the bounty, the palace of many a prelate the piety and learning, which adorn the quiet Quaker's home! CHAPTER XVI. I was standing on the castle hill in the midst of a fair of horses. I have already had occasion to mention this castle. It is the remains of what was once a Norman stronghold, and is perched upon a round mound or monticle, in the midst of the old city. Steep is this mound and scarped, evidently by the hand of man; a deep gorge, over which is flung a bridge, separates it, on the south, from a broad swell of open ground called "the hill;" of old the scene of many a tournament and feat of Norman chivalry, but now much used as a show-place for cattle, where those who buy and sell beeves and other beasts resort at stated periods. So it came to pass that I stood upon this hill, observing a fair of horses. The reader is already aware that I had long since conceived a passion for the equine race, a passion in which circumstances had of late not permitted me to indulge. I had no horses to ride, but I took pleasure in looking at them; and I had already attended more than one of these fairs: the present was lively enough, indeed, horse fairs are seldom dull. There was shouting and whooping, neighing and braying; there was galloping and trotting; fellows with highlows and white stockings, and with many a string dangling from the knees of their tight breeches, were running desperately, holding horses by the halter, and in some cases dragging them along; there were long-tailed steeds, and dock-tailed steeds of every degree and breed; there were droves of wild ponies, and long rows of sober cart horses; there were donkeys, and even mules: the last rare things to be seen in damp, misty England, for the mule pines in mud and rain, and thrives best with a hot sun above and a burning sand below. There were--oh, the gallant creatures! I hear their neigh upon the wind; there were--goodliest sight of all--certain enormous quadrupeds only seen to perfection in our native isle, led about by dapper grooms, their manes ribanded and their tails curiously clubbed and balled. Ha! ha!--how distinctly do they say, ha! ha! An old man draws nigh, he is mounted on a lean pony, and he leads by the bridle one of these animals; nothing very remarkable about that creature, unless in being smaller than the rest and gentle, which they are not; he is not of the sightliest look; he is almost dun, and over one eye a thick film has gathered. But stay! there _is_ something remarkable about that horse, there is something in his action in which he differs from all the rest. As he advances, the clamour is hushed! all eyes are turned upon him--what looks of interest--of respect--and, what is this? people are taking off their hats--surely not to that steed! Yes, verily! men, especially old men, are taking off their hats to that one-eyed steed, and I hear more than one deep-drawn ah! "What horse is that?" said I to a very old fellow, the counterpart of the old man on the pony, save that the last wore a faded suit of velveteen, and this one was dressed in a white frock. "The best in mother England," said the very old man, taking a knobbed stick from his mouth, and looking me in the face, at first carelessly, but presently with something like interest; "he is old like myself, but can still trot his twenty miles an hour. You won't live long, my swain; tall and overgrown ones like thee never does; yet, if you should chance to reach my years, you may boast to thy great grand boys, thou hast seen Marshland Shales." Amain I did for the horse what I would neither do for earl or baron, doffed my hat; yes! I doffed my hat to the wondrous horse, the fast trotter, the best in mother England; and I, too, drew a deep ah! and repeated the words of the old fellows around. "Such a horse as this we shall never see again; a pity that he is so old." Now during all this time I had a kind of consciousness that I had been the object of some person's observation; that eyes were fastened upon me from somewhere in the crowd. Sometimes I thought myself watched from before, sometimes from behind; and occasionally methought that, if I just turned my head to the right or left, I should meet a peering and inquiring glance; and, indeed, once or twice I did turn, expecting to see somebody whom I knew, yet always without success; though it appeared to me that I was but a moment too late, and that some one had just slipped away from the direction to which I turned, like the figure in a magic lanthorn. Once I was quite sure that there were a pair of eyes glaring over my right shoulder; my attention, however, was so fully occupied with the objects which I have attempted to describe, that I thought very little of this coming and going, this flitting and dodging of I knew not whom or what. It was, after all, a matter of sheer indifference to me who was looking at me. I could only wish, whomsoever it might be, to be more profitably employed; so I continued enjoying what I saw; and now there was a change in the scene, the wondrous old horse departed with his aged guardian; other objects of interest are at hand; two or three men on horseback are hurrying through the crowd, they are widely different in their appearance from the other people of the fair; not so much in dress, for they are clad something after the fashion of rustic jockeys, but in their look--no light brown hair have they, no ruddy cheeks, no blue quiet glances belong to them; their features are dark, their locks long, black and shining, and their eyes are wild; they are admirable horsemen, but they do not sit the saddle in the manner of common jockeys, they seem to float or hover upon it, like gulls upon the waves; two of them are mere striplings, but the third is a very tall man with a countenance heroically beautiful, but wild, wild, wild. As they rush along, the crowd give way on all sides, and now a kind of ring or circus is formed, within which the strange men exhibit their horsemanship, rushing past each other, in and out, after the manner of a reel, the tall man occasionally balancing himself upon the saddle, and standing erect on one foot. He had just regained his seat after the latter feat, and was about to push his horse to a gallop, when a figure started forward close from beside me, and laying his hand on his neck, and pulling him gently downward, appeared to whisper something into his ear; presently the tall man raised his head, and, scanning the crowd for a moment in the direction in which I was standing, fixed his eyes full upon me, and anon the countenance of the whisperer was turned, but only in part, and the side-glance of another pair of wild eyes was directed towards my face, but the entire visage of the big black man half stooping as he was, was turned full upon mine. But now, with a nod to the figure who had stopped him, and with another inquiring glance at myself, the big man once more put his steed into motion, and after riding round the ring a few more times darted through a lane in the crowd, and followed by his two companions disappeared, whereupon the figure who had whispered to him and had subsequently remained in the middle of the space, came towards me, and cracking a whip which he held in his hand so loudly that the report was nearly equal to that of a pocket pistol, he cried in a strange tone:-- "What! the sap-engro? Lor! the sap-engro upon the hill!" "I remember that word," said I, "and I almost think I remember you. You can't be--" "Jasper, your pal! Truth, and no lie, brother." "It is strange that you should have known me," said I. "I am certain, but for the word you used, I should never have recognised you." "Not so strange as you may think, brother; there is something in your face which would prevent people from forgetting you, even though they might wish it; and your face is not much altered since the time you wot of, though you are so much grown. I thought it was you, but to make sure I dodged about, inspecting you. I believe you felt me, though I never touched you; a sign, brother, that we are akin, that we are dui palor--two relations. Your blood beat when mine was near, as mine always does at the coming of a brother; and we became brothers in that lane." "And where are you staying?" said I; "in this town?" "Not in the town; the like of us don't find it exactly wholesome to stay in towns; we keep abroad. But I have little to do here--come with me and I'll show you where we stay." We descended the hill in the direction of the north, and passing along the suburb reached the old Norman bridge, which we crossed; the chalk precipice, with the ruin on its top, was now before us; but turning to the left we walked swiftly along, and presently came to some rising ground, which ascending, we found ourselves upon a wild moor or heath. "You are one of them," said I, "whom people call--" "Just so," said Jasper; "but never mind what people call us." "And that tall handsome man on the hill, whom you whispered? I suppose he's one of ye. What is his name?" "Tawno Chikno," said Jasper, "which means the small one; we call him such because he is the biggest man of all our nation. You say he is handsome, that is not the word, brother; he's the beauty of the world. Women run wild at the sight of Tawno. An earl's daughter, near London--a fine young lady with diamonds round her neck--fell in love with Tawno. I have seen that lass on a heath, as this may be, kneel down to Tawno, clasp his feet, begging to be his wife--or anything else--if she might go with him. But Tawno would have nothing to do with her. 'I have a wife of my own,' said he, 'a lawful Rommany wife, whom I love better than the whole world, jealous though she sometimes be'." "And is she very beautiful?" said I. "Why, you know, brother, beauty is frequently a matter of taste; however, as you ask my opinion, I should say not quite so beautiful as himself." We had now arrived at a small valley between two hills or downs, the sides of which were covered with furze. In the midst of this valley were various carts and low tents forming a rude kind of encampment; several dark children were playing about, who took no manner of notice of us. As we passed one of the tents, however, a canvas screen was lifted up, and a woman supported upon a crutch hobbled out. She was about the middle age, and, besides being lame, was bitterly ugly; she was very slovenly dressed, and on her swarthy features ill nature was most visibly stamped. She did not deign me a look, but addressing Jasper in a tongue which I did not understand, appeared to put some eager questions to him. "He's coming," said Jasper, and passed on. "Poor fellow," said he to me, "he has scarcely been gone an hour and she's jealous already. Well," he continued, "what do you think of her? you have seen her now and can judge for yourself--that 'ere woman is Tawno Chikno's wife!" CHAPTER XVII. We went to the farthest of the tents, which stood at a slight distance from the rest, and which exactly resembled the one which I have described on a former occasion; we went in and sat down, one on each side of a small fire which was smouldering on the ground, there was no one else in the tent but a tall tawny woman of middle age, who was busily knitting. "Brother," said Jasper, "I wish to hold some pleasant discourse with you." "As much as you please," said I, "provided you can find anything pleasant to talk about." "Never fear," said Jasper; "and first of all we will talk of yourself. Where have you been all this long time?" "Here and there," said I, "and far and near, going about with the soldiers; but there is no soldiering now, so we have sat down, father and family, in the town there." "And do you still hunt snakes?" said Jasper. "No," said I, "I have given up that long ago; I do better now: read books and learn languages." "Well, I am sorry you have given up your snake-hunting; many's the strange talk I have had with our people about your snake and yourself, and how you frightened my father and mother in the lane." "And where are your father and mother?" "Where I shall never see them, brother; at least, I hope so." "Not dead?" "No, not dead; they are bitchadey pawdel." "What's that?" "Sent across--banished." "Ah! I understand; I am sorry for them. And so you are here alone?" "Not quite alone, brother!" "No, not alone; but with the rest--Tawno Chikno takes care of you." "Takes care of me, brother!" "Yes, stands to you in the place of a father--keeps you out of harm's way." "What do you take me for, brother?" "For about three years older than myself." "Perhaps; but you are of the Gorgios, and I am a Rommany Chal. Tawno Chikno take care of Jasper Petulengro!" "Is that your name?" "Don't you like it?" "Very much, I never heard a sweeter; it is something like what you call me." "The horse-shoe master and the snake-fellow, I am the first." "Who gave you that name?" "Ask Pharaoh." "I would, if he were here, but I do not see him." "I am Pharaoh." "Then you are a king." "Chachipen, pal." "I do not understand you." "Where are your languages? You want two things, brother: mother sense and gentle Rommany." "What makes you think that I want sense?" "That, being so old, you can't yet guide yourself!" "I can read Dante, Jasper." "Anan, brother." "I can charm snakes, Jasper." "I know you can, brother." "Yes, and horses too; bring me the most vicious in the land, if I whisper he'll be tame." "Then the more shame for you--a snake-fellow--a horse-witch--and a lil- reader--yet you can't shift for yourself. I laugh at you, brother!" "Then you can shift for yourself?" "For myself and for others, brother." "And what does Chikno?" "Sells me horses, when I bid him. Those horses on the chong were mine." "And has he none of his own?" "Sometimes he has; but he is not so well off as myself. When my father and mother were bitchadey pawdel, which, to tell you the truth, they were, for chiving wafodo dloovu, they left me all they had, which was not a little, and I became the head of our family, which was not a small one. I was not older than you when that happened; yet our people said they had never a better krallis to contrive and plan for them and to keep them in order. And this is so well known, that many Rommany Chals, not of our family, come and join themselves to us, living with us for a time, in order to better themselves, more especially those of the poorer sort, who have little of their own. Tawno is one of these." "Is that fine fellow poor?" "One of the poorest, brother. Handsome as he is, he has not a horse of his own to ride on. Perhaps we may put it down to his wife, who cannot move about, being a cripple, as you saw." "And you are what is called a Gypsy King?" "Ay, ay; a Rommany Kral." "Are there other kings?" "Those who call themselves so; but the true Pharaoh is Petulengro." "Did Pharaoh make horse-shoes?" "The first who ever did, brother." "Pharaoh lived in Egypt." "So did we once, brother." "And you left it?" "My fathers did, brother." "And why did they come here?" "They had their reasons, brother." "And you are not English?" "We are not Gorgios." "And you have a language of your own?" "Avali." "This is wonderful." "Ha, ha!" cried the woman, who had hitherto sat knitting at the farther end of the tent, without saying a word, though not inattentive to our conversation, as I could perceive by certain glances which she occasionally cast upon us both. "Ha, ha!" she screamed, fixing upon me two eyes, which shone like burning coals, and which were filled with an expression both of scorn and malignity, "It is wonderful, is it, that we should have a language of our own? What, you grudge the poor people the speech they talk among themselves? That's just like you Gorgios, you would have everybody stupid, single-tongued idiots, like yourselves. We are taken before the Poknees of the gav, myself and sister, to give an account of ourselves. So I says to my sister's little boy, speaking Rommany, I says to the little boy who is with us, 'Run to my son Jasper, and the rest, and tell them to be off, there are hawks abroad'. So the Poknees questions us, and lets us go, not being able to make anything of us; but, as we are going, he calls us back. 'Good woman,' says the Poknees, 'what was that I heard you say just now to the little boy?' 'I was telling him, your worship, to go and see the time of day, and, to save trouble, I said it in our own language.' 'Where did you get that language?' says the Poknees. ''Tis our own language, sir,' I tells him, 'we did not steal it.' 'Shall I tell you what it is, my good woman?' says the Poknees. 'I would thank you, sir,' says I, 'for 'tis often we are asked about it.' 'Well, then,' says the Poknees, 'it is no language at all, merely a made-up gibberish.' 'Oh, bless your wisdom,' says I, with a curtsey, 'you can tell us what our language is without understanding it!' Another time we meet a parson. 'Good woman,' says he, 'what's that you are talking? Is it broken language?' 'Of course, your reverence,' says I, 'we are broken people; give a shilling, your reverence, to the poor broken woman.' Oh, these Gorgios! they grudge us our very language!" "She called you her son, Jasper?" "I am her son, brother." "I thought you said your parents were--" "Bitchadey pawdel; you thought right, brother. This is my wife's mother." "Then you are married, Jasper?" "Ay, truly; I am husband and father. You will see wife and chabo anon." "Where are they now?" "In the gav, penning dukkerin." "We were talking of language, Jasper?" "True, brother." "Yours must be a rum one?" "'Tis called Rommany." "I would gladly know it." "You need it sorely." "Would you teach it me?" "None sooner." "Suppose we begin now." "Suppose we do, brother." "Not whilst I am here," said the woman, flinging her knitting down, and starting upon her feet; "not whilst I am here shall this Gorgio learn Rommany. A pretty manoeuvre, truly; and what would be the end of it? I goes to the farming ker with my sister to tell a fortune, and earn a few sixpences for the chabes. I sees a jolly pig in the yard, and I says to my sister, speaking Rommany, 'Do so and so,' says I; which the farming man hearing, asks what we are talking about. 'Nothing at all, master,' says I; 'something about the weather'; when who should start up from behind a pale, where he has been listening, but this ugly gorgio, crying out, 'They are after poisoning your pigs, neighbour!' so that we are glad to run, I and my sister, with perhaps the farm-engro shouting after us. Says my sister to me, when we have got fairly off, 'How came that ugly one to know what you said to me?' Whereupon I answers, 'It all comes of my son Jasper, who brings the gorgio to our fire, and must needs be teaching him'. 'Who was fool there?' says my sister. 'Who, indeed, but my son Jasper,' I answers. And here should I be a greater fool to sit still and suffer it; which I will not do. I do not like the look of him; he looks over-gorgious. An ill day to the Romans when he masters Rommany; and when I says that, I pens a true dukkerin." "What do you call God, Jasper?" "You had better be jawing," said the woman, raising her voice to a terrible scream; "you had better be moving off, my Gorgio; hang you for a keen one, sitting there by the fire, and stealing my language before my face. Do you know whom you have to deal with? Do you know that I am dangerous? My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!" And a hairy one she looked! She wore her hair clubbed upon her head, fastened with many strings and ligatures; but now, tearing these off, her locks, originally jet black, but now partially grizzled with age, fell down on every side of her, covering her face and back as far down as her knees. No she-bear of Lapland ever looked more fierce and hairy than did that woman, as, standing in the open part of the tent, with her head bent down, and her shoulders drawn up, seemingly about to precipitate herself upon me, she repeated, again and again,-- "My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!--" "I call God Duvel, brother." "It sounds very like Devil." "It doth, brother, it doth." "And what do you call divine, I mean godly?" "Oh! I call that duvelskoe." "I am thinking of something, Jasper." "What are you thinking of, brother?" "Would it not be a rum thing if divine and devilish were originally one and the same word?" "It would, brother, it would--" * * * * * From this time I had frequent interviews with Jasper, sometimes in his tent, sometimes on the heath, about which we would roam for hours, discoursing on various matters. Sometimes mounted on one of his horses, of which he had several, I would accompany him to various fairs and markets in the neighbourhood, to which he went on his own affairs, or those of his tribe. I soon found that I had become acquainted with a most singular people, whose habits and pursuits awakened within me the highest interest. Of all connected with them, however, their language was doubtless that which exercised the greatest influence over my imagination. I had at first some suspicion that it would prove a mere made-up gibberish. But I was soon undeceived. Broken, corrupted, and half in ruins as it was, it was not long before I found that it was an original speech, far more so, indeed, than one or two others of high name and celebrity, which, up to that time, I had been in the habit of regarding with respect and veneration. Indeed, many obscure points connected with the vocabulary of these languages, and to which neither classic nor modern lore afforded any clue, I thought I could now clear up by means of this strange broken tongue, spoken by people who dwelt among thickets and furze bushes, in tents as tawny as their faces, and whom the generality of mankind designated, and with much semblance of justice, as thieves and vagabonds. But where did this speech come from, and who were they who spoke it? These were questions which I could not solve, and which Jasper himself, when pressed, confessed his inability to answer. "But, whoever we be, brother," said he, "we are an old people, and not what folks in general imagine, broken gorgios; and, if we are not Egyptians, we are at any rate Rommany chals!" "Rommany chals! I should not wonder after all," said I, "that these people had something to do with the founding of Rome. Rome, it is said, was built by vagabonds; who knows but that some tribe of the kind settled down thereabouts, and called the town which they built after their name; but whence did they come originally? ah! there is the difficulty." But abandoning these questions, which at that time were far too profound for me, I went on studying the language, and at the same time the characters and manners of these strange people. My rapid progress in the former astonished, while it delighted, Jasper. "We'll no longer call you Sap-engro, brother," said he; "but rather Lav-engro, which in the language of the gorgios meaneth Word Master." "Nay, brother," said Tawno Chikno, with whom I had become very intimate, "you had better call him Cooro-mengro, I have put on _the gloves_ with him, and find him a pure fist master; I like him for that, for I am a Cooro-mengro myself, and was born at Brummagem." "I likes him for his modesty," said Mrs. Chikno; "I never hears any ill words come from his mouth, but, on the contrary, much sweet language. His talk is golden, and he has taught my eldest to say his prayers in Rommany, which my rover had never the grace to do." "He is the pal of my rom," said Mrs. Petulengro, who was a very handsome woman, "and therefore I likes him, and not less for his being a rye; folks calls me high-minded, and perhaps I have reason to be so; before I married Pharaoh I had an offer from a lord--I likes the young rye, and, if he chooses to follow us, he shall have my sister. What say you, mother? should not the young rye have my sister Ursula?" "I am going to my people," said Mrs. Herne, placing a bundle upon a donkey, which was her own peculiar property; "I am going to Yorkshire, for I can stand this no longer. You say you like him; in that we differs: I hates the gorgio, and would like, speaking Romanly, to mix a little poison with his waters. And now go to Lundra, my children, I goes to Yorkshire. Take my blessing with ye, and a little bit of a gillie to cheer your hearts with when ye are weary. In all kinds of weather have we lived together; but now we are parted, I goes broken-hearted. I can't keep you company; ye are no longer Rommany. To gain a bad brother, ye have lost a good mother." CHAPTER XVIII. So the gypsies departed: Mrs. Herne to Yorkshire, and the rest to London. As for myself, I continued in the house of my parents, passing my time in much the same manner as I have already described, principally in philological pursuits. But I was now sixteen, and it was highly necessary that I should adopt some profession, unless I intended to fritter away my existence, and to be a useless burden to those who had given me birth. But what profession was I to choose? there being none in the wide world perhaps for which I was suited; nor was there any one for which I felt any decided inclination, though perhaps there existed within me a lurking penchant for the profession of arms, which was natural enough, as, from my earliest infancy, I had been accustomed to military sights and sounds; but this profession was then closed, as I have already hinted, and, as I believe, it has since continued, to those who, like myself, had no better claims to urge than the services of a father. My father, who, for certain reasons of his own, had no very high opinion of the advantages resulting from this career, would have gladly seen me enter the Church. His desire was, however, considerably abated by one or two passages of my life, which occurred to his recollection. He particularly dwelt on the unheard-of manner in which I had picked up the Irish language, and drew from thence the conclusion that I was not fitted by nature to cut a respectable figure at an English university. "He will fly off in a tangent," said he, "and, when called upon to exhibit his skill in Greek, will be found proficient in Irish; I have observed the poor lad attentively, and really do not know what to make of him; but I am afraid he will never make a churchman!" And I have no doubt that my excellent father was right, both in his premises and the conclusion at which he arrived. I had undoubtedly, at one period of my life, forsaken Greek for Irish, and the instructions of a learned Protestant divine for those of a Papist gassoon, the card-fancying Murtagh; and of late, though I kept it a strict secret, I had abandoned in a great measure the study of the beautiful Italian, and the recitation of the sonorous terzets of the Divine Comedy, in which at one time I took the greatest delight, in order to become acquainted with the broken speech, and yet more broken songs, of certain houseless wanderers whom I had met at a horse fair. Such an erratic course was certainly by no means in consonance with the sober and unvarying routine of college study. And my father, who was a man of excellent common sense, displayed it, in not pressing me to adopt a profession which required qualities of mind which he saw I did not possess. Other professions were talked of, amongst which the law; but now an event occurred which had nearly stopped my career, and merged all minor points of solicitude in anxiety for my life. My strength and appetite suddenly deserted me, and I began to pine and droop. Some said that I had overgrown myself, and that these were the symptoms of a rapid decline; I grew worse and worse, and was soon stretched upon my bed, from which it seemed scarcely probable that I should ever more rise, the physicians themselves giving but slight hopes of my recovery; as for myself, I made up my mind to die, and felt quite resigned. I was sadly ignorant at that time, and, when I thought of death, it appeared to me little else than a pleasant sleep, and I wished for sleep, of which I got but little. It was well that I did not die that time, for I repeat that I was sadly ignorant of many important things. I did not die, for somebody coming, gave me a strange, bitter draught; a decoction, I believe, of a bitter root which grows on commons and desolate places; and the person who gave it me was an ancient female, a kind of doctress, who had been my nurse in my infancy, and who, hearing of my state, had come to see me; so I drank the draught, and became a little better, and I continued taking draughts made from the bitter root till I manifested symptoms of convalescence. But how much more quickly does strength desert the human frame than return to it! I had become convalescent, it is true, but my state of feebleness was truly pitiable. I believe it is in that state that the most remarkable feature of human physiology frequently exhibits itself. Oh, how dare I mention the dark feeling of mysterious dread which comes over the mind, and which the lamp of reason, though burning bright the while, is unable to dispel! Art thou, as leeches say, the concomitant of disease--the result of shattered nerves? Nay, rather the principle of woe itself, the fountain head of all sorrow co-existent with man, whose influence he feels when yet unborn, and whose workings he testifies with his earliest cries, when, "drowned in tears," he first beholds the light; for, as the sparks fly upwards, so is man born to trouble, and woe doth he bring with him into the world, even thyself, dark one, terrible one, causeless, unbegotten, without a father. Oh, how unfrequently dost thou break down the barriers which divide thee from the poor soul of man, and overcast its sunshine with thy gloomy shadow! In the brightest days of prosperity--in the midst of health and wealth--how sentient is the poor human creature of thy neighbourhood! how instinctively aware that the flood-gates of horror may be cast open, and the dark stream engulf him for ever and ever! Then is it not lawful for man to exclaim, "Better that I had never been born!" Fool, for thyself thou wast not born, but to fulfil the inscrutable decrees of thy Creator; and how dost thou know that this dark principle is not, after all, thy best friend; that it is not that which tempers the whole mass of thy corruption? It may be, for what thou knowest, the mother of wisdom, and of great works; it is the dread of the horror of the night that makes the pilgrim hasten on his way. When thou feelest it nigh, let thy safety word be "Onward"; if thou tarry, thou art overwhelmed. Courage! build great works--'tis urging thee--it is ever nearest the favourites of God--the fool knows little of it. Thou wouldst be joyous, wouldst thou? then be a fool. What great work was ever the result of joy, the puny one? Who have been the wise ones, the mighty ones, the conquering ones of this earth? the joyous? I believe not. The fool is happy, or comparatively so--certainly the least sorrowful, but he is still a fool; and whose notes are sweetest, those of the nightingale, or of the silly lark? * * * * * "What ails you, my child?" said a mother to her son, as he lay on a couch under the influence of the dreadful one; "what ails you? you seem afraid!" _Boy_. And so I am; a dreadful fear is upon me. _Mother_. But of what; there is no one can harm you; of what are you apprehensive? _Boy_. Of nothing that I can express; I know not what I am afraid of, but afraid I am. _Mother_. Perhaps you see sights and visions; I knew a lady once who was continually thinking that she saw an armed man threaten her, but it was only an imagination, a phantom of the brain. _Boy_. No armed man threatens me; and 'tis not a thing like that would cause me any fear. Did an armed man threaten me, I would get up and fight him; weak as I am, I would wish for nothing better, for then, perhaps, I should lose this fear; mine is a dread of I know not what, and there the horror lies. _Mother_. Your forehead is cool, and your speech collected. Do you know where you are? _Boy_. I know where I am, and I see things just as they are; you are beside me, and upon the table there is a book which was written by a Florentine; all this I see, and that there is no ground for being afraid. I am, moreover, quite cool, and feel no pain--but, but-- And then there was a burst of "_gemiti_, _sospiri ed alti guai_". Alas, alas, poor child of clay! as the sparks fly upward, so wast thou born to sorrow--Onward! {112} CHAPTER XIX. It has been said by this or that writer, I scarcely know by whom, that, in proportion as we grow old, and our time becomes short, the swifter does it pass, until at last, as we approach the borders of the grave, it assumes all the speed and impetuosity of a river about to precipitate itself into an abyss; this is doubtless the case, provided we can carry to the grave those pleasant thoughts and delusions which alone render life agreeable, and to which even to the very last we would gladly cling; but what becomes of the swiftness of time, when the mind sees the vanity of human pursuits? which is sure to be the case when its fondest, dearest hopes have been blighted at the very moment when the harvest was deemed secure. What becomes from that moment, I repeat, of the shortness of time? I put not the question to those who have never known that trial; they are satisfied with themselves and all around them, with what they have done and yet hope to do; some carry their delusions with them to the borders of the grave, ay, to the very moment when they fall into it; a beautiful golden cloud surrounds them to the last, and such talk of the shortness of time; through the medium of that cloud the world has ever been a pleasant world to them; their only regret is that they are so soon to quit it; but oh, ye dear deluded hearts, it is not every one who is so fortunate! To the generality of mankind there is no period like youth. The generality are far from fortunate; but the period of youth, even to the least so, offers moments of considerable happiness, for they are not only disposed, but able to enjoy most things within their reach. With what trifles at that period are we content; the things from which in after- life we should turn away in disdain please us then, for we are in the midst of a golden cloud, and everything seems decked with a golden hue. Never during any portion of my life did time flow on more speedily than during the two or three years immediately succeeding the period to which we arrived in the preceding chapter. Since then it has flagged often enough; sometimes it has seemed to stand entirely still; and the reader may easily judge how it fares at the present, from the circumstance of my taking pen in hand, and endeavouring to write down the passages of my life--a last resource with most people. But at the period to which I allude I was just, as I may say, entering upon life; I had adopted a profession, and--to keep up my character, simultaneously with that profession--the study of a new language; I speedily became a proficient in the one, but ever remained a novice in the other: a novice in the law, but a perfect master in the Welsh tongue. Yes! very pleasant times were those, when within the womb of a lofty deal desk, behind which I sat for some eight hours every day, transcribing (when I imagined eyes were upon me) documents of every description in every possible hand, Blackstone kept company with Ab Gwilym--the polished English lawyer of the last century, who wrote long and prosy chapters on the rights of things--with a certain wild Welshman, who some four hundred years before that time indited immortal cowydds and odes to the wives of Cambrian chieftains--more particularly to one Morfydd, the wife of a certain hunchbacked dignitary called by the poet facetiously Bwa Bach--generally terminating with the modest request of a little private parlance beneath the green wood bough, with no other witness than the eos, or nightingale, a request which, if the poet himself may be believed--rather a doubtful point--was seldom, very seldom, denied. And by what strange chance had Ab Gwilym and Blackstone, two personages so exceedingly different, been thus brought together? From what the reader already knows of me, he may be quite prepared to find me reading the former; but what could have induced me to take up Blackstone, or rather the law? I have ever loved to be as explicit as possible; on which account, perhaps, I never attained to any proficiency in the law, the essence of which is said to be ambiguity; most questions may be answered in a few words, and this among the rest, though connected with the law. My parents deemed it necessary that I should adopt some profession, they named the law; the law was as agreeable to me as any other profession within my reach, so I adopted the law, and the consequence was, that Blackstone, probably for the first time, found himself in company with Ab Gwilym. By adopting the law I had not ceased to be Lavengro. So I sat behind a desk many hours in the day, ostensibly engaged in transcribing documents of various kinds. The scene of my labours was a strange old house, occupying one side of a long and narrow court, into which, however, the greater number of the windows looked not, but into an extensive garden, filled with fruit trees, in the rear of a large, handsome house, belonging to a highly respectable gentleman, who, _moyennant un douceur considerable_, had consented to instruct my father's youngest son in the mysteries of glorious English law. Ah! would that I could describe the good gentleman in the manner which he deserves; he has long since sunk to his place in a respectable vault, in the aisle of a very respectable church, whilst an exceedingly respectable marble slab against the neighbouring wall tells on a Sunday some eye wandering from its prayer-book that his dust lies below; to secure such respectabilities in death, he passed a most respectable life. Let no one sneer, he accomplished much; his life was peaceful, so was his death. Are these trifles? I wish I could describe him, for I loved the man, and with reason, for he was ever kind to me, to whom kindness has not always been shown; and he was, moreover, a choice specimen of a class which no longer exists--a gentleman lawyer of the old school. I would fain describe him, but figures with which he has nought to do press forward and keep him from my mind's eye; there they pass, Spaniard and Moor, Gypsy, Turk, and livid Jew. But who is that? what that thick pursy man in the loose, snuff-coloured greatcoat, with the white stockings, drab breeches, and silver buckles on his shoes? that man with the bull neck, and singular head, immense in the lower part, especially about the jaws, but tapering upward like a pear; the man with the bushy brows, small grey eyes, replete with cat-like expression, whose grizzled hair is cut close, and whose ear-lobes are pierced with small golden rings? Oh! that is not my dear old master, but a widely different personage. _Bon jour_, _Monsieur Vidocq_! _expressions de ma part a Monsieur le Baron Taylor_. {115} But here comes at last my veritable old master! A more respectable-looking individual was never seen; he really looked what he was, a gentleman of the law--there was nothing of the pettifogger about him. Somewhat under the middle size, and somewhat rotund in person, he was always dressed in a full suit of black, never worn long enough to become threadbare. His face was rubicund, and not without keenness; but the most remarkable thing about him was the crown of his head, which was bald, and shone like polished ivory, nothing more white, smooth, and lustrous. Some people have said that he wore false calves, probably because his black silk stockings never exhibited a wrinkle; they might just as well have said that he waddled, because his shoes creaked; for these last, which were always without a speck, and polished as his crown, though of a different hue, did creak, as he walked rather slowly. I cannot say that I ever saw him walk fast. He had a handsome practice, and might have died a very rich man, much richer than he did, had he not been in the habit of giving rather expensive dinners to certain great people, who gave him nothing in return, except their company; I could never discover his reasons for doing so, as he always appeared to me a remarkably quiet man, by nature averse to noise and bustle; but in all dispositions there are anomalies. I have already said that he lived in a handsome house, and I may as well here add that he had a very handsome wife, who both dressed and talked exceedingly well. So I sat behind the deal desk, engaged in copying documents of various kinds; and in the apartment in which I sat, and in the adjoining ones, there were others, some of whom likewise copied documents, while some were engaged in the yet more difficult task of drawing them up; and some of these, sons of nobody, were paid for the work they did, whilst others, like myself, sons of somebody, paid for being permitted to work, which as our principal observed, was but reasonable, forasmuch as we not unfrequently utterly spoiled the greater part of the work intrusted to our hands. There was one part of the day when I generally found myself quite alone, I mean at the hour when the rest went home to their principal meal; I, being the youngest, was left to take care of the premises, to answer the bell, and so forth, till relieved, which was seldom before the expiration of an hour and a half, when I myself went home; this period, however, was anything but disagreeable to me, for it was then that I did what best pleased me, and, leaving off copying the documents, I sometimes indulged in a fit of musing, my chin resting on both my hands, and my elbows planted on the desk; or, opening the desk aforesaid, I would take out one of the books contained within it, and the book which I took out was almost invariably, not Blackstone, but Ab Gwilym. Ah, that Ab Gwilym! I am much indebted to him, and it were ungrateful on my part not to devote a few lines to him and his songs in this my history. Start not, reader, I am not going to trouble you with a poetical dissertation; no, no! I know my duty too well to introduce anything of the kind; but I, who imagine I know several things, and amongst others the workings of your mind at this moment, have an idea that you are anxious to learn a little, a very little, more about Ab Gwilym than I have hitherto told you, the two or three words that I have dropped having awakened within you a languid kind of curiosity. I have no hesitation in saying that he makes one of the some half-dozen really great poets whose verses, in whatever language they wrote, exist at the present day, and are more or less known. It matters little how I first became acquainted with the writings of this man, and how the short thick volume, stuffed full with his immortal imaginings, first came into my hands. I was studying Welsh, and I fell in with Ab Gwilym by no very strange chance. But before I say more about Ab Gwilym, I must be permitted--I really must--to say a word or two about the language in which he wrote, that same "Sweet Welsh". If I remember right, I found the language a difficult one; in mastering it, however, I derived unexpected assistance from what of Irish remained in my head, and I soon found that they were cognate dialects, springing from some old tongue which itself, perhaps, had sprung from one much older. And here I cannot help observing cursorily that I every now and then, whilst studying this Welsh, generally supposed to be the original tongue of Britain, encountered words which, according to the lexicographers, were venerable words, highly expressive, showing the wonderful power and originality of the Welsh, in which, however, they were no longer used in common discourse, but were relics, precious relics, of the first speech of Britain, perhaps of the world; with which words, however, I was already well acquainted, and which I had picked up, not in learned books, classic books, and in tongues of old renown, but whilst listening to Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno talking over their every-day affairs in the language of the tents; which circumstance did not fail to give rise to deep reflection in those moments when, planting my elbows on the deal desk, I rested my chin upon my hands. But it is probable that I should have abandoned the pursuit of the Welsh language, after obtaining a very superficial acquaintance with it, had it not been for Ab Gwilym. A strange songster was that who, pretending to be captivated by every woman he saw, was, in reality, in love with nature alone--wild, beautiful, solitary nature--her mountains and cascades, her forests and streams, her birds, fishes, and wild animals. Go to, Ab Gwilym, with thy pseudo-amatory odes, to Morfydd, or this or that other lady, fair or ugly; little didst thou care for any of them, Dame Nature was thy love, however thou mayest seek to disguise the truth. Yes, yes, send thy love- message to Morfydd, the fair wanton. By whom dost thou send it, I would know? by the salmon, forsooth, which haunts the rushing stream! the glorious salmon which bounds and gambols in the flashing water, and whose ways and circumstances thou so well describest--see, there he hurries upwards through the flashing water. Halloo! what a glimpse of glory--but where is Morfydd the while? What, another message to the wife of Bwa Bach? Ay, truly; and by whom?--the wind! the swift wind, the rider of the world, whose course is not to be stayed; who gallops o'er the mountain, and, when he comes to broadest river, asks neither for boat nor ferry; who has described the wind so well--his speed and power? But where is Morfydd? And now thou art awaiting Morfydd, the wanton, the wife of the Bwa Bach; thou art awaiting her beneath the tall trees, amidst the underwood; but she comes not; no Morfydd is there. Quite right, Ab Gwilym; what wantest thou with Morfydd? But another form is nigh at hand, that of red Reynard, who, seated upon his chine at the mouth of his cave, looks very composedly at thee; thou startest, bendest thy bow, thy cross-bow, intending to hit Reynard with the bolt just about the jaw; but the bow breaks, Reynard barks and disappears into his cave, which by thine own account reaches hell--and then thou ravest at the misfortune of thy bow, and the non-appearance of Morfydd, and abusest Reynard. Go to, thou carest neither for thy bow nor for Morfydd, thou merely seekest an opportunity to speak of Reynard; and who has described him like thee? the brute with the sharp shrill cry, the black reverse of melody, whose face sometimes wears a smile like the devil's in the Evangile. But now thou art actually with Morfydd; yes, she has stolen from the dwelling of the Bwa Bach and has met thee beneath those rocks--she is actually with thee, Ab Gwilym; but she is not long with thee, for a storm comes on, and thunder shatters the rocks--Morfydd flees! Quite right, Ab Gwilym; thou hadst no need of her, a better theme for song is the voice of the Lord--the rock shatterer--than the frail wife of the Bwa Bach. Go to, Ab Gwilym, thou wast a wiser and a better man than thou wouldst fain have had people believe. But enough of thee and thy songs! Those times passed rapidly away; with Ab Gwilym in my hand, I was in the midst of enchanted ground, in which I experienced sensations akin to those I had felt of yore whilst spelling my way through the wonderful book--the delight of my childhood. I say akin, for perhaps only once in our lives do we experience unmixed wonder and delight; and these I had already known. [It was my own fault if I did not acquire considerable knowledge of life and character, in the place to which my kind parents had sent me. I performed the tasks that were allotted to me in the profession I had embraced, if not very scrupulously, yet, perhaps as well as could be expected in one who was occupied by many and busy thoughts of his own. I copied what was set before me, and admitted those who knocked at the door of the sanctuary of law and conveyancing, performing the latter office indeed from choice, long after it had ceased to be part of my duty by the arrival of another, and of course a junior, pupil. I scarcely know what induced me to take pleasure in this task, yet there can be no doubt that I did take pleasure in it, otherwise I should scarcely have performed it so readily. It has been said, I believe, that whatever we do _con amore_, we are sure to do well, and I dare say that, as a general rule, this may hold good. One thing is certain, that with whatever satisfaction to myself I performed the task, I was not equally fortunate in pleasing my employer, who complained of my want of discrimination and yet, strange as it may seem, this last is a quality upon which I not only particularly valued myself at the time, but still do in a high degree. I made a point never to admit any persons without subjecting them to the rigorous investigation of the pair of eyes that providence had been pleased to place in my head. To those who pleased me not, I was little better than a Cerberus whom it was very difficult to pass; whilst to others, I was all easiness and condescension, ushering them straight to the sanctum sanctorum, in which, behind a desk covered with letters and papers, stood--for he never sat down to his desk--the respectable individual whose lawful commands to obey and whose secrets to keep I had pledged myself by certain articles duly stamped and signed. "This will never do," said he to me one day; "you will make me a bankrupt, unless you alter your conduct. There is scarcely one of my respectable clients but complains of your incivility. I speak to you, my poor boy, as much on your own account as on mine. I quite tremble for you. Are you aware of the solecisms you commit? Only yesterday you turned Sir Edward from the door, and immediately after you admitted Parkinson the poet! What an insult to a gentleman to be turned from the door, and a strolling vagabond to be admitted before his eyes!" "I can't help it," said I; "I used my best powers of discrimination; I looked both full in the face, and the one struck me as being an honest man, whilst the other had the very look of a slave driver." "In the face? Bless me! But you looked at their dress, I suppose? You looked at Sir Edward's dress?" "No," said I, "I merely looked at his countenance." "Which you thought looked like that of a slave driver. Well, he's been in the Indies, where he made his fortune; so, perhaps, you may not be so far out. However, be more cautious in future; look less at people's countenances and more at their--I dare say you understand me: admit every decent person, and if you turn away anybody, pray let it be the poet Parkinson . . ." Keeping the admonition of my principal in view, I admitted without word or comment, provided the possessors had a decent coat to their backs, all kinds of countenances--honest countenances, dishonest countenances, and those which were neither. Amongst all these, some of which belonged to naval and military officers, notaries public, magistrates, bailiffs, and young ecclesiastics--the latter with spotless neck-cloths and close-shaven chins--there were three countenances which particularly pleased me: the first being that of an ancient earl, who wore a pig-tail, and the back of whose coat was white with powder; the second, that of a yeoman ninety years old and worth 90,000 pounds, who, dressed in an entire suit of whitish corduroy, sometimes slowly trotted up the court on a tall heavy steed, which seemed by no means unused to the plough. The third was that of the poet Parkinson. I am not quite sure that I remember the business which brought this last individual so frequently to our office, for he paid us a great many visits. I am inclined to believe, however, that he generally carried in his pocket a bundle of printed poems of his own composition, on the sale of which he principally depended for his subsistence. He was a man of a singular, though to me by no means unpleasant countenance; he wore an old hat and a snuff-coloured greatcoat, and invariably carried in his hand a stout cudgel like a man much in the habit of walking, which he probably was, from the circumstance of his being generally covered with dust in summer, and in winter splashed with mud from head to foot. "You cannot see the principal to-day, Mr. Parkinson," said I to him once, as unannounced he entered the room where I sat alone; "he is gone out and will not return for some time." "Well, that's unfortunate, for I want to consult him on some particular business." "What business is it? Perhaps I can be of service to you. Does it relate to the common law?" "I suppose so, for I am told it is a common assault; but I had better wait till the gentleman comes home. You are rather too young; and besides I have other matters to consult him about; I have two or three papers in my pocket . . ." "You cannot see him to-day," said I; "but you were talking of an assault. Has any one been beating you?" "Not exactly; I got into a bit of a ruffle, and am threatened with an action." "Oh! so you have been beating somebody." "And if I did, how could I help it? I'll tell you how it happened. I have a gift of making verses, as perhaps you know--in fact, everybody knows. When I had sowed my little trifle of corn in the bit of ground that my father left me, having nothing better to do, I sat down and wrote a set of lines to my lord, in which I told him what a fine old gentleman he was. Then I took my stick and walked off to ---, where, after a little difficulty, I saw my lord, and read the verses to him which I had made, offering to print them if he thought proper. Well, he was mightily pleased with them, and said they were too good to be printed, and begged that I would do no such thing, which I promised him I would not, and left him, not before, however, he had given me a King James' guinea, which they say is worth two of King George's. Well, I made my bow and went to the village, and in going past the ale-house I thought I would just step in, which I did. The house was full of people, chiefly farmers, and when they saw me they asked me to sit down and take a glass with them, which I did, and being called upon for a song I sang one, and then began talking about myself and how much my lord thought of me, and I repeated the lines which I had written to him, and showed them the James' guinea he had given me. You should have seen the faces they cast upon me at the sight of the gold; they couldn't stand it, for it was a confirmation to their envious hearts of all I had told them. Presently one called me a boasting fool, and getting up said that my lord was a yet greater fool for listening to me, and then added that the lines I had been reading were not of my own making. 'No, you dog,' said he, 'they are not of your own making; you got somebody to make them for you.' Now, I do not mind being called a boaster, nor a dog either, but when he told me that my verses were not my own, I couldn't contain myself, so I told him he lied, whereupon he flung a glass of liquor in my face, and I knocked him down." "Mr. Parkinson," said I, "are you much in the habit of writing verses to great people?" "Great and small. I consider nothing too high or too low. I have written verses upon the king, and upon a prize ox; for the first I got nothing, but the owner of the ox at Christmas sent me the better part of the chine." "In fact, you write on all kinds of subjects." "And I carry them to the people whom I think they'll please." "And what subjects please best?" "Animals; my work chiefly lies in the country, and people in the country prefer their animals to anything else." "Have you ever written on amatory subjects?" "When young people are about to be married, I sometimes write in that style; but it doesn't take. People think, perhaps, that I am jesting at them, but no one thinks I am jesting at his horse or his ox when I speak well of them. There was an old lady who had a peacock; I sent her some lines upon the bird; she never forgot it, and when she died she left me the bird stuffed and ten pounds." "Mr. Parkinson, you put me very much in mind of the Welsh bards." "The Welsh what?" "Bards. Did you never hear of them?" "Can't say that I ever did." "You do not understand Welsh?" "I do not." "Well, provided you did, I should be strongly disposed to imagine that you imitated the Welsh bards." "I imitate no one," said Mr. Parkinson; "though if you mean by the Welsh bards the singing bards of the country, it is possible we may resemble one another; only I would scorn to imitate anybody, even a bard." "I was not speaking of birds, but bards--Welsh poets--and it is surprising how much the turn of your genius coincides with theirs. Why, the subjects of hundreds of their compositions are the very subjects which you appear to delight in, and are the most profitable to you--beeves, horses, hawks--which they described to their owners in colours the most glowing and natural, and then begged them as presents. I have even seen in Welsh an ode to a peacock." "I can't help it," said Parkinson, "and I tell you again that I imitate nobody." "Do you travel much about?" "Aye, aye. As soon as I have got my seed into the ground, or my crop into my barn, I lock up my home and set out from house to house and village to village, and many is the time I sit down beneath the hedges and take out my pen and inkhorn. It is owing to that, I suppose, that I have been called the flying poet." . . . [_Wanting_.] "It appears to me, young man," said Parkinson, "that you are making game of me." "I should as much scorn to make game of any one, as you would scorn to imitate any one, Mr. Parkinson." "Well, so much the better for us both. But we'll now talk of my affair. Are you man enough to give me an opinion upon it?" "Quite so," said I, "Mr. Parkinson. I understand the case clearly, and I unhesitatingly assert that any action for battery brought against you would be flung out of court, and the bringer of said action be obliged to pay the costs, the original assault having been perpetrated by himself when he flung the liquor in your face; and to set your mind perfectly at ease I will read to you what Lord Chief Justice Blackstone says upon the subject." "Thank you," said Parkinson, after I had read him an entire chapter on the rights of persons, expounding as I went along. "I see you understand the subject, and are a respectable young man--which I rather doubted at first from your countenance, which shows the folly of taking against a person for the cast of his face or the glance of his eye. Now, I'll maintain that you are a respectable young man, whoever says to the contrary; and that some day or other you will be an honour to your profession and a credit to your friends. I like chapter and verse when I ask a question, and you have given me both; you shall never want my good word; meanwhile, if there is anything that I can oblige you in--" "There is, Mr. Parkinson, there is." "Well, what is it?" "It has just occurred to me that you could give me a hint or two at versification. I have just commenced, but I find it no easy matter, the rhymes are particularly perplexing." "Are you quite serious?" "Quite so; and to convince you, here is an ode of Ab Gwilym which I am translating, but I can get no farther than the first verse." "Why, that was just my case when I first began," said Parkinson. "I think I have been tolerably successful in the first verse, and that I have not only gotten the sense of the author, but that alliteration, which, as you may perhaps be aware, is one of the most peculiar features of Welsh poetry. In the ode to which I allude the poet complains of the barbarity of his mistress, Morfydd, and what an unthankful task it is to be the poet of a beauty so proud and disdainful, which sentiment I have partly rendered thus:-- _Mine is a task by no means merry_, in which you observe that the first word of the line and the last two commence with the same letter, according to the principle of Welsh prosody. But now cometh the difficulty. What is the rhyme for _merry_?" "_Londonderry_," said the poet without hesitation, "as you will see by the poem which I addressed to Mr. C., the celebrated Whig agriculturist, on its being reported that the king was about to pay him a visit:-- _But if in our town he would wish to be merry_ _Pray don't let him bring with him Lord Londonderry_, which two lines procured me the best friend I ever had in my life." "They are certainly fine lines," I observed, "and I am not at all surprised that the agriculturist was pleased with them; but I am afraid that I cannot turn to much account the hint which they convey. How can I possibly introduce Londonderry into my second line?" "I see no difficulty," said Parkinson; "just add:-- _I sing proud Mary of Londonderry_ to your first line, and I do not see what objection could be made to the couplet, as they call it." "No farther," said I, "than that she was not of Londonderry, which was not even built at the time she lived." "Well, have your own way," said Parkinson; "I see that you have not had the benefit of a classical education." "What makes you think so?" "Why, you never seem to have heard of poetical license." "I see," said I, "that I must give up alliteration. Alliteration and rhyme together will, I am afraid, be too much for me. Perhaps the couplet had best stand thus:-- _I long have had a duty hard_, _I long have been fair Morfydd's bard_. "That won't do," said Parkinson. "Why not?" "Because 'tis not English. Bard, indeed! I tell you what, young man, you have no talent for poetry; if you had, you would not want my help. No, no; cleave to your own profession and you will be an honour to it, but leave poetry to me. I counsel you as a friend. Good-morning to you."] CHAPTER XX. "I am afraid that I have not acted very wisely in putting this boy of ours to the law," said my father to my mother, as they sat together one summer evening in their little garden, beneath the shade of some tall poplars. Yes, there sat my father in the garden chair which leaned against the wall of his quiet home, the haven in which he had sought rest, and, praise be to God, found it, after many a year of poorly requited toil; there he sat, with locks of silver gray which set off so nobly his fine bold but benevolent face, his faithful consort at his side, and his trusty dog at his feet--an eccentric animal of the genuine regimental breed, who, born amongst red-coats, had not yet become reconciled to those of any other hue, barking and tearing at them when they drew near the door, but testifying his fond reminiscence of the former by hospitable waggings of the tail whenever a uniform made its appearance--at present a very unfrequent occurrence. "I am afraid I have not done right in putting him to the law," said my father, resting his chin upon his gold-headed bamboo cane. "Why, what makes you think so?" said my mother. "I have been taking my usual evening walk up the road, with the animal here," said my father; "and, as I walked along, I overtook the boy's master, Mr. S--- {126}. We shook hands, and after walking a little way farther, we turned back together, talking about this and that; the state of the country, the weather, and the dog, which he greatly admired; for he is a good-natured man, and has a good word for everybody, though the dog all but bit him when he attempted to coax his head; after the dog, we began talking about the boy; it was myself who introduced that subject: I thought it was a good opportunity to learn how he was getting on, so I asked what he thought of my son; he hesitated at first, seeming scarcely to know what to say; at length he came out with 'Oh, a very extraordinary youth, a most remarkable youth, indeed, captain!' 'Indeed,' said I, 'I am glad to hear it, but I hope you find him steady?' 'Steady, steady,' said he, 'why, yes, he's steady, I cannot say that he is not steady.' 'Come, come,' said I, beginning to be rather uneasy, 'I see plainly that you are not altogether satisfied with him; I was afraid you would not be, for, though he is my own son, I am anything but blind to his imperfections: but do tell me what particular fault you have to find with him; and I will do my best to make him alter his conduct.' 'No fault to find with him, captain, I assure you, no fault whatever; the youth is a remarkable youth, an extraordinary youth, only'--As I told you before, Mr. S--- is the best-natured man in the world, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I could get him to say a single word to the disadvantage of the boy, for whom he seems to entertain a very great regard. At last I forced the truth from him, and grieved I was to hear it; though I must confess I was somewhat prepared for it. It appears that the lad has a total want of discrimination." "I don't understand you," said my mother. "You can understand nothing that would seem for a moment to impugn the conduct of that child. I am not, however, so blind; want of discrimination was the word, and it both sounds well, and is expressive. It appears that, since he has been placed where he is, he has been guilty of the grossest blunders; only the other day, Mr. S--- told me, as he was engaged in close conversation with one of his principal clients, the boy came to tell him that a person wanted particularly to speak with him; and, on going out, he found a lamentable figure with one eye, who came to ask for charity; whom, nevertheless, the lad had ushered into a private room, and installed in an arm-chair, like a justice of the peace, instead of telling him to go about his business--now what did that show, but a total want of discrimination?" "I wish we may never have anything worse to reproach him with," said my mother. "I don't know what worse we could reproach him with," said my father: "I mean of course as far as his profession is concerned: discrimination is the very key-stone; if he treated all people alike, he would soon become a beggar himself; there are grades in society as well as in the army; and according to those grades we should fashion our behaviour, else there would instantly be an end of all order and discipline. I am afraid that the child is too condescending to his inferiors, whilst to his superiors he is apt to be unbending enough; I don't believe that would do in the world; I am sure it would not in the army. He told me another anecdote with respect to his behaviour, which shocked me more than the other had done. It appears that his wife, who, by-the-bye, is a very fine woman, and highly fashionable, gave him permission to ask the boy to tea one evening, for she is herself rather partial to the lad; there had been a great dinner party there that day, and there were a great many fashionable people, so the boy went and behaved very well and modestly for some time, and was rather noticed, till, unluckily, a very great gentleman, an archdeacon I think, put some questions to him, and, finding that he understood the languages, began talking to him about the classics. What do you think? the boy had the impertinence to say that the classics were much overvalued, and amongst other things that some horrid fellow or other, some Welshman I think (thank God it was not an Irishman), was a better poet than Ovid; the company were of course horrified; the archdeacon, who is seventy years of age, and has 7000 pounds a year, took snuff and turned away. Mrs. S--- turned up her eyes, Mr. S---, however, told me with his usual good-nature (I suppose to spare my feelings) that he rather enjoyed the thing, and thought it a capital joke." "I think so too," said my mother. "I do not," said my father; "that a boy of his years should entertain an opinion of his own--I mean one which militates against all established authority--is astounding; as well might a raw recruit pretend to offer an unfavourable opinion on the manual and platoon exercise; the idea is preposterous; the lad is too independent by half. I never yet knew one of an independent spirit get on in the army; the secret of success in the army is the spirit of subordination." "Which is a poor spirit after all," said my mother; "but the child is not in the army." "And it is well for him that he is not," said my father; "but you do not talk wisely, the world is a field of battle, and he who leaves the ranks, what can he expect but to be cut down? I call his present behaviour leaving the ranks, and going vapouring about without orders; his only chance lies in falling in again as quick as possible; does he think he can carry the day by himself? an opinion of his own at these years! I confess I am exceedingly uneasy about the lad." ["I am not," said my mother; "I have no doubt that Providence will take care of him." "I repeat that I am exceedingly uneasy," said my father; "I can't help being so, and would give my largest piece of coin to know what kind of part he will play in life." "Such curiosity is blamable," said my mother, "highly so. Let us leave these things to Providence, and hope for the best; but to wish to pry into the future, which is hidden from us, and wisely too, is mighty wicked. _Tempt not Providence_. I early contracted a dread of that sin. When I was only a child, something occurred connected with diving into the future, which had, I hope, a salutary effect on my subsequent conduct. The fright which I got then, I shall never forget. But it is getting dark, and we had better go into the house." "We are well enough here," said my father; "go on with your discourse. You were speaking of tempting Providence, and of having been frightened." "It was a long time ago," said my mother, "when I was quite a child, and I was only a humble assistant in the affair. Your wish to dive into the future brought it to my recollection. It was, perhaps, only a foolish affair after all, and I would rather not talk about it, especially as it is growing dark. We had better go in." "A tale with any terror in it is all the better for being told in the dark hour," said my father; "you are not afraid, I hope." "Afraid, indeed! Of what should I be afraid? And yet I know not how it is, I feel a chill, as if something was casting a cold shadow upon me. By- the-bye, I have often heard that child talk of an indescribable fear which sometimes attacks him and which he calls the shadow. I wonder if it at all resembles what I am feeling now!" "Never mind the child or his shadow," said my father, "but let us hear the story." "I have no objection to tell it; but perhaps after all it is mere nonsense and will only make you laugh." "Why, then, so much the better; it will perhaps drive from my head what Mr. Simpson told me, which I certainly considered to be no laughing matter, though you and he did. I would hear the story by all means." "Well, so you shall. 'Tis said, however, that a superstition lies at the bottom of it, as old as the Danes. So, at least, says the child, who by some means or other has of late become acquainted with their language. He says that of old they worshipped a god whose name was Frey, and that this Frey had a wife." "Indeed!" said my father, "and who told you this?" "Why, the child," said my mother hesitatingly; "it was he that told me." "I am afraid that it will indeed prove a foolish story," said my father; "the child is mixed up with it already." "He is _not_ mixed up with it," said my mother. "What I am about to relate occurred many a long year before he was born. But he is fond of hearing odd tales; and some time ago when he was poorly, I told him this one amongst others, and it was then he made the observation that it is a relic of the worship of the Danes. Truly the child talked both sensibly and learnedly. The Danes, he said, were once a mighty people, and were masters of the land where we at present are; that they had gods of their own, strange and wild like themselves, and that it was their god Frey who gave his name to what we call Friday." "All this may be true," said my father, "but I should never think of quoting the child as an authority." "You must not be too hard on him," said my mother. "So this Frey had a wife whose name was Freya, and the child says that the old pagans considered them as the gods of love and marriage, and worshipped them as such; and that all young damsels were in the habit of addressing themselves to Freya in their love adventures, and of requesting her assistance. He told me, and he quite frightened me when he said it, that a certain night ceremony, in which I took part in my early youth, and which is the affair to which I have alluded, was in every point heathenish, being neither more nor less than an invocation to this Freya, the wife of the old pagan god." "And what ceremony might it be?" demanded my father. "It is getting something dark," he added, glancing around. "It is so," said my mother; "but these tales, you know, are best suited to the dark hour. The ceremony was rather a singular one; the child, however, explains it rationally enough. He says that this Freya was not only a very comely woman, but also particularly neat in her person, and that she invariably went dressed in snow-white linen." "And how came the child to know all this?" demanded my father. "Oh, that's his affair. I am merely repeating what he tells me. He reads strange books and converses with strange people. What he says, however, upon this matter, seems sensible enough. This Freya was fond of snow-white linen." "And what has that to do with the story?" "Everything. I have told you that the young maidens were in the habit of praying to her and requesting her favour and assistance in their love adventures, which it seems she readily granted to those whom she took any interest in. Now the readiest way to secure this interest and to procure her assistance in any matter of the heart, was to flatter her on the point where she was the most sensible. Whence the offering." "And what was the offering?" "It was once a common belief that the young maiden who should wash her linen white in pure running water and should 'watch' it whilst drying before a fire from eleven to twelve at night, would, at the stroke of midnight, see the face of the man appear before her who was destined to be her husband, and the child says that this was the '_Wake of Freya_'." "I have heard of it before," said my father, "but under another name. So you were engaged in one of these watchings." "It was no fault of mine," said my mother; "for, as I told you, I was very young, scarcely ten years of age; but I had a sister considerably older than myself, a nice girl, but somewhat giddy and rather unsettled. Perhaps, poor thing, she had some cause; for a young man to whom she had been betrothed, had died suddenly, which was of course a terrible disappointment to her. Well, it is at such times that strange ideas, temptations perhaps, come into our head. To be brief, she had a mighty desire to know whether she was doomed to be married or not. I remember that at that time there were many odd beliefs and superstitions which have since then died away; for those times were not like these; there were highwaymen in the land, and people during the winter evenings used to sit round the fire and tell wonderful tales of those wild men and their horses; and these tales they would blend with ghost stories and the like. My sister was acquainted with all the tales and superstitions afloat and believed in them. So she determined upon the wake, the night- watch of Freya, as the child calls it. But with all her curiosity she was a timid creature, and was afraid to perform the ceremony alone. So she told me of her plan, and begged me to stand by her. Now, though I was a child, I had a spirit of my own and likewise a curiosity; and though I had other sisters, I loved her best of all of them, so I promised her that I would stand by her. Then we made our preparations. The first thing we did was to walk over to the town, which was about three miles distant--the pretty little rural town which you and the child admire so much, and in the neighbourhood of which I was born--to purchase the article we were in need of. After a considerable search we found such an one as we thought would suit. It was of the best Holland, and I remember that it cost us all the little pocket money we could muster. This we brought home; and that same night my sister put it on and wore it for that once only. We had washed it in a brook on the other side of the moor. I remember the spot well; it was in a little pool beneath an old hollow oak. The next night we entered on the ceremony itself. "It happened to be Saturday, which was lucky for us, as my father that night would be at the town, whither he went every Saturday to sell grain; for he farmed his own little estate, as you know." "I remember him well," said my father; "he preferred ale to wine." "My father was of the old race," said my mother, "and lived in the days of the highwaymen and their horses, when 'ale was ale,' as he used to say, and 'was good for man and beast'. We knew that on the night in question he would not be home till very late; so we offered to sit up for him in lieu of the servant, who was glad enough in such weather, and after a hard day's work, to escape to her bed. My mother was indisposed and had retired to rest early. Well do I remember that night; it was the beginning of December, and the weather for some time past had been piercingly cold. The wind howled through the leafless boughs, and there was every appearance of an early and severe winter, as indeed befel. Long before eleven o'clock all was hushed and quiet within the house, and indeed without (nothing was heard), except the cold wind which howled mournfully in gusts. The house was an old farm-house, and we sat in the large kitchen with its stone floor, awaiting the first stroke of the eleventh hour. It struck at last, and then all pale and trembling we hung the garment to dry before the fire which we had piled up with wood, and set the door ajar, for that was an essential point. The door was lofty and opened upon the farmyard, through which there was a kind of thoroughfare, very seldom used, it is true, and at each end of it there was a gate by which wayfarers occasionally passed to shorten the way. There we sat without speaking a word, shivering with cold and fear, listening to the clock which went slowly, tick, tick, and occasionally starting as the door creaked on its hinges, or a half-burnt billet fell upon the hearth. My sister was ghastly white, as white as the garment which was drying before the fire. And now half an hour had elapsed and it was time to turn. . . . This we did, I and my sister, without saying a word, and then we again sank on our chairs on either side of the fire. I was tired, and as the clock went tick-a-tick, I began to feel myself dozing. I did doze, I believe. All of a sudden I sprang up. The clock was striking one, two, but ere it could give the third chime, mercy upon us! we heard the gate slam to with a tremendous noise. . ." "Well, and what happened then?" "Happened! before I could recover myself, my sister had sprung to the door and both locked and bolted it. The next moment she was in convulsions. I scarcely knew what happened; and yet it appeared to me for a moment that something pressed against the door with a low moaning sound. Whether it was the wind or not, I can't say. I shall never forget that night. About two hours later, my father came home. He had been set upon by a highwayman whom he beat off." "And what was the result?" "The result? why, my sister was ill for many weeks. Poor thing, she never throve, married poorly, flung herself away." "I don't see much in the story," said my father; "I should have laughed at it, only there is one thing I don't like." "What is that?" "Why, the explanation of that strange child. It seems so odd that he should be able to interpret it. The idea came this moment into my head. I daresay it's all nonsense, but, but . . ." "Oh, I daresay it's nonsense. Let us go in." "If, after all, it should have been the worship of a demon! Your sister was punished, you say--she never throve; now how do we know that you may not be punished too? That child with his confusion of tongues--" "I really think you are too hard upon him. After all, though not, perhaps, all you could wish, he is not a bad child; he is always ready to read the Bible. Let us go in; he is in the room above us; at least he was two hours ago. I left him there bending over his books; I wonder what he has been doing all this time. Let us go in, and he shall read to us."] "I am getting old," said my father; "and I love to hear the Bible read to me, for my own sight is something dim; yet I do not wish the child to read to me this night, I cannot so soon forget what I have heard; but I hear my eldest son's voice, he is now entering the gate; he shall read the Bible to us this night. What say you?" CHAPTER XXI. The eldest son! The regard and affection which my father entertained for his first-born were natural enough, and appeared to none more so than myself, who cherished the same feelings towards him. What he was as a boy the reader already knows, for the reader has seen him as a boy; fain would I describe him at the time of which I am now speaking, when he had attained the verge of manhood, but the pen fails me, and I attempt not the task; and yet it ought to be an easy one, for how frequently does his form visit my mind's eye in slumber and in wakefulness, in the light of day, and in the night watches; but last night I saw him in his beauty and his strength; he was about to speak, and my ear was on the stretch, when at once I awoke, and there was I alone, and the night storm was howling amidst the branches of the pines which surround my lonely dwelling: "Listen to the moaning of the pine, at whose root thy hut is fastened,"--a saying that, of wild Finland, in which there is wisdom; I listened, and thought of life and death. . . . Of all human beings that I have ever known, that elder brother was the most frank and generous, ay, and the quickest and readiest, and the best adapted to do a great thing needful at the critical time, when the delay of a moment would be fatal. I have known him dash from a steep bank into a stream in his full dress, and pull out a man who was drowning; yet there were twenty others bathing in the water, who might have saved him by putting out a hand, without inconvenience to themselves, which, however, they did not do, but stared with stupid surprise at the drowning one's struggles. Yes, whilst some shouted from the bank to those in the water to save the drowning one, and those in the water did nothing, my brother neither shouted nor stood still, but dashed from the bank and did the one thing needful, which, under such circumstances, not one man in a million would have done. Now, who can wonder that a brave old man should love a son like this, and prefer him to any other? "My boy, my own boy, you are the very image of myself the day I took off my coat in the park to fight Big Ben," said my father, on meeting his son wet and dripping, immediately after his bold feat. And who cannot excuse the honest pride of the old man--the stout old man? Ay, old man, that son was worthy of thee, and thou wast worthy of such a son; a noble specimen wast thou of those strong single-minded Englishmen, who, without making a parade either of religion or loyalty, feared God and honoured their king, and were not particularly friendly to the French, whose vaunting polls they occasionally broke, as at Minden and Malplaquet, to the confusion vast of the eternal foes of the English land. I, who was so little like thee that thou understoodst me not, and in whom with justice thou didst feel so little pride, had yet perception enough to see all thy worth, and to feel it an honour to be able to call myself thy son; and if at some no distant time, when the foreign enemy ventures to insult our shore, I be permitted to break some vaunting poll, it will be a triumph to me to think that, if thou hadst lived, thou wouldst have hailed the deed, and mightest yet discover some distant semblance to thyself, the day when thou didst all but vanquish the mighty Brain. I have already spoken of my brother's taste for painting, and the progress he had made in that beautiful art. It is probable that, if circumstances had not eventually diverted his mind from the pursuit, he would have attained excellence, and left behind him some enduring monument of his powers, for he had an imagination to conceive, and that yet rarer endowment, a hand capable of giving life, body, and reality to the conceptions of his mind; perhaps he wanted one thing, the want of which is but too often fatal to the sons of genius, and without which genius is little more than a splendid toy in the hands of the possessor--perseverance, dogged perseverance, in his proper calling; otherwise, though the grave had closed over him, he might still be living in the admiration of his fellow-creatures. O ye gifted ones, follow your calling, for, however various your talents may be, ye can have but one calling capable of leading ye to eminence and renown; follow resolutely the one straight path before you, it is that of your good angel, let neither obstacles nor temptations induce ye to leave it; bound along if you can; if not on hands and knees follow it, perish in it, if needful; but ye need not fear that; no one ever yet died in the true path of his calling before he had attained the pinnacle. Turn into other paths, and for a momentary advantage or gratification ye have sold your inheritance, your immortality. Ye will never be heard of after death. "My father has given me a hundred and fifty pounds," said my brother to me one morning, "and something which is better--his blessing. I am going to leave you." "Where are you going?" "Where? to the great city; to London, to be sure." "I should like to go with you." "Pooh," said my brother, "what should you do there? But don't be discouraged, I daresay a time will come when you too will go to London." And, sure enough, so it did, and all but too soon. "And what do you purpose doing there?" I demanded. "Oh, I go to improve myself in art, to place myself under some master of high name, at least I hope to do so eventually. I have, however, a plan in my head, which I should wish first to execute; indeed, I do not think I can rest till I have done so; every one talks so much about Italy, and the wondrous artists which it has produced, and the wondrous pictures which are to be found there; now I wish to see Italy, or rather Rome, the great city, for I am told that in a certain room there is contained the grand miracle of art." "And what do you call it?" "The Transfiguration, painted by one Rafael, and it is said to be the greatest work of the greatest painter which the world has ever known. I suppose it is because everybody says so, that I have such a strange desire to see it. I have already made myself well acquainted with its locality, and think that I could almost find my way to it blindfold. When I have crossed the Tiber, which, as you are aware, runs through Rome, I must presently turn to the right, up a rather shabby street, which communicates with a large square, the farther end of which is entirely occupied by the front of an immense church, with a dome, which ascends almost to the clouds, and this church they call St. Peter's." "Ay, ay," said I, "I have read about that in Keysler's _Travels_." "Before the church, in the square, are two fountains, one on either side, casting up water in showers; between them, in the midst, is an obelisk, brought from Egypt, and covered with mysterious writing; on your right rises an edifice, not beautiful nor grand, but huge and bulky, where lives a strange kind of priest whom men call the Pope, a very horrible old individual, who would fain keep Christ in leading-strings, calls the Virgin Mary the Queen of Heaven, and himself God's Lieutenant-General upon earth." "Ay, ay," said I, "I have read of him in Fox's _Book of Martyrs_." "Well, I do not go straight forward up the flight of steps conducting into the church, but I turn to the right, and, passing under the piazza, find myself in a court of the huge bulky house; and then ascend various staircases, and pass along various corridors and galleries, all of which I could describe to you, though I have never seen them; at last a door is unlocked, and we enter a room rather high, but not particularly large, communicating with another room, into which, however, I do not go, though there are noble things in that second room--immortal things, by immortal artists; amongst others, a grand piece of Corregio; I do not enter it, for the grand picture of the world is not there: but I stand still immediately on entering the first room, and I look straight before me, neither to the right nor left, though there are noble things both on the right and left, for immediately before me at the farther end, hanging against the wall, is a picture which arrests me, and I can see nothing else, for that picture at the farther end hanging against the wall is the picture of the world . . ." Yes, go thy way, young enthusiast, and, whether to London town or to old Rome, may success attend thee; yet strange fears assail me and misgivings on thy account. Thou canst not rest, thou say'st, till thou hast seen the picture in the chamber at old Rome hanging over against the wall; ay, and thus thou dost exemplify thy weakness--thy strength too, it may be--for the one idea, fantastic yet lovely, which now possesses thee, could only have originated in a genial and fervent brain. Well, go, if thou must go; yet it perhaps were better for thee to bide in thy native land, and there, with fear and trembling, with groanings, with straining eyeballs, toil, drudge, slave, till thou hast made excellence thine own; thou wilt scarcely acquire it by staring at the picture over against the door in the high chamber of old Rome. Seekest thou inspiration? thou needest it not, thou hast it already; and it was never yet found by crossing the sea. What hast thou to do with old Rome, and thou an Englishman? "Did thy blood never glow at the mention of thy native land?" as an artist merely? Yes, I trow, and with reason, for thy native land need not grudge old Rome her "pictures of the world"; she has pictures of her own, "pictures of England"; and is it a new thing to toss up caps and shout--England against the world? Yes, against the world in all, in all; in science and in arms, in minstrel strain, and not less in the art "which enables the hand to deceive the intoxicated soul by means of pictures". {137} Seek'st models? to Gainsborough and Hogarth turn, not names of the world, maybe, but English names--and England against the world! A living master? why, there he comes! thou hast had him long, he has long guided thy young hand towards the excellence which is yet far from thee, but which thou canst attain if thou shouldst persist and wrestle, even as he has done, 'midst gloom and despondency--ay, and even contempt; he who now comes up the creaking stair to thy little studio in the second floor to inspect thy last effort before thou departest, the little stout man whose face is very dark, and whose eye is vivacious; that man has attained excellence, destined some day to be acknowledged, though not till he is cold, and his mortal part returned to its kindred clay. He has painted, not pictures of the world, but English pictures, such as Gainsborough himself might have done; beautiful rural pieces, with trees which might well tempt the wild birds to perch upon them: thou needest not run to Rome, brother, where lives the old Mariolater, after pictures of the world, whilst at home there are pictures of England; nor needest thou even go to London, the big city, in search of a master, for thou hast one at home in the old East Anglian town who can instruct thee whilst thou needest instruction. Better stay at home, brother, at least for a season, and toil and strive 'midst groanings and despondency till thou hast attained excellence even as he has done--the little dark man with the brown coat and the top-boots, whose name will one day be considered the chief ornament of the old town, and whose works will at no distant period rank among the proudest pictures of England--and England against the world!--thy master, my brother, thy, at present, all too little considered master--Crome. CHAPTER XXII. But to proceed with my own story: I now ceased all at once to take much pleasure in the pursuits which formerly interested me, I yawned over Ab Gwilym; even as I now in my mind's eye perceive the reader yawning over the present pages. What was the cause of this? Constitutional lassitude, or a desire for novelty? Both it is probable had some influence in the matter, but I rather think that the latter feeling was predominant. The parting words of my brother had sunk into my mind. He had talked of travelling in strange regions and seeing strange and wonderful objects, and my imagination fell to work and drew pictures of adventures wild and fantastic, and I thought what a fine thing it must be to travel, and I wished that my father would give me his blessing, and the same sum that he had given my brother, and bid me go forth into the world; always forgetting that I had neither talents nor energies at this period which would enable me to make any successful figure on its stage. And then I again sought up the book which had so captivated me in my infancy, and I read it through; and I sought up others of a similar character, and in seeking for them I met books also of adventure, but by no means of a harmless description, lives of wicked and lawless men, Murray and Latroon--books of singular power, but of coarse and prurient imagination--books at one time highly in vogue; now deservedly forgotten, and most difficult to be found. And when I had gone through these books, what was my state of mind? I had derived entertainment from their perusal, but they left me more listless and unsettled than before, and I really knew not what to do to pass my time. My philological studies had become distasteful, and I had never taken any pleasure in the duties of my profession. I sat behind my desk in a state of torpor, my mind almost as blank as the paper before me, on which I rarely traced a line. It was always a relief to hear the bell ring, as it afforded me an opportunity of doing something which I was yet capable of doing, to rise and open the door and stare in the countenances of the visitors. All of a sudden I fell to studying countenances, and soon flattered myself that I had made considerable progress in the science. "There is no faith in countenances," said some Roman of old; "trust anything but a person's countenance." "Not trust a man's countenance?" say some moderns, "why, it is the only thing in many people that we can trust; on which account they keep it most assiduously out of the way. Trust not a man's words if you please, or you may come to very erroneous conclusions; but at all times place implicit confidence in a man's countenance, in which there is no deceit; and of necessity there can be none. If people would but look each other more in the face, we should have less cause to complain of the deception of the world; nothing so easy as physiognomy nor so useful." Somewhat in this latter strain I thought, at the time of which I am speaking. I am now older, and let us hope, less presumptuous. It is true that in the course of my life I have scarcely ever had occasion to repent placing confidence in individuals whose countenances have prepossessed me in their favour; though to how many I may have been unjust, from whose countenances I may have drawn unfavourable conclusions, is another matter. But it had been decreed by Fate, which governs our every action, that I was soon to return to my old pursuits. It was written that I should not yet cease to be Lavengro, though I had become, in my own opinion, a kind of Lavater. It is singular enough that my renewed ardour for philology seems to have been brought about indirectly by my physiognomical researches, in which had I not indulged, the event which I am about to relate, as far as connected with myself, might never have occurred. Amongst the various countenances which I admitted during the period of my answering the bell, there were two which particularly pleased me, and which belonged to an elderly yeoman and his wife, whom some little business had brought to our law sanctuary. I believe they experienced from me some kindness and attention, which won the old people's hearts. So, one day, when their little business had been brought to a conclusion, and they chanced to be alone with me, who was seated as usual behind the deal desk in the outer room, the old man with some confusion began to tell me how grateful himself and dame felt for the many attentions I had shown them, and how desirous they were to make me some remuneration. "Of course," said the old man, "we must be cautious what we offer to so fine a young gentleman as yourself; we have, however, something we think will just suit the occasion, a strange kind of thing which people say is a book, though no one that my dame or myself have shown it to can make anything out of it; so as we are told that you are a fine young gentleman, who can read all the tongues of the earth and stars, as the Bible says, we thought, I and my dame, that it would be just the thing you would like; and my dame has it now at the bottom of her basket." "A book," said I, "how did you come by it?" "We live near the sea," said the old man; "so near that sometimes our thatch is wet with the spray; and it may now be a year ago that there was a fearful storm, and a ship was driven ashore during the night, and ere the morn was a complete wreck. When we got up at daylight, there were the poor shivering crew at our door; they were foreigners, red-haired men, whose speech we did not understand; but we took them in, and warmed them, and they remained with us three days; and when they went away they left behind them this thing, here it is, part of the contents of a box which was washed ashore." "And did you learn who they were?" "Why, yes; they made us understand that they were Danes." Danes! thought I, Danes! and instantaneously, huge and grizly, appeared to rise up before my vision the skull of the old pirate Dane, even as I had seen it of yore in the pent-house of the ancient church to which, with my mother and my brother, I had wandered on the memorable summer eve. And now the old man handed me the book; a strange and uncouth-looking volume enough. It was not very large, but instead of the usual covering was bound in wood, and was compressed with strong iron clasps. It was a printed book, but the pages were not of paper, but vellum, and the characters were black, and resembled those generally termed Gothic. "It is certainly a curious book," said I; "and I should like to have it, but I can't think of taking it as a gift, I must give you an equivalent, I never take presents from anybody." The old man whispered with his dame and chuckled, and then turned his face to me and said, with another chuckle: "Well, we have agreed about the price; but maybe you will not consent." "I don't know," said I; "what do you demand?" "Why, that you shake me by the hand, and hold out your cheek to my old dame, she has taken an affection to you." "I shall be very glad to shake you by the hand," said I, "but as for the other condition it requires consideration." "No consideration at all," said the old man, with something like a sigh; "she thinks you like her son, our only child that was lost twenty years ago in the waves of the North Sea." "Oh, that alters the case altogether," said I, "and of course I can have no objection." And now, at once, I shook off my listlessness, to enable me to do which nothing could have happened more opportune than the above event. The Danes, the Danes! And I was at last to become acquainted, and in so singular a manner, with the speech of a people which had as far back as I could remember exercised the strongest influence over my imagination, as how should they not!--in infancy there was the summer-eve adventure, to which I often looked back, and always with a kind of strange interest, with respect to those to whom such gigantic and wondrous bones could belong as I had seen on that occasion; and more than this, I had been in Ireland, and there, under peculiar circumstances, this same interest was increased tenfold. I had mingled much whilst there with the genuine Irish--a wild, but kind-hearted race, whose conversation was deeply imbued with traditionary lore, connected with the early history of their own romantic land, and from them I heard enough of the Danes, but nothing commonplace, for they never mentioned them but in terms which tallied well with my own preconceived ideas. For at an early period the Danes had invaded Ireland, and had subdued it, and, though eventually driven out, had left behind them an enduring remembrance in the minds of the people, who loved to speak of their strength and their stature, in evidence of which they would point to the ancient raths or mounds, where the old Danes were buried, and where bones of extraordinary size were occasionally exhumed. And as the Danes surpassed other people in strength, so, according to my narrators, they also excelled all others in wisdom, or rather in _Draoitheac_, or Magic, for they were powerful sorcerers, they said, compared with whom the fairy men of the present day knew nothing at all, at all! and, amongst other wonderful things, they knew how to make strong beer from the heather that grows upon the bogs. Little wonder if the interest, the mysterious interest, which I had early felt about the Danes, was increased tenfold by my sojourn in Ireland. And now I had in my possession a Danish book, which, from its appearance, might be supposed to have belonged to the very old Danes indeed; but how was I to turn it to any account? I had the book, it is true, but I did not understand the language and how was I to overcome that difficulty? hardly by poring over the book; yet I did pore over the book, daily and nightly, till my eyes were dim, and it appeared to me every now and then I encountered words which I understood--English words, though strangely disguised; and I said to myself, courage! English and Danish are cognate dialects, a time will come when I shall understand this Danish; and then I pored over the book again, but with all my poring I could not understand it; and then I became angry, and I bit my lips till the blood came; and I occasionally tore a handful from my hair and flung it upon the floor, but that did not mend the matter, for still I did not understand the book, which, however, I began to see was written in rhyme--a circumstance rather difficult to discover at first, the arrangement of the lines not differing from that which is employed in prose; and its being written in rhyme made me only the more eager to understand it. But I toiled in vain, for I had neither grammar nor dictionary of the language; and when I sought for them could procure neither; and I was much dispirited, till suddenly a bright thought came into my head, and I said, although I cannot obtain a dictionary or grammar, I can perhaps obtain a Bible in this language, and if I can procure a Bible, I can learn the language, for the Bible in every tongue contains the same thing, and I have only to compare the words of the Danish Bible with those of the English, and, if I persevere, I shall in time acquire the language of the Danes; and I was pleased with the thought, which I considered to be a bright one, and I no longer bit my lips, or tore my hair, but took my hat, and, going forth, I flung my hat into the air. And when my hat came down, I put it on my head and commenced running, directing my course to the house of the Antinomian preacher, who sold books, and whom I knew to have Bibles in various tongues amongst the number, and I arrived out of breath, and I found the Antinomian in his little library, dusting his books; and the Antinomian clergyman was a tall man of about seventy, who wore a hat with a broad brim and a shallow crown, and whose manner of speaking was exceedingly nasal; and when I saw him, I cried, out of breath, "Have you a Danish Bible?" and he replied, "What do you want it for, friend?" and I answered, "to learn Danish by;" "and may be to learn thy duty," replied the Antinomian preacher. "Truly, I have it not; but, as you are a customer of mine, I will endeavour to procure you one, and I will write to that laudable society which men call the Bible Society, an unworthy member of which I am, and I hope by next week to procure what you desire." And when I heard these words of the old man, I was very glad, and my heart yearned towards him, and I would fain enter into conversation with him; and I said, "Why are you an Antinomian? For my part, I would rather be a dog than belong to such a religion." "Nay, friend," said the Antinomian, "thou forejudgest us; know that those who call us Antinomians call us so despitefully, we do not acknowledge the designation." "Then you do not set all law at nought?" said I. "Far be it from us," said the old man, "we only hope that, being sanctified by the Spirit from above, we have no need of the law to keep us in order. Did you ever hear tell of Lodowick Muggleton?" "Not I." "That is strange; know then that he was the founder of our poor society, and after him we are frequently, though opprobriously, termed Muggletonians, for we are Christians. Here is his book, which, perhaps, you can do no better than purchase, you are fond of rare books, and this is both curious and rare; I will sell it cheap. Thank you, and now be gone, I will do all I can to procure the Bible." And in this manner I procured the Danish Bible, and I commenced my task; first of all, however, I locked up in a closet the volume which had excited my curiosity, saying, "Out of this closet thou comest not till I deem myself competent to read thee," and then I sat down in right earnest, comparing every line in the one version with the corresponding one in the other; and I passed entire nights in this manner, till I was almost blind, and the task was tedious enough at first, but I quailed not, and soon began to make progress. And at first I had a misgiving that the old book might not prove a Danish book, but was soon reassured by reading many words in the Bible which I remembered to have seen in the book; and then I went on right merrily, and I found that the language which I was studying was by no means a difficult one, and in less than a month I deemed myself able to read the book. Anon, I took the book from the closet, and proceeded to make myself master of its contents; I had some difficulty, for the language of the book, though in the main the same as the language of the Bible, differed from it in some points, being apparently a more ancient dialect; by degrees, however, I overcame this difficulty, and I understood the contents of the book, and well did they correspond with all those ideas in which I had indulged connected with the Danes. For the book was a book of ballads, about the deeds of knights and champions, and men of huge sature; ballads which from time immemorial had been sung in the North, and which some two centuries before the time of which I am speaking had been collected by one Anders Vedel, who lived with a certain Tycho Brahe, and assisted him in making observations upon the heavenly bodies, at a place called Uranias Castle, on the little island of Hveen, in the Cattegat. CHAPTER XXIII. It might be some six months after the events last recorded, that two individuals were seated together in a certain room, in a certain street of the old town which I have so frequently had occasion to mention in the preceding pages; one of them was an elderly, and the other a very young man, and they sat on either side of the fire-place, beside a table, on which were fruit and wine; the room was a small one, and in its furniture exhibited nothing remarkable. Over the mantelpiece, however, hung a small picture with naked figures in the foreground, and with much foliage behind. It might not have struck every beholder, for it looked old and smoke-dried; but a connoisseur, on inspecting it closely, would have pronounced it to be a Judgment of Paris, and a masterpiece of the Flemish School. The forehead of the elder individual was high, and perhaps appeared more so than it really was, from the hair being carefully brushed back, as if for the purpose of displaying to the best advantage that part of the cranium; his eyes were large and full, and of a light brown, and might have been called heavy and dull, had they not been occasionally lighted up by a sudden gleam--not so brilliant, however, as that which at every inhalation shone from the bowl of the long clay pipe he was smoking, but which, from a certain sucking sound which about this time began to be heard from the bottom, appeared to be giving notice that it would soon require replenishment from a certain canister, which, together with a lighted taper, stood upon the table beside him. "You do not smoke?" said he, at length, laying down his pipe, and directing his glance to his companion. Now there was at least one thing singular connected with this last, namely, the colour of his hair, which, notwithstanding his extreme youth, appeared to be rapidly becoming grey. He had very long limbs, and was apparently tall of stature, in which he differed from his elderly companion, who must have been somewhat below the usual height. "No, I can't smoke," said the youth in reply to the observation of the other. "I have often tried, but could never succeed to my satisfaction." "Is it possible to become a good German without smoking?" said the senior, half-speaking to himself. "I dare say not," said the youth; "but I shan't break my heart on that account." "As for breaking your heart, of course you would never think of such a thing; he is a fool who breaks his heart on any account; but it is good to be a German, the Germans are the most philosophic people in the world, and the greatest smokers; now I trace their philosophy to their smoking." "I have heard say their philosophy is all smoke--is that your opinion?" "Why, no; but smoking has a sedative effect upon the nerves, and enables a man to bear the sorrows of this life (of which every one has his share) not only decently, but dignifiedly. Suicide is not a national habit in Germany as it is in England." "But that poor creature, Werther, who committed suicide, was a German." "Werther is a fictitious character, and by no means a felicitous one; I am no admirer either of Werther or his author. But I should say that, if there was a Werther in Germany, he did not smoke. Werther, as you very justly observe, was a poor creature." "And a very sinful one; I have heard my parents say that suicide is a great crime." "Broadly, and without qualification, to say that suicide is a crime, is speaking somewhat unphilosophically. No doubt suicide, under many circumstances, is a crime, a very heinous one. When the father of a family, for example, to escape from certain difficulties, commits suicide, he commits a crime; there are those around him who look to him for support, by the law of nature, and he has no right to withdraw himself from those who have a claim upon his exertions; he is a person who decamps with other people's goods as well as his own. Indeed, there can be no crime which is not founded upon the depriving others of something which belongs to them. A man is hanged for setting fire to his house in a crowded city, for he burns at the same time or damages those of other people; but if a man who has a house on a heath sets fire to it, he is not hanged, for he has not damaged or endangered any other individual's property, and the principle of revenge, upon which all punishment is founded, has not been aroused. Similar to such a case is that of the man who, without any family ties, commits suicide; for example, were I to do the thing this evening, who would have a right to call me to account? I am alone in the world, have no family to support and, so far from damaging any one, should even benefit my heir by my accelerated death. However, I am no advocate for suicide under any circumstances; there is something undignified in it, unheroic, un-Germanic. But if you must commit suicide--and there is no knowing to what people may be brought--always contrive to do it as decorously as possible; the decencies, whether of life or of death, should never be lost sight of. I remember a female Quaker who committed suicide by cutting her throat, but she did it decorously and decently: kneeling down over a pail, so that not one drop fell upon the floor, thus exhibiting in her last act that nice sense of neatness for which Quakers are distinguished. I have always had a respect for that woman's memory." And here, filling his pipe from the canister, and lighting it at the taper, he recommenced smoking calmly and sedately. "But is not suicide forbidden in the Bible?" the youth demanded. "Why, no; but what though it were!--the Bible is a respectable book, but I should hardly call it one whose philosophy is of the soundest. I have said that it is a respectable book; I mean respectable from its antiquity, and from containing, as Herder says, 'the earliest records of the human race,' though those records are far from being dispassionately written, on which account they are of less value than they otherwise might have been. There is too much passion in the Bible, too much violence; now, to come to all truth, especially historic truth, requires cool, dispassionate investigation, for which the Jews do not appear to have ever been famous. We are ourselves not famous for it, for we are a passionate people; the Germans are not--they are not a passionate people--a people celebrated for their oaths: we are. The Germans have many excellent historic writers, we--'tis true we have Gibbon. You have been reading Gibbon--what do you think of him?" "I think him a very wonderful writer." "He is a wonderful writer--one _sui generis_--uniting the perspicuity of the English--for we are perspicuous--with the cool, dispassionate reasoning of the Germans. Gibbon sought after the truth, found it, and made it clear." "Then you think Gibbon a truthful writer." "Why, yes; who shall convict Gibbon of falsehood? Many people have endeavoured to convict Gibbon of falsehood; they have followed him in his researches, and have never found him once tripping. Oh, he's a wonderful writer! his power of condensation is admirable; the lore of the whole world is to be found in his pages. Sometimes in a single note he has given us the result of the study of years; or, to speak metaphorically, 'he has ransacked a thousand Gulistans, and has condensed all his fragrant booty into a single drop of otto'." "But was not Gibbon an enemy to the Christian faith?" "Why, no; he was rather an enemy to priestcraft, so am I; and when I say the philosophy of the Bible is in many respects unsound, I always wish to make an exception in favour of that part of it which contains the life and sayings of Jesus of Bethlehem, to which I must always concede my unqualified admiration--of Jesus, mind you; for with his followers and their dogmas I have nothing to do. Of all historic characters, Jesus is the most beautiful and the most heroic. I have always been a friend to hero-worship, it is the only rational one, and has always been in use amongst civilised people--the worship of spirits is synonymous with barbarism--it is mere fetish; the savages of West Africa are all spirit worshippers. But there is something philosophic in the worship of the heroes of the human race, and the true hero is the benefactor. Brahma, Jupiter, Bacchus, were all benefactors, and, therefore, entitled to the worship of their respective peoples. The Celts worshipped Hesus, who taught them to plough, a highly useful art. We, who have attained a much higher state of civilisation than the Celts ever did, worship Jesus, the first who endeavoured to teach men to behave decently and decorously under all circumstances; who was the foe of vengeance, in which there is something highly indecorous; who had first the courage to lift his voice against that violent dogma, 'an eye for an eye'; who shouted conquer, but conquer with kindness; who said put up the sword, a violent, unphilosophic weapon; and who finally died calmly and decorously in defence of his philosophy. He must be a savage who denies worship to the hero of Golgotha." "But he was something more than a hero; he was the Son of God, wasn't he?" The elderly individual made no immediate answer; but, after a few more whiffs from his pipe, exclaimed: "Come, fill your glass! How do you advance with your translation of Tell?" "It is nearly finished; but I do not think I shall proceed with it; I begin to think the original somewhat dull." "There you are wrong; it is the masterpiece of Schiller, the first of German poets." "It may be so," said the youth. "But, pray excuse me, I do not think very highly of German poetry. I have lately been reading Shakespeare, and, when I turn from him to the Germans--even the best of them--they appear mere pigmies. You will pardon the liberty I perhaps take in saying so." "I like that every one should have an opinion of his own," said the elderly individual; "and, what is more, declare it. Nothing displeases me more than to see people assenting to everything that they hear said; I at once come to the conclusion that they are either hypocrites, or there is nothing in them. But, with respect to Shakespeare, whom I have not read for thirty years, is he not rather given to bombast, 'crackling bombast,' as I think I have said in one of my essays?" "I daresay he is," said the youth; "but I can't help thinking him the greatest of all poets, not even excepting Homer. I would sooner have written that series of plays, founded on the fortunes of the House of Lancaster, than the _Iliad_ itself. The events described are as lofty as those sung by Homer in his great work, and the characters brought upon the stage still more interesting. I think Hotspur as much of a hero as Hector, and young Henry more of a man than Achilles; and then there is the fat knight, the quintessence of fun, wit, and rascality. Falstaff is a creation beyond the genius even of Homer." "You almost tempt me to read Shakespeare again--but the Germans?" "I don't admire the Germans," said the youth, somewhat excited. "I don't admire them in any point of view. I have heard my father say that, though good sharpshooters, they can't be much depended upon as soldiers; and that old Sergeant Meredith told him that Minden would never have been won but for the two English regiments, who charged the French with fixed bayonets, and sent them to the right-about in double-quick time. With respect to poetry, setting Shakespeare and the English altogether aside, I think there is another Gothic nation, at least, entitled to dispute with them the palm. Indeed, to my mind, there is more genuine poetry contained in the old Danish book which I came so strangely by, than has been produced in Germany from the period of the Niebelungen Lay to the present." "Ah, the Koempe Viser?" said the elderly individual, breathing forth an immense volume of smoke, which he had been collecting during the declamation of his young companion. "There are singular things in that book, I must confess; and I thank you for showing it to me, or rather your attempt at translation. I was struck with that ballad of Orm Ungarswayne, who goes by night to the grave-hill of his father to seek for counsel. And then, again, that strange melancholy Swayne Vonved, who roams about the world propounding people riddles; slaying those who cannot answer, and rewarding those who can with golden bracelets. Were it not for the violence, I should say that ballad has a philosophic tendency. I thank you for making me acquainted with the book, and I thank the Jew Mousha for making me acquainted with you." "That Mousha was a strange customer," said the youth, collecting himself. "He _was_ a strange customer," said the elder individual, breathing forth a gentle cloud. "I love to exercise hospitality to wandering strangers, especially foreigners; and when he came to this place, pretending to teach German and Hebrew, I asked him to dinner. After the first dinner, he asked me to lend him five pounds; I _did_ lend him five pounds. After the fifth dinner, he asked me to lend him fifty pounds; I did _not_ lend him the fifty pounds." "He was as ignorant of German as of Hebrew," said the youth; "on which account he was soon glad, I suppose, to transfer his pupil to some one else." "He told me," said the elder individual, "that he intended to leave a town where he did not find sufficient encouragement; and, at the same time, expressed regret at being obliged to abandon a certain extraordinary pupil, for whom he had a particular regard. Now I, who have taught many people German from the love which I bear to it, and the desire which I feel that it should be generally diffused, instantly said, that I should be happy to take his pupil off his hands, and afford him what instruction I could in German, for, as to Hebrew, I have never taken much interest in it. Such was the origin of our acquaintance. You have been an apt scholar. Of late, however, I have seen little of you--what is the reason?" The youth made no answer. "You think, probably, that you have learned all I can teach you? Well, perhaps you are right." "Not so, not so," said the young man eagerly; "before I knew you I knew nothing, and am still very ignorant; but of late my father's health has been very much broken, and he requires attention; his spirits also have become low, which, to tell you the truth, he attributes to my misconduct. He says that I have imbibed all kinds of strange notions and doctrines, which will, in all probability, prove my ruin, both here and hereafter; which--which--" "Ah! I understand," said the elder, with another calm whiff. "I have always had a kind of respect for your father, for there is something remarkable in his appearance, something heroic, and I would fain have cultivated his acquaintance; the feeling, however, has not been reciprocated. I met him, the other day, up the road, with his cane and dog, and saluted him; he did not return my salutation." "He has certain opinions of his own," said the youth, "which are widely different from those which he has heard that you profess." "I respect a man for entertaining an opinion of his own," said the elderly individual. "I hold certain opinions; but I should not respect an individual the more for adopting them. All I wish for is tolerance, which I myself endeavour to practise. I have always loved the truth, and sought it; if I have not found it, the greater my misfortune." "Are you happy?" said the young man. "Why, no! And, between ourselves, it is that which induces me to doubt sometimes the truth of my opinions. My life, upon the whole, I consider a failure; on which account I would not counsel you, or any one, to follow my example too closely. It is getting late, and you had better be going, especially as your father, you say, is anxious about you. But, as we may never meet again, I think there are three things which I may safely venture to press upon you. The first is, that the decencies and gentlenesses should never be lost sight of, as the practice of the decencies and gentlenesses is at all times compatible with independence of thought and action. The second thing which I would wish to impress upon you is, that there is always some eye upon us; and that it is impossible to keep anything we do from the world, as it will assuredly be divulged by somebody as soon as it is his interest to do so. The third thing which I would wish to press upon you--" "Yes," said the youth, eagerly bending forward. "Is--" and here the elderly individual laid down his pipe upon the table--"that it will be as well to go on improving yourself in German!" CHAPTER XXIV. "Holloa, master! can you tell us where the fight is likely to be?" Such were the words shouted out to me by a short thick fellow in brown top-boots, and bare-headed, who stood, with his hands in his pockets, at the door of a country alehouse as I was passing by. Now, as I knew nothing about the fight, and as the appearance of the man did not tempt me greatly to enter into conversation with him, I merely answered in the negative and continued my way. It was a fine lovely morning in May, the sun shone bright above, and the birds were carolling in the hedgerows. I was wont to be cheerful at such seasons, for, from my earliest recollection, sunshine and the song of birds have been dear to me; yet, about that period, I was not cheerful, my mind was not at rest; I was debating within myself, and the debate was dreary and unsatisfactory enough. I sighed, and turning my eyes upward, I ejaculated: "What is truth?" But suddenly, by a violent effort breaking away from my meditations, I hastened forward; one mile, two miles, three miles were speedily left behind; and now I came to a grove of birch and other trees, and opening a gate I passed up a kind of avenue, and soon arriving before a large brick house, of rather antique appearance, knocked at the door. In this house there lived a gentleman with whom I had business. He was said to be a genuine old English gentleman, and a man of considerable property; at this time, however, he wanted a thousand pounds, as gentlemen of considerable property every now and then do. I had brought him a thousand pounds in my pocket, for it is astonishing how many eager helpers the rich find, and with what compassion people look upon their distresses. He was said to have good wine in his cellar. "Is your master at home?" said I, to a servant who appeared at the door. "His worship is at home, young man," said the servant, as he looked at my shoes, which bore evidence that I had come walking. "I beg your pardon, sir," he added, as he looked me in the face. "Ay, ay, servants," thought I, as I followed the man into the house, "always look people in the face when you open the door, and do so before you look at their shoes, or you may mistake the heir of a Prime Minister for a shopkeeper's son." I found his worship a jolly, red-faced gentleman, of about fifty-five; he was dressed in a green coat, white corduroy breeches, and drab gaiters, and sat on an old-fashioned leather sofa, with two small, thorough-bred, black English terriers, one on each side of him. He had all the appearance of a genuine old English gentleman who kept good wine in his cellar. "Sir," said I, "I have brought you a thousand pounds;" and I said this after the servant had retired, and the two terriers had ceased their barking, which is natural to all such dogs at the sight of a stranger. And when the magistrate had received the money, and signed and returned a certain paper which I handed to him, he rubbed his hands, and looking very benignantly at me, exclaimed:-- "And now, young gentleman, that our business is over, perhaps you can tell me where the fight is to take place?" "I am sorry, sir," said I, "that I can't inform you, but everybody seems to be anxious about it;" and then I told him what had occurred to me on the road with the alehouse keeper. "I know him," said his worship; "he's a tenant of mine, and a good fellow, somewhat too much in my debt, though. But how is this, young gentleman, you look as if you had been walking; you did not come on foot?" "Yes, sir, I came on foot." "On foot! why, it is sixteen miles." "I shan't be tired when I have walked back." "You can't ride, I suppose?" "Better than I can walk." "Then why do you walk?" "I have frequently to make journeys connected with my profession; sometimes I walk, sometimes I ride, just as the whim takes me." "Will you take a glass of wine?" "Yes." "That's right; what shall it be?" "Madeira!" The magistrate gave a violent slap on his knee; "I like your taste," said he, "I am fond of a glass of Madeira myself, and can give you such a one as you will not drink every day; sit down, young gentleman, you shall have a glass of Madeira, and the best I have." Thereupon he got up, and, followed by his two terriers, walked slowly out of the room. I looked round the room, and, seeing nothing which promised me much amusement, I sat down, and fell again into my former train of thought. "What is truth?" said I. "Here it is," said the magistrate, returning at the end of a quarter of an hour, followed by the servant with a tray; "here's the true thing, or I am no judge, far less a justice. It has been thirty years in my cellar last Christmas. There," said he to the servant, "put it down, and leave my young friend and me to ourselves. Now, what do you think of it?" "It is very good," said I. "Did you ever taste better Madeira?" "I never before tasted Madeira." "Then you ask for a wine without knowing what it is?" "I ask for it, sir, that I may know what it is." "Well, there is logic in that, as Parr would say; you have heard of Parr?" "Old Parr?" "Yes, old Parr, but not that Parr; you mean the English, I the Greek Parr, as people call him." "I don't know him." "Perhaps not--rather too young for that, but were you of my age, you might have cause to know him, coming from where you do. He kept school there, I was his first scholar; he flogged Greek into me till I loved him--and he loved me. He came to see me last year, and sat in that chair; I honour Parr--he knows much, and is a sound man." "Does he know the truth?" "Know the truth! he knows what's good, from an oyster to an ostrich--he's not only sound but round." "Suppose we drink his health?" "Thank you, boy: here's Parr's health, and Whiter's." "Who is Whiter?" "Don't you know Whiter? I thought everybody knew Reverend Whiter, the philologist, though I suppose you scarcely know what that means. A man fond of tongues and languages, quite out of your way--he understands some twenty; what do you say to that?" "Is he a sound man?" "Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say; he has got queer notions in his head--wrote a book to prove that all words came originally from the earth--who knows? Words have roots, and roots live in the earth; but, upon the whole, I should not call him altogether a sound man, though he can talk Greek nearly as fast as Parr." "Is he a round man?" "Ay, boy, rounder than Parr; I'll sing you a song, if you like, which will let you into his character:-- 'Give me the haunch of a buck to eat, and to drink Madeira old, And a gentle wife to rest with, and in my arms to fold, An Arabic book to study, a Norfolk cob to ride, And a house to live in shaded with trees, and near to a river side; With such good things around me, and blessed with good health withal, Though I should live for a hundred years, for death I would not call.' Here's to Whiter's health--so you know nothing about the fight?" "No, sir; the truth is, that of late I have been very much occupied with various matters, otherwise I should, perhaps, have been able to afford you some information. Boxing is a noble art." "Can you box?" "A little." "I tell you what, my boy; I honour you, and, provided your education had been a little less limited, I should have been glad to see you here in company with Parr and Whiter; both can box. Boxing is, as you say, a noble art--a truly English art; may I never see the day when Englishmen shall feel ashamed of it, or blacklegs and blackguards bring it into disgrace! I am a magistrate, and, of course, cannot patronise the thing very openly, yet I sometimes see a prize-fight. I saw the Game Chicken beat Gulley." "Did you ever see Big Ben?" "No, why do you ask?" But here we heard a noise, like that of a gig driving up to the door, which was immediately succeeded by a violent knocking and ringing, and after a little time, the servant who had admitted me made his appearance in the room. "Sir," said he, with a certain eagerness of manner, "here are two gentlemen waiting to speak to you." "Gentlemen waiting to speak to me! who are they?" "I don't know, sir," said the servant; "but they look like sporting gentlemen, and--and"--here he hesitated; "from a word or two they dropped, I almost think that they come about the fight." "About the fight," said the magistrate. "No, that can hardly be; however, you had better show them in." Heavy steps were now heard ascending the stairs, and the servant ushered two men into the apartment. Again there was a barking, but louder than that which had been directed against myself, for here were two intruders; both of them were remarkable looking men, but to the foremost of them the most particular notice may well be accorded: he was a man somewhat under thirty, and nearly six feet in height. He was dressed in a blue coat, white corduroy breeches, fastened below the knee with small golden buttons; on his legs he wore white lamb's-wool stockings, and on his feet shoes reaching to the ankles; round his neck was a handkerchief of the blue and bird's-eye pattern; he wore neither whiskers nor moustaches, and appeared not to delight in hair, that of his head, which was of a light brown, being closely cropped; the forehead was rather high, but somewhat narrow; the face neither broad nor sharp, perhaps rather sharp than broad; the nose was almost delicate; the eyes were grey, with an expression in which there was sternness blended with something approaching to feline; his complexion was exceedingly pale, relieved, however, by certain pockmarks, which here and there studded his countenance; his form was athletic, but lean; his arms long. In the whole appearance of the man there was a blending of the bluff and the sharp. You might have supposed him a bruiser; his dress was that of one in all its minutiae; something was wanting, however, in his manner--the quietness of the professional man; he rather looked liked one performing the part--well--very well--but still performing a part. His companion!--there, indeed, was the bruiser--no mistake about him: a tall, massive man, with a broad countenance and a flattened nose; dressed like a bruiser, but not like a bruiser going into the ring; he wore white topped boots, and a loose brown jockey coat. As the first advanced towards the table, behind which the magistrate sat, he doffed a white castor from his head, and made rather a genteel bow; looking at me, who sat somewhat on one side, he gave a kind of nod of recognition. "May I request to know who you are, gentlemen?" said the magistrate. "Sir," said the man in a deep, but not unpleasant voice, "allow me to introduce to you my friend, Mr. ---, the celebrated pugilist;" and he motioned with his hand towards the massive man with the flattened nose. "And your own name, sir?" said the magistrate. "My name is no matter," said the man; "were I to mention it to you, it would awaken within you no feeling of interest. It is neither Kean nor Belcher, and I have as yet done nothing to distinguish myself like either of those individuals, or even like my friend here. However, a time may come--we are not yet buried; and whensoever my hour arrives, I hope I shall prove myself equal to my destiny, however high-- 'Like bird that's bred amongst the Helicons'." And here a smile half-theatrical passed over his features. "In what can I oblige you, sir?" said the magistrate. "Well, sir; the soul of wit is brevity; we want a place for an approaching combat between my friend here and a brave from town. Passing by your broad acres this fine morning we saw a pightle, which we deemed would suit. Lend us that pightle, and receive our thanks; 'twould be a favour, though not much to grant: we neither ask for Stonehenge nor for Tempe." My friend looked somewhat perplexed; after a moment, however, he said, with a firm but gentlemanly air: "Sir, I am sorry that I cannot comply with your request". "Not comply!" said the man, his brow becoming dark as midnight; and with a hoarse and savage tone: "Not comply! why not?" "It is impossible, sir; utterly impossible!" "Why so?" "I am not compelled to give my reasons to you, sir, nor to any man." "Let me beg of you to alter your decision," said the man in a tone of profound respect. "Utterly impossible, sir; I am a magistrate." "Magistrate! then fare ye well, for a green-coated buffer and a Harmanbeck." "Sir!" said the magistrate, springing up with a face fiery with wrath. But, with a surly nod to me, the man left the apartment; and in a moment more the heavy footsteps of himself and his companion were heard descending the staircase. "Who is that man?" said my friend, turning towards me. "A sporting gentleman, well known in the place from which I come." "He appeared to know you." "I have occasionally put on the gloves with him." "What is his name?" {158} CHAPTER XXV. There was one question which I was continually asking myself at this period, and which has more than once met the eyes of the reader who has followed me through the last chapter. "What is truth?" I had involved myself imperceptibly in a dreary labyrinth of doubt, and, whichever way I turned, no reasonable prospect of extricating myself appeared. The means by which I had brought myself into this situation may be very briefly told; I had inquired into many matters, in order that I might become wise, and I had read and pondered over the words of the wise, so called, till I had made myself master of the sum of human wisdom; namely, that everything is enigmatical and that man is an enigma to himself; thence the cry of "What is truth?" I had ceased to believe in the truth of that in which I had hitherto trusted, and yet could find nothing in which I could put any fixed or deliberate belief. I was, indeed, in a labyrinth! In what did I not doubt? With respect to crime and virtue I was in doubt; I doubted that the one was blameable and the other praiseworthy. Are not all things subjected to the law of necessity? Assuredly; time and chance govern all things: yet how can this be? alas! Then there was myself; for what was I born? Are not all things born to be forgotten? That's incomprehensible: yet is it not so? Those butterflies fall and are forgotten. In what is man better than a butterfly? All then is born to be forgotten. Ah! that was a pang indeed; 'tis at such a moment that a man wishes to die. The wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his shady arbours beside his sunny fishpools, saying so many fine things, wished to die, when he saw that not only all was vanity, but that he himself was vanity. Will a time come when all will be forgotten that now is beneath the sun? If so, of what profit is life? In truth, it was a sore vexation of spirit to me when I saw, as the wise man saw of old, that whatever I could hope to perform must necessarily be of very temporary duration; and if so, why do it? I said to myself, whatever name I can acquire, will it endure for eternity? scarcely so. A thousand years? Let me see! What have I done already? I have learnt Welsh, and have translated the songs of Ab Gwilym, some ten thousand lines, into English rhyme; I have also learnt Danish, and have rendered the old book of ballads cast by the tempest upon the beach into corresponding English metre. Good! have I done enough already to secure myself a reputation of a thousand years? No, no! certainly not; I have not the slightest ground for hoping that my translations from the Welsh and Danish will be read at the end of a thousand years. Well, but I am only eighteen, and I have not stated all that I have done; I have learnt many other tongues, and have acquired some knowledge even of Hebrew and Arabic. Should I go on in this way till I am forty, I must then be very learned; and perhaps, among other things, may have translated the Talmud, and some of the great works of the Arabians. Pooh! all this is mere learning and translation, and such will never secure immortality. Translation is at best an echo, and it must be a wonderful echo to be heard after the lapse of a thousand years. No! all I have already done, and all I may yet do in the same way, I may reckon as nothing--mere pastime; something else must be done. I must either write some grand original work, or conquer an empire; the one just as easy as the other. But am I competent to do either? Yes, I think I am, under favourable circumstances. Yes, I think I may promise myself a reputation of a thousand years, if I do but give myself the necessary trouble. Well! but what's a thousand years after all, or twice a thousand years? Woe is me! I may just as well sit still. "Would I had never been born!" I said to myself; and a thought would occasionally intrude. But was I ever born? Is not all that I see a lie--a deceitful phantom? Is there a world, and earth, and sky? Berkeley's doctrine--Spinosa's doctrine! Dear reader, I had at that time never read either Berkeley or Spinosa. I have still never read them; who are they, men of yesterday? "All is a lie--all a deceitful phantom," are old cries; they come naturally from the mouths of those, who, casting aside that choicest shield against madness, simplicity, would fain be wise as God, and can only know that they are naked. This doubting in the "universal all" is almost coeval with the human race: wisdom, so called, was early sought after. All is a lie--a deceitful phantom--was said when the world was yet young; its surface, save a scanty portion, yet untrodden by human foot, and when the great tortoise yet crawled about. All is a lie, was the doctrine of Buddh; and Buddh lived thirty centuries before the wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his arbours, beside his sunny fishpools, saying many fine things, and, amongst others, "There is nothing new under the sun!" * * * * * One day, whilst I bent my way to the heath of which I have spoken on a former occasion, at the foot of the hills which formed it I came to a place where a wagon was standing, but without horses, the shafts resting on the ground; there was a crowd about it, which extended half-way up the side of the neighbouring hill. The wagon was occupied by some half a dozen men; some sitting, others standing. They were dressed in sober- coloured habiliments of black or brown, cut in plain and rather uncouth fashion, and partially white with dust; their hair was short, and seemed to have been smoothed down by the application of the hand; all were bare- headed--sitting or standing, all were bareheaded. One of them, a tall man, was speaking, as I arrived; ere, however, I could distinguish what he was saying, he left off, and then there was a cry for a hymn "to the glory of God"--that was the word. It was a strange-sounding hymn, as well it might be, for everybody joined in it: there were voices of all kinds, of men, of women, and of children--of those who could sing and of those who could not--a thousand voices all joined, and all joined heartily; no voice of all the multitude was silent save mine. The crowd consisted entirely of the lower classes, labourers, and mechanics, and their wives and children--dusty people, unwashed people, people of no account whatever, and yet they did not look a mob. And when that hymn was over--and here let me observe that, strange as it sounded, I have recalled that hymn to mind, and it has seemed to tingle in my ears on occasions when all that pomp and art could do to enhance religious solemnity was being done--in the Sistine Chapel, what time the papal band was in full play, and the choicest choristers of Italy poured forth their melodious tones in presence of Batuschca and his cardinals--on the ice of the Neva, what time the long train of stately priests, with their noble beards and their flowing robes of crimson and gold, with their ebony and ivory staves, stalked along, chanting their Sclavonian litanies in advance of the mighty Emperor of the North and his Priberjensky guard of giants, towards the orifice through which the river, running below in its swiftness, is to receive the baptismal lymph--when the hymn was over, another man in the wagon proceeded to address the people; he was a much younger man than the last speaker; somewhat square built and about the middle height; his face was rather broad, but expressive of much intelligence, and with a peculiar calm and serious look; the accent in which he spoke indicated that he was not of these parts, but from some distant district. The subject of his address was faith, and how it could remove mountains. It was a plain address, without any attempt at ornament, and delivered in a tone which was neither loud nor vehement. The speaker was evidently not a practised one--once or twice he hesitated as if for words to express his meaning, but still he held on, talking of faith, and how it could remove mountains: "It is the only thing we want, brethren, in this world; if we have that, we are indeed rich, as it will enable us to do our duty under all circumstances, and to bear our lot, however hard it may be--and the lot of all mankind is hard--the lot of the poor is hard, brethren--and who knows more of the poor than I?--a poor man myself, and the son of a poor man: but are the rich better off? not so, brethren, for God is just. The rich have their trials too: I am not rich myself, but I have seen the rich with careworn countenances; I have also seen them in mad-houses; from which you may learn, brethren, that the lot of all mankind is hard; that is, till we lay hold of faith, which makes us comfortable under all circumstances; whether we ride in gilded chariots or walk bare-footed in quest of bread; whether we be ignorant, whether we be wise,--for riches and poverty, ignorance and wisdom, brethren, each brings with it its peculiar temptations. Well, under all these troubles, the thing which I would recommend you to seek is one and the same--faith; faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, who made us and allotted to each his station. Each has something to do, brethren. Do it, therefore, but always in faith; without faith we shall find ourselves sometimes at fault; but with faith never--for faith can remove the difficulty. It will teach us to love life, brethren, when life is becoming bitter, and to prize the blessings around us; for as every man has his cares, brethren, so has each man his blessings. It will likewise teach us not to love life over much, seeing that we must one day part with it. It will teach us to face death with resignation, and will preserve us from sinking amidst the swelling of the river Jordan." And when he had concluded his address, he said: "Let us sing a hymn, one composed by Master Charles Wesley--he was my countryman, brethren. 'Jesus, I cast my soul on Thee, Mighty and merciful to save; Thou shalt to death go down with me And lay me gently in the grave. This body then shall rest in hope, This body which the worms destroy; For Thou shalt surely raise me up, To glorious life and endless joy.'" Farewell, preacher with the plain coat, and the calm, serious look! I saw thee once again, and that was lately--only the other day. It was near a fishing hamlet, by the sea-side, that I saw the preacher again. He stood on the top of a steep monticle, used by pilots as a look-out for vessels approaching that coast, a dangerous one, abounding in rocks and quicksands. There he stood on the monticle, preaching to weather-worn fishermen and mariners gathered below upon the sand. "Who is he?" said I to an old fisherman, who stood beside me with a book of hymns in his hand; but the old man put his hand to his lips, and that was the only answer I received. Not a sound was heard but the voice of the preacher and the roaring of the waves; but the voice was heard loud above the roaring of the sea, for the preacher now spoke with power, and his voice was not that of one who hesitates. There he stood--no longer a young man, for his black locks were become gray, even like my own; but there was the intelligent face, and the calm, serious look which had struck me of yore. There stood the preacher, one of those men--and, thank God, their number is not few--who, animated by the spirit of Christ, amidst much poverty, and, alas! much contempt, persist in carrying the light of the Gospel amidst the dark parishes of what, but for their instrumentality, would scarcely be Christian England. I would have waited till he had concluded, in order that I might speak to him and endeavour to bring back the ancient scene to his recollection, but suddenly a man came hurrying towards the monticle, mounted on a speedy horse, and holding by the bridle one yet more speedy, and he whispered to me: "Why loiterest thou here?--knowest thou not all that is to be done before midnight?" and he flung me the bridle; and I mounted on the horse of great speed, and I followed the other, who had already galloped off. And as I departed, I waved my hand to him on the monticle, and I shouted, "Farewell, brother! the seed came up at last, after a long period!" and then I gave the speedy horse his way, and leaning over the shoulder of the galloping horse, I said: "Would that my life had been like his--even like that man's!" I now wandered along the heath, till I came to a place where, beside a thick furze, sat a man, his eyes fixed intently on the red ball of the setting sun. "That's not you, Jasper?" "Indeed, brother!" "I've not seen you for years." "How should you, brother?' "What brings you here?" "The fight, brother." "Where are the tents?" "On the old spot, brother." "Any news since we parted?" "Two deaths, brother." "Who are dead, Jasper?" "Father and mother, brother." "Where did they die?" "Where they were sent, brother." "And Mrs. Herne?" "She's alive, brother." "Where is she now?" "In Yorkshire, brother." "What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?" said I, as I sat down beside him. "My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in the old song of Pharaoh, which I have heard my grandam sing:-- 'Cana marel o manus chivios ande puv, Ta rovel pa leste o chavo ta romi'. When a man dies, he is cast into the earth, and his wife and child sorrow over him. If he has neither wife nor child, then his father and mother, I suppose; and if he is quite alone in the world, why, then, he is cast into the earth, and there is an end of the matter." "And do you think that is the end of a man?" "There's an end of him, brother, more's the pity." "Why do you say so?" "Life is sweet, brother." "Do you think so?" "Think so! There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise the wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?" "I would wish to die--" "You talk like a gorgio--which is the same as talking like a fool--were you a Rommany Chal you would talk wiser. Wish to die, indeed! A Rommany Chal would wish to live for ever!" "In sickness, Jasper?" "There's the sun and stars, brother." "In blindness, Jasper?" "There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that, I would gladly live for ever. Dosta, we'll now go to the tents and put on the gloves; and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother!" CHAPTER XXVI. How for everything there is a time and a season, and then how does the glory of a thing pass from it, even like the flower of the grass! This is a truism, but it is one of those which are continually forcing themselves upon the mind. Many years have not passed over my head, yet during those which I can call to remembrance, how many things have I seen flourish, pass away, and become forgotten, except by myself, who, in spite of all my endeavours, never can forget anything. I have known the time when a pugilistic encounter between two noted champions was almost considered in the light of a national affair; when tens of thousands of individuals, high and low, meditated and brooded upon it, the first thing in the morning and the last at night, until the great event was decided. But the time is past, and many people will say, thank God that it is; all I have to say is, that the French still live on the other side of the water, and are still casting their eyes hitherward--and that in the days of pugilism it was no vain boast to say, that one Englishman was a match for two of t'other race; at present it would be a vain boast to say so, for these are not the days of pugilism. But those to which the course of my narrative has carried me were the days of pugilism; it was then at its height, and consequently near its decline, for corruption had crept into the ring; and how many things, states and sects among the rest, owe their decline to this cause! But what a bold and vigorous aspect pugilism wore at that time! and the great battle was just then coming off; the day had been decided upon, and the spot--a convenient distance from the old town; and to the old town were now flocking the bruisers of England, men of tremendous renown. Let no one sneer at the bruisers of England--what were the gladiators of Rome, or the bull-fighters of Spain, in its palmiest days, compared to England's bruisers? Pity that ever corruption should have crept in amongst them--but of that I wish not to talk, let us still hope that a spark of the old religion, of which they were the priests still lingers in the breasts of Englishmen. There they come, the bruisers, from far London, or from wherever else they might chance to be at that time, to the great rendezvous in the old city; some came one way, some another: some of tip-top reputation came with peers in their chariots, for glory and fame are such fair things that even peers are proud to have those invested therewith by their sides; others came in their own gigs, driving their own bits of blood, and I heard one say: "I have driven through at a heat the whole 111 miles, and only stopped to bait twice". Oh, the blood- horses of old England! but they too have had their day--for everything beneath the sun there is a season and a time. But the greater number come just as they can contrive; on the tops of coaches, for example; and amongst these there are fellows with dark sallow faces and sharp shining eyes; and it is these that have planted rottenness in the core of pugilism, for they are Jews, and, true to their kind, have only base lucre in view. It was fierce old Cobbett, I think, who first said that the Jews first introduced bad faith amongst pugilists. He did not always speak the truth, but at any rate he spoke it when he made that observation. Strange people the Jews--endowed with every gift but one, and that the highest, genius divine,--genius which can alone make of men demigods, and elevate them above earth and what is earthy and what is grovelling; without which a clever nation--and who more clever than the Jews?--may have Rambams in plenty, but never a Fielding nor a Shakespeare; a Rothschild and a Mendoza, yes--but never a Kean nor a Belcher. So the bruisers of England are come to be present at the grand fight speedily coming off; there they are met in the precincts of the old town, near the Field of the Chapel, planted with tender saplings at the restoration of sporting Charles, which are now become venerable elms, as high as many a steeple; there they are met at a fitting rendezvous, where a retired coachman, with one leg, keeps an hotel and a bowling-green. I think I now see them upon the bowling-green, the men of renown, amidst hundreds of people with no renown at all, who gaze upon them with timid wonder. Fame, after all, is a glorious thing, though it lasts only for a day. There's Cribb, the champion of England, and perhaps the best man in England; there he is, with his huge, massive figure, and face wonderfully like that of a lion. There is Belcher, the younger, not the mighty one, who is gone to his place, but the Teucer Belcher, the most scientific pugilist that ever entered a ring, only wanting strength to be, I won't say what. He appears to walk before me now, as he did that evening, with his white hat, white greatcoat, thin, genteel figure, springy step, and keen, determined eye. Crosses him--what a contrast!--grim, savage Shelton, who has a civil word for nobody, and a hard blow for anybody--hard! one blow, given with the proper play of his athletic arm, will unsense a giant. Yonder individual, who strolls about with his hands behind him, supporting his brown coat lappets, under-sized, and who looks anything but what he is, is the king of the light weights, so called,--Randall! the terrible Randall, who has Irish blood in his veins; not the better for that, nor the worse; and not far from him is his last antagonist, Ned Turner, who, though beaten by him, still thinks himself as good a man, in which he is, perhaps, right, for it was a near thing; and "a better shentleman," in which he is quite right, for he is a Welshman. But how shall I name them all? they were there by dozens, and all tremendous in their way. There was Bulldog Hudson and fearless Scroggins, who beat the conqueror of Sam the Jew. There was Black Richmond--no, he was not there, but I knew him well; he was the most dangerous of blacks, even with a broken thigh. There was Purcell, who could never conquer till all seemed over with him. There was--what! shall I name thee last? ay, why not? I believe that thou art the last of all that strong family still above the sod, where mayst thou long continue--true piece of English stuff, Tom of Bedford--sharp as winter, kind as spring. Hail to thee, Tom of Bedford, or by whatever name it may please thee to be called, Spring or Winter. Hail to thee, six-foot Englishman of the brown eye, worthy to have carried a six-foot bow at Flodden, where England's yeomen triumphed over Scotland's king, his clans and chivalry. Hail to thee, last of England's bruisers, after all the many victories which thou hast achieved--true English victories, unbought by yellow gold; need I recount them? nay, nay! they are already well known to fame--sufficient to say that Bristol's Bull and Ireland's Champion were vanquished by thee, and one mightier still, gold itself, thou didst overcome; for gold itself strove in vain to deaden the power of thy arm; and thus thou didst proceed till men left off challenging thee, the unvanquishable, the incorruptible. 'Tis a treat to see thee, Tom of Bedford, in thy "public" in Holborn way, whither thou hast retired with thy well-earned bays. 'Tis Friday night, and nine by Holborn clock. There sits the yeoman at the end of his long room, surrounded by his friends: glasses are filled, and a song is the cry, and a song is sung well suited to the place; it finds an echo in every heart--fists are clenched, arms are waved, and the portraits of the mighty fighting men of yore, Broughton and Slack and Ben, which adorn the walls, appear to smile grim approbation, whilst many a manly voice joins in the bold chorus:-- "Here's a health to old honest John Bull, When he's gone we shan't find such another, And with hearts and with glasses brim full, We will drink to old England, his mother". But the fight! with respect to the fight, what shall I say? Little can be said about it--it was soon over; some said that the brave from town, who was reputed the best man of the two, and whose form was a perfect model of athletic beauty, allowed himself, for lucre vile, to be vanquished by the massive champion with the flattened nose. One thing is certain, that the former was suddenly seen to sink to the earth before a blow of by no means extraordinary power. Time, time! was called; but there he lay upon the ground apparently senseless, and from thence he did not lift his head till several seconds after the umpires had declared his adversary victor. There were shouts; indeed, there's never a lack of shouts to celebrate a victory, however acquired; but there was also much grinding of teeth, especially amongst the fighting men from town. "Tom has sold us," said they, "sold us to the yokels; who would have thought it?" Then there was fresh grinding of teeth, and scowling brows were turned to the heaven; but what is this? is it possible, does the heaven scowl too? why, only a quarter of an hour ago--but what may not happen in a quarter of an hour? For many weeks the weather had been of the most glorious description, the eventful day, too, had dawned gloriously, and so it had continued till some two hours after noon; the fight was then over; and about that time I looked up--what a glorious sky of deep blue, and what a big, fierce sun swimming high above in the midst of that blue; not a cloud--there had not been one for weeks--not a cloud to be seen, only in the far west, just on the horizon, something like the extremity of a black wing; that was only a quarter of an hour ago, and now the whole northern side of the heaven is occupied by a huge black cloud, and the sun is only occasionally seen amidst masses of driving vapour; what a change! but another fight is at hand, and the pugilists are clearing the outer ring; how their huge whips come crashing upon the heads of the yokels; blood flows, more blood than in the fight: those blows are given with right good-will, those are not sham blows, whether of whip or fist; it is with fist that grim Shelton strikes down the big yokel; he is always dangerous, grim Shelton, but now particularly so, for he has lost ten pounds betted on the brave who sold himself to the yokels; but the outer ring is cleared; and now the second fight commences; it is between two champions of less renown than the others, but is perhaps not the worse on that account. A tall thin boy is fighting in the ring with a man somewhat under the middle size, with a frame of adamant; that's a gallant boy! he's a yokel, but he comes from Brummagem, and he does credit to his extraction; but his adversary has a frame of adamant: in what a strange light they fight, but who can wonder, on looking at that frightful cloud usurping now one half of heaven, and at the sun struggling with sulphurous vapour; the face of the boy, which is turned towards me, looks horrible in that light, but he is a brave boy, he strikes his foe on the forehead, and the report of the blow is like the sound of a hammer against a rock; but there is a rush and a roar over head, a wild commotion, the tempest is beginning to break loose; there's wind and dust, a crash, rain and hail; is it possible to fight amidst such a commotion? yes! the fight goes on; again the boy strikes the man full on the brow, but it is of no use striking that man, his frame is of adamant. "Boy, thy strength is beginning to give way, and thou art becoming confused;" the man now goes to work, amidst rain and hail. "Boy, thou wilt not hold out ten minutes longer against rain, hail, and the blows of such an antagonist." And now the storm was at its height; the black thunder-cloud had broken into many, which assumed the wildest shapes and the strangest colours, some of them unspeakably glorious; the rain poured in a deluge, and more than one water-spout was seen at no great distance: an immense rabble is hurrying in one direction; a multitude of men of all ranks, peers and yokels, prize-fighters and Jews, and the last came to plunder, and are now plundering amidst that wild confusion of hail and rain, men and horses, carts and carriages. But all hurry in one direction, through mud and mire; there's a town only three miles distant, which is soon reached, and soon filled, it will not contain one-third of that mighty rabble; but there's another town farther on--the good old city is farther on, only twelve miles; what's that! who'll stay here? onward to the old town. Hurry skurry, a mixed multitude of men and horses, carts and carriages, all in the direction of the old town; and, in the midst of all that mad throng, at a moment when the rain gushes were coming down with particular fury, and the artillery of the sky was pealing as I had never heard it peal before, I felt some one seize me by the arm--I turned round and beheld Mr. Petulengro. "I can't hear you, Mr. Petulengro," said I; for the thunder drowned the words which he appeared to be uttering. "Dearginni," I heard Mr. Petulengro say, "it thundereth. I was asking, brother, whether you believe in dukkeripens?" "I do not, Mr. Petulengro; but this is strange weather to be asking me whether I believe in fortunes." "Grondinni," said Mr. Petulengro, "it haileth. I believe in dukkeripens, brother." "And who has more right," said I, "seeing that you live by them? But this tempest is truly horrible." "Dearginni, grondinni ta villaminni! It thundereth, it haileth, and also flameth," said Mr. Petulengro. "Look up there, brother!" I looked up. Connected with this tempest there was one feature to which I have already alluded--the wonderful colours of the clouds. Some were of vivid green; others of the brightest orange; others as black as pitch. The gypsy's finger was pointed to a particular part of the sky. "What do you see there, brother?" "A strange kind of cloud." "What does it look like, brother?" "Something like a stream of blood." "That cloud foreshoweth a bloody dukkeripen." "A bloody fortune!" said I. "And whom may it betide?" "Who knows!" said the gypsy. Down the way, dashing and splashing and scattering man, horse and cart to the left and right, came an open barouche, drawn by four smoking steeds, with postillions in scarlet jackets, and leather skull-caps. Two forms were conspicuous in it; that of the successful bruiser and of his friend and backer, the sporting gentleman of my acquaintance. "His!" said the gypsy, pointing to the latter, whose stern features wore a smile of triumph, as, probably recognising me in the crowd, he nodded in the direction of where I stood, as the barouche hurried by. There went the barouche, dashing through the rain gushes, and in it one whose boast it was that he was equal to "either fortune". Many have heard of that man--many may be desirous of knowing yet more of him. I have nothing to do with that man's after-life--he fulfilled his dukkeripen. "A bad, violent man!" Softly friend; when thou wouldst speak harshly of the dead, remember that thou hast not yet fulfilled thy own dukkeripen! CHAPTER XXVII. My father, as I have already informed the reader, had been endowed by nature with great corporeal strength; indeed, I have been assured that, at the period of his prime, his figure had denoted the possession of almost Herculean powers. The strongest forms, however, do not always endure the longest, the very excess of the noble and generous juices which they contain being the cause of their premature decay. But, be that as it may, the health of my father, some few years after his retirement from the service to the quiet of domestic life, underwent a considerable change; his constitution appeared to be breaking up; and he was subject to severe attacks from various disorders, with which, till then, he had been utterly unacquainted. He was, however, wont to rally, more or less, after his illnesses, and might still occasionally be seen taking his walk, with his cane in his hand, and accompanied by his dog, who sympathised entirely with him, pining as he pined, improving as he improved, and never leaving the house save in his company; and in this manner matters went on for a considerable time, no very great apprehension with respect to my father's state being raised either in my mother's breast or my own. But, about six months after the period at which I have arrived in my last chapter, it came to pass that my father experienced a severer attack than on any previous occasion. He had the best medical advice; but it was easy to see, from the looks of his doctors, that they entertained but slight hopes of his recovery. His sufferings were great, yet he invariably bore them with unshaken fortitude. There was one thing remarkable connected with his illness; notwithstanding its severity, it never confined him to his bed. He was wont to sit in his little parlour, in his easy chair, dressed in a faded regimental coat, his dog at his feet, who would occasionally lift his head from the hearth-rug on which he lay, and look his master wistfully in the face. And thus my father spent the greater part of his time, sometimes in prayer, sometimes in meditation, and sometimes in reading the Scriptures. I frequently sat with him; though, as I entertained a great awe for my father, I used to feel rather ill at ease, when, as sometimes happened, I found myself alone with him. "I wish to ask you a few questions," said he to me, one day after my mother had left the room. "I will answer anything you may please to ask me, my dear father." "What have you been about lately?" "I have been occupied as usual, attending at the office at the appointed hours." "And what do you do there?" "Whatever I am ordered." "And nothing else?" "Oh, yes! sometimes I read a book." "Connected with your profession?" "Not always; I have been lately reading Armenian" "What's that?" "The language of a people whose country is a region on the other side of Asia Minor." "Well!" "A region abounding with mountains." "Well!" "Amongst which is Mount Ararat." "Well!" "Upon which, as the Bible informs us, the ark rested." "Well!" "It is the language of the people of those regions." "So you told me." "And I have been reading the Bible in their language." "Well!" "Or rather, I should say, in the ancient language of these people; from which I am told the modern Armenian differs considerably." "Well!" "As much as the Italian from the Latin." "Well!" "So I have been reading the Bible in ancient Armenian." "You told me so before." "I found it a highly difficult language." "Yes." "Differing widely from the languages in general with which I am acquainted." "Yes." "Exhibiting, however, some features in common with them." "Yes." "And sometimes agreeing remarkably in words with a certain strange wild speech with which I became acquainted--" "Irish?" "No, father, not Irish--with which I became acquainted by the greatest chance in the world." "Yes." "But of which I need say nothing further at present, and which I should not have mentioned but for that fact." "Well!" "Which I consider remarkable." "Yes." "The Armenian is copious." "Is it?" "With an alphabet of thirty-nine letters, but it is harsh and guttural." "Yes." "Like the language of most mountainous people--the Armenians call it Haik." "Do they?" "And themselves, Haik, also; they are a remarkable people, and, though their original habitation is the Mountain of Ararat, they are to be found, like the Jews, all over the world." "Well!" "Well, father, that's all I can tell you about the Haiks, or Armenians." "And what does it all amount to?" "Very little, father; indeed, there is very little known about the Armenians; their early history, in particular, is involved in considerable mystery." "And, if you knew all that it was possible to know about them, to what would it amount? to what earthly purpose could you turn it? have you acquired any knowledge of your profession?" "Very little, father." "Very little! Have you acquired all in your power?" "I can't say that I have, father." "And yet it was your duty to have done so. But I see how it is, you have shamefully misused your opportunities; you are like one, who, sent into the field to labour, passes his time in flinging stones at the birds of heaven." "I would scorn to fling a stone at a bird, father." "You know what I mean, and all too well, and this attempt to evade deserved reproof by feigned simplicity is quite in character with your general behaviour. I have ever observed about you a want of frankness, which has distressed me; you never speak of what you are about, your hopes, or your projects, but cover yourself with mystery. I never knew till the present moment that you were acquainted with Armenian." "Because you never asked me, father; there's nothing to conceal in the matter--I will tell you in a moment how I came to learn Armenian. A lady whom I met at one of Mrs. ---'s parties took a fancy to me, and has done me the honour to allow me to go and see her sometimes. She is the widow of a rich clergyman, and on her husband's death came to this place to live bringing her husband's library with her. I soon found my way to it, and examined every book. Her husband must have been a learned man, for amongst much Greek and Hebrew I found several volumes in Armenian, or relating to the language." "And why did you not tell me of this before?" "Because you never questioned me; but, I repeat, there is nothing to conceal in the matter. The lady took a fancy to me, and, being fond of the arts, drew my portrait; she said the expression of my countenance put her in mind of Alfieri's Saul." "And do you still visit her?" "No, she soon grew tired of me, and told people that she found me very stupid; she gave me the Armenian books, however." "Saul," said my father, musingly, "Saul, I am afraid she was only too right there; he disobeyed the commands of his master, and brought down on his head the vengeance of Heaven--he became a maniac, prophesied, and flung weapons about him." "He was, indeed, an awful character--I hope I shan't turn out like him." "God forbid!" said my father, solemnly; "but in many respects you are headstrong and disobedient like him. I placed you in a profession, and besought you to make yourself master of it, by giving it your undivided attention. This, however, you did not do, you know nothing of it, but tell me that you are acquainted with Armenian; but what I dislike most is your want of candour--you are my son, but I know little of your real history; you may know fifty things for what I am aware; you may know how to shoe a horse, for what I am aware." "Not only to shoe a horse, father, but to make horse-shoes." "Perhaps so," said my father; "and it only serves to prove what I was just saying, that I know little about you." "But you easily may, my dear father; I will tell you anything that you may wish to know--shall I inform you how I learnt to make horse-shoes?" "No," said my father; "as you kept it a secret so long, it may as well continue so still. Had you been a frank, open-hearted boy, like one I could name, you would have told me all about it of your own accord. But I now wish to ask you a serious question--what do you propose to do?" "To do, father?" "Yes! the time for which you were articled to your profession will soon be expired, and I shall be no more." "Do not talk so, my dear father, I have no doubt that you will soon be better." "Do not flatter yourself; I feel that my days are numbered. I am soon going to my rest, and I have need of rest, for I am weary. There, there, don't weep! Tears will help me as little as they will you; you have not yet answered my question. Tell me what you intend to do?" "I really do not know what I shall do." "The military pension which I enjoy will cease with my life. The property which I shall leave behind me will be barely sufficient for the maintenance of your mother respectably. I again ask you what you intend to do. Do you think you can support yourself by your Armenian or your other acquirements?" "Alas! I think little at all about it; but I suppose I must push into the world, and make a good fight, as becomes the son of him who fought Big Ben: if I can't succeed, and am driven to the worst, it is but dying--" "What do you mean by dying?" "Leaving the world; my loss would scarcely be felt. I have never held life in much value, and every one has a right to dispose as he thinks best of that which is his own." "Ah! now I understand you; and well I know how and where you imbibed that horrible doctrine, and many similar ones which I have heard from your own mouth; but I wish not to reproach you--I view in your conduct a punishment for my own sins, and I bow to the will of God. Few and evil have been my days upon the earth; little have I done to which I can look back with satisfaction. It is true I have served my king fifty years, and I have fought with--Heaven forgive me, what was I about to say!--but you mentioned the man's name, and our minds willingly recall our ancient follies. Few and evil have been my days upon earth, I may say with Jacob of old, though I do not mean to say that my case is so hard as his; he had many undutiful children, whilst I have only--; but I will not reproach you. I have also like him a son to whom I can look with hope, who may yet preserve my name when I am gone, so let me be thankful; perhaps, after all, I have not lived in vain. Boy, when I am gone, look up to your brother, and may God bless you both. There, don't weep; but take the Bible, and read me something about the old man and his children." My brother had now been absent for the space of three years. At first his letters had been frequent, and from them it appeared that he was following his profession in London with industry; they then became rather rare, and my father did not always communicate their contents. His last letter, however, had filled him and our whole little family with joy; it was dated from Paris, and the writer was evidently in high spirits. After describing in eloquent terms the beauties and gaieties of the French capital, he informed us how he had plenty of money, having copied a celebrated picture of one of the Italian masters for a Hungarian nobleman, for which he had received a large sum. "He wishes me to go with him to Italy," added he, "but I am fond of independence; and, if ever I visit old Rome, I will have no patrons near me to distract my attention." But six months had now elapsed from the date of this letter, and we had heard no further intelligence of my brother. My father's complaint increased; the gout, his principal enemy, occasionally mounted high up in his system, and we had considerable difficulty in keeping it from the stomach, where it generally proves fatal. I now devoted almost the whole of my time to my father, on whom his faithful partner also lavished every attention and care. I read the Bible to him, which was his chief delight; and also occasionally such other books as I thought might prove entertaining to him. His spirits were generally rather depressed. The absence of my brother seemed to prey upon his mind. "I wish he were here," he would frequently exclaim, "I can't imagine what has become of him; I trust, however, he will arrive in time." He still sometimes rallied, and I took advantage of those moments of comparative ease to question him upon the events of his early life. My attentions to him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly, and unreserved. I had never known my father so entertaining as at these moments, when his life was but too evidently drawing to a close. I had no idea that he knew and had seen so much; my respect for him increased, and I looked upon him almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in general highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with some of the brightest glories of our native land. He had frequently conversed--almost on terms of familiarity--with good old George. He had known the conqueror of Tippoo Saib; and was the friend of Townshend, who, when Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of Montcalm. "Pity," he added, "that when old--old as I am now--he should have driven his own son mad by robbing him of his plighted bride; but so it was; he married his son's bride. I saw him lead her to the altar; if ever there was an angelic countenance, it was that girl's; she was almost too fair to be one of the daughters of women. Is there anything, boy, that you would wish to ask me? now is the time." "Yes, father; there is one about whom I would fain question you." "Who is it? shall I tell you about Elliot?" "No, father, not about Elliot; but pray don't be angry; I should like to know something about Big Ben." "You are a strange lad," said my father; "and, though of late I have begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is still much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that name? Don't you know that it is one of my temptations? You wish to know something about him. Well! I will oblige you this once, and then farewell to such vanities--something about him. I will tell you--his--skin when he flung off his clothes--and he had a particular knack in doing so--his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for combat; and when he fought, he stood so--if I remember right--his skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my elder son was here." CHAPTER XXVIII. At last my brother arrived; he looked pale and unwell; I met him at the door. "You have been long absent!" said I. "Yes," said he, "perhaps too long; but how is my father?" "Very poorly," said I, "he has had a fresh attack; but where have you been of late?" "Far and wide," said my brother; "but I can't tell you anything now, I must go to my father. It was only by chance that I heard of his illness." "Stay a moment," said I. "Is the world such a fine place as you supposed it to be before you went away?" "Not quite," said my brother, "not quite; indeed I wish--but ask me no questions now, I must hasten to my father." There was another question on my tongue, but I forebore; for the eyes of the young man were full of tears. I pointed with my finger, and the young man hastened past me to the arms of his father. I forebore to ask my brother whether he had been to old Rome. What passed between my father and brother I do not know; the interview, no doubt, was tender enough, for they tenderly loved each other; but my brother's arrival did not produce the beneficial effect upon my father which I at first hoped it would; it did not even appear to have raised his spirits. He was composed enough, however. "I ought to be grateful," said he; "I wished to see my son, and God has granted me my wish; what more have I to do now than to bless my little family and go?" My father's end was evidently at hand. And did I shed no tears? did I breathe no sighs? did I never wring my hands at this period? the reader will perhaps be asking. Whatever I did and thought is best known to God and myself; but it will be as well to observe, that it is possible to feel deeply and yet make no outward sign. And now for the closing scene. At the dead hour of night, it might be about two, I was awakened from sleep by a cry which sounded from the room immediately below that in which I slept. I knew the cry, it was the cry of my mother, and I also knew its import; yet I made no effort to rise, for I was for the moment paralysed. Again the cry sounded, yet still I lay motionless--the stupidity of horror was upon me. A third time, and it was then that, by a violent effort bursting the spell which appeared to bind me, I sprang from the bed and rushed downstairs. My mother was running wildly about the room; she had awoke and found my father senseless in the bed by her side. I essayed to raise him, and after a few efforts supported him in the bed in a sitting posture. My brother now rushed in, and snatching up a light that was burning, he held it to my father's face. "The surgeon, the surgeon!" he cried; then dropping the light, he ran out of the room followed by my mother; I remained alone, supporting the senseless form of my father; the light had been extinguished by the fall, and an almost total darkness reigned in the room. The form pressed heavily against my bosom--at last methought it moved. Yes, I was right, there was a heaving of the breast, and then a gasping. Were those words which I heard? Yes, they were words, low and indistinct at first, and then audible. The mind of the dying man was reverting to former scenes. I heard him mention names which I had often heard him mention before. It was an awful moment; I felt stupefied, but I still contrived to support my dying father. There was a pause, again my father spoke: I heard him speak of Minden, and of Meredith, the old Minden sergeant, and then he uttered another name, which at one period of his life was much on his lips, the name of--but this is a solemn moment! There was a deep gasp: I shook, and thought all was over; but I was mistaken--my father moved and revived for a moment; he supported himself in bed without my assistance. I make no doubt that for a moment he was perfectly sensible, and it was then that, clasping his hands, he uttered another name clearly, distinctly--it was the name of Christ. With that name upon his lips, the brave old soldier sank back upon my bosom, and, with his hands still clasped, yielded up his soul. [_End of Vol._ _I._, 1851.] CHAPTER XXIX. "One-and-ninepence, sir, or the things which you have brought with you will be taken away from you!" Such were the first words which greeted my ears, one damp, misty morning in March, as I dismounted from the top of a coach in the yard of a London inn. I turned round, for I felt that the words were addressed to myself. Plenty of people were in the yard--porters, passengers, coachmen, ostlers, and others, who appeared to be intent on anything but myself, with the exception of one individual whose business appeared to lie with me, and who now confronted me at the distance of about two yards. I looked hard at the man--and a queer kind of individual he was to look at--a rakish figure, about thirty, and of the middle size, dressed in a coat smartly cut, but threadbare, very tight pantaloons of blue stuff, tied at the ankles, dirty white stockings, and thin shoes, like those of a dancing-master; his features were not ugly, but rather haggard, and he appeared to owe his complexion less to nature than carmine; in fact, in every respect, a very queer figure. "One-and-ninepence, sir, or your things will be taken away from you!" he said, in a kind of lisping tone, coming yet nearer to me. I still remained staring fixedly at him, but never a word answered. Our eyes met; whereupon he suddenly lost the easy impudent air which he before wore. He glanced, for a moment, at my fist, which I had by this time clenched, and his features became yet more haggard; he faltered; a fresh "one-and-ninepence" which he was about to utter, died on his lips; he shrank back, disappeared behind a coach, and I saw no more of him. "One-and-ninepence, or my things will be taken away from me!" said I to myself, musingly, as I followed the porter to whom I had delivered my scanty baggage; "am I to expect many of these greetings in the big world? Well, never mind; I think I know the counter-sign!" And I clenched my fist yet harder than before. So I followed the porter through the streets of London, to a lodging which had been prepared for me by an acquaintance. The morning, as I have before said, was gloomy, and the streets through which I passed were dank and filthy; the people, also, looked dank and filthy; and so, probably, did I, for the night had been rainy, and I had come upwards of a hundred miles on the top of a coach; my heart had sunk within me by the time we reached a dark narrow street in which was the lodging. "Cheer up, young man," said the porter, "we shall have a fine afternoon!" And presently I found myself in the lodging which had been prepared for me. It consisted of a small room, up two pair of stairs, in which I was to sit, and another still smaller above it, in which I was to sleep. I remember that I sat down, and looked disconsolate about me--everything seemed so cold and dingy. Yet how little is required to make a situation--however cheerless at first sight--cheerful and comfortable. The people of the house, who looked kindly upon me, lighted a fire in the dingy grate; and, then, what a change!--the dingy room seemed dingy no more! Oh, the luxury of a cheerful fire after a chill night's journey! I drew near to the blazing grate, rubbed my hands and felt glad. And, when I had warmed myself, I turned to the table, on which, by this time, the people of the house had placed my breakfast; and I ate and I drank; and, as I ate and drank, I mused within myself, and my eyes were frequently directed to a small green box, which constituted part of my luggage, and which, with the rest of my things, stood in one corner of the room, till at last, leaving my breakfast unfinished, I rose, and, going to the box, unlocked it, and took out two or three bundles of papers tied with red tape, and, placing them on the table, I resumed my seat and my breakfast, my eyes intently fixed upon the bundles of papers all the time. And when I had drained the last cup of tea out of a dingy teapot, and ate the last slice of the dingy loaf, I untied one of the bundles, and proceeded to look over the papers, which were closely written over in a singular hand, and I read for some time, till at last I said to myself, "It will do". And then I looked at the other bundle for some time, without untying it; and at last I said, "It will do also". And then I turned to the fire, and, putting my feet against the sides of the grate, I leaned back on my chair, and, with my eyes upon the fire, fell into deep thought. And there I continued in thought before the fire, until my eyes closed, and I fell asleep; which was not to be wondered at, after the fatigue and cold which I had lately undergone on the coach-top; and, in my sleep, I imagined myself still there, amidst darkness and rain, hurrying now over wild heaths, and now along roads overhung with thick and umbrageous trees, and sometimes methought I heard the horn of the guard, and sometimes the voice of the coachman, now chiding, now encouraging his horses, as they toiled through the deep and miry ways. At length a tremendous crack of a whip saluted the tympanum of my ear, and I started up broad awake, nearly oversetting the chair on which I reclined--and, lo! I was in the dingy room before the fire, which was by this time half- extinguished. In my dream I had confounded the noise of the street with those of my night journey; the crack which had aroused me I soon found proceeded from the whip of a carter, who, with many oaths, was flogging his team below the window. Looking at a clock which stood upon the mantel-piece, I perceived that it was past eleven; whereupon I said to myself, "I am wasting my time foolishly and unprofitably, forgetting that I am now in the big world, without anything to depend upon save my own exertions"; and then I adjusted my dress, and, locking up the bundle of papers which I had not read, I tied up the other, and, taking it under my arm, I went down stairs; and, after asking a question or two of the people of the house, I sallied forth into the street with a determined look, though at heart I felt somewhat timorous at the idea of venturing out alone into the mazes of the mighty city, of which I had heard much, but of which, of my own knowledge, I knew nothing. I had, however, no great cause for anxiety in the present instance; I easily found my way to the place which I was in quest of--one of the many new squares on the northern side of the metropolis, and which was scarcely ten minutes' walk from the street in which I had taken up my abode. Arriving before the door of a tolerably large house which bore a certain number, I stood still for a moment in a kind of trepidation, looking anxiously at the door; I then slowly passed on till I came to the end of the square, where I stood still and pondered for awhile. Suddenly, however, like one who has formed a resolution, I clenched my right hand, flinging my hat somewhat on one side, and, turning back with haste to the door before which I had stopped, I sprang up the steps, and gave a loud rap, ringing at the same time the bell of the area. After the lapse of a minute the door was opened by a maid-servant of no very cleanly or prepossessing appearance, of whom I demanded, in a tone of some _hauteur_, whether the master of the house was at home. Glancing for a moment at the white paper bundle beneath my arm, the handmaid made no reply in words, but, with a kind of toss of her head, flung the door open, standing on one side as if to let me enter. I did enter; and the handmaid, having opened another door on the right hand, went in, and said something which I could not hear; after a considerable pause, however, I heard the voice of a man say, "Let him come in"; whereupon the handmaid, coming out, motioned me to enter, and, on my obeying, instantly closed the door behind me. CHAPTER XXX. There were two individuals in the room in which I now found myself; it was a small study, surrounded with bookcases, the window looking out upon the square. Of these individuals he who appeared to be the principal stood with his back to the fireplace. He was a tall, stout man, about sixty, dressed in a loose morning gown. The expression of his countenance would have been bluff but for a certain sinister glance, and his complexion might have been called rubicund but for a considerable tinge of bilious yellow. He eyed me askance as I entered. The other, a pale, shrivelled-looking person, sat at a table apparently engaged with an account-book; he took no manner of notice of me, never once lifting his eyes from the page before him. "Well, sir, what is your pleasure?" said the big man, in a rough tone, as I stood there looking at him wistfully--as well I might--for upon that man, at the time of which I am speaking, my principal, I may say my only, hopes rested. "Sir," said I, "my name is so-and-so, and I am the bearer of a letter to you from Mr. so-and-so, an old friend and correspondent of yours." The countenance of the big man instantly lost the suspicious and lowering expression which it had hitherto exhibited; he strode forward and, seizing me by the hand, gave me a violent squeeze. "My dear sir," said he, "I am rejoiced to see you in London. I have been long anxious for the pleasure--we are old friends, though we have never before met. Taggart," {185} said he to the man who sat at the desk, "this is our excellent correspondent, the friend and pupil of our other excellent correspondent." The pale, shrivelled-looking man slowly and deliberately raised his head from the account-book, and surveyed me for a moment or two; not the slightest emotion was observable in his countenance. It appeared to me, however, that I could detect a droll twinkle in his eye; his curiosity, if he had any, was soon gratified; he made me a kind of bow, pulled out a snuff-box, took a pinch of snuff, and again bent his head over the page. "And now, my dear sir," said the big man, "pray sit down, and tell me the cause of your visit. I hope you intend to remain here a day or two." "More than that," said I, "I am come to take up my abode in London." "Glad to hear it; and what have you been about of late? got anything which will suit me? Sir, I admire your style of writing, and your manner of thinking; and I am much obliged to my good friend and correspondent for sending me some of your productions. I inserted them all, and wished there had been more of them--quite original, sir, quite; took with the public, especially the essay about the non-existence of anything. I don't exactly agree with you, though; I have my own peculiar ideas about matter--as you know, of course, from the book I have published. Nevertheless, a very pretty piece of speculative philosophy--no such thing as matter--impossible that there should be--_ex nihilo_--what is the Greek? I have forgot--very pretty indeed; very original." "I am afraid, sir, it was very wrong to write such trash, and yet more to allow it to be published." "Trash! not at all; a very pretty piece of speculative philosophy; of course you were wrong in saying there is no world. The world must exist, to have the shape of a pear; and that the world is shaped like a pear, and not like an apple, as the fools of Oxford say, I have satisfactorily proved in my book. Now, if there were no world, what would become of my system? But what do you propose to do in London?" "Here is the letter, sir," said I, "of our good friend, which I have not yet given to you; I believe it will explain to you the circumstances under which I come." He took the letter, and perused it with attention. "Hem!" said he, with a somewhat altered manner, "my friend tells me that you are come up to London with the view of turning your literary talents to account, and desires me to assist you in my capacity of publisher in bringing forth two or three works which you have prepared. My good friend is perhaps not aware that for some time past I have given up publishing--was obliged to do so--had many severe losses--do nothing at present in that line, save sending out the Magazine once a month; and, between ourselves am thinking of disposing of that--wish to retire--high time at my age--so you see--" "I am very sorry, sir, to hear that you cannot assist me" (and I remember that I felt very nervous); "I had hoped--" "A losing trade, I assure you, sir; literature is a drug. Taggart, what o'clock is it?" "Well, sir!" said I, rising, "as you cannot assist me, I will now take my leave; I thank you sincerely for your kind reception, and will trouble you no longer." "Oh, don't go. I wish to have some further conversation with you; and perhaps I may hit upon some plan to benefit you. I honour merit, and always make a point to encourage it when I can; but--Taggart, go to the bank, and tell them to dishonour the bill twelve months after date for thirty pounds which becomes due to-morrow. I am dissatisfied with that fellow who wrote the fairy tales, and intend to give him all the trouble in my power. Make haste." Taggart did not appear to be in any particular haste. First of all, he took a pinch of snuff, then, rising from his chair, slowly and deliberately drew his wig, for he wore a wig of a brown colour, rather more over his forehead than it had previously been, buttoned his coat, and, taking his hat, and an umbrella which stood in a corner, made me a low bow, and quitted the room. "Well, sir, where were we? Oh, I remember, we were talking about merit. Sir, I always wish to encourage merit, especially when it comes so highly recommended as in the present instance. Sir, my good friend and correspondent speaks of you in the highest terms. Sir, I honour my good friend, and have the highest respect for his opinion in all matters connected with literature--rather eccentric though. Sir, my good friend has done my periodical more good and more harm than all the rest of my correspondents. Sir, I shall never forget the sensation caused by the appearance of his article about a certain personage whom he proved--and I think satisfactorily--to have been a legionary soldier--rather startling, was it not? The S--- {187} of the world a common soldier, in a marching regiment!--original, but startling; sir, I honour my good friend." "So you have renounced publishing, sir," said I, "with the exception of the Magazine?" "Why, yes; except now and then, under the rose; the old coachman, you know, likes to hear the whip. Indeed, at the present moment, I am thinking of starting a Review on an entirely new and original principle; and it just struck me that you might be of high utility in the undertaking--what do you think of the matter?" "I should be happy, sir, to render you any assistance, but I am afraid the employment you propose requires other qualifications than I possess; however, I can make the essay. My chief intention in coming to London was to lay before the world what I had prepared; and I had hoped by your assistance--" "Ah! I see, ambition! Ambition is a very pretty thing; but, sir, we must walk before we run, according to the old saying--what is that you have got under your arm?" "One of the works to which I was alluding; the one, indeed, which I am most anxious to lay before the world, as I hope to derive from it both profit and reputation." "Indeed! what do you call it?" "Ancient songs of Denmark, heroic and romantic, translated by myself, with notes philological, critical and historical." "Then, sir, I assure you that your time and labour have been entirely flung away; nobody would read your ballads, if you were to give them to the world to-morrow." "I am sure, sir, that you would say otherwise if you would permit me to read one to you;" and, without waiting for the answer of the big man, nor indeed so much as looking at him, to see whether he was inclined or not to hear me, I undid my manuscript, and with a voice trembling with eagerness, I read to the following effect:-- Buckshank bold and Elfinstone, And more than I can mention here, They caused to be built so stout a ship, And unto Iceland they would steer. They launched the ship upon the main, Which bellowed like a wrathful bear; Down to the bottom the vessel sank, A laidly Trold has dragged it there. Down to the bottom sank young Roland, And round about he groped awhile; Until he found the path which led Unto the bower of Ellenlyle. "Stop!" said the publisher; "very pretty, indeed, and very original; beats Scott hollow, and Percy too: but, sir, the day for these things is gone by; nobody at present cares for Percy, nor for Scott, either, save as a novelist; sorry to discourage merit, sir, but what can I do? What else have you got?" "The songs of Ab Gwilym, the Welsh bard, also translated by myself, with notes critical, philological and historical." "Pass on--what else?" "Nothing else," said I, folding up my manuscript with a sigh, "unless it be a romance in the German style; on which, I confess, I set very little value." "Wild?" "Yes, sir, very wild." "Like the Miller of the Black Valley?" "Yes, sir, very much like the Miller of the Black Valley." "Well, that's better," said the publisher; "and yet, I don't know, I question whether any one at present cares for the miller himself. No, sir, the time for those things is also gone by; German, at present, is a drug; and, between ourselves, nobody has contributed to make it so more than my good friend and correspondent; but, sir, I see you are a young gentleman of infinite merit, and I always wish to encourage merit. Don't you think you could write a series of evangelical tales?" "Evangelical tales, sir?" "Yes, sir, evangelical novels." "Something in the style of Herder?" "Herder is a drug, sir; nobody cares for Herder--thanks to my good friend. Sir, I have in yon drawer a hundred pages about Herder, which I dare not insert in my periodical; it would sink it, sir. No, sir, something in the style of the _Dairyman's Daughter_." "I never heard of the work till the present moment." "Then, sir, procure it by all means. Sir, I could afford as much as ten pounds for a well-written tale in the style of the _Dairyman's Daughter_; that is the kind of literature, sir, that sells at the present day! It is not the Miller of the Black Valley--no, sir, nor Herder either, that will suit the present taste; the evangelical body is becoming very strong, sir--the canting scoundrels--" "But, sir, surely you would not pander to a scoundrelly taste?" "Then, sir, I must give up business altogether. Sir, I have a great respect for the goddess Reason--an infinite respect, sir; indeed, in my time, I have made a great many sacrifices for her; but, sir, I cannot altogether ruin myself for the goddess Reason. Sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as is well known; but I must also be a friend to my own family. It is with the view of providing for a son of mine that I am about to start the Review of which I was speaking. He has taken it into his head to marry, sir, and I must do something for him, for he can do but little for himself. Well, sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as I said before, and likewise a friend to Reason; but I tell you frankly that the Review which I intend to get up under the rose, and present him with when it is established, will be conducted on Oxford principles." {190} "Orthodox principles, I suppose you mean, sir?" "I do, sir; I am no linguist, but I believe the words are synonymous." Much more conversation passed between us, and it was agreed that I should become a contributor to the Oxford Review. I stipulated, however, that, as I knew little of politics, and cared less, no other articles should be required from me than such as were connected with belles-lettres and philology; to this the big man readily assented. "Nothing will be required from you," said he, "but what you mention; and now and then, perhaps, a paper on metaphysics. You understand German, and perhaps it would be desirable that you should review Kant; and in a review of Kant, sir, you could introduce to advantage your peculiar notions about _ex nihilo_." He then reverted to the subject of the _Dairyman's Daughter_, which I promised to take into consideration. As I was going away, he invited me to dine with him on the ensuing Sunday. "That's a strange man!" said I to myself, after I had left the house, "he is evidently very clever; but I cannot say that I like him much, with his Oxford Reviews and Dairyman's Daughters. But what can I do? I am almost without a friend in the world. I wish I could find some one who would publish my ballads, or my songs of Ab Gwilym. In spite of what the big man says, I am convinced that, once published, they would bring me much fame and profit. But how is this?--what a beautiful sun!--the porter was right in saying that the day would clear up--I will now go to my dingy lodging, lock up my manuscripts and then take a stroll about the big city." CHAPTER XXXI. So I set out on my walk to see the wonders of the big city, and, as chance would have it, I directed my course to the east. The day, as I have already said, had become very fine, so that I saw the great city to advantage, and the wonders thereof, and much I admired all I saw; and, amongst other things, the huge cathedral, standing so proudly on the most commanding ground in the big city; and I looked up to the mighty dome, surmounted by a golden cross, and I said within myself: "That dome must needs be the finest in the world"; and I gazed upon it till my eyes reeled, and my brain became dizzy, and I thought that the dome would fall and crush me; and I shrank within myself, and struck yet deeper into the heart of the big city. "O Cheapside! Cheapside!" said I, as I advanced up that mighty thoroughfare, "truly thou art a wonderful place for hurry, noise and riches! Men talk of the bazaars of the East--I have never seen them, but I dare say that, compared with thee, they are poor places, silent places, abounding with empty boxes. O thou pride of London's east!--mighty mart of old renown!--for thou art not a place of yesterday: long before the Roses red and white battled in fair England, thou didst exist--a place of throng and bustle--a place of gold and silver, perfumes and fine linen. Centuries ago thou couldst extort the praises even of the fiercest foes of England. Fierce bards of Wales, sworn foes of England, sang thy praises centuries ago; and even the fiercest of them all, Red Julius himself, wild Glendower's bard, had a word of praise for London's "Cheape," for so the bards of Wales styled thee in their flowing odes. Then, if those who were not English, and hated England, and all connected therewith, had yet much to say in thy praise, when thou wast far inferior to what thou art now, why should true-born Englishmen, or those who call themselves so, turn up their noses at thee, and scoff thee at the present day, as I believe they do? But, let others do as they will, I, at least, who am not only an Englishman, but an East Englishman, will not turn up my nose at thee, but will praise and extol thee, calling thee mart of the world--a place of wonder and astonishment!--and, were it right and fitting to wish that anything should endure for ever, I would say prosperity to Cheapside, throughout all ages--may it be the world's resort for merchandise, world without end." And when I had passed through the Cheape I entered another street, which led up a kind of ascent, and which proved to be the street of the Lombards, called so from the name of its founders; and I walked rapidly up the street of the Lombards, neither looking to the right nor left, for it had no interest for me, though I had a kind of consciousness that mighty things were being transacted behind its walls; but it wanted the throng, bustle and outward magnificence of the Cheape, and it had never been spoken of by "ruddy bards!" And, when I had got to the end of the street of the Lombards, I stood still for some time, deliberating within myself whether I should turn to the right or the left, or go straight forward, and at last I turned to the right, down a street of rapid descent, and presently found myself upon a bridge which traversed the river which runs by the big city. A strange kind of bridge it was; huge and massive, and seemingly of great antiquity. It had an arched back, like that of a hog, a high balustrade, and at either side, at intervals, were stone bowers bulking over the river, but open on the other side, and furnished with a semicircular bench. Though the bridge was wide--very wide--it was all too narrow for the concourse upon it. Thousands of human beings were pouring over the bridge. But what chiefly struck my attention was a double row of carts and wagons, the generality drawn by horses as large as elephants, each row striving hard in a different direction, and not unfrequently brought to a standstill. Oh the cracking of whips, the shouts and oaths of the carters, and the grating of wheels upon the enormous stones that formed the pavement! In fact, there was a wild hurly-burly upon the bridge, which nearly deafened me. But, if upon the bridge there was a confusion, below it there was a confusion ten times confounded. The tide, which was fast ebbing, obstructed by the immense piers of the old bridge, poured beneath the arches with a fall of several feet, forming in the river below as many whirlpools as there were arches. Truly tremendous was the roar of the descending waters, and the bellow of the tremendous gulfs, which swallowed them for a time, and then cast them forth, foaming and frothing from their horrid wombs. Slowly advancing along the bridge, I came to the highest point, and there I stood still, close beside one of the stone bowers, in which, beside a fruitstall, sat an old woman, with a pan of charcoal at her feet, and a book in her hand, in which she appeared to be reading intently. There I stood, just above the principal arch, looking through the balustrade at the scene that presented itself--and such a scene! Towards the left bank of the river, a forest of masts, thick and close, as far as the eye could reach; spacious wharfs, surmounted with gigantic edifices; and, far away, Caesar's Castle, with its White Tower. To the right, another forest of masts, and a maze of buildings, from which, here and there, shot up to the sky chimneys taller than Cleopatra's Needle, vomiting forth huge wreaths of that black smoke which forms the canopy--occasionally a gorgeous one--of the more than Babel city. Stretching before me, the troubled breast of the mighty river, and, immediately below, the main whirlpool of the Thames--the Maelstrom of the bulwarks of the middle arch--a grisly pool, which, with its superabundance of horror, fascinated me. Who knows but I should have leapt into its depths?--I have heard of such things--but for a rather startling occurrence which broke the spell. As I stood upon the bridge, gazing into the jaws of the pool, a small boat shot suddenly through the arch beneath my feet. There were three persons in it; an oarsman in the middle, whilst a man and a woman sat at the stern. I shall never forget the thrill of horror which went through me at this sudden apparition. What!--a boat--a small boat--passing beneath that arch into yonder roaring gulf! Yes, yes, down through that awful water- way, with more than the swiftness of an arrow, shot the boat, or skiff, right into the jaws of the pool. A monstrous breaker curls over the prow--there is no hope; the boat is swamped, and all drowned in that strangling vortex. No! the boat, which appeared to have the buoyancy of a feather, skipped over the threatening horror, and the next moment was out of danger, the boatman--a true boatman of Cockaigne that--elevating one of his sculls in sign of triumph, the man hallooing, and the woman, a true Englishwoman that--of a certain class--waving her shawl. Whether any one observed them save myself, or whether the feat was a common one, I know not; but nobody appeared to take any notice of them. As for myself, I was so excited, that I strove to clamber up the balustrade of the bridge, in order to obtain a better view of the daring adventurers. Before I could accomplish my design, however, I felt myself seized by the body, and, turning my head, perceived the old fruit-woman, who was clinging to me. "Nay, dear! don't--don't!" said she. "Don't fling yourself over--perhaps you may have better luck next time!" "I was not going to fling myself over," said I, dropping from the balustrade; "how came you to think of such a thing?" "Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you might have had ill luck, and that you wished to make away with yourself." "Ill luck," said I, going into the stone bower and sitting down. "What do you mean? ill luck in what?" "Why, no great harm, dear! cly-faking, perhaps." "Are you coming over me with dialects," said I, "speaking unto me in fashions I wot nothing of?" "Nay, dear! don't look so strange with those eyes of your'n, nor talk so strangely; I don't understand you." "Nor I you; what do you mean by cly-faking?" "Lor, dear! no harm; only taking a handkerchief now and then." "Do you take me for a thief?" "Nay, dear! don't make use of bad language; we never calls them thieves here, but prigs and fakers: to tell you the truth, dear, seeing you spring at that railing put me in mind of my own dear son, who is now at Bot'ny: when he had bad luck, he always used to talk of flinging himself over the bridge; and, sure enough, when the traps were after him, he did fling himself into the river, but that was off the bank; nevertheless, the traps pulled him out, and he is now suffering his sentence; so you see you may speak out, if you have done anything in the harmless line, for I am my son's own mother, I assure you." "So you think there's no harm in stealing?" "No harm in the world, dear! Do you think my own child would have been transported for it, if there had been any harm in it? and what's more, would the blessed woman in the book here have written her life as she has done, and given it to the world, if there had been any harm in faking? She, too, was what they call a thief and a cut-purse; ay, and was transported for it, like my dear son; and do you think she would have told the world so, if there had been any harm in the thing? Oh, it is a comfort to me that the blessed woman was transported, and came back--for come back she did, and rich too--for it is an assurance to me that my dear son, who was transported too, will come back like her." "What was her name?" "Her name, blessed Mary Flanders." "Will you let me look at the book?" "Yes, dear, that I will, if you promise me not to run away with it." I took the book from her hand; a short thick volume, at least a century old, bound with greasy black leather. I turned the yellow and dog's-eared pages, reading here and there a sentence. Yes, and no mistake! _His_ pen, his style, his spirit might be observed in every line of the uncouth-looking old volume--the air, the style, the spirit of the writer of the book which first taught me to read. I covered my face with my hand, and thought of my childhood. "This is a singular book," said I at last; "but it does not appear to have been written to prove that thieving is no harm, but rather to show the terrible consequences of crime: it contains a deep moral." "A deep what, dear?" "A--but no matter, I will give you a crown for this volume." "No, dear, I will not sell the volume for a crown." "I am poor," said I; "but I will give you two silver crowns for your volume." "No, dear, I will not sell my volume for two silver crowns; no, nor for the golden one in the king's tower down there; without my book I should mope and pine, and perhaps fling myself into the river; but I am glad you like it, which shows that I was right about you, after all; you are one of our party, and you have a flash about that eye of yours which puts me just in mind of my dear son. No, dear, I won't sell you my book; but, if you like, you may have a peep into it whenever you come this way. I shall be glad to see you; you are one of the right sort, for, if you had been a common one, you would have run away with the thing; but you scorn such behaviour, and, as you are so flash of your money, though you say you are poor, you may give me a tanner to buy a little baccy with; I love baccy, dear, more by token that it comes from the plantations to which the blessed woman was sent." "What's a tanner?" said I. "Lor! don't you know, dear? Why, a tanner is sixpence; and, as you were talking just now about crowns, it will be as well to tell you that those of our trade never calls them crowns, but bulls; but I am talking nonsense, just as if you did not know all that already, as well as myself; you are only shamming--I'm no trap, dear, nor more was the blessed woman in the book. Thank you, dear--thank you for the tanner; if I don't spend it, I'll keep it in remembrance of your sweet face. What, you are going?--well, first let me whisper a word to you. If you have any clies to sell at any time, I'll buy them of you; all safe with me; I never 'peach, and scorns a trap; so now, dear, God bless you! and give you good luck. Thank you for your pleasant company, and thank you for the tanner." CHAPTER XXXII. "Tanner!" said I musingly, as I left the bridge; "Tanner! what can the man who cures raw skins by means of a preparation of oak bark and other materials have to do with the name which these fakers, as they call themselves, bestow on the smallest silver coin in these dominions? Tanner! I can't trace the connection between the man of bark and the silver coin, unless journeymen tanners are in the habit of working for sixpence a day. But I have it," I continued, flourishing my hat over my head, "tanner, in this instance, is not an English word." Is it not surprising that the language of Mr. Petulengro and of Tawno Chikno, is continually coming to my assistance whenever I appear to be at a nonplus with respect to the derivation of crabbed words? I have made out crabbed words in AEschylus by means of the speech of Chikno and Petulengro, and even in my Biblical researches I have derived no slight assistance from it. It appears to be a kind of picklock, an open sesame, Tanner--Tawno! the one is but a modification of the other; they were originally identical, and have still much the same signification. Tanner, in the language of the apple-woman, meaneth the smallest of English silver coins; and Tawno, in the language of the Petulengros, though bestowed upon the biggest of the Romans, according to strict interpretation, signifieth a little child. So I left the bridge, retracing my steps for a considerable way, as I thought I had seen enough in the direction in which I had hitherto been wandering. [At last I came to a kind of open place from which three large streets branched, and in the middle of the place stood the figure of a man on horseback. It was admirably executed, and I stood still to survey it. "Is that the statue of Cromwell?" said I to a drayman who was passing by, driving a team of that enormous breed of horses which had struck me on the bridge. "Who?" said the man in a surly tone, stopping short. "Cromwell," said I; "did you never hear of Oliver Cromwell?" "Oh, Oliver," said the drayman, and a fine burst of intelligence lighted up his broad English countenance. "To be sure I have; yes, and read of him too. A fine fellow was Oliver, master, and the poor man's friend. Whether that's his figure, though, I can't say. I hopes it be." Then touching his hat to me, he followed his gigantic team, turning his head to look at the statue as he walked along. That man had he lived in Oliver's time would have made a capital ironside, especially if mounted on one of those dray horses of his. I remained looking at the statue some time longer. Turning round, I perceived that I was close by a bookseller's shop, into which, after deliberating a moment, I entered. An elderly, good-tempered looking man was standing behind the counter. "Have you the _Dairyman's Daughter_?" I demanded. "Just one copy, young gentleman," said the bookseller, rubbing his hands; "you are just in time, if you want one; all the rest are sold." "What kind of character does it bear?" "Excellent character, young gentleman; great demand for it; held in much esteem, especially by the Evangelical party." "Who are the Evangelical party?" "Excellent people, young gentleman, and excellent customers of mine," rubbing his hands; "but setting that aside," he continued gravely, "religious, good men." "Not a set of canting scoundrels?" The bookseller had placed a small book upon the counter; but he now suddenly snatched it up and returned it to the shelf; then looking at me full in the face, he said, quietly: "Young gentleman, I do not wish to be uncivil, but you had better leave the shop." "I beg your pardon if I have offended you, but I was merely repeating what I had heard." "Whoever told you so must be either a bad, or a very ignorant, man." "I wish for the book." "You shall not have it at any price." "Why not?" "I have my reasons," said the bookseller. "Will you have the kindness," said I, "to tell me whose statue it is which stands there on horseback?" "Charles the First." "And where is Cromwell's?" "You may walk far enough about London, or, indeed, about England, before you will find a statue of Cromwell, young gentleman." "Well, I could not help thinking that was his." "How came you to think so?" "I thought it would be just the place for a statue to the most illustrious Englishman. It is where I would place one were I prime minister." "Well, I do think that Charles would look better a little farther down, opposite to Whitehall, for example," said the bookseller, rubbing his hands. "Do you really wish to have the book?" "Very much." "Well, here it is; no price, young gentleman; no price--can't break my word--give the money, if you like, to the beggars in the street. Cromwell is the first Englishman who endeavoured to put all sects on an equality. Wouldn't do, though--world too fond of humbug--still is. However, good day, young gentleman, and when you are prime minister, do not forget the two statues."] I should say that I scarcely walked less than thirty miles about the big city on the day of my first arrival. Night came on, but still I was walking about, my eyes wide open, and admiring everything that presented itself to them. Everything was new to me, for everything is different in London from what it is elsewhere--the people, their language, the horses, the _tout ensemble_--even the stones of London are different from others--at least it appeared to me that I had never walked with the same ease and facility on the flag-stones of a country town as on those of London; so I continued roving about till night came on, and then the splendour of some of the shops particularly struck me. "A regular Arabian nights' entertainment!" said I, as I looked into one on Cornhill, gorgeous with precious merchandise, and lighted up with lustres, the rays of which were reflected from a hundred mirrors. But, notwithstanding the excellence of the London pavement, I began about nine o'clock to feel myself thoroughly tired; painfully and slowly did I drag my feet along. I also felt very much in want of some refreshment, and I remembered that since breakfast I had taken nothing. I was now in the Strand, and, glancing about, I perceived that I was close by an hotel, which bore over the door the somewhat remarkable name of Holy Lands. Without a moment's hesitation I entered a well-lighted passage, and, turning to the left, I found myself in a well-lighted coffee-room, with a well-dressed and frizzled waiter before me. "Bring me some claret," said I, for I was rather faint than hungry, and I felt ashamed to give a humbler order to so well-dressed an individual. The waiter looked at me for a moment; then, making a low bow, he bustled off, and I sat myself down in the box nearest to the window. Presently the waiter returned, bearing beneath his left arm a long bottle, and between the fingers of his right hand two large purple glasses; placing the latter on the table, he produced a cork-screw, drew the cork in a twinkling, set the bottle down before me with a bang, and then, standing still, appeared to watch my movements. You think I don't know how to drink a glass of claret, thought I to myself. I'll soon show you how we drink claret where I come from; and, filling one of the glasses to the brim, I flickered it for a moment between my eyes and the lustre, and then held it to my nose; having given that organ full time to test the bouquet of the wine, I applied the glass to my lips, taking a large mouthful of the wine, which I swallowed slowly and by degrees, that the palate might likewise have an opportunity of performing its functions. A second mouthful I disposed of more summarily; then, placing the empty glass upon the table, I fixed my eyes upon the bottle, and said--nothing; whereupon the waiter, who had been observing the whole process with considerable attention, made me a bow yet more low than before, and turning on his heel, retired with a smart chuck of his head, as much as to say, It is all right; the young man is used to claret. And when the waiter had retired I took a second glass of the wine, which I found excellent; and, observing a newspaper lying near me, I took it up and began perusing it. It has been observed somewhere that people who are in the habit of reading newspapers every day are not unfrequently struck with the excellence of style and general talent which they display. Now, if that be the case, how must I have been surprised, who was reading a newspaper for the first time, and that one of the best of the London Journals! Yes, strange as it may seem, it was nevertheless true, that, up to the moment of which I am speaking, I had never read a newspaper of any description. I of course had frequently seen journals, and even handled them; but, as for reading them, what were they to me?--I cared not for news. But here I was now with my claret before me, perusing, perhaps, the best of all the London Journals--it was not the --- and I was astonished: an entirely new field of literature appeared to be opened to my view. It was a discovery, but I confess rather an unpleasant one; for I said to myself, if literary talent is so very common in London, that the journals, things which, as their very name denotes, are ephemeral, are written in a style like the article I have been perusing, how can I hope to distinguish myself in this big town, when, for the life of me, I don't think I could write anything half so clever as what I have been reading. And then I laid down the paper, and fell into deep musing; rousing myself from which, I took a glass of wine, and pouring out another, began musing again. What I have been reading, thought I, is certainly very clever and very talented; but talent and cleverness I think I have heard some one say are very common-place things, only fitted for everyday occasions. I question whether the man who wrote the book I saw this day on the bridge was a clever man; but, after all, was he not something much better? I don't think he could have written this article, but then he wrote the book which I saw on the bridge. Then, if he could not have written the article on which I now hold my forefinger--and I do not believe he could--why should I feel discouraged at the consciousness that I, too, could not write it? I certainly could no more have written the article than he could; but then, like him, though I would not compare myself to the man who wrote the book I saw upon the bridge, I think I could--and here I emptied the glass of claret--write something better. Thereupon I resumed the newspaper; and, as I was before struck with the fluency of style and the general talent which it displayed, I was now equally so with its common-placeness and want of originality on every subject; and it was evident to me that, whatever advantage these newspaper-writers might have over me in some points, they had never studied the Welsh bards, translated Kaempe Viser, or been under the pupilage of Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno. And as I sat conning the newspaper three individuals entered the room, and seated themselves in the box at the farther end of which I was. They were all three very well dressed; two of them elderly gentlemen, the third a young man about my own age, or perhaps a year or two older. They called for coffee; and, after two or three observations, the two eldest commenced a conversation in French, which, however, though they spoke it fluently enough, I perceived at once was not their native language; the young man, however, took no part in their conversation, and when they addressed a portion to him, which indeed was but rarely, merely replied by a monosyllable. I have never been a listener, and I paid but little heed to their discourse, nor indeed to themselves; as I occasionally looked up, however, I could perceive that the features of the young man, who chanced to be seated exactly opposite to me, wore an air of constraint and vexation. This circumstance caused me to observe him more particularly than I otherwise should have done: his features were handsome and prepossessing; he had dark brown hair, and a high-arched forehead. After the lapse of half an hour, the two elder individuals, having finished their coffee, called for the waiter, and then rose as if to depart, the young man, however, still remaining seated in the box. The others, having reached the door, turned round, and, finding that the youth did not follow them, one of them called to him with a tone of some authority; whereupon the young man rose, and, pronouncing half audibly the word "botheration," rose and followed them. I now observed that he was remarkably tall. All three left the house. In about ten minutes, finding nothing more worth reading in the newspaper, I laid it down, and though the claret was not yet exhausted, I was thinking of betaking myself to my lodgings, and was about to call the waiter, when I heard a step in the passage, and in another moment, the tall young man entered the room, advanced to the same box, and, sitting down nearly opposite to me, again pronounced to himself, but more audibly than before, the same word. "A troublesome world this, sir," said I, looking at him. "Yes," said the young man, looking fixedly at me; "but I am afraid we bring most of our troubles on our own heads--at least I can say so of myself," he added, laughing. Then, after a pause, "I beg pardon," he said, "but am I not addressing one of my own country?" "Of what country are you?" said I. "Ireland." "I am not of your country, sir; but I have an infinite veneration for your country, as Strap said to the French soldier. Will you take a glass of wine?" "_Ah_, _de tout mon coeur_, as the parasite said to Gil Blas," cried the young man, laughing. "Here's to our better acquaintance!" And better acquainted we soon became; and I found that, in making the acquaintance of the young man, I had, indeed, made a valuable acquisition; he was accomplished, highly connected, and bore the name of Francis Ardry. {201} Frank and ardent he was, and in a very little time had told me much that related to himself, and in return I communicated a general outline of my own history; he listened with profound attention, but laughed heartily when I told him some particulars of my visit in the morning to the publisher, whom he had frequently heard of. We left the house together. "We shall soon see each other again," said he, as we separated at the door of my lodging. CHAPTER XXXIII. On the Sunday I was punctual to my appointment to dine with the publisher. As I hurried along the square in which his house stood, my thoughts were fixed so intently on the great man that I passed by him without seeing him. He had observed me, however, and joined me just as I was about to knock at the door. "Let us take a turn in the square," said he, "we shall not dine for half an hour." "Well," said he, as we were walking in the square, "what have you been doing since I last saw you?" "I have been looking about London," said I, "and I have bought the _Dairyman's Daughter_; here it is." "Pray put it up," said the publisher; "I don't want to look at such trash. Well, do you think you could write anything like it?" "I do not," said I. "How is that?" said the publisher, looking at me. "Because," said I, "the man who wrote it seems to be perfectly well acquainted with his subject; and, moreover, to write from the heart." "By the subject you mean--" "Religion." "And a'n't you acquainted with religion?" "Very little." "I am sorry for that," said the publisher seriously, "for he who sets up for an author ought to be acquainted not only with religion, but religions, and indeed with all subjects, like my good friend in the country. It is well that I have changed my mind about the _Dairyman's Daughter_, or I really don't know whom I could apply to on the subject at the present moment, unless to himself; and after all, I question whether his style is exactly suited for an evangelical novel." "Then you do not wish for an imitation of the _Dairyman's Daughter_?" "I do not, sir; I have changed my mind, as I told you before; I wish to employ you in another line, but will communicate to you my intentions after dinner." At dinner, besides the publisher and myself, were present his wife and son, with his newly-married bride; the wife appeared a quiet, respectable woman, and the young people looked very happy and good-natured; not so the publisher, who occasionally eyed both with contempt and dislike. Connected with this dinner there was one thing remarkable; the publisher took no animal food, but contented himself with feeding voraciously on rice and vegetables, prepared in various ways. "You eat no animal food, sir?" said I. "I do not, sir," said he; "I have forsworn it upwards of twenty years. In one respect, sir, I am a Brahmin. I abhor taking away life--the brutes have as much right to live as ourselves." "But," said I, "if the brutes were not killed, there would be such a superabundance of them, that the land would be overrun with them." "I do not think so, sir; few are killed in India, and yet there is plenty of room." "But," said I, "Nature intended that they should be destroyed, and the brutes themselves prey upon one another, and it is well for themselves and the world that they do so. What would be the state of things if every insect, bird and worm were left to perish of old age?" "We will change the subject," said the publisher; "I have never been a friend to unprofitable discussions." I looked at the publisher with some surprise, I had not been accustomed to be spoken to so magisterially; his countenance was dressed in a portentous frown, and his eye looked more sinister than ever; at that moment he put me in mind of some of those despots of whom I had read in the history of Morocco, whose word was law. He merely wants power, thought I to myself, to be a regular Muley Mehemet; and then I sighed, for I remembered how very much I was in the power of that man. The dinner over, the publisher nodded to his wife, who departed, followed by her daughter-in-law. The son looked as if he would willingly have attended them; he, however, remained seated; and, a small decanter of wine being placed on the table, the publisher filled two glasses, one of which he handed to myself, and the other to his son, saying: "Suppose you two drink to the success of the Review. I would join you," said he, addressing himself to me, "but I drink no wine; if I am a Brahmin with respect to meat, I am a Mahometan with respect to wine." So the son and I drank success to the Review, and then the young man asked me various questions; for example--how I liked London?--Whether I did not think it a very fine place?--Whether I was at the play the night before?--and whether I was in the park that afternoon? He seemed preparing to ask me some more questions; but, receiving a furious look from his father, he became silent, filled himself a glass of wine, drank it off, looked at the table for about a minute, then got up, pushed back his chair, made me a bow, and left the room. "Is that young gentleman, sir," said I, "well versed in the principles of criticism?" "He is not, sir," said the publisher; "and, if I place him at the head of the Review ostensibly, I do it merely in the hope of procuring him a maintenance; of the principle of a thing he knows nothing, except that the principle of bread is wheat, and that the principle of that wine is grape. Will you take another glass?" I looked at the decanter; but not feeling altogether so sure as the publisher's son with respect to the principle of what it contained, I declined taking any more. "No, sir," said the publisher, adjusting himself in his chair, "he knows nothing about criticism, and will have nothing more to do with the reviewals than carrying about the books to those who have to review them; the real conductor of the Review will be a widely different person, to whom I will, when convenient, introduce you. And now we will talk of the matter which we touched upon before dinner: I told you then that I had changed my mind with respect to you; I have been considering the state of the market, sir, the book market, and I have come to the conclusion that, though you might be profitably employed upon evangelical novels, you could earn more money for me, sir, and consequently for yourself, by a compilation of Newgate lives and trials." "Newgate lives and trials!" "Yes, sir," said the publisher, "Newgate lives and trials; and now, sir, I will briefly state to you the services which I expect you to perform, and the terms I am willing to grant. I expect you, sir, to compile six volumes of Newgate lives and trials, each volume to contain by no manner of means less than one thousand pages; the remuneration which you will receive when the work is completed will be fifty pounds, which is likewise intended to cover any expenses you may incur in procuring books, papers and manuscripts necessary for the compilation. Such will be one of your employments, sir,--such the terms. In the second place, you will be expected to make yourself useful in the Review--generally useful, sir--doing whatever is required of you; for it is not customary, at least with me, to permit writers, especially young writers, to choose their subjects. In these two departments, sir, namely, compilation and reviewing, I had yesterday, after due consideration, determined upon employing you. I had intended to employ you no further, sir--at least for the present; but, sir, this morning I received a letter from my valued friend in the country, in which he speaks in terms of strong admiration (I don't overstate) of your German acquirements. Sir, he says that it would be a thousand pities if your knowledge of the German language should be lost to the world, or even permitted to sleep, and he entreats me to think of some plan by which it may be turned to account. Sir, I am at all times willing, if possible, to oblige my worthy friend, and likewise to encourage merit and talent; I have, therefore, determined to employ you in German." "Sir," said I, rubbing my hands, "you are very kind, and so is our mutual friend; I shall be happy to make myself useful in German; and if you think a good translation from Goethe--his 'Sorrows' for example, or more particularly his 'Faust'--" "Sir," said the publisher, "Goethe is a drug; his 'Sorrows' are a drug, so is his 'Faustus,' more especially the last, since that fool --- rendered him into English. No, sir, I do not want you to translate Goethe or anything belonging to him; nor do I want you to translate anything from the German; what I want you to do, is to translate into German. I am willing to encourage merit, sir; and, as my good friend in his last letter has spoken very highly of your German acquirements, I have determined that you shall translate my book of philosophy into German." "Your book of philosophy into German, sir?" "Yes, sir; my book of philosophy into German. I am not a drug, sir, in Germany, as Goethe is here, no more is my book. I intend to print the translation at Leipzig, sir; and if it turns out a profitable speculation, as I make no doubt it will, provided the translation be well executed, I will make you some remuneration. Sir, your remuneration will be determined by the success of your translation." "But, sir--" "Sir," said the publisher, interrupting me, "you have heard my intentions; I consider that you ought to feel yourself highly gratified by my intentions towards you; it is not frequently that I deal with a writer, especially a young writer, as I have done with you. And now, sir, permit me to inform you that I wish to be alone. This is Sunday afternoon, sir; I never go to church, but I am in the habit of spending part of every Sunday afternoon alone--profitably, I hope, sir--in musing on the magnificence of nature and the moral dignity of man." CHAPTER XXXIV. "What can't be cured must be endured," and "it is hard to kick against the pricks". At the period to which I have brought my history, I bethought me of the proverbs with which I have headed this chapter, and determined to act up to their spirit. I determined not to fly in the face of the publisher, and to bear--what I could not cure--his arrogance and vanity. At present, at the conclusion of nearly a quarter of a century, I am glad that I came to that determination, which I did my best to carry into effect. Two or three days after our last interview, the publisher made his appearance in my apartment; he bore two tattered volumes under his arm, which he placed on the table. "I have brought you two volumes of lives, sir," said he, "which I yesterday found in my garret; you will find them of service for your compilation. As I always wish to behave liberally and encourage talent, especially youthful talent, I shall make no charge for them, though I should be justified in so doing, as you are aware that, by our agreement, you are to provide any books and materials which may be necessary. Have you been in quest of any?" "No," said I, "not yet." "Then, sir, I would advise you to lose no time in doing so; you must visit all the bookstalls, sir, especially those in the bystreets and blind alleys. It is in such places that you will find the description of literature you are in want of. You must be up and doing, sir; it will not do for an author, especially a young author, to be idle in this town. To-night you will receive my book of philosophy, and likewise books for the Review. And, by-the-bye, sir, it will be as well for you to review my book of philosophy for the Review, the other Reviews not having noticed it. Sir, before translating it, I wish you to review my book of philosophy for the Review." "I shall be happy to do my best, sir." "Very good, sir; I should be unreasonable to expect anything beyond a person's best. And now, sir, if you please, I will conduct you to the future editor of the Review. As you are to co-operate, sir, I deem it right to make you acquainted." The intended editor was a little old man, who sat in a kind of wooden pavilion in a small garden behind a house in one of the purlieus of the city, composing tunes upon a piano. The walls of the pavilion were covered with fiddles of various sizes and appearances, and a considerable portion of the floor occupied by a pile of books all of one size. The publisher introduced him to me as a gentleman scarcely less eminent in literature than in music, and me to him as an aspirant critic--a young gentleman scarcely less eminent in philosophy than in philology. The conversation consisted entirely of compliments till just before we separated, when the future editor inquired of me whether I had ever read Quintilian; and, on my replying in the negative, expressed his surprise that any gentleman should aspire to become a critic who had never read Quintilian, with the comfortable information, however, that he could supply me with a Quintilian at half-price, that is, a translation made by himself some years previously, of which he had, pointing to the heap on the floor, still a few copies remaining unsold. For some reason or other, perhaps a poor one, I did not purchase the editor's translation of Quintilian. "Sir," said the publisher, as we were returning from our visit to the editor, "you did right in not purchasing a drug. I am not prepared, sir, to say that Quintilian is a drug, never having seen him; but I am prepared to say that man's translation is a drug, judging from the heap of rubbish on the floor; besides, sir, you will want any loose money you may have to purchase the description of literature which is required for your compilation." The publisher presently paused before the entrance of a very forlorn-looking street. "Sir," said he, after looking down it with attention, "I should not wonder if in that street you find works connected with the description of literature which is required for your compilation. It is in streets of this description, sir, and blind alleys, where such works are to be found. You had better search that street, sir, whilst I continue my way." I searched the street to which the publisher had pointed, and, in the course of the three succeeding days, many others of a similar kind. I did not find the description of literature alluded to by the publisher to be a drug, but, on the contrary, both scarce and dear. I had expended much more than my loose money long before I could procure materials even for the first volume of my compilation. CHAPTER XXXV. One evening I was visited by the tall young gentleman, Francis Ardry, whose acquaintance I had formed at the coffee-house. As it is necessary that the reader should know something more about this young man, who will frequently appear in the course of these pages, I will state in a few words who and what he was. He was born of an ancient Roman Catholic family in Ireland; his parents, whose only child he was, had long been dead. His father, who had survived his mother several years, had been a spendthrift, and at his death had left the family property considerably embarrassed. Happily, however, the son and the estate fell into the hands of careful guardians, near relations of the family, by whom the property was managed to the best advantage, and every means taken to educate the young man in a manner suitable to his expectations. At the age of sixteen he was taken from a celebrated school in England at which he had been placed, and sent to a small French University, in order that he might form an intimate and accurate acquaintance with the grand language of the continent. There he continued three years, at the end of which he went, under the care of a French abbe, to Germany and Italy. It was in this latter country that he first began to cause his guardians serious uneasiness. He was in the hey-day of youth when he visited Italy, and he entered wildly into the various delights of that fascinating region, and, what was worse, falling into the hands of certain sharpers, not Italian, but English, he was fleeced of considerable sums of money. The abbe, who, it seems, was an excellent individual of the old French school, remonstrated with his pupil on his dissipation and extravagance; but, finding his remonstrances vain, very properly informed the guardians of the manner of life of his charge. They were not slow in commanding Francis Ardry home; and, as he was entirely in their power, he was forced to comply. He had been about three months in London when I met him in the coffee-room, and the two elderly gentlemen in his company were his guardians. At this time they were very solicitous that he should choose for himself a profession, offering to his choice either the army or law--he was calculated to shine in either of these professions--for, like many others of his countrymen, he was brave and eloquent; but he did not wish to shackle himself with a profession. As, however, his minority did not terminate till he was three-and-twenty, of which age he wanted nearly two years, during which he would be entirely dependent on his guardians, he deemed it expedient to conceal, to a certain degree, his sentiments, temporising with the old gentlemen, with whom, notwithstanding his many irregularities, he was a great favourite, and at whose death he expected to come into a yet greater property than that which he inherited from his parents. Such is a brief account of Francis Ardry--of my friend Francis Ardry; for the acquaintance, commenced in the singular manner with which the reader is acquainted, speedily ripened into a friendship which endured through many long years of separation, and which still endures certainly on my part, and on his--if he lives; but it is many years since I have heard from Francis Ardry. And yet many people would have thought it impossible for our friendship to have lasted a week, for in many respects no two people could be more dissimilar. He was an Irishman, I an Englishman; he fiery, enthusiastic and open-hearted, I neither fiery, enthusiastic nor open-hearted; he fond of pleasure and dissipation, I of study and reflection. Yet it is of such dissimilar elements that the most lasting friendships are formed: we do not like counterparts of ourselves. "Two great talkers will not travel far together," is a Spanish saying; I will add, "Nor two silent people"; we naturally love our opposites. So Francis Ardry came to see me, and right glad I was to see him, for I had just flung my books and papers aside, and was wishing for a little social converse; and when we had conversed for some little time together, Francis Ardry proposed that we should go to the play to see Kean; so we went to the play, and saw--not Kean, who at that time was ashamed to show himself, but--a man who was not ashamed to show himself, and who people said was a much better man than Kean--as I have no doubt he was--though whether he was a better actor I cannot say, for I never saw Kean. {210} Two or three evenings after, Francis Ardry came to see me again, and again we went out together, and Francis Ardry took me to--shall I say?--why not?--a gaming-house, where I saw people playing, and where I saw Francis Ardry play and lose five guineas, and where I lost nothing, because I did not play, though I felt somewhat inclined; for a man with a white hat and a sparkling eye held up a box which contained something which rattled, and asked me to fling the bones. "There is nothing like flinging the bones!" said he, and then I thought I should like to know what kind of thing flinging the bones was; I, however, restrained myself. "There is nothing like flinging the bones!" shouted the man, as my friend and myself left the room. Long life and prosperity to Francis Ardry! but for him I should not have obtained knowledge which I did of the strange and eccentric places of London. Some of the places to which he took me were very strange places indeed! but, however strange the places were, I observed that the inhabitants thought there were no places like their several places, and no occupations like their several occupations; and among other strange places to which Francis Ardry conducted me, was a place not far from the abbey church of Westminster. Before we entered this place our ears were greeted by a confused hubbub of human voices, squealing of rats, barking of dogs, and the cries of various other animals. Here we beheld a kind of cock-pit, around which a great many people, seeming of all ranks, but chiefly of the lower, were gathered, and in it we saw a dog destroy a great many rats in a very small period; and when the dog had destroyed the rats, we saw a fight between a dog and a bear, then a fight between two dogs, then-- After the diversions of the day were over, my friend introduced me to the genius of the place, a small man of about five feet high, with a very sharp countenance, and dressed in a brown jockey coat, and top boots. "Joey," {212} said he, "this is a friend of mine." Joey nodded to me with a patronising air. "Glad to see you, sir!--want a dog?" "No," said I. "You have got one, then--want to match him?" "We have a dog at home," said I, "in the country; but I can't say I should like to match him. Indeed, I do not like dog-fighting." "Not like dog-fighting!" said the man, staring. "The truth is, Joe, that he is just come to town." "So I should think; he looks rather green--not like dog-fighting!" "Nothing like it, is there, Joey?" "I should think not; what is like it? A time will come, and that speedily, when folks will give up everything else, and follow dog-fighting." "Do you think so?" said I. "Think so? Let me ask what there is that a man wouldn't give up for it?" "Why," said I, modestly, "there's religion." "Religion! How you talk. Why, there's myself, bred and born an Independent, and intended to be a preacher, didn't I give up religion for dog-fighting? Religion, indeed! If it were not for the rascally law, my pit would fill better on Sundays than any other time. Who would go to church when they could come to my pit? Religion! why, the parsons themselves come to my pit; and I have now a letter in my pocket from one of them, asking me to send him a dog." "Well, then, politics," said I. "Politics! Why, the gemmen in the House would leave Pitt himself, if he were alive, to come to my pit. There were three of the best of them here to-night, all great horators. Get on with you, what comes next?" "Why, there's learning and letters." "Pretty things, truly, to keep people from dog-fighting! Why, there's the young gentlemen from the Abbey School comes here in shoals, leaving books, and letters, and masters too. To tell you the truth, I rather wish they would mind their letters, for a more precious set of young blackguards I never seed. It was only the other day I was thinking of calling in a constable for my own protection, for I thought my pit would have been torn down by them." Scarcely knowing what to say, I made an observation at random. "You show by your own conduct," said I, "that there are other things worth following besides dog-fighting. You practise rat-catching and badger-baiting as well." The dog-fancier eyed me with supreme contempt. "Your friend here," said he, "might well call you a new one. When I talks of dog-fighting, I of course means rat-catching and badger-baiting, ay, and bull-baiting too, just as when I speaks religiously, when I says one I means not one but three. And talking of religion puts me in mind that I have something else to do besides chaffing here, having a batch of dogs to send off by this night's packet to the Pope of Rome." But at last I had seen enough of what London had to show, whether strange or common-place, so at least I thought, and I ceased to accompany my friend in his rambles about town, and to partake of his adventures. Our friendship, however, still continued unabated, though I saw, in consequence, less of him. I reflected that time was passing on, that the little money I had brought to town was fast consuming, and that I had nothing to depend upon but my own exertions for a fresh supply; and I returned with redoubled application to my pursuits. CHAPTER XXXVI. I compiled the _Chronicles of Newgate_; I reviewed books for the Review established on an entirely new principle; and I occasionally tried my best to translate into German portions of the publisher's philosophy. In this last task I experienced more than one difficulty. I was a tolerable German scholar, it is true, and I had long been able to translate from German into English with considerable facility; but to translate from a foreign language into your own, is a widely different thing from translating from your own into a foreign language; and, in my first attempt to render the publisher into German, I was conscious of making miserable failures, from pure ignorance of German grammar; however, by the assistance of grammars and dictionaries, and by extreme perseverance, I at length overcame all the difficulties connected with the German language. But alas! another difficulty remained, far greater than any connected with German--a difficulty connected with the language of the publisher--the language which the great man employed in his writings was very hard to understand; I say in his writings, for his colloquial English was plain enough. Though not professing to be a scholar, he was much addicted, when writing, to the use of Greek and Latin terms, not as other people used them, but in a manner of his own, which set the authority of dictionaries at defiance; the consequence was, that I was sometimes utterly at a loss to understand the meaning of the publisher. Many a quarter of an hour did I pass at this period staring at periods of the publisher, and wondering what he could mean, but in vain, till at last, with a shake of the head, I would snatch up the pen, and render the publisher literally into German. Sometimes I was almost tempted to substitute something of my own for what the publisher had written, but my conscience interposed; the awful words _Traduttore traditore_ commenced ringing in my ears, and I asked myself whether I should be acting honourably towards the publisher, who had committed to me the delicate task of translating him into German; should I be acting honourably towards him, in making him speak in German in a manner different from that in which he expressed himself in English? No, I could not reconcile such conduct with any principle of honour; by substituting something of my own in lieu of these mysterious passages of the publisher, I might be giving a fatal blow to his whole system of philosophy. Besides, when translating into English, had I treated foreign authors in this manner? Had I treated the minstrels of the Kiaempe Viser in this manner? No. Had I treated Ab Gwilym in this manner? Even when translating his Ode to the Mist, in which he is misty enough, had I attempted to make Ab Gwilym less misty? No; on referring to my translation, I found that Ab Gwilym in my hands was quite as misty as in his own. Then, seeing that I had not ventured to take liberties with people who had never put themselves into my hands for the purpose of being rendered, how could I venture to substitute my own thoughts and ideas for the publisher's, who had put himself into my hands for that purpose? Forbid it every proper feeling!--so I told the Germans in the publisher's own way, the publisher's tale of an apple and a pear. I at first felt much inclined to be of the publisher's opinion with respect to the theory of the pear. After all, why should the earth be shaped like an apple, and not like a pear?--it would certainly gain in appearance by being shaped like a pear. A pear being a handsomer fruit than an apple, the publisher is probably right, thought I, and I will say that he is right on this point in the notice which I am about to write of his publication for the Review. And yet I don't know, said I, after a long fit of musing--I don't know but what there is more to be said for the Oxford theory. The world may be shaped like a pear, but I don't know that it is; but one thing I know, which is, that it does not taste like a pear; I have always liked pears, but I don't like the world. The world to me tastes much more like an apple, and I have never liked apples. I will uphold the Oxford theory; besides, I am writing in an Oxford Review, and am in duty bound to uphold the Oxford theory. So in my notice I asserted that the world was round; I quoted Scripture, and endeavoured to prove that the world was typified by the apple in Scripture, both as to shape and properties. "An apple is round," said I, "and the world is round; the apple is a sour, disagreeable fruit, and who has tasted much of the world without having his teeth set on edge?" I, however, treated the publisher, upon the whole, in the most urbane and Oxford-like manner; complimenting him upon his style, acknowledging the general soundness of his views, and only differing with him in the affair of the apple and pear. I did not like reviewing at all--it was not to my taste; it was not in my way; I liked it far less than translating the publisher's philosophy, for that was something in the line of one whom a competent judge had surnamed "Lavengro". I never could understand why reviews were instituted; works of merit do not require to be reviewed, they can speak for themselves, and require no praising; works of no merit at all will die of themselves, they require no killing. The Review to which I was attached was, as has been already intimated, established on an entirely new plan; it professed to review all new publications, which certainly no Review had ever professed to do before, other Reviews never pretending to review more than one-tenth of the current literature of the day. When I say it professed to review all new publications, I should add, which should be sent to it; for, of course, the Review would not acknowledge the existence of publications, the authors of which did not acknowledge the existence of the Review. I don't think, however, that the Review had much cause to complain of being neglected; I have reason to believe that at least nine-tenths of the publications of the day were sent to the Review, and in due time reviewed. I had good opportunity of judging. I was connected with several departments of the Review, though more particularly with the poetical and philosophic ones. An English translation of Kant's philosophy made its appearance on my table the day before its publication. In my notice of this work, I said that the English shortly hoped to give the Germans a _quid pro quo_. I believe at that time authors were much in the habit of publishing at their own expense. All the poetry which I reviewed appeared to be published at the expense of the authors. If I am asked how I comported myself, under all circumstances, as a reviewer, I answer, I did not forget that I was connected with a Review established on Oxford principles, the editor of which had translated Quintilian. All the publications which fell under my notice I treated in a gentlemanly and Oxford-like manner, no personalities--no vituperation--no shabby insinuations; decorum, decorum was the order of the day. Occasionally a word of admonition, but gently expressed, as an Oxford under-graduate might have expressed it, or master of arts. How the authors whose publications were consigned to my colleagues were treated by them I know not; I suppose they were treated in an urbane and Oxford-like manner, but I cannot say; I did not read the reviewals of my colleagues, I did not read my own after they were printed. I did not like reviewing. Of all my occupations at this period I am free to confess I liked that of compiling the _Newgate Lives and Trials_ the best; that is, after I had surmounted a kind of prejudice which I originally entertained. The trials were entertaining enough; but the lives--how full were they of wild and racy adventures, and in what racy, genuine language were they told. What struck me most with respect to these lives was the art which the writers, whoever they were, possessed of telling a plain story. It is no easy thing to tell a story plainly and distinctly by mouth; but to tell one on paper is difficult indeed, so many snares lie in the way. People are afraid to put down what is common on paper, they seek to embellish their narratives, as they think, by philosophic speculations and reflections; they are anxious to shine, and people who are anxious to shine can never tell a plain story. "So I went with them to a music booth, where they made me almost drunk with gin, and began to talk their flash language, which I did not understand," says, or is made to say, Henry Simms, executed at Tyburn some seventy years before the time of which I am speaking. I have always looked upon this sentence as a masterpiece of the narrative style, it is so concise and yet so very clear. As I gazed on passages like this, and there were many nearly as good in the _Newgate Lives_, I often sighed that it was not my fortune to have to render these lives into German rather than the publisher's philosophy--his tale of an apple and pear. Mine was an ill-regulated mind at this period. As I read over the lives of these robbers and pickpockets, strange doubts began to arise in my mind about virtue and crime. Years before, when quite a boy, as in one of the early chapters I have hinted, I had been a necessitarian; I had even written an essay on crime (I have it now before me, penned in a round, boyish hand), in which I attempted to prove that there is no such thing as crime or virtue, all our actions being the result of circumstances or necessity. These doubts were now again reviving in my mind; I could not for the life of me imagine how, taking all circumstances into consideration, these highwaymen, these pickpockets, should have been anything else than highwaymen and pickpockets; any more than how, taking all circumstances into consideration, Bishop Latimer (the reader is aware that I had read Fox's _Book of Martyrs_) should have been anything else than Bishop Latimer. I had a very ill-regulated mind at that period. My own peculiar ideas with respect to everything being a lying dream began also to revive. Sometimes at midnight, after having toiled for hours at my occupations, I would fling myself back on my chair, look about the poor apartment, dimly lighted by an unsnuffed candle, or upon the heaps of books and papers before me, and exclaim: "Do I exist? Do these things, which I think I see about me, exist, or do they not? Is not everything a dream--a deceitful dream? Is not this apartment a dream--the furniture a dream? The publisher a dream--his philosophy a dream? Am I not myself a dream--dreaming about translating a dream? I can't see why all should not be a dream; what's the use of the reality?" And then I would pinch myself, and snuff the burdened smoky light. "I can't see, for the life of me, the use of all this; therefore, why should I think that it exists? If there was a chance, a probability of all this tending to anything, I might believe; but--" and then I would stare and think, and after some time shake my head and return again to my occupations for an hour or two; and then I would perhaps shake, and shiver, and yawn, and look wistfully in the direction of my sleeping apartment; and then, but not wistfully, at the papers and books before me; and sometimes I would return to my papers and books; but oftener I would arise, and, after another yawn and shiver, take my light, and proceed to my sleeping chamber. They say that light fare begets light dreams; my fare at that time was light enough, but I had anything but light dreams, for at that period I had all kind of strange and extravagant dreams, and amongst other things I dreamt that the whole world had taken to dog-fighting; and that I, myself, had taken to dog-fighting, and that in a vast circus I backed an English bulldog against the bloodhound of the Pope of Rome. CHAPTER XXXVII. One morning I arose somewhat later that usual, having been occupied during the greater part of the night with my literary toil. On descending from my chamber into the sitting-room I found a person seated by the fire, whose glance was directed sideways to the table, on which were the usual preparations for my morning's meal. Forthwith I gave a cry, and sprang forward to embrace the person; for the person by the fire, whose glance was directed to the table, was no one else than my brother. "And how are things going on at home?" said I to my brother, after we had kissed and embraced. "How is my mother, and how is the dog?" "My mother, thank God, is tolerably well," said my brother, "but very much given to fits of crying. As for the dog, he is not so well; but we will talk more of these matters anon," said my brother, again glancing at the breakfast things: "I am very hungry, as you may suppose, after having travelled all night." Thereupon I exerted myself to the best of my ability to perform the duties of hospitality, and I made my brother welcome--I may say more than welcome; and, when the rage of my brother's hunger was somewhat abated, we recommenced talking about the matters of our little family, and my brother told me much about my mother; he spoke of her fits of crying, but said that of late the said fits of crying had much diminished, and she appeared to be taking comfort; and if I am not much mistaken, my brother told me that my mother had of late the prayer-book frequently in her hand, and yet oftener the Bible. We were silent for a time; at last I opened my mouth and mentioned the dog. "The dog," said my brother, "is, I am afraid, in a very poor way; ever since the death he has done nothing but pine and take on. A few months ago, you remember, he was as plump and fine as any dog in the town; but at present he is little more than skin and bone. Once we lost him for two days, and never expected to see him again, imagining that some mischance had befallen him; at length I found him--where do you think? Chancing to pass by the churchyard, I found him seated on the grave!" "Very strange," said I; "but let us talk of something else. It was very kind of you to come and see me." "Oh, as for that matter, I did not come up to see you, though of course I am very glad to see you, having been rather anxious about you, like my mother, who has received only one letter from you since your departure. No, I did not come up on purpose to see you; but on quite a different account. You must know that the corporation of our town have lately elected a new mayor, a person of many qualifications--big and portly, with a voice like Boanerges; a religious man, the possessor of an immense pew; loyal, so much so that I once heard him say that he would at any time go three miles to hear any one sing 'God save the King'; moreover, a giver of excellent dinners. Such is our present mayor; who, owing to his loyalty, his religion, and a little, perhaps, to his dinners, is a mighty favourite; so much so that the town is anxious to have his portrait painted in a superior style, so that remote posterity may know what kind of man he was, the colour of his hair, his air and gait. So a committee was formed some time ago, which is still sitting; that is, they dine with the mayor every day to talk over the subject. A few days since, to my great surprise, they made their appearance in my poor studio, and desired to be favoured with a sight of some of my paintings; well, I showed them some, and, after looking at them with great attention, they went aside and whispered. 'He'll do,' I heard one say; 'yes, he'll do,' said another; and then they came to me, and one of them, a little man with a hump on his back, who is a watchmaker, assumed the office of spokesman, and made a long speech (the old town has been always celebrated for orators) in which he told me how much they had been pleased with my productions (the old town has been always celebrated for its artistic taste), and, what do you think? offered me the painting of the mayor's portrait, and a hundred pounds for my trouble. "Well, of course I was much surprised, and for a minute or two could scarcely speak; recovering myself, however, I made a speech, not so eloquent as that of the watchmaker, of course, being not so accustomed to speaking; but not so bad either, taking everything into consideration, telling them how flattered I felt by the honour which they had conferred in proposing to me such an undertaking; expressing, however, my fears that I was not competent to the task, and concluding by saying what a pity it was that Crome was dead. 'Crome,' said the little man, 'Crome; yes, he was a clever man, a very clever man in his way; he was good at painting landscapes and farm-houses, but he would not do in the present instance, were he alive. He had no conception of the heroic, sir. We want some person capable of representing our mayor striding under the Norman arch out of the cathedral.' At the mention of the heroic, an idea came at once into my head. 'Oh,' said I, 'if you are in quest of the heroic, I am glad that you came to me; don't mistake me,' I continued, 'I do not mean to say that I could do justice to your subject, though I am fond of the heroic; but I can introduce you to a great master of the heroic, fully competent to do justice to your mayor. Not to me, therefore, be the painting of the picture given, but to a friend of mine, the great master of the heroic, to the best, the strongest, [Greek text],' I added, for, being amongst orators, I thought a word of Greek would tell." "Well," said I, "and what did the orators say?" "They gazed dubiously at me and at one another," said my brother; "at last the watchmaker asked me who this Mr. Christo was; adding, that he had never heard of such a person; that, from my recommendation of him, he had no doubt that he was a very clever man, but that they should like to know something more about him before giving the commission to him. That he had heard of Christie the great auctioneer, who was considered to be an excellent judge of pictures; but he supposed that I scarcely--Whereupon, interrupting the watchmaker, I told him that I alluded neither to Christo nor to Christie, but to the painter of Lazarus rising from the grave, a painter under whom I had myself studied during some months that I had spent in London, and to whom I was indebted for much connected with the heroic." "I have heard of him," said the watchmaker, "and his paintings too; but I am afraid that he is not exactly the gentleman by whom our mayor would wish to be painted. I have heard say that he is not a very good friend to Church and State. Come, young man," he added, "it appears to me that you are too modest; I like your style of painting, so do we all, and--why should I mince the matter?--the money is to be collected in the town, why should it go into a stranger's pocket, and be spent in London?" Thereupon I made them a speech, in which I said that art had nothing to do with Church and State, at least with English Church and State, which had never encouraged it; and that, though Church and State were doubtless very fine things, a man might be a very good artist who cared not a straw for either. I then made use of some more Greek words, and told them how painting was one of the Nine Muses, and one of the most independent creatures alive, inspiring whom she pleased, and asking leave of nobody; that I should be quite unworthy of the favours of the Muse if, on the present occasion, I did not recommend them a man whom I considered to be a much greater master of the heroic than myself; and that, with regard to the money being spent in the city, I had no doubt that they would not weigh for a moment such a consideration against the chance of getting a true heroic picture for the city. I never talked so well in my life, and said so many flattering things to the hunchback and his friends, that at last they said that I should have my own way; and that if I pleased to go up to London, and bring down the painter of Lazarus to paint the mayor, I might; so they then bade me farewell, and I have come up to London. "To put a hundred pounds into the hands of--" "A better man than myself," said my brother, "of course." "And have you come up at your own expense?" "Yes," said my brother, "I have come up at my own expense." I made no answer, but looked in my brother's face. We then returned to the former subjects of conversation, talking of the dead, my mother, and the dog. After some time my brother said: "I will now go to the painter, and communicate to him the business which has brought me to town; and, if you please, I will take you with me and introduce you to him." {222} Having expressed my willingness, we descended into the street. CHAPTER XXXVIII. The painter of the heroic resided a great way off, at the western end of the town. We had some difficulty in obtaining admission to him, a maid- servant, who opened the door, eyeing us somewhat suspiciously; it was not until my brother had said that he was a friend of the painter that we were permitted to pass the threshold. At length we were shown into the studio, where we found the painter, with an easel and brush, standing before a huge piece of canvas, on which he had lately commenced painting a heroic picture. The painter might be about thirty-five years old; he had a clever, intelligent countenance, with a sharp grey eye; his hair was dark brown, and cut a-la Rafael, as I was subsequently told, that is, there was little before and much behind; he did not wear a neckcloth, but, in its stead, a black riband, so that his neck, which was rather fine, was somewhat exposed; he had a broad, muscular breast, and I make no doubt that he would have been a very fine figure, but unfortunately his legs and thighs were somewhat short. He recognised my brother, and appeared glad to see him. "What brings you to London?" said he. Whereupon my brother gave him a brief account of his commission. At the mention of the hundred pounds, I observed the eyes of the painter glisten. "Really," said he, when my brother had concluded, "it was very kind to think of me. I am not very fond of painting portraits; but a mayor is a mayor, and there is something grand in that idea of the Norman arch. I'll go; moreover, I am just at this moment confoundedly in need of money, and when you knocked at the door, I don't mind telling you, I thought it was some dun. I don't know how it is, but in the capital they have no taste for the heroic, they will scarce look at a heroic picture; I am glad to hear that they have better taste in the provinces. I'll go; when shall we set off?" Thereupon it was arranged between the painter and my brother that they should depart the next day but one; they then began to talk of art. "I'll stick to the heroic," said the painter; "I now and then dabble in the comic, but what I do gives me no pleasure, the comic is so low; there is nothing like the heroic. I am engaged here on a heroic picture," said he, pointing to the canvas; "the subject is 'Pharaoh dismissing Moses from Egypt,' after the last plague--the death of the first-born; it is not far advanced--that finished figure is Moses": they both looked at the canvas, and I, standing behind, took a modest peep. The picture, as the painter said, was not far advanced, the Pharaoh was merely in outline; my eye was, of course, attracted by the finished figure, or rather what the painter had called the finished figure; but, as I gazed upon it, it appeared to me that there was something defective--something unsatisfactory in the figure. I concluded, however, that the painter, notwithstanding what he had said, had omitted to give it the finishing touch. "I intend this to be my best picture," said the painter; "what I want now is a face for Pharaoh; I have long been meditating on a face for Pharaoh." Here, chancing to cast his eye upon my countenance, of whom he had scarcely taken any manner of notice, he remained with his mouth open for some time. "Who is this?" said he at last. "Oh, this is my brother, I forgot to introduce him--" We presently afterwards departed; my brother talked much about the painter. "He is a noble fellow," said my brother; "but, like many other noble fellows, has a great many enemies; he is hated by his brethren of the brush--all the land and water-scape painters hate him--but, above all, the race of portrait painters, who are ten times more numerous than the other two sorts, detest him for his heroic tendencies. It will be a kind of triumph to the last, I fear, when they hear he has condescended to paint a portrait; however, that Norman arch will enable him to escape from their malice--that is a capital idea of the watchmaker, that Norman arch." I spent a happy day with my brother. On the morrow he went again to the painter, with whom he dined; I did not go with him. On his return he said: "The painter has been asking a great many questions about you, and expressed a wish that you would sit to him as Pharaoh; he thinks you would make a capital Pharaoh". "I have no wish to appear on canvas," said I; "moreover, he can find much better Pharaohs than myself; and, if he wants a real Pharaoh, there is a certain Mr. Petulengro." "Petulengro?" said my brother; "a strange kind of fellow came up to me some time ago in our town, and asked me about you; when I inquired his name, he told me Petulengro. No, he will not do, he is too short; by-the- bye, do you not think that figure of Moses is somewhat short?" And then it appeared to me that I had thought the figure of Moses somewhat short, and I told my brother so. "Ah!" said my brother. On the morrow my brother departed with the painter for the old town, and there the painter painted the mayor. I did not see the picture for a great many years, when, chancing to be at the old town, I beheld it. The original mayor was a mighty, portly man, with a bull's head, black hair, body like that of a dray horse, and legs and thighs corresponding; a man six foot high at the least. To his bull's head, black hair and body the painter had done justice; there was one point, however, in which the portrait did not correspond with the original--the legs were disproportionably short, the painter having substituted his own legs for those of the mayor, which when I perceived I rejoiced that I had not consented to be painted as Pharaoh, for, if I had, the chances are that he would have served me in exactly a similar way as he had served Moses and the mayor. Short legs in a heroic picture will never do; and, upon the whole, I think the painter's attempt at the heroic in painting the mayor of the old town a decided failure. If I am now asked whether the picture would have been a heroic one provided the painter had not substituted his own legs for those of the mayor, I must say, I am afraid not. I have no idea of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, even with the assistance of Norman arches; yet I am sure that capital pictures might be made out of English mayors, not issuing from Norman arches, but rather from the door of the "Checquers" or the "Brewers Three". The painter in question had great comic power, which he scarcely ever cultivated; he would fain be a Rafael, which he never could be, when he might have been something quite as good--another Hogarth; the only comic piece which he ever presented to the world being something little inferior to the best of that illustrious master. I have often thought what a capital picture might have been made by my brother's friend, if, instead of making the mayor issue out of the Norman arch, he had painted him moving under the sign of the "Checquers," or the "Three Brewers," with mace--yes, with mace,--the mace appears in the picture issuing out of the Norman arch behind the mayor,--but likewise with Snap, and with whiffler, quart pot, and frying pan, Billy Blind, and Owlenglass, Mr. Petulengro and Pakomovna; then, had he clapped his own legs upon the mayor, or any one else in the concourse, what matter? But I repeat that I have no hope of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, or, indeed, out of English figures in general. England may be a land of heroic hearts, but it is not, properly, a land of heroic figures, or heroic posture-making. Italy--what was I going to say about Italy? CHAPTER XXXIX. And now once more to my pursuits, to my _Lives and Trials_. However partial at first I might be to these lives and trials, it was not long before they became regular trials to me, owing to the whims and caprices of the publisher. I had not been long connected with him before I discovered that he was wonderfully fond of interfering with other people's business--at least with the business of those who were under his control. What a life did his unfortunate authors lead! He had many in his employ toiling at all kinds of subjects--I call them authors because there is something respectable in the term author, though they had little authorship in, and no authority whatever over, the works on which they were engaged. It is true the publisher interfered with some colour of reason, the plan of all and every of the works alluded to having originated with himself; and, be it observed, many of his plans were highly clever and promising, for, as I have already had occasion to say, the publisher in many points was a highly clever and sagacious person; but he ought to have been contented with planning the works originally, and have left to other people the task of executing them, instead of which he marred everything by his rage for interference. If a book of fairy tales was being compiled, he was sure to introduce some of his philosophy, explaining the fairy tale by some theory of his own. Was a book of anecdotes on hand, it was sure to be half-filled with sayings and doings of himself during the time that he was common councilman of the city of London. Now, however fond the public might be of fairy tales, it by no means relished them in conjunction with the publisher's philosophy; and however fond of anecdotes in general, or even of the publisher in particular--for indeed there were a great many anecdotes in circulation about him which the public both read and listened to very readily--it took no pleasure in such anecdotes as he was disposed to relate about himself. In the compilation of my _Lives and Trials_, I was exposed to incredible mortification, and ceaseless trouble, from this same rage for interference. It is true he could not introduce his philosophy into the work, nor was it possible for him to introduce anecdotes of himself, having never had the good or evil fortune to be tried at the bar; but he was continually introducing--what, under a less apathetic government than the one then being, would have infallibly subjected him, and perhaps myself, to a trial--his politics; not his Oxford or pseudo politics, but the politics which he really entertained, and which were of the most republican and violent kind. But this was not all; when about a moiety of the first volume had been printed, he materially altered the plan of the work; it was no longer to be a collection of mere Newgate lives and trials, but of lives and trials of criminals in general, foreign as well as domestic. In a little time the work became a wondrous farrago, in which Konigsmark the robber figured by the side of Sam Lynn, and the Marchioness de Brinvilliers was placed in contact with a Chinese outlaw. What gave me the most trouble and annoyance, was the publisher's remembering some life or trial, foreign or domestic, which he wished to be inserted, and which I was forthwith to go in quest of and purchase at my own expense: some of those lives and trials were by no means easy to find. "Where is Brandt and Struensee?" cries the publisher; "I am sure I don't know," I replied; whereupon the publisher falls to squealing like one of Joey's rats. "Find me up Brandt and Struensee by next morning, or--" "Have you found Brandt and Struensee?" cried the publisher, on my appearing before him next morning. "No," I reply, "I can hear nothing about them;" whereupon the publisher falls to bellowing like Joey's bull. By dint of incredible diligence, I at length discover the dingy volume containing the lives and trials of the celebrated two who had brooded treason dangerous to the state of Denmark. I purchase the dingy volume, and bring it in triumph to the publisher, the perspiration running down my brow. The publisher takes the dingy volume in his hand, he examines it attentively, then puts it down; his countenance is calm for a moment, almost benign. Another moment and there is a gleam in the publisher's sinister eye; he snatches up the paper containing the names of the worthies which I have intended shall figure in the forthcoming volumes--he glances rapidly over it, and his countenance once more assumes a terrific expression. "How is this?" he exclaims; "I can scarcely believe my eyes--the most important life and trial omitted to be found in the whole criminal record--what gross, what utter negligence! Where's the life of Farmer Patch? Where's the trial of Yeoman Patch?" "What a life! what a dog's life!" I would frequently exclaim, after escaping from the presence of the publisher. One day, after a scene with the publisher similar to that which I have described above, I found myself about noon at the bottom of Oxford Street, where it forms a right angle with the road which leads or did lead to Tottenham Court. Happening to cast my eyes around, it suddenly occurred to me that something uncommon was expected; people were standing in groups on the pavement--the upstair windows of the houses were thronged with faces, especially those of women, and many of the shops were partly, and not a few entirely closed. What could be the reason of all this? All at once I bethought me that this street of Oxford was no other than the far-famed Tyburn way. Oh, oh, thought I, an execution; some handsome young robber is about to be executed at the farther end; just so, see how earnestly the women are peering; perhaps another Harry Symms--Gentleman Harry as they called him--is about to be carted along this street to Tyburn tree; but then I remembered that Tyburn tree had long since been cut down, and that criminals, whether young or old, good- looking or ugly, were executed before the big stone gaol, which I had looked at with a kind of shudder during my short rambles in the city. What could be the matter? Just then I heard various voices cry "There it comes!" and all heads were turned up Oxford Street, down which a hearse was slowly coming: nearer and nearer it drew; presently it was just opposite the place where I was standing, when, turning to the left, it proceeded slowly along Tottenham Road; immediately behind the hearse were three or four mourning coaches, full of people, some of which, from the partial glimpse which I caught of them, appeared to be foreigners; behind these came a very long train of splendid carriages, all of which, without one exception, were empty. "Whose body is in that hearse?" said I to a dapper-looking individual seemingly a shopkeeper, who stood beside me on the pavement, looking at the procession. "The mortal relics of Lord Byron," said the dapper-looking individual, mouthing his words and smirking, "the illustrious poet, which have been just brought from Greece, and are being conveyed to the family vault in ---shire." "An illustrious poet, was he?" said I. "Beyond all criticism," said the dapper man; "all we of the rising generation are under incalculable obligation to Byron; I myself, in particular, have reason to say so; in all my correspondence my style is formed on the Byronic model." I looked at the individual for a moment, who smiled and smirked to himself applause, and then I turned my eyes upon the hearse proceeding slowly up the almost endless street. This man, this Byron, had for many years past been the demigod of England, and his verses the daily food of those who read, from the peer to the draper's assistant; all were admirers, or rather worshippers, of Byron, and all doated on his verses; and then I thought of those who, with genius as high as his, or higher, had lived and died neglected. I thought of Milton abandoned to poverty and blindness; of witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs; and starving Otway: they had lived neglected and despised, and, when they died, a few poor mourners only had followed them to the grave; but this Byron had been made a half-god of when living, and now that he was dead he was followed by worshipping crowds, and the very sun seemed to come out on purpose to grace his funeral. And, indeed, the sun, which for many days past had hidden its face in clouds, shone out that morn with wonderful brilliancy, flaming upon the black hearse and its tall ostrich plumes, the mourning coaches, and the long train of aristocratic carriages which followed behind. "Great poet, sir," said the dapper-looking man, "great poet, but unhappy." Unhappy? yes, I had heard that he had been unhappy; that he had roamed about a fevered, distempered man, taking pleasure in nothing--that I had heard; but was it true? was he really unhappy? was not this unhappiness assumed, with the view of increasing the interest which the world took in him? and yet who could say? He might be unhappy and with reason. Was he a real poet, after all? might he not doubt himself? might he not have a lurking consciousness that he was undeserving of the homage which he was receiving? that it could not last? that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame? He was a lordling, a glittering, gorgeous lordling: and he might have had a consciousness that he owed much of his celebrity to being so; he might have felt that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame. Fashion soon changes, thought I eagerly to myself; a time will come, and that speedily, when he will be no longer in the fashion; when this idiotic admirer of his, who is still grinning at my side, shall have ceased to mould his style on Byron's; and this aristocracy, squirearchy, and what not, who now send their empty carriages to pay respect to the fashionable corpse, shall have transferred their empty worship to some other animate or inanimate thing. Well, perhaps after all it was better to have been mighty Milton in his poverty and blindness--witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs, and starving Otway; they might enjoy more real pleasure than this lordling; they must have been aware that the world would one day do them justice--fame after death is better than the top of fashion in life. They have left a fame behind them which shall never die, whilst this lordling--a time will come when he will be out of fashion and forgotten. And yet I don't know; didn't he write "Childe Harold" and that ode? Yes, he wrote "Childe Harold" and that ode. Then a time will scarcely come when he will be forgotten. Lords, squires and cockneys may pass away, but a time will scarcely come when "Childe Harold" and that ode will be forgotten. He was a poet, after all, and he must have known it; a real poet, equal to--to--what a destiny! rank, beauty, fashion, immortality--he could not be unhappy; what a difference in the fate of men--I wish I could think he was unhappy. I turned away. "Great poet, sir," said the dapper man, turning away too, "but unhappy--fate of genius, sir; I, too, am frequently unhappy." Hurrying down the street to the right, I encountered Francis Ardry. "What means the multitude yonder?" he demanded. "They are looking after the hearse which is carrying the remains of Byron up Tottenham Road." "I have seen the man," said my friend, as he turned back the way he had come, "so I can dispense with seeing the hearse--I saw the living man at Venice--ah, a great poet." ["I don't think so," said I. "Hey!" said Francis Ardry. {231} "A perfumed lordling." "Ah!" "With a white hand loaded with gawds." "Ah!" "Who wrote verses." "Ah!" "Replete with malignity and sensualism." "Yes!" "Not half so great a poet as Milton." "No?" "Nor Butler." "No?" "Nor Otway." "No?" "Nor that poor boy Chatterton, who, maddened by rascally patrons and publishers, took poison at last." "No?" said Francis Ardry. "Why do you keep saying '_No_'? I tell you that I am no admirer of Byron." "Well," said Frank, "don't say so to any one else. It will be thought that you are envious of his glory, as indeed I almost think you are." "Envious of him!" said I; "how should I be envious of him? Besides, the man's dead, and a live dog, you know--" "You do not think so," said Frank, "and at this moment I would wager something that you would wish for nothing better than to exchange places with that lordling, as you call him, cold as he is." "Well, who knows?" said I. "I really think the man is overvalued. There is one thing connected with him which must ever prevent any one of right feelings from esteeming him; I allude to his incessant abuse of his native land, a land, too, which had made him its idol." "Ah! you are a great patriot, I know," said Frank. "Come, as you are fond of patriots, I will show you the patriot, _par excellence_." "If you mean Eolus Jones," said I, "you need not trouble yourself; I have seen him already." "I don't mean him," said Frank. "By-the-bye, he came to me the other day to condole with me, as he said, on the woes of my bleeding country. Before he left me he made me bleed, for he persuaded me to lend him a guinea. No, I don't mean him, nor any one of his stamp; I mean an Irish patriot, one who thinks he can show his love for his country in no better way than by beating the English." "Beating the English?" said I; "I should like to see him." Whereupon taking me by the arm, Francis Ardry conducted me through various alleys, till we came to a long street which seemed to descend towards the south. "What street is this?" said I, when we had nearly reached the bottom. "It is no street at all," said my friend; "at least it is not called one in this city of Cockaine; it is a lane, even that of St. Martin; and that church that you see there is devoted to him. It is one of the few fine churches in London. _Malheureusement_, {232} as the French say, it is so choked up by buildings that it is impossible to see it at twenty yards' distance from any side. Whenever I get into Parliament, one of my first motions shall be to remove some twenty score of the aforesaid buildings. But I think we have arrived at the house to which I wished to conduct you." "Yes, I see, _Portobello_." About twenty yards from the church, on the left-hand side of the street or lane, was a mean-looking house having something of the appearance of a fifth-rate inn. Over the door was written in large characters the name of the haven, where the bluff old Vernon achieved his celebrated victory over the whiskered Dons. Entering a passage on one side of which was a bar-room, Ardry enquired of a middle-aged man who stood in it in his shirt-sleeves, whether the captain was at home. Having received for an answer a surly kind of "yes," he motioned me to follow him, and after reaching the end of the passage, which was rather dark, he began to ascend a narrow, winding stair. About half-way up he suddenly stopped, for at that moment a loud, hoarse voice from a room above commenced singing a strange kind of ditty. "The captain is singing," said Frank, "and, as I live, 'Carolan's Receipt for drinking whisky'. Let us wait a moment till he has done, as he would probably not like to be interrupted in his melody." CAROLAN'S RECEIPT. 'Whether sick or sound my receipt was the same, To Stafford I stepp'd and better became; A visit to Stafford's bounteous hall Was the best receipt of all, of all. 'Midnight fell round us and drinking found us, At morn again flow'd his whisky; By his _in_sight he knew 'twas the only way true To keep Torlough alive and frisky. 'Now deep healths quaffing, now screeching now laughing, At my harp-strings tearing, and to madness nearing: That was the life I led, and which I yet do; For I will swear it, and to all the world declare it, If you would fain be happy, you must aye be--' "_Fou_!" said Francis Ardry, suddenly pushing open the door of the room from which the voice proceeded; "That's the word, I think, captain." "By my shoul, Mr. Francis Ardry, you enter with considerable abruptness, sir," said one of two men who were seated smoking at a common deal table, in a large ruinous apartment in which we now found ourselves. "You enter with considerable abruptness sir," he repeated; "do you know on whom you are intruding?" "Perfectly well," said Francis; "I am standing in the presence of Torlough O' Donahue, formerly captain in a foreign service, and at present resident in London for the express purpose of beating all the English--" "And some of the Irish too, sir, if necessary," said the captain with a menacing look. "I do not like to be broken in upon as if I were a nobody. However, as you are here, I suppose I must abide by it. I am not so little of a gentleman as to be deficient in the rudiments of hospitality. You may both of you sit down and make yourselves aisy." But this was no such easy matter, the only two chairs in the room being occupied by the captain and the other. I therefore leaned against the door, while Ardry strolled about the apartment. The captain might be about forty. His head was immensely large, his complexion ruddy, and his features rough, coarse and strongly expressive of sullenness and ill-nature. He was about the middle height, with a frame clumsily made, but denoting considerable strength. He wore a blue coat, the lappets of which were very narrow, but so long that they nearly trailed upon the ground. Yellow leathern breeches unbuttoned at the knee, dazzling white cotton stockings and shoes with buckles, adorned his nether man. His companion, who was apparently somewhat older than himself, was dressed in a coarse greatcoat and a glazed hat exactly resembling those worn by hackneys. He had a quiet, droll countenance, very much studded with carbuncles, and his nose, which was very long, was of so hooked a description that the point of it nearly entered his mouth. "Who may this friend of yours be?" said the captain to Ardry, after staring at me. "A young gentleman much addicted to philosophy, poetry and philology." "Is he Irish?" "No, he is English; but I have heard him say that he has a particular veneration for Ireland." "He has, has he; by my shoul, then, all the better for him. If he had not . . . Can he fight?" "I think I have heard him say that he can use his fists when necessary." "He can, can he? by my shoul, I should like to try him. But first of all I have another customer to dispose of. I have just determined to send a challenge to Bishop Sharpe whom these English call the best of their light weights. {235} Perhaps he is, but if I don't--" "The Bishop is a good man," interrupted his companion of the greatcoat and glazed hat, in a strange croaky tone. "Is it a good man that you are calling him?" said the captain. "Well, be it so; the more merit in my baiting him." "That's true; but you have not beat him yet," said his companion. "Not bate him yet? Is not there the paper that I am going to write the challenge on? and is not there the pen and the ink that I am going to write it with? and is not there yourself, John Turner, my hired servant, that's bound to take him the challenge when 'tis written?" "That's true; here we are all four--pen, ink, paper, and John Turner; but there's something else wanted to beat Bishop Sharpe." "What else is wanted?" shouted the captain. "Why, to be a better man than he." "And ain't I that man?" "Why, that remains to be seen." "Ain't I an Irishman?" "Yes, I believe you to be an Irishman. No one, to hear you talk, but would think you that, or a Frenchman. I was in conversation with one of that kind the other day. Hearing him talk rather broken, I asked him what countryman he was. 'What countryman are you?' said I.--'I?' said he, 'I am one Frenchman,' and then he looked at me as if I should sink into the earth under his feet.--'You are not the better for that,' said I; 'you are not the better for being a Frenchman, I suppose,' said I.--'How?' said he; 'I am of the great nation which has won all the battles in the world.'--'All the battles in the world?' said I. 'Did you ever hear of the battle of Waterloo?' said I. You should have seen how blue he looked. 'Ah! you can't get over that,' said I; 'you can't get over the battle of Waterloo,' said I." "Is it the battle of Waterloo you are speaking of, you spalpeen? And to one who was there, an Irish cavalier, fighting in the ranks of the brave French! By the powers! if the sacrifice would not be too great, I would break this pipe in your face." "Why, as to that, two can play at that," said he of the glazed hat, smoking on very composedly. "I remember I once said so to young Cope--you have heard of young Cope. I was vally to young Cope and servant of all work twenty year ago at Brighton. So one morning after I had carried up his boots, he rings the bell as if in a great fury. 'Do you call these boots clean?' said young Cope, as soon as I showed myself at the door. 'Do you call these clean?' said he, flinging one boot at my head, and then the other. 'Two can play at that game,' said I, catching the second boot in my hand, 'two can play at that game,' said I, aiming it at young Cope's head--not that I meant to fling it at young Cope's head, for young Cope was a gentleman; yes, a gentleman, captain, though not Irish, for he paid me my wages." These last words seemed to have a rather quieting effect upon the captain, who at the commencement of the speech had grasped his pipe somewhat below the bowl and appeared by his glance to be meditating a lunge at the eye of his eccentric servant, who continued smoking and talking with great composure. Suddenly replacing the end of his pipe in his mouth, the man turned to me, and in a tone of great _hauteur_ said:-- "So, sir, I am told by your friend there, that you are fond of the humanities." "Yes," said I, "I am very fond of humanity, and was always a great admirer of the lines of Gay:-- 'Cowards are cruel, but the brave Love mercy and delight to save'." "By my shoul, sir, it's an ignorant beast I'm thinking ye. It was not _humanity_ I was speaking of, but the _humanities_, which have nothing at all to do with it." Then turning to Frank, he demanded, "Was it not yourself, Mr. Francis Ardry, that told me, when you took the liberty of introducing this person to me, that he was addicted to philosophy, prosody, and what not?" "To be sure I did," said Frank. "Well, sir, and are not those the humanities, or are you as ignorant as your friend here?" "You pretend to be a humanist, sir," said he to me, "but I will take the liberty of showing your utter ignorance. Now, sir, do you venture to say that you can answer a question connected with the Irish humanities?" "I must hear it first," said I. "You must hear it, must ye? Then you shall hear it to your confusion. A pretty humanist I will show you to be; open your ears, sir!"-- '_Triuir ata se air mo bhas_'. {236} "Now, sir, what does the poet mean by saying that there are three looking after his death? Whom does he allude to, sir? hey?" "The devil, the worms, and his children," said I, "who are looking after three things which they can't hope to get before he is dead--the children his property, the worms his body, and the devil his soul, as the man says a little farther on." The captain looked at me malignantly. "Now, sir, are you not ashamed of yourself?" "Wherefore?" said I. "Have I not given the meaning of the poem?" "You have expounded the elegy, sir, fairly enough; I find no fault with your interpretation. What I mean is this: Are you not ashamed to be denying your country?" "I never denied my country; I did not even mention it. My friend there told you I was an Englishman, and he spoke the truth." "Sorrow befall you for saying so," said the captain. "But I see how it is, you have been bought; yes, sir, paid money, to deny your country; but such has ever been the policy of the English; they can't bate us, so they buy us. Now here's myself. No sooner have I sent this challenge to Bishop Sharpe by the hands of my hired servant, than I expect to have a hundred offers to let myself be beat. What is that you say, sir?" said he, addressing his companion who had uttered a kind of inaudible sound--"No hopes of that, did you say? Do you think that I could be bate without allowing myself to be bate? By the powers!--but you are beneath my notice." "Well, sir," said he, fixing his eyes on me, "though you have cheek enough to deny your own country, I trust you have not enough to deny the merit of the elegy. What do you think of the elegy, sir?" "I think it very sorry stuff," said I. "Hear him!" said the captain looking about him. "But he has been bought, paid money, to deny his own country and all that belongs to it. Well, sir, what do you think of Carolan, Carolan the Great? What do you think of his _Receipt_, sir?" "I think it very sorry stuff, too." "Very well, sir, very well; but I hope to make you give me a receipt for all this before you leave. One word more. I suppose you'll next deny that we have any poetry or music at all." "Far be it from me to say any such thing. There is one song connected with Ireland which I have always thought very fine, and likewise the music that accompanies it." "I am glad to hear it, sir; there is one piece of Irish poetry and music which meets your approbation! Pray name the piece, sir." "_Croppies Lie Down_!" The captain sprang to his feet like one electrified. "What, sir?" said he. "_Croppies Lie Down_!" The captain dashed his pipe to shivers against the table; then tucking up the sleeves of his coat, he advanced to within a yard of me, and pushing forward his head somewhat in the manner of a bull-dog when about to make a spring, he said in a tone of suppressed fury: "I think I have heard of that song before, sir; but nobody ever yet cared to sing it to me. I should admire to hear from your lips what it is. Perhaps you will sing me a line or two." "With great pleasure," said I:-- "There are many brave rivers run into the sea, But the best of them all is Boyne water for me; There Croppies were vanquished and terrified fled, With Jamie the runagate king at their head. When crossing the ford In the name of the Lord, The conqueror brandished his conquering sword; Then down, down, Croppies lie down!' "By the powers! a very pretty song, and much obliged am I to ye for singing it, more especially as it gives me an opportunity of breaking your head, you long-limbed descendant of a Boyne trooper. You must deny your country, must ye? ye dingy renegade!--the black North, but old Ireland still. But here's Connemara for ye--take this--and this--Och, murther!--What have we got here . . .?" * * * * * "Who and what is this O'Donahue?" said I to Frank Ardry after we had descended into the street. "An ill-tempered Irishman," said Frank, "the most disagreeable animal alive, once a rare bird on the earth. His father, after having taught him some Irish and less Latin, together with an immoderate hatred of the English, sent him abroad at the age of sixteen to serve the French. In that service he continued until the time of the general peace, when he quitted it for the Austrian. I first became acquainted with him at Vienna, where he bore the rank of captain, but had the character of a notorious gambler. It was owing, I believe, to his gambling practices that he was eventually obliged to leave the Austrian service. He has been in London about six months, where he supports himself as best he can, chiefly, I believe, by means of the gaming-table. His malignity against England has of late amounted almost to insanity, and has been much increased by the perusal of Irish newspapers which abound with invective against England and hyperbolical glorification of Ireland and the Irish. The result is that he has come to the conclusion that the best way for him to take revenge for the injuries of Ireland and to prove the immense superiority of the Irish over the English will be to break the head of Bishop Sharpe in the ring." "Well," said I, "I do not see why the dispute, if dispute there be, should not be settled in the ring." "Nor I either," said Frank, "and I could wish my countrymen to choose none other than O'Donahue. With respect to England and Bishop Sharpe . . ." At that moment a voice sounded close by me: "Coach, your honour, coach? Will carry you anywhere you like." I stopped, and lo the man of the greatcoat and glazed hat stood by my side. "What do you want?" said I. "Have you brought me any message from your master?" "Master? What master? Oh! you mean the captain. I left him rubbing his head. No, I don't think you will hear anything from him in a hurry; he has had enough of you. All I wish to know is whether you wish to ride." "I thought you were the captain's servant." "Yes, I look after the spavined roan on which he rides about the Park, but he's no master of mine--he doesn't pay me. Who cares? I don't serve him for money. I like to hear his talk about Bishop Sharpe and beating the English--Lord help him! Now, where do you wish to go? Any coach you like--any coachman--and nothing to pay." "Why do you wish me to ride?" said I. "Why, for serving out as you did that poor silly captain. I think what he got will satisfy him for a time. No more talk about Bishop Sharpe for a week at least. Come, come along, both of you. The stand is close by, and I'll drive you myself." "Will you ride?" said I to Francis Ardry. "No," said Frank. "Then come alone. Where shall I drive you?" "To London Bridge."] CHAPTER XL. So I went to London Bridge, and again took my station on the spot by the booth where I had stood on the former occasion. The booth, however, was empty; neither the apple-woman nor her stall were to be seen. I looked over the balustrade upon the river; the tide was now, as before, rolling beneath the arch with frightful impetuosity. As I gazed upon the eddies of the whirlpool, I thought within myself how soon human life would become extinct there; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be over. When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse--a fascination: I had resisted it--I did not plunge into it. At present I felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was of a different kind; it proceeded from a loathing of life. I looked wistfully at the eddies--what had I to live for?--what, indeed! I thought of Brandt and Struensee, and Yeoman Patch--should I yield to the impulse--why not? My eyes were fixed on the eddies. All of a sudden I shuddered; I thought I saw heads in the pool; human bodies wallowing confusedly; eyes turned up to heaven with hopeless horror; was that water, or--Where was the impulse now? I raised my eyes from the pool, I looked no more upon it--I looked forward, far down the stream in the distance. "Ha! what is that? I thought I saw a kind of Fata Morgana, green meadows, waving groves, a rustic home; but in the far distance--I stared--I stared--a Fata Morgana--it was gone--" I left the balustrade and walked to the farther end of the bridge, where I stood for some time contemplating the crowd; I then passed over to the other side with the intention of returning home; just half-way over the bridge, in a booth immediately opposite the one in which I had formerly beheld her, sat my friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up behind her stall. "Well, mother," said I, "how are you?" The old woman lifted her head with a startled look. "Don't you know me?" said I. "Yes, I think I do. Ah, yes," said she, as her features beamed with recollection, "I know you, dear; you are the young lad that gave me the tanner. Well, child, got anything to sell?" "Nothing at all," said I. "Bad luck?" "Yes," said I, "bad enough, and ill usage." "Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next time; I am glad to see you." "Thank you," said I, sitting down on the stone bench; "I thought you had left the bridge--why have you changed your side?" The old woman shook. "What is the matter with you," said I, "are you ill?" "No, child, no; only--" "Only what? Any bad news of your son?" "No child, no; nothing about my son. Only low, child--every heart has its bitters." "That's true," said I; "well, I don't want to know your sorrows; come, where's the book?" The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than before. "Book, child, what book?" "Why, blessed Mary, to be sure." "Oh, that; I ha'n't got it, child--I have lost it, have left it at home." "Lost it," said I; "left it at home--what do you mean? Come, let me have it." "I ha'n't got it, child." "I believe you have got it under your cloak." "Don't tell any one, dear; don't--don't," and the apple-woman burst into tears. "What's the matter with you?" said I, staring at her. "You want to take my book from me?" "Not I, I care nothing about it; keep it, if you like, only tell me what's the matter?" "Why, all about that book." "The book?" "Yes, they wanted to take it from me." "Who did?" "Why, some wicked boys. I'll tell you all about it. Eight or ten days ago, I sat behind my stall, reading my book; all of a sudden I felt it snatched from my hand; up I started, and see three rascals of boys grinning at me; one of them held the book in his hand. 'What book is this?' said he, grinning at it. 'What do you want with my book?' said I, clutching at it over my stall, 'give me my book.' 'What do you want a book for?' said he, holding it back; 'I have a good mind to fling it into the Thames.' 'Give me my book,' I shrieked; and, snatching at it, I fell over my stall, and all my fruit was scattered about. Off ran the boys--off ran the rascal with my book. Oh dear, I thought I should have died; up I got, however, and ran after them as well as I could. I thought of my fruit; but I thought more of my book. I left my fruit and ran after my book. 'My book! my book!' I shrieked, 'murder! theft! robbery!' I was near being crushed under the wheels of a cart; but I didn't care--I followed the rascals. 'Stop them! stop them!' I ran nearly as fast as they--they couldn't run very fast on account of the crowd. At last some one stopped the rascal, whereupon he turned round, and flinging the book at me, it fell into the mud; well, I picked it up and kissed it, all muddy as it was. 'Has he robbed you?' said the man. 'Robbed me, indeed; why, he had got my book.' 'Oh, your book,' said the man, and laughed, and let the rascal go. Ah, he might laugh, but--" "Well, go on." "My heart beats so. Well, I went back to my booth and picked up my stall and my fruits, what I could find of them. I couldn't keep my stall for two days, I got such a fright, and when I got round I couldn't bide the booth where the thing had happened, so I came over to the other side. Oh, the rascals, if I could but see them hanged." "For what." "Why for stealing my book." "I thought you didn't dislike stealing, that you were ready to buy things--there was your son, you know--" "Yes, to be sure." "He took things." "To be sure he did." "But you don't like a thing of yours to be taken." "No, that's quite a different thing; what's stealing handkerchiefs, and that kind of thing, to do with taking my book; there's a wide difference--don't you see?" "Yes, I see." "Do you, dear? well, bless your heart, I'm glad you do. Would you like to look at the book?" "Well, I think I should." "Honour bright?" said the apple-woman, looking me in the eyes. "Honour bright," said I, looking the apple-woman in the eyes. "Well then, dear, here it is," said she, taking it from under her cloak; "read it as long as you like, only get a little farther into the booth. Don't sit so near the edge--you might--" I went deep into the booth, and the apple-woman, bringing her chair round, almost confronted me. I commenced reading the book, and was soon engrossed by it; hours passed away, once or twice I lifted up my eyes, the apple-woman was still confronting me: at last my eyes began to ache, whereupon I returned the book to the apple-woman, and giving her another tanner, walked away. CHAPTER XLI. Time passed away, and with it the Review, which, contrary to the publisher's expectation, did not prove a successful speculation. About four months after the period of its birth it expired, as all Reviews must for which there is no demand. Authors had ceased to send their publications to it, and, consequently, to purchase it; for I have already hinted that it was almost entirely supported by authors of a particular class, who expected to see their publications foredoomed to immortality in its pages. The behaviour of these authors towards this unfortunate publication I can attribute to no other cause than to a report which was industriously circulated, namely, that the Review was low, and that to be reviewed in it was an infallible sign that one was a low person, who could be reviewed nowhere else. So authors took fright; and no wonder, for it will never do for an author to be considered low. Homer himself has never yet entirely recovered from the injury he received by Lord Chesterfield's remark, that the speeches of his heroes were frequently exceedingly low. So the Review ceased, and the reviewing corps no longer existed as such; they forthwith returned to their proper avocations--the editor to compose tunes on his piano, and to the task of disposing of the remaining copies of his Quintilian--the inferior members to working for the publisher, being to a man dependants of his; one, to composing fairy tales; another, to collecting miracles of Popish saints; and a third, Newgate lives and trials. Owing to the bad success of the Review, the publisher became more furious than ever. My money was growing short, and I one day asked him to pay me for my labours in the deceased publication. "Sir," said the publisher, "what do you want the money for?" "Merely to live on," I replied; "it is very difficult to live in this town without money." "How much money did you bring with you to town?" demanded the publisher. "Some twenty or thirty pounds," I replied. "And you have spent it already?" "No," said I, "not entirely; but it is fast disappearing." "Sir," said the publisher, "I believe you to be extravagant; yes, sir, extravagant!" "On what grounds do you suppose me to be so?" "Sir," said the publisher, "you eat meat." "Yes," said I, "I eat meat sometimes: what should I eat?" "Bread, sir," said the publisher; "bread and cheese." "So I do, sir, when I am disposed to indulge; but I cannot often afford it--it is very expensive to dine on bread and cheese, especially when one is fond of cheese, as I am. My last bread and cheese dinner cost me fourteen pence. There is drink, sir; with bread and cheese one must drink porter, sir." "Then, sir, eat bread--bread alone. As good men as yourself have eaten bread alone; they have been glad to get it, sir. If with bread and cheese you must drink porter, sir, with bread alone you can, perhaps, drink water, sir." However, I got paid at last for my writings in the Review, not, it is true, in the current coin of the realm, but in certain bills; there were two of them, one payable at twelve, and the other at eighteen months after date. It was a long time before I could turn these bills to any account; at last I found a person who, at a discount of only thirty per cent., consented to cash them; not, however, without sundry grimaces, and, what was still more galling, holding, more than once, the unfortunate papers high in air between his forefinger and thumb. So ill, indeed, did I like this last action, that I felt much inclined to snatch them away. I restrained myself, however, for I remembered that it was very difficult to live without money, and that, if the present person did not discount the bills, I should probably find no one else that would. But if the treatment which I had experienced from the publisher, previous to making this demand upon him, was difficult to bear, that which I subsequently underwent was far more so; his great delight seemed to consist in causing me misery and mortification; if, on former occasions, he was continually sending me in quest of lives and trials difficult to find, he now was continually demanding lives and trials which it was impossible to find, the personages whom he mentioned never having lived, nor consequently been tried. Moreover, some of my best lives and trials which I had corrected and edited with particular care, and on which I prided myself no little, he caused to be cancelled after they had passed through the press. Amongst these was the life of "Gentleman Harry". "They are drugs, sir," said the publisher, "drugs; that life of Harry Simms has long been the greatest drug in the calendar--has it not, Taggart?" Taggart made no answer save by taking a pinch of snuff. The reader has, I hope, not forgotten Taggart, whom I mentioned whilst giving an account of my first morning's visit to the publisher. I beg Taggart's pardon for having been so long silent about him; but he was a very silent man--yet there was much in Taggart--and Taggart had always been civil and kind to me in his peculiar way. "Well, young gentleman," said Taggart to me one morning, when we chanced to be alone a few days after the affair of the cancelling, "how do you like authorship?" "I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I am engaged in," said I. "What do you call authorship?" said Taggart. "I scarcely know," said I; "that is, I can scarcely express what I think it." "Shall I help you out?" said Taggart, turning round his chair, and looking at me. "If you like," said I. "To write something grand," said Taggart, taking snuff; "to be stared at--lifted on people's shoulders--" "Well," said I, "that is something like it." Taggart took snuff. "Well," said he, "why don't you write something grand?" "I have," said I. "What?" said Taggart. "Why," said I, "there are those ballads." Taggart took snuff. "And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym." Taggart took snuff again. "You seem to be very fond of snuff," said I, looking at him angrily. Taggart tapped his box. "Have you taken it long?" "Three-and-twenty years." "What snuff do you take?" "Universal mixture." "And you find it of use?" Taggart tapped his box. "In what respect?" said I. "In many--there is nothing like it to get a man through; but for snuff I should scarcely be where I am now." "Have you been long here?" "Three-and-twenty years." "Dear me," said I; "and snuff brought you through? Give me a pinch--pah, I don't like it," and I sneezed. "Take another pinch," said Taggart. "No," said I, "I don't like snuff." "Then you will never do for authorship--at least for this kind." "So I begin to think--what shall I do?" Taggart took snuff. "You were talking of a great work--what shall it be?" Taggart took snuff. "Do you think I could write one?" Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap, he did not, however. "It would require time," said I, with half a sigh. Taggart tapped his box. "A great deal of time; I really think that my ballads--" Taggart took snuff. "If published would do me credit. I'll make an effort, and offer them to some other publisher." Taggart took a double quantity of snuff. CHAPTER XLII. Occasionally I called on Francis Ardry. This young gentleman resided in handsome apartments in the neighbourhood of a fashionable square, kept a livery servant, and upon the whole, lived in very good style. Going to see him one day, between one and two, I was informed by the servant that his master was engaged for the moment, but that, if I pleased to wait a few minutes, I should find him at liberty. Having told the man that I had no objection, he conducted me into a small apartment which served as antechamber to a drawing-room; the door of this last being half-open, I could see Francis Ardry at the farther end, speechifying and gesticulating in a very impressive manner. The servant, in some confusion, was hastening to close the door, but, ere he could effect his purpose, Francis Ardry, who had caught a glimpse of me, exclaimed, "Come in--come in by all means," and then proceeded, as before, speechifying and gesticulating. Filled with some surprise, I obeyed his summons. On entering the room I perceived another individual to whom Francis Ardry appeared to be addressing himself; this other was a short, spare man of about sixty; his hair was of a badger grey, and his face was covered with wrinkles--without vouchsafing me a look, he kept his eye, which was black and lustrous, fixed full on Francis Ardry, as if paying the deepest attention to his discourse. All of a sudden, however, he cried with a sharp, cracked voice, "that won't do, sir; that won't do--more vehemence--your argument is at present particularly weak; therefore, more vehemence--you must confuse them, stun them, stultify them, sir"; and, at each of these injunctions, he struck the back of his right hand sharply against the palm of the left. "Good, sir--good!" he occasionally uttered, in the same sharp, cracked tone, as the voice of Francis Ardry became more and more vehement. "Infinitely good!" he exclaimed, as Francis Ardry raised his voice to the highest pitch; "and now, sir, abate; let the tempest of vehemence decline--gradually, sir; not too fast. Good, sir--very good!" as the voice of Francis Ardry declined gradually in vehemence. "And now a little pathos, sir--try them with a little pathos. That won't do, sir--that won't do,"--as Francis Ardry made an attempt to become pathetic,--"that will never pass for pathos--with tones and gesture of that description you will never redress the wrongs of your country. Now, sir, observe my gestures, and pay attention to the tone of my voice, sir." Thereupon, making use of nearly the same terms which Francis Ardry had employed, the individual in black uttered several sentences in tones and with gestures which were intended to express a considerable degree of pathos, though it is possible that some people would have thought both the one and the other highly ludicrous. After a pause, Francis recommenced imitating the tones and the gestures of his monitor in the most admirable manner. Before he had proceeded far, however, he burst into a fit of laughter, in which I should, perhaps, have joined, provided it were ever my wont to laugh. "Ha, ha!" said the other, good humouredly, "you are laughing at me. Well, well, I merely wished to give you a hint; but you saw very well what I meant; upon the whole, I think you improve. But I must now go, having two other pupils to visit before four." Then taking from the table a kind of three-cornered hat, and a cane headed with amber, he shook Francis Ardry by the hand; and, after glancing at me for a moment, made me a half-bow, attended with a strange grimace, and departed. "Who is that gentleman?" said I to Francis Ardry as soon as we were alone. "Oh, that is ---" said Frank smiling, "the gentleman who gives me lessons in elocution." "And what need have you of elocution?" "Oh, I merely obey the commands of my guardians," said Francis, "who insist that I should, with the assistance of ---, {249} qualify myself for Parliament; for which they do me the honour to suppose that I have some natural talent. I dare not disobey them, for, at the present moment, I have particular reasons for wishing to keep on good terms with them." "But," said I, "you are a Roman Catholic, and I thought that persons of your religion were excluded from Parliament?" "Why, upon that very thing the whole matter hinges; people of our religion are determined to be no longer excluded from Parliament, but to have a share in the government of the nation. Not that I care anything about the matter; I merely obey the will of my guardians; my thoughts are fixed on something better than politics." "I understand you," said I; "dog-fighting--well, I can easily conceive that to some minds dog-fighting--" {250a} "I was not thinking of dog-fighting," said Francis Ardry, interrupting me. "Not thinking of dog-fighting!" I ejaculated. "No," said Francis Ardry, "something higher and much more rational than dog-fighting at present occupies my thoughts." "Dear me," said I, "I thought I heard you say, that there was nothing like it!" "Like what?" said Francis Ardry. "Dog-fighting, to be sure," said I. "Pooh," said Francis Ardry; "who but the gross and unrefined care anything for dog-fighting? That which at present engages my waking and sleeping thoughts is love--divine love--there is nothing like _that_. Listen to me, I have a secret to confide to you." And then Francis Ardry proceeded to make me his confidant. It appeared that he had had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of the most delightful young Frenchwoman imaginable, Annette La Noire by name, {250b} who had just arrived from her native country with the intention of obtaining the situation of governess in some English family; a position which, on account of her many accomplishments, she was eminently qualified to fill. Francis Ardry had, however, persuaded her to relinquish her intention for the present, on the ground that, until she had become acclimated in England, her health would probably suffer from the confinement inseparable from the occupation in which she was desirous of engaging; he had, moreover--for it appeared that she was the most frank and confiding creature in the world--succeeded in persuading her to permit him to hire for her a very handsome first floor in his own neighbourhood, and to accept a few inconsiderable presents in money and jewellery. "I am looking out for a handsome gig and horse," said Francis Ardry, at the conclusion of his narration; "it were a burning shame that so divine a creature should have to go about a place like London on foot, or in a paltry hackney coach." "But," said I, "will not the pursuit of politics prevent your devoting much time to this fair lady?" "It will prevent me devoting all my time," said Francis Ardry, "as I gladly would; but what can I do? My guardians wish me to qualify myself for a political orator, and I dare not offend them by a refusal. If I offend my guardians, I should find it impossible--unless I have recourse to Jews and money-lenders--to support Annette, present her with articles of dress and jewellery, and purchase a horse and cabriolet worthy of conveying her angelic person through the streets of London." After a pause, in which Francis Ardry appeared lost in thought, his mind being probably occupied with the subject of Annette, I broke silence by observing: "So your fellow-religionists are really going to make a serious attempt to procure their emancipation?" "Yes," said Francis Ardry starting from his reverie; "everything has been arranged; even a leader has been chosen, at least for us of Ireland, upon the whole the most suitable man in the world for the occasion--a barrister of considerable talent, mighty voice, and magnificent impudence. With emancipation, liberty and redress for the wrongs of Ireland in his mouth, he is to force his way into the British House of Commons, dragging myself and others behind him--he will succeed, and when he is in he will cut a figure; I have heard --- himself, {251a} who has heard him speak, say that he will cut a figure." "And is --- {251a} competent to judge?" I demanded. "Who but he?" said Francis Ardry; "no one questions his judgment concerning what relates to elocution. His fame on that point is so well established, that the greatest orators do not disdain occasionally to consult him; C--- {251b} himself, as I have been told, when anxious to produce any particular effect in the House, is in the habit of calling in --- {251a} for consultation." "As to matter, or manner?" said I. "Chiefly the latter," said Francis Ardry, "though he is competent to give advice as to both, for he has been an orator in his day, and a leader of the people; though he confessed to me that he was not exactly qualified to play the latter part--'I want paunch,' said he." "It is not always indispensable," said I; "there is an orator in my town, a hunchback and watchmaker, without it, who not only leads the people, but the mayor too; perhaps he has a succedaneum in his hunch; but, tell me, is the leader of your movement in possession of that which wants--?" "No more deficient in it than in brass," said Francis Ardry. "Well," said I, "whatever his qualifications may be, I wish him success in the cause which he has taken up--I love religious liberty." "We shall succeed," said Francis Ardry; "John Bull upon the whole is rather indifferent on the subject, and then we are sure to be backed by the Radical party, who, to gratify their political prejudices, would join with Satan himself." "There is one thing," said I, "connected with this matter which surprises me--your own lukewarmness. Yes, making every allowance for your natural predilection for dog-fighting, and your present enamoured state of mind, your apathy at the commencement of such a movement is to me unaccountable." "You would not have cause to complain of my indifference," said Frank, "provided I thought my country would be benefited by this movement; but I happen to know the origin of it. The priests are the originators, 'and what country was ever benefited by a movement which owed its origin to them?' so says Voltaire, a page of whom I occasionally read. By the present move they hope to increase their influence, and to further certain designs which they entertain both with regard to this country and Ireland. I do not speak rashly or unadvisedly. A strange fellow--a half- Italian, half-English priest,--who was recommended to me by my guardians, partly as a spiritual, partly as a temporal guide--has let me into a secret or two; he is fond of a glass of gin and water, and over a glass of gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it, he has been more communicative, perhaps, than was altogether prudent. Were I my own master, I would kick him, politics and religious movements, to a considerable distance. And now, if you are going away, do so quickly; I have an appointment with Annette, and must make myself fit to appear before her." CHAPTER XLIII. By the month of October I had, in spite of all difficulties and obstacles, accomplished about two-thirds of the principal task which I had undertaken, the compiling of the Newgate lives; I had also made some progress in translating the publisher's philosophy into German. But about this time I began to see very clearly that it was impossible that our connection should prove of long duration; yet, in the event of my leaving the big man, what other resource had I? another publisher? But what had I to offer? There were my ballads, my Ab Gwilym; but then I thought of Taggart and his snuff, his pinch of snuff. However, I determined to see what could be done, so I took my ballads under my arm, and went to various publishers; some took snuff, others did not, but none took my ballads or Ab Gwilym, they would not even look at them. One asked me if I had anything else--he was a snuff-taker--I said yes; and going home returned with my translation of the German novel, to which I have before alluded. After keeping it for a fortnight, he returned it to me on my visiting him, and, taking a pinch of snuff, told me it would not do. There were marks of snuff on the outside of the manuscript, which was a roll of paper bound with red tape, but there were no marks of snuff on the interior of the manuscript, from which I concluded that he had never opened it. I had often heard of one Glorious John, who lived at the western end of the town; on consulting Taggart, he told me that it was possible that Glorious John would publish my ballads and Ab Gwilym, that is, said he, taking a pinch of snuff, provided you can see him; so I went to the house where Glorious John resided, and a glorious house it was, but I could not see Glorious John. I called a dozen times, but I never could see Glorious John. Twenty years after, by the greatest chance in the world, I saw Glorious John, and sure enough Glorious John published my books, but they were different books from the first; I never offered my ballads or Ab Gwilym to Glorious John. Glorious John was no snuff-taker. He asked me to dinner, and treated me with superb Rhenish wine. Glorious John is now gone to his rest, but I--what was I going to say?--the world will never forget Glorious John. So I returned to my last resource for the time then being--to the publisher, persevering doggedly in my labour. One day, on visiting the publisher, I found him stamping with fury upon certain fragments of paper. "Sir," said he, "you know nothing of German; I have shown your translation of the first chapter of my Philosophy to several Germans: it is utterly unintelligible to them." "Did they see the Philosophy?" I replied. "They did, sir, but they did not profess to understand English." "No more do I," I replied, "if that Philosophy be English." The publisher was furious--I was silent. For want of a pinch of snuff, I had recourse to something which is no bad substitute for a pinch of snuff to those who can't take it, silent contempt; at first it made the publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of snuff would; it, however, eventually calmed him, and he ordered me back to my occupations, in other words, the compilation. To be brief, the compilation was completed, I got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him. He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men! CHAPTER XLIV. It was past mid-winter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company with the old apple-woman: she had just returned to the other side of the bridge to her place in the booth where I had originally found her. This she had done after repeated conversations with me; "she liked the old place best," she said, which she would never have left but for the terror which she experienced when the boys ran away with her book. So I sat with her at the old spot, one afternoon past mid-winter, reading the book, of which I had by this time come to the last pages. I had observed that the old woman for some time past had shown much less anxiety about the book than she had been in the habit of doing. I was, however, not quite prepared for her offering to make me a present of it, which she did that afternoon; when, having finished it, I returned it to her, with many thanks for the pleasure and instruction I had derived from its perusal. "You may keep it, dear," said the old woman, with a sigh; "you may carry it to your lodging, and keep it for your own." Looking at the old woman with surprise, I exclaimed: "Is it possible that you are willing to part with the book which has been your source of comfort so long?" Whereupon the old woman entered into a long history, from which I gathered that the book had become distasteful to her; she hardly ever opened it of late, she said, or if she did, it was only to shut it again; also, that other things which she had been fond of, though of a widely different kind, were now distasteful to her. Porter and beef-steaks were no longer grateful to her palate, her present diet chiefly consisting of tea, and bread and butter. "Ah," said I, "you have been ill, and when people are ill, they seldom like the things which give them pleasure when they are in health." I learned, moreover, that she slept little at night, and had all kinds of strange thoughts; that as she lay awake many things connected with her youth, which she had quite forgotten, came into her mind. There were certain words that came into her mind the night before the last, which were continually humming in her ears: I found that the words were, "Thou shalt not steal". On inquiring where she had first heard these words, I learned that she had read them at school, in a book called the primer; to this school she had been sent by her mother, who was a poor widow, who followed the trade of apple-selling in the very spot where her daughter followed it now. It seems that the mother was a very good kind of woman, but quite ignorant of letters, the benefit of which she was willing to procure for her child; and at the school the daughter learned to read, and subsequently experienced the pleasure and benefit of letters, in being able to read the book which she found in an obscure closet of her mother's house, and which had been her principal companion and comfort for many years of her life. But, as I have said before, she was now dissatisfied with the book, and with most other things in which she had taken pleasure; she dwelt much on the words, "Thou shalt not steal"; she had never stolen things herself, but then she had bought things which other people had stolen, and which she knew had been stolen; and her dear son had been a thief, which he perhaps would not have been but for the example which she set him in buying things from characters, as she called them, who associated with her. On inquiring how she had become acquainted with these characters, I learned that times had gone hard with her; that she had married, but her husband had died after a long sickness, which had reduced them to great distress; that her fruit trade was not a profitable one, and that she had bought and sold things which had been stolen to support herself and her son. That for a long time she supposed there was no harm in doing so, as her book was full of entertaining tales of stealing; but she now thought that the book was a bad book, and that learning to read was a bad thing; her mother had never been able to read, but had died in peace, though poor. So here was a woman who attributed the vices and follies of her life to being able to read; her mother, she said, who could not read, lived respectably, and died in peace; and what was the essential difference between the mother and daughter, save that the latter could read? But for her literature she might in all probability have lived respectably and honestly, like her mother, and might eventually have died in peace, which at present she could scarcely hope to do. Education had failed to produce any good in this poor woman; on the contrary, there could be little doubt that she had been injured by it. Then was education a bad thing? Rousseau was of opinion that it was; but Rousseau was a Frenchman, at least wrote in French, and I cared not the snap of my fingers for Rousseau. But education has certainly been of benefit in some instances; well, what did that prove, but that partiality existed in the management of the affairs of the world. If education was a benefit to some, why was it not a benefit to others? Could some avoid abusing it, any more than others could avoid turning it to a profitable account? I did not see how they could; this poor simple woman found a book in her mother's closet; a book, which was a capital book for those who could turn it to the account for which it was intended; a book, from the perusal of which I felt myself wiser and better, but which was by no means suited to the intellect of this poor simple woman, who thought that it was written in praise of thieving; yet she found it, she read it, and--and I felt myself getting into a maze; what is right? thought I; what is wrong? Do I exist? Does the world exist? if it does, every action is bound up with necessity. "Necessity!" I exclaimed, and cracked my finger joints. "Ah, it is a bad thing," said the old woman. "What is a bad thing?" said I. "Why, to be poor, dear." "You talk like a fool," said I, "riches and poverty are only different forms of necessity." "You should not call me a fool, dear; you should not call your own mother a fool." "You are not my mother," said I. "Not your mother, dear?--no, no more I am; but your calling me fool put me in mind of my dear son, who often used to call me fool--and you just now looked as he sometimes did, with a blob of foam on your lip." "After all, I don't know that you are not my mother." "Don't you, dear? I'm glad of it; I wish you would make it out." "How should I make it out? who can speak from his own knowledge as to the circumstances of his birth? Besides, before attempting to establish our relationship, it would be necessary to prove that such people exist." "What people, dear?" "You and I." "Lord, child, you are mad; that book has made you so." "Don't abuse it," said I; "the book is an excellent one, that is, provided it exists." "I wish it did not," said the old woman; "but it shan't long; I'll burn it, or fling it into the river--the voices of night tell me to do so." "Tell the voices," said I, "that they talk nonsense; the book, if it exists, is a good book, it contains a deep moral; have you read it all?" "All the funny parts, dear; all about taking things, and the manner it was done; as for the rest, I could not exactly make it out." "Then the book is not to blame; I repeat that the book is a good book, and contains deep morality, always supposing that there is such a thing as morality, which is the same thing as supposing that there is anything at all." "Anything at all! Why, a'n't we here on this bridge, in my booth, with my stall and my--" "Apples and pears, baked hot, you would say--I don't know; all is a mystery, a deep question. It is a question, and probably always will be, whether there is a world, and consequently apples and pears; and, provided there be a world, whether that world be like an apple or a pear." "Don't talk so, dear." "I won't; we will suppose that we all exist--world, ourselves, apples, and pears: so you wish to get rid of the book?" "Yes, dear, I wish you would take it." "I have read it, and have no further use for it; I do not need books: in a little time, perhaps, I shall not have a place wherein to deposit myself, far less books." "Then I will fling it into the river." "Don't do that; here, give it me. Now what shall I do with it? you were so fond of it." "I am so no longer." "But how will you pass your time? what will you read?" "I wish I had never learned to read, or, if I had, that I had only read the books I saw at school: the primer or the other." "What was the other?" "I think they called it the Bible: all about God, and Job, and Jesus." "Ah, I know it." "You have read it? is it a nice book--all true?" "True, true--I don't know what to say; but if the world be true, and not all a lie, a fiction, I don't see why the Bible, as they call it, should not be true. By-the-bye, what do you call Bible in your tongue, or, indeed, book of any kind? as Bible merely means a book." "What do I call the Bible in my language, dear?" "Yes, the language of those who bring you things." "The language of those who _did_, dear; they bring them now no longer. They call me fool, as you did, dear, just now; they call kissing the Bible, which means taking a false oath, smacking calf-skin." "That's metaphor," said I, "English, but metaphorical; what an odd language! So you would like to have a Bible,--shall I buy you one?" "I am poor, dear--no money since I left off the other trade." "Well, then, I'll buy you one." "No, dear, no; you are poor, and may soon want the money; but if you can take me one conveniently on the sly, you know--I think you may, for, as it is a good book, I suppose there can be no harm in taking it." "That will never do," said I, "more especially as I should be sure to be caught, not having made taking of things my trade; but I'll tell you what I'll do--try and exchange this book of yours for a Bible; who knows for what great things this same book of yours may serve?" "Well, dear," said the old woman, "do as you please; I should like to see the--what do you call it?--Bible, and to read it, as you seem to think it true." "Yes," said I, "seem; that is the way to express yourself in this maze of doubt--I seem to think--these apples and pears seem to be--and here seems to be a gentleman who wants to purchase either one or the other." A person had stopped before the apple-woman's stall, and was glancing now at the fruit, now at the old woman and myself; he wore a blue mantle, and had a kind of fur cap on his head; he was somewhat above the middle stature; his features were keen, but rather hard; there was a slight obliquity in his vision. Selecting a small apple, he gave the old woman a penny; then, after looking at me scrutinizingly for a moment, he moved from the booth in the direction of Southwark. "Do you know who that man is?" said I to the old woman. "No," said she, "except that he is one of my best customers: he frequently stops, takes an apple, and gives me a penny; his is the only piece of money I have taken this blessed day. I don't know him, but he has once or twice sat down in the booth with two strange-looking men--Mulattos, or Lascars, I think they call them." CHAPTER XLV. In pursuance of my promise to the old woman, I set about procuring her a Bible with all convenient speed, placing the book which she had intrusted to me for the purpose of exchange in my pocket. I went to several shops, and asked if Bibles were to be had: I found that there were plenty. When, however, I informed the people that I came to barter, they looked blank, and declined treating with me, saying that they did not do business in that way. At last I went into a shop over the window of which I saw written, "Books bought and exchanged": there was a smartish young fellow in the shop, with black hair and whiskers. "You exchange?" said I. "Yes," said he, "sometimes, but we prefer selling; what book do you want?" "A Bible," said I. "Ah," said he, "there's a great demand for Bibles just now; all kinds of people are become very pious of late," he added, grinning at me; "I am afraid I can't do business with you, more especially as the master is not at home. What book have you brought?" Taking the book out of my pocket, I placed it on the counter. The young fellow opened the book, and inspecting the title-page, burst into a loud laugh. "What do you laugh for?" said I, angrily, and half clenching my fist. "Laugh!" said the young fellow; "laugh! who could help laughing?" "I could," said I; "I see nothing to laugh at; I want to exchange this book for a Bible." "You do?" said the young fellow; "well, I daresay there are plenty who would be willing to exchange, that is, if they dared. I wish master were at home; but that would never do, either. Master's a family man, the Bibles are not mine, and master being a family man, is sharp, and knows all his stock; I'd buy it of you, but, to tell you the truth, I am quite empty here," said he, pointing to his pocket, "so I am afraid we can't deal." Whereupon, looking anxiously at the young man, "what am I to do?" said I; "I really want a Bible". "Can't you buy one?" said the young man; "have you no money?" "Yes," said I, "I have some, but I am merely the agent of another; I came to exchange, not to buy; what am I to do?" "I don't know," said the young man, thoughtfully, laying down the book on the counter; "I don't know what you can do. I think you will find some difficulty in this bartering job, the trade are rather precise." All at once he laughed louder than before; suddenly stopping, however, he put on a very grave look. "Take my advice," said he; "there is a firm established in this neighbourhood which scarcely sells any books but Bibles; they are very rich, and pride themselves on selling their books at the lowest possible price; apply to them, who knows but what they will exchange with you?" Thereupon I demanded with some eagerness of the young man the direction to the place where he thought it possible that I might effect the exchange--which direction the young fellow cheerfully gave me, and, as I turned away, had the civility to wish me success. I had no difficulty in finding the house to which the young fellow directed me; it was a very large house, situated in a square, and upon the side of the house was written in large letters, "Bibles, and other religious books". At the door of the house were two or three tumbrils, in the act of being loaded with chests, very much resembling tea-chests; one of the chests falling down, burst, and out flew, not tea, but various books, in a neat, small size, and in neat leather covers; Bibles, said I,--Bibles, doubtless. I was not quite right, nor quite wrong; picking up one of the books, I looked at it for a moment, and found it to be the New Testament. "Come, young lad," said a man who stood by, in the dress of a porter, "put that book down, it is none of yours; if you want a book, go in and deal for one." Deal, thought I, deal,--the man seems to know what I am coming about,--and going in, I presently found myself in a very large room. Behind a counter two men stood with their backs to a splendid fire, warming themselves, for the weather was cold. Of these men one was dressed in brown, and the other was dressed in black; both were tall men--he who was dressed in brown was thin, and had a particularly ill-natured countenance; the man dressed in black was bulky, his features were noble, but they were those of a lion. "What is your business, young man?" said the precise personage, as I stood staring at him and his companion. "I want a Bible," said I. "What price, what size?" said the precise-looking man. "As to size," said I, "I should like to have a large one--that is, if you can afford me one--I do not come to buy." "Oh, friend," said the precise-looking man, "if you come here expecting to have a Bible for nothing, you are mistaken--we--" "I would scorn to have a Bible for nothing," said I, "or anything else; I came not to beg, but to barter; there is no shame in that, especially in a country like this, where all folks barter." "Oh, we don't barter," said the precise man, "at least Bibles; you had better depart." "Stay, brother," said the man with the countenance of a lion, "let us ask a few questions; this may be a very important case; perhaps the young man has had convictions." "Not I," I exclaimed, "I am convinced of nothing, and with regard to the Bible--I don't believe--" "Hey!" said the man with the lion countenance, and there he stopped. But with that "Hey" the walls of the house seemed to shake, the windows rattled, and the porter whom I had seen in front of the house came running up the steps, and looked into the apartment through the glass of the door. There was silence for about a minute--the same kind of silence which succeeds a clap of thunder. At last the man with the lion countenance, who had kept his eyes fixed upon me, said calmly: "Were you about to say that you don't believe in the Bible, young man?" "No more than in anything else," said I; "you were talking of convictions--I have no convictions. It is not easy to believe in the Bible till one is convinced that there is a Bible." "He seems to be insane," said the prim-looking man, "we had better order the porter to turn him out." "I am by no means certain," said I, "that the porter could turn me out; always provided there is a porter, and this system of ours be not a lie, and a dream." "Come," said the lion-looking man, impatiently, "a truce with this nonsense. If the porter cannot turn you out, perhaps some other person can; but to the point--you want a Bible?" "I do," said I, "but not for myself; I was sent by another person to offer something in exchange for one." "And who is that person?" "A poor old woman, who has had what you call convictions,--heard voices, or thought she heard them--I forgot to ask her whether they were loud ones." "What has she sent to offer in exchange?" said the man, without taking any notice of the concluding part of my speech. "A book," said I. "Let me see it." "Nay, brother," said the precise man, "this will never do; if we once adopt the system of barter, we shall have all the holders of useless rubbish in the town applying to us." "I wish to see what he has brought," said the other; "perhaps Baxter, or Jewell's Apology, either of which would make a valuable addition to our collection. Well, young man, what's the matter with you?" I stood like one petrified; I had put my hand into my pocket--the book was gone. "What's the matter?" repeated the man with the lion countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder. "I have it not--I have lost it!" "A pretty story, truly," said the precise-looking man, "lost it!" "You had better retire," said the other. "How shall I appear before the party who intrusted me with the book? She will certainly think that I have purloined it, notwithstanding all I can say; nor, indeed, can I blame her--appearances are certainly against me." "They are so--you had better retire." I moved towards the door. "Stay, young man, one word more; there is only one way of proceeding which would induce me to believe that you are sincere." "What is that?" said I, stopping and looking at him anxiously. "The purchase of a Bible." "Purchase!" said I, "purchase! I came not to purchase, but to barter; such was my instruction, and how can I barter if I have lost the book?" The other made no answer, and turning away I made for the door; all of a sudden I started, and turning round, "Dear me," said I, "it has just come into my head, that if the book was lost by my negligence, as it must have been, I have clearly a right to make it good". No answer. "Yes," I repeated, "I have clearly a right to make it good; how glad I am! see the effect of a little reflection. I will purchase a Bible instantly, that is, if I have not lost--" and with considerable agitation I felt in my pocket. The prim-looking man smiled: "I suppose," said he, "that he has lost his money as well as book". "No," said I, "I have not;" and pulling out my hand I displayed no less a sum than three half-crowns. "O, noble goddess of the Mint!" as Dame Charlotta Nordenflycht, the Swede, said a hundred and fifty years ago, "great is thy power; how energetically the possession of thee speaks in favour of man's character!" "Only half a crown for this Bible?" said I, putting down the money, "it is worth three;" and bowing to the man of the noble features, I departed with my purchase. "Queer customer," said the prim-looking man, as I was about to close the door--"don't like him." "Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say," said he of the countenance of a lion. CHAPTER XLVI. A few days after the occurrence of what is recorded in the last chapter, as I was wandering in the City, chance directed my footsteps to an alley leading from one narrow street to another in the neighbourhood of Cheapside. Just before I reached the mouth of the alley, a man in a greatcoat, closely followed by another, passed it; and, at the moment in which they were passing, I observed the man behind snatch something from the pocket of the other; whereupon, darting into the street, I seized the hindermost man by the collar, crying at the same time to the other, "My good friend, this person has just picked your pocket". The individual whom I addressed, turning round with a start, glanced at me, and then at the person whom I held. London is the place for strange rencounters. It appeared to me that I recognised both individuals--the man whose pocket had been picked and the other; the latter now began to struggle violently; "I have picked no one's pocket," said he. "Rascal," said the other, "you have got my pocket-book in your bosom." "No, I have not," said the other; and struggling more violently than before, the pocket-book dropped from his bosom upon the ground. The other was now about to lay hands upon the fellow, who was still struggling. "You had better take up your book," said I; "I can hold him." He followed my advice, and, taking up his pocket-book, surveyed my prisoner with a ferocious look, occasionally glaring at me. Yes, I had seen him before--it was the stranger whom I had observed on London Bridge, by the stall of the old apple-woman, with the cap and cloak; but, instead of these, he now wore a hat and greatcoat. "Well," said I, at last, "what am I to do with this gentleman of ours?" nodding to the prisoner, who had now left off struggling. "Shall I let him go?" "Go!" said the other; "go! The knave--the rascal; let him go, indeed! Not so, he shall go before the Lord Mayor. Bring him along." "Oh, let me go," said the other: "let me go; this is the first offence, I assure ye--the first time I ever thought to do anything wrong." "Hold your tongue," said I, "or I shall be angry with you. If I am not very much mistaken, you once attempted to cheat me." "I never saw you before in all my life," said the fellow, though his countenance seemed to belie his words. "That is not true," said I; "you are the man who attempted to cheat me of one-and-ninepence in the coach-yard, on the first morning of my arrival in London." "I don't doubt it," said the other; "a confirmed thief;" and here his tones became peculiarly sharp; "I would fain see him hanged--crucified. Drag him along." "I am no constable," said I; "you have got your pocket-book--I would rather you would bid me let him go." "Bid you let him go!" said the other almost furiously, "I command--stay, what was I going to say? I was forgetting myself," he observed more gently; "but he stole my pocket-book; if you did but know what it contained." "Well," said I, "if it contains anything valuable, be the more thankful that you have recovered it; as for the man, I will help you to take him where you please; but I wish you would let him go." The stranger hesitated, and there was an extraordinary play of emotion in his features; he looked ferociously at the pickpocket, and, more than once, somewhat suspiciously at myself; at last his countenance cleared, and, with a good grace, he said, "Well, you have done me a great service, and you have my consent to let him go; but the rascal shall not escape with impunity," he exclaimed suddenly, as I let the man go, and starting forward, before the fellow could escape, he struck him a violent blow on the face. The man staggered, and had nearly fallen; recovering himself, however, he said: "I tell you what, my fellow, if I ever meet you in this street in a dark night, and I have a knife about me, it shall be the worse for you; as for you, young man," said he to me; but, observing that the other was making towards him, he left whatever he was about to say unfinished, and, taking to his heels, was out of sight in a moment. The stranger and myself walked in the direction of Cheapside, the way in which he had been originally proceeding; he was silent for a few moments, at length he said: "You have really done me a great service, and I should be ungrateful not to acknowledge it. I am a merchant; and a merchant's pocket-book, as you perhaps know, contains many things of importance; but young man," he exclaimed, "I think I have seen you before; I thought so at first, but where I cannot exactly say: where was it?" I mentioned London Bridge and the old apple-woman. "Oh," said he, and smiled, and there was something peculiar in his smile, "I remember now. Do you frequently sit on London Bridge?" "Occasionally," said I; "that old woman is an old friend of mine." "Friend?" said the stranger, "I am glad of it, for I shall know where to find you. At present I am going to 'Change; time you know is precious to a merchant." We were by this time close to Cheapside. "Farewell," said he, "I shall not forget this service. I trust we shall soon meet again." He then shook me by the hand and went his way. The next day, as I was seated beside the old woman in the booth, the stranger again made his appearance, and after a word or two, sat down beside me; the old woman was sometimes reading the Bible, which she had already had two or three days in her possession, and sometimes discoursing with me. Our discourse rolled chiefly on philological matters. "What do you call bread in your language?" said I. "You mean the language of those who bring me things to buy, or who did; for, as I told you before, I sha'n't buy any more; it's no language of mine, dear--they call bread pannam in their language." "Pannam!" said I, "pannam! evidently connected with, is not derived from, the Latin panis; even as the word tanner, which signifieth a sixpence, is connected with, if not derived from, the Latin tener, which is itself connected with, if not derived from, tawno or tawner, which, in the language of Mr. Petulengro, signifieth a sucking child. Let me see, what is the term for bread in the language of Mr. Petulengro? Morro, or manro, as I have sometimes heard it called; is there not some connection between these words and panis? Yes, I think there is; and I should not wonder if morro, manro, and panis were connected, perhaps derived from the same root; but what is that root? I don't know--I wish I did; though, perhaps, I should not be the happier. Morro--manro! I rather think morro is the oldest form; it is easier to say morro than manro. Morro! Irish, aran; Welsh, bara; English, bread. I can see a resemblance between all the words, and pannam too; and I rather think that the Petulengrian word is the elder. How odd it would be if the language of Mr. Petulengro should eventually turn out to be the mother of all the languages in the world; yet it is certain that there are some languages in which the terms for bread have no connection with the word used by Mr. Petulengro, notwithstanding that those languages, in many other points, exhibit a close affinity to the language of the horseshoe master: for example, bread, in Hebrew, is Laham, which assuredly exhibits little similitude to the word used by the aforesaid Petulengro. In Armenian it is--" "Zhats!" said the stranger starting up. "By the Patriarch and the Three Holy Churches, this is wonderful! How came you to know aught of Armenian?" CHAPTER XLVII. Just as I was about to reply to the interrogation of my new-formed acquaintance, a man, with a dusky countenance, probably one of the Lascars, or Mulattos, of whom the old woman had spoken, came up and whispered to him, and with this man he presently departed, not however before he had told me the place of his abode, and requested me to visit him. After the lapse of a few days, I called at the house which he had indicated. It was situated in a dark and narrow street, in the heart of the city, at no great distance from the Bank. I entered a counting-room, in which a solitary clerk, with a foreign look, was writing. The stranger was not at home; returning the next day, however, I met him at the door as he was about to enter; he shook me warmly by the hand. "I am glad to see you," said he, "follow me, I was just thinking of you." He led me through the counting-room to an apartment up a flight of stairs; before ascending, however, he looked into the book in which the foreign- visaged clerk was writing, and, seemingly not satisfied with the manner in which he was executing his task, he gave him two or three cuffs, telling him at the same time that he deserved crucifixion. The apartment above stairs, to which he led me, was large, with three windows which opened upon the street. The walls were hung with wired cases, apparently containing books. There was a table and two or three chairs; but the principal article of furniture was a long sofa, extending from the door by which we entered to the farther end of the apartment. Seating himself upon the sofa, my new acquaintance motioned me to a seat beside him, and then, looking me full in the face, repeated his former inquiry. "In the name of all that is wonderful, how came you to know aught of my language?" "There is nothing wonderful in that," said I; "we are at the commencement of a philological age, every one studies languages: that is, every one who is fit for nothing else; philology being the last resource of dulness and ennui, I have got a little in advance of the throng, by mastering the Armenian alphabet; but I foresee the time when every unmarriageable miss, and desperate blockhead, will likewise have acquired the letters of Mesroub, and will know the term for bread, in Armenian, and perhaps that for wine." "Kini," said my companion; and that and the other word put me in mind of the duties of hospitality. "Will you eat bread and drink wine with me?" "Willingly," said I. Whereupon my companion, unlocking a closet, produced on a silver salver, a loaf of bread, with a silver-handled knife, and wine in a silver flask, with cups of the same metal. "I hope you like my fare," said he, after we had both eaten and drunk. "I like your bread," said I, "for it is stale; I like not your wine, it is sweet, and I hate sweet wine." "It is wine of Cyprus," said my entertainer; and, when I found that it was wine of Cyprus, I tasted it again, and the second taste pleased me much better than the first, notwithstanding that I still thought it somewhat sweet. "So," said I, after a pause, looking at my companion, "you are an Armenian." "Yes," said he, "an Armenian born in London, but not less an Armenian on that account. My father was a native of Ispahan, one of the celebrated Armenian colony which was established there shortly after the time of the dreadful hunger, which drove the children of Haik in swarms from their original country, and scattered them over most parts of the eastern and western world. In Ispahan he passed the greater portion of his life, following mercantile pursuits with considerable success. Certain enemies, however, having accused him to the despot of the place, of using seditious language, he was compelled to flee, leaving most of his property behind. Travelling in the direction of the west, he came at last to London, where he established himself, and where he eventually died, leaving behind a large property and myself, his only child, the fruit of a marriage with an Armenian English woman, who did not survive my birth more than three months." The Armenian then proceeded to tell me that he had carried on the business of his father, which seemed to embrace most matters, from buying silks of Lascars, to speculating in the funds, and that he had considerably increased the property which his father had left him. He candidly confessed that he was wonderfully fond of gold, and said there was nothing like it for giving a person respectability and consideration in the world; to which assertion I made no answer, being not exactly prepared to contradict it. And, when he had related to me his history, he expressed a desire to know something more of myself, whereupon I gave him the outline of my history, concluding with saying: "I am now a poor author, or rather a philologist, upon the streets of London, possessed of many tongues, which I find of no use in the world". "Learning without money is anything but desirable," said the Armenian, "as it unfits a man for humble occupations. It is true that it may occasionally beget him friends; I confess to you that your understanding something of my language weighs more with me than the service you rendered me in rescuing my pocket-book the other day from the claws of that scoundrel whom I yet hope to see hanged, if not crucified, notwithstanding there were in that pocket-book papers and documents of considerable value. Yes, that circumstance makes my heart warm towards you, for I am proud of my language--as I indeed well may be--what a language, noble and energetic! quite original, differing from all others both in words and structure." "You are mistaken," said I; "many languages resemble the Armenian both in structure and words." "For example?" said the Armenian. "For example," said I, "the English." "The English," said the Armenian; "show me one word in which the English resembles the Armenian." "You walk on London Bridge," said I. "Yes," said the Armenian. "I saw you look over the balustrade the other morning." "True," said the Armenian. "Well, what did you see rushing up through the arches with noise and foam?" "What was it?" said the Armenian. "What was it?--you don't mean the _tide_?" "Do I not?" said I. "Well, what has the tide to do with the matter?" "Much," said I; "what is the tide?" "The ebb and flow of the sea," said the Armenian. "The sea itself; what is the Haik word for sea?" The Armenian gave a strong gasp; then, nodding his head thrice, "you are right," said he, "the English word tide is the Armenian for sea; and now I begin to perceive that there are many English words which are Armenian; there is --- and --- and there again in French there is --- and --- derived from the Armenian. How strange, how singular--I thank you. It is a proud thing to see that the language of my race has had so much influence over the languages of the world." I saw that all that related to his race was the weak point of the Armenian. I did not flatter the Armenian with respect to his race or language. "An inconsiderable people," said I, "shrewd and industrious, but still an inconsiderable people. A language bold and expressive, and of some antiquity, derived, though perhaps not immediately, from some much older tongue. I do not think that the Armenian has had any influence over the formation of the languages of the world. I am not much indebted to the Armenian for the solution of any doubts; where as to the language of Mr. Petulengro--" "I have heard you mention that name before," said the Armenian; "who is Mr. Petulengro?" And then I told the Armenian who Mr. Petulengro was. The Armenian spoke contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro and his race. "Don't speak contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro," said I, "nor of anything belonging to him. He is a dark, mysterious personage; all connected with him is a mystery, especially his language; but I believe that his language is doomed to solve a great philological problem--Mr. Petulengro--" "You appear agitated," said the Armenian; "take another glass of wine; you possess a great deal of philological knowledge, but it appears to me that the language of this Petulengro is your foible: but let us change the subject; I feel much interested in you, and would fain be of service to you. Can you cast accounts?" I shook my head. "Keep books?" "I have an idea that I could write books," said I; "but, as to keeping them--" and here again I shook my head. The Armenian was silent some time; all at once, glancing at one of the wire cases, with which, as I have already said, the walls of the room were hung, he asked me if I was well acquainted with the learning of the Haiks. "The books in these cases," said he, "contain the masterpieces of Haik learning." "No," said I, "all I know of the learning of the Haiks is their translation of the Bible." "You have never read Z---?" "No," said I, "I have never read Z---" "I have a plan," said the Armenian; "I think I can employ you agreeably and profitably; I should like to see Z--- in an English dress; you shall translate Z---. If you can read the Scriptures in Armenian, you can translate Z---. He is our Esop, the most acute and clever of all our moral writers--his philosophy--" "I will have nothing to do with him," said I. "Wherefore?" said the Armenian. "There is an old proverb," said I, "that 'a burnt child avoids the fire'. I have burnt my hands sufficiently with attempting to translate philosophy, to make me cautious of venturing upon it again;" and then I told the Armenian how I had been persuaded by the publisher to translate his philosophy into German, and what sorry thanks I had received; "and who knows," said I, "but the attempt to translate Armenian philosophy into English might be attended with yet more disagreeable consequences." The Armenian smiled. "You would find me very different from the publisher." "In many points I have no doubt I should," I replied; "but at the present moment I feel like a bird which has escaped from a cage, and, though hungry, feels no disposition to return. Of what nation is the dark man below stairs, whom I saw writing at the desk?" "He is a Moldave," said the Armenian; "the dog (and here his eyes sparkled) deserves to be crucified, he is continually making mistakes." The Armenian again renewed his proposition about Z---, which I again refused, as I felt but little inclination to place myself beneath the jurisdiction of a person who was in the habit of cuffing those whom he employed, when they made mistakes. I presently took my departure; not, however, before I had received from the Armenian a pressing invitation to call upon him whenever I should feel disposed. CHAPTER XLVIII. Anxious thoughts frequently disturbed me at this time with respect to what I was to do, and how support myself in the Great City. My future prospects were gloomy enough, and I looked forward and feared; sometimes I felt half disposed to accept the offer of the Armenian, and to commence forthwith, under his superintendence, the translation of the Haik Esop; but the remembrance of the cuffs which I had seen him bestow upon the Moldavian, when glancing over his shoulder into the ledger or whatever it was on which he was employed, immediately drove the inclination from my mind. I could not support the idea of the possibility of his staring over my shoulder upon my translation of the Haik Esop, and, dissatisfied with my attempts, treating me as he had treated the Moldavian clerk; placing myself in a position which exposed me to such treatment, would indeed be plunging into the fire after escaping from the frying pan. The publisher, insolent and overbearing as he was, whatever he might have wished or thought, had never lifted his hand against me, or told me that I merited crucifixion. What was I to do? turn porter? I was strong; but there was something besides strength required to ply the trade of a porter--a mind of a particularly phlegmatic temperament, which I did not possess. What should I do?--enlist as a soldier? I was tall enough; but something besides height is required to make a man play with credit the part of soldier, I mean a private one--a spirit, if spirit it can be called, which will not only enable a man to submit with patience to insolence and abuse, and even to cuffs and kicks, but occasionally to the lash. I felt that I was not qualified to be a soldier, at least a private one; far better be a drudge to the most ferocious of publishers, editing Newgate lives, and writing in eighteenpenny reviews--better to translate the Haik Esop, under the superintendence of ten Armenians, than be a private soldier in the English service; I did not decide rashly--I knew something of soldiering. What should I do? I thought that I would make a last and desperate attempt to dispose of the ballads and of Ab Gwilym. I had still an idea that, provided I could persuade any spirited publisher to give these translations to the world, I should acquire both considerable fame and profit; not, perhaps, a world-embracing fame such as Byron's, but a fame not to be sneered at, which would last me a considerable time, and would keep my heart from breaking;--profit, not equal to that which Scott had made by his wondrous novels, but which would prevent me from starving, and enable me to achieve some other literary enterprise. I read and re-read my ballads, and the more I read them the more I was convinced that the public, in the event of their being published, would freely purchase, and hail them with the merited applause. Were not the deeds and adventures wonderful and heart-stirring, from which it is true I could claim no merit, being but the translator; but had I not rendered them into English, with all their original fire? Yes, I was confident I had; and I had no doubt that the public would say so. And then, with respect to Ab Gwilym, had I not done as much justice to him as to the Danish Ballads; not only rendering faithfully his thoughts, imagery and phraseology, but even preserving in my translation the alliterative euphony which constitutes one of the most remarkable features of Welsh prosody? Yes, I had accomplished all this; and I doubted not that the public would receive my translations from Ab Gwilym with quite as much eagerness as my version of the Danish ballads. But I found the publishers as untractable as ever, and to this day the public has never had an opportunity of doing justice to the glowing fire of my ballad versification, and the alliterative euphony of my imitations of Ab Gwilym. I had not seen Francis Ardry since the day I had seen him taking lessons in elocution. One afternoon, as I was seated at my table, my head resting on my hands, he entered my apartment; sitting down, he inquired of me why I had not been to see him. "I might ask the same question of you," I replied. "Wherefore have you not been to see me?" Whereupon Francis Ardry told me that he had been much engaged in his oratorical exercises, also in escorting the young Frenchwoman about to places of public amusement; he then again questioned me as to the reason of my not having been to see him. I returned an evasive answer. The truth was, that for some time past my appearance, owing to the state of my finances, had been rather shabby; and I did not wish to expose a fashionable young man like Francis Ardry, who lived in a fashionable neighbourhood, to the imputation of having a shabby acquaintance. I was aware that Francis Ardry was an excellent fellow; but, on that very account, I felt, under existing circumstances, a delicacy in visiting him. It is very possible that he had an inkling of how matters stood, as he presently began to talk of my affairs and prospects. I told him of my late ill success with the booksellers, and inveighed against their blindness to their own interest in refusing to publish my translations. "The last that I addressed myself to," said I, "told me not to trouble him again, unless I could bring him a decent novel or a tale." "Well," said Frank, "and why did you not carry him a decent novel or a tale?" "Because I have neither," said I; "and to write them is, I believe, above my capacity. At present I feel divested of all energy--heartless and almost hopeless." "I see how it is," said Francis Ardry, "you have overworked yourself, and, worst of all, to no purpose. Take my advice; cast all care aside, and only think of diverting yourself for a month at least." "Divert myself," said I; "and where am I to find the means?" "Be that care on my shoulders," said Francis Ardry. "Listen to me--my uncles have been so delighted with the favourable accounts which they have lately received from T--- of my progress in oratory, that, in the warmth of their hearts, they made me a present yesterday of two hundred pounds. This is more money than I want, at least for the present; do me the favour to take half of it as a loan--hear me," said he, observing that I was about to interrupt him, "I have a plan in my head--one of the prettiest in the world. The sister of my charmer is just arrived from France; she cannot speak a word of English; and, as Annette and myself are much engaged in our own matters, we cannot pay her the attention which we should wish, and which she deserves, for she is a truly fascinating creature, although somewhat differing from my charmer, having blue eyes and flaxen hair; whilst Annette, on the contrary--But I hope you will shortly see Annette. Now my plan is this--Take the money, dress yourself fashionably, and conduct Annette's sister to Bagnigge Wells." "And what should we do at Bagnigge Wells?" "Do!" said Francis Ardry. "Dance!" "But," said I, "I scarcely know anything of dancing." "Then here's an excellent opportunity of improving yourself. Like most Frenchwomen, she dances divinely; however, if you object to Bagnigge Wells and dancing, go to Brighton, and remain there a month or two, at the end of which time you can return with your mind refreshed and invigorated, and materials, perhaps, for a tale or novel." "I never heard a more foolish plan," said I, "or one less likely to terminate profitably or satisfactorily. I thank you, however, for your offer, which is, I daresay, well meant. If I am to escape from my cares and troubles, and find my mind refreshed and invigorated, I must adopt other means than conducting a French demoiselle to Brighton or Bagnigge Wells, defraying the expense by borrowing from a friend." CHAPTER XLIX. The Armenian! I frequently saw this individual, availing myself of the permission which he had given me to call upon him. A truly singular personage was he, with his love of amassing money, and his nationality so strong as to be akin to poetry. Many an Armenian I have subsequently known fond of money-getting, and not destitute of national spirit; but never another, who, in the midst of his schemes of lucre, was at all times willing to enter into a conversation on the structure of the Haik language, or who ever offered me money to render into English the fables of Z--- in the hope of astonishing the stock-jobbers of the Exchange with the wisdom of the Haik Esop. But he was fond of money, very fond. Within a little time I had won his confidence to such a degree that he informed me that the grand wish of his heart was to be possessed of two hundred thousand pounds. "I think you might satisfy yourself with the half," said I. "One hundred thousand pounds is a large sum." "You are mistaken," said the Armenian, "a hundred thousand pounds is nothing. My father left me that or more at his death. No; I shall never be satisfied with less than two." "And what will you do with your riches," said I, "when you have obtained them? Will you sit down and muse upon them, or will you deposit them in a cellar, and go down once a day to stare at them? I have heard say that the fulfilment of one's wishes is invariably the precursor of extreme misery, and forsooth I can scarcely conceive a more horrible state of existence than to be without a hope or wish." "It is bad enough, I dare say," said the Armenian; "it will, however, be time enough to think of disposing of the money when I have procured it. I still fall short by a vast sum of the two hundred thousand pounds." I had occasionally much conversation with him on the state and prospects of his nation, especially of that part of it which still continued in the original country of the Haiks--Ararat and its confines, which, it appeared, he had frequently visited. He informed me that since the death of the last Haik monarch, which occurred in the eleventh century, Armenia had been governed both temporally and spiritually by certain personages called patriarchs; their temporal authority, however, was much circumscribed by the Persian and Turk, especially the former, of whom the Armenian spoke with much hatred, whilst their spiritual authority had at various times been considerably undermined by the emissaries of the Papa of Rome, as the Armenian called him. "The Papa of Rome sent his emissaries at an early period amongst us," said the Armenian, "seducing the minds of weak-headed people, persuading them that the hillocks of Rome are higher than the ridges of Ararat; that the Roman Papa has more to say in heaven than the Armenian patriarch, and that puny Latin is a better language than nervous and sonorous Haik." "They are both dialects," said I, "of the language of Mr. Petulengro, one of whose race I believe to have been the original founder of Rome; but, with respect to religion, what are the chief points of your faith? you are Christians, I believe." "Yes," said the Armenian, "we are Christians in our way; we believe in God, the Holy Spirit, and Saviour, though we are not prepared to admit that the last personage is not only himself, but the other two. We believe--" and then the Armenian told me of several things which the Haiks believed or disbelieved. "But what we find most hard of all to believe," said he, "is that the man of the mole-hills is entitled to our allegiance, he not being a Haik, or understanding the Haik language." "But, by your own confession," said I, "he has introduced a schism in your nation, and has amongst you many that believe in him." "It is true," said the Armenian, "that even on the confines of Ararat there are a great number who consider that mountain to be lower than the hillocks of Rome; but the greater number of degenerate Armenians are to be found amongst those who have wandered to the west; most of the Haik churches of the west consider Rome to be higher than Ararat--most of the Armenians of this place hold that dogma; I, however, have always stood firm in the contrary opinion." "Ha! ha!"--here the Armenian laughed in his peculiar manner--"talking of this matter puts me in mind of an adventure which lately befel me, with one of the emissaries of the Papa of Rome, for the Papa of Rome has at present many emissaries in this country, in order to seduce the people from their own quiet religion to the savage heresy of Rome; this fellow came to me partly in the hope of converting me, but principally to extort money for the purpose of furthering the designs of Rome in this country. I humoured the fellow at first, keeping him in play for nearly a month, deceiving and laughing at him. At last he discovered that he could make nothing of me, and departed with the scowl of Caiaphas, whilst I cried after him: 'The roots of Ararat are _deeper_ than those of Rome'." The Armenian had occasionally reverted to the subject of the translation of the Haik Esop, which he had still a lurking desire that I should execute; but I had invariably declined the undertaking, without, however, stating my reasons. On one occasion, when we had been conversing on the subject, the Armenian, who had been observing my countenance for some time with much attention, remarked, "Perhaps, after all, you are right, and you might employ your time to better advantage. Literature is a fine thing, especially Haik literature, but neither that nor any other would be likely to serve as a foundation to a man's fortune: and to make a fortune should be the principal aim of every one's life; therefore listen to me. Accept a seat at the desk opposite to my Moldavian clerk, and receive the rudiments of a merchant's education. You shall be instructed in the Armenian way of doing business--I think you would make an excellent merchant." "Why do you think so?" "Because you have something of the Armenian look." "I understand you," said I; "you mean to say that I squint?" "Not exactly," said the Armenian, "but there is certainly a kind of irregularity in your features. One eye appears to me larger than the other--never mind, but rather rejoice; in that irregularity consists your strength. All people with regular features are fools; it is very hard for them, you'll say, but there is no help: all we can do, who are not in such a predicament, is to pity those who are. Well! will you accept my offer? No! you are a singular individual; but I must not forget my own concerns. I must now go forth, having an appointment by which I hope to make money." CHAPTER L. The fulfilment of the Armenian's grand wish was nearer at hand than either he or I had anticipated. Partly owing to the success of a bold speculation, in which he had some time previously engaged, and partly owing to the bequest of a large sum of money by one of his nation who died at this period in Paris, he found himself in the possession of a fortune somewhat exceeding two hundred thousand pounds; this fact he communicated to me one evening about an hour after the close of 'Change, the hour at which I generally called, and at which I mostly found him at home. "Well," said I, "and what do you intend to do next?" "I scarcely know," said the Armenian. "I was thinking of that when you came in. I don't see anything that I can do, save going on in my former course. After all, I was perhaps too moderate in making the possession of two hundred thousand pounds the summit of my ambition; there are many individuals in this town who possess three times that sum, and are not yet satisfied. No, I think I can do no better than pursue the old career; who knows but I may make the two hundred thousand three or four?--there is already a surplus, which is an encouragement; however, we will consider the matter over a goblet of wine; I have observed of late that you have become partial to my Cyprus." And it came to pass that, as we were seated over the Cyprus wine, we heard a knock at the door. "_Adelante_!" cried the Armenian; whereupon the door opened, and in walked a somewhat extraordinary figure--a man in a long loose tunic of a stuff striped with black and yellow; breeches of plush velvet, silk stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. On his head he wore a high-peaked hat; he was tall, had a hooked nose, and in age was about fifty. "Welcome, Rabbi Manasseh," said the Armenian. "I know your knock--you are welcome; sit down." "I am welcome," said Manasseh, sitting down; "he--he--he! you know my knock--I bring you money--_bueno_!" There was something very peculiar in the sound of that _bueno_--I never forgot it. Thereupon a conversation ensued between Rabbi Manasseh and the Armenian, in a language which I knew to be Spanish, though a peculiar dialect. It related to a mercantile transaction. The Rabbi sighed heavily as he delivered to the other a considerable sum of money. "It is right," said the Armenian, handing a receipt. "It is right; and I am quite satisfied." "You are satisfied--you have taken money. _Bueno_, I have nothing to say against your being satisfied." "Come, Rabbi," said the Armenian, "do not despond; it may be your turn next to take money; in the meantime, can't you be persuaded to taste my Cyprus?" "He--he--he! senor, you know I do not love wine. I love Noah when he is himself; but, as Janus, I love him not. But you are merry, _bueno_; you have a right to be so." "Excuse me," said I, "but does Noah ever appear as Janus?" "He--he--he!" said the Rabbi, "he only appeared as Janus once--_una vez quando estuvo borracho_; which means--" "I understand," said I; "when he was--" and I drew the side of my right hand sharply across my left wrist. "Are you one of our people?" said the Rabbi. "No," said I, "I am one of the Goyim; but I am only half enlightened. Why should Noah be Janus, when he was in that state?" "He--he--he! you must know that in Lasan akhades wine is janin." "In Armenian, kini," said I; "in Welsh, gwin; Latin, vinum; but do you think that Janus and janin are one?" "Do I think? Don't the commentators say so? Does not Master Leo Abarbenel say so in his _Dialogues of Divine Love_?" "But," said I, "I always thought that Janus was a god of the ancient Romans, who stood in a temple open in time of war, and shut in time of peace; he was represented with two faces, which--which--" "He--he--he!" said the Rabbi, rising from his seat; "he had two faces, had he? And what did those two faces typify? You do not know; no, nor did the Romans who carved him with two faces know why they did so; for they were only half-enlightened, like you and the rest of the Goyim. Yet they were right in carving him with two faces looking from each other--they were right, though they knew not why; there was a tradition among them that the _Janinoso_ had two faces, but they knew not that one was for the world which was gone, and the other for the world before him--for the drowned world, and for the present, as Master Leo Abarbenel says in his _Dialogues of Divine Love_. He--he--he!" continued the Rabbi, who had by this time advanced to the door, and, turning round, waved the two forefingers of his right hand in our faces; "the Goyim and Epicouraiyim are clever men, they know how to make money better than we of Israel. My good friend there is a clever man, I bring him money, he never brought me any, _bueno_; I do not blame him, he knows much, very much; but one thing there is my friend does not know, nor any of the Epicureans, he does not know the sacred thing--he has never received the gift of interpretation which God alone gives to the seed--he has his gift, I have mine--he is satisfied, I don't blame him, _bueno_." And with this last word in his mouth, he departed. "Is that man a native of Spain?" I demanded. "Not a native of Spain," said the Armenian, "though he is one of those who call themselves Spanish Jews, and who are to be found scattered throughout Europe, speaking the Spanish language transmitted to them by their ancestors, who were expelled from Spain in the time of Ferdinand and Isabella." "The Jews are a singular people," said I. "A race of cowards and dastards," said the Armenian, "without a home or country; servants to servants; persecuted and despised by all." "And what are the Haiks?" I demanded. "Very different from the Jews," replied the Armenian; "the Haiks have a home--a country, and can occasionally use a good sword; though it is true they are not what they might be." "Then it is a shame that they do not become so," said I; "but they are too fond of money. There is yourself, with two hundred thousand pounds in your pocket, craving for more, whilst you might be turning your wealth to the service of your country." "In what manner?" said the Armenian. "I have heard you say that the grand oppressor of your country is the Persian; why not attempt to free your country from his oppression--you have two hundred thousand pounds, and money is the sinew of war?" "Would you, then, have me attack the Persian?" "I scarcely know what to say; fighting is a rough trade, and I am by no means certain that you are calculated for the scratch. It is not every one who has been brought up in the school of Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno. All I can say is, that if I were an Armenian, and had two hundred thousand pounds to back me, I would attack the Persian." "Hem!" said the Armenian. CHAPTER LI. One morning on getting up I discovered that my whole worldly wealth was reduced to one half-crown--throughout that day I walked about in considerable distress of mind; it was now requisite that I should come to a speedy decision with respect to what I was to do; I had not many alternatives, and, before I had retired to rest on the night of the day in question, I had determined that I could do no better than accept the first proposal of the Armenian, and translate, under his superintendence, the Haik Esop into English. I reflected, for I made a virtue of necessity, that, after all, such an employment would be an honest and honourable one; honest, inasmuch as by engaging in it I should do harm to nobody; honourable, inasmuch as it was a literary task, which not every one was capable of executing. It was not every one of the booksellers' writers of London who was competent to translate the Haik Esop. I determined to accept the offer of the Armenian. Once or twice the thought of what I might have to undergo in the translation from certain peculiarities of the Armenian's temper almost unsettled me; but a mechanical diving of my hand into my pocket, and the feeling of the solitary half-crown, confirmed me; after all this was a life of trial and tribulation, and I had read somewhere or other that there was much merit in patience, so I determined to hold fast in my resolution of accepting the offer of the Armenian. But all of a sudden I remembered that the Armenian appeared to have altered his intentions towards me: he appeared no longer desirous that I should render the Haik Esop into English for the benefit of the stock- jobbers on Exchange, but rather that I should acquire the rudiments of doing business in the Armenian fashion, and accumulate a fortune, which would enable me to make a figure upon 'Change with the best of the stock- jobbers. "Well," thought I, withdrawing my hand from my pocket, whither it had again mechanically dived, "after all, what would the world, what would this city be, without commerce? I believe the world, and particularly this city, would cut a very poor figure without commerce; and then there is something poetical in the idea of doing business after the Armenian fashion, dealing with dark-faced Lascars and Rabbins of the Sephardim. Yes, should the Armenian insist upon it, I will accept a seat at the desk, opposite the Moldavian clerk. I do not like the idea of cuffs similar to those the Armenian bestowed upon the Moldavian clerk; whatever merit there may be in patience, I do not think that my estimation of the merit of patience would be sufficient to induce me to remain quietly sitting under the infliction of cuffs. I think I should, in the event of his cuffing me, knock the Armenian down. Well, I think I have heard it said somewhere, that a knock-down blow is a great cementer of friendship; I think I have heard of two people being better friends than ever after the one had received from the other a knock-down blow." That night I dreamed I had acquired a colossal fortune, some four hundred thousand pounds, by the Armenian way of doing business, but suddenly awoke in dreadful perplexity as to how I should dispose of it. About nine o'clock next morning I set off to the house of the Armenian; I had never called upon him so early before, and certainly never with a heart beating with so much eagerness; but the situation of my affairs had become very critical, and I thought that I ought to lose no time in informing the Armenian that I was at length perfectly willing either to translate the Haik Esop under his superintendence, or to accept a seat at the desk opposite to the Moldavian clerk, and acquire the secrets of Armenian commerce. With a quick step I entered the counting-room, where, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, I found the clerk busied as usual at his desk. He had always appeared to me a singular being, this same Moldavian clerk. A person of fewer words could scarcely be conceived. Provided his master were at home, he would, on my inquiring, nod his head; and, provided he were not, he would invariably reply with the monosyllable "no," delivered in a strange guttural tone. On the present occasion, being full of eagerness and impatience, I was about to pass by him to the apartment above, without my usual inquiry, when he lifted his head from the ledger in which he was writing, and, laying down his pen, motioned to me with his forefinger, as if to arrest my progress; whereupon I stopped, and, with a palpitating heart, demanded whether the master of the house was at home? The Moldavian clerk replied with his usual guttural, and, opening his desk ensconced his head therein. "It does not much matter," said I, "I suppose I shall find him at home after 'Change; it does not much matter, I can return." I was turning away with the intention of leaving the room; at this moment, however, the head of the Moldavian clerk became visible, and I observed a letter in his hand, which he had inserted in the desk at the same time with his head; this he extended towards me, making at the same time a side-long motion with his head, as much as to say that it contained something which interested me. I took the letter, and the Moldavian clerk forthwith resumed his occupation. The back of the letter bore my name, written in Armenian characters. With a trembling hand I broke the seal, and, unfolding the letter, I beheld several lines also written in the letters of Mesroub, the Cadmus of the Armenians. I stared at the lines, and at first could not make out a syllable of their meaning; at last, however, by continued staring, I discovered that, though the letters were Armenian, the words were English; in about ten minutes I had contrived to decipher the sense of the letter; it ran somewhat in this style:-- "MY DEAR FRIEND,-- "The words which you uttered in our last conversation have made a profound impression upon me; I have thought them over day and night, and have come to the conclusion that it is my bounden duty to attack the Persians. When these lines are delivered to you, I shall be on the route to Ararat. A mercantile speculation will be to the world the ostensible motive of my journey, and it is singular enough that one which offers considerable prospect of advantage has just presented itself on the confines of Persia. Think not, however, that motives of lucre would have been sufficiently powerful to tempt me to the East at the present moment. I may speculate, it is true; but I should scarcely have undertaken the journey but for your pungent words inciting me to attack the Persians. Doubt not that I will attack them on the first opportunity. I thank you heartily for putting me in mind of my duty. I have hitherto, to use your own words, been too fond of money-getting, like all my countrymen. I am much indebted to you; farewell! and may every prosperity await you." For some time after I had deciphered the epistle, I stood as if rooted to the floor. I felt stunned--my last hope was gone; presently a feeling arose in my mind--a feeling of self-reproach. Whom had I to blame but myself for the departure of the Armenian? Would he have ever thought of attacking the Persians had I not put the idea into his head? he had told me in his epistle that he was indebted to me for the idea. But for that, he might at the present moment have been in London, increasing his fortune by his usual methods, and I might be commencing under his auspices the translation of the Haik Esop, with the promise, no doubt, of a considerable remuneration for my trouble; or I might be taking a seat opposite the Moldavian clerk, and imbibing the first rudiments of doing business after the Armenian fashion, with the comfortable hope of realising, in a short time, a fortune of three or four hundred thousand pounds; but the Armenian was now gone, and farewell to the fine hopes I had founded upon him the day before. What was I to do? I looked wildly around, till my eyes rested on the Moldavian clerk, who was writing away in his ledger with particular vehemence. Not knowing well what to do or to say, I thought I might as well ask the Moldavian clerk when the Armenian had departed, and when he thought he would return. It is true it mattered little to me when he departed seeing that he was gone, and it was evident that he would not be back soon; but I knew not what to do, and in pure helplessness thought I might as well ask; so I went up to the Moldavian clerk and asked him when the Armenian had departed, and whether he had been gone two days or three? Whereupon the Moldavian clerk looking up from his ledger, made certain signs, which I could by no means understand. I stood astonished, but, presently recovering myself, inquired when he considered it probable that the master would return, and whether he thought it would be two months or--my tongue faltered--two years; whereupon the Moldavian clerk made more signs than before, and yet more unintelligible; as I persisted, however, he flung down his pen, and, putting his thumb into his mouth moved it rapidly, causing the nail to sound against the lower jaw; whereupon I saw that he was dumb, and hurried away, for I had always entertained a horror of dumb people, having once heard my mother say, when I was a child, that dumb people were half demoniacs, or little better. CHAPTER LII. Leaving the house of the Armenian, I strolled about for some time; almost mechanically my feet conducted me to London Bridge, to the booth in which stood the stall of the old apple-woman; the sound of her voice aroused me, as I sat in a kind of stupor on the stone bench beside her; she was inquiring what was the matter with me. At first, I believe, I answered her very incoherently, for I observed alarm beginning to depict itself upon her countenance. Rousing myself, however, I in my turn put a few questions to her upon her present condition and prospects. The old woman's countenance cleared up instantly; she informed me that she had never been more comfortable in her life; that her trade, her _honest_ trade--laying an emphasis on the word honest--had increased of late wonderfully; that her health was better, and, above all, that she felt no fear and horror "here," laying her hand on her breast. On my asking her whether she still heard voices in the night, she told me that she frequently did; but that the present were mild voices, sweet voices, encouraging voices, very different from the former ones; that a voice only the night previous, had cried out about "the peace of God," in particularly sweet accents; a sentence which she remembered to have read in her early youth in the primer, but which she had clean forgotten till the voice the night before brought it to her recollection. After a pause, the old woman said to me: "I believe, dear, that it is the blessed book you brought me which has wrought this goodly change. How glad I am now that I can read; but oh what a difference between the book you brought to me and the one you took away. I believe the one you brought is written by the finger of God, and the other by--" "Don't abuse the book," said I, "it is an excellent book for those who can understand it; it was not exactly suited to you, and perhaps it had been better that you had never read it--and yet, who knows? Peradventure, if you had not read that book, you would not have been fitted for the perusal of the one which you say is written by the finger of God;" and, pressing my hand to my head, I fell into a deep fit of musing. "What, after all," thought I, "if there should be more order and system in the working of the moral world than I have thought? Does there not seem in the present instance to be something like the working of a Divine hand? I could not conceive why this woman, better educated than her mother, should have been, as she certainly was, a worse character than her mother. Yet perhaps this woman may be better and happier than her mother ever was; perhaps she is so already--perhaps this world is not a wild, lying dream, as I have occasionally supposed it to be." But the thought of my own situation did not permit me to abandon myself much longer to these musings. I started up. "Where are you going, child?" said the woman anxiously. "I scarcely know," said I; "anywhere." "Then stay here, child," said she; "I have much to say to you." "No," said I, "I shall be better moving about;" and I was moving away, when it suddenly occurred to me that I might never see this woman again; and turning round I offered her my hand, and bade her good-bye. "Farewell, child," said the old woman, "and God bless you!" I then moved along the bridge until I reached the Southwark side, and, still holding on my course, my mind again became quickly abstracted from all surrounding objects. At length I found myself in a street or road, with terraces on either side, and seemingly of interminable length, leading, as it would appear, to the south-east. I was walking at a great rate--there were likewise a great number of people, also walking at a great rate; also carts and carriages driving at a great rate; and all, men, carts and carriages, going in the selfsame direction, namely, to the south-east. I stopped for a moment and deliberated whether or not I should proceed. What business had I in that direction? I could not say that I had any particular business in that direction, but what could I do were I to turn back? only walk about well-known streets; and, if I must walk, why not continue in the direction in which I was to see whither the road and its terraces led? I was here in a terra incognita, and an unknown place had always some interest for me; moreover, I had a desire to know whither all this crowd was going, and for what purpose. I thought they could not be going far, as crowds seldom go far, especially at such a rate; so I walked on more lustily than before, passing group after group of the crowd, and almost vieing in speed with some of the carriages, especially the hackney-coaches; and by dint of walking at this rate, the terraces and houses becoming somewhat less frequent as I advanced, I reached in about three-quarters of an hour a kind of low dingy town, in the neighbourhood of the river; the streets were swarming with people, and I concluded, from the number of wild-beast shows, caravans, gingerbread stalls and the like, that a fair was being held. Now, as I had always been partial to fairs, I felt glad that I had fallen in with the crowd which had conducted me to the present one, and, casting away as much as I was able all gloomy thoughts, I did my best to enter into the diversions of the fair; staring at the wonderful representations of animals on canvas hung up before the shows of wild beasts, which, by-the-bye, are frequently found much more worthy of admiration than the real beasts themselves; listening to the jokes of the merry-andrews from the platforms in front of the temporary theatres, or admiring the splendid tinsel dresses of the performers who thronged the stages in the intervals of the entertainments; and in this manner, occasionally gazing and occasionally listening, I passed through the town till I came in front of a large edifice looking full upon the majestic bosom of the Thames. It was a massive stone edifice, built in an antique style, and black with age, with a broad esplanade between it and the river, on which, mixed with a few people from the fair, I observed moving about a great many individuals in quaint dresses of blue, with strange three-cornered hats on their heads; most of them were mutilated; this had a wooden leg--this wanted an arm; some had but one eye; and as I gazed upon the edifice, and the singular-looking individuals who moved before it, I guessed where I was. "I am at ---" said I; "these individuals are battered tars of Old England, and this edifice, once the favourite abode of Glorious Elizabeth, is the refuge which a grateful country has allotted to them. Here they can rest their weary bodies; at their ease talk over the actions in which they have been injured; and, with the tear of enthusiasm flowing from their eyes, boast how they have trod the deck of fame with Rodney, or Nelson, or others whose names stand emblazoned in the naval annals of their country." Turning to the right, I entered a park or wood consisting of enormous trees, occupying the foot, sides, and top of a hill, which rose behind the town; there were multitudes of people among the trees, diverting themselves in various ways. Coming to the top of the hill, I was presently stopped by a lofty wall, along which I walked, till, coming to a small gate, I passed through and found myself on an extensive green plain, on one side bounded in part by the wall of the park, and on the others, in the distance, by extensive ranges of houses; to the south-east was a lofty eminence, partially clothed with wood. The plain exhibited an animated scene, a kind of continuation of the fair below; there were multitudes of people upon it, many tents, and shows; there was also horse- racing, and much noise and shouting, the sun shining brightly overhead. After gazing at the horse-racing for a little time, feeling myself somewhat tired, I went up to one of the tents, and laid myself down on the grass. There was much noise in the tent. "Who will stand me?" said a voice with a slight tendency to lisp. "Will you, my lord?" "Yes," said another voice. Then there was a sound as of a piece of money banging on a table. "Lost! lost! lost!" cried several voices; and then the banging down of the money, and the "lost! lost! lost!" were frequently repeated; at last the second voice exclaimed: "I will try no more; you have cheated me". "Never cheated any one in my life, my lord--all fair--all chance. Them that finds, wins--them that can't find, loses. Any one else try? Who'll try? Will you, my lord?" and then it appeared that some other lord tried, for I heard more money flung down. Then again the cry of "Lost! lost!"--then again the sound of money, and so on. Once or twice, but not more, I heard "Won! won!" but the predominant cry was "Lost! lost!" At last there was a considerable hubbub, and the words "Cheat!" "Rogue!" and "You filched away the pea!" were used freely by more voices than one, to which the voice with the tendency to lisp replied: "Never filched a pea in my life; would scorn it. Always glad when folks wins; but, as those here don't appear to be civil, nor to wish to play any more, I shall take myself off with my table; so, good-day, gentlemen." CHAPTER LIII. Presently a man emerged from the tent, bearing before him a rather singular table; it appeared to be of white deal, was exceedingly small at the top, and with very long legs. At a few yards from the entrance he paused, and looked round, as if to decide on the direction which he should take; presently, his eye glancing on me as I lay upon the ground, he started, and appeared for a moment inclined to make off as quick as possible, table and all. In a moment, however, he seemed to recover assurance, and, coming up to the place where I was, the long legs of the table projecting before him, he cried: "Glad to see you here, my lord". "Thank you," said I, "it's a fine day." "Very fine, my lord; will your lordship play? Them that finds, wins--them that don't find, loses." "Play at what?" said I. "Only at the thimble and pea, my lord." "I never heard of such a game." "Didn't you? Well, I'll soon teach you," said he, placing the table down. "All you have to do is to put a sovereign down on my table, and to find the pea, which I put under one of my thimbles. If you find it--and it is easy enough to find it--I give you a sovereign besides your own: for them that finds, wins." "And them that don't find, loses," said I; "no, I don't wish to play." "Why not, my lord?" "Why, in the first place, I have no money." "Oh, you have no money; that of course alters the case. If you have no money, you can't play. Well, I suppose I must be seeing after my customers," said he, glancing over the plain. "Good-day," said I. "Good-day," said the man slowly, but without moving, and as if in reflection. After a moment or two, looking at me inquiringly, he added: "Out of employ?" "Yes," said I, "out of employ." The man measured me with his eye as I lay on the ground. At length he said: "May I speak a word or two to you, my lord?" "As many as you please," said I. "Then just come a little out of hearing, a little farther on the grass, if you please, my lord." "Why do you call me my lord?" said I, as I arose and followed him. "We of the thimble always calls our customers lords," said the man; "but I won't call you such a foolish name any more; come along." The man walked along the plain till he came to the side of a dry pit, when looking round to see that no one was nigh, he laid his table on the grass, and, sitting down with his legs over the side of the pit, he motioned me to do the same. "So you are in want of employ," said he, after I had sat down beside him. "Yes," said I, "I am very much in want of employ." "I think I can find you some." "What kind?" said I. "Why," said the man, "I think you would do to be my bonnet." "Bonnet!" said I, "what is that?" "Don't you know? However, no wonder, as you had never heard of the thimble-and-pea game, but I will tell you. We of the game are very much exposed; folks when they have lost their money, as those who play with us mostly do, sometimes uses rough language, calls us cheats, and sometimes knocks our hats over our eyes; and what's more, with a kick under our table, cause the top deals to fly off; this is the third table I have used this day, the other two being broken by uncivil customers: so we of the game generally like to have gentlemen go about with us to take our part, and encourage us, though pretending to know nothing about us; for example, when the customer says, 'I'm cheated,' the bonnet must say, 'No, you a'n't, it is all right'; or, when my hat is knocked over my eyes, the bonnet must square, and say, 'I never saw the man before in all my life, but I won't see him ill-used'; and so, when they kicks at the table, the bonnet must say, 'I won't see the table ill-used, such a nice table, too; besides, I want to play myself;' and then I would say to the bonnet, 'Thank you, my lord, them that finds, wins'; and then the bonnet plays, and I lets the bonnet win." "In a word," said I, "the bonnet means the man who covers you, even as the real bonnet covers the head." "Just so," said the man, "I see you are awake, and would soon make a first-rate bonnet." "Bonnet," said I, musingly; "bonnet; it is metaphorical." "Is it?" said the man. "Yes," said I, "like the cant words--" "Bonnet is cant," said the man; "we of the thimble, as well as all clyfakers and the like, understand cant, as, of course, must every bonnet; so, if you are employed by me, you had better learn it as soon as you can, that we may discourse together without being understood by every one. Besides covering his principal, a bonnet must have his eyes about him, for the trade of the pea, though a strictly honest one, is not altogether lawful; so it is the duty of the bonnet, if he sees the constable coming, to say, the gorgio's welling." "That is not cant," said I, "that is the language of the Rommany Chals." "Do you know those people?" said the man. "Perfectly," said I, "and their language too." "I wish I did," said the man, "I would give ten pounds and more to know the language of the Rommany Chals. There's some of it in the language of the pea and thimble; how it came there I don't know, but so it is. I wish I knew it, but it is difficult. You'll make a capital bonnet; shall we close?" "What would the wages be?" I demanded. "Why, to a first-rate bonnet, as I think you would prove, I could afford to give from forty to fifty shillings a week." "Is it possible?" said I. "Good wages, a'n't they?" said the man. "First rate," said I; "bonneting is more profitable than reviewing." "Anan?" said the man. "Or translating; I don't think the Armenian would have paid me at that rate for translating his Esop." "Who is he?" said the man. "Esop?" "No, I know what that is, Esop's cant for a hunchback; but t'other?" "You should know," said I. "Never saw the man in all my life." "Yes, you have," said I, "and felt him too; don't you remember the individual from whom you took the pocket-book?" "Oh, that was he; well, the less said about that matter the better; I have left off that trade, and taken to this, which is a much better. Between ourselves, I am not sorry that I did not carry off that pocket- book; if I had, it might have encouraged me in the trade, in which, had I remained, I might have been lagged, sent abroad, as I had been already imprisoned; so I determined to leave it off at all hazards, though I was hard up, not having a penny in the world." "And wisely resolved," said I, "it was a bad and dangerous trade; I wonder you should ever have embraced it." "It is all very well talking," said the man, "but there is a reason for everything; I am the son of a Jewess, by a military officer,"--and then the man told me his story. I shall not repeat the man's story, it was a poor one, a vile one; at last he observed: "So that affair which you know of determined me to leave the filching trade, and take up with a more honest and safe one; so at last I thought of the pea and thimble, but I wanted funds, especially to pay for lessons at the hands of a master, for I knew little about it." "Well," said I, "how did you get over that difficulty?" "Why," said the man, "I thought I should never have got over it. What funds could I raise? I had nothing to sell; the few clothes I had I wanted, for we of the thimble must always appear decent, or nobody would come near us. I was at my wits' end; at last I got over my difficulty in the strangest way in the world." "What was that?" "By an old thing which I had picked up some time before--a book." "A book?" said I. "Yes, which I had taken out of your lordship's pocket one day as you were walking the streets in a great hurry. I thought it was a pocket-book at first, full of bank notes, perhaps," continued he, laughing. "It was well for me, however, that it was not, for I should have soon spent the notes; as it was, I had flung the old thing down with an oath, as soon as I brought it home. When I was so hard up, however, after the affair with that friend of yours, I took it up one day, and thought I might make something by it to support myself a day with. Chance or something else led me into a grand shop; there was a man there who seemed to be the master, talking to a jolly, portly old gentleman, who seemed to be a country squire. Well, I went up to the first, and offered it for sale; he took the book, opened it at the title-page, and then all of a sudden his eyes glistened, and he showed it to the fat, jolly gentleman, and his eyes glistened too, and I heard him say 'How singular!' and then the two talked together in a speech I didn't understand--I rather thought it was French, at any rate it wasn't cant; and presently the first asked me what I would take for the book. Now I am not altogether a fool nor am I blind, and I had narrowly marked all that passed, and it came into my head that now was the time for making a man of myself, at any rate I could lose nothing by a little confidence; so I looked the man boldly in the face, and said: 'I will have five guineas for that book, there a'n't such another in the whole world'. 'Nonsense,' said the first man, 'there are plenty of them, there have been nearly fifty editions to my knowledge; I will give you five shillings.' 'No,' said I, 'I'll not take it, for I don't like to be cheated, so give me my book again'; and I attempted to take it away from the fat gentleman's hand. 'Stop,' said the younger man, 'are you sure that you won't take less?' 'Not a farthing,' said I; which was not altogether true, but I said so. 'Well,' said the fat gentleman, 'I will give you what you ask;' and sure enough he presently gave me the money; so I made a bow, and was leaving the shop, when it came into my head that there was something odd in all this, and, as I had got the money in my pocket, I turned back, and, making another bow, said: 'May I be so bold as to ask why you gave me all this money for that 'ere dirty book? When I came into the shop, I should have been glad to get a shilling for it; but I saw you wanted it, and asked five guineas.' Then they looked at one another, and smiled, and shrugged up their shoulders. Then the first man, looking at me, said: 'Friend, you have been a little too sharp for us; however, we can afford to forgive you, as my friend here has long been in quest of this particular book; there are plenty of editions, as I told you, and a common copy is not worth five shillings; but this is a first edition, and a copy of the first edition is worth its weight in gold'." "So, after all, they outwitted you," I observed. "Clearly," said the man; "I might have got double the price, had I known the value; but I don't care, much good may it do them, it has done me plenty. By means of it I have got into an honest, respectable trade, in which there's little danger and plenty of profit, and got out of one which would have got me lagged sooner or later." "But," said I, "you ought to remember that the thing was not yours; you took it from me, who had been requested by a poor old apple-woman to exchange it for a Bible." "Well," said the man, "did she ever get her Bible?" "Yes," said I, "she got her Bible." "Then she has no cause to complain; and, as for you, chance or something else has sent you to me, that I may make you reasonable amends for any loss you may have had. Here am I ready to make you my bonnet, with forty or fifty shillings a week, which you say yourself are capital wages." "I find no fault with the wages," said I, "but I don't like the employ." "Not like bonneting," said the man; "ah, I see, you would like to be principal; well, a time may come--those long white fingers of yours would just serve for the business." "Is it a difficult one?" I demanded. "Why, it is not very easy: two things are needful--natural talent, and constant practice; but I'll show you a point or two connected with the game;" and, placing his table between his knees as he sat over the side of the pit, he produced three thimbles, and a small brown pellet, something resembling a pea. He moved the thimble and pellet about, now placing it to all appearance under one, and now under another; "Under which is it now?" he said at last. "Under that," said I, pointing to the lowermost of the thimbles, which, as they stood, formed a kind of triangle. "No," said he, "it is not, but lift it up;" and, when I lifted up the thimble, the pellet, in truth, was not under it. "It was under none of them," said he, "it was pressed by my little finger against my palm;" and then he showed me how he did the trick, and asked me if the game was not a funny one; and, on my answering in the affirmative, he said: "I am glad you like it, come along and let us win some money". Thereupon, getting up, he placed the table before him, and was moving away; observing, however, that I did not stir, he asked me what I was staying for. "Merely for my own pleasure," said I, "I like sitting here very well." "Then you won't close?" said the man. "By no means," I replied, "your proposal does not suit me." "You may be principal in time," said the man. "That makes no difference," said I; and, sitting with my legs over the pit, I forthwith began to decline an Armenian noun. "That a'n't cant," said the man; "no, nor gypsy either. Well, if you won't close, another will, I can't lose any more time," and forthwith he departed. And after I had declined four Armenian nouns, of different declensions, I rose from the side of the pit, and wandered about amongst the various groups of people scattered over the green. Presently I came to where the man of the thimbles was standing, with the table before him, and many people about him. "Them who finds, wins, and them who can't find, loses," he cried. Various individuals tried to find the pellet, but all were unsuccessful, till at last considerable dissatisfaction was expressed, and the terms rogue and cheat were lavished upon him. "Never cheated anybody in all my life," he cried; and, observing me at hand, "didn't I play fair, my lord?" he inquired. But I made no answer. Presently some more played, and he permitted one or two to win, and the eagerness to play with him became greater. After I had looked on for some time, I was moving away; just then I perceived a short, thick personage, with a staff in his hand, advancing in a great hurry; whereupon with a sudden impulse, I exclaimed:-- Shoon thimble-engro; Avella gorgio. The man who was in the midst of his pea-and-thimble process, no sooner heard the last word of the distich, than he turned an alarmed look in the direction of where I stood; then, glancing around, and perceiving the constable, he slipped forthwith his pellet and thimbles into his pocket, and, lifting up his table, he cried to the people about him, "Make way!" and with a motion of his head to me, as if to follow him, he darted off with a swiftness which the short, pursy constable could by no means rival; and whither he went, or what became of him, I know not, inasmuch as I turned away in another direction. CHAPTER LIV. And, as I wandered along the green, I drew near to a place where several men, with a cask beside them, sat carousing in the neighbourhood of a small tent. "Here he comes," said one of them, as I advanced, and standing up he raised his voice and sang:-- Here the Gypsy gemman see, With his Roman jib and his rome and dree-- Rome and dree, rum and dry Rally round the Rommany Rye. It was Mr. Petulengro, who was here diverting himself with several of his comrades; they all received me with considerable frankness. "Sit down, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "and take a cup of good ale." I sat down. "Your health, gentlemen," said I, as I took the cup which Mr. Petulengro handed to me. "Aukko tu pios adrey Rommanis. Here is your health in Rommany, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; who, having refilled the cup, now emptied it at a draught. "Your health in Rommany, brother," said Tawno Chikno, to whom the cup came next. "The Rommany Rye," said a third. "The Gypsy gentleman," exclaimed a fourth, drinking. And then they all sang in chorus:-- Here the Gypsy gemman see, With his Roman jib and his rome and dree-- Rome and dree, rum and dry Rally round the Rommany Rye. "And now, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "seeing that you have drunk and been drunken, you will perhaps tell us where you have been, and what about?" "I have been in the Big City," said I, "writing lils." "How much money have you got in your pocket, brother?" said Mr. Petulengro. "Eighteen pence," said I; "all I have in the world." "I have been in the Big City, too," said Mr. Petulengro; "but I have not written lils--I have fought in the ring--I have fifty pounds in my pocket--I have much more in the world. Brother, there is considerable difference between us." "I would rather be the lil-writer, after all," said the tall, handsome, black man; "indeed, I would wish for nothing better." "Why so?" said Mr. Petulengro. "Because they have so much to say for themselves," said the black man, "even when dead and gone. When they are laid in the churchyard, it is their own fault if people a'n't talking of them. Who will know, after I am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was once the beauty of the world, or that you, Jasper, were--" "The best man in England of my inches. That's true, Tawno--however, here's our brother will perhaps let the world know something about us." "Not he," said the other, with a sigh; "he'll have quite enough to do in writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and clever he was; and who can blame him? Not I. If I could write lils, every word should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis--my own lawful wedded wife, which is the same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a wise man say in Brummagem, that 'there is nothing like blowing one's own horn,' which I conceive to be much the same thing as writing one's own lil." After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and motioned me to follow him. "Only eighteen pence in the world, brother!" said he, as we walked together. "Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me how much money I had?" "Because there was something in your look, brother, something very much resembling that which a person showeth who does not carry much money in his pocket. I was looking at my own face this morning in my wife's looking-glass--I did not look as you do, brother." "I believe your sole motive for inquiring," said I, "was to have an opportunity of venting a foolish boast, and to let me know that you were in possession of fifty pounds." "What is the use of having money unless you let people know you have it?" said Mr. Petulengro. "It is not every one can read faces, brother; and, unless you knew I had money, how could you ask me to lend you any?" "I am not going to ask you to lend me any." "Then you may have it without asking; as I said before, I have fifty pounds, all lawfully earnt money, got by fighting in the ring--I will lend you that, brother." "You are very kind," said I; "but I will not take it." "Then the half of it?" "Nor the half of it; but it is getting towards evening, I must go back to the Great City." "And what will you do in the Boro Foros?" "I know not," said I. "Earn money?" "If I can." "And if you can't?" "Starve!" "You look ill brother," said Mr. Petulengro. "I do not feel well; the Great City does not agree with me. Should I be so fortunate as to earn some money, I would leave the Big City, and take to the woods and fields." "You may do that, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "whether you have money or not. Our tents and horses are on the other side of yonder wooded hill, come and stay with us; we shall all be glad of your company, but more especially myself and my wife Pakomovna." "What hill is that?" I demanded. And then Mr. Petulengro told me the name of the hill. "We shall stay on t'other side of the hill a fortnight," he continued; "and as you are fond of lil writing, you may employ yourself profitably whilst there. You can write the lil of him whose dook gallops down that hill every night, even as the living man was wont to do long ago." "Who was he?" I demanded. "Jemmy Abershaw," said Mr. Petulengro; "one of those whom we call Boro- drom-engroes, and the gorgios highwaymen. I once heard a rye say that the life of that man would fetch much money; so come to the other side of the hill, and write the lil in the tent of Jasper and his wife Pakomovna." At first I felt inclined to accept the invitation of Mr. Petulengro; a little consideration, however, determined me to decline it. I had always been on excellent terms with Mr. Petulengro, but I reflected that people might be excellent friends when they met occasionally in the street, or on the heath, or in the wood; but that these very people when living together in a house, to say nothing of a tent, might quarrel. I reflected, moreover, that Mr. Petulengro had a wife. I had always, it is true, been a great favourite with Mrs. Petulengro, who had frequently been loud in her commendation of the young rye, as she called me, and his turn of conversation; but this was at a time when I stood in need of nothing, lived under my parents' roof, and only visited at the tents to divert and to be diverted. The times were altered, and I was by no means certain that Mrs. Petulengro, when she should discover that I was in need both of shelter and subsistence, might not alter her opinion both with respect to the individual and what he said--stigmatising my conversation as saucy discourse, and myself as a scurvy companion; and that she might bring over her husband to her own way of thinking, provided, indeed, he should need any conducting. I therefore, though without declaring my reasons, declined the offer of Mr. Petulengro, and presently, after shaking him by the hand, bent again my course towards the Great City. I crossed the river at a bridge considerably above that hight of London; for not being acquainted with the way, I missed the turning which should have brought me to the latter. Suddenly I found myself in a street of which I had some recollection, and mechanically stopped before the window of a shop at which various publications were exposed; it was that of the bookseller to whom I had last applied in the hope of selling my ballads or Ab Gwilym, and who had given me hopes that in the event of my writing a decent novel, or a tale, he would prove a purchaser. As I stood listlessly looking at the window, and the publications which it contained, I observed a paper affixed to the glass by wafers with something written upon it. I drew yet nearer for the purpose of inspecting it; the writing was in a fair round hand--"A Novel or Tale is much wanted," was what was written. CHAPTER LV. "I must do something," said I, as I sat that night in my lonely apartment, with some bread and a pitcher of water before me. Thereupon taking some of the bread, and eating it, I considered what I was to do. "I have no idea what I am to do," said I, as I stretched my hand towards the pitcher, "unless--and here I took a considerable draught--I write a tale or a novel--That bookseller," I continued, speaking to myself, "is certainly much in need of a tale or novel, otherwise he would not advertise for one. Suppose I write one, I appear to have no other chance of extricating myself from my present difficulties; surely it was Fate that conducted me to his window." "I will do it," said I, as I struck my hand against the table; "I will do it." Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came over me. Could I do it? Had I the imagination requisite to write a tale or a novel? "Yes, yes," said I, as I struck my hand again against the table, "I can manage it; give me fair play, and I can accomplish anything." But should I have fair play? I must have something to maintain myself with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but eighteen pence in the world. Would that maintain me whilst I wrote my tale? Yes, I thought it would, provided I ate bread, which did not cost much, and drank water, which cost nothing; it was poor diet, it was true, but better men than myself had written on bread and water; had not the big man told me so, or something to that effect, months before? It was true there was my lodging to pay for; but up to the present time I owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time the people of the house asked me for money, I should have written a tale or a novel, which would bring me in money; I had paper, pens and ink, and, let me not forget them, I had candles in my closet, all paid for, to light me during my night work. Enough, I would go doggedly to work upon my tale or novel. But what was the tale or novel to be about? Was it to be a tale of fashionable life, about Sir Harry Somebody, and the Countess Something? But I knew nothing about fashionable people, and cared less; therefore how should I attempt to describe fashionable life? What should the tale consist of? The life and adventures of some one. Good--but of whom? Did not Mr. Petulengro mention one Jemmy Abershaw? Yes. Did he not tell me that the life and adventures of Jemmy Abershaw would bring in much money to the writer? Yes, but I knew nothing of that worthy. I heard, it is true, from Mr. Petulengro, that when alive he committed robberies on the hill, on the side of which Mr. Petulengro had pitched his tents, and that his ghost still haunted the hill at midnight; but those were scant materials out of which to write the man's life. It is probable, indeed, that Mr. Petulengro would be able to supply me with further materials if I should apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could not afford the time which it would be necessary to spend in passing to and from Mr. Petulengro, and consulting him. Moreover, my pride revolted at the idea of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials of the history. No, I would not write the history of Abershaw. Whose then--Harry Simms? Alas, the life of Harry Simms had been already much better written by himself than I could hope to do it; and, after all, Harry Simms, like Jemmy Abershaw, was merely a robber. Both, though bold and extraordinary men, were merely highwaymen. I questioned whether I could compose a tale likely to excite any particular interest out of the exploits of a mere robber. I want a character for my hero, thought I, something higher than a mere robber; some one like--like Colonel B---. By the way, why should I not write the life and adventures of Colonel B--- of Londonderry, in Ireland? A truly singular man was this same Colonel B--- of Londonderry, in Ireland; a personage of most strange and incredible feats and daring, who had been a partisan soldier, a bravo--who, assisted by certain discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the crown and regalia from the Tower of London; who attempted to hang the Duke of Ormond, at Tyburn; and whose strange eventful career did not terminate even with his life, his dead body, on the circulation of an unfounded report that he did not come to his death by fair means, having been exhumed by the mob of his native place, where he had retired to die, and carried in the coffin through the streets. Of his life I had inserted an account in the _Newgate Lives and Trials_; it was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff, awkward style of the seventeenth century; it had, however, strongly captivated my imagination and I now thought that out of it something better could be made; that, if I added to the adventures, and purified the style, I might fashion out of it a very decent tale or novel. On a sudden, however, the proverb of mending old garments with new cloth occurred to me. "I am afraid," said I, "any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with the old tale; one will but spoil the other." I had better have nothing to do with Colonel B---, thought I, but boldly and independently sit down and write the life of Joseph Sell. This Joseph Sell, dear reader, was a fictitious personage who had just come into my head. I had never even heard of the name, but just at that moment it happened to come into my head; I would write an entirely fictitious narrative, called the _Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell_, _the Great Traveller_. I had better begin at once, thought I; and removing the bread and the jug, which latter was now empty, I seized pen and paper, and forthwith essayed to write the life of Joseph Sell, but soon discovered that it is much easier to resolve upon a thing than to achieve it, or even to commence it; for the life of me I did not know how to begin, and, after trying in vain to write a line, I thought it would be as well to go to bed, and defer my projected undertaking till the morrow. So I went to bed, but not to sleep. During the greater part of the night I lay awake, musing upon the work which I had determined to execute. For a long time my brain was dry and unproductive; I could form no plan which appeared feasible. At length I felt within my brain a kindly glow; it was the commencement of inspiration; in a few minutes I had formed my plan; I then began to imagine the scenes and the incidents. Scenes and incidents flitted before my mind's eye so plentifully that I knew not how to dispose of them; I was in a regular embarrassment. At length I got out of the difficulty in the easiest manner imaginable, namely, by consigning to the depths of oblivion all the feebler and less stimulant scenes and incidents, and retaining the better and more impressive ones. Before morning I had sketched the whole work on the tablets of my mind, and then resigned myself to sleep in the pleasing conviction that the most difficult part of my undertaking was achieved. CHAPTER LVI. Rather late in the morning I awoke; for a few minutes I lay still, perfectly still; my imagination was considerably sobered; the scenes and situations which had pleased me so much over night appeared to me in a far less captivating guise that morning. I felt languid and almost hopeless--the thought, however, of my situation soon roused me--I must make an effort to improve the posture of my affairs; there was no time to be lost; so I sprang out of bed, breakfasted on bread and water, and then sat down doggedly to write the life of Joseph Sell. It was a great thing to have formed my plan, and to have arranged the scenes in my head, as I had done on the preceding night. The chief thing requisite at present was the mere mechanical act of committing them to paper. This I did not find at first so easy as I could wish--I wanted mechanical skill; but I persevered, and before evening I had written ten pages. I partook of some bread and water; and, before I went to bed that night, I had completed fifteen pages of my life of Joseph Sell. The next day I resumed my task--I found my power of writing considerably increased; my pen hurried rapidly over the paper--my brain was in a wonderfully teeming state; many scenes and visions which I had not thought of before were evolved, and, as fast as evolved, written down; they seemed to be more pat to my purpose, and more natural to my history, than many others which I had imagined before, and which I made now give place to these newer creations: by about midnight I had added thirty fresh pages to my _Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell_. The third day arose--it was dark and dreary out of doors, and I passed it drearily enough within; my brain appeared to have lost much of its former glow, and my pen much of its power; I, however, toiled on, but at midnight had only added seven pages to my history of Joseph Sell. On the fourth day the sun shone brightly--I arose, and, having breakfasted as usual, I fell to work. My brain was this day wonderfully prolific, and my pen never before or since glided so rapidly over the paper; towards night I began to feel strangely about the back part of my head, and my whole system was extraordinarily affected. I likewise occasionally saw double--a tempter now seemed to be at work within me. "You had better leave off now for a short space," said the tempter, "and go out and drink a pint of beer; you have still one shilling left--if you go on at this rate, you will go mad--go out and spend sixpence, you can afford it, more than half your work is done." I was about to obey the suggestion of the tempter, when the idea struck me that, if I did not complete the work whilst the fit was on me, I should never complete it; so I held on. I am almost afraid to state how many pages I wrote that day of the life of Joseph Sell. From this time I proceeded in a somewhat more leisurely manner; but, as I drew nearer and nearer to the completion of my task, dreadful fears and despondencies came over me. It will be too late, thought I; by the time I have finished the work, the bookseller will have been supplied with a tale or a novel. Is it probable that, in a town like this, where talent is so abundant--hungry talent too--a bookseller can advertise for a tale or a novel, without being supplied with half a dozen in twenty-four hours? I may as well fling down my pen--I am writing to no purpose. And these thoughts came over my mind so often, that at last, in utter despair, I flung down the pen. Whereupon the tempter within me said: "And, now you have flung down the pen, you may as well fling yourself out of the window; what remains for you to do?" Why, to take it up again, thought I to myself, for I did not like the latter suggestion at all--and then forthwith I resumed the pen, and wrote with greater vigour than before, from about six o'clock in the evening until I could hardly see, when I rested for awhile, when the tempter within me again said, or appeared to say: "All you have been writing is stuff, it will never do--a drug--a mere drug"; and methought these last words were uttered in the gruff tones of the big publisher. "A thing merely to be sneezed at," a voice like that of Taggart added; and then I seemed to hear a sternutation,--as I probably did, for, recovering from a kind of swoon, I found myself shivering with cold. The next day I brought my work to a conclusion. But the task of revision still remained; for an hour or two I shrank from it, and remained gazing stupidly at the pile of paper which I had written over. I was all but exhausted, and I dreaded, on inspecting the sheets, to find them full of absurdities which I had paid no regard to in the furor of composition. But the task, however trying to my nerves, must be got over; at last, in a kind of desperation, I entered upon it. It was far from an easy one; there were, however, fewer errors and absurdities than I had anticipated. About twelve o'clock at night I had got over the task of revision. "To-morrow, for the bookseller," said I, as my head sank on the pillow. "Oh me!" CHAPTER LVII. On arriving at the bookseller's shop, I cast a nervous look at the window, for the purpose of observing whether the paper had been removed or not. To my great delight the paper was in its place; with a beating heart I entered, there was nobody in the shop; as I stood at the counter, however, deliberating whether or not I should call out, the door of what seemed to be a back-parlour opened, and out came a well-dressed lady-like female, of about thirty, with a good-looking and intelligent countenance. "What is your business, young man?" said she to me, after I had made her a polite bow. "I wish to speak to the gentleman of the house," said I. "My husband is not within at present," she replied; "what is your business?" "I have merely brought something to show him," said I, "but I will call again." "If you are the young gentleman who has been here before," said the lady, "with poems and ballads, as, indeed, I know you are," she added, smiling, "for I have seen you through the glass door, I am afraid it will be useless; that is," she added with another smile, "if you bring us nothing else." "I have not brought you poems and ballads now," said I, "but something widely different; I saw your advertisement for a tale or a novel, and have written something which I think will suit; and here it is," I added, showing the roll of paper which I held in my hand. "Well," said the bookseller's wife, "you may leave it, though I cannot promise you much chance of its being accepted. My husband has already had several offered to him; however, you may leave it; give it me. Are you afraid to entrust it to me?" she demanded somewhat hastily, observing that I hesitated. "Excuse me," said I, "but it is all I have to depend upon in the world; I am chiefly apprehensive that it will not be read." "On that point I can reassure you," said the good lady, smiling, and there was now something sweet in her smile. "I give you my word that it shall be read; come again to-morrow morning at eleven, when, if not approved, it shall be returned to you." I returned to my lodging, and forthwith betook myself to bed, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour. I felt tolerably tranquil; I had now cast my last stake, and was prepared to abide by the result. Whatever that result might be, I could have nothing to reproach myself with; I had strained all the energies which nature had given me in order to rescue myself from the difficulties which surrounded me. I presently sank into a sleep, which endured during the remainder of the day, and the whole of the succeeding night. I awoke about nine on the morrow, and spent my last threepence on a breakfast somewhat more luxurious than the immediately preceding ones, for one penny of the sum was expended on the purchase of milk. At the appointed hour I repaired to the house of the bookseller; the bookseller was in his shop. "Ah," said he, as soon as I entered, "I am glad to see you." There was an unwonted heartiness in the bookseller's tones, an unwonted benignity in his face. "So," said he, after a pause, "you have taken my advice, written a book of adventure; nothing like taking the advice, young man, of your superiors in age. Well, I think your book will do, and so does my wife, for whose judgment I have a great regard; as well I may, as she is the daughter of a first-rate novelist, deceased. I think I shall venture on sending your book to the press." "But," said I, "we have not yet agreed upon terms." "Terms, terms," said the bookseller; "ahem! well, there is nothing like coming to terms at once. I will print the book, and give you half the profit when the edition is sold." "That will not do," said I; "I intend shortly to leave London: I must have something at once." "Ah, I see," said the bookseller, "in distress; frequently the case with authors, especially young ones. Well, I don't care if I purchase it of you, but you must be moderate; the public are very fastidious, and the speculation may prove a losing one, after all. Let me see, will five--hem"--he stopped. I looked the bookseller in the face; there was something peculiar in it. Suddenly it appeared to me as if the voice of him of the thimble sounded in my ear: "Now is your time, ask enough, never such another chance of establishing yourself; respectable trade, pea and thimble". "Well," said I at last, "I have no objection to take the offer which you were about to make, though I really think five-and-twenty guineas to be scarcely enough, everything considered." "Five-and-twenty guineas!" said the bookseller; "are you--what was I going to say--I never meant to offer half as much--I mean a quarter; I was going to say five guineas--I mean pounds; I will, however, make it up guineas." "That will not do," said I; "but, as I find we shall not deal, return me my manuscript, that I may carry it to some one else." The bookseller looked blank. "Dear me," said he, "I should never have supposed that you would have made any objection to such an offer; I am quite sure that you would have been glad to take five pounds for either of the two huge manuscripts of songs and ballads that you brought me on a former occasion." "Well," said I, "if you will engage to publish either of those two manuscripts, you shall have the present one for five pounds." "God forbid that I should make any such bargain," said the bookseller; "I would publish neither on any account; but, with respect to this last book, I have really an inclination to print it, both for your sake and mine; suppose we say ten pounds." "No," said I, "ten pounds will not do; pray restore me my manuscript." "Stay," said the bookseller, "my wife is in the next room, I will go and consult her." Thereupon he went into his back-room, where I heard him conversing with his wife in a low tone; in about ten minutes he returned. "Young gentleman," said he, "perhaps you will take tea with us this evening, when we will talk further over the matter." That evening I went and took tea with the bookseller and his wife, both of whom, particularly the latter, overwhelmed me with civility. It was not long before I learned that the work had been already sent to the press, and was intended to stand at the head of a series of entertaining narratives, from which my friends promised themselves considerable profit. The subject of terms was again brought forward. I stood firm to my first demand for a long time; when, however, the bookseller's wife complimented me on my production in the highest terms, and said that she discovered therein the germs of genius, which she made no doubt would some day prove ornamental to my native land, I consented to drop my demand to twenty pounds, stipulating, however, that I should not be troubled with the correction of the work. Before I departed I received the twenty pounds, and departed with a light heart to my lodgings. Reader, amidst the difficulties and dangers of this life, should you ever be tempted to despair, call to mind these latter chapters of the life of Lavengro. There are few positions, however difficult, from which dogged resolution and perseverance may not liberate you. CHAPTER LVIII. I had long ago determined to leave London as soon as the means should be in my power, and, now that they were, I determined to leave the Great City; yet I felt some reluctance to go. I would fain have pursued the career of original authorship which had just opened itself to me, and have written other tales of adventure. The bookseller had given me encouragement enough to do so; he had assured me that he should be always happy to deal with me for an article (that was the word) similar to the one I had brought him, provided my terms were moderate; and the bookseller's wife, by her complimentary language, had given me yet more encouragement. But for some months past I had been far from well, and my original indisposition, brought on partly by the peculiar atmosphere of the Big City, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased by the exertions which I had been compelled to make during the last few days. I felt that, were I to remain where I was, I should die, or become a confirmed valetudinarian. I would go forth into the country, travelling on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure air, endeavour to recover my health, leaving my subsequent movements to be determined by Providence. But whither should I bend my course? Once or twice I thought of walking home to the old town, stay some time with my mother and my brother, and enjoy the pleasant walks in the neighbourhood; but, though I wished very much to see my mother and my brother, and felt much disposed to enjoy the said pleasant walks, the old town was not exactly the place to which I wished to go at this present juncture. I was afraid the people would ask, Where are your Northern Ballads? Where are your alliterative translations from Ab Gwilym--of which you were always talking, and with which you promised to astonish the world? Now, in the event of such interrogations, what could I answer? It is true I had compiled _Newgate Lives and Trials_, and had written the life of Joseph Sell, but I was afraid that the people of the old town would scarcely consider these as equivalents for the Northern Ballads and the songs of Ab Gwilym. I would go forth and wander in any direction but that of the old town. But how one's sensibility on any particular point diminishes with time! At present, I enter the old town perfectly indifferent as to what the people may be thinking on the subject of the songs and ballads. With respect to the people themselves, whether, like my sensibility, their curiosity has altogether evaporated, or whether, which is at least equally probable, they never entertained any, one thing is certain, that never in a single instance have they troubled me with any remarks on the subject of the songs and ballads. As it was my intention to travel on foot, with a bundle and a stick, I despatched my trunk containing some few clothes and books to the old town. My preparations were soon made; in about three days I was in readiness to start. Before departing, however, I bethought me of my old friend the apple-woman of London Bridge. Apprehensive that she might be labouring under the difficulties of poverty, I sent her a piece of gold by the hands of a young maiden in the house in which I lived. The latter punctually executed her commission, but brought me back the piece of gold. The old woman would not take it; she did not want it, she said. "Tell the poor thin lad," she added, "to keep it for himself, he wants it more than I." Rather late one afternoon I departed from my lodging, with my stick in one hand and a small bundle in the other, shaping my course to the south- west. When I first arrived, somewhat more than a year before, I had entered the city by the north-east. As I was not going home, I determined to take my departure in the direction the very opposite to home. Just as I was about to cross the street called the Haymarket at the lower part, a cabriolet, drawn by a magnificent animal, came dashing along at a furious rate; it stopped close by the curb-stone where I was, a sudden pull of the reins nearly bringing the spirited animal upon its haunches. The Jehu who had accomplished this feat was Francis Ardry. A small beautiful female, with flashing eyes, dressed in the extremity of fashion, sat beside him. "Holloa, friend," said Francis Ardry, "whither bound?" "I do not know," said I; "all I can say is, that I am about to leave London." "And the means?" said Francis Ardry. "I have them," said I, with a cheerful smile. "_Qui est celui-ci_?" demanded the small female impatiently. "_C'est_--_mon ami le plus intime_; so you were about to leave London without telling me a word," said Francis Ardry somewhat angrily. "I intended to have written to you," said I: "what a splendid mare that is!" "Is she not?" said Francis Ardry, who was holding in the mare with difficulty; "she cost a hundred guineas." "_Qu'est-ce qu'il dit_?" demanded his companion. "_Il dit que le cheval est bien beau_." "_Allons_, _mon ami_, _il est tard_," said the beauty, with a scornful toss of her head; "_allons_!" "_Encore un moment_," said Francis Ardry; "and when shall I see you again?" "I scarcely know," I replied: "I never saw a more splendid turn-out." "_Qu'est-ce qu'il dit_?" said the lady again. "_Il dit que tout l'equipage est en assez bon gout_." "_Allons_, _c'est un ours_," said the lady; "_le cheval meme en a peur_," added she, as the mare reared up on high. "Can you find nothing else to admire but the mare and the equipage?" said Francis Ardry reproachfully, after he had with some difficulty brought the mare to order. Lifting my hand, in which I held my stick, I took off my hat. "How beautiful!" said I, looking the lady full in the face. "_Comment_?" said the lady inquiringly. "_Il dit que vous etes belle comme un ange_," said Francis Ardry emphatically. "_Mais a la bonne heure_! _arretez_, _mon ami_," said the lady to Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off; "_je voudrais bien causer un moment avec lui_; _arretez_, _il est delicieux_. _Est-ce bien ainsi que vous traitez vos amis_?" said she passionately, as Francis Ardry lifted up his whip. "_Bonjour_, _Monsieur_, _bonjour_," said she, thrusting her head from the side and looking back, as Francis Ardry drove off at the rate of thirteen miles an hour. CHAPTER LIX. In about two hours I had cleared the Great City, and got beyond the suburban villages, or rather towns, in the direction in which I was travelling; I was in a broad and excellent road, leading I knew not whither. I now slackened my pace, which had hitherto been great. Presently, coming to a milestone on which was graven nine miles, I rested against it, and looking round towards the vast city, which had long ceased to be visible, I fell into a train of meditation. I thought of all my ways and doings since the day of my first arrival in that vast city. I had worked and toiled, and, though I had accomplished nothing at all commensurate with the hopes which I had entertained previous to my arrival, I had achieved my own living, preserved my independence, and become indebted to no one. I was now quitting it, poor in purse, it is true, but not wholly empty; rather ailing, it may be, but not broken in health; and, with hope within my bosom, had I not cause upon the whole to be thankful? Perhaps there were some who, arriving at the same time under not more favourable circumstances, had accomplished much more, and whose future was far more hopeful--Good! But there might be others who, in spite of all their efforts, had been either trodden down in the press, never more to be heard of, or were quitting that mighty town broken in purse, broken in health, and, oh! with not one dear hope to cheer them. Had I not, upon the whole, abundant cause to be grateful? Truly, yes! My meditation over, I left the milestone and proceeded on my way in the same direction as before until the night began to close in. I had always been a good pedestrian; but now, whether owing to indisposition or to not having for some time past been much in the habit of taking such lengthy walks, I began to feel not a little weary. Just as I was thinking of putting up for the night at the next inn or public-house I should arrive at, I heard what sounded like a coach coming up rapidly behind me. Induced, perhaps, by the weariness which I felt, I stopped and looked wistfully in the direction of the sound; presently up came a coach, seemingly a mail, drawn by four bounding horses--there was no one upon it but the coachman and the guard; when nearly parallel with me it stopped. "Want to get up?" sounded a voice in the true coachman-like tone--half- querulous, half-authoritative. I hesitated; I was tired, it is true, but I had left London bound on a pedestrian excursion, and I did not much like the idea of having recourse to a coach after accomplishing so very inconsiderable a distance. "Come, we can't be staying here all night," said the voice, more sharply than before. "I can ride a little way, and get down whenever I like," thought I; and springing forward I clambered up the coach, and was going to sit down upon the box, next the coachman. "No, no," said the coachman, who was a man about thirty, with a hooked nose and red face, dressed in a fashionably cut greatcoat, with a fashionable black castor on his head. "No, no, keep behind--the box a'n't for the like of you," said he, as he drove off; "the box is for lords, or gentlemen at least." I made no answer. "D--- that off-hand leader," said the coachman, as the right-hand front horse made a desperate start at something he saw in the road; and, half rising, he with great dexterity hit with his long whip the off-hand leader a cut on the off cheek. "These seem to be fine horses," said I. The coachman made no answer. "Nearly thorough-bred," I continued; the coachman drew his breath, with a kind of hissing sound, through his teeth. "Come, young fellow, none of your chaff. Don't you think, because you ride on my mail, I'm going to talk to you about 'orses. I talk to nobody about 'orses except lords." "Well," said I, "I have been called a lord in my time." "It must have been by a thimble-rigger, then," said the coachman, bending back, and half-turning his face round with a broad leer. "You have hit the mark wonderfully," said I. "You coachmen, whatever else you may be, are certainly no fools." "We a'n't, a'n't we?" said the coachman. "There you are right; and, to show you that you are, I'll now trouble you for your fare. If you have been amongst the thimble-riggers you must be tolerably well cleared out. Where are you going?--to ---? I think I have seen you there. The fare is sixteen shillings. Come, tip us the blunt; them that has no money can't ride on my mail." Sixteen shillings was a large sum, and to pay it would make a considerable inroad on my slender finances; I thought, at first, that I would say I did not want to go so far; but then the fellow would ask at once where I wanted to go, and I was ashamed to acknowledge my utter ignorance of the road. I determined, therefore, to pay the fare, with a tacit determination not to mount a coach in future without knowing whither I was going. So I paid the man the money, who, turning round, shouted to the guard--"All right, Jem; got fare to ---," and forthwith whipped on his horses, especially the off-hand leader, for whom he seemed to entertain a particular spite, to greater speed than before--the horses flew. A young moon gave a feeble light, partially illuminating a line of road which, appearing by no means interesting, I the less regretted having paid my money for the privilege of being hurried along it in the flying vehicle. We frequently changed horses; and at last my friend the coachman was replaced by another, the very image of himself--hawk nose, red face, with narrow-rimmed hat and fashionable benjamin. After he had driven about fifty yards, the new coachman fell to whipping one of the horses. "D--- this near-hand wheeler," said he, "the brute has got a corn." "Whipping him won't cure him of his corn," said I. "Who told you to speak?" said the driver, with an oath; "mind your own business; 'tisn't from the like of you I am to learn to drive 'orses." Presently I fell into a broken kind of slumber. In an hour or two I was aroused by a rough voice--"Got to ---, young man; get down if you please". I opened my eyes--there was a dim and indistinct light, like that which precedes dawn; the coach was standing still in something like a street; just below me stood the guard. "Do you mean to get down," said he, "or will you keep us here till morning? other fares want to get up." Scarcely knowing what I did, I took my bundle and stick and descended, whilst two people mounted. "All right, John," said the guard to the coachman, springing up behind; whereupon off whisked the coach, one or two individuals who were standing by disappeared, and I was left alone. CHAPTER LX. After standing still a minute or two, considering what I should do, I moved down what appeared to be the street of a small straggling town; presently I passed by a church, which rose indistinctly on my right hand; anon there was the rustling of foliage and the rushing of waters. I reached a bridge, beneath which a small stream was running in the direction of the south. I stopped and leaned over the parapet, for I have always loved to look upon streams, especially at the still hours. "What stream is this, I wonder?" said I, as I looked down from the parapet into the water, which whirled and gurgled below. Leaving the bridge, I ascended a gentle acclivity, and presently reached what appeared to be a tract of moory undulating ground. It was now tolerably light, but there was a mist or haze abroad which prevented my seeing objects with much precision. I felt chill in the damp air of the early morn, and walked rapidly forward. In about half an hour I arrived where the road divided into two at an angle or tongue of dark green sward. "To the right or the left?" said I, and forthwith took, without knowing why, the left-hand road, along which I proceeded about a hundred yards, when, in the midst of the tongue of sward formed by the two roads, collaterally with myself, I perceived what I at first conceived to be a small grove of blighted trunks of oaks, barked and grey. I stood still for a moment, and then, turning off the road, advanced slowly towards it over the sward; as I drew nearer, I perceived that the objects which had attracted my curiosity, and which formed a kind of circle, were not trees, but immense upright stones. A thrill pervaded my system; just before me were two, the mightiest of the whole, tall as the stems of proud oaks, supporting on their tops a huge transverse stone, and forming a wonderful doorway. I knew now where I was, and, laying down my stick and bundle, and taking off my hat, I advanced slowly, and cast myself--it was folly, perhaps, but I could not help what I did--cast myself, with my face on the dewy earth, in the middle of the portal of giants, beneath the transverse stone. The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me! And after I had remained with my face on the ground for some time, I arose, placed my hat on my head, and taking up my stick and bundle, wandered around the wondrous circle, examining each individual stone, from the greatest to the least, and then entering by the great door, seated myself upon an immense broad stone, one side of which was supported by several small ones, and the other slanted upon the earth; and there in deep meditation I sat for an hour or two, till the sun shone in my face above the tall stones of the eastern side. And as I still sat there, I heard the noise of bells, and presently a large number of sheep came browzing past the circle of stones; two or three entered, and grazed upon what they could find, and soon a man also entered the circle at the northern side. "Early here, sir," said the man, who was tall, and dressed in a dark green slop, and had all the appearance of a shepherd; "a traveller, I suppose?" "Yes," said I, "I am a traveller; are these sheep yours?" "They are, sir; that is, they are my master's. A strange place this, sir," said he, looking at the stones; "ever here before?" "Never in body, frequently in mind." "Heard of the stones, I suppose; no wonder--all the people of the plain talk of them." "What do the people of the plain say of them?" "Why, they say--How did they ever come here?" "Do they not suppose them to have been brought?" "Who should have brought them?" "I have read that they were brought by many thousand men." "Where from?" "Ireland." "How did they bring them?" "I don't know." "And what did they bring them for?" "To form a temple, perhaps." "What is that?" "A place to worship God in." "A strange place to worship God in." "Why?" "It has no roof." "Yes, it has." "Where?" said the man looking up. "What do you see above you?" "The sky." "Well?" "Well!" "Have you anything to say?" "How did these stones come here?" "Are there other stones like these on the plains?" said I. "None; and yet there are plenty of strange things on these downs." "What are they?" "Strange heaps, and barrows, and great walls of earth built on the tops of hills." "Do the people of the plain wonder how they came there?" "They do not." "Why?" "They were raised by hands." "And these stones?" "How did they ever come here?" "I wonder whether they are here?" said I. "These stones?" "Yes." "So sure as the world," said the man; "and, as the world, they will stand as long." "I wonder whether there is a world." "What do you mean?" "An earth and sea, moon and stars, sheep and men." "Do you doubt it?" "Sometimes." "I never heard it doubted before." "It is impossible there should be a world." "It a'n't possible there shouldn't be a world." "Just so." At this moment a fine ewe attended by a lamb, rushed into the circle and fondled the knees of the shepherd. "I suppose you would not care to have some milk," said the man. "Why do you suppose so?" "Because, so be, there be no sheep, no milk, you know; and what there ben't is not worth having." "You could not have argued better," said I; "that is, supposing you have argued; with respect to the milk, you may do as you please." "Be still, Nanny," said the man; and producing a tin vessel from his scrip, he milked the ewe into it. "Here is milk of the plains, master," said the man, as he handed the vessel to me. "Where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were speaking of," said I, after I had drank some of the milk; "are there any near where we are?" "Not within many miles; the nearest is yonder away," said the shepherd, pointing to the south-east. "It's a grand place, that, but not like this; quite different, and from it you have a sight of the finest spire in the world." "I must go to it," said I, and I drank the remainder of the milk; "yonder, you say." "Yes, yonder; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the river lies between." "What river?" "The Avon." "Avon is British," said I. "Yes," said the man, "we are all British here." "No, we are not," said I. "What are we then?" "English." "A'n't they one?" "No." "Who were the British?" "The men who are supposed to have worshipped God in this place, and who raised these stones." "Where are they now?" "Our forefathers slaughtered them, spilled their blood all about, especially in this neighbourhood, destroyed their pleasant places, and left not, to use their own words, one stone upon another." "Yes, they did," said the shepherd, looking aloft at the transverse stone. "And it is well for them they did; whenever that stone, which English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown down, woe, woe, woe to the English race; spare it, English! Hengist spared it!--Here is sixpence." "I won't have it," said the man. "Why not?" "You talk so prettily about these stones; you seem to know all about them." "I never receive presents; with respect to the stones, I say with yourself, How did they ever come here!" "How did they ever come here!" said the shepherd. CHAPTER LXI. Leaving the shepherd, I bent my way in the direction pointed out by him as that in which the most remarkable of the strange remains of which he had spoken lay. I proceeded rapidly, making my way over the downs covered with coarse grass and fern; with respect to the river of which he had spoken, I reflected that, either by wading or swimming, I could easily transfer myself and what I bore to the opposite side. On arriving at its banks, I found it a beautiful stream, but shallow, with here and there a deep place, where the water ran dark and still. Always fond of the pure lymph, I undressed, and plunged into one of these gulfs, from which I emerged, my whole frame in a glow, and tingling with delicious sensations. After conveying my clothes and scanty baggage to the farther side, I dressed, and then with hurried steps bent my course in the direction of some lofty ground; I at length found myself on a high road, leading over wide and arid downs; following the road for some miles without seeing anything remarkable, I supposed at length that I had taken the wrong path, and wended on slowly and disconsolately for some time, till, having nearly surmounted a steep hill, I knew at once, from certain appearances, that I was near the object of my search. Turning to the right near the brow of the hill, I proceeded along a path which brought me to a causeway leading over a deep ravine, and connecting the hill with another which had once formed part of it, for the ravine was evidently the work of art. I passed over the causeway, and found myself in a kind of gateway which admitted me into a square space of many acres, surrounded on all sides by mounds or ramparts of earth. Though I had never been in such a place before, I knew that I stood within the precincts of what had been a Roman encampment, and one probably of the largest size, for many thousand warriors might have found room to perform their evolutions in that space, in which corn was now growing, the green ears waving in the morning wind. After I had gazed about the space for a time, standing in the gateway formed by the mounds, I clambered up the mound to the left hand, and on the top of that mound I found myself at a great altitude; beneath, at the distance of a mile, was a fair old city, situated amongst verdant meadows, watered with streams, and from the heart of that old city, from amidst mighty trees, I beheld towering to the sky the finest spire in the world. After I had looked from the Roman rampart for a long time, I hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the causeway, regained the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended to the city of the spire. CHAPTER LXII. And in the old city I remained two days, passing my time as I best could--inspecting the curiosities of the place, eating and drinking when I felt so disposed, which I frequently did, the digestive organs having assumed a tone to which for many months they had been strangers--enjoying at night balmy sleep in a large bed in a dusky room, at the end of a corridor, in a certain hostelry in which I had taken up my quarters--receiving from the people of the hostelry such civility and condescension as people who travel on foot with bundle and stick, but who nevertheless are perceived to be not altogether destitute of coin, are in the habit of receiving. On the third day, on a fine sunny afternoon, I departed from the city of the spire. As I was passing through one of the suburbs, I saw, all on a sudden, a respectable-looking female fall down in a fit; several persons hastened to her assistance. "She is dead," said one. "No, she is not," said another. "I am afraid she is," said a third. "Life is very uncertain," said a fourth. "It is Mrs. ---" said a fifth; "let us carry her to her own house." Not being able to render any assistance, I left the poor female in the hands of her townsfolk, and proceeded on my way. I had chosen a road in the direction of the north-west, it led over downs where corn was growing, but where neither tree nor hedge were to be seen; two or three hours' walking brought me to a beautiful valley, abounding with trees of various kinds, with a delightful village at its farthest extremity; passing through it I ascended a lofty acclivity, on the top of which I sat down on a bank, and taking off my hat, permitted a breeze, which swept coolly and refreshingly over the downs, to dry my hair, dripping from the effects of exercise and the heat of the day. And as I sat there, gazing now at the blue heavens, now at the downs before me, a man came along the road in the direction in which I had hitherto been proceeding: just opposite to me he stopped, and, looking at me, cried: "Am I right for London, master?" He was dressed like a sailor, and appeared to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age; he had an open manly countenance, and there was a bold and fearless expression in his eye. "Yes," said I, in reply to his question; "this is one of the ways to London. Do you come from far?" "From ---," said the man, naming a well-known sea-port. "Is this the direct road to London from that place?" I demanded. "No," said the man; "but I had to visit two or three other places on certain commissions I was entrusted with; amongst others to ---, where I had to take a small sum of money. I am rather tired, master; and, if you please, I will sit down beside you." "You have as much right to sit down here as I have," said I, "the road is free for every one; as for sitting down beside me, you have the look of an honest man, and I have no objection to your company." "Why, as for being honest, master," said the man, laughing and sitting down by me, "I hav'n't much to say--many is the wild thing I have done when I was younger; however, what is done, is done. To learn, one must live, master; and I have lived long enough to learn the grand point of wisdom." "What is that?" said I. "That honesty is the best policy, master." "You appear to be a sailor," said I, looking at his dress. "I was not bred a sailor," said the man, "though, when my foot is on the salt water, I can play the part--and play it well too. I am now from a long voyage." "From America?" said I. "Farther than that," said the man. "Have you any objection to tell me?" said I. "From New South Wales," said the man, looking me full in the face. "Dear me," said I. "Why do you say 'Dear me'?" said the man. "It is a very long way off," said I. "Was that your reason for saying so?" said the man. "Not exactly," said I. "No," said the man, with something of a bitter smile; "it was something else that made you say so; you were thinking of the convicts." "Well," said I, "what then--you are no convict." "How do you know?" "You do not look like one." "Thank you, master," said the man cheerfully; "and, to a certain extent, you are right--bygones are bygones--I am no longer what I was, nor ever will be again; the truth, however, is the truth--a convict I have been--a convict at Sydney Cove." "And you have served out the period for which you were sentenced, and are now returned?" "As to serving out my sentence," replied the man, "I can't say that I did; I was sentenced for fourteen years, and I was in Sydney Cove little more than half that time. The truth is that I did the Government a service. There was a conspiracy amongst some of the convicts to murder and destroy--I overheard and informed the Government; mind one thing, however, I was not concerned in it; those who got it up were no comrades of mine, but a bloody gang of villains. Well, the Government, in consideration of the service I had done them, remitted the remainder of my sentence; and some kind gentlemen interested themselves about me, gave me good books and good advice, and, being satisfied with my conduct, procured me employ in an exploring expedition, by which I earned money. In fact, the being sent to Sydney was the best thing that ever happened to me in all my life." "And you have now returned to your native country. Longing to see home brought you from New South Wales." "There you are mistaken," said the man. "Wish to see England again would never have brought me so far; for, to tell you the truth, master, England was a hard mother to me, as she has proved to many. No, a wish to see another kind of mother--a poor old woman whose son I am--has brought me back." "You have a mother, then?" said I. "Does she reside in London?" "She used to live in London," said the man; "but I am afraid she is long since dead." "How did she support herself?" said I. "Support herself! with difficulty enough; she used to keep a small stall on London Bridge, where she sold fruit; I am afraid she is dead, and that she died perhaps in misery. She was a poor sinful creature; but I loved her, and she loved me. I came all the way back merely for the chance of seeing her." "Did you ever write to her," said I, "or cause others to write to her?" "I wrote to her myself," said the man, "about two years ago; but I never received an answer. I learned to write very tolerably over there, by the assistance of the good people I spoke of. As for reading, I could do that very well before I went--my poor mother taught me to read, out of a book that she was very fond of; a strange book it was, I remember. Poor dear! what I would give only to know that she is alive." "Life is very uncertain," said I. "That is true," said the man, with a sigh. "We are here one moment, and gone the next," I continued. "As I passed through the streets of a neighbouring town, I saw a respectable woman drop down, and people said she was dead. Who knows but that she too had a son coming to see her from a distance, at that very time." "Who knows, indeed," said the man. "Ah, I am afraid my mother is dead. Well, God's will be done." "However," said I, "I should not wonder at your finding your mother alive." "You wouldn't?" said the man, looking at me wistfully. "I should not wonder at all," said I; "indeed, something within me seems to tell me you will; I should not much mind betting five shillings to five pence that you will see your mother within a week. Now, friend, five shillings to five pence--" "Is very considerable odds," said the man, rubbing his hands; "sure you must have good reason to hope, when you are willing to give such odds." "After all," said I, "it not unfrequently happens that those who lay the long odds lose. Let us hope, however. What do you mean to do in the event of finding your mother alive?" "I scarcely know," said the man; "I have frequently thought that if I found my mother alive I would attempt to persuade her to accompany me to the country which I have left--it is a better country for a man--that is a free man--to live in than this; however, let me first find my mother--if I could only find my mother!" "Farewell," said I, rising. "Go your way, and God go with you--I will go mine." "I have but one thing to ask you," said the man. "What is that?" I inquired. "That you would drink with me before we part--you have done me so much good." "How should we drink?" said I; "we are on the top of a hill where there is nothing to drink." "But there is a village below," said the man; "do let us drink before we part." "I have been through that village already," said I, "and I do not like turning back." "Ah," said the man sorrowfully, "you will not drink with me because I told you I was--" "You are quite mistaken," said I, "I would as soon drink with a convict as with a judge. I am by no means certain that, under the same circumstances, the judge would be one whit better than the convict. Come along! I will go back to oblige you. I have an odd sixpence in my pocket, which I will change, that I may drink with you." So we went down the hill together to the village through which I had already passed, where, finding a public-house, we drank together in true English fashion, after which we parted, the sailor-looking man going his way and I mine. After walking about a dozen miles, I came to a town, where I rested for the night. The next morning I set out again in the direction of the north-west. I continued journeying for four days, my daily journeys varying from twenty to twenty-five miles. During this time nothing occurred to me worthy of any especial notice. The weather was brilliant, and I rapidly improved both in strength and spirits. On the fifth day, about two o'clock, I arrived at a small town. Feeling hungry, I entered a decent-looking inn. Within a kind of bar I saw a huge, fat, landlord- looking person, with a very pretty, smartly-dressed maiden. Addressing myself to the fat man, "House!" said I, "house! Can I have dinner, house?" CHAPTER LXIII. "Young gentleman," said the huge, fat landlord, "you are come at the right time; dinner will be taken up in a few minutes, and such a dinner," he continued, rubbing his hands, "as you will not see every day in these times." "I am hot and dusty," said I, "and should wish to cool my hands and face." "Jenny!" said the huge landlord, with the utmost gravity, "show the gentleman into number seven that he may wash his hands and face." "By no means," said I, "I am a person of primitive habits, and there is nothing like the pump in weather like this." "Jenny!" said the landlord, with the same gravity as before, "go with the young gentleman to the pump in the back kitchen, and take a clean towel along with you." Thereupon the rosy-faced clean-looking damsel went to a drawer, and producing a large, thick, but snowy-white towel, she nodded to me to follow her; whereupon I followed Jenny through a long passage into the back kitchen. And at the end of the back kitchen there stood a pump; and going to it I placed my hands beneath the spout, and said, "Pump, Jenny," and Jenny incontinently, without laying down the towel, pumped with one hand, and I washed and cooled my heated hands. And, when my hands were washed and cooled, I took off my neckcloth, and unbuttoning my shirt collar, I placed my head beneath the spout of the pump, and I said unto Jenny: "Now, Jenny, lay down the towel, and pump for your life". Thereupon Jenny, placing the towel on a linen-horse, took the handle of the pump with both hands and pumped over my head as handmaid had never pumped before; so that the water poured in torrents from my head, my face, and my hair down upon the brick floor. And after the lapse of somewhat more than a minute, I called out with a half-strangled voice, "Hold, Jenny!" and Jenny desisted. I stood for a few moments to recover my breath, then taking the towel which Jenny proffered, I dried composedly my hands and head, my face and hair; then, returning the towel to Jenny, I gave a deep sigh and said: "Surely this is one of the pleasant moments of life". Then, having set my dress to rights, and combed my hair with a pocket comb, I followed Jenny, who conducted me back through the long passage, and showed me into a neat, sanded parlour on the ground floor. I sat down by a window which looked out upon the dusty street; presently in came the handmaid, and commenced laying the table-cloth. "Shall I spread the table for one, sir," said she, "or do you expect anybody to dine with you?" "I can't say that I expect anybody," said I, laughing inwardly to myself; "however, if you please you can lay for two, so that if any acquaintance of mine should chance to step in, he may find a knife and fork ready for him." So I sat by the window, sometimes looking out upon the dusty street, and now glancing at certain old-fashioned prints which adorned the wall over against me. I fell into a kind of doze, from which I was almost instantly awakened by the opening of the door. Dinner, thought I; and I sat upright in my chair. No, a man of the middle age, and rather above the middle height dressed in a plain suit of black, made his appearance, and sat down in a chair at some distance from me, but near to the table, and appeared to be lost in thought. "The weather is very warm, sir," said I. "Very," said the stranger laconically, looking at me for the first time. "Would you like to see the newspaper?" said I, taking up one which lay on the window seat. "I never read newspapers," said the stranger, "nor, indeed--" Whatever it might be that he had intended to say he left unfinished. Suddenly he walked to the mantelpiece at the farther end of the room, before which he placed himself with his back towards me. There he remained motionless for some time; at length, raising his hand, he touched the corner of the mantelpiece with his finger, advanced towards the chair which he had left, and again seated himself. "Have you come far?" said he, suddenly looking towards me, and speaking in a frank and open manner, which denoted a wish to enter into conversation. "You do not seem to be of this place." "I come from some distance," said I; "indeed, I am walking for exercise, which I find as necessary to the mind as the body. I believe that by exercise people would escape much mental misery." Scarcely had I uttered these words when the stranger laid his hand, with seeming carelessness, upon the table, near one of the glasses; after a moment or two he touched the glass with his finger as if inadvertently, then, glancing furtively at me, he withdrew his hand and looked towards the window. "Are you from these parts?" said I at last, with apparent carelessness. "From this vicinity," replied the stranger. "You think, then, that it is as easy to walk off the bad humours of the mind as of the body." "I, at least, am walking in that hope," said I. "I wish you may be successful," said the stranger; and here he touched one of the forks which lay on the table near him. Here the door, which was slightly ajar, was suddenly pushed open with some fracas, and in came the stout landlord, supporting with some difficulty an immense dish, in which was a mighty round mass of smoking meat garnished all round with vegetables; so high was the mass that it probably obstructed his view, for it was not until he had placed it upon the table that he appeared to observe the stranger; he almost started, and quite out of breath exclaimed: "God bless me, your honour; is your honour the acquaintance that the young gentleman was expecting?" "Is the young gentleman expecting an acquaintance?" said the stranger. There is nothing like putting a good face upon these matters, thought I to myself; and, getting up, I bowed to the unknown. "Sir," said I, "when I told Jenny that she might lay the table-cloth for two, so that in the event of any acquaintance dropping in he might find a knife and fork ready for him, I was merely jocular, being an entire stranger in these parts, and expecting no one. Fortune, however, it would seem, has been unexpectedly kind to me; I flatter myself, sir, that since you have been in this room I have had the honour of making your acquaintance; and in the strength of that hope I humbly entreat you to honour me with your company to dinner, provided you have not already dined." The stranger laughed outright. "Sir," I continued, "the round of beef is a noble one, and seems exceedingly well boiled, and the landlord was just right when he said I should have such a dinner as is not seen every day. A round of beef, at any rate such a round of beef as this, is seldom seen smoking upon the table in these degenerate times. Allow me, sir," said I, observing that the stranger was about to speak, "allow me another remark. I think I saw you just now touch the fork, I venture to hail it as an omen that you will presently seize it and apply it to its proper purpose, and its companion the knife also." The stranger changed colour, and gazed upon me in silence. "Do, sir," here put in the landlord; "do, sir, accept the young gentleman's invitation. Your honour has of late been looking poorly, and the young gentleman is a funny young gentleman, and a clever young gentleman; and I think it will do your honour good to have a dinner's chat with the young gentleman." "It is not my dinner hour," said the stranger; "I dine considerably later; taking anything now would only discompose me; I shall, however, be most happy to sit down with the young gentleman; reach me that paper, and, when the young gentleman has satisfied his appetite, we may perhaps have a little chat together." The landlord handed the stranger the newspaper, and, bowing, retired with his maid Jenny. I helped myself to a portion of the smoking round, and commenced eating with no little appetite. The stranger appeared to be soon engrossed with the newspaper. We continued thus a considerable time--the one reading and the other dining. Chancing suddenly to cast my eyes upon the stranger, I saw his brow contract; he gave a slight stamp with his foot, and flung the newspaper to the ground, then stooping down he picked it up, first moving his forefinger along the floor, seemingly slightly scratching it with his nail. "Do you hope, sir," said I, "by that ceremony with the finger to preserve yourself from the evil chance?" The stranger started; then, after looking at me for some time in silence, he said: "Is it possible that you--?" "Ay, ay," said I, helping myself to some more of the round, "I have touched myself in my younger days, both for the evil chance and the good. Can't say, though, that I ever trusted much in the ceremony." The stranger made no reply, but appeared to be in deep thought; nothing further passed between us until I had concluded the dinner, when I said to him: "I shall now be most happy, sir, to have the pleasure of your conversation over a pint of wine." The stranger rose; "No, my young friend," said he, smiling, "that would scarce be fair. It is my turn now--pray do me the favour to go home with me, and accept what hospitality my poor roof can offer; to tell you the truth, I wish to have some particular discourse with you which would hardly be possible in this place. As for wine, I can give you some much better than you can get here; the landlord is an excellent fellow, but he is an innkeeper, after all. I am going out for a moment, and will send him in, so that you may settle your account; I trust you will not refuse me, I only live about two miles from here." I looked in the face of the stranger--it was a fine intelligent face, with a cast of melancholy in it. "Sir," said I, "I would go with you though you lived four miles instead of two." "Who is that gentleman?" said I to the landlord, after I had settled his bill; "I am going home with him." "I wish I were going too," said the fat landlord, laying his hand upon his stomach. "Young gentleman, I shall be a loser by his honour's taking you away; but, after all, the truth is the truth--there are few gentlemen in these parts like his honour, either for learning or welcoming his friends. Young gentleman, I congratulate you." CHAPTER LXIV. I found the stranger awaiting me at the door of the inn. "Like yourself, I am fond of walking," said he, "and when any little business calls me to this place I generally come on foot." We were soon out of the town, and in a very beautiful country. After proceeding some distance on the high road, we turned off, and were presently in one of those mazes of lanes for which England is famous; the stranger at first seemed inclined to be taciturn; a few observations, however, which I made, appeared to rouse him, and he soon exhibited not only considerable powers of conversation, but stores of information which surprised me. So pleased did I become with my new acquaintance, that I soon ceased to pay the slightest attention either to place or distance. At length the stranger was silent, and I perceived that we had arrived at a handsome iron gate and a lodge; the stranger having rung a bell, the gate was opened by an old man, and we proceeded along a gravel path, which in about five minutes brought us to a large brick house, built something in the old French style, having a spacious lawn before it, and immediately in front a pond in which were golden fish, and in the middle a stone swan discharging quantities of water from its bill. We ascended a spacious flight of steps to the door, which was at once flung open, and two servants with powdered hair, and in livery of blue plush, came out and stood one on either side as we passed the threshold. We entered a large hall, and the stranger, taking me by the hand, welcomed me to his poor home, as he called it, and then gave orders to another servant, but out of livery, to show me to an apartment, and give me whatever assistance I might require in my toilette. Notwithstanding the plea as to primitive habits which I had lately made to my other host in the town, I offered no objection to this arrangement, but followed the bowing domestic to a spacious and airy chamber, where he rendered me all those little nameless offices which the somewhat neglected state of my dress required. When everything had been completed to my perfect satisfaction, he told me that if I pleased he would conduct me to the library, where dinner would be speedily served. In the library I found a table laid for two; my host was not there, having as I supposed not been quite so speedy with his toilette as his guest. Left alone, I looked round the apartment with inquiring eyes; it was long and tolerably lofty, the walls from the top to the bottom were lined with cases containing books of all sizes and bindings; there was a globe or two, a couch, and an easy chair. Statues and busts there were none, and only one painting, a portrait, that of my host, but not him of the mansion. Over the mantelpiece, the features staringly like, but so ridiculously exaggerated that they scarcely resembled those of a human being, daubed evidently by the hand of the commonest sign-artist, hung a half-length portrait of him of round of beef celebrity--my sturdy host of the town. I had been in the library about ten minutes, amusing myself as I best could, when my friend entered; he seemed to have resumed his taciturnity--scarce a word escaped his lips till dinner was served, when he said, smiling: "I suppose it would be merely a compliment to ask you to partake?" "I don't know," said I, seating myself; "your first course consists of troutlets, I am fond of troutlets, and I always like to be companionable." The dinner was excellent, though I did but little justice to it from the circumstance of having already dined; the stranger also, though without my excuse, partook but slightly of the good cheer; he still continued taciturn, and appeared lost in thought, and every attempt which I made to induce him to converse was signally unsuccessful. And now dinner was removed, and we sat over our wine, and I remember that the wine was good, and fully justified the encomiums of my host of the town. Over the wine I made sure that my entertainer would have loosened the chain which seemed to tie his tongue--but no! I endeavoured to tempt him by various topics, and talked of geometry and the use of the globes, of the heavenly sphere, and the star Jupiter, which I said I had heard was a very large star, also of the evergreen tree, which, according to Olaus, stood of old before the heathen temple of Upsal, and which I affirmed was a yew--but no, nothing that I said could induce my entertainer to relax his taciturnity. It grew dark, and I became uncomfortable; "I must presently be going," I at last exclaimed. At these words he gave a sudden start; "Going," said he, "are you not my guest, and an honoured one?" "You know best," said I; "but I was apprehensive I was an intruder; to several of my questions you have returned no answer." "Ten thousand pardons!" he exclaimed, seizing me by the hand; "but you cannot go now, I have much to talk to you about--there is one thing in particular--" "If it be the evergreen tree at Upsal," said I, interrupting him, "I hold it to have been a yew--what else? The evergreens of the south, as the old bishop observes, will not grow in the north, and a pine was unfitted for such a locality, being a vulgar tree. What else could it have been but the yew--the sacred yew which our ancestors were in the habit of planting in their churchyards? Moreover, I affirm it to have been the yew for the honour of the tree; for I love the yew, and had I home and land, I would have one growing before my front windows." "You would do right; the yew is indeed a venerable tree, but it is not about the yew." "The star Jupiter, perhaps?" "Nor the star Jupiter, nor its moons; an observation which escaped you at the inn has made a considerable impression upon me." "But I really must take my departure," said I; "the dark hour is at hand." And as I uttered these last words, the stranger touched rapidly something which lay near him, I forget what it was. It was the first action of the kind which I had observed on his part since we sat down to table. "You allude to the evil chance," said I; "but it is getting both dark and late." "I believe we are going to have a storm," said my friend, "but I really hope that you will give me your company for a day or two; I have, as I said before, much to talk to you about." "Well," said I, "I shall be most happy to be your guest for this night; I am ignorant of the country, and it is not pleasant to travel unknown paths by night--dear me, what a flash of lightning!" It had become very dark; suddenly a blaze of sheet-lightning illumed the room. By the momentary light I distinctly saw my host touch another object upon the table. "Will you allow me to ask you a question or two?" said he at last. "As many as you please," said I; "but shall we not have lights?" "Not unless you particularly wish it," said my entertainer; "I rather like the dark, and though a storm is evidently at hand, neither thunder nor lightning have any terrors for me. It is other things I quake at--I should rather say ideas. Now, permit me to ask you--" And then my entertainer asked me various questions, to all of which I answered unreservedly; he was then silent for some time, at last he exclaimed: "I should wish to tell you the history of my life; though not an adventurous one, I think it contains some things which will interest you". Without waiting for my reply he began. Amidst darkness and gloom, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning, the stranger related to me, as we sat at the table in the library, his truly touching history. "Before proceeding to relate the events of my life, it will not be amiss to give you some account of my ancestors. My great-grandfather on the male side was a silk mercer, in Cheapside, who, when he died, left his son, who was his only child, a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds, and a splendid business; the son, however, had no inclination for trade, the summit of his ambition was to be a country gentleman, to found a family, and to pass the remainder of his days in rural ease and dignity, and all this he managed to accomplish; he disposed of his business, purchased a beautiful and extensive estate for four score thousand pounds, built upon it the mansion to which I had the honour of welcoming you to-day, married the daughter of a neighbouring squire, who brought him a fortune of five thousand pounds, became a magistrate, and only wanted a son and heir to make him completely happy; this blessing, it is true, was for a long time denied him; it came, however, at last, as is usual, when least expected. His lady was brought to bed of my father, and then who so happy a man as my grandsire; he gave away two thousand pounds in charities, and in the joy of his heart made a speech at the next quarter sessions; the rest of his life was spent in ease, tranquillity and rural dignity; he died of apoplexy on the day that my father came of age; perhaps it would be difficult to mention a man who in all respects was so fortunate as my grandfather; his death was sudden, it is true, but I am not one of those who pray to be delivered from a sudden death. "I should not call my father a fortunate man; it is true that he had the advantage of a first-rate education; that he made the grand tour with a private tutor, as was the fashion at that time; that he came to a splendid fortune on the very day that he came of age; that for many years he tasted all the diversions of the capital; that, at last determined to settle, he married the sister of a baronet, an amiable and accomplished lady, with a large fortune; that he had the best stud of hunters in the county, on which, during the season, he followed the fox gallantly; had he been a fortunate man he would never have cursed his fate, as he was frequently known to do; ten months after his marriage his horse fell upon him, and so injured him, that he expired in a few days in great agony. My grandfather was, indeed, a fortunate man; when he died he was followed to the grave by the tears of the poor--my father was not. "Two remarkable circumstances are connected with my birth--I am a posthumous child, and came into the world some weeks before the usual time, the shock which my mother experienced at my father's death having brought on the pangs of premature labour; both my mother's life and my own were at first despaired of; we both, however, survived the crisis. My mother loved me with the most passionate fondness, and I was brought up in this house under her own eye--I was never sent to school. "I have already told you that mine is not a tale of adventure; my life has not been one of action, but of wild imaginings and strange sensations; I was born with excessive sensibility, and that has been my bane. I have not been a fortunate man. "No one is fortunate unless he is happy, and it is impossible for a being constructed like myself to be happy for an hour, or even enjoy peace and tranquillity; most of our pleasures and pains are the effects of imagination, and wherever the sensibility is great, the imagination is great also. No sooner has my imagination raised up an image of pleasure, than it is sure to conjure up one of distress and gloom; these two antagonistic ideas instantly commence a struggle in my mind, and the gloomy one generally, I may say invariably, prevails. How is it possible that I should be a happy man? "It has invariably been so with me from the earliest period that I can remember; the first playthings that were given me caused me for a few minutes excessive pleasure; they were pretty and glittering; presently, however, I became anxious and perplexed, I wished to know their history, how they were made, and what of--were the materials precious; I was not satisfied with their outward appearance. In less than an hour I had broken the playthings in an attempt to discover what they were made of. "When I was eight years of age my uncle the baronet, who was also my godfather, sent me a pair of Norway hawks, with directions for managing them; he was a great fowler. Oh, how rejoiced was I with the present which had been made me, my joy lasted for at least five minutes; I would let them breed, I would have a house of hawks; yes, that I would--but--and here came the unpleasant idea--suppose they were to fly away, how very annoying! Ah, but, said hope, there's little fear of that; feed them well and they will never fly away, or if they do they will come back, my uncle says so; so sunshine triumphed for a little time. Then the strangest of all doubts came into my head; I doubted the legality of my tenure of these hawks; how did I come by them? why, my uncle gave them to me, but how did they come into his possession? what right had he to them? after all, they might not be his to give,--I passed a sleepless night. The next morning I found that the man who brought the hawks had not departed. 'How came my uncle by these hawks?' I anxiously inquired. 'They were sent to him from Norway, master, with another pair.' 'And who sent them?' 'That I don't know, master, but I suppose his honour can tell you.' I was even thinking of scrawling a letter to my uncle to make inquiry on this point, but shame restrained me, and I likewise reflected that it would be impossible for him to give my mind entire satisfaction; it is true he could tell who sent him the hawks, but how was he to know how the hawks came into the possession of those who sent them to him, and by what right they possessed them or the parents of the hawks. In a word, I wanted a clear valid title, as lawyers would say, to my hawks, and I believe no title would have satisfied me that did not extend up to the time of the first hawk, that is, prior to Adam; and, could I have obtained such a title, I make no doubt that, young as I was, I should have suspected that it was full of flaws. "I was now disgusted with the hawks, and no wonder, seeing all the disquietude they had caused me; I soon totally neglected the poor birds, and they would have starved had not some of the servants taken compassion upon them and fed them. My uncle, soon hearing of my neglect, was angry, and took the birds away; he was a very good-natured man, however, and soon sent me fine pony; at first I was charmed with the pony, soon, however the same kind of thoughts arose which had disgusted me on a former occasion. How did my uncle become possessed of the pony? This question I asked him the first time I saw him. Oh, he had bought it of a gypsy, that I might learn to ride upon it. A gypsy; I had heard that gypsies were great thieves, and I instantly began to fear that the gypsy had stolen the pony, and it is probable that for this apprehension I had better grounds than for many others. I instantly ceased to set any value upon the pony, but for that reason, perhaps, I turned it to some account; I mounted it, and rode it about, which I don't think I should have done had I looked upon it as a secure possession. Had I looked upon my title as secure, I should have prized it so much that I should scarcely have mounted it for fear of injuring the animal; but now, caring not a straw for it, I rode it most unmercifully, and soon became a capital rider. This was very selfish in me, and I tell the fact with shame. I was punished, however, as I deserved; the pony had a spirit of its own, and, moreover, it had belonged to gypsies; once, as I was riding it furiously over the lawn, applying both whip and spur, it suddenly lifted up its heels, and flung me at least five yards over its head. I received some desperate contusions, and was taken up for dead; it was many months before I perfectly recovered. "But it is time for me to come to the touching part of my story. There was one thing that I loved better than the choicest gift which could be bestowed upon me, better than life itself--my mother; at length she became unwell, and the thought that I might possibly lose her now rushed into my mind for the first time; it was terrible, and caused me unspeakable misery, I may say horror. My mother became worse, and I was not allowed to enter her apartment, lest by my frantic exclamations of grief I might aggravate her disorder. I rested neither day nor night, but roamed about the house like one distracted. Suddenly I found myself doing that which even at the time struck me as being highly singular; I found myself touching particular objects that were near me, and to which my fingers seemed to be attracted by an irresistible impulse. It was now the table or the chair that I was compelled to touch; now the bell-rope; now the handle of the door; now I would touch the wall, and the next moment stooping down, I would place the point of my finger upon the floor: and so I continued to do day after day; frequently I would struggle to resist the impulse, but invariably in vain. I have even rushed away from the object, but I was sure to return, the impulse was too strong to be resisted: I quickly hurried back, compelled by the feeling within me to touch the object. Now, I need not tell you that what impelled me to these actions was the desire to prevent my mother's death; whenever I touched any particular object, it was with the view of baffling the evil chance, as you would call it--in this instance my mother's death. "A favourable crisis occurred in my mother's complaint, and she recovered; this crisis took place about six o'clock in the morning; almost simultaneously with it there happened to myself a rather remarkable circumstance connected with the nervous feeling which was rioting in my system. I was lying in bed in a kind of uneasy doze, the only kind of rest which my anxiety, on account of my mother, permitted me at this time to take, when all at once I sprang up as if electrified, the mysterious impulse was upon me, and it urged me to go without delay, and climb a stately elm behind the house, and touch the topmost branch; otherwise--you know the rest--the evil chance would prevail. Accustomed for some time as I had been, under this impulse, to perform extravagant actions, I confess to you that the difficulty and peril of such a feat startled me; I reasoned against the feeling, and strove more strenuously than I had ever done before; I even made a solemn vow not to give way to the temptation, but I believe nothing less than chains, and those strong ones, could have restrained me. The demoniac influence, for I can call it nothing else, at length prevailed; it compelled me to rise, to dress myself, to descend the stairs, to unbolt the door, and to go forth; it drove me to the foot of the tree, and it compelled me to climb the trunk; this was a tremendous task, and I only accomplished it after repeated falls and trials. When I had got amongst the branches, I rested for a time, and then set about accomplishing the remainder of the ascent; this for some time was not so difficult, for I was now amongst the branches; as I approached the top, however, the difficulty became greater, and likewise the danger; but I was a light boy, and almost as nimble as a squirrel, and, moreover, the nervous feeling was within me, impelling me upward. It was only by means of a spring, however, that I was enabled to touch the top of the tree; I sprang, touched the top of the tree, and fell a distance of at least twenty feet, amongst the branches; had I fallen to the bottom I must have been killed, but I fell into the middle of the tree, and presently found myself astride upon one of the boughs; scratched and bruised all over, I reached the ground, and regained my chamber unobserved; I flung myself on my bed quite exhausted; presently they came to tell me that my mother was better--they found me in the state which I have described, and in a fever besides. The favourable crisis must have occurred just about the time that I performed the magic touch; it certainly was a curious coincidence, yet I was not weak enough, even though a child, to suppose that I had baffled the evil chance by my daring feat. "Indeed, all the time that I was performing these strange feats, I knew them to be highly absurd, yet the impulse to perform them was irresistible--a mysterious dread hanging over me till I had given way to it; even at that early period I frequently used to reason within myself as to what could be the cause of my propensity to touch, but of course I could come to no satisfactory conclusion respecting it; being heartily ashamed of the practice, I never spoke of it to any one, and was at all times highly solicitous that no one should observe my weakness." CHAPTER LXV. After a short pause my host resumed his narration. "Though I was never sent to school, my education was not neglected on that account; I had tutors in various branches of knowledge, under whom I made a tolerable progress; by the time I was eighteen I was able to read most of the Greek and Latin authors with facility; I was likewise, to a certain degree, a mathematician. "I cannot say that I took much pleasure in my studies; my chief aim in endeavouring to accomplish my tasks was to give pleasure to my beloved parent, who watched my progress with anxiety truly maternal. My life at this period may be summed up in a few words; I pursued my studies, roamed about the woods, walked the green lanes occasionally, cast my fly in a trout stream, and sometimes, but not often, rode a hunting with my uncle. "A considerable part of my time was devoted to my mother, conversing with her and reading to her; youthful companions I had none, and as to my mother, she lived in the greatest retirement, devoting herself to the superintendence of my education, and the practice of acts of charity; nothing could be more innocent than this mode of life, and some people say that in innocence there is happiness, yet I can't say that I was happy. A continual dread overshadowed my mind, it was the dread of my mother's death. Her constitution had never been strong, and it had been considerably shaken by her last illness; this I knew, and this I saw--for the eyes of fear are marvellously keen. Well, things went on in this way till I had come of age; my tutors were then dismissed, and my uncle the baronet took me in hand, telling my mother that it was high time for him to exert his authority; that I must see something of the world, for that, if I remained much longer with her, I should be ruined. 'You must consign him to me,' said he, 'and I will introduce him to the world.' My mother sighed and consented; so my uncle the baronet introduced me to the world, took me to horse races and to London, and endeavoured to make a man of me according to his idea of the term, and in part succeeded. I became moderately dissipated--I say moderately, for dissipation had but little zest for me. "In this manner four years passed over. It happened that I was in London in the height of the season with my uncle, at his house; one morning he summoned me into the parlour, he was standing before the fire, and looked very serious. 'I have had a letter,' said he; 'your mother is very ill.' I staggered, and touched the nearest object to me; nothing was said for two or three minutes, and then my uncle put his lips to my ear and whispered something. I fell down senseless. My mother was--I remember nothing for a long time--for two years I was out of my mind; at the end of this time I recovered, or partly so. My uncle the baronet was very kind to me; he advised me to travel, he offered to go with me. I told him he was very kind, but I would rather go by myself. So I went abroad, and saw, amongst other things, Rome and the Pyramids. By frequent change of scene my mind became not happy, but tolerably tranquil. I continued abroad some years, when, becoming tired of travelling, I came home, found my uncle the baronet alive, hearty, and unmarried, as he still is. He received me very kindly, took me to Newmarket, and said that he hoped by this time I was become quite a man of the world; by his advice I took a house in town, in which I lived during the season. In summer I strolled from one watering-place to another; and, in order to pass the time, I became very dissipated. "At last I became as tired of dissipation as I had previously been of travelling, and I determined to retire to the country, and live on my paternal estate; this resolution I was not slow in putting into effect; I sold my house in town, repaired and refurnished my country house, and for at least ten years, lived a regular country life; I gave dinner parties, prosecuted poachers, was charitable to the poor, and now and then went into my library; during this time I was seldom or never visited by the magic impulse, the reason being, that there was nothing in the wide world for which I cared sufficiently to move a finger to preserve it. When the ten years, however, were nearly ended, I started out of bed one morning in a fit of horror, exclaiming, 'Mercy, mercy! what will become of me? I am afraid I shall go mad. I have lived thirty-five years and upwards without doing anything; shall I pass through life in this manner? Horror!' And then in rapid succession I touched three different objects. "I dressed myself and went down, determining to set about something; but what was I to do?--there was the difficulty. I ate no breakfast, but walked about the room in a state of distraction; at last I thought that the easiest way to do something was to get into Parliament, there would be no difficulty in that. I had plenty of money, and could buy a seat: but what was I to do in Parliament? Speak, of course--but could I speak? 'I'll try at once,' said I, and forthwith I rushed into the largest dining-room, and, locking the door, I commenced speaking; 'Mr. Speaker,' said I, and then I went on speaking for about ten minutes as I best could, and then I left off, for I was talking nonsense. No, I was not formed for Parliament; I could do nothing there. What--what was I to do? "Many, many times I thought this question over, but was unable to solve it; a fear now stole over me that I was unfit for anything in the world, save the lazy life of vegetation which I had for many years been leading; yet, if that were the case, thought I, why the craving within me to distinguish myself? Surely it does not occur fortuitously, but is intended to rouse and call into exercise certain latent powers that I possess? and then with infinite eagerness I set about attempting to discover these latent powers. I tried an infinity of pursuits, botany and geology amongst the rest, but in vain; I was fitted for none of them. I became very sorrowful and despondent, and at one time I had almost resolved to plunge again into the whirlpool of dissipation; it was a dreadful resource, it was true, but what better could I do? "But I was not doomed to return to the dissipation of the world. One morning a young nobleman, who had for some time past shown a wish to cultivate my acquaintance, came to me in a considerable hurry. 'I am come to beg an important favour of you,' said he; 'one of the county memberships is vacant--I intend to become a candidate; what I want immediately is a spirited address to the electors. I have been endeavouring to frame one all the morning, but in vain; I have, therefore, recourse to you as a person of infinite genius; pray, my dear friend, concoct me one by the morning.' 'What you require of me,' I replied, 'is impossible; I have not the gift of words; did I possess it I would stand for the county myself, but I can't speak. Only the other day I attempted to make a speech, but left off suddenly, utterly ashamed, although I was quite alone, of the nonsense I was uttering.' 'It is not a speech that I want,' said my friend, 'I can talk for three hours without hesitating, but I want an address to circulate through the county, and I find myself utterly incompetent to put one together; do oblige me by writing one for me, I know you can; and, if at any time you want a person to speak for you, you may command me not for three but for six hours. Good morning; to-morrow I will breakfast with you.' In the morning he came again. 'Well,' said he, 'what success?' 'Very poor,' said I; 'but judge for yourself;' and I put into his hand a manuscript of several pages. My friend read it through with considerable attention. 'I congratulate you,' said he, 'and likewise myself; I was not mistaken in my opinion of you; the address is too long by at least two-thirds, or I should rather say it is longer by two-thirds than addresses generally are; but it will do--I will not curtail it of a word. I shall win my election.' And in truth he did win his election; and it was not only his own but the general opinion that he owed it to the address. "But, however that might be, I had, by writing the address, at last discovered what had so long eluded my search--what I was able to do. I, who had neither the nerve nor the command of speech necessary to constitute the orator--who had not the power of patient research required by those who would investigate the secrets of nature, had, nevertheless, a ready pen and teeming imagination. This discovery decided my fate--from that moment I became an author." CHAPTER LXVI. "An author," said I, addressing my host; "is it possible that I am under the roof of an author?" "Yes," said my host, sighing, "my name is so and so, and I am the author of so and so; it is more than probable that you have heard both of my name and works. I will not detain you much longer with my history; the night is advancing, and the storm appears to be upon the increase. My life since the period of my becoming an author may be summed briefly as an almost uninterrupted series of doubts, anxieties and trepidations. I see clearly that it is not good to love anything immoderately in this world, but it has been my misfortune to love immoderately everything on which I have set my heart. This is not good, I repeat--but where is the remedy? The ancients were always in the habit of saying, 'Practise moderation,' but the ancients appear to have considered only one portion of the subject. It is very possible to practice moderation in some things, in drink and the like--to restrain the appetites--but can a man restrain the affections of his mind, and tell them, so far you shall go, and no farther? Alas, no! for the mind is a subtle principle, and cannot be confined. The winds may be imprisoned; Homer says that Odysseus carried certain winds in his ship, confined in leathern bags, but Homer never speaks of confining the affections. It were but right that those who exhort us against inordinate affections, and setting our hearts too much upon the world and its vanities, would tell us how to avoid doing so. "I need scarcely tell you, that no sooner did I become an author, than I gave myself up immoderately to my vocation. It became my idol, and, as a necessary consequence, it has proved a source of misery and disquietude to me, instead of pleasure and blessing. I had trouble enough in writing my first work, and I was not long in discovering that it was one thing to write a stirring and spirited address to a set of county electors, and another widely different to produce a work at all calculated to make an impression upon the great world. I felt, however, that I was in my proper sphere, and by dint of unwearied diligence and exertion I succeeded in evolving from the depths of my agitated breast a work which, though it did not exactly please me, I thought would serve to make an experiment upon the public; so I laid it before the public, and the reception which it met with was far beyond my wildest expectations. The public were delighted with it, but what were my feelings? Anything, alas! but those of delight. No sooner did the public express its satisfaction at the result of my endeavours, than my perverse imagination began to conceive a thousand chimerical doubts; forthwith I sat down to analyse it; and my worst enemy, and all people have their enemies, especially authors--my worst enemy could not have discovered or sought to discover a tenth part of the faults which I, the author and creator of the unfortunate production, found or sought to find in it. It has been said that love makes us blind to the faults of the loved object--common love does, perhaps--the love of a father to his child, or that of a lover to his mistress, but not the inordinate love of an author to his works, at least not the love which one like myself bears to his works: to be brief, I discovered a thousand faults in my work, which neither public nor critics discovered. However, I was beginning to get over this misery, and to forgive my work all its imperfections, when--and I shake when I mention it--the same kind of idea which perplexed me with regard to the hawks and the gypsy pony rushed into my mind, and I forthwith commenced touching the objects around me, in order to baffle the evil chance, as you call it; it was neither more nor less than a doubt of the legality of my claim to the thoughts, expressions and situations contained in the book; that is, to all that constituted the book. How did I get them? How did they come into my mind? Did I invent them? Did they originate with myself? Are they my own, or are they some other body's? You see into what difficulty I had got; I won't trouble you by relating all that I endured at that time, but will merely say that after eating my own heart, as the Italians say, and touching every object that came in my way for six months, I at length flung my book, I mean the copy of it which I possessed, into the fire, and began another. "But it was all in vain; I laboured at this other, finished it, and gave it to the world; and no sooner had I done so, than the same thought was busy in my brain, poisoning all the pleasure which I should otherwise have derived from my work. How did I get all the matter which composed it? Out of my own mind, unquestionably; but how did it come there--was it the indigenous growth of the mind? And then I would sit down and ponder over the various scenes and adventures in my book, endeavouring to ascertain how I came originally to devise them, and by dint of reflecting I remembered that to a single word in conversation, or some simple accident in a street, or on a road, I was indebted for some of the happiest portions of my work; they were but tiny seeds, it is true, which in the soil of my imagination had subsequently become stately trees, but I reflected that without them no stately trees would have been produced, and that, consequently, only a part in the merit of these compositions which charmed the world--for they did charm the world--was due to myself. Thus, a dead fly was in my phial, poisoning all the pleasure which I should otherwise have derived from the result of my brain sweat. 'How hard!' I would exclaim, looking up to the sky, 'how hard! I am like Virgil's sheep, bearing fleeces not for themselves.' But, not to tire you, it fared with my second work as it did with my first; I flung it aside and, in order to forget it, I began a third, on which I am now occupied; but the difficulty of writing it is immense, my extreme desire to be original sadly cramping the powers of my mind; my fastidiousness being so great that I invariably reject whatever ideas I do not think to be legitimately my own. But there is one circumstance to which I cannot help alluding here, as it serves to show what miseries this love of originality must needs bring upon an author. I am constantly discovering that, however original I may wish to be, I am continually producing the same things which other people say or write. Whenever, after producing something which gives me perfect satisfaction, and which has cost me perhaps days and nights of brooding, I chance to take up a book for the sake of a little relaxation, a book which I never saw before, I am sure to find in it something more or less resembling some part of what I have been just composing. You will easily conceive the distress which then comes over me; 'tis then that I am almost tempted to execrate the chance which, by discovering my latent powers, induced me to adopt a profession of such anxiety and misery. "For some time past I have given up reading almost entirely, owing to the dread which I entertain of lighting upon something similar to what I myself have written. I scarcely ever transgress without having almost instant reason to repent. To-day, when I took up the newspaper, I saw in a speech of the Duke of Rhododendron, at an agricultural dinner, the very same ideas, and almost the same expressions which I had put into the mouth of an imaginary personage of mine, on a widely different occasion; you saw how I dashed the newspaper down--you saw how I touched the floor; the touch was to baffle the evil chance, to prevent the critics detecting any similarity between the speech of the Duke of Rhododendron at the agricultural dinner, and the speech of my personage. My sensibility on the subject of my writings is so great, that sometimes a chance word is sufficient to unman me, I apply it to them in a superstitious sense; for example, when you said some time ago that the dark hour was coming on, I applied it to my works--it appeared to bode them evil fortune; you saw how I touched, it was to baffle the evil chance; but I do not confine myself to touching when the fear of the evil chance is upon me. To baffle it I occasionally perform actions which must appear highly incomprehensible; I have been known, when riding in company with other people, to leave the direct road, and make a long circuit by a miry lane to the place to which we were going. I have also been seen attempting to ride across a morass, where I had no business whatever, and in which my horse finally sank up to its saddle-girths, and was only extricated by the help of a multitude of hands. I have, of course, frequently been asked the reason for such conduct, to which I have invariably returned no answer, for I scorn duplicity; whereupon people have looked mysteriously, and sometimes put their fingers to their foreheads. 'And yet it can't be,' I once heard an old gentleman say; 'don't we know what he is capable of?' and the old man was right; I merely did these things to avoid the evil chance, impelled by the strange feeling within me; and this evil chance is invariably connected with my writings, the only things at present which render life valuable to me. If I touch various objects, and ride into miry places, it is to baffle any mischance befalling me as an author, to prevent my books getting into disrepute; in nine cases out of ten to prevent any expressions, thoughts or situations in any work which I am writing from resembling the thoughts, expressions and situations of other authors, for my great wish, as I told you before, is to be original. "I have now related my history, and have revealed to you the secrets of my inmost bosom. I should certainly not have spoken so unreservedly as I have done, had I not discovered in you a kindred spirit. I have long wished for an opportunity of discoursing on the point which forms the peculiar feature of my history with a being who could understand me; and truly it was a lucky chance which brought you to these parts; you who seem to be acquainted with all things strange and singular, and who are as well acquainted with the subject of the magic touch as with all that relates to the star Jupiter, or the mysterious tree at Upsal." Such was the story which my host related to me in the library, amidst the darkness, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning. Both of us remained silent for some time after it was concluded. "It is a singular story," said I, at last, "though I confess that I was prepared for some part of it. Will you permit me to ask you a question?" "Certainly," said my host. "Did you never speak in public?" said I. "Never." "And when you made this speech of yours in the dining-room, commencing with Mr. Speaker, no one was present?" "None in the world, I double-locked the door; what do you mean?" "An idea came into my head--dear me, how the rain is pouring--but, with respect to your present troubles and anxieties, would it not be wise, seeing that authorship causes you so much trouble and anxiety, to give it up altogether?" "Were you an author yourself," replied my host, "you would not talk in this manner; once an author, ever an author--besides, what could I do? return to my former state of vegetation? no, much as I endure, I do not wish that; besides, every now and then my reason tells me that these troubles and anxieties of mine are utterly without foundation; that whatever I write is the legitimate growth of my own mind, and that it is the height of folly to afflict myself at any chance resemblance between my own thoughts and those of other writers, such resemblance being inevitable from the fact of our common human origin. In short--" "I understand you," said I; "notwithstanding your troubles and anxieties you find life very tolerable; has your originality ever been called in question?" "On the contrary, every one declares that originality constitutes the most remarkable feature of my writings; the man has some faults, they say, but want of originality is certainly not one of them. He is quite different from others; a certain newspaper, it is true, the --- {350} I think, once insinuated that in a certain work of mine I had taken a hint or two from the writings of a couple of authors which it mentioned; it happened, however, that I had never even read one syllable of the writings of either, and of one of them had never even heard the name; so much for the discrimination of the ---. By-the-bye, what a rascally newspaper that is!" "A very rascally newspaper," said I. CHAPTER LXVII. During the greater part of that night my slumbers were disturbed by strange dreams. Amongst other things, I fancied that I was my host; my head appeared to be teeming with wild thoughts and imaginations, out of which I was endeavouring to frame a book. And now the book was finished and given to the world, and the world shouted; and all eyes were turned upon me, and I shrunk from the eyes of the world. And, when I got into retired places, I touched various objects in order to baffle the evil chance. In short, during the whole night, I was acting over the story which I had heard before I went to bed. At about eight o'clock I awoke. The storm had long since passed away, and the morning was bright and shining; my couch was so soft and luxurious that I felt loth to quit it, so I lay some time, my eyes wandering about the magnificent room to which fortune had conducted me in so singular a manner; at last I heaved a sigh; I was thinking of my own homeless condition, and imagining where I should find myself on the following morning. Unwilling, however, to indulge in melancholy thoughts, I sprang out of bed and proceeded to dress myself, and, whilst dressing, I felt an irresistible inclination to touch the bed-post. I finished dressing and left the room, feeling compelled, however, as I left it, to touch the lintel of the door. Is it possible, thought I, that from what I have lately heard the long-forgotten influence should have possessed me again? but I will not give way to it; so I hurried down stairs, resisting as I went a certain inclination which I occasionally felt to touch the rail of the bannister. I was presently upon the gravel walk before the house: it was indeed a glorious morning. I stood for some time observing the golden fish disporting in the waters of the pond, and then strolled about amongst the noble trees of the park; the beauty and freshness of the morning--for the air had been considerably cooled by the late storm--soon enabled me to cast away the gloomy ideas which had previously taken possession of my mind, and, after a stroll of about half an hour, I returned towards the house in high spirits. It is true that once I felt very much inclined to go and touch the leaves of a flowery shrub which I saw at some distance, and had even moved two or three paces towards it; but, bethinking myself, I manfully resisted the temptation. "Begone!" I exclaimed, "ye sorceries, in which I formerly trusted--begone for ever vagaries which I had almost forgotten; good luck is not to be obtained, or bad averted, by magic touches; besides, two wizards in one parish would be too much, in all conscience." I returned to the house, and entered the library; breakfast was laid on the table, and my friend was standing before the portrait which I have already said hung above the mantelpiece; so intently was he occupied in gazing at it that he did not hear me enter, nor was aware of my presence till I advanced close to him and spoke, when he turned round, and shook me by the hand. "What can possibly have induced you to hang that portrait up in your library? it is a staring likeness, it is true, but it appears to me a wretched daub." "Daub as you call it," said my friend, smiling, "I would not part with it for the best piece of Raphael. For many a happy thought I am indebted to that picture--it is my principal source of inspiration; when my imagination flags, as of course it occasionally does, I stare upon those features, and forthwith strange ideas of fun and drollery begin to flow into my mind; these I round, amplify, or combine into goodly creations, and bring forth as I find an opportunity. It is true that I am occasionally tormented by the thought that, by doing this, I am committing plagiarism; though in that case, all thoughts must be plagiarisms, all that we think being the result of what we hear, see or feel. What can I do? I must derive my thoughts from some source or other; and, after all, it is better to plagiarise from the features of my landlord than from the works of Butler and Cervantes. My works, as you are aware, are of a serio-comic character. My neighbours are of opinion that I am a great reader, and so I am, but only of those features--my real library is that picture." "But how did you obtain it?" "Some years ago a travelling painter came into this neighbourhood, and my jolly host, at the request of his wife, consented to sit for his portrait; she highly admired the picture, but she soon died, and then my fat friend, who is of an affectionate disposition, said he could not bear the sight of it, as it put him in mind of his poor wife. I purchased it of him for five pounds--I would not take five thousand for it; when you called that picture a daub, you did not see all the poetry of it." We sat down to breakfast; my entertainer appeared to be in much better spirits than on the preceding day; I did not observe him touch once; ere breakfast was over a servant entered--"The Reverend Mr. Platitude, sir," said he. A shade of dissatisfaction came over the countenance of my host. "What does the silly pestilent fellow mean by coming here?" said he, half to himself; "let him come in," said he to the servant. The servant went out, and in a moment reappeared, introducing the Reverend Mr. Platitude. The Reverend Mr. Platitude, having what is vulgarly called a game leg, came shambling into the room; he was about thirty years of age, and about five feet three inches high; his face was of the colour of pepper, and nearly as rugged as a nutmeg grater; his hair was black; with his eyes he squinted, and grinned with his lips, which were very much apart, disclosing two very irregular rows of teeth; he was dressed in the true Levitical fashion, in a suit of spotless black, and a neckerchief of spotless white. The Reverend Mr. Platitude advanced winking and grinning to my entertainer, who received him politely but with evident coldness; nothing daunted, however, the Reverend Mr. Platitude took a seat by the table, and, being asked to take a cup of coffee, winked, grinned and consented. In company I am occasionally subject to fits of what is generally called absence; my mind takes flight and returns to former scenes, or presses forward into the future. One of these fits of absence came over me at this time--I looked at the Reverend Mr. Platitude for a moment, heard a word or two that proceeded from his mouth, and saying to myself, "You are no man for me," fell into a fit of musing--into the same train of thought as in the morning, no very pleasant one--I was thinking of the future. I continued in my reverie for some time, and probably should have continued longer, had I not been suddenly aroused by the voice of Mr. Platitude raised to a very high key. "Yes, my dear sir," said he, "it is but too true; I have it on good authority--a gone church--a lost church--a ruined church--a demolished church is the Church of England. Toleration to Dissenters! oh, monstrous!" "I suppose," said my host, "that the repeal of the Test Acts will be merely a precursor of the emancipation of the Papists?" "Of the Catholics," said the Reverend Mr. Platitude. "Ahem. There was a time, as I believe you are aware, my dear sir, when I was as much opposed to the emancipation of the Catholics as it was possible for any one to be; but I was prejudiced, my dear sir, labouring under a cloud of most unfortunate prejudice; but I thank my Maker I am so no longer. I have travelled, as you are aware. It is only by travelling that one can rub off prejudices; I think you will agree with me there. I am speaking to a traveller. I left behind all my prejudices in Italy. The Catholics are at least our fellow-Christians. I thank Heaven that I am no longer an enemy to Catholic emancipation." "And yet you would not tolerate Dissenters?" "Dissenters, my dear sir; I hope you would not class such a set as the Dissenters with Catholics?" "Perhaps it would be unjust," said my host, "though to which of the two parties is another thing; but permit me to ask you a question: Does it not smack somewhat of paradox to talk of Catholics, whilst you admit there are Dissenters? If there are Dissenters, how should there be Catholics?" "It is not my fault that there are Dissenters," said the Reverend Mr. Platitude; "if I had my will I would neither admit there were any, nor permit any to be." "Of course you would admit there were such as long as they existed; but how would you get rid of them?" "I would have the Church exert its authority." "What do you mean by exerting its authority?" "I would not have the Church bear the sword in vain." "What, the sword of St. Peter? You remember what the founder of the religion which you profess said about the sword, 'He who striketh with it--' I think those who have called themselves the Church have had enough of the sword. Two can play with the sword, Mr. Platitude. The Church of Rome tried the sword with the Lutherans: how did it fare with the Church of Rome? The Church of England tried the sword, Mr. Platitude, with the Puritans: how did it fare with Laud and Charles?" "Oh, as for the Church of England," said Mr. Platitude, "I have little to say. Thank God I left all my Church of England prejudices in Italy. Had the Church of England known its true interests, it would long ago have sought a reconciliation with its illustrious mother. If the Church of England had not been in some degree a schismatic church, it would not have fared so ill at the time of which you are speaking; the rest of the Church would have come to its assistance. The Irish would have helped it, so would the French, so would the Portuguese. Disunion has always been the bane of the Church." Once more I fell into a reverie. My mind now reverted to the past; methought I was in a small, comfortable room wainscoted with oak; I was seated on one side of a fireplace, close by a table on which were wine and fruit; on the other side of the fire sat a man in a plain suit of brown, with the hair combed back from his somewhat high forehead; he had a pipe in his mouth, which for some time he smoked gravely and placidly, without saying a word; at length, after drawing at the pipe for some time rather vigorously, he removed it from his mouth, and emitting an accumulated cloud of smoke, he exclaimed in a slow and measured tone: "As I was telling you just now, my good chap, I have always been an enemy to humbug". When I awoke from my reverie the Reverend Mr. Platitude was quitting the apartment. "Who is that person?" said I to my entertainer, as the door closed behind him. "Who is he?" said my host; "why, the Rev. Mr. Platitude." "Does he reside in this neighbourhood?" "He holds a living about three miles from here; his history, as far as I am acquainted with it, is as follows: His father was a respectable tanner in the neighbouring town, who, wishing to make his son a gentleman, sent him to college. Having never been at college myself, I cannot say whether he took the wisest course; I believe it is more easy to unmake than to make a gentleman; I have known many gentlemanly youths go to college, and return anything but what they went. Young Mr. Platitude did not go to college a gentleman, but neither did he return one; he went to college an ass, and returned a prig; to his original folly was superadded a vast quantity of conceit. He told his father that he had adopted high principles, and was determined to discountenance everything low and mean; advised him to eschew trade, and to purchase him a living. The old man retired from business, purchased his son a living, and shortly after died, leaving him what remained of his fortune. The first thing the Reverend Mr. Platitude did after his father's decease, was to send his mother and sister into Wales to live upon a small annuity, assigning as a reason that he was averse to anything low and that they talked ungrammatically. Wishing to shine in the pulpit, he now preached high sermons, as he called them, interspersed with scraps of learning. His sermons did not, however, procure him much popularity; on the contrary, his church soon became nearly deserted, the greater part of his flock going over to certain dissenting preachers, who had shortly before made their appearance in the neighbourhood. Mr. Platitude was filled with wrath, and abused Dissenters in most unmeasured terms. Coming in contact with some of the preachers at a public meeting, he was rash enough to enter into argument with them. Poor Platitude! he had better have been quiet, he appeared like a child, a very infant in their grasp; he attempted to take shelter under his college learning, but found, to his dismay, that his opponents knew more Greek and Latin than himself. These illiterate boors, as he had supposed them, caught him at once in a false concord, and Mr. Platitude had to slink home overwhelmed with shame. To avenge himself he applied to the ecclesiastical court, but was told that the Dissenters could not be put down by the present ecclesiastical law. He found the Church of England, to use his own expression, a poor, powerless, restricted Church. He now thought to improve his consequence by marriage, and made up to a rich and beautiful young lady in the neighbourhood; the damsel measured him from head to foot with a pair of very sharp eyes, dropped a curtsey, and refused him. Mr. Platitude, finding England a very stupid place, determined to travel; he went to Italy; how he passed his time there he knows best, to other people it is a matter of little importance. At the end of two years he returned with a real or assumed contempt for everything English, and especially for the Church to which he belongs, and out of which he is supported. He forthwith gave out that he had left behind him all his Church of England prejudices, and, as a proof thereof, spoke against sacerdotal wedlock and the toleration of schismatics. In an evil hour for myself he was introduced to me by a clergyman of my acquaintance, and from that time I have been pestered, as I was this morning, at least once a week. I seldom enter into any discussion with him, but fix my eyes on the portrait over the mantelpiece, and endeavour to conjure up some comic idea or situation, whilst he goes on talking tomfoolery by the hour about Church authority, schismatics, and the unlawfulness of sacerdotal wedlock; occasionally he brings with him a strange kind of being, whose acquaintance he says he made in Italy. I believe he is some sharking priest, who has come over to proselytize and plunder. This being has some powers of conversation and some learning, but carries the countenance of an arch villain; Platitude is evidently his tool." "Of what religion are you?" said I to my host. "That of the Vicar of Wakefield--good, quiet, Church of England which would live and let live, practises charity, and rails at no one; where the priest is the husband of one wife, takes care of his family and his parish--such is the religion for me, though I confess I have hitherto thought too little of religious matters. When, however, I have completed this plaguy work on which I am engaged, I hope to be able to devote more attention to them." After some further conversation, the subjects being, if I remember right, college education, priggism, church authority, tomfoolery, and the like, I rose and said to my host, "I must now leave you". "Whither are you going?" "I do not know." "Stay here, then--you shall be welcome as many days, months, and years as you please to stay." "Do you think I would hang upon another man? No, not if he were Emperor of all the Chinas. I will now make my preparations, and then bid you farewell." I retired to my apartment and collected the handful of things which I carried with me on my travels. "I will walk a little way with you," said my friend on my return. He walked with me to the park gate; neither of us said anything by the way. When we had come upon the road, I said: "Farewell now; I will not permit you to give yourself any further trouble on my account. Receive my best thanks for your kindness; before we part, however, I should wish to ask you a question. Do you think you shall ever grow tired of authorship?" "I have my fears," said my friend, advancing his hand to one of the iron bars of the gate. "Don't touch," said I, "it is a bad habit. I have but one word to add: should you ever grow tired of authorship follow your first idea of getting into Parliament; you have words enough at command; perhaps you want manner and method; but, in that case, you must apply to a teacher, you must take lessons of a master of elocution." "That would never do!" said my host; "I know myself too well to think of applying for assistance to any one. Were I to become a parliamentary orator, I should wish to be an original one, even if not above mediocrity. What pleasure should I take in any speech I might make, however original as to thought, provided the gestures I employed and the very modulation of my voice were not my own? Take lessons, indeed! why, the fellow who taught me, the professor, might be standing in the gallery whilst I spoke; and, at the best parts of my speech, might say to himself: 'That gesture is mine--that modulation is mine'. I could not bear the thought of such a thing." "Farewell," said I, "and may you prosper. I have nothing more to say." I departed. At the distance of twenty yards I turned round suddenly; my friend was just withdrawing his finger from the bar of the gate. "He has been touching," said I, as I proceeded on my way; "I wonder what was the evil chance he wished to baffle." [_End of Vol. II._, 1851.] CHAPTER LXVIII. After walking some time, I found myself on the great road, at the same spot where I had turned aside the day before with my new-made acquaintance, in the direction of his house. I now continued my journey as before, towards the north. The weather, though beautiful, was much cooler than it had been for some time past; I walked at a great rate, with a springing and elastic step. In about two hours I came to where a kind of cottage stood a little way back from the road, with a huge oak before it, under the shade of which stood a little pony and cart, which seemed to contain various articles. I was going past, when I saw scrawled over the door of the cottage, "Good beer sold here"; upon which, feeling myself all of a sudden very thirsty, I determined to go in and taste the beverage. I entered a well-sanded kitchen, and seated myself on a bench, on one side of a long white table; the other side, which was nearest to the wall, was occupied by a party, or rather family, consisting of a grimy- looking man, somewhat under the middle size, dressed in faded velveteens, and wearing a leather apron--a rather pretty-looking woman, but sun-burnt, and meanly dressed, and two ragged children, a boy and girl, about four or five years old. The man sat with his eyes fixed upon the table, supporting his chin with both his hands; the woman, who was next to him, sat quite still, save that occasionally she turned a glance upon her husband with eyes that appeared to have been lately crying. The children had none of the vivacity so general at their age. A more disconsolate family I had never seen; a mug, which, when filled, might contain half a pint, stood empty before them; a very disconsolate party indeed. "House!" said I; "House!" and then as nobody appeared, I cried again as loud as I could, "House! do you hear me, House!" "What's your pleasure, young man?" said an elderly woman, who now made her appearance from a side apartment. "To taste your ale," said I. "How much?" said the woman, stretching out her hand towards the empty mug upon the table. "The largest measure-full in your house," said I, putting back her hand gently. "This is not the season for half-pint mugs." "As you will, young man," said the landlady, and presently brought in an earthen pitcher which might contain about three pints, and which foamed and frothed withal. "Will this pay for it?" said I, putting down sixpence. "I have to return you a penny," said the landlady, putting her hand into her pocket. "I want no change," said I, flourishing my hand with an air. "As you please, young gentleman," said the landlady, and then making a kind of curtsey, she again retired to the side apartment. "Here is your health, sir," said I to the grimy-looking man, as I raised the pitcher to my lips. The tinker, for such I supposed him to be, without altering his posture, raised his eyes, looked at me for a moment, gave a slight nod, and then once more fixed his eyes upon the table. I took a draught of the ale, which I found excellent; "won't you drink?" said I, holding the pitcher to the tinker. The man again lifted his eyes, looked at me, and then at the pitcher, and then at me again. I thought at one time that he was about to shake his head in sign of refusal, but no, he looked once more at the pitcher, and the temptation was too strong. Slowly removing his head from his arms, he took the pitcher, sighed, nodded, and drank a tolerable quantity, and then set the pitcher down before me upon the table. "You had better mend your draught," said I to the tinker; "it is a sad heart that never rejoices." "That's true," said the tinker, and again raising the pitcher to his lips, he mended his draught as I had bidden him, drinking a larger quantity than before. "Pass it to your wife," said I. The poor woman took the pitcher from the man's hand; before, however, raising it to her lips, she looked at the children. True mother's heart, thought I to myself, and taking the half-pint mug, I made her fill it, and then held it to the children, causing each to take a draught. The woman wiped her eyes with the corner of her gown before she raised the pitcher and drank to my health. In about five minutes none of the family looked half so disconsolate as before, and the tinker and I were in deep discourse. Oh, genial and gladdening is the power of good ale, the true and proper drink of Englishmen. He is not deserving of the name of Englishman who speaketh against ale, that is good ale, like that which has just made merry the hearts of this poor family; and yet there are beings, calling themselves Englishmen, who say that it is a sin to drink a cup of ale, and who, on coming to this passage will be tempted to fling down the book and exclaim: "The man is evidently a bad man, for behold, by his own confession, he is not only fond of ale himself, but is in the habit of tempting other people with it". Alas! alas! what a number of silly individuals there are in this world; I wonder what they would have had me do in this instance--given the afflicted family a cup of cold water? go to! They could have found water in the road, for there was a pellucid spring only a few yards distant from the house, as they were well aware--but they wanted not water; what should I have given them? meat and bread? go to! They were not hungry; there was stifled sobbing in their bosoms, and the first mouthful of strong meat would have choked them. What should I have given them? Money! what right had I to insult them by offering them money? Advice! words, words, words; friends, there is a time for everything; there is a time for a cup of cold water; there is a time for strong meat and bread; there is a time for advice, and there is a time for ale; and I have generally found that the time for advice is after a cup of ale--I do not say many cups; the tongue then speaketh more smoothly, and the ear listeneth more benignantly; but why do I attempt to reason with you? do I not know you for conceited creatures, with one idea--and that a foolish one--a crotchet, for the sake of which ye would sacrifice anything, religion if required--country? There, fling down my book, I do not wish ye to walk any farther in my company, unless you cast your nonsense away, which ye will never do, for it is the breath of your nostrils; fling down my book, it was not written to support a crotchet, for know one thing, my good people, I have invariably been an enemy to humbug. "Well," said the tinker, after we had discoursed some time, "I little thought when I first saw you, that you were of my own trade." _Myself_.--Nor am I, at least not exactly. There is not much difference, 'tis true, between a tinker and a smith. _Tinker_.--You are a whitesmith, then? _Myself_.--Not I, I'd scorn to be anything so mean; no, friend, black's the colour; I am a brother of the horseshoe. Success to the hammer and tongs. _Tinker_.--Well, I shouldn't have thought you were a blacksmith by your hands. _Myself_.--I have seen them, however, as black as yours. The truth is, I have not worked for many a day. _Tinker_.--Where did you serve first? _Myself_.--In Ireland. _Tinker_.--That's a good way off, isn't it? _Myself_.--Not very far; over those mountains to the left, and the run of salt water that lies behind them, there's Ireland. _Tinker_.--It's a fine thing to be a scholar. _Myself_.--Not half so fine as to be a tinker. _Tinker_.--How you talk! _Myself_.--Nothing but the truth; what can be better than to be one's own master? Now, a tinker is his own master, a scholar is not. Let us suppose the best of scholars, a schoolmaster, for example, for I suppose you will admit that no one can be higher in scholarship than a schoolmaster; do you call his a pleasant life? I don't; we should call him a school-slave, rather than a schoolmaster. Only conceive him in blessed weather like this, in his close school, teaching children to write in copy-books, "Evil communication corrupts good manners," or "You cannot touch pitch without defilement," or to spell out of Abedariums, or to read out of Jack Smith, or Sandford and Merton. Only conceive him, I say, drudging in such guise from morning till night, without any rational enjoyment but to beat the children. Would you compare such a dog's life as that with your own--the happiest under heaven--true Eden life, as the Germans would say,--pitching your tent under the pleasant hedge-row, listening to the song of the feathered tribes, collecting all the leaky kettles in the neighbourhood, soldering and joining, earning your honest bread by the wholesome sweat of your brow--making ten holes--hey, what's this? what's the man crying for? Suddenly the tinker had covered his face with his hands, and begun to sob and moan like a man in the deepest distress; the breast of his wife was heaved with emotion; even the children were agitated, the youngest began to roar. _Myself_.--What's the matter with you; what are you all crying about? _Tinker_ (uncovering his face).--Lord, why to hear you talk; isn't that enough to make anybody cry--even the poor babes? Yes, you said right, 'tis life in the garden of Eden--the tinker's; I see so now that I'm about to give it up. _Myself_.--Give it up! you must not think of such a thing. _Tinker_.--No, I can't bear to think of it, and yet I must; what's to be done? How hard to be frightened to death, to be driven off the roads. _Myself_.--Who has driven you off the roads? _Tinker_.--Who! the Flaming Tinman. _Myself_.--Who is he? _Tinker_.--The biggest rogue in England, and the cruellest, or he wouldn't have served me as he has done--I'll tell you all about it. I was born upon the roads, and so was my father before me, and my mother too; and I worked with them as long as they lived, as a dutiful child, for I have nothing to reproach myself with on their account; and when my father died I took up the business, and went his beat, and supported my mother for the little time she lived; and when she died I married this young woman, who was not born upon the roads, but was a small tradesman's daughter, at Glo'ster. She had a kindness for me, and, notwithstanding her friends were against the match, she married the poor tinker, and came to live with him upon the roads. Well, young man, for six or seven years I was the happiest fellow breathing, living just the life you described just now--respected by everybody in this beat; when in an evil hour comes this Black Jack, this flaming tinman, into these parts, driven as they say out of Yorkshire--for no good, you may be sure. Now, there is no beat will support two tinkers, as you doubtless know; mine was a good one, but it would not support the flying tinker and myself, though if it would have supported twenty it would have been all the same to the flying villain, who'll brook no one but himself; so he presently finds me out, and offers to fight me for the beat. Now, being bred upon the roads, I can fight a little, that is with anything like my match, but I was not going to fight him, who happens to be twice my size, and so I told him; whereupon he knocks me down, and would have done me further mischief had not some men been nigh and prevented him; so he threatened to cut my throat, and went his way. Well, I did not like such usage at all, and was woundily frightened, and tried to keep as much out of his way as possible, going anywhere but where I thought I was likely to meet him; and sure enough for several months I contrived to keep out of his way. At last somebody told me he was gone back to Yorkshire, whereupon I was glad at heart, and ventured to show myself, going here and there as I did before. Well, young man, it was yesterday that I and mine set ourselves down in a lane about five miles from here, and lighted our fire, and had our dinner, and after dinner I sat down to mend three kettles and a frying pan which the people in the neighbourhood had given me to mend--for, as I told you before, I have a good connection, owing to my honesty. Well, as I sat there hard at work, happy as the day's long, and thinking of anything but what was to happen, who should come up but this Black Jack, this king of the tinkers, rattling along in his cart, with his wife, that they call Grey Moll, by his side--for the villain has got a wife, and a maid servant too; the last I never saw, but they that has, says that she is as big as a house, and young, and well to look at, which can't be all said of Moll, who, though she's big enough in all conscience, is neither young nor handsome. Well, no sooner does he see me and mine, than giving the reins to Grey Moll, he springs out of his cart, and comes straight at me; not a word did he say, but on he comes straight at me like a wild bull. I am a quiet man, young fellow, but I saw now that quietness would be of no use, so I sprang up upon my legs, and being bred upon the roads, and able to fight a little, I squared as he came running in upon me, and had a round or two with him. Lord bless you, young man, it was like a fly fighting with an elephant--one of those big beasts the show-folks carry about. I had not a chance with the fellow, he knocked me here, he knocked me there, knocked me into the hedge, and knocked me out again. I was at my last shifts, and my poor wife saw it. Now, my poor wife, though she is as gentle as a pigeon, has yet a spirit of her own, and though she wasn't bred upon the roads, can scratch a little, so when she saw me at my last shifts, she flew at the villain--she couldn't bear to see her partner murdered--and she scratched the villain's face. Lord bless you, young man, she had better have been quiet: Grey Moll no sooner saw what she was about, than springing out of the cart, where she had sat all along perfectly quiet, save a little whooping and screeching to encourage her blade--Grey Moll, I say (my flesh creeps when I think of it--for I am a kind husband, and love my poor wife)-- _Myself_.--Take another draught of the ale; you look frightened, and it will do you good. Stout liquor makes stout heart, as the man says in the play. _Tinker_.--That's true, young man; here's to you--where was I? Grey Moll no sooner saw what my wife was about, than springing out of the cart, she flew at my poor wife, clawed off her bonnet in a moment, and seized hold of her hair. Lord bless you, young man, my poor wife, in the hands of Grey Moll, was nothing better than a pigeon in the claws of a buzzard hawk, or I in the hands of the Flaming Tinman, which when I saw, my heart was fit to burst, and I determined to give up everything--everything to save my poor wife out of Grey Moll's claws. "Hold!" I shouted. "Hold, both of you--Jack, Moll. Hold, both of you, for God's sake, and I'll do what you will: give up trade and business, connection, bread, and everything, never more travel the roads, and go down on my knees to you in the bargain." Well, this had some effect: Moll let go my wife, and the Blazing Tinman stopped for a moment; it was only for a moment, however, that he left off--all of a sudden he hit me a blow which sent me against a tree; and what did the villain then? why the flying villain seized me by the throat, and almost throttled me, roaring--what do you think, young man, that the flaming villain roared out? _Myself_.--I really don't know--something horrible, I suppose. _Tinker_.--Horrible, indeed; you may well say horrible, young man; neither more nor less than the Bible--"a Bible, a Bible!" roared the Blazing Tinman; and he pressed my throat so hard against the tree that my senses began to dwaul away--a Bible, a Bible, still ringing in my ears. Now, young man, my poor wife is a Christian woman, and, though she travels the roads, carries a Bible with her at the bottom of her sack, with which sometimes she teaches the children to read--it was the only thing she brought with her from the place of her kith and kin, save her own body and the clothes on her back; so my poor wife, half-distracted, runs to her sack, pulls out the Bible, and puts it into the hand of the Blazing Tinman, who then thrusts the end of it into my mouth with such fury that it made my lips bleed, and broke short one of my teeth which happened to be decayed. "Swear," said he, "swear you mumping villain, take your Bible oath that you will quit and give up the beat altogether, or I'll"--and then the hard-hearted villain made me swear by the Bible, and my own damnation, half-throttled as I was--to--to--I can't go on-- _Myself_.--Take another draught--stout liquor-- _Tinker_.--I can't, young man, my heart's too full, and what's more, the pitcher is empty. _Myself_.--And so he swore you, I suppose, on the Bible, to quit the roads? _Tinker_.--You are right, he did so, the gypsy villain. _Myself_.--Gypsy! Is he a gypsy? _Tinker_.--Not exactly; what they call a half and half. His father was a gypsy, and his mother, like mine, one who walked the roads. _Myself_.--Is he of the Smiths--the Petulengres? _Tinker_.--I say, young man, you know a thing or two; one would think, to hear you talk, you had been bred upon the roads. I thought none but those bred upon the roads knew anything of that name--Petulengres! No, not he, he fights the Petulengres whenever he meets them; he likes nobody but himself, and wants to be king of the roads. I believe he is a Boss, or a --- at any rate he's a bad one, as I know to my cost. _Myself_.--And what are you going to do? _Tinker_.--Do! you may well ask that; I don't know what to do. My poor wife and I have been talking of that all the morning, over that half-pint mug of beer; we can't determine on what's to be done. All we know is, that we must quit the roads. The villain swore that the next time he saw us on the roads he'd cut all our throats, and seize our horse and bit of a cart that are now standing out there under the tree. _Myself_.--And what do you mean to do with your horse and cart? _Tinker_.--Another question! What shall we do with our cart and pony? they are of no use to us now. Stay on the roads I will not, both for my oath's sake and my own. If we had a trifle of money, we were thinking of going to Bristol, where I might get up a little business, but we have none; our last three farthings we spent about the mug of beer. _Myself_.--But why don't you sell your horse and cart? _Tinker_.--Sell them? And who would buy them, unless some one who wished to set up in my line; but there's no beat, and what's the use of the horse and cart and the few tools without the beat? _Myself_.--I'm half-inclined to buy your cart and pony, and your beat too. _Tinker_.--You! How came you to think of such a thing? _Myself_.--Why, like yourself, I hardly know what to do. I want a home and work. As for a home, I suppose I can contrive to make a home out of your tent and cart; and as for work, I must learn to be a tinker, it would not be hard for one of my trade to learn to tinker; what better can I do? Would you have me go to Chester and work there now? I don't like the thoughts of it. If I go to Chester and work there, I can't be my own man; I must work under a master, and perhaps he and I should quarrel, and when I quarrel I am apt to hit folks, and those that hit folks are sometimes sent to prison; I don't like the thought either of going to Chester or to Chester prison. What do you think I could earn at Chester? _Tinker_.--A matter of eleven shillings a week, if anybody would employ you, which I don't think they would with those hands of yours. But whether they would or not, if you are of a quarrelsome nature, you must not go to Chester; you would be in the castle in no time. I don't know how to advise you. As for selling you my stock, I'd see you farther first, for your own sake. _Myself_.--Why? _Tinker_.--Why! you would get your head knocked off. Suppose you were to meet him? _Myself_.--Pooh, don't be afraid on my account; if I were to meet him I could easily manage him one way or other. I know all kinds of strange words and names, and, as I told you before, I sometimes hit people when they put me out. Here the tinker's wife, who for some minutes past had been listening attentively to our discourse, interposed, saying, in a low, soft tone: "I really don't see, John, why you shouldn't sell the young man the things, seeing that he wishes for them, and is so confident; you have told him plainly how matters stand, and if anything ill should befall him, people couldn't lay the blame on you; but I don't think any ill will befall him, and who knows but God has sent him to our assistance in time of need." "I'll hear of no such thing," said the tinker; "I have drunk at the young man's expense, and though he says he's quarrelsome, I would not wish to sit in pleasanter company. A pretty fellow I should be, now, if I were to let him follow his own will. If he once sets up on my beat, he's a lost man, his ribs will be stove in, and his head knocked off his shoulders. There, you are crying, but you shan't have your will, though; I won't be the young man's destruction--If, indeed, I thought he could manage the tinker--but he never can; he says he can hit, but it's no use hitting the tinker;--crying still! you are enough to drive one mad. I say, young man, I believe you understand a thing or two; just now you were talking of knowing hard words and names--I don't wish to send you to your mischief--you say you know hard words and names, let us see. Only on one condition I'll sell you the pony and things; as for the beat it's gone, isn't mine--sworn away by my own mouth. Tell me what's my name; if you can't, may I--" _Myself_.--Don't swear, it's a bad habit, neither pleasant nor profitable. Your name is Slingsby--Jack Slingsby. There, don't stare, there's nothing in my telling you your name: I've been in these parts before, at least not very far from here. Ten years ago, when I was little more than a child, I was about twenty miles from here in a post- chaise at the door of an inn, and as I looked from the window of the chaise, I saw you standing by a gutter with a big tin ladle in your hand, and somebody called you Jack Slingsby. I never forget anything I hear or see; I can't, I wish I could. So there's nothing strange in my knowing your name; indeed, there's nothing strange in anything, provided you examine it to the bottom. Now, what am I to give you for the things? I paid Slingsby five pounds ten shillings for his stock in trade, cart, and pony--purchased sundry provisions of the landlady, also a wagoner's frock, which had belonged to a certain son of hers, deceased, gave my little animal a feed of corn, and prepared to depart. "God bless you, young man," said Slingsby, shaking me by the hand, "you are the best friend I've had for many a day: I have but one thing to tell you: 'Don't cross that fellow's path if you can help it; and stay--should the pony refuse to go, just touch him so, and he'll fly like the wind.'" CHAPTER LXIX. It was two or three hours past noon when I took my departure from the place of the last adventure, walking by the side of my little cart; the pony, invigorated by the corn, to which he was probably not much accustomed, proceeded right gallantly; so far from having to hasten him forward by the particular application which the tinker had pointed out to me, I had rather to repress his eagerness, being, though an excellent pedestrian, not unfrequently left behind. The country through which I passed was beautiful and interesting, but solitary: few habitations appeared. As it was quite a matter of indifference to me in what direction I went, the whole world being before me, I allowed the pony to decide upon the matter; it was not long before he left the high road, being probably no friend to public places. I followed him I knew not whither, but, from subsequent observation, have reason to suppose that our course was in a north-west direction. At length night came upon us, and a cold wind sprang up, which was succeeded by a drizzling rain. I had originally intended to pass the night in the cart, or to pitch my little tent on some convenient spot by the road's side; but, owing to the alteration in the weather, I thought that it would be advisable to take up my quarters in any hedge alehouse at which I might arrive. To tell the truth, I was not very sorry to have an excuse to pass the night once more beneath a roof. I had determined to live quite independent, but I had never before passed a night by myself abroad, and felt a little apprehensive at the idea; I hoped, however, on the morrow, to be a little more prepared for the step, so I determined for one night--only for one night longer--to sleep like a Christian; but human determinations are not always put into effect, such a thing as opportunity is frequently wanting, such was the case here. I went on for a considerable time, in expectation of coming to some rustic hostelry, but nothing of the kind presented itself to my eyes; the country in which I now was seemed almost uninhabited, not a house of any kind was to be seen--at least I saw none--though it is true houses might be near without my seeing them, owing to the darkness of the night, for neither moon nor star was abroad. I heard, occasionally, the bark of dogs; but the sound appeared to come from an immense distance. The rain still fell, and the ground beneath my feet was wet and miry; in short, it was a night in which even a tramper by profession would feel more comfortable in being housed than abroad. I followed in the rear of the cart, the pony still proceeding at a sturdy pace, till methought I heard other hoofs than those of my own nag; I listened for a moment, and distinctly heard the sound of hoofs approaching at a great rate, and evidently from the quarter towards which I and my little caravan were moving. We were in a dark lane--so dark that it was impossible for me to see my own hand. Apprehensive that some accident might occur, I ran forward, and, seizing the pony by the bridle, drew him as near as I could to the hedge. On came the hoofs--trot, trot, trot; and evidently more than those of one horse; their speed as they advanced appeared to slacken--it was only, however, for a moment. I heard a voice cry, "Push on, this is a desperate robbing place, never mind the dark"; and the hoofs came on quicker than before. "Stop!" said I, at the top of my voice; "stop! or--" Before I could finish what I was about to say there was a stumble, a heavy fall, a cry, and a groan, and putting out my foot I felt what I conjectured to be the head of a horse stretched upon the road. "Lord have mercy upon us! what's the matter?" exclaimed a voice. "Spare my life," cried another voice, apparently from the ground; "only spare my life, and take all I have." "Where are you, Master Wise?" cried the other voice. "Help! here, Master Bat," cried the voice from the ground, "help me up or I shall be murdered." "Why, what's the matter?" said Bat. "Some one has knocked me down, and is robbing me," said the voice from the ground. "Help! murder!" cried Bat; and, regardless of the entreaties of the man on the ground that he would stay and help him up, he urged his horse forward and galloped away as fast as he could. I remained for some time quiet, listening to various groans and exclamations uttered by the person on the ground; at length I said, "Holloa! are you hurt?" "Spare my life, and take all I have!" said the voice from the ground. "Have they not done robbing you yet?" said I; "when they have finished let me know, and I will come and help you." "Who is that?" said the voice; "pray come and help me, and do me no mischief." "You were saying that some one was robbing you," said I; "don't think I shall come till he is gone away." "Then you ben't he?" said the voice. "Ar'n't you robbed?" said I. "Can't say I be," said the voice; "not yet at any rate; but who are you? I don't know you." "A traveller whom you and your partner were going to run over in this dark lane; you almost frightened me out of my senses." "Frightened!" said the voice, in a louder tone; "frightened! oh!" and thereupon I heard somebody getting upon his legs. This accomplished, the individual proceeded to attend to his horse, and with a little difficulty raised him upon his legs also. "Ar'n't you hurt?" said I. "Hurt!" said the voice; "not I; don't think it, whatever the horse may be. I tell you what, my fellow, I thought you were a robber, and now I find you are not; I have a good mind--" "To do what?" "To serve you out; ar'n't you ashamed--?" "At what?" said I; "not to have robbed you? Shall I set about it now?" "Ha, ha!" said the man, dropping the bullying tone which he had assumed; "you are joking--robbing! who talks of robbing? I wonder how my horse's knees are; not much hurt, I think--only mired." The man, whoever he was, then got upon his horse; and, after moving him about a little, said, "Good- night, friend; where are you?" "Here I am," said I, "just behind you." "You are, are you? Take that." I know not what he did, but probably pricking his horse with the spur the animal kicked out violently; one of his heels struck me on the shoulder, but luckily missed my face; I fell back with the violence of the blow, whilst the fellow scampered off at a great rate. Stopping at some distance, he loaded me with abuse, and then, continuing his way at a rapid trot, I heard no more of him. "What a difference!" said I, getting up; "last night I was _feted_ in the hall of a rich genius, and to-night I am knocked down and mired in a dark lane by the heel of Master Wise's horse--I wonder who gave him that name? And yet he was wise enough to wreak his revenge upon me, and I was not wise enough to keep out of his way. Well, I am not much hurt, so it is of little consequence." I now bethought me that, as I had a carriage of my own, I might as well make use of it; I therefore got into the cart, and, taking the reins in my hand, gave an encouraging cry to the pony, whereupon the sturdy little animal started again at as brisk a pace as if he had not already come many a long mile. I lay half-reclining in the cart, holding the reins lazily, and allowing the animal to go just where he pleased, often wondering where he would conduct me. At length I felt drowsy, and my head sank upon my breast; I soon aroused myself, but it was only to doze again; this occurred several times. Opening my eyes after a doze somewhat longer than the others, I found that the drizzling rain had ceased, a corner of the moon was apparent in the heavens, casting a faint light; I looked around for a moment or two, but my eyes and brain were heavy with slumber, and I could scarcely distinguish where we were. I had a kind of dim consciousness that we were traversing an uninclosed country--perhaps a heath; I thought, however, that I saw certain large black objects looming in the distance, which I had a confused idea might be woods or plantations; the pony still moved at his usual pace. I did not find the jolting of the cart at all disagreeable; on the contrary, it had quite a somniferous effect upon me. Again my eyes closed; I opened them once more, but with less perception in them than before, looked forward, and, muttering something about woodlands, I placed myself in an easier posture than I had hitherto done, and fairly fell asleep. How long I continued in that state I am unable to say, but I believe for a considerable time; I was suddenly awakened by the ceasing of the jolting to which I had become accustomed, and of which I was perfectly sensible in my sleep. I started up and looked around me, the moon was still shining, and the face of the heaven was studded with stars; I found myself amidst a maze of bushes of various kinds, but principally hazel and holly, through which was a path or driftway with grass growing on either side, upon which the pony was already diligently browsing. I conjectured that this place had been one of the haunts of his former master, and, on dismounting and looking about, was strengthened in that opinion by finding a spot under an ash tree which, from its burnt and blackened appearance, seemed to have been frequently used as a fireplace. I will take up my quarters here, thought I; it is an excellent spot for me to commence my new profession in; I was quite right to trust myself to the guidance of the pony. Unharnessing the animal without delay, I permitted him to browse at free will on the grass, convinced that he would not wander far from a place to which he was so much attached; I then pitched the little tent close beside the ash tree to which I have alluded, and conveyed two or three articles into it, and instantly felt that I had commenced housekeeping for the first time in my life. Housekeeping, however, without a fire is a very sorry affair, something like the housekeeping of children in their toy houses; of this I was the more sensible from feeling very cold and shivering, owing to my late exposure to the rain, and sleeping in the night air. Collecting, therefore, all the dry sticks and furze I could find, I placed them upon the fireplace, adding certain chips and a billet which I found in the cart, it having apparently been the habit of Slingsby to carry with him a small store of fuel. Having then struck a spark in a tinder-box and lighted a match, I set fire to the combustible heap, and was not slow in raising a cheerful blaze; I then drew my cart near the fire, and, seating myself on one of the shafts, hung over the warmth with feelings of intense pleasure and satisfaction. Having continued in this posture for a considerable time, I turned my eyes to the heaven in the direction of a particular star; I, however, could not find the star, nor indeed many of the starry train, the greater number having fled, from which circumstance, and from the appearance of the sky, I concluded that morning was nigh. About this time I again began to feel drowsy; I therefore arose, and having prepared for myself a kind of couch in the tent, I flung myself upon it and went to sleep. I will not say that I was awakened in the morning by the carolling of birds, as I perhaps might if I were writing a novel; I awoke because, to use vulgar language, I had slept my sleep out, not because the birds were carolling around me in numbers, as they had probably been for hours without my hearing them. I got up and left my tent; the morning was yet more bright than that of the preceding day. Impelled by curiosity, I walked about, endeavouring to ascertain to what place chance, or rather the pony, had brought me; following the driftway for some time, amidst bushes and stunted trees, I came to a grove of dark pines, through which it appeared to lead; I tracked it a few hundred yards, but seeing nothing but trees, and the way being wet and sloughy, owing to the recent rain, I returned on my steps, and, pursuing the path in another direction, came to a sandy road leading over a common, doubtless the one I had traversed the preceding night. My curiosity satisfied, I returned to my little encampment, and on the way beheld a small footpath on the left winding through the bushes, which had before escaped my observation. Having reached my tent and cart, I breakfasted on some of the provisions which I had procured the day before, and then proceeded to take a regular account of the stock formerly possessed by Slingsby the tinker, but now become my own by right of lawful purchase. Besides the pony, the cart, and the tent, I found I was possessed of a mattress stuffed with straw on which to lie, and a blanket to cover me, the last quite clean and nearly new; then there was a frying-pan and a kettle, the first for cooking any food which required cooking, and the second for heating any water which I might wish to heat. I likewise found an earthen teapot and two or three cups; of the first I should rather say I found the remains, it being broken in three parts, no doubt since it came into my possession, which would have precluded the possibility of my asking anybody to tea for the present, should anybody visit me, even supposing I had tea and sugar, which was not the case. I then overhauled what might more strictly be called the stock in trade; this consisted of various tools, an iron ladle, a chafing pan and small bellows, sundry pans and kettles, the latter being of tin, with the exception of one which was of copper, all in a state of considerable dilapidation--if I may use the term; of these first Slingsby had spoken in particular, advising me to mend them as soon as possible, and to endeavour to sell them, in order that I might have the satisfaction of receiving some return upon the outlay which I had made. There was likewise a small quantity of block tin, sheet tin, and solder. "This Slingsby," said I, "is certainly a very honest man, he has sold me more than my money's worth; I believe, however, there is something more in the cart." Thereupon I rumaged the farther end of the cart, and, amidst a quantity of straw, I found a small anvil and bellows of that kind which are used in forges, and two hammers such as smiths use, one great, and the other small. The sight of these last articles caused me no little surprise, as no word which had escaped from the mouth of Slingsby had given me reason to suppose that he had ever followed the occupation of a smith; yet, if he had not, how did he come by them? I sat down upon the shaft, and pondered the question deliberately in my mind; at length I concluded that he had come by them by one of those numerous casualties which occur upon the roads, of which I, being a young hand upon the roads, must have a very imperfect conception; honestly, of course--for I scouted the idea that Slingsby would have stolen this blacksmith's gear--for I had the highest opinion of his honesty, which opinion I still retain at the present day, which is upwards of twenty years from the time of which I am speaking, during the whole of which period I have neither seen the poor fellow, nor received any intelligence of him. CHAPTER LXX. I passed the greater part of the day in endeavouring to teach myself the mysteries of my new profession. I cannot say that I was very successful, but the time passed agreeably, and was therefore not ill spent. Towards evening I flung my work aside, took some refreshment, and afterwards a walk. This time I turned up the small footpath, of which I have already spoken. It led in a zigzag manner through thickets of hazel, elder and sweet briar; after following its windings for somewhat better than a furlong, I heard a gentle sound of water, and presently came to a small rill, which ran directly across the path. I was rejoiced at the sight, for I had already experienced the want of water, which I yet knew must be nigh at hand, as I was in a place to all appearance occasionally frequented by wandering people, who I was aware never take up their quarters in places where water is difficult to be obtained. Forthwith I stretched myself on the ground, and took a long and delicious draught of the crystal stream, and then, seating myself in a bush, I continued for some time gazing on the water as it purled tinkling away in its channel through an opening in the hazels, and should have probably continued much longer had not the thought that I had left my property unprotected compelled me to rise and return to my encampment. Night came on, and a beautiful night it was; up rose the moon, and innumerable stars decked the firmament of heaven. I sat on the shaft, my eyes turned upwards. I had found it: there it was twinkling millions of miles above me, mightiest star of the system to which we belong: of all stars, the one which has the most interest for me--the star Jupiter. Why have I always taken an interest in thee, O Jupiter? I know nothing about thee, save what every child knows, that thou art a big star, whose only light is derived from moons. And is not that knowledge enough to make me feel an interest in thee? Ay, truly, I never look at thee without wondering what is going on in thee; what is life in Jupiter? That there is life in Jupiter who can doubt? There is life in our own little star, therefore there must be life in Jupiter, which is not a little star. But how different must life be in Jupiter from what it is in our own little star! Life here is life beneath the dear sun--life in Jupiter is life beneath moons--four moons--no single moon is able to illumine that vast bulk. All know what life is in our own little star; it is anything but a routine of happiness here, where the dear sun rises to us every day: then how sad and moping must life be in mighty Jupiter, on which no sun ever shines, and which is never lighted save by pale moonbeams! The thought that there is more sadness and melancholy in Jupiter than in this world of ours, where, alas! there is but too much, has always made me take a melancholy interest in that huge, distant star. Two or three days passed by in much the same manner as the first. During the morning I worked upon my kettles, and employed the remaining part of the day as I best could. The whole of this time I only saw two individuals, rustics, who passed by my encampment without vouchsafing me a glance; they probably considered themselves my superiors, as perhaps they were. One very brilliant morning, as I sat at work in very good spirits, for by this time I had actually mended in a very creditable way, as I imagined, two kettles and a frying-pan, I heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the path leading to the rivulet; at first it sounded from a considerable distance, but drew nearer by degrees. I soon remarked that the tones were exceedingly sharp and shrill, with yet something of childhood in them. Once or twice I distinguished certain words in the song which the voice was singing; the words were--but no, I thought again I was probably mistaken--and then the voice ceased for a time; presently I heard it again, close to the entrance of the footpath; in another moment I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard the very words which I at first thought I had distinguished. I turned my head; at the entrance of the footpath, which might be about thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, I perceived the figure of a young girl; her face was turned towards me, and she appeared to be scanning me and my encampment; after a little time she looked in the other direction, only for a moment, however; probably observing nothing in that quarter, she again looked towards me, and almost immediately stepped forward; and, as she advanced, sang the song which I had heard in the wood, the first words of which were those which I have already alluded to:-- The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal, Shall jaw tasaulor To drab the bawlor, And dook the gry Of the farming rye. A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon my kettle; a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let them look to their cattle. "All alone here, brother?" said a voice close by me, in sharp but not disagreeable tones. I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with the gravity which became one of my profession. I allowed at least half a minute to elapse before I even lifted up my eyes. A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were very pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders. She was rather scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare; round her neck, however, was a handsome string of corals, with ornaments of gold: in her hand she held a bulrush. "All alone here, brother?" said the girl, as I looked up; "all alone here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?" "Why do you call me brother?" said I; "I am no brother of yours. Do you take me for one of your people? I am no gypsy; not I, indeed!" "Don't be afraid, brother, you are no Roman--Roman indeed, you are not handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though you be. If I called you brother, it was because I didn't know what else to call you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be sorry to have you for a brother." "Then you don't like me?" "Neither like you, nor dislike you, brother; what will you have for that kekaubi?" "What's the use of talking to me in that unchristian way; what do you mean, young gentlewoman?" "Lord, brother, what a fool you are; every tinker knows what a kekaubi is. I was asking you what you would have for that kettle." "Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman; isn't it well mended?" "Well mended! I could have done it better myself; three-and-sixpence! it's only fit to be played at football with." "I will take no less for it, young gentlewoman; it has caused me a world of trouble." "I never saw a worse mended kettle. I say, brother, your hair is white." "'Tis nature; your hair is black; nature, nothing but nature." "I am young, brother; my hair is black--that's nature: you are young, brother; your hair is white--that's not nature." "I can't help it if it be not, but it is nature after all; did you never see grey hair on the young?" "Never! I have heard it is true of a grey lad, and a bad one he was. Oh, so bad." "Sit down on the grass, and tell me all about it, sister; do to oblige me, pretty sister." "Hey, brother, you don't speak as you did--you don't speak like a gorgio, you speak like one of us, you call me sister." "As you call me brother; I am not an uncivil person after all, sister." "I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look me in the face--there--do you speak Rommany?" "Rommany! Rommany! what is Rommany?" "What is Rommany? our language, to be sure; tell me, brother, only one thing, you don't speak Rommany?" "You say it." "I don't say it, I wish to know. Do you speak Rommany?" "Do you mean thieves' slang--cant? no, I don't speak cant, I don't like it, I only know a few words; they call a sixpence a tanner, don't they?" "I don't know," said the girl, sitting down on the ground, "I was almost thinking--well, never mind, you don't know Rommany. I say, brother, I think I should like to have the kekaubi." "I thought you said it was badly mended?" "Yes, yes, brother, but--" "I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football with?" "Yes, yes, brother, but--" "What will you give for it?" "Brother, I am the poor person's child, I will give you sixpence for the kekaubi." "Poor person's child; how came you by that necklace?" "Be civil, brother; am I to have the kekaubi?" "Not for sixpence; isn't the kettle nicely mended?" "I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have the kekaubi, brother?" "You like me then?" "I don't dislike you--I dislike no one; there's only one, and him I don't dislike, him I hate." "Who is he?" "I scarcely know, I never saw him, but 'tis no affair of yours, you don't speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?" "You may have it, but not for sixpence, I'll give it to you." "Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni kekaubi is now mine. O, rare! I thank you kindly, brother." Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in her hand, and seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the while, and singing-- The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal, Shall jaw tasaulor To drab the bawlor, And dook the gry Of the farming rye. "Good-bye, brother, I must be going." "Good-bye, sister; why do you sing that wicked song?" "Wicked song, hey, brother! you don't understand the song!" "Ha, ha! gypsy daughter," said I, starting up and clapping my hands, "I don't understand Rommany, don't I? You shall see; here's the answer to your gillie-- "The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal Love Luripen And dukkeripen, And hokkeripen, And every pen But Lachipen And tatchipen." The girl, who had given a slight start when I began, remained for some time after I had concluded the song, standing motionless as a statue, with the kettle in her hand. At length she came towards me, and stared me full in the face. "Grey, tall, and talks Rommany," said she to herself. In her countenance there was an expression which I had not seen before--an expression which struck me as being composed of fear, curiosity and the deepest hate. It was momentary, however, and was succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open. "Ha, ha, brother," said she, "well, I like you all the better for talking Rommany; it is a sweet language, isn't it? especially as you sing it. How did you pick it up? But you picked it up upon the roads, no doubt? Ha, it was funny in you to pretend not to know it, and you so flush with it all the time; it was not kind in you, however, to frighten the poor person's child so by screaming out, but it was kind in you to give the rikkeni kekaubi to the child of the poor person. She will be grateful to you; she will bring you her little dog to show you, her pretty juggal; the poor person's child will come and see you again; you are not going away to-day, I hope, or to-morrow, pretty brother, grey-hair'd brother--you are not going away to-morrow, I hope?" "Nor the next day," said I, "only to take a stroll to see if I can sell a kettle; good-bye, little sister, Rommany sister, dingy sister." "Good-bye, tall brother," said the girl, as she departed, singing:-- The Rommany chi, etc. "There's something about that girl that I don't understand," said I to myself; "something mysterious. However, it is nothing to me, she knows not who I am, and if she did, what then?" Late that evening as I sat on the shaft of my cart in deep meditation, with my arms folded, I thought I heard a rustling in the bushes over against me. I turned my eyes in that direction, but saw nothing. "Some bird," said I; "an owl, perhaps;" and once more I fell into meditation; my mind wandered from one thing to another--musing now on the structure of the Roman tongue--now on the rise and fall of the Persian power--and now on the powers vested in recorders at quarter sessions. I was thinking what a fine thing it must be to be a recorder of the peace, when lifting up my eyes, I saw right opposite, not a culprit at the bar, but, staring at me through a gap in the bush, a face wild and strange, half- covered with grey hair; I only saw it a moment, the next it had disappeared. CHAPTER LXXI. The next day at an early hour I harnessed my little pony, and, putting my things in my cart, I went on my projected stroll. Crossing the moor, I arrived in about an hour at a small village, from which, after a short stay, I proceeded to another, and from thence to a third. I found that the name of Slingsby was well known in these parts. "If you are a friend of Slingsby you must be an honest lad," said an ancient crone; "you shall never want for work whilst I can give it you. Here, take my kettle, the bottom came out this morning, and lend me that of yours till you bring it back. I'm not afraid to trust you--not I. Don't hurry yourself, young man; if you don't come back for a fortnight I shan't have the worse opinion of you." I returned to my quarters at evening, tired but rejoiced at heart; I had work before me for several days, having collected various kekaubies which required mending, in place of those which I left behind--those which I had been employed upon during the last few days. I found all quiet in the lane or glade, and, unharnessing my little horse, I once more pitched my tent in the old spot beneath the ash, lighted my fire, ate my frugal meal, and then, after looking for some time at the heavenly bodies, and more particularly at the star Jupiter, I entered my tent, lay down upon my pallet, and went to sleep. Nothing occurred on the following day which requires any particular notice, nor indeed on the one succeeding that. It was about noon on the third day that I sat beneath the shade of the ash tree; I was not at work, for the weather was particularly hot, and I felt but little inclination to make any exertion. Leaning my back against the tree, I was not long in falling into a slumber. I particularly remember that slumber of mine beneath the ash tree, for it was about the sweetest that I ever enjoyed; how long I continued in it I do not know; I could almost have wished that it had lasted to the present time. All of a sudden it appeared to me that a voice cried in my ear, "Danger! danger! danger!" Nothing seemingly could be more distinct than the words which I heard; then an uneasy sensation came over me, which I strove to get rid of, and at last succeeded, for I awoke. The gypsy girl was standing just opposite to me, with her eyes fixed upon my countenance; a singular kind of little dog stood beside her. "Ha!" said I, "was it you that cried danger? What danger is there?" "Danger, brother, there is no danger; what danger should there be. I called to my little dog, but that was in the wood; my little dog's name is not danger, but stranger; what danger should there be, brother?" "What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is that you have got in your hand?" "Something for you," said the girl, sitting down and proceeding to untie a white napkin; "a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I went home to my people I told my grandbebee how kind you had been to the poor person's child, and when my grandbebee saw the kekaubi, she said: 'Hir mi devlis, it won't do for the poor people to be ungrateful; by my God, I will bake a cake for the young harko mescro'." "But there are two cakes." "Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my grandbebee meant them both for you--but list, brother, I will have one of them for bringing them. I know you will give me one, pretty brother, grey-haired brother--which shall I have, brother?" In the napkin were two round cakes, seemingly made of rich and costly compounds, and precisely similar in form, each weighing about half a pound. "Which shall I have, brother?" said the gypsy girl. "Whichever you please." "No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine, it is for you to say." "Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the other." "Yes, brother, yes," said the girl; and taking the cakes, she flung them into the air two or three times, catching them as they fell, and singing the while. "Pretty brother, grey-haired brother--here, brother," said she, "here is your cake, this other is mine." "Are you sure," said I, taking the cake, "that this is the one I chose?" "Quite sure, brother; but if you like you can have mine; there's no difference; however--shall I eat?" "Yes, sister, eat." "See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty brother, grey-haired brother." "I am not hungry." "Not hungry! well, what then--what has being hungry to do with the matter? It is my grandbebee's cake which was sent because you were kind to the poor person's child; eat, brother, eat, and we shall be like the children in the wood that the gorgios speak of." "The children in the wood had nothing to eat." "Yes, they had hips and haws; we have better. Eat, brother." "See, sister, I do," and I ate a piece of the cake. "Well, brother, how do you like it?" said the girl, looking fixedly at me. "It is very rich and sweet, and yet there is something strange about it; I don't think I shall eat any more." "Fie, brother, fie, to find fault with the poor person's cake; see, I have nearly eaten mine." "That's a pretty little dog." "Is it not, brother? that's my juggal, my little sister, as I call her." "Come here, Juggal," said I to the animal. "What do you want with my juggal?" said the girl. "Only to give her a piece of cake," said I, offering the dog a piece which I had just broken off. "What do you mean?" said the girl, snatching the dog away; "my grandbebee's cake is not for dogs." "Why, I just now saw you give the animal a piece of yours." "You lie, brother, you saw no such thing; but I see how it is, you wish to affront the poor person's child. I shall go to my house." "Keep still, and don't be angry; see, I have eaten the piece which I offered the dog. I meant no offence. It is a sweet cake after all." "Isn't it, brother? I am glad you like it. Offence! brother, no offence at all! I am so glad you like my grandbebee's cake, but she will be wanting me at home. Eat one piece more of grandbebee's cake and I will go." "I am not hungry, I will put the rest by." "One piece more before I go, handsome brother, grey-haired brother." "I will not eat any more, I have already eaten more than I wished to oblige you; if you must go, good-day to you." The girl rose upon her feet, looked hard at me, then at the remainder of the cake which I held in my hand, and then at me again, and then stood for a moment or two, as if in deep thought; presently an air of satisfaction came over her countenance, she smiled and said: "Well, brother, well, do as you please; I merely wished you to eat because you have been so kind to the poor person's child. She loves you so, that she could have wished to have seen you eat it all; good-bye, brother, I daresay when I am gone you will eat some more of it, and if you don't I daresay you have eaten enough to--to--show your love for us. After all, it was a poor person's cake, a Rommany manricli, and all you gorgios are somewhat gorgious. Farewell, brother, pretty brother, grey-haired brother. Come, juggal." I remained under the ash tree seated on the grass for a minute or two, and endeavoured to resume the occupation in which I had been engaged before I fell asleep, but I felt no inclination for labour. I then thought I would sleep again, and once more reclined against the tree, and slumbered for some little time, but my sleep was more agitated than before. Something appeared to bear heavy on my breast. I struggled in my sleep, fell on the grass, and awoke; my temples were throbbing, there was a burning in my eyes, and my mouth felt parched; the oppression about the chest which I had felt in my sleep still continued. "I must shake off these feelings," said I, "and get upon my legs." I walked rapidly up and down upon the green sward; at length, feeling my thirst increase, I directed my steps down the narrow path to the spring which ran amidst the bushes; arriving there, I knelt down and drank of the water, but on lifting up my head I felt thirstier than before; again I drank, but with like results; I was about to drink for the third time, when I felt a dreadful qualm which instantly robbed me of nearly all my strength. What can be the matter with me, thought I; but I suppose I have made myself ill by drinking cold water. I got up and made the best of my way back to my tent; before I reached it the qualm had seized me again, and I was deadly sick. I flung myself on my pallet; qualm succeeded qualm, but in the intervals my mouth was dry and burning, and I felt a frantic desire to drink, but no water was at hand, and to reach the spring once more was impossible: the qualms continued, deadly pains shot through my whole frame; I could bear my agonies no longer, and I fell into a trance or swoon. How long I continued therein I know not; on recovering, however, I felt somewhat better, and attempted to lift my head off my couch; the next moment, however, the qualms and pains returned, if possible, with greater violence than before. I am dying, thought I, like a dog, without any help; and then methought I heard a sound at a distance like people singing, and then once more I relapsed into my swoon. I revived just as a heavy blow sounded upon the canvas of the tent. I started, but my condition did not permit me to rise; again the same kind of blow sounded upon the canvas; I thought for a moment of crying out and requesting assistance, but an inexplicable something chained my tongue, and now I heard a whisper on the outside of the tent. "He does not move, bebee," said a voice which I knew. "I should not wonder if it has done for him already; however, strike again with your ran;" and then there was another blow, after which another voice cried aloud in a strange tone: "Is the gentleman of the house asleep, or is he taking his dinner?" I remained quite silent and motionless, and in another moment the voice continued: "What, no answer? what can the gentleman of the house be about that he makes no answer? Perhaps the gentleman of the house may be darning his stockings?" Thereupon a face peered into the door of the tent, at the farther extremity of which I was stretched. It was that of a woman, but owing to the posture in which she stood, with her back to the light, and partly owing to a large straw bonnet, I could distinguish but very little of the features of her countenance. I had, however, recognised her voice; it was that of my old acquaintance, Mrs. Herne. "Ho, ho, sir!" said she, "here you are. Come here, Leonora," said she to the gypsy girl, who pressed in at the other side of the door; "here is the gentleman, not asleep, but only stretched out after dinner. Sit down on your ham, child, at the door; I shall do the same. There--you have seen me before, sir, have you not?" "The gentleman makes no answer, bebee; perhaps he does not know you." "I have known him of old, Leonora," said Mrs. Herne; "and, to tell you the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I expected no answer." "It's a way he has, bebee, I suppose?" "Yes, child, it's a way he has." "Take off your bonnet, bebee; perhaps he cannot see your face." "I do not think that will be of much use, child; however, I will take off my bonnet--there--and shake out my hair--there--you have seen this hair before, sir, and this face--" "No answer, bebee." "Though the one was not quite so grey, nor the other so wrinkled." "How came they so, bebee?" "All along of this gorgio, child." "The gentleman in the house, you mean, bebee." "Yes, child, the gentleman in the house. God grant that I may preserve my temper. Do you know, sir, my name? My name is Herne, which signifies a hairy individual, though neither grey-haired nor wrinkled. It is not the nature of the Hernes to be grey or wrinkled, even when they are old, and I am not old." "How old are you, bebee?" "Sixty-five years, child--an inconsiderable number. My mother was a hundred and one--a considerable age--when she died, yet she had not one grey hair, and not more than six wrinkles--an inconsiderable number." "She had no griefs, bebee?" "Plenty, child, but not like mine." "Not quite so hard to bear, bebee?" "No, child; my head wanders when I think of them. After the death of my husband, who came to his end untimeously, I went to live with a daughter of mine, married out among certain Romans who walk about the eastern counties, and with whom for some time I found a home and pleasant society, for they lived right Romanly, which gave my heart considerable satisfaction, who am a Roman born, and hope to die so. When I say right Romanly, I mean that they kept to themselves, and were not much given to blabbing about their private matters in promiscuous company. Well, things went on in this way for some time, when one day my son-in-law brings home a young gorgio of singular and outrageous ugliness, and without much preamble, says to me and mine, 'This is my pal, a'n't he a beauty? fall down and worship him'. 'Hold,' said I, 'I for one will never consent to such foolishness.'" "That was right, bebee, I think I should have done the same." "I think you would, child; but what was the profit of it? The whole party makes an almighty of this gorgio, lets him into their ways, says prayers of his making, till things come to such a pass that my own daughter says to me: 'I shall buy myself a veil and fan, and treat myself to a play and sacrament'. 'Don't,' says I; says she, 'I should like for once in my life to be courtesied to as a Christian gentlewoman'." "Very foolish of her, bebee." "Wasn't it, child? Where was I? At the fan and sacrament; with a heavy heart I put seven score miles between us, came back to the hairy ones, and found them over-given to gorgious companions; said I, 'foolish manners is catching, all this comes of that there gorgio'. Answers the child Leonora, 'Take comfort, bebee, I hate the gorgios as much as you do'." "And I say so again, bebee, as much or more." "Time flows on, I engage in many matters, in most miscarry. Am sent to prison; says I to myself, I am become foolish. Am turned out of prison, and go back to the hairy ones, who receive me not over courteously; says I, for their unkindness, and my own foolishness, all the thanks to that gorgio. Answers to me the child, 'I wish I could set eyes upon him, bebee'." "I did so, bebee; go on." "'How shall I know him, bebee?' says the child. 'Young and grey, tall, and speaks Romanly.' Runs to me the child, and says, 'I've found him, bebee'. 'Where, child?' says I. 'Come with me, bebee,' says the child. 'That's he,' says I, as I looked at my gentleman through the hedge." "Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog." "You have taken drows, sir," said Mrs. Herne; "do you hear, sir? drows; tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison." And thereupon the girl clapped her hands, and sang-- The Rommany churl And the Rommany girl, To-morrow shall hie To poison the sty, And bewitch on the mead The farmer's steed. "Do you hear that, sir?" said Mrs. Herne; "the child has tipped you a stave of the song of poison: that is, she has sung it Christianly, though perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly; you were always fond of what was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child." "He has heard it Romanly already, bebee; 'twas by that I found him out, as I told you." "Halloo, sir, are you sleeping? you have taken drows; the gentleman makes no answer. God give me patience!" "And what if he doesn't, bebee; isn't he poisoned like a hog? Gentleman! indeed, why call him gentleman? If he ever was one he's broke, and is now a tinker, a worker of blue metal." "That's his way, child, to-day a tinker, to-morrow something else; and as for being drabbed, I don't know what to say about it." "Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee? but look there, bebee; ha, ha, look at the gentleman's motions." "He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho! sir, you have taken drows; what, another throe! writhe, sir, writhe, the hog died by the drow of gypsies; I saw him stretched at evening. That's yourself, sir. There is no hope, sir, no help, you have taken drow; shall I tell you your fortune, sir, your dukkerin? God bless you, pretty gentleman, much trouble will you have to suffer, and much water to cross; but never mind, pretty gentleman, you shall be fortunate at the end, and those who hate shall take off their hats to you." "Hey, bebee!" cried the girl; "what is this? what do you mean? you have blessed the gorgio!" "Blessed him! no, sure; what did I say? Oh, I remember, I'm mad; well, I can't help it, I said what the dukkerin dook told me; woe's me; he'll get up yet." "Nonsense, bebee! Look at his motions, he's drabbed, spite of dukkerin." "Don't say so, child; he's sick, 'tis true, but don't laugh at dukkerin, only folks do that that know no better. I, for one, will never laugh at the dukkerin dook. Sick again; I wish he was gone." "He'll soon be gone, bebee; let's leave him. He's as good as gone; look there, he's dead." "No, he's not, he'll get up--I feel it; can't we hasten him?" "Hasten him! yes, to be sure; set the dog upon him. Here, juggal, look in there, my dog." The dog made its appearance at the door of the tent, and began to bark and tear up the ground. "At him, juggal, at him; he wished to poison, to drab you. Halloo!" The dog barked violently, and seemed about to spring at my face, but retreated. "The dog won't fly at him, child; he flashed at the dog with his eye, and scared him. He'll get up." "Nonsense, bebee! you make me angry; how should he get up?" "The dook tells me so, and, what's more, I had a dream. I thought I was at York, standing amidst a crowd to see a man hung, and the crowd shouted, 'There he comes!' and I looked, and lo! it was the tinker; before I could cry with joy I was whisked away, and I found myself in Ely's big church, which was chock full of people to hear the dean preach, and all eyes were turned to the big pulpit; and presently I heard them say, 'There he mounts!' and I looked up to the big pulpit, and, lo! the tinker was in the pulpit, and he raised his arm and began to preach. Anon, I found myself at York again, just as the drop fell, and I looked up, and I saw, not the tinker, but my own self hanging in the air." "You are going mad, bebee; if you want to hasten him, take your stick and poke him in the eye." "That will be of no use, child, the dukkerin tells me so; but I will try what I can do. Halloo, tinker! you must introduce yourself into a quiet family, and raise confusion--must you? You must steal its language, and, what was never done before, write it down Christianly--must you? Take that--and that;" and she stabbed violently with her stick towards the end of the tent. "That's right, bebee, you struck his face; now, once more, and let it be in the eye. Stay, what's that? get up, bebee." "What's the matter, child?" "Some one is coming, come away." "Let me make sure of him, child; he'll be up yet." And thereupon Mrs. Herne, rising, leaned forward into the tent, and supporting herself against the pole, took aim in the direction of the farther end. "I will thrust out his eye," said she; and, lunging with her stick, she would probably have accomplished her purpose had not at that moment the pole of the tent given way, whereupon she fell to the ground, the canvas falling upon her and her intended victim. "Here's a pretty affair, bebee," screamed the girl. "He'll get up yet," said Mrs. Herne, from beneath the canvas. "Get up!--get up yourself; where are you? where is your--Here, there, bebee, here's the door; there, make haste, they are coming." "He'll get up yet," said Mrs. Herne, recovering her breath; "the dook tells me so." "Never mind him or the dook; he is drabbed; come away, or we shall be grabbed--both of us." "One more blow, I know where his head lies." "You are mad, bebee; leave the fellow--gorgio avella." And thereupon the females hurried away. A vehicle of some kind was evidently drawing nigh; in a little time it came alongside of the place where lay the fallen tent, and stopped suddenly. There was a silence for a moment, and then a parley ensued between two voices, one of which was that of a woman. It was not in English, but in a deep guttural tongue. "_Peth yw hono sydd yn gorwedd yna ar y ddaear_?" said a masculine voice. "_Yn wirionedd_--I do not know what it can be," said the female voice, in the same tongue. "Here is a cart, and there are tools; but what is that on the ground?" "Something moves beneath it; and what was that--a groan?" "Shall I get down?" "Of course, Peter, some one may want your help." "Then I will get down, though I do not like this place, it is frequented by Egyptians, and I do not like their yellow faces, nor their clibberty clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn says. Now, I am down. It is a tent, Winifred, and see, here is a boy beneath it. Merciful father! what a face!" A middle-aged man, with a strongly marked and serious countenance, dressed in sober-coloured habiliments, had lifted up the stifling folds of the tent and was bending over me. "Can you speak, my lad?" said he in English, "what is the matter with you? If you could but tell me, I could perhaps help you--" "What is it that you say? I can't hear you. I will kneel down;" and he flung himself on the ground, and placed his ear close to my mouth. "Now speak if you can. Hey! what! no, sure, God forbid!" then starting up, he cried to a female who sat in the cart, anxiously looking on--"_Gwenwyn_! _Gwenwyn_! _yw y gwas wedi ei gwenwynaw_. The oil! Winifred, the oil!" CHAPTER LXXII. The oil, which the strangers compelled me to take, produced the desired effect, though, during at least two hours, it was very doubtful whether or not my life would be saved. At the end of that period the man said, that with the blessing of God, he would answer for my life. He then demanded whether I thought I could bear to be removed from the place in which we were? "for I like it not," he continued, "as something within me tells me that it is not good for any of us to be here". I told him, as well as I was able, that I, too, should be glad to leave the place; whereupon, after collecting my things, he harnessed my pony, and, with the assistance of the woman, he contrived to place me in the cart; he then gave me a draught out of a small phial, and we set forward at a slow pace, the man walking by the side of the cart in which I lay. It is probable that the draught consisted of a strong opiate, for after swallowing it I fell into a deep slumber; on my awaking, I found that the shadows of night had enveloped the earth--we were still moving on. Shortly, however, after descending a declivity, we turned into a lane, at the entrance of which was a gate. This lane conducted to a meadow, through the middle of which ran a small brook; it stood between two rising grounds, that on the left, which was on the farther side of the water, was covered with wood, whilst the one on the right, which was not so high, was crowned with the white walls of what appeared to be a farm- house. Advancing along the meadow, we presently came to a place where grew three immense oaks, almost on the side of the brook, over which they flung their arms, so as to shade it as with a canopy; the ground beneath was bare of grass, and nearly as hard and smooth as the floor of a barn. Having led his own cart on one side of the midmost tree, and my own on the other, the stranger said to me: "This is the spot where my wife and myself generally tarry in the summer season, when we come into these parts. We are about to pass the night here. I suppose you will have no objection to do the same? Indeed, I do not see what else you could do under present circumstances." After receiving my answer, in which I, of course, expressed my readiness to assent to his proposal, he proceeded to unharness his horse, and, feeling myself much better, I got down, and began to make the necessary preparations for passing the night beneath the oak. Whilst thus engaged, I felt myself touched on the shoulder, and, looking round, perceived the woman, whom the stranger called Winifred, standing close to me. The moon was shining brightly upon her, and I observed that she was very good-looking, with a composed, yet cheerful expression of countenance; her dress was plain and primitive, very much resembling that of a Quaker. She held a straw bonnet in her hand. "I am glad to see thee moving about, young man," said she, in a soft, placid tone; "I could scarcely have expected it. Thou must be wondrous strong; many, after what thou hast suffered, would not have stood on their feet for weeks and months. What do I say?--Peter, my husband, who is skilled in medicine, just now told me that not one in five hundred would have survived what thou hast this day undergone; but allow me to ask thee one thing, Hast thou returned thanks to God for thy deliverance?" I made no answer, and the woman, after a pause, said: "Excuse me, young man, but do you know anything of God?" "Very little," I replied, "but I should say He must be a wondrous strong person, if He made all those big bright things up above there, to say nothing of the ground on which we stand, which bears beings like these oaks, each of which is fifty times as strong as myself, and will live twenty times as long." The woman was silent for some moments, and then said: "I scarcely know in what spirit thy words are uttered. If thou art serious, however, I would caution thee against supposing that the power of God is more manifested in these trees, or even in those bright stars above us, than in thyself--they are things of time, but thou art a being destined to an eternity; it depends upon thyself whether thy eternity shall be one of joy or sorrow." Here she was interrupted by the man, who exclaimed from the other side of the tree: "Winifred, it is getting late, you had better go up to the house on the hill to inform our friends of our arrival, or they will have retired for the night". "True," said Winifred, and forthwith wended her way to the house in question, returning shortly with another woman, whom the man, speaking in the same language which I had heard him first use, greeted by the name of Mary; the woman replied in the same tongue, but almost immediately said, in English: "We hoped to have heard you speak to- night, Peter, but we cannot expect that now, seeing that it is so late, owing to your having been detained by the way, as Winifred tells me; nothing remains for you to do now but to sup--to-morrow, with God's will, we shall hear you". "And to-night, also, with God's will, provided you be so disposed. Let those of your family come hither." "They will be hither presently," said Mary, "for knowing that thou art arrived, they will, of course, come and bid thee welcome." And scarcely had she spoke, when I beheld a party of people descending the moonlit side of the hill. They soon arrived at the place where we were; they might amount in all to twelve individuals. The principal person was a tall, athletic man, of about forty, dressed like a plain country farmer; this was, I soon found, the husband of Mary; the rest of the group consisted of the children of these two, and their domestic servants. One after another they all shook Peter by the hand, men and women, boys and girls, and expressed their joy at seeing him. After which, he said: "Now, friends, if you please, I will speak a few words to you". A stool was then brought him from the cart, which he stepped on, and the people arranging themselves round him, some standing, some seated on the ground, he forthwith began to address them in a clear, distinct voice; and the subject of his discourse was the necessity, in all human beings, of a change of heart. The preacher was better than his promise, for, instead of speaking a few words, he preached for at least three-quarters of an hour; none of the audience, however, showed the slightest symptom of weariness; on the contrary, the hope of each individual appeared to hang upon the words which proceeded from his mouth. At the conclusion of the sermon or discourse, the whole assembly again shook Peter by the hand, and returned to their house, the mistress of the family saying, as she departed: "I shall soon be back, Peter, I go but to make arrangements for the supper of thyself and company"; and, in effect, she presently returned, attended by a young woman, who bore a tray in her hands. "Set it down, Jessy," said the mistress to the girl, "and then betake thyself to thy rest; I shall remain here for a little time to talk with my friends." The girl departed, and the preacher and the two females placed themselves on the ground about the tray. The man gave thanks, and himself and his wife appeared to be about to eat, when the latter suddenly placed her hand upon his arm, and said something to him in a low voice, whereupon he exclaimed, "Ay, truly, we were both forgetful"; and then getting up, he came towards me, who stood a little way off, leaning against the wheel of my cart; and, taking me by the hand, he said: "Pardon us, young man, we were both so engaged in our own creature-comforts that we forgot thee, but it is not too late to repair our fault; wilt thou not join us, and taste our bread and milk?" "I cannot eat," I replied, "but I think I could drink a little milk;" whereupon he led me to the rest, and seating me by his side, he poured some milk into a horn cup, saying: "'_Croesaw_'. That," added he with a smile, "is Welsh for welcome." The fare upon the tray was of the simplest description, consisting of bread, cheese, milk and curds. My two friends partook with a good appetite. "Mary," said the preacher, addressing himself to the woman of the house, "every time I come to visit thee, I find thee less inclined to speak Welsh. I suppose, in a little time, thou wilt entirely have forgotten it; hast thou taught it to any of thy children?" "The two eldest understand a few words," said the woman, "but my husband does not wish them to learn it; he says sometimes, jocularly, that though it pleased him to marry a Welsh wife, it does not please him to have Welsh children. 'Who,' I have heard him say, 'would be a Welshman, if he could be an Englishman?'" "I for one," said the preacher, somewhat hastily; "not to be king of all England would I give up my birthright as a Welshman. Your husband is an excellent person, Mary, but I am afraid he is somewhat prejudiced." "You do him justice, Peter, in saying that he is an excellent person," said the woman; "as to being prejudiced, I scarcely know what to say, but he thinks that two languages in the same kingdom are almost as bad as two kings." "That's no bad observation," said the preacher, "and it is generally the case; yet, thank God, the Welsh and English go on very well, side by side, and I hope will do so till the Almighty calls all men to their long account." "They jog on very well now," said the woman; "but I have heard my husband say that it was not always so, and that the Welsh, in old times, were a violent and ferocious people, for that once they hanged the mayor of Chester." "Ha, ha!" said the preacher, and his eyes flashed in the moonlight; "he told you that, did he?" "Yes," said Mary; "once, when the mayor of Chester, with some of his people, was present at one of the fairs over the border, a quarrel arose between the Welsh and English, and the Welsh beat the English and hanged the mayor." "Your husband is a clever man," said Peter, "and knows a great deal; did he tell you the name of the leader of the Welsh? No? then I will: the leader of the Welsh on that occasion was ---. He was a powerful chieftain, and there was an old feud between him and the men of Chester. Afterwards, when two hundred of the men of Chester invaded his country to take revenge for their mayor, he enticed them into a tower, set fire to it, and burnt them all. That --- was a very fine, noble--God forgive me, what was I about to say!--a very bad, violent man; but, Mary, this is very carnal and unprofitable conversation, and in holding it we set a very bad example to the young man here--let us change the subject." They then began to talk on religious matters. At length Mary departed to her abode, and the preacher and his wife retired to their tilted cart. "Poor fellow, he seems to be almost brutally ignorant," said Peter, addressing his wife in their native language, after they had bidden me farewell for the night. "I am afraid he is," said Winifred; "yet my heart warms to the poor lad, he seems so forlorn." CHAPTER LXXIII. I slept soundly during that night, partly owing to the influence of the opiate. Early in the morning I was awakened by the voices of Peter and his wife, who were singing a morning hymn in their own language. Both subsequently prayed long and fervently. I lay still till their devotions were completed, and then left my tent. "Good-morning," said Peter, "how dost thou feel?" "Much better," said I, "than I could have expected." "I am glad of it," said Peter. "Art thou hungry? yonder comes our breakfast," pointing to the same young woman I had seen the preceding night, who was again descending the hill, bearing the tray upon her head. "What dost thou intend to do, young man, this day?" said Peter, when we had about half finished breakfast. "Do," said I, "as I do other days, what I can." "And dost thou pass this day as thou dost other days?" said Peter. "Why not?" said I; "what is there in this day different from the rest? it seems to be of the same colour as yesterday." "Art thou aware," said the wife interposing, "what day it is? that it is Sabbath? that it is Sunday?" "No," said I, "I did not know that it was Sunday." "And how did that happen?" said Winifred with a sigh. "To tell you the truth," said I, "I live very much alone, and pay very little heed to the passing of time." "And yet of what infinite importance is time," said Winifred. "Art thou not aware that every year brings thee nearer to thy end?" "I do not think," said I, "that I am so near my end as I was yesterday." "Yes thou art," said the woman; "thou wast not doomed to die yesterday; an invisible hand was watching over thee yesterday; but thy day will come, therefore improve the time; be grateful that thou wast saved yesterday; and, oh! reflect on one thing; if thou hadst died yesterday, where wouldst thou have been now?" "Cast into the earth, perhaps," said I. "I have heard Mr. Petulengro say that to be cast into the earth is the natural end of man." "Who is Mr. Petulengro?" said Peter, interrupting his wife, as she was about to speak. "Master of the horse- shoe," said I, "and, according to his own account, king of Egypt." "I understand," said Peter, "head of some family of wandering Egyptians--they are a race utterly godless. Art thou of them?--but no, thou art not, thou hast not their yellow blood. I suppose thou belongest to the family of wandering artisans called ---. I do not like you the worse for belonging to them. A mighty speaker of old sprang up from amidst that family." "Who was he?" said I. "John Bunyan," replied Peter, reverently, "and the mention of his name reminds me that I have to preach this day; wilt thou go and hear? the distance is not great, only half a mile." "No," said I, "I will not go and hear." "Wherefore?" said Peter. "I belong to the church," said I, "and not to the congregations." "Oh! the pride of that church," said Peter, addressing his wife in their own tongue, "exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant of its members." "Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to church," said Peter, again addressing me; "there is a church on the other side of that wooded hill." "No," said I, "I do not mean to go to church." "May I ask thee wherefore?" said Peter. "Because," said I, "I prefer remaining beneath the shade of these trees, listening to the sound of the leaves, and the tinkling of the waters." "Then thou intendest to remain here?" said Peter, looking fixedly at me. "If I do not intrude," said I; "but if I do, I will wander away; I wish to be beholden to nobody--perhaps you wish me to go?" "On the contrary," said Peter, "I wish you to stay. I begin to see something in thee which has much interest for me; but we must now bid thee farewell for the rest of the day, the time is drawing nigh for us to repair to the place of preaching; before we leave thee alone, however, I should wish to ask thee a question: Didst thou seek thy own destruction yesterday, and didst thou wilfully take that poison?" "No," said I; "had I known there had been poison in the cake, I certainly should not have taken it." "And who gave it thee?" said Peter. "An enemy of mine," I replied. "Who is thy enemy?" "An Egyptian sorceress and poisonmonger." "Thy enemy is a female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate thee--of what did she complain?" "That I had stolen the tongue out of her head." "I do not understand thee--is she young?" "About sixty-five." Here Winifred interposed. "Thou didst call her just now by hard names, young man," said she; "I trust thou dost bear no malice against her." "No," said I, "I bear no malice against her." "Thou art not wishing to deliver her into the hand of what is called justice?" "By no means," said I; "I have lived long enough upon the roads not to cry out for the constable when my finger is broken. I consider this poisoning as an accident of the roads; one of those to which those who travel are occasionally subject." "In short, thou forgivest thine adversary?" "Both now and for ever," said I. "Truly," said Winifred, "the spirit which the young man displayeth pleases me much: I should be loth that he left us yet. I have no doubt that, with the blessing of God, and a little of thy exhortation, he will turn out a true Christian before he leaveth us." "My exhortation!" said Peter, and a dark shade passed over his countenance; "thou forgettest what I am--I--I--but I am forgetting myself; the Lord's will be done; and now put away the things, for I perceive that our friends are coming to attend us to the place of meeting." Again the family which I had seen the night before descended the hill from their abode. They were now dressed in their Sunday's best. The master of the house led the way. They presently joined us, when a quiet, sober greeting ensued on each side. After a little time Peter shook me by the hand and bade me farewell till the evening; Winifred did the same, adding, that she hoped I should be visited by sweet and holy thoughts. The whole party then moved off in the direction by which we had come the preceding night, Peter and the master leading the way, followed by Winifred and the mistress of the family. As I gazed on their departing forms, I felt almost inclined to follow them to their place of worship. I did not stir, however, but remained leaning against my oak with my hands behind me. And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with my face turned towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell into deep meditation. I thought on the early Sabbaths of my life, and the manner in which I was wont to pass them. How carefully I said my prayers when I got up on the Sabbath morn, and how carefully I combed my hair and brushed my clothes in order that I might do credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of the old church at pretty D---, the dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk. I thought of England's grand Liturgy, and Tate and Brady's sonorous minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy Book, portions of which I was in the habit of reading between service. I thought, too, of the evening walk which I sometimes took in fine weather like the present, with my mother and brother--a quiet, sober walk, during which I would not break into a run, even to chase a butterfly, or yet more a honey-bee, being fully convinced of the dread importance of the day which God had hallowed. And how glad I was when I had got over the Sabbath day without having done anything to profane it. And how soundly I slept on the Sabbath night after the toil of being very good throughout the day. And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed and said to myself, I am much altered since then; am I altered for the better? And then I looked at my hands and my apparel, and sighed again. I was not wont of yore to appear thus on the Sabbath day. For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, till at last I lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during that glorious summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and then I lowered them to the sparkling water, in which hundreds of the finny brood were disporting themselves, and then I thought what a fine thing it was to be a fish on such a fine summer day, and I wished myself a fish, or at least amongst the fishes; and then I looked at my hands again, and then, bending over the water, I looked at my face in the crystal mirror, and started when I saw it, for it looked squalid and miserable. Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to bathe and cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late hard life and by Mrs. Herne's drow. I wonder if there is any harm in bathing on the Sabbath day. I will ask Winifred when she comes home; in the meantime I will bathe, provided I can find a fitting place. But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to disport in, was shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so large a being as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor heard a single human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook I left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came to a place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and dark, and there I bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame. Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my vehicle beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something better to do, I strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the farm-house; it was a large and commodious building built principally of stone, and seeming of some antiquity, with a porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench. On the right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same who had brought the tray to my friends and myself. "Good-day," said I, "pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch." "Good-day," said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then fixing her eyes on her book. "That's a nice book you are reading," said I. The girl looked at me with surprise. "How do you know what book it is?" said she. "How do I know--never mind; but a nice book it is--no love, no fortune- telling in it." The girl looked at me half offended. "Fortune-telling!" said she, "I should think not. But you know nothing about it;" and she bent her head once more over the book. "I tell you what, young person," said I, "I know all about that book; what will you wager that I do not?" "I never wager," said the girl. "Shall I tell you the name of it," said I, "O daughter of the dairy?" The girl half started. "I should never have thought," said she, half timidly, "that you could have guessed it." "I did not guess it," said I, "I knew it; and meet and proper it is that you should read it." "Why so?" said the girl. "Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the _Dairyman's Daughter_?" "Where do you come from?" said the girl. "Out of the water," said I. "Don't start, I have been bathing; are you fond of the water?" "No," said the girl, heaving a sigh; "I am not fond of the water, that is, of the sea;" and here she sighed again. "The sea is a wide gulf," said I, "and frequently separates hearts." The girl sobbed. "Why are you alone here?" said I. "I take my turn with the rest," said the girl, "to keep at home on Sunday." "And you are--" said I. "The master's niece!" said the girl. "How came you to know it? But why did you not go with the rest and with your friends?" "Who are those you call my friends?" said I. "Peter and his wife." "And who are they?" said I. "Do you not know?" said the girl; "you came with them." "They found me ill by the way," said I; "and they relieved me: I know nothing about them." "I thought you knew everything," said the girl. "There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one of them. Who are they?" "Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?" "Never," said I. "Well," said the girl, "this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a nice person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a preacher as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, having never heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine, and doing all the good they can. They frequently come here, for the mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old friend of both, and then they take up their abode in the cart beneath the old oaks down there by the stream." "And what is their reason for doing so?" said I; "would it not be more comfortable to sleep beneath a roof?" "I know not their reasons," said the girl, "but so it is; they never sleep beneath a roof unless the weather is very severe. I once heard the mistress say that Peter had something heavy upon his mind; perhaps that is the cause. If he is unhappy, all I can say is, that I wish him otherwise, for he is a good man and a kind--" "Thank you," said I, "I will now depart." "Hem!" said the girl, "I was wishing--" "What? to ask me a question?" "Not exactly; but you seem to know everything; you mentioned, I think, fortune-telling." "Do you wish me to tell your fortune?" "By no means; but I have a friend at a distance at sea, and I should wish to know--" "When he will come back? I have told you already there are two or three things which I do not know--this is another of them. However, I should not be surprised if he were to come back some of these days; I would, if I were in his place. In the meantime be patient, attend to the dairy, and read the _Dairyman's Daughter_ when you have nothing better to do." It was late in the evening when the party of the morning returned. The farmer and his family repaired at once to their abode, and my two friends joined me beneath the tree. Peter sat down at the foot of the oak, and said nothing. Supper was brought by a servant, not the damsel of the porch. We sat round the tray, Peter said grace, but scarcely anything else; he appeared sad and dejected, his wife looked anxiously upon him. I was as silent as my friends; after a little time we retired to our separate places of rest. About midnight I was awakened by a noise; I started up and listened; it appeared to me that I heard voices and groans. In a moment I had issued from my tent--all was silent--but the next moment I again heard groans and voices; they proceeded from the tilted cart where Peter and his wife lay; I drew near, again there was a pause, and then I heard the voice of Peter, in an accent of extreme anguish, exclaim: "_Pechod Ysprydd Glan_--_O pechod Ysprydd Glan_!" and then he uttered a deep groan. Anon, I heard the voice of Winifred, and never shall I forget the sweetness and gentleness of the tones of her voice in the stillness of that night. I did not understand all she said--she spoke in her native language, and I was some way apart; she appeared to endeavour to console her husband, but he seemed to refuse all comfort, and, with many groans, repeated--"_Pechod Ysprydd Glan_--_O pechod Ysprydd Glan_!" I felt I had no right to pry into their afflictions, and retired. Now, "_pechod Ysprydd Glan_," interpreted, is the sin against the Holy Ghost. CHAPTER LXXIV. Peter and his wife did not proceed on any expedition during the following day. The former strolled gloomily about the fields, and the latter passed many hours in the farm-house. Towards evening, without saying a word to either, I departed with my vehicle, and finding my way to a small town at some distance, I laid in a store of various articles, with which I returned. It was night, and my two friends were seated beneath the oak; they had just completed their frugal supper. "We waited for thee some time," said Winifred, "but finding that thou didst not come, we began without thee; but sit down, I pray thee, there is still enough for thee." "I will sit down," said I, "but I require no supper, for I have eaten where I have been." Nothing more particular occurred at the time. Next morning the kind pair invited me to share their breakfast. "I will not share your breakfast," said I. "Wherefore not?" said Winifred anxiously. "Because," said I, "it is not proper that I be beholden to you for meat and drink." "But we are beholden to other people," said Winifred. "Yes," said I, "but you preach to them, and give them ghostly advice, which considerably alters the matter; not that I would receive anything from them, if I preached to them six times a day." "Thou art not fond of receiving favours, then, young man," said Winifred. "I am not," said I. "And of conferring favours?" "Nothing affords me greater pleasure," said I, "than to confer favours." "What a disposition!" said Winifred, holding up her hands; "and this is pride, genuine pride--that feeling which the world agrees to call so noble. Oh, how mean a thing is pride! never before did I see all the meanness of what is called pride!" "But how wilt thou live, friend?" said Peter; "dost thou not intend to eat?" "When I went out last night," said I, "I laid in a provision." "Thou hast laid in a provision!" said Peter, "pray let us see it. Really, friend," said he, after I had produced it, "thou must drive a thriving trade; here are provisions enough to last three people for several days. Here are butter and eggs, here is tea, here is sugar, and there is a flitch. I hope thou wilt let us partake of some of thy fare." "I should be very happy if you would," said I. "Doubt not but we shall," said Peter; "Winifred shall have some of thy flitch cooked for dinner. In the meantime, sit down, young man, and breakfast at our expense--we will dine at thine." On the evening of that day, Peter and myself sat alone beneath the oak. We fell into conversation; Peter was at first melancholy, but he soon became more cheerful, fluent and entertaining. I spoke but little, but I observed that sometimes what I said surprised the good Methodist. We had been silent some time. At length, lifting up my eyes to the broad and leafy canopy of the trees, I said, having nothing better to remark, "What a noble tree! I wonder if the fairies ever dance beneath it?" "Fairies!" said Peter, "fairies! how came you, young man, to know anything about the fair family?" "I am an Englishman," said I, "and of course know something about fairies; England was once a famous place for them." "Was once, I grant you," said Peter, "but is so no longer. I have travelled for years about England, and never heard them mentioned before; the belief in them has died away, and even their name seems to be forgotten. If you had said you were a Welshman, I should not have been surprised. The Welsh have much to say of the _Tylwyth Teg_, or fair family, and many believe in them." "And do you believe in them?" said I. "I scarcely know what to say. Wise and good men have been of opinion that they are nothing but devils, who, under the form of pretty and amiable spirits, would fain allure poor human beings; I see nothing irrational in the supposition." "Do you believe in devils, then?" "Do I believe in devils, young man!" said Peter, and his frame was shaken as if by convulsions. "If I do not believe in devils, why am I here at the present moment?" "You know best," said I; "but I don't believe that fairies are devils, and I don't wish to hear them insulted. What learned men have said they are devils?" "Many have said it, young man, and, amongst others, Master Ellis Wyn, in that wonderful book of his, the _Bardd Cwsg_." "The _Bardd Cwsg_," said I; "what kind of book is that? I have never heard of that book before." "Heard of it before; I suppose not; how should you have heard of it before! By-the-bye, can you read?" "Very tolerably," said I; "so there are fairies in this book. What do you call it--the _Bardd Cwsg_?" "Yes, the _Bardd Cwsg_. You pronounce Welsh very fairly; have you ever been in Wales?" "Never," said I. "Not been in Wales; then, of course, you don't understand Welsh; but we were talking of the _Bardd Cwsg_--yes, there are fairies in the _Bardd Cwsg_--the author of it, Master Ellis Wyn, was carried away in his sleep by them over mountains and valleys, rivers and great waters, incurring mighty perils at their hands, till he was rescued from them by an angel of the Most High, who subsequently showed him many wonderful things." "I beg your pardon," said I, "but what were those wonderful things?" "I see, young man," said Peter, smiling, "that you are not without curiosity; but I can easily pardon anyone for being curious about the wonders contained in the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The angel showed him the course of this world, its pomps and vanities, its cruelty and its pride, its crimes and deceits. On another occasion, the angel showed him Death in his nether palace, surrounded by his grisly ministers, and by those who are continually falling victims to his power. And, on a third occasion, the state of the condemned in their place of everlasting torment." "But this was all in his sleep," said I, "was it not?" "Yes," said Peter, "in his sleep; and on that account the book is called _Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg_, or, Visions of the Sleeping Bard." "I do not care for wonders which occur in sleep," said I. "I prefer real ones; and perhaps, notwithstanding what he says, the man had no visions at all--they are probably of his own invention." "They are substantially true, young man," said Peter; "like the dreams of Bunyan, they are founded on three tremendous facts, Sin, Death, and Hell; and like his they have done incalculable good, at least in my own country, in the language in which they are written. Many a guilty conscience has the _Bardd Cwsg_ aroused with its dreadful sights, its strong sighs, its puffs of smoke from the pit, and its showers of sparks from the mouth of the yet lower gulf of [the deep] Unknown. Were it not for the _Bardd Cwsg_ perhaps I might not be here." "I would sooner hear your own tale," said I, "than all the visions of the _Bardd Cwsg_." Peter shook, bent his form nearly double, and covered his face with his hands. I sat still and motionless, with my eyes fixed upon him. Presently Winifred descended the hill, and joined us. "What is the matter?" said she, looking at her husband, who still remained in the posture I have described. He made no answer; whereupon, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, she said, in the peculiar soft and tender tone which I had heard her use on a former occasion, "Take comfort, Peter; what has happened now to afflict thee?" Peter removed his hands from his face. "The old pain, the old pain," said he; "I was talking with this young man, and he would fain know what brought me here, he would fain hear my tale, Winifred--my sin: _O pechod Ysprydd Glan_! O_ pechod Ysprydd Glan_!" and the poor man fell into a more fearful agony than before. Tears trickled down Winifred's face; I saw them trickling by the moonlight, as she gazed upon the writhing form of her afflicted husband. I arose from my seat; "I am the cause of all this," said I, "by my folly and imprudence, and it is thus I have returned your kindness and hospitality; I will depart from you and wander my way." I was retiring, but Peter sprang up and detained me. "Go not," said he, "you were not in fault; if there be any fault in the case, it was mine; if I suffer, I am but paying the penalty of my own iniquity;" he then paused, and appeared to be considering: at length he said, "Many things which thou hast seen and heard connected with me require explanation; thou wishest to know my tale, I will tell it thee, but not now, not to-night; I am too much shaken". Two evenings later, when we were again seated beneath the oak, Peter took the hand of his wife in his own, and then, in tones broken and almost inarticulate, commenced telling me his tale--the tale of the _Pechod Ysprydd Glan_. CHAPTER LXXV. "I was born in the heart of North Wales, the son of a respectable farmer, and am the youngest of seven brothers. "My father was a member of the Church of England, and was what is generally called a serious man. He went to church regularly, and read the Bible every Sunday evening; in his moments of leisure he was fond of holding religious discourse both with his family and his neighbours. "One autumn afternoon, on a week day, my father sat with one of his neighbours taking a cup of ale by the oak table in our stone kitchen. I sat near them, and listened to their discourse. I was at that time seven years of age. They were talking of religious matters. 'It is a hard matter to get to heaven,' said my father. 'Exceedingly so,' said the other. 'However, I don't despond, none need despair of getting to heaven, save those who have committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.' "'Ah!' said my father, 'thank God I never committed that--how awful must be the state of a person who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost! I can scarcely think of it without my hair standing on end;' and then my father and his friend began talking of the nature of the sin against the Holy Ghost, and I heard them say what it was, as I sat with greedy ears listening to their discourse. "I lay awake the greater part of the night musing upon what I had heard. I kept wondering to myself what must be the state of a person who had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, and how he must feel. Once or twice I felt a strong inclination to commit it--a strange kind of fear, however, prevented me; at last I determined not to commit it, and having said my prayers, I fell asleep. "When I awoke in the morning the first thing I thought of was the mysterious sin, and a voice within me seemed to say, 'Commit it'; and I felt a strong temptation to do so, even stronger than in the night. I was just about to yield, when the same dread, of which I have already spoken, came over me, and, springing out of bed, I went down on my knees. I slept in a small room alone, to which I ascended by a wooden stair, open to the sky. I have often thought since that it is not a good thing for children to sleep alone. "After breakfast I went to school, and endeavoured to employ myself upon my tasks, but all in vain; I could think of nothing but the sin against the Holy Ghost; my eyes, instead of being fixed upon my book, wandered in vacancy. My master observed my inattention, and chid me. The time came for saying my task, and I had not acquired it. My master reproached me, and, yet more, he beat me; I felt shame and anger, and I went home with a full determination to commit the sin against the Holy Ghost. "But when I got home my father ordered me to do something connected with the farm, so that I was compelled to exert myself; I was occupied till night, and was so busy that I almost forgot the sin and my late resolution. My work completed, I took my supper, and went to my room; I began my prayers, and, when they were ended, I thought of the sin, but the temptation was slight; I felt very tired, and was presently asleep. "Thus, you see, I had plenty of time allotted me by a gracious and kind God to reflect on what I was about to do. He did not permit the enemy of souls to take me by surprise, and to hurry me at once into the commission of that which was to be my ruin here and hereafter. Whatever I did was of my own free will, after I had had time to reflect. Thus God is justified; He had no hand in my destruction, but, on the contrary, He did all that was compatible with justice to prevent it. I hasten to the fatal moment. Awaking in the night, I determined that nothing should prevent my committing the sin. Arising from my bed, I went out upon the wooden gallery, and having stood for a few moments looking at the stars, with which the heavens were thickly strewn, I laid myself down, and supporting my face with my hand, I murmured out words of horror--words not to be repeated--and in this manner I committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. "When the words were uttered I sat up upon the topmost step of the gallery; for some time I felt stunned in somewhat the same manner as I once subsequently felt after being stung by an adder. I soon arose, however, and retired to my bed, where, notwithstanding what I had done, I was not slow in falling asleep. "I awoke several times during the night, each time with the dim idea that something strange and monstrous had occurred, but presently I fell asleep again; in the morning I awoke with the same vague feeling, but presently recollection returned, and I remembered that I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. I lay musing for some time on what I had done, and I felt rather stunned, as before; at last I arose and got out of bed, dressed myself, and then went down on my knees, and was about to pray from the force of mechanical habit; before I said a word, however, I recollected myself, and got up again. What was the use of praying? I thought; I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. "I went to school, but sat stupefied. I was again chidden, again beaten by my master. I felt no anger this time, and scarcely heeded the strokes. I looked, however, at my master's face, and thought to myself, you are beating me for being idle, as you suppose; poor man, what would you do if you knew I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost? "Days and weeks passed by. I had once been cheerful, and fond of the society of children of my own age; but I was now reserved and gloomy. It seemed to me that a gulf separated me from all my fellow-creatures. I used to look at my brothers and schoolfellows, and think how different I was from them; they had not done what I had. I seemed, in my own eyes, a lone, monstrous being, and yet, strange to say, I felt a kind of pride in being so. I was unhappy, but I frequently thought to myself, I have done what no one else would dare to do; there was something grand in the idea; I had yet to learn the horror of my condition. "Time passed on, and I began to think less of what I had done; I began once more to take pleasure in my childish sports; I was active, and excelled at football and the like all the lads of my age. I likewise began, what I had never done before, to take pleasure in the exercises of the school. I made great progress in Welsh and English grammar, and learnt to construe Latin. My master no longer chid or beat me, but one day told my father that he had no doubt that one day I should be an honour to Wales. "Shortly after this my father fell sick; the progress of the disorder was rapid; feeling his end approaching, he called his children before him. After tenderly embracing us, he said: 'God bless you, my children; I am going from you, but take comfort, I trust that we shall all meet again in heaven'. "As he uttered these last words, horror took entire possession of me. Meet my father in heaven--how could I ever hope to meet him there? I looked wildly at my brethren and at my mother; they were all bathed in tears, but how I envied them! They might hope to meet my father in heaven, but how different were they from me--they had never committed the unpardonable sin. "In a few days my father died; he left his family in comfortable circumstances, at least such as would be considered so in Wales, where the wants of the people are few. My elder brother carried on the farm for the benefit of my mother and us all. In course of time my brothers were put out to various trades. I still remained at school, but without being a source of expense to my relations, as I was by this time able to assist my master in the business of the school. "I was diligent both in self-improvement and in the instruction of others; nevertheless, a horrible weight pressed upon my breast; I knew I was a lost being; that for me there was no hope; that, though all others might be saved, I must of necessity be lost: I had committed the unpardonable sin, for which I was doomed to eternal punishment, in the flaming gulf, as soon as life was over!--and how long could I hope to live? perhaps fifty years, at the end of which I must go to my place; and then I would count the months and the days, nay, even the hours which yet intervened between me and my doom. Sometimes I would comfort myself with the idea that a long time would elapse before my time would be out; but then again I thought that, however long the term might be, it must be out at last; and then I would fall into an agony, during which I would almost wish that the term were out, and that I were in my place; the horrors of which I thought could scarcely be worse than what I then endured. "There was one thought about this time which caused me unutterable grief and shame, perhaps more shame than grief. It was that my father, who was gone to heaven, and was there daily holding communion with his God, was by this time aware of my crime. I imagined him looking down from the clouds upon his wretched son, with a countenance of inexpressible horror. When this idea was upon me, I would often rush to some secret place to hide myself--to some thicket, where I would cast myself on the ground, and thrust my head into a thick bush, in order to escape from the horror- struck glance of my father above in the clouds; and there I would continue groaning till the agony had, in some degree, passed away. "The wretchedness of my state increasing daily, it at last became apparent to the master of the school, who questioned me earnestly and affectionately. I, however, gave him no satisfactory answer, being apprehensive that, if I unbosomed myself, I should become as much an object of horror to him as I had long been to myself. At length he suspected that I was unsettled in my intellects; and, fearing probably the ill effect of my presence upon his scholars, he advised me to go home--which I was glad to do, as I felt myself every day becoming less qualified for the duties of the office which I had undertaken. "So I returned home to my mother and my brother, who received me with the greatest kindness and affection. I now determined to devote myself to husbandry, and assist my brother in the business of the farm. I was still, however, very much distressed. One fine morning, however, as I was at work in the field, and the birds were carolling around me, a ray of hope began to break upon my poor dark soul. I looked at the earth, and looked at the sky, and felt as I had not done for many a year; presently a delicious feeling stole over me. I was beginning to enjoy existence. I shall never forget that hour. I flung myself on the soil, and kissed it; then, springing up with a sudden impulse, I rushed into the depths of a neighbouring wood, and, falling upon my knees, did what I had not done for a long time--prayed to God. "A change, an entire change, seemed to have come over me. I was no longer gloomy and despairing, but gay and happy. My slumbers were light and easy; not disturbed, as before, by frightful dreams. I arose with the lark, and like him uttered a cheerful song of praise to God, frequently and earnestly, and was particularly cautious not to do anything which I considered might cause His displeasure. "At church I was constant, and when there listened with deepest attention to every word which proceeded from the mouth of the minister. In a little time it appeared to me that I had become a good, very good young man. At times the recollection of the sin would return, and I would feel a momentary chill; but the thought quickly vanished, and I again felt happy and secure. "One Sunday morning, after I had said my prayers, I felt particularly joyous. I thought of the innocent and virtuous life I was leading; and when the recollection of the sin intruded for a moment, I said, 'I am sure God will never utterly cast away so good a creature as myself'. I went to church, and was as usual attentive. The subject of the sermon was on the duty of searching the Scriptures: all I knew of them was from the Liturgy. I now, however, determined to read them, and perfect the good work which I had begun. My father's Bible was upon the shelf, and on that evening I took it with me to my chamber. I placed it on the table, and sat down. My heart was filled with pleasing anticipation. I opened the book at random, and began to read; the first passage on which my eyes lighted was the following-- "'He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven, either in this world or the next'." Here Peter was seized with convulsive tremors. Winifred sobbed violently. I got up, and went away. Returning in about a quarter of an hour, I found him more calm; he motioned me to sit down; and, after a short pause, continued his narration. CHAPTER LXXVI. "Where was I, young man? Oh, I remember, at the fatal passage which removed all hope. I will not dwell on what I felt. I closed my eyes, and wished that I might be dreaming; but it was no dream, but a terrific reality. I will not dwell on that period, I should only shock you. I could not bear my feelings; so, bidding my friends a hasty farewell, I abandoned myself to horror and despair, and ran wild through Wales, climbing mountains and wading streams. "Climbing mountains and wading streams, I ran wild about; I was burnt by the sun, drenched by the rain, and had frequently at night no other covering than the sky, or the humid roof of some cave. But nothing seemed to affect my constitution, probably the fire which burned within me counteracted what I suffered from without. During the space of three years I scarcely knew what befel me; my life was a dream--a wild, horrible dream; more than once I believe I was in the hands of robbers, and once in the hands of gypsies. I liked the last description of people least of all; I could not abide their yellow faces, or their ceaseless clabber. Escaping from these beings whose countenances and godless discourse brought to my mind the demons of the deep Unknown, I still ran wild through Wales, I know not how long. On one occasion, coming in some degree to my recollection, I felt myself quite unable to bear the horrors of my situation; looking round I found myself near the sea; instantly the idea came into my head that I would cast myself into it, and thus anticipate my final doom. I hesitated a moment, but a voice within me seemed to tell me that I could do no better; the sea was near, and I could not swim, so I determined to fling myself into the sea. As I was running along at great speed, in the direction of a lofty rock, which beetled over the waters, I suddenly felt myself seized by the coat. I strove to tear myself away, but in vain; looking round, I perceived a venerable, hale old man, who had hold of me. 'Let me go!' said I fiercely. 'I will not let thee go,' said the old man, and now, instead of with one, he grappled me with both hands. 'In whose name dost them detain me?' said I, scarcely knowing what I said. 'In the name of my Master, who made thee and yonder sea, and has said to the sea, so far shalt thou come, and no farther, and to thee, thou shalt do no murder.' 'Has not a man a right to do what he pleases with his own?' said I. 'He has,' said the old man, 'but thy life is not thy own; thou art accountable for it to thy God. Nay, I will not let thee go,' he continued, as I again struggled; 'if thou struggle with me the whole day I will not let thee go, as Charles Wesley says in his _Wrestlings of Jacob_; and see, it is of no use struggling, for I am, in the strength of my Master, stronger than thou;' and, indeed, all of a sudden I had become very weak and exhausted; whereupon the old man, beholding my situation, took me by the arm and led me gently to a neighbouring town, which stood behind a hill, and which I had not before observed; presently he opened the door of a respectable-looking house, which stood beside a large building having the appearance of a chapel, and conducted me into a small room, with a great many books in it. Having caused me to sit down, he stood looking at me for some time, occasionally heaving a sigh. I was, indeed, haggard and forlorn. 'Who art thou?' he said at last. 'A miserable man,' I replied. 'What makes thee miserable?' said the old man. 'A hideous crime,' I replied. 'I can find no rest; like Cain, I wander here and there.' The old man turned pale. 'Hast thou taken another's life?' said he; 'if so, I advise thee to surrender thyself to the magistrate; thou canst do no better; thy doing so will be the best proof of thy repentance; and though there be no hope for thee in this world there may be much in the next.' 'No,' said I, 'I have never taken another's life.' 'What then, another's goods? If so, restore them seven- fold if possible: or, if it be not in thy power, and thy conscience accuse thee, surrender thyself to the magistrate, and make the only satisfaction thou art able.' 'I have taken no one's goods,' said I. 'Of what art thou guilty, then?' said he. 'Art thou a drunkard? a profligate?' 'Alas, no,' said I; 'I am neither of these; would that I were no worse!' "Thereupon the old man looked steadfastly at me for some time; then, after appearing to reflect, he said: 'Young man, I have a great desire to know your name'. 'What matters it to you what is my name?' said I; 'you know nothing of me.' 'Perhaps you are mistaken,' said the old man, looking kindly at me; 'but at all events tell me your name.' I hesitated a moment, and then told him who I was, whereupon he exclaimed with much emotion, 'I thought so; how wonderful are the ways of Providence! I have heard of thee, young man, and know thy mother well. Only a month ago, when upon a journey, I experienced much kindness from her. She was speaking to me of her lost child, with tears; she told me that you were one of the best of sons, but that some strange idea appeared to have occupied your mind. Despair not, my son. If thou hast been afflicted, I doubt not but that thy affliction will eventually turn out to thy benefit; I doubt not but that thou wilt be preserved, as an example of the great mercy of God. I will now kneel down and pray for thee, my son.' "He knelt down, and prayed long and fervently. I remained standing for some time; at length I knelt down likewise. I scarcely knew what he was saying, but when he concluded I said 'Amen'. "And when we had risen from our knees, the old man left me for a short time, and on his return led me into another room, where were two females; one was an elderly person, the wife of the old man, the other was a young woman of very prepossessing appearance (hang not down thy head, Winifred), who I soon found was a distant relation of the old man. Both received me with great kindness, the old man having doubtless previously told them who I was. "I staid several days in the good man's house. I had still the greater portion of a small sum which I happened to have about me when I departed on my dolorous wandering, and with this I purchased clothes, and altered my appearance considerably. On the evening of the second day, my friend said: 'I am going to preach, perhaps you will come and hear me'. I consented, and we all went, not to a church, but to the large building next the house; for the old man, though a clergyman, was not of the established persuasion, and there the old man mounted a pulpit, and began to preach. 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,' etc., etc., was his text. His sermon was long, but I still bear the greater portion of it in my mind. "The substance of it was that Jesus was at all times ready to take upon Himself the burden of our sins, provided we came to Him with a humble and contrite spirit, and begged His help. This doctrine was new to me; I had often been at church, but had never heard it preached before, at least so distinctly. When he said that all men might be saved, I shook, for I expected he would add, all except those who had committed the mysterious sin; but no, all men were to be saved who with a humble and contrite spirit would come to Jesus, cast themselves at the foot of His cross, and accept pardon through the merits of His blood-shedding alone. 'Therefore, my friends,' said he, in conclusion, 'despair not--however guilty you may be, despair not--however desperate your condition may seem,' said he, fixing his eyes upon me, 'despair not. There is nothing more foolish and more wicked than despair; overweening confidence is not more foolish than despair; both are the favourite weapons of the enemy of souls.' "This discourse gave rise in my mind to no slight perplexity. I had read in the Scriptures that he who committeth a certain sin shall never be forgiven, and that there is no hope for him either in this world or the next. And here was a man, a good man certainly, and one who, of necessity, was thoroughly acquainted with the Scriptures, who told me that any one might be forgiven, however wicked, who would only trust in Christ and in the merits of His blood-shedding. Did I believe in Christ? Ay, truly. Was I willing to be saved by Christ? Ay, truly. Did I trust in Christ? I trusted that Christ would save every one but myself. And why not myself? simply because the Scriptures had told me that he who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost can never be saved, and I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost--perhaps the only one who ever had committed it. How could I hope? The Scriptures could not lie, and yet here was this good old man, profoundly versed in the Scriptures, who bade me hope; would he lie? No. But did the old man know my case? Ah, no, he did not know my case! but yet he had bid me hope, whatever I had done, provided I would go to Jesus. But how could I think of going to Jesus, when the Scriptures told me plainly that all would be useless? I was perplexed, and yet a ray of hope began to dawn in my soul. I thought of consulting the good man, but I was afraid he would drive away the small glimmer. I was afraid he would say, 'Oh, yes, every one is to be saved, except a wretch like you; I was not aware before that there was anything so horrible--begone!' Once or twice the old man questioned me on the subject of my misery, but I evaded him; once, indeed, when he looked particularly benevolent, I think I should have unbosomed myself to him, but we were interrupted. He never pressed me much; perhaps he was delicate in probing my mind, as we were then of different persuasions. Hence he advised me to seek the advice of some powerful minister in my own church; there were many such in it, he said. "I staid several days in the family, during which time I more than once heard my venerable friend preach; each time he preached he exhorted his hearers not to despair. The whole family were kind to me; his wife frequently discoursed with me, and also the young person to whom I have already alluded. It appeared to me that the latter took a peculiar interest in my fate. "At last my friend said to me: 'It is now time thou shouldst return to thy mother and thy brother'. So I arose, and departed to my mother and my brother; and at my departure my old friend gave me his blessing, and his wife and the young person shed tears, the last especially. And when my mother saw me, she shed tears, and fell on my neck and kissed me, and my brother took me by the hand and bade me welcome; and when our first emotions were subsided, my mother said: 'I trust thou art come in a lucky hour. A few weeks ago my cousin (whose favourite thou always wast) died and left thee his heir--left thee the goodly farm in which he lived. I trust, my son, that thou wilt now settle, and be a comfort to me in my old days.' And I answered: 'I will, if so please the Lord'; and I said to myself, 'God grant that this bequest be a token of the Lord's favour'. "And in a few days I departed to take possession of my farm; it was about twenty miles from my mother's house, in a beautiful but rather wild district; I arrived at the fall of the leaf. All day long I busied myself with my farm, and thus kept my mind employed. At night, however, I felt rather solitary, and I frequently wished for a companion. Each night and morning I prayed fervently unto the Lord; for His hand had been very heavy upon me, and I feared Him. "There was one thing connected with my new abode, which gave me considerable uneasiness--the want of spiritual instruction. There was a church, indeed, close at hand, in which service was occasionally performed, but in so hurried and heartless a manner that I derived little benefit from it. The clergyman to whom the benefice belonged was a valetudinarian, who passed his time in London, or at some watering-place, entrusting the care of his flock to the curate of a distant parish, who gave himself very little trouble about the matter. Now, I wanted every Sunday to hear from the pulpit words of consolation and encouragement, similar to those which I had heard uttered from the pulpit by my good and venerable friend, but I was debarred from this privilege. At length, one day being in conversation with one of my labourers, a staid and serious man, I spoke to him of the matter which lay heavy upon my mind; whereupon, looking me wistfully in the face, he said: 'Master, the want of religious instruction in my church was what drove me to the Methodists'. 'The Methodists,' said I; 'are there any in these parts?' 'There is a chapel,' said he, 'only half a mile distant, at which there are two services every Sunday, and other two during the week.' Now, it happened that my venerable friend was of the Methodist persuasion, and when I heard the poor man talk in this manner, I said to him: 'May I go with you next Sunday?' 'Why not?' said he; so I went with the labourer on the ensuing Sabbath to the meeting of the Methodists. "I liked the preaching which I heard at the chapel very well, though it was not quite so comfortable as that of my old friend, the preacher being in some respects a different kind of man. It, however, did me good, and I went again, and continued to do so, though I did not become a regular member of the body at that time. "I had now the benefit of religious instruction, and also to a certain extent of religious fellowship, for the preacher and various members of his flock frequently came to see me. They were honest, plain men, not exactly of the description which I wished for, but still good sort of people, and I was glad to see them. Once on a time, when some of them were with me, one of them inquired whether I was fervent in prayer. 'Very fervent,' said I. 'And do you read the Scriptures often?' said he. 'No,' said I. 'Why not?' said he. 'Because I am afraid to see there my own condemnation.' They looked at each other, and said nothing at the time. On leaving me, however, they all advised me to read the Scriptures with fervency and prayer. "As I had told these honest people, I shrank from searching the Scriptures; the remembrance of the fatal passage was still too vivid in my mind to permit me. I did not wish to see my condemnation repeated, but I was very fervent in prayer, and almost hoped that God would yet forgive me by virtue of the blood-shedding of the Lamb. Time passed on, my affairs prospered, and I enjoyed a certain portion of tranquillity. Occasionally, when I had nothing else to do, I renewed my studies. Many is the book I read, especially in my native language, for I was always fond of my native language, and proud of being a Welshman. Amongst the books I read were the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, whom thou, friend, hast never heard of; no, nor any of thy countrymen, for you are an ignorant race, you Saxons, at least with respect to all that relates to Wales and Welshmen. I likewise read the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The latter work possessed a singular fascination for me, on account of its wonderful delineations of the torments of the nether world. "But man does not love to be alone; indeed, the Scripture says that it is not good for man to be alone. I occupied my body with the pursuits of husbandry, and I improved my mind with the perusal of good and wise books; but, as I have already said, I frequently sighed for a companion with whom I could exchange ideas, and who could take an interest in my pursuits; the want of such a one I more particularly felt in the long winter evenings. It was then that the image of the young person whom I had seen in the house of the preacher frequently rose up distinctly before my mind's eye, decked with quiet graces--hang not down your head, Winifred--and I thought that of all the women in the world I should wish her to be my partner, and then I considered whether it would be possible to obtain her. I am ready to acknowledge, friend, that it was both selfish and wicked in me to wish to fetter any human being to a lost creature like myself, conscious of having committed a crime for which the Scriptures told me there is no pardon. I had, indeed, a long struggle as to whether I should make the attempt or not--selfishness, however, prevailed. I will not detain your attention with relating all that occurred at this period--suffice it to say that I made my suit and was successful; it is true that the old man, who was her guardian, hesitated, and asked several questions respecting my state of mind. I am afraid that I partly deceived him, perhaps he partly deceived himself; he was pleased that I had adopted his profession--we are all weak creatures. With respect to the young person, she did not ask many questions; and I soon found that I had won her heart. To be brief, I married her; and here she is, the truest wife that ever man had, and the kindest. Kind I may well call her, seeing that she shrinks not from me, who so cruelly deceived her, in not telling her at first what I was. I married her, friend, and brought her home to my little possession, where we passed our time very agreeably. Our affairs prospered, our garners were full, and there was coin in our purse. I worked in the field; Winifred busied herself with the dairy. At night I frequently read books to her, books of my own country, friend; I likewise read to her songs of my own, holy songs and carols which she admired, and which yourself would perhaps admire, could you understand them; but I repeat, you Saxons are an ignorant people with respect to us, and a perverse, inasmuch as you despise Welsh without understanding it. Every night I prayed fervently, and my wife admired my gift of prayer. "One night, after I had been reading to my wife a portion of Ellis Wyn, my wife said: 'This is a wonderful book, and containing much true and pleasant doctrine; but how is it that you, who are so fond of good books, and good things in general, never read the Bible? You read me the book of Master Ellis Wyn, you read me sweet songs of your own composition, you edify me with your gift of prayer, but yet you never read the Bible.' And when I heard her mention the Bible I shook, for I thought of my own condemnation. However, I dearly loved my wife, and as she pressed me, I commenced on that very night reading the Bible. All went on smoothly for a long time; for months and months I did not find the fatal passage, so that I almost thought that I had imagined it. My affairs prospered much the while, so that I was almost happy, taking pleasure in everything around me,--in my wife, in my farm, my books and compositions, and the Welsh language; till one night, as I was reading the Bible, feeling particularly comfortable, a thought having just come into my head that I would print some of my compositions, and purchase a particular field of a neighbour--oh, God--God! I came to the fatal passage. "Friend, friend, what shall I say? I rushed out. My wife followed me, asking me what was the matter. I could only answer with groans--for three days and three nights I did little else than groan. Oh, the kindness and solicitude of my wife! 'What is the matter, husband, dear husband?' she was continually saying. I became at last more calm. My wife still persisted in asking me the cause of my late paroxysm. It is hard to keep a secret from a wife, especially such a wife as mine, so I told my wife the tale, as we sat one night--it was a mid-winter night--over the dying brands of our hearth, after the family had retired to rest, her hand locked in mine, even as it is now. "I thought she would have shrunk from me with horror; but she did not; her hand, it is true, trembled once or twice; but that was all. At last she gave mine a gentle pressure; and, looking up in my face, she said--what do you think my wife said, young man?" "It is impossible for me to guess," said I. "'Let us go to rest, my love; your fears are all groundless.'" CHAPTER LXXVII. "And so I still say," said Winifred, sobbing. "Let us retire to rest, dear husband; your fears are groundless. I had hoped long since that your affliction would have passed away, and I still hope that it eventually will; so take heart, Peter, and let us retire to rest, for it is getting late." "Rest!" said Peter; "there is no rest for the wicked!" "We are all wicked," said Winifred; "but you are afraid of a shadow. How often have I told you that the sin of your heart is not the sin against the Holy Ghost: the sin of your heart is its natural pride, of which you are scarcely aware, to keep down which God in His mercy permitted you to be terrified with the idea of having committed a sin which you never committed." "Then you will still maintain," said Peter, "that I never committed the sin against the Holy Spirit?" "I will," said Winifred; "you never committed it. How should a child seven years old commit a sin like that?" "Have I not read my own condemnation?" said Peter. "Did not the first words which I read in the Holy Scripture condemn me? 'He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall never enter into the kingdom of God.'" "You never committed it," said Winifred. "But the words! the words! the words!" said Peter. "The words are true words," said Winifred, sobbing; "but they were not meant for you, but for those who have broken their profession, who, having embraced the cross, have receded from their Master." "And what sayest thou to the effect which the words produced upon me?" said Peter. "Did they not cause me to run wild through Wales for years, like Merddin Wyllt of yore? Thinkest thou that I opened the book at that particular passage by chance?" "No," said Winifred, "not by chance; it was the hand of God directed you, doubtless for some wise purpose. You had become satisfied with yourself. The Lord wished to rouse thee from thy state of carnal security, and therefore directed your eyes to that fearful passage." "Does the Lord then carry out His designs by means of guile?" said Peter, with a groan. "Is not the Lord true? Would the Lord impress upon me that I had committed a sin of which I am guiltless? Hush, Winifred! hush! thou knowest that I have committed the sin." "Thou hast not committed it," said Winifred, sobbing yet more violently. "Were they my last words, I would persist that thou hast not committed it, though, perhaps, thou wouldst, but for this chastening; it was not to convince thee that thou hast committed the sin, but rather to prevent thee from committing it, that the Lord brought that passage before thy eyes. He is not to blame, if thou art wilfully blind to the truth and wisdom of His ways." "I see thou wouldst comfort me," said Peter, "as thou hast often before attempted to do. I would fain ask the young man his opinion." "I have not yet heard the whole of your history," said I. "My story is nearly told," said Peter; "a few words will complete it. My wife endeavoured to console and reassure me, using the arguments which you have just heard her use, and many others, but in vain. Peace nor comfort came to my breast. I was rapidly falling into the depths of despair, when one day Winifred said to me: 'I see thou wilt be lost if we remain here. One resource only remains. Thou must go forth, my husband, into the wide world, and to comfort thee I will go with thee.' 'And what can I do in the wide world?' said I, despondingly. 'Much,' replied Winifred, 'if you will but exert yourself; much good canst thou do with the blessing of God.' Many things of the same kind she said to me; and at last I arose from the earth to which God had smitten me, and disposed of my property in the best way I could, and went into the world. We did all the good we were able, visiting the sick, ministering to the sick, and praying with the sick. At last I became celebrated as the possessor of a great gift of prayer. And people urged me to preach, and Winifred urged me too, and at last I consented, and I preached. I--I--outcast Peter, became the preacher, Peter Williams. I, the lost one, attempted to show others the right road. And in this way I have gone on for thirteen years, preaching and teaching, visiting the sick, and ministering to them, with Winifred by my side heartening me on. Occasionally I am visited with fits of indescribable agony, generally on the night before the Sabbath; for I then ask myself, how dare I, the outcast, attempt to preach the word of God? Young man, my tale is told; you seem in thought!" "I am thinking of London Bridge," said I. "Of London Bridge!" said Peter and his wife. "Yes," said I, "of London Bridge. I am indebted for much wisdom to London Bridge; it was there that I completed my studies. But to the point. I was once reading on London Bridge a book which an ancient gentlewoman, who kept the bridge, was in the habit of lending me; and there I found written, 'Each one carries in his breast the recollection of some sin which presses heavy upon him. O! if men could but look into each other's hearts, what blackness would they find there!'" "That's true," said Peter. "What is the name of the book?" "_The Life of Blessed Mary Flanders_." "Some popish saint, I suppose," said Peter. "As much of a saint, I dare say," said I, "as most popish ones; but you interrupted me. One part of your narrative brought the passage which I have quoted into my mind. You said that after you had committed this same sin of yours you were in the habit, at school, of looking upon your schoolfellows with a kind of gloomy superiority, considering yourself a lone, monstrous being who had committed a sin far above the daring of any of them. Are you sure that many others of your schoolfellows were not looking upon you and the others with much the same eyes with which you were looking upon them?" "How!" said Peter, "dost thou think that they had divined my secret?" "Not they," said I; "they were, I dare say, thinking too much of themselves and of their own concerns to have divined any secrets of yours. All I mean to say is, they had probably secrets of their own, and who knows that the secret sin of more than one of them was not the very sin which caused you so much misery?" "Dost thou then imagine," said Peter, "the sin against the Holy Ghost to be so common an occurrence?" "As you have described it," said I, "of very common occurrence, especially amongst children, who are, indeed, the only beings likely to commit it." "Truly," said Winifred, "the young man talks wisely." Peter was silent for some moments, and appeared to be reflecting; at last, suddenly raising his head, he looked me full in the face, and, grasping my hand with vehemence, he said: "Tell me, young man, only one thing, hast thou, too, committed the sin against the Holy Ghost?" "I am neither Papist nor Methodist," said I, "but of the Church, and, being so, confess myself to no one, but keep my own counsel; I will tell thee, however, had I committed, at the same age, twenty such sins as that which you committed, I should feel no uneasiness at these years--but I am sleepy, and must go to rest." "God bless thee, young man," said Winifred. CHAPTER LXXVIII. Before I sank to rest I heard Winifred and her husband conversing in the place where I had left them; both their voices were low and calm. I soon fell asleep, and slumbered for some time. On my awakening I again heard them conversing, but they were now in their cart; still the voices of both were calm. I heard no passionate bursts of wild despair on the part of the man. Methought I occasionally heard the word _Pechod_ proceeding from the lips of each, but with no particular emphasis. I supposed they were talking of the innate sin of both their hearts. "I wish that man were happy," said I to myself, "were it only for his wife's sake, and yet he deserves to be happy for his own." The next day Peter was very cheerful, more cheerful than I had ever seen him. At breakfast his conversation was animated, and he smiled repeatedly. I looked at him with the greatest interest, and the eyes of his wife were almost constantly fixed upon him. A shade of gloom would occasionally come over his countenance, but it almost instantly disappeared; perhaps it proceeded more from habit than anything else. After breakfast he took his Welsh Bible and sat down beneath a tree. His eyes were soon fixed intently on the volume; now and then he would call his wife, show her some passage, and appeared to consult with her. The day passed quickly and comfortably. "Your husband seems much better," said I, at evening fall, to Winifred, as we chanced to be alone. "He does," said Winifred; "and that on the day of the week when he was wont to appear most melancholy, for to-morrow is the Sabbath. He now no longer looks forward to the Sabbath with dread, but appears to reckon on it. What a happy change! and to think that this change should have been produced by a few words, seemingly careless ones, proceeding from the mouth of one who is almost a stranger to him. Truly, it is wonderful." "To whom do you allude," said I, "and to what words?" "To yourself, and to the words which came from your lips last night, after you had heard my poor husband's history. Those strange words, drawn out with so much seeming indifference, have produced in my husband the blessed effect which you have observed. They have altered the current of his ideas. He no longer thinks himself the only being in the world doomed to destruction,--the only being capable of committing the never-to-be-forgiven sin. Your supposition that that which harrowed his soul is of frequent occurrence amongst children, has tranquillised him; the mist which hung over his mind has cleared away, and he begins to see the groundlessness of his apprehensions. The Lord has permitted him to be chastened for a season, but his lamp will only burn the brighter for what he has undergone." Sunday came, fine and glorious as the last. Again my friends and myself breakfasted together, again the good family of the house on the hill above, headed by the respectable master, descended to the meadow. Peter and his wife were ready to receive them. Again Peter placed himself at the side of the honest farmer, and Winifred by the side of her friend. "Wilt thou not come?" said Peter, looking towards me with a face in which there was much emotion. "Wilt thou not come?" said Winifred, with a face beaming with kindness. But I made no answer, and presently the party moved away, in the same manner in which it had moved on the preceding Sabbath, and I was again left alone. The hours of the Sabbath passed slowly away. I sat gazing at the sky, the trees and the water. At last I strolled up to the house and sat down in the porch. It was empty; there was no modest maiden there, as on the preceding Sabbath. The damsel of the book had accompanied the rest. I had seen her in the procession, and the house appeared quite deserted. The owners had probably left it to my custody, so I sat down in the porch, quite alone. The hours of the Sabbath passed heavily away. At last evening came, and with it the party of the morning. I was now at my place beneath the oak. I went forward to meet them. Peter and his wife received me with a calm and quiet greeting, and passed forward. The rest of the party had broke into groups. There was a kind of excitement amongst them, and much eager whispering. I went to one of the groups; the young girl of whom I have spoken more than once, was speaking: "Such a sermon," said she, "it has never been our lot to hear; Peter never before spoke as he has done this day--he was always a powerful preacher; but oh, the unction of the discourse of this morning, and yet more of that of the afternoon, which was the continuation of it." "What was the subject?" said I, interrupting her. "Ah! you should have been there, young man, to have heard it; it would have made a lasting impression upon you. I was bathed in tears all the time; those who heard it will never forget the preaching of the good Peter Williams on the Power, Providence and Goodness of God." CHAPTER LXXIX. On the morrow I said to my friends: "I am about to depart; farewell!" "Depart!" said Peter and his wife simultaneously, "whither wouldst thou go?" "I can't stay here all my days," I replied. "Of course not," said Peter, "but we had no idea of losing thee so soon: we had almost hoped that thou wouldst join us, become one of us. We are under infinite obligations to thee." "You mean I am under infinite obligations to you," said I. "Did you not save my life?" "Perhaps so, under God," said Peter; "and what hast thou not done for me? Art thou aware that, under God, thou hast preserved my soul from despair? But, independent of that, we like thy company, and feel a deep interest in thee, and would fain teach thee the way that is right. Hearken, to-morrow we go into Wales; go with us." "I have no wish to go into Wales," said I. "Why not?" said Peter with animation. "Wales is a goodly country; as the Scripture says--a land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths, that spring out of valleys and hills, a land whose stones are iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig lead." "I daresay it is a very fine country," said I, "but I have no wish to go there just now; my destiny seems to point in another direction, to say nothing of my trade." "Thou dost right to say nothing of thy trade," said Peter, smiling, "for thou seemest to care nothing about it; which has led Winifred and myself to suspect that thou art not altogether what thou seemest; but, setting that aside, we should be most happy if thou wouldst go with us into Wales." "I cannot promise to go with you into Wales," said I; "but, as you depart to-morrow, I will stay with you through the day, and on the morrow accompany you part of the way." "Do," said Peter. "I have many people to see to-day, and so has Winifred; but we will both endeavour to have some serious discourse with thee, which, perhaps, will turn to thy profit in the end." In the course of the day the good Peter came to me, as I was seated beneath the oak, and, placing himself by me, commenced addressing me in the following manner:-- "I have no doubt, my young friend, that you are willing to admit, that the most important thing which a human being possesses is his soul; it is of infinitely more importance than the body, which is a frail substance, and cannot last for many years; but not so the soul, which, by its nature, is imperishable. To one of two mansions the soul is destined to depart, after its separation from the body, to heaven or hell: to the halls of eternal bliss, where God and His holy angels dwell, or to the place of endless misery, inhabited by Satan and his grisly companions. My friend, if the joys of heaven are great, unutterably great, so are the torments of hell unutterably so. I wish not to speak of them, I wish not to terrify your imagination with the torments of hell; indeed, I like not to think of them; but it is necessary to speak of them sometimes, and to think of them sometimes, lest you should sink into a state of carnal security. Authors, friend, and learned men are not altogether agreed as to the particulars of hell. They all agree, however, in considering it a place of exceeding horror. Master Ellis Wyn, who by-the-bye was a Churchman, calls it, amongst other things, a place of strong sighs, and of flaming sparks. Master Rees Pritchard, who was not only a Churchman, but Vicar of Llandovery, and flourished about two hundred years ago--I wish many like him flourished now--speaking of hell, in his collection of sweet hymns, called the _Welshman's Candle_, observes:-- "'The pool is continually blazing; it is very deep, without any known bottom, and the walls are so high, that there is neither hope nor possibility of escaping over them'. "But, as I told you just now, I have no great pleasure in talking of hell. No, friend, no; I would sooner talk of the other place, and of the goodness and hospitality of God amongst His saints above." And then the excellent man began to dilate upon the joys of heaven, and the goodness and hospitality of God in the mansions above, explaining to me, in the clearest way, how I might get there. And when he had finished what he had to say, he left me, whereupon Winifred drew nigh, and sitting down by me, began to address me. "I do not think," said she, "from what I have observed of thee, that thou wouldst wish to be ungrateful, and yet is not thy whole life a series of ingratitude, and to whom?--to thy Maker. Has He not endowed thee with a goodly and healthy form, and senses which enable thee to enjoy the delights of His beautiful universe--the work of His hands? Canst thou not enjoy, even to rapture, the brightness of the sun, the perfume of the meads, and the song of the dear birds, which inhabit among the trees? Yes, thou canst; for I have seen thee, and observed thee doing so. Yet, during the whole time that I have known thee, I have not heard proceed from thy lips one single word of praise or thanksgiving to--" And in this manner the admirable woman proceeded for a considerable time, and to all her discourse I listened with attention; and when she had concluded I took her hand and said, "I thank you," and that was all. On the next day everything was ready for our departure. The good family of the house came to bid us farewell. There were shaking of hands, and kisses, as on the night of our arrival. And as I stood somewhat apart, the young girl of whom I have spoken so often came up to me, and, holding out her hand, said: "Farewell, young man, wherever thou goest". Then, after looking around her, she said: "It was all true you told me. Yesterday I received a letter from him thou wottest of, he is coming soon. God bless you, young man; who would have thought thou knewest so much!" So after we had taken our farewell of the good family, we departed, proceeding in the direction of Wales. Peter was very cheerful, and enlivened the way with godly discourse and spiritual hymns, some of which were in the Welsh language. At length I said: "It is a pity that you did not continue in the Church; you have a turn for Psalmody, and I have heard of a man becoming a bishop, by means of a less qualification". "Very probably," said Peter; "more the pity. But I have told you the reason of my forsaking it. Frequently, when I went to the church door, I found it barred, and the priest absent; what was I to do? My heart was bursting for want of some religious help and comfort; what could I do! as good Master Rees Pritchard observes in his _Candle for Welshmen_:-- "'It is a doleful thing to see little children burning on the hot coals for want of help, but yet more doleful to see a flock of souls falling into the burning lake for want of a priest'." "The Church of England is a fine church," said I; "I would not advise any one to speak ill of the Church of England before me." "I have nothing to say against the church," said Peter; "all I wish is that it would fling itself a little more open, and that its priests would a little more bestir themselves; in a word, that it would shoulder the cross and become a missionary church." "It is too proud for that," said Winifred. "You are much more of a Methodist," said I, "than your husband. But tell me," said I, addressing myself to Peter, "do you not differ from the church in some points of doctrine? I, of course, as a true member of the church, am quite ignorant of the peculiar opinions of wandering sectaries." "Oh, the pride of that church!" said Winifred half to herself; "wandering sectaries!" "We differ in no points of doctrine," said Peter; "we believe all the church believes, though we are not so fond of vain and superfluous ceremonies, snow-white neckcloths and surplices, as the church is. We likewise think that there is no harm in a sermon by the road-side, or in holding free discourse with a beggar beneath a hedge, or a tinker," he added, smiling; "it was those superfluous ceremonies, those surplices and white neckcloths, and, above all, the necessity of strictly regulating his words and conversation, which drove John Wesley out of the church, and sent him wandering up and down as you see me, poor Welsh Peter, do." Nothing further passed for some time; we were now drawing near the hills: at last I said: "You must have met with a great many strange adventures since you took up this course of life?" "Many," said Peter, "it has been my lot to meet with, but none more strange than one which occurred to me only a few weeks ago. You were asking me, not long since, whether I believed in devils? Ay, truly, young man; and I believe that the abyss and the yet deeper unknown do not contain them all; some walk about upon the green earth. So it happened, some weeks ago, that I was exercising my ministry, about forty miles from here. I was alone, Winifred, being slightly indisposed, staying for a few days at the house of an acquaintance; I had finished afternoon's worship--the people had dispersed, and I was sitting solitary by my cart under some green trees in a quiet, retired place; suddenly a voice said to me: 'Good evening, Pastor'; I looked up, and before me stood a man, at least the appearance of a man, dressed in a black suit of rather a singular fashion. He was about my own age, or somewhat older. As I looked upon him, it appeared to me that I had seen him twice before whilst preaching. I replied to his salutation, and perceiving that he looked somewhat fatigued, I took out a stool from the cart, and asked him to sit down. We began to discourse; I at first supposed that he might be one of ourselves, some wandering minister; but I was soon undeceived. Neither his language nor his ideas were those of any one of our body. He spoke on all kinds of matters with much fluency, till at last he mentioned my preaching, complimenting me on my powers. I replied, as well I might, that I could claim no merit of my own, and that if I spoke with any effect, it was only by the grace of God. As I uttered these last words, a horrible kind of sneer came over his countenance, which made me shudder, for there was something diabolical in it. I said little more, but listened attentively to his discourse. At last he said that I was engaged in a paltry cause, quite unworthy of one of my powers. 'How can that be,' said I, 'even if I possessed all the powers in the world, seeing that I am engaged in the cause of our Lord Jesus?' "The same kind of sneer again came on his countenance, but he almost instantly observed that if I chose to forsake this same miserable cause, from which nothing but contempt and privation were to be expected, he would enlist me into another, from which I might expect both profit and renown. An idea now came into my head, and I told him firmly, that if he wished me to forsake my present profession and become a member of the Church of England, I must absolutely decline; that I had no ill-will against that church, but I thought I could do most good in my present position, which I would not forsake to be Archbishop of Canterbury. Thereupon he burst into a strange laughter, and went away, repeating to himself, 'Church of England! Archbishop of Canterbury!' A few days after, when I was once more in a solitary place, he again appeared before me, and asked me whether I had thought over his words, and whether I was willing to enlist under the banners of his master, adding, that he was eager to secure me, as he conceived that I might be highly useful to the cause. I then asked him who his master was; he hesitated for a moment, and then answered, 'The Roman Pontiff'. 'If it be he,' said I, 'I can have nothing to do with him; I will serve no one who is an enemy of Christ.' Thereupon he drew near to me and told me not to talk so much like a simpleton; that as for Christ, it was probable that no such person ever existed, but that if He ever did, He was the greatest impostor the world ever saw. How long he continued in this way I know not, for I now considered that an evil spirit was before me, and shrank within myself, shivering in every limb; when I recovered myself and looked about me, he was gone. Two days after, he again stood before me, in the same place, and about the same hour, renewing his propositions, and speaking more horribly than before. I made him no answer, whereupon he continued; but suddenly hearing a noise behind him, he looked round and beheld Winifred, who had returned to me on the morning of that day. 'Who are you?' said he fiercely. 'This man's wife,' said she, calmly fixing her eyes upon him. 'Begone from him, unhappy one, thou temptest him in vain.' He made no answer, but stood as if transfixed; at length recovering himself, he departed, muttering 'Wife! Wife! If the fool has a wife, he will never do for us.'" CHAPTER LXXX. We were now drawing very near the hills, and Peter said, "If you are to go into Wales, you must presently decide, for we are close upon the border". "Which is the border?" said I. "Yon small brook," said Peter, "into which the man on horseback, who is coming towards us, is now entering." "I see it," said I, "and the man; he stops in the middle of it, as if to water his steed." We proceeded till we had nearly reached the brook. "Well," said Peter, "will you go into Wales?" "What should I do in Wales?" I demanded. "Do!" said Peter, smiling, "learn Welsh." I stopped my little pony. "Then I need not go into Wales; I already know Welsh." "Know Welsh!" said Peter, staring at me. "Know Welsh!" said Winifred, stopping her cart. "How and when did you learn it?" said Peter. "From books, in my boyhood." "Read Welsh!" said Peter, "is it possible?" "Read Welsh!" said Winifred, "is it possible?" "Well, I hope you will come with us," said Peter. "Come with us, young man," said Winifred; "let me, on the other side of the brook, welcome you into Wales." "Thank you both," said I, "but I will not come." "Wherefore?" exclaimed both simultaneously. "Because it is neither fit nor proper that I cross into Wales at this time, and in this manner. When I go into Wales, I should wish to go in a new suit of superfine black, with hat and beaver, mounted on a powerful steed, black and glossy, like that which bore Greduv to the fight of Catraeth. I should wish, moreover, to see the Welshmen assembled on the border ready to welcome me with pipe and fiddle, and much whooping and shouting, and to attend me to Wrexham, or even as far as Machynllaith, where I should wish to be invited to a dinner at which all the bards should be present, and to be seated at the right hand of the president, who, when the cloth was removed, should arise, and, amidst cries of silence, exclaim--'Brethren and Welshmen, allow me to propose the health of my most respectable friend the translator of the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, the pride and glory of Wales'." "How!" said Peter; "hast thou translated the works of the mighty Dafydd?" "With notes critical, historical and explanatory." "Come with us, friend," said Peter. "I cannot promise such a dinner as thou wishest, but neither pipe nor fiddle shall be wanting." "Come with us, young man," said Winifred, "even as thou art, and the daughters of Wales shall bid thee welcome." "I will not go with you," said I. "Dost thou see that man in the ford?" "Who is staring at us so, and whose horse has not yet done drinking? Of course I see him." "I shall turn back with him. God bless you!" "Go back with him not," said Peter, "he is one of those whom I like not, one of the clibberty-clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn observes--turn not with that man." "Go not back with him," said Winifred. "If thou goest with that man, thou wilt soon forget all our profitable counsels; come with us." "I cannot; I have much to say to him. Kosko Divvus, Mr. Petulengro." "Kosko Divvus, Pal," said Mr. Petulengro, riding through the water; "are you turning back?" I turned back with Mr. Petulengro. Peter came running after me: "One moment, young man, who and what are you?" "I must answer in the words of Taliesin," said I; "none can say with positiveness whether I be fish or flesh, least of all myself. God bless you both!" "Take this," said Peter; and he thrust his Welsh Bible into my hand. CHAPTER LXXXI. So I turned back with Mr. Petulengro. We travelled for some time in silence; at last we fell into discourse. "You have been in Wales, Mr. Petulengro?" "Ay, truly, brother." "What have you been doing there?" "Assisting at a funeral." "At whose funeral?" "Mrs. Hearne's, brother." "Is she dead, then?" "As a nail, brother." "How did she die?" "By hanging, brother." "I am lost in astonishment," said I; whereupon Mr. Petulengro, lifting his sinister leg over the neck of his steed, and adjusting himself sideways in the saddle, replied with great deliberation:-- "Two days ago, I happened to be at a fair not very far from here; I was all alone by myself, for our party were upwards of forty miles off, when who should come up but a chap that I knew, a relation, or rather, a connection of mine--one of those Hearnes. 'Ar'n't you going to the funeral?' said he; and then, brother, there passed between him and me, in the way of questioning and answering, much the same as has just now passed between I and you; but when he mentioned hanging, I thought I could do no less than ask who hanged her, which you forgot to do. 'Who hanged her?' said I; and then the man told me that she had done it herself--been her own hinjiri; and then I thought to myself what a sin and shame it would be if I did not go to the funeral, seeing that she was my own mother-in-law. I would have brought my wife, and, indeed, the whole of our party, but there was no time for that; they were too far off, and the dead was to be buried early the next morning, so I went with the man, and he led me into Wales, where his party had lately retired, and when there, through many wild and desolate places to their encampment, and there I found the Hearnes, and the dead body--the last laid out on a mattress, in a tent, dressed Romaneskoenaes, in a red cloak and big bonnet of black beaver. I must say for the Hearnes that they took the matter very coolly: some were eating, others drinking, and some were talking about their small affairs; there was one, however, who did not take the matter so coolly, but took on enough for the whole family, sitting beside the dead woman, tearing her hair, and refusing to take either meat or drink; it was the child Leonora. I arrived at nightfall, and the burying was not to take place till the morning, which I was rather sorry for, as I am not very fond of them Hearnes, who are not very fond of anybody. They never asked me to eat or drink, notwithstanding I had married into the family; one of them, however, came up and offered to fight me for five shillings; had it not been for them, I should have come back as empty as I went--he didn't stand up five minutes. Brother, I passed the night as well as I could, beneath a tree, for the tents were full, and not over clean; I slept little, and had my eyes about me, for I knew the kind of people I was among. "Early in the morning the funeral took place. The body was placed not in a coffin but on a bier, and carried not to a churchyard but to a deep dell close by; and there it was buried beneath a rock, dressed just as I have told you; and this was done by the bidding of Leonora, who had heard her bebee say that she wished to be buried, not in gorgious fashion, but like a Roman woman of the old blood, the kosko puro rati, brother. When it was over, and we had got back to the encampment, I prepared to be going. Before mounting my gry, however, I bethought me to ask what could have induced the dead woman to make away with herself, a thing so uncommon amongst Romanies; whereupon one squinted with his eyes, a second spirted saliver into the air, and a third said that he neither knew nor cared; she was a good riddance, having more than once been nearly the ruin of them all, from the quantity of brimstone she carried about her. One, however, I suppose, rather ashamed of the way in which they had treated me, said at last, that if I wanted to know all about the matter, none could tell me better than the child, who was in all her secrets, and was not a little like her; so I looked about for the child, but could find her nowhere. At last the same man told me that he shouldn't wonder if I found her at the grave; so I went back to the grave, and sure enough there I found the child, Leonora, seated on the ground above the body, crying and taking on; so I spoke kindly to her, and said, how came all this, Leonora? tell me all about it. It was a long time before I could get any answer; at last she opened her mouth, and spoke, and these were the words she said: 'It was all along of your pal'; and then she told me all about the matter. How Mrs. Hearne could not abide you, which I knew before, and that she had sworn your destruction, which I did not know before. And then she told me how she found you living in the wood by yourself, and how you were enticed to eat a poisoned cake; and she told me many other things that you wot of, and she told me what perhaps you don't wot, namely, that finding you had been removed, she, the child, had tracked you a long way, and found you at last well and hearty, and no ways affected by the poison, and heard you, as she stood concealed, disputing about religion with a Welsh Methody. Well, brother, she told me all this; and, moreover, that when Mrs. Hearne heard of it, she said that a dream of hers had come to pass. I don't know what it was, but something about herself, a tinker, and a dean; and then she added, that it was all up with her, and that she must take a long journey. Well, brother, that same night Leonora, waking from her sleep in the tent, where Mrs. Hearne and she were wont to sleep, missed her bebee, and, becoming alarmed, went in search of her, and at last found her hanging from a branch; and when the child had got so far, she took on violently, and I could not get another word from her; so I left her, and here I am." "And I am glad to see you, Mr. Petulengro; but this is sad news which you tell me about Mrs. Hearne." "Somewhat dreary, brother; yet, perhaps, after all, it is a good thing that she is removed; she carried so much Devil's tinder about with her, as the man said." "I am sorry for her," said I; "more especially as I am the cause of her death--though the innocent one." "She could not bide you, brother, that's certain; but that is no reason"--said Mr. Petulengro, balancing himself upon the saddle--"that is no reason why she should prepare drow to take away your essence of life, and, when disappointed, to hang herself upon a tree: if she was dissatisfied with you, she might have flown at you, and scratched your face; or, if she did not judge herself your match, she might have put down five shillings for a turn-up between you and some one she thought could beat you--myself, for example, and so the matter might have ended comfortably; but she was always too fond of covert ways, drows and brimstones. This is not the first poisoning affair she has been engaged in." "You allude to drabbing bawlor." "Bah!" said Mr. Petulengro; "there's no harm in that. No, no! she has cast drows in her time for other guess things than bawlor; both Gorgios and Romans have tasted of them, and died. Did you never hear of the poisoned plum pudding?" "Never." "Then I will tell you about it. It happened about six years ago, a few months after she had quitted us--she had gone first among her own people, as she called them; but there was another small party of Romans, with whom she soon became very intimate. It so happened that this small party got into trouble; whether it was about a horse or an ass, or passing bad money, no matter to you and me, who had no hand in the business; three or four of them were taken and lodged in --- Castle, and amongst them was a woman; but the sherengro, or principal man of the party, and who it seems had most hand in the affair, was still at large. All of a sudden a rumour was spread abroad that the woman was about to play false, and to peach the rest. Said the principal man, when he heard it, 'If she does, I am nashkado'. Mrs. Hearne was then on a visit to the party, and when she heard the principal man take on so, she said: 'But I suppose you know what to do?' 'I do not,' said he. 'Then hir mi devlis,' said she, 'you are a fool. But leave the matter to me, I know how to dispose of her in Roman fashion.' Why she wanted to interfere in the matter, brother, I don't know, unless it was from pure brimstoneness of disposition--she had no hand in the matter which had brought the party into trouble, she was only on a visit, and it had happened before she came; but she was always ready to give dangerous advice. Well, brother, the principal man listened to what she had to say, and let her do what she would; and she made a pudding, a very nice one, no doubt--for, besides plums, she put in drows and all the Roman condiments that she knew of; and she gave it to the principal man, and the principal man put it into a basket and directed it to the woman in --- Castle, and the woman in the castle took it and--" "Ate of it," said I, "just like my case?" "Quite different, brother; she took it, it is true, but instead of giving way to her appetite as you might have done, she put it before the rest whom she was going to impeach--perhaps she wished to see how they liked it before she tasted it herself--and all the rest were poisoned, and one died, and there was a precious outcry, and the woman cried loudest of all; and she said: 'It was my death was sought for; I know the man, and I'll be revenged,' and then the Poknees spoke to her and said, 'Where can we find him?' and she said, 'I am awake to his motions; three weeks from hence, the night before the full moon, at such and such an hour, he will pass down such a lane with such a man'." "Well," said I, "and what did the Poknees do?" "Do, brother, sent for a plastramengro from Bow Street, quite secretly, and told him what the woman had said; and the night before the full moon, the plastramengro went to the place which the juwa had pointed out, all alone, brother; and, in order that he might not be too late, he went two hours before his time. I know the place well, brother, where the plastramengro placed himself behind a thick holly tree, at the end of a lane, where a gate leads into various fields, through which there is a path for carts and horses. The lane is called the dark lane by the Gorgios, being much shaded by trees; so the plastramengro placed himself in the dark lane behind the holly tree; it was a cold February night, dreary, though; the wind blew in gusts, and the moon had not yet risen, and the plastramengro waited behind a tree till he was tired, and thought he might as well sit down; so he sat down and was not long in falling to sleep, and there he slept for some hours; and when he awoke, the moon had risen, and was shining bright, so that there was a kind of moonlight even in the dark lane; and the plastramengro pulled out his watch, and contrived to make out that it was just two hours beyond the time when the men should have passed by. Brother, I do not know what the plastramengro thought of himself, but I know, brother, what I should have thought of myself in his situation. I should have thought, brother, that I was a drowsy scoppelo, and that I had let the fellow pass by whilst I was sleeping behind a bush. As it turned out, however, his going to sleep did no harm, but quite the contrary; just as he was going away, he heard a gate slam in the direction of the fields, and then he heard the low stumping of horses, as if on soft ground, for the path in those fields is generally soft, and at that time it had been lately ploughed up. Well, brother, presently he saw two men on horseback coming towards the lane through the field behind the gate; the man who rode foremost was a tall, big fellow, the very man he was in quest of: the other was a smaller chap, not so small either, but a light, wiry fellow, and a proper master of his hands when he sees occasion for using them. Well, brother, the foremost man came to the gate, reached at the hank, undid it, and rode through, holding it open for the other. Before, however, the other could follow into the lane, out bolted the plastramengro from behind the tree, kicked the gate too with his foot, and, seizing the big man on horseback, 'You are my prisoner,' said he. I am of opinion, brother, that the plastramengro, notwithstanding he went to sleep, must have been a regular fine fellow." "I am entirely of your opinion," said I; "but what happened then?" "Why, brother, the Rommany chal, after he had somewhat recovered from his surprise, for it is rather uncomfortable to be laid hold of at night-time, and told you are a prisoner; more especially when you happen to have two or three things on your mind, which, if proved against you, would carry you to the nashky. The Rommany chal, I say, clubbed his whip, and aimed a blow at the plastramengro, which, if it had hit him on the skull, as was intended, would very likely have cracked it. The plastramengro, however, received it partly on his staff, so that it did him no particular damage. Whereupon seeing what kind of customer he had to deal with, he dropped his staff, and seized the chal with both his hands, who forthwith spurred his horse, hoping by doing so, either to break away from him, or fling him down; but it would not do--the plastramengro held on like a bulldog, so that the Rommany chal, to escape being hauled to the ground, suddenly flung himself off the saddle, and then happened in that lane, close by the gate, such a struggle between those two--the chal and the runner--as I suppose will never happen again. But you must have heard of it; every one has heard of it; every one has heard of the fight between the Bow street engro and the Rommany chal." "I never heard of it till now." "All England rung of it, brother. There never was a better match than between those two. The runner was somewhat the stronger of the two--all these engroes are strong fellows--and a great deal cooler, for all of that sort are wondrous cool people--he had, however, to do with one who knew full well how to take his own part. The chal fought the engro, brother, in the old Roman fashion. He bit, he kicked, and screamed like a wild cat of Benygant; casting foam from his mouth, and fire from his eyes. Sometimes he was beneath the engro's legs, and sometimes he was upon his shoulders. What the engro found the most difficult, was to get a firm hold of the chal, for no sooner did he seize the chal by any part of his wearing apparel, than the chal either tore himself away, or contrived to slip out of it; so that in a little time the chal was three parts naked; and as for holding him by the body, it was out of the question, for he was as slippery as an eel. At last the engro seized the chal by the Belcher's handkerchief, which he wore in a knot round his neck, and do whatever the chal could, he could not free himself; and when the engro saw that, it gave him fresh heart, no doubt; 'It's of no use,' said he; 'you had better give in; hold out your hands for the darbies, or I will throttle you'." "And what did the other fellow do, who came with the chal?" said I. "I sat still on my horse, brother." "You?" said I. "Were you the man?" "I was he, brother." "And why did you not help your comrade?" "I have fought in the ring, brother." "And what had fighting in the ring to do with fighting in the lane?" "You mean not fighting. A great deal, brother; it taught me to prize fair play. When I fought Staffordshire Dick, t'other side of London, I was alone, brother. Not a Rommany chal to back me, and he had all his brother pals about him; but they gave me fair play, brother; and I beat Staffordshire Dick, which I couldn't have done had they put one finger on his side the scale; for he was as good a man as myself, or nearly so. Now, brother, had I but bent a finger in favour of the Rommany chal the plastramengro would never have come alive out of the lane; but I did not, for I thought to myself fair play is a precious stone; so you see, brother--" "That you are quite right, Mr. Petulengro; I see that clearly; and now, pray proceed with your narration; it is both moral and entertaining." But Mr. Petulengro did not proceed with his narration, neither did he proceed upon his way; he had stopped his horse, and his eyes were intently fixed on a broad strip of grass beneath some lofty trees, on the left side of the road. It was a pleasant enough spot, and seemed to invite wayfaring people, such as we were, to rest from the fatigues of the road, and the heat and vehemence of the sun. After examining it for a considerable time, Mr. Petulengro said: "I say, brother, that would be a nice place for a tuzzle!" "I daresay it would," said I, "if two people were inclined to fight." "The ground is smooth," said Mr. Petulengro; "without holes or ruts, and the trees cast much shade. I don't think, brother, that we could find a better place," said Mr. Petulengro, springing from his horse. "But you and I don't want to fight!" "Speak for yourself, brother," said Mr. Petulengro. "However, I will tell you how the matter stands. There is a point at present between us. There can be no doubt that you are the cause of Mrs. Hearne's death, innocently, you will say, but still the cause. Now, I shouldn't like it to be known that I went up and down the country with a pal who was the cause of my mother-in-law's death--that's to say, unless he gave me satisfaction. Now, if I and my pal have a tuzzle, he gives me satisfaction; and if he knocks my eyes out, which I know you can't do, it makes no difference at all, he gives me satisfaction; and he who says to the contrary, knows nothing of gypsy law, and is a dinelo into the bargain." "But we have no gloves!" "Gloves!" said Mr. Petulengro contemptuously, "gloves! I tell you what, brother, I always thought you were a better hand at the gloves than the naked fist; and, to tell you the truth, besides taking satisfaction for Mrs. Hearne's death, I wish to see what you can do with your morleys; so now is your time, brother, and this is your place, grass and shade, no ruts or holes; come on, brother, or I shall think you what I should not like to call you." CHAPTER LXXXII. And when I heard Mr. Petulengro talk in this manner, which I had never heard him do before, and which I can only account for by his being fasting and ill-tempered, I had of course no other alternative than to accept his challenge, so I put myself into a posture which I deemed the best both for offence and defence, and the tuzzle commenced; and when it had endured for about half an hour, Mr. Petulengro said: "Brother, there is much blood on your face, you had better wipe it off"; and when I had wiped it off, and again resumed my former attitude, Mr. Petulengro said: "I think enough has been done, brother, in the affair of the old woman; I have, moreover, tried what you are able to do, and find you as I thought, less apt with the naked morleys than the stuffed gloves; nay, brother, put your hands down; I'm satisfied; blood has been shed, which is all that can be reasonably expected for an old woman, who carried so much brimstone about her as Mrs. Hearne". So the struggle ended, and we resumed our route, Mr. Petulengro sitting sideways upon his horse as before, and I driving my little pony-cart; and when we had proceeded about three miles, we came to a small public-house, which bore the sign of the Silent Woman, where we stopped to refresh our cattle and ourselves; and as we sat over our bread and ale, it came to pass that Mr. Petulengro asked me various questions, and amongst others, how I intended to dispose of myself; I told him that I did not know; whereupon with considerable frankness, he invited me to his camp, and told me that if I chose to settle down amongst them, and become a Rommany chal, I should have his wife's sister, Ursula, who was still unmarried, and occasionally talked of me. I declined his offer, assigning as a reason the recent death of Mrs. Hearne, of which I was the cause, although innocent. "A pretty life I should lead with those two," said I, "when they came to know it." "Pooh," said Mr. Petulengro, "they will never know it. I shan't blab, and as for Leonora, that girl has a head on her shoulders." "Unlike the woman in the sign," said I, "whose head is cut off. You speak nonsense, Mr. Petulengro; as long as a woman has a head on her shoulders she'll talk,--but, leaving women out of the case, it is impossible to keep anything a secret; an old master of mine told me so long ago. I have moreover another reason for declining your offer. I am at present not disposed for society. I am become fond of solitude. I wish I could find some quiet place to which I could retire to hold communion with my own thoughts, and practise, if I thought fit, either of my trades." "What trades?" said Mr. Petulengro. "Why, the one which I have lately been engaged in, or my original one, which I confess I should like better, that of a kaulomescro." "Ah, I have frequently heard you talk of making horse-shoes," said Mr. Petulengro. "I, however, never saw you make one, and no one else that I am aware. I don't believe--come, brother, don't be angry, it's quite possible that you may have done things which neither I nor any one else has seen you do, and that such things may some day or other come to light, as you say nothing can be kept secret. Be that, however, as it may, pay the reckoning and let us be going; I think I can advise you to just such a kind of place as you seem to want." "And how do you know that I have got wherewithal to pay the reckoning?" I demanded. "Brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "I was just now looking in your face, which exhibited the very look of a person conscious of the possession of property; there was nothing hungry or sneaking in it. Pay the reckoning, brother." And when we were once more upon the road Mr. Petulengro began to talk of the place which he conceived would serve me as a retreat under present circumstances. "I tell you frankly, brother, that it is a queer kind of place, and I am not very fond of pitching my tent in it, it is so surprisingly dreary. It is a deep dingle in the midst of a large field, on an estate about which there has been a lawsuit for some years past. I daresay you will be quiet enough, for the nearest town is five miles distant, and there are only a few huts and hedge public-houses in the neighbourhood. Brother, I am fond of solitude myself, but not that kind of solitude; I like a quiet heath, where I can pitch my house, but I always like to have a gay, stirring place not far off, where the women can pen dukkerin, and I myself can sell or buy a horse, if needful--such a place as the Chong Gav. I never feel so merry as when there, brother, or on the heath above it, where I taught you Rommany." Shortly after this discourse we reached a milestone, and a few yards from the milestone, on the left hand, was a cross-road. Thereupon Mr. Petulengro said: "Brother, my path lies to the left; if you choose to go with me to my camp, good, if not, Chal Devlehi". But I again refused Mr. Petulengro's invitation, and, shaking him by the hand, proceeded forward alone, and about ten miles farther on I reached the town of which he had spoken, and following certain directions which he had given, discovered, though not without some difficulty, the dingle which he had mentioned. It was a deep hollow in the midst of a wide field, the shelving sides were overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt of sallows surrounded it on the top, a steep winding path led down into the depths, practicable, however, for a light cart, like mine; at the bottom was an open space, and there I pitched my tent, and there I contrived to put up my forge. "I will here ply the trade of kaulomescro," said I. CHAPTER LXXXIII. It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical about a forge. I am not singular in this opinion: various individuals have assured me that they can never pass by one, even in the midst of a crowded town, without experiencing sensations which they can scarcely define, but which are highly pleasurable. I have a decided _penchant_ for forges, especially rural ones, placed in some quaint, quiet spot--a dingle, for example, which is a poetical place, or at a meeting of four roads, which is still more so; for how many a superstition--and superstition is the soul of poetry--is connected with these cross-roads! I love to light upon such a one, especially after nightfall, as everything about a forge tells to most advantage at night; the hammer sounds more solemnly in the stillness; the glowing particles scattered by the strokes sparkle with more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty visage of the sastramescro, half in shadow, and half-illumed by the red and partial blaze of the forge, looks more mysterious and strange. On such occasions I draw in my horse's rein, and, seated in the saddle, endeavour to associate with the picture before me--in itself a picture of romance--whatever of the wild and wonderful I have read of in books, or have seen with my own eyes in connection with forges. I believe the life of any blacksmith, especially a rural one, would afford materials for a highly poetical history. I do not speak unadvisedly, having the honour to be free of the forge, and therefore fully competent to give an opinion as to what might be made out of the forge by some dextrous hand. Certainly, the strangest and most entertaining life ever written is that of a blacksmith of the olden north, a certain Volundr, or Velint, who lived in woods and thickets, made keen swords, so keen, indeed, that if placed in a running stream, they would fairly divide an object, however slight, which was borne against them by the water, and who eventually married a king's daughter, by whom he had a son, who was as bold a knight as his father was a cunning blacksmith. I never see a forge at night, when seated on the back of my horse at the bottom of a dark lane, but I somehow or other associate it with the exploits of this extraordinary fellow, with many other extraordinary things, amongst which, as I have hinted before, are particular passages of my own life, one or two of which I shall perhaps relate to the reader. {Mumpers' Dingle: p444.jpg} I never associate Vulcan and his Cyclops with the idea of a forge. These gentry would be the very last people in the world to flit across my mind whilst gazing at the forge from the bottom of the dark lane. The truth is, they are highly unpoetical fellows, as well they may be, connected as they are with Grecian mythology. At the very mention of their names the forge burns dull and dim, as if snow-balls had been suddenly flung into it; the only remedy is to ply the bellows, an operation which I now hasten to perform. I am in the dingle making a horse-shoe. Having no other horses on whose hoofs I could exercise my art, I made my first essay on those of my own horse, if that could be called horse which horse was none, being only a pony. Perhaps if I had sought all England, I should scarcely have found an animal more in need of the kind offices of the smith. On three of his feet there were no shoes at all, and on the fourth only a remnant of one, on which account his hoofs were sadly broken and lacerated by his late journeys over the hard and flinty roads. "You belonged to a tinker before," said I, addressing the animal, "but now you belong to a smith. It is said that the household of the shoemaker invariably go worse shod than that of any other craft. That may be the case of those who make shoes of leather, but it sha'n't be said of the household of him who makes shoes of iron; at any rate, it sha'n't be said of mine. I tell you what, my gry, whilst you continue with me, you shall both be better shod, and better fed, than you were with your last master." I am in the dingle making a petul; and I must here observe, that whilst I am making a horse-shoe, the reader need not be surprised if I speak occasionally in the language of the lord of the horse-shoe--Mr. Petulengro. I have for some time past been plying the peshota, or bellows, endeavouring to raise up the yag, or fire, in my primitive forge. The angar, or coals, are now burning fiercely, casting forth sparks and long vagescoe chipes, or tongues of flame; a small bar of sastra, or iron, is lying in the fire, to the length of ten or twelve inches, and so far it is hot, very hot, exceeding hot, brother. And now you see me, prala, snatch the bar of iron, and place the heated end of it upon the covantza, or anvil, and forthwith I commence cooring the sastra as hard as if I had been just engaged by a master at the rate of dui caulor, or two shillings a day, brother; and when I have beaten the iron till it is nearly cool, and my arm tired, I place it again in the angar, and begin again to rouse the fire with the pudamengro, which signifies the blowing thing, and is another and more common word for bellows, and whilst thus employed I sing a gypsy song, the sound of which is wonderfully in unison with the hoarse moaning of the pudamengro, and ere the song is finished, the iron is again hot and malleable. Behold, I place it once more on the covantza, and recommence hammering; and now I am somewhat at fault; I am in want of assistance; I want you, brother, or some one else, to take the bar out of my hand and support it upon the covantza, whilst I, applying a chinomescro, or kind of chisel, to the heated iron, cut off with a lusty stroke or two of the shukaro baro, or big hammer, as much as is required for the petul. But having no one to help me, I go on hammering till I have fairly knocked off as much as I want, and then I place the piece in the fire, and again apply the bellows, and take up the song where I left it off; and when I have finished the song, I take out the iron, but this time with my plaistra, or pincers, and then I recommence hammering, turning the iron round and round with my pincers: and now I bend the iron, and lo, and behold, it has assumed something the outline of a petul. I am not going to enter into further details with respect to the process--it was rather a wearisome one. I had to contend with various disadvantages; my forge was a rude one, my tools might have been better; I was in want of one or two highly necessary implements, but, above all, manual dexterity. Though free of the forge, I had not practised the albeytarian art for very many years, never since--but stay, it is not my intention to tell the reader, at least in this place, how and when I became a blacksmith. There was one thing, however, which stood me in good stead in my labour, the same thing which through life has ever been of incalculable utility to me, and has not unfrequently supplied the place of friends, money, and many other things of almost equal importance--iron perseverance, without which all the advantages of time and circumstance are of very little avail in any undertaking. I was determined to make a horse-shoe, and a good one, in spite of every obstacle--ay, in spite of dukkerin. At the end of four days, during which I had fashioned and refashioned the thing at least fifty times, I had made a petul such as no master of the craft need have been ashamed of; with the second shoe I had less difficulty, and, by the time I had made the fourth, I would have scorned to take off my hat to the best smith in Cheshire. But I had not yet shod my little gry; this I proceeded now to do. After having first well pared the hoofs with my churi, I applied each petul hot, glowing hot to the pindro. Oh, how the hoofs hissed; and, oh, the pleasant, pungent odour which diffused itself through the dingle, an odour good for an ailing spirit. I shod the little horse bravely--merely pricked him once, slightly, with a cafi, for doing which, I remember, he kicked me down; I was not disconcerted, however, but, getting up, promised to be more cautious in future; and having finished the operation, I filed the hoof well with the rin baro; then dismissed him to graze amongst the trees, and, putting my smaller tools into the muchtar, I sat down on my stone, and, supporting my arm upon my knee, leaned my head upon my hand. Heaviness had come over me. CHAPTER LXXXIV. Heaviness had suddenly come over me, heaviness of heart, and of body also. I had accomplished the task which I had imposed upon myself, and now that nothing more remained to do, my energies suddenly deserted me, and I felt without strength, and without hope. Several causes, perhaps, co-operated to bring about the state in which I then felt myself. It is not improbable that my energies had been overstrained during the work, the progress of which I have attempted to describe; and every one is aware that the results of overstrained energies are feebleness and lassitude--want of nourishment might likewise have something to do with it. During my sojourn in the dingle, my food had been of the simplest and most unsatisfying description, by no means calculated to support the exertion which the labour I had been engaged upon required; it had consisted of coarse oaten cakes, and hard cheese, and for beverage I had been indebted to a neighbouring pit, in which, in the heat of the day, I frequently saw, not golden or silver fish, but frogs and eftes swimming about. I am, however, inclined to believe that Mrs. Hearne's cake had quite as much to do with the matter as insufficient nourishment. I had never entirely recovered from the effects of its poison, but had occasionally, especially at night, been visited by a grinding pain in the stomach, and my whole body had been suffused with cold sweat; and indeed these memorials of the drow have never entirely disappeared--even at the present time they display themselves in my system, especially after much fatigue of body and excitement of mind. So there I sat in the dingle upon my stone, nerveless and hopeless, by whatever cause or causes that state had been produced--there I sat with my head leaning upon my hand, and so I continued a long, long time. At last I lifted my head from my hand, and began to cast anxious, unquiet looks about the dingle--the entire hollow was now enveloped in deep shade--I cast my eyes up; there was a golden gleam on the tops of the trees which grew towards the upper parts of the dingle, but lower down all was gloom and twilight, yet, when I first sat down on my stone, the sun was right above the dingle, illuminating all its depths by the rays which it cast perpendicularly down, so I must have sat a long, long time upon my stone. And now, once more, I rested my head upon my hand, but almost instantly lifted it again in a kind of fear, and began looking at the objects before me, the forge, the tools, the branches of the trees, endeavouring to follow their rows, till they were lost in the darkness of the dingle; and now I found my right hand grasping convulsively the three forefingers of the left, first collectively, and then successively, wringing them till the joints cracked; then I became quiet, but not for long. Suddenly I started up, and could scarcely repress the shriek which was rising to my lips. Was it possible? Yes, all too certain; the evil one was upon me; the inscrutable horror which I had felt in my boyhood had once more taken possession of me. I had thought that it had forsaken me; that it would never visit me again; that I had outgrown it; that I might almost bid defiance to it; and I had even begun to think of it without horror, as we are in the habit of doing of horrors of which we conceive we run no danger; and, lo! when least thought of, it had seized me again. Every moment I felt it gathering force, and making me more wholly its own. What should I do?--resist, of course; and I did resist. I grasped, I tore, and strove to fling it from me; but of what avail were my efforts? I could only have got rid of it by getting rid of myself: it was part of myself, or rather it was all myself. I rushed amongst the trees, and struck at them with my bare fists, and dashed my head against them, but I felt no pain. How could I feel pain with that horror upon me! and then I flung myself on the ground, gnawed the earth and swallowed it; and then I looked round; it was almost total darkness in the dingle, and the darkness added to my horror. I could no longer stay there; up I rose from the ground, and attempted to escape; at the bottom of the winding path which led up the acclivity I fell over something which was lying on the ground; the something moved, and gave a kind of whine. It was my little horse, which had made that place its lair; my little horse, my only companion and friend in that now awful solitude. I reached the mouth of the dingle; the sun was just sinking in the far west, behind me; the fields were flooded with his last gleams. How beautiful everything looked in the last gleams of the sun! I felt relieved for a moment; I was no longer in the horrid dingle; in another minute the sun was gone, and a big cloud occupied the place where he had been; in a little time it was almost as dark as it had previously been in the open part of the dingle. My horror increased; what was I to do?--it was of no use fighting against the horror, that I saw; the more I fought against it, the stronger it became. What should I do: say my prayers? Ah! why not? So I knelt down under the hedge, and said, "Our Father"; but that was of no use; and now I could no longer repress cries; the horror was too great to be borne. What should I do: run to the nearest town or village, and request the assistance of my fellow-men? No! that I was ashamed to do; notwithstanding the horror was upon me, I was ashamed to do that. I knew they would consider me a maniac, if I went screaming amongst them; and I did not wish to be considered a maniac. Moreover, I knew that I was not a maniac, for I possessed all my reasoning powers, only the horror was upon me--the screaming horror! But how were indifferent people to distinguish between madness and this screaming horror? So I thought and reasoned; and at last I determined not to go amongst my fellow-men whatever the result might be. I went to the mouth of the dingle, and there placing myself on my knees, I again said the Lord's Prayer; but it was of no use; praying seemed to have no effect over the horror; the unutterable fear appeared rather to increase than diminish; and I again uttered wild cries, so loud that I was apprehensive they would be heard by some chance passenger on the neighbouring road; I, therefore, went deeper into the dingle; I sat down with my back against a thorn bush; the thorns entered my flesh, and when I felt them I pressed harder against the bush; I thought the pain of the flesh might in some degree counteract the mental agony; presently I felt them no longer; the power of the mental horror was so great that it was impossible, with that upon me, to feel any pain from the thorns. I continued in this posture a long time, undergoing what I cannot describe, and would not attempt if I were able. Several times I was on the point of starting up and rushing anywhere; but I restrained myself, for I knew I could not escape from myself, so why should I not remain in the dingle? so I thought and said to myself, for my reasoning powers were still uninjured. At last it appeared to me that the horror was not so strong, not quite so strong upon me. Was it possible that it was relaxing its grasp, releasing its prey? O what a mercy! but it could not be--and yet I looked up to heaven, and clasped my hands, and said, "Our Father". I said no more, I was too agitated; and now I was almost sure that the horror had done its worst. After a little time I arose, and staggered down yet farther into the dingle. I again found my little horse on the same spot as before; I put my hand to his mouth, he licked my hand. I flung myself down by him and put my arms round his neck; the creature whinned, and appeared to sympathise with me; what a comfort to have any one, even a dumb brute, to sympathise with me at such a moment! I clung to my little horse as if for safety and protection. I laid my head on his neck, and felt almost calm; presently the fear returned, but not so wild as before; it subsided, came again, again subsided; then drowsiness came over me, and at last I fell asleep, my head supported on the neck of the little horse. I awoke; it was dark, dark night--not a star was to be seen--but I felt no fear, the horror had left me. I arose from the side of the little horse, and went into my tent, lay down, and again went to sleep. I awoke in the morning weak and sore, and shuddering at the remembrance of what I had gone through on the preceding day; the sun was shining brightly, but it had not yet risen high enough to show its head above the trees which fenced the eastern side of the dingle, on which account the dingle was wet and dank from the dews of the night. I kindled my fire, and, after sitting by it for some time to warm my frame, I took some of the coarse food which I have already mentioned; notwithstanding my late struggle and the coarseness of the fare, I ate with appetite. My provisions had by this time been very much diminished, and I saw that it would be speedily necessary, in the event of my continuing to reside in the dingle, to lay in a fresh store. After my meal I went to the pit and filled a can with water, which I brought to the dingle, and then again sat down on my stone. I considered what I should next do; it was necessary to do something, or my life in this solitude would be insupportable. What should I do? rouse up my forge and fashion a horse- shoe? but I wanted nerve and heart for such an employment; moreover, I had no motive for fatiguing myself in this manner; my own horse was shod, no other was at hand, and it is hard to work for the sake of working. What should I do? read? Yes, but I had no other book than the Bible which the Welsh Methodist had given me; well, why not read the Bible? I was once fond of reading the Bible; ay, but those days were long gone by. However, I did not see what else I could well do on the present occasion; so I determined to read the Bible; it was in Welsh--at any rate it might amuse me; so I took the Bible out of the sack in which it was lying in the cart, and began to read at the place where I chanced to open it. I opened it at that part where the history of Saul commences. At first I read with indifference; but after some time my attention was riveted, and no wonder; I had come to the visitations of Saul--those dark moments of his when he did and said such unaccountable things; it almost appeared to me that I was reading of myself; I, too, had my visitations, dark as ever his were. Oh, how I sympathised with Saul, the tall, dark man! I had read his life before, but it had made no impression on me; it had never occurred to me that I was like him, but I now sympathised with Saul, for my own dark hour was but recently passed, and, perhaps, would soon return again; the dark hour came frequently on Saul. Time wore away; I finished the book of Saul, and, closing the volume, returned it to its place. I then returned to my seat on the stone, and thought of what I had read, and what I had lately undergone. All at once I thought I felt well-known sensations, a cramping of the breast, and a tingling of the soles of the feet; they were what I had felt on the preceding day--they were the forerunners of the fear. I sat motionless on my stone: the sensations passed away, and the fear came not. Darkness was now coming again over the earth; the dingle was again in deep shade; I roused the fire with the breath of the bellows, and sat looking at the cheerful glow; it was cheering and comforting. My little horse came now and lay down on the ground beside the forge; I was not quite deserted. I again ate some of the coarse food, and drank plentifully of the water which I had fetched in the morning. I then put fresh fuel on the fire, and sat for a long time looking on the blaze; I then went into my tent. I awoke, on my own calculation, about midnight--it was pitch dark, and there was much fear upon me. CHAPTER LXXXV. Two mornings after the period to which I have brought the reader in the preceding chapter, I sat by my fire at the bottom of the dingle. I had just breakfasted, and had finished the last morsel of food which I had brought with me to that solitude. "What shall I now do?" said I to myself; "shall I continue here, or decamp? This is a sad, lonely spot; perhaps I had better quit it; but whither should I go? the wide world is before me, but what can I do therein? I have been in the world already without much success. No, I had better remain here; the place is lonely, it is true, but here I am free and independent, and can do what I please; but I can't remain here without food. Well, I will find my way to the nearest town, lay in a fresh supply of provision, and come back, turning my back upon the world, which has turned its back upon me. I don't see why I should not write a little sometimes; I have pens and an ink-horn, and for a writing-desk I can place the Bible on my knee. I shouldn't wonder if I could write a capital satire on the world on the back of that Bible; but first of all I must think of supplying myself with food." I rose up from the stone on which I was seated, determining to go to the nearest town with my little horse and cart, and procure what I wanted. The nearest town, according to my best calculation, lay about five miles distant; I had no doubt, however, that by using ordinary diligence I should be back before evening. In order to go lighter, I determined to leave my tent standing as it was, and all the things which I had purchased of the tinker, just as they were. "I need not be apprehensive on their account," said I to myself; "nobody will come here to meddle with them; the great recommendation of this place is its perfect solitude; I daresay that I could live here six months without seeing a single human visage. I will now harness my little gry and be off to the town." At a whistle which I gave, the little gry, which was feeding on the bank near the uppermost part of the dingle, came running to me: for by this time he had become so accustomed to me, that he would obey my call for all the world as if he had been one of the canine species. "Now," said I to him, "we are going to the town to buy bread for myself, and oats for you. I am in a hurry to be back; therefore, I pray you to do your best, and to draw me and the cart to the town with all possible speed, and to bring us back; if you do your best, I promise you oats on your return. You know the meaning of oats, Ambrol?" Ambrol whinnied as if to let me know that he understood me perfectly well, as indeed he well might, as I had never once fed him during the time he had been in my possession without saying the word in question to him. Now, ambrol, in the Gypsy tongue, signifieth a _pear_. So I caparisoned Ambrol, and then, going to the cart, I removed two or three things from out it into the tent; I then lifted up the shafts, and was just going to call to the pony to come and be fastened to them, when I thought I heard a noise. I stood stock still supporting the shaft of the little cart in my hand, and bending the right side of my face slightly towards the ground; but I could hear nothing. The noise which I thought I had heard was not one of those sounds which I was accustomed to hear in that solitude: the note of a bird, or the rustling of a bough; it was--there I heard it again, a sound very much resembling the grating of a wheel amongst gravel. Could it proceed from the road? Oh no, the road was too far distant for me to hear the noise of anything moving along it. Again I listened, and now I distinctly heard the sound of wheels, which seemed to be approaching the dingle; nearer and nearer they drew, and presently the sound of wheels was blended with the murmur of voices. Anon I heard a boisterous shout, which seemed to proceed from the entrance of the dingle. "Here are folks at hand," said I, letting the shaft of the cart fall to the ground, "is it possible that they can be coming here?" My doubts on that point, if I entertained any, were soon dispelled; the wheels, which had ceased moving for a moment or two, were once again in motion, and were now evidently moving down the winding path which led to my retreat. Leaving my cart, I came forward and placed myself near the entrance of the open space, with my eyes fixed on the path down which my unexpected, and I may say unwelcome, visitors were coming. Presently I heard a stamping or sliding, as if of a horse in some difficulty; and then a loud curse, and the next moment appeared a man and a horse and cart; the former holding the head of the horse up to prevent him from falling, of which he was in danger, owing to the precipitous nature of the path. Whilst thus occupied, the head of the man was averted from me. When, however, he had reached the bottom of the descent, he turned his head, and perceiving me, as I stood bareheaded, without either coat or waistcoat, about two yards from him, he gave a sudden start, so violent, that the backward motion of his hand had nearly flung the horse upon his haunches. "Why don't you move forward?" said a voice from behind, apparently that of a female, "you are stopping up the way, and we shall be all down upon one another;" and I saw the head of another horse overtopping the back of the cart. "Why don't you move forward, Jack?" said another voice, also of a female, yet higher up the path. The man stirred not, but remained staring at me in the posture which he had assumed on first perceiving me, his body very much drawn back, his left foot far in advance of his right, and with his right hand still grasping the halter of the horse, which gave way more and more, till it was clean down on his haunches. "What's the matter?" said the voice which I had last heard. "Get back with you, Belle, Moll," said the man, still staring at me, "here's something not over-canny or comfortable." "What is it?" said the same voice; "let me pass, Moll, and I'll soon clear the way," and I heard a kind of rushing down the path. "You need not be afraid," said I, addressing myself to the man, "I mean you no harm; I am a wanderer like yourself--come here to seek for shelter--you need not be afraid; I am a Roman chabo by matriculation--one of the right sort, and no mistake. Good-day to ye, brother; I bid ye welcome." The man eyed me suspiciously for a moment, then turning to his horse with a loud curse, he pulled him up from his haunches, and led him and the cart farther down to one side of the dingle, muttering as he passed me, "afraid. Hm!" I do not remember ever to have seen a more ruffianly-looking fellow; he was about six feet high, with an immensely athletic frame; his face was black and bluff, and sported an immense pair of whiskers, but with here and there a grey hair, for his age could not be much under fifty. He wore a faded blue frock-coat, corduroys, and highlows; on his black head was a kind of red nightcap; round his bull neck a Barcelona handkerchief--I did not like the look of the man at all. "Afraid," growled the fellow, proceeding to unharness his horse; "that was the word, I think." But other figures were now already upon the scene. Dashing past the other horse and cart, which by this time had reached the bottom of the pass, appeared an exceedingly tall woman, or rather girl, for she could scarcely have been above eighteen; she was dressed in a tight bodice, and a blue stuff gown; hat, bonnet or cap she had none, and her hair, which was flaxen, hung down on her shoulders unconfined; her complexion was fair, and her features handsome, with a determined but open expression. She was followed by another female, about forty, stout and vulgar-looking, at whom I scarcely glanced, my whole attention being absorbed by the tall girl. "What's the matter, Jack?" said the latter, looking at the man. "Only afraid, that's all," said the man, still proceeding with his work. "Afraid at what--at that lad? why, he looks like a ghost. I would engage to thrash him with one hand." "You might beat me with no hands at all," said I, "fair damsel, only by looking at me; I never saw such a face and figure, both regal. Why, you look like Ingeborg, Queen of Norway; she had twelve brothers, you know, and could lick them all, though they were heroes:-- 'On Dovrefeld in Norway, Were once together seen, The twelve heroic brothers Of Ingeborg the queen.'" "None of your chaffing, young fellow," said the tall girl, "or I will give you what shall make you wipe your face; be civil, or you will rue it." "Well, perhaps I was a peg too high," said I; "I ask your pardon--here's something a bit lower:-- 'As I was jawing to the gav yeck divvus I met on the drom miro Rommany chi--'" "None of your Rommany chies, young fellow," said the tall girl, looking more menacingly than before and clenching her fist, "you had better be civil, I am none of your chies; and though I keep company with gypsies, or, to speak more proper, half and halfs, I would have you to know that I come of Christian blood and parents, and was born in the great house of Long Melford." "I have no doubt," said I, "that it was a great house judging from your size, I shouldn't wonder if you were born in a church." "Stay, Belle," said the man, putting himself before the young virago, who was about to rush upon me, "my turn is first;" then, advancing to me in a menacing attitude, he said, with a look of deep malignity, "Afraid was the word, wasn't it?" "It was," said I, "but I think I wronged you; I should have said, aghast, you exhibited every symptom of one labouring under uncontrollable fear." The fellow stared at me with a look of stupid ferocity, and appeared to be hesitating whether to strike or not; ere he could make up his mind, the tall girl started forward, crying, "He's chaffing, let me at him"; and, before I could put myself on my guard, she struck me a blow on the face which had nearly brought me to the ground. "Enough," said I, putting my hand to my cheek; "you have now performed your promise, and made me wipe my face; now be pacified, and tell me fairly the grounds of this quarrel." "Grounds!" said the fellow; "didn't you say I was afraid? and if you hadn't, who gave you leave to camp on my ground?" "Is it your ground?" said I. "A pretty question," said the fellow; "as if all the world didn't know that. Do you know who I am?" "I guess I do," said I; "unless I am much mistaken, you are he whom folks call the 'Flaming Tinman'. To tell you the truth, I'm glad we have met, for I wished to see you. These are your two wives, I suppose; I greet them. There's no harm done--there's room enough here for all of us--we shall soon be good friends, I dare say; and when we are a little better acquainted, I'll tell you my history." "Well, if that doesn't beat all," said the fellow. "I don't think he's chaffing now," said the girl, whose anger seemed to have subsided on a sudden; "the young man speaks civil enough." "Civil," said the fellow with an oath; "but that's just like you; with you it is a blow, and all over. Civil! I suppose you would have him stay here, and get into all my secrets, and hear all I may have to say to my two morts." "Two morts!" said the girl, kindling up, "where are they? Speak for one, and no more. I am no mort of yours, whatever some one else may be. I tell you one thing, Black John, or Anselo, for t'other an't your name, the same thing I told the young man here: be civil, or you will rue it." The fellow looked at the girl furiously, but his glance soon quailed before hers; he withdrew his eyes, and cast them on my little horse, which was feeding amongst the trees. "What's this?" said he, rushing forward and seizing the animal. "Why, as I am alive, this is the horse of that mumping villain Slingsby." "It's his no longer; I bought it and paid for it." "It's mine now," said the fellow; "I swore I would seize it the next time I found it on my beat; ay, and beat the master too." "I am not Slingsby." "All's one for that." "You don't say you will beat me?" "Afraid was the word." "I'm sick and feeble." "Hold up your fists." "Won't the horse satisfy you?" "Horse nor bellows either." "No mercy, then." "Here's at you." "Mind your eyes, Jack. There, you've got it. I thought so," shouted the girl, as the fellow staggered back from a sharp blow in the eye. "I thought he was chaffing at you all along." "Never mind, Anselo. You know what to do--go in," said the vulgar woman, who had hitherto not spoken a word, but who now came forward with all the look of a fury; "go in apopli; you'll smash ten like he." The Flaming Tinman took her advice, and came in, bent on smashing, but stopped short on receiving a left-handed blow on the nose. "You'll never beat the Flaming Tinman in that way," said the girl, looking at me doubtfully. And so I began to think myself, when, in the twinkling of an eye, the Flaming Tinman disengaging himself of his frock-coat, and, dashing off his red night-cap, came rushing in more desperately than ever. To a flush hit which he received in the mouth he paid as little attention as a wild bull would have done; in a moment his arms were around me, and in another, he had hurled me down, falling heavily upon me. The fellow's strength appeared to be tremendous. "Pay him off now," said the vulgar woman. The Flaming Tinman made no reply, but planting his knee on my breast, seized my throat with two huge horny hands. I gave myself up for dead, and probably should have been so in another minute but for the tall girl, who caught hold of the handkerchief which the fellow wore round his neck with a grasp nearly as powerful as that with which he pressed my throat. "Do you call that fair play?" said she. "Hands off, Belle," said the other woman; "do you call it fair play to interfere? hands off, or I'll be down upon you myself." But Belle paid no heed to the injunction, and tugged so hard at the handkerchief that the Flaming Tinman was nearly throttled; suddenly relinquishing his hold of me, he started on his feet, and aimed a blow at my fair preserver, who avoided it, but said coolly:-- "Finish t'other business first, and then I'm your woman whenever you like; but finish it fairly--no foul play when I'm by--I'll be the boy's second, and Moll can pick you up when he happens to knock you down." The battle during the next ten minutes raged with considerable fury; but it so happened that during this time I was never able to knock the Flaming Tinman down, but on the contrary received six knock-down blows myself. "I can never stand this," said I, as I sat on the knee of Belle, "I am afraid I must give in; the Flaming Tinman hits very hard," and I spat out a mouthful of blood. "Sure enough you'll never beat the Flaming Tinman in the way you fight--it's of no use flipping at the Flaming Tinman with your left hand; why don't you use your right?" "Because I'm not handy with it," said I; and then getting up, I once more confronted the Flaming Tinman, and struck him six blows for his one, but they were all left-handed blows, and the blow which the Flaming Tinman gave me knocked me off my legs. "Now, will you use Long Melford?" said Belle, picking me up. "I don't know what you mean by Long Melford," said I, gasping for breath. "Why, this long right of yours," said Belle, feeling my right arm--"if you do, I shouldn't wonder if you yet stand a chance." And now the Flaming Tinman was once more ready, much more ready than myself. I, however, rose from my second's knee as well as my weakness would permit me; on he came, striking left and right, appearing almost as fresh as to wind and spirit as when he first commenced the combat, though his eyes were considerably swelled, and his nether lip was cut in two; on he came, striking left and right, and I did not like his blows at all, or even the wind of them, which was anything but agreeable, and I gave way before him. At last he aimed a blow which, had it taken full effect, would doubtless have ended the battle, but owing to his slipping, the fist only grazed my left shoulder, and came with terrific force against a tree, close to which I had been driven; before the Tinman could recover himself, I collected all my strength, and struck him beneath the ear, and then fell to the ground completely exhausted, and it so happened that the blow which I struck the tinker beneath the ear was a right-handed blow. "Hurrah for Long Melford!" I heard Belle exclaim; "there is nothing like Long Melford for shortness all the world over." At these words I turned round my head as I lay, and perceived the Flaming Tinman stretched upon the ground apparently senseless. "He is dead," said the vulgar woman, as she vainly endeavoured to raise him up; "he is dead; the best man in all the north country, killed in this fashion, by a boy." Alarmed at these words, I made shift to get on my feet; and, with the assistance of the woman, placed my fallen adversary in a sitting posture. I put my hand to his heart, and felt a slight pulsation. "He's not dead," said I, "only stunned; if he were let blood, he would recover presently." I produced a penknife which I had in my pocket, and, baring the arm of the Tinman, was about to make the necessary incision, when the woman gave me a violent blow, and, pushing me aside, exclaimed: "I'll tear the eyes out of your head, if you offer to touch him. Do you want to complete your work, and murder him outright, now he's asleep? you have had enough of his blood already." "You are mad," said I, "I only seek to do him service. Well, if you won't let him be blooded, fetch some water and fling it in his face, you know where the pit is." "A pretty manoeuvre," said the woman; "leave my husband in the hands of you and that limmer, who has never been true to us; I should find him strangled or his throat cut when I came back." "Do you go," said I, to the tall girl, "take the can and fetch some water from the pit." "You had better go yourself," said the girl, wiping a tear as she looked on the yet senseless form of the tinker; "you had better go yourself, if you think water will do him good." I had by this time somewhat recovered my exhausted powers, and, taking the can, I bent my steps as fast as I could to the pit; arriving there, I lay down on the brink, took a long draught, and then plunged my head into the water; after which I filled the can, and bent my way back to the dingle. Before I could reach the path which led down into its depths, I had to pass some way along its side; I had arrived at a part immediately over the scene of the last encounter, where the bank, overgrown with trees, sloped precipitously down. Here I heard a loud sound of voices in the dingle; I stopped, and laying hold of a tree, leaned over the bank and listened. The two women appeared to be in hot dispute in the dingle. "It was all owing to you, you limmer," said the vulgar woman to the other; "had you not interfered, the old man would soon have settled the boy." "I'm for fair play and Long Melford," said the other. "If your old man, as you call him, could have settled the boy fairly, he might, for all I should have cared, but no foul work for me; and as for sticking the boy with our gulleys when he comes back, as you proposed, I am not so fond of your old man or you that I should oblige you in it, to my soul's destruction." "Hold your tongue, or I'll--"; I listened no farther, but hastened as fast as I could to the dingle. My adversary had just begun to show signs of animation; the vulgar woman was still supporting him, and occasionally cast glances of anger at the tall girl who was walking slowly up and down. I lost no time in dashing the greater part of the water into the Tinman's face, whereupon he sneezed, moved his hands, and presently looked round him. At first his looks were dull and heavy, and without any intelligence at all; he soon, however, began to recollect himself, and to be conscious of his situation; he cast a scowling glance at me, then one of the deepest malignity at the tall girl, who was still walking about without taking much notice of what was going forward. At last he looked at his right hand, which had evidently suffered from the blow against the tree, and a half-stifled curse escaped his lips. The vulgar woman now said something to him in a low tone, whereupon he looked at her for a moment, and then got upon his legs. Again the vulgar woman said something to him; her looks were furious, and she appeared to be urging him on to attempt something. I observed that she had a clasped knife in her hand. The fellow remained standing for some time as if hesitating what to do; at last he looked at his hand, and, shaking his head, said something to the woman which I did not understand. The tall girl, however, appeared to overhear him, and, probably repeating his words, said: "No, it won't do; you are right there, and now hear what I have to say,--let bygones be bygones, and let us all shake hands, and camp here, as the young man was saying just now". The man looked at her, and then, without any reply, went to his horse, which was lying down among the trees, and kicking it up, led it to the cart, to which he forthwith began to harness it. The other cart and horse had remained standing motionless during the whole affair which I have been recounting, at the bottom of the pass. The woman now took the horse by the head, and leading it with the cart into the open part of the dingle turned both round, and then led them back, till the horse and cart had mounted a little way up the assent; she then stood still and appeared to be expecting the man. During this proceeding Belle had stood looking on without saying anything; at last, perceiving that the man had harnessed his horse to the other cart, and that both he and the woman were about to take their departure, she said: "You are not going, are you?" Receiving no answer, she continued: "I tell you what, both of you, Black John, and you Moll, his mort, this is not treating me over civilly,--however, I am ready to put up with it, and to go with you if you like, for I bear no malice. I'm sorry for what has happened, but you have only yourselves to thank for it. Now, shall I go with you, only tell me?" The man made no manner of reply, but flogged his horse. The woman, however, whose passions were probably under less control, replied, with a screeching tone: "Stay where you are, you jade, and may the curse of Judas cling to you,--stay with the bit of a mullo whom you helped, and my only hope is that he may gulley you before he comes to be--Have you with us, indeed! after what's past, no, nor nothing belonging to you. Fetch down your mailla go-cart and live here with your chabo." She then whipped on the horse, and ascended the pass, followed by the man. The carts were light, and they were not long in ascending the winding path. I followed to see that they took their departure. Arriving at the top, I found near the entrance a small donkey cart, which I concluded belonged to the girl. The tinker and his mort were already at some distance; I stood looking after them for a little time, then taking the donkey by the reins I led it with the cart to the bottom of the dingle. Arrived there, I found Belle seated on the stone by the fireplace. Her hair was all dishevelled, and she was in tears. "They were bad people," said she, "and I did not like them, but they were my only acquaintance in the wide world." CHAPTER LXXXVI. In the evening of that same day the tall girl and I sat at tea by the fire, at the bottom of the dingle; the girl on a small stool, and myself, as usual, upon my stone. The water which served for the tea had been taken from a spring of pellucid water in the neighbourhood, which I had not had the good fortune to discover, though it was well known to my companion, and to the wandering people who frequented the dingle. "This tea is very good," said I, "but I cannot enjoy it as much as if I were well: I feel very sadly." "How else should you feel," said the girl, "after fighting with the Flaming Tinman? All I wonder at is that you can feel at all! As for the tea, it ought to be good, seeing that it cost me ten shillings a pound." "That's a great deal for a person in your station to pay." "In my station! I'd have you to know, young man--however, I haven't the heart to quarrel with you, you look so ill; and after all, it is a good sum for one to pay who travels the roads; but if I must have tea, I like to have the best; and tea I must have, for I am used to it, though I can't help thinking that it sometimes fills my head with strange fancies--what some folks call vapours, making me weep and cry." "Dear me," said I, "I should never have thought that one of your size and fierceness would weep and cry!" "My size and fierceness! I tell you what, young man, you are not over civil this evening; but you are ill, as I said before, and I sha'n't take much notice of your language, at least for the present; as for my size, I am not so much bigger than yourself; and as for being fierce, you should be the last one to fling that at me. It is well for you that I can be fierce sometimes. If I hadn't taken your part against Blazing Bosville, you wouldn't be now taking tea with me." "It is true that you struck me in the face first; but we'll let that pass. So that man's name is Bosville; what's your own?" "Isopel Berners." "How did you get that name?" "I say, young man, you seem fond of asking questions! will you have another cup of tea?" "I was just going to ask for another." "Well, then, here it is, and much good may it do you; as for my name, I got it from my mother." "Your mother's name, then, was Isopel?" "Isopel Berners." "But had you never a father?" "Yes, I had a father," said the girl, sighing, "but I don't bear his name." "Is it the fashion, then, in your country for children to bear their mother's name?" "If you ask such questions, young man, I shall be angry with you. I have told you my name, and whether my father's or mother's, I am not ashamed of it." "It is a noble name." "There you are right, young man. The chaplain in the great house where I was born, told me it was a noble name; it was odd enough, he said, that the only three noble names in the county were to be found in the great house; mine was one; the other two were Devereux and Bohun." "What do you mean by the great house?" "The workhouse." "Is it possible that you were born there?" "Yes, young man; and as you now speak softly and kindly, I will tell you my whole tale. My father was an officer of the sea, and was killed at sea as he was coming home to marry my mother, Isopel Berners. He had been acquainted with her, and had left her; but after a few months he wrote her a letter, to say that he had no rest, and that he repented, and that as soon as his ship came to port he would do her all the reparation in his power. Well, young man, the very day before they reached port they met the enemy, and there was a fight, and my father was killed, after he had struck down six of the enemy's crew on their own deck; for my father was a big man, as I have heard, and knew tolerably well how to use his hands. And when my mother heard the news, she became half distracted, and ran away into the fields and forests, totally neglecting her business, for she was a small milliner; and so she ran demented about the meads and forests for a long time, now sitting under a tree, and now by the side of a river--at last she flung herself into some water, and would have been drowned, had not some one been at hand and rescued her, whereupon she was conveyed to the great house, lest she should attempt to do herself further mischief, for she had neither friends nor parents--and there she died three months after, having first brought me into the world. She was a sweet, pretty creature, I'm told, but hardly fit for this world, being neither large, nor fierce, nor able to take her own part. So I was born and bred in the great house, where I learnt to read and sew, to fear God, and to take my own part. When I was fourteen I was put out to service to a small farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not stay long, for I was half starved, and otherwise ill-treated, especially by my mistress, who one day attempting to knock me down with a besom, I knocked her down with my fist, and went back to the great house." "And how did they receive you in the great house?" "Not very kindly, young man--on the contrary, I was put into a dark room, where I was kept a fortnight on bread and water; I did not much care, however, being glad to have got back to the great house at any rate, the place where I was born, and where my poor mother died, and in the great house I continued two years longer, reading and sewing, fearing God, and taking my own part when necessary. At the end of the two years I was again put out to service, but this time to a rich farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not live long, less time, I believe, than with the poor ones, being obliged to leave for--" "Knocking your mistress down?" "No, young man, knocking my master down, who conducted himself improperly towards me. This time I did not go back to the great house, having a misgiving that they would not receive me, so I turned my back to the great house where I was born, and where my poor mother died, and wandered for several days, I know not whither, supporting myself on a few halfpence which I chanced to have in my pocket. It happened one day, as I sat under a hedge crying, having spent my last farthing, that a comfortable-looking elderly woman came up in a cart, and seeing the state in which I was, she stopped and asked what was the matter with me; I told her some part of my story, whereupon she said: 'Cheer up, my dear, if you like you shall go with me, and wait upon me'. Of course I wanted little persuasion, so I got into the cart and went with her. She took me to London and various other places, and I soon found that she was a travelling woman, who went about the country with silks and linen. I was of great use to her, more especially in those places where we met evil company. Once, as we were coming from Dover, we were met by two sailors, who stopped our cart, and would have robbed and stripped us. 'Let me get down,' said I; so I got down, and fought with them both, till they turned round and ran away. Two years I lived with the old gentlewoman who was very kind to me, almost as kind as a mother; at last she fell sick at a place in Lincolnshire, and after a few days died, leaving me her cart and stock in trade, praying me only to see her decently buried, which I did, giving her a funeral fit for a gentlewoman. After which I travelled the country melancholy enough for want of company, but so far fortunate, that I could take my own part when anybody was uncivil to me. At last, passing through the valley of Todmorden, I formed the acquaintance of Blazing Bosville and his wife, with whom I occasionally took journeys for company's sake, for it is melancholy to travel about alone, even when one can take one's own part. I soon found they were evil people; but, upon the whole, they treated me civilly, and I sometimes lent them a little money, so that we got on tolerably well together. He and I, it is true, had once a dispute, and nearly came to blows, for once, when we were alone, he wanted me to marry him, promising if I would, to turn off Grey Moll, or if I liked it better, to make her wait upon me as a maid-servant; I never liked him much, but from that hour less than ever. Of the two, I believe Grey Moll to be the best, for she is at any rate true and faithful to him, and I like truth and constancy, don't you, young man?" "Yes," said I, "they are very nice things. I feel very strangely." "How do you feel, young man?" "Very much afraid." "Afraid, at what? At the Flaming Tinman? Don't be afraid of him. He won't come back, and if he did, he shouldn't touch you in this state. I'd fight him for you, but he won't come back, so you needn't be afraid of him." "I'm not afraid of the Flaming Tinman." "What, then, are you afraid of?" "The evil one." "The evil one," said the girl, "where is he?" "Coming upon me." "Never heed," said the girl, "I'll stand by you." CHAPTER LXXXVII. The kitchen of the public-house was a large one, and many people were drinking in it; there was a confused hubbub of voices. I sat down on a bench behind a deal table, of which there were three or four in the kitchen; presently a bulky man, in a green coat, of the Newmarket cut, and without a hat, entered, and observing me, came up, and in rather a gruff tone cried: "Want anything, young fellow?" "Bring me a jug of ale," said I, "if you are the master, as I suppose you are, by that same coat of yours, and your having no hat on your head." "Don't be saucy, young fellow," said the landlord, for such he was, "don't be saucy, or--" Whatever he intended to say, he left unsaid, for fixing his eyes upon one of my hands, which I had placed by chance upon the table, he became suddenly still. This was my left hand, which was raw and swollen, from the blows dealt on a certain hard skull in a recent combat. "What do you mean by staring at my hand so?" said I, withdrawing it from the table. "No offence, young man, no offence," said the landlord, in a quite altered tone; "but the sight of your hand--," then observing that our conversation began to attract the notice of the guests in the kitchen, he interrupted himself, saying in an undertone: "But mum's the word for the present, I will go and fetch the ale." In about a minute he returned, with a jug of ale foaming high. "Here's your health," said he, blowing off the foam, and drinking; but perceiving that I looked rather dissatisfied, he murmured: "All's right, I glory in you; but mum's the word." Then placing the jug on the table, he gave me a confidential nod, and swaggered out of the room. What can the silly, impertinent fellow mean, thought I; but the ale was now before me, and I hastened to drink, for my weakness was great, and my mind was full of dark thoughts, the remains of the indescribable horror of the preceding night. It may kill me, thought I, as I drank deep, but who cares, anything is better than what I have suffered. I drank deep, and then leaned back against the wall; it appeared as if a vapour was stealing up into my brain, gentle and benign, soothing and stilling the horror and the fear; higher and higher it mounted, and I felt nearly overcome; but the sensation was delicious, compared with that I had lately experienced, and now I felt myself nodding; and bending down I laid my head on the table on my folded hands. And in that attitude I remained some time, perfectly unconscious. At length, by degrees, perception returned, and I lifted up my head. I felt somewhat dizzy and bewildered, but the dark shadow had withdrawn itself from me. And now, once more, I drank of the jug; this second draught did not produce an overpowering effect upon me--it revived and strengthened me. I felt a new man. I looked around me: the kitchen had been deserted by the greater part of the guests; besides myself, only four remained; these were seated at the farther end. One was haranguing fiercely and eagerly; he was abusing England, and praising America. At last he exclaimed: "So when I gets to New York, I will toss up my hat, and damn the King". That man must be a Radical, thought I. CHAPTER LXXXVIII. The individual whom I supposed to be a radical, after a short pause, again uplifted his voice: he was rather a strong-built fellow of about thirty, with an ill-favoured countenance, a white hat on his head, a snuff-coloured coat on his back, and, when he was not speaking, a pipe in his mouth. "Who would live in such a country as England?" he shouted. "There is no country like America," said his nearest neighbour, a man also in a white hat, and of a very ill-favoured countenance, "there is no country like America," said he, withdrawing a pipe from his mouth; "I think I shall"--and here he took a draught from a jug, the contents of which he appeared to have in common with the other,--"go to America one of these days myself." "Poor old England is not such a bad country, after all," said a third, a simple-looking man in a labouring dress, who sat smoking a pipe without anything before him. "If there was but a little more work to be got, I should have nothing to say against her. I hope, however--" "You hope, who cares what you hope?" interrupted the first, in a savage tone; "you are one of those sneaking hounds who are satisfied with dog's wages, a bit of bread and a kick. Work, indeed! who, with the spirit of a man, would work for a country where there is neither liberty of speech, nor of action? a land full of beggarly aristocracy, hungry borough-mongers, insolent parsons, and "their --- wives and daughters," as William Cobbett says, in his _Register_." "Ah, the Church of England has been a source of incalculable mischief to these realms," said another. The person who uttered these words sat rather aloof from the rest; he was dressed in a long black surtout. I could not see much of his face, partly owing to his keeping it very much directed to the ground, and partly owing to a large slouched hat, which he wore; I observed, however, that his hair was of a reddish tinge. On the table near him was a glass and spoon. "You are quite right," said the first, alluding to what this last had said, "the Church of England has done incalculable mischief here. I value no religion three halfpence, for I believe in none; but the one that I hate most is the Church of England; so when I get to New York, after I have shown the fine fellows on the quay a spice of me, by --- the King, I'll toss up my hat again, and --- the Church of England too." "And suppose the people of New York should clap you in the stocks?" said I. These words drew upon me the attention of the whole four. The radical and his companion stared at me ferociously; the man in black gave me a peculiar glance from under his slouched hat; the simple-looking man in the labouring dress laughed. "What are you laughing at, you fool?" said the radical, turning and looking at the other, who appeared to be afraid of him, "hold your noise; and a pretty fellow, you," said he, looking at me, "to come here, and speak against the great American nation." "I speak against the great American nation?" said I, "I rather paid them a compliment." "By supposing they would put me in the stocks. Well, I call it abusing them, to suppose they would do any such thing--stocks, indeed!--there are no stocks in all the land. Put me in the stocks? why, the President will come down to the quay, and ask me to dinner, as soon as he hears what I have said about the King and the Church." "I shouldn't wonder," said I, "if you go to America, you will say of the President and country what now you say of the King and Church, and cry out for somebody to send you back to England." The radical dashed his pipe to pieces against the table. "I tell you what, young fellow, you are a spy of the aristocracy, sent here to kick up a disturbance." "Kicking up a disturbance," said I, "is rather inconsistent with the office of spy. If I were a spy, I should hold my head down, and say nothing." The man in black partially raised his head and gave me another peculiar glance. "Well, if you ar'n't sent to spy, you are sent to bully, to prevent people speaking, and to run down the great American nation; but you sha'n't bully me. I say down with the aristocracy, the beggarly aristocracy. Come, what have you to say to that?" "Nothing," said I. "Nothing!" repeated the radical. "No," said I, "down with them as soon as you can." "As soon as I can! I wish I could. But I can down with a bully of theirs. Come, will you fight for them?" "No," said I. "You won't?" "No," said I; "though from what I have seen of them I should say they are tolerably able to fight for themselves." "You won't fight for them," said the radical, triumphantly; "I thought so; all bullies, especially those of the aristocracy, are cowards. Here, landlord," said he, raising his voice, and striking against the table with the jug, "some more ale--he won't fight for his friends." "A white feather," said his companion. "He! he!" tittered the man in black. "Landlord, landlord," shouted the radical, striking the table with the jug louder than before. "Who called?" said the landlord, coming in at last. "Fill this jug again," said the other, "and be quick about it." "Does any one else want anything?" said the landlord. "Yes," said the man in black; "you may bring me another glass of gin and water." "Cold?" said the landlord. "Yes," said the man in black, "with a lump of sugar in it." "Gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it," said I, and struck the table with my fist. "Take some?" said the landlord, inquiringly. "No," said I, "only something came into my head." "He's mad," said the man in black. "Not he," said the radical. "He's only shamming; he knows his master is here, and therefore has recourse to these manoeuvres, but it won't do. Come, landlord, what are you staring at? Why don't you obey your orders? Keeping your customers waiting in this manner is not the way to increase your business." The landlord looked at the radical and then at me. At last, taking the jug and glass, he left the apartment, and presently returned with each filled with its respective liquor. He placed the jug with the beer before the radical, and the glass with the gin and water before the man in black, and then, with a wink to me, he sauntered out. "Here is your health, sir," said the man of the snuff-coloured coat, addressing himself to the man in black, "I honour you for what you said about the Church of England. Every one who speaks against the Church of England has my warm heart. Down with it, I say, and may the stones of it be used for mending the roads, as my friend William says in his _Register_." The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank to the man in the snuff-coloured coat. "With respect to the steeples," said he, "I am not altogether of your opinion; they might be turned to better account than to serve to mend the roads; they might still be used as places of worship, but not for the worship of the Church of England. I have no fault to find with the steeples, it is the church itself which I am compelled to arraign; but it will not stand long, the respectable part of its ministers are already leaving it. It is a bad church, a persecuting church." "Whom does it persecute?" said I. The man in black glanced at me slightly, and then replied slowly, "the Catholics". "And do those whom you call Catholics never persecute?" said I. "Never," said the man in black. "Did you ever read Fox's _Book of Martyrs_?" said I. "He! he!" tittered the man in black, "there is not a word of truth in Fox's _Book of Martyrs_." "Ten times more than in the _Flos Sanctorum_," said I. The man in black looked at me, but made no answer. "And what say you to the Massacre of the Albigenses and the Vaudois, 'whose bones lie scattered on the cold Alp,' or the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes?" The man in black made no answer. "Go to," said I, "it is because the Church of England is not a persecuting church, that those whom you call the respectable part are leaving her; it is because they can't do with the poor Dissenters what Simon de Montfort did with the Albigenses, and the cruel Piedmontese with the Vaudois, that they turn to bloody Rome; the Pope will no doubt welcome them, for the Pope, do you see, being very much in want, will welcome--" "Hollo!" said the radical, interfering, "What are you saying about the Pope? I say hurrah for the Pope! I value no religion three halfpence, as I said before, but if I were to adopt any, it should be the Popish, as it's called, because I conceives the Popish to be the grand enemy of the Church of England, of the beggarly aristocracy, and the borough-monger system, so I won't hear the Pope abused while I am by. Come, don't look fierce. You won't fight, you know, I have proved it; but I will give you another chance--I will fight for the Pope, will you fight against him?" "Oh dear me, yes," said I, getting up and stepping forward. "I am a quiet, peaceable young man, and, being so, am always ready to fight against the Pope--the enemy of all peace and quiet. To refuse fighting for the aristocracy is a widely different thing from refusing to fight against the Pope--so come on, if you are disposed to fight for him. To the Pope broken bells, to Saint James broken shells. No Popish vile oppression, but the Protestant succession. Confusion to the Groyne, hurrah for the Boyne, for the army at Clonmel, and the Protestant young gentlemen who live there as well." "An Orangeman," said the man in black. "Not a Platitude," said I. The man in black gave a slight start. "Amongst that family," said I, "no doubt something may be done, but amongst the Methodist preachers I should conceive that the success would not be great." The man in black sat quite still. "Especially amongst those who have wives," I added. The man in black stretched his hand towards his gin and water. "However," said I, "we shall see what the grand movement will bring about, and the results of the lessons in elocution." The man in black lifted the glass up to his mouth, and in doing so, let the spoon fall. "But what has this to do with the main question?" said I: "I am waiting here to fight against the Pope." "Come, Hunter," said the companion of the man in the snuff-coloured coat, "get up, and fight for the Pope." "I don't care for the young fellow," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat. "I know you don't," said the other, "so get up, and serve him out." "I could serve out three like him," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat. "So much the better for you," said the other, "the present work will be all the easier for you, get up, and serve him out at once." The man in the snuff-coloured coat did not stir. "Who shows the white feather now?" said the simple-looking man. "He! he! he!" tittered the man in black. "Who told you to interfere?" said the radical, turning ferociously towards the simple-looking man; "say another word, and I'll--And you!" said he, addressing himself to the man in black, "a pretty fellow you to turn against me, after I had taken your part. I tell you what, you may fight for yourself. I'll see you and your Pope in the pit of Eldon, before I fight for either of you, so make the most of it." "Then you won't fight?" said I. "Not for the Pope," said the radical; "I'll see the Pope--" "Dear me!" said I, "not fight for the Pope, whose religion you would turn to, if you were inclined for any. I see how it is, you are not fond of fighting; but I'll give you another chance--you were abusing the Church of England just now. I'll fight for it--will you fight against it?" "Come, Hunter," said the other, "get up, and fight against the Church of England." "I have no particular quarrel against the Church of England," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat, "my quarrel is with the aristocracy. If I said anything against the church, it was merely for a bit of corollary, as Master William Cobbett would say; the quarrel with the church belongs to this fellow in black; so let him carry it on. However," he continued suddenly, "I won't slink from the matter either; it shall never be said by the fine fellows on the quay of New York, that I wouldn't fight against the Church of England. So down with the beggarly aristocracy, the church, and the Pope, to the bottom of the pit of Eldon, and may the Pope fall first, and the others upon him." Thereupon, dashing his hat on the table, he placed himself in an attitude of offence, and rushed forward. He was, as I have said before, a powerful fellow, and might have proved a dangerous antagonist, more especially to myself, who, after my recent encounter with the Flaming Tinman, and my wrestlings with the evil one, was in anything but fighting order. Any collision, however, was prevented by the landlord, who, suddenly appearing, thrust himself between us. "There shall be no fighting here," said he, "no one shall fight in this house, except it be with myself; so if you two have anything to say to each other, you had better go into the field behind the house. But, you fool," said he, pushing Hunter violently on the breast, "do you know whom you are going to tackle with? this is the young chap that beat Blazing Bosville, only as late as yesterday, in Mumpers' Dingle. Grey Moll told me all about it last night, when she came for some brandy for her husband, who, she said, had been half killed; and she described the young man to me so closely, that I knew him at once, that is, as soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, for she told me he was a left-hand hitter. Ar'n't it all true, young man? Ar'n't you he that beat Flaming Bosville in Mumpers' Dingle?" "I never beat Flaming Bosville," said I, "he beat himself. Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn't be here at the present moment." "Here! here!" said the landlord, "now that's just as it should be; I like a modest man, for, as the parson says, nothing sits better upon a young man than modesty. I remember, when I was young, fighting with Tom of Hopton, the best man that ever pulled off coat in England. I remember, too, that I won the battle; for I happened to hit Tom of Hopton, in the mark, as he was coming in, so that he lost his wind, and falling squelch on the ground, do ye see, he lost the battle, though I am free to confess that he was a better man than myself; indeed, the best man that ever fought in England; yet still I won the battle, as every customer of mine, and everybody within twelve miles round, has heard over and over again. Now, Mr. Hunter, I have one thing to say, if you choose to go into the field behind the house, and fight the young man, you can. I'll back him for ten pounds; but no fighting in my kitchen--because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment." "I have no wish to fight the young man," said Hunter; "more especially as he has nothing to say for the aristocracy. If he chose to fight for them, indeed--but he won't, I know; for I see he's a decent, respectable young man; and, after all, fighting is a blackguard way of settling a dispute; so I have no wish to fight; however, there is one thing I'll do," said he, uplifting his fist, "I'll fight this fellow in black here for half a crown, or for nothing, if he pleases; it was he that got up the last dispute between me and the young man, with his Pope and his nonsense; so I will fight him for anything he pleases, and perhaps the young man will be my second; whilst you--" "Come, doctor," said the landlord, "or whatsoever you be, will you go into the field with Hunter? I'll second you, only you must back yourself. I'll lay five pounds on Hunter, if you are inclined to back yourself; and will help you to win it as far, do you see, as a second can; because why? I always likes to do the fair thing." "Oh! I have no wish to fight," said the man in black hastily; "fighting is not my trade. If I have given any offence, I beg anybody's pardon." "Landlord," said I, "what have I to pay?" "Nothing at all," said the landlord; "glad to see you. This is the first time that you have been at my house, and I never charge new customers, at least customers such as you, anything for the first draught. You'll come again, I dare say; shall always be glad to see you. I won't take it," said he, as I put sixpence on the table; "I won't take it." "Yes, you shall," said I; "but not in payment for anything I have had myself: it shall serve to pay for a jug of ale for that gentleman," said I, pointing to the simple-looking individual; "he is smoking a poor pipe. I do not mean to say that a pipe is a bad thing; but a pipe without ale, do you see--" "Bravo!" said the landlord, "that's just the conduct I like." "Bravo!" said Hunter. "I shall be happy to drink with the young man whenever I meet him at New York, where, do you see, things are better managed than here." "If I have given offence to anybody," said the man in black, "I repeat that I ask pardon,--more especially to the young gentleman, who was perfectly right to stand up for his religion, just as I--not that I am of any particular religion, no more than this honest gentleman here," bowing to Hunter; "but I happen to know something of the Catholics--several excellent friends of mine are Catholics--and of a surety the Catholic religion is an ancient religion, and a widely extended religion, though it certainly is not a universal religion, but it has of late made considerable progress, even amongst those nations who have been particularly opposed to it--amongst the Prussians and the Dutch, for example, to say nothing of the English; and then, in the East, amongst the Persians, amongst the Armenians--" "The Armenians," said I; "oh dear me, the Armenians--" "Have you anything to say about those people, sir?" said the man in black, lifting up his glass to his mouth. "I have nothing further to say," said I, "than that the roots of Ararat are occasionally found to be deeper than those of Rome." "There's half a crown broke," said the landlord, as the man in black let fall the glass, which was broken to pieces on the floor. "You will pay me the damage, friend, before you leave this kitchen. I like to see people drink freely in my kitchen, but not too freely, and I hate breakages; because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment." CHAPTER LXXXIX. The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to describe in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance of about two miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the west by the time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle seated by a fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During my absence she had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpaulin, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. "I am glad you are returned," said she, as soon as she perceived me; "I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice?" "Yes," said I; "I went to the public-house and drank ale as you advised me; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away the horror from my mind--I am much beholden to you." "I knew it would do you good," said Belle; "I remembered that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good, kind man, used to say: 'Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong'." "He was no advocate for tea, then?" said I. "He had no objection to tea; but he used to say, 'Everything in its season'. Shall we take ours now--I have waited for you." "I have no objection," said I; "I feel rather heated, and at present should prefer tea to ale--'Everything in its season,' as the surgeon said." Thereupon Belle prepared tea, and, as we were taking it, she said: "What did you see and hear at the public-house?" "Really," said I, "you appear to have your full portion of curiosity; what matters it to you what I saw and heard at the public-house?" "It matters very little to me," said Belle; "I merely inquired of you, for the sake of a little conversation--you were silent, and it is uncomfortable for two people to sit together without opening their lips--at least I think so." "One only feels uncomfortable," said I, "in being silent, when one happens to be thinking of the individual with whom one is in company. To tell you the truth, I was not thinking of my companion, but of certain company with whom I had been at the public-house." "Really, young man," said Belle, "you are not over complimentary; but who may this wonderful company have been--some young--?" and here Belle stopped. "No," said I, "there was no young person--if person you were going to say. There was a big portly landlord, whom I dare say you have seen; a noisy savage radical, who wanted at first to fasten upon me a quarrel about America, but who subsequently drew in his horns; then there was a strange fellow, a prowling priest, I believe, whom I have frequently heard of, who at first seemed disposed to side with the radical against me, and afterwards with me against the radical. There, you know my company, and what took place." "Was there no one else?" said Belle. "You are mighty curious," said I. "No, none else, except a poor, simple mechanic, and some common company, who soon went away." Belle looked at me for a moment, and then appeared to be lost in thought--"America?" said she, musingly--"America?" "What of America?" said I. "I have heard that it is a mighty country." "I dare say it is," said I; "I have heard my father say that the Americans are first-rate marksmen." "I heard nothing about that," said Belle; "what I heard was, that it is a great and goodly land, where people can walk about without jostling, and where the industrious can always find bread; I have frequently thought of going thither." "Well," said I, "the radical in the public-house will perhaps be glad of your company thither; he is as great an admirer of America as yourself, though I believe on different grounds." "I shall go by myself," said Belle, "unless--unless that should happen which is not likely--I am not fond of radicals no more than I am of scoffers and mockers." "Do you mean to say that I am a scoffer and mocker?" "I don't wish to say you are," said Belle; "but some of your words sound strangely like scoffing and mocking. I have now one thing to beg, which is, that if you have anything to say against America, you would speak it out boldly." "What should I have to say against America? I never was there." "Many people speak against America who never were there." "Many people speak in praise of America who never were there; but with respect to myself, I have not spoken for or against America." "If you liked America you would speak in its praise." "By the same rule, if I disliked America I should speak against it." "I can't speak with you," said Belle; "but I see you dislike the country." "The country!" "Well, the people--don't you?" "I do." "Why do you dislike them?" "Why, I have heard my father say that the American marksmen, led on by a chap of the name of Washington, sent the English to the right-about in double-quick time." "And that is your reason for disliking the Americans?" "Yes," said I, "that is my reason for disliking them." "Will you take another cup of tea?" said Belle. I took another cup; we were again silent. "It is rather uncomfortable," said I, at last, "for people to sit together without having anything to say." "Were you thinking of your company?" said Belle. "What company?" said I. "The present company." "The present company! oh, ah!--I remember that I said one only feels uncomfortable in being silent with a companion, when one happens to be thinking of the companion. Well, I had been thinking of you the last two or three minutes, and had just come to the conclusion, that to prevent us both feeling occasionally uncomfortably towards each other, having nothing to say, it would be as well to have a standing subject, on which to employ our tongues. Belle, I have determined to give you lessons in Armenian." "What is Armenian?" "Did you ever hear of Ararat?" "Yes, that was the place where the ark rested; I have heard the chaplain in the great house talk of it; besides, I have read of it in the Bible." "Well, Armenian is the speech of people of that place, and I should like to teach it you." "To prevent--" "Ay, ay, to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Your acquiring it besides might prove of ulterior advantage to us both; for example, suppose you and I were in promiscuous company, at Court, for example, and you had something to communicate to me which you did not wish any one else to be acquainted with, how safely you might communicate it to me in Armenian." "Would not the language of the roads do as well?" said Belle. "In some places it would," said I, "but not at Court, owing to its resemblance to thieves' slang. There is Hebrew, again, which I was thinking of teaching you, till the idea of being presented at Court made me abandon it, from the probability of our being understood, in the event of our speaking it, by at least half a dozen people in our vicinity. There is Latin, it is true, or Greek, which we might speak aloud at Court with perfect confidence of safety, but upon the whole I should prefer teaching you Armenian, not because it would be a safer language to hold communication with at Court, but because, not being very well grounded in it myself, I am apprehensive that its words and forms may escape from my recollection, unless I have sometimes occasion to call them forth." "I am afraid we shall have to part company before I have learnt it," said Belle; "in the meantime, if I wish to say anything to you in private, somebody being by, shall I speak in the language of the roads?" "If no roadster is nigh, you may," said I, "and I will do my best to understand you. Belle, I will now give you a lesson in Armenian." "I suppose you mean no harm," said Belle. "Not in the least; I merely propose the thing to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Let us begin." "Stop till I have removed the tea-things," said Belle; and, getting up, she removed them to her own encampment. "I am ready," said Belle, returning, and taking her former seat, "to join with you in anything which will serve to pass away the time agreeably, provided there is no harm in it." "Belle," said I, "I have determined to commence the course of Armenian lessons by teaching you the numerals; but, before I do that, it will be as well to tell you that the Armenian language is called Haik." "I am sure that word will hang upon my memory," said Belle. "Why hang upon it?" "Because the old woman in the great house used to call so the chimney- hook, on which they hung the kettle; in like manner, on the hake of my memory I will hang your hake." "Good!" said I, "you will make an apt scholar; but, mind, that I did not say hake, but haik; the words are, however, very much alike; and, as you observe, upon your hake you may hang my haik. We will now proceed to the numerals." "What are numerals?" said Belle. "Numbers. I will say the Haikan numbers up to ten. There, have you heard them?"--"Yes." "Well, try and repeat them." `"I only remember number one," said Belle, "and that because it is _me_." "I will repeat them again," said I, "and pay greater attention. Now, try again." "_Me_, _jergo_, _earache_." "I neither said _jergo_ nor _earache_. I said _yergou_ and _yerek_. Belle, I am afraid I shall have some difficulty with you as a scholar." Belle made no answer. Her eyes were turned in the direction of the winding path, which led from the bottom of the hollow where we were seated, to the plain above. "Gorgio shunella," she said, at length, in a low voice. "Pure Rommany," said I; "where?" I added in a whisper. "Dovey odoi," said Belle, nodding with her head towards the path. "I will soon see who it is," said I; and starting up, I rushed towards the pathway, intending to lay violent hands on any one I might find lurking in its windings. Before, however, I had reached its commencement, a man, somewhat above the middle height, advanced from it into the dingle, in whom I recognised the man in black whom I had seen in the public-house. CHAPTER XC. The man in black and myself stood opposite to each other for a minute or two in silence; I will not say that we confronted each other that time, for the man in black, after a furtive glance, did not look me in the face, but kept his eyes fixed, apparently on the leaves of a bunch of ground nuts which were growing at my feet. At length, looking around the dingle, he exclaimed: "_Buona Sera_, I hope I don't intrude". "You have as much right here," said I, "as I or my companion; but you had no right to stand listening to our conversation." "I was not listening," said the man, "I was hesitating whether to advance or retire; and if I heard some of your conversation, the fault was not mine." "I do not see why you should have hesitated if your intentions were good," said I. "I think the kind of place in which I found myself might excuse some hesitation," said the man in black, looking around; "moreover, from what I had seen of your demeanour at the public-house, I was rather apprehensive that the reception I might experience at your hands might be more rough than agreeable." "And what may have been your motive for coming to this place?" said I. "_Per far visita a sua signoria_, _ecco il motivo_." "Why do you speak to me in that gibberish?" said I; "do you think I understand it?" "It is not Armenian," said the man in black; "but it might serve in a place like this, for the breathing of a little secret communication, were any common roadster near at hand. It would not do at Court, it is true, being the language of singing women, and the like; but we are not at Court--when we are, I can perhaps summon up a little indifferent Latin, if I have anything private to communicate to the learned Professor." And at the conclusion of this speech the man in black lifted up his head, and, for some moments, looked me in the face. The muscles of his own seemed to be slightly convulsed, and his mouth opened in a singular manner. "I see," said I, "that for some time you were standing near me and my companion, in the mean act of listening." "Not at all," said the man in black; "I heard from the steep bank above that to which I have now alluded, whilst I was puzzling myself to find the path which leads to your retreat. I made, indeed, nearly the compass of the whole thicket before I found it." "And how did you know that I was here?" I demanded. "The landlord of the public-house, with whom I had some conversation concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt I should find you in this place, to which he gave me instructions not very clear. But now I am here, I crave permission to remain a little time, in order that I may hold some communion with you." "Well," said I, "since you are come, you are welcome, please to step this way." Thereupon I conducted the man in black to the fireplace where Belle was standing, who had risen from her stool on my springing up to go in quest of the stranger. The man in black looked at her with evident curiosity, then making her rather a graceful bow, "Lovely virgin," said he, stretching out his hand, "allow me to salute your fingers". "I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers," said Belle. "I did not presume to request to shake hands with you," said the man in black, "I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the extremity of your two forefingers." "I never permit anything of the kind," said Belle; "I do not approve of such unmanly ways, they are only befitting those who lurk in corners or behind trees, listening to the conversation of people who would fain be private." "Do you take me for a listener, then?" said the man in black. "Ay, indeed I do," said Belle; "the young man may receive your excuses, and put confidence in them if he please, but for my part I neither admit them, nor believe them;" and thereupon flinging her long hair back, which was hanging over her cheeks, she seated herself on her stool. "Come, Belle," said I, "I have bidden the gentleman welcome; I beseech you, therefore, to make him welcome; he is a stranger, where we are at home, therefore, even did we wish him away, we are bound to treat him kindly." "That's not English doctrine," said the man in black. "I thought the English prided themselves on their hospitality," said I. "They do so," said the man in black; "they are proud of showing hospitality to people above them, that is, to those who do not want it, but of the hospitality which you were now describing, and which is Arabian, they know nothing. No Englishman will tolerate another in his house, from whom he does not expect advantage of some kind, and to those from whom he does, he can be civil enough. An Englishman thinks that, because he is in his own house, he has a right to be boorish and brutal to any one who is disagreeable to him, as all those are who are really in want of assistance. Should a hunted fugitive rush into an Englishman's house, beseeching protection, and appealing to the master's feelings of hospitality, the Englishman would knock him down in the passage." "You are too general," said I, "in your strictures; Lord ---, {484} the unpopular Tory minister, was once chased through the streets of London by a mob, and, being in danger of his life, took shelter in the shop of a Whig linen-draper, declaring his own unpopular name, and appealing to the linen-draper's feelings of hospitality; whereupon, the linen-draper, utterly forgetful of all party rancour, nobly responded to the appeal, and telling his wife to conduct his lordship upstairs, jumped over the counter with his ell in his hand, and placing himself with half a dozen of his assistants at the door of his _boutique_, manfully confronted the mob, telling them that he would allow himself to be torn to a thousand pieces, ere he would permit them to injure a hair of his lordship's head; what do you think of that?" "He! he! he!" tittered the man in black. "Well," said I, "I am afraid your own practice is not very different from that which you have been just now describing; you sided with the radical in the public-house against me, as long as you thought him the most powerful, and then turned against him, when you saw he was cowed. What have you to say to that?" "Oh! when one is in Rome, I mean England, one must do as they do in England, I was merely conforming to the custom of the country, he! he! but I beg your pardon here, as I did in the public-house. I made a mistake." "Well," said I, "we will drop the matter, but pray seat yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you." The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for occupying what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the stone, and I squatted down gypsy fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool at a slight distance on my right. After a time I addressed him thus: "Am I to reckon this a mere visit of ceremony? Should it prove so, it will be, I believe, the first visit of the kind ever paid me." "Will you permit me to ask," said the man in black--"the weather is very warm," said he, interrupting himself, and taking off his hat. I now observed that he was partly bald, his red hair having died away from the fore part of his crown; his forehead was high, his eyebrows scanty, his eyes grey and sly, with a downward tendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth rather large--a kind of sneering smile played continually on his lips, his complexion was somewhat rubicund. "A bad countenance," said Belle, in the language of the roads, observing that my eyes were fixed on his face. "Does not my countenance please you, fair damsel?" said the man in black, resuming his hat and speaking in a peculiarly gentle voice. "How," said I, "do you understand the language of the roads?" "As little as I do Armenian," said the man in black; "but I understand look and tone." "So do I, perhaps," retorted Belle; "and, to tell you the truth, I like your tone as little as your face." "For shame," said I; "have you forgot what I was saying just now about the duties of hospitality? You have not yet answered my question," said I, addressing myself to the man, "with respect to your visit." "Will you permit me to ask who you are?" "Do you see the place where I live?" said I. "I do," said the man in black, looking around. "Do you know the name of this place?" "I was told it was Mumpers', or Gypsies' Dingle," said the man in black. "Good," said I; "and this forge and tent, what do they look like?" "Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy." "Good," said I; "they belong to me." "Are you, then, a Gypsy?" said the man in black. "What else should I be?" "But you seem to have been acquainted with various individuals with whom I have likewise had acquaintance; and you have even alluded to matters, and even words, which have passed between me and them." "Do you know how Gypsies live?" said I. "By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes." "Well," said I, "there's my forge, and yonder is some iron, though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer." "But how did you come by your knowledge?" "Oh," said I, "if you want me to reveal the secrets of my trade, I have, of course, nothing further to say. Go to the scarlet dyer, and ask him how he dyes cloth." "Why scarlet?" said the man in black. "Is it because Gypsies blush like scarlet." "Gypsies never blush," said I; "but Gypsies' cloaks are scarlet." "I should almost take you for a Gypsy," said the man in black, "but for--" "For what?" said I. "But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing," said the man in black, with a titter. "And why should not a Gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?" said I. "Because the Gypsy race is perfectly illiterate," said the man in black; "they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness; and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers--and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing _che io non credo afatto_." "What do you take me for?" said I. "Why," said the man in black, "I should consider you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a Gypsy life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for a philologist." "And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions acutely?" said I. "Because the philological race is the most stupid under Heaven," said the man in black; "they are possessed, it is true, of a certain faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them; but that any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, to say nothing of an acute one, on any subject--even though the subject were philology--is a thing of which I have no idea." "But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this handmaid?" "I believe I did," said the man in black. "And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute answers to the questions you asked me?" "I believe I did," said the man in black. "And would any one but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle?" "I should think not," said the man in black. "Well, then, don't you see that it is possible for a philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?" "I really don't know," said the man in black. "What's the matter with you?" said I. "Merely puzzled," said the man in black. "Puzzled?" "Yes." "Really puzzled?" "Yes." "Remain so." "Well," said the man in black, rising, "puzzled or not, I will no longer tresspass upon your and this young lady's retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion." "No apology is necessary," said I; "will you please to take anything before you go? I think this young lady, at my request, would contrive to make you a cup of tea." "Tea!" said the man in black--"he! he! I don't drink tea; I don't like it--if, indeed, you had," and here he stopped. "There's nothing like gin and water, is there?" said I, "but I am sorry to say I have none." "Gin and water," said the man in black, "how do you know that I am fond of gin and water?" "Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house?" "You did," said the man in black, "and I remember, that when I called for some, you repeated my words--permit me to ask, is gin and water an unusual drink in England?" "It is not usually drunk cold, and with a lump of sugar," said I. "And did you know who I was by my calling for it so?" "Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information," said I. "With all your knowledge," said the man in black, "you do not appear to have known that I was coming to visit you." "Gypsies do not pretend to know anything which relates to themselves," said I; "but I advise you, if you ever come again, to come openly." "Have I your permission to come again?" said the man in black. "Come when you please; this dingle is as free for you as me." "I will visit you again," said the man in black--"till then, _addio_." "Belle," said I, after the man in black had departed, "we did not treat that man very hospitably; he left us without having eaten or drunk at our expense." "You offered him some tea," said Belle, "which, as it is mine, I should have grudged him, for I like him not." "Our liking or disliking him had nothing to do with the matter, he was our visitor and ought not to have been permitted to depart dry; living as we do in this desert, we ought always to be prepared to administer to the wants of our visitors. Belle, do you know where to procure any good Hollands?" "I think I do," said Belle, "but--" "I will have no 'buts'. Belle, I expect that with as little delay as possible, you procure, at my expense, the best Hollands you can find." CHAPTER XCI. Time passed on, and Belle and I lived in the dingle; when I say lived, the reader must not imagine that we were always there. She went out upon her pursuits, and I went out where inclination led me; but my excursions were very short ones, and hers occasionally occupied whole days and nights. If I am asked how we passed the time when we were together in the dingle, I would answer that we passed the time very tolerably, all things considered; we conversed together, and when tired of conversing I would sometimes give Belle a lesson in Armenian; her progress was not particularly brilliant, but upon the whole satisfactory; in about a fortnight she had hung up 100 Haikan numerals upon the hake of her memory. I found her conversation highly entertaining; she had seen much of England and Wales, and had been acquainted with some of the most remarkable characters who travelled the roads at that period; and let me be permitted to say that many remarkable characters have travelled the roads of England, of whom fame has never said a word. I loved to hear her anecdotes of these people; some of whom I found had occasionally attempted to lay violent hands either upon her person or effects, and had invariably been humbled by her without the assistance of either justice or constable. I could clearly see, however, that she was rather tired of England, and wished for a change of scene; she was particularly fond of talking of America, to which country her aspirations chiefly tended. She had heard much of America, which had excited her imagination; for at that time America was much talked of, on roads and in homesteads, at least so said Belle, who had good opportunities of knowing, and most people allowed that it was a good country for adventurous English. The people who chiefly spoke against it, as she informed me, were soldiers disbanded upon pensions, the sextons of village churches, and excisemen. Belle had a craving desire to visit that country, and to wander with cart and little animal amongst its forests; when I would occasionally object, that she would be exposed to danger from strange and perverse customers, she said that she had not wandered the roads of England so long and alone, to be afraid of anything which might befall in America; and that she hoped, with God's favour, to be able to take her own part, and to give to perverse customers as good as they might bring. She had a dauntless heart that same Belle. Such was the staple of Belle's conversation. As for mine, I would endeavour to entertain her with strange dreams of adventure, in which I figured in opaque forests, strangling wild beasts, or discovering and plundering the hordes of dragons; and sometimes I would narrate to her other things far more genuine--how I had tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and had dealings with ferocious publishers. Belle had a kind heart, and would weep at the accounts I gave her of my early wrestlings with the dark monarch. She would sigh, too, as I recounted the many slights and degradations I had received at the hands of ferocious publishers; but she had the curiosity of a woman; and once, when I talked to her of the triumphs which I had achieved over unbroken mares, she lifted up her head and questioned me as to the secret of the virtue which I possessed over the aforesaid animals; whereupon I sternly reprimanded, and forthwith commanded her to repeat the Armenian numerals; and, on her demurring, I made use of words, to escape which she was glad to comply, saying the Armenian numerals from one to a hundred, which numerals, as a punishment for her curiosity, I made her repeat three times, loading her with the bitterest reproaches whenever she committed the slightest error, either in accent or pronunciation, which reproaches she appeared to bear with the greatest patience. And now I have given a very fair account of the manner in which Isopel Berners and myself passed our time in the dingle. CHAPTER XCII. Amongst other excursions, I went several times to the public-house, to which I introduced the reader in a former chapter. I had experienced such beneficial effects from the ale I had drunk on that occasion, that I wished to put its virtue to a frequent test; nor did the ale on subsequent trials belie the good opinion which I had at first formed of it. After each visit which I made to the public-house, I found my frame stronger, and my mind more cheerful than they had previously been. The landlord appeared at all times glad to see me, and insisted that I should sit within the bar, where, leaving his other guests to be attended to by a niece of his who officiated as his housekeeper, he would sit beside me and talk of matters concerning "the ring," indulging himself with a cigar and a glass of sherry, which he told me was his favourite wine, whilst I drank my ale. "I loves the conversation of all you coves of the ring," said he once, "which is natural, seeing as how I have fought in a ring myself. Ah, there is nothing like the ring; I wish I was not rather too old to go again into it. I often think I should like to have another rally--one more rally, and then--but there's a time for all things--youth will be served, every dog has his day, and mine has been a fine one--let me be content. After beating Tom of Hopton, there was not much more to be done in the way of reputation; I have long sat in my bar the wonder and glory of this here neighbourhood. I'm content, as far as reputation goes; I only wish money would come in a little faster; however, the next main of cocks will bring me in something handsome--comes off next Wednesday at --- have ventured ten five-pound notes--shouldn't say ventured either--run no risk at all, because why? I know my birds." About ten days after this harangue, I called again at about three o'clock one afternoon. The landlord was seated on a bench by a table in the common room, which was entirely empty; he was neither smoking nor drinking, but sat with his arms folded, and his head hanging down over his breast. At the sound of my step he looked up; "Ah," said he, "I am glad you are come, I was just thinking about you". "Thank you," said I; "it was very kind of you, especially at a time like this, when your mind must be full of your good fortune. Allow me to congratulate you on the sums of money you won by the main of cocks at --- I hope you brought it all safe home." "Safe home," said the landlord; "I brought myself safe home, and that was all; came home without a shilling, regularly done, cleaned out." "I am sorry for that," said I; "but after you had won the money, you ought to have been satisfied, and not risked it again--how did you lose it? I hope not by the pea and thimble." "Pea and thimble," said the landlord, "not I; those confounded cocks left me nothing to lose by the pea and thimble." "Dear me," said I; "I thought that you knew your birds." "Well, so I did," said the landlord; "I knew the birds to be good birds, and so they proved, and would have won if better birds had not been brought against them, of which I knew nothing, and so do you see I am done, regularly done." "Well," said I, "don't be cast down; there is one thing of which the cocks by their misfortune cannot deprive you--your reputation; make the most of that, give up cock-fighting, and be content with the custom of your house, of which you will always have plenty, as long as you are the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood." The landlord struck the table before him violently with his fist. "Confound my reputation!" said he. "No reputation that I have will be satisfaction to my brewer for the seventy pounds I owe him. Reputation won't pass for the current coin of this here realm; and let me tell you, that if it a'n't backed by some of it, it a'n't a bit better than rotten cabbage, as I have found. Only three weeks since I was, as I told you, the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood; and people used to come and look at me, and worship me, but as soon as it began to be whispered about that I owed money to the brewer, they presently left off all that kind of thing; and now, during the last three days, since the tale of my misfortune with the cocks has got wind, almost everybody has left off coming to the house, and the few who does, merely comes to insult and flout me. It was only last night that fellow, Hunter, called me an old fool in my own kitchen here. He wouldn't have called me a fool a fortnight ago; 'twas I called him fool then, and last night he called me old fool; what do you think of that? the man that beat Tom of Hopton, to be called, not only a fool, but an old fool; and I hadn't heart, with one blow of this here fist into his face, to send his head ringing against the wall; for when a man's pocket is low, do you see, his heart a'n't much higher; but it is of no use talking, something must be done. I was thinking of you just as you came in, for you are just the person that can help me." "If you mean," said I, "to ask me to lend you the money which you want, it will be to no purpose, as I have very little of my own, just enough for my own occasions; it is true, if you desired it, I would be your intercessor with the person to whom you owe the money, though I should hardly imagine that anything I could say--" "You are right there," said the landlord; "much the brewer would care for anything you could say on my behalf--your going would be the very way to do me up entirely. A pretty opinion he would have of the state of my affairs if I were to send him such a 'cessor as you, and as for your lending me money, don't think I was ever fool enough to suppose either that you had any, or if you had that you would be fool enough to lend me any. No, no, the coves of the ring knows better; I have been in the ring myself, and knows what fighting a cove is, and though I was fool enough to back those birds, I was never quite fool enough to lend anybody money. What I am about to propose is something very different from going to my landlord, or lending any capital; something which, though it will put money into my pocket, will likewise put something handsome into your own. I want to get up a fight in this here neighbourhood, which would be sure to bring plenty of people to my house, for a week before and after it takes place, and as people can't come without drinking, I think I could, during one fortnight, get off for the brewer all the sour and unsaleable liquids he now has, which people wouldn't drink at any other time, and by that means, do you see, liquidate my debt; then, by means of betting, making first all right, do you see, I have no doubt that I could put something handsome into my pocket and yours, for I should wish you to be the fighting man, as I think I can depend upon you." "You really must excuse me," said I, "I have no wish to figure as a pugilist, besides there is such a difference in our ages; you may be the stronger man of the two, and perhaps the hardest hitter, but I am in much better condition, am more active on my legs, so that I am almost sure I should have the advantage, for, as you very properly observed, 'Youth will be served'." "Oh, I didn't mean to fight," said the landlord; "I think I could beat you if I were to train a little; but in the fight I propose I looks more to the main chance than anything else. I question whether half so many people could be brought together if you were to fight with me as the person I have in view, or whether there would be half such opportunities for betting, for I am a man, do you see, the person I wants you to fight with is not a man, but the young woman you keeps company with." "The young woman I keep company with," said I; "pray what do you mean?" "We will go into the bar, and have something," said the landlord, getting up. "My niece is out, and there is no one in the house, so we can talk the matter over quietly." Thereupon I followed him into the bar, where, having drawn me a jug of ale, helped himself as usual to a glass of sherry, and lighted a cigar, he proceeded to explain himself farther. "What I wants is to get up a fight between a man and a woman; there never has yet been such a thing in the ring, and the mere noise of the matter would bring thousands of people together, quite enough to drink out--for the thing should be close to my house--all the brewer's stock of liquids, both good and bad." "But," said I, "you were the other day boasting of the respectability of your house; do you think that a fight between a man and a woman close to your establishment would add to its respectability?" "Confound the respectability of my house," said the landlord, "will the respectability of my house pay the brewer, or keep the roof over my head? No, no! when respectability won't keep a man, do you see, the best thing is to let it go and wander. Only let me have my own way, and both the brewer, myself, and every one of us, will be satisfied. And then the betting--what a deal we may make by the betting--and that we shall have all to ourselves, you, I, and the young woman; the brewer will have no hand in that. I can manage to raise ten pounds, and if by flashing that about, I don't manage to make a hundred, call me horse." "But, suppose," said I, "the party should lose, on whom you sport your money, even as the birds did?" "We must first make all right," said the landlord, "as I told you before; the birds were irrational beings, and therefore couldn't come to an understanding with the others, as you and the young woman can. The birds fought fair; but I intend you and the young woman should fight cross." "What do you mean by cross?" said I. "Come, come," said the landlord, "don't attempt to gammon me; you in the ring, and pretend not to know what fighting cross is. That won't do, my fine fellow; but as no one is near us, I will speak out. I intend that you and the young woman should understand one another and agree beforehand which should be beat; and if you take my advice you will determine between you that the young woman shall be beat, as I am sure that the odds will run high upon her, her character as a fist woman being spread far and wide, so that all the flats who think it will be all right, will back her, as I myself would, if I thought it would be a fair thing." "Then," said I, "you would not have us fight fair." "By no means," said the landlord, "because why? I conceives that a cross is a certainty to those who are in it, whereas by the fair thing one may lose all he has." "But," said I, "you said the other day, that you liked the fair thing." "That was by way of gammon," said the landlord; "just, do you see, as a Parliament cove might say speechifying from a barrel to a set of flats, whom he means to sell. Come, what do you think of the plan?" "It is a very ingenious one," said I. "A'n't it," said the landlord. "The folks in this neighbourhood are beginning to call me old fool, but if they don't call me something else, when they sees me friends with the brewer, and money in my pocket, my name is not Catchpole. Come, drink your ale, and go home to the young gentlewoman." "I am going," said I, rising from my seat, after finishing the remainder of the ale. "Do you think she'll have any objection?" said the landlord. "To do what?" said I. "Why, to fight cross." "Yes, I do," said I. "But you will do your best to persuade her?" "No, I will not," said I. "Are you fool enough to wish to fight fair?" "No," said I, "I am wise enough to wish not to fight at all." "And how's my brewer to be paid?" said the landlord. "I really don't know," said I. "I'll change my religion," said the landlord. CHAPTER XCIII. One evening Belle and myself received another visit from the man in black. After a little conversation of not much importance, I asked him whether he would not take some refreshment, assuring him that I was now in possession of some very excellent Hollands which, with a glass, a jug of water, and a lump of sugar, were heartily at his service; he accepted my offer, and Belle going with a jug to the spring, from which she was in the habit of procuring water for tea, speedily returned with it full of the clear, delicious water of which I have already spoken. Having placed the jug by the side of the man in black, she brought him a glass and spoon, and a tea-cup, the latter containing various lumps of snowy-white sugar: in the meantime I had produced a bottle of the stronger liquid. The man in black helped himself to some water, and likewise to some Hollands, the proportion of water being about two-thirds; then adding a lump of sugar, he stirred the whole up, tasted it, and said that it was good. "This is one of the good things of life," he added, after a short pause. "What are the others?" I demanded. "There is Malvoisia sack," said the man in black, "and partridge, and beccafico." "And what do you say to high mass?" said I. "High mass!" said the man in black; "however," he continued, after a pause, "I will be frank with you; I came to be so; I may have heard high mass on a time, and said it too, but as for any predilection for it, I assure you I have no more than for a long High Church sermon." "You speak a la Margutte?" said I. "Margutte!" said the man in black, musingly, "Margutte?" "You have read Pulci, I suppose?" said I. "Yes, yes," said the man in black, laughing; "I remember." "He might be rendered into English," said I, "something in this style:-- "To which Margutte answered with a sneer, I like the blue no better than the black, My faith consists alone in savoury cheer, In roasted capons, and in potent sack; But above all, in famous gin and clear, Which often lays the Briton on his back, With lump of sugar, and with lympth from well, I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell." "He! he! he!" said the man in black; "that is more than Mezzofante could have done for a stanza of Byron." "A clever man," said I. "Who?" said the man in black. "Mezzofante di Bologna." "He! he! he!" said the man in black; "now I know that you are not a Gypsy, at least a soothsayer; no soothsayer would have said that--" "Why," said I, "does he not understand five-and-twenty tongues?" "Oh, yes," said the man in black; "and five-and-twenty added to them; but--he! he! he! it was principally from him who is certainly the greatest of philologists that I formed my opinion of the sect." "You ought to speak of him with more respect," said I; "I have heard say that he has done good service to your see." "Oh, yes," said the man in black; "he has done good service to our see, that is, in his way; when the neophytes of the propaganda are to be examined in the several tongues in which they are destined to preach, he is appointed to question them, the questions being first written down for him, or else, he! he! he! Of course you know Napoleon's estimate of Mezzofante; he sent for the linguist from motives of curiosity, and after some discourse with him, told him that he might depart; then turning to some of his generals, he observed: '_Nous avons eu ici un exemple qu'un homme peut avoir beaucoup de paroles avec bien peu d'esprit_'." "You are ungrateful to him," said I; "well, perhaps, when he is dead and gone you will do him justice." "True," said the man in black; "when he is dead and gone we intend to erect him a statue of wood, on the left-hand side of the door of the Vatican library." "Of wood?" said I. "He was the son of a carpenter, you know," said the man in black; "the figure will be of wood, for no other reason, I assure you; he! he!" "You should place another statue on the right." "Perhaps we shall," said the man in black; "but we know of no one amongst the philologists of Italy, nor, indeed, of the other countries, inhabited by the faithful, worthy to sit parallel in effigy with our illustrissimo; when, indeed, we have conquered these regions of the perfidious by bringing the inhabitants thereof to the true faith, I have no doubt that we shall be able to select one worthy to bear him company, one whose statue shall be placed on the right hand of the library, in testimony of our joy at his conversion; for, as you know, 'There is more joy,' etc." "Wood?" said I. "I hope not," said the man in black; "no, if I be consulted as to the material for the statue, I should strongly recommend bronze." And when the man in black had said this, he emptied his second tumbler of its contents, and prepared himself another. CHAPTER XCIV. "So you hope to bring these regions again beneath the banner of the Roman See?" said I, after the man in black had prepared the beverage, and tasted it. "Hope," said the man in black; "how can we fail? Is not the Church of these regions going to lose its prerogative?" "Its prerogative?" "Yes; those who should be the guardians of the religion of England are about to grant Papists emancipation and to remove the disabilities from Dissenters, which will allow the Holy Father to play his own game in England." On my inquiring how the Holy Father intended to play his game, the man in black gave me to understand that he intended for the present to cover the land with temples, in which the religion of Protestants would be continually scoffed at and reviled. On my observing that such behaviour would savour strongly of ingratitude, the man in black gave me to understand that if I entertained the idea that the See of Rome was ever influenced in its actions by any feeling of gratitude I was much mistaken, assuring me that if the See of Rome in any encounter should chance to be disarmed and its adversary, from a feeling of magnanimity, should restore the sword which had been knocked out of its hand, the See of Rome always endeavoured on the first opportunity to plunge the said sword into its adversary's bosom,--conduct which the man in black seemed to think was very wise, and which he assured me had already enabled it to get rid of a great many troublesome adversaries, and would, he had no doubt, enable it to get rid of a great many more. On my attempting to argue against the propriety of such behaviour, the man in black cut the matter short, by saying, that if one party was a fool he saw no reason why the other should imitate it in its folly. After musing a little while I told him that emancipation had not yet passed through the legislature, and that perhaps it never would, reminding him that there was often many a slip between the cup and the lip; to which observation the man in black agreed, assuring me, however, that there was no doubt that emancipation would be carried, inasmuch as there was a very loud cry at present in the land; a cry of "tolerance," which had almost frightened the Government out of its wits; who, to get rid of the cry, was going to grant all that was asked in the way of toleration, instead of telling the people to "Hold their nonsense," and cutting them down, provided they continued bawling longer. I questioned the man in black with respect to the origin of this cry; but he said to trace it to its origin would require a long history; that, at any rate, such a cry was in existence, the chief raisers of it being certain of the nobility, called Whigs, who hoped by means of it to get into power, and to turn out certain ancient adversaries of theirs called Tories, who were for letting things remain in _statu quo_; that these Whigs were backed by a party amongst the people called Radicals, a specimen of whom I had seen in the public-house; a set of fellows who were always in the habit of bawling against those in place; "and so," he added, "by means of these parties, and the hubbub which the papists and other smaller sects are making, a general emancipation will be carried, and the Church of England humbled, which is the principal thing which the See of Rome cares for." On my telling the man in black that I believed that even among the high dignitaries of the English Church there were many who wished to grant perfect freedom to religions of all descriptions, he said: "He was aware that such was the fact, and that such a wish was anything but wise, inasmuch as if they had any regard for the religion they professed, they ought to stand by it through thick and thin, proclaiming it to be the only true one, and denouncing all others, in an alliterative style, as dangerous and damnable; whereas by their present conduct, they were bringing their religion into contempt with the people at large, who would never continue long attached to a church, the ministers of which did not stand up for it, and likewise cause their own brethren, who had a clearer notion of things, to be ashamed of belonging to it. I speak advisedly," said he, in continuation, "there is one Platitude." "And I hope there is only one," said I; "you surely would not adduce the likes and dislikes of that poor silly fellow as the criterions of the opinions of any party?" "You know him?" said the man in black; "nay, I heard you mention him in the public-house; the fellow is not very wise, I admit, but he has sense enough to know that unless a church can make people hold their tongues when it thinks fit, it is scarcely deserving the name of a church; no, I think that the fellow is not such a very bad stick, and that upon the whole he is, or rather was, an advantageous specimen of the High Church English clergy, who, for the most part, so far from troubling their heads about persecuting people, only think of securing their tithes, eating their heavy dinners, puffing out their cheeks with importance on country justice benches, and occasionally exhibiting their conceited wives, hoyden daughters, and gawky sons at country balls, whereas Platitude--" "Stop," said I; "you said in the public-house that the Church of England was a persecuting church, and here in the dingle you have confessed that one section of it is willing to grant perfect freedom to the exercise of all religions, and the other only thinks of leading an easy life." "Saying a thing in the public-house is a widely different thing from saying it in the dingle," said the man in black; "had the Church of England been a persecuting church, it would not stand in the position in which it stands at present; it might, with its opportunities, have spread itself over the greater part of the world. I was about to observe, that instead of practising the indolent habits of his High Church brethren, Platitude would be working for his money, preaching the proper use of fire and faggot, or rather of the halter and the whipping-post, encouraging mobs to attack the houses of Dissenters, employing spies to collect the scandal of neighbourhoods, in order that he might use it for sacerdotal purposes, and, in fact, endeavouring to turn an English parish into something like a Jesuit benefice in the south of France." "He tried that game," said I, "and the parish said, 'Pooh, pooh,' and, for the most part, went over to the Dissenters." "Very true," said the man in black, taking a sip at his glass, "but why were the Dissenters allowed to preach? why were they not beaten on the lips till they spat out blood, with a dislodged tooth or two? Why, but because the authority of the Church of England has, by its own fault, become so circumscribed that Mr. Platitude was not able to send a host of beadles and sbirri to their chapel to bring them to reason, on which account Mr. Platitude is very properly ashamed of his church, and is thinking of uniting himself with one which possesses more vigour and authority." "It may have vigour and authority," said I, "in foreign lands, but in these kingdoms the day for practising its atrocities is gone by. It is at present almost below contempt, and is obliged to sue for grace _in forma pauperis_." "Very true," said the man in black, "but let it once obtain emancipation, and it will cast its slough, put on its fine clothes, and make converts by thousands. 'What a fine church,' they'll say; 'with what authority it speaks--no doubts, no hesitation, no sticking at trifles.' What a contrast to the sleepy English Church! they'll go over to it by millions, till it preponderates here over every other, when it will of course be voted the dominant one; and then--and then--" and here the man in black drank a considerable quantity of gin and water. "What then?" said I. "What then?" said the man in black, "why, she will be true to herself. Let Dissenters, whether they be Church of England, as perhaps they may still call themselves, Methodist or Presbyterian, presume to grumble, and there shall be bruising of lips in pulpits, tying up to whipping-posts, cutting off ears and noses--he! he! the farce of King Log has been acted long enough; the time for Queen Stork's tragedy is drawing nigh;" and the man in black sipped his gin and water in a very exulting manner. "And this is the church which, according to your assertion in the public- house, never persecutes?" "I have already given you an answer," said the man in black, "with respect to the matter of the public-house; it is one of the happy privileges of those who belong to my church to deny in the public-house what they admit in the dingle; we have high warranty for such double speaking. Did not the foundation stone of our church, Saint Peter, deny in the public-house what he had previously professed in the valley?" "And do you think," said I, "that the people of England, who have shown aversion to anything in the shape of intolerance, will permit such barbarities as you have described?" "Let them become Papists," said the man in black; "only let the majority become Papists, and you will see." "They will never become so," said I; "the good sense of the people of England will never permit them to commit such an absurdity." "The good sense of the people of England?" said the man in black, filling himself another glass. "Yes," said I; "the good sense of not only the upper, but the middle and lower classes." "And of what description of people are the upper class?" said the man in black, putting a lump of sugar into his gin and water. "Very fine people," said I, "monstrously fine people; so, at least, they are generally believed to be." "He! he!" said the man in black; "only those think them so who don't know them. The male part of the upper class are in youth a set of heartless profligates; in old age, a parcel of poor, shaking, nervous paillards. The female part, worthy to be the sisters and wives of such wretches, unmarried, full of cold vice, kept under by vanity and ambition, but which, after marriage, they seek not to restrain; in old age, abandoned to vapours and horrors, do you think that such beings will afford any obstacle to the progress of the church in these regions, as soon as her movements are unfettered?" "I cannot give an opinion; I know nothing of them, except from a distance. But what think you of the middle classes?" "Their chief characteristic," said the man in black, "is a rage for grandeur and gentility; and that same rage makes us quite sure of them in the long run. Everything that's lofty meets their unqualified approbation; whilst everything humble, or, as they call it, 'low,' is scouted by them. They begin to have a vague idea that the religion which they have hitherto professed is low; at any rate that it is not the religion of the mighty ones of the earth, of the great kings and emperors whose shoes they have a vast inclination to kiss, nor was used by the grand personages of whom they have read in their novels and romances, their Ivanhoes, their Marmions, and their Ladies of the Lake." "Do you think that the writings of Scott have had any influence in modifying their religious opinions?" "Most certainly I do," said the man in black. "The writings of that man have made them greater fools than they were before. All their conversation now is about gallant knights, princesses and cavaliers, with which his pages are stuffed--all of whom were Papists, or very High Church, which is nearly the same thing; and they are beginning to think that the religion of such nice sweet-scented gentry must be something very superfine. Why, I know at Birmingham the daughter of an ironmonger, who screeches to the piano the Lady of the Lake's hymn to the Virgin Mary, always weeps when Mary Queen of Scots is mentioned, and fasts on the anniversary of the death of that very wise martyr, Charles the First. Why, I would engage to convert such an idiot to popery in a week, were it worth my trouble. _O Cavaliere Gualtiero_, _avete fatto molto in favore della Santa Sede_!" "If he has," said I, "he has done it unwittingly; I never heard before that he was a favourer of the popish delusion." "Only in theory," said the man in black. "Trust any of the clan MacSycophant for interfering openly and boldly in favour of any cause on which the sun does not shine benignantly. Popery is at present, as you say, suing for grace in these regions _in forma_ _pauperis_; but let royalty once take it up, let old gouty George once patronise it, and I would consent to drink puddle-water, if the very next time the canny Scot was admitted to the royal symposium he did not say: 'By my faith, yere Majesty, I have always thought, at the bottom of my heart, that popery, as ill-scrapit tongues ca' it, was a very grand religion; I shall be proud to follow your Majesty's example in adopting it'." "I doubt not," said I, "that both gouty George and his devoted servant will be mouldering in their tombs long before royalty in England thinks about adopting popery." "We can wait," said the man in black; "in these days of rampant gentility, there will be no want of kings nor of Scots about them." "But not Walters," said I. "Our work has been already tolerably well done by one," said the man in black; "but if we wanted literature we should never lack in these regions hosts of literary men of some kind or other to eulogise us, provided our religion were in the fashion, and our popish nobles chose, and they always do our bidding, to admit the canaille to their tables, their kitchen tables. As for literature in general," said he, "the Santa Sede is not particularly partial to it, it may be employed both ways. In Italy, in particular, it has discovered that literary men are not always disposed to be lick-spittles." "For example, Dante," said I. "Yes," said the man in black. "A dangerous personage; that poem of his cuts both ways; and then there was Pulci, that Morgante of his cuts both ways, or rather one way, and that sheer against us; and then there was Aretino, who dealt so hard with the _poveri frati_; all writers, at least Italian ones, are not lick-spittles. And then in Spain, 'tis true, Lope de Vega and Calderon were most inordinate lick-spittles; the _Principe Constante_ of the last is a curiosity in its way; and then the _Mary Stuart_ of Lope; I think I shall recommend the perusal of that work to the Birmingham ironmonger's daughter; she has been lately thinking of adding 'a slight knowledge of the magneeficent language of the Peninsula' to the rest of her accomplishments, he! he! he! but then there was Cervantes, starving, but straight; he deals us some hard knocks in that second part of his Quixote; then there was some of the writers of the picaresque novels. No; all literary men are not lick-spittles, whether in Italy or Spain, or, indeed, upon the Continent; it is only in England that all--" "Come," said I, "mind what you are about to say of English literary men." "Why should I mind?" said the man in black, "there are no literary men here. I have heard of literary men living in garrets, but not in dingles, whatever philologists may do; I may, therefore, speak out freely. It is only in England that literary men are invariably lick-spittles; on which account, perhaps, they are so despised, even by those who benefit by their dirty services. Look at your fashionable novel writers, he! he! and above all at your newspaper editors, ho! ho!" "You will, of course, except the editors of the --- from your censure of the last class?" said I. "Them!" said the man in black; "why, they might serve as models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it. See how they bepraise their patrons, the grand Whig nobility, who hope, by raising the cry of liberalism, and by putting themselves at the head of the populace, to come into power shortly. I don't wish to be hard, at present, upon those Whigs," he continued, "for they are playing our game; but a time will come when, not wanting them, we will kick them to a considerable distance: and then, when toleration is no longer the cry, and the Whigs are no longer backed by the populace, see whether the editors of the --- will stand by them; they will prove themselves as expert lick-spittles of despotism as of liberalism. Don't think they will always bespatter the Tories and Austria." "Well," said I, "I am sorry to find that you entertain so low an opinion of the spirit of English literary men; we will now return, if you please, to the subject of the middle classes; I think your strictures upon them in general are rather too sweeping--they are not altogether the foolish people which you have described. Look, for example, at that very powerful and numerous body the Dissenters, the descendants of those sturdy Patriots who hurled Charles the Simple from his throne." "There are some sturdy fellows amongst them, I do not deny," said the man in black, "especially amongst the preachers, clever withal--two or three of that class nearly drove Mr. Platitude mad, as perhaps you are aware, but they are not very numerous; and the old sturdy sort of preachers are fast dropping off, and, as we observe with pleasure, are generally succeeded by frothy coxcombs, whom it would not be very difficult to gain over. But what we most rely upon as an instrument to bring the Dissenters over to us is the mania for gentility, which amongst them has of late become as great, and more ridiculous, than amongst the middle classes belonging to the Church of England. All the plain and simple fashions of their forefathers they are either about to abandon, or have already done so. Look at the most part of their chapels, no longer modest brick edifices, situated in quiet and retired streets, but lunatic- looking erections, in what the simpletons call the modern Gothic taste, of Portland stone, with a cross upon the top, and the site generally the most conspicuous that can be found; and look at the manner in which they educate their children, I mean those that are wealthy. They do not even wish them to be Dissenters, 'the sweet dears shall enjoy the advantages of good society, of which their parents were debarred'. So the girls are sent to tip-top boarding-schools, where amongst other trash they read _Rokeby_, and are taught to sing snatches from that high-flying ditty the 'Cavalier ---' 'Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown, With the barons of England, who fight for the crown?' he! he! their own names. Whilst the lads are sent to those hot-beds of pride and folly--colleges, whence they return with a greater contempt for everything 'low,' and especially for their own pedigree, than they went with. I tell you, friend, the children of Dissenters, if not their parents, are going over to the church, as you call it, and the church is going over to Rome." "I do not see the justice of that latter assertion at all," said I; "some of the Dissenters' children may be coming over to the Church of England, and yet the Church of England be very far from going over to Rome." "In the high road for it, I assure you," said the man in black, "part of it is going to abandon, the rest to lose, their prerogative, and when a church no longer retains its prerogative, it speedily loses its own respect, and that of others." "Well," said I, "if the higher classes have all the vices and follies which you represent, on which point I can say nothing, as I have never mixed with them; and even supposing the middle classes are the foolish beings you would fain make them, and which I do not believe them as a body to be, you would still find some resistance amongst the lower classes; I have a considerable respect for their good sense and independence of character, but pray let me hear your opinion of them." "As for the lower classes," said the man in black, "I believe them to be the most brutal wretches in the world, the most addicted to foul feeding, foul language, and foul vices of every kind; wretches who have neither love for country, religion, nor anything save their own vile selves. You surely do not think that they would oppose a change of religion? why, there is not one of them but would hurrah for the Pope, or Mahomet, for the sake of a hearty gorge and a drunken bout, like those which they are treated with at election contests." "Has your church any followers amongst them?" said I. "Wherever there happens to be a Romish family of considerable possessions," said the man in black, "our church is sure to have followers of the lower class, who have come over in the hope of getting something in the shape of dole or donation. As, however, the Romish is not yet the dominant religion, and the clergy of the English establishment have some patronage to bestow, the churches are not quite deserted by the lower classes; yet were the Romish to become the established religion, they would, to a certainty, all go over to it; you can scarcely imagine what a self-interested set they are--for example, the landlord of that public-house in which I first met you, having lost a sum of money upon a cock-fight, and his affairs in consequence being in a bad condition, is on the eve of coming over to us, in the hope that two old Popish females of property, whom I confess, will advance a sum of money to set him up again in the world." "And what could have put such an idea into the poor fellow's head?" said I. "Oh! he and I have had some conversation upon the state of his affairs," said the man in black; "I think he might make a rather useful convert in these parts, provided things take a certain turn, as they doubtless will. It is no bad thing to have a fighting fellow, who keeps a public-house, belonging to one's religion. He has been occasionally employed as a bully at elections by the Tory party, and he may serve us in the same capacity. The fellow comes of a good stock; I heard him say that his father headed the High Church mob, who sacked and burnt Priestley's house at Birmingham towards the end of the last century." "A disgraceful affair," said I. "What do you mean by a disgraceful affair?" said the man in black. "I assure you that nothing has occurred for the last fifty years which has given the High Church party so much credit in the eyes of Rome as that; we did not imagine that the fellows had so much energy. Had they followed up that affair by twenty others of a similar kind, they would by this time have had everything in their own power; but they did not, and, as a necessary consequence, they are reduced to almost nothing." "I suppose," said I, "that your church would have acted very differently in its place." "It has always done so," said the man in black, coolly sipping. "Our church has always armed the brute population against the genius and intellect of a country, provided that same intellect and genius were not willing to become its instruments and eulogists; and provided we once obtain a firm hold here again, we would not fail to do so. We would occasionally stuff the beastly rabble with horseflesh and bitter ale, and then halloo them on against all those who were obnoxious to us." "Horseflesh and bitter ale!" I replied. "Yes," said the man in black; "horseflesh and bitter ale, the favourite delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always ready to do our bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. There is a tradition in our church, that before the Northumbrian rabble, at the instigation of Austin, attacked and massacred the presbyterian monks of Bangor, they had been allowed a good gorge of horseflesh and bitter ale. He! he! he!" continued the man in black, "what a fine spectacle to see such a mob, headed by a fellow like our friend, the landlord, sack the house of another Priestley!" "Then you don't deny that we have had a Priestley," said I, "and admit the possibility of our having another? You were lately observing that all English literary men were sycophants?" "Lick-spittles," said the man in black; "yes, I admit that you have had a Priestley, but he was a Dissenter of the old sort; you have had him, and perhaps may have another." "Perhaps we may," said I. "But with respect to the lower classes, have you mixed much with them?" "I have mixed with all classes," said the man in black, "and with the lower not less than the upper and middle, they are much as I have described them; and of the three, the lower are the worst. I never knew one of them that possessed the slightest principle, no, not--. It is true, there was one fellow whom I once met, who--, but it is a long story, and the affair happened abroad." "I ought to know something of the English people," he continued, after a moment's pause; "I have been many years amongst them labouring in the cause of the church." "Your see must have had great confidence in your powers, when it selected you to labour for it in these parts?" said I. "They chose me," said the man in black, "principally because being of British extraction and education, I could speak the English language and bear a glass of something strong. It is the opinion of my see, that it would hardly do to send a missionary into a country like this who is not well versed in English; a country where they think, so far from understanding any language besides his own, scarcely one individual in ten speaks his own intelligibly; or an ascetic person, where as they say, high and low, male and female, are, at some period of their lives, fond of a renovating glass, as it is styled, in other words, of tippling." "Your see appears to entertain a very strange opinion of the English," said I. "Not altogether an unjust one," said the man in black, lifting the glass to his mouth. "Well," said I, "it is certainly very kind on its part to wish to bring back such a set of beings beneath its wing." "Why, as to the kindness of my see," said the man in black, "I have not much to say; my see has generally in what it does a tolerably good motive; these heretics possess in plenty what my see has a great hankering for, and can turn to a good account--money!" "The founder of the Christian religion cared nothing for money," said I. "What have we to do with what the founder of the Christian religion cared for?" said the man in black; "how could our temples be built, and our priests supported without money? but you are unwise to reproach us with a desire of obtaining money; you forget that your own church, if the Church of England be your own church, as I suppose it is, from the willingness which you displayed in the public-house to fight for it, is equally avaricious; look at your greedy Bishops, and your corpulent Rectors; do they imitate Christ in His disregard for money? Go to! you might as well tell me that they imitate Christ in His meekness and humility." "Well," said I, "whatever their faults may be, you can't say that they go to Rome for money." The man in black made no direct answer, but appeared by the motion of his lips to be repeating something to himself. "I see your glass is again empty," said I; "perhaps you will replenish it." The man in black arose from his seat, adjusted his habiliments, which were rather in disorder, and placed upon his head his hat, which he had laid aside, then, looking at me, who was still lying on the ground, he said: "I might, perhaps, take another glass, though I believe I have had quite as much as I can well bear; but I do not wish to hear you utter anything more this evening after that last observation of yours--it is quite original; I will meditate upon it on my pillow this night after having said an ave and a pater--go to Rome for money!" He then made Belle a low bow, slightly motioned to me with his hand as if bidding farewell, and then left the dingle with rather uneven steps. "Go to Rome for money," I heard him say as he ascended the winding path, "he! he! he! Go to Rome for money, ho! ho! ho!" CHAPTER XCV. Nearly three days elapsed without anything of particular moment occurring. Belle drove the little cart containing her merchandise about the neighbourhood, returning to the dingle towards the evening. As for myself, I kept within my wooded retreat, working during the periods of her absence leisurely at my forge. Having observed that the quadruped which my companion drove was as much in need of shoes as my own had been some time previously, I had determined to provide it with a set, and during the aforesaid periods occupied myself in preparing them. As I was employed three mornings and afternoons about them, I am sure that the reader will agree that I worked leisurely, or rather lazily. On the third day Belle arrived somewhat later than usual; I was lying on my back at the bottom of the dingle, employed in tossing up the shoes, which I had produced, and catching them as they fell, some being always in the air mounting or descending, somewhat after the fashion of the waters of a fountain. "Why have you been absent so long?" said I to Belle, "it must be long past four by the day." "I have been almost killed by the heat," said Belle; "I was never out in a more sultry day--the poor donkey, too, could scarcely move along." "He shall have fresh shoes," said I, continuing my exercise; "here they are, quite ready; to-morrow I will tack them on." "And why are you playing with them in that manner?" said Belle. "Partly in triumph at having made them, and partly to show that I can do something besides making them; it is not every one who, after having made a set of horse-shoes, can keep them going up and down in the air, without letting one fall." "One has now fallen on your chin," said Belle. "And another on my cheek," said I, getting up; "it is time to discontinue the game, for the last shoe drew blood." Belle went to her own little encampment; and as for myself, after having flung the donkey's shoes into my tent, I put some fresh wood on the fire, which was nearly out, and hung the kettle over it. I then issued forth from the dingle, and strolled round the wood that surrounded it; for a long time I was busied in meditation, looking at the ground, striking with my foot, half unconsciously, the tufts of grass and thistles that I met in my way. After some time, I lifted up my eyes to the sky, at first vacantly, and then with more attention, turning my head in all directions for a minute or two; after which I returned to the dingle. Isopel was seated near the fire, over which the kettle was now hung; she had changed her dress--no signs of the dust and fatigue of her late excursion remained; she had just added to the fire a small billet of wood, two or three of which I had left beside it; the fire cracked, and a sweet odour filled the dingle. "I am fond of sitting by a wood fire," said Belle, "when abroad, whether it be hot or cold; I love to see the flames dart out of the wood; but what kind is this, and where did you get it?" "It is ash," said I, "green ash. Somewhat less than a week ago, whilst I was wandering along the road by the side of a wood, I came to a place where some peasants were engaged in cutting up and clearing away a confused mass of fallen timber: a mighty-aged oak had given way the night before, and in its fall had shivered some smaller trees; the upper part of the oak, and the fragments of the rest, lay across the road. I purchased, for a trifle, a bundle or two, and the wood on the fire is part of it--ash, green ash." "That makes good the old rhyme," said Belle, "which I have heard sung by the old woman in the great house:-- 'Ash, when green, Is fire for a queen.'" "And on fairer form of queen, ash fire never shone," said I, "than on thine, O beauteous queen of the dingle." "I am half disposed to be angry with you, young man," said Belle. "And why not entirely?" said I. Belle made no reply. "Shall I tell you?" I demanded. "You had no objection to the first part of the speech, but you did not like being called queen of the dingle. Well, if I had the power, I would make you queen of something better than the dingle--Queen of China. Come, let us have tea." "Something less would content me," said Belle, sighing, as she rose to prepare our evening meal. So we took tea together, Belle and I. "How delicious tea is after a hot summer's day, and a long walk," said she. "I dare say it is most refreshing then," said I; "but I have heard people say that they most enjoy it on a cold winter's night, when the kettle is hissing on the fire, and their children playing on the hearth." Belle sighed. "Where does tea come from?" she presently demanded. "From China," said I; "I just now mentioned it, and the mention of it put me in mind of tea." "What kind of country is China?" "I know very little about it; all I know is, that it is a very large country far to the East, but scarcely large enough to contain its inhabitants, who are so numerous, that though China does not cover one- ninth part of the world, its inhabitants amount to one-third of the population of the world." "And do they talk as we do?" "Oh no! I know nothing of their language; but I have heard that it is quite different from all others, and so difficult that none but the cleverest people amongst foreigners can master it, on which account, perhaps, only the French pretend to know anything about it." "Are the French so very clever, then?" said Belle. "They say there are no people like them, at least in Europe. But talking of Chinese reminds me that I have not for some time past given you a lesson in Armenian. The word for tea in Armenian is--by-the-bye, what is the Armenian word for tea?" "That's your affair, not mine," said Belle; "it seems hard that the master should ask the scholar." "Well," said I, "whatever the word may be in Armenian, it is a noun; and as we have never yet declined an Armenian noun together, we may as well take this opportunity of declining one. Belle, there are ten declensions in Armenian!" "What's a declension?" "The way of declining a noun." "Then, in the civilest way imaginable, I decline the noun. Is that a declension?" "You should never play on words; to do so is low vulgar, smelling of the pothouse, the workhouse. Belle, I insist on your declining an Armenian noun." "I have done so already," said Belle. "If you go on in this way," said I, "I shall decline taking any more tea with you. Will you decline an Armenian noun?" "I don't like the language," said Belle. "If you must teach me languages, why not teach me French or Chinese?" "I know nothing of Chinese; and as for French, none but a Frenchman is clever enough to speak it--to say nothing of teaching; no, we will stick to Armenian, unless, indeed, you would prefer Welsh!" "Welsh, I have heard, is vulgar," said Belle; "so, if I must learn one of the two, I will prefer Armenian, which I never heard of till you mentioned it to me; though of the two, I really think Welsh sounds best." "The Armenian noun," said I, "which I propose for your declension this night, is . . . which signifieth Master." "I neither like the word nor the sound," said Belle. "I can't help that," said I; "it is the word I choose; Master, with all its variations, being the first noun, the sound of which I would have you learn from my lips. Come, let us begin-- "A master . . . Of a master, etc. Repeat--" "I am not much used to say the word," said Belle. "But, to oblige you, I will decline it as you wish;" and thereupon Belle declined master in Armenian. "You have declined the noun very well," said I; "that is in the singular number; we will now go to the plural." "What is the plural?" said Belle. "That which implies more than one, for example, masters; you shall now go through masters in Armenian." "Never," said Belle, "never; it is bad to have one master, but more I would never bear, whether in Armenian or English." "You do not understand," said I; "I merely want you to decline masters in Armenian." "I do decline them; I will have nothing to do with them, nor with master either; I was wrong to--What sound is that?" "I did not hear it, but I daresay it is thunder; in Armenian--" "Never mind what it is in Armenian; but why do you think it is thunder?" "Ere I returned from my stroll, I looked up into the heavens, and by their appearance I judged that a storm was nigh at hand." "And why did you not tell me so?" "You never asked me about the state of the atmosphere, and I am not in the habit of giving my opinion to people on any subject, unless questioned. But, setting that aside, can you blame me for not troubling you with forebodings about storm and tempest, which might have prevented the pleasure you promised yourself in drinking tea, or perhaps a lesson in Armenian, though you pretend to dislike the latter." "My dislike is not pretended," said Belle; "I hate the sound of it, but I love my tea, and it was kind of you not to wish to cast a cloud over my little pleasures; the thunder came quite time enough to interrupt it without being anticipated--there is another peal--I will clear away, and see that my tent is in a condition to resist the storm, and I think you had better bestir yourself." Isopel departed, and I remained seated on my stone, as nothing belonging to myself required any particular attention; in about a quarter of an hour she returned, and seated herself upon her stool. "How dark the place is become since I left you," said she; "just as if night were just at hand." "Look up at the sky," said I, "and you will not wonder; it is all of a deep olive. The wind is beginning to rise; hark how it moans among the branches; and see how their tops are bending--it brings dust on its wings--I felt some fall on my face; and what is this, a drop of rain?" "We shall have plenty anon," said Belle; "do you hear? it already begins to hiss upon the embers; that fire of ours will soon be extinguished." "It is not probable that we shall want it," said I, "but we had better seek shelter; let us go into my tent." "Go in," said Belle, "but you go in alone; as for me, I will seek my own." "You are right," said I, "to be afraid of me; I have taught you to decline master in Armenian." "You almost tempt me," said Belle, "to make you decline mistress in English." "To make matters short," said I, "I decline a mistress." "What do you mean?" said Belle angrily. "I have merely done what you wished me," said I, "and in your own style; there is no other way of declining anything in English, for in English there are no declensions." "The rain is increasing," said Belle. "It is so," said I; "I shall go to my tent; you may come, if you please; I do assure you I am not afraid of you." "Nor I of you," said Belle; "so I will come. Why should I be afraid? I can take my own part; that is--" We went into the tent and sat down, and now the rain began to pour with vehemence. "I hope we shall not be flooded in this hollow," said I to Belle. "There is no fear of that," said Belle: "the wandering people, amongst other names, call it the dry hollow. I believe there is a passage somewhere or other by which the wet is carried off. There must be a cloud right above us, it is so dark. Oh! what a flash!" "And what a peal," said I; "that is what the Hebrews call _Koul Adonai_--the voice of the Lord. Are you afraid?" "No," said Belle, "I rather like to hear it." "You are right," said I; "I am fond of the sound of thunder myself. There is nothing like it; _Koul Adonai behadar_; the voice of the Lord is a glorious voice, as the prayer-book version hath it." "There is something awful in it," said Belle; "and then the lightning, the whole dingle is now in a blaze." "'The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and discovereth the thick bushes.' As you say, there is something awful in thunder." "There are all kinds of noises above us," said Belle; "surely I heard the crashing of a tree?" "'The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedar trees,'" said I, "but what you hear is caused by a convulsion of the air; during a thunderstorm there are occasionally all kinds of aerial noises. Ab Gwilym, who, next to King David, has best described a thunderstorm, speaks of these aerial noises in the following manner:-- 'Astonied now I stand at strains, As of ten thousand clanking chains; And once, methought, that overthrown, The welkin's oaks came whelming down; Upon my head up starts my hair: Why hunt abroad the hounds of air? What cursed hag is screeching high, Whilst crash goes all her crockery?' You would hardly believe, Belle, that though I offered at least ten thousand lines nearly as good as those to the booksellers in London, the simpletons were so blind to their interest as to refuse purchasing them." "I don't wonder at it," said Belle, "especially if such dreadful expressions frequently occur as that towards the end; surely that was the crash of a tree?" "Ah!" said I, "there falls the cedar tree--I mean the sallow; one of the tall trees on the outside of the dingle has been snapped short." "What a pity," said Belle, "that the fine old oak, which you saw the peasants cutting up, gave way the other night, when scarcely a breath of air was stirring; how much better to have fallen in a storm like this, the fiercest I remember." "I don't think so," said I; "after braving a thousand tempests, it was meeter for it to fall of itself than to be vanquished at last. But to return to Ab Gwilym's poetry, he was above culling dainty words, and spoke boldly his mind on all subjects. Enraged with the thunder for parting him and Morfydd, he says, at the conclusion of his ode:-- 'My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee, For parting my dear pearl and me'." "You and I shall part; that is, I shall go to my tent if you persist in repeating from him. The man must have been a savage. A poor wood-pigeon has fallen dead." "Yes," said I, "there he lies just outside the tent; often have I listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. So you do not like Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Gothe:-- 'Mist shrouds the night, and rack; Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack! Wildly the owls are flitting, Hark to the pillars splitting Of palaces verdant ever, The branches quiver and sever, The mighty stems are creaking, The poor roots breaking and shrieking, In wild mixt ruin down dashing, O'er one another they're crashing; Whilst 'midst the rocks so hoary, Whirlwinds hurry and worry. Hear'st not, sister--'" "Hark!" said Belle, "hark!" "'Hear'st not, sister, a chorus Of voices--?'" "No," said Belle, "but I hear a voice." CHAPTER XCVI. I listened attentively, but I could hear nothing but the loud clashing of branches, the pattering of rain, and the muttered growl of thunder. I was about to tell Belle that she must have been mistaken, when I heard a shout, indistinct it is true, owing to the noises aforesaid, from some part of the field above the dingle. "I will soon see what's the matter," said I to Belle, starting up. "I will go, too," said the girl. "Stay where you are," said I; "if I need you, I will call;" and, without waiting for any answer, I hurried to the mouth of the dingle. I was about a few yards only from the top of the ascent, when I beheld a blaze of light, from whence I knew not; the next moment there was a loud crash, and I appeared involved in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. "Lord have mercy upon us," I heard a voice say, and methought I heard the plunging and struggling of horses. I had stopped short on hearing the crash, for I was half stunned; but I now hurried forward, and in a moment stood upon the plain. Here I was instantly aware of the cause of the crash and the smoke. One of those balls, generally called fireballs, had fallen from the clouds, and was burning on the plain at a short distance; and the voice which I had heard, and the plunging, were as easily accounted for. Near the left-hand corner of the grove which surrounded the dingle, and about ten yards from the fire-ball, I perceived a chaise, with a postillion on the box, who was making efforts, apparently useless, to control his horses, which were kicking and plunging in the highest degree of excitement. I instantly ran towards the chaise, in order to offer what help was in my power. "Help me," said the poor fellow, as I drew nigh; but, before I could reach the horses, they had turned rapidly round, one of the fore-wheels flew from its axle-tree, the chaise was overset, and the postillion flung violently from his seat upon the field. The horses now became more furious than before, kicking desperately, and endeavouring to disengage themselves from the fallen chaise. As I was hesitating whether to run to the assistance of the postillion, or endeavour to disengage the animals, I heard the voice of Belle exclaiming: "See to the horses, I will look after the man". She had, it seems, been alarmed by the crash which accompanied the fire-bolt, and had hurried up to learn the cause. I forthwith seized the horses by the heads, and used all the means I possessed to soothe and pacify them, employing every gentle modulation of which my voice was capable. Belle, in the meantime, had raised up the man, who was much stunned by his fall; but presently recovering his recollection to a certain degree, he came limping to me, holding his hand to his right thigh. "The first thing that must now be done," said I, "is to free these horses from the traces; can you undertake to do so?" "I think I can," said the man, looking at me somewhat stupidly. "I will help," said Belle, and without loss of time laid hold of one of the traces. The man, after a short pause, also set to work, and in a few minutes the horses were extricated. "Now," said I to the man, "what is next to be done?" "I don't know," said he; "indeed, I scarcely know anything; I have been so frightened by this horrible storm, and so shaken by my fall." "I think," said I, "that the storm is passing away, so cast your fears away too; and as for your fall, you must bear it as lightly as you can. I will tie the horses amongst those trees, and then we will all betake us to the hollow below." "And what's to become of my chaise?" said the postillion, looking ruefully on the fallen vehicle. "Let us leave the chaise for the present," said I; "we can be of no use to it." "I don't like to leave my chaise lying on the ground in this weather," said the man; "I love my chaise, and him whom it belongs to." "You are quite right to be fond of yourself," said I, "on which account I advise you to seek shelter from the rain as soon as possible." "I was not talking of myself," said the man, "but my master, to whom the chaise belongs." "I thought you called the chaise yours," said I. "That's my way of speaking," said the man; "but the chaise is my master's, and a better master does not live. Don't you think we could manage to raise up the chaise?" "And what is to become of the horses?" said I. "I love my horses well enough," said the man; "but they will take less harm than the chaise. We two can never lift up that chaise." "But we three can," said Belle; "at least, I think so; and I know where to find two poles which will assist us." "You had better go to the tent," said I, "you will be wet through." "I care not for a little wetting," said Belle; "moreover, I have more gowns than one--see you after the horses." Thereupon, I led the horses past the mouth of the dingle, to a place where a gap in the hedge afforded admission to the copse or plantation, on the southern side. Forcing them through the gap, I led them to a spot amidst the trees, which I deemed would afford them the most convenient place for standing; then, darting down into the dingle, I brought up a rope, and also the halter of my own nag, and with these fastened them each to a separate tree in the best manner I could. This done, I returned to the chaise and the postillion. In a minute or two Belle arrived with two poles, which, it seems, had long been lying, overgrown with brushwood, in a ditch or hollow behind the plantation. With these both she and I set to work in endeavouring to raise the fallen chaise from the ground. We experienced considerable difficulty in this undertaking; at length, with the assistance of the postillion, we saw our efforts crowned with success--the chaise was lifted up, and stood upright on three wheels. "We may leave it here in safety," said I, "for it will hardly move away on three wheels, even supposing it could run by itself; I am afraid there is work here for a wheelwright, in which case I cannot assist you; if you were in need of a blacksmith it would be otherwise." "I don't think either the wheel or the axle is hurt," said the postillion, who had been handling both; "it is only the linch-pin having dropped out that caused the wheel to fly off; if I could but find the linch-pin! though, perhaps, it fell out a mile away." "Very likely," said I; "but never mind the linch-pin, I can make you one, or something that will serve: but I can't stay here any longer, I am going to my place below with this young gentlewoman, and you had better follow us." "I am ready," said the man; and after lifting up the wheel and propping it against the chaise, he went with us, slightly limping, and with his hand pressed to his thigh. As we were descending the narrow path, Belle leading the way, and myself the last of the party, the postillion suddenly stopped short, and looked about him. "Why do you stop?" said I. "I don't wish to offend you," said the man; "but this seems to be a strange place you are leading me into; I hope you and the young gentlewoman, as you call her, don't mean me any harm--you seemed in a great hurry to bring me here." "We wished to get you out of the rain," said I, "and ourselves too; that is, if we can, which I rather doubt, for the canvas of a tent is slight shelter in such a rain; but what harm should we wish to do you?" "You may think I have money," said the man, "and I have some, but only thirty shillings, and for a sum like that it would be hardly worth while to--" "Would it not?" said I; "thirty shillings, after all, are thirty shillings, and for what I know, half a dozen throats may have been cut in this place for that sum at the rate of five shillings each; moreover, there are the horses, which would serve to establish this young gentlewoman and myself in housekeeping, provided we were thinking of such a thing." "Then I suppose I have fallen into pretty hands," said the man, putting himself in a posture of defence; "but I'll show no craven heart; and if you attempt to lay hands on me, I'll try to pay you in your own coin. I'm rather lamed in the leg, but I can still use my fists; so come on both of you, man and woman, if woman this be, though she looks more like a grenadier." "Let me hear no more of this nonsense," said Belle; "if you are afraid, you can go back to your chaise--we only seek to do you a kindness." "Why, he was just now talking of cutting throats," said the man. "You brought it on yourself," said Belle; "you suspected us, and he wished to pass a joke upon you; he would not hurt a hair of your head, were your coach laden with gold, nor would I." "Well," said the man, "I was wrong--here's my hand to both of you," shaking us by the hands; "I'll go with you where you please, but I thought this a strange, lonesome place, though I ought not much to mind strange, lonesome places, having been in plenty of such when I was a servant in Italy, without coming to any harm--come, let us move on, for 'tis a shame to keep you two in the rain." So we descended the path which led into the depths of the dingle; at the bottom I conducted the postillion to my tent, which, though the rain dripped and trickled through it, afforded some shelter; there I bade him sit down on the log of wood, while I placed myself as usual on my stone. Belle in the meantime had repaired to her own place of abode. After a little time, I produced a bottle of the cordial of which I have previously had occasion to speak, and made my guest take a considerable draught. I then offered him some bread and cheese, which he accepted with thanks. In about an hour the rain had much abated: "What do you now propose to do?" said I. "I scarcely know," said the man; "I suppose I must endeavour to put on the wheel with your help." "How far are you from your home?" I demanded. "Upwards of thirty miles," said the man; "my master keeps an inn on the great north road, and from thence I started early this morning with a family which I conveyed across the country to a hall at some distance from here. On my return I was beset by the thunderstorm, which frightened the horses, who dragged the chaise off the road to the field above, and overset it as you saw. I had proposed to pass the night at an inn about twelve miles from here on my way back, though how I am to get there to-night I scarcely know, even if we can put on the wheel, for, to tell you the truth, I am shaken by my fall, and the smoulder and smoke of that fire-ball have rather bewildered my head; I am, moreover, not much acquainted with the way." "The best thing you can do," said I, "is to pass the night here; I will presently light a fire, and endeavour to make you comfortable--in the morning we will see to your wheel." "Well," said the man, "I shall be glad to pass the night here, provided I do not intrude, but I must see to the horses." Thereupon I conducted the man to the place where the horses were tied. "The trees drip very much upon them," said the man, "and it will not do for them to remain here all night; they will be better out on the field picking the grass, but first of all they must have a good feed of corn;" thereupon he went to his chaise, from which he presently brought two small bags, partly filled with corn; into them he inserted the mouths of the horses, tying them over their heads. "Here we will leave them for a time," said the man; "when I think they have had enough, I will come back, tie their fore-legs, and let them pick about." CHAPTER XCVII. It might be about ten o'clock at night. Belle, the postillion, and myself, sat just within the tent, by a fire of charcoal which I had kindled in the chafing-pan. The man had removed the harness from his horses, and, after tethering their legs, had left them for the night in the field above, to regale themselves on what grass they could find. The rain had long since entirely ceased, and the moon and stars shone bright in the firmament, up to which, putting aside the canvas, I occasionally looked from the depths of the dingle. Large drops of water, however, falling now and then upon the tent from the neighbouring trees, would have served, could we have forgotten it, to remind us of the recent storm, and also a certain chilliness in the atmosphere, unusual to the season, proceeding from the moisture with which the ground was saturated; yet these circumstances only served to make our party enjoy the charcoal fire the more. There we sat bending over it: Belle, with her long beautiful hair streaming over her magnificent shoulders; the postillion smoking his pipe, in his shirt-sleeves and waistcoat, having flung aside his greatcoat, which had sustained a thorough wetting; and I without my wagoner's slop, of which, it being in the same plight, I had also divested myself. The new comer was a well-made fellow of about thirty, with an open and agreeable countenance. I found him very well informed for a man in his station, and with some pretensions to humour. After we had discoursed for some time on indifferent subjects, the postillion, who had exhausted his pipe, took it from his mouth, and, knocking out the ashes upon the ground, exclaimed: "I little thought, when I got up in the morning, that I should spend the night in such agreeable company, and after such a fright". "Well," said I, "I am glad that your opinion of us has improved; it is not long since you seemed to hold us in rather a suspicious light." "And no wonder," said the man, "seeing the place you were taking me to. I was not a little, but very much afraid of ye both; and so I continued for some time, though, not to show a craven heart, I pretended to be quite satisfied; but I see I was altogether mistaken about ye. I thought you vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers; but now--" "Vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers," said I; "and what are we but people of that stamp?" "Oh," said the postillion, "if you wish to be thought such, I am far too civil a person to contradict you, especially after your kindness to me, but--" "But!" said I; "what do you mean by but? I would have you to know that I am proud of being a travelling blacksmith: look at these donkey-shoes, I finished them this day." The postillion took the shoes and examined them. "So you made these shoes?" he cried at last. "To be sure I did; do you doubt it?" "Not in the least," said the man. "Ah! ah!" said I, "I thought I should bring you back to your original opinion. I am, then, a vagrant Gypsy body, a tramper, a wandering blacksmith." "Not a blacksmith, whatever else you may be," said the postillion laughing. "Then how do you account for my making those shoes?" "By your not being a blacksmith," said the postillion; "no blacksmith would have made shoes in that manner. Besides, what did you mean just now by saying you had finished these shoes to-day? a real blacksmith would have flung off three or four sets of donkey shoes in one morning, but you, I will be sworn, have been hammering at these for days, and they do you credit, but why? because you are no blacksmith; no, friend, your shoes may do for this young gentlewoman's animal, but I shouldn't like to have my horses shod by you, unless at a great pinch indeed." "Then," said I, "for what do you take me?" "Why, for some runaway young gentleman," said the postillion. "No offence, I hope?" "None at all; no one is offended at being taken or mistaken for a young gentleman, whether runaway or not; but from whence do you suppose I have run away?" "Why, from college," said the man: "no offence?" "None whatever; and what induced me to run away from college?" "A love affair, I'll be sworn," said the postillion. "You had become acquainted with this young gentlewoman, so she and you--" "Mind how you get on, friend," said Belle, in a deep serious tone. "Pray proceed," said I; "I dare say you mean no offence." "None in the world," said the postillion; "all I was going to say was that you agreed to run away together, you from college, and she from boarding-school. Well, there's nothing to be ashamed of in a matter like that, such things are done every day by young folks in high life." "Are you offended?" said I to Belle. Belle made no answer; but, placing her elbows on her knees buried her face in her hands. "So we ran away together?" said I. "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "to Gretna Green, though I can't say that I drove ye, though I have driven many a pair." "And from Gretna Green we came here?" "I'll be bound you did," said the man, "till you could arrange matters at home." "And the horse-shoes?" said I. "The donkey-shoes, you mean," answered the postillion; "why, I suppose you persuaded the blacksmith who married you to give you, before you left, a few lessons in his trade." "And we intend to stay here till we have arranged matters at home?" "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "till the old people are pacified and they send you letters directed to the next post town, to be left till called for, beginning with, 'Dear children,' and enclosing you each a cheque for one hundred pounds, when you will leave this place, and go home in a coach like gentlefolks, to visit your governors; I should like nothing better than to have the driving of you: and then there will be a grand meeting of the two families, and after a few reproaches, the old people will agree to do something handsome for the poor thoughtless things; so you will have a genteel house taken for you, and an annuity allowed you. You won't get much the first year, five hundred at the most, in order that the old folks may let you feel that they are not altogether satisfied with you, and that you are yet entirely in their power; but the second, if you don't get a cool thousand, may I catch cold, especially should young madam here present a son and heir for the old people to fondle, destined one day to become sole heir of the two illustrious houses, and then all the grand folks in the neighbourhood, who have, bless their prudent hearts! kept rather aloof from you till then, for fear you should want anything from them--I say, all the carriage people in the neighbourhood, when they see how swimmingly matters are going on, will come in shoals to visit you." "Really," said I, "you are getting on swimmingly." "Oh," said the postillion, "I was not a gentleman's servant nine years without learning the ways of gentry, and being able to know gentry when I see them." "And what do you say to all this?" I demanded of Belle. "Stop a moment," interposed the postillion, "I have one more word to say: and when you are surrounded by your comforts, keeping your nice little barouche and pair, your coachman and livery servant, and visited by all the carriage people in the neighbourhood--to say nothing of the time when you come to the family estates on the death of the old people--I shouldn't wonder if now and then you look back with longing and regret to the days when you lived in the damp, dripping dingle, had no better equipage than a pony or donkey cart, and saw no better company than a tramper or Gypsy, except once, when a poor postillion was glad to seat himself at your charcoal fire." "Pray," said I, "did you ever take lessons in elocution?" "Not directly," said the postillion; "but my old master who was in Parliament, did, and so did his son, who was intended to be an orator. A great professor used to come and give them lessons, and I used to stand and listen, by which means I picked up a considerable quantity of what is called rhetoric. In what I last said, I was aiming at what I have heard him frequently endeavouring to teach my governors as a thing indispensably necessary in all oratory, a graceful pere--pere--peregrination." "Peroration, perhaps?" "Just so," said the postillion; "and now I am sure I am not mistaken about you; you have taken lessons yourself, at first hand, in the college vacations, and a promising pupil you were, I make no doubt. Well, your friends will be all the happier to get you back. Has your governor much borough interest?" "I ask you once more," said I, addressing myself to Belle, "what do you think of the history which this good man has made for us?" "What should I think of it," said Belle, still keeping her face buried in her hands, "but that it is mere nonsense?" "Nonsense!" said the postillion. "Yes," said the girl, "and you know it." "May my leg always ache, if I do," said the postillion, patting his leg with his hand; "will you persuade me that this young man has never been at college?" "I have never been at college, but--" "Ay, ay," said the postillion; "but--" "I have been to the best schools in Britain, to say nothing of a celebrated one in Ireland." "Well, then, it comes to the same thing," said the postillion; "or perhaps you know more than if you had been at college--and your governor?" "My governor, as you call him," said I, "is dead." "And his borough interest?" "My father had no borough interest," said I; "had he possessed any, he would perhaps not have died as he did, honourably poor." "No, no," said the postillion; "if he had had borough interest, he wouldn't have been poor, nor honourable, though perhaps a right honourable. However, with your grand education and genteel manners, you made all right at last by persuading this noble young gentlewoman to run away from boarding-school with you." "I was never at boarding-school," said Belle, "unless you call--" "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "boarding-school is vulgar, I know: I beg your pardon, I ought to have called it academy, or by some other much finer name--you were in something much greater than a boarding-school." "There you are right," said Belle, lifting up her head and looking the postillion full in the face by the light of the charcoal fire; "for I was bred in the workhouse." "Wooh!" said the postillion. "It is true that I am of good--" "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "let us hear--" "Of good blood," continued Belle; "my name is Berners, Isopel Berners, though my parents were unfortunate. Indeed, with respect to blood, I believe I am of better blood than the young man." "There you are mistaken," said I; "by my father's side I am of Cornish blood, and by my mother's of brave French Protestant extraction. Now, with respect to the blood of my father--and to be descended well on the father's side is the principal thing--it is the best blood in the world, for the Cornish blood, as the proverb says--" "I don't care what the proverb says," said Belle; "I say my blood is the best--my name is Berners, Isopel Berners--it was my mother's name, and is better, I am sure, than any you bear, whatever that may be; and though you say that the descent on the father's side is the principal thing--and I know why you say so," she added with some excitement--"I say that descent on the mother's side is of most account, because the mother--" "Just come from Gretna Green, and already quarrelling," said the postillion. "We do not come from Gretna Green," said Belle. "Ah, I had forgot," said the postillion, "none but great people go to Gretna Green. Well, then, from church, and already quarrelling about family, just like two great people." "We have never been to church," said Belle, "and, to prevent any more guessing on your part, it will be as well for me to tell you, friend, that I am nothing to the young man, and he, of course, nothing to me. I am a poor travelling girl, born in a workhouse: journeying on my occasions with certain companions, I came to this hollow, where my company quarrelled with the young man, who had settled down here, as he had a right to do, if he pleased; and not being able to drive him out, they went away after quarrelling with me, too, for not choosing to side with them; so I stayed here along with the young man, there being room for us both, and the place being as free to me as to him." "And, in order that you may be no longer puzzled with respect to myself," said I, "I will give you a brief outline of my history. I am the son of honourable parents, who gave me a first-rate education, as far as literature and languages went, with which education I endeavoured, on the death of my father, to advance myself to wealth and reputation in the big city; but failing in the attempt, I conceived a disgust for the busy world, and determined to retire from it. After wandering about for some time, and meeting with various adventures, in one of which I contrived to obtain a pony, cart and certain tools, used by smiths and tinkers, I came to this place, where I amused myself with making horse-shoes, or rather pony-shoes, having acquired the art of wielding the hammer and tongs from a strange kind of smith--not him of Gretna Green--whom I knew in my childhood. And here I lived, doing harm to no one, quite lonely and solitary, till one fine morning the premises were visited by this young gentlewoman and her companions. She did herself anything but justice when she said that her companions quarrelled with her because she would not side with them against me; they quarrelled with her, because she came most heroically to my assistance as I was on the point of being murdered; and she forgot to tell you, that after they had abandoned her she stood by me in the dark hour, comforting and cheering me, when unspeakable dread, to which I am occasionally subject, took possession of my mind. She says she is nothing to me, even as I am nothing to her. I am of course nothing to her, but she is mistaken in thinking she is nothing to me. I entertain the highest regard and admiration for her, being convinced that I might search the whole world in vain for a nature more heroic and devoted." "And for my part," said Belle, with a sob, "a more quiet, agreeable partner in a place like this I would not wish to have; it is true he has strange ways, and frequently puts words into my mouth very difficult to utter; but--but--" and here she buried her face once more in her hands. "Well," said the postillion, "I have been mistaken about you; that is, not altogether, but in part. You are not rich folks, it seems, but you are not common people, and that I could have sworn. What I call a shame is, that some people I have known are not in your place and you in theirs--you with their estates and borough interest, they in this dingle with these carts and animals; but there is no help for these things. Were I the great Mumbo Jumbo above, I would endeavour to manage matters better; but being a simple postillion, glad to earn three shillings a day, I can't be expected to do much." "Who is Mumbo Jumbo?" said I. "Ah!" said the postillion, "I see there may be a thing or two I know better than yourself. Mumbo Jumbo is a god of the black coast, to which people go for ivory and gold." "Were you ever there?" I demanded. "No," said the postillion, "but I heard plenty of Mumbo Jumbo when I was a boy." "I wish you would tell us something about yourself. I believe that your own real history would prove quite as entertaining, if not more, than that which you imagined about us." "I am rather tired," said the postillion, "and my leg is rather troublesome. I should be glad to try to sleep upon one of your blankets. However, as you wish to hear something about me, I shall be happy to oblige you; but your fire is rather low, and this place is chilly." Thereupon I arose, and put fresh charcoal on the pan; then taking it outside the tent, with a kind of fan which I had fashioned, I fanned the coals into a red glow, and continued doing so until the greater part of the noxious gas, which the coals are in the habit of exhaling, was exhausted. I then brought it into the tent and reseated myself, scattering over the coals a small portion of sugar. "No bad smell," said the postillion; "but upon the whole I think I like the smell of tobacco better; and with your permission I will once more light my pipe." Thereupon he relighted his pipe; and after taking two or three whiffs, began in the following manner. CHAPTER XCVIII. "I am a poor postillion, as you see; yet, as I have seen a thing or two, and heard a thing or two of what is going on in the world, perhaps what I have to tell you connected with myself may not prove altogether uninteresting. Now, my friends, this manner of opening a story is what the man who taught rhetoric would call a hex--hex--" "Exordium," said I. "Just so," said the postillion; "I treated you to a per--per--peroration some time ago, so that I have contrived to put the cart before the horse, as the Irish orators frequently do in the honourable House, in whose speeches, especially those who have taken lessons in rhetoric, the per--per--what's the word?--frequently goes before the exordium. "I was born in the neighbouring county; my father was land-steward to a squire of about a thousand a year. My father had two sons, of whom I am the youngest by some years. My elder brother was of a spirited, roving disposition, and for fear that he should turn out what is generally termed ungain, my father determined to send him to sea: so once upon a time, when my brother was about fifteen, he took him to the great sea- port of the county, where he apprenticed him to a captain of one of the ships which trade to the high Barbary coast. Fine ships they were, I have heard say, more than thirty in number, and all belonging to a wonderful great gentleman, who had once been a parish boy, but had contrived to make an immense fortune by trading to that coast for gold dust, ivory and other strange articles; and for doing so, I mean for making a fortune, had been made a knight baronet. So my brother went to the high Barbary shore, on board the fine vessel, and in about a year returned and came to visit us; he repeated the voyage several times, always coming to see his parents on his return. Strange stories he used to tell us of what he had been witness to on the high Barbary coast, both off shore and on. He said that the fine vessel in which he sailed was nothing better than a painted hell; that the captain was a veritable fiend, whose grand delight was in tormenting his men, especially when they were sick, as they frequently were, there being always fever on the high Barbary coast; and that though the captain was occasionally sick himself, his being so made no difference, or rather it did make a difference, though for the worse, he being when sick always more inveterate and malignant than at other times. He said that once, when he himself was sick, his captain had pitched his face all over, which exploit was much applauded by the other high Barbary captains; all of whom, from what my brother said, appeared to be of much the same disposition as my brother's captain, taking wonderful delight in tormenting the crews, and doing all manner of terrible things. My brother frequently said that nothing whatever prevented him from running away from his ship, and never returning, but the hope he entertained of one day being captain himself, and able to torment people in his turn, which he solemnly vowed he would do, as a kind of compensation for what he himself had undergone. And if things were going on in a strange way off the high Barbary shore amongst those who came there to trade, they were going on in a way yet stranger with the people who lived upon it. "Oh, the strange ways of the black men who lived on that shore, of which my brother used to tell us at home; selling their sons, daughters and servants for slaves, and the prisoners taken in battle, to the Spanish captains, to be carried to Havannah, and when there, sold at a profit, the idea of which, my brother said, went to the hearts of our own captains, who used to say what a hard thing it was that free-born Englishmen could not have a hand in the traffic, seeing that it was forbidden by the laws of their country; talking fondly of the good old times when their forefathers used to carry slaves to Jamaica and Barbadoes, realising immense profit, besides the pleasure of hearing their shrieks on the voyage; and then the superstitions of the blacks, which my brother used to talk of; their sharks' teeth, their wisps of fowls' feathers, their half-baked pots, full of burnt bones, of which they used to make what they called fetish; and bow down to, and ask favours of, and then, perhaps, abuse and strike, provided the senseless rubbish did not give them what they asked for; and then, above all, Mumbo Jumbo, the grand fetish master, who lived somewhere in the woods, and who used to come out every now and then with his fetish companions; a monstrous figure, all wound round with leaves and branches, so as to be quite indistinguishable, and, seating himself on the high seat in the villages, receive homage from the people, and also gifts and offerings, the most valuable of which were pretty damsels, and then betake himself back again, with his followers into the woods. Oh, the tales that my brother used to tell us of the high Barbary shore! Poor fellow! what became of him I can't say; the last time he came back from a voyage, he told us that his captain, as soon as he had brought his vessel to port, and settled with his owner, drowned himself off the quay in a fit of the horrors, which it seems high Barbary captains, after a certain number of years, are much subject to. After staying about a month with us, he went to sea again, with another captain; and bad as the old one had been, it appears the new one was worse, for, unable to bear his treatment, my brother left his ship off the high Barbary shore, and ran away up the country. Some of his comrades, whom we afterwards saw, said that there were various reports about him on the shore; one that he had taken on with Mumbo Jumbo, and was serving him in his house in the woods, in the capacity of swash-buckler, or life-guardsman; another, that he was gone in quest of a mighty city in the heart of the negro country; another, that in swimming a stream he had been devoured by an alligator. Now, these two last reports were bad enough; the idea of their flesh and blood being bit asunder by a ravenous fish, was sad enough to my poor parents; and not very comfortable was the thought of his sweltering over the hot sands in quest of the negro city; but the idea of their son, their eldest child, serving Mumbo Jumbo as swash-buckler, was worst of all, and caused my poor parents to shed many a scalding tear. "I stayed at home with my parents until I was about eighteen, assisting my father in various ways. I then went to live at the squire's, partly as groom, partly as footman. After living in the country some time, I attended the family in a trip of six weeks, which they made to London. Whilst there, happening to have some words with an old ill-tempered coachman, who had been for a great many years in the family, my master advised me to leave, offering to recommend me to a family of his acquaintance who were in need of a footman. I was glad to accept his offer, and in a few days went to my new place. My new master was one of the great gentry, a baronet in Parliament, and possessed of an estate of about twenty thousand a year; his family consisted of his lady, a son, a fine young man, just coming of age, and two very sweet, amiable daughters. I liked this place much better than my first, there was so much more pleasant noise and bustle--so much more grand company--and so many more opportunities of improving myself. Oh, how I liked to see the grand coaches drive up to the door, with the grand company; and though, amidst that company, there were some who did not look very grand, there were others, and not a few, who did. Some of the ladies quite captivated me; there was the Marchioness of --- in particular. This young lady puts me much in mind of her; it is true, the Marchioness, as I saw her then, was about fifteen years older than this young gentlewoman is now, and not so tall by some inches, but she had the very same hair, and much the same neck and shoulders--no offence, I hope? And then some of the young gentlemen, with their cool, haughty, care-for-nothing looks, struck me as being very fine fellows. There was one in particular, whom I frequently used to stare at, not altogether unlike some one I have seen hereabouts--he had a slight cast in his eye, and but I won't enter into every particular. And then the footmen! Oh, how those footmen helped to improve me with their conversation. Many of them could converse much more glibly than their masters, and appeared to have much better taste. At any rate, they seldom approved of what their masters did. I remember being once with one in the gallery of the play-house, when something of Shakspeare's was being performed; some one in the first tier of boxes was applauding very loudly. 'That's my fool of a governor,' said he; 'he is weak enough to like Shakspeare--I don't--he's so confoundedly low, but he won't last long--going down. Shakspeare culminated'--I think that was the word--'culminated some time ago.' "And then the professor of elocution, of whom my governors used to take lessons, and of which lessons I had my share, by listening behind the door; but for that professor of elocution I should not be able to round my periods--an expression of his--in the manner I do. "After I had been three years at this place my mistress died. Her death, however, made no great alteration in my way of living, the family spending their winters in London, and their summers at their old seat in S--- as before. At last, the young ladies, who had not yet got husbands, which was strange enough, seeing, as I told you before, they were very amiable, proposed to our governor a travelling expedition abroad. The old baronet consented, though young master was much against it, saying, they would all be much better at home. As the girls persisted, however, he at last withdrew his opposition, and even promised to follow them, as soon as his parliamentary duties would permit, for he was just got into Parliament; and, like most other young members, thought that nothing could be done in the House without him. So the old gentleman and the two young ladies set off, taking me with them, and a couple of ladies' maids to wait upon them. First of all, we went to Paris, where we continued three months, the old baronet and the ladies going to see the various sights of the city and the neighbourhood, and I attending them. They soon got tired of sight-seeing, and of Paris too; and so did I. However, they still continued there, in order, I believe, that the young ladies might lay in a store of French finery. I should have passed my idle time at Paris, of which I had plenty after the sight-seeing was over, very unpleasantly, but for Black Jack. Eh! did you never hear of Black Jack? Ah! if you had ever been an English servant in Paris, you would have known Black Jack; not an English gentleman's servant who has been at Paris for this last ten years but knows Black Jack and his ordinary. A strange fellow he was--of what country no one could exactly say--for as for judging from speech, that was impossible, Jack speaking all languages equally ill. Some said he came direct from Satan's kitchen, and that when he gives up keeping ordinary, he will return there again, though the generally received opinion at Paris was, that he was at one time butler to King Pharaoh, and that, after lying asleep for four thousand years in a place called the Kattycombs, he was awaked by the sound of Nelson's canon, at the battle of the Nile; and going to the shore took on with the admiral, and became, in course of time, ship steward; and that after Nelson's death, he was captured by the French, on board one of whose vessels he served in a somewhat similar capacity till the peace, when he came to Paris, and set up an ordinary for servants, sticking the name of Katcomb over the door, in allusion to the place where he had his long sleep. But, whatever his origin was, Jack kept his own counsel, and appeared to care nothing for what people said about him, or called him. Yes, I forgot, there was one name he would not be called, and that was Portuguese. I once saw Black Jack knock down a coachman, six foot high, who called him black-faced Portuguese. 'Any name but dat, you shab,' said Black Jack, who was a little round fellow, of about five feet two; 'I would not stand to be called Portuguese by Nelson himself.' Jack was rather fond of talking about Nelson, and hearing people talking about him, so that it is not improbable that he may have sailed with him; and with respect to his having been King Pharaoh's butler, all I have to say is, I am not disposed to give the downright lie to the report. Jack was always ready to do a kind turn to a poor servant out of place, and has often been known to assist such as were in prison, which charitable disposition he perhaps acquired from having lost a good place himself, having seen the inside of a prison, and known the want of a meal's victuals, all which trials King Pharaoh's butler underwent, so he may have been that butler; at any rate, I have known positive conclusions come to, on no better premises, if indeed as good. As for the story of his coming direct from Satan's kitchen, I place no confidence in it at all, as Black Jack had nothing of Satan about him, but blackness, on which account he was called Black Jack. Nor am I disposed to give credit to a report that his hatred of the Portuguese arose from some ill treatment which he had once experienced when on shore, at Lisbon, from certain gentlewomen of the place, but rather conclude that it arose from an opinion he entertained that the Portuguese never paid their debts, one of the ambassadors of that nation, whose house he had served, having left Paris several thousand francs in his debt. This is all that I have to say about Black Jack, without whose funny jokes, and good ordinary, I should have passed my time in Paris in a very disconsolate manner. "After we had been at Paris between two and three months, we left it in the direction of Italy, which country the family had a great desire to see. After travelling a great many days in a thing which, though called a diligence, did not exhibit much diligence, we came to a great big town, seated around a nasty saltwater basin, connected by a narrow passage with the sea. Here we were to embark; and so we did as soon as possible, glad enough to get away; at least I was, and so I make no doubt were the rest; for such a place for bad smells I never was in. It seems all the drains and sewers of the place run into that same salt basin, voiding into it all their impurities, which, not being able to escape into the sea in any considerable quantity, owing to the narrowness of the entrance, there accumulate, filling the whole atmosphere with these same outrageous scents, on which account the town is a famous lodging-house of the plague. The ship in which we embarked was bound for a place in Italy called Naples, where we were to stay some time. The voyage was rather a lazy one, the ship not being moved by steam; for at the time of which I am speaking, some five years ago, steamships were not so plentiful as now. There were only two passengers in the grand cabin, where my governor and his daughters were, an Italian lady and a priest. Of the lady I have not much to say; she appeared to be a quiet respectable person enough, and after our arrival at Naples, I neither saw nor heard anything more of her; but of the priest I shall have a good deal to say in the sequel (that, by-the-bye, is a word I learnt from the professor of rhetoric), and it would have been well for our family had they never met him. "On the third day of the voyage the priest came to me, who was rather unwell with sea-sickness, which he, of course, felt nothing of, that kind of people being never affected like others. He was a finish-looking man of about forty-five, but had something strange in his eyes, which I have since thought denoted that all was not right in a certain place called the heart. After a few words of condolence, in a broken kind of English, he asked me various questions about our family; and I, won by his seeming kindness, told him all I knew about them, of which communicativeness I afterwards very much repented. As soon as he had got out of me all he desired, he left me; and I observed that during the rest of the voyage he was wonderfully attentive to our governor, and yet more to the young ladies. Both, however, kept him rather at a distance; the young ladies were reserved, and once or twice I heard our governor cursing him between his teeth for a sharking priest. The priest, however, was not disconcerted, and continued his attentions, which in a little time produced an effect, so that, by the time we landed at Naples, our great folks had conceived a kind of liking for the man, and when they took their leave invited him to visit them, which he promised to do. We hired a grand house or palace at Naples; it belonged to a poor kind of prince, who was glad enough to let it to our governor, and also his servants and carriages; and glad enough were the poor servants, for they got from us what they never got from the prince--plenty of meat and money--and glad enough, I make no doubt, were the horses for the provender we gave them; and I daresay the coaches were not sorry to be cleaned and furbished up. Well, we went out and came in; going to see the sights, and returning. Amongst other things we saw was the burning mountain, and the tomb of a certain sorcerer called Virgilio, who made witch rhymes, by which he could raise the dead. Plenty of people came to see us, both English and Italians, and amongst the rest the priest. He did not come amongst the first, but allowed us to settle and become a little quiet before he showed himself; and after a day or two he paid us another visit, then another, till at last his visits were daily. "I did not like that Jack Priest; so I kept my eye upon all his motions. Lord! how that Jack Priest did curry favour with our governor and the two young ladies; and he curried, and curried, till he had got himself into favour with the governor, and more especially with the two young ladies, of whom their father was doatingly fond. At last the ladies took lessons in Italian of the priest, a language in which he was said to be a grand proficient, and of which they had hitherto known but very little; and from that time his influence over them, and consequently over the old governor, increased, till the tables were turned, and he no longer curried favour with them, but they with him; yes, as true as my leg aches, the young ladies curried, and the old governor curried favour with that same priest; when he was with them, they seemed almost to hang on his lips, that is, the young ladies; and as for the old governor, he never contradicted him, and when the fellow was absent, which, by-the-bye was not often, it was 'Father so-and-so said this, and Father so-and-so said that; Father so-and-so thinks we should do so-and-so, or that we should not do so-and-so'. I at first thought that he must have given them something, some philtre or the like; but one of the English maid- servants, who had a kind of respect for me, and who saw much more behind the scenes than I did, informed me that he was continually instilling strange notions into their heads, striving, by every possible method, to make them despise the religion of their own land, and take up that of the foreign country in which they were. And sure enough, in a little time, the girls had altogether left off going to an English chapel, and were continually visiting places of Italian worship. The old governor, it is true, still went to his church, but he appeared to be hesitating between two opinions; and once when he was at dinner he said to two or three English friends, that since he had become better acquainted with it, he had conceived a much more favourable opinion of the Catholic religion than he had previously entertained. In a word, the priest ruled the house, and everything was done according to his will and pleasure; by degrees he persuaded the young ladies to drop their English acquaintances, whose place he supplied with Italians, chiefly females. My poor old governor would not have had a person to speak to, for he never could learn the language, but for two or three Englishmen who used to come occasionally and take a bottle with him, in a summer-house, whose company he could not be persuaded to resign, notwithstanding the entreaties of his daughters, instigated by the priest, whose grand endeavour seemed to be to render the minds of all three foolish, for his own ends. And if he was busy above stairs with the governor, there was another busy below with us poor English servants, a kind of subordinate priest, a low Italian; as he could speak no language but his own, he was continually jabbering to us in that, and by hearing him the maids and myself contrived to pick up a good deal of the language, so that we understood most that was said, and could speak it very fairly; and the themes of his jabber were the beauty and virtues of one whom he called Holy Mary, and the power and grandeur of one whom he called the Holy Father; and he told us that we should shortly have an opportunity of seeing the Holy Father, who could do anything he liked with Holy Mary: in the meantime we had plenty of opportunities of seeing Holy Mary, for in every church, chapel and convent to which we were taken, there was an image of Holy Mary, who, if the images were dressed at all in her fashion, must have been very fond of short petticoats and tinsel, and who, if those said figures at all resembled her in face, could scarcely have been half as handsome as either of my two fellow-servants, not to speak of the young ladies. "Now it happened that one of the female servants was much taken with what she saw and heard, and gave herself up entirely to the will of the subordinate, who had quite as much dominion over her as his superior had over the ladies; the other maid, however, the one who had a kind of respect for me, was not so easily besotted; she used to laugh at what she saw, and at what the fellow told her, and from her I learnt that amongst other things intended by these priestly confederates was robbery; she said that the poor old governor had already been persuaded by his daughters to put more than a thousand pounds into the superior priest's hands for purposes of charity and religion, as was said, and that the subordinate one had already inveigled her fellow-servant out of every penny which she had saved from her wages, and had endeavoured likewise to obtain what money she herself had, but in vain. With respect to myself, the fellow shortly after made an attempt towards obtaining a hundred crowns, of which, by some means, he knew me to be in possession, telling me what a meritorious thing it was to give one's superfluities for the purposes of religion. 'That is true,' said I, 'and if, after my return to my native country, I find I have anything which I don't want myself, I will employ it in helping to build a Methodist chapel.' "By the time that the three months were expired for which we had hired the palace of the needy Prince, the old governor began to talk of returning to England, at least of leaving Italy. I believe he had become frightened at the calls which were continually being made upon him for money; for after all, you know, if there is a sensitive part of a man's wearing apparel, it is his breeches pocket; but the young ladies could not think of leaving dear Italy and the dear priest; and then they had seen nothing of the country, they had only seen Naples; before leaving dear Italia they must see more of the country and the cities; above all, they must see a place which they called the Eternal City, or by some similar nonsensical name; and they persisted so that the poor governor permitted them, as usual, to have their way; and it was decided what route they should take, that is, the priest was kind enough to decide for them; and was also kind enough to promise to go with them part of the route, as far as a place where there was a wonderful figure of Holy Mary, which the priest said it was highly necessary for them to see before visiting the Eternal City; so we left Naples in hired carriages, driven by fellows they call _veturini_, cheating, drunken dogs, I remember they were. Besides our own family there was the priest and his subordinate, and a couple of hired lackeys. We were several days upon the journey, travelling through a very wild country, which the ladies pretended to be delighted with, and which the governor cursed on account of the badness of the roads; and when we came to any particularly wild spot we used to stop, in order to enjoy the scenery, as the ladies said; and then we would spread a horse-cloth on the ground, and eat bread and cheese, and drink wine of the country; and some of the holes and corners in which we bivouacked, as the ladies called it, were something like this place where we are now, so that when I came down here it put me in mind of them. At last we arrived at the place where was the holy image. "We went to the house or chapel in which the holy image was kept, a frightful, ugly black figure of Holy Mary, dressed in her usual way; and after we had stared at the figure, and some of our party had bowed down to it, we were shown a great many things which were called holy relics, which consisted of thumbnails and fore-nails and toe-nails, and hair and teeth, and a feather or two, a mighty thigh-bone, but whether of a man or a camel, I can't say; all of which things I was told, if properly touched and handled, had mighty power to cure all kinds of disorders; and as we went from the holy house, we saw a man in a state of great excitement; he was foaming at the mouth, and cursing the holy image and all its household, because, after he had worshipped it and made offerings to it, and besought it to assist him in a game of chance which he was about to play, it had left him in the lurch, allowing him to lose all his money; and when I thought of all the rubbish I had seen, and the purposes which it was applied to, in conjunction with the rage of the losing gamester at the deaf and dumb image, I could not help comparing the whole with what my poor brother used to tell me of the superstitious practices of the blacks on the high Barbary shore, and their occasional rage and fury at the things they worshipped; and I said to myself, if all this here doesn't smell of fetish may I smell fetid. "At this place the priest left us, returning to Naples with his subordinate, on some particular business, I suppose. It was, however, agreed that he should visit us at the Holy City. We did not go direct to the Holy City, but bent our course to two or three other cities which the family were desirous of seeing, but as nothing occurred to us in these places of any particular interest, I shall take the liberty of passing them by in silence. At length we arrived at the Eternal City; an immense city it was, looking as if it had stood for a long time, and would stand for a long time still; compared with it, London would look like a mere assemblage of bee-skeps; however, give me the bee-skeps with their merry hum and bustle, and life and honey, rather than that huge town, which looked like a sepulchre, where there was no life, no busy hum, no bees, but a scanty, sallow population, intermixed with black priests, white priests, grey priests; and though I don't say there was no honey in the place, for I believe there was, I am ready to take my Bible oath that it was not made there, and that the priests kept it all for themselves." CHAPTER XCIX. "The day after our arrival," continued the postillion, "I was sent, under the guidance of a lackey of the place, with a letter, which the priest, when he left, had given us for a friend of his in the Eternal City. We went to a large house, and on ringing, were admitted by a porter into a cloister, where I saw some ill-looking, shabby young fellows walking about, who spoke English to one another. To one of these the porter delivered the letter, and the young fellow going away, presently returned and told me to follow him; he led me into a large room, where, behind a table, on which were various papers, and a thing, which they call in that country a crucifix, sat a man in a kind of priestly dress. The lad having opened the door for me, shut it behind me, and went away. The man behind the table was so engaged in reading the letter which I had brought, that at first he took no notice of me; he had red hair, a kind of half-English countenance, and was seemingly about five-and-thirty. After a little time he laid the letter down, appeared to consider a moment, and then opened his mouth with a strange laugh, not a loud laugh, for I heard nothing but a kind of hissing deep down the throat; all of a sudden, however, perceiving me, he gave a slight start, but instantly recovering himself, he inquired in English concerning the health of the family, and where we lived; on my delivering him a card, he bade me inform my master and the ladies that in the course of the day he would do himself the honour of waiting upon them. He then arose and opened the door for me to depart; the man was perfectly civil and courteous, but I did not like that strange laugh of his, after having read the letter. He was as good as his word, and that same day paid us a visit. It was now arranged that we should pass the winter in Rome, to my great annoyance, for I wished to return to my native land, being heartily tired of everything connected with Italy. I was not, however, without hope that our young master would shortly arrive, when I trusted that matters, as far as the family were concerned, would be put on a better footing. In a few days our new acquaintance, who, it seems, was a mongrel Englishman, had procured a house for our accommodation; it was large enough, but not near so pleasant as that we had at Naples, which was light and airy, with a large garden. This was a dark, gloomy structure in a narrow street, with a frowning church beside it; it was not far from the place where our new friend lived, and its being so was probably the reason why he selected it. It was furnished partly with articles which we bought, and partly with those which we hired. We lived something in the same way as at Naples; but though I did not much like Naples, I yet liked it better than this place, which was so gloomy. Our new acquaintance made himself as agreeable as he could, conducting the ladies to churches and convents, and frequently passing the afternoon drinking with the governor, who was fond of a glass of brandy and water and a cigar, as the new acquaintance also was--no, I remember, he was fond of gin and water, and did not smoke. I don't think he had so much influence over the young ladies as the other priest, which was, perhaps, owing to his not being so good-looking; but I am sure he had more influence with the governor, owing, doubtless, to his bearing him company in drinking mixed liquors, which the other priest did not do. "He was a strange fellow, that same new acquaintance of ours, and unlike all the priests I saw in that country, and I saw plenty of various nations--they were always upon their guard, and had their features and voice modulated; but this man was subject to fits of absence, during which he would frequently mutter to himself; then, though he was perfectly civil to everybody, as far as words went, I observed that he entertained a thorough contempt for most people, especially for those whom he was making dupes. I have observed him whilst drinking with our governor, when the old man's head was turned, look at him with an air which seemed to say, 'What a thundering old fool you are!' and at our young ladies, when their backs were turned, with a glance which said distinctly enough, 'You precious pair of ninnyhammers'; and then his laugh--he had two kinds of laughs--one which you could hear, and another which you could only see. I have seen him laugh at our governor and the young ladies, when their heads were turned away, but I heard no sound. My mother had a sandy cat, which sometimes used to open its mouth wide with a mew which nobody could hear, and the silent laugh of that red-haired priest used to put me wonderfully in mind of the silent mew of my mother's sandy-red cat. And then the other laugh, which you could hear; what a strange laugh that was, never loud, yes, I have heard it tolerably loud. He once passed near me, after having taken leave of a silly English fellow--a limping parson of the name of Platitude, who they said was thinking of turning Papist, and was much in his company; I was standing behind the pillar of a piazza, and as he passed he was laughing heartily. Oh, he was a strange fellow, that same red-haired acquaintance of ours! "After we had been at Rome about six weeks, our old friend the priest of Naples arrived, but without his subordinate, for whose services he now perhaps thought that he had no occasion. I believe he found matters in our family wearing almost as favourable an aspect as he could desire: with what he had previously taught them and shown them at Naples and elsewhere, and with what the red-haired confederate had taught them and shown them at Rome, the poor young ladies had become quite handmaids of superstition, so that they, especially the youngest, were prepared to bow down to anything, and kiss anything however vile and ugly, provided a priest commanded them; and as for the old governor, what with the influence which his daughters exerted, and what with the ascendancy which the red-haired man had obtained over him, he dared not say his purse, far less his soul, was his own. Only think of an Englishman not being master of his own purse. My acquaintance, the lady's maid, assured me, that to her certain knowledge, he had disbursed to the red-haired man, for purposes of charity, as it was said, at least one thousand pounds during the five weeks we had been at Rome. She also told me that things would shortly be brought to a conclusion, and so indeed they were, though in a different manner from what she and I and some other people imagined; that there was to be a grand festival, and a mass, at which we were to be present, after which the family were to be presented to the Holy Father, for so those two priestly sharks had managed it; and then--she said she was certain that the two ladies, and perhaps the old governor, would forsake the religion of their native land, taking up with that of these foreign regions, for so my fellow-servant expressed it, and that perhaps attempts might be made to induce us poor English servants to take up with the foreign religion, that is, herself and me, for as for our fellow-servant, the other maid, she wanted no inducing, being disposed body and soul to go over to it. Whereupon, I swore with an oath that nothing should induce me to take up with the foreign religion; and the poor maid, my fellow-servant, bursting into tears, said that for her part she would sooner die than have anything to do with it; thereupon we shook hands and agreed to stand by and countenance one another: and moreover, provided our governors were fools enough to go over to the religion of these here foreigners, we would not wait to be asked to do the like, but leave them at once, and make the best of our way home, even if we were forced to beg on the road. "At last the day of the grand festival came, and we were all to go to the big church to hear the mass. Now it happened that for some time past I had been much afflicted with melancholy, especially when I got up of a morning, produced by the strange manner in which I saw things going on in our family; and to dispel it in some degree, I had been in the habit of taking a dram before breakfast. On the morning in question, feeling particularly low-spirited when I thought of the foolish step our governor would probably take before evening, I took two drams before breakfast; and after breakfast, feeling my melancholy still continuing, I took another, which produced a slight effect upon my head, though I am convinced nobody observed it. "Away we drove to the big church; it was a dark, misty day, I remember, and very cold, so that if anybody had noticed my being slightly in liquor, I could have excused myself by saying that I had merely taken a glass to fortify my constitution against the weather; and of one thing I am certain, which is, that such an excuse would have stood me in stead with our governor, who looked, I thought, as if he had taken one too; but I may be mistaken, and why should I notice him, seeing that he took no notice of me: so away we drove to the big church, to which all the population of the place appeared to be moving. "On arriving there we dismounted, and the two priests who were with us led the family in, whilst I followed at a little distance, but quickly lost them amidst the throng of people. I made my way, however, though in what direction I knew not, except it was one in which everybody seemed striving, and by dint of elbowing and pushing, I at last got to a place which looked like the aisle of a cathedral, where the people stood in two rows, a space between being kept open by certain strangely-dressed men who moved up and down with rods in their hands; all were looking to the upper end of this place or aisle; and at the upper end, separated from the people by palings like those of an altar, sat in magnificent-looking stalls, on the right and the left, various wonderful-looking individuals in scarlet dresses. At the farther end was what appeared to be an altar, on the left hand was a pulpit, and on the right a stall higher than any of the rest, where was a figure whom I could scarcely see. "I can't pretend to describe what I saw exactly, for my head, which was at first rather flurried, had become more so from the efforts which I had made to get through the crowd; also from certain singing which proceeded from I know not where, and above all from the bursts of an organ which were occasionally so loud that I thought the roof, which was painted with wondrous colours, would come toppling down on those below. So there stood I, a poor English servant, in that outlandish place, in the midst of that foreign crowd, looking at that outlandish sight, hearing those outlandish sounds, and occasionally glancing at our party, which, by this time, I distinguished at the opposite side to where I stood, but much nearer the place where the red figures sat. Yes, there stood our poor governor, and the sweet young ladies, and I thought they never looked so handsome before, and close by them were the sharking priests, and not far from them was that idiotical parson Platitude, winking and grinning, and occasionally lifting up his hands as if in ecstasy at what he saw and heard, so that he drew upon himself the notice of the congregation. "And now an individual mounted the pulpit, and began to preach in a language which I did not understand, but which I believe to be Latin, addressing himself seemingly to the figure in the stall; and when he had ceased, there was more singing, more organ playing, and then two men in robes brought forth two things which they held up; and then the people bowed their heads, and our poor governor bowed his head, and the sweet young ladies bowed their heads, and the sharking priests, whilst the idiotical parson Platitude tried to fling himself down; and then there were various evolutions withinside the pale, and the scarlet figures got up and sat down, and this kind of thing continued for some time; at length the figure which I had seen in the principal stall came forth and advanced towards the people; an awful figure he was, a huge old man with a sugar-loaf hat, with a sulphur-coloured dress, and holding a crook in his hand like that of a shepherd; and as he advanced the people fell on their knees, our poor old governor amongst them; the sweet young ladies, the sharking priests, the idiotical parson Platitude all fell on their knees, and somebody or other tried to pull me on my knees, but by this time I had become outrageous; all that my poor brother used to tell me of the superstitions of the high Barbary shore rushed into my mind, and I thought they were acting them over here; above all, the idea that the sweet young ladies, to say nothing of my poor old governor, were, after the conclusion of all this mummery, going to deliver themselves up body and soul into the power of that horrid-looking old man, maddened me, and, rushing forward into the open space, I confronted the horrible-looking old figure with the sugar-loaf hat, the sulphur-coloured garments, and shepherd's crook, and shaking my fist at his nose, I bellowed out in English:-- "'I don't care for you, old Mumbo Jumbo, though you have fetish!' "I can scarcely tell you what occurred for some time. I have a dim recollection that hands were laid upon me, and that I struck out violently left and right. On coming to myself, I was seated on a stone bench in a large room, something like a guarde room, in the custody of certain fellows dressed like Merry Andrews; they were bluff, good-looking, wholesome fellows, very different from the sallow Italians; they were looking at me attentively, and occasionally talking to each other in a language which sounded very like the cracking of walnuts in the mouth, very different from cooing Italian. At last one of them asked me in Italian what had ailed me, to which I replied, in an incoherent manner, something about Mumbo Jumbo; whereupon the fellow, one of the bluffest of the lot, a jovial, rosy-faced rascal, lifted up his right hand, placing it in such a manner that the lips were between the forefinger and thumb, then lifting up his right foot and drawing back his head, he sucked in his breath with a hissing sound, as if to imitate one drinking a hearty draught, and then slapped me on the shoulder, saying something which sounded like goot wine, goot companion, whereupon they all laughed, exclaiming, ya, ya, goot companion. And now hurried into the room our poor old governor, with the red-haired priest; the first asked what could have induced me to behave in such a manner in such a place, to which I replied that I was not going to bow down to Mumbo Jumbo, whatever other people might do. Whereupon my master said he believed I was mad, and the priest said he believed I was drunk; to which I answered that I was neither so mad nor drunk but I could distinguish how the wind lay. Whereupon they left me, and in a little time I was told by the bluff-looking Merry Andrews I was at liberty to depart. I believe the priest, in order to please my governor, interceded for me in high quarters. "But one good resulted from this affair; there was no presentation of our family to the Holy Father, for old Mumbo was so frightened by my outrageous looks that he was laid up for a week, as I was afterwards informed. "I went home, and had scarcely been there half an hour when I was sent for by the governor, who again referred to the scene in church, said that he could not tolerate such scandalous behaviour and that unless I promised to be more circumspect in future, he should be compelled to discharge me. I said that if he was scandalised at my behaviour in the church, I was more scandalised at all I saw going on in the family, which was governed by two rascally priests, who, not content with plundering him, appeared bent on hurrying the souls of us all to destruction; and that with respect to discharging me, he could do so that moment, as I wished to go. I believe his own reason told him that I was right, for he made no direct answer; but, after looking on the ground for some time, he told me to leave him. As he did not tell me to leave the house, I went to my room intending to lie down for an hour or two; but scarcely was I there when the door opened, and in came the red-haired priest. He showed himself, as he always did, perfectly civil, asked me how I was, took a chair and sat down. After a hem or two he entered into a long conversation on the excellence of what he called the Catholic religion; told me that he hoped I would not set myself against the light, and likewise against my interest; for that the family were about to embrace the Catholic religion, and would make it worth my while to follow their example. I told him that the family might do what they pleased, but that I would never forsake the religion of my country for any consideration whatever; that I was nothing but a poor servant, but I was not to be bought by base gold. 'I admire your honourable feelings,' said he; 'you shall have no gold; and as I see you are a fellow of spirit, and do not like being a servant, for which I commend you, I can promise you something better. I have a good deal of influence in this place, and if you will not set your face against the light, but embrace the Catholic religion, I will undertake to make your fortune. You remember those fine fellows to-day who took you into custody, they are the guards of his Holiness. I have no doubt that I have interest enough to procure your enrolment amongst them.' 'What,' said I, 'become swash buckler to Mumbo Jumbo up here! May I ---'--and here I swore--'if I do. The mere possibility of one of their children being swash-buckler to Mumbo Jumbo on the high Barbary shore has always been a source of heart-breaking to my poor parents. What, then, would they not undergo if they knew for certain that their other child was swash-buckler to Mumbo Jumbo up here?' Thereupon he asked me, even as you did some time ago, what I meant by Mumbo Jumbo? And I told him all I had heard about the Mumbo Jumbo of the high Barbary shore; telling him that I had no doubt that the old fellow up here was his brother, or nearly related to him. The man with the red hair listened with the greatest attention to all I said, and when I had concluded, he got up, nodded to me, and moved to the door; ere he reached the door I saw his shoulders shaking, and as he closed it behind him I heard him distinctly laughing, to the tune of--he! he! he! "But now matters began to mend. That same evening my young master unexpectedly arrived. I believe he soon perceived that something extraordinary had been going on in the family. He was for some time closeted with the governor, with whom, I believe, he had a dispute; for my fellow-servant, the ladies' maid, informed me that she heard high words. "Rather late at night the young gentleman sent for me into his room, and asked me various questions with respect to what had been going on, and my behaviour in the church, of which he had heard something. I told him all I knew with respect to the intrigues of the two priests in the family, and gave him a circumstantial account of all that had occurred in the church, adding that, under similar circumstances, I was ready to play the same part over again. Instead of blaming me, he commended my behaviour, told me I was a fine fellow, and said he hoped that if he wanted my assistance, I would stand by him: this I promised to do. Before I left him, he entreated me to inform him the very next time I saw the priests entering the house. "The next morning, as I was in the court-yard, where I had placed myself to watch, I saw the two enter and make their way up a private stair to the young ladies' apartment; they were attended by a man dressed something like a priest, who bore a large box; I instantly ran to relate what I had seen to my young master. I found him shaving. 'I will just finish what I am about,' said he, 'and then wait upon these gentlemen.' He finished what he was about with great deliberation, then taking a horsewhip, and bidding me follow him, he proceeded at once to the door of his sisters' apartment: finding it fastened, he burst it open at once with his foot and entered, followed by myself. There we beheld the two unfortunate young ladies down on their knees before a large female doll, dressed up, as usual, in rags and tinsel; the two priests were standing near, one on either side, with their hands uplifted, whilst the fellow who brought the trumpery stood a little way down the private stair, the door of which stood open; without a moment's hesitation, my young master rushed forward, gave the image a cut or two with his horsewhip, then flying at the priests, he gave them a sound flogging, kicked them down the private stair, and spurned the man, box and image after them; then locking the door, he gave his sisters a fine sermon, in which he represented to them their folly in worshipping a silly wooden graven image, which, though it had eyes, could see not; though it had ears, could hear not; though it had hands, could not help itself; and though it had feet, could not move about unless it were carried. Oh, it was a fine sermon that my young master preached, and sorry I am that the Father of the Fetish, old Mumbo, did not hear it. The elder sister looked ashamed, but the youngest, who was very weak, did nothing but wring her hands, weep and bewail the injury which had been done to the dear image. The young man, however, without paying much regard to either of them went to his father, with whom he had a long conversation, which terminated in the old governor giving orders for preparations to be made for the family's leaving Rome and returning to England. I believe that the old governor was glad of his son's arrival, and rejoiced at the idea of getting away from Italy, where he had been so plundered and imposed upon. The priests, however, made another attempt upon the poor young ladies. By the connivance of the female servant who was in their interest, they found their way once more into their apartment, bringing with them the fetish image, whose body they partly stripped, exhibiting upon it certain sanguine marks which they had daubed upon it with red paint, but which they said were the result of the lashes which it had received from the horsewhip. The youngest girl believed all they said, and kissed and embraced the dear image; but the eldest, whose eyes had been opened by her brother, to whom she was much attached, behaved with proper dignity; for, going to the door, she called the female servant who had a respect for me, and in her presence reproached the two deceivers for their various impudent cheats, and especially for this their last attempt at imposition; adding, that if they did not forthwith withdraw and rid her sister and herself of their presence, she would send word by her maid to her brother, who would presently take effectual means to expel them. They took the hint and departed, and we saw no more of them. "At the end of three days we departed from Rome, but the maid whom the priests had cajoled remained behind, and it is probable that the youngest of our ladies would have done the same thing if she could have had her own will, for she was continually raving about her image, and saying, she should wish to live with it in a convent; but we watched the poor thing, and got her on board ship. Oh, glad was I to leave that fetish country, and old Mumbo behind me!" CHAPTER C. "We arrived in England, and went to our country seat, but the peace and tranquillity of the family had been marred, and I no longer found my place the pleasant one which it had formerly been; there was nothing but gloom in the house, for the youngest daughter exhibited signs of lunacy, and was obliged to be kept under confinement. The next season I attended my master, his son and eldest daughter to London, as I had previously done. There I left them, for hearing that a young baronet, an acquaintance of the family, wanted a servant, I applied for the place, with the consent of my masters, both of whom gave me a strong recommendation, and being approved of, I went to live with him. "My new master was what is called a sporting character, very fond of the turf, upon which he was not very fortunate. He was frequently very much in want of money, and my wages were anything but regularly paid; nevertheless, I liked him very much, for he treated me more like a friend than a domestic, continually consulting me as to his affairs. At length he was brought nearly to his last shifts, by backing the favourite at the Derby, which favourite turned out a regular brute, being found nowhere at the rush. Whereupon, he and I had a solemn consultation over fourteen glasses of brandy and water, and as many cigars--I mean, between us--as to what was to be done. He wished to start a coach, in which event he was to be driver and I guard. He was quite competent to drive a coach, being a first-rate whip, and I dare say I should have made a first-rate guard; but to start a coach requires money, and we neither of us believed that anybody would trust us with vehicles and horses, so that idea was laid aside. We then debated as to whether or not he should go into the Church; but to go into the Church--at any rate to become a dean or bishop, which would have been our aim--it is necessary for a man to possess some education; and my master, although he had been at the best school in England, that is, the most expensive, and also at College, was almost totally illiterate, so we let the Church scheme follow that of the coach. At last, bethinking me that he was tolerably glib at the tongue, as most people are who are addicted to the turf, also a great master of slang, remembering also that he had a crabbed old uncle, who had some borough interest, I proposed that he should get into the House, promising in one fortnight to qualify him to make a figure in it, by certain lessons which I would give him. He consented; and during the next fortnight I did little else than give him lessons in elocution, following to a tittle the method of the great professor, which I had picked up listening behind the door. At the end of that period, we paid a visit to his relation, an old gouty Tory, who, at first, received us very coolly. My master, however, by flattering a predilection of his for Billy Pitt, soon won his affections so much that he promised to bring him into Parliament, and in less than a month was as good as his word. My master, partly by his own qualifications, and partly by the assistance which he had derived, and still occasionally derived, from me, cut a wonderful figure in the House, and was speedily considered one of the most promising speakers; he was always a good hand at promising. He is at present, I believe, a Cabinet minister. "But as he got up in the world, he began to look down on me. I believe he was ashamed of the obligation under which he lay to me; and at last, requiring no further hints as to oratory from a poor servant like me, he took an opportunity of quarrelling with me and discharging me. However, as he had still some grace, he recommended me to a gentleman with whom, since he had attached himself to politics, he had formed an acquaintance, the editor of a grand Tory Review. I lost caste terribly amongst the servants for entering the service of a person connected with a profession so mean as literature; and it was proposed at the Servants' Club, in Park Lane, to eject me from that society. The proposition, however, was not carried into effect, and I was permitted to show myself among them, though few condescended to take much notice of me. My master was one of the best men in the world, but also one of the most sensitive. On his veracity being impugned by the editor of a newspaper, he called him out, and shot him through the arm. Though servants are seldom admirers of their masters, I was a great admirer of mine, and eager to follow his example. The day after the encounter, on my veracity being impugned by the servant of Lord C--- in something I said in praise of my master I determined to call him out, so I went into another room and wrote a challenge. But whom should I send it by? Several servants to whom I applied refused to be the bearers of it; they said I had lost caste, and they could not think of going out with me. At length the servant of the Duke of B--- consented to take it; but he made me to understand that, though he went out with me, he did so merely because he despised the Whiggish principles of Lord C---'s servant, and that if I thought he intended to associate with me, I should be mistaken. Politics, I must tell you, at that time ran as high amongst the servants as the gentlemen, the servants, however, being almost invariably opposed to the politics of their respective masters, though both parties agreed in one point, the scouting of everything low and literary, though I think, of the two, the liberal or reform party were the most inveterate. So he took my challenge, which was accepted; we went out, Lord C---'s servant being seconded by a reformado footman from the Palace. We fired three times without effect; but this affair lost me my place, my master on hearing it forthwith discharged me; he was, as I have said before, very sensitive, and he said this duel of mine was a parody of his own. Being, however, one of the best men in the world, on his discharging me he made me a donation of twenty pounds. "And it was well that he made me this present, for without it I should have been penniless, having contracted rather expensive habits during the time that I lived with the young baronet. I now determined to visit my parents, whom I had not seen for years. I found them in good health, and, after staying with them for two months, I returned again in the direction of town, walking in order to see the country. On the second day of my journey, not being used to such fatigue, I fell ill at a great inn on the north road, and there I continued for some weeks till I recovered, but by that time my money was entirely spent. By living at the inn I had contracted an acquaintance with the master and the people, and become accustomed to inn life. As I thought that I might find some difficulty in procuring any desirable situation in London, owing to my late connection with literature, I determined to remain where I was, provided my services would be accepted. I offered them to the master, who, finding I knew something of horses, engaged me as a postillion. I have remained there since. You have now heard my story. "Stay, you sha'n't say that I told my tale without a per--peroration. What shall it be? Oh, I remember something which will serve for one. As I was driving my chaise some weeks ago, on my return from L---, I saw standing at the gate of an avenue, which led up to an old mansion, a figure which I thought I recognised. I looked at it attentively, and the figure, as I passed, looked at me; whether it remembered me I do not know, but I recognised the face it showed me full well. "If it was not the identical face of the red-haired priest whom I had seen at Rome, may I catch cold! "Young gentleman, I will now take a spell on your blanket--young lady, good-night." [_End of Vol. III._, 1851.] THE EDITOR'S POSTSCRIPT. _Lavengro_ and _The Romany Rye_ (properly _Romano Rai_) were terms applied to George Borrow in his youth by the Norfolk Gypsy, Ambrose Smith, better known in these volumes as Jasper Petulengro. The names signify respectively "Philologist" and "the Gypsy Gentleman". The two works thus entitled constitute a more or less exact autobiography of the writer of them, from the date of his birth to the end of August, 1825. The author himself confesses in his Preface that "the time embraces nearly the first quarter of the present century". _Lavengro_ was written at Oulton, in Suffolk, slowly and at intervals, between the years 1842 and 1851. The MSS. exist in three varieties: 1. The primitive draft of a portion, found scattered through sundry notebooks and on isolated scraps of paper, as described in the letter to Dawson Turner (_Life_, i., p. 394). 2. The definitive autograph text in one thick quarto volume. 3. The transcript for the printers, made by Mrs. Borrow, in one large folio volume, interlarded with the author's additions and corrections. The text of the present edition reproduces with fidelity the first issue of 1851. Occasionally a verbal alteration, introduced by the author himself into his second edition of 1872, has been adopted in this, whenever it seemed to improve the reading. In general, however, that reprint was in many respects a defective one. Not only words, but even whole sentences, which had escaped the printers, remained undetected by the editor, and, as a consequence, were lost to later impressions, based, as they all have been, on that issue. We should have preferred to alter, quietly and without remark, certain errors in the text, as we did in the documents published in the _Life_; but save in a single instance, we have left such inaccuracies intact, reserving all corrections for the place where we might be supposed to exercise a free hand. {553} The insertion, with brackets of course, of the promised inedited episodes, caused in two cases some embarrassment. In removing them from the final form of his MS., Mr. Borrow closed up the gap with a few fitting lines which concealed the withdrawal. These words had to be suppressed on the restoration of the passages. The insertions will be met with as follows:-- The Poet Parkinson, pp. 119-25. The Wake of Freya, pp. 128-33. Cromwell's Statue and the _Dairyman's Daughter_, pp. 196-98. Portobello or the Irish Patriot, pp. 231-39. Thomas d'Eterville, in the _Notes_, pp. 558-59. Thus we have made a full statement as regards the text of the present reprint. Any one who takes up this edition will discover no visible name, or preface, or introduction, save only those of George Borrow, from the title to the close. The book is, therefore, "all Borrow," and we have sought to render the helping hand as inconspicuous as possible. Should, however, the prejudiced stumble at the _Notes_, we can say in the language of the fairy smith of Loughmore: _is agad an t-leigheas_, you have the remedy in your own power. Speaking of the _Notes_, they have been drawn up on the unimpeachable testimony of contemporaneous record. Especially have we sought the works which Mr. Borrow was accustomed to read in his younger days, and at times with curious results. A list of these is given at the close of _The Romany Rye_, and is referred to in these notes as "Bibliography" for the sake of concision. What is not here explained can be easily looked up in our _Life_, _Writings_, _and Correspondence of George Borrow_, London, 1899, which of itself furnishes a sufficient and unalterable exhibition of the facts concerning the man and his work. W. I. KNAPP. HIGH ST., OXFORD, _November_, 1899. NOTES TO _LAVENGRO_, WITH CORRECTIONS, IDENTIFICATIONS AND TRANSLATIONS. Page 1. East D---: East Dereham, a small town in Norfolk, 16 miles W. of Norwich, and 102 N.E. of London. Here Capt. Thomas Borrow, the father of George, was often stationed from 1792 to 1812.--1. East Anglia: This Anglo-Saxon kingdom comprised the present counties of Norfolk, Suffolk and Cambridge.--1. Tredinnock, read _Trethinnick_; Parish of St. Cleer, Cornwall.--2. Big Ben: Benjamin Brain or Bryan was born in 1753. Some of his most severe "battles" were fought between 1780 and 1790--one on the 30th of August in the latter year, with Hooper at Newbury, Berks. A few days after this exploit, he picked a quarrel with Sergeant Borrow of the Coldstream Guards, which resulted in the Hyde Park encounter. Some four months later, _i.e._, 17th January, 1791, the decisive fight for the championship came off between Brain and Johnson. It was an appalling spectacle, and struck dumb with horror, even in that day, the witnesses to the dreadful conflict. Big Ben was the victor, and remained champion of England from that date until his death _three years_ (not "four months") later--8th April, 1794. "Lavengro," carried away by the enthusiasm of early reminiscence, allowed himself to declare that his father read the Bible to Brain in his latter moments. But in 1794 Thomas Borrow was busy recruiting soldiers in Norfolk, one hundred miles from the scene of the dying pugilist. However, the error was probably one of date merely, and during the year 1791 Thomas doubtless read the Bible to him in London, since we learn from Pierce Egan that "Ben derived great consolation from hearing the Bible read, and generally solicited those of his acquaintance who called upon him to read a chapter to him". {555}--3. Captain: The West Norfolk Militia was raised in 1759 by the third Earl of Orford. He died in December, 1791, when the regiment was _reorganised_ (not "raised") under the new Colonel, the Hon. Horatio Walpole, subsequently the sixth Earl of Orford. Thus in February, 1792, Thomas was transferred from the Guards to be Sergeant-major in the W.N.M., and stationed at East Dereham. He married the following year, became Quarter- master (with the rank of Ensign) in 1795, and Adjutant (Lieutenant) in February, 1798. This his final promotion doubtless gave him the _honorary_ rank of Captain, since in the _Monthly Army List_ for 1804 we read: "Adjutant, Thomas Borrow, _Capt._". But a letter before me dated 18th April, 1799, from his Major, is officially addressed to him as "Lieut. Borrow, Adjutant," etc., etc.--3. Petrement: Our author knew very well that his mother's maiden name was Ann _Perfrement_, pronounced and written _Parfrement_ at the present day by those of the family we have met. The correct spelling is found on the tombstone of her sister, Sarah, at Dereham (1817), and on that of her brother, Samuel, at Salthouse near Holt (1864).--3. Castle of De Burgh: A fanciful Borrovian epithet applied to Norwich Castle. Nor did the exiles _build_ the Church of St. Mary-the-Less, in Queen Street, Norwich; it was a distinct parish church long before Elizabeth's reign, and in her time the parish was consolidated with the neighbouring one of St. George's, Tombland, while the church became municipal property. But the French exiles of the Edict of 1685 _did_ worship there, even as did the Dutch refugees from Alva's persecution a century before (1565-70).--4. Middle Age: Borrow's father was thirty-four, and his mother twenty-one, at the date of their marriage. John was born seven years after the marriage, and George ten. The mother was, then, thirty-one at George's birth.--4. Bishop Hopkins: Sermons.--4. Angola: More correctly _Angora_.--5. Foreign grave: Lieut. John Thomas Borrow died at Guanajuato, Mexico, 22nd November, 1833. Pages 12-13. "Snorro" Sturleson: Poet and historian of Iceland (1178- 1241). Harald (not _Harold_) III., called "Haardraade". Battle of Stamford Bridge, A.D. 1066, same year as Norman Conquest. See Mallet's _Northern Antiquities_, pp. 168-71 and 194; Snorro's _Heimskringla_, ii., p. 164, and his _Chronica_, 1633, p. 381, for the quotation; also _Bibliog._ at end of _Romany Rye_.--13. Winchester: Rather _Winchelsea_, according to the Regimental Records.--14. A gallant frigate: A reminiscence of Norman Cross gossip in 1810-11. "Ninety-eight French prisoners, the crew of a large French privateer of eighteen guns called the _Contre-Amiral Magon_, and commanded by the notorious Blackman, were captured 16th October, 1804, by Capt. Hancock of the _Cruiser_ sloop, and brought into Yarmouth. They marched into Norwich, 26th November, and the next morning proceeded under guard on their way to Norman Cross barracks"--_Norwich Papers_, 1804.--15. Lady Bountiful: Dame Eleanor Fenn (1743-1813).--15. Bard: William Cowper (1731-1800).--16. Some Saint: Withburga, daughter of Anna, king of the East Angles, was the "saint" and the "daughter" at the same time.--19. Hunchbacked rhymer: Alexander Pope.--20. Properties of God, read _attributes_.--20. Rector: The Rev. F. J. H. Wollaston.--20. Philoh: James Philo (1745-1829).--21. Tolerism, read _toleration_.--24. Mere: Whittlesea Mere, long since drained.--31. Bengui: See the vocabulary at the end for all Gypsy words in this volume.--34. Jasper: The change from _Ambrose_ to Jasper was made in pencil in Mrs. Borrow's transcript at the last moment in 1849, before handing it to the printers.--38. Three years: Included in the subsequent narrative, _not_ excluded from it as his Norwich school days (1814-15, 1816-18) were. They extend from July, 1811, to April, 1813--from Norman Cross to Edinburgh. The chronology, according to the Regimental Records, was as follows: George was at East Dereham from 22nd July to 18th November, 1811, at J. S. Buck's ("_Dr. B.'s_") school; 30th November, 1811, to February, 1812, at Colchester; 28th February to 5th March, 1812, at Harwich; 15th to 19th March, at Leicester; 21st to 30th March, at Melton Mowbray; 2nd to 25th April, at Leicester again; 28th April to 3rd May, at Tamworth (_Lavengro_, pp. 367-68); 8th to 26th May, at Macclesfield; 28th May to 2nd August, at Stockport; 3rd to 23rd August, at Ashton; 24th August to 15th December, at Huddersfield (_W. W._, p. 64, and _Lavengro_, pp. 39-41); 16th December, 1812, to 19th March, 1813, at Sheffield; 20th and 21st March, 1813, at Leeds; 22nd March, at Wetherby; 23rd March, Boroughbridge; 24th March, Allerton; 25th March, Darlington; 26th March, Durham (_W. W._, pp. 258-59); 27th and 28th March, Newcastle; 29th March, Morpeth; 30th March, Alnwick; 3rd and 4th April, at Berwick- upon-Tweed; 6th April, 1813, Edinburgh Castle.--38. Lilly: See _Bibliog._ Page 42. Bank of a river: The Tweed. The scene here described occurred on a Sunday, 4th April, 1813, near Berwick, where they "arrived the preceding night" (p. 44).--42. Elvir Hill: See Borrow's _Romantic Ballads_, Norwich, 1826, pp. 111-14. This piece entitled "Elvir Hill," one of the old Danish ballads of Vedel's collection, 1591, represents the dangers attending a youth who "rested" his "head upon Elvir Hill's side" where he was so charmed in his sleep by a brace of seductive fairies, that "If my good luck had not managed it so That the cock crew out then in the distance, I should have been murder'd by them on the Hill, Without power to offer resistance. "'Tis therefore I counsel each young Danish swain Who may ride in the forest so dreary, Ne'er to lay down upon lone Elvir Hill Though he chance to be ever so weary." 43. Skaldaglam: The _barditus_ of Tacitus, or the "din" made by the Norse "bards" (skalds) on shields and with shouts as they rushed into battle. It is not in Molbech, but Snorro frequently uses it in his _Chronica_, 1633.--43. Kalevala: Title of the great Finnish epic, of which the hero is Woinomoinen.--43. Polak: Polander or Pole.--43. Magyar (pron. _Madjr_): Hungarian.--43. Batuscha: An erratum of the author for his _Batuschca_ (161)--better _Batyushca_, "father Tsar"--but generally applied by Borrow to his friend the _Pope_.--45 to 55: See _Life_, i., pp. 39-43.--46. Bui hin Digri: The Jomsburg Viking, A.D. 994. See Borrow's _Romantic Ballads_, p. 136, and _Once A Week_, ix., p. 686. The account is given in Snorro's _Chronica_, 1633, p. 136 (see _Bibliog._), but a more accessible version of it is found in Mallet's _Northern Antiquities_ (Bohn's ed.), pp. 144-45.--46. Horunga Vog, read _Hjorunga Vagr_ in Icelandic, or _Vaag_ in Danish. In _Romany Rye_ (p. 359) it is Englished as "Horinger Bay".--50. Hickathrift: A Norfolk worthy of the eleventh century, whose prodigious exploits with the axle of his cart as an offensive weapon, and the wheel as a shield, are handed down in the chap-books of the last three centuries. See p. 63; also _Bibliog._ at the end of _Romany Rye_.--51. Elzigood: William E., of Heigham, Norwich, enlisted October, 1789, became Drum-major in the regiment, 22nd October, 1802; called facetiously or maliciously _Else-than-gude_ on p. 54.--55. O'Hanlon: Redmond O'Hanlon (d. 1681), a proprietor of Ulster, dispossessed under the Cromwellian settlement, and afterwards leader of a band of outlaws.--56. Disbanded: The W.N.M. regiment left Edinburgh in July, 1814, and was disembodied at Norwich, 19th July. It was again called out, 10th July, 1815, and sent to Ireland. John Borrow was appointed Ensign, 29th May, 1815, and Lieutenant, 13th December of the same year. The regiment sailed from Harwich ("port in Essex") 31st August, reaching Cork harbour ("the cove") about 9th September, 1815. 63. Wight Wallace (story book of): See _Bibliog._ Page 63. Shorsha: The Irish for _George_, properly written _Seors_, but the author usually wrote his Irish by sound.--64. Saggart, read _sagart_: (Lat. _sacerdos_), a priest.--64. Finn-ma-Coul: In Irish Fionn-mac-Cumhail, the father of Ossian.--64. Brian Boroo: In Irish, Brian Boroimhe, a king of Ireland (926-1014).--65. Saggarting: Studying with reference to the priesthood.--65. Mavourneen: Properly _mo mhuirnin_, my darling.--65. Hanam mon Dioul: Wrongly given for _M'anam o'n Diabhal_ [God preserve] my soul from the devil! See _Romany Rye_, p. 286, where it is quite correct--from _sound_.--66. Christmas over: 1816. Regiment quartered at Templemore. John, now a lieutenant (not "ensign"), is sent with a detachment to Loughmore, three miles away. Sergeant Bagg, promoted to that rank, 10th July, 1815, accompanies him.--66. Mountain: Called locally, "Devil's _Bit_," and not Devil's _Hill_ or _Mt._, as in the text.--68. Fine old language (add: _which_): "_A labhair Padric 'nninse Fail na Riogh_ _'San faighe caomhsin Colum naomhtha 'n I_." (which) "Patrick spoke in Innisfail to heathen chiefs of old, And Columb, the mild prophet-saint, spoke in his island-hold." So Borrow gives the Irish and his version in _Romantic Ballads_, p. viii. The Erse lines were taken from Lhuyd's _Archaeologia Britannica_, Oxford, 1707, sign. _d._--69. The Castle: Loughmore Castle.--71. Figure of a man: Jerry Grant, the Irish outlaw. See the _Newgate Calendars_ subsequent to 1840--Pelham. Griffith, etc.--72 and 83. "Sas" and "Sassanach," of course mean Englishman or English (Saxon).--74. Clergyman of the parish: The Rev. Patrick Kennedy, vicar of Loughmore. His name is also on the list of subscribers to the _Romantic Ballads_, Norwich, 1826, as J. Kennedy, by mistake.--76. Swanton Morley: A village near East Dereham.--82. Arrigod yuit (Irish), read _airgiod dhuit_: Have you any money?--82. Tabhair chugam (pron. _tower khoogam_): Give (it) to me.--83. Is agam an't leigeas (read _an t-leigheas_): I have the remedy.--83. Another word: _deaghbhlasda_: See _Romany Rye_, p. 266, and _Notes and Queries_, 5th May, 1855, p. 339, article by George Metivier. Page 84. Old city: Norwich. The regiment having returned to head-quarters, 11th May, 1816, was mustered out 17th June. The author describes the city from the "ruined wall" of the old Priory on the hill to the east.--85. The Norman Bridge: is Bishop's Bridge.--85. Sword of Cordova, in Guild Hall, is a mistake for the sword of the Spanish General Don Xavier Winthuysen.--90. Vone banished priest: Rev. Thomas d'Eterville. The _MS._ gives the following inedited account of D'Eterville. I omit the oft-recurring expletive _sacre_ (accursed):-- [_Myself_. Were you not yourself forced to flee from your country? _D'Eterville_. That's very true. . . . I became one vagabond--nothing better, I assure you, my dear; had you seen me, you would have said so. I arrive at Douvres; no welcome. I walk to Canterbury and knock at the door of one _auberge_. The landlord opens. "What do you here?" he says; "who are you?" "Vone exiled priest," I reply. "Get you gone, sirrah!" he says; "we have beggars enough of our own," and he slams the door in my face. _Ma foi_, _il faisoit bien_, for my toe was sticking through my shoe. _Myself_. But you are no longer a vagabond, and your toe does not stick through your shoe now. _D'Eterville_. No, thank God, the times are changed. I walked and walked, till I came here, where I became one _philologue_ and taught tongues--French and Italian. I found good friends here, those of my religion. "He very good man," they say; "one banished priest; we must help him." I am no longer a vagabond--ride a good horse when I go to visit pupils in the country--stop at _auberge_--landlord comes to the door: "What do you please to want, sir?" "Only to bait my horse, that is all." _Eh bien_, landlord very polite; he not call me vagabond; I carry pistols in my pocket. _Myself_. I know you do; I have often seen them. But why do you carry pistols? _D'Eterville_. I ride along the road from the distant village. I have been to visit my pupil whom I instruct in philology. My pupil has paid me my bill, and I carry in my purse the fruits of my philology. I come to one dark spot. Suddenly my bridle is seized, and one tall robber stands at my horse's head with a very clumsy club in his hand. "Stand, rascal," says he; "your life or your purse!" "Very good, sir," I respond; "there you have it." So I put my hand, not into my pocket, but into my holster; I draw out, not my purse, but my weapon, and--bang! I shoot the English robber through the head. _Myself_. It is a bad thing to shed blood; I should be loth to shoot a robber to save a purse. _D'Eterville_. _Que tu es bete_! _mon ami_. Am I to be robbed of the fruits of my philology, made in foreign land, by one English robber? Shall I become once more one vagabond as of old? one exiled priest turned from people's doors, my shoe broken, toe sticking through it, like that bad poet who put the Pope in hell? Bah, bah! By degrees D'Eterville acquired a considerable fortune for one in his station. Some people go so far as to say that it was principally made by an extensive contraband trade in which he was engaged. Be this as it may, some twenty years from the time of which I am speaking, he departed this life, and shortly before his death his fellow-religionists, who knew him to be wealthy, persuaded him to make a will, by which he bequeathed all his property to certain popish establishments in England. In his last hours, however, he repented, destroyed his first will, and made another, in which he left all he had to certain of his relations in his native country;--"for," said he, "they think me one fool, but I will show them that they are mistaken. I came to this land one banished priest, where I made one small fortune; and now I am dying, to whom should I leave the fruits of my philology but to my blood-relations? In God's name, let me sign. Monsieur Boileau left the fruits of his verses to his niece; _eh bien_, I will bequeath the fruits of my philology to my niece and nephew. There, there! thanks be to God, it is done! They take me for a fool; I am no fool. Leave to the Pope the fruits of my philology! Bah, bah! I do no such thing. I do like Monsieur Boileau."] Page 93. Earl's Home: Earlham Hall, the residence of Joseph John Gurney (1788-1847), the Norwich banker and famous Quaker. The "tall figure" mentioned on the next page was Mr. Gurney, then twenty-eight years of age.--95. Only read Greek: This is a mistake. Mr. Gurney was an early student of Italian. See Braithwaite's _Life_, i., pp. 25 and 49.--Zohar: Very correct. Braithwaite, i., p. 37.--Abarbenel, read Abarb_a_nel or Abrabanel: A Spanish Jew driven from Spain in 1492. See p. 282.--97. Castle Hill: Norwich.--97. Fair of horses: Tombland Fair, held on Maundy Thursday every year.--100. Heath: Mousehold Heath, near Norwich. See also pp. 106, 161, etc.--112. "Gemiti, sospiri ed alti guai" (compare Dante, _Inf._, iii., 8: "_Quivi sospiri_, _pianti_, _e alti guai_"): Groans, sighs, and deep lamentations.--114. Ab Gwilym: See _Bibliog._ at the end of _Romany Rye_.--114. Cowydd: A species of Welsh poetry.--114. Eos (W.); Nightingale.--114. Narrow Court: Tuck's Court, St. Giles, Norwich.--115. Old master: William Simpson of the law firm of Simpson & Rackham, Norwich.--115. Bon jour: read "_Bonjour_ . . . ! _bien des chases de ma part a Monsieur Peyrecourt_ or _Pierrecourt_". "Expressions" in this sense (kind regards) is the Spanish _expresiones_, disguised as French.--118. Bwa Bach: The "little hunchback". See p. 114.--119 to 125. Parkinson the poet: This character, who appears for the first time among the inedited episodes of _Lavengro_, was a real one, although his true name (Parkerson) is given somewhat veiled, as usual with Mr. Borrow. He seems to have been the poet-laureate of farmers, corn-merchants, drovers and publicans, selling his muse to the highest bidder, at first in printed sheets of eight pages, and subsequently gathered into pamphlets of thirty or more pages which he offered for one or two shillings each. They were printed by R. Walker, "near the Duke's Palace, Norwich," and sold by "Lane and Walker, St. Andrew's". They are without date, but cannot range far from 1818. Here are some specimens of his style: "The Norwich Corn Mart. By J. Parkerson, Junior." _At one o'clock the busy scene begin_, _Quick to the hall they all are posting in_; _The cautious merchant takes his stand_, _The farmer shows the produce of his land_, etc., for sixty-six lines. "On Mr. L . . . taking leave of his wife and children, who was sentenced to transportation for fourteen years" (!):-- _Hannah_, _farewell_, _I'm bound to go_, _To taste the bitter draught of woe_, 134 lines. "A Description of the Pine-Apple at Trowse":-- _Both Beauty and Art have exerted their skill_, _You will find on a spot near the brow of a hill_; _The hill is near Norwich and call'd Bracondale_, _I stept into Vince's myself to regale_, etc., four pages of that.--124. Mr. C.: Thomas William Coke, Esq., of Holkham, Earl of Leicester in 1837, and died in 1842. Pages 128-133. The Wake of Freya: This incident must have occurred to Mrs. Borrow at her home, Dumpling Green, East Dereham, on a Friday night, 5th December, 1783, when she was twelve (not "_ten_") years old. Her eldest sister, Elizabeth, would be in her seventeenth year. _Friday_ was then, as now, market day at Dereham. The place was the Blyth farm about one and a half miles (not "_three_") from "pretty D". The superstition referred to in this episode is, or was, a very common one in Norfolk, and even other countries. See the _Norfolk Chronicle_ for 14th May, 1791; Glyde's _Norfolk Garland_, pp. 13-14, and George Borrow in the _Quarterly Review_ for January, 1861, p. 62.--130. Freya: The Venus of the North was the _sister_ of Frey, according to Mallet (p. 94), and the original sources.--136. To London: Crome (John's teacher) died at Norwich, 22nd April, 1821; but John could not leave until after the Regimental Training, which closed that year on 26th June; hence his departure may be set down for the last of June, 1821.--136. Rafael: Note spelling here (also pp. 223 and 225) and _Raphael_ on p. 352.--137. Corregio, read _Correggio_.--139. Murray and Latroon, the Scotch outlaw and the "English Rogue". See _Bibliog._ at the end of _Romany Rye_.--142. "Draoitheac," magic, read _draoidheachd_ (Ir.).--144. Muggletonians: Evidently a Borrovian slip here. See _Notes and Queries_ for 3rd April, 1852, p. 320.--145. Vedel: Anders Sorensen Vedel, first collector of the _Kiaempeviser_, or Heroic Ballads of the Danes, Copenh., 1591.--146. Chapter xxiii.: Interview between William Taylor (21 King Street, Norwich) and George Borrow.--151. Orm Ungarswayne: "Orm the youthful Swain," _Romantic Ballads_, p. 86. But see the Danish ballad "Birting" in Borrow's _Targum_, St. Petersb., 1835, pp. 59-61, commencing:-- "It was late at evening tide, Sinks the day-star in the wave, When alone Orm Ungarswayne Rode to seek his father's grave". --151. Swayne Vonved: See this piece in _Romantic Ballads_, pp. 61-81.--151. Mousha, read _Muca_, in Arabic or _Moshe_ in Hebrew; both represent our _Moses_. But the Jew's name was _Levi_, according to the MS.--153. The Fight: Between Painter and Oliver, near North Walsham, 17th July, 1820. This chapter xxiv. relates the author's call on Mr. Petre of Westwick House, which must have been after 20th May, when it was decided that the "battle" should take place within twenty miles of Norwich.--155. Parr: There were _two_ Parrs, one, Thomas, called "English" or "Old" Parr (1483-1635) who lived 152 years, and Samuel, called the "Greek" Parr (1747-1825,) who had been Head Master of the Norwich Grammar School from 1778 to 1785. This Dr. Samuel Parr was the one referred to by Mr. Petre.--155. Whiter: Rev. Walter Whiter, author of the _Commentary on Shakespeare_, Lond. 1794, and _Etymologicum Magnum_, Camb., 1800, 4to; enlarged ed., Camb., 1822-25, 3 vols. 4to.--156. Game Chicken: Henry Pierce, nicknamed Game Chicken, beat Gulley, 8th October, 1805 (Egan's _Boxiana_, i., p. 145).--156. Sporting Gentlemen: John Thurtell and Edward Painter ("Ned Flatnose").--158. Harmanbeck: Slang for _constable_--word taken from the _English Rogue_.--161. Batuschca (read _Batyooshca_): See p. 43.--161. Priberjensky, read _Preobrazhenski_: Crack regiment of the Russian Imperial Guard, so called from the barracks situated near the Church of the Transfiguration (_Preobrazhenie_). Page 166. The Fight of 1820, chapter xxvi. We will here give a condensed portion of a chapter which we suppressed from the _Life_. On the 20th of May, 1820, an eager crowd might have been seen pressing up to a card displayed in the Castle Tavern, Norwich. The card was signed _T. C._ and _T. Belcher_; but every one knew that the initials stood for the Champion of England, Thomas Cribb. The purport of the notice was that Edward Painter of Norwich was to fight Thomas Oliver of London for a purse of 100 guineas, on Monday, the 17th of July, in a field within twenty miles of the city. A few days after this announcement, George Borrow was charged by his principals to convey a sum of money to a country gentleman by the name of John Berney Petre, Esq., J.P., residing at Westwick House, some thirteen and a half miles distant on the North Walsham road. The gentleman was just settling the transfer of his inheritance, his father having died eight months before. Borrow walked the entire distance, and while he tarried with the magistrate, the interview took place between him and Thurtell who desired to secure a field for the fight. Mr. Petre could not accommodate them, and they drove on to North Walsham. There they found the "pightle" which suited them in the vicinity of that town, on the road leading to Happisburgh (Hazebro). Norwich began to fill on Saturday, the 15th of July, as the stage-coaches rolled in by the London (now Ipswich) and Newmarket roads. The Inn attached to the Bowling Green on Chapel-Field, then kept by the famous one-legged ex-coachman Dan Gurney (p. 167), was the favourite resort of the "great men" of the day. Belcher, not old Belcher of 1791, but the "Teucer" Belcher, and Cribb, the champion of England, slept at the Castle Tavern, which like Janus had two faces--backed on the Meadows and fronted on White-Lion. The Norfolk in St. Giles and the Angel on the "Walk," housed other varieties of the sporting world. At an early hour on Monday, the 17th, the roads were alive with pedestrians, equestrians, Jews, Gentiles and Gypsies, in coaches, barouches and vehicles of every sort. From Norwich they streamed down Tombland into Magdalen street and road, out on the Coltishall highway, and thence--sixteen and one half miles in all--to North Walsham and the field. One ancient MacGowan (the Scotch for Petulengro) stood on Coltishall bridge and counted 2050 carriages as they swept past. More than 25,000 men and thieves gathered in concentric circles about the stand. I do not propose to attempt the description of this celebrated _pugna_ or "battle with the fists". Those who crave such diversions will find this one portrayed fittingly in the newspapers of the time. The closing passage of one of them has always seemed to me to be a masterpiece of grim brutality: "Oliver's nob was exchequered, and he fell by heavy right- handed blows on his ears and temple. When on his second's knee, his head dangled about like a poppy after a shower." A second fight, this time between Sampson, called the "Birmingham boy," and Martin the "baker," lost much of its interest by reason of the storm described in _Lavengro_. "During the contest," says the _Norfolk Chronicle_, "a most tremendous black cloud informed the spectators that a rare sousing was in preparation for them." And the _Mercury_ states that "the heavy rain drenched the field, and most betook themselves to a retreat, but the rats were all drinkled". Thus the "cloud" was no fiction, by which the Gypsy foretold the dreadful fate awaiting John Thurtell before Hertford gaol, 9th January, 1824. Ned Painter never fought again. He was landlord of the White Hart Inn from 1823 to 1835. The present proprietor still shows his portrait there, with the above fact duly inscribed on the back of the frame. Page 168. Public: The Castle Tavern, Holborn, kept by Tom Belcher--the "Daffy Club".--169. "Here's a health to old honest John Bull:" The verses were taken from a rare old volume entitled: _The Norwich Minstrel_, p. 30, (See _Bibliog._):-- "HONEST JOHN BULL." "Here's a health to 'Old honest John Bull'; When he's gone we shan't find such another; With hearts and with glasses brim full, We'll drink to 'Britannia, his mother'; For she gave him a good education, Bade him keep to his God and his King, Be loyal and true to the nation, And then to get merry and sing. "For John is a good-natured fellow, Industrious, honest and brave; Not afraid of his betters when mellow, For betters he knows he must have. There must be fine lords and fine ladies, There must be some little, some great; Their wealth the support of our trade is, Our trade the support of the State. "Some were born for the court and the city, And some for the village and cot; For it would be a dolorous ditty, If we were born 'equal in lot'. If our ships had no pilots to steer, What would come of poor Jack on the shrouds? Or our troops no commanders to fear, They would soon be arm'd robbers in crowds. "The plough and the loom would stand still, If we were made gentlefolks all; If clodhoppers--who then would fill The parliament, pulpit or hall? 'Rights of Man' makes a very fine sound, 'Equal riches' a plausible tale; Whose labourers would then till the ground? All would drink, but who'd brew the ale? "Half naked and starv'd, in the streets We should wander about, _sans culottes_; Would Liberty find us in meats, Or Equality lengthen our coats? That knaves are for levelling, don't wonder, We may easily guess at their views; Pray, who'd gain the most by the plunder? Why, they that have nothing to lose. "Then away with this nonsense and stuff, Full of treason, confusion and blood; Every Briton has freedom enough To be happy as long as he's good. To be rul'd by a glorious king, To be govern'd by jury and laws; Then let us be happy and sing, 'This, this, is true Liberty's cause'." Page 174. Haik, read _Haik_: Armenian.--178. Conqueror of Tippoo Sahib: General Harris (1791).--181. March: The exact date was discovered by me in private letters in Norwich. See _Life_, i., p. 91. George left Norwich on the evening of 1st April, 1824, and consequently reached London early on the morning of 2nd April.--182. Lodging: No. 16 Millman Street, Bedford Row.--185. The publisher: Sir Richard Phillips.--185. Mr. so-and-so: Taylor of Norwich.--186. The Magazine: _The Monthly Magazine_; _or_, _British Register_.--187. The Oxford Review: _The Universal Review_; _or_, _Chronicle of the Literature of all Nations_. No. 1, March, 1824, to No. 6, January, 1825. See also pp. 190, 203 and ff.--191. Red Julius, called elsewhere by Borrow _Iolo Goch_: A Welsh bard of the fifteenth century.--193. Caesar's Castle: The Tower of London.--194 and 423. Blessed Mary Flanders: Defoe's _Moll Flanders_, See _Bibliog._ at the end of _Romany Rye_.--197. Booksellers' shop: The shop was a depository of the Religious Tract Society, the publishers of Legh Richmond's _Annals of the Poor_, of which the first section was the _Dairyman's Daughter_ (pp. 101).--203. Newly married: Richard, Jr., m. Feb., 1823.--204. "Newgate Lives": The true title was: _Celebrated Trials_, _and Remarkable Cases of Criminal Jurisprudence_, _from the earliest records to the year_ 1825, Lond., 1825 (February), 6 vols. 8vo.--205. Translator of "Faustus": _Faust_, _a Drama by Goethe_, _and Schiller's Song of the Bell_; _translated by Lord Francis Leveson Gower_, Lond., J. Murray, 1823, 8vo; 2nd ed., enlarged, _ibid._, 1825, 2 vols. 8vo.--208. Translator of Quintilian: I doubt whether this was John Carey, LL.D. (1756-1826), who published an edition of Quintilian, 1822, but no _translation_. My information is positive that it was Wm. Gifford, translator of Juvenal, 1802, 3rd ed. 1817.--215. Oxford: This constant satirising of the great English university in connection with the publisher's theory, doubtless grew out of a series of articles printed in the Magazine during the years '23 and '24, and which may be summarised by this notice in vol. lvi., p. 349: "In a few days will appear a series of Dialogues between an Oxford Tutor and a Disciple of the new Commonsense Philosophy; in which the mechanical principles of matter and motion will be accurately contrasted with the theories of occult powers which are at present cherished by the Universities and Royal Associations throughout Europe".--220. Churchyard: St. Giles churchyard where Capt. Borrow was buried on the 4th of March previous.--220. A New Mayor: Inexact. Robert Hawkes was mayor of Norwich in 1822. Therefore he was now _ex_-mayor--220. Man with a Hump: Thomas Osborn Springfield, was not a watchmaker so far as is known in Norwich, but "carried on the wholesale silk business, having almost a monopoly of the market" (Bayne's _Norwich_, p. 588).--221. Painter of the heroic: Benjamin Robert Haydon (1785-1846).--224. Norman Arch: The grand entrance and exit to the Norwich Cathedral, west side.--225. Snap: The Snap-Dragon of Norwich is the _Tarasque_ of the south of France, and the _Tarasca_ of Corpus day in Spain. It represents a Dragon or monster with hideous jaws, supported by men concealed, all but their legs, within its capacious belly, and carried about in civic processions prior to the year 1835; even now it is seen on Guy Fawkes' day, the 5th of November.--Whiffler: An official character of the old Norwich Corporation, strangely uniformed and accoutred, who headed the annual procession on Guildhall day, flourishing a sword in a marvellous manner. All this was abolished on the passage of the Municipal Reform Act in 1835. As a consequence, says a contemporaneous writer, "the Aldermen left off wearing their scarlet gowns, _Snap_ was laid up on a shelf in the 'Sword Room' in the Guildhall, and the _Whifflers_ no longer danced at the head of the procession in their picturesque costume. It was a pretty sight, and their skill in flourishing their short swords was marvellous to behold." See _Romany Rye_, pp. 349-50.--Billy Blind and Owlenglass (Till Eulenspiegel): See _Bibliography_.--228. Brandt and Struensee: For High- Treason in Denmark, 1772. See _Celebrated Trials_, iv., p. 465; and for Richard Patch ("yeoman Patch"), 1805, vol. v., p. 584.--229. Lord Byron: The remains of the poet lay in state from Friday 9th July, 1824, in Sir Edward Knatchbull's house, Great George Street, to Monday the 12th when they were conveyed to Hucknall-Torkard in Nottinghamshire. On that day (12th July) Borrow witnessed the procession as described in the text.--233. Carolan's Receipt: Torlough (_i.e._, Charles) O'Carolan, the celebrated Irish harper and bard, was born at Nobber, Co. Meath, in 1670, and died in 1738. See Alfred Webb's _Compendium of_ _Irish Biography_, Dublin, 1878, p. 372; J. C. Walker's _Irish Bards_, 1786, App., pp. 86- 87, and _Dict. of Nat. Biog._, xli., p. 343. The "Receipt" in _Irish_ is in Walker, and at the end of Vallancey's Irish Grammar, second ed., Dublin, 1781. {565} Here is the translation given in Walker:-- "When by sickness or sorrow assail'd, To the mansion of Stafford I hie'd His advice or his cordial ne'er fail'd To relieve me--nor e'er was denied. "At midnight our glasses went round, In the morning a cup he would send; By the force of his wit he has found That my life did on drinking depend. "With the spirit of Whiskey inspir'd, By my Harp e'en the pow'r is confess'd; 'Tis then that my genius is fir'd, 'Tis then I sing sweetest and best. "Ye friends and ye neighbours draw near, Attend to the close of my song; Remember, if life you hold dear, That drinking your life will prolong." Curiously enough among the subscribers to the _Romantic Ballads_, Norwich, 1826, we find these names: (p. 185) "F. Arden, Esq., London, five copies," "T. G. O'Donnahoo, Esq., London, five copies;" (p. 187) "Mr. J. Turner, London". Page 244. The Review: The Review actually ceased January, 1825, with its sixth number.--268. Laham: In Heb. bread is _lehem_; but our author probably wrote it by sound. _Z'hats_ is the acc. of _hats_, the Arm. for bread; for as Borrow's source, old Villotte (1714), says: "_Accusativus praefigit nominativo literam z_".--270 and 286. Mesroub, read _Miesrob_, who, about A.D. 450 introduced the Armenian alphabet. 271. Sea in Arm. is _dzow_. See _Romany Rye_, p. 356--281. Adelante (Span.): Come in.--281. Bueno (Span.): Good. This sound of the word _bueno_, heard in 1825 from the Jew Manasseh, was brought to Borrow's memory in 1836 when he met the Jew Abarbanel on the roads in Spain. See _B. in S._, p. 65, sm. ed.--282. Una vez, etc. (Span.): On one occasion when he was intoxicated.--282. Goyim (Heb.): Nations, Gentiles.--282. Lasan akhades, read _Lashon haqqodesh_: Sacred language, _i.e._, Hebrew.--282. Janin: Wine in Heb. is _yayim_ (not _yanin_), but our author quoted correctly from the _Dialoghi di Amore composti per Leone Medico_, Vinegia, 1541, and the Span. ed. (which I use): _Los Dialogos de Amor de mestre Leon Abarbanel medico y Filosofo excelente_, Venetia, 1568, sm. 410 (Bodleian). The passage is: "And he (Noah), after the flood, was called _Janus_ on account of his invention of wine, for _Janin_ in Hebrew signifies wine, and he is represented with two faces turned in opposite directions, because he saw before the flood and after it". {566} G. B. always writes Abarb_e_nel for Abarb_a_nel. His true name was Leo Abrabanel.--282. Janinoso (Judaeo-Span.) meaning _vinosus_, intoxicated.--283. Epicouraiyim: Christians, as below, the "Epicureans," for so the rabbis of the East call us in the West--properly, "unbelievers". But Borrow's form is not found in Buxtorf (1869)--read [unknown Hebrew text] _Epikurosin_ and (pop.) _Epikurin_.--285. Sephardim: Spanish and Portuguese Jews, as the _Ashkenazim_ are the German Jews.--290 to 301. I am at . . .: Greenwich, Blackheath and Shooter's Hill (301).--304. Colonel B. . . .: Col. Blood. See _Celebrated Trials_, vol. ii., pp. 248-354: "Thomas Blood, generally called Colonel Blood, who stole the crown from the Tower of London, 1671".--317. Got fare to . . ., read Amesbury, Wilts.--323. City of the Spire: Salisbury.--325. From . . ., read Bristol.--330. Stranger: Could not be William Beckford (1759-1844) of Fonthill Park, three miles from Hinton, a dozen or fifteen miles from Salisbury. Besides the place was sold in 1822 and George Mortimer occupied it in 1825. Borrow had been walking _five_ days in a N.W. direction from Salisbury, and all his narrative harmonises with the places and dates that bring him to Horncastle in August, 1825--362. Abedariums, read _abecedariums_.--363. Flaming Tinman: He is also called by Borrow, Blazing Tinman, Flying Tinker, Blazing Bosville or Boswell, and finally Anselo Herne, his true clan-name.--367. Ten years ago, _i.e._, thirteen, when he was at Tamworth in April or May, 1812.--377. The Romany chi, etc.: See p. 387 for the translation.--379. Answer to the gillie: The Rommany churl and the Rommany girl love thieving and spaeing and lying and everything but honesty and truth.--390. Peth yw, etc. (W.): What is that lying there on the ground? _Yn wirionedd_, in truth, surely.--390. Gwenwyn: Poison! Poison! the lad has been poisoned!--394. Hanged the mayor: The suppressed name of the Welshman and the whole account of the affair is given in _Wild Wales_, p. 7 (chapter iii).--404. Bardd Cwsg: The Sleeping Bard, by Ellis Wynn. See _Bibliog._--421. Merddin Wyllt (_Myrddin_): _i.e._, Wild Merlin, called the Wizard.--423. Found written: See _Moll Flanders_ by Defoe, p. 188, ed. 1722: "Oh! what a felicity is it to mankind," _said I_, "that they cannot see into the hearts of one another!" I have carefully re-read the whole volume of _Moll Flanders_, and find no such passages as those referred to here, save the one above. Hence, we may justly infer that Borrow quoted the _spirit_, rather than the words, of his author. See _Romany Rye_, pp. 305-6.--431. Catraeth, read _Cattraeth_. The reference is to Aneurin's book, the _Gododin_, or Battle of Cattraeth. See _Bibliog._--432. Fish or flesh: See Borrow's _Targum_, St. Petersb., 1835, p. 76, under the "History of Taliesin," ending:-- "I saw the end with horror Of Sodom and Gomorrah! And with this very eye Have seen the [Trinity]; I till the judgment day Upon the earth shall stray: _None knows for certainty_ _Whether fish or flesh I be_." The original Welsh of the "Hanes Taliesin" is in the _Gorchestion Beirdd Cymru_, 1773--_Bibliog._ at the end of _Romany Rye_.--432. Take this: This Bible, with Peter Williams' name in it, was sold in London in 1886 out of Geo. Borrow's collection.--443. Mumpers' Dingle: Near Willenhall, Staffordshire. The place is properly _Momber_ or _Monmer Lane_, and is now occupied by the "Monmer Lane Ironworks," hence totally obliterated.--444. Volundr (_Volundr_): The Wayland Smith of Northern legends. See in the _Bibliog._ under "Wayland Smith," and Mallet, p. 570.--456. Ingeborg: The lines are from the _Romantic Ballads_ of 1826, p. 58, entitled the "Heroes of Dovrefeld. From the old Danish."--456. "As I was jawing:" Text and translation of the whole eight lines are found on pp. 182-83 of the _Lavo-Lil_, 1874:-- _As I to the town was going one day_ _My Roman lass I met by the way_. The _MS._ is somewhat different--"Rommany" instead of _Roman_, and the last line, "If you will share my lot with me".--469. The man in black: This priest seems to have been a Fraser of Lovat. See _Romany Rye_, p. 25, and "Arbuthnot" in the _Bibliog._--481. Armenian: It must be remembered that Borrow's Armenian was limited to the Introduction, Grammar and Lat.-Arm. Dict. of the Jesuit Joseph Villotte, 1714, fol., which he picked up at Norwich in 1822-23 as he tells us on p. 175, and _Romany Rye_, p. 92. Hence all his examples are taken from that book--_mi_, one; _yergou_, two; _yerek_, three, and those in _Romany Rye_.--482. Buona sera (It.): Good evening.--482. Per far visita, etc.: To pay your lordship a call, that is my motive.--486. Che io non, etc., read _ch' in_, etc.: That I do not believe at all.--488. Addio: Farewell.--497. Pulci: See the _Bibliog._ This version is rather free and _local_. Here is the original (canto xviii., f. 97, ed. 1546):-- _Rispose allhor Margutte_: "_A dirtel tosto_, _Io non credo piu al nero ch' a l'azzurro_, _Ma nel cappone_, _o lesso_, _o_, _vuogli_, _arrosto_, _E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro_, _Nella cervogia_, _e_, _quando io n'ho_, _nel mosto_, _E molto pui nell' aspro che il mangurro_, _Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fede_, _E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede_." 503. O Cavaliere, etc.: Oh, Sir Walter, ye have wrought much in behalf of the Holy See!--504. Poveri frati: Poor friars!--508. One fellow I met: See the postillion's story on pp. 536-48.--513. Master in Arm. is _d'yer_; of a master, _d'yearn_; pl., _d'yeark_.--515. Koul Adonai, read _Kol A_. The next quotation is from part of verse 4 of the xxixth Psalm, which he gives according to the prayer-book version. LIST OF GYPSY WORDS IN _LAVENGRO_ Adrey, in. Ambrol, pear. Ande, in, into. Andre, in, within. Angar, charcoal, coals. Apopli, again. Aukko, here is. Ava, yes. Avali, yes. Avella, comes, is coming. Baro, large, big. Bawlor, swine. Bebee (aunt), grandmother. Bengui, devil. Bitchadey, pl. sent. Bitchadey pawdel (p. 300), an error for _bitchado pawdel_, sing. Boro, great. Borodromengro, highwayman. Boro foros, London. Cafi, horse-shoe nail. Cana, when. Caulor, shillings. Chabe, pl. of Chabo, child, lad, Gypsy. Chachipen, truth. Chal, lad, Gypsy. Chal Devlehi, go with God, farewell. Chavo, _i.q. chabo_. Chi, girl, lass, Gypsy. Chinomescro, chisel. Chipes, pl. tongues. Chive, to throw; pass (bad money). Chivios, he or it is cast. Chong, hill. Chong gav, Norwich. Churi, knife. Coor, to strike, hammer. Cooromengro, boxer. Covantza, anvil. Dearginni (Hung. G.), it thunders. Dinelo, a fool, silly. Divvus, day. Dloovu, money (for _lovo_). Dook, to bewitch, to spirit away. Dook, spirit, soul, divining spirit, demon, ghost. Dosta, enough. Dovey odoi, that there, up yonder. Drab, herb, poison. Drab, to poison. Drom, road, way. Drow (often pl.), drugs; poison. Dui, two. Dukker_in_ (the _in_ is Eng. "ing"), any one's fortune, or fortunes, fate, fortune-telling. Dukker_in_ dook, the fortune-telling or divining spirit or demon. Dukkeripen, fortune-telling. Duvel, God. Duvelskoe, divine. Engro (mere _ending_), Borrovian for "master," "fellow," "chap". Foros, city, town. Gav, village, town. Gillie, song, ditty. Gorgio, non-gypsy, stranger, somebody, police. G. avella, some one is coming. G. shunella, some one is listening. G.'s welling, the police are about. Gorgious, adj. formed from _gorgio_. Grandbabee, see _bebee_. Grondinni (_Roumanian_ G.), it hails. Gry, horse, pony. Harkomescro, tinker. Hinjiri, executioner. Hir mi Devlis, by my G---. Hokkeripen, falsehood. Jaw, to go. Jaw-ing, going. Jib, tongue, language. Juggal, dog. Juwa, woman. Kauley, f. of Kaulo, black, dark. Kaulomescro, blacksmith. Kaured, stole. Kekaubi, kettle. Ker, house. Kosko, good. Kral or Krallis, king. Lachipen, honesty. Lavengro, "word-master," "philologist". Leste, him. Lil, book. Loovu, coin, money. Lundra, London. Luripen, theft, robbery. Mailla, donkey. Manricli, cake. Manro, bread. Manus, man. Marel (read _merel_), dies. Men, we. Mensar (read _mensa_), with us. Miro, my. Morro, bread. Muchtar, tool-box. Nashkado, lost, hanged. Nashky, gallows. O, the. Odoi, there; dovey o., yonder. Pa, over, for. Pal, brother, friend, mate. Palor, brothers. Parraco, I thank. Pawdel, on the other side, across; bitchadey p., transported. Pen, to say, to tell; penning, telling. Peshota, pl. bellows. Petul, horse-shoe. Petulengro, smith. Pindro, hoof, foot. Pios, health (in toasting). Plaistra, pincers. Plastramengro, runner, detective. Poknees, magistrate. Prala (_voc._). brother. Pudamengro, blower, bellows. Puro, old, ancient. Puv, earth, ground. Ran, stick, cane. Rati, blood, stock. Rikkeni, f. of Rikkeno, pretty, fine. Rin, file. Rom, husband; Gypsy. Roman, Borrovian for Gypsy. Romaneskoenaes, in Gypsy fashion. Romanly (Bor.), in Gypsy, G.-like. Romano, Gypsy. Rome and dree (Rom andre?) Gypsy at heart. Romi, wife. Rommanis, in Gypsy. Rommany, Gypsy. Rommany Chal, Eng. Gypsy. Rommany Chi, f. Eng. Gypsy-girl. Rovel, weeps. Rye, gentleman; farming r., farmer. Sap, snake. Sapengro, snake-catcher. Sastra, iron. Sastramescro, worker in iron, smith. Scoppelo, ninny. Sherengro, head man. Shoon, to hear, to listen. Shukaro, hammer. Shunella, is listening. Si, is, are. Sore, all (who). Ta, and. Tacho rommanis, faithful wife. Tan, tent. Tasaulor (ta-sorlo), to-morrow. Tatchipen, truth. Tawno Chickno, "Shorty". Tu, thy. Tute, thee. Vagescoe chipes, tongues of fire. Villaminni (Hung. G.), it lightens. Wafodo, bad, false. Welling (corruption of _avella_), coming. G.'s welling, "the hawks are abroad". Wesh, forest. Yag, fire. Yeck, one. Zigan (_Slavic_), Gypsy. Zingaro (_Italian_), Gypsy. PRINTED BY HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD., LONDON AND AYLESBURY Footnotes: {0a} We are all relations, all alike; all who are with us are ourselves. {0b} _Chal_ is simply the contraction of _chaval_, a form cognate with _chavoro_ the diminutive of _chavo_, a lad. _Chaval_ is still common in Spain, both among the Gypsies and the lower orders of Spaniards.--ED. {1a} _MS._, "On the fifth day of July, 1803, at East D---, a beautiful little town in the western division of Norfolk, I first saw the light". {1b} "In Cornwall are the best gentlemen."--_Corn. Prov._ {2a} _MS._, "after being insulted by him". {2b} So in _MSS._; "manly," an erratum. {3} _MS._, "Orford". {13} Norwegian ells--about eight feet. {23} _MS._, "in regimental slang". {34} _MS._, "Ambrose" throughout the book. {81} _MS._, "like the philologist Scaliger, who, though acquainted with the exact value of every word in the Latin language, could see no beauty in the 'Enchantments of Canidia,' the masterpiece of the prince of Roman poets. What knew he," etc. {112} _MS. note_: "Written in 1843". {115} _MS._, "a Monsieur Peyrecourt" or "Pierrecourt". {126} _MS._, "Simpson". {137} Klopstock. {158} _MS._, "John Thurtell". {185} _MS._, "Bartlett". {187} _MS._, "Saviour". {190} _MS._, "High Tory principles". {201} _MS._, "_Arden_" throughout. {210} The _MS._ develops this paragraph as follows:-- So Francis Ardry called upon me, and right glad I was that he did so; and after we had sat conversing for some time, he said, "Did you ever see Kean?" "No," said I, "but I have heard both of him and of Belcher. I should like to see either, especially the latter. Where are they to be found?" "I know nothing of the latter," said Frank, "but if you wish to see Kean, you had better come with me where he will appear to-night after a long absence. The public are anxiously waiting for him, intending to pelt him off the stage." "And what has he done," said I, "to be pelted off the stage?" "What is very naughty," said Frank; "breaking one of the commandments." "And did he break the commandment on the stage?" "No," said Frank, "I never heard that he broke it on the stage, except in the way of his profession." "Then, what have the public to do with the matter?" "They think they have," said Frank. And then we went out together to see Shakespeare's "Richard," or rather we went to see the man who was to personate Shakespeare's "Richard"--and so did thousands; we did not see him, however. There was a great tumult, I remember, in the theatre. The man who was to perform the part of Richard, and who it was said was the best hand for interpreting the character that had ever appeared on the stage, had a short time before been involved in a disgraceful affair, and this was to be his first appearance on the stage since the discovery. The consequence was that crowds flocked to the theatre with the firm intention of expressing their indignation. "We will pelt his eyes out," said a man who sat beside me in the pit--for we sat in the pit--and who bore the breach of all the commandments in his face. The actor in question, however, who perhaps heard the threats which were vented against him, very prudently kept out of the way, and the manager coming forward informed the public that another would perform the part--whereupon there was a great uproar. "We have been imposed upon," said the individual who sat beside me. "I came here for nothing else than to pelt that scoundrel off the stage." The uproar, however, at length subsided, and the piece commenced. In a little time there was loud applause. The actor who had appeared in place of the other was performing. "What do you clap for?" said I to the individual by my side, who was clapping most of all. "What do I clap for?" said the man. "Why, to encourage Macready, to be sure. Don't you see how divinely he acts? why, he beats Kean hollow. Besides that, he's a moral man, and I like morality." "Do you mean to say," said I, "that he was never immoral?" "I neither know nor care," said the man; "all I know is that he has never been found out. It will never do to encourage a public man who has been found out. No, no! the morality of the stage must be seen after." {212} _MS._ "Charlie" and "Charlie's" throughout. {222} The _MS._ adds: "'It will, perhaps, be as well, first of all, to go to the exhibition of British art, which is at present open. I hear he has a picture there, which he has just finished. We will look at it, and from that you may form a tolerable estimate of his powers.' Thereupon my brother led the way, and we presently found ourselves in the Gallery of British Art." {231} _Arden_ throughout the _MS._ {232} The text is: "_Malheur_, as the French say, _that_ it is so choked". {235} "Bishop Sharpe," a pugilist of that name and time. {236} _Three are after my death_. {249} _MS._ (apparently) "L---," but see p. 276. {250a} _MS._, "is quite as rational an amusement as politics". {250b} _Le Noir_ in MS. _A_, and in _Rom. Rye_, app. {251a} _MS._, "L---," or "T." {251b} _MS._, "Canning". {350} _MS._, "The Times". {484} _MS._ "Lord A[berdeen]". {553} The one sole emendation consists in substituting the masc. _cheval_ for the fem. _jument_, on p. 314. _Le_ jument est _beau_ was a solecism that could not longer be tolerated. {555} _Boxiana_, ii., 497. {565} Beginning-- _Mas tinn no slan atharlaigheas fein_, _Do ghluais me tra_, _agus bfheirde me_, _Air cuairt an Seoin le socal dfhaghail_, "_An Stafartach saimh_, _nach gnath gan cheill_." {566} "El qual (Noe) despues del diluuio, por su inuencion del uino, fue lhamado lano, porque Ianin en ebraico quiere dezir uino, y lo pintan con dos caras boltadas, porque tuuo uista antes del diluuio y despues" (_Foja_ 71, _verso_). 
22878	----	Transcribed from the 1901 Methuen & Co edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org LAVENGRO The Scholar--The Gypsy--The Priest _By_ GEORGE BORROW _WITH NOTES AND AN INTRODUCTION_ BY F. HINDES GROOME VOLUME II _WITH A FRONTISPIECE_ LONDON METHUEN & CO 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. MDCCCCI {Picture of Norwich Cathedral: p0.jpg} CHAPTER XLIX Singular Personage--A Large Sum--Papa of Rome--We are Christians--Degenerate Armenians--Roots of Ararat--Regular Features. The Armenian! I frequently saw this individual, availing myself of the permission which he had given me to call upon him. A truly singular personage was he, with his love of amassing money, and his nationality so strong as to be akin to poetry. Many an Armenian I have subsequently known fond of money-getting, and not destitute of national spirit; but never another who, in the midst of his schemes of lucre, was at all times willing to enter into a conversation on the structure of the Haik language, or who ever offered me money to render into English the fables of Z--- in the hope of astonishing the stock-jobbers of the Exchange with the wisdom of the Haik Esop. But he was fond of money, very fond. Within a little time I had won his confidence to such a degree that he informed me that the grand wish of his heart was to be possessed of two hundred thousand pounds. "I think you might satisfy yourself with the half," said I. "One hundred thousand pounds is a large sum." "You are mistaken," said the Armenian, "a hundred thousand pounds is nothing. My father left me that or more at his death. No, I shall never be satisfied with less than two." "And what will you do with your riches," said I, "when you have obtained them? Will you sit down and muse upon them, or will you deposit them in a cellar, and go down once a day to stare at them? I have heard say that the fulfilment of one's wishes is invariably the precursor of extreme misery, and forsooth I can scarcely conceive a more horrible state of existence than to be without a hope or wish." "It is bad enough, I dare say," said the Armenian; "it will, however, be time enough to think of disposing of the money when I have procured it. I still fall short by a vast sum of the two hundred thousand pounds." I had occasionally much conversation with him on the state and prospects of his nation, especially of that part of it which still continued in the original country of the Haiks--Ararat and its confines, which, it appeared, he had frequently visited. He informed me that since the death of the last Haik monarch, which occurred in the eleventh century, Armenia had been governed both temporally and spiritually by certain personages called patriarchs; their temporal authority, however, was much circumscribed by the Persian and Turk, especially the former, of whom the Armenian spoke with much hatred, whilst their spiritual authority had at various times been considerably undermined by the emissaries of the Papa of Rome, as the Armenian called him. "The Papa of Rome sent his emissaries at an early period amongst us," said the Armenian, "seducing the minds of weak-headed people, persuading them that the hillocks of Rome are higher than the ridges of Ararat; that the Roman Papa has more to say in heaven than the Armenian patriarch, and that puny Latin is a better language than nervous and sonorous Haik." "They are both dialects," said I, "of the language of Mr. Petulengro, one of whose race I believe to have been the original founder of Rome; but, with respect to religion, what are the chief points of your faith? you are Christians, I believe." "Yes," said the Armenian, "we are Christians in our way; we believe in God, the Holy Spirit, and Saviour, though we are not prepared to admit that the last Personage is not only Himself, but the other two. We believe. . . " and then the Armenian told me of several things which the Haiks believed or disbelieved. "But what we find most hard of all to believe," said he, "is that the man of the mole hills is entitled to our allegiance, he not being a Haik, or understanding the Haik language." "But, by your own confession," said I, "he has introduced a schism in your nation, and has amongst you many that believe in him." "It is true," said the Armenian, "that even on the confines of Ararat there are a great number who consider that mountain to be lower than the hillocks of Rome; but the greater number of degenerate Armenians are to be found amongst those who have wandered to the West; most of the Haik Churches of the West consider Rome to be higher than Ararat--most of the Armenians of this place hold that dogma; I, however, have always stood firm in the contrary opinion." "Ha! ha!"--here the Armenian laughed in his peculiar manner--"talking of this matter puts me in mind of an adventure which lately befell me, with one of the emissaries of the Papa of Rome, for the Papa of Rome has at present many emissaries in this country, in order to seduce the people from their own quiet religion to the savage heresy of Rome; this fellow came to me partly in the hope of converting me, but principally to extort money for the purpose of furthering the designs of Rome in this country. I humoured the fellow at first, keeping him in play for nearly a month, deceiving and laughing at him. At last he discovered that he could make nothing of me, and departed with the scowl of Caiaphas, whilst I cried after him, 'The roots of Ararat are _deeper_ than those of Rome.'" The Armenian had occasionally reverted to the subject of the translation of the Haik Esop, which he had still a lurking desire that I should execute; but I had invariably declined the undertaking, without, however, stating my reasons. On one occasion, when we had been conversing on the subject, the Armenian, who had been observing my countenance for some time with much attention, remarked, "Perhaps, after all, you are right, and you might employ your time to better advantage. Literature is a fine thing, especially Haik literature, but neither that nor any other would be likely to serve as a foundation to a man's fortune: and to make a fortune should be the principal aim of every one's life; therefore listen to me. Accept a seat at the desk opposite to my Moldavian clerk, and receive the rudiments of a merchant's education. You shall be instructed in the Armenian way of doing business--I think you would make an excellent merchant." "Why do you think so?" "Because you have something of the Armenian look." "I understand you," said I; "you mean to say that I squint!" "Not exactly," said the Armenian, "but there is certainly a kind of irregularity in your features. One eye appears to me larger than the other--never mind, but rather rejoice; in that irregularity consists your strength. All people with regular features are fools; it is very hard for them, you'll say, but there is no help: all we can do, who are not in such a predicament, is to pity those who are. Well! will you accept my offer? No! you are a singular individual; but I must not forget my own concerns. I must now go forth, having an appointment by which I hope to make money." CHAPTER L Wish Fulfilled--Extraordinary Figure--Bueno--Noah--The Two Faces--I Don't Blame Him--Too Fond of Money--Were I an Armenian. The fulfilment of the Armenian's grand wish was nearer at hand than either he or I had anticipated. Partly owing to the success of a bold speculation, in which he had some time previously engaged, and partly owing to the bequest of a large sum of money by one of his nation who died at this period in Paris, he found himself in the possession of a fortune somewhat exceeding two hundred thousand pounds; this fact he communicated to me one evening about an hour after the close of 'Change; the hour at which I generally called, and at which I mostly found him at home. "Well," said I, "and what do you intend to do next?" "I scarcely know," said the Armenian. "I was thinking of that when you came in. I don't see anything that I can do, save going on in my former course. After all, I was perhaps too moderate in making the possession of two hundred thousand pounds the summit of my ambition; there are many individuals in this town who possess three times that sum, and are not yet satisfied. No, I think I can do no better than pursue the old career; who knows but I may make the two hundred thousand three or four?--there is already a surplus, which is an encouragement; however, we will consider the matter over a goblet of wine; I have observed of late that you have become partial to my Cyprus." And it came to pass that, as we were seated over the Cyprus wine, we heard a knock at the door. "Adelante!" cried the Armenian; whereupon the door opened, and in walked a somewhat extraordinary figure--a man in a long loose tunic of a stuff striped with black and yellow; breeches of plush velvet, silk stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. On his head he wore a high-peaked hat; he was tall, had a hooked nose, and in age was about fifty. "Welcome, Rabbi Manasseh," said the Armenian. "I know your knock--you are welcome; sit down." "I am welcome," said Manasseh, sitting down; "he! he! he! you know my knock--I bring you money--_bueno_!" There was something very peculiar in the sound of that _bueno_--I never forgot it. Thereupon a conversation ensued between Rabbi Manasseh and the Armenian, in a language which I knew to be Spanish, though a peculiar dialect. It related to a mercantile transaction. The Rabbi sighed heavily as he delivered to the other a considerable sum of money. "It is right," said the Armenian, handing a receipt. "It is right; and I am quite satisfied." "You are satisfied--you have taken money. _Bueno_, I have nothing to say against your being satisfied." "Come, Rabbi," said the Armenian, "do not despond; it may be your turn next to take money; in the meantime, can't you be persuaded to taste my Cyprus?" "He! he! he! senor, you know I do not love wine. I love Noah when he is himself; but, as Janus, I love him not. But you are merry; _bueno_, you have a right to be so." "Excuse me," said I; "but does Noah ever appear as Janus?" "He! he! he!" said the Rabbi, "he only appeared as Janus once--una vez quando estuvo borracho; which means--" "I understand," said I; "when he was . . . " and I drew the side of my right hand sharply across my left wrist. "Are you one of our people?" said the Rabbi. "No," said I, "I am one of the Goyim; but I am only half enlightened. Why should Noah be Janus when he was in that state?" "He! he! he! you must know that in Lasan akhades wine is janin." "In Armenian, kini," said I; "in Welsh, gwin; Latin, vinum; but do you think that Janus and janin are one?" "Do I think? Don't the commentators say so? Does not Master Leo Abarbenel say so, in his 'Dialogues of Divine Love'?" "But," said I, "I always thought that Janus was a god of the ancient Romans, who stood in a temple open in time of war, and shut in time of peace; he was represented with two faces, which--which--" "He! he! he!" said the Rabbi, rising from his seat; "he had two faces, had he? And what did those two faces typify? You do not know; no, nor did the Romans who carved him with two faces know why they did so; for they were only half enlightened, like you and the rest of the Goyim. Yet they were right in carving him with two faces looking from each other--they were right, though they knew not why; there was a tradition among them that the Janinoso had two faces, but they knew not that one was for the world which was gone, and the other for the world before him--for the drowned world, and for the present, as Master Leo Abarbenel says in his 'Dialogues of Divine Love.' He! he! he!" continued the Rabbi, who had by this time advanced to the door, and, turning round, waved the two forefingers of his right hand in our faces; "the Goyims and Epicouraiyim are clever men, they know how to make money better than we of Israel. My good friend there is a clever man, I bring him money, he never brought me any; _bueno_, I do not blame him, he knows much, very much; but one thing there is my friend does not know, nor any of the Epicureans, he does not know the sacred thing--he has never received the gift of interpretation which God alone gives to the seed--he has his gift, I have mine--he is satisfied, I don't blame him, _bueno_." And, with this last word in his mouth, he departed. "Is that man a native of Spain?" I demanded. "Not a native of Spain," said the Armenian, "though he is one of those who call themselves Spanish Jews, and who are to be found scattered throughout Europe, speaking the Spanish language transmitted to them by their ancestors, who were expelled from Spain in the time of Ferdinand and Isabella." "The Jews are a singular people," said I. "A race of cowards and dastards," said the Armenian, "without a home or country; servants to servants; persecuted and despised by all." "And what are the Haiks?" I demanded. "Very different from the Jews," replied the Armenian; "the Haiks have a home--a country, and can occasionally use a good sword; though it is true they are not what they might be." "Then it is a shame that they do not become so," said I; "but they are too fond of money. There is yourself, with two hundred thousand pounds in your pocket, craving for more, whilst you might be turning your wealth to the service of your country." "In what manner?" said the Armenian. "I have heard you say that the grand oppressor of your country is the Persian; why not attempt to free your country from his oppression?--you have two hundred thousand pounds, and money is the sinew of war." "Would you, then, have me attack the Persian?" "I scarcely know what to say; fighting is a rough trade, and I am by no means certain that you are calculated for the scratch. It is not every one who has been brought up in the school of Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno. All I can say is, that if I were an Armenian, and had two hundred thousand pounds to back me, I would attack the Persian." "Hem!" said the Armenian. CHAPTER LI The One Half-Crown--Merit in Patience--Cementer of Friendship--Dreadful Perplexity--The Usual Guttural--Armenian Letters--Much Indebted to You--Pure Helplessness--Dumb People. One morning on getting up I discovered that my whole worldly wealth was reduced to one half-crown--throughout that day I walked about in considerable distress of mind; it was now requisite that I should come to a speedy decision with respect to what I was to do; I had not many alternatives, and, before I had retired to rest on the night of the day in question, I had determined that I could do no better than accept the first proposal of the Armenian, and translate under his superintendence the Haik Esop into English. I reflected, for I made a virtue of necessity, that, after all, such an employment would be an honest and honourable one; honest, inasmuch as by engaging in it I should do harm to nobody; honourable, inasmuch as it was a literary task, which not every one was capable of executing. It was not every one of the booksellers' writers of London who was competent to translate the Haik Esop. I determined to accept the offer of the Armenian. Once or twice the thought of what I might have to undergo in the translation from certain peculiarities of the Armenian's temper almost unsettled me; but a mechanical diving of my hand into my pocket, and the feeling of the solitary half-crown, confirmed me; after all, this was a life of trial and tribulation, and I had read somewhere or other that there was much merit in patience, so I determined to hold fast in my resolution of accepting the offer of the Armenian. But all of a sudden I remembered that the Armenian appeared to have altered his intentions towards me: he appeared no longer desirous that I should render the Haik Esop into English for the benefit of the stock- jobbers on Exchange, but rather that I should acquire the rudiments of doing business in the Armenian fashion, and accumulate a fortune, which would enable me to make a figure upon 'Change with the best of the stock- jobbers. "Well," thought I, withdrawing my hand from my pocket, whither it had again mechanically dived, "after all, what would the world, what would this city be, without commerce? I believe the world, and particularly this city, would cut a very poor figure without commerce; and then there is something poetical in the idea of doing business after the Armenian fashion, dealing with dark-faced Lascars and Rabbins of the Sephardim. Yes, should the Armenian insist upon it, I will accept a seat at the desk, opposite the Moldavian clerk. I do not like the idea of cuffs similar to those the Armenian bestowed upon the Moldavian clerk; whatever merit there may be in patience, I do not think that my estimation of the merit of patience would be sufficient to induce me to remain quietly sitting under the infliction of cuffs. I think I should, in the event of his cuffing me, knock the Armenian down. Well, I think I have heard it said somewhere, that a knock-down blow is a great cementer of friendship; I think I have heard of two people being better friends than ever after the one had received from the other a knock-down blow." That night I dreamed I had acquired a colossal fortune, some four hundred thousand pounds, by the Armenian way of doing business, but suddenly awoke in dreadful perplexity as to how I should dispose of it. About nine o'clock next morning I set off to the house of the Armenian; I had never called upon him so early before, and certainly never with a heart beating with so much eagerness; but the situation of my affairs had become very critical, and I thought that I ought to lose no time in informing the Armenian that I was at length perfectly willing either to translate the Haik Esop under his superintendence, or to accept a seat at the desk opposite to the Moldavian clerk, and acquire the secrets of Armenian commerce. With a quick step I entered the counting-room, where, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, I found the clerk, busied as usual at his desk. He had always appeared to me a singular being, this same Moldavian clerk. A person of fewer words could scarcely be conceived: provided his master were at home, he would, on my inquiring, nod his head; and, provided he were not, he would invariably reply with the monosyllable, no, delivered in a strange guttural tone. On the present occasion, being full of eagerness and impatience, I was about to pass by him to the apartment above, without my usual inquiry, when he lifted his head from the ledger in which he was writing, and, laying down his pen, motioned to me with his forefinger, as if to arrest my progress; whereupon I stopped, and, with a palpitating heart, demanded whether the master of the house was at home. The Moldavian clerk replied with his usual guttural, and, opening his desk, ensconced his head therein. "It does not much matter," said I, "I suppose I shall find him at home after 'Change; it does not much matter, I can return." I was turning away with the intention of leaving the room; at this moment, however, the head of the Moldavian clerk became visible, and I observed a letter in his hand, which he had inserted in the desk at the same time with his head; this he extended towards me, making at the same time a side-long motion with his head, as much as to say that it contained something which interested me. I took the letter, and the Moldavian clerk forthwith resumed his occupation. The back of the letter bore my name, written in Armenian characters; with a trembling hand I broke the seal, and, unfolding the letter, I beheld several lines also written in the letters of Mesroub, the Cadmus of the Armenians. I stared at the lines, and at first could not make out a syllable of their meaning; at last, however, by continued staring, I discovered that, though the letters were Armenian, the words were English; in about ten minutes I had contrived to decipher the sense of the letter; it ran somewhat in this style:-- "MY DEAR FRIEND,--The words which you uttered in our last conversation have made a profound impression upon me; I have thought them over day and night, and have come to the conclusion that it is my bounden duty to attack the Persians. When these lines are delivered to you, I shall be on the route to Ararat. A mercantile speculation will be to the world the ostensible motive of my journey, and it is singular enough that one which offers considerable prospect of advantage has just presented itself on the confines of Persia. Think not, however, that motives of lucre would have been sufficiently powerful to tempt me to the East at the present moment. I may speculate, it is true, but I should scarcely have undertaken the journey but for your pungent words inciting me to attack the Persians. Doubt not that I will attack them on the first opportunity. I thank you heartily for putting me in mind of my duty. I have hitherto, to use your own words, been too fond of money-getting, like all my countrymen. I am much indebted to you; farewell! and may every prosperity await you." For some time after I had deciphered the epistle, I stood as if rooted to the floor. I felt stunned--my last hope was gone; presently a feeling arose in my mind--a feeling of self-reproach. Whom had I to blame but myself for the departure of the Armenian? Would he have ever thought of attacking the Persians had I not put the idea into his head? he had told me in his epistle that he was indebted to me for the idea. But for that, he might at the present moment have been in London, increasing his fortune by his usual methods, and I might be commencing under his auspices the translation of the Haik Esop, with the promise, no doubt, of a considerable remuneration for my trouble; or I might be taking a seat opposite the Moldavian clerk, and imbibing the first rudiments of doing business after the Armenian fashion, with the comfortable hope of realising, in a short time, a fortune of three or four hundred thousand pounds; but the Armenian was now gone, and farewell to the fine hopes I had founded upon him the day before. What was I to do? I looked wildly around, till my eyes rested on the Moldavian clerk, who was writing away in his ledger with particular vehemence. Not knowing well what to do or to say, I thought I might as well ask the Moldavian clerk when the Armenian had departed, and when he thought that he would return. It is true it mattered little to me when he departed, seeing that he was gone, and it was evident that he would not be back soon; but I knew not what to do, and in pure helplessness thought I might as well ask; so I went up to the Moldavian clerk, and asked him when the Armenian had departed, and whether he had been gone two days or three? Whereupon the Moldavian clerk, looking up from his ledger, made certain signs, which I could by no means understand. I stood astonished, but, presently recovering myself, inquired when he considered it probable that the master would return, and whether he thought it would be two months or--my tongue faltered--two years; whereupon the Moldavian clerk made more signs than before, and yet more unintelligible; as I persisted, however, he flung down his pen, and, putting his thumb into his mouth, moved it rapidly, causing the nail to sound against the lower jaw; whereupon I saw that he was dumb, and hurried away, for I had always entertained a horror of dumb people, having once heard my mother say, when I was a child, that dumb people were half demoniacs, or little better. CHAPTER LII Kind of Stupor--Peace of God--Divine Hand--Farewell, Child--The Fair--Massive Edifice--Battered Tars--Lost! Lost!--Good Day, Gentlemen. Leaving the house of the Armenian, I strolled about for some time; almost mechanically my feet conducted me to London Bridge, to the booth in which stood the stall of the old apple-woman; the sound of her voice aroused me, as I sat in a kind of stupor on the stone bench beside her; she was inquiring what was the matter with me. At first, I believe, I answered her very incoherently, for I observed alarm beginning to depict itself upon her countenance. Rousing myself, however, I in my turn put a few questions to her upon her present condition and prospects. The old woman's countenance cleared up instantly; she informed me that she had never been more comfortable in her life; that her trade, her _honest_ trade--laying an emphasis on the word honest--had increased of late wonderfully; that her health was better, and, above all, that she felt no fear and horror "here," laying her hand on her breast. On my asking her whether she still heard voices in the night, she told me that she frequently did; but that the present were mild voices, sweet voices, encouraging voices, very different from the former ones; that a voice, only the night previous, had cried out about "the peace of God," in particularly sweet accents; a sentence which she remembered to have read in her early youth in the primer, but which she had clean forgotten till the voice the night before brought it to her recollection. After a pause, the old woman said to me, "I believe, dear, that it is the blessed book you brought me which has wrought this goodly change. How glad I am now that I can read; but oh what a difference between the book you brought to me and the one you took away. I believe the one you brought is written by the finger of God, and the other by--" "Don't abuse the book," said I, "it is an excellent book for those who can understand it; it was not exactly suited to you, and perhaps it had been better that you had never read it--and yet, who knows? Peradventure, if you had not read that book, you would not have been fitted for the perusal of the one which you say is written by the finger of God;" and, pressing my hand to my head, I fell into a deep fit of musing. "What, after all," thought I, "if there should be more order and system in the working of the moral world than I have thought? Does there not seem in the present instance to be something like the working of a Divine hand? I could not conceive why this woman, better educated than her mother, should have been, as she certainly was, a worse character than her mother. Yet perhaps this woman may be better and happier than her mother ever was; perhaps she is so already--perhaps this world is not a wild, lying dream, as I have occasionally supposed it to be." But the thought of my own situation did not permit me to abandon myself much longer to these musings. I started up. "Where are you going, child?" said the woman, anxiously. "I scarcely know," said I; "anywhere." "Then stay here, child," said she; "I have much to say to you." "No," said I, "I shall be better moving about;" and I was moving away, when it suddenly occurred to me that I might never see this woman again; and turning round I offered her my hand, and bade her good bye. "Farewell, child," said the old woman, "and God bless you!" I then moved along the bridge until I reached the Southwark side, and, still holding on my course, my mind again became quickly abstracted from all surrounding objects. At length I found myself in a street or road, with terraces on either side, and seemingly of interminable length, leading, as it would appear, to the south-east. I was walking at a great rate--there were likewise a great number of people, also walking at a great rate; also carts and carriages driving at a great rate; and all--men, carts, and carriages--going in the selfsame direction, namely, to the south-east. I stopped for a moment and deliberated whether or not I should proceed. What business had I in that direction? I could not say that I had any particular business in that direction, but what could I do were I to turn back? only walk about well-known streets; and, if I must walk, why not continue in the direction in which I was to see whither the road and its terraces led: I was here in a _terra incognita_, and an unknown place had always some interest for me; moreover, I had a desire to know whither all this crowd was going, and for what purpose. I thought they could not be going far, as crowds seldom go far, especially at such a rate; so I walked on more lustily than before, passing group after group of the crowd, and almost vying in speed with some of the carriages, especially the hackney-coaches; and, by dint of walking at this rate, the terraces and houses becoming somewhat less frequent as I advanced, I reached in about three-quarters of an hour a kind of low dingy town, in the neighbourhood of the river; the streets were swarming with people, and I concluded, from the number of wild-beast shows, caravans, gingerbread stalls, and the like, that a fair was being held. Now, as I had always been partial to fairs, I felt glad that I had fallen in with the crowd which had conducted me to the present one, and, casting away as much as I was able all gloomy thoughts, I did my best to enter into the diversions of the fair; staring at the wonderful representations of animals on canvas hung up before the shows of wild beasts, which, by the bye, are frequently found much more worthy of admiration than the real beasts themselves; listening to the jokes of the merry-andrews from the platforms in front of the temporary theatres, or admiring the splendid tinsel dresses of the performers who thronged the stages in the intervals of the entertainments; and in this manner, occasionally gazing and occasionally listening, I passed through the town till I came in front of a large edifice looking full upon the majestic bosom of the Thames. It was a massive stone edifice, built in an antique style, and black with age, with a broad esplanade between it and the river, on which, mixed with a few people from the fair, I observed moving about a great many individuals in quaint dresses of blue, with strange three-cornered hats on their heads; most of them were mutilated; this had a wooden leg--this wanted an arm; some had but one eye; and as I gazed upon the edifice, and the singular-looking individuals who moved before it, I guessed where I was. "I am at ---," {22} said I; "these individuals are battered tars of Old England, and this edifice, once the favourite abode of Glorious Elizabeth, is the refuge which a grateful country has allotted to them. Here they can rest their weary bodies; at their ease talk over the actions in which they have been injured; and, with the tear of enthusiasm flowing from their eyes, boast how they have trod the deck of fame with Rodney, or Nelson, or others whose names stand emblazoned in the naval annals of their country." Turning to the right, I entered a park or wood consisting of enormous trees, occupying the foot, sides, and top of a hill which rose behind the town; there were multitudes of people among the trees, diverting themselves in various ways. Coming to the top of the hill, I was presently stopped by a lofty wall, along which I walked, till, coming to a small gate, I passed through, and found myself on an extensive green plain, on one side bounded in part by the wall of the park, and on the others, in the distance, by extensive ranges of houses; to the south-east was a lofty eminence, partially clothed with wood. The plain exhibited an animated scene, a kind of continuation of the fair below; there were multitudes of people upon it, many tents, and shows; there was also horse- racing, and much noise and shouting, the sun shining brightly overhead. After gazing at the horse-racing for a little time, feeling myself somewhat tired, I went up to one of the tents, and laid myself down on the grass. There was much noise in the tent. "Who will stand me?" said a voice with a slight tendency to lisp. "Will you, my lord?" "Yes," said another voice. Then there was a sound as of a piece of money banging on a table. "Lost! lost! lost!" cried several voices; and then the banging down of the money, and the "Lost! lost! lost!" were frequently repeated; at last the second voice exclaimed, "I will try no more; you have cheated me." "Never cheated any one in my life, my lord--all fair--all chance. Them that finds, wins--them that can't finds, loses. Any one else try? Who'll try? Will you, my lord?" and then it appeared that some other lord tried, for I heard more money flung down. Then again the cry of "Lost! lost!"--then again the sound of money, and so on. Once or twice, but not more, I heard "Won! won!" but the predominant cry was "Lost! lost!" At last there was a considerable hubbub, and the words "Cheat!" "Rogue!" and "You filched away the pea!" were used freely by more voices than one, to which the voice with the tendency to lisp replied, "Never filched a pea in my life; would scorn it. Always glad when folks wins; but, as those here don't appear to be civil, nor to wish to play any more, I shall take myself off with my table; so, good day, gentlemen." CHAPTER LIII Singular Table--No Money--Out of Employ--My Bonnet--We of the Thimble--Good Wages--Wisely Resolved--Strangest Way in the World--Fat Gentleman--Not Such Another--First Edition--Not Very Easy--Won't Close--Avella Gorgio--Alarmed Look. Presently a man emerged from the tent, bearing before him a rather singular table; it appeared to be of white deal, was exceedingly small at the top, and with very long legs. At a few yards from the entrance he paused, and looked round, as if to decide on the direction which he should take; presently, his eye glancing on me as I lay upon the ground, he started, and appeared for a moment inclined to make off as quick as possible, table and all. In a moment, however, he seemed to recover assurance, and, coming up to the place where I was, the long legs of the table projecting before him, he cried, "Glad to see you here, my lord." "Thank you," said I, "it's a fine day." "Very fine, my lord; will your lordship play? Them that finds, wins--them that don't finds, loses." "Play at what?" said I. "Only at the thimble and pea, my lord." "I never heard of such a game." "Didn't you? Well, I'll soon teach you," said he, placing the table down. "All you have to do is to put a sovereign down on my table, and to find the pea, which I put under one of my thimbles. If you find it,--and it is easy enough to find it,--I give you a sovereign besides your own: for them that finds, wins." "And them that don't finds, loses," said I; "no, I don't wish to play." "Why not, my lord?" "Why, in the first place, I have no money." "Oh, you have no money, that of course alters the case. If you have no money, you can't play. Well, I suppose I must be seeing after my customers," said he, glancing over the plain. "Good day," said I. "Good day," said the man slowly, but without moving, and as if in reflection. After a moment or two, looking at me inquiringly, he added, "Out of employ?" "Yes," said I, "out of employ." The man measured me with his eye as I lay on the ground. At length he said, "May I speak a word or two to you, my lord?" "As many as you please," said I. "Then just come a little out of hearing, a little further on the grass, if you please, my lord." "Why do you call me my lord?" said I, as I arose and followed him. "We of the thimble always calls our customers lords," said the man; "but I won't call you such a foolish name any more; come along." The man walked along the plain till he came to the side of a dry pit, when, looking round to see that no one was nigh, he laid his table on the grass, and, sitting down with his legs over the side of the pit, he motioned me to do the same. "So you are in want of employ," said he, after I had sat down beside him. "Yes," said I, "I am very much in want of employ." "I think I can find you some." "What kind?" said I. "Why," said the man, "I think you would do to be my bonnet." "Bonnet!" said I; "what is that?" "Don't you know? However, no wonder, as you had never heard of the thimble and pea game, but I will tell you. We of the game are very much exposed; folks when they have lost their money, as those who play with us mostly do, sometimes uses rough language, calls us cheats, and sometimes knocks our hats over our eyes; and what's more, with a kick under our table, cause the top deals to fly off; this is the third table I have used this day, the other two being broken by uncivil customers: so we of the game generally like to have gentlemen go about with us to take our part, and encourage us, though pretending to know nothing about us; for example, when the customer says, 'I'm cheated,' the bonnet must say, 'No, you a'n't, it is all right;' or, when my hat is knocked over my eyes, the bonnet must square, and say, 'I never saw the man before in all my life, but I won't see him ill-used;' and so, when they kicks at the table, the bonnet must say, 'I won't see the table ill-used, such a nice table, too; besides, I want to play myself;' and then I would say to the bonnet, 'Thank you, my lord, them that finds, wins;' and then the bonnet plays, and I lets the bonnet win." "In a word," said I, "the bonnet means the man who covers you, even as the real bonnet covers the head." {27a} "Just so," said the man; "I see you are awake, and would soon make a first-rate bonnet." "Bonnet," said I, musingly; "bonnet; it is metaphorical." "Is it?" said the man. "Yes," said I, "like the cant words--" "Bonnet is cant," said the man; "we of the thimble, as well as all clyfakers and the like, understand cant, as, of course, must every bonnet; so, if you are employed by me, you had better learn it as soon as you can, that we may discourse together without being understood by every one. Besides covering his principal, a bonnet must have his eyes about him, for the trade of the pea, though a strictly honest one, is not altogether lawful; so it is the duty of the bonnet, if he sees the constable coming, to say, 'The Gorgio's welling.'" {27b} "That is not cant," said I, "that is the language of the Rommany Chals." {27c} "Do you know those people?" said the man. "Perfectly," said I, "and their language too." "I wish I did," said the man; "I would give ten pounds and more to know the language of the Rommany Chals. There's some of it in the language of the pea and thimble; how it came there I don't know, but so it is. I wish I knew it, but it is difficult. You'll make a capital bonnet; shall we close?" "What would the wages be?" I demanded. "Why, to a first-rate bonnet, as I think you would prove, I could afford to give from forty to fifty shillings a week." "Is it possible?" said I. "Good wages, a'n't they?" said the man. "First-rate," said I; "bonneting is more profitable than reviewing." "Anan?" said the man. "Or translating; I don't think the Armenian would have paid me at that rate for translating his Esop." "Who is he?" said the man. "Esop?" "No, I know what that is, Esop's cant for a hunchback; but t'other?" "You should know," said I. "Never saw the man in all my life." "Yes, you have," said I, "and felt him too; don't you remember the individual from whom you took the pocket-book?" "Oh, that was he? Well, the less said about that matter the better; I have left off that trade, and taken to this, which is a much better. Between ourselves, I am not sorry that I did not carry off that pocket- book; if I had, it might have encouraged me in the trade, in which, had I remained, I might have been lagged, sent abroad, as I had been already imprisoned; so I determined to leave it off at all hazards, though I was hard up, not having a penny in the world." "And wisely resolved," said I; "it was a bad and dangerous trade; I wonder you should ever have embraced it." "It is all very well talking," said the man, "but there is a reason for everything; I am the son of a Jewess, by a military officer,"--and then the man told me his story. I shall not repeat the man's story, it was a poor one, a vile one; at last he observed, "So that affair which you know of determined me to leave the filching trade, and take up with a more honest and safe one; so at last I thought of the pea and thimble, but I wanted funds, especially to pay for lessons at the hands of a master, for I knew little about it." "Well," said I, "how did you get over that difficulty?" "Why," said the man, "I thought I should never have got over it. What funds could I raise? I had nothing to sell; the few clothes I had I wanted, for we of the thimble must always appear decent, or nobody would come near us. I was at my wits' end; at last I got over my difficulty in the strangest way in the world." "What was that?" "By an old thing which I had picked up some time before--a book." "A book?" said I. "Yes, which I had taken out of your lordship's pocket one day as you were walking the streets in a great hurry. I thought it was a pocket-book at first, full of bank-notes, perhaps," continued he, laughing. "It was well for me, however, that it was not, for I should have soon spent the notes; as it was, I had flung the old thing down with an oath, as soon as I brought it home. When I was so hard up, however, after the affair with that friend of yours, I took it up one day, and thought I might make something by it to support myself a day with. Chance or something else led me into a grand shop; there was a man there who seemed to be the master, talking to a jolly, portly old gentleman, who seemed to be a country squire. Well, I went up to the first, and offered it for sale; he took the book, opened it at the title-page, and then all of a sudden his eyes glistened, and he showed it to the fat, jolly gentleman, and his eyes glistened too, and I heard him say 'How singular!' and then the two talked together in a speech I didn't understand--I rather thought it was French, at any rate it wasn't cant; and presently the first asked me what I would take for the book. Now I am not altogether a fool, nor am I blind, and I had narrowly marked all that passed, and it came into my head that now was the time for making a man of myself, at any rate I could lose nothing by a little confidence; so I looked the man boldly in the face, and said, 'I will have five guineas for that book, there a'n't such another in the whole world.' 'Nonsense,' said the first man, 'there are plenty of them, there have been nearly fifty editions, to my knowledge; I will give you five shillings.' 'No,' said I, 'I'll not take it, for I don't like to be cheated, so give me my book again;' and I attempted to take it away from the fat gentleman's hand. 'Stop,' said the younger man, 'are you sure that you won't take less?' 'Not a farthing,' said I; which was not altogether true, but I said so. 'Well,' said the fat gentleman, 'I will give you what you ask;' and sure enough he presently gave me the money; so I made a bow, and was leaving the shop, when it came into my head that there was something odd in all this, and, as I had got the money in my pocket, I turned back, and, making another bow, said, 'May I be so bold as to ask why you gave me all this money for that 'ere dirty book? When I came into the shop, I should have been glad to get a shilling for it; but I saw you wanted it, and asked five guineas.' Then they looked at one another, and smiled, and shrugged up their shoulders. Then the first man, looking at me, said, 'Friend, you have been a little too sharp for us; however, we can afford to forgive you, as my friend here has long been in quest of this particular book; there are plenty of editions, as I told you, and a common copy is not worth five shillings; but this is a first edition, and a copy of the first edition is worth its weight in gold.'" "So, after all, they outwitted you," I observed. "Clearly," said the man; "I might have got double the price, had I known the value; but I don't care, much good may it do them, it has done me plenty. By means of it I have got into an honest, respectable trade, in which there's little danger and plenty of profit, and got out of one which would have got me lagged, sooner or later." "But," said I, "you ought to remember that the thing was not yours; you took it from me, who had been requested by a poor old apple-woman to exchange it for a Bible." "Well," said the man, "did she ever get her Bible?" "Yes," said I, "she got her Bible." "Then she has no cause to complain; and, as for you, chance or something else has sent you to me, that I may make you reasonable amends for any loss you may have had. Here am I ready to make you my bonnet, with forty or fifty shillings a week, which you say yourself are capital wages." "I find no fault with the wages," said I, "but I don't like the employ." "Not like bonneting," said the man; "ah, I see, you would like to be principal; well, a time may come--those long white fingers of yours would just serve for the business." "Is it a difficult one?" I demanded. "Why, it is not very easy: two things are needful--natural talent, and constant practice; but I'll show you a point or two connected with the game;" and, placing his table between his knees as he sat over the side of the pit, he produced three thimbles, and a small brown pellet, something resembling a pea. He moved the thimbles and pellet about, now placing it to all appearance under one, and now under another. "Under which is it now?" he said at last. "Under that," said I, pointing to the lowermost of the thimbles, which, as they stood, formed a kind of triangle. "No," said he, "it is not, but lift it up;" and, when I lifted up the thimble, the pellet, in truth, was not under it. "It was under none of them," said he, "it was pressed by my little finger against my palm;" and then he showed me how he did the trick, and asked me if the game was not a funny one; and, on my answering in the affirmative, he said, "I am glad you like it; come along and let us win some money." Thereupon, getting up, he placed the table before him, and was moving away; observing, however, that I did not stir, he asked me what I was staying for. "Merely for my own pleasure," said I; "I like sitting here very well." "Then you won't close?" said the man. "By no means," I replied; "your proposal does not suit me." "You may be principal in time," said the man. "That makes no difference," said I; and, sitting with my legs over the pit, I forthwith began to decline an Armenian noun. "That a'n't cant," said the man; "no, nor Gypsy, either. Well, if you won't close, another will; I can't lose any more time;" and forthwith he departed. And after I had declined four Armenian nouns, of different declensions, I rose from the side of the pit, and wandered about amongst the various groups of people scattered over the green. Presently I came to where the man of the thimbles was standing, with the table before him, and many people about him. "Them who finds, wins, and them who can't finds, loses," he cried. Various individuals tried to find the pellet, but all were unsuccessful, till at last considerable dissatisfaction was expressed, and the terms rogue and cheat were lavished upon him. "Never cheated anybody in all my life," he cried; and, observing me at hand, "didn't I play fair, my lord?" he inquired. But I made no answer. Presently some more played, and he permitted one or two to win, and the eagerness to play with him became greater. After I had looked on for some time, I was moving away: just then I perceived a short, thick personage, with a staff in his hand, advancing in a great hurry; whereupon, with a sudden impulse, I exclaimed-- "Shoon thimble-engro; Avella Gorgio." {33} The man, who was in the midst of his pea and thimble process, no sooner heard the last word of the distich, than he turned an alarmed look in the direction of where I stood; then, glancing around, and perceiving the constable, he slipped forthwith his pellet and thimbles into his pocket, and, lifting up his table, he cried to the people about him, "Make way!" and with a motion with his head to me, as if to follow him, he darted off with a swiftness which the short, pursy constable could by no means rival; and whither he went, or what became of him, I know not, inasmuch as I turned away in another direction. CHAPTER LIV Mr. Petulengro--Rommany Rye--Lil Writers--One's Own Horn--Lawfully earnt Money--The Wooded Hill--A Great Favourite--The Shop Window--Much Wanted. And, as I wandered along the green, I drew near to a place where several men, with a cask beside them, sat carousing in the neighbourhood of a small tent. "Here he comes," said one of them, as I advanced, and standing up he raised his voice and sang:-- "Here the Gypsy gemman see, With his Roman jib and his rome and dree-- Rome and dree, rum and dry Rally round the Rommany Rye." {35a} It was Mr. Petulengro, who was here diverting himself with several of his comrades; they all received me with considerable frankness. "Sit down, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "and take a cup of good ale." I sat down. "Your health, gentlemen," said I, as I took the cup which Mr. Petulengro handed to me. "Aukko tu pios {35b} adrey Rommanis. Here is your health in Rommany, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; who, having refilled the cup, now emptied it at a draught. "Your health in Rommany, brother," said Tawno Chikno, to whom the cup came next. "The Rommany Rye," said a third. "The Gypsy gentleman," exclaimed a fourth, drinking. And then they all sang in chorus-- "Here the Gypsy gemman see, With his Roman jib and his rome and dree-- Rome and dree, rum and dry Rally round the Rommany Rye." "And now, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "seeing that you have drunk and been drunken, you will perhaps tell us where you have been, and what about?" "I have been in the Big City," said I, "writing lils." {36} "How much money have you got in your pocket, brother?" said Mr. Petulengro. "Eighteenpence," said I; "all I have in the world." "I have been in the Big City, too," said Mr. Petulengro; "but I have not written lils--I have fought in the ring--I have fifty pounds in my pocket--I have much more in the world. Brother, there is considerable difference between us." "I would rather be the lil-writer, after all," said the tall, handsome, black man; "indeed, I would wish for nothing better." "Why so?" said Mr. Petulengro. "Because they have so much to say for themselves," said the black man, "even when dead and gone. When they are laid in the churchyard, it is their own fault if people a'n't talking of them. Who will know, after I am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was once the beauty of the world, or that you Jasper were--" "The best man in England of my inches. That's true, Tawno--however, here's our brother will perhaps let the world know something about us." "Not he," said the other, with a sigh; "he'll have quite enough to do in writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and clever he was; and who can blame him? Not I. If I could write lils, every word should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis {37}--my own lawful wedded wife, which is the same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a wise man say in Brummagem, that 'there is nothing like blowing one's own horn,' which I conceive to be much the same thing as writing one's own lil." After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and motioned me to follow him. "Only eighteenpence in the world, brother!" said he, as we walked together. "Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me how much money I had?" "Because there was something in your look, brother, something very much resembling that which a person showeth who does not carry much money in his pocket. I was looking at my own face this morning in my wife's looking-glass--I did not look as you do, brother." "I believe your sole motive for inquiring," said I, "was to have an opportunity of venting a foolish boast, and to let me know that you were in possession of fifty pounds." "What is the use of having money unless you let people know you have it?" said Mr. Petulengro. "It is not every one can read faces, brother; and, unless you knew I had money, how could you ask me to lend you any?" "I am not going to ask you to lend me any." "Then you may have it without asking; as I said before, I have fifty pounds, all lawfully earnt money, got by fighting in the ring--I will lend you that, brother." "You are very kind," said I; "but I will not take it." "Then the half of it?" "Nor the half of it; but it is getting towards evening, I must go back to the Great City." "And what will you do in the Boro Foros?" {38} "I know not," said I. "Earn money?" "If I can." "And if you can't?" "Starve!" "You look ill, brother," said Mr. Petulengro. "I do not feel well; the Great City does not agree with me. Should I be so fortunate as to earn some money, I would leave the Big City, and take to the woods and fields." "You may do that, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "whether you have money or not. Our tents and horses are on the other side of yonder wooded hill; come and stay with us; we shall all be glad of your company, but more especially myself and my wife Pakomovna." "What hill is that?" I demanded. And then Mr. Petulengro told me the name of the hill. "We shall stay on t'other side of the hill a fortnight," he continued; "and, as you are fond of lil writing, you may employ yourself profitably whilst there. You can write the lil of him whose dook {39a} gallops down that hill every night, even as the living man was wont to do long ago." "Who was he?" I demanded. "Jemmy Abershaw," {39b} said Mr. Petulengro; "one of those whom we call Boro drom engroes, and the Gorgios highwaymen. I once heard a rye say that the life of that man would fetch much money; so come to the other side of the hill, and write the lil in the tent of Jasper and his wife Pakomovna." At first I felt inclined to accept the invitation of Mr. Petulengro; a little consideration, however, determined me to decline it. I had always been on excellent terms with Mr. Petulengro, but I reflected that people might be excellent friends when they met occasionally in the street, or on the heath, or in the wood; but that these very people when living together in a house, to say nothing of a tent, might quarrel. I reflected, moreover, that Mr. Petulengro had a wife. I had always, it is true, been a great favourite with Mrs. Petulengro, who had frequently been loud in her commendation of the young rye, as she called me, and his turn of conversation; but this was at a time when I stood in need of nothing, lived under my parents' roof, and only visited at the tents to divert and to be diverted. The times were altered, and I was by no means certain that Mrs. Petulengro, when she should discover that I was in need both of shelter and subsistence, might not alter her opinion both with respect to the individual and what he said--stigmatising my conversation as saucy discourse, and myself as a scurvy companion; and that she might bring over her husband to her own way of thinking, provided, indeed, he should need any conducting. I therefore, though without declaring my reasons, declined the offer of Mr. Petulengro, and presently, after shaking him by the hand, bent again my course towards the Great City. I crossed the river at a bridge considerably above that hight of London; for, not being acquainted with the way, I missed the turning which should have brought me to the latter. Suddenly I found myself in a street of which I had some recollection, and mechanically stopped before the window of a shop at which various publications were exposed; it was that of the bookseller to whom I had last applied in the hope of selling my ballads or Ab Gwilym, and who had given me hopes that, in the event of my writing a decent novel, or a tale, he would prove a purchaser. As I stood listlessly looking at the window, and the publications which it contained, I observed a paper affixed to the glass by wafers with something written upon it. I drew yet nearer for the purpose of inspecting it; the writing was in a fair round hand--"A Novel or Tale is much wanted," was what was written. CHAPTER LV Bread and Water--Fair Play--Fashionable Life--Colonel B-----Joseph Sell--The Kindly Glow--Easiest Manner Imaginable. "I must do something," said I, as I sat that night in my lonely apartment, with some bread and a pitcher of water before me. Thereupon taking some of the bread, and eating it, I considered what I was to do. "I have no idea what I am to do," said I, as I stretched my hand towards the pitcher, "unless"--and here I took a considerable draught--"I write a tale or a novel . . . That bookseller," I continued, speaking to myself, "is certainly much in need of a tale or a novel, otherwise he would not advertise for one. Suppose I write one; I appear to have no other chance of extricating myself from my present difficulties; surely it was Fate that conducted me to his window." "I will do it," said I, as I struck my hand against the table; "I will do it." Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came over me. Could I do it? Had I the imagination requisite to write a tale or a novel? "Yes, yes," said I, as I struck my hand again against the table, "I can manage it; give me fair play, and I can accomplish anything." But should I have fair play? I must have something to maintain myself with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but eighteenpence in the world. Would that maintain me whilst I wrote my tale? Yes, I thought it would, provided I ate bread, which did not cost much, and drank water, which cost nothing; it was poor diet, it was true, but better men than myself had written on bread and water; had not the big man told me so? or something to that effect, months before? It was true there was my lodging to pay for; but up to the present time I owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time that the people of the house asked me for money, I should have written a tale or a novel, which would bring me in money; I had paper, pens, and ink, and, let me not forget them, I had candles in my closet, all paid for, to light me during my night work. Enough, I would go doggedly to work upon my tale or novel. But what was the tale or novel to be about? Was it to be a tale of fashionable life, about Sir Harry Somebody, and the Countess Something? But I knew nothing about fashionable people, and cared less; therefore how should I attempt to describe fashionable life? What should the tale consist of? The life and adventures of some one. Good--but of whom? Did not Mr. Petulengro mention one Jemmy Abershaw? Yes. Did he not tell me that the life and adventures of Jemmy Abershaw would bring in much money to the writer? Yes, but I knew nothing of that worthy. I heard, it is true, from Mr. Petulengro, that when alive he committed robberies on the hill on the side of which Mr. Petulengro had pitched his tents, and that his ghost still haunted the hill at midnight; but those were scant materials out of which to write the man's life. It is probable, indeed, that Mr. Petulengro would be able to supply me with further materials if I should apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could not afford the time which it would be necessary to spend in passing to and from Mr. Petulengro, and consulting him. Moreover, my pride revolted at the idea of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials of the history. No, I would not write the history of Abershaw. Whose then--Harry Simms? Alas, the life of Harry Simms had been already much better written by himself than I could hope to do it; and, after all, Harry Simms, like Jemmy Abershaw, was merely a robber. Both, though bold and extraordinary men, were merely highwaymen. I questioned whether I could compose a tale likely to excite any particular interest out of the exploits of a mere robber. I want a character for my hero, thought I, something higher than a mere robber; some one like--like Colonel B---. By the way, why should I not write the life and adventures of Colonel B--- of Londonderry, in Ireland? A truly singular man was this same Colonel B--- {43a} of Londonderry, in Ireland; a personage of most strange and incredible feats and daring, who had been a partisan soldier, a bravo--who, assisted by certain discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the crown and regalia from the Tower of London; who attempted to hang the Duke of Ormond, at Tyburn; {43b} and whose strange, eventful career did not terminate even with his life, his dead body, on the circulation of an unfounded report that he did not come to his death by fair means, having been exhumed by the mob of his native place, where he had retired to die, and carried in the coffin through the streets. Of his life I had inserted an account in the "Newgate Lives and Trials"; it was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff, awkward style of the seventeenth century; it had, however, strongly captivated my imagination, and I now thought that out of it something better could be made; that, if I added to the adventures, and purified the style, I might fashion out of it a very decent tale or novel. On a sudden, however, the proverb of mending old garments with new cloth occurred to me. "I am afraid," said I, "any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with the old tale; one will but spoil the other." I had better have nothing to do with Colonel B---, thought I, but boldly and independently sit down and write the "Life of Joseph Sell." This Joseph Sell, dear reader, was a fictitious personage who had just come into my head. I had never even heard of the name, but just at that moment it happened to come into my head; I would write an entirely fictitious narrative, called the "Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell, the Great traveller." I had better begin at once, thought I; and removing the bread and the jug, which latter was now empty, I seized pen and paper, and forthwith essayed to write the "Life of Joseph Sell," but soon discovered that it is much easier to resolve upon a thing than to achieve it, or even to commence it; for the life of me I did not know how to begin, and, after trying in vain to write a line, I thought it would be as well to go to bed, and defer my projected undertaking till the morrow. So I went to bed, but not to sleep. During the greater part of the night I lay awake, musing upon the work which I had determined to execute. For a long time my brain was dry and unproductive; I could form no plan which appeared feasible. At length I felt within my brain a kindly glow; it was the commencement of inspiration; in a few minutes I had formed my plan; I then began to imagine the scenes and the incidents. Scenes and incidents flitted before my mind's eye so plentifully, that I knew not how to dispose of them; I was in a regular embarrassment. At length I got out of the difficulty in the easiest manner imaginable, namely, by consigning to the depths of oblivion all the feebler and less stimulant scenes and incidents, and retaining the better and more impressive ones. Before morning I had sketched the whole work on the tablets of my mind, and then resigned myself to sleep in the pleasing conviction that the most difficult part of my undertaking was achieved. CHAPTER LVI Considerably Sobered--Power of Writing--The Tempter--Hungry Talent--Work Concluded. Rather late in the morning I awoke; for a few minutes I lay still, perfectly still; my imagination was considerably sobered; the scenes and situations which had pleased me so much over night appeared to me in a far less captivating guise that morning. I felt languid and almost hopeless--the thought, however, of my situation soon roused me--I must make an effort to improve the posture of my affairs; there was no time to be lost; so I sprang out of bed, breakfasted on bread and water, and then sat down doggedly to write the "Life of Joseph Sell." It was a great thing to have formed my plan, and to have arranged the scenes in my head, as I had done on the preceding night. The chief thing requisite at present was the mere mechanical act of committing them to paper. This I did not find at first so easy as I could wish--I wanted mechanical skill; but I persevered, and before evening I had written ten pages. I partook of some bread and water; and, before I went to bed that night, I had completed fifteen pages of my "Life of Joseph Sell." The next day I resumed my task--I found my power of writing considerably increased; my pen hurried rapidly over the paper--my brain was in a wonderfully teeming state; many scenes and visions which I had not thought of before were evolved, and, as fast as evolved, written down; they seemed to be more pat to my purpose, and more natural to my history, than many others which I had imagined before, and which I made now give place to these newer creations: by about midnight I had added thirty fresh pages to my "Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell." The third day arose--it was dark and dreary out of doors, and I passed it drearily enough within; my brain appeared to have lost much of its former glow, and my pen much of its power; I, however, toiled on, but at midnight had only added seven pages to my history of Joseph Sell. On the fourth day the sun shone brightly--I arose, and, having breakfasted as usual, I fell to work. My brain was this day wonderfully prolific, and my pen never before or since glided so rapidly over the paper; towards night I began to feel strangely about the back part of my head, and my whole system was extraordinarily affected. I likewise occasionally saw double--a tempter now seemed to be at work within me. "You had better leave off now for a short space," said the tempter, "and go out and drink a pint of beer; you have still one shilling left--if you go on at this rate, you will go mad--go out and spend sixpence, you can afford it, more than half your work is done." I was about to obey the suggestion of the tempter, when the idea struck me that, if I did not complete the work whilst the fit was on me, I should never complete it; so I held on. I am almost afraid to state how many pages I wrote that day of the "Life of Joseph Sell." From this time I proceeded in a somewhat more leisurely manner; but, as I drew nearer and nearer to the completion of my task, dreadful fears and despondencies came over me--It will be too late, thought I; by the time I have finished the work, the bookseller will have been supplied with a tale or a novel. Is it probable that, in a town like this, where talent is so abundant--hungry talent too, a bookseller can advertise for a tale or a novel, without being supplied with half a dozen in twenty-four hours? I may as well fling down my pen--I am writing to no purpose. And these thoughts came over my mind so often, that at last, in utter despair, I flung down the pen. Whereupon the tempter within me said--"And, now you have flung down the pen, you may as well fling yourself out of the window; what remains for you to do?" Why to take it up again, thought I to myself, for I did not like the latter suggestion at all--and then forthwith I resumed the pen, and wrote with greater vigour than before, from about six o'clock in the evening until I could hardly see, when I rested for a while, when the tempter within me again said, or appeared to say--"All you have been writing is stuff, it will never do--a drug--a mere drug;" and methought these last words were uttered in the gruff tones of the big publisher. "A thing merely to be sneezed at," a voice like that of Taggart added; and then I seemed to hear a sternutation,--as I probably did, for, recovering from a kind of swoon, I found myself shivering with cold. The next day I brought my work to a conclusion. But the task of revision still remained; for an hour or two I shrank from it, and remained gazing stupidly at the pile of paper which I had written over. I was all but exhausted, and I dreaded, on inspecting the sheets, to find them full of absurdities which I had paid no regard to in the furor of composition. But the task, however trying to my nerves, must be got over; at last, in a kind of desperation, I entered upon it. It was far from an easy one; there were, however, fewer errors and absurdities than I had anticipated. About twelve o'clock at night I had got over the task of revision. "To-morrow, for the bookseller," said I, as my head sank on the pillow. "Oh me!" CHAPTER LVII Nervous Look--The Bookseller's Wife--The Last Stake--Terms--God Forbid!--Will You Come to Tea?--A Light Heart. On arriving at the bookseller's shop, I cast a nervous look at the window, for the purpose of observing whether the paper had been removed or not. To my great delight the paper was in its place; with a beating heart I entered, there was nobody in the shop; as I stood at the counter, however, deliberating whether or not I should call out, the door of what seemed to be a back-parlour opened and out came a well dressed lady-like female, of about thirty, with a good-looking and intelligent countenance. "What is your business, young man?" said she to me, after I had made her a polite bow. "I wish to speak to the gentleman of the house," said I. "My husband is not within at present," she replied; "what is your business?" "I have merely brought something to show him," said I, "but I will call again." "If you are the young gentleman who has been here before," said the lady, "with poems and ballads, as, indeed, I know you are," she added, smiling, "for I have seen you through the glass door, I am afraid it will be useless; that is," she added, with another smile, "if you bring us nothing else." "I have not brought you poems and ballads now," said I, "but something widely different; I saw your advertisement for a tale or a novel, and have written something which I think will suit; and here it is," I added, showing the roll of paper which I held in my hand. "Well," said the bookseller's wife, "you may leave it, though I cannot promise you much chance of its being accepted. My husband has already had several offered to him; however, you may leave it; give it me. Are you afraid to entrust it to me?" she demanded somewhat hastily, observing that I hesitated. "Excuse me," said I, "but it is all I have to depend upon in the world; I am chiefly apprehensive that it will not be read." "On that point I can reassure you," said the good lady, smiling, and there was now something sweet in her smile. "I give you my word that it shall be read; come again to-morrow morning at eleven, when, if not approved, it shall be returned to you." I returned to my lodging, and forthwith betook myself to bed, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour. I felt tolerably tranquil; I had now cast my last stake, and was prepared to abide by the result. Whatever that result might be, I could have nothing to reproach myself with; I had strained all the energies which nature had given me in order to rescue myself from the difficulties which surrounded me. I presently sank into a sleep, which endured during the remainder of the day, and the whole of the succeeding night. I awoke about nine on the morrow, and spent my last threepence on a breakfast somewhat more luxurious than the immediately preceding ones, for one penny of the sum was expended on the purchase of milk. At the appointed hour I repaired to the house of the bookseller; the bookseller was in his shop. "Ah," said he, as soon as I entered, "I am glad to see you." There was an unwonted heartiness in the bookseller's tones, an unwonted benignity in his face. "So," said he, after a pause, "you have taken my advice, written a book of adventure; nothing like taking the advice, young man, of your superiors in age. Well, I think your book will do, and so does my wife, for whose judgment I have a great regard; as well I may, as she is the daughter of a first-rate novelist, deceased. I think I shall venture on sending your book to the press." "But," said I, "we have not yet agreed upon terms." "Terms, terms," said the bookseller; "ahem! well, there is nothing like coming to terms at once. I will print the book, and give you half the profit when the edition is sold." "That will not do," said I; "I intend shortly to leave London: I must have something at once." "Ah, I see," said the bookseller, "in distress; frequently the case with authors, especially young ones. Well, I don't care if I purchase it of you, but you must be moderate; the public are very fastidious, and the speculation may prove a losing one after all. Let me see, will five . . . hem"--he stopped. I looked the bookseller in the face; there was something peculiar in it. Suddenly it appeared to me as if the voice of him of the thimble sounded in my ear, "Now is your time, ask enough, never such another chance of establishing yourself; respectable trade, pea and thimble." "Well," said I at last, "I have no objection to take the offer which you were about to make, though I really think five-and-twenty guineas to be scarcely enough, everything considered." "Five-and-twenty guineas!" said the bookseller; "are you--what was I going to say--I never meant to offer half as much--I mean a quarter; I was going to say five guineas--I mean pounds; I will, however, make it guineas." "That will not do," said I; "but, as I find we shall not deal, return me my manuscript, that I may carry it to some one else." The bookseller looked blank. "Dear me," said he, "I should never have supposed that you would have made any objection to such an offer; I am quite sure that you would have been glad to take five pounds for either of the two huge manuscripts of songs and ballads that you brought me on a former occasion." "Well," said I, "if you will engage to publish either of those two manuscripts, you shall have the present one for five pounds." "God forbid that I should make any such bargain," said the bookseller; "I would publish neither on any account; but, with respect to this last book, I have really an inclination to print it, both for your sake and mine; suppose we say ten pounds." "No," said I, "ten pounds will not do; pray restore me my manuscript." "Stay," said the bookseller, "my wife is in the next room, I will go and consult her." Thereupon he went into his back room, where I heard him conversing with his wife in a low tone; in about ten minutes he returned. "Young gentleman," said he, "perhaps you will take tea with us this evening, when we will talk further over the matter." That evening I went and took tea with the bookseller and his wife, both of whom, particularly the latter, overwhelmed me with civility. It was not long before I learned that the work had been already sent to the press, and was intended to stand at the head of a series of entertaining narratives, from which my friends promised themselves considerable profit. The subject of terms was again brought forward. I stood firm to my first demand for a long time; when, however, the bookseller's wife complimented me on my production in the highest terms, and said that she discovered therein the germs of genius, which she made no doubt would some day prove ornamental to my native land, I consented to drop my demand to twenty pounds, stipulating, however, that I should not be troubled with the correction of the work. Before I departed, I received the twenty pounds, and departed with a light heart to my lodgings. Reader, amidst the difficulties and dangers of this life, should you ever be tempted to despair, call to mind these latter chapters of the life of Lavengro. There are few positions, however difficult, from which dogged resolution and perseverance may not liberate you. CHAPTER LVIII Indisposition--A Resolution--Poor Equivalents--The Piece of Gold--Flashing Eyes--How Beautiful!--Bon Jour, Monsieur. I had long ago determined to leave London as soon as the means should be in my power, and, now that they were, I determined to leave the Great City; yet I felt some reluctance to go. I would fain have pursued the career of original authorship which had just opened itself to me, and have written other tales of adventure. The bookseller had given me encouragement enough to do so; he had assured me that he should be always happy to deal with me for an article (that was the word) similar to the one I had brought him, provided my terms were moderate; and the bookseller's wife, by her complimentary language, had given me yet more encouragement. But for some months past I had been far from well, and my original indisposition, brought on partly by the peculiar atmosphere of the Big City, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased by the exertions which I had been compelled to make during the last few days. I felt that, were I to remain where I was, I should die, or become a confirmed valetudinarian. I would go forth into the country, travelling on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure air, endeavour to recover my health, leaving my subsequent movements to be determined by Providence. But whither should I bend my course? Once or twice I thought of walking home to the old town, stay some time with my mother and my brother, and enjoy the pleasant walks in the neighbourhood; but, though I wished very much to see my mother and my brother, and felt much disposed to enjoy the said pleasant walks, the old town was not exactly the place to which I wished to go at this present juncture. I was afraid that people would ask, Where are your Northern Ballads? Where are your alliterative translations from Ab Gwilym--of which you were always talking, and with which you promised to astonish the world? Now, in the event of such interrogations, what could I answer? It is true I had compiled Newgate Lives and Trials, and had written the life of Joseph Sell, but I was afraid that the people of the old town would scarcely consider these as equivalents for the Northern Ballads and the songs of Ab Gwilym. I would go forth and wander in any direction but that of the old town. But how one's sensibility on any particular point diminishes with time; at present I enter the old town perfectly indifferent as to what the people may be thinking on the subject of the songs and ballads. With respect to the people themselves, whether, like my sensibility, their curiosity has altogether evaporated, or whether, which is at least equally probable, they never entertained any, one thing is certain, that never in a single instance have they troubled me with any remarks on the subject of the songs and ballads. As it was my intention to travel on foot, with a bundle and a stick, I despatched my trunk containing some few clothes and books to the old town. My preparations were soon made; in about three days I was in readiness to start. Before departing, however, I bethought me of my old friend the apple-woman of London Bridge. Apprehensive that she might be labouring under the difficulties of poverty, I sent her a piece of gold by the hands of a young maiden in the house in which I lived. The latter punctually executed her commission, but brought me back the piece of gold. The old woman would not take it; she did not want it, she said. "Tell the poor thin lad," she added, "to keep it for himself, he wants it more than I." Rather late one afternoon I departed from my lodging, with my stick in one hand and a small bundle in the other, shaping my course to the south- west: when I first arrived, somewhat more than a year before, I had entered the city by the north-east. As I was not going home, I determined to take my departure in the direction the very opposite to home. Just as I was about to cross the street called the Haymarket, at the lower part, a cabriolet, drawn by a magnificent animal, came dashing along at a furious rate; it stopped close by the curb-stone where I was, a sudden pull of the reins nearly bringing the spirited animal upon its haunches. The Jehu who had accomplished this feat was Francis Ardry. A small beautiful female, with flashing eyes, dressed in the extremity of fashion, sat beside him. "Holloa, friend," said Francis Ardry, "whither bound?" "I do not know," said I; "all I can say, is, that I am about to leave London." "And the means?" said Francis Ardry. "I have them," said I, with a cheerful smile. "_Qui est celui-ci_?" demanded the small female, impatiently. "_C'est . . . mon ami le plus intime_; so you were about to leave London without telling me a word," said Francis Ardry, somewhat angrily. "I intended to have written to you," said I: "what a splendid mare that is." "Is she not?" said Francis Ardry, who was holding in the mare with difficulty; "she cost a hundred guineas." "_Qu'est-ce qu'il dit_?" demanded his companion. "_Il dit que le jument est bien beau_." "_Allons_, _mon ami_, _il est tard_," said the beauty, with a scornful toss of her head; "_allons_!" "_Encore un moment_," said Francis Ardry; "and when shall I see you again?" "I scarcely know," I replied: "I never saw a more splendid turn-out." "_Qu'est-ce qu'il dit_?" said the lady again. "_Il dit que tout l'equipage est en assez bon gout_." "_Allons_, _c'est un ours_," said the lady; "_le cheval meme en a peur_," added she, as the mare reared up on high. "Can you find nothing else to admire but the mare and the equipage?" said Francis Ardry, reproachfully, after he had with some difficulty brought the mare to order. Lifting my hand, in which I held my stick, I took off my hat. "How beautiful!" said I, looking the lady full in the face. "_Comment_?" said the lady, inquiringly. "_Il dit que vous etes belle comme un ange_," said Francis Ardry, emphatically. "_Mais_, _a la bonne heure! arretez_, _mon ami_," said the lady to Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off; "_je voudrais bien causer un moment avec lui_; _arretez_, _il est delicieux_.--_Est-ce bien ainsi que vous traitez vos amis_?" said she, passionately, as Francis Ardry lifted up his whip. "_Bon jour_, _Monsieur_, _bon jour_," said she, thrusting her head from the side and looking back, as Francis Ardry drove off at the rate of thirteen miles an hour. CHAPTER LIX The Milestone--The Meditation--Want to Get Up?--The Off-hand Leader--Sixteen Shillings--The Near-hand Wheeler--All Right. In about two hours I had cleared the Great City, and got beyond the suburban villages, or rather towns, in the direction in which I was travelling; I was in a broad and excellent road, leading I knew not whither. I now slackened my pace, which had hitherto been great. Presently, coming to a milestone on which was graven nine miles, I rested against it, and looking round towards the vast city, which had long ceased to be visible, I fell into a train of meditation. I thought of all my ways and doings since the day of my first arrival in that vast city--I had worked and toiled, and, though I had accomplished nothing at all commensurate with the hopes which I had entertained previous to my arrival, I had achieved my own living, preserved my independence, and become indebted to no one. I was now quitting it, poor in purse, it is true, but not wholly empty; rather ailing it may be, but not broken in health; and, with hope within my bosom, had I not cause upon the whole to be thankful? Perhaps there were some who, arriving at the same time under not more favourable circumstances, had accomplished much more, and whose future was far more hopeful--Good! But there might be others who, in spite of all their efforts, had been either trodden down in the press, never more to be heard of, or were quitting that mighty town broken in purse, broken in health, and, oh! with not one dear hope to cheer them. Had I not, upon the whole, abundant cause to be grateful? Truly, yes! My meditation over, I left the milestone and proceeded on my way in the same direction as before until the night began to close in. I had always been a good pedestrian; but now, whether owing to indisposition or to not having for some time past been much in the habit of taking such lengthy walks, I began to feel not a little weary. Just as I was thinking of putting up for the night at the next inn or public-house I should arrive at, I heard what sounded like a coach coming up rapidly behind me. Induced, perhaps, by the weariness which I felt, I stopped and looked wistfully in the direction of the sound; presently up came a coach, seemingly a mail, drawn by four bounding horses--there was no one upon it but the coachman and the guard; when nearly parallel with me it stopped. "Want to get up?" sounded a voice, in the true coachman-like tone--half querulous, half authoritative. I hesitated; I was tired, it is true, but I had left London bound on a pedestrian excursion, and I did not much like the idea of having recourse to a coach after accomplishing so very inconsiderable a distance. "Come, we can't be staying here all night," said the voice, more sharply than before. "I can ride a little way, and get down whenever I like," thought I; and springing forward I clambered up the coach, and was going to sit down upon the box, next the coachman. "No, no," said the coachman, who was a man about thirty, with a hooked nose and red face, dressed in a fashionably cut great-coat, with a fashionable black castor on his head. "No, no, keep behind--the box a'n't for the like of you," said he, as he drove off; "the box is for lords, or gentlemen at least." I made no answer. "D--- that off-hand leader," said the coachman, as the right-hand front horse made a desperate start at something he saw in the road; and, half rising, he with great dexterity hit with his long whip the off-hand leader a cut on the off cheek. "These seem to be fine horses," said I. The coachman made no answer. "Nearly thoroughbred," I continued; the coachman drew his breath, with a kind of hissing sound, through his teeth. "Come, young fellow, none of your chaff. Don't you think, because you ride on my mail, I'm going to talk to you about 'orses. I talk to nobody about 'orses except lords." "Well," said I, "I have been called a lord in my time." "It must have been by a thimble-rigger, then," said the coachman, bending back, and half turning his face round with a broad leer. "You have hit the mark wonderfully," said I. "You coachmen, whatever else you may be, are certainly no fools." "We a'n't, a'n't we?" said the coachman. "There you are right; and, to show you that you are, I'll now trouble you for your fare. If you have been amongst the thimble-riggers you must be tolerably well cleared out. Where are you going?--to ---? I think I have seen you there. The fare is sixteen shillings. Come, tip us the blunt; them that has no money can't ride on my mail." Sixteen shillings was a large sum, and to pay it would make a considerable inroad on my slender finances; I thought, at first, that I would say I did not want to go so far; but then the fellow would ask at once where I wanted to go, and I was ashamed to acknowledge my utter ignorance of the road. I determined, therefore, to pay the fare, with a tacit determination not to mount a coach in future without knowing whither I was going. So I paid the man the money, who, turning round, shouted to the guard--"All right, Jem; got fare to ---;" {63} and forthwith whipped on his horses, especially the off-hand leader, for whom he seemed to entertain a particular spite, to greater speed than before--the horses flew. A young moon gave a feeble light, partially illuminating a line of road which, appearing by no means interesting, I the less regretted having paid my money for the privilege of being hurried along it in the flying vehicle. We frequently changed horses; and at last my friend the coachman was replaced by another, the very image of himself--hawk nose, red face, with narrow-rimmed hat and fashionable benjamin. After he had driven about fifty yards, the new coachman fell to whipping one of the horses. "D--- this near-hand wheeler," said he, "the brute has got a corn." "Whipping him won't cure him of his corn," said I. "Who told you to speak?" said the driver, with an oath; "mind your own business; 'tisn't from the like of you I am to learn to drive 'orses." Presently I fell into a broken kind of slumber. In an hour or two I was aroused by a rough voice--"Got to ---, young man; get down if you please." I opened my eyes--there was a dim and indistinct light, like that which precedes dawn; the coach was standing still in something like a street; just below me stood the guard. "Do you mean to get down," said he, "or will you keep us here till morning? other fares want to get up." Scarcely knowing what I did, I took my bundle and stick and descended, whilst two people mounted. "All right, John," said the guard to the coachman, springing up behind; whereupon off whisked the coach, one or two individuals who were standing by disappeared, and I was left alone. CHAPTER LX The Still Hour--A Thrill--The Wondrous Circle--The Shepherd--Heaps and Barrows--What do you Mean?--Milk of the Plains--Hengist Spared it--No Presents. After standing still a minute or two, considering what I should do, I moved down what appeared to be the street of a small straggling town; presently I passed by a church, which rose indistinctly on my right hand; anon there was the rustling of foliage and the rushing of waters. I reached a bridge, beneath which a small stream {65} was running in the direction of the south. I stopped and leaned over the parapet, for I have always loved to look upon streams, especially at the still hours. "What stream is this, I wonder?" said I, as I looked down from the parapet into the water, which whirled and gurgled below. Leaving the bridge, I ascended a gentle acclivity, and presently reached what appeared to be a tract of moory undulating ground. It was now tolerably light, but there was a mist or haze abroad which prevented my seeing objects with much precision. I felt chill in the damp air of the early morn, and walked rapidly forward. In about half an hour I arrived where the road divided into two, at an angle or tongue of dark green sward. "To the right or the left?" said I, and forthwith took, without knowing why, the left-hand road, along which I proceeded about a hundred yards, when, in the midst of the tongue of sward formed by the two roads, collaterally with myself, I perceived what I at first conceived to be a small grove of blighted trunks of oaks, barked and grey. I stood still for a moment, and then, turning off the road, advanced slowly towards it over the sward; as I drew nearer, I perceived that the objects which had attracted my curiosity, and which formed a kind of circle, were not trees, but immense upright stones. A thrill pervaded my system; just before me were two, the mightiest of the whole, tall as the stems of proud oaks, supporting on their tops a huge transverse stone, and forming a wonderful doorway. I knew now where I was, and, laying down my stick and bundle, and taking off my hat, I advanced slowly, and cast myself--it was folly, perhaps, but I could not help what I did--cast myself, with my face on the dewy earth, in the middle of the portal of giants, beneath the transverse stone. The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me! And after I had remained with my face on the ground for some time, I arose, placed my hat on my head, and, taking up my stick and bundle, wandered round the wondrous circle, examining each individual stone, from the greatest to the least; and then, entering by the great door, seated myself upon an immense broad stone, one side of which was supported by several small ones, and the other slanted upon the earth; and there, in deep meditation, I sat for an hour or two, till the sun shone in my face above the tall stones of the eastern side. And as I still sat there, I heard the noise of bells, and presently a large number of sheep came browsing past the circle of stones; two or three entered, and grazed upon what they could find, and soon a man also entered the circle at the northern side. "Early here, sir," said the man, who was tall, and dressed in a dark green slop, and had all the appearance of a shepherd; "a traveller, I suppose?" "Yes," said I, "I am a traveller. Are these sheep yours?" "They are, sir; that is, they are my master's. A strange place this, sir," said he, looking at the stones; "ever here before?" "Never in body, frequently in mind." "Heard of the stones, I suppose; no wonder--all the people of the plain talk of them." "What do the people of the plain say of them?" "Why, they say--How did they ever come here?" "Do they not suppose them to have been brought?" "Who should have brought them?" "I have read that they were brought by many thousand men." "Where from?" "Ireland." "How did they bring them?" "I don't know." "And what did they bring them for?" "To form a temple, perhaps." "What is that?" "A place to worship God in." "A strange place to worship God in." "Why?" "It has no roof." "Yes it has." "Where?" said the man, looking up. "What do you see above you?" "The sky." "Well?" "Well!" "Have you anything to say?" "How did these stones come here?" "Are there other stones like these on the plains?" said I. "None; and yet there are plenty of strange things on these downs." "What are they?" "Strange heaps, and barrows, and great walls of earth built on the tops of hills." "Do the people of the plain wonder how they came there?" "They do not." "Why?" "They were raised by hands." "And these stones?" "How did they ever come here?" "I wonder whether they are here?" said I. "These stones?" "Yes." "So sure as the world," said the man; "and, as the world, they will stand as long." "I wonder whether there is a world." "What do you mean?" "An earth, and sea, moon and stars, sheep and men." "Do you doubt it?" "Sometimes." "I never heard it doubted before." "It is impossible there should be a world." "It a'n't possible there shouldn't be a world." "Just so." At this moment a fine ewe, attended by a lamb, rushed into the circle and fondled the knees of the shepherd. "I suppose you would not care to have some milk," said the man. "Why do you suppose so?" "Because, so be, there be no sheep, no milk, you know; and what there ben't is not worth having." "You could not have argued better," said I; "that is, supposing you have argued; with respect to the milk you may do as you please." "Be still, Nanny," said the man; and producing a tin vessel from his scrip, he milked the ewe into it. "Here is milk of the plains, master," said the man, as he handed the vessel to me. "Where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were speaking of?" said I, after I had drank some of the milk; "are there any near where we are?" "Not within many miles; the nearest is yonder away," said the shepherd, pointing to the south-east. "It's a grand place, that, but not like this; quite different, and from it you have a sight of the finest spire in the world." "I must go to it," said I, and I drank the remainder of the milk; "yonder, you say." "Yes, yonder; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the river lies between." "What river?" "The Avon." "Avon is British," said I. "Yes," said the man, "we are all British here." "No, we are not," said I. "What are we then?" "English." "A'n't they one?" "No." "Who were the British?" "The men who are supposed to have worshipped God in this place, and who raised these stones." "Where are they now?" "Our forefathers slaughtered them, spilled their blood all about, especially in this neighbourhood, destroyed their pleasant places, and left not, to use their own words, one stone upon another." "Yes, they did," said the shepherd, looking aloft at the transverse stone. "And it is well for them they did; whenever that stone, which English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown down, woe, woe, woe to the English race; spare it, English! Hengist spared it!--Here is sixpence." "I won't have it," said the man. "Why not?" "You talk so prettily about these stones; you seem to know all about them." "I never receive presents; with respect to the stones, I say with yourself, How did they ever come here?" "How did they ever come here?" said the shepherd. CHAPTER LXI The River--Arid Downs--A Prospect. Leaving the shepherd, I bent my way in the direction pointed out by him as that in which the most remarkable of the strange remains of which he had spoken lay. I proceeded rapidly, making my way over the downs covered with coarse grass and fern; with respect to the river of which he had spoken, I reflected that, either by wading or swimming, I could easily transfer myself and what I bore to the opposite side. On arriving at its banks, I found it a beautiful stream, but shallow, with here and there a deep place, where the water ran dark and still. Always fond of the pure lymph, I undressed, and plunged into one of these gulfs, from which I emerged, my whole frame in a glow, and tingling with delicious sensations. After conveying my clothes and scanty baggage to the farther side, I dressed, and then with hurried steps bent my course in the direction of some lofty ground; I at length found myself on a high road, leading over wide and arid downs; following the road for some miles without seeing anything remarkable, I supposed at length that I had taken the wrong path, and wended on slowly and disconsolately for some time, till, having nearly surmounted a steep hill, I knew at once, from certain appearances, that I was near the object of my search. Turning to the right near the brow of the hill, I proceeded along a path which brought me to a causeway leading over a deep ravine, and connecting the hill with another which had once formed part of it, for the ravine was evidently the work of art. I passed over the causeway, and found myself in a kind of gateway which admitted me into a square space of many acres, surrounded on all sides by mounds or ramparts of earth. {72a} Though I had never been in such a place before, I knew that I stood within the precincts of what had been a Roman encampment, and one probably of the largest size, for many thousand warriors might have found room to perform their evolutions in that space, in which corn was now growing, the green ears waving in the morning wind. After I had gazed about the space for a time, standing in the gateway formed by the mounds, I clambered up the mound to the left hand, and on the top of that mound I found myself at a great altitude; beneath, at the distance of a mile, was a fair old city, situated amongst verdant meadows, watered with streams, and from the heart of that old city, from amidst mighty trees, I beheld towering to the sky the finest spire in the world. And after I had looked from the Roman rampart for a long time, I hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the causeway, regained the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended to the city of the spire. {72b} CHAPTER LXII The Hostelry--Life Uncertain--Open Countenance--The Grand Point--Thank You, Master--A Hard Mother--Poor Dear!--Considerable Odds--The Better Country--English Fashion--Landlord-looking Person. And in the old city I remained two days, passing my time as I best could--inspecting the curiosities of the place, eating and drinking when I felt so disposed, which I frequently did, the digestive organs having assumed a tone to which for many months they had been strangers--enjoying at night balmy sleep in a large bed in a dusky room, at the end of a corridor, in a certain hostelry in which I had taken up my quarters--receiving from the people of the hostelry such civility and condescension as people who travel on foot with bundle and stick, but who nevertheless are perceived to be not altogether destitute of coin, are in the habit of receiving. On the third day, on a fine sunny afternoon, I departed from the city of the spire. As I was passing through one of the suburbs, I saw, all on a sudden, a respectable-looking female fall down in a fit; several persons hastened to her assistance. "She is dead," said one. "No, she is not," said another. "I am afraid she is," said a third. "Life is very uncertain," said a fourth. "It is Mrs. ---," said a fifth; "let us carry her to her own house." Not being able to render any assistance, I left the poor female in the hands of her townsfolk, and proceeded on my way. I had chosen a road in the direction of the north-west, it led over downs where corn was growing, but where neither tree nor hedge was to be seen; two or three hours' walking brought me to a beautiful valley, abounding with trees of various kinds, with a delightful village at its farthest extremity; passing through it I ascended a lofty acclivity, on the top of which I sat down on a bank, and, taking off my hat, permitted a breeze, which swept coolly and refreshingly over the downs, to dry my hair, dripping from the effects of exercise and the heat of the day. And as I sat there, gazing now at the blue heavens, now at the downs before me, a man came along the road in the direction in which I had hitherto been proceeding: just opposite to me he stopped, and, looking at me, cried--"Am I right for London, master?" He was dressed like a sailor, and appeared to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age--he had an open manly countenance, and there was a bold and fearless expression in his eye. "Yes," said I, in reply to his question; "this is one of the ways to London. Do you come from far?" "From ---," said the man, naming a well-known seaport. "Is this the direct road to London from that place?" I demanded. "No," said the man; "but I had to visit two or three other places on certain commissions I was entrusted with; amongst others to ---, where I had to take a small sum of money. I am rather tired, master; and, if you please, I will sit down beside you." "You have as much right to sit down here as I have," said I, "the road is free for every one; as for sitting down beside me, you have the look of an honest man, and I have no objection to your company." "Why, as for being honest, master," said the man, laughing and sitting down by me, "I haven't much to say--many is the wild thing I have done when I was younger; however, what is done, is done. To learn, one must live, master; and I have lived long enough to learn the grand point of wisdom." "What is that?" said I. "That honesty is the best policy, master." "You appear to be a sailor," said I, looking at his dress. "I was not bred a sailor," said the man, "though, when my foot is on the salt water, I can play the part--and play it well too. I am now from a long voyage." "From America?" said I. "Farther than that," said the man. "Have you any objection to tell me?" said I. "From New South Wales," said the man, looking me full in the face. "Dear me," said I. "Why do you say 'Dear me'?" said the man. "It is a very long way off," said I. "Was that your reason for saying so?" said the man. "Not exactly," said I. "No," said the man, with something of a bitter smile; "it was something else that made you say so; you were thinking of the convicts." "Well," said I, "what then?--you are no convict." "How do you know?" "You do not look like one." "Thank you, master," said the man, cheerfully; "and, to a certain extent, you are right--bygones are bygones--I am no longer what I was, nor ever will be again; the truth, however, is the truth--a convict I have been--a convict at Sydney Cove." "And you have served out the period for which you were sentenced, and are now returned?" "As to serving out my sentence," replied the man, "I can't say that I did; I was sentenced for fourteen years, and I was in Sydney Cove little more than half that time. The truth is that I did the Government a service. There was a conspiracy amongst some of the convicts to murder and destroy--I overheard and informed the Government; mind one thing, however, I was not concerned in it; those who got it up were no comrades of mine, but a bloody gang of villains. Well, the Government, in consideration of the service I had done them, remitted the remainder of my sentence; and some kind gentlemen interested themselves about me, gave me good books and good advice, and, being satisfied with my conduct, procured me employ in an exploring expedition, by which I earned money. In fact, the being sent to Sydney was the best thing that ever happened to me in all my life." "And you have now returned to your native country. Longing to see home brought you from New South Wales." "There you are mistaken," said the man. "Wish to see England again would never have brought me so far; for, to tell you the truth, master, England was a hard mother to me, as she has proved to many. No, a wish to see another kind of mother--a poor old woman whose son I am--has brought me back." "You have a mother, then?" said I. "Does she reside in London?" "She used to live in London," said the man; "but I am afraid she is long since dead." "How did she support herself?" said I. "Support herself! with difficulty enough; she used to keep a small stall on London Bridge, where she sold fruit; I am afraid she is dead, and that she died perhaps in misery. She was a poor sinful creature; but I loved her, and she loved me. I came all the way back merely for the chance of seeing her." "Did you ever write to her," said I, "or cause others to write to her?" "I wrote to her myself," said the man, "about two years ago; but I never received an answer. I learned to write very tolerably over there, by the assistance of the good people I spoke of. As for reading, I could do that very well before I went--my poor mother taught me to read, out of a book that she was very fond of; a strange book it was, I remember. Poor dear!--what I would give only to know that she is alive." "Life is very uncertain," said I. "That is true," said the man, with a sigh. "We are here one moment, and gone the next," I continued. "As I passed through the streets of a neighbouring town, I saw a respectable woman drop down, and people said she was dead. Who knows but that she too had a son coming to see her from a distance, at that very time." "Who knows, indeed," said the man. "Ah, I am afraid my mother is dead. Well, God's will be done." "However," said I, "I should not wonder at your finding your mother alive." "You wouldn't?" said the man, looking at me wistfully. "I should not wonder at all," said I; "indeed, something within me seems to tell me you will; I should not much mind betting five shillings to five pence that you will see your mother within a week. Now, friend, five shillings to five pence--" "Is very considerable odds," said the man, rubbing his hands; "sure you must have good reason to hope, when you are willing to give such odds." "After all," said I, "it not unfrequently happens that those who lay the long odds lose. Let us hope, however. What do you mean to do in the event of finding your mother alive?" "I scarcely know," said the man; "I have frequently thought that if I found my mother alive I would attempt to persuade her to accompany me to the country which I have left--it is a better country for a man--that is a free man--to live in than this; however, let me first find my mother--if I could only find my mother--" "Farewell," said I, rising. "Go your way, and God go with you--I will go mine." "I have but one thing to ask you," said the man. "What is that?" I inquired. "That you would drink with me before we part--you have done me so much good." "How should we drink?" said I; "we are on the top of a hill where there is nothing to drink." "But there is a village below," said the man; "do let us drink before we part." "I have been through that village already," said I, "and I do not like turning back." "Ah," said the man, sorrowfully, "you will not drink with me because I told you I was--" "You are quite mistaken," said I, "I would as soon drink with a convict as with a judge. I am by no means certain that, under the same circumstances, the judge would be one whit better than the convict. Come along! I will go back to oblige you. I have an odd sixpence in my pocket, which I will change, that I may drink with you." So we went down the hill together to the village through which I had already passed, where, finding a public-house, we drank together in true English fashion, after which we parted, the sailor-looking man going his way and I mine. After walking about a dozen miles, I came to a town, where I rested for the night. The next morning I set out again in the direction of the north-west. I continued journeying for four days, my daily journeys varying from twenty to twenty-five miles. During this time nothing occurred to me worthy of any especial notice. The weather was brilliant, and I rapidly improved both in strength and spirits. On the fifth day, about two o'clock, I arrived at a small town. Feeling hungry, I entered a decent-looking inn--within a kind of bar I saw a huge, fat, landlord- looking person, with a very pretty, smartly-dressed maiden. Addressing myself to the fat man, "House!" said I, "House! Can I have dinner, House?" CHAPTER LXIII Primitive Habits--Rosy-faced Damsel--A Pleasant Moment--Suit of Black--The Furtive Glance--The Mighty Round--Degenerate Times--The Newspaper--The Evil Chance--I Congratulate You. "Young gentleman," said the huge fat landlord, "you are come at the right time; dinner will be taken up in a few minutes; and such a dinner," he continued, rubbing his hands, "as you will not see every day in these times." "I am hot and dusty," said I, "and should wish to cool my hands and face." "Jenny!" said the huge landlord, with the utmost gravity, "show the gentleman into number seven, that he may wash his hands and face." "By no means," said I, "I am a person of primitive habits, and there is nothing like the pump in weather like this." "Jenny," said the landlord, with the same gravity as before, "go with the young gentleman to the pump in the back kitchen, and take a clean towel along with you." Thereupon the rosy-faced clean-looking damsel went to a drawer, and producing a large, thick, but snowy white towel, she nodded to me to follow her; whereupon I followed Jenny through a long passage into the back kitchen. And at the end of the back kitchen there stood a pump; and going to it I placed my hands beneath the spout, and said, "Pump, Jenny;" and Jenny incontinently, without laying down the towel, pumped with one hand, and I washed and cooled my heated hands. And, when my hands were washed and cooled, I took off my neckcloth, and, unbuttoning my shirt collar, I placed my head beneath the spout of the pump, and I said unto Jenny, "Now, Jenny, lay down the towel, and pump for your life." Thereupon Jenny, placing the towel on a linen-horse, took the handle of the pump with both hands and pumped over my head as handmaid had never pumped before; so that the water poured in torrents from my head, my face, and my hair down upon the brick floor. And, after the lapse of somewhat more than a minute, I called out with a half-strangled voice, "Hold, Jenny!" and Jenny desisted. I stood for a few moments to recover my breath, then taking the towel which Jenny proffered, I dried composedly my hands and head, my face and hair; then, returning the towel to Jenny, I gave a deep sigh and said, "Surely this is one of the pleasant moments of life." Then, having set my dress to rights, and combed my hair with a pocket- comb, I followed Jenny, who conducted me back through the long passage, and showed me into a neat sanded parlour on the ground floor. I sat down by a window which looked out upon the dusty street; presently in came the handmaid, and commenced laying the tablecloth. "Shall I spread the table for one, sir," said she, "or do you expect anybody to dine with you?" "I can't say that I expect anybody," said I, laughing inwardly to myself; "however, if you please you can lay for two, so that if any acquaintance of mine should chance to step in, he may find a knife and fork ready for him." So I sat by the window, sometimes looking out upon the dusty street, and now glancing at certain old-fashioned prints which adorned the wall over against me. I fell into a kind of doze, from which I was almost instantly awakened by the opening of the door. Dinner, thought I; and I sat upright in my chair. No, a man of the middle age, and rather above the middle height, dressed in a plain suit of black, made his appearance, and sat down in a chair at some distance from me, but near to the table, and appeared to be lost in thought. "The weather is very warm, sir," said I. "Very," said the stranger, laconically, looking at me for the first time. "Would you like to see the newspaper?" said I, taking up one which lay upon the window seat. "I never read newspapers," said the stranger, "nor, indeed . . . " Whatever it might be that he had intended to say he left unfinished. Suddenly he walked to the mantelpiece at the farther end of the room, before which he placed himself with his back towards me. There he remained motionless for some time; at length, raising his hand, he touched the corner of the mantelpiece with his finger, advanced towards the chair which he had left, and again seated himself. "Have you come far?" said he, suddenly looking towards me, and speaking in a frank and open manner, which denoted a wish to enter into conversation. "You do not seem to be of this place." "I come from some distance," said I; "indeed, I am walking for exercise, which I find as necessary to the mind as the body. I believe that by exercise people would escape much mental misery." Scarcely had I uttered these words when the stranger laid his hand, with seeming carelessness, upon the table, near one of the glasses; after a moment or two he touched the glass with his finger as if inadvertently, then, glancing furtively at me, he withdrew his hand and looked towards the window. "Are you from these parts?" said I at last, with apparent carelessness. "From this vicinity," replied the stranger. "You think, then, that it is as easy to walk off the bad humours of the mind as of the body?" "I, at least, am walking in that hope," said I. "I wish you may be successful," said the stranger; and here he touched one of the forks which lay on the table near him. Here the door, which was slightly ajar, was suddenly pushed open with some fracas, and in came the stout landlord, supporting with some difficulty an immense dish, in which was a mighty round mass of smoking meat garnished all round with vegetables; so high was the mass that it probably obstructed his view, for it was not until he had placed it upon the table that he appeared to observe the stranger; he almost started, and quite out of breath exclaimed, "God bless me, your honour; is your honour the acquaintance that the young gentleman was expecting?" "Is the young gentleman expecting an acquaintance?" said the stranger. There is nothing like putting a good face upon these matters, thought I to myself; and, getting up, I bowed to the unknown. "Sir," said I, "when I told Jenny that she might lay the tablecloth for two, so that in the event of any acquaintance dropping in he might find a knife and fork ready for him, I was merely jocular, being an entire stranger in these parts, and expecting no one. Fortune, however, it would seem has been unexpectedly kind to me; I flatter myself, sir, that since you have been in this room I have had the honour of making your acquaintance; and in the strength of that hope I humbly entreat you to honour me with your company to dinner, provided you have not already dined." The stranger laughed outright. "Sir," I continued, "the round of beef is a noble one, and seems exceedingly well boiled, and the landlord was just right when he said I should have such a dinner as is not seen every day. A round of beef, at any rate such a round of beef as this, is seldom seen smoking upon the table in these degenerate times. Allow me, sir," said I, observing that the stranger was about to speak, "allow me another remark. I think I saw you just now touch the fork, I venture to hail it as an omen that you will presently seize it, and apply it to its proper purpose, and its companion the knife also." The stranger changed colour, and gazed upon me in silence. "Do, sir," here put in the landlord; "do, sir, accept the young gentleman's invitation. Your honour has of late been looking poorly, and the young gentleman is a funny young gentleman, and a clever young gentleman; and I think it will do your honour good to have a dinner's chat with the young gentleman." "It is not my dinner hour," said the stranger; "I dine considerably later; taking anything now would only discompose me; I shall, however, be most happy to sit down with the young gentleman; reach me that paper, and, when the young gentleman has satisfied his appetite, we may perhaps have a little chat together." The landlord handed the stranger the newspaper, and, bowing, retired with his maid Jenny. I helped myself to a portion of the smoking round, and commenced eating with no little appetite. The stranger appeared to be soon engrossed with the newspaper. We continued thus a considerable time--the one reading and the other dining. Chancing suddenly to cast my eyes upon the stranger, I saw his brow contract; he gave a slight stamp with his foot, and flung the newspaper to the ground, then stooping down he picked it up, first moving his forefinger along the floor, seemingly slightly scratching it with his nail. "Do you hope, sir," said I, "by that ceremony with the finger to preserve yourself from the evil chance?" The stranger started; then, after looking at me for some time in silence, he said, "Is it possible that you--?" "Ay, ay," said I, helping myself to some more of the round, "I have touched myself in my younger days, both for the evil chance and the good. Can't say, though, that I ever trusted much in the ceremony." {87} The stranger made no reply, but appeared to be in deep thought; nothing farther passed between us until I had concluded the dinner, when I said to him, "I shall now be most happy, sir, to have the pleasure of your conversation over a pint of wine." The stranger rose; "No, my young friend," said he, smiling, "that would scarce be fair. It is my turn now--pray do me the favour to go home with me, and accept what hospitality my poor roof can offer; to tell you the truth, I wish to have some particular discourse with you which would hardly be possible in this place. As for wine, I can give you some much better than you can get here: the landlord is an excellent fellow, but he is an innkeeper after all. I am going out for a moment, and will send him in, so that you may settle your account; I trust you will not refuse me, I only live about two miles from here." I looked in the face of the stranger--it was a fine intelligent face, with a cast of melancholy in it. "Sir," said I, "I would go with you though you lived four miles instead of two." "Who is that gentleman?" said I to the landlord, after I had settled his bill; "I am going home with him." "I wish I were going too," said the fat landlord, laying his hand upon his stomach. "Young gentleman, I shall be a loser by his honour's taking you away; but, after all, the truth is the truth--there are few gentlemen in these parts like his honour, either for learning or welcoming his friends. Young gentleman, I congratulate you." {88} CHAPTER LXIV New Acquaintance--Old French Style--The Portrait--Taciturnity--The Evergreen Tree--The Dark Hour--The Flash--Ancestors--A Fortunate Man--A Posthumous Child--Antagonist Ideas--The Hawks--Flaws--The Pony--Irresistible Impulse--Favourable Crisis--The Topmost Branch--Twenty Feet--Heartily Ashamed. I found the stranger awaiting me at the door of the inn. "Like yourself, I am fond of walking," said he, "and when any little business calls me to this place I generally come on foot." We were soon out of the town, and in a very beautiful country. After proceeding some distance on the high road, we turned off, and were presently in one of those mazes of lanes for which England is famous; the stranger at first seemed inclined to be taciturn; a few observations, however, which I made appeared to rouse him, and he soon exhibited not only considerable powers of conversation, but stores of information which surprised me. So pleased did I become with my new acquaintance, that I soon ceased to pay the slightest attention either to place or distance. At length the stranger was silent, and I perceived that we had arrived at a handsome iron gate and a lodge; the stranger having rung a bell, the gate was opened by an old man, and we proceeded along a gravel path, which in about five minutes brought us to a large brick house, built something in the old French style, having a spacious lawn before it, and immediately in front a pond in which were golden fish, and in the middle a stone swan discharging quantities of water from its bill. We ascended a spacious flight of steps to the door, which was at once flung open, and two servants with powdered hair, and in livery of blue plush, came out and stood one on either side as we passed the threshold. We entered a large hall, and the stranger, taking me by the hand, welcomed me to his poor home, as he called it, and then gave orders to another servant, but out of livery, to show me to an apartment, and give me whatever assistance I might require in my toilet. Notwithstanding the plea as to primitive habits which I had lately made to my other host in the town, I offered no objection to this arrangement, but followed the bowing domestic to a spacious and airy chamber, where he rendered me all those little nameless offices which the somewhat neglected state of my dress required. When everything had been completed to my perfect satisfaction, he told me that if I pleased he would conduct me to the library, where dinner would be speedily served. In the library I found a table laid for two; my host was not there, having as I supposed not been quite so speedy with his toilette as his guest. Left alone, I looked round the apartment with inquiring eyes; it was long and tolerably lofty, the walls from the top to the bottom were lined with cases containing books of all sizes and bindings; there was a globe or two, a couch, and an easy chair. Statues and busts there were none, and only one painting, a portrait, that of my host, but not him of the mansion. Over the mantelpiece, the features staringly like, but so ridiculously exaggerated that they scarcely resembled those of a human being, daubed evidently by the hand of the commonest sign-artist, hung a half-length portrait of him of round of beef celebrity--my sturdy host of the town. I had been in the library about ten minutes, amusing myself as I best could, when my friend entered; he seemed to have resumed his taciturnity--scarce a word escaped his lips till dinner was served, when he said, smiling, "I suppose it would be merely a compliment to ask you to partake?" "I don't know," said I, seating myself; "your first course consists of troutlets, I am fond of troutlets, and I always like to be companionable." The dinner was excellent, though I did but little justice to it from the circumstance of having already dined; the stranger also, though without my excuse, partook but slightly of the good cheer; he still continued taciturn, and appeared lost in thought, and every attempt which I made to induce him to converse was signally unsuccessful. And now dinner was removed, and we sat over our wine, and I remember that the wine was good, and fully justified the encomiums of my host of the town. Over the wine I made sure that my entertainer would have loosened the chain which seemed to tie his tongue--but no! I endeavoured to tempt him by various topics, and talked of geometry and the use of the globes, of the heavenly sphere, and the star Jupiter, which I said I had heard was a very large star, also of the evergreen tree, which, according to Olaus, stood of old before the heathen temple of Upsal, and which I affirmed was a yew--but no, nothing that I said could induce my entertainer to relax his taciturnity. It grew dark, and I became uncomfortable; "I must presently be going," I at last exclaimed. At these words he gave a sudden start; "Going," said he, "are you not my guest, and an honoured one?" "You know best," said I; "but I was apprehensive I was an intruder; to several of my questions you have returned no answer." "Ten thousand pardons!" he exclaimed, seizing me by the hand; "but you cannot go now, I have much to talk to you about--there is one thing in particular--" "If it be the evergreen tree at Upsal," said I, interrupting him, "I hold it to have been a yew--what else? The evergreens of the south, as the old bishop observes, will not grow in the north, and a pine was unfitted for such a locality, being a vulgar tree. What else could it have been but the yew--the sacred yew which our ancestors were in the habit of planting in their churchyards? Moreover, I affirm it to have been the yew for the honour of the tree; for I love the yew, and had I home and land, I would have one growing before my front windows." "You would do right, the yew is indeed a venerable tree, but it is not about the yew." "The star Jupiter, perhaps?" "Nor the star Jupiter, nor its moons; an observation which escaped you at the inn has made a considerable impression upon me." "But I really must take my departure," said I; "the dark hour is at hand." And as I uttered these latter words the stranger touched rapidly something which lay near him--I forget what it was. It was the first action of the kind which I had observed on his part since we sat down to table. "You allude to the evil chance," said I; "but it is getting both dark and late." "I believe we are going to have a storm," said my friend, "but I really hope that you will give me your company for a day or two; I have, as I said before, much to talk to you about." "Well," said I, "I shall be most happy to be your guest for this night; I am ignorant of the country, and it is not pleasant to travel unknown paths by night--dear me, what a flash of lightning!" It had become very dark; suddenly a blaze of sheet lightning illumed the room. By the momentary light I distinctly saw my host touch another object upon the table. "Will you allow me to ask you a question or two?" said he at last. "As many as you please," said I; "but shall we not have lights?" "Not unless you particularly wish it," said my entertainer; "I rather like the dark, and though a storm is evidently at hand, neither thunder nor lightning has any terrors for me. It is other things I quake at--I should rather say ideas. Now permit me to ask you . . ." And then my entertainer asked me various questions, to all of which I answered unreservedly; he was then silent for some time, at last he exclaimed, "I should wish to tell you the history of my life--though not an adventurous one, I think it contains some things which will interest you." Without waiting for my reply he began. Amidst darkness and gloom, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning, the stranger related to me, as we sat at table in the library, his truly touching history. "Before proceeding to relate the events of my life, it will not be amiss to give you some account of my ancestors. My great-grandfather on the male side was a silk mercer, in Cheapside, who, when he died, left his son, who was his only child, a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds, and a splendid business; the son, however, had no inclination for trade, the summit of his ambition was to be a country gentleman, to found a family, and to pass the remainder of his days in rural ease and dignity, and all this he managed to accomplish; he disposed of his business, purchased a beautiful and extensive estate for four score thousand pounds, built upon it the mansion to which I had the honour of welcoming you to-day, married the daughter of a neighbouring squire, who brought him a fortune of five thousand pounds, became a magistrate, and only wanted a son and heir to make him completely happy; this blessing, it is true, was for a long time denied him; it came, however, at last, as is usual, when least expected. His lady was brought to bed of my father, and then who so happy a man as my grandsire; he gave away two thousand pounds in charities, and in the joy of his heart made a speech at the next quarter sessions; the rest of his life was spent in ease, tranquillity, and rural dignity; he died of apoplexy on the day that my father came of age; perhaps it would be difficult to mention a man who in all respects was so fortunate as my grandfather: his death was sudden it is true, but I am not one of those who pray to be delivered from a sudden death. "I should not call my father a fortunate man; it is true that he had the advantage of a first-rate education; that he made the grand tour with a private tutor, as was the fashion at that time; that he came to a splendid fortune on the very day that he came of age; that for many years he tasted all the diversions of the capital; that, at last determined to settle, he married the sister of a baronet, an amiable and accomplished lady, with a large fortune; that he had the best stud of hunters in the county, on which, during the season, he followed the fox gallantly; had he been a fortunate man he would never have cursed his fate, as he was frequently known to do; ten months after his marriage his horse fell upon him, and so injured him, that he expired in a few days in great agony. My grandfather was, indeed, a fortunate man; when he died he was followed to the grave by the tears of the poor--my father was not. "Two remarkable circumstances are connected with my birth--I am a posthumous child, and came into the world some weeks before the usual time, the shock which my mother experienced at my father's death having brought on the pangs of premature labour; both my mother's life and my own were at first despaired of; we both, however, survived the crisis. My mother loved me with the most passionate fondness, and I was brought up in this house under her own eye--I was never sent to school. "I have already told you that mine is not a tale of adventure; my life has not been one of action, but of wild imaginings and strange sensations; I was born with excessive sensibility, and that has been my bane. I have not been a fortunate man. "No one is fortunate unless he is happy, and it is impossible for a being constructed like myself to be happy for an hour, or even enjoy peace and tranquillity; most of our pleasures and pains are the effects of imagination, and wherever the sensibility is great, the imagination is great also. No sooner has my imagination raised up an image of pleasure, than it is sure to conjure up one of distress and gloom; these two antagonist ideas instantly commence a struggle in my mind, and the gloomy one generally, I may say invariably, prevails. How is it possible that I should be a happy man? "It has invariably been so with me from the earliest period that I can remember; the first playthings that were given me caused me for a few minutes excessive pleasure: they were pretty and glittering; presently, however, I became anxious and perplexed, I wished to know their history, how they were made, and what of--were the materials precious; I was not satisfied with their outward appearance. In less than an hour I had broken the playthings in an attempt to discover what they were made of. "When I was eight years of age my uncle the baronet, who was also my godfather, sent me a pair of Norway hawks, with directions for managing them; he was a great fowler. Oh, how rejoiced was I with the present which had been made me, my joy lasted for at least five minutes; I would let them breed, I would have a house of hawks; yes, that I would--but--and here came the unpleasant idea--suppose they were to fly away, how very annoying! Ah, but, said hope, there's little fear of that; feed them well and they will never fly away, or if they do they will come back, my uncle says so; so sunshine triumphed for a little time. Then the strangest of all doubts came into my head; I doubted the legality of my tenure of these hawks; how did I come by them? why, my uncle gave them to me; but how did they come into his possession? what right had he to them? after all, they might not be his to give.--I passed a sleepless night. The next morning I found that the man who brought the hawks had not departed. 'How came my uncle by these hawks?' I anxiously inquired. 'They were sent to him from Norway, master, with another pair.' 'And who sent them?' 'That I don't know, master, but I suppose his honour can tell you.' I was even thinking of scrawling a letter to my uncle to make inquiry on this point, but shame restrained me, and I likewise reflected that it would be impossible for him to give my mind entire satisfaction; it is true he could tell who sent him the hawks, but how was he to know how the hawks came into the possession of those who sent them to him, and by what right they possessed them or the parents of the hawks? In a word, I wanted a clear valid title, as lawyers would say, to my hawks, and I believe no title would have satisfied me that did not extend up to the time of the first hawk, that is, prior to Adam; and, could I have obtained such a title, I make no doubt that, young as I was, I should have suspected that it was full of flaws. "I was now disgusted with the hawks, and no wonder, seeing all the disquietude they had caused me; I soon totally neglected the poor birds, and they would have starved had not some of the servants taken compassion upon them and fed them. My uncle, soon hearing of my neglect, was angry, and took the birds away; he was a very good-natured man, however, and soon sent me a fine pony; at first I was charmed with the pony; soon, however, the same kind of thoughts arose which had disgusted me on a former occasion. How did my uncle become possessed of the pony? This question I asked him the first time I saw him. Oh, he had bought it of a Gypsy, that I might learn to ride upon it. A Gypsy; I had heard that Gypsies were great thieves, and I instantly began to fear that the Gypsy had stolen the pony, and it is probable that for this apprehension I had better grounds than for many others. I instantly ceased to set any value upon the pony, but for that reason, perhaps, I turned it to some account; I mounted it, and rode it about, which I don't think I should have done had I looked upon it as a secure possession. Had I looked upon my title as secure, I should have prized it so much, that I should scarcely have mounted it for fear of injuring the animal; but now, caring not a straw for it, I rode it most unmercifully, and soon became a capital rider. This was very selfish in me, and I tell the fact with shame. I was punished, however, as I deserved; the pony had a spirit of its own, and, moreover, it had belonged to Gypsies; once, as I was riding it furiously over the lawn, applying both whip and spur, it suddenly lifted up its heels, and flung me at least five yards over its head. I received some desperate contusions, and was taken up for dead; it was many months before I perfectly recovered. "But it is time for me to come to the touching part of my story. There was one thing that I loved better than the choicest gift which could be bestowed upon me, better than life itself--my mother;--at length she became unwell, and the thought that I might possibly lose her now rushed into my mind for the first time; it was terrible, and caused me unspeakable misery, I may say horror. My mother became worse, and I was not allowed to enter her apartment, lest by my frantic exclamations of grief I might aggravate her disorder. I rested neither day nor night, but roamed about the house like one distracted. Suddenly I found myself doing that which even at the time struck me as being highly singular; I found myself touching particular objects that were near me, and to which my fingers seemed to be attracted by an irresistible impulse. It was now the table or the chair that I was compelled to touch; now the bell-rope; now the handle of the door; now I would touch the wall, and the next moment stooping down, I would place the point of my finger upon the floor: and so I continued to do day after day; frequently I would struggle to resist the impulse, but invariably in vain. I have even rushed away from the object, but I was sure to return, the impulse was too strong to be resisted: I quickly hurried back, compelled by the feeling within me to touch the object. Now I need not tell you that what impelled me to these actions was the desire to prevent my mother's death; whenever I touched any particular object, it was with the view of baffling the evil chance, as you would call it--in this instance my mother's death. "A favourable crisis occurred in my mother's complaint, and she recovered; this crisis took place about six o'clock in the morning; almost simultaneously with it there happened to myself a rather remarkable circumstance connected with the nervous feeling which was rioting in my system. I was lying in bed in a kind of uneasy doze, the only kind of rest which my anxiety, on account of my mother, permitted me at this time to take, when all at once I sprang up as if electrified, the mysterious impulse was upon me, and it urged me to go without delay, and climb a stately elm behind the house, and touch the topmost branch; otherwise--you know the rest--the evil chance would prevail. Accustomed for some time as I had been, under this impulse, to perform extravagant actions, I confess to you that the difficulty and peril of such a feat startled me; I reasoned against the feeling, and strove more strenuously than I had ever done before; I even made a solemn vow not to give way to the temptation, but I believe nothing less than chains, and those strong ones, could have restrained me. The demoniac influence, for I can call it nothing else, at length prevailed; it compelled me to rise, to dress myself, to descend the stairs, to unbolt the door, and to go forth; it drove me to the foot of the tree, and it compelled me to climb the trunk; this was a tremendous task, and I only accomplished it after repeated falls and trials. When I had got amongst the branches, I rested for a time, and then set about accomplishing the remainder of the ascent; this for some time was not so difficult, for I was now amongst the branches; as I approached the top, however, the difficulty became greater, and likewise the danger; but I was a light boy, and almost as nimble as a squirrel, and, moreover, the nervous feeling was within me, impelling me upward. It was only by means of a spring, however, that I was enabled to touch the top of the tree; I sprang, touched the top of the tree, and fell a distance of at least twenty feet, amongst the branches; had I fallen to the bottom I must have been killed, but I fell into the middle of the tree, and presently found myself astride upon one of the boughs; scratched and bruised all over, I reached the ground, and regained my chamber unobserved; I flung myself on my bed quite exhausted; presently they came to tell me that my mother was better--they found me in the state which I have described, and in a fever besides. The favourable crisis must have occurred just about the time that I performed the magic touch; it certainly was a curious coincidence, yet I was not weak enough, even though a child, to suppose that I had baffled the evil chance by my daring feat. "Indeed, all the time that I was performing these strange feats, I knew them to be highly absurd, yet the impulse to perform them was irresistible--a mysterious dread hanging over me till I had given way to it; even at that early period I frequently used to reason within myself as to what could be the cause of my propensity to touch, but of course I could come to no satisfactory conclusion respecting it; being heartily ashamed of the practice, I never spoke of it to any one, and was at all times highly solicitous that no one should observe my weakness." CHAPTER LXV Maternal Anxiety--The Baronet--Little Zest--Country Life--Mr. Speaker!--The Craving--Spirited Address--An Author. After a short pause my host resumed his narration. "Though I was never sent to school, my education was not neglected on that account; I had tutors in various branches of knowledge, under whom I made a tolerable progress; by the time I was eighteen I was able to read most of the Greek and Latin authors with facility; I was likewise, to a certain degree, a mathematician. I cannot say that I took much pleasure in my studies; my chief aim in endeavouring to accomplish my tasks was to give pleasure to my beloved parent, who watched my progress with anxiety truly maternal. My life at this period may be summed up in a few words; I pursued my studies, roamed about the woods, walked the green lanes occasionally, cast my fly in a trout stream, and sometimes, but not often, rode a-hunting with my uncle. A considerable part of my time was devoted to my mother, conversing with her and reading to her; youthful companions I had none, and as to my mother, she lived in the greatest retirement, devoting herself to the superintendence of my education, and the practice of acts of charity; nothing could be more innocent than this mode of life, and some people say that in innocence there is happiness, yet I can't say that I was happy. A continual dread overshadowed my mind, it was the dread of my mother's death. Her constitution had never been strong, and it had been considerably shaken by her last illness; this I knew, and this I saw--for the eyes of fear are marvellously keen. Well, things went on in this way till I had come of age; my tutors were then dismissed, and my uncle the baronet took me in hand, telling my mother that it was high time for him to exert his authority; that I must see something of the world, for that, if I remained much longer with her, I should be ruined. 'You must consign him to me,' said he, 'and I will introduce him to the world.' My mother sighed and consented; so my uncle the baronet introduced me to the world, took me to horse-races and to London, and endeavoured to make a man of me according to his idea of the term, and in part succeeded. I became moderately dissipated--I say moderately, for dissipation had but little zest for me. "In this manner four years passed over. It happened that I was in London in the height of the season with my uncle, at his house; one morning he summoned me into the parlour, he was standing before the fire, and looked very serious. 'I have had a letter,' said he; 'your mother is very ill.' I staggered, and touched the nearest object to me; nothing was said for two or three minutes, and then my uncle put his lips to my ear and whispered something. I fell down senseless. My mother was . . . I remember nothing for a long time--for two years I was out of my mind; at the end of this time I recovered, or partly so. My uncle the baronet was very kind to me; he advised me to travel, he offered to go with me. I told him he was very kind, but I would rather go by myself. So I went abroad, and saw, amongst other things, Rome and the Pyramids. By frequent change of scene my mind became not happy, but tolerably tranquil. I continued abroad some years, when, becoming tired of travelling, I came home, found my uncle the baronet alive, hearty, and unmarried, as he still is. He received me very kindly, took me to Newmarket, and said that he hoped by this time I was become quite a man of the world; by his advice I took a house in town, in which I lived during the season. In summer I strolled from one watering-place to another; and, in order to pass the time, I became very dissipated. "At last I became as tired of dissipation as I had previously been of travelling, and I determined to retire to the country, and live on my paternal estate; this resolution I was not slow in putting into effect; I sold my house in town, repaired and refurnished my country house, and, for at least ten years, lived a regular country life; I gave dinner parties, prosecuted poachers, was charitable to the poor, and now and then went into my library; during this time I was seldom or never visited by the magic impulse, the reason being, that there was nothing in the wide world for which I cared sufficiently to move a finger to preserve it. When the ten years, however, were nearly ended, I started out of bed one morning in a fit of horror, exclaiming, 'Mercy, mercy! what will become of me? I am afraid I shall go mad. I have lived thirty-five years and upwards without doing anything; shall I pass through life in this manner? Horror!' And then in rapid succession I touched three different objects. "I dressed myself and went down, determining to set about something; but what was I to do?--there was the difficulty. I ate no breakfast, but walked about the room in a state of distraction; at last I thought that the easiest way to do something was to get into Parliament, there would be no difficulty in that. I had plenty of money, and could buy a seat; but what was I to do in Parliament? Speak, of course--but could I speak? 'I'll try at once,' said I, and forthwith I rushed into the largest dining-room, and, locking the door, I commenced speaking; 'Mr. Speaker,' said I, and then I went on speaking for about ten minutes as I best could, and then I left off, for I was talking nonsense. No, I was not formed for Parliament; I could do nothing there. What--what was I to do? "Many, many times I thought this question over, but was unable to solve it; a fear now stole over me that I was unfit for anything in the world, save the lazy life of vegetation which I had for many years been leading; yet, if that were the case, thought I, why the craving within me to distinguish myself? Surely it does not occur fortuitously, but is intended to rouse and call into exercise certain latent powers that I possess? and then with infinite eagerness I set about attempting to discover these latent powers. I tried an infinity of pursuits, botany and geology amongst the rest, but in vain; I was fitted for none of them. I became very sorrowful and despondent, and at one time I had almost resolved to plunge again into the whirlpool of dissipation; it was a dreadful resource, it was true, but what better could I do? "But I was not doomed to return to the dissipation of the world. One morning a young nobleman, who had for some time past showed a wish to cultivate my acquaintance, came to me in a considerable hurry. 'I am come to beg an important favour of you,' said he; 'one of the county memberships is vacant--I intend to become a candidate; what I want immediately is a spirited address to the electors. I have been endeavouring to frame one all the morning, but in vain; I have, therefore, recourse to you as a person of infinite genius; pray, my dear friend, concoct me one by the morning.' 'What you require of me,' I replied, 'is impossible; I have not the gift of words; did I possess it I would stand for the county myself, but I can't speak. Only the other day I attempted to make a speech, but left off suddenly, utterly ashamed, although I was quite alone, of the nonsense I was uttering.' 'It is not a speech that I want,' said my friend, 'I can talk for three hours without hesitating, but I want an address to circulate through the county, and I find myself utterly incompetent to put one together; do oblige me by writing one for me, I know you can; and, if at any time you want a person to speak for you, you may command me not for three but for six hours. Good morning; to-morrow I will breakfast with you.' In the morning he came again. 'Well,' said he, 'what success?' 'Very poor,' said I; 'but judge for yourself;' and I put into his hand a manuscript of several pages. My friend read it through with considerable attention. 'I congratulate you,' said he, 'and likewise myself; I was not mistaken in my opinion of you; the address is too long by at least two-thirds, or I should rather say, that it is longer by two-thirds than addresses generally are; but it will do--I will not curtail it of a word. I shall win my election.' And in truth he did win his election; and it was not only his own but the general opinion that he owed it to the address. "But, however that might be, I had, by writing the address, at last discovered what had so long eluded my search--what I was able to do. I, who had neither the nerve nor the command of speech necessary to constitute the orator--who had not the power of patient research required by those who would investigate the secrets of nature, had, nevertheless, a ready pen and teeming imagination. This discovery decided my fate--from that moment I became an author." CHAPTER LXVI Trepidations--Subtle Principle--Perverse Imagination--Are they Mine?--Another Book--How Hard!--Agricultural Dinner--Incomprehensible Actions--Inmost Bosom--Give it Up--Chance Resemblance--Rascally Newspaper. "An author," said I, addressing my host; "is it possible that I am under the roof of an author?" "Yes," said my host, sighing, "my name is so and so, and I am the author of so and so; it is more than probable that you have heard both of my name and works. I will not detain you much longer with my history; the night is advancing, and the storm appears to be upon the increase. My life since the period of my becoming an author may be summed briefly as an almost uninterrupted series of doubts, anxieties, and trepidations. I see clearly that it is not good to love anything immoderately in this world, but it has been my misfortune to love immoderately everything on which I have set my heart. This is not good, I repeat--but where is the remedy? The ancients were always in the habit of saying, 'Practise moderation,' but the ancients appear to have considered only one portion of the subject. It is very possible to practise moderation in some things, in drink and the like--to restrain the appetites--but can a man restrain the affections of his mind, and tell them, so far you shall go, and no farther? Alas, no! for the mind is a subtle principle, and cannot be confined. The winds may be imprisoned; Homer says that Odysseus carried certain winds in his ship, confined in leathern bags, but Homer never speaks of confining the affections. It were but right that those who exhort us against inordinate affections, and setting our hearts too much upon the world and its vanities, would tell us how to avoid doing so. "I need scarcely tell you, that no sooner did I become an author, than I gave myself up immoderately to my vocation. It became my idol, and, as a necessary consequence, it has proved a source of misery and disquietude to me, instead of pleasure and blessing. I had trouble enough in writing my first work, and I was not long in discovering that it was one thing to write a stirring and spirited address to a set of county electors, and another widely different to produce a work at all calculated to make an impression upon the great world. I felt, however, that I was in my proper sphere, and by dint of unwearied diligence and exertion I succeeded in evolving from the depths of my agitated breast a work which, though it did not exactly please me, I thought would serve to make an experiment upon the public; so I laid it before the public, and the reception which it met with was far beyond my wildest expectations. The public were delighted with it, but what were my feelings? Anything, alas! but those of delight. No sooner did the public express its satisfaction at the result of my endeavours, than my perverse imagination began to conceive a thousand chimerical doubts; forthwith I sat down to analyse it; and my worst enemy, and all people have their enemies, especially authors--my worst enemy could not have discovered or sought to discover a tenth part of the faults which I, the author and creator of the unfortunate production, found or sought to find in it. It has been said that love makes us blind to the faults of the loved object--common love does, perhaps--the love of a father to his child, or that of a lover to his mistress, but not the inordinate love of an author to his works, at least not the love which one like myself bears to his works: to be brief, I discovered a thousand faults in my work, which neither public nor critics discovered. However, I was beginning to get over this misery, and to forgive my work all its imperfections, when--and I shake when I mention it--the same kind of idea which perplexed me with regard to the hawks and the Gypsy pony rushed into my mind, and I forthwith commenced touching the objects around me, in order to baffle the evil chance, as you call it; it was neither more nor less than a doubt of the legality of my claim to the thoughts, expressions, and situations contained in the book; that is, to all that constituted the book. How did I get them? How did they come into my mind? Did I invent them? Did they originate with myself? Are they my own, or are they some other body's? You see into what difficulty I had got; I won't trouble you by relating all that I endured at that time, but will merely say that after eating my own heart, as the Italians say, and touching every object that came in my way for six months, I at length flung my book, I mean the copy of it which I possessed, into the fire, and began another. "But it was all in vain; I laboured at this other, finished it, and gave it to the world; and no sooner had I done so, than the same thought was busy in my brain, poisoning all the pleasure which I should otherwise have derived from my work. How did I get all the matter which composed it? Out of my own mind, unquestionably; but how did it come there--was it the indigenous growth of the mind? And then I would sit down and ponder over the various scenes and adventures in my book, endeavouring to ascertain how I came originally to devise them, and by dint of reflecting I remembered that to a single word in conversation, or some simple accident in a street, or on a road, I was indebted for some of the happiest portions of my work; they were but tiny seeds, it is true, which in the soil of my imagination had subsequently become stately trees, but I reflected that without them no stately trees would have been produced, and that, consequently, only a part in the merit of these compositions which charmed the world--for they did charm the world--was due to myself. Thus, a dead fly was in my phial, poisoning all the pleasure which I should otherwise have derived from the result of my brain sweat. 'How hard!' I would exclaim, looking up to the sky, 'how hard! I am like Virgil's sheep, bearing fleeces not for themselves.' But, not to tire you, it fared with my second work as it did with my first; I flung it aside, and, in order to forget it, I began a third, on which I am now occupied; but the difficulty of writing it is immense, my extreme desire to be original sadly cramping the powers of my mind; my fastidiousness being so great that I invariably reject whatever ideas I do not think to be legitimately my own. But there is one circumstance to which I cannot help alluding here, as it serves to show what miseries this love of originality must needs bring upon an author. I am constantly discovering that, however original I may wish to be, I am continually producing the same things which other people say or write. Whenever, after producing something which gives me perfect satisfaction, and which has cost me perhaps days and nights of brooding, I chance to take up a book for the sake of a little relaxation, a book which I never saw before, I am sure to find in it something more or less resembling some part of what I have been just composing. You will easily conceive the distress which then comes over me; 'tis then that I am almost tempted to execrate the chance which, by discovering my latent powers, induced me to adopt a profession of such anxiety and misery. "For some time past I have given up reading almost entirely, owing to the dread which I entertain of lighting upon something similar to what I myself have written. I scarcely ever transgress without having almost instant reason to repent. To-day, when I took up the newspaper, I saw in a speech of the Duke of Rhododendron, at an agricultural dinner, the very same ideas, and almost the same expressions which I had put into the mouth of an imaginary personage of mine, on a widely different occasion; you saw how I dashed the newspaper down--you saw how I touched the floor; the touch was to baffle the evil chance, to prevent the critics detecting any similarity between the speech of the Duke of Rhododendron at the agricultural dinner, and the speech of my personage. My sensibility on the subject of my writings is so great, that sometimes a chance word is sufficient to unman me, I apply it to them in a superstitious sense; for example, when you said some time ago that the dark hour was coming on, I applied it to my works--it appeared to bode them evil fortune; you saw how I touched, it was to baffle the evil chance; but I do not confine myself to touching when the fear of the evil chance is upon me. To baffle it I occasionally perform actions which must appear highly incomprehensible; I have been known, when riding in company with other people, to leave the direct road, and make a long circuit by a miry lane to the place to which we were going. I have also been seen attempting to ride across a morass, where I had no business whatever, and in which my horse finally sank up to its saddle-girths, and was only extricated by the help of a multitude of hands. I have, of course, frequently been asked the reason of such conduct, to which I have invariably returned no answer, for I scorn duplicity; whereupon people have looked mysteriously, and sometimes put their fingers to their foreheads. 'And yet it can't be,' I once heard an old gentleman say; 'don't we know what he is capable of?' and the old man was right; I merely did these things to avoid the evil chance, impelled by the strange feeling within me; and this evil chance is invariably connected with my writings, the only things at present which render life valuable to me. If I touch various objects, and ride into miry places, it is to baffle any mischance befalling me as an author, to prevent my books getting into disrepute; in nine cases out of ten to prevent any expressions, thoughts, or situations in any work which I am writing from resembling the thoughts, expressions, and situations of other authors, for my great wish, as I told you before, is to be original. "I have now related my history, and have revealed to you the secrets of my inmost bosom. I should certainly not have spoken so unreservedly as I have done, had I not discovered in you a kindred spirit. I have long wished for an opportunity of discoursing on the point which forms the peculiar feature of my history with a being who could understand me; and truly it was a lucky chance which brought you to these parts; you who seem to be acquainted with all things strange and singular, and who are as well acquainted with the subject of the magic touch as with all that relates to the star Jupiter, or the mysterious tree at Upsal." Such was the story which my host related to me in the library, amidst the darkness, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning. Both of us remained silent for some time after it was concluded. "It is a singular story," said I, at last, "though I confess that I was prepared for some part of it. Will you permit me to ask you a question?" "Certainly," said my host. "Did you never speak in public?" said I. "Never." "And when you made this speech of yours in the dining-room, commencing with Mr. Speaker, no one was present?" "None in the world, I double-locked the door; {114} what do you mean?" "An idea came into my head--dear me, how the rain is pouring!--but, with respect to your present troubles and anxieties, would it not be wise, seeing that authorship causes you so much trouble and anxiety, to give it up altogether?" "Were you an author yourself," replied my host, "you would not talk in this manner; once an author, ever an author--besides, what could I do? return to my former state of vegetation? no, much as I endure, I do not wish that; besides, every now and then my reason tells me that these troubles and anxieties of mine are utterly without foundation; that whatever I write is the legitimate growth of my own mind, and that it is the height of folly to afflict myself at any chance resemblance between my own thoughts and those of other writers, such resemblance being inevitable from the fact of our common human origin. In short--" "I understand you," said I; "notwithstanding your troubles and anxieties you find life very tolerable; has your originality ever been called in question?" "On the contrary, every one declares that originality constitutes the most remarkable feature of my writings; the man has some faults, they say, but want of originality is certainly not one of them. He is quite different from others--a certain newspaper, it is true, the ---, I think, once insinuated that in a certain work of mine I had taken a hint or two from the writings of a couple of authors which it mentioned; it happened, however, that I had never even read one syllable of the writings of either, and of one of them had never even heard the name; so much for the discrimination of the ---. By the bye, what a rascally newspaper that is!" "A very rascally newspaper," said I. CHAPTER LXVII Disturbed Slumbers--The Bed-Post--Two Wizards--What can I Do?--Real Library--The Rev. Mr. Platitude--Toleration to Dissenters--Paradox--Sword of St. Peter--Enemy to Humbug--High Principles--False Concord--The Damsel--What Religion?--Farther Conversation--That would never Do!--May you Prosper. During the greater part of that night my slumbers were disturbed by strange dreams. Amongst other things, I fancied that I was my host; my head appeared to be teeming with wild thoughts and imaginations, out of which I was endeavouring to frame a book. And now the book was finished and given to the world, and the world shouted; and all eyes were turned upon me, and I shrank from the eyes of the world. And, when I got into retired places, I touched various objects in order to baffle the evil chance. In short, during the whole night, I was acting over the story which I had heard before I went to bed. At about eight o'clock I awoke. The storm had long since passed away, and the morning was bright and shining; my couch was so soft and luxurious that I felt loth to quit it, so I lay some time, my eyes wandering about the magnificent room to which fortune had conducted me in so singular a manner; at last I heaved a sigh; I was thinking of my own homeless condition, and imagining where I should find myself on the following morning. Unwilling, however, to indulge in melancholy thoughts, I sprang out of bed and proceeded to dress myself, and, whilst dressing, I felt an irresistible inclination to touch the bedpost. I finished dressing and left the room, feeling compelled, however, as I left it, to touch the lintel of the door. Is it possible, thought I, that from what I have lately heard the long-forgotten influence should have possessed me again? but I will not give way to it; so I hurried downstairs, resisting as I went a certain inclination which I occasionally felt to touch the rail of the banister. I was presently upon the gravel walk before the house: it was indeed a glorious morning. I stood for some time observing the golden fish disporting in the waters of the pond, and then strolled about amongst the noble trees of the park; the beauty and freshness of the morning--for the air had been considerably cooled by the late storm--soon enabled me to cast away the gloomy ideas which had previously taken possession of my mind, and, after a stroll of about half an hour, I returned towards the house in high spirits. It is true that once I felt very much inclined to go and touch the leaves of a flowery shrub which I saw at some distance, and had even moved two or three paces towards it; but, bethinking myself, I manfully resisted the temptation. "Begone!" I exclaimed, "ye sorceries, in which I formerly trusted--begone for ever vagaries which I had almost forgotten; good luck is not to be obtained, or bad averted, by magic touches; besides, two wizards in one parish would be too much, in all conscience." I returned to the house, and entered the library; breakfast was laid on the table, and my friend was standing before the portrait which I have already said hung above the mantelpiece; so intently was he occupied in gazing at it that he did not hear me enter, nor was aware of my presence till I advanced close to him and spoke, when he turned round and shook me by the hand. "What can possibly have induced you to hang up that portrait in your library? it is a staring likeness, it is true, but it appears to me a wretched daub." "Daub as you call it," said my friend, smiling, "I would not part with it for the best piece of Raphael. For many a happy thought I am indebted to that picture--it is my principal source of inspiration; when my imagination flags, as of course it occasionally does, I stare upon those features, and forthwith strange ideas of fun and drollery begin to flow into my mind; these I round, amplify, or combine into goodly creations, and bring forth as I find an opportunity. It is true that I am occasionally tormented by the thought that, by doing this, I am committing plagiarism; though, in that case, all thoughts must be plagiarisms, all that we think being the result of what we hear, see, or feel. What can I do? I must derive my thoughts from some source or other; and, after all, it is better to plagiarise from the features of my landlord than from the works of Butler and Cervantes. My works, as you are aware, are of a serio-comic character. My neighbours are of opinion that I am a great reader, and so I am, but only of those features--my real library is that picture." "But how did you obtain it?" said I. "Some years ago a travelling painter came into this neighbourhood, and my jolly host, at the request of his wife, consented to sit for his portrait; she highly admired the picture, but she soon died, and then my fat friend, who is of an affectionate disposition, said he could not bear the sight of it, as it put him in mind of his poor wife. I purchased it of him for five pounds--I would not take five thousand for it; when you called that picture a daub, you did not see all the poetry of it." We sat down to breakfast; my entertainer appeared to be in much better spirits than on the preceding day; I did not observe him touch once; ere breakfast was over a servant entered--"The Reverend Mr. Platitude, sir," said he. A shade of dissatisfaction came over the countenance of my host. "What does the silly pestilent fellow mean by coming here?" said he, half to himself; "let him come in," said he to the servant. The servant went out, and in a moment reappeared, introducing the Reverend Mr. Platitude. The Reverend Mr. Platitude, having what is vulgarly called a game leg, came shambling into the room; he was about thirty years of age, and about five feet three inches high; his face was of the colour of pepper, and nearly as rugged as a nutmeg grater; his hair was black; with his eyes he squinted, and grinned with his lips, which were very much apart, disclosing two very irregular rows of teeth; he was dressed in the true Levitical fashion, in a suit of spotless black, and a neckerchief of spotless white. The Reverend Mr. Platitude advanced winking and grinning to my entertainer, who received him politely but with evident coldness; nothing daunted, however, the Reverend Mr. Platitude took a seat by the table, and, being asked to take a cup of coffee, winked, grinned, and consented. In company I am occasionally subject to fits of what is generally called absence; my mind takes flight and returns to former scenes, or presses forward into the future. One of these fits of absence came over me at this time--I looked at the Reverend Mr. Platitude for a moment, heard a word or two that proceeded from his mouth, and saying to myself, "You are no man for me," fell into a fit of musing--into the same train of thought as in the morning, no very pleasant one--I was thinking of the future. I continued in my reverie for some time, and probably should have continued longer, had I not been suddenly aroused by the voice of Mr. Platitude raised to a very high key. "Yes, my dear sir," said he, "it is but too true; I have it on good authority--a gone Church--a lost Church--a ruined Church--a demolished Church is the Church of England. Toleration to Dissenters! oh, monstrous!" "I suppose," said my host, "that the repeal of the Test Acts will be merely a precursor of the emancipation of the Papists?" "Of the Catholics," said the Reverend Mr. Platitude. "Ahem. There was a time, as I believe you are aware, my dear sir, when I was as much opposed to the emancipation of the Catholics as it was possible for any one to be; but I was prejudiced, my dear sir, labouring under a cloud of most unfortunate prejudice; but I thank my Maker I am so no longer. I have travelled, as you are aware. It is only by travelling that one can rub off prejudices; I think you will agree with me there. I am speaking to a traveller. I left behind all my prejudices in Italy. The Catholics are at least our fellow-Christians. I thank Heaven that I am no longer an enemy to Catholic emancipation." "And yet you would not tolerate Dissenters?" "Dissenters, my dear sir; I hope you would not class such a set as the Dissenters with Catholics?" "Perhaps it would be unjust," said my host, "though to which of the two parties is another thing; but permit me to ask you a question: Does it not smack somewhat of paradox to talk of Catholics, whilst you admit there are Dissenters? If there are Dissenters, how should there be Catholics?" "It is not my fault that there are Dissenters," said the Reverend Mr. Platitude; "if I had my will I would neither admit there were any, nor permit any to be." {121} "Of course you would admit there were such as long as they existed; but how would you get rid of them?" "I would have the Church exert its authority." "What do you mean by exerting its authority?" "I would not have the Church bear the sword in vain." "What, the sword of St. Peter? You remember what the Founder of the religion which you profess said about the sword, 'He who striketh with it . . . ' I think those who have called themselves the Church have had enough of the sword. Two can play with the sword, Mr. Platitude. The Church of Rome tried the sword with the Lutherans: how did it fare with the Church of Rome? The Church of England tried the sword, Mr. Platitude, with the Puritans: how did it fare with Laud and Charles?" "Oh, as for the Church of England," said Mr. Platitude, "I have little to say. Thank God, I left all my Church of England prejudices in Italy. Had the Church of England known its true interests, it would long ago have sought a reconciliation with its illustrious mother. If the Church of England had not been in some degree a schismatic church, it would not have fared so ill at the time of which you are speaking; the rest of the Church would have come to its assistance. The Irish would have helped it, so would the French, so would the Portuguese. Disunion has always been the bane of the Church." Once more I fell into a reverie. My mind now reverted to the past; methought I was in a small comfortable room wainscoted with oak; I was seated on one side of a fireplace, close by a table on which were wine and fruit; on the other side of the fire sat a man in a plain suit of brown, with the hair combed back from his somewhat high forehead; he had a pipe in his mouth, which for some time he smoked gravely and placidly, without saying a word; at length, after drawing at the pipe for some time rather vigorously, he removed it from his mouth, and, emitting an accumulated cloud of smoke, he exclaimed in a slow and measured tone, "As I was telling you just now, my good chap, I have always been an enemy to humbug." When I awoke from my reverie the Reverend Mr. Platitude was quitting the apartment. "Who is that person?" said I to my entertainer, as the door closed behind him. "Who is he?" said my host; "why, the Rev. Mr. Platitude." "Does he reside in this neighbourhood?" "He holds a living about three miles from here; his history, as far as I am acquainted with it, is as follows. His father was a respectable tanner in the neighbouring town, who, wishing to make his son a gentleman, sent him to college. Having never been at college myself, I cannot say whether he took the wisest course; I believe it is more easy to unmake than to make a gentleman; I have known many gentlemanly youths go to college, and return anything but what they went. Young Mr. Platitude did not go to college a gentleman, but neither did he return one; he went to college an ass, and returned a prig; to his original folly was superadded a vast quantity of conceit. He told his father that he had adopted high principles, and was determined to discountenance everything low and mean; advised him to eschew trade, and to purchase him a living. The old man retired from business, purchased his son a living, and shortly after died, leaving him what remained of his fortune. The first thing the Reverend Mr. Platitude did, after his father's decease, was to send his mother and sister into Wales to live upon a small annuity, assigning as a reason that he was averse to anything low, and that they talked ungrammatically. Wishing to shine in the pulpit, he now preached high sermons, as he called them, interspersed with scraps of learning. His sermons did not, however, procure him much popularity; on the contrary, his church soon became nearly deserted, the greater part of his flock going over to certain Dissenting preachers, who had shortly before made their appearance in the neighbourhood. Mr. Platitude was filled with wrath, and abused Dissenters in most unmeasured terms. Coming in contact with some of the preachers at a public meeting, he was rash enough to enter into argument with them. Poor Platitude! he had better have been quiet, he appeared like a child, a very infant, in their grasp; he attempted to take shelter under his college learning, but found, to his dismay, that his opponents knew more Greek and Latin than himself. These illiterate boors, as he had supposed them, caught him at once in a false concord, and Mr. Platitude had to slink home overwhelmed with shame. To avenge himself he applied to the ecclesiastical court, but was told that the Dissenters could not be put down by the present ecclesiastical law. He found the Church of England, to use his own expression, a poor, powerless, restricted Church. He now thought to improve his consequence by marriage, and made up to a rich and beautiful young lady in the neighbourhood; the damsel measured him from head to foot with a pair of very sharp eyes, dropped a curtsey, and refused him. Mr. Platitude, finding England a very stupid place, determined to travel; he went to Italy; how he passed his time there he knows best, to other people it is a matter of little importance. At the end of two years he returned with a real or assumed contempt for everything English, and especially for the Church to which he belongs, and out of which he is supported. He forthwith gave out that he had left behind him all his Church of England prejudices, and, as a proof thereof, spoke against sacerdotal wedlock and the toleration of schismatics. In an evil hour for myself he was introduced to me by a clergyman of my acquaintance, and from that time I have been pestered, as I was this morning, at least once a week. I seldom enter into any discussion with him, but fix my eyes on the portrait over the mantelpiece, and endeavour to conjure up some comic idea or situation, whilst he goes on talking tomfoolery by the hour about church authority, schismatics, and the unlawfulness of sacerdotal wedlock; occasionally he brings with him a strange kind of being, whose acquaintance he says he made in Italy,--I believe he is some sharking priest who has come over to proselytise and plunder. This being has some powers of conversation and some learning, but carries the countenance of an arch villain; Platitude is evidently his tool." "Of what religion are you?" said I to my host. "That of the Vicar of Wakefield--good, quiet, Church of England, which would live and let live, practises charity, and rails at no one; where the priest is the husband of one wife, takes care of his family and his parish--such is the religion for me, though I confess I have hitherto thought too little of religious matters. When, however, I have completed this plaguy work on which I am engaged, I hope to be able to devote more attention to them." After some farther conversation, the subjects being, if I remember right, college education, priggism, church authority, tomfoolery, and the like, I rose and said to my host, "I must now leave you." "Whither are you going?" "I do not know." "Stay here, then--you shall be welcome as many days, months, and years as you please to stay." "Do you think I would hang upon another man? No, not if he were Emperor of all the Chinas. I will now make my preparations, and then bid you farewell." I retired to my apartment and collected the handful of things which I carried with me on my travels. "I will walk a little way with you," said my friend on my return. He walked with me to the park gate; neither of us said anything by the way. When we had come upon the road, I said, "Farewell now; I will not permit you to give yourself any farther trouble on my account. Receive my best thanks for your kindness; before we part, however, I should wish to ask you a question. Do you think you shall ever grow tired of authorship?" "I have my fears," said my friend, advancing his hand to one of the iron bars of the gate. "Don't touch," said I, "it is a bad habit. I have but one word to add: should you ever grow tired of authorship follow your first idea of getting into Parliament; you have words enough at command; perhaps you want manner and method; but, in that case, you must apply to a teacher, you must take lessons of a master of elocution." "That would never do!" said my host; "I know myself too well to think of applying for assistance to any one. Were I to become a parliamentary orator, I should wish to be an original one, even if not above mediocrity. What pleasure should I take in any speech I might make, however original as to thought, provided the gestures I employed and the very modulation of my voice were not my own? Take lessons, indeed! why, the fellow who taught me, the professor, might be standing in the gallery whilst I spoke; and, at the best parts of my speech, might say to himself, 'That gesture is mine--that modulation is mine.' I could not bear the thought of such a thing." "Farewell," said I, "and may you prosper. I have nothing more to say." I departed. At the distance of twenty yards I turned round suddenly; my friend was just withdrawing his finger from the bar of the gate. "He has been touching," said I, as I proceeded on my way; "I wonder what was the evil chance he wished to baffle." CHAPTER LXVIII Elastic Step--Disconsolate Party--Not the Season--Mend your Draught--Good Ale--Crotchet--Hammer and Tongs--Schoolmaster--True Eden Life--Flaming Tinman--Twice my Size--Hard at Work--My Poor Wife--Grey Moll--A Bible--Half and Half--What to Do--Half Inclined--In No Time--On One Condition--Don't Stare--Like the Wind. After walking some time, I found myself on the great road, at the same spot where I had turned aside the day before with my new-made acquaintance, in the direction of his house. I now continued my journey as before, towards the north. The weather, though beautiful, was much cooler than it had been for some time past; I walked at a great rate, with a springing and elastic step. In about two hours I came to where a kind of cottage stood a little way back from the road, with a huge oak before it, under the shade of which stood a little pony and a cart, which seemed to contain various articles. I was going past--when I saw scrawled over the door of the cottage, "Good beer sold here;" upon which, feeling myself all of a sudden very thirsty, I determined to go in and taste the beverage. I entered a well-sanded kitchen, and seated myself on a bench, on one side of a long white table; the other side, which was nearest to the wall, was occupied by a party, or rather family, consisting of a grimy- looking man, somewhat under the middle size, dressed in faded velveteens, and wearing a leather apron--a rather pretty-looking woman, but sun-burnt, and meanly dressed, and two ragged children, a boy and girl, about four or five years old. The man sat with his eyes fixed upon the table, supporting his chin with both his hands; the woman, who was next him, sat quite still, save that occasionally she turned a glance upon her husband with eyes that appeared to have been lately crying. The children had none of the vivacity so general at their age. A more disconsolate family I had never seen; a mug, which, when filled, might contain half a pint, stood empty before them; a very disconsolate party indeed. "House!" said I; "House!" and then as nobody appeared, I cried again as loud as I could, "House! do you hear me, House!" "What's your pleasure, young man?" said an elderly woman, who now made her appearance from a side apartment. "To taste your ale," said I. "How much?" said the woman, stretching out her hand towards the empty mug upon the table. "The largest measure-full in your house," said I, putting back her hand gently. "This is not the season for half-pint mugs." "As you will, young man," said the landlady; and presently brought in an earthen pitcher which might contain about three pints, and which foamed and frothed withal. "Will this pay for it?" said I, putting down sixpence. "I have to return you a penny," said the landlady, putting her hand into her pocket. "I want no change," said I, flourishing my hand with an air. "As you please, young gentleman," said the landlady, and then making a kind of curtsey, she again retired to the side apartment. "Here is your health, sir," said I to the grimy-looking man, as I raised the pitcher to my lips. The tinker, for such I supposed him to be, without altering his posture, raised his eyes, looked at me for a moment, gave a slight nod, and then once more fixed his eyes upon the table. I took a draught of the ale, which I found excellent. "Won't you drink?" said I, holding the pitcher to the tinker. The man again lifted up his eyes, looked at me, and then at the pitcher, and then at me again. I thought at one time that he was about to shake his head in sign of refusal, but no, he looked once more at the pitcher, and the temptation was too strong. Slowly removing his head from his arms, he took the pitcher, sighed, nodded, and drank a tolerable quantity, and then set the pitcher down before me upon the table. "You had better mend your draught," said I to the tinker, "it is a sad heart that never rejoices." "That's true," said the tinker, and again raising the pitcher to his lips, he mended his draught as I had bidden him, drinking a larger quantity than before. "Pass it to your wife," said I. The poor woman took the pitcher from the man's hand; before, however, raising it to her lips, she looked at the children. True mother's heart, thought I to myself, and taking the half-pint mug, I made her fill it, and then held it to the children, causing each to take a draught. The woman wiped her eyes with the corner of her gown, before she raised the pitcher and drank to my health. In about five minutes none of the family looked half so disconsolate as before, and the tinker and I were in deep discourse. Oh, genial and gladdening is the power of good ale, the true and proper drink of Englishmen. He is not deserving of the name of Englishman who speaketh against ale, that is good ale, like that which has just made merry the hearts of this poor family; and yet there are beings, calling themselves Englishmen, who say that it is a sin to drink a cup of ale, and who on coming to this passage will be tempted to fling down the book and exclaim, "The man is evidently a bad man, for behold, by his own confession, he is not only fond of ale himself, but is in the habit of tempting other people with it." Alas! alas! what a number of silly individuals there are in this world; I wonder what they would have had me do in this instance--given the afflicted family a cup of cold water? go to! They could have found water in the road, for there was a pellucid spring only a few yards distant from the house, as they were well aware--but they wanted not water. What should I have given them? meat and bread? go to! They were not hungry; there was stifled sobbing in their bosoms, and the first mouthful of strong meat would have choked them. What should I have given them? Money! what right had I to insult them by offering them money? Advice! words, words, words; friends, there is a time for everything; there is a time for a cup of cold water; there is a time for strong meat and bread; there is a time for advice, and there is a time for ale; and I have generally found that the time for advice is after a cup of ale. I do not say many cups; the tongue then speaketh more smoothly, and the ear listeneth more benignantly; but why do I attempt to reason with you? do I not know you for conceited creatures, with one idea--and that a foolish one;--a crotchet, for the sake of which ye would sacrifice anything, religion if required--country? There, fling down my book, I do not wish ye to walk any farther in my company, unless you cast your nonsense away, which ye will never do, for it is the breath of your nostrils; fling down my book, it was not written to support a crotchet, for know one thing, my good people, I have invariably been an enemy to humbug. "Well," said the tinker, after we had discoursed some time, "I little thought, when I first saw you, that you were of my own trade." _Myself_. Nor am I, at least not exactly. There is not much difference, 'tis true, between a tinker and a smith. _Tinker_. You are a whitesmith then? _Myself_. Not I, I'd scorn to be anything so mean; no, friend, black's the colour; I am a brother of the horse-shoe. Success to the hammer and tongs. _Tinker_. Well, I shouldn't have thought you had been a blacksmith by your hands. _Myself_. I have seen them, however, as black as yours. The truth is, I have not worked for many a day. _Tinker_. Where did you serve first? _Myself_. In Ireland. _Tinker_. That's a good way off, isn't it? _Myself_. Not very far; over those mountains to the left, and the run of salt water that lies behind them, there's Ireland. _Tinker_. It's a fine thing to be a scholar. _Myself_. Not half so fine as to be a tinker. _Tinker_. How you talk! _Myself_. Nothing but the truth; what can be better than to be one's own master? Now a tinker is his own master, a scholar is not. Let us suppose the best of scholars, a schoolmaster for example, for I suppose you will admit that no one can be higher in scholarship than a schoolmaster; do you call his a pleasant life? I don't; we should call him a school-slave, rather than a schoolmaster. Only conceive him in blessed weather like this, in his close school, teaching children to write in copy-books, "Evil communication corrupts good manners," or "You cannot touch pitch without defilement," or to spell out of Abedariums, or to read out of Jack Smith, or Sandford and Merton. Only conceive him, I say, drudging in such guise from morning till night, without any rational enjoyment but to beat the children. Would you compare such a dog's life as that with your own--the happiest under heaven--true Eden life, as the Germans would say,--pitching your tent under the pleasant hedge-rows, listening to the song of the feathered tribes, collecting all the leaky kettles in the neighbourhood, soldering and joining, earning your honest bread by the wholesome sweat of your brow--making ten holes--hey, what's this? what's the man crying for? Suddenly the tinker had covered his face with his hands, and begun to sob and moan like a man in the deepest distress; the breast of his wife was heaved with emotion; even the children were agitated, the youngest began to roar. _Myself_. What's the matter with you; what are you all crying about? _Tinker_ (uncovering his face). Lord, why to hear you talk; isn't that enough to make anybody cry--even the poor babes? Yes, you said right, 'tis life in the Garden of Eden--the tinker's; I see so now that I'm about to give it up. _Myself_. Give it up! you must not think of such a thing. _Tinker_. No, I can't bear to think of it, and yet I must; what's to be done? How hard to be frightened to death, to be driven off the roads! _Myself_. Who has driven you off the roads? _Tinker_. Who! the Flaming Tinman. _Myself_. Who is he? _Tinker_. The biggest rogue in England, and the cruellest, or he wouldn't have served me as he has done--I'll tell you all about it. I was born upon the roads, and so was my father before me, and my mother too; and I worked with them as long as they lived, as a dutiful child, for I have nothing to reproach myself with on their account; and when my father died I took up the business, and went his beat, and supported my mother for the little time she lived; and when she died I married this young woman, who was not born upon the roads, but was a small tradesman's daughter, at Gloster. She had a kindness for me, and, notwithstanding her friends were against the match, she married the poor tinker, and came to live with him upon the roads. Well, young man, for six or seven years I was the happiest fellow breathing, living just the life you described just now--respected by everybody in this beat; when in an evil hour comes this Black Jack, this Flaming Tinman, into these parts, driven as they say out of Yorkshire--for no good you may be sure. Now there is no beat will support two tinkers, as you doubtless know; mine was a good one, but it would not support the flying tinker and myself, though if it would have supported twenty it would have been all the same to the flying villain, who'll brook no one but himself; so he presently finds me out, and offers to fight me for the beat. Now, being bred upon the roads, I can fight a little, that is with anything like my match, but I was not going to fight him, who happens to be twice my size, and so I told him; whereupon he knocks me down, and would have done me farther mischief had not some men been nigh and prevented him; so he threatened to cut my throat, and went his way. Well, I did not like such usage at all, and was woundily frightened, and tried to keep as much out of his way as possible, going anywhere but where I thought I was likely to meet him; and sure enough for several months I contrived to keep out of his way. At last somebody told me that he was gone back to Yorkshire, whereupon I was glad at heart, and ventured to show myself, going here and there as I did before. Well, young man, it was yesterday that I and mine set ourselves down in a lane, about five miles from here, and lighted our fire, and had our dinner, and after dinner I sat down to mend three kettles and a frying pan which the people in the neighbourhood had given me to mend--for, as I told you before, I have a good connection, owing to my honesty. Well, as I sat there hard at work, happy as the day's long, and thinking of anything but what was to happen, who should come up but this Black Jack, this king of the tinkers, rattling along in his cart, with his wife, that they call Grey Moll, by his side--for the villain has got a wife, and a maid-servant too; the last I never saw, but they that has, says that she is as big as a house, and young, and well to look at, which can't be all said of Moll, who, though she's big enough in all conscience, is neither young nor handsome. Well, no sooner does he see me and mine, than, giving the reins to Grey Moll, he springs out of his cart, and comes straight at me; not a word did he say, but on he comes straight at me like a wild bull. I am a quiet man, young fellow, but I saw now that quietness would be of no use, so I sprang up upon my legs, and being bred upon the roads, and able to fight a little, I squared as he came running in upon me, and had a round or two with him. Lord bless you, young man, it was like a fly fighting with an elephant--one of those big beasts the show-folks carry about. I had not a chance with the fellow, he knocked me here, he knocked me there, knocked me into the hedge, and knocked me out again. I was at my last shifts, and my poor wife saw it. Now my poor wife, though she is as gentle as a pigeon, has yet a spirit of her own, and though she wasn't bred upon the roads, can scratch a little; so when she saw me at my last shifts, she flew at the villain--she couldn't bear to see her partner murdered--and scratched the villain's face. Lord bless you, young man, she had better have been quiet: Grey Moll no sooner saw what she was about, than springing out of the cart, where she had sat all along perfectly quiet, save a little whooping and screeching to encourage her blade:--Grey Moll, I say (my flesh creeps when I think of it--for I am a kind husband, and love my poor wife)-- _Myself_. Take another draught of the ale; you look frightened, and it will do you good. Stout liquor makes stout heart, as the man says in the play. _Tinker_. That's true, young man; here's to you--where was I? Grey Moll no sooner saw what my wife was about, than springing out of the cart, she flew at my poor wife, clawed off her bonnet in a moment, and seized hold of her hair. Lord bless you, young man, my poor wife, in the hands of Grey Moll, was nothing better than a pigeon in the claws of a buzzard hawk, or I in the hands of the Flaming Tinman, which when I saw, my heart was fit to burst, and I determined to give up everything--everything to save my poor wife out of Grey Moll's claws. "Hold!" I shouted. "Hold, both of you--Jack, Moll. Hold, both of you, for God's sake, and I'll do what you will: give up trade, and business, connection, bread, and everything, never more travel the roads, and go down on my knees to you in the bargain." Well, this had some effect; Moll let go my wife, and the Blazing Tinman stopped for a moment; it was only for a moment, however, that he left off--all of a sudden he hit me a blow which sent me against a tree; and what did the villain then? why the flying villain seized me by the throat, and almost throttled me, roaring--what do you think, young man, that the flaming villain roared out? _Myself_. I really don't know--something horrible, I suppose. _Tinker_. Horrible, indeed; you may well say horrible, young man; neither more nor less than the Bible--"A Bible, a Bible!" roared the Blazing Tinman; and he pressed my throat so hard against the tree that my senses began to dwaul away--a Bible, a Bible, still ringing in my ears. Now, young man, my poor wife is a Christian woman, and, though she travels the roads, carries a Bible with her at the bottom of her sack, with which sometimes she teaches the children to read--it was the only thing she brought with her from the place of her kith and kin, save her own body and the clothes on her back; so my poor wife, half distracted, runs to her sack, pulls out the Bible, and puts it into the hand of the Blazing Tinman, who then thrusts the end of it into my mouth with such fury that it made my lips bleed, and broke short one of my teeth which happened to be decayed. "Swear," said he, "swear, you mumping villain, take your Bible oath that you will quit and give up the beat altogether, or I'll"--and then the hard hearted villain made me swear by the Bible, and my own damnation, half-throttled as I was, to--to--I can't go on-- _Myself_. Take another draught--stout liquor-- _Tinker_. I can't, young man, my heart's too full, and what's more, the pitcher is empty. _Myself_. And so he swore you, I suppose, on the Bible, to quit the roads? _Tinker_. You are right, he did so, the Gypsy villain. _Myself_. Gypsy! Is he a Gypsy? _Tinker_. Not exactly; what they call a half and half. His father was a Gypsy, and his mother, like mine, one who walked the roads. _Myself_. Is he of the Smiths--the Petulengres? _Tinker_. I say, young man, you know a thing or two; one would think, to hear you talk, you had been bred upon the roads. I thought none but those bred upon the roads knew anything of that name--Petulengres! No, not he, he fights the Petulengres whenever he meets them; he likes nobody but himself, and wants to be king of the roads. I believe he is a Boss, {139} or a --- at any rate he's a bad one, as I know to my cost. _Myself_. And what are you going to do? _Tinker_. Do! you may well ask that; I don't know what to do. My poor wife and I have been talking of that all the morning, over that half-pint mug of beer; we can't determine on what's to be done. All we know is, that we must quit the roads. The villain swore that the next time he saw us on the roads he'd cut all our throats, and seize our horse and bit of a cart that are now standing out there under the tree. _Myself_. And what do you mean to do with your horse and cart? _Tinker_. Another question! What shall we do with our cart and pony? they are of no use to us now. Stay on the roads I will not, both for my oath's sake and my own. If we had a trifle of money, we were thinking of going to Bristol, where I might get up a little business, but we have none; our last three farthings we spent about the mug of beer. _Myself_. But why don't you sell your horse and cart? _Tinker_. Sell them, and who would buy them, unless some one who wished to set up in my line; but there's no beat, and what's the use of the horse and cart and the few tools without the beat? _Myself_. I'm half inclined to buy your cart and pony, and your beat too. _Tinker_. You! How came you to think of such a thing? _Myself_. Why, like yourself, I hardly know what to do. I want a home and work. As for a home, I suppose I can contrive to make a home out of your tent and cart; and as for work, I must learn to be a tinker, it would not be hard for one of my trade to learn to tinker; what better can I do? Would you have me go to Chester and work there now? I don't like the thoughts of it. If I go to Chester and work there, I can't be my own man; I must work under a master, and perhaps he and I should quarrel, and when I quarrel I am apt to hit folks, and those that hit folks are sometimes sent to prison; I don't like the thought either of going to Chester or to Chester prison. What do you think I could earn at Chester? _Tinker_. A matter of eleven shillings a week, if anybody would employ you, which I don't think they would with those hands of yours. But whether they would or not, if you are of a quarrelsome nature, you must not go to Chester; you would be in the castle in no time. I don't know how to advise you. As for selling you my stock, I'd see you farther first, for your own sake. _Myself_. Why? _Tinker_. Why! you would get your head knocked off. Suppose you were to meet him? _Myself_. Pooh, don't be afraid on my account; if I were to meet him I could easily manage him one way or other. I know all kinds of strange words and names, and, as I told you before, I sometimes hit people when they put me out. Here the tinker's wife, who for some minutes past had been listening attentively to our discourse, interposed, saying, in a low soft tone: "I really don't see, John, why you shouldn't sell the young man the things, seeing that he wishes for them, and is so confident; you have told him plainly how matters stand, and if anything ill should befall him, people couldn't lay the blame on you; but I don't think any ill will befall him, and who knows but God has sent him to our assistance in time of need." "I'll hear of no such thing," said the tinker; "I have drunk at the young man's expense, and though he says he's quarrelsome, I would not wish to sit in pleasanter company. A pretty fellow I should be, now, if I were to let him follow his own will. If he once sets up on my beat, he's a lost man, his ribs will be stove in, and his head knocked off his shoulders. There, you are crying, but you shan't have your will though; I won't be the young man's destruction . . . If, indeed, I thought he could manage the tinker--but he never can; he says he can hit, but it's no use hitting the tinker;--crying still! you are enough to drive one mad. I say, young man, I believe you understand a thing or two; just now you were talking of knowing hard words and names--I don't wish to send you to your mischief--you say you know hard words and names; let us see. Only on one condition I'll sell you the pony and things; as for the beat it's gone, isn't mine--sworn away by my own mouth. Tell me what's my name; if you can't, may I--" _Myself_. Don't swear, it's a bad habit, neither pleasant nor profitable. Your name is Slingsby--Jack Slingsby. There, don't stare, there's nothing in my telling you your name: I've been in these parts before, at least not very far from here. Ten years ago, when I was little more than a child, I was about twenty miles from here in a post chaise, at the door of an inn, {142} and as I looked from the window of the chaise, I saw you standing by a gutter, with a big tin ladle in your hand, and somebody called you Jack Slingsby. I never forget anything I hear or see; I can't, I wish I could. So there's nothing strange in my knowing your name; indeed, there's nothing strange in anything, provided you examine it to the bottom. Now what am I to give you for the things? I paid Slingsby five pounds ten shillings for his stock in trade, cart, and pony--purchased sundry provisions of the landlady, also a waggoner's frock, which had belonged to a certain son of hers, deceased, gave my little animal a feed of corn, and prepared to depart. "God bless you, young man," said Slingsby, shaking me by the hand, "you are the best friend I've had for many a day: I have but one thing to tell you, Don't cross that fellow's path if you can help it; and stay--should the pony refuse to go, just touch him so, and he'll fly like the wind." CHAPTER LXIX Effects of Corn--One Night Longer--The Hoofs--A Stumble--Are You Hurt?--What a Difference!--Drowsy--Maze of Bushes--Housekeeping--Sticks and Furze--The Drift-way--Account of Stock--Anvil and Bellows--Twenty Years. It was two or three hours past noon when I took my departure from the place of the last adventure, walking by the side of my little cart; the pony, invigorated by the corn, to which he was probably not much accustomed, proceeded right gallantly; so far from having to hasten him forward by the particular application which the tinker had pointed out to me, I had rather to repress his eagerness, being, though an excellent pedestrian, not unfrequently left behind. The country through which I passed was beautiful and interesting, but solitary: few habitations appeared. As it was quite a matter of indifference to me in what direction I went, the whole world being before me, I allowed the pony to decide upon the matter; it was not long before he left the high road, being probably no friend to public places. I followed him I knew not whither, but, from subsequent observation, have reason to suppose that our course was in a north-west direction. At length night came upon us, and a cold wind sprang up, which was succeeded by a drizzling rain. I had originally intended to pass the night in the cart, or to pitch my little tent on some convenient spot by the road's side; but, owing to the alteration in the weather, I thought that it would be advisable to take up my quarters in any hedge alehouse at which I might arrive. To tell the truth, I was not very sorry to have an excuse to pass the night once more beneath a roof. I had determined to live quite independent, but I had never before passed a night by myself abroad, and felt a little apprehensive at the idea; I hoped, however, on the morrow, to be a little more prepared for the step, so I determined for one night--only for one night longer--to sleep like a Christian; but human determinations are not always put into effect, such a thing as opportunity is frequently wanting, such was the case here. I went on for a considerable time, in expectation of coming to some rustic hostelry, but nothing of the kind presented itself to my eyes; the country in which I now was seemed almost uninhabited, not a house of any kind was to be seen--at least I saw none--though it is true houses might be near without my seeing them, owing to the darkness of the night, for neither moon nor star was abroad. I heard, occasionally, the bark of dogs; but the sound appeared to come from an immense distance. The rain still fell, and the ground beneath my feet was wet and miry; in short, it was a night in which even a tramper by profession would feel more comfortable in being housed than abroad. I followed in the rear of the cart, the pony still proceeding at a sturdy pace, till methought I heard other hoofs than those of my own nag; I listened for a moment, and distinctly heard the sound of hoofs approaching at a great rate, and evidently from the quarter towards which I and my little caravan were moving. We were in a dark lane--so dark that it was impossible for me to see my own hand. Apprehensive that some accident might occur, I ran forward, and, seizing the pony by the bridle, drew him as near as I could to the hedge. On came the hoofs--trot, trot, trot; and evidently more than those of one horse; their speed as they advanced appeared to slacken--it was only, however, for a moment. I heard a voice cry, "Push on,--this is a desperate robbing place,--never mind the dark;" and the hoofs came on quicker than before. "Stop!" said I, at the top of my voice; "stop! or . . . " Before I could finish what I was about to say there was a stumble, a heavy fall, a cry, and a groan, and putting out my foot I felt what I conjectured to be the head of a horse stretched upon the road. "Lord have mercy upon us! what's the matter?" exclaimed a voice. "Spare my life," cried another voice, apparently from the ground; "only spare my life, and take all I have!" "Where are you, Master Wise?" cried the other voice. "Help! here, Master Bat," cried the voice from the ground, "help me up or I shall be murdered." "Why, what's the matter?" said Bat. "Some one has knocked me down, and is robbing me," said the voice from the ground. "Help! murder!" cried Bat; and, regardless of the entreaties of the man on the ground that he would stay and help him up, he urged his horse forward and galloped away as fast as he could. I remained for some time quiet, listening to various groans and exclamations uttered by the person on the ground; at length I said, "Holloa! are you hurt?" "Spare my life, and take all I have!" said the voice from the ground. "Have they not done robbing you yet?" said I; "when they have finished let me know, and I will come and help you." "Who is that?" said the voice; "pray come and help me, and do me no mischief." "You were saying that some one was robbing you," said I; "don't think I shall come till he is gone away." "Then you ben't he?" said the voice. "Ar'n't you robbed?" said I. "Can't say I be," said the voice; "not yet at any rate; but who are you? I don't know you." "A traveller whom you and your partner were going to run over in this dark lane; you almost frightened me out of my senses." "Frightened!" said the voice, in a louder tone; "frightened! oh!" and thereupon I heard somebody getting upon his legs. This accomplished, the individual proceeded to attend to his horse, and with a little difficulty raised him upon his legs also. "Ar'n't you hurt?" said I. "Hurt!" said the voice; "not I; don't think it, whatever the horse may be. I tell you what, my fellow, I thought you were a robber; and now I find you are not, I have a good mind--" "To do what?" "To serve you out; ar'n't you ashamed--?" "At what?" said I; "not to have robbed you? Shall I set about it now?" "Ha, ha!" said the man, dropping the bullying tone which he had assumed; "you are joking--robbing! who talks of robbing? I wonder how my horse's knees are; not much hurt, I think--only mired." The man, whoever he was, then got upon his horse; and, after moving him about a little, said, "Good night, friend; where are you?" "Here I am," said I, "just behind you." "You are, are you? Take that." I know not what he did, but probably pricking his horse with the spur the animal kicked out violently; one of his heels struck me on the shoulder, but luckily missed my face; I fell back with the violence of the blow, whilst the fellow scampered off at a great rate. Stopping at some distance, he loaded me with abuse, and then, continuing his way at a rapid trot, I heard no more of him. "What a difference!" said I, getting up; "last night I was feted in the hall of a rich genius, and to-night I am knocked down and mired in a dark lane by the heel of Master Wise's horse--I wonder who gave him that name? And yet he was wise enough to wreak his revenge upon me, and I was not wise enough to keep out of his way. Well, I am not much hurt, so it is of little consequence." I now bethought me that, as I had a carriage of my own, I might as well make use of it; I therefore got into the cart, and, taking the reins in my hand, gave an encouraging cry to the pony, whereupon the sturdy little animal started again at as brisk a pace as if he had not already come many a long mile. I lay half reclining in the cart, holding the reins lazily, and allowing the animal to go just where he pleased, often wondering where he would conduct me. At length I felt drowsy, and my head sank upon my breast; I soon aroused myself, but it was only to doze again; this occurred several times. Opening my eyes after a doze somewhat longer than the others, I found that the drizzling rain had ceased, a corner of the moon was apparent in the heavens, casting a faint light; I looked around for a moment or two, but my eyes and brain were heavy with slumber, and I could scarcely distinguish where we were. I had a kind of dim consciousness that we were traversing an unenclosed country--perhaps a heath; I thought, however, that I saw certain large black objects looming in the distance, which I had a confused idea might be woods or plantations; the pony still moved at his usual pace. I did not find the jolting of the cart at all disagreeable, on the contrary, it had quite a somniferous effect upon me. Again my eyes closed; I opened them once more, but with less perception in them than before, looked forward, and, muttering something about woodlands, I placed myself in an easier posture than I had hitherto done, and fairly fell asleep. How long I continued in that state I am unable to say, but I believe for a considerable time; I was suddenly awakened by the ceasing of the jolting to which I had become accustomed, and of which I was perfectly sensible in my sleep. I started up and looked around me, the moon was still shining, and the face of the heaven was studded with stars; I found myself amidst a maze of bushes of various kinds, but principally hazel and holly, through which was a path or drift-way with grass growing on either side, upon which the pony was already diligently browsing. I conjectured that this place had been one of the haunts of his former master, and, on dismounting and looking about, was strengthened in that opinion by finding a spot under an ash tree which, from its burnt and blackened appearance, seemed to have been frequently used as a fireplace. I will take up my quarters here, thought I; it is an excellent spot for me to commence my new profession in; I was quite right to trust myself to the guidance of the pony. Unharnessing the animal without delay, I permitted him to browse at free will on the grass, convinced that he would not wander far from a place to which he was so much attached; I then pitched the little tent close beside the ash tree to which I have alluded, and conveyed two or three articles into it, and instantly felt that I had commenced housekeeping for the first time in my life. Housekeeping, however, without a fire is a very sorry affair, something like the housekeeping of children in their toy houses; of this I was the more sensible from feeling very cold and shivering, owing to my late exposure to the rain, and sleeping in the night air. Collecting, therefore, all the dry sticks and furze I could find, I placed them upon the fireplace, adding certain chips and a billet which I found in the cart, it having apparently been the habit of Slingsby to carry with him a small store of fuel. Having then struck a spark in a tinder-box and lighted a match, I set fire to the combustible heap, and was not slow in raising a cheerful blaze; I then drew my cart near the fire, and, seating myself on one of the shafts, hung over the warmth with feelings of intense pleasure and satisfaction. Having continued in this posture for a considerable time, I turned my eyes to the heaven in the direction of a particular star; I, however, could not find the star, nor indeed many of the starry train, the greater number having fled, from which circumstance, and from the appearance of the sky, I concluded that morning was nigh. About this time I again began to feel drowsy; I therefore arose, and having prepared for myself a kind of couch in the tent, I flung myself upon it and went to sleep. I will not say that I was awakened in the morning by the carolling of birds, as I perhaps might if I were writing a novel; I awoke because, to use vulgar language, I had slept my sleep out, not because the birds were carolling around me in numbers, as they had probably been for hours without my hearing them. I got up and left my tent; the morning was yet more bright than that of the preceding day. Impelled by curiosity, I walked about endeavouring to ascertain to what place chance, or rather the pony, had brought me; following the drift-way for some time, amidst bushes and stunted trees, I came to a grove of dark pines, through which it appeared to lead; I tracked it a few hundred yards, but seeing nothing but trees, and the way being wet and sloughy, owing to the recent rain, I returned on my steps, and, pursuing the path in another direction, came to a sandy road leading over a common, doubtless the one I had traversed the preceding night. My curiosity satisfied, I returned to my little encampment, and on the way beheld a small footpath on the left winding through the bushes, which had before escaped my observation. Having reached my tent and cart, I breakfasted on some of the provisions which I had procured the day before, and then proceeded to take a regular account of the stock formerly possessed by Slingsby the tinker, but now become my own by right of lawful purchase. Besides the pony, the cart, and the tent, I found I was possessed of a mattress stuffed with straw on which to lie, and a blanket to cover me, the last quite clean and nearly new; then there was a frying pan and a kettle, the first for cooking any food which required cooking, and the second for heating any water which I might wish to heat. I likewise found an earthen teapot and two or three cups; of the first I should rather say I found the remains, it being broken in three parts, no doubt since it came into my possession, which would have precluded the possibility of my asking anybody to tea for the present, should anybody visit me, even supposing I had tea and sugar, which was not the case. I then overhauled what might more strictly be called the stock in trade; this consisted of various tools, an iron ladle, a chafing pan and small bellows, sundry pans and kettles, the latter being of tin, with the exception of one which was of copper, all in a state of considerable dilapidation--if I may use the term; of these first Slingsby had spoken in particular, advising me to mend them as soon as possible, and to endeavour to sell them, in order that I might have the satisfaction of receiving some return upon the outlay which I had made. There was likewise a small quantity of block tin, sheet tin, and solder. "This Slingsby," said I, "is certainly a very honest man, he has sold me more than my money's worth; I believe, however, there is something more in the cart." Thereupon I rummaged the farther end of the cart, and, amidst a quantity of straw, I found a small anvil and bellows of that kind which are used in forges, and two hammers such as smiths use, one great, and the other small. The sight of these last articles caused me no little surprise, as no word which had escaped from the mouth of Slingsby had given me reason to suppose that he had ever followed the occupation of a smith; yet, if he had not, how did he come by them? I sat down upon the shaft, and pondered the question deliberately in my mind; at length I concluded that he had come by them by one of those numerous casualties which occur upon the roads, of which I, being a young hand upon the roads, must have a very imperfect conception; honestly, of course--for I scouted the idea that Slingsby would have stolen this blacksmith's gear--for I had the highest opinion of his honesty, which opinion I still retain at the present day, which is upwards of twenty years from the time of which I am speaking, during the whole of which period I have neither seen the poor fellow, nor received any intelligence of him. CHAPTER LXX New Profession--Beautiful Night--Jupiter--Sharp and Shrill--The Rommany Chi--All Alone--Three-and-Sixpence--What is Rommany?--Be Civil--Parraco Tute--Slight Start--She will be Grateful--The Rustling. I passed the greater part of the day in endeavouring to teach myself the mysteries of my new profession. I cannot say that I was very successful, but the time passed agreeably, and was therefore not ill spent. Towards evening I flung my work aside, took some refreshment, and afterwards a walk. This time I turned up the small footpath, of which I have already spoken. It led in a zigzag manner through thickets of hazel, elder, and sweet briar; after following its windings for somewhat better than a furlong, I heard a gentle sound of water, and presently came to a small rill, which ran directly across the path. I was rejoiced at the sight, for I had already experienced the want of water, which I yet knew must be nigh at hand, as I was in a place to all appearance occasionally frequented by wandering people, who I was aware never take up their quarters in places where water is difficult to be obtained. Forthwith I stretched myself on the ground, and took a long and delicious draught of the crystal stream, and then, seating myself in a bush, I continued for some time gazing on the water as it purled tinkling away in its channel through an opening in the hazels, and should have probably continued much longer had not the thought that I had left my property unprotected compelled me to rise and return to my encampment. Night came on, and a beautiful night it was; up rose the moon, and innumerable stars decked the firmament of heaven. I sat on the shaft, my eyes turned upwards. I had found it: there it was twinkling millions of miles above me, mightiest star of the system to which we belong: of all stars, the one which has most interest for me--the star Jupiter. Why have I always taken an interest in thee, O Jupiter? I know nothing about thee, save what every child knows, that thou art a big star, whose only light is derived from moons. And is not that knowledge enough to make me feel an interest in thee? Ay, truly, I never look at thee without wondering what is going on in thee; what is life in Jupiter? That there is life in Jupiter who can doubt? There is life in our own little star, therefore there must be life in Jupiter, which is not a little star. But how different must life be in Jupiter from what it is in our own little star! Life here is life beneath the dear sun--life in Jupiter is life beneath moons--four moons--no single moon is able to illumine that vast bulk. All know what life is in our own little star; it is anything but a routine of happiness here, where the dear sun rises to us every day: then how sad and moping must life be in mighty Jupiter, on which no sun ever shines, and which is never lighted save by pale moon- beams! The thought that there is more sadness and melancholy in Jupiter than in this world of ours, where, alas! there is but too much, has always made me take a melancholy interest in that huge distant star. Two or three days passed by in much the same manner as the first. During the morning I worked upon my kettles, and employed the remaining part of the day as I best could. The whole of this time I only saw two individuals, rustics, who passed by my encampment without vouchsafing me a glance; they probably considered themselves my superiors, as perhaps they were. One very brilliant morning, as I sat at work in very good spirits, for by this time I had actually mended in a very creditable way, as I imagined, two kettles and a frying pan, I heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the path leading to the rivulet; at first it sounded from a considerable distance, but drew nearer by degrees. I soon remarked that the tones were exceedingly sharp and shrill, with yet something of childhood in them. Once or twice I distinguished certain words in the song which the voice was singing; the words were--but no, I thought again I was probably mistaken--and then the voice ceased for a time; presently I heard it again, close to the entrance of the footpath; in another moment I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard the very words which I at first thought I had distinguished. I turned my head; at the entrance of the footpath, which might be about thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, I perceived the figure of a young girl; her face was turned towards me, and she appeared to be scanning me and my encampment; after a little time she looked in the other direction, only for a moment, however; probably observing nothing in that quarter, she again looked towards me, and almost immediately stepped forward; and, as she advanced, sang the song which I had heard in the wood, the first words of which were those which I have already alluded to. "The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal Shall jaw tasaulor To drab the bawlor And dook the gry Of the farming rye." {156} A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon my kettle; a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let them look to their cattle. "All alone here, brother?" said a voice close by me, in sharp but not disagreeable tones. I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with the gravity which became one of my profession. I allowed at least half a minute to elapse before I even lifted up my eyes. A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were very pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders. She was rather scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare; round her neck, however, was a handsome string of corals, with ornaments of gold; in her hand she held a bulrush. "All alone here, brother?" said the girl, as I looked up; "all alone here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?" "Why do you call me brother?" said I; "I am no brother of yours. Do you take me for one of your people? I am no Gypsy; not I, indeed!" "Don't be afraid, brother, you are no Roman--Roman, indeed! you are not handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though you be. If I called you brother, it was because I didn't know what else to call you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be sorry to have you for a brother." "Then you don't like me?" "Neither like you, nor dislike you, brother; what will you have for that kekaubi?" "What's the use of talking to me in that un-Christian way; what do you mean, young gentlewoman?" "Lord, brother, what a fool you are! every tinker knows what a kekaubi is. I was asking you what you would have for that kettle." "Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman; isn't it well mended?" "Well mended! I could have done it better myself; three-and-sixpence! it's only fit to be played at football with." "I will take no less for it, young gentlewoman; it has caused me a world of trouble." "I never saw a worse mended kettle. I say, brother, your hair is white." "'Tis nature; your hair is black; nature, nothing but nature." "I am young, brother; my hair is black--that's nature: you are young, brother; your hair is white--that's not nature." "I can't help it if it be not, but it is nature after all; did you never see grey hair on the young?" "Never! I have heard it is true of a grey lad, and a bad one he was. Oh, so bad." "Sit down on the grass, and tell me all about it, sister; do to oblige me, pretty sister." "Hey, brother, you don't speak as you did--you don't speak like a Gorgio, you speak like one of us, you call me sister." "As you call me brother; I am not an uncivil person after all, sister." "I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look me in the face--there--do you speak Rommany?" "Rommany! Rommany! what is Rommany?" "What is Rommany? our language to be sure; tell me, brother, only one thing, you don't speak Rommany?" "You say it." "I don't say it, I wish to know. Do you speak Rommany?" "Do you mean thieves' slang--cant? no, I don't speak cant, I don't like it, I only know a few words; they call a sixpence a tanner, don't they?" "I don't know," said the girl, sitting down on the ground, "I was almost thinking--well, never mind, you don't know Rommany. I say, brother, I think I should like to have the kekaubi." "I thought you said it was badly mended?" "Yes, yes, brother, but--" "I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football with?" "Yes, yes, brother, but--" "What will you give for it?" "Brother, I am the poor person's child, I will give you sixpence for the kekaubi." "Poor person's child; how came you by that necklace?" "Be civil, brother; am I to have the kekaubi?" "Not for sixpence; isn't the kettle nicely mended?" "I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have the kekaubi, brother?" "You like me then?" "I don't dislike you--I dislike no one; there's only one, and him I don't dislike, him I hate." "Who is he?" "I scarcely know, I never saw him, but 'tis no affair of yours, you don't speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?" "You may have it, but not for sixpence, I'll give it to you." "Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni [pretty] kekaubi is now mine. Oh, rare! I thank you kindly, brother." Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in her hand, and, seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the while, and singing-- "The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal Shall jaw tasaulor To drab the bawlor And dook the gry Of the farming rye." "Good bye, brother, I must be going." "Good bye, sister; why do you sing that wicked song?" "Wicked song, hey, brother! you don't understand the song!" "Ha, ha! Gypsy daughter," said I, starting up and clapping my hands, "I don't understand Rommany, don't I? You shall see; here's the answer to your gillie-- 'The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal Love luripen And dukkeripen, And hokkeripen, And every pen But lachipen And tatchipen.'" {160} The girl, who had given a slight start when I began, remained for some time after I had concluded the song, standing motionless as a statue, with the kettle in her hand. At length she came towards me, and stared me full in the face. "Grey, tall, and talks Rommany," said she to herself. In her countenance there was an expression which I had not seen before--an expression which struck me as being composed of fear, curiosity, and the deepest hate. It was momentary, however, and was succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open. "Ha, ha, brother," said she, "well, I like you all the better for talking Rommany; it is a sweet language, isn't it? especially as you sing it. How did you pick it up? But you picked it up upon the roads, no doubt? Ha, it was funny in you to pretend not to know it, and you so flush with it all the time; it was not kind in you, however, to frighten the poor person's child so by screaming out, but it was kind in you to give the rikkeni kekaubi to the child of the poor person. She will be grateful to you; she will bring you her little dog to show you, her pretty juggal; {161} the poor person's child will come and see you again; you are not going away to- day, I hope, or to-morrow, pretty brother, grey-haired brother--you are not going away to-morrow, I hope?" "Nor the next day," said I, "only to take a stroll to see if I can sell a kettle; good bye, little sister, Rommany sister, dingy sister." "Good bye, tall brother," said the girl, as she departed, singing-- "The Rommany chi," etc. "There's something about that girl that I don't understand," said I to myself; "something mysterious. However, it is nothing to me, she knows not who I am, and if she did, what then?" Late that evening as I sat on the shaft of my cart in deep meditation, with my arms folded, I thought I heard a rustling in the bushes over against me. I turned my eyes in that direction, but saw nothing. "Some bird," said I; "an owl, perhaps;" and once more I fell into meditation; my mind wandered from one thing to another--musing now on the structure of the Roman tongue--now on the rise and fall of the Persian power--and now on the powers vested in recorders at quarter sessions. I was thinking what a fine thing it must be to be a recorder of the peace, when, lifting up my eyes, I saw right opposite, not a culprit at the bar, but, staring at me through a gap in the bush, a face wild and strange, half covered with grey hair; I only saw it a moment, the next it had disappeared. CHAPTER LXXI Friend of Slingsby--All Quiet--Danger--The Two Cakes--Children in the Wood--Don't be Angry--In Deep Thought--Temples Throbbing--Deadly Sick--Another Blow--No Answer--How Old are You?--Play and Sacrament--Heavy Heart--Song of Poison--Drow of Gypsies--The Dog--Ely's Church--Get up, Bebee--The Vehicle--Can You Speak?--The Oil. The next day, at an early hour, I harnessed my little pony, and, putting my things in my cart, I went on my projected stroll. Crossing the moor, I arrived in about an hour at a small village, from which, after a short stay, I proceeded to another, and from thence to a third. I found that the name of Slingsby was well known in these parts. "If you are a friend of Slingsby you must be an honest lad," said an ancient crone; "you shall never want for work whilst I can give it you. Here, take my kettle, the bottom came out this morning, and lend me that of yours till you bring it back. I'm not afraid to trust you--not I. Don't hurry yourself, young man; if you don't come back for a fortnight I shan't have the worse opinion of you." I returned to my quarters at evening, tired, but rejoiced at heart; I had work before me for several days, having collected various kekaubies which required mending, in place of those which I left behind--those which I had been employed upon during the last few days. I found all quiet in the lane or glade, and, unharnessing my little horse, I once more pitched my tent in the old spot beneath the ash, lighted my fire, ate my frugal meal, and then, after looking for some time at the heavenly bodies, and more particularly at the star Jupiter, I entered my tent, lay down upon my pallet, and went to sleep. Nothing occurred on the following day which requires any particular notice, nor indeed on the one succeeding that. It was about noon on the third day that I sat beneath the shade of the ash tree; I was not at work, for the weather was particularly hot, and I felt but little inclination to make any exertion. Leaning my back against the tree, I was not long in falling into a slumber; I particularly remember that slumber of mine beneath the ash tree, for it was about the sweetest slumber that I ever enjoyed; how long I continued in it I do not know; I could almost have wished that it had lasted to the present time. All of a sudden it appeared to me that a voice cried in my ear, "Danger! danger! danger!" Nothing seemingly could be more distinct than the words which I heard; then an uneasy sensation came over me, which I strove to get rid of, and at last succeeded, for I awoke. The Gypsy girl was standing just opposite to me, with her eyes fixed upon my countenance; a singular kind of little dog stood beside her. "Ha!" said I, "was it you that cried danger? What danger is there?" "Danger, brother? there is no danger; what danger should there be? I called to my little dog, but that was in the wood; my little dog's name is not danger, but stranger; what danger should there be, brother?" "What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is that you have got in your hand?" "Something for you," said the girl, sitting down and proceeding to untie a white napkin; "a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I went home to my people I told my grandbebee how kind you had been to the poor person's child, and when my grandbebee saw the kekaubi, she said, 'Hir mi devlis, {165a} it won't do for the poor people to be ungrateful; by my God, I will bake a cake for the young harko mescro.'" {165b} "But there are two cakes." "Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my grandbebee meant them both for you--but list, brother, I will have one of them for bringing them. I know you will give me one, pretty brother, grey-haired brother--which shall I have, brother?" In the napkin were two round cakes, seemingly made of rich and costly compounds, and precisely similar in form, each weighing about half a pound. "Which shall I have, brother?" said the Gypsy girl. "Whichever you please." "No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine, it is for you to say." "Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the other." "Yes, brother, yes," said the girl; and taking the cakes, she flung them into the air two or three times, catching them as they fell, and singing the while. "Pretty brother, grey-haired brother--here, brother," said she, "here is your cake, this other is mine." "Are you sure," said I, taking the cake, "that this is the one I chose?" "Quite sure, brother; but if you like you can have mine; there's no difference, however--shall I eat?" "Yes, sister, eat." "See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty brother, grey-haired brother." "I am not hungry." "Not hungry! well, what then--what has being hungry to do with the matter? It is my grandbebee's cake which was sent because you were kind to the poor person's child; eat, brother, eat, and we shall be like the children in the wood that the Gorgios speak of." "The children in the wood had nothing to eat." "Yes, they had hips and haws; we have better. Eat, brother." "See, sister, I do," and I ate a piece of the cake. "Well, brother, how do you like it?" said the girl, looking fixedly at me. "It is very rich and sweet, and yet there is something strange about it; I don't think I shall eat any more." "Fie, brother, fie, to find fault with the poor person's cake; see, I have nearly eaten mine." "That's a pretty little dog." "Is it not, brother? that's my juggal, my little sister, as I call her." "Come here, juggal," said I to the animal. "What do you want with my juggal?" said the girl. "Only to give her a piece of cake," said I, offering the dog a piece which I had just broken off. "What do you mean?" said the girl, snatching the dog away; "my grandbebee's cake is not for dogs." "Why, I just now saw you give the animal a piece of yours." "You lie, brother, you saw no such thing; but I see how it is, you wish to affront the poor person's child. I shall go to my house." "Keep still, and don't be angry; see, I have eaten the piece which I offered the dog. I meant no offence. It is a sweet cake after all." "Isn't it, brother? I am glad you like it. Offence! brother, no offence at all! I am so glad you like my grandbebee's cake, but she will be wanting me at home. Eat one piece more of grandbebee's {167} cake and I will go." "I am not hungry, I will put the rest by." "One piece more before I go, handsome brother, grey-haired brother." "I will not eat any more, I have already eaten more than I wished to oblige you; if you must go, good day to you." The girl rose upon her feet, looked hard at me, then at the remainder of the cake which I held in my hand, and then at me again, and then stood for a moment or two, as if in deep thought; presently an air of satisfaction came over her countenance, she smiled and said, "Well, brother, well, do as you please, I merely wished you to eat because you have been so kind to the poor person's child. She loves you so, that she could have wished to have seen you eat it all; good bye, brother, I dare say when I am gone you will eat some more of it, and if you don't, I dare say you have eaten enough to--to--show your love for us. After all, it was a poor person's cake, a Rommany manricli, {168} and all you Gorgios are somewhat gorgious. Farewell, brother, pretty brother, grey-haired brother. Come, juggal." I remained under the ash tree seated on the grass for a minute or two, and endeavoured to resume the occupation in which I had been engaged before I fell asleep, but I felt no inclination for labour. I then thought I would sleep again, and once more reclined against the tree, and slumbered for some little time, but my sleep was more agitated than before. Something appeared to bear heavy on my breast, I struggled in my sleep, fell on the grass, and awoke; my temples were throbbing, there was a burning in my eyes, and my mouth felt parched; the oppression about the chest which I had felt in my sleep still continued. "I must shake off these feelings," said I, "and get upon my legs." I walked rapidly up and down upon the green sward; at length, feeling my thirst increase, I directed my steps down the narrow path to the spring which ran amidst the bushes; arriving there, I knelt down and drank of the water, but on lifting up my head I felt thirstier than before; again I drank, but with the like result; I was about to drink for the third time, when I felt a dreadful qualm which instantly robbed me of nearly all my strength. What can be the matter with me, thought I; but I suppose I have made myself ill by drinking cold water. I got up and made the best of my way back to my tent; before I reached it the qualm had seized me again, and I was deadly sick. I flung myself on my pallet, qualm succeeded qualm, but in the intervals my mouth was dry and burning, and I felt a frantic desire to drink, but no water was at hand, and to reach the spring once more was impossible; the qualms continued, deadly pains shot through my whole frame; I could bear my agonies no longer, and I fell into a trance or swoon. How long I continued therein I know not; on recovering, however, I felt somewhat better, and attempted to lift my head off my couch; the next moment, however, the qualms and pains returned, if possible, with greater violence than before. I am dying, thought I, like a dog, without any help; and then methought I heard a sound at a distance like people singing, and then once more I relapsed into my swoon. I revived just as a heavy blow sounded upon the canvas of the tent. I started, but my condition did not permit me to rise; again the same kind of blow sounded upon the canvas; I thought for a moment of crying out and requesting assistance, but an inexplicable something chained my tongue, and now I heard a whisper on the outside of the tent. "He does not move, bebee," said a voice which I knew. "I should not wonder if it has done for him already; however, strike again with your ran;" {169} and then there was another blow, after which another voice cried aloud in a strange tone, "Is the gentleman of the house asleep, or is he taking his dinner?" I remained quite silent and motionless, and in another moment the voice continued, "What, no answer? what can the gentleman of the house be about that he makes no answer? perhaps the gentleman of the house may be darning his stockings?" Thereupon a face peered into the door of the tent, at the farther extremity of which I was stretched. It was that of a woman, but owing to the posture in which she stood, with her back to the light, and partly owing to a large straw bonnet, I could distinguish but very little of the features of her countenance. I had, however, recognised her voice; it was that of my old acquaintance, Mrs. Herne. "Ho, ho, sir!" said she, "here you are. Come here, Leonora," said she to the Gypsy girl, who pressed in at the other side of the door; "here is the gentleman, not asleep, but only stretched out after dinner. Sit down on your ham, child, at the door, I shall do the same. There--you have seen me before, sir, have you not?" "The gentleman makes no answer, bebee; perhaps he does not know you." "I have known him of old, Leonora," said Mrs. Herne; "and, to tell you the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I expected no answer." "It's a way he has, bebee, {170} I suppose?" "Yes, child, it's a way he has." "Take off your bonnet, bebee, perhaps he cannot see your face." "I do not think that will be of much use, child; however, I will take off my bonnet--there--and shake out my hair--there--you have seen this hair before, sir, and this face--" "No answer, bebee." "Though the one was not quite so grey, nor the other so wrinkled." "How came they so, bebee?" "All along of this Gorgio, child." "The gentleman in the house you mean, bebee." "Yes, child, the gentleman in the house. God grant that I may preserve my temper. Do you know, sir, my name? My name is Herne, which signifies a hairy individual, though neither grey-haired nor wrinkled. It is not the nature of the Hernes to be grey or wrinkled, even when they are old, and I am not old." "How old are you, bebee?" "Sixty-five years, child--an inconsiderable number. My mother was a hundred and one--a considerable age--when she died, yet she had not one grey hair, and not more than six wrinkles--an inconsiderable number." "She had no griefs, bebee?" "Plenty, child, but not like mine." "Not quite so hard to bear, bebee?" "No, child, my head wanders when I think of them. After the death of my husband, who came to his end untimeously, I went to live with a daughter of mine, married out among certain Romans who walk about the eastern counties, and with whom for some time I found a home and pleasant society, for they lived right Romanly, which gave my heart considerable satisfaction, who am a Roman born, and hope to die so. When I say right Romanly, I mean that they kept to themselves, and were not much given to blabbing about their private matters in promiscuous company. Well, things went on in this way for some time, when one day my son-in-law brings home a young Gorgio of singular and outrageous ugliness, and, without much preamble, says to me and mine, 'This is my pal, a'n't he a beauty? fall down and worship him.' 'Hold,' said I, 'I for one will never consent to such foolishness.'" "That was right, bebee, I think I should have done the same." "I think you would, child; but what was the profit of it? The whole party makes an almighty of this Gorgio, lets him into their ways, says prayers of his making, till things come to such a pass that my own daughter says to me, 'I shall buy myself a veil and fan, and treat myself to a play and sacrament.' 'Don't,' says I; says she, 'I should like for once in my life to be courtesied to as a Christian gentlewoman.'" "Very foolish of her, bebee." "Wasn't it, child? Where was I? At the fan and sacrament; with a heavy heart I put seven score miles between us, came back to the hairy ones, and found them over-given to gorgious companions; said I, 'Foolish manners is catching; all this comes of that there Gorgio.' Answers the child Leonora, 'Take comfort, bebee, I hate the Gorgios as much as you do.'" "And I say so again, bebee, as much or more." "Time flows on, I engage in many matters, in most miscarry. Am sent to prison; says I to myself, I am become foolish. Am turned out of prison, and go back to the hairy ones, who receive me not over courteously; says I, for their unkindness, and my own foolishness, all the thanks to that Gorgio. Answers to me the child, 'I wish I could set eyes upon him, bebee.'" "I did so, bebee; go on." "'How shall I know him, bebee?' says the child. 'Young and grey, tall, and speaks Romanly.' Runs to me the child, and says, 'I've found him, bebee.' 'Where, child?' says I. 'Come with me, bebee,' says the child. 'That's he,' says I, as I looked at my gentleman through the hedge." "Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog." "You have taken drows, sir," said Mrs. Herne; "do you hear, sir? drows; tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison." And thereupon the girl clapped her hands, and sang-- "The Rommany churl And the Rommany girl To-morrow shall hie To poison the sty And bewitch on the mead The farmer's steed." "Do you hear that, sir?" said Mrs. Herne; "the child has tipped you a stave of the song of poison: that is, she has sung it Christianly, though perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly; you were always fond of what was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child." "He has heard it Romanly already, bebee; 'twas by that I found him out, as I told you." "Halloo, sir, are you sleeping? you have taken drows; the gentleman makes no answer. God give me patience!" "And what if he doesn't, bebee; isn't he poisoned like a hog? Gentleman, indeed! why call him gentleman? if he ever was one he's broke, and is now a tinker, a worker of blue metal." "That's his way, child,--to-day a tinker, to-morrow something else; and as for being drabbed, {174a} I don't know what to say about it." "Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee? but look there, bebee; ha, ha! look at the gentleman's motions." "He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho! sir, you have taken drows; what, another throe! writhe, sir, writhe, the hog died by the drow of Gypsies; I saw him stretched at evening. That's yourself, sir. There is no hope, sir, no help, you have taken drow; shall I tell you your fortune, sir, your dukkerin? God bless you, pretty gentleman, much trouble will you have to suffer, and much water to cross; but never mind, pretty gentleman, you shall be fortunate at the end, and those who hate shall take off their hats to you." "Hey, bebee!" cried the girl; "what is this? what do you mean? you have blessed the Gorgio!" "Blessed him! no, sure; what did I say? Oh, I remember, I'm mad; well, I can't help it, I said what the dukkerin dook {174b} told me; woe's me, he'll get up yet." "Nonsense, bebee! Look at his motions, he's drabbed, spite of dukkerin." "Don't say so, child; he's sick, 'tis true, but don't laugh at dukkerin, only folks do that that know no better. I, for one, will never laugh at the dukkerin dook. Sick again; I wish he was gone." "He'll soon be gone, bebee; let's leave him. He's as good as gone; look there, he's dead." "No, he's not, he'll get up--I feel it; can't we hasten him?" "Hasten him! yes, to be sure; set the dog upon him. Here, juggal, look in there, my dog." The dog made its appearance at the door of the tent, and began to bark and tear up the ground. "At him, juggal, at him; he wished to poison, to drab you. Halloo!" The dog barked violently, and seemed about to spring at my face, but retreated. "The dog won't fly at him, child; he flashed at the dog with his eye, and scared him. He'll get up." "Nonsense, bebee! you make me angry; how should he get up?" "The dook tells me so, and, what's more, I had a dream. I thought I was at York, standing amidst a crowd to see a man hung, and the crowd shouted 'There he comes!' and I looked, and, lo! it was the tinker; before I could cry with joy I was whisked away, and I found myself in Ely's big church, which was chock full of people to hear the dean preach, and all eyes were turned to the big pulpit; and presently I heard them say, 'There he mounts!' and I looked up to the big pulpit, and, lo! the tinker was in the pulpit, and he raised his arm and began to preach. Anon, I found myself at York again, just as the drop fell, and I looked up, and I saw not the tinker, but my own self hanging in the air." "You are going mad, bebee; if you want to hasten him, take your stick and poke him in the eye." "That will be of no use, child, the dukkerin tells me so; but I will try what I can do. Halloo, tinker! you must introduce yourself into a quiet family, and raise confusion--must you? You must steal its language, and, what was never done before, write it down Christianly--must you? Take that--and that;" and she stabbed violently with her stick towards the end of the tent. "That's right, bebee, you struck his face; now once more, and let it be in the eye. Stay, what's that? get up, bebee." "What's the matter, child?" "Some one is coming; come away." "Let me make sure of him, child; he'll be up yet." And thereupon Mrs. Herne, rising, leaned forward into the tent, and, supporting herself against the pole, took aim in the direction of the farther end. "I will thrust out his eye," said she; and, lunging with her stick, she would probably have accomplished her purpose had not at that moment the pole of the tent given way, whereupon she fell to the ground, the canvas falling upon her and her intended victim. "Here's a pretty affair, bebee," screamed the girl. "He'll get up yet," said Mrs. Herne, from beneath the canvas. "Get up!--get up yourself; where are you? where is your . . . Here, there, bebee, here's the door; there, make haste; they are coming." "He'll get up yet," said Mrs. Herne, recovering her breath, "the dook tells me so." "Never mind him or the dook; he is drabbed; come away, or we shall be grabbed--both of us." "One more blow, I know where his head lies." "You are mad, bebee; leave the fellow--Gorgio avella." {177} And thereupon the females hurried away. A vehicle of some kind was evidently drawing nigh; in a little time it came alongside of the place where lay the fallen tent, and stopped suddenly. There was a silence for a moment, and then a parley ensued between two voices, one of which was that of a woman. It was not in English, but in a deep guttural tongue. "Peth yw hono sydd yn gorwedd yna ar y ddaear?" said a masculine voice. "Yn wirionedd--I do not know what it can be," said the female voice, in the same tongue. "Here is a cart, and there are tools; but what is that on the ground?" "Something moves beneath it; and what was that--a groan?" "Shall I get down?" "Of course, Peter, some one may want your help." "Then I will get down, though I do not like this place, it is frequented by Egyptians, and I do not like their yellow faces, nor their clibberty clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn says. Now I am down. It is a tent, Winifred, and see, here is a boy beneath it. Merciful father! what a face!" A middle-aged man, with a strongly marked and serious countenance, dressed in sober-coloured habiliments, had lifted up the stifling folds of the tent, and was bending over me. "Can you speak, my lad?" said he in English; "what is the matter with you? if you could but tell me, I could perhaps help you . . . " "What is that you say? I can't hear you. I will kneel down;" and he flung himself on the ground, and placed his ear close to my mouth. "Now speak if you can. Hey! what! no, sure, God forbid!" then starting up, he cried to a female who sat in the cart, anxiously looking on--"Gwenwyn! gwenwyn! yw y gwas wedi ei gwenwynaw. The oil! Winifred, the oil!" CHAPTER LXXII Desired Effect--The Three Oaks--Winifred--Things of Time--With God's Will--The Preacher--Creature Comforts--Croesaw--Welsh and English--Mayor of Chester. The oil, which the strangers compelled me to take, produced the desired effect, though, during at least two hours, it was very doubtful whether or not my life would be saved. At the end of that period the man said, that with the blessing of God, he would answer for my life. He then demanded whether I thought I could bear to be removed from the place in which we were, "for I like it not," he continued, "as something within me tells me that it is not good for any of us to be here." I told him, as well as I was able, that I, too, should be glad to leave the place; whereupon, after collecting my things, he harnessed my pony, and, with the assistance of the woman, he contrived to place me in the cart; he then gave me a draught out of a small phial, and we set forward at a slow pace, the man walking by the side of the cart in which I lay. It is probable that the draught consisted of a strong opiate, for after swallowing it I fell into a deep slumber; on my awaking, I found that the shadows of night had enveloped the earth--we were still moving on. Shortly, however, after descending a declivity, we turned into a lane, at the entrance of which was a gate. This lane conducted to a meadow, through the middle of which ran a small brook; it stood between two rising grounds; that on the left, which was on the farther side of the water, was covered with wood, whilst the one on the right, which was not so high, was crowned with the white walls of what appeared to be a farmhouse. Advancing along the meadow, we presently came to a place where grew three immense oaks, almost on the side of the brook, over which they flung their arms, so as to shade it as with a canopy; the ground beneath was bare of grass, and nearly as hard and smooth as the floor of a barn. Having led his own cart on one side of the midmost tree, and my own on the other, the stranger said to me, "This is the spot where my wife and myself generally tarry in the summer season, when we come into these parts. We are about to pass the night here. I suppose you will have no objection to do the same? Indeed, I do not see what else you could do under present circumstances." After receiving my answer, in which I, of course, expressed my readiness to assent to his proposal, he proceeded to unharness his horse, and, feeling myself much better, I got down, and began to make the necessary preparations for passing the night beneath the oak. Whilst thus engaged, I felt myself touched on the shoulder, and, looking round, perceived the woman, whom the stranger called Winifred, standing close to me. The moon was shining brightly upon her, and I observed that she was very good looking, with a composed, yet cheerful expression of countenance; her dress was plain and primitive, very much resembling that of a Quaker. She held a straw bonnet in her hand. "I am glad to see thee moving about, young man," said she, in a soft, placid tone; "I could scarcely have expected it. Thou must be wondrous strong; many, after what thou hast suffered, would not have stood on their feet for weeks and months. What do I say?--Peter, my husband, who is skilled in medicine, just now told me that not one in five hundred would have survived what thou hast this day undergone; but allow me to ask thee one thing, Hast thou returned thanks to God for thy deliverance?" I made no answer, and the woman, after a pause, said, "Excuse me, young man, but do you know anything of God?" "Very little," I replied, "but I should say He must be a wondrous strong Person, if He made all those big bright things up above there, to say nothing of the ground on which we stand, which bears beings like these oaks, each of which is fifty times as strong as myself, and will live twenty times as long." The woman was silent for some moments, and then said, "I scarcely know in what spirit thy words are uttered. If thou art serious, however, I would caution thee against supposing that the power of God is more manifested in these trees, or even in those bright stars above us, than in thyself--they are things of time, but thou art a being destined to an eternity; it depends upon thyself whether thy eternity shall be one of joy or sorrow." Here she was interrupted by the man, who exclaimed from the other side of the tree, "Winifred, it is getting late, you had better go up to the house on the hill to inform our friends of our arrival, or they will have retired for the night." "True," said Winifred, and forthwith wended her way to the house in question, returning shortly with another woman, whom the man, speaking in the same language which I had heard him first use, greeted by the name of Mary; the woman replied in the same tongue, but almost immediately said, in English, "We hoped to have heard you speak to- night, Peter, but we cannot expect that now, seeing that it is so late, owing to your having been detained by the way, as Winifred tells me; nothing remains for you to do now but to sup--to-morrow, with God's will, we shall hear you." "And to-night, also, with God's will, provided you be so disposed. Let those of your family come hither." "They will be hither presently," said Mary, "for knowing that thou art arrived, they will, of course, come and bid thee welcome." And scarcely had she spoke, when I beheld a party of people descending the moonlit side of the hill. They soon arrived at the place where we were; they might amount in all to twelve individuals. The principal person was a tall, athletic man, of about forty, dressed like a plain country farmer; this was, I soon found, the husband of Mary; the rest of the group consisted of the children of these two, and their domestic servants. One after another they all shook Peter by the hand, men and women, boys and girls, and expressed their joy at seeing him. After which, he said, "Now, friends, if you please, I will speak a few words to you." A stool was then brought him from the cart, which he stepped on, and the people arranging themselves round him, some standing, some seated on the ground, he forthwith began to address them in a clear, distinct voice; and the subject of his discourse was the necessity, in all human beings, of a change of heart. The preacher was better than his promise, for, instead of speaking a few words, he preached for at least three-quarters of an hour; none of the audience, however, showed the slightest symptom of weariness; on the contrary, the hope of each individual appeared to hang upon the words which proceeded from his mouth. At the conclusion of the sermon or discourse, the whole assembly again shook Peter by the hand, and returned to their house, the mistress of the family saying, as she departed, "I shall soon be back, Peter, I go but to make arrangements for the supper of thyself and company;" and, in effect, she presently returned, attended by a young woman, who bore a tray in her hands. "Set it down, Jessy," said the mistress to the girl, "and then betake thyself to thy rest; I shall remain here for a little time to talk with my friends." The girl departed, and the preacher and the two females placed themselves on the ground about the tray. The man gave thanks, and himself and his wife appeared to be about to eat, when the latter suddenly placed her hand upon his arm, and said something to him in a low voice, whereupon he exclaimed, "Ay, truly, we were both forgetful;" and then getting up, he came towards me, who stood a little way off, leaning against the wheel of my cart; and, taking me by the hand, he said, "Pardon us, young man, we were both so engaged in our own creature-comforts, that we forgot thee, but it is not too late to repair our fault; wilt thou not join us, and taste our bread and milk?" "I cannot eat," I replied, "but I think I could drink a little milk;" whereupon he led me to the rest, and seating me by his side, he poured some milk into a horn cup, saying, "'Croesaw.' That," added he, with a smile, "is Welsh for welcome." The fare upon the tray was of the simplest description, consisting of bread, cheese, milk, and curds. My two friends partook with a good appetite. "Mary," said the preacher, addressing himself to the woman of the house, "every time I come to visit thee, I find thee less inclined to speak Welsh. I suppose, in a little time, thou wilt entirely have forgotten it; hast thou taught it to any of thy children?" "The two eldest understand a few words," said the woman, "but my husband does not wish them to learn it; he says sometimes, jocularly, that though it pleased him to marry a Welsh wife, it does not please him to have Welsh children. Who, I have heard him say, would be a Welshman, if he could be an Englishman?" "I for one," said the preacher, somewhat hastily; "not to be king of all England would I give up my birthright as a Welshman. Your husband is an excellent person, Mary, but I am afraid he is somewhat prejudiced." "You do him justice, Peter, in saying that he is an excellent person," said the woman; "as to being prejudiced, I scarcely know what to say, but he thinks that two languages in the same kingdom are almost as bad as two kings." "That's no bad observation," said the preacher, "and it is generally the case; yet, thank God, the Welsh and English go on very well, side by side, and I hope will do so till the Almighty calls all men to their long account." "They jog on very well now," said the woman; "but I have heard my husband say that it was not always so, and that the Welsh, in old times, were a violent and ferocious people, for that once they hanged the mayor of Chester." "Ha, ha!" said the preacher, and his eyes flashed in the moonlight; "he told you that, did he?" "Yes," said Mary; "once, when the mayor of Chester, with some of his people, was present at one of the fairs over the border, a quarrel arose between the Welsh and the English, and the Welsh beat the English, and hanged the mayor." "Your husband is a clever man," said Peter, "and knows a great deal; did he tell you the name of the leader of the Welsh? No! then I will: the leader of the Welsh on that occasion was ---. He was a powerful chieftain, and there was an old feud between him and the men of Chester. Afterwards, when two hundred of the men of Chester invaded his country to take revenge for their mayor, he enticed them into a tower, set fire to it, and burnt them all. That --- was a very fine, noble--God forgive me, what was I about to say!--a very bad, violent man; but, Mary, this is very carnal and unprofitable conversation, and in holding it we set a very bad example to the young man here--let us change the subject." They then began to talk on religious matters. At length Mary departed to her abode, and the preacher and his wife retired to their tilted cart. "Poor fellow, he seems to be almost brutally ignorant," said Peter, addressing his wife in their native language, after they had bidden me farewell for the night. "I am afraid he is," said Winifred, "yet my heart warms to the poor lad, he seems so forlorn." CHAPTER LXXIII Morning Hymn--Much Alone--John Bunyan--Beholden to Nobody--Sixty-five--Sober Greeting--Early Sabbaths--Finny Brood--The Porch--No Fortune-telling--The Master's Niece--Doing Good--Two or Three Things--Groans and Voices--Pechod Ysprydd Glan. I slept soundly during that night, partly owing to the influence of the opiate. Early in the morning I was awakened by the voices of Peter and his wife, who were singing a morning hymn in their own language. Both subsequently prayed long and fervently. I lay still till their devotions were completed, and then left my tent. "Good morning," said Peter, "how dost thou feel?" "Much better," said I, "than I could have expected." "I am glad of it," said Peter. "Art thou hungry? yonder comes our breakfast," pointing to the same young woman I had seen the preceding night, who was again descending the hill bearing the tray upon her head. "What dost thou intend to do, young man, this day?" said Peter, when we had about half finished breakfast. "Do," said I; "as I do other days, what I can." "And dost thou pass this day as thou dost other days?" said Peter. "Why not?" said I; "what is there in this day different from the rest? it seems to be of the same colour as yesterday." "Art thou aware," said the wife, interposing, "what day it is? that it is Sabbath? that it is Sunday?" "No," said I, "I did not know that it was Sunday." "And how did that happen?" said Winifred, with a sigh. "To tell you the truth," said I, "I live very much alone, and pay very little heed to the passing of time." "And yet of what infinite importance is time," said Winifred. "Art thou not aware that every year brings thee nearer to thy end?" "I do not think," said I, "that I am so near my end as I was yesterday." "Yes, thou art," said the woman; "thou wast not doomed to die yesterday; an invisible hand was watching over thee yesterday; but thy day will come, therefore improve the time; be grateful that thou wast saved yesterday; and, oh! reflect on one thing; if thou hadst died yesterday, where wouldst thou have been now?" "Cast into the earth, perhaps," said I. "I have heard Mr. Petulengro say that to be cast into the earth is the natural end of man." "Who is Mr. Petulengro?" said Peter, interrupting his wife, as she was about to speak. "Master of the horse- shoe," said I; "and, according to his own account, king of Egypt." "I understand," said Peter, "head of some family of wandering Egyptians--they are a race utterly godless. Art thou of them?--but no, thou art not, thou hast not their yellow blood. I suppose thou belongest to the family of wandering artisans called ---. I do not like you the worse for belonging to them. A mighty speaker of old sprang up from amidst that family." "Who was he?" said I. "John Bunyan," {188} replied Peter, reverently, "and the mention of his name reminds me that I have to preach this day; wilt thou go and hear? the distance is not great, only half a mile." "No," said I, "I will not go and hear." "Wherefore?" said Peter. "I belong to the Church," said I, "and not to the congregations." "Oh! the pride of that Church," said Peter, addressing his wife in their own tongue, "exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant of its members." "Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to church," said Peter, again addressing me; "there is a church on the other side of that wooded hill." "No," said I, "I do not mean to go to church." "May I ask thee wherefore?" said Peter. "Because," said I, "I prefer remaining beneath the shade of these trees, listening to the sound of the leaves, and the tinkling of the waters." "Then thou intendest to remain here?" said Peter, looking fixedly at me. "If I do not intrude," said I; "but if I do, I will wander away; I wish to be beholden to nobody--perhaps you wish me to go?" "On the contrary," said Peter, "I wish you to stay. I begin to see something in thee which has much interest for me; but we must now bid thee farewell for the rest of the day, the time is drawing nigh for us to repair to the place of preaching; before we leave thee alone, however, I should wish to ask thee a question--Didst thou seek thy own destruction yesterday, and didst thou wilfully take that poison?" "No," said I; "had I known there had been poison in the cake I certainly should not have taken it." "And who gave it thee?" said Peter. "An enemy of mine," I replied. "Who is thy enemy?" "An Egyptian sorceress and poison-monger." "Thy enemy is a female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate thee--of what did she complain?" "That I had stolen the tongue out of her head." "I do not understand thee--is she young?" "About sixty-five." Here Winifred interposed. "Thou didst call her just now by hard names, young man," said she; "I trust thou dost bear no malice against her?" "No," said I, "I bear no malice against her." "Thou art not wishing to deliver her into the hand of what is called justice?" "By no means," said I; "I have lived long enough upon the roads not to cry out for the constable when my finger is broken. I consider this poisoning as an accident of the roads; one of those to which those who travel are occasionally subject." "In short, thou forgivest thine adversary?" "Both now and for ever," said I. "Truly," said Winifred, "the spirit which the young man displayeth pleases me much; I should be loth that he left us yet. I have no doubt that, with the blessing of God, and a little of thy exhortation, he will turn out a true Christian before he leaveth us." "My exhortation!" said Peter, and a dark shade passed over his countenance; "thou forgettest what I am--I--I--but I am forgetting myself; the Lord's will be done; and now put away the things, for I perceive that our friends are coming to attend us to the place of meeting." Again the family which I had seen the night before descended the hill from their abode. They were now dressed in their Sunday's best. The master of the house led the way. They presently joined us, when a quiet sober greeting ensued on each side. After a little time Peter shook me by the hand and bade me farewell till the evening; Winifred did the same, adding, that she hoped I should be visited by sweet and holy thoughts. The whole party then moved off in the direction by which we had come the preceding night, Peter and the master leading the way, followed by Winifred and the mistress of the family. As I gazed on their departing forms, I felt almost inclined to follow them to their place of worship. I did not stir, however, but remained leaning against my oak with my hands behind me. And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with my face turned towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell into deep meditation. I thought on the early Sabbaths of my life, and the manner in which I was wont to pass them. How carefully I said my prayers when I got up on the Sabbath morn, and how carefully I combed my hair and brushed my clothes in order that I might do credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of the old church at pretty D---, the dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk. I thought of England's grand Liturgy, and Tate and Brady's sonorous minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy Book, portions of which I was in the habit of reading between service. I thought, too, of the evening walk which I sometimes took in fine weather like the present, with my mother and brother--a quiet sober walk, during which I would not break into a run, even to chase a butterfly, or yet more a honey-bee, being fully convinced of the dread importance of the day which God had hallowed. And how glad I was when I had got over the Sabbath day without having done anything to profane it. And how soundly I slept on the Sabbath night after the toil of being very good throughout the day. And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed and said to myself, I am much altered since then; am I altered for the better? And then I looked at my hands and my apparel, and sighed again. I was not wont of yore to appear thus on the Sabbath day. For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, till at last I lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during that glorious summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and then I lowered them to the sparkling water, in which hundreds of the finny brood were disporting themselves, and then I thought what a fine thing it was to be a fish on such a fine summer day, and I wished myself a fish, or at least amongst the fishes; and then I looked at my hands again, and then, bending over the water, I looked at my face in the crystal mirror, and started when I saw it, for it looked squalid and miserable. Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to bathe and cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late hard life and by Mrs. Herne's drow. I wonder if there is any harm in bathing on the Sabbath day. I will ask Winifred when she comes home; in the meantime I will bathe, provided I can find a fitting place. But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to disport in, was shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so large a being as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor heard a single human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook I left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came to a place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and dark, and there I bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame. Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my vehicle beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something better to do, I strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the farmhouse; it was a large and commodious building built principally of stone, and seeming of some antiquity, with a porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench. On the right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same who had brought the tray to my friends and myself. "Good day," said I, "pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch." "Good day," said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then fixing her eyes on her book. "That's a nice book you are reading," said I. The girl looked at me with surprise. "How do you know what book it is?" said she. "How do I know--never mind; but a nice book it is--no love, no fortune- telling in it." The girl looked at me half offended. "Fortune-telling!" said she, "I should think not. But you know nothing about it;" and she bent her head once more over the book. "I tell you what, young person," said I, "I know all about that book; what will you wager that I do not?" "I never wager," said the girl. "Shall I tell you the name of it," said I, "O daughter of the dairy?" The girl half started. "I should never have thought," said she, half timidly, "that you could have guessed it." "I did not guess it," said I, "I knew it; and meet and proper it is that you should read it." "Why so?" said the girl. "Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the 'Dairyman's Daughter'?" "Where do you come from?" said the girl. "Out of the water," said I. "Don't start, I have been bathing; are you fond of the water?" "No," said the girl, heaving a sigh; "I am not fond of the water, that is, of the sea;" and here she sighed again. "The sea is a wide gulf," said I, "and frequently separates hearts." The girl sobbed. "Why are you alone here?" said I. "I take my turn with the rest," said the girl, "to keep at home on Sunday." "And you are--" said I. "The master's niece!" said the girl. "How came you to know it? But why did you not go with the rest and with your friends?" "Who are those you call my friends?" said I. "Peter and his wife." "And who are they?" said I. "Do you not know?" said the girl; "you came with them." "They found me ill by the way," said I; "and they relieved me: I know nothing about them." "I thought you knew everything," said the girl. "There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one of them. Who are they?" "Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?" "Never," said I. "Well," said the girl, "this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a nice person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a preacher as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, having never heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine, and doing all the good they can. They frequently come here, for the mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old friend of both, and then they take up their abode in the cart beneath the old oaks down there by the stream." "And what is their reason for doing so?" said I; "would it not be more comfortable to sleep beneath a roof?" "I know not their reasons," said the girl, "but so it is; they never sleep beneath a roof unless the weather is very severe. I once heard the mistress say that Peter had something heavy upon his mind; perhaps that is the cause. If he is unhappy, all I can say is, that I wish him otherwise, for he is a good man and a kind--" "Thank you," said I, "I will now depart." "Hem!" said the girl, "I was wishing--" "What? to ask me a question?" "Not exactly; but you seem to know everything; you mentioned, I think, fortune-telling." "Do you wish me to tell your fortune?" "By no means; but I have a friend at a distance at sea, and I should wish to know--" "When he will come back? I have told you already there are two or three things which I do not know--this is another of them. However, I should not be surprised if he were to come back some of these days; I would if I were in his place. In the meantime be patient, attend to the dairy, and read the 'Dairyman's Daughter' when you have nothing better to do." It was late in the evening when the party of the morning returned. The farmer and his family repaired at once to their abode, and my two friends joined me beneath the tree. Peter sat down at the foot of the oak, and said nothing. Supper was brought by a servant, not the damsel of the porch. We sat round the tray, Peter said grace, but scarcely anything else; he appeared sad and dejected, his wife looked anxiously upon him. I was as silent as my friends; after a little time we retired to our separate places of rest. About midnight I was awakened by a noise; I started up and listened; it appeared to me that I heard voices and groans. In a moment I had issued from my tent--all was silent--but the next moment I again heard groans and voices; they proceeded from the tilted cart where Peter and his wife lay; I drew near, again there was a pause, and then I heard the voice of Peter, in an accent of extreme anguish, exclaim, "Pechod Ysprydd Glan--O pechod Ysprydd Glan!" and then he uttered a deep groan. Anon, I heard the voice of Winifred, and never shall I forget the sweetness and gentleness of the tones of her voice in the stillness of that night. I did not understand all she said--she spoke in her native language, and I was some way apart; she appeared to endeavour to console her husband, but he seemed to refuse all comfort, and, with many groans, repeated--"Pechod Ysprydd Glan--O pechod Ysprydd Glan!" I felt I had no right to pry into their afflictions, and retired. Now "pechod Ysprydd Glan," interpreted, is the sin against the Holy Ghost. CHAPTER LXXIV The Following Day--Pride--Thriving Trade--Tylwyth Teg--Ellis Wyn--Sleeping Bard--Incalculable Good--Fearful Agony--The Tale. Peter and his wife did not proceed on any expedition during the following day. The former strolled gloomily about the fields, and the latter passed many hours in the farmhouse. Towards evening, without saying a word to either, I departed with my vehicle, and finding my way to a small town at some distance, I laid in a store of various articles, with which I returned. It was night, and my two friends were seated beneath the oak; they had just completed their frugal supper. "We waited for thee some time," said Winifred, "but, finding that thou didst not come, we began without thee; but sit down, I pray thee, there is still enough for thee." "I will sit down," said I, "but I require no supper, for I have eaten where I have been:" nothing more particular occurred at the time. Next morning the kind pair invited me to share their breakfast. "I will not share your breakfast," said I. "Wherefore not?" said Winifred, anxiously. "Because," said I, "it is not proper that I be beholden to you for meat and drink." "But we are beholden to other people," said Winifred. "Yes," said I, "but you preach to them, and give them ghostly advice, which considerably alters the matter; not that I would receive anything from them, if I preached to them six times a day." "Thou art not fond of receiving favours, then, young man?" said Winifred. "I am not," said I. "And of conferring favours?" "Nothing affords me greater pleasure," said I, "than to confer favours." "What a disposition!" said Winifred, holding up her hands; "and this is pride, genuine pride--that feeling which the world agrees to call so noble. Oh, how mean a thing is pride! never before did I see all the meanness of what is called pride!" "But how wilt thou live, friend?" said Peter; "dost thou not intend to eat?" "When I went out last night," said I, "I laid in a provision." "Thou hast laid in a provision!" said Peter; "pray let us see it. Really, friend," said he, after I had produced it, "thou must drive a thriving trade; here are provisions enough to last three people for several days. Here are butter and eggs, here is tea, here is sugar, and there is a flitch. I hope thou wilt let us partake of some of thy fare." "I should be very happy if you would," said I. "Doubt not but we shall," said Peter; "Winifred shall have some of thy flitch cooked for dinner. In the meantime, sit down, young man, and breakfast at our expense--we will dine at thine." On the evening of that day, Peter and myself sat alone beneath the oak. We fell into conversation; Peter was at first melancholy, but he soon became more cheerful, fluent, and entertaining. I spoke but little; but I observed that sometimes what I said surprised the good Methodist. We had been silent some time. At length, lifting up my eyes to the broad and leafy canopy of the trees, I said, having nothing better to remark, "What a noble tree! I wonder if the fairies ever dance beneath it?" "Fairies!" said Peter, "fairies! how came you, young man, to know anything about the fair family?" "I am an Englishman," said I, "and of course know something about fairies; England was once a famous place for them." "Was once, I grant you," said Peter, "but is so no longer. I have travelled for years about England, and never heard them mentioned before; the belief in them has died away, and even their name seems to be forgotten. If you had said you were a Welshman, I should not have been surprised. The Welsh have much to say of the Tylwyth Teg, or fair family, and many believe in them." "And do you believe in them?" said I. "I scarcely know what to say. Wise and good men have been of opinion that they are nothing but devils, who, under the form of pretty and amiable spirits, would fain allure poor human beings; I see nothing irrational in the supposition." "Do you believe in devils then?" "Do I believe in devils, young man!" said Peter, and his frame was shaken as if by convulsions. "If I do not believe in devils, why am I here at the present moment?" "You know best," said I; "but I don't believe that fairies are devils, and I don't wish to hear them insulted. What learned men have said they are devils?" "Many have said it, young man, and, amongst others, Master Ellis Wyn, in that wonderful book of his, the 'Bardd Cwsg.'" "The 'Bardd Cwsg,'" said I; "what kind of book is that? I have never heard of that book before." "Heard of it before! I suppose not; how should you have heard of it before! By the bye, can you read?" "Very tolerably," said I; "so there are fairies in this book. What do you call it--the 'Bardd Cwsg'?" "Yes, the 'Bardd Cwsg.' You pronounce Welsh very fairly; have you ever been in Wales?" "Never," said I. "Not been in Wales; then, of course, you don't understand Welsh; but we were talking of the 'Bardd Cwsg,'--yes, there are fairies in the 'Bardd Cwsg,'--the author of it, Master Ellis Wyn, {201} was carried away in his sleep by them over mountains and valleys, rivers and great waters, incurring mighty perils at their hands, till he was rescued from them by an angel of the Most High, who subsequently showed him many wonderful things." "I beg your pardon," said I, "but what were those wonderful things?" "I see, young man," said Peter, smiling, "that you are not without curiosity; but I can easily pardon any one for being curious about the wonders contained in the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The angel showed him the course of this world, its pomps and vanities, its cruelty and its pride, its crimes and deceits. On another occasion, the angel showed him Death in his nether palace, surrounded by his grisly ministers, and by those who are continually falling victims to his power. And, on a third occasion, the state of the condemned in their place of everlasting torment." "But this was all in his sleep," said I, "was it not?" "Yes," said Peter, "in his sleep; and on that account the book is called 'Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg,' or, Visions of the Sleeping Bard." "I do not care for wonders which occur in sleep," said I. "I prefer real ones; and perhaps, notwithstanding what he says, the man had no visions at all--they are probably of his own invention." "They are substantially true, young man," said Peter; "like the dreams of Bunyan, they are founded on three tremendous facts, Sin, Death, and Hell; and like his they have done incalculable good, at least in my own country, in the language of which they are written. Many a guilty conscience has the 'Bardd Cwsg' aroused with its dreadful sights, its strong sighs, its puffs of smoke from the pit, and its showers of sparks from the mouth of the yet lower gulf of--Unknown--were it not for the 'Bardd Cwsg' perhaps I might not be here." "I would sooner hear your own tale," said I, "than all the visions of the 'Bardd Cwsg.'" Peter shook, bent his form nearly double, and covered his face with his hands. I sat still and motionless, with my eyes fixed upon him. Presently Winifred descended the hill, and joined us. "What is the matter?" said she, looking at her husband, who still remained in the posture I have described. He made no answer; whereupon, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, she said, in the peculiar soft and tender tone which I had heard her use on a former occasion, "Take comfort, Peter; what has happened now to afflict thee?" Peter removed his hands from his face. "The old pain, the old pain," said he; "I was talking with this young man, and he would fain know what brought me here, he would fain hear my tale, Winifred--my sin: O pechod Ysprydd Glan! O pechod Ysprydd Glan!" and the poor man fell into a more fearful agony than before. Tears trickled down Winifred's face, I saw them trickling by the moonlight, as she gazed upon the writhing form of her afflicted husband. I arose from my seat; "I am the cause of all this," said I, "by my folly and imprudence, and it is thus I have returned your kindness and hospitality; I will depart from you and wander my way." I was retiring, but Peter sprang up and detained me. "Go not," said he, "you were not in fault; if there be any fault in the case it was mine; if I suffer, I am but paying the penalty of my own iniquity;" he then paused, and appeared to be considering: at length he said, "Many things which thou hast seen and heard connected with me require explanation; thou wishest to know my tale, I will tell it thee, but not now, not to-night; I am too much shaken." Two evenings later, when we were again seated beneath the oak, Peter took the hand of his wife in his own, and then, in tones broken and almost inarticulate, commenced telling me his tale--the tale of the Pechod Ysprydd Glan. CHAPTER LXXV Taking a Cup--Getting to Heaven--After Breakfast--Wooden Gallery--Mechanical Habit--Reserved and Gloomy--Last Words--A Long Time--From the Clouds--Ray of Hope--Momentary Chill--Pleasing Anticipation. "I was born in the heart of North Wales, the son of a respectable farmer, and am the youngest of seven brothers. "My father was a member of the Church of England, and was what is generally called a serious man. He went to church regularly, and read the Bible every Sunday evening; in his moments of leisure he was fond of holding religious discourse both with his family and his neighbours. "One autumn afternoon, on a week day, my father sat with one of his neighbours taking a cup of ale by the oak table in our stone kitchen. I sat near them, and listened to their discourse. I was at that time seven years of age. They were talking of religious matters. 'It is a hard matter to get to heaven,' said my father. 'Exceedingly so,' said the other. 'However, I don't despond, none need despair of getting to heaven, save those who have committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.' "'Ah!' said my father, 'thank God I never committed that--how awful must be the state of a person who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. I can scarcely think of it without my hair standing on end;' and then my father and his friend began talking of the nature of the sin against the Holy Ghost, and I heard them say what it was, as I sat with greedy ears listening to their discourse. "I lay awake the greater part of the night musing upon what I had heard. I kept wondering to myself what must be the state of a person who had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, and how he must feel. Once or twice I felt a strong inclination to commit it, a strange kind of fear, however, prevented me; at last I determined not to commit it, and, having said my prayers, I fell asleep. "When I awoke in the morning the first thing I thought of was the mysterious sin, and a voice within me seemed to say, 'Commit it'; and I felt a strong temptation to do so, even stronger than in the night. I was just about to yield, when the same dread, of which I have already spoken, came over me, and, springing out of bed, I went down on my knees. I slept in a small room alone, to which I ascended by a wooden stair, open to the sky. I have often thought since that it is not a good thing for children to sleep alone. "After breakfast I went to school, and endeavoured to employ myself upon my tasks, but all in vain; I could think of nothing but the sin against the Holy Ghost; my eyes, instead of being fixed upon my book, wandered in vacancy. My master observed my inattention, and chid me. The time came for saying my task, and I had not acquired it. My master reproached me, and, yet more, he beat me; I felt shame and anger, and I went home with a full determination to commit the sin against the Holy Ghost. "But when I got home my father ordered me to do something connected with the farm, so that I was compelled to exert myself; I was occupied till night, and was so busy that I almost forgot the sin and my late resolution. My work completed, I took my supper, and went to my room; I began my prayers, and, when they were ended, I thought of the sin, but the temptation was slight, I felt very tired, and was presently asleep. "Thus, you see, I had plenty of time allotted me by a gracious and kind God to reflect on what I was about to do. He did not permit the enemy of souls to take me by surprise, and to hurry me at once into the commission of that which was to be my ruin here and hereafter. Whatever I did was of my own free will, after I had had time to reflect. Thus God is justified; He had no hand in my destruction, but, on the contrary, He did all that was compatible with justice to prevent it. I hasten to the fatal moment. Awaking in the night, I determined that nothing should prevent my committing the sin. Arising from my bed, I went out upon the wooden gallery; and having stood for a few moments looking at the stars, with which the heavens were thickly strewn, I laid myself down, and supporting my face with my hand, I murmured out words of horror, words not to be repeated, and in this manner I committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. "When the words were uttered I sat up upon the topmost step of the gallery; for some time I felt stunned in somewhat the same manner as I once subsequently felt after being stung by an adder. I soon arose, however, and retired to my bed, where, notwithstanding what I had done, I was not slow in falling asleep. "I awoke several times during the night, each time with the dim idea that something strange and monstrous had occurred, but I presently fell asleep again; in the morning I awoke with the same vague feeling, but presently recollection returned, and I remembered that I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. I lay musing for some time on what I had done, and I felt rather stunned, as before; at last I arose and got out of bed, dressed myself, and then went down on my knees, and was about to pray from the force of mechanical habit; before I said a word, however, I recollected myself, and got up again. What was the use of praying? I thought; I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. "I went to school, but sat stupefied. I was again chidden, again beaten by my master. I felt no anger this time, and scarcely heeded the strokes. I looked, however, at my master's face, and thought to myself, You are beating me for being idle, as you suppose; poor man, what would you do if you knew I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost? "Days and weeks passed by. I had once been cheerful, and fond of the society of children of my own age; but I was now reserved and gloomy. It seemed to me that a gulf separated me from all my fellow-creatures. I used to look at my brothers and schoolfellows, and think how different I was from them; they had not done what I had. I seemed, in my own eyes, a lone monstrous being, and yet, strange to say, I felt a kind of pride in being so. I was unhappy, but I frequently thought to myself, I have done what no one else would dare to do; there was something grand in the idea; I had yet to learn the horror of my condition. "Time passed on, and I began to think less of what I had done; I began once more to take pleasure in my childish sports; I was active, and excelled at football and the like all the lads of my age. I likewise began, what I had never done before, to take pleasure in the exercises of the school. I made great progress in Welsh and English grammar, and learnt to construe Latin. My master no longer chid or beat me, but one day told my father that he had no doubt that one day I should be an honour to Wales. "Shortly after this my father fell sick; the progress of the disorder was rapid; feeling his end approaching, he called his children before him. After tenderly embracing us, he said, 'God bless you, my children; I am going from you, but take comfort, I trust that we shall all meet again in heaven.' "As he uttered these last words, horror took entire possession of me. Meet my father in heaven,--how could I ever hope to meet him there? I looked wildly at my brethren and at my mother; they were all bathed in tears, but how I envied them. They might hope to meet my father in heaven, but how different were they from me, they had never committed the unpardonable sin. "In a few days my father died; he left his family in comfortable circumstances, at least such as would be considered so in Wales, where the wants of the people are few. My elder brother carried on the farm for the benefit of my mother and us all. In course of time my brothers were put out to various trades. I still remained at school, but without being a source of expense to my relations, as I was by this time able to assist my master in the business of the school. "I was diligent both in self-improvement and in the instruction of others; nevertheless, a horrible weight pressed upon my breast; I knew I was a lost being; that for me there was no hope; that, though all others might be saved, I must of necessity be lost: I had committed the unpardonable sin, for which I was doomed to eternal punishment, in the flaming gulf, as soon as life was over!--and how long could I hope to live? perhaps fifty years; at the end of which I must go to my place; and then I would count the months and the days, nay, even the hours which yet intervened between me and my doom. Sometimes I would comfort myself with the idea that a long time would elapse before my time would be out; but then again I thought that, however long the term might be, it must be out at last; and then I would fall into an agony, during which I would almost wish that the term were out, and that I were in my place; the horrors of which I thought could scarcely be worse than what I then endured. "There was one thought about this time which caused me unutterable grief and shame, perhaps more shame than grief. It was that my father, who was gone to heaven, and was there daily holding communion with his God, was by this time aware of my crime. I imagined him looking down from the clouds upon his wretched son, with a countenance of inexpressible horror. When this idea was upon me, I would often rush to some secret place to hide myself; to some thicket, where I would cast myself on the ground, and thrust my head into a thick bush, in order to escape from the horror- struck glance of my father above in the clouds; and there I would continue groaning till the agony had, in some degree, passed away. "The wretchedness of my state increasing daily, it at last became apparent to the master of the school, who questioned me earnestly and affectionately. I, however, gave him no satisfactory answer, being apprehensive that, if I unbosomed myself, I should become as much an object of horror to him as I had long been to myself. At length he suspected that I was unsettled in my intellects; and, fearing probably the ill effect of my presence upon his scholars, he advised me to go home; which I was glad to do, as I felt myself every day becoming less qualified for the duties of the office which I had undertaken. "So I returned home to my mother and my brother, who received me with the greatest kindness and affection. I now determined to devote myself to husbandry, and assist my brother in the business of the farm. I was still, however, very much distressed. One fine morning, however, as I was at work in the field, and the birds were carolling around me, a ray of hope began to break upon my poor dark soul. I looked at the earth and looked at the sky, and felt as I had not done for many a year; presently a delicious feeling stole over me. I was beginning to enjoy existence. I shall never forget that hour. I flung myself on the soil, and kissed it; then, springing up with a sudden impulse, I rushed into the depths of a neighbouring wood, and, falling upon my knees, did what I had not done for a long, long time--prayed to God. "A change, an entire change, seemed to have come over me. I was no longer gloomy and despairing, but gay and happy. My slumbers were light and easy; not disturbed, as before, by frightful dreams. I arose with the lark, and like him uttered a cheerful song of praise to God, frequently and earnestly, and was particularly cautious not to do anything which I considered might cause His displeasure. "At church I was constant, and when there listened with deepest attention to every word which proceeded from the mouth of the minister. In a little time it appeared to me that I had become a good, very good young man. At times the recollection of the sin would return, and I would feel a momentary chill; but the thought quickly vanished, and I again felt happy and secure. "One Sunday morning, after I had said my prayers, I felt particularly joyous. I thought of the innocent and virtuous life I was leading; and when the recollection of the sin intruded for a moment, I said, 'I am sure God will never utterly cast away so good a creature as myself.' I went to church, and was as usual attentive. The subject of the sermon was on the duty of searching the Scriptures: all I knew of them was from the Liturgy. I now, however, determined to read them, and perfect the good work which I had begun. My father's Bible was upon the shelf, and on that evening I took it with me to my chamber. I placed it on the table, and sat down. My heart was filled with pleasing anticipation. I opened the book at random, and began to read; the first passage on which my eyes lighted was the following:-- "'He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven, either in this world or the next.'" Here Peter was seized with convulsive tremors. Winifred sobbed violently. I got up, and went away. Returning in about a quarter of an hour, I found him more calm; he motioned me to sit down; and, after a short pause, continued his narration. CHAPTER LXXVI Hasty Farewell--Lofty Rock--Wrestlings of Jacob--No Rest--Ways of Providence--Two Females--Foot of the Cross--Enemy of Souls--Perplexed--Lucky Hour--Valetudinarian--Methodists--Fervent in Prayer--You Saxons--Weak Creatures--Very Agreeable--Almost Happy--Kindness and Solicitude. "Where was I, young man? Oh, I remember, at the fatal passage which removed all hope. I will not dwell on what I felt. I closed my eyes, and wished that I might be dreaming; but it was no dream, but a terrific reality: I will not dwell on that period, I should only shock you. I could not bear my feelings; so, bidding my friends a hasty farewell, I abandoned myself to horror and despair, and ran wild through Wales, climbing mountains and wading streams. "Climbing mountains and wading streams, I ran wild about, I was burnt by the sun, drenched by the rain, and had frequently at night no other covering than the sky, or the humid roof of some cave; but nothing seemed to affect my constitution; probably the fire which burned within me counteracted what I suffered from without. During the space of three years I scarcely knew what befell me; my life was a dream--a wild, horrible dream; more than once I believe I was in the hands of robbers, and once in the hands of Gypsies. I liked the last description of people least of all; I could not abide their yellow faces, or their ceaseless clabber. Escaping from these beings, whose countenances and godless discourse brought to my mind the demons of the deep Unknown, I still ran wild through Wales, I know not how long. On one occasion, coming in some degree to my recollection, I felt myself quite unable to bear the horrors of my situation; looking round, I found myself near the sea; instantly the idea came into my head that I would cast myself into it, and thus anticipate my final doom. I hesitated a moment, but a voice within me seemed to tell me that I could do no better; the sea was near, and I could not swim, so I determined to fling myself into the sea. As I was running along at great speed, in the direction of a lofty rock, which beetled over the waters, I suddenly felt myself seized by the coat. I strove to tear myself away, but in vain; looking round, I perceived a venerable hale old man, who had hold of me. 'Let me go!' said I, fiercely. 'I will not let thee go,' said the old man, and now instead of with one, he grappled me with both hands. 'In whose name dost thou detain me?' said I, scarcely knowing what I said. 'In the name of my Master, who made thee and yonder sea; and has said to the sea, so far shalt thou come, and no farther, and to thee, thou shalt do no murder.' 'Has not a man a right to do what he pleases with his own?' said I. 'He has,' said the old man, 'but thy life is not thy own; thou art accountable for it to thy God. Nay, I will not let thee go,' he continued, as I again struggled; 'if thou struggle with me the whole day I will not let thee go, as Charles Wesley says, in his "Wrestlings of Jacob"; and see, it is of no use struggling, for I am, in the strength of my Master, stronger than thou;' and, indeed, all of a sudden I had become very weak and exhausted; whereupon the old man, beholding my situation, took me by the arm and led me gently to a neighbouring town, which stood behind a hill, and which I had not before observed; presently he opened the door of a respectable-looking house, which stood beside a large building having the appearance of a chapel, and conducted me into a small room, with a great many books in it. Having caused me to sit down, he stood looking at me for some time, occasionally heaving a sigh. I was, indeed, haggard and forlorn. 'Who art thou?' he said at last. 'A miserable man,' I replied. 'What makes thee miserable?' said the old man. 'A hideous crime,' I replied. 'I can find no rest; like Cain I wander here and there.' The old man turned pale. 'Hast thou taken another's life?' said he; 'if so, I advise thee to surrender thyself to the magistrate; thou canst do no better; thy doing so will be the best proof of thy repentance; and though there be no hope for thee in this world there may be much in the next.' 'No,' said I, 'I have never taken another's life.' 'What then, another's goods? If so, restore them seven- fold, if possible: or, if it be not in thy power, and thy conscience accuse thee, surrender thyself to the magistrate, and make the only satisfaction thou art able.' 'I have taken no one's goods,' said I. 'Of what art thou guilty, then?' said he. 'Art thou a drunkard? a profligate?' 'Alas, no,' said I; 'I am neither of these; would that I were no worse.' "Thereupon the old man looked steadfastly at me for some time; then, after appearing to reflect, he said, 'Young man, I have a great desire to know your name.' 'What matters it to you what is my name?' said I; 'you know nothing of me.' 'Perhaps you are mistaken,' said the old man, looking kindly at me; 'but at all events tell me your name.' I hesitated a moment, and then told him who I was, whereupon he exclaimed with much emotion, 'I thought so; how wonderful are the ways of Providence. I have heard of thee, young man, and know thy mother well. Only a month ago, when upon a journey, I experienced much kindness from her. She was speaking to me of her lost child, with tears; she told me that you were one of the best of sons, but that some strange idea appeared to have occupied your mind. Despair not, my son. If thou hast been afflicted, I doubt not but that thy affliction will eventually turn out to thy benefit; I doubt not but that thou wilt be preserved, as an example of the great mercy of God. I will now kneel down and pray for thee, my son.' "He knelt down, and prayed long and fervently. I remained standing for some time; at length I knelt down likewise. I scarcely knew what he was saying, but when he concluded I said 'Amen.' "And when we had risen from our knees, the old man left me for a short time, and on his return led me into another room, where were two females; one was an elderly person, the wife of the old man,--the other was a young woman of very prepossessing appearance (hang not down thy head, Winifred), who I soon found was a distant relation of the old man,--both received me with great kindness, the old man having doubtless previously told them who I was. "I staid several days in the good man's house. I had still the greater portion of a small sum which I happened to have about me when I departed on my dolorous wandering, and with this I purchased clothes, and altered my appearance considerably. On the evening of the second day, my friend said, 'I am going to preach, perhaps you will come and hear me.' I consented, and we all went, not to a church, but to the large building next the house,--for the old man, though a clergyman, was not of the established persuasion,--and there the old man mounted a pulpit, and began to preach. 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,' etc. etc., was his text. His sermon was long, but I still bear the greater portion of it in my mind. "The substance of it was that Jesus was at all times ready to take upon Himself the burden of our sins, provided we came to Him with a humble and contrite spirit, and begged His help. This doctrine was new to me; I had often been at church, but had never heard it preached before, at least so distinctly. When he said that all men might be saved, I shook, for I expected he would add, all except those who had committed the mysterious sin; but no, all men were to be saved who with a humble and contrite spirit would come to Jesus, cast themselves at the foot of His cross, and accept pardon through the merits of His blood-shedding alone. 'Therefore, my friends,' said he, in conclusion, 'despair not--however guilty you may be, despair not--however desperate your condition may seem,' said he, fixing his eyes upon me, 'despair not. There is nothing more foolish and more wicked than despair; overweening confidence is not more foolish than despair; both are the favourite weapons of the enemy of souls.' "This discourse gave rise in my mind to no slight perplexity. I had read in the Scriptures that he who committeth a certain sin shall never be forgiven, and that there is no hope for him either in this world or the next. And here was a man, a good man certainly, and one who, of necessity, was thoroughly acquainted with the Scriptures, who told me that any one might be forgiven, however wicked, who would only trust in Christ and in the merits of His blood-shedding. Did I believe in Christ? Ay, truly. Was I willing to be saved by Christ? Ay, truly. Did I trust in Christ? I trusted that Christ would save every one but myself. And why not myself? simply because the Scriptures had told me that he who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost can never be saved, and I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost,--perhaps the only one who ever had committed it. How could I hope? The Scriptures could not lie, and yet here was this good old man, profoundly versed in the Scriptures, who bade me hope; would he lie? No. But did the old man know my case? Ah, no, he did not know my case! but yet he had bid me hope, whatever I had done, provided I would go to Jesus. But how could I think of going to Jesus, when the Scriptures told me plainly that all would be useless? I was perplexed, and yet a ray of hope began to dawn in my soul. I thought of consulting the good man, but I was afraid he would drive away the small glimmer. I was afraid he would say, 'Oh yes, every one is to be saved, except a wretch like you; I was not aware before that there was anything so horrible,--begone!' Once or twice the old man questioned me on the subject of my misery, but I evaded him; once, indeed, when he looked particularly benevolent, I think I should have unbosomed myself to him, but we were interrupted. He never pressed me much; perhaps he was delicate in probing my mind, as we were then of different persuasions. Hence he advised me to seek the advice of some powerful minister in my own Church; there were many such in it, he said. "I staid several days in the family, during which time I more than once heard my venerable friend preach; each time he preached, he exhorted his hearers not to despair. The whole family were kind to me; his wife frequently discoursed with me, and also the young person to whom I have already alluded. It appeared to me that the latter took a peculiar interest in my fate. "At last my friend said to me, 'It is now time thou shouldest return to thy mother and thy brother.' So I arose, and departed to my mother and my brother; and at my departure my old friend gave me his blessing, and his wife and the young person shed tears, the last especially. And when my mother saw me, she shed tears, and fell on my neck and kissed me, and my brother took me by the hand and bade me welcome; and when our first emotions were subsided, my mother said, 'I trust thou art come in a lucky hour. A few weeks ago my cousin (whose favourite thou always wast) died and left thee his heir--left thee the goodly farm in which he lived. I trust, my son, that thou wilt now settle, and be a comfort to me in my old days.' And I answered, 'I will, if so please the Lord;' and I said to myself, 'God grant that this bequest be a token of the Lord's favour.' "And in a few days I departed to take possession of my farm; it was about twenty miles from my mother's house, in a beautiful but rather wild district; I arrived at the fall of the leaf. All day long I busied myself with my farm, and thus kept my mind employed. At night, however, I felt rather solitary, and I frequently wished for a companion. Each night and morning I prayed fervently unto the Lord; for His hand had been very heavy upon me, and I feared Him. "There was one thing connected with my new abode, which gave me considerable uneasiness--the want of spiritual instruction. There was a church, indeed, close at hand, in which service was occasionally performed, but in so hurried and heartless a manner that I derived little benefit from it. The clergyman to whom the benefice belonged was a valetudinarian, who passed his time in London, or at some watering-place, entrusting the care of his flock to the curate of a distant parish, who gave himself very little trouble about the matter. Now I wanted every Sunday to hear from the pulpit words of consolation and encouragement, similar to those which I had heard uttered from the pulpit by my good and venerable friend, but I was debarred from this privilege. At length, one day being in conversation with one of my labourers, a staid and serious man, I spoke to him of the matter which lay heavy upon my mind; whereupon, looking me wistfully in the face, he said, 'Master, the want of religious instruction in my church was what drove me to the Methodists.' 'The Methodists,' said I; 'are there any in these parts?' 'There is a chapel,' said he, 'only half a mile distant, at which there are two services every Sunday, and other two during the week.' Now it happened that my venerable friend was of the Methodist persuasion, and when I heard the poor man talk in this manner, I said to him, 'May I go with you next Sunday?' 'Why not?' said he; so I went with the labourer on the ensuing Sabbath to the meeting of the Methodists. "I liked the preaching which I heard at the chapel very well, though it was not quite so comfortable as that of my old friend, the preacher being in some respects a different kind of man. It, however, did me good, and I went again, and continued to do so, though I did not become a regular member of the body at that time. "I had now the benefit of religious instruction, and also to a certain extent of religious fellowship, for the preacher and various members of his flock frequently came to see me. They were honest plain men, not exactly of the description which I wished for, but still good sort of people, and I was glad to see them. Once on a time, when some of them were with me, one of them inquired whether I was fervent in prayer. 'Very fervent,' said I. 'And do you read the Scriptures often?' said he. 'No,' said I. 'Why not?' said he. 'Because I am afraid to see there my own condemnation.' They looked at each other, and said nothing at the time. On leaving me, however, they all advised me to read the Scriptures with fervency and prayer. "As I had told these honest people, I shrank from searching the Scriptures; the remembrance of the fatal passage was still too vivid in my mind to permit me. I did not wish to see my condemnation repeated, but I was very fervent in prayer, and almost hoped that God would yet forgive me by virtue of the blood-shedding of the Lamb. Time passed on, my affairs prospered, and I enjoyed a certain portion of tranquillity. Occasionally, when I had nothing else to do, I renewed my studies. Many is the book I read, especially in my native language, for I was always fond of my native language, and proud of being a Welshman. Amongst the books I read were the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, whom thou, friend, hast never heard of; no, nor any of thy countrymen, for you are an ignorant race, you Saxons, at least with respect to all that relates to Wales and Welshmen. I likewise read the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The latter work possessed a singular fascination for me, on account of its wonderful delineations of the torments of the nether world. "But man does not love to be alone; indeed, the Scripture says that it is not good for man to be alone. I occupied my body with the pursuits of husbandry, and I improved my mind with the perusal of good and wise books; but, as I have already said, I frequently sighed for a companion with whom I could exchange ideas, and who could take an interest in my pursuits; the want of such a one I more particularly felt in the long winter evenings. It was then that the image of the young person whom I had seen in the house of the preacher frequently rose up distinctly before my mind's eye, decked with quiet graces--hang not down your head, Winifred--and I thought that of all the women in the world I should wish her to be my partner, and then I considered whether it would be possible to obtain her. I am ready to acknowledge, friend, that it was both selfish and wicked in me to wish to fetter any human being to a lost creature like myself, conscious of having committed a crime for which the Scriptures told me there is no pardon. I had, indeed, a long struggle as to whether I should make the attempt or not--selfishness, however, prevailed. I will not detain your attention with relating all that occurred at this period--suffice it to say that I made my suit and was successful; it is true that the old man, who was her guardian, hesitated, and asked several questions respecting my state of mind. I am afraid that I partly deceived him, perhaps he partly deceived himself; he was pleased that I had adopted his profession--we are all weak creatures. With respect to the young person, she did not ask many questions; and I soon found that I had won her heart. To be brief, I married her; and here she is, the truest wife that ever man had, and the kindest. Kind I may well call her, seeing that she shrinks not from me, who so cruelly deceived her, in not telling her at first what I was. I married her, friend; and brought her home to my little possession, where we passed our time very agreeably. Our affairs prospered, our garners were full, and there was coin in our purse. I worked in the field; Winifred busied herself with the dairy. At night I frequently read books to her, books of my own country, friend; I likewise read to her songs of my own, holy songs and carols which she admired, and which yourself would perhaps admire, could you understand them; but I repeat, you Saxons are an ignorant people with respect to us, and a perverse, inasmuch as you despise Welsh without understanding it. Every night I prayed fervently, and my wife admired my gift of prayer. "One night, after I had been reading to my wife a portion of Ellis Wyn, my wife said, 'This is a wonderful book, and containing much true and pleasant doctrine; but how is it that you, who are so fond of good books, and good things in general, never read the Bible? You read me the book of Master Ellis Wyn, you read me sweet songs of your own composition, you edify me with your gift of prayer, but yet you never read the Bible.' And when I heard her mention the Bible I shook, for I thought of my own condemnation. However, I dearly loved my wife, and as she pressed me, I commenced on that very night reading the Bible. All went on smoothly for a long time; for months and months I did not find the fatal passage, so that I almost thought that I had imagined it. My affairs prospered much the while, so that I was almost happy,--taking pleasure in everything around me,--in my wife, in my farm, my books and compositions, and the Welsh language; till one night, as I was reading the Bible, feeling particularly comfortable, a thought having just come into my head that I would print some of my compositions, and purchase a particular field of a neighbour--O God--God! I came to the fatal passage. "Friend, friend, what shall I say? I rushed out. My wife followed me, asking me what was the matter. I could only answer with groans--for three days and three nights I did little else than groan. Oh, the kindness and solicitude of my wife! 'What is the matter, husband, dear husband?' she was continually saying. I became at last more calm. My wife still persisted in asking me the cause of my late paroxysm. It is hard to keep a secret from a wife, especially such a wife as mine, so I told my wife the tale, as we sat one night--it was a mid-winter night--over the dying brands of our hearth, after the family had retired to rest, her hand locked in mine, even as it is now. "I thought she would have shrunk from me with horror; but she did not; her hand, it is true, trembled once or twice; but that was all. At last she gave mine a gentle pressure; and, looking up in my face, she said--what do you think my wife said, young man?" "It is impossible for me to guess," said I. "'Let us go to rest, my love; your fears are all groundless.'" CHAPTER LXXVII Getting Late--Seven Years Old--Chastening--Go Forth--London Bridge--Same Eyes--Common Occurrence--Very Sleepy. "And so I still say," said Winifred, sobbing. "Let us retire to rest, dear husband; your fears are groundless. I had hoped long since that your affliction would have passed away, and I still hope that it eventually will; so take heart, Peter, and let us retire to rest, for it is getting late." "Rest!" said Peter; "there is no rest for the wicked!" "We are all wicked," said Winifred; "but you are afraid of a shadow. How often have I told you that the sin of your heart is not the sin against the Holy Ghost: the sin of your heart is its natural pride, of which you are scarcely aware, to keep down which God in His mercy permitted you to be terrified with the idea of having committed a sin which you never committed." "Then you will still maintain," said Peter, "that I never committed the sin against the Holy Spirit?" "I will," said Winifred; "you never committed it. How should a child seven years old commit a sin like that?" "Have I not read my own condemnation?" said Peter. "Did not the first words which I read in the Holy Scripture condemn me? 'He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall never enter into the kingdom of God.'" "You never committed it," said Winifred. "But the words! the words! the words!" said Peter. "The words are true words," said Winifred, sobbing; "but they were not meant for you, but for those who have broken their profession, who, having embraced the cross, have receded from their Master." "And what sayst thou to the effect which the words produced upon me?" said Peter. "Did they not cause me to run wild through Wales for years, like Merddin Wyllt of yore; thinkest thou that I opened the book at that particular passage by chance?" "No," said Winifred, "not by chance; it was the hand of God directed you, doubtless for some wise purpose. You had become satisfied with yourself. The Lord wished to rouse thee from thy state of carnal security, and therefore directed your eyes to that fearful passage." "Does the Lord then carry out His designs by means of guile?" said Peter, with a groan. "Is not the Lord true? Would the Lord impress upon me that I had committed a sin of which I am guiltless? Hush, Winifred! hush! thou knowest that I have committed the sin." "Thou hast not committed it," said Winifred, sobbing yet more violently. "Were they my last words, I would persist that thou hast not committed it, though, perhaps, thou wouldst, but for this chastening; it was not to convince thee that thou hast committed the sin, but rather to prevent thee from committing it, that the Lord brought that passage before thy eyes. He is not to blame, if thou art wilfully blind to the truth and wisdom of His ways." "I see thou wouldst comfort me," said Peter, "as thou hast often before attempted to do. I would fain ask the young man his opinion." "I have not yet heard the whole of your history," said I. "My story is nearly told," said Peter; "a few words will complete it. My wife endeavoured to console and reassure me, using the arguments which you have just heard her use, and many others, but in vain. Peace nor comfort came to my breast. I was rapidly falling into the depths of despair; when one day Winifred said to me, 'I see thou wilt be lost, if we remain here. One resource only remains. Thou must go forth, my husband, into the wide world, and to comfort thee I will go with thee.' 'And what can I do in the wide world?' said I, despondingly. 'Much,' replied Winifred, 'if you will but exert yourself; much good canst thou do with the blessing of God.' Many things of the same kind she said to me; and at last I arose from the earth to which God had smitten me, and disposed of my property in the best way I could, and went into the world. We did all the good we were able, visiting the sick, ministering to the sick, and praying with the sick. At last I became celebrated as the possessor of a great gift of prayer. And people urged me to preach, and Winifred urged me too, and at last I consented, and I preached. I--I--outcast Peter, became the preacher Peter Williams. I, the lost one, attempted to show others the right road. And in this way I have gone on for thirteen years, preaching and teaching, visiting the sick, and ministering to them, with Winifred by my side heartening me on. Occasionally I am visited with fits of indescribable agony, generally on the night before the Sabbath; for I then ask myself, how dare I, the outcast, attempt to preach the word of God? Young man, my tale is told; you seem in thought!" "I am thinking of London Bridge," said I. "Of London Bridge!" said Peter and his wife. "Yes," said I, "of London Bridge. I am indebted for much wisdom to London Bridge; it was there that I completed my studies. But to the point. I was once reading on London Bridge a book which an ancient gentlewoman, who kept the bridge, was in the habit of lending me; and there I found written, 'Each one carries in his breast the recollection of some sin which presses heavy upon him. O! if men could but look into each other's hearts, what blackness would they find there!'" "That's true," said Peter. "What is the name of the book?" "'The Life of Blessed Mary Flanders.'" "Some popish saint, I suppose," said Peter. "As much of a saint, I dare say," said I, "as most popish ones; but you interrupted me. One part of your narrative brought the passage which I have quoted into my mind. You said that after you had committed this same sin of yours you were in the habit, at school, of looking upon your schoolfellows with a kind of gloomy superiority, considering yourself a lone monstrous being who had committed a sin far above the daring of any of them. Are you sure that many others of your schoolfellows were not looking upon you and the others with much the same eyes with which you were looking upon them?" "How!" said Peter, "dost thou think that they had divined my secret?" "Not they," said I; "they were, I dare say, thinking too much of themselves and of their own concerns to have divined any secrets of yours. All I mean to say is, they had probably secrets of their own, and who knows that the secret sin of more than one of them was not the very sin which caused you so much misery?" "Dost thou then imagine," said Peter, "the sin against the Holy Ghost to be so common an occurrence?" "As you have described it," said I, "of very common occurrence, especially amongst children, who are, indeed, the only beings likely to commit it." "Truly," said Winifred, "the young man talks wisely." Peter was silent for some moments, and appeared to be reflecting; at last, suddenly raising his head, he looked me full in the face, and, grasping my hand with vehemence, he said, "Tell me, young man, only one thing, hast thou, too, committed the sin against the Holy Ghost?" "I am neither Papist, nor Methodist," said I, "but of the Church, and, being so, confess myself to no one, but keep my own counsel; I will tell thee, however, had I committed, at the same age, twenty such sins as that which you committed, I should feel no uneasiness at these years--but I am sleepy, and must go to rest." "God bless thee, young man," said Winifred. CHAPTER LXXVIII Low and Calm--Much Better--Blessed Effect--No Answer--Such a Sermon. Before I sank to rest I heard Winifred and her husband conversing in the place where I had left them; both their voices were low and calm. I soon fell asleep, and slumbered for some time. On my awakening I again heard them conversing, but they were now in their cart; still the voices of both were calm. I heard no passionate bursts of wild despair on the part of the man. Methought I occasionally heard the word Pechod proceeding from the lips of each, but with no particular emphasis. I supposed they were talking of the innate sin of both their hearts. "I wish that man were happy," said I to myself, "were it only for his wife's sake, and yet he deserves to be happy for his own." The next day Peter was very cheerful, more cheerful than I had ever seen him. At breakfast his conversation was animated, and he smiled repeatedly. I looked at him with the greatest interest, and the eyes of his wife were almost constantly fixed upon him. A shade of gloom would occasionally come over his countenance, but it almost instantly disappeared; perhaps it proceeded more from habit than anything else. After breakfast he took his Welsh Bible and sat down beneath a tree. His eyes were soon fixed intently on the volume; now and then he would call his wife, show her some passage, and appeared to consult with her. The day passed quickly and comfortably. "Your husband seems much better," said I, at evening-fall, to Winifred, as we chanced to be alone. "He does," said Winifred; "and that on the day of the week when he was wont to appear most melancholy, for to-morrow is the Sabbath. He now no longer looks forward to the Sabbath with dread, but appears to reckon on it. What a happy change! and to think that this change should have been produced by a few words, seemingly careless ones, proceeding from the mouth of one who is almost a stranger to him. Truly, it is wonderful." "To whom do you allude," said I, "and to what words?" "To yourself, and to the words which came from your lips last night, after you had heard my poor husband's history. Those strange words, drawn out with so much seeming indifference, have produced in my husband the blessed effect which you have observed. They have altered the current of his ideas. He no longer thinks himself the only being in the world doomed to destruction,--the only being capable of committing the never-to-be-forgiven sin. Your supposition that that which harrowed his soul is of frequent occurrence amongst children, has tranquillised him; the mist which hung over his mind has cleared away, and he begins to see the groundlessness of his apprehensions. The Lord has permitted him to be chastened for a season, but his lamp will only burn the brighter for what he has undergone." Sunday came, fine and glorious as the last. Again my friends and myself breakfasted together--again the good family of the house on the hill above, headed by the respectable master, descended to the meadow. Peter and his wife were ready to receive them. Again Peter placed himself at the side of the honest farmer, and Winifred by the side of her friend. "Wilt thou not come?" said Peter, looking towards me with a face in which there was much emotion. "Wilt thou not come?" said Winifred, with a face beaming with kindness. But I made no answer, and presently the party moved away, in the same manner in which it had moved on the preceding Sabbath, and I was again left alone. The hours of the Sabbath passed slowly away. I sat gazing at the sky, the trees, and the water. At last I strolled up to the house and sat down in the porch. It was empty; there was no modest maiden there, as on the preceding Sabbath. The damsel of the book had accompanied the rest. I had seen her in the procession, and the house appeared quite deserted. The owners had probably left it to my custody, so I sat down in the porch, quite alone. The hours of the Sabbath passed heavily away. At last evening came, and with it the party of the morning. I was now at my place beneath the oak. I went forward to meet them. Peter and his wife received me with a calm and quiet greeting, and passed forward. The rest of the party had broke into groups. There was a kind of excitement amongst them, and much eager whispering. I went to one of the groups; the young girl of whom I have spoken more than once, was speaking: "Such a sermon," said she, "it has never been our lot to hear; Peter never before spoke as he has done this day--he was always a powerful preacher, but oh, the unction of the discourse of this morning, and yet more of that of the afternoon, which was the continuation of it!" "What was the subject?" said I, interrupting her. "Ah! you should have been there, young man, to have heard it; it would have made a lasting impression upon you. I was bathed in tears all the time; those who heard it will never forget the preaching of the good Peter Williams on the Power, Providence, and Goodness of God." CHAPTER LXXIX Deep Interest--Goodly Country--Two Mansions--Welshman's Candle--Beautiful Universe--Godly Discourse--Fine Church--Points of Doctrine--Strange Adventures--Paltry Cause--Roman Pontiff--Evil Spirit. On the morrow I said to my friends, "I am about to depart; farewell!" "Depart!" said Peter and his wife, simultaneously; "whither wouldst thou go?" "I can't stay here all my days," I replied. "Of course not," said Peter; "but we had no idea of losing thee so soon: we had almost hoped that thou wouldst join us, become one of us. We are under infinite obligations to thee." "You mean I am under infinite obligations to you," said I. "Did you not save my life?" "Perhaps so, under God," said Peter; "and what hast thou not done for me? Art thou aware that, under God, thou hast preserved my soul from despair? But, independent of that, we like thy company, and feel a deep interest in thee, and would fain teach thee the way that is right. Hearken, to-morrow we go into Wales; go with us." "I have no wish to go into Wales," said I. "Why not?" said Peter, with animation. "Wales is a goodly country; as the Scripture says--a land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths, that spring out of valleys and hills, a land whose stones are iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig _lead_." "I dare say it is a very fine country," said I, "but I have no wish to go there just now; my destiny seems to point in another direction, to say nothing of my trade." "Thou dost right to say nothing of thy trade," said Peter, smiling, "for thou seemest to care nothing about it; which has led Winifred and myself to suspect that thou art not altogether what thou seemest; but, setting that aside, we should be most happy if thou wouldst go with us into Wales." "I cannot promise to go with you into Wales," said I; "but, as you depart to-morrow, I will stay with you through the day, and on the morrow accompany you part of the way." "Do," said Peter: "I have many people to see to-day, and so has Winifred; but we will both endeavour to have some serious discourse with thee, which, perhaps, will turn to thy profit in the end." In the course of the day the good Peter came to me, as I was seated beneath the oak, and, placing himself by me, commenced addressing me in the following manner:-- "I have no doubt, my young friend, that you are willing to admit, that the most important thing which a human being possesses is his soul; it is of infinitely more importance than the body, which is a frail substance, and cannot last for many years; but not so the soul, which, by its nature, is imperishable. To one of two mansions the soul is destined to depart, after its separation from the body, to heaven or hell; to the halls of eternal bliss, where God and His holy angels dwell, or to the place of endless misery, inhabited by Satan and his grisly companions. My friend, if the joys of heaven are great, unutterably great, so are the torments of hell unutterably so. I wish not to speak of them, I wish not to terrify your imagination with the torments of hell: indeed, I like not to think of them; but it is necessary to speak of them sometimes, and to think of them sometimes, lest you should sink into a state of carnal security. Authors, friend, and learned men, are not altogether agreed as to the particulars of hell. They all agree, however, in considering it a place of exceeding horror. Master Ellis Wyn, who by the bye was a churchman, calls it, amongst other things, a place of strong sighs, and of flaming sparks. Master Rees Pritchard, {238} who was not only a churchman, but Vicar of Llandovery, and flourished about two hundred years ago--I wish many like him flourished now--speaking of hell, in his collection of sweet hymns, called the 'Welshman's Candle,' observes, "'The pool is continually blazing; it is very deep, without any known bottom, and the walls are so high, that there is neither hope nor possibility of escaping over them.' "But, as I told you just now, I have no great pleasure in talking of hell. No, friend, no; I would sooner talk of the other place, and of the goodness and hospitality of God amongst His saints above." And then the excellent man began to dilate upon the joys of heaven, and the goodness and hospitality of God in the mansions above; explaining to me, in the clearest way, how I might get there. And when he had finished what he had to say, he left me, whereupon Winifred drew nigh, and sitting down by me, began to address me. "I do not think," said she, "from what I have observed of thee, that thou wouldst wish to be ungrateful, and yet, is not thy whole life a series of ingratitude, and to whom?--to thy Maker. Has He not endowed thee with a goodly and healthy form; and senses which enable thee to enjoy the delights of His beautiful universe--the work of His hands? Canst thou not enjoy, even to rapture, the brightness of the sun, the perfume of the meads, and the song of the dear birds, which inhabit among the trees? Yes, thou canst; for I have seen thee, and observed thee doing so. Yet, during the whole time that I have known thee, I have not heard proceed from thy lips one single word of praise or thanksgiving to . . ." And in this manner the admirable woman proceeded for a considerable time, and to all her discourse I listened with attention; and when she had concluded, I took her hand and said, "I thank you," and that was all. On the next day everything was ready for our departure. The good family of the house came to bid us farewell. There were shaking of hands, and kisses, as on the night of our arrival. And as I stood somewhat apart, the young girl of whom I have spoken so often, came up to me, and holding out her hand, said, "Farewell, young man, wherever thou goest." Then, after looking around her, she said, "It was all true you told me. Yesterday I received a letter from him thou wottest of, he is coming soon. God bless you, young man; who would have thought thou knewest so much!" So, after we had taken our farewell of the good family, we departed, proceeding in the direction of Wales. Peter was very cheerful, and enlivened the way with godly discourse and spiritual hymns, some of which were in the Welsh language. At length I said, "It is a pity that you did not continue in the Church; you have a turn for psalmody, and I have heard of a man becoming a bishop by means of a less qualification." "Very probably," said Peter; "more the pity. But I have told you the reason of my forsaking it. Frequently, when I went to the church door, I found it barred, and the priest absent; what was I to do? My heart was bursting for want of some religious help and comfort; what could I do? as good Master Rees Pritchard observes in his 'Candle for Welshmen.' "'It is a doleful thing to see little children burning on the hot coals for want of help; but yet more doleful to see a flock of souls falling into the burning lake for want of a priest.'" "The Church of England is a fine church," said I; "I would not advise any one to speak ill of the Church of England before me." "I have nothing to say against the Church," said Peter; "all I wish is that it would fling itself a little more open, and that its priests would a little more bestir themselves; in a word, that it would shoulder the cross and become a missionary church." "It is too proud for that," said Winifred. "You are much more of a Methodist," said I, "than your husband. But tell me," said I, addressing myself to Peter, "do you not differ from the Church in some points of doctrine? I, of course, as a true member of the Church, am quite ignorant of the peculiar opinions of wandering sectaries." "Oh, the pride of that Church!" said Winifred, half to herself; "wandering sectaries!" "We differ in no points of doctrine," said Peter; "we believe all the Church believes, though we are not so fond of vain and superfluous ceremonies, snow-white neckcloths and surplices, as the Church is. We likewise think that there is no harm in a sermon by the road-side, or in holding free discourse with a beggar beneath a hedge, or a tinker," he added, smiling; "it was those superfluous ceremonies, those surplices and white neckcloths, and, above all, the necessity of strictly regulating his words and conversation, which drove John Wesley out of the Church, and sent him wandering up and down as you see me, poor Welsh Peter, do." Nothing farther passed for some time; we were now drawing near the hills: at last I said, "You must have met with a great many strange adventures since you took up this course of life?" "Many," said Peter, "it has been my lot to meet with; but none more strange than one which occurred to me only a few weeks ago. You were asking me, not long since, whether I believed in devils? Ay, truly, young man; and I believe that the abyss and the yet deeper Unknown do not contain them all; some walk about upon the green earth. So it happened, some weeks ago, that I was exercising my ministry about forty miles from here. I was alone, Winifred being slightly indisposed, staying for a few days at the house of an acquaintance; I had finished afternoon's worship--the people had dispersed, and I was sitting solitary by my cart under some green trees in a quiet retired place; suddenly a voice said to me, 'Good evening, Pastor'; I looked up, and before me stood a man, at least the appearance of a man, dressed in a black suit of rather a singular fashion. He was about my own age, or somewhat older. As I looked upon him, it appeared to me that I had seen him twice before whilst preaching. I replied to his salutation, and perceiving that he looked somewhat fatigued, I took out a stool from the cart, and asked him to sit down. We began to discourse; I at first supposed that he might be one of ourselves, some wandering minister; but I was soon undeceived. Neither his language nor his ideas were those of any one of our body. He spoke on all kinds of matters with much fluency; till at last he mentioned my preaching, complimenting me on my powers. I replied, as well I might, that I could claim no merit of my own, and that if I spoke with any effect, it was only by the grace of God. As I uttered these last words, a horrible kind of sneer came over his countenance, which made me shudder, for there was something diabolical in it. I said little more, but listened attentively to his discourse. At last he said that I was engaged in a paltry cause, quite unworthy of one of my powers. 'How can that be,' said I, 'even if I possessed all the powers in the world, seeing that I am engaged in the cause of our Lord Jesus?' "The same kind of sneer again came on his countenance, but he almost instantly observed, that if I chose to forsake this same miserable cause, from which nothing but contempt and privation were to be expected, he would enlist me into another, from which I might expect both profit and renown. An idea now came into my head, and I told him firmly, that if he wished me to forsake my present profession and become a member of the Church of England, I must absolutely decline; that I had no ill-will against that Church, but I thought I could do most good in my present position, which I would not forsake to be Archbishop of Canterbury. Thereupon he burst into a strange laughter, and went away, repeating to himself, 'Church of England! Archbishop of Canterbury!' A few days after, when I was once more in a solitary place, he again appeared before me, and asked me whether I had thought over his words, and whether I was willing to enlist under the banners of his master, adding, that he was eager to secure me, as he conceived that I might be highly useful to the cause. I then asked him who his master was; he hesitated for a moment, and then answered, 'The Roman Pontiff.' 'If it be he,' said I, 'I can have nothing to do with him, I will serve no one who is an enemy of Christ.' Thereupon he drew near to me, and told me not to talk so much like a simpleton; that as for Christ, it was probable that no such person ever existed, but that if he ever did, he was the greatest impostor the world ever saw. How long he continued in this way I know not, for I now considered that an evil spirit was before me, and shrank within myself, shivering in every limb; when I recovered myself and looked about me, he was gone. Two days after, he again stood before me, in the same place, and about the same hour, renewing his propositions, and speaking more horribly than before. I made him no answer; whereupon he continued; but suddenly hearing a noise behind him, he looked round and beheld Winifred, who had returned to me on the morning of that day. 'Who are you?' said he, fiercely. 'This man's wife,' said she, calmly fixing her eyes upon him. 'Begone from him, unhappy one, thou temptest him in vain.' He made no answer, but stood as if transfixed: at length recovering himself, he departed, muttering 'Wife! wife! If the fool has a wife, he will never do for us.'" CHAPTER LXXX The Border--Thank You Both--Pipe and Fiddle--Taliesin. We were now drawing very near the hills, and Peter said, "If you are to go into Wales, you must presently decide, for we are close upon the border." "Which is the border?" said I. "Yon small brook," said Peter, "into which the man on horseback who is coming towards us is now entering." "I see it," said I, "and the man; he stops in the middle of it, as if to water his steed." We proceeded till we had nearly reached the brook. "Well," said Peter, "will you go into Wales?" "What should I do in Wales?" I demanded. "Do!" said Peter, smiling; "learn Welsh." I stopped my little pony. "Then I need not go into Wales; I already know Welsh." "Know Welsh!" said Peter, staring at me. "Know Welsh!" said Winifred, stopping her cart. "How and when did you learn it?" said Peter. "From books, in my boyhood." "Read Welsh!" said Peter; "is it possible?" "Read Welsh!" said Winifred; "is it possible?" "Well, I hope you will come with us," said Peter. "Come with us, young man," said Winifred; "let me, on the other side of the brook, welcome you into Wales." "Thank you both," said I, "but I will not come." "Wherefore?" exclaimed both, simultaneously. "Because it is neither fit nor proper that I cross into Wales at this time, and in this manner. When I go into Wales, I should wish to go in a new suit of superfine black, with hat and beaver, {246} mounted on a powerful steed, black and glossy, like that which bore Greduv to the fight of Catraeth. I should wish, moreover, to see the Welshmen assembled on the border ready to welcome me with pipe and fiddle, and much whooping and shouting, and to attend me to Wrexham, or even as far as Machynllaith, where I should wish to be invited to a dinner at which all the bards should be present, and to be seated at the right hand of the president, who, when the cloth was removed, should arise, and, amidst cries of silence, exclaim--'Brethren and Welshmen, allow me to propose the health of my most respectable friend the translator of the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, the pride and glory of Wales.'" "How!" said Peter, "hast thou translated the works of the mighty Dafydd?" "With notes critical, historical, and explanatory." "Come with us, friend," said Peter. "I cannot promise such a dinner as thou wishest, but neither pipe nor fiddle shall be wanting." "Come with us, young man," said Winifred, "even as thou art, and the daughters of Wales shall bid thee welcome." "I will not go with you," said I. "Dost thou see that man in the ford?" "Who is staring at us so, and whose horse has not yet done drinking? Of course I see him." "I shall turn back with him. God bless you." "Go back with him not," said Peter; "he is one of those whom I like not, one of the clibberty clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn observes--turn not with that man." "Go not back with him," said Winifred. "If thou goest with that man, thou wilt soon forget all our profitable counsels; come with us." "I cannot; I have much to say to him. Kosko Divvus, Mr. Petulengro." "Kosko Divvus, Pal," {247} said Mr. Petulengro, riding through the water; "are you turning back?" I turned back with Mr. Petulengro. Peter came running after me: "One moment, young man,--who and what are you?" "I must answer in the words of Taliesin," said I; "none can say with positiveness whether I be fish or flesh, least of all myself. God bless you both!" "Take this," said Peter, and he thrust his Welsh Bible into my hand. CHAPTER LXXXI At a Funeral--Two Days Ago--Very Coolly--Roman Woman--Well and Hearty--Somewhat Dreary--Plum Pudding--Roman Fashion--Quite Different--The Dark Lane--Beyond the Time--Fine Fellow--Such a Struggle--Like a Wild Cat--Fair Play--Pleasant Enough Spot--No Gloves. So I turned back with Mr. Petulengro. We travelled for some time in silence; at last we fell into discourse. "You have been in Wales, Mr. Petulengro?" "Ay, truly, brother." "What have you been doing there?" "Assisting at a funeral." "At whose funeral?" "Mrs. Herne's, brother." "Is she dead, then?" "As a nail, brother." "How did she die?" "By hanging, brother." "I am lost in astonishment," said I; whereupon Mr. Petulengro, lifting his sinister leg over the neck of his steed, and adjusting himself sideways in the saddle, replied, with great deliberation, "Two days ago, I happened to be at a fair not very far from here; I was all alone by myself, for our party were upwards of forty miles off, when who should come up but a chap that I knew, a relation, or rather, a connection of mine--one of those Hernes. 'Ar'n't you going to the funeral?' said he; and then, brother, there passed between him and me, in the way of questioning and answering, much the same as has just now passed between I and you; but when he mentioned hanging, I thought I could do no less than ask who hanged her, which you forgot to do. 'Who hanged her?' said I; and then the man told me that she had done it herself,--been her own hinjiri; {249a} and then I thought to myself what a sin and shame it would be if I did not go to the funeral, seeing that she was my own mother-in-law. I would have brought my wife, and, indeed, the whole of our party, but there was no time for that; they were too far off, and the dead was to be buried early the next morning; so I went with the man, and he led me into Wales, where his party had lately retired, and when there, through many wild and desolate places to their encampment, and there I found the Hernes, and the dead body--the last laid out on a mattress, in a tent, dressed Romaneskoenaes {249b} in a red cloak, and big bonnet of black beaver. I must say for the Hernes that they took the matter very coolly; some were eating, others drinking, and some were talking about their small affairs; there was one, however, who did not take the matter so coolly, but took on enough for the whole family, sitting beside the dead woman, tearing her hair, and refusing to take either meat or drink; it was the child Leonora. I arrived at night-fall, and the burying was not to take place till the morning, which I was rather sorry for, as I am not very fond of them Hernes, who are not very fond of anybody. They never asked me to eat or drink, notwithstanding I had married into the family; one of them, however, came up and offered to fight me for five shillings; had it not been for them I should have come back as empty as I went--he didn't stand up five minutes. Brother, I passed the night as well as I could, beneath a tree, for the tents were full, and not over clean; I slept little, and had my eyes about me, for I knew the kind of people I was among. "Early in the morning the funeral took place. The body was placed not in a coffin but on a bier, and carried not to a churchyard but to a deep dell close by; and there it was buried beneath a rock, dressed just as I have told you; and this was done by the bidding of Leonora, who had heard her bebee say that she wished to be buried, not in gorgious fashion, but like a Roman woman of the old blood, the kosko puro rati, {250a} brother. When it was over, and we had got back to the encampment, I prepared to be going. Before mounting my gry, {250b} however, I bethought me to ask what could have induced the dead woman to make away with herself--a thing so uncommon amongst Rommanies; whereupon one squinted with his eyes, a second spirted saliver into the air, and a third said that he neither knew nor cared; she was a good riddance, having more than once been nearly the ruin of them all, from the quantity of brimstone she carried about her. One, however, I suppose rather ashamed of the way in which they had treated me, said at last, that if I wanted to know all about the matter, none could tell me better than the child, who was in all her secrets, and was not a little like her; so I looked about for the child, but could find her nowhere. At last the same man told me that he shouldn't wonder if I found her at the grave; so I went back to the grave, and sure enough there I found the child Leonora, seated on the ground above the body, crying and taking on; so I spoke kindly to her, and said, 'How came all this, Leonora? tell me all about it.' It was a long time before I could get any answer; at last she opened her mouth and spoke, and these were the words she said, 'It was all along of your Pal;' {251} and then she told me all about the matter--how Mrs. Herne could not abide you, which I knew before; and that she had sworn your destruction, which I did not know before. And then she told me how she found you living in the wood by yourself, and how you were enticed to eat a poisoned cake; and she told me many other things that you wot of, and she told me what perhaps you don't wot, namely, that finding you had been removed, she, the child, had tracked you a long way, and found you at last well and hearty, and no ways affected by the poison, and heard you, as she stood concealed, disputing about religion with a Welsh Methody. Well, brother, she told me all this; and, moreover, that when Mrs. Herne heard of it, she said that a dream of hers had come to pass. I don't know what it was, but something about herself, a tinker, and a dean; and then she added, that it was all up with her, and that she must take a long journey. Well, brother, that same night Leonora, waking from her sleep in the tent where Mrs. Herne and she were wont to sleep, missed her bebee, {252a} and, becoming alarmed, went in search of her, and at last found her hanging from a branch; and when the child had got so far, she took on violently, and I could not get another word from her; so I left her, and here I am." "And I am glad to see you, Mr. Petulengro; but this is sad news which you tell me about Mrs. Herne." "Somewhat dreary, brother; yet, perhaps, after all, it is a good thing that she is removed; she carried so much Devil's tinder about with her, as the man said." "I am sorry for her," said I; "more especially as I am the cause of her death--though the innocent one." "She could not bide you, brother, that's certain; but that is no reason"--said Mr. Petulengro, balancing himself upon the saddle--"that is no reason why she should prepare drow to take away your essence of life; and, when disappointed, to hang herself upon a tree: if she was dissatisfied with you, she might have flown at you, and scratched your face; or, if she did not judge herself your match, she might have put down five shillings for a turn up between you and some one she thought could beat you--myself, for example, and so the matter might have ended comfortably; but she was always too fond of covert ways, drows, and brimstones. This is not the first poisoning affair she has been engaged in." "You allude to drabbing bawlor." {252b} "Bah!" said Mr. Petulengro; "there's no harm in that. No, no! she has cast drows {253a} in her time for other guess things than bawlor; both Gorgios and Romans have tasted of them, and died. Did you never hear of the poisoned plum pudding?" "Never." "Then I will tell you about it. It happened about six years ago, a few months after she had quitted us--she had gone first amongst her own people, as she called them; but there was another small party of Romans, with whom she soon became very intimate. It so happened that this small party got into trouble; whether it was about a horse or an ass, or passing bad money, no matter to you and me, who had no hand in the business; three or four of them were taken and lodged in --- Castle, and amongst them was a woman; but the sherengro, or principal man of the party, and who it seems had most hand in the affair, was still at large. All of a sudden a rumour was spread abroad that the woman was about to play false, and to 'peach the rest. Said the principal man, when he heard it, 'If she does, I am nashkado.' {253b} Mrs. Herne was then on a visit to the party, and when she heard the principal man take on so, she said, 'But I suppose you know what to do?' 'I do not,' said he. 'Then hir mi devlis,' said she, 'you are a fool. But leave the matter to me, I know how to dispose of her in Roman fashion.' Why she wanted to interfere in the matter, brother, I don't know, unless it was from pure brimstoneness of disposition--she had no hand in the matter which had brought the party into trouble--she was only on a visit, and it had happened before she came; but she was always ready to give dangerous advice. Well, brother, the principal man listened to what she had to say, and let her do what she would; and she made a pudding, a very nice one, no doubt--for, besides plums, she put in drows and all the Roman condiments that she knew of; and she gave it to the principal man, and the principal man put it into a basket and directed it to the woman in --- Castle, and the woman in the castle took it and--" "Ate of it," said I; "just like my case!" "Quite different, brother; she took it, it is true, but instead of giving way to her appetite, as you might have done, she put it before the rest whom she was going to impeach; perhaps she wished to see how they liked it before she tasted it herself; and all the rest were poisoned, and one died, and there was a precious outcry, and the woman cried loudest of all; and she said, 'It was my death was sought for; I know the man, and I'll be revenged.' And then the Poknees {254a} spoke to her and said, 'Where can we find him?' and she said, 'I am awake to his motions; three weeks from hence, the night before the full moon, at such and such an hour, he will pass down such a lane with such a man.'" "Well," said I, "and what did the Poknees do?" "Do, brother! sent for a plastramengro {254b} from Bow Street, quite secretly, and told him what the woman had said; and the night before the full moon, the plastramengro went to the place which the juwa {255a}had pointed out, all alone, brother; and in order that he might not be too late, he went two hours before his time. I know the place well, brother, where the plastramengro placed himself behind a thick holly tree, at the end of a lane, where a gate leads into various fields, through which there is a path for carts and horses. The lane is called the dark lane by the Gorgios, being much shaded by trees. So the plastramengro placed himself in the dark lane behind the holly tree; it was a cold February night, dreary though; the wind blew in gusts, and the moon had not yet risen, and the plastramengro waited behind the tree till he was tired, and thought he might as well sit down; so he sat down, and was not long in falling to sleep, and there he slept for some hours; and when he awoke the moon had risen, and was shining bright, so that there was a kind of moonlight even in the dark lane; and the plastramengro pulled out his watch, and contrived to make out that it was just two hours beyond the time when the men should have passed by. Brother, I do not know what the plastramengro thought of himself, but I know, brother, what I should have thought of myself in his situation. I should have thought, brother, that I was a drowsy scoppelo, {255b} and that I had let the fellow pass by whilst I was sleeping behind a bush. As it turned out, however, his going to sleep did no harm, but quite the contrary: just as he was going away, he heard a gate slam in the direction of the fields, and then he heard the low stumping of horses, as if on soft ground, for the path in those fields is generally soft, and at that time it had been lately ploughed up. Well, brother, presently he saw two men on horseback coming towards the lane through the field behind the gate; the man who rode foremost was a tall big fellow, the very man he was in quest of; the other was a smaller chap, not so small either, but a light, wiry fellow, and a proper master of his hands when he sees occasion for using them. Well, brother, the foremost man came to the gate, reached at the hank, undid it, and rode through, holding it open for the other. Before, however, the other could follow into the lane, out bolted the plastramengro from behind the tree, kicked the gate to with his foot, and, seizing the big man on horseback, 'You are my prisoner,' said he. I am of opinion, brother, that the plastramengro, notwithstanding he went to sleep, must have been a regular fine fellow." "I am entirely of your opinion," said I, "but what happened then?" "Why, brother, the Rommany chal, after he had somewhat recovered from his surprise, for it is rather uncomfortable to be laid hold of at night-time, and told you are a prisoner; more especially when you happen to have two or three things on your mind which, if proved against you, would carry you to the nashky. {256} The Rommany chal, I say, clubbed his whip, and aimed a blow at the plastramengro, which, if it had hit him on the skull, as was intended, would very likely have cracked it. The plastramengro, however, received it partly on his staff, so that it did him no particular damage. Whereupon, seeing what kind of customer he had to deal with, he dropped his staff and seized the chal with both his hands, who forthwith spurred his horse, hoping, by doing so, either to break away from him, or fling him down; but it would not do--the plastramengro held on like a bulldog, so that the Rommany chal, {257a} to escape being hauled to the ground, suddenly flung himself off the saddle, and then happened in that lane, close by the gate, such a struggle between those two--the chal and the runner--as I suppose will never happen again. But you must have heard of it; every one has heard of it; every one has heard of the fight between the Bow Street engro {257b} and the Rommany chal." "I never heard of it till now." "All England rung of it, brother. There never was a better match than between those two. The runner was somewhat the stronger of the two--all these engroes are strong fellows--and a great deal cooler, for all of that sort are wondrous cool people--he had, however, to do with one who knew full well how to take his own part. The chal fought the engro, brother, in the old Roman fashion. He bit, he kicked, and screamed like a wild cat of Benygant; casting foam from his mouth, and fire from his eyes. Sometimes he was beneath the engro's legs, and sometimes he was upon his shoulders. What the engro found the most difficult, was to get a firm hold of the chal, for no sooner did he seize the chal by any part of his wearing apparel, than the chal either tore himself away, or contrived to slip out of it; so that in a little time the chal was three parts naked; and as for holding him by the body, it was out of the question, for he was as slippery as an eel. At last the engro seized the chal by the Belcher's handkerchief, which he wore in a knot round his neck, and do whatever the chal could, he could not free himself; and when the engro saw that, it gave him fresh heart, no doubt: 'It's of no use,' said he; 'you had better give in; hold out your hands for the darbies, or I will throttle you.'" "And what did the other fellow do, who came with the chal?" said I. "I sat still on my horse, brother." "You!" said I. "Were you the man?" "I was he, brother." "And why did you not help your comrade?" "I have fought in the ring, brother." "And what had fighting in the ring to do with fighting in the lane?" "You mean not fighting. A great deal, brother; it taught me to prize fair play. When I fought Staffordshire Dick, t'other side of London, I was alone, brother. Not a Rommany chal to back me, and he had all his brother pals about him; but they gave me fair play, brother; and I beat Staffordshire Dick, which I couldn't have done had they put one finger on his side the scale; for he was as good a man as myself, or nearly so. Now, brother, had I but bent a finger in favour of the Rommany chal, the plastramengro would never have come alive out of the lane; but I did not, for I thought to myself fair play is a precious stone; so you see, brother--" "That you are quite right, Mr. Petulengro, I see that clearly; and now, pray proceed with your narration; it is both moral and entertaining." But Mr. Petulengro did not proceed with his narration, neither did he proceed upon his way; he had stopped his horse, and his eyes were intently fixed on a broad strip of grass beneath some lofty trees, on the left side of the road. It was a pleasant enough spot, and seemed to invite wayfaring people, such as we were, to rest from the fatigues of the road, and the heat and vehemence of the sun. After examining it for a considerable time, Mr. Petulengro said, "I say, brother, that would be a nice place for a tussle!" "I dare say it would," said I, "if two people were inclined to fight." "The ground is smooth," said Mr. Petulengro; "without holes or ruts, and the trees cast much shade. I don't think, brother, that we could find a better place," said Mr. Petulengro, springing from his horse. "But you and I don't want to fight!" "Speak for yourself, brother," said Mr. Petulengro. "However, I will tell you how the matter stands. There is a point at present between us. There can be no doubt that you are the cause of Mrs. Herne's death, innocently, you will say, but still the cause. Now, I shouldn't like it to be known that I went up and down the country with a pal who was the cause of my mother-in-law's death, that's to say, unless he gave me satisfaction. Now, if I and my pal have a tussle, he gives me satisfaction; and, if he knocks my eyes out, which I know you can't do, it makes no difference at all, he gives me satisfaction; and he who says to the contrary, knows nothing of Gypsy law, and is a dinelo {259} into the bargain." "But we have no gloves!" "Gloves!" said Mr. Petulengro, contemptuously, "gloves! I tell you what, brother, I always thought you were a better hand at the gloves than the naked fist; and, to tell you the truth, besides taking satisfaction for Mrs. Herne's death, I wish to see what you can do with your mawleys; {260} so now is your time, brother, and this is your place, grass and shade, no ruts or holes; come on, brother, or I shall think you what I should not like to call you." CHAPTER LXXXII Offence and Defence--I'm Satisfied--Fond of Solitude--Possession of Property--Chal Devlehi--Winding Path. And when I heard Mr. Petulengro talk in this manner, which I had never heard him do before, and which I can only account for by his being fasting and ill-tempered, I had of course no other alternative than to accept his challenge; so I put myself into a posture which I deemed the best both for offence and defence, and the tussle commenced; and when it had endured for about half an hour, Mr. Petulengro said, "Brother, there is much blood on your face; you had better wipe it off;" and when I had wiped it off, and again resumed my former attitude, Mr. Petulengro said, "I think enough has been done, brother, in the affair of the old woman; I have, moreover, tried what you are able to do, and find you, as I thought, less apt with the naked mawleys than the stuffed gloves; nay, brother, put your hands down, I'm satisfied; blood has been shed, which is all that can be reasonably expected for an old woman who carried so much brimstone about her as Mrs. Herne." So the struggle ended, and we resumed our route, Mr. Petulengro sitting sideways upon his horse as before, and I driving my little pony-cart, and when we had proceeded about three miles, we came to a small public-house, which bore the sign of the "Silent Woman," where we stopped to refresh our cattle and ourselves; and as we sat over our bread and ale, it came to pass that Mr. Petulengro asked me various questions, and amongst others, how I intended to dispose of myself; I told him that I did not know; whereupon, with considerable frankness, he invited me to his camp, and told me that if I chose to settle down amongst them, and become a Rommany chal, I should have his wife's sister Ursula, who was still unmarried, and occasionally talked of me. I declined his offer, assigning as a reason the recent death of Mrs. Herne, of which I was the cause, although innocent. "A pretty life I should lead with those two," said I, "when they came to know it." "Pooh," said Mr. Petulengro, "they will never know it. I shan't blab, and as for Leonora, that girl has a head on her shoulders." "Unlike the woman in the sign," said I, "whose head is cut off. You speak nonsense, Mr. Petulengro; as long as a woman has a head on her shoulders she'll talk,--but, leaving women out of the case, it is impossible to keep anything a secret; an old master of mine told me so long ago. I have moreover another reason for declining your offer. I am at present not disposed for society. I am become fond of solitude. I wish I could find some quiet place to which I could retire to hold communion with my own thoughts, and practise, if I thought fit, either of my trades." "What trades?" said Mr. Petulengro. "Why, the one which I have lately been engaged in, or my original one, which I confess I should like better, that of a kaulomescro." {263} "Ah, I have frequently heard you talk of making horse-shoes," said Mr. Petulengro; "I, however, never saw you make one, and no one else that I am aware; I don't believe--come, brother, don't be angry, it's quite possible that you may have done things which neither I nor any one else has seen you do, and that such things may some day or other come to light, as you say nothing can be kept secret. Be that, however, as it may, pay the reckoning and let us be going; I think I can advise you to just such a kind of place as you seem to want." "And how do you know that I have got wherewithal to pay the reckoning?" I demanded. "Brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "I was just now looking in your face, which exhibited the very look of a person conscious of the possession of property; there was nothing hungry or sneaking in it. Pay the reckoning, brother." And when we were once more upon the road, Mr. Petulengro began to talk of the place which he conceived would serve me as a retreat under present circumstances. "I tell you frankly, brother, that it is a queer kind of place, and I am not very fond of pitching my tent in it, it is so surprisingly dreary. It is a deep dingle in the midst of a large field, on an estate about which there has been a lawsuit for some years past. I dare say you will be quiet enough, for the nearest town is five miles distant, and there are only a few huts and hedge public-houses in the neighbourhood. Brother, I am fond of solitude myself, but not that kind of solitude; I like a quiet heath, where I can pitch my house, but I always like to have a gay stirring place not far off, where the women can pen dukkerin, {264a} and I myself can sell or buy a horse, if needful--such a place as the Chong Gav. {264b} I never feel so merry as when there, brother, or on the heath above it, where I taught you Rommany." Shortly after this discourse we reached a milestone, and a few yards from the milestone, on the left hand, was a cross road. Thereupon Mr. Petulengro said, "Brother, my path lies to the left; if you choose to go with me to my camp, good; if not, Chal Devlehi." {264c} But I again refused Mr. Petulengro's invitation, and, shaking him by the hand, proceeded forward alone; and about ten miles farther on I reached the town of which he had spoken, and, following certain directions which he had given, discovered, though not without some difficulty, the dingle which he had mentioned. It was a deep hollow in the midst of a wide field; the shelving sides were overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt of sallows surrounded it on the top, a steep winding path led down into the depths, practicable, however, for a light cart, like mine; at the bottom was an open space, and there I pitched my tent, and there I contrived to put up my forge. "I will here ply the trade of kaulomescro," said I. CHAPTER LXXXIII Highly Poetical--Volundr--Grecian Mythology--Making a Petul--Tongues of Flame--Hammering--Spite of Dukkerin--Heaviness. It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical about a forge. I am not singular in this opinion: various individuals have assured me that they can never pass by one, even in the midst of a crowded town, without experiencing sensations which they can scarcely define, but which are highly pleasurable. I have a decided penchant for forges, especially rural ones, placed in some quaint quiet spot--a dingle, for example, which is a poetical place, or at a meeting of four roads, which is still more so; for how many a superstition--and superstition is the soul of poetry--is connected with these cross roads! I love to light upon such a one, especially after night-fall, as everything about a forge tells to most advantage at night; the hammer sounds more solemnly in the stillness; the glowing particles scattered by the strokes sparkle with more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty visage of the sastramescro, half in shadow, and half illumed by the red and partial blaze of the forge, looks more mysterious and strange. On such occasions I draw in my horse's rein, and, seated in the saddle, endeavour to associate with the picture before me--in itself a picture of romance--whatever of the wild and wonderful I have read of in books, or have seen with my own eyes in connection with forges. I believe the life of any blacksmith, especially a rural one, would afford materials for a highly poetical history. I do not speak unadvisedly, having the honour to be free of the forge, and therefore fully competent to give an opinion as to what might be made out of the forge by some dexterous hand. Certainly, the strangest and most entertaining life ever written is that of a blacksmith of the olden north, a certain Volundr, or Velint, who lived in woods and thickets, made keen swords--so keen, indeed, that if placed in a running stream, they would fairly divide an object, however slight, which was borne against them by the water, and who eventually married a king's daughter, by whom he had a son, who was as bold a knight as his father was a cunning blacksmith. I never see a forge at night, when seated on the back of my horse, at the bottom of a dark lane, but I somehow or other associate it with the exploits of this extraordinary fellow, with many other extraordinary things, amongst which, as I have hinted before, are particular passages of my own life, one or two of which I shall perhaps relate to the reader. I never associate Vulcan and his Cyclops with the idea of a forge. These gentry would be the very last people in the world to flit across my mind whilst gazing at the forge from the bottom of the dark lane. The truth is, they are highly unpoetical fellows, as well they may be, connected as they are with the Grecian mythology. At the very mention of their names the forge burns dull and dim, as if snowballs had been suddenly flung into it; the only remedy is to ply the bellows, an operation which I now hasten to perform. I am in the dingle making a horse-shoe. Having no other horses on whose hoofs I could exercise my art, I made my first essay on those of my own horse, if that could be called horse which horse was none, being only a pony. Perhaps, if I had sought all England, I should scarcely have found an animal more in need of the kind offices of the smith. On three of his feet there were no shoes at all, and on the fourth only a remnant of one, on which account his hoofs were sadly broken and lacerated by his late journeys over the hard and flinty roads. "You belonged to a tinker before," said I, addressing the animal, "but now you belong to a smith. It is said that the household of the shoemaker invariably go worse shod than that of any other craft. That may be the case of those who make shoes of leather, but it shan't be said of the household of him who makes shoes of iron; at any rate it shan't be said of mine. I tell you what, my gry, whilst you continue with me, you shall both be better shod, and better fed, than you were with your last master." I am in the dingle making a petul; {267} and I must here observe, that whilst I am making a horse-shoe, the reader need not be surprised if I speak occasionally in the language of the lord of the horse-shoe--Mr. Petulengro. I have for some time past been plying the peshota, or bellows, endeavouring to raise up the yag, or fire, in my primitive forge. The angar, or coals, are now burning fiercely, casting forth sparks and long vagescoe chipes, {268a} or tongues of flame; a small bar of sastra, or iron, is lying in the fire, to the length of ten or twelve inches, and so far it is hot, very hot, exceeding hot, brother. And now you see me, prala, {268b} snatch the bar of iron, and place the heated end of it upon the covantza, {268c} or anvil, and forthwith I commence cooring {268d} the sastra as hard as if I had been just engaged by a master at the rate of dui caulor, or two shillings, a day, brother; and when I have beaten the iron till it is nearly cool, and my arm tired, I place it again in the angar, and begin again to rouse the fire with the pudamengro, which signifies the blowing thing, and is another and more common word for bellows; and whilst thus employed I sing a Gypsy song, the sound of which is wonderfully in unison with the hoarse moaning of the pudamengro, and ere the song is finished, the iron is again hot and malleable. Behold, I place it once more on the covantza, and recommence hammering; and now I am somewhat at fault; I am in want of assistance; I want you, brother, or some one else, to take the bar out of my hand and support it upon the covantza, whilst I, applying a chinomescro, or kind of chisel, to the heated iron, cut off with a lusty stroke or two of the shukaro {268e} baro, or big hammer, as much as is required for the petul. But having no one to help me, I go on hammering till I have fairly knocked off as much as I want, and then I place the piece in the fire, and again apply the bellows, and take up the song where I left it off; and when I have finished the song, I take out the iron, but this time with my plaistra, or pincers, and then I recommence hammering, turning the iron round and round with my pincers: and now I bend the iron, and, lo and behold! it has assumed something of the outline of a petul. I am not going to enter into farther details with respect to the process--it was rather a wearisome one. I had to contend with various disadvantages; my forge was a rude one, my tools might have been better; I was in want of one or two highly necessary implements, but, above all, manual dexterity. Though free of the forge, I had not practised the albeytarian art for very many years, never since--but stay, it is not my intention to tell the reader, at least in this place, how and when I became a blacksmith. There was one thing, however, which stood me in good stead in my labour, the same thing which through life has ever been of incalculable utility to me, and has not unfrequently supplied the place of friends, money, and many other things of almost equal importance--iron perseverance, without which all the advantages of time and circumstance are of very little avail in any undertaking. I was determined to make a horse-shoe, and a good one, in spite of every obstacle--ay, in spite of dukkerin. {269} At the end of four days, during which I had fashioned and refashioned the thing at least fifty times, I had made a petul such as no master of the craft need have been ashamed of; with the second shoe I had less difficulty, and, by the time I had made the fourth, I would have scorned to take off my hat to the best smith in Cheshire. But I had not yet shod my little gry: this I proceeded now to do. After having first well pared the hoofs with my churi, {270a} I applied each petul hot, glowing hot, to the pindro. {270b} Oh, how the hoofs hissed! and, oh, the pleasant pungent odour which diffused itself through the dingle!--an odour good for an ailing spirit. I shod the little horse bravely--merely pricked him once, slightly, with a cafi, {270c} for doing which, I remember, he kicked me down; I was not disconcerted, however, but, getting up, promised to be more cautious in future; and having finished the operation, I filed the hoof well with the rin baro, then dismissed him to graze amongst the trees, and, putting my smaller tools into the muchtar, I sat down on my stone, and, supporting my arm upon my knee, leaned my head upon my hand. Heaviness had come over me. CHAPTER LXXXIV Several Causes--Frogs and Efts--Gloom and Twilight--What should I Do?--"Our Father"--Fellow-men--What a Mercy!--Almost Calm--Fresh Store--History of Saul--Pitch Dark. Heaviness had suddenly come over me, heaviness of heart, and of body also. I had accomplished the task which I had imposed upon myself, and now that nothing more remained to do, my energies suddenly deserted me, and I felt without strength, and without hope. Several causes, perhaps, co-operated to bring about the state in which I then felt myself. It is not improbable that my energies had been overstrained during the work the progress of which I have attempted to describe; and every one is aware that the results of overstrained energies are feebleness and lassitude--want of nourishment might likewise have something to do with it. During my sojourn in the dingle, my food had been of the simplest and most unsatisfying description, by no means calculated to support the exertion which the labour I had been engaged upon required; it had consisted of coarse oaten cakes and hard cheese, and for beverage I had been indebted to a neighbouring pit, in which, in the heat of the day, I frequently saw, not golden or silver fish, but frogs and efts swimming about. I am, however, inclined to believe that Mrs. Herne's cake had quite as much to do with the matter as insufficient nourishment. I had never entirely recovered from the effects of its poison, but had occasionally, especially at night, been visited by a grinding pain in the stomach, and my whole body had been suffused with cold sweat; and indeed these memorials of the drow have never entirely disappeared--even at the present time they display themselves in my system, especially after much fatigue of body and excitement of mind. So there I sat in the dingle upon my stone, nerveless and hopeless, by whatever cause or causes that state had been produced--there I sat with my head leaning upon my hand, and so I continued a long, long time. At last I lifted my head from my hand, and began to cast anxious, unquiet looks about the dingle--the entire hollow was now enveloped in deep shade--I cast my eyes up; there was a golden gleam on the tops of the trees which grew towards the upper parts of the dingle; but lower down, all was gloom and twilight--yet, when I first sat down on my stone, the sun was right above the dingle, illuminating all its depths by the rays which it cast perpendicularly down--so I must have sat a long, long time upon my stone. And now, once more, I rested my head upon my hand, but almost instantly lifted it again in a kind of fear, and began looking at the objects before me--the forge, the tools, the branches of the trees, endeavouring to follow their rows, till they were lost in the darkness of the dingle; and now I found my right hand grasping convulsively the three fore fingers of the left, first collectively, and then successively, wringing them till the joints cracked; then I became quiet, but not for long. Suddenly I started up, and could scarcely repress the shriek which was rising to my lips. Was it possible? Yes, all too certain; the evil one was upon me; the inscrutable horror which I had felt in my boyhood had once more taken possession of me. I had thought that it had forsaken me--that it would never visit me again; that I had outgrown it; that I might almost bid defiance to it; and I had even begun to think of it without horror, as we are in the habit of doing of horrors of which we conceive we run no danger; and lo! when least thought of, it had seized me again. Every moment I felt it gathering force, and making me more wholly its own. What should I do?--resist, of course; and I did resist. I grasped, I tore, and strove to fling it from me; but of what avail were my efforts? I could only have got rid of it by getting rid of myself: it was a part of myself, or rather it was all myself. I rushed amongst the trees, and struck at them with my bare fists, and dashed my head against them, but I felt no pain. How could I feel pain with that horror upon me! And then I flung myself on the ground, gnawed the earth, and swallowed it; and then I looked round; it was almost total darkness in the dingle, and the darkness added to my horror. I could no longer stay there; up I rose from the ground, and attempted to escape. At the bottom of the winding path which led up the acclivity I fell over something which was lying on the ground; the something moved, and gave a kind of whine. It was my little horse, which had made that place its lair; my little horse; my only companion and friend in that now awful solitude. I reached the mouth of the dingle; the sun was just sinking in the far west behind me, the fields were flooded with his last gleams. How beautiful everything looked in the last gleams of the sun! I felt relieved for a moment; I was no longer in the horrid dingle. In another minute the sun was gone, and a big cloud occupied the place where he had been: in a little time it was almost as dark as it had previously been in the open part of the dingle. My horror increased; what was I to do?--it was of no use fighting against the horror--that I saw; the more I fought against it, the stronger it became. What should I do: say my prayers? Ah! why not? So I knelt down under the hedge, and said, "Our Father"; but that was of no use; and now I could no longer repress cries--the horror was too great to be borne. What should I do? run to the nearest town or village, and request the assistance of my fellow-men? No! that I was ashamed to do; notwithstanding the horror was upon me, I was ashamed to do that. I knew they would consider me a maniac, if I went screaming amongst them; and I did not wish to be considered a maniac. Moreover, I knew that I was not a maniac, for I possessed all my reasoning powers, only the horror was upon me--the screaming horror! But how were indifferent people to distinguish between madness and the screaming horror? So I thought and reasoned; and at last I determined not to go amongst my fellow-men, whatever the result might be. I went to the mouth of the dingle, and there, placing myself on my knees, I again said the Lord's Prayer; but it was of no use--praying seemed to have no effect over the horror; the unutterable fear appeared rather to increase than diminish, and I again uttered wild cries, so loud that I was apprehensive they would be heard by some chance passenger on the neighbouring road; I therefore went deeper into the dingle. I sat down with my back against a thorn bush; the thorns entered my flesh, and when I felt them, I pressed harder against the bush; I thought the pain of the flesh might in some degree counteract the mental agony; presently I felt them no longer--the power of the mental horror was so great that it was impossible, with that upon me, to feel any pain from the thorns. I continued in this posture a long time, undergoing what I cannot describe, and would not attempt if I were able. Several times I was on the point of starting up and rushing anywhere; but I restrained myself, for I knew I could not escape from myself, so why should I not remain in the dingle? So I thought and said to myself, for my reasoning powers were still uninjured. At last it appeared to me that the horror was not so strong, not quite so strong upon me. Was it possible that it was relaxing its grasp, releasing its prey? Oh what a mercy! but it could not be; and yet--I looked up to heaven, and clasped my hands, and said, "Our Father." I said no more--I was too agitated; and now I was almost sure that the horror had done its worst. After a little time I arose, and staggered down yet farther into the dingle. I again found my little horse on the same spot as before. I put my hand to his mouth--he licked my hand. I flung myself down by him, and put my arms round his neck; the creature whinnied, and appeared to sympathise with me. What a comfort to have any one, even a dumb brute, to sympathise with me at such a moment! I clung to my little horse, as if for safety and protection. I laid my head on his neck, and felt almost calm. Presently the fear returned, but not so wild as before; it subsided, came again, again subsided; then drowsiness came over me, and at last I fell asleep, my head supported on the neck of the little horse. I awoke; it was dark, dark night--not a star was to be seen--but I felt no fear, the horror had left me. I arose from the side of the little horse, and went into my tent, lay down, and again went to sleep. I awoke in the morning weak and sore, and shuddering at the remembrance of what I had gone through on the preceding day; the sun was shining brightly, but it had not yet risen high enough to show its head above the trees which fenced the eastern side of the dingle, on which account the dingle was wet and dank, from the dews of the night. I kindled my fire, and, after sitting by it for some time to warm my frame, I took some of the coarse food which I have already mentioned; notwithstanding my late struggle, and the coarseness of the fare, I ate with appetite. My provisions had by this time been very much diminished, and I saw that it would be speedily necessary, in the event of my continuing to reside in the dingle, to lay in a fresh store. After my meal, I went to the pit and filled a can with water, which I brought to the dingle, and then again sat down on my stone. I considered what I should next do: it was necessary to do something, or my life in this solitude would be insupportable. What should I do? rouse up my forge and fashion a horse- shoe? But I wanted nerve and heart for such an employment; moreover, I had no motive for fatiguing myself in this manner; my own horse was shod, no other was at hand, and it is hard to work for the sake of working. What should I do? read? Yes, but I had no other book than the Bible which the Welsh Methodist had given me. Well, why not read the Bible? I was once fond of reading the Bible; ay, but those days were long gone by. However, I did not see what else I could well do on the present occasion--so I determined to read the Bible--it was in Welsh; at any rate it might amuse me. So I took the Bible out of the sack, in which it was lying in the cart, and began to read at the place where I chanced to open it. I opened it at that part where the history of Saul commences. At first I read with indifference, but after some time my attention was riveted, and no wonder, I had come to the visitations of Saul--those dark moments of his, when he did and said such unaccountable things; it almost appeared to me that I was reading of myself; I, too, had my visitations, dark as ever his were. Oh, how I sympathised with Saul, the tall dark man! I had read his life before, but it had made no impression on me; it had never occurred to me that I was like him; but I now sympathised with Saul, for my own dark hour was but recently passed, and, perhaps, would soon return again; the dark hour came frequently on Saul. Time wore away; I finished the book of Saul, and, closing the volume, returned it to its place. I then returned to my seat on the stone, and thought of what I had read, and what I had lately undergone. All at once I thought I felt well-known sensations, a cramping of the breast, and a tingling of the soles of the feet; they were what I had felt on the preceding day--they were the forerunners of the fear. I sat motionless on my stone, the sensations passed away, and the fear came not. Darkness was now coming again over the earth; the dingle was again in deep shade; I roused the fire with the breath of the bellows, and sat looking at the cheerful glow; it was cheering and comforting. My little horse came now and lay down on the ground beside the forge; I was not quite deserted. I again ate some of the coarse food, and drank plentifully of the water which I had fetched in the morning. I then put fresh fuel on the fire, and sat for a long time looking on the blaze; I then went into my tent. I awoke, on my own calculation, about midnight--it was pitch dark, and there was much fear upon me. CHAPTER LXXXV Free and Independent--I Don't See Why--Oats--A Noise--Unwelcome Visitors--What's the Matter?--Good Day to Ye--The Tall Girl--Dovrefeld--Blow on the Face--Civil Enough--What's This?--Vulgar Woman--Hands off--Gasping for Breath--Long Melford--A Pretty Manoeuvre--A Long Draught--Signs of Animation--It Won't Do--No Malice--Bad People. Two mornings after the period to which I have brought the reader in the preceding chapter, I sat by my fire at the bottom of the dingle; I had just breakfasted, and had finished the last morsel of food which I had brought with me to that solitude. "What shall I now do?" said I to myself; "shall I continue here, or decamp?--this is a sad lonely spot--perhaps I had better quit it; but whither shall I go? the wide world is before me, but what can I do therein? I have been in the world already without much success. No, I had better remain here; the place is lonely, it is true, but here I am free and independent, and can do what I please; but I can't remain here without food. Well, I will find my way to the nearest town, lay in a fresh supply of provision, and come back, turning my back upon the world, which has turned its back upon me. I don't see why I should not write a little sometimes; I have pens and an ink-horn, and for a writing-desk I can place the Bible on my knee. I shouldn't wonder if I could write a capital satire on the world on the back of that Bible; but, first of all, I must think of supplying myself with food." I rose up from the stone on which I was seated, determining to go to the nearest town, with my little horse and cart, and procure what I wanted. The nearest town, according to my best calculation, lay about five miles distant; I had no doubt, however, that, by using ordinary diligence, I should be back before evening. In order to go lighter, I determined to leave my tent standing as it was, and all the things which I had purchased of the tinker, just as they were. "I need not be apprehensive on their account," said I to myself; "nobody will come here to meddle with them--the great recommendation of this place is its perfect solitude--I dare say that I could live here six months without seeing a single human visage. I will now harness my little gry and be off to the town." At a whistle which I gave, the little gry, {280} which was feeding on the bank near the uppermost part of the dingle, came running to me, for by this time he had become so accustomed to me, that he would obey my call, for all the world as if he had been one of the canine species. "Now," said I to him, "we are going to the town to buy bread for myself, and oats for you--I am in a hurry to be back; therefore, I pray you to do your best, and to draw me and the cart to the town with all possible speed, and to bring us back; if you do your best, I promise you oats on your return. You know the meaning of oats, Ambrol?" Ambrol whinnied as if to let me know that he understood me perfectly well, as indeed he well might, as I had never once fed him during the time that he had been in my possession without saying the word in question to him. Now, Ambrol, in the Gypsy tongue, signifieth a pear. So I caparisoned Ambrol, and then, going to the cart, I removed two or three things from it into the tent; I then lifted up the shafts, and was just going to call to the pony to come and be fastened to them, when I thought I heard a noise. I stood stock still, supporting the shaft of the little cart in my hand, and bending the right side of my face slightly towards the ground, but I could hear nothing; the noise which I thought I had heard was not one of those sounds which I was accustomed to hear in that solitude--the note of a bird, or the rustling of a bough; it was--there I heard it again, a sound very much resembling the grating of a wheel amongst gravel. Could it proceed from the road? Oh no, the road was too far distant for me to hear the noise of anything moving along it. Again I listened, and now I distinctly heard the sound of wheels, which seemed to be approaching the dingle; nearer and nearer they drew, and presently the sound of wheels was blended with the murmur of voices. Anon I heard a boisterous shout, which seemed to proceed from the entrance of the dingle. "Here are folks at hand," said I, letting the shaft of the cart fall to the ground, "is it possible that they can be coming here?" My doubts on that point, if I entertained any, were soon dispelled; the wheels, which had ceased moving for a moment or two, were once again in motion, and were now evidently moving down the winding path which led to my retreat. Leaving my cart, I came forward and placed myself near the entrance of the open space, with my eyes fixed on the path down which my unexpected, and I may say unwelcome, visitors were coming. Presently I heard a stamping or sliding, as if of a horse in some difficulty; then a loud curse, and the next moment appeared a man and a horse and cart; the former holding the head of the horse up to prevent him from falling, of which he was in danger, owing to the precipitous nature of the path. Whilst thus occupied, the head of the man was averted from me. When, however, he had reached the bottom of the descent, he turned his head, and perceiving me, as I stood bareheaded, without either coat or waistcoat, about two yards from him, he gave a sudden start, so violent, that the backward motion of his hand had nearly flung the horse upon his haunches. "Why don't you move forward?" said a voice from behind, apparently that of a female; "you are stopping up the way, and we shall be all down upon one another;" and I saw the head of another horse overtopping the back of the cart. "Why don't you move forward, Jack?" said another voice, also of a female, yet higher up the path. The man stirred not, but remained staring at me in the posture which he had assumed on first perceiving me, his body very much drawn back, his left foot far in advance of his right, and with his right hand still grasping the halter of the horse, which gave way more and more, till it was clean down on its haunches. "What's the matter?" said the voice which I had last heard. "Get back with you, Belle, Moll," said the man, still staring at me, "here's something not over canny or comfortable." "What is it?" said the same voice; "let me pass, Moll, and I'll soon clear the way;" and I heard a kind of rushing down the path. "You need not be afraid," said I, addressing myself to the man. "I mean you no harm; I am a wanderer like yourself--come here to seek for shelter--you need not be afraid; I am a Roman chabo {283} by matriculation--one of the right sort, and no mistake--Good day to ye, brother; I bid ye welcome." The man eyed me suspiciously for a moment--then, turning to his horse with a loud curse, he pulled him up from his haunches, and led him and the cart farther down to one side of the dingle, muttering, as he passed me, "Afraid! Hm!" I do not remember ever to have seen a more ruffianly looking fellow; he was about six feet high, with an immensely athletic frame; his face was black and bluff, and sported an immense pair of whiskers, but with here and there a grey hair, for his age could not be much under fifty. He wore a faded blue frock-coat, corduroys, and highlows; on his black head was a kind of red nightcap, round his bull neck a Barcelona handkerchief--I did not like the look of the man at all. "Afraid!" growled the fellow, proceeding to unharness his horse; "that was the word, I think." But other figures were now already upon the scene. Dashing past the other horse and cart, which by this time had reached the bottom of the pass, appeared an exceedingly tall woman, or rather girl, for she could scarcely have been above eighteen; she was dressed in a tight bodice and a blue stuff gown; hat, bonnet, or cap she had none, and her hair, which was flaxen, hung down on her shoulders unconfined; her complexion was fair, and her features handsome, with a determined but open expression--she was followed by another female, about forty, stout and vulgar looking, at whom I scarcely glanced, my whole attention being absorbed by the tall girl. "What's the matter, Jack?" said the latter, looking at the man. "Only afraid, that's all," said the man, still proceeding with his work. "Afraid at what--at that lad? why, he looks like a ghost--I would engage to thrash him with one hand." "You might beat me with no hands at all," said I, "fair damsel, only by looking at me--I never saw such a face and figure, both regal--why, you look like Ingeborg, Queen of Norway; she had twelve brothers, you know, and could lick them all, though they were heroes:-- 'On Dovrefeld in Norway, Were once together seen, The twelve heroic brothers Of Ingeborg the queen.'" "None of your chaffing, young fellow," said the tall girl, "or I will give you what shall make you wipe your face; be civil, or you will rue it." "Well, perhaps I was a peg too high," said I; "I ask your pardon--here's something a bit lower:-- 'As I was jawing to the gav yeck divvus I met on the drom miro Rommany chi--'" {285} "None of your Rommany chies, young fellow," said the tall girl, looking more menacingly than before, and clenching her fist; "you had better be civil, I am none of your chies; and though I keep company with Gypsies, or, to speak more proper, half-and-halfs, I would have you to know that I come of Christian blood and parents, and was born in the great house of Long Melford." "I have no doubt," said I, "that it was a great house; judging from your size I shouldn't wonder if you were born in a church." "Stay, Belle," said the man, putting himself before the young virago, who was about to rush upon me, "my turn is first"--then, advancing to me in a menacing attitude, he said, with a look of deep malignity, "'Afraid' was the word, wasn't it?" "It was," said I, "but I think I wronged you; I should have said, aghast, you exhibited every symptom of one labouring under uncontrollable fear." The fellow stared at me with a look of stupid ferocity, and appeared to be hesitating whether to strike or not: ere he could make up his mind, the tall girl started forward, crying, "He's chaffing; let me at him;" and before I could put myself on my guard, she struck me a blow on the face which had nearly brought me to the ground. "Enough," said I, putting my hand to my cheek; "you have now performed your promise, and made me wipe my face: now be pacified, and tell me fairly the grounds of this quarrel." "Grounds!" said the fellow; "didn't you say I was afraid; and if you hadn't, who gave you leave to camp on my ground?" "Is it your ground?" said I. "A pretty question," said the fellow; "as if all the world didn't know that. Do you know who I am?" "I guess I do," said I; "unless I am much mistaken, you are he whom folks call the 'Flaming Tinman.' To tell you the truth, I'm glad we have met, for I wished to see you. These are your two wives, I suppose; I greet them. There's no harm done--there's room enough here for all of us--we shall soon be good friends, I dare say; and when we are a little better acquainted, I'll tell you my history." "Well, if that doesn't beat all!" said the fellow. "I don't think he's chaffing now," said the girl, whose anger seemed to have subsided on a sudden; "the young man speaks civil enough." "Civil!" said the fellow, with an oath; "but that's just like you; with you it is a blow, and all over. Civil! I suppose you would have him stay here, and get into all my secrets, and hear all I may have to say to my two morts." "Two morts!" said the girl, kindling up, "where are they? Speak for one, and no more. I am no mort of yours, whatever some one else may be. I tell you one thing, Black John, or Anselo,--for t'other a'n't your name,--the same thing I told the young man here, be civil, or you will rue it." The fellow looked at the girl furiously, but his glance soon quailed before hers; he withdrew his eyes, and cast them on my little horse, which was feeding amongst the trees. "What's this?" said he, rushing forward and seizing the animal. "Why, as I am alive, this is the horse of that mumping villain Slingsby." "It's his no longer; I bought it and paid for it." "It's mine now," said the fellow; "I swore I would seize it the next time I found it on my beat; ay, and beat the master too." "I am not Slingsby." "All's one for that." "You don't say you will beat me?" "Afraid was the word." "I'm sick and feeble." "Hold up your fists." "Won't the horse satisfy you?" "Horse nor bellows either." "No mercy, then?" "Here's at you." "Mind your eyes, Jack. There, you've got it. I thought so," shouted the girl, as the fellow staggered back from a sharp blow in the eye; "I thought he was chaffing at you all along." "Never mind, Anselo. You know what to do--go in," said the vulgar woman, who had hitherto not spoken a word, but who now came forward with all the look of a fury; "go inapopli; {287} you'll smash ten like he." The Flaming Tinman took her advice, and came in bent on smashing, but stopped short on receiving a left-handed blow on the nose. "You'll never beat the Flaming Tinman in that way," said the girl, looking at me doubtfully. And so I began to think myself, when, in the twinkling of an eye, the Flaming Tinman, disengaging himself of his frock-coat, and dashing off his red nightcap, came rushing in more desperately than ever. To a flush hit which he received in the mouth he paid as little attention as a wild bull would have done; in a moment his arms were around me, and in another he had hurled me down, falling heavily upon me. The fellow's strength appeared to be tremendous. "Pay him off now," said the vulgar woman. The Flaming Tinman made no reply, but, planting his knee on my breast, seized my throat with two huge horny hands. I gave myself up for dead, and probably should have been so in another minute but for the tall girl, who caught hold of the handkerchief which the fellow wore round his neck, with a grasp nearly as powerful as that with which he pressed my throat. "Do you call that fair play?" said she. "Hands off, Belle," said the other woman; "do you call it fair play to interfere? hands off, or I'll be down upon you myself." But Belle paid no heed to the injunction, and tugged so hard at the handkerchief, that the Flaming Tinman was nearly throttled; suddenly relinquishing his hold of me, he started on his feet, and aimed a blow at my fair preserver, who avoided it, but said coolly-- "Finish t'other business first, and then I'm your woman whenever you like; but finish it fairly--no foul play when I'm by--I'll be the boy's second, and Moll can pick up you when he happens to knock you down." The battle during the next ten minutes raged with considerable fury, but it so happened that during this time I was never able to knock the Flaming Tinman down, but on the contrary received six knock-down blows myself. "I can never stand this," said I, as I sat on the knee of Belle, "I am afraid I must give in; the Flaming Tinman hits very hard," and I spat out a mouthful of blood. "Sure enough you'll never beat the Flaming Tinman in the way you fight--it's of no use flipping at the Flaming Tinman with your left hand; why don't you use your right?" "Because I'm not handy with it," said I; and then getting up, I once more confronted the Flaming Tinman, and struck him six blows for his one, but they were all left-handed blows, and the blow which the Flaming Tinman gave me knocked me off my legs. "Now, will you use Long Melford?" said Belle, picking me up. "I don't know what you mean by Long Melford," said I, gasping for breath. "Why, this long right of yours," said Belle, feeling my right arm; "if you do, I shouldn't wonder if you yet stand a chance." And now the Flaming Tinman was once more ready, much more ready than myself. I, however, rose from my second's knee as well as my weakness would permit me. On he came, striking left and right, appearing almost as fresh as to wind and spirit as when he first commenced the combat, though his eyes were considerably swelled, and his nether lip was cut in two; on he came, striking left and right, and I did not like his blows at all, or even the wind of them, which was anything but agreeable, and I gave way before him. At last he aimed a blow which, had it taken full effect, would doubtless have ended the battle, but owing to his slipping, the fist only grazed my left shoulder, and came with terrific force against a tree, close to which I had been driven; before the Tinman could recover himself, I collected all my strength, and struck him beneath the ear, and then fell to the ground completely exhausted; and it so happened that the blow which I struck the tinker beneath the ear was a right-handed blow. "Hurrah for Long Melford!" I heard Belle exclaim; "there is nothing like Long Melford for shortness, all the world over." At these words I turned round my head as I lay, and perceived the Flaming Tinman stretched upon the ground apparently senseless. "He is dead," said the vulgar woman, as she vainly endeavoured to raise him up; "he is dead; the best man in all the north country, killed in this fashion, by a boy!" Alarmed at these words, I made shift to get on my feet; and, with the assistance of the woman, placed my fallen adversary in a sitting posture. I put my hand to his heart, and felt a slight pulsation--"He's not dead," said I, "only stunned; if he were let blood, he would recover presently." I produced a penknife which I had in my pocket, and, baring the arm of the Tinman, was about to make the necessary incision, when the woman gave me a violent blow, and, pushing me aside, exclaimed, "I'll tear the eyes out of your head, if you offer to touch him. Do you want to complete your work, and murder him outright, now he's asleep? you have had enough of his blood already." "You are mad," said I; "I only seek to do him service. Well, if you won't let him be blooded, fetch some water and fling it in his face; you know where the pit is." "A pretty manoeuvre!" said the woman; "leave my husband in the hands of you and that limmer, who has never been true to us--I should find him strangled or his throat cut when I came back." "Do you go," said I to the tall girl; "take the can and fetch some water from the pit." "You had better go yourself," said the girl, wiping a tear as she looked on the yet senseless form of the tinker; "you had better go yourself, if you think water will do him good." I had by this time somewhat recovered my exhausted powers, and, taking the can, I bent my steps as fast as I could to the pit; arriving there, I lay down on the brink, took a long draught, and then plunged my head into the water; after which I filled the can, and bent my way back to the dingle. Before I could reach the path which led down into its depths, I had to pass some way along its side; I had arrived at a part immediately over the scene of the last encounter, where the bank, overgrown with trees, sloped precipitously down. Here I heard a loud sound of voices in the dingle; I stopped, and laying hold of a tree, leaned over the bank and listened. The two women appeared to be in hot dispute in the dingle. "It was all owing to you, you limmer," said the vulgar woman to the other; "had you not interfered, the old man would soon have settled the boy." "I'm for fair play and Long Melford," said the other. "If your old man, as you call him, could have settled the boy fairly, he might for all I should have cared, but no foul work for me; and as for sticking the boy with our gulleys when he comes back, as you proposed, I am not so fond of your old man or you that I should oblige you in it, to my soul's destruction." "Hold your tongue, or I'll . . . " I listened no farther, but hastened as fast as I could to the dingle. My adversary had just begun to show signs of animation; the vulgar woman was still supporting him, and occasionally cast glances of anger at the tall girl, who was walking slowly up and down. I lost no time in dashing the greater part of the water into the Tinman's face, whereupon he sneezed, moved his hands, and presently looked round him. At first his looks were dull and heavy, and without any intelligence at all; he soon, however, began to recollect himself, and to be conscious of his situation; he cast a scowling glance at me, then one of the deepest malignity at the tall girl, who was still walking about without taking much notice of what was going forward. At last he looked at his right hand, which had evidently suffered from the blow against the tree, and a half-stifled curse escaped his lips. The vulgar woman now said something to him in a low tone, whereupon he looked at her for a moment, and then got upon his legs. Again the vulgar woman said something to him; her looks were furious, and she appeared to be urging him on to attempt something. I observed that she had a clasped knife in her hand. The fellow remained standing for some time as if hesitating what to do; at last he looked at his hand, and, shaking his head, said something to the woman which I did not understand. The tall girl, however, appeared to overhear him, and, probably repeating his words, said, "No, it won't do; you are right there; and now hear what I have to say,--let bygones be bygones, and let us all shake hands, and camp here, as the young man was saying just now." The man looked at her, and then, without any reply, went to his horse, which was lying down among the trees, and kicking it up, led it to the cart, to which he forthwith began to harness it. The other cart and horse had remained standing motionless during the whole affair which I have been recounting, at the bottom of the pass. The woman now took the horse by the head, and leading it with the cart into the open part of the dingle, turned both round, and then led them back, till the horse and cart had mounted a little way up the ascent; she then stood still and appeared to be expecting the man. During this proceeding Belle had stood looking on without saying anything; at last, perceiving that the man had harnessed his horse to the other cart, and that both he and the woman were about to take their departure, she said, "You are not going, are you?" Receiving no answer, she continued: "I tell you what, both of you, Black John, and you Moll, his mort, {293} this is not treating me over civilly,--however, I am ready to put up with it, and to go with you if you like, for I bear no malice. I'm sorry for what has happened, but you have only yourselves to thank for it. Now, shall I go with you, only tell me?" The man made no manner of reply, but flogged his horse. The woman, however, whose passions were probably under less control, replied, with a screeching tone, "Stay where you are, you jade, and may the curse of Judas cling to you,--stay with the bit of a mullo {294a} whom you helped, and my only hope is that he may gulley {294b} you before he comes to be . . . Have you with us, indeed! after what's past! no, nor nothing belonging to you. Fetch down your mailla {294c} go-cart and live here with your chabo." She then whipped on the horse, and ascended the pass, followed by the man. The carts were light, and they were not long in ascending the winding path. I followed to see that they took their departure. Arriving at the top, I found near the entrance a small donkey- cart, which I concluded belonged to the girl. The tinker and his mort were already at some distance; I stood looking after them for a little time, then taking the donkey by the reins I led it with the cart to the bottom of the dingle. Arrived there, I found Belle seated on the stone by the fireplace. Her hair was all dishevelled, and she was in tears. "They were bad people," said she, "and I did not like them, but they were my only acquaintance in the wide world." CHAPTER LXXXVI At Tea--Vapours--Isopel Berners--Softly and Kindly--Sweet Pretty Creature--Bread and Water--Two Sailors--Truth and Constancy--Very Strangely. In the evening of that same day the tall girl and I sat at tea by the fire, at the bottom of the dingle; the girl on a small stool, and myself, as usual, upon my stone. The water which served for the tea had been taken from a spring of pellucid water in the neighbourhood, which I had not had the good fortune to discover, though it was well known to my companion, and to the wandering people who frequented the dingle. "This tea is very good," said I, "but I cannot enjoy it as much as if I were well: I feel very sadly." "How else should you feel," said the girl, "after fighting with the Flaming Tinman? All I wonder at is that you can feel at all! As for the tea, it ought to be good, seeing that it cost me ten shillings a pound." "That's a great deal for a person in your station to pay." "In my station! I'd have you to know, young man--however, I haven't the heart to quarrel with you, you look so ill; and after all, it is a good sum for one to pay who travels the roads; but if I must have tea, I like to have the best; and tea I must have, for I am used to it, though I can't help thinking that it sometimes fills my head with strange fancies--what some folks call vapours, making me weep and cry." "Dear me," said I, "I should never have thought that one of your size and fierceness would weep and cry!" "My size and fierceness! I tell you what, young man, you are not over civil this evening; but you are ill, as I said before, and I shan't take much notice of your language, at least for the present; as for my size, I am not so much bigger than yourself; and as for being fierce, you should be the last one to fling that at me. It is well for you that I can be fierce sometimes. If I hadn't taken your part against Blazing Bosville, you wouldn't be now taking tea with me." "It is true that you struck me in the face first; but we'll let that pass. So that man's name is Bosville; what's your own?" "Isopel Berners." "How did you get that name?" "I say, young man, you seem fond of asking questions: will you have another cup of tea?" "I was just going to ask for another." "Well, then, here it is, and much good may it do you; as for my name, I got it from my mother." "Your mother's name, then, was Isopel?" "Isopel Berners." "But had you never a father?" "Yes, I had a father," said the girl, sighing, "but I don't bear his name." "Is it the fashion, then, in your country for children to bear their mother's name?" "If you ask such questions, young man, I shall be angry with you. I have told you my name, and, whether my father's or mother's, I am not ashamed of it." "It is a noble name." "There you are right, young man. The chaplain in the great house, where I was born, told me it was a noble name; it was odd enough, he said, that the only three noble names in the county were to be found in the great house; mine was one; the other two were Devereux and Bohun." "What do you mean by the great house?" "The workhouse." "Is it possible that you were born there?" "Yes, young man; and as you now speak softly and kindly, I will tell you my whole tale. My father was an officer of the sea, and was killed at sea as he was coming home to marry my mother, Isopel Berners. He had been acquainted with her, and had left her; but after a few months he wrote her a letter, to say that he had no rest, and that he repented, and that as soon as his ship came to port he would do her all the reparation in his power. Well, young man, the very day before they reached port they met the enemy, and there was a fight, and my father was killed, after he had struck down six of the enemy's crew on their own deck; for my father was a big man, as I have heard, and knew tolerably well how to use his hands. And when my mother heard the news, she became half distracted, and ran away into the fields and forests, totally neglecting her business, for she was a small milliner; and so she ran demented about the meads and forests for a long time, now sitting under a tree, and now by the side of a river--at last she flung herself into some water, and would have been drowned, had not some one been at hand and rescued her, whereupon she was conveyed to the great house, lest she should attempt to do herself farther mischief, for she had neither friends nor parents--and there she died three months after, having first brought me into the world. She was a sweet pretty creature, I'm told, but hardly fit for this world, being neither large, nor fierce, nor able to take her own part. So I was born and bred in the great house, where I learnt to read and sew, to fear God, and to take my own part. When I was fourteen I was put out to service to a small farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not stay long, for I was half starved, and otherwise ill-treated, especially by my mistress, who one day attempting to knock me down with a besom, I knocked her down with my fist, and went back to the great house." "And how did they receive you in the great house?" "Not very kindly, young man--on the contrary, I was put into a dark room, where I was kept a fortnight on bread and water; I did not much care, however, being glad to have got back to the great house at any rate--the place where I was born, and where my poor mother died; and in the great house I continued two years longer, reading and sewing, fearing God, and taking my own part when necessary. At the end of the two years I was again put out to service, but this time to a rich farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not live long, less time, I believe, than with the poor ones, being obliged to leave for--" "Knocking your mistress down?" "No, young man, knocking my master down, who conducted himself improperly towards me. This time I did not go back to the great house, having a misgiving that they would not receive me; so I turned my back to the great house where I was born, and where my poor mother died, and wandered for several days I know not whither, supporting myself on a few halfpence which I chanced to have in my pocket. It happened one day, as I sat under a hedge crying, having spent my last farthing, that a comfortable- looking elderly woman came up in a cart, and seeing the state in which I was, she stopped and asked what was the matter with me; I told her some part of my story, whereupon she said, 'Cheer up, my dear; if you like, you shall go with me, and wait upon me.' Of course I wanted little persuasion, so I got into the cart and went with her. She took me to London and various other places, and I soon found that she was a travelling woman, who went about the country with silks and linen. I was of great use to her, more especially in those places where we met evil company. Once, as we were coming from Dover, we were met by two sailors, who stopped our cart, and would have robbed and stripped us. 'Let me get down,' said I; so I got down, and fought with them both, till they turned round and ran away. Two years I lived with the old gentlewoman, who was very kind to me, almost as kind as a mother; at last she fell sick at a place in Lincolnshire, and after a few days died, leaving me her cart and stock in trade, praying me only to see her decently buried--which I did, giving her a funeral fit for a gentlewoman. After which I travelled the country--melancholy enough for want of company, but so far fortunate, that I could take my own part when anybody was uncivil to me. At last, passing through the valley of Todmorden, I formed the acquaintance of Blazing Bosville and his wife, with whom I occasionally took journeys for company's sake, for it is melancholy to travel about alone, even when one can take one's own part. I soon found they were evil people; but, upon the whole, they treated me civilly, and I sometimes lent them a little money, so that we got on tolerably well together. He and I, it is true, had once a dispute, and nearly came to blows; for once, when we were alone, he wanted me to marry him, promising, if I would, to turn off Grey Moll, or, if I liked it better, to make her wait upon me as a maid-servant; I never liked him much, but from that hour less than ever. Of the two, I believe Grey Moll to be the best, for she is at any rate true and faithful to him, and I like truth and constancy--don't you, young man?" "Yes," said I, "they are very nice things. I feel very strangely." "How do you feel, young man?" "Very much afraid." "Afraid, at what? At the Flaming Tinman? Don't be afraid of him. He won't come back, and if he did, he shouldn't touch you in this state; I'd fight him for you; but he won't come back, so you needn't be afraid of him." "I'm not afraid of the Flaming Tinman." "What, then, are you afraid of?" "The evil one." "The evil one!" said the girl; "where is he?" "Coming upon me." "Never heed," said the girl, "I'll stand by you." CHAPTER LXXXVII Hubbub of Voices--No Offence--Nodding--The Guests. The kitchen of the public-house was a large one, and many people were drinking in it; there was a confused hubbub of voices. I sat down on a bench behind a deal table, of which there were three or four in the kitchen; presently a bulky man, in a green coat of the Newmarket cut, and without a hat, entered, and observing me, came up, and in rather a gruff tone cried, "Want anything, young fellow?" "Bring me a jug of ale," said I, "if you are the master, as I suppose you are, by that same coat of yours, and your having no hat on your head." "Don't be saucy, young fellow," said the landlord, for such he was; "don't be saucy, or . . . " Whatever he intended to say he left unsaid, for fixing his eyes upon one of my hands, which I had placed by chance upon the table, he became suddenly still. This was my left hand, which was raw and swollen, from the blows dealt on a certain hard skull in a recent combat. "What do you mean by staring at my hand so?" said I, withdrawing it from the table. "No offence, young man, no offence," said the landlord, in a quite altered tone; "but the sight of your hand . . . " then observing that our conversation began to attract the notice of the guests in the kitchen, he interrupted himself, saying in an undertone, "But mum's the word for the present, I will go and fetch the ale." In about a minute he returned, with a jug of ale foaming high. "Here's your health," said he, blowing off the foam, and drinking; but perceiving that I looked rather dissatisfied, he murmured, "All's right, I glory in you; but mum's the word." Then placing the jug on the table, he gave me a confidential nod, and swaggered out of the room. What can the silly impertinent fellow mean, thought I; but the ale was now before me, and I hastened to drink, for my weakness was great, and my mind was full of dark thoughts, the remains of the indescribable horror of the preceding night. It may kill me, thought I, as I drank deep--but who cares? anything is better than what I have suffered. I drank deep, and then leaned back against the wall: it appeared as if a vapour was stealing up into my brain, gentle and benign, soothing and stilling the horror and the fear; higher and higher it mounted, and I felt nearly overcome; but the sensation was delicious, compared with that I had lately experienced, and now I felt myself nodding; and, bending down, I laid my head on the table on my folded hands. And in that attitude I remained some time, perfectly unconscious. At length, by degrees, perception returned, and I lifted up my head. I felt somewhat dizzy and bewildered, but the dark shadow had withdrawn itself from me. And now once more I drank of the jug; this second draught did not produce an overpowering effect upon me--it revived and strengthened me--I felt a new man. I looked around me; the kitchen had been deserted by the greater part of the guests; besides myself, only four remained; these were seated at the farther end. One was haranguing fiercely and eagerly; he was abusing England, and praising America. At last he exclaimed, "So when I gets to New York, I will toss up my hat, and damn the King." That man must be a Radical, thought I. CHAPTER LXXXVIII A Radical--Simple-looking Man--Church of England--The President--Aristocracy--Gin and Water--Mending the Roads--Persecuting Church--Simon de Montfort--Broken Bells--Get Up--Not for the Pope--Quay of New York--Mumpers' Dingle--No Wish to Fight--First Draught--A Poor Pipe--Half-a-crown Broke. The individual whom I supposed to be a Radical, after a short pause, again uplifted his voice; he was rather a strong-built fellow of about thirty, with an ill-favoured countenance, a white hat on his head, a snuff-coloured coat on his back, and, when he was not speaking, a pipe in his mouth. "Who would live in such a country as England?" he shouted. "There is no country like America," said his nearest neighbour, a man also in a white hat, and of a very ill-favoured countenance--"there is no country like America," said he, withdrawing a pipe from his mouth; "I think I shall"--and here he took a draught from a jug, the contents of which he appeared to have in common with the other--"go to America one of these days myself." "Poor old England is not such a bad country, after all," said a third, a simple-looking man in a labouring dress, who sat smoking a pipe without anything before him. "If there was but a little more work to be got, I should have nothing to say against her; I hope, however--" "You hope! who cares what you hope?" interrupted the first, in a savage tone; "you are one of those sneaking hounds who are satisfied with dogs' wages--a bit of bread and a kick. Work, indeed! who, with the spirit of a man, would work for a country where there is neither liberty of speech, nor of action? a land full of beggarly aristocracy, hungry borough-mongers, insolent parsons, and 'their . . . wives and daughters,' as William Cobbett says, in his 'Register.'" "Ah, the Church of England has been a source of incalculable mischief to these realms," said another. The person who uttered these words sat rather aloof from the rest; he was dressed in a long black surtout. I could not see much of his face, partly owing to his keeping it very much directed to the ground, and partly owing to a large slouched hat which he wore; I observed, however, that his hair was of a reddish tinge. On the table near him was a glass and spoon. "You are quite right," said the first, alluding to what this last had said, "the Church of England has done incalculable mischief here. I value no religion three halfpence, for I believe in none; but the one that I hate most is the Church of England; so when I get to New York, after I have shown the fine fellows on the quay a spice of me, by --- the King, I'll toss up my hat again, and --- the Church of England too." "And suppose the people of New York should clap you in the stocks?" said I. These words drew upon me the attention of the whole four. The Radical and his companion stared at me ferociously; the man in black gave me a peculiar glance from under his slouched hat; the simple-looking man in the labouring dress laughed. "What are you laughing at, you fool?" said the Radical, turning and looking at the other, who appeared to be afraid of him; "hold your noise; and a pretty fellow, you," said he, looking at me, "to come here, and speak against the great American nation." "I speak against the great American nation!" said I; "I rather paid them a compliment." "By supposing they would put me in the stocks! Well, I call it abusing them, to suppose they would do any such thing--stocks, indeed!--there are no stocks in all the land. Put me in the stocks! why, the President will come down to the quay, and ask me to dinner, as soon as he hears what I have said about the King and Church." "I shouldn't wonder," said I, "if you go to America you will say of the President and country, what now you say of the King and Church, and cry out for somebody to send you back to England." The Radical dashed his pipe to pieces against the table. "I tell you what, young fellow, you are a spy of the aristocracy, sent here to kick up a disturbance." "Kicking up a disturbance," said I, "is rather inconsistent with the office of spy. If I were a spy, I should hold my head down, and say nothing." The man in black partially raised his head, and gave me another peculiar glance. "Well, if you ar'n't sent to spy, you are sent to bully, to prevent people speaking, and to run down the great American nation; but you shan't bully me. I say, down with the aristocracy, the beggarly British aristocracy. Come, what have you to say to that?" "Nothing," said I. "Nothing!" repeated the Radical. "No," said I; "down with them as soon as you can." "As soon as I can! I wish I could. But I can down with a bully of theirs. Come, will you fight for them?" "No," said I. "You won't?" "No," said I; "though, from what I have seen of them, I should say they are tolerably able to fight for themselves." "You won't fight for them," said the Radical, triumphantly; "I thought so; all bullies, especially those of the aristocracy, are cowards. Here, landlord," said he, raising his voice, and striking against the table with the jug, "some more ale--he won't fight for his friends." "A white feather," said his companion. "He! he!" tittered the man in black. "Landlord, landlord!" shouted the Radical, striking the table with the jug louder than before. "Who called?" said the landlord, coming in at last. "Fill this jug again," said the other, "and be quick about it." "Does any one else want anything?" said the landlord. "Yes," said the man in black; "you may bring me another glass of gin and water." "Cold?" said the landlord. "Yes," said the man in black, "with a lump of sugar in it." "Gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it," said I, and struck the table with my fist. "Take some?" said the landlord, inquiringly. "No," said I, "only something came into my head." "He's mad," said the man in black. "Not he," said the Radical. "He's only shamming; he knows his master is here, and therefore has recourse to these manoeuvres, but it won't do. Come, landlord, what are you staring at? Why don't you obey your orders? Keeping your customers waiting in this manner is not the way to increase your business." The landlord looked at the Radical, and then at me. At last, taking the jug and glass he left the apartment, and presently returned with each filled with its respective liquor. He placed the jug with beer before the Radical, and the glass with gin and water before the man in black, and then, with a wink to me, he sauntered out. "Here is your health, sir," said the man of the snuff-coloured coat, addressing himself to the one in black; "I honour you for what you said about the Church of England. Every one who speaks against the Church of England has my warm heart. Down with it, I say, and may the stones of it be used for mending the roads, as my friend William says in his 'Register.'" The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank to the man in the snuff-coloured coat. "With respect to the steeples," said he, "I am not altogether of your opinion; they might be turned to better account than to serve to mend the roads; they might still be used as places of worship, but not for the worship of the Church of England. I have no fault to find with the steeples, it is the Church itself which I am compelled to arraign; but it will not stand long, the respectable part of its ministers are already leaving it. It is a bad Church, a persecuting Church." "Whom does it persecute?" said I. The man in black glanced at me slightly, and then replied slowly, "The Catholics." "And do those whom you call Catholics never persecute?" said I. "Never," said the man in black. "Did you ever read 'Fox's Book of Martyrs'?" said I. "He! he!" tittered the man in black, "there is not a word of truth in 'Fox's Book of Martyrs.'" "Ten times more than in the 'Flos Sanctorum,'" said I. The man in black looked at me, but made no answer. "And what say you to the Massacre of the Albigenses and the Vaudois, 'whose bones lie scattered on the cold Alp,' or the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes?" The man in black made no answer. "Go to," said I, "it is because the Church of England is not a persecuting Church, that those whom you call the respectable part are leaving her; it is because they can't do with the poor Dissenters what Simon de Montfort did with the Albigenses, and the cruel Piedmontese with the Vaudois, that they turn to bloody Rome; the Pope will no doubt welcome them, for the Pope, do you see, being very much in want, will welcome--" "Hallo!" said the Radical, interfering, "what are you saying about the Pope? I say, Hurrah for the Pope; I value no religion three halfpence, as I said before, but if I were to adopt any, it should be the popish as it's called, because I conceives the popish to be the grand enemy of the Church of England, of the beggarly aristocracy, and the borough-monger system, so I won't hear the Pope abused while I am by. Come, don't look fierce. You won't fight, you know, I have proved it; but I will give you another chance--I will fight for the Pope, will you fight against him?" "Oh dear me, yes," said I, getting up and stepping forward. "I am a quiet peaceable young man, and, being so, am always ready to fight against the Pope--the enemy of all peace and quiet; to refuse fighting for the aristocracy is a widely different thing from refusing to fight against the Pope; so come on, if you are disposed to fight for him. To the Pope broken bells, to Saint James broken shells. No popish vile oppression, but the Protestant succession. Confusion to the Groyne, hurrah for the Boyne, for the army at Clonmel, and the Protestant young gentlemen who live there as well." "An Orangeman," said the man in black. "Not a Platitude," said I. The man in black gave a slight start. "Amongst that family," said I, "no doubt, something may be done, but amongst the Methodist preachers I should conceive that the success would not be great." The man in black sat quite still. "Especially amongst those who have wives," I added. The man in black stretched his hand towards his gin and water. "However," said I, "we shall see what the grand movement will bring about, and the results of the lessons in elocution." The man in black lifted the glass up to his mouth, and, in doing so, let the spoon fall. "But what has this to do with the main question?" said I; "I am waiting here to fight against the Pope." "Come, Hunter," said the companion of the man in the snuff-coloured coat, "get up, and fight for the Pope." "I don't care for the young fellow," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat. "I know you don't," said the other, "so get up, and serve him out." "I could serve out three like him," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat. "So much the better for you," said the other, "the present work will be all the easier for you; get up, and serve him out at once." The man in the snuff-coloured coat did not stir. "Who shows the white feather now?" said the simple-looking man. "He! he! he!" tittered the man in black. "Who told you to interfere?" said the Radical, turning ferociously towards the simple-looking man; "say another word, and I'll . . . " "And you!" said he, addressing himself to the man in black, "a pretty fellow you to turn against me, after I had taken your part! I tell you what, you may fight for yourself. I'll see you and your Pope in the pit of Eldon, before I fight for either of you, so make the most of it." "Then you won't fight?" said I. "Not for the Pope," said the Radical; "I'll see the Pope--" "Dear me!" said I, "not fight for the Pope, whose religion you would turn to, if you were inclined for any! I see how it is, you are not fond of fighting; but I'll give you another chance--you were abusing the Church of England just now: I'll fight for it--will you fight against it?" "Come, Hunter," said the other, "get up, and fight against the Church of England." "I have no particular quarrel against the Church of England," said the man in the snuff-coloured coat, "my quarrel is with the aristocracy. If I said anything against the Church, it was merely for a bit of corollary, as Master William Cobbett would say; the quarrel with the Church belongs to this fellow in black; so let him carry it on. However," he continued suddenly, "I won't slink from the matter either; it shall never be said by the fine fellows on the quay of New York, that I wouldn't fight against the Church of England. So down with the beggarly aristocracy, the Church, and the Pope, to the bottom of the pit of Eldon, and may the Pope fall first, and the others upon him." Thereupon, dashing his hat on the table, he placed himself in an attitude of offence, and rushed forward. He was, as I have said before, a powerful fellow, and might have proved a dangerous antagonist, more especially to myself, who, after my recent encounter with the Flaming Tinman, and my wrestlings with the evil one, was in anything but fighting order. Any collision, however, was prevented by the landlord, who, suddenly appearing, thrust himself between us. "There shall be no fighting here," said he; "no one shall fight in this house, except it be with myself; so if you two have anything to say to each other, you had better go into the field behind the house. But, you fool," said he, pushing Hunter violently on the breast, "do you know whom you are going to tackle with?--this is the young chap that beat Blazing Bosville, only as late as yesterday, in Mumpers' Dingle. Grey Moll told me all about it last night, when she came for some brandy for her husband, who, she said, had been half killed; and she described the young man to me so closely, that I knew him at once, that is, as soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, for she told me he was a left-hand hitter. Ar'n't it all true, young man? Ar'n't you he that beat Flaming Bosville in Mumpers' Dingle?" "I never beat Flaming Bosville," said I, "he beat himself. Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn't be here at the present moment." "Hear! hear!" said the landlord; "now that's just as it should be; I like a modest man, for, as the parson says, nothing sits better upon a young man than modesty. I remember, when I was young, fighting with Tom of Hopton, the best man that ever pulled off coat in England. I remember, too, that I won the battle; for I happened to hit Tom of Hopton in the mark, as he was coming in, so that he lost his wind, and falling squelch on the ground, do ye see, he lost the battle, though I am free to confess that he was a better man than myself; indeed, the best man that ever fought in England; yet still I won the battle, as every customer of mine, and everybody within twelve miles round, has heard over and over again. Now, Mr. Hunter, I have one thing to say, if you choose to go into the field behind the house, and fight the young man, you can. I'll back him for ten pounds; but no fighting in my kitchen--because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment." "I have no wish to fight the young man," said Hunter; "more especially as he has nothing to say for the aristocracy. If he chose to fight for them, indeed--but he won't, I know: for I see he's a decent, respectable young man; and, after all, fighting is a blackguard way of settling a dispute; so I have no wish to fight; however, there is one thing I'll do," said he, uplifting his fist, "I'll fight this fellow in black here for half-a-crown, or for nothing, if he pleases; it was he that got up the last dispute between me and the young man, with his Pope and his nonsense; so I will fight him for anything he pleases, and perhaps the young man will be my second; whilst you--" "Come, Doctor," said the landlord, "or whatsoever you be, will you go into the field with Hunter? I'll second you, only you must back yourself. I'll lay five pounds on Hunter, if you are inclined to back yourself; and will help you to win it as far, do you see, as a second can; because why? I always likes to do the fair thing." "Oh! I have no wish to fight," said the man in black, hastily; "fighting is not my trade. If I have given any offence, I beg anybody's pardon." "Landlord," said I, "what have I to pay?" "Nothing at all," said the landlord; "glad to see you. This is the first time that you have been at my house, and I never charge new customers, at least customers such as you, anything for the first draught. You'll come again, I dare say; shall always be glad to see you. I won't take it," said he, as I put sixpence on the table; "I won't take it." "Yes, you shall," said I; "but not in payment for anything I have had myself: it shall serve to pay for a jug of ale for that gentleman," said I, pointing to the simple-looking individual; "he is smoking a poor pipe. I do not mean to say that a pipe is a bad thing; but a pipe without ale, do you see--" "Bravo!" said the landlord, "that's just the conduct I like." "Bravo!" said Hunter. "I shall be happy to drink with the young man whenever I meet him at New York, where, do you see, things are better managed than here." "If I have given offence to anybody," said the man in black, "I repeat that I ask pardon,--more especially to the young gentleman, who was perfectly right to stand up for his religion, just as I--not that I am of any particular religion, no more than this honest gentleman here," bowing to Hunter; "but I happen to know something of the Catholics--several excellent friends of mine are Catholics--and of a surety the Catholic religion is an ancient religion, and a widely-extended religion, though it certainly is not a universal religion, but it has of late made considerable progress, even amongst those nations who have been particularly opposed to it--amongst the Prussians and the Dutch, for example, to say nothing of the English; and then, in the East, amongst the Persians, amongst the Armenians." "The Armenians," said I; "Oh dear me, the Armenians--" "Have you anything to say about these people, sir?" said the man in black, lifting up his glass to his mouth. "I have nothing farther to say," said I, "than that the roots of Ararat are occasionally found to be deeper than those of Rome." "There's half-a-crown broke," said the landlord, as the man in black let fall the glass, which was broken to pieces on the floor. "You will pay me the damage, friend, before you leave this kitchen. I like to see people drink freely in my kitchen, but not too freely, and I hate breakages; because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment." CHAPTER LXXXIX The Dingle--Give them Ale--Not over Complimentary--America--Many People--Washington--Promiscuous Company--Language of the Roads--The Old Women--Numerals--The Man in Black. The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to describe in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance of about two miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the west by the time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle seated by a fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During my absence she had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpaulin, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. "I am glad you are returned," said she, as soon as she perceived me; "I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice?" "Yes," said I; "I went to the public-house and drank ale, as you advised me; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away the horror from my mind--I am much beholden to you." "I knew it would do you good," said Belle, "I remembered that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics, and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good, kind man, used to say, 'Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong.'" "He was no advocate for tea, then?" said I. "He had no objection to tea; but he used to say, 'Everything in its season.' Shall we take ours now?--I have waited for you." "I have no objection," said I; "I feel rather heated, and at present should prefer tea to ale--'Everything in its season,' as the surgeon said." Thereupon Belle prepared tea, and, as we were taking it, she said, "What did you see and hear at the public-house?" "Really," said I, "you appear to have your full portion of curiosity; what matters it to you what I saw and heard at the public-house?" "It matters very little to me," said Belle; "I merely inquired of you, for the sake of a little conversation--you were silent, and it is uncomfortable for two people to sit together without opening their lips--at least I think so." "One only feels uncomfortable," said I, "in being silent, when one happens to be thinking of the individual with whom one is in company. To tell you the truth, I was not thinking of my companion, but of certain company with whom I had been at the public-house." "Really, young man," said Belle, "you are not over complimentary; but who may this wonderful company have been--some young . . .?" and here Belle stopped. "No," said I, "there was no young person--if person you were going to say. There was a big portly landlord, whom I dare say you have seen; a noisy savage Radical, who wanted at first to fasten upon me a quarrel about America, but who subsequently drew in his horns; then there was a strange fellow, a prowling priest, I believe, whom I have frequently heard of, who at first seemed disposed to side with the Radical against me, and afterwards with me against the Radical. There, you know my company, and what took place." "Was there no one else?" said Belle. "You are mighty curious," said I. "No, none else, except a poor simple mechanic, and some common company, who soon went away." Belle looked at me for a moment, and then appeared to be lost in thought--"America!" said she, musingly--"America!" "What of America?" said I. "I have heard that it is a mighty country." "I dare say it is," said I; "I have heard my father say that the Americans are first-rate marksmen." "I heard nothing about that," said Belle; "what I heard was, that it is a great and goodly land, where people can walk about without jostling, and where the industrious can always find bread; I have frequently thought of going thither." "Well," said I, "the Radical in the public-house will perhaps be glad of your company thither; he is as great an admirer of America as yourself, though I believe on different grounds." "I shall go by myself," said Belle, "unless--unless that should happen which is not likely--I am not fond of Radicals no more than I am of scoffers and mockers." "Do you mean to say that I am a scoffer and mocker?" "I don't wish to say you are," said Belle; "but some of your words sound strangely like scoffing and mocking. I have now one thing to beg, which is, that if you have anything to say against America, you would speak it out boldly." "What should I have to say against America? I never was there." "Many people speak against America who never were there." "Many people speak in praise of America who never were there; but with respect to myself, I have not spoken for or against America." "If you liked America you would speak in its praise." "By the same rule, if I disliked America I should speak against it." "I can't speak with you," said Belle; "but I see you dislike the country." "The country!" "Well, the people--don't you?" "I do." "Why do you dislike them?" "Why I have heard my father say that the American marksmen, led on by a chap of the name of Washington, sent the English to the right-about in double-quick time." "And that is your reason for disliking the Americans?" "Yes," said I, "that is my reason for disliking them." "Will you take another cup of tea?" said Belle. I took another cup; we were again silent. "It is rather uncomfortable," said I, at last, "for people to sit together without having anything to say." "Were you thinking of your company?" said Belle. "What company?" said I. "The present company." "The present company! oh, ah--I remember that I said one only feels uncomfortable in being silent with a companion, when one happens to be thinking of the companion. Well, I had been thinking of you the last two or three minutes, and had just come to the conclusion, that to prevent us both feeling occasionally uncomfortably towards each other, having nothing to say, it would be as well to have a standing subject, on which to employ our tongues. Belle, I have determined to give you lessons in Armenian." "What is Armenian?" "Did you ever hear of Ararat?" "Yes, that was the place where the ark rested; I have heard the chaplain in the great house talk of it; besides, I have read of it in the Bible." "Well, Armenian is the speech of people of that place, and I should like to teach it you." "To prevent--" "Ay, ay, to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Your acquiring it besides might prove of ulterior advantage to us both; for example, suppose you and I were in promiscuous company,--at Court, for example,--and you had something to communicate to me which you did not wish any one else to be acquainted with, how safely you might communicate it to me in Armenian." "Would not the language of the roads do as well?" said Belle. "In some places it would," said I, "but not at Court, owing to its resemblance to thieves' slang. There is Hebrew, again, which I was thinking of teaching you, till the idea of being presented at Court made me abandon it, from the probability of our being understood, in the event of our speaking it, by at least half a dozen people in our vicinity. There is Latin, it is true, or Greek, which we might speak aloud at Court with perfect confidence of safety, but upon the whole I should prefer teaching you Armenian, not because it would be a safer language to hold communication with at Court, but because, not being very well grounded in it myself, I am apprehensive that its words and forms may escape from my recollection, unless I have sometimes occasion to call them forth." "I am afraid we shall have to part company before I have learnt it," said Belle; "in the meantime, if I wish to say anything to you in private, somebody being by, shall I speak in the language of the roads?" "If no roadster is nigh you may," said I, "and I will do my best to understand you. Belle, I will now give you a lesson in Armenian." "I suppose you mean no harm," said Belle. "Not in the least; I merely propose the thing to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Let us begin." "Stop till I have removed the tea-things," said Belle; and, getting up, she removed them to her own encampment. "I am ready," said Belle, returning, and taking her former seat, "to join with you in anything which will serve to pass away the time agreeably, provided there is no harm in it." "Belle," said I, "I have determined to commence the course of Armenian lessons by teaching you the numerals; but, before I do that, it will be as well to tell you that the Armenian language is called Haik." "I am sure that word will hang upon my memory," said Belle. "Why hang upon it?" said I. "Because the old women in the great house used to call so the chimney- hook, on which they hung the kettle; in like manner, on the hake of my memory I will hang your hake." "Good!" said I, "you will make an apt scholar; but mind that I did not say hake, but haik; the words are, however, very much alike; and, as you observe, upon your hake you may hang my haik. We will now proceed to the numerals." "What are numerals?" said Belle. "Numbers. I will say the Haikan numbers up to ten. There--have you heard them?" "Yes." "Well, try and repeat them." "I only remember number one," said Belle, "and that because it is me." "I will repeat them again," said I, "and pay greater attention. Now, try again." "Me, jergo, earache." "I neither said jergo, nor earache. I said yergou and yerek. Belle, I am afraid I shall have some difficulty with you as a scholar." Belle made no answer. Her eyes were turned in the direction of the winding path which led from the bottom of the hollow, where we were seated, to the plain above. "Gorgio shunella," {324a} she said, at length, in a low voice. "Pure Rommany," said I; "where?" I added, in a whisper. "Dovey odoi," {324b} said Belle, nodding with her head towards the path. "I will soon see who it is," said I; and starting up, I rushed towards the pathway, intending to lay violent hands on any one I might find lurking in its windings. Before, however, I had reached its commencement, a man, somewhat above the middle height, advanced from it into the dingle, in whom I recognised the man in black whom I had seen in the public-house. CHAPTER XC Buona Sera--Rather Apprehensive--The Steep Bank--Lovely Virgin--Hospitality--Tory Minister--Custom of the Country--Sneering Smile--Wandering Zigan--Gypsies' Cloaks--Certain Faculty--Acute Answer--Various Ways--Addio--Best Hollands. The man in black and myself stood opposite to each other for a minute or two in silence; I will not say that we confronted each other that time, for the man in black, after a furtive glance, did not look me in the face, but kept his eyes fixed, apparently on the leaves of a bunch of ground nuts which were growing at my feet. At length, looking around the dingle, he exclaimed, "Buona sera, I hope I don't intrude." "You have as much right here," said I, "as I or my companion; but you had no right to stand listening to our conversation." "I was not listening," said the man; "I was hesitating whether to advance or retire; and if I heard some of your conversation, the fault was not mine." "I do not see why you should have hesitated if your intentions were good," said I. "I think the kind of place in which I found myself might excuse some hesitation," said the man in black, looking around; "moreover, from what I had seen of your demeanour at the public-house, I was rather apprehensive that the reception I might experience at your hands might be more rough than agreeable." "And what may have been your motive for coming to this place?" said I. "Per far visita a sua signoria, ecco il motivo." "Why do you speak to me in that gibberish?" said I; "do you think I understand it?" "It is not Armenian," said the man in black; "but it might serve, in a place like this, for the breathing of a little secret communication, were any common roadster near at hand. It would not do at Court, it is true, being the language of singing women, and the like; but we are not at Court--when we are, I can perhaps summon up a little indifferent Latin, if I have anything private to communicate to the learned Professor." And at the conclusion of this speech the man in black lifted up his head, and, for some moments, looked me in the face. The muscles of his own seemed to be slightly convulsed, and his mouth opened in a singular manner. "I see," said I, "that for some time you were standing near me and my companion, in the mean act of listening." "Not at all," said the man in black; "I heard from the steep bank above, that to which I have now alluded, whilst I was puzzling myself to find the path which leads to your retreat. I made, indeed, nearly the compass of the whole thicket before I found it." "And how did you know that I was here?" I demanded. "The landlord of the public-house, with whom I had some conversation concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt I should find you in this place, to which he gave me instructions not very clear. But, now I am here, I crave permission to remain a little time, in order that I may hold some communion with you." "Well," said I, "since you are come, you are welcome; please to step this way." Thereupon I conducted the man in black to the fireplace, where Belle was standing, who had risen from her stool on my springing up to go in quest of the stranger. The man in black looked at her with evident curiosity, then making her rather a graceful bow, "Lovely virgin," said he, stretching out his hand, "allow me to salute your fingers." "I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers," said Belle. "I did not presume to request to shake hands with you," said the man in black, "I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the extremity of your two forefingers." "I never permit anything of the kind," said Belle; "I do not approve of such unmanly ways, they are only befitting those who lurk in corners or behind trees, listening to the conversation of people who would fain be private." "Do you take me for a listener then?" said the man in black. "Ay, indeed I do," said Belle; "the young man may receive your excuses, and put confidence in them if he please, but for my part I neither admit them, nor believe them;" and thereupon flinging her long hair back, which was hanging over her cheeks, she seated herself on her stool. "Come, Belle," said I, "I have bidden the gentleman welcome; I beseech you, therefore, to make him welcome; he is a stranger, where we are at home, therefore, even did we wish him away, we are bound to treat him kindly." "That's not English doctrine," said the man in black. "I thought the English prided themselves on their hospitality," said I. "They do so," said the man in black; "they are proud of showing hospitality to people above them, that is, to those who do not want it, but of the hospitality which you were now describing, and which is Arabian, they know nothing. No Englishman will tolerate another in his house, from whom he does not expect advantage of some kind, and to those from whom he does, he can be civil enough. An Englishman thinks that, because he is in his own house, he has a right to be boorish and brutal to any one who is disagreeable to him, as all those are who are really in want of assistance. Should a hunted fugitive rush into an Englishman's house, beseeching protection, and appealing to the master's feelings of hospitality, the Englishman would knock him down in the passage." "You are too general," said I, "in your strictures. Lord ---, the unpopular Tory minister, was once chased through the streets of London by a mob, and, being in danger of his life, took shelter in the shop of a Whig linendraper, declaring his own unpopular name, and appealing to the linendraper's feelings of hospitality; whereupon the linendraper, utterly forgetful of all party rancour, nobly responded to the appeal, and telling his wife to conduct his lordship upstairs, jumped over the counter, with his ell in his hand, and placing himself with half a dozen of his assistants at the door of his boutique, manfully confronted the mob, telling them that he would allow himself to be torn to a thousand pieces, ere he would permit them to injure a hair of his lordship's head: what do you think of that?" "He! he! he!" tittered the man in black. "Well," said I, "I am afraid your own practice is not very different from that which you have been just now describing; you sided with the Radical in the public-house against me as long as you thought him the most powerful, and then turned against him when you saw he was cowed. What have you to say to that?" "Oh! when one is in Rome, I mean England, one must do as they do in England; I was merely conforming to the custom of the country, he! he! but I beg your pardon here, as I did in the public-house. I made a mistake." "Well," said I, "we will drop the matter, but pray seat yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you." The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for occupying what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the stone, and I squatted down, Gypsy fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool at a slight distance on my right. After a time I addressed him thus: "Am I to reckon this a mere visit of ceremony? should it prove so, it will be, I believe, the first visit of the kind ever paid me." "Will you permit me to ask," said the man in black . . . "the weather is very warm," said he, interrupting himself, and taking off his hat. I now observed that he was partly bald, his red hair having died away from the fore part of his crown--his forehead was high, his eyebrows scanty, his eyes grey and sly, with a downward tendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth rather large--a kind of sneering smile played continually on his lips, his complexion was somewhat rubicund. "A bad countenance," said Belle, in the language of the roads, observing that my eyes were fixed on his face. "Does not my countenance please you, fair damsel?" said the man in black, resuming his hat, and speaking in a peculiarly gentle voice. "How," said I, "do you understand the language of the roads?" "As little as I do Armenian," said the man in black; "but I understand look and tone." "So do I, perhaps," retorted Belle; "and, to tell you the truth, I like your tone as little as your face." "For shame," said I; "have you forgot what I was saying just now about the duties of hospitality? You have not yet answered my question," said I, addressing myself to the man, "with respect to your visit." "Will you permit me to ask who you are?" "Do you see the place where I live?" said I. "I do," said the man in black, looking around. "Do you know the name of this place?" "I was told it was Mumpers' {330} or Gypsies' Dingle," said the man in black. "Good," said I; "and this forge and tent, what do they look like?" "Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy." "Good," said I; "they belong to me." "Are you, then, a Gypsy?" said the man in black. "What else should I be?" "But you seem to have been acquainted with various individuals with whom I have likewise had acquaintance; and you have even alluded to matters, and even words, which have passed between me and them." "Do you know how Gypsies live?" said I. "By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes." "Well," said I, "there's my forge, and yonder is some iron, though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer." "But how did you come by your knowledge?" "Oh," said I, "if you want me to reveal the secrets of my trade, I have, of course, nothing farther to say. Go to the scarlet dyer, and ask him how he dyes cloth." "Why scarlet?" said the man in black. "Is it because Gypsies blush like scarlet?" "Gypsies never blush," said I; "but Gypsies' cloaks are scarlet." "I should almost take you for a Gypsy," said the man in black, "but for--" "For what?" said I. "But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing," said the man in black, with a titter. "And why should not a Gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?" said I. "Because the Gypsy race is perfectly illiterate," said the man in black; "they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness, and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers--and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing _che io non credo afatto_." "What do you take me for?" said I. "Why," said the man in black, "I should consider you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a Gypsy life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for a philologist." "And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions acutely?" said I. "Because the philological race is the most stupid under heaven," said the man in black; "they are possessed, it is true, of a certain faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them; but that any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, to say nothing of an acute one, on any subject--even though the subject were philology--is a thing of which I have no idea." "But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this handmaid?" "I believe I did," said the man in black. "And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute answers to the questions you asked me?" "I believe I did," said the man in black. "And would any one but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle?" "I should think not," said the man in black. "Well, then, don't you see that it is possible for a philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?" "I really don't know," said the man in black. "What's the matter with you?" said I. "Merely puzzled," said the man in black. "Puzzled?" "Yes." "Really puzzled?" "Yes." "Remain so." "Well," said the man in black, rising, "puzzled or not, I will no longer trespass upon your and this young lady's retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion." "No apology is necessary," said I; "will you please to take anything before you go? I think this young lady, at my request, would contrive to make you a cup of tea." "Tea!" said the man in black; "he! he! I don't drink tea; I don't like it--if, indeed, you had . . . " and here he stopped. "There's nothing like gin and water, is there?" said I, "but I am sorry to say I have none." "Gin and water," said the man in black; "how do you know that I am fond of gin and water?" "Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house?" "You did," said the man in black, "and I remember that, when I called for some, you repeated my words. Permit me to ask, is gin and water an unusual drink in England?" "It is not usually drunk cold, and with a lump of sugar," said I. "And did you know who I was by my calling for it so?" "Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information," said I. "With all your knowledge," said the man in black, "you do not appear to have known that I was coming to visit you?" "Gypsies do not pretend to know anything which relates to themselves," said I; "but I advise you, if you ever come again, to come openly." "Have I your permission to come again?" said the man in black. "Come when you please; this dingle is as free for you as me." "I will visit you again," said the man in black--"till then, addio." "Belle," said I, after the man in black had departed, "we did not treat that man very hospitably; he left us without having eaten or drunk at our expense." "You offered him some tea," said Belle, "which, as it is mine, I should have grudged him, for I like him not." "Our liking or disliking him had nothing to do with the matter; he was our visitor and ought not to have been permitted to depart dry; living as we do in this desert, we ought always to be prepared to administer to the wants of our visitors. Belle, do you know where to procure any good Hollands?" "I think I do," said Belle, "but--" "I will have no buts. Belle, I expect that with as little delay as possible you procure, at my expense, the best Hollands you can find." CHAPTER XCI Excursions--Adventurous English--Opaque Forests--The Greatest Patience. Time passed on, and Belle and I lived in the dingle; when I say lived, the reader must not imagine that we were always there. She went out upon her pursuits, and I went out where inclination led me; but my excursions were very short ones, and hers occasionally occupied whole days and nights. If I am asked how we passed the time when we were together in the dingle, I would answer that we passed the time very tolerably, all things considered; we conversed together, and when tired of conversing I would sometimes give Belle a lesson in Armenian; her progress was not particularly brilliant, but upon the whole satisfactory; in about a fortnight she had hung up one hundred Haikan numerals upon the hake of her memory. I found her conversation highly entertaining; she had seen much of England and Wales, and had been acquainted with some of the most remarkable characters who travelled the roads at that period; and let me be permitted to say that many remarkable characters have travelled the roads of England, of whom fame has never said a word. I loved to hear her anecdotes of these people; some of whom I found had occasionally attempted to lay violent hands either upon her person or effects, and had invariably been humbled by her without the assistance of either justice or constable. I could clearly see, however, that she was rather tired of England, and wished for a change of scene; she was particularly fond of talking of America, to which country her aspirations chiefly tended. She had heard much of America, which had excited her imagination; for at that time America was much talked of, on roads and in homesteads--at least, so said Belle, who had good opportunities of knowing--and most people allowed that it was a good country for adventurous English. The people who chiefly spoke against it, as she informed me, were soldiers disbanded upon pensions, the sextons of village churches, and excisemen. Belle had a craving desire to visit that country, and to wander with cart and little animal amongst its forests: when I would occasionally object, that she would be exposed to danger from strange and perverse customers, she said that she had not wandered the roads of England so long and alone, to be afraid of anything which might befall in America; and that she hoped, with God's favour, to be able to take her own part, and to give to perverse customers as good as they might bring. She had a dauntless heart, that same Belle. Such was the staple of Belle's conversation. As for mine, I would endeavour to entertain her with strange dreams of adventure, in which I figured in opaque forests, strangling wild beasts, or discovering and plundering the hordes of dragons; and sometimes I would narrate to her other things far more genuine--how I had tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and had dealings with ferocious publishers. Belle had a kind heart, and would weep at the accounts I gave her of my early wrestlings with the dark Monarch. She would sigh, too, as I recounted the many slights and degradations I had received at the hands of ferocious publishers; but she had the curiosity of a woman; and once, when I talked to her of the triumphs which I had achieved over unbroken mares, she lifted up her head and questioned me as to the secret of the virtue which I possessed over the aforesaid animals; whereupon I sternly reprimanded, and forthwith commanded her to repeat the Armenian numerals; and, on her demurring, I made use of words, to escape which she was glad to comply, saying the Armenian numerals from one to a hundred, which numerals, as a punishment for her curiosity, I made her repeat three times, loading her with the bitterest reproaches whenever she committed the slightest error, either in accent or pronunciation, which reproaches she appeared to bear with the greatest patience. And now I have given a very fair account of the manner in which Isopel Berners and myself passed our time in the dingle. CHAPTER XCII The Landlord--Rather Too Old--Without a Shilling--Reputation--A Fortnight Ago--Liquids--The Main Chance--Respectability--Irrational Beings--Parliament Cove--My Brewer. Amongst other excursions, I went several times to the public-house to which I introduced the reader in a former chapter. I had experienced such beneficial effects from the ale I had drunk on that occasion, that I wished to put its virtue to a frequent test; nor did the ale on subsequent trials belie the good opinion which I had at first formed of it. After each visit which I made to the public-house, I found my frame stronger and my mind more cheerful than they had previously been. The landlord appeared at all times glad to see me, and insisted that I should sit within the bar, where, leaving his other guests to be attended to by a niece of his, who officiated as his housekeeper, he would sit beside me and talk of matters concerning "the ring," indulging himself with a cigar and a glass of sherry, which he told me was his favourite wine, whilst I drank my ale. "I loves the conversation of all you coves of the ring," said he once, "which is natural, seeing as how I have fought in a ring myself. Ah, there is nothing like the ring; I wish I was not rather too old to go again into it. I often think I should like to have another rally--one more rally, and then--but there's a time for all things--youth will be served, every dog has his day, and mine has been a fine one--let me be content. After beating Tom of Hopton, there was not much more to be done in the way of reputation; I have long sat in my bar the wonder and glory of this here neighbourhood. I'm content, as far as reputation goes; I only wish money would come in a little faster; however, the next main of cocks will bring me in something handsome--comes off next Wednesday, at ---, have ventured ten five-pound notes--shouldn't say ventured either--run no risk at all, because why? I knows my birds." About ten days after this harangue I called again, at about three o'clock one afternoon. The landlord was seated on a bench by a table in the common room, which was entirely empty; he was neither smoking nor drinking, but sat with his arms folded, and his head hanging down over his breast. At the sound of my step he looked up. "Ah," said he, "I am glad you are come, I was just thinking about you." "Thank you," said I; "it was very kind of you, especially at a time like this, when your mind must be full of your good fortune. Allow me to congratulate you on the sums of money you won by the main of cocks at ---. I hope you brought it all safe home." "Safe home!" said the landlord; "I brought myself safe home, and that was all; came home without a shilling, regularly done, cleaned out." "I am sorry for that," said I; "but after you had won the money, you ought to have been satisfied, and not risked it again--how did you lose it? I hope not by the pea and thimble." "Pea and thimble," said the landlord--"not I; those confounded cocks left me nothing to lose by the pea and thimble." "Dear me," said I; "I thought that you knew your birds." "Well, so I did," said the landlord; "I knew the birds to be good birds, and so they proved, and would have won if better birds had not been brought against them, of which I knew nothing; and so, do you see, I am done, regularly done." "Well," said I, "don't be cast down; there is one thing of which the cocks by their misfortune cannot deprive you--your reputation; make the most of that, give up cock-fighting, and be content with the custom of your house, of which you will always have plenty, as long as you are the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood." The landlord struck the table before him violently with his fist. "Confound my reputation!" said he. "No reputation that I have will be satisfaction to my brewer for the seventy pounds I owe him. Reputation won't pass for the current coin of this here realm; and let me tell you, that if it a'n't backed by some of it, it a'n't a bit better than rotten cabbage, as I have found. Only three weeks since I was, as I told you, the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood; and people used to come to look at me, and worship me; but as soon as it began to be whispered about that I owed money to the brewer, they presently left off all that kind of thing; and now, during the last three days, since the tale of my misfortune with the cocks has got wind, almost everybody has left off coming to the house, and the few who does, merely comes to insult and flout me. It was only last night that fellow, Hunter, called me an old fool in my own kitchen here. He wouldn't have called me a fool a fortnight ago; 'twas I called him fool then, and last night he called me old fool; what do you think of that?--the man that beat Tom of Hopton, to be called, not only a fool, but an old fool; and I hadn't heart, with one blow of this here fist into his face, to send his head ringing against the wall; for when a man's pocket is low, do you see, his heart a'n't much higher; but it is of no use talking, something must be done. I was thinking of you just as you came in, for you are just the person that can help me." "If you mean," said I, "to ask me to lend you the money which you want, it will be to no purpose, as I have very little of my own, just enough for my own occasions; it is true, if you desired it, I would be your intercessor with the person to whom you owe the money, though I should hardly imagine that anything I could say--" "You are right there," said the landlord; "much the brewer would care for anything you could say on my behalf--your going would be the very way to do me up entirely. A pretty opinion he would have of the state of my affairs if I were to send him such a 'cessor as you; and as for your lending me money, don't think I was ever fool enough to suppose either that you had any, or if you had that you would be fool enough to lend me any. No, no, the coves of the ring knows better; I have been in the ring myself, and knows what a fighting cove is, and though I was fool enough to back those birds, I was never quite fool enough to lend anybody money. What I am about to propose is something very different from going to my landlord, or lending any capital; something which, though it will put money into my pocket, will likewise put something handsome into your own. I want to get up a fight in this here neighbourhood, which would be sure to bring plenty of people to my house, for a week before and after it takes place; and as people can't come without drinking, I think I could, during one fortnight, get off for the brewer all the sour and unsaleable liquids he now has, which people wouldn't drink at any other time, and by that means, do you see, liquidate my debt; then, by means of betting, making first all right, do you see, I have no doubt that I could put something handsome into my pocket and yours, for I should wish you to be the fighting man, as I think I can depend upon you." "You really must excuse me," said I; "I have no wish to figure as a pugilist; besides, there is such a difference in our ages; you may be the stronger man of the two, and perhaps the hardest hitter, but I am in much better condition, am more active on my legs, so that I am almost sure I should have the advantage, for, as you very properly observed, 'Youth will be served.'" "Oh, I didn't mean to fight," said the landlord; "I think I could beat you if I were to train a little; but in the fight I propose I looks more to the main chance than anything else. I question whether half so many people could be brought together if you were to fight with me as the person I have in view, or whether there would be half such opportunities for betting, for I am a man, do you see; the person I wants you to fight with is not a man, but the young woman you keeps company with." "The young woman I keep company with," said I, "pray what do you mean?" "We will go into the bar, and have something," said the landlord, getting up. "My niece is out, and there is no one in the house, so we can talk the . matter over quietly." Thereupon I followed him into the bar, where, having drawn me a jug of ale, helped himself as usual to a glass of sherry, and lighted a cigar, he proceeded to explain himself farther. "What I wants, is to get up a fight between a man and a woman; there never has yet been such a thing in the ring, and the mere noise of the matter would bring thousands of people together, quite enough to drink out--for the thing should be close to my house--all the brewer's stock of liquids, both good and bad." "But," said I, "you were the other day boasting of the respectability of your house; do you think that a fight between a man and a woman close to your establishment would add to its respectability?" "Confound the respectability of my house!" said the landlord; "will the respectability of my house pay the brewer, or keep the roof over my head? No, no! when respectability won't keep a man, do you see, the best thing is to let it go and wander. Only let me have my own way, and both the brewer, myself, and every one of us, will be satisfied. And then the betting--what a deal we may make by the betting!--and that we shall have all to ourselves, you, I, and the young woman; the brewer will have no hand in that. I can manage to raise ten pounds, and if by flashing that about I don't manage to make a hundred, call me horse." "But, suppose," said I, "the party should lose, on whom you sport your money, even as the birds did?" "We must first make all right," said the landlord, "as I told you before; the birds were irrational beings, and therefore couldn't come to an understanding with the others, as you and the young woman can. The birds fought fair; but I intend that you and the young woman should fight cross." "What do you mean by cross?" said I. "Come, come," said the landlord, "don't attempt to gammon me; you in the ring, and pretend not to know what fighting cross is! That won't do, my fine fellow; but as no one is near us, I will speak out. I intend that you and the young woman should understand one another, and agree beforehand which should be beat; and if you take my advice, you will determine between you that the young woman shall be beat, as I am sure that the odds will run high upon her, her character as a fist-woman being spread far and wide, so that all the flats who think it will be all right will back her, as I myself would, if I thought it would be a fair thing." "Then," said I, "you would not have us fight fair?" "By no means," said the landlord, "because why?--I conceives that a cross is a certainty to those who are in it, whereas by the fair thing one may lose all he has." "But," said I, "you said the other day, that you liked the fair thing." "That was by way of gammon," said the landlord; "just, do you see, as a Parliament cove might say, speechifying from a barrel to a set of flats, whom he means to sell. Come, what do you think of the plan?" "It is a very ingenious one," said I. "A'n't it?" said the landlord. "The folks in this neighbourhood are beginning to call me old fool; but if they don't call me something else, when they sees me friends with the brewer, and money in my pocket, my name is not Catchpole. Come, drink your ale, and go home to the young gentlewoman." "I am going," said I, rising from my seat, after finishing the remainder of the ale. "Do you think she'll have any objection?" said the landlord. "To do what?" said I. "Why, to fight cross." "Yes, I do," said I. "But you will do your best to persuade her?" "No, I will not," said I. "Are you fool enough to wish to fight fair?" "No," said I, "I am wise enough to wish not to fight at all." "And how's my brewer to be paid?" said the landlord. "I really don't know," said I. "I'll change my religion," said the landlord. CHAPTER XCIII Another Visit--_A la Margutte_--Clever Man--Napoleon's Estimate--Another Statue. One evening Belle and myself received another visit from the man in black. After a little conversation of not much importance, I asked him whether he would not take some refreshment, assuring him that I was now in possession of some very excellent Hollands, which, with a glass, a jug of water, and a lump of sugar, were heartily at his service; he accepted my offer, and Belle going with a jug to the spring, from which she was in the habit of procuring water for tea, speedily returned with it full of the clear, delicious water of which I have already spoken. Having placed the jug by the side of the man in black, she brought him a glass and spoon, and a tea-cup, the latter containing various lumps of snowy-white sugar: in the meantime I had produced a bottle of the stronger liquid. The man in black helped himself to some water, and likewise to some Hollands, the proportion of water being about two-thirds; then adding a lump of sugar, he stirred the whole up, tasted it, and said that it was good. "This is one of the good things of life," he added, after a short pause. "What are the others?" I demanded. "There is Malvoisia sack," said the man in black, "and partridge, and beccafico." "And what do you say to high mass?" said I. "High mass!" said the man in black; "however," he continued, after a pause, "I will be frank with you; I came to be so; I may have heard high mass on a time, and said it too; but as for any predilection for it, I assure you I have no more than for a long High Church sermon." "You speak _a la Margutte_," said I. "Margutte!" said the man in black, musingly, "Margutte!" "You have read Pulci, I suppose?" said I. "Yes, yes," said the man in black, laughing; "I remember." "He might be rendered into English," said I, "something in this style:-- 'To which Margutte answered with a sneer, I like the blue no better than the black, My faith consists alone in savoury cheer, In roasted capons, and in potent sack; But above all, in famous gin and clear, Which often lays the Briton on his back, With lump of sugar, and with lymph from well, I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell.'" "He! he! he!" said the man in black; "that is more than Mezzofante {347} could have done for a stanza of Byron." "A clever man," said I. "Who?" said the man in black. "Mezzofante di Bologna." "He! he! he!" said the man in black; "now I know that you are not a Gypsy, at least a soothsayer; no soothsayer would have said that--" "Why," said I, "does he not understand five-and-twenty tongues?" "Oh yes," said the man in black; "and five-and-twenty added to them; but, he! he! he! it was principally from him, who is certainly the greatest of Philologists, that I formed my opinion of the sect." "You ought to speak of him with more respect," said I; "I have heard say that he has done good service to your See." "Oh yes," said the man in black; "he has done good service to our See, that is, in his way; when the neophytes of the propaganda are to be examined in the several tongues in which they are destined to preach, he is appointed to question them, the questions being first written down for him, or else, he! he! he!--Of course you know Napoleon's estimate of Mezzofante; he sent for the linguist from motives of curiosity, and after some discourse with him, told him that he might depart; then turning to some of his generals, he observed, '_Nous avons eu ici un exemple qu'un homme peut avoir beaucoup de paroles avec bien peu d'esprit_.'" "You are ungrateful to him," said I; "well, perhaps, when he is dead and gone you will do him justice." "True," said the man in black; "when he is dead and gone, we intend to erect him a statue of wood, on the left-hand side of the door of the Vatican library." "Of wood?" said I. "He was the son of a carpenter, you know," said the man in black; "the figure will be of wood, for no other reason, I assure you; he! he!" "You should place another statue on the right." "Perhaps we shall," said the man in black; "but we know of no one amongst the philologists of Italy, nor, indeed, of the other countries inhabited by the faithful, worthy to sit parallel in effigy with our illustrissimo; when, indeed, we have conquered these regions of the perfidious by bringing the inhabitants thereof to the true faith, I have no doubt that we shall be able to select one worthy to bear him company--one whose statue shall be placed on the right hand of the library, in testimony of our joy at his conversion; for, as you know, 'There is more joy,' etc." "Wood?" said I. "I hope not," said the man in black; "no, if I be consulted as to the material for the statue, I should strongly recommend bronze." And when the man in black had said this, he emptied his second tumbler of its contents, and prepared himself another. CHAPTER XCIV Prerogative--Feeling of Gratitude--A Long History--Alliterative Style--Advantageous Specimen--Jesuit Benefice--Not Sufficient--Queen Stork's Tragedy--Good Sense--Grandeur and Gentility--Ironmonger's Daughter--Clan Mac-Sycophant--Lick-Spittles--A Curiosity--Newspaper Editors--Charles the Simple--High-flying Ditty--Dissenters--Lower Classes--Priestley's House--Saxon Ancestors--Austin--Renovating Glass--Money--Quite Original. "So you hope to bring these regions again beneath the banner of the Roman See?" said I; after the man in black had prepared the beverage, and tasted it. "Hope!" said the man in black; "how can we fail? Is not the Church of these regions going to lose its prerogative?" "Its prerogative?" "Yes; those who should be the guardians of the religion of England are about to grant Papists emancipation, and to remove the disabilities from Dissenters, which will allow the Holy Father to play his own game in England." On my inquiring how the Holy Father intended to play his game, the man in black gave me to understand that he intended for the present to cover the land with temples, in which the religion of Protestants would be continually scoffed at and reviled. On my observing that such behaviour would savour strongly of ingratitude, the man in black gave me to understand that if I entertained the idea that the See of Rome was ever influenced in its actions by any feeling of gratitude I was much mistaken, assuring me that if the See of Rome in any encounter should chance to be disarmed and its adversary, from a feeling of magnanimity, should restore the sword which had been knocked out of its hand, the See of Rome always endeavoured on the first opportunity to plunge the said sword into its adversary's bosom; conduct which the man in black seemed to think was very wise, and which he assured me had already enabled it to get rid of a great many troublesome adversaries, and would, he had no doubt, enable it to get rid of a great many more. On my attempting to argue against the propriety of such behaviour, the man in black cut the matter short, by saying, that if one party was a fool he saw no reason why the other should imitate it in its folly. After musing a little while, I told him that emancipation had not yet passed through the legislature, and that perhaps it never would; reminding him that there was often many a slip between the cup and the lip; to which observation the man in black agreed, assuring me, however, that there was no doubt that emancipation would be carried, inasmuch as there was a very loud cry at present in the land--a cry of "tolerance," which had almost frightened the Government out of its wits; who, to get rid of the cry, was going to grant all that was asked in the way of toleration, instead of telling the people to "Hold their nonsense," and cutting them down, provided they continued bawling longer. I questioned the man in black with respect to the origin of this cry; but he said, to trace it to its origin would require a long history; that, at any rate, such a cry was in existence, the chief raisers of it being certain of the nobility, called Whigs, who hoped by means of it to get into power, and to turn out certain ancient adversaries of theirs called Tories, who were for letting things remain _in statu quo_; that these Whigs were backed by a party amongst the people called Radicals, a specimen of whom I had seen in the public-house; a set of fellows who were always in the habit of bawling against those in place; "and so," he added, "by means of these parties, and the hubbub which the Papists and other smaller sects are making, a general emancipation will be carried, and the Church of England humbled, which is the principal thing which the See of Rome cares for." On my telling the man in black that I believed that, even among the high dignitaries of the English Church, there were many who wished to grant perfect freedom to religions of all descriptions, he said he was aware that such was the fact, and that such a wish was anything but wise, inasmuch as, if they had any regard for the religion they professed, they ought to stand by it through thick and thin, proclaiming it to be the only true one, and denouncing all others, in an alliterative style, as dangerous and damnable; whereas, by their present conduct, they were bringing their religion into contempt with the people at large, who would never continue long attached to a Church the ministers of which did not stand up for it, and likewise cause their own brethren, who had a clearer notion of things, to be ashamed of belonging to it. "I speak advisedly," said he, in continuation, "there is one Platitude." "And I hope there is only one," said I; "you surely would not adduce the likes and dislikes of that poor silly fellow as the criterions of the opinions of any party?" "You know him," said the man in black, "nay, I heard you mention him in the public-house; the fellow is not very wise, I admit, but he has sense enough to know, that unless a Church can make people hold their tongues when it thinks fit, it is scarcely deserving the name of a Church; no, I think that the fellow is not such a very bad stick, and that upon the whole he is, or rather was, an advantageous specimen of the High Church English clergy, who, for the most part, so far from troubling their heads about persecuting people, only think of securing their tithes, eating their heavy dinners, puffing out their cheeks with importance on country justice benches, and occasionally exhibiting their conceited wives, hoyden daughters, and gawky sons at country balls, whereas Platitude--" "Stop," said I; "you said in the public-house that the Church of England was a persecuting Church, and here in the dingle you have confessed that one section of it is willing to grant perfect freedom to the exercise of all religions, and the other only thinks of leading an easy life." "Saying a thing in the public-house is a widely different thing from saying it in the dingle," said the man in black; "had the Church of England been a persecuting Church, it would not stand in the position in which it stands at present; it might, with its opportunities, have spread itself over the greater part of the world. I was about to observe that, instead of practising the indolent habits of his High Church brethren, Platitude would be working for his money, preaching the proper use of fire and fagot, or rather of the halter and the whipping-post, encouraging mobs to attack the houses of Dissenters, employing spies to collect the scandal of neighbourhoods, in order that he might use it for sacerdotal purposes, and, in fact, endeavouring to turn an English parish into something like a Jesuit benefice in the south of France." "He tried that game," said I, "and the parish said 'Pooh, pooh,' and, for the most part, went over to the Dissenters." "Very true," said the man in black, taking a sip at his glass, "but why were the Dissenters allowed to preach? why were they not beaten on the lips till they spat out blood, with a dislodged tooth or two? Why, but because the authority of the Church of England has, by its own fault, become so circumscribed, that Mr. Platitude was not able to send a host of beadles and sbirri to their chapel to bring them to reason, on which account Mr. Platitude is very properly ashamed of his Church, and is thinking of uniting himself with one which possesses more vigour and authority." "It may have vigour and authority," said I, "in foreign lands, but in these kingdoms the day for practising its atrocities is gone by. It is at present almost below contempt, and is obliged to sue for grace _in forma paureris_." "Very true," said the man in black; "but let it once obtain emancipation, and it will cast its slough, put on its fine clothes, and make converts by thousands. 'What a fine Church!' they'll say; 'with what authority it speaks! no doubts, no hesitation, no sticking at trifles. What a contrast to the sleepy English Church!' They'll go over to it by millions, till it preponderates here over every other, when it will of course be voted the dominant one; and then--and then . . . " and here the man in black drank a considerable quantity of gin and water. "What then?" said I. "What then?" said the man in black; "why, she will be true to herself. Let Dissenters, whether they be Church of England, as perhaps they may still call themselves, Methodist, or Presbyterian, presume to grumble, and there shall be bruising of lips in pulpits, tying up to whipping-posts, cutting off ears and noses--he! he! the farce of King Log has been acted long enough; the time for Queen Stork's tragedy is drawing nigh;" and the man in black sipped his gin and water in a very exulting manner. "And this is the Church which, according to your assertion in the public- house, never persecutes?" "I have already given you an answer," said the man in black. "With respect to the matter of the public-house, it is one of the happy privileges of those who belong to my Church to deny in the public-house what they admit in the dingle; we have high warranty for such double speaking. Did not the foundation-stone of our Church, Saint Peter, deny in the public-house what he had previously professed in the valley?" "And do you think," said I, "that the people of England, who have shown aversion to anything in the shape of intolerance, will permit such barbarities as you have described?" "Let them become Papists," said the man in black; "only let the majority become Papists, and you will see." "They will never become so," said I; "the good sense of the people of England will never permit them to commit such an absurdity." "The good sense of the people of England!" said the man in black, filling himself another glass. "Yes," said I, "the good sense of not only the upper, but the middle and lower classes." "And of what description of people are the upper class?" said the man in black, putting a lump of sugar into his gin and water. "Very fine people," said I, "monstrously fine people; so, at least, they are generally believed to be." "He! he!" said the man in black; "only those think them so who don't know them. The male part of the upper class are in youth a set of heartless profligates; in old age, a parcel of poor, shaking, nervous paillards. The female part, worthy to be the sisters and wives of such wretches--unmarried, full of cold vice, kept under by vanity and ambition, but which, after marriage, they seek not to restrain; in old age, abandoned to vapours and horrors; do you think that such beings will afford any obstacle to the progress of the Church in these regions, as soon as her movements are unfettered?" "I cannot give an opinion; I know nothing of them, except from a distance. But what think you of the middle classes?" "Their chief characteristic," said the man in black, "is a rage for grandeur and gentility; and that same rage makes us quite sure of them in the long-run. Everything that's lofty meets their unqualified approbation; whilst everything humble, or, as they call it, 'low,' is scouted by them. They begin to have a vague idea that the religion which they have hitherto professed is low; at any rate, that it is not the religion of the mighty ones of the earth, of the great kings and emperors whose shoes they have a vast inclination to kiss, nor was used by the grand personages of whom they have read in their novels and romances, their Ivanhoes, their Marmions, and their Ladies of the Lake." "Do you think that the writings of Scott have had any influence in modifying their religious opinions?" "Most certainly I do," said the man in black. "The writings of that man have made them greater fools than they were before. All their conversation now is about gallant knights, princesses, and cavaliers, with which his pages are stuffed--all of whom were Papists, or very High Church, which is nearly the same thing; and they are beginning to think that the religion of such nice sweet-scented gentry must be something very superfine. Why, I know at Birmingham the daughter of an ironmonger, who screeches to the piano the Lady of the Lake's hymn to the Virgin Mary, always weeps when Mary Queen of Scots is mentioned, and fasts on the anniversary of the death of that very wise martyr, Charles the First. Why, I would engage to convert such an idiot to popery in a week, were it worth my trouble. _O Cavaliere Gualtiero avete fatto molto in favore della Santa Sede_!" "If he has," said I, "he has done it unwittingly; I never heard before that he was a favourer of the popish delusion." "Only in theory," said the man in black. "Trust any of the clan Mac-Sycophant for interfering openly and boldly in favour of any cause on which the sun does not shine benignantly. Popery is at present, as you say, suing for grace in these regions _in forma pauperis_; but let royalty once take it up, let old gouty George once patronise it, and I would consent to drink puddle-water if, the very next time the canny Scot was admitted to the royal symposium, he did not say, 'By my faith, yere Majesty, I have always thought, at the bottom of my heart, that popery, as ill-scrapit tongues ca' it, was a very grand religion; I shall be proud to follow your Majesty's example in adopting it.'" "I doubt not," said I, "that both gouty George and his devoted servant will be mouldering in their tombs long before royalty in England thinks about adopting popery." "We can wait," said the man in black; "in these days of rampant gentility, there will be no want of kings nor of Scots about them." "But not Walters," said I. "Our work has been already tolerably well done by one," said the man in black; "but if we wanted literature, we should never lack in these regions hosts of literary men of some kind or other to eulogise us, provided our religion were in the fashion, and our popish nobles chose--and they always do our bidding--to admit the canaille to their tables--their kitchen tables. As for literature in general," said he, "the Santa Sede is not particularly partial to it, it may be employed both ways. In Italy, in particular, it has discovered that literary men are not always disposed to be lick-spittles." "For example, Dante," said I. "Yes," said the man in black, "a dangerous personage; that poem of his cuts both ways; and then there was Pulci, that Morgante of his cuts both ways, or rather one way, and that sheer against us; and then there was Aretino, who dealt so hard with the poveri frati; all writers, at least Italian ones, are not lick-spittles. And then in Spain,--'tis true, Lope de Vega and Calderon were most inordinate lick-spittles; the Principe Constante of the last is a curiosity in its way; and then the Mary Stuart of Lope; I think I shall recommend the perusal of that work to the Birmingham ironmonger's daughter--she has been lately thinking of adding 'a slight knowledge of the magneeficent language of the Peninsula' to the rest of her accomplishments, he! he! he! But then there was Cervantes, starving, but straight; he deals us some hard knocks in that second part of his Quixote. Then there were some of the writers of the picaresque novels. No, all literary men are not lick-spittles, whether in Italy or Spain, or, indeed, upon the Continent; it is only in England that all--" "Come," said I, "mind what you are about to say of English literary men." "Why should I mind?" said the man in black, "there are no literary men here. I have heard of literary men living in garrets, but not in dingles, whatever philologists may do; I may, therefore, speak out freely. It is only in England that literary men are invariably lick-spittles; on which account, perhaps, they are so despised, even by those who benefit by their dirty services. Look at your fashionable novel writers, he! he!--and, above all, at your newspaper editors, ho! ho!" "You will, of course, except the editors of the --- from your censure of the last class?" said I. "Them!" said the man in black; "why, they might serve as models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it. See how they bepraise their patrons, the grand Whig nobility, who hope, by raising the cry of liberalism, and by putting themselves at the head of the populace, to come into power shortly. I don't wish to be hard, at present, upon those Whigs," he continued, "for they are playing our game; but a time will come when, not wanting them, we will kick them to a considerable distance: and then, when toleration is no longer the cry, and the Whigs are no longer backed by the populace, see whether the editors of the --- will stand by them; they will prove themselves as expert lick-spittles of despotism as of liberalism. Don't think they will always bespatter the Tories and Austria." "Well," said I, "I am sorry to find that you entertain so low an opinion of the spirit of English literary men; we will now return, if you please, to the subject of the middle classes; I think your strictures upon them in general are rather too sweeping--they are not altogether the foolish people which you have described. Look, for example, at that very powerful and numerous body the Dissenters, the descendants of those sturdy Patriots who hurled Charles the Simple from his throne." "There are some sturdy fellows amongst them, I do not deny," said the man in black, "especially amongst the preachers, clever withal--two or three of that class nearly drove Mr. Platitude mad, as perhaps you are aware, but they are not very numerous; and the old sturdy sort of preachers are fast dropping off, and, as we observe with pleasure, are generally succeeded by frothy coxcombs, whom it would not be very difficult to gain over. But what we most rely upon as an instrument to bring the Dissenters over to us is the mania for gentility, which amongst them has of late become as great, and more ridiculous than amongst the middle classes belonging to the Church of England. All the plain and simple fashions of their forefathers they are either about to abandon, or have already done so. Look at the most part of their chapels--no longer modest brick edifices, situated in quiet and retired streets, but lunatic- looking erections, in what the simpletons call the modern Gothic taste, of Portland stone, with a cross upon the top, and the site generally the most conspicuous that can be found. And look at the manner in which they educate their children--I mean those that are wealthy. They do not even wish them to be Dissenters--'the sweet dears shall enjoy the advantages of good society, of which their parents were debarred.' So the girls are sent to tip-top boarding-schools, where amongst other trash they read 'Rokeby,' and are taught to sing snatches from that high-flying ditty, the 'Cavalier'-- 'Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown, With the barons of England, who fight for the crown?'-- he! he! their own names. Whilst the lads are sent to those hot-beds of pride and folly--colleges, whence they return with a greater contempt for everything 'low,' and especially for their own pedigree, than they went with. I tell you, friend, the children of Dissenters, if not their parents, are going over to the Church, as you call it, and the Church is going over to Rome." "I do not see the justice of that latter assertion at all," said I; "some of the Dissenters' children may be coming over to the Church of England, and yet the Church of England be very far from going over to Rome." "In the high road for it, I assure you," said the man in black; "part of it is going to abandon, the rest to lose their prerogative, and when a Church no longer retains its prerogative, it speedily loses its own respect, and that of others." "Well," said I, "if the higher classes have all the vices and follies which you represent, on which point I can say nothing, as I have never mixed with them; and even supposing the middle classes are the foolish beings you would fain make them, and which I do not believe them as a body to be, you would still find some resistance amongst the lower classes: I have a considerable respect for their good sense and independence of character; but pray let me hear your opinion of them." "As for the lower classes," said the man in black, "I believe them to be the most brutal wretches in the world, the most addicted to foul feeding, foul language, and foul vices of every kind; wretches who have neither love for country, religion, nor anything save their own vile selves. You surely do not think that they would oppose a change of religion! why, there is not one of them but would hurrah for the Pope, or Mahomet, for the sake of a hearty gorge and a drunken bout, like those which they are treated with at election contests." "Has your Church any followers amongst them?" said I. "Wherever there happens to be a Romish family of considerable possessions," said the man in black, "our Church is sure to have followers of the lower class, who have come over in the hope of getting something in the shape of dole or donation. As, however, the Romish is not yet the dominant religion, and the clergy of the English establishment have some patronage to bestow, the churches are not quite deserted by the lower classes; yet, were the Romish to become the established religion, they would, to a certainty, all go over to it; you can scarcely imagine what a self-interested set they are--for example, the landlord of that public-house in which I first met you, having lost a sum of money upon a cockfight, and his affairs in consequence being in a bad condition, is on the eve of coming over to us, in the hope that two old popish females of property, whom I confess, will advance a sum of money to set him up again in the world." "And what could have put such an idea into the poor fellow's head?" said I. "Oh! he and I have had some conversation upon the state of his affairs," said the man in black; "I think he might make a rather useful convert in these parts, provided things take a certain turn, as they doubtless will. It is no bad thing to have a fighting fellow, who keeps a public-house, belonging to one's religion. He has been occasionally employed as a bully at elections by the Tory party, and he may serve us in the same capacity. The fellow comes of a good stock; I heard him say that his father headed the High Church mob who sacked and burnt Priestley's house at Birmingham, towards the end of the last century." "A disgraceful affair," said I. "What do you mean by a disgraceful affair?" said the man in black. "I assure you that nothing has occurred for the last fifty years which has given the High Church party so much credit in the eyes of Rome as that,--we did not imagine that the fellows had so much energy. Had they followed up that affair by twenty others of a similar kind, they would by this time have had everything in their own power; but they did not, and, as a necessary consequence, they are reduced to almost nothing." "I suppose," said I, "that your Church would have acted very differently in its place." "It has always done so," said the man in black, coolly sipping. "Our Church has always armed the brute population against the genius and intellect of a country, provided that same intellect and genius were not willing to become its instruments and eulogists; and provided we once obtain a firm hold here again, we would not fail to do so. We would occasionally stuff the beastly rabble with horseflesh and bitter ale, and then halloo them on against all those who were obnoxious to us." "Horseflesh and bitter ale!" I replied. "Yes," said the man in black; "horseflesh and bitter ale--the favourite delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always ready to do our bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. There is a tradition in our Church, that before the Northumbrian rabble, at the instigation of Austin, attacked and massacred the Presbyterian monks of Bangor, they had been allowed a good gorge of horseflesh and bitter ale. He! he! he!" continued the man in black, "what a fine spectacle to see such a mob, headed by a fellow like our friend the landlord, sack the house of another Priestley!" "Then you don't deny that we have had a Priestley," said I, "and admit the possibility of our having another? You were lately observing that all English literary men were sycophants?" "Lick-spittles," said the man in black; "yes, I admit that you have had a Priestley, but he was a Dissenter of the old class; you have had him, and perhaps may have another." "Perhaps we may," said I. "But with respect to the lower classes, have you mixed much with them?" "I have mixed with all classes," said the man in black, "and with the lower not less than the upper and middle; they are much as I have described them; and of the three, the lower are the worst. I never knew one of them that possessed the slightest principle, no, not . . . It is true, there was one fellow whom I once met, who . . . but it is a long story, and the affair happened abroad." "I ought to know something of the English people," he continued, after a moment's pause; "I have been many years amongst them, labouring in the cause of the Church." "Your See must have had great confidence in your powers, when it selected you to labour for it in these parts," said I. "They chose me," said the man in black, "principally because, being of British extraction and education, I could speak the English language and bear a glass of something strong. It is the opinion of my See, that it would hardly do to send a missionary into a country like this who is not well versed in English--a country where, they think, so far from understanding any language besides his own, scarcely one individual in ten speaks his own intelligibly; or an ascetic person where, as they say, high and low, male and female, are, at some period of their lives, fond of a renovating glass, as it is styled--in other words, of tippling." "Your See appears to entertain a very strange opinion of the English," said I. "Not altogether an unjust one," said the man in black, lifting the glass to his mouth. "Well," said I, "it is certainly very kind on its part to wish to bring back such a set of beings beneath its wing." "Why, as to the kindness of my See," said the man in black, "I have not much to say; my See has generally in what it does a tolerably good motive; these heretics possess in plenty what my See has a great hankering for, and can turn to a good account--money!" "The Founder of the Christian religion cared nothing for money," said I. "What have we to do with what the Founder of the Christian religion cared for?" said the man in black. "How could our temples be built, and our priests supported without money? But you are unwise to reproach us with a desire of obtaining money; you forget that your own Church, if the Church of England be your own Church, as I suppose it is, from the willingness which you displayed in the public-house to fight for it, is equally avaricious; look at your greedy bishops, and your corpulent rectors--do they imitate Christ in His disregard for money? You might as well tell me that they imitate Christ in His meekness and humility." "Well," said I, "whatever their faults may be, you can't say that they go to Rome for money." The man in black made no direct answer, but appeared by the motion of his lips to be repeating something to himself. "I see your glass is again empty," said I; "perhaps you will replenish it?" The man in black arose from his seat, adjusted his habiliments, which were rather in disorder, and placed upon his head his hat, which he had laid aside; then, looking at me, who was still lying on the ground, he said--"I might, perhaps, take another glass, though I believe I have had quite as much as I can well bear; but I do not wish to hear you utter anything more this evening, after that last observation of yours--it is quite original; I will meditate upon it on my pillow this night, after having said an ave and a pater--go to Rome for money!" He then made Belle a low bow, slightly motioned to me with his hand as if bidding farewell, and then left the dingle with rather uneven steps. "Go to Rome for money," I heard him say as he ascended the winding path, "he! he! he! Go to Rome for money, ho! ho! ho!" CHAPTER XCV Wooded Retreat--Fresh Shoes--Wood Fire--Ash, when Green--Queen of China--Cleverest People--Declensions--Armenian--Thunder--Deep Olive--What Do You Mean?--Koul Adonai--The Thick Bushes--Wood Pigeon--Old Goethe. Nearly three days elapsed without anything of particular moment occurring. Belle drove the little cart containing her merchandise about the neighbourhood, returning to the dingle towards the evening. As for myself, I kept within my wooded retreat, working during the periods of her absence leisurely at my forge. Having observed that the quadruped which my companion drove was as much in need of shoes as my own had been some time previously, I had determined to provide it with a set, and during the aforesaid periods occupied myself in preparing them. As I was employed three mornings and afternoons about them, I am sure that the reader will agree that I worked leisurely, or rather, lazily. On the third day Belle arrived somewhat later than usual; I was lying on my back at the bottom of the dingle, employed in tossing up the shoes which I had produced, and catching them as they fell--some being always in the air mounting or descending, somewhat after the fashion of the waters of a fountain. "Why have you been absent so long?" said I to Belle; "it must be long past four by the day." "I have been almost killed by the heat," said Belle; "I was never out in a more sultry day--the poor donkey, too, could scarcely move along." "He shall have fresh shoes," said I, continuing my exercise; "here they are quite ready; to-morrow I will tack them on." "And why are you playing with them in that manner?" said Belle. "Partly in triumph at having made them, and partly to show that I can do something besides making them; it is not every one who, after having made a set of horse-shoes, can keep them going up and down in the air, without letting one fall." "One has now fallen on your chin," said Belle. "And another on my cheek," said I, getting up; "it is time to discontinue the game, for the last shoe drew blood." Belle went to her own little encampment; and as for myself, after having flung the donkey's shoes into my tent, I put some fresh wood on the fire, which was nearly out, and hung the kettle over it. I then issued forth from the dingle, and strolled round the wood that surrounded it; for a long time I was busied in meditation, looking at the ground, striking with my foot, half unconsciously, the tufts of grass and thistles that I met in my way. After some time, I lifted up my eyes to the sky, at first vacantly, and then with more attention, turning my head in all directions for a minute or two; after which I returned to the dingle. Isopel was seated near the fire, over which the kettle was now hung; she had changed her dress--no signs of the dust and fatigue of her late excursion remained; she had just added to the fire a small billet of wood, two or three of which I had left beside it; the fire cracked, and a sweet odour filled the dingle. "I am fond of sitting by a wood fire," said Belle, "when abroad, whether it be hot or cold; I love to see the flames dart out of the wood; but what kind is this, and where did you get it?" "It is ash," said I, "green ash. Somewhat less than a week ago, whilst I was wandering along the road by the side of a wood, I came to a place where some peasants were engaged in cutting up and clearing away a confused mass of fallen timber: a mighty aged oak had given way the night before, and in its fall had shivered some smaller trees; the upper part of the oak, and the fragments of the rest, lay across the road. I purchased, for a trifle, a bundle or two, and the wood on the fire is part of it--ash, green ash." "That makes good the old rhyme," said Belle, "which I have heard sung by the old women in the great house:-- 'Ash, when green, Is fire for a queen.'" "And on fairer form of queen, ash fire never shone," said I, "than on thine, O beauteous queen of the dingle." "I am half disposed to be angry with you, young man," said Belle. "And why not entirely?" said I. Belle made no reply. "Shall I tell you?" I demanded. "You had no objection to the first part of the speech, but you did not like being called queen of the dingle. Well, if I had the power, I would make you queen of something better than the dingle--Queen of China. Come, let us have tea." "Something less would content me," said Belle, sighing, as she rose to prepare our evening meal. So we took tea together, Belle and I. "How delicious tea is after a hot summer's day, and a long walk," said she. "I dare say it is most refreshing then," said I; "but I have heard people say that they most enjoy it on a cold winter's night, when the kettle is hissing on the fire, and their children playing on the hearth." Belle sighed. "Where does tea come from?" she presently demanded. "From China," said I; "I just now mentioned it, and the mention of it put me in mind of tea." "What kind of country is China?" "I know very little about it; all I know is, that it is a very large country far to the East, but scarcely large enough to contain its inhabitants, who are so numerous, that though China does not cover one- ninth part of the world, its inhabitants amount to one-third of the population of the world." "And do they talk as we do?" "Oh no! I know nothing of their language; but I have heard that it is quite different from all others, and so difficult that none but the cleverest people amongst foreigners can master it, on which account, perhaps, only the French pretend to know anything about it." "Are the French so very clever, then?" said Belle. "They say there are no people like them, at least in Europe. But talking of Chinese reminds me that I have not for some time past given you a lesson in Armenian. The word for tea in Armenian is--by the bye, what is the Armenian word for tea?" "That's your affair, not mine," said Belle; "it seems hard that the master should ask the scholar." "Well," said I, "whatever the word may be in Armenian, it is a noun; and as we have never yet declined an Armenian noun together, we may as well take this opportunity of declining one. Belle, there are ten declensions in Armenian!" "What's a declension?" "The way of declining a noun." "Then, in the civilest way imaginable, I decline the noun. Is that a declension?" "You should never play on words; to do so is low, vulgar, smelling of the pothouse, the workhouse. Belle, I insist on your declining an Armenian noun." "I have done so already," said Belle. "If you go on in this way," said I, "I shall decline taking any more tea with you. Will you decline an Armenian noun?" "I don't like the language," said Belle. "If you must teach me languages, why not teach me French or Chinese?" "I know nothing of Chinese; and as for French, none but a Frenchman is clever enough to speak it--to say nothing of teaching; no, we will stick to Armenian, unless, indeed, you would prefer Welsh!" "Welsh, I have heard, is vulgar," said Belle; "so, if I must learn one of the two, I will prefer Armenian, which I never heard of till you mentioned it to me; though, of the two, I really think Welsh sounds best." "The Armenian noun," said I, "which I propose for your declension this night, is ---, which signifieth Master." "I neither like the word nor the sound," said Belle. "I can't help that," said I; "it is the word I choose: Master, with all its variations, being the first noun the sound of which I would have you learn from my lips. Come, let us begin-- "A master. Of a master, etc. Repeat--" "I am not much used to say the word," said Belle, "but to oblige you I will decline it as you wish;" and thereupon Belle declined Master in Armenian. "You have declined the noun very well," said I; "that is, in the singular number; we will now go to the plural." "What is the plural?" said Belle. "That which implies more than one, for example, Masters; you shall now go through Masters in Armenian." "Never," said Belle, "never; it is bad to have one master, but more I would never bear, whether in Armenian or English." "You do not understand," said I; "I merely want you to decline Masters in Armenian." "I do decline them; I will have nothing to do with them, nor with Master either; I was wrong to . . . What sound is that?" "I did not hear it, but I dare say it is thunder; in Armenian--" "Never mind what it is in Armenian; but why do you think it is thunder?" "Ere I returned from my stroll, I looked up into the heavens, and by their appearance I judged that a storm was nigh at hand." "And why did you not tell me so?" "You never asked me about the state of the atmosphere, and I am not in the habit of giving my opinion to people on any subject, unless questioned. But, setting that aside, can you blame me for not troubling you with forebodings about storm and tempest, which might have prevented the pleasure you promised yourself in drinking tea, or perhaps a lesson in Armenian, though you pretend to dislike the latter?" "My dislike is not pretended," said Belle; "I hate the sound of it, but I love my tea, and it was kind of you not to wish to cast a cloud over my little pleasures; the thunder came quite time enough to interrupt it without being anticipated--there is another peal--I will clear away, and see that my tent is in a condition to resist the storm; and I think you had better bestir yourself." Isopel departed, and I remained seated on my stone, as nothing belonging to myself required any particular attention; in about a quarter of an hour she returned, and seated herself upon her stool. "How dark the place is become since I left you," said she; "just as if night were just at hand." "Look up at the sky," said I; "and you will not wonder; it is all of a deep olive. The wind is beginning to rise; hark how it moans among the branches, and see how their tops are bending; it brings dust on its wings--I felt some fall on my face; and what is this, a drop of rain?" "We shall have plenty anon," said Belle; "do you hear? it already begins to hiss upon the embers; that fire of ours will soon be extinguished." "It is not probable that we shall want it," said I, "but we had better seek shelter: let us go into my tent." "Go in," said Belle, "but you go in alone; as for me, I will seek my own." "You are right," said I, "to be afraid of me; I have taught you to decline Master in Armenian." "You almost tempt me," said Belle, "to make you decline mistress in English." "To make matters short," said I, "I decline a mistress." "What do you mean?" said Belle, angrily. "I have merely done what you wished me," said I, "and in your own style; there is no other way of declining anything in English, for in English there are no declensions." "The rain is increasing," said Belle. "It is so," said I; "I shall go to my tent; you may come if you please; I do assure you I am not afraid of you." "Nor I of you," said Belle; "so I will come. Why should I be afraid? I can take my own part; that is . . . " We went into the tent and sat down, and now the rain began to pour with vehemence. "I hope we shall not be flooded in this hollow," said I to Belle. "There is no fear of that," said Belle; "the wandering people, amongst other names, call it the dry hollow. I believe there is a passage somewhere or other by which the wet is carried off. There must be a cloud right above us, it is so dark. Oh! what a flash!" "And what a peal!" said I; "that is what the Hebrews call Koul Adonai--the voice of the Lord. Are you afraid?" "No," said Belle, "I rather like to hear it." "You are right," said I; "I am fond of the sound of thunder myself. There is nothing like it; Koul Adonai behadar: the voice of the Lord is a glorious voice, as the Prayer-Book version hath it." "There is something awful in it," said Belle; "and then the lightning--the whole dingle is now in a blaze." "'The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and discovereth the thick bushes.' As you say, there is something awful in thunder." "There are all kinds of noises above us," said Belle; "surely I heard the crashing of a tree?" "'The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedar trees,'" said I, "but what you hear is caused by a convulsion of the air; during a thunderstorm there are occasionally all kinds of aerial noises. Ab Gwilym, who, next to King David, has best described a thunderstorm, speaks of these aerial noises in the following manner:-- 'Astonied now I stand at strains, As of ten thousand clanking chains; And once, methought, that overthrown, The welkin's oaks came whelming down; Upon my head up starts my hair: Why hunt abroad the hounds of air? What cursed hag is screeching high, Whilst crash goes all her crockery?' You would hardly believe, Belle, that though I offered at least ten thousand lines nearly as good as those to the booksellers in London, the simpletons were so blind to their interest as to refuse purchasing them!" "I don't wonder at it," said Belle, "especially if such dreadful expressions frequently occur as that towards the end;--surely that was the crash of a tree?" "Ah!" said I, "there falls the cedar tree--I mean the sallow; one of the tall trees on the outside of the dingle has been snapped short." "What a pity," said Belle, "that the fine old oak, which you saw the peasants cutting up, gave way the other night, when scarcely a breath of air was stirring; how much better to have fallen in a storm like this, the fiercest I remember." "I don't think so," said I; "after braving a thousand tempests, it was meeter for it to fall of itself than to be vanquished at last. But to return to Ab Gwilym's poetry: he was above culling dainty words, and spoke boldly his mind on all subjects. Enraged with the thunder for parting him and Morfydd, he says, at the conclusion of his ode, 'My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee, For parting my dear pearl and me!'" "You and I shall part, that is, I shall go to my tent, if you persist in repeating from him. The man must have been a savage. A poor wood-pigeon has fallen dead." "Yes," said I, "there he lies, just outside the tent; often have I listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. So you do not like Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Goethe:-- 'Mist shrouds the night, and rack; Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack! Wildly the owls are flitting, Hark to the pillars splitting Of palaces verdant ever, The branches quiver and sever, The mighty stems are creaking, The poor roots breaking and shrieking, In wild mixt ruin down dashing, O'er one another they're crashing; Whilst 'midst the rocks so hoary, Whirlwinds hurry and worry. Hear'st not, sister--'" "Hark!" said Belle, "hark!" "'Hear'st not, sister, a chorus Of voices--?'" "No," said Belle, "but I hear a voice." CHAPTER XCVI A shout--A Fire-Ball--See to the Horses--Passing Away--Gap in the Hedge--On Three Wheels--Why Do You Stop?--No Craven Heart--The Cordial--Across the Country--Small Bags. I listened attentively, but I could hear nothing but the loud clashing of branches, the pattering of rain, and the muttered growl of thunder. I was about to tell Belle that she must have been mistaken, when I heard a shout--indistinct, it is true, owing to the noises aforesaid--from some part of the field above the dingle. "I will soon see what's the matter," said I to Belle, starting up. "I will go too," said the girl. "Stay where you are," said I; "if I need you, I will call;" and, without waiting for any answer, I hurried to the mouth of the dingle. I was about a few yards only from the top of the ascent, when I beheld a blaze of light, from whence I knew not; the next moment there was a loud crash, and I appeared involved in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. "Lord have mercy upon us!" I heard a voice say, and methought I heard the plunging and struggling of horses. I had stopped short on hearing the crash, for I was half stunned; but I now hurried forward, and in a moment stood upon the plain. Here I was instantly aware of the cause of the crash and the smoke. One of those balls, generally called fire-balls, had fallen from the clouds, and was burning on the plain at a short distance; and the voice which I had heard, and the plunging, were as easily accounted for. Near the left-hand corner of the grove which surrounded the dingle, and about ten yards from the fire-ball, I perceived a chaise, with a postillion on the box, who was making efforts, apparently useless, to control his horses, which were kicking and plunging in the highest degree of excitement. I instantly ran towards the chaise, in order to offer what help was in my power. "Help me," said the poor fellow, as I drew nigh; but before I could reach the horses, they had turned rapidly round, one of the fore-wheels flew from its axle-tree, the chaise was overset, and the postillion flung violently from his seat upon the field. The horses now became more furious than before, kicking desperately, and endeavouring to disengage themselves from the fallen chaise. As I was hesitating whether to run to the assistance of the postillion or endeavour to disengage the animals, I heard the voice of Belle exclaiming, "See to the horses; I will look after the man." She had, it seems, been alarmed by the crash which accompanied the fire-bolt, and had hurried up to learn the cause. I forthwith seized the horses by the heads, and used all the means I possessed to soothe and pacify them, employing every gentle modulation of which my voice was capable. Belle, in the meantime, had raised up the man, who was much stunned by his fall; but, presently recovering his recollection to a certain degree, he came limping to me, holding his hand to his right thigh. "The first thing that must now be done," said I, "is to free these horses from the traces; can you undertake to do so?" "I think I can," said the man, looking at me somewhat stupidly. "I will help," said Belle, and without loss of time laid hold of one of the traces. The man, after a short pause, also set to work, and in a few minutes the horses were extricated. "Now," said I to the man, "what is next to be done?" "I don't know," said he; "indeed, I scarcely know anything; I have been so frightened by this horrible storm, and so shaken by my fall." "I think," said I, "that the storm is passing away, so cast your fears away too; and as for your fall, you must bear it as lightly as you can. I will tie the horses amongst those trees, and then we will all betake us to the hollow below." "And what's to become of my chaise?" said the postillion, looking ruefully on the fallen vehicle. "Let us leave the chaise for the present," said I; "we can be of no use to it." "I don't like to leave my chaise lying on the ground in this weather," said the man; "I love my chaise, and him whom it belongs to." "You are quite right to be fond of yourself," said I, "on which account I advise you to seek shelter from the rain as soon as possible." "I was not talking of myself," said the man, "but my master, to whom the chaise belongs." "I thought you called the chaise yours," said I. "That's my way of speaking," said the man; "but the chaise is my master's, and a better master does not live. Don't you think we could manage to raise up the chaise?" "And what is to become of the horses?" said I. "I love my horses well enough," said the man; "but they will take less harm than the chaise. We two can never lift up that chaise." "But we three can," said Belle; "at least, I think so; and I know where to find two poles which will assist us." "You had better go to the tent," said I, "you will be wet through." "I care not for a little wetting," said Belle; "moreover, I have more gowns than one--see you after the horses." Thereupon, I led the horses past the mouth of the dingle, to a place where a gap in the hedge afforded admission to the copse or plantation on the southern side. Forcing them through the gap, I led them to a spot amidst the trees, which I deemed would afford them the most convenient place for standing; then, darting down into the dingle, I brought up a rope, and also the halter of my own nag, and with these fastened them each to a separate tree in the best manner I could. This done, I returned to the chaise and the postillion. In a minute or two Belle arrived with two poles, which, it seems, had long been lying, overgrown with brushwood, in a ditch or hollow behind the plantation. With these both she and I set to work in endeavouring to raise the fallen chaise from the ground. We experienced considerable difficulty in this undertaking; at length, with the assistance of the postillion, we saw our efforts crowned with success--the chaise was lifted up, and stood upright on three wheels. "We may leave it here in safety," said I, "for it will hardly move away on three wheels, even supposing it could run by itself; I am afraid there is work here for a wheelwright, in which case I cannot assist you; if you were in need of a blacksmith it would be otherwise." "I don't think either the wheel or the axle is hurt," said the postillion, who had been handling both; "it is only the linch-pin having dropped out that caused the wheel to fly off; if I could but find the linch-pin!--though, perhaps, it fell out a mile away." "Very likely," said I; "but never mind the linch-pin, I can make you one, or something that will serve: but I can't stay here any longer; I am going to my place below with this young gentlewoman, and you had better follow us." "I am ready," said the man; and after lifting up the wheel and propping it against the chaise, he went with us, slightly limping, and with his hand pressed to his thigh. As we were descending the narrow path, Belle leading the way, and myself the last of the party, the postillion suddenly stopped short, and looked about him. "Why do you stop?" said I. "I don't wish to offend you," said the man, "but this seems to be a strange place you are leading me into; I hope you and the young gentlewoman, as you call her, don't mean me any harm--you seemed in a great hurry to bring me here." "We wished to get you out of the rain," said I, "and ourselves too; that is, if we can, which I rather doubt, for the canvas of a tent is slight shelter in such a rain; but what harm should we wish to do you?" "You may think I have money," said the man, "and I have some, but only thirty shillings, and for a sum like that it would be hardly worth while to--" "Would it not?" said I; "thirty shillings, after all, are thirty shillings, and for what I know, half a dozen throats may have been cut in this place for that sum at the rate of five shillings each; moreover, there are the horses, which would serve to establish this young gentlewoman and myself in housekeeping, provided we were thinking of such a thing." "Then I suppose I have fallen into pretty hands," said the man, putting himself in a posture of defence; "but I'll show no craven heart; and if you attempt to lay hands on me, I'll try to pay you in your own coin. I'm rather lamed in the leg, but I can still use my fists; so come on both of you, man and woman, if woman this be, though she looks more like a grenadier." "Let me hear no more of this nonsense," said Belle; "if you are afraid, you can go back to your chaise--we only seek to do you a kindness." "Why, he was just now talking of cutting throats," said the man. "You brought it on yourself," said Belle; "you suspected us, and he wished to pass a joke upon you; he would not hurt a hair of your head, were your coach laden with gold, nor would I." "Well," said the man, "I was wrong--here's my hand to both of you," shaking us by the hands. "I'll go with you where you please, but I thought this a strange lonesome place, though I ought not much to mind strange lonesome places, having been in plenty of such when I was a servant in Italy, without coming to any harm--come, let us move on, for 'tis a shame to keep you two in the rain." So we descended the path which led into the depths of the dingle; at the bottom I conducted the postillion to my tent, which, though the rain dripped and trickled through it, afforded some shelter; there I bade him sit down on the log of wood, whilst I placed myself as usual on my stone. Belle in the meantime had repaired to her own place of abode. After a little time, I produced a bottle of the cordial of which I have previously had occasion to speak, and made my guest take a considerable draught. I then offered him some bread and cheese, which he accepted with thanks. In about an hour the rain had much abated. "What do you now propose to do?" said I. "I scarcely know," said the man; "I suppose I must endeavour to put on the wheel with your help." "How far are you from your home?" I demanded. "Upwards of thirty miles," said the man; "my master keeps an inn on the Great North Road, and from thence I started early this morning with a family, which I conveyed across the country to a hall at some distance from here. On my return I was beset by the thunderstorm, which frightened the horses, who dragged the chaise off the road to the field above, and overset it as you saw. I had proposed to pass the night at an inn about twelve miles from here on my way back, though how I am to get there to-night I scarcely know, even if we can put on the wheel, for, to tell you the truth, I am shaken by my fall, and the smoulder and smoke of that fire-ball have rather bewildered my head; I am, moreover, not much acquainted with the way." "The best thing you can do," said I, "is to pass the night here; I will presently light a fire, and endeavour to make you comfortable--in the morning we will see to your wheel." "Well," said the man, "I shall be glad to pass the night here, provided I do not intrude, but I must see to the horses." Thereupon I conducted the man to the place where the horses were tied. "The trees drip very much upon them," said the man, "and it will not do for them to remain here all night; they will be better out on the field picking the grass; but first of all they must have a good feed of corn." Thereupon he went to his chaise, from which he presently brought two small bags, partly filled with corn--into them he inserted the mouths of the horses, tying them over their heads. "Here we will leave them for a time," said the man; "when I think they have had enough, I will come back, tie their fore-legs, and let them pick about." CHAPTER XCVII Fire of Charcoal--The New Comer--No Wonder!--Not a Blacksmith--A Love Affair--Gretna Green--A Cool Thousand--Family Estates--Borough Interest--Grand Education--Let us Hear--Already Quarrelling--Honourable Parents--Most Heroically--Not Common People--Fresh Charcoal. It might be about ten o'clock at night. Belle, the postillion, and myself sat just within the tent, by a fire of charcoal which I had kindled in the chafing-pan. The man had removed the harness from his horses, and, after tethering their legs, had left them for the night in the field above to regale themselves on what grass they could find. The rain had long since entirely ceased, and the moon and stars shone bright in the firmament, up to which, putting aside the canvas, I occasionally looked from the depths of the dingle. Large drops of water, however, falling now and then upon the tent from the neighbouring trees, would have served, could we have forgotten it, to remind us of the recent storm, and also a certain chilliness in the atmosphere, unusual to the season, proceeding from the moisture with which the ground was saturated; yet these circumstances only served to make our party enjoy the charcoal fire the more. There we sat bending over it: Belle, with her long beautiful hair streaming over her magnificent shoulders; the postillion smoking his pipe, in his shirt-sleeves and waistcoat, having flung aside his great-coat, which had sustained a thorough wetting; and I without my waggoner's slop, of which, it being in the same plight, I had also divested myself. The new comer was a well-made fellow of about thirty, with an open and agreeable countenance. I found him very well informed for a man in his station, and with some pretensions to humour. After we had discoursed for some time on indifferent subjects, the postillion, who had exhausted his pipe, took it from his mouth, and, knocking out the ashes upon the ground, exclaimed, "I little thought, when I got up in the morning, that I should spend the night in such agreeable company, and after such a fright." "Well," said I, "I am glad that your opinion of us has improved; it is not long since you seemed to hold us in rather a suspicious light." "And no wonder," said the man, "seeing the place you were taking me to! I was not a little, but very much afraid of ye both; and so I continued for some time, though, not to show a craven heart, I pretended to be quite satisfied; but I see I was altogether mistaken about ye. I thought you vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers; but now--" "Vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers," said I; "and what are we but people of that stamp?" "Oh," said the postillion, "if you wish to be thought such, I am far too civil a person to contradict you, especially after your kindness to me, but--" "But!" said I; "what do you mean by but? I would have you to know that I am proud of being a travelling blacksmith; look at these donkey-shoes; I finished them this day." The postillion took the shoes and examined them. "So you made these shoes?" he cried at last. "To be sure I did; do you doubt it?" "Not in the least," said the man. "Ah! ah!" said I, "I thought I should bring you back to your original opinion. I am, then, a vagrant Gypsy body, a tramper, a wandering blacksmith." "Not a blacksmith, whatever else you may be," said the postillion, laughing. "Then how do you account for my making those shoes?" "By your not being a blacksmith," said the postillion; "no blacksmith would have made shoes in that manner. Besides, what did you mean just now by saying you had finished these shoes to-day? A real blacksmith would have flung off three or four sets of donkey-shoes in one morning, but you, I will be sworn, have been hammering at these for days, and they do you credit--but why?--because you are no blacksmith; no, friend, your shoes may do for this young gentlewoman's animal, but I shouldn't like to have my horses shod by you, unless at a great pinch indeed." "Then," said I, "for what do you take me?" "Why, for some runaway young gentleman," said the postillion. "No offence, I hope?" "None at all; no one is offended at being taken or mistaken for a young gentleman, whether runaway or not; but from whence do you suppose I have run away?" "Why, from college," said the man: "no offence?" "None whatever; and what induced me to run away from college?" "A love affair, I'll be sworn," said the postillion. "You had become acquainted with this young gentlewoman, so she and you--" "Mind how you get on, friend," said Belle, in a deep serious tone. "Pray proceed," said I; "I dare say you mean no offence." "None in the world," said the postillion; "all I was going to say was, that you agreed to run away together, you from college, and she from boarding-school. Well, there's nothing to be ashamed of in a matter like that, such things are done every day by young folks in high life." "Are you offended?" said I to Belle. Belle made no answer; but, placing her elbows on her knees, buried her face in her hands. "So we ran away together?" said I. "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "to Gretna Green, though I can't say that I drove ye, though I have driven many a pair." "And from Gretna Green we came here?" "I'll be bound you did," said the man, "till you could arrange matters at home." "And the horse-shoes?" said I. "The donkey-shoes you mean," answered the postillion; "why, I suppose you persuaded the blacksmith who married you to give you, before you left, a few lessons in his trade." "And we intend to stay here till we have arranged matters at home?" "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "till the old people are pacified, and they send you letters directed to the next post town, to be left till called for, beginning with 'Dear children,' and enclosing you each a cheque for one hundred pounds, when you will leave this place, and go home in a coach like gentlefolks, to visit your governors; I should like nothing better than to have the driving of you: and then there will be a grand meeting of the two families, and after a few reproaches, the old people will agree to do something handsome for the poor thoughtless things; so you will have a genteel house taken for you, and an annuity allowed you. You won't get much the first year, five hundred at the most, in order that the old folks may let you feel that they are not altogether satisfied with you, and that you are yet entirely in their power; but the second, if you don't get a cool thousand, may I catch cold, especially should young madam here present a son and heir for the old people to fondle, destined one day to become sole heir of the two illustrious houses; and then all the grand folks in the neighbourhood, who have--bless their prudent hearts!--kept rather aloof from you till then, for fear you should want anything from them--I say all the carriage people in the neighbourhood, when they see how swimmingly matters are going on, will come in shoals to visit you." "Really," said I, "you are getting on swimmingly." "Oh," said the postillion, "I was not a gentleman's servant nine years without learning the ways of gentry, and being able to know gentry when I see them." "And what do you say to all this?" I demanded of Belle. "Stop a moment," interposed the postillion, "I have one more word to say:--and when you are surrounded by your comforts, keeping your nice little barouche and pair, your coachman and livery servant, and visited by all the carriage people in the neighbourhood--to say nothing of the time when you come to the family estates on the death of the old people--I shouldn't wonder if now and then you look back with longing and regret to the days when you lived in the damp dripping dingle, had no better equipage than a pony or donkey cart, and saw no better company than a tramper or Gypsy, except once, when a poor postillion was glad to seat himself at your charcoal fire." "Pray," said I, "did you ever take lessons in elocution?" "Not directly," said the postillion; "but my old master, who was in Parliament, did, and so did his son, who was intended to be an orator. A great professor used to come and give them lessons, and I used to stand and listen, by which means I picked up a considerable quantity of what is called rhetoric. In what I last said, I was aiming at what I have heard him frequently endeavouring to teach my governors as a thing indispensably necessary in all oratory, a graceful pere--pere--peregrination." "Peroration, perhaps?" "Just so," said the postillion; "and now I'm sure I am not mistaken about you; you have taken lessons yourself, at first hand, in the college vacations, and a promising pupil you were, I make no doubt. Well, your friends will be all the happier to get you back. Has your governor much borough interest?" "I ask you once more," said I, addressing myself to Belle, "what you think of the history which this good man has made for us?" "What should I think of it," said Belle, still keeping her face buried in her hands, "but that it is mere nonsense?" "Nonsense!" said the postillion. "Yes," said the girl, "and you know it." "May my leg always ache, if I do," said the postillion, patting his leg with his hand; "will you persuade me that this young man has never been at college?" "I have never been at college, but--" "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "but--" "I have been to the best schools in Britain, to say nothing of a celebrated one in Ireland." "Well, then, it comes to the same thing," said the postillion, "or perhaps you know more than if you had been at college--and your governor--" "My governor, as you call him," said I, "is dead." "And his borough interest?" "My father had no borough interest," said I; "had he possessed any, he would perhaps not have died, as he did, honourably poor." "No, no," said the postillion, "if he had had borough interest, he wouldn't have been poor, nor honourable, though perhaps a right honourable. However, with your grand education and genteel manners, you made all right at last by persuading this noble young gentlewoman to run away from boarding-school with you." "I was never at boarding-school," said Belle, "unless you call--" "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "boarding-school is vulgar, I know: I beg your pardon, I ought to have called it academy, or by some other much finer name--you were in something much greater than a boarding-school." "There you are right," said Belle, lifting up her head and looking the postillion full in the face by the light of the charcoal fire, "for I was bred in the workhouse." "Wooh!" said the postillion. "It is true that I am of good--" "Ay, ay," said the postillion, "let us hear--" "Of good blood," continued Belle; "my name is Berners, Isopel Berners, though my parents were unfortunate. Indeed, with respect to blood, I believe I am of better blood than the young man." "There you are mistaken," said I; "by my father's side I am of Cornish blood, and by my mother's of brave French Protestant extraction. Now, with respect to the blood of my father--and to be descended well on the father's side is the principal thing--it is the best blood in the world, for the Cornish blood, as the proverb says--" "I don't care what the proverb says," said Belle; "I say my blood is the best--my name is Berners, Isopel Berners--it was my mother's name, and is better, I am sure, than any you bear, what ever that may be; and though you say that the descent on the father's side is the principal thing--and I know why you say so," she added with some excitement--"I say that descent on the mother's side is of most account, because the mother--" "Just come from Gretna Green, and already quarrelling!" said the postillion. "We do not come from Gretna Green," said Belle. "Ah, I had forgot," said the postillion, "none but great people go to Gretna Green. Well, then, from church, and already quarrelling about family, just like two great people." "We have never been to church," said Belle, "and to prevent any more guessing on your part, it will be as well for me to tell you, friend, that I am nothing to the young man, and he, of course, nothing to me. I am a poor travelling girl, born in a workhouse: journeying on my occasions with certain companions, I came to this hollow, where my company quarrelled with the young man, who had settled down here, as he had a right to do if he pleased; and not being able to drive him out, they went away after quarrelling with me too, for not choosing to side with them; so I stayed here along with the young man, there being room for us both, and the place being as free to me as to him." "And in order that you may be no longer puzzled with respect to myself," said I, "I will give you a brief outline of my history. I am the son of honourable parents, who gave me a first-rate education, as far as literature and languages went, with which education I endeavoured, on the death of my father, to advance myself to wealth and reputation in the Big City; but failing in the attempt, I conceived a disgust for the busy world, and determined to retire from it. After wandering about for some time, and meeting with various adventures, in one of which I contrived to obtain a pony, cart, and certain tools, used by smiths and tinkers, I came to this place, where I amused myself with making horse-shoes, or rather pony-shoes, having acquired the art of wielding the hammer and tongs from a strange kind of smith--not him of Gretna Green--whom I knew in my childhood. And here I lived, doing harm to no one, quite lonely and solitary, till one fine morning the premises were visited by this young gentlewoman and her companions. She did herself anything but justice when she said that her companions quarrelled with her because she would not side with them against me; they quarrelled with her because she came most heroically to my assistance as I was on the point of being murdered; and she forgot to tell you that, after they had abandoned her, she stood by me in the dark hour, comforting and cheering me, when unspeakable dread, to which I am occasionally subject, took possession of my mind. She says she is nothing to me, even as I am nothing to her. I am of course nothing to her, but she is mistaken in thinking she is nothing to me. I entertain the highest regard and admiration for her, being convinced that I might search the whole world in vain for a nature more heroic and devoted." "And for my part," said Belle, with a sob, "a more quiet agreeable partner in a place like this I would not wish to have; it is true he has strange ways and frequently puts words into my mouth very difficult to utter, but--but . . . " and here she buried her face once more in her hands. "Well," said the postillion, "I have been mistaken about you; that is, not altogether, but in part. You are not rich folks, it seems, but you are not common people, and that I could have sworn. What I call a shame is, that some people I have known are not in your place and you in theirs, you with their estates and borough interest, they in this dingle with these carts and animals; but there is no help for these things. Were I the great Mumbo Jumbo above, I would endeavour to manage matters better; but being a simple postillion, glad to earn three shillings a day, I can't be expected to do much." "Who is Mumbo Jumbo?" said I. "Ah!" said the postillion, "I see there may be a thing or two I know better than yourself. Mumbo Jumbo is a god of the black coast, to which people go for ivory and gold." "Were you ever there?" I demanded. "No," said the postillion, "but I heard plenty of Mumbo Jumbo when I was a boy." "I wish you would tell us something about yourself. I believe that your own real history would prove quite as entertaining, if not more, than that which you imagined about us." "I am rather tired," said the postillion, "and my leg is rather troublesome. I should be glad to try to sleep upon one of your blankets. However, as you wish to hear something about me, I shall be happy to oblige you; but your fire is rather low, and this place is chilly." Thereupon I arose, and put fresh charcoal on the pan; then taking it outside the tent, with a kind of fan which I had fashioned, I fanned the coals into a red glow, and continued doing so until the greater part of the noxious gas, which the coals are in the habit of exhaling, was exhausted. I then brought it into the tent and reseated myself, scattering over the coals a small portion of sugar. "No bad smell," said the postillion; "but upon the whole I think I like the smell of tobacco better; and with your permission I will once more light my pipe." Thereupon he relighted his pipe; and, after taking two or three whiffs, began in the following manner. CHAPTER XCVIII An Exordium--Fine Ships--High Barbary Captains--Free-born Englishmen--Monstrous Figure--Swashbuckler--The Grand Coaches--The Footmen--A Travelling Expedition--Black Jack--Nelson's Cannon--Pharaoh's Butler--A Diligence--Two Passengers--Sharking Priest--Virgilio--Lessons in Italian--Two Opinions--Holy Mary--Priestly Confederates--Methodist Chapel--Veturini--Some of Our Party--Like a Sepulchre--All for Themselves. "I am a poor postillion, as you see; yet, as I have seen a thing or two, and heard a thing or two of what is going on in the world, perhaps what I have to tell you connected with myself may not prove altogether uninteresting. Now, my friends, this manner of opening a story is what the man who taught rhetoric would call a hex--hex--" "Exordium," said I. "Just so," said the postillion; "I treated you to a per--per--peroration some time ago, so that I have contrived to put the cart before the horse, as the Irish orators frequently do in the honourable House, in whose speeches, especially those who have taken lessons in rhetoric, the per--per--what's the word?--frequently goes before the exordium. "I was born in the neighbouring county; my father was land-steward to a squire of about a thousand a year. My father had two sons, of whom I am the youngest by some years. My elder brother was of a spirited, roving disposition, and for fear that he should turn out what is generally termed ungain, my father determined to send him to sea: so once upon a time, when my brother was about fifteen, he took him to the great sea- port of the county, where he apprenticed him to a captain of one of the ships which trade to the high Barbary coast. Fine ships they were, I have heard say, more than thirty in number, and all belonging to a wonderful great gentleman, who had once been a parish boy, but had contrived to make an immense fortune by trading to that coast for gold- dust, ivory, and other strange articles; and for doing so, I mean for making a fortune, had been made a knight baronet. So my brother went to the high Barbary shore, on board the fine vessel, and in about a year returned and came to visit us; he repeated the voyage several times, always coming to see his parents on his return. Strange stories he used to tell us of what he had been witness to on the high Barbary coast, both off shore and on. He said that the fine vessel in which he sailed was nothing better than a painted hell; that the captain was a veritable fiend, whose grand delight was in tormenting his men, especially when they were sick, as they frequently were, there being always fever on the high Barbary coast; and that though the captain was occasionally sick himself, his being so made no difference, or rather it did make a difference, though for the worse, he being when sick always more inveterate and malignant than at other times. He said that once, when he himself was sick, his captain had pitched his face all over, which exploit was much applauded by the other high Barbary captains--all of whom, from what my brother said, appeared to be of much the same disposition as my brother's captain, taking wonderful delight in tormenting the crews, and doing all manner of terrible things. My brother frequently said that nothing whatever prevented him from running away from his ship, and never returning, but the hope he entertained of one day being captain himself, and able to torment people in his turn, which he solemnly vowed he would do, as a kind of compensation for what he himself had undergone. And if things were going on in a strange way off the high Barbary shore amongst those who came there to trade, they were going on in a way yet stranger with the people who lived upon it. "Oh, the strange ways of the black men who lived on that shore, of which my brother used to tell us at home!--selling their sons, daughters, and servants for slaves, and the prisoners taken in battle, to the Spanish captains, to be carried to Havannah, and when there, sold at a profit, the idea of which, my brother said, went to the hearts of our own captains, who used to say what a hard thing it was that free-born Englishmen could not have a hand in the traffic, seeing that it was forbidden by the laws of their country; talking fondly of the good old times when their forefathers used to carry slaves to Jamaica and Barbadoes, realising immense profit, besides the pleasure of hearing their shrieks on the voyage; and then the superstitions of the blacks, which my brother used to talk of; their sharks' teeth, their wisps of fowls' feathers, their half-baked pots full of burnt bones, of which they used to make what they called fetish, and bow down to, and ask favours of, and then, perhaps, abuse and strike, provided the senseless rubbish did not give them what they asked for; and then, above all, Mumbo Jumbo, the grand fetish master, who lived somewhere in the woods, and who used to come out every now and then with his fetish companions; a monstrous figure, all wound round with leaves and branches, so as to be quite indistinguishable, and, seating himself on the high seat in the villages, receive homage from the people, and also gifts and offerings, the most valuable of which were pretty damsels, and then betake himself back again, with his followers, into the woods. Oh, the tales that my brother used to tell us of the high Barbary shore! Poor fellow! what became of him I can't say; the last time he came back from a voyage, he told us that his captain, as soon as he had brought his vessel to port and settled with his owner, drowned himself off the quay, in a fit of the horrors, which it seems high Barbary captains, after a certain number of years, are much subject to. After staying about a month with us, he went to sea again, with another captain; and, bad as the old one had been, it appears the new one was worse, for, unable to bear his treatment, my brother left his ship off the high Barbary shore, and ran away up the country. Some of his comrades, whom we afterwards saw, said that there were various reports about him on the shore; one that he had taken on with Mumbo Jumbo, and was serving him in his house in the woods, in the capacity of swashbuckler, or life-guardsman; another, that he was gone in quest of a mighty city in the heart of the negro country; another, that in swimming a stream he had been devoured by an alligator. Now, these two last reports were bad enough; the idea of their flesh and blood being bit asunder by a ravenous fish, was sad enough to my poor parents; and not very comfortable was the thought of his sweltering over the hot sands in quest of the negro city; but the idea of their son, their eldest child, serving Mumbo Jumbo as swashbuckler, was worst of all, and caused my poor parents to shed many a scalding tear. "I stayed at home with my parents until I was about eighteen, assisting my father in various ways. I then went to live at the squire's, partly as groom, partly as footman. After living in the country some time, I attended the family in a trip of six weeks, which they made to London. Whilst there, happening to have some words with an old ill-tempered coachman, who had been for a great many years in the family, my master advised me to leave, offering to recommend me to a family of his acquaintance who were in need of a footman. I was glad to accept his offer, and in a few days went to my new place. My new master was one of the great gentry, a baronet in Parliament, and possessed of an estate of about twenty thousand a year; his family consisted of his lady, a son, a fine young man, just coming of age, and two very sweet amiable daughters. I liked this place much better than my first, there was so much more pleasant noise and bustle--so much more grand company, and so many more opportunities of improving myself. Oh, how I liked to see the grand coaches drive up to the door, with the grand company! and though, amidst that company, there were some who did not look very grand, there were others, and not a few, who did. Some of the ladies quite captivated me; there was the Marchioness of in particular. This young lady puts me much in mind of her; it is true, the Marchioness, as I saw her then, was about fifteen years older than this young gentlewoman is now, and not so tall by some inches, but she had the very same hair, and much the same neck and shoulders--no offence, I hope? And then some of the young gentlemen, with their cool, haughty, care-for-nothing looks, struck me as being very fine fellows. There was one in particular, whom I frequently used to stare at, not altogether unlike some one I have seen hereabouts--he had a slight cast in his eye, and . . . but I won't enter into every particular. And then the footmen! Oh, how those footmen helped to improve me with their conversation! Many of them could converse much more glibly than their masters, and appeared to have much better taste. At any rate, they seldom approved of what their masters did. I remember being once with one in the gallery of the play-house, when something of Shakespeare's was being performed: some one in the first tier of boxes was applauding very loudly. 'That's my fool of a governor,' said he; 'he is weak enough to like Shakespeare--I don't;--he's so confoundedly low, but he won't last long--going down. Shakespeare culminated--I think that was the word--culminated some time ago.' "And then the professor of elocution, of whom my governors used to take lessons, and of which lessons I had my share, by listening behind the door; but for that professor of elocution I should not be able to round my periods--an expression of his--in the manner I do. "After I had been three years at this place, my mistress died. Her death, however, made no great alteration in my way of living, the family spending their winters in London, and their summers at their old seat in S--- as before. At last, the young ladies, who had not yet got husbands, which was strange enough, seeing, as I told you before, they were very amiable, proposed to our governor a travelling expedition abroad. The old baronet consented, though young master was much against it, saying they would all be much better at home. As the girls persisted, however, he at last withdrew his opposition, and even promised to follow them as soon as his parliamentary duties would permit; for he was just got into Parliament, and, like most other young members, thought that nothing could be done in the House without him. So the old gentleman and the two young ladies set off, taking me with them, and a couple of ladies' maids to wait upon them. First of all, we went to Paris, where we continued three months, the old baronet and the ladies going to see the various sights of the city and the neighbourhood, and I attending them. They soon got tired of sightseeing, and of Paris too; and so did I. However, they still continued there, in order, I believe, that the young ladies might lay in a store of French finery. I should have passed my idle time at Paris, of which I had plenty after the sight-seeing was over, very unpleasantly, but for Black Jack. Eh! did you never hear of Black Jack? Ah! if you had ever been an English servant in Paris, you would have known Black Jack; not an English gentleman's servant who has been at Paris for this last ten years but knows Black Jack and his ordinary. A strange fellow he was--of what country no one could exactly say--for as for judging from speech, that was impossible, Jack speaking all languages equally ill. Some said he came direct from Satan's kitchen, and that when he gives up keeping ordinary, he will return there again, though the generally-received opinion at Paris was, that he was at one time butler to King Pharaoh; and that, after lying asleep for four thousand years in a place called the Kattycombs, he was awaked by the sound of Nelson's cannon at the battle of the Nile, and going to the shore, took on with the admiral, and became, in course of time, ship steward; and that after Nelson's death he was captured by the French, on board one of whose vessels he served in a somewhat similar capacity till the peace, when he came to Paris, and set up an ordinary for servants, sticking the name of Katcomb over the door, in allusion to the place where he had his long sleep. But, whatever his origin was, Jack kept his own counsel, and appeared to care nothing for what people said about him, or called him. Yes, I forgot, there was one name he would not be called, and that was 'Portuguese.' I once saw Black Jack knock down a coachman, six foot high, who called him black-faced Portuguese. 'Any name but dat, you shab,' said Black Jack, who was a little round fellow, of about five feet two; 'I would not stand to be called Portuguese by Nelson himself.' Jack was rather fond of talking about Nelson, and hearing people talk about him, so that it is not improbable that he may have sailed with him; and with respect to his having been King Pharaoh's butler, all I have to say is, I am not disposed to give the downright lie to the report. Jack was always ready to do a kind turn to a poor servant out of place, and has often been known to assist such as were in prison, which charitable disposition he perhaps acquired from having lost a good place himself, having seen the inside of a prison, and known the want of a meal's victuals, all which trials King Pharaoh's butler underwent, so he may have been that butler; at any rate, I have known positive conclusions come to on no better premises, if indeed as good. As for the story of his coming direct from Satan's kitchen, I place no confidence in it at all, as Black Jack had nothing of Satan about him but blackness, on which account he was called Black Jack. Nor am I disposed to give credit to a report that his hatred of the Portuguese arose from some ill treatment which he had once experienced when on shore, at Lisbon, from certain gentlewomen of the place, but rather conclude that it arose from an opinion he entertained that the Portuguese never paid their debts, one of the ambassadors of that nation, whose house he had served, having left Paris several thousand francs in his debt. This is all that I have to say about Black Jack, without whose funny jokes, and good ordinary, I should have passed my time in Paris in a very disconsolate manner. "After we had been at Paris between two and three months, we left it in the direction of Italy, which country the family had a great desire to see. After travelling a great many days in a thing which, though called a diligence, did not exhibit much diligence, we came to a great big town, seated around a nasty salt-water bason, connected by a narrow passage with the sea. Here we were to embark; and so we did as soon as possible, glad enough to get away--at least I was, and so I make no doubt were the rest, for such a place for bad smells I never was in. It seems all the drains and sewers of the place run into that same salt bason, voiding into it all their impurities, which, not being able to escape into the sea in any considerable quantity, owing to the narrowness of the entrance, there accumulate, filling the whole atmosphere with these same outrageous scents, on which account the town is a famous lodging-house of the plague. The ship in which we embarked was bound for a place in Italy called Naples, where we were to stay some time. The voyage was rather a lazy one, the ship not being moved by steam; for at the time of which I am speaking, some five years ago, steam-ships were not so plentiful as now. There were only two passengers in the grand cabin, where my governor and his daughters were, an Italian lady and a priest. Of the lady I have not much to say; she appeared to be a quiet, respectable person enough, and after our arrival at Naples I neither saw nor heard anything more of her; but of the priest I shall have a good deal to say in the sequel (that, by the bye, is a word I learnt from the professor of rhetoric), and it would have been well for our family had they never met him. "On the third day of the voyage the priest came to me, who was rather unwell with seasickness, which he, of course, felt nothing of--that kind of people being never affected like others. He was a finish-looking man of about forty-five, but had something strange in his eyes, which I have since thought denoted that all was not right in a certain place called the heart. After a few words of condolence, in a broken kind of English, he asked me various questions about our family; and I, won by his seeming kindness, told him all I knew about them--of which communicativeness I afterwards very much repented. As soon as he had got out of me all he desired, he left me; and I observed that during the rest of the voyage he was wonderfully attentive to our governor, and yet more to the young ladies. Both, however, kept him rather at a distance; the young ladies were reserved, and once or twice I heard our governor cursing him between his teeth for a sharking priest. The priest, however, was not disconcerted, and continued his attentions, which in a little time produced an effect, so that, by the time we landed at Naples, our great folks had conceived a kind of liking for the man, and when they took their leave invited him to visit them, which he promised to do. We hired a grand house or palace at Naples; it belonged to a poor kind of prince, who was glad enough to let it to our governor, and also his servants and carriages; and glad enough were the poor servants, for they got from us what they never got from the prince--plenty of meat and money; and glad enough, I make no doubt, were the horses for the provender we gave them; and I dare say the coaches were not sorry to be cleaned and furbished up. Well, we went out and came in; going to see the sights, and returning. Amongst other things we saw was the burning mountain, and the tomb of a certain sorcerer called Virgilio, who made witch rhymes, by which he could raise the dead. Plenty of people came to see us, both English and Italians, and amongst the rest the priest. He did not come amongst the first, but allowed us to settle and become a little quiet before he showed himself; and after a day or two he paid us another visit, then another, till at last his visits were daily. "I did not like that Jack Priest; so I kept my eye upon all his motions. Lord! how that Jack Priest did curry favour with our governor and the two young ladies; and he curried, and curried, till he had got himself into favour with the governor, and more especially with the two young ladies, of whom their father was doatingly fond. At last the ladies took lessons in Italian of the priest, a language in which he was said to be a grand proficient, and of which they had hitherto known but very little; and from that time his influence over them, and consequently over the old governor, increased, till the tables were turned, and he no longer curried favour with them, but they with him--yes, as true as my leg aches, the young ladies curried, and the old governor curried favour with that same priest; when he was with them, they seemed almost to hang on his lips, that is, the young ladies; and as for the old governor, he never contradicted him, and when the fellow was absent, which, by the bye, was not often, it was, 'Father so-and-so said this, and Father so- and-so said that; Father so-and-so thinks we should do so-and-so, or that we should not do so-and-so.' I at first thought that he must have given them something, some philtre or the like; but one of the English maid- servants, who had a kind of respect for me, and who saw much more behind the scenes than I did, informed me that he was continually instilling strange notions into their heads, striving, by every possible method, to make them despise the religion of their own land, and take up that of the foreign country in which they were. And sure enough, in a little time, the girls had altogether left off going to an English chapel, and were continually visiting places of Italian worship. The old governor, it is true, still went to his church, but he appeared to be hesitating between two opinions; and once, when he was at dinner, he said to two or three English friends, that since he had become better acquainted with it, he had conceived a much more favourable opinion of the Catholic religion than he had previously entertained. In a word, the priest ruled the house, and everything was done according to his will and pleasure; by degrees he persuaded the young ladies to drop their English acquaintances, whose place he supplied with Italians, chiefly females. My poor old governor would not have had a person to speak to--for he never could learn the language--but for two or three Englishmen who used to come occasionally and take a bottle with him in a summer-house, whose company he could not be persuaded to resign, notwithstanding the entreaties of his daughters, instigated by the priest, whose grand endeavour seemed to be to render the minds of all three foolish, for his own ends. And if he was busy above stairs with the governor, there was another busy below with us poor English servants, a kind of subordinate priest, a low Italian; as he could speak no language but his own, he was continually jabbering to us in that, and by hearing him the maids and myself contrived to pick up a good deal of the language, so that we understood most that was said, and could speak it very fairly; and the themes of his jabber were the beauty and virtues of one whom he called Holy Mary, and the power and grandeur of one whom he called the Holy Father; and he told us that we should shortly have an opportunity of seeing the Holy Father, who could do anything he liked with Holy Mary: in the meantime we had plenty of opportunities of seeing Holy Mary, for in every church, chapel, and convent to which we were taken, there was an image of Holy Mary, who, if the images were dressed at all in her fashion, must have been very fond of short petticoats and tinsel, and who, if those said figures at all resembled her in face, could scarcely have been half as handsome as either of my two fellow-servants, not to speak of the young ladies. "Now it happened that one of the female servants was much taken with what she saw and heard, and gave herself up entirely to the will of the subordinate, who had quite as much dominion over her as his superior had over the ladies; the other maid, however, the one who had a kind of respect for me, was not so easily besotted; she used to laugh at what she saw, and at what the fellow told her, and from her I learnt that amongst other things intended by these priestly confederates was robbery; she said that the poor old governor had already been persuaded by his daughters to put more than a thousand pounds into the superior priest's hands for purposes of charity and religion, as was said, and that the subordinate one had already inveigled her fellow-servant out of every penny which she had saved from her wages, and had endeavoured likewise to obtain what money she herself had, but in vain. With respect to myself, the fellow shortly after made an attempt towards obtaining a hundred crowns, of which, by some means, he knew me to be in possession, telling me what a meritorious thing it was to give one's superfluities for the purposes of religion. 'That is true,' said I, 'and if, after my return to my native country, I find I have anything which I don't want myself, I will employ it in helping to build a Methodist chapel.' "By the time that the three months were expired for which we had hired the palace of the needy Prince, the old governor began to talk of returning to England, at least of leaving Italy. I believe he had become frightened at the calls which were continually being made upon him for money; for after all, you know, if there is a sensitive part of a man's wearing apparel, it is his breeches pocket; but the young ladies could not think of leaving dear Italy and the dear priest; and then they had seen nothing of the country, they had only seen Naples; before leaving dear Italia they must see more of the country and the cities; above all, they must see a place which they called the Eternal City, or some similar nonsensical name; and they persisted so that the poor governor permitted them, as usual, to have their way; and it was decided what route they should take--that is, the priest was kind enough to decide for them, and was also kind enough to promise to go with them part of the route, as far as a place where there was a wonderful figure of Holy Mary, which the priest said it was highly necessary for them to see before visiting the Eternal City: so we left Naples in hired carriages, driven by fellows they call veturini, cheating drunken dogs I remember they were. Besides our own family there was the priest and his subordinate, and a couple of hired lackeys. We were several days upon the journey, travelling through a very wild country, which the ladies pretended to be delighted with, and which the governor cursed on account of the badness of the roads; and when we came to any particularly wild spot we used to stop, in order to enjoy the scenery, as the ladies said; and then we would spread a horse- cloth on the ground, and eat bread and cheese, and drink wine of the country. And some of the holes and corners in which we bivouacked, as the ladies called it, were something like this place where we are now, so that when I came down here it put me in mind of them. At last we arrived at the place where was the holy image. "We went to the house or chapel in which the holy image was kept--a frightful ugly black figure of Holy Mary, dressed in her usual way; and after we had stared at the figure, and some of our party had bowed down to it, we were shown a great many things which were called holy relics, which consisted of thumb-nails, and fore-nails, and toe-nails, and hair and teeth, and a feather or two, and a mighty thigh-bone, but whether of a man or a camel, I can't say; all of which things, I was told, if properly touched and handled, had mighty power to cure all kinds of disorders. And as we went from the holy house, we saw a man in a state of great excitement: he was foaming at the mouth, and cursing the holy image and all its household, because, after he had worshipped it and made offerings to it, and besought it to assist him in a game of chance which he was about to play, it had left him in the lurch, allowing him to lose all his money. And when I thought of all the rubbish I had seen, and the purposes which it was applied to, in conjunction with the rage of the losing gamester at the deaf and dumb image, I could not help comparing the whole with what my poor brother used to tell me of the superstitious practices of the blacks on the high Barbary shore, and their occasional rage and fury at the things they worshipped; and I said to myself, if all this here doesn't smell of fetish may I smell fetid. "At this place the priest left us, returning to Naples with his subordinate, on some particular business I suppose. It was, however, agreed that he should visit us at the Holy City. We did not go direct to the Holy City, but bent our course to two or three other cities which the family were desirous of seeing; but as nothing occurred to us in these places of any particular interest, I shall take the liberty of passing them by in silence. At length we arrived at the Eternal City: an immense city it was, looking as if it had stood for a long time, and would stand for a long time still; compared with it, London would look like a mere assemblage of bee-skeps; however, give me the bee-skeps with their merry hum and bustle, and life and honey, rather than that huge town, which looked like a sepulchre, where there was no life, no busy hum, no bees, but a scanty sallow population, intermixed with black priests, white priests, grey priests; and though I don't say there was no honey in the place, for I believe there was, I am ready to take my Bible oath that it was not made there, and that the priests kept it all for themselves." CHAPTER XCIX A Cloister--Half English--New Acquaintance--Mixed Liquors--Turning Papist--Purposes of Charity--Foreign Religion--Melancholy--Elbowing and Pushing--Outlandish Sight--The Figure--I Don't Care for You--Merry Andrews--One Good--Religion of My Country--Fellow of Spirit--A Dispute--The Next Morning--Female Doll--Proper Dignity--Fetish Country. "The day after our arrival," continued the postillion, "I was sent, under the guidance of a lackey of the place, with a letter, which the priest, when he left, had given us for a friend of his in the Eternal City. We went to a large house, and on ringing were admitted by a porter into a cloister, where I saw some ill-looking, shabby young fellows walking about, who spoke English to one another. To one of these the porter delivered the letter, and the young fellow going away, presently returned and told me to follow him; he led me into a large room, where, behind a table, on which were various papers, and a thing which they call, in that country, a crucifix, sat a man in a kind of priestly dress. The lad having opened the door for me, shut it behind me, and went away. The man behind the table was so engaged in reading the letter which I had brought, that at first he took no notice of me; he had red hair, a kind of half-English countenance, and was seemingly about five-and-thirty. After a little time he laid the letter down, appeared to consider a moment, and then opened his mouth with a strange laugh, not a loud laugh, for I heard nothing but a kind of hissing deep down the throat; all of a sudden, however, perceiving me, he gave a slight start, but instantly recovering himself, he inquired in English concerning the health of the family, and where we lived: on my delivering him a card, he bade me inform my master and the ladies that in the course of the day he would do himself the honour of waiting upon them. He then arose and opened the door for me to depart." The man was perfectly civil and courteous, but I did not like that strange laugh of his, after having read the letter. He was as good as his word, and that same day paid us a visit. It was now arranged that we should pass the winter in Rome--to my great annoyance, for I wished to return to my native land, being heartily tired of everything connected with Italy. I was not, however, without hope that our young master would shortly arrive, when I trusted that matters, as far as the family were concerned, would be put on a better footing. In a few days our new acquaintance, who, it seems, was a mongrel Englishman, had procured a house for our accommodation; it was large enough, but not near so pleasant as that we had at Naples, which was light and airy, with a large garden. This was a dark, gloomy structure in a narrow street, with a frowning church beside it; it was not far from the place where our new friend lived, and its being so was probably the reason why he selected it. It was furnished partly with articles which we bought, and partly with those which we hired. We lived something in the same way as at Naples; but though I did not much like Naples, I yet liked it better than this place, which was so gloomy. Our new acquaintance made himself as agreeable as he could, conducting the ladies to churches and convents, and frequently passing the afternoon drinking with the governor, who was fond of a glass of brandy and water and a cigar, as the new acquaintance also was--no, I remember, he was fond of gin and water, and did not smoke. I don't think he had so much influence over the young ladies as the other priest, which was, perhaps, owing to his not being so good-looking; but I am sure he had more influence with the governor, owing, doubtless, to his bearing him company in drinking mixed liquors, which the other priest did not do. "He was a strange fellow, that same new acquaintance of ours, and unlike all the priests I saw in that country, and I saw plenty of various nations:--they were always upon their guard, and had their features and voice modulated; but this man was subject to fits of absence, during which he would frequently mutter to himself; then, though he was perfectly civil to everybody, as far as words went, I observed that he entertained a thorough contempt for most people, especially for those whom he was making dupes. I have observed him whilst drinking with our governor, when the old man's head was turned, look at him with an air which seemed to say, 'What a thundering old fool you are!' and at our young ladies, when their backs were turned, with a glance which said distinctly enough, 'You precious pair of ninny-hammers!' and then his laugh--he had two kinds of laughs--one which you could hear, and another which you could only see. I have seen him laugh at our governor and the young ladies, when their heads were turned away, but I heard no sound. My mother had a sandy cat, which sometimes used to open its mouth wide with a mew which nobody could hear, and the silent laugh of that red-haired priest used to put me wonderfully in mind of the silent mew of my mother's sandy-red cat. And then the other laugh, which you could hear; what a strange laugh that was, never loud, yes, I have heard it tolerably loud. He once passed near me, after having taken leave of a silly English fellow--a limping parson of the name of Platitude, who, they said, was thinking of turning Papist, and was much in his company; I was standing behind the pillar of a piazza, and as he passed he was laughing heartily. Oh, he was a strange fellow, that same red-haired acquaintance of ours! "After we had been at Rome about six weeks, our old friend the priest of Naples arrived, but without his subordinate, for whose services he now perhaps thought that he had no occasion. I believe he found matters in our family wearing almost as favourable an aspect as he could desire: with what he had previously taught them and shown them at Naples and elsewhere, and with what the red-haired confederate had taught them and shown them at Rome, the poor young ladies had become quite hand-maids of superstition, so that they, especially the youngest, were prepared to bow down to anything, and kiss anything, however vile and ugly, provided a priest commanded them; and as for the old governor, what with the influence which his daughters exerted, and what with the ascendency which the red-haired man had obtained over him, he dared not say his purse, far less his soul, was his own. Only think of an Englishman not being master of his own purse! My acquaintance, the lady's maid, assured me that, to her certain knowledge, he had disbursed to the red-haired man, for purposes of charity, as it was said, at least one thousand pounds during the five weeks we had been at Rome. She also told me that things would shortly be brought to a conclusion--and so indeed they were, though in a different manner from what she and I and some other people imagined; that there was to be a grand festival, and a mass, at which we were to be present, after which the family were to be presented to the Holy Father, for so those two priestly sharks had managed it; and then . . . she said she was certain that the two ladies, and perhaps the old governor, would forsake the religion of their native land, taking up with that of these foreign regions, for so my fellow-servant expressed it, and that perhaps attempts might be made to induce us poor English servants to take up with the foreign religion, that is herself and me, for as for our fellow-servant, the other maid, she wanted no inducing, being disposed body and soul to go over to it. Whereupon, I swore with an oath that nothing should induce me to take up with the foreign religion; and the poor maid, my fellow-servant, bursting into tears, said that for her part she would sooner die than have anything to do with it; thereupon we shook hands and agreed to stand by and countenance one another: and moreover, provided our governors were fools enough to go over to the religion of these here foreigners, we would not wait to be asked to do the like, but leave them at once, and make the best of our way home, even if we were forced to beg on the road. "At last the day of the grand festival came, and we were all to go to the big church to hear the mass. Now it happened that for some time past I had been much afflicted with melancholy, especially when I got up of a morning, produced by the strange manner in which I saw things going on in our family; and to dispel it in some degree, I had been in the habit of taking a dram before breakfast. On the morning in question, feeling particularly low-spirited when I thought of the foolish step our governor would probably take before evening, I took two drams before breakfast; and after breakfast, feeling my melancholy still continuing, I took another, which produced a slight effect upon my head, though I am convinced nobody observed it. "Away we drove to the big church; it was a dark, misty day, I remember, and very cold, so that if anybody had noticed my being slightly in liquor, I could have excused myself by saying that I had merely taken a glass to fortify my constitution against the weather; and of one thing I am certain, which is, that such an excuse would have stood me in stead with our governor, who looked, I thought, as if he had taken one too; but I may be mistaken, and why should I notice him, seeing that he took no notice of me: so away we drove to the big church, to which all the population of the place appeared to be moving. "On arriving there we dismounted, and the two priests, who were with us, led the family in, whilst I followed at a little distance, but quickly lost them amidst the throng of people. I made my way, however, though in what direction I knew not, except it was one in which everybody seemed striving, and by dint of elbowing and pushing I at last got to a place which looked like the aisle of a cathedral, where the people stood in two rows, a space between being kept open by certain strangely-dressed men who moved up and down with rods in their hands; all were looking to the upper end of this place or aisle; and at the upper end, separated from the people by palings like those of an altar, sat in magnificent-looking stalls, on the right and the left, various wonderful-looking individuals in scarlet dresses. At the farther end was what appeared to be an altar, on the left hand was a pulpit, and on the right a stall higher than any of the rest, where was a figure whom I could scarcely see. "I can't pretend to describe what I saw exactly, for my head, which was at first rather flurried, had become more so from the efforts which I had made to get through the crowd; also from certain singing, which proceeded from I know not where; and, above all, from the bursts of an organ, which were occasionally so loud that I thought the roof, which was painted with wondrous colours, would come toppling down on those below. So there stood I--a poor English servant--in that outlandish place, in the midst of that foreign crowd, looking at that outlandish sight, hearing those outlandish sounds, and occasionally glancing at our party, which, by this time, I distinguished at the opposite side to where I stood, but much nearer the place where the red figures sat. Yes, there stood our poor governor, and the sweet young ladies, and I thought they never looked so handsome before; and close by them were the sharking priests, and not far from them was that idiotical parson Platitude, winking and grinning, and occasionally lifting up his hands as if in ecstasy at what he saw and heard, so that he drew upon himself the notice of the congregation. "And now an individual mounted the pulpit, and began to preach in a language which I did not understand, but which I believe to be Latin, addressing himself seemingly to the figure in the stall; and when he had ceased, there was more singing, more organ-playing, and then two men in robes brought forth two things which they held up; and then the people bowed their heads, and our poor governor bowed his head, and the sweet young ladies bowed their heads, and the sharking priests, whilst the idiotical parson Platitude tried to fling himself down; and then there were various evolutions withinside the pale, and the scarlet figures got up and sat down; and this kind of thing continued for some time. At length the figure which I had seen in the principal stall came forth and advanced towards the people; an awful figure he was, a huge old man with a sugar-loaf hat, with a sulphur-coloured dress, and holding a crook in his hand like that of a shepherd; and as he advanced the people fell on their knees, our poor old governor amongst them; the sweet young ladies, the sharking priests, the idiotical parson Platitude, all fell on their knees, and somebody or other tried to pull me on my knees; but by this time I had become outrageous; all that my poor brother used to tell me of the superstitions of the high Barbary shore rushed into my mind, and I thought they were acting them over here; above all, the idea that the sweet young ladies, to say nothing of my poor old governor, were, after the conclusion of all this mummery, going to deliver themselves up body and soul into the power of that horrid-looking old man, maddened me, and, rushing forward into the open space, I confronted the horrible-looking old figure with the sugar-loaf hat, the sulphur-coloured garments, and shepherd's crook, and shaking my fist at his nose, I bellowed out in English-- "'I don't care for you, old Mumbo Jumbo, though you have fetish!' "I can scarcely tell you what occurred for some time. I have a dim recollection that hands were laid upon me, and that I struck out violently left and right. On coming to myself, I was seated on a stone bench in a large room, something like a guard-room, in the custody of certain fellows dressed like Merry Andrews; they were bluff, good-looking, wholesome fellows, very different from the sallow Italians; they were looking at me attentively, and occasionally talking to each other in a language which sounded very like the cracking of walnuts in the mouth, very different from cooing Italian. At last one of them asked me in Italian what had ailed me, to which I replied, in an incoherent manner, something about Mumbo Jumbo; whereupon the fellow, one of the bluffest of the lot, a jovial, rosy-faced rascal, lifted up his right hand, placing it in such a manner that the lips were between the forefinger and thumb, then lifting up his right foot and drawing back his head, he sucked in his breath with a hissing sound, as if to imitate one drinking a hearty draught, and then slapped me on the shoulder, saying something which sounded like goot wine, goot companion, whereupon they all laughed, exclaiming, ya, ya, goot companion. And now hurried into the room our poor old governor, with the red-haired priest. The first asked what could have induced me to behave in such a manner in such a place, to which I replied that I was not going to bow down to Mumbo Jumbo, whatever other people might do. Whereupon my master said he believed I was mad, and the priest said he believed I was drunk; to which I answered that I was neither so mad nor drunk but I could distinguish how the wind lay. Whereupon they left me, and in a little time I was told by the bluff-looking Merry Andrews I was at liberty to depart. I believe the priest, in order to please my governor, interceded for me in high quarters. "But one good resulted from this affair; there was no presentation of our family to the Holy Father, for old Mumbo was so frightened by my outrageous looks that he was laid up for a week, as I was afterwards informed. "I went home, and had scarcely been there half an hour when I was sent for by the governor, who again referred to the scene in church, said that he could not tolerate such scandalous behaviour, and that unless I promised to be more circumspect in future he should be compelled to discharge me. I said that if he was scandalised at my behaviour in the church, I was more scandalised at all I saw going on in the family, which was governed by two rascally priests, who, not content with plundering him, appeared bent on hurrying the souls of us all to destruction; and that with respect to discharging me, he could do so that moment, as I wished to go. I believe his own reason told him that I was right, for he made no direct answer, but, after looking on the ground for some time, he told me to leave him. As he did not tell me to leave the house, I went to my room, intending to lie down for an hour or two; but scarcely was I there when the door opened, and in came the red-haired priest. He showed himself, as he always did, perfectly civil, asked me how I was, took a chair and sat down. After a hem or two he entered into a long conversation on the excellence of what he called the Catholic religion; told me that he hoped I would not set myself against the light, and likewise against my interest; for that the family were about to embrace the Catholic religion, and would make it worth my while to follow their example. I told him that the family might do what they pleased, but that I would never forsake the religion of my country for any consideration whatever; that I was nothing but a poor servant, but I was not to be bought by base gold. 'I admire your honourable feelings,' said he; 'you shall have no gold; and as I see you are a fellow of spirit, and do not like being a servant, for which I commend you, I can promise you something better. I have a good deal of influence in this place, and if you will not set your face against the light, but embrace the Catholic religion, I will undertake to make your fortune. You remember those fine fellows to-day who took you into custody? they are the guards of his Holiness. I have no doubt that I have interest enough to procure your enrolment amongst them.' 'What,' said I, 'become swash-buckler to Mumbo Jumbo up here! May I--'--and here I swore--'if I do. The mere possibility of one of their children being swash-buckler to Mumbo Jumbo on the high Barbary shore has always been a source of heart-breaking to my poor parents. What, then, would they not undergo, if they knew for certain that their other child was swash-buckler to Mumbo Jumbo up here?' Thereupon he asked me, even as you did some time ago, what I meant by Mumbo Jumbo? And I told him all I had heard about the Mumbo Jumbo of the high Barbary shore; telling him that I had no doubt that the old fellow up here was his brother, or nearly related to him. The man with the red hair listened with the greatest attention to all I said, and when I had concluded, he got up, nodded to me, and moved to the door; ere he reached the door I saw his shoulders shaking, and as he closed it behind him I heard him distinctly laughing, to the tune of--he! he! he! "But now matters began to mend. That same evening my young master unexpectedly arrived. I believe he soon perceived that something extraordinary had been going on in the family. He was for some time closeted with the governor, with whom, I believe, he had a dispute; for my fellow-servant, the lady's maid, informed me that she heard high words. "Rather late at night the young gentleman sent for me into his room, and asked me various questions with respect to what had been going on, and my behaviour in the church, of which he had heard something. I told him all I knew with respect to the intrigues of the two priests in the family, and gave him a circumstantial account of all that had occurred in the church; adding that, under similar circumstances, I was ready to play the same part over again. Instead of blaming me, he commended my behaviour, told me I was a fine fellow, and said he hoped that, if he wanted my assistance, I would stand by him: this I promised to do. Before I left him, he entreated me to inform him the very next time I saw the priests entering the house. "The next morning, as I was in the court-yard, where I had placed myself to watch, I saw the two enter and make their way up a private stair to the young ladies' apartment; they were attended by a man dressed something like a priest, who bore a large box; I instantly ran to relate what I had seen to my young master. I found him shaving. 'I will just finish what I am about,' said he, 'and then wait upon these gentlemen.' He finished what he was about with great deliberation; then taking a horsewhip, and bidding me follow him, he proceeded at once to the door of his sisters' apartment: finding it fastened, he burst it open at once with his foot and entered, followed by myself. There we beheld the two unfortunate young ladies down on their knees before a large female doll, dressed up, as usual, in rags and tinsel; the two priests were standing near, one on either side, with their hands uplifted, whilst the fellow who brought the trumpery stood a little way down the private stair, the door of which stood open; without a moment's hesitation, my young master rushed forward, gave the image a cut or two with his horsewhip--then flying at the priests, he gave them a sound flogging, kicked them down the private stair, and spurned the man, box and image after them--then locking the door, he gave his sisters a fine sermon, in which he represented to them their folly in worshipping a silly wooden graven image, which, though it had eyes, could see not; though it had ears, could hear not; though it had hands, could not help itself; and though it had feet, could not move about unless it were carried. Oh, it was a fine sermon that my young master preached, and sorry I am that the Father of the fetish, old Mumbo, did not hear it. The elder sister looked ashamed, but the youngest, who was very weak, did nothing but wring her hands, weep and bewail the injury which had been done to the dear image. The young man, however, without paying much regard to either of them, went to his father, with whom he had a long conversation, which terminated in the old governor giving orders for preparations to be made for the family's leaving Rome and returning to England. I believe that the old governor was glad of his son's arrival, and rejoiced at the idea of getting away from Italy, where he had been so plundered and imposed upon. The priests, however, made another attempt upon the poor young ladies. By the connivance of the female servant who was in their interest they found their way once more into their apartment, bringing with them the fetish image, whose body they partly stripped, exhibiting upon it certain sanguine marks which they had daubed upon it with red paint, but which they said were the result of the lashes which it had received from the horsewhip. The youngest girl believed all they said, and kissed and embraced the dear image; but the eldest, whose eyes had been opened by her brother, to whom she was much attached, behaved with proper dignity; for, going to the door, she called the female servant who had a respect for me, and in her presence reproached the two deceivers for their various impudent cheats, and especially for this their last attempt at imposition; adding, that if they did not forthwith withdraw and rid her sister and herself of their presence, she would send word by her maid to her brother, who would presently take effectual means to expel them. They took the hint and departed, and we saw no more of them. "At the end of three days we departed from Rome, but the maid whom the priests had cajoled remained behind, and it is probable that the youngest of our ladies would have done the same thing if she could have had her own will, for she was continually raving about her image, and saying she should wish to live with it in a convent; but we watched the poor thing, and got her on board ship. Oh, glad was I to leave that fetish country and old Mumbo behind me!" CHAPTER C Nothing but Gloom--Sporting Character--Gouty Tory--Servants' Club--Politics--Reformado Footman--Peroration--Good Night. "We arrived in England, and went to our country seat, but the peace and tranquillity of the family had been marred, and I no longer found my place the pleasant one which it had formerly been; there was nothing but gloom in the house, for the youngest daughter exhibited signs of lunacy, and was obliged to be kept under confinement. The next season I attended my master, his son, and eldest daughter to London, as I had previously done. There I left them, for hearing that a young baronet, an acquaintance of the family, wanted a servant, I applied for the place, with the consent of my masters, both of whom gave me a strong recommendation; and, being approved of, I went to live with him. "My new master was what is called a sporting character, very fond of the turf, upon which he was not very fortunate. He was frequently very much in want of money, and my wages were anything but regularly paid; nevertheless, I liked him very much, for he treated me more like a friend than a domestic, continually consulting me as to his affairs. At length he was brought nearly to his last shifts, by backing the favourite at the Derby, which favourite turned out a regular brute, being found nowhere at the rush. Whereupon, he and I had a solemn consultation over fourteen glasses of brandy and water, and as many cigars--I mean, between us--as to what was to be done. He wished to start a coach, in which event he was to be driver, and I guard. He was quite competent to drive a coach, being a first-rate whip, and I dare say I should have made a first-rate guard; but, to start a coach requires money, and we neither of us believed that anybody would trust us with vehicles and horses, so that idea was laid aside. We then debated as to whether or not he should go into the Church; but to go into the Church--at any rate to become a dean or bishop, which would have been our aim--it is necessary for a man to possess some education; and my master, although he had been at the best school in England, that is, the most expensive, and also at College, was almost totally illiterate, so we let the Church scheme follow that of the coach. At last, bethinking me that he was tolerably glib at the tongue, as most people are who are addicted to the turf, also a great master of slang; remembering also that he had a crabbed old uncle who had some borough interest, I proposed that he should get into the House, promising in one fortnight to qualify him to make a figure in it, by certain lessons which I would give him. He consented; and during the next fortnight I did little else than give him lessons in elocution, following to a tittle the method of the great professor, which I had picked up, listening behind the door. At the end of that period, we paid a visit to his relation, an old gouty Tory, who, at first, received us very coolly. My master, however, by flattering a predilection of his for Billy Pitt, soon won his affections so much, that he promised to bring him into Parliament; and in less than a month was as good as his word. My master, partly by his own qualifications, and partly by the assistance which he had derived, and still occasionally derived from me, cut a wonderful figure in the House, and was speedily considered one of the most promising speakers; he was always a good hand at promising--he is at present, I believe, a Cabinet Minister. "But as he got up in the world he began to look down on me. I believe he was ashamed of the obligation under which he lay to me; and at last, requiring no farther hints as to oratory from a poor servant like me, he took an opportunity of quarrelling with me and discharging me. However, as he had still some grace, he recommended me to a gentleman with whom, since he had attached himself to politics, he had formed an acquaintance, the editor of a grand Tory Review. I lost caste terribly amongst the servants for entering the service of a person connected with a profession so mean as literature; and it was proposed at the Servants' Club, in Park Lane, to eject me from that society. The proposition, however, was not carried into effect, and I was permitted to show myself among them, though few condescended to take much notice of me. My master was one of the best men in the world, but also one of the most sensitive. On his veracity being impugned by the editor of a newspaper, he called him out, and shot him through the arm. Though servants are seldom admirers of their masters, I was a great admirer of mine, and eager to follow his example. The day after the encounter, on my veracity being impugned by the servant of Lord C--- in something I said in praise of my master, I determined to call him out; so I went into another room and wrote a challenge. But whom should I send it by? Several servants to whom I applied refused to be the bearers of it; they said I had lost caste, and they could not think of going out with me. At length the servant of the Duke of B--- consented to take it; but he made me to understand that, though he went out with me, he did so merely because he despised the Whiggish principles of Lord C---'s servant, and that if I thought he intended to associate with me I should be mistaken. Politics, I must tell you, at that time ran as high amongst the servants as the gentlemen, the servants, however, being almost invariably opposed to the politics of their respective masters, though both parties agreed in one point, the scouting of everything low and literary, though I think, of the two, the liberal or reform party were the most inveterate. So he took my challenge, which was accepted; we went out, Lord C---'s servant being seconded by a reformado footman from the palace. We fired three times without effect; but this affair lost me my place; my master on hearing it forthwith discharged me; he was, as I have said before, very sensitive, and he said this duel of mine was a parody of his own. Being, however, one of the best men in the world, on his discharging me he made me a donation of twenty pounds. "And it was well that he made me this present, for without it I should have been penniless, having contracted rather expensive habits during the time that I lived with the young baronet. I now determined to visit my parents, whom I had not seen for years. I found them in good health, and, after staying with them for two months, I returned again in the direction of town, walking, in order to see the country. On the second day of my journey, not being used to such fatigue, I fell ill at an inn on the Great North Road, and there I continued for some weeks till I recovered, but by that time my money was entirely spent. By living at the inn I had contracted an acquaintance with the master and the people, and become accustomed to inn life. As I thought that I might find some difficulty in procuring any desirable situation in London, owing to my late connection with literature, I determined to remain where I was, provided my services would be accepted. I offered them to the master, who, finding I knew something of horses, engaged me as a postillion. I have remained there since. You have now heard my story. "Stay, you shan't say that I told my tale without a per--peroration. What shall it be? Oh, I remember something which will serve for one! As I was driving my chaise some weeks ago; I saw standing at the gate of an avenue, which led up to an old mansion, a figure which I thought I recognised. I looked at it attentively, and the figure, as I passed, looked at me; whether it remembered me I do not know, but I recognised the face it showed me full well. "If it was not the identical face of the red-haired priest whom I had seen at Rome, may I catch cold! "Young gentleman, I will now take a spell on your blanket--young lady, good night." THE END. {437} Footnotes: {22} Greenwich. {27a} Cf. French _chaperon_. {27b} The Gentile's coming. {27c} Gypsy fellows. {33} Hearken, thimbla, Comes a Gentile. {35a} A meaningless verse. {35b} Rather, _Okki tiro piomus_. {36} Books. {37} _Tatchi romadi_. {38} Great City. {39a} Meant for "ghost," but not real Anglo-Romany. {39b} _Jerry_ Abershaw (_c._ 1773-95), a highwayman who haunted Wimbledon Common, and was hanged on Kennington Common for shooting a constable. {43a} Thomas Blood (_c._ 1618-80). See T. Seccombe's _Lives of Twelve Bad Men_ (1894). {43b} In December 1670. {63} ?Amesbury. {65} The Avon. {72a} The so-called (by Stukeley) "Vespasian's Ramparts." {72b} Salisbury. {87} This practice is not so uncommon. Dr. Johnson had a very similar habit in his "sort of magical movement" (Life by Boswell, end of year 1764); and a member of my own college at Oxford, nearly thirty years ago, touched just like the man in _Lavengro_. Once in the Schools he remembered he had passed by a pebble which he had noticed in the High Street: he tore up his papers, and went and picked up the pebble. {88} Mr. William Bodham Donne, the examiner of plays 1857-74, was told by Borrow himself that this "Man who Touched" was drawn from the author of _Vathek_, William Beckford (1760-1844). There are difficulties in the way of accepting this statement, among them that Beckford had quitted Fonthill for Bath in 1822, three years before Borrow went a-gypsying. Still, I believe there is something in it. {114} A thing done oftener in books than in reality. {121} Richard Hurrell Froude in a letter of 1831 brands Dissenters as "the promoters of damnable heresy." {139} A branch of the great Gypsy family of Boswell have contracted the surname to Boss. {142} At Tamworth in May 1812 (Knapp, i. 105). {156} The Gypsy lass And the Gypsy lad Shall go to-morrow To poison the pig And bewitch the horse Of the farmer gentleman. {160} The Gypsy lass And the Gypsy lad Love stealing And fortune-telling, And lying, And every _-pen_ But goodness And truth. {161} Dog. Better, _jukel_. {165a} By my God; not Anglo-Romany. {165b} Coppersmith. {167} Grand-aunt's. {168} Cake. {169} Rod. {170} Aunt. {174a} Poisoned. {174b} Fortune-telling spirit. I never met the English Gypsy that used _dook_. {177} Gentile's coming. {188} In my _Gypsy Folk-Tales_ (1899, pp. 293-95) I have discussed with some fulness Bunyan's possible Gypsy ancestry. The most interesting point is that in 1586 at Launceston a child was baptized "Nicholas, sonne of James Bownian, an Egiptian rogue." {201} Ellis Wynn (_c._ 1671-1741). Borrow himself at last printed his translation of _The Sleeping Bard_ at Yarmouth in 1860, and himself next year reviewed it in the _Quarterly_. {238} Rhys Prichard (1579-1644). {246} Hat of beaver. {247} Good day, brother. {249a} Seems meant for "hang-woman," but there is no such word. {249b} Gipsy-wise--an odd form. {250a} Good old blood. Should be _rat_, not _rati_. {250b} Horse. {251} Brother, comrade. {252a} Aunt. {252b} Poisoning pigs. {253a} Poisons; not Anglo-Romany. {253b} Better, _nashado_, hanged. {254a} Magistrate. {254b} Runner, detective. {255a} Woman. Rightly _juvel_. {255b} No such word. {256} Seemingly "gallows," but no such word. {257a} Gypsy chap. {257b} _Engro_ is a mere termination, like _-er_ in _runner_. {259} Fool. {260} Fists. Prizefighters' slang. {263} Blacksmith. {264a} Tell fortunes. {264b} Hill Town, Norwich, but better, _Chumba Gav_. {264c} "Go with God." Not English Romany. {267} Horse-shoe. {268a} Better, _yogesko chivs_. {268b} Probably "brother," but not English Romany. {268c} Unknown to English Gypsies. {268d} Beating. {268e} Questionable. {269} Destiny. {270a} Knife. {270b} Foot. Not English Romany. {270c} Nail, questionable. {280} Horse. {283} Son; better, _chavo_. {285} As I was going to the town one day I met on the road my Gypsy lass. {287} In again. {293} Woman, thieves' cant. {294a} Ghost. {294b} Knive, thieves' cant. {294c} _Moila_, donkey. {324a} Gentile listening. {324b} Yonder there. {330} _Mumper_, sling for "vagabond." {347} Cardinal Giuseppe Mezzofanti (1774-1849), who could speak fifty- eight languages. {437} Did ever any other book break off like this one? And _The Romany Rye_ opens calmly with: "I awoke at the first break of day, and, leaving the postillion fast asleep, stepped out of the tent." 
39376	----	Google Books (Princeton University Library) Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=nqMuAAAAYAAJ 2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. THE GIPSY; A TALE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "RICHELIEU," "MARY OF BURGUNDY," &c. "Ah! what a tangled web we weave, When first we venture to deceive." Sir Walter Scott. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 1855. THE GIPSY. CHAPTER I. At that time in the world's history when watches, in their decline from the fat comeliness of the turnip to the scanty meagerness of the half-crown, had arrived at the intermediate form of a biffin--when the last remnant of a chivalrous spirit instigated men to wear swords every day, and to take purses on horseback--when quadrupeds were preferred to steam, and sails were necessary to a ship--when Chatham and Blackstone appeared in the senate and at the bar, and Goldsmith, Johnson, and Burke, Cowper, Reynolds, Robertson Hume, and Smollett, were just beginning to cumber the highways of arts and sciences--at that period of the dark ages, the events which are about to be related undoubtedly took place, in a county which shall be nameless. It may be that the reader would rather have the situation more precisely defined, in order, as he goes along, to fix each particular incident that this book may hereafter contain to the precise spot and person for which it was intended. Nevertheless, such disclosures must not be; in the first place, because the story, being totally and entirely a domestic one, depends little upon locality; and, in the next place, because greater liberties can be taken with people and things when their identity is left in doubt, than when it is clearly ascertained; for, although-- "When caps into a crowd are thrown, What each man fits he calls his own," yet no one likes to have his name written upon his fool's cap, and handed down for the benefit of posterity, attached to such an ornament. It was, then, on an evening in the early autumn, at that particular period of history which we have described, that two persons on horseback were seen riding through a part of the country, the aspect of which was one whereon we delight to dwell; that is to say, it was a purely English aspect. Now, this character is different from all others, yet subject to a thousand varieties; for although England, in its extent, contains more, and more beautiful scenes, of different kinds and sorts of the picturesque, than any other country under heaven, nevertheless there is an aspect in them all that proclaims them peculiarly English. It is not a sameness--far, far from it; but it is a harmony; and whether the view be of a mountain or a valley, a plain or a wood, a group of cottages by the side of a clear, still trout stream, or a country town cheering the upland, there is still to be seen in each a fresh green Englishness, which--like the peculiar tone of a great composer's mind, pervading all his music, from his requiem to his lightest air--gives character and identity to every object, and mingles our country, and all its sweet associations, with the individual scene. The spot through which the travellers were riding, and which was a wide piece of forest ground, one might have supposed, from the nature of the scenery, to be as common to all lands as possible; but no such thing! and any one who gazed upon it required not to ask themselves in what part of the world they were. The road, which, though sandy, was smooth, neat, and well tended, came down the slope of a long hill, exposing its course to the eye for near a mile. There was a gentle rise on each side, covered with wood; but this rise, and its forest burden, did not advance within a hundred yards of the road on either hand, leaving between--except where it was interrupted by some old sand-pits--a space of open ground covered with short green turf, with here and there an ancient oak standing forward before the other trees, and spreading its branches to the way-side. To the right was a little rivulet gurgling along the deep bed it had worn for itself among the short grass, in its way towards a considerable river that flowed through the valley at about two miles' distance; and, on the left, the eye might range far amid the tall, separate trees--now, perhaps, lighting upon a stag at gaze, or a fallow deer tripping away over the dewy ground as light and gracefully as a lady in a ballroom--till sight became lost in the green shade and the dim wilderness of leaves and branches. Amid the scattered oaks in advance of the wood, and nestled into the dry nooks of the sand-pits, appeared about half a dozen dirty brown shreds of canvass, none of which seemed larger than a dinner napkin, yet which--spread over hoops, cross sticks, and other contrivances--served as habitations to six or seven families of that wild and dingy race, whose existence and history is a phenomenon, not among the least strange of all the wonderful things that we pass by daily without investigation or inquiry. At the mouths of one or two of these little dwelling-places might be seen some gipsy women with their peculiar straw bonnets, red cloaks, and silk handkerchiefs; some withered, shrunk, and witch-like, bore evident the traces of long years of wandering exposure and vicissitude; while others, with the warm rose of health and youth glowing through the golden brown of their skins, and their dark gem-like eyes flashing undimmed by sorrow or infirmity, gave the beau idéal of a beautiful nation long passed away from thrones and dignities, and left but as the fragments of a wreck dashed to atoms by the waves of the past. At one point, amid white wood ashes, and many an unlawful feather from the plundered cock and violated turkey, sparkled a fire and boiled a caldron; and, round about the ancient beldam who presided over the pot were placed in various easy attitudes several of the male members of the tribe--mostly covered with long loose great-coats, which bespoke the owners either changed or shrunk. A number of half-naked brats, engaged in many a sport, filled up the scene, and promised a sturdy and increasing race of rogues and vagabonds for after years. Over the whole--wood, and road, and streamlet, and gipsy encampment--was pouring in full stream the purple light of evening, with the long shadows stretching across, and marking the distances all the way up the slope of the hill. Where an undulation of the ground, about half-way up the ascent, gave a wider space of light than ordinary, were seen, as we have before said, two strangers riding slowly down the road, whose appearance soon called the eyes of the gipsy fraternity upon their movements; for the laws in regard to vagabondism[1] had lately been strained somewhat hard, especially in that part of the country, and the natural consequence was, that the gipsy and the beggar looked upon almost every human thing as an enemy. With their usual quick perception, however, they soon gathered that the travellers were not of that cast from whom they had anything to fear; and indeed there was nothing of the swaggering bailiff or bullying constable in the aspect of either. The one was a man of about six-and-twenty years of age, with fine features, a slight but well-made person, and a brown but somewhat pale complexion. His eyes were remarkably fine, and his mouth and chin beautifully cut; he rode his horse, too, with skill and grace; and withal he had that air of consequence which is at any time worth the riband of the Bath. His companion was older, taller, stronger. In age he might be thirty-two or three, in height he was fully six feet, and seldom was there ever a form which excelled his in all those points where great strength is afforded without any appearance of clumsiness. He rode his horse, which was a powerful dark-brown gelding, as if half his life were spent on horseback; and as he came down the hill with the peculiar appearance of ease and power which great bodily strength and activity usually give, one might well have concluded that he was as fine-looking a man as one had ever beheld. But when he approached so as to allow his features to be seen, all one's prepossessions were dispelled, and one perceived that, notwithstanding this fine person, he was in some respects as ugly a man as it was possible to conceive. --------------------- [Footnote 1: At various times very severe laws have been enacted in all countries against gipsies. The very fact of being a gipsy, or consorting with them for a certain length of time, was, at one period, punishable by death in England. The greater part of these laws, however, had been repealed before the epoch at which the events recorded in this book occurred; and that wandering race were simply subject to the regulations respecting rogues and vagabonds. The old spirit of the penal statutes, however, was not forgotten, and the gipsies were often visited with bitter persecution long after those statutes had ceased to exist. It is not unworthy of remark, that in Scotland they have been, at various times, not only treated with great lenity, but that their leaders have been recognised by law as sovereign princes, exercising capital jurisdiction over their own race.] --------------------- Thanks to Jenner and vaccination, we (the English) are nowadays as handsome a people as any, perhaps, in Europe, with smooth skins and features as nature made them; but in the times I talk of, vaccination, alas! was unknown; and whatever the traveller we speak of might have been before he had been attacked by the smallpox, the traces which that horrible malady had left upon his face had deprived it of every vestige of beauty--if, indeed, we except his eyes and eyelashes, which had been spared as if just to redeem his countenance from the frightful. They--his eyes and eyelashes--were certainly fine, very fine; but they were like the beauty of Tadmor in the wilderness, for all was ugliness around them. However, his countenance had a good-humoured expression, which made up for much; neither was it of that vulgar ugliness which robes and ermine but serve to render more low and unprepossessing. But still, when first you saw him, you could not but feel that he was excessively plain; and yet there was always something at the heart which made one--as the ravages of the disease struck the eye--think, if not say, "What a pity!" The dress of the two strangers was alike, and it was military; but although an officer of those days did not feel it at all scandalous or wrong to show himself in his regimentals, yet such was not the case in the present instance; and the habiliments of the two horsemen consisted, as far as could be seen, of a blue riding-coat, bound round the waist by a crimson scarf, with a pair of heavy boots, of that form which afterward obtained the name of Pendragon. Swords were at their sides, and--as was usual in those days, even for the most pacific travellers--large fur-covered holsters were at their saddle-bows; so that, although they had no servants with them, and were evidently of that class of society upon which the more liberal-minded prey and have preyed in all ages, there was about them "something dangerous," to attack which would have implied great necessity or a very combative disposition. As the travellers rode on, the gipsy men, without moving from the places they had before occupied, eyed them from under their bent brows, affecting withal hardly to see them; while the urchins ran like young apes by the side of their horses, performing all sorts of antics, and begging hard for halfpence; and at length a girl of about fifteen or sixteen--notwithstanding some forcible injunctions to forbear on the part of the old woman who was tending the caldron--sprang up the bank, beseeching the gentlemen, in the usual singsong of her tribe, to cross her hand with silver, and have their fortunes told; promising them at the same time a golden future, and, like Launcelot, "a pretty trifle of wives." In regard to her chiromantic science the gentlemen were obdurate, though each of them gave her one of those flat polished pieces of silver which were sixpences in our young days; and having done this, they rode on, turning for a moment or two their conversation, which had been flowing in a very different channel, to the subject of the gipsies they had just passed, moralizing deeply on their strange history and wayward fate, and wondering that no philanthropic government had ever endeavoured to give them a "local habitation and a name" among the sons and daughters of honest industry. "I am afraid that the attempt would be in vain," answered the younger of the two to his companion. "And besides, it would be doing a notable injustice to the profession of petty larceny to deprive it of its only avowed and honourable professors, while we have too many of its amateur practitioners in the very best society already." "Nay, nay! Society is not as bad as that would argue it," rejoined the other. "Thank God, there are few thieves or pilferers within the circle of my acquaintance, which is not small." "Indeed!" said his companion. "Think for a moment, my dear colonel, how many of your dearly-beloved friends are there who, for but a small gratification, would pilfer from you those things that you value most highly! How many would steal from one the affection of one's mistress or wife! How many, for some flimsy honour, some dignity of riband or of place, would pocket the reputation of deeds they had never done! How many, for some party interest or political rancour, would deprive you of your rightful renown, strip you of your credit and your fame, and 'filch from you your good name!' Good God! those gipsies are princes of honesty compared with the great majority of our dear friends and worldly companions." His fellow-traveller replied nothing for a moment or two, unless a smile, partly gay, partly bitter, could pass for answer. The next minute, however, he read his own comment upon it, saying, "I thought, De Vaux, you were to forget your misanthropy when you returned to England." "Oh, so I have," replied the other in a gayer tone; "it was only a single seed of the wormwood sprouting up again. But, as you must have seen throughout our journey, my heart is all expansion at coming back again to my native land, and at the prospect of seeing so many beings that I love: though God knows," he added, somewhat gloomily--"God knows whether the love be as fully returned. However, imagination serves me for Prince Ali's perspective glass; and I can see them all, even now, at their wonted occupations, while my vanity dresses up their faces in smiles when they think of my near approach." His companion sighed; and as he did not at all explain why he did so, we must take the liberty of asking the worthy reader to walk into the tabernacle of his bosom, and examine which of the mind's gods it was that gave forth that oracular sigh, so that the officiating priest may afford the clear interpretation thereof. But, to leave an ill-conceived figure of speech, the simple fact was, that the picture of home, and friends, and smiling welcome, and happy love, which his companion's speech had displayed, had excited somewhat like envy in the breast of Colonel Manners. Envy, indeed, properly so called, it was not; for the breast of Colonel Manners was swept out and garnished every day by a body of kindly spirits, who left not a stain of envy, hatred, or malice in any corner thereof. The proper word would have been _regret_; for regret it certainly was that he felt when he reflected that, though he had many of what the world calls friends, and a milky-way of acquaintances--though he was honoured and esteemed wherever he came, and felt a proud consciousness that he deserved to be so--yet that on all the wide surface of the earth there was no sweet individual spot where dearer love, and brighter smiles, and outstretched arms, glad voices, and sparkling eyes, waited to welcome the wanderer home from battle, and danger, and privation, and fatigue. He felt that there was a vacancy to him in all things; that the magic chain of life's associations wanted a link; and he sighed--not with _envy_, but with _regret_. That it was so was partly owing to events over which he had no control. Left an orphan at an early age, the father's mansion and the mother's bosom he had never known; and neither brother nor sister had accompanied his pilgrimage through life. His relations were all distant ones; and though (being the last of a long line) great care had been bestowed upon his infancy and youth, yet all the sweet ties and kindred fellowship which gather thickly round us in a large family were wanting to him. So far his isolated situation depended upon circumstances which he could neither alter nor avoid; but that he had not created for himself a home, and ties as dear as those which fortune had at first denied him, depended on himself; or rather what in vulgar parlance is called a _crotchet_, which was quite sufficiently identified with his whole nature, to be considered as part of himself, though it was mingled intimately--woven in and out--with qualities of a very different character. This crotchet--for that is the only term fitted for it, as it was certainly neither a whim nor a caprice--this crotchet may be considered as a matter of history--of his history, I mean; for it depended upon foregone facts, which must be here explained. It is sad to overturn all that imagination may have already done for the reader on the very first news that Colonel Manners had a foregone history at all. He had not been crossed in love, as may be supposed, nor had he seen the object of his affections swept away by a torrent, burned in a house on fire, killed by an unruly horse, or die by any of those means usually employed for such a purpose. No; he had neither to bewail the coldness nor the loss of her he loved, because, up to the moment when we have set him before the reader, he had unfortunately never been in love at all. The fact is, that during his youth Colonel Manners had possessed one of the finest faces in the world, and every one of his judicious friends had taken care to impress deeply upon his mind that it was the best portion of all his present possessions or future expectations. By nature he was quite the reverse of a vain man; but when he saw that the great majority of those by whom he was surrounded admired the beauties of his face far more than the beauties of his mind, and loved him for the symmetry of his external person more than for the qualities of his heart, of course the conviction that, however much esteem and respect might be gained by mental perfections, affection was only given to beauty, became an integral part of that fine texture of memories and ideas which, though I do not think it, as some have done, the mind itself, I yet look upon as the mind's innermost garment. Such was the case when, at the age of about twenty, he was attacked by the smallpox. For a length of time he was not allowed to see a looking-glass, the physicians mildly telling him that his appearance would improve; that they trusted no great traces would remain: but when he did see a looking-glass, he certainly saw the reflection of somebody he had never seen before. In the mean while his relations had too much regard for their own persons to come near him; and when, after having purified in the country, he went to visit an antique female cousin, who had been a card-playing belle in the reign of his majesty of blessed memory, King George the First, the old lady first made him a profound courtesy, taking him for a stranger; and when she discovered who he was, burst forth with, "Good God, Charles! you are perfectly frightful!" To the same conclusion Charles Manners had by this time come himself; and the very modesty of his original nature now leagued with one of the deceptions of vanity, and made him believe that he could never, by any circumstances, or events, obtain love. Nevertheless he made up his mind to his fate entirely, and determined neither to seek for nor to think of a good that could not be his. Indeed, at first, according to the usual extravagance of man's nature, he flew to the very far extreme, and believed that, putting woman's love out of the question, even the more intimate friendship and affection of his fellow-men might be influenced by his changed appearance, and that he would be always more or less an object of that pity which touches upon scorn. These ideas his commerce with the world soon showed him to be fallacious; but in the mean time they had a certain effect upon his conduct. Possessing a consciousness of great powers of mind and fine qualities of the heart, he determined to cultivate and employ them to the utmost, and compel esteem and respect, if love and affection were not to be obtained. In his course through the army, too, the sort of animosity which he felt against his own ugliness, which had cut him off from happiness of a sort that he was well calculated to enjoy, together with that mental and corporeal complexion which did not suffer him to know what fear is, led him to be somewhat careless of his own person; and during his earlier years of service he acquired the name of rash Charles Manners. But it was soon found that wherever the conduct of any enterprise was intrusted to his judgment, its success was almost certain, and that skill and intrepidity with him went hand-in-hand. Gradually he found that, with men at least, and with soldiers especially, personal beauty formed no necessary ingredient in friendship; and with a warm heart and noble feelings--guarded, however, by wisdom and discretion--he soon rendered himself universally liked and esteemed in the different corps with which he served, and had an opportunity of selecting one or two of his fellow-officers for more intimate regard. Unfortunately, however, he saw no reason to change his opinion in respect to woman's love. Indeed, he sought not to change it; for, as we have already said, the belief that female affection could only be won by personal beauty was one of those intimate convictions which were interwoven with all the fabric of his ideas. He ceased to think of it; he devoted himself entirely to his profession; he won honour and the highest renown; he found himself liked and esteemed by his military companions, courted and admired in general society, and he was content: at least, if he was not content, the regrets which would not wholly be smothered--the yearnings for nearer ties and dearer affections, which are principles, not thoughts--only found vent occasionally in such a sigh as that which we have just described. His companion, though he remarked it, made no comment on his sigh; for, notwithstanding the most intimate relationships of friendship which existed between himself and his fellow-traveller, and which had arisen in mutual services that may hereafter be more fully mentioned, he felt that the length of their acquaintance had not been such as to warrant his inquiring more curiously into those private intricacies of the bosom from which such signs of feeling issued forth. He saw, however, that the proximate cause of the slight shadow that came over his friend lay in something that he himself had said in picturing the happy dreams that checkered his misanthropy; and putting his horse into a quicker pace as they got upon the level ground, he changed the subject while they rode on. The time, as we have said, was evening; and as the strangers passed by the gipsy encampment, a flood of purple light, pouring from as splendid a heaven as ever held out the promise of bright after-days, was streaming over the road; but as the travellers reached the flat, and turned the angle of the wood where the road wound round the bases of the hills, the sky was already waxing gray, and a small twinkling spot of gold here and there told that darkness was coming fast. At the distance of about half a mile farther, the river was first seen flowing broad and silvery through the valley; and a quarter of an hour more brought the travellers to a spot where the water, taking an abrupt turn round a salient promontory thrown out from the main body of the hills, left hardly room for the road between the margin and the wood. On the other side of the river, which might be a hundred yards broad, was a narrow green meadow, backed by some young fir plantings, and just beyond the first turn of the bank a deep sombre dell led away to the right; while the shadows of the trees over the water, the darkening hue of the sky, and the wild uninhabited aspect of the whole scene, gave a sensation of gloom, which was not diminished by a large raven flapping heavily up from the edge of the water, and hovering with a hoarse croak over some carrion it had found among the reeds. "This is a murderous-looking spot enough!" said Colonel Manners, turning slightly towards De Vaux, who had been silent for some minutes; "this is a murderous-looking spot enough!" "Well may it be so!" answered his companion abruptly; "well may it be so; for on this very spot my uncle was murdered twenty years ago." "Indeed!" exclaimed his fellow-traveller; "indeed--but on reflection," he added, "I remember having heard something of it, though I was then a boy, and have forgotten all the circumstances." He spoke as if he would willingly have heard them again detailed; but, for a moment or two, De Vaux made no reply; and the next instant the sound of a horse's feet at a quick trot suddenly broke upon the ear, and called the attention of both. In a minute more, a horseman wrapped in a large roquelaure passed them rapidly; and though he neither spoke nor bowed, his sudden appearance was enough to break off the thread of their discourse. When he was gone, Colonel Manners felt that, though De Vaux might take it up again if he would, he himself could not in propriety do so. De Vaux, however, was silent; for he was not one of those men to whom the accidents and misfortunes of their friends and relations furnished matter for pleasant discourse; and the topic of course dropped there. Perhaps, indeed, the younger traveller showed some inclination even to avoid the subject; for he led the conversation almost immediately into another channel, pointing out to his friend the various hills and landmarks which distinguished the grounds of his father from those of his aunt, and dwelling with enthusiasm upon the pleasures that his boyhood had there known, and the hopes which his return had re-awakened in his bosom; and yet there was mingled with the whole a touch of fastidiousness which contrasted strangely enough with the warmth of feeling and expression to which he gave way in other respects. He seemed to doubt the very love, the happiness of which he pictured so brightly; he seemed to distrust the joys to which he was so sensitively alive; he even seemed, in some degree, to sneer at himself for giving the credence that he did to those things which he most desired to believe true. But Edward de Vaux had been brought up in a fastidious school. He had lived at the acmé of fortune and trod upon circumstances all his life, and this we hold to be the true way of becoming misanthropical. It is nonsense to suppose that a man turns misanthrope in consequence of great misfortunes. No such thing! it is by being fortunate _ter et amplius_. The spoiled children of the blind goddess are those that kick at her wheel; and those on whom she showers nothing but misfortunes cling tight to the tire, in hopes of a better turn, till the next whirl casts them off into the wide hereafter. Edward de Vaux stood at the climax of fortune. Never in his life had he known what a serious reverse or great misfortune is; and consequently he had gathered together all the petty vexations and minor disappointments that he had met with, and, to use the term of Napoleon Bonaparte, had nearly stung himself to death with wasps. Perhaps, too, he might be fastidious by inheritance, for his father was so in a still higher degree than himself; though in the father it showed itself in irritable impatience, and a sort of contempt both tyrannical and insulting towards those whom he disliked; while in the son, mingled with, if not springing from, finer feelings: passing, too, through the purifying medium of a gentler heart, and corrected by a high sense of what is gentlemanly, his fastidiousness seldom showed itself except in a passing sneer at any thing that is false, affected, or absurd, in an indignant sarcasm at that which is base or evil, or in petulant irritability at that which is weak. As he now rode onward to rejoin those friends whom he had not seen for nearly three years, accompanied by a companion who had never seen them at all, the little world of his heart was in a strange commotion. All the joy which an affectionate disposition can feel was rising up at every point against the sway of cold propriety, and yet he tormented himself with a thousand imaginary annoyances. Now he fancied that the delight he felt and expressed was undignified, and might lower him in the eyes of his companion; now he chose to doubt that his reception from those he had left behind would be warm enough to justify the exuberant pleasure that he himself experienced; while, keenly alive to the slightest ridicule, he shrunk from the idea of exposing, even to his dearest friend, one single spot in his heart to which the lash could be applied. "I was foolish," he thought, "not to leave Manners in London for a day, and get all the joyful absurdities of a first welcome over before he came down. However, my aunt would have it so; and it cannot be avoided now." As they proceeded, the purple of the evening died entirely away, and a gray dimness fell over tree, and stream, and hill. Star by star looked out, grew brighter and brighter, as the wandering ball on which we travel through the inconceivable depth turned our hemisphere from the superior light, and at length all was night. In the lapse of ten minutes more, the road--which, winding about between the hills and the stream, was forced often out of its true direction,--had conducted them to a steep bank overhanging a wider part of the valley, and here Colonel Manners divined--for he could scarcely be said to see--that a scattered but considerable village lay before them. Up and down the sides of the hill, a hundred twinkling lights in cottage windows were sprinkled like glow-worms among the darker masses of orchard and copsewood; and now and then, as the travellers advanced, a bright glare suddenly flashed forth from some opening door; and then again was as speedily extinguished, when the entrance or the exit of the visiter was accomplished. Some watchful dog, too, caught the sound of horses' feet, and, after one or two desultory barks, set up his tongue into a continual peal. His neighbours of the canine race took the signal, and--not at all unlike the human species--ever inclined to clamour, yelped forth in concert, whether they had heard or not the noise that roused their comrade's indignation, so that the village was soon one continued roar with the efforts of various hairy throats. The salutation, however, was sweet to Edward de Vaux, for it spoke of home--or at least of a dwelling that was dearer than any other home he might possess; and, pausing a moment, he pointed onward to a spot, where, on the edge of the hill beyond the village, might be seen, cutting sharp upon the pale silvery gray of the western sky, the dark outline of a large house, with a plentiful supply of chimneys, of an architecture somewhat less light and fanciful than that of Palladio, but very well suited to a dwelling in the land of peace and comfort. "That is my aunt's house," said De Vaux, "and, though it is nearly three miles by the road from the spot where that horseman passed us, it is not much more than three-quarters of a mile by the path over the hill. But that path," he added, "is impracticable for horses, or I should certainly have risked breaking your neck, Manners, rather than take this long tedious round." Now, strange to say, the round that they had taken seemed longer and more tedious to Edward de Vaux, when he came within sight of the mansion which was to end his journey, than it had done at any other moment of the ride. But so it was; and without inquiring into things with which we have nothing to do, we may conclude that he felt some of those vague, unreasonable doubts and apprehensions, which almost every one experiences on the first view of one's home after a long absence--those fears which are the very children of our hopes--that anxiety which the uncertainty of human fate impresses upon our minds, till we are sure that all is well. Who is there that has not gazed up at his own dwelling-place as he returned from far, and asked himself, with a sudden consciousness of the instability of all things, "Shall I find nothing gone amiss? Has no misfortune trod that threshold? Has disease or sorrow never visited it? Has death turned his steps aside?" Whatever it was that Edward de Vaux felt, although the round seemed a long one, and the time tedious that it had consumed, he yet drew in his rein, not so as to bring his horse quite up, but to check him into a walk; while he pointed out the house to his companion, and gazed at its dark and distant mass himself. At that very moment, a single ray glimmered in one of the windows, passed on into another, and then three windows suddenly streamed forth with light. It looked like a beacon to say that all was well; and though no man in the present day cares a straw for things that in other years, when skilfully applied, have won battles and overthrown dynasties--I mean omens--yet every man has a silent, unacknowledged, foolish little system of augury of his own; and Edward de Vaux and his companion, at the sight of this dexter omen, set spurs to their horses, and rode merrily on their way. CHAPTER II. The reader, who loves variety, will not be displeased, perhaps, to find that this story, leaving the two horsemen whom we have conducted a short stage on their way, now turns to another of our characters not less important to our tale. In the same wood, which we have already described as clothing the hills and skirting the road over which De Vaux and his companion were travelling, but in a far more intricate part thereof than that into which the reader's eye has hitherto penetrated, might be seen, at the hour which we have chosen for the commencement of our tale, the figure of a man creeping quietly, but quickly, along a path so covered by the long branches of the underwood, that it could only be followed out by one who knew well the deepest recesses of the forest. This personage was spare in form, and without being tall, as compared with other men, he was certainly tall in reference to his other proportions. His arms were long and sinewy, his feet small, his ankles well turned, and his whole body giving the promise of great activity, though at a time of life when the agile pliancy of youth is generally past and gone. He was dressed in an old brown long coat, "a world too wide" for his spare form, so that, as he crept along with a quiet, serpentine turning of his body, he looked like an eel in a great coat, if the reader's imagination be vivid enough to call up such an image. A hat, which had seen other days, and many of them, covered his brows; but under that hat was a countenance, which, however ordinary might be the rest of his appearance, redeemed the whole from the common herd. The complexion spoke his race: it was of a pale, greenish tint, without any rosier hue in the cheeks to enliven the pure gipsy colour of his skin. His nose was small, and slightly aquiline, though of a peculiar bend, forming, from the forehead to the tip, what Hogarth drew for the line of beauty. The eyebrows were small, and pencilled like a Circassian's, and the eyes themselves, shining through their long, thick, black eyelashes, were full of deep light, and--to use a very anomalous crowd of words--of wild, dark, melancholy fire. His forehead was broad and high; and the long, soft, glossy, black hair that fell in untrimmed profusion round his face had hardly suffered from the blanching hand of time, although his age could not be less than fifty-five or fifty-six, and might be more. His teeth, too, were unimpaired, and of as dazzling a whiteness as if beetle and recca had all possessed the properties their venders assert, and had all been tried on them in their turn. Such was his appearance, as, creeping along through the brushwood with a stealthy motion, which would hardly have disturbed the deer from their lair, he made his way towards the spot where we have seen that his fellows were encamped. He was still far distant from it, however; and although it was evident that he was, or had been, well acquainted with the intricacies of the wood, yet it appeared that some leading marks were necessary to guide him surely on his way; for, ever and anon, when he could find a round knob of earth, raising itself above the rest of the ground, he would climb it, and gaze for several moments over the world of wood below him, rich in all the splendid hues of autumn, and flooded by the purple light of the evening. Ever, as he thus looked out, there might be seen a column of bluish-white smoke rising from a spot at a mile's distance; and, after towering up solemnly in the still air for several hundred feet, spreading into light rolling clouds, and drifting among the wood. Thitherward, again, he always turned his course; and any one who has remarked the fondness of gipsies for a fire, even when they have no apparent necessity for it, will little doubt that the smoke, or the flame, serves them, on many occasions, for a signal or a guide. As progression through thick bushes can never be very rapid, the evening had faded nearly into twilight ere the gipsy reached the encampment of his companions. The hearing of those whose safety often depends upon the sharpness of their ears is, of course, sufficiently acuminated by habit; and although his steps were, as we have shown, stealthy enough, his approach did not escape the attention of the party round the fire. We have seen that they had taken but little apparent notice of the two travellers, who had passed them about a quarter of an hour before; but the sound of quiet footsteps from the side of the wood, the moving of the branches, and the slight rustle of the autumn leaves, caused a far greater sensation. Two or three of the stoutest started instantly on their feet, and watched the spot whence those sounds proceeded, as if not quite sure what species of visiter the trees might conceal. The moment after, however, the figure we have described, emerging into the more open part of the wood, seemed to satisfy his comrades that there was no cause for apprehension; and those who had risen turned towards the others, saying, "It is Pharold," in a tone which, without expressing much pleasure, at all events announced no alarm. Several of the young gipsies sprang up, shaking their many-coloured rags--for, like the goddess of the painted bow, their clothing was somewhat motley--and ran on to meet the new comer; while the elder members of the respectable assemblage congregated under the oaks, though they did not show the same alacrity, perhaps, as the younger and more volatile of the party, received him with an air in which reverence was mingled with a slight touch of sullenness. "Who has passed since I left you, William?" was the first question of the gipsy on his return, addressing one of the young men who had been lying nearer than the others to the high-road, and by whose side appeared, as he rose, a most portentous cudgel. "A woman with eggs from the market; three labourers from the fields; a gamekeeper, who damned us all, and said, if he had his will, he would rid the country of us: and two gentlemen on horseback, who gave Leena a shilling," was the accurate reply of the young gipsy, whose face, we must remark, assumed not the most amiable expression that ever face put on, as he recorded the comments of the gamekeeper upon his race and profession. The other, who has been called Pharold, at first paid no attention to any part of the account, except the apparition of the two gentlemen on horseback; but in regard to them, he asked many a question--were they old or young--what was their appearance--their size--their apparent profession? To all these inquiries he received such correct and minute replies, as showed that the seeming indifference with which the gipsy had regarded the two travellers was anything but real; and that every particular of their dress and circumstances which eye could reach or inference arrive at, had been carefully marked, and, as it were, written down on memory. The language which the gipsies spoke among themselves was a barbarous compound of some foreign tongue, the origin and structure of which has, and most likely ever will, baffle inquiry, and of English, mingled with many a choice phrase from the very expressive jargon called slang. Thus, when the gipsy spoke of gentlemen he called them _raye_, when he spoke of the peasant, he termed him _gazo_: but as the gipsy tongue may, probably, be not very edifying to the reader, the conversation of our characters shall continue to be carried on in a language which is more generally intelligible. The account rendered by the young man, however, did not seem satisfactory to the elder, who twice asked if that were all; and then made some more particular inquiries concerning the gamekeeper who had expressed such friendly sentiments towards his tribe. "Keep a good watch, my boys," he said, after musing for a moment or two on the answers he received; "keep a good watch. There is danger stirring abroad; and I fear that we shall be obliged to lift our tents, and quit this pleasant nook." "The sooner we quit it the better, I say," cried the beldam who had been tending the pot. "What the devil we do here at all, I don't know. Why, we are wellnigh four miles from a farm yard, and five from the village; and how you expect us to get food I don't understand." "Are there not plenty of rabbits and hares in the wood?" said the other, in reply; "I saw at least a hundred run as I crossed just now." "But one cannot eat brown meat for ever," rejoined the dame; "and tiny Dick was obliged to go five miles for the turkey in the pot; and then had very near been caught in nimming it off the edge of the common." "Well, give me the brown meat for my share," answered Pharold; "I will eat none of the white things that they have fattened and fed up with their hoarded corn, and have watched early and late, like a sick child. Give me the free beast that runs wild, and by nature's law belongs to no one but him who catches it." "No, no, Pharold, you must have your share of turkey too," cried the old lady; for although it may appear strange, yet as there is honour among thieves, so there may be sometimes that sort of generosity among gipsies which led the good dame who, on the present occasion, presided over the pot--though, to judge by her size and proportions, and to gauge her appetite by the Lavater standard of her mouth, she could have eaten the whole turkey of which she spoke herself--which led her, I say, to press Pharold to his food with hospitable care, declaring that he was a "king of a fellow, though somewhat whimsical." The gipsies now drew round their fire, and scouts being thrown out on either side to guard against interruption, the pot was unswung from the cross bars that sustained it, trenchers and knives were produced, and, with nature's green robe for a table-cloth, a plentiful supper of manifold good things was spread before the race of wanderers. Nor was the meal unjoyous, nor were their figures--at all times picturesque--without an appearance of loftier beauty and more symmetrical grace, as, reclining on triclinia of nature's providing, with the fire and the evening twilight casting strange lights upon them, they fell into those free and easy attitudes which none but the children of wild activity can assume. The women of the party had all come forth from their huts, and among them were two or three lovely creatures as any race ever produced, from the chosen Hebrew to the beauty-dreaming Greek. In truth, there seemed more women than men of the tribe, and there certainly were more children than either; but due subordination was not wanting; and the urchins who were ranged behind the backs of the rest, though they wanted not sufficient food, intruded not upon the circle of their elders. Scarcely, however, had the first mouthfuls been swallowed, and the cup passed its round, when the farthest scout--a boy of about twelve years of age--ran in, and whispered the mystical words, "A horse's feet!" "One--or more than one?" was the instant question of Pharold, while his companions busied themselves in shovelling away the principal portions of their supper, and leaving nothing but what might pass for very frugal fare indeed. "Only one!" replied the boy, running back to his post; and the next instant another report was made to the effect, that a single horseman was coming up the road at full speed, together with such personal marks and appearances as the dim obscurity of the hour permitted the scouts to observe. All this, be it remarked, was carried on with both speed and quietude. The motions of the scouts were all as stealthy as those of a cat over a dewy green, and their words were all whispered; but their steps were quick, and their words were few and rapid. The motions of the horseman, however, were not less speedy; and ere much counsel could be taken, he was upon the road, exactly abreast of the spot where the gipsies' fire was lighted. There he drew in his reins at once; and, springing to the ground, called aloud to one of the boys, who was acting sentinel, bidding him hold his horse. "It is he!" said Pharold, "it is he!" and, rising from the turf, he turned to meet the stranger, who, on his part, approached directly to the fire, and at once held out his hand to the gipsy. Pharold took it, and wrung it hard, and then stood gazing upon the countenance of the stranger, as the fitful firelight flashed upon it, while his visiter fixed his eyes with equal intensity upon the dark features of the gipsy; and each might be supposed to contemplate the effect of time's blighting touch upon the face of the other, and apply the chilling tidings such an examination always yields to his own heart. It is probable, indeed, that such was really the case; for the first words of the gipsy were, "Ay, we are both changed indeed!" "We are so, truly, Pharold," replied the stranger; "so many years cannot pass without change. But did my last letter reach you?" "It did," replied the gipsy, "and I have done all that you required." "Did you obtain a sight of him?" demanded the other, eagerly. "I did," answered the gipsy, "in the park, as he walked alone--I leaped the wall, and--" Hitherto, all those first hurried feelings which crowd upon us, when, after a long lapse of years, we meet again with some one whom circumstances have connected closely with us in the past, had prevented the gipsy and his companion from remarking--or rather from remembering--the presence of so many witnesses. In the midst of what he was saying, however, the eye of Pharold glanced for a moment from the face of his companion to the circle by the fire, and he suddenly stopped. The other understood his motive at once, and replied, "True, true; let us come away for a moment, for I must hear it all." "Of course," answered Pharold, "though you will hear much, perhaps, that you would rather not hear. But come, let us go into the road; we shall be farther there from human ears than anywhere else." As they walked towards the highway both were silent; for there is not such a dumb thing on the face of the earth as deep emotion; and for some reason, which may, or may not, be explained hereafter, both the stranger and the gipsy were more moved by their meeting in that spot than many less firm spirits have been on occasions of more apparent importance. After thus walking on without a word for two or three hundred yards, the gipsy abruptly resumed his speech. "Well, well," he said, "when we are young we think of the future, and when we are old we think of the past; and, by my fathers, there is no use of thinking of either! We cannot change what is coming, nor mend what is gone; but, as I was saying, I have seen him: I found that he walked every day in the park by himself, and I watched his hour from behind the wall, and saw him come up the long avenue that leads to the west gate--you remember it?" "Well, well," answered the other; "but how did he look?--Tell me, Pharold, how did he look?" "Dark enough, and gloomy," answered the gipsy: "he came with his hands behind his back, and his hat over his brows, and his eyes bent upon the ground; and ever as he walked onward, his white teeth--for he has fine teeth still--gnawed his under lip; and, for my part, if my solitary walk were every day to be like that, I would not walk at all; but would rather lie me down by the roadside and die at once. Well then, often too as he came, he would stop and fix his eyes upon one particular pebble in the gravel, and stare at it, as if it had been enchanted; and then, with a great start, would look behind him to see if there was anyone watching his gloomy ways; or would suddenly whistle, as if for his dogs, though he had no dog with him." His companion drew a deep sigh, and then asked, "But how seemed he in health, Pharold? Is he much changed? He was once as strong a man as any one could see--does he still seem vigorous and well?" "You would not know him," replied the gipsy, and was going on, but the other broke in vehemently. "Not know him? That I would!" he exclaimed, "though age might have whitened his hair and dimmed his eye--though suffering might have shrivelled his flesh and bowed his stature--though death itself, and corruption in its train, might have wrought for days upon him, I would know him so long as the dust held together.--What, Pharold, not know him?--_I_ not know _him?_" "Well, well," answered the gipsy, "I meant that he was changed--far, far more changed than you are--you were a young man when last we met, at least in your prime of strength, and now you are an old one, that is all. But he--he does not seem aged but blighted. It is not like a flower that has blown, and bloomed, and withered, but one that with a worm in its heart has shrunk, and shrivelled, and faded. He is yellower than I am, though I gain my colour from a long race who brought it centuries ago from a land of sunshine, and he has got it in less than twenty years from the scorching of a heart on fire. He is bent, too; and his features are as thin as a heron's bill." "Sad--sad--sad," said his companion; "but how could it be otherwise? Well, what more? Tell me what happened when you met him? Did he know you?" "At once," answered the gipsy; "no, no; I have seen one of my tribe with a hot iron and an oaken board make painting of men's faces that no water could wash out; and none should know better than you, that my face has been burnt in upon his heart in such a way that it would take a river of tears to sweep away the marks of it. But let me tell my tale. When I saw that he was near, I sprang over the wall into the walk, and stood before him at once. When first he saw me he started back, as if it had been a snake that crossed him; but the moment after, I could see him recollect himself; and I knew that he was calculating whether to own he knew me, or to affect forgetfulness. He chose the first, and asked mildly enough what I did there. 'I thought you were out of the kingdom,' he said, 'and had promised Sir William Ryder never to return.' I replied that he said true, and that I had not returned till Sir William Ryder had told me to do so." "What said he then?" asked the other, eagerly; "what said he to that?" "He started," replied the gipsy, "and then muttered something about a villain and betraying him; but the moment after, as you must have seen him to do long ago, he gathered himself up, and looking as proud and stern as if the lives of a whole world were at his disposal, he asked, what was Sir William Ryder's motive in bidding me return. 'Some motive of course, he has,' he added, looking at me bitterly. 'Does he intend to play villain, or fool, or both,--for whatever folly his knavery may tempt him to commit, he will only injure himself; for at this time of day it is somewhat too late to try to injure _me_;' and as he spoke," continued the gipsy, "he nodded his head gravely but meaningly, as if he would have said, 'You know that I speak truth.'" The lip of the stranger curled as his companion related this part of a conversation in which he seemed to take no slight interest; but as we do not choose to know any thing of what was passing in his bosom, we must leave that somewhat bitter smile to interpret itself. "I told him," continued the gipsy, "as you directed me, that his friend stood in some need of five thousand pounds, and trusting to his lordship's kindness and generosity, had directed me to come back and apply to him for that sum. So when he heard that, his face grew very dark; and after thinking for a minute of two, he looked up two of the walks, for he stood in the crossing, to see if he could see any of the park-keepers, to give me into their hands--I know that was what he wanted. However there was no one there; and he answered, looking at me as if he would have withered me into dust, 'Tell Sir William Ryder, wherever he is, that he shall ring no more from me. I have sent him his thousand a year regularly, and if any of the packets missed him, he should have let me know; but I will be no sponge to be squeezed by any man's pleasure; nor do I care,' he went on, 'who conspires to bring any false accusation against me. I am prepared to meet every charge boldly, and to prove my innocence before the whole world, if any one dare to accuse me.' He spoke very firmly," added the gipsy; "and as long as he continued speaking I kept my eyes upon the ground, though I felt that his were bent upon me: but the moment he had done, I raised mine and looked full upon his face, and his lip quivered and his eye fell in a moment." "Did he hold his resolution of refusing?" demanded the other, over whose countenance, as he listened, had been passing emotions as various as those which the gipsy had depicted; "did he hold his resolution to the end?" "Firmly!" replied Pharold, "though he softened his tone a great deal towards me. He said he was only angry with Sir William Ryder, not with me, and asked where I had been during so many years; and when I told him in Ireland, he replied, that it was a poor country: I could not have made much money there; and then he talked of other days, when the old lord took me to the hall because I was a handsome boy, and kept me for two years and more, and would have had me educated; and he vowed I did mighty wrong to run away and join my own people again; and he took out his purse and gave me all that it contained, and was sorry that it was no more; but if I would tell him, he said, where we were lying, he would send me more, for old acquaintance sake; and all the while he talked to me he looked up the walks to see if he could see the park-keepers, to have me taken up, and to accuse me of robbing him, or of some such thing. I could see it all in his eye; and so I told him that we were lying five miles to the east; and took leave of him civily, and came away, laughing that he should think I was fool enough to fancy he and I could ever do anything but hate each other to our dying day." His companion mused for several minutes; and even when he did speak, he took no notice either of the gipsy's suspicions or of the news he gave him, but rather,--as one sometimes does when one wishes any thing just heard to mature itself in the mind, ere further comment be made upon it,--he linked on what he next said, to that part of Pharold's speech which might have seemed the least interesting, namely, the gipsy's own history; and yet, although he certainly did this, in order to avoid, for the time, the most important parts of his narrative, he did not do it with the commonplace tone of one who speaks of feelings with which he has no sympathy: on the contrary, he spoke with warmth, and kindness, and enthusiasm; and expressed profound regret that the gipsy had, in his boyhood, thrown away advantages so seldom held out to one of his tribe. "Why? why?" cried the gipsy, "why should you grieve? I did but what you have done yourself. I quitted a life of sloth, effeminacy, and bondage, for one of ease, freedom, and activity. I left false forms, unnatural restraints, enfeebling habits--ay! and sickness too, for the customs of my fathers, for man's native mode of life, for a continual existence in the bosom of beautiful nature, and for blessed health. We know no sickness but that which carries us to our grave; we feel no vapours; we know no nerves. Go, ask the multitude of doctors,--a curse which man's own luxurious habits have brought upon him,--go, ask your doctor's whether a gipsy be not to be envied, for his exemption from the plagues that punish other men's effeminate habits." "True, Pharold! true!" replied his companion; "but still, even the short time that you lived in other scenes must have given your mind a taste for very different enjoyments from those that you can now find. You must have seen the beauty of law and order; you must have learned to delight in mental pleasures; you must long for the society of those of equal intellect and knowledge with yourself." "And do I not find them?" cried the gipsy, warming in defence of his race; "to be sure I do. Think not that we have none among us as learned and as thoughtful as yourselves, though in another way. But you cannot understand us. You think that it is in our habits alone that we are different; but, remember, that when you speak to a true gipsy, who follows exactly the path of his fathers, you speak to one different in race, and creed, and mind, and feeling, and law, and philosophy, from you and yours. You think us all ignorant, and either bound as drudges to some low rejected trade, or plundering others, because we do not comprehend the excellence of laws. But let me tell you again, that there are men among us deeply read in sciences which you know not; speaking well a language, for a hundred words of which your schools have laboured long years in vain. Have we not laws, too, of our own? laws better observed than your boasted codes? But you choose to doubt that we have them, because we put you beyond our code, as you put us beyond yours. When was ever justice shown to a gipsy? and therefore we look upon you as things to pillage. You speak, too, of the pleasures of the mind. Do you think my mind finds no exercise in scenes like these? I walk hand in hand with the seasons through the world. Winter, your enemy, is my friend and companion. Gladly do I see him come, with his white mantle, through the bare woods and over the brown hills. I watch the budding forth of spring, too, and her light airs and changing skies, as I would the sports of a beloved child. I hail the majestic summer, as if the God of my own land had come to visit our race, even here; and in the yellow autumn, too, with the rich fruit and the fading leaf, I have a comrade full of calmer thoughts. The sunrise, and the sunset, and the midday, to me, are all eloquence. The storm, the stream, the clouds, the wind, for me have each a voice. I talk with the bright stars as they wander through the deep sky, and I listen to the sun and moon, as they sing along their lonely pilgrimage. Is not this enough? What need I more than nature?" Perhaps his companion, whose mind was in no degree wanting in acuteness, might imagine that in all the very enjoyments which the gipsy enumerated, as well as in the tone he used, were to be traced some remains of a better education than that of his race in general; and might believe, that had that education been continued, every pleasure that he felt would have been doubled by refinement. But all this came upon his mind as impression rather than as thought; and the reader will please to observe, that there is an immense difference between the two. The truth was, that ever since the conversation had turned to the gipsy himself, his companion had been doing what is oftener done than the world imagines; that is to say, talking without thinking, and listening without attending. In short, he was thinking of other things; and yet, as we have said, he spoke with kindness, and zeal, and real feeling; but the fact is, that the language he was talking was memory. Years before, he had come to the same conclusions, and held the same arguments in his own mind, regarding the very person in whose company he was now once more; so that--having, in all the news he had heard, greater calls upon present thought than he could well satisfy,--as soon as the gipsy began to speak of gipsy-life, he turned that topic over to memory, well knowing that she had a plentiful stock of ideas prepared to supply any demand upon such a subject; while intellect went on, quietly thinking of himself and of the present. This plan, when skilfully executed, has a collateral advantage, which, by-the-way, is often turned into a principal one; namely, that while you let memory go on with the conversation--unless she trips, or something of that kind--your companion does not perceive that you are thinking at all; and thus the stranger, apparently listened to, and took part in the gipsy's conversation about himself, while his inner soul was busy, most busy, with the other tidings which he had received. By the time that the enumeration of wild pleasures, afforded by a wandering life was over, he had settled his plans in his own mind; and, breaking off the subject there, demanded abruptly,-- "When, Pharold--tell me, when did you see him?" He mentioned no name; and the gipsy, at once dropping the high and enthusiastic tone in which he had been speaking, answered, as to a common question, "It was but to-day--not four hours ago, or you had not found me here." "And why not?" demanded the other. "Whither would you go?" "Far away," answered the gipsy, "far away! I love not his neighbourhood; nor is it safe for me and mine. He thinks evil against us, and he will not be long ere he tries to bring his thoughts to pass." "But he cannot injure you," replied the other; "in all the things wherein you and he have borne a part, he has more cause to fear you than you have to fear him." "True! true!" said the gipsy; "and yet I love not his neighbourhood. I may have done things in this land in my youth, when passion and revenge were strong, and wisdom and forbearance weak, that I should little like to have investigated in my middle age. Not that I fear for myself; for, from the dark leap that all men must take, I have never shrunk through life. But I fear the sorrow of those that would weep for me, and the unjust mingling of the innocent with the guilty, for which your laws are infamous." His companion mused for a moment; and then, laying his hand upon the arm of the gipsy, he replied, in a tone where kindness mingled with authority: "Mark me, Pharold!" said he; "you know that I am not one either to counsel you amiss, or to fall from you at a moment of need: base, indeed, should I be, were I to do so, after all you have done for me. But my resolutions are not yet fixed--my mind is not yet made up; and I must hear more, and examine deeply, ere I execute my half-formed purpose. Still you have no cause to fear; call upon me whenever you need me; and, in the meantime, if you please, you can remove from the spot where you now are, but not so far that I cannot find you, for you must help me to the end of all this." "To the common, at the back of Mrs. Falkland's woods?" asked the gipsy: "they will hardly seek us there." "As good a spot as any," replied his companion; "and in the case of necessity, Pharold, here, I have written down where you may always find me in this immediate neighbourhood; remembering, in the meantime, all that you have promised." "I have promised--I have promised!" replied the gipsy; "and you never knew me break my word. But what is this you give me with the paper? I want not gold--and from you, William." "But your people may," replied the other; "take it, take it, Pharold; it is never useless in such a life as yours." "I will take it," answered the gipsy, "because it may give me more control over my people; for although among our nation there are men whose minds you little dream of, yet these I have here are not, perhaps, of the best,--not that they are evil either; but wild, and headstrong, and rash--as I was myself, when I was young." They had already turned in their walk, and were now re-approaching the fire, round which the gipsies were gathered. Their conversation had not been without its share of interest to either, and each had much matter for reflection: so that--as thought is not that which makes a man speak, but that which keeps him silent--they advanced without another word to the spot where the stranger's horse stood. It was a fine powerful animal, of great bone and blood; but it was standing like a lamb in the hands of a little boy, while the beautiful girl, whom we have mentioned as accosting the other travellers, now stood stroking his proud neck, and examining the accoutrements with a care that some people might have thought suspicious. As Pharold and his companion returned, however, she sprung away to the rest of her tribe with a step as light as the moonshine on the sea. "She is very beautiful," said the stranger, whose eye had rested on her for a moment; "who is she, Pharold?" "She is my wife!" replied the gipsy, abruptly. His companion shook his head with a sigh, and putting his foot in the stirrup, mounted his horse, and rode away. CHAPTER III. While such events as have just been described were passing in the wood, the two travellers whom we first brought before the reader, and to whom we must now return, rode on; but begging leave to pass over all their farther journey, as it did not consist of more than half a mile, we may bring them safe to the gate of the very house, whose lights and shadows they had seen from the slope above the village. By this time it was as dark as could well be desired. It was not exactly Egyptian darkness, for there was nothing in it that could be _felt_, but the sun was gone entirely; and the last fringe of his golden robe had swept the sky some time. The moon was not yet up, so that the stars had the sky all to themselves; but though they were shining as brightly as they did many a thousand years ago, when they were first sent glittering into the depths of space, they did very little to show the travellers their way. Edward de Vaux, indeed, had taken it into his head to go to the back entrance of his aunt's house. But the truth is, he had worked himself up, as he came along, into a belief that there might be some fuss made upon his return, and had conjured up before his imagination everything that might or could possibly occur, in which there was the least smack of ridicule; although all the time he knew perfectly well that his companion was of too generous and feeling a disposition even to dream that anything was ridiculous which sprung from the heart. He well knew, also, that those he was about to meet were by education, and habit, and natural character, the last persons in the world to do or say anything that was not graceful and _bienséant_. But still, as his imagination was not the most tractable imagination in the world, but roved hither and thither, whether he liked it or not, on all occasions, he could not get the better of her in the present instance; and therefore, in order that everything in the way of reception might pass as quietly and as quickly as possible, he rode up to the gate of the back court, and after feeling about for the bell for some time, he rang for admittance. After a little delay, a coachman with a powdered wig, and three rows of curls round his ears, opened the gates with a lantern in his hand, and demanded what the strangers wanted; but without other reply, De Vaux rode into the yard with his companion, and springing to the ground, exposed his well-known face to the glare of the lantern and the wondering eyes of old Joseph, the immemorial coachman, who, bursting forth into a loud exclamation, called vehemently to the groom, and the helper, and the stable-boy. "The oaken doors returned a brazen sound!" and not only those that the old curly-wigged official of the hammercloth called to his aid appeared with ready promptitude, but eke a footman emerged from the passage of the servants'-hall, and two or three pippin-faced housemaids were seen "peeping from forth the alleys green" beyond. Thus, as usual, De Vaux's precaution in regard to not making a bustle had, in fact, the very contrary effect in the house itself. But this was not all: his method of proceeding had the very contrary effect with his companion, also, to that which he had purposed. Colonel Manners certainly did think, in the first instance, that such an entrance was a somewhat strange one for the house he saw before him; and when he found that it was in truth the stable-yard into which he had been taken, he thought the conduct of his friend still stranger. But by this time Charles Manners had known Edward de Vaux too long not to have some slight insight into his character and into the weaknesses thereof; and as they had ridden along together upon that day's journey, various little traits, which might have escaped any but a very keen and a very friendly eye, had given him the key of his friend's feelings on his return--a key which he did not fail to apply on the present occasion. The result was, that he soon comprehended the general motives of De Vaux, though perhaps not all the little ins and outs of the business--ins and outs, by-the-way, which depended as much upon the plan and architecture of the house, and upon the fact of the first landing of the grand staircase leading at once into the little ante-room of the drawing-room, so that the voice and step of any one ascending could be recognised instantly, as upon anything else in the world. A slight smile curled Colonel Manners's lip as he perceived what had been passing in his friend's mind; but he would not have had that smile seen for any recompense that could have been offered to him, unless it had been that of curing his friend of a folly. But he knew very well that De Vaux was not a man to be laughed out of anything on earth; and that, with all his sensibility to ridicule, it was only so long as the sneer was silent and suppressed that he cared anything about it. The moment that the laugh was open, his pride took arms to defend the position which he occupied, and every one knows that pride would always rather blow up the place than capitulate. Colonel Manners did, indeed, wish that his friend could be taught, with the same sort of bold determination which he displayed in opposing the loud laugh, to despise the silent sneer, which is as often excited in the minds of the worldlings by traits of a good and noble nature as by folly or by awkwardness: but he knew that the only lessons he would receive upon the subject would be gentle ones, spoken by the voice of friendship, without a touch of sarcasm. "It is a pity, a great pity," thought he, "that De Vaux, who affects to, and perhaps really does, despise the opinion of the general fool, should thus, as it were, make himself a slave to the laugh of his own fancy. I hope and trust that his fair future bride may have influence enough to school him from these weaknesses." Such was all his comment; and by the time it was made their horses were in safe hands, and a footman, as antique as the coachman, was leading the way up the back stairs towards the drawing-room. De Vaux was somewhat uneasy at the back stairs, and at a distant prospect of the kitchen, and the servants' hall, and the housekeeper's room; but Manners, though he saw it all, appeared to see nothing, rubbed his boot with his riding-whip, and talked of North America with all the zeal and volubility of a Mohawk. His companion was relieved; and following the fat legs and white stockings of the old footman up the narrow staircase, they were soon in a small lobby which led into the drawing-room. Soft Turkey carpets covered the floor of the lobby; against each of the piers stood a small antique table of tortoise-shell and brass; and in the deep recesses of the windows were placed those immense and beautiful china jars which formed the glory of our great-grandmothers. These again were filled with a composition of all the sweet-scented leaves gathered from the garden during the past year; and which, mingled with orris-root and many a fragrant spice, diffused through the whole air a rich perfume of the eighteenth century. But there was music upon the air of this bower as well as perfume. It was the music, however, of a sweet, low-toned woman's voice, speaking some sentences of which nothing could be distinguished but the melody. Nevertheless, it made the fitful colour come up for a moment in the cheek of Edward de Vaux; and whether his heart beat more quickly, or whether it maintained its even pulse, is a problem which we shall leave others to solve; for, the next moment, the door was thrown open, and the visiters all silently and unannounced entered the room. It was a large handsome chamber, fitted up as unlike a modern drawing-room as possible. There was nothing in it of the last fashion, even of that day; but all was comfortable, and all bespoke both taste and affluence. On the walls were a few cabinet pictures, which at first appeared dark and dingy, but which, when any one looked farther, turned out gems; and on the rich and massive marble mantel-piece--which was itself nearly equal in size, and quite equal in value, to a house in a modern square--were placed pagodas, and feather fans, and screens, and many a little curiosity from different parts of the world--bracelets that might have clasped the arm of Cleopatra, and idols that had been acquainted with Captain Cook. The room, like every clever room, had a great number of tables of all sorts and sizes; and at two of these tables, not with hospitable cares intent, but very busy with that sort of idleness which ladies call work, sat two fair dames, who, in point of age, might divide between them the apportioned years of man. The division of those seventy years, however, was very unequal, as the one nearest the door had monopolized at least forty-six of them to herself, and had left her daughter--for such was the other lady--not much more than twenty-three. They were both very handsome women nevertheless; the mother feeling her years as light as a young king's crown, and the daughter, in addition to a very beautiful person, and a face where all that is fine was softened by all that is pleasing, having the advantage of youth and all youth's graces. There was one peculiarity in her countenance, which, as it had something to do with her mind, may as well be noticed. It was one of those faces which love not clouds--which smile where others frown; and as she sat with her eyes bent upon a provoking knot in her work, which for the last ten minutes had defied all her efforts to disentangle it, she was still half-laughing at the perversity of the silk, which seemed to take a pleasure in baffling her. There was a third person in the drawing-room, younger than either, and very different from both. As she lay upon a sofa at the other side of the room, with a book in her hand, and her eyes bent upon the pages, the light of the lamp falling at the same time from above upon her clear fair forehead, on her beautiful eyelids with their long dark eyelashes, and on the marble white chiselling of her nose and upper lip, she did not appear to be more than eighteen; but her real age, which we are bound to give, was twenty years, eleven months, and a few days, the exact number of which is forgotten. Her form was light and beautiful, and though those who did not love her might contend that she was certainly not equal to the Medicean Venus, yet she was a great deal more graceful than many another goddess, and as fair a specimen of the fairest of earth's creatures as the eye of man has ever seen since Eve's ill-fated experiment in Eden. Her hair was of that glossy golden brown, which is so beautiful and so seldom seen; and as the whole party had given up the expectation of their visiters for that night, she had turned back the shining curls which would have fallen into her eyes while reading; so that, with a wavy line on either side, they left her fair forehead bare, and formed a bunch of ringlets behind each ear, that might have defied the chisel of a Chantry. As the door which admitted De Vaux and his companion was that which led to the back staircase, the party in the drawing-room concluded, naturally enough, that it was opened by one of the domestics on some of the many motives or pretexts upon which a servant can visit the drawing-room. No one took any notice, no one looked up; and the fair girl upon the sofa went on commenting upon the book in her hand, without knowing that any one was listening to her gentle criticism. Thus each of the two visiters had time to make their own observations, if they chose it. A bright pleased smile lighted up the rough features of Colonel Manners, as he was thus at once admitted, without the help of an Asmodeous into the very heart of an English domestic circle, to each member of which he was a stranger. To him it was a sight full of pleasure and interest; it was a sight that he had seldom seen even when in England, and which he had not seen at all for several years while serving abroad: but it was one which fancy had often renewed for him in his solitary wanderings, which had been painted to his eye in the still night, and in the tented field on distant shores, which had been to him a dream, whereunto imagination could cling without the apprehension of disappointment; for he had ever thought of it as a thing whereof he might be the spectator, but never a sharer in its dearer ties. As for Edward de Vaux, he _did not_ choose to make any observations on the scene at all, for more fastidious in anticipation than in reality, the moment he was in the midst of his domestic circle a host of bright warm feelings rose up at once in his heart, and trampled every cold calculation of Chesterfieldism beneath their feet. Passing the old servant, who was himself amused to see the unconsciousness of the party in the drawing-room, De Vaux at once advanced towards the fair girl on the sofa. But there was a sound in his step different from that of any of the servants, which only let him pass half across the room ere her eyes were raised from the book and fell upon him. The sight instantly called into them a gleam as bright as sunshine after a storm, and the warm, eloquent blood rose into her cheek and brow, while with a voice of unquestionable icy, she exclaimed, "Edward! My dear aunt, here is Edward!" The next moment, however, the light of her glance faded away, the blood ebbed back from her cheek, and from that moment it was scarcely perceivable that Edward de Vaux was anything more to her than an intimate friend. It was all the work of an instant, and Colonel Manners had only time to think, "This is all very odd!" ere the other two ladies rose to welcome his companion and himself; while the one who had spoken, gracefully but composedly drew her small foot from the sofa to the ground, and advanced to meet her lover; contriving to execute what is sometimes a difficult man[oe]uvre, without showing half an inch of her ankle, though it might very well have borne the display. The elder lady now of course took the lead, and expressed her joy at the return of her nephew, in a manner which showed how compatible real dignity and grace are with every zealous and kindly feeling. "And this," she said the next moment, "is of course Colonel Manners; though you have not introduced him to me, Edward; but Colonel Manners indeed requires no introduction here; for allow me to say, my dear sir, that even were it not that you had saved the life of my nephew, and rendered him so many inestimable services, the son of your mother, who was my dear and early friend, would always be the most welcome of guests at my fire-side." Colonel Manners bowed, and replied, "I have been lucky enough to find among my mother's papers, madam, the letters of the Honourable Mrs. Falkland; and am aware how fortunate in a friend my parent was during the greater part of her short life. Most proud shall I be if the son may merit some portion of the same regard which you bestowed upon the mother." "You already command it, Colonel Manners," she replied: "Isadore,--Marian--Colonel Manners! My daughter--my niece, Miss De Vaux." Now this introduction puzzled Colonel Manners a good deal, for reasons which may as well be explained. He had heard long before, while abroad, that his friend Edward de Vaux, the only son of Lord Dewry, was affianced to his cousin, and that their marriage was to take place as soon as the young heir of the barony could return to his native country, provided that the lady were by that time of age. In the course of their intimacy in other lands, De Vaux had often spoken of his fair cousin Marian, and had indeed on their return besought Colonel Manners to accompany him down to the house of his aunt, in order to act the part of bridesman at his wedding, which was to take place immediately. With this request we have seen that he complied; but he had completely made up his mind to the belief that his friend was about to be united to the daughter of Mrs. Falkland, and he was now surprised to find a Miss De Vaux, towards whom the manner of Edward de Vaux was not exactly that which men assume towards their sisters. Besides, her name was Marian, that of his promised bride; and although this discovery, leaping over the head of all his own preconceptions, puzzled Colonel Manners for a moment, he soon set it all to rights in his own mind, by supposing, what was in fact the truth, that the fair girl we have described was the daughter of Lord Dewry's brother. All the while he was settling this to his own satisfaction, he was going through the manual of politeness, and doing De Vaux the favour of talking to Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, while the lover spoke in a lower tone to the other fair cousin. Whatever he said, however, seemed to have no very great effect upon her. She smiled, and seemed to answer him kindly and affectionately; but she displayed no further sign of that agitation which a girl in her situation might be expected to feel on the return of her lover from a long and dangerous expedition. Once, indeed, she laid her hand upon the table near her, and Colonel Manners saw that, notwithstanding the general composure which she seemed to feel, that hand trembled so much, that, as if conscious its tremour might be perceived, she instantly withdrew it, and suffered her arm to fall gracefully by her side. Manners marked all this, for from their first acquaintance De Vaux had interested him, as much perhaps by the contrast of the little foibles of his character with the greater and nobler qualities it possessed, as by any other circumstance: he had gradually suffered a deep regard for him to rise up in his heart; he had permitted imagination to indulge herself with bright pictures of his friend's domestic happiness; and in every little trait connected therewith he had a sort of personal feeling, which made him seek to discover all that he wished might be. After standing booted and spurred in the middle of the room for about ten minutes, and having learned that their servants had arrived with their baggage early in the morning of the same day, the two gentlemen retired to cast off their travelling costume, and attire themselves in apparel more suited to the drawing-room. Colonel Manners proceeded to the task systematically; and although he knew that nothing on earth could ever make him handsome, yet he took every reasonable pains with his dress, and was soon ready to descend again, with that neat, clean, soldier-like appearance for which he was particularly distinguished. De Vaux acted differently, as may well be supposed, and giving his man the keys of the trunk-mails, he cast himself on a chair; and, with his arms leaning on the dressing-table, remained for full ten minutes in deep and somewhat melancholy thought, while the servant continued to torment him every other minute, with--"Sir, do you want this?" or, "Sir, shall I do that?" Into his private thoughts we shall not at present pry, although we consider that we have a right to do so whenever the necessities of the tale may demand it; but in this instance it is only requisite to give the ending reflection of his revery, which may serve as a key to all the rest. "How cold Manners must have thought her reception of me! and yet her own lips, which never from her infancy spoke any thing but truth, have given me the assurance of her love. Well, we cannot change people's nature!--and yet she was very different as a child!" Such were the last dying words of his meditation and then, starting up, he proceeded hastily to dress himself, addressing the servant with as much impatience as if the man had been dreaming instead of himself. "There, give me that coat," he exclaimed. "Set down the dressing-case here. Put those shoes on the other side of the table; and throw the stockings over the back of the chair. How slow you are, William! Here now, pull off these great boots, and then go and see that old Joseph does not poison the horses with any of his nostrums." These various commands the man obeyed with as much promptitude as possible; and after he was gone, De Vaux proceeded to dress himself with all the haste of one who is afraid of being detected in loitering away his time. He was half-way through the operation, and was just arranging his hair, when Manners, whose rooms were on the opposite side of the corridor, rejoined him; and they descended together, without having made any comment on the subject which was certainly next to the heart of Edward de Vaux. He felt that in common delicacy he could not begin it, though he would have given worlds, by any curious process of distillation, to have extracted Colonel Manners's first impression of her he loved; and Manners was resolved to see more and judge more clearly, ere he ventured even the common nothings which are usually said upon such occasions. In the meanwhile, the ladies in the drawing-room had not, of course, refrained from comment on the appearance and arrival of their visiters. As the first object of all their affections was Edward de Vaux, his appearance and health naturally occupied several moments ere anything else was thought of. "How very well he looks!" said Mrs. Falkland; "his health seems greatly improved." "I never saw him look so handsome," said Isadore Falkland, "though he was wrapped in that horrid great coat." Marian de Vaux said nothing, but she repaid her cousin for her praises of her lover's looks by a smile as bright as an angel's, which fluttered away in a warm blush, though it had nearly been drowned in some sparkling drops that rose into her eyes. So she turned away, and began playing with the seals on the writing-table. "I am delighted that Edward has prevailed on Colonel Manners to come down with him," said Mrs. Falkland; "for I have longed to see him on his mother's account." "And I, because he saved Edward's life," said Marian de Vaux. "And I am delighted too," said Isadore Falkland, "because he seems a very agreeable gentlemanly man, though certainly a very ugly one--I think as ugly a man as I ever saw." "His face is certainly not handsome," replied her mother; "but his figure seems remarkably fine. His mother was as beautiful a woman as ever lived; and I have heard that till he was twenty he was equally good looking." "Poor fellow!" cried Isadore; "he has been very unfortunate, then; for it is better to be born ugly than to become so afterward." "I did not think him ugly at all," said Marian de Vaux. "That was because you only saw the man that saved Edward's life," replied Isadore, laughing; "but he is not beautiful, I can assure you, Marian." "Happy are they, my dear Isadore," replied her mother, "who can 'see Othello's visage in his mind;' and I do not think you, my dear girl, are one either, to value any one for their personal appearance." "No, no, no, mamma! I am not," answered Miss Falkland; "but still, some sensible old gentleman has said that a good countenance is the best letter of recommendation; and now, had it not been that you had known Colonel Manners's mother, or that he had saved Edward's life--yet, notwithstanding--" she added, breaking off her sentence abruptly--"after all, perhaps, his face is just the one from which we should expect a man to save people's lives, and do a great many brave and noble things." "I think so, certainly," answered Mrs. Falkland. "However ugly it may be, I have seldom seen a face through which a fine mind shone out so distinctly." Such was the tenour of the conversation that went on in the drawing-room till the two gentlemen returned, and by their presence took themselves out of the range of topics. Other subjects were soon started, and filled the hours till supper-time. Edward de Vaux naturally took the place he loved best; and what passed between him and his fair cousin was not always loud enough in its tone, or general enough in its nature, to be very distinct to the rest of the party, or very interesting to the reader. Manners, who knew as well as any one how to effect a diversion in favour of a friend, placed himself near the other ladies, and displayed such stores of varied information as well occupied their attention. Those stores were somewhat desultory, perhaps, but they were gained from every source. Man, and all the fine and all the amusing traits of his character; countries, and all their beauties and their disadvantages; the history of other times, the varied events of the present; matters of taste and of science, the light wit of a playful imagination, and the choice knowledge procured by very extensive reading; all seemed to come within the scope of his mind. All too, had been refined and ornamented by judgment and good feeling, and his conversation had still the peculiar charm of appearing far less profound than it really was. It was all light, and playful, and gay; and yet, on rising from it, one felt improved and instructed, without well knowing how or in what. His memory, too, was excellent, and stored with a number of little anecdotes and beautiful scraps of poetry; and, without ever seeming to intrude them, he knew how to mingle them in the general current of what was passing, with tact almost as skilful as that of the greatest writer and most amiable man that centuries have witnessed upon earth--Sir Walter Scott. So extensive, indeed, seemed to have been the reading of their new acquaintance, that Mrs. Falkland wondered thereat in silence; while Isadore, well knowing that there is scarcely any question on the face of the earth that a young and pretty woman may not ask of a man under forty with perfect _bienséance_ and propriety, looked up with a smile, and said--"Pray tell me, Colonel Manners, where you have found time, while you have been defeating the king's enemies night and day, to read everything of every kind that is worth reading." "Oh, madam," he replied, "I am afraid I have read but little as compared with what I might have done. A soldier's life is the most favourable of all others for general reading; though, perhaps, not for pursuing steadily any particular study. He is for a few days full of active employment, and then for many more has hardly anything to do; and if he gives one half of his spare time to reading, he will, I believe, read more than many a philosopher. The only difficulty is in procuring books that are worth the trouble of poring over." In such conversation passed the hours till supper; for those were days of supper,--that most pleasant and sociable of all ways of acquiring the nightmare. When the meal was announced, it of course caused some derangement in the local position of the parties; and Edward de Vaux being brought for a moment nearer to his aunt than his other occupations had hitherto permitted, she took the opportunity of saying,--"I hope, Edward, your father will not be at all offended at your coming here first. He is sometimes a little _ombrageux_, you know; and I would advise you to ride over tomorrow as early as possible." "Oh! no fear of his being offended, my dear aunt," he replied. "In the first place, he wrote to give me that assurance. In the next place, as we chose to ride our own two best horses down, rather than trust them to two break-neck grooms, we could not have gone seventeen miles farther to-night: and in the last place," he added, in a lower tone, "you know that his lordship never likes visiters to take him by surprise; and as the invitation to Manners was yours, not his, of course I could not have brought him to the hall without writing, which I had no time to do. There is nothing he hates so much as any one taking him by surprise." Almost as he spoke, the old servant Peter, who had retired after announcing supper, once more threw the door open with a portentous swing, and proclaimed, in a loud voice, "Lord Dewry!" Something like a smile glanced upon Mrs. Falkland's lip, as the sudden and unexpected arrival of her brother contrasted somewhat strangely with what her nephew had just been saying. She paused in her progress to the supper-room, however; and, in a moment after, with a slow step, which was languid without being feeble, Lord Dewry entered the ante-room, and came forward towards them. While he is in the act of doing so, let us paint him to the reader--at least, as far as the outward man is concerned. Of the inward man more must be said hereafter. He was tall--perhaps six feet high, or very near it--and well made, though not excessively thin. His frame was broad, and had been very powerful; his shoulders wide, his chest expansive, and his waist remarkably small. In feature, too, it could be still discerned that he had once been a very handsome man; but his face was now thin and sharp, and his complexion extremely sallow. His eyes, however, were still fine, and his teeth of a dazzling whiteness. He might have numbered sixty years, but he looked somewhat older, although he had taken a good deal of pains with his dress, and lay under considerable obligations to his valet-de-chambre. The first impression produced on the mind of a stranger by the appearance of Lord Dewry was imposing but not pleasing; and, unfortunately, the unpleasant effect did not wear off. He looked very much the peer and the man of consequence, but there was a gloomy cloud upon his brow which was not melancholy, and a curl of the lip which was not a smile, and both prepared the mind of all who approached him, for not the most agreeable man in the world. His general expression, too, was cold, he had a look like the easterly wind, at once chilling and piercing; and though report said that he had been a very fascinating man in his youth, and had not always made the best use of his powers of pleasing, he did not seem at present to consider it at all necessary to use any effort to render himself agreeable, farther than the common forms of society and what was due to his own station required. "Well, my lord," said Mrs. Falkland, as he came forward, "I am happy to see you come to welcome our wanderer back again." As she spoke, Edward advanced to his father, who grasped his hand eagerly, while a smile of unfeigned pleasure for a single instant spread a finer expression over the worn features of the baron. "Welcome back, Edward!" he said; "welcome back! you look remarkably well! I have to apologize, Maria," he added, turning to his sister after this brief salutation bestowed upon his son, "I have to apologize for coming thus, without notice; but I have some business to-morrow, down at the park-house, of which I knew nothing till this morning; and I also wished to see Edward, whose devoirs here," and he turned towards Marian, "I knew must first be paid, according to all the rules of gallantry. How are you, my fair niece? You look a little pale. How are you, Isadore?" And the peer, without waiting to hear how any one was, cast his eyes upon the ground, and fixing upon a spot in the carpet, seemed calculating geometrically the precise measurement of all its strange angles. "We were just going to supper, my lord," said Mrs. Falkland; "will you come with us? But first let me introduce you to Colonel Manners." Lord Dewry acknowledged the introduction by a cold bow, while Manners said some words of course; and the question of supper being renewed, the nobleman agreed to go down with the party to the table, though he bestowed a word or two of heavy censure on the meal they were about to take. "It is, nevertheless," said Colonel Manners, "from its very hour, the most sociable one of the whole day; for by this time, in general, all the cares, and annoyances, and labours of the busy daylight are over; and, as is justly observed--I forget where--'nothing remains for us but enjoyment and repose.'" "Eating and sleep!" muttered Lord Dewry; "the delights of a hog and a squirrel;" but as what he said did not seem intended to be heard, Colonel Manners made no reply, though he did hear it; and the party seated themselves round the supper-table, in walking towards which these few sentences had passed. For some time the presence of the peer seemed destined to cast a gloom over the society in which he had so suddenly appeared. His manner even here, in the midst of his nearest relations, and by the side of his newly-returned son, was cold, stern, and gloomy, only broken by some flash of cynical scorn for things that other people valued, or by some biting sneer at the follies and weaknesses of his fellow-creatures. To his niece Marian de Vaux, however, his conduct was very different. At table he placed himself by her side; made an evident effort to render himself agreeable to her; and whenever he spoke to her softened his tone, and endeavoured to call up a smile. Such was his conduct on the present evening; but it maybe necessary also to stretch our view over the past, for his behaviour to his niece had always formed a strange contrast to his conduct towards others. The first effect of her presence, when he had not seen her for some time, was almost always to throw him into a fit of deep gloom; and those who watched him narrowly might have remarked his lip move, as if he were speaking to himself, though no sound was heard. From this fit of abstraction he generally roused himself soon, but it was evidently at the cost of great efforts; and then he would speak to his niece with a degree of tenderness which bordered on timidity, and treat her with attention approaching to gallantry. Any one who saw him in conversation with her might easily conceive him to have been the fascinating and courtly man that report had represented him in his younger days; and there was a kindness and gentleness in his whole demeanour towards her, which, together with the family name that she bore, had often caused her to be taken for his daughter. Nevertheless, even across the moments when he seemed exerting himself to please her, would break occasionally the same fits of gloom, called up by apparently the least calculated to produce any such effect. They were then always brief, however; and a seemed that the original exertion to conquer the dark feelings which the first sight of his niece appeared to arouse, was sufficient to hold all the rest in check. It was only to her, however, that he was thus gentle. Her presence made no difference in his conduct towards others; and the moment his attention or his speech was called from the conversation with his niece, he seemed to become a different being,--dark, stern, and overbearing. Such a demeanour, of course, was not calculated to promote any thing like cheerful conversation; and the atmosphere of his gloom would have affected all those by whom he was surrounded, and extinguished every thing like pleasure for that night, had it not been for the counteracting influence of Colonel Manners. He, without the slightest touch of obtrusiveness or self-conceit, by a just estimation of himself and others, was always in possession of his own powers of mind; and never suffered the presence of any other individual--unless, indeed, it was that of one whom he could at once admire and love--to give a tone to his behaviour, to restrain him in what he chose to say, or to frighten him from what he chose to do. He took the tone of his conversation from his own heart, and from its feelings at the time; and, guarded by fine sensibilities, good taste, knowledge of the world, and a refined education, there was not the slightest fear that he would ever give pain to any one whose approbation he valued. Of all this he was himself well aware; and, after a few moments given to something like wonder at the character of Lord Dewry, he proceeded in the same manner as if such a person had not been in existence. Isadore Falkland, as soon as she found that such powerful support was prepared for her, boldly resisted the influence of her uncle's presence also. Mrs. Falkland, whose naturally strong mind was not unfitted to cope with her brother, held on the even tenour of her way; and Edward de Vaux joining in, the conversation soon became once more general and cheerful. It had taken another turn, however; and the subject had become the mutual adventures of Colonel Manners and Edward de Vaux, in the war which was then raging between France and England in North America. Many was the wild enterprise, many the curious particular, that they had to speak of; "hair's breadth escapes and perils imminent"--scenes and persons quite fresh and strange to Europeans; a new world, and all that a new world contained, with a system of warfare totally different from any thing that had ever been seen on the older continents. At that time, neither a barbarous policy nor a criminal negligence had produced any of those lamentable results which are rapidly exterminating the Indian nations of America: but, at the same time, a most barbarous policy had--instead of endeavouring to civilize and soften the dusky natives of the woods, the real lords of the land--had engaged them, with all their fierce and horrid modes of warfare, in the contention between the two great bands of European robbers, who were struggling for the country that really belonged to the savage. Of these Indian nations, and of their wild habits, both Manners and De Vaux spoke at large; and many a strange scene had they witnessed together among the uncultivated woods and untamed people of the transatlantic world. Often, too, Manners, with kind and friendly zeal, would make Edward de Vaux the hero of his tale; and while he related, as if he were speaking of ordinary events, some gallant exploit or some noble action, would suffer his eye to glance for a single instant, unperceived, to the countenance of Marian de Vaux; it was generally calm and tranquil--beautiful, but still; yet occasionally, when the moment of danger or of interest came, and when Edward extricated himself gallantly from some difficult or dangerous situation, there was a bright light beamed up in her eyes, a long-drawn breath, and a flickering colour, which satisfied Manners that all was well. Nevertheless, Manners could not, of course, speak of his friend's adventures without a little delicate man[oe]uvring, in order to make the tale appear more a general than a personal one; nor could he continue the subject long. Often, therefore, he returned to the Indians, and often to the state of America in general, while Mrs. Falkland and her daughter gave him, by manifold questions and observations, full opportunity of varying the subject _ad libitum_. They sought to know, among other facts, what link of connection could possibly have sprung up between the Indians and the Europeans so strong as to make the savage nations have any feeling of regard or interest towards either of the countries which only struggled to monopolize the means of plundering and destroying them. "Oh, you must not think, my dear madam," answered Colonel Manners, "that all persons who visit America are actuated by one selfish motive, or pursue one system of fraud and oppression towards the Indians. On the contrary, there are many who go over there with the philanthropic motive of civilizing and benefiting the savage tribes themselves; and who, in the endeavour to effect this object, display a degree of wisdom, perseverance, judgment, and courage, that is quite astonishing. Nor are these qualities without the most immense effect upon the wild aborigines of the land, who look up to such men almost as they would to a god. De Vaux and I know a very remarkable instance of the kind, in one of the most noble-spirited and excellent of human beings, to whom we are both under no small obligations. He nursed me through a long and severe fever, when my senses were quite gone; and afterward enabled me, by his influence with the Indians, to render your nephew some small service--which, however, was entirely attributable to his exertions." "Nay, nay, Manners," replied De Vaux; "to yours as much as his, and more; for had you not ventured, at the head of a party of Indians, two hundred miles into a hostile country, not a step of which you knew--" "Well, well, De Vaux," answered his friend, "you must own that he went with me, though he did not know you, and I did. You must not take away from the merit of my hero, for such I intend to make him in these ladies' eyes. I know not, however, how you will like a hero of sixty, Miss Falkland; but such, I must confess, he is at least. He has now lived for many years, upon the very borders of civilization, or rather beyond it, for his house is surrounded by forests and Indian wigwams. He has never taken any part in the contentions of the tribes, and seems equally venerated by all, showering good and blessings upon the heads of every one who approaches him. He is deeply versed in the laws and the manners of the natives, too; and, though a finished and elegant scholar and gentleman, conforms when necessary, to their usages, in a manner that is at once amusing and admirable. He is, at the same time, the most skilful and indefatigable hunter that the world, perhaps, ever produced,--an accomplishment which renders him still more venerable in the eyes of the Indians, who, on account of all these qualities, have named him 'The White Father.'"[2] --------------------- [Footnote 2: We need hardly point out to the reader, that though the name Has been changed, the character of a well-known individual is not here overdrawn.] --------------------- "Delightful creature!" exclaimed Miss Falkland, with her beautiful eyes sparkling like diamonds; "but tell me, Colonel Manners, tell me, what is he like? Mamma, if you have no objection, I will go out and marry him." "None in the world, my love!" answered Mrs. Falkland; "but, perhaps, it may be better, first, to send over and ask whether he will marry you." "That he will of course," answered she: "but, Colonel Manners, you have not told me what he is like--in person I mean." "Oh, he is fresh and hale as a life of exercise and a heart at rest can make him," replied Manners. "Indeed, he is as handsome a man as ever I saw." "Oh, that will do exactly!" cried Miss Falkland, laughing. Colonel Manners smiled too; but there was a tinge of melancholy in his smile; for, however much he might have made up his mind to the fact, that personal beauty is an indispensable requisite to obtain woman's love, yet every little trait which served to confirm that opinion touched a gloomy chord in his bosom, which again called forth the tone of many a harmonizing feeling, and made somewhat sad music within. "And pray, Colonel Manners," said Lord Dewry, with the cold, if not supercilious tone which he generally employed, "what may be the name of the wonderful person who does all these wonderful things?" "The name, my lord," replied Colonel Manners coolly, "the name of the gentleman who went two hundred miles into the Indian country to save your son, Captain de Vaux from the tomahawk, without ever having seen him, is one known throughout the greater part of America,--Sir William Ryder." Lord Dewry turned suddenly still paler than he was before; and then as red as fire. Whether it was that some feelings had been excited by that name with which he did not choose to trust his lips, or whether his emotion proceeded from temporary illness, did not appear; but he replied nothing; and Colonel Manners, by whom the peer's agitation had not been totally unmarked, went on. "If I remember right," he said, "I heard Sir William Ryder ask after your lordship's health from De Vaux, and say that he had known you many years ago in England." "I once knew, sir," replied Lord Dewry, drawing himself up, "I once knew an unworthy blackguard of that name, who is now I believe, in America; but he has no right to claim acquaintance with me." De Vaux looked at his father with astonishment, and then turned his eyes towards Manners, as if to pray him patience; but his friend was perfectly calm, and replied:--"Your lordship must allude to some different person, as the description does not at all correspond with him of whom I speak." "No, no, sir," answered the baron, reddening, "I speak of the same person,--there can be no doubt of it,--a gambling beggar!" "If you do speak of the same person, Lord Dewry," replied Colonel Manners, quite calmly, "I must beg of you to remember, that you speak of my friend; and in the presence of one who does not like to hear his friend's character assailed." "Indeed, sir, indeed!" exclaimed Lord Dewry, rising; "do you kindly wish to dictate to me, in my sister's house, what I am to say of a person, who it seems, has formed an unfortunate intimacy with my own son; and is, as I said, a gambling beggar?" Manners paused a moment. He and De Vaux were alike under deep obligations to the man of whom Lord Dewry spoke; and he felt that the language used by the peer was not only a gross personal insult to both of them, but especially to himself, who had been the means of introducing him to his companion, and who had the moment before bestowed such high and unqualified praise on the very person whom he now heard reviled. He remembered Lord Dewry's age and situation, however, and his own particular position, and endeavoured to moderate his reply as much as possible; though to pass the matter over in silence, or to leave the charges of the peer without direct contradiction, he felt to be impossible, as an officer, a man of honour, or the friend of Sir William Ryder. "Your personal opinion, my lord," he answered, "you may, of course, express to your own son, or your own family whenever you like, provided it be not injurious to any friend of mine. In which last case I shall, as before, beg your lordship to refrain in my presence, for I am not a man to hear a friend calumniated in silence." "Calumniated, sir! calumniated!" exclaimed Lord Dewry. "Yes, sir, such was the word I made use of," replied Colonel Manners, "because the expressions you applied to Sir William Ryder were calumnious, if applied to my friend, whom a long life of noble actions raises above suspicion; but I trust and believe we are speaking of different persons." "'Tis well, sir; 'tis very well!" replied Lord Dewry, appearing to grow somewhat cooler; "'tis extremely well!--I trust it is as you say. Give me a glass of soda-water. Maria, I shall now retire to rest; I am somewhat fatigued: my apartments are, I think, opposite the drawing-room. Good-night!--Colonel Manners, I wish you good-night!" And, bowing with low and bitter courtesy, he left the room. Colonel Manners, whatever might be his feelings, and whatever might be his intentions, took no notice of what had passed after Lord Dewry left the room, although he could not but feel that he had been insulted by a man whose age protected him; but both Mrs. Falkland and De Vaux spoke upon the subject, after a moment's painful pause. The first apologized with dignified mildness for the occurrence, and assuring her visiter that something strange and extraordinary must have irritated her brother during the course of the day, or that he would not so far have forgot his usual _bienséance_; and the latter pressed his friend with kindly earnestness to forget what had occurred, and not to suffer it to affect his conduct, or abridge his stay. Colonel Manners smiled, and suffered himself to be overcome: "You know, De Vaux, that I am not one to be driven from my position by the first fire," he said; "and as I suppose that Lord Dewry and myself will not meet very frequently after the present time, we shall have but few opportunities of being as agreeable to each other as we have been to-night." Thus ended the conversation, and soon after the party separated, each grieving not a little that the harmony of the evening had been so unfortunately interrupted, when there was no reason to expect such an event. CHAPTER IV. The mind of man is a curious thing, in some respects not at all unlike an old Gothic castle, full of turnings and windings, long dark passages, spiral staircases, and secret corners. Among all these architectural involutions, too, the ideas go wandering about, generally very much at random, often get astray, often go into a wrong room and fancy it their own; and often, too, it happens that, when one of them is tripping along quite quietly, thinking that all is right, open flies a door; out comes another, and turns the first back again--sometimes rudely, blowing her candle out, and leaving her in the dark,--and sometimes taking her delicately by the tips of the fingers, and leading her to the very spot whence she set out at first. Colonel Manners, retiring to his bedchamber, though he seldom, if ever, indulged in reveries of happiness which were never to be realized, could not help sitting down to think over the events of the evening, and the circle to which he had been introduced. In the first place, he took great care to turn the idea of Lord Dewry and his rudeness out of the castle, being a great economizer of pleasant thoughts; and then, with somewhat of a sigh (the sort of semi-singultus which people give to something irremediable in their own fate, while contemplating the state of another), he thought, "De Vaux is a very happy man! and yet," he continued, "though she is very beautiful, too, and evidently has deeper feelings beneath that calm exterior, yet, had I had to choose between the two cousins, I would have fixed upon the other." As he thus went on thinking, Colonel Manners began to remember that his thoughts might be treading upon dangerous ground: he did not know even that they might not be drawn into an ambuscade of dreams and wishes which he had long, as he fancied, defeated for ever; and, therefore, he hastily beat the general, and marched the whole detachment off to join his own regiment. What we mean is, that he turned his mind to military affairs, and would very fain have thought no more either of Mrs. Falkland's domestic circle, or of the future happiness of his friend; or, at least, he would have schooled himself, if he did think of such things at all, not to extract any personal feelings therefrom, but to let them be to him as matters in which he had no further share than as in a passing pageant of a pretty device, through which he was to move as he would have done through a minuet, forgetting it all as soon as the music ceased. Still, however, as he went on thinking, open flew some of the doors of association, and ever and anon out started some fresh idea, which brought him back to the happiness of his friend, and the delight of seeing a family circle of one's own, and looks of affection, and a joyful welcome after toil, and exertion, and danger were over. As sleep, however, is a strong fortress against the attack of dangerous thoughts, he resolved to take refuge there from a force that was too powerful for him; and, going to bed, he was soon within the gates of slumber. But fancy turned traitor within his fortress, and, ere long, whole troops of dreams poured in, laying his heart prostrate before imaginations which he had repelled with veteran courage for more than fourteen years. There was, of course, no resisting under such circumstances: the garrison threw down their arms, and he went on dreaming of love and domestic happiness all night. It did him no harm, however, for one of the most curious phenomena which take place in regard to those wild visitants, dreams, occurred in this case. The visions that had come to him had all been as vivid as reality: he had felt more and more acutely than he had, perhaps, ever felt in life; there had been pleasures and pains, intense and varying; events and feelings which, had they occurred in waking existence, he would have remembered till the last hour of his life; and yet, when he awoke, he had forgotten the whole. It was as if some after-sleep, with a sponge dipped in Lethe, had passed by, and wiped out from the tablet of memory all but a few rough scratches, sufficient to show the dreams had been there. The day was yet young when he awoke; but Manners was habitually an early riser--a habit that generally springs from two causes--vigorous health, a frame without languor, and easily refreshed; or from a refined heart, at ease within itself. When he had prayed--for all noble-minded beings pray; and the only truly great pride is the pride with which one owns one's self the servant of God: it is the soldier pointing to the colours under which he serves--when he had prayed, he dressed himself, somewhat slowly, gazing from time to time out of the window over the rich landscape sparkling with dew and morning; and then, opening his door, went out with the purpose of breathing the fresh air of the early day. The windows at either end of the corridor were still closed, for it had scarcely struck six, but the skylight over the staircase gave light enough; and Colonel Manners, descending, found a housemaid, with unbought roses on her cheeks, and blue arms, busily washing the marble hall and the steps that went out into the garden, which, stretching away to the south-west, was separated from the park in which the house stood, by a haw-haw and a light fence. Give me a flower-garden, in the early morning, with its dry gravel-walks shining in the fresh sunbeams, and all the thousands of flowers which man's care and God's bounty have raised to beautify our dwellings, expanding their refreshed petals to the young light. The garden into which Colonel Manners now went forth was an old-fashioned one, with manifold beds, arranged in as many mathematical figures. Each bed, fringed with its close-cut green border of box, was full of as many flowers as it would hold, and as the season afforded; and though of late many a foreign land has been ransacked to procure new exotics for our grounds, yet even then the garden was not without its rich assortment of flowering shrubs; some still bearing the blossom, some fallen into the fruit. Between the beds--and, as the gardens were of very great extent, the beds were not very close together--were spaces of soft green turf, sometimes flanked with holly, or hedged with yew, so as to make a sort of little bowling-green; sometimes wide open to the gay sunshine, and full of innumerable thrushes and blackbirds, hopping along, with their fine shanks sunk amid the blades of grass. Here and there, too, was an arbour covered with clematis; and hothouses and green-houses now and then peeped out from behind the shrubberies, on the sunny side of the garden. Colonel Manners took his way along a walk that flanked the enclosure to the east, and which, running by the side of the haw-haw, a little elevated above the park and surrounding country, gave, on the one side, an extensive prospect over a rich and smiling landscape, with the deer bounding over the grass, and the cattle lowing along the distant upland; and, on the other, showed the garden--somewhat formal, perhaps, but neat, and beautiful, and sparkling. He was a soldier, and a man of the world, and he loved books, and he did not dislike society; but, perhaps, there never was a man upon earth who more thoroughly enjoyed a solitary morning walk amid flowers and beautiful scenery--scenery in which one can pause and fill one's eye with fair sights, while the ideas springing from each particular blossom, or from the whole general view, can ramble out into a world of indistinct loveliness, wherein one can scarcely be said to think, but rather to live in a sensation of happiness which approaches near to heaven. Although, as we have observed, one can scarcely be said to think, yet there is no situation on the earth--or very few--in which a man so little likes to have his thoughts interrupted, and his fine imaginations forcibly called back to the dull ground. Colonel Manners, therefore, was not very well pleased, when, after following the walk which he had chosen to the end, he heard footsteps beyond the bushes, round which the path now swept. Had these footsteps, indeed, possessed that light peculiar sound which is produced by a small and pretty foot, Colonel Manners, who never objected to see the beautiful things of nature enhanced by the presence of the most beautiful, might not have thought his reveries unworthily disturbed. In the present instance, however, the sound was very different: it was the dull, heavy, determined step of a foot that takes a firm hold of the ground; and, as he went on, he was not surprised to meet with Lord Dewry at the turning of the walk. Colonel Manners, if he had not forgot all about their discussion of the preceding evening, had remembered it as little as possible; and, being one of those happy men who never suffer any annoyance of such a nature to rankle at the heart, he had settled the matter in his own mind by thinking that the old gentleman had the toothache, or some of those corporal pangs and infirmities which cause and excuse ill-temper, and sometimes even rudeness, at that period of life when the passing away of those mighty blessings, vigour and health, is in itself matter enough for irritation. As, however, he never liked to subject himself to occasions for commanding his temper, he proposed, in the present instance, merely to give the peer "Good-morning," and pass on upon his walk. This purpose he was not permitted to execute; as no sooner did Lord Dewry come opposite to him, than he stopped abruptly, and answered Colonel Manners's salutation by a cold and haughty bow. "Colonel Manners," he said, "I saw you come into the garden from the windows of my room, and I have done myself the honour of seeking you." The peer spoke slowly and calmly; but Manners, who doubted not that his intention was to apologize, was both somewhat surprised that so proud a man should do so at all, and likewise somewhat puzzled by a sneering curl of the nostril and a slight twinkling of the eyelid, which seemed to betray a spirit not quite so tranquil as his tone would have indicated. "Your lordship does me honour," he replied; "what are your commands?" "Simply as follows, Colonel Manners," replied Lord Dewry: "I think you last night made use of the term _calumny_, as applied to part of my discourse; and as I am not in the habit of being insulted without taking measures to redress myself, I have followed you hither for the purpose of arranging the necessary result." Colonel Manners felt inclined to smile, but he refrained, and replied, seriously, "My lord, I wish to heaven you would forget this business. You thought fit to apply the strongest terms of injury to a gentleman for whom I had expressed my friendship and gratitude; and I pronounced such terms to be calumnious in regard to my friend, but expressed, at the same time, my belief that we were speaking of different persons. For Heaven's sake, let the matter rest where it does: I meant no personal insult to you; I trust you meant none to me. I came down here the friend of your son, on a joyful occasion, and it would pain me not a little to go away the enemy of his father." The lip of Lord Dewry curled with a bitter and galling sneer. "Colonel Manners," he said, "I believe that you wear a sword." "I do, sir," replied Manners, reddening; "but I should be unworthy to wear one, did I draw it against a man old enough to be my father." Lord Dewry, too, reddened. "If, as I perceive, sir," he said, "you intend to make my age your protection, I trust you have calculated the consequences to your reputation, and will understand the light in which I view you. When I am willing, sir, to waive all respect of age, I do not see what you have to do with it." "Much, my lord," answered Colonel Manners; "much have my own conscience and my own honour to do with it." "Do not let an officer who is refusing to fight talk of honour, sir," replied Lord Dewry. "You cannot provoke me to forget myself, Lord Dewry," answered the other; "I hold all duelling in abhorrence, and as any thing but a proof of courage but when the encounter is to be between a young and active man, and one of your lordship's age and probable habits, it is murder outright. Your lordship will excuse me for saying that I think the business a very foolish one, and that I must insist upon its being dropped." "I shall drop it as far as regards the endeavour to make a man fight who is not disposed to do so," replied Lord Dewry, with an angry and disappointed, rather than a contemptuous, smile, for which he intended it to be; "but, as a matter of course, I shall make generally known the fact that you have refused to draw your sword when called upon." Colonel Manners laughed. "My lord," he answered, "I have drawn it in eleven different battles in his majesty's service; I have been wounded nine times, and I am quite satisfied with a certain degree of reputation obtained in these affairs, without seeking to increase it by the encounter to which your lordship would provoke me." Lord Dewry stood and gazed at him for a moment or two with a heavy lowering brow, as if contemplating how he might lash his adversary to the course he sought to bring him to pursue; but the calm and confident courage and cool determination of Colonel Manners foiled him even in his own thoughts; and, after glaring at him thus while one might count twenty, he exclaimed, "You shall repent it, sir! you shall repent it!" "I do not think it, my lord," replied Manners: "I wish you good-morning;" and he turned calmly on his heel, retreading, with slow steps, the path he had followed from the house. In the mean time, the pace of Lord Dewry was much more rapid; but for a moment we must pause ourselves, and seize this opportunity of looking into his bosom, and seeing some of the motives which, like Cyclops in the cave of Vulcan, were busy forging all those hot thunderbolts that he was dealing about so liberally--_some_, we only say some; for were we to look at all, we should have a catalogue too long for recapitulation here. The fact, then, was, that Lord Dewry had been greatly irritated on the previous day, by a conversation of not the most pleasant kind, concerning the very Sir William Ryder of whom he was destined to hear such high praises the moment he set his foot within his sister's doors. Now, for various reasons, unto himself best known, the noble lord hated this Sir William Ryder with a most reverent and solicitous hatred, and would willingly have given a thousand pounds to any one who would have brought him proof positive that he was dead and safely deposited in that earthy chancery, the archives of which, though they contain many a treasured secret, can never meet the searching eye of this inquisitive world. What, then, were his feelings, when he heard that this very man, in regard to whom his darkest passions had been stirred up that very day, and towards whom he had nourished an evergreen animosity for many years--when he heard that, through the instrumentality of Colonel Manners, this man had been made intimate with his only son! This, then, was Manners's offence; but had it been likely to end there, Lord Dewry might even have forgiven it. Such, however, was not the case: Lord Dewry had some reason to believe that the object of his hatred might visit England; and imagination instantly set up before him the picture of his son, Colonel Manners, and Sir William Ryder meeting, and discussing many things that would be better let alone. Now he trusted and believed that, as far as his ancient enemy was concerned, he could manage his son, and cause him to break off a connection which had not been of long duration; but at the same time he judged it necessary to place a barrier between him and Colonel Manners himself, so as to cut off every link of communication between Edward de Vaux and Sir William Ryder; and for this purpose he at once determined to quarrel with his son's friend; which, in his own irritable and irritated state of mind, he found it not at all difficult to accomplish. On the preceding night he had begun, therefore, with real good-will; and as he was a man totally devoid of any thing like personal fear, and remembered that he had once been a remarkably good swordsman, while he forgot that he was sixty, he was really pleased when Manners made use of a term which promised to give him an opportunity of bringing their dispute to such an issue as must absolutely put an end to the intimacy between his son and Colonel Manners forever. "Even should I receive a wound," he thought, "so much the better;" and, strange as it is to say, had Lord Dewry even contemplated being killed in the encounter he sought, he would have looked upon it with less apprehension than might be supposed, when thereunto was attached the certainty of his son being separated for ever from Charles Manners and from Sir William Ryder; so much less terrible does it often appear to our contradictory nature to meet the eye of God than to encounter the scrutiny of beings like ourselves. Frustrated by the coolness and firmness of his opponent in the grand object of his morning's walk, he now turned towards the house, animated with a strong desire of accomplishing his purpose by other means. The peer now determined, as it was impossible to make Colonel Manners the aggressor, to induce his own family to take the initiative, and break with the object of his dislike or of his apprehension--for perhaps there might be a little of both at the bottom of his heart; and, with a resolution which was the more imperious and domineering from having seldom suffered contradiction, he sought the apartment of his son. Edward de Vaux was just up, and was in the act of putting on, one after another, the different parts of his apparel. As this act of clothing one's person, however much pleasure people may take in it habitually, is in itself a laborious and troublesome operation, De Vaux's servant was helping him therein; but the appearance of Lord Dewry, and a hint not to be mistaken, sent the man out of the room, while the noble lord betook him to a chair; and his son, seeing that there was not a little thunder in the dark cloud upon his father's brow, sat, expectant and half-dressed, wondering what was to come next. "Edward," said his father, in a tone which was intended at once to express parental affection, some slight touch of sadness, and firm relying confidence upon his son's good feelings, but which, in truth, did not succeed in expressing much except a great deal of irritation and heat--"Edward, I have come to speak with you upon last night's unfortunate business, and to give you, in a few words, my opinion upon the subject, in order that you may choose your part at once." Edward de Vaux, who knew his father well--though he knew not all his motives in the present instance--prepared himself to resist; for he divined, almost immediately from the beginning of Lord Dewry's discourse, what would be the end; being well aware, though he did not choose to put it exactly in such terms to his own heart, that a certain combination of vanity, pride, selfishness, and remorselessness in the bosom of his worthy parent, made him the exact person to resent highly even a slight offence, and to treasure long hatred for a casual word. But Edward de Vaux knew also that he himself stood in a position towards his father different from that in which any other person stood: he knew that the ties of nature, long habit, and irreproachable conduct rendered him the only real object of Lord Dewry's love--the only being who possessed any influence over a mind which never through life, in any other case than his own, had yielded to either persuasion or opposition. He himself, however, had found from experience, that he could resist with success when the ground of resistance was such as satisfied his own heart; and he now, therefore, prepared to practise, upon an occasion of more importance, a behaviour he had sometimes displayed in regard to trifles. He was aware, at the same time, from his soldierly habits, that it was advantageous sometimes to be the attacking party; and when his father paused, a little out of breath with climbing the stairs faster than necessary, and with speaking more vehemently than was becoming, he instantly replied, "Oh, my lord, if you mean the business with Manners, do not think of it any more! Manners is extremely good-humoured, and will forget it at once, I am sure. No further apology is necessary." "Apology, sir!" exclaimed Lord Dewry; "what do you mean? I have made no apology!" "No, my lord," replied De Vaux; "but, considering that Manners was my friend, that he saved my life at the risk of his own, that he came down here at my invitation, and that he was a guest in my aunt's house, I thought it necessary to apologize for the manner in which my father had treated him, saying that I was sure you were irritated by some other cause;" and adding--"I felt sure you would--that you would be sorry for having expressed yourself so bitterly, when you reflected upon the circumstances." "You did, sir!" said Lord Dewry, "you did!--then I have only to tell you that you said what was not the case;" De Vaux reddened; "that you took a great and unwarrantable liberty with my name," continued Lord Dewry, whose passion had quite overcome every restraint; "and that, had you considered your father as much as this new friend, you would have seen that _I_ was the insulted person--that _I_ had a right to demand apology, and you would have broken off all connection with a person who would show so little respect to your parent; and this, sir,--this is what I command you now to do, or to take the consequences of your disobedience." "My lord," answered De Vaux, cooling himself down as far as possible,--"my lord, as you must already have seen, we view the matter in a very different light. It grieves me bitterly that we should disagree so severely on the very day after my return; but if you wish me to break off my acquaintance with Colonel Manners, because you have thought fit to treat him with some rudeness, I must tell you, at once, such an idea could never be entertained by me for a moment. As to the consequences which your lordship speaks of, I am at a loss to conceive what you mean. A disagreement with your lordship is--" "The consequences, Captain De Vaux," interrupted his father, with a small red spot glowing in the middle of his sallow cheek--"the consequences may be more bitter than you think. You believe that the estates of the barony, being entailed, must descend to you; but let me tell you, young man--let me tell you," he repeated, approaching nearer to his son, and lowering his voice in tone, but not in emphasis,--"let me tell you, you could be deprived of them by a word. But no more of that," he added, raising his head, and resuming his usual air of dignity, which had been a good deal lost during that morning, "no more of that; the consequences to which I alluded, and to which I now allude, are the displeasure of your father, and the knowledge that you remain the friend of a man who has insulted him." "Could I see, my dear sir," replied De Vaux, "that Manners had insulted you--" "It is sufficient, sir, that I see it," interrupted his father, hastily, "it is sufficient that I see it; and I hold myself aggrieved that my son should see it otherwise. But do as you will, Edward de Vaux--do as you will. If you are lost to a sense of filial duty, and refuse to obey my positive injunction to break with this man, you may act as you think fit." "I shall never, my lord, even dream of breaking with him," replied De Vaux; "as it appears to me, that to do so would render me an accomplice in an act of notable injustice." "You are dutiful, sir--you are respectful," said Lord Dewry, setting his teeth hard; "but do as you please--do as you please: I wish you good-morning;" and, turning on his heel, he quitted the apartment. "This is mighty disagreeable," thought De Vaux, as he rang the bell to bring back his servant; "this is mighty disagreeable and mighty absurd, it seems to me; but the worst part of all will be the meeting at breakfast. However, all these things must be encountered as they come, in this good pleasant world of ours;" and he returned to his toilet. In the mean time the noble lord, his father, proceeded to his own apartments, laid his hand upon the bell, and rang in such a manner as to show that he was in a passion, not only to his own servant, but to the whole house. His own servant, however, a thin, dark, saturnine person, well calculated by constitutional frigidity to cope with an irritable master, was not in the least alarmed by any sign of his lord's angry mood, to which he was wont to oppose, on all occasions, a dull, obtuse silence, that left him without any remedy but patience. He accordingly proceeded slowly to Lord Dewry's apartment; received the objurgation for his tardiness with profound and unmoved taciturnity; listened to his lordship's orders to pack up all his dressing things, and order the horses to the carriage directly, in the same automatonical manner, and then went to take his breakfast, not at all approving of his master's purpose of setting out without refreshment. Lord Dewry, fondly fancying that he had gone to order the horses to be put to, waited in his bedroom very patiently for five minutes, then began to get angry during five minutes more, and then rang the bell for at least the same space of time. At the end of that period the man again made his appearance, and, with a face of dull unconsciousness, asked if his lordship had rung, although he had heard every succeeding stroke of the bell. Lord Dewry stamped with rage; but, finding that it had no effect, he left the man alone to arrange his dressing things, while, for the purpose of waiting till the carriage was ready, he went down to the library, calculating, of course, upon its being, as usual, the most solitary room in the whole house. If he expected to find it empty, however, he was mistaken: for Mrs. Falkland was seated at the table, writing a note; and, as there was no person, in or out of his own family, for whom his lordship entertained so great a respect--which would have been a little, perhaps, approaching to fear, if he could have feared any thing--there was no one consequently whom he less wished to meet, at a moment when he was acting in a manner which needed the full excitement of passion and pride to appear, even in his own opinion, either dignified or gentlemanly. He was drawing back, but Mrs. Falkland raised her eyes; and his lordship, conscious that he had been wishing to retreat, advanced, of course, with a greater degree of boldness, and asked whether he interrupted her by his presence. "Not in the least--not in the least," replied Mrs. Falkland; "but you seem prepared for travelling, my lord. You are not thinking of setting out before breakfast?" "Most assuredly I shall, Maria," replied the peer. "You do not suppose that I am going to subject myself to the pain of meeting again, in your house, a person by whom I have been so grossly insulted as this Colonel Manners?" "Whom you have so grossly insulted, I suppose, your lordship means," replied Mrs. Falkland. "My lord, I am your sister, and consequently am not disposed to see faults; but I tell you sincerely, that you equally owe an apology to me and to Colonel Manners for your behaviour last night. The one to myself I will, of course, dispense with; but, if you do right, you will go to Colonel Manners, and tell him that something had occurred in the course of yesterday to irritate and vex you, and that you are extremely sorry that your irritation vented itself upon him." Mrs. Falkland spoke with infinite calmness; and, when she had done, wrote another sentence of her note, leaving her brother the while to pause on the somewhat bitter matter of her discourse. His lordship employed the time in remembering that it was a lady and his sister to whom he was opposed, and in subduing the wrath of his heart into the quieter form of sneer; although he still continued to gaze on her, while she wrote, with eyes in which his anger still maintained its ground, like a solitary post left behind a retreating army. "Do you know, Mrs. Falkland," he replied, with a curling lip, "in such pleasant little discussions as these, we gentlemen have hardly fair play when opposed to female antagonists; for, under shelter of your sex, you women dare say things to us that it would be ungentlemanly to retort, and which are very difficult to bear." "Truth, my lord, I am afraid, is often difficult to bear," replied Mrs. Falkland; "and perhaps, on such occasions, you may hear it in a more unqualified manner from a woman than from one of your own sex." "As the matter is a difference of opinion, Maria, between you and me," said Lord Dewry, "it is rather like begging the question to assume that it is truth that gives me offence. You have forgot your logic, my good sister." "If I ever possessed any, my lord," rejoined Mrs. Falkland, "I certainly should not be disposed to try it upon you, in order to induce you either to make an apology, which is alike due to yourself and to Colonel Manners, or to stay here without making it." "I understand you, my dear sister, I understand you!" exclaimed Lord Dewry; "but do not be in a hurry. My carriage is ordered, and cannot be many minutes ere it delivers you from my presence. In the mean time, I will not interrupt you further.--Good-morning, Mrs. Falkland!" "Good-morning," she replied; and her brother walked towards the door. As he laid his hand upon the lock, he turned for a single glance at his sister; but Mrs. Falkland was writing on, with a rapid and easy pen, in the clear and running movements of which there was evidently not the slightest impediment from one extraneous thought in reference to the conversation which had just passed between them. Anger, hatred, malice, even active scorn itself, man can bear or retort; but utter indifference is more galling still. So Lord Dewry found it; and throwing open the door with a degree of force that made sundry of the smaller articles of furniture dance about the room, he issued forth in search of his carriage, with wounded pride and diminished self-importance. Gliding gracefully down the corridor towards the breakfast-room was, at that very moment, Marian de Vaux, his niece; and the sight of her beautiful face and form, with its calm and easy movements, was well calculated to tranquillize and sooth. But Lord Dewry had never been famous for being easily soothed. Dr. Johnson is said to have liked a "good hater;" and had he carried the predilection a little further, the peer was just the man to merit that sort of approbation. He was not only a good hater, but he was, and always had been, the man of all others to nourish his anger, and render it both stout and permanent. Now, during the early part of the preceding evening, before he found "mettle more attractive" in his quarrel with Colonel Manners, the noble lord had, as he always did, paid very great attention to Marian de Vaux. He had sat by her, he had talked to her, he had exerted himself to be agreeable to her, when it was very evident that he was not much disposed to be agreeable to any one. But now, as Marian approached, gave her hand, and wished him good-morning, he let her hand drop as soon as he had taken it, and answered her salutation by telling her he was in haste. Somewhat surprised at the cloud upon her uncle's brow, his flashing eye, and abrupt manner, Marian drew back, in order to let him pass, and Lord Dewry took two steps more along the passage. Then recollecting himself, however, and remembering how strange his conduct might appear, he turned, and made the whole seem stranger than ever, as all people do when, with a heart very full of feelings which they are afraid or ashamed to picture in their nakedness, they attempt to explain the strange behaviour to which those feelings have prompted them. "I am obliged to quit the house, Marian," he said, in a quick and agitated manner; "disagreeable occurrences have taken place, which compel me, in justice to myself, to withdraw: the whole business is an unfortunate one, and I am afraid it may be some time before we meet again; but I will write--I will write, and explain myself fully. Good-by! I hear the carriage!" And with a rapid step he walked on, leaving Marian de Vaux not a little confounded by all that had passed, and entirely misconstruing the few abrupt and unsatisfactory sentences which her uncle had pronounced. She heard his step sound along the passage, down the stairs, and through the hall; listened to his voice giving some directions to his servant, and then to the closing of the carriage-door, and the grating roll of the wheels over the gravel before the house. Then mentally exclaiming, "This is all very strange, and very unfortunate!" she went on towards the breakfast-room, into which a servant had just carried the urn, without closing the door behind him. The sound of her cousin Isadore's voice, speaking gayly with Colonel Manners, issued forth as she approached; but Marian de Vaux was agitated and alarmed; and feeling that she must have time to think over her uncle's words, and to compose her mind, ere she mingled with any society, she turned to the music-room, and had entered it before she was aware that any one was there. CHAPTER V. It was a beautiful idea of Plato, and not at all an unchristian idea, that the sins which people have committed during life, and which in this case were termed _manes_, had an existence after death, and were the instruments for punishing those who had committed them--the worm that dieth not, and the fire that cannot be quenched. But had Plato seen into the bosom of Lord Dewry, he would have perceived that his theory might be carried a little further; and that the sins and passions do not wait till we are dead in order to torment their authors, but punish them even in this world, not alone in their consequences, but by their very existence. After having laboured _manibus pedibusque_ to render every member of his sister's household as uncomfortable as possible, the noble lord sunk back in his carriage, with his frame exhausted and his whole heart on fire with that flaming up of painful memories and violent passions which the occurrences we have related had excited. Unfortunately, however, it happens in the wonderful arrangement of this our earthly dwelling-place, that here our evil qualities not only torment ourselves, but others also; and the noble lord might have consoled himself with the certainty that he had, for the time at least, destroyed much tranquillity, and turned joy into bitterness. Of all who suffered on the occasion, Marian de Vaux perhaps suffered most. Mrs. Falkland, for her part, had been very much offended, but she respected her brother too little to permit his ill temper or rudeness to produce any lasting effect upon her. Edward de Vaux believed that his father's present mood would not be long ere it yielded to circumstances; and Colonel Manners, though of course considerably annoyed by what had taken place between Lord Dewry and himself, was not aware of what had passed afterward; and consequently did not enter, as he would otherwise have done most feelingly, into the uncomforts of Mrs. Falkland and his friend De Vaux. But with Marian the matter was different. She knew nothing of all the occurrences of the morning: she had seen her uncle retire on the preceding night, apparently dropping his dispute with Colonel Manners; and she never, for a moment, connected his extraordinary conduct of that day with the disagreement of the preceding evening. In almost all cases of apprehension and uncertainty, the human mind has a natural tendency to connect the occurrence of the moment, whatever it may be, with the principal object of our wishes and our feelings at the time. It matters not whether the two things be as distinct and distant as the sun is from the moon; association in an instant spins a thousand gossamer threads between them, forming a glistening sort of spider-like bridge, scarcely discernible to other people's eyes, but fully strong enough for fancy to run backwards and forwards upon for ever. Thus, then, was it with poor Marian de Vaux. It had been settled that her marriage with her cousin was to take place on the day she became of age--that is to say, in about three weeks. Now, whether she was pleased with the arrangement or not, we do not at all intend to say; but she had made up her mind to it completely; and the first thing that Lord Dewry's broken sentences suggested to her mind was, that some difficulty had occurred in regard to her union with Edward, and that his father had withdrawn the consent he had been before so willing to give. When Lord Dewry left her, she was as pale as death; and though before she reached the breakfast-room the colour had come back into her cheek, yet all her former ideas were so completely scattered to the four winds of heaven, that she felt it would be absolutely necessary to think what her own conduct, under such circumstances, ought to be, before she met any of the party; and especially before she met her cousin Edward, as towards him, of course, the regulation of her behaviour was most important. She turned, then, as we have before said, to the music-room, and entering it ere she perceived that any one was in it, found herself there alone with no other than Edward de Vaux. Whether he had gone there purposely or accidentally--from a habit which some people have, of returning to take a look at places where they have spent happy moments, or from a sort of presentiment that he might find Marian there, we have no means of judging; but on her part the meeting certainly was unexpected, and being such, it would hardly be fair to look narrowly into her manner of receiving her lover's first salutation, which salutation was sufficiently warm. As soon as she recollected herself, however, she turned at once to the subject of her thoughts. "But, Edward," she said, "this is a most unfortunate occurrence--in regard to your father, I mean." "Most unfortunate, indeed!" replied De Vaux, looking grave immediately. "But tell me what it is all about, Edward," rejoined his cousin. "I do not understand your father's conduct. Do explain it to me!" "I do not understand it either, my dear Marian," answered De Vaux; "his conduct is quite inexplicable." The tears would fain have run away over Marian de Vaux's cheeks; but she shut the gates in time, and only one straggler made its escape into the court of her eyes, unable to get farther. Her cousin did not see one-half of what was going on in the fair tabernacle of her bosom; but he saw that she was much distressed, and endeavoured to sooth her with the same assurances wherewith he made his own mind easy in regard to his father's conduct. "Nay, nay, dearest Marian!" he said, "do not distress yourself about this business, unfortunate as it is. The principal part of my father's present heat in the affair will pass away, for a great share is mere passion. I cannot however flatter myself into believing that his dislike will ever entirely subside, because, as you know, he is not a man who changes easily in such matters; but all his violence and his threatenings will die away and end in nothing." Marian, who had now recovered from her first emotion, paused, and looked pensively upon the ground; but while her bosom seemed as calm as monumental marble, there was a sad struggle going on within. "Edward!" said she, at length, "we cannot tell what may be your father's ultimate conduct; but, indeed, I think, that while his present objection--or, as you call it, dislike--continues, we ought certainly to delay our marriage." "Good God, Marian!" exclaimed Edward de Vaux, in utter astonishment: "in the name of heaven, my beloved, what has my father's dislike to Colonel Manners to do with our union?" "His dislike to Colonel Manners!" said Marian, blushing a good deal as she began to perceive her mistake, and comprehended at a glance that the clearing up of the matter might make an _exposé_ of her inmost thoughts that for reasons of her own she did not desire. "His dislike to Colonel Manners! Oh, is that all! His words and conduct towards me just now, made me think that his dislike was to me, Edward, and to our union." "And did the thought give you so much pain, Marian?" said De Vaux, somewhat anxiously. But Marian de Vaux had by this time completely mastered her agitation, and she answered in her usual quiet sweet tone: "Of course it gave me great pain, Edward, to think that I had lost my uncle's regard, and great pain to think that the consequences might pain you. But tell me, was it really nothing more than his dispute with Colonel Manners which made your father's conduct so very strange?" "Nothing more, I can assure you," answered her lover; "but you know that my father, when he bursts forth into one of these fits of passion, is like Don Quixote at the puppet-show, and deals his blows to the right and left upon all things, whether they have offended him or not." "Hush, hush, Edward!" cried Marian, "he is your father, remember." De Vaux coloured slightly, and indeed he had not got to the end of his speech ere he had found that he had better have left it unsaid; for, notwithstanding his general fastidiousness, and a certain degree of bitter that mingled with his views of other people, he had too much taste to find any pleasure in pointing out the faults or follies of his near relations. He might feel them a little too sensitively, it is true; but he seldom made them the subject of his conversation; and he was now vexed, both that he had done so at all, and that Marian had been the person to whom he had done it. Thus, Edward de Vaux was a little out of humour with himself, and, as a matter of course, he soon found cause to be dissatisfied with others; for the human mind--to which nothing is so burdensome as self-reproach of any kind--is always glad to cast a part of its load upon the shoulders of other people. The first thing, then, that, upon reflecting rapidly over the moments just passed, Edward de Vaux found to be discontented with, was the manner in which Marian had spoken of delaying their union; and once having started this idea, he hunted it up and down through all the chambers and passages of his mind, like a boy after a mouse. "Their marriage seemed to her a matter of great indifference," he thought; and then he went onto persuade himself that her love for him was of a very calm and tranquil character compared with his for her. Indeed, it seemed little more than indifference, he fancied, or at best _sisterly affection_; and at the very thought of such a thing as _sisterly affection_, the spirit of Edward de Vaux sprang up as if a serpent had crossed his path, although his person remained perfectly calm, with his arm resting on the harpsichord, and his fingers twisting some of the strings of the harp. One of the strings breaking, with a sharp twang, called the spirit suddenly back again; and he found himself standing abstractedly before his fair cousin; while she looked upon him with a smile, which seemed to say, "I could triumph, if I would! but it is not in my nature." Now, Edward de Vaux, though he read the smile, and read it aright, which is not always done in that difficult language of which it was one of the hieroglyphics, was all the more puzzled when he had done. But the fact is, that women's eyes, in matters of love, seem to be not eyes but microscopes; and Marian had traced the whole fine progress of Edward's thoughts and feelings, through every turning and winding, as accurately as if he had laid them all open before her with his own free will. Then, connecting the result with some foregone conclusions in her own mind, the combination produced a smile, being, as we before said, the equivalent sign, in the language mentioned, of the words, "I could triumph, if I would! but it is not in my nature." There was, however, a little mental reservation, perhaps, in regard to the triumph, inasmuch as she reserved unto herself entire right and privilege of triumphing hereafter, in case she should find it necessary and expedient to do so. The time occupied in reading the smile, together with the beauty of the smile itself, and the exceeding loveliness of the lips on which it rested, all tended to get the better of the demon in the heart of De Vaux, and to make him feel, that as he loved her beyond anything on earth, he must try to content himself with obtaining her upon her own terms. Having come to this conclusion, it was natural enough that he should seek to linger out the time with her alone; but Marian felt that if she did stay at that moment, she might be obliged to triumph in the way she wished not to do, or to explain her smile without triumphing at all, which was still more disagreeable. She therefore determined to retreat to the breakfast-room, in which she was sure of finding allies; and which--as her apprehensions in regard to Lord Dewry's disapprobation, and the consequent emotion, had now been dissipated--she was no longer afraid of entering. De Vaux would fain have detained her, pleading that he had had no opportunity of conversing with her alone since his return, and urging all those little arguments which we leave to imagination. Marian, however, resisted with fortitude; and her lover, forced to content himself with a promise to take a long ramble with him after breakfast, as they had done in the days of their early youth, led her to the breakfast-room, where they found the rest of the party assembled, and conversing with as much ease and cheerfulness as if nothing had occurred to disturb the tranquillity of the morning. "Well, Edward," said Mrs. Falkland, "your father would not stay longer; and I forbore to press him," she added, with a little pardonable hypocrisy, "as I know that he has a good deal of business on his hands; and when he is determined on any point, it is vain to try to move him." As she spoke, she looked for an instant towards Colonel Manners, to give more meaning to her words in her nephew's ears than the words themselves imported. "I saw my father myself, my dear aunt," replied De Vaux: "he was with me in my room for half an hour, and explained the necessity of his departure." Colonel Manners could have smiled; but he thought it best to follow the lead that had been given, and to appear ignorant of anything else having taken place, though, of course, he felt internally convinced that his unfortunate dispute with De Vaux's father had been the cause of that nobleman's sudden and abrupt departure. "I think your father mentioned last night," he said, in pursuance of this plan, "that he was going to Dimden, did he not, De Vaux? Does it belong to your family?" "It always has done so," replied his friend: "it is here, very near--but a few miles off; but it is not kept up as I think it should be. My father always resides at the other house; and seems to have so strong an aversion to Dimden, that, not contented with not living there, he lets it fall somewhat to decay." "I must make you take me there some morning," answered Colonel Manners; "I have heard that it contains a fine collection of pictures." "Fine, I believe, but small," answered De Vaux, delighted to fancy that his friend had totally forgotten the dispute of the night before, and was ignorant of any fresh discomfort which had been produced by that morning; "fine, I believe, but small--but I do not understand anything about pictures." "Nay, nay, Edward, do not say that," exclaimed Miss Falkland. "Do you not love everything that is beautiful and fine in nature? have you not an eye to mark every shade and every line that is worth looking at in a landscape? and do you call that not understanding pictures? I have seen you and Marian find out a thousand beautiful little tints and touches, and lights and shades, in a view that I had generalized most vulgarly." Colonel Manners and Mrs. Falkland smiled; and perhaps both might have said, had they spoken their thoughts, "It was because your two cousins were in love, fair lady, and you were not!" They left the matter unexplained, however, contenting themselves with thinking that Isadore might, some time, learn the secret of finding out new beauties in a view; and De Vaux answered in his own style, "Still, Isadore, I know nothing about pictures, depend upon it. I cannot talk of _breadth_, and _handling_ and _chiar' oscuro_, and _juice_, and _ordonnance_." "Except when you mean a park of artillery, De Vaux," said Colonel Manners; "but, if I understand you rightly, you can see and feel the beauties of a picture as well as any one, though you cannot talk the jargon of a connoisseur about it." "Perhaps that is what I do mean," answered his friend; "but I believe the truth is, Manners, that you and I are both far behind in the elegant charlatanism of dilettanteship. Why, I have heard a man go on by the hour with the _copia fandi_ of a Cicero about a picture, the beauties of which he no more understood than the frame in which it was placed. These men's minds are like a yard measure, a thing on which a multitude of figures are written down, without the slightest use till they are properly applied by some one else. When I am seeing anything fine, heaven deliver me from the proximity of a walking dictionary of technical terms!" "They are very useful things in their way, Edward," answered Isadore; "and only think, if these men can be so eloquent about things that they do not feel, solely upon the strength of their jargon, how much more eloquent you, who do feel them, would be, if you had the jargon too." She spoke jestingly; but De Vaux, whose spleen had been somewhat excited, answered quickly, "I do not know, Isadore--I do not know. I very often think that a great acquaintance with the jargon of art tends to destroy the feeling for it. I have heard of a great critic, who, on viewing the Apollo of Belvidere, declared that had the lip been a hair's breadth longer, the god would have been lost. This was all very connoisseurish and very true, no doubt; but, depend upon it, that man felt the beauties of the immortal statue a thousand times more, whose only exclamation on seeing it was, 'Good God!' I would rather have the fresh feelings of even ignorance itself than the tutored and mechanical taste that measures the cheek-bones of a Venus, gauges the depth of colour in a Claude, or feels the edges of a book instead of looking into the inside." "Yes, but consider, Edward," said Marian, who since she entered the room had been sitting silent at the breakfast-table, "it surely does not follow that because we understand a thing well, we lose our first and natural taste for it. If I could paint like Claude or Poussin, I surely should not take less pleasure in a beautiful landscape." "NO, Marian," exclaimed Miss Falkland, well knowing that De Vaux would not support his sarcasms very vigorously against his cousin, "no; but, depend upon it, no one who could paint like Claude or Poussin would talk like a connoisseur." "Perhaps," said Colonel Manners, "knowledge of all kinds may be like the fabled cup, whose influence entirely depended upon those who drank from it--to some it was death, to others immortal life; wisdom to some, and foolishness to others. And thus I should think a great acquaintance with any art, in some instances--where the taste was good and the mind was strong--would refine the taste and give humility to the mind, by showing what an unfathomable mine of undiscovered things every study presents; while in other cases--where the taste was null and the mind weak--the result would be the vanity of ill-digested knowledge, and an idle gabble of unmeaning terms." "And how often would the latter be the case when compared with the former?" said De Vaux. "Answer me, my dear colonel." "I am afraid, indeed, nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand," replied Colonel Manners: "and what, I must confess, is worse still, the proportion of those who would bow to the vanity of ill-digested knowledge, and give implicit credit to the gabble of unmeaning terms, would be still greater; while taste, and genius, and mind would be forced to content themselves with the poor thousandth part of those whom they addressed." "Then how is it, Colonel Manners," said Marian, "that we are told that what is really good has always ultimate success, notwithstanding this terrific array of folly against it?" "Because truth is permanent in its very essence; and falsehood--of every kind, as well false tastes as false statements--is evanescent," replied Colonel Manners. "Such is, I suppose, the broad reason; but, to examine it more curiously, we shall find the progress of the thing somewhat amusing: for even the ultimate establishment of truth and wisdom is, in a great measure, owing to the voice of the false and foolish. Here is a fine picture or a fine statue, of that chaste but not attractive kind which ensures the admiration of those who can feel beauty, but does not win the attention of the crowd. A man without taste sees a man of taste gazing at it; hears him praise its beauties; and, as there is nothing so servile or so vain as folly, instantly affects to perceive the beauties which he never saw, and goes forth to trumpet them as things of his own discovery. Others come to see, and, as one fool will never be outdone by another, each sings its praises in the same vociferous tone, each gains his little stock of self-complacency from praising what others praise, and the reputation of the thing is established." "Unless," said De Vaux, "one of the learned fools we were talking of should step in; and as his vanity is always of the pugnacious kind--the vanity that will lead, instead of being led--he of course condemns what others have been praising; declares that the statue has no contour--that the picture wants breadth, force, chiar' oscuro. All the others cry out that it is evident it does so; wonder they could have admired it; and poor patient merit is kicked back into the shade." "But still, the same process takes place again," rejoined Colonel Manners. "The learned fool and his generation die off; but still, the merit of the thing remains till some one again rescues it from oblivion, and its reputation is finally established." "Indeed, now, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland, "I think that you have admitted Marian's maxim with too little limitation. That what is really good may always have ultimate success, is true, undoubtedly, when spoken of transcendent merit or of superexcellent qualities; but this transcendent merit only appears once, perhaps, in a century; and the world shows that, in the great mass of worldly things, the every-day virtues, the every-day exertions, the every-day characters which surround us in this busy existence, virtue and merit are not always ultimately successful. The religious, the political, the scientific charlatan often carries all before him; while the man of modest talent and unassuming virtue plods on his way unnoticed, and dies forgotten. So much, indeed, is this the case, that do not we daily see that many a shrewd man of real talent feels obliged to mix a little charlatanism with his other qualities for the sake of ensuring success? If Marian had said that things which are intrinsically immortal--which have in themselves inherent permanence--must have ultimate success when they are really good, and condemnation when they are bad, I would have granted it at once; but in all lesser things--and the world is made up of them--I sincerely believe that success depends upon accident or impudence." Colonel Manners smiled, and abandoned, or at least modified, his theory, admitting that Mrs. Falkland was right; for he was one of those men who, having generally reason on their side, can be candid without fear. But there was also something more than this in his candour: it sprung from his heart--it was a part of his character; and though it may seem unnatural to the greater part of mankind, it is no less a fact, that he was so great a lover of truth that, when once he was convinced, he never dreamed of contending against his conviction. He therefore gave up the position, that merit would always be ultimately successful, limiting it according to Mrs. Falkland's showing. Isadore added, that she thought it must be so, and would be sorry to believe it otherwise, as the occasional separation of virtue and success in this world afforded to her mind one of the strongest corroborative assurances of a future state. De Vaux laughed at her, and called her a little philosopher, and the conversation branched off to other things. Breakfast is a meal at which one loves to linger. The daylight and the wide world have all, more or less, an idea of labour attached to them; and though that labour be of the lightest kind, there is still a feeling in going forth after breakfast that we are about to take our share of the original curse; which feeling inclines man naturally to linger over the tea and coffee, and saunter to the window, or look into the fire, or play with the knife and fork for a few minutes more than is positively required. What between one oral occupation or another, then, the party at Mrs. Falkland's breakfast-table contrived to pass an hour very pleasantly. Colonel Manners, when all had risen, bestowed five minutes more upon the long window--while Isadore and her mother, De Vaux and Marian, held separate councils on the future proceedings of the day--and then retired to his own room, to write a note of business to some of his people in London. He had not long been gone when the fat and venerable servant, whom we have called Peter, entered the room, bearing a note, which, with much respectful ceremony, he delivered over to the hands of Miss De Vaux. Marian turned a little red and a little pale; and, had a jealous husband seen her receive that billet, he might have begun to suspect one whose every thought was pure; but the truth was, that poor Marian had instantly recognised her uncle's hand; and as her last ideas in respect to him had not been very pleasant, she was afraid that the new ones about to be called up by his note might be still more disagreeable. Without pausing to examine the scrawl upon the back, which implied her name, she broke the seal, and read. As she did so, a gentle smile and a softer suffusion stole over her face; but then she became more grave, then looked vexed, and then handed the paper to Mrs. Falkland, saying, "Do read it, my dear aunt; my uncle is both very kind and very unkind; but, indeed, it concerns you and Edward a great deal more than it does me." Mrs. Falkland took the letter and read it, the substance of which was to the following effect:--In the first place, the noble lord began by expressing more affection for Marian de Vaux than he had ever been known to express for man, woman, or child before in his existence. He next went on to say, that there was nothing on earth which had ever given him so much pleasure as the prospect of his son's marriage with her on whom he had been showering such praises: it was the solacing idea of his old age, he said, and the compensating joy for many a past sorrow. He then declared that he had hoped to be much with Edward and Marian during the days that were to intervene ere their marriage could be celebrated, and to have witnessed the ceremony as the most joyful and satisfactory one that he could ever behold; and next came the real object and substance-matter of the whole; for he concluded by expressing his bitter disappointment at not being able to do so, from the circumstance of a man who had so grossly insulted him as Colonel Manners had done, continuing in his sister's house, as her honoured guest and his son's bosom friend. Marian would understand, he said, that it was impossible for him to present himself again at Morley-house while Colonel Manners was there, without loss of dignity and honour; but he nevertheless besought her to let every thing proceed as if he were present; and he added a desire to see her as soon after her marriage as possible. While Mrs. Falkland, and then Edward de Vaux, read the letter in turn, Marian kept her eyes fixed on the ground. The fact is, however, that there was much in her uncle's letter to pain her, as well as to gratify her; and she would even willingly have sacrificed the gratifying part, if by so doing she could have done away the painful. It was very unpleasant, in the first place, to be pressed by assurances of affection and kindness to commit a gross injustice for the gratification of the person expressing that affection; and it was not a little disagreeable to think of her marriage to Lord Dewry's son taking place without his father's presence and countenance. Women of the finest minds and the justest feelings will think of what the world will say; and God forbid they ever should not. Marian de Vaux, therefore, thought of what the world would say, in regard to Lord Dewry being absent from her wedding; and she could not help feeling that the comments of all her kind acquaintances would be painful, both to her pride and her delicacy. All this was passing in her mind, while her eyes were busy with a pair of nondescripts on the damask table-cloth: but let it be clearly understood, that she never did Colonel Manners the wrong to wish that he should go, on account of any pain that she herself might suffer. She wished, indeed, that her uncle would be more just, more placable, more generous; but she felt clearly where the fault lay, and she never turned her eyes in the other direction. Mrs. Falkland appreciated Marian's feelings in almost all cases; but at present she estimated to the full all that would be distressing to her niece in the conduct of her brother, and thought, perhaps, that Marian might be more affected by it than she really was. "My dear Marian," she said, "this is very disagreeable for us all, and must be very painful to you, my sweet girl, in particular. Nevertheless we must do justice to ourselves. Were it any thing like a sacrifice of mere pleasure, we might and would willingly do a great deal to satisfy your uncle, and remove the unpleasant load he casts upon us; but this is a matter of right and wrong, in which he is decidedly in the wrong; and to yield to him would not only be dishonourable to ourselves, but seems to me quite impossible. The demeanour of Colonel Manners to me and mine has been every thing that I could desire, and is in every respect accordant with his well-established character, as a most gallant soldier and accomplished gentleman; and I can neither suffer the whims nor the ill-temper of any person, however near the relationship, to alter my conduct in such a case. What do you say, Edward? "I agree with you entirely, my dear aunt," he replied, "and so I told my father this morning. Holding Manners, as I do, to be most nobly in the right, I cannot suffer either my opinion of him, or my behaviour towards him, to be changed by the sudden dislike of even my parent." "And let me say, Edward, a most capricious and Lord Dewry-ish dislike it is--though he be your father and my uncle," added Miss Falkland. "What can he find to dislike in Colonel Manners? He is not beautiful, it is true: but he saved your life at the risk of his own; he nursed you in sickness; he was your companion in danger, and your friend at all times; so that if any one loved him, it should be your father. Besides, could any one have made himself more agreeable than he has done since he has been here? What pretence does Lord Dewry think mamma could have for turning such a man out of her house, when she had so lately invited him in the most pressing terms?" "Oh, of course, that is quite out of the question," said Mrs. Falkland, smiling at her fair daughter's enthusiasm; "though I cannot help thinking, Edward, that your father's design, in that letter, was to make us do so, by rendering the contrary so disagreeable to us." "If it were so, he will alter his behaviour," replied De Vaux, "when he finds that we cannot follow such a course; and I am sure you think with me, my dear aunt, that the only plan we can pursue is, to do as he bids us in his note, and proceed as if he were present." "Most certainly," replied Mrs. Falkland: "do you not think so too, Marian?" "Oh yes, Marian does," cried Isadore Falkland; "I am sure she does." "I am afraid we must do so," answered Marian, smiling somewhat sadly; "but, at all events, my dear aunt, I had better write to my uncle, and I will try to persuade him to change his determination." "Do so, my dear girl," replied her aunt; "though I am afraid you will find it in vain." Marian sat down and wrote, and put as much gentle sweetness into her note as would have gone far to soften any other man upon earth. She said not a word in regard to Colonel Manners, his quarrel with her uncle, or her own feelings on the subject: but she expressed to Lord Dewry how deeply gratified she was by his tenderness and affection; how ardently she hoped to retain it when she should become the wife of his son. She then went on to tell him, in language that came rushing from her heart, how bitterly painful it would be to her, if he continued the same determination of not being present at her marriage; and she entreated, with persuasions that none but woman could have written, that he would yield his resolution in this respect. In the whole course of her letter--though it was as artless as any collection of words that ever was penned--there was not one syllable that could offend the pride, or the vanity, or the feelings of her uncle--not one that could afford anger or irritation the least footing to rest upon. Had it been calculated upon the most experienced view of all the follies and passions of human nature, it could not have been better constructed; and yet, as we have said, it was as artless a composition as ever was penned: but the secret was, that it came from a fine, a gentle, and a sensitive mind. And now, while she folds, seals, and addresses it, with neat and careful hand, and gives it to the servant to be sent off immediately, we shall take the liberty of turning to another part of the subject, and treating of the person whose presence was the point of difficulty. CHAPTER VI. When Lord Dewry quitted Colonel Manners at the end of the flower-garden, as we have shown in a preceding chapter, the gallant soldier had turned back towards the house, but with steps much less rapid than those of the peer, from the simple fact of no violent passion moving in his breast. In truth, it would seem, after all, that man, notwithstanding his great pretensions, his reasonings about his own existence, and his conceit in his painted jacket, is not at all unlike one of those figures that children buy at fairs, with his arms and legs, and even his head, hung on by wires; and with the passions to pull the string at the back, not only without his volition, but often against his will. Wrath pulls, and he kicks; revenge pulls, and he strikes; jealousy pulls, and he writhes; fear pulls, and he runs; love pulls, and he dances; and, as no one of these passions was behind Colonel Manners at the time, he had walked on slowly and deliberately towards the house, sometimes turning to look at the landscape, sometimes trifling with a flower, but doing neither one nor the other, perhaps, quite so often as when he set out that day upon his morning's walk. Still, it is not to be supposed that, though no very violent affection of the mind followed Lord Dewry's departure, Colonel Manners remained perfectly indifferent to what had occurred: on the contrary, it threw him into a fit of musing, if not of deep thought, and produced reflections which ended in resolutions, such as Colonel Manners might be expected to form. At the peer's wrath he laughed, and laughed at his menaces equally, secure in that calm, self-confident courage, which, not knowing what fear is, never dreams that it can be attributed to us; but at the uncomfort that his dispute with De Vaux's father might and would produce in the family he had come to visit, Colonel Manners did not laugh. He had assented on the preceding night, in words which, with him, amounted to a promise, to forget the baron's rudeness, and not to suffer it to abridge his stay; but, at present, new provocation had been given, and he had every reason to believe that his visit could not be prolonged to the period he had at first proposed, without material uncomfort to the family at Morley House, however strongly their kindness or their politeness might urge his stay. "Doubtless," thought Colonel Manners,--for we must put his private cogitations into the form of that necessary folly, a soliloquy,--"doubtless, the worthy peer will not go and expose himself so much to his own family, as to tell them what has occurred between us this morning; but equally, without doubt, he will contrive, by his demeanour towards me, to render the house, not only very unpleasant to me, but also to all its occupants; and, therefore, as this is a field where honour is neither to be gained nor supported, I must even beat a retreat. Yet De Vaux will, I know, feel very much mortified, if he fancies that his father is the cause of my departure; and therefore I suppose that the best plan be, to wait a day or two, and then, with the first letters that arrive,--and I must receive some soon, to plead important business, and set out. I suppose I must bear with this ill-tempered old gentleman's behaviour as best I may for eight and forty hours, though I am afraid it will be a struggle to avoid retorting a little of his bitterness upon himself." Such had been the substance of Colonel Manners' thoughts upon this subject, as he walked back, and such the determination he formed; but as he did form them, there was something like a sigh escaped from his bosom. The reception he had met with from Mrs. Falkland and her family, on his first arrival, had been so warm and kind, that all the best feelings of his heart had been enlisted on their side. He had completely made up his mind to spend a happy three weeks with people who seemed, in every respect, so amiable; and although he felt that it might be a little dangerous,--by making him feel more acutely, from comparison, the want of domestic ties and comforts,--although he felt it might be a little dangerous, yet he had experienced a pleasure at the idea of thus dwelling, even for a short space, in the midst of a true old English family, that made him bitterly regret the necessity of foregoing what he had set his heart upon. As he thought of going forth again alone, it seemed as if it were the voice of fate that forbade him to expose himself to the sight of feelings and enjoyments that he was never to know personally, and sent him back imperiously to the solitary state of existence which was to be his portion; and although Colonel Manners was accustomed to the contemplation, and had nerved his mind, not only to bear the uncomforts of his lot, but to resist every thought that would teach him to repine, yet there were times--and this was one--when he could not but feel the chill wind of solitude blow from the dreary prospect of the future, and blight even the enjoyment of the present. A dissertation on the moral and physical nature of man might be given to prove to a demonstration, that domestic ties are a necessity of his existence: and let any man gaze forward into future years, and fancy that some cold barrier is placed between him and domestic affection; that no kindred eye is to brighten at his presence, no affectionate lip smile at his happiness, no tear of sympathy to wash away one half of his griefs, no cheerful voice to dispel the thoughts of care, no assiduous hand to smooth the pillow of sickness, and close the eye of death,--let him picture his being solitary, his joys unshared, his sorrows undivided, his misfortunes unaided but by general compassion, his sickness tended by the slow hand of mercenaries, and his eyes closed, while the light has scarce departed, by the rude touch of some weary and indifferent menial,--let him fancy all this, and then he will feel, indeed, that domestic ties are a necessity of our existence; at least, if he be not either drunk with licentious passions, or a mere calculating machine. We do not mean to say that all these ideas, or any one of them, presented themselves to the mind of Colonel Manners. Far be it from us to insinuate that he was foolish enough to give a vivid form and painful minuteness to the evils of a state that he believed he could not avoid. He struggled even against the general impression; but, as we have said, there were moments in his life--and this was one--when, notwithstanding reason and resolution, he would feel bitterly that it is sad and sorrowful to pass through life alone, to spend one's days in solitude, and to go down into the grave without a tie. The impression was so strongly raised, and clung so firmly to his mind, at the moment we speak of, that he took a turn of a hundred yards back upon the walk, to give the thoughts full range. Then remembering himself, he broke out into an involuntary exclamation of, "This is folly!" and turned quickly back to the house. In the breakfast-room he found Miss Falkland alone, and was not sorry so to find her; for there was in her conversation a pleasant and good-humoured sparkling, a frank and fearless liveliness, which amused and interested him. Besides, Colonel Manners was by no means a man to object to the society of a very beautiful girl: on that score he was quite fearless; for he had so guarded his heart by rampart, and bastion, and half-moon, that he feared no attack, either by siege or storm. The thing that he feared was, the sight of a state of happiness which he coveted, but did not hope for; and therefore he could enjoy the gay conversation and pleasing presence of Isadore Falkland without alloy, though he might apprehend that a lengthened stay, in the midst of a cheerful family circle, might deepen his regret at his own loneliness. Now, although the house of Mrs. Falkland, like most other houses of its date, had a certain ramblingness of construction, midway between the Gothic of Henry the Seventh's and the anomalous architecture of the nineteenth century, yet the rooms were sufficiently proximate to allow Colonel Manners to hear every now and then, as the servant opened and shut the door of the breakfast-room, the voice of Lord Dewry, in tones more sharp than was becoming. Nor was he slack in attributing the acerbity of the sounds he heard to their right cause; so that, as we have before shown, when Mrs. Falkland and her nephew spoke of the departure of the noble lord as a thing that had taken place in the ordinary course of affairs, Manners had very nearly smiled. However, having taken his determination in regard to his proceedings, and, seeing no better plan that he could pursue, he suffered the matter to pass quietly, well knowing that real delicacy never makes a noise. To say the truth, he was not at all sorry to find that Lord Dewry had taken his departure; for he had every inclination to make himself both comfortable and agreeable while he did stay, neither of which objects are very attainable in the same house with a man who wants to fight a duel with you. After breakfast, as Manners was too much of a general to leave any thing to chance, he retired to his own apartments, in order to write such letters to London as would ensure immediate replies of the kind that would afford him a fair excuse for breaking through his engagement with De Vaux, without rendering the matter painful to his friend by any direct reference to his father; and, when this was accomplished, he returned to the rest of the party, whom he found in the act of seeing the footman leave the room with Marian's note to her uncle. "We propose to take a walk, Manners," said De Vaux, as he entered; "I must show you the beauties of our county; and I think we will go upon the path which leads across the hill, and brings us through the wood to within a few hundred yards of the spot where we saw the gipsies. We call it Marian's Walk, as she might always be found there when we were but little boys and girls." "It might have been called Edward's Walk as well, then," answered Isadore, gayly; "for I am sure she was never there without you, Edward. At all events, if you did not go with her, you were not long before you found her." "And can Miss de Vaux venture on so long a walk?" asked Colonel Manners, "in the present day, when the extent of a lady's morning promenade is twice round the room and once round the garden--when shoemakers stare, I am told, at the name of walking shoes, and declare that they never heard of such things?" Marian smiled. "You are severe upon us, Colonel Manners," she said; "but this walk is not so far either--though it is a little steep." "It seemed to me nearly six miles," replied Colonel Manners; "six miles, at least, from this spot to the place De Vaux mentions." "Oh, that was because you came by the road," replied Isadore: "if you had come over the hill, you would have shortened the way by one half--but I forgot; you would have met with some accident also, as it was dark, and you were on horseback. It is not much more than two miles to the place where the path again joins the high-road after passing through Morley wood." "If you find it so short, I trust you are to be of the party, Miss Falkland," said Colonel Manners. "Oh, most certainly," she replied. "It was all very well for Edward and Marian to wander through the woods together when they were boys and girls; but now propriety, you know, Colonel Manners, requires a sedate and aged chaperon; and besides, I could not leave the party of such an odd and unfortunate number as three: I should be afraid of some accident happening to you by the way." "But three is a fortunate number, my gay cousin," replied De Vaux, smiling, "not an unfortunate one, by every rule of cabalistic science." "In figures, but not in love, Edward," answered his cousin, with a gay laugh. "At least, I have read as much in your face, more than once, when I happened to be the unfortunate third--" "Hush, hush, Isadore," cried Marian. "Come, let us dress ourselves to go;" and taking her cousin's arm, she hurried her away. Now Marian de Vaux, who knew her cousin well, was quite sure that Isadore would not push her raillery of her lover one step too far; but still she was not sorry to break off Isadore's discourse; for love is one of those things that people may talk about a great deal when they feel it not, but which they bury deep in the heart's innermost tabernacle as soon as they know its value, and, like misers, tremble even when their treasure is named. Every one was soon ready to set out; and strolling through the garden separately, they proceeded to what was called the little gate, which gave them exit upon the road of which they were in search. By separately, I mean that neither of the gentlemen offered an arm to their female companions so long as they were within rows of box-wood bordering and upon gravel walks. There would have been something ridiculous in it; although, perhaps, the quality of walking arm-in-arm is to be looked upon as one of the peculiar privileges of humanity, which as much distinguishes man from other animals, as any other quality of his mind or body. He has been called, by those who strove to define him, "a forked radish, fantastically cut," "a viviparous biped, without feathers," "a cooking animal," and many another name. But had they called him "the animal that walks arm-in-arm," philosophers might have come nearer to his distinctive quality; for not only is it a thing that no other animal does, but it also gives at once the idea of many of the finer qualities of man's mind, and is, in fact, a sort of living hieroglyphic of affection and sympathy, and mutual assistance and support. Now Colonel Manners and Edward de Vaux, looking upon the privilege of walking arm-in-arm in its true light, might consider it with too much reverence to enter upon it lightly, and therefore not offer to exercise it towards their fair companions, till the steepness of the way and the openness of the country seemed to render it necessary for their convenience and protection. There might, indeed, be another reason, which was, that in issuing forth from the house, a little derangement in the natural order of things had taken place--some stray glove, or wandering stick, or something of the kind, had been forgotten, so as to throw out the order of the march; and Colonel Manners found himself walking beside Marian de Vaux, while De Vaux was at the elbow of his cousin Isadore. Colonel Manners, in agreeing to go out upon this expedition, had perfectly well understood the part he was held to play; and De Vaux had the most firm and implicit reliance upon his friend's tact in the business; so that by a tacit convention it was arranged between them, that the long ramble which Marian had promised to take with her lover was to be as completely solitary and agreeable as if they had not a friend or relation upon the face of the earth. But the derangement which had taken place in the position of the forces of course rendered a counter movement on the part of De Vaux and his friend necessary; and yet, as the walk they followed was narrow, and did not admit of the advance of more than two abreast, the desired evolution could not be performed without rendering the object unpleasantly obvious, till some little accident came to their aid. Colonel Manners, however, had been out in the morning, as we have already seen, to reconnoitre the ground; and as soon as he saw the difficulty, he instantly laid out the plan of the evolutions, and fixed upon the exact position, walking on still by the side of Marian de Vaux, and talking of _les mouches qui volent_. But to proceed. Colonel Manners and Marian reached the little gate first, and unlocked it, and then Colonel Manners halted till Miss de Vaux and Miss Falkland had passed. The two ladies immediately halted on the bank of the little road facing the gate, with Marian on the right hand and Isadore on the left. Colonel Manners then resigned the command of the gate to Edward de Vaux; but, in marching out, while the other locked the door and brought the key, Manners took up a position upon the extreme left. De Vaux then advanced to the right of the line, and, wheeling about, gave his arm to Marian; Colonel Manners offered his to Miss Falkland, and led the way up the road to the left. This detail is given as an exemplification of Manners' military skill,--a quality which, unfortunately, we shall have no other opportunity of displaying throughout this book. Nor was Isadore Falkland's knowledge of strategy less marked, in taking up the position to the left, as it entirely commanded the road up which they were about to proceed; and as people in love in general walk a great deal slower than people not in love, it was necessary that she and Colonel Manners should lead the way, in order at once to give Edward and Marian de Vaux the protection of their presence and the benefit of their absence. Colonel Manners and Miss Falkland did not lose much time in silence, for they were both people who could talk very pleasantly; and, whatever they might think in regard to themselves, they each felt that it was so in regard to the other. They spoke of many things; and Isadore's conversation, as she became better acquainted with her companion, and discovered that there were stores of feeling and kindness at his heart which would prevent him from laughing at her own enthusiasms, poured forth more of the deeper stream of her character, over which the rippling current of gay and sparkling jest that she usually displayed, flowed as much to conceal the depth, as for any other purpose. Besides, she was happy and young; and where was ever the stream, however profound, that did not sparkle when the sun shone full upon it? Their first topic, as perhaps might be expected, was De Vaux and Marian; a topic which, under some circumstances, might have been dangerous; but Manners and Miss Falkland felt themselves perfectly secure. Still it was a delicate one: for however deep and true Colonel Manners' friendship might be for De Vaux, and however warm and enthusiastic might be the love of Isadore for her cousin Marian, there were, of course, a thousand little circumstances and feelings, upon which neither could enter, out of respect for the very friendship and affection which they felt for the two lovers. Nevertheless, perhaps, this very _retenue_, with the sort of faint and misty allusions which they were obliged to make to their friends' love and their friends' hopes and prospects, and the graceful circumlocutions and explicative figures that it obliged them to seek, were not without charms in themselves. Colonel Manners, for his part, felt very sure that, under Marian de Vaux's calm and tranquil manners were very deep and powerful feelings; but, at the same time, he wished--if consistently with delicacy it were possible--to find out from Miss Falkland whether his opinions were fully justified; and Isadore longed to know--with all a woman's yearnings to prove to her own heart the substantial existence of real, pure, permanent, unswerving love--whether her cousin had retained, during his long absence, all that tender, devoted, undivided attachment which he displayed towards Marian when present. Not at all did she wish to know whether Edward de Vaux had made love to, or flirted with, or talked sweet nonsense to any other woman. Do not let it be misunderstood; she never suspected such a thing, nor would have believed it had it been told her: but she would have given a great deal to find out, whether in the bosom of her cousin, the one thought of his affection had ever been paramount; whether the world, and ambition, and other scenes, and absence, and danger, and excitement had never banished the image of Marian from the bosom of Edward de Vaux; and, in short, she would have willingly heard it proved, in his instance, that love can exist in the bosom of man, under prolonged absence and varying circumstances. In all this, she was as disinterested as a woman ever can be in regard to an affair of love; but, the truth is, no woman can be totally so. The whole of that bright race are, in this respect, but a joint-stock company--to borrow a figure from familiar things--and love is their capital, in which all have an interest, and all a share. However, it will be easily conceived that, under these circumstances, the conversation between Miss Falkland and Colonel Manners was as nice, and delicate, and difficult an encounter of their wits as ever was practised. Colonel Manners was soon satisfied; for, in answer to some complimentary observation upon her cousin's manners and appearance, which went to praise their tranquillity as well as their elegance, Isadore answered frankly, and smiling as she did so, "Oh, Marian is often more _commoto dentro_ than you think." Miss Falkland's researches, however, were less easily pursued, and they led her, like a child hunting a butterfly, through a world of flowers. One time, she would put her problem generally, and wonder whether any man ever did feel, and continue to feel, as she wished to believe Edward had done towards Marian; and then she would put it particularly, and say, that she thought such an attachment as his must have been a wonderful solace and delight to him; an inexhaustible fund of sweet feelings and hope, throughout all that he had been obliged to endure. But still Colonel Manners, who very clearly understood what she meant, hung back a little in his explanations; pleased, in truth, to watch the feelings that prompted her and the path she pursued; pleased with all the graces that the subject called up in her countenance and her manner; the beaming smile, the sparkling eye, and sometimes the sudden stop and passing blush, when she became uncertain of the next step and dared not advance. After he had amused himself a little, and saw that she might misconstrue his backwardness into something disadvantageous to his friend, he caught at the next sentence, and replied, "Yes, indeed, I look upon De Vaux's attachment, and his engagement to your fair cousin, before he went to America, as one of the greatest blessings that could have happened to him; especially for a man whose heart was calculated to make it his happiness and his safeguard, and his leading star wherever he went." Isadore blushed warmly; and perhaps there was a little mingling of emotions in her blush; for, in the first place, the full confirmation of what she had wished and hoped, made her cheek glow; and, in the next place, Colonel Manners' words were so exactly a reply to the questions which had been lurking unspoken in her heart, that she almost suspected he had seen deeper into her thoughts than she had anticipated. A slight smile that followed upon his lip she considered as excessively malicious; but she was one who never suffered wrath to rankle in her bosom, but, in her way, revenged herself always on the spot. "You speak so feelingly, Colonel Manners," said she, just suffering a single ray of laughing light to gleam out of her fine dark eyes; "you speak so feelingly, that I doubt not you have been guarded and led in the same manner." Let it be clearly kept in mind, that Isadore Falkland had only known Colonel Charles Manners fourteen hours and a half, or she would not have said what she did for the world. It may be thought that the case ought to have been quite the contrary, and that she might have ventured more had she been more intimate. But such would be an erroneous view of the matter. Isadore Falkland well knew that fourteen hours and a half was not a sufficient space of time for any rational man either to feel or to affect love for the most enchanting being that ever the world beheld, and, consequently, that she might say a sportive thing in regard to Colonel Manners' heart, without any chance of a retort which might have been disagreeable--unless he had been a fool or a coxcomb, which she knew him not to be. Had she known him a fortnight, he might have made the retort, as a jest, which would have been disagreeable enough; or as a compliment, which would have been still more disagreeable; or as a serious fact, which would have been most disagreeable; and therefore, under such circumstances, she would never have thought of talking about the heart of one of the company, when there were but two in it. Had she known, too, that the subject was a painful one to Colonel Manners, she would as little have thought of touching upon it; and, indeed, a feeling that he was not handsome, and a vague misty sort of consciousness that that fact might have something to do with his remaining unmarried, did make her regret that she had said such words, almost as soon as they were beyond recall. "No, indeed," said Colonel Manners, with a touch of melancholy in his manner that could not wholly be banished; "no, indeed, I have not been so fortunate as either to have guardian angel or leading star;" and he smiled at the triteness of his own figures of speech, but with a smile that did not counteract, to the mind of Miss Falkland, the sadness of his tone. She was vexed with herself, and would have done anything on earth, in a reasonable way, to efface whatever painful feelings she might have awakened: but though she was generally skilful enough in putting an end to a difficulty where others were concerned, she found it not so easy to disentangle the affair when she herself was the culprit. Whether Colonel Manners perceived that Miss Falkland felt she had given pain, and was vexed with herself, or whether he likewise wished to get rid of the subject, matters little; but he now changed the topic somewhat abruptly; and looking round upon the woods, into the very heart of which they were plunging, he said, "I wonder that you fair ladies are not somewhat afraid of walking through these solitudes by yourselves." "There is no danger," she replied; "we have none but very orderly, peaceable people in our part of the world: though, in truth," she added, after a moment's thought, "we are the last family that should say there is no danger; but I have never heard of any very serious offence being committed in our neighbourhood since the murder of my poor uncle, which, as it is long ago, of course I do not recollect. "I remember having heard something of that event," replied Colonel Manners, "but do not recollect the particulars. Was he killed by highwaymen?" "I believe so," answered Miss Falkland, "though I know too little about it to tell you exactly what happened. But--oh, yes!--he was robbed and murdered, I remember; for it was proved that he had a large sum of money upon his person when he went out--several thousand pounds--and it was supposed that some one who knew the fact had either waylaid him, or had informed the murderers of the booty they might obtain." "He was, I think, your uncle by the side of Mrs. Falkland," said Colonel Manners, who of course felt an interest in the matter in proportion to the little difficulties of obtaining information. "Yes, my mother's brother," replied Isadore; "Marian's father. You may easily imagine that such a story rendered her an object of double interest to all her family--of redoubled tenderness, I believe I should say, and even my uncle, who is not very scrupulous in regard to what he says to any one, is more kind and considerate towards Marian than towards any other human being. That great and horrible crime, however--I mean the murder--seems to have frightened others from our neighbourhood; and though we occasionally hear of a little poaching, the people round us are uniformly well-behaved and peaceable." "Can you say as much for the gipsies towards whose encampment, if I understood De Vaux right, we are bending our way?" asked Colonel Manners. "They are, in general, very troublesome and unquiet neighbours." "I had not heard of their being here," replied Miss Falkland: "we are very seldom so honoured, I can assure you. I do not remember having seen gipsies here more than once; and that was not in this wood, but on a large common up yonder at the top of that hill, behind the house. They are a strange race!" "They are, indeed," answered her companion; "and De Vaux and I, as we passed their encampment, could not help marvelling that no government had ever thought it worth its while to pay some attention to them, either for the purpose of reclaiming them to civilized life, or, if that were judged impossible, for the purpose of obtaining those traces of knowledge which are waning from among them every day, but which some of their better men are said still to retain." "Do you mean their astrological knowledge?" asked Miss Falkland, with a look of no slight interest in the question. "O, no!" answered Colonel Manners, with a smile; "I mean the knowledge of their real history, of their original country, of their former laws, of their language in its purity, and of many facts of great interest, which, though with them they are merely traditionary, yet might be confirmed or invalidated by other testimony in our own possession." "They are a strange people, indeed!" said Miss Falkland. "Do you know, Colonel Manners, that the separate existence of these gipsies and of the Jews--coming down, as it were, two distinct streams, amid all the whirling confusion of an ocean of other nations--keeping their identity among wars, and battles, and changes, and the overturning of all things but themselves; retaining their habits, and their thoughts, and their national character apart, in spite both of sudden and violent revolutions in society, and of the slow, but even more powerful efforts of gradual improvement and civilization. Do you know, whenever I think of this, it gives me a strange feeling of mysterious awe that I cannot describe? It seems as if I saw more distinctly than in the common course of things the workings of the particular will of the Almighty; for I cannot understand how these facts can be accounted for by any of the common motives in existence; as, in both instances, interest, ambition, policy, and pleasure, with almost every inducement that could be enumerated, would have produced exactly the opposite result." "I shall not attempt to reason against you, Miss Falkland," replied Colonel Manners, with a smile; "and, indeed, I very much agree with you in opinion, though perhaps not in your wonder; for being a complete believer in a special providence, I only see the same hand in this that I think is discernible throughout creation." "But tell me, Colonel Manners," said Isadore, "have you any belief in the fortune-telling powers of the gipsies?" "None whatever," answered Colonel Manners. "Nor perhaps have I," said Isadore; "but at the same time it is strange that in all ages and in all countries, as far as I can understand, these gipsies have pretended to this particular science, and have been very generally believed. At all events, it shows that they have an immemorial tradition of such a power having been possessed by their ancestors; and if it were possessed by their ancestors, why not by themselves?" "But we have no reason to believe that it was possessed by their ancestors," replied Colonel Manners, "except, indeed, their own tradition, which, as you say, is evidently very ancient." "Nay, nay, but I think we have other proofs," replied Isadore, "and very strong ones, it appears to me. It is evident from the historical part of the Bible that the most ancient Egyptians had various means of divination, and even a magical influence, the reality and power of which is admitted by the sacred writers most distinctly; and consequently, when these facts are joined to an immemorial tradition of the descendants of the same nation, it seems that there is strong reason for believing that these powers existed even after the period to which the sacred volume refers." "I am inclined, indeed, to believe," replied Colonel Manners, "that the gipsies are descendants from some Egyptian tribe, although the fact has been contested strongly, and the French call them Bohemians--unreasonably enough. In regard to the powers of divination attributed to the ancient Egyptians, too, I believe them to have existed, because I believe the Bible not only as an inspired record, but as the best-authenticated history, without any exception, that exists; and at the same time I cannot suppose that men who had so grand, so comprehensive, and also so philosophical an idea of the Divinity, that four thousand years have not been able to produce the slightest enlargement of it, as displayed in many passages of Holy Writ--I cannot suppose that such men would have recorded as facts anything substantially inconsistent with the majesty of that Being whom they alone knew in the age when they wrote. But you must remember that these powers, though permitted then for reasons we know not, may have ceased now, like the powers of prophecy, and many other things of the same kind; and did the gipsies possess such powers at present, depend upon it, we should find them clothed in purple in the closets of kings, instead of wandering upon bare heaths, and stealing for a livelihood." "You are right, I know," replied Miss Falkland, with a smile, at the lingerings of credulity that still haunted her own bosom, "and I have convinced myself, and been convinced by others over and over again, that it is all nonsense; and yet,--" She paused, and Manners rejoined, "One of our old humorous poets says, 'A man convinced against his will, Is of the same opinion still.'" "And perhaps you think the verses still more applicable to a woman, Colonel Manners," replied Miss Falkland; "but that is not exactly the case with me. My weakness extends no farther than this:--were a gipsy to predict any great evil for my future life, it would make me very uneasy, however much I might struggle against the impression; and, on that account, I would not have my fortune told, as they call it, for the world! Would you?" "Without the slightest apprehension," answered Colonel Manners, laughing. "They may try their chiromancy on me, when they please, and do me all the harm they can for half a crown, which is, I believe, the stipulated sum." "That is, because you are a man and a hero," replied Miss Falkland, in the same gay tone, "and you are bound by honour and profession to be afraid of nothing; but remember, I look upon it as an agreement--you are to have your fortune told this very day, and that will do for the whole party; for I will not have mine told, and I am sure Marian shall not, if I can prevent it." "Oh, I will be the scape-goat, with all my heart," he replied; "but I suppose we cannot be far from their encampment, if your computation of miles be correct." "We are close to the high-road," answered Miss Falkland; "but how far up the hill they are, you best know. However, let us wait for Edward and Marian. We must not make the babes in the wood of them; and of course they are a good way behind. Now, I dare say, while you and Edward were in America, you heard of Marian de Vaux till you were tired--was it not so, Colonel Manners?" "No, indeed," he answered, smiling; "far from it, I can assure you. Although I long ago found out by various infallible signs that De Vaux was in love; yet, never till circumstances had produced esteem and friendship, and friendship had become intimacy, did he ever mention his engagement, or the object of his attachment." "And then he doubtless painted her in very glowing colours," added Isadore, trying strenuously to while away the time till her cousins came up, they having lingered behind farther than she had expected. "Oh, of course, all lovers are like the old painter Arellius," answered Colonel Manners, "and always paint the objects of their love as goddesses. But I will not gratify your malice, Miss Falkland; De Vaux has too fine a sense of the ridiculous ever to render himself so by exaggerating any feeling." "He has, indeed, too fine a sense of the ridiculous," answered Isadore; "it is his worst fault, Colonel Manners; and I fear that, like all the rest of our faults, it may some day prove his own bane; but here they come! Now, Colonel Manners, prepare to hear your fate. Edward, here is your friend going to have his fortune told." "You mean going to give half a crown to a gipsy," said De Vaux; "but if you are serious, Manners, I will, of course, stand by you to the last, as if you were going to fight a duel, or any other unreasonable thing. Turn to the left and you will see the appointed place, as the newspapers call it, before you." In this expectation, however, De Vaux was mistaken; for the gipsies and their accompaniments, men, women, and children, pots, kettles, and tents, had all disappeared. It must not be said, indeed, that they had left no vestige of their abode behind them, for half a dozen black spots burnt in the turf, and more than one pile of white wood ashes, attested the extent of their encampment; but nothing else was to be seen in the green wood, except the old oaks, and the yellow sunshine streaming through the rugged boughs, with a squirrel balancing itself on the branch of a fir, and two noisy jays screaming from tree to tree. "This is a very Robin Hood like scene," said Colonel Manners, as he looked around, "and less gloomy in the broad daylight than at eventide. But here are no gipsies, Miss Falkland; and I am afraid that you must put off hearing the future fate and fortunes of Charles Manners till another time." "I am very much mortified, indeed," replied Isadore, "and I see that you only laugh at me, Colonel Manners, without sympathizing in the least with disappointed curiosity; which,--as no one believes more fully than yourself,--is a very serious event in a woman's case. However, I shall hold you bound by your promise, and look upon you engaged as a man of honour to have your fortune told the very first time you meet with a party of gipsies,--nay, more, to let me know the result also." She spoke with playful seriousness; and Colonel Manners replied, "With all my heart, Miss Falkland; and, indeed, you shall find that your commands are so lightly borne by me, that I will take other obligations upon myself, and even seek out your favourites, the gipsies; for these protegées of yours seldom move far at a time, unless, indeed, all the poultry in the neighbourhood happens to be exhausted." "Oh, that is not the case here," answered Isadore; "there is plenty yet remaining in every farm-yard, and I dare say you will find them on the common." "I will go to-morrow, then, without fail," he answered, "for--" and he had nearly added words which would have betrayed his meditated departure; but he turned his speech another way; and all parties, well satisfied with their ramble, returned by the same path to the house. Nothing occurred during the rest of the day to disturb the tranquillity of the party. The evening passed away in conversation, generally light enough, but of which we have given a specimen above, fully sufficient to show its nature and quality. Sometimes it touched, indeed, upon deeper feelings, without ever becoming grave; and sometimes it ventured farther into the realms of learning, without approaching pedantry. The annoyance of Lord Dewry's behaviour on the preceding night had at the time reconciled Colonel Manners in some degree to the idea of quitting a circle in which he found much to please and interest him; but no such annoyance interrupted the course of this evening, and he experienced more pain than he liked to acknowledge, when he thought of leaving behind him for ever, a scene in which the hours passed so pleasantly. He felt, however, that the annoyance might soon be renewed, or that even if it were not, he had no right by his presence to shut out De Vaux's father from Mrs. Falkland's house; and he resolved still to adhere to his purpose, and set out for London on the day after that which was just about to follow. CHAPTER VII. The ordinary and too well-deserved lamentation over the fragility of human resolutions was not in general applicable to the determinations of Charles Manners, who was usually very rigid in his adherence to his purposes, whether they were of great or small importance. But it must not be supposed that this pertinacity, if it may so be called, in pursuit of designs he had already formed, proceeded from what the world calls obstinacy. Obstinacy maybe defined the act of persisting in error; and the rectitude and precision of his judgment generally kept him from being in error at first, so that he had rarely a legitimate cause for breaking his resolution. Nor was he either of such a hard and tenacious nature as to resist all persuasion, and, like the cement of the Romans, only to grow the stiffer by the action of external things. Far from it; he was always very willing to sacrifice his purposes--where no moral sacrifice was implied--to the wishes and solicitations of those he loved or esteemed. Nor is there any contradiction in this statement, though it may be inquired, how, then, did he break his resolutions less frequently than other people? The secret was this, and it is worth while to burden memory with it: he never formed his resolutions without thought, which saved at least one-third from fracture; and though he broke them sometimes at the entreaty of others, he never sacrificed them to any whim of his own, which saved _very nearly_ two-thirds more; for we may depend upon it that the determinations which we abandon, either from a change of circumstances, or from the persuasions of our friends, form but a very minute fraction, when compared with those that we give up, either from original error or after caprice. It has seemed necessary to give this lecture upon resolutions, because Colonel Manners very speedily found cause to abandon the determination which he formed so vigorously on the day we spoke of in the last chapter; and, that he might not be charged with inconsistency, it became requisite to enter into all those strict definitions and explanations that generally leave us as many loopholes for escape and evasion, as a treaty of peace or a deed of settlement. One resolution, however, and one promise, Colonel Manners certainly did keep, as soon as it was possible, which was, to inquire whether the gipsies were still in the neighbourhood, and to seek them out, with the full purpose of having his fortune told. Now, it may be supposed that here was a little weakness on the part of Colonel Manners--that he did give some credit to gipsy chiromancy; nay, the reader may even push his conjectures farther, and imagine him dreaming of Isadore Falkland's beautiful eyes, and all their varieties of expression, from the deep and soft to the gayest sparkle that ever twinkled through two rows of long silky eyelashes. But the simple fact was, that he had promised to go, and that he went; and though he might think Miss Falkland extremely beautiful and extremely pleasing, as every man who had been two minutes in her company must have thought, he no more dreamed of the possibility of so fair a creature, courted and loved as he knew she must be, ever uniting herself to so ugly a man as himself--and as he sat and shaved himself that morning he thought himself uglier than ever--than Napoleon Bonaparte, in the plenitude of power and the majesty of victory, thought of a low grave beneath a willow on a rock in the Atlantic. In regard to any belief in the gipsies' fortune-telling, there were little use of investigating closely, whether some thin fibre of the root of superstition had or had not been left in the bosom of Charles Manners. If any particle thereof did remain, it went no farther than to excite, perhaps, a slight degree of curiosity in regard to what the people would predict, more, perhaps, from feeling that it must be absurd, than from expecting any point of coincidence with his real fate; and certain it is that, whatever the gipsies might have told to Colonel Manners, he would have thought no more of after the immediate moment, except as a matter for jest, than he would of any other kind of _sortes_, whether drawn from Virgil or Joe Miller. It was just a quarter to six on the morning after that which had seen the walk in Morley Wood, when Manners, who was, as we have said, an early riser, gave some orders to his servant concerning his horses, and went out into the new wakened world. Having observed on the preceding day, for the purpose of carrying on the jest, the exact position of the hill on which Miss Falkland conjectured that the gipsies might have quartered themselves, he took his way across the park from that side which formed, in fact, the back of Morley House; and, having assured himself beforehand that he could find means of egress in that direction, he was soon beyond the walls, and winding up a small cart-road towards the summit. The hill itself was somewhat singular in form; and as it is rather characteristic of that particular county, we may as well endeavour to give the reader some idea of its appearance. It formed a portion of that steep range of upland which we have before described as principally covered with fine wood; but this particular point, projecting towards the river in the form of very nearly a right angle, seemed to have cast behind it the mass of forest which still continued over the ridge of the other hills. Vestiges of the wood, too, hung in broken patches on the flanks of even this protuberance, but the summit offered nothing but a bare, open plain, full of pits and ravines, and only further diversified by a few stunted hawthorns, and one single group of tall beeches, gathered together upon a tumulus, which covered the bodies of some of those invading warriors to whom our island was once a prey. The ascent to this plain from the small gate in the park wall, by which Colonel Manners issued forth, was in length somewhat more than a mile; but it consisted of two distinct grades, or steps, the first of which was formed by a little peninsula, jutting out from the salient angle of the main hill, and completely surrounded by the river on all sides except the one which served to unite it, by a narrow neck not above three hundred yards in breadth, to the high ground we have mentioned. This small peninsula, which was itself covered with wood, rose in a rocky bank to the height of about a hundred and fifty yards above the stream; and over the narrow isthmus was carried the road which passed the park; while the wall of the park itself, just excluding the wooded banks from the grounds of Morley House, was lowered in that part, so as to leave a full view of the picturesque little promontory from the windows of the mansion. Let the reader remember all this, for his memory may be taxed hereafter. Branching off from the right of the high-road lay the path up which Colonel Manners took his way, and which passed over a track upon the side of the hill, partly hedged in and cultivated, and partly left to its own ungrateful sterility. It was steep also, but Manners was a good climber; and, knowing that Mrs. Falkland's breakfast hour was half-past nine, he did not linger by the way, but soon found himself at the summit of the hill, and on the piece of waste ground which will be found in the county map under the name of Morley Common, or Morley Down. A good deal of dew had fallen in the night; and as the sun, who had not yet pursued his bright course far up the arch of heaven, poured the flood of his morning light upon the short blades of grass covering the common, the whole would have seemed crisp with hoarfrost, had not, every here and there, a tuft of longer leaves caught the rays more fully, and twinkled as if sprinkled with living diamonds, as the early air moved it gently in the beams. In different directions across the common might be seen a hundred small foot-roads, winding in that tortuous and unsteady manner which is sure to mark a path trodden out by man's unguided feet, and which offers no bad comment on his uncertain and roundabout way of arriving at his object; but, as the ground comprised many hundred acres, Colonel Manners might have been puzzled which way to take, had not his military habits at once sent him to the small planted tumulus which we have mentioned, in order to obtain a general view of the place. Climbing up the sides of the little mound, therefore, he gazed round him; but neither gipsies nor tents were visible; and he might have returned to Mrs. Falkland's, satisfied that they were not there, had not a small column of faint blue smoke, rising from behind some bushes, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, marked the presence of human beings in that direction, and shown that the bushes, though apparently not higher than a man's hat, masked some fall in the ground where the fire was kindled. Thither, then, Manners turned his steps, and soon perceived that another old sand-pit, with some bushes climbing up one of the sides, had given shelter to those of whom he was now in search. Before he could even discover so much, he became aware, by two low whistles, that his own approach had been perceived; and, as he was advancing directly towards the sand-pit, where a number of the gipsies had paused in their various occupations to watch him, he saw a man issue forth from one of the huts, put something hastily into the bosom of his long wrapping coat, and then come forward to meet him. The gipsy, as he came nearer, gazed at him from head to foot, with a clear dark eye, which had in it nothing either of the dogged sullenness or cunning stealthiness that sometimes marks the male part of the race,--often the fruit both of their own vices and the world's harshness. There was something in the air and manner of the man, that to so accurate an observer as Manners, spoke a great difference between him and the general class of his people; but, to save a repetition of description, it may be as well to say at once, that the gipsy who now appeared was the same whom we have designated Pharold. "Good-morning!" said Colonel Manners, as the other came near; "you have hid your tents very completely here." "Good-morning!" replied the gipsy, slightly knitting his brow, as he saw the soldier's eye running over every part of their encampment with some degree of curiosity; "Good-morning! It seems you were seeking me or mine." "I was so," replied Manners, still gazing with some interest upon the old sand-pit and its picturesque tenants, with their blazing fire of sticks, and its white smoke curling through the broken ground and amid the scattered bushes. "And what did you want with us, then?" asked Pharold, somewhat impatiently; "you wanted something, or you would not have come here." "I wish to have my fortune told," replied Manners with a smile, excited equally by the impatience of the gipsy's tone, and by the nature of his own errand. The gipsy looked at him steadily, and then shook his head. "No, no, no," said he; "you did not come for that. Never tell me, that you would get out of your bed by daybreak, and climb a high hill, and seek a bare common, at this hour, to have your fortune told--never tell me that, Colonel Manners." Manners started at hearing his own name pronounced familiarly by the gipsy, though he knew the world, and all the tricks that accident and confederacy can put upon us, too well to suppose that he who is emphatically termed in Scripture "the prince of the power of the air" had taken the trouble to send an account of his name and quality to a gipsy on a common. Still, as it was unexpected, he was surprised, and expressed it; but not in such a way as to make the gipsy believe more fully than he had done at first, that he really gave credit to the supernatural pretensions of his nation, and came there for the purpose of consulting them upon his destiny. "Pray how did you become acquainted with my name?" demanded Colonel Manners, calmly. "I do not know that I ever saw you before?" "Perhaps not," replied the gipsy; "but if you believe that I can tell you what you will become hereafter, why should you be surprised that I know what you are now?" "I never said that I would believe what you told me," answered Manners; "but I know that, as I have been scarcely two days in this country, you must have been very expeditious in gaining my name. However, it is a matter of small consequence: I came, as I said, to have my fortune told according to your method. Will you do it?" "It shall be done," said the gipsy, still gazing at him inquiringly. "It shall de done, if you really desire it; but I know you men of the world, and I cannot help thinking you came not on that errand alone. I should think that Lord Dewry had sent you, did I not know that he went away yesterday morning to Dimden, and then before midday back to the hall." "You are a very singular person," said Colonel Manners, with a smile, "not only because you know every thing that is going on in the place, as well as a village gossip, but because you will not believe the truth when it is told you. Once more, then, my good friend, let me assure you, that nobody sent me; and that my sole purpose is to have my fortune told: nor should I stay here any longer, even for that purpose, had I not promised another person to submit to the infliction. "So, so," said the gipsy; "so the fair lady you were walking with yesterday in Morley Wood is more wise, or, as you would call it, more credulous than you are. But do not look angry, gentleman. I will tell you your fortune presently, and will tell it truly, if you will do me a piece of service, of which I stand in need too--something that I have promised to do, though not for a lady with dark eyes; and you seem sent here on purpose to aid in it." Now Manners was half amused and half angry; but it is probable the anger would have got the better of the other feeling, had not his curiosity been excited also by the language, the manners, and the request of the gipsy, whose whole demeanour was something quite new to him. He replied, however, "I never undertake to do any thing without knowing the precise nature thereof; but if you will tell me what you desire, and I find it reasonable, I will not, of course, refuse." "Yes, yes! you shall hear what it is," answered the gipsy; "nor will you find the request unreasonable. But come hither a little away from the people, for they need not know it." Thus speaking, he led the way towards the mound from which Manners had made his reconnoissance of the common; and, as he went, he kept his right hand in his bosom, but spoke not a word. At length, when they were fully out of earshot, Manners himself stopped, thinking that he had humoured his companion's caprices far enough. "Now, my good fellow," he said, "nobody can either see or hear, unless they follow for the purpose. Pray what is it you wish me to do for you?" "You are a friend of Mr. De Vaux, are you not?" said the gipsy abruptly, stopping and turning round as Manners spoke. "As far as esteeming him highly, and desiring to serve him with all my heart, can make me so," answered Manners, now more particularly surprised, "I believe I may call myself his dear friend: but what if I be so?" "If you be really a friend of Mr. Edward de Vaux," said the gipsy, "you will not object to take a letter to him." "Why," answered Manners, "although I am not exactly either a private courier or a postman, yet if your request stops there, I can have no objection to do as you desire; reserving to myself, of course, the right of telling him where I got the letter, and the circumstances that attended my receiving it." "That you will do, if you please," replied the gipsy; "but the request does not stop there. There are conditions in regard to the delivery of the letter which you must observe, and that punctually." Manners smiled. "This is all very extraordinary," he said; "you speak in somewhat of a dictatorial tone, my good friend; and it is not easy for me to comprehend what business one of your class and nation can have with my friend De Vaux, so soon after his return from other lands." "Trouble not yourself with that, Colonel Manners," answered the gipsy; and then added, seeing that something like a cloud was gathering on his auditor's brow, "if I have offended you, sir, I am sorry: such was not my purpose; and, believe me, I may know what is due both to you and myself better than you think. You are the commander of one of the King of England's regiments, and I am a poor gipsy; but you come to make a request to me, for granting which--as every thing is barter or robbery in this world--for granting which I require something of you. So far we are as much equals as in the enjoyment of the free air, and yonder bright sunshine, and this piece of common ground. Whether there be any other difference between us, in point of higher or lower, God knows, and he alone. Thus, then, hear me patiently, while I tell you the conditions of my bargain; and afterward I will do your bidding concerning your future fortunes--whether you esteem my skill or not, being your business, and not mine, as you seek it without my offering it." "I believe you are right," replied Colonel Manners, beginning more fully to appreciate the character of him with whom he spoke; "go on, and let me hear your conditions in regard to the delivery of this letter, which is, I suppose, the object that you hold in your bosom." "It is not a pistol," said the gipsy, producing the letter. "I did not suppose that it was," replied Colonel Manners; "and had it been so, it would have been a matter of much indifference to me: but now for your conditions." "They are few and simple," answered the gipsy; "I require, or request, you to give this into Mr. De Vaux's own hand, and to choose a moment when he is not only alone, but when he is likely to have an opportunity of reading it in private; and though you may tell him when and how you received it, and add what comments you like, you must not indulge in the same tattle to other people; but must keep silence on all concerning it." "Your conditions are not very difficult," replied Colonel Manners; "I will undertake them. Give me the letter. Upon my honour," he added, seeing that Pharold hesitated, "I will do exactly as you have desired." The man gave him the letter, which was cleaner, neater, and, as far as the address went, better written than the hands from which it came would have led one to anticipate. The moment he had done so, Pharold uttered a long, loud whistle, which brought a little yellow urchin of ten years old to their side, as fast as a pair of bare feet could carry him. "Thou mayst go," said the gipsy; "and make haste." The boy set off like lightning on the road which led to the river, and the gipsy again turned to Colonel Manners. "Give me your hand, sir," he said. Colonel Manners did as he desired, smiling while he did so at a certain lurking feeling of the ridicule of his situation, which he could not repress. "If any of my old fellow-soldiers were to see me here," he thought, "taking counsel with a gipsy upon my future fate and prospects, they would certainly think Charles Manners mad." The gipsy, however, gazed seriously upon his hand, and then raised his eyes to the other's face, without the slightest expression in his own countenance which could raise a suspicion that he was seeking to play upon credulity. "Colonel Manners," said Pharold, "before I tell you what I read here, listen to me for one moment. Most people who come to us on such an errand smile as they give us their hand; some because they believe us thoroughly, and affect by a laugh to show they do not believe at all; while some, who really do not believe, smile out of vain conceit in their own superior strength of mind: but do you remember that this that we practise is, when properly practised, a science in which we have ourselves the most confident faith. We never inquire afterward whether what we have predicted has proved true or not, for we are always sure that it must do so: but, at all events, such confidence in our own knowledge cannot spring from nothing." Manners could have easily found a reply in favour of his own side of the question, but he did not think it worth while to argue logically upon chiromancy with a gipsy, although that gipsy might be somewhat superior to others of his tribe; and, therefore, without answering the arguments of Pharold, he remained in silence, while the other again turned a very steadfast glance upon his extended hand. "Colonel Manners," said the gipsy at length, "if I read right, you have been a fortunate man." "And, in some respects, an unfortunate one," rejoined his auditor, "though, in truth, I have no great reason to complain." "Far more fortunate than unfortunate," answered the gipsy. "Here are but three crosses in all your life as yet; two so near the beginning, that you could not have felt them; and one--a deep one--much more lately." Colonel Manners smiled. "In the past you are certainly not far wrong: but it is the future I wish to hear: what of it?" "You mock us, sir," said the gipsy, eying him. "However, you shall hear your fate as it is. You shall be fortunate and unfortunate." "That is the common lot of human nature," rejoined Colonel Manners. "But herein does your fate differ from the common lot of human nature," replied the gipsy: "you shall be no longer fortunate in those things wherein you have hitherto found success; for you shall do all that you think you will not do; and prosper where you neither hope nor strive." "That is certainly a strange fate," answered Manners; "for I have ever found that success is a coy goddess, who needs all our efforts to obtain her smiles, and even then gives them but sparingly." "It _is_ a strange fate, and yet, in some sense, it is not," answered the gipsy; "your painters rightly represent Fortune as a woman, though they might as well have left her eyes unbandaged; for it is neither new nor marvellous to see woman fly from those that pursue her, and cast herself into the arms of those who care not for her smiles. And yet the fate written on that hand is strange, too; for it speaks of fortunes as fair without effort, for the future, as those of the past have been rendered by toil and exertion. It is a strange fate; but, nevertheless it shall be yours: and now, forget not my words, but, when you find them verified, remember him that spoke them." "But are you going to tell me no more?" demanded Colonel Manners: "I would fain have you come a little more to particulars, my good friend. One can make but little of these broad generalities." "One can make nothing to laugh at," answered the gipsy, "and therefore I shall keep to them, though, perhaps, I could tell you more. Remember them, however, and, as you will soon find them true, lay them to your heart, sir, and let them teach you to believe, that a thing is not false because you do not understand it; that there may be truths without the range either of your knowledge or of your faculties--some that you cannot comprehend, because they have not been explained to you; and some that, if they were explained to you a thousand times, your mind is too narrow to conceive--and yet they are." "I wish, my good friend, that I could send you to converse with Voltaire," said Colonel Manners. "Who is he?" demanded Pharold; "I do not know him." "No," replied Manners; "I dare say not: but he is a famous wit, who dabbles in philosophy, and seems inclined to teach the world, by his example, if not by his precepts, that man should credit nothing that he cannot understand." "And what should I do with him'?" demanded the gipsy, frowning: "I think you are mocking me--is it not so?" "No, on my honour," replied Colonel Manners; "I am not mocking you. On the contrary, I think you a very extraordinary person, and fitted for a different station from that in which I find you. Whether you yourself believe that which you have told me concerning my future fortune, or not, I thank you for having gratified me; and, at all events, I have derived from your conversation more that I shall remember long, than I anticipated when I came here. Will you accept of that?" Colonel Manners offered him one of those beautiful golden pieces which are now, I fear me, lost to the world for ever, and which were then called guineas. But the gipsy put it away. "No," he said; "you have undertaken to fulfil my request, and I have complied with yours. We owe each other nothing, then. Farewell!" and, turning on his heel, he left Colonel Manners to descend the hill, thinking him more extraordinary than ever, from the last very ungipsy-like act, by which he had terminated their conversation. The sun was now much higher than when Manners had trod that path before; for, according to his usual custom, the gracious luminary seemed to have run more quickly at his first rising than he does after having climbed the steep hill of heaven; and the wayfarer began to think that he might be late at Mrs. Falkland's breakfast-table, where cold eggs and lukewarm coffee were the just punishments of those who linger long abed. As he had closed the park gate, however, and had not the key, he was obliged to go round and enter by the other side of the house; but this proceeding, at all events, tended to solve one mystery connected with his late interview. In the hall the first object he beheld was the little gipsy boy whom he had seen with Pharold on the hill; and he now found him in conversation with Mrs. Falkland herself, who appeared to be asking after some of the Egyptian fraternity who were ill. Old Peter stood behind, keeping a wary eye upon the boy, whom he justly considered a very promising élève in no inferior school of petty larceny; and as Colonel Manners approached, Mrs. Falkland terminated her inquiries, and made over her little companion to the care of the footman, with orders to give him something and send him away; an order, the latter part of which was complied with in a more summary manner than she anticipated, as soon as her back was turned. "Good-morning, Colonel Manners," she said, as they walked towards the breakfast-room; "you find me with a curious little companion: but the fact is, that, while you were all out walking yesterday, a poor gipsy woman accidentally fell down from the high bank close by the house, and was brought in here, completely stunned. The village apothecary was away; and, as I endeavour to enact my Lady Bountiful, I did what I could for the poor creature, who soon recovered. We had half a dozen of her tribe in the servant's hall, however; and, much to the butler's and Peter's surprise--and, I must confess, to my own also--when they went away, nothing was missing. According to a promise made by one of them, they have sent me down that little boy this morning to tell me that the poor woman is now quite well. I wished to have despatched the apothecary to her, and offered to do so as soon as he returned; but they seemed to have an invincible repugnance to all the professors of the healing art." "All people, I believe, who enjoy very good health," replied Colonel Manners, "feel the same towards the learned doctors--the very sight of one reminds us of losing one of the best blessings of Heaven. However, the meeting with that little gipsy gentleman here explains something which I might have made a mystery of, had I not heard your account of your yesterday's interview; for this morning I had a long conversation with a gipsy on the hill--a very singular person--who addressed me at once by name, and seemed perfectly well acquainted with my being at your house." "Oh, your servant was present yesterday," replied Mrs. Falkland, "and, with all the dexterity of an old soldier, gave us very great assistance in bringing the poor woman to herself. I remarked, too, that her gipsy companions did but little, and contented themselves with standing round, asking irrelevant questions of the servants, which, of course, in that temple of tittle-tattle, a servant's hall, they found somebody willing to answer; so that I dare say there was nothing supernatural in your name being known on the hill. But how came you, Colonel Manners," she added, with a smile, "how came you in such deep consultation with a gipsy at this hour of the morning? You surely have not been having your fortune told?" "I must plead guilty, I am afraid," replied Colonel Manners; "but if the fault be a very grievous one, I must lay the blame upon Miss Falkland, as it was under her special injunctions that I went." "Indeed!" said Mrs. Falkland; "and to answer what object?" "Oh, if you mean Miss Falkland's object, I really cannot tell," he replied; "and my object was certainly a very foolish one, but one that leads many a man to do a still more foolish thing: I mean, it was to prove that I was not afraid." "And pray, what was the result?" demanded Mrs. Falkland; but by this time they were at the breakfast-room door, and Colonel Manners declared that he would not communicate his fate to any one before he revealed it to Miss Falkland in general consistory. This he had soon an opportunity of doing: and the whole business was laughed at gayly enough. It is wonderful how light a little merriment soon makes every thing appear; and this is the reason why, in moments of mirth and cheerfulness, so many secrets are revealed that one would often give worlds to shut up again in the casket of one's own breast. Let wise diplomatists keep far from merriment; for a light laugh or a gay witticism, whose idle wings seemed hardly strong enough to flutter it across the table, has often taken a weighty secret on its back, and flown away with it, never to return. Now, the letter that the gipsy had given Colonel Manners for his friend he had believed might be of some importance, as long as he was alone; but every gay word that was spoken on the subject of gipsies and fortune-telling took away something from its weight in his estimation; and had he been only restrained by a sense of its importance, he might have delivered the letter before breakfast was over, and made a jest of it. It has never been said that Colonel Manners was perfect; and though his mind was strong, it certainly was not without a full share of human weaknesses. Colonel Manners, however, was restrained by something besides a sense of the letter's importance--he had given his word to deliver it in a particular manner; and, whatever else he might do in the way of frailties, he never forgot a promise, though, in the present instance, it was long ere he found an opportunity of fulfilling the one he had made the gipsy on the hill. CHAPTER VIII. Any one who has tried to speak with another for five minutes in private, without the pomp and circumstance of demanding an interview, will know that it is almost impossible to find the opportunity, unless the person be one's own wife. There is always something comes in the way just at the very moment--something unforeseen and unlikely,--especially if one be very anxious upon the subject. If the matter be of no importance, the opportunity presents itself at every turn; but if one be very, very desirous to unburden a full heart, or tell a tale of love, or give a valuable hint, or plead the cause of one's self, or any one else, without the freezing influence of a formal conference, one may wait hours and days--nay, weeks and months, sometimes--without finding five minutes open in the whole day. As soon as breakfast was over, Edward de Vaux followed Marian into the music-room; and when Marian left him, he came to tell his friend and Isadore that they proposed making a riding party to see something in the neighbourhood. Manners went up in his room to prepare; and, as he found himself on the stairs alone with De Vaux, he had his hand in his pocket to produce the letter, when Miss Falkland's step sounded close by them, and her voice invited her cousin to come with her, and see a little present she had bought for Marian's birthday. As soon as Manners was equipped for riding, he went to De Vaux's room, calculating--as he usually dressed in half the time that his friend expended on such exertions--that he would find him there: but no one was in the apartment but a servant, who told him that Mr. De Vaux had gone down. As he passed along one of the corridors, he saw De Vaux sauntering across the lawn towards the gates of the stable-yard; but ere he could catch him, his friend was surrounded by grooms and servants, receiving his orders concerning the horses; and as they turned again towards the house. Marian and Miss Falkland were standing in their riding dresses on the steps. "Well, I must wait," thought Manners, reflecting sagely on the difficulties of executing punctually even so simple a commission as that which he had undertaken. "Well, I must wait till we go to dress for dinner; then I am sure to find my opportunity." He was not destined, however, to remain burdened with his secret so long. The ride was pleasant, but did not extend far; and on the return of the party, while Manners and De Vaux stood looking at their boots in the hall, Miss Falkland and her cousin retired to change their dress, and the opportunity was not lost. "Now we are alone," said Manners, "let me execute a commission with which I am charged towards you, De Vaux, and which has teased me all the morning." "Not a challenge, I hope," replied the other; "for it seems a solemn embassy." "No, no, nothing of the kind," answered his friend; "but the fact is--" "Please, sir," said Colonel Manners' servant, opening the glass doors, "I believe the young mare is throwing out a splint; and I did not like to--" "Well, well," said Manners, somewhat impatiently, "I will come and see her myself, presently--I am engaged just now." The man withdrew; and resuming his discourse at the precise point where he had left off, Manners continued, "The fact is, that gipsy, of whom I was speaking this morning, charged me with a letter to you, which I promised to deliver in private, and when you were likely to be able to read it without interruption." "A gipsy!" said De Vaux, knitting his brows; "the circle of my acquaintance has extended itself farther than I thought, and in a class, also, equally beyond my wishes and anticipations: but are you sure there is no mistake? does he really mean me?" "There is the letter," replied Manners, "with your titles, _nomen and cognomen_, as clearly superscribed as ever I saw them written:--Captain the Honourable Edward de Vaux, with many et cæteras." "And in a good hand, and on tolerably clean paper," said De Vaux, taking the letter, and gazing on the back. "Why, this gipsy of yours must be a miracle, Manners." "He is a very extraordinary person, certainly," answered his companion, "both in his ideas and his deportment, which are equally above his class." "Nay, he must be a miracle--a complete miracle!" said De Vaux, laughing, "if he can mend kettles and write such an address as that, with the same good right hand. But this must be a begging letter." "I think not," replied Manners: "it would not surprise me to find that he knows more of you than you imagine; but, at all events, read the letter." De Vaux turned the letter, looked at the seal, which offered a very good impression, though one with which he was not acquainted, and then, tearing open the paper, read the contents. The very first words made his eye strain eagerly upon the page; a few lines more rendered him deadly pale; and though, as he went on, his agitation did not increase, yet the intensity of his gaze upon the sheet before him was not at all diminished; and when he had concluded it, after staring vacantly in his companion's face for a moment, he again turned to the letter, and read it attentively over once more. "I am afraid I have brought you evil tidings, De Vaux," said Colonel Manners, who had watched with some anxiety the changes upon the countenance of his friend: "if so, can I serve you? You know Charles Manners; and I need scarcely say how much pleasure it will give me to do any thing for you." "I must think, Manners--I must think," replied De Vaux: "these are strange tidings indeed, and vouched boldly too; but I doubt whether I have a right to communicate them to any one but the person they affect next to myself. However, I must think ere I act at all. Forgive me for not making you a sharer of them; and excuse me now, for I am much agitated, and hardly well." "Let me be no restraint upon you, De Vaux," answered his friend. "If I can serve you, tell me; if I can alleviate any thing you suffer by sympathy, let me share in what you feel; but do not suppose for a moment that I even desire to hear any thing that it may be proper to keep to your own bosom. Leave me now, without ceremony: but take care how you act, De Vaux; for I see there is matter of much importance in your mind; and you are, sometimes at least, in military affairs, a little hasty." "I will be as cool and thoughtful as yourself, my friend," replied De Vaux; "but I am agitated, and the best place for me is my own room." Thus saying, he left his friend, not a little surprised, indeed, that such a letter from such a person should have had the power to produce on the mind of a man like De Vaux the extreme agitation which he had just witnessed. De Vaux, he well knew, was not one to give credence to any thing lightly, or to yield to any slight feeling which a first impression might produce; but, in the present instance, it was evident that his friend had received a shock from some tidings which had been totally unexpected, but which must have been probable, as well as unpleasant, to produce such an effect. The extraordinary fact, however, that news of such importance should be left to the transmission of such a man as the gipsy--so separated by station, and state, and circumstances, from the person whom they concerned--was of course a matter of much astonishment to Colonel Manners; and surprise divided his bosom with anxiety and sympathy for his friend. It is a very disagreeable thing to have any two feelings thus making a shuttlecock of our attention; or, when they are very eager, struggling for it with mutual pertinacity; but the only way to act under such circumstances is, to treat them like two quarrelsome boys; and, shutting them up together, leave them to fight it out without interruption. Such was the plan which Colonel Manners now proposed to pursue; and, consequently, quitting the hall where his conversation with De Vaux had taken place, he walked straight to the library, and opened the door. What happened next was not without its importance; but as the mind may be at this moment more anxious concerning De Vaux than concerning his companion, we will follow him up the staircase as lightly as possible; enter his chamber, lay our hand upon his bosom, draw the curtain, and show the reader the scene within. But it may be as well first to look at that letter upon the table before which he is sitting, with his left hand upon his brow, and his right partly covering the sheet of paper which had so disturbed him. If one can draw it gently out from underneath his fingers, while his eyes are shut and his thoughts are busy, one may read what follows:-- "To Captain Edward de Vaux." Here, be it remarked, that there was a difference between the superscription and the address; the latter having borne, "To Captain the Honourable Edward de Vaux," while in the inside was merely written, "To Captain Edward de Vaux." The difference may appear insignificant; but, in the present instance, and with the commentary of the epistle itself thereon, it signifies a great deal. However, the letter went on:-- "_To Captain Edward de Vaux_. "Sir: I shall make no excuse for addressing you, as I am fully justified therein; and you yourself, however great the pain I may inflict upon you, will eventually admit that I am so. You are about, I understand, to unite your fate to a young lady of rank and fortune; and it is more than possible that mutual affection and mutual good feelings would render your union happy. Nevertheless, believing you to be a man of honour, I feel sure that you would not like to lead any one into such an alliance with expectations which are not alone doubtful, but fallacious. It is therefore necessary that you should know more precisely how you are situated; and I hesitate not to inform you, that on the title and estates held by your father you have no earthly right to calculate; that, should you marry Miss de Vaux, you bring with you nothing but your commission as a captain in the army; and that whatever you expect from your parent will most certainly go to another person. Your first conclusion--as a world in which there are so many villains is naturally suspicious--will be, that this letter is written either by some one who intends to set up some unjust claim to your rightful inheritance, by some disappointed suitor of your bride, or by some malevolent envier of another's happiness. Such, however, is not the fact. The person who writes this owes some gratitude to your family; not so much for what was accomplished, as for what your grandfather sought to accomplish in his favour. You may have heard the story--in which case you will give more credence to the present letter--or you may not have heard the story: but still, the way to satisfy yourself is open before you. Either resolve to question your father boldly concerning the points herein contained; or, if you would have the facts proved so that you cannot doubt them, come alone to the gipsies' tents, in the sand-pit on Morley Down, this evening or early to-morrow morning, and inquire for "Pharold." Now, under any ordinary circumstances, the only course which De Vaux would have pursued might have been, to twist up the paper into any strange and fanciful form that the whim of the moment suggested, and put it into the first fire he met with, giving it hardly a second thought. But there were circumstances totally distinct from, and independent of, the letter itself, which gave it a degree of importance far above that which it intrinsically possessed. Edward de Vaux, though he had a slight recollection of a dark-eyed, beautiful creature, whom in his infancy he had called mother, lost all remembrance of her at a particular period of his life, and had never since, that he knew of, heard her name mentioned. He passed, it is true, for Lord Dewry's legitimate son, was received as such in society, and admitted as such by his own family and relations. But, if so, how was it he had never seen a picture of his mother among those of his ancestors, and beside that of his father, which stood in the gallery, and represented him as a man of about thirty-five years of age?--How was it he had never heard his mother's jewels mentioned, though those of the two baronesses who had preceded her were often referred to? How was it that his aunt, Mrs. Falkland, as he inferred from many facts, had never seen his mother? How was it that his father had never spoken her name in his hearing? All this had often struck him as something very extraordinary; and a thousand minor circumstances, which cannot be here recapitulated, had shown him that there was some mystery in regard to his family, which had frequently given him pain. Since his return, however, something more had occurred: two or three words had been spoken by his father, during their dispute concerning Colonel Manners, which had startled him at the time with a suspicion which he had instantly banished, but which now came up again with fearful confirmation of the tidings he had just received. Lord Dewry had declared that he could be deprived of the entailed estates of the barony by a single word. At the time, that expression had but slightly alarmed him; for, well knowing the violence of his father's disposition, and the acts and words of almost insane vehemence to which any opposition would drive him, he had instantly concluded that it was a meaningless threat, spoken to punish him for the spirit of resistance he had displayed. But now it came back in its full force; and he asked himself, what could such words mean, if he were a legitimate child? The estates were entailed on the male heir; he himself was the only male heir in the present line; and if by birth he were the lawful son of Lord Dewry, no earthly power could deprive him of the lands of his forefathers. But his father, who had been educated for the bar before he succeeded to the title, had told him that a word would take them from him. A stranger now repeated the same tale, and pointed more directly to the same conclusion; and all his former recollections changed his bitter doubts into a terrible certainty. Edward de Vaux bent down his head upon his hands, and covered his eyes, with a feeling of shame and degradation that was hardly supportable. It was not alone one well of bitterness that was opened upon him; but, in whatever direction he turned his thoughts, new gall and wormwood was poured into his cup. If there had been aught on earth of which he had been proud--and, in that instance, his pride, though bridled and restrained by better feelings, had been great;--if there had been any thing on earth of which he had been proud, it had been of his clear descent from thirteen generations of noble ancestors. He had taken a delight, even from boyhood, in tracing the recorded history of each, and in proving that there had not been one, from the founder of the family to his own immediate parent, who had not been well deserving of the rank and station that they held in their native land. He had drawn from his noble birth the moral which noble birth should always afford; and had determined that he, too, would deserve the title that they had received for great deeds; that he, too, would transmit the jewel of hereditary virtue to his children as an heirloom, unimpaired in passing through his hands. He knew that, in the words of a great natural poet,-- "The rank is but the guinea's stamp-- The man's the gold for a' that;" and he felt that, to bear the name of noble, without being noble in his heart, was but to carry the die of value upon inferior metal, and pass upon society a base and worthless counterfeit. But all such thoughts, such remembrances, and aspirations were now at an end. He could no longer look back to mighty men amid his forefathers, for the world's law cut the link between him and them. He had no longer a proud name to keep up and adorn with noble actions, for he was an illegitimate son, who had unrightfully usurped the name and station which belonged not to him. His best support, his noblest designs, his most generous purposes, were cast down, and his heart was laid prostrate along with them. But this was not all: he was now a beggar! the estates were entailed, and descended with the title; and though his father lived in somewhat gloomy retirement, yet the state with which he had surrounded his solitude De Vaux well knew could have left little accumulation from the revenues of his property. Here, then, were new evils to be encountered. Accustomed to luxury, and ease, and plenty, without one thought of that sordid ore, the want of which cramps so many a noble spirit, and stifles so many a great design, he had lived free from one of the greatest burdens upon man. He had never been lavish or extravagant, for such was not a part of his nature; but he had been generous and liberal to others, as well as at ease himself; and now he felt that every expense must be measured and gauged by considerations of economy; that every guinea must be weighed and estimated before it was parted with; that he must look upon money in a light that he had never done before; that he must make it a continual object of thought; that his mind, like the traveller in the land of the Lilliputians, must be painfully pinioned down on every side by the irritating ties of petty cares; that his ease must be at an end, and his generosity cease. There was more, however, far more bitter kept mingling in the draught. Round the idea of one's mother the mind of man clings with fond affection. It is the first sweet, deep thought stamped upon our infant hearts, when yet soft and capable of receiving the most profound impressions, and all the after-feelings of the world are more or less light in comparison. I do not know that even in our old age we do not look back to that feeling as the sweetest we have known through life. Our passions and our wilfulness may lead us far from the object of our filial love; we learn even to pain her heart, to oppose her wishes, to violate her commands; we may become wild, headstrong, and angry at her counsels or her opposition; but when death has stilled her monitory voice, and nothing but calm memory remains to recapitulate her virtues and good deeds, affection, like a flower beaten to the ground by a past storm, raises up her head and smiles among the tears. Round that idea, as we have said, the mind clings with fond affection; and even when the early period of our loss forces memory to be silent, fancy takes the place of remembrance, and twines the image of our dead parent with a garland of graces, and beauties, and virtues, which we doubt not that she possessed. Thus had it been with De Vaux: he could just call to mind a face that had appeared to him very beautiful, and a few kind and tender words from the lips of her he had called mother; but he had fancied her all that was good, and gentle, and virtuous; and now that he was forced to look upon her as a fallen being, as one who had not only forgotten virtue herself, but, in sin, had brought him into the world, to degradation and shame, what could be his feelings towards her? Horrid! horrid is it to say, that the world should take unto itself that awful power claimed by Almighty Omniscience, of visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children, and of making the guiltless offspring more than share the punishment inflicted on the offending parent! But so De Vaux felt that the world does, and that, in his instance, it was not alone the usual contemptible sneer, or still more contemptible neglect, that he was destined to meet; but that he must expect all the venomous pity and malignant compassion which his fall, more than his situation, would excite, and which the hard and unfeeling beings of the earth affect to experience for those they wish most powerfully to depress. Such accumulated feelings were all bitter enough; but there was one more bitter still, more filled with agony and degradation. De Vaux, as we have seen, was engaged to a being full of beauty, and grace, and gentleness, by promises which united them to each other, not alone as persons of high rank and fortune, having found a fitting alliance; but as two people who had known each other from infancy, had grown up in affection, and had for many a year looked forward to their marriage as the means of securing to both the utmost degree of human happiness for life; as the binding on of a talisman, that would shut out from their domestic hearth all the evil things of earth. With De Vaux, these feelings, these anticipations, were even stronger. He loved Marian with the fullest, deepest, most passionate attachment. Towards her his heart was all fire and thrilling energy; and, though there were times when he somewhat doubted that her feelings were of as powerful a kind towards him, yet he believed that she loved him as much as she could love; and perhaps even her slight reserve made him love her the more ardently. The day for their marriage was already fixed; the bridal ornaments were all prepared; their future life had, in the conversation of that very day, been laid out before them as on a map, and Edward de Vaux had as much doubted, when he sprang from his horse, that Marian, in all her beauty, was to be his bride within three short weeks, as he doubted of his own existence. Now, however, what were his feelings?--now that his situation was changed in every particular,--that in fortune, and in station, he had fallen at once from the situation in which she had promised him her hand; and when he felt that he had no right to claim from Marian de Vaux the execution of a promise which she had made under different circumstances, and to which he believed that all her friends would, of course, be opposed, as soon as his real position became known? He felt that he had no right either to ask or to expect it; and the darkest image that presented itself to his mind was, the loss of her he loved, for ever. Nor did this image come before him vague and undefined, as a thing of remote possibility,--though even then the apprehension would have been terrible enough,--but, in his present state of despondency, it appeared as an undoubted and inevitable certainty--as a thing that must and would take place. He felt as if Marian were _already_ lost to him for ever, and the bright bubble of his happiness irreparably broken. He fancied, also,--he could not help imagining, that something like contempt would mingle in the pity that she felt for him. She was herself so pure,--delicacy, modesty, and virtue so characterized her every movement, and her every word,--that he tortured himself with believing that a part of the reprobation and scorn with which she must think of his mother, would fall upon himself. "She will look upon me as the child of vice," he thought; "she will see in me the offspring of guilt and shame, and will easily make up her mind to the separation. She is always so reasonable, and so willing to do what she considers right, at any sacrifice, that her mind will soon be tutored to forget Edward de Vaux. Were she of that warm, ardent, deep-feeling nature that casts fate and happiness upon one die, I might hope that she would still cling to me: but it is in vain thinking of it--I have no reason to hope it. She will follow the dictates of common sense and prudence, and abandon an alliance which all her friends would now oppose." Poor Marian! thus did her unhappy lover contrive to wring his own heart even with her very virtues. After thinking for at least an hour in gloomy silence, a faint hope crossed his mind, that he might have mistaken the import of the letter--that his apprehensions might have deceived him. Experience, gained from the consequences of our faults, almost always, sooner or later, gives us a vague, unsatisfactory consciousness that such things exist in our bosom; and Edward de Vaux did know that he was given to torment himself needlessly. He therefore read the letter over again, and read it carefully; but, on doing so, his first impression was but the more confirmed. "Yet it might be false," he thought; "the whole tale might be false, or might refer to something else, and be the mere blunder of some ignorant and presumptuous person." But then the remembrance of his father's words returned, and all that had before seemed strange regarding his mother came up before his mind; and he once more gave himself up to despair. What was to be done, became the next question. There was just a sufficient portion of doubt mingled with his feelings to hold him tortured in suspense, without being enough to approach the limit of hope. This state, of course, he could have borne no longer under any circumstances; but his situation in regard to Marian rendered it absolutely necessary that he should put an end to all doubt upon the business. And yet it was terrible, most terrible, to feel that it must be his own hand which tore away the veil that concealed the obstacles to his marriage--that it must be his own hand that cast away his happiness for ever. The thought might cross his mind of letting things take their course--of choosing to disbelieve the letter--of treating it with contempt, and of proceeding with Marian to the altar, to secure the blessing of her hand, at least, before the rest was snatched from him. But if it did cross his mind, it was but as the image of a thing that might be with some men, but could never be with him. It occupied not a moment's consideration--it left no trace behind it. To investigate the matter instantly, and to the bottom, became his determination; and, having done so, to make the result known to those interested, and at once place himself fearlessly in the situation which he had alone a right to fill. He did get that there might be circumstances in the story which he was about to hear which might render it necessary to conceal it from the public ear, in consideration for the feelings of his father, or of others. But to Marian, at least, the facts must be told; she was too deeply implicated in it all to be left in ignorance of what touched her whole future happiness; and De Vaux resolved that not only should she be told, but that no lips but his own should tell it, as he well knew how a few explicative words, or a well-turned round of phrases, may pervert a plain tale from its true meaning. "I will trust none," he thought; "and, whatever the truth may be, from my lips alone shall she first hear it." The course to be pursued in his investigation became the next question. Two were pointed out in the letter itself; but from the first, that of applying to his father, he shrank with irresistible repugnance. It was not alone that De Vaux, as is common--we might almost say universal--among men, possessed more physical than moral courage; that he feared the fierce and angry mood of his father, irritated as he had been by late opposition, and loved not to venture upon a discussion with him, which would rouse every dark and stormy passion into fiery activity; but he feared himself also: he feared that anguish and anger, and the haughty irritation with which he was sure to be encountered, might make him forget himself, and say words that no after-sorrow could recall. There might still be a doubt, too, upon even the very subject of his fears, and he felt that were those fears unfounded, his father might justly look upon it as little better than a gross personal insult, were he asked if he had passed his illegitimate son upon the world as legitimate, and promoted his union with the heiress of a large fortune, under the pretence of his being heir to an honourable name and great possessions. De Vaux might believe that such conduct was not impossible; he might also think that his father was not actuated in so doing by the mean and sordid views which, at first sight, seem the only motives assignable for such behaviour. Various circumstances might have occurred, in earlier years, to make his father acknowledge an unreal marriage with his mother; considerations for her feelings, or for his own respectability, might be among the rest. Once having said so, and spoken of himself as of a legitimate child, Edward de Vaux knew well that his father's proud and reserved nature might have made him ever after silent upon the subject, till explanation became almost impossible; and the deceit he had practised or permitted might have been rather the result of haughty reserve than of cunning artifice. De Vaux felt that, however, ere he presumed to insinuate to his father a bare suspicion of his having committed such an act, he must have much better information and clearer proof to justify the charge. When such evidence was once obtained, he might communicate the discovery he had made to Lord Dewry by letter, and thus avoid that painful collision which a personal discussion of the matter must induce; or, if he found that the evidence was faulty or inconclusive; that there was motive for suspicion against the person who tendered it, or that the whole was an interested calumny, he might lay it before his father, as an affair which required him to investigate the assertions, and punish the authors of them. The determination, therefore, was taken to visit the gipsy himself; and the only consideration that remained was, whether to go alone, or to ask Manners to accompany him. From the latter idea he shrank, as, in that case, he must have exposed to his friend doubts and apprehensions which were bitterly humiliating, and might even compromise the secrets of others, to whom his friend was a stranger, in a manner which he had no right to do. The letter, also, bade him come alone; and, on reading it over once more, everything tended to make him give credence both to the sincerity of the writer and the accuracy of the facts. He had a faint remembrance, too, of having heard the name of Pharold mentioned by his aunt, as connected with the early days of her family; and the fact of the writer having referred him, in the first instance, to his own father, tended to show that there existed no design against himself personally. Besides, De Vaux was not a man to entertain fears of any kind for his own safety; and, as he clearly saw that Manners was totally ignorant of the contents of the letter which he had brought him, he determined to go alone, and investigate the matter thoroughly. His next question to his own heart was, "and, in the meantime, what shall be my conduct towards Marian? How shall I behave while I expect and believe that a few more hours will alter our situation towards each other for ever, and render that conduct wrong which was perfectly consistent with our engagement towards each other? If I change my manner, she may think my affection cooled, and feel herself unkindly treated. But then," he thought again, bitterly enough, "but then that will but serve to smooth the way to the change which is ultimately to take place; and perhaps it had better be reached by some such intermediate step." The next moment, again, his wavering thoughts turned to the other side, and he demanded whether he had any right to give her one instant's pain more than necessary. The reply was ready:--"No, no! that were cruel and unkind indeed; and should I do so, and my fears prove false, my behaviour would necessarily, from all the circumstances of the case, remain unexplained--a dark blot upon my affection towards her. Yet, hereafter, if she should learn that such tidings have been in my possession,--that such doubts have been justly working in my mind,--will she not think it wrong, and even deceitful, of me to treat her as my promised bride, when I know that she never can be such?" What was to be done? De Vaux, according to the old scholastic term, had got himself between the horns of a dilemma; and we must pause for one moment, in order to inquire how far he was art and part in putting himself into that situation. It is wonderful, most wonderful, how people deceive themselves in this world, and how they go on arguing with themselves on both sides of the question for an hour together, affecting to be puzzled, and asking themselves what is to be done, when, from the very first, they have determined, in secret counsel, what to do; and all this logic and disquisition has solely been for the purpose of bewildering _reason_, or _duty_, or _conscience_, or any other of those personified qualities of the soul, which the great parliament of man's passions choose to look upon as _the public_, _the spectators_. Now, at that point of De Vaux's cogitations wherein he thought, and rejected the idea, of admitting Manners to his confidence in the matter before him, as is fully displayed three or four pages back, a fancy struck him, which instantly changed into a secret resolution, not to make Manners his confidant in the business, but to open his whole heart to Marian de Vaux; and although it needed scarcely any argument to prove that she, whose fate was the most strictly bound up with his own, whose affection he certainly possessed, and whose good sense he never doubted, was the person, of all others, in whom he ought to confide; yet, some idle cant that he had read in some foolish book, or heard from some foolish people, about the absurdity of trusting a woman; some silly sneer or insignificant jest, magnified into a bugbear through the mist of memory, had power enough to make him hide his own determination from himself; and, in the first instance, go the roundabout path we have traced, in order to prove that he had no other resource but to tell her the whole affair, ere he boldly admitted his resolution even to his own heart, and brought forward the true and upright motives on which it was founded. So weak is human nature! As soon as this was done, the matter was no longer difficult; all embarrassment in regard to his conduct was removed, and he felt that what was kindest and what was most affectionate, was also the most just and the most reasonable. Whatever was the truth of the assertions contained in the letter he had received, and to whatever facts it alluded, it pointed principally at his union with Marian, and the disparity of fortune and rank which the writer affirmed to exist between them. She, therefore, was a person principally concerned; and on her ultimate decision their fate must rest. De Vaux feared not that any loss of fortune could affect Marian's regard: he could not have loved her had he supposed it would; but he did fear that the stigma, which he believed might rest upon his birth, and which he himself felt as so deeply humiliating, might make a difference in her feelings; and, when backed by the counsel and arguments of some of her maternal relations, might make her resolves unfavourable to his hopes. But still, in telling her all, from the beginning, in concealing nothing, in acting at once affectionately and candidly, he felt that he was establishing the best claim to continued affection and esteem: he felt, too, that, if there had been deceit on any part, such conduct would be the best proof to all that he was as free as day from any participation in it, and that, whatever were the result, his honour and his name would be clear. His determination, therefore, was backed by every motive, but still it required great delicacy in executing it. It was necessary not to shock or to pain her--he loved too much to do so--and yet to be perfectly explicit. It was requisite to tell her all, and to leave her fully convinced of his unalterable love; yet perfectly free to form her own decision on her future conduct. The hour, too, and the manner, were matters for consideration, and he resolved not to delay, but let the communication be made immediately, and as a matter of importance. It would require time, however; and, as it was already late, he was obliged to make up his mind that the visit to the gipsy must take place on the following morning: he only paused, then, to recover his composure completely, and to think of the best method of telling Marian the whole, in such a manner as to give her the least pain, yet show his confidence and affection the most clearly. He accordingly sat still, and laid it out like the plan of a battle; but in this he was very wrong; as, by so doing, he naturally presented Marian to his fancy in the light of the enemy. The consequences were, that his own private little demon instantly saw his advantage, and, whispering in De Vaux's ear, made his irritable and irritated spirit believe that Marian would act in a thousand different ways, which he could not blame, yet did not like. The fiend, who well knows how to seize probabilities, took hold of every particular point in Marian's character which could give him any thing to cling to; and De Vaux saw, in the glass of fancy, her beautiful countenance looking upon him as calmly and as reasonably as ever, without a shade of agitation passing over its placid sweetness during the whole time that he, with difficulty, and hesitation, and agony of spirit, and humiliation of heart, was telling her all his anxieties and apprehensions. He saw, in the same magic glass, the very spot of the room where she would stand, and the fine easy line of her figure, all displaying perfect composure and graceful ease; and he heard the soft, sweet modulations of her voice, calm, gentle, but unaltered; and at length he thought, "I know perfectly what she will say when she hears it: she will declare that I am too hasty in my conclusions; that I must see the gipsy, or whatever he may be, and hear the whole of what he has to say; for that the matter is too important to be judged of hastily, and that when we know the whole, and have had time to consider, we can decide: or she will speak of consulting my aunt, or her great uncle Lord Westerham, or any other of those cold, disinterested people who can give proper advice upon the subject: and yet I do my aunt injustice; for though of a decided nature, she is not of a cold-hearted one." Thus, then, did he torment himself for some minutes, taking as much pains to make himself miserable as if there were not quite enough pain in this world without our seeking it. Nor did he stop here; but went on in the same train till he had almost wrought himself out of the determination of telling Marian at all, though he ultimately came back to his first resolution. It is not to be concealed that all this hesitation, and a great deal of this anguish, proceeded from his having fallen into the common error of giving the reins over to imagination, and believing that he had placed them safely in the hands of reason. Had he acted wisely, he would not have sat down to fancy any thing upon the subject at all, but he would have risen up, on the contrary, as soon as his resolution was taken, and, seeking out her he loved, would have told her all his doubts and fears, without thinking at all previously either of what he would say or what she would say. Nature, left alone to work her own way, in a thousand instances out of a thousand and one does it gracefully; but if one calls in to counsel her all the host of man's passions, prejudices, faults, and foibles--though judgment may be present too--yet, nine times out often, the multitude of counsellors, in this case, produces any thing but safety. Neither is there ever any use of long consideration in circumstances like those we have mentioned. What we will do always requires thought; how we will do it, seldom, if ever. Trust to your own heart, if you have a good one; and if it be bad, the sooner you hurry it through the business the better. It is equally vain thinking what we will say ourselves, for we are sure never to say it; and still more fruitless to fancy what other people will say, for we know nothing about it. De Vaux, however, was in some respects a curious compound of very different principles. With all his errors and with all his faults, he had a great deal of candour; and, however keen he might be in investigating and lashing the motives of other people, he was not half so strict an inquisitor into their failings as he was into his own. As a consequence of this, though the knowledge often lay dormant, he did know, as we have often before hinted, with extraordinary accuracy, all the turnings and windings, the intricacies and the absurdities of his own nature; and as soon as the rush of passions was over, his conscience--like the power of the law restored after a popular tumult--would mount the tribunal, and sit in judgment on his own heart. Often, too--like the same power exerting itself to repress anarchy--his better judgment would rise up against the crowd of wild images presented by an irritable fancy, and after a short struggle would regain its power. Thus, in the present instance he felt, after a while, that he was but anticipating more misery when he had already sufficient to endure; and, doing in the end what he ought to have done at first, he started up, and went to seek Marian, in order to give her the opportunity of letting her own conduct speak for itself. CHAPTER IX. De Vaux had calmed himself as much as he possibly could; and as he was not blessed with a face possessing that general expression of jocund felicity which is usually denominated a smiling countenance, whatever degree of gravity and care was left in his look at present excited no particular notice in the drawing-room, whither his steps were first directed. The party there assembled now consisted of Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, with Colonel Manners; and the latter alone saw that the agitation which he had beheld the gipsy's letter produce in his friend had ended in permanent distress. "Where is Marian?" said De Vaux, as he entered, not very much disappointed, perhaps, to find that she was not with the rest of the family; "where is Marian?--do you know, Isadore?" "I left her drawing in the little saloon at the other end of the house," replied Isadore; "but that was a full hour ago, Edward; and if she expected a gay knight or wandering troubadour to come and sooth her, either with his _gaie science_ or his _bien dire_, she may have left her solitude by this time in disappointment." De Vaux smiled somewhat bitterly, as he felt how much more painfully he had been employed than he would have been in the occupations to which Isadore referred; and, again leaving the drawing-room, he sped along the same passages which, with a light and bounding heart, he had often trod in search of her upon some joyous errand whom he now sought with feelings of care, anxiety, and sorrow. Marian was still where her cousin Isadore had left her; and though, perhaps, she did think that De Vaux might have found her out sooner, when he had no ostensible motive for being absent from the side of her he loved, yet, like a wise girl, she received him with as sweet a smile as if no such slight reproach had ever crossed her fancy. The next moment she rejoiced that she had done so; for the expression of anguish in her lover's eyes did not escape her, and she felt at once that, for whatever other occupation De Vaux had yielded the pleasure of her society, it was for no agreeable one. "Look at this drawing, Edward," she said, as he came in: "do you not think that I have made my hermit look very melancholy sitting on that rock?" "Not so melancholy as my thoughts, dear Marian," replied De Vaux, gazing over her shoulder, apparently at the drawing, but in truth hardly seeing a line that the paper contained; "not so melancholy as my thoughts." "And what has occurred to make them so, Edward?" she asked, turning round to read the answer in his face before his lips could reply. "Surely, I have a right to know, if any one has, what it is that makes you unhappy." "You have, dear Marian, you have," he replied; "and I have sought you out here to make you share in all I feel, though the task be a painful one. But come here, and sit with me on the sofa by the window, and I will tell you all." And, taking her by the hand, he led her on towards one of the windows that looked out over the park; for, however strange it may be, there are undoubtedly particular positions and particular situations in which one can tell a disagreeable story more easily than in others. Marian was alarmed, and she was agitated, too, within; for she suffered not her agitation to appear upon the surface when she could help it; and, as is very natural, she anxiously strove to arrive at some leading fact as quick as possible. "Something must have occurred very lately, Edward," she said, "for you were very gay and cheerful during our ride this morning. Have you heard any thing from your father to distress you?" "No, dearest girl," he answered, "I have heard nothing from him; but I have heard from some one else much that distresses me: but I had better show you what I have received, which will explain the matter more briefly than I could do." So saying, he placed the gipsy's letter in her hand. Marian took it, and read it through; but, as she knew none of the circumstances which tended in the mind of De Vaux to corroborate the doubts insinuated by the letter, she viewed its contents in a different light; and, returning it with a smile, she asked, "And is that all that has made you uneasy, Edward? But it is evidently all nonsense, my dear cousin. If that foolish man, who teased me so much two years ago, were not out of the country, I should think it was a plan of his to annoy you; but depend upon it, that this is the trick of some one who wishes to disturb our happiness. What have we to do with gipsies, Edward? and how could gipsies know any thing about you and me, unless they were instructed by somebody else? And if any person in our own rank had real information, they would of course bring it forward themselves, and not send it through a set of gipsies." "You argue well, Marian," answered De Vaux, "and I would fain believe that you argue rightly; but I am sorry to tell you that several things have previously occurred, which tend to confirm the assertions contained in this." Marian turned a little pale from anxiety for him she loved. "Tell me all, Edward," she said, "tell me all; I am sure you will conceal nothing from me." "Nothing that I know, indeed, Marian," he answered: "I came with the purpose of opening my whole thoughts to you; for you have every right, that either true love or our mutual situation can give you, to know every thing that I know. Well, then, my beloved, the fact which most completely tends to corroborate the assertions in this letter, occurred in a conversation between myself and my father yesterday morning. It was when he was angry in regard to his unfortunate quarrel with Manners and my opposition of the view he had taken: and he said sternly, and bitterly enough, that though the estates were entailed, I could be deprived of them by a word." "Indeed!" said Marian, thoughtfully, "indeed!" but the next moment she added, "No, no, Edward, it must have been said in a moment of passion, without reason, and without truth. Depend upon it, your father and my uncle would never have spoken about our marriage to me, and to all my mother's family, as he has often done, calling you somewhat particularly the heir of his titles and estates, if you were neither, as that letter says." "But yet the letter and his words confirm each other," said De Vaux: "they both tell the same tale, dear Marian. Many a true word is spoken in a moment of passion, that a man has concealed for years, and would give worlds afterward to recall. Besides, I think I have heard the name of this Pharold before: have you not heard my aunt speak of some gipsy boy that my grandfather wished to educate?" "Oh, no, not my aunt," answered Marian. "All that happened when she was very young, quite a child, I believe. It was poor Mrs. Dickinson, the old housekeeper, who used to tell us stories about that gipsy when we were children; and his name was Pharold, I think. She spoke of him as of a fine creature, but very wild." "You see, dear Marian," said De Vaux, with a gloomy smile, "everything tends to the same result. My father's words confirm the story of the gipsy, and what we know of the gipsy would show that he had some acquaintance with the history of our family." Marian mused: "It is very strange, Edward," she said at length, "and I suppose there must, indeed, be some foundation for all this. But yet I cannot understand it: if the estates are entailed, what is there on earth that can prevent your inheriting them? If the title goes to the sons, you must have it; and if it had gone to the daughters, I must have had it, you know, which would have been all the same thing. If you do believe this story, as I am afraid you do, tell me how it can be." Edward de Vaux paused; for he had never calculated upon going further, or being more explicit than he had been. He had thought it would be enough to explain that he was likely to lose the lands and honours of Dewry, and that Marian would naturally draw her own conclusion, and perceive the only cause which could produce such a result. Her question, therefore, embarrassed him, for he would willingly have sealed his lips upon his mother's shame; and, though he had felt himself bound to tell her all he was likely to lose, without concealment, yet he hesitated at revealing the most painful part of his own suspicions, till those suspicions had been rendered certainties. Marian saw him hesitate, and raising her beautiful eyes to his face, she said, "Edward, you have promised to tell me all, and you must make it all you think, as well as all you know." It was not to be resisted. "Well, beloved, well!" he said, "I will, though it is very, very terrible to do so; and, in truth, I hardly know how to do it. Marian, did you ever see my mother?" "No, Edward, never that I know of," she replied: "why do you ask?" "Did you ever hear my aunt speak of her?" continued De Vaux, without replying to her question. "Let me think," said Marian. "I believe I have: but no, I cannot remember that I ever did, now I reflect upon it: no, I never did." "Nor my father either?" asked De Vaux. "No, never; certainly never," answered Marian. "Well, then--" said De Vaux, and he paused abruptly, fixing his eyes upon her face. Instantly a colour of the deepest crimson rushed up over the whole countenance of Marian de Vaux, dying cheek, and neck, and forehead with the blush of generous shame--the shame that every pure, virtuous, inexperienced woman feels when the idea of vice in her own sex is suddenly brought before her. Edward de Vaux turned deadly pale, as he both perceived that Marian had now caught his meaning, and comprehended most painfully the feelings in which that bright blush arose. The shame that Marian felt for the degradation of her sex touched the most agonized spot in De Vaux's heart. All that hatred for vice, and scorn for the vicious, and the pity which comes near contempt, could produce in a woman's bosom, seemed to De Vaux expressed by that blush, and pointed, more or less directly, towards himself; and, as I have said, he turned very pale. The deep emotion that he felt overpowered him for an instant; but then he made a great exertion, and, rising from the sofa, "Marian," he said, "I have now told you all, even to my innermost thoughts; and I have but one word to add, my dear, dear cousin. Nearly three years ago, you assured me of your love, and promised me your hand; and every member of your family willingly consented to our ultimate union; but then I was the Honourable Edward de Vaux, the heir to one of the most ancient peerages in England, and to twenty thousand per annum. Things have now changed; and, if the assertions in this letter, and my own suspicions be correct, I am now a nameless, illegitimate beggar, without a right to any thing on earth but my sword and my reputation--with shame upon my mother's head--with nothing to claim from my father, and without even a name that I can offer you. Under these circumstances, though I shall love you to the last day of my life, and think of you through every moment in the whole course of time, I give you back your promise, I free you from all engagement, and leave you totally untied to a connection from which your friends will naturally be glad enough to separate you." He spoke calmly, slowly, and distinctly; but the deadly paleness of his countenance showed how deeply he was moved at heart; and Marian gazed upon him, with her long dark eyelashes raised high, her beautiful eyes full upon his face, and her lip slightly trembling while he went on. As soon as he had ceased, she rose from the sofa, and, with agitation and ardour, all unlike her usual calmness, cast herself at once upon his bosom, with her arms circling his neck, her lips pressed upon his cheek, and her tears falling rapidly upon him.--"Edward, Edward!" she cried, "I am yours--all yours! Could you--could you do such injustice to your own Marian? You have given me back my promise, and I here give it you again--so that, whatever comes, I may never hear from any one a single word against our union. Nay, nay, let me speak--it is seldom that I am vehement; but I must speak now--you have my promise, most solemnly, most strictly; and I consider myself as much bound to you as if I were your wife. Not only shall no other person upon earth ever have my hand, but, whatever happens, and whoever opposes it, you shall have it, when and where you choose to ask it." Need I say how tenderly he pressed her to his heart? Need I say how ardently, how sincerely he thanked her? But still there was some slight hesitation in his mind. He almost doubted that she fully appreciated his situation, and he felt that he could not receive such a promise as she had made till she comprehended all. He bade her think, then, of the whole; and conjured her to remember, that it was not alone the loss of name and station, but that, if his anticipations were correct, every thing like wealth, or even competence, would also be lost to him. But all Marian's reserve was now gone, and the long-restrained feelings of her heart flowed forth all together. "Nay, nay, Edward," she said, again seating herself on the sofa, without, however, withdrawing the small soft hand he held in his; "nay, nay, Edward, have I not enough for us both? enough to give us every comfort? Nay, every luxury that we ought to have we shall still possess; and why need we wish for more? Do you think that the coach-and-six, and the golden-coated coachman, and the three lackeys on the footboard ever entered into my calculations of happiness?" "No; but, dearest Marian," he replied, "it is only painful to me to think that I bring nothing to unite to your property. Your large fortune renders it only the more necessary that I should have one too--" "Hush, hush, hush!" cried Marian, eagerly: but still he went on: "I have to owe you every thing, Marian; love, and happiness, and rank, and station, and fortune too." "And will you, Edward, _you_ talk so proudly to Marian de Vaux?" she exclaimed. "Will you be too haughty to enjoy all the blessings that we possess, because it is Marian that gives them? Is not that which is mine yours? Has it not been so since we were children? Do not distress me, Edward, by one thought of such a kind. Indeed, I shall think you do not love me--that you are going to refuse my offered hand." "Oh, Marian, Marian!" he cried, kissing it a thousand times, while something very bright, and not unlike a tear, glittered in his eye. "I would not lose it for a thousand worlds! Distress you! dearest girl! I grieve to have distressed you for a moment; but I felt myself bound to tell you all." "Oh, that does not distress me at all," replied Marian; "the only thing that could distress me would be to see you grieve, or to think that you should make a difference, even in thought, between what is yours and what is mine. I declare, Edward, I never knew what it was to feel glad of a large fortune before; but now I am thankful, not only for what my mother left me, but for every shilling that my good old granduncle and guardian has scraped together for me, by his economy thereof. Three thousand a year, Edward--consider, we shall be as rich as princes; and if it had not been for that, this misfortune might have obliged us to wait on for many a year, till you had made a fortune in India, and very likely have lost your health, which no fortune could have compensated." Marian de Vaux spoke in a manner totally different from that which her cousin had seen her display for many a year. Her beautiful eyes were full of light and feeling; a smile, half-tender, half-playful, hovered over her lip, and her voice was full of eager kindness and thrilling affection. He had remembered her thus as a girl; but, as she had grown up towards womanhood, either the feelings which had animated her bosom with such a warm and enthusiastic glow had passed away, or the expression of them had been gradually suppressed. Now, again, she was all that he remembered her, and to see her so, plunged him into a sweet vision of the past--connected, though by some fine golden threads, with the present. He had seated himself on the sofa beside her, and, still holding her right hand in his, he had glided his left arm round her waist, and then, with his eyes fixed on a distant spot of the floor, he remained in silence for two or three moments after she had done speaking. Unless man were a cold unfeeling piece of ticking mechanism, like a watch, our measures of time would always be by our sensations: and as Marian had at that moment given way to all the eagerness of her heart, the two moments that Edward de Vaux remained in thought seemed to her an age. "What is the matter, Edward?" she said. "Are you still unhappy?" "No, my beloved," he answered, looking up in her face with a glance that fully confirmed his words,--"no, my beloved; I am most happy! so happy, indeed, that, were I placed as I was before, I would almost again undergo the pain which this discovery first caused me, to enjoy the delight which my Marian's conduct has bestowed." "And did you doubt what that conduct would be, Edward?" she demanded, half-reproachfully. Edward de Vaux coloured, and might have hesitated; for conscience, that bitter smiter, who always finds his time to apply the lash, now struck him severely for all those images which an irritable fancy had suggested concerning Marian's conduct. But she saved him the pain of a reply, which must either have been mortifying or insincere. "And did you doubt what my conduct would be?" she asked; and in the next moment she added, "But never mind, dear Edward; you see what it is, and do never doubt it again." "I will never doubt, as long as I live, my own beloved girl," he answered, ardently; "I will never doubt, as long as I live, that it will on every occasion be all that is good, and noble, and generous: but it was not that alone, my Marian, that made me so happy--so very, very happy." "What was it, then, dear Edward," she asked, in some surprise; for Marian, with all the quickness of a woman's perception, had noticed the passing colour that came into De Vaux's cheek; and knowing him, and all the little intricacies of his heart, better than he thought--better, perhaps, than she thought herself--she had instantly set down the blush to its right cause, and said, in her own heart, "Edward has been tormenting himself with fancies." Now, however, his words puzzled her, though a latent consciousness of having--in the urgency of the moment, and in the desire to sooth and render Edward patient under his misfortune--a latent consciousness of having given free course to feelings and enthusiasms which she had long held close prisoners in her bosom, made her now feel embarrassed in turn; and a bright warm blush, partly from curiosity, partly from that consciousness, mantled for a moment in her cheek. Edward de Vaux gazed upon her as she put her question with a smile, full of deep fond affection--with a sort of triumphant happiness, too, in his look that made her inclined, she knew not why, to hide her eyes upon his bosom, as she had done long ago, when first she had acknowledged to him the love that he had won, and witnessed the joy that it called up in his countenance. "I will tell you what it is, dearest," he answered, "that makes me now so happy, that I should have considered anything but yourself a light sacrifice to obtain such joy. It is, that the misfortune which has befallen me has called forth my beloved Marian's true and natural character, and shown her to me fully, as the same dear, excellent, feeling, enthusiastic girl that I have always pictured her to my own imagination--such as her feelings as a child gave promise that she would be--such as I remember her appearing constantly, not many years ago." Marian blushed, and looked down; and there was a swimming moisture in her eyes, which a little more might have caused to overflow in tears: but they would not have been unhappy ones. She felt-- But it is difficult to say what she felt. It was not that she felt detected, for that word would imply a shade of culpability which she did not feel; but she felt that she had betrayed herself--that a veil which she had cast over the true features of her mind, from many a deep and complicated motive, had been raised--had been snatched away, and could never be dropped effectually again. The effect which the raising of that veil had produced was all glad and gratifying, it is true; but still there was that fluttering emotion at her heart, which the disclosure of long-hidden feelings must always produce: she felt as if she had told her love for the first time over again; and she knew, too, that she might be called upon to assign motives, and give reasons, which would be difficult to explain, but which she determined not to withhold, for many a good and sufficient cause. But all this agitated her. She blushed, she almost trembled; and Edward de Vaux was but the more convinced, from the agitation which he beheld, that the concealment of her real character, and the repression of her finest feelings, had been a conscious and voluntary act on the part of her he loved. He became curious, as well he might be, to learn more; and, as Marian still sat silently beside him, he tried the tacit persuasion of a gentle kiss upon the blushing cheek, that almost touched his shoulder. She turned round towards him with a thoughtful smile; but, as she did not speak, he asked more boldly, "Why, Marian, why, dearest, after having given me your love, and promised me your hand, have you let that dear little heart play at hide and seek with me, till I have sometimes almost doubted whether it was my own?" "You should not have doubted that, De Vaux," Marian answered; "but if you really wish to know why I have somewhat changed my conduct since I was a girl, and why I have, in some degree, repressed feelings that I have not experienced the less warmly, I will let you into some of the secrets of a woman's heart; but you must promise me, Edward, never to abuse the trust," she added, smiling more gaily; "and you must promise, too, not to be angry with any thing I shall say." "Angry! angry with you, Marian!" said De Vaux; "do not believe such a thing possible." Marian smiled again, for there is often a sort of prophetic presentiment in the breast of woman, which teaches her that, however much she may rule and command the lover, the husband will not receive the power in vain; and, perhaps, it is this knowledge of the shortness of their reign which sometimes makes women abuse it a little while it lasts. Marian smiled again at De Vaux's words, and then replied, "Well, then, Edward, keep your part of the compact, and I will tell you all. You say I have changed very much since I was a girl; and that is but natural, Edward; for, depend upon it, every woman does change, if she feels and thinks at all deeply. As a girl, her words and her actions are all of but little importance in the eyes of those around her, or in her own, unless she be nourished in conceit and affectation from her cradle; and, during the first fifteen or sixteen years of her life, though she may be taught to act like a lady, yet she sees no reason for concealing anything she feels, or anything she thinks, if it be not likely to hurt the feelings of others. As she goes on towards womanhood, however, the world changes its conduct towards her, and she finds it necessary to change towards it. She learns to look upon trifles in her own conduct, and in the conduct of others towards her, as matters of importance: the world and society assume a different aspect she trembles lest she should say, or do, or feel what is wrong; and very often she expresses too little of what she feels, lest she should express too much. Then, too, Edward," continued Marian, with the colour which had partly left her cheek while she spoke coming richly up again, and spreading over her whole face, "then, too, Edward, if she learns to love, all those fears and apprehensions are a thousand-fold increased. She is terrified at her own sensations, and almost thinks it wrong and sacrilegious to suffer that one being by whom her affections are won to take that station in her heart, above all the rest of the world, which she has hitherto devoted solely to a being beyond the world. Perhaps before that time she may have longed to love and be beloved; but the first moment she feels that it is so--especially if it come upon her suddenly--depend upon it, her feelings are more or less those of terror." De Vaux smiled, but his hand pressed tenderly upon Marian's as he did so; and she felt it was as much a smile of thanks, as if he had accompanied it with words of ever so much gratitude for the picture of her feelings that she had given him. She paused, however, for she was coming to matter which she feared might not please him so well; and his thoughts turning, too, in the same direction, he said, after waiting for a few moments to see if she would go on, "But, dear Marian, this happens to every woman without producing such a change as I have seen in you; and besides, what I have seen to-day, Marian, has shown me fully that there has been some more distinct and individual motive. Tell it me, Marian, tell it me, my beloved; and, believe me, I will not abuse your confidence." "Nor be angry?" she said, smiling again. "Remember, that it is a principal part of our agreement. Well, then, I will go on. When first we were engaged to each other, Edward, my chief thought--as, indeed, it ever has been since--was how to make the man I loved most completely happy, as far as my own conduct was concerned; and I was reading at that time a very clever book, which recommended women, on their marriage, to study, not alone the general character of their husband, but all his individual opinions and thoughts, in order to make their own behaviour completely conformable thereto; it asserted, also, that such was the surest way of winning happiness for both. I believed it, and resolved to try to follow the advice even before marriage. I listened to every thing you said, concerning the conduct of other women that we knew, with a determination of trying to acquire the qualities that you praised, and to avoid all that you blamed." "But, good God! my dearest Marian!" exclaimed Edward, warmly, "surely I did not blame them for suffering the beauties or the excellences of their natural characters to appear, nor praise them for assuming a coldness that was the most opposed to the general warmth of their nature?" "Not exactly, Edward," replied Marian; "but I will tell you what you did, which came much to the same purpose. Though whatever I did seemed to give you pleasure, yet, when you spoke of any of our acquaintance, you were so severe upon what appeared to me very slight mistakes in their demeanour; you were so rigid in your ideas of what was right in general behaviour; you even once censured so heavily a display, rather too open, of attachment to her husband, on the part of a lady whom we both knew, that I began to find that your opinions on such subjects were very nice indeed: and knowing," added Marian, with a smile, which De Vaux felt fully, "and knowing that my lover, with these nice opinions, was peculiarly sensitive to every thing that he thought could draw the slightest degree of ridicule upon him or his, I determined so to school my own conduct, and to repress the expression of my own feelings, as to ensure his heart against the slightest annoyance, concerning a word, or a movement, or a look of his wife." Marian paused, and Edward de Vaux, with his eyes bent upon the ground, remained silent for two or three minutes, till she became alarmed. "You promised me, Edward," she said, "not to be angry." "Not to be angry with you, my beloved girl," he said; "but I did not promise not to be angry with myself; and well, well do I deserve it." "Nay, nor must you be angry with yourself either, Edward," replied Marian; "if you are, I shall still think some of it lights upon me. If, in seeking the means of rendering you happy, I have made you unhappy, I shall meet with punishment instead of reward." "Dearest Marian," answered De Vaux, "it were vain to deny it. I have been a fastidious fool hitherto; and, like the other sneerers of this world, have been seeking the mote in my brother's eye, while I have forgot the beam in my own. But henceforth I will take example by you, dearest Marian, and so school my own heart as to get over that feeling of the ridiculous in others, and terror for it in myself, which I now find and believe to be a vice and not a quality." Marian shook her head with a doubtful smile, as if she would have said, "It is in your nature, Edward." "I will, indeed, Marian," he continued; "and you shall see what a strong resolution can do even with Edward de Vaux. But you must promise me in return, dearest, to reward my efforts, by casting off the reserve that my foolish fastidiousness has drawn over you. The qualities of my Marian's heart and mind are too beautiful to be hidden beneath such a veil." Marian smiled again, but looked a little thoughtful, for she felt that the task her lover would impose was no easy one. "I will do my best, Edward," she said; "but it must be by degrees. In the first place, all the world would think me mad, if I were to change suddenly from the quiet still-life demeanour of Marian de Vaux, and take up the gay, lively, enthusiastic character of Isadore Falkland; and, in the next place, it would be impossible, for I have now been training myself to this behaviour so long, that it has become quite habitual to me; and, whatever are the emotions that I feel at heart, my first effort--even before I know I am making one--is to keep those emotions from appearing. Sometimes, indeed," she added, laughing, "they break through all restraint, as they have done today; but that is only on great occasions. However, I will do my best to change back again; and, perhaps, as I have overdone the quiet and composed, I may find the happy medium, in returning to my old thoughtlessness. But, in the mean time, Edward, never you be deceived in regard to what I feel. You have seen the veil, as you call it, cast away; and you know entirely what is beneath it." "A thousand, thousand thanks, for letting me see it, Marian," he replied: "but I can never thank you enough, my beloved, for all that you have done this day--for showing me your heart, and for giving me a glimpse, too, of my own." "But I owe you thanks, too, Edward--deep and many thanks," replied Marian, "for the generous candour of your conduct; and for not shrinking, even for a moment, from making me a sharer in your thoughts and feelings, however painful they might be to communicate. And oh, Edward, let me entreat you ever to pursue the same course hereafter. Let me be the sharer of all your thoughts; let me hear every thing painful or to be feared, from your own lips, and the tale will loose half its bitterness; and I promise you that, if I cannot assist you with advice and support, I will not embarrass you by womanly fear, or weak irresolution." "I will, Marian, I will!" replied De Vaux; "for I can contemplate no case in which what I had to communicate would combine half so many sources of pain and anxiety as that which is just past: and now, dearest, then, give me your advice in regard to the course I ought to pursue in investigating this very painful business." "Do you not think, Edward," said Marian, "that you had better not investigate it at all? If, by letting it rest, and treating this information with contempt, you were likely to injure any one, of course I should say, sift it to the last grain. But it seems that these people, whoever they are, that send you such disagreeable tidings, hold out our approaching marriage as the only motive for your enquiry farther; and, as you have told me the whole without reserve, and I am perfectly satisfied, I see no reason why you should trouble yourself further about it. If you are to lose the titles and estates of your father on any pretext, let the gipsies send their information to the person who is to benefit by your loss. I would think no more of it." De Vaux shook his head, for his vivid imagination and excitable nature did not fit him for sitting down quietly under such a load of suspense. "No, no, Marian!" he said; "I could not bear such uncertainty; I should not know an hour's peace, and whenever a letter was put into my hand, whenever a stranger desired to speak with me, I should dread some evil tidings. Investigate thoroughly I must. If I find these insinuations false, my peace will be established on a surer rock than ever; and my disposition may not be the worse for the ordeal I have undergone, and the lessons I have received. If my fears prove just, and these tidings true, I think, dear Marian--I think," and he drew her nearer to his heart--"I think that, with the assurance of such love as yours, I can see all the rest that was bright in my lot pass away from me without a sigh." Marian's heart was relieved, for she had doubted how Edward de Vaux would endure the certainty which might soon be forced upon him, of the severe reverses which were yet unconfirmed. She had doubted, and, with all the skilful tenderness of a woman's heart, she had at once perceived that the most open assurances of her own love were the surest antidotes that she could offer him against the evils of the day. She had acted, it is true, by impulse; but there is always some rapidly operating motive even at the bottom of impulse itself, which, nine times out of ten, works with wonderful sagacity. There are many moments in the life of man, when his boasted reason, which is but a slow and considerate personage, has not time to act, and when, if there were no power but this same reason to save us from drowning, we might drown beyond redemption for anything that reason would do to help us; but God, who gives their never-failing instinct to the beasts, does not leave man without resource in those moments when haste, and need, and apprehension render him little better than a judgment-less animal, and has afforded him also a kind of instinct, a power which only acts on sudden emergencies, when reason has not time; which power we call impulse, but which is neither more nor less than the instinct of a hurry. Marian de Vaux had, in the first instance, acted on impulse, but as she went on, finding that impulse was quite right, and that the only means to sooth and to strengthen her lover under his misfortunes, was to let him see throughout the full extent of her love for him, she cast away, as we have seen, every reserve, and showed Edward de Vaux that he could but lose little, whatever he lost, compared with that inestimable affection which was still his own. Marian's heart was relieved by perceiving that her conduct had been successful, and that De Vaux was nerved against the worst; and, as she had no particular taste for suspense herself, any more than he had, she now recalled her words, and advised him, if his feelings were such as he expressed, to pursue the investigation at once. "That, Marian, for all our sakes and on every account, I must do," he replied; "but the only question with me is, in which way had I better follow the inquiry. Here are two courses pointed out in this letter,--to apply at once to my father; or, in the first place, to visit this gipsy, and to ascertain precisely what information he possesses. I have already considered, and believe that the latter course would be the best; but my Marian has every right to guide me." "Oh! do not go to the gipsy," cried Marian on the first impulse; but impulse was wrong in this instance, and Marian soon found that it was so. Edward himself paused, and thought over the matter again; but, on consideration, Marian remembered many an objection to the plan of seeking information from Lord Dewry himself. She knew his haughtiness and his violence, and she knew, too, that De Vaux, tingling under a sense of degradation, and feeling that such degradation was attributable to his father, was in no state of mind to submit to the proud and insulting tone Lord Dewry too often employed, or to speak calmly and dispassionately upon a subject, in regard to which his whole heart was bleeding, and every better feeling deeply wounded. She dreaded the collision which might ensue between the two, and she thought it also very probable that Lord Dewry might refuse all information on the subject. "I am afraid I am wrong, Edward," she said at length; "I have a dread of those gipsies,--I do not know why; but still, perhaps, you should be more sure that such insinuations as these are not mere calumny, before you speak to your father about it." "That is true, my love," replied De Vaux; "and, besides, I have just remembered that if I wish to have the gipsy's information at all, I must have it before I see my father. He here in this letter tells me to come either this evening or to-morrow early. Now, it is too late to go to my father this evening, and before I could be back, if I went over to-morrow, the time would be expired and the gipsy gone. I think my best plan will be, to go early to the gipsy camp to-morrow morning, hear all the man has to say, and then, if necessary, I can ride over to the hall and speak with my father ere he goes out." "Yes, I doubt not that such is the best course," replied Marian; "but for God's sake, Edward, take care of those gipsies. They are, I believe, a terrible race of savages; and you told me that this was a large encampment which you saw in the wood. They might murder you, Edward, for your purse or your watch." "Oh, no fear, no fear, dearest!" replied De Vaux; "you see they never attempted to murder Manners today, though he was there at five or six in the morning, and his purse is likely to be much better filled than mine; and as they knew him, and know me, they must know also that his fortune is larger than mine ever will be." "But they may have some motive of revenge against you, Edward," repeated Marian, contriving to increase her fears most wonderfully by thinking over them: "they have evidently some greater knowledge of our situation, and some deeper motive for their conduct, than is apparent; and may they not wish to entrap you for some purpose of revenge?" "I never injured one of them by word or deed, Marian," replied De Vaux; "and if you will consider for a moment, dearest, you will see that they can have no evil intention, at least, towards my person. In the first place, they sent the letter by Manners, and therefore must feel assured that other people will know of my visiting their encampment; and in the next place, this man, this Pharold, leaves the matter open to me to come to him, or to speak with my father on the subject. Had they any design against me, they would have contrived to convey the letter to me secretly, and would have taken care to tell me that I could get the information they offer nowhere but from themselves. Besides, they cannot be sure that I may not make the whole matter public, and come up with half a dozen companions." This reasoning calmed Marian de Vaux not a little; but still she was fearful, and could not banish from her mind a kind of foreboding that evil would come of Edward's visit to the gipsy. She knew, however, what absurd things forebodings are; and she felt how natural it was to be anxious and apprehensive for an object in which all her affections centred, the moment that a situation of danger presented itself, without seeking for any supernatural inspirations to justify her fears. At every reported movement of the armies during her lover's absence, she had too often felt the same alarm to give any great weight now to the fear she experienced, against the voice of reason and conviction; and seeing that De Vaux had every probability on his side of the argument, she ceased to oppose him by a word. "At all events, Edward," she said, "for my sake, do not go unarmed: that precaution cannot be very burdensome." "Certainly not," replied he, "and I will take my pistols with me, with all my heart, as well as my sword, if it will give you the slightest pleasure, Marian; though I am sure, my beloved, I shall have to use neither." "Well, you shall do it for my sake, Edward," said Marian; "and I think that to know it is so will lighten the weight upon you." De Vaux's answer was the precise one which any other man would have made in the same situation; and some further conversation ensued of no great import, in the course of which Marian proposed to her cousin to make Colonel Manners the companion of his expedition. She understood fully, however, the objections which, in reply, he urged against imparting to any one but herself a suspicion which so materially affected his station in society, his fortune, and even his happiness; and those objections having been stated to the reader before, it may be unnecessary to repeat them here. Suffice it to say, that their conversation continued so long that Marian's toilet for the dinner-table was far more hurried than her maid approved. Marian, however, safe in beauty and secure in love, felt that she could go down to dinner, even if a curl or two did stray from its right place; and there was something in her heart that made her never regret the moments given to Edward de Vaux. CHAPTER X. We left Colonel Charles Manners standing at the library door, with his hand upon the great brazen ball, embossed with sundry figures, which served as the handle to the lock. It may be remembered that Colonel Manners, being somewhat troubled with the internal contention between feeling for his friend's uneasiness and wonder for its cause, was seeking an empty room to let those two emotions calm themselves; but when he turned the above brazen ball, and the door opened to his will, he found that he had been mistaken in looking for solitude there; for the first things he saw were, a very beautiful face and a pair of bright gay eyes looking up at him from the other side of the little table on the left hand, with the hat and feathers, which it was then customary for ladies to wear in riding, thrown somewhat back from the forehead, so as to show the whole countenance of Isadore Falkland, raising her face with a look of half-laughing vexation, as if asking, "Who is about to disturb me now, when I came here in search of solitude?" The interpretation of the expression was so self-evident that Colonel Manners paused with a smile; and Isadore, finding that her face had told the truth somewhat too plainly, laughed, and begged him to come in. "Nay, Miss Falkland," said Manners, "I will not disturb you. Your look, I can assure you, said, _Not at home!_ as plain as those words ever were spoken." And he took a step back, as if to withdraw. "The servant made a mistake, then," replied Isadore; "I did not bid him say, 'Not at home' to Colonel Manners. But the truth is, I am endeavouring to compose my mind." "Indeed!" he exclaimed, in some surprise; "I am very sorry to hear that any thing has occurred to agitate it." "And can you say so, Colonel Manners?" asked Isadore laughing, "when you, yourself, were art and part in the deed?" Manners was still more surprised; but, as he saw that the agitation of which Miss Falkland complained was of no very serious nature, it only affected him so far as to bring him two steps farther into the room. "If I am one of the culprits," he said, approaching nearer the table, where Isadore sat enjoying his astonishment,--for hers was one of those light and happy hearts that can win a drop of honey from every flower, however small,--"if I am one of the culprits, I claim the right of an Englishman to hear the charge fairly read, Miss Falkland. Otherwise I refuse to plead." "Well, then, Colonel Manners," she replied, "you stand arraigned of having galloped as fast, when riding with two ladies, as if you had been at the head of your regiment; and of being art and part with Edward de Vaux in shaking the little brains possessed by one Isadore Falkland out of their proper place. The truth is," she added more seriously, "that after riding very fast, my ideas, which are never in a very composed and tranquil state, get into such a whirl, that I am always obliged to come and read some good book for a quarter of an hour ere I dare venture into rational society. Do you feel the same, Colonel Manners?" "Not exactly," answered Manners smiling, "but I rather fancy that I am more accustomed to galloping than you are, Miss Falkland; and that had you been as much used to that exercise as I have been, during eighteen years' service, you would find your ideas quite as clear, after the longest gallop that ever was ridden, as they were before you set out." By this time Colonel Manners had so far carried on his approaches that he was in the midst of the library, the door shut behind him; and a sofa in the window--not very far from Miss Falkland's left hand, with two or three books upon a console hard by--within one step of his position. What Isadore rejoined to his reply matters little. It was just sufficient to seat him on the sofa, with a book in his hand, which he had not the slightest intention of reading; and a conversation began, which, though it had no particular tendency, and was of no particular import, stretched itself over full three quarters of an hour. It was, however, one of those conversations which are the most pleasant that it is possible to imagine--one of those conversations, when an intelligent man and an intelligent woman sit down, without the intention of talking about any thing in particular, and end by talking of every thing under the sun. They must, however, feel convinced, like Isadore and Colonel Manners, that there is not the slightest chance on earth of their falling in love with each other; for the least drop of love, or any thing like it, changes the whole essence of the thing, and it is no longer conversation. But Isadore and Colonel Manners never dreamt of such a thing; and went on, letting subject run into subject, and thought follow thought, as they liked--not like a regiment of infantry, indeed, advancing in single file, one behind the other, with measured step and stiff demeanour, but like a bevy of rosy children rushing from a school-room door, sometimes one at a time, sometimes two or three linked hand in hand together, sometimes half a dozen in a crowd tumbling over one another's shoulders. Thus ran on their ideas, gaily, lightly, of every variety of face and complexion, without ceremony and without restraint. It is true it required some activity to keep up the game with spirit, for both were rapid; and Isadore, when she could not easily express herself in one way, often took another, more fanciful and flowery, so that had not Manners's wit been as agile as her own he might often have been left behind. The moments flew rapidly till, as we have said, three quarters of an hour had passed, as it were a minute; and neither Colonel Manners nor Isadore Falkland would have known that it had passed at all, had not a clock struck in the hall hard by, and Isadore suddenly thought that _somebody_--that great bugbear _somebody_--might deem it strange that she sat talking to Colonel Manners alone in the library, while the rest of the family were probably in the drawing-room. She now remembered, also, that she had still her riding-habit to change; and having by this time quite forgotten that Colonel Manners was an ugly man, she made the alteration of her dress an excuse to leave him, though, to speak truth, she broke off their conversation with regret, and felt inclined to look upon the moments she had thus spent as one of the pleasantest things she had yet met with in the garland of time--that garland which begins in buds and blossoms, and ends in blighted flowers and withered leaves. Manners, for his part,--though he had from the first thought her a very beautiful girl, and a very charming one, too,--had by this time determined that she was possessed of many a more admirable quality of mind and grace of person than he had even believed before; and an involuntary sigh, which broke from his lips when she left him taught him, to feel that it was as well, upon the whole, that he was so soon to take his departure. It was a part of his policy never to encourage regrets in regard to a state of life which he had made up his mind could not be his; and he found that to live long in the same house with Isadore Falkland might cultivate those regrets much more than was desirable. When she was gone, he thought for a moment over what had just passed, gave another moment to memories of the long gone, spent two or three more in trifling with the book he held in his hand, and then, after changing his boots in his own room, proceeded to the drawing-room. Mrs. Falkland was now there alone, but it was not long before Isadore again appeared; and, in a few minutes after, De Vaux, as we have before shown, entered the room for a single instant to enquire for Marian. Neither his aunt nor his cousin perceived that any thing had occurred to disturb his equanimity; but the eyes of his friend, quickened perhaps by what he already knew, discovered without difficulty that the pain which had been given him by the letter he had himself delivered was not at all diminished by reflection; and although he felt that he could ask no questions, he was not a little anxious for the result. Some time passed, ere it was necessary to dress for dinner, Without any thing of importance, either in word or deed, occurring in the drawing-room, except inasmuch as Mrs. Falkland informed Colonel Manners that a lady was to dine with them on that day who had also enjoyed the advantage of his mother's acquaintance in her youth. Isadore pronounced her a foolish, tiresome woman; and Manners, on hearing her name, said he had met her some years before, but did not venture to dissent from Miss Falkland's opinion. Mrs. Falkland smiled, and tacitly acknowledged that her own judgment of the good lady's qualities was not very different, by saying that she had merely invited her because she knew that she would feel hurt were she to hear that Colonel Manners had been long at Morley House without her having seen him. "And I never wish to hurt people's feelings, Colonel Manners," she added, "unless when it is very necessary indeed." "It is never worth while, my dear madam," replied Manners; "and I believe that, with a little sacrifice of our comfort, without any sacrifice of sincerity, we can always avoid it, however disagreeable people may be." Manners was in the drawing-room amongst the first after dressing, and he looked with some degree of anxiety for the appearance of De Vaux, in order to see whether the tidings he had received still continued to affect him so strongly. But when De Vaux came in his manner had wholly changed. His conversation with Marian had had the effect which such a conversation might be expected to have. The recollection of it, too, as a whole, while he had been dressing, had done as much as the conversation itself. It had shown him a sweet and consoling result, unmingled with any of the painful feelings, to which all he had himself been called upon to communicate, had given rise in his own breast. The gipsy's letter, and the suspicions which it called up, had shaken and agitated him, had taken away the foundations from the hopes and expectations of his whole life; but that which had past between him and her he loved had re-established all, and fixed the hopes of future happiness on a surer and a nobler basis than ever. He trod with a firmer, ay, and with a prouder, step, than when he had fancied himself the heir of broad lands and lordships; and when Marian herself soon after entered the room, his face lighted up with a happy glow, like the top of some high hill when it receives the first rays of the morning sun. Marian herself, too, blushed as she appeared, for all the display of her heart's inmost feelings, which she had that morning made to her lover's eyes, had left a consciousness about her heart--a slight but tremulous agitation, which brought the warm blood glowing into her cheek. There was nothing like unhappiness, however, left in the countenance of either; and Manners became satisfied, that whatever had been the contents of the gipsy's letter, the evil effects thereof were passing away. The Lady Barbara Simpson at length arrived with her husband in her train, and was most tiresomely pleased to see Colonel Manners. She was a worthy dame in the plenitude of ten lustres, in corporeal qualities heavy, and in intellectual ones certainly not light. Vulgarity is, unfortunately, to be found in every rank,--_unfortunately_, because, where found in high rank, in which every means and appliance is at hand to remedy it, its appearance argues vulgarity of mind, to which the coarseness of the peasant is comparatively grace. Now Lady Barbara Simpson was of the vulgar great; and, though the blood of all the Howards might have flowed in her veins, the pure and honourable stream would have been choked up by the mental mud of her nature. In her youth, no sum or labour had been spared to ornament her mind with those accomplishments and graces which are common in her class; and as music and drawing, and a knowledge of languages, are things which, to a certain degree, may be hung on like a necklace or a bracelet, the mind of Lady Barbara was perfectly well dressed before her parents had done with her education. But nothing could make the mind itself any thing but what it was; and the load of accomplishments, which masters of all kinds strove hard to bestow, rested upon it, like jewels on an ugly person, fine things seen to a disadvantage. The want of consideration for other people's feelings, or rather the want of that peculiar delicacy of sensation called _tact_, which teaches rapidly to understand what other people's feelings are, she fancied a positive, instead of a negative, quality, and called it in her own mind ease and good-humour; and thus, though she certainly was a good-tempered woman, her coarseness of feeling and comprehension rendered her ten times more annoying to every one near her than if she had been as malevolent as Tisiphone. During dinner, Manners felt as if he were sitting next to somebody clothed in hair-cloth, which caught his dress at every turn, and scrubbed him whenever he touched it; and his comfort was not greatly increased by finding himself an object of great attention and patronage to Lady Barbara. Opposite to him sat Isadore Falkland; and, though it was certainly a great relief to look in so fair a face, yet there was in it an expression of amused pity for Lady Barbara's martyr that was a little teasing. Her Ladyship first descanted enthusiastically upon the beauty of Colonel Manners's mother and called upon Mrs. Falkland to vouch how very lovely she was. Mrs. Falkland assented as briefly as possible; and Lady Barbara then took wine with Colonel Manners, and declared that there was not the slightest resemblance between him and his mother, examining every feature in his face as she did so to make herself sure of the fact. At this point of the proceedings Manners was more amused than annoyed; for his own ugliness was no secret to himself, and he therefore knew well that it could be no secret to others. He laughed then at her Ladyship's scrutiny, and replied, "I was once considered very like my mother, Lady Barbara; but whatever resemblance I did possess was carried away by my enemy the small-pox." "Oh yes," she cried in return, "a dreadful disease that! Shocking the ravages it sometimes makes! I see you must have had it very bad." "Very bad, indeed, Lady Barbara," replied Colonel Manners with a laughing glance towards Miss Falkland; "and, what is worse, I had it at that period of life when one has just learned to value good looks, without having learned to despise them." "Oh, terrible!" exclaimed Lady Barbara, really commiserating him; "it must have made a terrible change in you, indeed. Dear me, what a pity!" Marian de Vaux was pained for Colonel Manners, and she now interposed with a few words, endeavouring to change the subject; but Lady Barbara was like a hollow square of infantry, and could _faire face partout_, so that poor Marian only drew the fire on herself. Lady Barbara answered her question, and then added, "And so I hear you are going to be married in a fortnight, Miss De Vaux. Well, I wish you happy, with all my heart; though marriage is always a great risk, God knows; is it not, Mr. Simpson?" "It is, indeed, my dear," replied Mr. Simpson, a quiet little man with much sterling good sense concealed under an insignificant exterior, and with a certain degree of subacid fun in his nature, which was habitually brought forth by the absurdities of his wife,--"it is, indeed, my dear;" and he finished with an audible and perhaps not unintentional sigh, which gave point to his reply. "But, for all that, it is a very good, and a very proper state, too," rejoined Lady Barbara, "and a very happy one, after all." "I am glad you find it so, my dear," said Mr. Simpson; but Lady Barbara went on, as usual, without attending to her husband. "I would advise all young people to marry," she said, "but not too young though,"--she herself had married at thirty-five--"not too young though, for then they only have such large families they do not know what to do with them. But now at a proper age every one ought to marry. Now, Colonel Manners, why are not you married? You ought to have been married before this." The reader knows that she was upon dangerous ground: but Manners was too good a politician to show that he was touched; and therefore he determined in reply to put that as a jest which had a good deal of serious earnest in it. "Oh, my dear madam," he answered, "you forget I am too ugly; I should never find a wife now." "Oh, nonsense, nonsense!" she answered; "ugliness has nothing to do with it; many a woman will marry the ugliest man in the world sooner than not marry at all; and besides, you ought to have a good fortune, Colonel Manners; and that is a great thing. But, I can tell you, you will certainly never find a wife, as you say, unless you ask some one." The draught was bitter enough; but Manners was indomitable, and answered still gayly, "Nay, nay, Lady Barbara, I am so diffident of my own merits, and so completely convinced that no one will ever fall in love with my beautiful countenance, that I shall certainly never marry till some lady asks me. It would require that proof, at least, to convince me that I had any chance of being loved." "And if any lady were to ask you," continued the unmerciful Lady Barbara, "would you really marry her after all, Colonel Manners?" "I believe I may answer that it would depend upon circumstances," replied Colonel Manners, with a grave smile; "as, unfortunately for my happiness, your ladyship's marriage has put you out of the question." "Oh, do not let me be in the way in the least degree," rejoined Mr. Simpson from the other side of the table. De Vaux was fairly driven to a laugh; and Lady Barbara, beginning to find out that there was an error somewhere, paused for a moment, and went on with her dinner. However skilfully and courageously a man may struggle against his own feelings on those points where they have intrenched themselves by long habit and possession, yet, when forced by circumstance to treat as a matter of common conversation subjects that are habitually painful to him, there are slight traits--each almost imperceptible, but making something in the aggregate--which will betray what is going on within; sometimes to the eyes of another man, and almost always to those of a woman. A degree of bitterness will mingle with his gaiety; a sigh will sometimes tread upon the heels of a smile; and a deeper gravity will follow the transient, superficial laugh, and distinguish the true from the assumed. Women, by a more refined nature, by a necessity of concealing their own feelings under various disguises, and by the habit of judging others by slight indications, are rendered infinitely more capable of penetrating the veil with which we are often obliged to cover our deeper sentiments. Both Marian de Vaux and Isadore Falkland were at once in Colonel Manners's secret, and comprehended, without difficulty, how much was jest and how much was earnest in his replies to Lady Barbara. Both felt for him, too, and both were sorry for him; and as Marian, in consequence of her generous interposition in his favour, already suffered somewhat too much by her Ladyship's answers touching matrimony, to dare the field again, Isadore entered upon the campaign with greater power, and did her best to effect a diversion. In this she was tolerably successful, though Colonel Manners did not entirely escape; and the ladies retired sooner than usual, in consequence of Mrs. Falkland's desire to support her daughter. De Vaux, anxious for the following morning, in order that all his doubts might be brought to a conclusion, would willingly have followed the ladies as soon as possible: but, alas! those were days of hard drinking; and Mr. Simpson, though by no means given to excess any more than Manners or De Vaux, had his own peculiar method of consoling himself for his lady's tiresomeness during the day, by sitting long in the evening, with the sparkling decanters and the social biscuits, by which he was sure neither to be annoyed nor contradicted. He drank his wine slowly, and with real enjoyment, pausing over every sip as a miser over every guinea, playing with the stalk of his wineglass, saying little smart things, if he had any one to hear him, and if he had not, gazing in the fire and diversifying pleasant thoughts by discovering landscapes and faces therein. De Vaux, without any want of charity, wished every glass his last, and Colonel Manners wished himself in the drawing-room; but the _leges conviviales_ of those days were far more strict than in these degenerate times; and as the party was so small, both felt themselves obliged to sit ceremoniously at table, till suddenly Mr. Simpson perceived that neither of his companions had touched wine for half an hour, and kindly took the hint. It was now near ten o'clock: Lady Barbara had far to go, and was compassionate towards the four bright bays that were ordered at that hour; and thus Colonel Manners was spared the execution of all the man[oe]uvres he had planned to get out of her way in the drawing-room. The carriage was announced: De Vaux handed her down-stairs; and a glad sound it was when the wheels rolled away from the door. There are many people whose disagreeableness is of that peculiar kind that one can compensate the annoyance it occasions at the time by laughing at it with one's friends when it is over: but, unfortunately, Lady Barbara's was of so extensive and tenacious a quality that it outlasted her presence; and Mrs. Falkland, Isadore, and Marian, all found that they could not talk of it in Colonel Manners's presence without being as disagreeable as herself. As Marian, too, had no inclination to converse upon the risks of matrimony and large families, she was cut off from mentioning her share in the annoyance; and after a quarter of an hour spent in determining, in general terms, that Lady Barbara Simpson was a very disagreeable person, the family returned to its usual course. Marian was a little anxious about Edward's proposed excursion of the next morning; De Vaux himself was thoughtful in regard to the conduct he was to pursue towards the gipsy; and, as if by mutual consent, the whole party separated sooner than usual. We have not, however, done with the events of that night, and, consequently, we shall follow De Vaux to his room, where he rang his bell; and on the appearance of his servant, suffered him to give him his dressing-gown and slippers. "You need not wait, William," he said, when this operation was concluded; "I have something to write--give me that desk." The man obeyed and retired, and De Vaux proceeded to put down some notes in regard to what he was to demand of the gipsy, and what was to be the exact course he was to pursue, in order--without admitting any fact till it was proved, or committing himself in any way--to arrive both at the most accurate knowledge of his real situation, and the most incontestable proofs of whatever was affirmed by the man he went to visit. When he had done this, he thought of going to bed; but his head ached a good deal, with all the agitation he had gone through during the day, crowned by the conversation of Lady Barbara Simpson during dinner, and the tedium of Mr. Simpson after it; and approaching one of the windows, he drew the curtain, opened the shutters, and looked out. It was still moonlight, as when he had handed her ladyship to her carriage; and throwing up the heavy sash, he leaned out, enjoying the cool air. The moon was just at her highest noon, and the sky was beautifully clear, except inasmuch as, every now and then, there floated across a light white cloud, which the wind seemed playfully to cast round the planet, like a veil, as she walked on in soft and modest splendour, among the bright eyes of all the crowd of stars. The river, gleaming like melted silver, appeared at the extremity of the park, with the line of its banks, broken here and there by majestic elms; and even beyond the grounds, glimpses of its windings might be caught among the distant fields and plantations. The little wooded promontory that flanked the park, with the higher hill, starting up from the isthmus over which the road passed, rose grandly up, like two towering steps, towards the glittering heavens; and beyond the sloping fields and their hedgerow elms, with many an undulating line, lay soft and obscure, in the sheeny moonlight, as far as a spot where, half-way up the higher hill in front, the extreme horizontal line of the distant country cut upon the sky. Scarce a sound was to be heard as De Vaux gazed forth, but the whispering of the light breeze among the tree tops, and the sweet plaintive belling of the deer in the park below. "If I had known that these people would have gone so soon," he thought, "I would have made my visit to the gipsies' encampment to-night instead of to-morrow. The gipsies sit up, carousing by their fires, I believe, for full one-half of the night; and I might have set my mind at rest about this business without waiting so long." The thought of going even then now struck him; and he paused for a few minutes to consider whether he ought to do so or not. "I shall not sleep, even if I go to bed," he thought. "With all these things weighing on my mind, slumber is not very likely to visit me. A couple of hours will be enough to obtain all the information that I want; and returning home, I may sleep in certainty to-night, and to-morrow have to tell Marian that my apprehensions were groundless, or that our lot, as far as station and fortune go, must be lower than we at one time expected. I shall then have time, too, to sleep over my information, and to lay out my plan of action for to-morrow deliberately. I wonder if any of the servants are up yet?" The fears that Marian had expressed for his safety crossed his mind for a moment; but they crossed it merely as apprehensions, which might have given her some pain, if she knew that he was venturing to the gipsies' encampment at midnight. No doubt of his own security ever entered his thoughts; for, although De Vaux's imagination was a very active one, it was not fertile in images of personal danger. In short, he was constitutionally brave; and, like his father, did not know what corporal fear is. "I shall only have to tell Marian," he again thought, "that I have been, and that all she was alarmed about is over." He gave one more look to the moonlight and then closed his window. His boots were speedily drawn on; his dressing-gown exchanged for a military coat; his sword buckled to his side; and, in conformity with his promise to Marian, a brace of loaded pistols placed in his bosom. Thus equipped, he opened his door and descended the staircase. All was quiet; the lamp in the hall was still glimmering, though somewhat faintly; the servants were all evidently in bed; and turning the key in the glass door at the end of the lobby, De Vaux opened it cautiously, and stepped out upon the lawn. CHAPTER XI. The moon was shining bright and clear upon Morley Down, covering every rise on which its beams fell with soft and silvery light, and casting every dell and opposite slope into dark broad shadow. From that height a slight degree of mistiness appeared, hanging over the scene in the valley; but above, all was clear; and the satellite of the earth was so bountiful of her reflected rays, that our fellow-stars could scarcely be seen in the sky, twinkling faintly, half eclipsed by her excess of splendour. The scattered bushes and stunted hawthorns, and the tumulus, with its clump of towering beeches, caught the rays; but, with the peculiar effect of trees by moonlight, the latter seemed more to absorb than to reflect the light, while their long deep shadows cast upon the neighbouring ground, showed, at least, that they served to intercept the beams. In many of the little pits and hollows of the ground small pools of water had been formed; and so often did these appear, glistening in the moonshine, in situations otherwise dark, that it seemed as if the light sought out purposely the objects best calculated to reflect it, and, like active benevolence in search of humble merit, followed them into the dim and lowly abodes where they had made their dwelling. From these pools, however, the sand-pit in which the gipsies had pitched their tents was free; and the only water it contained was afforded by a small clear spring, which the labourers had cut through in digging for the produce of the pit; and, which, welling from the bank, fell into a clear small basin of yellow sand that would, in all probability, have absorbed it speedily, had it not found a sudden channel among some smooth stones and gravel, and thence wound away, forced into a thousand meanders by the irregularity of the ground, till, issuing forth upon the common, it pursued its course down the hill, and, joined by several other brooks, poured no inconsiderable addition into the river in the valley below. It, too, caught the moonbeams and glanced brightly in them; but that was not the only light that shone upon it, as it trickled down the bank, and rested in its little basin below. A redder and less pure gleam was reflected from its waters, for at about twenty yards from the source, close under shelter of the high bank and overhanging bushes, the gipsies had pitched their tents; and now, though the hour was nearly midnight, they were just in the midst of those revels that often rise up from many a moor and many a planting throughout old England, while the rest of her denizens are fast asleep. The evening was as warm as if it had been far earlier in the year; and although the wind was high it whistled sheer over the pit, without visiting with its rude search the corner thereof in which the race of wanderers had nested their encampment. The very sound, however, and the freshness of the night air, rendered the idea of a fire any thing but unpleasant; and in three different spots of the gipsy encampment the blaze rose up and the sticks crackled, while the pots, now withdrawn from the flame, the bottles of various shapes that lay round, and the cups, some of tin, some of horn, some of silver,[3] that circulated somewhat rapidly, told that the last and merriest meal of the day had commenced. --------------------- [Footnote 3: It is a peculiar trait in the character of the gipsies, remarked, I believe, in every country where they are to be found, that each individual strives to possess himself of something formed of one of the precious metals, denying himself even necessaries to procure it; and guarding it with a degree of care which the race extend to few other things. By some writers it is asserted that these cups, or ornaments, or other articles formed of gold or silver, descend from generation to generation, and are never parted with except under circumstances of the greatest necessity.] --------------------- Three several groups had assembled round the three fires, and each had its peculiar character. At that which burned in the middle of the scene appeared Pharold, leaning upon the ground, with his elbow supported by a projection of the bank, with a middle-aged woman on one side, and the beautiful girl we have before mentioned on the other. Two or three stout men, of from forty to fifty years, surrounded him; and though joining boldly and freely in all that passed, it was evident that they listened to him when he spoke with the respect due to experience and command, and without any of that sullenness which we have noticed in some of the younger members of the tribe who were with him in the forest. Some more women completed that group; and, though merry enough, it was evident, by their demeanour, that there sat the eiders of the tribe. The next fire, at the door of a tent farther up the pit, was surrounded by a different assemblage, though it was in some degree mixed. At the entrance of the little hut itself appeared the beldam whom we have seen acting as cook in the forest, and who on that occasion, had shown some inclination towards a resistance of Pharold's authority. Round about her were five or six sturdy young men, from five-and-twenty to thirty, and five or six women; two of whom did not appear to be more than eighteen or nineteen years of age, while the rest were fine buxom brown dames of thirty-five or six. The worthy lady of the hut, however, seemed now to have lost her acerbity; and in a gay and jovial mood, with many a quip and many a jest, kept all her younger auditors in a roar; though every now and then, with a curl of the lip and a winking eye, she glanced towards the party at the other fire, as if their graver conversation was the subject of her merry sarcasm. At the third fire appeared the younger part of the tribe, the boys and girls of all ages, except those, indeed, who rested sleeping in the huts; and this circle, the loud laughter and broad jokes of which were sometimes checkered by the sounds of contention and affray, occasioned by an old pack of cards, was presided by a strong handsome youth of about nineteen or twenty, whose proper place would have been, apparently, at the second fire. He was here, however, placed much nearer to the first group; and this proximity gave him, every now and then, an opportunity, in the intervals of teasing his younger comrades, of looking over his shoulder at the beautiful girl we have called Lena, who, as we have said, was leaning beside Pharold, and listening with seeming attention to his discourse. The whole three fires had assembled round them a much greater number of the gipsy race than had been congregated in the wood where we first saw them; and, in truth, a very formidable party was there gathered together, who might have given not a little difficulty, and offered, should their need have required it, no insignificant resistance, either to game-keepers, constables, or police officers. Fourteen stout men, in their prime of strength, with nine or ten boys capable of very efficient service, were there met together, as well as a number of women, whose arms were of no insignificant weight, and whose tongues might have been more formidable still. As it may be necessary, for various reasons, to afford a sample of the sort of conversation which was taking place amongst the gipsies on that night, we shall begin, on many accounts, with the second fire, round which it appeared that a liquor, which smelt very like rum, had been circulating with no retarded movements. "Take it easy, take it easy, Dickon, my chick," said the old dame of whom we have already spoken, addressing one of the sturdy young vagabonds by whom she was surrounded: "never let's kick up a row among ourselves, do you see. That's the right way to bring the beaks upon us. He's a king of a fellow, too, that Pharold, though he do sometimes look at one, when he's angry, as if the words were too big for his throat--just as I've seen a fat cock turkey, when I've been nimming him off the perch, and got him tight round the neck with both my hands to stop his gabbling." The simile seemed to tickle the fancy of her auditors, who interrupted her by a roar, which soon, however, died away, and she proceeded. "He's a king of a fellow, though, and it wouldn't do to make a split; besides, he knows more than common; and the law's again it, too: so take it easy, Dickon, and I'll put you up to a thing or two." "Ay, do, mother, there's a good soul!" replied the young man. "Do you see, I don't want to split with Pharold; but damn me if I go out shooting at rabbits, and hares, and little devils like that, if I am to give my word that I won't touch a deer if it comes across me." "No, no, Dickie, never you meddle with nobody's dear," said the old woman; "though Bill there, at the other fire," she added, dropping her voice a little, and grinning significantly--"though Bill there, at the other fire, seems to have a great fancy for Pharold's own dear." A low laugh, whose suppressed tone argued that every one felt themselves on dangerous ground, followed her jest, and she went on: "But, howsomdever, Dick, never you meddle with nobody's deer, when you are bid not--till the person that bade you is out of the way--do you see? eh, Dicky, my boy?" "Ay, that's something like now, Mother Gray," replied Dickon. "Do you see, to-morrow, it seems, we must troop, half one way and half t'other; and then, if I be not sent to a distance, and can get some good fellows to help me, I'll bet a bob that I bring home two or three as fat bucks as ever laid their haunches on the king's table--and that's a better night's work than ever Pharold will do." "Well, well, Dickon, you shall do it," replied the old dame: "you wait quiet till to-morrow, and seem to think no more about it; and I will get Lena to wheedle Pharold out of the way, if some of his own strange jobs do not take him without; and you shall have free scope and fair play for a night, my boy, anyhow--so the keepers may count their deer the next morning, if they can." "But suppose I am sent away," said the young man; "I would rather have gone to-night by half." "But you know you can't, Dickon," she replied; "and it would only make a row to speak about it. We only go ten miles, any of us; and I will take care of your ten miles, my chick. So keep snug; and, do you see, there's no use of bringing up the deer to where we pitch. The shiners are what we want; and Harry Saxon, who bags the pheasants and hares, and who first gave me an inkling about the venison, will take the beasts of us for so much a head, and send them up to the lord-mayor in London. So to-morrow I'll be off early, and get the job arranged proper, and have a cart and horse ready, do you see, Dickon." Dickon rubbed his hands with much glee; and as it would seem that some people are born to deer-stealing, he felt that satisfaction which all men must feel when a prospect opens before them of their talents at length having a free course. At that moment, however, two shots were heard at no very great distance, but in the direction of the little wooded promontory near Morley House, and the sound called forth some symptoms of emotion in more than one of the party. Pharold listened, drew in his eyes, and knit his brows hard, while Dickon vowed, with an oath, "That fellow Hallet has gone down into Mrs. Falkland's preserves, and will blow us all with his cursed gun. He might have waited an hour or two." Pharold listened still, but made no comment; and those by whom he was surrounded seemed to suspend their own observations on the sound till his were spoken. In the mean time, Dickon and the good dame, whom he termed Mother Gray, proceeded with the edifying arrangements they had been making, and had nearly completed their plan for getting Pharold out of the way, stealing two or three deer from some of the neighbouring grounds, and sending them up to the capital to supply his majesty's burgher lieges in their necessity for fat venison. The exact park which they were to plunder, and some other of the minor considerations, were undergoing discussion, in which the whole party round the fire took a friendly and zealous share; when one of Dickon's comrades, who had been keeping an eye on Pharold's circle, touched him on the shoulder, saying, "They are going to divide the money." "They will not have so much to divide as we shall get to-morrow," said Dickon; "I will answer for that." "I don't know, I don't know, my chick," rejoined the worthy beldam; "that Pharold is a knowing hand, and always gets more than any one else, work for it how they will. How he gets it I am sure I don't know; and I often think he must coin his skin into guineas, for my part." Now the complexion of the old dame herself, and of every one round her, was as yellow as any one could desire; but that did not prevent them all from enjoying the joke highly, simply, perhaps, because Pharold's countenance might be a little brighter in hue than their own. Several of them, however, now rose and approached the other fire, at which the proposed division of gains was about to take place; for it seemed that the tribe in question had retained many of the original habits of their people which have been lost among other hordes.[4] One after another, till the turn came to Pharold, the several gipsies poured forth their acquisitions into this general fund. Silver and copper were the principal metals that appeared in the collection, though a few pieces of gold, consisting in general of coins of the value of seven shillings or half a guinea, sparkled between; the numbers who contributed, however, and the copious contributions of small coin that some of them poured forth, gave the whole sum an imposing amount; but when Pharold at length received the hat in which it was collected, and drawing forth an old purse added between thirty and forty golden pieces to the store, a murmur of joy and satisfaction ran through the assembled gipsies. --------------------- [Footnote 4: This habit is said still to exist among many of the gipsy tribes; and some persons have not scrupled to assert, though apparently without reason, that they carry their ideas of the community of property to a somewhat licentious extent.] --------------------- The partition next began; but it was not, as may be supposed, perfectly equal. It was perfectly just, however; each received according to the burdens upon him. The married man obtained a share double in amount to that bestowed upon a single man: the mother of a large family, even if her husband was no more, claimed in proportion to the number of her offspring, and each orphan--of which be it remarked, by one cause or another, there were several--- was treated as a single man. The partition was made by Pharold himself with rigorous equity; and though almost all the gipsies had gathered round, and observed his proceedings with gleaming black eyes and eager faces, none offered a word either of remonstrance or of information; for all were not only convinced of his justice, but every one would have felt shame to grumble at the award of one who, contributing more than the whole together, only claimed the share of an individual. When he had done, and the whole was distributed, Pharold addressed a few words to his companions, such as the division which had just taken place suggested. He told them that in this custom, as in all the others which they themselves observed, they followed exactly the manners of their fathers: and he praised, not without eloquence, the sort of patriarchal state in which they lived. He lamented grievously, however, that many of their nation were abandoning their ancient habits; that some had even established themselves in fixed dwelling-places, had submitted themselves to the laws, and had adopted the manners, of the people amongst whom they dwelt. He besought those who surrounded him to live as all their race had lived, and promised that thus they would continue to be as prosperous as the division of that night showed them to be at present. "A curse upon our children," cried one middle-aged woman, "if they quit the ways of their fathers, and go to live among the puny, white-faced things of the lands: a curse upon them all! May their line of life be crooked and broken off in the middle--full of crosses, and ending in _Gehennel_!" A murmur of approbation followed this denunciation; and the rest of the gipsies retiring to their several fires, their carousings were renewed, while Pharold related to those who more particularly surrounded him a variety of melancholy facts relative to the degeneracy of various gipsy tribes, who had fallen into the iniquity of fixed dwelling-places, and many other abominations. He spoke of much that he had seen in his own wanderings, and much that he had heard from others; and his story became so interesting that a good many of the younger of the race crept round to listen. This, however, did not seem to suit his purpose; for he speedily broke off his discourse, and, looking round him, exclaimed, in a voice loud enough to be heard at each of the neighbouring fires, "Come, my men, we are sad to-night, and that must not be. Will," he added, speaking to the young man who, as we have said, presided over the younger circle,--"Will, you are a songster, let us hear your voice." William obeyed without hesitation; and while he went on with his song, the old dame at the other fire continued conversing eagerly with her favourite Dickon, in tones which were low in themselves, and which were the better cut off from other ears by the rich fine voice of the singer. SONG. In the gray of the dawn, when the moon has gone down, Ere the sun has got up over country and town, 'Tis the time for the lover to steal to his dear, In the heart-beating May of the incoming year. _Chorus_.--In the gray of the dawn, &c. In the gray of the dawn, when the fox is asleep, And the foxes of cities in slumber are deep, 'Tis the time for the wise from his tent to walk out, And to see what the rest of the world is about. In the gray of the dawn, &c. In the gray of the dawn, ere the milkmaid trips by, To bring home the milk from the bright-coated kye, Some earlier hand may have taken the pain To render her milking all labour in vain. In the gray of the dawn, &c. In the gray of the dawn, if you'll meet me down by, My own pretty maid with the dark gleaming eye, We'll wander away far o'er mountain and plain, And leave the old fools to look for us in vain. In the gray of the dawn, &c. In the gray of the dawn, if you'll not come to me, My own pretty maid, by the green hawthorn tree, You may stumble by chance o'er the corpse of your love, As you trip with some other along the dim grove. In the gray of the dawn, &c. "You have changed the song, Will," said Pharold, as the other ended; "you have added and taken away." The young man reddened, but merely replied that he had forgot some verses, and been obliged to put new ones; and Pharold, taking no further notice, continued his conversation with his companions. In the meantime, the consultation between the old lady and Dickon had gone on throughout the song, and was still continued. "Well, well, Dickon, my boy," rejoined the old lady to something that her companion had said under cover of the singing, "keep a good tongue in your head for a while, and we'll see what we can make of it. It is a shame, indeed, that he should have his own way of getting so much stuff, no one knows how--from the _Spirit_, I think--and prevent you from following your way of getting some too, specially when it's all to go with the rest. And he's proud of his way of getting money, too. Did you see with what an air he poured the shiners in?" "That I did, that I did," replied the other; "curse him! I'd get as many as he, if he'd let me." "Ay, but you see the thing is, Dick," she answered, "he gets it, no one knows how, without ever saying a word about it to any one. Now, you follow the same plan, my chick; and if he asks you, you can then tell him to mind his own business. But hush, he's looking at us. Bid Bill give us another stave." "Bill," cried Dickon, "give us another touch of it, there's a good 'un. Sing us Old Dobbin, and then come here and take a swig of the bingo with me and Mother Gray." Bill was not at all reluctant, and without the slightest appearance of bashful hesitation again began to pour fourth his fine voice in song. The air, however, was of a very different kind, as far as expression went, from that which he had formerly chosen, which had been somewhat more sentimental and solemn than the words in general required, or than might have been expected from the personage by whom it was sung. In the present case, his tones were all lively, and the song seemed well known to all his companions. SONG. 1. Lift your head, Robin! Lift it and see, Why shakes his bells, Dobbin, Under the tree. Why shakes his bells, Dobbin, His old noddle bobbing, As if there were strangers upon the green lea? 2. Lie quiet, lie quiet, Though danger be near, If we make not a riot There's nothing to fear. If you will but try it, And only lie quiet, There is no harm will happen my own little dear. 3. I have heard of the fairy That walks in the night, With a figure so airy And fingers so light, That though watch-dogs hairy May sleep in the airy, She will empty your hen-coops before morning light. 4. I have heard of the witches That ride in the dark, And despite hedge and ditches Get into the park; Nim hares from their niches, Without any hitches, And think man-traps and spring-guns a toothless dog's bark. 5. Then lift your head, Robin, Lift it to find Why the bells of old Dobbin Sound on the night wind; Then lift your head, Robin, For my heart is throbbing, About witches and fairies and things of the kind. 6. Lie still, 'tis no fairy That trips the green sod; To hen-coop or dairy No witch takes her road. No, no! 'tis no fairy, Nor anything airy; Lie still and be silent, the _beaks_ are abroad! This very edifying composition seemed to give infinitely greater satisfaction to the generality of the gipsies than the former song had done; and especially in those places where the singer contrived to modulate his voice, so as to change the tone from the male to the female, or from the female to the male, as the words required, the approbation of his hearers was loud and vehement. Pharold alone appeared somewhat gloomy upon the occasion; and were one to look into his breast, which we do not intend to do very deeply on this occasion, one might see a strange and bitter contest between early feelings, habits, and inclinations, and refinements and tastes acquired from the most opposite sources--a state of things so discordant in all their elements, that nothing but an originally wild and eccentric nature could have endured its existence in the same bosom. Some one has said, "_Malheureux celui qui est en avant de son siècle_;" and it certainly might be said, in every class of society, "_Malheureux celui qui est au-dessus de son état_." Pharold then became gloomy, and felt disgusted at things which amused and interested his companions; nor, perhaps, was his gloom decreased by seeing that the beautiful young companion who leaned beside him was as much pleased and amused as the rest. "I thought that I had taught you to despise such things, Lena," he said in a low tone, and with somewhat of a frowning brow. "Yes, yes," she replied, colouring brightly; "and so I do, when I think; but yet--" She was interrupted by the man named Dickon, who gave a low whistle, and exclaimed at the same time, repeating apart of his companion's song,-- Lift your head, Robin, Lift it and see, Why shakes his bells, Dobbin, Under the tree! And almost at the same moment one of the horses, of which the gipsies had several feeding upon the common just above, repeated a low neigh, which had been heard in the first instance by Dickon, as he was called, alone. All was instantly silent; and then the jumping sort of noise which a horse with a clog upon his feet makes, when endeavouring to go fast, was heard from the common; and Pharold's practised ear could also distinguish, proceeding from the gravel of the road, the sound of a man's footstep, the near approach of which had probably frightened the horse. "Jump up, Will," he cried quickly, addressing the singer; "jump up, and see who it is. Stop him up there! If he want me, whistle twice; if you want help, whistle once!" The young man was up the bank in a moment; but the length of time that elapsed before they heard any farther sound made them at first fancy that they had been mistaken in thinking that any one approached, and then showed them that in the clear silence of the night the sounds had made themselves heard farther than they had at first imagined. All kept a profound silence; but, after the lapse of about a minute, the murmur of distant voices was distinguished, and then came a low long whistle. Every one started on his feet, but the next moment a second whistle was heard, and Pharold said calmly, "It is for me! I may be absent, perhaps, for an hour or so: but as the young man has come to-night instead of to-morrow, we will set off all the earlier in the morning." He spoke to one of the elder men near him; but in a tone of voice loud enough to be heard by those around. Dickon and Mother Gray gave each other a look; and when Pharold slowly took his way up the bank she stuck her tongue into her toothless cheek with very little of that reverence in her looks which she sometimes professed for the leader of the tribe. Soon after he was gone the young man called Will returned; and was questioned by several of the gipsies regarding the stranger who had intruded upon them at so late an hour. All that he could or would reply was, that he was a young fellow with a sword by his side, and that he had walked away with Pharold; with which tidings they were forced to content themselves, and their revels went on and concluded much as they had begun. CHAPTER XII. Let any one who is fond of sublime sensations take his hat and staff, and climb a high hill by a moonlight midnight. There is apart of that dust of earth, which gathers so sadly upon our spirit during our daily commune with this sordid world, cast off at every step. The very act of climbing has something ennobling in it, and the clearer air we breathe, the elevation to which we rise, all gives the mind a sensation of power and lightness, as if it had partly shaken off the load of clay that weighs it down to the ground. But still more, when with solitude--the deep solitude of night--we rise up high above the sleeping world, with the bright stars for our only companions, and the calm moon for our only light--when we look through the profound depth of space, and see it peopled by never-ending orbs--when we gaze round our extended horizon and see the power of God on every side,--then the immortal triumphs over the mortal, and we feel our better being strong within us. The cares, the sorrows, the anxieties of earth seem as dust in the balance weighed with mightier things; and the grandest earthly ambition that ever conquered worlds and wept for more, may feel itself humiliated to the dust in the presence of silence, and solitude, and space, and millions of eternal suns. The cool night air playing round his brow calmed the feverish headache which anxiety and excitement had left upon Edward de Vaux; and as he walked forth from the park, and climbed the high hill towards Morley Down, with the stars looking at him from the clear heaven, and the moon glistening on every pebble of his path, it is wonderful how much his mind felt soothed and tranquilized, how small the cares of earth became in his sight. So much so, indeed, was this the case, that although, as he mounted the steep ascent, he heard distinctly two several shots fired, apparently, a great deal too near his aunt's preserves--a sound which, at any other time, might have roused his indignation in a very superabundant degree--he now only paused for a moment, and turned round to listen; and, hearing no more, walked on, regarding the destruction of some hares or pheasants as a matter of but small consequence. When he reached the common, the beauty of the moonlight scene, with its broad lights and shadows, and the solemn effect of silence, and solitude, and night, again made him halt in his advance, to gaze upwards into the depth, and feel the mightiness of the universe around him; and that, too, sunk all human cares so low by comparison, that he began to think he could bear any disclosure with calm tranquillity. He then walked on rapidly, regretting, perhaps, a little, that he had not asked Manners the exact position of the gipsy encampment, as he had become warm in climbing the hill, and the wind that blew over the common felt chill, and made a slight shudder pass over him. The little mound, however, was his resource, as it had been that of his friend when engaged on a similar errand; and, walking on to the spot where it stood, he climbed the side, and cast his eyes over the wide and broken flat grounds below him. In the direction of the sand-pit, he almost immediately beheld a light; and the next instant a fine mellow voice singing showed him that the gipsies were not only there but awake, though he was too far off to catch any thing but a few detached notes of a merry air rising up from below. Turning his steps in that direction, he had proceeded about a quarter of the way from the mound to the encampment, when an old white horse, which had lain down after feeding, started up at his approach, and hobbled away with its clogged feet, as fast as it could, uttering, at the same time, one or two short neighs, as if perfectly aware that its masters were of that class which does not like to be interrupted without warning. The light of the fire, now rising up above the abrupt edge of the sand-pit, and showing the dark outline of the bank, with the few black bushes cutting sharp upon the glare, pointed out to De Vaux the exact spot where the gipsies were to be found, when suddenly a human figure was seen rising rapidly across the light; and a minute or two after the form of a stout youth planted itself directly in the way of the wanderer. "Who do you want, and what?" demanded the young man, eyeing him from head to foot with a look of no particular satisfaction. De Vaux, however, answered him at once in such a manner as to put a stop to any farther enquiries, saying, "I want to see a person called Pharold, who is with you here. Can you bring me to him?" "No," replied the youth, "but I can bring him to you;" and he uttered a low, long whistle, succeeded by another, which was quickly followed by the appearance of Pharold himself, who, as he approached, took care to examine his visiter as accurately as the moonlight would permit. When he came near, without addressing De Vaux, or waiting to hear his errand, he turned to the young man, saying, "You may return, William;" and seeing a slight inclination to linger, he added, in a more authoritative tone, "Return!" The youth obeyed; and then turning to his visiter, the gipsy said, "You are Captain de Vaux, I suppose--nay, I see you are." "You are right," replied De Vaux; "though I am not aware that you ever saw me before; at least, I am certain that I never saw you." "I saw you on the day before yesterday," replied the gipsy, "though it was but for a moment, and you did not see me. But it is not alone from that I know you. You are very like your father, as I remember him; but still more like your grandfather and your uncle, in the times when I can recall as happy a set of faces in Dimden Hall as ever shone in the palace or the cottage." The gipsy sighed as he spoke, and De Vaux sighed too, for he had never seen such faces in his father's house; and there was also, in the picture thus presented, a sad sample of how happy things and scenes of joy can, in a few short years, pass away and be forgotten, which, linking itself by the chain of association to the present, carried on his mind to the time when he and his might be as those of whom the gipsy spoke, and all the happiness which he now so fondly anticipated with her he loved become a memory for some old remaining servant, or poor dependant, to sigh over in their age. "Then I am to suppose," rejoined De Vaux, after pausing for a moment on thoughts which, perhaps, might be called gloomy--"then I am to suppose that I am speaking with the person signing himself Pharold; and I may also conclude," he added, "that he is the same whom I have heard of, as having been taken, when a boy, by my grandfather, in order to educate him with my father and uncle; but who could not bear the restraints of that kind of life, and at the end of two years fled back to his own race and his native pursuits." "In less time, in less time than that," said the gipsy; "but I often went back, and was ever kindly met, and used to please myself by enacting one day the young gentleman at the hall, and the next the gipsy on the common. But after a time," he continued, carried away by his subject, "I strayed farther, and forgot what I might have been, to give myself more up to what I was to be--but there is no use of talking of such things now, it makes me sad! And so you have heard all that. Yet who would tell you? Your father never did, I am sure; and your aunt was then but a child of two or three years old; and your uncle--but you remember not him." "No," replied De Vaux, "any knowledge of the facts that I do possess was derived, I believe, from the tales of an excellent old housekeeper, who died not many years ago, and who seemed to speak of Pharold with no small regard." "And is she dead?" cried Pharold. "Poor good old Mrs. Dickinson--I knew not that she was dead--she was ever kind to me, good soul: and now she is dust and ashes! Well, well, the fairest, and the strongest, and the best, go down to the sand with the leaves of the tree!--but will the kindly affections, and the noble feelings, and the generous nature, die too and rot? Can you tell me that, young gentleman?--I think not." "Nor I either," answered De Vaux. "God forbid that we should think so! But, as I said, it was from that good old person, as I now recollect, that I heard all I know of your former history." De Vaux recurred to the subject of the old housekeeper purposely, for he was not at all sorry that--instead of having to meet the gipsy as an opponent, where every word was to be examined, and nothing admitted without proof--their conversation had taken such a turn as to draw forth the man's true character, and to show the deeper motives upon which he acted. Anxious, as he might naturally be, to ascertain whether there was any hidden passion which might tempt the other to deceive him, or to seek to injure either himself or those connected with him, De Vaux would fain have led the gipsy on to speak more fully of the past; but Pharold's mind, following always its own particular train, rested but for a moment longer upon the idea suggested, and then returned abruptly to the cause of their meeting. "Since you know so much of me, Captain de Vaux," he said, "you must also know that I possess knowledge in regard to your family which few other persons now living do possess; and you must know, likewise, that I am not one to say to you a word that is false, or to seek to wrong you by even a thought. That you have given some credence to my letter I see by your having come here, and that you put some confidence in me I see by your having come alone, and at this hour. Both deserve that I should be as explicit with you as possible; and, therefore, before you quit me, I will leave not a doubt upon your mind in regard to the truth of what I affirm." "By so doing," replied De Vaux, "you will at least entitle yourself to my gratitude and thanks, though I conceal not from you that it is difficult to feel grateful or to offer sincere thanks to one who, willingly or unwillingly, overturns our hopes and our happiness for ever." "It is difficult!" replied the gipsy; "I know it is difficult; but yet you must believe me when I tell you that I feel deeply and bitterly every pang that I inflict on you; that but for a duty and a promise registered in my own heart and beyond the stars--but for your own ultimate happiness--I would not pour upon you now all that I must bid you bear. You must believe all this, Captain de Vaux, for it is true." And De Vaux did believe it, in part, if not entirely; for there was a solemn earnestness about the man's manner, a sort of eager deprecation in his tone, that would have been very difficult to assume unfelt. Although his opinion of mankind in general, and of the gipsy race in particular, was not very high, still the barrier of distrust was not strong enough to shut out conviction when De Vaux heard the tones of real sincerity; and he spake truly when he replied, "I will believe that you do feel what you say, both because I have never, to my knowledge, injured you or yours, so that it would be gratuitous baseness to injure or afflict me; and because the little I have ever heard of your character in youth, as well as your tone and manner at present, convinces me that you are incapable of such a proceeding. Nevertheless, you must remember, that before I can yield belief to any part of a story which, in some way, must throw dark imputations upon my family, I am bound to exact proof, and must be permitted to question every assertion that is not supported by the fullest evidence." "Proof and evidence you shall have," replied the gipsy; "and you shall not only be permitted to question any thing that seems doubtful, but to be angry and indignant till you are convinced. Only, for your own sake, command yourself as much as possible. Remember that you have to hear a tale that will give you great pain; and, in order to enable yourself to judge rationally of its truth, you must govern your passions, and, as far as may be, subdue your feelings. You must promise, too, Captain de Vaux, to forgive him who inflicts the truth upon you. Will you promise me," he asked, laying his hand solemnly on De Vaux's arm, "to forgive whatever pain I may inflict, when you shall be satisfied both that my tale is true, and that I have no motive of earthly interest in relating it?" "Most certainly," replied De Vaux, "though you proved my illegitimacy ever so clearly. Of course I must forgive you, if disinterestedly you speak but the truth." "Worse, worse, far worse than that have I to tell," replied the gipsy; "but I cannot tell it here. The wind blows cold, and I saw you shudder, but your blood will run colder still before my tale is done. Besides, my people have long hearing and cunning ways. They are too near; and I would not that any other ear than yours in the whole world should listen to the words I am going to speak. You have trusted yourself so far to-night that you will not fear to trust yourself alone with me still farther. Come, then, with me to the edge of the wood that you see lying there about half a mile off. There we can shelter ourselves from the wind beneath the part of the bank just where it looks down upon the road. You are nearer home there, too." "I know I am," answered De Vaux, turning, and gazing somewhat fixedly upon him; "but do you know that the road which it does overhang is within a hundred yards of the spot where my uncle was murdered?" "I know it well," replied the gipsy; "but you will never be murdered like him, Captain de Vaux." "And why not?" said De Vaux, quickly. "What happened to him may happen to me." "My story must explain my words," rejoined Pharold; "I am unarmed--you are armed. All my comrades are there behind us: I go farther from them, and lead you nearer to your home. Were I willing to injure you, here were the place." "Lead on, lead on!" said De Vaux; "I will trust you, and follow you!" "Without reply, the gipsy led the way across the common, with every step of which he seemed so well acquainted as to be able to shape his course amid all the breaks, and bushes, and irregularities of the ground, without ever giving a glance to the right or the left. He said not a word either, and De Vaux followed equally in silence, with his interest and anxiety still more excited than they had been even by his strange companion's letter. In less than a quarter of an hour they had crossed that part of the common which lay between the sand-pit and the edge of the wood, exactly at that point where the hill, of which Morley Down formed the table land, joined on to the general chain of hills, from which it appeared as a kind of offset or promontory, and which, as we have said, were generally covered with forest. The neck of the promontory here overhung the turn of the road and the river, at about a couple of hundred yards nearer to Morley House than the spot where De Vaux had told Manners, on their first arrival in the country, that his uncle had been murdered some years before; and the track that lay between the place where he now stood and the highway was a steep precipitous bank of two or three hundred feet in height, covered with loose stones, scattered bushes, and one or two larger trees, thrown forward beyond the mass of wood on the left. The moon was shining bright on the road and the river, and though she had passed her meridian, promised yet several hours of light. "Come down this little path, sir," said the gipsy. "Under that bank, with those bushes round us, about thirty yards down, we can find shelter, and can see every thing around, so that there will be no fear of interruption." De Vaux followed as he desired, and in a few minutes reached the spot to which he had pointed. There, upon a felled oak, which only remained to be rolled down the hill, he seated himself on a little piece of level ground, where some one had endeavoured ineffectually to establish a quarry, and whence he could behold the village near his aunt's dwelling and the top of Morley House itself, though the view up the valley on the other side was interrupted by the sweep of the woody hill. The gipsy stood beside him, and De Vaux anxiously besought him to produce at once the proofs of the very painful assertions which his letter had contained. "I brought you not here without an object, Edward de Vaux," said the gipsy, still standing; "for here I can relate my tale better than anywhere else. Now, tell me what you remember of your early years, and what you have heard of your father's history--of his history and that of his family." "I did not seek you," answered De Vaux, "to tell you what I myself know, but to learn from you facts with which I am unacquainted. You have made assertions, and you must either support them by proof, or let them fall to the ground." "Well, well," said the gipsy, "be as cautious as you will! If you hesitate to tell the story you have heard, I will tell it for you, Captain de Vaux, as I know you have heard it, and stop me if I speak a word that is false. Your grandfather, the twelfth Lord Dewry, left two sons and one daughter, then nearly seventeen. His eldest son, who was about six-and-twenty, succeeded to his title; and his second son, Edward, your father, who was then at college, went soon after to London to study for the bar. They were both as handsome men as you could look upon; and of your father's life and conduct in the great capital, as I know nothing with much certainty, so shall I say but little--" "But it appears to me," interrupted De Vaux, "that such is the very matter on which you are called to speak. I was born in London; and if you can tell me nothing certain of my father's conduct in London, you can tell me nothing to the purpose." "Patience! patience, sir, I pray you!" replied the gipsy; "I can tell you much, though on your father's conduct in London I will spare you as far as may be. William Lord Dewry, your uncle, was one of those men such as the world seldom sees; full of fine and generous feelings, kind, forgiving, noble, with enthusiasm such as the cold call folly, and humanity such as the unfeeling term weakness, though the rectitude of his own conduct was as unbending as yonder oak, and his enthusiasm never led him to aught but what was just and good. For some years after he succeeded to the title, he remained unmarried, and it was generally supposed that he would continue to live as a single man. Those who knew him better, however, felt sure that if ever chance should throw in his way a woman who deserved his love, whose heart was full of such feelings as his own, and whose mind was stored with thoughts and wishes as high and noble as those which filled his own bosom, he would not only offer to join his fate to hers, but would love her as woman has seldom been loved on earth; that such a woman, so loved, would become the great object of his being and his life, and would concentrate on herself all those deep and ardent affections which from his boyhood he had shown that his heart possessed. He did at length, as you well know, find such a woman--full of all those qualities which were so bright in himself--beautiful, accomplished, and his equal in rank and fortune. He addressed himself at once to a heart that was free and unengaged; and the same fine properties that had won his love were sure to win her love for him. He was married, and was happy beyond all that he had ever dreamed. He was happy; nay, more, he was content! for the angel of his home was more than all he had expected, and he sought and wished for nothing more. Every feeling, every thought turned towards her; and though his kindness, his benevolence, his philanthropy, were doubled rather than diminished, yet no joy was any thing to the joy of his love. For a year and six months he was as happy as any human thing can be--happier, perhaps, than any human thing ever was before. I saw his happiness; and, oh! how it made my heart expand to behold it! But then suddenly came a change. His wife had given him a child--beautiful, I hear she is, as her mother and good as her father; but ere the opening of her infant mind could add anything to the happiness of her parents, or afford even a momentary consolation to her father when distress came, her mother was seized with sudden illness, and ere five days were over she was dead." The gipsy paused, and seemed to sigh bitterly over the memories of the past; while De Vaux, whose interest in all that concerned his beloved Marian was hardly less than he felt for those things that affected himself, waited anxiously to hear more; for though the story was not unfamiliar to him, yet it was put in a new light, and told in a mild and feeling tone, that gave it a thousand times more force than ever. After a moment or two of silence the gipsy went on:--"What a change," he continued, "came upon him then! The world seemed all forgotten. He appeared as one struck with sudden blindness; and where he had beheld nothing but beauty around him before, he now beheld nothing but a blank. For hours and hours he would ride in solitude through the country, unaccompanied even by a servant. He would pass his friends when he met them as strangers, and when they spoke, would seem long ere he remembered them. He forgot all enjoyment and all occupation, and lived in the world as if it were not his proper place. Thus passed the days for near two months, when, at the end of that time, he one morning rode forth as usual alone; but he chanced--though it was seldom he mentioned whither he went--he chanced to say that he was going to the county town. He was known, too, to have a large sum of money on his person; and as he passed by the house of Mrs. Falkland, his sister, for it was at Dimden he always lived, he stopped for a few minutes." "You seem to know the whole facts as minutely as if you had followed him," said De Vaux, when the gipsy paused for a moment. "I do," said the gipsy; "and, if you will listen, you shall hear how. When he left Mrs. Falkland's, her husband, who was then living, and a noble, frank-hearted man, walked by his brother-in-law's horse as far as the village, but there he left him, and Lord Dewry rode on. He was seen by some boys who were playing in that field--can you see it? half a mile nearer than the village, with a red barn at the side. But none of the country people saw him after, and he never returned to the hall. His servants, who all loved him, were alarmed, and sent over to Mr. Falkland, and he despatched messengers to the county town, with orders to inquire at the villages on the road; but no Lord Dewry was to be heard of anywhere. The evening passed over in terror; night had come on, and the family of Morley House were retiring late to rest, when a messenger arrived from Mr. Arden the magistrate, to inform Mr. Falkland that a gipsy--do you remark--a gipsy had just been taken up upon the charge of beating a young peasant almost to death the day before, and now made a voluntary declaration that he had seen the Lord Dewry murdered at the elm-point, there down below, that very morning at ten o'clock. Mr. Falkland instantly got upon horseback, and rode over to see Mr. Arden; and it was agreed between them that the news should instantly be sent to the Honourable Edward de Vaux, your father, and that till he arrived nothing further should be asked of the gipsy, except if he knew where the body of Lord Dewry might in any likelihood be found. He said yes: it might be found at the sea; but that if they would search in the reeds by the bank, they would find the baron's hat, and that in some of the woods or meadows his horse would be met with. Search was instantly made, and some of his words proved true; for the hat, pierced through and through with a shot, was found bloody among the reeds, and his horse was discovered grazing in the meadows, four miles down, on the other side of the water. In the mean time, the courier rode night and day to London, and when he arrived, found the dead lord's brother at the playhouse. He was very much shocked at the news, and instantly came down hither with one Sir William Ryder, a good enough man, they said, at heart, but one who had been fond of play, and had lost a fine fortune by that foolish passion. When the new lord arrived, the gipsy was again brought up and placed before him. A great many questions were asked, and he told this story:--The young man he had beaten had foully ill-used a gipsy woman, and he, the gipsy, had punished him, scarcely as he deserved. He had left him for dead, however, on the ground; and thinking that if he were dead the offence might bring trouble on his people, if he went back to them, he hid himself in these woods, and on the morning of the murder was lying down yonder, in the sweep of trees there, just at the head of the point. He had been there all the morning, he said; and, as the country people generally take the short way over the hill, he had seen no one pass, till, about half-past nine o'clock, a man on horseback came and backed in his horse between the two old elm-trees that lie about five hundred yards farther up in the bite of the river. He lay very still there to see what would come of it; and in about half an hour he heard another horse's feet coming quickly up, and Lord Dewry turned the point. The gipsy said that he thought to have sprung out, and told him what he had seen; for his heart misgave him as to the purpose of the other horseman; but just at the moment the other came forth, and, riding quietly up, spoke with Lord Dewry calmly enough for some minutes. They then seemed to get into high dispute, and Lord Dewry pushed his horse on upon the road a little, while following, and speaking at his side, the other suddenly drew a pistol from his pocket, and fired right into the baron's head. At the same moment, as he was falling from the saddle, the horse, taking fright, plunged into the river, dragging him by the stirrup, and his hat fell into the rushes. The other horseman looked after him for a moment; but ere the swimming horse reached the opposite bank, he set spurs to his own beast, and was galloping away, when at the turn he was met by another. The gipsy could see them grasp each other's hands; but they stopped not a moment to speak: the second turned his horse with the first, and both galloped away like lightning. The gipsy plunged into the water, he said, to see if he could bring out the body, as soon as he saw that it had become disentangled from the stirrup; but it had sunk to rise no more; and when he was tired with swimming he returned to the woods. "Mr. Arden, the magistrate, said it was a very improbable story; but asked the gipsy if he could recognise the man who had committed the murder. The gipsy replied that he could, if he saw him, and could swear to him whenever he was placed before him. Mr. Arden then said that it would be better, under all circumstances, to commit the gipsy at once for his other offences, when he would be always forthcoming to give evidence if required; but as it was proved that the young man he had beaten was hourly getting better, and acknowledged that he had deserved the treatment he had received, the kind magistrate had no other excuse to propose for committing the gipsy but that of his being a rogue and a vagabond. In this, however, he was overruled by Lord Dewry, the new Lord Dewry, after some private consultations with Sir William Ryder. His lordship said, with a kind look to the gipsy, that it would be cruel, he thought, to commit a man to prison for having given voluntary evidence where it was much needed; and besides, that he had reason to think very well of that gipsy, who had, in a degree, been brought up by his father. Mr. Arden, however, suggested that the gipsy himself might have been the murderer; and though Lord Dewry treated the idea with contempt, yet the sturdy magistrate kept him in custody, till, by the marks of the horse's feet, and many other things, it was proved that his story must be true. In the mean time Lord Dewry and Sir William Ryder were very kind to him, and took care that he should want for nothing while he was detained. At length he was liberated, and went to join his own people, promising to return whenever he should be called upon, which every one felt sure he would do, as he had been educated with the dead man, and loved him as a brother. I need not tell you that I was that gipsy! "In the mean time," continued Pharold, "Mr. Edward de Vaux took the titles and entered into possession of the estates held by his late brother. The will of the last lord was found, and no one wondered that in it he never mentioned his brother's name; for it was known to all the world that they had had many a bitter dispute, and had long been, not as brothers should be. His daughter, Miss De Vaux, and the care of the splendid fortune which she inherited from her mother, were intrusted to his sister, Mrs. Falkland, to Mrs. Falkland's husband, and to a distant relation. "All his servants and friends were remembered by the dead nobleman, and almost every one that he knew was named except his own brother. The world did wonder, then, that that brother, with a singular generosity, resigned in favour of his niece many things that he might have claimed as belonging to the male heir, and treated all questions between them, in regard to property, with unexampled liberality. When he had settled all things, and retained a number of his brother's domestics, he ordered the hall at Dewry to be put in order; not loving the part of the country where his brother had been murdered. Thither, then, he went, after he had arranged his affairs in London, bringing down with him a young gentleman of seven years' old, his only son, and supposed heir to all the property." "And my mother!" cried De Vaux, raising his head from his hands, in which position he had been sitting while listening to the gipsy's story; for during its course he had been agitated by many a strange, but ill-defined, emotion. The story of his uncle's murder had always been one on which his mind had rested with awe and pain from his very childhood; but though he had heard it often told, both as a whole and in detached fragments, yet he had never listened to such minute details as were now given by an eye-witness of the horrible event, who seemed prepared to connect it, too, by some vague and unexplained link, with the painful assertions which had been made in regard to his own doubtful situation. The very expectation, or rather apprehension, of some horrible disclosure to follow at every word the gipsy uttered, had troubled and shaken him greatly; and the name of Sir William Ryder--a person who, it appeared, was then most intimate with his father, but who, it was clear, had since become the object of his most determined hatred--had added deeper feeling of mysterious dread to all those thoughts by which he was already perturbed. What could be the meaning of all this? whither would it lead? how was it to end? were the questions which continually pressed upon him as the gipsy proceeded; and it appeared even a relief, when Pharold's last words seemed to bring his ideas back from the new and dreadful topics on which they had been engaged, to the subject of his former doubts and suspicions. "And my mother!" he cried, as the gipsy paused, "what of her?" "Nothing, that I know," replied Pharold, apparently with some surprise; "nothing but that she was a Spanish lady, who married your father privately, after breaking her vows in a convent." "Then they were married?" cried De Vaux, eagerly. "Certainly!" answered the gipsy: "I never heard it doubted; though he kept her from all his family, and used her ill; which was one of the causes of his quarrels with his brother. But she was dead before he came down here to take possession of his brother's lands. But let me tell my tale." De Vaux again leaned his head upon his hands; every thing once more becoming dark and misty around him. "Go on! go on!" he said; "go on, and keep me not in suspense, for Heaven's sake!" "I have now told you," continued Pharold, "the story of your family as it went forth to the world, and as you most likely have heard it yourself. It is a goodly tale, and just such as could be desired under such circumstances! The picture is, indeed, a dark and painful one: but it has another side more dark and painful still; and ere you look at it, nerve your mind firmly, young gentleman; for if you be such as I believe you are, filled with honourable feelings and kindly affections, your very soul will writhe under all you have to hear." De Vaux waved his hand for him to go on; and the gipsy continued:--"You have heard the world's version of the story; you must now hear the gipsy's. My early history you know; for a year and nine months I was brought up with your uncle and your father. Your uncle ever loved me--your father never: but he was too proud to seek to injure me; and when I left the false restraints of what you call society, to go back to my own race and my native freedom, he and I were friends, as far as we could be. "Your uncle I often returned to see, though longer and longer became my absence, and greater and greater my contempt for gilded halls and mercenary slaves in laced jackets. I took a pleasure, however, a secret pleasure, in marking and learning all the doings of the man I loved best on earth; and sometimes, though my distaste to fine dwellings and insolent lackeys had grown into a diseased abhorrence that would not let me cross the lordly threshold of Dimden, yet often would I meet him in the park or in the walks, and hold a brief conversation with him in the free air. It was after an absence from this part of the country of near two years that I came back, and found that his heart had been withered by the death of her he loved. I was seeking for an opportunity of meeting him, when the offence was given to an unhappy woman of our tribe, which called for vengeance at my hand; and I was forced to conceal myself till I could learn what were the ultimate consequences of the punishment that I had inflicted. I hid myself, as I have told you, in that wood; and all the rest that I said before the magistrate is true: but I said not all the truth. I saw the horseman station himself between the elms; I saw Lord Dewry ride up, and they met; I heard the words they spoke; I saw him ride on, and I saw the other follow, though little did I dream his purpose; I saw him draw the pistol from his bosom; I saw it raised, and the shot fired that struck the good lord down--and the hand that fired it, young man--the hand that fired it was his brother's!" "It is false!" cried De Vaux, starting up and half-drawing his sword; "it is as false as hell itself!" "It is as true as yon stars in heaven!" replied the gipsy, calmly but sternly; and a long pause followed, while Pharold stood erect and tranquil before the son of him whom he had charged with so fearful a crime, and De Vaux gazed on him with a countenance in which the workings of all the manifold passions that such terrible tidings produced were fearfully visible. "Will you hear me out?" demanded the gipsy at length. "I will," said De Vaux, casting himself down again upon the tree; "I will! but think not to escape me. You have made a dreadful charge; and as there is a God in heaven, you shall show me that it is true before I quit you!" and leaning his head again upon his hand, he kept his eyes fixed upon the gipsy, as if fearful that he should elude him, till he came to parts of the details that made his hearer again bury his face in his hands. "I will!" continued Pharold; "I will show you that what I have uttered is true; for it was to that purpose that I brought you here. But be more calm, and let me tell you all the circumstances which might lead him to the terrible act that he committed." "He committed it not!" murmured De Vaux; but the gipsy went on as if he had not heard him. "I have since heard all the facts," he proceeded, "from one who knew them too well; the only one, indeed, besides myself. Edward de Vaux, the younger of the two brothers, was a man of extravagant tastes and habits. He went early and often into other countries, and there he learned expensive vices and follies. I would not pain you; but he gamed deeply, and lived sumptuously, while your mother lived neglected, and fared but hardly. What he inherited from his father was but small; what he acquired was nothing; what he squandered came from the liberality of his brother; and often his demands were more than any liberality could supply. Lord Dewry remonstrated and entreated, but in vain; and much and nobly, have I heard, did he offer to do for him, if he would retire into the country, and treat your mother well. But she died, and that cause of dispute was removed by her death. All check, indeed, seemed now cast away by her husband. He gamed more deeply than ever; lost all; applied to his brother; was refused, and then staked what he did not possess. He lost. Sir William Ryder, his great friend, joined him in an engagement to pay the sum within a certain time; but shortly before the period arrived, Mr. De Vaux was not to be found by his friend. Sir William thought that he had evaded him in order to cast the whole debt upon his shoulders; and, learning the route he had taken, followed at full speed; traced him step by step, and overtook him--at the very moment he had murdered his brother. Horrified, but confused and bewildered, before he well comprehended what he was doing, Sir William became a participator in the crime, by promising to conceal all that he had seen; and setting spurs to their horses, they arrived in London by different by-roads, in so short a space of time that it seemed impossible they could have done the distance. Well knowing that he must soon be sent for, the heir of the dead man took care to show himself in every place where his presence in London would be marked and remembered, in case of necessity; and he was found, as I have said, at the play-house. What sort of hell was in his heart, as he sat and saw mockeries and pageants, I know not." "But your story halts, sir," said De Vaux, sternly; "how could he know at what exact spot his brother would be found at that precise time? How could he--" "By that letter!" said the gipsy, placing abruptly an old but well-preserved paper in his hands, on which the regular post marks were easily discernible. "But I cannot read it by this faint light," said De Vaux, attempting to make out the contents, after gazing at the address; "what is its purport?" "I will tell you," replied the gipsy, striking a light with a flint and touchwood that he carried; "I will tell you; though you shall soon be able to satisfy yourself. It is your uncle's letter to your father, telling him that he has not sufficient money at his banker's to meet his fresh demand; but that, if he will be at the inn at the county town of ----, at noon of the eighteenth of May--the very day of the murder--he will give him the sum of five thousand pounds, which is all he can collect without burdening himself for other people's faults, in a manner that he does not choose to do. There!" he continued, lighting a few dry sticks; "there is light enough to read!" De Vaux read the letter. It was such exactly as the gipsy described: it was written in a hand which he remembered from other papers he had seen to be that of his uncle; it was dated four days before his death, signed with his name, sealed with his arms, directed to his brother, and by the post marks had evidently been received. Conviction was forcing itself painfully upon his mind, but drowning men will catch at straws; and he hoped yet to find some flaw in the horrible history he heard, and to be enabled to give it the lie to his own heart. He returned the letter; and folding his arms upon his breast, bade the gipsy go on; while, with a knitted brow and quivering lip, he continued gazing upon vacancy, suffering his mind to roam wildly through a thousand painful thoughts and memories, but without letting one word escape his ear. "By this letter," continued the gipsy, "did he know exactly when his brother would set out for the town of ----; and he knew his habits, too, well enough to arrange the rest of his plan. But crime is always agitated; and it is thus that even the coolest and most determined ever leave some trace behind by which murder may be detected. Your uncle came not so soon as he had expected, and he took the letter from his pocket to be sure that he himself had not overstepped the hour. Just as he was reading, the horse's feet which bore Lord Dewry sounded, and he hastily thrust back the paper, as he thought, into his pocket; but it fell, and I saw it, and forgot it not afterward. When the deed was done, he paused for a moment gazing upon the swimming horse, and the sinking form of his brother, as it detached itself from the stirrup, and without even a struggle the waters closed over his head; and I am as sure as there is a heaven above us, that at that instant the murderer would have given lands and lordships--nay, life itself--to have recalled the irrevocable act that he had done. He could gaze at it no longer; but striking his spurs into his horse like a madman, he turned back the way he came. Just at the turn of the wood he was met by Sir William Ryder; what he said I know not, but he grasped his hand for a moment, and then galloped away, followed by the other. Ere he had gone far his coolness had returned; for before he came down here all his plans had been arranged, and his conduct decided. He had questioned the messenger, too, and had heard the evidence that I had given; and though I had declared that I could swear to the person, he felt sure, from my _not_ swearing to him, that I either did not really know him, or had determined to conceal my knowledge. At all events, he had no resource but to front the matter; and he did so boldly. When I was brought into the justice room, I could see that he turned a little pale, and at the same time he put up his finger to his lip, in a way that I might take for a signal or not as I pleased. I repeated all I had said before, nay, I went further, and described exactly the appearance of the murderer, but such descriptions are always loose; and no one asked me whether any of those present was the man--" "Would you have said yes if they had?" interrupted De Vaux. "I do not well know what I might have done," replied the gipsy, "but I think not. What use would it have been to me to destroy the son of one who had loved and cherished me? He had committed an awful crime, it is true--but I was not the avenger. Besides, I knew that vengeance, in its intensity tenfold more terrible than aught that man could inflict, was in his heart already,--that there was a serpent eating it up,--that the mighty, the almighty Avenger of all crimes was there in his terrors, and that every hour of his after-existence would be constant judgment and continual death. No, no! on my life, I did not so much hate as pity him. At night, after I had been removed from the justice room, I heard the door of the chamber, in which they had confined me, open, and Sir William Ryder came in with a light. He was a fine-hearted man, though he had been misled; and although the real murderer had shown himself but little shaken, yet through the whole of my examination he, Sir William Ryder, had been agitated, as I could see, to his very soul. Both he and the other, however, whether to make me a friend or what matters little, had done all they could to soften the hardness of old Squire Arden, as he was called; but Sir William now came to me to see what I did know, and how far they could trust me. It was a difficult task; and had he gone about it as cunningly as some would have done, he might have failed with me. But he was too much moved for that. He spoke kindly to me, however, and told me that Lord Dewry was very much interested for me, and would take care of me, and I told him at once to bid Lord Dewry take care of himself, for his was the case of danger, and not mine. So then he said that he saw I knew more than I had spoken, and that Lord Dewry was grateful to me. 'Call him not by a title that is not his,' I answered; 'for I know that the patent of their nobility bears, that if any of the family, judged according to law, be found guilty of a felony, he and his children are to be considered dead, their line extinct, and the next heir to claim as if they were not.' He answered that that mattered not, for that his friend had not been found guilty of any felony, nor ever would; and that he had only to say, if I would quit the kingdom, till he gave me leave to return, he would secure me the sum of one thousand pounds directly, and a pension for my life. I said I would think of it, and tell him when I was at liberty; and I was very soon after set free. Sir William Ryder did not fail to find me out, however; and it was agreed between us that I should go; and that he should meet me at the sea-port where I embarked, and there give me the money. "It took a time, however, to move the tribe to the port, and some were unwilling to go without knowing the reason. So we divided, some going with me, some betaking themselves to their own way. I saw Sir William Ryder often, and when I wrote to him to tell him that we were near a sea-port in Wales, he came down directly, and visited the encampment. He told me that he, too, was about to set out for America, and intended to spend the rest of his life in the colonies. 'I will try,' he said, 'by devoting the remainder of my days to doing good, and walking uprightly with all men, to efface from my memory the traces of many follies and of one great crime, in which I have not been a sharer, indeed, but which I have aided to conceal.' The second day, however, that he came out to us, his horse took fright at a monkey, which some of our people had among the tents, and threw him violently. He broke his collar-bone and several of his ribs, and being carried into a hut, we all nursed him tenderly. I found him better than I thought, and learned to love him; and under our care he got well sooner than if all the doctors in the world had seen him. While he was recovering it was that I learned how all had happened; and he tried to persuade himself and to make me believe that the murder had been committed in a moment of passion, and not by design, or that his friend was distracted with anxiety and distress at the moment that he committed it. When he left us for America I went away to Ireland. I have since seen many other lands, and have lived for some years in Scotland, but I never returned to this country of England till about three weeks ago." The gipsy paused, and De Vaux remained as he had placed himself, with his head bent down almost to his knees, and his eyes buried in his extended hands. He continued silent long, bowed down by a sense of misery, and humiliation, and despair. What would he have given at that moment to have all his former apprehensions confirmed, if the present terrible doubts could have been thereby swept away!--doubts, indeed, they could scarcely now be called, for the gipsy's story was too consistent in every part, was too much combined with facts within his own knowledge, was too clear an explanation of many parts of his father's conduct--his gloom, his reserve, his irritation, his agitation at the very name of Sir William Ryder--for him to entertain any thing but one of those faint, lingering, insane hopes, which death itself is the only thing that can extinguish. But, for the moment, the thought of whether there were still a doubt had merged itself in the more agonizing ideas of what must be his fate if the story were true. His own father! How could he ever behold him again? How was he to act towards him? What was he to do? Then came the idea of Marian in all her beauty, in all her gentleness, in all her generous love; and he felt that she could never be his; that the blood of her father placed between them an obstacle that could never be removed; that no time, no change, no effort could ever cast down that dreadful barrier; that at the very moment when his passionate love had been raised by her noble conduct almost to adoration was the moment at which he must sacrifice her for ever! And how must he sacrifice her? How must he act towards her? He could not, he dared not explain, by even a single word, the cause of that sacrifice; he could not tell her what had happened; he could not even have the blessing of weeping with her over their blighted hopes. Whichever way he turned, it was all horror and destruction; and the brain of the unhappy young man seemed to reel with the agony he suffered. He spoke not; he could hardly be said to think; it was all one frightful dream of misery and despair. He felt that his fate, as far as happiness was concerned, was sealed for ever; and yet a thousand whirling and inconsistent visions rushed upon his brain regarding his future conduct. How--how was he to act? What--what was he to do? At one moment he thought of going instantly to his father's presence, of telling him he knew all, and of ending his own life before him, to cast off the intolerable burden of thought and sensation; but then he remembered all that his father had already suffered; called to mind the deep and gloomy pondering--the solitary meditations, and the never-smiling lip--the bursts of wild and impatient passion, the hollow cheek, the sunken eye, and all the indications of a heart torn and mangled by remorse; and that idea vanished in filial sorrow. At another time he thought of burying himself deep in the wilds of America, of joining some Indian tribe, and hiding his name and its disgrace in scenes to which Europeans never penetrated; but then again the idea of Marian, and of never, never seeing her more, overcame him with fresh anguish. He knew not where to turn his eyes for guide or direction; he knew not how to act; he knew not whither to go: every place was hopeless--every view presented but despair; and, after a long and terrible silence, one deep and bitter groan found its way to his lips. The gipsy's heart was moved for him; and, after gazing upon him for several minutes, he said, "I grieve from my very heart to pain you thus; but yet, young man, be comforted: there is a balm for all things." The very words of comfort, however, proceeding from the same tongue that had destroyed all his happiness for ever, roused De Vaux almost to phrensy; and, starting up, he exclaimed, "Either what you have told me is false, or you must know that there is no comfort for me on earth! What balm do you mean?" "The balm of time," replied the gipsy, unmoved, "which, as I know by the experience of many sorrows, can take the venom from the most cankered wound!" De Vaux glared at him for a moment as if he would have struck him to the earth, and then--for there are some loads of misery which are too vast for the human mind to comprehend or to believe at first--and then replied, "I believe you have been deceiving me, and wo be unto you if you have! Have you any other proof," he cried, striving eagerly to catch at a doubt; "have you any other proof? If so, produce it quickly!" "I am not deceiving you, young gentleman," answered the gipsy; "and I can forgive both your anger and your unbelief." "But the proof! the proof!" cried De Vaux; "have you any other proof?" "I have," answered Pharold, "and I will produce it, though the letter I have shown you is proof enough. I grieve for you, sir, but you must not injure me." "The letter you may have stolen," replied De Vaux, fiercely, "or found it years afterward. What other proof have you? Give me some other proof, and I will believe you." "You believe me already at your heart," answered the gipsy; "but the other proof is this:--I have said that the murderer gazed for a moment after his victim, and that I saw that he gazed in deep and terrible remorse. Know you how I saw that it was so? Thus: The moment that the shot was fired, and that his brother was falling, his hand let the pistol drop from his grasp, and he sat on his horse motionless as a statue, as if the deed he had done had turned him into stone; nor did he move hand or limb till he turned and galloped away as if the fiends of hell were pursuing him. The pistol was not lost any more than the letter; and happy for him was it that they both fell into the hands of one who concealed them carefully; for had they been found by any other, your father might have ended his days upon a scaffold more than twenty years ago. You ask for more proof. Look there! that is the weapon, and you know the arms of a younger brother of your race too well to doubt me longer." De Vaux took the pistol which the gipsy produced. It was curiously inlaid with silver, and the arms of his family embossed upon the stock. He had once seen one, and only one, precisely similar in the hands of his father, when he came upon him by accident in his private study. His father had put it away in haste into a chest that contained it; and, with a pale cheek and quivering lip, had reproved his son for breaking in upon his privacy. De Vaux now saw the fellow-weapon of the one he had then beheld: the last faint gleam of hope left his heart for ever; and striking his hand upon his bosom, and groaning in the bitterness of his heart, he cast himself frantically down upon the cold ground. CHAPTER XIII. It is a wonder that man ever smiles; for there is something so strange and awful in the hourly uncertainty of our fate--in the atmosphere of darkness and insecurity that surrounds our existence--in the troops of dangers to our peace and to our being that ride invisible upon every moment as it flies--that man is, as it were, like a blind man in the front of a great battle, where his hopes and his joys are being swept down on every side, and in which his own existence must terminate at length, in some undefined hour, and some unknown manner--and yet he smiles as if he were at a pageant! Were his smile the smile of faith and confidence in the great, good Being who sees the struggle and prepares the reward, he might smile unshaken indeed; but, alas, alas! is it so? I fear but seldom. There are few things on earth more melancholy than when one is burdened with some evil news to see those whom it is destined to plunge into grief full of gay life and happiness, enjoying the bright moments as if there were nothing but pleasure in the world. There is something awful in it! It brings home to our own hearts the fearful fact that, at the very instant when we are at the height of joy, some remote, unseen, unknown, unexpected agents may be performing acts destined to blast our happiness for ever. There is something mysterious in it, too; for it shows us that at the very moment when our state is in reality the most miserable upon earth, we are often giving ourselves up to the most wild and rapturous gayety, solely because some other tongue has not spoken in our ear a few conventional sounds which the inhabitant of another land would not understand, but which, as soon as they are spoken, plunge us from the height of joy down into the depth of despair. On the third morning of Colonel Manners's stay at Morley House, and on which he expected letters that would give him a fair excuse for abridging his visit, he rose as early, but came down somewhat later than usual. He still, however, expected to find himself earlier than the rest of the family; but on passing the music-room, the door of which was ajar, he heard the notes of a harpsichord--the solace and delight of our worthy ancestors--mingling with some gay voices talking; and, taking the prescriptive right of opening quite all half-opened doors, he walked in, and found Miss Falkland at the instrument, speaking cheerfully, over her shoulder, to Miss De Vaux, who stood behind. A slight complaining cry on the part of the lazy hinges made both ladies turn their eyes towards it; and Isadore smiled as she did so, while a faint colour spread itself deepening over Marian's soft cheek--perhaps she might expect to see some one else than Colonel Manners, and be just sufficiently disappointed to say something civil and kind to him on his entrance, as a sort of compensation for the bad compliment she paid him at the bottom of her heart. "Isadore was just talking of you, Colonel Manners," she said, looking towards her cousin, as if leaving her to explain in what manner. "There is a proverb to that effect, madam," replied Manners, smiling; "but I am always glad to find myself subject of discourse to those I esteem, if the matter be not censure at least. May I be let into the secret?" "Oh, beyond all doubt," replied Isadore. "The fact is, De Vaux betrayed you last night, Colonel Manners; and told me, without even binding me to secrecy, that you sing remarkably well." "He did me injustice, I assure you," replied Manners; "but if that be 'the head and front of my offence,' I can prove myself innocent of singing remarkably well at any time you like." "No time like the present, Colonel Manners," said Isadore. "It wants full half an hour to breakfast, and there is nothing on earth so painful as to live in long-drawn expectation of such things. Will you sing, Colonel Manners?" "I believe," he replied, "that there is some superstitious penalty attached to singing before breakfast; but nevertheless I will dare the adventure if you have any music that I know, for the sin of accompanying myself I commit not." "Do you know that?" asked Miss Falkland; "or that! or that?" "No, indeed," answered Colonel Manners; "but I know the air of this one, and have sung it more than once to different words, the composition of a lady possessing no small poetical powers. I will try to recollect them now; though, to speak the truth, it is doing some injustice to the lines to take them from the drama for which they were designed, and apply them to an old song." "Oh, never mind; we will make all due allowances," replied Miss Falkland; "am I to accompany you, or Marian!--Oh, very well, with all my heart! Is it to be the time of a monody or a jig?" "Not too fast, if you please," replied Colonel Manners; and Miss Falkland accompanying him, he sang the following lines to an air, which was then not very new, but which is now in all probability lost to posterity. SONG. "I woo thee not as others woo, I flatter not as others do, Nor vow that I adore; I cannot laugh, I cannot smile. Nor use, as they, each courtly wile, But oh, I love thee more. "The rich, the noble, and the great, Offer thee wealth, and power, and state, And fortunes running o'er! How can I smile, when none of these Give me the worldly power to please, Though I may love thee more? "And yet I hope, because I love With thoughts that set thee far above Vain Fortune's glittering store. Others may deem thou canst be won By things that sparkle in the sun, But oh, I love thee more. "I do believe that unto thee Truth, honour, plain sincerity, Are jewels far before All that the others think are dear; And yet far more than they I fear, Because I love thee more. "I love thee more than all the train Who flaunt, who flatter, and who feign, And vow that they adore: I love thee as men loved of yore-- Ah, no, I love thee more--far more Than man e'er loved before." "I do not think I could have resisted those verses well sung," cried Isadore, smiling as he concluded, if I had been the most disdainful beauty that ever carried a hawk upon her glove in the days of old. "What do you say, Marian?" "I do not know how far my powers of resistance might go," answered Marian de Vaux, "but I should very much like to hear the rest of the story. You say that it is in a drama, Colonel Manners, I think; pray, can it be procured?" "I am afraid not," answered Manners: "it is the writing of a lady, and has never been given to the world; at least, as far as I know." "But at all events tell us the fate of the lover," exclaimed Isadore; "that you are bound to do in common charity, after having excited our curiosity." "Oh, he is made happy, of course," he replied, "as all lovers are, or should be." "Say _true lovers_, if you please, Colonel Manners," cried Isadore, "and then I will agree; but if a woman were to make happy, as you gentlemen call it before you are married, every impertinent personage who comes up, and making you a low bow, with his hat under his arm, asks you, 'Pray, madam, will you marry me?' as if he were asking you merely to walk a minuet, she would have enough to do, I can assure you." "I can easily conceive it," answered Manners, laughing; "but what a clamorous summons that bell makes! pray does it ring for breakfast every morning? I did not near it yesterday." "That was because you were out having your fortune told when it rang, Colonel Manners," replied Miss Falkland; "but it rings every morning at this hour, and if Mrs. Falkland is not down, it falls to my lot to make the tea. Wherefore I must now remove to the breakfast-room." Thus saying, she led the way, while her cousin and Colonel Manners followed; and the hot and shining urn having taken its wonted place, she proceeded with the breakfast arrangements, while the butler bustled about, first at the sideboard, and then at the table, looking ever and anon at the two young ladies, and then at Colonel Manners, and then at the fire-place, till, having nothing further to do, he was obliged to retire. "Gibson looks as if he had some vast secret upon his mind," said Isadore, speaking to her cousin; "did you see, Marian, how he moved about? You must know, Colonel Manners, that that old gentleman is a very privileged person in our family, and often condescends to pour forth the secrets of the village upon us, in despite of all our struggles and reluctance." "I am sorry he did not gratify himself this morning," said Manners: "there are few things more delightful than a village story well told." "You were the great obstacle, I am afraid," replied Miss Falkland: "he has his own peculiar notions of decorum, and a visiter is pretty sure of reverence; but I do believe, from his extreme alacrity this morning, that he would have even disregarded your presence had a single word been said to him. But I did not choose to gratify him even by a word; for I knew if I had but said, 'Gibson, bring more butter,' he would instantly have burst forth with, 'Yes, miss, I'll tell you all about it. The park-keeper's daughter's husband's sister--' and so he would have gone on for an hour." Colonel Manners could not help laughing, and even Marian smiled at the manner in which her gay cousin imitated the old man's prolixity; but at the same time there was an expression of anxiety on Miss De Vaux's countenance which nothing but the presence of Edward de Vaux could have done away. He had not yet come down, however, and the next person who entered was Mrs. Falkland, whose first observation, after the common salutations of the morning, was, "Why--is not Edward down? surely he has not grown a sluggard in the wars!" "Oh no, my dear aunt," replied Marian; "I dare say he was down before we were up, for he told me last night that he was going out early this morning, but would be back to breakfast." The old butler was just at that moment entering with a partridge pie; and halting in the midst, he exclaimed, "No, indeed, Miss Marian; no, indeed! Master Edward has not come down, because he has never been up." "Never been up!" said Mrs. Falkland, mistaking the man's meaning; "then you had better send up his servant to wake him, Gibson. But why are you so pale, Marian? what is the matter?" "Oh, that is not it at all, ma'am," replied the butler, taking upon himself to answer for all parties. "Mr. De Vaux has never been in bed last night, ma'am. His servant told me so this minute. There is the bed turned down, says he, just as the housemaid left it, and his slippers standing by the great chair, and his hat, and sword, and riding-coat gone." "Nay, Marian, do not look so alarmed," said Isadore, laying her hand affectionately upon that of her cousin. "This will prove all airy nothing, depend upon it; but you had better come away with me, love, and leave mamma and Colonel Manners to sift it; for you will only agitate yourself more than is at all necessary by listening to the miraculous conjectures of every different servant in the house." "No, no; I would a great deal rather hear all, Isadore," answered Marian, in her usual calm tone, though the excessive paleness which had spread over her countenance evinced clearly enough that her heart was any thing but at ease. "You had better send for Edward's servant, my dear aunt." Her suggestion was instantly followed, and De Vaux's servant, who had been an old soldier, entered the room, and stood at ease before the party assembled round the breakfast-table. "Colonel Manners, will you be so kind"--said Mrs. Falkland. "Most certainly, my dear madam," replied Manners, understanding her meaning as well as if she had expressed it. "When did you see your master last, William?" "Last night, sir, at twenty minutes to twelve," said the man. "Did he seem as if he were about to go to bed?" demanded Manners. "No, sir," replied the servant. "He made me give him his dressing-gown and slippers, but told me not to wait, for that he had a great deal to write before he could go to bed." Marian's face cleared up a little, for she was glad to imagine that De Vaux might have sat up writing on all the many subjects which she knew occupied his mind till daylight had appeared, and might then have set out at once for the gipsy encampment; but Colonel Manners proceeded:--"Do you know at what time any of the other servants were up?" "The groom and I were up at five, sir," replied the man, "and it was just dawning then; but as we went along the corridor I saw my master's door ajar, and thinking I must have left it so by carelessness, I just pulled it gently to." "Were all the horses in the stable?" asked Colonel Manners. "All, sir," answered the servant. "And now, William, in what state did you find your master's room?" demanded Mrs. Falkland. "Why, madam, I found that nobody had been in bed, clearly enough," replied the man; "and I found, too, that Captain De Vaux had put off his dressing-gown and slippers, and put on his riding-coat and boots; and I remarked, also, that the curtains of one of the windows were undrawn, and the window itself open." "Oh, then, I dare say he went out after daylight," said Colonel Manners, "and will soon be back. Shall we ask him any thing further, my dear madam?" Mrs. Falkland had nothing more to inquire, and the man was dismissed. "It is as well," said Manners, who knew that De Vaux was the man of all others to be very much mortified, if he came back and found that his absence had been made unnecessarily a nine-day's wonder of--"it is as well to treat this business as quietly as possible, though, I confess, it does seem to me strange that De Vaux should go out so early, so very early, as to be seen by none of the servants, and also should never have gone to bed; but I think Miss De Vaux said just now that he mentioned his intention of going out very early." "I did so," replied Marian, colouring slightly, from a feeling of embarrassment, in regard to disclosing any part of all that her cousin had confided to her, and yet painfully anxious on his account. "He intended to go to speak with somebody, who gave you, I think, a letter for him yesterday, Colonel Manners." Manners was not a little anxious for his friend also; but he saw Marian's still deeper anxiety, and he strove tenderly to avoid giving her greater pain than necessary, while he yet continued to investigate the cause of her lover's absence. "Oh, if he be gone to that person who gave me the letter," he said, "De Vaux is safe enough; but, perhaps, he may not be back for an hour or two, as it is a long way, and they may have much to speak of; but yet, Mrs. Falkland, I should like, if you could make an excuse for sending for the housemaid who usually washes the stone steps, to ask her one or two questions." "Certainly," answered Mrs. Falkland. "If you will ring the bell, I will find some excuse." The housemaid was accordingly sent for; and holding fast either corner of her apron, presented herself before the company in the breakfast-room. Mrs. Falkland then asked her one or two questions of no particular moment, and Colonel Manners next demanded, somewhat to the girl's surprise, "The mornings are becoming frosty now, are they not, my good girl?" "Oh, that they are, sir," answered she. "It was all as white this morning as if it had snowed last night." "And did you see any marks of feet upon the steps?" demanded Manners. "No, sir, none," replied the girl. "Are you sure?" repeated Colonel Manners. "Oh, quite sure, sir," she replied; "for I washed and whitened the steps with my own two hands, and cold work it was; and I must have seen steps if there had been any." After this answer she was dismissed, courtesying low, and not ungracefully. "I dare say he will soon come back," said Colonel Manners, when the woman was gone; "and, at all events, if he be with the person who gave me the letter, he is in no danger, I am sure." Both Mrs. Falkland and her daughter perceived that Manners, at least, if not Marian, spoke with a slight touch of mystery concerning the letter and its sender, but, of course, they asked no questions; and Colonel Manners's assurance that his friend was in no danger served in some degree to tranquilize Marian. The breakfast, as may be supposed, passed over dully enough, for every one was more anxious than they chose to show, and their anxiety was, of course, increased by every minute as it flew. Each passing step that made itself heard in the breakfast-room, the sound of every opening door, caused Marian's heart to beat, and Isadore to look round, but still the person for whose return they were so anxious did not appear; and however slowly the minutes flew, so many of them passed away at length as to justify serious alarm. The time had now lingered on till eleven had struck by the clock in the hall, and some very painful remembrances of all that had taken place at the death of her beloved brother were recalled to the mind of Mrs. Falkland by the unaccountable absence of her nephew. Isadore, with all her natural cheerfulness, was anxious and silent; but it was scarcely possible to express all the painful emotions that thrilled in the bosom of Marian de Vaux. Manners, for his part--though his feelings as a man were, of course, essentially different from those of the persons by whom he was now surrounded--was far more alarmed about his friend's absence than he liked to admit, and somewhat undecided in regard to what he should do himself, under existing circumstances. He wished much to go and seek his friend; but he did not like to do so till the length of time was sufficient to warrant the conclusion that some accident must have befallen him; and at the same time he reflected, that during his absence some news might arrive which would render his presence and assistance necessary at Morley House. At length, however, he could master his impatience no longer; and, ringing the bell, he said, with as much appearance of unconcern as he could command, "I think, my dear madam, that it may be as well for me to go and see if I can hear any thing of De Vaux, in the direction which his fair cousin imagines that he has taken. I do not, indeed, think that there is any cause for alarm; but it may quiet your mind." "Oh yes, yes! pray do, Colonel Manners," cried Marian, starting up, and clasping her hands. "I beg your pardon for asking you such a thing; but, indeed, it will be a very great consolation." "If it afford you the slightest comfort, my dear young lady," replied Colonel Manners, "it will be the greatest pleasure to me. Will you send my servant?" he added as the butler appeared. The servant came promptly: for the anxiety of the parlour soon finds its way, in a greater or less degree, to the servant's hall; and all the domestics at Morley House were as much on the alert as the garrison of a newly invested fort. "Put my saddle on the gray directly," said Colonel Manners; "saddle Amherst for yourself, and bid Captain De Vaux's servant get a horse ready to come with me." The man retired. "I will just put myself in riding costume, and be down directly," Manners added; and leaving the ladies still gazing in melancholy guise from the windows of the breakfast-room, he retired to his own apartment. Long before the horses could be ready, however, he had rejoined them, and was in the act of saying, "Now, I think, Mrs. Falkland, with three old soldiers upon the search, we must soon be able to bring you tidings of your nephew; and, I trust, perfectly satisfactory tidings too," when the butler again made his appearance. The terror expressed upon his countenance, and his first exclamation of, "Oh, ma'am!" instantly sent every drop of blood from Marian's cheek back to her heart. Colonel Manners would fain have stopped a communication which was evidently alarming, and which might not only be a confirmation of their worst fears, but be told in the most abrupt and most painful manner; but it was too late, and the old man went on, "Oh, madam, here is John Harwood, who has the cottage on t'other side of the point, come up to say, that last night, about one o'clock, he heard shots fired in the wood, and he's afraid there's been bad business there." Marian dropped down where she stood, as if she had been struck with lightning, and for the time all attention was called towards her. Colonel Manners aided to carry the fair unhappy girl to her room; and then leaving her to the care of her female relations, he returned to question both the butler and the peasant, whose intelligence had so much increased their alarm. On inquiry, however, he found that old Gibson's taste for the sublime and horrible had given greater effect to John Harwood's tale than it deserved. The man had simply heard shots fired, and his own natural conclusion had been, that poachers were busy in the wood, of which, as a dependent on Mrs. Falkland's family, he found himself bound to give information. Colonel Manners, however, sent another servant to the stables to hurry the horses, and then returning to the breakfast-room, wrote down a few words in pencil to inform Mrs. Falkland that the story had been exaggerated; but he was almost instantly joined by Isadore, who assured him that her cousin was better. Moments of grief, anxiety, and danger are wonderfully powerful in breaking down all the cold and icy barriers which society places between us and those we like; and Isadore Falkland came forward, and laid her fair hand as familiarly upon Colonel Manners's arm as if she had known him from her infancy. There was an earnestness in her fine eyes, too, and an appealing softness in her whole look, that was very irresistible. "Colonel Manners," she said, "this state of apprehension and uncertainty is very dreadful, especially to us poor women, who, having but little knowledge of the world and its ways, have little means of judging whether our fears be reasonable or not. I can see that you have put a restraint upon yourself before Marian; but I beseech you to tell me, at least, if you have any friendship for a person you have known so short a time, what is your real opinion! Do you think there is any serious cause for apprehension?" "You and your family, Miss Falkland," replied Manners, "have taught me how soon one can feel the deepest interest and friendship for those who deserve it; but in regard to De Vaux, I really see no cause for apprehension." "Nay, nay, Colonel Manners," said Isadore, "I shall not think you have much regard for me if you try to sooth me by false hopes respecting my cousin. There is an anxiety in your look, which could not be there if there were no cause for alarm." "Indeed, Miss Falkland," he replied, with a smile which was not of the gayest character in the world--"indeed, I have the deepest regard for you, and would not deceive you for a moment. De Vaux's absence is strange, undoubtedly. His never having gone to bed is strange. But in regard to these shots which have been heard--as the man himself believed till your old butler infected him with his own miraculous mood--they have been undoubtedly fired by poachers; and I see not the slightest reason for believing that they are in any way connected with your cousin's absence." There had been a degree of earnestness in Manners's profession of regard that had called a slight glow into Isadore's cheek, and made her heart beat a little quicker, though Heaven knows he had not the slightest thought of making her heart beat with any but its ordinary pulse, and Isadore herself never suspected that he had. It was only one of those slight passing emotions which sometimes move the heart without our well knowing why, like the light ripple that will occasionally dimple the surface of a still, sheltered water from some breath of air too soft and gentle to be felt by those who watch it from the banks. Whatever caused the glow, it was all gone in an instant; and she answered, "Perhaps what makes us all the more uneasy is, that none of us can forget that my uncle, Marian's father, was murdered many years ago in this neighbourhood; and the first news of his death came upon mamma by surprise, in the same way that this has done upon poor Marian." "I trust in Heaven, and believe most firmly, Miss Falkland, that you will find no further resemblance between the fate of your cousin and that of his uncle," replied Colonel Manners: "but, at all events, I will lose no time and spare no exertion in endeavouring to satisfy you as to his fate; and, if it should cost me my life, I will discover him before I give up the search." "Nay, nay, you must take care of your life," said Isadore; "it must doubtless be valuable to many, and therefore must not be risked unadvisedly." "It is valuable to none that I know of, Miss Falkland," said Manners, with a melancholy smile, "and to myself least of all; but, nevertheless, I never trifle with it, looking upon it but as a loan from that great Being who will demand it again when he himself thinks fit. But I anticipate no danger from my visit to the gipsies." "Are you going, then, to the gipsies in search of Edward?" exclaimed Miss Falkland, in evident astonishment. "Good Heaven, I had no idea of that!" "It was from one of them that I received the letter to which Miss de Vaux referred," replied Colonel Manners; "and I may add," he continued, "to you, Miss Falkland, that the impression that letter made upon your cousin was such as to induce me to believe that if news is to be heard of him anywhere, it will be from them that I shall obtain it." "This is all very strange, indeed!" cried Isadore. "But tell me, Colonel Manners, do you know the contents of the letter?" "Not in the least," he replied; "but certain it is, that whatever they were, they affected your cousin sensibly. I had it from a gipsy-man, certainly of a very superior stamp to the rest, although I found him consorting with a gang of as ruffianly fellows as ever I beheld." "Oh, then, for Heaven's sake, take more men with you!" cried Isadore, eagerly: "you may get murdered, too, and then--" "Nay, nay, I have no fear," answered Manners, "and there, you see, are the horses. Three strong men on horseback might surely contend with a whole legion of gipsies." "Must I plead in vain, Colonel Manners?" said Isadore, really apprehensive for his safety, and desirous of persuading him, but blushing at the same time from feeling conscious that she was more apprehensive for him than she had often before felt for any one. "Must I plead in vain? or must I ask you for my sake, if you will not for Heaven's sake? But consider what we should do if we were to lose your aid and assistance at such a moment. Take two or three of our servants with you also." "For your sake, Miss Falkland, I would do much more difficult things," replied Manners, earnestly; "but listen to my reasons. It would delay me long to wait till fresh horses are saddled, and longer to take men on foot with me. In many cases speed is everything: I have lost more time than I can well excuse already; and I can assure you, that with the two strong and trustworthy fellows who accompany me, there is nothing on earth to fear. Adieu! I doubt not soon, very soon, to bring you not only news, but good news." Thus saying, he left the room, and sprang upon horseback, while Isadore returned to the apartment of her cousin, who was now in bed by the orders of the village apothecary, and in the act of taking such medicines as he judged most likely to calm and sooth the mind by their sedative effect upon the body. Here Isadore communicated in a low voice to her mother all that she had gathered from Colonel Manners; and placing herself at the window of her fair cousin's room, watched the dark edge of the hill where it cut upon the sky, till at length she saw the figures of three horses straining with their riders up the steep ascent. The next moment they came upon the level ground at the top, changed their pace into a quick gallop, were seen for a minute or two flying along against the clear blue behind, and then, passing on, were lost entirely to her sight. CHAPTER XIV. We must now beg leave to retrograde a little in regard to time: and, in order to bring every character in our story to the same point, must turn for a while to a personage of whom we have heard nothing since the day after Edward de Vaux's arrival at Morley House. The beautiful world in which we live, the multitude of blessings by which we are surrounded, and that beneficent ordination by which the human mind in its natural state is rendered capable of resting satisfied with whatever portion is allotted to it, would make the earth that we inhabit an Eden indeed, if Satan had not supplied us with easy steps to lead us to misery. Our passions form the first round of the ladder; then come our follies close above them; then follow next our vices; these, with brief intervals, are succeeded by crimes; and all beyond is wretchedness. Every crime, too, is prolific in miseries--its legitimate children--who not only return to prey upon their proper parent, but ravage far and wide the hearts of thousands of others. Not only is it on the grand scale when the glory-seeking felon calls the dogs of war to tear the prostrate carcass of some peaceful country, and, by his individual fault, render millions wretched; but each petty individual crime, like the one small seed from which mighty forests spring, is but the germ of gigantic and incalculable consequences; and no one knows to what remote and unforeseen events each trifling action may ultimately lead: no one can tell to whose bosom the error he commits may not bring despair, or how many hearts may be laid desolate by the sin or the folly of the moment. The father of Edward de Vaux--for to him we must now turn--had gone on in the usual road by which small errors grow into great crimes. He had committed follies, and yielded to passions. Passions had hardened into vices, and vices had ultimately hurried him beyond what he would at first have dreamed possible for a reasonable creature to perpetrate. In the story we have heard told by the gipsy, the part that he had acted was in no degree overdrawn by the narrator, though there were some secrets in Lord Dewry's breast alone, which neither, indeed, justified nor even palliated his crime--for such deeds admit not of palliation,--but which showed, at least, that the crowning act itself was not accompanied by many of the circumstances which seemed to aggravate it. Overwhelmed by a debt that he could not pay, disappointed of relief from a source that had never before failed, Mr. De Vaux had set out from London to meet his brother in a state of mind which approached insanity, and was, in fact, despair. Hardened by many years of vice, he had retained very few of those Christian principles which had not been wanting in his early education; and there remained, certainly, not sufficient virtue of any kind to make him view an escape from disgrace, by an act of suicide, as any thing unmanly or infamous in itself. He had determined, then, either to obtain from his brother the full sum he demanded, by whatever means might suggest themselves at the moment--threats, supplications, or remonstrances--or to terminate his own existence on the spot,--principally with a view to avoid the shame he anticipated in London if he could not discharge his obligations, but partly, also, with a savage desire of inflicting bitter regrets upon his brother for the obduracy of his refusal. As the most retired spot for executing this purpose, he had chosen the point where we have seen that he had waited his brother's coming; and there a busy devil, that had been stirring at his heart all the way down, renewed its suggestions with tenfold importunity. He saw before him some of the rich lands of Lord Dewry; he saw them smiling with the promise of abundance; all seemed happy in the world but his own heart; all seemed prosperous but himself. His brother, notwithstanding his late loss, appeared in his eyes peculiarly blessed; and again and again the fiend within asked him what right by nature had his brother, because he was the elder, to the sole possession of all those advantages which, the same evil spirit lyingly told him, would have kept him from vice and misery, had they been equally divided between them? His brother arrived while he was in this mood. The first means he employed to obtain what he wanted were entreaty and persuasion; and when these failed, he had recourse to threats and violence. Lord Dewry retorted with reproach and reprehension; and his brother, in a moment of frantic passion, brought the curse of Cain upon his own head. The agony of remorse was the first thing that succeeded; but self-preservation and the enjoyment of that which he had so dearly purchased, became the next considerations, and he bent all the energies of a keen and daring mind to that purpose. He mastered his own feelings, both bodily and mental; and, after returning to London with a degree of speed and perseverance that killed the horse which bore him, he overcame both personal fatigue and anguish of heart, and showed himself on the evening of his return at two private parties and one public place; and, what is more, he showed himself with a smiling countenance and an unembarrassed air. But when it was all over--the examination of the facts, the taking possession of the property, and the removal of those who could betray him--the excitement which had been caused by danger passed away; that bubble, the hope of happiness without virtue, burst under his rude touch, and left his heart to remorse for ever. Knowing that he must often see his brother's child, though at first the sight was full of agony, he forced himself, by a great effort, to endure it, till he had overcome the pain by habit; and at the same time the lingering remains of some better feelings in his heart made him look upon every generous or kindly thing that he could do towards her as an act of atonement for the crime he had committed. Such were some of the motives, or, rather, such were some of the facts, which had influenced Lord Dewry in all his actions for the last twenty years. For a time, indeed, he had affected gayety which he did not feel, and mingled in society which had lost all charm for him; but the revellings of the never-dying worm upon his heart's inmost core would make themselves felt, and gradually he drew back from the world, gave himself up to solitude and stately reclusion, forgot what it was to smile, and only mingled with his fellow-men to pour forth upon them the gall and bitterness that welled from an everlasting source in his own bosom. Remorse, however, was not the only fiend that preyed upon his heart: fear, too, had its share. We have said, and said truly, that he was corporeally as brave a man as ever lived: he knew not what bodily fear is; but that is a very, very different affection of the complicated being, man, from the mental terrors, the daily doubts, the hourly apprehensions, that crowded upon him in solitude and retirement. Corporal pain, the simple act of dying, he feared not, and there yet lingered in his mind some faint traces of his early faith, suggesting vague ideas of atonement made for man's crimes, which led him to believe that the anguish which he suffered below might be received in place of repentance, and procure him pardon hereafter; so that, on ordinary occasions, he felt no tangible dread even of the awful separation of soul and body. But this was not all: the torturing uncertainty of his fate was a bitter portion of his curse. He knew that there were two men in the world who could, at any time, doom him to disgrace and death; or at least, if, by the precautions he had taken, their success in any attempt of the kind had been rendered doubtful, yet their knowledge of the dreadful secret of his state rendered all that he possessed--honour, fortune, rank, even existence itself--precarious; and he felt, as he looked around him, that he was living in a gilded dream, which the next moment might vanish, and leave him to misery and despair. At first, when, perhaps, it might have been in his power to implicate the gipsy as the murderer of his brother, and, by pursuing him as such, to have crushed one strong source of evidence against himself, two powerful causes had operated to deter him from such a course. He knew that Sir William Ryder, though implicated by accidental circumstances in his crime, was of too generous a nature to connive at any further evil to which the desire of concealing it might lead him. But it would be doing him injustice not to say that he himself had shrunk from the very thought. His heart was not hardened enough for that: he felt that there was too much blood upon his hand already; and although the idea did cross his mind, yet at that time remorse was stronger than fear, and even had Sir William Ryder not existed, he would have chosen rather to bear apprehension than a greater load of regret. Time, however, had now altered such feelings; he was accustomed to remorse, but no time can harden the heart to fear; and the first imagination which crossed his mind, when, at the end of twenty years, he again saw the gipsy, was to destroy him. The reader may recollect a conversation in the beginning of this work, wherein Pharold detailed the particulars of an interview he had had with the peer; and it may easily be conceived, that from that interview Lord Dewry perceived at once that the moment was come when he must try his strength with those who had the power to injure him, and silence them for ever, or yield for ever to his fate; and with a strong determination, but a mind fearfully agitated, he instantly resolved to crush those he feared, if human ingenuity, backed by wealth, and power, and a daring disposition, could accomplish such an object. Such had been the state of his mind when he so unexpectedly visited the house of Mrs. Falkland, and found new cause for apprehension in the conversation of Colonel Manners. But his coming thither had not for its sole object to meet and welcome his newly-returned son. He had learned, by instant and close inquiry after the gipsy had left him, that parties of his race had been seen lying in the neighbourhood of Morley Wood, with the view, it was supposed, of poaching on the open and ill-protected grounds in that district; and suspecting, from his conversation with Pharold, that on the refusal he had given, Sir William Ryder himself might return to England, he hastened over to his sister's house, which lay within a few miles of his property of Dimden, in order, if possible, to pursue means of destroying the actual witness of his crime, before the arrival of the only other person who even suspected it. Let it not be supposed--although there were in reality no means at which Lord Dewry would now have hesitated to effect his purpose--that he deliberately, and boldly, and undisguisedly proposed to his own heart to bring about the gipsy's death. No, no: the great power of evil is too well aware how horrible his naked suggestions are, not to furnish them with a veil, flimsy enough, it is true, but still sufficient to cover some part of their deformity. No! Lord Dewry only proposed--at least, he cheated himself into thinking so--to detect the gipsy or his comrades in some unlawful exploit, which might give an excuse for removing them for ever from the country, and at the same time might render any evidence they might tender against himself, not only suspicious, but almost inadmissible. The severe laws in regard to poaching, and the loose and lawless habits of the gipsies themselves, he doubted not would furnish the means; and his great object was to discover an offence of such magnitude, and to obtain proofs so clear, that great severity would be warranted and the justice of the accusation undeniable. It might cross his mind that, in the pursuit of these views, a gipsy or a keeper might be killed, that the charge of murder might be added to that of poaching, and that a felony might rid him of the enemy of his repose for ever. Such a thing might cross his mind, and be viewed with no great dissatisfaction; but, at the same time, he denied to himself that such was his object. "No: God forbid! But, if it did happen, he should of course take advantage of it to silence for ever the voice of one who had been witness to the _unfortunate accident_ by which, in a moment of hasty passion, his brother had been deprived of life, and who seemed disposed to abuse the knowledge he unhappily possessed." Such had been the thoughts of Lord Dewry as he travelled over to Mrs. Falkland's house on the night of his son's arrival, and such were the thoughts that again took possession of him as soon as the passion in which he had left her subsided on the following morning. "With Sir William Ryder," he thought, as the carriage rolled rapidly on towards Dimden--"with Sir William Ryder I shall easily be able to deal single-handed, if once I can remove his confederate. He used to be a simple, frank-hearted, foolish fellow; but I must, by some means, keep him from any further meeting with Edward. I have already remarked that the boy sees there is some mystery; and a bare hint would awaken suspicions that I would rather die than he should even dream of. But this man--this Pharold--must be my first care; and my next must be to procure such proofs of my having been in London at the time of my brother's death that suspicion itself shall be silenced, if either of the villains dare to open his lips." The manner in which this latter object was to be accomplished became the next consideration; but ere Lord Dewry could come to any determination upon the subject, the lodge of Dimden Park, and the old woman who opened the gates, courtesying to the ground as the carriage rolled through, met his eyes, and told him that he must reserve that matter for after-thought. The place that he was now entering had been the favourite habitation of his brother, where his days of happiness and sunshine had been passed, and whence his virtues had made themselves felt and beloved through all the country round. There were many recollections and associations then connected with that spot which, as it may easily be conceived, were not a little painful to the man who now entered it: and although he sometimes visited the house, and had once or twice in twenty years spent a day within its walls, yet he had never been able to vanquish the distress that the sight occasioned him so far as to live in it for any length of time. He now beheld it in a state which added to the pain whereof other circumstances had rendered it fruitful. It was not exactly going to ruin, for he had given strict orders, and paid large annual sums, for the express purpose of keeping the grounds in order and the house in repair; but those orders had been given from a distance, and had been received with a conviction that the master's eye would never inspect their execution very minutely. There were long tufts of grass in the walks and on the roads, though here and there was to be seen a faint and lazy effort to clear away, by the exertions of a few hours, the shameful negligence of many a day. Some of the trees, which had been felled years before, were rotting in the long dank grass; and the fences which had been placed to keep the deer within their proper bounds lay flat upon the ground, overturned and broken. The road over which the carriage rolled was channelled with deep unmended ruts; and the fine old house, with its closed windows and smokeless chimneys, stood in its wide, open esplanade, like the palace of damp and desertion. Lord Dewry bit his lip, and muttered audibly, "This must be amended. The scoundrels did not expect me to visit the place, and have been shamefully negligent. I will send them away." But as he thought thus, his other purposes crossed his mind, and brought with it one of those annoying and degrading convictions which so often follow evil actions and crooked policy. He felt that when he was about to engage his park-keepers in an action which his own heart told him was base, he could not dare to treat them severely for the faults they had themselves committed; and to a proud and violent man the restraint which he was obliged to put upon his passions was bitter enough. As the carriage approached the house, hasty symptoms of opening windows and unbarring doors showed that his coming had been remarked; and as he had no ambiguous commands to lay upon the old servants who had been left to keep the mansion in order, upon them fell the full weight of his indignation. When the first angry burst was over, he ordered the old man to call the principal park-keeper; and while he was absent upon that errand, strode gloomily through the dreary chambers, feeling his heart more dark and comfortless than even the long-deserted apartments amid which he stood. He then called for pen and ink, which, after some difficulty, he obtained, and wrote and despatched the note which we have seen delivered to Marian de Vaux. At length the park-keeper appeared, a bold and sturdy fellow, with no inconsiderable portion of shrewd cunning in his countenance, to which had been superadded at present an air of dogged preparation, occasioned by the tidings of Lord Dewry's anger, which the old man had given him as they walked along towards the house. "Harvey," said the peer, as the man presented himself, "you have suffered the park to get into a terrible state. I must have all this changed. Those fences must be put up; those trees cleared away: speak to Wilson about the road, and tell him if ever I see it in that state again I shall discharge him; and--do not answer me, but listen; for I came over to speak to you upon matters of more importance.--What are you waiting for, John?" "I thought your lordship might want me," said the old man, who had lingered in the room. "No, no, not I," replied the peer: "retire, and shut the door; but take care what you are about, for in future I shall come over at least every month; and if I find the house is not properly attended to after this warning, you and your wife go out of it without another word.--Now, Harvey, tell me," he continued, as the old man withdrew with a low and deprecating bow, "have you many poachers here?" "Why, no, my lord," replied the park-keeper, his face brightening up to find that the anticipated storm had blown away; "we have not had much of that work doing lately, though I dare say we soon shall have." "And why so?" demanded Lord Dewry. "I am glad to hear that poaching is on the decrease. What makes you think it will revive again?" "As to revive, my lord, why, I don't know," replied the man; "but I doubt we shall soon have more of it--so I think. It's just the time, you see, my lord--long moonlight nights, and a good deal of the out-door work over." The man paused; but these were not the reasons the peer had hoped to hear him assign for his apprehensions of more extended poaching, and found that he must bring him nearer to the point by some direct course. "We have a great deal of poaching near the hall," he said: "Wise tells me that there are a number of bad characters continually in the woods, gipsies and thieves of all descriptions." "Ay, for the matter of that we have gipsies enough just now, too," replied the keeper; "and that's the reason, my lord, why I said I thought we should soon hear of more poaching: but I did not like to mention it, you see. Why, there, I saw no longer ago than yesterday, up in Morley Wood, I dare say a score of them--lazy beggars! D--n them, I hate those fellows, and so I told 'em--beg your lordship's pardon." Lord Dewry found that he was now on the right course; but, afraid of pursuing the matter so eagerly as to cause suspicions which might perhaps tell against himself hereafter, he replied with a tranquil countenance, "It would not surprise me if these were the same that have been plundering and poaching in a most desperate manner near the hall." "O, no doubt they are the same, my lord," replied the keeper; "and as to poaching, they were at it last night, or I have no ears: I heard a gun--I am sure I heard a gun--though I got up, and went all over the grounds without finding them. But I heard a gun--I am sure enough of that, anyhow." "Oh, if that be the case," said Lord Dewry, "we must really take serious measures for their apprehension and conviction. They once murdered a gamekeeper, those gipsies, not far from here; and it is dangerous to honest men to let them be in the country." "Ay, that it is, my lord," said the keeper; "they'd murder any one as soon as look at him. They nearly murdered me once. I wish we could get rid of them, that I do, anyhow." "And so do I, too," replied Lord Dewry, solemnly; "I do not like men's lives risked continually, nor their property plundered at every turn, solely because these gipsies are suffered to continue in the kingdom. I declare I would give fifty guineas to any one who could convict them in such a manner as to ensure their being sent out of the country without fail. I do not like my people continually exposed to their attacks." "Your lordship is very kind and very generous," said the keeper; "and if your lordship would really give the fifty guineas, I dare say we could find some young fellows that would join in and take a hand in catching them." "But we must first be able to prove that they have committed some offence," replied Lord Dewry, thoughtfully. "Oh, they have committed offences enough, my lord," answered the keeper; "and if your lordship give fifty guineas, we shall soon have plenty to help in catching them." The peer paused for a moment or two without any direct reply; but he then answered, "What I have said I mean, Harvey: the fifty guineas I would give of course to the man by whose means they were principally brought to justice; but I would do more, and pay handsomely every one concerned in actually taking them. Do you think they have ever shot any of the deer?" he added after a short pause. "No, my lord, no!" answered the keeper, fearful that blame might fall upon himself; "I will answer for it they have not done that." "I am sorry for it," said Lord Dewry, dryly. The man stared, and the peer proceeded:--"I am sorry for it; because, you see, Harvey, the offence would be the heavier, and we might get rid of them for ever if we could prove such a thing against them; whereas this poaching, especially if it be a first offence, will only take them out of the way for a time, and then turn them back upon us more enraged against us than ever." "That's true, my lord, that's true," replied the keeper, whose perceptions were sufficiently acute, and who began to see that his master had a very potent distaste to the race of gipsies, although his mind, proceeding in its habitual train, did not fail to conclude that the peer's motives for hating them were the same which would have actuated himself had he been in the peer's situation, namely, wrath at their having destroyed the peculiar objects of his veneration, game, and anger at their having outwitted him in his endeavours to preserve it. He went no further in his investigations of his lord's designs, though he himself had peculiar motives of his own; but, possessing goodly powers of detestation himself, he easily conceived that the baron would not scruple at any plausible stratagem for the purpose of obtaining his object. "That's true, my lord, that's true," replied he; "but do you know, I should not wonder if they did some night shoot a fat buck upon his moonlight walk; and I dare say, for the matter of that, we could get them to do it very soon." "Nay, nay," cried the peer in a tone of moderation, "take care what you are about, Harvey; for if any one were to discover that you instigated them, you might get transported; and though of course I would take care that none of my servants was a loser by his zeal in my service, yet I should not like you to get into any scrape." "Your lordship is very kind," said the man; "but I will take care that I get into no scrape; and as to any one hearing me say any thing about it, no fear of that, for I will never say a word to any one but your lordship; and but little will I say even now. But I know how to manage the matter; and if I can get some stout hands to help me and the two under-keepers in taking the fellows, when once we have found out when they are about the job, I'll rid the country of them soon enough--a set of lazy, thieving beggars." "Why, Harvey," said the peer, with a complacent smile, "you do not seem fond of these gipsies, I think." "I fond of them, my lord!" said the man. "No, no! I owe them an old grudge, which I have long thought to pay. One of them nearly killed me once when I was a younker, now near twenty years ago, just for being a little over-civil to one of their women. I might have had my revenge at the time; but I was weak and sick with the bruises, and I was spoony enough to let him get off; but he'll not do so again if I catch hold of him." "But pray, Harvey," said the peer, "how do you propose to obtain such information in regard to when and where these men are to be caught--for they must be caught in the fact, remark--as to enable you to seize them with any certainty? Do you know any of their gang personally?" "Not I, my lord," replied the man; "but, do you see, my lord, I know a man up in the village, called Harry Saxon, who hears a good deal about all those sorts of people, and I will get him just to put it into their heads to--" "Hush, hush, Harvey!" interrupted the nobleman, but a tone as to express much disapprobation. "Do not tell me what you intend to do, but merely how you are to learn when and where to catch them." "Why, _he_ will tell me all that, to be sure, my lord," replied the keeper. "He's a good sort of man, and won't disoblige me, I'll warrant." "And pray what is his usual occupation?" demanded the peer in a casual way. "Oh, he sells venison to the dealers in London," replied the keeper; and then suddenly perceiving that he was on the edge of a precipice, he added, "that is, when any of the gentlemen in the neighbourhood want to kill off some of their bucks, he buys them and sends them up to London. I have heard, too," he continued, seeing that his lord listened with an unmoved countenance, as if to something of course--"I have heard, too, that he sends up many a good brace of partridges, and many a pheasant and a hare: but he is a good sort of man, upon the whole; and when he knows a keeper, like, he will not let the people poach and that upon the grounds that he keeps, and that's what makes us have so much game here. I'll warrant the game is better preserved here than anywhere else in the country." The peer made no observations upon these disjointed pieces of information; but in his own mind concluded, and not without reason, that his keeper was a very great scoundrel. He took care, however, neither by word, look, nor action, to suffer the man he was making use of to perceive what sort of a character he was establishing in his opinion; being fully resolved in his own mind, however, to discharge him as soon after he had served the present purpose as might be found convenient. Deceit, like every other art, has been wonderfully perfected and refined since first it took its origin in the rude, uncultivated human breast. There can be no doubt whatever that when one man entertains an opinion which he wishes to conceal from another, the first natural effort of his mind would be to tell him the direct contrary; and much refinement and experience in the art must have been acquired before the necessity was ascertained of doing things more delicately, and implying, rather than saying, that one believes another to be an honest man, when one is sure he is a great rogue. As the world proceeded, however, and the liberal science of deceit became so thoroughly studied as to force one, with very few exceptions, to say, as said the Psalmist, "All men are liars," a new refinement was introduced, and it became necessary to know when to cover one's own opinion by a skilful implication of the reverse, when, returning to the original and simple mode, in plain terms to announce the direct contrary of what one feels, and to deceive the most thoroughly by the appearance of the utmost candour. In the present instance Lord Dewry chose the latter means, and ended the conversation with the keeper by saying, "Well, Harvey, well! I believe you are a very honest fellow. There are ten guineas for you to give the men you are obliged to employ, an earnest of their reward; and if you succeed in catching these gipsies, so as to convict them either of deer-stealing or aggravated poaching, you may count upon fifty guineas and my favour, besides having all your _bonâ fide_ expenses paid." The man made a low bow, though he did not understand at all what _bonâ fide_ meant; and the peer with a slow step walked to his carriage. The old man and woman who kept the house followed half a step behind, troubling him all the way by questions concerning the superintendence of the place, in regard to which their directions had been full and explicit years before, but by re-demanding which they meant, as usual on such occasions, to insinuate a justification of their late negligence, implying that if they had been properly instructed they would have behaved better. Short and severe were the replies of the baron; and when the carriage-door was at length closed, and the vehicle rolled away, he sunk into thought, feeling that at least one part of his plan was in a fair way for execution, but feeling, likewise, deep, deep in his heart's core, the melancholy conviction--not the less poignant because he strove not to see it--that one crime was lashing him on with a fiery scourge to the commission of many more. The house he had just visited, and the scenes through which he was passing, had not been without their effect. They had recalled to his mind his brother, who had there lived so long the object of his envy, and now of his deep regret. That brother's virtues, his kindness, his noble generosity, tried to the very utmost by his excesses and demands, often, often returned reproachfully to his mind. All the good and affectionate acts which had seemed as nothing while his own passions and interests existed in opposition, and while his brother lived, had been estimated with terrible exactness as soon as his own hand had placed the impassable barrier of death between them; and the sight of that house now, as it always did, recalled every memory that could aggravate remorse, and stir into an intenser blaze the unquenchable fire that burned his heart. There, too, he had himself been educated from infancy to manhood; over those lawns and walks he had played in the guileless innocence of youth; under those trees he had sat a thousand times with the dead, in the sweet and hopeful summer-days of boyhood. Their arms clasped round each other's necks, or their hands locked in each other, they had wandered in their hours of play through the calm green shades of the park, or sat beneath the stately oak, reading some lighter book than that appointed for their daily studies. He remembered it all well; and many an individual day, too, would come forward from the crowd of early memories, and stand before his eyes bright and distinct as if it were hardly yet numbered with the past. He could call back even the feelings of those times, the noble and enthusiastic glow of their bosoms when they had read together some great actions, some generous self-devotion, some pious act of friendship, some deed of mighty patriotism; and now, what had those feelings become? In his brother they were extinct in death, or, rather, glorifying him in a brighter world; and with him himself they were but memories; with him it was the feelings that were dead, while he himself lived but to remember them. Nor was his a heart to scoff at their memory as some men might have done. Perhaps, indeed, had his crimes been lighter--had they but reached the grade of vices--had they been of that character which man's blind selfishness can dress up in other garbs, and cover beneath a light robe of wit, or of what we call philosophy, he might have sneered at the sweet and innocent days that forced themselves upon his recollection, and have parried all that was painful in them by a jest. But the terrible, irrevocable, awful deed that he had committed had been weighty enough, not only to break the elastic spring of gayety in his heart for ever, but to leave those sweet early hours of guileless happiness and noble feeling which still flattered him with the thought that he had not always been base, or cruel, or depraved, the least painful of all that series of painful things whereof his memory was alone composed. And yet remorse mingled its poison even with them, and perhaps rendered the agony they produced on the present occasion more poignant, because on that point his heart was not hardened to the lash. He cast the memories from him as the vehicle rolled on, for he found not only that they were painful, but that other thoughts of the imperious present must have way; and that though he trusted by a new crime to remove some part of the danger of his situation, yet that it was necessary to contemplate his position in every point of view, in order to guard against all that might happen. But here, perhaps, his feelings were even less enviable than those from which he turned. Personal danger, not abstract and distinct, but accompanied by shame, and scorn, and detection, was the first image that presented itself to his mind. To meet the hatred and contempt of the whole world, to be exposed in a court of justice, and on a public scaffold to be pointed and hooted at by the rude populace--to be called the fratricide, the murderer--to undergo the horrors of imprisonment, suspense, trial, condemnation, and execution--and to plunge, loaded with a brother's blood and many another sin, into the wide, dim, terrible hereafter--such were the only objects of his anticipation, if his present schemes should fail. Nor was it at all strange that he should feel them now much more poignantly than at the time which immediately followed his brother's death, though, perhaps, the years which had elapsed might have rendered his safety less in danger now than then. But at that period he had little time to reflect; and his whole mind had been occupied in acting. He had seen and felt the immediate peril, and had apprehended many a vague horror; but imagination had not had time to act--she had not had time to call up and particularize, as she had since done with terrible minuteness, all the awful and agonizing scenes that await the detected murderer. As he leaned back in his carriage, and with closed eyes thought of all the past and all the future, the mingling emotions that agitated his breast were dreadful indeed. Bitter, bitter remorse--strong, lasting, never-sleeping remorse--was for the moment paramount; and could he have seen any way of avoiding shame and death but by new evil, he would have resigned much, he would have resigned all, to follow it. But there was no means before him of escaping all the horrors that threatened, but either to destroy those he feared or to destroy himself: he had but the choice of two great crimes; and the terrors of the endless future, aggravated by the condemnation of self-destruction, were too great for him to think of attempting his own life. As we have before said, it was not that he feared death; for often in his moods of deepest despondency he thought that if some one were to take away his life as he had taken that of his brother, it might be received, together with his long remorse, as some atonement for the past; but he feared to make it his own act, and to double, instead of diminishing, the load upon his own head; and in the desperate choice which was before him he yielded to the common weakness of human nature, and chose that crime of which punishment was most remote. Such were some of the emotions which agitated his mind as the carriage rolled on towards his usual residence; but still the picture of them is but faint and imperfect, as every picture of agitated feelings must be. There were a thousand shades that escape the pen, a thousand sudden changes for which it would be difficult to account. Nevertheless, it must not be supposed that this varying and uncertain mood was the general state of his mind, when no outward circumstance had served to awaken antagonist feelings. On the contrary, he was generally firm in his despair, with remorse for the predominant tone of his whole sensations; but at the same time, with a stern determination to hold all that for which he had paid so deep a price, and to defend his own safety at any risk. It was only when some association connected with other days touched a tenderer point in his heart, and aroused some better feelings from their sleep of years, that the winds and the tempests dashed against the dark dwelling-place of his spirit, and threatened to level it with its foundation in the sand. The mood seldom lasted long, however, and, indeed, could not have done so without driving him to phrensy; and now, as he came within sight of the plantations that skirted his other property, he put on a firmer frame of mind, cast doubt, and fear, and hesitation behind him, and called up those powers of quick, decisive thought and vigorous action which had often in former days carried him through many a scene of difficulty and danger. "I have been as weak as a child," he said, when he looked back on all the feelings to which he had given way--"I have been as weak as a child; and that at a moment when I most need manly firmness: but it is past, and I will not easily forget myself again!" On the next day but one, at a very early hour, Lord Dewry again drove over to Dimden, and had the pleasure of learning, by implications and hints from his head park-keeper, that the plan which had been shadowed out for entangling the gipsies was in a fair way for execution; and yet his spirit was ill at rest, for he felt that his plan was an imperfect one, and that at a thousand points it might fail. The gipsies might be too wary; and, at all events, Pharold was not likely to take part himself in such a scheme. If his companions were implicated, and he were to escape, the natural consequence would be, that his roused-up vengeance would take the ready means of sating itself by betraying the fearful secret that he possessed; and thus the attempt to remove him would but bring about more certainly the danger that was apprehended. Yet what could he do? the peer asked himself. If he could add one other link to the chain in which he had sought to entangle the gipsy, it might render it complete, and prevent the possibility of his escape. But what was that link to be? He could not tell, and yet it served him as food for stern and eager meditation as the carriage bore him rapidly home again, after having satisfied himself that his scheme, as far as it went, was already in progress towards its completion. As he drove up to the door of the house, he remarked that one of his grooms was walking a hard-ridden horse up and down upon the gravel, while the dirty condition of the animal bespoke a long journey. As such sights, however, were not at all uncommon, and the horse might either belong to the steward, or to some stranger come on a visit of curiosity to the house, it excited but little notice on the part of the peer, who was entering without inquiry, when one of the servants informed him that a gentleman was waiting his lordship's return in the small library. Lord Dewry turned a little pale; for there was a consciousness of danger and of the uncertainty of his condition at the heart of the peer, that caused the blood to forsake his cheek at any announcement of a visit, the import of which he did not know. He rebuked the servant, however, for admitting any one to wait for him during his absence; and ordered him never to do so again, adding, that when he expected or wished to see any one, he would always give intimation of his will. The servant excused himself on account of the stranger's pressing and determined manner, motives which did not in the least reconcile the peer to his admission; but, without any further appearance of distrust, he walked with slow and stately steps to the library, and throwing open the door advanced towards a table, determined not to afford his unwished-for guest a pretext for sitting down by even approaching a chair himself. The stranger's person merits some slight description, and even a more detailed account of his clothing than is required on ordinary occasions. He was a man perhaps four or five years younger than the peer himself, thin, light, active, with a twinkling gray eye, somewhat too full of moisture, and a number of those long radiating wrinkles which, I believe, are called crows' feet, decorating the corners of the eyelids. His general complexion was white, of that dry and somewhat withered appearance which long habits of dissipation leave behind, when dissipation is not combined with drunkenness. In every glance there was a quick, sharp, prying expression, joined to a somewhat subservient smile, which was strangely enough displayed upon a cast of countenance, the natural expression of which was pertinacious effrontery. His dress was well worn, and had not apparently been formed originally of any very costly materials; but it had withal a smart cut, and a smart look, which prevented the eye from detecting either the long services it had rendered, or the coarseness of the stuff. It was of a rather anomalous description, too, consisting of what was then called a marone frock with a silver lace, a pair of buckskin breeches for riding in, thunder and lightning silk stockings, just showing their junction with the breeches above, and a pair of heavy boots; while ruffles, and a frill of that species of lace which, seeming all darns together, admits the most frequently of being mended, decorated his wrists and his bosom. Lord Dewry gazed at him as he rose from the chair in which he had been sitting with a look which, if it did not absolutely express the stare of utter strangeness, had very few signs of recognition in it. But the other was neither to be abashed nor discomposed; and his manners, which were those of a gentleman, softened down a good deal of the effrontery which his demeanour displayed. Had he not been a gentleman, and in the habit of mingling with gentlemen, his determined impudence would have been insufferable; and even as things were, that impudence, together with a certain affected swagger in tone and language, which was very generally assumed by the puppies of the day, and which the visiter caricatured, were quite sufficiently annoying, especially to such a man as Lord Dewry. Conceiving at once that the peer was not peculiarly delighted with his visit, the stranger advanced round the table, and with a low bow addressed him ere he had time to speak. "I perceive," he said, "that the lapse of time which has occurred since we met, together with the accession of well-deserved fortunes and dignities, and the cares consequent thereupon, has obliterated from your memory, my lord, the person of a former friend. I must, therefore, announce myself as Sir Roger Millington." The peer bowed haughtily. "I once," he said, "had some acquaintance with a person of that name; but, as you say, sir, the lapse of time has been so great since we have held any communication with each other, that I certainly did not expect it to be so suddenly renewed, and far less to be favoured with an unannounced visit at a time which, perhaps, may not be the most convenient." "My lord," replied his companion, unrebuffed, "I am happy to find that your lordship's memory extends to our acquaintance at least; and to refresh it in regard to the degree of that acquaintance, I think I could show you some letters in your lordship's hand, beginning, some, 'My dear friend!' some, 'My dear Millington!' some, 'Damn it, my dear Millington!' with an elegant variety in the terms, whereby your lordship was kind enough to express your friendship for your humble servant." Lord Dewry coloured highly between anger and shame; but he did not feel at all the more disposed to receive Sir Roger Millington kindly on account of these proofs of their former intimacy. He had not forgotten, any more than his visiter, that they had once been choice companions in both the elegant and inelegant debaucheries of a London life; but a great change in situation, and a total change in feelings, had made the peer as desirous of forgetting the past as the other was of recalling it; and he hated him in proportion as he felt himself thwarted. Sir Roger Millington, however, had calculated his game with the utmost nicety; and once that nothing was to be obtained by gentler means, and determined, therefore, if possible, to force him to the object towards which he could not lead him. Such had been his motive in the somewhat pointed and galling manner in which he had repeated some of Lord Dewry's former expressions of regard, and he was not a little gratified to see the colour rise in his cheek as he spoke. Lord Dewry's reply, however, which immediately followed, was not quite so much to his taste; for the peer also played his part skilfully; and though, in reality, as angry as Sir Roger desired, he concealed his anger, and replied in the same cold haughty tone. "You recall to me, sir," he said, "days of which I am heartily ashamed, scenes of which we have neither of us reason to be proud, and expressions which I greatly wish could be retracted." "I am sorry, as your lordship wishes it, that such a thing is not possible," answered the persevering Sir Roger; "but I think, if you will take a few moments to consider, your lordship may find reason to change some of your sentiments. I may have become an altered man as well as Lord Dewry; and if so, his lordship will have no cause to hate or shun an old friend, because he once followed in a course which his lordship led, and has since followed in his repentance. I hear that a mutual friend of your lordship's and my own is coming to England soon, if not already on his way from America--I mean Sir William Ryder; and I should be sorry to have to tell him, on his return, that your lordship casts off your old acquaintances. You had better consider of it, my lord." "I shall consider nothing, sir," replied the peer, "except that my time is too valuable to be wasted in idle discourse, which can end in nothing; and therefore I have the honour of wishing you good-morning." Thus saying, he stood for about the space of a minute and a half, expecting Sir Roger to leave the room; but being disappointed, he himself turned upon his heel, with a curling lip and a flashing eye, and quitted the library, leaving the door open behind him. Sir Roger Millington stood for a moment or two in some embarrassment, but at length impudence and necessity prevailed. "No," cried he; "no: damn it, it will never do to be beaten when one has resolved on such an attack. Curse me, if I don't die in the breach, like other heroes. Why, if I cannot raise a hundred or two I'm done, that's clear. No, no: I'll not stir;" and casting himself down into a chair, he coolly took up a book and began to read. CHAPTER XV. "To be teased with such an insolent scoundrel at such a moment as this!" thought the peer, as he strode hastily to his usual sitting-room: "it is insufferable! I have a great mind to order the villains that let him in to horsewhip him out again for their pains: I believe that they will some day drive me mad among them!" And stamping his foot upon the ground, as was his custom when very angry, he clenched his thin hand as if he would have struck the object of his indignation. Suddenly, however, stopping in the midst of his passion, he fell into deep thought, which kept him standing in the middle of the room for two or three minutes; then approaching the bell, he rang it calmly. His own valet, whose peculiar province was to attend to that especial sitting-room, appeared in less time than ordinary. "Is the gentleman who was in the little library gone?" demanded the peer. "No, my lord," replied his laconic attendant. "I shall dine in the larger room to-day," said Lord Dewry: "bid Mr. Scott have the table laid for two, and tell _le Chef_ that the dinner must be different." The man bowed, and withdrew; and the peer, after pausing for a single moment where he was, re-opened the door, and proceeded through the neighbouring gallery to a vestibule, whence his eye could rest upon the door of the room in which he had left Sir Roger Millington. Here again, however, he paused even for several minutes; and then, raising his head, which had been sunk somewhat upon his bosom, he walked on with a calm, dignified step towards the room which he had quitted not a quarter of an hour before in such great indignation. Sir Roger Millington was seated exactly in the chair which had received his person when the peer left him, and was deeply, and apparently pleasantly, engaged with the book he had taken up. So perfectly comfortable, indeed, did he seem to have made himself, that Lord Dewry, notwithstanding strong determinations to the contrary--the motives of which will be explained immediately--could scarcely refrain from kicking him through the glass door into the park. He conquered his passion, however; and, in a tone which was very different from that which he had used towards the same person a quarter of an hour before, but which was still sufficiently guarded by haughty coldness to prevent the transition from appearing excessively abrupt, he addressed his visiter once more. "Sir Roger Millington," he said, "I am glad to find that you are not gone; for a little reflection makes me regret having treated a former acquaintance somewhat hastily: but the truth is, your arrival has occurred at a moment when I am not only extremely busy, but also when my feelings have been irritated and hurt by various occurrences, which may in some degree have made me forget my courtesy." "Come, come," thought Sir Roger Millington, "matters are improving! some fools would have gone away ashamed or affronted! There is nothing like knowing when to keep one's ground--when to beat a retreat! My lord," he continued, aloud, "it gives me the greatest pain to think that I have intruded upon you at such a moment: but I am quite ready to repair my fault by retiring! only requesting your lordship to name some hour to-morrow when I can have the honour of conversing with you on matters of some importance." "Of importance to yourself or to me, Sir Roger?" demanded the peer, forcing a half-smile; though there had been something in the pertinacity with which his visiter had held his ground that made him almost apprehend that these matters of importance might refer, in some unpleasant manner, to himself. Had Sir Roger Millington had the slightest means whatever of showing that the matters of which he had to speak were in any degree relative to the peer, he would have ventured the assertion that they were of importance to him; but as he had not, he judged it expedient to be candid in the more placable mood which his noble host now displayed; and he accordingly answered, "Of more importance to myself, my lord, I am afraid, than to you." It was a lucky hit, however; for this proceeding not only quieted all Lord Dewry's apprehensions, but also favoured his views in other respect. "I am glad to hear it, Sir Roger," replied the baron; "for, to say the truth, I have important business of my own enough upon my hands to tire me of it; and I would rather speak upon any one else's affairs than have any more of myself. But you must not think of leaving the hall, though I am afraid I must be absent from you a considerable part of the day. I shall expect the pleasure of your company for a few days, and I will order my servant to conduct you to your apartments. You must amuse yourself as best you may till the evening. Here are books enough, you see, if you have turned student; and if you are still fond of field-sports, the gamekeeper will show you where you may find plenty of game. Use the house as your own, I beg; but only excuse the master of it for a few hours." "My lord, your lordship is too good, too kind," replied his companion, bowing low and lower; "but--" "Oh, I understand," said the peer; "you have ridden here, and have not dressing materials: never mind, we will cast away ceremony, Sir Roger." "But if any one could be sent over to the village of Barholm, my lord," said Sir Roger, "since your lordship is so very good, they would find my valise at the inn." "Certainly, certainly," said the peer, increasing in courtesy at every response--"certainly; we will see about it directly." And he rang the bell once or twice with that air of good-will which was well calculated to wipe away the memory of any former coldness. "Richard," he said, as soon as a servant appeared, "send over the errand-boy on horseback directly to Barholm, and bid him inquire for the things Sir Roger Millington has left there at the inn. Bid the groom look to Sir Roger's horse, and then come here to show him to the yellow room. Attend upon him while he does me the pleasure of remaining here, and see that everything is supplied properly.--Now, Sir Roger, I must beg you to excuse me for a short time, but I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at dinner." Sir Roger bowed low: the peer withdrew; and the servant, saying, "I will be back in a minute, sir, to show you to your apartments," followed, to give the orders he had received to the errand-boy and the under-groom. Sir Roger Millington cast himself back into his chair, mentally declaring, "'Pon my soul, he seems a devilish good fellow, after all; somewhat hasty, and hellish proud, but better at bottom than he lets himself appear. I should not wonder if this card, which, by----, is the last in my hand, should turn up a trump, after all. Egad, that would be queer!" Such were his first reflections; and he had not time to proceed much beyond them when the servant reappeared, and begged him to follow. The visiter immediately complied; and walking through a suite of handsome rooms, where gold lace, and damask, and pictures, and cabinets, and brass, and tortoise-shell, and marble, combined to form a very dazzling assemblage of furniture and decorations, he was led up a fine flight of stairs to another story, where, through corridors scarcely less handsomely garnished than the apartments below, he was conducted, murmuring, "What a splendid house!" to a spacious bedroom and dressing-room, adorned with yellow damask hangings, and supplied with everything at which luxury had yet arrived in the days whereof we speak. Here, after asking his further commands, the servant left him, and Sir Roger Millington threw himself on one of the sofas, asking, "Well, what the devil can the fellow want? for want something he certainly does. However, no matter; all the better for me. I'm the man for his money, whatever he wants; and, by Jupiter! I'll take good care not to quarrel with the sort of bread and butter that is to be got in this house!" Leaving Sir Roger Millington to speculate upon such very natural propositions, we may as well follow the peer once more to his private room, and endeavour to ascertain the cause of a change in his demeanour towards the poor knight, which had been, as we have seen, no less sudden than complete. No sooner had he entered the chamber than he closed the door, and bolted it; approached a small iron chest, which stood riveted to the floor and to the wall, and, opening it with a key which was attached to a strong gold chain round his neck, he folded his arms upon his breast, and gazed in for a moment, biting his lip and straining his eye as if it required no small powers of self-command to proceed any farther. He then drew forth a large holster-pistol, richly embossed with silver--the fellow to that which had been placed in the hands of Edward de Vaux by the gipsy Pharold--and held it for a time in his hand, with his eyes not fixed upon it, but upon some far object in the distant landscape, which nevertheless, he saw not in the least; for the intensity of the mind's occupation at that moment had broken for the time the connection between the intellectual soul and her servants, the corporal senses; so that his eye was as blind to the things on which it was fixed as if it had been seared by lightning. His thoughts were far away--in other years and in other scenes; and as he laid the weapon down upon a chair beside him, he murmured, "It _must_ have fallen into the river, or it would have been found with the hat." He then sought for a moment among some papers, from which he selected one; and replacing every thing in the chest as it had been before, turned to the table and gazed upon the sheet, which seemed alone filled with memoranda of dates and numbers that certainly could possess no meaning to any eye but his own. To him, however, their import seemed of great consequence; for again and again he studied them; and ever and anon the contemplation would plunge him into deep fits of thought, from which he only roused himself again to gaze upon the figures as before. "It will do," he said at length, "it will do; but I must take care of what I am about. Yet of this Roger Millington there is no fear. He would at any time of his life have condemned his own soul for gold, and now he seems beggared and wretched enough. The other people can offer him nothing: I can offer him ease and luxury; and he will not only have no temptation to betray me, but every inducement to keep my secret till the grave closes over us both. And yet," he added, thoughtfully--"and yet I must not put it in his power ever to annoy me hereafter. He must rest in my power rather than I in his. Yet if we can silence this Pharold for ever, all real danger will be past; and I must risk something--I must risk much, for that object." Such were some of the thoughts which passed through the mind of Lord Dewry; nor were his conclusions formed upon a very wrong estimate of the character of his present visiter. The better qualities of Sir Roger Millington were few. The best of them was personal courage, or rather that total thoughtlessness in regard to death, and what is to follow death, which in many men supplies the place of a nobler principle. He had always, too, been what is called generous; and he did, indeed, possess that curious combination of qualities which makes a man pillage and ruin the father of a family, and thus bring want, destruction, and desolation upon a whole household, while at the same time he is willing, on every occasion, to share the ill-gotten wealth of the moment with any one who needs it. His generosity, however, still more displayed itself in wasting, among debauchees like himself, whatever he possessed, and thinking no means ignoble to dissipate what he had thought no means dishonourable to obtain. Born of a good family, introduced early into the best society, and placed, as a military man, in a situation which should have acted rather to strengthen honourable principles than to lead him from them, he had at first, so long as the actual war lasted, gained some credit and renown as a soldier; but no sooner had a peace succeeded than various gambling transactions, of a somewhat doubtful character, rendered it expedient that he should quit the service. This he was permitted to do without disgrace; but from that hour his progress had been downwards in fortune and society. He had first mingled with gentlemen upon equal terms; and during the greater part of his acquaintance with Lord Dewry had kept himself on the same footing with his companions, by keeping up the same expenses, and by indulging the same vices. He was often very successful at play; and, though it was reported that his scruples were not very great in regard to the experience or the sobriety of those with whom he sat down, as his winnings enabled him, generally, to live in luxury and splendour, there were few found to object to the means of acquirement. He sometimes lost, however; and, as on one or two occasions his losses had been to persons of greater wealth than courage, he was said to have discharged his debt by lending the use of his sword in some of the numerous disputes which vice and debauchery entail upon their disciples. All these things were suspected; but still Sir Roger Millington was not, on that account, shut out from society. Some people merely thought that in him they knew where to find a _serviceable man_ when they wanted such a thing; and others did not choose to quarrel with one who was in better repute at the Park or the back of Montague House, the two great resorts of duellists in that day, than in St. James's-street. Gambling, however, is always a losing trade; and, by slow degrees, and with many a brief revival of fortune, Sir Roger Millington was forced down lower and lower in the scale of reputation and estate. It must be a very honourable spirit, indeed, that poverty renders more scrupulous; and such was certainly not the case with Sir Roger Millington. The means of obtaining money seemed to him all honourable if they led him not to Tyburn; and, at length, he would fight with or for any man for a very trifling consideration. By this trade, varied, where he found it necessary, by sycophancy or by impudence, he contrived for some time to keep himself up, till at length some one of his adversaries, more wise than the rest, took courage to refuse to cross swords with a bully and a sharper, horsewhipped Sir Roger when he posted him, fought and wounded the first man of honour that looked cold on him for his conduct, and left Sir Roger Millington no resource but to quit the circles in which he had been formerly received. These circumstances had occurred about two years before the knight's visit to Lord Dewry; and it would be more painful and disgusting than amusing or instructive to follow him through the shifts and turnings of the succeeding months. At length the happy thought struck him which we have seen him execute; and with a horse, the last of a once splendid stud, a valise containing all that remained of his wardrobe, three guineas, and some silver in his purse, a vast stock of impudence, and a packet of the peer's old letters, he set out to see whether he could wring anything either from the weakness or the kindness of Lord Dewry, from whom he had won, in former days, many a sum which he now sighed to think upon. He came, as we have seen, at the very moment when the assistance of such a person as himself, who was not in the least scrupulous either in regard to oaths or dangers, was likely to prove most serviceable to the peer, provided that any bonds could be invented, so close and clinging as to restrain a man who had never yet been bound by any principles of religion, morality, or honour. On their meeting, the uses to which he might be put had not at first struck Lord Dewry, and he had given way to the irritable impatience natural to his character: but the last words of Sir Roger Millington concerning Sir William Ryder, had struck a chord of association which soon awoke other ideas; and before the peer had reached his own room he had seen and comprehended the variety of services which Sir Roger might render him. Thought, however, was required, both to arrange and give a tangible form to plans which were yet vague and undefined; and to devise means of so guarding against the very agent he was about to employ as not to fall into a new danger in striving to escape an old one. Men who have involved themselves in the dark work of crime, like those employed in forging red-hot iron, are obliged to touch the objects of their labour with tools of steel, lest they should burn themselves with the bolts they forge. After much thought, however, Lord Dewry believed that he saw means of rendering Sir Roger Millington, not only obedient to his every wish, but faithful also; and though the plans in which he was to be employed, of course required long and intense consideration, the new views that opened before the peer gave him so much comfort that he heard the dressing-bell ring, long before he had expected it, without any feelings but those of renewed security and anticipated triumph over those who had before caused him so much doubt and apprehension. Now Lord Dewry was a shrewd and strong-minded man, who, as far as a violent and proud disposition, and very uncontrollable passions, would let him, generally acted upon a regularly-arranged and well-considered system in every thing he undertook: but it is extraordinary how often a man acts upon system without knowing it; for, after all, as before said, we are but mere puppets, body and mind, in the hands of our desires. Lord Dewry had ordered the beggared and threadbare Sir Roger Millington to be taken to one of the most splendid apartments in his splendid house; he had ordered such an intimation to be given to the cook as would place upon the table a rich and luxurious repast; he had directed that repast to be spread in a room full of magnificence; and now he dressed himself with scrupulous care and elegance, without at all being aware that it was all part of a system to re-awaken in the bosom of the penniless knight that thirst for luxury and ease which would render him most willingly and eagerly the tool of him who could bestow it. So it was, however; and though pride had her word too, and told his lordship that such display would make his visiter more humble and respectful, yet the principal object was to show him how many pleasant and desirable things might be obtained by being the very humble and most devoted servant of the noble lord. Had Lord Dewry sat and calculated for an hour what system was most likely to produce the desired effect upon a man of the peculiar mental and bodily idiosyncrasy of Sir Roger Millington, he could not have more happily adapted his actions to the circumstances. In his high and plumy days of fortune, Sir Roger Millington had learned to love and delight in every good thing of the earth that we inhabit; and in his days of debasement and poverty he had equally learned to admire and bow down to, in others, the possession of those things which had given him so much pleasure when he possessed them himself. The soft tread of the Turkey carpets, the sight of damask, and lace, and or-molu, an accidental whiff of the distant kitchen, as he passed the top of a back staircase--a whiff faint and fragrant as if it came from "the spice islands in the south"--the very feel of the sofa on which he sat, were all so many arguments in favour of any plan, action, or idea which Lord Dewry could possibly suggest; and when, after having received his goods and chattels from the village, selected the best of his wardrobe, and made himself look, as he could do, perfectly gentlemanly, he descended to the drawing-room, it was with an impression of the greatest possible respect and admiration for the talents, sentiments, feelings, thoughts, and virtues of his noble entertainer. He was almost immediately joined by the peer, who was surprised but not sorry to see his guest look so much like a gentleman; for though he sincerely desired that he should be such at heart as to do his unscrupulous bidding unscrupulously, yet he was quite willing to have him such, in appearance, as would excite neither wonder nor animadversion. Hasty as the peer was by nature, and eager as he was in the present instance, he had acquired sufficient command over himself to reserve any more open communication with Sir Roger till a more proper moment; although, had he given way to the impulse of his own heart, he would have entered upon the business which occupied his thoughts at once. But he felt what an advantage such a course of action would confer upon his guest; and, therefore, without showing the slightest haste or impatience, he spoke a moment or two upon the weather, and the state of the nation, and the alarming increase of crime in the metropolis, and several other things, about which he cared not in the least, and then turned to some of the pictures that hung upon the walls, expatiating upon their various merits with as much learning as a connoisseur, and as much taste as an Agar Ellis. "Yes," he said, "that is a very fine picture, though not so valuable as it looks. It is by one of the disciples of Rubens, and artists believe the heads to be by Rubens himself. But I will show you a real treasure!" and approaching a small panel opposite, covered with two richly-carved and gilded doors, he opened them; and, drawing a silk curtain, displayed an inner frame containing a Madonna exquisitely painted. "That is an undoubted Correggio," he said; "and one of the most beautiful pictures that master ever painted. Remark the exquisite bend of that head, so full of grief and resignation. The beauty of the colouring, too--that tear upon the cheek, the faint pink of the nostril partaking slightly of the blue of the drapery, and the drapery itself, how masterly! Look here, too, at the hands crossed upon the breast! Did you ever behold such beautiful hands? so small and delicate, yet so soft and full! every thing graceful and light, yet every thing full of contour and correctness!" The doors were thrown open while he still spoke, and dinner was announced; nor did Lord Dewry, during the whole course of the meal, deviate from the rule he had laid down, of hurrying his communication by neither word nor hint. The dinner itself was such as might be expected from his fortune and his habits--abundant, but not loaded, showing every delicacy that wealth could procure, and yet taking care that, as in the Palace of the Sun, the workmanship should excel the materials. The wines, however, surpassed every thing else; and that sort of nectar which is called, _sec sillery_ once again greeted the palate of Sir Roger Millington, after many years of tedious interval. Sir Roger blessed the stars which had conferred so many good things on a man to whom he hoped to render service; for though he neither ate nor drank to excess, he enjoyed to the full, and saw the dessert placed upon the table only with the expectation of at length hearing how he might merit a participation in such blessings in future. The best polished crystal, full of the liquid rubies of rich Medoc, was set upon the table; and the majestic butler drew off after the retiring footmen. Lord Dewry recommended the claret; and when he saw the glass filled, he opened his approaches cautiously. "Now, Sir Roger," he said, "we have all the evening before us, without fear of interruption; and though I trust you will give me the pleasure of your company some days longer, yet, as you spoke of some matter which was of importance to you, it may be pleasanter to us both to get rid of the business at once, and devote the rest of our time to less weighty affairs." Sir Roger had not prepared for this way of opening the campaign; and he felt some fear that any demand upon the purse of his noble host might banish him from a dwelling where he felt himself as yet quite comfortable. A moment's thought, however, reassured him; for, both from his general knowledge of the world, and his particular knowledge of the peer, he felt very sure that such a sudden transition from rudeness to hospitality, as we have heretofore recorded, could not have taken place without a motive--that motive he concluded to be a desire of reaping advantage from some of his numerous and pliant abilities; and he therefore perceived that the policy now was to make a bargain as best he might. All this train of argumentation was run over rapidly in his brain, and he then replied, "The fact is, my lord, that some of my old evil habits have, as your lordship may have anticipated, somewhat impaired my property, and put me to temporary difficulties. Such being the case, and being rather rudely pressed, I bethought me of your lordship's former kindness and liberality, and came down in haste to see whether I could not induce you to favour me with the loan of a small sum." "A loan!" exclaimed the peer, raising his eyebrows as if something quite unexpected had broke upon his ear, though there was the dawning of a half-suppressed smile about his lip that contradicted his tone of surprise--"a loan! Ah, I dare say we can manage that matter, Sir Roger. But be candid with me; tell me the state of your finances: it shall not injure your views, upon my honour!" "Bad enough, my lord, bad enough," replied his companion, candidly, and yet shrewdly; for he began to fancy that candour would be best: "bad enough, I am sorry to say. I have had a sad run against me, and have not been able to get over it." "No heavy debts?" said the peer. "No, upon my honour, no," replied Sir Roger; "I do not owe twenty pounds in the world; but I find a difficulty in getting one." "That was always an extraordinary trait of yours, Millington," said the peer: "you were never in debt, though you spent a good deal, and played high." "Because I always paid away my money as fast as I got it," replied his guest. "As soon as I had a sum, any one might have it that wanted it, whether a tradesman or a friend; and as I had large sums then," he added, with a sigh, "I was never long in debt." This was, indeed, partly true of the times to which he referred, as the peer well knew; and the reason for his having few debts in later years was still more simple, though he mentioned it not--it was, that no one would trust him. Lord Dewry, however, seemed affected by his reference to old times, and replied, "Well, well, Sir Roger, we will not let you be hard pressed any longer. What is the sum you at present want?" Sir Roger Millington hesitated between the fear of asking too much and asking too little; and he would have given the three guineas that graced his pocket willingly to have found out what service was to be demanded of him in return, that he might shape his request accordingly. "It cannot be to fight," he thought; "the fellow used to do all that business for himself, and devilish well, too! but, however, it must be some pitiful job, indeed, if it is not worth a couple of hundred. I'll ask fifty more.--Why, my lord," he said aloud, "the fact is, that two hundred and fifty pounds, I am afraid, will be requisite." "Well, well," said Lord Dewry, who, thinking chiefly of Sir Roger's former style of living, had calculated upon a demand of at least double that amount--"well, well, that can be managed; and, upon my honour, it shall be managed: but now let us speak a little upon other matters." "Now it comes!" thought Sir Roger Millington; but the peer proceeded,--"I have now promised you this sum unconditionally; but if you will explain to me more fully the real and particular state of your finances, perhaps we may strike out something that may prove ultimately still more beneficial to you--I mean permanently beneficial." Sir Roger Millington sat with his eyes wide open, and the internal voice of his wonder would have been, could any one have heard it, "Why, what's the meaning of all this? is he going to turn out really generous, after all?" He had recourse to the claret jug, however, which soothed him wonderfully; and he answered, "Why, my lord, as I have already said, the state of my finances is bad--very bad! In short, my lord, there is nothing which your lordship can do to mend them that will not be most gratefully received by Roger Millington." "We must think of it, Sir Roger; we must think of it well," replied the peer; "and you will find, Sir Roger, that no man will do more than I will to remove you from all difficulties, and put you at your ease. The worst point of the whole business is, I am afraid that all I can do for you is but for my own life. My estates are strictly entailed. I live up to my income; and I am afraid that with me would die anything that I could annually do for you." "May your lordship live for ever!" replied Sir Roger, with more sincerity, perhaps, than ever courtier offered such an aspiration in favour of the kings of the Medes and Persians. "The truth is, my lord," he continued, "nothing can be worse than the state of my present fortunes. I certainly did not doubt being able to mend them with a little assistance; but if your lordship carries into execution your kind intentions in my favour, and mends them for me, all I can say is, that you shall find one man at least grateful in this world; and I hope also that your lordship will point out to me some means of aiding you in return, for the burden of my obligation to you will be greatly relieved by being able to show my zeal in your service." "Oh, we will think of that hereafter," said Lord Dewry; "and as you are a man of taste and ingenuity, I have no doubt, Sir Roger, in the various changes and alterations which I am making here and at Dimden--I have no doubt that we shall be able to find you employment of a nature the most agreeable to your feelings and the most suitable to your mind. Nobody need know any thing of the pecuniary arrangements between us. You shall always be received here as a friend, and the rest of your days may pass in sunshine and enjoyment." These were prospects bright indeed to the view of the impoverished knight; and as he felt that no services on his part would be too great or too unscrupulous to merit such reward, he very plainly gave his noble entertainer to understand that such was the case, and explained to him how willing he would be to undertake any task he chose to impose. This was the plainest speaking which had been held during the evening; and the peer was not sorry that it had come on the part of his guest, for he was anxious now to arrive at the point, and yet he decidedly wished that the way might be smoothed for him. He smiled most graciously, therefore, as he replied, "Well, well, Sir Roger, your offers shall soon be put to the proof. I have upon my hands, at the present moment, some business which is very difficult to manage; and as I know you to be both firm and skilful, I will request your assistance in it. But remember, I beg, that my object, as I shall explain to you immediately, is perfectly just and upright; and although the business wants a little shrewd management, yet it is one in which you may engage conscientiously." "I doubt it not, my lord, I doubt it not," replied Sir Roger, who, perhaps, in all the variety of human actions, would have found very few in which, under his present circumstances, he would not have engaged quite conscientiously--"I doubt it not, my lord. Pray, proceed." "Oh, it is a long story," answered the baron; "and before we proceed to that, let me ask you, Sir Roger, if you remember, with any degree of accuracy, the transactions which took place between you and me and Sir William Ryder, in regard to a large sum of money that we lost to you in the year 17--?" "Perfectly, most perfectly, my lord," replied Sir Roger: "my memory never fails on such points; I could swear to every fact." "Then, do you remember," said the peer, "receiving a note from me on the eighteenth of May, telling you that if you would wait another week I would pay you the whole sum at once, as my brother would be able by that time to call in money to lend me? and do you remember your coming to me the same evening to say that you were quite willing to wait, and our going out together to a party?" "I remember it all accurately, my lord," replied the poor knight, to whom the recollection of days when the proud man before whom he now sat had been his debtor and his humble servant was too gratifying to be easily forgotten--"I remember it all well--every particular; but you are mistaken in the date, my lord: it was the nineteenth, not the eighteenth, of May." "No, no; it is you who are mistaken, Sir Roger," replied the peer, with a meaning smile. "It was the eighteenth, I can assure you." Sir Roger did not comprehend. "Indeed, my lord," he replied, "it was the nineteenth; I remember it from many circumstances. On that very morning the great bet had come off between Colonel Hammerstone and the Nailer, and--" "Nay, nay, I am positive," said the peer, "from circumstances that I cannot forget either. It was the eighteenth day of May, in the year 17--." "But, my lord, I have your lordship's own note," said Sir Roger, persevering. "Have you so?" cried the peer. "I wish you would be so kind as to let me see it." "Certainly, my lord; I will bring it in a moment," said Sir Roger; and, rising from his chair, he left the room, in order to bring the paper to which he referred. While he was gone, Lord Dewry sat silent and stern, with his hand over his eyes and the upper part of his face; but his lips, which were uncovered, moved as if he were speaking, and the working of the muscles of his cheeks seemed to indicate that he was in bodily pain. As soon as his guest returned, however, he withdrew his hand, and all was clear and smiling, except, perhaps, a slight contraction of the brow, and an anxious intensity of gaze in his eye, which had both become habitual. Sir Roger Millington resumed his place; and, laying down upon the table a bundle of papers which he carried, he selected one, and presented it to the peer, saying, "There, my lord, is the note." Lord Dewry received it calmly, not only because he knew the contents exactly as well as Roger Millington, but because he felt perfectly satisfied that Sir Roger himself was secured--bound hand and foot his slave--by promises and expectations which no one else had the power or the necessity of holding out to him. The paper, though it bore the marks of age in the yellow hue of its complexion and the paleness of the ink, was in other respects well preserved; and the peer, unfolding it, perused it attentively, and still held it in his hand when he had done. "I see, Sir Roger," he said, "that you are correct, as far as the dating of this note goes; but at the same time, I can assure you, I must have dated it wrong at the time by some unfortunate mistake, which mistake, by an unpleasant concatenation of circumstances, might prove of the greatest disadvantage to me at present, and might even deprive me of the power of assisting you in the way that I am so desirous of doing." The master-key of self-interest instantly unlocked the door of Sir Roger Millington's understanding; and he now saw that some very strong motive must influence the peer in wishing to prove that the letter was written on a different day from that on which it was dated. He consequently determined at once that it should be written on any day whatsoever that his lordship thought fit; but, at the same time, having a due regard to the friable nature of promises, he extremely desired to make himself master of his noble friend's secret views, in order to have some check upon him hereafter. "Indeed, my lord," he replied, in a tone of much concern, "I am sorry to hear that the fact should be likely to produce such results. May I inquire how such an unfortunate state of things is likely to ensue from so simple a circumstance?" "Oh, certainly," replied Lord Dewry, with somewhat of a sarcastic smile; "you may inquire, and I will answer you, Sir Roger: but then, if I do, I must, I am afraid, demand a bond for the two hundred and fifty pounds I am about to advance, as I must either have security for my money or my secrets--which you like, Sir Roger." "Oh, then, my lord," replied Sir Roger Millington, inclining his head with a significant bow, "the matter is very simple. As I have no security to offer for the money, I will beg not to burden myself with your lordship's confidence any further than you think absolutely necessary; and in regard to the note which is likely to produce results so unlucky to both you and me--for I am fain to believe that my prosperity is now intimately connected with your lordship's--I think the best way to settle the matter will be to put it in the fire." "I do not exactly know that," answered Lord Dewry, musing: "at all events, let me convince you first that it was written on the eighteenth, instead of the nineteenth." "My lord, I am already convinced," said Sir Roger Millington, who, once having obtained the cue, could go on without the prompter--"I am already convinced: I see my mistake. I remember it was the day before the great walking bet came off, which was on the nineteenth, at Hounslow. Indeed, it is impossible that it could have been otherwise: for I was present on the ground all day; and if I was at Hounslow all day, I could not receive your note in London." "True, true," said the peer; though he very well knew that the note which he had written after his return to town, the very day subsequent to his brother's death, had found Sir Roger just come back from Hounslow--"true, true, Sir Roger; and doubtless you could swear to all these facts, should it be necessary." "Beyond all doubt, my lord," replied the knight, "circumstances crowd upon my memory which all tend to show that your lordship is right; and it must have been the mistaken date of the note which deceived me." "Would it not, then, be advisable," demanded the peer, "to rectify the date which the note bears, instead of destroying it--hey, Sir Roger, hey?" "Certainly, my lord, certainly," said Sir Roger; and then, dropping his voice, he added in a half-whisper, "if it can be done without the chance of discovery." "Easily," replied the peer--"easily, Sir Roger: a little acid which I have in my library will take out the tail of the nine, without leaving a trace; there will then remain only a cipher, which I will alter to an eight; so that no one will see a difference between the writing of that figure and the rest of the letter. You and I, the only persons concerned in a private letter from me to you, are both convinced that the date ought to be so rectified; and no one else need know any thing about it." "I am perfectly of your lordship's opinion," replied Sir Roger; "had it not better be done immediately?" "With all my heart," replied the peer; "follow me, Sir Roger; we will return here, and conclude our claret when we have done." The serviceable Sir Roger followed without another word to the peer's private room. A small bottle of acid was produced, which answered its object fully: the obnoxious figure was changed into a more convenient one with ink mingled with water, to render it of the same hue as the rest of the writing, and the most severe and practised eye could not have detected a change. When it was done, the peer and his confederate stood gazing upon the paper with very different feelings: Sir Roger, totally indifferent to all considerations of right and wrong in the matter, only wondering what was to come next, and desirous of knowing whether he himself was to resume possession of the letter, or whether his noble host intended to keep it for his own purposes; Lord Dewry feeling at his heart that blessed sensation of security which he had not known for twenty years. The peer's next act was calmly to take his pocketbook from his pocket, and drawing forth five notes, amounting to the sum which Sir Roger had demanded, he laid them, one after another, down upon the paper which they had been corrupting; and then, taking up the whole packet, he put it into his companion's hand. "Sir Roger," he said, "I always like to be as good as my word, and often endeavour to prove myself better than my word. In regard to these notes," he added, seeing the knight about to pour forth thanks, "let us say no more about them; and in regard to this note," pointing to the one they had altered, "let me beg you to put it by carefully with the rest of my letters; and should you ever be called upon to produce it and speak about it, you will remember the fact accurately, that it was received by you on the eighteenth of May, the day before the great bet came off at Hounslow. Also, you will remember that you called upon me in answer to it, and that we sat together for half an hour. But it may be as well to forget, perhaps, that we went out in company to Hillier's party. Let all statements be as simple as possible, with no more circumstances than are necessary to show that you do really remember the facts. And now let us return to our claret, for we have more to talk of yet, both concerning your affairs and mine." Sir Roger bowed low, promising to act exactly as he was instructed. "You know I have been a soldier, my lord," he said, "and am well aware of the necessity of obeying orders without the slightest variation." The peer led the way back to the dining-room, and rang for more claret, though there was a good deal still upon the table; but the cause was, in truth, that he desired a moment or two to think further before he continued his conversation with Sir Roger Millington. His original design had been to employ him in a much more extensive and conclusive enterprise than he had hitherto broached to him; but in the very initiatory steps, the fact of the letter being still in existence, the facility which Sir Roger had shown in bending to his wishes, and the certainty of his following exactly the directions he had received, seemed to remove the necessity for further efforts. "I have now," thought the peer, "the most perfect and conclusive proof to adduce that I was in London on the very day of my brother's death; and granting that the oath of Sir Roger Millington may be somewhat doubted, on account of his established character, the letter--the letter is proof positive. Besides, what can be opposed to it but the oath of a gipsy and a gambler? neither of them worth more than his, if so much. The letter is conclusive. Perhaps it may be as well to let the gipsy alone; and yet it is not to be longer endured--this state of momentary apprehension of what the next minute is to produce. Nor can there be any doubt that, as soon as Pharold finds out this business in regard to the deer-stealing, which has gone too far by this time to be stayed, his first vengeance will be to tell all, and I may as well be prepared to cast the charge back upon himself. Besides, if I can crush him before the other arrives in England, I may set the whole world at defiance." As he thought thus he drank a large glass of claret. There never yet was man who committed a great crime, and did not thenceforth feel that the predominant longing of his soul was, once more to be able to "sleep in spite of thunder." He drank another full glass; and then went on, determined to bring the struggle to an issue at once, now that he had all his preparations made, and was sure of the result. "What we have just been speaking of, Sir Roger," he said, as the servant shut the door after setting down the claret, "brings to my mind our former acquaintance, Sir William Ryder. I should scarcely think that he proposes to come back again to this country, as you hinted this morning, considering that he left many a debt unpaid. Among other things, you know he was your debtor in the transaction of which we but now spoke, as well as myself, though not to the same amount; and you are doubtless also aware that I paid the whole debt. Pray, when did you hear from him?" "I did not hear from him directly, my lord," replied the knight, "as we have, in fact, kept up no correspondence. I wrote to him, indeed, shortly after his departure, but he never answered my letter. But I saw a few days ago in an American paper, that the well-known Sir William Ryder was about to quit his dwelling at some strange named place in a few weeks, for the purpose of visiting England, in order to induce the government to take measures for the protection and instruction of the savage Indians." A sneering smile curled the lip of the peer, but he made no observation upon the information he received. "Did you not go down with him to Holyhead, on his way to embark for America from some Irish port?" demanded Lord Dewry; "I think I have heard so." "No, my lord, no," replied Sir Roger; "I met him at Holyhead by accident. I had just come over from Ireland, where I had been to settle a little affair with a man in Dublin. I lent Sir William one of my horses to go out to see some gipsies--what the devil business he had with them I could never tell--but the horse threw him and broke his ribs, and hurt himself into the bargain; but a gipsy fellow, the best farrier I ever saw, cured him in a week--the horse, I mean; but I believe they cured Sir William too, for I left him in their hands recovering fast; I myself being obliged to be at Newmarket before he could get out of his bed." "I thought I remembered something of the transaction," said the peer. "Sir William Ryder, with whom I was in some correspondence at that time, in regard to the very debt of which we were speaking, wrote to me that he had seen you there, and mentioned the accident your horse had met with. But now tell me, Sir Roger, did you not receive from the gipsy farrier a bank-note, in change for money given him in payment?" "No, my lord, not that I remember," said the knight; "faith, I have forgot what I gave him, and all about it." "Recollect yourself, Sir Roger," said Lord Dewry; "I think, if you remember right, you will find that he gave you in change a note, which you afterward gave to me when we last settled our accounts together, about six months after I succeeded to this property." "Nay, nay, my lord," said the knight, "your lordship is not right there: it was you gave me the money; I gave you none. It was a round sum, you know, my lord." Lord Dewry bit his lip, and Sir Roger Millington could hear his foot stamp upon the carpet under the table with impatience at his contradiction. In truth, the noble lord did not at all desire to be driven to explanations, though, in fact, the dark and fearful scheme which his mind had formed for the purpose of delivering himself from all fear for ever was too deep and intricate to be understood by him whom he intended for his tool in accomplishing it, without a much fuller knowledge of the subject than the knight possessed. "You do not understand me," cried the peer, hastily; "you will not understand me, Sir Roger! Mark me, now!" and then, after thinking for a moment, he proceeded in a stern, determined tone, and with a dark, contracted brow:--"You remember my succeeding to this property, Sir Roger; and you remember the circumstances of my brother's unfortunate death? The only person who saw the--the business was a gipsy; and at the time some circumstances made it appear so strongly probable that that gipsy had been himself the--the murderer, that Mr. Arden--old Mr. Arden, who is still living--wished to commit him. I, however, foolishly would believe nothing of the story, as this very gipsy had always been a protégé of my brother's, and he was liberated. A number of small particulars, however, afterward appeared to make me regret my obstinacy, and to convince me that the villain was really the assassin of my poor brother. I had him sought for in vain; and all the news I could learn of him was, that he had sailed from Holyhead for Ireland. There I lost sight of him, till a few days ago, when I suddenly met him in the park; and I have since learned that he is lingering about in the neighbourhood of my other place at Dimden. I have laid a trap for him: we shall catch him this very night; and, if it cost me half my fortune, I will bring him to justice." "Your lordship is right, very right," exclaimed Sir Roger Millington; "but I do not see--" "Listen to me, Sir Roger, and you shall see," replied the peer: "I doubt not that I shall be able to convict him; but if my recollections are right, and can be supported by yours, his conviction is certain. My brother at his death had a large sum of money on his person. One of those notes, marked with his name, in his own handwriting, has since come into my possession; and _I am sure that I received it from you, while I feel almost sure that you received it from the gipsy!_" He spoke the last words slowly and emphatically, and then added, rapidly and sternly, "Now, what I want you to do, Sir Roger, is to recollect yourself, and--if you can remember the facts of your having received the note and given it to me--to be prepared to swear to those facts, should it be necessary." Sir Roger Millington turned very pale. A light--a fearful light--had broken in upon him, and how far it served to guide his suspicions aright matters little. He was a man of few scruples, and vice and misery had both contributed to harden his heart; for though the uses of adversity maybe sweet when acting on a virtuous disposition, yet I am afraid that in this good world of ours the back of that great felon Vice only gets callous under the lash of affliction. Sir Roger Millington, however, had, as we have said, but few scruples of any kind; yet this thing that Lord Dewry now proposed to him was a step beyond the point at which he had arrived in all the course of evil and of folly that he had hitherto pursued. He had fought and had slain men in another man's quarrel, but in doing so he had perilled his own life, and the corporal risk had seemed in some degree to balance the moral culpability; but now he was asked to say and do things which, without any danger to himself, would conduct another to an ignominious death,--one against whom he had no enmity, whom he had never, perhaps, beheld, and of whose real guilt there was in his bosom many a terrible doubt. He felt that it was a fearful and an awful thing that he was called upon to do, and, in despite of the absence of all moral principle--of twenty years' hardening in vice, and of a long training in degradation and dishonour--he turned pale, he hesitated; and, forgetting all restraint, rose from his seat and walked once or twice up and down the room in evident agitation. Lord Dewry saw how far he had committed himself. He saw that, notwithstanding all his caution, his words, having been spoken to one whom habitual vice had rendered familiar with all the wiles of crime, might have put his suspicions on a track from which they could never be withdrawn, and that although Sir Roger had him not, indeed, in his power, as the gipsy had, yet that no sacrifice would be too great to force him on to acts which would make his co-operation irretrievable. He suffered him then to pace the room for a single minute; and then rising, he placed himself opposite to him, and laid his hand on that of the knight. "Sir Roger," he said, "I am inclined to do much for you, but you know service must have service in return." "But tell me, tell me, my lord," exclaimed the other, with some vehemence, "do you really believe that the note you speak of was ever in the possession of the gipsy?" "I not only believe it, but I am sure of it," replied the peer. "Hear me, Sir Roger; I pledge you my honour, my soul, my word, this note which you now see, and which is marked with my brother's own hand, must have been in possession of the gipsy after my brother's death; and if it did not come to me from you, it must at all events have come through some one who received it of the gipsy." Nor in this assertion did he speak falsely; for the note was one of those which he had sent to the gipsy by Sir William Ryder, and which had accidentally returned to his own possession. It is wonderful how easily men can sometimes satisfy their conscience. Sir Roger did not pause to ask any very minute explanation: the vehemence with which his noble entertainer spoke convinced him that in some sense he spoke sincerely; and he would have been very sorry, by any indiscreet question, to have discovered that there was any thing like a double meaning in the words. "Well, well," he said, "I think I do remember something of the transaction, my lord; and I doubt not that a few moments' thought will bring it all back clearly to my memory." The peer pressed his hand. "Well, then, Sir Roger," he said, "so much for my affairs when they are all settled: hear what I wish to do for you. I propose to give you apartments in my house at Dimden, where you shall undertake to superintend all my improvements and works of taste, for which you will favour me by receiving a deed of annuity for one thousand per annum _during my life_. I am sorry that I cannot make it permanent, but I have not the power; all I can do can only last as long as my life lasts." Bright, bright grew the eyes of Sir Roger Millington; and, bowing low before the peer, he uttered a few words of thanks, and cast himself back into his chair to enjoy the glad transition from a state of beggary and despair to the prospect of affluence and luxury such as he had never hoped to see again. All scruples were swallowed up in satisfaction; not even a shadow of them remained; and he was now only anxious to prove his zeal in those services which were to merit so noble a reward. The peer had seated himself, also, with the note of which he spoke laid on the table before him; and it was not difficult for him to see that the feelings of the serviceable Sir Roger Millington were undergoing the exact sort of transition which he desired. He accordingly entered into further explanations; and Sir Roger, in his eagerness to merit the favour of so generous a patron, proposed of his own free will to write his name upon the note in such a manner as to give every apparent veracity to the recollections to which he was to swear. "You will find the butler's pen and ink in the buffet," said the peer, in reply; "dip your pen first in the claret, Sir Roger, to make the ink look faint and old. Only put your name; no date--no date; never be too precise. Thank you--thank you: now he cannot escape me." "But, my lord," said Sir Roger, "as I am to swear to the person of the gipsy from whom I received the note, will it not be better that I should see him first before he is taken up; so that I may identify him at once without any appearance of connivance?" "That is, I am afraid, impossible," replied the peer; "for we have found out that he and his fellows have a design upon the deer in Dimden Park this very night, and a large party of keepers have been assembled to arrest them, so that between twelve and one they will all be prisoners. Otherwise it might have been better as you say." "But there is time before that," said Sir Roger, looking at his watch, which--as the dinner hours of that day were very, very different from those of the present time--only pointed at seven even after this long conversation with the peer,--"there is time before that, my lord: how far is it to Dimden?" "Fourteen miles at least," replied the peer. "Lend me a strong horse, and I will be over by half-past eight," answered Sir Roger. "If I cannot get a sight of him by any other means, I will join the keepers privately, and as soon as ever the business is over, come back here; so that I may point out the fellow at once, if there should be twenty of them. What is his name, my lord? do you know?" "Pharold, he is called," answered the peer, thoughtfully. "Your plan is good, but I am afraid it is too late. Let us take care that by trying to do too much we do not spoil all." "Oh, no fear, no fear, my lord," replied Sir Roger, who was not without hopes of getting a private conversation with the gipsy before his arrest, and who had an object of his own in wishing to do so; for although rogues often trust each other in a manner which--with the knowledge of each other's character that they must possess--is little less than a miracle, no man covenants with another whom he knows to be a villain without seeking some check upon him; and Sir Roger was not a little desirous of having the peer more fully in his power, as some security for the fulfilment of his promises. "No fear, no fear, my lord; and remember, it would never do if I were to point out the wrong man by any chance." This argument was conclusive with Lord Dewry. The bell was rung, a swift horse was ordered to be saddled immediately, Sir Roger equipped himself for riding, received minute directions as to the way to Dimden, and the peer and his guest were standing before the fireplace, waiting for the horse, each occupied with his own thoughts, and each rejoicing at the event of a meeting which had seemed at first so inauspicious--Sir Roger Millington indulging in dreams of future luxury and ease, and the baron triumphing in the hope that the means he had employed, the dark and dreadful scheme which he was prepared to execute, would bid defiance to accusation, and sweep from his path for ever the man that he most feared on earth--when the sound of more horses' feet than one was heard without, the bell was rung violently, and the servant, entering, announced that a gentleman on horseback was at the door, urging important business with his lordship. "Did he give his name?" demanded Lord Dewry. "Yes, my lord," replied the man: "he bade me say that it was Colonel Manners!" "Ho, ho!" said the peer, his lip curling with a haughty smile: "take him into the saloon. This is a business of no importance, Sir Roger; do not let it detain you. Fare you well, my good friend, and may success attend you!" "I give your lordship back your wish," replied Sir Roger, "and will wait on you to-morrow at breakfast with all my tidings." Thus saying, they parted, Sir Roger proceeding to hasten the arrival of the horse, and the peer walking with a haughty step towards the saloon, where he was waited by Colonel Manners. CHAPTER XVI. We must now turn to follow the course of Colonel Manners, from the time we last left him at Morley House to the moment of his visit to Lord Dewry, comprising in all a space of about eight hours. While waiting for his horse he had, as we have already seen, examined quickly, but not the less accurately, into the story of the peasant who had heard shots fired in the neighbouring wood during the night before; and he had thus satisfied himself that there was very little probability of there being any connection whatever between those shots and the absence of his friend, except such as the marvel-loving mood of the old butler and the natural fears of De Vaux's relations had supplied from the stores of imagination. The shots had been fired, it seemed, in a direction different from that in which there were many reasons for believing that De Vaux had gone; and the man himself acknowledged, not only that he had originally supposed the sounds to be occasioned by poachers, but that he had heard the report of one gun on the preceding night. Convinced, from what he himself suspected, as well as from what Marian had said, that De Vaux had gone to visit the gipsies on the hill, Colonel Manners at once determined to turn his horse's head thither, before he made any examination in the wood where the shots had been heard; and in this resolution he was strongly confirmed by a short conversation with the head-gardener, whom he met as he was just passing the gates. As soon as Manners saw him he checked his horse, and demanded, "Pray, in coming through the garden this morning, did you see any marks of steps in the direction of the small door leading towards Morley Down?" "No, sir," replied the man; "but I found the key in the outside of the door this morning, so that anybody might have got into the garden that liked; but, however, I cannot see that any of the fruit is gone. Did you hear of any one having got in last night, sir?" "No, no," answered Manners: "I did not mean to imply that," and spurring on his horse, he rode forward more than ever determined to address his first inquiries to the gipsies. Now Colonel Manners was not a man to pause and wonder what could be the connection between the Honourable Edward de Vaux and the king of shreds and patches from whom he had received the letter, till the time was past for rendering effectual service. Nevertheless, as he rode on, he did wonder much at that connection, revolving in his mind every thing probable and improbable which could account for circumstances with regard to which the reader wants no explanations; but keeping his horse's chest all the time steadily against the hill, and his spurs to its flanks, to prevent its resisting a method of progression to which he never subjected it except on occasions of necessity. The beast panted, but still Manners, feeling that perhaps too much time had been lost already, kept it up to the same pace, saying, internally, "You would have gone unflinching at the heels of the hounds, my good gray, and the matter is more important now." The early rays of the sun had licked up the hoar-frost of a clear autumnal morning, but had left the roads, in consequence, and especially the road up which Manners's course lay, heavy and difficult. The sunshine, too, of the autumn--as we often see with the sunshine of life--had been too early bright to continue unclouded to the close of the day; and now, even as he rode on, a thin brownish film of dull vapour began to creep up from the verge of the horizon, promising rain ere long. Manners spurred on all the faster, not that, as far as his own person was concerned, he cared whether it rained or not, but he had served long enough with nations who follow their enemies by the lightest traces in the dew or in the sand to know that a heavy rain was often destruction itself to the hopes of a pursuing party. At length he reached the level at the top of the ascent; and, pointing with his hand to the tumulus, he said, turning to those who followed him, "You, William, ride up as far as you can upon the mound, and keep a keen eye upon the whole plain. If you see any one skulking about or watching, give instant notice, and gallop up if you hear me call. You come with me," he added, to his own man; and, taking the shortest cut towards the sandpit, he spurred on towards the spot where he had last seen the gipsies. The bushes, however, were now directly between him and the bank that had sheltered their encampment, so that he could see nothing till he was nearly upon the pit. Then, however, his disappointment was not small to find the usual relics of a gipsy resting-place, but nothing else. A few rags, a leaf of an old black-letter book, feathers of many birds, and fur of more than one sort of beast, several charred spots, and a large stick or two, were to be seen upon the ground; but nothing else met the eye in any direction, and Manners paused for a moment to lay out what was to be done next. "Go back for a hundred yards," he said, at length, turning to his servant; "and then make a slow circle at that distance quite round this pit, seeing whether you can find fresh footmarks in any direction." The servant obeyed, and in a few minutes, exclaimed, "Here are a great many, sir, along this road, which seems to go down the other side of the hill. Horses' feet, too, and cart-wheels, quite fresh." "Go on quite round," rejoined his master. "What do you find more?" "Here are a good many scattered footmarks in this direction, sir," replied the man when he had arrived at a spot situated exactly between Manners and the little tumulus; "but they do not tend in any particular way that I can see." Manners rode up; but the footprints were turned in many directions, and were of various sizes, some seemingly fresh, and some half-effaced by others. Nothing, therefore, could be discovered from the traces on that particular spot; but as Colonel Manners had every reason for believing that his friend must have approached the gipsy encampment from that side, he took the pains of dismounting, and tracing the different steps some way upon each of the several paths in which they led. It was in vain, however; the whole were so puzzled and intermixed that he could make nothing of them, and had his foot in the stirrup to mount again when De Vaux's servant came down from the mound, at full gallop, exclaiming, "There is certainly some one watching there, sir, at the edge of that wood. I have seen them come out and in three times. There! there! Do you see, sir? He is coming more forward now." Could Manners have bent down with his attendants, so as to escape the attention of the person who approached, he would certainly have done so; but though they might have hidden themselves among the neighbouring slopes, their horses were not so easily concealed, and the sandpit was now too far off to afford them a screen. A moment's thought showed him that it would be best to stand quite still, as the man, whoever he was, was still advancing. The next moment, however, the stranger stopped--went on again a few steps farther--stopped again; and then, turning precipitately, made his way back towards the wood. Manners was in the saddle in a moment; and could speed have accomplished what he desired, the person who so evidently sought to avoid observation would not have escaped, but the distance he had advanced from the wood had not been more than a hundred yards; and long ere Manners's horse could reach the skirt of the forest ground all vestige of him he pursued was lost in an intricate labyrinth of trees and bushes, which set further search at defiance. The two men came up shortly after, while Manners was pausing disappointed by the edge of the wood; and De Vaux's servant, touching his hat, called the colonel's attention to some footmarks, which they had passed as they followed him. Manners instantly turned back, and in a dip of the ground, where some mud had been left by a half dried up pool, he discovered the distinct traces of two different sets of footsteps. Both were small, and neither seemed to have been left by the tread of a peasant; but one was evidently the mark of a boot, cut by some neat and fashionable maker; and De Vaux's servant declared that he could swear to that print having been made by his master's foot. Nothing remained, then, but to follow these footsteps as far as possible; but the difficulty of doing so was not small, for there were but few spots of a nature similar to that in which the traces had been found, and the ground around was in general covered by short parched grass, or long tufts of rushes. At length, however, at the distance of more than fifty yards farther on, in the exact direction in which the other steps pointed, Manners discovered the mark of a heel, and this again led them to more steps. Several times the traces seemed lost entirely, and several times Colonel Manners was obliged to return to the last he had seen, and set off anew; but still the positive assertions of his friend's servant that the footsteps were those of De Vaux caused Manners to persist, till at length he succeeded in tracing the prints to the edge of the steep bank, to which, as we have seen, the gipsy had really led his unfortunate visiter. Manners now paused, with some very painful apprehensions gathering thick upon him. Thither, it is true, De Vaux must have come willingly with some other person, for there was not the slightest appearance either of haste or resistance in any of the footmarks they had seen; but it was in that very wood, near which they now were, that the report of fire-arms had been heard the night before; and, as far as Manners had been able to discover, it had been in the precise direction to which the steps had now guided them. What, too, he asked himself, could be De Vaux's inducement to approach so lonely a place as this--by a path which led to no other object--in the dead of the night, and with a person to whom it appeared he must have been a stranger? What, too, could be that person's object in leading him hither at such a time? No answer could he give to either of these questions which was at all likely to calm the apprehensions that he now began seriously to entertain concerning his friend's fate; and he gazed round the spot to which the footsteps had conducted him with more anxiety concerning the next object that was to meet his view than ever he had felt on the field of battle. At length, however, his eye rested on the little rugged path by which his friend and the gipsy had descended to the scene of their conference; and Manners at once followed it. Here, again, the two sets of footprints were distinctly visible, going down towards the abandoned quarry and the felled oak. There were marks also to be seen, as of some one coming up; but they had evidently been imprinted by the tread of one person, and that not of Edward de Vaux. A few drops of blood next met Manners's eye, as with an attentive gaze he examined the ground while he descended. Then came more and more, dotting the sand with red, till they at length led on to a spot where the same footsteps were thick and many, as if the persons whose course they marked had stood there for some time. There, too, appeared, however, an evidence of more import; for close to the spot where De Vaux and the gipsy had been standing, the sand had drank up a large quantity of gore, while the patches of short green grass that had rooted themselves here and there upon the broken ground around were dabbled with red in various directions. Manners gazed with horror and with grief on signs so unequivocal of the fate of his unhappy friend; and if he sorrowed bitterly for De Vaux, his heart was hardly less afflicted when he thought of her who was so soon to have become his bride--of her whose father and whose lover had shared the same dark and melancholy fate. His heart bled for her; and although, under any circumstances, he would have felt the same sympathy for De Vaux's family, and the same grief for the loss of his friend, the pain he personally felt was aggravated by the belief that he had, in some degree, been made an instrument for the purpose of decoying him into the trap which had evidently been laid for him. That feeling, however, and the indignation which that feeling awakened, made him the more strongly determine never to abandon the search till he had discovered the murderer and brought him to justice. He resolved to devote time, and fortune, and life itself, if it should be necessary, to the pursuit; to trace the offender out with the pertinacity of a bloodhound, and to run him down as he would a wolf. Although, to a man of Manners's character and peculiar frame of mind, the very task of the avenger was a bitter and a dreadful one, yet there was another duty still more grievous which lay before him for execution--that of communicating to the family of his unhappy friend the painful facts he had discovered; and the thought of the tears of Marian, and the sterner grief of Mrs. Falkland, and the deep, deep sorrow of her daughter, all thrilled upon him as he contemplated the course he had to follow. But to such thoughts he gave but a few moments. No time was to be lost in long deliberation, if action were to be effectual; and as Manners was not more a man of real deep and noble feeling than he was a man of active energy, he turned instantly to the measures for detecting the murderer. His first step was to take the exact measurement of both the footprints, and the next, to note down precisely in his memorandum-book every thing that had occurred in the search. The man who had been seen watching his party from the wood he felt sure was implicated in the transaction, if he were not the principal; and among the gipsies were to be found, beyond all doubt, the accomplices of the murderer, if not the participators in the deed itself. After a brief conversation, then, with the servants concerning the discoveries they had already made, he proceeded to inquire what was the next village or town to the seat of Lord Dewry; and being informed by his late friend's servant, who was well acquainted with the county, that it was called Barholm, he went on to give further directions. "You, William," he said, "ride back to the sandpit, which you saw me examining just now on the top of the common; you will there find the tracks of wheels and feet going down the opposite road to that by which we came, indicating the direction the gipsies have taken. Follow them as fast as you can, making continual inquiries concerning them. Trace them out, step by step, till you have found them. Then hire any of the peasantry to keep watch upon them, night and day, paying whatever sum may be necessary in advance, and giving strict orders to follow them wherever they go. There is a note to pay the people. Do not spare either speed or money; and when you have taken these precautions, ride over to join me at Barholm, where I will be tonight. Quick! mount, and away!" The man obeyed, and Manners then turned to his own servant. "You, John," he said, "lead your horse down the bank to the road--then on to the village there, with all speed. Gather together as many stout men as ever you can, and mount them at any price. Establish corresponding patrols all round this wood, as we did at the wood beyond Montreal last year, and remember that the great thing is haste. There is money, and if you need more, refer the people to me at Morley House. When you have done that, and left the care of the patrol in the hands of the most intelligent fellow you can find, come back to me at the house." "Shall I tell the folks what is the matter, sir?" demanded the servant. Manners mused for some moments. "Yes," he said, at length, "yes; circumstances fully justify it; and the people, who must love Mrs. Falkland and her family, will work in the matter with the greater interest. Lose no time, John, lest the fellow get out of the wood before you can surround it. He will probably lie there for half an hour or so, till he thinks we are gone, and then will make an effort to escape. It will take at least four or five-and-twenty men to watch it properly, giving each of them half a mile; but I should think that in the village you can get together as many--at all events, do your best." The man bowed, and led his beast down the bank, while Manners, springing into the saddle, turned his horse's head back towards Morley House. With grief and reluctance he did so; and although he felt the necessity of promptitude in his own proceedings, and that he had no right to keep those so deeply interested in suspense, yet repugnance to his painful task certainly rendered his horse's pace slower in returning than it had been when he set out upon his search. "How is Miss De Vaux now?" he asked of the servant who presented himself to take his horse; and it was some relief to hear in reply that she had not come down. He then ascended the stairs towards the drawing-room, but in the anteroom he was met by Isadore, who had already become aware of his return. All the light gay spirit was gone from her eyes, and her countenance now expressed nothing but intense anxiety. "You look grave, Colonel Manners," she exclaimed, as soon as she saw him. "You look sad; for Heaven's sake, tell me what have you discovered?" "Nothing at all satisfactory," replied Manners, anxious to break the matter to her as gently as possible: "the whole business is certainly very strange; but I still hope and trust that--" "Hope and trust!" exclaimed Isadore, clasping her hands. "Oh, Colonel Manners, you know more than you say. Poor, poor Marian! But tell me, I beseech you, tell me all. Indeed, this suspense is worse than the truth." "I have very little to tell, my dear Miss Falkland," he replied; "but I must acknowledge that what I have to tell is not at all calculated to remove our apprehensions." "But the gipsies, Colonel Manners!" exclaimed Isadore; "have you seen the gipsies?" "No, I have not," he answered: "they had left the common before I arrived; but I found traces of the way they had taken, and have sent your cousin's own servant to pursue them." "Sent my cousin's servant, without attempting to follow them yourself!" cried Isadore; but then, instantly lighting upon the right conclusion, she added, "But, no, no, no, Colonel Manners, I know you better! You would never have sent my cousin's servant upon such an inquiry, unless you had discovered something to render your stay here more necessary. But here comes mamma from poor Marian's room. Now, for Heaven's sake, tell us all, Colonel Manners." "I hope Miss De Vaux is more composed," said Manners, turning to Mrs. Falkland as she entered. "She is asleep from the effect of strong opiates, my dear sir," replied Mrs. Falkland gravely; "and, if I may judge from your countenance, it is happy for her that she is so. Now, Colonel Manners, tell me candidly what you have discovered--I require no preparation." "The facts are simply these, then," replied Manners, "and I will not attempt to conceal from you that I am deeply uneasy on account of De Vaux. When I reached the gipsy encampment all was vacant, and nothing to be found but the place where it had been, together with fresh tracks of wheels and feet, marking the direction which the great body of the gipsies had taken. However, in another part of the common we discovered footmarks, which De Vaux's servant positively asserts to be those of his master; and, of course, my first care was to follow those as far as possible. They led us, I am sorry to say, in the direction where shots had been heard in the wood." "Good God!" cried Isadore, the tears bursting from her eyes; "poor Edward! and still more unhappy Marian!" "Nay, do not weep so bitterly, Miss Falkland," said Manners, "or I fear I shall not be able to finish my account. Remember, however, that we have discovered as yet nothing at all certain, and that such appearances as we have discovered are often, very often, fallacious." "You must let her weep, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland: "men never understand how great a relief tears are to a woman; and often I regret that some severe sorrows have taken from me the power of weeping as once I could. Pray go on, too; let us hear the worst. Where did the steps lead to?" "To a high bank just above a turn in the road," replied Colonel Manners; "a little more than a mile on the other side of the village." "Indeed!" cried Mrs. Falkland, now extremely agitated; "the very spot where my poor brother was murdered." "Not exactly," answered Manners; "for that spot was pointed out to me by De Vaux as we came hither; and the place to which I now refer, though near it, is not precisely the same. At that bank, however, all traces of my poor friend's footsteps were lost, and I could only find those of another person going away from it." Isadore continued to weep in silence; but Mrs. Falkland, seeing that Manners paused somewhat abruptly, fixed her eye upon him with a look of keen inquiry. Manners glanced towards Miss Falkland, slightly raising his eyebrows, and shaking his head; and Mrs. Falkland, understanding his meaning, took Isadora's hand, saying, "Go, my love, and sit by your poor cousin: Colonel Manners may have business with me which we can better discuss alone." Isadore obeyed at once, and Mrs. Falkland then turned to Manners with firm composure, saying, "Now, Colonel Manners, tell me all; what more did you find?" "I am sorry to say, madam," he answered, "that I found a great deal of blood spilt upon the sand." Mrs. Falkland covered her eyes with her hands, and remained silent for several minutes. At length she looked up, and Colonel Manners proceeded:--"I have now, madam, related all that I have done, except some measures already taken for the apprehension of the persons implicated. Such appearances as those I have met with, I still say, are often fallacious; but, nevertheless, it is absolutely necessary to take the same steps as if they were perfectly certain. If you will give me the name of the nearest magistrate, I will write to him instantly to obtain his sanction for what I have already done, and his assistance in what we may yet have to do." "The nearest magistrate is old Mr. Arden," replied Mrs. Falkland; "an active and intelligent man, though somewhat severe. He is the same," she added, while some tears came into her eyes--"he is the same who investigated with so much energy the circumstances attending the death of my poor brother." "To him, then, I will write at once, madam," replied Manners. "When I have done so, I have another task to perform which will lead me to some distance; but I will be back here to-morrow; for though I would not willingly intrude upon your family in such a moment of grief, yet I hold myself bound--" "Oh, do not call it intruding, Colonel Manners," cried Mrs. Falkland; "if you will have the great kindness to manage the whole of this sad business for me, to act as my representative in it, and to add my love for my poor nephew to your own friendship for him, as motives for ascertaining his fate and pursuing his murderers, you will confer the greatest of favours on me and mine. Oh no, Colonel Manners, you must not think of leaving us at such a moment as this, when we all want the assistance, advice, and support of one so well calculated to strengthen and to aid us. But do you know there is another task I am going to put upon you; and circumstances may render it very painful to you--De Vaux's father--I could wish these tidings broken to him. His whole soul was wrapped up in his son; and I am sure Colonel Manners is too generous not to forget, in moments of affliction, any offence that--" "I have already arranged, my dear madam," replied Colonel Manners, "to go over to Lord Dewry as soon as I have written to Mr. Arden. De Vaux's servant is to meet me at the village of Barholm; and believe me that the little dispute which occurred between the father of my friend and myself rests too lightly on my mind to be thought of for a moment, when I can, in any degree, blunt the first sharp edge of the sad tidings he must soon hear." "I see one cannot calculate too liberally on your good feeling," said Mrs. Falkland; "nor can I express what a relief it is to me to have you here, Colonel Manners, at such a trying moment. I cannot, indeed, in my present state of mind, attend to your comfort as I could wish; but let me beg you, at least, to take some refreshment ere you set out for my brother's." "None, I thank you, my dear madam," he replied; "I do not require it. But now do not let me detain you. I know that you, too, have the painful task of breaking the confirmation of our fears to her who will feel the pang more acutely than any." "Indeed, I hardly know how to do it," replied Mrs. Falkland. "To a casual observer, Marian may appear cold and indifferent by nature; but quite the reverse is known to be the case by those who have better opportunities of judging. Her heart is all warmth, and tenderness, and affection; and it is, perhaps, a consciousness of the very excess of such feelings that makes her put a stricter guard upon the expression of them. I fear that these tidings, if told entirely, will go far to kill her." "Then by no means tell them, my dear madam," replied Manners: "I am no advocate for concealments or pious frauds of any kind; and where the strength of the individual is able to bear them up, we should always speak the truth: but of course we must regulate our conduct by our knowledge of the person; and both from what I have seen to-day, and what you yourself say, I would strongly advise you--if you will excuse my doing so--to tell Miss De Vaux, merely, that I have not succeeded in my first search for my poor friend, and that I am still following the same object in a different direction." "I believe I must do even as you say," replied Mrs. Falkland, "and suffer Marian's mind to come to the sad conclusion, to which we have already come, by degrees. Though the suspense may be harrowing, yet it will not have so bad an effect on her as the sudden confirmation of her worst fears. Allow me, too, to hint, Colonel Manners, that you will find my brother less capable of bearing such tidings than you may imagine, from what you have seen of his demeanour. His love for his son was as ardent as his other passions." "Do not be afraid, my dear madam," replied Manners, taking her hand; "I will do nothing roughly, believe me." "I do, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland--"I do, indeed, believe that it is not in the nature of Colonel Manners to act unkindly to anyone. At what time shall I order the carriage?" "Oh, not at all--not at all," he answered; "I will ride: it is always my custom; and as soon as I have written this letter, and my servant has returned, I will set out. Let me detain you no longer, and God grant that our fears may have magnified the proofs in their own support." END OF VOL. I. THE GIPSY; A TALE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "RICHELIEU," "MARY OF BURGUNDY," &c. "Ah! what a tangled web we weave, When first we venture to deceive." Sir Walter Scott. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 1855. THE GIPSY CHAPTER I. Nothing shows us, perhaps, the utter blindness in which we are held by fate more completely, than the constant fallacy of our calculations in regard to even the smallest events over which we have not a personal and unlimited control. A letter is put into our hands in a writing that we know; and ere we have broken the seal, fancy, aided by the best efforts of reason, has laid out before us the probable contents: but as soon as the seal is broken, we find the whole as different therefrom as it is possible to imagine. A friend, or a stranger, comes to see us; and ere we can reach the room where he is waiting, imagination has done her work, and given us a full account of the person and his errand. We expect some pleasant meeting, or some glad tidings, and we go but to hear of some bitter loss or sad disappointment. Thus, as Lord Dewry walked towards the room to which he had directed the servant to conduct Colonel Manners, he did not fail to calculate the cause of his coming. "He is either here," thought the peer, "to apologize for his conduct, in which case I shall treat him with contempt, or he has come to proffer that personal satisfaction which he before refused. I hope the latter; and if so, I shall have a cause sufficient to assign for demanding Edward's immediate rupture with him." As he thus thought, he opened the door of the saloon in the midst of which Colonel Manners was standing, booted, and spurred, and dusty, from the road; but with that air of ease, composure, and calmness which spoke his character. "My lord," he said, as soon as the peer entered, "I am obliged very unwillingly to intrude upon you; and, of course, feel more uncomfortable in interrupting you at this unseasonable hour: but the business on which I come admits of no delay." "I am not aware, sir," replied the peer, frowning sternly, "what business can remain between us, after our last meeting, when you thought fit--" "My lord," interrupted Colonel Manners, anxious to put a stop to a revival of past grievances, which, at the present moment, could only aggravate the pain he had to inflict--"my lord, my present business is totally unconnected with the past; and extremely sorry I am that anything ever occurred between your lordship and myself to render my present visit disagreeable to you in itself." "Sir, your expression of sorrow," replied the peer, "as is usual in such cases, comes too late; but to your business, sir. Do not let me interrupt that. What is your business with me? for the sooner we settle it the better shall I be pleased." There was a pertinacity in Lord Dewry's rudeness that offended Manners; but he gave no way to his anger. There was a stronger feeling in his bosom; and pity for the childless old man not barely mastered every other sensation, but mastered all so completely, that he went on with as nice a calculation of the best and kindest means of breaking his loss to the peer, as if not a word had been said but those of welcome and civility. "My lord," he replied, "I come to you as one of the principal magistrates of this county, in your quality of lord-lieutenant--" "I wish, sir," interrupted the peer, "that you had sought some other magistrate to whom your presence would have been more welcome." "I might have done so, my lord," replied Manners, "had the business on which I had to seek a magistrate not been one so immediately affecting your lordship, that although, in the first instance, I wrote to the nearest justice of the peace that I could hear of--Mr. Arden--I thought it but right to ride over myself to request your co-operation in the measures we are taking." Manners observed a change of expression, and a slight degree of paleness pass over the countenance of his hearer; and, although he certainly did not attribute it to that consciousness of crime and consequent feeling of insecurity in which it really originated, he saw that the first step was gained; and that the peer was, in some degree, prepared to hear evil tidings. Lord Dewry, however, replied in a manner which had nearly forced the communication at once. "May I ask, sir," he said, in a tone grave but less bitter than that which he had formerly employed--"may I ask, sir, why, when business of importance concerning myself occurred, my son did not take upon himself the task of communicating with his father upon the subject, but rather left it to a person whose visit was certainly unsolicited?" "Because, my lord, your son was not capable of doing so," replied Colonel Manners, "from the fact of his being absent from Morley House." "Not at Morley House!" cried the peer. "Pray where is he, then, sir?" "I really cannot inform your lordship," replied Manners, "for I do not know." "Good God! this is very extraordinary," cried Lord Dewry, taking alarm more from the tone of Manners's voice, and the expression of his countenance, than from anything he had said. "For Heaven's sake, explain yourself, sir. Where is my son? What is your business? Sit down, sir, I beg! What is it you seek?" By the agitated manner in which the baron spoke, Manners saw that he must proceed cautiously. "May I ask you, my lord, if you have ever heard of a person named Pharold, a gipsy?" he demanded, intending by this question to lead his hearer's mind away, for a moment, from the real subject of apprehension; but, without at all wishing it, by that very inquiry he redoubled the agitation of the peer. For an instant the thoughts of Lord Dewry were all in confusion and uncertainty,--doubtful of the end to which Manners's interrogatory tended, and fearful that a man to whom he had given such just cause for anger had become acquainted with some of the dreadful secrets which oppressed his own bosom. His first impulse was to lift his hand to his head, and to gaze with some degree of wildness upon the countenance of his questioner; but almost instantly recalling his firmness, and recollecting the measures he had taken, and the schemes he had laid out, he recovered also his composure, and replied, with a forced smile, "You have alarmed me about my son, Colonel Manners; but you ask me if I know a gipsy of the name of Pharold. I do: my family have, I am afraid, too good reason to know him." "Then have you any cause to suppose that he bears an ill-will towards your family?" demanded Manners again. "I have, sir, I have!" replied Lord Dewry; "I have the strongest reasons to believe that he bears us ill-will,--that he has already injured us, and seeks but the opportunity to do more and more for our destruction." "Does his ill-will particularly point against your son, my lord?" asked Manners, deeply interested by an answer which to him was both mysterious and painful. "No, no!" exclaimed the peer, starting up from the chair into which he had cast himself when he had invited Manners to be seated--"no, no! certainly not! What is the meaning of this? You have some darker meaning, sir! What of Edward? Tell me, I beseech you, tell me, where is my son?" "My lord, I am grieved to repeat, that I cannot tell you where he is," replied Manners; "and it is for the purpose of concerting means for discovering him that I now wait upon your lordship. He went out, it appears, to see this gipsy Pharold, and has never returned." Manners acted for the best; and having not the slightest idea of all that was passing in the bosom of De Vaux's father, he thought that by concealing for a few moments the proof he had obtained of his friend having been murdered, he would allow the mind of the unhappy parent to come by degrees, and less painfully, to a knowledge of the truth: but the result was by no means such as he anticipated; for to Lord Dewry the bare idea of his son having any communication whatever with the eyewitness of that dreadful deed which he had committed in other years, was agonizing in itself; and, without remembering that any one was present to remark the agitation to which he yielded, he clasped his hands together, and strode up and down the saloon, muttering, "Villain! scoundrel! it is all over!" Then, again, recollecting that he was observed, he found it necessary to curb his emotions, and to make anxiety for his son the apparent cause for that agitation which he had already displayed. "Colonel Manners," he said, "you alarm me much. For Heaven's sake, tell me the particulars! Something more than a temporary and ordinary absence must have occurred to excite apprehensions in an officer so much accustomed to danger as yourself. Nor is my sister a woman to yield to idle fears. Tell me, then, what has happened to my son, and why you are led to suppose that there has been any communication between him and a person in regard to whom I have more than suspicions of very terrible deeds--who is, I believe, a villain of the blackest character, and who would scruple at nothing to injure a race who were his first benefactors." "The facts are these, my lord," replied Manners: "but I trust we shall find that your son's absence is owing, notwithstanding its strangeness, to some accidental circumstance of no importance. As I was about to say, however, the facts are these:--It appears that last night De Vaux did not go to bed; that he left Morley House during the night, and that he has never returned during the day. He also, I find, mentioned yesterday to his cousin, Miss De Vaux, his intention of visiting a gipsy named Pharold, who had sent him a letter that morning; but his purpose, as he then stated it, was to go to Morley Down, where the gipsies were, to-day, and not during the night; and his prolonged absence has, of course, greatly alarmed Mrs. Falkland and her family." "But has no search been instituted? Have no traces been found?" cried Lord Dewry, his fears taking a new direction. "No time should be lost." "No time has been lost as yet, my lord," replied Manners: "I myself have been to the place where the gipsies were last seen; but they are there no more, and, to all appearance, must have either decamped in the night or early this morning. But it appears certain, from the evidence of Mr. De Vaux's servant, who was with me, that some footprints which we traced on the ground, in different parts of the common, were from my poor friend's boot; and in the same track are those of another person, who was apparently with him during the night." "But whither did they lead?" exclaimed the peer, whose agitation was becoming dreadful. "Speak out, sir, for God's sake! You call him your poor friend: you have discovered more. Whither did the footsteps lead? I can bear all." "They led, my lord," replied Manners, "to a high bank, overhanging a part of the road, about a mile or more to the west of Morley House, near a point of wooded land which causes the river to take a singular bend in its course." Lord Dewry shook in every limb; but, by a strong effort, he uttered, "Go on, sir; go on: let me hear the worst." "Thank God, my lord, I have little more to inflict upon your lordship," replied Manners. "At that bank the steps ended; but--" He paused, and the peer eagerly demanded, "But what--what found you more?" "It must be told," thought Manners. "We found, my lord," he added, aloud, "a good deal of blood spilled upon the sand." The peer groaned bitterly. "My poor boy! my poor boy!" he cried; but for some minutes he said no more. While Manners had been in the act of telling his tale, the conflict which had taken place in the bosom of Lord Dewry can better be conceived than described. Every moment produced a change of sensation; every word a new and different apprehension. Now he fancied his son made acquainted with his guilt; now feared that the very means he had taken to conceal it might have made the gipsy to wreak his vengeance on his unoffending child. That Pharold was capable of committing any or every crime was a conviction which had been brought about in the mind of the peer by one of those curious processes in the human heart whereby great guilt seeks to conceal its blackness from even its own eyes, by representing others in colours as dark as it feels that it itself deserves; and while at one moment he suspected that Pharold might have obtained information of the trap laid for him by the gamekeeper, and to avenge himself might have revealed his whole history to Edward de Vaux, at another he believed that the destruction of his son might have been the means which the gipsies had determined upon, in order to punish himself for his designs against them. As Colonel Manners concluded his account, however, the latter opinion predominated over all others; the peer's own heart acknowledged that the means they had taken was that which was the most fearfully effectual; and he beheld no other image than the heir of his name, the child of his love, murdered in cold blood, within sight of the very spot where his own hand had slain his brother. All his first emotions were consecrated to deep grief. He had loved his son; he had admired him; and affection and pride had united to give him the only green place in a heart that angry passions had left arid and desolate; and now he was alone in all the world. He had been hitherto like a mariner ploughing the waves in the midst of storms and darkness, with one small point of bright light in the wide dark vacancy before him; but now the clouds had rolled over that light for ever, and the past and the future were alike one lurid night. There was nothing left in life to live for; and during one moment all was despair: but the minute after, the most overpowering passion of human nature rose up, and rekindled with its own red and baleful light the extinguished torch of hope. Revenge became his thirst; and the remembrance that it was nearly within his grasp, and that another day would give it to him, was the only consolation that his mind could receive. It seized upon him at once; it compelled every other feeling and passion to its aid: grief gave it bitterness; pride gave it intensity; wrath lent it eagerness. "He has smitten me to the heart," he thought; "he has smitten me to the heart. But I will smite him still deeper, and he shall learn what it is to have raised his hand against a son of mine." It was but for one instant that he had given way to despair, and the next revenge took possession of his whole soul, and became almost more than a consolation--a joy. All its dark and cruel pictures, too, rose up before his mental vision, and he pleased himself with gazing forth into the future, and seeing him he most hated within the gripe of his vengeance. He painted to himself the agony which long and solitary imprisonment would inflict on a heart which he knew to be wild and free; he thought over all the tyrannical details of a trial in a court of justice; and he gazed even into the gipsy's bosom, and saw the burning indignation and despair that would wring his heart, exposed a public spectacle to the eyes of a race he detested, tried by laws he condemned and had abjured, and exciting the curiosity and the loud remark of the idle and the vulgar. He followed him in imagination to the scaffold, and saw him die the death of a dog; and only grieved that there revenge must stop, and that the cup contained not another drop of ignominy and suffering to pour upon the head of him who had destroyed his son. Occupied with these thoughts, he remained silent for several minutes; but his features worked, and his limbs even writhed, wrought unconsciously by the intensity of the emotions within. Colonel Manners saw the strong and painful degree of his agitation; but he had no key to the secret sources of feeling which, opened wide by the news of his son's loss, were gushing forth in streams of bitterness upon his heart. He attributed, then, all that he saw to deep grief; and although his application to the peer, in his magisterial capacity, had been but to bring about the disclosures he had to make as gently as possible, yet he still thought it best to continue the same course with which he had begun, in order to engage the unhappy nobleman in those personal and active exertions which might in some degree divert his mind from the sole and painful contemplation of his recent loss. "My lord," he said, feelingly, "believe me, no one feels more deeply and sympathizes more sincerely with your lordship than myself; but allow me to recall to your mind that great and instant exertions are necessary to ensure the arrest of the murderer; the pursuit of whom I have determined never to quit till I have seen him brought to justice." Lord Dewry, with his own burning hand, clasped warmly that of Colonel Manners, the object of his former hatred. The fact is, however, that circumstances had established between them two strong ties since the death of Edward de Vaux. The one was wholly composed of good feelings, and sprang from their mutual affection for the deceased,--affection which had, of course, risen in value in each other's eyes since death had hallowed it; and the other,--composed of feelings which, though noble and virtuous on the one part, were terribly mixed with evil on the other,--was the desire of bringing the murderer to justice. Lord Dewry then grasped Colonel Manners's hand, and said, "I have much to thank you for, sir, and I am afraid that I have somewhat to apologize for in the past; but--" "Do not mention it, I beg, my lord," replied Manners. "It is forgotten entirely; only let us bend our energies with a common effort to pursue this sad affair to an end, to discover, as far as Heaven shall enable us, what has really occurred, and above all, to ensure the immediate apprehension of this gipsy Pharold, whom every circumstance, hitherto apparent, points at as the murderer." A gleam of triumph broke over the thin sallow countenance of the peer. "If I am not very much mistaken, Colonel Manners," he said, "this very Pharold will be in our hands to-night. He and his gang are not famous alone for one sort of crime. My park-keepers at Dimden informed me a few days ago that they had discovered a plan which these gipsies had laid for robbing my park of the deer; and I immediately took measures to ensure the arrest of the whole of them in the very fact. Nor was my purpose alone to save my game, Colonel Manners, nor to punish deer-stealers," continued Lord Dewry, raising his head and speaking with determined firmness; "no, I had a weightier object in view; I had a more serious offence to avenge." The peer paused; for although he was anxious to make the charge which he had determined to bring against the gipsy, boldly and distinctly to as many private individuals as possible, before he urged it in a public court of justice, yet he felt a difficulty, a hesitation, perhaps we might say a fear, in pronouncing for the first time so false an accusation against a fellow-creature, which was to be supported, too, by so many dark, and tortuous, and deceitful contrivances. There was in his bosom a consciousness of the fallacy, of the futility, we might say, of all human calculations, which produced an undefined dread of rendering his schemes irretrievable by once making the charge to any one. It was to him the passing of the Rubicon; and that step once taken, he felt that he should be involved in a labyrinth of obscure and unknown paths, from which there would be no retreat, and which would conduct him whither he knew not. And yet he saw that it must be taken; that the gipsy's first act after his arrest would undoubtedly be, to charge him with the crime which he had committed; and that it was absolutely necessary, in order to give all his future proceedings a firm basis and a commanding position, to be the person to accuse rather than the person accused. He knew how inferior defence is to attack; how much more faith men are naturally inclined to give to a charge than they give to a recrimination; and from the first commencement of his reply to Colonel Manners he had determined to make it boldly; but when he came to the immediate point where it was to be spoken, he hesitated and paused irresolute. The next moment, however, he went on. "Colonel Manners," he said, resuming his firmness, "as I believe that the culprit may be considered in our power, and that therefore no indiscreet communication of my suspicions can give him warning to escape, I do not scruple to say that I have many, many reasons to suppose that this gipsy, this Pharold, is not only the murderer of my son, poor Edward, but that my brother's death also may be laid to his charge; and with a view of bringing him to justice for that offence it was that I, this very morning, took the surest measures for his apprehension, and not for any pitiful affair of deer-stealing, which might have gone long unpunished ere I exerted myself as I have done." "Indeed!" exclaimed Manners, gazing upon the peer in much surprise. "How strangely do events sometimes come round!" "Perhaps you are not acquainted with the circumstances of my brother's death," replied the peer, marking some surprise in Manners's countenance, and in his anxiety to show the probability of the charge he had made, overcoming his repugnance to speak upon a subject of all others the most dreadful to him. "However, Colonel Manners," he continued, "he was killed by some one unknown many years ago; and the suspicions against this man Pharold were then so strong, that good Mr. Arden, the magistrate, would fain have had him committed, had not I foolishly interfered, from a weak conviction of his honesty. That conviction, however, has been since removed, and I may say that I have in my hands the most decided proofs of his guilt." Such was the explanation to which the apparent surprise of Colonel Manners led on the peer; but that surprise proceeded both from the new charge which the peer made against the gipsy being totally unexpected by his hearer, and from another cause which must be explained, as it touches upon some of those little weaknesses of our nature, which Colonel Manners possessed in common with other human beings. Through the whole affair, since he had discovered the traces of De Vaux's footsteps on the common, and the marks of bloodshed at the quarry, hope had offered to the mind of Charles Manners but one suggestion to diminish his apprehensions for the fate of his friend; and that suggestion, strange enough to say, was that the countenance, the demeanour, and the language of the gipsy Pharold were not those of a man familiar with guilt or designing evil. Colonel Manners was too much a man of the world, and too much a man of sense, to suffer such impressions to affect his conduct in the slightest degree. He knew that this earth contains every grade and every sort of hypocrisy; and that Satan himself will occasionally assume the form of an angel of light: but at the same time, although his behaviour was on all occasions guarded by what he had learned from experience, yet through life he had preserved his natural enthusiasm unblunted by the hard world in which we live; and there was thus in his character a rare mingling of ardent and energetic feelings with calm and well calculated actions, which formed the specific difference between him and the general herd with which he moved. During his conversation with Pharold he had remarked a dignity, not alone of manner, but of thought, in the gipsy, opposed to all the habits of his tribe, and which must have been difficult to retain among them at all, but still more difficult to assume, if it was not natural and habitual,--if it sprang not from a heart at ease in itself, and a consciousness of virtue and intellect superior to the things through which it passed. His countenance, too, had appeared to him open and frank, though wild and keen; and Manners wished much to believe that vice or crime, in general, more or less affect the expression of the human face. All this had struck him; and though, as we have said before, he suffered not these impressions to affect his conduct in the least, opposed as they were to known facts, and circumstances of great probability, yet hope still whispered, surely that gipsy was not a man either to plan or to commit so dreadful a deed as the indications he had met with would have naturally led him to suspect. It may well be supposed, then, that the numerous and dark charges brought forward so boldly by the peer startled Manners not a little; and as he had no cause to believe that Lord Dewry was instigated by any motive to prefer a false accusation against the gipsy, he could only conclude that he himself had been deceived in his estimation of Pharold's character by the most skilful and consummate hypocrisy. "I have heard some of the events to which your lordship alludes," he replied, as soon as the peer paused; "and was only surprised to hear such an unexpected aggravation of the suspicious circumstances which have already appeared against this man Pharold. I trust, too, that the measures which your lordship has taken may be successful for his arrest; but allow me to suggest, that the unhappy news which I have had the melancholy duty of communicating ought to point out more extensive operations for the apprehension of the offender, as it is not at all impossible that this new offence may have entirely changed the circumstances, and may have put a stop to the attack upon your lordship's park, of which you received intimation." Lord Dewry struck his hand upon the table, perceiving suddenly the probability of Colonel Manners's suggestion, and anticipating with rage and disappointment the possible escape of the gipsy, or at least his evasion till such time as the arrival of Sir William Ryder in England might render the schemes he had planned, if not entirely impracticable, at all events highly difficult of execution, and dangerous to himself in the attempt. "He shall be taken, if it cost me life and fortune," he exclaimed; "but how, how?--that is the question, Colonel Manners. What you say is true; the murder of my poor unhappy boy may have scared them away from the scene of their crimes, and most probably has done so ere this. What is to be done? how can we trace them? Pray, advise me, Colonel Manners, if you had any regard for your unhappy comrade." His agitation was dreadful; and Manners saw that the only way to tranquilize him was to give him fresh hopes of the apprehension of those who had been instrumental in the death of his son. "Most willingly will I give you any advice and assistance in my power," he replied; "but your lordship will be better able to judge what is most fitting to be done when you hear what I have already endeavoured to accomplish. My proceedings have been those of a soldier, but perhaps they may not be the less likely to be successful on that account." "The more, the more," cried Lord Dewry; "but let me beg you to give me the details." "In the first place, my lord," he replied, "I have sent my poor friend's own servant, who is a keen and active fellow, to trace out the gipsies, and to follow the tracks we discovered on the common as far as possible. I have furnished him also with money to hire assistance and to buy information; and I directed him, as soon as his object was accomplished, to join me at Barholm with all speed. He had not, however, arrived when I passed the inn, and I ordered him to be sent on here as soon as ever he appeared." "Thank you, thank you, sir," reiterated Lord Dewry; "but do you think there is any hope of his discovering the road the villains have taken?" "Every chance, my lord," replied Colonel Manners: "in the first place, the tracks of the wheels, and the feet going in one particular direction, was too evident to leave a doubt in regard to which path they had taken at first. That path, I find, leads down to a hamlet where they must have been seen, and where the servant will most probably obtain the means of tracing them farther. But my next step, my lord, is, I think, likely to produce the still more desirable result of placing in the hands of justice the particular individual whom we have the greatest reason to suspect. While we were examining the sandpit, where these gipsies had been assembled, we discovered some one apparently watching the common from the wood; and whether at first he mistook us for some of his own tribe or not, I cannot tell; but he advanced some way towards us. As soon as I saw he was again retreating to the wood, I galloped after him; and though I unfortunately had not time to overtake him, yet I had an opportunity of satisfying myself very nearly to a certainty that this was that very Pharold whom I had once before seen on another occasion. I took measures as soon as possible for having the wood surrounded by a mounted patrol of as many men as it was possible to obtain, and I directed that any one who was apprehended in coming out of it should be instantly carried before Mr. Arden, to whom I had written a concise account of all the circumstances." The peer mused; for, as in every dark and complicated scheme of villany, the slightest alteration in the events which he had anticipated was likely to produce the most disastrous results to the schemer. "If Pharold be carried at once before Mr. Arden," thought the peer, "the accusation which he has it in his power to bring against me may be made before I am aware of it, and that, too, to the very man who has the best means of comparing minutely, in the first stages of the proceeding, the present charge with the past circumstances. That the gipsy will ultimately tell his own tale, there can be no doubt; yet to make the first impression is the great object--to be the accuser rather than the accused--to attack rather than defend." With such views, the probability of the gipsy being carried before Mr. Arden ere he had been prepared was anything but agreeable to the peer; and for a moment the anguish occasioned by his son's death was forgotten, in apprehensions for the failure of his own deep-laid schemes. "I will write myself to Mr. Arden," he said, at length, after long thought--"I will write myself, and send off the letter this very night. Colonel Manners, excuse me for one moment. I have but a few lines to write, and will be back with you in a few minutes." Thus saying, he proceeded to his library, and with a hasty hand wrote down that bold and decided charge against the gipsy which was to bring the long apprehended struggle between them to an end at once. Nor did he, in this instance, feel any hesitation. The words had now been spoken to Colonel Manners--the charge had once been made; and it is wonderful the difference that exists between the first and the second time of doing anything that is wrong. He wrote, too, though without any effort at policy, yet with the most exquisite art--with that sort of intuitive cunning which much intercourse with the world, and its worst part, gives to the keen and unscrupulous. He referred, directly, to Mr. Arden's former opinion concerning the culpability of the gipsy; he took shame and reproach to himself for his own incredulity at the time; he declared that subsequent events had shown the wisdom and clear-sightedness of the worthy magistrate's judgment, and he finished his letter by directly accusing the gipsy of the crime which Mr. Arden had suspected, doubting not that vanity would establish in the mind of the magistrate such a prepossession against the object of his wiles as to give everything in the important first steps that were to ensue a strong tendency against Pharold. This done, he read the note over with satisfaction, sealed it, and sent it off, raised his head, and, gazing upon vacancy, thought, for a moment, over all the stern and painful circumstances that surrounded him, and then turned his steps back to the room where he had left Colonel Manners. He had now, however, made the course he was to pursue irretrievable; his son's death had been the only thing wanting to give all his determinations the energy of despair; he had chosen his path, he had passed the Rubicon, and never hereafter, through the course of this history, will be found in his character any of those fluctuating changes of feeling and resolution which we have endeavoured to depict while his fate was unfixed and his purpose undetermined. Deeply, sternly, from that moment, he pursued his way, driven at length to feel that one crime must be succeeded by many more to render it secure. "I have now, Colonel Manners," he said, as he entered the saloon, "to apologize for leaving you so unceremoniously; but you will, I am sure, make excuse for feelings agitated like mine. To guard against the most remote chance of Mr. Arden suffering this Pharold to escape, I have formally made a charge, which I shall be able to substantiate, I am sure, concerning the death of my poor brother; and next, let me beg you to give me your good advice in regard to what more should be done, in case the measures which you and I have separately taken should prove alike insufficient." "I would not wait, my lord," replied Manners, "to ascertain whether they were sufficient or not; but I would instantly take measures to guard against their insufficiency. You have, I think, only three contiguous counties here; had you not better send off messengers at once to the sheriffs and magistrates of those three, informing them of the circumstances, and begging them to stop any party of gipsies, or any person similar in appearance to this man Pharold? Your messengers, well mounted, will soon be far in advance of the murderer, or his accessories, whose mode of travelling cannot be very rapid." The suggestion was no sooner given than it was assented to; and with all speed the necessary letters were written by the peer, who took as active and energetic a part in the whole proceedings as if he had been in his prime of youth. But it was a part of his character to do so. He could feel deep grief, it is true--and did feel it for the loss of his son--but grief with him led not to languor and despondency, but, on the contrary, to hate and to revenge; and as hunger, instead of weakening, only renders the tiger and the wolf more ferocious and more tremendous, so sorrow, instead of softening, only rendered him more fierce and more vehement. The activity, the energy, and the fire he displayed in his whole proceedings not a little surprised Colonel Manners; and had he had time or inclination for anything like gayety, he might have smiled to think that he had refused, on account of age, to cross his sword with one who, in passions, at least, seemed anything but an old man. Ere the letters were sealed, however, it was announced that Mr. De Vaux's servant had arrived from Barholm, and inquired for Colonel Manners. With the peer's permission he was brought in; and bowing low to his master's father, by whom he was well known, he gave a full account of his search in answer to Manners's questions. "Well, William," demanded Manners, "have you been successful?" "Yes, sir," replied the man; "I believe I have seen the scoundrels housed, and have left those to watch them who will not watch them in vain." A glow of vengeful pleasure passed over the countenance of the peer, and nodding his approbation, he leaned his head oh his hand, listening attentively, while Manners proceeded. "Give us the particulars, William," he said. "How did you first discover the gipsies?" "Why, first, sir, I went back to the sandpit," replied the man, "and then I followed the tracks of wheels down to the bottom of the hill, by the road that leads to Newtown. At the bottom I found traces up the green lane, and I went on there for a mile, till I came to what they call Newtown Lone; but since I was there last, some one has built a cottage there; and I asked the woman in the cottage if she had seen any gipsies, and which way they had gone. She said yes, she had seen them that morning, just after daybreak; but that when they had found a cottage there, they had turned down by the other side of the lone, through the lane that leads but again upon the high-road beyond Newtown. So I followed them down there, and I tracked their carts across the high-road, up the other lane, till I came to where it splits in two, the one going down to the water-side, and the other sloping up the hill to the common at the back of Dimden Park. Here there were wheels and footmarks both ways; and, after puzzling a little, I took the way down by the water, thinking they might have gone to lie among the banks there, as they used to do when I was a young boy in that neighbourhood. But after looking about for an hour, I could find nothing of them." "Then where did you find them at last?" demanded the peer, growing somewhat tired of the servant's prolixity: to which, however, Manners, who knew how important every little particular is in obscure circumstances, had listened with patience and attention. "Why, my lord," replied the man, "I went back directly to the parting of the roads, and then took the one towards the common, above Dimden, which I had not chosen before; and there I rode on as hard as I could, with the cart ruts and footmarks before me, till I came within about twenty yards of the common. Thereabout, there is a bit of low coppice, with some tall trees in the hedgerow; and my horse picked up a stone, so I got off to clear his hoof; and as I was just going to mount again, I heard some one call in a low voice, 'William! William Butler!' so I looked round, but could see no one, and I said, 'Well, what do you want? come out of the coppice, if you want me.' So, then, from behind one of the tall trees, where he had planted himself on the lookout, comes Dick Harvey, your lordship's head park-keeper at Dimden; and he began asking after my health, and all I had seen in foreign parts. So I told him I would answer him another time: but I took leave to ask him in return what he was after, bush-ranging in that way; and he answered, 'Oh, nothing; he was only seeing that all was right.' So, then, I asked him again if he had seen e'er a set of gipsies in that direction; upon which he asked why, and I told him outright. 'Don't go any farther, then,' answered he, 'for the blood-thirsty rascals are lying down there, between the park wall and the common; and it is them that I am watching.' And he told me that he had discovered they were to steal the deer in the park that very night, and had laid a trap for them. However, I did not choose to come away without seeing them myself. So, asking Dick when they had come there, I told him he must get me a sight of them. He said that they had not been there much above an hour; and he took me into the coppice to where he had been standing himself. There I could see the whole party of them well enough, lying about three hundred yards farther down the park wall, some of them still putting out their tents, some of them sitting on the wall and looking over into the park." "Was the park-keeper alone?" asked Manners, as the servant paused. "He was alone just at that minute, sir," replied the man; "but he told me that he had five others within whistle, and that he had sent away the man who had been mounting guard where he then was to bring more. By this time, however, the sun was getting low; and Dick said he was sure enough the gipsies would not budge till they had tried for some of his deer. I told him not to let them go even if they had a mind; and he said to make my mind easy, for that before one o'clock in the morning, he would answer for having the whole party of them in what used to be called the strong-room at Dimden House. I thought, therefore, sir, that I could not leave the matter in better hands than his; and I came away here to report myself: but as the horse was very tired I thought it best to take my time." "You have done well, William," said Lord Dewry. "Now go down and get some refreshment.--It seems to me, Colonel Manners," he added, as the servant retired, a gleam of triumph lighting up his dark countenance--"it seems to me that these men are in our power--that they cannot escape us now. It may be unnecessary, therefore, to send the letters which I have written." "I think not," replied Manners. "If you will consider a moment, you will see that, although some of the gipsies have been seen in the neighbourhood of your park at Dimden, yet we have no reason to be sure that the very man we seek is with them. Indeed, from the resemblance of the person I saw in the wood to this Pharold, we have some cause to imagine that even if he have joined his companions since, he was not with them in the morning." "You are right, you are right," said the peer. "In such a business as this no precautions can, indeed, be superfluous, and I will send off the letters at once." The bell was accordingly rung, and the epistles despatched by mounted servants, who each had orders to spare no speed, but to ride all night rather than suffer the communication to be delayed; nor should we be unwilling to show how these directions were obeyed, and what sort of speed is commonly practised by persons on such errands,--how they all and several stopped to drink here, and to gossip there, and to feed at another place,--but that the regular matter of our history is now of some importance. As soon as the servants had been despatched, Lord Dewry bethought him that Colonel Manners might himself require some refreshment, and apologized for his previous forgetfulness. Manners, however, was fatigued, but not hungry, and he preferred some strong green tea--though not very soldier-like fare--to any thing else that the peer's house could afford. This was soon obtained, and by the time it had been brought and taken away, the clock struck ten. Manners then rose. "If your lordship does not expect news from Dimden to-night," he said, "I will now take my leave; but should anything occur in which I can be of the slightest assistance, if you will send a servant, you will find me at the little town of Barholm, where I have ordered rooms to be prepared for me at the inn." No two men that ever lived were more different in mind, in character, in tastes, and feelings, than Colonel Charles Manners and Lord Dewry; yet, strange to say, the peer did not like the idea of Manners's quitting him. Their views were as distinct as light and darkness; and, though for a moment they were pursuing the same object, could the hearts of both have been seen, how different would have been the spectacle presented--how different from those in the bosom of the other would have been all the springs, and motives, and designs, which actuated and guided each! And yet Lord Dewry felt uneasy when Manners proposed to go. A part of his uneasiness might arise in his dislike to be left alone, in the long, long hours of expectation which were to intervene ere he could hear of the first step, in all his dark and complicated designs, having been safely taken; but there was something more in it too. Manners had assisted him with zeal, and talent, and energy, in the very pursuit which he was following: by an extraordinary concatenation of circumstances, he, unbribed, unbiased, independent, upright, and noble, had been led to give his whole support to the very first object which the peer had in view; and for which he had already been obliged to hire and to intrigue with the low, and the mercenary, and the vile; and Lord Dewry felt a support and an encouragement in the presence and assistance of Colonel Manners which a thousand Sir Roger Millingtons could not have afforded. Had he had to explain his views and wishes to Colonel Manners as he had done to Sir Roger Millington, he would have shrunk from the task in shame and fear; but when Manners came willingly forward to aid him voluntarily, even for a few steps on the way he was pursuing, it seemed as if his actions were vouched and justified by the concurrence of so honourable a man. "I believe, Colonel Manners," said the peer in reply--"I believe that I am about to make a very extraordinary request; but I really cannot allow you to leave me: a room shall be prepared for you here immediately, and it will be a real consolation to me if you will stay I shall myself sit up till I hear from Dimden," he added, in a tone of hesitation, as if he would fain have asked Manners to do the same, had it been courteous; "but I am afraid that news cannot arrive till between one and two o'clock, and as you must be fatigued, I cannot ask you to be the partner of my watch." "I will be so most willingly, my lord," replied Manners; "for though I certainly am fatigued, still I am not sleepy, and I shall be anxious, too, to hear the news as soon as possible." They waited, however, longer than they expected: three, four o'clock came, and no tidings arrived. The moments, notwithstanding expectation, flew more calmly than might have been imagined. Lord Dewry, although he knew that there were few subjects on which he could speak with Colonel Manners without meeting feelings and opinions different from any that he now dared to entertain, knew also that there was one topic, and that one very near to his heart at the moment, on which he might discourse at ease. That topic was his son; and on that--with all his feelings softened, with every asperity done away, and with the pure natural welling forth of parental affection and grief over his deep loss--on that he conversed during the greater part of the night, effacing from the memory of his companion the rude and disagreeable impression which their first interviews had caused, and leaving little but grief, and sympathy, and regret. CHAPTER II. From sunset till about nine o'clock there had been a light refreshing rain--not one of those cold autumnal pours which leave the whole world dark, and drenched, and dreary, but the soft falling of light pellucid drops, that scarcely bent the blades of grass on which they rested, and through which, ever and anon, the purple of the evening sky, and--as that faded away--the bright glance of a brilliant star, might be seen amid the broken clouds. Towards nine, however, the vapours that rested upon the eastern uplands became tinged with light; and, as if gifted with the power of scattering darkness from her presence, forth came the resplendent moon, while the dim clouds grew pale and white as she advanced, and, rolling away over the hills, left the sky all clear. It required scarcely a fanciful mind to suppose that--in the brilliant shining of the millions of drops which hung on every leaf and rested on every bough--in the glistening ripple of the river that rolled in waves of silver through the plain--in the checkered dancing of the light and shadow through the trees, and in the sudden brightening up of every object throughout the scene which could reflect her beams--it required scarcely a fanciful mind to suppose that the whole world was rejoicing in the soft splendour of that gentle watcher of the night, and gratulating her triumph over the darkness and the clouds. It was a beautiful sight on that night, as, indeed, it ever is, to see the planet thus change the aspect of all things in the sky and on the earth; but, perhaps, the sight was more beautiful in Dimden Park than anywhere around. The gentleman's park is likewise one of those things peculiarly English, which are to be seen nowhere else upon the earth; at least, we venture to say that there is nothing at all like it in three out of the four quarters of this our globe: the wide grassy slopes, the groups of majestic trees, the dim flankings of forest-ground, broken with savannas and crossed by many a path and many a walk, the occasional rivulet or piece of water, the resting-place, the alcove, the ruin of the old mansion where our fathers dwelt, now lapsed into the domain of Time, but carefully guarded from any hands but his, with here and there some slope of the ground or some turn of the path bringing us suddenly upon a bright and unexpected prospect of distant landscapes far beyond--"all nature and all art!" There is nothing like it on the earth, and few things half so beautiful; for it is tranquil without being dull, and calm without being cheerless: but of all times, when one would enjoy the stillness and the serenity at its highest pitch, go forth into a fine old park by moonlight. The moon, then, on the night of which we have lately been speaking, within half an hour after her rise, shone full into the park, and poured her flood of splendour over the wide slopes, glittering with the late rain, along the winding paths and gravel-walks, and through between the broad trunks of the oaks and beeches. The autumn had not yet so far advanced as to make any very remarkable difference in the thickness of the foliage: but still, some leaves had fallen from the younger and tenderer plants, so that the moonbeams played more at liberty upon the ground beneath, and the trees themselves had been carefully kept so far apart that any one standing under their shadow--except, indeed, in the thickets reserved as coverts for the deer--had a view far over the open parts of the park; and, if the eye took such a direction, could descry the great house itself on one hand, or, on the other side, the park-keeper's cottage, situated on a slight slope that concealed it from the windows of the mansion. At the same time, though any one thus placed beneath the old trees--either the clumps which studded the open ground, or the deeper woods at the extremes--could see for a considerable distance around, yet it would have been scarcely possible for anybody standing in the broad moonlight to distinguish other persons under the shadow of the branches, unless, indeed, they came to the very verge of the wooded ground. This became more particularly the case as the moon rose higher, and the crossing and interlacing of the shadows in the woodland was rendered more intricate and perplexed, while the lawns and savannas only received the brighter light. At a little before eleven o'clock, then, by which time the moon had risen high in the heaven, a rustling and scraping sound might have been heard by any one standing near that wall of the park which separated it from the neighbouring common, and in a moment, after, the head and shoulders of a man appeared above the parapet. He gave a momentary glance into the walk which was immediately contiguous, and then swinging himself over, dropped at once to the ground. Pausing again, he looked round him more carefully; and then gave a low whistle. No one followed, however; and the intruder, who was apparently a lad of eighteen or nineteen, advanced cautiously across the walk, and was soon placed beneath the shadow of the tall elms. Every two or three minutes the lad paused to look around him; but as his eyes were more frequently bent upon the ground than raised, it appeared that he rather feared losing his way than apprehended the appearance of any other person in the place to which he had somewhat furtively introduced himself. Humming a tune as he advanced, he approached that part of the park from which, as we have before said, a view could be obtained both of the mansion and the park-keeper's house; and here, fixing his eyes upon the latter, he seated himself at the foot of a sturdy chestnut-tree at a little distance within the extreme edge of the wood. There was a wreath of white smoke still curling up from the chimney of the peaceful-looking dwelling of the park-keeper; and through two of the cottage casements a full yellow light was streaming, so that it was evident enough that some of the inmates were up and awake. For about half an hour the young man kept his post with perseverance and tranquillity, ceasing to hum the air with which he had amused himself as he came along, and apparently regarding nothing but the cottage of the park-keeper. At the end of that time, however, he rose, muttering, "I'll stay here no longer. I might as well have been with Lena all this while. If Dick would but wait till one o'clock, they would be all abed to a certainty;" and he walked two or three steps resolutely away. Ere he was out of sight, he, nevertheless, turned to look once more. The light was still burning; but as he was in the very act of resuming his retreat, it was totally extinguished, and nothing was to be seen but the dark outline of the cottage in the clear moonlight. He now paused again for a moment or two, to be sure of the facts; and then retracing his way as fast as possible to the particular part of the wall over which he had obtained ingress, he stopped, and whistled louder than before. For some minutes there was no reply, and he then whistled again, which instantly produced a corresponding signal from without, and a voice demanded, "Is all right?" "Ay, ay, Dick," replied the lad, carelessly; "all's right--come along." The moment after, another head and shoulders appeared above the wall; and the gipsy whom we have seen with the old woman called Mother Gray, scheming the destruction of the deer belonging to some of the neighbouring gentry, swung himself up to the top of the wall, and gazed round with a more anxious and careful face than that displayed by his younger comrade. "When he had satisfied himself by examination, he handed over two guns to his companion, who was within the park; and then, dropping down again on the inside, gazed round him with more trepidation than his bold and confident language would have led one to anticipate. He was not alone, however; for no sooner had he effected his descent than three others, each also armed with an old rude fowling-piece, followed from without; and a whispered consultation took place in regard to their further proceedings. "Where did you see the deer herding to-night, Will?" demanded their leader; "I mean at sunset." "Oh, those I saw were down at the far end of the park," replied the boy, "a mile off and more; up this wall will lead us." "The farther off the better," replied Dickon; "are all your guns loaded?" An answer was given in the affirmative; and, led by Dickon and the lad William, the party of gipsies crept stealthily along the walk that proceeded under the wall to the far extremity of the park. Once or twice the leader stopped and listened, and once he asked, in a low tone, "Did you not hear a noise? there to the left!" No sound, however, was heard by his companions, who paused as he paused, and gave breathless attention with bended head and listening ear. A light breeze stirred the tree tops, and a leaf would now and then fall through the branches, but nothing else was to be distinguished; and as they passed the end of many a vista and moonlight alley, and looked cautiously out, nothing which could excite the least apprehension was perceivable, and they walked on, gaining greater courage as every step familiarized them more to their undertaking. By the time they had reached the end of the park wall, they ventured to carry on their consultation in a louder tone; and they also turned more into the heart of the wood, following paths with which none of them seemed very thoroughly acquainted, and the perplexity of which often caused them to halt or to turn back, in order to reach the spot which they had fixed upon for the commencement of their exploits among the deer. The lad Will, however, who had apparently reconnoitred the park by daylight, at length led them right; and taking a small footway towards the east, they found themselves suddenly upon the edge of an opening in the wood, through the midst of which ran a stream of clear water. A space of about five acres was here left without a tree; but on every side were deep groves of old chestnuts, and to the east some thick coverts of brushwood. It became necessary now to ascertain the direction of the wind, lest the deer should scent their pursuers, and take another road; and for this purpose, wetting his finger in the water, Dickon held it up high, till he discovered by the coldness that ensued which side it was that the wind struck. As soon as this important point was known, he disposed his companions in separate stations, but each by one of the old chestnuts, in such a manner and at such distances as would render it impossible for the deer to cross the open space before them without receiving one or more shots from some of his party. The sort of sport in which he was now employed seemed not altogether unfamiliar to the gipsy Dickon, whose instructions, if oral rather than practical, must have been very accurate and minute, as he wanted none of the skill or knowledge of an old sportsman. As soon as his men were all properly disposed, and he had likewise taken up his own position in the most favourable spot that the place afforded, he sought out upon the ground a beech-leaf, and having found one with some difficulty, bent it in the middle and applied it to his lips. A quick percussion of the breath upon the bent leaf instantly produced a sound exactly resembling the cry of a young doe. After calling thus once or twice, he ceased, and all was attention; but no noise followed to indicate that any of the horned dwellers in the wood had heard or gave attention to the sound. Dickon again made the experiment, and again waited in breathless expectation, but without avail. After a lapse of some minutes the beech-leaf was once more employed, and the next instant a slight rustling sound was heard among the bushes beyond. The poacher repeated his cry, and there was then evidently a rush through the brushwood; but the moment after all was again still, and he began to think that the buck had scented them and taken fright. In a minute more, however, not from the bushes, but from the opposite chestnut-trees, which the low wood joined, trotted forth, at an easy pace, a tall splendid deer, bearing his antlered head near the ground, as if trying to scent out the path of his mate, whose voice he had heard. The moment he came into the full moonlight, however, he stood at gaze, as it is called, raising his proud head and looking steadfastly before him. Then, turning to the right and to the left, he seemed striving to see the object that he had not been able to discover by the smell; but, as he was still too far distant for any thing like a certain shot, Dickon once more ventured a low solitary call upon the beach-leaf. Had it been loud, or repeated more than once, the poor animal was near enough to have detected the cheat; but as it was, he was deceived, and trotting on for fifty yards more, again stood at gaze, with his head turned towards the trees under which the poacher was standing. Dickon quietly raised his gun, aimed deliberately, and fired just as the buck was again moving forward. The ball struck the deer directly below the horns, and, bounding up full four feet from the ground, he fell dead upon the spot where he had been standing. All the gipsies were now rushing forward to see their prize, but Dickon called them back; and keeping still under the shade of the trees, he made his way round to them severally, saying, "We must have another yet. Let him lie there! let him lie! That one shot has not been loud enough to scare the rest, and I am sure there is a herd there down at the end of the copse: so we must have another at all events; and if we go making a noise about that one, we shall frighten them. You, Bill, go round under those trees for five or six hundred yards, and then come into the thicket, and beat it up this way." Bill did not undertake the task without grumbling and remonstrance; asserting that everything that was tiresome was put upon him, while Dickon and the rest had the sport. A little persuasion, however, overcame his resistance, and he set off accordingly to perform the part assigned to him. The others, in the meantime, resumed their places, and now had to wait a longer time than at first; for the youth, not very well inclined to the task, was anything but quick in his motions. At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, a rustle and then a rush was heard in the bushes; and then the bounding sound of deer in quick flight, and, in a moment after, the whole herd sprang into the moonlight, and crossed the open ground at the full canter. They came fairly within shot of two of the gipsies in their passage, and two guns were instantly discharged. Both took effect; but one of the deer was only wounded, and was struggling up again, when the whole body of poachers rushed forward and ended its sufferings with the knife. "Now, now!" cried Dickon, hastily recharging his gun, "we have got enough for once, I think; let us be off as soon as we can. We can hitch the venison over that nearest wall," and he turned to point in the direction to which he referred; but the sight that met his eyes at that moment almost made the powder-flask, with which he was in the act of priming, fall from his hands. Advancing from the chestnut-trees under which he himself had just been standing, was a party consisting of at least twelve strong men, apparently well armed, and he at once saw that all chance of escape for himself and his comrades, without a struggle, was over, as the keepers were coming up between them and the common, while on the other side lay the thick bushes from which the deer had issued, and in which his party must be entangled and taken if they attempted to fly in that direction, and to the westward, beyond the chestnut-trees, were the river and the park-keeper's house. Now, however, that the matter was inevitable, Dickon showed more resolution than he had hitherto done. "Stand to it, my men!" he cried: "they have nosed us, by----! there's no running now; we must make our way to that corner, or we're done." His companions instantly turned at his exclamation; and whatever might be their internal feelings, they showed nothing but a dogged determination to resist to the last. The man who had fired the last shot instantly thrust a bullet into his gun, which he had already charged with powder; and, giving up their slain game for lost, the poachers advanced towards the angle of the wood nearest to the park-wall, keeping in a compact body, and crossing the front of the other party in an oblique line. The keepers, however, hastened to interpose, and came up just in time to prevent their opponents from reaching the trees. Thus, then, at the moment that they mutually faced round upon each other, the left of the gipsies and the right of their adversaries touched the wood, but the odds were fearfully in favour of the gamekeepers. "Come, come, my masters, down with your arms!" cried Harvey, the head keeper; "it's no use resisting: do you not see we are better than two to one?" The first reply was the levelling of the gipsies' fowling pieces; and notwithstanding the superiority of numbers and the anticipation of resistance, the keepers drew a step or two back; for under such circumstances no one can tell whose the chance may be, and the thought of unpleasant death will have its weight till the blood is warm. "Stand off!" cried Dickon, boldly: "master keeper, let us go free, or take the worst of it. We leave you your venison, and a good half-ounce bullet in each buck to pay for our pastime; but be you sure that the guns which sent those bullets can send others as true, and will send them very speedily, if you try to stop us." "A bold fellow, upon my honour!" cried Sir Roger Millington, advancing, and standing calmly before the very muzzles of the gipsies' guns. "But hark ye, my good man, you came to get the venison; we came to get you; and, as we are rather more in number than you, it is not probable we shall let you escape. However, I will tell you what--to spare bloodshed, we will come to a compromise with you." "You are the spy of a fellow, are you not," cried Dickon, "who came this evening asking for Pharold? Well, my knowing cove, be you sure the first shot fired you shall have one." "But he speaks of a compromise, Dickon," cried one of his companions, lowering the gun a little from his shoulder; "better hear what he has to say." "Don't you believe a word," cried Dickon; "he's a cheat, and will only humbug you if you listen to him. We can bring four of them down, at all events, and then must take our chance with the but-ends of our pieces." "Yes, yes, listen to him," cried another of the gipsies. "What have you to say about a compromise?" "Simply this, my men," replied Sir Roger, who had still kept his place, unconcernedly, within a couple of yards of the gipsies' guns: "if you will lay down your arms and surrender, we will make a bargain with you, that we will let each one free on account of the deer-stealing against whom we cannot bring some other charge." Sir Roger's purpose was to catch Pharold: but he had not accurately calculated upon the state of a gipsy's conscience; and as each man present very well knew that something else--if not many other things--might be justly laid to his charge, the proposed arrangement was any thing but satisfactory to the poachers. Nor was it more to the taste of Harvey and the other keepers, who had not been empowered by their employer to make any such compromise. "No, no, sir," cried Harvey, aloud, "that won't do. My lord gave me no authority to make such a bargain. I dare say you came from him; for, indeed, no one else could tell you all about it: but, howsoever, I can't consent to that. No, no, I cry off. Damme, lay down your arms, my lads, or we will fire on you directly." "Take that, then!" cried Dickon, pulling the trigger of his gun, the report of which was followed instantly by those of the fowling-pieces in the hands of the other gipsies, though at the very same moment--or rather, indeed, before the guns were discharged--a loud voice was heard shouting from a distance, "Do not fire, villains! Dickon, I command you not to fire!" Sir Roger Millington and one of the keepers dropped instantly; and a good deal of confusion took place among their party, though a straggling and ill-directed fire was returned, which only wounded one of the gipsies slightly. In less than a moment, however, the keepers had recovered themselves; and, hurrying the wounded behind, were rushing on to close with their adversaries before they could reload, when a reinforcement of eleven or twelve strong men appeared behind the small party of the gipsies, and Pharold, rushing forward, thrust Dickon vehemently back, exclaiming, "Mad fool! you have ruined us all for ever!--Hold back!" he continued, addressing the keepers in the same stern and imperative voice--"hold back, fools! we are too many for you. Richard Harvey, when you plotted to entrap these poor foolish young men, you should have secured the means of taking them. But get you gone while you may! We are too many for you, I tell you; and you know of old I am not one to trifle with." "I know you of old, sure enough, Master Pharold," replied the head keeper, running his eye doubtfully over the group of powerful men who now stood before him--"I know you of old, and I know you now; and one thing more I know, that you will come to be hanged before the year be many weeks older: I know that, too, Master Pharold." "Lift me up! lift me up!" cried a faint voice behind. "Lift me up, fellows, I say! I want to see him!" and in compliance with this command, one or two of the men who had accompanied the keepers raised Sir Roger Millington in their arms, and brought him a little forward, so that he could obtain a sight of what was passing. He gazed intently upon Pharold, who was still standing prominent, waving the head keeper and his party back with the air more of a prince than of one in his station and class. But the knight was unable to continue his observation of what was passing for more than a moment, as the agony he seemed to be suffering--although he had sufficient power over himself to prevent any expression of pain from escaping his lips--caused him to writhe so dreadfully, that, after one brief stern glance at the gipsy, he slipped out of the arms of those who supported him, and fell again to the ground. The sight of what he suffered, however, was not without its effect upon the keepers. Had they known him, and been interested in his fate, it might, indeed, have stirred them up to greater exertions in order to avenge the injury he had sustained; but unknown and indifferent as he was to all of them, his situation but served as an example of what they might themselves encounter if they persisted in their attack of the gipsies; and Harvey, who was the best inclined of the party to undertake the risk, soon gathered from the countenances of his companions that he would be but feebly supported, if not abandoned, in any further attempt. Unwilling, however, to yield the task he had undertaken, and inspired as much by sincere hatred towards the gipsies as by hope of recompense from his lord, he lingered, still glaring upon Pharold and his companions; and every now and then, in the bitterness of his disappointment, uttering such words as were likely to draw the adverse party themselves on to the attack which he feared to make upon them. "You are a pretty set of blackguards!" he exclaimed. "It would do my heart good to see you all hanged up in a row: why can't you mind your kettles, and not come stealing other folks deer? You go kidnapping people's children, you do, you thieves of human flesh! Ah, you'll not go long unhanged, that's one comfort!" Pharold's lip gradually curled into a look of bitter scorn; and, turning to one of his elder comrades, he whispered a few words to him, and a movement was instantly made on the part of the gipsies themselves to evacuate the ground. They performed their retreat, however, slowly and in good order; four of the party, directed by Pharold, bringing up the rear, and facing round upon the keepers whenever they approached, so as to render their flight secure. Harvey, with several of his companions, followed, somewhat encouraged by the sight of a retreating enemy; but two or three of the more charitable remained with Sir Roger Millington and the wounded keeper, though the latter was only slightly injured. At every two or three steps, also, as the others advanced in the pursuit, either weariness of the business altogether, or the better part of valour, caused one or two of the head park-keeper's comrades to fall off, and return to the spot where they had left the wounded men. Thus, by the time the gipsies reached the park wall, only three persons followed Harvey; and Pharold, somewhat irritated by his close pursuit, turned round upon him with not the most placable expression in the world. In truth, he had been crossed and pained; and, for a moment, the evil spirit, which has a secret tabernacle in the heart of every one, came forth, and thought that the dominion was all his own. But the gipsy drove back the fiend; and restraining his inclination to take vengeance on the keeper, he merely commanded him, sternly, not to advance another step till all his people had cleared the wall. Harvey only replied by imprecations, and Pharold calmly proceeded to station four of the gipsies, who had guns, upon the top of the wall, to protect the retreat of the others. Then, one by one, the gipsies passed over, their leader following the last, and the keeper, after giving way to one or two bursts of impotent wrath, turned on his heel, and joined his companions. Pharold and his party proceeded in silence to their encampment, which was not far distant, when, to the surprise of those who had been engaged in the deer-stealing, they found everything prepared for instant departure. The horses were to their carts, the tents were packed up, and only one fire appeared lighted, beside which old Mother Gray and the other women, protected by only one man, were standing, watching with somewhat downcast countenances the solitary pot which was suspended above it. This group made instant way for Pharold and his comrades; and the former, advancing into the midst, folded his arms upon his breast, and bending his brows sternly upon the old woman, he said, after a bitter pause, "See, woman, what your instigations have produced,--strife, bloodshed, murder; and, very likely, ultimately, the death of this poor fool, who suffered himself to be led by your bad counsels--very likely his death upon the gallows!" "A very good death, too," muttered the beldam, sullenly and low. "His father died the same." "For you, Dickon," said Pharold, not noticing her speech--"for you, however ill you may have acted, your punishment is like to fall upon you soon; but you must hear my reproaches too. You have scorned authority throughout your life--you have forgotten the laws and habits of your fathers--you belong not to our people. Here we must all separate into small bodies, and take different ways, to avoid the consequences of your faults; but you shall go out from among us for ever, never to return. Answer me not, but hear! Had I not, by returning sooner than you expected, learned your errand, and hastened with the wiser and better of our people to stay your folly, and to bring you back--had I not come up in time, not, indeed, to prevent your crime, but to rescue you from the consequences, you would now have been lying, tied hand and foot, and waiting to be judged by those who hold us in hatred and contempt. From that you have been saved; but you must fly far, and conceal yourself well, to make such safety permanent. Go from us, then--go from us! and with whatever race of men you hereafter mingle--whether abjuring your people, as you have violated their rules, or whether seeking again some other tribe of the Romanicheel race--let the memory of all the evil that follows disobedience to those who have a right to command you, keep you from follies like those you have this night committed." Pharold paused, and one of the other gipsies whispered a word in his ear. "True!" he said, "true! as he has to wander far and long, he must not go unprovided. We will all contribute to help him." "No, no!" murmured Dickon, with his head sunk, and his eyes bent upon the ground--"no, no! I can do without." But the collection among the gipsies was made without giving any attention to his words. Each contributed something from the part he had received in the distribution of the preceding evening, and a considerable sum was thus collected. Pharold, perhaps, feeling that the boon from his hand would come poisoned, suffered one of his companions to give the money to the culprit, and then proceeded: "Go forth, Dickon! go forth! I warned you long ago; I counselled you while counsel might avail: you heeded not my warning--you rejected my counsel; the time is past; and I have only now to bid you go forth from among us for ever!" With his head still bent, and his eyes upon the ground, Dickon took two or three steps away from the rest. He then turned, and raising his head, fixed his eyes upon Pharold, apparently struggling to speak. Words, however, failed him: the stern glance of their leader met his--calm, but reproachful; and suddenly turning a look full of fury at the old beldam who had misled him, the unhappy young man shook his hand at her, with a loud and bitter curse, and bounded away over the common. "And now," said Pharold, turning to his companions, "let us separate quickly--to the east, and the west, and the north, and the south, in the same parties into which we had divided ourselves last night before the unfortunate accident made us change our plans. Let us travel rapidly and long, for be sure that we are followed by many and keen pursuers, who will spare neither gold nor speed to catch us. Let all of us that are alive meet this day three months at our old tryste on Cheviot; and we may then, perhaps, pursue our way in peace." While he spoke, a light hand was laid upon his coat; and, as he ended, he found the beautiful eyes of Lena looking up in his face, with a glance of mingled apprehension and irresolution, as if she wished but feared to speak. "What is it, Lena?" he demanded. "You, of course, go with me and mine." "But William!" said Lena, in a timid voice, "William!" Pharold's brow contracted. "He goes with Brown!" he said, sternly. "What is it to you?" She coloured highly, and cast down her eyes; but still replied, "Nothing, nothing! But where is he? I meant to ask. He went with Dickon and the rest--they made him go--and he has not returned." Pharold started, and looked round, anxiously searching with his eyes for the lad among the groups that stood near, over whose wild countenances and figures the declining moon and the half-extinguished fire were casting together a flickering and uncertain light.--"Where is William?" he exclaimed, at length, turning to one of the men who had accompanied Dickon on his predatory excursion against the deer; "I saw but four of you when I came up. Where was William then?" "Dickon had sent him round into the copse, a quarter of a mile off, to drive up the deer," replied the man; "but I am afraid they have caught him, for I heard a bit of a struggle in that direction, as we were making for the wall." Pharold clasped his hands in angry disappointment. "We must not leave the poor boy," he said: "I, for one, will stay at any risk, and try to help him." "And I, and I, and I!" cried all the gipsies. "Well, then," said Pharold, "we must take means to make them think that we are gone; so that the nearer we lie to them, the more completely will they be deceived. The wood on the other side of the common is thicker than anywhere else. Thither away, my men, on foot--all but five of you. Let those five take the carts down, by the back of the park, to the river. Turn them as if you were going down the road that leads along the bank. Then take out the horses, and carry the carts over the gravel to the ford, so that no wheel-marks be seen. Put the horses in again when that is done; but mind to fill up the hoof-prints with fresh gravel. Thus they will lose your track. You then take the ford, and cross the river. The water is low, and you can drive along the gravel-bank, on the other side, for near a mile, keeping in the water all the way. When it gets deep again, take the road, and, crossing back by the bridge, come round to the wood by Morley Road. Do you understand?" "Yes, yes; I do," replied the man he had called Brown. "I know the country well. But where go you, Pharold, yourself?" "I go back into the park to seek the boy," replied the gipsy, "and will join you all in the wood before daybreak. But, on your lives, keep to that wood behind us there; and go not near Morley Common or Morley Wood; for there are people on the watch there already. I should have been back in time to have prevented all this, had they not penned me in, in that very wood." "Well, well, we will do your bidding, Pharold," replied Brown. "You are a brave heart, and always take the danger upon yourself." "Quick, quick, then," replied the gipsy: "there is no time to be lost. Sarah Brown, take care of Lena; and see that that old woman," he added, sternly, pointing to Mother Gray, "works no more mischief among us. Bad has been the fruit which all the seed of her planting has hitherto borne. You lead them to the wood, Wilson, and light a fire, that I may see the smoke as I come back." So saying, he sought in one of the carts for a moment; and drawing forth what is called a cut-and-thrust sword, buckled it under his coat, took the path to the lowest part of the park wall, and, vaulting over, was lost to the sight of his companions. His orders, however, were now as promptly obeyed as if he had been present. Each of the gipsies who were destined immediately for the wood hastened to unload the carts as fast as possible. The women took their children on their backs, and large bundles in their hands; the men charged themselves with the heavier packages; and the carts, greatly lightened, having set off in the direction assigned to them, the rest of the party proceeded across the common towards the wood. They set off silently, and in straggling parties, that their footsteps might not betray their path; but they had not gone far ere the tongue of the old woman was heard, addressing one of the men who walked near her--at first in few words and a low tone, but gradually increasing in power and volubility as it became encouraged by its own sound. "He's a cruel, hard hand, that Pharold," said she, looking carefully round. But her companion made no reply, and she went on: "It's a hard thing for poor Dickon to be sent out to starve or be hanged, just because he was a spirity lad, and had different notions from that Pharold." Still the other was silent. "I often do wonder," she continued, "how a number of strong hearty men, every one a better man than Pharold, should submit to be led, and bullied, and ill-treated, by an ill-looking thief like that, only because he comes from our old dukes that are dead and gone.[5] It's all your own faults. If two or three of you were but to lay your heads together, and to say--" --------------------- [Footnote 5: The gipsies of all countries still hold the persuasion that they were originally led into Europe by persons whom they term Dukes or Lords of Upper Egypt.] --------------------- "Come, come, you old rip," broke forth the man angrily, "none of such talk to me, if you have not a mind to be pitched into that pond. Hold your tongue, now, and give us no more of it. I am not one of your Dickons to be made a fool of; and if I hear you saying another word of such matters, I will have you sent after him you have got turned out from among us." Muttering a few words about "tame fools," Mother Gray slunk behind, and for a little while walked on in silence, only interrupted by occasional internal grunts and growls, expressive of her dissatisfaction and wrath. From time to time, however, she cast her eyes towards the straggling parties of her companions to the right and left; and for a while her attention seemed principally directed towards a group of two or three, who walked on immediately upon her right, and among whom was one of those who had accompanied Dickon in his unfortunate expedition. But on the left, again, was a line of four or five other gipsies, principally women, followed by Lena, two or three steps behind the rest, with a large handkerchief cast over her head, and tied beneath her chin, in a manner which would have concealed the greater part of her beautiful face, even if it had been day, but which now served to veil it entirely from all observation. Her head leaned forward, however: it was evident, too, that her eyes were cast upon the ground; and from these, and many another little symptom, the beldam, as she gazed upon her, concluded, and concluded rightly, that she was weeping. She hesitated no longer which of the two parties to join; but, dropping slowly behind, she sidled quietly up to Lena, almost unperceived by the girl herself. After walking on a step or two by her side in silence, she ventured to say, in a dolorous and sympathizing tone, "Poor Bill! only to think!" Lena started, and for a moment said nothing in reply; but after awhile she asked, "Do you think they have caught him, Mother Gray?" "Ay, ay, they must have grabbed him," replied the other; "else he would ha' been back 'afore this time. Poor Bill! he was as handsome a spirity young chick as ever I set eyes on." There was something in hearing him spoken of in the past tense, as of one gone for ever, that brought a deep sigh from Lena's bosom; and the old worker of mischief went on, satisfied that she was now, at least, upon the right track. "Ah, poor Bill!" she said; "there was only one that was fit to match with him among us, and she was snapped up by a kite before her right mate could come to her." Lena took no notice of her allusion, though it was sufficiently direct; but asked, "What do you think they will do to him, Mother Gray, if they have caught him?" "Hang him, perhaps," replied the old woman, "or at all events send him to what they call the colonies, to work their work like a slave--that's to say, if no one gets him out; but if he is so minded, Pharold, who is so sharp, will get him out fast enough." "If Pharold can get him out," replied Lena, rousing herself at the name of one whom she revered, if she did not love--"if Pharold can get him out, he will not be long in." "I dare say not," replied the old woman, "if it be not too dangerous, and cost too much time and trouble; and then Pharold, you know, will not like to risk the other people to save poor Bill, unless, indeed, some one coaxes him to do it." "But how can I speak to him about it?" demanded Lena, holding down her head; "he would only give me hard words if I did, as he did to-night." "But Lena might risk a little for poor Bill," rejoined the other; "I know Bill would risk his life for her." Lena was silent; and after a pause of some minutes the old woman went on, in a low voice almost sunk to a whisper. "Come, come, my pretty Lena," she said, "do try your hand with Pharold; else poor William may lie there for months in prison, with nothing to comfort him but songs about Lena--which he will sing sweetly enough, poor chap--and then may go to the gallows thinking of her. Do you think I do not see and know, my chick, all that is going on?" "Then you see and know, Mother Gray, that I want to do nothing wrong," replied the girl, turning half round upon her. "Yes, but I saw you, Lena, when you stood by the park-wall this evening," replied the beldam, "talking to Will for half an hour; and do you think I do not know what is in your heart, my pretty Lena?" "Then why should I strive to get him out of prison at all?" said Lena, in a melancholy tone. "It is better that he were away; and I can tell you what, Mother Gray, it was I made Pharold determine to send him away with Brown's people rather than have him along with us." "And I can tell you what, too, Lena," replied the old woman, "I saw you standing together by the wall, and I saw him come away, and I am very sure that it was because you were unkind to him that he went with Dickon and his people after the deer; so that it was your fault that he went at all, and your fault that he got into prison; so you should but help him out of it." What Lena might have replied, Heaven knows; but at the moment she was about to speak, she was interrupted by the approach of others of the tribe; and the whole party shortly after entered the wood, and took up their camp in one of the deepest and most unfrequented spots that it contained. In the mean time Pharold had, as we have seen, entered the park; and here he spent the whole hours of moonlight that remained in searching for the youth who had accompanied Dickon and his companions. He searched, however, in vain; and although he often risked the low peculiar whistle which he knew would be recognised by his fellow-gipsy, yet no sound was returned from any quarter. Long and anxiously did he seek--the more anxiously, perhaps, because he felt that some undefined feelings of dislike and animosity had lately been rising in his bosom towards the unfortunate youth, who had now apparently become the sacrifice for the faults of others. With much disappointment and regret, then, he saw at length the morning dawn; and certain that, had the youth escaped, he would by this time have joined the rest, he prepared to quit a place in which any longer delay might prove dangerous to himself, and could be of no service to him he sought. There was, however, in his bosom a misdoubting in regard to the lad's fate, an apprehensive uncertainty, which moved him, perhaps, more than if he had been assured of his capture; and ere he quitted the park, he approached as near as possible to the mansion, to see if any such signs of unusual bustle were apparent, as might furnish information to a mind habituated to extract their meaning rapidly from every vague and transient indication that met his eyes. As he stood beneath the trees, the first thing he beheld was a boy run up the steps of the house, and Pharold instantly concluded that it was a messenger returned with some news. The moment after three or four men issued forth; but instead of taking any of the roads that led from the house, they began to traverse the lawn between the mansion and the nearest point of the park-wall. One man halted half-way between, the others went on; but at the first trees again another paused, and Pharold thought, "They have discovered me and think to surround me, but they will find themselves mistaken;" and with a quick, stealthy step, he glided through the wood towards the angle of the park next to the common. None of his senses, however, slept on such occasions; and ere he had emerged from the bushes his ear caught the sound of low voices, speaking in the very direction which he was taking, showing him that he had been discovered and pursued before he had perceived it, though the persons who were now before him must have come from the gamekeeper's house, and not from the mansion. Wheeling instantly, he retreated in a direction which led to one of the most open parts of the park; but Pharold was well aware of what he did, and knew the ground even better than those who followed him. As soon as he reached the savanna, he emerged at once from the trees, and with a quick step began to traverse the green. A man who had been stationed at the angle instantly caught sight of him, and gave at once the shout which had been appointed as a signal. The other keepers came up at a quick pace, narrowing the half circle in which they had disposed themselves, and penning the gipsy in between their body and the river. He scarcely hastened his pace, but allowed them to come nearer and nearer, till at length his purpose seemed to strike the head keeper suddenly, and, with a loud imprecation, he called upon the man nearest the water to close upon the object of their pursuit, adding, "He is a devil of a swimmer!" But Pharold had been suffered to go too far. He sprang forward at once to the bank, plunged in without a pause, and in a few strokes carried himself to the other side, where, amid thick brushwood and young plantations, he was perfectly secure from all pursuit. CHAPTER III. I know no reason why we--the readers and the writer--should not now quit those characters which have lately been occupying us, and return to others not less worthy of our care, till we have brought their actions and their feelings up to the same point of time whereunto we have conducted our other personages. The best form, perhaps I might say the most classical, in which a tale like the present can be related, with the exception of the autobiographical, is the dramatic; and holding strongly with the liberty accorded to British dramatists against the straight-waistcoat of Aristotelian unities, I believe that he who sits down to write a book like this has as much right to shift his scene and change his characters when he pleases as a playwright. The necessity of so doing exists in the very state of being in which we live in relation to one another. Everyday we find that in five or six families, the actions of each of which have mutually a great influence on the others, events are occurring, and words are being spoken, which bring about great and important results in the general fate and relative position of those five or six families, and, in fact, work out their united history, without one house knowing at the time what was doing in the other. The task, then, of the writer, if he would follow the best of guides, nature, is to take such a group of five or six families, whose fate some common bond of union has linked together; and, changing from house to house as soon as the interest of the events in each requires the scene to be shifted, to paint what he there sees passing; and thus, in a series of pictures, to give the general history of the whole. Stupid must be the man, and impotent the imagination, weak the judgment, and treacherous the memory, which cannot bear the change of scene without a long refresher in regard to the people about to be seen again, or the events of which the writer is once more going to take up the thread! Could not this change be made, the circumstances which were taking place at Morley House, and, what is still more important, the feelings which were thrilling in the bosoms of its inhabitants, would of necessity be all left untold, or be related in a long unnatural resume. In truth, the feelings of which we speak are worth some consideration; as feelings, indeed, always are: for, could one write the history of man's heart and its motives, how much more interesting, and instructive too, would the record be, than the brightest volume that ever was written upon man's actions! For some time after Colonel Manners quitted Morley House, Marian de Vaux continued to sleep under the influence of strong opiates, which the medical man had found it necessary to give her in the morning. Whether he did right or wrong--whether it would have been better to let her meet grief boldly face to face, or was better to shield her from the violence of its first attack--each must judge as he feels; but he had known her from a child, and he had a notion that hers was a heart which would be easily broken if sorrow was suffered to handle it too roughly. At all events, while this state continued, she enjoyed a cessation from grief and apprehension; but still, how different was her slumber from the calm and natural repose of a heart at ease! The dull poppy with its leaden weight seemed to keep down and oppress feeling and thought, not to relieve and refresh them; and in her beautiful face, even as she slept, there was something which told that the slumber was not natural. Oh! the sweet profound sleep of infancy, how beautiful it is! that soft and blessed gift of a heart without a stain or a pang, of a body unbroken in any fibre by the cares and labours of existence, of a mind without a burden or an apprehension. It falls down upon our eyelids like the dew of a summer's eve, refreshing for our use all the world of flowers in which we dwell, and passing calm, and tranquil, and happy, without a dream and without an interruption. But, alas! alas! with the first years of life it is gone, and never returns. We may win joy, and satisfaction, and glory, and splendour, and power--we may obtain more than our wildest ambition aspired to, or our eager hope could grasp; but the sweet sleep of infancy, the soft companion of our boyish pillow, flies from the ardent joys as well as the bitter cares of manhood, and never, never, never returns again. The apothecary had ventured on large doses of the drug, and Marian's slumber continued for many hours; but at length she woke, pale, languid, sick, with her ideas all confused, and yet her heart not the less ill at ease. "Is that Isadore?" she said, gazing towards the window at which some one was standing, and over which the shades of evening were coming dim and fast. Isadore approached her bed, and Marian asked eagerly, "What news?" She could not put her question in a distinct form, for her mind refused to fix itself precision upon anything; and besides, with the common self-cheatery of fear, she loved not to give her apprehensions voice. "I have no news, dear Marian?" replied Isadore, sitting down by her. "Sorry I am to say that Colonel Manners has returned without any tidings; and he has since gone over to my uncle's, to see whether anything may be known there in regard to these extraordinary circumstances." Isadore had framed her answer, with a view of alone hiding from Marian that anything had been discovered to confirm their fears, and of turning her mind from the search on which Colonel Manners had been employed: but the result went further than she had expected, or even wished; for it was her purpose only to break the force of grief, not to raise expectations which were likely to be disappointed. Hope, however, is the most adroit of diplomatists, and takes hold of the slightest word or circumstance in its own favour with skill and agility unparalleled. The words of Isadore, simple as they were, lighted again in a moment the half-extinguished flame in the bosom of her cousin. She remembered the suspicions concerning the illegitimacy of his birth, with which Edward had gone to visit the gipsies; she remembered his fiery and impatient nature, and the agitation into which even the apprehension had thrown him; and hope instantly suggested that he might have found his fears confirmed, and, wild with anger and distress, might have flown instantly to his father's house. It is true he was on foot; it is true he had quitted the house during the night; it is true that he was not likely to take such a step without writing to relieve her mind; but it is the quality of hope to trample on improbabilities, and Marian de Vaux obtained a momentary relief. Still she would fain have had her hopes confirmed by the opinion of others: but she could not expect to do so without explaining the reason why she entertained them; and that reason could not be explained without entering into some details in regard to Edward's communication with the gipsy, which she knew not whether she were justified in making. Her mind was so confused with the effect of the remedies employed to obtain sleep, that she was long in determining what was the best to do, and remained silent, while Isadore kindly and gently strove to suggest as many motives for consolation as she could imagine. At length, however, as Marian revolved all the probabilities in her mind, she recollected that other causes might render the disclosure of Edward's feelings and intentions necessary; that he might not be found at his father's house; that strict and immediate investigation might be required; and that, under those circumstances, a knowledge of all that her lover had proposed to do previous to his sudden disappearance might be requisite to those who were employed in searching for him, in order to render that search at all effectual; and although she shrunk from the idea of betraying, in the slightest degree, the confidence he had reposed in her, yet she felt it necessary to give every information in her power which might lead to the result they sought. She determined, then, at length, to speak of what had passed between De Vaux and herself on the preceding day; and only hesitated whether to relate it to her aunt or to her cousin. Mrs. Falkland's kindness and strong good sense were not to be doubted; but yet Marian knew Isadore thoroughly, and knew that there was more judgment and tact under her usual gayety than was apparent. She knew, too, that with her she should be able to relate and to keep back just as much as she thought proper; while her aunt's keen and rapid questions, she felt, might draw from her more than she was justified in communicating. "Do you know, Isadore," she said, at length, "I am in some hopes that Edward may be heard of at his father's house: it would not surprise me if he had gone thither." Isadore felt that she had a delicate part to play. She was glad to see that Marian was more composed than she could have expected; and, of course, she would have wished to maintain that state of composure, till apprehension gradually changed into grief, without any new shock to her feelings: but she still felt that she had no right to encourage hopes which must soon be broken; and she replied, "I am very happy, dearest Marian, that you do think so; but is it not strange that he should go thither, and be so long absent, without letting any one know, when he must have felt that so many would be uneasy?" "It is strange," replied Marian; "but I think I can account for that. I am about to tell you something, Isadore, which you must make what use of you think fit, in case Colonel Manners has not found poor Edward at Dewry Hall; but as it refers to matters which he might not wish told to any one, you must ask me no more than I am inclined to speak; and unless it be necessary, perhaps, had better not mention it to any one but my aunt." "I will obey you to the letter, dear cousin," replied Isadore; "but I foresee that you are going to speak of his visit to the gipsy, which, indeed, surprised us all." "It is the cause of that visit I am about to tell you," answered Marian; "for perhaps the facts connected with it may throw some light on the business, if Edward be not at his father's. But you remember, Isadore, that Colonel Manners went up yesterday morning to the gipsies--I believe, because you teased him about them." "Yes, indeed, I believe it was one of my silly jests," replied Isadore, with a sigh, "that made him go at all. I shall leave off jesting for the future, Marian." "Nay, nay! never, Isadore!" replied Marian, shaking her head. "However, Colonel Manners brought Edward down a letter from one of them called Pharold, which distressed him a great deal; for it told him things concerning our own family, and his part of it particularly, which would be very terrible if true. He determined, after speaking to me upon the matter, to go up to the common this morning, in order to investigate the whole; and if he found any reason to believe that the gipsy spoke the truth, his mind, I am sure, would be in such a state that he would hardly know what he was doing. Under these circumstances, it is very likely that he might go over at once to inquire more of his father, without thinking of anything else in the pain and anxiety of the moment." "No, Marian, depend upon it, he would think of you," cried Isadore, somewhat incautiously. "I could easily forgive him for not doing so," replied Marian, "notwithstanding all the pain I have suffered, if I could be sure that he is safe at the Hall." "Pray God it maybe so!" replied Isadore; "and if it be, we shall undoubtedly hear from Colonel Manners to-night." There was something so despairing in the tone with which Isadore pronounced--"Pray God it may be so!" that Marian took alarm. "Isadore," she said, looking at her steadily, "I hope you are not deceiving me. Your heart is not one to be so easily cast down; your lips, dear cousin, are not accustomed to such sad sounds. Tell me the truth, Isadore, I beseech you. Have you heard anything of Edward?" "No, indeed, Marian!" replied Isadore, glad that she had put her question in such a shape that she could give it a negative; and yet hesitating a little at the utterance of one word approaching insincerity, a vice that her mind had never known. "No, indeed," she said, "no one has heard anything of him as yet." Marian marked her hesitation, however, and replied, in a low voice, "I should always like to know the truth, Isadore; and I am sure you would tell it me, dear cousin. You know how I love Edward; and I think it no shame to acknowledge to you, Isadore, that I do not believe there ever was a human being that loved another as I have loved him." She paused; and though she knew that Isadore needed no new insight into her heart to see how totally that heart was given to Edward de Vaux, yet, as she spoke, the crimson came again into her cheeks, and mottled her brow and temples, even to speak her love in the hearing of one who already knew it so well. "Nevertheless, Isadore," she continued, "feeling afraid of my own heart, and my own great happiness, I have schooled myself to remember that the blessings of this world are anything but permanent, and have prepared myself to say, if God should require me to yield them, 'Thy will be done.' Of course, since Edward went into active service, I have felt it the more necessary to be always thus prepared; and though I have tried not to imbitter existence by apprehensions, nor to keep myself in continual fear, I have endeavoured never to forget that Almighty Wisdom may hourly require sacrifices, at which we must not repine." "You are indeed a sweet creature!" cried Isadore, casting her arms round her cousin's neck; "I wish that I were half as good!" Marian leaned her brow upon her cousin's shoulder; and when Isadore again looked at her, she found that Marian was weeping. In a few moments Marian wiped away her tears, and went on: "You will think that, after boasting of all this preparation, I ought not to be so overcome now--nor, indeed, so much as I was this morning; but the truth is, when Edward returned, half my fears vanished. I thought that all danger was over; and little remembered that he who had escaped from battle and from storm, might be snatched from me in the bosom of peace, and in his own home. But I am better now, Isadore, and firmer, and stronger; and therefore I will beg you and my aunt to let me hear at once everything that occurs; for though you are interested too, I know, deeply and sincerely, yet you can neither of you feel as I do." "Perhaps that is the very reason, dear Marian," replied Isadore, "why it would be better to keep from you all the rumours and reports, which could only rack all your feelings with alternate hopes and fears, without leading you even to any certain conclusion." "Oh, no!" said Marian; "no! let me hear all, Isadore! I am now again prepared. I do not say that I shall not weep--I do not say that I shall not be anxious--I do not say that I shall not tremble with hope and fear: but I do say, Isadore, that the knowledge of whose hand it is that guides the whole--and my firm, perfect, undoubting, unchangeable belief that His will is mercy, and His way is wise--will be my support and consolation to the end." "And I will never believe," said Isadore, warmly, "that He will leave such confidence unrewarded and unprotected." "Oh, no!" answered Marian; and she then added, in a sadder tone, "But He, seeing more wisely than we do, may yet think fit to afflict us, Isadore. However, I am still prepared, and will meet whatever may come, as little repining as I can." The conversation proceeded for some time in the same tone, nor was its effect small in soothing the mind of her who suffered; for, in moments of grief, the human heart forgets all the treasured consolations which reason, and philosophy, and religion have garnered up in years of tranquillity; and it is not till we examine the stores that we have gathered that we remember the sources of comfort which we ourselves possess. Marian then expressed her intention of rising, and begged Isadore to send her maid from the dressing-room. Her cousin would fain have dissuaded her; and proceeded to inform her mother of Marian's intention of coming down to the drawing-room; but Mrs. Falkland did not disapprove of the idea, especially when she learned from Isadore the state of her niece's mind. "We must endeavour," she said, "to keep any sudden tidings of evil from our poor Marian; but in other respects, perhaps, occupation of any sort may do her good; for I know too well, Isadore, that nothing can be worse than the fears and the pains with which our own imagination fills up the interval of suspense, when, alone and sleepless, we sit and watch away the weary hours, till doubt and fear have grown into the too painful certainty." Marian was not long in following her cousin to the drawing-room; and though a few tears rolled over her cheeks as Mrs. Falkland pressed her to her bosom, she soon regained at least the appearance of composure. By degrees she learned all that Colonel Manners had discovered, except the indications which most strongly tended to confirm his apprehensions for De Vaux; and she heard, also, all that he had done towards obtaining further and more certain information. Marian, however, inferred, from the measures that had been taken, that both her aunt and Manners did entertain serious fears; and her heart sunk to find her own alarm confirmed by that of persons so much more thoroughly acquainted with the world than herself. Soon after she had come down, the servant, who had been despatched to Mr. Arden, returned with the tidings that he was absent from his own house, and was not expected back till the next morning. Inquiries, too, were made by the people who had been left to guard the wood, whether it were necessary to keep up their patrol all night; and in Manners's absence, Mrs. Falkland ordered it to be done at any expense. Many a rumour, too, of many a likely and many an unlikely occurrence, reached the drawing-room through the old butler, who, with one other man-servant, had been retained in the house while the rest had been despatched to reinforce the people on watch round the wood. Thus passed the evening, but no tidings arrived from Colonel Manners; and as minute after minute and hour after hour went by after the period which they calculated might have brought them the news of De Vaux's being at his father's house, the hopes of all the party sunk lower and more low, and at a late hour Mrs. Falkland persuaded Marian again to go to bed. Sleep, indeed, visited Morley House but little during that night; and the next morning early, a note was received from Colonel Manners, informing Mrs. Falkland that nothing as yet had been heard of De Vaux. So far Mrs. Falkland communicated the tidings she had received to Marian, before she had risen; and, notwithstanding all the fortitude she had endeavoured to assume, and the most careful guard she had been enabled to put upon her heart, yet Marian had so far encouraged hopes which now suffered disappointment, that medical aid was again obliged to be called; and it was judged expedient once more to dull her sense of grief and fear by strong opiates. The latter part of Colonel Manners's communication, which spoke in plain terms of the murder of poor De Vaux, Mrs. Falkland did not, of course, read to her unhappy niece. In it, however, he informed her, that when he arrived at Dewry Hall, he had found measures already in progress for arresting the supposed murderers upon another charge, and had waited to know the result. They had proved, unfortunately, without effect, he said; as no one had been taken but a lad, from whom he was afraid little satisfactory information was likely to be gained: but still it was his purpose, he added, to go over to Dimden with Lord Dewry, previous to returning to Morley House, in order to hear personally what evidence could be extracted from the prisoner. In conclusion, he recommended, if Mr. Arden had not taken measures for searching the wood in which the gipsy had been seen, before his letter arrived, that such a step should be resorted to directly; as the messenger who brought the news of the affray at Dimden had not been able to say whether Pharold were present or not. After the receipt of this letter, Mrs. Falkland waited anxiously for the arrival of Mr. Arden; but it was late ere he came. He then asked eagerly what further discoveries had been made, and Mrs. Falkland communicated to him the substance of Colonel Manners's letter. The old gentleman, whose heart was warm and kind, notwithstanding a certain degree of severity of manner, and a persevering adherence to the letter of the law, which often made him appear harsh and unfeeling, sympathized truly with De Vaux's family; and spoke of Marian, and the state of bereavement and distress into which her cousin's loss must have cast her, with words of tenderness and pity which brought a bright drop or two even into his own eyes. He then touched as delicately as his nature permitted upon the subject of Lord Dewry's letter to him, which he had received that morning; and triumphed a little in the accuracy of the opinion he had formerly given in regard to Pharold the gipsy being the real murderer of Mrs. Falkland's late brother. Mrs. Falkland started, and combated the idea with various arguments, which had been satisfactory to her own mind at the time. Mr. Arden, however, informed her, that in his letter of that morning, Lord Dewry had asserted, that he had acquired positive proofs of the gipsy's guilt; and Mrs. Falkland was silent, but not convinced. That Pharold, either in some fierce dispute, or in some accidental affray, might have killed her unfortunate nephew, or that his companions might have done so, without his will or concurrence, Mrs. Falkland did not doubt: but she had heard too much of his character and behaviour in youth to believe that, twenty years before, when he was still a young man, he could have been so hardened in guilt as, for the purpose of paltry plunder, to take the life of the only man for whom, with the exception of his own tribe, he had shown affection. For Lord Dewry's fierce accusation on the present occasion, she accounted easily by a knowledge of his character, and conceived it very possible that the rage and hatred which he felt at the very idea of the gipsy having murdered his son, might make him regard as proof positive any slight additional suspicions which he had found cause to form against Pharold in regard to his brother's death. However, as she took no pleasure in speaking of her brother's weaknesses, she made no answer; and Mr. Arden began his proceedings for the purpose of causing the wood in which Colonel Manners imagined he had seen Pharold to be so thoroughly searched as to ascertain, beyond a doubt, whether the gipsy still remained in it or not. As all those who have attempted to search a wood must know the task is not an easy one; and before a sufficient number of people could be collected, and all the orders and directions could be given, it was late in the day. As the men, however, who had kept patrol for so many hours were now weary of the task, and there existed many doubts whether any inducement would make them undertake it during another night, there was no possibility of delaying the search till the following morning; and Mr. Arden accordingly set out, taking as many of Mrs. Falkland's servants with him as could by any means be spared, in order to make their proceedings as effectual as the short remaining space of daylight permitted. During his absence Mrs. Falkland and her daughter remained in that painful and exciting state of suspense in which every minute has its expectation, and every minute its fear; and as Marian still slept, Isadore walked out into the garden, in hopes of finding some refreshment in the cool air of the autumn evening. When she had passed about half through the garden, with her eyes turning mechanically from time to time upon the flowers, but with her thoughts far otherwise occupied, she perceived a boy of about ten years of age, who worked under the gardeners, approaching her, cap in hand. "Please, miss," he said, "I think I have found out something." "And pray, what have you discovered, Harry?" demanded Isadore, as he paused. "Why, ma'am," answered the boy, "I heard the gentleman yesterday, and all the folks, indeed, talking of footsteps, and asking where there were any to be seen, in sorts of unlikely places--" "And have you found any?" exclaimed Isadore, speaking eagerly, from some of those vague, and often fallacious anticipations which rush upon the mind in thousands when it is excited by any strongly-moving cause. "Why, yes, ma'am, you see," replied the boy; "the gardener, when he was going away to search the wood, sent me down to the other side of the park to cut some box for the borders; and by the little door close by the river, which has not been opened these two years, I saw the marks of a gentleman's foot in the gravel, which is softish down on that walk, and greenish, too, for it ha'nt been turned this autumn." "But how do you know it was a gentleman's foot?" demanded Isadore. "It might be either the gardener's, or the under-gardener's, or the gamekeeper's, for anything you know, Harry." "No, no, miss," answered the boy; "I know it was a gentleman's, for they have little feet, and this was not bigger than mine; and it was not a woman's foot, because the heel was different." "And a boy's?" said Isadore; "why might it not be a boy's?" The youth rubbed his head, saying, "It might be a boy's, miss; but I do not think it, miss, any how: I am sure it was a gentleman's--quite sure." Isadore endeavoured to discover the grounds of this certainty; but when people whose ideas are not very clear upon a subject are pressed by those who would fain help them to disentangle the ravelled skein of their thoughts, they not unfrequently take refuge in a sort of blank stolidity, which prevents others from finding out the causes that they themselves are not able to explain. Such was the case in the present instance, and the only answer that Isadore could obtain to her questions, shape them how she would, was, that he--the boy--was sure that the footmarks were those of a gentleman. With these tidings, however, with every willingness in the world to believe that they were true, and with a long train of phantom hopes to boot, Miss Falkland returned to her mother, taking the boy to the house with her. Mrs. Falkland listened with attention, and replied that it would be at least worth while to send down the old butler directly, to ascertain the facts more precisely. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, do not send him, mamma!" exclaimed Isadore. "He is so fond of miracles, that he will declare it is the foot of an elephant. We shall never come at the truth from him." "But whom can I send, then?" demanded her mother. "All the other servants are away; and both the gardener and under-gardener are with Mr. Arden." "I will go myself, mamma," replied Isadore. "I shall have plenty of time to get there and back before it is dark; and I will take the boy with me to show me the place." "You are right, Isadore," replied Mrs. Falkland: "the fact may be of no importance, but it may be of much; and, consequently, it is worth our own examination. I will go with you, my love, if Marian be still asleep. Wait one moment, and we will go and judge together." Mrs. Falkland was not long absent. Marian was still lying overpowered with the opium; and the two ladies, having joined the boy in the hall, set out upon the search. While her mother was absent, however, Isadore called her own maid, and stationed her at one of the windows, whence she could see the spot to which the boy referred, and the path leading to it. She gave her also directions to remain there, and, in case of either Mrs. Falkland or herself making a signal, to send or come down to them in all haste. "I feel a sort of presentiment," thought Isadore, as she gave the orders, "that this expedition will end in something of importance." Whatever it was likely to end in, the maid obeyed her orders as punctually as such orders generally are obeyed; that is to say, she remained two minutes at the window; and having seen Mrs. Falkland and Isadore walk about a hundred steps upon the path, she thought, "Dear me! I can just get the cap I was trimming, and be back again here long before they are at the other side of the park." But, as she crossed the hall, she met with the old butler, who detained her just to ask her where his mistress and Miss Falkland were gone; and then told her a story, which he had heard when he was young, and the incidents of which were very like those connected with the fate of poor Mr. Edward de Vaux. Every hair on the maid's head stood on end, and gave her so much occupation, that, ere she could get back to her post, it was too dark to trim the cap any further; she therefore, immediately and punctually, turned her eyes on the spot which her mistress had directed her to observe, and watched most carefully, now that she could see nothing at that distance. CHAPTER IV. Isadore and Mrs. Falkland, in the meantime, took the little path towards the brink of the river, in the immediate neighbourhood of which lay the spot where the boy had remarked the footsteps. Mrs. Falkland had lived too long in the great school of disappointment, human life, to suffer her expectations to be greatly excited; but Isadore, with a spirit naturally more enthusiastic, and as yet unchastened by any deep sorrows, felt her heart beat high, and her hopes struggle up against her fears, as she set out to take a more active part than she had hitherto been able to assume in the search for her cousin. The path wound along through the park, meandering considerably, perhaps in conformity to the taste of some ancient layer out of parks, or perhaps in consequence of the usual roundabout and circuitous nature of man's paths. Isadore, like all ardent minds, was tempted to make a more direct way for herself across the lawns; but Mrs. Falkland, in a more practical spirit, remembered that the grass was damp, and that it was not worth while to wet her feet for the purpose of saving half a minute. She adhered, therefore, to the gravel; and, as her more venturous daughter met with a little swamp occasioned by a spring, which obliged her to go round, they arrived at the spot they sought about the same time. The spot itself, however, needs some description, and, indeed, it has been already described once before, with a special injunction to the reader to remember all the points and bearings which were then detailed. However, lest memory should be treacherous, we will once more take a view of the scene, as it was presented to the eyes of Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, who were at that moment looking exactly west-north-west. Before them was a little shrubbery of evergreens and indigenous plants, kept as low as possible, so as just to hide the wall of the park, against which it rested, and yet not to cut off from the windows of the house a beautiful rocky bank, which rose on the other side of the wall to the height of a great number of feet. This bank formed one of the faces of a small wooded promontory, or rather peninsula, which was joined on to the hills by a narrow neck, over which the high-road passed after having skirted the other wall of the grounds. It was surrounded everywhere but at that point by the river. The summit was covered with rich wood; and down the sides also, in every place where the rock did not rise up abrupt and bare, a thousand various trees and shrubs had rooted themselves in the clefts and crevices, or towered up like pinnacles from the top of every detached fragment, and overhung the calm, still bend of the river, which served as a mirror to all the beauties round about it. The setting sun, with his lower limb just resting on the western hills, was pouring a flood of splendour down the valley of the stream; and his full light bursting upon the face of the rock to the left of Mrs. Falkland and Isadore, found its way round in bright catches of purple light, illuminating every tree and angle of the rock that stood forward before the rest. Pouring on, too, the beams streamed down the little footway which--cut through the low shrubbery to a door in the wall--led out to another path running from the high-road to the river, between the park and the cliff; and by the clear light thus afforded it was easy to see the marks of which the boy had spoken. They seemed to have been made by some one coming from the grass on the side of the river upon the soft gravel of the path, and had turned suddenly towards the door, where they disappeared, as if the person had passed through. They were small, too, as the boy had described, and were evidently not a woman's; but neither Mrs. Falkland nor Isadore were sufficiently well acquainted with De Vaux's footprints to feel anything like certainty concerning them. It were vain to deny, however, that the hopes of both were raised, though Heaven knows those hopes were vague and indistinct enough. Had either Mrs. Falkland or Isadore been asked what they expected to find, they would probably have answered, "Edward de Vaux;" but had they been required to assign a reason for such expectations, to account for his absence, or to point out any principle upon which he could have abandoned the society of those he loved, and yet linger in their neighbourhood, they would have been embarrassed for a reply. But affection does not pause to argue. Hope, too, is ever most powerful when she triumphs over reason, and, though it may seem a paradox, expectation is never so vivid as when we know not what we expect. Hope, then, as bright as sunshine, but as vague and undefined as that sunshine when it streams through the morning mist, was lighted up by the sight of those footsteps. As Mrs. Falkland gazed on them, and traced them distinctly to the door, she exclaimed, "How very stupid it was of me not to bring the key!" "I have a key, ma'am," said the boy, groping in the pocket of his jacket; and producing it accordingly, he advanced to the door and opened it. Mrs. Falkland now looked eagerly for more traces; but none were to be seen close to the door, though the ground was composed of a reddish sort of sand, which would easily have taken the print of even a light foot. At the distance, however, of about five feet were to be seen two deep marks of the same kind, but close together, with the heels more profoundly indented in the sand than the front of the foot; and it became evident that some one had leaped from the top of the wall. This was made still clearer, when, turning back, Mrs. Falkland examined the door, on the top of the lock of which several patches of gravel had been left by the foot of some one who had taken that means to reach the summit of the wall. In the mean time Isadore was eagerly tracing on the footprints, which led straight from the deeper marks to the bank; and on one of the large stones close by the river, she soon found the impression of a foot in red sand stamped upon the green mould with which the fragment of rock was covered. "Here, mamma, here," cried Isadore. "He must have passed here, and that since the rain of last night, too; for if you look, the marks are quite sharp, while some old ones going down towards the water are nearly washed away. I should not wonder if he were here now." "Hark!" said Mrs. Falkland; "did you not hear a noise above there?" They listened, but all was silent; and at length Mrs. Falkland added, "We have done wrong, my love, in not bringing more people with us, even if they were but women. The wood is so small and so shut in by the river that it might be searched easily." "Send the boy back to the house, mamma!" cried Isadore, quickly: "he can bring down the butler, and probably some of the others may have returned. We can remain here, and watch till they come." "But, Isadore," said Mrs. Falkland, gravely, "it is growing dusk and late, and the place is lonely and obscure: I do not see any good that two women can do here alone." "Oh, Harry will be back in a moment, mamma," cried her daughter; "and, besides, nobody could hurt us. Any one on the high-road would hear a scream from this place." Mrs. Falkland still hesitated; but Isadore continued eagerly,--"I will tell you how we can manage it then, so that there can be no danger. Send him back for the people, and you go into the park to the little mound; there you can see the high-road quite across the point." "But I will not leave you here alone, my love," cried Mrs. Falkland, in some surprise at the proposal: "indeed I cannot think of doing that." "But, mamma, I have been here a hundred times alone before," replied Isadore; "and, besides, what I mean is, to get up to that little point where Marian and I have sat many a day. When I am there, you will be able both to see me and to hear me if I speak to you; and if any danger were really to happen, I could make the people with the cattle in the opposite meadow hear me, while you could also make them see or hear you from the house; and I set Charlotte at the window to watch." Mrs. Falkland still hesitated; but Isadore continued rapidly, "Run, Harry, up to the house as fast as ever you can go; bring down Mr. Gibson and any of the men you can find, and do not lose a minute." "I am afraid that this is not very prudent, Isadore," said Mrs. Falkland, as the boy ran off like lightning; "but I suppose your plan is the best one to follow now that he is gone. I will turn back to the mound then, while you go up there. But if the boy does not return before the twilight grows thicker, come down, by all means." "I will come down whenever you tell me, mamma," said Isadore; "and I can hear everything you say at the mound." Without more words, then, Mrs. Falkland hastened to take up her station at a little rising ground in the park, from the summit of which she could see, not only the whole of that part of the high-road which crossed the neck of the little promontory, but also the extreme angle of the cliff above the river. Isadore, in the meanwhile, climbed up by a steep and somewhat rugged path, which had been made at her request some years before, to a small point of rock which commanded a view both up and down the river, and afforded one of the most picturesque landscapes, on either side, that the country possessed. The height was not more than ten or twelve feet above the stream, and the distance from the mound in the park not a hundred yards, so that any one speaking in a loud voice could be heard from one spot to the other. The ascent, however, while it continued, was steep, and Isadore's heart beat when she reached the top--nor, perhaps, was it the exercise alone that made it palpitate. Although she had not displayed any fear, she was not without some slight degree of alarm; and felt not a little of that sort of excitement and agitation which is not indeed fear, but which often produces very similar effects. She looked back as soon as she reached the point of the rock, but Mrs. Falkland was not yet in sight. Another instant, however, brought her mother to the top of the mound, and Isadore demanded, "You can see the high-road, mamma, can you not?" Mrs. Falkland did not at first distinguish what her daughter had said, and Isadore repeated the question. Not that in this inquiry she was at all influenced by fear, although it might appear so; but, in truth, Isadore's eagerness to send back the boy for aid, and remain upon the watch, had originated in a little stroke of strategy which was not ill-conceived, considering that it sprang from the brain of a young lady. That there was some one in the wood above them Miss Falkland was quite convinced; and to ascertain who it was she knew was a great object at the time being. It had instantly struck her, therefore, that, by dividing their forces, her mother taking up a position on the little mound, whence she could see along the whole of the high-road, and down a considerable portion of the little lane under the wall, while she, Isadore, placed herself on the point which commanded a view of two other sides of the promontory, no one could well escape from the wood without coming under the eyes of one or the other of the fair watchers. She did forget, it is true, that, supposing the fugitive to be a man, and that man not her cousin Edward de Vaux, neither herself nor her mother were the least capable of making him stay, and that their hunt might very likely end, while the boy was absent, like a famous hunt of yore, in the catching a Tartar. A vague sort of consciousness, it is true, that such might be the case, impressed itself upon her mind as she climbed to the little point above the river; but still her first question was directed to ascertain whether their line of watch was, as she hoped, secure and complete. She repeated her inquiry then, in a louder tone, and Mrs. Falkland replied, "Oh, yes, I can see to the river on the other side. But, indeed, Isadore, it is growing very dark. I can scarcely distinguish the house." Isadore still lingered, however; for the spot where she stood, looking eastward, caught more light than the rest of the scene. She thought she heard a slight rustling sound, too, above her, as of some one creeping through the bushes; and it must be confessed that her heart beat violently. Although, in truth, she now began to think her scheme a little rash, yet curiosity and anxiety for her cousin's fate still kept her where she stood. The next moment, however, she saw some one, indistinctly, pass through the bushes on the edge of the higher part of the bank, and imagination did much to persuade her that she recognised the figure. "Oh, mamma," she exclaimed, "I see him, I see him!" but the figure was instantly lost behind some more trees. It was evidently still passing on to the eastward, as if to escape in that direction, for the branches rustled as it forced its way through; and Isadore took two steps back to catch another sight of it as it passed before a bare facing of rock at the extreme point. At that moment there was a sudden rush through the brushwood; and ere Isadore could see that it was nothing more than a fragment of rock given way under the foot of the person above, she started back, thinking that it was he himself springing down upon her, lost her footing on the edge of the bank, and, with a shrill scream, fell over into the river. Mrs. Falkland shrieked also, and rushed forward to the stream; but the height from which Isadore had fallen had caused her instantly to sink, and nothing was to be seen by the mother's eye but the clear glistening expanse of the water, with the reflection of the cliffs, and trees, and banks, and of the fading purple of the sky, broken by a thousand rippling circles, where her child had disappeared. With the loud, piercing, thrilling cry of maternal agony, she shrieked again and again; and, as she did so, springing from rock to rock, with the swiftness and certainty of a wild goat, appeared the figure which Isadore had seen above her. He stood for a single moment on the spot whence she had fallen, and then exclaimed to Mrs. Falkland, below, "Where is she, woman? where is she?" "There, there!" cried Mrs. Falkland, pointing to the spot; but as she spoke a bit of white drapery floated up to the top of the water, a little farther down the stream. Pharold paused no longer, but leaped from the bank--sank--rose again--and in the next moment, with his left arm round the slender waist of Isadore Falkland, and her head thrown back upon his shoulder, he struck with his right towards the margin, where the soft, meadowy sloping of the park afforded an easy landing-place. There, springing on shore, he laid his fair burden on the grass, but she was pale, and moved not; and Mrs. Falkland gazing with agony on the colourless countenance of her daughter, wrung her hands, exclaiming, "Isadore! Isadore! she is dead! oh, she is dead!" "No, lady," said Pharold, kneeling down, and looking intently upon the fair face before him--"no, lady! she is not dead, nor has the water had any effect on her. That is not the face of a drowned person. She must have fainted through fear, and will soon recover." "For God's sake, then, help me, sir, to bear her to the house," cried Mrs. Falkland; "do not, do not hesitate. You who have rendered us such infinite service, do not pause there, but make it complete by bringing her to a place where she may be recalled to life." "What!" cried the gipsy, "to be taken and thrust into a prison! Do you not know that they are pursuing me on a charge of murder--pursuing me as if I were a wolf? Have you not, yourself, been sending out men to take the murderer Pharold?" Mrs. Falkland had forgot all other fears in her fears for her daughter; but as Pharold suddenly recalled them, she involuntarily drew a step back, and gazed on him with terror; but it required scarcely the thought of an instant to make her remember that he had saved the life--at least she trusted so--of her only child; that he had risked his own existence to rescue a perfect stranger, and she exclaimed, boldly, "No, no! I will never believe it! You are not--you cannot be guilty. But we waste time--we waste the moments that may save my child. For pity's sake, for God's sake, aid me to carry her home. I have sent, but I see no one coming--they may be long--she may be lost ere they arrive. If you will come," she added, seeing the gipsy still hesitate, "I promise you that you shall go free, and well rewarded,--you shall be as safe as if you were in your own house." "House!" exclaimed the gipsy; "I have no house! but I will believe you, lady--I will trust you;" and taking Isadore once more in his arms, he strode rapidly and powerfully forward, followed at the same quick pace by Mrs. Falkland. He took not the way across the green, however, believing that he might there be met by the servants, and his retreat cut off; but passing through the low shrubberies, which were almost as near, he walked on towards the house in silence. Every moment the light was becoming less and less, but he threaded the walks as if he had known them from boyhood, and took all the shortest cuts to abridge the way. At length, however, he paused for an instant, and turning to Mrs. Falkland, he said, in a low voice, "She revives! I feel her breath upon my face!" "Thank God! thank God!" replied her mother, in the same low tone; and the gipsy then abruptly added, as he resumed his way, "You believe me innocent, then." "I do, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland; "I cannot believe a person guilty of a cool, deliberate murder, who could so boldly and generously risk his own life to save that of a fellow-creature,--it is not in human nature." "It is not, indeed," replied Pharold, still striding on; "but why then did you send out men to hunt me as you would a wolf?" "I sent them not out," she answered; "but when they went, I, too, thought that you might be guilty." "The memory of your brother," said Pharold, "the memory of him who loved me, and whom I loved as I have never loved any other man, should have made you think differently. Was he a man to love one whose nature led him to deeds of blood?" "He was not, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland; "but they charge you with his death, too." "Ha!" cried Pharold, in a tone of unfeigned astonishment--"ha! that, then, is the well prepared, long-digested lie, is it? That they should accuse me of the gamekeeper's death I thought natural--though I would have given a limb to save him. That they suspected me of Edward de Vaux's, I heard without surprise; for men are always the fools of circumstances, and there were circumstances against me: but that, after twenty years, they should accuse me of the death of him that I loved more than any other thing but liberty, I did not think that villany and impudence could bring about,--and did you believe that, too?" "No," replied Mrs. Falkland, very willing, by speaking the exact truth, to sooth the irritated mind of a man who had just rendered her so inestimable a service--"no, I did not believe it; and as soon as the charge was made in my hearing, I expressed my disbelief of it entirely." "So, so!" said the gipsy, "there is some justice left! Lady, when you were four years old, I have carried you in these arms, as I now carry your daughter; and I thank you, at this late hour, for doing justice to one who was loved by those who loved you. No, no; I am not a murderer; and never believe it, whatever they may say." They were now coming near the house; and Mrs. Falkland, with fears for Isadore somewhat relieved, would fain have asked the fate of her nephew; but at that moment the gipsy spoke again; and though, from the shadow cast by the trees of the shrubbery, she could not see in which way his eyes were directed, the tone of his voice, as well as the words themselves, showed her that he was addressing her daughter. "Be not afraid, lady, be not afraid," he said: "you are quite safe, though in hands that you know not; your mother is behind: lean your head on my shoulder, and keep quite still." "Are you there, mamma?" said a faint voice, that went thrilling through all the innermost windings of Mrs. Falkland's heart. "Yes, my beloved Isadore; yes, my dearest child," replied the mother, "I am here, close beside you; and, thank God, you are quite safe!" "Hush!" said the gipsy, "hush! If I am seen, I am lost, remember; and keep silence, if you feel that I have served you." "Inestimably," replied Mrs. Falkland, in a low tone; and the gipsy, now emerging from the shrubbery, crossed a part of the lawn that lay between the angle of the wood and the house. In the gray of the evening, a party of two or three persons might now be seen, though indistinctly, following the open path, about half-way across the park towards the cliff. But though he turned his eyes in that direction, the gipsy took no further notice of them; and, approaching the house, directed his course towards a glass door which led out from a small breakfast-parlour upon the lawn. Mrs. Falkland took a step or two forward, and opened the door; and Pharold carried Isadore up the steps into the room, and placed her in safety upon a sofa. Her first action was to hold out her arms to her mother, with all that flood of gratitude, and tenderness, and joy flowing from her heart, which we feel on being restored to "this pleasing, anxious being," after having thought that we were quitting for ever the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Mrs. Falkland caught her to her bosom, and, locked in each other's arms, they wept as if they had lost a friend. Well may philosophers say, that man never knows what joy is till he has tasted sorrow. Isadore and her mother had loved each other through life, without one of those petty rivalries, either for authority or admiration, without one of those jarrings of different purposes and opposing wishes which sometimes sap the affection of child and parent. They had loved each other through life dearly, and they knew it; but they did not know how dearly, till fate had nearly placed the barrier of the grave between them, and Isadore, safe and rescued, held her mother, weeping, in her arms. Who can explain such tears? Who can tell why the same drops which flow from pain or sorrow should be companions of the brightest joy? For who can trace the workings of the fine immortal essence within us, in its operations on the frail, weak tabernacle of earth in which it is enshrined? However, they wept, and wept in silence; for both felt the bosom too full for speech, and both, from the still oratory of the heart, offered up thanks to God for the joy and relief of that moment. Nor was their happiness unfelt by him to whom, under the Almighty, it was owing. The gipsy stood and gazed upon them, with his arms crossed upon his chest, and the light of internal satisfaction glistening in his eye. There was something in the scene before him, and in those who were the actors therein, which connected itself with the long, long past; which woke up the memories of many a year, and which called up a thousand thrilling sensations that long had slept. But he had neither time nor inclination to let his mind rest upon all that chaos of pleasures, and regrets, and wishes, and hopes, and sorrows, and disappointments, which, when memory, awakened from her sleep, draws back the veil from the past, is presented to the eyes of every one who has lived an energetic and stirring existence. While one might count a hundred, perhaps, he paused, and gazed upon Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, giving way to the purest feelings of human affection, and suffered his thoughts to wander wildly over the years gone by; but then, starting from his revery, he remembered that he must depart. "Lady, I go," he said. "May God bless you and yours, and send you ever, at your moment of need, one as willing and as able to help you as the gipsy has shown himself." "Stay, stay one moment," said Mrs. Falkland. "You must not, indeed, leave my house unrewarded for the infinite service you have rendered me." "I am rewarded already, lady," he said; "I am rewarded by what I have seen, I am rewarded by what I have felt, I am rewarded by knowing that there is one at least that can do justice, in her own heart, even to a gipsy. Lady, I must go: my stay is dangerous. Fare you well." At that moment, however, there was a powerful hand laid upon his shoulder, and as he turned quickly round, he found himself faced by Colonel Manners, who still kept his hold of the gipsy's collar and shoulder, notwithstanding the sudden jerk he gave himself. "You are my prisoner," said Manners, sternly. "Surrender at once, for resistance is in vain." "Doubtless, doubtless," answered the gipsy, bitterly. "I have fallen into the trap, and it is useless to writhe. Oh, God of heaven! how often have I sworn never again to do a service to any of these human worms; for, if not punished by their own base ingratitude, some other evil is sure to follow, as if thou hadst sworn vengeance on every one that did an act of kindness to their outcast race!" "You shall not suffer, however, for your service to me," said Mrs. Falkland, advancing. "I have pledged you my word, and I will redeem it.--Colonel Manners," she continued, "listen to me for one moment: this man has, within this quarter of an hour, saved my daughter's life, at the risk of his own." "Indeed!" cried Colonel Manners. "May I ask how? I trust Miss Falkland is not hurt." "No, not at all, I believe," replied Mrs. Falkland. "She fell from the bank into the stream--sunk before my eyes, Colonel Manners; and had it not been for his instant aid, she would have been now no more." "I am most delighted, indeed, to hear of her escape," replied Manners; "and would to God it had been my fate to render her the assistance, instead of this person, for I should then have avoided a most painful duty. But, indeed, my dear madam, as it is--" "Nay, say not a word more, Colonel Manners," interrupted Mrs. Falkland, "but hear my story out. He saved my daughter from the stream; he swam with her to land; but she was without sense or motion. I had nobody with me to help me, and I besought him, for the sake of Heaven, to do what my strength was, of course, not sufficient to perform, and to bear her home. He then told me his name; informed me that people were hunting him like a wolf among the woods; and asked if I could expect him to venture into the very midst of his enemies. I plighted my word for his safety--I promised him by every thing sacred that he should meet no impediment in quitting my dwelling; and upon that promise alone he came." "I am sorry, my dear madam," answered Manners, calmly, but gravely, "that such a promise can only be binding upon yourself. Did it involve merely an act of politeness, of friendship, or of personal sacrifice, I would do anything in my power to oblige you: but there is a higher duty calls upon me than either courtesy or friendship, and I must obey its voice. I have a duty to perform towards the laws of my country--I have a duty to my dead friend; and, at any risk and all risks, I must and will obey it. I wish, with all my heart, that I had met this man anywhere but here; but wherever I meet him, I am not only empowered, but bound, by every principle of law and justice, to arrest him." "Is there either law or justice, then, in arresting an innocent man?" demanded the stern voice of the gipsy. "Of your innocence or guilt the law has still to decide," replied Manners. "An accusation of the gravest kind has been made against you, circumstances of strong suspicion have already been discovered to justify the charge. If you be guilty, it is but fit you should be punished; and if you be innocent, doubt not that you shall have equal justice." "I did not expect this from you, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland, bitterly. "Have you no regard, sir, to my plighted word? Have you no consideration for my honour? I have used entreaties, sir; but I now insist that he shall go; and, if necessary, I will call my servants and make them set him free. He has saved my daughter's life, Colonel Manners; he has come hither in my service, at my prayer, and upon my promise of safety; and if he had killed my brother, he shall go hence unimpeded." "Madam, I believe you risk that supposition without a suspicion that it may be true," answered Manners. "But I must now inform you, that one of the principal charges against this man is the very fact of having murdered your late brother." "And the charge is false, Colonel Manners," answered Mrs. Falkland, vehemently. "Whatever he may be now,--whatever he may have become since,--he was not then a man to shed blood, much less the blood of his friend and benefactor. He could have no motive but lucre, and that motive was wanting; for from my brother he might have had whatever sums he required. Nay, more, I have often heard my brother declare, that he would not take what he offered. But, as I have said, Colonel Manners, all other considerations apart, my word is pledged, and he _shall_ go free." "Noble heart! noble heart!" cried the gipsy. "On my hand rests not one drop of innocent blood, as there is a God above the stars! Neither do I fear death nor dread inquiry; but my liberty is more than my life, and what should I do, for months, a prisoner among stone walls and the vermin of the earth! He talks boldly of arresting me now, when he has got me here with dozens at his back; but let him take me five hundred yards hence, where I was ere I carried your daughter hither,--let him take me to the wood, or the bare hill side, where there are no odds against me,--and then, strong as he thinks himself, let him arrest me if he can." Mrs. Falkland was going to speak again; and might, perhaps, have spoken angrily, for she was less calm than usual: but at that moment Isadore's voice made itself heard, though but faintly. "Colonel Manners," she said, "Colonel Manners, speak with me for a moment." Manners looked towards her as she lay on the sofa at the other side of the room; and he felt that to hear what she had to say distinctly he must, by going nearer, release the gipsy from the grasp which he still continued to maintain upon his collar. He felt also, what perhaps Isadore had at her heart felt too, that her voice was likely to have more effect with him than that of any one else; and as Manners had a strong inclination to do his duty rigidly, he somewhat feared her persuasions. However, he could not, of course, refuse to comply; but to guard against his prisoner's escape, he instantly locked both the doors of the little breakfast-room ere he approached her. He then--seeing the gipsy stand calmly with his folded arms, as if prepared to wait his decision--drew near, and bending down his head, "I am most happy, indeed," he said, "that you have not suffered any injury." "And yet you would ruin the person who saved me," said Isadore; "but do not reason with me, Colonel Manners, for I have neither strength nor wit to contend with you. I want to persuade, not to convince you." "That is what I am most afraid of," answered Manners with a smile. "Do not be afraid," said Isadore, "but listen. Do you think, Colonel Manners, that a man who could murder Edward de Vaux would risk his own life to save Edward's cousin?" "It is strange, certainly," answered Manners, "but--" "Do you think, then," continued Isadore, interrupting him, "that a man who felt himself guilty of murder would go voluntarily to the midst of the friends and relations of the person he had killed, solely for the purpose of carrying home a poor girl that he had just saved from drowning? Your murderers, Colonel Manners, must be curious characters." Could Isadore have beheld the face of her hearer distinctly, she would have seen that his cheek glowed a little with something like shame; but he answered, "I did not say, my dear Miss Falkland, that I thought him guilty. I only said, that the law required me to keep him a prisoner till he had proved his innocence." "Well, then, Colonel Manners," rejoined Isadore, "since you do not think him guilty--and I know you do not--since there is every reason to think him innocent--since mamma has plighted her word--since he has saved my life--since he came hither solely to aid me--you must let him go, indeed you must--" Manners hesitated, and looked doubtfully at the gipsy, as he stood, dark and shadowy, with his arms still crossed upon his bosom, and his eyes bent upon the ground. Isadore saw that a word more would conquer; and though her heart fluttered and her voice trembled to think how important that word might, perhaps, become at some future time, she made up her mind and spoke it, though in so low a tone that it fell on no other ear but his for whom it was intended. "Colonel Manners," she said, "you must let him go, indeed you must--" the words she added were, "for my sake!" Manners was embarrassed in every way. Who shall say what he would, or what he would not have done "for the sake" of Isadore Falkland? but that was not all--had he really believed the gipsy guilty, he would have had no hesitation; but he did not believe him guilty. The manner in which Mrs. Falkland repelled the idea of his being the murderer of her brother was enough to make Colonel Manners entertain many doubts on a subject where his convictions had never been very strong; and the fact of the gipsy having saved Isadore's life at the risk of his own, and carried her home at the risk of arrest, were so irreconcilable with his guilt, that Manners began to doubt too in regard to the murder of De Vaux. He knew, undoubtedly, that he himself was not the person called upon to judge; but still, of course, his conviction of Pharold's guilt or innocence made a great difference in the degree of eagerness with which he sought to apprehend him. But there were still several other motives for hesitation, when once he began to doubt. He felt that Mrs. Falkland was perfectly right in asserting, in every way, the inviolability of the promise she had made to the gipsy--he felt that the gipsy had a right to expect that it would be kept. He knew, also, that if Mrs. Falkland chose to call her servants, and order the liberation of the gipsy, in all probability any attempt to detain him would be in vain; and he was conscious, too, that in making the attempt, he was acting, at least, a very ungracious part. Still none of these motives, singly, would have restrained him, had he not felt the strongest doubts of the gipsy's guilt; but when a great many different motives enter into a conspiracy together to change a man's opinion, they are like smiths engaged in forging a piece of red-hot iron,--one gives it a stroke with his sledge-hammer, and another gives it a stroke, till, hard as it may be, it is moulded to their will. Manners, however,--although he might be led by many considerations to temper the stern rigidity of duty,--was not a man to abandon it altogether; and, therefore, he sought a mean which, as it was only at his personal risk, he thought himself justified in following, in order that Mrs. Falkland's promise might be held inviolate, and, perhaps, that Isadore might be obeyed. "Well!" he said, after a moment's consideration. "All this business has happened most unfortunately, that I should meet a man here whom I am bound to apprehend, and who yet is guarded by a promise of safety. However, Mrs. Falkland, although I cannot abandon my own duty, yet I must do what I can to reconcile it with the engagement under which this person came here. I think you said," he added, turning to Pharold, "that if I would take you to the wood, or the bare hill-side, with no odds against you, I might arrest you if I could--did you not?" "I did," said Pharold, "and I repeat it." "Then we are agreed," said Colonel Manners. "I will do so, although I am fatigued and exhausted." "Who has a right to be the most fatigued?"' cried the gipsy. "Have I not been hunted since the morning from wood to wood? Have I not had to double and to turn like a hare before the hounds? Have I not twice swam that quick stream? Have I had repose of mind or body, that you should talk of fatigue?" "Well, well," said Manners, "all this matters little. I accept the proposal which you have yourself made; and I thus specify the terms. Though accompanied by me, you shall go free from this place in any direction that you please for one quarter of an hour; a space of time fully sufficient to put you out of all danger of being overpowered by numbers. At the end of that time you are my prisoner." "If you can make me so," cried the gipsy: "if you can make me so." "Agreed," replied Manners: "that is what I mean, of course; otherwise our agreement would be of no use." "Colonel Manners," exclaimed Isadore, calling him back to her, for, in speaking, he had advanced a little towards the gipsy and Mrs. Falkland, "for God's sake, do not go. You do not know what may happen. Indeed, indeed, it is risking a valuable life most rashly. Let me persuade you not to go." She made Colonel Manners's heart beat more rapidly than ever it had done in his life; for to a man who felt as he did, and who had nourished the fancies that he had, to hear the voice of beauty, and worth, and gentleness pleading to him for his own safety, was something much more agitating than the roar of artillery, or the rush of charging squadrons. Isadore spoke, too, in a voice low, from an effort not to appear too much interested, and a little faint, too, perhaps, from late agitation and exhaustion; so that there was, in fact, a great deal more of tenderness in her tone than she at all wished or intended. "Nay, nay, Miss Falkland," answered Manners, who, in this instance, though gratified, could resist--"nay, nay, I have yielded as much as I can, indeed. I must either arrest this man here, or, out of respect to your mother's promise and to your entreaties, must let him depart to a spot where we may stand man to man, and then do my best to apprehend him there." "Oh, let him go altogether, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland; "the one charge made against him is false, depend upon it; and in regard to Edward de Vaux, surely his conduct in saving Isadore may be taken as a proof that he is innocent there also. Why should you risk your life in a struggle where you know not how many may come against you?" "Lady, you do me justice and injustice in the same breath," said the gipsy; "not one hand should be added to mine against his, if the whole world were inclined to assist the gipsy, instead of to oppress him. But at the same time, I tell him, as I have told you, that not a drop of innocent blood is upon this hand; that it is as pure as his own, and that I am more truly guiltless than those who boast their innocence and sit in high places." "I think," said Manners, turning to Mrs. Falkland, "that we must here end all discussion, my dear madam. My mind is perfectly made up as to what it is my duty to do. The risk, in this instance, is merely personal; and from such I will never shrink; and I feel very sure, also, that there is no chance of failure." "Be not too sure," said the gipsy. "But, Colonel Manners," urged Isadore, "if this person will give us what information he possesses--if he will tell us what has become of Edward--if he will explain all, in short, will it not be better to gain those tidings, and let him go quietly, than to hazard so much on a chance which may be productive of no results?" "But will he make such a confession?" said Manners; "will he give such information?" The gipsy was silent; but Mrs. Falkland anticipated his answer. "Doubtless he will," she said, "if you will undertake to let him go free when he has done." "Solely, if he can prove that Edward de Vaux is alive," answered Manners. "Words, my dear lady, can be of no use--I must have proof before I let him depart. He must not alone tell me what has become of my poor friend, but he must convince me that what he has told is true; otherwise I part not from him." "I know not well," replied the gipsy, "whether I have even a right to tell what I know; and how can I prove it, without remaining in your hands, and under the curse of a roof where I can scarcely breathe, till those come who would thrust me into a prison, one month of which were worse than a thousand deaths? No, no! I neither will speak to be disbelieved, nor stay to be tortured, if I can win liberty by facing, singly, a thing of clay like myself. If you will keep your word with me, keep it now. If you would not play me false, throw open your door, and go out with me to a place where you shall see whether, with God's free air blowing on my cheek, and God's pure sky above my head, any single arm on earth can stay me, if I will to go." As he spoke, however, two or three dim indistinct forms passed across the windows, which still admitted the faint lingering twilight of an autumn evening, and the gipsy, dropping his arms by his side, listened for a moment attentively. "It is too late," he exclaimed, at length--"it is too late. You have kept me till the bloodhounds have come back; and you shall have the joy of seeing them worry their quarry before you." "What is it you mean?" cried Manners. "Of what bloodhounds do you speak?" "He means what, I am afraid, is too true, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland, in a tone of bitter disappointment; "that Mr. Arden and the people sent to search the wood have just returned; and that, therefore, notwithstanding my word and your proposal, his apprehension in my house is the recompense he will receive for saving my daughter's life." "Do not be afraid, my dear madam," said Manners, "I will find means to keep my word with him; but let us be sure that it is as you suppose, before we risk going out into the park. I think I hear sounds in the hall also." Every one was silent; and the noise of distant footsteps and voices speaking was heard from the hall and vestibule; and in a moment after, some persons approached the very room in which Manners and the rest were standing. The steps passed on, however, to the library; and at the door thereof paused immediately after, while the voice of the old butler said, "She is not there, sir," and the feet returned. They then heard the door of the music-room, which lay on the opposite side, open; and the butler again said, "Nor there." The next moment a hand was laid upon the lock of the very door near which they were standing, and Manners held his finger to his lips in sign of silence. The old man made one or two ineffectual attempts to turn the lock, and then repeated, "Nor there either; for the door is locked for the night--though it is very odd the housemaid should take upon herself to lock up the rooms when I am out. I am sure I cannot tell where my mistress is, sir, nor Miss Falkland either, unless they have both been spirited away, like poor Mr. Edward; for they certainly are not up-stairs in either of the drawing-rooms, nor at the place where the boy told me he left them. But now I think of it, I should not wonder if they were in poor Miss Marian's room; and if you will walk up into the drawing-room, sir, I will send to see." "Do, do," said the voice of Mr. Arden; "but it is very strange that they should have left the spot so suddenly, when they sent for you to come to them. Why did you not search the wood directly? It is not bigger than my hand." "Oh, sir, I set the boy and the two others we had called to help us to search," replied the butler; "but I came back again, because it was not my place to search woods, sir; and, besides, I had a presentiment that your honour would be here." "The devil you had," said Mr. Arden; but what the worthy magistrate further replied was lost as he followed the butler up the stairs towards the drawing-room. "Now, my dear madam," said Manners, in a low voice, "let me advise you instantly to join Mr. Arden, and to keep him engaged till I can effect my retreat with our friend here; and you, my dear Miss Falkland, for God's sake do not forget yourself any longer; we have treated you very ill already, to keep you here so long in wet clothes. I am not very much accustomed to act as physician to ladies; but if I might advise, going to bed and warm negus would be my prescription." "Which I shall instantly follow, Colonel Manners," said Isadore; "but, for Heaven's sake, take care of yourself too. Let us see you gone before we open the door." "No, no," answered Manners; "yours must be the first party to march off: I cannot move till I have reconnoitred the ground." Thus saying, he turned the key and opened the door as silently as possible, and Mrs. Falkland and her daughter passed out into the corridor. Isadore paused for a single instant, as if she would have spoken either to Manners or the gipsy; but the former held up his finger, and gently closed the door that led from the breakfast-room into the interior of the house. "Now, then," he said in a whisper to the gipsy, "let me see that all is safe;" and opening the glass door, he gazed forth over the lawns. The twilight lay heavy over the whole scene, and the dim indistinctness of the day's old age rendered it impossible to see any distant object. There was no one, however, in the immediate neighbourhood of the house; and Manners, looking back into the room, beckoned the gipsy forward, saying, "Now, come with me." Pharold instantly complied; and Manners whispered, "While we are in the park, you remain under my guidance and protection. As soon as we are safe out of it, you take the lead which way you will." The gipsy nodded, and Manners took his way by the shortest cut to the trees. Then taking a walk which led up by some steps and a small rustic door into the garden, he crossed over, till they were both between the fruit-wall and a high holly hedge. Along this path he now walked rapidly, till they reached a spot half way between the house and the gate through which, with Isadore and Marian, and Edward de Vaux, he had once walked out into the woods. Here the gipsy halted for a moment, but then followed on without remark. The next instant, however, Manners heard in the bushes a noise of rustling, which the gipsy had before distinguished; and ere he had taken two steps farther, a man stood before him in the walk. "Are you the gardener?" said Manners, still advancing. "Yes," said the man. "What if I be?" "Why, then, go to the house," said Manners, "and if you find Mr. Arden, the magistrate, there, give him Colonel Manners's compliments, and tell him that if he will wait half an hour, I will be back with him, as I have matters of importance to speak to him about, but am obliged to go a little way with this good man ere I can attend to anything else." "I beg your honour's pardon," said the gardener; "I did not know you in this dark walk. That made me speak so rough; but if your honour be going out by that ere door, it's locked. I have just been locking it." "Well, open it again, then, gardener," said Manners, "and then make haste and give my message." "That I will, your honour," answered the gardener, walking on towards the door. "But did your honour say that this here man was along with you? He looks--" "Never mind what he looks," answered Manners, somewhat sternly. "He has matters of importance to arrange with me, or he would not be here; so make haste and open the door." The man obeyed, and only demanded further, whether he should leave the key. "No," said Manners; "I will return by the other gate.--Now go out, my good friend, and lead the way to the place you spoke of." Pharold proceeded through the open door; and Manners, bidding the gardener not forget his message, followed out into the road. CHAPTER V. "This is a strange business!" thought Manners, as he followed the gipsy into the road. "This is a strange business; and, on my part, not a very wise one, I believe. However, there seemed no other way to settle it; and having acted for the best, I must make the best of it; though, perhaps, I should have persisted in apprehending the fellow, where I had the means of doing so, at once." Such were the thoughts of the decided, energetic, acting Colonel Manners, who was known to the world at large as one of the most skilful and fortunate officers in his majesty's service; but the other Colonel Manners--the feeling, generous-hearted, somewhat imaginative Colonel Manners, who was only known to himself and a few very intimate friends, as a man both of the most gentlemanly mind and spirit, and of the most liberal and kindly disposition--had other thoughts. I have tried to explain this union of separate characters in the same bosom already; and I think it may be understood, for it is certain that it existed. The latter Colonel Manners--whose great principle was to keep out of sight, and who spoke so low that, though he generally, sooner or later, made himself obeyed, he was not always very distinctly heard at first, even by his fellow-denizen of the same noble bosom--now revolved the whole business in which he was engaged in a different manner; and although he could not help acknowledging that it was very strange and very silly to yield to doubtful inferences, in opposition to positive facts, yet he felt a strong conviction that the gipsy whom he followed was not guilty of the crimes laid to his charge. He wished much also that, by any other means than those of violence, he could obtain such evidence of Pharold's innocence, or at least such powerful motives for believing him innocent, as might justify in the severer eyes of understanding that course which was prompted by feeling and kindness. He saw no means of doing so, however, unless from the man's own lips he could draw some explanation of the many suspicious circumstances which existed against him. Yet how to begin such a conversation as might lead to that result, or how to shape his inquiries so as to draw the gipsy on to the point in question, without alarming him at an interrogation of which he did not see the end? It required some thought, and yet there was little time for reflection. Manners followed, therefore, in silence for some way, while the gipsy, with a quick step, took the path towards the hill. At the turn of the lane both Manners and Pharold looked back towards the gate of the garden, to see whether curiosity might not have tempted the gardener to follow; but though the light of day had now almost entirely left the sky, yet the distance was so short that the garden wall and the closed door were plainly to be seen, without any other object. A little farther on stood a cottage, with the warm fire and the single candle within flashing faintly through the dim small window, on the little bit of white railing before the door. Manners paused, and looked at his watch by the light; and then following the gipsy, he said, in a low and unconcerned tone, "There is an air of comfort even in an English cottage." His purpose was to begin a conversation by any means, trusting to chance for the rest; but the gipsy did not seem disposed to render it a long one. "Holes for rats, and for mice, and for snakes, and for foxes!" he said; "God's nobler sky for God's nobler creatures! that is the best covering." He spoke harshly, but still he did speak, which was all that Manners wanted; and he replied, "Do you think, then, that God gave men talents, and skill, and power in many arts, without intending him to make use of them?" "Not to build up molehills out of dust and ashes!" said the gipsy. "But how is he to defend himself, then, against the storm and the tempest?" demanded Manners; "against the midday heat of summer or the chill wintry wind?" "He needs no defence!" answered the gipsy. "Were he not the creature of luxury rather than of God, the changing seasons would be as beneficial to his body as they are to those of the beasts of the field, and to the earth of which he and they are made. And as to storm and tempest, the searching blade of the blue lightning will strike him in the palace as surely as on the bare hill or the barren moor; and the hurricane that passes by the wanderer on the plain will cast down their painted rubbish on the heads of the dwellers in cities." Manners saw that, as the lines of their ideas set out from the same point in directions diametrically opposite, they might be projected to all eternity without meeting; and therefore he at once brought the conversation nearer to the real subject of his thoughts. "We differ," he said, "and of course must differ, on every subject connected with the manners and habits of mankind; but there is one point on which, I trust, we shall not differ." "I know none," said the gipsy, abruptly. "What is it?" "It is, that the creatures of the same God," Manners exclaimed, "are bound to assist and comfort each other!" "If such be your thoughts," answered the gipsy, turning round upon him--"if such be your opinions, then, why do you seek to torture me? Or is it that you think a gipsy not a creature of the same God as yourself?" "I seek not to torture you," answered Manners. "Were I to see any one torture you, my hand would be the first raised to defend you. Nothing that you see of me now--nothing that you saw of me when last we met--should make you suppose that I would torture you, even if I had the power." "I tell you," answered the gipsy, sternly, "that to live one day in the brightest saloon that the hands of folly ever decked for the abode of vice, would be torture to me! What, then, would be a prison?" "Whatever your own feelings might make it," answered Manners. "My purpose in seeking to place you in one, could only be to fulfil the laws of my country, and to bring the guilty to justice; but not to torture you. Nor, in this, can you accuse me of looking upon you not as a fellow-creature; for, of whatever race the offender had been, you know I would have done the same under any circumstances; though your peculiar feeling respecting liberty might, indeed, make me more scrupulous in arresting you than I should be in regard to a person of another race." "And have you been so scrupulous, then?" demanded the gipsy, bitterly. "Have you examined so carefully whether you have any real right to suspect me of the charges brought against me? Have you inquired whether those appearances on which the charges were grounded might not be all false and futile? Have you asked and searched out diligently whether some of those men who witness against me have not hatred and fear of me at their hearts? Have you done all this, before you sought to give me up to the hands of those whose enmity and whose prejudices would all forbid justice to be done me?" "I am not the judge," answered Manners; "and a judge alone can make such inquiries." "Are you, then, a tipstaff, or a bailiff, or a turnkey?" demanded the gipsy, "that you should pursue me, as if the warrant were placed in your hands for execution!" "I am neither of those persons you mention," Manners replied; "but every subject of this land is empowered and called upon to apprehend a person against whom a warrant on a charge of murder is known to have issued. But to return to what I was saying: in construing the power thus placed in my hands, I should always be more scrupulous to a person of your class--or nation, if you like the word better--because I know how galling the loss of liberty must be to one who spurns even the common restraints of cities; and could I have any positive proof that the warrant had issued against you on a false charge, I certainly should not attempt to execute it." "On what charge did it issue?" demanded the gipsy, turning for a moment to ask the question, ere he again strode on. "You are aware that there are many charges against you," replied Manners; "but the precise one to which you allude is, I believe, the having murdered my poor friend Edward de Vaux." The gipsy laughed aloud. "Were that all," he said, "it were soon disproved. His blood is not upon my hand." "Disprove it, then!" exclaimed Manners, who, from the whole tenour of the gipsy's conversation, felt more and more convinced of his companion's innocence at every step they took. "Disprove it, then! Other charges have been brought since; but I know nothing of them, except that one of them, as far as I can judge, is certainly false. Therefore, if you can but show me that the blood of my poor friend De Vaux does not stain your hand, I will leave you directly to follow what course you please; but if you cannot do so, we are now upon the bare hill-side, where there is none to aid either you or me; and you shall go no further, if I can stop you." A man may be a very clever man, and not able to calculate all the curious turns of another's character; and it so unfortunately happened that Manners, after having led the gipsy very nearly to the point he wished, overthrew at once everything he had accomplished by the threat with which he concluded. He was sorry for it as soon as it had passed his lips, as he instantly felt it might do harm; but he did not at all calculate upon its producing so great effect as it did. The gipsy took two steps forward, and then turning round, stood with Manners face to face. "Colonel Manners," he said, "not one drop of your friend's blood stains my hand!--I swear it by yon heaven, and by the God who made it! I could prove it, too; but I will not prove it for any man's threats. You say I shall not go, if you can stop me! I am not bound yet, thank God! with cords or chains. I am not laid in one of your dungeons. I am not shut in with bolts and bars. I will not tell you what I know! I will not give you proof of any kind; and I bid you take me, if you can." As he thus defied him, and announced his determination, Manners expected every moment to see Pharold turn to use the speed for which his limbs seemed formed; and although the gipsy was, as we have said, two paces in advance of him, he did not doubt that he should be able to seize him before he could effect his escape. The ground on which they were standing was a small flat space on the side of the hill, with the road, taking a steep ascent four or five paces beyond, and having a deep descent on one side, and a rapid acclivity on the other. Thus, if the gipsy attempted to fly along the road, Manners saw that he must necessarily turn to do so, and thus delay his flight; while, if he took any other way, he must come within reach. To Colonel Manners's surprise, however, the gipsy did not move from his place; but remained with his arms folded, in an attitude of determination, which very plainly spoke the resolution of bringing the affair to a personal struggle. Manners smiled as he perceived his intention, very confident that his superior muscular strength would at any time enable him to overpower two such antagonists. "My good fellow," he said, "this is really very foolish; for even if you suppose yourself stronger than I am, I could disable you in a moment, if I thought fit, with my sword. As you seem determined to resist, however, I will make myself even with you in point of arms, and lay aside my sword, which I cannot draw upon an unarmed man; but it must be remembered--" "Keep your sword, Colonel Manners," said the gipsy--"keep your sword, and draw it! I am not so much unarmed as I look:" and, as he spoke, he drew from beneath his long loose coat the weapon with which, as we have seen, he had provided himself in the morning. Now there was not exactly at that moment what Sir Lucius O'Trigger calls very good small-sword light. The sun was down completely; and though the last gray gleam of parting daylight that lingered still in the western extremity of the valley, and was reflected from the windings of the glassy stream, fell, with all the force it had left, upon the spot where Manners and his antagonist were standing--though two or three stars were early looking through the mottled clouds, and the coming moon threw some light before her--still, his powers of vision must have been strong who could see, as clearly as is desirable, the playing of an adversary's point round his sword-blade. Manners, however, did not hesitate. He was becoming a little irritated at the tone of bitter and, in some degree, scornful defiance which the gipsy assumed; and although it was not in his nature to be very much moved by any thing of the kind, yet he went so far as to think, "Well he shall soon find that a gipsy is not quite so all-accomplished a genius as he imagines! I have had a droll fate here, certainly; to be called out by my friend's father, and to fight a duel with a gipsy!--The consequences be upon your own head, my good friend!" he added, aloud, bringing round the hilt of his sword, and drawing it from the scabbard. "I do not wish to hurt you, but you force me to do so." "Be it on my head!" said Pharold; and their blades crossed. There are two sorts of brave men--one which gets warm and impetuous in action and danger, and one which gets calm and cool. Manners was of the latter sort. Perhaps there never was upon the face of the earth a man whose heart applied to itself the idea of danger less than his; and, consequently, he acted as if he were a spectator, even where peril to himself was most imminent. In the present instance, he soon found that he had much underrated the skill of his opponent; for, if he had not a very _theoretical_, Pharold had at least a very _practical_, knowledge of the use of his weapon; and his singular agility and pliancy of muscle added many an advantage. Manners was sincerely sorry to find that such was the case: not that he imagined for a moment that all the gipsy's skill or activity would suffice to injure him, but he wished and designed to master his opponent without hurting him; and this he felt would be very difficult, if not impossible. He strove for it pertinaciously, however, for some time; and hazarded something himself in order to obtain that object. At length, however, he became weary of the contest, and saw that he must soon bring it to a termination somehow, although he still felt an invincible disinclination to risking such a lunge as might deprive his adversary of life. He determined, then, to play a game hazardous to himself, though merciful to his opponent; and, aided by his superior strength and height, he pressed the gipsy back against the hill as vehemently as he could. In his haste, he barely parried a lunge, and the gipsy's sword went through the lappels of his coat: but the advantage was gained; and at once disarming his adversary, he closed with him, cast him to the ground, and set his knee upon his chest. The contest, in all, had continued for some time; but the last struggle was over in a moment; and ere Pharold well knew what had occurred, he found himself on the ground, with the sword of the British officer at his throat. He lay there, however, calm, still, stern, without making even one of those instinctive efforts to shield his bosom from the weapon, from which a less determined spirit could not have refrained. "Now!" cried Manners--"now, will you give me the explanation I seek?" "Never!" answered the gipsy, in a low but firm voice--"never!" Manners hesitated for a moment; but then, withdrawing his knee from the gipsy's breast, he returned his sword into the scabbard. "I will try other means!" he thought--"I will try other means!" Through the whole of the events which had lately passed, Manners had been gradually gaining a deeper insight into the character of the gipsy, and had learned to appreciate him better than at first; but still there was much to be considered, much to be calculated; and many a conflicting opinion, and many an opposite feeling, crossed Manners's bosom in the short space of time that was allowed for thought. He did not forget the various circumstances which had led him to believe that his friend had been murdered by the gipsy, and all of which remained unexplained; but he remembered, also, how fallacious circumstantial evidence often is; and he set against those circumstances of suspicion the positive fact, that the gipsy had saved the life of Isadore Falkland at the peril of his own, and had carried her to her mother's house at the imminent risk of being arrested. The high character which Mrs. Falkland said he had borne in the past, the regard which she had hinted that her deceased brother had felt towards him, all tended to show that he was a man of no ordinary qualities; and although, in the absence of such knowledge of his character. Manners might have judged his obstinate refusal of all explanation as a proof of his guilt, yet, seeing that in every thing else his motives and his actions were different from those of ordinary men, he judged that it might be the same in this instance also. "I will try extraordinary means with him, too," thought Manners; "and perhaps I may gain more by it than by following the dictates of rigid duty to the letter." "Why will you not explain?" he added, aloud. "It would save both you and me from many a painful occurrence." "Because I will not be compelled to any act under the sun!" answered the gipsy, who had only taken advantage of the degree of freedom which he now possessed to raise himself upon his arm. "Then you shall not be compelled!" answered Manners, to whom his answer had given the right key to his obduracy--"then you shall not be compelled! but you shall be persuaded. Stand up, Pharold, and listen to me, as to one who does not feel towards you as you would make yourself believe that all our race do towards yours. You have seen my conduct--you see it now; and you must judge of me better than you lately did." The gipsy hung his head. "You have kept your word with me," he answered. "You have brought me to a place where no odds could be found against me; and you have vanquished with your own weapons at your own trade. What more?" "I have spared you when I might have hurt you," replied Manners; "and now I let you go free when I might make you a prisoner--" "You let me go free!" cried the gipsy, in a tone of astonishment--"you let me go free! and without conditions, too?" "Without any conditions," answered Manners, "but such as your own heart shall lay upon you, when you have heard all that I have to say to you." "Then you, too, are one of the few noble hearts," answered the gipsy, rising; "and I have done you injustice." "There are more noble hearts in the world," Manners rejoined, "than you know of, my friend. But listen to me, and let me see if yours be a noble heart too. Edward de Vaux is, or was, my friend and my companion in arms. We have stood by each other in battle; we have attended each other in sickness; we have delivered each other in danger; and, had he been my brother, I could not have loved him better. I find that, the night before last, he left his home when all the family were at rest; that he went to visit one with whom he had no known acquaintance or business; and that he never returned to those he most loved. Was it not natural for me to search for him with all the rapidity in my power?" "It was! it was!" answered the gipsy; "and I have judged you harshly." "I did search for him," continued Manners; "and I found, by footmarks in the earth, that he had gone with the stranger whom he had visited to a lonely quarry, and that from that spot his footsteps are not to be traced. This afforded some cause for suspicion and apprehension; but when the place where his steps disappeared was all stained and dabbled with blood, what was I to think?--what was I to do?" "To think that he was murdered, and to pursue the murderer," answered Pharold, boldly; "and I have done you wrong: but the habit of suffering injustice and indignity from your race irritates ours into believing that you are always unjust; and, in this instance, the consciousness of my own innocence, too, hid from my eyes one-half of the appearances against me." "You judge wisely, and you judge well," answered Manners. "There were strong appearances against you; and there were also many minor facts which swelled those appearances into proof so positive of my friend's death and of your guilt, that I should have been unworthy of the name of his friend--unworthy of the name of a man--if I had not pursued you as I have done." "You would!" answered the gipsy. "And yet, notwithstanding all this," continued Manners, "I tell you, honestly, that I believe you innocent. I may be foolish to do so--the prepossession may be false--the motives for such belief may be slight; but yet that belief is strong. With powerful evidence against you I felt convinced of your innocence; and, with the power to take you, I let you go free." Manners paused for a moment, and the gipsy, with his hands clasped and his eyes bent upon the ground, remained silent, buried, apparently, in deep thought. "Now," continued Manners, after suffering him to revolve what he had said for a few moments--"now, I have spoken to your understanding, and I have shown you that my conduct in pursuing you has been fully justifiable, and that I am not one of those unjust and ignorant fools who entertain a base prejudice against the whole of your race, which but serves to drive them on to acts of reckless evil. I have treated you generously--I have not consulted even rigid duty; and leaving you free to act, I now speak to your heart." "Speak on! speak on!" said the gipsy. "You speak language that I love to hear." "I have told you," said Manners, "how I esteem Edward de Vaux; I have told you how intimate have been the bonds that united us--how dear the friendship that we felt; judge, then, of my feelings now, as I stand before you, not knowing whether he be dead or alive, well or ill, murdered or in safety. But hear me further.--There is every reason to believe him lost for ever; and in that belief, not only I, his friend, must remain, but all who loved him--all to whom he is bound by the dearest ties; and I leave you to conceive the agony of suspense which they now endure. Mrs. Falkland--her daughter, whose life you have so lately saved--De Vaux's father, Lord Dewry--" The gipsy started, clenched his white teeth, and shaking his hand furiously towards the sky, exclaimed, "May the vengeance of God fall like a thunderbolt on his head, and wither his heart to ashes!" "Well, well!" said Manners, seeing that he had struck a wrong chord, "pass him by; for there are others more interested than he, than I, than any of us. There is a young lady, fair, and gentle, and delicate, beloved by all who know her, blessed by the poor and the afflicted, the ornament of her house, the delight of her friends; and to her own immediate family, the cherished, the beloved relic of a noble, a generous, a feeling parent early snatched away--of a parent whom I have heard that you yourself esteemed and loved--of the late Lord Dewry, I mean; for the lady I refer to is Miss De Vaux." "What of her? what of her?" demanded the gipsy eagerly: "but I guess! I guess!" "It is easy for you to imagine what she must feel," said Manners. "She has been, as probably you know, engaged to her cousin De Vaux for several years, and they have loved each other through life. Their affection has grown up with them from childhood, and has been strengthened by every tie, till at length their marriage, which was appointed to take place in a few weeks, was to have united them for ever. Judge, then--judge what must be her feelings now; but I will not attempt to tell you what those feelings are--I will only tell you in what situation she now is, and leave you to judge for yourself. This very evening, the medical man who is attending her, assured me that the anxiety and apprehension which she has suffered on account of her cousin, have already seriously impaired her health; and that great fears, even for her life itself, are to be entertained, if this state of mental agony is not soon put an end to by certainty of some kind." "That alters the whole," cried the gipsy--"that alters the whole! But let me think a moment--let me think!" "Yes!" said Manners; "think of it,--and think well!--think what must be the feelings of a young and affectionate heart, which, early deprived of the sweet relationships of parent and child, had fixed all its best and warmest affections upon one who well deserved its love,--had concentrated upon him alone all those feelings of tenderness and regard which are generally divided among a thousand other objects; and which had so lately seen him return from scenes of danger and strife to peace and quietness, and, as all fancied, to love and domestic happiness;--think what must be the feelings of such a heart, when the object of all her thoughts and hopes is suddenly and strangely torn from her--when every trace of him is lost, but such as naturally and strongly lead the mind to conclude that death of a bloody and violent nature is the cause of his prolonged and extraordinary absence.--Think--think well what must be the feelings of Miss De Vaux, his promised bride--think what must be my feelings, as his companion and friend; and, if your heart be other than of stone, sure I am that you will instantly afford the means--if you possess them--of removing all these cruel doubts and fears, and relieving our anxiety, at least by certainty of our friend's fate." "You need say no more!" said the gipsy--"you need say no more! I will remove your fears upon easy conditions.--I had not foreseen all this. Like a fool, I had not remembered that events, which seemed to me all simple and clear, because I was an actor in them and saw them all, would produce such anxiety and fear to those who saw no more than the result; but I have been moved by many another feeling, and occupied by many another event. I have seen men bring ruin on their own heads and mine, by following their own wilful follies rather than my counsel and command; and I have seen a thoughtless and innocent boy entrapped into becoming the sacrifice for the guilty and the obstinate. I have been called upon to punish the offenders, and to endeavour to rescue the innocent; and I have been hunted through this livelong day like a wild beast;--so that I may well have forgot that circumstances, very simple in themselves, might fill others that knew not all, with strange fears and suspicions; but besides that--besides that--I had other motives for not telling what I knew.--Those motives are now shaken by stronger ones; and for the sake of Marian de Vaux, I will say what I would not have said for the sake of my own life; but it must be on certain conditions." "Name them," said Manners; "and if they be not very hard to fulfil, doubt not that I will undertake them." The gipsy paused, and thought for several minutes, and he then replied, "I will, as I have said, put you in the way of finding your friend, Edward de Vaux; and you will find him--if not well--at least in kindly hands. But now mark me. The person with whom he is has lately come over from America with private views and purposes of his own, yet doubtful and unresolved whether he will proceed with them or not. Were his residence in England known to any one, it might force him either to execute the designs with which he came sooner than he intended, or perhaps prevent him from changing those designs, though other circumstances may render such a change necessary; or still further--" "In short," said Manners, "he is desirous of remaining concealed; and, as far as I know, has every right to do so, without my inquiring at all into his motives. But you forget, my good friend, that there is as little chance of my knowing this person of whom you speak, as of my betraying him if I did." "You are wrong," said the gipsy; "there is every chance of your knowing him; you have seen him I know, and esteem him I am sure; and, what I have to require is this, if, by my means, you find Edward de Vaux, and recognise the person now kindly tending him, you shall not, upon any pretence, or to any person whatsoever, reveal his real name and character. You shall recognise him merely as the person that he chooses to call himself, and speak of him as none other." "Of course! of course!" answered Manners; "he shall keep the incognito, for anything that I may do to the contrary, as long and as strictly as he likes." "But, one thing more," said the gipsy, "one thing more,--you shall, on no account whatever, lead--or give such information as may lead--the father of Edward de Vaux to the place where his son is." "That is somewhat extraordinary," said Manners; "but I suppose, of course, that this person to whom you allude is Lord Dewry's enemy." "He was once his friend," said the gipsy, "and, perhaps, now that lord may speak of him as such, for there is no knowing by what terms his deep and crafty spirit may designate the people whom he most hates. Not a week ago he gave me gold, and would fain have made me think he loved me; but I knew him to the heart, and I saw the serpent in his eye." Whatever Manners might think of the evident hatred, strong and reciprocal, which existed between the peer and the singular person with whom he now stood, he did not judge it expedient to risk the advantages he had gained by defending Lord Dewry, especially as circumstances placed the power of dictating the conditions in the hands of the gipsy. "My acquaintance with De Vaux's father," he said, "has been too short to acquire any knowledge of his real character." "It would require years, long years," said the gipsy, "to know his character as I know it--long, long years!--or one of those lightning flashes of nature that sometimes, whether men will or not, burst from the darkness in which they shroud themselves, and show at once the deep secrets of their spirit." "At all events," said Manners, "common humanity leads me to wish much to inform the unhappy father of his son's safety, and doubtless your conditions do not imply that I should refrain from such proceeding, as soon as I have, with my own eyes, seen my poor friend's condition." "In that respect, you shall be guided by him to whom I send you," answered Pharold. "It is sufficient for me to ensure, that the confidence he has placed in me will be betrayed by no fault of mine--that compassion for a gentle and innocent girl does not lead me to risk defeating the plans of a man who trusts me. I know that when you have pledged your word, you will hold it sacred. Your actions have spoken for you! Will you accept the conditions?" "I will!" answered Manners; "and only beg of you to conclude the matter as fast as possible." "Well, then!" said the gipsy, pointing through the valley towards the line of the distant hills; "you see yon moon, just raising her golden round behind the thin trees upon the upland. When she has risen ten palms breadths upon the sky, you shall find me here again, and I will lead you to him you seek." "Nay, but," said Manners, "I thought you were about to conduct me thither now." "Doubt me not," said the gipsy, sternly, discovering at once that suspicions, slight indeed, but newly awakened by the proposed delay, were coming over the mind of his companion. "Doubt me not. By the God that I worship, by the heavens his handiwork, by the life he gave me, by the liberty I value more, I will not fail you. You have spared me when you might have thrust me into a dungeon, and I would not deceive you even by a thought." "I believe you," answered Manners; "I believe you--only this, I am very anxious, ere I return to Morley House, to be enabled to give some account of him I seek; to be enabled, in short, to afford some comfort to Edward de Vaux's family. Can we not proceed then at once?" "No!" answered the gipsy. "I must think of my own race too. By the unhappy occurrences of last night, my people have been scattered and have fled for concealment, while I remained to see whether I could find, or could deliver, the unfortunate prey, which those who laid the trap for us had found in the snare. My companions know not yet where I am; and I know not whether they are safe. Thus, ere I go farther, I must see what have been the events of this day to those whom I am bound to protect and guide." "Be it so then," answered Manners; "but, at all events, you will allow me to give De Vaux's family the assurance that he is living and is safe." "As far," said the gipsy, "as you dare to trust to my most solemn assurance, he is living, and safe also, if you mean by that word that he is free from restraint, and from any risk of injury; but that he is well, you must not say; for he is ill in body and sick at heart; and it may be long ere he is cured of either." "That is bad enough, indeed," answered Manners; "but it is so much better than the events, which we had reason to believe had occurred, that the bare fact of his being in a state of security will be an infinite relief to those who love him. I will trust to your word entirely, and both give the consolation which you have afforded to those who will feel it most deeply, and be here at the time you name, though I am not very much accustomed to calculate hours by hands-breadths of the sky; and you must remember that, from Morley House, the moon is seen in a different position from that in which she appears here." The gipsy smiled, with a slight touch of contempt at Manners's inexpertness in a mode of calculating the time, which was to him familiar. "Well, well," he said, "be here in just two hours, and you shall find me waiting you. In the meantime, rest at ease regarding your friend, and speak securely the words of hope and comfort to his family; and God be with you in your errand of peace. You have acted a noble part to-night, and there is one that blesses those who do so." Thus saying, he sprang down the bank to the spot where the sword, which Manners's superior skill and strength had wrenched from his grasp, was lying under a low bush. Pharold snatched it up, and was about to return it to the sheath; but some sudden thought seemed to cross his mind, and holding it up, he gazed upon it for a moment or two in silence. "Accursed be thou!" he cried at length, in a bitter tone. "Accursed be thou, false friend and faithless servant! to leave thy master's hand at the moment of need!" and breaking the blade across his knee, he cast the fragments down the hill, and strode away, scarcely appearing to notice that Colonel Manners still stood gazing at his wild and vehement behaviour. Manners smiled as he turned to retread his steps; and perhaps that smile might be occasioned by seeing the gipsy wreak his indignation at the failure he had met with in their struggle upon the senseless object which his hand had not been able to retain. Perhaps, too, he might remark how all uncultivated people resemble children; but, at all events, the tidings that he had heard of his friend's safety, and his conviction that those tidings were true, had certainly given him a much greater inclination to smile than he had felt when he came to that spot. As he thought, however, over all the circumstances, while bending his way back once more to Morley House, he did not certainly find that his situation was, in every respect, a very pleasant one. He had to remember that the gipsy, Pharold, was charged with two other crimes besides the assumed death of Edward de Vaux. In regard to the first of these two, that of having been an accessary, or principal, in the murder of the late Lord Dewry, Manners had but Mrs. Falkland's opinion upon the subject to support his own doubts of the man's guilt. In regard to the second, that of having participated in the outrage at Dimden Park, and having fired the gun by which Sir Roger Millington was wounded, Manners, after leaving the peer at Dimden, as we shall almost immediately have occasion to show more particularly, had visited the keeper who had been wounded in the affray, and from him had learned sufficient to satisfy his mind that Pharold was guiltless of any share in that unfortunate transaction. On that point, therefore, his mind was satisfied; but, in regard to the other charge, he did not feel at all sure that he was not liable to severe animadversion for the lenity he had shown towards the gipsy. "I do not know the laws of the land," he thought, with a half smile, "quite well enough to be sure whether they may not make me out an accessary after the fact, if ever this Pharold should be found guilty of slaying his benefactor; but, at all events, if the good gossiping world were to get hold of my having taken two or three moonlight walks with him, and having let him escape when I had the power to apprehend him, it would make a pretty story of it." However. Colonel Manners was a man who had too much confidence in his own motives, and too much reliance on what he called his good fortune, though others named it his good judgment, to care much what the world said; and this was probably one of the reasons why that world was well satisfied to load him with praise and honour. He took his way back to Morley House, therefore, tolerably satisfied with what he had done, thinking, "I must now, however, try to soften down Mrs. Falkland's wrath and indignation at my persevering rudeness this evening; but, doubtless, the tidings I bring will prove no small propitiation." To these thoughts he endeavoured to limit himself, though imagination strove hard to lead him into a thousand rambling fancies concerning the causes of De Vaux's disappearance. Manners, however, had a habit of keeping his thoughts under proper discipline, and always prepared to repel whatever force might attack them. Thus, as he knew, or at least trusted, that a few hours would give him a thorough insight into the real situation of Edward de Vaux, he would not give way on that point, and tried to think of something else. But the light brigades of fancy are like a troop of Cossacks, and the moment they are beaten off at one spot, they wheel and attack another. When imagination found, then, that Manners would not be drawn from his intrenchments by the thoughts of De Vaux, she tried what she could do with the image of Isadore Falkland; but Manners was prepared there, too, and had reproached himself so bitterly with some slight beatings of his heart, which had occurred during his last meeting with that fair lady, that he resisted all thought upon the subject with the heroism of Leonidas. Having thus reached Morley House in safety, Manners's first inquiry was for Mr. Arden; but the old butler, with a look of solemn importance, informed him that the magistrate had been gone about half an hour, leaving a message, however, for Colonel Manners, to the effect that, having some other business of much importance awaiting his return, he could not have the honour of staying till Colonel Manners arrived, but would come back early the following morning. "That will do quite as well," answered Manners; and seeing that the cloud of self-importance upon the old man's brow had not as yet quite disgorged itself of its contents, he paused in order to hear what next, and the butler proceeded: "Please, sir, Miss Marian--that is to say, Miss De Vaux, but we always call her Miss Marian, to distinguish from Miss Isadore--but Miss Marian sent her maid down just now to say, that when you come back she wishes very much to see you herself, for she desires to speak with you." The man spoke in as mysterious a tone as if he were communicating a state secret, but Manners who hated nothing on earth so much as mystery, answered rather sharply, "Well, as you see I have returned, you had better call Miss De Vaux's maid to take me to her mistress." "Oh, Miss Marian, sir, is in the little drawing-room," replied the butler: "she has been there these ten minutes, though Mrs. Falkland does not know it, because she is with Miss Isadore, who fell into the water, and wet her clothes, and had nearly been drowned, they do say; but--" Manners waited for no further information on subjects with which he was already acquainted; but, walking up stairs, proceeded to what was called the little drawing-room, and opened the door. Marian de Vaux was sitting on a sofa, with her fair rounded cheek, grown many a shade paler since Manners last saw it, leaning on her hand, and her arm again resting on the table. Her head was slightly bent, and the hand on which it leaned curved round at the wrist, with the fingers dropping languidly under her cheek, and with weary hopeless anxiety in every line. Her eyes, when Manners entered, were cast down, with a drop like a diamond struggling through the long dark lashes; and the light, falling from above, threw the greater part of her beautiful face into shadow; but it fell clear and soft on her fair open forehead, and on her brown hair, which, to save the trouble of much dressing, was braided back behind her ears, but which still, by many a wavy line and struggling bend across her brow, showed its natural tendency to fall into ringlets round her face. An open book was on the table before her; but it looked not as if she had been reading, for it was turned in such a way that her eye could not possibly have deciphered its contents. She did not hear the door open; but Manners's first step in the room caught her attention, and she raised her eyes. "Oh, Colonel Manners," she said, as soon as she saw him, "I am very glad you have come, for I very much wished to speak with you; but I am afraid you are fatigued, and perhaps may not have time to spare." "Not at all," answered Manners, with a smile, which he intended to prepare the way for better tidings. "Indeed, I think, Miss De Vaux, that if you had not sent me an invitation, I should have sent to petition one." "The fact is, Colonel Manners," said Marian, "I wish to know the truth. My dear aunt and my cousin, with the very kindest intentions, keep the truth from me--at least, so I am led to believe by what my maid has told me. Now, indeed, it would do me less harm, though they do not think so, to tell me the whole at once; and I am sure, Colonel Manners, that you will be kind enough to do so, when I assure you that I am far better able to bear even the worst tidings than this terrible, awful state of suspense." Manners took her hand, and gazed in her face with a smile full of kindness and hope, for he feared to make the change from grief to joy too sudden, by speaking the happier news he now had to bear; but even that was too much, and Marian's heart, as she read his smile aright, beat with fearful violence; and, pale as ashes with emotion, she sunk down again on the sofa, from which she had partially risen to speak to him. "I see that your fortitude is not half real," said Manners, seating himself near her; "but let me entreat you to hear me calmly, my dear Miss De Vaux." "Oh, I will! I will, indeed!" cried Marian. "But, for Heaven's sake, speak, Colonel Manners: you smile; and I know you would not smile on one so wretched, if you had not some hope to give! Is it not so?" "It is," answered Manners; "and delighted I am that now, for the very first time, I can give it. But, indeed, you must be calm; for the intelligence I have obtained is not so entirely good as to warrant our indulging in any very great joy, though it may do away our worst apprehensions." "That is enough! that is enough!" cried Marian. "If they have not murdered him, I can bear almost anything else with fortitude: but now, for Heaven's sake, tell me all, for you see I can bear it with calmness and composure." "First, let me defend Mrs. Falkland and your cousin," replied Manners, wishing, by a little delay, to give his fair hearer's mind time to habituate itself to a change of feeling; for neither her look nor her manner served at all to confirm the assurances of calmness and composure which she gave him. "Let me defend Mrs. Falkland and your cousin: they really could give you no precise information, for till within the last half-hour none has been obtained." "Oh, but they knew more than they let me know," cried Marian; "at least, if my maid has told me true: but I trust it is not true; for I cannot believe that Edward can be safe, if she spoke correctly; she said you had found his footsteps, and blood, Colonel Manners, and the place where he must have fallen." As she spoke, her countenance filled with horror at the ideas she recalled, and she clasped her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some fearful sight. Colonel Manners thought that the sooner such a lady's-maid was discharged the better; but as he could not contradict the story the woman had so imprudently told, he left it as it was, and replied, "Do not, my dear young lady, call up such painful images, when I assure you that there is no foundation for the supposition that your cousin has suffered in the way our fears led us to imagine. My information, as yet, is scanty; and, till tomorrow, you must not ask me even how I have obtained it; but I have the most positive assurances that De Vaux is safe, though ill." "Thank God! thank God, for his safety, at least!" cried Marian; "but are you sure, Colonel Manners--are you quite sure? I do not wish to put any questions that you may not like to answer; but only tell me if you yourself are quite sure of Edward's safety?" "I am perfectly and thoroughly convinced," answered Manners, "that, whatever may have been the accident which may have prevented his return home, he is both in security, and attended with care and kindness. Indeed, my very telling you the fact should make you feel quite sure that my own conviction is firm; for, indeed, Miss De Vaux, no inducement would make me hold out a hope to you, were I not sure of that hope having a good foundation." "Thank you! thank you!" replied Marian; and, with one of those sudden bursts of tenderness which--springing from some secret action, either of memory or imagination, without one spoken word or external circumstance to call them forth--sometimes overpower us, when least we expect it, she gave way to a gushing flood of tears, and, for a moment or two, let the bright drops flow unrestrained. "You have not seen him, then, Colonel Manners?" she said at length, wiping her eyes, and looking up with a glance in which apprehension still contended a little against joy. "Not yet," Manners answered; "but I have received a solemn promise that I shall be conducted to the place where he is this very night." "Oh, let me go with you!" cried Marian, starting up. "Nay, nay, I am afraid that would not do," answered Manners, smiling. "Think what the world would say, my dear Miss De Vaux, if you were to go wandering about, no one knows whither, through a long autumn night, with no other escort than a colonel of dragoons." Marian was won even to a smile; and, while it was yet playing round her lips, and sparkling in her eyes, Mrs. Falkland entered the room, not knowing by whom it was tenanted. "Marian! Colonel Manners!" she exclaimed; "and both laughing, too! then some very happy change must have come over our affairs." "Oh, most happy, my dear aunt!" cried Marian: "Colonel Manners--and I know not how to thank him--has discovered where Edward is, and that he is safe." "God be praised!" cried Mrs. Falkland; "but let me hear all about it, for this is news indeed." "In the first place," said Manners, willing, if possible, to escape any very close cross-examination till he could speak with more security on the many points of De Vaux's situation, which were still doubtful--"in the first place, I have to apologize, my dear madam, for some want of courtesy to-night when last we met; but you must remember that I am but a rude soldier, and accustomed to think far more of what I consider my duty than of what is polite; and I am sure that my good news will gain me your forgiveness." "If your perseverance have gained tidings of my poor nephew," answered Mrs. Falkland, "my forgiveness for much graver offences--could Colonel Manners commit them--would be but a poor recompense." "I hope Miss Falkland has not suffered at all," continued Manners. But Mrs. Falkland exclaimed, with a smile, "Not at all, I trust! but, Colonel Manners, I will not be put off without an answer. You shall not keep all your good news for Marian, and refuse to let me share. What have you discovered?" "Why, my dear madam," answered Manners, "I will tell you the candid truth. I have discovered very little beyond the bare fact, that De Vaux is in safety, though not well; and you must ask me no more questions till I can give you satisfactory answers. I am to be conducted to him, however, this very night, and within an hour of this time. Miss De Vaux wished to go with me, and we were smiling to think what sort of story the world would make of her taking a midnight walk over the moors, and through the woods, with the ugliest colonel of dragoons in his majesty's service." "But are you obliged to go alone?" asked Mrs. Falkland. "I rather think that is part of my compact," answered Manners; "and I believe it must be on foot, too." "And you were fatigued an hour ago," replied Mrs. Falkland; "and though I, selfishly, cannot make up my mind to ask you to put off your expedition till to-morrow, yet I must prevail on you to take some refreshment." So saying, she rang the bell, and then went on: "I need not ask who was your informant; and I feel equally certain that the tidings are true, because you give them credit, and because you derived them from him." "Now, I am in the dark," said Marian, "both in regard to this person you speak of and to Isadore. What made you believe she had suffered from any accident, Colonel Manners, as you inquired of my aunt just now?" "I am afraid that the whole story would be too long to tell you at this moment," answered Manners, while a footman appeared, and Mrs. Falkland ordered some refreshments to be brought immediately, "especially as you see I have to sup before I go; nor will I deny that I need my supper, for, to tell the truth, I have not dined. But Mrs. Falkland will relate our whole story of this evening when I am gone; will tell you how your cousin escaped drowning by a miracle; and how Colonel Manners behaved in a very rude and uncivil manner; and how at length a compromise was entered into, which reflected more honour upon his obstinacy than upon his politeness." "No, no, Colonel Manners, I will not tell her such stories," answered Mrs. Falkland. "I will tell her, perhaps, that Colonel Manners's duty as an officer, and his feelings as a man, clashed with her aunt's duty as a person of her word, and her feelings as a woman; that her aunt did what she seldom does,--lost her temper; and that Colonel Manners ended the matter wisely and well, and by his perseverance obtained joyful tidings without a breach of faith." "You are both speaking in mysteries to me," said Marian, rising; "so I will go and make Isadore tell me the whole in less enigmatical language. Where is she, my dear aunt?" "She is in bed," answered Mrs. Falkland, "but not likely to go to sleep." "In bed!" exclaimed Marian; "then, indeed, it is time that I should go and see her, for I do not ever remember Isadore having been in bed at nine o'clock before, and something must be the matter." Thus saying, she quitted the room; and left Colonel Manners to take some refreshment, and to relate, the while, to Mrs. Falkland, as much as he had time and inclination to tell of his adventure with the gipsy. "I fear no danger," he concluded, when he had ascertained by his watch that the time appointed for his return was approaching--"I fear no danger, and have every confidence in the extraordinary man who is to be my guide; but, at the same time, it is always well to be prepared; and, therefore, I shall not only exchange these heavy riding-boots for something more fit for walking, but I will take the liberty of adding a brace of pistols to back my sword in case of need." He then took leave of Mrs. Falkland; and, after making the alteration he proposed, once more sallied out, like the knight of La Mancha, with a heart scarcely less chivalrous, though guided by a mind which happily had power to restrain and direct the operation of his feelings. Here, however, the thread of his adventures must be broken off for a while, in order that we may leave no longer unfilled that void in his history which now exists between the moment at which we last left him in conversation with Lord Dewry, and that of his sudden reappearance at Morley House. CHAPTER VI. At the end of the first chapter of this volume, it may be remembered, that we left Lord Dewry sitting in the saloon of Dewry Hall with Colonel Manners. Night had become morning before the messengers for whom he waited arrived from Dimden; and when they did so, they brought the tidings that his lordship's well-laid scheme had failed; that no one had been taken by the keepers but a gipsy boy; and that Sir Roger Millington, as well as one of the keepers, had been wounded--the first seriously, the second but slightly. Manners had expected and believed that the peer would both be disappointed and shocked; but a variety of emotions naturally sprang from such tidings, in the situation in which Lord Dewry had placed himself, which could not be understood or calculated by any one unacquainted with all the dreary secrets of his heart. He was disappointed, it is true, that Pharold had not been taken; but he trusted that, with all the means employed against him, the gipsy would not be able to escape. Far from either shocked or sorry was he, however, that blood had been spilt in the affray between the keepers and the gipsies, or that death might ensue; for he saw that his grasp upon Pharold would thereby be strengthened, though he could have wished, certainly, that the shot which had been fired had found any other bosom than that of Sir Roger Millington, from whom much good service remained still to be derived. Such feelings, of course, produced some effect upon his behaviour, especially as Colonel Manners's cordial co-operation in his plans, without making him entirely forget the different principles upon which they acted, had, in some degree, thrown him off his guard in regard to the minor points of demeanour. The effect, indeed, was not so striking as to lead Manners to suspect anything like the truth; but it was sufficiently marked to call his attention--to appear strange and unpleasant--and to make him think, "This is one of those pampered sons of luxury, who only feel where their own immediate comforts are concerned. He seems to care no more for the people who have been wounded in his service than if they were things of wood." After a few short comments on the means to be next employed, Manners retired to the chamber prepared for him, and lay down to rest. He rose betimes, however: but it was long ere the peer made his appearance; for, exhausted with activity, and watching, and contending passions--the most wearing of all the many assailants of life and strength--he fell into a deeper slumber than he had known for many years. At length he came, and at a late hour set out with Colonel Manners for Dimden; but since the preceding night a change had come over his feelings towards his companion. Then, in agitation, and horror, and anxiety, he had clung to any one for the sake of society; and more especially to one whose character and reputation gave him confidence, and whose warm co-operation afforded support. Now, however, he was going to hear from his agents the progress of dark and subtle plans of which Colonel Manners knew nothing--to examine and speak with persons whom he had engaged in proceedings equally cunning and unjustifiable; and he could very well have dispensed with the presence of one whose bold good sense was likely to search and see further than might be at all convenient. These feelings influenced his demeanour also; and although he could not be absolutely rude to a person he had so lately courted, and who was so perfectly independent of him in every respect, yet his manners were throughout the journey sufficiently cold and repulsive to make Manners determine to bring their companionship to a close as speedily as possible. On their arrival at Dimden, the gipsy lad was sent for, and a few casual questions asked him by the peer, which he repelled by either obdurate silence or sullen monosyllables. This, however, was what Lord Dewry for the present desired; but Colonel Manners was resolved, if possible, to hear more, and he plied the prisoner with every question which he judged likely to elicit some information concerning his poor friend De Vaux. Little satisfactory news did he, indeed, obtain; and, in fact, received no reply to the greater part of his interrogations. Still the impression upon his mind, from one or two occasional words which the lad was induced to speak, was strong, that he at least was ignorant that De Vaux had been murdered, and thence arose in Manners's mind the first reasonable hope that his friend might still be living. After the space of nearly an hour thus spent, the youth was removed. The peer made no comment; but after looking out of the window, called some of the servants, and inquired after Sir Roger Millington. The reply was, that the knight suffered considerable agony, and that the surgeon was with him still. "Colonel Manners, you must excuse me for half an hour, while I visit my unfortunate friend," said Lord Dewry, with a frigid bow. "My poor son's death," he added, while his quivering lip, at the very mention of his son's name, betrayed that on that subject, at least, his heart was painfully sensible--"my poor son's death, of course, weighs heavily upon me; but I must not forget my wounded friend. I do not contemplate being detained longer than half an hour, and then I will have the honour of setting you down at Morley House as I drive home." "Do not hurry yourself, my lord," answered Manners, calmly: "I have some inquiries to make concerning my poor friend, and the means that have been taken to discover anything of his fate; and therefore, as I sent my horse over to Morley House this morning, I will walk thither. I wish you good-day." As it was not the peer's wish or intention to deprive himself altogether of Colonel Manners's influence and support in his further measures against the gipsy--although he heartily desired his absence for the time--he changed his tone in some degree, and pressed Manners to stay; but took care, at the same time, to add such inducements as he knew were not very likely to have any weight with him, assuring him that the distance was full five miles, and the road fatiguing and hilly. Manners, however, as the peer expected, persisted in his design; and, taking leave, he walked out into the park, while Lord Dewry left the room, as if to proceed to the apartment of Sir Roger Millington. Before following him, however, it may be as well to say, that Manners did not direct his steps, in the first instance, to Morley House; but thinking, "His lordship, in his concern for this Sir Roger Millington, seems entirely to have forgotten the poor keeper they talked of," he stopped at the gate, and inquired whither the wounded man had been carried. The old woman at the lodge gave him the necessary direction; and proceeding to the cottage which she described, Manners entered with that sort of frank good feeling that stands on no ceremonies where the object is humane. He found the wounded keeper still suffering considerably; and he found also, as he had been inclined to suspect, that the attention of the surgeon having been hitherto occupied by the patient of higher rank, the keeper had been entirely neglected. He was consequently more ill and feverish than the nature of his wound would otherwise have accounted for; and Manners, knowing, from much experience in such occurrences, that if proper care were not taken, a slight injury might have a fatal termination, instantly despatched a messenger for the surgeon who was attending Miss De Vaux, and kindly waited his arrival. In conversation with the keeper, he learned that Pharold had not been present when the guns were fired, and from him, also, he heard the particulars of the affray in Dimden Park, the wound the man had received not having been sufficiently severe to deprive him of the power of observing everything that occurred around him afterward. By the whole of his narrative the character of Pharold rose in Manners's opinion, and his hopes of De Vaux's safety were strengthened: but still he determined to act as if such hopes did not exist; and accompanying the surgeon on his late return to the village near Morley House, he prepared to pursue the search for the gipsy as ardently as ever. What followed his arrival we have already seen. In the mean while Lord Dewry proceeded through the long and somewhat dreary galleries of Dimden House to a distant apartment, but not to the chamber in which the participator in his dark schemes lay on a bed of agony and distress. The room he sought was solitary; and, ringing the bell, he ordered Harvey, the head keeper, to be sent to him. The man was already in the house, waiting his orders, and somewhat apprehensive of his lord's displeasure at the failure of his plans. But as long as Pharold was alive and free, there was a demon of fear in the bosom of Lord Dewry that cowed the more violent passions of his nature in the presence of those whom he used as his tools. The consciousness of the designs in which he employed them made him treat them gently, from vague but anxious surmises that, notwithstanding all his care, they might suspect the motives of the plans they mingled with. Although, then, in his heart, he could have felled the keeper to the earth for letting Pharold escape him. In addressed him mildly when he presented himself. "Why, how is this, Harvey?" he said: "you have let the game escape us. There must have been a fault somewhere." "The fault was in the cursed cowardice of the fellows that were with me, my lord," replied the keeper; "if they would but have followed me, we should have taken the blackfaced villain any how. Two or three of us might have got wounded, but no matter for that; we should have had him safe here, if they would but have come on. But one fell back, and another fell back; so that when I had got them up against the wall there were but two with me, and two could do nothing against a good dozen." "Let me hear how the whole business took place," said the peer: "remember that I have no full account of it from any one; and we must try to remedy what has gone wrong." The park-keeper was, of course, glad enough to tell his story in the way that best suited him; and he related the events which we already know according to his own particular version. The first error, he declared, was, that several of the men whom he had hired for the purpose of capturing the gipsies were too late at the rendezvous, and several did not come at all. These disappointments, and the delay they occasioned, had prevented his taking advantage of the moment when the gipsies' guns were discharged after the slaughter of the deer, and, as time lost is never regained, had caused the ultimate failure of his whole plan. He assured the peer, however, that Pharold had been one of the party engaged in the destruction of the game; and that he had been active in the affray wherein Sir Roger Millington and the keeper had been wounded. Some of the other men, he said, were not very clear about these facts, but he was ready to swear to it. He then related how the boy William had been seized by two of his party, who had been detached for that purpose; and he added a long account of the measures which he had taken in order to trace the gipsies in their flight. "Is the keeper badly wounded?" demanded the peer, thoughtfully. "He did not seem bad at first, my lord," replied the man; "but they say he is much worse this afternoon, and his wife is afraid he will die." The peer muttered something between his teeth, which might be, "So much the better;" but this sound reached Harvey's ears but imperfectly, and Lord Dewry went on in a louder tone, "Poor fellow! have you seen him, Harvey?" "Not myself, my lord," answered the keeper; "but his wife came up to see if the doctor could go down, and I spoke with her for a minute." "Poor fellow!" said the peer; "but we must take care that his murderer does not escape, Harvey. Have you thought of no way by which we can catch him?" "Why, he is a keen hand, that Pharold, my lord," replied the keeper; "but I do think we can manage it, if your lordship likes to try." "Try!" said Lord Dewry: "I will make him a rich and happy man, Harvey, who brings that villain to justice. But how do you think it can be managed?" "Why, I scarcely know as yet, my lord," answered the keeper; "I have had sure eyes upon some of the gipsy folks, and think I can make out whereabouts they have gone to; but Pharold knows better than to go with them. Besides, he was in the park there, not many hours ago, in the broad daylight." "Impudent villain!" cried the peer; "but what in the name of Heaven could bring him there? Are you sure it was he?" "I saw him with my own eyes, my lord," replied the keeper; "and had nearly caught him with my own hands; for we had him pinned in between seven and eight of us and the river: but without minding us more than if we had been rabbits, he took to the water like a hard-run fox, and swam the river outright." Lord Dewry paused; for there was something in the daring hardihood of the gipsy congenial to the bold and fearless spirit which had animated himself in early years; and he felt a sort of stern admiration which even hatred could not quell. At length, however, he repeated, "But what could bring him here? He could not be fool enough to come for the sole purpose of daring his pursuers." "No, no, my lord," answered Harvey. "He came after this boy that we caught, I dare say. The boy may be a bit of a relation, or, at all events, a friend; and they did not know what had become of him, for he was taken apart. Now, my lord, I was thinking--if, might be so bold--that one might, perhaps, turn this boy to some account, and get him--do you see, my lord?" The mind of the peer had been so long habituated to revolve dark and tortuous schemes, that it was apt and ready to comprehend the significant word, or half-spoken hint, which often forms the language of those who are afraid to give their purposes full utterance. Thus he gained an instant insight into the nature of the plan which the keeper had conceived, although he saw not the details; and he answered, "I do see, Harvey, I do see! That is to say, I see what you mean; but I do not see how it is to be managed. If the boy had any means of communicating with his own gang, he might, perhaps, lure the chief villain of the whole into our net; but we know not where they are, and he, in all probability, is still more ignorant." "I know well enough where a part of them are," answered the keeper. "Some went down towards the water, and I cannot trace them: but some, for a certainty, went across the common to the Dingley wood, where they are still, I am sure; and I should not wonder if the others soon joined them, for it is uncommon what a fancy those gipsies have for sticking to each other, especially in misfortune; and I should not wonder if they were to hang about here till they hear what becomes of this lad. He may be Pharold's son, for any thing I know." "Would that he were! would that he were!" cried the peer, vehemently, the memory of his own son crossing the confused crowd of other thoughts that pressed upon his brain. "Would that he were! I would find the means to wring his heart. But still," he added, after pausing for some moments on the pleasant thoughts of revenge--"but still the boy is cut off from all communication with them." "But we can let him have some, if your lordship pleases," said the keeper. "If your lordship remembers, I told you of a man named Harry Saxon, who always has a good deal to do with poachers and such like, and who put these gipsies up to the deer-stealing. Now we could let him get speech of the boy; and if any one heard of it, we would say it was only to see whether he could swear to the youth, and he would soon take any message to his people for him." "But will he undertake the task? and can we depend upon him?" asked the peer. "Why, ye--s, my lord, I think we may," answered Harvey, thoughtfully. "He's a good sort of a man enough; and besides, I rather think I could send him across the water to Botany, if I liked, for something I saw him do one day, and he knows it too; and so he is always very civil and obliging to me." "Well may he be so," replied the peer, with a curling lip. "But can you get at him soon? There's no time to be lost in such a business." "I can get at him in a minute," answered the keeper; "for he came up to my house about an hour ago; and he is in a bit of a fright about all this bad business of the shooting. So I told him to stay there till I had seen your lordship, and I would tell him how things went when I came back." "Go and bring him then," said the peer quickly--"go and bring him--yet stay a moment, Harvey. Let me consider what is to be done when he does come. He is to be admitted to speech of this gipsy lad; and what then?" "Why, my lord, I dare say the boy can be frightened into sending a message to Pharold to come down and help him out." "No, no, no," said the peer, "it must be better arranged than that. Let me see. The windows of the strong room look out into the close wood, and any one from the outside could saw away the iron bars. Yes, that will do. But the lad himself must be tutored in the first place. Quick, then, Harvey, go and bring your friend; and in the meantime I will see the boy alone. Do not come in till you hear that I have sent for you." The keeper retired, and the peer again rang the bell, to direct that the young gipsy should be brought before him once more. His orders were promptly obeyed, and two stout fellows appeared, with the prisoner between them. "Leave him with me," said the peer, as soon as they had brought him two or three steps forward in the room. The men, who had calculated on enjoying all the pleasures of a cross-examination, and who had even in their hearts formed the aspiration that they hoped his lordship would pump him well, stared with some mortification at being excluded from witnessing the mental torture of their fellow-creature; but Lord Dewry, who read something of the kind in their countenances, not only repeated his command, but bade them wait at the end of the adjoining passage till they were joined by Harvey, the head keeper. There was no resource; and therefore they obeyed, shutting the door, and leaving the peer face to face with the captive. The gipsy youth might be eighteen or nineteen years of age; that season of life when enjoyment is in its first freshness; when all the world is as bright, and as sweet, and as sparkling as a summer morning; when imagination and passion are setting out hand in hand upon the ardent race that soon wearies them, and when memory follows them quick, gathering up the flowers that they pluck and cast away as they go, but not as yet burdened with any of the cares, or sorrows, or disappointments which they are destined to encounter in the end: he was, in fact, at that age when life is the sweetest. His form was full of nascent vigour, and his face was fine; but his whole countenance, though speaking, by its variety and play of feature, active imagination, and perhaps a degree of enterprise, betrayed a sort of uncertain, undecided expression, which is never to be seen in the face of the firm and the determined. The peer gazed on him for a moment, seeing all, and calculating all, in order to work upon his prisoner's mind by both his circumstances and his weaknesses. "You are very young," he said at length, in a tone of stern gravity--"you are very young to be engaged in crimes like these. What is your age?" That sort of dogged sullenness, half shyness, half hatred, which a contemned and separate race are from their infancy taught by nature to display towards their oppressors, was the only source of resistance in the character of the young gipsy, whose powers of resolution were naturally small, and whose mind was unfortified by firm and vigorous principles of any kind. It was sufficient in the present instance, however, to keep him silent; and he stood, with his dark eyes fixed upon the ground, and his arms hanging by his side, apparently as unmoved as if the peer had addressed him in a language that he did not comprehend. "You are very young," repeated Lord Dewry, after waiting some time in vain for an answer--"you are very young to be engaged in crimes like these. Life must be sweet to you: there must be a thousand pleasures that you are just beginning to enjoy, a thousand hopes of greater pleasures hereafter; there must be many friends that you grieve to part with--and some," he added, seeing the youth's lip quiver--"and some that, doubtless, you love beyond anything on earth." A tear rolled over the rich brown cheek of the gipsy boy, and betrayed that he not only understood what was said to him, but felt every word at his heart's core, as the peer, with barbarous skill, sought out every fresh wound in his bosom, and tearing them open one by one, poured in the rankling poison of insincere commiseration. "Ah!" continued Lord Dewry, "it is sad and terrible, indeed, to think of being--at the very moment when one is the happiest--at the very moment when one loves one's friends the best--at the very moment, perhaps, when all our hopes are about to be fulfilled--to think of being cut off from them all, and to die a horrid and painful death! and yet such must be your fate, my poor boy; such must be inevitably your fate, as a punishment for the murder committed in my park last night." "I murdered no one," cried the youth, with a convulsive sob, that nearly rendered what he said unintelligible. "I murdered no one." "But your companions did," answered the peer, glad to have forced him into breaking silence. "You were not present, it is true; but you trespassed on my park for evil purposes with those who did commit murder, and are therefore an accessary to the deed. Banish all hope, poor boy; for to-morrow I must certainly commit you to the county jail, from which you will only go to trial and to execution. I am sorry for you, I grieve for you, to think that you must never see again those you love; that you must be cut off in the prime of youth and happiness--I grieve for you, indeed." "Then why do you not let me out?" cried the lad. "If you grieve for me, let me run away." "That is impossible," answered the peer; "but perhaps I may do something to make your fate less bitter. Death you must undergo; but in the mean time I may soften the strictness of your imprisonment. Is there any one whom you would wish to see--any of your friends and companions who might comfort you by coming to visit you?" "What is the use, if I must die?" said the gipsy, sullenly, dropping his tearful eyes to the ground, and clenching tighter his clasped hands together; but Lord Dewry saw that there was something more working in his mind, and warily held his peace. "There is none I should like to see but Lena," said the gipsy at length, with a deep sigh; "and Pharold would not let her come, even if I were to ask." "And why not?" demanded the peer, affecting as much unconcern as it was possible for him to assume when coming near the very subject of his wishes. "Why would any one prevent her from coming, if it would comfort you? He must be very cruel to deny you, when you have so short a time to live." "No, he is not cruel," said the youth; "he is hard, but not cruel; but he would not let her come, do you see, because a year ago I was to have had Lena for my wife--at least so Mother Gray always told me: but then Pharold loved her; and though her own love did not lie that way, her mother, when she was dying, herself gave Lena to him, because he was better able to take care of her than any one else. And he does not love to see Lena speak to me, I know." "So he took your bride from you," said the peer, not a little delighted to hear tidings which promised so fairly for success; "he took your bride from you, and now he is jealous of you. Well, then, listen to me, and mark well what I am about to say. Your fate is in your own hands. You are left to choose between life and death!" The youth gazed dully in his face for a moment, as if he did not comprehend his words at first; but the next instant he burst forth, "Life, life, life, then!" cried he, clasping his hands together, and raising his eyes beaming with new hope: "life, oh, I choose life!" "There is but one way, however," replied the peer, "by which you can obtain it. This Pharold, this very man who took away your bride, I have every reason to believe killed my brother and murdered my son." "Then that is the way he gets money, no one knows how," cried the youth. "Most probably it is," answered Lord Dewry; "but mark me, if you can contrive a means to get him into my power, you shall not only go free, but have a large reward. This is your only chance for life." The lad's countenance fell in a moment. He was young, and the better spirit was the first to act. "No, no," he cried; "I hate Pharold, but I will not betray him." "Then you must die," said the peer, sternly. The better spirit was still predominant: no image presented itself to the youth's mind but that of betraying the chief of his tribe. He thought not for the moment of the loveliness of life, he thought not of the horrors of death, he remembered not either love or hate, in the strong impression of a duty which had been fixed in his heart from childhood; and he answered in a low sad tone, "Then die I will." "But think," said the peer, who had anticipated the first effect of his proposal, and reserved every stronger inducement, every palliating argument, to tempt and to excuse the unhappy youth, when the immediate impression was over--"think what it is you choose--imprisonment in a close room by yourself for several days; then trial and condemnation, and then death upon a gibbet, with nobody to comfort you, nobody to speak to you; but you must go through the horror, and the agony, and the shame all alone and unsupported." The boy shuddered, and the peer proceeded, changing the picture, however:--"This is what you choose. Now what is it you cast away?--life, and happiness, and more wealth than ever you knew, and most probably the possession of the girl you love best upon the earth." The peer was experienced in temptations; for he had undergone and yielded to them himself, and he knew, by the dark histories of his own heart, all the wiles and artifices by which the fiend lures on successfully even the firm and the determined to acts at which they have shuddered in their days of innocence. The young gipsy listened, and hesitated, and felt all his resolutions give way; but so fearful was the struggle in his bosom, that his limbs trembled and his teeth chattered as if he had been shaken by an ague. The keen eye that was upon him, however, did not fail to mark and understand his emotion; and Lord Dewry proceeded, "Well may Lena think you love her but little, when you scruple, by a few words, to break the hateful bonds that tie her to this murderer Pharold, and when you have the power to make her your own, yet refuse to use it." "But I tell you," cried the boy, vehemently, "that Lena would never consent; that even if she were to know that I had done such a thing she would hate me and curse me; that I should be driven forth from my people, and never see her more." "But neither she nor any one else," replied the peer, "need ever know one circumstance about it. If you will undertake to do what I wish, I will tell you a plan by which it may be accomplished, without any being on the earth knowing it but you and I." "But if Pharold should be innocent," said the youth, "the guiltless blood would be upon my hand, and it would curse me." "But if Pharold be innocent, his blood shall not be shed," replied the peer: "let him prove his innocence, and he shall go as free as you; but he cannot prove his innocence, for he is guilty; and you, in delivering him up, do but what is right and good; you do but avenge the innocent blood he has shed, though at the same time you gain for yourself life, and liberty, and happiness, and the girl that you love." "Well, well, well!" cried the boy, "tell me what it is I am to do." "Will you undertake it?" demanded the peer, eagerly. "If," answered the gipsy--for probably there was never yet a crime committed, in regard to which the criminal did not propose some palliating motive, in order to deceive his own heart at the time, and to calm the anticipated reproaches of his conscience thereafter--"if you will promise, by God and the heavens, that, if Pharold is innocent, you will let him go free." Lord Dewry paused for an instant. It is strange, but no less true than strange, that the mind not only habituates itself to evil, but habituates itself to a particular course of evil, and the same person who will boldly reiterate a crime to which he is accustomed, will start at a much less heinous offence, if it be new to his habits. Thus, Lord Dewry paused for an instant ere he swore to a promise which he intended to evade; but he soon remembered that, in the course which he was pursuing, there was no halting at so airy a thing as an oath; and he replied, "By all that is sacred, he shall go free, if he proves himself innocent." "Well, then," said the youth, "I will do what you wish; but, oh, if you deceive me!" "Deceive you in what?" demanded the peer. "I have promised that, if he prove himself innocent, he shall of course go free: it is but just." "But it was not of that I spoke," said the gipsy: "I thought if you were to deceive me into trapping Pharold, and then not to let me go myself!" "On my honour! on my soul!" cried the peer, with a ready vehemence, which convinced the youth more easily than would have been possible, if he had known how often men pledge their honour and their soul when the real jewels are no longer theirs--when their true honour has been lost for years, and their soul pawned deeply to an eternal foe. "Well, well," he answered, "I will do it. Tell me how it is to be done." "Tell me first," said the peer: "this Pharold--he is jealous of you, it seems?" The boy smiled faintly. "Will he, then, take sufficient interest in your fate to attempt to rescue you, if he thinks there is a probability of success?" "That he will!" answered the youth; "besides, if I could get at Lena, she would persuade him. But how can I get at her? She will not come here, and I cannot go to her." "But do you think that if you were to send a message to her," demanded Lord Dewry, "that she would try to persuade him to attempt your rescue, and that she has influence enough to work him to her purpose?" "That she has, that she has," answered the gipsy: "Pharold often gives her a cross word; but when she likes to try, she can always get her own way, for all that. But how can I send a message to her? I know not where she is, nor where Pharold is; though once, as I looked out through the bars of the window this morning, I thought I saw him through the gray mist, standing under the distant trees, and watching the house. But they may have gone far before this time; yet, if you were to let me out for a few hours, I would soon find them." "We will seek a better way," answered the peer, without taking any further notice of the simple cunning with which the youth spoke. "I hear from my gamekeepers that a man from one of the neighbouring villages has been inquiring for you, and most likely he knows where your friends and companions are. Now, as you promise to do what I ask, he shall be admitted to see you, and you must send to Lena whatever message you think will induce her to persuade Pharold to come to your rescue." "Yes," said the boy; "but I must first know how he can rescue me, for Pharold will never come unless he thinks it likely. Ay, and the story must be a clever one, too; for he is as cunning as a sentinel-crow, and smells powder at a mile's distance." "I must leave you to frame the story as you think best," replied the peer; "but you can tell your fair Lena that if Pharold will come to your prison-window with a sharp file or a sledge-hammer, he can easily set you free by breaking the bars of iron that cross the opening. You may add, that there is never any one on that side of the house all night, and so that he will be perfectly safe." The lad hung down his head; and the hot blood of shame, as he thought of what he was undertaking, rushed from his heart to his cheeks. There was again a momentary struggle, but the good had been conquered once already; and the thought of life, and Lena, and happiness, and freedom from the oppressive terror that weighed down his heart in his prison, got the better of everything besides; and he replied, "But what shall I do if they thrust the file and the sledge-hammer through the bars to me, and bid me work for myself?" Lord Dewry instantly saw the validity of the youth's objection, and the probability that Pharold, instead of coming himself, would send some woman or some child with the implements which might be necessary for setting the prisoner at liberty. "You must tell them," he said, after some minutes' thought, "that you are so tied that you cannot cut through the bars for yourself." "But the man who gives them the message will see that I am not tied," replied the youth; and, after pausing for a few moments, he added, "No, no; I have thought of a better way. I will not trust him with any particulars: I will bid him ask Lena and Mother Gray to work Pharold to get me out; but, at all events, for some one of them to come down, and speak with me through the bars to-night, and then I can make them do what I want. But you must let them go, remember!" he exclaimed. "You must not stop the women if they come." "I shall certainly stop none but Pharold," answered the peer: "the rest may come and go as they like. But only do not you trifle with me; for be you sure that you shall not only not have your liberty, but that, if Pharold be not in my power before to-morrow night is over, you shall be sent to the county-jail for instant trial." "And how," said the youth, whose shyness was fast wearing away--"and how am I to get my liberty when Pharold is in your power?" "The door shall be set open," answered the peer, "and you shall go out freely." "But how can I be sure of that?" he demanded again. "You may keep us both, for aught I know. Will you write it down? for I have heard that you Englishmen are more bound by what is written than by what is said." Lord Dewry again paused for a moment, somewhat embarrassed; but after revolving the probable consequences in his mind for some time, he replied, "I will write it down, if you require it." "Do--do, then," said the youth; and the peer, ringing the bell, ordered writing-materials to be brought. As soon as they arrived, he sat down, and drew up a promise, artfully couched in such terms as he felt sure could not, in the slightest degree, implicate his character or betray his real views, if ever it should be produced against him. "As the prisoner," so the writing ran, "now in custody at Dimden, is apparently only an accessary, and not a principal, in the crime lately committed at this place, I hereby promise him, on condition of his placing in the hands of justice the notorious felon Pharold, against whom various warrants have issued, at present unsuccessfully, that he shall be immediately set at liberty, as soon as he has accomplished the same. In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand, this---- day of ----," &c. &c. The youth's eyes sparkled as he read; and the prospect of liberty and safety which opened before him blotted out at once from memory the dark and villanous step which he must take to reach them. "I will do it! I will do it!" he cried; "but you must let me do it my own way, for I must not let anyone in the whole world know that it is my doing. It must seem that he is taken by accident, while helping me, and that I have made my escape in the meantime; and then I shall be free, and Lena will be mine!" And the youth clapped his hands in the vehemence of reawakened hope. "Well, well," said the peer, his anxiety for his ultimate object coming eagerly upon him as soon as his immediate purpose was accomplished--"well, well, the man I spoke of shall have admittance to you immediately. But, remember, you must lose no time; for the longest space I can afford you is this night and to-morrow night." "Some of the women will come to me to-night," answered the youth; "and to-morrow night, fear not, Pharold shall stand under the window of the prison-room, some time between the rising of the moon and the sun. So watch well, and if you take him not it is your own fault." "So be it, then," said the peer; "and now you must return to speak with the person I mentioned, who shall soon be sent to you." Thus saying, Lord Dewry called back the two men who had brought the young gipsy thither; and, after bidding them take him back to the strong room, told them, in his hearing, as an earnest of his good-will, to let him have everything that could render him comfortable in strict imprisonment. As soon as the men appeared, the boy resumed his look of sullen shyness; and, hanging his head, followed them in silence from the room. The moment he had departed, the peer sent to inquire for the keeper, who had not yet returned, however; and Lord Dewry was kept for a short time under the irritation of his own impatient spirit. At length Harvey appeared, followed by his confederate, Harry Saxon; and it would have given sincere pleasure to a disciple of Lavater to see how well this worthy's countenance corresponded with his actions. He was a man of about five-and-forty, and what many people would call a good-looking man; that is to say, he had a fresh country complexion, a high large nose, with small nostrils, a capacious mouth, furnished with white and regular teeth, a small keen black eye, under a very overhanging and observing brow, a forehead low, but broad, and surmounted with a layer of fine jet-black hair, smoothed down, and polished with the most careful and scrupulous precision. His dress, without being exactly that of a gamekeeper, had a sufficient portion of the style usually attributed to that class to show his hankering after the beasts of the field. His coat was green, and on the buttons thereof appeared, not alone the fox, that most sagacious animal, but a variety of birds and beasts, so comprehensive in their number, and so limited in their kind, that his garment formed a very excellent hieroglyphical abstract of the game act. Leathern gaiters, with small round leathern buttons, cased a pair of sturdy legs, and defended them from the brambles of those paths he most frequented; and a pair of hedger's gloves upon his hands seemed well calculated to grope for springes and gins amid the thorny ways of life. The peer surveyed him, as he entered, with the keen eye of worldly experience, and saw that he was a man to be depended on by those who could pay him well. After a brief question or two, to which the other replied with sly significance, the peer explained to him the ostensible object he had in view; namely, that of securing the apprehension of a gipsy felon called Pharold, by the instrumentality of the boy they had taken on the preceding night, and asked him if he were willing to undertake the part he was to play, and to perform it carefully. "You are, I hear," he added, with some degree of irony, "in some way acquainted with these gipsies, and may, therefore, not like to bring one of them to justice. If it be so, speak, and we will find some other person." "No, no, my lord," answered the man. "A gipsy! why, I hate a gipsy! they come in and spoil every thing like the regular trade. No, no, hang 'em all for me." Lord Dewry did not pause to inquire what Harry Saxon called the regular trade; but replied, "Well, if such be your opinion, go in and speak to this lad. Do not let him know that you have had any conversation with me upon the subject; but offer to do anything for him that you can; and when you have heard what he has to say, come back and let me know the result." The peer added an injunction to be quick; and Harry Saxon was conducted, by his worthy associate Harvey, to the strong room in which the gipsy lad had been confined. The chamber would have been in every respect a comfortable one, had not the doors and windows been furnished on the outside with those appurtenances, obnoxious to all comfort, called bolts and bars. The house had been constructed when population was much thinner than at present, and when it was necessary that the dwelling of a magistrate, if situated far from any great town, should be provided with some place in which a prisoner might be confined for a few hours; for this purpose the room we speak of had been selected and fitted up, both on account of the distance at which it lay from the more frequented parts of the building, and of its proximity to a large old hall, which formed the extreme wing of the house, and topped the bank overhanging the river. This hall had often served, in cases of necessity, as a justice-room in the olden times; and though many years had elapsed since it had been employed on any very important occasion, yet even of later days it had been used for the meeting of magistrates and county functionaries, when anything caused them to assemble in that part of the country. The strong room, however, had never been intended for anything but temporary purposes, and was not at all calculated for securing a strong and determined prisoner for any length of time, as the windows, which opened into the park, were only closed by iron bars, which, as the peer had hinted, might easily be filed away from within, or forced off from without. These bars the boy took care to examine minutely as soon as he was taken back to the place of his confinement; and he then turned his eyes to the park beyond, to ascertain how far the plan he had to propose to Pharold would be recommended by the probability of its success. A grove of old oaks and chestnuts came up nearly to the windows, so that there was plenty of shade to conceal any one who approached, except in the full light of day. But as he gazed, the boy's thoughts were soon drawn away from the dark scheme which the peer had suggested to him by the sight of the world beyond his prison. Through the wide spaces between the trees the lawns and savannas of the park were to be distinguished, with other woods and groves beyond. The soft evening sunshine was sleeping upon the slopes and glistening on the river; and the deer were seen walking calm and free through the long dry autumn grass, while the call of the partridge sounded from some distant fields, and everything spoke of liberty, and happiness, and peace. The influence of the scene sank deep into his heart, as he stood separated from his people, barred in from the free and beautiful world, and, for the first time in his existence, confined to the close atmosphere of one small solitary room. It sank deep into his bosom; but, like the fabled amreeta cup of one of our truest poets, many of the sweetest things on earth are productive of good or evil according to the lip that tastes them. While he gazed, the passionate love of wild unrestrained liberty, and of nature, in which his heart had been nurtured from infancy, grew overpowering. To be free--to bound away over those sunny fields--to cast bars and bolts behind him--became a passion and burning thirst: better principles were wanting to teach him to endure; and had the price of liberty, at that moment, been a parricide, he would have dipped his hands in parental blood. Nerved by the passionate desire, he seized the bars of iron in his hands, and strove to tear them open; but their strength resisted all his efforts, and he burst into tears to think that he must remain another day in bondage. His eyes were still wet when the door opened, and the insidious prompter of the enterprise which had deprived him of his liberty entered the room. The youth, however, was, like the rest of the gipsies, ignorant that they had been betrayed; and although he had only seen the man once, he now received him gladly as an acquaintance and a friend. Their conversation lasted about ten minutes, and at the end of that time the emissary returned to the peer to report what had just passed. "Well, well," demanded Lord Dewry, "with what message has he charged you?" "A very short one, my lord," answered the man: "he bade me seek out old Mother Gray, or some of the women, and tell them to come down to speak with him at the window to-night; so, I take it, that won't suit your lordship's purpose." "Yes, it will," answered the peer. "He will, probably, employ the women to work upon the men." "Ay, ay, plough with the heifer," answered the other; "but I may as well, if your lordship has no objection, set them on the right track myself; and I will answer for it, I get them to persuade old Pharold to come down himself." "There is a very large reward offered," answered the peer, dryly, "to any one who will contribute to place him in the hands of justice; and if you are successful in the attempt you shall not lose the reward. But do you think you can find these gipsies?" "Why, from what Dick Harvey says, my lord," he replied, "I think there can be no doubt that I can find the women part of them, though, most likely, the men are hiding away--and no bad job either; for they might fancy I had some hand in the last night's job--but, howsomever, if I can find the women, they'll make the men do what they like easy enough. So, if your lordship will keep a good watch round the strong room, without letting the folks show themselves till they are sure of their man, I think we may calculate upon Master Pharold pretty certain." "In which case your reward is certain, too," answered the peer; "but now make haste upon your errand, my good man, for the sun will soon be going down, and you have but little time." "Oh, I don't dislike a walk in the twilight," replied the fellow; and, bowing low, but with a somewhat too familiar grin, he took his leave and retired. Lord Dewry immediately proceeded to give orders for a strict watch to be kept upon the windows of the strong room during the two following nights; and took measures that an ambush should be laid in the immediate vicinity, in such a manner that any person approaching could not escape; but, at the same time, he carefully directed that if none but women appeared, they should be permitted to go as they came, not only without molestation, but with every precaution to prevent the least appearance of unusual watch. This being done, he turned his steps towards the chamber of Sir Roger Millington, for whose life the unfavourable opinion of the surgeon gave him no slight apprehension. CHAPTER VII. The person against whom so many subtle contrivances were directed, on leaving Colonel Manners, as we have described in a foregoing chapter, turned his steps towards the wood in which his own companions had sought refuge after the unfortunate events of the preceding night. If the reader will cast his eye upon the county map, he will see that, avoiding Morley Down, he skirted along the hill, the summit of which it crowned; and then, after following for a little way that part of the high-road which traversed the little isthmus, in the neighbourhood of which he had saved the life of Isadore Falkland, he struck soon after into the forest on the right. As he came not from the same side on which his comrades had entered the wood, his search for them was not without difficulty; but it is wonderful with what keen tact persons accustomed to such scenes and circumstances take advantage of slight and apparently insignificant indications to guide them on their way. A branch brushed aside, a trodden-down flower, the sight, or even the smell of smoke, the least sound of the human voice, will each aid them in their search; and by means of this kind Pharold, ere long, discovered the little glen in which his whole party had found an asylum. At the moment he approached, had his keen mind not been engaged with many another thought, he might have remarked that there was some degree of bustle and consultation among the gipsies, which ceased as he came up. All, however, appeared glad to see him safe; and all crowded round to express the anxiety they had felt during his absence, and to question him as to the events which had befallen him. Lena hung upon his arm with evident pleasure at his return; but the fondness she displayed was more like that of a child towards a parent than that of a wife for a husband. In answer to the inquiries of the whole party, Pharold--after having seated himself in the midst, and demanded some refreshment, which was speedily procured--related, briefly, all that had occurred as far as his own perils went. Of Colonel Manners he spoke as of a stranger, and neither noticed their encounter nor his promise of again meeting him, though he told the group around that ere an hour was over he must again set forth on matters of import not to be delayed. "Well, I hope, at all events, that you are going to get poor Will out," said the old woman we have so often mentioned. "Poor boy! he has a hard fate." "I hope," said Lena, seeing that Pharold made no answer--"I hope--" but then she stopped, as if afraid of offending him. "And what do you hope, Lena?" said Pharold, gravely, but not so sternly as was often his wont. "I hope," she said, more boldly, but with the colour coming up in her brown cheek--"I hope that some means will be found to set the poor boy free, for I am sure he was not the guilty person." As she spoke Pharold gazed on her with such grave earnestness that her latter words faltered; and even after she had concluded he still kept his eyes fixed upon her in silence, till one of the men, who had accompanied Dickon on the deer-stealing expedition, joined into corroborate her words. "No, no," said the man, "he was not so guilty as any of us. Dickon persuaded the rest of us, and we persuaded him; but it was a hard matter to do so; and then, after all, he never fired a gun." "Well," said Pharold, "I have done my utmost to free him: but he is in the hands of our enemies, who are keen, and vigilant, and many; and I see no way of delivering him from them but by force, which I will not employ, first, because it would fail; and next, because it would be sacrificing many of the innocent to deliver one who, though less guilty than others, is still culpable. I see no other way." "Ay, but there is another way, Pharold," said the old woman: "they say that he is confined in what they call the strong room." "They say!" exclaimed Pharold, hastily--"they say! Some one has been with you: speak, who has been here? or has any one gone forth when I forbade it?" The old woman only grinned at having betrayed herself, as Pharold looked sternly round upon the circle; but Lena cast herself upon his bosom, saying, "Tell him the truth! Oh, tell him the truth! It is always better to tell him the truth! Well, if no one else will, I will. Some one has been here, Pharold--some one who has seen the poor boy in prison; and he told us all how wretched he is, and also he said that William himself had sent him to us to say, that if any one would come down to-night or to-morrow night to the window of the room where he is lying, they could easily wrench off the iron bars that kept him in, and set him free at once." "And who was the person that he sent?" demanded Pharold, sternly. "Why, it was just Harry Saxon, the game-sneaker," answered the old woman; "who else should it be?" "A dastardly villain!" said Pharold, hastily; "fit to betray us all: speak no more of it. I know that man of old, and would not trust him with the life of a child, if he could gain by its destruction." "He seemed honest enough in this business," said the man called Brown; "for he told us all how he had got in to see the lad, and how he had traced us hither. He took some blame to himself, too, in the business of the deer-stealing, for he was to have bought the venison from Dickon; and that was the reason why he went to see poor Will in prison, and was willing to do what he could to get him out. Now I would not promise to go till I knew what you thought of it, Pharold; but if you like, I will go down to-night, for, as to the man betraying us, you see I have no fear, because, if he had liked, he could have brought people to nab us all here. So I will go and try what I can do." "But did not Will say particularly," cried the shrill tones of the old woman, "that it must be some one who knew the place well, or they would get into a mess? If you go, Brown, you'll only get caught yourself, and spoil a hopeful plan for setting poor William free. There is no one that knows the place well but Pharold and I, because we know it of old; and as Pharold is afraid to go any more, I would go with all my heart, if I were strong enough to get the bars off: I could have done it once, as well as the best man among you; but I am an old woman now. As for that, Pharold knows the place better than I do a great deal, for he lived in that very house for many a month, and--" "Hold your peace, hold your peace, woman," interrupted Pharold. "The boy said to-night or to-morrow, did he not?" "Yes, to-night or to-morrow," answered Brown; "but to-night were best, for who knows what may happen before to-morrow?" "To-night I cannot go," answered Pharold, "for I have pledged my word to be elsewhere, and I do not break my word: but to-morrow I will go; and I think that, perhaps, after all, I may be able to set him free. In the meantime, however, you, Mother Gray, shall go down this very night, to reward you for all the share you have had in the matter. You know the strong room window, just in the angle, by the great hall. Get ye down thither at midnight; and tell the boy that I will come to-morrow night: bid him keep a good watch; and if he sees any one lurking about, as if watching, let him sing some of the songs that he sings so well, to warn me. You look out well, too, and mark everything about you, to tell me when I come back. You were never the wisest or the best, but I do not think you such a devil as to betray one wilfully." He looked sternly and keenly at her, but the beldam only answered in a jeering tone, "No, no, Pharold, though I love you as much as a young sparrow loves a cuckoo poult, I'll not betray you, man." "Go, then," said Pharold, "as soon as it is midnight: examine everything well; and tell the boy, through the bars of the window, that, although he deserves to suffer the consequences of his fault, yet we will do our best to rescue him for his youth's sake." It is always some consolation to those who lie under the command of a superior mind to be permitted to sneer at what they dare not disobey; and the old woman, while she listened, gave way to all those grins, and winks, and nods, the boldness of which she fancied might counterbalance, in the opinion of those around, her degradation in submitting quietly to the orders of one who treated her with such unceremonious censure. She was secured, however, by Pharold's scorn, against any notice of her malice, as far as he himself was concerned; and without seeming to observe the affectation of contempt with which she heard him, he turned to the rest, and gave directions for immediately removing their encampment to another spot. "Quarter of a mile farther," he said, "you will come to a clear stream, broad but not deep, flowing from the heart of the wood, over a bed of sand and small clear stones. You can drive the carts up through the water till you reach a place where the banks are flat; and there, under the oaks and among the hazel-bushes, you will find plenty of room and shelter. You, Brown, take every precaution you can to prevent the slightest trace being left of the course you have followed; make the people wade along the water--it is not deep enough to cover their ankles; send them, too, by different parties and in different ways; for remember that, because one of our number has killed two deer, the whole world, that hated us before, will now think themselves justified to hunt us down like foxes.--I can stay with you no longer, for the hour I named is near at hand--I am wearied and sad, and I feel as if the end were coming; but still I must keep my word, and do as I have done to the last." Some tears, from mixed emotions that would have defied analysis, had filled the eyes of the beautiful girl that reclined by his side; and as Pharold rose to depart, he saw them still glistening there. Taking her hand, he beckoned her with him, saying, "Come with me for a moment, Lena: I would speak with you." She followed, and for about a hundred yards he led her on in silence; and then, turning round, he pressed a kiss upon her lips:--"Remember me, Lena," he said, "when I am dead. Ever, at this hour, whatever may happen to you, whatever changes may befall, think of Pharold for a few short minutes; and mark what I tell you, each time you think of him--whatever you may feel now;--you shall regret him more, till, on your dying day, you shall love Pharold as Pharold now loves you. Remember, Lena, remember, remember!" and, turning away, he left her with her bright eyes dropping fast unwonted tears. Alas, alas! the constancy and resolution of youth, what frail things they are! and how fast the ephemeral feelings and purposes of the hour give place to others as frail and vain! When Lena turned away from Pharold, she had believed that for no boon on earth would she do aught that could offend him; but ere many minutes were over, she was listening to the persuasions of the old woman, that had led all those wrong who had confided in her, and was combating faintly and more faintly the arguments which age and cunning used to induce her to visit that night the place where her unhappy lover was confined. Lena listened and resisted, till she listened and yielded; and midnight found her standing with the old woman under the window of the strong room in Dimden Park. In the mean while Pharold pursued his way to rejoin Colonel Manners; but there seemed to be some bitter feeling sitting heavy at his heart. The light and agile step had become slow; the quick, keen eyes were bent thoughtfully upon the ground; more than one sad sigh burst from his bosom; and the spirit and the heart seemed to mourn. It might be that Pharold perceived that he was not loved; it might be that he felt he had set the whole fortunes of his being upon a hazardous chance; but as we have not paused to trace his love, we shall not dwell long upon his disappointment. Other feelings, too, such as, more or less modified by circumstances, will cross the mind of every imaginative and sensitive man, now rushed upon him, rendered tenfold more strong in his case than in that of others, by the prejudices of his people, and the wild and varying habits of his race. Feelings of superstition, and vague, rambling, fanciful speculations upon all those indications of human destiny, gathered from external objects, in which his tribe believe, now mingled themselves with jealous doubts and apprehensions, and appealed to his own heart for belief or rejection in his own individual instance. "I am coming to the crosses," he murmured, as he walked along--"I am coming to the crosses of life; and the end is not far off! I have seen those who obeyed me once, rise up against my will. I have been persecuted and hunted for faults not my own: I have been overcome by a creature like myself, with no odds against me; and I have learned to doubt those I love. Ah! and that she, too, should think of another! Woman, woman! Care, instruction, and kind reproof but offend thee! love and tenderness but spoil thee! Affection, and worth, and honour are to thee but as nothing! In danger thou clingest to us! In peace and security thou leavest us! The things which attract thee are the lightest of qualities and the vainest of transitory things; and with what cords shall we bind thee, even when once thou art caught? Vain, vain, empty butterfly! indifference and reckless carelessness are the things which win thee the most surely, and which most truly thou meritest." Such were the first outpourings of a heart jealous of affection; but as Pharold walked on, the belief that Lena's love might be given to another was softened by reflection, and he began to think he had done her wrong. He remembered the tears he had seen in her eyes; he thought of many a testimony of girlish regard which she had displayed towards him: he called to mind many of the finer traits of her heart and mind which had first attracted him, and which he had striven to cultivate; and he again began to trust that she would not suffer one thought to stray from him who had become her husband. The feeling of that vast disparity of age which existed between them did, indeed, ever mingle with such hopes, and, as it had often done before, disturbed his peace of mind by apprehension and doubt. "She will be the sooner free," he thought bitterly: "she will be the sooner free! God only knows how soon! for I feel a weight upon me, and a gloom, as if fate were coming near to me, and its shadow rested dark upon my thoughts. She will be free, and wed another, and be happy, and forget me, till pain, and sorrow, and anxiety come, till she wants the hand that used to protect her, till she requires the mind that used to guide her, and then she may think of Pharold, and grieve to think that he is lying beneath the cold and crumbling mould of earth, whence neither prayers nor wishes shall bring him back to her side again. Then she may remember, and perhaps weep for him who is lost to her for ever." With such sad and gloomy reflections Pharold amused the way, as, retreading the steps he had lately taken, he proceeded to fulfil his appointment with Colonel Manners. He was a man who gave, perhaps, as few thoughts to self and selfish considerations as most men. He was one of those who, in other circumstances and in other ages, would have as willingly devoted himself a sacrifice for his friend, or for his country, as any Greek or Roman that ever lived. But he was a gipsy, and born in an age when patriotism and friendship were equally considered as mercantile commodities; when men, having cast behind them the heroism of ancient Greece and Rome, and the chivalry of ancient France and England, were just beginning to dip themselves in a spirit of cold and selfish calculation, which, like the waters of the Carian fountain, emasculates all that is noble and energetic in human nature; and it is not possible to live among such times without feeling their chilling influence. Their influence, however, upon him was different from that which it had upon others; for his race, and state, and habits, all placed him without the circle of ordinary thoughts and sensations common to the rest of men. That he was moving among cold and selfish beings, he felt; that he was acting upon principles different from theirs, he could not but know; and he despised them because he did know it, hating them the more because he was one of a scorned and injured race, to which he clung with the greater tenacity because it was scorned and injured. But when he met with a spirit congenial to his own, when he found that he could love and could trust, all the deep, the noble, the generous feelings of his original nature burst through every band of times, and circumstances, and nation, and habit; and he was no longer the gipsy, the sullen hater of every race except his own, but a creature endowed with noble powers of mind, and gifted above all with that gem from heaven, an upright and enthusiastic heart, which would have honoured any land, or age, or people. The direction which it took might sometimes be wrong, the reasonings that guided it might wander upon wild, and prejudiced, and eccentric theories; but the principle was always good, and the purpose was always generous. Thus, although he thought for some part of the way upon himself, and upon the cares and griefs that thronged around him, his mind soon turned to other objects; and the desire of serving and of soothing others was strong enough even to withdraw his thoughts from the powerful grasp of individual sorrows, always far more potent in their selfishness than joys. As he approached the spot where his unsuccessful struggle had taken place with Colonel Manners, he felt, it is true, some sort of bitterness of heart, to think that he had been overcome. Vanity will have her share in all; and happy it is--ay, even more than we can expect--when she changes not the pain of her wound into hatred of those who have inflicted it. Manners was already on the spot, and the first words of the gipsy were those of human kindness. "How is she?" he asked, abruptly. "How is the young lady? You have seen--you have told her all is well, of course?" "I have," answered Manners, "and her heart is greatly lighter, though she will remain still anxious and unsatisfied till I have with my own eyes seen her cousin, and can report to her the state of his health." "Fear not, fear not," answered the gipsy; "I have promised to take you to him, and there is not that power under the heavens which should ever induce me to break my word, while I am capable of performing it." "I do not fear, in the least," answered Manners: "I knew perfectly that you would keep your promise, and confidently assured the family at Morley House that you would lead me to De Vaux this night. I need hardly tell you how much joy that assurance gave them, and how much gratitude they felt to him who made the promise." "Speak not of gratitude!" answered the gipsy--"speak not of gratitude! I only regret that from the first I had not foreseen what pain might fall on some of the good and kind, and that I did not assure myself of how I ought to act. But if you knew, gentleman, what a life I have led for the last three days, you would easily make excuse for some forgetfulness of others--a life so different from that to which we are accustomed. We come in sunshine, and pitch our dwelling in the warm bosom of nature, with beauty all round us, and neither care nor strife among ourselves; but now we have been hunted, and sought, and had to change our dwellings from place to place; and in order to provide that we left no traces of our way, we have been forced to double like a poor hare before the accursed hounds, to think every footstep the signal of an enemy, and every rustle of the leaves to look upon as the indication of an ambush. I fear me, too, I fear me that their persecutions are not yet over. But let us on: here lies our road." "I trust," said Manners, following him--"I trust that as you are able to clear yourself in this business of my friend De Vaux, all the other suspicions against you will be found equally groundless; and then you may follow your way of life once more in peace." "No, no," answered the gipsy, "he would persecute me still. Once he has made a false accusation against me, and he will never abandon it as long as he and I are on the face of the same earth--never, never! I know him too well." "I do not clearly understand of whom you speak," answered Manners, keeping by the side of the gipsy, although the pace at which he had set off seemed accelerated at every step by the angry feelings that he was stirring up in his own bosom. "You do not name the person. Whom do you mean?" "Whom should I mean?" answered the gipsy, sharply. "Whom but him who, born with violent passions and a haughty nature, was bred a lawyer, in order that dark cunning should be added to a bold spirit and a shrewd mind. I speak of Lord Dewry; and I tell you that he will never cease to persecute me. Does he not now hold in fast confinement a boy of our people whom he well knows to be innocent?" "There is, certainly," answered Manners, "a gipsy-boy confined at Dimden, for I saw him there this morning; but Lord Dewry, as well as all the people of the neighbourhood, informed me that he had been taken in an attempt to steal the deer in the park." "He was not present," said the gipsy: "he saw not the beast slaughtered by the mad-headed fools that did it, any more than I did. But he keeps him because he is a gipsy-boy, not that he thinks him guilty. And so, you saw him, did you?" continued Pharold, striving, with a slight mingling of the artful cunning of his people, to discover what Manners knew of the situation of the young gipsy--"so, you saw him? and, doubtless, he is to be sent soon to the county-jail, to die of imprisonment and despair at losing his blessed freedom." "I did not hear any mention of such an intention," answered Manners. "Every one present joined in accusing the youth of direct participation in the deer-stealing; and he himself kept so obstinate a silence, that there was no possibility of drawing from him even a word that might exculpate himself." "And do you call it obstinate silence to refuse to answer either the subtle or the idle questions of his enemies?" demanded the gipsy. "There is the mistake into which your people fall too often, and with too fatal an effect," answered Manners. "You consider us, on all occasions, as your enemies, and act towards us as if we were such, instead of endeavouring to make us your friends, which might often be accomplished--always, I might say, with good men, were your actions to tend to that purpose. In the instance you speak of, the principal questions were addressed to your young companion by myself. Their object was solely to elicit some news of my friend De Vaux; and, had he answered them frankly, he would have made a friend who might have rendered him service." "And he refused to answer?" demanded the gipsy. "Not exactly refused," replied Manners; "but answered only by an unmeaning monosyllable, or kept a profound silence." "He did right!" cried the gipsy; "he did right! The boy is more deserving than I thought him; he merits an effort." "We judge very differently," answered Manners: "I thought he did very wrong; and had he given me the information I sought, it is more than probable that I should have met you with very different feelings from those with which I at first saw you this night." "He did right, he did right!" cried the gipsy. "Would you have had him betray secrets intrusted to him? or was he to judge what I might think fit to be revealed? No, no: silence was his best security against discovering, through fear or through folly, those things, the value of which he knew not. He has shown both more prudence and more resolution than I thought he possessed. However, he could have told you nothing, for he knew nothing--not even the path we are now treading." "Well, then, his candour would only have served to give a favourable opinion of himself," Manners rejoined, "without injuring you, or betraying your confidence." "How can you tell that?" cried the gipsy--"how can you tell that? how could he tell it either? Might you not have led him on to other things? Might you not have wrung from him, if he had spoken candidly, as you call it, one admission after another, till you had discovered all that he could tell. Oh, we know your artful ways, your examinations and cross-examinations, which would make an angel of truth and wisdom seem like a liar and a fool. We know your skill in making men reveal what they would not, and speak two apparently opposite truths, without allowing them to give the explanation; so that they seem to contradict themselves at every word. We know you; and we have one way, and only one, to disappoint you, which is silence. You can make naught of that." Manners saw that, where both the principles and the course of the reasoning were so different, discussion was of very little use; and he consequently made no reply to the gipsy's tirade, feeling, however, at the same time, that there was a portion of truth in what he said, which it would be difficult to separate from the great mass of prejudice with which it was combined. Pharold, however, wished the conversation prolonged upon the same topic; for with all the frank generosity of his individual nature, the habits and the character of the gipsy still modified and influenced the other qualities of his heart and his mind. His character, as a man, was open and candid; but the gipsy often acted, to render it stubborn and sullen when oppressed, or even wily and artful when some peculiar object was to be gained. He now greatly desired to obtain from Colonel Manners, as a sincere and independent person, some information concerning the exact situation of the boy William, both in order to guide more surely any efforts made for his liberation, and to correct the report of the old beldam, whom he had sent down to inquire, and of whose purposes and views he entertained many a doubt. He did not choose, however, to let his design become apparent, and therefore approached his object with a careful art, which was not a part of his natural, but rather of his acquired character. "Poor boy!" he said, as soon as he perceived that Manners did not reply--"poor boy! I am sorry for him. He has never known anything but liberty, and the enjoyment of all the free, wide, beautiful world; he has never known what it is to have fetters on his young limbs, or to be shut from the air and light of heaven, in some dark and gloomy dungeon." "You must not let your imagination draw such a picture of his situation," answered Manners, who, having nothing to conceal, was easily led in the direction the gipsy wished. "The boy is not and cannot be in such a state as you suppose. He has no fetters upon his limbs, and, in all probability, is as well treated as a proper regard for his safe custody will permit." "It will be pain and grief enough," rejoined the gipsy, "for one who has never in his life been debarred from turning his steps in whatsoever direction he thought fit--who has never been cutoff from the sight of nature, and the breath of the free air, since his eyes were first opened upon God's heaven and earth, and the breath of life was breathed into his nostrils--it will be pain and grief enough for him to be thrust into some dark and gloomy dungeon, perhaps under ground, or, at all events, looking into some dull stone-built court, where he can see nothing on any side but the hateful walls that keep him in, and the sly, dastard faces of those that watch him." "Of course," answered Manners, "as I am nearly unacquainted with this part of the country and with Dimden Hall, I cannot be aware of the nature of the place in which the lad is confined. A dungeon it is not, certainly; for such things are now, thank God, quite out of the question. It appeared to me, too, that there was no such thing as a court to the dwelling-house; and that, therefore, wherever he may be placed, he will be able to see the face of nature, which you love so much. But you yourself--at least, all I have heard would lead me to suppose so--must know Dimden Hall far better than I do, and perhaps may be aware of where the strong room is; for it was to it that I heard Lord Dewry direct him to be taken, after we had in vain tried to gain any information from him." "If he be there, he may do well," answered the gipsy; "but probably they will remove him to the county-jail, and there he will have sad and bitter hours enough." "I should certainly think that they will not do so," answered Manners, "if what you tell me in regard to his innocence of all participation in the actual slaughter of the deer be correct. The magistrates will, of course, investigate the matter, and seek full evidence of the facts, before they either commit the boy, or even send him off to the jail, which, I understand, is many miles distant; so that it is much more probable that he will remain where he is for the present." The gipsy saw well that Manners spoke without disguise, and that he had, in fact, nothing more to tell in regard to the situation of the prisoner. However, he had gained at least the certainty that the lad was confined in the strong room, which he knew well; that he was not likely to be speedily removed, and that he was not encumbered with fetters to impede his escape. Lest he might have been so secured, Pharold had entertained some fear, as he knew that blood had been shed in the encounter between the deer-stealers and the keepers, and thought it more than likely that the peer would strive to prove the lad William to have been an actual participator in that part of the unfortunate affair, and would treat him accordingly. His next anxiety was to know what was the state of the men who had been wounded, and what was the exact charge against himself, in regard to the affray in Dimden Park, as well as what evidence had been given to inculpate him. He had found so much frankness in the replies of Colonel Manners to his former inquiries, however, that he now quitted the artful path which he had taken, and spoke more boldly of his own situation. "I would fain know," he said, after he had walked on about two hundred paces farther in silence--"I would fain know how I stand in regard to that false accusation which my enemy brought against me, respecting the slaughter of his pitiful deer. As I passed through the country this morning, after quitting his park, I gained some tidings; but when I first met you, gentleman, to-night, you told me that though I might be guilty of other things, you knew me to be innocent of that. If you be, as you seem to be, a friend to justice and humanity, you will tell me how you know that charge to be false, that I may prove it so, too, by some proof that will be better received than the mere oath of my own people." "I can have no objection whatever," Manners answered, "to tell you at once how I was led to the conclusion that you mention. There were two persons wounded in that unfortunate affair--one a gentleman who is now lying at Dimden, and another a keeper, who was removed from the park to his own cottage. As I found that the surgeon had confined his attention to the person at Dimden, whose wound is far the most dangerous, I went down to the cottage of the keeper to inquire how he was going on--" "Good and kind, good and kind!" interrupted the gipsy, with one of those bursts of vehement feeling to which he at times gave way. "Ah, I see and understand it all! The mercenary manufacturer of diseases and maker of men's ills remained with the gentleman, who could pay him for his fancied skill, and left the poor man to do the best for himself; and you went down to comfort him whom the other had neglected." "Not exactly so," answered Manners: "the wound of the one was much more severe than that of the other, and the surgeon staid where his presence was most necessary. I went down, however, and sat with the poor fellow some time; and he distinctly informed me, not only that you had not been present when the deer were killed, but that you were coming up and calling to the others not to fire at the moment that the guns went off. He said, too, that if it had not been for your interference, there would have been far more bloodshed; and I strongly advise you, should there ever be any investigation of this business, to call the keeper Jones as a witness to establish your innocence." "While I can keep my liberty," said the gipsy, "they shall never hold me in their gripe. Besides, he would find witnesses enough to swear away my life, if he were to bribe them with half his fortune. But the wounded men--are they likely to die, did you say?" "I trust not," answered Manners; "and with care and attention, the wound of the keeper will not prove even dangerous. The other gentleman I did not see, but I hear he is much more severely hurt." "What is his name?" demanded the gipsy. "Sir Roger Millington, I think, was the name," answered Manners; "but I did not pay it any particular attention." "Sir Roger Millington!" repeated the gipsy, musing--"Sir Roger Millington! I do not know him; and yet it sounds in my ears like a word spoken in a dream. Oh yes, yes--I remember now: it was to him that the money was owing." "What money?" demanded Manners, in some surprise. "Never mind," answered the gipsy; "but, be sure, if that man dies, my enemy will find means to make me out his murderer. Mark that, gentleman, and remember hereafter." "It is impossible that he can do so," answered Manners, whose confidence in British justice was much stronger than that of the gipsy. "I understand that there were eight or nine people present. One of them, who has suffered severely, has already borne witness to your innocence; and, depend upon it, that among the rest, you would find plenty more to do the same. But it strikes me as extraordinary, I do confess, that you should seem to apprehend much more evil from an affair in which you can easily exculpate yourself, than from a charge which, referring to matters long gone, and to circumstances of which there could be but few witnesses, must be much more difficult to be met in a satisfactory manner--I mean the charge of having killed the late Lord Dewry." "I will tell you why, I will tell you why," answered the gipsy. "In regard to this business, he can prove something against me: that I was in his park without right--at a suspicious hour--when persons were committing an unlawful act; and those people my own nation, and my own comrades. He may make out a plausible tale, and a little false swearing would easily do the rest. But in regard to the other, I laugh him to scorn; for why? because, when I will, I can blow the cloud away, like the west wind when it sweeps the mist from the valleys--because I can dispel it all, and prove my own innocence beyond a doubt, by proving who it was that did do the deed!" "Do that," answered Manners, eagerly--"do that, and, beyond all doubt, Lord Dewry will forbear every other proceeding against you." "Would he, indeed!" cried the gipsy, with a contemptuous laugh--"would he, indeed! Yet, perhaps, he might: but I will tell you, gentleman, if I did do so, I should not stand in need of his forbearance. But I will not do it; no, never! not if they were to cast a mountain upon me, it should not crush that secret from my heart till the right hour be come." "Indeed!" said Manners; "that is a strange determination; but, however, you act and reason upon principles so different from those that influence ordinary men, that it is useless to inquire why you run great risks yourself, with motives apparently very slight." "I do it because it is written in the book of that which I am to do," answered the gipsy. "But you say right; we do act and we do think upon different principles; and it is useless to inquire into mine, for you would not understand them; and yet I hold you to be a good man--better than most--braver--wiser than the great part of your fellows. Had you not been both brave and wise, you would never have learned from me what you are to know to-night--the fangs of tigers would not have torn it from me by any other means." "I hope," answered Manners, with a smile, "that the secret will not be kept much longer unrevealed; for we have already walked several miles, and our fair friend, the moon, is going down to rest, as if she were as tired as I am." "And who that sees her sink," said the gipsy, turning round as Manners spoke, and gazing for a moment on the setting orb--"and who that sees her sink shall dare to say that he will ever see that calm and splendid sight again? She goes, we know not whither, travelling alone upon her oft-trodden path--the path that she has walked in majesty through many a long century, looking unmoved upon the strifes and joys of nations who now have left us nothing but their ruins and their tombs. She saw my people live and rule in other lands.[6] She has seen them bow the necks of proud and haughty enemies beneath their chariot-wheels. She has seen them fall day by day, till they are but a scattered remnant, dashed like the foam of a broken wave over the lands around, while their temples and their palaces, their homes and their altars, are the dwellings of the wolf and the jackal, that howl beneath her light. She has seen them--mighty and nothing; and, perhaps, when our bones are whitening beneath her beams, in the long wide vacancy of after times, she may also see the despised nation reinstated in its glory, and forgetful of the rod of the oppressor; but you mind not such things--you look upon us merely as wandering outcasts of some unknown race." --------------------- [Footnote 6: All the various tribes of gipsies, scattered throughout different parts of Europe, undoubtedly possess a tradition of the former greatness of their people; and whenever they can be brought to speak upon the subject, adhere strictly to the story told by the first of their nation that appeared in Europe, and maintain that their original country was Egypt; some calling it _Lower_ Egypt, some _Upper_ Egypt--a distinction worthy of remark, as it seems to evince a real knowledge of the land that they claim as their own. The learned have endeavoured to trace them to the Indian caste of Parias; and Sir William Jones, I think, has pronounced many of the words in their language to be pure Sanscrit, which fact would afford the strongest proof that they are not of Paria origin. Besides this, I have been assured by a learned friend, who passed many years in India, that gipsies are sometimes to be met with in Hindostan, and appear there as much a race distinct and separate from any of the native tribes as they do among the nations of Europe.] --------------------- "No, indeed," answered Manners; "you do me wrong. I have always looked upon your people with much interest and curiosity. There is a sort of mystery in their history and their fate that will not let any one, who thinks and feels, regard them with indifference." "There is a mystery," answered the gipsy--"there is a mystery; but it matters not. This is not the time to solve it;" and--as every person who has ever conversed with one of the more intelligent and better informed of the gipsies must have remarked as their invariable custom when spoken to either upon their language or history--he suddenly turned the conversation to other things, content with the vague hints of brighter times and more extended power, which he had already given. Manners endeavoured more than once to bring him back to the subject, but the gipsy pertinaciously avoided any approach to it. Nor was his companion more successful in an endeavour to lead him to the subject of De Vaux, in regard to whom Pharold pointedly refused to answer any questions. "You will know very soon all that you can know about the matter," he replied; "and I do not choose to speak at all on subjects where I might speak too much." Manners pressed the question no further, and followed in silence. They had some time before crossed the summit of the rise above Morley House, skirting along the woods, and had descended into a valley on the other side, which, though not so deep as that in which the principal events we have related took place, sunk sufficiently below the level of the neighbouring hills to render a considerable ascent on the other side necessary ere the travellers could be said to have passed the chain of high grounds which separated that county from the next. This eminence, also, they had surmounted, when, as Manners had observed, the moon might be seen sinking below the dark line of the distant horizon. The aspect of the country was here very different from that on the other side of the hills; and although the light of the setting orb was not sufficient to display distinctly the various objects in the landscape, yet the long lines of light and shade that varied the wide extent below their feet gave Manners the idea of a rich and softly-undulating country, spreading for many miles without any considerable eminence. From the spot where they then stood the road, which they had now gained, wound through some young plantations down towards the plain; but ere they had finished the descent the moon was lost below the horizon, and the eye could no longer trace any but the objects in its immediate vicinity. Manners remarked, however, that along the young plantings were neat trimmed hedges, and that clean shining white gates gave entrance into the fields which they skirted. A dry raised footpath, too, rendered walking easy; and ere long he passed one of those friendly milestones wherewith most civilized governments have condescended to solace the longings of the weary traveller, as he plods on, anxious to know his distance from the expected rest. Just at the same moment, too, a village clock, with its kindly bell, tolled the hour, sounding clear and calm upon the still night air; and Manners, though without any great object in doing so, paused to make out the inscription of one hundred and some miles from London, and to count twelve, struck distinctly on the bell of the clock. "Will not this be a very late hour," he asked, turning to the gipsy, who had paused also--"will not this be a very late hour to visit my poor friend, especially if he be ill as you say in body and in mind?" "We will see that presently," answered the gipsy: "if he sleep, so much the better. You can wait till tomorrow. My part of the errand must be done to-night, or never; for something at my heart tells me that I shall not long be able to walk whither I will throughout the world." Now, although Colonel Manners, with the firm determination of pursuing the adventure to the end, whatever might come of it, had gone on with the gipsy boldly, and had conversed with him as calmly as if they had both been in a drawing-room, yet it is by no means to be supposed that he refrained from speculating upon the place and circumstances into which his enterprise might lead him; as in this instance he saw the necessity of letting imagination range free, so long as she had reason for her guide, in order that he might be prepared for all. While they were on the hill, and near the woods, Manners imagined that he would most likely find his sick friend under the care and attendance of some separate party of gipsies; and, of course, fancy employed herself in thinking what could be the train of events which had brought about so strange a result. But as they descended into a more highly cultivated and evidently well-peopled track, he began to doubt whether it was such a spot as gipsies would choose for their habitation, and, consequently, whether De Vaux would be found in the hands of any of Pharold's tribe. Imagination had now, of course, a wider, field than before; and his surprise--or whatever the feeling may be called which is excited by circumstances we cannot account for--was still greater, as they began to pass through the scattered houses and small neat enclosures which mark the approach to an English country town. At length the gipsy stopped at a gate, opened it, and bade his companion pass in. Manners did as he was desired, and found himself standing on a neat gravel walk, with a shrubbery on either hand, plentifully provided with laurels, hollies, and many another evergreen. The gipsy followed; and the walk, skirting for a couple of hundred yards round a trim, smooth, shaven green, brought them in front of a neat house, built of brick, and evidently modern in all its parts. Plate-glass, a-well-a-day! did not in those times decorate even the houses of the greatest in the land; and the dwelling before which they now stood, although it was clearly the abode of affluence, had no pretensions to be any thing more than a handsome house of the middle rank. It might be the new-built rectory of some wealthy parish, or the place of retirement of some merchant who had had wisdom enough to seek repose at the point where competence stops short of riches; but it had no one circumstance which could entitle it to affect the name of the Mansion, or the Hall, or the Abbey, or the Castle; and in those days the word cottage had never yet been applied to designate a palace. It had its little freestone portico, however, and its two low wings, in the windows of each of which there were lights. It was evident, therefore, if this was the place where Manners was destined to find De Vaux, that, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, there were other persons awake in the house besides those who might be supposed to watch in the chamber of an invalid. As they came near the gipsy advanced a step before his companion, and rang the bell. A few minutes elapsed without any one appearing to answer the summons; but just as Pharold was about to repeat it, the door was opened by a servant, carrying a light, which was almost instantly extinguished by the gust of wind which rushed into the unclosed door. There had been time enough, however, for the man to recognise Pharold, and to bid him come in, as if his visit were a thing of course; and in the moment that the light had remained unextinguished, Colonel Manners could distinguish the countenance of the servant, the features of which, he felt convinced, were not unknown to him. "Come in, sir," said the gipsy.--"Is there any one in the parlour, John?" he added, turning to the man as Manners entered. "No one, Mr. Pharold," answered the servant, intones that were still more familiar to Manners's ear than his features had been to his eye. "My master is in the little room beyond." "Then walk in here, sir, and wait for me one moment," said the gipsy; and Colonel Manners, without question, walked into the dark room, of which Pharold had opened the door, and waited patiently to see how all the strange affair in which he was engaged would end. CHAPTER VIII. The room was, as we have said, quite dark, with the exception of a narrow line of light, which found its way under a door on the opposite side of the chamber; and by the time that Manners had been there two minutes he heard voices speaking in that direction. What was said by the first speaker, whom he concluded to be Pharold, did not make itself heard in the apartment where Manners stood; but the moment after another voice was distinguished, saying, in a louder tone, "You have done wrong, you have done wrong, Pharold. My mind was still undecided; and this will force me to act whether I will or not." Pharold's voice replied at considerable length, and was apparently still going on, when the other exclaimed, hastily, "But, good God, did you not let her know? Did you not send her the note I despatched to you for that purpose?" "What note? When did you send?" demanded Pharold, eagerly, "I had no note." "This is most unfortunate," replied the other. "I sent up a note to you, intended to be conveyed to her for the purpose of putting her mind at ease; and it should have reached you beyond all doubt; for I gave it, with my own hand, to the youth Dickon, yesterday morning, when he came with the message from you." "Ay, that is it, that is it," answered the gipsy. "I chose him as my messenger to keep him out of evil; but ere I could get back to my people, I found that, on some pretence, strangers on horseback were watching for us on the common, and I betook me to the wood again. But they set a watch round the wood; and it was long ere I could slip through unseen; and when I did so, and got to the tents under Dimden wall, I found that this very Dickon had seduced several others to go and shoot the deer in the park. Deer were killed, the keepers were met, blood was shed, and I drove the offender out from among us, that he might not lead others again into evil, and draw down the rage of the powerful upon us. Thus I saw him but for a moment, and he went without giving me your letter." Now Manners, although he could not help hearing what was passing, had a great objection to so doing; and he had therefore from the very beginning contrived to make as much noise as possible, by every means that suggested itself, in order both to render the sounds which reached him indistinct, and to make the speakers aware that their conversation might be overheard. Their first eagerness, however, prevented them from taking warning; but at length their tone was lowered, and for the next five minutes Manners heard nothing further than a low indistinct murmur, which sufficiently showed that the conference was continued, but did not betray the matter thereof. At length, however, the second voice spoke louder, in the sort of marked manner with which one ends a private conversation, by words which have little meaning to any ear but that of the person to whom they are addressed. "Well, well, it is time that such a state should be put an end to! As to this other business, there is nothing to fear from Colonel Manners: I know him well, as I told you before; and were I to choose any man in whom to confide, it would be him. Now rest you, Pharold; rest you while I go and speak with him. Would to God that you would quit this wandering life, and now in your age wisely accept from me what you foolishly rejected in your youth from one long dead; but rest you, as I have said, and I will return in a few minutes to hear out your account." Pharold's reply was not distinct; but the next moment the door opened between the two rooms, and Manners was joined by a gentleman whom we have seen once, and only once, before in the course of this history. It was, in short, the same hale, handsome old man whom we last heard of conversing with the gipsy Pharold, in the beginning of the first volume of this book, who now advanced with a light into the dark room in which Manners had been left. He could not be less than sixty-three or four years of age; but his frame appeared as vigorous as if twenty of those years had been struck off the amount. His figure was tall and upright, and his step had in it a peculiar bold and firm elasticity, that spoke the undiminished energy of both mind and body. He was, in short, a person whom, once seen, it would be difficult to forget; and although the light he carried dazzled Manners's eyes a little, yet the instant he entered the room his visiter advanced towards him, holding out his hand, and exclaiming, "My dear Sir William Ryder, I am delighted to meet you again, and to meet you in England." "Not less delighted than I am to see you, Manners," answered the other, "although we meet under somewhat strange circumstances, and though I am obliged to bid you, for a short time, forget that I am Sir William Ryder, without forgetting that I am a sincere friend. My name, for the present, is Mr. Harley; and now, having introduced myself as such, let us sit down, and talk over old stories." "But, first, my dear sir," said Manners, "a word or two of new stories, if you please. I am most anxious to inquire after my poor friend De Vaux, though no longer anxious in regard to his situation, now that I find he is in hands so kind and so skilful as yours. Indeed, the first sight of your servant, though I caught but a glimpse of him, set my mind at ease regarding my poor friend, as far as it can be at ease till I hear how he is, and what is the matter with him." "He is better, he is better," answered Sir William Ryder; "and so far banish all anxiety, for he will do well. I know such affairs of old; and as he has been neither scalped nor tomahawked by any of my children of the Seven Nations, I will answer for his recovery. But I dare say you wonder at his being here with me; and, indeed, it is altogether an odd coincidence, for I can assure you that it is by no plot or contrivance of mine that I have got you and him once more under my roof together, when the last time we so met was in my wigwam on the very farthest verge of the inhabited world." "But first tell me what is the matter with him," said Manners; "and then I will put all sorts of questions to you, which you shall answer or not as you think fit." "What is the matter with him!" cried Sir William Ryder; "did not my friend Pharold tell you that he had got a pistol-shot in his side, which had broken two of his ribs?" "Good God! no," cried Manners: "I am excessively sorry to hear it; but how did it occur--in a duel?" "No," answered the other; "no: he did it himself; but understand me--not intentionally--he is not such a fool. However, he will do well: the ball has been extracted; he has very little fever: no organ important to life has been touched, and all promises fairly." "But, indeed, my dear Sir William, you must tell me more," said Manners. "How did this happen? for though I have seen accidents enough of different kinds, yet I cannot understand this affair at all." "Why, I do not very well know how to explain it," said the other, musing, "without entering into unnecessary particulars. However, the fact is this: he went out at night, it seems, to see my friend Pharold, who, I need not tell you, is no ordinary person. However, your friend did not know his character or his worth, and he placed a brace of horse-pistols in his bosom. He must certainly have had one of them cocked, too, though he will not acknowledge it: but the end of the matter was, that he heard some very bad news; and being, like all his race, subject to violent fits of passion, he cast himself down like a madman, the pistol went off, and the shot was within a few inches of his heart. Pharold, who was present and alone, did not very well know what to do with him; but carrying him in his arms as far as he could, he called some of his own people, bound up the poor boy's wounds as well as circumstances admitted, and brought him here, knowing that in other years I was upon terms of intimacy with his father, and loved him still, notwithstanding one or two little causes of misunderstanding between us." Manners listened in silence, and he certainly did not forget the terms in which Lord Dewry had spoken of the very person who now alluded so mildy to him; but as he was by no means fond of making mischief upon any pretence, and knew that Sir William Ryder was not a man in whom personal fear would act as any check upon resentment, he felt no inclination to mention one word of the peer's vituperation of his former friend. At the same time, the kindly tone in which Sir William Ryder spoke did not at all lead Manners to believe that he was the person in fault. The thoughts which crossed the gallant officer's mind, however, must have had some visible representatives in his countenance; for his companion looked at him with a smile, adding, "I know well what you are thinking--that probably Lord Dewry does not speak so gently of Sir William Ryder as Sir William Ryder does of him. I have heard so before. Nevertheless, Manners, I shall not call him out, and amuse the world with two men of sixty fighting a duel. Nor is Colonel Manners one to think the worse of me for acting as I do, nor to doubt my motives, though my conduct be a little eccentric. Is it not so, my friend?" "It is, indeed," answered Manners; "and be you quite sure, my dear sir, that so firm is my confidence in your honour and integrity, from personal knowledge--which is better than all the gossip in the world--that I would never hear the name of Sir William Ryder mentioned with disrespect without taking the liberty of resenting it." "I believe you, I believe you, Manners, from my soul," answered his companion: "but to return to our poor friend De Vaux--as soon as he was brought here, I of course sent for the best advice that was to be procured, the ball was extracted, and, as I have said, he is better. He is at present, I am happy to say, in a sound and comfortable sleep; but if you will take up your abode with me till to-morrow, you shall see him, and judge of his condition for yourself. A room shall be prepared for you immediately." "I will willingly lie down to take a little rest," answered Manners. "But let me beg you, my dear sir, to have me called as soon as De Vaux wakes, and is willing to see me; for I left a poor young lady, his cousin--and there are ties of affection stronger than those of mere relationship between them--waiting anxiously to hear some tidings of him; for until this very night we have all imagined him murdered." "Ah, poor girl, poor girl!" said Sir William Ryder, in a tone of deep sympathy. "She must have suffered dreadfully, I am afraid; but I can assure you that her having been kept even an hour in suspense is neither to be attributed to me nor to her cousin. His first thought was of her, his first words, after he saw me, were to beg that I would instantly write to her, in order to tell her what had occurred, and to sooth her mind as far as possible. Nay, more, though suffering much pain till the ball was extracted, he insisted upon writing a few words with his own hand, to comfort her as far as possible. Though I would fain have prevented an exertion which might injure him, I loved him for his obstinacy, Manners. The note was sent to Pharold, with directions to forward it to her; but neither note nor directions, it seems, ever reached the gipsy." Manners could not refrain from saying, "It would have been better to have sent it direct to herself, Sir William. You must remember, my excellent friend, that you are no longer among your children, as you call them, the Indians, and that you will meet with another class of vices and virtues also here. What you would trust to a Mohawk, if he promised to perform it, and feel convinced that nothing but death would prevent its execution, is not at all to be confided to a common messenger in England, and--" "I know all that, my friend, I know all that," interrupted his companion; "but I had no choice. At that time I was not at all certain whether I should let any one know that I was in England or not; and had I sent the note direct to Morley House, such a communication must have been opened as would instantly have put an end to my incognito. One messenger might have failed me as well as another, and it was owing to an accident which no one could foresee that the note was not delivered. So much for your rebuke, Manners," he continued, smiling; "but now tell me how the poor girl is; for the first question of my patient, when he hears that you are here, will be, How is Marian de Vaux?" "Alarm and agitation had rendered her seriously ill," answered Manners; "so much so, indeed, that the medical man found it necessary, during the whole of yesterday and this morning, to keep her feelings deadened, as it were, by laudanum--to the great risk of her health, as he acknowledged--but it was the lesser of two evils." "Sad, sad, indeed!" cried Sir William Ryder, rising from his seat, and walking backwards and forwards in some agitation--"sad, sad, indeed! and I am afraid that I have had something to do with the whole business; but I trust she is better now--poor girl! I am grieved, deeply grieved. But say, Manners, how was she when you left her?" "Infinitely better, I am happy to say," answered Manners; "for your friend Pharold permitted me to inform her that De Vaux was safe at least, though he tied me down to strict conditions. That piece of news, of course, relieved her greatly; but not so much so as to set her mind at ease, till she hears tidings from me of her cousin's exact situation, which I trust to be able to give her early to-morrow." "Undoubtedly, undoubtedly," answered Sir William Ryder. "Nay, if you think it would be any great comfort to her, we will send off a man on horseback this very night, to calm her with further assurances." "Unless," answered Manners, "I may be permitted to say that you will give herself and Mrs. Falkland a welcome to visit De Vaux in person, I think that I had better not send, but wait till I can communicate some further information myself." Sir William Ryder hesitated. "I am afraid," he said--"I am afraid that will be impossible, just at present. But she will believe your assurance, of course; and I think that you may venture to tell her that her cousin is under kind and careful hands, by which nothing will be neglected to promote his speedy recovery." "I will certainly give the fullest assurances of that fact," answered Manners. "But what reason am I to assign for her being debarred from seeing and attending her cousin, when I have been admitted? She will certainly think it mysterious." "As you do, Manners," said Sir William, with a smile. "But listen to me, and I will tell you several of the many reasons which have brought me back to a land which I have abandoned for long years; and out of those reasons you shall see whether you can find a motive to assign to Miss De Vaux for my mysterious conduct. In the first place, I, like most men, have some friends and relations; and I was seized with a longing to see them, to assure myself with my own eyes of their fate and their happiness, ere I laid my head down upon its last pillow in another land. The same longing seized me about twelve years since, but then I resisted; for long ago I had met with a sad and severe blow in my private happiness, which led me to forswear, in the bitterness of my heart, any of those ties and affections which are but so many cords to bind us to sorrow and disappointment. In various matters, about that time, I had acted wrong; and I felt that a voluntary expatriation was a good atonement. When I went, therefore, I resolved never to return; and when, as I have said, twelve years ago, the longing to see friends and relations, and scenes that I once loved, seized me, I resisted, strengthened, in so doing, by a feeling that my return to England might be painful to some whom I did not desire to pain, and would only re-awaken, in my own bosom, feelings that had better sleep. Now, however, many other motives have been added to this longing, which returned upon me this spring with more force than ever. I wished eagerly to raise such a sum as would purchase a large tract of land on which to settle for ever, without danger of molestation, the remnant of a nearly-destroyed tribe of Indians, who, after having been massacred and ill-treated by every other white man they met with, at length attached themselves to me, and were living round me like my children, as you saw." "I did, indeed," answered Manners; "and I trust that you will let me aid in your noble design." "I do not know that it will be necessary now, for I am likely to take other measures," answered Sir William. "My own private income was not sufficient, though I had saved out of a thousand a year, which was all that I possessed, sufficient to lay a good foundation; but I also wished the British government to interfere for the more general and powerful protection of the Indians, and this was one reason of my coming. I longed too, as I have said, to see many of my relations and friends; but I wished to do so privately. There were two persons, especially, of whom I was desirous of bearing more than I could in America. One--over whom I hold some power, from various transactions in the past--I wished to watch closely for a short time, and treat him according to his merits. The other--who, though more independent of me, I could raise up or cast down as I pleased--I desired to sift thoroughly, to examine every trait in his character, to probe every feeling in his heart, with the resolution of leaving him, ultimately, to happiness, if I found him noble and true; but at the same time to give him a severe lesson, which might crush early some failings; some peculiar evils in his disposition, that would, if suffered to remain, lead hereafter to misery, to himself and others. Various occurrences have taken place since to alter or derange these plans; and, as we are from day to day the creatures of circumstances over which we have no control, I am now waiting for some decisive event to determine for me a line of conduct which I find some difficulty in determining for myself." "I am afraid, Sir William," answered Manners, "that even if I were to explain all this in your own words to Miss De Vaux, she would still be as much perplexed as ever; and I have often remarked, that in the minds of the timid--especially where there is real cause for uneasiness--everything that is doubtful and mysterious is interpreted into afresh cause of apprehension and alarm. Besides, according to my contract with your acquaintance Pharold, and the stipulations which you have yourself implied, with regard to your name, so far from explaining all these motives, I am not even to disclose that I have seen you." Sir William Ryder paused for a moment or two in deep thought; and Manners, seeing that he was embarrassed, added, "Perhaps, Sir William, the best way for me to act will be, to give Miss De Vaux a true account of the state of her cousin's health; to tell that I have seen him, but to add that, from particular causes, which I must explain hereafter, I can neither inform her where he is, nor enable her to see him. I have always found it best, wherever I have been embarrassed with any mystery of my own--which, thank God, has been seldom the case--to meet the matter at once, and say, _I will not tell_, without entangling myself in half explanations, which do me no good, and only serve those, whose curiosity or feelings are interested, as materials for imagination to build up visionary castles withal." "Perhaps you are right," said Sir William: "but stay yet a moment! A word or two more with our friend in the next room--I mean the gipsy--may decide my conduct." Manners smiled at the sort of counsellors by whom he had found his friend surrounded in both hemispheres. When first he met Sir William Ryder, he had seen him every day in deep consultation with Indian chiefs; and now his principal reliance seemed to be upon gipsies: but, at present, that somewhat eccentric personage was disappointed in his purpose of calling Pharold to his councils; for when he opened the door--which led into a small neat study, with a table covered with papers, money, and lights, in the midst thereof--he found the room untenanted by any living thing. "I had forgot," he said, turning back with a smile--"I had forgot that one half-hour in the air of a close room is too much for Pharold's endurance. He is gone, and I must send for him when I want him." "You seem to place more reliance on him," said Manners, pointing to the heaps of gold and papers on the table, "than most Englishmen would upon one of his race." "I would trust him, I may well say, with untold gold," answered Sir William Ryder; "as you would, Manners, if you knew him as I do. He has corresponded with me in America for twenty years; and one might be glad if, in the highest ranks, one could find so exact, so true, and so punctual a correspondent." The reader, who has already received much information concerning things of which Manners was ignorant, may easily understand some of the motives of a correspondence between two persons so different in station. Manners also had by this time discovered that his friend's acquaintance with the gipsy was certainly not of yesterday; yet there was still sufficient matter, both new and strange, in what he heard, to make him, not only feel surprised, but look it also. Sir William Ryder, however, who probably did not wish to give any further explanation, instantly led the conversation away, saying, "But to return to what we were speaking of, Manners. I must soon come to some determination; and, perhaps, I have been weak in not forming one already: but there are spots of weakness in every one's heart, as there are spots of madness in every one's brain; and I have my share, of course, of both. However, I will limit myself to a time; and when you return to Morley House, you may tell the poor girl, that though it is judged expedient that she should not see her cousin to-morrow, yet on the next morning the old gentleman with whom he is--Mr. Harley, remember--will be very happy to receive her here, together with her aunt, as I suppose she will be afraid to venture on such an expedition alone. If," he added,--"if I should find reason to change my present purpose, I can but affect the barbarian, and be absent when the ladies come." "Such tidings will, indeed, give joy and peace," answered Manners: "but before I go to-morrow, I must take care to ascertain where your dwelling stands; for, coming hither at night, and across the country, I am totally ignorant of everything concerning the spot where I now am, except that it is more than a hundred miles from London, which I found out by a mile-stone on the road." "We are in the environs of the little town of ----," replied his companion; "and by the road about seven miles from Morley House. I saw that this little place was to be let, as I passed by one day, immediately after my return, and took it at once, on various accounts, although I did not know how much it might prove of use to poor De Vaux. And now, Manners, to your rest; for, although I am a late watcher, you look fatigued, and are in need of repose." "I am somewhat fatigued," answered Manners, "although I have not had any very great cause; but the fact is, the mind is sometimes like a hard rider, and knocks up the body before it is aware. I have been all this morning either with Lord Dewry, examining a gipsy boy--taken last night in a sad deer-stealing affray at Dimden--in order to ascertain whether I could discover poor De Vaux, or pursuing somewhat fiercely your friend Pharold, against whom, by-the-way, warrants have been issued on three different charges." "On three charges, did you say?" demanded Sir William Ryder: "on three! He only mentioned directly one charge against himself, that of having murdered this poor lad, which must now, of course, fall to the ground." "The other charges were," answered Manners, "first, that he had been engaged in the deer-stealing, wherein, I am sorry to say, blood was spilt--but in regard to that I pointed out to him a means of proving his innocence; and, secondly, that many years ago he was either a principal or an accessary in the murder of the late Lord Dewry, who was killed by some unknown person at a spot not far from Morley House." It would be difficult to describe the effect that these few words produced upon the countenance of Sir William Ryder. His eye flashed, his brows contracted, and he bit his lip hard, till at length some feeling of contempt seemed to master the rest, and his emotion ended in a bitter and a meaning laugh. "And pray," he asked, "who is it that has brought this last charge against him?" "None other than the brother of the murdered man, Lord Dewry," answered Manners: "he says he has proofs of the gipsy's guilt." "They have been long in manufacturing!" answered Sir William Ryder, sternly: "I will tell you more, Manners,--as there is a God of heaven, the gipsy is innocent, and he shall be proved so, let the bolt light where it may. Proofs! Out upon him! Falsehoods and villany! But he shall learn better; for I will not stand by and see the innocent oppressed, for any remembrances that memory can call up." "You speak more harshly than ever I heard you, my dear Sir William," answered Manners; "but perhaps you have cause which I do not know of, and into which I certainly shall not pry. However, this nobleman is, as you know, De Vaux's father, and, ere we part for the night, you must tell me how I am to act towards him; for the gipsy stipulated that I was to tell him nothing concerning his son's situation, without your consent. May I tell him where De Vaux is, and under whose care?" Sir William Ryder paused, and he thought for several moments, with the same bitter smile which Manners's information had called up still hanging upon his lip. "Yes," he said at length--"yes, you may tell him where his son is; and you may tell him to come and see him and me as speedily as he thinks fit: but call me still Mr. Harley, for there might be something unpleasant to his ears in the name of William Ryder, which might prevent his coming. Say that Mr. Harley, the old gentleman to whose house De Vaux was conveyed after the accident he met with, will be happy to see him at any time he may name." "I am most delighted to have your permission so to do," answered Manners; "for, to tell the truth, it would have placed me in rather an awkward position in regard to Lord Dewry, had you refused to let me give him full tidings of his son." "He will not much thank you," said Sir William Ryder--"he will not much thank you! But, nevertheless, let him come, let him come! Perhaps, after all, this is the best way we could have devised of bringing an unpleasant affair to an end." "I trust it may prove so," answered Manners; "and that the time may speedily come when you will find it not unpleasant to unravel all the mysteries which have been crowding lately so thick upon me, that I begin to feel confused among them, and hardly know who are friends and who are enemies." "Though I have the clew in my hands," answered Sir William, pursuing more the direction of his own thoughts than that of Manners's last observation--"though I have the clew in my own hands, there is one thing puzzles me as much as the rest seems to do you: it is that a youth so full of high and noble feelings as Edward de Vaux should be the son of such a man as his father; yet, thank God, he has many a goodly fault too, or I should begin to doubt that he were his son." "It not unfrequently happens," rejoined Manners, "that where the heart is originally good, the errors of the fathers serve as examples or as landmarks to the children; as the masts of some wrecked vessel often serve to warn mariners of the shoal on which she perished." "And _his_ heart was originally good too, I do believe," answered Sir William Ryder: "I mean the father's," he added, thoughtfully. "Well, indeed, may his example serve to show to what, step by step, we may reduce ourselves, as one vice lashes on to another." Manners smiled. "Nay, nay, Sir William," he said, "you are doing the worthy lord somewhat less than justice, I think. I never heard of his being troubled with any of what the world calls vices: pride, indeed, and wrath, and irascibility, he is not without: but, setting aside these gentlemanly peccadilloes, I never heard of any vices; and from what I have seen of him, I should say that, whatever he may have been in the days past, he has now sunk down into a very disagreeable old gentleman--that is all." "That is all!" cried Sir William Ryder, starting up, and laying his hand upon Manners's arm, while he fixed his eyes intently upon him--"that is all!" but suddenly breaking off, he resumed a calmer look and tone, and added, "But we have not time, to-night, to discuss characters. I am but keeping you from your rest." Manners did not endeavour to carry on the conversation; for, in all such matters, it was his rule to let people go on just as far as they liked, but to press them no further; and although he certainly was not without some feeling of curiosity in regard to the connection between Sir William Ryder and the father of his friend De Vaux, yet he well knew that the only way to come honestly at a secret is to be totally careless about it. The bell was now rung, and Manners was conducted to a room which the servant who had given him admission, and who was an old acquaintance, had with laudable foresight prepared for his use, looking upon it as certain that a visiter who arrived at twelve o'clock at night was not likely to depart before the next morning. Everything had been carefully provided that he could want or desire; and Colonel Manners, who enjoyed, perhaps more than most men, that inestimable blessing of a heart at ease in itself, lay down to rest, and was soon in a deep slumber. His repose was not disturbed till the gray of the next morning, when he was roused with the intelligence that Captain De Vaux was awake, and would be very glad to see him. He was not long in obeying the summons; and, after a soldier's toilet hastily made, he rang for the servant, and was conducted to the apartment where his wounded friend lay. There is something always melancholy in entering a sick-room in the early morning, even when it is to see returning health coming back into a cheek we love. The cheerful light of the young day, finding its way through the chinks of the shutters, and mingling with the faint but inextinguishable glare of the night-lamp, the pale and sleepy guardian of the sick, the book with which she has striven to while away the hours of watching, and scare off sleep, half-open on a table loaded with drugs and fever-cooling drinks, the warm, close atmosphere, and the drawn curtains, all bring home to our own hearts that painful conviction of our weak and fragile tenure upon health and comfort, and all that makes life pleasant, which we forget in the bright and hopeful light of day. In the small dressing-room, through which Manners ducted to the chamber of his friend, he found a surgeon who had been brought from London, and who had passed the preceding night in close attendance upon the patient. He was luckily one of those men who can form an opinion, and will venture to speak it; and in answer to Colonel Manners's inquiries respecting De Vaux's real situation he replied at once, "There is no danger, sir. He will do perfectly well. I should advise, however, as little conversation as possible, and that of as cheerful a kind as may be, for it may retard recovery, if it do not produce more serious evil." Manners promised to observe his caution, and entered the room. De Vaux smiled faintly when he saw him, and held out his hand, though he moved with evident pain. "This is a sad accident, indeed, De Vaux," said Manners, sitting down by his bedside; "but I am delighted to hear from the surgeon that it is likely to have no bad consequences, and to be speedily remedied." "I should be ungrateful to say that I am sorry he thinks so," answered De Vaux, in a melancholy tone; "and yet I can hardly make up my mind to rejoice." "Nay, nay," said Manners, "I will not hear you say so, my friend. You can have heard no tidings, you can be placed in no situation, De Vaux, which should make you forget that you are surrounded by people who love you for yourself, and are worthy of your love--who would love you still, under all or any circumstances--that you have friends, relations, ties of every dear and intimate character that can make health and life a blessing, if you are willing to receive it as such. Nor should you forget that there are others who may well be dear to your heart, and whose whole happiness for life is staked upon yours." "Oh yes, poor Marian," said De Vaux: "I am, indeed, ungrateful; for such a treasure as that should compensate for everything. But tell me how she is. Tell me all about her, Manners. When did she hear of this accident? and how has she borne it?" Manners, though it can scarcely be said that he was puzzled how to answer, yet felt that, with a man of De Vaux's character, it was somewhat a delicate task, especially as, from what the surgeon had said, it might be expedient not to tell his friend the full extent of what Marian had suffered. He was too well aware of De Vaux's fastidiousness not to let him know that Marian had felt as deeply on his account as he could possibly think she ought to have done; and yet Manners did not wish to pain and alarm him by telling him how much she really had undergone. "You ask me to tell you a long story, De Vaux," he answered, after a moment's thought, "longer, I am afraid, than your worthy surgeon will consent to your hearing at present; but the truth is, in consequence of some other accident or mistake, we never did hear of what had occurred to you at all." "Good God!" cried De Vaux, "when with my own hand I wrote to Marian as much as I could write. I do think that servants and messengers were made for the very purpose of breaking people's hearts, or teasing them to death by carelessness." "In this instance, however," said Manners, "it seems that there were various causes which prevented the delivery of your note; and the consequence was, that, from your unexplained absence, and several other accidental facts which came to our knowledge, we were led to conclude that you had been murdered. I, of course, instantly took arms to avenge you, as in duty bound, and, backed by warrants and gentlemen of the quorum, I have been galloping about the country ever since; so that, in fact, I have seen scarcely any thing of the family at Morley House, and less than all of your fair cousin Miss De Vaux, whose very first apprehensions rendered her so unwell that she has kept her room almost ever since." "Good God!" cried De Vaux: "how she must have suffered! Poor dear Marian! Would to God that I could go to her--but I am afraid that I could not ride." "Ride! Do not think of it for an instant," cried Manners, "and make yourself easy about Miss De Vaux. Last night, I, for the first time, obtained news of your safety, which did her more good than all that the god of medicine himself could have done. Nay, I do believe that she would have walked over here with me in the middle of last night, if it had not been that her own ideas of propriety, or, perhaps, her fears of your notions thereof, prevented her from undertaking such a task under such an escort." De Vaux smiled. "You are severe upon my fastidiousness, Manners," he said; "but that is one bad quality which, I trust, I shall be able to cast away with many others. I have had some hard lessons lately, Manners, enough to bow down the pride of him of the morning star; and, perhaps, I may have more yet to undergo: but, at all events, my vain fastidiousness is gone for ever; so that one good is gained by misfortune." "As it often is, my friend," answered Manners: "nevertheless, I think Miss De Vaux was very right to stay where she was; especially as she herself was far from strong, and I did not know whither I was about to go; for my friend the gipsy, who conducted me hither, is a man of mysteries. However, you owe him thanks for one service that he has rendered to another fair cousin of yours, Miss Falkland, whom he saved from drowning, at the risk of his own life." De Vaux had drawn his hand over his eyes when first Manners mentioned the gipsy; but he removed it again, and looked up with pleasure at the tidings of Isadore's escape, though he asked no account of the accident. "Poor Isadore," he said, "and poor Marian, too, for God knows what we may both be called upon to suffer. Manners, my brain is in such a whirl, with various doubts, and fears, and anxieties, which I can neither explain to others nor unravel myself, that I must, indeed, endeavour to banish all thought of my own situation, and of my future prospects, if I wish to recover." "Well, then, by all means banish all thought," answered Manners. "It is seldom that I can be accused of giving such advice; but for a man in your situation I think it absolutely a duty to cast from him every memory, and every reflection, which may tend to impede his recovery, trusting and believing that, in those circumstances where we have no power to deliver ourselves, the Almighty Disposer of all things will act for us far better than we could act for ourselves." "I must e'en think so," answered De Vaux, in whom corporal weakness and exhaustion had deadened the first sense of misfortune. "Sir William Ryder, indeed, bids me hope, and tells me that things must and will go better than I anticipate: but we speak to each other in enigmas; and till my mind and body are capable of clearer thought and greater exertion, I must, I suppose, rest satisfied with assurances, the foundation for which I can in no degree perceive." Manners, now anxious to lead his thoughts away from any more painful subject, gave him a brief, light sketch of his own proceeding in search of him, and all that had occurred since he had left Morley House: but, warned by what had already passed concerning the gipsy, he kept a watchful and a friendly eye upon the countenance of his friend, skilfully turning to some other part of the same subject as soon as he perceived that what he said was beginning to produce the slightest uneasiness. He was surprised to find, however, on how many points De Vaux was susceptible of pain. The mention of his own father affected him as strongly as the mention of the gipsy; and many a casual word, which seemed in itself to be innocent or kind, made him shrink as if some one had laid a rough hand upon his wound. Beginning at length to fear that his conversation was doing his friend more harm than good, Manners rose, adding, "And now, my dear De Vaux, I think I have remained as long with you as friendship can require, or gallantry permit, considering that there is a fair lady, very dear to you, watching anxiously till I shall return and tell her that I have seen you with my own eyes, and that you are living, not dead; recovering, not dying. The good people here, for various reasons, will not hear of her coming to you to-day, but they assure me that to-morrow you will be able to see her: so that I think I can then promise you a visit; and hope to find that you have in the interval regained much of the health and strength that you have lost." "I will not ask you to stay longer, Manners," said De Vaux; "for I am too confident of my dear Marian's affection not to feel sure that the tidings of my probable recovery will be the best consolation she can receive; and tell her, Manners, I beg, that the only happiness I anticipate in life and health is that of seeing her again." "I will tell her how happy it will make you," answered Manners; "but without any of the melancholy adjuncts, if you please, De Vaux. I will not spoil the best tidings I have had to tell for some time by such a number of unpleasant negatives as you attach to them; and so, fare you well for the present." "Manners, Manners," said the voice of De Vaux, ere his friend reached the door, "there is one thing which I had forgot. Do not on any account let Marian think that this wound which I have received was the consequence of any intentional act of my own hand. Bid her be sure that, whatever may have occurred, I was not fool enough or cruel enough to her to think of such a thing. Explain to her the accident as I dare say you must have heard it, and tell her that though they say the pistol must have been cocked when I put it in my bosom, I have not the slightest remembrance of its having been so." "I will tell her all," answered Manners; "but do not fancy that she will ever dream that you did do it intentionally. If you were a forlorn and solitary being like myself, destined to go through life in single unblessedness, people might suspect you; but with so many ties at present, and so much happiness to look forward to, you would be worse than a madman to throw away, not only the crown of life, but all the jewels with which fate has adorned it for you." De Vaux gave him a melancholy look, but only added, "You do not know all, Manners!" and suffered him to depart. As he was crossing the hall in search of some one who could inform him whether Sir William Ryder was yet awake, he met the object of his search, booted and spurred, as if returned from riding. "You keep your old habits, I see, Sir William," said Manners, as they met. "You must have been up and out full early, indeed." "Mr. Harley; remember, my dear colonel, Mr. Harley I am for the present," replied the other. "I never sleep before one, nor after five--a habit which was acquired in sorrow and in bitterness, but which I would not now lose for half an empire. But have you seen our poor friend?" "Yes, I have," answered Manners; "and find him better in body, at least, than I had even hoped. In mind, however, he is very much depressed; and without inquiring, or wishing to inquire, my dear sir, into the connection which may exist between your affairs and his, allow me to say, as some connection does certainly exist, that I am sure whatever will sooth and quiet his mind will tend more than anything to restore him to health. Whatever, on the contrary, depresses him, as he now is, will not only greatly retard his recovery, but may, I am afraid, have, remotely, very bad results upon his constitution. I hope that I do not take too great a liberty with your friendship," he added, seeing a cloud come upon his auditor's brow. "Not in the least, Manners, not in the least," answered Sir William: "I was only thinking what I could do to relieve the poor youth's mind. I am afraid I somewhat mistook him, Manners, when I saw him with you in America; I am afraid I did not half see the nobler and finer qualities of his mind, concealed, as they were, under an exterior of frivolous fastidiousness. But I can assure you, that anything on earth I can do to set his mind at ease I will do; and I will go and assure him thereof directly and solemnly." Manners detained him for a single moment, to borrow a horse, and to explain the motives of his early departure for Morley House; and then suffering him to proceed, in order to sooth and calm the mind of his wounded friend, he himself took his way to Mrs. Falkland's, glad to bear tidings to those who stood so much in need of them. Marian was watching at the window as he galloped up; and there was something in the rapid pace at which he came, in the light and agile motion with which he sprang to the ground, and flung the rein to the servant, which spoke joyful tidings. Manners was soon in the drawing-room; and the news he bore was not long in telling. He related all that he had seen, and all that he had heard of her cousin's accident and situation; and although we cannot deny that he softened a little the pain he suffered, and the grief which seemed to oppress him, Manners told her the truth, though he told it kindly. Marian's face was alternately the abode of smiles and tears during his narrative, and during the manifold answers which he gave to her questions, and again and again she thanked him for all his energetic interest and feeling kindness, and prayed Heaven sincerely that De Vaux and herself might have some opportunity of returning it as he deserved. Manners only interrupted a conversation which was not without interest to himself, and was so deeply interesting to her, in order to inquire for her cousin, and to put many a question concerning Miss Falkland's health, after the accident of the preceding night. He was still in full career, when she herself entered, somewhat paler but not less gay than ever; and although she declared, and persisted in the declaration, that she was bound by every rule of propriety to fall in love with the gipsy who had rescued her, and to tender him her hand and heart, Manners felt sincerely rejoiced that Pharold had been the person to come so opportunely to her aid. Isadore, indeed, as she recollected one or two words which had been spoken on the preceding evening, coloured more than once when Manners addressed her; but she knew him to be a generous man, and she determined to trust to his generosity for the result. Mrs. Falkland soon after joined the party; and the house of mourning was changed into a house of joy. Nothing more remained but to write to Lord Dewry, informing him of his son's safety; and this Manners undertook and executed, keeping in mind the engagement he had come under to Sir William Ryder, regarding the concealment of his name. A servant was instantly despatched to Dewry Hall with the note: but on reaching that place he found that the peer had returned early that morning to Dimden, and thither he then bent his steps; but arrived too late to give Lord Dewry even the option of visiting his son that night. CHAPTER IX. Dimden Park--a spot which had been hated and avoided by Lord Dewry ever since it fell into his possession, on account of its many memories--some painful in themselves, some painful in their associations--had, by this time, not alone been revisited by its master, but had been occupied by him, with a part of his general household, as if for the purpose of longer residence. Such a state of things had been in no degree contemplated by the peer, either when Manners left him, or when he himself terminated his conversation with the gipsy boy who had become his prisoner; but another conversation had succeeded with another person, to whose chamber we must now follow. The first object of Lord Dewry being to get the gipsy Pharold into his power--trusting to his previously arranged schemes to work his will with him when he had him there--it was natural that he should turn his whole efforts to accomplish his capture before he attended to anything else. The moment, however, that all the means had been employed for that purpose which circumstances permitted, his attention instantly returned to the plans which he had concerted in order to prove the object of his hatred and his fear guilty of the crime imputed to him, when he should be ultimately taken. The execution of these plans materially depended upon Sir Roger Millington; and for his safety and recovery the peer's next aspirations were consequently raised. As soon, then, as he had dismissed the affair of the boy, and had seen the treacherous scoundrel he thought fit to employ for the purpose of inveigling the gipsy to his destruction set out upon his errand, Lord Dewry turned his steps towards the chamber of the wounded man, sincerely grieved for the accident which had happened to him, and most anxious concerning its ultimate result. Calculating, however, with nice acumen, the irritable selfishness of sick people, he trusted not to the personal vexation which he really felt to give his air and countenance the appearance of grief and sympathy; but as he walked slowly up the stairs, he thought over every point of the part he was to play, in order to cover his individual motives from the eye of the wounded man, and make him believe that sincere interest in his fate and sufferings was the sole emotion which affected his friend and benefactor. At the door of the chamber to which Sir Roger had been conveyed, the peer paused for a moment; and then laying his hand upon the lock, turned it, and entered with as noiseless a step as possible. The windows were darkened; but there was still enough light in the room for the eye to distinguish the table covered with surgical instruments and bloody bandages, and all those appliances and means for saving life which man so strangely combines with the most skilful and persevering activity in taking it. There was the bed, too, and the half-drawn curtains, and the gentleman in black, sitting by the bolster, while a young prim assistant walked about on tiptoe, for the soothing dose or the cooling drink. A deep groan was sounding through the room as the peer entered; and although he was, and always had been, a man of nerve, without any corporal terror at the thought either of pain or death, there was something in that sound, and all the accessory circumstances around, that made a sort of shudder pass over his frame. It were difficult to guess in what feelings that shudder took its rise. It might be, alone, the natural repugnance of the human heart to anguish and dissolution--it might be that he thought of his son--it might be that he remembered his brother, for there were chords of association between the fate of each, and the situation of the man he came to visit, which, like the strings of the Eolian harp, might well be moved to a thousand vague and melancholy sounds by the slightest breath that stirred them. He advanced, however, lightly towards the bed, and stood by the chair, whence the surgeon rose as he approached, ere the wounded man was aware of his presence. Sir Roger Millington was lying on his left side, with his face turned away, and his right hand cast over the bed-clothes; and it was not difficult, from the slow clenching of his hand, and the rocking motion of his head, to see the intense agony he suffered. The peer paused, and gazed for a moment with some emotion--not, indeed, without a mingling of better feelings--compassion, and sympathy, and disinterested grief, such as he had not known for many years. It was better than all the acting in the world; and when Sir Roger, whom no persuasion of the surgeon could induce to lie still, turned round with the quick and irritable movement of high fever and excessive pain, he saw the peer standing by him, with an expression of sincere sorrow which could not be mistaken. A groan and a fearful contortion followed the change of position; but when the first agony was over, he looked pleased to see the countenance of Lord Dewry; and said, in a voice wonderfully strong and firm, considering his situation, "Your lordship is very kind--I am badly hurt, I am afraid--those accursed gipsies took too good an aim--damn me, if I do not think the shot must have been red hot, it gives one such torture. I have been wounded before, but never felt anything like this. Do you think I shall die, my lord, ey?" "Heaven forbid," cried the peer, sitting down; "on the contrary, I trust the very pain you suffer evinces that you are in no danger; for I have always heard that mortal wounds are generally the least painful. Is it not so, Mr. Swainstone?" "Yes, exactly so, my lord," replied the surgeon, who would probably have confirmed anything on earth that the peer said to sooth his patient. "I had told the gentleman so before your lordship arrived." "You never told me so," cried Sir Roger, looking up at him angrily. "Yes, indeed, sir, I told you that I hoped and trusted you would recover," answered the surgeon; "and one of my reasons for thinking so was the very pain you suffer; for, as his lordship very justly and wisely observes, wounds which--" "But that damned parson," cried Sir Roger, "told me I should certainly die--a foul-mouthed, old, hooded crow!" "What parson?" demanded the peer, in some surprise and dismay at the very idea of Sir Roger Millington being brought in contact in his dying hours with any one who might lead him on to dangerous disclosures; "what parson does he mean?" "Oh, only good Dr. Edwards, my lord, the rector," answered the surgeon. "He came to give the gentleman religious consolation; but he did not exactly say that he would certainly die. He said that he would certainly die at some time; and that even, if he were spared at present, it would be better for him to turn his thoughts to serious things, so that, if he recovered, the wound might prove salutary to his mind at least." "Yes, yes; but he thought, and he meant me to think, too," cried Sir Roger, "that I was dying, and that I could not recover. I knew well enough what he meant--the canting old crow; but I'll live, curse me if I do not, if it be but to pay those hellish gipsies for this torture to which they have put me. I beg your pardon, my lord, for being somewhat violent; but I am in agony, perfect agony." "I grieve most deeply and sincerely, my dear friend, to see you suffer so much," answered the peer; "and I will take care that no such fanatical irritation be intruded upon you again. Dr. Edwards is a very good and well-intentioned man, I dare say; but I will not have a sick and wounded friend tormented for any rector on the face of the earth. In the mean time, however, I trust that this state of anguish is not likely to be of long endurance. What do you think, Mr. Swainstone? Can nothing be done to alleviate it?" "I have done as much as I could, my lord, to effect that purpose," answered the surgeon, with a very significant shrug of the shoulders; "and I doubt not, in a few hours, the gentleman will feel the pain begin to subside." "That is the best news I have heard from you yet, doctor," said the wounded man. "But do you not think you can extract the ball? I do not believe I shall be easier as long as that remains in me, burning like a coal." "O yes, you will," answered the surgeon; "and it is necessary to let the first irritation subside, before I make the attempt again. Were I to try it now, it might increase all you suffer, and prolong it, perhaps, for many hours." "Then you shall not touch it, depend upon that," cried Sir Roger; "I suffer quite enough already." "In the mean time, Mr. Swainstone," demanded the peer, "let me inquire whether a little quiet conversation with a friend is likely to injure your patient; for I would even deny myself the pleasure of remaining with him, though I much desire it, if you thought it would prove in any degree hurtful." "Not in the least, my lord," answered the surgeon; "a little cheerful and interesting conversation, such as your lordship's must always be, would, most likely, withdraw his mind from himself, and rather do him good than otherwise." "Then I will relieve you in your attendance upon him for half an hour," rejoined the peer: "and your assistant can wait in the next room, in case Sir Roger may want any surgical aid. But, remember," he added, in a louder tone, "in case I do not see you again, I beseech you to give your whole time and attention up to my friend here, and shall esteem it the greatest favour that any one can confer upon me, if you bring him safely and speedily through this unfortunate affair." The surgeon bowed; and promising to do his best, proceeded to quit the apartment with his assistant. The peer then, suddenly seeming to remember something, followed into the anteroom, and, closing the door, beckoned him back. "I wish to know, Mr. Swainstone," he said, in a low but emphatic tone, "your real opinion of my friend's case. You said just now that the pain would subside in a few hours: do you think that likely to be really the case? for I see that you have spoken under some restraint." "It will certainly be the case, my lord," replied the surgeon, gravely; "but only from the coming on of mortification, which cannot be long ere it occurs." "Good God! then you think he will die?" cried the peer, in real alarm. "I do think so, my lord," answered the surgeon, "without there existing in my mind one hope of being able to prevent it. The fact is this, my lord: the ball entered his right side; and passing directly through the muscles of the back, was only stopped by the articulations of the ribs and the vertebrae, both of which have been so much fractured and injured, that there is neither any possibility of extracting the ball, nor any chance of its remaining there innocuous, as is sometimes the case." "Then how long do you think life may be protracted?" asked the peer, anxiously. "It is impossible to say to a day or two, my lord," answered the surgeon. "It may be over in a week; and, on the contrary, he may linger ten days or a fortnight." "Then you do not think that there is any chance of immediate dissolution?" demanded Lord Dewry. "None, none whatever, my lord," replied the surgeon. "All hemorrhage has ceased long. First mortification will ensue, and then--" "Spare me the description," said the peer; "but tell me, in case of its being necessary to transact any business of importance with this unfortunate gentleman, when do you think will be the moment in which it can best be done?" "Why, I should say, in the beginning of the mortification," the surgeon replied. "All his faculties will be clear and active, and the great bodily pain which he is now suffering will have abated." "Well then, Mr. Swainstone," rejoined Lord Dewry, "I shall trust you to give me notice of the precise moment at which you judge it expedient that this poor gentleman's declaration, on oath, regarding the transactions in which he has suffered, should be taken down. At the same time, let me caution you not to alarm him, or suffer him to be alarmed, by the thought of death; but keep his spirits up, as far as possible, till it shall become absolutely necessary to let him know that all hope is past." Thus saying, the peer returned into the room of the wounded man; and the surgeon withdrew, wondering who Sir Roger Millington could be, towards whom the cold and proud Lord Dewry displayed so much courtesy and warm regard. The peer, in the meantime, approached the bed of the sufferer with a more cheerful countenance; and assured him, in answer to some rather anxious questions, that the real opinion of the surgeon was more favourable than he had even expected. "I have given orders, too," added Lord Dewry, "that no more fanatics be admitted to you. There are a crowd of those weak fools about the country, who haunt sick-rooms; and very often, by depressing the mind and spirits, cause those persons to die who would otherwise have recovered." "Oh, I'll not die for any of them," answered Sir Roger; "I'll live to have revenge on those gipsies. They marked me out especially; and I will live long enough to show that, though I was so badly hurt, I could mark them too, and remember them to their cost." "Did you see Pharold, then, among them?" demanded the peer, eagerly. "Was it he who fired the shot?" "I saw Pharold plainly," answered Sir Roger; "and can swear that he was among them. So can the man that held me up in his arms, after I was wounded; for he pointed him out to me, and I will swear to him anywhere." Joy glistened in the eyes of the peer while he listened. He had had doubts, he had had apprehensions, lest the testimony of his keeper against the gipsy should remain unsupported by other authority; and he had not left unremarked Harvey's implication that some of the other persons present differed with him in their account of the affair. But the assertion of Sir Roger Millington was conclusive; as he well knew, from his own former experience as a lawyer, what an effect the dying declaration of a murdered person always has upon a jury. During the last twenty-four hours he had sometimes doubted whether he had or had not somewhat too intricately complicated his plans, in his eagerness to snatch at every thing which gave an additional chance of security; but now he congratulated himself that he had acted as he had done, and fancied that if he confidently and boldly pursued them, his mind was sufficiently acute to guide each of the schemes he had engaged in to the same great end and object,--the ensuring his own security by crushing those who could destroy it. He now felt armed at all points. By the transactions of the preceding day he could prove the impossibility of his having committed the crime which he believed that Pharold would cast back in his teeth; and from the events of the preceding night he felt secure that if the gipsy should even be cleared of the murder of his brother and of his son, the last charge, in regard to the violence in Dimden Park, would be made good against him, and lay his dangerous lips in the silence of the grave. But in his eagerness to secure this advantage beyond the power of fate, Lord Dewry somewhat outran discretion. Without giving either himself or Sir Roger time to pause, he exclaimed, eagerly, "Will it not be better, my dear Sir Roger, at once to make a declaration, upon oath, of your recollections concerning the affair of last night?" Sir Roger Millington looked at him suspiciously. "Do you think me dying, or do you not. Lord Dewry?" he demanded; "for if I am not dying, but likely to recover, I shall have plenty of time to make the declaration when I am not in such pain, or give the _vivâ voce_ evidence, which is much better in a court of justice. So let me know the truth, my lord." Lord Dewry saw that it was in vain to hope he would make the declaration he desired unless he believed himself to be dying; but the peer had a keen knowledge of human nature, and saw all the dangers which would attend the disclosure of his real state to Sir Roger Millington. He knew that men who have confronted the chance of death a thousand times, and, if one may use the expression, have bearded "the lean, abhorred monster" in his most angry moods, will writhe and flutter like a scared bird when he has got them in his inevitable grasp, and when they know that they cannot escape. He knew that these are the moments "that make cowards of us all;" and he feared lest some lingering notions of crime, and repentance, and another world should tempt Sir Roger Millington to an endeavour towards atoning past errors, by the confession of all those evil designs which were still in their passage between the past and the future, between the revocable and the irretrievable; and he would not have risked the chance for a world. He saw, however, that he had already created a doubt which might be dangerous; but, he extricated himself dexterously. "God forbid, my dear Millington," he said, "that anything should be even likely to prevent your giving evidence when the trial of these gipsies comes on; but my only reason for wishing you to make the declaration was, that it might be produced at once before the magistrates, whom I shall request to meet here to-morrow or the day after, either to take measures for pursuing the villains vigorously, if they have not been arrested before that time, or to investigate the matter if they have, which I trust may be the case, as I have already set half the county on their track. Now what I wish is, that this Pharold may be committed directly; and you know that among a number of country magistrates there is always some prating, troublesome fellow, who throws difficulties in the way; and in this instance, it must be remembered, some of the people did not recognise Pharold, so that your evidence is of vital importance." "Let them come to me," said Sir Roger, vehemently--"let them come to me, and I will give such evidence as would hang him half a dozen times over. I should like to be but a quarter of an hour in the same room with the scoundrel with two good small-swords. Only to think, my lord, of me--who have made the daylight shine through many a pretty man as one would wish to see--being hurt in this way by a stinking yellow fox of a gipsy, that is only fit to be hunted down by a good pack of hounds!" "I trust we shall catch him," said the peer, who saw that it was vain to press the wounded man any further upon the subject of the declaration. "Catch him!" cried Sir Roger, who was working himself up into a state of vehement excitement--"catch him! you cannot miss catching him, if you take proper means. By Jupiter, if you miss him, I'll undertake, for a small sum, to catch him myself as soon as I am well; or rather, I should say, catch the whole of them, for curse me if I know which of them it was that fired the shot." "Indeed!" cried Lord Dewry; "I am sorry for that; I thought you were certain it was Pharold." "I daresay it was," answered the knight, "for I saw him standing in front, when they picked me up. It was either he himself or a young fellow who stood near, and who bullied a great deal beforehand. But as those that bully never act, I dare say it was Pharold himself." "I wish to heaven your recollection would enable you to swear that it was Pharold," said the peer in a low but distinct voice. "Oh, I can swear that it was he who did it, to the best of my belief," answered Sir Roger, who, notwithstanding all his sufferings, could not but feel, that, in the peer, he had obtained a friend whom it might be inexpedient to lose, and whose care and attention, under his existing circumstances, might well make some impression upon him, although he even did doubt the motives which produced such conduct--"I can swear it was he who did it, to the best of my belief," he repeated, with some emphasis on the last words; and then added, in the peevish tone of pain, "You seem to have a goodly dislike towards this Pharold, my lord." The peer did not wish, of course, that his personal hatred to Pharold should be too apparent, even to those whom he employed as tools; but he still less wished that that personal hatred should be so far without plausible motive as to lead men to turn their thoughts towards remote causes, in order to seek out some probable reason for such persisting enmity. Nor, indeed, was a sufficient motive wanting; for the terrible news he had heard the night before from Colonel Manners had awakened feelings towards the gipsy which, though blending with ancient hatred, were yet sufficiently powerful in themselves to stand forth, even in his own mind, as the great incentive to his designs against Pharold, as one great stream, joining others, mingles its waters with theirs, and gives its name to all. "I have good cause to hate him," he said, bending down over the wounded man, with the expression of all his dark and bitter feelings frowning unrestrained upon his brow--"I have good cause to hate him, Sir Roger--judge if I have not, when I tell you that his hand has not only been dipped in my brother's blood, but also in the blood of my only son." He spoke in a low and agitated voice: but Sir Roger caught his meaning distinctly; and, with an involuntary movement of real horror, started up upon his elbow. He fell back again instantly, with a groan of agony; and the big drops rolled from his forehead. The peer paused for a few minutes, seeing that the sudden movement had renewed all the sufferings of the wounded man: but he had yet much more to say, and when the knight had in some degree recovered, he began again with expressions of sympathy and kindness:--"I am sorry to see you suffer so terribly," he said: "you seemed easier just now; and I was in hopes that the change for the better, which the surgeon prognosticated, was already coming on." "I was better, I was better," said the knight, peevishly; "but that cursed start that you made me give, by telling me about your son, has torn me all to pieces again. You should not tell one such things so hastily." "Were my son out of the question," replied Lord Dewry, with every appearance of frankness and sincerity--"had this Pharold never shed one drop of my kindred blood, I would pursue him and his tribe to the last man, for what they have made you suffer." There is no calculating, however, the turns which the irritability of sickness will take; and whether Lord Dewry overcharged the expression of his regard or not, Sir Roger murmured to himself, in a tone too indistinct for the peer to distinguish his words,--"I dare say you think so, now that you have your own purposes to answer too--I am not to be blinded. Well, my lord," he continued aloud, somewhat apprehensive, perhaps, that the peer's present kindness might render him the obliged person, instead of the conferer of the obligation, and thus deprive him of many a profitable claim for the future--"well, my lord. I am very much obliged to you for your kindness; but I trust you will not allow my having suffered, in an attempt to serve you, so greatly as to render me for the time incapable of doing all that I could wish--I hope that you will not allow this fact, I say, to alter your lordship's kind intentions in my favour." The peer understood very clearly, although Sir Roger was rendered peevish and somewhat imprudent by pain and sickness, yet that with habitual rapacity he now wished to tie him down to the fulfilment of all that had been promised on the former evening, lest the opportunity should slip, and the gipsy be convicted of other crimes by other means. Confiding, however, in the assurance of the surgeon, that the unhappy knight must die, he felt that he could be liberal as the air in promises, without any dangerous result; and he therefore replied at once, "Fear not, fear not, Sir Roger; not only will I do all that I said, when you were first kind enough to give me your assistance, but it shall not be my fault if I do not find means to do more. Set your mind, therefore, at ease upon the subject, and do not allow any thoughts for the future to give you apprehension, or delay your recovery. Since, however, you have spoken of the subject yourself, there are some things in those papers which we were looking over last night which I should much like to see again. Have you them here?" Sir Roger, however, was not to be deceived; and his present views were directly opposed to those which he perceived or suspected in his noble companion. In the first arrangement of the affair, indeed, when he had been suddenly raised from apprehensions of the most gnawing want to hopes of competence and ease, when he believed that the peer could not ultimately act without him, and that he had it always in his power to enforce, by a few gentle hints of publicity, the performance of all that had been promised, he would have given the papers out of his own hands without fear. Under those circumstances, too, the peer had thought it better that the knight should keep them, that their production might take place more naturally. Now, however, the position of each was changed. Lord Dewry looked upon Sir Roger as a dying man, whose life could not be protracted to the completion of all they designed, and who might be worked upon by the fear of death, or the irritability of sickness, to take a very different view of the life he was leaving, from that which he had hitherto entertained. Sir Roger, on his part, saw that, tied down to a bed of pain, through, a long and tedious convalescence, no opportunity could possibly be afforded him of superintending and directing the proceeding in which he had been engaged; and, therefore, that his great hold upon the peer was to be found in the papers which they had altered together. Both, therefore, wished to possess them; and Sir Roger, in the apparently casual question of Lord Dewry, perceived at once the object he proposed. "No, my lord," he answered, somewhat abruptly, "I have them not with me; I left them at your house, at Dewry Hall. I wish to God I had them with me." The peer was somewhat startled by the eagerness of his tone; for it is impossible for men to confederate in villany without being more or less suspicious of each other. "Cannot I find them for you. Sir Roger?" he demanded. "If you will intrust me with the key of your valise, I will bring them over with me to-morrow." A grim smile checkered the expression of pain on the countenance of the wounded man, and he replied, "Your lordship is very good; but as I shall require a number of things contained in my valise, I think it would be better if your lordship were to have the goodness to order some of your servants to send me over every thing which I left in the apartment assigned me at Dewry Hall." "Certainly, certainly," answered the peer, who saw that he must press the matter no farther--"certainly, it shall be done this very night. But do you not think, Sir Roger," he continued, with renewed apprehension lest the unhappy man, if left unwatched by his own eye, should discover his real situation, and be persuaded to make inconvenient confessions--"do you not think, Sir Roger, that you yourself might bear removal to the hall? I do not like your remaining in this damp old house, which has not been inhabited for many years, and in which there is but little that can render you comfortable, during your convalescence. If you could bear the motion--" "Impossible, my lord," replied Sir Roger sharply; "I wonder you do not see that I can bear no motion at all. This place will do very well: I have lain in worse quarters; and if you will order my valise to be sent, it is all I want. To tell the truth," he added, "I am somewhat tired, and am afraid that to speak much more would injure me." "Then far be it from me," replied the peer, "to prolong our conversation, Sir Roger. I shall take care that everything that circumstances admit be done for your accommodation, and that you be not again teased by our fanatical rector, as you were this morning." There was a degree of anger in his tone which, had it not been repressed by many a potent consideration, might have flashed forth in a very different manner; but it was still sufficiently perceptible to make the wounded man add some deprecatory sentences, which the peer received in good part, and left the room. As soon as he was gone, Sir Roger Millington placed his hand over his eyes, and gave way to thoughts of a very mixed, but all of a melancholy character. "His compassion and his regard," he thought, his mind turning to the crafty man who had just left him--"his compassion and his regard are all false and affected, that is clear enough. To think of his wishing to move me fourteen or fifteen miles in this terrible state! I should like to know what his object is. He has some deep object, beyond doubt. Can he be afraid of my betraying him? Perhaps he may. His schemes are villanous ones enough, that is certain: but he knows that if I were to peach, I should lose the annuity from him, and get nothing from any one else; so he cannot be afraid of that." Then came a long interval of confused and rambling speculations on the motives of the peer, which had something of delirium in their vague and unconnected whirl; but then a more terrible image rose before the mind of the sick man. "Can he think me dying?" he asked himself. "Can the surgeon have told him that I am dying? No, I won't believe it. I feel as strong as ever, notwithstanding all this pain! I cannot be dying! No, no, I will live to revenge myself upon those cursed gipsies. Doctor," he continued aloud, as the surgeon now re-entered the room, "are you sure that you are not deceiving me about my condition? Are you sure that I am not in danger?" The surgeon was a good but an easy-tempered man; not indifferent to religion; but still not very certain, at all times, in regard to the precise line of conduct which it dictated. Although he thought it wrong, as a general principle, to depress the spirits of a patient, by telling him his danger, yet he had conceived that the clergyman had done but his duty, as a man of religion, in letting the wounded knight know what he, as a medical man, had thought it his duty to conceal. The arguments and injunctions of the peer, however, coming in support of his own opinion, he maintained his first assertion to Sir Roger, telling him that, although it was impossible to answer for contingencies, and that he could not exactly tell what might be the ultimate result of his wound till he had examined it on the following day, yet he saw no reason whatever to apprehend any _immediate_ danger. With this assurance Sir Roger satisfied himself, and passed a feverish and painful night, in murmurs at the agony he suffered, in curses and imprecations upon the whole race of gipsies, and in vague speculations upon the motives and views of Lord Dewry, in his conduct of that morning. At times his mind seemed to ramble a little; and he would mutter vague sentences, referring to many a different object, which would excite both the attention and wonder of the medical man, and make him believe that his patient wanted the aid of religion more than he had imagined at first. When spoken to, however, his replies became instantly clear and precise, and all his faculties appeared again as perfect as ever. In the mean while, the peer, after leaving such directions as the circumstances and his own particular plans required, placed himself once more in his carriage, and returned to his usual abode; but he determined that on no consideration should the wounded man be left longer in Dimden House without his presence. "Those meddling priests," he thought, "think themselves privileged to obtrude and to persevere in their obtrusion; but I do not think the rector will presume to set his foot within the doors of Dimden while I am there, without my especial desire; and if he do, he shall soon be disposed of. I dare say, however, that Sir Roger himself said enough to prevent his speedy return; but that surgeon, that Swainstone, is a weak fellow, and I will trust nothing to circumstances." There were other things, however, to be accomplished, which required no small skill and cunning to bring about; but the mind of Lord Dewry was all activity and eagerness, now that the strife had actually commenced, and that he felt that the struggle between him and the only witness of the crime he had committed was so far advanced that it could only end in the destruction of one or the other. There was no more hesitation now--there was no more fear or doubt--there was none of that wavering between many feelings and many emotions. He had plunged in, and he was resolved to make his way through. The news of his son's death had decided him; and the burning longing for revenge went hand in hand with all his other motives. He had hesitated at the first step; but that irretrievable first step was now taken, and he did not regret it. He had chosen his path; he had begun the contest, and his whole thoughts and mind were bent to take advantage of every circumstance in order to terminate it in his own favour. Again and again, as the carriage rolled on, he revolved in his own mind the various means that could be used to induce the dying man to make such a declaration of what he had witnessed during the affray in Dimden Park as would give an irresistible grasp of Pharold; and yet how accomplish this purpose without letting Sir Roger know that he was dying, and that the crimes to which he was making himself a party would soon appear in the dreadful account against his disembodied spirit? It was a difficult task, and yet he thought he could accomplish it, if he were for any long time present in the knight's sick-room; but on another point he saw, and saw with a glow of triumph, that he could turn the very refusal of the papers, which for a moment he had considered as detrimental, to the very best account. Although it was late, and he had not dined, yet he ordered the carriage, ere it proceeded home, to pass through the neighbouring village, and stop at the vicarage. It was an honour which the proud, cold, irreverent peer had seldom paid to the poor minister of a religion that condemned him; and with some surprise the vicar beheld him enter his little study. But the struggle in which he was engaged, like all other struggles of base interest, whether they be for the purposes of political ambition or of private avarice, was one that mightily tamed pride, and rendered coldness warm and affable. He was anxious to buy golden opinions from all sorts of men: and although he had a further purpose at present in view, he addressed the clergyman with that sort of courtesy which his situation prompted him to use towards every one whose word might be of value in the opinion of the world. "My dear sir," he said, "I come to you for the purpose of requesting a favour." The vicar, who neither loved nor approved the man who spoke to him, answered coldly that he should be happy to do any thing to serve his lordship; and the peer proceeded to explain. "The fact is," he said, "that last night, in a terrible deer-stealing affray, which took place at Dimden, a poor friend of mine was severely wounded, and is not expected to live from hour to hour. Among his baggage, which remains here at the hall, he tells me that there are papers of great importance; and, indeed, he wished me to bring them to him; but as his mind is not itself, and his faculties wander from time to time, I do not conceive I should be justified in placing papers of importance at his disposal. At the same time, of course, I cannot presume to examine them, and I wish much to seal them up in your presence, if you have time to get into my carriage with me, and accompany me to the hall. It is for this purpose that I have now called here as I passed from Dimden on my way home." The vicar thought that the matter might have been more simply arranged; but as there was nothing in the peer's request which was unreasonable, he consented to accompany him; and in few minutes they were at the door of the mansion. Leaving the cook to fret over his delayed ragouts, the peer instantly ordered sealing-wax and lights to be brought; and, accompanied by the clergyman, proceeded to the apartments which Sir Roger Millington had occupied for so short a time, and in which various articles of apparel were still lying about. The valise, however, firmly locked, was in one corner of the room; and what was still more pleasing in the sight of the peer, there appeared on one of the tables a small portable letter-case, in which, beyond all doubt, the knight had placed the papers which were of so much consequence to Lord Dewry. Lord Dewry took the wax, and bidding the servant who brought it hold the taper, he sealed first the letter-case, and then the valise, and requested the vicar to do the same with his own seal. "I am induced," he said, in a frank tone, "to take all these precautions, by a conversation which I had with my poor friend this morning, in which he spoke of these things as of the most vital importance. It might be the mere rambling of delirium, but it might be more correct; and, therefore, as this caution costs me nothing but the wax, and you, my dear sir, nothing but the loss of a few minutes' time--though I know your time is valuable--I thought it best not to neglect a line of conduct, which I might regret not having pursued hereafter." "I think your lordship is quite right," replied the vicar, placing his seal also on the cases. "In matters of worldly prudence, and in our religious duties, where there is any thing to be done which may produce good, and cannot produce evil, to neglect it is, in the one case, a folly, and in the other, a sin." The peer repressed the sneer that began to curl his lip; and, perhaps, felt at his heart that the good man's words were true, though through life he had neglected the rule they taught. He then bade the servant close up the apartment, and lock the door, till the death of the unhappy knight should render the things that it contained the property of others; and descending the stairs with the vicar, he begged that he would favour him by remaining to dinner, which was about to be placed upon the table. The clergyman replied that he had long dined; and in answer to the offer of the peer's carriage to take him back to the vicarage, he answered that he would rather walk. "He is stern and repulsive!" thought the peer as the clergyman left him: but there was still a lingering gleam of better feeling, which occasionally lighted up his darkened heart, and he added, almost instantly, and aloud; "but he is loved by the poor, and he is a good man; and I would rather have such a one near me than a pampered voluptuary." "Sir!" said the servant, who was standing by. "Pshaw! nothing!" replied the peer, and walked back to his dressing-room. Early the next morning he returned to Dimden, where he received, as we have seen, the tidings which Colonel Manners sent him of the security of his son, which, though it poured some balm into his heart, came too late to effect any change in his purposes against the gipsy. CHAPTER X. "The time was," thought the gipsy, as he climbed the hills once more, after leaving Colonel Manners at the house of Sir William Ryder,--"the time was when these limbs would have undertaken double the toil that they have undergone this day, as a matter of sport. But now they are weary and faint, like those of some sickly dweller in cities--of some slave of effeminate and enfeebling luxury. Age is upon me: the breaker of the strong sinew--the softener of the hard muscle--the destroyer of vigour, activity, and power has laid upon me that heavy hand, which shall press me down into the grave. But it matters not--it matters not. I have outlived my time; I have changed, and the things around me have changed also; but we have not changed in the same way. They have sprung up, new and young, while I have grown weary and old; and, in the midst of the world, I am like a withered leaf of the last year among the green fresh foliage of the spring. It is time that I should fall from the bough, and give place to brighter things." As he thus thought, whether from corporal weariness, or from the listlessness of the dark melancholy which oppressed him, he turned from the high-road into the first plantation that he met with; and without such care for personal comfort as even a gipsy usually takes, cast himself down under the trees, and sought to refresh himself by sleep. Gloomy ideas, however, still pursued him long; and, with the superstitious imaginations of his tribe heightening the universal propensity to superstition in our nature, he fancied that the melancholy which disappointment, and anxiety, and difficulty, and failure, had produced, was but some supernatural warning of his approaching fate. The bravest, the wisest, the best, as well as the most hardened and the most skeptical, have felt such presentiments, and have believed them; and very often, also, either by the desponding inactivity of such belief, or by rash struggles to prove that they did not believe, have brought about the fulfilment of that which originally was but a dream. Sleep, however, came at length; and it was daylight the next morning ere the gipsy awoke. He rose refreshed; and his dark visions, perhaps, would have vanished, if he would have let them: but there is nothing to which one so fondly clings as superstition; and to have cast from him as untrue a presentiment in which he had once put faith, Pharold would have held as treason to the creed of his people. He rose, then; and, pursuing the paths through the plantations and the woods, avoiding all public ways, and never venturing farther from the covert than to follow the faintly-marked track through some small solitary meadow, he mounted the remaining hills, and bent his steps towards the thick wood in which he had left his companions, revolving, as he went, what might be the probable fate of those to whom he had so perseveringly clung, when he, himself, should be no more. He found the other gipsies all on foot, and busied about the various little cares of a fresh day, with the light and careless glee of a people to whom the sorrows of the past week are as a half-forgotten tradition. The old were talking and laughing at the entrances of their tents, the young were sporting together by the stream, and the middle-aged were employed in mending this or that which had gone wrong about their carts and baggage, and whistling as lightly at their work as if there were no such thing as grief in all the world. "And thus will it be," thought Pharold, as he approached--"thus will it be with them all, ere I am a week beneath the earth. But it matters not, it matters not. So be it. Why should I wish tears shed or hearts bruised for such a thing as I am?" He believed that he did not wish it; yet where is the man so steeled by nature or philosophy as to look forward to the grave, and not to hope that some kind bosom will sigh, some gentle eye give a tear to his memory when he is gone? and though Pharold believed that he did not wish it, he deceived himself. At the door of his own tent sat she on whom, in this his latter day, he had bestowed the better part of all his feelings; whom he loved, at once, with the tenderness of a father and the tenderness of a husband,--a union of feelings that never yet produced aught but sorrow, for it never can be returned in the fulness of its own intensity. She was looking lovelier, too, than ever he had seen her; and though, heaven knows, her beauty owed but little to richness of dress, yet there was a something of taste and elegance in her attire, rude as it was in quality, that pleased the eye of one who had acquired a knowledge of what constitutes beauty in other times and circumstances. She had twined a bright red handkerchief through the profuse masses of her jetty black hair, and had brought a single fold partly across her broad clear forehead. Her full round arms were bare up to the shoulders; and, as if in sport, she had cast her red mantle round her, like the plaid of a Scottish shepherd, contrasting strongly, but finely, with the drapery of a blue gown beneath. Her head was bent like the beautiful head of Hagar, by Correggio; and her dark eyes, their long lashes resting on her sunny cheek, were cast down, well pleased, upon one of the children of the tribe, who, leaning on her knees, was playing with the silver ring that circled one of the taper fingers of her small brown hand. Lena did not hear the approach of any one till Pharold was within fifty paces; but the moment his well-known step met her ear, she started up and ran to meet him, with smiles that were, perhaps, the brighter because she felt that she had something to atone for, weighty enough to be concealed, and yet not to oppress her very heavily. Pharold pressed her to his bosom; and whatever he might try to believe, he felt--felt to his heart's inmost core--that there was at least one person on the earth that he should wish to remember him, after the stream of time had washed away his memory from the hearts of others. He gave but one moment to tenderness, however; and the next, turning to the rest of the gipsies, he inquired, "What news of the boy?" The old woman was instantly called from one of the tents, and came willingly enough to make her report to Pharold, though she grumbled audibly all the way at being hurried, and at such tasks being put upon her at her years. "Well, Pharold, I have done your bidding," she said, in a tone both cajoling and self-important--"I have done your bidding, and have seen the lad. Poor fellow, his is a hard case, indeed; and such a fine, handsome boy, too, and so happy a one as he used to be--" "But what said he, woman?" interrupted Pharold, sternly. "Keep your praises of him till he be here to hear them, and thank you for them; for, doubtless, he is the only person who will do so. Tell me what he said of his situation." "What he said!" replied the beldam; "why, what should he say, but that if he be not got out to-morrow night--that is, this night that is coming,--he will be sent away to the county jail, and hanged for the murder of that fellow that is dying or dead up at the house? That's what he said." "But did he say how he was to be delivered?" asked Pharold. "That is the question." "Yes, to be sure he did," answered the old woman. "Do you think I went there for nothing? He may be delivered easy enough, if folks like to try. You know the windows of that there strong room, Pharold, well enough, and I know them too, for I was in there for half a day or more, when old Dick Hodges swore to my nimming his cocks and hens. He lies in the churchyard now, the old blackguard, for that was in the old lord's time. But, as I was saying, you know the windows well enough. When they had you up at the house, and wanted to make a gentleman of you, but found they had got hold of the wrong stuff--" Pharold's brow grew as dark as a thundercloud. "On, woman, on with your story," he cried, "and turn not aside to babble of the past. What have you or I to do with the past? You were the same then that you are now, only that the vices and follies of youth have given place to the vices and follies of age." "Well, well, I'm sure I'm telling my story as quickly as it can be told," replied Mother Gray; "but as I was saying, you know the windows well enough, and know that any one that is at all strong could knock off two or three of the bars, and let the boy out in a minute. Any one could do it." "Oh, but he said that nobody but Pharold must come," cried Lena, eagerly, forgetting for the moment all caution, and then reddening, like the morning sky, as soon as she had spoken. "Ha!" cried Pharold, turning his keen dark eyes full upon her, "said he so? and how know you that he did say so, Lena? Ha!" The poor girl turned redder and redder, and looked as if she would have sunk into the ground, while Pharold still gazed sternly upon her, as if waiting an answer; but the ready cunning of the old woman came to her aid with a lie. "How does she know that he said so?" cried the beldam: "how should she know it but by my telling her?" Lena heard the falsehood more willingly than she would have spoken it, though by her silence she made it her own, as much as if her lips had given it utterance. "'Tis well, 'tis well," said Pharold, with a bitter smile curling his lip,--"'tis well. So he said that none but Pharold should come? Now tell me, woman, if your tongue be not so inured to falsehood that it cannot speak truth,"--Lena burst into tears, and crept back to her tent, while Pharold went on,--"tell me why this boy said that none but Pharold must come, when any one else could remove the bars as well?" "Because he said that any one else who did not know the park might make some mistake," replied the old woman, "and so ruin both himself and poor Will." Pharold mused for a moment or two and then asked, "Was all quiet when you went?" "As quiet as a dead sheep," answered the old woman, with a grin. "And no one stirring in the house or in the park?" demanded Pharold. "In the park all was dark and solitary," she replied: "I saw nothing but some fine fat deer, and an owl that came skimming along before us in the long walk; and on the outside of the house all was quiet enough too: but there were two rooms above where there were lights; and I waited awhile to see if they would be put out: but they were so long, that I made up my mind, as all the rest was still, to creep on; and I got close under the boy's window and called his name, and he told me that the lights were in the room where the man is dying." Pharold mused again; but the man whom we have heard called by the name of Brown, a powerful gipsy of about forty years of age, took a step forward, and laid his hand kindly upon Pharold's arm. "I will tell you what, Pharold," he said, "this seems to me a doubtful sort of business. I do not think the boy would do any thing willingly to trap one of us: but he may have been taken in somehow; and it does seem as if there was something strange about it; so I'll tell you what, I'll go, and the old woman shall show me the way." "No, Brown, no," said Pharold; "I would put upon no man what I was afraid to do myself,--if I could be afraid to do any thing. If there be no treachery, there is nothing to fear: and if there be treachery, I should be base, indeed, if I let any of my people fall into what was meant for myself. No, no, I will go: no man can avoid his hour, Brown. We all know that when fate has fixed what is to happen, we may turn which way we will, but we shall not escape it. I will go; and if there be treachery, let it light upon the heads of those that devised it. It is my fate--I will go." "No, no, Pharold," said the other; "let me go. To me they can do nothing. Me they cannot charge with any crime, even unjustly; for I was not in the park at all when the man was shot. You and all the others were, though you went there to prevent it; and so, if they catch you, they may send you to prison: but if they catch me, they can do nothing with me. They can but say I came to speak with the poor boy through the bars." Pharold, however, persisted. It had ever been his habit among his fellows to take upon himself the execution of any thing difficult or dangerous, and he regarded it almost as a privilege, which he clung to the more, in the present instance, from a superstitious conviction that fate was leading him on, and that it was useless to struggle against its influence. "There yet remains the whole day before us," he said, when he had silenced opposition, "and but little remains to be done. Call all the people round me, Brown, for I am going to speak with them,--perhaps it may be for the last time." The gipsies who already surrounded him saw well that a presentiment of approaching death weighed upon the mind of him who had been so long their leader, and it is but doing them justice to acknowledge, that most of them grieved sincerely to observe that such was the case. None, however, offered comfort or consolation; for their belief in their own superstitious traditions was far too strong for any one to dream even that such a presentiment might prove fallacious. The rest of the tribe were soon called together; and, stretching themselves out in various groups around, with the clear forest stream bubbling and murmuring through the midst, and the bright sun streaming through the oaks and beeches upon the bank on which they lay, they waited in silence for what Pharold had to say. The tone he assumed was simple and calm, perhaps less marked and emphatic than that which he generally affected. "My friends," he began, "I am going this night upon a matter more dangerous than any that I have ever yet attempted,--at least so, for many reasons, I am led to think; in it I may probably be taken by men who hate and persecute us; and if I be so taken, do not deceive yourselves--I shall never return among you alive. I feel it, I know it; and, therefore, if by the first light of to-morrow's sun I have not returned, look upon me as among the dead, take up your tents, and go as far as you may. When you are so far from this place that they cannot follow you to persecute you, seek out what has become of the clay that I leave behind. Lay me in the earth, in some green wood, but where the summer sun may shine upon me, and the winter snow may fall: turn my face to the eastward, and put one hand upon my heart, and let not the earth that covers me be more than four palms deep.[7] When you have done all this, forget me; but forget not what I am going to say. Remember, ever before all things, that you are a nation apart, and mingle not with the strangers among whom you dwell. Let them follow their way, and you follow your way. Give obedience to their laws, but maintain your own liberties: bend to their power, but preserve the customs of your fathers. Shut, them out, too, as far as may be, from among you: let them not learn either your history, or your language, or your knowledge; for if they do they will make these the means of softening and enslaving, under the pretence of civilizing and improving you. Forget not that you have been, and that you shall yet be, a great people; nor ever think that there are too few of you left for the time of your greatness to come. Look at this acorn: it fell from a great tree, that has been cut down; and though now it be smaller than the egg of a wren, it shall be as great as the mightiest of the forest. So is it, and so shall it be, with you. None of you can ever gain so much as I could have gained by abandoning my people; but I would not do it. I refused wealth, and ease, and honour, and I chose poverty, and wandering, and persecution, because I was born of the gipsy race, and would not belie the blood of my fathers, by mingling with the persecutors of our people--because I would not be chosen from among them for a plaything and an experiment. I learned their knowledge, though they learned not ours, and I returned to mine own as true in heart as when I left them. Thus let it be with you all; and if, after I am gone, the name of Pharold is ever mentioned, let it be as an example of how true our people should be to the ways of their fathers." --------------------- [Footnote 7: The gipsy tribes throughout Europe are so like one another in their habits, that it is extraordinary so great a difference should exist in their manner of burying their dead as has been observed among them, especially when they attach much importance to the method they each pursue. Among the greater part of the continental gipsies the habit of burying their dead under water prevails, but to other tribes, again, the forest affords a place of sepulture; and to others, I have heard, the summits of high mountains.] --------------------- He paused, and there followed among those who surrounded him the low murmur of people who draw their breath deep after a long and eager attention, but no one spoke; and in a few minutes Pharold proceeded:--"If I return no more, there will be some one wanting to lead and direct you all aright. My choice falls upon you, Brown, as the calmest, and the wisest, and the bravest, with years sufficient to ensure experience, and yet with vigour unimpaired by age. Do you consent, my brothers, that he shall be your Ria?" The choice was one which all anticipated, and with which all were pleased, except, perhaps, two or three, who, feeling that they ought to be satisfied though they were not, and that they must submit whether they liked it or not, yielded with the rest, or, perhaps, gave more clamorous approval. "I have now," continued Pharold, turning towards Lena, who, since the people had been called round him, had remained near in silent tears while he had been speaking,--"I have now spoken to you of all things save one. I leave among you my wife, then a widow; and as Heaven knows I have dealt justly with you all, so, I beseech you, deal justly and kindly by her. Be unto her as brethren and sisters. I supplied unto her the place of parents that are dead; you supply unto her, I beseech you, my place when I am dead also. Let her share with the rest in what you gain, until she shall choose out some one to be to her a support and a husband. Let her choice depend upon herself, but oh, let her choice be good; let it not fix upon a fair form or a smooth tongue, but upon a strong mind and a noble heart." He spoke firmly, but, perhaps, somewhat bitterly; and Lena, though she raised her eyes for a moment with a look of imploring deprecation, said nothing, but wept on in silence. "And now," continued Pharold, "I will have done, my friends, with but one more injunction, which is, keep together. Let not the people of the land separate you, but be ye true among yourselves." Thus saying, he rose from the bank on which he had been leaning, and the rest sprang upon their feet also. His scanty auditory then dispersed to their several occupations again, though some lingered for a few minutes, gazing upon him as on one they might never see more after that day was over; and Pharold, after speaking a few words in a gentler tone to Lena, laid his hand upon the arm of the man Brown, and walked with him slowly down the course of the stream. Their conversation was long: many were the sage and prudent maxims that Pharold gave to him whom he had pointed out as his successor, many the wild and singular cautions which he suggested. It was, in fact, his lesson of political economy and good government; but, as it would not suit any other world but the little world for which it was intended, it were useless to repeat it here. He did not, until the end, refer again to himself in any way; but, after having spent nearly two hours in giving instructions respecting the rule and protection of the tribe, he added, "I need not tell you, Brown, that I feel the flame going out--not that it is weaker, not that it is less bright--the broadest blaze of the fire is often the last, but it is near its end; and if it be not to-morrow or the next day, in the manner that I apprehend, or in the way my enemies seek to make it, yet death will come soon, in his own time, and by his own path. Look there!" and he spread out before his comrade his broad palm, traversed with the many lines and marks which are usually to be found there. The other gipsy gazed on it for a moment, gravely, but made no reply; and Pharold went on:--"Nevertheless, as I have heard the ignorant and the conceited declare, that people often do things themselves to bring about a fate that is foretold them, I will neglect nothing that can turn aside mine. If, then, by dawn to-morrow, I have not returned to you, send instantly a trusty messenger to the small village of ----, where I have sent several times before, to the House of Mr. Harley--many of the people know it--bid them tell him for me, that I am in prison, on a false accusation which he knows of, and that if he would save me, he must come over to Dimden soon. See that it be done rightly, Brown; for were anything to happen to me without his knowledge, he would say that I had used him unkindly, or had not confidence in his honour." "I will do it myself, Pharold," replied the gipsy: "I will take one of those that have been over, to be sure of the place, and will see the man myself, if it be possible." "Oh, he will see you," answered Pharold; "he has learned bitter lessons in life, and knows that a better heart may beat under a gipsy's bosom than under the robes of peers and princes. Now, then, I have said all, Brown: and fare you well, my friend. You at least will not forget me." "Never!" answered the other; and they parted. During the rest of the day a degree of gloom naturally hung over the party of gipsies; and wherever Pharold turned, there were eyes looking at him, with some degree of superstitious awe, as one in whom approaching fate was already visible. Evening, however, came at length, and night began to fall; and, ere the first twinkling star could claim full possession of the sky, a thin whitish autumn mist rose up from the valleys, and came drifting with the wind through the trees, and down the course of the little stream by which the gipsies' tents were pitched. Pharold remarked it with satisfaction, exclaiming, "May it last, may it last. With such a mist as that, and a dark autumn night, he were a keen man, indeed, that could take me in Dimden Park." As far as the continuance of the mist went, he was gratified to his wish; for it not only remained, but increased in density to that degree, that even round the gipsies' fires the dark faces lighted by the red glare appeared dim and phantom-like to those who sat on the other side of the blaze. Pharold himself remained from sunset till nearly midnight in his tent; and Lena had not appeared at all from the time he had spoken to the tribe in the morning. At length Pharold came forth; and the gipsies, who were still congregated round the fires, thinking that he was about to join them for a time ere he went, made room for him among them; but he glided on past them all, merely saying, in a low voice as he came near the spot where Brown was placed, "I go! do not forget!" He then walked rapidly on, threaded the most intricate mazes of the wood, traversed the common above the park, leaped the park wall, near the spot where Dickon and his party had entered on the ill-starred deer-stealing expedition, and paused for a moment to look around him, and consider his further proceedings. The mist, which lay heavy on the common and the lawns, was still more dense and dark amid the covered walks and narrow paths of Dimden Park; but the obscurity proved of but little inconvenience to one so much accustomed to wander in the night as Pharold. Long habit of the kind seems, indeed, to give another sense, and to enable persons who are possessed of it to distinguish, as it were instinctively, obstacles in their way which the eye could not have detected. Thus he walked on, through the thick trees and among the narrow paths of the park, without ever either taking a wrong direction, or running against any of the massy trunks round which the small footway turned. Ever and anon, however, he stopped, to listen, but all was still: there was not a voice, a footstep, a rustle, a sound of any kind to be heard, till he entered one of the principal alleys leading towards the house, when a distant clock struck a quarter to twelve, and, as if roused by the sound, the owl poured forth her long melancholy cry, and flitted slowly across Pharold's steps, stirring slightly the foggy air with the scarcely heard wave of her light wings. Pharold marked its voice, and felt it flap past him; and, in that mood when the heart connects every external thing with its internal gloom, he muttered, "Hoot no more, bird of ill omen! I am prepared and ready!" The end of the alley which he had chosen opened upon the side of the lawn, at the distance of perhaps a hundred yards from the house. But the fog was too thick for even the bare outline of the mansion to be visible; and the only thing that indicated its proximity was the appearance of two or three rays of light, pouring from the apertures in some window-shutters, and streaming through the white mist, till they lost themselves in the night. Pharold paused and gazed; and emotions as mingled, but less painful, affected his bosom, as those which had been experienced by Lord Dewry when he had last looked towards the same building. All was silent around; he felt himself secure in the obscurity; he was in no haste to go on; and as he stood and gazed towards the dwelling where two years of the happiest part of life had been spent, his mind naturally reverted to the past. He called up those boyish days, the pleasures he had then enjoyed, his friendship with one noble-minded youth, and the injuries he had since received from the other companion of his boyhood. He thought of what he had been, and of what he might have been; of the promises held out to him by those who would have kept them; of the prospects that were open before him, if he had chosen to follow them; he thought of the life of honour, and respect, and fortune, which might have been his; and he compared it with the life of wandering, and persecution, and anxiety, which he had led from the day he quitted that mansion to the hour that he stood there again, in the sear and yellow leaf of years, in the close of man's too brief existence. It was a melancholy retrospect, and he could not but feel it as melancholy; but there was a proud, stern satisfaction mingled with it all, enhanced even by the magnitude of the sacrifice he had made. He felt a deep gladness in knowing, now that life lay behind him as a past journey, that he had adhered to his persecuted people, in spite of every temptation that could have led him to abandon them; that voluntarily and perseveringly he had made their fate his fate, in preference to a more splendid destiny than hope herself could have led him to expect. He felt proud, too, and justly, that those feelings and principles which had won him the strong affection of the noble and good in another class, and among another people, had never been forgotten amid dangers, and perils, and sorrows, and temptations; and that he could lay his hand upon his heart, as he gazed up towards the mansion, and say, I have been as noble in poverty and wandering as if I had never quitted the shelter of those once lordly walls. He stood and gazed for near ten minutes; and then ending his revery, as all deep contemplations end, with a sigh, he turned slightly from the path he had been pursuing, skirted round the edge of the wood, and, without crossing the open space, approached through the trees that part of the building called the justice-room, which lay, as we have seen, contiguous to the chamber in which the boy was confined. Since he had been there, however, the river had encroached so much upon the bank, that no one less active and expert than himself would have found space to pass between the walls of the high old chapel-like projection, so called, and the edge of the bank above the water. He accomplished it, however, though with some difficulty; and then, turning the angle of the building, approached the window of the strong room. Raising himself on a ledge of ornamental stonework, which ran along the basement, he put his hand through the bars to feel whether the inner window was closed or not, and finding that it was shut, he knocked gently on the glass with his knuckles. The moment after, it was opened, and the voice of the youth demanded, "Who is there?" "It is I, William," said Pharold; "are your limbs free?" "They are free of cords," answered the lad in a voice that trembled with agitation, and, perhaps, with remorse--"they are free of cords, but I cannot get out." "I will open the way for you, then," answered Pharold; "but when I have picked out the mortar from these bars, you use your strength to force them out from within." The boy made no answer, but listened to hear if those who lay in wait had taken the alarm; and a hope did cross his mind that they might have neglected their watch on that dark and chilly night, and that Pharold might give him the means of escape, without the consummation of the treachery to which he had yielded. The hope increased, as Pharold, with a small crow bar, gradually loosened the iron from its socket in the stone, and yet no one appeared; and as soon as it was practicable, the boy, using his whole strength from within, forced out the lower end of the bar. The space, however, was not yet large enough to give a passage to his shoulders, and the gipsy instantly applied himself again to loosen the neighbouring bar. "Oh make haste, make haste," cried the youth, with almost frantic eagerness--"make haste, Pharold, make haste!" "Hush!" cried Pharold, sternly, and turned hastily to listen; but at the same instant two men sprang upon him. The gipsy struggled to cast them off, but his foot slipped, and they both fell with him to the ground. Ere he could rise, two more were added to the assailants; and finding resistance vain, Pharold instantly abandoned the attempt, suffered his arms to be pinioned with a burning heart, and followed whither they led him. Several lights and several figures appeared at the small backdoor to which they conducted their prisoner; and more than one lantern was raised to his face, and more than one inquisitive countenance stared into his, as he was taken through some long stone passages towards the very room from which he had been endeavouring to liberate his treacherous young companion. The four men who had seized him hurried him on, keeping close together, as if afraid that, notwithstanding all their efforts, he might still escape. At the door of the strong room they paused; and one, producing a key, proceeded to apply it to the lock, and to undraw the heavy bolts and bars. Pharold spoke not a word; but the moment the door was open, and the light, from some lanterns behind, flashed in through the aperture, his eyes sought the unhappy youth, whose face was covered with tears. Pharold had only time to ask himself, "Is he guilty, or is he innocent?" when, springing past him and those that conducted him, the lad made straight towards the door. One of those behind instantly stopped him, exclaiming, "Holla, my lad, where are you going so fast?" The one who had opened the door, however, turned round almost at the same time, crying, "Let him go, let him go; now we have got this one, we do not care for the other. Let him be off as fast as he will." The gipsy's doubts were cleared up in a moment. He saw himself betrayed by one of his own people, whom he was in the very act of rescuing; he saw himself delivered up by one for whom he had been risking so much; he saw his most generous feelings made use of as snares to take him; and he believed that she whom he loved more than anything on earth was a party to the infamous treachery by which he had been entrapped. Oh, how he hated the whole human race! So deep, so powerful was the agony that he suffered, that, without a word, without a movement, he stood upon the spot to which his captors thrust him forward, his dark eyes bent upon the ground, his pinioned hands clasped together, as if they had been riveted with iron, his limbs as motionless as if they had been stone. The people round gazed at him, but he saw them not; they taunted and they sneered, but his ear was dull. He felt not at that moment the insolent gaze, the brutal jest, the loss of liberty, the very hands that wrung his muscles. He felt alone that he was betrayed, that his love and his confidence had been cheated and dispised. All the rest was nothing. That, that was the iron that entered into his soul! Ere he had been there a minute, the keeper Harvey, who had not been among those that took him, pushed through the gaping crowd, to assure himself that the report which had reached him was true. But there was something in the gipsy that the man felt and feared, with feelings full of hate, indeed, but nearly akin to awe; and when he saw him stand there like a statue, in the stern bitterness of utter despair, a faint conception of his sensations thrilled even through the coarse mind of the keeper; and after a hasty glance, without proffering a word, he made the rest retire, and following them himself, locked and barred the door. At about three o'clock in the morning, those who watched in the gipsy encampment were roused by a hasty step, and in a moment after the boy William, all panting and wild, stood by the fire. "What news? what news?" cried one of the men, eagerly; "where is Pharold?" "Bad news!" answered the youth, gazing round him with a look of bewildered consciousness: "they have caught Pharold as he was helping me out of the prison." "Brown," cried one of the men, approaching a neighbouring tent--"Brown, here is bad news; they have caught Pharold, and here is Will come back." Brown instantly started from the hut and came out to the fire: but he was not the only one; for Lena's sleepless ear had caught the tidings, and she too rushed out, with many others that the noise had awakened. Wild apprehension and distress were in her eyes; but she spoke not, while Brown proceeded rapidly to question the lad on what had occurred. The trembling tone in which he answered might proceed from fatigue and agitation at his escape, the varying colour on his cheek might be the flash of the newly stirred up blaze; but there was a rambling and inconsistent character about the story that he told concerning his own escape and the capture of Pharold that raised doubt in many. "You rushed past the people," said Brown, after many other questions, "and got out even after they had taken Pharold. Did no one try to stop you?" "Yes," answered the lad; "one man did; but I got away from him, too, and ran as hard as I could. But why do you look at me so, Lena?" he added, unable to bear any longer the keen, fierce glance which she had never withdrawn from his face for one moment from the time she had first come forth. "Why do I look at you so?" said the girl, stepping forward boldly towards him, and casting back the jetty hair from her forehead while she spoke, with a burning cheek and flashing eye, and almost frantic vehemence of tone--"why do I look at you so? Because, base traitor, you have betrayed him that came to save you--and you know it well!--because you have cheated me into persuading him to go;--and oh, if such a foolish thing as love for me had any hand in what you have done--and I say boldly before them all that I believe it had--may that love stay by you to curse you to your latest day! For think not you will prosper in your villany--I hate you! I abhor you! I spit upon you! and I call God and the heavens to witness, that if there were not another man in all the earth I would die sooner than be your wife! Cast him out from among us, Brown, cast him out! Dickon was but a child in villany to him; Dickon was wilful and violent, but he was not base and false; Dickon might be a rebel, but he was never a traitor. Cast him out, Brown, cast him out; for the blood of my husband is upon him; and I will not dwell in the same tents with him. He cannot deny it; his face speaks it; his tale is not even like truth. Oh, my heart misgave me when he used so many vows and protestations last night that he would not have Pharold put in danger for the world. Truth is more simple; and he is a traitor, and the seller of his friend's blood!" She spoke with all the energy of passion and indignation: her eyes flashed, her arms waved, her very form seemed to increase in size with the wild vehemence of her feelings; and the unhappy youth in the meantime stood before her, with bent head and averted glance, like a convicted criminal before his judge. "You are guilty, William," said Brown, gazing on him with pity, mingling a drop or two of milder feeling with the sternness of his abhorrence for a crime almost unknown among them,--"you are guilty." The youth made no answer; and after a pause the other went on:--"You must go out from among us, for we cannot shelter a traitor. And yet I grieve for you, William, that anything should have tempted you to commit such a crime. But still you must go out from among us; for if we be not all faithful to each other, in whom can we trust? Yet I would not cast you alone upon the world, so that one fault might bring on a hundred; and therefore I will send you down to the north country, where, on the side of Cheviot, you will find more of our people, among whom I have a brother: seek him out, and tell him I sent you to him." "I will not go there," answered the youth, doggedly--"I will not go there, to have this story thrown in my teeth every hour; I will rather go and seek out Dickon, and rove with him." "No, no, Billy, my chick," cried the old woman Gray--"no, no, go down to the Yetholmers, as Brown says--a merry set they are, and a free, and I will go with you, my lad. I dare say Dickon has gone thither already; and, do you hear, Bill, I dare say among the bold young lads thereabouts we may be able to get up as fresh a band as this is; and I have got a good penny under my cloak, and I will be a mother to you, my boy. Then who knows when you are a smart young fellow, with a goodly band of your own, whether this young minx here, who has flown at you like a wild cat, about that Pharold, who is no great loss any how--perhaps she may be sorry enough that she was not more civil." "I shall be sorry," said Lena, in a less violent, but not less determined, tone than she had before used--"I shall be sorry if ever I hear the name of such a base and cowardly thing as he is upon this earth again." "Well, well, scornful mistress Lena, you may rue," replied the beldam. "What say you, Will, will you take me with you?" The youth at first had shown no very strong liking for the old woman's company; but the hopes of better fortunes which she had held out to him, the boldness with which she had taken his part, the stern and reproachful looks of all around, and the feeling that he was parting for ever from all those with whom his life had hitherto been spent, made him willing to cling to any fragment of familiar things which would remain with him to soften the breaking of all accustomed ties. His conscience, too, reproached him bitterly with what he had done; and the company of any one would have been preferable to solitude with his own heart. Willingly, therefore, he caught at her proposal; and drawing himself up, prepared to steel himself against the contempt of his comrades, while the old woman went to make her brief preparations: but he saw nothing around but the stern, cold looks of persons who, in hatred and scorn, were waiting to see his departure. It was more than he could bear; and, calling to the old woman to follow him down the stream, he turned sullenly away, and walked slowly on without a word of adieu to any one. "Brown," said Lena, laying her hand upon the gipsy's arm--"Brown, I know what I am going to ask is in vain, for Pharold, when he went, felt the shadow of death upon him, and I am a widow; but did he not tell you any way to rescue him, if he should be taken? He spoke with you long, and he said to me, too, that there was some way that might deliver him, though he spoke not clearly. Oh, if it be so, and he have told you how, lose no time, spare no exertion; for though, God knows, I was deceived by that base villain's artful speeches, and believed that my husband was safe, yet I feel--although I know my innocence of thought, or word, or deed--I feel as if I were guilty of his death." "No, no, Lena, no, no. We all know that you are not," answered Brown, in a kindly tone; "but go you to your tent, poor girl, and trust to me to do every thing to rescue Pharold that can be done. First, I will try the only means that he himself pointed out. I will follow his directions to the letter. Then, if that should fail, I will try what strength of arm can do; for I will not let him be lost if I can save him. He was a good man, and a wonderful man, Lena. We shall never see his like among us." Lena burst into tears: they were the first that she had shed, but they were too bitter for any restraint; and turning to her tent, she gave way to them in solitude. In the mean time Brown turned to call one of the younger gipsies, who, on more than one occasion, had been Pharold's messenger, to inquire after Edward de Vaux; but ere the young man had joined him, Mother Gray, as she was called, tottered up, with a bundle on her arm, to bid him adieu. "Fare ye well, Brown," she said; "fare ye well. I hope you may make a better head of the people than Pharold has been: a pretty mess he has got us all into here. I hope you may do better; but I doubt it, for you were great cronies, and would never listen to what I advised. So I am going to people who know how to manage matters better." "Get ye gone, then, old mischief-maker," answered Brown; "get ye gone, and the sooner your back is turned upon us the better. I have seen nothing prosper yet with which you had any thing to do; and I dare prophesy that those people will never know peace or happiness where you are suffered to meddle. So get you gone, and Heaven send you a better heart and judgment. And now," he continued, speaking to the young man who had come up, "tell me, Arral, have you not been for Pharold to a house on the other side of the hill--the house of one Harley?" "To be sure," answered the young man, "I have been four times." "Then come with me thither, now," answered Brown, "and lead me by the shortest way, for I would be there, if possible, before day-break." "That is not possible, Brown," answered the other; "for it wants less than an hour of the light, and go as you will it will take two hours and a half." "We must do our best," answered Brown, "and can do no more. Go on. Keep together, my lads," he continued, turning to the rest of the gipsies,--"keep together till I come back, which will be before the sun is more than half-way up. But have everything ready to go in case of need." Thus saying, he followed his guide; and pursuing very nearly the path by which Pharold had returned, he arrived in about two hours and a half at the same house to which Colonel Manners had been conducted. By this time, however, the sun had been long above the horizon; and when, after walking through the little shrubbery, they approached the door of the dwelling, a carriage and four smoking horses, with two servants in Mrs. Falkland's livery, were seen standing before the house. The gipsies, however, made their way boldly on, and rang the bell. This intimation was instantly answered by the servant, and, while they were still speaking to him, a shrill cry--evidently from a woman's lips--rang through the passage. Ere the servant could ask their business, a door on the right was thrown open, and the fine head of Sir William Ryder appeared, exclaiming, "Henry, Henry! Bring water! She has fainted!" A few moments of bustle and confusion succeeded, during which the gipsies were allowed to remain with the door open, and without any of those suspicious precautions which the very fact of their race would have excited against them in any other dwelling. At length the servant returned; and Brown's first question was, "Is the gentleman who was hurt worse?" "No, much better!" answered the servant, "and you may tell Mr. Pharold--" "I can tell him nothing," interrupted Brown, "for that is what I have come here to say--that his enemies have caught him; and that, if Mr. Harley would save him, he must bestir himself speedily." "Indeed!" said the servant, "indeed! that will not be good news to my master's ear; but I must break in upon him to tell it nevertheless. Wait a minute, my friends, and I will go and see what he says." The servant then entered the room where his master was, and from which proceeded the sounds of eager voices speaking. A moment or two after the door again opened, and the gipsies were joined by the person they sought. Their story was soon told, and easily understood; and the brow of their auditor knit into more than one deep wrinkle, as they spoke. "I will bestir myself," he said, in answer to Brown; "I will bestir myself, and that instantly too. So rest satisfied in regard to your friend's fate; for, be assured, that I can break the net in which they have entangled him as easily as I could a spider's web; and I will do it, too, with less remorse than I would the toils of the hunter-insect. I will not lose a moment. Henry, have horses to the carriage, and let me know when it is here." CHAPTER XI. "Has the parson come?" demanded the low faint voice of Sir Roger Millington, as he turned round from a brief and half-delirious doze, on the morning after Pharold's capture: "has the parson come?" "Not yet, sir," answered a sick-nurse, who was now the only person left to attend him. "It is not ten minutes ago since you first told me to send for him." "I thought it had been much longer," said the dying man. "But what is all that noise in the house? They seem as if they were making all the disturbance that they could, on purpose to kill me with the headache." "I dare say, sir, it is some of the other magistrates come, sir," answered the nurse; "for last night it seems they caught the gipsy, Pharold; and, when I went down to send for Dr. Edwards, his lordship was sitting in the great parlour with Mr. Arden, waiting for two other magistrates to make examination, as I think they call it. I should scarcely have dared to send else--that is, if I had not known he had his hands full for many a good hour, because you see, sir, he forbade any one to let Dr. Edwards see you, whether you wished it or not." "Ah! did he so?" said the dying man, bitterly; and then, after a long pause, he added, "but he would not care about it now, my good woman. That declaration that he teased me into making last night, was all that he wanted; and now I may die when I like--with or without benefit of clergy?" and he groaned faintly and sadly at his bitter jest upon himself. "But do you think I am dying, woman?" He went on, "I have lost all the pain; but I am fearfully weak; and my legs and feet have no feeling in them. Do you think I am dying? Ha, nurse, what does the doctor say?" "He says you are very bad, sir; but he hopes--" replied the nurse. "Pshaw!" interrupted the other; "you have been tutored too. I wish the parson would come; he would tell me the truth." "I am sure I wish he would too," cried the woman; "for he knows better than I what ought to be said to you, sir." "Ah, I see how it is, I see how it is," cried the unhappy man; "I am dying, and they have kept it from me till they had got all that they sought;" and, like the stricken king of Israel, he turned his face to the wall, while one or two hot and bitter drops scorched his eyelids, and trickled over his cheeks. After a long silence, however, he again turned towards the woman, saying, "He is very long; I wish to God he would come! I have a great deal that lies heavy at my heart; and I would fain hear some words of comfort before I die. You do not think he will be frightened away by what that rascally lord has said?" "Ah! no, sir; no fear!" answered the nurse; "Dr. Edwards is not a man to be frightened away by any body or any thing, so long as he thinks he's doing his duty. He is not one of that sort, sir. Why, last year, when the terrible catching fever was raging down in the village, and every one that took it died, he was night and day at the bedsides of the poor people that had it, although the doctor told him a thousand times that he was risking his own precious life: but he saw that it gave them more comfort than any thing to see him; and so he went at all hours, and into all places." "I wish he would come," groaned the dying man; "I wish he would come." Almost as he spoke, there was a cautious step in the anteroom, and the lock of the door turned under the quiet noiseless hand of one evidently accustomed to the chambers of the sick. The next moment the clergyman entered, and advanced closely towards the bed, although his heated brow and quick breathing showed that he had lost no time in obeying the summons he had received. He was a man between sixty and seventy, with scanty white hair covering thinly a high broad forehead, across which the cares and sorrows of others, more than his own, had traced two or three deep furrows. His countenance was grave, but mild; and his eyes full of both the light of feeling and the light of sense. The nurse rose up from the chair in which she had been sitting at the pillow of the dying man, and Dr. Edwards quietly took her place, without appearing to see that Sir Roger Millington was eying him from head to foot; and, notwithstanding his situation, was comparing the person before him with the prejudiced image of a _parson_, which habits of vice had alone enabled his imagination to draw. "I am much obliged to you for admitting me, my dear sir," said the rector, in a kindly tone. "How do you feel yourself? Are you in less pain than when I last saw you?" "Yes, I am in less pain, sir," answered the other; "but I rather believe that is no good sign. At least they told me, when I was in torture, that pain was a good omen for my recovery; and now I am in no pain at all, I suppose it is a bad one." "I am not sure that it is a good one," answered the clergyman gravely; "but at all events it has this good with it, that it leaves your mind and faculties perfectly free to consider fully your situation, and to take whatever measures, temporal or spiritual, may be necessary for your comfort and consolation." "Ay, that is what I want to come to, Dr. Edwards," answered Sir Roger, "and I am glad you have come to it at once. But first tell me--and I adjure you by Heaven to tell me true, for these people deceive me--am I dying, or am I not?" "I would have answered you truly without any adjuration," answered the clergyman. "None can, sir, or ought to say to another that it is impossible he can recover; for God can and does show us every day the fallacy of our judgment in the things that we best comprehend: but I do believe that you are in such a situation that it were wise to prepare yourself for another world without loss of time." "Then I am dying," said Sir Roger, solemnly. "I am afraid you are," answered the clergyman. "To deceive you would be a crime: your surgeon has himself told me that human skill can do nothing for you." Sir Roger Millington drew his hand over his eyes, and groaned heavily; but after a brief pause he withdrew the white colourless fingers again; and looking steadfastly at the clergyman, said, "It is a terrible thing to die, sir; more terrible than I thought. I have fought in more than one battle, sir, and have had my single affairs too; but I never found out how terrible a thing death is till I came to lie here, and see life flow away from me drop by drop." "Because in no other case had you time for thought," answered Dr. Edwards; "but, believe me, oh! believe me, that the very time for thought which you seem to regard as an evil, is the greatest mercy of Heaven. Few, even of the very best of us, if any, can keep his heart and mind in such a condition of preparation, as to be ready to pass from this state of mortal sin into life eternal, and to the immediate presence of a pure and perfect Being, who, though he is merciful, is likewise just, and will by no means leave the impenitent transgressor unpunished. No man, my dear sir, when he has years and days before him, should trust to the efficacy of a deathbed repentance--a moment which perhaps may not be granted to him; but when a man has gone on in thoughtless neglect, through the vigour of careless existence, and unexpectedly finds himself at the end of life with only a few short hours between him and that judgment-seat, where nothing can be concealed and nothing palliated, he may then take unto himself the blessed hope that repentance never comes too late, that our Saviour himself showed upon the cross that the last hour, the very last minute, of human life may yet obtain forgiveness of all the offences of the past, by evincing true repentance, founded on true faith." "But how can I show either true repentance or true faith?" exclaimed the dying man, with a peevish movement of the hand. "All I can do is, to say I am very sorry for everything I have done wrong; and that I believe the religion in which I was educated to be the true one--although I have thought very little about it, since I was a boy at school. But it is no use! it is no use talking!" he added, seeing the clergyman about to reply; "I have done many a thing, especially lately, that cannot be forgiven--for which I shall never forgive myself; and so, how can I expect God to forgive them, who is better than I am, and who never knew what it was to be tempted as I have been?" "You _can_ expect God to forgive them, _because he is_ better than you are, and because we have an intercessor at his throne, who has known what it is to be tempted, even as we are; because we have a mediator in Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who was rendered subject to temptation a thousand-fold more terrible than any that we can endure, in order that he might obtain forgiveness for even the greatest of sinners, who truly repents him of the evil he has done. Indeed, indeed, you greatly err in your ideas of God's mercy. But we had better, I think be left alone;" and he made a sign to the nurse, who immediately retired into the anteroom. "I am sure," said the wounded man, feeling, in some degree, the effect of such consolatory hopes--"I am sure I do most sincerely repent of some things that I have done within this last week, and indeed all that I have done throughout the course of my life that is evil; and I do think, now that it is too late to mend it, that if I had taken a different course, and acted in another manner on many occasions, I should not only have been more comfortable now, but a happier man altogether." "Doubt it not! doubt it not!" said the clergyman. "Those that sow in sin shall reap in bitterness: but still have good hope: the very conviction of the magnitude of your sins which you seem to entertain, is the first great step to sincere repentance; and sincere repentance once obtained, the atonement is already prepared in heaven--the abundance of God's mercy is ready to blot out our iniquity from before his sight." "Ah, but there are many things very heavy on my heart and my conscience!" said the other. "Tell me, Doctor Edwards, tell me," he added, in a gloomy and anxious tone, "tell me, can a man who has said that and done that, which can take away the life of another upon a false charge, hope to be saved?" The clergyman half started from his seat; and the other, sinking down again on the bed from which he had partially raised himself, exclaimed bitterly--"I see how it is! I see how it is--no hope for me--and so I will die as I have lived, boldly, without thinking about it." "You greatly mistake me," cried the clergyman; "I wished to imply nothing of the kind." "No, no," said Sir Roger, "say no more--I saw it in your face. I can easily imagine that a man may be pardoned for running another through, when they were hand to hand--I remember many people in the Bible that did the same--and I doubt not that many another little sin might be forgiven; but for taking a man's life that never hurt one, by a cold-blooded cowardly lie--I dare say that there is no forgiveness for that!" and as he spoke he drew his breath hard, and set his teeth, as if working himself up to meet the worst. "God makes no such distinctions, as far as he has revealed himself to us," answered Dr. Edwards. "Murder, whether committed with the steel, or the poison, or the falsehood, is equally murder in his eyes. I was indeed surprised to hear you charge yourself with such a crime; but I repeat what I said before, that for that, as for every other sin, there is abundant mercy in heaven for him that sincerely repents him of the evil--" He paused; but the knight made no reply, and remained with a contracted brow, a muttering lip and a wandering eye, struggling between two opposite states of feeling,--the habitual daring which despair had again called to his aid, and the fear of death, and judgment after death. "Let me urge you," continued the clergyman, when he perceived that he did not make any reply--"let me urge you to consider for one moment what must be the state of him who, under the circumstances which you have named, neglects the only opportunity allowed him for repentance, and suffers the few short moments granted mercifully for that purpose to escape unemployed. Remember, sir, that death is not sleep! that the moment the eyes are closed on this world they open on another! Remember that the disembodied spirit, freed from the frailties and the motives of the flesh, must of necessity feel, in all their bitterness and blackness, the crimes which here we can palliate to ourselves, as well as conceal from others!--Remember that, with feelings thus heightened, with eyes thus unblinded, the man who has committed the crime which you mention, and has neglected to repent of it fully, must go into the presence of the omniscient Creator, to meet, in the face of thousands of worlds, the being whom his falsehood and his baseness had destroyed--that he must hear his crimes proclaimed in the ears of all, must listen to his eternal condemnation, and must bear unceasing punishment, the never-dying consciousness, not only of the crime that he has committed, but of having neglected the opportunity of repentance--of having castaway the mercy offered even to the last hour of life. Think, think of his horror and his shame, and his torture, and his remorse, and, oh! choose the better path, and, even at the eleventh hour, repent and be saved!" The dying man writhed under the picture of the future presented to his mind, a picture which he had ever contrived to shut out from his own eyes; but now, as the reality was about to present itself,--as but few short hours, he felt too well, only intervened between him and the fulfilment of all,--the conviction of its truth and its awfulness forced itself upon his heart, even to agony; and with clasped hands, as the clergyman concluded, he cried out, almost in the words of the Jewish lawyer, "What shall I do to be saved?" "Repent sincerely," answered Dr. Edwards; "and as the first great proof of your repentance, make whatever atonement you can yet make for the very horrible crime with which you charge yourself--" "I can, I can make atonement!" cried the dying man, raising himself joyfully on his hand as the thought was suggested to his mind; "I can--I can make atonement, and I feel that then I shall die in peace. I can save the innocent,--I can punish the guilty,--and I will do both, if God gives me two hours more of life." "Such indeed will be the earnest of a true repentance," cried the clergyman, "and it is thus that a deathbed repentance can alone be confided in as efficacious. I wish not to pry into the secrets of your heart, sir, any further than may be necessary for the purpose of affording you advice and consolation. We believe that the ear of God is ever open to our confessions as to our petitions, and therefore that to him they should be made; but if I can aid you in carrying into effect your purpose of full atonement, command me; and be sure that no earthly consideration of either fear or hope will induce me to pause or waver in the execution of my duty. I say what I have just done, because an evident desire has been shown by those who should know better, to hold you back from the only true way to peace of mind. God forgive me! if my suspicions wrong any man; but before I came to-day, I thought the conduct pursued towards me strange; and now that I have heard so much from your own lips, I think it more than strange." "And you think right," said Sir Roger. "It is more than strange, but it is all part of a plan. I see it all now--I see it all. He--he--Lord Dewry concealed from me at the first that I was dangerously hurt. He would not let me see you or any one else who would have dared to tell me so, because he was afraid I should blab. He would not let me have my papers over from Dewry Hall, pretending they had been forgotten; because he was afraid that I should destroy those we had manufactured between us; and last night, when I was half delirious, and would have signed away my soul for an hour's quiet and rest, he tormented me till I made a declaration before witnesses, that I had received a note from a man who never gave it me, and that this gipsy Pharold, whom they have now got below, was one of those who fired when I was wounded; though in truth I believe he did not come up till after." "This is horrible, indeed!" said the clergyman, not a little agitated by the very painful tidings that he heard. "But let me beg you, sir, as you hope for pardon and eternal life in that world to which you must soon depart--let me beg you instantly to take measures to remedy the evil that you have been seduced into committing." "Yes, yes, I will do my best to remedy it," answered the dying man, whose passions were now excited against the seducer who had led him forward to crimes from which even his mind had shrunk, all accustomed as it was to evil of a less glaring kind. "Yes, I will do my best.--Ay, and he affected to feel so much pity and friendship for me too, till he got what he wanted, and now he has not been near me all day. Ay, ay! and he promised me every thing on earth that could make life happy to me, when he knew that I was dying:--but he shall not triumph in his villany. No, no!" Although the clergyman was very willing that justice should be done, yet even that consideration was secondary in his mind to the wish of leading the unhappy man before him into a better train of feeling ere he passed to things eternal. "By all means," he said, "let us proceed as fast as possible to make the atonement that you speak of, and to secure justice to the oppressed and innocent man you mention; but in doing so, my dear sir, do not forget for one moment your present situation. Let not wrath, or disappointment, or irritation, influence you. Let your sole motive be, as far as human nature is capable of controlling and purifying its motives, the desire of showing, by full atonement, that repentance which, with faith in the merits of your Saviour, may be effectual to salvation." "Well, well, I will do my best!" answered the dying man. "But let us make haste, for I am beginning to feel faint; and there is a dimness comes occasionally across my eyes, and a rush like water in my ears, that disturbs me. How shall we set about it, Dr. Edwards?" "The best way will be to call in witnesses," answered the clergyman, "and to draw up before them a complete statement of everything that you think proper to reveal, therein setting forth that you are perfectly aware of your situation, and that you are in a competent state of mind for making such a declaration. I myself am a magistrate, although I seldom act; and will give the document every formality in my power." "Ay, but the witnesses! the witnesses, sir!" said Sir Roger; "I am afraid that he may come in every minute and disturb the whole." "There is no fear of that, I believe," answered the clergyman. "In the first place, I would not permit such an interruption, were he a monarch; and in the next place, I was told that he and several magistrates were assembled to examine some prisoners before committal." "Ay, it is Pharold, the object of all his hate, that they have got hold of," replied Sir Roger; "and they will have him off to jail on the very things I stated against him." "Then, indeed, no time is to be lost!" answered Dr. Edwards. "The surgeon was to follow me here very soon; for I left him in the village. His assistant and the nurse are in the next room; and I am not sure that I did not hear his step also come in a moment ago. Thus we shall have sufficient witnesses, and one who can testify to your mind being clear and unbiassed. Shall I call them in?" Sir Roger gave a sign of assent; and gazed eagerly towards the door to which the clergyman proceeded, as if he feared that some one else might be without. No one was in the anteroom, however, but the surgeon, his assistant, and the nurse; and Dr. Edwards having called them in, and briefly stated his object, they approached the bed, and the assistant, having obtained writing materials, seated himself as near the sick man as possible, to take down his exact words. Sir Roger was about to begin, but the clergyman interposed:--"One moment, my friend," he said mildly; "we must not forget our care for your eternal salvation, under any other consideration. Let us pray to God that the spirit under which this declaration is made may be the spirit of truth, divested by his grace of human passions and frailties, that the repentance of which it is the fruit may be pure and sincere, and may be accepted;" and kneeling down, he offered a short but emphatic prayer, so full of simple and unaffected piety, that Sir Roger Millington found feelings springing up in his heart which he had not known for years, and which made the warm drops rise into his eyes. The knight then proceeded in a voice, faint and agitated indeed, but nevertheless one which, in the profound silence that reigned around, could be distinctly heard. He took up his tale in years long back; he related how, in better times and circumstances, he had won a large sum from Sir William Ryder and the Honourable Mr. De Vaux. The first, he added, had always the character of a frank, open-hearted, but gay and thoughtless young man; the latter that of one whose keen shrewdness would have ensured him the highest fortunes, if the violence of his passions had not on many occasions marred his best-laid plans. The day, he said, had been fixed for the payment of the money, and it had been shrewdly suspected that there would be difficulty in procuring it; but the very day previous to that appointed for the discharge of the debt, Mr. De Vaux's brother was murdered; and, consequently, that gentleman succeeding to his title and estates, the payment was made without delay. He then passed over at once the twenty succeeding years, and briefly but distinctly recapitulated all that had taken place since; he had come down from London, in the hope of mending his broken fortunes by an application to the wealthy peer. All this, however, has been already detailed, and needs not repetition, though it caused more than one glance of surprise and grief to pass between the clergyman and the surgeon. Nevertheless, for the time, they made no comment, but suffered the dying man to proceed uninterrupted as long as he seemed inclined to go on. When he paused, however, and looked round feebly towards the clergyman, as if to ask,--"Have I done enough?"--Dr. Edwards rejoined, "If you will permit me, sir, I will ask you one or two questions, to which, of course, you will answer or not, as you think fit. This young gentleman will take them down, however. They shall be short," he added, seeing a look of impatience cross the sick man's face; "may I ask, did his lordship assign any reason for the enmity he showed towards the gipsy Pharold, and for taking such unjustifiable steps to destroy him?" "He said that he was sure that he, Pharold, had been the real murderer of his brother," answered Sir Roger; "but I have my own thoughts upon the subject." He paused, as if hesitating whether to proceed or not; and the clergyman paused too, for the mind of every one present had been led towards a suspicion so dreadful, that each felt a degree of awe at the thought of hearing his own doubts confirmed by those of another. At length, however, Sir Roger Millington raised himself upon his elbow, as if he had made up his mind to a painful effort, and fixing his dim and hollow eyes upon the clergyman, he said, in slow but solemn tone, "That was what he told me; but, as I am going into the presence of the Almighty, and casting away all malice against the man, I declare, that I believe he himself was the murderer of his brother, that Pharold knows it, and that such is the cause why he persecutes him even to death. Write that down, young man, for although I cannot discover all the links in the chain, nor all the motives of his cunning heart, yet it is fit they should be inquired into, and that the innocent should be delivered." The assistant wrote, and read what he had written, and the knight made an impatient sign for the paper and the pen. When they were given to him, he scrawled his name faintly at the bottom. "And now, doctor," he said, looking towards the surgeon, "you certify there, that this declaration was made by me, when I had all my senses about me as fully as if I were in perfect health; and you, Dr. Edwards, certify that, at the time I made it, I knew that I was dying, and did it as the only proof I could give of my sincere repentance for many sins, of which the paper he wrung from me last night was not among the least. You may well say that I know I am near my end," he continued, "for I believe that I am nearer it than any one thinks." "Take a little wine and water, Sir Roger," said the surgeon, looking at him, and remarking that strange and awful grayness, which generally precedes dissolution, coming like the shadow of some unseen cloud over the sick man's face; "take a little wine and water. It can do you no harm." "I know that too well!" answered the other, in a hollow voice, drinking the draught which the nurse handed him. "It can neither do me harm nor good--for it is all passing away." The wine seemed, however, to revive him for a moment, and he eagerly besought the clergyman to take the paper which had just been signed to the magistrates assembled below. "Let them not pursue their injustice even so far," he said, "as to send an innocent man to jail. I have been in a jail myself, and know what it is." "I think," answered Dr. Edwards, "that perhaps I maybe of more service with you here; for now that you have proved your repentance really, let me strive to assure you all the comforts thereof. I have much to say to you--much consolation and hope yet to hold out to you, if you will permit me." "Oh! yes; stay, stay, by all means," said the wounded man; "do not you leave me. He can take it to them: for he can do this wretched carcass no good now: let him take it;" and he pointed with his finger towards the nurse, though, beyond doubt, it was the surgeon he intended to designate, distinctly showing that his sight had failed, though his power of hearing still remained. "Perhaps you will have the kindness to do so," said Dr. Edwards, speaking to the surgeon; "but take care that it does not get into the hands of any one who may suppress it; for though we can all bear witness to the contents, yet the document itself is most valuable. I think I heard that Mr. Simpson was among the magistrates below. If so, give it into his own hand; for, though a calm and quiet man, he has much good sense and much firmness. But let us fold it up and seal it first." The surgeon undertook the task, though, it must be confessed, not very willingly, for he loved not to do any thing to any one that might afford matter of offence. He spent some time in inquiring where the magistrates were, and some time in consulting with a constable at the door of the great hall whether it would be proper for him to go in. In short, at length, as he had just made up his mind, and had his hand upon the lock, the nurse whom he had left with the sick man, and who thought it absolutely necessary that he should be present at a patient's death, came eagerly to tell him that the unhappy Sir Roger Millington was in the last agonies. It was too good an excuse for shifting upon another an unpleasant duty to be lost; and, putting the paper into the constable's hand, he bade him go in and deliver it directly into the hands of Mr. Simpson the magistrate. The man received the commission as a matter of course, and proceeded to execute it, while the surgeon returned to the sick room. He opened the door--all was still--the assistants stood holding back the curtain, and gazing fixedly in--the clergyman was kneeling by the bedside, with his eyes raised towards heaven. CHAPTER XII. While the dark and solemn scene of death had been passing above, with half-closed windows and a darkened apartment, events scarcely less painful had been taking place below, in the broad light of a clear autumn day. Six magistrates, whom Lord Dewry, with the usual overacting of conscious guilt, had invited, in order to give every appearance of impartiality and justice to his unjust designs, dropped in one by one, and were ushered into the chamber where the peer sat waiting with burning impatience for the arrival of the whole. Totally indifferent to the business themselves, each as he came in tortured the baron with light and impertinent gossip,--of the weather, of the harvest, of the prospects of the country, of the new fashion of dress swords, and the exquisite effect of Maréchal hair-powder; and forced him into conversation while his heart was full of deep stern thoughts, that abhorred the idle topics on which he was expected to speak. Some, however, mentioned his son, and congratulated him on the rumour of his safety, which had already spread over the county: and here alone the peer found matter on which he could converse feelingly; for the news of his child's safety had come to him, in the midst of the fiery passions that were agitating his bosom, like the thought of a drop of cold water to Dives in the midst of his torments. Each of his visiters wished to know more than general rumour had already told, and many were the inquiries in regard to how Captain de Vaux had been wounded, and who Mr. Harley could be, who had lately taken the house at Little ----. Of all this, however, Lord Dewry could tell them nothing. Colonel Manners's letter had been as laconic as possible; and, therefore, the peer could merely reply, that it appeared the wound had been received by accident, but that he intended to go over, in order to hear more, as soon as they had concluded the business on which they were assembling. At length the number was complete; and Lord Dewry, having asked the servant who ushered in the last tardy magistrate if all were prepared, proposed that they should proceed to the old justice-room, where they would find everything ready for them. "The old justice-room!" cried bluff Mr. Arden; "I have not been in there for many a year, my lord. But I have seen many a thing done there, in my young days, that we should not dare to do now. They did not mince the matter in those times; and I remember in the year forty-five--now some three or four-and-twenty years ago--it was quite enough to be _strongly suspected_ for a man to find his way to prison very soon, without all these examinations and investigations. But they are cutting down our powers every day, gentlemen. 'Pon my soul, I think, when they have cut off every other part of my magisterial rights, they will cut off the tails of my coat, for the _better protection of the subject_, as they call it." A loud laugh followed; and thus with mirth and merriment they proceeded along the passages of a house, where despair and indignant grief waited anxiously in one room, and suffering, remorse, and death tenanted another. Preceded by two or three regular constables, they reached the little vestibule before the door of the justice-room, where fifteen or sixteen persons were assembled, anxious to witness the proceedings. They had not, however, been admitted without selection; and among them were to be seen none but small tenants and dependants of the lord of the mansion. The little crowd drew back as the magistrates approached; and, the folding-doors being thrown open, they entered the large old-fashioned hall, which had been prepared for their reception. It formed, as has been before said, a long parallelogram at the extreme of the building, built out upon the high bank to the west, and had probably been designed originally for a chapel. Four tall windows on either side rendered the aspect of the whole light and cheerful; and from the south-east the sun, as bright and warm as in the height of summer, was pouring a flood of glorious light, which streamed in long oblique rays of misty splendour across the perspective of the hall. A table, covered with the various implements for writing, crossed the farther extremity of the apartment; and beyond it was an array of chairs for the magistrates, while at each end was a seat for the clerks; and a smaller table, also, under one of the south-east windows, was furnished with paper and pens for another secretary. The windows on that side were open, and the warm soft breath of the southerly wind was felt fanning the cheek, and breathing of nothing but peace, and gentleness, and tranquillity. The magistrates proceeded to their places, and each taking a seat, left the chair in the centre vacant for the peer; but he, however, declined it, and begged Mr. Arden, as the senior, to preside at their proceedings. "Nay, nay, my lord," replied the bluff old squire; "your official station in the county, as much as your rank, gives you the precedence." "In the present instance, however, my dear sir," replied Lord Dewry, "I must appear before you as a private individual, as I am here in some sort as the accuser, and if you find cause to commit the prisoner, I must become the prosecutor. Therefore, I will sit here beside you, but without exercising any official authority in a matter where I am in a degree a party." "The prisoner cannot say that your lordship has not every disposition to give him impartial justice," answered Mr. Arden, taking the vacant chair. "You would have him let off before, when I would certainly have committed him; and now you will not exercise your authority where he is concerned. Let him be brought in, however. Constables, bring in the prisoner." Two men instantly departed from the farther end of the hall for that purpose, and while they were gone some formal business was transacted, the clerks received their instructions, and one or two of the magistrates looked into Blackstone's new work, the volumes of which had been scattered about upon the table. At length a murmur and the sound of footsteps were heard, and the doors being again opened, the constables re-entered, followed by the persons who had been waiting without, reinforced by several of the servants of the peer, as well as by the footmen and grooms who had accompanied the magistrates thither. The principal object of the whole group, however, was of course the prisoner Pharold, and on him every eye was instantly fixed. Walking between the two constables, who did not attempt to hold him, he advanced boldly up the middle of the hall, and with a slight contraction of the brow, and curl of the lip, gazed on the party assembled to interrogate him with stern and fearless calmness. His wrists were handcuffed, but no other restraint was put upon him; and when he had advanced within a few yards of the table at which the magistrates were seated, he paused of his own will, and waited as if in expectation of what was to follow, merely turning round to some of the crowd who followed, saying, sternly, "Do not press upon me; you are near enough." Mr. Arden put on his spectacles, and after gazing for a moment or two at the prisoner, he turned towards Lord Dewry, and said, "My lord, will your lordship be good enough to state the charge against this man; as of course that part of the business referring to the murder of your son must be dropped, since it fortunately turns out that he is alive. There are, however, I think, still two serious charges to be disposed of, and probably our best plan will be to examine into them separately: by separately, I mean, distinct from each other, though, as many of us have come some distance, we had better go into both ere we depart." Lord Dewry paused for several minutes ere he replied; and looked over some papers which he had laid upon the table before him; but in truth a momentary feeling of doubt and embarrassment crossed his mind. He had determined most positively to urge against the gipsy the death of his brother; he had arranged all his plans for that purpose; he had matured them perfectly; he had secured, as far as human ingenuity could go, every link of the chain; and nothing remained but to cast it boldly round his victim; and yet, at the very moment of execution, a doubt and apprehension, a sort of prophetic hesitation, seemed to seize him, and he wished that it had been possible to abandon the charge of the murder of his predecessor, and to confine his accusation to the deer-stealing and the death of Sir Roger Millington, which was now, as he well knew, so near, as to effect all that could be wished, by rendering the charge against Pharold capital. He wavered for a moment, then, but he saw that the very wish to give up an accusation so boldly made would appear suspicious, if any one discovered it; and turning to Mr. Arden with a faint smile, he asked, "With which of these charges had I better commence, my dear sir? The one which is susceptible of the most immediate proof is that referring to the recent offence." "No, no, my lord," replied the magistrate, "take them in the order of their dates. Let us get rid of the ancient business before we begin the other. 'Tis well to be off with the old love before we be on with the new, my lord." "As you think fit," answered the peer, somewhat disappointed at the magistrate's decision, but determined, as he must proceed, to proceed boldly. "Well, then, my charge is as follows:--that the prisoner Pharold, now before you, did, on the 18th day of May, in the year 17--, feloniously and with malice aforethought put to death my unfortunate brother, the late Lord Dewry, in or near that part of the road from Morley village to Green Hampton, which crosses the wood called Morley Wood; and I am now ready to produce sufficient evidence to induce you to commit the prisoner to the county jail for trial." While he spoke, the gipsy's eye rested on him with a glance so stern, so keen, so searching, that he felt as if the dreadful secret of his bosom--all its motives and all its feelings, its doubts, its apprehensions, its remorse, its complicated plans and subtle contrivances, were undergoing, one by one, the examination of that dark, fixed regard. Though he looked towards the prisoner as little as possible, yet the gipsy's eye was a load upon him, that oppressed and would have confused a less powerful mind than his own. Even as it was, however, he could not bear it without emotion, and turning abruptly to Mr. Arden, he went on,--"I trust, Mr. Arden, that you have brought with you the notes of the former examination." "Everything! everything, my lord," replied the magistrate; "prepared as I was for the case, I brought every memorandum that could at all bear upon it; and I think my clerk had better read the depositions made at the time, and then you can proceed with any new facts which may have since come to your knowledge." The peer bowed his head, and the clerk, under Mr. Arden's instructions, proceeded to read a variety of documents relating to facts with which the reader is already acquainted. It is unnecessary, therefore, to repeat them; but the demeanour of the two persons principally interested in the details was in itself sufficiently singular to attract the attention of some of the magistrates, though, if they sought in their own minds for the motives, they were mistaken in the conclusions at which they arrived. During the reading of all the formal and immaterial part of the depositions, the gipsy remained with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and his head slightly bent, with the aspect of one who hears a thing with all the details of which he is too familiar to give it any deep attention. But when the clerk came to his own deposition, and read the declaration which he had made of having seen the murder committed, and marked the murderer so particularly as to be able to swear to him if he ever saw him again, his lip curled with a bitter and a biting sneer, and, raising his head, he fixed his eyes upon his accuser, with a gaze that might well have sunk him to the earth. Lord Dewry, however, encountered not his glance. He felt that the gipsy's look must be then upon him; and, though he kept his own eyes steadfastly on the papers before him, he turned deadly pale under the consciousness of his own guilt, and the knowledge of what must be passing in the bosom of the innocent man he had accused. "This is your declaration, made twenty years ago, prisoner!" said Mr. Arden, examining the gipsy's countenance through his spectacles. "I know it is," answered the gipsy; "and it is truth, which twenty years cannot change as they have done you and me, hard man!" "Egad, he's right there!" cried the magistrate; "twenty years have worked a woful change both in my eyes and in my teeth; but, thank God, I can ride as fresh as any man after the hounds, and shirk neither fence nor gate." "Have you anything to add to your declaration, prisoner!" asked Mr. Simpson, in a milder tone. "Nothing," answered Pharold. "Let me ask you, however," continued the other, "whether you have ever, by any chance, seen the murderer since the events which you have detailed in this paper?" "More than once!" answered the gipsy. "Then, why did you not point him out for apprehension?" demanded Mr. Simpson. "Because no one asked me," replied Pharold. "I told yon hard old man, that I would point the murderer out if he were set before me; but I never promised any of you to be as one of your hounds, and seize the game for your sport or advantage." "Then if the murderer were brought before you," asked another magistrate, "would you point him out, and swear to him?" The inquiry was taking a turn unpleasing to the peer; for although he felt well convinced that Pharold would, sooner or later, retort the accusation upon him, and was ready to meet it boldly and calmly, yet he was not a little anxious to conclude his own statement of the case first, and to bring forward every circumstance which could criminate the gipsy, in order to take all weight from the testimony of his adversary, and make the magistrates pass it over with contempt. "I think," he said, rising ere the gipsy could reply--"I think, gentleman, if you will now permit me to proceed with what I have further to adduce, you will find the matter very much simplified, and can then examine the prisoner in whatever manner you think fit." "Certainly, my lord! certainly!" said some of the more complaisant of the party; but the magistrate who had put the question was less easily turned aside; and he replied,-- "Permit the prisoner, my lord, to answer my question in the first place. My memory is bad," he added, dryly, "and before we got to the end I might forget it. Now, answer me, prisoner,--that is, if you do not object--there is no compulsion, remember,--if the murderer were brought before you, could you and would you point him out, and swear to him!" "That I could do so," answered Pharold, "I have already said; but that I would do so, I do not know. It would depend upon circumstances." Lord Dewry looked suddenly up, and their eyes met, but there was nothing in Pharold's glance at that moment but cold stern indifference; and those who saw the look he gave the peer could not have distinguished that he was moved towards him by any other feelings than those which might well exist between the accused and the accuser. Lord Dewry paused, and a momentary feeling of remorse for that which he was engaged in crossed his bosom, now that he saw even persecution would hardly make the gipsy violate his word so far as to betray his fearful secret. But he had gone too far to recede, and he crushed the better feeling. He called up the image of Sir William Ryder returning to England, and supporting a charge against him by the testimony of the gipsy; he recalled the state of feverish apprehension in which he had lived for twenty years; and he went on with the work he had begun, resolved that the struggle should be commenced and ended now for ever, in the vain hope that thus his latter days might pass in peace! "Now, my lord," said the magistrate, when the gipsy had replied--"now, my lord, I beg pardon for having detained you." "Well, then, sir," answered Lord Dewry, with some of his haughty spirit breaking out even then--"well, then, if it quite suits your convenience, I will proceed. I must give a slight sketch of some events long passed, gentlemen; and the clerks had better take it down as my deposition, which may be sworn to hereafter. Not very long after my brother's death, gentlemen, I had some money transactions to settle with an honourable friend of mine, one Sir Roger Millington; and I went to London for the purpose. I found him just returned from Ireland; and he told me that, in the neighbourhood of Holyhead, he had met with an accident by which one of his finest horses had nearly been killed; but that he had obtained a secret from a gipsy there by which the animal had been completely cured. You may easily suppose I gave the anecdote but little attention at the time. In settling our accounts, however, Sir Roger had to give me, in change for a larger sum, several smaller notes, on which he wrote his name. I took no great notice of these bits of paper till I returned to the country, when, on looking them over, I found, to my surprise, that one of them was marked with my brother's own name, in his own handwriting. This led to further examination; and in this banker's book, and also in these memoranda, I found, by the dates and numbers of the notes, that the very note in question must have been drawn by my poor brother from his bankers the day before his death. The next thing to be discovered was, where Sir Roger Millington had obtained it; but, as that gentleman was continually moving about from place to place, some time elapsed ere I could see him again. When I did so, however, I found that he had received this very note from a gipsy called Pharold, at Holyhead, in change for a larger one given him in order to purchase the secret by which the worthy knight's horse had been cured." "A most singular coincidence!" cried Mr. Arden. "Murder will out, gentlemen!" "For a long time no trace could be discovered of the gipsy," continued Lord Dewry; "but at length he suddenly reappeared in this neighbourhood; and one of my keepers obtained information that he and his gang had laid a plan for robbing my park of the deer. On his telling me this, I ordered him to take such measures as he thought expedient for seizing the whole of them in the fact; much more anxious, indeed, to capture my brother's murderer than to punish the deer-stealers. It so happened, that just at the same time Sir Roger Millington came down to pay me a visit; and on hearing that the culprit was likely to fall into our hands that very night, he insisted upon coming over here, both to direct the operations of the keepers, and to satisfy himself that this gipsy Pharold is the same from whom he received the note. I would fain have persuaded him that it was a wild scheme; but he was a soldier, gentlemen, and accustomed to contemn all dangers. The unhappy result you know. He was mortally wounded, and is now lying in a state of delirium, if he be not already dead. Last night, however, I took advantage of a time when his mind was quite clear and rational, to obtain from him this declaration in the presence of competent witnesses; and herein you will find that he positively states that the man Pharold, whom he saw with the gipsy deer-stealers in Dimden Park, was the same from whom he received this note." "Foul, hellish liar!" exclaimed Pharold, starting abruptly from the state of calm and apparently indifferent thought in which he had been standing, with his eyes fixed upon the handcuffs on his wrists, and his head bent down. "Foul, hellish liar! He never either gave me aught, or had aught from me! I cured his noble beast for nothing; and not for his sake either; but he gave me naught, nor would I have taken his gold if he had offered it." "What, then," cried Mr. Arden, "you acknowledge that you did see this gentleman at Holyhead, and did cure his horse by some nostrum in your possession! Clerk, take that down carefully." "Ay, and take down that, if in dying he say he either gave me aught or received aught from me," continued Pharold, vehemently, "he goes to the place appointed for liars and false witnesses, if the great God of all the universe be a God of justice and righteousness." "Do you know, gentlemen," said Mr. Arden, turning round and rubbing his hands, "I think that quite enough has been elicited to justify us in committing the prisoner without further ceremony." "We might perhaps be justified," said Mr. Simpson; "but I think there is something more required of us than that, both by our own consciences and our precise duties. It lies with us to prepare the case as far as possible for superior functionaries; and, therefore, I should propose that we proceed at once to collect every information that is to be procured, and that we do not think of committing the prisoner till we have done so. A great deal more still remains to be--" Here one of the constables advanced from the other end of the hall, and passing quietly round the table, interrupted the magistrate by handing him a sealed packet, which he instantly opened, and proceeded to read the first lines. While he did so, the constable advanced to the spot where the peer sat, and spoke a few words in a low tone of voice, while another magistrate, taking advantage of Mr. Simpson's silence, proposed that they should adjourn to the bedside of Sir Roger Millington, and receive his deposition officially. "I am sorry to say," answered Lord Dewry, with as grieved and melancholy an air as he could assume, under circumstances which were in reality satisfactory--"I am sorry to say, gentlemen, that the wise and judicious proceeding just suggested cannot be executed, as the constable has this moment informed me that my poor friend is no more. His dissolution occurred a few minutes ago; and though I grieve for the loss of my friend, it would be vain to say that I am sorry that an event which was inevitable should have taken place so soon, when every hour of prolonged existence was an hour of torture." "I trust, then, that the declaration which he made last night," said the same magistrate, "was in every respect such as to be admitted in evidence. Will your lordship permit me to examine it?" The paper was handed to him, and he cast his eyes over it without any comment. Mr. Simpson, however, was evidently strongly affected by the packet he had just received. He returned more than once to several of the passages it contained; and when he had satisfied himself of the precise terms, he let the hand which held the paper fall over the arm of the chair; and with a pale cheek and a look of deep thought, continued gazing at vacancy for several moments. The first thing that seemed to rouse him was a renewal of Mr. Arden's proposal for the instant committal of the prisoner, when, turning round abruptly, he said, "No, Mr. Arden! no! we have not half gone through the case; and something has just been put into my hand which gives a very different aspect to the business altogether. This is a very painful paper, gentlemen; and the task put upon me is a very painful one, but, however, our duty must be done; and I will not shrink from mine. However, let me beg your lordship in the first instance to remark that this thing is no seeking of mine. For many members of your lordship's family I have the utmost respect and regard, and I would not willingly do anything to hurt any of your house; but, as I have said, my duty must be done." While he spoke, the gipsy's eye lighted up anew, but the countenance of the peer fell. His colour varied twenty times in a minute; but ere the magistrate had done speaking, he had recovered his self-command, and determined on his course, whatever might be the nature of the communication which Mr. Simpson had received. "To what end, may I ask," he said, haughtily, "to what end does all this tissue of idle words lead, sir? Let me beg you to explain yourself, for I can conceive no circumstances under which your professed regard for my family should interfere in any way with the execution of your duty." "You shall hear, my lord, you shall hear," answered Mr. Simpson, with more mild dignity than the peer had imagined he could assume. "Constables, clear the hall there." "Shall we take away the prisoner, sir?" demanded one of the men who stood by his side. The magistrate paused, and then replied, after a moment's thought, "He has a right to hear anything that may benefit himself. He is here before us without legal advice or assistance of any kind; and he must not be shut out from a knowledge of facts which he may have to communicate to his counsel hereafter. You, constable, however, retire to the door. I think we are enough to manage one handcuffed man should he prove turbulent." None of the other magistrates interfered: the hall was cleared; and Pharold was left standing in the midst, with no other witnesses but the magistrates and their clerks. Restraining all his feelings by a mighty effort, the peer sat sternly gazing upon the speaker, with the violent passions that were working within, discernible only in the starting sinews of the thin clenched hand which he had laid upon the papers before him. "What I have to read, gentlemen," continued Mr. Simpson, "has just been sent me by the excellent rector of this parish, Dr. Edwards; and it is entitled The dying declaration of Sir Roger Millington, knight. It is, gentlemen, to the following effect;" and he proceeded to read the confession which fear and repentance had induced the dying man to make. The agitation of the peer was dreadful; but it was alone internal; and all that was externally perceptible were those signs of passion and indignation which an innocent man might feel at a false accusation. At length, however, when, in conclusion, the unhappy Sir Roger charged him boldly as the murderer of his brother, Lord Dewry started up, exclaiming,-- "The raving madness of a delirious and dying man! How can you, gentlemen, sit and listen to such trash! But I will soon bring you proof of what state the man was in, when that canting old fanatic saw him and he turned towards the door. "Sit down, my lord!" said Mr. Simpson, sternly. "I cannot allow you to leave the room." "Sit down! not allow me!" cried the peer, turning upon him with all the dark and haughty spirit of his heart flashing forth. "Do you dare, sir, to use such terms to me in my own mansion?" "Anywhere, Lord Dewry!" replied the magistrate. "I say, sit down! or I must give you in custody to one of the officers, _I_ will show you, gentlemen, in what state of mind was the deponent when he made this declaration. Here is the attestation of the surgeon and his assistant, that Sir Roger Millington was, at the moment he signed this paper, perfectly sane and rational; that he did it under the full knowledge that he was a dying man; and that every word here written was exactly used by himself. Gentlemen, this requires immediate investigation; for every word here written must greatly affect the prisoner before us." Lord Dewry had cast himself down again in his chair; but wrath in the present instance supported hypocrisy; for it was anger and indignation he sought to assume, and the former at least, in the present instance, required no acting. He folded his arms upon his breast, he rolled his dark eye over the form of the magistrate, and he set his teeth in his nether lip till the blood almost started beneath the pressure. In the mean while there was a confused and murmuring conversation among the magistrates, some standing, some sitting, and all talking together. At length Mr. Arden exclaimed, in a loud voice that overpowered the rest,-- "Well, well; this matter requires much consideration. Let us at all events remand the gipsy for four or five days, while we inquire into the rest. Here, he might be tampered with; but let us remand him to the cage at Morley." "Remand me!" cried the gipsy, in a tone that called instant attention, while his deep black eyes seemed flashing with living fire. "Remand me! remand a man that you know to be innocent! Are these your boasted laws? is this your English equity? Have you no more freedom in your hearts than this? Did ye but know what real freedom is, ye would feel that nothing upon earth,--neither gold, nor wealth, nor friends, nor pleasures, nor health, nor life itself, to the freeman,--is half so dear as liberty! If ye take his gold, ye call it robbery; if ye take his life, ye call it murder; but I tell you, that every minute and every hour of liberty is more than gold or life; and yet, base hypocritical tyrants, without scruple and without remorse, you take from your fellow-creatures, on the slightest pretence, the brightest possession of man, the noblest gift of God. Ere you know whether your fellow-creature be guilty or not ye doom him to the worst of punishments, ye confine him in dungeons, ye fetter his free limbs with iron, ye deny him God's light and God's air, ye make him the companion of devils and fiends, and then ye find that he is innocent, and send him forth into the world degraded, corrupted, vile as ye are yourself,--punished without guilt, and robbed of many a long day of golden liberty by those who pretend to dispense justice, and who talk of equity. Out upon ye, I say! and out upon your laws! If there were such things as liberty and justice in the land, the very rumour that a fellow-creature was deprived of his freedom for an hour, would gather together half the land to see justice done; and he who dared unjustly to deprive a freeman of his liberty would be punished as a traitor against the rights conferred by God. Then would not this bright and beautiful land bear the multitude of prisons that darken the sunshine in every town and village; and speedily the very use for them would be forgotten; for man's heart, ennobled by freedom, would forget crime; or crime, punished on the spot, would be a lesson far more awful. Now ye debase yourselves and your fellow-creatures, and expect them to act nobly; ye punish the innocent with the worst of punishments, and expect them to refrain from guilt. If I am innocent of the crime with which I am charged,--and God knows, and ye all know, that I am,--let me go free. If I be guilty, punish me with death, but take not away my liberty. Death were light, but one other night in a dungeon would crush my very soul!" There was something so strong, so fiery, so impetuous, in the whole tone and manner of the gipsy, that the magistrates, taken by surprise, sat silent and attentive, till he had concluded an appeal which they certainly had not expected. "There is some reason in what you say," answered Mr. Simpson, mildly, "and, perhaps, if we had tasted a few hours' imprisonment ourselves, we should not be so ready to send others to that fate, as we are found too often. However, now answer me, prisoner: you have declared that if the murderer of the late Lord Dewry were set before you, you could recognise him, and swear to him. I ask you, therefore, do you see him now?" A powerful emotion, which he could not resist, made the peer suddenly turn away, as the magistrate thus addressed the gipsy; and Pharold's dark keen eyes fixed sternly upon him. For several long, terrible, anxious moments the gipsy was silent, and many were the strong and agitating passions which struggled in his heart, and threw their alternate shadows over his countenance; but at length he replied, in a low but solemn and distinct voice, "I have said that I could tell, but I have not said that I would; and I now say that, come what will to myself, I will accuse no man." The magistrates gazed at each other for a brief space, both surprised and perplexed; but at that moment there was heard the sound of chariot-wheels, the step of a carriage violently thrown down, and a considerable bustle and speaking in the passages beyond. The next instant the door of the hall was thrown open, and a gentleman entered, with his hat still on his head, and a large fur cloak cast round him, as he had got out of his carriage. "I really must have the hall kept clear," exclaimed Mr. Simpson. "We are here in private deliberation, and no one must be admitted." The stranger, however, without paying the slightest attention, walked straight up the middle of the hall; and laying his hand upon the gipsy's arm, as he passed the spot where he stood, "I have come," he said, "to deliver an innocent man." The next moment he advanced to the table; and taking off his hat gazed round upon the magistrates. The effect produced upon several persons present was no less strange than sudden. The peer, with a countenance as pale as ashes, a quivering lip and haggard eye, staggered up from his seat, grasped the arm of the intruder, and holding him at arm's length, gazed in his face, with an expression of doubt, and surprise, and horror. Mr. Arden rubbed the glasses of his spectacles, exclaiming, "Good God! good God! This is very strange! It can't be--no, it can't be!" "It is! it is!" exclaimed the peer, falling back into his chair, and covering his eyes with his hands. "It is! it is! thank God! oh! thank God!" and the deep groan which accompanied his expression of joy, far from lessening its force, seemed to speak that the load of worlds was taken off his heart. "In the name of Heaven, sir, who are you?" exclaimed one of the younger magistrates. "Who is he?" exclaimed the gipsy, "who should he be, but William Lord Dewry. There are plenty here who must know him well." "And none better than myself," cried Mr. Arden. "My Lord, are you living or dead?" "Living, sir," replied the person whom we have hitherto known by the name of Sir William Ryder. "Had I not believed, gentlemen, that in this hall I have as much right as any one, I should not have intruded upon your deliberations; but as I learned this morning that my friend Pharold here, to whom I owe my life, was brought before you on a charge of taking it, I felt myself bound to interfere. You must, therefore, permit me to be present at your further deliberations.--Edward," he continued, turning to his brother, "you had better retire. We have matter for much thought and for much emotion between us, which were as well confined to ourselves alone." "But, my lord'. but, my lord!" exclaimed Mr. Arden, "here is an accusation made formally against your brother, also, of the same crime with which the gipsy was charged." "Who made it?" exclaimed Lord Dewry, looking somewhat reproachfully at Pharold. "Not I," answered the gipsy,--"I bring a false accusation against no man." "At all events, sir," rejoined the peer, turning to Mr. Arden, "it must be sufficiently evident to all, that my brother, whatever may have been our personal differences, cannot be guilty of my murder, as I am here alive and well. I say again, therefore, that you had better retire, Edward, and leave me to conclude this business as I see fit; unless, indeed," he added--"unless you are inclined to contest either my identity or my rights." "No, no, no!" cried the other, starting up vehemently, and clasping his hands together, while the burning tears of intense emotion rolled rapidly over his cheeks. "No, no! So help me God, I would not lose the knowledge that you are living for the highest rank and noblest fortune that the earth could give; and I tell you, William, that to lay down at your feet that which I have wrongfully possessed, to give up to you wealth and station, and retire to poverty and obscurity, will be the happiest act of my whole life. It will! it will! as there is truth in Heaven, whatever my conduct heretofore may have caused you to believe--and now I leave you." "That is one step at least," said the peer. "Fare you well for the present. I will join you soon.--And now, gentlemen," he continued, turning to the magistrates, as his brother, with a slow and faltering step, quitted the hall--"and now let us proceed, as quickly as possible, to render justice to a man who has been erroneously accused, and subjected already to some loss of liberty,--a loss which I know is more bitter to him than the loss of life would be." "Why, my lord, one would think you had turned gipsy yourself," said Mr. Arden, "you speak so exactly the same sentiments which he has himself expressed." "I have mingled much with persons who feel the same ardent love for uncontrolled liberty," replied the peer somewhat dryly, "and it is therefore that I wish at once to proceed to those matters which may instantly set this good and honest man at liberty. It is evident, gentlemen, that the charge against him must instantly be discharged, and therefore it may be better to order those unworthy handcuffs to be taken instantly from his wrists." "Not so fast, my lord," said Mr. Arden, who was not well pleased with the tone in which the peer replied to him, and who had also a strong disposition to commit every one who was committable. "Although your sudden, miraculous, and very strange reappearance must of course put an end to all proceedings relative to a murder which has not taken place, yet there is another charge of a nature equally grave against the prisoner, which renders it impossible to discharge him in the summary method which you seem inclined to urge. There is a charge of deer-stealing followed by murder, in both of which crimes it is pretty evident that the prisoner has taken part. I should like to know, too, before I part with him, whether the whole story that he told of your being shot by a man on horseback had any foundation, or was a mere invention." "In regard to the last point I will satisfy you at once," replied Lord Dewry, "as far as I ever intend to satisfy any one. I was met by a man on horseback, as I believe the gipsy told you, who demanded money of me, and on my refusing it, somewhat harshly indeed, he did fire at and wound me. My horse took fright, and plunged into the river; I fell from the saddle, deprived of all sense; and had not that good man, Pharold, leaped into the stream, dragged me out, and given me into the hands of those who tended me with kindness and wisdom, my fate would not have been doubtful for a moment. In regard to my after-conduct, private motives determined it, into which no one has any right to inquire. They were such as satisfied my own heart and my own understanding, and that is sufficient." "And pray, my lord," demanded Mr. Arden, "were you acquainted with the person who wounded you? Could you swear to him?" "I am not making a charge before you as a county magistrate," replied Lord Dewry; "but telling you an anecdote as an old acquaintance; and let me add, that my story is done. In regard to any further charge against Pharold, there is, I think, by this time sufficient evidence collected at the hall door to prove that he took no part either in the destruction of the deer or the violence offered to the gamekeepers. If you will order the persons who were present to be called in you will soon be satisfied." "I beg your pardon, my lord," said Mr. Simpson: "I am most happy to see you once again, when such a thing appeared impossible; but still I am afraid the course you suggest cannot be pursued." "And why not, sir?" demanded Lord Dewry: "I believe that I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Simpson, though time has somewhat altered his features: if so, I address both a humane and reasonable man; and I ask why cannot the plain and straightforward course I propose be pursued at once?" "Let them have their way, William de Vaux! Let them have their way!" cried the gipsy, whose dark features had been working under the influence of many a contending passion since his friend had appeared. "Let them have their way! One and all they are set in their own hearts to do injustice. What, indeed, are they there for, but to dispense that kind of injustice that you call law? Let them have their way! They are but working out the inevitable will of fate; and though they bring the curse of innocent blood upon their head, they needs must do it." "If your lordship, during your long absence, have not forgot entirely the customs of this country," replied Mr. Simpson, as soon as he could make himself heard, "you will perceive at once, that, as one of the unfortunate victims of this deer-stealing affray has died in this very house, not half an hour ago, it is our bounden duty not to discharge a prisoner against whom a charge upon oath of participation in the crime has been made by an eyewitness, until the coroner shall have sat upon the body, and returned a verdict; nor have we, I believe, any right to take the matter out of the coroner's hands, by previously examining the witnesses, which must afterward appear before his jury. I am grieved to oppose you, I am grieved to inflict further imprisonment on a man of whose innocence I do not entertain any strong doubts; but Harvey, the head keeper, has sworn that the prisoner was present, aiding and abetting, when Sir Roger Millington was wounded, and we should not be justified even in receiving bail till the coroner's jury have returned their verdict." Lord Dewry bit his lip, and remained silent for a few moments, while Mr. Arden rubbed his hands, and elevated his eyebrows with the air of a man who considers all opposition as silenced; and the gipsy eyed the bench of magistrates with a look in which scorn was the only expression that tempered hatred and indignation. "Pray, sir, how long must it be ere the coroner can be summoned?" demanded the peer. "You know not what you are inflicting upon a man as honest as any one present. To him every hour of his freedom is more than life; and I could give you fully sufficient proof to show that while his innocence of the crime charged against him is clear, the punishment inflicted on him by imprisonment cannot be estimated by the feelings of other men under such circumstances." "The coroner cannot even be summoned to-day, my lord," replied Mr. Arden; "and, consequently, it must be to-morrow or the next day ere the gipsy can be liberated, even if the result be as favourable to him as you expect. But what are two or three days spent in a snug warm room to a man who has never known any thing better than a hovel in a sandpit? Where is the great hardship? I see no very severe infliction." "To him it is the most severe," replied Lord Dewry; "and if it be possible--" "Cease, cease, William," cried Pharold, in a bitter and earnest tone; "you degrade those noble lips by pleading in vain to men who can neither understand your heart nor mine. Besides, it matters not, it matters not. The long weary line of life has come to its end with me. All that I had to do is done. I have seen you break through all your good and wise designs, all your humane and generous scruples, for the purpose of defending and delivering me; I have seen you return to your home, and claim your own; and so far I have seen my utmost desire. But hear what I have seen more," he continued with a rising tone, while his eye flashed, his dark cheek flushed, and his brows knit together--"hear what I have seen more, William de Vaux, and then see whether I ought to care for anything else after. I have seen my people mock my care, and refuse my counsels! I have seen one of my own tribe betray me, in order to liberate himself! I have seen the wife of my bosom take part in the scheme for delivering me over to imprisonment and death, by the means of my best affections! I have spent a whole bright autumn night in a prison! I come forth into the day with bonds upon my hands, and I hear myself condemned, without crime, to the torture of a longer slavery in chains and stone walls!" As he went on, he spoke more and more rapidly, and his eye rolled over the magistrates, as he lashed himself into phrensy, by a recapitulation of his sufferings and his wrongs. "But think not," he continued furiously, "think not that bolts, or bars, or walls shall keep me in another night, in the living tomb into which ye have thrust me! No, no, there is always a way for a bold heart to set itself free! Thus, thus I spurn your chains from me!" and by one great effort of skill and strength he slipped his hands out of the handcuffs, which were somewhat too large, and dashed them down into the midst of the hall. "Constables! constables!" shouted Mr. Arden. "You call in vain, hard, stone-hearted man," cried Pharold, shaking his clenched hand at him, "you call in vain;" and bounding to the side of the hall on which the tall windows had been thrown open, he set one foot upon the secretary's table, and with a single spring reached the high window sill, catching with his hand the small stone column on which the casements hung. There he paused for one moment; and turning his head, exclaimed, "William de Vaux, noble William de Vaux, farewell,--for ever, and ever, and ever, farewell." He let go his hold: he sprang forward, and was lost to the sight. The next moment the dull heavy splash of a large body falling into the water rose up and was carried by the wind through the open windows into the justice-room. "Run round, run round," cried Mr. Arden to the constables, who were now hurrying in; "he has escaped through the window; run round there by the outside." One or two instantly followed these directions; but another sprang up to the window to mark the course of the fugitive, and point it out to the pursuers. "He must have jumped into the stream, gentlemen," said the man, turning to speak to the magistrates, as soon as he had reached the spot where Pharold had stood the moment before. "He must have jumped into the stream, for there is not footing for a mouse." "He did, he did: we heard him," answered Mr. Arden. "Look out, and see where he comes to land. My lord, why do you cover your face with your hand? you seem more sorry for the prisoner's escape than I anticipated." "It is because I know him better than you do, sir," answered the peer; "and I fear that you have driven him further than you imagine." "I can see nothing on the river, gentlemen," cried the constable, "but the bubbles and the eddies where he must have gone down. There's a shoulder, there's a shoulder, I do believe; and his long black hair as I live:--it is gone again; he is down--I see no more of it." Lord Dewry started up and rushed out; but it was in vain that every effort was made to find the gipsy living or dead. The constables who had run round the justice-room declared that they had never seen anything rise. The other, who had watched from the window, soon became very doubtful in regard to the reality of the objects he had seen floating down the stream. An old labourer, who had been working at a distance, stated that he had remarked something fall from the window of the justice-room into the water, but had seen nothing come to land. The peer, with as many people as he could collect, followed the course of the river for some way; and the constables, though with different views, pursued the same course. In the meanwhile, the magistrates continued in deliberation, as it is called; although it must be acknowledged that their conversation referred much more particularly to, and rested much more pertinaciously upon, the strange return of Lord Dewry, the various circumstances which could have given occasion to his absence, and the various events to which his re-appearance would give rise, than even to the disappearance of the prisoner, and the after-measures to be adopted. The matter, however, was quite sufficiently interesting to make three quarters of an hour pass unnoticed; and at the end of that time a servant appeared to inform them that, as the body of the unhappy gipsy could not be found, Lord Dewry did not intend to intrude upon them again, and that he had only to request that due information of the death of Sir Roger Millington might be given to the coroner. The magistrates received the message--probably as it was intended--as a hint that their further presence at Dimden was not desired. Mr. Arden laughed, and declared that he would take care to tease his lordship for his want of courtesy, by asking him unpleasant questions whenever he met him; but Mr. Simpson, on the contrary, looked grave and sad, and as he parted with his fellow-magistrates declared his intention of withdrawing from his official duties. "I should never," he said, "be able to remove from my mind the impression of that unfortunate gipsy's fate, and I should fear that it might have some effect upon the execution of my duty in future." CHAPTER XIII. Day had waned, night had overshadowed the world several hours, and Mrs. Falkland, with Marian, had long left the house in which Edward de Vaux lay ere any sounds intimated that the master of the mansion had returned. Anxious, bewildered, and impatient, De Vaux lay sleepless till ten o'clock, when the rapid rush of rolling wheels, and the quick footfalls of the horses, as they passed his window, told him that he whom he expected had arrived. A few minutes elapsed without his appearance in the sick man's room, however, and, with his characteristic impatience, De Vaux concluded that "the fools had said he was asleep," and was sending to declare the contrary, when the door was quietly opened, and the person he wished for approached his bedside. "I am most happy to see you, my dear sir," said De Vaux, looking up in the fine bland countenance that was bent over him, "for I cannot sleep--I cannot rest--till I ask you who, who is it that I see?" "Ah! I perceive that your aunt has betrayed me," said Lord Dewry. "She recognised me instantly this morning; but I laid strict injunctions upon her, for many reasons, to keep my secret with you till I returned. But I expected more than was reasonable. There is a proverb against a woman keeping a secret." "No, no," said De Vaux: "she did not exactly betray you. She let a few words accidentally fall, that only served to rouse my curiosity, which she then refused to satisfy." "And what said Marian?" demanded the other, with a smile. "Oh, she said nothing on the subject," replied De Vaux, "but she looked happier than I ever beheld her; and that too seemed to confirm some vague surmises which my aunt's words had called up. But yet I cannot believe it--it is impossible--I knew you myself as Sir William Ryder in America--every one knew you by that name there--and I cannot believe the wild fancy that has taken possession of me." "It is nevertheless true," replied the peer. "Sir William Ryder has slept for more than twenty years in a village churchyard in Ireland, and I am--what I suppose you suspect--your uncle. Agitate yourself with this matter no more to-night, my dear boy: suffice it," and he pressed his nephew's hand kindly in his own, "suffice it that I am proud to have Edward de Vaux for my nephew, and shall rejoice to acknowledge him as my son." The words were oil and wine to the heart of Edward de Vaux, but still there was something wanting. "Thank you, thank you," he replied, still holding his uncle's hand in his own; "but yet one word more before you go:--that dreadful story that the gipsy told me--that story that drove me almost mad--it is not, it cannot be true. My father did not--could not--" "Edward," replied his uncle, gravely, "on no account must I do wrong to the memory of a noble-hearted man. The gipsy told you true, as far as he knew the truth. Nay, do not shudder: there are many palliating circumstances which he did not know, but which I will relate to you hereafter, in order to calm and tranquilize your mind. In the meantime be satisfied with knowing that, as far as I am concerned, all that was painful in the past shall be forgotten and buried in oblivion for ever. Nor, indeed, would I, even to you, so far withdraw the veil from things gone as to give any explanation, had it not been by my authority and directions--under a mistaken view of your character and heart--that the gipsy related to you as much as you already know. Your knowledge of thus much renders it necessary for your own peace that you should know more; which I will tell you as soon as you are well. Rest assured, however, that all which you have yet to hear is good and not evil, and will tend to alleviate and soften what is past." With such information Edward de Vaux was forced to rest contented during the whole of the following week, for he could draw no more from his uncle; and he feared, by questioning any one else upon the subject, to raise suspicions which he trusted were as yet quiet in the minds of all others. The rest of the little world, however, in which these events had taken place, were not so soon satisfied. The immediate neighbourhood of Dimden and of Morley House was, of course, more agitated than the rest of the county; for there it may be said that the stone had dropped into the water, and though the rippling circles that it made extended far and wide around, yet each eddy was fainter and fainter, of course, as it became farther removed from the centre. In the immediate vortex, however, not only for nine days, but nearly for nine months, all was gossip, and rumour, and confusion. Every one had his own distinct report of the transactions which had taken place in regard to the return of the old Lord Dewry; every one had his own version of the story; and as neither the peer himself, nor any of his family, gave either encouragement or refutation to any of the statements, but held a stern and rigid silence upon the whole affair, every one was left to enjoy his own version undisturbed, and to make himself sure that it was the right one, by any logic that he thought proper to use. There is no such diffusible a substance in nature as truth; for though an infinitely small piece of gold can be spread over a wire that might girdle the great earth, yet a much less portion of truth will serve to gild a much greater quantity of falsehood. Thus, in all the stories that were current, it is more than probable that some portion of truth existed; and many of them, aided by curious inquiry and shrewd conjecture, came very near the real facts of the case. The good-natured world of course anticipated all the disagreeable things that were to happen. Lawsuits innumerable were prognosticated; Lord Dewry was to compel his brother to refund the long enjoyed rents of his estates; the brother was to deny his claim and rights altogether; the marriage between Edward de Vaux and his cousin was to be broken off; and some persons even anticipated that the lover would shoot himself, and the lady die of consumption. None of these events, however, did really take place. Lord Dewry showed himself in no hurry to take possession of his estates either at Dimden or at Dewry Hall, but his title was not the less generally recognised and his rights undisputed. His brother, indeed, lay for many weeks ill at Dimden House; and, under the influence of feelings, which those around him did not rightly comprehend, besought Lord Dewry not to visit him till his strength was recovered, or till his death was near. Edward de Vaux still remained at his uncle's cottage at the little town of ----, tended by its owner with all the care and affection of a father. His recovery was somewhat tedious indeed; and it was long ere the surgeons permitted him to rise. From that period, however, his convalescence proceeded more rapidly, and the kind tone of all his uncle's conversation--the hope, the cheerfulness, the sunshine, that beamed through it all--tended to sooth his mind, and turn it from everything that was painful in his situation. At length it was announced that he might with safety drive over to Dimden to see his father: and on the day preceding that on which he went, as soon as the short twilight of winter was over, Lord Dewry ordered his doors to be closed against all the world; and walking up and down the room--as was his custom when he spoke on matters of deep interest--while his nephew lay on the couch beside him, he entered into the long promised explanation of his past conduct. "I need not recapitulate, my dear boy," he said, "all that you have already heard, nor tell you how bitterly I suffered from a loss, the pain of which can never be wholly forgotten. At the time it nearly drove me mad. At all events it made me look upon everything in nature through a false medium, made me hate mankind, loath even the society of my best and dearest friends, and find agony rather than consolation in the sight of the infant which my lost angel had left me, and which to a more sane and less impatient spirit would have been a source of joy and comfort to my latest hour. It was under these circumstances, and with these feelings, that I suddenly met my brother in the neighbourhood of Morley House, while I was riding over to the county town, with the purpose of giving him such a sum as I could spare at the time, but of refusing the greater part of the assistance he demanded. I had many other causes for dissatisfaction in regard to his conduct besides his boundless extravagance; but of those causes we need not speak. I acknowledge that I treated him harshly; and that, not contented with rejecting his demand, I rejected it in that stern and peremptory tone which was in some degree cruel, for grief had hardened me for the time against all those things to which at other moments I yielded most willingly. He pleaded more earnestly, more humbly, than could have been expected from one who had no small share of pride; but I refused to hear, and only repeated my determination. Words of great bitterness passed between us; and at length he drew forth a pistol, saying that nothing was left him but death or dishonour, and that he preferred the former. I remember not the exact words of my reply; but they were galling, bitter, and ungenerous; and as I spoke them, I spurred on my horse. The next moment there came a loud report, a giddiness of my eyes, and I felt myself reel in the saddle. For the moment my powers over my horse were lost; and taking fright at the sound, he plunged down the bank, lost his footing, and slipped into the river. Nay, Edward, look not so distressed, remember the shot might be accidental; my brother was following me eagerly at the time, with the weapon in his hand which he had threatened to raise against his own life: a plunge of his horse, a false step, an accidental movement, might discharge the pistol without his will. I am willing to believe it so; and I have never inquired further. If you are wise, Edward de Vaux--if you are wise, you will inquire no further either. There are few situations in which doubts are preferable to certainty, but there are some, and this is one. Suffice it that, whatever your father's intention was, he was driven at that moment, both by despair and by a brother's harshness, to a state of mind in which he could hardly be held responsible for his own actions. I forgive him from my heart for that deed, though others have taken place lately which I fear I cannot forgive--at least not as yet. But of these no more: I seek not to be your father's accuser. I would rather exculpate him as far as possible." De Vaux sighed deeply, and still kept his hands clasped over his eyes, for he could not but feel that his uncle willingly deceived himself, in order to palliate the actions of his father. "Let me now turn," continued Lord Dewry, "to my own fate and conduct. The wound I had received, though not dangerous--having passed obliquely along the back of my head and neck, only slightly grazing the bone--was sufficient to stun and confuse me; and although in the plunge into the water I was thrown free of the horse, I should certainly have been drowned, had it not been for the activity and courage of the gipsy Pharold. I knew little that passed till I found myself lying on the moss, in the thick wood above Morley Point, with two gipsies standing by me, one of whom was my deliverer. I was still bleeding profusely; and Pharold was in the very act of sending his comrade for help to bear me home. My first words, however, were directed to stop him; and I besought the companion of my boyhood to have me carried to the tents of his people, and to conceal my escape from every one. The very first impulse on recovering my recollection had been to execute a plan, which had often occurred to me within the last few weeks previous to that time, of abandoning state, and station, and society altogether, and wasting away the rest of my days in grief and mourning. Had I been a Roman Catholic at my wife's death, I should certainly have devoted myself to the cloister; and the only consideration which had prevented me from quitting England and all my former connections, had been the thought of the inquiries and the search that would be made for me, and the annoyance to which such proceedings might subject me. Now, however, the opportunity was before me. I easily gathered, or rather divined from the circumstances in which I found myself, that no one was acquainted with my being still in life but the gipsy and his comrade: I knew that my child, with an ample fortune and numerous connections, would be well protected and cherished by my sister; and I resolved instantly to seize the only opportunity I might ever have of quitting without inquiry or pursuit, scenes that were full of painful memories, and society which I detested. The rest was easily arranged. I felt that I was but slightly wounded. Pharold would have done whatever I chose to dictate on earth; and I was borne to the gipsies' tents, and tended with as much care and skill as if I had lain in a palace, surrounded by friends and servants. "None knew me personally but Pharold himself; and he pledged himself solemnly to conceal the fact of my existence from every one. It was agreed that his tribe should instantly remove to a distance, carrying me with them; while he remained, in order to watch the subsequent proceedings of my family, and give me information thereof. He was absent for several days; and when at length he rejoined his people, I found that he had been himself arrested, and in some degree suspected of having murdered me. He told me, however, that my brother had been the first to assert his innocence, and to effect his liberation. This conduct pleased me; and I resolved to linger in England some time longer, in order to mark your father's after proceedings. Through the exertions of Pharold, I learned all that took place. I found that, however he might have acted in other circumstances, my brother acted nobly towards my child; and I took some pleasure, the first that I had known for months, in viewing the emotions of his heart through the conduct to which they led. The pleasure, however, was of a very mingled nature; and at length I prepared to set out for Ireland, with the intention of proceeding thence to America. At Holyhead I removed from the tents of the gipsies, with whom I had hitherto continued, because I was aware that Sir William Ryder, an old acquaintance both of my brother's and my own, was to visit Pharold on Edward's account, in order to ensure more perfectly the gipsy's silence. He came at length, but in coming his horse took fright, threw him, and nearly killed him on the spot. He likewise was borne into the gipsies' tents, and for some days hovered between life and death. I saw him often, without being seen, and many a time as I stood in the shadow, while Pharold conversed with him, I heard him express bitter sorrow and repentance for all the follies into which he had been led, and depict vividly the writhings of a noble spirit under the consciousness of having dipped deeply in vice and become a participator in crime. I became interested in him, and determined in other lands--for he also was following exactly the same track towards America as myself--to let him know of my existence; which would at least relieve a part of the load under which he suffered. He partially recovered, and proceeded to Ireland; but he never reached America; for ere he could embark, the consequences of the injuries he had received in his fall assumed a severe character, and at a small inn, in a small and wretched Irish port, I found him dying and alone. His surprise on seeing me had nearly killed him; but he soon regained composure, and I remained with him till his last hour. "By his advice, and authorized by his own hand, I took his name; and by means of papers which he gave me at his death, have received ever since the annuity of a thousand per annum, which my brother had settled upon him; nor did I think myself unjustified in either of these actions, for I only assumed a rank inferior to my own, and received money which to all intents and purposes was mine. However, as Sir William Ryder had a numerous acquaintance, it became necessary to fix my abode in such a spot as would remove every chance of my assumed name being questioned. My feelings too at this time led me to seek solitude, and an entire change, not only of scene, but of all the circumstances of life. Thus I retired to the spot where you found me, during the late war; and there, in the midst of savage life, and various sources of interest and excitement, I gradually recovered calmness and peace. Of my life in America I need give you no picture, as you have seen how it passed; and I have now only to explain further the motives of my return. "Every human thing is weak in its resolves, and I not less than others; but still, in some degree, it is happy that it should be so; for our determinations are always the children of circumstances, and upon circumstances also must their execution ever depend. Like a madman and a fool, I had fancied that in Marian's mother I had found imperishable happiness; and when she was suddenly snatched from me, my whole feelings, my very soul, seemed turned into bitterness and disappointment. In bitterness and disappointment, then, I had resolved never to love another human being, and to cast off every tie that could bind me to human affections: but time brought resignation and consolation; and a longing, a thirst to see my child and my native land often came upon me with overpowering force. I sought not to resume wealth or station. I sought not to mingle again in cultivated society; but the yearning of the heart of a father and a man towards my daughter and my country were sometimes hardly to be resisted. That my child was well, happy, and protected, I learned from the constant correspondence which I kept up with the gipsy Pharold; and, at the same time, the interest which I took in the wild tribes around me, and the love they evinced towards me, acted as a strong tie to the land in which I had settled. I wavered often, but I resisted long; till, at length, I became acquainted with your admirable friend Manners, and through him first personally knew yourself. Your very name was full of interest to me; but how much was that interest increased when, by some casual words which passed between you and your friend, I learned that you were destined to become the husband of my only child. All the faults of your father's character rose up before my imagination his very faults towards your mother were remembered and when I pictured to myself my dear Marian suffering under similar conduct, my heart was in an agony of doubt and apprehension. From that moment I watched your every word and action with eager anxiety, striving to judge your mind and heart. I did judge you, Edward, and I judged you wrongly. There was a fastidiousness, an irritability, an impatience, a degree of pride, that put me strongly in mind of your father; and although I thought I saw some nobler traits, yet I was anxious, doubtful, ill at ease; and I determined, at any risk, at any cost, to try you to the uttermost, ere you received the fate of my child into your hands. I did try you, Edward, and somewhat too severely; and both for having mistaken your nature, and made you suffer deeply, I now ask your forgiveness. At the time you left me, I was engaged in negotiating the purchase of a large tract of land to be reserved for certain tribes of Indians, but a larger sum was required than I could command; and this, with the other circumstances I have mentioned, hastened my return to England. I arrived in my native country even before you did; but a thousand difficulties surrounded me which I had not foreseen; and my anxiety and eagerness made me act with less caution than I should have done. I had no agent in whom I could confide but the gipsy Pharold; and although he wrought in every thing exactly under my directions, yet a thousand circumstances, over which we had no control, turned our actions from their course, and led to results that neither of us anticipated. My intention was not to claim either my name or my estates, if I found that you were worthy of my child: but I have been forced forward, from step to step, as if by the strong hand of fate, till at length it became an imperative duty to disclose myself, in order to deliver the innocent from persecution. One satisfaction, however, I have obtained, which is, that I can now feel unbounded confidence in the man to whom I leave the happiness of my child in charge. Remember also, Edward, that I have resumed my own rights, without compromising the honour or reputation of your father--" "Indeed! indeed!" cried De Vaux, starting up, and grasping his uncle's hands. "Thanks, thanks, my dear sir! That is a blessed relief indeed! But will not people suspect--" "They cannot do so reasonably," replied Lord Dewry. "The secret, my dear boy, remains with you and me alone, and never to a living creature shall it pass my lips, as I hope for happiness hereafter." "But the gipsy!" cried De Vaux, "the gipsy!" "The gipsy is no more!" replied his uncle, a shade coming over his countenance. "Persecution and severe laws have driven him to despair, and despair to death. And now, Edward, to-morrow you are about to visit your father; in regard to letting him know what information you possess, act as you shall think fit. Were I in your circumstances, if possible, I should conceal from him that I knew aught beyond common report; but if you do communicate to him the knowledge you have obtained, add that for all and every fault towards myself I forgive him from my heart and soul, but that his conduct towards Pharold the gipsy rests dark upon my mind; and that, perhaps, it would be better if we did not meet again till time had softened the remembrance. Present him, Edward, with this packet also. It contains a deed which will prevent him from feeling any great change of fortune from my return." De Vaux coloured as he took it; and his uncle added,--"You must not again make me deem you proud, Edward." "No, no, my dear sir," replied De Vaux. "What I have suffered has not only been a trial, but will, I trust, prove a cure; for the errors that you saw and justly feared, were fully as real as apparent. I cannot but feel pained, however, that we should have so small a right to expect--to expect--" He paused, hesitated a moment, and then added,--"to expect bounty at the hand which now bestows it." "Call it not bounty, my dear Edward," answered his uncle, "nor couple yourself with others in any shape, for in this deed you are in no degree interested. The fortune which Marian inherits from her mother will render you independent, till my death renders you wealthy. And now to conclude, ere I wish you good-night:--I have been forced to speak to you long of your father. In doing so, though I have tried not to spare my own faults, I have been obliged to dwell for long upon his; but I have done so once for all, and I never more mention them again, either to his son or to any one else. It has been as painful for me to speak, as for you to hear. It is over; and now, good-night!" We might dwell longer upon the feelings of Edward de Vaux; but we have only space left for his actions. The next morning early he set out to visit his parent, and it was late ere he returned. When he did so, however, he announced to his uncle that, although still unwell, his father had quitted Dimden, and removed a few stages on his journey to a remote part of the country, in which he had determined to fix his residence. "Of course, my dear sir," he added, "every inducement, but one, would lead me to remain here, in the scenes wherein I have been brought up, which are full of sweet recollections, and which contain her I love the best on earth. Nevertheless, he is my father; and I cannot suffer him to linger through the hours of sickness, in sorrow, dejection, and solitude, when, perhaps, the society of his son may give him consolation, or, at least, afford some diversion to his thoughts. To-morrow, therefore, I will see Marian; and then, if the surgeons will let me, will set off to follow my father. As soon as his illness is terminated," and he spoke with a look of pain and apprehension, "I will return, and claim a promise which is more valuable to me than life; and, in the meantime, I know that none who are dear to me will think the worse of me for having in this instance preferred duty to happiness." Lord Dewry made no opposition to his purpose, and it was accordingly executed. Two months elapsed without any event of importance. Lord Dewry took possession of his rights again; and rumour and gossip, at every fresh incident in our drama, revived more and more faintly, till at length they died away, and gave place to newer things. The body of the gipsy Pharold was never found; and a vague report spread over the country that he was not dead, but had returned to his people, and had been seen in several places by persons who were acquainted with his person; but the origin of this report could not be traced; and certain it is, that The Gipsy never again presented himself before any of the family of De Vaux. The tribe which he had led disappeared from the country; and whither their wanderings conducted them, or what was their fate, the writer of this book cannot tell, though it appears that Mr. Arden, that indefatigable magistrate, pursued them with his usual vigour, on the charge of deer-stealing and murder, but was unsuccessful in the attempt to identify any of the parties. In the meanwhile two inducements led Lord Dewry to establish his permanent residence at Dimden, rather than at the newer mansion which his brother had inhabited; first, that it was full of memories that he loved; and, secondly, that it was near those who were the dearest to him on earth. Colonel Manners, for his part, had prolonged his stay at Morley House for some time; but he then returned to London, promising faithfully to renew his visit, when the same cause which had brought him first into that part of England was again urged as a plea for revisiting it. To the surprise of all his military acquaintances, however, shortly after his arrival in the capital, Colonel Manners resigned the command of his regiment, and retired upon half pay. Various causes were assigned for this proceeding; but the real motive lay hidden in his own bosom, deeper than he liked to own even to himself. While these events were passing, Edward de Vaux wrote often to his uncle, and still more frequently to Marian; but at the end of two months the peer received a letter in which his brother's handwriting was faintly to be traced. It was short, and to the following effect:-- "My Lord, "I am dying; and a few days are all that remains to me of life; I therefore venture to ask that you would see me once more before we part--perhaps for ever. I would fain receive your forgiveness from your own lips. I would fain tell you how that remorse--which led me on to new crimes and more intense sufferings at every step, while it was the companion of terror and despair--has conducted me to repentance and consolation, now that the burden has been lightened by your return. I have not only wronged you, but I have fearfully wronged others, and I acknowledge it with sorrow and with shame. Nor will I attempt to excuse or palliate any part of my conduct; for you, whose life has passed without spot, cannot tell the goading power of that fiery scourge with which one great crime drives us on to a thousand more, in order to conceal it. My cruel, I might almost say insane, persecution of an unhappy man who, as I hear, is now no more, had such feelings for its cause; but I know too well that if my deep and bitter repentance be not accepted by the Almighty, it will be no vindication of a great crime to urge that it was the consequence of another. In regard to my offences towards yourself, I have been punished by twenty years of those torments which have been assigned to hell itself--the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched. But this is not enough; and if I did not trust that the deep repentance which I feel may obtain some better expiation of my offences than my own sufferings can afford, I should die without hope. I do hope, however, that mercy may be found; and oh, my brother, let me beseech you to encourage that trust, by seeing me, and assuring me of your full forgiveness, ere I go to another world." The peer lost not a moment, and arrived at his brother's bedside before the last scene was over. He found in him, however, scarcely a trace of what he had been even three months before. At that time, intense mental exertion and activity had apparently given him power to bear up under all the load that pressed upon his heart; but the sudden re-appearance of his brother, and the events which accompanied it, seemed to have broken, in a moment, the staff under his hand, and he had fallen at once into age, decrepitude, and decay. Lord Dewry and Edward de Vaux returned not after to Dimden Hall in deep mourning; and though joy certainly sparkled in the lover's eyes as he once more held Marian to his heart, yet for many weeks he was grave and sad, and only recovered his cheerfulness by degrees. Nor indeed even then did Edward de Vaux ever resume the same demeanour which he had formerly borne. Sorrows, anxieties, and humiliation had rendered him grave; but they had nevertheless in no degree made him less amiable in the eyes of those that loved him. On the contrary, whatever had been frivolous, or fastidious, or irritable in his nature, had been removed; and in the trials he had undergone he had cast away the impatient pride, which was the worst quality he had possessed, and had obtained a calm dignity, which had a better and a nobler foundation. Marian de Vaux did all she could to sooth, to comfort, and console him; and in the end, if there was anything on earth of which he was proud, it was of the love and the conduct of her he was shortly to call his bride. As soon as De Vaux urged the fulfilment of the engagement between Marian and himself, he met with no opposition; and the day was fixed. Manners was immediately informed of the fact; and, according to the invitation he received, came down to Morley House a fortnight before the time appointed for the marriage. Even six or eight months will work their change in every one; and Isadore Falkland remarked that Colonel Manners neither seemed in such good health nor such good spirits as when last she had seen him: but ere the ceremony took place, in the air of the country and the cheerful society which he now enjoyed, he had recovered both; and only now and then gave way to a moment or two of absent thought. All was now gayety and cheerfulness: and as nothing occurred either to delay the wedding again, or to imbitter the after lives of Edward and Marian de Vaux, we shall pass the whole over with the fewest possible words--they were united and were happy. But one scene more, and we have done. On the day succeeding that of the wedding, there was, according to the custom of that time, a grand and solemn dinner given at Morley House to all the grave and reverend seniors in the neighbourhood. It was now the height of summer; and though men sat long and drank deep in those days, yet people who were sufficiently reasonable to condemn the practice, and sufficiently firm to contemn an idle sneer, could rise from table when they liked, even then. Thus, about an hour after the ladies had retired, and just as the sun's lower rim touched the horizon, Colonel Manners, who had been strangling a whole generation of yawns, rose and sauntered to the window. Mr. Arden, who had sat next to him, instantly seized the decanter, and exclaimed, "Come, come, colonel; your glass is charged." "Thank you," answered Manners; "I do not drink any more." "Poo, poo," cried the magistrate; "no flinching, colonel; your glass is charged--charged to the muzzle; and a gallant soldier like you will never refuse to fire it off." "I am on half-pay," answered Manners, with a smile; and moving towards the door, notwithstanding all Mr. Arden's objurgations, he left the room. In the drawing-room he found the ladies scattered in various parties, and engaged in various occupations. Mrs. Falkland was paying such attention to her guests as the circumstances required; but Isadore, as if she had quite forgotten them, was standing at the far bay window, looking at the setting sun and thinking-- Manners advanced as quietly as possible to the same spot, and spoke a few words to Miss Falkland, which she answered in the same tone. It was a low one. The conversation might thus have gone on for a long time without disturbing any one; but Lady Margaret Simpson, who sat at the other side of the room, was fond of being a third; and in about five minutes she crossed over and joined them. "Well, Colonel Manners," she said, "I have not been able to speak a word to you all dinner-time, and I wanted to talk to you about the wedding. Has not this been a very fortunate termination to all that bad business?" "Most satisfactory, indeed," answered Manners, with a glance towards Isadore, who looked vexed and provoked. "I doubt not that De Vaux and his fair bride are fully of your opinion." "Oh, they of course think so," rejoined Lady Margaret; "and there can be no doubt that marriage is a very right and very proper thing, when fortune, and rank, and all that agree. Do you not think so, my dear Miss Falkland?" "Certainly, madam," answered Isadore, in a tone which argued a doubt whether she should laugh or cry; "I dare say it is a very proper thing." "Then now tell me," cried Lady Margaret, in a gay and happy tone of raillery--"then now tell me, why you--who I know have had three very good offers indeed--why you yourself do not marry? Tell me the truth, now." "Oh, certainly I will," answered Isadore, half gayly, half pettishly. "It is, I suppose, because I do not think it worth while to marry without love; and if the man that I could love does not choose to propose to me, it is quite impossible, you know, that I can propose to him." God knows whether the colour that spread over Isadore's face came from within or without,--whether it was a rush of warm blood from some deep source in her heart, or the warm beams of the setting sun reflected from the damask curtain on her cheek. However that might be, she felt that the crimson was growing too deep, and turning round, upon some light excuse, she left the room. Manners remained for a moment or two to hear some more of her ladyship's pleasantries; and then declaring that he could not abandon, even for the pleasure of her society, his sunset walk in the garden, he strolled out through the anteroom, which was not the way that Isadore had taken. When he reached the lobby, however, he remembered that there was a certain music-room, of which he had remarked that Isadore Falkland had lately become extremely fond, and as he had by this time acquired a strong liking for the things that she liked, he turned his steps thither instead of to the garden. No sooner did he open the door, than he beheld Miss Falkland seated near the window, with a handkerchief in her hand, engaged in the somewhat sad occupation of wiping tears from her eyes. "Good God, Colonel Manners!" she exclaimed, as soon as he appeared, "leave me, leave me, I beg." But Manners did not obey. On the contrary, advancing rapidly towards her, he took her hand, saying, "Miss Falkland, I am either the most happy or the most miserable of men. I have broken through all my resolutions; I have exposed myself to love, where I have no right to entertain a hope; I love for the first time, deeply, passionately, sincerely, and it is for you to say whether that passion shall be my curse or my blessing." Isadore replied not, but her tears burst forth more vehemently than before; and the hand that Manners had taken remained trembling in his. Manners pressed her to his heart; and Isadore ended her flood of tears upon his bosom. It was nearly three months after this event ere Isadore Falkland again met Lady Margaret Simpson; and then her ladyship's first exclamation was, "Goodness, my dear Miss Falkland, they tell me you are going to be married to Colonel Manners! Well, I do declare, when you are so very handsome, it is a great pity that he is so ugly." "Ugly!" cried Isadore. "Ugly! Lady Margaret! He is the handsomest man in all the world!" and she continued to think so to her dying day. THE END. 
422	----	Transcribed from the 1907 J. M. Dent Edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk THE ROMANY RYE CHAPTER I The Making of the Linch-pin--The Sound Sleeper--Breakfast--The Postillion's Departure. I awoke at the first break of day, and, leaving the postillion fast asleep, stepped out of the tent. The dingle was dank and dripping. I lighted a fire of coals, and got my forge in readiness. I then ascended to the field, where the chaise was standing as we had left it on the previous evening. After looking at the cloud-stone near it, now cold, and split into three pieces, I set about prying narrowly into the condition of the wheel and axletree--the latter had sustained no damage of any consequence, and the wheel, as far as I was able to judge, was sound, being only slightly injured in the box. The only thing requisite to set the chaise in a travelling condition appeared to be a linch-pin, which I determined to make. Going to the companion wheel, I took out the linch-pin, which I carried down with me to the dingle, to serve as a model. I found Belle by this time dressed, and seated near the forge: with a slight nod to her like that which a person gives who happens to see an acquaintance when his mind is occupied with important business, I forthwith set about my work. Selecting a piece of iron which I thought would serve my purpose, I placed it in the fire, and plying the bellows in a furious manner, soon made it hot; then seizing it with the tongs, I laid it on my anvil, and began to beat it with my hammer, according to the rules of my art. The dingle resounded with my strokes. Belle sat still, and occasionally smiled, but suddenly started up, and retreated towards her encampment, on a spark which I purposely sent in her direction alighting on her knee. I found the making of a linch-pin no easy matter; it was, however, less difficult than the fabrication of a pony-shoe; my work, indeed, was much facilitated by my having another pin to look at. In about three-quarters of an hour I had succeeded tolerably well, and had produced a linch-pin which I thought would serve. During all this time, notwithstanding the noise which I was making, the postillion never showed his face. His non-appearance at first alarmed me: I was afraid he might be dead, but, on looking into the tent, I found him still buried in the soundest sleep. "He must surely be descended from one of the seven sleepers," said I, as I turned away, and resumed my work. My work finished, I took a little oil, leather, and sand, and polished the pin as well as I could; then, summoning Belle, we both went to the chaise, where, with her assistance, I put on the wheel. The linch- pin which I had made fitted its place very well, and having replaced the other, I gazed at the chaise for some time with my heart full of that satisfaction which results from the consciousness of having achieved a great action; then, after looking at Belle in the hope of obtaining a compliment from her lips, which did not come, I returned to the dingle, without saying a word, followed by her. Belle set about making preparations for breakfast; and I taking the kettle, went and filled it at the spring. Having hung it over the fire, I went to the tent in which the postillion was still sleeping, and called upon him to arise. He awoke with a start, and stared around him at first with the utmost surprise, not unmixed, I could observe, with a certain degree of fear. At last, looking in my face, he appeared to recollect himself. "I had quite forgot," said he, as he got up, "where I was, and all that happened yesterday. However, I remember now the whole affair, thunder-storm, thunder-bolt, frightened horses, and all your kindness. Come, I must see after my coach and horses; I hope we shall be able to repair the damage." "The damage is already quite repaired," said I, "as you will see, if you come to the field above." "You don't say so," said the postillion, coming out of the tent; "well, I am mightily beholden to you. Good morning, young gentle-woman," said he, addressing Belle, who, having finished her preparations, was seated near the fire. "Good morning, young man," said Belle, "I suppose you would be glad of some breakfast; however, you must wait a little, the kettle does not boil." "Come and look at your chaise," said I; "but tell me how it happened that the noise which I have been making did not awake you; for three-quarters of an hour at least I was hammering close at your ear." "I heard you all the time," said the postillion, "but your hammering made me sleep all the sounder; I am used to hear hammering in my morning sleep. There's a forge close by the room where I sleep when I'm at home, at my inn; for we have all kinds of conveniences at my inn--forge, carpenter's shop, and wheel-wright's,--so that when I heard you hammering I thought, no doubt, that it was the old noise, and that I was comfortable in my bed at my own inn." We now ascended to the field, where I showed the postillion his chaise. He looked at the pin attentively, rubbed his hands, and gave a loud laugh. "Is it not well done?" said I. "It will do till I get home," he replied. "And that is all you have to say?" I demanded. "And that's a good deal," said he, "considering who made it. But don't be offended," he added, "I shall prize it all the more for its being made by a gentleman, and no blacksmith; and so will my governor, when I show it to him. I shan't let it remain where it is, but will keep it, as a remembrance of you, as long as I live." He then again rubbed his hands with great glee, and said, "I will now go and see after my horses, and then to breakfast, partner, if you please." Suddenly, however, looking at his hands, he said, "Before sitting down to breakfast I am in the habit of washing my hands and face: I suppose you could not furnish me with a little soap and water." "As much water as you please," said I, "but if you want soap, I must go and trouble the young gentle-woman for some." "By no means," said the postillion, "water will do at a pinch." "Follow me," said I, and leading him to the pond of the frogs and newts, I said, "this is my ewer; you are welcome to part of it--the water is so soft that it is scarcely necessary to add soap to it;" then lying down on the bank, I plunged my head into the water, then scrubbed my hands and face, and afterwards wiped them with some long grass which grew on the margin of the pond. "Bravo," said the postillion, "I see you know how to make a shift:" he then followed my example, declared he never felt more refreshed in his life, and, giving a bound, said, "he would go and look after his horses." We then went to look after the horses, which we found not much the worse for having spent the night in the open air. My companion again inserted their heads in the corn-bags, and, leaving the animals to discuss their corn, returned with me to the dingle, where we found the kettle boiling. We sat down, and Belle made tea and did the honours of the meal. The postillion was in high spirits, ate heartily, and, to Belle's evident satisfaction, declared that he had never drank better tea in his life, or indeed any half so good. Breakfast over, he said that he must now go and harness his horses, as it was high time for him to return to his inn. Belle gave him her hand and wished him farewell: the postillion shook her hand warmly, and was advancing close up to her--for what purpose I cannot say--whereupon Belle, withdrawing her hand, drew herself up with an air which caused the postillion to retreat a step or two with an exceedingly sheepish look. Recovering himself, however, he made a low bow, and proceeded up the path. I attended him, and helped to harness his horses and put them to the vehicle; he then shook me by the hand, and taking the reins and whip, mounted to his seat; ere he drove away he thus addressed me: "If ever I forget your kindness and that of the young woman below, dash my buttons. If ever either of you should enter my inn you may depend upon a warm welcome, the best that can be set before you, and no expense to either, for I will give both of you the best of characters to the governor, who is the very best fellow upon all the road. As for your linch-pin, I trust it will serve till I get home, when I will take it out and keep it in remembrance of you all the days of my life:" then giving the horses a jerk with his reins, he cracked his whip and drove off. I returned to the dingle, Belle had removed the breakfast things, and was busy in her own encampment: nothing occurred, worthy of being related, for two hours, at the end of which time Belle departed on a short expedition, and I again found myself alone in the dingle. CHAPTER II The Man in Black--The Emperor of Germany--Nepotism--Donna Olympia--Omnipotence--Camillo Astalli--The Five Propositions. In the evening I received another visit from the man in black. I had been taking a stroll in the neighbourhood, and was sitting in the dingle in rather a listless manner, scarcely knowing how to employ myself; his coming, therefore, was by no means disagreeable to me. I produced the hollands and glass from my tent, where Isopel Berners had requested me to deposit them, and also some lump sugar, then taking the gotch I fetched water from the spring, and, sitting down, begged the man in black to help himself; he was not slow in complying with my desire, and prepared for himself a glass of hollands and water with a lump of sugar in it. After he had taken two or three sips with evident satisfaction, I, remembering his chuckling exclamation of "Go to Rome for money," when he last left the dingle, took the liberty, after a little conversation, of reminding him of it, whereupon, with a he! he! he! he replied, "Your idea was not quite so original as I supposed. After leaving you the other night, I remembered having read of an Emperor of Germany who conceived the idea of applying to Rome for money, and actually put it into practice. "Urban the Eighth then occupied the papal chair, of the family of the Barbarini, nicknamed the Mosche, or Flies, from the circumstance of bees being their armorial bearing. The Emperor having exhausted all his money in endeavouring to defend the church against Gustavus Adolphus, the great King of Sweden, who was bent on its destruction, applied in his necessity to the Pope for a loan of money. The Pope, however, and his relations, whose cellars were at that time full of the money of the church, which they had been plundering for years, refused to lend him a scudo; whereupon a pasquinade picture was stuck up at Rome, representing the church lying on a bed, gashed with dreadful wounds, and beset all over with flies, which were sucking her, whilst the Emperor of Germany was kneeling before her with a miserable face, requesting a little money towards carrying on the war against the heretics, to which the poor church was made to say: 'How can I assist you, O my champion, do you not see that the flies have sucked me to the very bones?' Which story," said he, "shows that the idea of going to Rome for money was not quite so original as I imagined the other night, though utterly preposterous. "This affair," said he, "occurred in what were called the days of nepotism. Certain popes, who wished to make themselves in some degree independent of the cardinals, surrounded themselves with their nephews and the rest of their family, who sucked the church and Christendom as much as they could, none doing so more effectually than the relations of Urban the Eighth, at whose death, according to the book called the 'Nipotismo di Roma,' there were in the Barbarini family two hundred and twenty-seven governments, abbeys and high dignities; and so much hard cash in their possession, that threescore and ten mules were scarcely sufficient to convey the plunder of one of them to Palestrina." He added, however, that it was probable that Christendom fared better whilst the popes were thus independent, as it was less sucked, whereas before and after that period it was sucked by hundreds instead of tens, by the cardinals and all their relations, instead of by the pope and his nephews only. Then, after drinking rather copiously of his hollands, he said that it was certainly no bad idea of the popes to surround themselves with nephews, on whom they bestowed great church dignities, as by so doing they were tolerably safe from poison, whereas a pope, if abandoned to the cardinals, might at any time be made away with by them, provided they thought that he lived too long, or that he seemed disposed to do anything which they disliked; adding, that Ganganelli would never have been poisoned provided he had had nephews about him to take care of his life, and to see that nothing unholy was put into his food, or a bustling stirring brother's wife like Donna Olympia. He then with a he! he! he! asked me if I had ever read the book called the "Nipotismo di Roma"; and on my replying in the negative, he told me that it was a very curious and entertaining book, which he occasionally looked at in an idle hour, and proceeded to relate to me anecdotes out of the "Nipotismo di Roma," about the successor of Urban, Innocent the Tenth, and Donna Olympia, showing how fond he was of her, and how she cooked his food, and kept the cardinals away from it, and how she and her creatures plundered Christendom, with the sanction of the Pope, until Christendom, becoming enraged, insisted that he should put her away, which he did for a time, putting a nephew--one Camillo Astalli--in her place, in which, however, he did not continue long; for the Pope, conceiving a pique against him, banished him from his sight, and recalled Donna Olympia, who took care of his food, and plundered Christendom until Pope Innocent died. I said that I only wondered that between pope and cardinals the whole system of Rome had not long fallen to the ground, and was told, in reply, that its not having fallen was the strongest proof of its vital power, and the absolute necessity for the existence of the system. That the system, notwithstanding its occasional disorders, went on. Popes and cardinals might prey upon its bowels, and sell its interests, but the system survived. The cutting off of this or that member was not able to cause Rome any vital loss; for, as soon as she lost a member, the loss was supplied by her own inherent vitality; though her popes had been poisoned by cardinals, and her cardinals by popes; and though priests occasionally poisoned popes, cardinals, and each other, after all that had been, and might be, she had still, and would ever have, her priests, cardinals, and pope. Finding the man in black so communicative and reasonable, I determined to make the best of my opportunity, and learn from him all I could with respect to the papal system, and told him that he would particularly oblige me by telling me who the Pope of Rome was; and received for answer, that he was an old man elected by a majority of cardinals to the papal chair; who, immediately after his election, became omnipotent and equal to God on earth. On my begging him not to talk such nonsense, and asking him how a person could be omnipotent who could not always preserve himself from poison, even when fenced round by nephews, or protected by a bustling woman, he, after taking a long sip of hollands and water, told me that I must not expect too much from omnipotence; for example, that as it would be unreasonable to expect that One above could annihilate the past--for instance, the Seven Years' War, or the French Revolution--though any one who believed in Him would acknowledge Him to be omnipotent, so would it be unreasonable for the faithful to expect that the Pope could always guard himself from poison. Then, after looking at me for a moment stedfastly, and taking another sip, he told me that popes had frequently done impossibilities; for example, Innocent the Tenth had created a nephew; for, not liking particularly any of his real nephews, he had created the said Camillo Astalli his nephew; asking me, with a he! he! "What but omnipotence could make a young man nephew to a person to whom he was not in the slightest degree related?" On my observing that of course no one believed that the young fellow was really the Pope's nephew, though the Pope might have adopted him as such, the man in black replied, "that the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli had hitherto never become a point of faith; let, however, the present pope, or any other pope, proclaim that it is necessary to believe in the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli, and see whether the faithful would not believe in it. Who can doubt that," he added, "seeing that they believe in the reality of the five propositions of Jansenius? The Jesuits, wishing to ruin the Jansenists, induced a pope to declare that such and such damnable opinions, which they called five propositions, were to be found in a book written by Jansen, though, in reality, no such propositions were to be found there; whereupon the existence of these propositions became forthwith a point of faith to the faithful. Do you then think," he demanded, "that there is one of the faithful who would not swallow, if called upon, the nephewship of Camillo Astalli as easily as the five propositions of Jansenius?" "Surely, then," said I, "the faithful must be a pretty pack of simpletons!" Whereupon the man in black exclaimed, "What! a Protestant, and an infringer of the rights of faith! Here's a fellow, who would feel himself insulted if any one were to ask him how he could believe in the miraculous conception, calling people simpletons who swallow the five propositions of Jansenius, and are disposed, if called upon, to swallow the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli." I was about to speak, when I was interrupted by the arrival of Belle. After unharnessing her donkey, and adjusting her person a little, she came and sat down by us. In the meantime I had helped my companion to some more hollands and water, and had plunged with him into yet deeper discourse. CHAPTER III Necessity of Religion--The Great Indian One--Image-worship--Shakespeare--The Pat Answer--Krishna--Amen. Having told the man in black that I should like to know all the truth with regard to the Pope and his system, he assured me he should be delighted to give me all the information in his power; that he had come to the dingle, not so much for the sake of the good cheer which I was in the habit of giving him, as in the hope of inducing me to enlist under the banners of Rome, and to fight in her cause; and that he had no doubt that, by speaking out frankly to me, he ran the best chance of winning me over. He then proceeded to tell me that the experience of countless ages had proved the necessity of religion; the necessity, he would admit, was only for simpletons; but as nine-tenths of the dwellers upon this earth were simpletons, it would never do for sensible people to run counter to their folly, but, on the contrary, it was their wisest course to encourage them in it, always provided that, by so doing, sensible people would derive advantage; that the truly sensible people of this world were the priests, who, without caring a straw for religion for its own sake, made use of it as a cord by which to draw the simpletons after them; that there were many religions in this world, all of which had been turned to excellent account by the priesthood; but that the one the best adapted for the purposes of priestcraft was the popish, which, he said, was the oldest in the world and the best calculated to endure. On my inquiring what he meant by saying the popish religion was the oldest in the world, whereas there could be no doubt that the Greek and Roman religion had existed long before it, to say nothing of the old Indian religion still in existence and vigour; he said, with a nod, after taking a sip at his glass, that, between me and him, the popish religion, that of Greece and Rome, and the old Indian system were, in reality, one and the same. "You told me that you intended to be frank," said I; "but, however frank you may be, I think you are rather wild." "We priests of Rome," said the man in black, "even those amongst us who do not go much abroad, know a great deal about church matters, of which you heretics have very little idea. Those of our brethren of the Propaganda, on their return home from distant missions, not unfrequently tell us very strange things relating to our dear mother; for example, our first missionaries to the East were not slow in discovering and telling to their brethren that our religion and the great Indian one were identical, no more difference between them than between Ram and Rome. Priests, convents, beads, prayers, processions, fastings, penances, all the same, not forgetting anchorites and vermin, he! he! The pope they found under the title of the grand lama, a sucking child surrounded by an immense number of priests. Our good brethren, some two hundred years ago, had a hearty laugh, which their successors have often re-echoed; they said that helpless suckling and its priests put them so much in mind of their own old man, surrounded by his cardinals, he! he! Old age is second childhood." "Did they find Christ?" said I. "They found him too," said the man in black, "that is, they saw his image; he is considered in India as a pure kind of being, and on that account, perhaps, is kept there rather in the background, even as he is here." "All this is very mysterious to me," said I. "Very likely," said the man in black; "but of this I am tolerably sure, and so are most of those of Rome, that modern Rome had its religion from ancient Rome, which had its religion from the East." "But how?" I demanded. "It was brought about, I believe, by the wanderings of nations," said the man in black. "A brother of the Propaganda, a very learned man, once told me--I do not mean Mezzofanti, who has not five ideas--this brother once told me that all we of the Old World, from Calcutta to Dublin, are of the same stock, and were originally of the same language, and--" "All of one religion," I put in. "All of one religion," said the man in black; "and now follow different modifications of the same religion." "We Christians are not image-worshippers," said I. "You heretics are not, you mean," said the man in black; "but you will be put down, just as you have always been, though others may rise up after you; the true religion is image-worship; people may strive against it, but they will only work themselves to an oil; how did it fare with that Greek Emperor, the Iconoclast, what was his name, Leon the Isaurian? Did not his image-breaking cost him Italy, the fairest province of his empire, and did not ten fresh images start up at home for every one which he demolished? Oh! you little know the craving which the soul sometimes feels after a good bodily image." "I have indeed no conception of it," said I; "I have an abhorrence of idolatry--the idea of bowing before a graven figure!" "The idea, indeed!" said Belle, who had now joined us. "Did you never bow before that of Shakespeare?" said the man in black, addressing himself to me, after a low bow to Belle. "I don't remember that I ever did," said I, "but even suppose I did?" "Suppose you did," said the man in black; "shame on you, Mr. Hater of Idolatry; why, the very supposition brings you to the ground; you must make figures of Shakespeare, must you? then why not of St. Antonio, or Ignacio, or of a greater personage still! I know what you are going to say," he cried, interrupting me, as I was about to speak. "You don't make his image in order to pay it divine honours, but only to look at it, and think of Shakespeare; but this looking at a thing in order to think of a person is the very basis of idolatry. Shakespeare's works are not sufficient for you; no more are the Bible or the legend of Saint Anthony or Saint Ignacio for us, that is for those of us who believe in them; I tell you, Zingara, that no religion can exist long which rejects a good bodily image." "Do you think," said I, "that Shakespeare's works would not exist without his image?" "I believe," said the man in black, "that Shakespeare's image is looked at more than his works, and will be looked at, and perhaps adored, when they are forgotten. I am surprised that they have not been forgotten long ago; I am no admirer of them." "But I can't imagine," said I, "how you will put aside the authority of Moses. If Moses strove against image-worship, should not his doing so be conclusive as to the impropriety of the practice; what higher authority can you have than that of Moses?" "The practice of the great majority of the human race," said the man in black, "and the recurrence to image-worship where image-worship has been abolished. Do you know that Moses is considered by the church as no better than a heretic, and though, for particular reasons, it has been obliged to adopt his writings, the adoption was merely a sham one, as it never paid the slightest attention to them? No, no, the church was never led by Moses, nor by one mightier than he, whose doctrine it has equally nullified--I allude to Krishna in his second avatar; the church, it is true, governs in his name, but not unfrequently gives him the lie, if he happens to have said anything which it dislikes. Did you never hear the reply which Padre Paolo Segani made to the French Protestant Jean Anthoine Guerin, who had asked him whether it was easier for Christ to have been mistaken in his Gospel, than for the Pope to be mistaken in his decrees?" "I never heard their names before," said I. "The answer was pat," said the man in black, "though he who made it was confessedly the most ignorant fellow of the very ignorant order to which he belonged, the Augustine. 'Christ might err as a man,' said he, 'but the Pope can never err, being God.' The whole story is related in the Nipotismo." "I wonder you should ever have troubled yourself with Christ at all," said I. "What was to be done?" said the man in black; "the power of that name suddenly came over Europe, like the power of a mighty wind; it was said to have come from Judea, and from Judea it probably came when it first began to agitate minds in these parts; but it seems to have been known in the remote East, more or less, for thousands of years previously. It filled people's minds with madness; it was followed by books which were never much regarded, as they contained little of insanity; but the name! what fury that breathed into people! the books were about peace and gentleness, but the name was the most horrible of war-cries--those who wished to uphold old names at first strove to oppose it, but their efforts were feeble, and they had no good war-cry; what was Mars as a war- cry compared with the name of . . . ? It was said that they persecuted terribly, but who said so? The Christians. The Christians could have given them a lesson in the art of persecution, and eventually did so. None but Christians have ever been good persecutors; well, the old religion succumbed, Christianity prevailed, for the ferocious is sure to prevail over the gentle." "I thought," said I, "you stated a little time ago that the Popish religion and the ancient Roman are the same?" "In every point but that name, that Krishna and the fury and love of persecution which it inspired," said the man in black. "A hot blast came from the East, sounding Krishna; it absolutely maddened people's minds, and the people would call themselves his children; we will not belong to Jupiter any longer, we will belong to Krishna, and they did belong to Krishna; that is in name, but in nothing else; for who ever cared for Krishna in the Christian world, or who ever regarded the words attributed to him, or put them in practice?" "Why, we Protestants regard his words, and endeavour to practise what they enjoin as much as possible." "But you reject his image," said the man in black; "better reject his words than his image: no religion can exist long which rejects a good bodily image. Why, the very negro barbarians of High Barbary could give you a lesson on that point; they have their fetish images, to which they look for help in their afflictions; they have likewise a high priest, whom they call--" "Mumbo Jumbo," said I; "I know all about him already." "How came you to know anything about him?" said the man in black, with a look of some surprise. "Some of us poor Protestants tinkers," said I, "though we live in dingles, are also acquainted with a thing or two." "I really believe you are," said the man in black, staring at me; "but, in connection with this Mumbo Jumbo, I could relate to you a comical story about a fellow, an English servant, I once met at Rome." "It would be quite unnecessary," said I; "I would much sooner hear you talk about Krishna, his words and image." "Spoken like a true heretic," said the man in black; "one of the faithful would have placed his image before his words; for what are all the words in the world compared with a good bodily image!" "I believe you occasionally quote his words?" said I. "He! he!" said the man in black; "occasionally." "For example," said I, "upon this rock I will found my church." "He! he!" said the man in black; "you must really become one of us." "Yet you must have had some difficulty in getting the rock to Rome?" "None whatever," said the man in black; "faith can remove mountains, to say nothing of rocks--ho! ho!" "But I cannot imagine," said I, "what advantage you could derive from perverting those words of Scripture in which the Saviour talks about eating his body." "I do not know, indeed, why we troubled our heads about the matter at all," said the man in black; "but when you talk about perverting the meaning of the text, you speak ignorantly, Mr. Tinker; when he whom you call the Saviour gave his followers the sop, and bade them eat it, telling them it was his body, he delicately alluded to what it was incumbent upon them to do after his death, namely, to eat his body." "You do not mean to say that he intended they should actually eat his body?" "Then you suppose ignorantly," said the man in black; "eating the bodies of the dead was a heathenish custom, practised by the heirs and legatees of people who left property; and this custom is alluded to in the text." "But what has the New Testament to do with heathen customs," said I, "except to destroy them?" "More than you suppose," said the man in black. "We priests of Rome, who have long lived at Rome, know much better what the New Testament is made of than the heretics and their theologians, not forgetting their Tinkers; though I confess some of the latter have occasionally surprised us--for example, Bunyan. The New Testament is crowded with allusions to heathen customs, and with words connected with pagan sorcery. Now, with respect to words, I would fain have you, who pretend to be a philologist, tell me the meaning of Amen." I made no answer. "We of Rome," said the man in black, "know two or three things of which the heretics are quite ignorant; for example, there are those amongst us--those, too, who do not pretend to be philologists--who know what Amen is, and, moreover, how we got it. We got it from our ancestors, the priests of ancient Rome; and they got the word from their ancestors of the East, the priests of Buddh and Brahma." "And what is the meaning of the word?" I demanded. "Amen," said the man in black, "is a modification of the old Hindoo formula, Omani batsikhom, by the almost ceaseless repetition of which the Indians hope to be received finally to the rest or state of forgetfulness of Buddh or Brahma; a foolish practice you will say, but are you heretics much wiser, who are continually sticking Amen to the end of your prayers, little knowing when you do so, that you are consigning yourselves to the repose of Buddh! Oh, what hearty laughs our missionaries have had when comparing the eternally-sounding Eastern gibberish of Omani batsikhom, Omani batsikhom, and the Ave Maria and Amen Jesus of our own idiotical devotees." "I have nothing to say about the Ave Marias and Amens of your superstitious devotees," said I; "I dare say that they use them nonsensically enough, but in putting Amen to the end of a prayer, we merely intend to express, 'So let it be.'" "It means nothing of the kind," said the man in black; "and the Hindoos might just as well put your national oath at the end of their prayers, as perhaps they will after a great many thousand years, when English is forgotten, and only a few words of it remembered by dim tradition without being understood. How strange if, after the lapse of four thousand years, the Hindoos should damn themselves to the blindness so dear to their present masters, even as their masters at present consign themselves to the forgetfulness so dear to the Hindoos; but my glass has been empty for a considerable time; perhaps, Bellissima Biondina," said he, addressing Belle, "you will deign to replenish it?" "I shall do no such thing," said Belle, "you have drunk quite enough, and talked more than enough, and to tell you the truth I wish you would leave us alone." "Shame on you, Belle," said I; "consider the obligations of hospitality." "I am sick of that word," said Belle, "you are so frequently misusing it; were this place not Mumpers' Dingle, and consequently as free to the fellow as ourselves, I would lead him out of it." "Pray be quiet, Belle," said I. "You had better help yourself," said I, addressing myself to the man in black, "the lady is angry with you." "I am sorry for it," said the man in black; "if she is angry with me, I am not so with her, and shall be always proud to wait upon her; in the meantime, I will wait upon myself." CHAPTER IV The Proposal--The Scotch Novel--Latitude--Miracles--Pestilent Heretics--Old Fraser--Wonderful Texts--No Armenian. The man in black having helped himself to some more of his favourite beverage, and tasted it, I thus addressed him: "The evening is getting rather advanced, and I can see that this lady," pointing to Belle, "is anxious for her tea, which she prefers to take cosily and comfortably with me in the dingle: the place, it is true, is as free to you as to ourselves, nevertheless, as we are located here by necessity, whilst you merely come as a visitor, I must take the liberty of telling you that we shall be glad to be alone, as soon as you have said what you have to say, and have finished the glass of refreshment at present in your hand. I think you said some time ago that one of your motives for coming hither was to induce me to enlist under the banner of Rome. I wish to know whether that was really the case?" "Decidedly so," said the man in black; "I come here principally in the hope of enlisting you in our regiment, in which I have no doubt you could do us excellent service." "Would you enlist my companion as well?" I demanded. "We should be only too proud to have her among us, whether she comes with you or alone," said the man in black, with a polite bow to Belle. "Before we give you an answer," I replied, "I would fain know more about you; perhaps you will declare your name?" "That I will never do," said the man in black; "no one in England knows it but myself, and I will not declare it, even in a dingle; as for the rest, _Sono un Prete Cattolico Appostolico_--that is all that many a one of us can say for himself, and it assuredly means a great deal." "We will now proceed to business," said I. "You must be aware that we English are generally considered a self-interested people." "And with considerable justice," said the man in black, drinking. "Well, you are a person of acute perception, and I will presently make it evident to you that it would be to your interest to join with us. You are at present, evidently, in very needy circumstances, and are lost, not only to yourself, but to the world; but should you enlist with us, I could find you an occupation not only agreeable, but one in which your talents would have free scope. I would introduce you in the various grand houses here in England, to which I have myself admission, as a surprising young gentleman of infinite learning, who by dint of study has discovered that the Roman is the only true faith. I tell you confidently that our popish females would make a saint, nay, a God of you; they are fools enough for anything. There is one person in particular with whom I would wish to make you acquainted, in the hope that you would be able to help me to perform good service to the holy see. He is a gouty old fellow, of some learning, residing in an old hall, near the great western seaport, and is one of the very few amongst the English Catholics possessing a grain of sense. I think you could help us to govern him, for he is not unfrequently disposed to be restive, asks us strange questions--occasionally threatens us with his crutch; and behaves so that we are often afraid that we shall lose him, or, rather, his property, which he has bequeathed to us, and which is enormous. I am sure that you could help us to deal with him; sometimes with your humour, sometimes with your learning, and perhaps occasionally with your fists." "And in what manner would you provide for my companion?" said I. "We would place her at once," said the man in black, "in the house of two highly respectable Catholic ladies in this neighbourhood, where she would be treated with every care and consideration till her conversion should be accomplished in a regular manner; we would then remove her to a female monastic establishment, where, after undergoing a year's probation, during which time she would be instructed in every elegant accomplishment, she should take the veil. Her advancement would speedily follow, for, with such a face and figure, she would make a capital lady abbess, especially in Italy, to which country she would probably be sent; ladies of her hair and complexion--to say nothing of her height--being a curiosity in the south. With a little care and management she could soon obtain a vast reputation for sanctity; and who knows but after her death she might become a glorified saint--he! he! Sister Maria Theresa, for that is the name I propose you should bear. Holy Mother Maria Theresa--glorified and celestial saint, I have the honour of drinking to your health," and the man in black drank. "Well, Belle," said I, "what have you to say to the gentleman's proposal?" "That if he goes on in this way I will break his glass against his mouth." "You have heard the lady's answer," said I. "I have," said the man in black, "and shall not press the matter. I can't help, however, repeating that she would make a capital lady abbess; she would keep the nuns in order, I warrant her; no easy matter! Break the glass against my mouth--he! he! How she would send the holy utensils flying at the nuns' heads occasionally, and just the person to wring the nose of Satan, should he venture to appear one night in her cell in the shape of a handsome black man. No offence, madam, no offence, pray retain your seat," said he, observing that Belle had started up; "I mean no offence. Well, if you will not consent to be an abbess, perhaps you will consent to follow this young Zingaro, and to co-operate with him and us. I am a priest, madam, and can join you both in an instant, _connubio stabili_, as I suppose the knot has not been tied already." "Hold your mumping gibberish," said Belle, "and leave the dingle this moment, for though 'tis free to every one, you have no right to insult me in it." "Pray be pacified," said I to Belle, getting up, and placing myself between her and the man in black, "he will presently leave, take my word for it--there, sit down again," said I, as I led her to her seat; then, resuming my own, I said to the man in black: "I advise you to leave the dingle as soon as possible." "I should wish to have your answer to my proposal first," said he. "Well, then, here you shall have it: I will not entertain your proposal; I detest your schemes: they are both wicked and foolish." "Wicked," said the man in black, "have they not--he! he!--the furtherance of religion in view?" "A religion," said I, "in which you yourself do not believe, and which you contemn." "Whether I believe in it or not," said the man in black, "it is adapted for the generality of the human race; so I will forward it, and advise you to do the same. It was nearly extirpated in these regions, but it is springing up again, owing to circumstances. Radicalism is a good friend to us; all the liberals laud up our system out of hatred to the Established Church, though our system is ten times less liberal than the Church of England. Some of them have really come over to us. I myself confess a baronet who presided over the first radical meeting ever held in England--he was an atheist when he came over to us, in the hope of mortifying his own church--but he is now--ho! ho!--a real Catholic devotee--quite afraid of my threats; I make him frequently scourge himself before me. Well, Radicalism does us good service, especially amongst the lower classes, for Radicalism chiefly flourishes amongst them; for though a baronet or two may be found amongst the radicals, and perhaps as many lords--fellows who have been discarded by their own order for clownishness, or something they have done--it incontestably flourishes best among the lower orders. Then the love of what is foreign is a great friend to us; this love is chiefly confined to the middle and upper classes. Some admire the French, and imitate them; others must needs be Spaniards, dress themselves up in a zamarra, stick a cigar in their mouth, and say, 'Carajo.' Others would pass for Germans; he! he! the idea of any one wishing to pass for a German! but what has done us more service than anything else in these regions--I mean amidst the middle classes--has been the novel, the Scotch novel. The good folks, since they have read the novels, have become Jacobites; and, because all the Jacobs were Papists, the good folks must become Papists also, or, at least, papistically inclined. The very Scotch Presbyterians, since they have read the novels, are become all but Papists; I speak advisedly, having lately been amongst them. There's a trumpery bit of a half papist sect, called the Scotch Episcopalian Church, which lay dormant and nearly forgotten for upwards of a hundred years, which has of late got wonderfully into fashion in Scotland, because, forsooth, some of the long- haired gentry of the novels were said to belong to it, such as Montrose and Dundee; and to this the Presbyterians are going over in throngs, traducing and vilifying their own forefathers, or denying them altogether, and calling themselves descendants of--ho! ho! ho!--Scottish Cavaliers!!! I have heard them myself repeating snatches of Jacobite ditties about 'Bonnie Dundee,' and-- "'Come, fill up my cup, and fill up my can, And saddle my horse, and call up my man.' There's stuff for you! Not that I object to the first part of the ditty. It is natural enough that a Scotchman should cry, 'Come, fill up my cup!' more especially if he's drinking at another person's expense--all Scotchmen being fond of liquor at free cost: but 'Saddle his horse!!!'--for what purpose, I would ask? Where is the use of saddling a horse, unless you can ride him? and where was there ever a Scotchman who could ride?" "Of course you have not a drop of Scotch blood in your veins," said I, "otherwise you would never have uttered that last sentence." "Don't be too sure of that," said the man in black; "you know little of Popery if you imagine that it cannot extinguish love of country, even in a Scotchman. A thorough-going Papist--and who more thorough-going than myself?--cares nothing for his country; and why should he? he belongs to a system, and not to a country." "One thing," said I, "connected with you, I cannot understand; you call yourself a thorough-going Papist, yet are continually saying the most pungent things against Popery, and turning to unbounded ridicule those who show any inclination to embrace it." "Rome is a very sensible old body," said the man in black, "and little cares what her children say, provided they do her bidding. She knows several things, and amongst others, that no servants work so hard and faithfully as those who curse their masters at every stroke they do. She was not fool enough to be angry with the Miquelets of Alba, who renounced her, and called her 'puta' all the time they were cutting the throats of the Netherlanders. Now, if she allowed her faithful soldiers the latitude of renouncing her, and calling her 'puta' in the market-place, think not she is so unreasonable as to object to her faithful priests occasionally calling her 'puta' in the dingle." "But," said I, "suppose some one were to tell the world some of the disorderly things which her priests say in the dingle?" "He would have the fate of Cassandra," said the man in black; "no one would believe him--yes, the priests would: but they would make no sign of belief. They believe in the Alcoran des Cordeliers--that is, those who have read it; but they make no sign." "A pretty system," said I, "which extinguishes love of country and of everything noble, and brings the minds of its ministers to a parity with those of devils, who delight in nothing but mischief." "The system," said the man in black, "is a grand one, with unbounded vitality. Compare it with your Protestantism, and you will see the difference. Popery is ever at work, whilst Protestantism is supine. A pretty church, indeed, the Protestant! Why, it can't even work a miracle." "Can your church work miracles?" I demanded. "That was the very question," said the man in black, "which the ancient British clergy asked of Austin Monk, after they had been fools enough to acknowledge their own inability. 'We don't pretend to work miracles; do you?' 'Oh! dear me, yes,' said Austin; 'we find no difficulty in the matter. We can raise the dead, we can make the blind see; and to convince you, I will give sight to the blind. Here is this blind Saxon, whom you cannot cure, but on whose eyes I will manifest my power, in order to show the difference between the true and the false church;' and forthwith, with the assistance of a handkerchief and a little hot water, he opened the eyes of the barbarian. So we manage matters! A pretty church, that old British church, which could not work miracles--quite as helpless as the modern one. The fools! was birdlime so scarce a thing amongst them?--and were the properties of warm water so unknown to them, that they could not close a pair of eyes and open them?" "It's a pity," said I, "that the British clergy at that interview with Austin, did not bring forward a blind Welshman, and ask the monk to operate upon him." "Clearly," said the man in black; "that's what they ought to have done; but they were fools without a single resource." Here he took a sip at his glass. "But they did not believe in the miracle?" said I. "And what did their not believing avail them?" said the man in black. "Austin remained master of the field, and they went away holding their heads down, and muttering to themselves. What a fine subject for a painting would be Austin's opening the eyes of the Saxon barbarian, and the discomfiture of the British clergy! I wonder it has not been painted!--he! he!" "I suppose your church still performs miracles occasionally!" said I. "It does," said the man in black. "The Rev. --- has lately been performing miracles in Ireland, destroying devils that had got possession of people; he has been eminently successful. In two instances he not only destroyed the devils, but the lives of the people possessed--he! he! Oh! there is so much energy in our system; we are always at work, whilst Protestantism is supine." "You must not imagine," said I, "that all Protestants are supine; some of them appear to be filled with unbounded zeal. They deal, it is true, not in lying miracles, but they propagate God's Word. I remember only a few months ago, having occasion for a Bible, going to an establishment, the object of which was to send Bibles all over the world. The supporters of that establishment could have no self-interested views; for I was supplied by them with a noble-sized Bible at a price so small as to preclude the idea that it could bring any profit to the vendors." The countenance of the man in black slightly fell. "I know the people to whom you allude," said he; "indeed, unknown to them, I have frequently been to see them, and observed their ways. I tell you frankly that there is not a set of people in this kingdom who have caused our church so much trouble and uneasiness. I should rather say that they alone cause us any; for as for the rest, what with their drowsiness, their plethora, their folly and their vanity, they are doing us anything but mischief. These fellows are a pestilent set of heretics, whom we would gladly see burnt; they are, with the most untiring perseverance, and in spite of divers minatory declarations of the holy father, scattering their books abroad through all Europe, and have caused many people in Catholic countries to think that hitherto their priesthood have endeavoured, as much as possible, to keep them blinded. There is one fellow amongst them for whom we entertain a particular aversion; a big, burly parson, with the face of a lion, the voice of a buffalo, and a fist like a sledge-hammer. The last time I was there, I observed that his eye was upon me, and I did not like the glance he gave me at all; I observed him clench his fist, and I took my departure as fast as I conveniently could. Whether he suspected who I was, I know not; but I did not like his look at all, and do not intend to go again." "Well, then," said I, "you confess that you have redoubtable enemies to your plans in these regions, and that even amongst the ecclesiastics there are some widely different from those of the plethoric and Platitude schools?" "It is but too true," said the man in black; "and if the rest of your church were like them we should quickly bid adieu to all hope of converting these regions, but we are thankful to be able to say that such folks are not numerous; there are, moreover, causes at work quite sufficient to undermine even their zeal. Their sons return at the vacations, from Oxford and Cambridge, puppies, full of the nonsense which they have imbibed from Platitude professors; and this nonsense they retail at home, where it fails not to make some impression, whilst the daughters scream--I beg their pardons--warble about Scotland's Montrose, and Bonny Dundee, and all the Jacobs; so we have no doubt that their papas' zeal about the propagation of such a vulgar book as the Bible will in a very little time be terribly diminished. Old Rome will win, so you had better join her." And the man in black drained the last drop in his glass. "Never," said I, "will I become the slave of Rome." "She will allow you latitude," said the man in black; "do but serve her, and she will allow you to call her 'puta' at a decent time and place, her popes occasionally call her 'puta.' A pope has been known to start from his bed at midnight and rush out into the corridor, and call out 'puta' three times in a voice which pierced the Vatican; that pope was--" "Alexander the Sixth, I dare say," said I; "the greatest monster that ever existed, though the worthiest head which the pope system ever had--so his conscience was not always still. I thought it had been seared with a brand of iron." "I did not allude to him, but to a much more modern pope," said the man in black; "it is true he brought the word, which is Spanish, from Spain, his native country, to Rome. He was very fond of calling the church by that name, and other popes have taken it up. She will allow you to call her by it, if you belong to her." "I shall call her so," said I, "without belonging to her, or asking her permission." "She will allow you to treat her as such, if you belong to her," said the man in black; "there is a chapel in Rome, where there is a wondrously fair statue--the son of a cardinal--I mean his nephew--once--Well, she did not cut off his head, but slightly boxed his cheek and bade him go." "I have read all about that in 'Keysler's Travels,'" said I; "do you tell her that I would not touch her with a pair of tongs, unless to seize her nose." "She is fond of lucre," said the man in black; "but does not grudge a faithful priest a little private perquisite," and he took out a very handsome gold repeater. "Are you not afraid," said I, "to flash that watch before the eyes of a poor tinker in a dingle?" "Not before the eyes of one like you," said the man in black. "It is getting late," said I; "I care not for perquisites." "So you will not join us?" said the man in black. "You have had my answer," said I. "If I belong to Rome," said the man in black, "why should not you?" "I may be a poor tinker," said I; "but I may never have undergone what you have. You remember, perhaps, the fable of the fox who had lost his tail?" The man in black winced, but almost immediately recovering himself, he said, "Well, we can do without you, we are sure of winning." "It is not the part of wise people," said I, "to make sure of the battle before it is fought: there's the landlord of the public-house, who made sure that his cocks would win, yet the cocks lost the main, and the landlord is little better than a bankrupt." "People very different from the landlord," said the man in black, "both in intellect and station, think we shall surely win; there are clever machinators among us who have no doubt of our success." "Well," said I, "I will set the landlord aside, and will adduce one who was in every point a very different person from the landlord, both in understanding and station; he was very fond of laying schemes, and, indeed, many of them turned out successful. His last and darling one, however, miscarried, notwithstanding that by his calculations he had persuaded himself that there was no possibility of its failing--the person that I allude to was old Fraser--" "Who?" said the man in black, giving a start, and letting his glass fall. "Old Fraser, of Lovat," said I, "the prince of all conspirators and machinators; he made sure of placing the Pretender on the throne of these realms. 'I can bring into the field so many men,' said he; 'my son-in- law Cluny, so many, and likewise my cousin, and my good friend;' then speaking of those on whom the government reckoned for support, he would say, 'So and so are lukewarm, this person is ruled by his wife, who is with us, the clergy are anything but hostile to us, and as for the soldiers and sailors, half are disaffected to King George, and the rest cowards.' Yet when things came to a trial, this person whom he had calculated upon to join the Pretender did not stir from his home, another joined the hostile ranks, the presumed cowards turned out heroes, and those whom he thought heroes ran away like lusty fellows at Culloden; in a word, he found himself utterly mistaken, and in nothing more than in himself; he thought he was a hero, and proved himself nothing more than an old fox; he got up a hollow tree, didn't he, just like a fox? "'L'opere sue non furon leonine, ma di volpe.'" The man in black sat silent for a considerable time, and at length answered in rather a faltering voice, "I was not prepared for this; you have frequently surprised me by your knowledge of things which I should never have expected any person of your appearance to be acquainted with, but that you should be aware of my name is a circumstance utterly incomprehensible to me. I had imagined that no person in England was acquainted with it; indeed, I don't see how any person should be, I have revealed it to no one, not being particularly proud of it. Yes, I acknowledge that my name is Fraser, and that I am of the blood of that family or clan, of which the rector of our college once said, that he was firmly of opinion that every individual member was either rogue or fool. I was born at Madrid, of pure, _oime_, Fraser blood. My parents, at an early age, took me to ---, where they shortly died, not, however, before they had placed me in the service of a cardinal, with whom I continued for some years, and who, when he had no further occasion for me, sent me to the college, in the left-hand cloister of which, as you enter, rest the bones of Sir John ---; there, in studying logic and humane letters, I lost whatever of humanity I had retained when discarded by the cardinal. Let me not, however, forget two points,--I am a Fraser, it is true, but not a Flannagan; I may bear the vilest name of Britain, but not of Ireland; I was bred up at the English house, and there is at--a house for the education of bogtrotters; I was not bred up at that; beneath the lowest gulf, there is one yet lower; whatever my blood may be, it is at least not Irish; whatever my education may have been, I was not bred at the Irish seminary--on those accounts I am thankful--yes, _per dio_! I am thankful. After some years at college--but why should I tell you my history? you know it already perfectly well, probably much better than myself. I am now a missionary priest, labouring in heretic England, like Parsons and Garnet of old, save and except that, unlike them, I run no danger, for the times are changed. As I told you before, I shall cleave to Rome--I must; _no hay remedio_, as they say at Madrid, and I will do my best to further her holy plans--he! he!--but I confess I begin to doubt of their being successful here--you put me out; old Fraser, of Lovat! I have heard my father talk of him; he had a gold-headed cane, with which he once knocked my grandfather down--he was an astute one, but, as you say, mistaken, particularly in himself. I have read his life by Arbuthnot, it is in the library of our college. Farewell! I shall come no more to this dingle--to come would be of no utility; I shall go and labour elsewhere, though--how you came to know my name, is a fact quite inexplicable--farewell! to you both." He then arose; and without further salutation departed from the dingle, in which I never saw him again. "How, in the name of wonder, came you to know that man's name?" said Belle, after he had been gone some time. "I, Belle? I knew nothing of the fellow's name, I assure you." "But you mentioned his name." "If I did, it was merely casually, by way of illustration. I was saying how frequently cunning people were mistaken in their calculations, and I adduced the case of old Fraser, of Lovat, as one in point; I brought forward his name, because I was well acquainted with his history, from having compiled and inserted it in a wonderful work, which I edited some months ago, entitled 'Newgate Lives and Trials,' but without the slightest idea that it was the name of him who was sitting with us; he, however, thought that I was aware of his name. Belle! Belle! for a long time I doubted the truth of Scripture, owing to certain conceited individuals, but now I begin to believe firmly; what wonderful texts are in Scripture, Belle; 'The wicked trembleth where--where--'" "'They were afraid where no fear was; thou hast put them to confusion, because God hath despised them,'" said Belle; "I have frequently read it before the clergyman in the great house of Long Melford. But if you did not know the man's name, why let him go away supposing that you did?" "Oh, if he was fool enough to make such a mistake, I was not going to undeceive him--no, no! Let the enemies of old England make the most of all their blunders and mistakes, they will have no help from me; but enough of the fellow, Belle; let us now have tea, and after that--" "No Armenian," said Belle; "but I want to ask a question: pray are all people of that man's name either rogues or fools?" "It is impossible for me to say, Belle, this person being the only one of the name I have ever personally known. I suppose there are good and bad, clever and foolish, amongst them, as amongst all large bodies of people; however, after the tribe had been governed for upwards of thirty years, by such a person as old Fraser, it were no wonder if the greater part had become either rogues or fools: he was a ruthless tyrant, Belle, over his own people, and by his cruelty and rapaciousness must either have stunned them into an apathy approaching to idiotcy, or made them artful knaves in their own defence. The qualities of parents are generally transmitted to their descendants--the progeny of trained pointers are almost sure to point, even without being taught: if, therefore, all Frasers are either rogues or fools, as this person seems to insinuate, it is little to be wondered at, their parents or grandparents having been in the training- school of old Fraser! But enough of the old tyrant and his slaves. Belle, prepare tea this moment, or dread my anger. I have not a gold- headed cane like old Fraser of Lovat, but I have, what some people would dread much more, an Armenian rune-stick." CHAPTER V Fresh Arrivals--Pitching the Tent--Certificated Wife--High-flying Notions. On the following morning, as I was about to leave my tent, I heard the voice of Belle at the door, exclaiming, "Sleepest thou, or wakest thou?" "I was never more awake in my life," said I, going out. "What is the matter?" "He of the horse-shoe," said she, "Jasper, of whom I have heard you talk, is above there on the field with all his people; I went out about a quarter of an hour ago to fill the kettle at the spring, and saw them arriving." "It is well," said I; "have you any objection to asking him and his wife to breakfast?" "You can do as you please," said she; "I have cups enough, and have no objection to their company." "We are the first occupiers of the ground," said I, "and, being so, should consider ourselves in the light of hosts, and do our best to practise the duties of hospitality." "How fond you are of using that word," said Belle; "if you wish to invite the man and his wife, do so, without more ado; remember, however, that I have not cups enough, nor indeed tea enough, for the whole company." Thereupon hurrying up the ascent, I presently found myself outside the dingle. It was as usual a brilliant morning, the dewy blades of the rye-grass which covered the plain sparkled brightly in the beams of the sun, which had probably been about two hours above the horizon. A rather numerous body of my ancient friends and allies occupied the ground in the vicinity of the mouth of the dingle. About five yards on the right I perceived Mr. Petulengro busily employed in erecting his tent; he held in his hand an iron bar, sharp at the bottom, with a kind of arm projecting from the top for the purpose of supporting a kettle or cauldron over the fire, and which is called in the Romanian language "Kekauviskoe saster." With the sharp end of this Mr. Petulengro was making holes in the earth, at about twenty inches distant from each other, into which he inserted certain long rods with a considerable bend towards the top, which constituted no less than the timber of the tent, and the supporters of the canvas. Mrs. Petulengro, and a female with a crutch in her hand, whom I recognised as Mrs. Chikno, sat near him on the ground, whilst two or three children, from six to ten years old, who composed the young family of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro, were playing about. "Here we are, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, as he drove the sharp end of the bar into the ground; "here we are, and plenty of us--Bute dosta Romany chals." "I am glad to see you all," said I; "and particularly you, madam," said I, making a bow to Mrs. Petulengro; "and you also, madam," taking off my hat to Mrs. Chikno. "Good-day to you, sir," said Mrs. Petulengro; "you look, as usual, charmingly, and speak so, too; you have not forgot your manners." "It is not all gold that glitters," said Mrs. Chikno. "However, good- morrow to you, young rye." "I do not see Tawno," said I, looking around; "where is he?" "Where, indeed!" said Mrs. Chikno; "I don't know; he who countenances him in the roving line can best answer." "He will be here anon," said Mr. Petulengro; "he has merely ridden down a by-road to show a farmer a two-year-old colt; she heard me give him directions, but she can't be satisfied." "I can't indeed," said Mrs. Chikno. "And why not, sister?" "Because I place no confidence in your words, brother; as I said before, you countenances him." "Well," said I, "I know nothing of your private concerns; I am come on an errand. Isopel Berners, down in the dell there, requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro's company at breakfast. She will be happy also to see you, madam," said I, addressing Mrs. Chikno. "Is that young female your wife, young man?" said Mrs. Chikno. "My wife?" said I. "Yes, young man; your wife, your lawful certificated wife?" "No," said I; "she is not my wife." "Then I will not visit with her," said Mrs. Chikno; "I countenance nothing in the roving line." "What do you mean by the roving line?" I demanded. "What do I mean by the roving line? Why, by it I mean such conduct as is not tatcheno. When ryes and rawnies live together in dingles, without being certificated, I call such behaviour being tolerably deep in the roving line, everything savouring of which I am determined not to sanctify. I have suffered too much by my own certificated husband's outbreaks in that line to afford anything of the kind the slightest shadow of countenance." "It is hard that people may not live in dingles together without being suspected of doing wrong," said I. "So it is," said Mrs. Petulengro, interposing; "and, to tell you the truth, I am altogether surprised at the illiberality of my sister's remarks. I have often heard say, that it is in good company--and I have kept good company in my time--that suspicion is king's evidence of a narrow and uncultivated mind; on which account I am suspicious of nobody, not even of my own husband, whom some people would think I have a right to be suspicious of, seeing that on his account I once refused a lord; but ask him whether I am suspicious of him, and whether I seek to keep him close tied to my apron-string; he will tell you nothing of the kind; but that, on the contrary, I always allows him an agreeable latitude, permitting him to go where he pleases, and to converse with any one to whose manner of speaking he may take a fancy. But I have had the advantage of keeping good company, and therefore--" "Meklis," said Mrs. Chikno, "pray drop all that, sister; I believe I have kept as good company as yourself; and with respect to that offer with which you frequently fatigue those who keeps company with you, I believe, after all, it was something in the roving and uncertificated line." "In whatever line it was," said Mrs. Petulengro, "the offer was a good one. The young duke--for he was not only a lord, but a duke too--offered to keep me a fine carriage, and to make me his second wife; for it is true that he had another who was old and stout, though mighty rich, and highly good-natured; so much so, indeed, that the young lord assured me that she would have no manner of objection to the arrangement; more especially if I would consent to live in the same house with her, being fond of young and cheerful society. So you see--" "Yes, yes," said Mrs. Chikno, "I see, what I before thought, that it was altogether in the uncertificated line." "Meklis," said Mrs. Petulengro; "I use your own word, madam, which is Romany: for my own part, I am not fond of using Romany words, unless I can hope to pass them off for French, which I cannot in the present company. I heartily wish that there was no such language, and do my best to keep it away from my children, lest the frequent use of it should altogether confirm them in low and vulgar habits. I have four children, madam, but--" "I suppose by talking of your four children you wish to check me for having none," said Mrs. Chikno, bursting into tears; "if I have no children, sister, it is no fault of mine, it is--but why do I call you sister?" said she, angrily; "you are no sister of mine, you are a grasni, a regular mare--a pretty sister, indeed, ashamed of your own language. I remember well that by your high-flying notions you drove your own mother--" "We will drop it," said Mrs. Petulengro; "I do not wish to raise my voice, and to make myself ridiculous. Young gentleman," said she, "pray present my compliments to Miss Isopel Berners, and inform her that I am very sorry that I cannot accept her polite invitation. I am just arrived, and have some slight domestic matters to see to--amongst others, to wash my children's faces; but that in the course of the forenoon, when I have attended to what I have to do, and have dressed myself, I hope to do myself the honour of paying her a regular visit; you will tell her that, with my compliments. With respect to my husband he can answer for himself, as I, not being of a jealous disposition, never interferes with his matters." "And tell Miss Berners," said Mr. Petulengro, "that I shall be happy to wait upon her in company with my wife as soon as we are regularly settled: at present I have much on my hands, having not only to pitch my own tent, but this here jealous woman's, whose husband is absent on my business." Thereupon I returned to the dingle, and, without saying anything about Mrs. Chikno's observations, communicated to Isopel the messages of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro; Isopel made no other reply than by replacing in her coffer two additional cups and saucers, which, in expectation of company, she had placed upon the board. The kettle was by this time boiling. We sat down, and, as we breakfasted, I gave Isopel Berners another lesson in the Armenian language. CHAPTER VI The Promised Visit--Roman Fashion--Wizard and Witch--Catching at Words--The Two Females--Dressing of Hair--The New Roads--Belle's Altered Appearance--Herself Again. About mid-day Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro came to the dingle to pay the promised visit. Belle, at the time of their arrival, was in her tent, but I was at the fire-place, engaged in hammering part of the outer-tire, or defence, which had come off from one of the wheels of my vehicle. On perceiving them I forthwith went to receive them. Mr. Petulengro was dressed in Roman fashion, with a somewhat smartly-cut sporting-coat, the buttons of which were half-crowns--and a waistcoat, scarlet and black, the buttons of which were spaded half-guineas; his breeches were of a stuff half velveteen, half corduroy, the cords exceedingly broad. He had leggings of buff cloth, furred at the bottom; and upon his feet were highlows. Under his left arm was a long black whalebone riding-whip, with a red lash, and an immense silver knob. Upon his head was a hat with a high peak, somewhat of the kind which the Spaniards call _calane_, so much in favour with the bravos of Seville and Madrid. Now, when I have added that Mr. Petulengro had on a very fine white holland shirt, I think I have described his array. Mrs. Petulengro--I beg pardon for not having spoken of her first--was also arrayed very much in the Roman fashion. Her hair, which was exceedingly black and lustrous, fell in braids on either side of her head. In her ears were rings, with long drops of gold. Round her neck was a string of what seemed very much like very large pearls, somewhat tarnished, however, and apparently of considerable antiquity. "Here we are, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; "here we are, come to see you--wizard and witch, witch and wizard:-- "'There's a chovahanee, and a chovahano, The nav se len is Petulengro.'" "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mrs. Petulengro; "you make me ashamed of you with your vulgar ditties. We are come a visiting now, and everything low should be left behind." "True," said Mr. Petulengro; "why bring what's low to the dingle, which is low enough already?" "What, are you a catcher at words?" said I. "I thought that catching at words had been confined to the pothouse farmers and village witty bodies." "All fools," said Mrs. Petulengro, "catch at words, and very naturally, as by so doing they hope to prevent the possibility of rational conversation. Catching at words confined to pothouse farmers, and village witty bodies! No, not to Jasper Petulengro. Listen for an hour or two to the discourse of a set they call newspaper editors, and if you don't go out and eat grass, as a dog does when he is sick, I am no female woman. The young lord whose hand I refused when I took up with wise Jasper, once brought two of them to my mother's tan, when hankering after my company; they did nothing but carp at each other's words, and a pretty hand they made of it. Ill-favoured dogs they were; and their attempts at what they called wit almost as unfortunate as their countenances." "Well," said I, "madam, we will drop all catchings and carpings for the present. Pray take your seat on this stool, whilst I go and announce to Miss Isopel Berners your arrival." Thereupon I went to Belle's habitation, and informed her that Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro had paid us a visit of ceremony, and were awaiting her at the fire-place. "Pray go and tell them that I am busy," said Belle, who was engaged with her needle. "I do not feel disposed to take part in any such nonsense." "I shall do no such thing," said I; "and I insist upon your coming forthwith, and showing proper courtesy to your visitors. If you do not, their feelings will be hurt, and you are aware that I cannot bear that people's feelings should be outraged. Come this moment, or--" "Or what?" said Belle, half smiling. "I was about to say something in Armenian," said I. "Well," said Belle, laying down her work, "I will come." "Stay," said I; "your hair is hanging about your ears, and your dress is in disorder; you had better stay a minute or two to prepare yourself to appear before your visitors, who have come in their very best attire." "No," said Belle, "I will make no alteration in my appearance; you told me to come this moment, and you shall be obeyed." So Belle and I advanced towards our guests. As we drew nigh Mr. Petulengro took off his hat, and made a profound obeisance to Belle, whilst Mrs. Petulengro rose from the stool, and made a profound curtsey. Belle, who had flung her hair back over her shoulders, returned their salutations by bending her head, and after slightly glancing at Mr. Petulengro, fixed her large blue eyes full upon his wife. Both these females were very handsome--but how unlike! Belle fair, with blue eyes and flaxen hair; Mrs. Petulengro with olive complexion, eyes black, and hair dark--as dark as could be. Belle, in demeanour calm and proud; the gypsy graceful, but full of movement and agitation. And then how different were those two in stature! The head of the Romany rawnie scarcely ascended to the breast of Isopel Berners. I could see that Mrs. Petulengro gazed on Belle with unmixed admiration; so did her husband. "Well," said the latter, "one thing I will say, which is, that there is only one on earth worthy to stand up in front of this she, and that is the beauty of the world, as far as man flesh is concerned, Tawno Chikno; what a pity he did not come down!" "Tawno Chikno," said Mrs. Petulengro, flaring up; "a pretty fellow he to stand up in front of this gentlewoman, a pity he didn't come, quotha? not at all, the fellow is a sneak, afraid of his wife. He stand up against this rawnie! why, the look she has given me would knock the fellow down." "It is easier to knock him down with a look than with a fist," said Mr. Petulengro; "that is, if the look comes from a woman: not that I am disposed to doubt that this female gentlewoman is able to knock him down either one way or the other. I have heard of her often enough, and have seen her once or twice, though not so near as now. Well, ma'am, my wife and I are come to pay our respects to you; we are both glad to find that you have left off keeping company with Flaming Bosville, and have taken up with my pal; he is not very handsome, but a better--" "I take up with your pal, as you call him! you had better mind what you say," said Isopel Berners, "I take up with nobody." "I merely mean taking up your quarters with him," said Mr. Petulengro; "and I was only about to say a better fellow-lodger you cannot have, or a more instructive, especially if you have a desire to be inoculated with tongues, as he calls them. I wonder whether you and he have had any tongue-work already." "Have you and your wife anything particular to say? if you have nothing but this kind of conversation I must leave you, as I am going to make a journey this afternoon, and should be getting ready." "You must excuse my husband, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, "he is not overburdened with understanding, and has said but one word of sense since he has been here, which was that we came to pay our respects to you. We have dressed ourselves in our best Roman way, in order to do honour to you; perhaps you do not like it; if so, I am sorry. I have no French clothes, madam; if I had any, madam, I would have come in them, in order to do you more honour." "I like to see you much better as you are," said Belle; "people should keep to their own fashions, and yours is very pretty." "I am glad you are pleased to think it so, madam; it has been admired in the great city; it created what they call a sensation; and some of the great ladies, the court ladies, imitated it, else I should not appear in it so often as I am accustomed; for I am not very fond of what is Roman, having an imagination that what is Roman is ungenteel; in fact, I once heard the wife of a rich citizen say that gypsies were vulgar creatures. I should have taken her saying very much to heart, but for her improper pronunciation; she could not pronounce her words, madam, which we gypsies, as they call us, usually can, so I thought she was no very high purchase. You are very beautiful, madam, though you are not dressed as I could wish to see you, and your hair is hanging down in sad confusion; allow me to assist you in arranging your hair, madam; I will dress it for you in our fashion; I would fain see how your hair would look in our poor gypsy fashion; pray allow me, madam?" and she took Belle by the hand. "I really can do no such thing," said Belle, withdrawing her hand; "I thank you for coming to see me, but--" "Do allow me to officiate upon your hair, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro. "I should esteem your allowing me a great mark of condescension. You are very beautiful, madam, and I think you doubly so, because you are so fair; I have a great esteem for persons with fair complexions and hair; I have a less regard for people with dark hair and complexions, madam." "Then why did you turn off the lord, and take up with me?" said Mr. Petulengro; "that same lord was fair enough all about him." "People do when they are young and silly what they sometimes repent of when they are of riper years and understandings. I sometimes think that had I not been something of a simpleton, I might at this time be a great court lady. Now, madam," said she, again taking Belle by the hand, "do oblige me by allowing me to plait your hair a little?" "I have really a good mind to be angry with you," said Belle, giving Mrs. Petulengro a peculiar glance. "Do allow her to arrange your hair," said I; "she means no harm, and wishes to do you honour; do oblige her and me too, for I should like to see how your hair would look dressed in her fashion." "You hear what the young rye says?" said Mrs. Petulengro. "I am sure you will oblige the young rye, if not myself. Many people would be willing to oblige the young rye, if he would but ask them; but he is not in the habit of asking favours. He has a nose of his own, which he keeps tolerably exalted; he does not think small-beer of himself, madam; and all the time I have been with him, I never heard him ask a favour before; therefore, madam, I am sure you will oblige him. My sister Ursula would be very willing to oblige him in many things, but he will not ask for anything, except for such a favour as a word, which is a poor favour after all. I don't mean for her word; perhaps he will some day ask you for your word. If so--" "Why, here you are, after railing at me for catching at words, catching at a word yourself," said Mr. Petulengro. "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mrs. Petulengro. "Don't interrupt me in my discourse; if I caught at a word now, I am not in the habit of doing so. I am no conceited body; no newspaper Neddy; no pothouse witty person. I was about to say, madam, that if the young rye asks you at any time for your word, you will do as you deem convenient; but I am sure you will oblige him by allowing me to braid your hair." "I shall not do it to oblige him," said Belle; "the young rye, as you call him, is nothing to me." "Well, then, to oblige me," said Mrs. Petulengro; "do allow me to become your poor tire-woman." "It is great nonsense," said Belle, reddening; "however, as you came to see me, and ask the matter as a particular favour to yourself--" "Thank you, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, leading Belle to the stool; "please to sit down here. Thank you; your hair is very beautiful, madam," she continued, as she proceeded to braid Belle's hair; "so is your countenance. Should you ever go to the great city, among the grand folks, you would make a sensation, madam. I have made one myself, who am dark; the chi she is kauley, which last word signifies black, which I am not, though rather dark. There is no colour like white, madam; it's so lasting, so genteel. Gentility will carry the day, madam, even with the young rye. He will ask words of the black lass, but beg the word of the fair." In the meantime Mr. Petulengro and myself entered into conversation. "Any news stirring, Mr. Petulengro?" said I. "Have you heard anything of the great religious movements?" "Plenty," said Mr. Petulengro; "all the religious people, more especially the Evangelicals--those that go about distributing tracts--are very angry about the fight between Gentleman Cooper and White-headed Bob, which they say ought not to have been permitted to take place; and then they are trying all they can to prevent the fight between the lion and the dogs, which they say is a disgrace to a Christian country. Now I can't say that I have any quarrel with the religious party and the Evangelicals; they are always civil to me and mine, and frequently give us tracts, as they call them, which neither I nor mine can read; but I cannot say that I approve of any movements, religious or not, which have in aim to put down all life and manly sport in this here country." "Anything else?" said I. "People are becoming vastly sharp," said Mr. Petulengro; "and I am told that all the old-fashioned good-tempered constables are going to be set aside, and a paid body of men to be established, who are not to permit a tramper or vagabond on the roads of England;--and talking of roads, puts me in mind of a strange story I heard two nights ago, whilst drinking some beer at a public-house in company with my cousin Sylvester. I had asked Tawno to go, but his wife would not let him. Just opposite me, smoking their pipes, were a couple of men, something like engineers, and they were talking of a wonderful invention which was to make a wonderful alteration in England; inasmuch as it would set aside all the old roads, which in a little time would be ploughed up, and sowed with corn, and cause all England to be laid down with iron roads, on which people would go thundering along in vehicles, pushed forward by fire and smoke. Now, brother, when I heard this, I did not feel very comfortable; for I thought to myself, what a queer place such a road would be to pitch one's tent upon, and how impossible it would be for one's cattle to find a bite of grass upon it; and I thought likewise of the danger to which one's family would be exposed in being run over and severely scorched by these same flying fiery vehicles; so I made bold to say, that I hoped such an invention would never be countenanced, because it was likely to do a great deal of harm. Whereupon, one of the men, giving me a glance, said, without taking the pipe out of his mouth, that for his part, he sincerely hoped that it would take effect; and if it did no other good than stopping the rambles of gypsies, and other like scamps, it ought to be encouraged. Well, brother, feeling myself insulted, I put my hand into my pocket, in order to pull out money, intending to challenge him to fight for a five-shilling stake, but merely found sixpence, having left all my other money at the tent; which sixpence was just sufficient to pay for the beer which Sylvester and myself were drinking, of whom I couldn't hope to borrow anything--'poor as Sylvester' being a by-word amongst us. So, not being able to back myself, I held my peace, and let the Gorgio have it all his own way, who, after turning up his nose at me, went on discoursing about the said invention, saying what a fund of profit it would be to those who knew how to make use of it, and should have the laying down of the new roads, and the shoeing of England with iron. And after he had said this, and much more of the same kind, which I cannot remember, he and his companion got up and walked away; and presently I and Sylvester got up and walked to our camp; and there I lay down in my tent by the side of my wife, where I had an ugly dream of having camped upon an iron road; my tent being overturned by a flying vehicle; my wife's leg injured; and all my affairs put into great confusion." "Now, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, "I have braided your hair in our fashion: you look very beautiful, madam; more beautiful, if possible, than before." Belle now rose, and came forward with her tire-woman. Mr. Petulengro was loud in his applause, but I said nothing, for I did not think Belle was improved in appearance by having submitted to the ministry of Mrs. Petulengro's hand. Nature never intended Belle to appear as a gypsy; she had made her too proud and serious. A more proper part for her was that of a heroine, a queenly heroine,--that of Theresa of Hungary, for example; or, better still, that of Brynhilda the Valkyrie, the beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer, who incurred the curse of Odin, because, in the tumult of spears, she sided with the young king, and doomed the old warrior to die, to whom Odin had promised victory. Belle looked at me for a moment in silence; then turning to Mrs. Petulengro, she said, "You have had your will with me; are you satisfied?" "Quite so, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, "and I hope you will be so too, as soon as you have looked in the glass." "I have looked in one already," said Belle; "and the glass does not flatter." "You mean the face of the young rye," said Mrs. Petulengro; "never mind him, madam; the young rye, though he knows a thing or two, is not a university, nor a person of universal wisdom. I assure you, that you never looked so well before; and I hope that, from this moment, you will wear your hair in this way." "And who is to braid it in this way?" said Belle, smiling. "I, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro; "I will braid it for you every morning, if you will but be persuaded to join us. Do so, madam, and I think, if you did, the young rye would do so too." "The young rye is nothing to me, nor I to him," said Belle; "we have stayed some time together; but our paths will soon be apart. Now, farewell, for I am about to take a journey." "And you will go out with your hair as I have braided it," said Mrs. Petulengro; "if you do, everybody will be in love with you." "No," said Belle; "hitherto I have allowed you to do what you please, but henceforth I shall have my own way. Come, come," said she, observing that the gypsy was about to speak, "we have had enough of nonsense; whenever I leave this hollow, it will be wearing my hair in my own fashion." "Come, wife," said Mr. Petulengro; "we will no longer intrude upon the rye and rawnie; there is such a thing as being troublesome." Thereupon Mr. Petulengro and his wife took their leave, with many salutations. "Then you are going?" said I, when Belle and I were left alone. "Yes," said Belle; "I am going on a journey; my affairs compel me." "But you will return again?" said I. "Yes," said Belle, "I shall return once more." "Once more," said I; "what do you mean by once more? The Petulengros will soon be gone, and will you abandon me in this place?" "You were alone here," said Belle, "before I came, and I suppose, found it agreeable, or you would not have stayed in it." "Yes," said I, "that was before I knew you; but having lived with you here, I should be very loth to live here without you." "Indeed," said Belle; "I did not know that I was of so much consequence to you. Well, the day is wearing away--I must go and harness Traveller to the cart." "I will do that," said I, "or anything else you may wish me. Go and prepare yourself; I will see after Traveller and the cart." Belle departed to her tent, and I set about performing the task I had undertaken. In about half-an-hour Belle again made her appearance--she was dressed neatly and plainly. Her hair was no longer in the Roman fashion, in which Pakomovna had plaited it, but was secured by a comb; she held a bonnet in her hand. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" I demanded. "There are two or three bundles by my tent, which you can put into the cart," said Belle. I put the bundles into the cart, and then led Traveller and the cart up the winding path to the mouth of the dingle, near which was Mr. Petulengro's encampment. Belle followed. At the top, I delivered the reins into her hands; we looked at each other stedfastly for some time. Belle then departed, and I returned to the dingle, where, seating myself on my stone, I remained for upwards of an hour in thought. CHAPTER VII The Festival--The Gypsy Song--Piramus of Rome--The Scotchman--Gypsy Names. On the following day there was much feasting amongst the Romany chals of Mr. Petulengro's party. Throughout the forenoon the Romany chies did scarcely anything but cook flesh, and the flesh which they cooked was swine's flesh. About two o'clock, the chals dividing themselves into various parties, sat down and partook of the fare, which was partly roasted, partly sodden. I dined that day with Mr. Petulengro and his wife and family, Ursula, Mr. and Mrs. Chikno, and Sylvester and his two children. Sylvester, it will be as well to say, was a widower, and had consequently no one to cook his victuals for him, supposing he had any, which was not always the case, Sylvester's affairs being seldom in a prosperous state. He was noted for his bad success in trafficking, notwithstanding the many hints which he received from Jasper, under whose protection he had placed himself, even as Tawno Chikno had done, who himself, as the reader has heard on a former occasion, was anything but a wealthy subject, though he was at all times better off than Sylvester, the Lazarus of the Romany tribe. All our party ate with a good appetite, except myself, who, feeling rather melancholy that day, had little desire to eat. I did not, like the others, partake of the pork, but got my dinner entirely off the body of a squirrel which had been shot the day before by a chal of the name of Piramus, who, besides being a good shot, was celebrated for his skill in playing on the fiddle. During the dinner a horn filled with ale passed frequently around; I drank of it more than once, and felt inspirited by the draughts. The repast concluded, Sylvester and his children departed to their tent, and Mr. Petulengro, Tawno, and myself, getting up, went and lay down under a shady hedge, where Mr. Petulengro, lighting his pipe, began to smoke, and where Tawno presently fell asleep. I was about to fall asleep also, when I heard the sound of music and song. Piramus was playing on the fiddle, whilst Mrs. Chikno, who had a voice of her own, was singing in tones sharp enough, but of great power, a gypsy song:-- POISONING THE PORKER BY MRS. CHIKNO To mande shoon ye Romany chals Who besh in the pus about the yag, I'll pen how we drab the baulo, I'll pen how we drab the baulo. We jaws to the drab-engro ker, Trin horsworth there of drab we lels, And when to the swety back we wels We pens we'll drab the baulo, We'll have a drab at a baulo. And then we kairs the drab opre, And then we jaws to the farming ker, To mang a beti habben, A beti poggado habben. A rinkeno baulo there we dick, And then we pens in Romano jib; Wust lis odoi opre ye chick, And the baulo he will lel lis, The baulo he will lel lis. Coliko, coliko saulo we Apopli to the farming ker Will wel and mang him mullo, Will wel and mang his truppo. And so we kairs, and so we kairs; The baulo in the rarde mers; We mang him on the saulo, And rig to the tan the baulo. And then we toves the wendror well Till sore the wendror iuziou se, Till kekkeno drab's adrey lis, Till drab there's kek adrey lis. And then his truppo well we hatch, Kin levinor at the kitchema, And have a kosko habben, A kosko Romano habben. The boshom engro kils, he kils, The tawnie juva gils, she gils A puro Romano gillie, Now shoon the Romano gillie. Which song I had translated in the following manner, in my younger days, for a lady's album: Listen to me ye Roman lads, who are seated in the straw about the fire, and I will tell how we poison the porker, I will tell how we poison the porker. We go to the house of the poison-monger, where we buy three pennies' worth of bane, and when we return to our people we say, we will poison the porker; we will try and poison the porker. We then make up the poison, and then we take our way to the house of the farmer, as if to beg a bit of victuals, a little broken victuals. We see a jolly porker, and then we say in Roman language, "Fling the bane yonder amongst the dirt, and the porker soon will find it, the porker soon will find it." Early on the morrow, we will return to the farm-house, and beg the dead porker, the body of the dead porker. And so we do, even so we do; the porker dieth during the night; on the morrow we beg the porker, and carry to the tent the porker. And then we wash the inside well, till all the inside is perfectly clean, till there's no bane within it, not a poison grain within it. And then we roast the body well, send for ale to the alehouse, and have a merry banquet, a merry Roman banquet. The fellow with the fiddle plays, he plays; the little lassie sings, she sings an ancient Roman ditty; now hear the Roman ditty. SONG OF THE BROKEN CHASTITY BY URSULA Penn'd the Romany chi ke laki dye "Miry dearie dye mi shom cambri!" "And coin kerdo tute cambri, Miry dearie chi, miry Romany chi?" "O miry dye a boro rye, A bovalo rye, a gorgiko rye, Sos kistur pre a pellengo grye, 'Twas yov sos kerdo man cambri." "Tu tawnie vassavie lubbeny, Tu chal from miry tan abri; Had a Romany chal kair'd tute cambri, Then I had penn'd ke tute chie, But tu shan a vassavie lubbeny With gorgikie rat to be cambri." "There's some kernel in those songs, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, when the songs and music were over. "Yes," said I; "they are certainly very remarkable songs. I say, Jasper, I hope you have not been drabbing baulor lately." "And suppose we have, brother, what then?" "Why, it is a very dangerous practice, to say nothing of the wickedness of it." "Necessity has no law, brother." "That is true," said I; "I have always said so, but you are not necessitous, and should not drab baulor." "And who told you we had been drabbing baulor?" "Why, you have had a banquet of pork, and after the banquet, Mrs. Chikno sang a song about drabbing baulor, so I naturally thought you might have lately been engaged in such a thing." "Brother, you occasionally utter a word or two of common sense. It was natural for you to suppose, after seeing that dinner of pork, and hearing that song, that we had been drabbing baulor; I will now tell you that we have not been doing so. What have you to say to that?" "That I am very glad of it." "Had you tasted that pork, brother, you would have found that it was sweet and tasty, which balluva that is drabbed can hardly be expected to be. We have no reason to drab baulor at present, we have money and credit; but necessity has no law. Our forefathers occasionally drabbed baulor; some of our people may still do such a thing, but only from compulsion." "I see," said I; "and at your merry meetings you sing songs upon the compulsatory deeds of your people, alias, their villainous actions; and, after all, what would the stirring poetry of any nation be, but for its compulsatory deeds? Look at the poetry of Scotland, the heroic part, founded almost entirely on the villainous deeds of the Scotch nation; cow- stealing, for example, which is very little better than drabbing baulor; whilst the softer part is mostly about the slips of its females among the broom, so that no upholder of Scotch poetry could censure Ursula's song as indelicate, even if he understood it. What do you think, Jasper?" "I think, brother, as I before said, that occasionally you utter a word of common sense; you were talking of the Scotch, brother; what do you think of a Scotchman finding fault with Romany!" "A Scotchman finding fault with Romany, Jasper! Oh dear, but you joke, the thing could never be." "Yes, and at Piramus's fiddle; what do you think of a Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus's fiddle?" "A Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus's fiddle! nonsense, Jasper." "Do you know what I most dislike, brother?" "I do not, unless it be the constable, Jasper." "It is not the constable; it's a beggar on horseback, brother." "What do you mean by a beggar on horseback?" "Why, a scamp, brother, raised above his proper place, who takes every opportunity of giving himself fine airs. About a week ago, my people and myself camped on a green by a plantation in the neighbourhood of a great house. In the evening we were making merry, the girls were dancing, while Piramus was playing on the fiddle a tune of his own composing, to which he has given his own name, Piramus of Rome, and which is much celebrated amongst our people, and from which I have been told that one of the grand gorgio composers, who once heard it, has taken several hints. So, as we were making merry, a great many grand people, lords and ladies, I believe, came from the great house, and looked on, as the girls danced to the tune of Piramus of Rome, and seemed much pleased; and when the girls had left off dancing, and Piramus playing, the ladies wanted to have their fortunes told; so I bade Mikailia Chikno, who can tell a fortune when she pleases better than any one else, tell them a fortune, and she, being in a good mind, told them a fortune which pleased them very much. So, after they had heard their fortunes, one of them asked if any of our women could sing; and I told them several could, more particularly Leviathan--you know Leviathan, she is not here now, but some miles distant, she is our best singer, Ursula coming next. So the lady said she should like to hear Leviathan sing, whereupon Leviathan sang the Gudlo pesham, and Piramus played the tune of the same name, which as you know, means the honeycomb, the song and the tune being well entitled to the name, being wonderfully sweet. Well, everybody present seemed mighty well pleased with the song and music, with the exception of one person, a carroty-haired Scotch body; how he came there I don't know, but there he was; and, coming forward, he began in Scotch as broad as a barn-door to find fault with the music and the song, saying, that he had never heard viler stuff than either. Well, brother, out of consideration for the civil gentry with whom the fellow had come, I held my peace for a long time, and in order to get the subject changed, I said to Mikailia in Romany, You have told the ladies their fortunes, now tell the gentlemen theirs, quick, quick,--pen lende dukkerin. Well, brother, the Scotchman, I suppose, thinking I was speaking ill of him, fell into a greater passion than before, and catching hold of the word dukkerin--'Dukkerin,' said he, 'what's dukkerin?' 'Dukkerin,' said I, 'is fortune, a man or woman's destiny; don't you like the word?' 'Word! d'ye ca' that a word? a bonnie word,' said he. 'Perhaps, you'll tell us what it is in Scotch,' said I, 'in order that we may improve our language by a Scotch word; a pal of mine has told me that we have taken a great many words from foreign lingos.' 'Why, then, if that be the case, fellow, I will tell you; it is e'en "spaeing,"' said he, very seriously. 'Well, then,' said I, 'I'll keep my own word, which is much the prettiest--spaeing! spaeing! why, I should be ashamed to make use of the word, it sounds so much like a certain other word;' and then I made a face as if I were unwell. 'Perhaps it's Scotch also for that?' 'What do ye mean by speaking in that guise to a gentleman?' said he; 'you insolent vagabond, without a name or a country.' 'There you are mistaken,' said I; 'my country is Egypt, but we 'Gyptians, like you Scotch, are rather fond of travelling; and as for name--my name is Jasper Petulengro, perhaps you have a better; what is it?' 'Sandy Macraw.' At that, brother, the gentlemen burst into a roar of laughter, and all the ladies tittered." "You were rather severe on the Scotchman, Jasper." "Not at all, brother, and suppose I were, he began first; I am the civilest man in the world, and never interfere with anybody, who lets me and mine alone. He finds fault with Romany, forsooth! why, L-d A'mighty, what's Scotch? He doesn't like our songs; what are his own? I understand them as little as he mine; I have heard one or two of them, and pretty rubbish they seemed. But the best of the joke is, the fellow's finding fault with Piramus's fiddle--a chap from the land of bagpipes finding fault with Piramus's fiddle! Why, I'll back that fiddle against all the bagpipes in Scotland, and Piramus against all the bagpipers; for though Piramus weighs but ten stone, he shall flog a Scotchman of twenty." "Scotchmen are never so fat as that," said I, "unless indeed, they have been a long time pensioners of England. I say, Jasper, what remarkable names your people have!" "And what pretty names, brother; there's my own, for example, Jasper; then there's Ambrose and Sylvester; then there's Culvato, which signifies Claude; then there's Piramus--that's a nice name, brother." "Then there's your wife's name, Pakomovna; then there's Ursula and Morella." "Then, brother, there's Ercilla." "Ercilla! the name of the great poet of Spain, how wonderful; then Leviathan." "The name of a ship, brother; Leviathan was named after a ship, so don't make a wonder out of her. But there's Sanpriel and Synfye." "Ay, and Clementina and Lavinia, Camillia and Lydia, Curlanda and Orlanda; wherever did they get those names?" "Where did my wife get her necklace, brother?" "She knows best, Jasper. I hope--" "Come, no hoping! She got it from her grandmother, who died at the age of a hundred and three, and sleeps in Coggeshall churchyard. She got it from her mother, who also died very old, and who could give no other account of it than that it had been in the family time out of mind." "Whence could they have got it?" "Why, perhaps where they got their names, brother. A gentleman, who had travelled much, once told me that he had seen the sister of it about the neck of an Indian queen." "Some of your names, Jasper, appear to be church names; your own, for example, and Ambrose, and Sylvester; perhaps you got them from the Papists, in the times of Popery; but where did you get such a name as Piramus, a name of Grecian romance? Then some of them appear to be Slavonian; for example, Mikailia and Pakomovna. I don't know much of Slavonian; but--" "What is Slavonian, brother?" "The family name of certain nations, the principal of which is the Russian, and from which the word slave is originally derived. You have heard of the Russians, Jasper?" "Yes, brother; and seen some. I saw their crallis at the time of the peace; he was not a bad-looking man for a Russian." "By the bye, Jasper, I'm half inclined to think that crallis is a Slavish word. I saw something like it in a lil called 'Voltaire's Life of Charles.' How you should have come by such names and words is to me incomprehensible." "You seem posed, brother." "I really know very little about you, Jasper." "Very little indeed, brother. We know very little about ourselves; and you know nothing, save what we have told you; and we have now and then told you things about us which are not exactly true, simply to make a fool of you, brother. You will say that was wrong; perhaps it was. Well, Sunday will be here in a day or two, when we will go to church, where possibly we shall hear a sermon on the disastrous consequences of lying." CHAPTER VIII The Church--The Aristocratical Pew--Days of Yore--The Clergyman--"In What Would a Man be Profited?" When two days had passed, Sunday came; I breakfasted by myself in the solitary dingle; and then, having set things a little to rights, I ascended to Mr. Petulengro's encampment. I could hear church-bells ringing around in the distance, appearing to say, "Come to church, come to church," as clearly as it was possible for church-bells to say. I found Mr. Petulengro seated by the door of his tent, smoking his pipe, in rather an ungenteel undress. "Well, Jasper," said I, "are you ready to go to church? for if you are, I am ready to accompany you." "I am not ready, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "nor is my wife; the church, too, to which we shall go is three miles off; so it is of no use to think of going there this morning, as the service would be three-quarters over before we got there; if, however, you are disposed to go in the afternoon, we are your people." Thereupon I returned to my dingle, where I passed several hours in conning the Welsh Bible, which the preacher, Peter Williams, had given me. At last I gave over reading, took a slight refreshment, and was about to emerge from the dingle, when I heard the voice of Mr. Petulengro calling me. I went up again to the encampment, where I found Mr. Petulengro, his wife, and Tawno Chikno, ready to proceed to church. Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro were dressed in Roman fashion, though not in the full-blown manner in which they had paid their visit to Isopel and myself. Tawno had on a clean white slop, with a nearly new black beaver, with very broad rims, and the nap exceedingly long. As for myself, I was dressed in much the same manner as that in which I departed from London, having on, in honour of the day, a shirt perfectly clean, having washed one on purpose for the occasion, with my own hands, the day before, in the pond of tepid water in which the newts and defts were in the habit of taking their pleasure. We proceeded for upwards of a mile, by footpaths through meadows and corn-fields; we crossed various stiles; at last, passing over one, we found ourselves in a road, wending along which for a considerable distance, we at last came in sight of a church, the bells of which had been tolling distinctly in our ears for some time; before, however, we reached the church-yard, the bells had ceased their melody. It was surrounded by lofty beech-trees of brilliant green foliage. We entered the gate, Mrs. Petulengro leading the way, and proceeded to a small door near the east end of the church. As we advanced, the sound of singing within the church rose upon our ears. Arrived at the small door, Mrs. Petulengro opened it and entered, followed by Tawno Chikno. I myself went last of all, following Mr. Petulengro, who, before I entered, turned round, and, with a significant nod, advised me to take care how I behaved. The part of the church which we had entered was the chancel; on one side stood a number of venerable old men--probably the neighbouring poor--and on the other a number of poor girls belonging to the village school, dressed in white gowns and straw bonnets, whom two elegant but simply dressed young women were superintending. Every voice seemed to be united in singing a certain anthem, which, notwithstanding it was written neither by Tate nor Brady, contains some of the sublimest words which were ever put together, not the worst of which are those which burst on our ears as we entered: "Every eye shall now behold Him, Robed in dreadful majesty; Those who set at nought and sold Him, Pierced and nailed Him to the tree, Deeply wailing, Shall the true Messiah see." Still following Mrs. Petulengro, we proceeded down the chancel and along the aisle; notwithstanding the singing, I could distinctly hear as we passed many a voice whispering, "Here come the gypsies! here come the gypsies!" I felt rather embarrassed, with a somewhat awkward doubt as to where we were to sit; none of the occupiers of the pews, who appeared to consist almost entirely of farmers, with their wives, sons, and daughters, opened a door to admit us. Mrs. Petulengro, however, appeared to feel not the least embarrassment, but tripped along the aisle with the greatest nonchalance. We passed under the pulpit, in which stood the clergyman in his white surplice, and reached the middle of the church, where we were confronted by the sexton dressed in long blue coat, and holding in his hand a wand. This functionary motioned towards the lower end of the church, where were certain benches, partly occupied by poor people and boys. Mrs. Petulengro, however, with a toss of her head, directed her course to a magnificent pew, which was unoccupied, which she opened and entered, followed closely by Tawno Chikno, Mr. Petulengro, and myself. The sexton did not appear by any means to approve of the arrangement, and as I stood next the door, laid his finger on my arm, as if to intimate that myself and companions must quit our aristocratical location. I said nothing, but directed my eyes to the clergyman, who uttered a short and expressive cough; the sexton looked at him for a moment, and then, bowing his head, closed the door--in a moment more the music ceased. I took up a prayer-book, on which was engraved an earl's coronet. The clergyman uttered, "I will arise, and go to my father." England's sublime liturgy had commenced. Oh, what feelings came over me on finding myself again in an edifice devoted to the religion of my country! I had not been in such a place I cannot tell for how long--certainly not for years; and now I had found my way there again, it appeared as if I had fallen asleep in the pew of the old church of pretty D---. I had occasionally done so when a child, and had suddenly woke up. Yes, surely I had been asleep and had woke up; but no! alas, no! I had not been asleep--at least not in the old church--if I had been asleep I had been walking in my sleep, struggling, striving, learning, and unlearning in my sleep. Years had rolled away whilst I had been asleep--ripe fruit had fallen, green fruit had come on whilst I had been asleep--how circumstances had altered, and above all myself, whilst I had been asleep. No, I had not been asleep in the old church! I was in a pew, it is true, but not the pew of black leather, in which I sometimes fell asleep in days of yore, but in a strange pew; and then my companions, they were no longer those of days of yore. I was no longer with my respectable father and mother, and my dear brother, but with the gypsy cral and his wife, and the gigantic Tawno, the Antinous of the dusky people. And what was I myself? No longer an innocent child, but a moody man, bearing in my face, as I knew well, the marks of my strivings and strugglings, of what I had learnt and unlearnt; nevertheless, the general aspect of things brought to my mind what I had felt and seen of yore. There was difference enough, it is true, but still there was a similarity--at least I thought so--the church, the clergyman, and the clerk, differing in many respects from those of pretty D---, put me strangely in mind of them; and then the words!--by the bye, was it not the magic of the words which brought the dear enchanting past so powerfully before the mind of Lavengro? for the words were the same sonorous words of high import which had first made an impression on his childish ear in the old church of pretty D---. The liturgy was now over, during the reading of which my companions behaved in a most unexceptionable manner, sitting down and rising up when other people sat down and rose, and holding in their hands prayer-books which they found in the pew, into which they stared intently, though I observed that, with the exception of Mrs. Petulengro, who knew how to read a little, they held the books by the top, and not the bottom, as is the usual way. The clergyman now ascended the pulpit, arrayed in his black gown. The congregation composed themselves to attention, as did also my companions, who fixed their eyes upon the clergyman with a certain strange immovable stare, which I believe to be peculiar to their race. The clergyman gave out his text, and began to preach. He was a tall, gentlemanly man, seemingly between fifty and sixty, with greyish hair; his features were very handsome, but with a somewhat melancholy cast: the tones of his voice were rich and noble, but also with somewhat of melancholy in them. The text which he gave out was the following one, "In what would a man be profited, provided he gained the whole world, and lost his own soul?" And on this text the clergyman preached long and well: he did not read his sermon, but spoke it extempore; his doing so rather surprised and offended me at first; I was not used to such a style of preaching in a church devoted to the religion of my country. I compared it within my mind with the style of preaching used by the high-church rector in the old church of pretty D---, and I thought to myself it was very different, and being very different I did not like it, and I thought to myself how scandalized the people of D--- would have been had they heard it, and I figured to myself how indignant the high-church clerk would have been had any clergyman got up in the church of D--- and preached in such a manner. Did it not savour strongly of dissent, methodism, and similar low stuff? Surely it did; why, the Methodist I had heard preach on the heath above the old city, preached in the same manner--at least he preached extempore; ay, and something like the present clergyman; for the Methodist spoke very zealously and with great feeling, and so did the present clergyman; so I, of course, felt rather offended with the clergyman for speaking with zeal and feeling. However, long before the sermon was over I forgot the offence which I had taken, and listened to the sermon with much admiration, for the eloquence and powerful reasoning with which it abounded. Oh, how eloquent he was, when he talked of the inestimable value of a man's soul, which he said endured for ever, whilst his body, as every one knew, lasted at most for a very contemptible period of time; and how forcibly he reasoned on the folly of a man, who, for the sake of gaining the whole world--a thing, he said, which provided he gained he could only possess for a part of the time, during which his perishable body existed--should lose his soul, that is, cause that precious deathless portion of him to suffer indescribable misery time without end. There was one part of his sermon which struck me in a very particular manner: he said, "That there were some people who gained something in return for their souls; if they did not get the whole world, they got a part of it--lands, wealth, honour, or renown; mere trifles, he allowed, in comparison with the value of a man's soul, which is destined either to enjoy delight, or suffer tribulation time without end; but which, in the eyes of the worldly, had a certain value, and which afforded a certain pleasure and satisfaction. But there were also others who lost their souls, and got nothing for them--neither lands, wealth, renown, nor consideration, who were poor outcasts, and despised by everybody. My friends," he added, "if the man is a fool who barters his soul for the whole world, what a fool he must be who barters his soul for nothing." The eyes of the clergyman, as he uttered these words, wandered around the whole congregation; and when he had concluded them, the eyes of the whole congregation were turned upon my companions and myself. CHAPTER IX Return from Church--The Cuckoo and Gypsy--Spiritual Discourse. The service over, my companions and myself returned towards the encampment, by the way we came. Some of the humble part of the congregation laughed and joked at us as we passed. Mr. Petulengro and his wife, however, returned their laughs and jokes with interest. As for Tawno and myself, we said nothing: Tawno, like most handsome fellows, having very little to say for himself at any time; and myself, though not handsome, not being particularly skilful at repartee. Some boys followed us for a considerable time, making all kinds of observations about gypsies; but as we walked at a great pace, we gradually left them behind, and at last lost sight of them. Mrs. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno walked together, even as they had come; whilst Mr. Petulengro and myself followed at a little distance. "That was a very fine preacher we heard," said I to Mr. Petulengro, after we had crossed the stile into the fields. "Very fine indeed, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; "he is talked of, far and wide, for his sermons; folks say that there is scarcely another like him in the whole of England." "He looks rather melancholy, Jasper." "He lost his wife several years ago, who, they say, was one of the most beautiful women ever seen. They say that it was grief for her loss that made him come out mighty strong as a preacher; for, though he was a clergyman, he was never heard of in the pulpit before he lost his wife; since then, the whole country has rung with the preaching of the clergyman of M--- as they call him. Those two nice young gentlewomen, whom you saw with the female childer, are his daughters." "You seem to know all about him, Jasper. Did you ever hear him preach before?" "Never, brother; but he has frequently been to our tent, and his daughters too, and given us tracts; for he is one of the people they call Evangelicals, who give folks tracts which they cannot read." "You should learn to read, Jasper." "We have no time, brother." "Are you not frequently idle?" "Never, brother; when we are not engaged in our traffic, we are engaged in taking our relaxation: so we have no time to learn." "You really should make an effort. If you were disposed to learn to read, I would endeavour to assist you. You would be all the better for knowing how to read." "In what way, brother?" "Why, you could read the Scriptures, and, by so doing, learn your duty towards your fellow-creatures." "We know that already, brother; the constables and justices have contrived to knock that tolerably into our heads." "Yet you frequently break the laws." "So, I believe, do now and then those who know how to read, brother." "Very true, Jasper; but you really ought to learn to read, as, by so doing, you might learn your duty towards yourselves: and your chief duty is to take care of your own souls; did not the preacher say, 'In what is a man profited, provided he gain the whole world?'" "We have not much of the world, brother." "Very little indeed, Jasper. Did you not observe how the eyes of the whole congregation were turned towards our pew, when the preacher said, 'There are some people who lose their souls, and get nothing in exchange; who are outcast, despised, and miserable?' Now was not what he said quite applicable to the gypsies?" "We are not miserable, brother." "Well, then, you ought to be, Jasper. Have you an inch of ground of your own? Are you of the least use? Are you not spoken ill of by everybody? What's a gypsy?" "What's the bird noising yonder, brother?" "The bird! oh, that's the cuckoo tolling; but what has the cuckoo to do with the matter?" "We'll see, brother; what's the cuckoo?" "What is it? you know as much about it as myself, Jasper." "Isn't it a kind of roguish, chaffing bird, brother?" "I believe it is, Jasper." "Nobody knows whence it comes, brother?" "I believe not, Jasper." "Very poor, brother, not a nest of its own?" "So they say, Jasper." "With every person's bad word, brother?" "Yes, Jasper, every person is mocking it." "Tolerably merry, brother?" "Yes, tolerably merry, Jasper." "Of no use at all, brother?" "None whatever, Jasper." "You would be glad to get rid of the cuckoos, brother?" "Why, not exactly, Jasper; the cuckoo is a pleasant, funny bird, and its presence and voice give a great charm to the green trees and fields; no, I can't say I wish exactly to get rid of the cuckoo." "Well, brother, what's a Romany chal?" "You must answer that question yourself, Jasper." "A roguish, chaffing fellow, a'n't he, brother?" "Ay, ay, Jasper." "Of no use at all, brother?" "Just so, Jasper; I see--" "Something very much like a cuckoo, brother?" "I see what you are after, Jasper." "You would like to get rid of us, wouldn't you?" "Why no, not exactly." "We are no ornament to the green lanes in spring and summer time, are we, brother? and the voices of our chies, with their cukkerin and dukkerin, don't help to make them pleasant?" "I see what you are at, Jasper." "You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, wouldn't you?" "Can't say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might wish." "And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory wenches, hey, brother?" "Can't say that I should, Jasper. You are certainly a picturesque people, and in many respects an ornament both to town and country; painting and lil writing too are under great obligations to you. What pretty pictures are made out of your campings and groupings, and what pretty books have been written in which gypsies, or at least creatures intended to represent gypsies, have been the principal figures. I think if we were without you, we should begin to miss you." "Just as you would the cuckoos, if they were all converted into barn-door fowls. I tell you what, brother; frequently, as I have sat under a hedge in spring or summer time, and heard the cuckoo, I have thought that we chals and cuckoos are alike in many respects, but especially in character. Everybody speaks ill of us both, and everybody is glad to see both of us again." "Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and cuckoos; men have souls, Jasper!" "And why not cuckoos, brother?" "You should not talk so, Jasper; what you say is little short of blasphemy. How should a bird have a soul?" "And how should a man?" "Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul." "How do you know it?" "We know very well." "Would you take your oath of it, brother--your bodily oath?" "Why, I think I might, Jasper!" "Did you ever see the soul, brother?" "No, I never saw it." "Then how could you swear to it? A pretty figure you would make in a court of justice, to swear to a thing which you never saw. Hold up your head, fellow. When and where did you see it? Now upon your oath, fellow, do you mean to say that this Roman stole the donkey's foal? Oh, there's no one for cross-questioning like Counsellor P---. Our people when they are in a hobble always like to employ him, though he is somewhat dear. Now, brother, how can you get over the 'upon your oath, fellow, will you say that you have a soul?'" "Well, we will take no oaths on the subject; but you yourself believe in the soul. I have heard you say that you believe in dukkerin; now what is dukkerin but the soul science?" "When did I say that I believed in it?" "Why, after that fight, when you pointed to the bloody mark in the cloud, whilst he you wot of was galloping in the barouche to the old town, amidst the rain-cataracts, the thunder, and flame of heaven." "I have some kind of remembrance of it, brother." "Then, again, I heard you say that the dook of Abershaw rode every night on horseback down the wooded hill." "I say, brother, what a wonderful memory you have!" "I wish I had not, Jasper; but I can't help it, it is my misfortune." "Misfortune! well, perhaps it is; at any rate it is very ungenteel to have such a memory. I have heard my wife say that to show you have a long memory looks very vulgar; and that you can't give a greater proof of gentility than by forgetting a thing as soon as possible--more especially a promise, or an acquaintance when he happens to be shabby. Well, brother, I don't deny that I may have said that I believe in dukkerin, and in Abershaw's dook, which you say is his soul; but what I believe one moment, or say I believe, don't be certain that I shall believe the next, or say I do." "Indeed, Jasper, I heard you say on a previous occasion, on quoting a piece of a song, that when a man dies he is cast into the earth, and there's an end of him." "I did, did I? Lor' what a memory you have, brother. But you are not sure that I hold that opinion now." "Certainly not, Jasper. Indeed, after such a sermon as we have been hearing, I should be very shocked if you held such an opinion." "However, brother, don't be sure I do not, however shocking such an opinion may be to you." "What an incomprehensible people you are, Jasper." "We are rather so, brother; indeed, we have posed wiser heads than yours before now." "You seem to care for so little, and yet you rove about a distinct race." "I say, brother!" "Yes, Jasper." "What do you think of our women?" "They have certainly very singular names, Jasper." "Names! Lavengro! However, brother, if you had been as fond of things as of names, you would never have been a pal of ours." "What do you mean, Jasper?" "A'n't they rum animals?" "They have tongues of their own, Jasper." "Did you ever feel their teeth and nails, brother?" "Never, Jasper, save Mrs. Herne's. I have always been very civil to them, so--" "They let you alone. I say, brother, some part of the secret is in them." "They seem rather flighty, Jasper." "Ay, ay, brother!" "Rather fond of loose discourse!" "Rather so, brother." "Can you always trust them, Jasper?" "We never watch them, brother." "Can they always trust you?" "Not quite so well as we can them. However, we get on very well together, except Mikailia and her husband; but Mikailia is a cripple, and is married to the beauty of the world, so she may be expected to be jealous--though he would not part with her for a duchess, no more than I would part with my rawnie, nor any other chal with his." "Ay, but would not the chi part with the chal for a duke, Jasper?" "My Pakomovna gave up the duke for me, brother." "But she occasionally talks of him, Jasper." "Yes, brother, but Pakomovna was born on a common not far from the sign of the gammon." "Gammon of bacon, I suppose." "Yes, brother; but gammon likewise means--" "I know it does, Jasper; it means fun, ridicule, jest; it is an ancient Norse word, and is found in the Edda." "Lor', brother! how learned in lils you are!" "Many words of Norse are to be found in our vulgar sayings, Jasper; for example--in that particularly vulgar saying of ours, 'Your mother is up,' there's a noble Norse word; mother, there, meaning not the female who bore us, but rage and choler, as I discovered by reading the Sagas, Jasper." "Lor', brother! how book-learned you be." "Indifferently so, Jasper. Then you think you might trust your wife with the duke?" "I think I could, brother, or even with yourself." "Myself, Jasper! Oh, I never troubled my head about your wife; but I suppose there have been love affairs between gorgios and Romany chies. Why, novels are stuffed with such matters; and then even one of your own songs says so--the song which Ursula was singing the other afternoon." "That is somewhat of an old song, brother, and is sung by the chies as a warning at our solemn festivals." "Well! but there's your sister-in-law, Ursula, herself, Jasper." "Ursula, herself, brother?" "You were talking of my having her, Jasper." "Well, brother, why didn't you have her?" "Would she have had me?" "Of course, brother. You are so much of a Roman, and speak Romany so remarkably well." "Poor thing! she looks very innocent!" "Remarkably so, brother! however, though not born on the same common with my wife, she knows a thing or two of Roman matters." "I should like to ask her a question or two, Jasper, in connection with that song." "You can do no better, brother. Here we are at the camp. After tea, take Ursula under a hedge, and ask her a question or two in connection with that song." CHAPTER X Sunday Evening--Ursula--Action at Law--Meridiana--Married Already. I took tea that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro and Ursula, outside of their tent. Tawno was not present, being engaged with his wife in his own tabernacle; Sylvester was there, however, lolling listlessly upon the ground. As I looked upon this man, I thought him one of the most disagreeable fellows I had ever seen. His features were ugly, and, moreover, as dark as pepper; and, besides being dark, his skin was dirty. As for his dress, it was torn and sordid. His chest was broad, and his arms seemed powerful; but, upon the whole, he looked a very caitiff. "I am sorry that man has lost his wife," thought I; "for I am sure he will never get another." What surprises me is, that he ever found a woman disposed to unite her lot with his! After tea I got up and strolled about the field. My thoughts were upon Isopel Berners. I wondered where she was, and how long she would stay away. At length becoming tired and listless, I determined to return to the dingle, and resume the reading of the Bible at the place where I had left off. "What better could I do," methought, "on a Sunday evening?" I was then near the wood which surrounded the dingle, but at that side which was farthest from the encampment, which stood near the entrance. Suddenly, on turning round the southern corner of the copse, which surrounded the dingle, I perceived Ursula seated under a thornbush. I thought I never saw her look prettier than then, dressed as she was, in her Sunday's best. "Good evening, Ursula," said I; "I little thought to have the pleasure of seeing you here." "Nor would you, brother," said Ursula, "had not Jasper told me that you had been talking about me, and wanted to speak to me under a hedge; so, hearing that, I watched your motions, and came here and sat down." "I was thinking of going to my quarters in the dingle, to read the Bible, Ursula, but--" "Oh, pray then, go to your quarters, brother, and read the Miduveleskoe lil; you can speak to me under a hedge some other time." "I think I will sit down with you, Ursula; for, after all, reading godly books in dingles at eve, is rather sombre work. Yes, I think I will sit down with you;" and I sat down by her side. "Well, brother, now you have sat down with me under the hedge, what have you to say to me?" "Why, I hardly know, Ursula." "Not know, brother; a pretty fellow you to ask young women to come and sit with you under hedges, and, when they come, not know what to say to them." "Oh! ah! I remember; do you know, Ursula, that I take a great interest in you?" "Thank ye, brother; kind of you, at any rate." "You must be exposed to a great many temptations, Ursula." "A great many indeed, brother. It is hard to see fine things, such as shawls, gold watches, and chains in the shops, behind the big glasses, and to know that they are not intended for one. Many's the time I have been tempted to make a dash at them; but I bethought myself that by so doing I should cut my hands, besides being almost certain of being grabbed and sent across the gull's bath to the foreign country." "Then you think gold and fine things temptations, Ursula?" "Of course, brother, very great temptations; don't you think them so?" "Can't say I do, Ursula." "Then more fool you, brother; but have the kindness to tell me what you would call a temptation?" "Why, for example, the hope of honour and renown, Ursula." "The hope of honour and renown! very good, brother; but I tell you one thing, that unless you have money in your pocket, and good broad-cloth on your back, you are not likely to obtain much honour and--what do you call it? amongst the gorgios, to say nothing of the Romany chals." "I should have thought, Ursula, that the Romany chals, roaming about the world as they do, free and independent, were above being led by such trifles." "Then you know nothing of the gypsies, brother; no people on earth are fonder of those trifles, as you call them, than the Romany chals, and more disposed to respect those who have them." "Then money and fine clothes would induce you to do anything, Ursula?" "Ay, ay, brother, anything." "To chore, Ursula?" "Like enough, brother; gypsies have been transported before now for choring." "To hokkawar?" "Ay, ay; I was telling dukkerin only yesterday, brother." "In fact, to break the law in everything?" "Who knows, brother, who knows? as I said before, gold and fine clothes are great temptations." "Well, Ursula, I am sorry for it, I should never have thought you so depraved." "Indeed, brother." "To think that I am seated by one who is willing to--to--" "Go on, brother." "To play the thief." "Go on, brother." "The liar." "Go on, brother." "The--the--" "Go on, brother." "The--the lubbeny." "The what, brother?" said Ursula, starting from her seat. "Why, the lubbeny; don't you--" "I tell you what, brother," said Ursula, looking somewhat pale, and speaking very low, "if I had only something in my hand, I would do you a mischief." "Why, what is the matter, Ursula?" said I; "how have I offended you?" "How have you offended me? Why, didn't you insinivate just now that I was ready to play the--the--" "Go on, Ursula." "The--the--I'll not say it; but I only wish I had something in my hand." "If I have offended, Ursula, I am very sorry for it; any offence I may have given you was from want of understanding you. Come, pray be seated, I have much to question you about--to talk to you about." "Seated, not I! It was only just now that you gave me to understand that you was ashamed to be seated by me, a thief, a liar." "Well, did you not almost give me to understand that you were both, Ursula?" "I don't much care being called a thief and a liar," said Ursula; "a person may be a liar and thief, and yet a very honest woman, but--" "Well, Ursula." "I tell you what, brother, if you ever sinivate again that I could be the third thing, so help me duvel! I'll do you a mischief. By my God I will!" "Well, Ursula, I assure you that I shall sinivate, as you call it, nothing of the kind about you. I have no doubt, from what you have said, that you are a very paragon of virtue--a perfect Lucretia; but--" "My name is Ursula, brother, and not Lucretia: Lucretia is not of our family, but one of the Bucklands; she travels about Oxfordshire; yet I am as good as she any day." "Lucretia; how odd! Where could she have got that name? Well, I make no doubt, Ursula, that you are quite as good as she, and she as her namesake of ancient Rome; but there is a mystery in this same virtue, Ursula, which I cannot fathom; how a thief and a liar should be able, or indeed willing, to preserve her virtue is what I don't understand. You confess that you are very fond of gold. Now, how is it that you don't barter your virtue for gold sometimes? I am a philosopher, Ursula, and like to know everything. You must be every now and then exposed to great temptation, Ursula; for you are of a beauty calculated to captivate all hearts. Come, sit down and tell me how you are enabled to resist such a temptation as gold and fine clothes?" "Well, brother," said Ursula, "as you say you mean no harm, I will sit down beside you, and enter into discourse with you; but I will uphold that you are the coolest hand that I ever came nigh, and say the coolest things." And thereupon Ursula sat down by my side. "Well, Ursula, we will, if you please, discourse on the subject of your temptations. I suppose that you travel very much about, and show yourself in all kinds of places?" "In all kinds, brother; I travels, as you say, very much about, attends fairs and races, and enters booths and public-houses, where I tells fortunes, and sometimes dances and sings." "And do not people often address you in a very free manner?" "Frequently, brother; and I give them tolerably free answers." "Do people ever offer to make you presents? I mean presents of value, such as--" "Silk handkerchiefs, shawls, and trinkets; very frequently, brother." "And what do you do, Ursula?" "I takes what people offers me, brother, and stows it away as soon as I can." "Well, but don't people expect something for their presents? I don't mean dukkerin, dancing, and the like; but such a moderate and innocent thing as a choomer, Ursula?" "Innocent thing, do you call it, brother?" "The world calls it so, Ursula. Well, do the people who give you the fine things never expect a choomer in return?" "Very frequently, brother." "And do you ever grant it?" "Never, brother." "How do you avoid it?" "I gets away as soon as possible, brother. If they follows me, I tries to baffle them, by means of jests and laughter; and if they persist, I uses bad and terrible language, of which I have plenty in store." "But if your terrible language has no effect?" "Then I screams for the constable, and if he comes not, I uses my teeth and nails." "And are they always sufficient?" "I have only had to use them twice, brother; but then I found them sufficient." "But suppose the person who followed you was highly agreeable, Ursula? A handsome young officer of local militia, for example, all dressed in Lincoln green, would you still refuse him the choomer?" "We makes no difference, brother; the daughters of the gypsy-father makes no difference; and what's more, sees none." "Well, Ursula, the world will hardly give you credit for such indifference." "What cares we for the world, brother! we are not of the world." "But your fathers, brothers, and uncles, give you credit, I suppose, Ursula." "Ay, ay, brother, our fathers, brothers, and cokos gives us all manner of credit; for example, I am telling lies and dukkerin in a public-house where my batu or coko--perhaps both--are playing on the fiddle; well, my batu and my coko beholds me amongst the public-house crew, talking nonsense and hearing nonsense; but they are under no apprehension; and presently they sees the good-looking officer of militia, in his greens and Lincolns, get up and give me a wink, and I go out with him abroad, into the dark night perhaps; well, my batu and my coko goes on fiddling just as if I were six miles off asleep in the tent, and not out in the dark street with the local officer, with his Lincolns and his greens." "They know they can trust you, Ursula?" "Ay, ay, brother; and, what's more, I knows I can trust myself." "So you would merely go out to make a fool of him, Ursula?" "Merely go out to make a fool of him, brother, I assure you." "But such proceedings really have an odd look, Ursula." "Amongst gorgios, very so, brother." "Well, it must be rather unpleasant to lose one's character even amongst gorgios, Ursula; and suppose the officer, out of revenge for being tricked and duped by you, were to say of you the thing that is not, were to meet you on the race-course the next day, and boast of receiving favours which he never had, amidst a knot of jeering militia-men, how would you proceed, Ursula? would you not be abashed?" "By no means, brother; I should bring my action of law against him." "Your action at law, Ursula?" "Yes, brother, I should give a whistle, whereupon all one's cokos and batus, and all my near and distant relations, would leave their fiddling, dukkerin, and horse-dealing, and come flocking about me. 'What's the matter, Ursula?' says my coko. 'Nothing at all,' I replies, 'save and except that gorgio, in his greens and his Lincolns, says that I have played the--with him.' 'Oho, he does, Ursula,' says my coko, 'try your action of law against him, my lamb,' and he puts something privily into my hands; whereupon I goes close up to the grinning gorgio, and staring him in the face, with my head pushed forward, I cries out: 'You say I did what was wrong with you last night when I was out with you abroad?' 'Yes,' says the local officer, 'I says you did,' looking down all the time. 'You are a liar,' says I, and forthwith I breaks his head with the stick which I holds behind me, and which my coko has conveyed privily into my hand." "And this is your action at law, Ursula?" "Yes, brother, this is my action at club-law." "And would your breaking the fellow's head quite clear you of all suspicion in the eyes of your batus, cokos, and what not?" "They would never suspect me at all, brother, because they would know that I would never condescend to be over-intimate with a gorgio; the breaking the head would be merely intended to justify Ursula in the eyes of the gorgios." "And would it clear you in their eyes?" "Would it not, brother? when they saw the blood running down from the fellow's cracked poll on his greens and Lincolns, they would be quite satisfied; why, the fellow would not be able to show his face at fair or merry-making for a year and three-quarters." "Did you ever try it, Ursula?" "Can't say I ever did, brother, but it would do." "And how did you ever learn such a method of proceeding?" "Why, 't is advised by gypsy liri, brother. It's part of our way of settling difficulties amongst ourselves; for example, if a young Roman were to say the thing which is not respecting Ursula and himself, Ursula would call a great meeting of the people, who would all sit down in a ring, the young fellow amongst them; a coko would then put a stick in Ursula's hand, who would then get up and go to the young fellow, and say, 'Did I play the--with you?' and were he to say 'Yes,' she would crack his head before the eyes of all." "Well," said I, "Ursula, I was bred an apprentice to gorgio law, and of course ought to stand up for it, whenever I conscientiously can, but I must say the gypsy manner of bringing an action for defamation is much less tedious, and far more satisfactory, than the gorgiko one. I wish you now to clear up a certain point which is rather mysterious to me. You say that for a Romany chi to do what is unseemly with a gorgio is quite out of the question, yet only the other day I heard you singing a song in which a Romany chi confesses herself to be cambri by a grand gorgious gentleman." "A sad let down," said Ursula. "Well," said I, "sad or not, there's the song that speaks of the thing, which you give me to understand is not." "Well, if the thing ever was," said Ursula, "it was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, not true." "Then why do you sing the song?" "I'll tell you, brother, we sings the song now and then to be a warning to ourselves to have as little to do as possible in the way of acquaintance with the gorgios; and a warning it is; you see how the young woman in the song was driven out of her tent by her mother, with all kind of disgrace and bad language; but you don't know that she was afterwards buried alive by her cokos and pals, in an uninhabited place; the song doesn't say it, but the story says it, for there is a story about it, though, as I said before, it was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, wasn't true." "But if such a thing were to happen at present, would the cokos and pals bury the girl alive?" "I can't say what they would do," said Ursula; "I suppose they are not so strict as they were long ago; at any rate, she would be driven from the tan, and avoided by all her family and relations as a gorgio's acquaintance; so that, perhaps, at last, she would be glad if they would bury her alive." "Well, I can conceive that there would be an objection on the part of the cokos and batus that a Romany chi should form an improper acquaintance with a gorgio, but I should think that the batus and cokos could hardly object to the chi's entering into the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio." Ursula was silent. "Marriage is an honourable estate, Ursula." "Well, brother, suppose it be?" "I don't see why a Romany chi should object to enter into the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio." "You don't, brother; don't you?" "No," said I; "and, moreover, I am aware, notwithstanding your evasion, Ursula, that marriages and connections now and then occur between gorgios and Romany chies; the result of which is the mixed breed, called half and half, which is at present travelling about England, and to which the Flaming Tinman belongs, otherwise called Anselo Herne." "As for the half and halfs," said Ursula, "they are a bad set; and there is not a worse blackguard in England than Anselo Herne." "All that you say may be very true, Ursula, but you admit that there are half and halfs." "The more's the pity, brother." "Pity, or not, you admit the fact; but how do you account for it?" "How do I account for it? why, I will tell you, by the break up of a Roman family, brother--the father of a small family dies, and, perhaps, the mother; and the poor children are left behind; sometimes, they are gathered up by their relations, and sometimes, if they have none, by charitable Romans, who bring them up in the observance of gypsy law; but sometimes they are not so lucky, and falls into the company of gorgios, trampers, and basket-makers, who live in caravans, with whom they take up, and so--I hate to talk of the matter, brother; but so comes this race of the half and halfs." "Then you mean to say, Ursula, that no Romany chi, unless compelled by hard necessity, would have anything to do with a gorgio?" "We are not over-fond of gorgios, brother, and we hates basket-makers, and folks that live in caravans." "Well," said I, "suppose a gorgio who is not a basket-maker, a fine, handsome gorgious gentleman, who lives in a fine house--" "We are not fond of houses, brother; I never slept in a house in my life." "But would not plenty of money induce you?" "I hate houses, brother, and those who live in them." "Well, suppose such a person were willing to resign his fine house; and, for love of you, to adopt gypsy law, speak Romany, and live in a tan, would you have nothing to say to him?" "Bringing plenty of money with him, brother?" "Well, bringing plenty of money with him, Ursula." "Well, brother, suppose you produce your man; where is he?" "I was merely supposing such a person, Ursula." "Then you don't know of such a person, brother?" "Why, no, Ursula; why do you ask?" "Because, brother, I was almost beginning to think that you meant yourself." "Myself! Ursula; I have no fine house to resign; nor have I money. Moreover, Ursula, though I have a great regard for you, and though I consider you very handsome, quite as handsome, indeed, as Meridiana in--" "Meridiana! where did you meet with her?" said Ursula, with a toss of her head. "Why, in old Pulci's--" "At old Fulcher's! that's not true, brother. Meridiana is a Borzlam, and travels with her own people, and not with old Fulcher, who is a gorgio, and a basket-maker." "I was not speaking of old Fulcher, but Pulci, a great Italian writer, who lived many hundred years ago, and who, in his poem called 'Morgante Maggiore,' speaks of Meridiana, the daughter of--" "Old Carus Borzlam," said Ursula; "but if the fellow you mention lived so many hundred years ago, how, in the name of wonder, could he know anything of Meridiana?" "The wonder, Ursula, is, how your people could ever have got hold of that name, and similar ones. The Meridiana of Pulci was not the daughter of old Carus Borzlam, but of Caradoro, a great pagan king of the East, who, being besieged in his capital by Manfredonio, another mighty pagan king, who wished to obtain possession of his daughter, who had refused him, was relieved in his distress by certain paladins of Charlemagne, with one of whom, Oliver, his daughter Meridiana fell in love." "I see," said, Ursula, "that it must have been altogether a different person, for I am sure that Meridiana Borzlam would never have fallen in love with Oliver. Oliver! why, that is the name of the curo-mengro, who lost the fight near the chong gav, the day of the great tempest, when I got wet through. No, no! Meridiana Borzlam would never have so far forgot her blood as to take up with Tom Oliver." "I was not talking of that Oliver, Ursula, but of Oliver, peer of France, and paladin of Charlemagne, with whom Meridiana, daughter of Caradoro, fell in love, and for whose sake she renounced her religion and became a Christian, and finally ingravidata, or cambri, by him:-- 'E nacquene un figliuol, dice la storia, Che dette a Carlo-man poi gran vittoria;' which means--" "I don't want to know what it means," said Ursula; "no good, I'm sure. Well, if the Meridiana of Charles's wain's pal was no handsomer than Meridiana Borzlam, she was no great catch, brother; for though I am by no means given to vanity, I think myself better to look at than she, though I will say she is no lubbeny, and would scorn--" "I make no doubt she would, Ursula, and I make no doubt that you are much handsomer than she, or even the Meridiana of Oliver. What I was about to say, before you interrupted me, is this, that though I have a great regard for you, and highly admire you, it is only in a brotherly way, and--" "And you had nothing better to say to me," said Ursula, "when you wanted to talk to me beneath a hedge, than that you liked me in a brotherly way I well, I declare--" "You seem disappointed, Ursula." "Disappointed, brother! not I." "You were just now saying that you disliked gorgios, so, of course, could only wish that I, who am a gorgio, should like you in a brotherly way: I wished to have a conversation with you beneath a hedge, but only with the view of procuring from you some information respecting the song which you sung the other day, and the conduct of Roman females, which has always struck me as being highly unaccountable; so, if you thought anything else--" "What else should I expect from a picker-up of old words, brother? Bah! I dislike a picker-up of old words worse than a picker-up of old rags." "Don't be angry, Ursula, I feel a great interest in you; you are very handsome, and very clever; indeed, with your beauty and cleverness, I only wonder that you have not long since been married." "You do, do you, brother?" "Yes. However, keep up your spirits, Ursula, you are not much past the prime of youth, so--" "Not much past the prime of youth! Don't be uncivil, brother, I was only twenty-two last month." "Don't be offended, Ursula, but twenty-two is twenty-two, or, I should rather say, that twenty-two in a woman is more than twenty-six in a man. You are still very beautiful, but I advise you to accept the first offer that's made to you." "Thank you, brother, but your advice comes rather late; I accepted the first offer that was made me five years ago." "You married five years ago, Ursula! is it possible?" "Quite possible, brother, I assure you." "And how came I to know nothing about it?" "How comes it that you don't know many thousand things about the Romans, brother? Do you think they tell you all their affairs?" "Married, Ursula, married! well, I declare!" "You seem disappointed, brother." "Disappointed! Oh! no, not at all; but Jasper, only a few weeks ago, told me that you were not married; and, indeed, almost gave me to understand that you would be very glad to get a husband." "And you believed him? I'll tell you, brother, for your instruction, that there is not in the whole world a greater liar than Jasper Petulengro." "I am sorry to hear it, Ursula; but with respect to him you married--who might he be? A gorgio, or a Romany chal?" "Gorgio, or Romany chal! Do you think I would ever condescend to a gorgio! It was a Camomescro, brother, a Lovell, a distant relation of my own." "And where is he? and what became of him! Have you any family?" "Don't think I am going to tell you all my history, brother; and, to tell you the truth, I am tired of sitting under hedges with you, talking nonsense. I shall go to my house." "Do sit a little longer, sister Ursula. I most heartily congratulate you on your marriage. But where is this same Lovell? I have never seen him: I wish to congratulate him too. You are quite as handsome as the Meridiana of Pulci, Ursula, ay, or the Despina of Riciardetto. Riciardetto, Ursula, is a poem written by one Fortiguerra, about ninety years ago, in imitation of the Morgante of Pulci. It treats of the wars of Charlemagne and his Paladins with various barbarous nations, who came to besiege Paris. Despina was the daughter and heiress of Scricca, King of Cafria; she was the beloved of Riciardetto, and was beautiful as an angel; but I make no doubt you are quite as handsome as she." "Brother," said Ursula--but the reply of Ursula I reserve for another chapter, the present having attained to rather an uncommon length, for which, however, the importance of the matter discussed is a sufficient apology. CHAPTER XI Ursula's Tale--The Patteran--The Deep Water--Second Husband. "Brother," said Ursula, plucking a dandelion which grew at her feet, "I have always said that a more civil and pleasant-spoken person than yourself can't be found. I have a great regard for you and your learning, and am willing to do you any pleasure in the way of words or conversation. Mine is not a very happy story, but as you wish to hear it, it is quite at your service. Launcelot Lovell made me an offer, as you call it, and we were married in Roman fashion; that is, we gave each other our right hands, and promised to be true to each other. We lived together two years, travelling sometimes by ourselves, sometimes with our relations; I bore him two children, both of which were still-born, partly, I believe, from the fatigue I underwent in running about the country telling dukkerin when I was not exactly in a state to do so, and partly from the kicks and blows which my husband Launcelot was in the habit of giving me every night, provided I came home with less than five shillings, which it is sometimes impossible to make in the country, provided no fair or merry-making is going on. At the end of two years my husband, Launcelot, whistled a horse from a farmer's field, and sold it for forty-pounds; and for that horse he was taken, put in prison, tried, and condemned to be sent to the other country for life. Two days before he was to be sent away, I got leave to see him in the prison, and in the presence of the turnkey I gave him a thin cake of gingerbread, in which there was a dainty saw which could cut through iron. I then took on wonderfully, turned my eyes inside out, fell down in a seeming fit, and was carried out of the prison. That same night my husband sawed his irons off, cut through the bars of his window, and dropping down a height of fifty feet, lighted on his legs, and came and joined me on a heath where I was camped alone. We were just getting things ready to be off, when we heard people coming, and sure enough they were runners after my husband, Launcelot Lovell; for his escape had been discovered within a quarter of an hour after he had got away. My husband, without bidding me farewell, set off at full speed, and they after him, but they could not take him, and so they came back and took me, and shook me, and threatened me, and had me before the poknees, who shook his head at me, and threatened me in order to make me discover where my husband was, but I said I did not know, which was true enough; not that I would have told him if I had. So at last the poknees and the runners, not being able to make anything out of me, were obliged to let me go, and I went in search of my husband. I wandered about with my cart for several days in the direction in which I saw him run off, with my eyes bent on the ground, but could see no marks of him; at last, coming to four cross roads, I saw my husband's patteran." "You saw your husband's patteran?" "Yes, brother. Do you know what patteran means?" "Of course, Ursula; the gypsy trail, the handful of grass which the gypsies strew in the roads as they travel, to give information to any of their companions who may be behind, as to the route they have taken. The gypsy patteran has always had a strange interest for me, Ursula." "Like enough, brother; but what does patteran mean?" "Why, the gypsy trail, formed as I told you before." "And you know nothing more about patteran, brother?" "Nothing at all, Ursula; do you?" "What's the name for the leaf of a tree, brother?" "I don't know," said I; "it's odd enough that I have asked that question of a dozen Romany chals and chies, and they always told me that they did not know." "No more they did, brother; there's only one person in England that knows, and that's myself--the name for a leaf is patteran. Now there are two that knows it--the other is yourself." "Dear me, Ursula, how very strange! I am much obliged to you. I think I never saw you look so pretty as you do now; but who told you?" "My mother, Mrs. Herne, told it me one day, brother, when she was in a good humour, which she very seldom was, as no one has a better right to know than yourself, as she hated you mortally: it was one day when you had been asking our company what was the word for a leaf, and nobody could tell you, that she took me aside and told me, for she was in a good humour, and triumphed in seeing you balked. She told me the word for leaf was patteran, which our people use now for trail, having forgotten the true meaning. She said that the trail was called patteran, because the gypsies of old were in the habit of making the marks with the leaves and branches of trees, placed in a certain manner. She said that nobody knew it but herself, who was one of the old sort, and begged me never to tell the word to any one but him I should marry; and to be particularly cautious never to let you know it, whom she hated. Well, brother, perhaps I have done wrong to tell you; but, as I said before, I likes you, and am always ready to do your pleasure in words and conversation; my mother, moreover, is dead and gone, and, poor thing, will never know anything about the matter. So, when I married, I told my husband about the patteran, and we were in the habit of making our private trails with leaves and branches of trees, which none of the other gypsy people did; so, when I saw my husband's patteran, I knew it at once, and I followed it upwards of two hundred miles towards the north; and then I came to a deep, awful-looking water, with an overhanging bank, and on the bank I found the patteran, which directed me to proceed along the bank towards the east, and I followed my husband's patteran towards the east; and before I had gone half a mile, I came to a place where I saw the bank had given way, and fallen into the deep water. Without paying much heed, I passed on, and presently came to a public-house, not far from the water, and I entered the public-house to get a little beer, and perhaps to tell a dukkerin, for I saw a great many people about the door; and, when I entered, I found there was what they calls an inquest being held upon a body in that house, and the jury had just risen to go and look at the body; and being a woman, and having a curiosity, I thought I would go with them, and so I did; and no sooner did I see the body, than I knew it to be my husband's; it was much swelled and altered, but I knew it partly by the clothes, and partly by a mark on the forehead, and I cried out, 'It is my husband's body,' and I fell down in a fit, and the fit that time, brother, was not a seeming one." "Dear me," said I, "how terrible! but tell me, Ursula, how did your husband come by his death?" "The bank, overhanging the deep water, gave way under him, brother, and he was drowned; for, like most of our people, he could not swim, or only a little. The body, after it had been in the water a long time, came up of itself, and was found floating. Well, brother, when the people of the neighbourhood found that I was the wife of the drowned man, they were very kind to me, and made a subscription for me, with which, after having seen my husband buried, I returned the way I had come, till I met Jasper and his people, and with them I have travelled ever since: I was very melancholy for a long time, I assure you, brother; for the death of my husband preyed very much upon my mind." "His death was certainly a very shocking one, Ursula; but, really, if he had died a natural one, you could scarcely have regretted it, for he appears to have treated you barbarously." "Women must bear, brother; and, barring that he kicked and beat me, and drove me out to tell dukkerin when I could scarcely stand, he was not a bad husband. A man, by gypsy law, brother, is allowed to kick and beat his wife, and to bury her alive, if he thinks proper. I am a gypsy, and have nothing to say against the law." "But what has Mikailia Chikno to say about it?" "She is a cripple, brother, the only cripple amongst the Roman people: so she is allowed to do and say as she pleases. Moreover, her husband does not think fit to kick or beat her, though it is my opinion she would like him all the better if he were occasionally to do so, and threaten to bury her alive; at any rate, she would treat him better, and respect him more." "Your sister does not seem to stand much in awe of Jasper Petulengro, Ursula." "Let the matters of my sister and Jasper Petulengro alone, brother; you must travel in their company some time before you can understand them; they are a strange two, up to all kind of chaffing: but two more regular Romans don't breathe, and I'll tell you, for your instruction, that there isn't a better mare-breaker in England than Jasper Petulengro, if you can manage Miss Isopel Berners as well as--" "Isopel Berners," said I, "how came you to think of her?" "How should I but think of her, brother, living as she does with you in Mumper's dingle, and travelling about with you; you will have, brother, more difficulty to manage her, than Jasper has to manage my sister Pakomovna. I should have mentioned her before, only I wanted to know what you had to say to me; and when we got into discourse, I forgot her. I say, brother, let me tell you your dukkerin, with respect to her, you will never--" "I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula." "Do let me tell you your dukkerin, brother, you will never manage--" "I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula, in connection with Isopel Berners. Moreover, it is Sunday, we will change the subject; it is surprising to me that, after all you have undergone, you should look so beautiful. I suppose you do not think of marrying again, Ursula?" "No, brother, one husband at a time is quite enough for any reasonable mort; especially such a good husband as I have got." "Such a good husband! why, I thought you told me your husband was drowned?" "Yes, brother, my first husband was." "And have you a second?" "To be sure, brother." "And who is he? in the name of wonder." "Who is he? why Sylvester, to be sure." "I do assure you, Ursula, that I feel disposed to be angry with you; such a handsome young woman as yourself to take up with such a nasty pepper- faced good for nothing--" "I won't hear my husband abused, brother; so you had better say no more." "Why, is he not the Lazarus of the gypsies? has he a penny of his own, Ursula?" "Then the more his want, brother, of a clever chi like me to take care of him and his childer. I tell you what, brother, I will chore, if necessary, and tell dukkerin for Sylvester, if even so heavy as scarcely to be able to stand. You call him lazy; you would not think him lazy if you were in a ring with him: he is a proper man with his hands; Jasper is going to back him for twenty pounds against Slammocks of the Chong gav, the brother of Roarer and Bell-metal, he says he has no doubt that he will win." "Well, if you like him, I, of course, can have no objection. Have you been long married?" "About a fortnight, brother; that dinner, the other day, when I sang the song, was given in celebration of the wedding." "Were you married in a church, Ursula?" "We were not, brother; none but gorgios, cripples, and lubbenys are ever married in a church: we took each other's words. Brother, I have been with you near three hours beneath this hedge. I will go to my husband." "Does he know that you are here?" "He does, brother." "And is he satisfied?" "Satisfied! of course. Lor', you gorgies! Brother, I go to my husband and my house." And, thereupon, Ursula rose and departed. After waiting a little time I also arose; it was now dark, and I thought I could do no better than betake myself to the dingle; at the entrance of it I found Mr. Petulengro. "Well, brother," said he, "what kind of conversation have you and Ursula had beneath the hedge?" "If you wished to hear what we were talking about, you should have come and sat down beside us; you knew where we were." "Well, brother, I did much the same, for I went and sat down behind you." "Behind the hedge, Jasper?" "Behind the hedge, brother." "And heard all our conversation." "Every word, brother; and a rum conversation it was." "'Tis an old saying, Jasper, that listeners never hear any good of themselves; perhaps you heard the epithet that Ursula bestowed upon you." "If, by epitaph, you mean that she called me a liar, I did, brother, and she was not much wrong, for I certainly do not always stick exactly to truth; you, however, have not much to complain of me." "You deceived me about Ursula, giving me to understand she was not married." "She was not married when I told you so, brother; that is, not to Sylvester; nor was I aware that she was going to marry him. I once thought you had a kind of regard for her, and I am sure she had as much for you as a Romany chi can have for a gorgio. I half expected to have heard you make love to her behind the hedge, but I begin to think you care for nothing in this world but old words and strange stories. Lor' to take a young woman under a hedge, and talk to her as you did to Ursula; and yet you got everything out of her that you wanted, with your gammon about old Fulcher and Meridiana. You are a cunning one, brother." "There you are mistaken, Jasper. I am not cunning. If people think I am, it is because, being made up of art themselves, simplicity of character is a puzzle to them. Your women are certainly extraordinary creatures, Jasper." "Didn't I say they were rum animals? Brother, we Romans shall always stick together as long as they stick fast to us." "Do you think they always will, Jasper?" "Can't say, brother; nothing lasts for ever. Romany chies are Romany chies still, though not exactly what they were sixty years ago. My wife, though a rum one, is not Mrs. Herne, brother. I think she is rather fond of Frenchmen and French discourse. I tell you what, brother, if ever gypsyism breaks up, it will be owing to our chies having been bitten by that mad puppy they calls gentility." CHAPTER XII The Dingle at Night--The Two Sides of the Question--Roman Females--Filling the Kettle--The Dream--The Tall Figure. I descended to the bottom of the dingle. It was nearly involved in obscurity. To dissipate the feeling of melancholy which came over my mind, I resolved to kindle a fire; and having heaped dry sticks upon my hearth, and added a billet or two, I struck a light, and soon produced a blaze. Sitting down, I fixed my eyes upon the blaze, and soon fell into a deep meditation. I thought of the events of the day, the scene at church, and what I had heard at church, the danger of losing one's soul, the doubts of Jasper Petulengro as to whether one had a soul. I thought over the various arguments which I had either heard, or which had come spontaneously to my mind, for or against the probability of a state of future existence. They appeared to me to be tolerably evenly balanced. I then thought that it was at all events taking the safest part to conclude that there was a soul. It would be a terrible thing, after having passed one's life in the disbelief of the existence of a soul, to wake up after death a soul, and to find one's self a lost soul. Yes, methought I would come to the conclusion that one has a soul. Choosing the safe side, however, appeared to me to be playing a rather dastardly part. I had never been an admirer of people who chose the safe side in everything; indeed I had always entertained a thorough contempt for them. Surely it would be showing more manhood to adopt the dangerous side, that of disbelief; I almost resolved to do so--but yet in a question of so much importance, I ought not to be guided by vanity. The question was not which was the safe, but the true side? yet how was I to know which was the true side? Then I thought of the Bible--which I had been reading in the morning--that spoke of the soul and a future state; but was the Bible true? I had heard learned and moral men say that it was true, but I had also heard learned and moral men say that it was not: how was I to decide? Still that balance of probabilities! If I could but see the way of truth, I would follow it, if necessary, upon hands and knees; on that I was determined; but I could not see it. Feeling my brain begin to turn round, I resolved to think of something else; and forthwith began to think of what had passed between Ursula and myself in our discourse beneath the hedge. I mused deeply on what she had told me as to the virtue of the females of her race. How singular that virtue must be which was kept pure and immaculate by the possessor, whilst indulging in habits of falsehood and dishonesty! I had always thought the gypsy females extraordinary beings. I had often wondered at them, their dress, their manner of speaking, and, not least, at their names; but, until the present day, I had been unacquainted with the most extraordinary point connected with them. How came they possessed of this extraordinary virtue? was it because they were thievish? I remembered that an ancient thief-taker, who had retired from his useful calling, and who frequently visited the office of my master at law, the respectable S---, who had the management of his property--I remembered to have heard this worthy, with whom I occasionally held discourse, philosophic and profound, when he and I chanced to be alone together in the office, say that all first-rate thieves were sober, and of well-regulated morals, their bodily passions being kept in abeyance by their love of gain; but this axiom could scarcely hold good with respect to these women--however thievish they might be, they did care for something besides gain: they cared for their husbands. If they did thieve, they merely thieved for their husbands; and though, perhaps, some of them were vain, they merely prized their beauty because it gave them favour in the eyes of their husbands. Whatever the husbands were--and Jasper had almost insinuated that the males occasionally allowed themselves some latitude--they appeared to be as faithful to their husbands as the ancient Roman matrons were to theirs. Roman matrons! and, after all, might not these be in reality Roman matrons? They called themselves Romans; might not they be the descendants of the old Roman matrons? Might not they be of the same blood as Lucretia? And were not many of their strange names--Lucretia amongst the rest--handed down to them from old Rome? It is true their language was not that of old Rome; it was not, however, altogether different from it. After all, the ancient Romans might be a tribe of these people, who settled down and founded a village with the tilts of carts, which, by degrees, and the influx of other people, became the grand city of the world. I liked the idea of the grand city of the world owing its origin to a people who had been in the habit of carrying their houses in their carts. Why, after all, should not the Romans of history be a branch of these Romans? There were several points of similarity between them; if Roman matrons were chaste, both men and women were thieves. Old Rome was the thief of the world; yet still there were difficulties to be removed before I could persuade myself that the old Romans and my Romans were identical; and in trying to remove these difficulties, I felt my brain once more beginning to turn, and in haste took up another subject of meditation, and that was the patteran, and what Ursula had told me about it. I had always entertained a strange interest for that sign by which in their wanderings the Romanese gave to those of their people who came behind intimation as to the direction which they took; but it now inspired me with greater interest than ever,--now that I had learnt that the proper meaning of it was the leaves of trees. I had, as I had said in my dialogue with Ursula, been very eager to learn the word for leaf in the Romanian language, but had never learnt it till this day; so patteran signified leaf of a tree; and no one at present knew that but myself and Ursula, who had learnt it from Mrs. Herne, the last, it was said, of the old stock; and then I thought what strange people the gypsies must have been in the old time. They were sufficiently strange at present, but they must have been far stranger of old; they must have been a more peculiar people--their language must have been more perfect--and they must have had a greater stock of strange secrets. I almost wished that I had lived some two or three hundred years ago, that I might have observed these people when they were yet stranger than at present. I wondered whether I could have introduced myself to their company at that period, whether I should have been so fortunate as to meet such a strange, half- malicious, half good-humoured being as Jasper, who would have instructed me in the language, then more deserving of note than at present. What might I not have done with that language, had I known it in its purity? Why, I might have written books in it; yet those who spoke it would hardly have admitted me to their society at that period, when they kept more to themselves. Yet I thought that I might possibly have gained their confidence, and have wandered about with them, and learnt their language, and all their strange ways, and then--and then--and a sigh rose from the depth of my breast; for I began to think, "Supposing I had accomplished all this, what would have been the profit of it; and in what would all this wild gypsy dream have terminated?" Then rose another sigh, yet more profound, for I began to think, "What was likely to be the profit of my present way of life; the living in dingles, making pony and donkey shoes, conversing with gypsy-women under hedges, and extracting from them their odd secrets?" What was likely to be the profit of such a kind of life, even should it continue for a length of time?--a supposition not very probable, for I was earning nothing to support me, and the funds with which I had entered upon this life were gradually disappearing. I was living, it is true, not unpleasantly, enjoying the healthy air of heaven; but, upon the whole, was I not sadly misspending my time? Surely I was; and, as I looked back, it appeared to me that I had always been doing so. What had been the profit of the tongues which I had learnt? had they ever assisted me in the day of hunger? No, no! it appeared to me that I had always misspent my time, save in one instance, when by a desperate effort I had collected all the powers of my imagination, and written the "Life of Joseph Sell;" but even when I wrote the Life of Sell, was I not in a false position? Provided I had not misspent my time, would it have been necessary to make that effort, which, after all, had only enabled me to leave London, and wander about the country for a time? But could I, taking all circumstances into consideration, have done better than I had? With my peculiar temperament and ideas, could I have pursued with advantage the profession to which my respectable parents had endeavoured to bring me up? It appeared to me that I could not, and that the hand of necessity had guided me from my earliest years, until the present night, in which I found myself seated in the dingle, staring on the brands of the fire. But ceasing to think of the past which, as irrecoverably gone, it was useless to regret, even were there cause to regret it, what should I do in future? Should I write another book like the Life of Joseph Sell; take it to London, and offer it to a publisher? But when I reflected on the grisly sufferings which I had undergone whilst engaged in writing the Life of Sell, I shrank from the idea of a similar attempt; moreover, I doubted whether I possessed the power to write a similar work--whether the materials for the life of another Sell lurked within the recesses of my brain? Had I not better become in reality what I had hitherto been merely playing at--a tinker or a gypsy? But I soon saw that I was not fitted to become either in reality. It was much more agreeable to play the gypsy or the tinker than to become either in reality. I had seen enough of gypsying and tinkering to be convinced of that. All of a sudden the idea of tilling the soil came into my head; tilling the soil was a healthful and noble pursuit! but my idea of tilling the soil had no connection with Britain; for I could only expect to till the soil in Britain as a serf. I thought of tilling it in America, in which it was said there was plenty of wild, unclaimed land, of which any one, who chose to clear it of its trees, might take possession. I figured myself in America, in an immense forest, clearing the land destined, by my exertions, to become a fruitful and smiling plain. Methought I heard the crash of the huge trees as they fell beneath my axe; and then I bethought me that a man was intended to marry--I ought to marry; and if I married, where was I likely to be more happy as a husband and a father than in America, engaged in tilling the ground? I fancied myself in America, engaged in tilling the ground, assisted by an enormous progeny. Well, why not marry, and go and till the ground in America? I was young, and youth was the time to marry in, and to labour in. I had the use of all my faculties; my eyes, it is true, were rather dull from early study, and from writing the Life of Joseph Sell; but I could see tolerably well with them, and they were not bleared. I felt my arms, and thighs, and teeth--they were strong and sound enough; so now was the time to labour, to marry, eat strong flesh, and beget strong children--the power of doing all this would pass away with youth, which was terribly transitory. I bethought me that a time would come when my eyes would be bleared, and, perhaps, sightless; my arms and thighs strengthless and sapless; when my teeth would shake in my jaws, even supposing they did not drop out. No going a wooing then--no labouring--no eating strong flesh, and begetting lusty children then; and I bethought me how, when all this should be, I should bewail the days of my youth as misspent, provided I had not in them founded for myself a home, and begotten strong children to take care of me in the days when I could not take care of myself; and thinking of these things, I became sadder and sadder, and stared vacantly upon the fire till my eyes closed in a doze. I continued dozing over the fire, until rousing myself I perceived that the brands were nearly consumed, and I thought of retiring for the night. I arose, and was about to enter my tent, when a thought struck me. "Suppose," thought I, "that Isopel Berners should return in the midst of the night, how dark and dreary would the dingle appear without a fire! truly, I will keep up the fire, and I will do more; I have no board to spread for her, but I will fill the kettle, and heat it, so that, if she comes, I may be able to welcome her with a cup of tea, for I know she loves tea." Thereupon, I piled more wood upon the fire, and soon succeeded in procuring a better blaze than before; then, taking the kettle, I set out for the spring. On arriving at the mouth of the dingle, which fronted the east, I perceived that Charles's wain was nearly opposite to it, high above in the heavens, by which I knew that the night was tolerably well advanced. The gypsy encampment lay before me; all was hushed and still within it, and its inmates appeared to be locked in slumber; as I advanced, however, the dogs, which were fastened outside the tents, growled and barked; but presently recognising me, they were again silent, some of them wagging their tails. As I drew near a particular tent, I heard a female voice say--"Some one is coming!" and, as I was about to pass it, the cloth which formed the door was suddenly lifted up, and a black head and part of a huge naked body protruded. It was the head and upper part of the giant Tawno, who, according to the fashion of gypsy men, lay next the door wrapped in his blanket; the blanket had, however, fallen off, and the starlight shone clear on his athletic tawny body, and was reflected from his large staring eyes. "It is only I, Tawno," said I, "going to fill the kettle, as it is possible that Miss Berners may arrive this night." "Kos-ko," drawled out Tawno, and replaced the curtain. "Good, do you call it?" said the sharp voice of his wife; "there is no good in the matter! if that young chap were not living with the rawnee in the illegal and uncertificated line, he would not be getting up in the middle of the night to fill her kettles." Passing on, I proceeded to the spring, where I filled the kettle, and then returned to the dingle. Placing the kettle upon the fire, I watched it till it began to boil; then removing it from the top of the brands, I placed it close beside the fire, and leaving it simmering, I retired to my tent; where, having taken off my shoes, and a few of my garments, I lay down on my palliasse, and was not long in falling asleep. I believe I slept soundly for some time, thinking and dreaming of nothing; suddenly, however, my sleep became disturbed, and the subject of the patterans began to occupy my brain. I imagined that I saw Ursula tracing her husband, Launcelot Lovel, by means of his patterans; I imagined that she had considerable difficulty in doing so; that she was occasionally interrupted by parish beadles and constables, who asked her whither she was travelling, to whom she gave various answers. Presently methought that, as she was passing by a farm- yard, two fierce and savage dogs flew at her; I was in great trouble, I remember, and wished to assist her, but could not, for though I seemed to see her, I was still at a distance: and now it appeared that she had escaped from the dogs, and was proceeding with her cart along a gravelly path which traversed a wild moor; I could hear the wheels grating amidst sand and gravel. The next moment I was awake, and found myself sitting up in my tent; there was a glimmer of light through the canvas caused by the fire; a feeling of dread came over me, which was perhaps natural, on starting suddenly from one's sleep in that wild lone place; I half imagined that some one was nigh the tent; the idea made me rather uncomfortable, and, to dissipate it, I lifted up the canvas of the door and peeped out, and, lo! I had a distinct view of a tall figure standing by the tent. "Who is that?" said I, whilst I felt my blood rush to my heart. "It is I," said the voice of Isopel Berners; "you little expected me, I dare say; well, sleep on, I do not wish to disturb you." "But I was expecting you," said I, recovering myself, "as you may see by the fire and kettle. I will be with you in a moment." Putting on in haste the articles of dress which I had flung off, I came out of the tent, and addressing myself to Isopel, who was standing beside her cart, I said--"just as I was about to retire to rest I thought it possible that you might come to-night, and got everything in readiness for you. Now, sit down by the fire whilst I lead the donkey and cart to the place where you stay; I will unharness the animal, and presently come and join you." "I need not trouble you," said Isopel; "I will go myself and see after my things." "We will go together," said I, "and then return and have some tea." Isopel made no objection, and in about half- an-hour we had arranged everything at her quarters, I then hastened and prepared tea. Presently Isopel rejoined me, bringing her stool; she had divested herself of her bonnet, and her hair fell over her shoulders; she sat down, and I poured out the beverage, handing her a cup. "Have you made a long journey to-night?" said I. "A very long one," replied Belle. "I have come nearly twenty miles since six o'clock." "I believe I heard you coming in my sleep," said I; "did the dogs above bark at you?" "Yes," said Isopel, "very violently; did you think of me in your sleep?" "No," said I, "I was thinking of Ursula and something she had told me." "When and where was that?" said Isopel. "Yesterday evening," said I, "beneath the dingle hedge." "Then you were talking with her beneath the hedge?" "I was," said I, "but only upon gypsy matters. Do you know, Belle, that she has just been married to Sylvester, so that you need not think that she and I--" "She and you are quite at liberty to sit where you please," said Isopel. "However, young man," she continued, dropping her tone, which she had slightly raised, "I believe what you said, that you were merely talking about gypsy matters, and also what you were going to say, if it was, as I suppose, that she and you had no particular acquaintance." Isopel was now silent for some time. "What are you thinking of?" said I. "I was thinking," said Belle, "how exceedingly kind it was of you to get everything in readiness for me, though you did not know that I should come." "I had a presentiment that you would come," said I; "but you forget that I have prepared the kettle for you before, though it was true that I was then certain that you would come." "I had not forgotten your doing so, young man," said Belle; "but I was beginning to think that you were utterly selfish, caring for nothing but the gratification of your own selfish whims." "I am very fond of having my own way," said I, "but utterly selfish I am not, as I dare say I shall frequently prove to you. You will often find the kettle boiling when you come home." "Not heated by you," said Isopel, with a sigh. "By whom else?" said I; "surely you are not thinking of driving me away?" "You have as much right here as myself," said Isopel, "as I have told you before; but I must be going myself." "Well," said I, "we can go together; to tell you the truth, I am rather tired of this place." "Our paths must be separate," said Belle. "Separate," said I, "what do you mean? I shan't let you go alone, I shall go with you; and you know the road is as free to me as to you; besides, you can't think of parting company with me, considering how much you would lose by doing so; remember that you know scarcely anything of the Armenian language; now, to learn Armenian from me would take you twenty years." Belle faintly smiled. "Come," said I, "take another cup of tea." Belle took another cup of tea, and yet another; we had some indifferent conversation, after which I arose and gave her donkey a considerable feed of corn. Belle thanked me, shook me by the hand, and then went to her own tabernacle, and I returned to mine. CHAPTER XIII Visit to the Landlord--His Mortifications--Hunter and his Clan--Resolution. On the following morning, after breakfasting with Belle, who was silent and melancholy, I left her in the dingle, and took a stroll amongst the neighbouring lanes. After some time I thought I would pay a visit to the landlord of the public-house, whom I had not seen since the day when he communicated to me his intention of changing his religion. I therefore directed my steps to the house, and on entering it found the landlord standing in the kitchen. Just then two mean-looking fellows, who had been drinking at one of the tables, and who appeared to be the only customers in the house, got up, brushed past the landlord, and saying in a surly tone, we shall pay you some time or other, took their departure. "That's the way they serve me now," said the landlord, with a sigh. "Do you know those fellows," I demanded, "since you let them go away in your debt?" "I know nothing about them," said the landlord, "save that they are a couple of scamps." "Then why did you let them go away without paying you?" said I. "I had not the heart to stop them," said the landlord; "and, to tell you the truth, everybody serves me so now, and I suppose they are right, for a child could flog me." "Nonsense," said I, "behave more like a man, and with respect to those two fellows run after them, I will go with you, and if they refuse to pay the reckoning I will help you to shake some money out of their clothes." "Thank you," said the landlord; "but as they are gone, let them go on. What they have drank is not of much consequence." "What is the matter with you?" said I, staring at the landlord, who appeared strangely altered; his features were wild and haggard, his formerly bluff cheeks were considerably sunken in, and his figure had lost much of its plumpness. "Have you changed your religion already, and has the fellow in black commanded you to fast?" "I have not changed my religion yet," said the landlord, with a kind of shudder; "I am to change it publicly this day fortnight, and the idea of doing so--I do not mind telling you--preys much upon my mind; moreover, the noise of the thing has got abroad, and everybody is laughing at me, and what's more, coming and drinking my beer, and going away without paying for it, whilst I feel myself like one bewitched, wishing but not daring to take my own part. Confound the fellow in black, I wish I had never seen him! yet what can I do without him? The brewer swears that unless I pay him fifty pounds within a fortnight he'll send a distress warrant into the house, and take all I have. My poor niece is crying in the room above; and I am thinking of going into the stable and hanging myself; and perhaps it's the best thing I can do, for it's better to hang myself before selling my soul than afterwards, as I'm sure I should, like Judas Iscariot, whom my poor niece, who is somewhat religiously inclined, has been talking to me about." "I wish I could assist you," said I, "with money, but that is quite out of my power. However, I can give you a piece of advice. Don't change your religion by any means; you can't hope to prosper if you do; and if the brewer chooses to deal hardly with you, let him. Everybody would respect you ten times more provided you allowed yourself to be turned into the roads rather than change your religion, than if you got fifty pounds for renouncing it." "I am half inclined to take your advice," said the landlord, "only, to tell you the truth, I feel quite low, without any heart in me." "Come into the bar," said I, "and let us have something together--you need not be afraid of my not paying for what I order." We went into the bar-room, where the landlord and I discussed between us two bottles of strong ale, which he said were part of the last six which he had in his possession. At first he wished to drink sherry, but I begged him to do no such thing, telling him that sherry would do him no good under the present circumstances; nor, indeed, to the best of my belief, under any, it being of all wines the one for which I entertained the most contempt. The landlord allowed himself to be dissuaded, and, after a glass or two of ale, confessed that sherry was a sickly, disagreeable drink, and that he had merely been in the habit of taking it from an idea he had that it was genteel. Whilst quaffing our beverage, he gave me an account of the various mortifications to which he had of late been subject, dwelling with particular bitterness on the conduct of Hunter, who he said came every night and mouthed him, and afterwards went away without paying for what he had drank or smoked, in which conduct he was closely imitated by a clan of fellows who constantly attended him. After spending several hours at the public-house I departed, not forgetting to pay for the two bottles of ale. The landlord, before I went, shaking me by the hand, declared that he had now made up his mind to stick to his religion at all hazards, the more especially as he was convinced he should derive no good by giving it up. CHAPTER XIV Preparations for the Fair--The Last Lesson--The Verb Siriel. It might be about five in the evening, when I reached the gypsy encampment. Here I found Mr. Petulengro, Tawno Chikno, Sylvester, and others in a great bustle, clipping and trimming certain ponies and old horses which they had brought with them. On inquiring of Jasper the reason of their being so engaged, he informed me that they were getting the horses ready for a fair, which was to be held on the morrow, at a place some miles distant, at which they should endeavour to dispose of them, adding--"Perhaps, brother, you will go with us, provided you have nothing better to do?" Not having any particular engagement, I assured him that I should have great pleasure in being of the party. It was agreed that we should start early on the following morning. Thereupon I descended into the dingle. Belle was sitting before the fire, at which the kettle was boiling. "Were you waiting for me?" I inquired. "Yes," said Belle, "I thought that you would come, and I waited for you." "That was very kind," said I. "Not half so kind," said she, "as it was of you to get everything ready for me in the dead of last night, when there was scarcely a chance of my coming." The tea-things were brought forward, and we sat down. "Have you been far?" said Belle. "Merely to that public-house," said I, "to which you directed me on the second day of our acquaintance." "Young men should not make a habit of visiting public- houses," said Belle, "they are bad places." "They may be so to some people," said I, "but I do not think the worst public-house in England could do me any harm." "Perhaps you are so bad already," said Belle, with a smile, "that it would be impossible to spoil you." "How dare you catch at my words?" said I; "come, I will make you pay for doing so--you shall have this evening the longest lesson in Armenian which I have yet inflicted upon you." "You may well say inflicted," said Belle, "but pray spare me. I do not wish to hear anything about Armenian, especially this evening." "Why this evening?" said I. Belle made no answer. "I will not spare you," said I; "this evening I intend to make you conjugate an Armenian verb." "Well, be it so," said Belle; "for this evening you shall command." "To command is hramahyel," said I. "Ram her ill, indeed," said Belle; "I do not wish to begin with that." "No," said I, "as we have come to the verbs, we will begin regularly; hramahyel is a verb of the second conjugation. We will begin with the first." "First of all tell me," said Belle, "what a verb is?" "A part of speech," said I, "which, according to the dictionary, signifies some action or passion; for example, I command you, or I hate you." "I have given you no cause to hate me," said Belle, looking me sorrowfully in the face. "I was merely giving two examples," said I, "and neither was directed at you. In those examples, to command and hate are verbs. Belle, in Armenian there are four conjugations of verbs; the first ends in al, the second in yel, the third in oul, and the fourth in il. Now, have you understood me?" "I am afraid, indeed, it will all end ill," said Belle. "Hold your tongue," said I, "or you will make me lose my patience." "You have already made me nearly lose mine," said Belle. "Let us have no unprofitable interruptions," said I; "the conjugations of the Armenian verbs are neither so numerous nor so difficult as the declensions of the nouns; hear that, and rejoice. Come, we will begin with the verb hntal, a verb of the first conjugation, which signifies to rejoice. Come along; hntam, I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest; why don't you follow, Belle?" "I am sure I don't rejoice, whatever you may do," said Belle. "The chief difficulty, Belle," said I, "that I find in teaching you the Armenian grammar, proceeds from your applying to yourself and me every example I give. Rejoice, in this instance, is merely an example of an Armenian verb of the first conjugation, and has no more to do with your rejoicing than lal, which is, also a verb of the first conjugation, and which signifies to weep, would have to do with your weeping, provided I made you conjugate it. Come along; hntam, I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest; hnta, he rejoices; hntamk we rejoice: now, repeat those words." "I can't," said Belle, "they sound more like the language of horses than human beings. Do you take me for--?" "For what?" said I. Belle was silent. "Were you going to say mare?" said I. "Mare! mare! by the bye, do you know, Belle, that mare in old English stands for woman; and that when we call a female an evil mare, the strict meaning of the term is merely a bad woman. So if I were to call you a mare without prefixing bad, you must not be offended." "But I should though," said Belle. "I was merely attempting to make you acquainted with a philological fact," said I. "If mare, which in old English, and likewise in vulgar English, signifies a woman, sounds the same as mare, which in modern and polite English signifies a female horse, I can't help it. There is no such confusion of sounds in Armenian, not, at least, in the same instance. Belle, in Armenian, woman is ghin, the same word, by the by, as our queen, whereas mare is madagh tzi, which signifies a female horse; and perhaps you will permit me to add, that a hard-mouthed jade is, in Armenian, madagh tzi hsdierah." "I can't bear this much longer," said Belle. "Keep yourself quiet," said I; "I wish to be gentle with you; and to convince you, we will skip hntal, and also for the present verbs of the first conjugation and proceed to the second. Belle, I will now select for you to conjugate the prettiest verb in Armenian; not only of the second, but also of all the four conjugations; that verb is siriel. Here is the present tense:--siriem, siries, sire, siriemk, sirek, sirien. You observe that it runs on just in the same manner as hntal, save and except that the e is substituted for a; and it will be as well to tell you that almost the only difference between the second, third, and fourth conjugation, and the first, is the substituting in the present, preterite and other tenses e or ou, or i for a; so you see that the Armenian verbs are by no means difficult. Come on, Belle, and say siriem." Belle hesitated. "Pray oblige me, Belle, by saying siriem!" Belle still appeared to hesitate. "You must admit, Belle, that it is much softer than hntam." "It is so," said Belle; "and to oblige you I will say siriem." "Very well indeed, Belle," said I. "No vartabied, or doctor, could have pronounced it better; and now, to show you how verbs act upon pronouns in Armenian, I will say siriem zkiez. Please to repeat siriem zkiez!" "Siriem zkiez!" said Belle; "that last word is very hard to say." "Sorry that you think so, Belle," said I. "Now please to say siria zis." Belle did so. "Exceedingly well," said I. "Now say, yerani the sireir zis." "Yerani the sireir zis," said Belle. "Capital!" said I; "you have now said, I love you--love me--ah! would that you would love me!" "And I have said all these things?" said Belle. "Yes," said I; "you have said them in Armenian." "I would have said them in no language that I understood," said Belle; "and it was very wrong of you to take advantage of my ignorance, and make me say such things." "Why so?" said I; "if you said them, I said them too." "You did so," said Belle; "but I believe you were merely bantering and jeering." "As I told you before, Belle," said I, "the chief difficulty which I find in teaching you Armenian proceeds from your persisting in applying to yourself and me every example I give." "Then you meant nothing after all," said Belle, raising her voice. "Let us proceed," said I; "sirietsi, I loved." "You never loved any one but yourself," said Belle; "and what's more--" "Sirietsits, I will love," said I; "sirietsies, thou wilt love." "Never one so thoroughly heartless," said Belle. "I tell you what, Belle, you are becoming intolerable, but we will change the verb; or rather I will now proceed to tell you here, that some of the Armenian conjugations have their anomalies; one species of these I wish to bring before your notice. As old Villotte says--from whose work I first contrived to pick up the rudiments of Armenian--'Est verborum transitivorum, quorum infinitivus--' but I forgot, you don't understand Latin. He says there are certain transitive verbs, whose infinitive is in outsaniel; the preterite in outsi; the imperative in one; for example--parghatsout-saniem, I irritate--" "You do, you do," said Belle; "and it will be better for both of us, if you leave off doing so." "You would hardly believe, Belle," said I, "that the Armenian is in some respects closely connected with the Irish, but so it is; for example, that word parghatsout-saniem is evidently derived from the same root as feargaim, which, in Irish, is as much as to say I vex." "You do, indeed," said Belle, sobbing. "But how do you account for it?" "O man, man!" said Belle, bursting into tears, "for what purpose do you ask a poor ignorant girl such a question, unless it be to vex and irritate her? If you wish to display your learning, do so to the wise and instructed, and not to me, who can scarcely read or write. Oh, leave off your nonsense; yet I know you will not do so, for it is the breath of your nostrils! I could have wished we should have parted in kindness, but you will not permit it. I have deserved better at your hands than such treatment. The whole time we have kept company together in this place, I have scarcely had one kind word from you, but the strangest--" and here the voice of Belle was drowned in her sobs. "I am sorry to see you take on so, dear Belle," said I. "I really have given you no cause to be so unhappy; surely teaching you a little Armenian was a very innocent kind of diversion." "Yes, but you went on so long, and in such a strange way, and made me repeat such strange examples, as you call them, that I could not bear it." "Why, to tell you the truth, Belle, it's just my way; and I have dealt with you just as I would with--" "A hard-mouthed jade," said Belle, "and you practising your horse-witchery upon her. I have been of an unsubdued spirit, I acknowledge, but I was always kind to you; and if you have made me cry, it's a poor thing to boast of." "Boast of!" said I; "a pretty thing indeed to boast of; I had no idea of making you cry. Come, I beg your pardon; what more can I do? Come, cheer up, Belle. You were talking of parting; don't let us part, but depart, and that together." "Our ways lie different," said Belle. "I don't see why they should," said I. "Come, let us be off to America together." "To America together?" said Belle, looking full at me. "Yes," said I; "where we will settle down in some forest, and conjugate the verb siriel conjugally." "Conjugally?" said Belle. "Yes," said I; "as man and wife in America, air yew ghin." "You are jesting, as usual," said Belle. "Not I, indeed. Come, Belle, make up your mind, and let us be off to America; and leave priests, humbug, learning, and languages behind us." "I don't think you are jesting," said Belle; "but I can hardly entertain your offers; however, young man, I thank you." "You had better make up your mind at once," said I, "and let us be off. I shan't make a bad husband, I assure you. Perhaps you think I am not worthy of you? To convince you, Belle, that I am, I am ready to try a fall with you this moment upon the grass. Brynhilda, the valkyrie, swore that no one should ever marry her who could not fling her down. Perhaps you have done the same. The man who eventually married her, got a friend of his, who was called Sygurd, the serpent-killer, to wrestle with her, disguising him in his own armour. Sygurd flung her down, and won her for his friend, though he loved her himself. I shall not use a similar deceit, nor employ Jasper Petulengro to personate me--so get up, Belle, and I will do my best to fling you down." "I require no such thing of you, or anybody," said Belle; "you are beginning to look rather wild." "I every now and then do," said I; "come, Belle, what do you say?" "I will say nothing at present on the subject," said Belle, "I must have time to consider." "Just as you please," said I, "to-morrow I go to a fair with Mr. Petulengro, perhaps you will consider whilst I am away. Come, Belle, let us have some more tea. I wonder whether we shall be able to procure tea as good as this in the American forest." CHAPTER XV The Dawn of Day--The Last Farewell--Departure for the Fair--The Fine Horse--Return to the Dingle--No Isopel. It was about the dawn of day when I was awakened by the voice of Mr. Petulengro shouting from the top of the dingle, and bidding me get up. I arose instantly, and dressed myself for the expedition to the fair. On leaving my tent, I was surprised to observe Belle, entirely dressed, standing close to her own little encampment. "Dear me," said I, "I little expected to find you up so early. I suppose Jasper's call awakened you, as it did me." "I merely lay down in my things," said Belle, "and have not slept during the night." "And why did you not take off your things and go to sleep?" said I. "I did not undress," said Belle, "because I wished to be in readiness to bid you farewell when you departed; and as for sleeping, I could not." "Well, God bless you!" said I, taking Belle by the hand. Belle made no answer, and I observed that her hand was very cold. "What is the matter with you?" said I, looking her in the face. Belle looked at me for a moment in the eyes--and then cast down her own--her features were very pale. "You are really unwell," said I, "I had better not go to the fair, but stay here, and take care of you." "No," said Belle, "pray go, I am not unwell." "Then go to your tent," said I, "and do not endanger your health by standing abroad in the raw morning air. God bless you, Belle. I shall be home to-night, by which time I expect you will have made up your mind; if not, another lesson in Armenian, however late the hour be." I then wrung Belle's hand, and ascended to the plain above. I found the Romany party waiting for me, and everything in readiness for departing. Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno were mounted on two old horses. The rest, who intended to go to the fair, amongst whom were two or three women, were on foot. On arriving at the extremity of the plain, I looked towards the dingle. Isopel Berners stood at the mouth, the beams of the early morning sun shone full on her noble face and figure. I waved my hand towards her. She slowly lifted up her right arm. I turned away, and never saw Isopel Berners again. My companions and myself proceeded on our way. In about two hours we reached the place where the fair was to be held. After breakfasting on bread and cheese and ale behind a broken stone wall, we drove our animals to the fair. The fair was a common cattle and horse fair: there was little merriment going on, but there was no lack of business. By about two o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Petulengro and his people had disposed of their animals at what they conceived very fair prices--they were all in high spirits, and Jasper proposed to adjourn to a public-house. As we were proceeding to one, a very fine horse, led by a jockey, made its appearance on the ground. Mr. Petulengro stopped short, and looked at it stedfastly: "Fino covar dove odoy sas miro--a fine thing were that if it were but mine!" he exclaimed. "If you covet it," said I, "why do you not purchase it?" "We low 'Gyptians never buy animals of that description; if we did we could never sell them, and most likely should be had up as horse-stealers." "Then why did you say just now, 'It were a fine thing if it were but yours?'" said I. "We 'Gyptians always say so when we see anything that we admire. An animal like that is not intended for a little hare like me, but for some grand gentleman like yourself. I say, brother, do you buy that horse!" "How should I buy the horse, you foolish person?" said I. "Buy the horse, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "if you have not the money I can lend it you, though I be of lower Egypt." "You talk nonsense," said I; "however, I wish you would ask the man the price of it." Mr. Petulengro, going up to the jockey, inquired the price of the horse--the man, looking at him scornfully, made no reply. "Young man," said I, going up to the jockey, "do me the favour to tell me the price of that horse, as I suppose it is to sell." The jockey, who was a surly-looking man, of about fifty, looked at me for a moment, then, after some hesitation, said, laconically, "Seventy." "Thank you," said I, and turned away. "Buy that horse," said Mr. Petulengro, coming after me; "the dook tells me that in less than three months he will be sold for twice seventy." "I will have nothing to do with him," said I; "besides, Jasper, I don't like his tail. Did you observe what a mean scrubby tail he has?" "What a fool you are, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; "that very tail of his shows his breeding. No good bred horse ever yet carried a fine tail--'tis your scrubby-tailed horses that are your out-and-outers. Did you ever hear of Syntax, brother? That tail of his puts me in mind of Syntax. Well, I say nothing more, have your own way--all I wonder at is, that a horse like him was ever brought to such a fair of dog cattle as this." We then made the best of our way to a public-house, where we had some refreshment. I then proposed returning to the encampment, but Mr. Petulengro declined, and remained drinking with his companions till about six o'clock in the evening, when various jockeys from the fair came in. After some conversation a jockey proposed a game of cards; and in a little time, Mr. Petulengro and another gypsy sat down to play a game of cards with two of the jockeys. Though not much acquainted with cards, I soon conceived a suspicion that the jockeys were cheating Mr. Petulengro and his companion, I therefore called Mr. Petulengro aside, and gave him a hint to that effect. Mr. Petulengro, however, instead of thanking me, told me to mind my own bread and butter, and forthwith returned to his game. I continued watching the players for some hours. The gypsies lost considerably, and I saw clearly that the jockeys were cheating them most confoundedly. I therefore once more called Mr. Petulengro aside, and told him that the jockeys were cheating him, conjuring him to return to the encampment. Mr. Petulengro, who was by this time somewhat the worse for liquor, now fell into a passion, swore several oaths, and asking me who had made me a Moses over him and his brethren, told me to return to the encampment by myself. Incensed at the unworthy return which my well-meant words had received, I forthwith left the house, and having purchased a few articles of provision, I set out for the dingle alone. It was a dark night when I reached it, and descending I saw the glimmer of a fire from the depths of the dingle; my heart beat with fond anticipation of a welcome. "Isopel Berners is waiting for me," said I, "and the first words that I shall hear from her lips is that she has made up her mind. We shall go to America, and be so happy together." On reaching the bottom of the dingle, however, I saw seated near the fire, beside which stood the kettle simmering, not Isopel Berners, but a gypsy girl, who told me that Miss Berners when she went away had charged her to keep up the fire, and have the kettle boiling against my arrival. Startled at these words, I inquired at what hour Isopel had left, and whither she was gone, and was told that she had left the dingle, with her cart, about two hours after I departed; but where she was gone she, the girl, did not know. I then asked whether she had left no message, and the girl replied that she had left none, but had merely given directions about the kettle and fire, putting, at the same time, six-pence into her hand. "Very strange," thought I; then dismissing the gypsy girl I sat down by the fire. I had no wish for tea, but sat looking on the embers, wondering what could be the motive of the sudden departure of Isopel. "Does she mean to return?" thought I to myself. "Surely she means to return," Hope replied, "or she would not have gone away without leaving any message"--"and yet she could scarcely mean to return," muttered Foreboding, "or she assuredly would have left some message with the girl." I then thought to myself what a hard thing it would be, if, after having made up my mind to assume the yoke of matrimony, I should be disappointed of the woman of my choice. "Well, after all," thought I, "I can scarcely be disappointed; if such an ugly scoundrel as Sylvester had no difficulty in getting such a nice wife as Ursula, surely I, who am not a tenth part so ugly, cannot fail to obtain the hand of Isopel Berners, uncommonly fine damsel though she be. Husbands do not grow upon hedgerows; she is merely gone after a little business and will return to-morrow." Comforted in some degree by these hopeful imaginings, I retired to my tent, and went to sleep. CHAPTER XVI Gloomy Forebodings--The Postman's Mother--The Letter--Bears and Barons--The Best of Advice. Nothing occurred to me of any particular moment during the following day. Isopel Berners did not return; but Mr. Petulengro and his companions came home from the fair early in the morning. When I saw him, which was about midday, I found him with his face bruised and swelled. It appeared that, some time after I had left him, he himself perceived that the jockeys with whom he was playing cards were cheating him and his companion; a quarrel ensued, which terminated in a fight between Mr. Petulengro and one of the jockeys, which lasted some time, and in which Mr. Petulengro, though he eventually came off victor, was considerably beaten. His bruises, in conjunction with his pecuniary loss, which amounted to about seven pounds, were the cause of his being much out of humour; before night, however, he had returned to his usual philosophic frame of mind, and, coming up to me as I was walking about, apologized for his behaviour on the preceding day, and assured me that he was determined, from that time forward, never to quarrel with a friend for giving him good advice. Two more days passed, and still Isopel Berners did not return. Gloomy thoughts and forebodings filled my mind. During the day I wandered about the neighbouring roads in the hopes of catching an early glimpse of her and her returning vehicle; and at night lay awake, tossing about on my hard couch, listening to the rustle of every leaf, and occasionally thinking that I heard the sound of her wheels upon the distant road. Once at midnight, just as I was about to fall into unconsciousness, I suddenly started up, for I was convinced that I heard the sound of wheels. I listened most anxiously, and the sound of wheels striking against stones was certainly plain enough. "She comes at last," thought I, and for a few moments I felt as if a mountain had been removed from my breast;--"here she comes at last, now, how shall I receive her? Oh," thought I, "I will receive her rather coolly, just as if I was not particularly anxious about her--that's the way to manage these women." The next moment the sound became very loud, rather too loud, I thought, to proceed from her wheels, and then by degrees became fainter. Rushing out of my tent, I hurried up the path to the top of the dingle, where I heard the sound distinctly enough, but it was going from me, and evidently proceeded from something much larger than the cart of Isopel. I could, moreover, hear the stamping of a horse's hoof at a lumbering trot. Those only whose hopes have been wrought up to a high pitch, and then suddenly cast down, can imagine what I felt at that moment; and yet when I returned to my lonely tent, and lay down on my hard pallet, the voice of conscience told me that the misery I was then undergoing I had fully merited, for the unkind manner in which I had intended to receive her, when for a brief moment I supposed that she had returned. It was on the morning after this affair, and the fourth, if I forget not, from the time of Isopel's departure, that, as I was seated on my stone at the bottom of the dingle, getting my breakfast, I heard an unknown voice from the path above--apparently that of a person descending--exclaim, "Here's a strange place to bring a letter to;" and presently an old woman, with a belt round her middle, to which was attached a leathern bag, made her appearance, and stood before me. "Well, if I ever!" said she, as she looked about her. "My good gentlewoman," said I, "pray what may you please to want?" "Gentlewoman!" said the old dame, "please to want--well, I call that speaking civilly, at any rate. It is true, civil words cost nothing; nevertheless, we do not always get them. What I please to want is to deliver a letter to a young man in this place; perhaps you be he?" "What's the name on the letter?" said I, getting up, and going to her. "There's no name upon it," said she, taking a letter out of her scrip, and looking at it. "It is directed to the young man in Mumper's Dingle." "Then it is for me, I make no doubt," said I, stretching out my hand to take it. "Please to pay me ninepence first," said the old woman. "However," said she, after a moment's thought, "civility is civility, and, being rather a scarce article, should meet with some return. Here's the letter, young man, and I hope you will pay for it; for if you do not I must pay the postage myself." "You are the postwoman, I suppose," said I, as I took the letter. "I am the postman's mother," said the old woman; "but as he has a wide beat, I help him as much as I can, and I generally carry letters to places like this, to which he is afraid to come himself." "You say the postage is ninepence," said I, "here's a shilling." "Well, I call that honourable," said the old woman, taking the shilling, and putting it into her pocket--"here's your change, young man," said she, offering me threepence. "Pray keep that for yourself," said I; "you deserve it for your trouble." "Well, I call that genteel," said the old woman; "and as one good turn deserves another, since you look as if you couldn't read, I will read your letter for you. Let's see it; it's from some young woman or other, I dare say." "Thank you," said I, "but I can read." "All the better for you," said the old woman; "your being able to read will frequently save you a penny, for that's the charge I generally make for reading letters; though, as you behaved so genteelly to me, I should have charged you nothing. Well, if you can read, why don't you open the letter, instead of keeping it hanging between your finger and thumb?" "I am in no hurry to open it," said I, with a sigh. The old woman looked at me for a moment--"Well, young man," said she, "there are some--especially those who can read--who don't like to open their letters when anybody is by, more especially when they come from young women. Well, I won't intrude upon you, but leave you alone with your letter. I wish it may contain something pleasant. God bless you," and with these words she departed. I sat down on my stone, with my letter in my hand. I knew perfectly well that it could have come from no other person than Isopel Berners; but what did the letter contain? I guessed tolerably well what its purport was--an eternal farewell! yet I was afraid to open the letter, lest my expectation should be confirmed. There I sat with the letter, putting off the evil moment as long as possible. At length I glanced at the direction, which was written in a fine bold hand, and was directed, as the old woman had said, to the young man in "Mumpers' Dingle," with the addition, near ---, in the county of-- Suddenly the idea occurred to me, that, after all, the letter might not contain an eternal farewell; and that Isopel might have written, requesting me to join her. Could it be so? "Alas! no," presently said Foreboding. At last I became ashamed of my weakness. The letter must be opened sooner or later. Why not at once? So as the bather who, for a considerable time, has stood shivering on the bank, afraid to take the decisive plunge, suddenly takes it, I tore open the letter almost before I was aware. I had no sooner done so than a paper fell out. I examined it; it contained a lock of bright flaxen hair. "This is no good sign," said I, as I thrust the lock and paper into my bosom, and proceeded to read the letter, which ran as follows:-- "TO THE YOUNG MAN IN MUMPERS' DINGLE. "SIR,--I send these lines, with the hope and trust that they will find you well, even as I am myself at this moment, and in much better spirits, for my own are not such as I could wish they were, being sometimes rather hysterical and vapourish, and at other times, and most often, very low. I am at a sea-port, and am just going on shipboard; and when you get these I shall be on the salt waters, on my way to a distant country, and leaving my own behind me, which I do not expect ever to see again. "And now, young man, I will, in the first place, say something about the manner in which I quitted you. It must have seemed somewhat singular to you that I went away without taking any leave, or giving you the slightest hint that I was going; but I did not do so without considerable reflection. I was afraid that I should not be able to support a leave-taking; and as you had said that you were determined to go wherever I did, I thought it best not to tell you at all; for I did not think it advisable that you should go with me, and I wished to have no dispute. "In the second place, I wish to say something about an offer of wedlock which you made me; perhaps, young man, had you made it at the first period of our acquaintance, I should have accepted it, but you did not, and kept putting off and putting off, and behaving in a very strange manner, till I could stand your conduct no longer, but determined upon leaving you and Old England, which last step I had been long thinking about; so when you made your offer at last, everything was arranged--my cart and donkey engaged to be sold--and the greater part of my things disposed of. However, young man, when you did make it, I frankly tell you that I had half a mind to accept it; at last, however, after very much consideration, I thought it best to leave you for ever, because, for some time past, I had become almost convinced, that though with a wonderful deal of learning, and exceedingly shrewd in some things, you were--pray don't be offended--at the root mad! and though mad people, I have been told, sometimes make very good husbands, I was unwilling that your friends, if you had any, should say that Belle Berners, the workhouse girl, took advantage of your infirmity; for there is no concealing that I was born and bred up in a workhouse; notwithstanding that, my blood is better than your own, and as good as the best; you having yourself told me that my name is a noble name, and once, if I mistake not, that it was the same word as baron, which is the same thing as bear; and that to be called in old times a bear was considered a great compliment--the bear being a mighty strong animal, on which account our forefathers called all their great fighting-men barons, which is the same as bears. "However, setting matters of blood and family entirely aside, many thanks to you, young man, from poor Belle, for the honour you did her in making that same offer; for, after all, it is an honour to receive an honourable offer, which she could see clearly yours was, with no floriness nor chaff in it; but, on the contrary, entire sincerity. She assures you that she shall always bear it and yourself in mind, whether on land or water; and as a proof of the good-will she bears to you, she sends you a lock of the hair which she wears on her head, which you were often looking at, and were pleased to call flax, which word she supposes you meant as a compliment, even as the old people meant to pass a compliment to their great folks, when they called them bears; though she cannot help thinking that they might have found an animal as strong as a bear, and somewhat less uncouth, to call their great folks after: even as she thinks yourself, amongst your great store of words, might have found something a little more genteel to call her hair after than flax, which, though strong and useful, is rather a coarse and common kind of article. "And as another proof of the good-will she bears to you, she sends you, along with the lock, a piece of advice, which is worth all the hair in the world, to say nothing of the flax. "_Fear God_, and take your own part. There's Bible in that, young man: see how Moses feared God, and how he took his own part against everybody who meddled with him. And see how David feared God, and took his own part against all the bloody enemies which surrounded him--so fear God, young man, and never give in! The world can bully, and is fond, provided it sees a man in a kind of difficulty, of getting about him, calling him coarse names, and even going so far as to hustle him: but the world, like all bullies, carries a white feather in its tail, and no sooner sees the man taking off his coat, and offering to fight its best, than it scatters here and there, and is always civil to him afterwards. So when folks are disposed to ill- treat you, young man, say, 'Lord have mercy upon me!' and then tip them to Long Melford, which, as the saying goes, there is nothing comparable for shortness all the world over; and these last words, young man, are the last you will ever have from her who is nevertheless, "Your affectionate female servant, "ISOPEL BERNERS." After reading the letter I sat for some time motionless, holding it in my hand. The daydream in which I had been a little time before indulging, of marrying Isopel Berners, of going with her to America, and having by her a large progeny, who were to assist me in felling trees, cultivating the soil, and who would take care of me when I was old, was now thoroughly dispelled. Isopel had deserted me, and was gone to America by herself, where, perhaps, she would marry some other person, and would bear him a progeny, who would do for him what in my dream I had hoped my progeny by her would do for me. Then the thought came into my head that though she was gone, I might follow her to America, but then I thought that if I did I might not find her; America was a very large place, and I did not know the port to which she was bound; but I could follow her to the port from which she had sailed, and there possibly discover the port to which she was bound; but I did not even know the port from which she had set out, for Isopel had not dated her letter from any place. Suddenly it occurred to me that the post-mark on the letter would tell me from whence it came, so I forthwith looked at the back of the letter, and in the post-mark read the name of a well-known and not very distant sea-port. I then knew with tolerable certainty the port where she had embarked, and I almost determined to follow her, but I almost instantly determined to do no such thing. Isopel Berners had abandoned me, and I would not follow her; "Perhaps," whispered Pride, "if I overtook her, she would only despise me for running after her;" and it also told me pretty roundly, provided I ran after her, whether I overtook her or not, I should heartily despise myself. So I determined not to follow Isopel Berners; I took her lock of hair, and looked at it, then put it in her letter, which I folded up and carefully stowed away, resolved to keep both for ever, but I determined not to follow her. Two or three times, however, during the day, I wavered in my determination, and was again and again almost tempted to follow her, but every succeeding time the temptation was fainter. In the evening I left the dingle, and sat down with Mr. Petulengro and his family by the door of his tent; Mr. Petulengro soon began talking of the letter which I had received in the morning. "Is it not from Miss Berners, brother?" said he. I told him it was. "Is she coming back, brother?" "Never," said I; "she is gone to America, and has deserted me." "I always knew that you two were never destined for each other," said he. "How did you know that?" I inquired. "The dook told me so, brother; you are born to be a great traveller." "Well," said I, "if I had gone with her to America, as I was thinking of doing, I should have been a great traveller." "You are to travel in another direction, brother," said he. "I wish you would tell me all about my future wanderings," said I. "I can't, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "there's a power of clouds before my eye." "You are a poor seer, after all," said I; and getting up, I retired to my dingle and my tent, where I betook myself to my bed, and there, knowing the worst, and being no longer agitated by apprehension, nor agonized by expectation, I was soon buried in a deep slumber, the first which I had fallen into for several nights. CHAPTER XVII The Public-house--Landlord on His Legs Again--A Blow in Season--The Way of the World--The Grateful Mind--The Horse's Neigh. It was rather late on the following morning when I awoke. At first I was almost unconscious of what had occurred on the preceding day; recollection, however, by degrees returned, and I felt a deep melancholy coming over me, but perfectly aware that no advantage could be derived from the indulgence of such a feeling, I sprang up, prepared my breakfast, which I ate with a tolerable appetite, and then left the dingle, and betook myself to the gypsy encampment, where I entered into discourse with various Romanies, both male and female. After some time, feeling myself in better spirits, I determined to pay another visit to the landlord of the public-house. From the position of his affairs when I had last visited him I entertained rather gloomy ideas with respect to his present circumstances. I imagined that I should either find him alone in his kitchen smoking a wretched pipe, or in company with some surly bailiff or his follower, whom his friend the brewer had sent into the house in order to take possession of his effects. Nothing more entirely differing from either of these anticipations could have presented itself to my view than what I saw about one o'clock in the afternoon, when I entered the house. I had come, though somewhat in want of consolation myself, to offer any consolation which was at my command to my acquaintance Catchpole, and perhaps like many other people who go to a house with "drops of compassion trembling on their eyelids," I felt rather disappointed at finding that no compassion was necessary. The house was thronged with company, and cries for ale and porter, hot brandy and water, cold gin and water, were numerous; moreover, no desire to receive and not to pay for the landlord's liquids was manifested--on the contrary, everybody seemed disposed to play the most honourable part: "Landlord, here's the money for this glass of brandy and water--do me the favour to take it; all right, remember I have paid you." "Landlord, here's the money for the pint of half-and-half-fourpence halfpenny, ain't it?--here's sixpence; keep the change--confound the change!" The landlord, assisted by his niece, bustled about; his brow erect, his cheeks plumped out, and all his features exhibiting a kind of surly satisfaction. Wherever he moved, marks of the most cordial amity were shown him, hands were thrust out to grasp his, nor were looks of respect, admiration, nay, almost of adoration, wanting. I observed one fellow, as the landlord advanced, take the pipe out of his mouth, and gaze upon him with a kind of grin of wonder, probably much the same as his ancestor, the Saxon lout of old, put on when he saw his idol Thur, dressed in a new kirtle. To avoid the press, I got into a corner, where on a couple of chairs sat two respectable-looking individuals, whether farmers or sow- gelders, I know not, but highly respectable-looking, who were discoursing about the landlord. "Such another," said one, "you will not find in a summer's day." "No, nor in the whole of England," said the other. "Tom of Hopton," said the first: "ah! Tom of Hopton," echoed the other; "the man who could beat Tom of Hopton could beat the world." "I glory in him," said the first. "So do I," said the second, "I'll back him against the world. Let me hear any one say anything against him, and if I don't--" then, looking at me, he added, "have you anything to say against him, young man?" "Not a word," said I, "save that he regularly puts me out." "He'll put any one out," said the man, "any one out of conceit with himself;" then, lifting a mug to his mouth, he added, with a hiccough, "I drink his health." Presently the landlord, as he moved about, observing me, stopped short: "Ah!" said he, "are you here? I am glad to see you, come this way. Stand back," said he to his company, as I followed him to the bar, "stand back for me and this gentleman." Two or three young fellows were in the bar, seemingly sporting yokels, drinking sherry and smoking. "Come, gentlemen," said the landlord, "clear the bar, I must have a clear bar for me and my friend here." "Landlord, what will you take," said one, "a glass of sherry? I know you like it." "- sherry and you too," said the landlord, "I want neither sherry nor yourself; didn't you hear what I told you?" "All right, old fellow," said the other, shaking the landlord by the hand, "all right, don't wish to intrude--but I suppose when you and your friend have done, I may come in again;" then, with a "sarvant, sir," to me, he took himself into the kitchen, followed by the rest of the sporting yokels. Thereupon the landlord, taking a bottle of ale from a basket, uncorked it, and pouring the contents into two large glasses, handed me one, and motioning me to sit down, placed himself by me; then, emptying his own glass at a draught, he gave a kind of grunt of satisfaction, and fixing his eyes upon the opposite side of the bar, remained motionless, without saying a word, buried apparently in important cogitations. With respect to myself, I swallowed my ale more leisurely, and was about to address my friend, when his niece, coming into the bar, said that more and more customers were arriving, and how she should supply their wants she did not know, unless her uncle would get and help her. "The customers!" said the landlord, "let the scoundrels wait till you have time to serve them, or till I have leisure to see after them." "The kitchen won't contain half of them," said his niece. "Then let them sit out abroad," said the landlord. "But there are not benches enough, uncle," said the niece. "Then let them stand or sit on the ground," said the uncle, "what care I; I'll let them know that the man who beat Tom of Hopton stands as well again on his legs as ever." Then opening a side door which led from the bar into the back yard, he beckoned me to follow him. "You treat your customers in rather a cavalier manner," said I, when we were alone together in the yard. "Don't I?" said the landlord; "and I'll treat them more so yet; now I have got the whiphand of the rascals I intend to keep it. I dare say you are a bit surprised with regard to the change which has come over things since you were last here. I'll tell you how it happened. You remember in what a desperate condition you found me, thinking of changing my religion, selling my soul to the man in black, and then going and hanging myself like Pontius Pilate; and I dare say you can't have forgotten how you gave me good advice, made me drink ale, and give up sherry. Well, after you were gone, I felt all the better for your talk, and what you had made me drink, and it was a mercy that I did feel better; for my niece was gone out, poor thing, and I was left alone in the house, without a soul to look at, or to keep me from doing myself a mischief in case I was so inclined. Well, things wore on in this way till it grew dusk, when in came that blackguard Hunter with his train to drink at my expense, and to insult me as usual; there were more than a dozen of them, and a pretty set they looked. Well, they ordered about in a very free and easy manner for upwards of an hour and a half, occasionally sneering and jeering at me, as they had been in the habit of doing for some time past; so, as I said before, things wore on, and other customers came in, who, though they did not belong to Hunter's gang, also passed off their jokes upon me; for, as you perhaps know, we English are a set of low hounds, who will always take part with the many by way of making ourselves safe, and currying favour with the stronger side. I said little or nothing, for my spirits had again become very low, and I was verily scared and afraid. All of a sudden I thought of the ale which I had drank in the morning, and of the good it did me then, so I went into the bar, opened another bottle, took a glass, and felt better; so I took another, and feeling better still, I went back into the kitchen, just as Hunter and his crew were about leaving. 'Mr. Hunter,' said I, 'you and your people will please to pay me for what you have had?' 'What do you mean by my people?' said he, with an oath. 'Ah, what do you mean by calling us his people?' said the clan. 'We are nobody's people;' and then there was a pretty load of abuse, and threatening to serve me out. 'Well,' said I, 'I was perhaps wrong to call them your people, and beg your pardon and theirs. And now you will please to pay me for what you have had yourself, and afterwards I can settle with them.' 'I shall pay you when I think fit,' said Hunter. 'Yes,' said the rest, 'and so shall we. We shall pay you when we think fit.' 'I tell you what,' said Hunter, 'I conceives I do such an old fool as you an honour when I comes into his house and drinks his beer, and goes away without paying for it;' and then there was a roar of laughter from everybody, and almost all said the same thing. 'Now do you please to pay me, Mr. Hunter?' said I. 'Pay you!' said Hunter; 'pay you! Yes, here's the pay;' and thereupon he held out his thumb, twirling it round till it just touched my nose. I can't tell you what I felt that moment; a kind of madhouse thrill came upon me, and all I know is, that I bent back as far as I could, then lunging out, struck him under the ear, sending him reeling two or three yards, when he fell on the floor. I wish you had but seen how my company looked at me and at each other. One or two of the clan went to raise Hunter, and get him to fight, but it was no go; though he was not killed, he had had enough for that evening. Oh, I wish you had seen my customers; those who did not belong to the clan, but who had taken part with them, and helped to jeer and flout me, now came and shook me by the hand, wishing me joy, and saying as, how 'I was a brave fellow, and had served the bully right!' As for the clan, they all said Hunter was bound to do me justice; so they made him pay me what he owed for himself, and the reckoning of those among them who said they had no money. Two or three of them then led him away, while the rest stayed behind, and flattered me, and worshipped me, and called Hunter all kinds of dogs' names. What do you think of that?" "Why," said I, "it makes good what I read in a letter which I received yesterday. It is just the way of the world." "A'n't it," said the landlord. "Well, that a'n't all; let me go on. Good fortune never yet came alone. In about an hour comes home my poor niece, almost in high sterricks with joy, smiling and sobbing. She had been to the clergyman of M---, the great preacher, to whose church she was in the habit of going, and to whose daughters she was well known; and to him she told a lamentable tale about my distresses, and about the snares which had been laid for my soul; and so well did she plead my cause, and so strong did the young ladies back all she said, that the good clergyman promised to stand my friend, and to lend me sufficient money to satisfy the brewer, and to get my soul out of the snares of the man in black; and sure enough the next morning the two young ladies brought me the fifty pounds, which I forthwith carried to the brewer, who was monstrously civil, saying that he hoped any little misunderstanding we had had would not prevent our being good friends in future. That a'n't all; the people of the neighbouring county hearing as if by art witchcraft that I had licked Hunter, and was on good terms with the brewer, forthwith began to come in crowds to look at me, pay me homage, and be my customers. Moreover, fifty scoundrels who owed me money, and would have seen me starve rather than help me as long as they considered me a down pin, remembered their debts, and came and paid me more than they owed. That a'n't all; the brewer being about to establish a stage-coach and three, to run across the country, says it shall stop and change horses at my house, and the passengers breakfast and sup as it goes and returns. He wishes me--whom he calls the best man in England--to give his son lessons in boxing, which he says he considers a fine manly English art, and a great defence against Popery--notwithstanding that only a month ago, when he considered me a down pin, he was in the habit of railing against it as a blackguard practice, and against me as a blackguard for following it; so I am going to commence with young hopeful to-morrow." "I really cannot help congratulating you on your good fortune," said I. "That a'n't all," said the landlord. "This very morning the folks of our parish made me churchwarden, which they would no more have done a month ago, when they considered me a down pin, than they--" "Mercy upon us!" said I, "if fortune pours in upon you in this manner, who knows but that within a year they may make you a justice of the peace?" "Who knows, indeed!" said the landlord. "Well, I will prove myself worthy of my good luck by showing the grateful mind--not to those who would be kind to me now, but to those who were, when the days were rather gloomy. My customers shall have abundance of rough language, but I'll knock any one down who says anything against the clergyman who lent me the fifty pounds, or against the Church of England, of which he is parson and I am churchwarden. I am also ready to do anything in reason for him who paid me for the ale he drank, when I shouldn't have had the heart to collar him for the money had he refused to pay; who never jeered or flouted me like the rest of my customers when I was a down pin--and though he refused to fight cross _for_ me was never cross _with_ me, but listened to all I had to say, and gave me all kinds of good advice. Now who do you think I mean by this last? why, who but yourself--who on earth but yourself? The parson is a good man and a great preacher, and I'll knock anybody down who says to the contrary; and I mention him first, because why; he's a gentleman, and you a tinker. But I am by no means sure you are not the best friend of the two; for I doubt, do you see, whether I should have had the fifty pounds but for you. You persuaded me to give up that silly drink they call sherry, and drink ale; and what was it but drinking ale which gave me courage to knock down that fellow Hunter--and knocking him down was, I verily believe, the turning point of my disorder. God don't love them who won't strike out for themselves; and as far as I can calculate with respect to time, it was just the moment after I had knocked down Hunter, that the parson consented to lend me the money, and everything began to grow civil to me. So, dash my buttons if I show the ungrateful mind to you! I don't offer to knock anybody down for you, because why--I dare say you can knock a body down yourself; but I'll offer something more to the purpose; as my business is wonderfully on the increase, I shall want somebody to help me in serving my customers, and keeping them in order. If you choose to come and serve for your board, and what they'll give you, give me your fist; or if you like ten shillings a week better than their sixpences and ha'pence, only say so--though, to be open with you, I believe you would make twice ten shillings out of them--the sneaking, fawning, curry-favouring humbugs!" "I am much obliged to you," said I, "for your handsome offer, which, however, I am obliged to decline." "Why so?" said the landlord. "I am not fit for service," said I; "moreover, I am about to leave this part of the country." As I spoke a horse neighed in the stable. "What horse is that?" said I. "It belongs to a cousin of mine, who put it into my hands yesterday in the hopes that I might get rid of it for him, though he would no more have done so a week ago, when he considered me a down pin, than he would have given the horse away. Are you fond of horses?" "Very much," said I. "Then come and look at it." He led me into the stable, where, in a stall, stood a noble-looking animal. "Dear me," said I, "I saw this horse at --- fair." "Like enough," said the landlord; "he was there and was offered for seventy pounds, but didn't find a bidder at any price. What do you think of him?" "He's a splendid creature." "I am no judge of horses," said the landlord; "but I am told he's a first- rate trotter, good leaper, and has some of the blood of Syntax. What does all that signify?--the game is against his master, who is a down pin, is thinking of emigrating, and wants money confoundedly. He asked seventy pounds at the fair; but, between ourselves, he would be glad to take fifty here." "I almost wish," said I, "that I were a rich squire." "You would buy him then," said the landlord. Here he mused for some time, with a very profound look. "It would be a rum thing," said he, "if, some time or other, that horse should come into your hands. Didn't you hear how he neighed when you talked about leaving the country? My granny was a wise woman, and was up to all kinds of signs and wonders, sounds and noises, the interpretation of the language of birds and animals, crowing and lowing, neighing and braying. If she had been here, she would have said at once that that horse was fated to carry you away. On that point, however, I can say nothing, for under fifty pounds no one can have him. Are you taking that money out of your pocket to pay me for the ale? That won't do; nothing to pay; I invited you this time. Now if you are going, you had best get into the road through the yard-gate. I won't trouble you to make your way through the kitchen and my fine-weather company--confound them!" CHAPTER XVIII Mr. Petulengro's Device--The Leathern Purse--Consent to Purchase a Horse. As I returned along the road I met Mr. Petulengro and one of his companions, who told me that they were bound for the public-house; whereupon I informed Jasper how I had seen in the stable the horse which we had admired at the fair. "I shouldn't wonder if you buy that horse after all, brother," said Mr. Petulengro. With a smile at the absurdity of such a supposition, I left him and his companion, and betook myself to the dingle. In the evening I received a visit from Mr. Petulengro, who forthwith commenced talking about the horse, which he had again seen, the landlord having shown it to him on learning that he was a friend of mine. He told me that the horse pleased him more than ever, he having examined his points with more accuracy than he had an opportunity of doing on the first occasion, concluding by pressing me to buy him. I begged him to desist from such foolish importunity, assuring him that I had never so much money in all my life as would enable me to purchase the horse. Whilst this discourse was going on, Mr. Petulengro and myself were standing together in the midst of the dingle. Suddenly he began to move round me--in a very singular manner, making strange motions with his hands, and frightful contortions with his features, till I became alarmed, and asked him whether he had not lost his senses? Whereupon, ceasing his movements and contortions, he assured me that he had not, but had merely been seized with a slight dizziness, and then once more returned to the subject of the horse. Feeling myself very angry, I told him that if he continued persecuting me in that manner, I should be obliged to quarrel with him; adding, that I believed his only motive for asking me to buy the animal was to insult my poverty. "Pretty poverty," said he, "with fifty pounds in your pocket; however, I have heard say that it is always the custom of your rich people to talk of their poverty, more especially when they wish to avoid laying out money." Surprised at his saying that I had fifty pounds in my pocket, I asked him what he meant; whereupon he told me that he was very sure that I had fifty pounds in my pocket, offering to lay me five shillings to that effect. "Done!" said I; "I have scarcely more than the fifth part of what you say." "I know better, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; "if you only pull out what you have in the pocket of your slop, I am sure you will have lost your wager." Putting my hand into the pocket, I felt something which I had never felt there before, and pulling it out, perceived that it was a clumsy leathern purse, which I found on opening contained four ten-pound-notes, and several pieces of gold. "Didn't I tell you so, brother?" said Mr. Petulengro. "Now, in the first place, please to pay me the five shillings you have lost." "This is only a foolish piece of pleasantry," said I; "you put it into my pocket whilst you were moving about me, making faces like a distracted person. Here, take your purse back." "I?" said Mr. Petulengro, "not I, indeed I don't think I am such a fool. I have won my wager, so pay me the five shillings, brother." "Do drop this folly," said I, "and take your purse;" and I flung it on the ground. "Brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "you were talking of quarrelling with me just now. I tell you now one thing, which is, that if you do not take back the purse I will quarrel with you; and it shall be for good and all. I'll drop your acquaintance, no longer call you my pal, and not even say sarshan to you when I meet you by the roadside. Hir mi diblis I never will." I saw by Jasper's look and tone that he was in earnest, and, as I had really a regard for the strange being, I scarcely knew what to do. "Now, be persuaded, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, taking up the purse, and handing it to me; "be persuaded; put the purse into your pocket, and buy the horse." "Well," said I, "if I did so, would you acknowledge the horse to be yours, and receive the money again as soon as I should be able to repay you?" "I would, brother, I would," said he; "return me the money as soon as you please, provided you buy the horse." "What motive have you for wishing me to buy that horse?" said I. "He's to be sold for fifty pounds," said Jasper, "and is worth four times that sum; though, like many a splendid bargain, he is now going a begging; buy him, and I'm confident that, in a little time, a grand gentleman of your appearance may have anything he asks for him, and found a fortune by his means. Moreover, brother, I want to dispose of this fifty pounds in a safe manner. If you don't take it, I shall fool it away in no time, perhaps at card-playing, for you saw how I was cheated by those blackguard jockeys the other day--we gyptians don't know how to take care of money: our best plan when we have got a handful of guineas is to make buttons with them; but I have plenty of golden buttons, and don't wish to be troubled with more, so you can do me no greater favour than vesting the money in this speculation, by which my mind will be relieved of considerable care and trouble for some time at least." Perceiving that I still hesitated, he said, "Perhaps, brother, you think I did not come honestly by the money: by the honestest manner in the world, for it is the money I earnt by fighting in the ring: I did not steal it, brother, nor did I get it by disposing of spavined donkeys, or glandered ponies--nor is it, brother, the profits of my wife's witchcraft and dukkerin." "But," said I, "you had better employ it in your traffic." "I have plenty of money for my traffic, independent of this capital," said Mr. Petulengro; "ay, brother, and enough besides to back the husband of my wife's sister, Sylvester, against Slammocks of the Chong gav for twenty pounds, which I am thinking of doing." "But," said I, "after all, the horse may have found another purchaser by this time." "Not he," said Mr. Petulengro, "there is nobody in this neighbourhood to purchase a horse like that, unless it be your lordship--so take the money, brother," and he thrust the purse into my hand. Allowing myself to be persuaded, I kept possession of the purse. "Are you satisfied now?" said I. "By no means, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "you will please to pay me the five shillings which you lost to me." "Why," said I, "the fifty pounds which I found in my pocket were not mine, but put in by yourself." "That's nothing to do with the matter, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "I betted you five shillings that you had fifty pounds in your pocket, which sum you had: I did not say that they were your own, but merely that you had fifty pounds; you will therefore pay me, brother, or I shall not consider you an honourable man." Not wishing to have any dispute about such a matter, I took five shillings out of my under pocket, and gave them to him. Mr. Petulengro took the money with great glee, observing--"These five shillings I will take to the public-house forthwith, and spend in drinking with four of my brethren, and doing so will give me an opportunity of telling the landlord that I have found a customer for his horse, and that you are the man. It will be as well to secure the horse as soon as possible; for though the dook tells me that the horse is intended for you, I have now and then found that the dook is, like myself, somewhat given to lying." He then departed, and I remained alone in the dingle. I thought at first that I had committed a great piece of folly in consenting to purchase this horse; I might find no desirable purchaser for him, until the money in my possession should be totally exhausted, and then I might be compelled to sell him for half the price I had given for him, or be even glad to find a person who would receive him at a gift; I should then remain sans horse, and indebted to Mr. Petulengro. Nevertheless, it was possible that I might sell the horse very advantageously, and by so doing obtain a fund sufficient to enable me to execute some grand enterprise or other. My present way of life afforded no prospect of support, whereas the purchase of the horse did afford a possibility of bettering my condition, so, after all, had I not done right in consenting to purchase the horse? the purchase was to be made with another person's property, it is true, and I did not exactly like the idea of speculating with another person's property, but Mr. Petulengro had thrust his money upon me, and if I lost his money, he could have no one but himself to blame; so I persuaded myself that I had, upon the whole, done right, and having come to that persuasion, I soon began to enjoy the idea of finding myself on horseback again, and figured to myself all kinds of strange adventures which I should meet with on the roads before the horse and I should part company. CHAPTER XIX Trying the Horse--The Feats of Tawno--Man with the Red Waist-coat--Disposal of Property. I saw nothing more of Mr. Petulengro that evening--on the morrow, however, he came and informed me that he had secured the horse for me, and that I was to go and pay for it at noon. At the hour appointed, therefore, I went with Mr. Petulengro and Tawno to the public, where, as before, there was a crowd of company. The landlord received us in the bar with marks of much satisfaction and esteem, made us sit down, and treated us with some excellent mild draught ale. "Who do you think has been here this morning?" he said to me, "why, that fellow in black, who came to carry me off to a house of Popish devotion, where I was to pass seven days and nights in meditation, as I think he called it, before I publicly renounced the religion of my country. I read him a pretty lecture, calling him several unhandsome names, and asking him what he meant by attempting to seduce a church-warden of the Church of England. I tell you what, he ran some danger; for some of my customers, learning his errand, laid hold on him, and were about to toss him in a blanket, and then duck him in the horse-pond. I, however, interfered, and said, 'that what he came about was between me and him, and that it was no business of theirs.' To tell you the truth, I felt pity for the poor devil, more especially when I considered that they merely sided against him because they thought him the weakest, and that they would have wanted to serve me in the same manner had they considered me a down pin; so I rescued him from their hands, told him not to be afraid, for that nobody should touch him, and offered to treat him to some cold gin and water with a lump of sugar in it; and on his refusing, told him that he had better make himself scarce, which he did, and I hope I shall never see him again. So I suppose you are come for the horse; mercy upon us! who would have thought you would have become the purchaser? The horse, however, seemed to know it by his neighing. How did you ever come by the money? however, that's no matter of mine. I suppose you are strongly backed by certain friends you have." I informed the landlord that he was right in supposing that I came for the horse, but that, before I paid for him, I should wish to prove his capabilities. "With all my heart," said the landlord. "You shall mount him this moment." Then going into the stable, he saddled and bridled the horse, and presently brought him out before the door. I mounted him, Mr. Petulengro putting a heavy whip into my hand, and saying a few words to me in his own mysterious language. "The horse wants no whip," said the landlord. "Hold your tongue, daddy," said Mr. Petulengro. "My pal knows quite well what to do with the whip, he's not going to beat the horse with it." About four hundred yards from the house there was a hill, to the foot of which the road ran almost on a perfect level; towards the foot of this hill I trotted the horse, who set off at a long, swift pace, seemingly at the rate of about sixteen miles an hour. On reaching the foot of the hill, I wheeled the animal round, and trotted him towards the house--the horse sped faster than before. Ere he had advanced a hundred yards, I took off my hat, in obedience to the advice which Mr. Petulengro had given me, in his own language, and holding it over the horse's head commenced drumming on the crown with the knob of the whip; the horse gave a slight start, but instantly recovering himself, continued his trot till he arrived at the door of the public-house, amidst the acclamations of the company, who had all rushed out of the house to be spectators of what was going on. "I see now what you wanted the whip for," said the landlord, "and sure enough, that drumming on your hat was no bad way of learning whether the horse was quiet or not. Well, did you ever see a more quiet horse, or a better trotter?" "My cob shall trot against him," said a fellow, dressed in velveteen, mounted on a low powerful-looking animal. "My cob shall trot against him to the hill and back again--come on!" We both started; the cob kept up gallantly against the horse for about half way to the hill, when he began to lose ground; at the foot of the hill he was about fifteen yards behind. Whereupon I turned slowly and waited for him. We then set off towards the house, but now the cob had no chance, being at least twenty yards behind when I reached the door. This running of the horse, the wild uncouth forms around me, and the ale and beer which were being guzzled from pots and flagons, put me wonderfully in mind of the ancient horse-races of the heathen north. I almost imagined myself Gunnar of Hlitharend at the race of-- "Are you satisfied?" said the landlord. "Didn't you tell me that he could leap?" I demanded. "I am told he can," said the landlord; "but I can't consent that he should be tried in that way, as he might be damaged." "That's right!" said Mr. Petulengro, "don't trust my pal to leap that horse, he'll merely fling him down, and break his neck and his own. There's a better man than he close by; let him get on his back and leap him." "You mean yourself, I suppose," said the landlord. "Well, I call that talking modestly, and nothing becomes a young man more than modesty." "It a'n't I, daddy," said Mr. Petulengro. "Here's the man," said he, pointing to Tawno. "Here's the horse-leaper of the world!" "You mean the horse-back breaker," said the landlord. "That big fellow would break down my cousin's horse." "Why, he weighs only sixteen stone," said Mr. Petulengro. "And his sixteen stone, with his way of handling a horse, does not press so much as any other one's thirteen. Only let him get on the horse's back, and you'll see what he can do!" "No," said the landlord, "it won't do." Whereupon Mr. Petulengro became very much excited; and pulling out a handful of money, said, "I'll tell you what, I'll forfeit these guineas, if my black pal there does the horse any kind of damage; duck me in the horse-pond if I don't." "Well," said the landlord, "for the sport of the thing I consent, so let your white pal get down, and our black pal mount as soon as he pleases." I felt rather mortified at Mr. Petulengro's interference; and showed no disposition to quit my seat; whereupon he came up to me and said, "Now, brother, do get out of the saddle--you are no bad hand at trotting, I am willing to acknowledge that; but at leaping a horse there is no one like Tawno. Let every dog be praised for his own gift. You have been showing off in your line for the last half-hour; now do give Tawno a chance of exhibiting a little; poor fellow, he hasn't often a chance of exhibiting, as his wife keeps him so much out of sight." Not wishing to appear desirous of engrossing the public attention, and feeling rather desirous to see how Tawno, of whose exploits in leaping horses I had frequently heard, would acquit himself in the affair, I at length dismounted, and Tawno, at a bound, leaped into the saddle, where he really looked like Gunnar of Hlitharend, save and except the complexion of Gunnar was florid, whereas that of Tawno was of nearly Mulatto darkness; and that all Tawno's features were cast in the Grecian model, whereas Gunnar had a snub nose. "There's a leaping-bar behind the house," said the landlord. "Leaping- bar!" said Mr. Petulengro, scornfully. "Do you think my black pal ever rides at a leaping-bar? No more than a windle-straw. Leap over that meadow-wall, Tawno." Just past the house, in the direction in which I had been trotting, was a wall about four feet high, beyond which was a small meadow. Tawno rode the horse gently up to the wall, permitted him to look over, then backed him for about ten yards, and pressing his calves against the horse's sides, he loosed the rein, and the horse launching forward, took the leap in gallant style. "Well done, man and horse!" said Mr. Petulengro, "now come back, Tawno." The leap from the side of the meadow was, however, somewhat higher; and the horse, when pushed at it, at first turned away; whereupon Tawno backed him to a greater distance, pushed the horse to a full gallop, giving a wild cry; whereupon the horse again took the wall, slightly grazing one of his legs against it. "A near thing," said the landlord; "but a good leap. Now, no more leaping, so long as I have control over the animal." The horse was then led back to the stable; and the landlord, myself and companions going into the bar, I paid down the money for the horse. Scarcely was the bargain concluded, when two or three of the company began to envy me the possession of the horse, and forcing their way into the bar, with much noise and clamour, said that the horse had been sold too cheap. One fellow, in particular, with a red waistcoat, the son of a wealthy farmer, said that if he had but known that the horse had been so good a one, he would have bought it at the first price asked for it, which he was now willing to pay, that is to-morrow, supposing--"supposing your father will let you have the money," said the landlord, "which, after all, might not be the case; but, however that may be, it is too late now. I think myself the horse has been sold for too little money, but if so all the better for the young man, who came forward when no other body did with his money in his hand. There, take yourselves out of my bar," he said to the fellows; "and a pretty scoundrel you," said he to the man of the red waistcoat, "to say the horse has been sold too cheap; why, it was only yesterday you said he was good for nothing, and were passing all kinds of jokes at him. Take yourself out of my bar, I say, you and all of you," and he turned the fellows out. I then asked the landlord whether he would permit the horse to remain in the stable for a short time, provided I paid for his entertainment; and on his willingly consenting, I treated my friends with ale, and then returned with them to the encampment. That evening I informed Mr. Petulengro and his party that on the morrow I intended to mount my horse, and leave that part of the country in quest of adventures; inquiring of Jasper where, in the event of my selling the horse advantageously, I might meet with him, and repay the money I had borrowed of him; whereupon Mr. Petulengro informed me that in about ten weeks I might find him at a certain place at the Chong gav. I then stated that as I could not well carry with me the property which I possessed in the dingle, which after all was of no considerable value, I had resolved to bestow the said property, namely, the pony, tent, tinker- tools, etc., on Ursula and her husband, partly because they were poor, and partly on account of the great kindness which I bore to Ursula, from whom I had, on various occasions, experienced all manner of civility, particularly in regard to crabbed words. On hearing this intelligence, Ursula returned many thanks to her gentle brother, as she called me, and Sylvester was so overjoyed that, casting aside his usual phlegm, he said I was the best friend he had ever had in the world, and in testimony of his gratitude swore that he would permit his wife to give me a choomer in the presence of the whole company, which offer, however, met with a very mortifying reception, the company frowning disapprobation, Ursula protesting against anything of the kind, and I myself showing no forwardness to avail myself of it, having inherited from nature a considerable fund of modesty, to which was added no slight store acquired in the course of my Irish education. I passed that night alone in the dingle in a very melancholy manner, with little or no sleep, thinking of Isopel Berners; and in the morning when I quitted it I shed several tears, as I reflected that I should probably never again see the spot where I had passed so many hours in her company. CHAPTER XX Farewell to the Romans--The Landlord and His Niece--Set Out as a Traveller. On reaching the plain above, I found my Romany friends breakfasting, and on being asked by Mr. Petulengro to join them, I accepted the invitation. No sooner was breakfast over than I informed Ursula and her husband that they would find the property, which I had promised them, in the dingle, commending the little pony Ambrol to their best care. I took leave of the whole company, which was itself about to break up camp and to depart in the direction of London, and made the best of my way to the public- house. I had a small bundle in my hand, and was dressed in the same manner as when I departed from London, having left my waggoner's slop with the other effects in the dingle. On arriving at the public-house, I informed the landlord that I was come for my horse, inquiring, at the same time, whether he could not accommodate me with a bridle and saddle. He told me that the bridle and saddle, with which I had ridden the horse on the preceding day, were at my service for a trifle; that he had received them some time since in payment for a debt, and that he had himself no use for them. The leathers of the bridle were rather shabby, and the bit rusty, and the saddle was old fashioned; but I was happy to purchase them for seven shillings, more especially as the landlord added a small valise, which he said could be strapped to the saddle, and which I should find very convenient for carrying my things in. I then proceeded to the stable, told the horse we were bound on an expedition, and giving him a feed of corn, left him to discuss it, and returned to the bar-room to have a little farewell chat with the landlord, and at the same time to drink with him a farewell glass of ale. Whilst we were talking and drinking, the niece came and joined us: she was a decent, sensible young woman, who appeared to take a great interest in her uncle, whom she regarded with a singular mixture of pride and, disapprobation--pride for the renown which he had acquired by his feats of old, and disapprobation for his late imprudences. She said that she hoped that his misfortunes would be a warning to him to turn more to his God than he had hitherto done, and to give up cock-fighting and other low- life practices. To which the landlord replied, that with respect to cock- fighting he intended to give it up entirely, being determined no longer to risk his capital upon birds, and with respect to his religious duties, he should attend the church of which he was churchwarden at least once a quarter, adding, however, that he did not intend to become either canter or driveller, neither of which characters would befit a publican surrounded by such customers as he was, and that to the last day of his life he hoped to be able to make use of his fists. After a stay of about two hours I settled accounts, and having bridled and saddled my horse, and strapped on my valise, I mounted, shook hands with the landlord and his niece, and departed, notwithstanding that they both entreated me to tarry until the evening, it being then the heat of the day. CHAPTER XXI An Adventure on the Road--The Six Flint Stone--A Rural Scene--Mead--The Old Man and His Bees. I bent my course in the direction of the north, more induced by chance than any particular motive; all quarters of the world having about equal attractions for me. I was in high spirits at finding myself once more on horse-back, and trotted gaily on, until the heat of the weather induced me to slacken my pace, more out of pity for my horse than because I felt any particular inconvenience from it--heat and cold being then, and still, matters of great indifference to me. What I thought of I scarcely know, save and except that I have a glimmering recollection that I felt some desire to meet with one of those adventures which upon the roads of England are generally as plentiful as blackberries in autumn; and Fortune, who has generally been ready to gratify my inclinations, provided it cost her very little by so doing, was not slow in furnishing me with an adventure, perhaps as characteristic of the English roads as anything which could have happened. I might have travelled about six miles amongst cross roads and lanes, when suddenly I found myself upon a broad and very dusty road which seemed to lead due north. As I wended along this I saw a man upon a donkey riding towards me. The man was commonly dressed, with a broad felt hat on his head, and a kind of satchel on his back; he seemed to be in a mighty hurry, and was every now and then belabouring the donkey with a cudgel. The donkey, however, which was a fine large creature of the silver-grey species, did not appear to sympathize at all with its rider in his desire to get on, but kept its head turned back as much as possible, moving from one side of the road to the other, and not making much forward way. As I passed, being naturally of a very polite disposition, I gave the man the sele of the day, asking him, at the same time, why he beat the donkey; whereupon the fellow eyeing me askance, told me to mind my own business, with the addition of something which I need not repeat. I had not proceeded a furlong before I saw seated on the dust by the wayside, close by a heap of stones, and with several flints before him, a respectable-looking old man, with a straw hat and a white smock, who was weeping bitterly. "What are you crying for, father?" said I. "Have you come to any hurt?" "Hurt enough," sobbed the old man, "I have just been tricked out of the best ass in England by a villain, who gave me nothing but these trash in return," pointing to the stones before him. "I really scarcely understand you," said I, "I wish you would explain yourself more clearly." "I was riding on my ass from market," said the old man, "when I met here a fellow with a sack on his back, who, after staring at the ass and me a moment or two, asked me if I would sell her. I told him that I could not think of selling her, as she was very useful to me, and though an animal, my true companion, whom I loved as much as if she were my wife and daughter. I then attempted to pass on, but the fellow stood before me, begging me to sell her, saying that he would give me anything for her; well, seeing that he persisted, I said at last that if I sold her, I must have six pounds for her, and I said so to get rid of him, for I saw that he was a shabby fellow, who had probably not six shillings in the world; but I had better have held my tongue," said the old man, crying more bitterly than before, "for the words were scarcely out of my mouth, when he said he would give me what I asked, and taking the sack from his back, he pulled out a steelyard, and going to the heap of stones there, he took up several of them and weighed them, then flinging them down before me, he said, 'There are six pounds, neighbour; now, get off the ass, and hand her over to me.' Well, I sat like one dumbfoundered for a time, till at last I asked him what he meant? 'What do I mean?' said he, 'you old rascal, why, I mean to claim my purchase,' and then he swore so awfully, that scarcely knowing what I did I got down, and he jumped on the animal and rode off as fast as he could." "I suppose he was the fellow," said I, "whom I just now met upon a fine gray ass, which he was beating with a cudgel." "I dare say he was," said the old man, "I saw him beating her as he rode away, and I thought I should have died." "I never heard such a story," said I; "well, do you mean to submit to such a piece of roguery quietly?" "Oh, dear," said the old man, "what can I do? I am seventy-nine years of age; I am bad on my feet, and dar'n't go after him."--"Shall I go?" said I; "the fellow is a thief, and any one has a right to stop him." "Oh, if you could but bring her again to me," said the old man, "I would bless you till my dying day; but have a care; I don't know but after all the law may say that she is his lawful purchase. I asked six pounds for her, and he gave me six pounds." "Six flints, you mean," said I, "no, no, the law is not quite so bad as that either; I know something about her, and am sure that she will never sanction such a quibble. At all events, I'll ride after the fellow." Thereupon turning my horse round, I put him to his very best trot; I rode nearly a mile without obtaining a glimpse of the fellow, and was becoming apprehensive that he had escaped me by turning down some by-path, two or three of which I had passed. Suddenly, however, on the road making a slight turning, I perceived him right before me, moving at a tolerably swift pace, having by this time probably overcome the resistance of the animal. Putting my horse to a full gallop, I shouted at the top of my voice, "Get off that donkey, you rascal, and give her up to me, or I'll ride you down." The fellow hearing the thunder of the horse's hoofs behind him, drew up on one side of the road. "What do you want?" said he, as I stopped my charger, now almost covered with sweat and foam close beside him. "Do you want to rob me?" "To rob you?" said I. "No! but to take from you that ass, of which you have just robbed its owner." "I have robbed no man," said the fellow; "I just now purchased it fairly of its master, and the law will give it to me; he asked six pounds for it, and I gave him six pounds." "Six stones, you mean, you rascal," said I; "get down, or my horse shall be upon you in a moment;" then with a motion of my reins, I caused the horse to rear, pressing his sides with my heels as if I intended to make him leap. "Stop," said the man, "I'll get down, and then try if I can't serve you out." He then got down, and confronted me with his cudgel; he was a horrible-looking fellow, and seemed prepared for anything. Scarcely, however, had he dismounted, when the donkey jerked the bridle out of his hand, and probably in revenge for the usage she had received, gave him a pair of tremendous kicks on the hip with her hinder legs, which overturned him, and then scampered down the road the way she had come. "Pretty treatment this," said the fellow, getting up without his cudgel, and holding his hand to his side, "I wish I may not be lamed for life." "And if you be," said I, "it will merely serve you right, you rascal, for trying to cheat a poor old man out of his property by quibbling at words." "Rascal!" said the fellow, "you lie, I am no rascal; and as for quibbling with words--suppose I did! What then? All the first people does it! The newspapers does it! the gentlefolks that calls themselves the guides of the popular mind does it! I'm no ignoramus. I read the newspapers, and knows what's what." "You read them to some purpose," said I. "Well, if you are lamed for life, and unfitted for any active line--turn newspaper editor; I should say you are perfectly qualified, and this day's adventure may be the foundation of your fortune," thereupon I turned round and rode off. The fellow followed me with a torrent of abuse. "Confound you," said he--yet that was not the expression either--"I know you; you are one of the horse-patrol come down into the country on leave to see your relations. Confound you, you and the like of you have knocked my business on the head near Lunnon, and I suppose we shall have you shortly in the country." "To the newspaper office," said I, "and fabricate falsehoods out of flint stones;" then touching the horse with my heels, I trotted off, and coming to the place where I had seen the old man, I found him there, risen from the ground, and embracing his ass. I told him that I was travelling down the road, and said, that if his way lay in the same direction as mine he could do no better than accompany me for some distance, lest the fellow who, for aught I knew, might be hovering nigh, might catch him alone, and again get his ass from him. After thanking me for my offer, which he said he would accept, he got upon his ass, and we proceeded together down the road. My new acquaintance said very little of his own accord; and when I asked him a question, answered rather incoherently. I heard him every now and then say, "Villain!" to himself, after which he would pat the donkey's neck, from which circumstance I concluded that his mind was occupied with his late adventure. After travelling about two miles, we reached a place where a drift-way on the right led from the great road; here my companion stopped, and on my asking him whether he was going any farther, he told me that the path to the right was the way to his home. I was bidding him farewell, when he hemmed once or twice, and said, that as he did not live far off, he hoped that I would go with him and taste some of his mead. As I had never tasted mead, of which I had frequently read in the compositions of the Welsh bards, and, moreover, felt rather thirsty from the heat of the day, I told him that I should have great pleasure in attending him. Whereupon, turning off together, we proceeded about half a mile, sometimes between stone walls, and at other times hedges, till we reached a small hamlet, through which we passed, and presently came to a very pretty cottage, delightfully situated within a garden, surrounded by a hedge of woodbines. Opening a gate at one corner of the garden he led the way to a large shed, which stood partly behind the cottage, which he said was his stable; thereupon he dismounted and led his donkey into the shed, which was without stalls, but had a long rack and manger. On one side he tied his donkey, after taking off her caparisons, and I followed his example, tying my horse at the other side with a rope halter which he gave me; he then asked me to come in and taste his mead, but I told him that I must attend to the comfort of my horse first, and forthwith, taking a wisp of straw, rubbed him carefully down. Then taking a pailful of clear water which stood in the shed, I allowed the horse to drink about half a pint; and then turning to the old man, who all the time had stood by looking at my proceedings, I asked him whether he had any oats? "I have all kinds of grain," he replied; and, going out, he presently returned with two measures, one a large and the other a small one, both filled with oats, mixed with a few beans, and handing the large one to me for the horse, he emptied the other before the donkey, who, before she began to despatch it, turned her nose to her master's face, and fairly kissed him. Having given my horse his portion, I told the old man that I was ready to taste his mead as soon as he pleased, whereupon he ushered me into his cottage, where, making me sit down by a deal table in a neatly sanded kitchen, he produced from an old- fashioned closet a bottle, holding about a quart, and a couple of cups, which might each contain about half a pint, then opening the bottle and filling the cups with a brown-coloured liquor, he handed one to me, and taking a seat opposite to me, he lifted the other, nodded, and saying to me--"Health and welcome," placed it to his lips and drank. "Health and thanks," I replied; and being very thirsty, emptied my cup at a draught; I had scarcely done so, however, when I half repented. The mead was deliciously sweet and mellow, but appeared strong as brandy; my eyes reeled in my head, and my brain became slightly dizzy. "Mead is a strong drink," said the old man, as he looked at me, with a half smile on his countenance. "This is at any rate," said I, "so strong, indeed, that I would not drink another cup for any consideration." "And I would not ask you," said the old man; "for, if you did, you would most probably be stupid all day, and wake the next morning with a headache. Mead is a good drink, but woundily strong, especially to those who be not used to it, as I suppose you are not." "Where do you get it?" said I. "I make it myself," said the old man, "from the honey which my bees make." "Have you many bees?" I inquired. "A great many," said the old man. "And do you keep them," said I, "for the sake of making mead with their honey?" "I keep them," he replied, "partly because I am fond of them, and partly for what they bring me in; they make me a great deal of honey, some of which I sell, and with a little I make some mead to warm my poor heart with, or occasionally to treat a friend with like yourself." "And do you support yourself entirely by means of your bees?" "No," said the old man; "I have a little bit of ground behind my house, which is my principal means of support." "And do you live alone?" "Yes," said he; "with the exception of the bees and the donkey, I live quite alone." "And have you always lived alone?" The old man emptied his cup, and his heart being warmed with the mead, he told his history, which was simplicity itself. His father was a small yeoman, who, at his death, had left him, his only child, the cottage, with a small piece of ground behind it, and on this little property he had lived ever since. About the age of twenty- five he had married an industrious young woman, by whom he had one daughter, who died before reaching years of womanhood. His wife, however, had survived her daughter many years, and had been a great comfort to him, assisting him in his rural occupations; but, about four years before the present period, he had lost her, since which time he had lived alone, making himself as comfortable as he could; cultivating his ground, with the help of a lad from the neighbouring village, attending to his bees, and occasionally riding his donkey to market, and hearing the word of God, which he said he was sorry he could not read, twice a week regularly at the parish church. Such was the old man's tale. When he had finished speaking, he led me behind his house, and showed me his little domain. It consisted of about two acres in admirable cultivation; a small portion of it formed a kitchen garden, while the rest was sown with four kinds of grain, wheat, barley, peas, and beans. The air was full of ambrosial sweets, resembling those proceeding from an orange grove; a place which though I had never seen at that time, I since have. In the garden was the habitation of the bees, a long box, supported upon three oaken stumps. It was full of small round glass windows, and appeared to be divided into a great many compartments, much resembling drawers placed sideways. He told me that, as one compartment was filled, the bees left it for another; so that, whenever he wanted honey, he could procure some without injury to the insects. Through the little round windows I could see several of the bees at work; hundreds were going in and out of the doors; hundreds were buzzing about on the flowers, the woodbines, and beans. As I looked around on the well-cultivated field, the garden, and the bees, I thought I had never before seen so rural and peaceful a scene. When we returned to the cottage we again sat down, and I asked the old man whether he was not afraid to live alone. He told me that he was not, for that, upon the whole, his neighbours were very kind to him. I mentioned the fellow who had swindled him of his donkey upon the road. "That was no neighbour of mine," said the old man, "and, perhaps, I shall never see him again, or his like." "It's a dreadful thing," said I, "to have no other resource, when injured, than to shed tears on the road." "It is so," said the old man; "but God saw the tears of the old, and sent a helper." "Why did you not help yourself?" said I. "Instead of getting off your ass, why did you not punch at the fellow, or at any rate use dreadful language, call him villain, and shout robbery?" "Punch!" said the old man, "shout! what, with these hands, and this voice--Lord, how you run on! I am old, young chap, I am old!" "Well," said I, "it is a shameful thing to cry even when old." "You think so now," said the old man, "because you are young and strong; perhaps when you are as old as I, you will not be ashamed to cry." Upon the whole I was rather pleased with the old man, and much with all about him. As evening drew nigh, I told him that I must proceed on my journey; whereupon he invited me to tarry with him during the night, telling me that he had a nice room and bed above at my service. I, however, declined; and bidding him farewell, mounted my horse, and departed. Regaining the road, I proceeded once more in the direction of the north; and, after a few hours, coming to a comfortable public-house, I stopped, and put up for the night. CHAPTER XXII The Singular Noise--Sleeping in a Meadow--The Book--Cure for Wakefulness--Literary Tea Party--Poor Byron. I did not awake till rather late the next morning; and when I did, I felt considerable drowsiness, with a slight headache, which I was uncharitable enough to attribute to the mead which I had drunk on the preceding day. After feeding my horse, and breakfasting, I proceeded on my wanderings. Nothing occurred worthy of relating till mid-day was considerably past, when I came to a pleasant valley, between two gentle hills. I had dismounted, in order to ease my horse, and was leading him along by the bridle, when, on my right, behind a bank in which some umbrageous ashes were growing, heard a singular noise. I stopped short and listened, and presently said to myself, "Surely this is snoring, perhaps that of a hedgehog." On further consideration, however, I was convinced that the noise which I heard, and which certainly seemed to be snoring, could not possibly proceed from the nostrils of so small an animal, but must rather come from those of a giant, so loud and sonorous was it. About two or three yards farther was a gate, partly open, to which I went, and peeping into the field, saw a man lying on some rich grass, under the shade of one of the ashes; he was snoring away at a great rate. Impelled by curiosity, I fastened the bridle of my horse to the gate, and went up to the man. He was a genteelly-dressed individual; rather corpulent, with dark features, and seemingly about forty-five. He lay on his back, his hat slightly over his brow, and at his right hand lay an open book. So strenuously did he snore that the wind from his nostrils agitated, perceptibly, a fine cambric frill which he wore at his bosom. I gazed upon him for some time, expecting that he might awake; but he did not, but kept on snoring, his breast heaving convulsively. At last, the noise he made became so terrible, that I felt alarmed for his safety, imagining that a fit might seize him, and he lose his life while fast asleep. I therefore exclaimed, "Sir, sir, awake! you sleep over-much." But my voice failed to rouse him, and he continued snoring as before; whereupon I touched him slightly with my riding wand, but failing to wake him, I touched him again more vigorously; whereupon he opened his eyes, and, probably imagining himself in a dream, closed them again. But I was determined to arouse him, and cried as loud as I could, "Sir, sir, pray sleep no more!" He heard what I said, opened his eyes again, stared at me with a look of some consciousness, and, half raising himself upon his elbows, asked me what was the matter. "I beg your pardon," said I, "but I took the liberty of awaking you, because you appeared to be much disturbed in your sleep--I was fearful, too, that you might catch a fever from sleeping under a tree." "I run no risk," said the man, "I often come and sleep here; and as for being disturbed in my sleep, I felt very comfortable; I wish you had not awoke me." "Well," said I, "I beg your pardon once more. I assure you that what I did was with the best intention." "Oh! pray make no further apology," said the individual, "I make no doubt that what you did was done kindly; but there's an old proverb, to the effect, 'that you should let sleeping dogs lie,'" he added with a smile. Then, getting up, and stretching himself with a yawn, he took up his book and said, "I have slept quite long enough, and it's quite time for me to be going home." "Excuse my curiosity," said I, "if I inquire what may induce you to come and sleep in this meadow?" "To tell you the truth," answered he, "I am a bad sleeper." "Pray pardon me," said I, "if I tell you that I never saw one sleep more heartily." "If I did so," said the individual, "I am beholden to this meadow and this book; but I am talking riddles, and will explain myself. I am the owner of a very pretty property, of which this valley forms part. Some years ago, however, up started a person who said the property was his; a lawsuit ensued, and I was on the brink of losing my all, when, most unexpectedly, the suit was determined in my favour. Owing, however, to the anxiety to which my mind had been subjected for several years, my nerves had become terribly shaken; and no sooner was the trial terminated than sleep forsook my pillow. I sometimes passed nights without closing an eye; I took opiates, but they rather increased than alleviated my malady. About three weeks ago a friend of mine put this book into my hand, and advised me to take it every day to some pleasant part of my estate, and try and read a page or two, assuring me, if I did, that I should infallibly fall asleep. I took his advice, and selecting this place, which I considered the pleasantest part of my property, I came, and lying down, commenced reading the book, and before finishing a page was in a dead slumber. Every day since then I have repeated the experiment, and every time with equal success. I am a single man, without any children; and yesterday I made my will, in which, in the event of my friend's surviving me, I have left him all my fortune, in gratitude for his having procured for me the most invaluable of all blessings--sleep." "Dear me," said I, "how very extraordinary! Do you think that your going to sleep is caused by the meadow or the book?" "I suppose by both," said my new acquaintance, "acting in co-operation." "It may be so," said I; "the magic influence does certainly not proceed from the meadow alone; for since I have been here, I have not felt the slightest inclination to sleep. Does the book consist of prose or poetry?" "It consists of poetry," said the individual. "Not Byron's?" said I. "Byron's!" repeated the individual, with a smile of contempt; "no, no; there is nothing narcotic in Byron's poetry. I don't like it. I used to read it, but it thrilled, agitated, and kept me awake. No; this is not Byron's poetry, but the inimitable ---'s"--mentioning a name which I had never heard till then. "Will you permit me to look at it?" said I. "With pleasure," he answered, politely handing me the book. I took the volume, and glanced over the contents. It was written in blank verse, and appeared to abound in descriptions of scenery; there was much mention of mountains, valleys, streams, and waterfalls, harebells and daffodils. These descriptions were interspersed with dialogues, which, though they proceeded from the mouths of pedlars and rustics, were of the most edifying description; mostly on subjects moral or metaphysical, and couched in the most gentlemanly and unexceptionable language, without the slightest mixture of vulgarity, coarseness, or pie-bald grammar. Such appeared to me to be the contents of the book; but before I could form a very clear idea of them, I found myself nodding, and a surprising desire to sleep coming over me. Rousing myself, however, by a strong effort, I closed the book, and, returning it to the owner, inquired of him, "Whether he had any motive in coming and lying down in the meadow, besides the wish of enjoying sleep?" "None whatever," he replied; "indeed, I should be very glad not to be compelled to do so, always provided I could enjoy the blessing of sleep; for by lying down under trees, I may possibly catch the rheumatism, or be stung by serpents; and, moreover, in the rainy season and winter the thing will be impossible, unless I erect a tent, which will possibly destroy the charm." "Well," said I, "you need give yourself no further trouble about coming here, as I am fully convinced that with this book in your hand, you may go to sleep anywhere, as your friend was doubtless aware, though he wished to interest your imagination for a time by persuading you to lie abroad; therefore, in future, whenever you feel disposed to sleep, try to read the book, and you will be sound asleep in a minute; the narcotic influence lies in the book, and not in the field." "I will follow your advice," said the individual; "and this very night take it with me to bed; though I hope in time to be able to sleep without it, my nerves being already much quieted from the slumbers I have enjoyed in this field." He then moved towards the gate, where we parted; he going one way, and I and my horse the other. More than twenty years subsequent to this period, after much wandering about the world, returning to my native country, I was invited to a literary tea-party, where, the discourse turning upon poetry, I, in order to show that I was not more ignorant than my neighbours, began to talk about Byron, for whose writings I really entertained considerable admiration, though I had no particular esteem for the man himself. At first, I received no answer to what I said--the company merely surveying me with a kind of sleepy stare. At length a lady, about the age of forty, with a large wart on her face, observed, in a drawling tone, "That she had not read Byron--at least, since her girlhood--and then only a few passages; but that the impression on her mind was, that his writings were of a highly objectionable character." "I also read a little of him in my boyhood," said a gentleman about sixty, but who evidently, from his dress and demeanour, wished to appear about thirty, "but I highly disapproved of him; for, notwithstanding he was a nobleman, he is frequently very coarse, and very fond of raising emotion. Now emotion is what I dislike;" drawling out the last syllable of the word dislike. "There is only one poet for me--the divine--" and then he mentioned a name which I had only once heard, and afterwards quite forgotten; the same mentioned by the snorer in the field. "Ah! there is no one like him!" murmured some more of the company; "the poet of nature--of nature without its vulgarity." I wished very much to ask these people whether they were ever bad sleepers, and whether they had read the poet, so called, from a desire of being set to sleep. Within a few days, however, I learnt that it had of late become very fashionable and genteel to appear half asleep, and that one could exhibit no better mark of superfine breeding than by occasionally in company setting one's rhomal organ in action. I then ceased to wonder at the popularity, which I found nearly universal, of --- 's poetry; for, certainly in order to make one's self appear sleepy in company, or occasionally to induce sleep, nothing could be more efficacious than a slight prelection of his poems. So poor Byron, with his fire and emotion--to say nothing of his mouthings and coxcombry--was dethroned, as I prophesied he would be more than twenty years before, on the day of his funeral, though I had little idea that his humiliation would have been brought about by one, whose sole strength consists in setting people to sleep. Well, all things are doomed to terminate in sleep. Before that termination, however, I will venture to prophesy that people will become a little more awake--snoring and yawning be a little less in fashion--and poor Byron be once more reinstated on his throne, though his rival will always stand a good chance of being worshipped by those whose ruined nerves are insensible to the narcotic powers of opium and morphine. CHAPTER XXIII Drivers and Front Outside Passengers--Fatigue of Body and Mind--Unexpected Greeting--My Inn--The Governor--Engagement. I continued my journey, passing through one or two villages. The day was exceedingly hot, and the roads dusty. In order to cause my horse as little fatigue as possible, and not to chafe his back, I led him by the bridle, my doing which brought upon me a shower of remarks, jests, and would-be witticisms from the drivers and front outside passengers of sundry stage-coaches which passed me in one direction or the other. In this way I proceeded till considerably past noon, when I felt myself very fatigued, and my horse appeared no less so; and it is probable that the lazy and listless manner in which we were moving on, tired us both much more effectually than hurrying along at a swift trot would have done, for I have observed that when the energies of the body are not exerted a languor frequently comes over it. At length arriving at a very large building with an archway, near the entrance of a town, I sat down on what appeared to be a stepping-block, and presently experienced a great depression of spirits. I began to ask myself whither I was going, and what I should do with myself and the horse which I held by the bridle? It appeared to me that I was alone in the world with the poor animal, who looked for support to me, who knew not how to support myself. Then the image of Isopel Berners came into my mind, and when I thought how I had lost her for ever, and how happy I might have been with her in the New World had she not deserted me, I became yet more miserable. As I sat in this state of mind, I suddenly felt some one clap me on the shoulder, and heard a voice say, "Ha! comrade of the dingle, what chance has brought you into these parts?" I turned round, and beheld a man in the dress of a postillion, whom I instantly recognized as he to whom I had rendered assistance on the night of the storm. "Ah!" said I, "is it you? I am glad to see you, for I was feeling very lonely and melancholy." "Lonely and melancholy," he replied, "how is that? how can any one be lonely and melancholy with such a noble horse as that you hold by the bridle?" "The horse," said I, "is one cause of my melancholy, for I know not in the world what to do with it." "It is your own?" "Yes," said I, "I may call it my own, though I borrowed the money to purchase it." "Well, why don't you sell it?" "It is not always easy to find a purchaser for a horse like this," said I; "can you recommend me one?" "I? Why no, not exactly; but you'll find a purchaser shortly--pooh! if you have no other cause for disquiet than that horse, cheer up, man, don't be cast down. Have you nothing else on your mind? By the bye, what's become of the young woman you were keeping company with in that queer lodging place of yours?" "She has left me," said I. "You quarrelled, I suppose?" "No," said I, "we did not exactly quarrel, but we are parted." "Well," replied he, "but you will soon come together again." "No," said I, "we are parted for ever." "For ever! Pooh! you little know how people sometimes come together again who think they are parted for ever. Here's something on that point relating to myself. You remember, when I told you my story in that dingle of yours, that I mentioned a young woman, my fellow-servant when I lived with the English family in Mumbo Jumbo's town, and how she and I, when our foolish governors were thinking of changing their religion, agreed to stand by each other, and be true to old Church of England, and to give our governors warning, provided they tried to make us renegades. Well, she and I parted soon after that, and never to meet again, yet we met the other day in the fields, for she lately came to live with a great family not far from here, and we have since agreed to marry, to take a little farm, for we have both a trifle of money, and live together till 'death us do part.' So much for parting for ever! But what do I mean by keeping you broiling in the sun with your horse's bridle in your hand, and you on my own ground? Do you know where you are? Why, that great house is my inn, that is, it's my master's, the best fellow in ---. Come along, you and your horse both will find a welcome at my inn." Thereupon he led the way into a large court in which there were coaches, chaises, and a great many people; taking my horse from me, he led it into a nice cool stall, and fastened it to the rack--he then conducted me into a postillion's keeping-room, which at that time chanced to be empty, and he then fetched a pot of beer and sat down by me. After a little conversation he asked me what I intended to do, and I told him frankly that I did not know; whereupon he observed that, provided I had no objection, he had little doubt that I could be accommodated for some time at his inn. "Our upper ostler," said he, "died about a week ago; he was a clever fellow, and, besides his trade, understood reading and accounts." "Dear me," said I, interrupting him, "I am not fitted for the place of ostler--moreover, I refused the place of ostler at a public-house, which was offered to me only a few days ago." The postillion burst into a laugh. "Ostler at a public-house, indeed! why, you would not compare a berth at a place like that with the situation of ostler at my inn, the first road-house in England! However, I was not thinking of the place of ostler for you; you are, as you say, not fitted for it, at any rate, not at a house like this. We have, moreover, the best under-ostler in all England--old Bill, with the drawback that he is rather fond of drink. We could make shift with him very well, provided we could fall in with a man of writing and figures, who could give an account of the hay and corn which comes in and goes out, and wouldn't object to give a look occasionally at the yard. Now it appears to me that you are just such a kind of man, and, if you will allow me to speak to the governor, I don't doubt that he will gladly take you, as he feels kindly disposed towards you from what he has heard me say concerning you." "And what should I do with my horse?" said I. "The horse need give you no uneasiness," said the postillion; "I know he will be welcome here both for bed and manger, and, perhaps, in a little time you may find a purchaser, as a vast number of sporting people frequent this house." I offered two or three more objections, which the postillion overcame with great force of argument, and the pot being nearly empty, he drained it to the bottom drop, and then starting up, left me alone. In about twenty minutes he returned, accompanied by a highly intelligent- looking individual, dressed in blue and black, with a particularly white cravat, and without a hat on his head: this individual, whom I should have mistaken for a gentleman but for the intelligence depicted in his face, he introduced to me as the master of the inn. The master of the inn shook me warmly by the hand, told me that he was happy to see me in his house, and thanked me in the handsomest terms for the kindness I had shown to his servant in the affair of the thunderstorm. Then saying that he was informed I was out of employ, he assured me that he should be most happy to engage me to keep his hay and corn account, and as general superintendent of the yard, and that with respect to the horse, which he was told I had, he begged to inform me that I was perfectly at liberty to keep it at the inn upon the very best, until I could find a purchaser,--that with regard to wages--but he had no sooner mentioned wages than I cut him short, saying, that provided I stayed I should be most happy to serve him for bed and board, and requested that he would allow me until the next morning to consider of his offer; he willingly consented to my request, and, begging that I would call for anything I pleased, left me alone with the postillion. I passed that night until about ten o'clock with the postillion, when he left me, having to drive a family about ten miles across the country; before his departure, however, I told him that I had determined to accept the offer of his governor, as he called him. At the bottom of my heart I was most happy that an offer had been made, which secured to myself and the animal a comfortable retreat at a moment when I knew not whither in the world to take myself and him. CHAPTER XXIV An Inn of Times gone by--A First-rate Publican--Hay and Corn--Old-fashioned Ostler--Highwaymen--Mounted Police--Grooming. The inn, of which I had become an inhabitant, was a place of infinite life and bustle. Travellers of all descriptions, from all the cardinal points, were continually stopping at it; and to attend to their wants, and minister to their convenience, an army of servants, of one description or other, was kept; waiters, chambermaids, grooms, postillions, shoe-blacks, cooks, scullions, and what not, for there was a barber and hair-dresser, who had been at Paris, and talked French with a cockney accent; the French sounding all the better, as no accent is so melodious as the cockney. Jacks creaked in the kitchens turning round spits, on which large joints of meat piped and smoked before great big fires. There was running up and down stairs, and along galleries, slamming of doors, cries of "Coming, sir," and "Please to step this way, ma'am," during eighteen hours of the four-and-twenty. Truly a very great place for life and bustle was this inn. And often in after life, when lonely and melancholy, I have called up the time I spent there, and never failed to become cheerful from the recollection. I found the master of the house a very kind and civil person. Before being an inn-keeper he had been in some other line of business; but on the death of the former proprietor of the inn had married his widow, who was still alive, but, being somewhat infirm, lived in a retired part of the house. I have said that he was kind and civil; he was, however, not one of those people who suffer themselves to be made fools of by anybody; he knew his customers, and had a calm, clear eye, which would look through a man without seeming to do so. The accommodation of his house was of the very best description; his wines were good, his viands equally so, and his charges not immoderate; though he very properly took care of himself. He was no vulgar inn-keeper, had a host of friends, and deserved them all. During the time I lived with him, he was presented by a large assemblage of his friends and customers with a dinner at his own house, which was very costly, and at which the best of wines were sported, and after the dinner with a piece of plate estimated at fifty guineas. He received the plate, made a neat speech of thanks, and when the bill was called for, made another neat speech, in which he refused to receive one farthing for the entertainment, ordering in at the same time two dozen more of the best champagne, and sitting down amidst uproarious applause, and cries of "You shall be no loser by it!" Nothing very wonderful in such conduct, some people will say; I don't say there is, nor have I any intention to endeavour to persuade the reader that the landlord was a Carlo Boromeo; he merely gave a quid pro quo; but it is not every person who will give you a quid pro quo. Had he been a vulgar publican, he would have sent in a swinging bill after receiving the plate; "but then no vulgar publican would have been presented with plate;" perhaps not, but many a vulgar public character has been presented with plate, whose admirers never received a quid pro quo, except in the shape of a swinging bill. I found my duties of distributing hay and corn, and keeping an account thereof, anything but disagreeable, particularly after I had acquired the good-will of the old ostler, who at first looked upon me with rather an evil eye, considering me somewhat in the light of one who had usurped an office which belonged to himself by the right of succession; but there was little gall in the old fellow, and, by speaking kindly to him, never giving myself any airs of assumption; but, above all, by frequently reading the newspapers to him--for though passionately fond of news and politics, he was unable to read--I soon succeeded in placing myself on excellent terms with him. A regular character was that old ostler; he was a Yorkshireman by birth, but had seen a great deal of life in the vicinity of London, to which, on the death of his parents, who were very poor people, he went at a very early age. Amongst other places where he had served as ostler was a small inn at Hounslow, much frequented by highwaymen, whose exploits he was fond of narrating, especially those of Jerry Abershaw, who, he said, was a capital rider; and on hearing his accounts of that worthy, I half regretted that the old fellow had not been in London, and I had not formed his acquaintance about the time I was thinking of writing the life of the said Abershaw, not doubting that with his assistance, I could have produced a book at least as remarkable as the life and adventures of that entirely imaginary personage Joseph Sell; perhaps, however, I was mistaken; and whenever Abershaw's life shall appear before the public--and my publisher credibly informs me that it has not yet appeared--I beg and entreat the public to state which it likes best, the life of Abershaw, or that of Sell, for which latter work I am informed that during the last few months there has been a prodigious demand. My old friend, however, after talking of Abershaw, would frequently add, that, good rider as Abershaw certainly was, he was decidedly inferior to Richard Ferguson, generally called Galloping Dick, who was a pal of Abershaw's, and had enjoyed a career as long, and nearly as remarkable as his own. I learned from him that both were capital customers at the Hounslow inn, and that he had frequently drank with them in the corn-room. He said that no man could desire more jolly or entertaining companions over a glass of "summut;" but that upon the road it was anything but desirable to meet them; there they were terrible, cursing and swearing, and thrusting the muzzles of their pistols into people's mouths; and at this part of his locution the old man winked, and said, in a somewhat lower voice, that upon the whole they were right in doing so, and that when a person had once made up his mind to become a highwayman, his best policy was to go the whole hog, fearing nothing, but making everybody afraid of him; that people never thought of resisting a savage-faced, foul-mouthed highwayman, and if he were taken, were afraid to bear witness against him, lest he should get off and cut their throats some time or other upon the roads; whereas people would resist being robbed by a sneaking, pale-visaged rascal, and would swear bodily against him on the first opportunity,--adding, that Abershaw and Ferguson, two most awful fellows, had enjoyed a long career, whereas two disbanded officers of the army, who wished to rob a coach like gentlemen, had begged the passengers' pardon, and talked of hard necessity, had been set upon by the passengers themselves, amongst whom were three women, pulled from their horses, conducted to Maidstone, and hanged with as little pity as such contemptible fellows deserved. "There is nothing like going the whole hog," he repeated, "and if ever I had been a highwayman, I would have done so; I should have thought myself all the more safe; and, moreover, shouldn't have despised myself. To curry favour with those you are robbing, sometimes at the expense of your own comrades, as I have known fellows do, why, it is the greatest--" "So it is," interposed my friend the postillion, who chanced to be present at a considerable part of the old ostler's discourse; "it is, as you say, the greatest of humbug, and merely, after all, gets a fellow into trouble; but no regular bred highwayman would do it. I say, George, catch the Pope of Rome trying to curry favour with anybody he robs; catch old Mumbo Jumbo currying favour with the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Dean and Chapter, should he meet them in a stage-coach; it would be with him, Bricconi Abbasso, as he knocked their teeth out with the butt of his trombone; and the old regular-built ruffian would be all the safer for it, as Bill would say, as ten to one the Archbishop and Chapter, after such a spice of his quality, would be afraid to swear against him, and to hang him, even if he were in their power, though that would be the proper way; for, if it is the greatest of all humbug for a highwayman to curry favour with those he robs, the next greatest is to try to curry favour with a highwayman when you have got him, by letting him off." Finding the old man so well acquainted with the history of highwaymen, and taking considerable interest in the subject, having myself edited a book containing the lives of many remarkable people who had figured on the highway, I forthwith asked him how it was that the trade of highwaymen had become extinct in England, as at present we never heard of any one following it. Whereupon he told me that many causes had contributed to bring about that result; the principal of which were the following:--the refusal to license houses which were known to afford shelter to highwaymen, which, amongst many others, had caused the inn at Hounslow to be closed; the inclosure of many a wild heath in the country, on which they were in the habit of lurking, and particularly the establishing in the neighbourhood of London of a well-armed mounted patrol, who rode the highwaymen down, and delivered them up to justice, which hanged them without ceremony. "And that would be the way to deal with Mumbo Jumbo and his gang," said the postillion, "should they show their visages in these realms; and I hear by the newspapers that they are becoming every day more desperate. Take away the license from their public-houses, cut down the rookeries and shadowy old avenues in which they are fond of lying in wait, in order to sally out upon people as they pass in the roads; but, above all, establish a good mounted police to ride after the ruffians and drag them by the scruff of the neck to the next clink, where they might lie till they could be properly dealt with by law; instead of which, the Government are repealing the wise old laws enacted against such characters, giving fresh licenses every day to their public-houses, and saying that it would be a pity to cut down their rookeries and thickets because they look so very picturesque; and, in fact, giving them all kind of encouragement; why, if such behaviour is not enough to drive an honest man mad, I know not what is. It is of no use talking, I only wish the power were in my hands, and if I did not make short work of them, might I be a mere jackass postillion all the remainder of my life." Besides acquiring from the ancient ostler a great deal of curious information respecting the ways and habits of the heroes of the road, with whom he had come in contact in the early portion of his life, I picked up from him many excellent hints relating to the art of grooming horses. Whilst at the inn, I frequently groomed the stage and post-horses, and those driven up by travellers in their gigs: I was not compelled, nor indeed expected, to do so; but I took pleasure in the occupation; and I remember at that period one of the principal objects of my ambition was to be a first-rate groom, and to make the skins of the creatures I took in hand look sleek and glossy like those of moles. I have said that I derived valuable hints from the old man, and, indeed, became a very tolerable groom, but there was a certain finishing touch which I could never learn from him, though he possessed it himself, and which I could never attain to by my own endeavours; though my want of success certainly did not proceed from want of application, for I have rubbed the horses down, purring and buzzing all the time, after the genuine ostler fashion, until the perspiration fell in heavy drops upon my shoes, and when I had done my best and asked the old fellow what he thought of my work, I could never extract from him more than a kind of grunt, which might be translated, "Not so very bad, but I have seen a horse groomed much better," which leads me to suppose that a person, in order to be a first-rate groom, must have something in him when he is born which I had not, and, indeed, which many other people have not who pretend to be grooms. What does the reader think? CHAPTER XXV Stable Hartshorn--How to Manage a Horse on a Journey--Your Best Friend. Of one thing I am certain, that the reader must be much delighted with the wholesome smell of the stable, with which many of these pages are redolent; what a contrast to the sickly odours exhaled from those of some of my contemporaries, especially of those who pretend to be of the highly fashionable class, and who treat of reception-rooms, well may they be styled so, in which dukes, duchesses, earls, countesses, archbishops, bishops, mayors, mayoresses--not forgetting the writers themselves, both male and female--congregate and press upon one another; how cheering, how refreshing, after having been nearly knocked down with such an atmosphere, to come in contact with genuine stable hartshorn. Oh! the reader shall have yet more of the stable, and of that old ostler, for which he or she will doubtless exclaim, "Much obliged!"--and, lest I should forget to perform my promise, the reader shall have it now. I shall never forget an harangue from the mouth of the old man, which I listened to one warm evening as he and I sat on the threshold of the stable, after having attended to some of the wants of a batch of coach- horses. It related to the manner in which a gentleman should take care of his horse and self, whilst engaged in a journey on horseback, and was addressed to myself, on the supposition of my one day coming to an estate, and of course becoming a gentleman. "When you are a gentleman," said he, "should you ever wish to take a journey on a horse of your own, and you could not have a much better than the one you have here eating its fill in the box yonder--I wonder, by the bye, how you ever came by it--you can't do better than follow the advice I am about to give you, both with respect to your animal and yourself. Before you start, merely give your horse a couple of handfuls of corn and a little water, somewhat under a quart, and if you drink a pint of water yourself out of the pail, you will feel all the better during the whole day; then you may walk and trot your animal for about ten miles, till you come to some nice inn, where you may get down and see your horse led into a nice stall, telling the ostler not to feed him till you come. If the ostler happens to be a dog-fancier, and has an English terrier-dog like that of mine there, say what a nice dog it is, and praise its black and tawn; and if he does not happen to be a dog-fancier, ask him how he's getting on, and whether he ever knew worse times; that kind of thing will please the ostler, and he will let you do just what you please with your own horse, and when your back is turned, he'll say to his comrades what a nice gentleman you are, and how he thinks he has seen you before; then go and sit down to breakfast, and, before you have finished breakfast, get up and go and give your horse a feed of corn; chat with the ostler two or three minutes till your horse has taken the shine out of his corn, which will prevent the ostler taking any of it away when your back is turned, for such things are sometimes done--not that I ever did such a thing myself when I was at the inn at Hounslow. Oh, dear me, no! Then go and finish your breakfast, and when you have finished your breakfast and called for the newspaper, go and water your horse, letting him have one pailful, then give him another feed of corn, and enter into discourse with the ostler about bull-baiting, the prime minister, and the like; and when your horse has once more taken the shine out of his corn, go back to your room and your newspaper--and I hope for your sake it may be the _Globe_, for that's the best paper going--then pull the bell-rope and order in your bill, which you will pay without counting it up--supposing you to be a gentleman. Give the waiter sixpence, and order out your horse, and when your horse is out, pay for the corn, and give the ostler a shilling, then mount your horse and walk him gently for five miles; and whilst you are walking him in this manner, it may be as well to tell you to take care that you do not let him down and smash his knees, more especially if the road be a particularly good one, for it is not at a desperate hiverman pace, and over very bad roads, that a horse tumbles and smashes his knees, but on your particularly nice road, when the horse is going gently and lazily, and is half asleep, like the gemman on his back; well, at the end of the five miles, when the horse has digested his food, and is all right, you may begin to push your horse on, trotting him a mile at a heat, and then walking him a quarter of a one, that his wind may be not distressed; and you may go on in that way for thirty miles, never galloping, of course, for none but fools or hivermen ever gallop horses on roads; and at the end of that distance you may stop at some other nice inn to dinner. I say, when your horse is led into the stable, after that same thirty miles' trotting and walking, don't let the saddle be whisked off at once, for if you do your horse will have such a sore back as will frighten you, but let your saddle remain on your horse's back, with the girths loosened, till after his next feed of corn, and be sure that he has no corn, much less water, till after a long hour and more; after he is fed he may be watered to the tune of half a pail, and then the ostler can give him a regular rub down; you may then sit down to dinner, and when you have dined get up and see to your horse as you did after breakfast, in fact, you must do much after the same fashion you did at t'other inn; see to your horse, and by no means disoblige the ostler. So when you have seen to your horse a second time, you will sit down to your bottle of wine--supposing you to be a gentleman--and after you have finished it, and your argument about the corn-laws with any commercial gentleman who happens to be in the room, you may mount your horse again--not forgetting to do the proper thing to the waiter and ostler; you may mount your horse again and ride him, as you did before, for about five and twenty miles, at the end of which you may put up for the night after a very fair day's journey, for no gentleman--supposing he weighs sixteen stone, as I suppose you will by the time you become a gentleman--ought to ride a horse more than sixty-five miles in one day, provided he has any regard for his horse's back, or his own either. See to your horse at night, and have him well rubbed down. The next day you may ride your horse forty miles, just as you please, but never foolishly, and those forty miles will bring you to your journey's end, unless your journey be a plaguy long one, and if so, never ride your horse more than five and thirty miles a day, always, however, seeing him well fed, and taking more care of him than yourself; which is but right and reasonable, seeing as how the horse is the best animal of the two." "When you are a gentleman," said he, after a pause, "the first thing you must think about is to provide yourself with a good horse for your own particular riding; you will, perhaps, keep a coach and pair, but they will be less your own than your lady's, should you have one, and your young gentry, should you have any; or, if you have neither, for madam, your housekeeper, and the upper female servants; so you need trouble your head less about them, though, of course, you would not like to pay away your money for screws; but be sure you get a good horse for your own riding; and that you may have a good chance of having a good one, buy one that's young and has plenty of belly--a little more than the one has which you now have, though you are not yet a gentleman; you will, of course, look to his head, his withers, legs and other points, but never buy a horse at any price that has not plenty of belly; no horse that has not belly is ever a good feeder, and a horse that a'n't a good feeder can't be a good horse; never buy a horse that is drawn up in the belly behind; a horse of that description can't feed, and can never carry sixteen stone. "So when you have got such a horse be proud of it--as I daresay you are of the one you have now--and wherever you go swear there a'n't another to match it in the country, and if anybody gives you the lie, take him by the nose and tweak it off, just as you would do if anybody were to speak ill of your lady, or, for want of her, of your housekeeper. Take care of your horse, as you would of the apple of your eye--I am sure I would, if I were a gentleman, which I don't ever expect to be, and hardly wish, seeing as how I am sixty-nine, and am rather too old to ride--yes, cherish and take care of your horse as perhaps the best friend you have in the world; for, after all, who will carry you through thick and thin as your horse will? not your gentlemen friends, I warrant, nor your upper servants, male or female; perhaps your lady would, that is, if she is a whopper, and one of the right sort; the others would be more likely to take up mud and pelt you with it, provided they saw you in trouble, than to help you. So take care of your horse, and feed him every day with your own hands; give him three quarters of a peck of corn each day, mixed up with a little hay-chaff, and allow him besides one hundredweight of hay in the course of the week; some say that the hay should be hardland hay, because it is the wholesomest, but I say, let it be clover hay, because the horse likes it best; give him through summer and winter, once a week, a pailful of bran mash, cold in summer and in winter hot; ride him gently about the neighbourhood every day, by which means you will give exercise to yourself and horse, and, moreover, have the satisfaction of exhibiting yourself and your horse to advantage, and hearing, perhaps, the men say what a fine horse, and the ladies saying what a fine man: never let your groom mount your horse, as it is ten to one, if you do, your groom will be wishing to show off before company, and will fling your horse down. I was groom to a gemman before I went to the inn at Hounslow, and flung him a horse down worth ninety guineas, by endeavouring to show off before some ladies that I met on the road. Turn your horse out to grass throughout May and the first part of June, for then the grass is sweetest, and the flies don't sting so bad as they do later in summer; afterwards merely turn him out occasionally in the swale of the morn and the evening; after September the grass is good for little, lash and sour at best; every horse should go out to grass, if not his blood becomes full of greasy humours, and his wind is apt to become affected, but he ought to be kept as much as possible from the heat and flies, always got up at night, and never turned out late in the year--Lord! if I had always such a nice attentive person to listen to me as you are, I could go on talking about 'orses to the end of time." CHAPTER XXVI The Stage--Coachmen of England--A Bully Served Out--Broughton's Guard--The Brazen Head. I lived on very good terms, not only with the master and the old ostler, but with all the domestics and hangers on at the inn; waiters, chambermaids, cooks, and scullions, not forgetting the "boots," of which there were three. As for the postillions, I was sworn brother with them all, and some of them went so far as to swear that I was the best fellow in the world; for which high opinion entertained by them of me, I believe I was principally indebted to the good account their comrade gave of me, whom I had so hospitably received in the dingle. I repeat that I lived on good terms with all the people connected with the inn, and was noticed and spoken kindly to by some of the guests--especially by that class termed commercial travellers--all of whom were great friends and patronizers of the landlord, and were the principal promoters of the dinner, and subscribers to the gift of plate, which I have already spoken of, the whole fraternity striking me as the jolliest set of fellows imaginable, the best customers to an inn, and the most liberal to servants; there was one description of persons, however, frequenting the inn, which I did not like at all, and which I did not get on well with, and these people were the stage-coachmen. The stage-coachmen of England, at the time of which I am speaking, considered themselves mighty fine gentry, nay, I verily believe the most important personages of the realm, and their entertaining this high opinion of themselves can scarcely be wondered at; they were low fellows, but masters at driving; driving was in fashion, and sprigs of nobility used to dress as coachmen and imitate the slang and behaviour of the coachmen, from whom occasionally they would take lessons in driving as they sat beside them on the box, which post of honour any sprig of nobility who happened to take a place on a coach claimed as his unquestionable right; and these sprigs would smoke cigars and drink sherry with the coachmen in bar-rooms, and on the road; and, when bidding them farewell, would give them a guinea or a half-guinea, and shake them by the hand, so that these fellows, being low fellows, very naturally thought no small liquor of themselves, but would talk familiarly of their friends lords so and so, the honourable misters so and so, and Sir Harry and Sir Charles, and be wonderfully saucy to any one who was not a lord, or something of the kind; and this high opinion of themselves received daily augmentation from the servile homage paid them by the generality of the untitled male passengers, especially those on the fore part of the coach, who used to contend for the honour of sitting on the box with the coachman when no sprig was nigh to put in his claim. Oh! what servile homage these craven creatures did pay these same coach fellows, more especially after witnessing this or t'other act of brutality practised upon the weak and unoffending--upon some poor friendless woman travelling with but little money, and perhaps a brace of hungry children with her, or upon some thin and half-starved man travelling on the hind part of the coach from London to Liverpool with only eighteen pence in his pocket after his fare was paid, to defray his expenses on the road; for as the insolence of these knights was vast, so was their rapacity enormous; they had been so long accustomed to have crowns and half-crowns rained upon them by their admirers and flatterers, that they would look at a shilling, for which many an honest labourer was happy to toil for ten hours under a broiling sun, with the utmost contempt; would blow upon it derisively, or fillip it into the air before they pocketed it; but when nothing was given them, as would occasionally happen--for how could they receive from those who had nothing? and nobody was bound to give them anything, as they had certain wages from their employers--then what a scene would ensue! Truly the brutality and rapacious insolence of English coachmen had reached a climax; it was time that these fellows should be disenchanted, and the time--thank Heaven!--was not far distant. Let the craven dastards who used to curry favour with them, and applaud their brutality, lament their loss now that they and their vehicles have disappeared from the roads; I, who have ever been an enemy to insolence, cruelty, and tyranny, loathe their memory, and, what is more, am not afraid to say so, well aware of the storm of vituperation, partly learnt from them, which I may expect from those who used to fall down and worship them. Amongst the coachmen who frequented the inn was one who was called "the bang-up coachman." He drove to our inn, in the fore part of every day, one of what were called the fast coaches, and afterwards took back the corresponding vehicle. He stayed at our house about twenty minutes, during which time the passengers of the coach which he was to return with dined; those at least who were inclined for dinner, and could pay for it. He derived his sobriquet of "the bang-up coachman" partly from his being dressed in the extremity of coach dandyism, and partly from the peculiar insolence of his manner, and the unmerciful fashion in which he was in the habit of lashing on the poor horses committed to his charge. He was a large tall fellow, of about thirty, with a face which, had it not been bloated by excess, and insolence and cruelty stamped most visibly upon it, might have been called good-looking. His insolence indeed was so great, that he was hated by all the minor fry connected with coaches along the road upon which he drove, especially the ostlers, whom he was continually abusing or finding fault with. Many was the hearty curse which he received when his back was turned; but the generality of people were much afraid of him, for he was a swinging strong fellow, and had the reputation of being a fighter, and in one or two instances had beaten in a barbarous manner individuals who had quarrelled with him. I was nearly having a fracas with this worthy. One day, after he had been drinking sherry with a sprig, he swaggered into the yard where I happened to be standing; just then a waiter came by carrying upon a tray part of a splendid Cheshire cheese, with a knife, plate, and napkin. Stopping the waiter, the coachman cut with the knife a tolerably large lump out of the very middle of the cheese, stuck it on the end of the knife, and putting it to his mouth nibbled a slight piece off it, and then, tossing the rest away with disdain, flung the knife down upon the tray, motioning the waiter to proceed; "I wish," said I, "you may not want before you die what you have just flung away," whereupon the fellow turned furiously towards me; just then, however, his coach being standing at the door, there was a cry for coachman, so that he was forced to depart, contenting himself for the present with shaking his fist at me, and threatening to serve me out on the first opportunity; before, however, the opportunity occurred he himself got served out in a most unexpected manner. The day after this incident he drove his coach to the inn, and after having dismounted and received the contributions of the generality of the passengers, he strutted up, with a cigar in his mouth, to an individual who had come with him, and who had just asked me a question with respect to the direction of a village about three miles off, to which he was going. "Remember the coachman," said the knight of the box to this individual, who was a thin person of about sixty, with a white hat, rather shabby black coat, and buff-coloured trousers, and who held an umbrella and a small bundle in his hand. "If you expect me to give you anything," said he to the coachman, "you are mistaken; I will give you nothing. You have been very insolent to me as I rode behind you on the coach, and have encouraged two or three trumpery fellows, who rode along with you, to cut scurvy jokes at my expense, and now you come to me for money; I am not so poor, but I could have given you a shilling had you been civil; as it is, I will give you nothing." "Oh! you won't, won't you?" said the coachman; "dear me! I hope I shan't starve because you won't give me anything--a shilling! why, I could afford to give you twenty if I thought fit, you pauper! civil to you, indeed! things are come to a fine pass if I need be civil to you! Do you know who you are speaking to? why, the best lords in the country are proud to speak to me. Why, it was only the other day that the Marquis of--said to me--" and then he went on to say what the Marquis said to him; after which, flinging down his cigar, he strutted up the road, swearing to himself about paupers. "You say it is three miles to ---," said the individual to me; "I think I shall light my pipe, and smoke it as I go along." Thereupon he took out from a side-pocket a tobacco-box and short meerschaum pipe, and implements for striking a light, filled his pipe, lighted it, and commenced smoking. Presently the coachman drew near. I saw at once that there was mischief in his eye; the man smoking was standing with his back towards him, and he came so nigh to him, seemingly purposely, that as he passed a puff of smoke came of necessity against his face. "What do you mean by smoking in my face?" said he, striking the pipe of the elderly individual out of his mouth. The other, without manifesting much surprise, said, "I thank you; and if you will wait a minute, I will give you a receipt for that favour;" then gathering up his pipe, and taking off his coat and hat, he laid them on a stepping-block which stood near, and rubbing his hands together, he advanced towards the coachman in an attitude of offence, holding his hands crossed very near to his face. The coachman, who probably expected anything but such a movement from a person of the age and appearance of the individual whom he had insulted, stood for a moment motionless with surprise; but, recollecting himself, he pointed at him derisively with his finger; the next moment, however, the other was close upon him, had struck aside the extended hand with his left fist, and given him a severe blow on the nose with his right, which he immediately followed by a left-hand blow in the eye; then drawing his body slightly backward, with the velocity of lightning he struck the coachman full in the mouth, and the last blow was the severest of all, for it cut the coachman's lips nearly through; blows so quickly and sharply dealt I had never seen. The coachman reeled like a fir-tree in a gale, and seemed nearly unsensed. "Ho! what's this? a fight! a fight!" sounded from a dozen voices, and people came running from all directions to see what was going on. The coachman, coming somewhat to himself, disencumbered himself of his coat and hat; and, encouraged by two or three of his brothers of the whip, showed some symptoms of fighting, endeavouring to close with his foe, but the attempt was vain, for his foe was not to be closed with; he did not shift or dodge about, but warded off the blows of his opponent with the greatest sang-froid, always using the guard which I have already described, and putting in, in return, short chopping blows with the swiftness of lightning. In a very few minutes the countenance of the coachman was literally cut to pieces, and several of his teeth were dislodged; at length he gave in; stung with mortification, however, he repented, and asked for another round; it was granted, to his own complete demolition. The coachman did not drive his coach back that day, he did not appear on the box again for a week; but he never held up his head afterwards. Before I quitted the inn, he had disappeared from the road, going no one knew where. The coachman, as I have said before, was very much disliked upon the road, but there was an esprit de corps amongst the coachmen, and those who stood by did not like to see their brother chastised in such tremendous fashion. "I never saw such a fight before," said one. "Fight! why, I don't call it a fight at all; this chap here ha'n't got a scratch, whereas Tom is cut to pieces; it is all along of that guard of his; if Tom could have got within his guard he would have soon served the old chap out." "So he would," said another, "it was all owing to that guard. However, I think I see into it, and if I had not to drive this afternoon, I would have a turn with the old fellow and soon serve him out." "I will fight him now for a guinea," said the other coachman, half taking off his coat; observing, however, that the elderly individual made a motion towards him, he hitched it upon his shoulder again, and added, "that is, if he had not been fighting already, but as it is, I am above taking an advantage, especially of such a poor old creature as that." And when he had said this, he looked around him, and there was a feeble titter of approbation from two or three of the craven crew, who were in the habit of currying favour with the coachmen. The elderly individual looked for a moment at these last, and then said, "To such fellows as you I have nothing to say;" then turning to the coachmen, "and as for you," he said, "ye cowardly bullies, I have but one word, which is, that your reign upon the roads is nearly over, and that a time is coming when ye will no longer be wanted or employed in your present capacity, when ye will either have to drive dung-carts, assist as ostlers at village ale-houses, or rot in the workhouse." Then putting on his coat and hat, and taking up his bundle, not forgetting his meerschaum, and the rest of his smoking apparatus, he departed on his way. Filled with curiosity, I followed him. "I am quite astonished that you should be able to use your hands in the way you have done," said I, as I walked with this individual in the direction in which he was bound. "I will tell you how I became able to do so," said the elderly individual, proceeding to fill and light his pipe as he walked along. "My father was a journeyman engraver, who lived in a very riotous neighbourhood in the outskirts of London. Wishing to give me something of an education, he sent me to a day-school, two or three streets distant from where we lived, and there, being rather a puny boy, I suffered much persecution from my schoolfellows, who were a very blackguard set. One day, as I was running home, with one of my tormentors pursuing me, old Sergeant Broughton, the retired fighting-man, seized me by the arm--" "Dear me," said I, "has it ever been your luck to be acquainted with Sergeant Broughton?" "You may well call it luck," said the elderly individual; "but for him I should never have been able to make my way through the world. He lived only four doors from our house; so, as I was running along the street, with my tyrant behind me, Sergeant Broughton seized me by the arm. 'Stop, my boy,' said he; 'I have frequently seen that scamp ill-treating you; now I will teach you how to send him home with a bloody nose; down with your bag of books; and now, my game chick,' whispered he to me, placing himself between me and my adversary, so that he could not observe his motions; 'clench your fist in this manner, and hold your arms in this, and when he strikes at you, move them as I now show you, and he can't hurt you; now, don't be afraid, but go at him.' I confess that I was somewhat afraid, but I considered myself in some degree under the protection of the famous Sergeant, and, clenching my fist, I went at my foe, using the guard which my ally recommended. The result corresponded to a certain degree with the predictions of the Sergeant; I gave my foe a bloody nose and a black eye, though, notwithstanding my recent lesson in the art of self-defence, he contrived to give me two or three clumsy blows. From that moment I was the especial favourite of the Sergeant, who gave me further lessons, so that in a little time I became a very fair boxer, beating everybody of my own size who attacked me. The old gentleman, however, made me promise never to be quarrelsome, nor to turn his instructions to account, except in self-defence. I have always borne in mind my promise, and have made it a point of conscience never to fight unless absolutely compelled. Folks may rail against boxing if they please, but being able to box may sometimes stand a quiet man in good stead. How should I have fared to-day, but for the instructions of Sergeant Broughton? But for them, the brutal ruffian who insulted me must have passed unpunished. He will not soon forget the lesson which I have just given him--the only lesson he could understand. What would have been the use of reasoning with a fellow of that description? Brave old Broughton! I owe him much." "And your manner of fighting," said I, "was the manner employed by Sergeant Broughton?" "Yes," said my new acquaintance; "it was the manner in which he beat every one who attempted to contend with him, till, in an evil hour, he entered the ring with Slack, without any training or preparation, and by a chance blow lost the battle to a man who had been beaten with ease by those who, in the hands of Broughton, appeared like so many children. It was the way of fighting of him who first taught Englishmen to box scientifically, who was the head and father of the fighters of what is now called the old school, the last of which were Johnson and Big Ben." "A wonderful man, that Big Ben," said I. "He was so," said the elderly individual; "but had it not been for Broughton, I question whether Ben would have ever been the fighter he was. Oh! there was no one like old Broughton; but for him I should at the present moment be sneaking along the road, pursued by the hissings and hootings of the dirty flatterers of that blackguard coachman." "What did you mean," said I, "by those words of yours, that the coachmen would speedily disappear from the roads?" "I meant," said he, "that a new method of travelling is about to be established, which will supersede the old. I am a poor engraver, as my father was before me; but engraving is an intellectual trade, and by following it, I have been brought in contact with some of the cleverest men in England. It has even made me acquainted with the projector of the scheme, which he has told me many of the wisest heads of England have been dreaming of during a period of six hundred years, and which it seems was alluded to by a certain Brazen Head in the story-book of Friar Bacon, who is generally supposed to have been a wizard, but in reality was a great philosopher. Young man, in less than twenty years, by which time I shall be dead and gone, England will be surrounded with roads of metal, on which armies may travel with mighty velocity, and of which the walls of brass and iron by which the friar proposed to defend his native land are the types." He then, shaking me by the hand, proceeded on his way, whilst I returned to the inn. CHAPTER XXVII Francis Ardry--His Misfortunes--Dog and Lion Fight--Great Men of the World. A few days after the circumstance which I have last commemorated, it chanced that, as I was standing at the door of the inn, one of the numerous stage-coaches which were in the habit of stopping there, drove up, and several passengers got down. I had assisted a woman with a couple of children to dismount, and had just delivered to her a band-box, which appeared to be her only property, which she had begged me to fetch down from the roof, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and heard a voice exclaim, "Is it possible, old fellow, that I find you in this place?" I turned round, and, wrapped in a large blue cloak, I beheld my good friend Francis Ardry. I shook him most warmly by the hand, and said, "If you are surprised to see me, I am no less so to see you; where are you bound to?" "I am bound for L-; at any rate, I am booked for that sea-port," said my friend in reply. "I am sorry for it," said I, "for in that case we shall have to part in a quarter of an hour, the coach by which you came stopping no longer." "And whither are you bound?" demanded my friend. "I am stopping at present in this house, quite undetermined as to what to do." "Then come along with me," said Francis Ardry. "That I can scarcely do," said I; "I have a horse in the stall which I cannot afford to ruin by racing to L--- by the side of your coach." My friend mused for a moment: "I have no particular business at L---," said he; "I was merely going thither to pass a day or two, till an affair, in which I am deeply interested, at C--- shall come off. I think I shall stay with you for four-and-twenty hours at least; I have been rather melancholy of late, and cannot afford to part with a friend like you at the present moment; it is an unexpected piece of good fortune to have met you; and I have not been very fortunate of late," he added, sighing. "Well," said I, "I am glad to see you once more, whether fortunate, or not; where is your baggage?" "Yon trunk is mine," said Francis, pointing to a trunk of black Russian leather upon the coach. "We will soon have it down," said I; and at a word which I gave to one of the hangers-on of the inn, the trunk was taken from the top of the coach. "Now," said I to Francis Ardry, "follow me, I am a person of some authority in this house;" thereupon I led Francis Ardry into the house, and a word which I said to a waiter forthwith installed Francis Ardry in a comfortable private sitting-room, and his trunk in the very best sleeping-room of our extensive establishment. It was now about one o'clock: Francis Ardry ordered dinner for two, to be ready at four, and a pint of sherry to be brought forthwith, which I requested my friend the waiter might be the very best, and which in effect turned out as I requested; we sat down, and when we had drunk to each other's health, Frank requested me to make known to him how I had contrived to free myself from my embarrassments in London, what I had been about since I quitted that city, and the present posture of my affairs. I related to Francis Ardry how I had composed the Life of Joseph Sell, and how the sale of it to the bookseller had enabled me to quit London with money in my pocket, which had supported me during a long course of ramble in the country, into the particulars of which I, however, did not enter with any considerable degree of fulness. I summed up my account by saying that "I was at present a kind of overlooker in the stables of the inn, had still some pounds in my purse, and, moreover, a capital horse in the stall." "No very agreeable posture of affairs," said Francis Ardry, looking rather seriously at me. "I make no complaints," said I, "my prospects are not very bright, it is true, but sometimes I have visions both waking and sleeping, which, though always strange, are invariably agreeable. Last night, in my chamber near the hayloft, I dreamt that I had passed over an almost interminable wilderness--an enormous wall rose before me, the wall, methought, was the great wall of China:--strange figures appeared to be beckoning to me from the top of the wall; such visions are not exactly to be sneered at. Not that such phantasmagoria," said I, raising my voice, "are to be compared for a moment with such desirable things as fashion, fine clothes, cheques from uncles, parliamentary interest, the love of splendid females. Ah! woman's love," said I, and sighed. "What's the matter with the fellow?" said Francis Ardry. "There is nothing like it," said I. "Like what?" "Love, divine love," said I. "Confound love," said Francis Ardry, "I hate the very name; I have made myself a pretty fool by it, but trust me for ever being at such folly again. In an evil hour I abandoned my former pursuits and amusements for it; in one morning spent at Joey's there was more real pleasure than in--" "Surely," said I, "you are not hankering after dog-fighting again, a sport which none but the gross and unrefined care anything for? No, one's thoughts should be occupied by something higher and more rational than dog-fighting; and what better than love--divine love? Oh, there's nothing like it!" "Pray, don't talk nonsense," said Francis Ardry. "Nonsense," said I; "why I was repeating, to the best of my recollection, what I heard you say on a former occasion." "If ever I talked such stuff," said Francis Ardry, "I was a fool; and indeed I cannot deny that I have been one: no, there's no denying that I have been a fool. What do you think? that false Annette has cruelly abandoned me." "Well," said I, "perhaps you have yourself to thank for her having done so; did you never treat her with coldness, and repay her marks of affectionate interest with strange fits of eccentric humour?" "Lord! how little you know of women," said Francis Ardry; "had I done as you suppose, I should probably have possessed her at the present moment. I treated her in a manner diametrically opposite to that. I loaded her with presents, was always most assiduous to her, always at her feet, as I may say, yet she nevertheless abandoned me--and for whom? I am almost ashamed to say--for a fiddler." I took a glass of wine, Francis Ardry followed my example, and then proceeded to detail to me the treatment which he had experienced from Annette, and from what he said, it appeared that her conduct to him had been in the highest degree reprehensible; notwithstanding he had indulged her in everything, she was never civil to him, but loaded him continually with taunts and insults, and had finally, on his being unable to supply her with a sum of money which she had demanded, decamped from the lodgings which he had taken for her, carrying with her all the presents which at various times he had bestowed upon her, and had put herself under the protection of a gentleman who played the bassoon at the Italian Opera, at which place it appeared that her sister had lately been engaged as a danseuse. My friend informed me that at first he had experienced great agony at the ingratitude of Annette, but at last had made up his mind to forget her, and, in order more effectually to do so, had left London with the intention of witnessing a fight, which was shortly coming off at a town in these parts, between some dogs and a lion; which combat, he informed me, had for some time past been looked forward to with intense eagerness by the gentlemen of the sporting world. I commended him for his resolution, at the same time advising him not to give up his mind entirely to dog-fighting, as he had formerly done, but, when the present combat should be over, to return to his rhetorical studies, and above all to marry some rich and handsome lady on the first opportunity, as, with his person and expectations, he had only to sue for the hand of the daughter of a marquis to be successful, telling him, with a sigh, that all women were not Annettes, and that, upon the whole, there was nothing like them. To which advice he answered, that he intended to return to rhetoric as soon as the lion fight should be over, but that he never intended to marry, having had enough of women; adding that he was glad he had no sister, as, with the feelings which he entertained with respect to her sex, he should be unable to treat her with common affection, and concluded by repeating a proverb which he had learnt from an Arab whom he had met at Venice, to the effect, that, "one who has been stung by a snake, shivers at the sight of a sting." After a little more conversation, we strolled to the stable, where my horse was standing; my friend, who was a connoisseur in horseflesh, surveyed the animal with attention, and after inquiring where and how I had obtained him, asked what I intended to do with him; on my telling him that I was undetermined, and that I was afraid the horse was likely to prove a burden to me, he said, "It is a noble animal, and if you mind what you are about, you may make a small fortune by him. I do not want such an animal myself, nor do I know any one who does; but a great horse- fair will be held shortly at a place where, it is true, I have never been, but of which I have heard a great deal from my acquaintances, where it is said a first-rate horse is always sure to fetch its value; that place is Horncastle, in Lincolnshire, you should take him thither." Francis Ardry and myself dined together, and after dinner partook of a bottle of the best port which the inn afforded. After a few glasses, we had a great deal of conversation; I again brought the subject of marriage and love, divine love, upon the carpet, but Francis almost immediately begged me to drop it; and on my having the delicacy to comply, he reverted to dog-fighting, on which he talked well and learnedly; amongst other things, he said it was a princely sport of great antiquity, and quoted from Quintus Curtius to prove that the princes of India must have been of the fancy, they having, according to that author, treated Alexander to a fight between certain dogs and a lion. Becoming, notwithstanding my friend's eloquence and learning, somewhat tired of the subject, I began to talk about Alexander. Francis Ardry said he was one of the two great men whom the world has produced, the other being Napoleon; I replied that I believed Tamerlane was a greater man than either; but Francis Ardry knew nothing of Tamerlane, save what he had gathered from the play of Timour the Tartar. "No," said he, "Alexander and Napoleon are the great men of the world, their names are known everywhere. Alexander has been dead upwards of two thousand years, but the very English bumpkins sometimes christen their boys by the name of Alexander--can there be a greater evidence of his greatness? As for Napoleon, there are some parts of India in which his bust is worshipped." Wishing to make up a triumvirate, I mentioned the name of Wellington, to which Francis Ardry merely said, "bah!" and resumed the subject of dog- fighting. Francis Ardry remained at the inn during that day and the next, and then departed to the dog and lion fight; I never saw him afterwards, and merely heard of him once after a lapse of some years, and what I then heard was not exactly what I could have wished to hear. He did not make much of the advantages which he possessed, a pity, for how great were those advantages--person, intellect, eloquence, connection, riches! yet, with all these advantages, one thing highly needful seems to have been wanting in Francis. A desire, a craving, to perform something great and good. Oh! what a vast deal may be done with intellect, courage, riches, accompanied by the desire of doing something great and good! Why, a person may carry the blessings of civilization and religion to barbarous, yet at the same time beautiful and romantic lands; and what a triumph there is for him who does so! what a crown of glory! of far greater value than those surrounding the brows of your mere conquerors. Yet who has done so in these times? Not many; not three, not two, something seems to have been always wanting; there is, however, one instance, in which the various requisites have been united, and the crown, the most desirable in the world--at least which I consider to be the most desirable--achieved, and only one, that of Brooke of Borneo. CHAPTER XXVIII Mr. Platitude and the Man in Black--The Postillion's Adventures--The Lone House--A Goodly Assemblage. It never rains, but it pours. I was destined to see at this inn more acquaintances than one. On the day of Francis Ardry's departure, shortly after he had taken leave of me, as I was standing in the corn-chamber, at a kind of writing-table or desk, fastened to the wall, with a book before me, in which I was making out an account of the corn and hay lately received and distributed, my friend the postillion came running in out of breath. "Here they both are," he gasped out; "pray do come and look at them." "Whom do you mean?" said I. "Why, that red-haired Jack Priest, and that idiotic parson, Platitude; they have just been set down by one of the coaches, and want a postchaise to go across the country in; and what do you think? I am to have the driving of them. I have no time to lose, for I must get myself ready; so do come and look at them." I hastened into the yard of the inn; two or three of the helpers of our establishment were employed in drawing forward a postchaise out of the chaise-house, which occupied one side of the yard, and which was spacious enough to contain nearly twenty of these vehicles, though it was never full, several of them being always out upon the roads, as the demand upon us for postchaises across the country was very great. "There they are," said the postillion, softly, nodding towards two individuals, in one of whom I recognized the man in black, and in the other Mr. Platitude; "there they are; have a good look at them, while I go and get ready." The man in black and Mr. Platitude were walking up and down the yard, Mr. Platitude was doing his best to make himself appear ridiculous, talking very loudly in exceedingly bad Italian, evidently for the purpose of attracting the notice of the bystanders, in which he succeeded, all the stable-boys and hangers-on about the yard, attracted by his vociferation, grinning at his ridiculous figure as he limped up and down. The man in black said little or nothing, but from the glances which he cast sideways appeared to be thoroughly ashamed of his companion; the worthy couple presently arrived close to where I was standing, and the man in black, who was nearest to me, perceiving me, stood still as if hesitating, but recovering himself in a moment, he moved on without taking any farther notice; Mr. Platitude exclaimed as they passed in broken lingo, "I hope we shall find the holy doctors all assembled," and as they returned, "I make no doubt that they will all be rejoiced to see me." Not wishing to be standing an idle gazer, I went to the chaise and assisted in attaching the horses, which had now been brought out, to the pole. The postillion presently arrived, and finding all ready took the reins and mounted the box, whilst I very politely opened the door for the two travellers; Mr. Platitude got in first, and, without taking any notice of me, seated himself on the farther side. In got the man in black, and seated himself nearest to me. "All is right," said I, as I shut the door, whereupon the postillion cracked his whip, and the chaise drove out of the yard. Just as I shut the door, however, and just as Mr. Platitude had recommenced talking in jergo, at the top of his voice, the man in black turned his face partly towards me, and gave me a wink with his left eye. I did not see my friend the postillion till the next morning, when he gave me an account of the adventures he had met with on his expedition. It appeared that he had driven the man in black and the Reverend Platitude across the country by roads and lanes which he had some difficulty in threading. At length, when he had reached a part of the country where he had never been before, the man in black pointed out to him a house near the corner of a wood, to which he informed him they were bound. The postillion said it was a strange-looking house, with a wall round it; and, upon the whole, bore something of the look of a madhouse. There was already a postchaise at the gate, from which three individuals had alighted--one of them the postillion said was a mean-looking scoundrel, with a regular petty-larceny expression in his countenance. He was dressed very much like the man in black, and the postillion said that he could almost have taken his Bible oath that they were both of the same profession. The other two he said were parsons, he could swear that, though he had never seen them before; there could be no mistake about them. Church of England parsons the postillion swore they were, with their black coats, white cravats, and airs, in which clumsiness and conceit were most funnily blended--Church of England parsons of the Platitude description, who had been in Italy, and seen the Pope, and kissed his toe, and picked up a little broken Italian, and come home greater fools than they went forth. It appeared that they were all acquaintances of Mr. Platitude, for when the postillion had alighted and let Mr. Platitude and his companion out of the chaise, Mr. Platitude shook the whole three by the hand, conversed with his two brothers in a little broken jergo, and addressed the petty-larceny looking individual by the title of Reverend Doctor. In the midst of these greetings, however, the postillion said the man in black came up to him, and proceeded to settle with him for the chaise; he had shaken hands with nobody, and had merely nodded to the others; "and now," said the postillion, "he evidently wished to get rid of me, fearing, probably, that I should see too much of the nonsense that was going on. It was whilst settling with me that he seemed to recognize me for the first time, for he stared hard at me, and at last asked whether I had not been in Italy; to which question, with a nod and a laugh, I replied that I had. I was then going to ask him about the health of the image of Holy Mary, and to say that I hoped it had recovered from its horsewhipping; but he interrupted me, paid me the money for the fare, and gave me a crown for myself, saying he would not detain me any longer. I say, partner, I am a poor postillion, but when he gave me the crown I had a good mind to fling it in his face. I reflected, however, that it was not mere gift-money, but coin which I had earned, and hardly too, so I put it in my pocket, and I bethought me, moreover, that, knave as I knew him to be, he had always treated me with civility; so I nodded to him, and he said something which, perhaps, he meant for Latin, but which sounded very much like 'vails,' and by which he doubtless alluded to the money which he had given me. He then went into the house with the rest, the coach drove away which had brought the others, and I was about to get on the box and follow; observing, however, two more chaises driving up, I thought I would be in no hurry, so I just led my horses and chaise a little out of the way, and pretending to be occupied about the harness, I kept a tolerably sharp look-out at the new arrivals. Well, partner, the next vehicle that drove up was a gentleman's carriage which I knew very well, as well as those within it, who were a father and son, the father a good kind old gentleman, and a justice of the peace, therefore not very wise, as you may suppose; the son a puppy who has been abroad, where he contrived to forget his own language, though only nine months absent, and now rules the roast over his father and mother, whose only child he is, and by whom he is thought wondrous clever. So this foreigneering chap brings his poor old father to this out-of-the-way house to meet these Platitudes and petty-larceny villains, and perhaps would have brought his mother too, only, simple thing, by good fortune she happens to be laid up with the rheumatic. Well, the father and son, I beg pardon, I mean the son and father, got down and went in, and then after their carriage was gone, the chaise behind drove up, in which was a huge fat fellow, weighing twenty stone at least, but with something of a foreign look, and with him--who do you think? Why, a rascally Unitarian minister, that is, a fellow who had been such a minister, but who, some years ago leaving his own people, who had bred him up and sent him to their college at York, went over to the High Church, and is now, I suppose, going over to some other church, for he was talking, as he got down, wondrous fast in Latin, or what sounded something like Latin, to the fat fellow, who appeared to take things wonderfully easy, and merely grunted to the dog Latin which the scoundrel had learnt at the expense of the poor Unitarians at York. So they went into the house, and presently arrived another chaise, but ere I could make any further observations, the porter of the out-of-the-way house came up to me, asking what I was stopping there for? bidding me go away, and not pry into other people's business. 'Pretty business,' said I to him, 'that is being transacted in a place like this,' and then I was going to say something uncivil, but he went to attend to the new comers, and I took myself away on my own business as he bade me, not, however, before observing that these two last were a couple of blackcoats." The postillion then proceeded to relate how he made the best of his way to a small public-house, about a mile off, where he had intended to bait, and how he met on the way a landau and pair, belonging to a Scotch coxcomb whom he had known in London, about whom he related some curious particulars, and then continued: "Well, after I had passed him and his turn-out, I drove straight to the public-house, where I baited my horses, and where I found some of the chaises and drivers who had driven the folks to the lunatic-looking mansion, and were now waiting to take them up again. Whilst my horses were eating their bait, I sat me down, as the weather was warm, at a table outside, and smoked a pipe, and drank some ale, in company with the coachman of the old gentleman who had gone to the house with his son, and the coachman then told me that the house was a Papist house, and that the present was a grand meeting of all the fools and rascals in the country, who came to bow down to images, and to concert schemes--pretty schemes no doubt--for overturning the religion of the country, and that for his part he did not approve of being concerned with such doings, and that he was going to give his master warning next day. So, as we were drinking and discoursing, up drove the chariot of the Scotchman, and down got his valet and the driver, and whilst the driver was seeing after the horses, the valet came and sat down at the table where the gentleman's coachman and I were drinking. I knew the fellow well, a Scotchman like his master, and just of the same kidney, with white kid gloves, red hair frizzled, a patch of paint on his face, and his hands covered with rings. This very fellow, I must tell you, was one of those most busy in endeavouring to get me turned out of the servants' club in Park Lane, because I happened to serve a literary man; so he sat down, and in a kind of affected tone cried out, 'Landlord, bring me a glass of cold negus.' The landlord, however, told him that there was no negus, but that if he pleased, he could have a jug of as good beer as any in the country. 'Confound the beer,' said the valet, 'do you think that I am accustomed to such vulgar beverage?' However, as he found there was nothing better to be had, he let the man bring him some beer, and when he had got it, soon showed that he could drink it easily enough; so, when he had drunk two or three draughts, he turned his eyes in a contemptuous manner, first, on the coachman, and then on me: I saw the scamp recollected me, for after staring at me and my dress for about half a minute, he put on a broad grin, and flinging his head back, he uttered a loud laugh. Well, I did not like this, as you may well believe, and taking the pipe out of my mouth, I asked him if he meant anything personal, to which he answered, that he had said nothing to me, and that he had a right to look where he pleased, and laugh when he pleased. Well, as to a certain extent he was right, as to looking and laughing; and as I have occasionally looked at a fool and laughed, though I was not the fool in this instance, I put my pipe into my mouth and said no more. This quiet and well-regulated behaviour of mine, however, the fellow interpreted into fear; so, after drinking a little more, he suddenly started up, and striding once or twice before the table, he asked me what I meant by that impertinent question of mine, saying that he had a good mind to wring my nose for my presumption. 'You have?' said I, getting up, and laying down my pipe. 'Well, I'll now give you an opportunity.' So I put myself in an attitude, and went up to him, saying 'I have an old score to settle with you, you scamp; you wanted to get me turned out of the club, didn't you?' And thereupon, remembering that he had threatened to wring my nose, I gave him a snorter upon his own. I wish you could have seen the fellow when he felt the smart; so far from trying to defend himself, he turned round, and with his hand to his face, attempted to run away; but I was now in a regular passion, and following him up, got before him, and was going to pummel away at him, when he burst into tears, and begged me not to hurt him, saying that he was sorry if he had offended me, and that, if I pleased, he would go down on his knees, or do anything else I wanted. Well, when I heard him talk in this manner, I, of course, let him be; I could hardly help laughing at the figure he cut; his face all blubbered with tears, and blood and paint; but I did not laugh at the poor creature either, but went to the table and took up my pipe, and smoked and drank as if nothing had happened; and the fellow, after having been to the pump, came and sat down, crying, and trying to curry favour with me and the coachman; presently, however, putting on a confidential look, he began to talk of the Popish house, and of the doings there, and said he supposed as how we were of the party, and that it was all right; and then he began to talk of the Pope of Rome, and what a nice man he was, and what a fine thing it was to be of his religion, especially if folks went over to him; and how it advanced them in the world, and gave them consideration; and how his master, who had been abroad and seen the Pope, and kissed his toe, was going over to the Popish religion, and had persuaded him to consent to do so, and to forsake his own, which I think the scoundrel called the 'Piscopal Church of Scotland, and how many others of that church were going over, thinking to better their condition in life by so doing, and to be more thought on; and how many of the English Church were thinking of going over too--and that he had no doubt that it would all end right and comfortably. Well, as he was going on in this way, the old coachman began to spit, and getting up, flung all the beer that was in his jug upon the ground, and going away, ordered another jug of beer, and sat down at another table, saying that he would not drink in such company; and I too got up, and flung what beer remained in my jug, there wasn't more than a drop, in the fellow's face, saying, I would scorn to drink any more in such company; and then I went to my horses, put them to, paid my reckoning, and drove home." The postillion having related his story, to which I listened with all due attention, mused for a moment, and then said, "I dare say you remember how, some time since, when old Bill had been telling us how the Government a long time ago, had done away with robbing on the highway, by putting down the public-houses and places which the highwaymen frequented, and by sending a good mounted police to hunt them down, I said that it was a shame that the present Government did not employ somewhat the same means in order to stop the proceedings of Mumbo Jumbo and his gang now-a-days in England. Howsomever, since I have driven a fare to a Popish rendezvous, and seen something of what is going on there, I should conceive that the Government are justified in allowing the gang the free exercise of their calling. Anybody is welcome to stoop and pick up nothing, or worse than nothing, and if Mumbo Jumbo's people, after their expeditions, return to their haunts with no better plunder in the shape of converts than what I saw going into yonder place of call, I should say they are welcome to what they get; for if that's the kind of rubbish they steal out of the Church of England, or any other church, who in his senses but would say a good riddance, and many thanks for your trouble: at any rate, that is my opinion of the matter." CHAPTER XXIX Deliberations with Self-Resolution--Invitation to Dinner--The Commercial Traveller--The Landlord's Offer--The Comet Wine. It was now that I had frequent deliberations with myself. Should I continue at the inn in my present position? I was not very much captivated with it; there was little poetry in keeping an account of the corn, hay, and straw which came in, and was given out, and I was fond of poetry; moreover, there was no glory at all to be expected in doing so, and I was fond of glory. Should I give up that situation, and remaining at the inn, become ostler under old Bill? There was more poetry in rubbing down horses than in keeping an account of straw, hay, and corn; there was also some prospect of glory attached to the situation of ostler, for the grooms and stable-boys occasionally talked of an ostler, a great way down the road, who had been presented by some sporting people, not with a silver vase, as our governor had been, but with a silver currycomb, in testimony of their admiration for his skill; but I confess that the poetry of rubbing down had become, as all other poetry becomes, rather prosy by frequent repetition, and with respect to the chance of deriving glory from the employment, I entertained, in the event of my determining to stay, very slight hope of ever attaining skill in the ostler art sufficient to induce sporting people to bestow upon me a silver currycomb. I was not half so good an ostler as old Bill, who had never been presented with a silver currycomb, and I never expected to become so, therefore what chance had I? It was true, there was a prospect of some pecuniary emolument to be derived by remaining in either situation. It was very probable that, provided I continued to keep an account of the hay and corn coming in and expended, the landlord would consent to allow me a pound a week, which at the end of a dozen years, provided I kept myself sober, would amount to a considerable sum. I might, on the retirement of old Bill, by taking his place, save up a decent sum of money, provided, unlike him, I kept myself sober, and laid by all the shillings and sixpences I got; but the prospect of laying up a decent sum of money was not of sufficient importance to induce me to continue either at my wooden desk, or in the inn-yard. The reader will remember what difficulty I had to make up my mind to become a merchant under the Armenian's auspices, even with the prospect of making two or three hundred thousand pounds by following the Armenian way of doing business, so it was not probable that I should feel disposed to be a book- keeper or ostler all my life with no other prospect than being able to make a tidy sum of money. If indeed, besides the prospect of making a tidy sum at the end of perhaps forty years' ostlering, I had been certain of being presented with a silver currycomb with my name engraved upon it, which I might have left to my descendants, or, in default thereof, to the parish church destined to contain my bones, with directions that it might be soldered into the wall above the arch leading from the body of the church into the chancel--I will not say with such a certainty of immortality, combined with such a prospect of moderate pecuniary advantage,--I might not have thought it worth my while to stay, but I entertained no such certainty, and, taking everything into consideration, I determined to mount my horse and leave the inn. This horse had caused me for some time past no little perplexity; I had frequently repented of having purchased him, more especially as the purchase had been made with another person's money, and had more than once shown him to people who, I imagined, were likely to purchase him; but, though they were profuse in his praise, as people generally are in the praise of what they don't intend to purchase, they never made me an offer, and now that I had determined to mount on his back and ride away, what was I to do with him in the sequel? I could not maintain him long. Suddenly I bethought me of Horncastle, which Francis Ardry had mentioned as a place where the horse was likely to find a purchaser, and not having determined upon any particular place to which to repair, I thought that I could do no better than betake myself to Horncastle in the first instance, and there endeavour to dispose of my horse. On making inquiries with respect to the situation of Horncastle, and the time when the fair would be held, I learned that the town was situated in Lincolnshire, about a hundred and fifty miles from the inn at which I was at present sojourning, and that the fair would be held nominally within about a month, but that it was always requisite to be on the spot some days before the nominal day of the fair, as all the best horses were generally sold before that time, and the people who came to purchase gone away with what they had bought. The people of the inn were very sorry on being informed of my determination to depart. Old Bill told me that he had hoped as how I had intended to settle down there, and to take his place as ostler when he was fit for no more work, adding, that though I did not know much of the business, yet he had no doubt but that I might improve. My friend the postillion was particularly sorry, and taking me with him to the tap-room called for two pints of beer, to one of which he treated me; and whilst we were drinking told me how particularly sorry he was at the thought of my going, but that he hoped I should think better of the matter. On my telling him that I must go, he said that he trusted I should put off my departure for three weeks, in order that I might be present at his marriage, the banns of which were just about to be published. He said that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me dance a minuet with his wife after the marriage dinner; but I told him it was impossible that I should stay, my affairs imperatively calling me elsewhere; and that with respect to my dancing a minuet, such a thing was out of the question, as I had never learned to dance. At which he said that he was exceedingly sorry, and finding me determined to go, wished me success in all my undertakings. The master of the house, to whom, as in duty bound, I communicated my intention before I spoke of it to the servants, was, I make no doubt, very sorry, though he did not exactly tell me so. What he said was, that he had never expected that I should remain long there, as such a situation never appeared to him quite suitable to me, though I had been very diligent, and had given him perfect satisfaction. On his inquiring when I intended to depart, I informed him next day, whereupon he begged that I would defer my departure till the next day but one, and do him the favour of dining with him on the morrow. I informed him that I should be only too happy. On the following day at four o'clock I dined with the landlord, in company with a commercial traveller. The dinner was good, though plain, consisting of boiled mackerel--rather a rarity in those parts at that time--with fennel sauce, a prime baron of roast beef after the mackerel, then a tart and noble Cheshire cheese; we had prime sherry at dinner, and whilst eating the cheese prime porter, that of Barclay, the only good porter in the world. After the cloth was removed we had a bottle of very good port; and whilst partaking of the port I had an argument with the commercial traveller on the subject of the corn-laws. The commercial traveller, having worsted me in the argument on the subject of the corn-laws, got up in great glee, saying that he must order his gig, as business must be attended to. Before leaving the room, however, he shook me patronizingly by the hand, and said something to the master of the house, but in so low a tone that it escaped my ear. No sooner had he departed than the master of the house told me that his friend the traveller had just said that I was a confounded sensible young fellow, and not at all opinionated, a sentiment in which he himself perfectly agreed--then hemming once or twice, he said that as I was going on a journey he hoped I was tolerably well provided with money, adding that travelling was rather expensive, especially on horseback, the manner in which he supposed, as I had a horse in the stable, I intended to travel. I told him that though I was not particularly well supplied with money, I had sufficient for the expenses of my journey, at the end of which I hoped to procure more. He then hemmed again, and said that since I had been at the inn I had rendered him a great deal of service in more ways than one, and that he should not think of permitting me to depart without making me some remuneration; then putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket, he handed me a cheque for ten pounds, which he had prepared beforehand, the value of which he said I could receive at the next town, or that, if I wished it, any waiter in the house would cash it for me. I thanked him for his generosity in the best terms I could select, but, handing him back the cheque, I told him that I could not accept it, saying, that, so far from his being my debtor, I believed myself to be indebted to him, as not only myself but my horse had been living at his house for several weeks. He replied, that as for my board at a house like his it amounted to nothing, and as for the little corn and hay which the horse had consumed it was of no consequence, and that he must insist upon my taking the cheque. But I again declined, telling him that doing so would be a violation of a rule which I had determined to follow, and which nothing but the greatest necessity would ever compel me to break through--never to incur obligations. "But," said he, "receiving this money will not be incurring an obligation, it is your due." "I do not think so," said I; "I did not engage to serve you for money, nor will I take any from you." "Perhaps you will take it as a loan?" said he. "No," I replied, "I never borrow." "Well," said the landlord, smiling, "you are different from all others that I am acquainted with. I never yet knew any one else who scrupled to borrow and receive obligations; why, there are two baronets in the neighbourhood who have borrowed money of me, ay, and who have never repaid what they borrowed; and there are a dozen squires who are under considerable obligations to me, who I dare say will never return them. Come, you need not be more scrupulous than your superiors--I mean in station." "Every vessel must stand on its own bottom," said I; "they take pleasure in receiving obligations, I take pleasure in being independent. Perhaps they are wise, and I am a fool, I know not, but one thing I am certain of, which is, that were I not independent I should be very unhappy: I should have no visions then." "Have you any relations?" said the landlord, looking at me compassionately; "excuse me, but I don't think you are exactly fit to take care of yourself." "There you are mistaken," said I, "I can take precious good care of myself; ay, and can drive a precious hard bargain when I have occasion, but driving bargains is a widely different thing from receiving gifts. I am going to take my horse to Horncastle, and when there I shall endeavour to obtain his full value--ay to the last penny." "Horncastle!" said the landlord, "I have heard of that place; you mustn't be dreaming visions when you get there, or they'll steal the horse from under you. Well," said he, rising, "I shall not press you further on the subject of the cheque. I intend, however, to put you under an obligation to me." He then rang the bell, and having ordered two fresh glasses to be brought, he went out and presently returned with a small pint bottle, which he uncorked with his own hand; then sitting down, he said, "The wine that I bring here, is port of eighteen hundred and eleven, the year of the comet, the best vintage on record; the wine which we have been drinking," he added, "is good, but not to be compared with this, which I never sell, and which I am chary of. When you have drunk some of it, I think you will own that I have conferred an obligation upon you;" he then filled the glasses, the wine which he poured out diffusing an aroma through the room; then motioning me to drink, he raised his own glass to his lips, saying, "Come, friend, I drink to your success at Horncastle." CHAPTER XXX Triumphal Departure--No Season like Youth--Extreme Old Age--Beautiful England--The Ratcatcher--A Misadventure. I departed from the inn much in the same fashion as I had come to it, mounted on a splendid horse indifferently well caparisoned, with the small valise attached to my crupper, in which, besides the few things I had brought with me, was a small book of roads with a map which had been presented to me by the landlord. I must not forget to state that I did not ride out of the yard, but that my horse was brought to me at the front door by old Bill, who insisted upon doing so, and who refused a five-shilling piece which I offered him; and it will be as well to let the reader know that the landlord shook me by the hand as I mounted, and that the people attached to the inn, male and female--my friend the postillion at the head--assembled before the house to see me off, and gave me three cheers as I rode away. Perhaps no person ever departed from an inn with more eclat or better wishes; nobody looked at me askance, except two stage-coachmen who were loitering about, one of whom said to his companion, "I say, Jim! twig his portmanteau! a regular Newmarket turn-out, by--!" It was in the cool of the evening of a bright day--all the days of that summer were bright--that I departed. I felt at first rather melancholy at finding myself again launched into the wide world, and leaving the friends whom I had lately made behind me; but by occasionally trotting the horse, and occasionally singing a song of Romanvile, I had dispelled the feeling of melancholy by the time I had proceeded three miles down the main road. It was at the end of these three miles, just opposite a milestone, that I struck into a cross road. After riding about seven miles, threading what are called, in postillion parlance, cross-country roads, I reached another high road, tending to the east, along which I proceeded for a mile or two, when coming to a small inn, about nine o'clock, I halted and put up for the night. Early on the following morning I proceeded on my journey, but fearing to gall the horse, I no longer rode him, but led him by the bridle, until I came to a town at the distance of about ten miles from the place where I had passed the night. Here I stayed during the heat of the day, more on the horse's account than my own, and towards evening resumed my journey, leading the animal by the bridle as before; and in this manner I proceeded for several days, travelling on an average from twenty to twenty-five miles a day, always leading the animal, except perhaps now and then of an evening, when, if I saw a good piece of road before me, I would mount and put the horse into a trot, which the creature seemed to enjoy as much as myself, showing his satisfaction by snorting and neighing, whilst I gave utterance to my own exhilaration by shouts, or by "the chi she is kaulo she soves pre lakie dumo," or by something else of the same kind in Romanvile. On the whole, I journeyed along very pleasantly, certainly quite as pleasantly as I do at present, now that I am become a gentleman and weigh sixteen stone, though some people would say that my present manner of travelling is much the most preferable, riding as I now do, instead of leading my horse; receiving the homage of ostlers instead of their familiar nods; sitting down to dinner in the parlour of the best inn I can find, instead of passing the brightest part of the day in the kitchen of a village alehouse; carrying on my argument after dinner on the subject of the corn-laws, with the best commercial gentlemen on the road, instead of being glad, whilst sipping a pint of beer, to get into conversation with blind trampers, or maimed Abraham sailors, regaling themselves on half-pints at the said village hostelries. Many people will doubtless say that things have altered wonderfully with me for the better, and they would say right, provided I possessed now what I then carried about with me in my journeys--the spirit of youth. Youth is the only season for enjoyment, and the first twenty-five years of one's life are worth all the rest of the longest life of man, even though those five- and-twenty be spent in penury and contempt, and the rest in the possession of wealth, honours, respectability, ay, and many of them in strength and health, such as will enable one to ride forty miles before dinner, and over one's pint of port--for the best gentleman in the land should not drink a bottle--carry on one's argument, with gravity and decorum, with any commercial gentleman who, responsive to one's challenge, takes the part of humanity and common sense against "protection" and the lord of the land. Ah! there is nothing like youth--not that after-life is valueless. Even in extreme old age one may get on very well, provided we will but accept of the bounties of God. I met the other day an old man, who asked me to drink. "I am not thirsty," said I, "and will not drink with you." "Yes, you will," said the old man, "for I am this day one hundred years old; and you will never again have an opportunity of drinking the health of a man on his hundredth birthday." So I broke my word, and drank. "Yours is a wonderful age," said I. "It is a long time to look back to the beginning of it," said the old man; "yet, upon the whole, I am not sorry to have lived it all." "How have you passed your time?" said I. "As well as I could," said the old man; "always enjoying a good thing when it came honestly within my reach; not forgetting to praise God for putting it there." "I suppose you were fond of a glass of good ale when you were young?" "Yes," said the old man, "I was; and so, thank God, I am still." And he drank off a glass of ale. On I went in my journey, traversing England from west to east--ascending and descending hills--crossing rivers by bridge and ferry--and passing over extensive plains. What a beautiful country is England! People run abroad to see beautiful countries, and leave their own behind unknown, unnoticed--their own the most beautiful! And then, again, what a country for adventures! especially to those who travel on foot, or on horseback. People run abroad in quest of adventures, and traverse Spain or Portugal on mule or on horseback; whereas there are ten times more adventures to be met with in England than in Spain, Portugal, or stupid Germany to boot. Witness the number of adventures narrated in the present book--a book entirely devoted to England. Why, there is not a chapter in the present book which is not full of adventures, with the exception of the present one, and this is not yet terminated. After traversing two or three counties, I reached the confines of Lincolnshire. During one particularly hot day I put up at a public-house, to which, in the evening, came a party of harvesters to make merry, who, finding me wandering about the house a stranger, invited me to partake of their ale; so I drank with the harvesters, who sang me songs about rural life, such as-- "Sitting in the swale; and listening to the swindle of the flail, as it sounds dub-a-dub on the corn, from the neighbouring barn." In requital for which I treated them with a song, not of Romanvile, but the song of "Sivory and the horse Grayman." I remained with them till it was dark, having, after sunset, entered into deep discourse with a celebrated ratcatcher, who communicated to me the secrets of his trade, saying, amongst other things, "When you see the rats pouring out of their holes, and running up my hands and arms, it's not after me they comes, but after the oils I carries about me they comes;" and who subsequently spoke in the most enthusiastic manner of his trade, saying that it was the best trade in the world, and most diverting, and that it was likely to last for ever; for whereas all other kinds of vermin were fast disappearing from England, rats were every day becoming more abundant. I had quitted this good company, and having mounted my horse, was making my way towards a town at about six miles' distance, at a swinging trot, my thoughts deeply engaged on what I had gathered from the ratcatcher, when all on a sudden a light glared upon the horse's face, who purled round in great terror, and flung me out of the saddle, as from a sling, or with as much violence as the horse Grayman, in the ballad, flings Sivord the Snareswayne. I fell upon the ground--felt a kind of crashing about my neck--and forthwith became senseless. CHAPTER XXXI A Novel Situation--The Elderly Individual--The Surgeon--A Kind Offer--Chimerical Ideas--Strange Dream. How long I remained senseless I cannot say, for a considerable time, I believe; at length, opening my eyes, I found myself lying on a bed in a middle-sized chamber, lighted by a candle, which stood on a table--an elderly man stood near me, and a yet more elderly female was holding a phial of very pungent salts to my olfactory organ. I attempted to move, but felt very stiff--my right arm appeared nearly paralysed, and there was a strange dull sensation in my head. "You had better remain still, young man," said the elderly individual, "the surgeon will be here presently; I have sent a message for him to the neighbouring village." "Where am I?" said I, "and what has happened?" "You are in my house," said the old man, "and you have been flung from a horse. I am sorry to say that I was the cause. As I was driving home, the lights in my gig frightened the animal." "Where is the horse?" said I. "Below, in my stable," said the elderly individual. "I saw you fall, but knowing that on account of my age I could be of little use to you, I instantly hurried home, the accident did not occur more than a furlong off, and procuring the assistance of my lad, and two or three neighbouring cottagers, I returned to the spot where you were lying senseless. We raised you up, and brought you here. My lad then went in quest of the horse, who had run away as we drew nigh. When we saw him first he was standing near you; he caught him with some difficulty, and brought him home. What are you about?" said the old man, as I strove to get off the bed. "I want to see the horse," said I. "I entreat you to be still," said the old man; "the horse is safe, I assure you." "I am thinking about his knees," said I. "Instead of thinking about your horse's knees," said the old man, "be thankful that you have not broke your own neck." "You do not talk wisely," said I; "when a man's neck is broke, he is provided for; but when his horse's knees are broke, he is a lost jockey, that is, if he has nothing but his horse to depend upon. A pretty figure I should cut at Horncastle, mounted on a horse blood-raw at the knees." "Oh, you are going to Horncastle," said the old man, seriously, "then I can sympathize with you in your anxiety about your horse, being a Lincolnshire man, and the son of one who bred horses. I will myself go down into the stable, and examine into the condition of your horse, so pray remain quiet till I return; it would certainly be a terrible thing to appear at Horncastle on a broken-kneed horse." He left the room and returned in about ten minutes, followed by another person. "Your horse is safe," said he, "and his knees are unblemished; not a hair ruffled. He is a fine animal, and will do credit to Horncastle; but here is the surgeon come to examine into your own condition." The surgeon was a man about thirty-five, thin, and rather tall; his face was long and pale, and his hair, which was light, was carefully combed back as much as possible from his forehead. He was dressed very neatly, and spoke in a very precise tone. "Allow me to feel your pulse, friend?" said he, taking me by the right wrist. I uttered a cry, for at the motion which he caused a thrill of agony darted through my arm. "I hope your arm is not broke, my friend," said the surgeon, "allow me to see; first of all, we must divest you of this cumbrous frock." The frock was removed with some difficulty, and then the upper vestments of my frame, with more difficulty still. The surgeon felt my arm, moving it up and down, causing me unspeakable pain. "There is no fracture," said he, at last, "but a contusion--a violent contusion. I am told you were going to Horncastle; I am afraid you will be hardly able to ride your horse thither in time to dispose of him; however, we shall see--your arm must be bandaged, friend; after which I shall bleed you, and administer a composing draught." To be short, the surgeon did as he proposed, and when he had administered the composing draught, he said, "Be of good cheer; I should not be surprised if you are yet in time for Horncastle." He then departed with the master of the house, and the woman, leaving me to my repose. I soon began to feel drowsy, and was just composing myself to slumber, lying on my back, as the surgeon had advised me, when I heard steps ascending the stairs, and in a moment more the surgeon entered again, followed by the master of the house. "I hope I don't disturb you," said the former; "my reason for returning is to relieve your mind from any anxiety with respect to your horse. I am by no means sure that you will be able, owing to your accident, to reach Horncastle in time: to quiet you, however, I will buy your horse for any reasonable sum. I have been down to the stable, and approve of his figure. What do you ask for him?" "This is a strange time of night," said I, "to come to me about purchasing my horse, and I am hardly in a fitting situation to be applied to about such a matter. What do you want him for?" "For my own use," said the surgeon; "I am a professional man, and am obliged to be continually driving about; I cover at least one hundred and fifty miles every week." "He will never answer your purpose," said I, "he is not a driving horse, and was never between shafts in his life; he is for riding, more especially for trotting, at which he has few equals." "It matters not to me whether he is for riding or driving," said the surgeon, "sometimes I ride, sometimes drive; so, if we can come to terms, I will buy him, though remember it is chiefly to remove any anxiety from your mind about him." "This is no time for bargaining," said I, "if you wish to have the horse for a hundred guineas, you may; if not--" "A hundred guineas!" said the surgeon, "my good friend, you must surely be light- headed; allow me to feel your pulse," and he attempted to feel my left wrist. "I am not light-headed," said I, "and I require no one to feel my pulse; but I should be light-headed if I were to sell my horse for less than I have demanded; but I have a curiosity to know what you would be willing to offer." "Thirty pounds," said the surgeon, "is all I can afford to give; and that is a great deal for a country surgeon to offer for a horse." "Thirty pounds!" said I, "why, he cost me nearly double that sum. To tell you the truth, I am afraid that you want to take advantage of my situation." "Not in the least, friend," said the surgeon, "not in the least; I only wished to set your mind at rest about your horse; but as you think he is worth more than I can afford to offer, take him to Horncastle by all means; I will do my best to cure you in time. Good night, I will see you again on the morrow." Thereupon he once more departed with the master of the house. "A sharp one," I heard him say, with a laugh, as the door closed upon him. Left to myself, I again essayed to compose myself to rest, but for some time in vain. I had been terribly shaken by my fall, and had subsequently, owing to the incision of the surgeon's lancet, been deprived of much of the vital fluid; it is when the body is in such a state that the merest trifles affect and agitate the mind; no wonder, then, that the return of the surgeon and the master of the house for the purpose of inquiring whether I would sell my horse, struck me as being highly extraordinary, considering the hour of the night, and the situation in which they knew me to be. What could they mean by such conduct--did they wish to cheat me of the animal? "Well, well," said I, "if they did, what matters, they found their match; yes, yes," said I, "but I am in their power, perhaps"--but I instantly dismissed the apprehension which came into my mind, with a pooh, nonsense! In a little time, however, a far more foolish and chimerical idea began to disturb me--the idea of being flung from my horse; was I not disgraced for ever as a horseman by being flung from my horse? Assuredly, I thought; and the idea of being disgraced as a horseman, operating on my nervous system, caused me very acute misery. "After all," said I to myself, "it was perhaps the contemptible opinion which the surgeon must have formed of my equestrian powers, which induced him to offer to take my horse off my hands; he perhaps thought I was unable to manage a horse, and therefore in pity returned in the dead of night to offer to purchase the animal which had flung me;" and then the thought that the surgeon had conceived a contemptible opinion of my equestrian powers, caused me the acutest misery, and continued tormenting me until some other idea (I have forgot what it was, but doubtless equally foolish) took possession of my mind. At length, brought on by the agitation of my spirits, there came over me the same feeling of horror that I had experienced of old when I was a boy, and likewise of late within the dingle; it was, however, not so violent as it had been on those occasions, and I struggled manfully against it, until by degrees it passed away, and then I fell asleep; and in my sleep I had an ugly dream. I dreamt that I had died of the injuries I had received from my fall, and that no sooner had my soul departed from my body than it entered that of a quadruped, even my own horse in the stable--in a word, I was, to all intents and purposes, my own steed; and as I stood in the stable chewing hay (and I remember that the hay was exceedingly tough), the door opened, and the surgeon who had attended me came in. "My good animal," said he, "as your late master has scarcely left enough to pay for the expenses of his funeral, and nothing to remunerate me for my trouble, I shall make bold to take possession of you. If your paces are good, I shall keep you for my own riding; if not, I shall take you to Horncastle, your original destination." He then bridled and saddled me, and, leading me out, mounted, and then trotted me up and down before the house, at the door of which the old man, who now appeared to be dressed in regular jockey fashion, was standing. "I like his paces well," said the surgeon; "I think I shall take him for my own use." "And what am I to have for all the trouble his master caused me?" said my late entertainer, on whose countenance I now observed, for the first time, a diabolical squint. "The consciousness of having done your duty to a fellow-creature in succouring him in a time of distress, must be your reward," said the surgeon. "Pretty gammon, truly," said my late entertainer; "what would you say if I were to talk in that way to you? Come, unless you choose to behave jonnock, I shall take the bridle and lead the horse back into the stable." "Well," said the surgeon, "we are old friends, and I don't wish to dispute with you, so I'll tell you what I will do; I will ride the animal to Horncastle, and we will share what he fetches like brothers." "Good," said the old man, "but if you say that you have sold him for less than a hundred, I shan't consider you jonnock; remember what the young fellow said--that young fellow--" I heard no more, for the next moment I found myself on a broad road leading, as I supposed, in the direction of Horncastle, the surgeon still in the saddle, and my legs moving at a rapid trot. "Get on," said the surgeon, jerking my mouth with the bit; whereupon, full of rage, I instantly set off at a full gallop, determined, if possible, to dash my rider to the earth. The surgeon, however, kept his seat, and, so far from attempting to abate my speed, urged me on to greater efforts with a stout stick, which methought he held in his hand. In vain did I rear and kick, attempting to get rid of my foe; but the surgeon remained as saddle- fast as ever the Maugrabin sorcerer in the Arabian tale what time he rode the young prince transformed into a steed to his enchanted palace in the wilderness. At last, as I was still madly dashing on, panting and blowing, and had almost given up all hope, I saw at a distance before me a heap of stones by the side of the road, probably placed there for the purpose of repairing it; a thought appeared to strike me--I will shy at those stones, and, if I can't get rid of him so, resign myself to my fate. So I increased my speed, till arriving within about ten yards of the heap, I made a desperate start, turning half round with nearly the velocity of a mill-stone. Oh, the joy I experienced when I felt my enemy canted over my neck, and saw him lying senseless in the road. "I have you now in my power," I said, or rather neighed, as, going up to my prostrate foe, I stood over him. "Suppose I were to rear now, and let my fore feet fall upon you, what would your life be worth? that is, supposing you are not killed already; but lie there, I will do you no further harm, but trot to Horncastle without a rider, and when there--" and without further reflection off I trotted in the direction of Horncastle, but had not gone far before my bridle, falling from my neck, got entangled with my off fore foot. I felt myself falling, a thrill of agony shot through me--my knees would be broken, and what should I do at Horncastle with a pair of broken knees? I struggled, but I could not disengage my off fore foot, and downward I fell, but before I had reached the ground I awoke, and found myself half out of bed, my bandaged arm in considerable pain, and my left hand just touching the floor. With some difficulty I readjusted myself in bed. It was now early morning, and the first rays of the sun were beginning to penetrate the white curtains of a window on my left, which probably looked into the garden, as I caught a glimpse or two of the leaves of trees through a small uncovered part at the side. For some time I felt uneasy and anxious, my spirits being in a strange fluttering state. At last my eyes fell upon a small row of tea-cups seemingly of china, which stood on a mantelpiece exactly fronting the bottom of the bed. The sight of these objects, I know not why, soothed and pacified me; I kept my eyes fixed upon them, as I lay on my back on the bed, with my head upon the pillow, till at last I fell into a calm and refreshing sleep. CHAPTER XXXII The Morning after a Fall--The Teapot--Unpretending Hospitality--The Chinese Student. It might be about eight o'clock in the morning when I was awakened by the entrance of the old man. "How have you rested?" said he, coming up to the bedside, and looking me in the face. "Well," said I, "and I feel much better, but I am still very sore." I surveyed him now for the first time with attention. He was dressed in a sober-coloured suit, and was apparently between sixty and seventy. In stature he was rather above the middle height, but with a slight stoop; his features were placid, and expressive of much benevolence, but, as it appeared to me, with rather a melancholy cast--as I gazed upon them, I felt ashamed that I should ever have conceived in my brain a vision like that of the preceding night, in which he appeared in so disadvantageous a light. At length he said, "It is now time for you to take some refreshment. I hear my old servant coming up with your breakfast." In a moment the elderly female entered with a tray, on which was some bread and butter, a teapot and cup. The cup was of common blue earthenware, but the pot was of china, curiously fashioned, and seemingly of great antiquity. The old man poured me out a cupful of tea, and then, with the assistance of the woman, raised me higher, and propped me up with the pillows. I ate and drank; when the pot was emptied of its liquid (it did not contain much), I raised it up with my left hand to inspect it. The sides were covered with curious characters, seemingly hieroglyphics. After surveying them for some time, I replaced it upon the tray. "You seem fond of china," said I, to the old man, after the servant had retired with the breakfast things, and I had returned to my former posture; "you have china on the mantelpiece, and that was a remarkable teapot out of which I have just been drinking." The old man fixed his eyes intently on me, and methought the expression of his countenance became yet more melancholy. "Yes," said he, at last, "I am fond of china--I have reason to be fond of china--but for china I should--" and here he sighed again. "You value it for the quaintness and singularity of its form," said I; "it appears to be less adapted for real use than our own pottery." "I care little about its form," said the old man; "I care for it simply on account of--however, why talk to you on the subject which can have no possible interest to you? I expect the surgeon here presently." "I do not like that surgeon at all," said I; "how strangely he behaved last night, coming back, when I was just falling asleep, to ask me if I would sell my horse." The old man smiled. "He has but one failing," said he, "an itch for horse-dealing; but for that he might be a much richer man than he is; he is continually buying and exchanging horses, and generally finds himself a loser by his bargains: but he is a worthy creature, and skilful in his profession--it is well for you that you are under his care." The old man then left me, and in about an hour returned with the surgeon, who examined me and reported favourably as to my case. He spoke to me with kindness and feeling, and did not introduce the subject of the horse. I asked him whether he thought I should be in time for the fair. "I saw some people making their way thither to-day," said he; "the fair lasts three weeks, and it has just commenced. Yes, I think I may promise you that you will be in time for the very heat of it. In a few days you will be able to mount your saddle with your arm in a sling, but you must by no means appear with your arm in a sling at Horncastle, as people would think that your horse had flung you, and that you wanted to dispose of him because he was a vicious brute. You must, by all means, drop the sling before you get to Horncastle." For three days I kept my apartment by the advice of the surgeon. I passed my time as I best could. Stretched on my bed, I either abandoned myself to reflection, or listened to the voices of the birds in the neighbouring garden. Sometimes, as I lay awake at night, I would endeavour to catch the tick of a clock, which methought sounded from some distant part of the house. The old man visited me twice or thrice every day to inquire into my state. His words were few on these occasions, and he did not stay long. Yet his voice and his words were kind. What surprised me most in connection with this individual was, the delicacy of conduct which he exhibited in not letting a word proceed from his lips which could testify curiosity respecting who I was, or whence I came. All he knew of me was, that I had been flung from my horse on my way to a fair for the purpose of disposing of the animal; and that I was now his guest. I might be a common horse-dealer for what he knew, yet I was treated by him with all the attention which I could have expected, had I been an alderman of Boston's heir, and known to him as such. The county in which I am now, thought I at last, must be either extraordinarily devoted to hospitality, or this old host of mine must be an extraordinary individual. On the evening of the fourth day, feeling tired of my confinement, I put my clothes on in the best manner I could, and left the chamber. Descending a flight of stairs, I reached a kind of quadrangle, from which branched two or three passages; one of these I entered, which had a door at the farther end, and one on each side; the one to the left standing partly open, I entered it, and found myself in a middle-sized room with a large window, or rather glass-door, which looked into a garden, and which stood open. There was nothing remarkable in this room, except a large quantity of china. There was china on the mantelpiece--china on two tables, and a small beaufet, which stood opposite the glass-door, was covered with china--there were cups, teapots, and vases of various forms, and on all of them I observed characters--not a teapot, not a tea-cup, not a vase of whatever form or size, but appeared to possess hieroglyphics on some part or other. After surveying these articles for some time with no little interest, I passed into the garden, in which there were small parterres of flowers, and two or three trees, and which, where the house did not abut, was bounded by a wall; turning to the right by a walk by the side of a house, I passed by a door--probably the one I had seen at the end of the passage--and arrived at another window similar to that through which I had come, and which also stood open; I was about to pass through it, when I heard the voice of my entertainer exclaiming, "Is that you? pray come in." I entered the room, which seemed to be a counterpart of the one which I had just left. It was of the same size, had the same kind of furniture, and appeared to be equally well stocked with china; one prominent article it possessed, however, which the other room did not exhibit--namely, a clock, which, with its pendulum moving tick-a-tick, hung against the wall opposite to the door, the sight of which made me conclude that the sound which methought I had heard in the stillness of the night was not an imaginary one. There it hung on the wall, with its pendulum moving tick- a-tick. The old gentleman was seated in an easy chair a little way into the room, having the glass-door on his right hand. On a table before him lay a large open volume, in which I observed Roman letters as well as characters. A few inches beyond the book on the table, covered all over with hieroglyphics, stood a china vase. The eyes of the old man were fixed upon it. "Sit down," said he, motioning me with his hand to a stool close by, but without taking his eyes from the vase. "I can't make it out," said he, at last, removing his eyes from the vase, and leaning back on the chair, "I can't make it out." "I wish I could assist you," said I. "Assist me," said the old man, looking at me with a half smile. "Yes," said I, "but I don't understand Chinese." "I suppose not," said the old man, with another slight smile; "but--but--" "Pray proceed," said I. "I wished to ask you," said the old man, "how you knew that the characters on yon piece of crockery were Chinese; or, indeed, that there was such a language?" "I knew the crockery was china," said I, "and naturally enough supposed what was written upon it to be Chinese; as for there being such a language--the English have a language, the French have a language, and why not the Chinese?" "May I ask you a question?" "As many as you like." "Do you know any language besides English?" "Yes," said I, "I know a little of two or three." "May I ask their names?" "Why not?" said I, "I know a little French." "Anything else?" "Yes, a little Welsh, and a little Haik." "What is Haik?" "Armenian." "I am glad to see you in my house," said the old man, shaking me by the hand; "how singular that one coming as you did should know Armenian!" "Not more singular," said I, "than that one living in such a place as this should know Chinese. How came you to acquire it?" The old man looked at me, and sighed. "I beg pardon," said I, "for asking what is, perhaps, an impertinent question; I have not imitated your own delicacy; you have never asked me a question without first desiring permission, and here I have been days and nights in your house an intruder on your hospitality, and you have never so much as asked me who I am." "In forbearing to do that," said the old man, "I merely obeyed the Chinese precept, 'Ask no questions of a guest;' it is written on both sides of the teapot out of which you have had your tea." "I wish I knew Chinese," said I. "Is it a difficult language to acquire?" "I have reason to think so," said the old man. "I have been occupied upon it five-and-thirty years, and I am still very imperfectly acquainted with it; at least, I frequently find upon my crockery sentences the meaning of which to me is very dark, though it is true these sentences are mostly verses, which are, of course, more difficult to understand than mere prose." "Are your Chinese studies," said I, "confined to crockery literature?" "Entirely," said the old man; "I read nothing else." "I have heard," said I, "that the Chinese have no letters, but that for every word they have a separate character--is it so?" "For every word they have a particular character," said the old man; "though, to prevent confusion, they have arranged their words under two hundred and fourteen what we should call radicals, but which they call keys. As we arrange all our words in a dictionary under twenty-four letters, so do they arrange all their words, or characters, under two hundred and fourteen radical signs; the simplest radicals being the first, and the more complex the last." "Does the Chinese resemble any of the European languages in words?" said I. "I am scarcely competent to inform you," said the old man; "but I believe not." "What does that character represent?" said I, pointing to one on the vase. "A knife," said the old man, "that character is one of the simplest radicals or keys." "And what is the sound of it?" said I. "Tau," said the old man. "Tau!" said I; "tau!" "A strange word for a knife is it not?" said the old man. "Tawse!" said I; "tawse!" "What is tawse?" said the old man. "You were never at school at Edinburgh, I suppose?" "Never," said the old man. "That accounts for your not knowing the meaning of tawse," said I; "had you received the rudiments of a classical education at the High School, you would have known the meaning of tawse full well. It is a leathern thong, with which refractory urchins are recalled to a sense of their duty by the dominie. Tau--tawse--how singular!" "I cannot see what the two words have in common, except a slight agreement in sound." "You will see the connection," said I, "when I inform you that the thong, from the middle to the bottom, is cut or slit into two or three parts, from which slits or cuts, unless I am very much mistaken, it derives its name--tawse, a thong with slits or cuts, used for chastising disorderly urchins at the High School, from the French tailler, to cut; evidently connected with the Chinese tau, a knife--how very extraordinary!" CHAPTER XXXIII Convalescence--The Surgeon's Bill--Letter of Recommendation--Commencement of the Old Man's History. Two days--three days passed away--and I still remained at the house of my hospitable entertainer; my bruised limb rapidly recovering the power of performing its functions. I passed my time agreeably enough, sometimes in my chamber, communing with my own thoughts; sometimes in the stable, attending to, and not unfrequently conversing with, my horse; and at meal- time--for I seldom saw him at any other--discoursing with the old gentleman, sometimes on the Chinese vocabulary, sometimes on Chinese syntax, and once or twice on English horseflesh; though on this latter subject, notwithstanding his descent from a race of horse-traders, he did not enter into with much alacrity. As a small requital for his kindness, I gave him one day, after dinner, unasked, a brief account of my history and pursuits. He listened with attention; and when it was concluded, thanked me for the confidence which I had reposed in him. "Such conduct," said he, "deserves a return. I will tell you my own history; it is brief, but may perhaps not prove uninteresting to you--though the relation of it will give me some pain." "Pray, then, do not recite it," said I. "Yes," said the old man, "I will tell you, for I wish you to know it." He was about to begin, when he was interrupted by the arrival of the surgeon. The surgeon examined into the state of my bruised limb, and told me, what indeed I already well knew, that it was rapidly improving. "You will not even require a sling," said he, "to ride to Horncastle. When do you propose going?" he demanded. "When do you think I may venture?" I replied. "I think, if you are a tolerably good horseman, you may mount the day after to-morrow," answered the medical man. "By-the-bye, are you acquainted with anybody at Horncastle?" "With no living soul," I answered. "Then you would scarcely find stable-room for your horse. But I am happy to be able to assist you. I have a friend there who keeps a small inn, and who, during the time of the fair, keeps a stall vacant for any quadruped I may bring, until he knows whether I am coming or not. I will give you a letter to him, and he will see after the accommodation of your horse. To-morrow I will pay you a farewell visit, and bring you the letter." "Thank you," said I; "and do not forget to bring your bill." The surgeon looked at the old man, who gave him a peculiar nod. "Oh!" said he, in reply to me, "for the little service I have rendered you, I require no remuneration. You are in my friend's house, and he and I understand each other." "I never receive such favours," said I, "as you have rendered me, without remunerating them; therefore I shall expect your bill." "Oh! just as you please," said the surgeon; and shaking me by the hand more warmly than he had hitherto done, he took his leave. On the evening of the next day, the last which I spent with my kind entertainer, I sat at tea with him in a little summer-house in his garden, partially shaded by the boughs of a large fig-tree. The surgeon had shortly before paid me his farewell visit, and had brought me the letter of introduction to his friend at Horncastle, and also his bill, which I found anything but extravagant. After we had each respectively drank the contents of two cups--and it may not be amiss here to inform the reader that though I took cream with my tea, as I always do when I can procure that addition, the old man, like most people bred up in the country, drank his without it--he thus addressed me:--"I am, as I told you on the night of your accident, the son of a breeder of horses, a respectable and honest man. When I was about twenty he died, leaving me, his only child, a comfortable property, consisting of about two hundred acres of land and some fifteen hundred pounds in money. My mother had died about three years previously. I felt the death of my mother keenly, but that of my father less than was my duty; indeed, truth compels me to acknowledge that I scarcely regretted his death. The cause of this want of proper filial feeling was the opposition which I had experienced from him in an affair which deeply concerned me. I had formed an attachment for a young female in the neighbourhood, who, though poor, was of highly respectable birth, her father having been a curate of the Established Church. She was, at the time of which I am speaking, an orphan, having lost both her parents, and supported herself by keeping a small school. My attachment was returned, and we had pledged our vows, but my father, who could not reconcile himself to her lack of fortune, forbade our marriage in the most positive terms. He was wrong, for she was a fortune in herself--amiable and accomplished. Oh! I cannot tell you all she was--" and here the old man drew his hand across his eyes. "By the death of my father, the only obstacle to our happiness appeared to be removed. We agreed, therefore, that our marriage should take place within the course of a year; and I forthwith commenced enlarging my house and getting my affairs in order. Having been left in the easy circumstances which I have described, I determined to follow no business, but to pass my life in a strictly domestic manner, and to be very, very happy. Amongst other property derived from my father were several horses, which I disposed of in this neighbourhood, with the exception of two remarkably fine ones, which I determined to take to the next fair at Horncastle, the only place where I expected to be able to obtain what I considered to be their full value. At length the time arrived for the commencement of the fair, which was within three months of the period which my beloved and myself had fixed upon for the celebration of our nuptials. To the fair I went, a couple of trusty men following me with the horses. I soon found a purchaser for the animals, a portly, plausible person, of about forty, dressed in a blue riding coat, brown top boots, and leather breeches. There was a strange-looking urchin with him, attired in nearly similar fashion, with a beam in one of his eyes, who called him father. The man paid me for the purchase in bank-notes--three fifty-pound notes for the two horses. As we were about to take leave of each other, he suddenly produced another fifty-pound note, inquiring whether I could change it, complaining, at the same time, of the difficulty of procuring change in the fair. As I happened to have plenty of small money in my possession, and as I felt obliged to him for having purchased my horses at what I considered to be a good price, I informed him that I should be very happy to accommodate him; so I changed him the note, and he, having taken possession of the horses, went his way, and I myself returned home. "A month passed; during this time I paid away two of the notes which I had received at Horncastle from the dealer--one of them in my immediate neighbourhood, and the other at a town about fifteen miles distant, to which I had repaired for the purpose of purchasing some furniture. All things seemed to be going on most prosperously, and I felt quite happy, when one morning, as I was overlooking some workmen who were employed about my house, I was accosted by a constable, who informed me that he was sent to request my immediate appearance before a neighbouring bench of magistrates. Concluding that I was merely summoned on some unimportant business connected with the neighbourhood, I felt no surprise, and forthwith departed in company with the officer. The demeanour of the man upon the way struck me as somewhat singular. I had frequently spoken to him before, and had always found him civil and respectful, but he was now reserved and sullen, and replied to two or three questions which I put to him in anything but a courteous manner. On arriving at the place where the magistrates were sitting--an inn at a small town about two miles distant--I found a more than usual number of people assembled, who appeared to be conversing with considerable eagerness. At sight of me they became silent, but crowded after me as I followed the man into the magistrates' room. There I found the tradesman to whom I had paid the note for the furniture at the town fifteen miles off in attendance, accompanied by an agent of the Bank of England; the former, it seems, had paid the note into a provincial bank, the proprietors of which, discovering it to be a forgery, had forthwith written up to the Bank of England, who had sent down their agent to investigate the matter. A third individual stood beside them--the person in my own immediate neighbourhood to whom I had paid the second note; this, by some means or other, before the coming down of the agent, had found its way to the same provincial bank, and also being pronounced a forgery, it had speedily been traced to the person to whom I had paid it. It was owing to the apparition of this second note that the agent had determined, without further inquiry, to cause me to be summoned before the rural tribunal. "In a few words the magistrates' clerk gave me to understand the state of the case. I was filled with surprise and consternation. I knew myself to be perfectly innocent of any fraudulent intention, but at the time of which I am speaking it was a matter fraught with the greatest danger to be mixed up, however innocently, with the passing of false money. The law with respect to forgery was terribly severe, and the innocent as well as the guilty occasionally suffered. Of this I was not altogether ignorant; unfortunately, however, in my transactions with the stranger, the idea of false notes being offered to me, and my being brought into trouble by means of them, never entered my mind. Recovering myself a little, I stated that the notes in question were two of three notes which I had received at Horncastle, for a pair of horses, which it was well known I had carried thither. "Thereupon, I produced from my pocket-book the third note, which was forthwith pronounced a forgery. I had scarcely produced the third note, when I remembered the one which I had changed for the Horncastle dealer, and with the remembrance came the almost certain conviction that it was also a forgery; I was tempted for a moment to produce it, and to explain the circumstance--would to God I had done so!--but shame at the idea of having been so wretchedly duped prevented me, and the opportunity was lost. I must confess that the agent of the bank behaved, upon the whole, in a very handsome manner; he said that as it was quite evident that I had disposed of certain horses at the fair, it was very probable that I might have received the notes in question in exchange for them, and that he was willing, as he had received a very excellent account of my general conduct, to press the matter no farther, that is, provided--" And here he stopped. Thereupon, one of the three magistrates, who were present, asked me whether I chanced to have any more of these spurious notes in my possession. He certainly had a right to ask the question; but there was something peculiar in his tone-insinuating suspicion. It is certainly difficult to judge of the motives which rule a person's conduct, but I cannot help imagining that he was somewhat influenced in his behaviour on that occasion, which was anything but friendly, by my having refused to sell him the horses at a price less than that which I expected to get at the fair; be this as it may, the question filled me with embarrassment, and I bitterly repented not having at first been more explicit. Thereupon the magistrate in the same kind of tone, demanded to see my pocket-book. I knew that to demur would be useless, and produced it, and therewith, amongst two or three small country notes, appeared the fourth which I had received from the Horncastle dealer. The agent took it up and examined it with attention. 'Well, is it a genuine note?' asked the magistrate. 'I am sorry to say that it is not,' said the agent; 'it is a forgery, like the other three.' The magistrate shrugged his shoulders, as indeed did several people in the room. 'A regular dealer in forged notes,' said a person close behind me; 'who would have thought it?' "Seeing matters begin to look so serious, I aroused myself, and endeavoured to speak in my own behalf, giving a candid account of the manner in which I became possessed of the notes; but my explanation did not appear to meet much credit; the magistrate, to whom I have in particular alluded, asked, why I had not at once stated the fact of my having received a fourth note; and the agent, though in a very quiet tone, observed that he could not help thinking it somewhat strange that I should have changed a note of so much value for a perfect stranger, even supposing that he had purchased my horses, and had paid me their value in hard cash; and I noticed that he laid particular emphasis on the last words. I might have observed that I was an inexperienced young man, who, meaning no harm myself, suspected none in others, but I was confused, stunned, and my tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of my mouth. The men who had taken my horses to Horncastle, and for whom I had sent, as they lived close at hand, now arrived, but the evidence which they could give was anything but conclusive in my favour; they had seen me in company with an individual at Horncastle, to whom, by my orders, they had delivered certain horses, but they had seen no part of the money transaction; the fellow, whether from design or not, having taken me aside into a retired place, where he had paid me the three spurious notes, and induced me to change the fourth, which throughout the affair was what bore most materially against me. How matters might have terminated I do not know, I might have gone to prison, and I might have been--just then, when I most needed a friend, and least expected to find one, for though amongst those present there were several who were my neighbours, and who had professed friendship for me, none of them when they saw that I needed support and encouragement, came forward to yield me any, but, on the contrary, appeared by their looks to enjoy my terror and confusion--just then a friend entered the room in the person of the surgeon of the neighbourhood, the father of him who has attended you; he was not on very intimate terms with me, but he had occasionally spoken to me, and had attended my father in his dying illness, and chancing to hear that I was in trouble, he now hastened to assist me. After a short preamble, in which he apologized to the bench for interfering, he begged to be informed of the state of the case, whereupon the matter was laid before him in all its details. He was not slow in taking a fair view of it, and spoke well and eloquently in my behalf--insisting on the improbability that a person of my habits and position would be wilfully mixed up with a transaction like that of which it appeared I was suspected--adding, that as he was fully convinced of my innocence, he was ready to enter into any surety with respect to my appearance at any time to answer anything which might be laid to my charge. This last observation had particular effect, and as he was a person universally respected, both for his skill in his profession and his general demeanour, people began to think that a person in whom he took an interest could scarcely be concerned in anything criminal, and though my friend the magistrate--I call him so ironically--made two or three demurs, it was at last agreed between him and his brethren of the bench, that, for the present, I should be merely called upon to enter into my own recognizance for the sum of two hundred pounds, to appear whenever it should be deemed requisite to enter into any further investigation of the matter. "So I was permitted to depart from the tribunal of petty justice without handcuffs, and uncollared by a constable; but people looked coldly and suspiciously upon me. The first thing I did was to hasten to the house of my beloved, in order to inform her of every circumstance attending the transaction. I found her, but how? A malicious female individual had hurried to her with a distorted tale, to the effect that I had been taken up as an utterer of forged notes; that an immense number had been found in my possession; that I was already committed, and that probably I should be executed. My affianced one tenderly loved me, and her constitution was delicate; fit succeeded fit; she broke a blood-vessel, and I found her deluged in blood; the surgeon had been sent for; he came and afforded her every possible relief. I was distracted; he bade me have hope, but I observed he looked very grave. "By the skill of the surgeon, the poor girl was saved in the first instance from the arms of death, and for a few weeks she appeared to be rapidly recovering; by degrees, however, she became melancholy; a worm preyed upon her spirit; a slow fever took possession of her frame. I subsequently learned that the same malicious female who had first carried to her an exaggerated account of the affair, and who was a distant relative of her own, frequently visited her, and did all in her power to excite her fears with respect to its eventual termination. Time passed on in a very wretched manner. Our friend the surgeon showing to us both every mark of kindness and attention. "It was owing to this excellent man that my innocence was eventually established. Having been called to a town on the borders of Yorkshire to a medical consultation, he chanced to be taking a glass of wine with the landlord of the inn at which he stopped, when the waiter brought in a note to be changed, saying 'That the Quaker gentleman, who had been for some days in the house, and was about to depart, had sent it to be changed, in order that he might pay his bill.' The landlord took the note, and looked at it. 'A fifty-pound bill,' said he; 'I don't like changing bills of that amount, lest they should prove bad ones; however, as it comes from a Quaker gentleman, I suppose it is all right.' The mention of a fifty-pound note aroused the attention of my friend, and he requested to be permitted to look at it; he had scarcely seen it, when he was convinced that it was one of the same description as those which had brought me into trouble, as it corresponded with them in two particular features, which the agent of the bank had pointed out to him and others as evidence of their spuriousness. My friend, without a moment's hesitation, informed the landlord that the note was a bad one, expressing at the same time a great wish to see the Quaker gentleman who wanted to have it changed. 'That you can easily do,' said the landlord, and forthwith conducted him into the common room, where he saw a respectable- looking man, dressed like a Quaker, and seemingly about sixty years of age. "My friend, after a short apology, showed him the note which he held in his hand, stating that he had no doubt it was a spurious one, and begged to be informed where he had taken it, adding, that a particular friend of his was at present in trouble, owing to his having taken similar notes from a stranger at Horncastle; but that he hoped that he, the Quaker, could give information, by means of which the guilty party, or parties, could be arrested. At the mention of Horncastle, it appeared to my friend that the Quaker gave a slight start. At the conclusion of this speech, however, he answered, with great tranquillity, that he had received it in the way of business at ---, naming one of the principal towns in Yorkshire, from a very respectable person, whose name he was perfectly willing to communicate, and likewise his own, which he said was James, and that he was a merchant residing at Liverpool; that he would write to his friend at ---, requesting him to make inquiries on the subject; that just at that moment he was in a hurry to depart, having some particular business at a town about ten miles off, to go to which he had bespoken a post-chaise of the landlord; that with respect to the note, it was doubtless a very disagreeable thing to have a suspicious one in his possession, but that it would make little difference to him, as he had plenty of other money, and thereupon he pulled out a purse, containing various other notes, and some gold, observing, 'that his only motive for wishing to change the other note was a desire to be well provided with change;' and finally, that if they had any suspicion with respect to him, he was perfectly willing to leave the note in their possession till he should return, which he intended to do in about a fortnight. There was so much plausibility in the speech of the Quaker, and his appearance and behaviour were so perfectly respectable, that my friend felt almost ashamed of the suspicion which at first he had entertained of him, though, at the same time, he felt an unaccountable unwillingness to let the man depart without some further interrogation. The landlord, however, who did not wish to disoblige one who had been, and might probably be again, a profitable customer, declared that he was perfectly satisfied; and that he had no wish to detain the note, which he made no doubt the gentleman had received in the way of business, and that as the matter concerned him alone, he would leave it to him to make the necessary inquiries. 'Just as you please, friend,' said the Quaker, pocketing the suspicious note, 'I will now pay my bill.' Thereupon he discharged the bill with a five-pound note, which he begged the landlord to inspect carefully, and with two pieces of gold. "The landlord had just taken the money, receipted the bill, and was bowing to his customer, when the door opened, and a lad, dressed in a kind of grey livery, appeared, and informed the Quaker that the chaise was ready. 'Is that boy your servant?' said the surgeon. 'He is, friend,' said the Quaker. 'Hast thou any reason for asking me that question?' 'And has he been long in your service?' 'Several years,' replied the Quaker, 'I took him into my house out of compassion, he being an orphan, but as the chaise is waiting, I will bid thee farewell.' 'I am afraid I must stop your journey for the present,' said the surgeon; 'that boy has exactly the same blemish in the eye which a boy had who was in company with the man at Horncastle, from whom my friend received the forged notes, and who there passed for his son.' 'I know nothing about that,' said the Quaker, 'but I am determined to be detained here no longer, after the satisfactory account which I have given as to the note's coming into my possession.' He then attempted to leave the room, but my friend detained him, a struggle ensued, during which a wig which the Quaker wore fell off, whereupon he instantly appeared to lose some twenty years of his age. 'Knock the fellow down, father,' said the boy, 'I'll help you.' "And, forsooth, the pretended Quaker took the boy's advice, and knocked my friend down in a twinkling. The landlord, however, and waiter, seeing how matters stood, instantly laid hold of him; but there can be no doubt that he would have escaped from the whole three, had not certain guests who were in the house, hearing the noise, rushed in, and helped to secure him. The boy was true to his word, assisting him to the best of his ability, flinging himself between the legs of his father's assailants, causing several of them to stumble and fall. At length, the fellow was secured, and led before a magistrate; the boy, to whom he was heard to say something which nobody understood, and to whom, after the man's capture, no one paid much attention, was no more seen. "The rest, as far as this man was concerned, may be told in a few words; nothing to criminate him was found on his person, but on his baggage being examined, a quantity of spurious notes were discovered. Much of his hardihood now forsook him, and in the hope of saving his life he made some very important disclosures; amongst other things, he confessed that it was he who had given me the notes in exchange for the horses, and also the note to be changed. He was subsequently tried on two indictments, in the second of which I appeared against him. He was condemned to die; but, in consideration of the disclosures he had made, his sentence was commuted to perpetual transportation. "My innocence was thus perfectly established before the eyes of the world, and all my friends hastened to congratulate me. There was one who congratulated me more than all the rest--it was my beloved one, but--but--she was dying--" Here the old man drew his hand before his eyes, and remained for some time without speaking; at length he removed his hand, and commenced again with a broken voice: "You will pardon me if I hurry over this part of my story, I am unable to dwell upon it. How dwell upon a period when I saw my only earthly treasure pine away gradually day by day, and knew that nothing could save her! She saw my agony, and did all she could to console me, saying that she was herself quite resigned. A little time before her death she expressed a wish that we should be united. I was too happy to comply with her request. We were united, I brought her to this house, where, in less than a week, she expired in my arms." CHAPTER XXXIV The Old Man's Story continued--Misery in the Head--The Strange Marks--Tea- dealer from London--Difficulties of the Chinese Language. After another pause the old man once more resumed his narration:--"If ever there was a man perfectly miserable it was myself, after the loss of that cherished woman. I sat solitary in the house, in which I had hoped in her company to realize the choicest earthly happiness, a prey to the bitterest reflections; many people visited, and endeavoured to console me--amongst them was the clergyman of the parish, who begged me to be resigned, and told me that it was good to be afflicted. I bowed my head, but I could not help thinking how easy it must be for those who feel no affliction, to bid others to be resigned, and to talk of the benefit resulting from sorrow; perhaps I should have paid more attention to his discourse than I did, provided he had been a person for whom it was possible to entertain much respect, but his own heart was known to be set on the things of this world. "Within a little time he had an opportunity, in his own case, of practising resignation, and of realizing the benefit of being afflicted. A merchant, to whom he had entrusted all his fortune, in the hope of a large interest, became suddenly a bankrupt, with scarcely any assets. I will not say that it was owing to this misfortune that the divine died in less than a month after its occurrence, but such was the fact. Amongst those who most frequently visited me was my friend the surgeon; he did not confine himself to the common topics of consolation, but endeavoured to impress upon me the necessity of rousing myself, advising me to occupy my mind with some pursuit, particularly recommending agriculture; but agriculture possessed no interest for me, nor, indeed, any pursuit within my reach; my hopes of happiness had been blighted, and what cared I for anything? so at last he thought it best to leave me to myself, hoping that time would bring with it consolation; and I remained solitary in my house, waited upon by a male and a female servant. Oh, what dreary moments I passed! My only amusement--and it was a sad one--was to look at the things which once belonged to my beloved, and which were now in my possession. Oh, how fondly would I dwell upon them! There were some books; I cared not for books, but these had belonged to my beloved. Oh, how fondly did I dwell on them! Then there was her hat and bonnet--oh, me, how fondly did I gaze upon them! and after looking at her things for hours, I would sit and ruminate on the happiness I had lost. How I execrated the moment I had gone to the fair to sell horses! 'Would that I had never been to Horncastle to sell horses!' I would say; 'I might at this moment have been enjoying the company of my beloved, leading a happy, quiet, easy life, but for that fatal expedition;' that thought worked on my brain, till my brain seemed to turn round. "One day I sat at the breakfast-table gazing vacantly around me, my mind was in a state of inexpressible misery; there was a whirl in my brain, probably like that which people feel who are rapidly going mad; this increased to such a degree that I felt giddiness coming upon me. To abate this feeling I no longer permitted my eyes to wander about, but fixed them upon an object on the table, and continued gazing at it for several minutes without knowing what it was; at length, the misery in my head was somewhat stilled, my lips moved, and I heard myself saying, 'What odd marks!' I had fastened my eyes on the side of a teapot, and by keeping them fixed upon it, had become aware of a fact that had escaped my notice before--namely, that there were marks upon it. I kept my eyes fixed upon them, and repeated at intervals, 'What strange marks!'--for I thought that looking upon the marks tended to abate the whirl in my head: I kept tracing the marks one after the other, and I observed that though they all bore a general resemblance to each other, they were all to a certain extent different. The smallest portion possible of curious interest had been awakened within me, and, at last, I asked myself, within my own mind, 'What motive could induce people to put such odd marks on their crockery? they were not pictures, they were not letters; what motive could people have for putting them there?' At last I removed my eyes from the teapot, and thought for a few moments about the marks; presently, however, I felt the whirl returning; the marks became almost effaced from my mind, and I was beginning to revert to my miserable ruminations, when suddenly methought I heard a voice say, 'The marks! the marks! cling to the marks? or--' So I fixed my eyes again upon the marks, inspecting them more attentively, if possible, than I had done before, and, at last, I came to the conclusion that they were not capricious or fanciful marks, but were arranged systematically; when I had gazed at them for a considerable time, I turned the teapot round, and on the other side I observed marks of a similar kind, which I soon discovered were identical with the ones I had been observing. All the marks were something alike, but all somewhat different, and on comparing them with each other, I was struck with the frequent occurrence of a mark crossing an upright line, or projecting from it, now on the right, now on the left side; and I said to myself, 'Why does this mark sometimes cross the upright line, and sometimes project?' and the more I thought on the matter, the less did I feel of the misery in my head. "The things were at length removed, and I sat, as I had for some time past been wont to sit after my meals, silent and motionless; but in the present instance my mind was not entirely abandoned to the one mournful idea which had so long distressed it. It was, to a certain extent, occupied with the marks on the teapot; it is true that the mournful idea strove hard with the marks on the teapot for the mastery in my mind, and at last the painful idea drove the marks of the teapot out; they, however, would occasionally return and flit across my mind for a moment or two, and their coming was like a momentary relief from intense pain. I thought once or twice that I would have the teapot placed before me, that I might examine the marks at leisure, but I considered that it would be as well to defer the re-examination of the marks till the next morning; at that time I did not take tea of an evening. By deferring the examination thus, I had something to look forward to on the next morning. The day was a melancholy one, but it certainly was more tolerable to me than any of the others had been since the death of my beloved. As I lay awake that night I occasionally thought of the marks, and in my sleep methought I saw them upon the teapot vividly before me. On the morrow, I examined the marks again; how singular they looked! Surely they must mean something, and if so, what could they mean? and at last I thought within myself whether it would be possible for me to make out what they meant: that day I felt more relief than on the preceding one, and towards night I walked a little about. "In about a week's time I received a visit from my friend the surgeon; after a little discourse, he told me that he perceived I was better than when he had last seen me, and asked me what I had been about; I told him that I had been principally occupied in considering certain marks which I had found on a teapot, and wondering what they could mean; he smiled at first, but instantly assuming a serious look, he asked to see the teapot. I produced it, and after having surveyed the marks with attention, he observed that they were highly curious, and also wondered what they meant. 'I strongly advise you,' said he, 'to attempt to make them out, and also to take moderate exercise, and to see after your concerns.' I followed his advice; every morning I studied the marks on the teapot, and in the course of the day took moderate exercise, and attended to little domestic matters, as became the master of a house. "I subsequently learned that the surgeon, in advising me to study the marks, and endeavour to make out their meaning, merely hoped that by means of them my mind might by degrees be diverted from the mournful idea on which I had so long brooded. He was a man well skilled in his profession, but had read and thought very little on matters unconnected with it. He had no idea that the marks had any particular signification, or were anything else but common and fortuitous ones. That I became at all acquainted with their nature was owing to a ludicrous circumstance which I will now relate. "One day, chancing to be at a neighbouring town, I was struck with the appearance of a shop recently established. It had an immense bow-window, and every part of it, to which a brush could be applied, was painted in a gaudy flaming style. Large bowls of green and black tea were placed upon certain chests, which stood at the window. I stopped to look at them, such a display, whatever it may be at the present time, being, at the period of which I am speaking, quite uncommon in a country town. The tea, whether black or green, was very shining and inviting, and the bowls, of which there were three, standing on as many chests, were very grand and foreign looking. Two of these were white, with figures and trees painted upon them in blue; the other, which was the middlemost, had neither trees nor figures upon it, but, as I looked through the window, appeared to have on its sides the very same kind of marks which I had observed on the teapot at home; there were also marks on the tea-chests, somewhat similar, but much larger, and, apparently, not executed with so much care. 'Best teas direct from China,' said a voice close to my side; and looking round I saw a youngish man, with a frizzled head, flat face, and an immensely wide mouth, standing in his shirt-sleeves by the door. 'Direct from China,' said he; 'perhaps you will do me the favour to walk in and scent them?' 'I do not want any tea,' said I; 'I was only standing at the window examining those marks on the bowl and the chests. I have observed similar ones on a teapot at home.' 'Pray walk in, sir,' said the young fellow, extending his mouth till it reached nearly from ear to ear; 'pray walk in, and I shall be happy to give you any information respecting the manners and customs of the Chinese in my power.' Thereupon I followed him into his shop, where he began to harangue on the manners, customs, and peculiarities of the Chinese, especially their manner of preparing tea, not forgetting to tell me that the only genuine Chinese tea ever imported into England was to be found in his shop. 'With respect to those marks,' said he, 'on the bowl and chests, they are nothing more nor less than Chinese writing expressing something, though what I can't exactly tell you. Allow me to sell you this pound of tea,' he added, showing me a paper parcel. 'On the envelope there is a printed account of the Chinese system of writing, extracted from authors of the most established reputation. These things I print, principally with the hope of, in some degree, removing the worse than Gothic ignorance prevalent amongst natives of these parts. I am from London myself. With respect to all that relates to the Chinese real imperial tea, I assure you sir, that--' Well, to make short of what you doubtless consider a very tiresome story, I purchased the tea and carried it home. The tea proved imperially bad, but the paper envelope really contained some information on the Chinese language and writing, amounting to about as much as you gained from me the other day. On learning that the marks on the teapot expressed words, I felt my interest with respect to them considerably increased, and returned to the task of inspecting them with greater zeal than before, hoping, by continually looking at them, to be able eventually to understand their meaning, in which hope you may easily believe I was disappointed, though my desire to understand what they represented continued on the increase. In this dilemma I determined to apply again to the shopkeeper from whom I bought the tea. I found him in rather low spirits, his shirt-sleeves were soiled, and his hair was out of curl. On my inquiring how he got on, he informed me that he intended speedily to leave, having received little or no encouragement, the people, in their Gothic ignorance, preferring to deal with an old-fashioned shopkeeper over the way, who, so far from possessing any acquaintance with the polity and institutions of the Chinese, did not, he believed, know that tea came from China. 'You are come for some more, I suppose?' said he. On receiving an answer in the negative he looked somewhat blank, but when I added that I came to consult with him as to the means which I must take in order to acquire the Chinese language he brightened up. 'You must get a grammar,' said he, rubbing his hands. 'Have you not one?' said I. 'No,' he replied, 'but any bookseller can procure you one.' As I was taking my departure, he told me that as he was about to leave the neighbourhood, the bowl at the window, which bore the inscription, besides some other pieces of porcelain of a similar description, were at my service, provided I chose to purchase them. I consented, and two or three days afterwards took from off his hands all the china in his possession which bore the inscriptions, paying what he demanded. Had I waited till the sale of his effects, which occurred within a few weeks, I could probably have procured it for a fifth part of the sum which I paid, the other pieces realizing very little. I did not, however, grudge the poor fellow what he got from me, as I considered myself to be somewhat in his debt for the information he had afforded me. "As for the rest of my story, it may be briefly told. I followed the advice of the shopkeeper, and applied to a bookseller who wrote to his correspondent in London. After a long interval, I was informed that if I wished to learn Chinese, I must do so through the medium of French, there being neither Chinese grammar nor dictionary in our language. I was at first very much disheartened. I determined, however, at last to gratify my desire of learning Chinese, even at the expense of learning French. I procured the books, and in order to qualify myself to turn them to account, took lessons in French from a little Swiss, the usher of a neighbouring boarding-school. I was very stupid in acquiring French; perseverance, however, enabled me to acquire a knowledge sufficient for the object I had in view. In about two years I began to study Chinese by myself, through the medium of the French." "Well," said I, "and how did you get on with the study of the Chinese?" And then the old man proceeded to inform me how he got on with the study of Chinese, enumerated all the difficulties he had had to encounter; dilating upon his frequent despondency of mind, and occasionally his utter despair of ever mastering Chinese. He told me that more than once he had determined upon giving up the study, but when the misery in his head forthwith returned, to escape from which he had as often resumed it. It appeared, however, that ten years elapsed before he was able to use ten of the two hundred and fourteen keys, which serve to undo the locks of Chinese writing. "And are you able at present to use the entire number?" I demanded. "Yes," said the old man; "I can at present use the whole number. I know the key for every particular lock, though I frequently find the wards unwilling to give way." "Has nothing particular occurred to you," said I, "during the time that you have been prosecuting your studies?" "During the whole time in which I have been engaged in these studies," said the old man, "only one circumstance has occurred which requires any particular mention--the death of my old friend the surgeon--who was carried off suddenly by a fit of apoplexy. His death was a great shock to me, and for a time interrupted my studies. His son, however, who succeeded him, was very kind to me, and, in some degree, supplied his father's place; and I gradually returned to my Chinese locks and keys." "And in applying keys to the Chinese locks you employ your time?" "Yes," said the old man, "in making out the inscriptions on the various pieces of porcelain, which I have at different times procured, I pass my time. The first inscription which I translated was that on the teapot of my beloved." "And how many other pieces of porcelain may you have at present in your possession?" "About fifteen hundred." "And how did you obtain them?" I demanded. "Without much labour," said the old man, "in the neighbouring towns and villages--chiefly at auctions--of which, about twenty years ago, there were many in these parts." "And may I ask your reasons for confining your studies entirely to the crockery literature of China, when you have all the rest at your disposal?" "The inscriptions enable me to pass my time," said the old man; "what more would the whole literature of China do?" "And from these inscriptions," said I, "what a book it is in your power to make, whenever so disposed. 'Translations from the crockery literature of China.' Such a book would be sure to take; even glorious John himself would not disdain to publish it." The old man smiled. "I have no desire for literary distinction," said he; "no ambition. My original wish was to pass my life in easy, quiet obscurity, with her whom I loved. I was disappointed in my wish; she was removed, who constituted my only felicity in this life; desolation came to my heart, and misery to my head. To escape from the latter I had recourse to Chinese. By degrees the misery left my head, but the desolation of the heart yet remains." "Be of good cheer," said I; "through the instrumentality of this affliction you have learnt Chinese, and, in so doing, learnt to practise the duties of hospitality. Who but a man who could read Runes on a teapot, would have received an unfortunate wayfarer as you have received me?" "Well," said the old man, "let us hope that all is for the best. I am by nature indolent, and, but for this affliction, should, perhaps, have hardly taken the trouble to do my duty to my fellow-creatures. I am very, very indolent," said he, slightly glancing towards the clock; "therefore let us hope that all is for the best; but, oh! these trials, they are very hard to bear." CHAPTER XXXV The Leave-taking--Spirit of the Hearth--What's o'Clock? The next morning, having breakfasted with my old friend, I went into the stable to make the necessary preparations for my departure; there, with the assistance of a stable lad, I cleaned and caparisoned my horse, and then, returning into the house, I made the old female attendant such a present as I deemed would be some compensation for the trouble I had caused. Hearing that the old gentleman was in his study, I repaired to him. "I am come to take leave of you," said I, "and to thank you for all the hospitality which I have received at your hands." The eyes of the old man were fixed steadfastly on the inscription which I had found him studying on a former occasion. "At length," he murmured to himself, "I have it--I think I have it;" and then, looking at me, he said, "So you are about to depart?" "Yes," said I, "my horse will be at the front door in a few minutes; I am glad, however, before I go, to find that you have mastered the inscription." "Yes," said the old man, "I believe I have mastered it; it seems to consist of some verses relating to the worship of the Spirit of the Hearth." "What is the Spirit of the Hearth?" said I. "One of the many demons which the Chinese worship," said the old man; "they do not worship one God, but many." And then the old man told me a great many highly-interesting particulars respecting the demon worship of the Chinese. After the lapse of at least half an hour I said, "I must not linger here any longer, however willing. Horncastle is distant, and I wish to be there to-night. Pray can you inform me what's o'clock?" The old man, rising, looked towards the clock which hung on the side of the room at his left hand, on the farther side of the table at which he was seated. "I am rather short-sighted," said I, "and cannot distinguish the number, at that distance." "It is ten o'clock," said the old man; "I believe somewhat past." "A quarter, perhaps?" "Yes," said the old man "a quarter or--" "Or?" "Seven minutes, or ten minutes past ten." "I do not understand you." "Why, to tell you the truth," said the old man, with a smile, "there is one thing to the knowledge of which I could never exactly attain." "Do you mean to say," said I, "that you do not know what's o'clock?" "I can give a guess," said the old man, "to within a few minutes." "But you cannot tell the exact moment?" "No," said the old man. "In the name of wonder," said I, "with that thing there on the wall continually ticking in your ear, how comes it that you do not know what's o'clock?" "Why," said the old man, "I have contented myself with giving a tolerably good guess; to do more would have been too great trouble." "But you have learnt Chinese," said I. "Yes," said the old man, "I have learnt Chinese." "Well," said I, "I really would counsel you to learn to know what's o'clock as soon as possible. Consider what a sad thing it would be to go out of the world not knowing what's o'clock. A millionth part of the trouble required to learn Chinese would, if employed, infallibly teach you to know what's o'clock." "I had a motive for learning Chinese," said the old man, "the hope of appeasing the misery in my head. With respect to not knowing what's o'clock, I cannot see anything particularly sad in the matter. A man may get through the world very creditably without knowing what's o'clock. Yet, upon the whole, it is no bad thing to know what's o'clock--you, of course, do? It would be too good a joke if two people were to be together, one knowing Armenian and the other Chinese, and neither knowing what's o'clock. I'll now see you off." CHAPTER XXXVI Arrival at Horncastle--The Inn and Ostlers--The Garret--Figure of a Man with a Candle. Leaving the house of the old man who knew Chinese, but could not tell what was o'clock, I wended my way to Horncastle, which I reached in the evening of the same day, without having met any adventure on the way worthy of being marked down in this very remarkable history. The town was a small one, seemingly ancient, and was crowded with people and horses. I proceeded, without delay, to the inn to which my friend the surgeon had directed me. "It is of no use coming here," said two or three ostlers, as I entered the yard--"all full--no room whatever;" whilst one added in an undertone, "That ere a'n't a bad-looking horse." "I want to see the master of this inn," said I, as I dismounted from the horse. "See the master," said an ostler--the same who had paid the negative kind of compliment to the horse--"a likely thing, truly; my master is drinking wine with some of the grand gentry, and can't be disturbed for the sake of the like of you." "I bring a letter to him," said I, pulling out the surgeon's epistle. "I wish you would deliver it to him," I added, offering a half-crown. "Oh, it's you, is it?" said the ostler, taking the letter and the half-crown; "my master will be right glad to see you; why, you ha'n't been here for many a year; I'll carry the note to him at once." And with these words he hurried into the house. "That's a nice horse, young man," said another ostler, "what will you take for it?" to which interrogation I made no answer. "If you wish to sell him," said the ostler, coming up to me, and winking knowingly, "I think I and my partners might offer you a summut under seventy pounds;" to which kind and half-insinuated offer I made no reply, save by winking in the same kind of knowing manner in which I observed him wink. "Rather leary!" said a third ostler. "Well, young man, perhaps you will drink to- night with me and my partners, when we can talk the matter over." Before I had time to answer, the landlord, a well-dressed, good-looking man, made his appearance with the ostler; he bore the letter in his hand. Without glancing at me, he betook himself at once to consider the horse, going round him, and observing every point with the utmost minuteness. At last, having gone round the horse three times, he stopped beside me, and keeping his eyes on the horse, bent his head towards his right shoulder. "That horse is worth some money," said he, turning towards me suddenly, and slightly touching me on the arm with the letter which he held in his hand; to which observation I made no reply, save by bending my head towards the right shoulder as I had seen him do. "The young man is going to talk to me and my partners about it to-night," said the ostler who had expressed an opinion that he and his friends might offer me somewhat under seventy pounds for the animal. "Pooh!" said the landlord, "the young man knows what he is about; in the meantime lead the horse to the reserved stall, and see well after him. My friend," said he, taking me aside after the ostler had led the animal away, "recommends you to me in the strongest manner, on which account alone I take you and your horse in. I need not advise you not to be taken in, as I should say, by your look, that you are tolerably awake; but there are queer hands at Horncastle at this time, and those fellows of mine, you understand me--; but I have a great deal to do at present, so you must excuse me." And thereupon went into the house. That same evening I was engaged at least two hours in the stable, in rubbing the horse down, and preparing him for the exhibition which I intended he should make in the fair on the following day. The ostler, to whom I had given the half-crown, occasionally assisted me, though he was too much occupied by the horses of other guests to devote any length of time to the service of mine; he more than once repeated to me his firm conviction that himself and partners could afford to offer me summut for the horse; and at a later hour when, in compliance with his invitation, I took a glass of summut with himself and partners, in a little room surrounded with corn-chests, on which we sat, both himself and partners endeavoured to impress upon me, chiefly by means of nods and winks, their conviction that they could afford to give me summut for the horse, provided I were disposed to sell him; in return for which intimation, with as many nods and winks as they had all collectively used, I endeavoured to impress upon them my conviction that I could get summut handsomer in the fair than they might be disposed to offer me, seeing as how--which how I followed by a wink and a nod, which they seemed perfectly to understand, one or two of them declaring that if the case was so, it made a great deal of difference, and that they did not wish to be any hindrance to me, more particularly as it was quite clear I had been an ostler like themselves. It was late at night when I began to think of retiring to rest. On inquiring if there was any place in which I could sleep, I was informed that there was a bed at my service, provided I chose to sleep in a two- bedded room, one of the beds of which was engaged by another gentleman. I expressed my satisfaction at this arrangement, and was conducted by a maid-servant up many pairs of stairs to a garret, in which were two small beds, in one of which she gave me to understand another gentleman slept; he had, however, not yet retired to rest; I asked who he was, but the maid-servant could give me no information about him, save that he was a highly respectable gentleman, and a friend of her master's. Presently, bidding me good night, she left me with a candle; and I, having undressed myself and extinguished the light, went to bed. Notwithstanding the noises which sounded from every part of the house, I was not slow in falling asleep, being thoroughly tired. I know not how long I might have been in bed, perhaps two hours, when I was partially awakened by a light shining upon my face, whereupon, unclosing my eyes, I perceived the figure of a man, with a candle in one hand, staring at my face, whilst with the other hand, he held back the curtain of the bed. As I have said before, I was only partially awakened, my power of conception was consequently very confused; it appeared to me, however, that the man was dressed in a green coat; that he had curly brown or black hair, and that there was something peculiar in his look. Just as I was beginning to recollect myself, the curtain dropped, and I heard, or thought I heard, a voice say, "Don't know the cove." Then there was a rustling like a person undressing, whereupon being satisfied that it was my fellow-lodger, I dropped asleep, but was awakened again by a kind of heavy plunge upon the other bed, which caused it to rock and creak, when I observed that the light had been extinguished, probably blown out, if I might judge from a rather disagreeable smell of burnt wick which remained in the room, and which kept me awake till I heard my companion breathing hard, when, turning on the other side, I was again once more speedily in the arms of slumber. CHAPTER XXXVII Horncastle Fair. It had been my intention to be up and doing early on the following morning, but my slumbers proved so profound, that I did not wake until about eight; on arising, I again found myself the sole occupant of the apartment, my more alert companion having probably risen at a much earlier hour. Having dressed myself, I descended, and going to the stable, found my horse under the hands of my friend the ostler, who was carefully rubbing him down. "There a'n't a better horse in the fair," said he to me, "and as you are one of us, and appear to be all right, I'll give you a piece of advice--don't take less than a hundred and fifty for him; if you mind your hits, you may get it, for I have known two hundred given in this fair for one no better, if so good." "Well," said I, "thank you for your advice, which I will take, and, if successful, will give you 'summut' handsome." "Thank you," said the ostler; "and now let me ask whether you are up to all the ways of this here place?" "I have never been here before," said I, "but I have a pair of tolerably sharp eyes in my head." "That I see you have," said the ostler, "but many a body, with as sharp a pair of eyes as yourn, has lost his horse in this fair, for want of having been here before, therefore," said he, "I'll give you a caution or two." Thereupon the ostler proceeded to give me at least half a dozen cautions, only two of which I shall relate to the reader:--the first, not to stop to listen to what any chance customer might have to say; and the last--the one on which he appeared to lay most stress--by no manner of means to permit a Yorkshireman to get up into the saddle, "for," said he, "if you do, it is three to one that he rides off with the horse; he can't help it; trust a cat amongst cream, but never trust a Yorkshireman on the saddle of a good horse; by-the-by," he continued, "that saddle of yours is not a particularly good one, no more is the bridle. I tell you what, as you seem a decent kind of a young chap, I'll lend you a saddle and bridle of my master's, almost bran new; he won't object, I know, as you are a friend of his, only you must not forget your promise to come down with summut handsome after you have sold the animal." After a slight breakfast I mounted the horse, which, decked out in his borrowed finery, really looked better by a large sum of money than on any former occasion. Making my way out of the yard of the inn, I was instantly in the principal street of the town, up and down which an immense number of horses were being exhibited, some led, and others with riders. "A wonderful small quantity of good horses in the fair this time!" I heard a stout jockey-looking individual say, who was staring up the street with his side towards me. "Halloo, young fellow!" said he, a few moments after I had passed, "whose horse is that? Stop! I want to look at him!" Though confident that he was addressing himself to me, I took no notice, remembering the advice of the ostler, and proceeded up the street. My horse possessed a good walking step; but walking, as the reader knows, was not his best pace, which was the long trot, at which I could not well exercise him in the street, on account of the crowd of men and animals; however, as he walked along, I could easily perceive that he attracted no slight attention amongst those who, by their jockey dress and general appearance, I imagined to be connoisseurs; I heard various calls to stop, to none of which I paid the slightest attention. In a few minutes I found myself out of the town, when, turning round for the purpose of returning, I found I had been followed by several of the connoisseur-looking individuals, whom I had observed in the fair. "Now would be the time for a display," thought I; and looking around me I observed two five-barred gates, one on each side of the road, and fronting each other. Turning my horse's head to one, I pressed my heels to his sides, loosened the reins, and gave an encouraging cry, whereupon the animal cleared the gate in a twinkling. Before he had advanced ten yards in the field to which the gate opened, I had turned him round, and again giving him cry and rein, I caused him to leap back again into the road, and still allowing him head, I made him leap the other gate; and forthwith turning him round, I caused him to leap once more into the road, where he stood proudly tossing his head, as much as to say, "What more?" "A fine horse! a capital horse!" said several of the connoisseurs. "What do you ask for him?" "Too much for any of you to pay," said I. "A horse like this is intended for other kind of customers than any of you." "How do you know that?" said one; the very same person whom I had heard complaining in the street of the paucity of good horses in the fair. "Come, let us know what you ask for him?" "A hundred and fifty pounds!" said I; "neither more nor less." "Do you call that a great price?" said the man. "Why, I thought you would have asked double that amount! You do yourself injustice, young man." "Perhaps I do," said I, "but that's my affair; I do not choose to take more." "I wish you would let me get into the saddle," said the man; "the horse knows you, and therefore shows to more advantage; but I should like to see how he would move under me, who am a stranger. Will you let me get into the saddle, young man?" "No," said I; "I will not let you get into the saddle." "Why not?" said the man. "Lest you should be a Yorkshireman," said I; "and should run away with the horse." "Yorkshire?" said the man; "I am from Suffolk; silly Suffolk--so you need not be afraid of my running away with the horse." "Oh! if that's the case," said I, "I should be afraid that the horse would run away with you; so I will by no means let you mount." "Will you let me look in his mouth?" said the man. "If you please," said I; "but I tell you, he's apt to bite." "He can scarcely be a worse bite than his master," said the man, looking into the horse's mouth; "he's four off. I say, young man, will you warrant this horse?" "No," said I; "I never warrant horses; the horses that I ride can always warrant themselves." "I wish you would let me speak a word to you," said he. "Just come aside. It's a nice horse," said he, in a half whisper, after I had ridden a few paces aside with him. "It's a nice horse," said he, placing his hand upon the pommel of the saddle, and looking up in my face, "and I think I can find you a customer. If you would take a hundred, I think my lord would purchase it, for he has sent me about the fair to look him up a horse, by which he could hope to make an honest penny." "Well," said I, "and could he not make an honest penny, and yet give me the price I ask?" "Why," said the go-between, "a hundred and fifty pounds is as much as the animal is worth, or nearly so; and my lord, do you see--" "I see no reason at all," said I, "why I should sell the animal for less than he is worth, in order that his lordship may be benefited by him; so that if his lordship wants to make an honest penny, he must find some person who would consider the disadvantage of selling him a horse for less than it is worth, as counterbalanced by the honour of dealing with a lord, which I should never do; but I can't be wasting my time here. I am going back to the --- , where, if you, or any person, are desirous of purchasing the horse, you must come within the next half hour, or I shall probably not feel disposed to sell him at all." "Another word, young man," said the jockey; but without staying to hear what he had to say, I put the horse to his best trot, and re-entering the town, and threading my way as well as I could through the press, I returned to the yard of the inn, where, dismounting, I stood still, holding the horse by the bridle. I had been standing in this manner about five minutes, when I saw the jockey enter the yard, accompanied by another individual. They advanced directly towards me. "Here is my lord come to look at the horse, young man," said the jockey. My lord, as the jockey called him, was a tall figure, of about five-and-thirty. He had on his head a hat somewhat rusty, and on his back a surtout of blue rather the worse for wear. His forehead, if not high, was exceedingly narrow; his eyes were brown, with a rat-like glare in them; the nose was rather long, and the mouth very wide; the cheek-bones high, and the cheeks, as to hue and consistency, exhibiting very much the appearance of a withered red apple; there was a gaunt expression of hunger in the whole countenance. He had scarcely glanced at the horse, when drawing in his cheeks, he thrust out his lips very much after the manner of a baboon, when he sees a piece of sugar held out towards him. "Is this horse yours?" said he, suddenly turning towards me, with a kind of smirk. "It's my horse," said I; "are you the person who wishes to make an honest penny by it?" "How!" said he, drawing up his head with a very consequential look, and speaking with a very haughty tone, "what do you mean?" We looked at each other full in the face; after a few moments, the muscles of the mouth of him of the hungry look began to move violently, the face was puckered into innumerable wrinkles, and the eyes became half closed. "Well," said I, "have you ever seen me before? I suppose you are asking yourself that question." "Excuse me, sir," said he, dropping his lofty look, and speaking in a very subdued and civil tone, "I have never had the honour of seeing you before, that is"--said he, slightly glancing at me again, and again moving the muscles of his mouth, "no, I have never seen you before," he added, making me a bow. "I have never had that pleasure; my business with you, at present, is to inquire the lowest price you are willing to take for this horse. My agent here informs me that you ask one hundred and fifty pounds, which I cannot think of giving--the horse is a showy horse, but look, my dear sir, he has a defect here, and there in his near fore leg I observe something which looks very like a splint--yes, upon my credit," said he, touching the animal, "he has a splint, or something which will end in one. A hundred and fifty pounds, sir! what could have induced you ever to ask anything like that for this animal? I protest that, in my time, I have frequently bought a better for-- Who are you, sir? I am in treaty for this horse," said he to a man who had come up whilst he was talking, and was now looking into the horse's mouth. "Who am I?" said the man, still looking into the horse's mouth; "who am I? his lordship asks me. Ah, I see, close on five," said he, releasing the horse's jaws, and looking at me. This new comer was a thin, wiry-made individual, with wiry curling brown hair; his face was dark, and wore an arch and somewhat roguish expression; upon one of his eyes was a kind of speck or beam; he might be about forty, wore a green jockey coat, and held in his hand a black riding whip, with a knob of silver wire. As I gazed upon his countenance, it brought powerfully to my mind the face which, by the light of the candle, I had seen staring over me on the preceding night, when lying in bed and half asleep. Close beside him, and seemingly in his company, stood an exceedingly tall figure, that of a youth, seemingly about one-and-twenty, dressed in a handsome riding dress, and wearing on his head a singular hat, green in colour, and with a very high peak. "What do you ask for this horse?" said he of the green coat, winking at me with the eye which had a beam in it, whilst the other shone and sparkled like Mrs. Colonel W-'s Golconda diamond. "Who are you, sir, I demand once more?" said he of the hungry look. "Who am I? why, who should I be but Jack Dale, who buys horses for himself and other folk; I want one at present for this short young gentleman," said he, motioning with his finger to the gigantic youth. "Well, sir," said the other, "and what business have you to interfere between me and any purchase I may be disposed to make?" "Well, then," said the other, "be quick and purchase the horse, or, perhaps, I may." "Do you think I am to be dictated to by a fellow of your description?" said his lordship, "begone, or--" "What do you ask for this horse?" said the other to me, very coolly. "A hundred and fifty," said I. "I shouldn't mind giving it to you," said he. "You will do no such thing," said his lordship, speaking so fast that he almost stuttered. "Sir," said he to me, "I must give you what you ask; Symmonds, take possession of the animal for me," said he to the other jockey who attended him. "You will please to do no such thing without my consent," said I, "I have not sold him." "I have this moment told you that I will give you the price you demand," said his lordship; "is not that sufficient?" "No," said I, "there is a proper manner of doing everything--had you come forward in a manly and gentlemanly manner to purchase the horse, I should have been happy to sell him to you, but after all the fault you have found with him, I would not sell him to you at any price, so send your friend to find up another." "You behave in this manner, I suppose," said his lordship, "because this fellow has expressed a willingness to come to your terms. I would advise you to be cautious how you trust the animal in his hands; I think I have seen him before, and could tell you--" "What can you tell of me?" said the other, going up to him; "except that I have been a poor dicky-boy, and that now I am a dealer in horses, and that my father was lagged; that's all you could tell of me, and that I don't mind telling myself: but there are two things they can't say of me, they can't say that I am either a coward or a screw either, except so far as one who gets his bread by horses may be expected to be; and they can't say of me that I ever ate up an ice which a young woman was waiting for, or that I ever backed out of a fight. Horse!" said he, motioning with his finger tauntingly to the other; "what do you want with a horse, except to take the bread out of the mouth of a poor man--to-morrow is not the battle of Waterloo, so that you don't want to back out of danger, by pretending to have hurt yourself by falling from the creature's back, my lord of the white feather--come, none of your fierce looks--I am not afraid of you." In fact, the other had assumed an expression of the deadliest malice, his teeth were clenched, his lips quivered, and were quite pale; the rat-like eyes sparkled, and he made a half spring, a la rat, towards his adversary, who only laughed. Restraining himself, however, he suddenly turned to his understrapper, saying, "Symmonds, will you see me thus insulted? go and trounce this scoundrel; you can, I know." "Symmonds trounce me!" said the other, going up to the person addressed, and drawing his hand contemptuously over his face; "why, I beat Symmonds in this very yard in one round three years ago; didn't I, Symmonds?" said he to the understrapper, who held down his head, muttering, in a surly tone, "I didn't come here to fight; let every one take his own part." "That's right, Symmonds," said the other, "especially every one from whom there is nothing to be got. I would give you half-a-crown for all the trouble you have had, provided I were not afraid that my Lord Plume there would get it from you as soon as you leave the yard together. Come, take yourselves both off; there's nothing to be made here." Indeed, his lordship seemed to be of the same opinion, for after a further glance at the horse, a contemptuous look at me, and a scowl at the jockey, he turned on his heel, muttering something which sounded like fellows, and stalked out of the yard, followed by Symmonds. "And now, young man," said the jockey, or whatever he was, turning to me with an arch leer, "I suppose I may consider myself as the purchaser of this here animal, for the use and behoof of this young gentleman?" making a sign with his head to the tall young man by his side. "By no means," said I, "I am utterly unacquainted with either of you, and before parting with the horse I must be satisfied as to the respectability of the purchaser." "Oh! as to that matter," said he, "I have plenty of vouchers for my respectability about me;" and thrusting his hand into his bosom below his waistcoat, he drew out a large bundle of notes. "These are the kind of things," said he, "which vouch best for a man's respectability." "Not always," said I; "indeed, sometimes these kind of things need vouchers for themselves." The man looked at me with a peculiar look. "Do you mean to say that these notes are not sufficient notes?" said he, "because if you do I shall take the liberty of thinking you are not over civil, and when I thinks a person is not over and above civil I sometimes takes off my coat; and when my coat is off--" "You sometimes knock people down," I added; "well, whether you knock me down or not, I beg leave to tell you that I am a stranger in this fair, and that I shall part with the horse to nobody who has no better guarantee for his respectability than a roll of bank-notes, which may be good or not for what I know, who am not a judge of such things." "Oh! if you are a stranger here," said the man, "as I believe you are, never having seen you here before except last night, when I think I saw you above stairs by the glimmer of a candle--I say, if you are a stranger, you are quite right to be cautious; queer things being done in this fair, as nobody knows better than myself," he added with a leer; "but I suppose if the landlord of the house vouches for me and my notes, you will have no objection to part with the horse to me?" "None whatever," said I, "and in the meantime the horse can return to the stable." Thereupon I delivered the horse to my friend the ostler. The landlord of the house on being questioned by me as to the character and condition of my new acquaintance, informed me that he was a respectable horsedealer, and an intimate friend of his, whereupon the purchase was soon brought to a satisfactory conclusion. CHAPTER XXXVIII High Dutch. It was evening: and myself and the two acquaintances I had made in the fair--namely, the jockey and the tall foreigner--sat in a large upstairs room, which looked into a court; we had dined with several people connected with the fair at a long _table d'hote_; they had now departed, and we sat at a small side-table with wine and a candle before us; both my companions had pipes in their mouths--the jockey a common pipe, and the foreigner, one, the syphon of which, made of some kind of wood, was at least six feet long, and the bowl of which, made of a white kind of substance like porcelain, and capable of holding nearly an ounce of tobacco, rested on the ground. The jockey frequently emptied and replenished his glass; the foreigner sometimes raised his to his lips, for no other purpose seemingly than to moisten them, as he never drained his glass. As for myself, though I did not smoke, I had a glass before me, from which I sometimes took a sip. The room, notwithstanding the window was flung open, was in general so filled with smoke, chiefly that which was drawn from the huge bowl of the foreigner, that my companions and I were frequently concealed from each other's eyes. The conversation, which related entirely to the events of the fair, was carried on by the jockey and myself, the foreigner, who appeared to understand the greater part of what we said, occasionally putting in a few observations in broken English. At length the jockey, after the other had made some ineffectual attempts to express something intelligibly which he wished to say, observed, "Isn't it a pity that so fine a fellow as meinheer, and so clever a fellow too, as I believe him to be, is not a better master of our language?" "Is the gentleman a German?" said I; "if so, I can interpret for him anything he wishes to say." "The deuce you can," said the jockey, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and staring at me through the smoke. "Ha! you speak German," vociferated the foreigner in that language. "By Isten, I am glad of it! I wanted to say--" And here he said in German what he wished to say, and which was of no great importance, and which I translated into English. "Well, if you don't put me out," said the jockey; "what language is that--Dutch?" "High Dutch," said I. "High Dutch, and you speak High Dutch,--why, I had booked you for as great an ignoramus as myself, who can't write--no, nor distinguish in a book a great A from a bull's foot." "A person may be a very clever man," said I--"no, not a clever man, for clever signifies clerkly, and a clever man one who is able to read and write, and entitled to the benefit of his clergy or clerkship; but a person may be a very acute person without being able to read or write. I never saw a more acute countenance than your own." "No soft soap," said the jockey, "for I never uses any. However, thank you for your information; I have hitherto thought myself a'nition clever fellow, but from henceforth shall consider myself just the contrary, and only--what's the word?--confounded 'cute." "Just so," said I. "Well," said the jockey, "as you say you can speak High Dutch, I should like to hear you and master six foot six fire away at each other." "I cannot speak German," said I, "but I can understand tolerably well what others say in it." "Come no backing out," said the jockey, "let's hear you fire away for the glory of Old England." "Then you are a German?" said I, in German to the foreigner. "That will do," said the jockey, "keep it up." "A German!" said the tall foreigner. "No, I thank God that I do not belong to the stupid sluggish Germanic race, but to a braver, taller, and handsomer people;" here taking the pipe out of his mouth, he stood up proudly erect, so that his head nearly touched the ceiling of the room, then reseating himself, and again putting the syphon to his lips, he added, "I am a Magyar." "What is that?" said I. The foreigner looked at me for a moment, somewhat contemptuously, through the smoke, then said, in a voice of thunder, "A Hungarian!" "What a voice the chap has when he pleases!" interposed the jockey; "what is he saying?" "Merely that he is a Hungarian," said I; but I added, "the conversation of this gentleman and myself in a language which you can't understand must be very tedious to you, we had better give it up." "Keep on with it," said the jockey, "I shall go on listening very contentedly till I fall asleep, no bad thing to do at most times." CHAPTER XXXIX The Hungarian. "Then you are a countryman of Tekeli, and of the queen who made the celebrated water," said I, speaking to the Hungarian in German, which I was able to do tolerably well, owing to my having translated the Publisher's philosophy into that language, always provided I did not attempt to say much at a time. _Hungarian_. Ah! you have heard of Tekeli, and of L'eau de la Reine d'Hongrie. How is that? _Myself_. I have seen a play acted, founded on the exploits of Tekeli, and have read Pigault Le Brun's beautiful romance, entitled the "Barons of Felsheim," in which he is mentioned. As for the water, I have heard a lady, the wife of a master of mine, speak of it. _Hungarian_. Was she handsome? _Myself_. Very. _Hungarian_. Did she possess the water? _Myself_. I should say not; for I have heard her express a great curiosity about it. _Hungarian_. Was she growing old? _Myself_. Of course not; but why do you put all these questions? _Hungarian_. Because the water is said to make people handsome, and above all, to restore to the aged the beauty of their youth. Well! Tekeli was my countryman, and I have the honour of having some of the blood of the Tekelis in my veins, but with respect to the queen, pardon me if I tell you that she was not an Hungarian; she was a Pole--Ersebet by name, daughter of Wladislaus Locticus King of Poland; she was the fourth spouse of Caroly the Second, King of the Magyar country, who married her in 1320. She was a great woman and celebrated politician, though at present chiefly known by her water. _Myself_. How came she to invent it? _Hungarian_. If her own account may be believed, she did not invent it. After her death, as I have read in Florentius of Buda, there was found a statement of the manner in which she came by it, written in her own hand, on a fly-leaf of her breviary, to the following effect:--Being afflicted with a grievous disorder at the age of seventy-two, she received the medicine which was called her water, from an old hermit whom she never saw before or afterwards; it not only cured her, but restored to her all her former beauty, so that the King of Poland fell in love with her, and made her an offer of marriage, which she refused for the glory of God, from whose holy angel she believed she had received the water. The receipt for making it and directions for using it, were also found on the fly-leaf. The principal component parts were burnt wine and rosemary, passed through an alembic; a drachm of it was to be taken once a week, "etelbenn vagy italbann," in the food or the drink, early in the morning, and the cheeks were to be moistened with it every day. The effects according to the statement, were wonderful--and perhaps they were upon the queen; but whether the water has been equally efficacious on other people, is a point which I cannot determine. I should wish to see some old woman who has been restored to youthful beauty by the use of L'eau de la Reine d'Hongrie. _Myself_. Perhaps, if you did, the old gentlewoman would hardly be so ingenuous as the queen. But who are the Hungarians--descendants of Attila and his people? The Hungarian shook his head, and gave me to understand that he did not believe that his nation were the descendants of Attila and his people, though he acknowledged that they were probably of the same race. Attila and his armies, he said, came and disappeared in a very mysterious manner, and that nothing could be said with positiveness about them; that the people now known as Magyars first made their appearance in Muscovy in the year 884, under the leadership of Almus, called so from Alom, which, in the Hungarian language, signifies a dream; his mother, before his birth, having dreamt that the child with which she was enceinte would be the father of a long succession of kings, which, in fact, was the case; that after beating the Russians he entered Hungary, and coming to a place called Ungvar, from which many people believed that modern Hungary derived its name, he captured it, and held in it a grand festival, which lasted four days, at the end of which time he resigned the leadership of the Magyars to his son Arpad. This Arpad and his Magyars utterly subdued Pannonia--that is, Hungary and Transylvania, wresting the government of it from the Sclavonian tribes who inhabited it, and settling down amongst them as conquerors! After giving me this information, the Hungarian exclaimed with much animation,--"A goodly country that which they had entered on, consisting of a plain surrounded by mountains, some of which intersect it here and there, with noble rapid rivers, the grandest of which is the mighty Dunau; a country with tiny volcanoes, casting up puffs of smoke and steam, and from which hot springs arise, good for the sick; with many fountains, some of which are so pleasant to the taste as to be preferred to wine; with a generous soil which, warmed by a beautiful sun, is able to produce corn, grapes, and even the Indian weed; in fact, one of the finest countries in the world, which even a Spaniard would pronounce to be nearly equal to Spain. Here they rested--meditating, however, fresh conquests. Oh, the Magyars soon showed themselves a mighty people. Besides Hungary and Transylvania, they subdued Bulgaria and Bosnia, and the land of Tot, now called Sclavonia. The generals of Zoltan, the son of Arpad, led troops of horsemen to the banks of the Rhine. One of them, at the head of a host, besieged Constantinople. It was then that Botond engaged in combat with a Greek of gigantic stature, who came out of the city and challenged the two best men in the Magyar army. 'I am the feeblest of the Magyars,' said Botond, 'but I will kill thee;' and he performed his word, having previously given a proof of the feebleness of his arm by striking his battle-axe through the brazen gate, making a hole so big that a child of five years old could walk through it." _Myself_. Of what religion were the old Hungarians? _Hungarian_. They had some idea of a Supreme Being, whom they called Isten, which word is still used by the Magyars for God; but their chief devotion was directed to sorcerers and soothsayers, something like the Schamans of the Siberian steppes. They were converted to Christianity chiefly through the instrumentality of Istvan or Stephen, called after his death St. Istvan, who ascended the throne in the year one thousand. He was born in heathenesse, and his original name was Vojk: he was the first kiraly, or king of the Magyars. Their former leaders had been called fejedelmek, or dukes. The Magyar language has properly no term either for king or house. Kiraly is a word derived from the Sclaves; haz, or house, from the Germans, who first taught them to build houses, their original dwellings having been tilted waggons. _Myself_. Many thanks for your account of the great men of your country. _Hungarian_. The great men of my country! I have only told you of the-- Well, I acknowledge that Almus and Arpad were great men, but Hungary has produced many greater; I will not trouble you by recapitulating all, but there is one name I cannot forbear mentioning--but you have heard of it--even at Horncastle, the name of Hunyadi must be familiar. _Myself_. It may be so, though I rather doubt it; but, however that may be, I confess my ignorance. I have never, until this moment, heard the name of Hunyadi. _Hungarian_. Not of Hunyadi Janos, not of Hunyadi John--for the genius of our language compels us to put a man's Christian name after his other; perhaps you have heard of the name of Corvinus? _Myself_. Yes, I have heard the name of Corvinus. _Hungarian_. By my God, I am glad of it; I thought our hammer of destruction, our thunderbolt, whom the Greeks called Achilles, must be known to the people of Horncastle. Well, Hunyadi and Corvinus are the same. _Myself_. Corvinus means the man of the crow, or raven. I suppose that your John, when a boy, climbed up to a crow or a raven's nest, and stole the young; a bold feat, well befitting a young hero. _Hungarian_. By Isten, you are an acute guesser; a robbery there was, but it was not Hunyadi who robbed the raven, but the raven who robbed Hunyadi. _Myself_. How was that? _Hungarian_. In this manner: Hunyadi, according to tradition, was the son of King Sigmond, by a peasant's daughter. The king saw and fell in love with her, whilst marching against the vaivode of Wallachia. He had some difficulty in persuading her to consent to his wishes, and she only yielded at last, on the king making her a solemn promise that, in the event of her becoming with child by him, he would handsomely provide for her and the infant. The king proceeded on his expedition; and on his returning in triumph from Wallachia, again saw the girl, who informed him that she was enceinte by him; the king was delighted with the intelligence, gave the girl money, and at the same time a ring, requesting her, if she brought forth a son, to bring the ring to Buda with the child, and present it to him. When her time was up, the peasant's daughter brought forth a fair son, who was baptized by the name of John. After some time the young woman communicated the whole affair to her elder brother, whose name was Gaspar, and begged him to convey her and the child to the king at Buda. The brother consented, and both set out, taking the child with them. On their way, the woman, wanting to wash her clothes, laid the child down, giving it the king's ring to play with. A raven, who saw the glittering ring, came flying, and plucking it out of the child's hand, carried it up into a tree; the child suddenly began to cry, and the mother, hearing it, left her washing, and running to the child, forthwith missed the ring, but hearing the raven croak in the tree, she lifted up her eyes, and saw it with the ring in its beak. The woman, in great terror, called her brother, and told him what had happened, adding that she durst not approach the king if the raven took away the ring. Gaspar, seizing his cross-bow and quiver, ran to the tree, where the raven was yet with the ring, and discharged an arrow at it, but, being in a great hurry, he missed it; with his second shot he was more lucky, for he hit the raven in the breast, which, together with the ring, fell to the ground. Taking up the ring, they went on their way, and shortly arrived at Buda. One day, as the king was walking after dinner in his outer hall, the woman appeared before him with the child, and, showing him the ring, said, "Mighty lord! behold this token! and take pity upon me and your own son." King Sigmond took the child and kissed it, and, after a pause, said to the mother, "You have done right in bringing me the boy; I will take care of you, and make him a nobleman." The king was as good as his word, he provided for the mother; caused the boy to be instructed in knightly exercises, and made him a present of the town of Hunyad, in Transylvania, on which account he was afterwards called Hunyadi, and gave him, as an armorial sign, a raven bearing a ring in his beak. Such, oh young man of Horncastle! is the popular account of the birth of the great captain of Hungary, as related by Florentius of Buda. There are other accounts of his birth, which is, indeed, involved in much mystery, and of the reason of his being called Corvinus, but as this is the most pleasing, and is, upon the whole, founded on quite as good evidence as the others, I have selected it for recitation. _Myself_. I heartily thank you; but you must tell me something more of Hunyadi. You call him your great captain; what did he do? _Hungarian_. Do! what no other man of his day could have done. He broke the power of the Turk when he was coming to overwhelm Europe. From the blows inflicted by Hunyadi, the Turk never thoroughly recovered; he has been frequently worsted in latter times, but none but Hunyadi could have routed the armies of Amurath and Mahomed the Second. _Myself_. How was it that he had an opportunity of displaying his military genius? _Hungarian_. I can hardly tell you, but his valour soon made him famous; King Albert made him Ban of Szorenyi. He became eventually waivode of Transylvania, and governor of Hungary. His first grand action was the defeat of Bashaw Isack; and though himself surprised and routed at St. Imre, he speedily regained his prestige by defeating the Turks, with enormous slaughter, killing their leader, Mezerbeg; and subsequently, at the battle of the Iron Gates, he destroyed ninety thousand Turks, sent by Amurath to avenge the late disgrace. It was then that the Greeks called him Achilles. _Myself_. He was not always successful. _Hungarian_. Who could be always successful against the early Turk? He was defeated in the battle in which King Vladislaus lost his life, but his victories outnumbered his defeats three-fold. His grandest victory--perhaps the grandest ever achieved by man--was over the terrible Mahomed the Second; who, after the taking of Constantinople in 1453, said, "One God in Heaven--one king on earth;" and marched to besiege Belgrade at the head of one hundred, and fifty thousand men; swearing by the beard of the prophet, "That he would sup within it ere two months were elapsed." He brought with him dogs, to eat the bodies of the Christians whom he should take or slay; so says Florentius; hear what he also says: The Turk sat down before the town towards the end of June, 1454, covering the Dunau and Szava with ships: and on the 4th of July he began to cannonade Belgrade with cannons twenty-five feet long, whose roar could be heard at Szeged, a distance of twenty-four leagues, at which place Hunyadi had assembled his forces. Hunyadi had been able to raise only fifteen thousand of well-armed and disciplined men, though he had with him vast bands of people, who called themselves Soldiers of the Cross, but who consisted of inexperienced lads from school, peasants, and hermits, armed with swords, slings, and clubs. Hunyadi, undismayed by the great disparity between his forces and those of the Turk, advanced to relieve Belgrade, and encamped at Szalankemen with his army. There he saw at once, that his first step must be to attack the flotilla; he therefore privately informed Szilagy, his wife's brother, who at that time defended Belgrade, that it was his intention to attack the ships of the Turks on the 14th day of July in front, and requested his co-operation in the rear. On the 14th came on the commencement of the great battle of Belgrade, between Hunyadi and the Turk. Many days it lasted. _Myself_. Describe it. _Hungarian_. I cannot. One has described it well--Florentius of Buda. I can only repeat a few of his words:--"On the appointed day, Hunyadi, with two hundred vessels, attacked the Turkish flotilla in front, whilst Szilagy, with forty vessels, filled with the men of Belgrade, assailed it in the rear; striving for the same object, they sunk many of the Turkish vessels, captured seventy-four, burnt many, and utterly annihilated the whole fleet. After this victory, Hunyadi, with his army, entered Belgrade, to the great joy of the Magyars. But though the force of Mahomed upon the water was destroyed, that upon the land remained entire; and with this, during six days and nights, he attacked the city without intermission, destroying its walls in many parts. His last and most desperate assault was made on the 21st day of July. Twice did the Turks gain possession of the outer town, and twice was it retaken with indescribable slaughter. The next day the combat raged without ceasing till mid-day, when the Turks were again beaten out of the town, and pursued by the Magyars to their camp. There the combat was renewed, both sides displaying the greatest obstinacy, until Mahomed received a great wound over his left eye. The Turks then, turning their faces, fled, leaving behind them three hundred cannon in the hands of the Christians, and more than twenty-four thousand slain on the field of battle." _Myself_. After that battle, I suppose Hunyadi enjoyed his triumphs in peace? _Hungarian_. In the deepest, for he shortly died. His great soul quitted his body, which was exhausted by almost superhuman exertions, on the 11th of August, 1456. Shortly before he died, according to Florentius, a comet appeared, sent, as it would seem, to announce his coming end. The whole Christian world mourned his loss. The Pope ordered the cardinals to perform a funeral ceremony at Rome in his honour. His great enemy himself grieved for him, and pronounced his finest eulogium. When Mahomed the Second heard of his death, he struck his head for some time against the ground without speaking. Suddenly he broke silence with these words, "Notwithstanding he was my enemy, yet do I bewail his loss; since the sun has shone in heaven, no Prince had ever yet such a man." _Myself_. What was the name of his Prince? _Hungarian_. Laszlo the Fifth; who, though under infinite obligations to Hunyadi, was anything but grateful to him; for he once consented to a plan which was laid to assassinate him, contrived by his mortal enemy Ulrik, Count of Cilejia; and after Hunyadi's death, caused his eldest son, Hunyadi Laszlo, to be executed on a false accusation, and imprisoned his younger son, Matyas, who, on the death of Laszlo, was elected by the Magyars to be their king, on the 24th of January, 1458. _Myself_. Was this Matyas a good king? _Hungarian_. Was Matyas Corvinus a good king? O young man of Horncastle! he was the best and greatest that ever Hungary possessed, and, after his father, the most renowned warrior,--some of our best laws were framed by him. It was he who organized the Hussar force, and it was he who took Vienna. Why does your Government always send fools to represent it at Vienna? _Myself_. I really cannot say; but with respect to the Hussar force, is it of Hungarian origin? _Hungarian_. Its name shows its origin. Huz, in Hungarian, is twenty and the Hussar force is so called because it is formed of twentieths. A law was issued by which it was ordered that every Hungarian nobleman, out of every twenty dependents, should produce a well-equipped horseman, and with him proceed to the field of battle. _Myself_. Why did Matyas capture Venna? _Hungarian_. Because the Emperor Frederick took part against him with the King of Poland, who claimed the kingdom of Hungary for his son, and had also assisted the Turk. He captured it in the year 1487, but did not survive his triumph long, expiring there in the year 1490. He was so veracious a man, that it was said of him, after his death, "Truth died with Matyas." It might be added that the glory of Hungary departed with him. I wish to say nothing more connected with Hungarian history. _Myself_. Another word. Did Matyas leave a son? _Hungarian_. A natural son, Hunyadi John, called so after the great man. He would have been universally acknowledged as King of Hungary but for the illegitimacy of his birth. As it was, Ulaszlo, the son of the King of Poland, afterwards called Ulaszlo the Second, who claimed Hungary as being descended from Albert, was nominated king by a great majority of the Magyar electors. Hunyadi John for some time disputed the throne with him; there was some bloodshed, but Hunyadi John eventually submitted, and became the faithful captain of Ulaszlo, notwithstanding that the Turk offered to assist him with an army of two hundred thousand men. _Myself_. Go on. _Hungarian_. To what? Tche Drak, to the Mohacs Veszedelem. Ulaszlo left a son, Lajos the Second, born without skin, as it is said, certainly without a head. He, contrary to the advice of all his wise counsellors,--and amongst them was Batory Stephen, who became eventually King of Poland--engaged, with twenty-five thousand men, at Mohacs, Soliman the Turk, who had an army of two hundred thousand. Drak! the Magyars were annihilated, King Lajos disappeared with his heavy horse and armour in a bog. We call that battle, which was fought on the 29th of August, 1526, the destruction of Mohacs, but it was the destruction of Hungary. _Myself_. You have twice used the word drak, what is the meaning of it? Is it Hungarian? _Hungarian_. No! it belongs to the mad Wallacks. They are a nation of madmen on the other side of Transylvania. Their country was formerly a fief of Hungary, like Moldavia, which is inhabited by the same race, who speak the same language and are equally mad. _Myself_. What language do they speak? _Hungarian_. A strange mixture of Latin and Sclavonian--they themselves being a mixed race of Romans and Sclavonians. Trajan sent certain legions to form military colonies in Dacia; and the present Wallacks and Moldavians are, to a certain extent, the descendants of the Roman soldiers, who married the women of the country. I say to a certain extent, for the Sclavonian element both in blood and language seems to prevail. _Myself_. And what is drak? _Hungarian_. Dragon; which the Wallacks use for "devil." The term is curious, as it shows that the old Romans looked upon the dragon as an infernal being. _Myself_. You have been in Wallachia? _Hungarian_. I have, and glad I was to get out of it. I hate the mad Wallacks. _Myself_. Why do you call them mad? _Hungarian_. They are always drinking or talking. I never saw a Wallachian eating or silent. They talk like madmen, and drink like madmen. In drinking they use small phials, the contents of which they pour down their throats. When I first went amongst them I thought the whole nation was under a course of physic, but the terrible jabber of their tongues soon undeceived me. Drak was the first word I heard on entering Dacia, and the last when I left it. The Moldaves, if possible, drink more, and talk more than the Wallachians. _Myself_. It is singular enough that the only Moldavian I have known could not speak. I suppose he was born dumb. _Hungarian_. A Moldavian born dumb! Excuse me, the thing is impossible,--all Moldavians are born talking! I have known a Moldavian who could not speak, but he was not born dumb. His master, an Armenian, snipped off part of his tongue at Adrianople. He drove him mad with his jabber. He is now in London, where his master has a house. I have letters of credit on the house: the clerk paid me money in London, the master was absent; the money which you received for the horse belonged to that house. _Myself_. Another word with respect to Hungarian history. _Hungarian_. Drak! I wish to say nothing more about Hungarian history. _Myself_. The Turk, I suppose, after Mohacs, got possession of Hungary? _Hungarian_. Not exactly. The Turk, upon the whole, showed great moderation; not so the Austrian. Ferdinand the First claimed the crown of Hungary as being the cousin of Maria, widow of Lajos; he found too many disposed to support him. His claim, however, was resisted by Zapolya John, a Hungarian magnate, who caused himself to be elected king. Hungary was for a long time devastated by wars between the partisans of Zapolya and Ferdinand. At last Zapolya called in the Turk. Soliman behaved generously to him, and after his death befriended his young son, and Isabella his queen; eventually the Turks became masters of Transylvania and the greater part of Hungary. They were not bad masters, and had many friends in Hungary, especially amongst those of the reformed faith, to which I have myself the honour of belonging; those of the reformed faith found the Mufti more tolerant than the Pope. Many Hungarians went with the Turks to the siege of Vienna, whilst Tekeli and his horsemen guarded Hungary for them. A gallant enterprise that siege of Vienna, the last great effort of the Turk; it failed, and he speedily lost Hungary, but he did not sneak from Hungary like a frightened hound. His defence of Buda will not be soon forgotten, where Apty Basha, the governor, died fighting like a lion in the breach. There's many a Hungarian would prefer Stamboul to Vienna. Why does your Government always send fools to represent it at Vienna? _Myself_. I have already told you that I cannot say. What became of Tekeli? _Hungarian_. When Hungary was lost he retired with the Turks into Turkey. Count Renoncourt, in his Memoirs, mentions having seen him at Adrianople. The Sultan, in consideration of the services which he had rendered to the Moslem in Hungary, made over the revenues of certain towns and districts for his subsistence. The count says that he always went armed to the teeth, and was always attended by a young female dressed in male attire, who had followed him in his wars, and had more than once saved his life. His end is wrapped in mystery, I--whose greatest boast, next to being a Hungarian, is to be of his blood--know nothing of his end. _Myself_. Allow me to ask who you are? _Hungarian_. Egy szegeny Magyar Nemes ember, a poor Hungarian nobleman, son of one yet poorer. I was born in Transylvania, not far to the west of good Coloscvar. I served some time in the Austrian army as a noble Hussar, but am now equerry to a great nobleman, to whom I am distantly related. In his service I have travelled far and wide, buying horses. I have been in Russia and in Turkey, and am now at Horncastle, where I have had the satisfaction to meet with you, and to buy your horse, which is, in truth, a noble brute. _Myself_. For a soldier and equerry you seem to know a great deal of the history of your country. _Hungarian_. All I know is derived from Florentius of Buda, whom we call Budai Ferentz. He was professor of Greek and Latin at the Reformed College of Debreczen, where I was educated; he wrote a work entitled "Magyar Polgari Lexicon," Lives of Great Hungarian Citizens. He was dead before I was born, but I found his book, when I was a child, in the solitary home of my father, which stood on the confines of a puszta, or wilderness, and that book I used to devour in winter nights when the winds were whistling around the house. Oh! how my blood used to glow at the descriptions of Magyar valour, and likewise of Turkish; for Florentius has always done justice to the Turk. Many a passage similar to this have I got by heart; it is connected with a battle on the plain of Rigo, which Hunyadi lost:--"The next day, which was Friday, as the two armies were drawn up in battle array, a Magyar hero riding forth, galloped up and down, challenging the Turks to single combat. Then came out to meet him the son of a renowned bashaw of Asia; rushing upon each other, both broke their lances, but the Magyar hero and his horse rolled over upon the ground, for the Turks had always the best horses." O young man of Horncastle! if ever you learn Hungarian--and learn it assuredly you will after what I have told you--read the book of Florentius of Buda, even if you go to Hungary to get it, for you will scarcely find it elsewhere, and even there with difficulty, for the book has been long out of print. It describes the actions of the great men of Hungary down to the middle of the sixteenth century; and besides being written in the purest Hungarian, has the merit of having for its author a professor of the Reformed College of Debreczen. _Myself_. I will go to Hungary rather than not read it. I am glad that the Turk beat the Magyar. When I used to read the ballads of Spain I always sided with the Moor against the Christian. _Hungarian_. It was a drawn fight after all, for the terrible horse of the Turk presently flung his own master, whereupon the two champions returned to their respective armies; but in the grand conflict which ensued, the Turks beat the Magyars, pursuing them till night, and striking them on the necks with their scymetars. The Turk is a noble fellow; I should wish to be a Turk, were I not a Magyar. _Myself_. The Turk always keeps his word, I am told. _Hungarian_. Which the Christian very seldom does, and even the Hungarian does not always. In 1444 Ulaszlo made, at Szeged, peace with Amurath for ten years, which he swore with an oath to keep, but at the instigation of the Pope Julian he broke it, and induced his great captain, Hunyadi John, to share in the perjury. The consequence was the battle of Varna, of the 10th of November, in which Hunyadi was routed, and Ulaszlo slain. Did you ever hear his epitaph? it is both solemn and edifying:-- Romulidae Cannas ego Varnam clade notavi; Discite mortales non temerare fidem: Me nisi Pontifices jussissent rumpere foedus Non ferret Scythicum Pannonis ora jugum." "Halloo!" said the jockey, starting up from a doze in which he had been indulging for the last hour, his head leaning upon his breast, "what is that? That's not high Dutch; I bargained for high Dutch, and I left you speaking high Dutch, as it sounded very much like the language of horses, as I have been told high Dutch does; but as for what you are speaking now, whatever you may call it, it sounds more like the language of another kind of animal. I suppose you want to insult me, because I was once a dicky-boy." "Nothing of the kind," said I; "the gentleman was making a quotation in Latin." "Latin, was it?" said the jockey; "that alters the case. Latin is genteel, and I have sent my eldest boy to an academy to learn it. Come, let us hear you fire away in Latin," he continued, proceeding to re-light his pipe, which, before going to sleep, he had laid on the table. "If you wish to follow the discourse in Latin," said the Hungarian, in very bad English, "I can oblige you; I learned to speak very good Latin in the college of Debreczen." "That's more," said I, "than I have done in the colleges where I have been; in any little conversation which we may yet have, I wish you would use German." "Well," said the jockey, taking a whiff, "make your conversation as short as possible, whether in Latin or Dutch, for, to tell you the truth, I am rather tired of merely playing listener." "You were saying you had been in Russia," said I; "I believe the Russians are part of the Sclavonian race." _Hungarian_. Yes, part of the great Sclavonian family; one of the most numerous races in the world. The Russians themselves are very numerous; would that the Magyars could boast of the fifth part of their number! _Myself_. What is the number of the Magyars? _Hungarian_. Barely four millions. We came a tribe of Tartars into Europe, and settled down amongst Sclavonians, whom we conquered, but who never coalesced with us. The Austrian at present plays in Pannonia the Sclavonian against us, and us against the Sclavonian; but the downfall of the Austrian is at hand; they, like us, are not a numerous people. _Myself_. Who will bring about his downfall? _Hungarian_. The Russians. The Rysckie Tsar will lead his people forth, all the Sclavonians will join him, he will conquer all before him. _Myself_. Are the Russians good soldiers? _Hungarian_. They are stubborn and unflinching to an astonishing degree, and their fidelity to their Tsar is quite admirable. See how the Russians behaved at Plescova, in Livonia, in the old time, against our great Batory Stephen; they defended the place till it was a heap of rubbish, and mark how they behaved after they had been made prisoners. Stephen offered them two alternatives:--to enter into his service, in which they would have good pay, clothing, and fair treatment; or to be allowed to return to Russia. Without the slightest hesitation they, to a man, chose the latter, though well aware that their beloved Tsar, the cruel Ivan Basilowits, would put them all to death, amidst tortures the most horrible, for not doing what was impossible--preserving the town. _Myself_. You speak Russian? _Hungarian_. A little. I was born in the vicinity of a Sclavonian tribe; the servants of our house were Sclavonians, and I early acquired something of their language, which differs not much from that of Russia; when in that country I quickly understood what was said. _Myself_. Have the Russians any literature? _Hungarian_. Doubtless; but I am not acquainted with it, as I do not read their language; but I know something of their popular tales, to which I used to listen in their izbushkas; a principal personage in these is a creation quite original--called Baba Yaga. _Myself_. Who is the Baba Yaga? _Hungarian_. A female phantom, who is described as hurrying along the puszta, or steppe, in a mortar, pounding with a pestle at a tremendous rate, and leaving a long trace on the ground behind her with her tongue, which is three yards long, and with which she seizes any men and horses coming in her way, swallowing them down into her capacious belly. She has several daughters, very handsome, and with plenty of money; happy the young Mujik who catches and marries one of them, for they make excellent wives. "Many thanks," said I, "for the information you have afforded me: this is rather poor wine," I observed, as I poured out a glass--"I suppose you have better wine in Hungary?" "Yes, we have better wine in Hungary. First of all there is Tokay, the most celebrated in the world, though I confess I prefer the wine of Eger--Tokay is too sweet." "Have you ever been at Tokay?" "I have," said the Hungarian. "What kind of place is Tokay?" "A small town situated on the Tyzza, a rapid river descending from the north; the Tokay Mountain is just behind the town, which stands on the right bank. The top of the mountain is called Kopacs Teto, or the bald tip; the hill is so steep that during thunder-storms pieces frequently fall down upon the roofs of the houses. It was planted with vines by King Lajos, who ascended the throne in 1342. The best wine called Tokay is, however, not made at Tokay, but at Kassau, two leagues farther into the Carpathians, of which Tokay is a spur. If you wish to drink the best Tokay, you must go to Vienna, to which place all the prime is sent. For the third time I ask you, O young man of Horncastle! why does your Government always send fools to represent it at Vienna?" "And for the third time I tell you, O son of Almus! that I cannot say; perhaps, however, to drink the sweet Tokay wine; fools, you know, always like sweet things." "Good," said the Hungarian; "it must be so, and when I return to Hungary, I will state to my countrymen your explanation of a circumstance which has frequently caused them great perplexity. Oh! the English are a clever people, and have a deep meaning in all they do. What a vision of deep policy opens itself to my view! they do not send their fool to Vienna in order to gape at processions, and to bow and scrape at a base Papist court, but to drink at the great dinners the celebrated Tokay of Hungary, which the Hungarians, though they do not drink it, are very proud of, and by doing so to intimate the sympathy which the English entertain for their fellow religionists of Hungary. Oh! the English are a deep people." CHAPTER XL The Horncastle Welcome--Tzernebock and Bielebock. The pipe of the Hungarian had, for some time past, exhibited considerable symptoms of exhaustion, little or no ruttling having been heard in the tube, and scarcely a particle of smoke, drawn through the syphon, having been emitted from the lips of the possessor. He now rose from his seat, and going to a corner of the room, placed his pipe against the wall, then striding up and down the room, he cracked his fingers several times, exclaiming, in a half-musing manner, "Oh, the deep nation, which, in order to display its sympathy for Hungary, sends its fool to Vienna, to drink the sweet wine of Tokay!" The jockey, having looked for some time at the tall figure with evident approbation, winked at me with that brilliant eye of his on which there was no speck, saying, "'Did you ever see a taller fellow?" "Never," said I. "Or a finer?" "That's another question," said I, "which I am not so willing to answer; however, as I am fond of truth, and scorn to flatter, I will take the liberty of saying that I have seen a finer." "A finer! where?" said the jockey; whilst the Hungarian, who appeared to understand what we said, stood still, and looked full at me. "Amongst a strange set of people," said I, "whom, if I were to name, you would, I dare say, only laugh at me." "Who be they?" said the jockey. "Come, don't be ashamed; I have occasionally kept queerish company myself." "The people whom we call gypsies," said I; "whom the Germans call Zigeuner, and who call themselves Romany chals." "Zigeuner!" said the Hungarian; "by Isten! I do know those people." "Romany chals!" said the jockey; "whew! I begin to smell a rat." "What do you mean by smelling a rat?" said I. "I'll bet a crown," said the jockey, "that you be the young chap what certain folks call 'the Romany Rye.'" "Ah!" said I, "how came you to know that name?" "Be not you he?" said the jockey. "Why, I certainly have been called by that name." "I could have sworn it," said the jockey; then rising from his chair, he laid his pipe on the table, took a large hand-bell which stood on the side-board, and going to the door, opened it, and commenced ringing in a most tremendous manner on the staircase. The noise presently brought up a waiter, to whom the jockey vociferated, "Go to your master, and tell him to send immediately three bottles of champagne, of the pink kind, mind you, which is twelve guineas a dozen;" the waiter hurried away, and the jockey resumed his seat and his pipe. I sat in silent astonishment until the waiter returned with a basket containing the wine, which, with three long glasses, he placed on the table. The jockey then got up, and going to a large bow-window at the end of the room, which looked into a court-yard, peeped out; then saying, "the coast is clear," he shut down the principal sash which was open for the sake of the air, and taking up a bottle of champagne, he placed another in the hands of the Hungarian, to whom he said something in private. The latter, who seemed to understand him, answered by a nod. The two then going to the end of the table fronting the window, and about eight paces from it, stood before it, holding the bottles by their necks; suddenly the jockey lifted up his arm. "Surely," said I, "you are not mad enough to fling that bottle through the window?" "Here's to the Romany Rye; here's to the sweet master," said the jockey, dashing the bottle through the pane in so neat a manner that scarcely a particle of glass fell into the room. "Eljen edes csigany ur--eljen gul eray!" said the Hungarian, swinging round his bottle, and discharging it at the window; but, either not possessing the jockey's accuracy of aim, or reckless of the consequences, he flung his bottle so, that it struck against part of the wooden setting of the panes, breaking along with the wood and itself three or four panes to pieces. The crash was horrid, and wine and particles of glass flew back into the room, to the no small danger of its inmates. "What do you think of that?" said the jockey; "were you ever so honoured before?" "Honoured!" said I. "God preserve me in future from such honour;" and I put my finger to my cheek, which was slightly hurt by a particle of the glass. "That's the way we of the cofrady honour great men at Horncastle," said the jockey. "What, you are hurt! never mind; all the better; your scratch shows that you are the body the compliment was paid to." "And what are you going to do with the other bottle?" said I. "Do with it!" said the jockey, "why, drink it, cosily and comfortably, whilst holding a little quiet talk. The Romany Rye at Horncastle, what an idea!" "And what will the master of the house say to all this damage which you have caused him!" "What will your master say, William?" said the jockey to the waiter, who had witnessed the singular scene just described without exhibiting the slightest mark of surprise. William smiled, and slightly shrugging his shoulders, replied, "Very little, I dare say, sir; this a'n't the first time your honour has done a thing of this kind." "Nor will it be the first time that I shall have paid for it," said the jockey; "well, I shall never have paid for a certain item in the bill with more pleasure than I shall pay for it now. Come, William, draw the cork, and let us taste the pink champagne." The waiter drew the cork, and filled the glasses with a pinky liquor, which bubbled, hissed, and foamed. "How do you like it?" said the jockey, after I had imitated the example of my companions, by despatching my portion at a draught. "It is wonderful wine," said I; "I have never tasted champagne before, though I have frequently heard it praised; it more than answers my expectations; but, I confess, I should not wish to be obliged to drink it every day." "Nor I," said the jockey, "for every-day drinking give me a glass of old port, or--" "Of hard old ale," I interposed, "which, according to my mind, is better than all the wine in the world." "Well said, Romany Rye," said the jockey, "just my own opinion; now, William, make yourself scarce." The waiter withdrew, and I said to the jockey, "How did you become acquainted with the Romany chals?" "I first became acquainted with them," said the jockey, "when I lived with old Fulcher the basketmaker, who took me up when I was adrift upon the world; I do not mean the present Fulcher, who is likewise called old Fulcher, but his father, who has been dead this many a year; while living with him in the caravan, I frequently met them in the green lanes, and of latter years I have had occasional dealings with them in the horse line." "And the gypsies have mentioned me to you?" said I. "Frequently," said the jockey, "and not only those of these parts; why, there's scarcely a part of England in which I have not heard the name of the Romany Rye mentioned by these people. The power you have over them is wonderful; that is, I should have thought it wonderful, had they not more than once told me the cause." "And what is the cause?" said I, "for I am sure I do not know." "The cause is this," said the jockey, "they never heard a bad word proceed from your mouth, and never knew you do a bad thing." "They are a singular people," said I. "And what a singular language they have got," said the jockey. "Do you know it?" said I. "Only a few words," said the jockey, "they were always chary in teaching me any." "They were vary sherry to me too," said the Hungarian, speaking in broken English; "I only could learn from them half-a-dozen words, for example, gul eray, which, in the czigany of my country, means sweet gentleman; or edes ur in my own Magyar." "Gudlo Rye, in the Romany of mine, means a sugar'd gentleman," said I; "then there are gypsies in your country?" "Plenty," said the Hungarian, speaking German, "and in Russia and Turkey too; and wherever they are found, they are alike in their ways and language. Oh, they are a strange race, and how little known! I know little of them, but enough to say, that one horse-load of nonsense has been written about them; there is one Valter Scott--" "Mind what you say about him," said I; "he is our grand authority in matters of philology and history." "A pretty philologist," said the Hungarian, "who makes the gypsies speak Roth-Welsch, the dialect of thieves; a pretty historian, who couples together Thor and Tzernebock." "Where does he do that?" said I. "In his conceited romance of 'Ivanhoe,' he couples Thor and Tzernebock together, and calls them gods of the heathen Saxons." "Well," said I, "Thur or Thor was certainly a god of the heathen Saxons." "True," said the Hungarian; "but why couple him with Tzernebock? Tzernebock was a word which your Valter had picked up somewhere without knowing the meaning. Tzernebock was no god of the Saxons, but one of the gods of the Sclaves, on the southern side of the Baltic. The Sclaves had two grand gods to whom they sacrificed, Tzernebock and Bielebock; that is, the black and white gods, who represented the powers of dark and light. They were overturned by Waldemar, the Dane, the great enemy of the Sclaves; the account of whose wars you will find in one fine old book, written by Saxo Gramaticus, which I read in the library of the college of Debreczen. The Sclaves, at one time, were masters of all the southern shore of the Baltic, where their descendants are still to be found, though they have lost their language, and call themselves Germans; but the word Zernevitz near Dantzic, still attests that the Sclavic language was once common in those parts. Zernevitz means the thing of blackness, as Tzernebock means the god of blackness. Prussia itself merely means, in Sclavish, Lower Russia. There is scarcely a race or language in the world more extended than the Sclavic. On the other side of the Dunau you will find the Sclaves and their language. Czernavoda is Sclavic, and means black water; in Turkish, kara su; even as Tzernebock means black god; and Belgrade, or Belograd, means the white town; even as Bielebock, or Bielebog, means the white god. Oh! he is one great ignorant, that Valter. He is going, they say, to write one history about Napoleon. I do hope that in his history he will couple his Thor and Tzernebock together. By my God! it would be good diversion that." "Walter Scott appears to be no particular favourite of yours," said I. "He is not," said the Hungarian; "I hate him for his slavish principles. He wishes to see absolute power restored in this country, and Popery also--and I hate him because--what do you think? In one of his novels, published a few months ago, he has the insolence to insult Hungary in the presence of one of her sons. He makes his great braggart, Coeur de Lion, fling a Magyar over his head. Ha! it was well for Richard that he never felt the gripe of a Hungarian. I wish the braggart could have felt the gripe of me, who am 'a' magyarok kozt legkissebb,' the least among the Magyars. I do hate that Scott, and all his vile gang of Lowlanders and Highlanders. The black corps, the fekete regiment of Matyjas Hunyadi, was worth all the Scots, high or low, that ever pretended to be soldiers; and would have sent them all headlong into the Black Sea, had they dared to confront it on its shores; but why be angry with an ignorant, who couples together Thor and Tzernebock? Ha! Ha!" "You have read his novels?" said I. "Yes, I read them now and then. I do not speak much English, but I can read it well, and I have read some of his romances, and mean to read his 'Napoleon,' in the hope of finding Thor and Tzernebock coupled together in it, as in his high-flying 'Ivanhoe.'" "Come," said the jockey, "no more Dutch, whether high or low. I am tired of it; unless we can have some English, I am off to bed." "I should be very glad to hear some English," said I; "especially from your mouth. Several things which you have mentioned, have awakened my curiosity. Suppose you give us your history?" "My history?" said the jockey. "A rum idea! however, lest conversation should lag, I'll give it you. First of all, however, a glass of champagne to each." After we had each taken a glass of champagne, the jockey commenced his history. CHAPTER XLI The Jockey's Tale--Thieves' Latin--Liberties with Coin--The Smasher in Prison--Old Fulcher--Every One has His Gift--Fashion of the English. "My grandfather was a shorter, and my father was a smasher; the one was scragg'd, and the other lagg'd." I here interrupted the jockey by observing that his discourse was, for the greater part, unintelligible to me. "I do not understand much English," said the Hungarian, who, having replenished and resumed his mighty pipe, was now smoking away; "but, by Isten, I believe it is the gibberish which that great ignorant Valther Scott puts into the mouths of the folks he calls gypsies." "Something like it, I confess," said I, "though this sounds more genuine than his dialect, which he picked up out of the canting vocabulary at the end of the 'English Rogue,' a book which, however despised, was written by a remarkable genius. What do you call the speech you were using?" said I, addressing myself to the jockey. "Latin," said the jockey, very coolly, "that is, that dialect of it which is used by the light-fingered gentry." "He is right," said the Hungarian; "it is what the Germans call Roth-Welsch: they call it so because there are a great many Latin words in it, introduced by the priests, who, at the time of the Reformation, being too lazy to work and too stupid to preach, joined the bands of thieves and robbers who prowled about the country. Italy, as you are aware, is called by the Germans Welschland, or the land of the Welschers; and I may add that Wallachia derives its name from a colony of Welschers which Trajan sent there. Welsch and Wallack being one and the same word, and tantamount to Latin." "I dare say you are right," said I; "but why was Italy termed Welschland?" "I do not know," said the Hungarian. "Then I think I can tell you," said I; "it was called so because the original inhabitants were a Cimbric tribe, who were called Gwyltiad, that is, a race of wild people, living in coverts, who were of the same blood, and spoke the same language as the present inhabitants of Wales. Welsh seems merely a modification of Gwyltiad. Pray continue your history," said I to the jockey, "only please to do so in a language which we can understand, and first of all interpret the sentence with which you began it." "I told you that my grandfather was a shorter," said the jockey, "by which is meant a gentleman who shortens or reduces the current coin of these realms, for which practice he was scragged, that is, hung by the scrag of the neck. And when I said that my father was a smasher, I meant one who passes forged notes, thereby doing his best to smash the Bank of England; by being lagged, I meant he was laid fast, that is, had a chain put round his leg and then transported." "Your explanations are quite satisfactory," said I; "the three first words are metaphorical, and the fourth, lagged, is the old genuine Norse term, lagda, which signifies laid, whether in durance, or in bed, has nothing to do with the matter. What you have told me confirms me in an opinion which I have long entertained, that thieves' Latin is a strange mysterious speech, formed of metaphorical terms, and words derived from the various ancient languages. Pray tell me, now, how the gentleman, your grandfather, contrived to shorten the coin of these realms?" "You shall hear," said the jockey; "but I have one thing to beg of you, which is, that when I have once begun my history you will not interrupt me with questions, I don't like them, they stops one, and puts one out of one's tale, and are not wanted; for anything which I think can't be understood, I should myself explain, without being asked. My grandfather reduced or shortened the coin of this country by three processes. By aquafortis, by clipping, and by filing. Filing and clipping he employed in reducing all sorts of coin, whether gold or silver; but aquafortis he used merely in reducing gold coin, whether guineas, jacobuses, or Portugal pieces, otherwise called moidores, which were at one time as current as guineas. By laying a guinea in aquafortis for twelve hours, he could filch from it to the value of ninepence, and by letting it remain there for twenty-four to the value of eighteenpence, the aquafortis eating the gold away, and leaving it like a sediment in the vessel. He was generally satisfied with taking the value of ninepence from a guinea, of eighteenpence from a jacobus or moidore, or half-a-crown from a broad Spanish piece, whether he reduced them by aquafortis, filing, or clipping. From a five-shilling piece, which is called a bull in Latin because it is round like a bull's head, he would file or clip to the value of fivepence, and from lesser coin in proportion. He was connected with a numerous gang, or set, of people, who had given up their minds and talents entirely to shortening." Here I interrupted the jockey. "How singular," said I, "is the fall and debasement of words; you talk of a gang, or set, of shorters; you are, perhaps, not aware that gang and set were, a thousand years ago, only connected with the great and Divine; they are ancient Norse words, which may be found in the heroic poems of the north, and in the Edda, a collection of mythologic and heroic songs. In these poems we read that such and such a king invaded Norway with a gang of heroes; or so and so, for example, Erik Bloodaxe, was admitted to the set of gods; but at present gang and set are merely applied to the vilest of the vile, and the lowest of the low,--we say a gang of thieves and shorters, or a set of authors. How touching is this debasement of words in the course of time; it puts me in mind of the decay of old houses and names. I have known a Mortimer who was a hedger and ditcher, a Berners who was born in a workhouse, and a descendant of the De Burghs, who bore the falcon, mending old kettles, and making horse and pony shoes in a dingle." "Odd enough," said the jockey; "but you were saying you knew one Berners--man or woman? I would ask." "A woman," said I. "What might her Christian name be?" said the jockey. "It is not to be mentioned lightly," said I, with a sigh. "I shouldn't wonder if it were Isopel," said the jockey with an arch glance of his one brilliant eye. "It was Isopel," said I; "did you know Isopel Berners?" "Ay, and have reason to know her," said the jockey, putting his hand into his left waistcoat pocket, as if to feel for something, "for she gave me what I believe few men could do--a most confounded whopping. But now, Mr. Romany Rye, I have again to tell you that I don't like to be interrupted when I'm speaking, and to add that if you break in upon me a third time, you and I shall quarrel." "Pray proceed with your story," said I; "I will not interrupt you again." "Good!" said the jockey. "Where was I? Oh, with a set of people who had given up their minds to shortening! Reducing the coin, though rather a lucrative, was a very dangerous trade. Coin filed felt rough to the touch; coin clipped could be easily detected by the eye; and as for coin reduced by aquafortis, it was generally so discoloured that, unless a great deal of pains was used to polish it, people were apt to stare at it in a strange manner, and to say, 'What have they been doing to this here gold?' My grandfather, as I have said before, was connected with a gang of shorters, and sometimes shortened money, and at other times passed off what had been shortened by other gentry. "Passing off what had been shortened by others was his ruin; for once, in trying to pass off a broad piece which had been laid in aquafortis for four-and-twenty hours, and was very black, not having been properly rectified, he was stopped and searched, and other reduced coins being found about him, and in his lodgings, he was committed to prison, tried, and executed. He was offered his life, provided he would betray his comrades; but he told the big-wigs, who wanted him to do so, that he would see them farther first, and died at Tyburn, amidst the cheers of the populace, leaving my grandmother and father, to whom he had always been a kind husband and parent--for, setting aside the crime for which he suffered, he was a moral man; leaving them, I say, to bewail his irreparable loss. "'Tis said that misfortune never comes alone; this is, however, not always the case. Shortly after my grandfather's misfortune, as my grandmother and her son were living in great misery in Spitalfields, her only relation--a brother from whom she had been estranged some years, on account of her marriage with my grandfather, who had been in an inferior station to herself--died, leaving all his property to her and the child. This property consisted of a farm of about a hundred acres, with its stock, and some money besides. My grandmother, who knew something of business, instantly went into the country, where she farmed the property for her own benefit and that of her son, to whom she gave an education suitable to a person in his condition, till he was old enough to manage the farm himself. Shortly after the young man came of age, my grandmother died, and my father, in about a year, married the daughter of a farmer, from whom he expected some little fortune, but who very much deceived him, becoming a bankrupt almost immediately after the marriage of his daughter, and himself and family going into the workhouse. "My mother, however, made my father an excellent wife; and if my father in the long run did not do well it was no fault of hers. My father was not a bad man by nature, he was of an easy, generous temper, the most unfortunate temper, by the bye, for success in this life that any person can be possessed of, as those who have it are almost sure to be made dupes of by the designing. But, though easy and generous, he was anything but a fool; he had a quick and witty tongue of his own when he chose to exert it, and woe be to those who insulted him openly, for there was not a better boxer in the whole country round. My parents were married several years before I came into the world, who was their first and only child. I may be called an unfortunate creature; I was born with this beam or scale on my left eye, which does not allow me to see with it; and though I can see tolerably sharply with the other, indeed more than most people can with both of theirs, it is a great misfortune not to have two eyes like other people. Moreover, setting aside the affair of my eye, I had a very ugly countenance; my mouth being slightly wrung aside, and my complexion swarthy. In fact, I looked so queer that the gossips and neighbours, when they first saw me, swore I was a changeling--perhaps it would have been well if I had never been born; for my poor father, who had been particularly anxious to have a son, no sooner saw me than he turned away, went to the neighbouring town, and did not return for two days. I am by no means certain that I was not the cause of his ruin, for till I came into the world he was fond of his home, and attended much to business, but afterwards he went frequently into company, and did not seem to care much about his affairs: he was, however, a kind man, and when his wife gave him advice never struck her, nor do I ever remember that he kicked me when I came in his way, or so much as cursed my ugly face, though it was easy to see that he didn't over-like me. When I was six years old I was sent to the village-school, where I was soon booked for a dunce, because the master found it impossible to teach me either to read or write. Before I had been at school two years, however, I had beaten boys four years older than myself, and could fling a stone with my left hand (for if I am right-eyed I am left-handed) higher and farther than any one in the parish. Moreover, no boy could equal me at riding, and no people ride so well or desperately as boys. I could ride a donkey--a thing far more difficult to ride than a horse--at full gallop over hedges and ditches, seated, or rather floating upon his hinder part,--so, though anything but clever, as this here Romany Rye would say, I was yet able to do things which few other people could do. By the time I was ten my father's affairs had got into a very desperate condition, for he had taken to gambling and horse- racing, and, being unsuccessful, had sold his stock, mortgaged his estate, and incurred very serious debts. The upshot was, that within a little time all he had was seized, himself imprisoned, and my mother and myself put into a cottage belonging to the parish, which, being very cold and damp, was the cause of her catching a fever, which speedily carried her off. I was then bound apprentice to a farmer, in whose service I underwent much coarse treatment, cold, and hunger. "After lying in prison near two years, my father was liberated by an Act for the benefit of insolvent debtors; he was then lost sight of for some time; at last, however, he made his appearance in the neighbourhood dressed like a gentleman, and seemingly possessed of plenty of money. He came to see me, took me into a field, and asked me how I was getting on. I told him I was dreadfully used, and begged him to take me away with him; he refused, and told me to be satisfied with my condition, for that he could do nothing for me. I had a great love for my father, and likewise a great admiration for him on account of his character as a boxer, the only character which boys in general regard, so I wished much to be with him, independently of the dog's life I was leading where I was; I therefore said if he would not take me with him, I would follow him; he replied that I must do no such thing, for that if I did, it would be my ruin. I asked him what he meant, but he made no reply, only saying that he would go and speak to the farmer. Then taking me with him, he went to the farmer, and in a very civil manner said that he understood I had not been very kindly treated by him, but he hoped that in future I should be used better. The farmer answered in a surly tone, that I had been only too well treated, for that I was a worthless young scoundrel; high words ensued, and the farmer, forgetting the kind of man he had to deal with, checked him with my grandsire's misfortune, and said he deserved to be hanged like his father. In a moment my father knocked him down, and on his getting up, gave him a terrible beating, then taking me by the hand he hastened away; as we were going down a lane he said we were now both done for: 'I don't care a straw for that, father,' said I, 'provided I be with you.' My father took me to the neighbouring town, and going into the yard of a small inn, he ordered out a pony and light cart which belonged to him, then paying his bill, he told me to mount upon the seat, and getting up drove away like lightning; we drove for at least six hours without stopping, till we came to a cottage by the side of a heath; we put the pony and cart into a shed, and went into the cottage, my father unlocking the door with a key which he took out of his pocket; there was nobody in the cottage when we arrived, but shortly after there came a man and a woman, and then some more people, and by ten o'clock at night there were a dozen of us in the cottage. The people were companions of my father. My father began talking to them in Latin, but I did not understand much of the discourse, though I believe it was about myself, as their eyes were frequently turned to me. Some objections appeared to be made to what he said; however, all at last seemed to be settled, and we all sat down to some food. After that, all the people got up and went away, with the exception of the woman, who remained with my father and me. The next day my father also departed, leaving me with the woman, telling me before he went that she would teach me some things which it behoved me to know. I remained with her in the cottage upwards of a week; several of those who had been there coming and going. The woman, after making me take an oath to be faithful, told me that the people whom I had seen were a gang who got their livelihood by passing forged notes, and that my father was a principal man amongst them, adding, that I must do my best to assist them. I was a poor ignorant child at that time, and I made no objection, thinking that whatever my father did must be right; the woman then gave me some instructions in the smasher's dialect of the Latin language. I made great progress, because, for the first time in my life, I paid great attention to my lessons. At last my father returned, and, after some conversation with the woman, took me away in his cart. I shall be very short about what happened to my father and myself during two years. My father did his best to smash the Bank of England by passing forged notes, and I did my best to assist him. We attended races and fairs in all kinds of disguises; my father was a first-rate hand at a disguise, and could appear of all ages, from twenty to fourscore; he was, however, grabbed at last. He had said, as I have told you, that he should be my ruin, but I was the cause of his, and all owing to the misfortune of this here eye of mine. We came to this very place of Horncastle, where my father purchased two horses of a young man, paying for them with three forged notes, purporting to be Bank of Englanders of fifty pounds each, and got the young man to change another of the like amount; he at that time appeared as a respectable dealer, and I as his son, as I really was. "As soon as we had got the horses, we conveyed them to one of the places of call belonging to our gang, of which there were several. There they were delivered into the hands of our companions, who speedily sold them in a distant part of the country. The sum which they fetched--for the gang kept very regular accounts--formed an important item on the next day of sharing, of which there were twelve in the year. The young man, whom my father had paid for the horses with his smashing notes, was soon in trouble about them, and ran some risk, as I heard, of being executed; but he bore a good character, told a plain story, and, above all, had friends, and was admitted to bail; to one of his friends he described my father and myself. This person happened to be at an inn in Yorkshire, where my father, disguised as a Quaker, attempted to pass a forged note. The note was shown to this individual, who pronounced it a forgery, it being exactly similar to those for which the young man had been in trouble, and which he had seen. My father, however, being supposed a respectable man, because he was dressed as a Quaker--the very reason, by the bye, why anybody who knew aught of the Quakers would have suspected him to be a rogue--would have been let go, had I not made my appearance, dressed as his footboy. The friend of the young man looked at my eye, and seized hold of my father, who made a desperate resistance, I assisting him, as in duty bound. Being, however, overpowered by numbers, he bade me by a look, and a word or two in Latin, to make myself scarce. Though my heart was fit to break, I obeyed my father, who was speedily committed. I followed him to the county town in which he was lodged, where shortly after I saw him tried, convicted, and condemned. I then, having made friends with the jailor's wife, visited him in his cell, where I found him very much cast down. He said, that my mother had appeared to him in a dream, and talked to him about a resurrection and Christ Jesus; there was a Bible before him, and he told me the chaplain had just been praying with him. He reproached himself much, saying, he was afraid he had been my ruin, by teaching me bad habits. I told him not to say any such thing, for that I had been the cause of his, owing to the misfortune of my eye. He begged me to give over all unlawful pursuits, saying, that if persisted in, they were sure of bringing a person to destruction. I advised him to try and make his escape, proposing, that when the turnkey came to let me out, he should knock him down, and fight his way out, offering to assist him; showing him a small saw, with which one of our companions, who was in the neighbourhood, had provided me, and with which he could have cut through his fetters in five minutes; but he told me he had no wish to escape, and was quite willing to die. I was rather hard at that time; I am not very soft now; and I felt rather ashamed of my father's want of what I called spirit. He was not executed after all; for the chaplain, who was connected with a great family, stood his friend, and got his sentence commuted, as they call it, to transportation; and in order to make the matter easy, he induced my father to make some valuable disclosures with respect to the smashers' system. I confess that I would have been hanged before I would have done so, after having reaped the profit of it; that is, I think so now, seated comfortably in my inn, with my bottle of champagne before me. He, however, did not show himself carrion; he would not betray his companions, who had behaved very handsomely to him, having given the son of a lord, a great barrister, not a hundred-pound forged bill, but a hundred hard guineas, to plead his cause, and another ten, to induce him, after pleading, to put his hand to his breast, and say, that, upon his honour, he believed the prisoner at the bar to be an honest and injured man. No; I am glad to be able to say, that my father did not show himself exactly carrion, though I could almost have wished he had let himself-- However, I am here with my bottle of champagne and the Romany Rye, and he was in his cell, with bread and water and the prison chaplain. He took an affectionate leave of me before he was sent away, giving me three out of five guineas, all the money he had left. He was a kind man, but not exactly fitted to fill my grandfather's shoes. I afterwards learned that he died of fever, as he was being carried across the sea. "During the 'sizes I had made acquaintance with old Fulcher. I was in the town on my father's account, and he was there on his son's, who, having committed a small larceny, was in trouble. Young Fulcher, however, unlike my father, got off, though he did not give the son of a lord a hundred guineas to speak for him, and ten more to pledge his sacred honour for his honesty, but gave Counsellor P--- one-and-twenty shillings to defend him, who so frightened the principal evidence, a plain honest farming-man, that he flatly contradicted what he had first said, and at last acknowledged himself to be all the rogues in the world, and, amongst other things, a perjured villain. Old Fulcher, before he left the town with his son,--and here it will be well to say that he and his son left it in a kind of triumph, the base drummer of a militia regiment, to whom they had given half-a-crown, beating his drum before them--old Fulcher, I say, asked me to go and visit him, telling me where, at such a time, I might find him and his caravan and family; offering, if I thought fit, to teach me basket-making: so, after my father had been sent off, I went and found up old Fulcher, and became his apprentice in the basket-making line. I stayed with him till the time of his death, which happened in about three months, travelling about with him and his family, and living in green lanes, where we saw gypsies and trampers, and all kinds of strange characters. Old Fulcher, besides being an industrious basket-maker, was an out-and-out thief, as was also his son, and, indeed, every member of his family. They used to make baskets during the day, and thieve during a great part of the night. I had not been with them twelve hours before old Fulcher told me that I must thieve as well as the rest. I demurred at first, for I remembered the fate of my father, and what he had told me about leaving off bad courses, but soon allowed myself to be over-persuaded; more especially as the first robbery I was asked to do was a fruit robbery. I was to go with young Fulcher, and steal some fine Morell cherries, which grew against a wall in a gentleman's garden; so young Fulcher and I went and stole the cherries, one half of which we ate, and gave the rest to the old man, who sold them to a fruiterer ten miles off from the place where we had stolen them. The next night old Fulcher took me out with himself. He was a great thief, though in a small way. He used to say, that they were fools, who did not always manage to keep the rope below their shoulders, by which he meant, that it was not advisable to commit a robbery, or do anything which could bring you to the gallows. He was all for petty larceny, and knew where to put his hand upon any little thing in England, which it was possible to steal. I submit it to the better judgment of the Romany Rye, who I see is a great hand for words and names, whether he ought not to have been called old Filcher, instead of Fulcher. I shan't give a regular account of the larcenies he committed during the short time I knew him, either alone by himself, or with me and his son. I shall merely relate the last. "A melancholy gentleman, who lived a very solitary life, had a large carp in a shady pond in a meadow close to his house; he was exceedingly fond of it, and used to feed it with his own hand, the creature being so tame that it would put its snout out of the water to be fed when it was whistled to; feeding and looking at his carp were the only pleasures the poor melancholy gentleman possessed. Old Fulcher--being in the neighbourhood, and having an order from a fishmonger for a large fish, which was wanted at a great city dinner, at which His Majesty was to be present--swore he would steal the carp, and asked me to go with him. I had heard of the gentleman's fondness for his creature, and begged him to let it be, advising him to go and steal some other fish; but old Fulcher swore, and said he would have the carp, although its master should hang himself; I told him he might go by himself, but he took his son and stole the carp, which weighed seventeen pounds. Old Fulcher got thirty shillings for the carp, which I afterwards heard was much admired and relished by His Majesty. The master, however, of the carp, on losing his favourite, became more melancholy than ever, and in a little time hanged himself. 'What's sport for one, is death to another,' I once heard at the village-school read out of a copy-book. "This was the last larceny old Fulcher ever committed. He could keep his neck always out of the noose, but he could not always keep his leg out of the trap. A few nights after, having removed to a distance, he went to an osier car in order to steal some osiers for his basket-making, for he never bought any. I followed a little way behind. Old Fulcher had frequently stolen osiers out of the car, whilst in the neighbourhood, but during his absence the property, of which the car was a part, had been let to a young gentleman, a great hand for preserving game. Old Fulcher had not got far into the car before he put his foot into a man-trap. Hearing old Fulcher shriek, I ran up, and found him in a dreadful condition. Putting a large stick which I carried into the jaws of the trap, I contrived to prize them open, and get old Fulcher's leg out, but the leg was broken. So I ran to the caravan, and told young Fulcher of what had happened, and he and I helped his father home. A doctor was sent for, who said that it was necessary to take the leg off, but old Fulcher, being very much afraid of pain, said it should not be taken off, and the doctor went away, but after some days, old Fulcher becoming worse, ordered the doctor to be sent for, who came and took off his leg, but it was then too late, mortification had come on, and in a little time old Fulcher died. "Thus perished old Fulcher; he was succeeded in his business by his son, young Fulcher, who, immediately after the death of his father, was called old Fulcher, it being our English custom to call everybody old, as soon as their fathers are buried; young Fulcher--I mean he who had been called young, but was now old Fulcher--wanted me to go out and commit larcenies with him; but I told him that I would have nothing more to do with thieving, having seen the ill effects of it, and that I should leave them in the morning. Old Fulcher begged me to think better of it, and his mother joined with him. They offered, if I would stay, to give me Mary Fulcher as a mort, till she and I were old enough to be regularly married, she being the daughter of the one, and the sister of the other. I liked the girl very well, for she had always been civil to me, and had a fair complexion and nice red hair, both of which I like, being a bit of a black myself; but I refused, being determined to see something more of the world than I could hope to do with the Fulchers, and, moreover, to live honestly, which I could never do along with them. So the next morning I left them: I was, as I said before, quite determined upon an honest livelihood, and I soon found one. He is a great fool who is ever dishonest in England. Any person who has any natural gift, and everybody has some natural gift, is sure of finding encouragement in this noble country of ours, provided he will but exhibit it. I had not walked more than three miles before I came to a wonderfully high church steeple, which stood close by the road; I looked at the steeple, and going to a heap of smooth pebbles which lay by the roadside, I took up some, and then went into the churchyard, and placing myself just below the tower, my right foot resting on a ledge, about two foot from the ground, I, with my left hand--being a left-handed person, do you see--flung or chucked up a stone, which, lighting on the top of the steeple, which was at least a hundred and fifty feet high, did there remain. After repeating this feat two or three times, I 'hulled' up a stone, which went clean over the tower, and then one, my right foot still on the ledge, which rising at least five yards above the steeple, did fall down just at my feet. Without knowing it, I was showing off my gift to others besides myself, doing what, perhaps, not five men in England could do. Two men, who were passing by, stopped and looked at my proceedings, and when I had done flinging came into the churchyard, and, after paying me a compliment on what they had seen me do, proposed that I should join company with them; I asked them who they were, and they told me. The one was Hopping Ned, and the other Biting Giles. Both had their gifts, by which they got their livelihood; Ned could hop a hundred yards with any man in England, and Giles could lift up with his teeth any dresser or kitchen-table in the country, and, standing erect, hold it dangling in his jaws. There's many a big oak table and dresser in certain districts of England, which bear the marks of Giles's teeth; and I make no doubt that, a hundred or two years hence, there'll be strange stories about those marks, and that people will point them out as a proof that there were giants in bygone time, and that many a dentist will moralize on the decays which human teeth have undergone. "They wanted me to go about with them, and exhibit my gift occasionally, as they did theirs, promising that the money that was got by the exhibitions should be honestly divided. I consented, and we set off together, and that evening coming to a village, and putting up at the ale- house, all the grand folks of the village being there smoking their pipes, we contrived to introduce the subject of hopping--the upshot being that Ned hopped against the school-master for a pound, and beat him hollow; shortly after, Giles, for a wager, took up the kitchen table in his jaws, though he had to pay a shilling to the landlady for the marks he left, whose grandchildren will perhaps get money by exhibiting them. As for myself, I did nothing that day, but the next, on which my companions did nothing, I showed off at hulling stones against a cripple, the crack man for stone-throwing, of a small town, a few miles farther on. Bets were made to the tune of some pounds; I contrived to beat the cripple, and just contrived; for to do him justice I must acknowledge he was a first-rate hand at stones, though he had a game hip, and went sideways; his head, when he walked--if his movements could be called walking--not being above three feet above the ground. So we travelled, I and my companions, showing off our gifts, Giles and I occasionally for a gathering, but Ned never hopping, unless against somebody for a wager. We lived honestly and comfortably, making no little money by our natural endowments, and were known over a great part of England as 'Hopping Ned,' 'Biting Giles,' and 'Hull over the Head Jack,' which was my name, it being the blackguard fashion of the English, do you see, to--" Here I interrupted the jockey. "You may call it a blackguard fashion," said I, "and I dare say it is, or it would scarcely be English; but it is an immensely ancient one, and is handed down to us from our northern ancestry, especially the Danes, who were in the habit of giving people surnames, or rather nicknames, from some quality of body or mind, but generally from some disadvantageous peculiarity of feature; for there is no denying that the English, Norse, or whatever we may please to call them, are an envious, depreciatory set of people, who not only give their poor comrades contemptuous names, but their great people also. They didn't call you the matchless Hurler, because, by doing so, they would have paid you a compliment, but Hull over the Head Jack, as much as to say that after all you were a scrub; so, in ancient time, instead of calling Regner the great conqueror, the Nation Tamer, they surnamed him Lodbrog, which signifies Rough or Hairy Breeks--lod or loddin signifying rough or hairy; and instead of complimenting Halgerdr, the wife of Gunnar of Hlitharend, the great champion of Iceland, upon her majestic presence, by calling her Halgerdr, the stately or tall; what must they do but term her Ha-brokr, or Highbreeks, it being the fashion in old times for Northern ladies to wear breeks, or breeches, which English ladies of the present day never think of doing; and just, as of old, they called Halgerdr Long-breeks, so this very day a fellow of Horncastle called, in my hearing, our noble-looking Hungarian friend here, Long-stockings. Oh, I could give you a hundred instances, both ancient and modern, of this unseemly propensity of our illustrious race, though I will only trouble you with a few more ancient ones; they not only nicknamed Regner, but his sons also, who were all kings, and distinguished men: one, whose name was Biorn, they nicknamed Ironsides; another, Sigurd, Snake in the Eye; another, White Sark, or White Shirt--I wonder they did not call him Dirty Shirt; and Ivarr, another, who was king of Northumberland, they called Bienlausi, or the Legless, because he was spindle-shanked, had no sap in his bones, and consequently no children. He was a great king, it is true, and very wise, nevertheless his blackguard countrymen, always averse, as their descendants are, to give credit to anybody, for any valuable quality or possession, must needs lay hold, do you see--" But before I could say any more, the jockey, having laid down his pipe, rose, and having taken off his coat, advanced towards me. CHAPTER XLII A Short-tempered Person--Gravitation--The Best Endowment--Mary Fulcher--Fair Dealing--Horse-witchery--Darius and his Groom--The Jockey's Tricks--The Two Characters--The Jockey's Song. The jockey, having taken off his coat and advanced towards me, as I have stated in the preceding chapter, exclaimed, in an angry tone, "This is the third time you have interrupted me in my tale, Mr. Rye; I passed over the two first times with a simple warning, but you will now please to get up and give me the satisfaction of a man." "I am really sorry," said I, "if I have given you offence, but you were talking of our English habits of bestowing nicknames, and I could not refrain from giving a few examples tending to prove what a very ancient habit it is." "But you interrupted me," said the jockey, "and put me out of my tale, which you had no right to do; and as for your examples, how do you know that I wasn't going to give some as old or older than yourn? Now stand up, and I'll make an example of you." "Well," said I, "I confess it was wrong in me to interrupt you, and I ask your pardon." "That won't do," said the jockey, "asking pardon won't do." "Oh," said I, getting up, "if asking pardon does not satisfy you, you are a different man from what I considered you." But here the Hungarian, also getting up, interposed his tall form and pipe between us, saying in English, scarcely intelligible, "Let there be no dispute! As for myself, I am very much obliged to the young man of Horncastle for his interruption, though he has told me that one of his dirty townsmen called me 'Long-stocking.' By Isten! there is more learning in what he has just said than in all the verdammt English histories of Thor and Tzernebock I ever read." "I care nothing for his learning," said the jockey. "I consider myself as good a man as he, for all his learning; so stand out of the way, Mr. Sixfooteleven, or--" "I shall do no such thing," said the Hungarian. "I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself. You ask a young man to drink champagne with you, you make him dronk, he interrupt you with very good sense; he ask your pardon, yet you not--" "Well," said the jockey, "I am satisfied. I am rather a short-tempered person, but I bear no malice. He is, as you say, drinking my wine, and has perhaps taken a drop too much, not being used to such high liquor; but one doesn't like to be put out of one's tale, more especially when one was about to moralize, do you see, oneself, and to show off what little learning one has. However, I bears no malice. Here is a hand to each of you; we'll take another glass each, and think no more about it." The jockey having shaken both of our hands, and filled our glasses and his own with what champagne remained in the bottle, put on his coat, sat down, and resumed his pipe and story. "Where was I? Oh, roaming about the country with Hopping Ned and Biting Giles. Those were happy days, and a merry and prosperous life we led. However, nothing continues under the sun in the same state in which it begins, and our firm was soon destined to undergo a change. We came to a village where there was a very high church steeple, and in a little time my comrades induced a crowd of people to go and see me display my gift by flinging stones above the heads of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, who stood at the four corners on the top, carved in stone. The parson, seeing the crowd, came waddling out of his rectory to see what was going on. After I had flung up the stones, letting them fall just where I liked--and one, I remember, fell on the head of Mark, where I dare say it remains to the present day--the parson, who was one of the description of people called philosophers, held up his hand, and asked me to let the next stone I flung up fall upon it. He wished, do you see, to know with what weight the stone would fall down, and talked something about gravitation--a word which I could never understand to the present day, save that it turned out a grave matter to me. I, like a silly fellow myself, must needs consent, and, flinging the stone up to a vast height, contrived so that it fell into the parson's hand, which it cut dreadfully. The parson flew into a great rage, more particularly as everybody laughed at him, and, being a magistrate, ordered his clerk, who was likewise constable, to conduct me to prison as a rogue and vagabond, telling my comrades that if they did not take themselves off, he would serve them in the same manner. So Ned hopped off, and Giles ran after him, without making any gathering, and I was led to Bridewell, my mittimus following at the end of a week, the parson's hand not permitting him to write before that time. In the Bridewell I remained a month, when, being dismissed, I went in quest of my companions, whom, after some time, I found up, but they refused to keep my company any longer; telling me that I was a dangerous character, likely to bring them more trouble than profit; they had, moreover, filled up my place. Going into a cottage to ask for a drink of water, they saw a country fellow making faces to amuse his children; the faces were so wonderful that Hopping Ned and Biting Giles at once proposed taking him into partnership, and the man--who was a fellow not very fond of work--after a little entreaty, went away with them. I saw him exhibit his gift, and couldn't blame the others for preferring him to me; he was a proper ugly fellow at all times, but when he made faces his countenance was like nothing human. He was called Ugly Moses. I was so amazed at his faces, that though poor myself I gave him sixpence, which I have never grudged to this day, for I never saw anything like them. The firm throve wonderfully after he had been admitted into it. He died some little time ago, keeper of a public- house, which he had been enabled to take from the profits of his faces. A son of his, one of the children he was making faces to when my comrades entered his door, is at present a barrister, and a very rising one. He has his gift--he has not, it is true, the gift of the gab, but he has something better, he was born with a grin on his face, a quiet grin; he would not have done to grin through a collar like his father, and would never have been taken up by Hopping Ned and Biting Giles, but that grin of his caused him to be noticed by a much greater person than either; an attorney observing it took a liking to the lad, and prophesied that he would some day be heard of in the world; and in order to give him the first lift, took him into his office, at first to light fires and do such kind of work, and after a little time taught him to write, then promoted him to a desk, articled him afterwards, and being unmarried, and without children, left him what he had when he died. The young fellow, after practising at the law some time, went to the bar, where, in a few years, helped on by his grin, for he had nothing else to recommend him, he became, as I said before, a rising barrister. He comes our circuit, and I occasionally employ him, when I am obliged to go to law about such a thing as an unsound horse. He generally brings me through--or rather that grin of his does--and yet I don't like the fellow, confound him, but I'm an oddity--no, the one I like, and whom I generally employ, is a fellow quite different, a bluff sturdy dog, with no grin on his face, but with a look that seems to say I am an honest man, and what cares I for any one? And an honest man he is, and something more. I have known coves with a better gift of the gab, though not many, but he always speaks to the purpose, and understands law thoroughly; and that's not all. When at college, for he has been at college, he carried off everything before him as a Latiner, and was first-rate at a game they call matthew mattocks. I don't exactly know what it is, but I have heard that he who is first-rate at matthew mattocks is thought more of than if he were first-rate Latiner. "Well, the chap that I'm talking about, not only came out first-rate Latiner, but first-rate at matthew mattocks too; doing, in fact, as I am told by those who knows, for I was never at college myself, what no one had ever done before. Well, he makes his appearance at our circuit, does very well, of course, but he has a somewhat high front, as becomes an honest man, and one who has beat every one at Latin and matthew mattocks; and one who can speak first-rate law and sense;--but see now, the cove with the grin, who has like myself never been at college; knows nothing of Latin, or matthew mattocks, and has no particular gift of the gab, has two briefs for his one, and I suppose very properly, for that grin of his curries favour with the juries; and mark me, that grin of his will enable him to beat the other in the long run. We all know what all barrister coves looks forward to--a seat on the hop sack. Well, I'll bet a bull to fivepence, that the grinner gets upon it, and the snarler doesn't; at any rate, that he gets there first. I calls my cove--for he is my cove--a snarler; because your first-rates at matthew mattocks are called snarlers, and for no other reason; for the chap, though with a high front, is a good chap, and once drank a glass of ale with me, after buying an animal out of my stable. I have often thought it a pity he wasn't born with a grin on his face like the son of Ugly _Moses_. It is true he would scarcely then have been an out and outer at Latin and matthew mattocks, but what need of either to a chap born with a grin? Talk of being born with a silver spoon in one's mouth! give me a cove born with a grin on his face--a much better endowment. "I will now shorten my history as much as I can, for we have talked as much as folks do during a whole night in the Commons' House, though, of course, not with so much learning, or so much to the purpose, because--why? They are in the House of Commons, and we in a public room of an inn at Horncastle. The goodness of the ale, do ye see, never depending on what it is made of, oh, no! but on the fashion and appearance of the jug in which it is served up. After being turned out of the firm, I got my living in two or three honest ways, which I shall not trouble you with describing. I did not like any of them, however, as they did not exactly suit my humour; at last I found one which did. One Saturday afternoon, I chanced to be in the cattle-market of a place about eighty miles from here; there I won the favour of an old gentleman who sold dickeys. He had a very shabby squad of animals, without soul or spirit; nobody would buy them, till I leaped upon their hinder ends, and by merely wriggling in a particular manner, made them caper and bound so to people's liking, that in a few hours every one of them was sold at very sufficient prices. The old gentleman was so pleased with my skill, that he took me home with him, and in a very little time into partnership. It's a good thing to have a gift, but yet better to have two. I might have got a very decent livelihood by throwing stones, but I much question whether I should ever have attained to the position in society which I now occupy, but for my knowledge of animals. I lived very comfortably with the old gentleman till he died, which he did in about a fortnight after he had laid his old lady in the ground. Having no children, he left me what should remain after he had been buried decently, and the remainder was six dickeys and thirty shillings in silver. I remained in the dickey trade ten years, during which time I saved a hundred pounds. I then embarked in the horse line. One day, being in the--market on a Saturday, I saw Mary Fulcher with a halter round her neck, led about by a man, who offered to sell her for eighteen- pence. I took out the money forthwith and bought her; the man was her husband, a basket-maker, with whom she had lived several years without having any children; he was a drunken, quarrel-some fellow, and having had a dispute with her the day before, he determined to get rid of her, by putting a halter round her neck and leading her to the cattle-market, as if she were a mare, which he had, it seems, a right to do;--all women being considered mares by old English law, and, indeed, still called mares in certain counties, where genuine old English is still preserved. That same afternoon, the man who had been her husband, having got drunk in a public-house, with the money which he had received for her, quarrelled with another man, and receiving a blow under the ear, fell upon the floor, and died of artiflex; and in less than three weeks I was married to Mary Fulcher, by virtue of regular bans. I am told she was legally my property by virtue of my having bought her with a halter round her neck; but, to tell you the truth, I think everybody should live by his trade, and I didn't wish to act shabbily towards our parson, who is a good fellow, and has certainly a right to his fees. A better wife than Mary Fulcher--I mean Mary Dale--no one ever had; she has borne me several children, and has at all times shown a willingness to oblige me, and to be my faithful wife. Amongst other things, I begged her to have done with her family, and I believe she has never spoken to them since. "I have thriven very well in business, and my name is up as being a person who can be depended on, when folks treats me handsomely. I always make a point when a gentleman comes to me, and says, 'Mr. Dale,' or 'John,' for I have no objection to be called John by a gentleman--'I wants a good horse, and am ready to pay a good price'--I always makes a point, I say, to furnish him with an animal worth the money; but when I sees a fellow, whether he calls himself gentleman or not, wishing to circumvent me, what does I do? I doesn't quarrel with him; not I; but, letting him imagine he is taking me in, I contrives to sell him a screw for thirty pounds, not worth thirty shillings. All honest respectable people have at present great confidence in me, and frequently commissions me to buy them horses at great fairs like this. "This short young gentleman was recommended to me by a great landed proprietor, to whom he bore letters of recommendation from some great prince in his own country, who had a long time ago been entertained at the house of the landed proprietor, and the consequence is, that I brings young six foot six to Horncastle, and purchases for him the horse of the Romany Rye. I don't do these kind things for nothing, it is true; that can't be expected; for every one must live by his trade; but, as I said before, when I am treated handsomely, I treat folks so. Honesty, I have discovered, as perhaps some other people have, is by far the best policy; though, as I also said before, when I'm along with thieves, I can beat them at their own game. If I am obliged to do it, I can pass off the veriest screw as a flying drummedary, for even when I was a child I had found out by various means what may be done with animals. I wish now to ask a civil question, Mr. Romany Rye. Certain folks have told me that you are a horse witch; are you one, or are you not?" "I, like yourself," said I, "know, to a certain extent, what may be done with animals." "Then how would you, Mr. Romany Rye, pass off the veriest screw in the world for a flying drummedary?" "By putting a small live eel down his throat; as long as the eel remained in his stomach, the horse would appear brisk and lively in a surprising degree." "And how would you contrive to make a regular kicker and biter appear so tame and gentle, that any respectable fat old gentleman of sixty, who wanted an easy goer, would be glad to purchase him for fifty pounds?" "By pouring down his throat four pints of generous old ale, which would make him so happy and comfortable, that he would not have the heart to kick or bite anybody, for a season at least." "And where did you learn all this?" said the jockey. "I have read about the eel in an old English book, and about the making drunk in a Spanish novel, and, singularly enough, I was told the same things by a wild blacksmith in Ireland. Now tell me, do you bewitch horses in this way?" "I?" said the jockey; "mercy upon us! I wouldn't do such things for a hatful of money. No, no, preserve me from live eels and hocussing! And now let me ask you, how would you spirit a horse out of a field?" "How would I spirit a horse out of a field?" "Yes; supposing you were down in the world, and had determined on taking up the horse-stealing line of business." "Why, I should-- But I tell you what, friend, I see you are trying to pump me, and I tell you plainly that I will hear something from you with respect to your art, before I tell you anything more. Now how would you whisper a horse out of a field, provided you were down in the world, and so forth?" "Ah, ah, I see you are up to a game, Mr. Romany: however, I am a gentleman in mind, if not by birth, and I scorn to do the unhandsome thing to anybody who has dealt fairly towards me. Now you told me something I didn't know, and I'll tell you something which perhaps you do know. I whispers a horse out of a field in this way: I have a mare in my stable; well, in the early season of the year I goes into my stable--Well, I puts the sponge into a small bottle which I keeps corked. I takes my bottle in my hand, and goes into a field, suppose by night, where there is a very fine stag horse. I manage with great difficulty to get within ten yards of the horse, who stands staring at me just ready to run away. I then uncorks my bottle, presses my fore-finger to the sponge, and holds it out to the horse, the horse gives a sniff, then a start, and comes nearer. I corks up my bottle and puts it into my pocket. My business is done, for the next two hours the horse would follow me anywhere--the difficulty, indeed, would be to get rid of him. Now is that your way of doing business?" "My way of doing business? Mercy upon us! I wouldn't steal a horse in that way, or, indeed, in any way, for all the money in the world: however, let me tell you, for your comfort, that a trick somewhat similar is described in the history of Herodotus." "In the history of Herod's ass!" said the jockey; "well, if I did write a book, it should be about something more genteel than a dickey." "I did not say Herod's ass," said I, "but Herodotus, a very genteel writer, I assure you, who wrote a history about very genteel people, in a language no less genteel than Greek, more than two thousand years ago. There was a dispute as to who should be king amongst certain imperious chieftains. At last they agreed to obey him whose horse should neigh first on a certain day, in front of the royal palace, before the rising of the sun; for you must know that they did not worship the person who made the sun as we do, but the sun itself. So one of these chieftains, talking over the matter to his groom, and saying he wondered who would be king, the fellow said, 'Why you, master, or I don't know much about horses.' So the day before the day of trial, what does the groom do, but take his master's horse before the palace and introduce him to a mare in the stable, and then lead him forth again. Well, early the next day all the chieftains on their horses appeared in front of the palace before the dawn of day. Not a horse neighed but one, and that was the horse of him who had consulted with his groom, who, thinking of the animal within the stable, gave such a neigh that all the buildings rang. His rider was forthwith elected king, and a brave king he was. So this shows what seemingly wonderful things may be brought about by a little preparation." "It doth," said the jockey; "what was the chap's name?" "His name--his name--Darius Hystaspes." "And the groom's?" "I don't know." "And he made a good king?" "First-rate." "Only think! well, if he made a good king, what a wonderful king the groom would have made, through whose knowledge of 'orses he was put on the throne. And now another question, Mr. Romany Rye, have you particular words which have power to soothe or aggravate horses?" "You should ask me," said I, "whether I have horses that can be aggravated or soothed by particular words. No words have any particular power over horses or other animals who have never heard them before--how, should they? But certain animals connect ideas of misery or enjoyment with particular words which they are acquainted with. I'll give you an example. I knew a cob in Ireland that could be driven to a state of kicking madness by a particular word, used by a particular person, in a particular tone; but that word was connected with a very painful operation which had been performed upon him by that individual, who had frequently employed it at a certain period whilst the animal had been under his treatment. The same cob could be soothed in a moment by another word, used by the same individual in a very different kind of tone; the word was deaghblasda, or sweet tasted. Some time after the operation, whilst the cob was yet under his hands, the fellow--who was what the Irish call a fairy smith--had done all he could to soothe the creature, and had at last succeeded by giving it gingerbread-buttons, of which the cob became passionately fond. Invariably, however, before giving it a button, he said, 'Deaghblasda,' with which word the cob by degrees associated an idea of unmixed enjoyment: so if he could rouse the cob to madness by the word which recalled the torture to its remembrance, he could as easily soothe it by the other word, which the cob knew would be instantly followed by the button, which the smith never failed to give him after using the word deaghblasda." "There is nothing wonderful to be done," said the jockey, "without a good deal of preparation, as I know myself. Folks stare and wonder at certain things which they would only laugh at if they knew how they were done; and to prove what I say is true, I will give you one or two examples. Can either of you lend me a handkerchief? That won't do," said he, as I presented him with a silk one. "I wish for a delicate white handkerchief. That's just the kind of thing," said he, as the Hungarian offered him a fine white cambric handkerchief, beautifully worked with gold at the hems; "now you shall see me set this handkerchief on fire." "Don't let him do so by any means," said the Hungarian, speaking to me in German, "it is the gift of a lady whom I highly admire, and I would not have it burnt for the world." "He has no occasion to be under any apprehension," said the jockey, after I had interpreted to him what the Hungarian had said, "I will restore it to him uninjured, or my name is not Jack Dale." Then sticking the handkerchief carelessly into the left side of his bosom, he took the candle, which by this time had burnt very low, and holding his head back, he applied the flame to the handkerchief, which instantly seemed to catch fire. "What do you think of that?" said he to the Hungarian. "Why, that you have ruined me," said the latter. "No harm done, I assure you," said the jockey, who presently, clapping his hand on his bosom, extinguished the fire, and returned the handkerchief to the Hungarian, asking him if it was burnt. "I see no burn upon it," said the Hungarian; "but in the name of Gott, how could you set it on fire without burning it?" "I never set it on fire at all," said the jockey; "I set this on fire," showing us a piece of half-burnt calico. "I placed this calico above it, and lighted not the handkerchief, but the rag. Now I will show you something else. I have a magic shilling in my pocket, which I can make run up along my arm. But, first of all, I would gladly know whether either of you can do the like." Thereupon the Hungarian and myself, putting our hands into our pockets, took out shillings, and endeavoured to make them run up our arms, but utterly failed; both shillings, after we had made two or three attempts, falling to the ground. "What noncomposses you both are," said the jockey; and placing a shilling on the end of the fingers of his right hand he made strange faces to it, drawing back his head, whereupon the shilling instantly began to run up his arm, occasionally hopping and jumping as if it were bewitched, always endeavouring to make towards the head of the jockey. "How do I do that?" said he, addressing himself to me. "I really do not know," said I, "unless it is by the motion of your arm." "The motion of my nonsense," said the jockey, and, making a dreadful grimace, the shilling hopped upon his knee, and began to run up his thigh and to climb up his breast. "How is that done?" said he again. "By witchcraft, I suppose," said I. "There you are right," said the jockey; "by the witchcraft of one of Miss Berners' hairs; the end of one of her long hairs is tied to that shilling by means of a hole in it, and the other end goes round my neck by means of a loop; so that, when I draw back my head, the shilling follows it. I suppose you wish to know how I got the hair," said he, grinning at me. "I will tell you. I once, in the course of my ridings, saw Miss Berners beneath a hedge, combing out her long hair, and, being rather a modest kind of person, what must I do but get off my horse, tie him to a gate, go up to her, and endeavour to enter into conversation with her. After giving her the sele of the day, and complimenting her on her hair, I asked her to give me one of the threads; whereupon she gave me such a look, and, calling me fellow, told me to take myself off. 'I must have a hair first,' said I, making a snatch at one. I believe I hurt her; but, whether I did or not, up she started, and, though her hair was unbound, gave me the only drubbing I ever had in my life. Lor! how, with her right hand, she fibbed me whilst she held me round the neck with her left arm; I was soon glad to beg her pardon on my knees, which she gave me in a moment, when she saw me in that condition, being the most placable creature in the world, and not only her pardon, but one of the hairs which I longed for, which I put through a shilling, with which I have on evenings after fairs, like this, frequently worked what seemed to those who looked on downright witchcraft, but which is nothing more than pleasant deception. And now, Mr. Romany Rye, to testify my regard for you, I give you the shilling and the hair. I think you have a kind of respect for Miss Berners; but whether you have or not, keep them as long as you can, and whenever you look at them think of the finest woman in England, and of John Dale, the jockey of Horncastle. I believe I have told you my history," said he--"no, not quite; there is one circumstance I had passed over. I told you that I have thriven very well in business, and so I have, upon the whole; at any rate, I find myself comfortably off now. I have horses, money, and owe nobody a groat; at any rate, nothing but what I could pay to-morrow. Yet I have had my dreary day, ay, after I had obtained what I call a station in the world. All of a sudden, about five years ago, everything seemed to go wrong with me--horses became sick or died, people who owed me money broke or ran away, my house caught fire, in fact, everything went against me; and not from any mismanagement of my own. I looked round for help, but--what do you think?--nobody would help me. Somehow or other it had got abroad that I was in difficulties, and everybody seemed disposed to avoid me, as if I had got the plague. Those who were always offering me help when I wanted none, now, when they thought me in trouble, talked of arresting me. Yes; two particular friends of mine, who had always been offering me their purses when my own was stuffed full, now talked of arresting me, though I only owed the scoundrels a hundred pounds each; and they would have done so, provided I had not paid them what I owed them; and how did I do that? Why, I was able to do it because I found a friend--and who was that friend? Why, a man who has since been hung, of whom everybody has heard, and of whom everybody for the next hundred years will occasionally talk. "One day, whilst in trouble, I was visited by a person I had occasionally met at sporting-dinners. He came to look after a Suffolk Punch, the best horse, by the bye, that anybody can purchase to drive, it being the only animal of the horse kind in England that will pull twice at a dead weight. I told him that I had none at that time that I could recommend; in fact, that every horse in my stable was sick. He then invited me to dine with him at an inn close by, and I was glad to go with him, in the hope of getting rid of unpleasant thoughts. After dinner, during which he talked nothing but slang, observing I looked very melancholy, he asked me what was the matter with me, and I, my heart being opened by the wine he had made me drink, told him my circumstances without reserve. With an oath or two for not having treated him at first like a friend, he said he would soon set me all right; and pulling out two hundred pounds, told me to pay him when I could. I felt as I never felt before; however, I took his notes, paid my sneaks, and in less than three months was right again, and had returned him his money. On paying it to him, I said that I had now a Punch which would just suit him, saying that I would give it to him--a free gift--for nothing. He swore at me;--telling me to keep my Punch, for that he was suited already. I begged him to tell me how I could requite him for his kindness, whereupon, with the most dreadful oath I ever heard, he bade me come and see him hanged when his time was come. I wrung his hand, and told him I would, and I kept my word. The night before the day he was hanged at H---, I harnessed a Suffolk Punch to my light gig, the same Punch which I had offered to him, which I have ever since kept, and which brought me and this short young man to Horncastle, and in eleven hours I drove that Punch one hundred and ten miles. I arrived at H--- just in the nick of time. There was the ugly jail--the scaffold--and there upon it stood the only friend I ever had in the world. Driving my Punch, which was all in a foam, into the midst of the crowd, which made way for me as if it knew what I came for, I stood up in my gig, took off my hat, and shouted, 'God Almighty bless you, Jack!' The dying man turned his pale grim face towards me--for his face was always somewhat grim, do you see--nodded and said, or I thought I heard him say, 'All right, old chap.' The next moment--my eyes water. He had a high heart, got into a scrape whilst in the marines, lost his half- pay, took to the turf, ring, gambling, and at last cut the throat of a villain who had robbed him of nearly all he had. But he had good qualities, and I know for certain that he never did half the bad things laid to his charge; for example, he never bribed Tom Oliver to fight cross, as it was said he did on the day of the awful thunder-storm. Ned Flatnose fairly beat Tom Oliver, for though Ned was not what's called a good fighter, he had a particular blow, which if he could put in he was sure to win. His right shoulder, do you see, was two inches farther back than it ought to have been, and consequently his right fist generally fell short; but if he could swing himself round, and put in a blow with that right arm, he could kill or take away the senses of anybody in the world. It was by putting in that blow in his second fight with Spring that he beat noble Tom. Spring beat him like a sack in the first battle, but in the second Ned Painter--for that was his real name--contrived to put in his blow, and took the senses out of Spring; and in like manner he took the senses out of Tom Oliver. "Well, some are born to be hanged, and some are not; and many of those who are not hanged are much worse than those who are. Jack, with many a good quality, is hanged, whilst that fellow of a lord, who wanted to get the horse from you at about two-thirds of his value, without a single good quality in the world, is not hanged, and probably will remain so. You ask the reason why, perhaps. I'll tell you; the lack of a certain quality called courage, which Jack possessed in abundance, will preserve him; from the love which he bears his own neck he will do nothing which can bring him to the gallows. In my rough way I'll draw their characters from their childhood, and then ask whether Jack was not the best character of the two. Jack was a rough, audacious boy, fond of fighting, going a birds'-nesting, but I never heard he did anything particularly cruel save once, I believe, tying a canister to a butcher's dog's tail; whilst this fellow of a lord was by nature a savage beast, and when a boy would in winter pluck poor fowls naked, and set them running on the ice and in the snow, and was particularly fond of burning cats alive in the fire. Jack, when a lad, gets a commission on board a ship as an officer of horse marines, and in two or three engagements behaves quite up to the mark--at least of a marine; the marines having no particular character for courage, you know--never having run to the guns and fired them like madmen after the blue jackets had had more than enough. Oh, dear me, no! My lord gets into the valorous British army, where cowardice--Oh, dear me!--is a thing almost entirely unknown; and being on the field of Waterloo the day before the battle, falls off his horse, and, pretending to be hurt in the back, gets himself put on the sick list--a pretty excuse--hurting his back--for not being present at such a fight. Old Benbow, after part of both his legs had been shot away in a sea-fight, made the carpenter make him a cradle to hold his bloody stumps, and continued on deck, cheering his men till he died. Jack returns home, and gets into trouble, and having nothing to subsist by but his wits, gets his living by the ring and the turf, doing many an odd kind of thing, I dare say, but not half those laid to his charge. My lord does much the same without the excuse for doing so which Jack had, for he had plenty of means, is a leg, and a black, only in a more polished way, and with more cunning, and I may say success, having done many a rascally thing never laid to his charge. Jack at last cuts the throat of a villain who had cheated him of all he had in the world, and who, I am told, was in many points the counterpart of this screw and white feather, is taken up, tried, and executed; and certainly taking away a man's life is a dreadful thing; but is there nothing as bad? Whitefeather will cut no person's throat--I will not say who has cheated him, for, being a cheat himself, he will take good care that nobody cheats him, but he'll do something quite as bad; out of envy to a person who never injured him, and whom he hates for being more clever and respected than himself, he will do all he possibly can, by backbiting and every unfair means, to do that person a mortal injury. But Jack is hanged, and my lord it not. Is that right? My wife, Mary Fulcher--I beg her pardon, Mary Dale--who is a Methodist, and has heard the mighty preacher, Peter Williams, says some people are preserved from hanging by the grace of God. With her I differs, and says it is from want of courage. This Whitefeather, with one particle of Jack's courage, and with one tithe of his good qualities, would have been hanged long ago, for he has ten times Jack's malignity. Jack was hanged because, along with his bad qualities, he had courage and generosity; this fellow is not, because with all Jack's bad qualities, and many more, amongst which is cunning, he has neither courage nor generosity. Think of a fellow like that putting down two hundred pounds to relieve a distressed fellow-creature; why he would rob, but for the law and the fear it fills him with, a workhouse child of its breakfast, as the saying is--and has been heard to say that he would not trust his own father for sixpence, and he can't imagine why such a thing as credit should be ever given. I never heard a person give him a good word--stay, stay, yes! I once heard an old parson, to whom I sold a Punch, say that he had the art of receiving company gracefully and dismissing them without refreshment. I don't wish to be too hard with him, and so let him make the most of that compliment. Well! he manages to get on, whilst Jack is hanged; not quite enviably, however; he has had his rubs, and pretty hard ones--everybody knows he slunk from Waterloo, and occasionally checks him with so doing; whilst he has been rejected by a woman--what a mortification to the low pride of which the scoundrel has plenty! There's a song about both circumstances, which may, perhaps, ring in his ears on a dying bed. It's a funny kind of song, set to the old tune of the Lord- Lieutenant or Deputy, and with it I will conclude my discourse, for I really think it's past one." The jockey then, with a very tolerable voice, sung the following song:-- THE JOCKEY'S SONG. Now list to a ditty both funny and true!-- Merrily moves the dance along-- A ditty that tells of a coward and screw, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. Sir Plume, though not liking a bullet at all,-- Merrily moves the dance along-- Had yet resolution to go to a _ball_, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. "Woulez wous danser, mademoiselle?"-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- Said she, "Sir, to dance I should like very well," My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. They danc'd to the left, and they danc'd to the right,-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- And her troth the fair damsel bestow'd on the knight, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. "Now what shall I fetch you, mademoiselle?"-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- Said she, "Sir, an ice I should like very well," My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. But the ice, when he'd got it, he instantly ate,-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- Although his poor partner was all in a fret, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. He ate up the ice like a prudent young lord,-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- For he saw 't was the very last ice on the board,-- My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. "Now, when shall we marry?" the gentleman cried;-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- "Sir, get you to Jordan," the damsel replied, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. "I never will wed with the pitiful elf"-- Merrily moves the dance along-- "Who ate up the ice which I wanted myself," My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. "I'd pardon your backing from red Waterloo,"-- Merrily moves the dance along-- "But I never will wed with a coward and screw," My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. CHAPTER XLIII The Church. The next morning I began to think of departing; I had sewed up the money which I had received for the horse in a portion of my clothing, where I entertained no fears for its safety, with the exception of a small sum in notes, gold, and silver, which I carried in my pocket. Ere departing, however, I determined to stroll about and examine the town, and observe more particularly the humours of the fair than I had hitherto an opportunity of doing. The town, when I examined it, offered no object worthy of attention but its church--an edifice of some antiquity; under the guidance of an old man, who officiated as sexton, I inspected its interior attentively, occasionally conversing with my guide, who, however, seemed much more disposed to talk about horses than the church. "No good horses in the fair this time, measter," said he; "none but one brought hither by a chap whom nobody knows, and bought by a foreigneering man, who came here with Jack Dale. The horse fetched a good swinging price, which is said, however, to be much less than its worth; for the horse is a regular clipper; not such a one, 'tis said, has been seen in the fair for several summers. Lord Whitefeather says that he believes the fellow who brought him to be a highwayman, and talks of having him taken up, but Lord Whitefeather is only in a rage because he could not get him for himself. The chap would not sell it to un; Lord Screw wanted to beat him down, and the chap took huff, said he wouldn't sell it to him at no price, and accepted the offer of the foreigneering man, or of Jack, who was his 'terpreter, and who scorned to higgle about such a hanimal, because Jack is a gentleman, though bred a dickey-boy, whilst t'other, though bred a lord, is a screw and a whitefeather. Every one says the cove was right, and I says so too; I likes spirit, and if the cove were here, and in your place, measter, I would invite him to drink a pint of beer. Good horses are scarce now, measter, ay, and so are good men, quite a different set from what there were when I was young; that was the time for men and horses. Lord bless you, I know all the breeders about here; they are not a bad set, and they breed a very fairish set of horses, but they are not like what their fathers were, nor are their horses like their fathers' horses. Now there is Mr. --- the great breeder, a very fairish man, with very fairish horses; but, Lord bless you, he's nothing to what his father was, nor his steeds to his father's; I ought to know, for I was at the school here with his father, and afterwards for many a year helped him to get up his horses; that was when I was young, measter--those were the days. You look at that monument, measter," said he, as I stopped and looked attentively at a monument on the southern side of the church near the altar; "that was put up for a rector of this church, who lived a long time ago, in Oliver's time, and was ill-treated and imprisoned by Oliver and his men; you will see all about it on the monument. There was a grand battle fought nigh this place, between Oliver's men and the Royal party, and the Royal party had the worst of it, as I'm told they generally had; and Oliver's men came into the town, and did a great deal of damage, and ill-treated the people. I can't remember anything about the matter myself, for it happened just one hundred years before I was born, but my father was acquainted with an old countryman, who lived not many miles from here, who said he remembered perfectly well the day of the battle; that he was a boy at the time, and was working in a field near the place where the battle was fought; and heard shouting, and noise of firearms, and also the sound of several balls, which fell in the field near him. Come this way, measter, and I will show you some remains of that day's field." Leaving the monument, on which was inscribed an account of the life and sufferings of the Royalist Rector of Horncastle, I followed the sexton to the western end of the church, where, hanging against the wall, were a number of scythes stuck in the ends of poles. "Those are the weapons, measter," said the sexton, "which the great people put into the hands of the country folks, in order that they might use them against Oliver's men; ugly weapons enough; however, Oliver's men won, and Sir Jacob Ashley and his party were beat. And a rare time Oliver and his men had of it, till Oliver died, when the other party got the better, not by fighting, 'tis said, but through a General Monk, who turned sides. Ah, the old fellow that my father knew, said he well remembered the time when General Monk went over and proclaimed Charles the Second. Bonfires were lighted everywhere, oxen roasted, and beer drunk by pailfuls; the country folks were drunk with joy, and something else; sung scurvy songs about Oliver to the tune of Barney Banks, and pelted his men, wherever they found them, with stones and dirt." "The more ungrateful scoundrels they," said I. "Oliver and his men fought the battle of English independence against a wretched king and corrupt lords. Had I been living at the time, I should have been proud to be a trooper of Oliver." "You would, measter, would you? Well, I never quarrels with the opinions of people who come to look at the church, and certainly independence is a fine thing. I like to see a chap of an independent spirit, and if I were now to see the cove that refused to sell his horse to my Lord Screw and Whitefeather, and let Jack Dale have him, I would offer to treat him to a pint of beer--e'es, I would, verily. Well, measter, you have now seen the church, and all there's in it worth seeing--so I'll just lock up, and go and finish digging the grave I was about when you came, after which I must go into the fair to see how matters are going on. Thank ye, measter," said he, as I put something into his hand; "thank ye kindly; 'tis not every one who gives me a shilling now-a-days who comes to see the church, but times are very different from what they were when I was young; I was not sexton then, but something better; helped Mr. --- with his horses, and got many a broad crown. Those were the days, measter, both for men and horses--and I say, measter, if men and horses were so much better when I was young than they are now, what, I wonder, must they have been in the time of Oliver and his men?" CHAPTER XLIV An Old Acquaintance. Leaving the church, I strolled through the fair, looking at the horses, listening to the chaffering of the buyers and sellers, and occasionally putting in a word of my own, which was not always received with much deference; suddenly, however, on a whisper arising that I was the young cove who had brought the wonderful horse to the fair which Jack Dale had bought for the foreigneering man, I found myself an object of the greatest attention; those who had before replied with stuff! and nonsense! to what I said, now listened with the greatest eagerness to any nonsense I wished to utter, and I did not fail to utter a great deal; presently, however, becoming disgusted with the beings about me, I forced my way, not very civilly, through my crowd of admirers; and passing through an alley and a back street, at last reached an outskirt of the fair, where no person appeared to know me. Here I stood, looking vacantly on what was going on, musing on the strange infatuation of my species, who judge of a person's words, not from their intrinsic merit, but from the opinion--generally an erroneous one--which they have formed of the person. From this reverie I was roused by certain words which sounded near me, uttered in a strange tone, and in a strange cadence--the words were, "them that finds, wins; and them that can't find, loses." Turning my eyes in the direction from which the words proceeded, I saw six or seven people, apparently all countrymen, gathered round a person standing behind a tall white table of very small compass. "What!" said I, "the thimble-engro of --- Fair here at Horncastle." Advancing nearer, however, I perceived that though the present person was a thimble-engro, he was a very different one from my old acquaintance of --- Fair. The present one was a fellow about half-a-foot taller than the other. He had a long, haggard, wild face, and was dressed in a kind of jacket, something like that of a soldier, with dirty hempen trousers, and with a foreign-looking peaked hat on his head. He spoke with an accent evidently Irish, and occasionally changed the usual thimble formule, "them that finds wins, and them that can't--och, sure!--they loses;" saying also frequently, "your honour," instead of "my lord." I observed, on drawing nearer, that he handled the pea and thimble with some awkwardness, like that which might be expected from a novice in the trade. He contrived, however, to win several shillings, for he did not seem to play for gold, from "their honours." Awkward, as he was, he evidently did his best, and never flung a chance away by permitting any one to win. He had just won three shillings from a farmer, who, incensed at his loss, was calling him a confounded cheat, and saying that he would play no more, when up came my friend of the preceding day, Jack, the jockey. This worthy, after looking at the thimble-man a moment or two, with a peculiarly crafty glance, cried out, as he clapped down a shilling on the table, "I will stand you, old fellow!" "Them that finds wins; and them that can't--och, sure!--they loses," said the thimble-man. The game commenced, and Jack took up the thimble without finding the pea; another shilling was produced, and lost in the same manner; "this is slow work," said Jack, banging down a guinea on the table; "can you cover that, old fellow?" The man of the thimble looked at the gold, and then at him who produced it, and scratched his head. "Come, cover that, or I shall be off," said the jockey. "Och, sure, my lord!--no, I mean your honour--no, sure, your lordship," said the other, "if I covers it at all, it must be with silver, for divil a bit of gold have I by me." "Well, then, produce the value in silver," said the jockey, "and do it quickly, for I can't be staying here all day." The thimble-man hesitated, looked at Jack with a dubious look, then at the gold, and then scratched his head. There was now a laugh amongst the surrounders, which evidently nettled the fellow, who forthwith thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulling out all his silver treasure, just contrived to place the value of the guinea on the table. "Them that finds wins, and them that can't find--_loses_," interrupted Jack, lifting up a thimble, out of which rolled a pea. "There, paddy, what do you think of that?" said he, seizing the heap of silver with one hand, whilst he pocketed the guinea with the other. The thimble-engro stood, for some time, like one transfixed, his eyes glaring wildly, now at the table, and now at his successful customers; at last he said, "Arrah, sure, master!--no, I manes my lord--you are not going to ruin a poor boy!" "Ruin you!" said the other; "what! by winning a guinea's change? a pretty small dodger you--if you have not sufficient capital, why do you engage in so deep a trade as thimbling? come, will you stand another game?" "Och, sure, master, no! the twenty shillings and one which you have cheated me of were all I had in the world." "Cheated you," said Jack, "say that again, and I will knock you down." "Arrah! sure, master, you knows that the pea under the thimble was not mine; here is mine, master; now give me back my money." "A likely thing," said Jack; "no, no, I know a trick worth two or three of that; whether the pea was yours or mine, you will never have your twenty shillings and one again; and if I have ruined you, all the better; I'd gladly ruin all such villains as you, who ruin poor men with your dirty tricks, whom you would knock down and rob on the road, if you had but courage; not that I mean to keep your shillings, with the exception of the two you cheated from me, which I'll keep. A scramble, boys! a scramble!" said he, flinging up all the silver into the air, with the exception of the two shillings; and a scramble there instantly was, between the rustics who had lost their money and the urchins who came running up; the poor thimble-engro tried likewise to have his share; and though he flung himself down, in order to join more effectually in the scramble, he was unable to obtain a single sixpence; and having in his rage given some of his fellow-scramblers a cuff or two, he was set upon by the boys and country fellows, and compelled to make an inglorious retreat with his table, which had been flung down in the scuffle, and had one of its legs broken. As he retired, the rabble hooted, and Jack, holding up in derision the pea with which he had outmanoeuvred him, exclaimed, "I always carry this in my pocket in order to be a match for vagabonds like you." The tumult over, Jack gone, and the rabble dispersed, I followed the discomfited adventurer at a distance, who, leaving the town, went slowly on, carrying his dilapidated piece of furniture; till coming to an old wall by the roadside, he placed it on the ground, and sat down, seemingly in deep despondency, holding his thumb to his mouth. Going nearly up to him, I stood still, whereupon he looked up, and perceiving I was looking steadfastly at him, he said, in an angry tone, "Arrah! what for are you staring at me so? By my shoul, I think you are one of the thaives who are after robbing me. I think I saw you among them, and if I were only sure of it, I would take the liberty of trying to give you a big bating." "You have had enough of trying to give people a beating," said I; "you had better be taking your table to some skilful carpenter to get it repaired. He will do it for sixpence." "Divil a sixpence did you and your thaives leave me," said he; "and if you do not take yourself off, joy, I will be breaking your ugly head with the foot of it." "Arrah, Murtagh!" said I, "would ye be breaking the head of your friend and scholar, to whom you taught the blessed tongue of Oilien nan Naomha, in exchange for a pack of cards?" Murtagh, for he it was, gazed at me for a moment with a bewildered look; then, with a gleam of intelligence in his eye, he said, "Shorsha! no, it can't be--yes, by my faith it is!" Then, springing up, and seizing me by the hand, he said, "Yes, by the powers, sure enough it is Shorsha agra! Arrah, Shorsha! where have you been this many a day? Sure, you are not one of the spalpeens who are after robbing me?" "Not I," I replied, "but I saw all that happened. Come, you must not take matters so to heart; cheer up; such things will happen in connection with the trade you have taken up." "Sorrow befall the trade, and the thief who taught it me," said Murtagh; "and yet the trade is not a bad one, if I only knew more of it, and had some one to help and back me. Och! the idea of being cheated and bamboozled by that one-eyed thief in the horseman's dress." "Let bygones be bygones, Murtagh," said I; "it is no use grieving for the past; sit down, and let us have a little pleasant gossip. Arrah, Murtagh! when I saw you sitting under the wall, with your thumb to your mouth, it brought to my mind tales which you used to tell me all about Finn-ma-Coul. You have not forgotten Finn-ma-Coul, Murtagh, and how he sucked wisdom out of his thumb." "Sorrow a bit have I forgot about him, Shorsha," said Murtagh, as we sat down together, "nor what you yourself told me about the snake. Arrah, Shorsha! what ye told me about the snake, bates anything I ever told you about Finn. Ochone, Shorsha! perhaps you will be telling me about the snake once more? I think the tale would do me good, and I have need of comfort, God knows, ochone!" Seeing Murtagh in such a distressed plight, I forthwith told him over again the tale of the snake, in precisely the same words as I have related it in the first part of this history. After which, I said, "Now, Murtagh, tit for tat; ye will be telling me one of the old stories of Finn-ma-Coul." "Och, Shorsha! I haven't heart enough," said Murtagh. "Thank you for your tale, but it makes me weep; it brings to my mind Dungarvon times of old--I mean the times we were at school together." "Cheer up, man," said I, "and let's have the story, and let it be about Ma-Coul and the salmon and his thumb." "Arrah, Shorsha! I can't. Well, to oblige you, I'll give it you. Well, you know Ma-Coul was an exposed child, and came floating over the salt sea in a chest which was cast ashore at Veintry Bay. In the corner of that bay was a castle, where dwelt a giant and his wife, very respectable and decent people, and this giant, taking his morning walk along the bay, came to the place where the child had been cast ashore in his box. Well, the giant looked at the child, and being filled with compassion for his exposed state, took the child up in his box, and carried him home to his castle, where he and his wife, being dacent respectable people, as I telled ye before, fostered the child and took care of him, till he became old enough to go out to service and gain his livelihood, when they bound him out apprentice to another giant, who lived in a castle up the country, at some distance from the bay. "This giant, whose name was Darmod David Odeen, was not a respectable person at all, but a big old vagabond. He was twice the size of the other giant, who, though bigger than any man, was not a big giant; for, as there are great and small men, so there are great and small giants--I mean some are small when compared with the others. Well, Finn served this giant a considerable time, doing all kinds of hard and unreasonable service for him, and receiving all kinds of hard words, and many a hard knock and kick to boot--sorrow befall the old vagabond who could thus ill- treat a helpless foundling. It chanced that one day the giant caught a salmon, near a salmon-leap upon his estate--for, though a big ould blackguard, he was a person of considerable landed property, and high sheriff for the county Cork. Well, the giant brings home the salmon by the gills, and delivers it to Finn, telling him to roast it for the giant's dinner; 'but take care, ye young blackguard,' he added, 'that in roasting it--and I expect ye to roast it well--you do not let a blister come upon its nice satin skin, for if ye do, I will cut the head off your shoulders.' 'Well,' thinks Finn, 'this is a hard task; however, as I have done many hard tasks for him, I will try and do this too, though I was never set to do anything yet half so difficult.' So he prepared his fire, and put his gridiron upon it, and lays the salmon fairly and softly upon the gridiron, and then he roasts it, turning it from one side to the other just in the nick of time, before the soft satin skin could be blistered. However, on turning it over the eleventh time--and twelve would have settled the business--he found he had delayed a little bit of time too long in turning it over, and that there was a small, tiny blister on the soft outer skin. Well, Finn was in a mighty panic, remembering the threats of the ould giant; however, he did not lose heart, but clapped his thumb upon the blister in order to smooth it down. Now the salmon, Shorsha, was nearly done, and the flesh thoroughly hot, so Finn's thumb was scalt, and he, clapping it to his mouth, sucked it, in order to draw out the pain, and in a moment--hubbuboo!--became imbued with all the wisdom of the world. _Myself_. Stop, Murtagh! stop! _Murtagh_. All the witchcraft, Shorsha. _Myself_. How wonderful! _Murtagh_. Was it not, Shorsha? The salmon, do you see, was a fairy salmon. _Myself_. What a strange coincidence! _Murtagh_. A what, Shorsha? _Myself_. Why, that the very same tale should be told of Finn-ma-Coul, which is related of Sigurd Fafnisbane. "What thief was that, Shorsha?" "Thief! 'Tis true, he took the treasure of Fafnir. Sigurd was the hero of the North, Murtagh, even as Finn is the great hero of Ireland. He, too, according to one account, was an exposed child, and came floating in a casket to a wild shore, where he was suckled by a hind, and afterwards found and fostered by Mimir, a fairy blacksmith; he, too, sucked wisdom from a burn. According to the Edda, he burnt his finger whilst feeling of the heart of Fafnir, which he was roasting, and putting it into his mouth in order to suck out the pain, became imbued with all the wisdom of the world, the knowledge of the language of birds, and what not. I have heard you tell the tale of Finn a dozen times in the blessed days of old, but its identity with the tale of Sigurd never occurred to me till now. It is true, when I knew you of old, I had never read the tale of Sigurd, and have since almost dismissed matters of Ireland from my mind; but as soon as you told me again about Finn's burning his finger, the coincidence struck me. I say, Murtagh, the Irish owe much to the Danes--" "Devil a bit, Shorsha, do they owe to the thaives, except many a bloody bating and plundering, which they never paid them back. Och, Shorsha! you, edicated in ould Ireland, to say that the Irish owes anything good to the plundering villains--the Siol Loughlin." "They owe them half their traditions, Murtagh, and amongst others, Finn- ma-Coul and the burnt finger; and if ever I publish the Loughlin songs, I'll tell the world so." "But, Shorsha, the world will never believe ye--to say nothing of the Irish part of it." "Then the world, Murtagh--to say nothing of the Irish part of it--will be a fool, even as I have often thought it; the grand thing, Murtagh, is to be able to believe oneself, and respect oneself. How few whom the world believes believe and respect themselves." "Och, Shorsha! shall I go on with the tale of Finn?" "I'd rather you should not, Murtagh; I know all about it already." "Then why did you bother me to tell it at first, Shorsha? Och, it was doing my ownself good, and making me forget my own sorrowful state, when ye interrupted me with your thaives of Danes! Och, Shorsha! let me tell you how Finn, by means of sucking his thumb, and the witchcraft he imbibed from it, contrived to pull off the arm of the ould wagabone, Darmod David Odeen, whilst shaking hands with him--for Finn could do no feat of strength without sucking his thumb, Shorsha, as Conan the Bald told the son of Oisin in the song which I used to sing ye in Dungarvon times of old;" and here Murtagh repeated certain Irish words to the following effect:-- "O little the foolish words I heed O Oisin's son, from thy lips which come; No strength were in Finn for valorous deed, Unless to the gristle he suck'd his thumb." "Enough is as good as a feast, Murtagh, I am no longer in the cue for Finn. I would rather hear your own history. Now tell us, man, all that has happened to ye since Dungarvon times of old?" "Och, Shorsha, it would be merely bringing all my sorrows back upon me!" "Well, if I know all your sorrows, perhaps I shall be able to find a help for them. I owe you much, Murtagh; you taught me Irish, and I will do all I can to help you." "Why, then, Shorsha, I'll tell ye my history. Here goes!" CHAPTER XLV Murtagh's Tale. "Well, Shorsha, about a year and a half after you left us--and a sorrowful hour for us it was when ye left us, losing, as we did, your funny stories of your snake--and the battles of your military--they sent me to Paris and Salamanca, in order to make a saggart of me." "Pray excuse me," said I, "for interrupting you, but what kind of place is Salamanca?" "Divil a bit did I ever see of it, Shorsha!" "Then why did ye say ye were sent there? Well, what kind of place is Paris? Not that I care much about Paris." "Sorrow a bit did I ever see of either them, Shorsha, for no one sent me to either. When we says at home a person is going to Paris and Salamanca, it manes that he is going abroad to study to be a saggart, whether he goes to them places or not. No, I never saw either--bad luck to them--I was shipped away from Cork up the straits to a place called Leghorn, from which I was sent to--to a religious house, where I was to be instructed in saggarting till they had made me fit to cut a dacent figure in Ireland. We had a long and tedious voyage, Shorsha; not so tedious, however, as it would have been had I been fool enough to lave your pack of cards behind me, as the thaif, my brother Denis, wanted to persuade me to do, in order that he might play with them himself. With the cards I managed to have many a nice game with the sailors, winning from them ha'pennies and sixpences until the captain said I was ruining his men, and keeping them from their duty; and, being a heretic and a Dutchman, swore that unless I gave over he would tie me up to the mast and give me a round dozen. This threat obliged me to be more on my guard, though I occasionally contrived to get a game at night, and to win sixpennies and ha'pennies. "We reached Leghorn at last, and glad I was to leave the ship and the master, who gave me a kick as I was getting over the side, bad luck to the dirty heretic for kicking a son of the church, for I have always been a true son of the church, Shorsha, and never quarrelled with it unless it interfered with me in my playing at cards. I left Leghorn with certain muleteers, with whom I played at cards at the baiting-houses, and who speedily won from me all the ha'pennies and sixpences I had won from the sailors. I got my money's worth, however, for I learnt from the muleteers all kind of quaint tricks upon the cards, which I knew nothing of before; so I did not grudge them what they chated me of, and when we parted we did so in kindness on both sides. On getting to--I was received into the religious house for Irishes. It was the Irish house, Shorsha, into which I was taken, for I do not wish ye to suppose that I was in the English religious house which there is in that city, in which a purty set are educated, and in which purty doings are going on if all tales be true. "In this Irish house I commenced my studies, learning to sing and to read the Latin prayers of the church. 'Faith, Shorsha, many's the sorrowful day I passed in that house learning the prayers and litanies, being half- starved, with no earthly diversion at all, at all; until I took the cards out of my chest and began instructing in card-playing the chum which I had with me in my cell; then I had plenty of diversion along with him during the times when I was not engaged in singing, and chanting, and saying the prayers of the church; there was, however, some drawback in playing with my chum, for though he was very clever in learning, divil a sixpence had he to play with, in which respect he was like myself, the master who taught him, who had lost all my money to the muleteers who taught me the tricks upon the cards; by degrees, however, it began to be noised about the religious house that Murtagh, from Hibrodary, {1} had a pack of cards with which he played with his chum in the cell; whereupon other scholars of the religious house came to me, some to be taught and others to play, so with some I played, and others I taught, but neither to those who could play, or to those who could not, did I teach the elegant tricks which I learnt from the muleteers. Well, the scholars came to me for the sake of the cards, and the porter and cook of the religious house, who could both play very well, came also; at last I became tired of playing for nothing, so I borrowed a few bits of silver from the cook, and played against the porter, and by means of my tricks I won money from the porter, and then I paid the cook the bits of silver which I had borrowed of him; and played with him, and won a little of his money, which I let him win back again, as I had lived long enough in a religious house to know that it is dangerous to take money from the cook. In a little time, Shorsha, there was scarcely anything going on in the house but card-playing; the almoner played with me, and so did the sub- rector, and I won money from both; not too much, however, lest they should tell the rector, who had the character of a very austere man, and of being a bit of a saint; however, the thief of a porter, whose money I had won, informed the rector of what was going on, and one day the rector sent for me into his private apartment, and gave me so long and pious a lecture upon the heinous sin of card-playing, that I thought I should sink into the ground; after about half-an-hour's inveighing against card- playing, he began to soften his tone, and with a long sigh told me that at one time of his life he had been a young man himself, and had occasionally used the cards; he then began to ask me some questions about card-playing, which questions I afterwards found were to pump from me what I knew about the science. After a time he asked me whether I had got my cards with me, and on my telling him I had, he expressed a wish to see them, whereupon I took the pack out of my pocket, and showed it to him; he looked at it very attentively, and at last, giving another deep sigh, he said, that though he was nearly weaned from the vanities of the world, he had still an inclination to see whether he had entirely lost the little skill which at one time he possessed. When I heard him speak in this manner, I told him that if his reverence was inclined for a game of cards, I should be very happy to play one with him; scarcely had I uttered these words than he gave a third sigh, and looked so very much like a saint that I was afraid he was going to excommunicate me. Nothing of the kind, however, for presently he gets up and locks the door, then sitting down at the table, he motioned me to do the same, which I did, and in five minutes we were playing at cards, his reverence and myself. "I soon found that his reverence knew quite as much about card-playing as I did. Divil a trick was there connected with cards that his reverence did not seem awake to. As, however, we were not playing for money, this circumstance did not give me much uneasiness; so we played game after game for two hours, when his reverence, having business, told me I might go, so I took up my cards, make my obedience, and left him. The next day I had other games with him, and so on for a very long time, still playing for nothing. At last his reverence grew tired of playing for nothing, and proposed that we should play for money. Now, I had no desire to play with his reverence for money, as I knew that doing so would bring on a quarrel. As long as we were playing for nothing, I could afford to let his reverence use what tricks he pleased; but if we played for money, I couldn't do so. If he played his tricks, I must play mine, and use every advantage to save my money; and there was one I possessed which his reverence did not. The cards being my own, I had put some delicate little marks on the trump cards, just at the edges, so that when I dealt, by means of a little sleight of hand, I could deal myself any trump card I pleased. But I wished, as I said before, to have no dealings for money with his reverence, knowing that he was master in the house, and that he could lead me a dog of a life if I offended him, either by winning his money, or not letting him win mine. So I told him I had no money to play with, but the ould thief knew better; he knew that I was every day winning money from the scholars, and the sub-rector, and the other people of the house, and the ould thaif had determined to let me go on in that way winning money, and then by means of his tricks, which he thought I dare not resent, to win from me all my earnings--in a word, Shorsha, to let me fill myself like a sponge, and then squeeze me for his own advantage. So he made me play with him, and in less than three days came on the quarrel; his reverence chated me, and I chated his reverence; the ould thaif knew every trick that I knew, and one or two more; but in daling out the cards I nicked his reverence; scarcely a trump did I ever give him, Shorsha, and won his money purty freely. Och, it was a purty quarrel! All the delicate names in the 'Newgate Calendar,' if ye ever heard of such a book; all the hang-dog names in the Newgate histories, and the lives of Irish rogues, did we call each other--his reverence and I! Suddenly, however, putting out his hand, he seized the cards, saying, 'I will examine these cards, ye cheating scoundrel! for I believe there are dirty marks on them, which ye have made in order to know the winning cards.' 'Give me back my pack,' said I, 'or m'anam on Dioul if I be not the death of ye!' His reverence, however, clapped the cards into his pocket, and made the best of his way to the door, I hanging upon him. He was a gross, fat man, but, like most fat men, deadly strong, so he forced his way to the door, and, opening it, flung himself out, with me still holding on him like a terrier dog on a big fat pig; then he shouts for help, and in a little time I was secured and thrust into a lock-up room, where I was left to myself. Here was a purty alteration. Yesterday I was the idol of the religious house, thought more on than his reverence, every one paying me court and wurtship, and wanting to play cards with me, and to learn my tricks, and fed, moreover, on the tidbits of the table; and to-day I was in a cell, nobody coming to look at me but the blackguard porter who had charge of me, my cards taken from me, and with nothing but bread and water to live upon. Time passed dreary enough for a month, at the end of which time his reverence came to me, leaving the porter just outside the door in order to come to his help should I be violent; and then he read me a very purty lecture on my conduct, saying I had turned the religious house topsy-turvy, and corrupted the scholars, and that I was the cheat of the world, for that on inspecting the pack he had discovered the dirty marks which I had made upon the trump cards for to know them by. He said a great deal more to me, which is not worth relating, and ended by telling me that he intended to let me out of confinement next day, but that if ever I misconducted myself any more, he would clap me in again for the rest of my life. I had a good mind to call him an ould thaif, but the hope of getting out made me hold my tongue, and the next day I was let out; and need enough I had to be let out, for what with being alone, and living on bread and water, I was becoming frighted, or, as the doctors call it, narvous. But when I was out--oh, what a change I found in the religious house! no card-playing, for it had been forbidden to the scholars, and there was now nothing going on but reading and singing; divil a merry visage to be seen, but plenty of prim airs and graces; but the case of the scholars, though bad enough, was not half so bad as mine, for they could spake to each other, whereas I could not have a word of conversation, for the ould thaif of a rector had ordered them to send me to 'Coventry,' telling them that I was a gambling cheat, with morals bad enough to corrupt a horse regiment; and whereas they were allowed to divert themselves with going out, I was kept reading and singing from morn till night. The only soul who was willing to exchange a word with me was the cook, and sometimes he and I had a little bit of discourse in a corner, and we condoled with each other, for he liked the change in the religious house almost as little as myself; but he told me that, for all the change below stairs, there was still card-playing on above, for that the ould thaif of a rector, and the sub- rector, and the almoner played at cards together, and that the rector won money from the others--the almoner had told him so--and, moreover, that the rector was the thaif of the world, and had once been kicked out of a club-house at Dublin for cheating at cards, and after that circumstance had apparently reformed and lived decently till the time when I came to the religious house with my pack, but that the sight of that had brought him back to his ould gambling. He told the cook, moreover, that the rector frequently went out at night to the houses of the great clergy and cheated at cards. "In this melancholy state, with respect to myself, things continued a long time, when suddenly there was a report that his Holiness the Pope intended to pay a visit to the religious house in order to examine into its discipline. When I heard this I was glad, for I determined after the Pope had done what he had come to do, to fall upon my knees before him, and make a regular complaint of the treatment I had received, to tell him of the cheating at cards of the rector, and to beg him to make the ould thaif give me back my pack again. So the day of the visit came, and his Holiness made his appearance with his attendants, and, having looked over the religious house, he went into the rector's room with the rector, the sub-rector, and the almoner. I intended to have waited until his Holiness came out, but finding he stayed a long time I thought I would e'en go into him, so I went up to the door without anybody observing me--his attendants being walking about the corridor--and opening it I slipped in, and there what do you think I saw? Why, his Holiness the Pope, and his reverence the rector, and the sub-rector, and the almoner seated at cards; and the ould thaif of a rector was dealing out the cards which ye had given me, Shorsha, to his Holiness the Pope, the sub-rector, the almoner, and himself." In this part of his history I interrupted Murtagh, saying that I was afraid he was telling untruths, and that it was highly improbable that the Pope would leave the Vatican to play cards with Irish at their religious house, and that I was sure, if on his, Murtagh's authority, I were to tell the world so, the world would never believe it. "Then the world, Shorsha, would be a fool, even as you were just now saying you had frequently believed it to be; the grand thing, Shorsha, is to be able to believe oneself; if ye can do that, it matters very little whether the world believe ye or no. But a purty thing for you and the world to stickle at the Pope's playing at cards at a religious house of Irish; och! if I were to tell you and the world, what the Pope has been sometimes at, at the religious house of English thaives, I would excuse you and the world for turning up your eyes. However, I wish to say nothing against the Pope. I am a son of the church, and if the Pope don't interfere with my cards, divil a bit will I have to say against him; but I saw the Pope playing, or about to play, with the pack which had been taken from me, and when I told the Pope, the Pope did not--Ye had better let me go on with my history, Shorsha; whether you or the world believe it or not, I am sure it is quite as true as your tale of the snake, or saying that Finn got his burnt finger from the thaives of Loughlin; and whatever you may say, I am sure the world will think so too." I apologized to Murtagh for interrupting him, and telling him that his history, whether true or not, was infinitely diverting, begged him to continue it. CHAPTER XLVI Murtagh's Story continued--The Priest, Exorcist, and Thimble-engro--How to Check a Rebellion. I was telling ye, Shorsha, when ye interrupted me, that I found the Pope, the rector, the sub-rector, and the almoner seated at the table, the rector with my pack of cards in his hands, about to deal out to the Pope and the rest, not forgetting himself, for whom he intended all the trump- cards, no doubt. No sooner did they perceive me than they seemed taken all aback; but the rector, suddenly starting up with the cards in his hand, asked me what I did there, threatening to have me well disciplined if I did not go about my business; 'I am come for my pack,' said I, 'ye ould thaif, and to tell his Holiness how I have been treated by ye;' then going down on my knees before his Holiness, I said, 'Arrah, now, your Holiness! will ye not see justice done to a poor boy who has been sadly misused? The pack of cards which that old ruffian has in his hand are my cards, which he has taken from me, in order to chate with. Arrah! don't play with him, your Holiness, for he'll only chate ye--there are dirty marks upon the cards which bear the trumps, put there in order to know them by; and the ould thaif in daling out will give himself all the good cards, and chate ye of the last farthing in your pocket; so let them be taken from him, your Holiness, and given back to me; and order him to lave the room, and then, if your Holiness be for an honest game, don't think I am the boy to baulk ye. I'll take the old ruffian's place, and play with ye till evening, and all night besides, and divil an advantage will I take of the dirty marks, though I know them all, having placed them on the cards myself.' I was going on in this way when the ould thaif of a rector, flinging down the cards, made at me as if to kick me out of the room, whereupon I started up and said, 'If ye are for kicking, sure two can play at that;' and then I kicked at his reverence, and his reverence at me, and there was a regular scrimmage between us, which frightened the Pope, who, getting up, said some words which I did not understand, but which the cook afterwards told me were, 'English extravagance, and this is the second edition;' for it seems that, a little time before, his Holiness had been frightened in St. Peter's Church by the servant of an English family, which those thaives of the English religious house had been endeavouring to bring over to the Catholic faith, and who didn't approve of their being converted. Och! his Holiness did us all sore injustice to call us English, and to confound our house with the other; for however dirty our house might be, our house was a clane house compared with the English house, and we honest people compared with those English thaives. Well, his Holiness was frighted, and the almoner ran out, and brought in his Holiness's attendants, and they laid hold of me, but I struggled hard, and said, 'I will not go without my pack; arrah, your Holiness! make them give me my pack, which Shorsha gave me in Dungarvon times of old;' but my struggles were of no use. I was pulled away and put out in the ould dungeon, and his Holiness went away sore frighted, crossing himself much, and never returned again. "In the old dungeon I was fastened to the wall by a chain, and there I was disciplined once every other day for the first three weeks, and then I was left to myself, and my chain, and hunger; and there I sat in the dungeon, sometimes screeching, sometimes hallooing, for I soon became frighted, having nothing in the cell to divert me. At last the cook found his way to me by stealth, and comforted me a little, bringing me tidbits out of the kitchen; and he visited me again and again--not often, however, for he dare only come when he could steal away the key from the custody of the thaif of a porter. I was three years in the dungeon, and should have gone mad but for the cook, and his words of comfort, and his tidbits, and nice books which he brought me out of the library, which were the 'Calendars of Newgate,' and the 'Lives of Irish Rogues and Raparees,' the only English books in the library. However, at the end of three years, the ould thaif of a rector, wishing to look at them books, missed them from the library, and made a perquisition about them, and the thaif of a porter said that he shouldn't wonder if I had them; saying that he had once seen me reading; and then the rector came with others to my cell, and took my books from me, from under my straw, and asked me how I came by them; and on my refusal to tell, they disciplined me again till the blood ran down my back; and making more perquisition they at last accused the cook of having carried the books to me, and not denying, he was given warning to leave next day, but he left that night, and took me away with him; for he stole the key, and came to me and cut my chain through, and then he and I escaped from the religious house through a window--the cook with a bundle, containing what things he had. No sooner had we got out than the honest cook gave me a little bit of money and a loaf, and told me to follow a way which he pointed out, which he said would lead to the sea; and then, having embraced me after the Italian way, he left me, and I never saw him again. So I followed the way which the cook pointed out, and in two days reached a seaport called Chiviter Vik, terribly foot-foundered, and there I met a sailor who spoke Irish, and who belonged to a vessel just ready to sail for France; and the sailor took me on board his vessel, and said I was his brother, and the captain gave me a passage to a place in France called Marseilles; and when I got there, the captain and sailor got a little money for me and a passport, and I travelled across the country towards a place they directed me to called Bayonne, from which they said I might, perhaps, get to Ireland. Coming, however, to a place called Pau, all my money being gone, I enlisted into a regiment called the Army of the Faith, which was going into Spain, for the King of Spain had been dethroned and imprisoned by his own subjects, as perhaps you may have heard; and the King of France, who was his cousin, was sending an army to help him, under the command of his own son, whom the English called Prince Hilt, because when he was told that he was appointed to the command, he clapped his hand on the hilt of his sword. So I enlisted into the regiment of the Faith, which was made up of Spaniards, many of them priests who had run out of Spain, and broken Germans, and foot-foundered Irish, like myself. It was said to be a blackguard regiment, that same regiment of the Faith; but, 'faith, I saw nothing blackguardly going on in it, for you would hardly reckon card-playing and dominoes, and pitch and toss blackguardly, and I saw nothing else in it. There was one thing in it which I disliked--the priests drawing their Spanish knives occasionally, when they lost their money. After we had been some time at Pau, the army of the Faith was sent across the mountains into Spain, as the vanguard of the French; and no sooner did the Spaniards see the Faith than they made a dash at it, and the Faith ran away, myself along with it, and got behind the French army, which told it to keep there, and the Faith did so, and followed the French army, which soon scattered the Spaniards, and in the end placed the king on his throne again. When the war was over the Faith was disbanded; some of the foreigners, however, amongst whom I was one, were put into a Guard regiment, and there I continued for more than a year. "One day, being at a place called the Escurial, I took stock, as the tradesmen say, and found I possessed the sum of eighty dollars won by playing at cards, for though I could not play so well with the foreign cards as with the pack you gave me, Shorsha, I had yet contrived to win money from the priests and soldiers of the Faith. Finding myself possessed of such a capital, I determined to leave the service, and to make the best of my way to Ireland; so I deserted, but coming in an evil hour to a place they calls Torre Lodones, I found the priest playing at cards with his parishioners. The sight of the cards made me stop, and then, fool like, notwithstanding the treasure I had about me, I must wish to play, so not being able to speak their language, I made signs to them to let me play, and the priest and his thaives consented willingly; so I sat down to cards with the priest and two of his parishioners, and in a little time had won plenty of their money, but I had better never have done any such thing, for suddenly the priest and all his parishioners set upon me and bate me, and took from me all I had, and cast me out of the village more dead than alive. Och! it's a bad village that, and if I had known what it was I would have avoided it, or run straight through it, though I saw all the card-playing in the world going on in it. There is a proverb about it, as I was afterwards told, old as the time of the Moors, which holds good to the present day--it is, that in Torre Lodones there are twenty-four housekeepers, and twenty-five thieves, maning that all the people are thaives, and the clergyman to boot, who is not reckoned a housekeeper; and troth I found the clergyman the greatest thaif of the lot. After being cast out of that village I travelled for nearly a month, subsisting by begging tolerably well, for though most of the Spanish are thaives, they are rather charitable; but though charitable thaives they do not like their own being taken from them without leave being asked, as I found to my cost; for on my entering a garden near Seville, without leave, to take an orange, the labourer came running up and struck me to the ground with a hatchet, giving me a big wound in the arm. I fainted with loss of blood, and on reviving I found myself in a hospital at Seville, to which the labourer and the people of the village had taken me. I should have died of starvation in that hospital had not some English people heard of me and come to see me; they tended me with food till I was cured, and then paid my passage on board a ship to London, to which place the ship carried me. "And now I was in London with five shillings in my pocket--all I had in the world--and that did not last for long; and when it was gone I begged in the streets, but I did not get much by that, except a month's hard labour in the correction-house; and when I came out I knew not what to do, but thought I would take a walk in the country, for it was spring- time, and the weather was fine, so I took a walk about seven miles from London, and came to a place where a great fair was being held; and there I begged, but got nothing but a halfpenny, and was thinking of going farther, when I saw a man with a table, like that of mine, playing with thimbles, as you saw me. I looked at the play, and saw him win money, and run away, and hunted by constables more than once. I kept following the man, and at last entered into conversation with him; and learning from him that he was in want of a companion to help him, I offered to help him if he would pay me; he looked at me from top to toe, and did not wish at first to have anything to do with me, as he said my appearance was against me. 'Faith, Shorsha, he had better have looked at home, for his appearance was not much in his favour: he looked very much like a Jew, Shorsha. However, he at last agreed to take me to be his companion, or bonnet as he called it; and I was to keep a look-out, and let him know when constables were coming, and to spake a good word for him occasionally, whilst he was chating folks with his thimbles and his pea. So I became his bonnet, and assisted him in the fair, and in many other fairs beside; but I did not like my occupation much, or rather my master, who, though not a big man, was a big thaif, and an unkind one, for do all I could I could never give him pleasure; and he was continually calling me fool and bogtrotter, and twitting me because I could not learn his thaives' Latin, and discourse with him in it, and comparing me with another acquaintance, or bit of a pal of his, whom he said he had parted with in the fair, and of whom he was fond of saying all kinds of wonderful things, amongst others, that he knew the grammar of all tongues. At last, wearied with being twitted by him with not being able to learn his thaives' Greek, I proposed that I should teach him Irish, that we should spake it together when we had anything to say in secret. To that he consented willingly; but, och! a purty hand he made with Irish, 'faith, not much better than I did with his thaives' Hebrew. Then my turn came, and I twitted him nicely with dulness, and compared him with a pal that I had in ould Ireland, in Dungarvon times of yore, to whom I teached Irish, telling him that he was the broth of a boy, and not only knew the grammar of all human tongues, but the dialects of the snakes besides; in fact, I tould him all about your own sweet self, Shorsha, and many a dispute and quarrel had we together about our pals, which was the cleverest fellow, his or mine. "Well, after having been wid him about two months, I quitted him without noise, taking away one of his tables, and some peas and thimbles; and that I did with a safe conscience, for he paid me nothing, and was not over free with the meat and the drink, though I must say of him that he was a clever fellow, and perfect master of his trade, by which he made a power of money, and bating his not being able to learn Irish, and a certain Jewish lisp which he had, a great master of his tongue, of which he was very proud; so much so, that he once told me that when he had saved a certain sum of money he meant to leave off the thimbling business, and enter Parliament; into which, he said, he could get at any time, through the interest of a friend of his, a Tory Peer--my Lord Whitefeather, with whom, he said, he had occasionally done business. With the table, and other things which I had taken, I commenced trade on my own account, having contrived to learn a few of his tricks. My only capital was the change for half-a-guinea, which he had once let fall, and which I picked up, which was all I could ever get from him: for it was impossible to stale any money from him, he was so awake, being up to all the tricks of thaives, having followed the diving trade, as he called it, for a considerable time. My wish was to make enough by my table to enable me to return with credit to ould Ireland, where I had no doubt of being able to get myself ordained as priest; and, in troth, notwithstanding I was a beginner, and without any companion to help me, I did tolerably well, getting my meat and drink, and increasing my small capital, till I came to this unlucky place of Horncastle, where I was utterly ruined by the thaif in the rider's dress. And now, Shorsha, I am after telling you my history; perhaps you will now be telling me something about yourself?" I told Murtagh all about myself that I deemed necessary to relate, and then asked him what he intended to do; he repeated that he was utterly ruined, and that he had no prospect before him but starving, or making away with himself. I inquired "How much would take him to Ireland, and establish him there with credit." "Five pounds," he answered, adding, "but who in the world would be fool enough to lend me five pounds, unless it be yourself, Shorsha, who, may be, have not got it; for when you told me about yourself, you made no boast of the state of your affairs." "I am not very rich," I replied, "but I think I can accommodate you with what you want. I consider myself under great obligations to you, Murtagh; it was you who instructed me in the language of Oilein nan Naomha, which has been the foundation of all my acquisitions in philology; without you, I should not have been what I am--Lavengro! which signifies a philologist. Here is the money, Murtagh," said I, putting my hand into my pocket, and taking out five pounds, "much good may it do you." He took the money, stared at it, and then at me--"And you mane to give me this, Shorsha?" "It is no longer mine to give," said I; "it is yours." "And you give it me for the gratitude you bear me?" "Yes," said I, "and for Dungarvon times of old." "Well, Shorsha," said he, "you are a broth of a boy, and I'll take your benefaction--five pounds! och, Jasus!" He then put the money in his pocket, and springing up, waved his hat three times, uttering some old Irish cry; then, sitting down, he took my hand, and said, "Sure, Shorsha, I'll be going thither; and when I get there, it is turning over another leaf I will be; I have learnt a thing or two abroad; I will become a priest; that's the trade, Shorsha! and I will cry out for repale; that's the cry, Shorsha! and I'll be a fool no longer." "And what will you do with your table?" said I. "'Faith, I'll be taking it with me, Shorsha; and when I gets to Ireland, I'll get it mended, and I will keep it in the house which I shall have; and when I looks upon it, I will be thinking of all I have undergone." "You had better leave it behind you," said I; "if you take it with you, you will, perhaps, take up the thimble trade again before you get to Ireland, and lose the money I am after giving you." "No fear of that, Shorsha; never will I play on that table again, Shorsha, till I get it mended, which shall not be till I am a priest, and have a house in which to place it." Murtagh and I then went into the town, where we had some refreshment together, and then parted on our several ways. I heard nothing of him for nearly a quarter of a century, when a person who knew him well, coming from Ireland, and staying at my humble house, told me a great deal about him. He reached Ireland in safety, soon reconciled himself with his Church, and was ordained a priest; in the priestly office he acquitted himself in a way very satisfactory, upon the whole, to his superiors, having, as he frequently said, learned wisdom abroad. The Popish Church never fails to turn to account any particular gift which its servants may possess; and discovering soon that Murtagh was endowed with considerable manual dexterity--proof of which he frequently gave at cards, and at a singular game which he occasionally played at thimbles--it selected him as a very fit person to play the part of exorcist; and accordingly he travelled through a great part of Ireland, casting out devils from people possessed, which he afterwards exhibited, sometimes in the shape of rabbits, and occasionally birds and fishes. There is a holy island in a lake in Ireland, to which the people resort at a particular season of the year. Here Murtagh frequently attended, and it was here that he performed a cure which will cause his name long to be remembered in Ireland, delivering a possessed woman of two demons, which he brandished aloft in his hands, in the shape of two large eels, and subsequently hurled into the lake, amidst the shouts of an enthusiastic multitude. Besides playing the part of an exorcist, he acted that of a politician with considerable success; he attached himself to the party of the sire of agitation--"the man of paunch," and preached and hallooed for repeal with the loudest and best, as long as repeal was the cry; as soon, however, as the Whigs attained the helm of Government, and the greater part of the loaves and fishes--more politely termed the patronage of Ireland--was placed at the disposition of the priesthood, the tone of Murtagh, like that of the rest of his brother saggarts, was considerably softened; he even went so far as to declare that politics were not altogether consistent with sacerdotal duty; and resuming his exorcisms, which he had for some time abandoned, he went to the Isle of Holiness, and delivered a possessed woman of six demons in the shape of white mice. He, however, again resumed the political mantle in the year 1848, during the short period of the rebellion of the so-called Young Irelanders. The priests, though they apparently sided with this party, did not approve of it, as it was chiefly formed of ardent young men, fond of what they termed liberty, and by no means admirers of priestly domination, being mostly Protestants. Just before the outbreak of this rebellion, it was determined between the priests and the ---, that this party should be rendered comparatively innocuous by being deprived of the sinews of war--in other words, certain sums of money which they had raised for their enterprise. Murtagh was deemed the best qualified person in Ireland to be entrusted with the delicate office of getting their money from them. Having received his instructions, he invited the leaders to his parsonage amongst the mountains, under pretence of deliberating with them about what was to be done. They arrived there just before nightfall, dressed in red, yellow, and green, the colours so dear to enthusiastic Irishmen; Murtagh received them with great apparent cordiality, and entered into a long discourse with them, promising them the assistance of himself and order, and received from them a profusion of thanks. After a time Murtagh, observing, in a jocular tone, that consulting was dull work, proposed a game of cards, and the leaders, though somewhat surprised, assenting, he went to a closet, and taking out a pack of cards, laid it upon the table; it was a strange dirty pack, and exhibited every mark of having seen very long service. On one of its guests making some remarks on the "ancientness" of its appearance, Murtagh observed that there was a very wonderful history attached to that pack; it had been presented to him, he said, by a young gentleman, a disciple of his, to whom, in Dungarvon times of yore, he had taught the Irish language, and of whom he related some very extraordinary things; he added that he, Murtagh, had taken it to ---, where it had once the happiness of being in the hands of the Holy Father; by a great misfortune, he did not say what, he had lost possession of it, and had returned without it, but had some time since recovered it; a nephew of his, who was being educated at--for a priest, having found it in a nook of the college, and sent it to him. Murtagh and the leaders then played various games with this pack, more especially one called by the initiated "blind hookey," the result being that at the end of about two hours the leaders found they had lost one- half of their funds; they now looked serious, and talked of leaving the house, but Murtagh begging them to stay to supper, they consented. After supper, at which the guests drank rather freely, Murtagh said that, as he had not the least wish to win their money, he intended to give them their revenge; he would not play at cards with them, he added, but at a funny game of thimbles, at which they would be sure of winning back their own; then going out, he brought in a table, tall and narrow, on which placing certain thimbles and a pea, he proposed that they should stake whatever they pleased on the almost certainty of finding the pea under the thimbles. The leaders, after some hesitation, consented, and were at first eminently successful, winning back the greater part of what they had lost; after some time, however, Fortune, or rather Murtagh, turned against them, and then, instead of leaving off, they doubled and trebled their stakes, and continued doing so until they had lost nearly the whole of their funds. Quite furious, they now swore that Murtagh had cheated them, and insisted on having their property restored to them. Murtagh, without a word of reply, went to the door, and shouting into the passage something in Irish, the room was instantly filled with bogtrotters, each at least six feet high, with a stout shillelah in his hand. Murtagh then turning to his guests, asked them what they meant by insulting an anointed priest; telling them that it was not for the likes of them to avenge the wrongs of Ireland. "I have been clane mistaken in the whole of ye," said he, "I supposed ye Irish, but have found, to my sorrow, that ye are nothing of the kind; purty fellows to pretend to be Irish, when there is not a word of Irish on the tongue of any of ye, divil a ha'porth; the illigant young gentleman to whom I taught Irish, in Dungarvon times of old, though not born in Ireland, has more Irish in him than any ten of ye. He is the boy to avenge the wrongs of Ireland, if ever foreigner is to do it." Then saying something to the bogtrotters, they instantly cleared the room of the young Irelanders, who retired sadly disconcerted; nevertheless, being very silly young fellows, they hoisted the standard of rebellion; few, however, joining them, partly because they had no money, and partly because the priests abused them with might and main, their rebellion ended in a lamentable manner; themselves being seized and tried, and though convicted, not deemed of sufficient importance to be sent to the scaffold, where they might have had the satisfaction of saying-- "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." My visitor, after saying that of the money won, Murtagh retained a considerable portion, that a part went to the hierarchy for what were called church purposes, and that the--took the remainder, which it employed in establishing a newspaper, in which the private characters of the worthiest and most loyal Protestants in Ireland were traduced and vilified, concluded his account by observing, that it was the common belief that Murtagh, having by his services, ecclesiastical and political, acquired the confidence of the priesthood and favour of the Government, would, on the first vacancy, be appointed to the high office of Popish Primate of Ireland. CHAPTER XLVII Departure from Horncastle--Recruiting Sergeant--Kauloes and Lolloes. Leaving Horncastle I bent my steps in the direction of the east. I walked at a brisk rate, and late in the evening reached a large town, situate at the entrance of an extensive firth, or arm of the sea, which prevented my farther progress eastward. Sleeping that night in the suburbs of the town, I departed early next morning in the direction of the south. A walk of about twenty miles brought me to another large town, situated on a river, where I again turned towards the east. At the end of the town I was accosted by a fiery-faced individual, somewhat under the middle size, dressed as a recruiting sergeant. "Young man," said the recruiting sergeant, "you are just the kind of person to serve the Honourable East India Company." "I had rather the Honourable Company should serve me," said I. "Of course, young man. Well, the Honourable East India Company shall serve you--that's reasonable. Here, take this shilling; 'tis service- money. The Honourable Company engages to serve you, and you the Honourable Company; both parties shall be thus served; that's just and reasonable." "And what must I do for the Company?" "Only go to India; that's all." "And what should I do in India?" "Fight, my brave boy! fight, my youthful hero!" "What kind of country is India?" "The finest country in the world! Rivers, bigger than the Ouse. Hills, higher than anything near Spalding! Trees--you never saw such trees! Fruits--you never saw such fruits!" "And the people--what kind of folk are they?" "Pah! Kauloes--blacks--a set of rascals not worth regarding." "Kauloes!" said I; "blacks!" "Yes," said the recruiting sergeant; "and they call us lolloes, which, in their beastly gibberish, means red." "Lolloes!" said I; "reds!" "Yes," said the recruiting sergeant, "kauloes and lolloes; and all the lolloes have to do is to kick and cut down the kauloes, and take from them their rupees, which mean silver money. Why do you stare so?" "Why," said I, "this is the very language of Mr. Petulengro." "Mr. Pet--?" "Yes," said I, "and Tawno Chikno." "Tawno Chik--? I say, young fellow, I don't like your way of speaking; no, nor your way of looking. You are mad, sir; you are mad; and what's this? Why, your hair is grey! You won't do for the Honourable Company--they like red. I'm glad I didn't give you the shilling. Good day to you." "I shouldn't wonder," said I, as I proceeded rapidly along a broad causeway, in the direction of the east, "if Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno came originally from India. I think I'll go there." APPENDIX CHAPTER I--A Word for Lavengro. Lavengro is the history up to a certain period of one of rather a peculiar mind and system of nerves, with an exterior shy and cold, under which lurk much curiosity, especially with regard to what is wild and extraordinary, a considerable quantity of energy and industry, and an unconquerable love of independence. It narrates his earliest dreams and feelings, dwells with minuteness on the ways, words, and characters of his father, mother, and brother, lingers on the occasional resting-places of his wandering half military childhood, describes the gradual hardening of his bodily frame by robust exercises, his successive struggles, after his family and himself have settled down in a small local capital, to obtain knowledge of every kind, but more particularly philological lore; his visits to the tent of the Romany chal, and the parlour of the Anglo- German philosopher; the effect produced upon his character by his flinging himself into contact with people all widely differing from each other, but all extraordinary; his reluctance to settle down to the ordinary pursuits of life; his struggles after moral truth; his glimpses of God and the obscuration of the Divine Being, to his mind's eye; and his being cast upon the world of London by the death of his father, at the age of nineteen. In the world within a world, the world of London, it shows him playing his part for some time as he best can, in the capacity of a writer for reviews and magazines, and describes what he saw and underwent whilst labouring in that capacity; it represents him, however, as never forgetting that he is the son of a brave but poor gentleman, and that if he is a hack author, he is likewise a scholar. It shows him doing no dishonourable jobs, and proves that if he occasionally associates with low characters, he does so chiefly to gratify the curiosity of a scholar. In his conversations with the apple-woman of London Bridge, the scholar is ever apparent, so again in his acquaintance with the man of the table, for the book is no raker up of the uncleanness of London, and if it gives what at first sight appears refuse, it invariably shows that a pearl of some kind, generally a philological one, is contained amongst it; it shows its hero always accompanied by his love of independence, scorning in the greatest poverty to receive favours from anybody, and describes him finally rescuing himself from peculiarly miserable circumstances by writing a book, an original book, within a week, even as Johnson is said to have written his "Rasselas," and Beckford his "Vathek," and tells how, leaving London, he betakes himself to the roads and fields. In the country it shows him leading a life of roving adventure, becoming tinker, gypsy, postillion, ostler; associating with various kinds of people, chiefly of the lower classes, whose ways and habits are described; but, though leading this erratic life, we gather from the book that his habits are neither vulgar nor vicious, that he still follows to a certain extent his favourite pursuits, hunting after strange characters, or analysing strange words and names. At the conclusion of the last chapter, which terminates the first part of the history, it hints that he is about to quit his native land on a grand philological expedition. Those who read this book with attention--and the author begs to observe that it would be of little utility to read it hurriedly--may derive much information with respect to matters of philology and literature; it will be found treating of most of the principal languages from Ireland to China, and of the literature which they contain; and it is particularly minute with regard to the ways, manners, and speech of the English section of the most extraordinary and mysterious clan or tribe of people to be found in the whole world--the children of Roma. But it contains matters of much more importance than anything in connection with philology, and the literature and manners of nations. Perhaps no work was ever offered to the public in which the kindness and providence of God have been set forth by more striking examples, or the machinations of priestcraft been more truly and lucidly exposed, or the dangers which result to a nation when it abandons itself to effeminacy, and a rage for what is novel and fashionable, than the present. With respect to the kindness and providence of God, are they not exemplified in the case of the old apple-woman and her son? These are beings in many points bad, but with warm affections, who, after an agonizing separation, are restored to each other, but not until the hearts of both are changed and purified by the influence of affliction. Are they not exemplified in the case of the rich gentleman, who touches objects in order to avert the evil chance? This being has great gifts and many amiable qualities, but does not everybody see that his besetting sin is selfishness? He fixes his mind on certain objects, and takes inordinate interest in them, because they are his own, and those very objects, through the providence of God, which is kindness in disguise, become snakes and scorpions to whip him. Tired of various pursuits, he at last becomes an author, and publishes a book, which is very much admired, and which he loves with his usual inordinate affection; the book, consequently, becomes a viper to him, and at last he flings it aside and begins another; the book, however, is not flung aside by the world, who are benefited by it, deriving pleasure and knowledge from it: so the man who merely wrote to gratify self, has already done good to others, and got himself an honourable name. But God will not allow that man to put that book under his head and use it as a pillow: the book has become a viper to him, he has banished it, and is about another, which he finishes and gives to the world; it is a better book than the first, and every one is delighted with it; but it proves to the writer a scorpion, because he loves it with inordinate affection; but it was good for the world that he produced this book, which stung him as a scorpion. Yes; and good for himself, for the labour of writing it amused him, and perhaps prevented him from dying of apoplexy; but the book is banished, and another is begun, and herein, again, is the providence of God manifested; the man has the power of producing still, and God determines that he shall give to the world what remains in his brain, which he would not do, had he been satisfied with the second work; he would have gone to sleep upon that as he would upon the first, for the man is selfish and lazy. In his account of what he suffered during the composition of this work, his besetting sin of selfishness is manifest enough; the work on which he is engaged occupies his every thought, it is his idol, his deity, it shall be all his own, he won't borrow a thought from any one else, and he is so afraid lest, when he publishes it, that it should be thought that he had borrowed from any one, that he is continually touching objects, his nervous system, owing to his extreme selfishness, having become partly deranged. He is left touching, in order to banish the evil chance from his book, his deity. No more of his history is given; but does the reader think that God will permit that man to go to sleep on his third book, however extraordinary it may be? Assuredly not. God will not permit that man to rest till he has cured him to a certain extent of his selfishness, which has, however, hitherto been very useful to the world. Then, again, in the tale of Peter Williams, is not the hand of Providence to be seen? This person commits a sin in his childhood, utters words of blasphemy, the remembrance of which, in after life, preying upon his imagination, unfits him for quiet pursuits, to which he seems to have been naturally inclined; but for the remembrance of that sin, he would have been Peter Williams the quiet and respectable Welsh farmer, somewhat fond of reading the ancient literature of his country in winter evenings, after his work was done. God, however, was aware that there was something in Peter Williams to entitle him to assume a higher calling; he therefore permits this sin, which, though a childish affair, was yet a sin, and committed deliberately, to prey upon his mind till he becomes at last an instrument in the hand of God, a humble Paul, the great preacher, Peter Williams, who, though he considers himself a reprobate and a castaway, instead of having recourse to drinking in mad desperation, as many do who consider themselves reprobates, goes about Wales and England preaching the word of God, dilating on his power and majesty, and visiting the sick and afflicted, until God sees fit to restore to him his peace of mind; which he does not do, however, until that mind is in a proper condition to receive peace, till it has been purified by the pain of the one idea which has so long been permitted to riot in his brain; which pain, however, an angel, in the shape of a gentle faithful wife, had occasionally alleviated; for God is merciful even in the blows which He bestoweth, and will not permit any one to be tempted beyond the measure which he can support. And here it will be as well for the reader to ponder upon the means by which the Welsh preacher is relieved from his mental misery: he is not relieved by a text from the Bible, by the words of consolation and wisdom addressed to him by his angel-minded wife, nor by the preaching of one yet more eloquent than himself; but by a quotation made by Lavengro from the life of Mary Flanders, cut-purse and prostitute, which life Lavengro had been in the habit of reading at the stall of his old friend the apple-woman, on London Bridge, who had herself been very much addicted to the perusal of it, though without any profit whatever. Should the reader be dissatisfied with the manner in which Peter Williams is made to find relief, the author would wish to answer, that the Almighty frequently accomplishes his purposes by means which appear very singular to the eyes of men, and at the same time to observe that the manner in which that relief is obtained, is calculated to read a lesson to the proud, fanciful, and squeamish, who are ever in a fidget lest they should be thought to mix with low society, or to bestow a moment's attention on publications which are not what is called of a perfectly unobjectionable character. Had not Lavengro formed the acquaintance of the apple-woman on London Bridge, he would not have had an opportunity of reading the life of Mary Flanders; and, consequently, of storing in a memory, which never forgets anything, a passage which contained a balm for the agonized mind of poor Peter Williams. The best medicines are not always found in the finest shops. Suppose, for example, if, instead of going to London Bridge to read, he had gone to Albemarle Street, and had received from the proprietors of the literary establishment in that very fashionable street, permission to read the publications on the tables of the saloons there, does the reader think he would have met any balm in those publications for the case of Peter Williams? does the reader suppose that he would have found Mary Flanders there? He would certainly have found that highly unobjectionable publication, "Rasselas," and the "Spectator," or "Lives of Royal and Illustrious Personages," but, of a surety, no Mary Flanders; so when Lavengro met with Peter Williams, he would have been unprovided with a balm to cure his ulcerated mind, and have parted from him in a way not quite so satisfactory as the manner in which he took his leave of him; for it is certain that he might have read "Rasselas," and all other unexceptionable works to be found in the library of Albemarle Street, over and over again, before he would have found any cure in them for the case of Peter Williams. Therefore the author requests the reader to drop any squeamish nonsense he may wish to utter about Mary Flanders, and the manner in which Peter Williams was cured. And now with respect to the old man who knew Chinese, but could not tell what was o'clock. This individual was a man whose natural powers would have been utterly buried and lost beneath a mountain of sloth and laziness, had not God determined otherwise. He had in his early years chalked out for himself a plan of life in which he had his own ease and self-indulgence solely in view; he had no particular bad passions to gratify, he only wished to live a happy quiet life, just as if the business of this mighty world could be carried on by innocent people fond of ease or quiet, or that Providence would permit innocent quiet drones to occupy any portion of the earth and to cumber it. God had at any rate decreed that this man should not cumber it as a drone. He brings a certain affliction upon him, the agony of which produces that terrible whirling of the brain which, unless it is stopped in time, produces madness; he suffers indescribable misery for a period, until one morning his attention is arrested, and his curiosity is aroused, by certain Chinese letters on a teapot; his curiosity increases more and more, and, of course, in proportion as his curiosity is increased with respect to the Chinese marks, the misery in his brain, produced by his mental affliction, decreases. He sets about learning Chinese, and after the lapse of many years, during which his mind subsides into a certain state of tranquillity, he acquires sufficient knowledge of Chinese to be able to translate with ease the inscriptions to be found on its singular crockery. Yes, the laziest of human beings, through the Providence of God, a being too of rather inferior capacity, acquires the written part of a language so difficult that, as Lavengro said on a former occasion, none but the cleverest people in Europe, the French, are able to acquire it. But God did not intend that man should merely acquire Chinese. He intended that he should be of use to his species, and by the instrumentality of the first Chinese inscription which he translates, the one which first arrested his curiosity, he is taught the duty of hospitality; yes, by means of an inscription in the language of a people, who have scarcely an idea of hospitality themselves, God causes the slothful man to play a useful and beneficent part in the world, relieving distressed wanderers, and, amongst others, Lavengro himself. But a striking indication of the man's surprising sloth is still apparent in what he omits to do; he has learnt Chinese, the most difficult of languages, and he practises acts of hospitality, because he believes himself enjoined to do so by the Chinese inscription, but he cannot tell the hour of the day by the clock within his house; he can get on, he thinks, very well without being able to do so; therefore from this one omission, it is easy to come to a conclusion as to what a sluggard's part the man would have played in life, but for the dispensation of Providence; nothing but extreme agony could have induced such a man to do anything useful. He still continues, with all he has acquired, with all his usefulness, and with all his innocence of character, without any proper sense of religion, though he has attained a rather advanced age. If it be observed, that this want of religion is a great defect in the story, the author begs leave to observe that he cannot help it. Lavengro relates the lives of people so far as they were placed before him, but no further. It was certainly a great defect in so good a man to be without religion; it was likewise a great defect in so learned a man not to be able to tell what was o'clock. It is probable that God, in his loving kindness, will not permit that man to go out of the world without religion; who knows but some powerful minister of the church full of zeal for the glory of God, will illume that man's dark mind; perhaps some clergyman will come to the parish who will visit him and teach him his duty to his God. Yes, it is very probable that such a man, before he dies, will have been made to love his God; whether he will ever learn to know what's o'clock is another matter. It is probable that he will go out of the world without knowing what's o'clock. It is not so necessary to be able to tell the time of day by the clock as to know one's God through His inspired word; a man cannot get to heaven without religion, but a man can get there very comfortably without knowing what's o'clock. But, above all, the care and providence of God are manifested in the case of Lavengro himself, by the manner in which he is enabled to make his way in the world up to a certain period, without falling a prey either to vice or poverty. In his history, there is a wonderful illustration of part of the text, quoted by his mother, "I have been young, but now am old, yet never saw I the righteous forsaken, or his seed begging his bread." He is the son of good and honourable parents, but at the critical period of life, that of entering into the world, he finds himself without any earthly friend to help him, yet he manages to make his way; he does not become a Captain in the Life Guards, it is true, nor does he get into Parliament, nor does the last volume conclude in the most satisfactory and unobjectionable manner, by his marrying a dowager countess, as that wise man Addison did, or by his settling down as a great country gentleman, perfectly happy and contented, like the very moral Roderick Random, or the equally estimable Peregrine Pickle; he is hack author, gypsy, tinker, and postillion, yet, upon the whole, he seems to be quite as happy as the younger sons of most earls, to have as high feelings of honour; and when the reader loses sight of him, he has money in his pocket honestly acquired, to enable him to commence a journey quite as laudable as those which the younger sons of earls generally undertake. Surely all this is a manifestation of the kindness and providence of God: and yet he is not a religious person; up to the time when the reader loses sight of him, he is decidedly not a religious person; he has glimpses, it is true, of that God who does not forsake him, but he prays very seldom, is not fond of going to church; and, though he admires Tate and Brady's version of the Psalms, his admiration is rather caused by the beautiful poetry which that version contains than the religion; yet his tale is not finished--like the tale of the gentleman who touched objects, and that of the old man who knew Chinese without knowing what was o'clock; perhaps, like them, he is destined to become religious, and to have, instead of occasional glimpses, frequent and distinct views of his God; yet, though he may become religious, it is hardly to be expected that he will become a very precise and straightlaced person; it is probable that he will retain, with his scholarship, something of his gypsyism, his predilection for the hammer and tongs, and perhaps some inclination to put on certain gloves, not white kid, with any friend who may be inclined for a little old English diversion, and a readiness to take a glass of ale, with plenty of malt in it, and as little hop as may well be--ale at least two years old--with the aforesaid friend, when the diversion is over; for, as it is the belief of the writer that a person may get to heaven very comfortably without knowing what's o'clock, so it is his belief that he will not be refused admission there, because to the last he has been fond of healthy and invigorating exercises, and felt a willingness to partake of any of the good things which it pleases the Almighty to put within the reach of his children during their sojourn upon earth. CHAPTER II--On Priestcraft. The writer will now say a few words about priestcraft, and the machinations of Rome, and will afterwards say something about himself, and his motives for writing against them. With respect to Rome, and her machinations, much valuable information can be obtained from particular parts of Lavengro, and its sequel. Shortly before the time when the hero of the book is launched into the world, the Popish agitation in England had commenced. The Popish propaganda had determined to make a grand attempt on England; Popish priests were scattered over the land, doing the best they could to make converts to the old superstition. With the plans of Rome, and her hopes, and the reasons on which those hopes are grounded, the hero of the book becomes acquainted, during an expedition which he makes into the country, from certain conversations which he holds with a priest in a dingle, in which the hero had taken up his residence; he likewise learns from the same person much of the secret history of the Roman See, and many matters connected with the origin and progress of the Popish superstition. The individual with whom he holds these conversations is a learned, intelligent, but highly-unprincipled person, of a character however very common amongst the priests of Rome, who in general are people void of all religion, and who, notwithstanding they are tied to Rome by a band which they have neither the power nor wish to break, turn her and her practices, over their cups with their confidential associates, to a ridicule only exceeded by that to which they turn those who become the dupes of their mistress and themselves. It is now necessary that the writer should say something with respect to himself, and his motives for waging war against Rome. First of all, with respect to himself, he wishes to state, that to the very last moment of his life, he will do and say all that in his power may be to hold up to contempt and execration the priestcraft and practices of Rome; there is, perhaps, no person better acquainted than himself, not even among the choicest spirits of the priesthood, with the origin and history of Popery. From what he saw and heard of Popery in England, at a very early period of his life, his curiosity was aroused, and he spared himself no trouble, either by travel or study, to make himself well acquainted with it in all its phases, the result being a hatred of it, which he hopes and trusts he shall retain till the moment when his spirit quits the body. Popery is the great lie of the world; a source from which more misery and social degradation have flowed upon the human race, than from all the other sources from which those evils come. It is the oldest of all superstitions; and though in Europe it assumes the name of Christianity, it existed and flourished amidst the Himalayan hills at least two thousand years before the real Christ was born in Bethlehem of Judea; in a word, it is Buddhism; and let those who may be disposed to doubt this assertion, compare the Popery of Rome, and the superstitious practices of its followers, with the doings of the priests who surround the grand Lama; and the mouthings, bellowing, turnings round, and, above all, the penances of the followers of Buddh with those of Roman devotees. But he is not going to dwell here on this point; it is dwelt upon at tolerable length in the text, and has likewise been handled with extraordinary power by the pen of the gifted but irreligious Volney; moreover, the _elite_ of the Roman priesthood are perfectly well aware that their system is nothing but Buddhism under a slight disguise, and the European world in general has entertained for some time past an inkling of the fact. And now a few words with respect to the motives of the writer for expressing a hatred for Rome. This expressed abhorrence of the author for Rome might be entitled to little regard, provided it were possible to attribute it to any self-interested motive. There have been professed enemies of Rome, or of this or that system; but their professed enmity may frequently be traced to some cause which does them little credit; but the writer of these lines has no motive, and can have no motive, for his enmity to Rome, save the abhorrence of an honest heart for what is false, base, and cruel. A certain clergyman wrote with much heat against the Papists in the time of--who was known to favour the Papists, but was not expected to continue long in office, and whose supposed successor, the person, indeed, who did succeed him, was thought to be hostile to the Papists. This divine, who obtained a rich benefice from the successor of--who during ---'s time had always opposed him in everything he proposed to do, and who, of course, during that time affected to be very inimical to Popery--this divine might well be suspected of having a motive equally creditable for writing against the Papists, as that which induced him to write for them, as soon as his patron, who eventually did something more for him, had espoused their cause; but what motive, save an honest one, can the present writer have, for expressing an abhorrence of Popery? He is no clergyman, and consequently can expect neither benefices nor bishoprics, supposing it were the fashion of the present, or likely to be the fashion of any future administration, to reward clergymen with benefices or bishoprics, who, in the defence of the religion of their country write, or shall write, against Popery, and not to reward those who write, or shall write, in favour of it, and all its nonsense and abominations. "But if not a clergyman, he is the servant of a certain society, which has the overthrow of Popery in view, and therefore," etc. This assertion, which has been frequently made, is incorrect, even as those who have made it probably knew it to be. He is the servant of no society whatever. He eats his own bread, and is one of the very few men in England who are independent in every sense of the word. It is true he went to Spain with the colours of that society on his hat--oh! the blood glows in his veins! oh! the marrow awakes in his old bones when he thinks of what he accomplished in Spain in the cause of religion and civilization with the colours of that society in his hat, and its weapon in his hand, even the sword of the word of God; how with that weapon he hewed left and right, making the priests fly before him, and run away squeaking: "Vaya! que demonio es este!" Ay, and when he thinks of the plenty of Bible swords which he left behind him, destined to prove, and which have already proved, pretty calthrops in the heels of Popery. "Halloo! Batuschca," he exclaimed the other night, on reading an article in a newspaper; "what do you think of the present doings in Spain? Your old friend the zingaro, the gitano who rode about Spain, to say nothing of Galicia, with the Greek Buchini behind him as his squire, had a hand in bringing them about; there are many brave Spaniards connected with the present movement who took Bibles from his hands, and read them and profited by them, learning from the inspired page the duties of one man towards another, and the real value of a priesthood and their head, who set at nought the word of God, and think only of their own temporal interests; ay, and who learned Gitano--their own Gitano--from the lips of the London Caloro, and also songs in the said Gitano, very fit to dumbfounder your semi-Buddhist priests when they attempt to bewilder people's minds with their school-logic and pseudo-ecclesiastical nonsense, songs such as-- "Un Erajai Sinaba chibando un sermon--." - But with that society he has long since ceased to have any connection; he bade it adieu with feelings of love and admiration more than fourteen years ago; so, in continuing to assault Popery, no hopes of interest founded on that society can sway his mind--interest! who, with worldly interest in view, would ever have anything to do with that society? It is poor and supported, like its founder Christ, by poor people; and so far from having political influence, it is in such disfavour, and has ever been, with the dastardly great, to whom the government of England has for many years past been confided, that they having borne its colours only for a month would be sufficient to exclude any man, whatever his talents, his learning, or his courage may be, from the slightest chance of being permitted to serve his country either for fee, or without. A fellow who unites in himself the bankrupt trader, the broken author, or rather book-maker, and the laughed-down single speech spouter of the House of Commons, may look forward, always supposing that at one time he has been a foaming radical, to the government of an important colony. Ay, an ancient fox who has lost his tail may, provided he has a score of radical friends, who will swear that he can bark Chinese, though Chinese is not barked but sung, be forced upon a Chinese colony, though it is well known that to have lost one's tail is considered by the Chinese in general as an irreparable infamy, whilst to have been once connected with a certain society, to which, to its honour be it said, all the radical party are vehemently hostile, would be quite sufficient to keep any one not only from a government, but something much less, even though he could translate the rhymed "Sessions of Hariri," and were versed, still retaining his tail, in the two languages in which Kien-Loung wrote his Eulogium on Moukden, that piece which, translated by Amyot, the learned Jesuit, won the applause of the celebrated Voltaire. No! were the author influenced by hopes of fee or reward, he would, instead of writing against Popery, write for it; all the trumpery titled--he will not call them great again--would then be for him, and their masters the radicals, with their hosts of newspapers, would be for him, more especially if he would commence maligning the society whose colours he had once on his hat--a society which, as the priest says in the text, is one of the very few Protestant institutions for which the Popish Church entertains any fear, and consequently respect, as it respects nothing which it does not fear. The writer said that certain "rulers" would never forgive him for having been connected with that society; he went perhaps too far in saying "never." It is probable that they would take him into favour on one condition, which is, that he should turn his pen and his voice against that society; such a mark "of a better way of thinking" would perhaps induce them to give him a government, nearly as good as that which they gave to a certain ancient radical fox at the intercession of his radical friends (who were bound to keep him from the pauper's kennel), after he had promised to foam, bark, and snarl at corruption no more; he might even entertain hopes of succeeding, nay, of superseding, the ancient creature in his government; but even were he as badly off as he is well off, he would do no such thing. He would rather exist on crusts and water; he has often done so, and been happy; nay, he would rather starve than be a rogue--for even the feeling of starvation is happiness compared with what he feels who knows himself to be a rogue, provided he has any feeling at all. What is the use of a mitre or knighthood to a man who has betrayed his principles? What is the use of a gilt collar, nay, even of a pair of scarlet breeches, to a fox who has lost his tail? Oh! the horror which haunts the mind of a fox who has lost his tail; and with reason, for his very mate loathes him, and more especially if, like himself, she has lost her brush. Oh! the horror which haunts the mind of the two-legged rogue who has parted with his principles, or those which he professed--for what? We'll suppose a government. What's the use of a government, if the next day after you have received it, you are obliged for very shame to scurry off to it with the hoot of every honest man sounding in your ears? "Lightly liar leaped and away ran." PIERS PLOWMAN. But bigotry, it has been said, makes the author write against Popery; and thorough-going bigotry, indeed, will make a person say or do anything. But the writer is a very pretty bigot truly! Where will the public find traces of bigotry in anything he has written? He has written against Rome with all his heart, with all his mind, with all his soul, and with all his strength; but as a person may be quite honest, and speak and write against Rome, in like manner he may speak and write against her, and be quite free from bigotry; though it is impossible for any one but a bigot or a bad man to write or speak in her praise; her doctrines, actions, and machinations being what they are. Bigotry! The author was born, and has always continued in the wrong church for bigotry, the quiet, unpretending Church of England; a church which, had it been a bigoted church, and not long suffering almost to a fault, might with its opportunities, as the priest says in the text, have stood in a very different position from that which it occupies at present. No! let those who are in search of bigotry, seek for it in a church very different from the inoffensive Church of England, which never encourages cruelty or calumny. Let them seek for it amongst the members of the Church of Rome, and more especially amongst those who have renegaded to it. There is nothing, however false and horrible, which a pervert to Rome will not say for his church, and which his priests will not encourage him in saying; and there is nothing, however horrible--the more horrible indeed and revolting to human nature, the more eager he would be to do it--which he will not do for it, and which his priests will not encourage him in doing. Of the readiness which converts to Popery exhibit to sacrifice all the ties of blood and affection on the shrine of their newly-adopted religion, there is a curious illustration in the work of Luigi Pulci. This man, who was born at Florence in the year 1432, and who was deeply versed in the Bible, composed a poem, called the "Morgante Maggiore," which he recited at the table of Lorenzo de Medici, the great patron of Italian genius. It is a mock-heroic and religious poem, in which the legends of knight-errantry, and of the Popish Church, are turned to unbounded ridicule. The pretended hero of it is a converted giant, called Morgante; though his adventures do not occupy the twentieth part of the poem, the principal personages being Charlemagne, Orlando, and his cousin Rinaldo of Montalban. Morgante has two brothers, both of them giants, and in the first canto of the poem, Morgante is represented with his brothers as carrying on a feud with the abbot and monks of a certain convent, built upon the confines of heathenesse; the giants being in the habit of flinging down stones, or rather huge rocks, on the convent. Orlando, however, who is banished from the court of Charlemagne, arriving at the convent, undertakes to destroy them, and, accordingly, kills Passamonte and Alabastro, and converts Morgante, whose mind had been previously softened by a vision, in which the "Blessed Virgin" figures. No sooner is he converted than, as a sign of his penitence, what does he do, but hastens and cuts off the hands of his two brothers, saying-- "Io vo' tagliar le mani a tutti quanti E porterolle a que' monaci santi." And he does cut off the hands of his brethren, and carries them to the abbot, who blesses him for so doing. Pulci here is holding up to ridicule and execration the horrid butchery or betrayal of friends by popish converts, and the encouragement they receive from the priest. No sooner is a person converted to Popery, than his principal thought is how he can bring the hands and feet of his brethren, however harmless they may be, and different from the giants, to the "holy priests," who, if he manages to do so, never fail to praise him, saying to the miserable wretch, as the abbot said to Morgante:-- "Tu sarai or perfetto e vero amico A Cristo, quanto tu gli eri nemico." Can the English public deny the justice of Pulci's illustration, after something which it has lately witnessed? Has it not seen equivalents for the hands and feet of brothers carried by popish perverts to the "holy priests," and has it not seen the manner in which the offering has been received? Let those who are in quest of bigotry seek for it among the perverts to Rome, and not amongst those who, born in the pale of the Church of England, have always continued in it. CHAPTER III--On Foreign Nonsense. With respect to the third point, various lessons which the book reads to the nation at large, and which it would be well for the nation to ponder and profit by. There are many species of nonsense to which the nation is much addicted, and of which the perusal of Lavengro ought to give them a wholesome shame. First of all, with respect to the foreign nonsense so prevalent now in England. The hero is a scholar; but, though possessed of a great many tongues, he affects to be neither Frenchman, nor German, nor this or that foreigner; he is one who loves his country, and the language and literature of his country, and speaks up for each and all when there is occasion to do so. Now what is the case with nine out of ten amongst those of the English who study foreign languages? No sooner have they picked up a smattering of this or that speech than they begin to abuse their own country, and everything connected with it, more especially its language. This is particularly the case with those who call themselves German students. It is said, and the writer believes with truth, that when a woman falls in love with a particularly ugly fellow, she squeezes him with ten times more zest than she would a handsome one, if captivated by him. So it is with these German students; no sooner have they taken German in hand than there is nothing like German. Oh, the dear delightful German! How proud I am that it is now my own, and that its divine literature is within my reach! And all this whilst mumbling the most uncouth speech, and crunching the most crabbed literature in Europe. The writer is not an exclusive admirer of everything English; he does not advise his country people never to go abroad, never to study foreign languages, and he does not wish to persuade them that there is nothing beautiful or valuable in foreign literature; he only wishes that they would not make themselves fools with respect to foreign people, foreign languages or reading; that if they chance to have been in Spain, and have picked up a little Spanish, they would not affect the airs of Spaniards; that if males they would not make Tomfools of themselves by sticking cigars into their mouths, dressing themselves in zamarras, and saying, carajo! {2} and if females that they would not make zanies of themselves by sticking cigars into their mouths, flinging mantillas over their heads, and by saying carai, and perhaps carajo too; or if they have been in France or Italy, and have picked up a little French or Italian, they would not affect to be French or Italians; and particularly, after having been a month or two in Germany, or picked up a little German in England, they would not make themselves foolish about everything German, as the Anglo-German in the book does--a real character, the founder of the Anglo- German school in England, and the cleverest Englishman who ever talked or wrote encomiastic nonsense about Germany and the Germans. Of all infatuations connected with what is foreign, the infatuation about everything that is German, to a certain extent prevalent in England, is assuredly the most ridiculous. One can find something like a palliation for people making themselves somewhat foolish about particular languages, literatures, and people. The Spanish certainly is a noble language, and there is something wild and captivating in the Spanish character, and its literature contains the grand book of the world. French is a manly language. The French are the great martial people in the world; and French literature is admirable in many respects. Italian is a sweet language, and of beautiful simplicity--its literature perhaps the first in the world. The Italians!--wonderful men have sprung up in Italy. Italy is not merely famous for painters, poets, musicians, singers, and linguists--the greatest linguist the world ever saw, the late Cardinal Mezzofanti, was an Italian; but it is celebrated for men--men emphatically speaking: Columbus was an Italian, Alexander Farnese was an Italian, so was the mightiest of the mighty, Napoleon Bonaparte;--but the German language, German literature, and the Germans! The writer has already stated his opinion with respect to German; he does not speak from ignorance or prejudice; he has heard German spoken, and many other languages. German literature! He does not speak from ignorance, he has read that and many a literature, and he repeats-- However, he acknowledges that there is one fine poem in the German language, that poem is the "Oberon;" a poem, by the bye, ignored by the Germans--a speaking fact--and of course, by the Anglo-Germanists. The Germans! he has been amongst them, and amongst many other nations, and confesses that his opinion of the Germans, as men, is a very low one. Germany, it is true, has produced one very great man, the monk who fought the Pope, and nearly knocked him down; but this man his countrymen--a telling fact--affect to despise, and, of course, the Anglo-Germanists: the father of Anglo-Germanism was very fond of inveighing against Luther. The madness, or rather foolery, of the English for foreign customs, dresses, and languages, is not an affair of to-day, or yesterday--it is of very ancient date, and was very properly exposed nearly three centuries ago by one Andrew Borde, who under the picture of a "Naked man, with a pair of shears in one hand, and a roll of cloth in the other," {3} inserted the following lines along with others:-- "I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here, Musing in my mind what garment I shall weare; For now I will weare this, and now I will weare that, Now I will weare, I cannot tell what. All new fashions be pleasant to mee, I will have them, whether I thrive or thee; What do I care if all the world me fail? I will have a garment reach to my taile; Then am I a minion, for I wear the new guise. The next yeare after I hope to be wise, Not only in wearing my gorgeous array, For I will go to learning a whole summer's day; I will learn Latine, Hebrew, Greek, and French, And I will learn Dutch, sitting on my bench. I had no peere if to myself I were true, Because I am not so, divers times do I rue. Yet I lacke nothing, I have all things at will If I were wise and would hold myself still, And meddle with no matters but to me pertaining, But ever to be true to God and my king. But I have such matters rowling in my pate, That I will and do--I cannot tell what," etc. CHAPTER IV--On Gentility Nonsense--Illustrations of Gentility. What is gentility? People in different stations in England--entertain different ideas of what is genteel, {4} but it must be something gorgeous, glittering, or tawdry, to be considered genteel by any of them. The beau-ideal of the English aristocracy, of course with some exceptions, is some young fellow with an imperial title, a military personage of course, for what is military is so particularly genteel, with flaming epaulets, a cocked hat and plume, a prancing charger, and a band of fellows called generals and colonels, with flaming epaulets, cocked hats and plumes, and prancing chargers vapouring behind him. It was but lately that the daughter of an English marquis was heard to say, that the sole remaining wish of her heart--she had known misfortunes, and was not far from fifty--was to be introduced to--whom? The Emperor of Austria! The sole remaining wish of the heart of one who ought to have been thinking of the grave and judgment, was to be introduced to the miscreant who had caused the blood of noble Hungarian females to be whipped out of their shoulders, for no other crime than devotion to their country, and its tall and heroic sons. The middle classes--of course there are some exceptions--admire the aristocracy, and consider them pinks, the aristocracy who admire the Emperor of Austria, and adored the Emperor of Russia, till he became old, ugly, and unfortunate, when their adoration instantly terminated; for what is more ungenteel than age, ugliness, and misfortune! The beau-ideal with those of the lower classes, with peasants and mechanics, is some flourishing railroad contractor: look, for example, how they worship Mr. Flamson. This person makes his grand debut in the year 'thirty-nine, at a public meeting in the principal room of a country inn. He has come into the neighbourhood with the character of a man worth a million pounds, who is to make everybody's fortune; at this time, however, he is not worth a shilling of his own, though he flashes about dexterously three or four thousand pounds, part of which sum he has obtained by specious pretences, and part from certain individuals who are his confederates. But in the year 'forty-nine, he is really in possession of the fortune which he and his agents pretended to be worth ten years before--he is worth a million pounds. By what means has he come by them? By railroad contracts, for which he takes care to be paid in hard cash before he attempts to perform them, and to carry out which he makes use of the sweat and blood of wretches who, since their organization, have introduced crimes and language into England to which it was previously almost a stranger--by purchasing, with paper, shares by hundreds in the schemes to execute which he contracts, and which are his own devising; which shares he sells as soon as they are at a high premium, to which they are speedily forced by means of paragraphs, inserted by himself and agents, in newspapers devoted to his interest, utterly reckless of the terrible depreciation to which they are almost instantly subjected. But he is worth a million pounds, there can be no doubt of the fact--he has not made people's fortunes, at least those whose fortunes it was said he would make; he has made them away; but his own he has made, emphatically made it; he is worth a million pounds. Hurrah for the millionnaire! The clown who views the pandemonium of red brick which he has built on the estate which he has purchased in the neighbourhood of the place of his grand debut, in which every species of architecture, Greek, Indian, and Chinese, is employed in caricature--who hears of the grand entertainment he gives at Christmas in the principal dining-room, the hundred wax-candles, the waggon-load of plate, and the ocean of wine which form parts of it, and above all the two ostrich poults, one at the head, and the other at the foot of the table, exclaims, "Well! if he a'n't bang up, I don't know who be; why he beats my lord hollow!" The mechanic of the borough town, who sees him dashing through the streets in an open landau, drawn by four milk-white horses, amidst his attendant out-riders; his wife, a monster of a woman, by his side, stout as the wife of Tamerlane, who weighed twenty stone, and bedizened out like her whose person shone with the jewels of plundered Persia, stares with silent wonder, and at last exclaims "That's the man for my vote!" You tell the clown that the man of the mansion has contributed enormously to corrupt the rural innocence of England; you point to an incipient branch railroad, from around which the accents of Gomorrah are sounding, and beg him to listen for a moment, and then close his ears. Hodge scratches his head and says, "Well, I have nothing to say to that; all I know is, that he is bang up, and I wish I were he;" perhaps he will add--a Hodge has been known to add--"He has been kind enough to put my son on that very railroad; 'tis true the company is somewhat queer, and the work rather killing, but he gets there half-a-crown a day, whereas from the farmers he would only get eighteen- pence." You remind the mechanic that the man in the landau has been the ruin of thousands and you mention people whom he himself knows, people in various grades of life, widows and orphans amongst them, whose little all has been dissipated, and whom he has reduced to beggary by inducing them to become sharers in his delusive schemes. But the mechanic says, "Well, the more fools they to let themselves be robbed. But I don't call that kind of thing robbery, I merely call it out-witting; and everybody in this free country has a right to outwit others if he can. What a turn- out he has!" One was once heard to add, "I never saw a more genteel-looking man in all my life except one, and that was a gentleman's walley, who was much like him. It is true that he is rather under-sized, but then madam, you know, makes up for all." CHAPTER V--Subject of Gentility continued. In the last chapter have been exhibited specimens of gentility, so considered by different classes; by one class power, youth, and epaulets are considered the ne plus ultra of gentility; by another class pride, stateliness, and title; by another, wealth and flaming tawdriness. But what constitutes a gentleman? It is easy to say at once what constitutes a gentleman, and there are no distinctions in what is gentlemanly, {5} as there are in what is genteel. The characteristics of a gentleman are high feeling--a determination never to take a cowardly advantage of another--a liberal education--absence of narrow views--generosity and courage, propriety of behaviour. Now a person may be genteel according to one or another of the three standards described above, and not possess one of the characteristics of a gentleman. Is the emperor a gentleman, with spatters of blood on his clothes, scourged from the backs of noble Hungarian women? Are the aristocracy gentlefolks, who admire him? Is Mr. Flamson a gentleman, although he has a million pounds? No! cowardly miscreants, admirers of cowardly miscreants, and people who make a million pounds by means compared with which those employed to make fortunes by the getters up of the South Sea Bubble might be called honest dealing, are decidedly not gentlefolks. Now as it is clearly demonstrable that a person may be perfectly genteel according to some standard or other, and yet be no gentleman, so it is demonstrable that a person may have no pretensions to gentility, and yet be a gentleman. For example, there is Lavengro! Would the admirers of the emperor, or the admirers of those who admire the emperor, or the admirers of Mr. Flamson, call him genteel? and gentility with them is everything! Assuredly they would not; and assuredly they would consider him respectively as a being to be shunned, despised, or hooted. Genteel! Why at one time he is a hack author--writes reviewals for eighteenpence a page--edits a Newgate chronicle. At another he wanders the country with a face grimy from occasionally mending kettles; and there is no evidence that his clothes are not seedy and torn, and his shoes down at the heel; but by what process of reasoning will they prove that he is no gentleman? Is he not learned? Has he not generosity and courage? Whilst a hack author, does he pawn the books entrusted to him to review? Does he break his word to his publisher? Does he write begging letters? Does he get clothes or lodgings without paying for them? Again, whilst a wanderer, does he insult helpless women on the road with loose proposals or ribald discourse? Does he take what is not his own from the hedges? Does he play on the fiddle, or make faces in public-houses, in order to obtain pence or beer? or does he call for liquor, swallow it, and then say to a widowed landlady, "Mistress, I have no brass?" In a word, what vice and crime does he perpetrate--what low acts does he commit? Therefore, with his endowments, who will venture to say that he is no gentleman?--unless it be an admirer of Mr. Flamson--a clown--who will, perhaps, shout--"I say he is no gentleman; for who can be a gentleman who keeps no gig?" The indifference exhibited by Lavengro for what is merely genteel, compared with his solicitude never to infringe the strict laws of honour, should read a salutary lesson. The generality of his countrymen are far more careful not to transgress the customs of what they call gentility, than to violate the laws of honour or morality. They will shrink from carrying their own carpet-bag, and from speaking to a person in seedy raiment, whilst to matters of much higher importance they are shamelessly indifferent. Not so Lavengro; he will do anything that he deems convenient, or which strikes his fancy, provided it does not outrage decency, or is unallied to profligacy; is not ashamed to speak to a beggar in rags, and will associate with anybody, provided he can gratify a laudable curiosity. He has no abstract love for what is low, or what the world calls low. He sees that many things which the world looks down upon are valuable, so he prizes much which the world condemns; he sees that many things which the world admires are contemptible, so he despises much which the world does not; but when the world prizes what is really excellent, he does not contemn it, because the world regards it. If he learns Irish, which all the world scoffs at, he likewise learns Italian, which all the world melts at. If he learns Gypsy, the language of the tattered tent, he likewise learns Greek, the language of the college-hall. If he learns smithery, he also learns--ah! what does he learn to set against smithery?--the law? No; he does not learn the law, which, by the way, is not very genteel. Swimming? Yes, he learns to swim. Swimming, however, is not genteel; and the world--at least the genteel part of it--acts very wisely in setting its face against it; for to swim you must be naked, and how would many a genteel person look without his clothes? Come, he learns horsemanship; a very genteel accomplishment, which every genteel person would gladly possess, though not all genteel people do. Again as to associates: if he holds communion when a boy with Murtagh, the scarecrow of an Irish academy, he associates in after life with Francis Ardry, a rich and talented young Irish gentleman about town. If he accepts an invitation from Mr. Petulengro to his tent, he has no objection to go home with a rich genius to dinner; who then will say that he prizes a thing or a person because they are ungenteel? That he is not ready to take up with everything that is ungenteel he gives a proof, when he refuses, though on the brink of starvation, to become bonnet to the thimble-man, an office, which, though profitable, is positively ungenteel. Ah! but some sticker-up for gentility will exclaim, "The hero did not refuse this office from an insurmountable dislike to its ungentility, but merely from a feeling of principle." Well! the writer is not fond of argument, and he will admit that such was the case; he admits that it was a love of principle, rather than an over-regard for gentility, which prevented the hero from accepting, when on the brink of starvation, an ungenteel though lucrative office, an office which, the writer begs leave to observe, many a person with a great regard for gentility, and no particular regard for principle, would in a similar strait have accepted; for when did a mere love for gentility keep a person from being a dirty scoundrel, when the alternatives were "either be a dirty scoundrel or starve?" One thing, however, is certain, which is, that Lavengro did not accept the office, which if a love for what is low had been his ruling passion he certainly would have done; consequently, he refuses to do one thing which no genteel person would willingly do, even as he does many things which every genteel person would gladly do, for example, speaks Italian, rides on horseback, associates with a fashionable young man, dines with a rich genius, et cetera. Yet--and it cannot be minced--he and gentility with regard to many things are at strange divergency; he shrinks from many things at which gentility placidly hums a tune, or approvingly simpers, and does some things at which gentility positively shrinks. He will not run into debt for clothes or lodgings, which he might do without any scandal to gentility; he will not receive money from Francis Ardry, and go to Brighton with the sister of Annette Le Noir, though there is nothing ungenteel in borrowing money from a friend, even when you never intend to repay him, and something poignantly genteel in going to a watering-place with a gay young Frenchwoman; but he has no objection, after raising twenty pounds by the sale of that extraordinary work "Joseph Sell," to set off into the country, mend kettles under hedge-rows, and make pony and donkey shoes in a dingle. Here, perhaps, some plain, well-meaning person will cry--and with much apparent justice--how can the writer justify him in this act? What motive, save a love for what is low, could induce him to do such a thing? Would the writer have everybody who is in need of recreation go into the country, mend kettles under hedges, and make pony shoes in dingles? To such an observation the writer would answer, that Lavengro had an excellent motive in doing what he did, but that the writer is not so unreasonable as to wish everybody to do the same. It is not everybody who can mend kettles. It is not everybody who is in similar circumstances to those in which Lavengro was. Lavengro flies from London and hack authorship, and takes to the roads from fear of consumption; it is expensive to put up at inns, and even at public- houses, and Lavengro has not much money; so he buys a tinker's cart and apparatus, and sets up as tinker, and subsequently as blacksmith; a person living in a tent, or in anything else, must do something or go mad; Lavengro had a mind, as he himself well knew, with some slight tendency to madness, and had he not employed himself, he must have gone wild; so to employ himself he drew upon one of his resources, the only one available at the time. Authorship had nearly killed him, he was sick of reading, and had besides no books; but he possessed the rudiments of an art akin to tinkering; he knew something of smithery, having served a kind of apprenticeship in Ireland to a fairy smith; so he draws upon his smithery to enable him to acquire tinkering, he speedily acquires that craft, even as he had speedily acquired Welsh, owing to its connection with Irish, which language he possessed; and with tinkering he amuses himself until he lays it aside to resume smithery. A man who has an innocent resource, has quite as much right to draw upon it in need, as he has upon a banker in whose hands he has placed a sum; Lavengro turns to advantage, under particular circumstances, a certain resource which he has, but people who are not so forlorn as Lavengro, and have not served the same apprenticeship which he had, are not advised to follow his example. Surely he was better employed in plying the trades of tinker and smith than in having recourse to vice, in running after milk-maids, for example. Running after milk-maids is by no means an ungenteel rural diversion; but let any one ask some respectable casuist (the Bishop of London for example), whether Lavengro was not far better employed, when in the country, at tinkering and smithery than he would have been in running after all the milk-maids in Cheshire, though tinkering is in general considered a very ungenteel employment, and smithery little better, notwithstanding that an Orcadian poet, who wrote in Norse about eight hundred years ago, reckons the latter among nine noble arts which he possessed, naming it along with playing at chess, on the harp, and ravelling runes, or as the original has it, "treading runes"--that is, compressing them into a small compass by mingling one letter with another, even as the Turkish caligraphists ravel the Arabic letters, more especially those who write talismans. "Nine arts have I, all noble; I play at chess so free, At ravelling runes I'm ready, At books and smithery; I'm skilled o'er ice at skimming On skates, I shoot and row, And few at harping match me, Or minstrelsy, I trow." But though Lavengro takes up smithery, which, though the Orcadian ranks it with chess-playing and harping, is certainly somewhat of a grimy art, there can be no doubt that, had he been wealthy and not so forlorn as he was, he would have turned to many things, honourable, of course, in preference. He has no objection to ride a fine horse when he has the opportunity: he has his day-dream of making a fortune of two hundred thousand pounds by becoming a merchant and doing business after the Armenian fashion; and there can be no doubt that he would have been glad to wear fine clothes, provided he had had sufficient funds to authorize him in wearing them. For the sake of wandering the country and plying the hammer and tongs, he would not have refused a commission in the service of that illustrious monarch George the Fourth, provided he had thought that he could live on his pay, and not be forced to run in debt to tradesmen, without any hope of paying them, for clothes and luxuries, as many highly genteel officers in that honourable service were in the habit of doing. For the sake of tinkering, he would certainly not have refused a secretaryship of an embassy to Persia, in which he might have turned his acquaintance with Persian, Arabic, and the Lord only knows what other languages, to account. He took to tinkering and smithery, because no better employments were at his command. No war is waged in the book against rank, wealth, fine clothes, or dignified employments; it is shown, however, that a person may be a gentleman and a scholar without them. Rank, wealth, fine clothes, and dignified employments, are no doubt very fine things, but they are merely externals, they do not make a gentleman, they add external grace and dignity to the gentleman and scholar, but they make neither; and is it not better to be a gentleman without them than not a gentleman with them? Is not Lavengro, when he leaves London on foot with twenty pounds in his pocket, entitled to more respect than Mr. Flamson flaming in his coach with a million? And is not even the honest jockey at Horncastle, who offers a fair price to Lavengro for his horse, entitled to more than the scoundrel lord, who attempts to cheat him of one-fourth of its value? Millions, however, seem to think otherwise, by their servile adoration of people whom without rank, wealth, and fine clothes they would consider infamous, but whom possessed of rank, wealth, and glittering habiliments they seem to admire all the more for their profligacy and crimes. Does not a blood-spot, or a lust-spot, on the clothes of a blooming emperor, give a kind of zest to the genteel young god? Do not the pride, superciliousness, and selfishness of a certain aristocracy make it all the more regarded by its worshippers? and do not the clownish and gutter- blood admirers of Mr. Flamson like him all the more because they are conscious that he is a knave? If such is the case --and, alas! is it not the case?--they cannot be too frequently told that fine clothes, wealth, and titles adorn a person in proportion as he adorns them; that if worn by the magnanimous and good they are ornaments indeed, but if by the vile and profligate they are merely san benitos, and only serve to make their infamy doubly apparent; and that a person in seedy raiment and tattered hat, possessed of courage, kindness, and virtue, is entitled to more respect from those to whom his virtues are manifested than any cruel profligate emperor, selfish aristocrat, or knavish millionaire in the world. The writer has no intention of saying that all in England are affected with the absurd mania for gentility; nor is such a statement made in the book; it is shown therein that individuals of certain classes can prize a gentleman, notwithstanding seedy raiment, dusty shoes or tattered hat,--for example, the young Irishman, the rich genius, the postillion, and his employer. Again, when the life of the hero is given to the world, amidst the howl about its lowness and vulgarity, raised by the servile crew whom its independence of sentiment has stung, more than one powerful voice has been heard testifying approbation of its learning and the purity of its morality. That there is some salt in England, minds not swayed by mere externals, he is fully convinced; if he were not, he would spare himself the trouble of writing; but to the fact that the generality of his countrymen are basely grovelling before the shrine of what they are pleased to call gentility, he cannot shut his eyes. Oh! what a clever person that Cockney was, who, travelling in the Aberdeen railroad carriage, after edifying the company with his remarks on various subjects, gave it as his opinion that Lieutenant P--- would, in future, be shunned by all respectable society! And what a simple person that elderly gentleman was, who, abruptly starting, asked in rather an authoritative voice, "and why should Lieutenant P--- be shunned by respectable society?" and who, after entering into what was said to be a masterly analysis of the entire evidence of the case, concluded by stating, "that having been accustomed to all kinds of evidence all his life, he had never known a case in which the accused had obtained a more complete and triumphant justification than Lieutenant P--- had done in the late trial." Now the Cockney, who is said to have been a very foppish Cockney, was perfectly right in what he said, and therein manifested a knowledge of the English mind and character, and likewise of the modern English language, to which his catechist, who, it seems, was a distinguished member of the Scottish bar, could lay no pretensions. The Cockney knew what the Lord of Session knew not, that the British public is gentility crazy, and he knew, moreover, that gentility and respectability are synonymous. No one in England is genteel or respectable that is "looked at," who is the victim of oppression; he may be pitied for a time, but when did not pity terminate in contempt? A poor, harmless young officer--but why enter into the details of the infamous case? they are but too well known, and if ever cruelty, pride, and cowardice, and things much worse than even cruelty, cowardice, and pride were brought to light, and, at the same time, countenanced, they were in that case. What availed the triumphant justification of the poor victim? There was at first a roar of indignation against his oppressors, but how long did it last? He had been turned out of the service, they remained in it with their red coats and epaulets; he was merely the son of a man who had rendered good service to his country, they were, for the most part, highly connected--they were in the extremest degree genteel, he quite the reverse; so the nation wavered, considered, thought the genteel side was the safest after all, and then with the cry of, "Oh! there is nothing like gentility," ratted bodily. Newspaper and public turned against the victim, scouted him, apologized for the--what should they be called?--who were not only admitted into the most respectable society, but courted to come, the spots not merely of wine on their military clothes, giving them a kind of poignancy. But there is a God in heaven; the British glories are tarnished--Providence has never smiled on British arms since that case--oh! Balaklava! thy name interpreted is net of fishes, and well dost thou deserve that name. How many a scarlet golden fish has of late perished in the mud amidst thee, cursing the genteel service, and the genteel leader which brought him to such a doom. Whether the rage for gentility is most prevalent amongst the upper, middle, or lower classes it is difficult to say; the priest in the text seems to think that it is exhibited in the most decided manner in the middle class; it is the writer's opinion, however, that in no class is it more strongly developed than in the lower: what they call being well-born goes a great way amongst them, but the possession of money much farther, whence Mr. Flamson's influence over them. Their rage against, and scorn for, any person who by his courage and talents has advanced himself in life, and still remains poor, are indescribable; "he is no better than ourselves," they say, "why should he be above us?"--for they have no conception that anybody has a right to ascendency over themselves except by birth or money. This feeling amongst the vulgar has been, to a certain extent, the bane of two services, naval and military. The writer does not make this assertion rashly; he observed this feeling at work in the army when a child, and he has good reason for believing that it was as strongly at work in the navy at the same time, and is still as prevalent in both. Why are not brave men raised from the ranks? is frequently the cry; why are not brave sailors promoted? The Lord help brave soldiers and sailors who are promoted; they have less to undergo from the high airs of their brother officers, and those are hard enough to endure, than from the insolence of the men. Soldiers and sailors promoted to command are said to be in general tyrants; in nine cases out of ten, when they are tyrants, they have been obliged to have recourse to extreme severity in order to protect themselves from the insolence and mutinous spirit of the men,--"He is no better than ourselves: shoot him, bayonet him, or fling him overboard!" they say of some obnoxious individual raised above them by his merit. Soldiers and sailors, in general, will bear any amount of tyranny from a lordly sot, or the son of a man who has "plenty of brass"--their own term--but will mutiny against the just orders of a skilful and brave officer who "is no better than themselves." There was the affair of the "Bounty," for example: Bligh was one of the best seamen that ever trod deck, and one of the bravest of men; proofs of his seamanship he gave by steering, amidst dreadful weather, a deeply-laden boat for nearly four thousand miles over an almost unknown ocean--of his bravery, at the fight of Copenhagen, one of the most desperate ever fought, of which after Nelson he was the hero: he was, moreover, not an unkind man; but the crew of the "Bounty" mutinied against him, and set him half naked in an open boat, with certain of his men who remained faithful to him, and ran away with the ship. Their principal motive for doing so was an idea, whether true or groundless the writer cannot say, that Bligh was "no better than themselves;" he was certainly neither a lord's illegitimate, nor possessed of twenty thousand pounds. The writer knows what he is writing about, having been acquainted in his early years with an individual who was turned adrift with Bligh, and who died about the year '22, a lieutenant in the navy, in a provincial town in which the writer was brought up. The ringleaders in the mutiny were two scoundrels, Christian and Young, who had great influence with the crew, because they were genteelly connected. Bligh, after leaving the "Bounty," had considerable difficulty in managing the men who had shared his fate, because they considered themselves "as good men as he," notwithstanding, that to his conduct and seamanship they had alone to look, under Heaven, for salvation from the ghastly perils that surrounded them. Bligh himself, in his journal, alludes to this feeling. Once, when he and his companions landed on a desert island, one of them said, with a mutinous look, that he considered himself "as good a man as he;" Bligh, seizing a cutlass, called upon him to take another and defend himself, whereupon the man said that Bligh was going to kill him, and made all manner of concessions; now why did this fellow consider himself as good a man as Bligh? Was he as good a seaman? no, nor a tenth part as good. As brave a man? no, nor a tenth part as brave; and of these facts he was perfectly well aware, but bravery and seamanship stood for nothing with him, as they still stand with thousands of his class; Bligh was not genteel by birth or money, therefore Bligh was no better than himself. Had Bligh, before he sailed, got a twenty-thousand pound prize in the lottery, he would have experienced no insolence from this fellow, for there would have been no mutiny in the "Bounty." "He is our betters," the crew would have said, "and it is our duty to obey him." The wonderful power of gentility in England is exemplified in nothing more than in what it is producing amongst Jews, Gypsies, and Quakers. It is breaking up their venerable communities. All the better, some one will say. Alas! alas! It is making the wealthy Jews forsake the synagogue for the opera-house, or the gentility chapel, in which a disciple of Mr. Platitude, in a white surplice, preaches a sermon at noon- day from a desk, on each side of which is a flaming taper. It is making them abandon their ancient literature, their "Mischna," their "Gemara," their "Zohar," for gentility novels, "The Young Duke," the most unexceptionably genteel book ever written, being the principal favourite. It makes the young Jew ashamed of the young Jewess, it makes her ashamed of the young Jew. The young Jew marries an opera-dancer, or if the dancer will not have him, as is frequently the case, the cast-off Miss of the Honourable Spencer So-and-so. It makes the young Jewess accept the honourable offer of a cashiered lieutenant of the Bengal Native Infantry; or, if such a person does not come forward, the dishonourable offer of a cornet of a regiment of crack hussars. It makes poor Jews, male and female, forsake the synagogue for the sixpenny theatre or penny hop; the Jew to take up with an Irish female of loose character, and the Jewess with a musician of the Guards, or the Tipperary servant of Captain Mulligan. With respect to the gypsies, it is making the women what they never were before--harlots; and the men what they never were before--careless fathers and husbands. It has made the daughter of Ursula the chaste take up with the base drummer of a wild-beast show. It makes Gorgiko Brown, the gypsy man, leave his tent and his old wife, of an evening, and thrust himself into society which could well dispense with him. "Brother," said Mr. Petulengro to the Romany Rye, after telling him many things connected with the decadence of gypsyism, "there is one Gorgiko Brown, who, with a face as black as a tea-kettle, wishes to be mistaken for a Christian tradesman; he goes into the parlour of a third-rate inn of an evening, calls for rum and water, and attempts to enter into conversation with the company about politics and business; the company flout him and give him the cold shoulder, or perhaps complain to the landlord, who comes and asks him what business he has in the parlour, telling him if he wants to drink to go into the tap-room, and perhaps collars him and kicks him out, provided he refuses to move." With respect to the Quakers, it makes the young people like the young Jews, crazy after gentility diversions, worship, marriages, or connections, and makes old Pease do what it makes Gorgiko Brown do, thrust himself into society which could well dispense with him, and out of which he is not kicked, because unlike the gypsy he is not poor. The writer would say much more on these points, but want of room prevents him; he must therefore request the reader to have patience until he can lay before the world a pamphlet, which he has been long meditating, to be entitled "Remarks on the strikingly similar Effects which a Love for Gentility has produced, and is producing, amongst Jews, Gypsies, and Quakers." The Priest in the book has much to say on the subject of this gentility- nonsense; no person can possibly despise it more thoroughly than that very remarkable individual seems to do, yet he hails its prevalence with pleasure, knowing the benefits which will result from it to the church of which he is the sneering slave. "The English are mad after gentility," says he; "well, all the better for us; their religion for a long time past has been a plain and simple one, and consequently by no means genteel; they'll quit it for ours, which is the perfection of what they admire; with which Templars, Hospitalers, mitred abbots, Gothic abbeys, long-drawn aisles, golden censers, incense, et cetera, are connected; nothing, or next to nothing, of Christ, it is true, but weighed in the balance against gentility, where will Christianity be? why, kicking against the beam--ho! ho!" And in connection with the gentility-nonsense, he expatiates largely, and with much contempt, on a species of literature by which the interests of his church in England have been very much advanced--all genuine priests have a thorough contempt for everything which tends to advance the interests of their church--this literature is made up of pseudo Jacobitism, Charlie o'er the waterism, or nonsense about Charlie o'er the water. And the writer will now take the liberty of saying a few words about it on his own account. CHAPTER VI--On Scotch Gentility-Nonsense--Charlie o'er the Waterism. Of the literature just alluded to Scott was the inventor. It is founded on the fortunes and misfortunes of the Stuart family, of which Scott was the zealous defender and apologist, doing all that in his power lay to represent the members of it as noble, chivalrous, high-minded, unfortunate princes; though, perhaps, of all the royal families that ever existed upon the earth, this family was the worst. It was unfortunate enough, it is true; but it owed its misfortunes entirely to its crimes, viciousness, bad faith, and cowardice. Nothing will be said of it here until it made its appearance in England to occupy the English throne. The first of the family which we have to do with, James, was a dirty, cowardly miscreant, of whom the less said the better. His son, Charles the First, was a tyrant--exceedingly cruel and revengeful, but weak and dastardly; he caused a poor fellow to be hanged in London, who was not his subject, because he had heard that the unfortunate creature had once bitten his own glove at Cadiz, in Spain, at the mention of his name; and he permitted his own bull-dog, Strafford, to be executed by his own enemies, though the only crime of Strafford was, that he had barked furiously at those enemies, and had worried two or three of them, when Charles shouted, "Fetch 'em." He was a bitter, but yet a despicable enemy, and the coldest and most worthless of friends; for though he always hoped to be able, some time or other, to hang his enemies, he was always ready to curry favour with them, more especially if he could do so at the expense of his friends. He was the haughtiest, yet meanest of mankind. He once caned a young nobleman for appearing before him in the drawing-room not dressed exactly according to the court etiquette; yet he condescended to flatter and compliment him who, from principle, was his bitterest enemy, namely, Harrison, when the republican colonel was conducting him as a prisoner to London. His bad faith was notorious; it was from abhorrence of the first public instance which he gave of his bad faith, his breaking his word to the Infanta of Spain, that the poor Hiberno-Spaniard bit his glove at Cadiz; and it was his notorious bad faith which eventually cost him his head; for the Republicans would gladly have spared him, provided they could put the slightest confidence in any promise, however solemn, which he might have made to them. Of them, it would be difficult to say whether they most hated or despised him. Religion he had none. One day he favoured Popery; the next, on hearing certain clamours of the people, he sent his wife's domestics back packing to France, because they were Papists. Papists, however, should make him a saint, for he was certainly the cause of the taking of Rochelle. His son, Charles the Second, though he passed his youth in the school of adversity, learned no other lesson from it than the following one--take care of yourself, and never do an action, either good or bad, which is likely to bring you into any great difficulty; and this maxim he acted up to as soon as he came to the throne. He was a Papist, but took especial care not to acknowledge his religion, at which he frequently scoffed, till just before his last gasp, when he knew that he could lose nothing, and hoped to gain everything by it. He was always in want of money, but took care not to tax the country beyond all endurable bounds; preferring to such a bold and dangerous course, to become the pensioner of Louis, to whom, in return for his gold, he sacrificed the honour and interests of Britain. He was too lazy and sensual to delight in playing the part of a tyrant himself; but he never checked tyranny in others save in one instance. He permitted beastly butchers to commit unmentionable horrors on the feeble, unarmed, and disunited Covenanters of Scotland, but checked them when they would fain have endeavoured to play the same game on the numerous united, dogged, and warlike Independents of England. To show his filial piety, he bade the hangman dishonour the corpses of some of his father's judges, before whom, when alive, he ran like a screaming hare; but permitted those who had lost their all in supporting his father's cause, to pine in misery and want. He would give to a painted harlot a thousand pounds for a loathsome embrace, and to a player or buffoon a hundred for a trumpery pun, but would refuse a penny to the widow or orphan of an old Royalist soldier. He was the personification of selfishness; and as he loved and cared for no one, so did no one love or care for him. So little had he gained the respect or affection of those who surrounded him, that after his body had undergone an after-death examination, parts of it were thrown down the sinks of the palace, to become eventually the prey of the swine and ducks of Westminster. His brother, who succeeded him, James the Second, was a Papist, but sufficiently honest to acknowledge his Popery, but upon the whole, he was a poor creature; though a tyrant, he was cowardly, had he not been a coward he would never have lost his throne. There were plenty of lovers of tyranny in England who would have stood by him, provided he would have stood by them, and would, though not Papists, have encouraged him in his attempt to bring back England beneath the sway of Rome, and perhaps would eventually have become Papists themselves; but the nation raising a cry against him, and his son-in-law, the Prince of Orange, invading the country, he forsook his friends, of whom he had a host, but for whom he cared little--left his throne, for which he cared a great deal--and Popery in England, for which he cared yet more, to their fate, and escaped to France, from whence, after taking a little heart, he repaired to Ireland, where he was speedily joined by a gallant army of Papists whom he basely abandoned at the Boyne, running away in a most lamentable condition, at the time when by showing a little courage he might have enabled them to conquer. This worthy, in his last will, bequeathed his heart to England--his right arm to Scotland--and his bowels to Ireland. What the English and Scotch said to their respective bequests is not known, but it is certain that an old Irish priest, supposed to have been a great-grand-uncle of the present Reverend Father Murtagh, on hearing of the bequest to Ireland, fell into a great passion, and having been brought up at "Paris and Salamanca," expressed his indignation in the following strain:--"Malditas sean tus tripas! teniamos bastante del olor de tus tripas al tiempo de tu nuida dela batalla del Boyne!" His son, generally called the Old Pretender, though born in England, was carried in his infancy to France, where he was brought up in the strictest principles of Popery, which principles, however, did not prevent him becoming (when did they ever prevent any one?) a worthless and profligate scoundrel; there are some doubts as to the reality of his being a son of James, which doubts are probably unfounded, the grand proof of his legitimacy being the thorough baseness of his character. It was said of his father that he could speak well, and it may be said of him that he could write well, the only thing he could do which was worth doing, always supposing that there is any merit in being able to write. He was of a mean appearance, and, like his father, pusillanimous to a degree. The meanness of his appearance disgusted, and his pusillanimity discouraged the Scotch when he made his appearance amongst them in the year 1715, some time after the standard of rebellion had been hoisted by Mar. He only stayed a short time in Scotland, and then, seized with panic, retreated to France, leaving his friends to shift for themselves as they best could. He died a pensioner of the Pope. The son of this man, Charles Edward, of whom so much in later years has been said and written, was a worthless ignorant youth, and a profligate and illiterate old man. When young, the best that can be said of him is, that he had occasionally springs of courage, invariably at the wrong time and place, which merely served to lead his friends into inextricable difficulties. When old, he was loathsome and contemptible to both friend and foe. His wife loathed him, and for the most terrible of reasons; she did not pollute his couch, for to do that was impossible--he had made it so vile; but she betrayed it, inviting to it not only Alfieri the Filthy, but the coarsest grooms. Doctor King, the warmest and almost last adherent of his family, said, that there was not a vice or crime of which he was not guilty; as for his foes, they scorned to harm him even when in their power. In the year 1745 he came down from the Highlands of Scotland, which had long been a focus of rebellion. He was attended by certain clans of the Highlands, desperadoes used to free-bootery from their infancy, and, consequently, to the use of arms, and possessed of a certain species of discipline; with these he defeated at Prestonpans a body of men called soldiers, but who were in reality peasants and artizans, levied about a month before, without discipline or confidence in each other, and who were miserably massacred by the Highland army; he subsequently invaded England, nearly destitute of regular soldiers, and penetrated as far as Derby, from which place he retreated on learning that regular forces which had been hastily recalled from Flanders were coming against him, with the Duke of Cumberland at their head; he was pursued, and his rearguard overtaken and defeated by the dragoons of the duke at Clifton, from which place the rebels retreated in great confusion across the Eden into Scotland, where they commenced dancing Highland reels and strathspeys on the bank of the river, for joy at their escape, whilst a number of wretched girls, paramours of some of them, were perishing in the waters of the swollen river in an attempt to follow them; they themselves passed over by eighties and by hundreds, arm in arm, for mutual safety, without the loss of a man, but they left the poor paramours to shift for themselves, nor did any of these canny people after passing the stream dash back to rescue a single female life,--no, they were too well employed upon the bank in dancing strathspeys to the tune of "Charlie o'er the water." It was, indeed, Charlie o'er the water, and canny Highlanders o'er the water, but where were the poor prostitutes meantime? _In the water_. The Jacobite farce, or tragedy, was speedily brought to a close by the battle of Culloden; there did Charlie wish himself back again o'er the water, exhibiting the most unmistakable signs of pusillanimity; there were the clans cut to pieces, at least those who could be brought to the charge, and there fell Giles Mac Bean, or as he was called in Gaelic, Giliosa Mac Beathan, a kind of giant, six feet four inches and a quarter high, "than whom," as his wife said in a coronach she made upon him, "no man who stood at Cuiloitr was taller"--Giles Mac Bean the Major of the clan Cattan--a great drinker--a great fisher--a great shooter, and the champion of the Highland host. The last of the Stuarts was a cardinal. Such were the Stuarts, such their miserable history. They were dead and buried in every sense of the word until Scott resuscitated them--how? by the power of fine writing and by calling to his aid that strange divinity, gentility. He wrote splendid novels about the Stuarts, in which he represents them as unlike what they really were as the graceful and beautiful papillon is unlike the hideous and filthy worm. In a word, he made them genteel, and that was enough to give them paramount sway over the minds of the British people. The public became Stuart-mad, and everybody, specially the women, said, "What a pity it was that we hadn't a Stuart to govern." All parties, Whig, Tory, or Radical, became Jacobite at heart, and admirers of absolute power. The Whigs talked about the liberty of the subject, and the Radicals about the rights of man still, but neither party cared a straw for what it talked about, and mentally swore that, as soon as by means of such stuff they could get places, and fill their pockets, they would be as Jacobite as the Jacobs themselves. As for Tories, no great change in them was necessary; everything favouring absolutism and slavery being congenial to them. So the whole nation, that is, the reading part of the nation, with some exceptions, for thank God there has always been some salt in England, went over the water to Charlie. But going over to Charlie was not enough, they must, or at least a considerable part of them, go over to Rome too, or have a hankering to do so. As the Priest sarcastically observes in the text, "As all the Jacobs were Papists, so the good folks who through Scott's novels admire the Jacobs must be Papists too." An idea got about that the religion of such genteel people as the Stuarts must be the climax of gentility, and that idea was quite sufficient. Only let a thing, whether temporal or spiritual, be considered genteel in England, and if it be not followed it is strange indeed; so Scott's writings not only made the greater part of the nation Jacobite, but Popish. Here some people will exclaim--whose opinions remain sound and uncontaminated--what you say is perhaps true with respect to the Jacobite nonsense at present so prevalent being derived from Scott's novels, but the Popish nonsense, which people of the genteeler classes are so fond of, is derived from Oxford. We sent our sons to Oxford nice honest lads, educated in the principles of the Church of England, and at the end of the first term they came home puppies, talking Popish nonsense, which they had learned from the pedants to whose care we had entrusted them; ay, not only Popery but Jacobitism, which they hardly carried with them from home, for we never heard them talking Jacobitism before they had been at Oxford; but now their conversation is a farrago of Popish and Jacobite stuff--"Complines and Claverse." Now, what these honest folks say is, to a certain extent, founded on fact; the Popery which has overflowed the land during the last fourteen or fifteen years, has come immediately from Oxford, and likewise some of the Jacobitism, Popish and Jacobite nonsense, and little or nothing else, having been taught at Oxford for about that number of years. But whence did the pedants get the Popish nonsense with which they have corrupted youth? Why, from the same quarter from which they got the Jacobite nonsense with which they have inoculated those lads who were not inoculated with it before--Scott's novels. Jacobitism and Laudism, a kind of half Popery, had at one time been very prevalent at Oxford, but both had been long consigned to oblivion there, and people at Oxford cared as little about Laud as they did about the Pretender. Both were dead and buried there, as everywhere else, till Scott called them out of their graves, when the pedants of Oxford hailed both--ay, and the Pope, too, as soon as Scott had made the old fellow fascinating, through particular novels, more especially the "Monastery" and "Abbot." Then the quiet, respectable, honourable Church of England would no longer do for the pedants of Oxford; they must belong to a more genteel church--they were ashamed at first to be downright Romans--so they would be Lauds. The pale-looking, but exceedingly genteel non-juring clergyman in Waverley was a Laud; but they soon became tired of being Lauds, for Laud's Church, gew-gawish and idolatrous as it was, was not sufficiently tinselly and idolatrous for them, so they must be Popes, but in a sneaking way, still calling themselves Church-of-England men, in order to batten on the bounty of the church which they were betraying, and likewise have opportunities of corrupting such lads as might still resort to Oxford with principles uncontaminated. So the respectable people, whose opinions are still sound, are, to a certain extent, right when they say that the tide of Popery, which has flowed over the land, has come from Oxford. It did come immediately from Oxford, but how did it get to Oxford? Why, from Scott's novels. Oh! that sermon which was the first manifestation of Oxford feeling, preached at Oxford some time in the year '38 by a divine of a weak and confused intellect, in which Popery was mixed up with Jacobitism! The present writer remembers perfectly well, on reading some extracts from it at the time in a newspaper, on the top of a coach, exclaiming--"Why, the simpleton has been pilfering from Walter Scott's novels!" O Oxford pedants! Oxford pedants! ye whose politics and religion are both derived from Scott's novels! what a pity it is that some lad of honest parents, whose mind ye are endeavouring to stultify with your nonsense about "Complines and Claverse," has not the spirit to start up and cry, "Confound your gibberish! I'll have none of it. Hurrah for the Church, and the principles of my _father_!" CHAPTER VII--Same Subject continued. Now what could have induced Scott to write novels tending to make people Papists and Jacobites, and in love with arbitrary power? Did he think that Christianity was a gaudy mummery? He did not, he could not, for he had read the Bible; yet was he fond of gaudy mummeries, fond of talking about them. Did he believe that the Stuarts were a good family, and fit to govern a country like Britain? He knew that they were a vicious, worthless crew, and that Britain was a degraded country as long as they swayed the sceptre; but for those facts he cared nothing, they governed in a way which he liked, for he had an abstract love of despotism, and an abhorrence of everything savouring of freedom and the rights of man in general. His favourite political picture was a joking, profligate, careless king, nominally absolute--the heads of great houses paying court to, but in reality governing, that king, whilst revelling with him on the plunder of a nation, and a set of crouching, grovelling vassals (the literal meaning of vassal is a wretch), who, after allowing themselves to be horsewhipped, would take a bone if flung to them, and be grateful; so that in love with mummery, though he knew what Christianity was, no wonder he admired such a church as that of Rome, and that which Laud set up; and by nature formed to be the holder of the candle to ancient worm- eaten and profligate families, no wonder that all his sympathies were with the Stuarts and their dissipated insolent party, and all his hatred directed against those who endeavoured to check them in their proceedings, and to raise the generality of mankind something above a state of vassalage, that is, wretchedness. Those who were born great, were, if he could have had his will, always to remain great, however worthless their characters. Those who were born low, were always to remain so, however great their talents; though, if that rule were carried out, where would he have been himself? In the book which he called the "History of Napoleon Bonaparte," in which he plays the sycophant to all the legitimate crowned heads in Europe, whatever their crimes, vices, or miserable imbecilities, he, in his abhorrence of everything low which by its own vigour makes itself illustrious, calls Murat of the sabre the son of a pastry-cook, of a Marseilleise pastry-cook. It is a pity that people who give themselves hoity-toity airs--and the Scotch in general are wonderfully addicted to giving themselves hoity-toity airs, and checking people better than themselves with their birth {6} and their country--it is a great pity that such people do not look at home-son of a pastry-cook, of a Marseilleise pastry-cook! Well, and what was Scott himself? Why, son of a pettifogger, of an Edinburgh pettifogger. "Oh, but Scott was descended from the old cow-stealers of Buccleuch, and therefore--" descended from old cow-stealers, was he? Well, had he nothing to boast of beyond such a pedigree, he would have lived and died the son of a pettifogger, and been forgotten, and deservedly so; but he possessed talents, and by his talents rose like Murat, and like him will be remembered for his talents alone, and deservedly so. "Yes, but Murat was still the son of a pastry- cook, and though he was certainly good at the sabre, and cut his way to a throne, still--" Lord! what fools there are in the world; but as no one can be thought anything of in this world without a pedigree, the writer will now give a pedigree for Murat, of a very different character from the cow-stealing one of Scott, but such a one as the proudest he might not disdain to claim. Scott was descended from the old cow-stealers of Buccleuch--was he? Good! and Murat was descended from the old Moors of Spain, from the Abencerages (sons of the saddle) of Granada. The name Murat is Arabic, and is the same as Murad (Le Desire, or the wished-for one). Scott in his genteel Life of Bonaparte, says that "when Murat was in Egypt, the similarity between the name of the celebrated Mameluke Mourad and that of Bonaparte's Meilleur Sabreur was remarked, and became the subject of jest amongst the comrades of the gallant Frenchman." But the writer of the novel of Bonaparte did not know that the names were one and the same. Now which was the best pedigree, that of the son of the pastry-cook, or that of the son of the pettifogger? Which was the best blood? Let us observe the workings of the two bloods. He who had the blood of the "sons of the saddle" in him, became the wonderful cavalier of the most wonderful host that ever went forth to conquest, won for himself a crown, and died the death of a soldier, leaving behind him a son, only inferior to himself in strength, in prowess, and in horsemanship. The descendant of the cow-stealer became a poet, a novel writer, the panegyrist of great folk and genteel people; became insolvent because, though an author, he deemed it ungenteel to be mixed up with the business part of the authorship; died paralytic and broken-hearted because he could no longer give entertainments to great folks, leaving behind him, amongst other children, who were never heard of, a son, who, through his father's interest, had become lieutenant-colonel in a genteel cavalry regiment. A son who was ashamed of his father because his father was an author; a son who--paugh--why ask which was the best blood? So, owing to his rage for gentility, Scott must needs become the apologist of the Stuarts and their party; but God made this man pay dearly for taking the part of the wicked against the good; for lauding up to the skies the miscreants and robbers, and calumniating the noble spirits of Britain, the salt of England, and his own country. As God had driven the Stuarts from their throne, and their followers from their estates, making them vagabonds and beggars on the face of the earth, taking from them all that they cared for, so did that same God, who knows perfectly well how and where to strike, deprive the apologist of that wretched crew of all that rendered life pleasant in his eyes, the lack of which paralysed him in body and mind, rendered him pitiable to others, loathsome to himself,--so much so, that he once said, "Where is the beggar who would change places with me, notwithstanding all my fame?" Ah! God knows perfectly well how to strike. He permitted him to retain all his literary fame to the very last--his literary fame for which he cared nothing; but what became of the sweetness of life, his fine house, his grand company, and his entertainments? The grand house ceased to be his; he was only permitted to live in it on sufferance, and whatever grandeur it might still retain, it soon became as desolate a looking house as any misanthrope could wish to see--where were the grand entertainments and the grand company? there are no grand entertainments where there is no money; no lords and ladies where there are no entertainments--and there lay the poor lodger in the desolate house, groaning on a bed no longer his, smitten by the hand of God in the part where he was most vulnerable. Of what use telling such a man to take comfort, for he had written the "Minstrel" and "Rob Roy,"--telling him to think of his literary fame? Literary fame, indeed! he wanted back his lost gentility:-- "Retain my altar, I care nothing for it--but, oh! touch not my _beard_." PORNY'S _War of the Gods_. He dies, his children die too, and then comes the crowning judgment of God on what remains of his race and the house which he had built. He was not a Papist himself, nor did he wish any one belonging to him to be Popish, for he had read enough of the Bible to know that no one can be saved through Popery, yet had he a sneaking affection for it, and would at times in an underhand manner, give it a good word both in writing and discourse, because it was a gaudy kind of worship, and ignorance and vassalage prevailed so long as it flourished--but he certainly did not wish any of his people to become Papists, nor the house which he had built to become a Popish house, though the very name he gave it savoured of Popery; but Popery becomes fashionable through his novels and poems--the only one that remains of his race, a female grandchild, marries a person who, following the fashion, becomes a Papist, and makes her a Papist too. Money abounds with the husband, who buys the house, and then the house becomes the rankest Popish house in Britain. A superstitious person might almost imagine that one of the old Scottish Covenanters, whilst the grand house was being built from the profits resulting from the sale of writings favouring Popery and persecution, and calumniatory of Scotland's saints and martyrs, had risen from the grave, and banned Scott, his race, and his house, by reading a certain psalm. In saying what he has said about Scott, the author has not been influenced by any feeling of malice or ill-will, but simply by a regard for truth, and a desire to point out to his countrymen the harm which has resulted from the perusal of his works;--he is not one of those who would depreciate the talents of Scott--he admires his talents, both as a prose writer and a poet; as a poet especially he admires him, and believes him to have been by far the greatest, with perhaps the exception of Mickiewicz, who only wrote for unfortunate Poland, that Europe has given birth to during the last hundred years. As a prose writer he admires him, less, it is true, but his admiration for him in that capacity is very high, and he only laments that he prostituted his talents to the cause of the Stuarts and gentility. What book of fiction of the present century can you read twice, with the exception of "Waverley" and "Rob Roy?" There is "Pelham," it is true, which the writer of these lines has seen a Jewess reading in the steppe of Debreczin, and which a young Prussian Baron, a great traveller, whom he met at Constantinople in '44 told him he always carried in his valise. And, in conclusion, he will say, in order to show the opinion which he entertains of the power of Scott as a writer, that he did for the sceptre of the wretched Pretender what all the kings of Europe could not do for his body--placed it on the throne of these realms; and for Popery, what Popes and Cardinals strove in vain to do for three centuries--brought back its mummeries and nonsense into the temples of the British Isles. Scott during his lifetime had a crowd of imitators, who, whether they wrote history so called--poetry so called--or novels--nobody would call a book a novel if he could call it anything else--wrote Charlie o'er the water nonsense; and now that he has been dead nearly a quarter of a century, there are others daily springing up who are striving to imitate Scott in his Charlie o'er the water nonsense--for nonsense it is, even when flowing from his pen. They, too, must write Jacobite histories, Jacobite songs, and Jacobite novels, and much the same figure as the scoundrel menials in the comedy cut when personating their masters, and retailing their masters' conversation, do they cut as Walter Scotts. In their histories, they too talk about the Prince and Glenfinnan, and the pibroch; and in their songs about "Claverse" and "Bonny Dundee." But though they may be Scots, they are not Walter Scotts. But it is perhaps chiefly in the novel that you see the veritable hog in armour; the time of the novel is of course the '15 or '45; the hero a Jacobite, and connected with one or other of the enterprises of those periods; and the author, to show how unprejudiced he is, and what _original_ views he takes of subjects, must needs speak up for Popery, whenever he has occasion to mention it; though, with all his originality, when he brings his hero and the vagabonds with which he is concerned before a barricadoed house, belonging to the Whigs, he can make them get into it by no other method than that which Scott makes his rioters employ to get into the Tolbooth, _burning down_ the door. To express the more than utter foolishness of this latter Charlie o'er the water nonsense, whether in rhyme or prose, there is but one word, and that word a Scotch word. Scotch, the sorriest of jargons, compared with which even Roth Welsch is dignified and expressive, has yet one word to express what would be inexpressible by any word or combination of words in any language, or in any other jargon in the world; and very properly; for as the nonsense is properly Scotch, so should the word be Scotch which expresses it--that word is "fushionless," pronounced _fooshionless_; and when the writer has called the nonsense fooshionless--and he does call it fooshionless--he has nothing more to say, but leaves the nonsense to its fate. CHAPTER VIII--On Canting Nonsense. The writer now wishes to say something on the subject of canting nonsense, of which there is a great deal in England. There are various cants in England, amongst which is the religious cant. He is not going to discuss the subject of religious cant: lest, however, he should be misunderstood, he begs leave to repeat that he is a sincere member of the Church of England, in which he believes there is more religion, and consequently less cant, than in any other church in the world; nor is he going to discuss many other cants; he shall content himself with saying something about two--the temperance cant and the unmanly cant. Temperance canters say that "it is unlawful to drink a glass of ale." Unmanly canters say that "it is unlawful to use one's fists." The writer begs leave to tell both these species of canters that they do not speak words of truth. It is very lawful to take a cup of ale, or wine, for the purpose of cheering or invigorating yourself when you are faint and down-hearted; and likewise to give a cup of ale or wine to others when they are in a similar condition. The Holy Scripture sayeth nothing to the contrary, but rather encourageth people in so doing by the text, "Wine maketh glad the heart of man." But it is not lawful to intoxicate yourself with frequent cups of ale or wine, nor to make others intoxicated, nor does the Holy Scripture say it is. The Holy Scripture no more says that it is lawful to intoxicate yourself or others, than it says that it is unlawful to take a cup of ale or wine yourself, or to give one to others. Noah is not commended in the Scripture for making himself drunken on the wine he brewed. Nor is it said that the Saviour, when he supplied the guests with first-rate wine at the marriage-feast, told them to make themselves drunk upon it. He is said to have supplied them with first-rate wine, but He doubtless left the quantity which each should drink to each party's reason and discretion. When you set a good dinner before your guests, you do not expect that they should gorge themselves with the victuals you set before them. Wine may be abused, and so may a leg of mutton. Second. It is lawful for any one to use his fists in his own defence, or in the defence of others, provided they can't help themselves; but it is not lawful to use them for purposes of tyranny or brutality. If you are attacked by a ruffian, as the elderly individual in Lavengro is in the inn-yard, it is quite lawful, if you can, to give him as good a thrashing as the elderly individual gave the brutal coachman; and if you see a helpless woman--perhaps your own sister--set upon by a drunken lord, a drunken coachman, or a drunken coalheaver, or a brute of any description, either drunk or sober, it is not only lawful but laudable, to give them, if you can, a good drubbing; but it is not lawful because you have a strong pair of fists, and know how to use them, to go swaggering through a fair, jostling against unoffending individuals; should you do so, you would be served quite right if you were to get a drubbing, more particularly if you were served out by some one less strong, but more skilful than yourself--even as the coachman was served out by a pupil of the immortal Broughton--sixty years old, it is true, but possessed of Broughton's guard and chop. Moses is not blamed in the Scripture for taking part with the oppressed, and killing an Egyptian persecutor. We are not told how Moses killed the Egyptian; but it is quite as creditable to Moses to suppose that he killed the Egyptian by giving him a buffet under the left ear, as by stabbing him with a knife. It is true that the Saviour in the New Testament tells His disciples to turn the left cheek to be smitten, after they had received a blow on the right; but He was speaking to people divinely inspired, or whom He intended divinely to inspire--people selected by God for a particular purpose. He likewise tells these people to part with various articles of raiment when asked for them, and to go a-travelling without money, and take no thought of the morrow. Are those exhortations carried out by very good people in the present day? Do Quakers, when smitten on the right cheek, turn the left to the smiter? When asked for their coat, do they say, "Friend, take my shirt also?" Has the Dean of Salisbury no purse? Does the Archbishop of Canterbury go to an inn, run up a reckoning, and then say to his landlady, "Mistress, I have no coin?" Assuredly the Dean has a purse, and a tolerably well-filled one; and, assuredly, the Archbishop, on departing from an inn, not only settles his reckoning, but leaves something handsome for the servants, and does not say that he is forbidden by the gospel to pay for what he has eaten, or the trouble he has given, as a certain Spanish cavalier said he was forbidden by the statutes of chivalry. Now, to take the part of yourself, or the part of the oppressed, with your fists, is quite as lawful in the present day as it is to refuse your coat and shirt also to any vagabond who may ask for them, and not to refuse to pay for supper, bed, and breakfast, at the Feathers, or any other inn, after you have had the benefit of all three. The conduct of Lavengro with respect to drink may, upon the whole, serve as a model. He is no drunkard, nor is he fond of intoxicating other people; yet when the horrors are upon him he has no objection to go to a public-house and call for a pint of ale, nor does he shrink from recommending ale to others when they are faint and downcast. In one instance, it is true, he does what cannot be exactly justified; he encourages the Priest in the dingle, in more instances than one, in drinking more hollands and water than is consistent with decorum. He has a motive indeed in doing so; a desire to learn from the knave in his cups the plans and hopes of the Propaganda of Rome. Such conduct, however, was inconsistent with strict fair dealing and openness; and the author advises all those whose consciences never reproach them for a single unfair or covert act committed by them, to abuse him heartily for administering hollands and water to the Priest of Rome. In that instance the hero is certainly wrong; yet in all other cases with regard to drink, he is manifestly right. To tell people that they are never to drink a glass of ale or wine themselves, or to give one to others, is cant; and the writer has no toleration for cant of any description. Some cants are not dangerous; but the writer believes that a more dangerous cant than the temperance cant, or as it is generally called, teetotalism, is scarcely to be found. The writer is willing to believe that it originated with well meaning, though weak people; but there can be no doubt that it was quickly turned to account by people who were neither well meaning nor weak. Let the reader note particularly the purpose to which this cry has been turned in America; the land, indeed, par excellence, of humbug and humbug cries. It is there continually in the mouth of the most violent political party, and is made an instrument of almost unexampled persecution. The writer would say more on the temperance cant, both in England and America, but want of space prevents him. There is one point on which he cannot avoid making a few brief remarks--that is, the inconsistent conduct of its apostles in general. The teetotal apostle says, it is a dreadful thing to be drunk. So it is, teetotaller; but if so, why do you get drunk? I get drunk? Yes, unhappy man, why do you get drunk on smoke and passion? Why are your garments impregnated with the odour of the Indian weed? Why is there a pipe or a cigar always in your mouth? Why is your language more dreadful than that of a Poissarde? Tobacco-smoke is more deleterious than ale, teetotaller; bile more potent than brandy. You are fond of telling your hearers what an awful thing it is to die drunken. So it is, teetotaller. Then take good care that you do not die with smoke and passion, drunken, and with temperance language on your lips; that is, abuse and calumny against all those who differ from you. One word of sense you have been heard to say, which is, that spirits may be taken as a medicine. Now you are in a fever of passion, teetotaller; so, pray take this tumbler of brandy; take it on the homoeopathic principle, that heat is to be expelled by heat. You are in a temperance fury, so swallow the contents of this tumbler, and it will, perhaps, cure you. You look at the glass wistfully--you occasionally take a glass medicinally--and it is probable you do. Take one now. Consider what a dreadful thing it would be to die passion drunk; to appear before your Maker with intemperate language on your lips. That's right! You don't seem to wince at the brandy. That's right!--well done! All down in two pulls. Now you look like a reasonable being! If the conduct of Lavengro with regard to drink is open to little censure, assuredly the use which he makes of his fists is entitled to none at all. Because he has a pair of tolerably strong fists, and knows to a certain extent how to use them, is he a swaggerer or oppressor? To what ill account does he turn them? Who more quiet, gentle, and inoffensive than he? He beats off a ruffian who attacks him in a dingle; has a kind of friendly tuzzle with Mr. Petulengro, and behold the extent of his fistic exploits. Ay, but he associates with prize-fighters; and that very fellow, Petulengro, is a prize-fighter, and has fought for a stake in a ring. Well, and if he had not associated with prize-fighters, how could he have used his fists? Oh, anybody can use his fists in his own defence, without being taught by prize-fighters. Can they? Then why does not the Italian, or Spaniard, or Affghan use his fists when insulted or outraged, instead of having recourse to the weapons which he has recourse to? Nobody can use his fists without being taught the use of them by those who have themselves been taught, no more than any one can "whiffle" without being taught by a master of the art. Now let any man of the present day try to whiffle. Would not any one who wished to whiffle have to go to a master of the art? Assuredly! but where would he find one at the present day? The last of the whifflers hanged himself about a fortnight ago on a bell-rope in a church steeple of "the old town," from pure grief that there was no further demand for the exhibition of his art, there being no demand for whiffling since the discontinuation of Guildhall banquets. Whiffling is lost. The old chap left his sword behind him; let any one take up the old chap's sword and try to whiffle. Now much the same hand as he would make who should take up the whiffler's sword and try to whiffle, would he who should try to use his fists who had never had the advantage of a master. Let no one think that men use their fists naturally in their own disputes--men have naturally recourse to any other thing to defend themselves or to offend others; they fly to the stick, to the stone, to the murderous and cowardly knife, or to abuse as cowardly as the knife, and occasionally more murderous. Now which is best when you hate a person, or have a pique against a person, to clench your fist and say "Come on," or to have recourse to the stone, the knife,--or murderous calumny? The use of the fist is almost lost in England. Yet are the people better than they were when they knew how to use their fists? The writer believes not. A fisty combat is at present a great rarity, but the use of the knife, the noose, and of poison, to say nothing of calumny, are of more frequent occurrence in England than perhaps in any country in Europe. Is polite taste better than when it could bear the details of a fight? The writer believes not. Two men cannot meet in a ring to settle a dispute in a manly manner without some trumpery local newspaper letting loose a volley of abuse against "the disgraceful exhibition," in which abuse it is sure to be sanctioned by its dainty readers; whereas some murderous horror, the discovery for example of the mangled remains of a woman in some obscure den, is greedily seized hold of by the moral journal, and dressed up for its readers, who luxuriate and gloat upon the ghastly dish. Now, the writer of Lavengro has no sympathy with those who would shrink from striking a blow, but would not shrink from the use of poison or calumny; and his taste has little in common with that which cannot tolerate the hardy details of a prize-fight, but which luxuriates on descriptions of the murder dens of modern England. But prize-fighters and pugilists are blackguards, a reviewer has said; and blackguards they would be provided they employed their skill and their prowess for purposes of brutality and oppression; but prize-fighters and pugilists are seldom friends to brutality and oppression; and which is the blackguard, the writer would ask, he who uses his fists to take his own part, or instructs others to use theirs for the same purpose, or the being who from envy and malice, or at the bidding of a malicious scoundrel, endeavours by calumny, falsehood, and misrepresentation to impede the efforts of lonely and unprotected genius? One word more about the race, all but extinct, of the people opprobriously called prize-fighters. Some of them have been as noble, kindly men as the world ever produced. Can the rolls of the English aristocracy exhibit names belonging to more noble, more heroic men than those who were called respectively Pearce, Cribb, and Spring? Did ever one of the English aristocracy contract the seeds of fatal consumption by rushing up the stairs of a burning edifice, even to the topmost garret, and rescuing a woman from seemingly inevitable destruction? The writer says no. A woman was rescued from the top of a burning house; but the man who rescued her was no aristocrat; it was Pearce, not Percy, who ran up the burning stairs. Did ever one of those glittering ones save a fainting female from the libidinous rage of six ruffians? The writer believes not. A woman was rescued from the libidinous fury of six monsters on --- Down; but the man who rescued her was no aristocrat; it was Pearce not Paulet, who rescued the woman, and thrashed my lord's six gamekeepers--Pearce, whose equal never was, and probably never will be, found in sturdy combat. Are there any of the aristocracy of whom it can be said that they never did a cowardly, cruel, or mean action, and that they invariably took the part of the unfortunate and weak against cruelty and oppression? As much can be said of Cribb, of Spring, and the other; but where is the aristocrat of whom as much can be said? Wellington? Wellington indeed! a skilful general, and a good man of valour, it is true, but with that cant word of "duty" continually on his lips, did he rescue Ney from his butchers? Did he lend a helping hand to Warner? In conclusion, the writer would advise those of his country-folks who read his book to have nothing to do with the two kinds of canting nonsense described above, but in their progress through life to enjoy as well as they can, but always with moderation, the good things of this world, to put confidence in God, to be as independent as possible, and to take their own parts. If they are low-spirited, let them not make themselves foolish by putting on sackcloth, drinking water, or chewing ashes, but let them take wholesome exercise, and eat the most generous food they can get, taking up and reading occasionally, not the lives of Ignatius Loyola and Francis Spira, but something more agreeable; for example, the life and adventures of Mr. Duncan Campbell, the deaf and dumb gentleman; the travels of Captain Falconer in America, and the journal of John Randall, who went to Virginia and married an Indian wife; not forgetting, amidst their eating and drinking, their walks over heaths, and by the sea-side, and their agreeable literature, to be charitable to the poor, to read the Psalms and to go to church twice on a Sunday. In their dealings with people, to be courteous to everybody, as Lavengro was, but always independent like him; and if people meddle with them, to give them as good as they bring, even as he and Isopel Berners were in the habit of doing; and it will be as well for him to observe that he by no means advises women to be too womanly, but bearing the conduct of Isopel Berners in mind, to take their own parts, and if anybody strikes them, to strike again. Beating of women by the lords of the creation has become very prevalent in England since pugilism has been discountenanced. Now the writer strongly advises any woman who is struck by a ruffian to strike him again; or if she cannot clench her fists, and he advises all women in these singular times to learn to clench their fists, to go at him with tooth and nail, and not to be afraid of the result, for any fellow who is dastard enough to strike a woman, would allow himself to be beaten by a woman, were she to make at him in self-defence, even if, instead of possessing the stately height and athletic proportions of the aforesaid Isopel, she were as diminutive in stature, and had a hand as delicate, and foot as small, as a certain royal lady, who was some time ago assaulted by a fellow upwards of six feet high, whom the writer has no doubt she could have beaten had she thought proper to go at him. Such is the deliberate advice of the author to his countrymen and women--advice in which he believes there is nothing unscriptural or repugnant to common sense. The writer is perfectly well aware that, by the plain language which he has used in speaking of the various kinds of nonsense prevalent in England, he shall make himself a multitude of enemies; but he is not going to conceal the truth or to tamper with nonsense, from the fear of provoking hostility. He has a duty to perform and he will perform it resolutely; he is the person who carried the Bible to Spain; and as resolutely as he spoke in Spain against the superstitions of Spain, will he speak in England against the nonsense of his own native land. He is not one of those who, before they sit down to write a book, say to themselves, what cry shall we take up? what principles shall we advocate? what principles shall we abuse? before we put pen to paper we must find out what cry is the loudest, what principle has the most advocates, otherwise, after having written our book, we may find ourselves on the weaker side. A sailor of the "Bounty," waked from his sleep by the noise of the mutiny, lay still in his hammock for some time, quite undecided whether to take part with the captain or to join the mutineers. "I must mind what I do," said he to himself, "lest, in the end, I find myself on the weaker side;" finally, on hearing that the mutineers were successful, he went on deck, and seeing Bligh pinioned to the mast, he put his fist to his nose, and otherwise insulted him. Now, there are many writers of the present day whose conduct is very similar to that of the sailor. They lie listening in their corners till they have ascertained which principle has most advocates; then, presently, they make their appearance on the deck of the world with their book; if truth has been victorious, then has truth the hurrah! but if truth is pinioned against the mast, then is their fist thrust against the nose of truth, and their gibe and their insult spirted in her face. The strongest party had the sailor, and the strongest party has almost invariably the writer of the present day. CHAPTER IX--Pseudo-Critics. A certain set of individuals calling themselves critics have attacked Lavengro with much virulence and malice. If what they call criticism had been founded on truth, the author would have had nothing to say. The book contains plenty of blemishes, some of them, by the bye, wilful ones, as the writer will presently show; not one of these, however, has been detected and pointed out; but the best passages in the book, indeed whatever was calculated to make the book valuable, have been assailed with abuse and misrepresentation. The duty of the true critic is to play the part of a leech, and not of a viper. Upon true and upon malignant criticism there is an excellent fable by the Spaniard Iriarte. The viper says to the leech, "Why do people invite your bite, and flee from mine?" "Because," says the leech, "people receive health from my bite, and poison from yours." "There is as much difference," says the clever Spaniard, "between true and malignant criticism, as between poison and medicine." Certainly a great many meritorious writers have allowed themselves to be poisoned by malignant criticism; the writer, however, is not one of those who allow themselves to be poisoned by pseudo-critics; no! no! he will rather hold them up by their tails, and show the creatures wriggling, blood and foam streaming from their broken jaws. First of all, however, he will notice one of their objections. "The book isn't true," say they. Now one of the principal reasons with those that have attacked Lavengro for their abuse of it is, that it is particularly true in one instance, namely, that it exposes their own nonsense, their love of humbug, their slavishness, their dressings, their goings out, their scraping and bowing to great people; it is the showing up of "gentility-nonsense" in Lavengro that has been one principal reason for raising the above cry; for in Lavengro is denounced the besetting folly of the English people, a folly which those who call themselves guardians of the public taste are far from being above. "We can't abide anything that isn't true!" they exclaim. Can't they? Then why are they so enraptured with any fiction that is adapted to purposes of humbug, which tends to make them satisfied with their own proceedings, with their own nonsense, which does not tell them to reform, to become more alive to their own failings, and less sensitive about the tyrannical goings on of the masters, and the degraded condition, the sufferings, and the trials of the serfs in the star Jupiter? Had Lavengro, instead of being the work of an independent mind, been written in order to further any of the thousand and one cants, and species of nonsense prevalent in England, the author would have heard much less about its not being true, both from public detractors and private censurers. "But Lavengro pretends to be an autobiography," say the critics; and here the writer begs leave to observe, that it would be well for people who profess to have a regard for truth, not to exhibit in every assertion which they make a most profligate disregard of it; this assertion of theirs is a falsehood, and they know it to be a falsehood. In the preface Lavengro is stated to be a dream; and the writer takes this opportunity of stating that he never said it was an autobiography; never authorized any person to say that it was one; and that he has in innumerable instances declared in public and private, both before and after the work was published, that it was not what is generally termed an autobiography: but a set of people who pretend to write criticisms on books, hating the author for various reasons,--amongst others, because, having the proper pride of a gentleman and a scholar, he did not, in the year '43, choose to permit himself to be exhibited and made a zany of in London, and especially because he will neither associate with, nor curry favour with, them who are neither gentlemen nor scholars,--attack his book with abuse and calumny. He is, perhaps, condescending too much when he takes any notice of such people; as, however, the English public is wonderfully led by cries and shouts, and generally ready to take part against any person who is either unwilling or unable to defend himself, he deems it advisable not to be altogether quiet with those who assail him. The best way to deal with vipers is to tear out their teeth; and the best way to deal with pseudo-critics is to deprive them of their poison-bag, which is easily done by exposing their ignorance. The writer knew perfectly well the description of people with whom he would have to do, he therefore very quietly prepared a stratagem, by means of which he could at any time exhibit them, powerless and helpless, in his hand. Critics, when they review books, ought to have a competent knowledge of the subjects which those books discuss. Lavengro is a philological book, a poem if you choose to call it so. Now, what a fine triumph it would have been for those who wished to vilify the book and its author, provided they could have detected the latter tripping in his philology--they might have instantly said that he was an ignorant pretender to philology--they laughed at the idea of his taking up a viper by its tail, a trick which hundreds of country urchins do every September, but they were silent about the really wonderful part of the book, the philological matter--they thought philology was his stronghold, and that it would be useless to attack him there; they of course would give him no credit as a philologist, for anything like fair treatment towards him was not to be expected at their hands, but they were afraid to attack his philology--yet that was the point, and the only point in which they might have attacked him successfully; he was vulnerable there. How was this? Why, in order to have an opportunity of holding up pseudo-critics by the tails, he wilfully spelt various foreign words wrong--Welsh words, and even Italian words--did they detect these misspellings? not one of them, even as he knew they would not, and he now taunts them with ignorance; and the power of taunting them with ignorance is the punishment which he designed for them--a power which they might but for their ignorance have used against him. The writer besides knowing something of Italian and Welsh, knows a little of Armenian language and literature; but who knowing anything of the Armenian language, unless he had an end in view, would say, that the word sea in Armenian is anything like the word tide in English? The word for sea in Armenian is dzow, a word connected with the Tebetian word for water, and the Chinese shuy, and the Turkish su, signifying the same thing; but where is the resemblance between dzow and tide? Again, the word for bread in ancient Armenian is hats; yet the Armenian on London Bridge is made to say zhats, which is not the nominative of the Armenian noun for bread, but the accusative: now, critics, ravening against a man because he is a gentleman and a scholar, and has not only the power but also the courage to write original works, why did you not discover that weak point? Why, because you were ignorant, so here ye are held up! Moreover, who with a name commencing with Z, ever wrote fables in Armenian? There are two writers of fables in Armenian--Varthan and Koscht, and illustrious writers they are, one in the simple, and the other in the ornate style of Armenian composition, but neither of their names begins with a Z. Oh, what a precious opportunity ye lost, ye ravening crew, of convicting the poor, half-starved, friendless boy of the book, of ignorance or misrepresentation, by asking who with a name beginning with Z ever wrote fables in Armenian; but ye couldn't help yourselves, ye are duncie. We duncie! Ay, duncie. So here ye are held up by the tails, blood and foam streaming from your jaws. The writer wishes to ask here, what do you think of all this, Messieurs les Critiques? Were ye ever served so before? But don't you richly deserve it? Haven't you been for years past bullying and insulting everybody whom you deemed weak, and currying favour with everybody whom you thought strong? "We approve of this. We disapprove of that. Oh, this will never do. These are fine lines!" The lines perhaps some horrid sycophantic rubbish addressed to Wellington, or Lord So-and-so. To have your ignorance thus exposed, to be shown up in this manner, and by whom? A gypsy! Ay, a gypsy was the very right person to do it. But is it not galling, after all? "Ah, but _we_ don't understand Armenian, it cannot be expected that _we_ should understand Armenian, or Welsh, or--Hey, what's this? The mighty _we_ not understand Armenian or Welsh, or--Then why does the mighty _we_ pretend to review a book like Lavengro? From the arrogance with which it continually delivers itself, one would think that the mighty _we_ is omniscient; that it understands every language; is versed in every literature; yet the mighty _we_ does not even know the word for bread in Armenian. It knows bread well enough by name in England, and frequently bread in England only by its name, but the truth is, that the mighty _we_, with all its pretension, is in general a very sorry creature, who, instead of saying nous disons, should rather say nous dis: Porny in his "Guerre des Dieux," very profanely makes the three in one say, Je faisons; now, Lavengro, who is anything but profane, would suggest that critics, especially magazine and Sunday newspaper critics, should commence with nous dis, as the first word would be significant of the conceit and assumption of the critic, and the second of the extent of the critic's information. The _we_ says its say, but when fawning sycophancy or vulgar abuse are taken from that say, what remains? Why a blank, a void like Ginnungagap. As the writer, of his own accord, has exposed some of the blemishes of his book--a task, which a competent critic ought to have done--he will now point out two or three of its merits, which any critic, not altogether blinded with ignorance might have done, or not replete with gall and envy would have been glad to do. The book has the merit of communicating a fact connected with physiology, which in all the pages of the multitude of books was never previously mentioned--the mysterious practice of touching objects to baffle the evil chance. The miserable detractor will, of course, instantly begin to rave about such a habit being common: well and good; but was it ever before described in print, or all connected with it dissected? He may then vociferate something about Johnson having touched:--the writer cares not whether Johnson, who, by the bye, during the last twenty or thirty years, owing to people having become ultra Tory mad from reading Scott's novels and the "Quarterly Review," has been a mighty favourite, especially with some who were in the habit of calling him a half crazy old fool--touched, or whether he did or not; but he asks where did Johnson ever describe the feelings which induced him to perform the magic touch, even supposing that he did perform it? Again, the history gives an account of a certain book called the "Sleeping Bard," the most remarkable prose work of the most difficult language but one, of modern Europe,--a book, for a notice of which, he believes, one might turn over in vain the pages of any review printed in England, or, indeed, elsewhere.--So here are two facts, one literary and the other physiological, for which any candid critic was bound to thank the author, even as in Romany Rye there is a fact connected with Iro Norman Myth, for the disclosing of which, any person who pretends to have a regard for literature is bound to thank him, namely, that the mysterious Finn or Fingal of "Ossian's Poems" is one and the same person as the Sigurd Fofnisbane of the Edda and the Wilkina, and the Siegfried Horn of the Lay of the Niebelungs. The writer might here conclude, and, he believes, most triumphantly; as, however, he is in the cue for writing, which he seldom is, he will for his own gratification, and for the sake of others, dropping metaphors about vipers and serpents, show up in particular two or three sets or cliques of people, who, he is happy to say, have been particularly virulent against him and his work, for nothing indeed could have given him greater mortification than their praise. In the first place, he wishes to dispose of certain individuals who call themselves men of wit and fashion--about town--who he is told have abused his book "vaustly"--their own word. These people paint their cheeks, wear white kid gloves, and dabble in literature, or what they conceive to be literature. For abuse from such people, the writer was prepared. Does any one imagine that the writer was not well aware, before he published his book, that, whenever he gave it to the world, he should be attacked by every literary coxcomb in England who had influence enough to procure the insertion of a scurrilous article in a magazine or newspaper! He has been in Spain, and has seen how invariably the mule attacks the horse; now why does the mule attack the horse? Why, because the latter carries about with him that which the envious hermaphrodite does not possess. They consider, forsooth, that his book is low--but he is not going to waste words about them--one or two of whom, he is told, have written very duncie books about Spain, and are highly enraged with him, because certain books which he wrote about Spain were not considered duncie. No, he is not going to waste words upon them, for verily he dislikes their company, and so he'll pass them by, and proceed to others. The Scotch Charlie o'er the water people have been very loud in the abuse of Lavengro--this again might be expected; the sarcasms of the Priest about the Charlie o'er the water nonsense of course stung them. Oh! it is one of the claims which Lavengro has to respect, that it is the first, if not the only work, in which that nonsense is, to a certain extent, exposed. Two or three of their remarks on passages of Lavengro, he will reproduce and laugh at. Of course your Charlie o'er the water people are genteel exceedingly, and cannot abide anything low. Gypsyism they think is particularly low, and the use of gypsy words in literature beneath its gentility; so they object to gypsy words being used in Lavengro where gypsies are introduced speaking--"What is Romany forsooth?" say they. Very good! And what is Scotch? has not the public been nauseated with Scotch for the last thirty years? "Ay, but Scotch is not"--the writer believes he knows much better than the Scotch what Scotch is and what it is not; he has told them before what it is, a very sorry jargon. He will now tell them what it is not--a sister or an immediate daughter of the Sanscrit, which Romany is. "Ay, but the Scotch are"--foxes, foxes, nothing else than foxes, even like the gypsies--the difference between the gypsy and Scotch fox being that the first is wild, with a mighty brush, the other a sneak with a gilt collar and without a tail. A Charlie o'er the water person attempts to be witty, because the writer has said that perhaps a certain old Edinburgh High-School porter, of the name of Boee, was perhaps of the same blood as a certain Bui, a Northern Kemp who distinguished himself at the battle of Horinger Bay. A pretty matter, forsooth, to excite the ridicule of a Scotchman! Why, is there a beggar or trumpery fellow in Scotland, who does not pretend to be somebody, or related to somebody? Is not every Scotchman descended from some king, kemp, or cow-stealer of old, by his own account at least? Why, the writer would even go so far as to bet a trifle that the poor creature, who ridicules Boee's supposed ancestry, has one of his own, at least as grand and as apocryphal as old Boee's of the High School. The same Charlie o'er the water person is mightily indignant that Lavengro should have spoken disrespectfully of William Wallace; Lavengro, when he speaks of that personage, being a child of about ten years old, and repeating merely what he had heard. All the Scotch, by the bye, for a great many years past, have been great admirers of William Wallace, particularly the Charlie o'er the water people, who in their nonsense- verses about Charlie generally contrive to bring in the name of William, Willie, or Wullie Wallace. The writer begs leave to say that he by no means wishes to bear hard against William Wallace, but he cannot help asking why, if William, Willie, or Wullie Wallace was such a particularly nice person, did his brother Scots betray him to a certain renowned southern warrior, called Edward Longshanks, who caused him to be hanged and cut into four in London, and his quarters to be placed over the gates of certain towns? They got gold, it is true, and titles, very nice things, no doubt; but, surely, the life of a patriot is better than all the gold and titles in the world--at least Lavengro thinks so--but Lavengro has lived more with gypsies than Scotchmen, and gypsies do not betray their brothers. It would be some time before a gypsy would hand over his brother to the harum-beck, even supposing you would not only make him a king, but a justice of the peace, and not only give him the world, but the best farm on the Holkham estate; but gypsies are wild foxes, and there is certainly a wonderful difference between the way of thinking of the wild fox who retains his brush, and that of the scurvy kennel creature who has lost his tail. Ah! but thousands of Scotch, and particularly the Charlie o'er the water people, will say, "We didn't sell Willie Wallace, it was our forbears who sold Willie Wallace--If Edward Longshanks had asked us to sell Wullie Wallace, we would soon have shown him that--" Lord better ye, ye poor trumpery set of creatures, ye would not have acted a bit better than your forefathers; remember how ye have ever treated the few amongst ye who, though born in the kennel, have shown something of the spirit of the wood. Many of ye are still alive who delivered over men, quite as honest and patriotic as William Wallace, into the hands of an English minister, to be chained and transported for merely venturing to speak and write in the cause of humanity, at the time when Europe was beginning to fling off the chains imposed by kings and priests. And it is not so very long since Burns, to whom ye are now building up obelisks rather higher than he deserves, was permitted by his countrymen to die in poverty and misery, because he would not join with them in songs of adulation to kings and the trumpery great. So say not that ye would have acted with respect to William Wallace one whit better than your fathers--and you in particular, ye children of Charlie, whom do ye write nonsense-verses about? A family of dastard despots, who did their best, during a century and more, to tread out the few sparks of independent feeling still glowing in Scotland--but enough has been said about ye. Amongst those who have been prodigal in abuse and defamation of Lavengro, have been your modern Radicals, and particularly a set of people who filled the country with noise against the King and Queen, Wellington, and the Tories, in '32. About these people the writer will presently have occasion to say a good deal, and also of real Radicals. As, however, it may be supposed that he is one of those who delight to play the sycophant to kings and queens, to curry favour with Tories, and to bepraise Wellington, he begs leave to state that such is not the case. About kings and queens he has nothing to say; about Tories, simply that he believes them to be a bad set; about Wellington, however, it will be necessary for him to say a good deal, of mixed import, as he will subsequently frequently have occasion to mention him in connection with what he has to say about pseudo-Radicals. CHAPTER X--Pseudo-Radicals. About Wellington, then, he says, that he believes him at the present day to be infinitely overrated. But there certainly was a time when he was shamefully underrated. Now what time was that? Why the time of pseudo- Radicalism, par excellence, from '20 to '32. Oh, the abuse that was heaped on Wellington by those who traded in Radical cant--your newspaper editors and review writers! and how he was sneered at then by your Whigs, and how faintly supported he was by your Tories, who were half ashamed of him; for your Tories, though capital fellows as followers, when you want nobody to back you, are the faintest creatures in the world when you cry in your agony, "Come and help me!" Oh, assuredly Wellington was infamously used at that time, especially by your traders in Radicalism, who howled at and hooted him; said he had every vice--was no general--was beaten at Waterloo--was a poltroon--moreover a poor illiterate creature, who could scarcely read or write; nay, a principal Radical paper said boldly he could not read, and devised an ingenious plan for teaching Wellington how to read. Now this was too bad; and the writer, being a lover of justice, frequently spoke up for Wellington, saying, that as for vice, he was not worse than his neighbours; that he was brave; that he won the fight at Waterloo, from a half-dead man, it is true, but that he did win it. Also, that he believed he had read "Rules for the Manual and Platoon Exercises" to some purpose; moreover, that he was sure he could write, for that he the writer had once written to Wellington, and had received an answer from him; nay, the writer once went so far as to strike a blow for Wellington; for the last time he used his fists was upon a Radical sub-editor, who was mobbing Wellington in the street, from behind a rank of grimy fellows; but though the writer spoke up for Wellington to a certain extent, when he was shamefully underrated, and once struck a blow for him when he was about being hustled, he is not going to join in the loathsome sycophantic nonsense which it has been the fashion to use with respect to Wellington these last twenty years. Now what have those years been to England! Why the years of ultra-gentility, everybody in England having gone gentility mad during the last twenty years, and no people more so than your pseudo-Radicals. Wellington was turned out, and your Whigs and Radicals got in, and then commenced the period of ultra-gentility in England. The Whigs and Radicals only hated Wellington as long as the patronage of the country was in his hands, none of which they were tolerably sure he would bestow on them; but no sooner did they get it into their own, than they forthwith became admirers of Wellington. And why? Because he was a duke, petted at Windsor and by foreign princes, and a very genteel personage. Formerly many of your Whigs and Radicals had scarcely a decent coat on their backs; but now the plunder of the country was at their disposal, and they had as good a chance of being genteel as any people. So they were willing to worship Wellington because he was very genteel, and could not keep the plunder of the country out of their hands. And Wellington has been worshipped, and prettily so, during the last fifteen or twenty years. He is now a noble fine-hearted creature; the greatest general the world ever produced; the bravest of men; and--and--mercy upon us! the greatest of military writers! Now the present writer will not join in such sycophancy. As he was not afraid to take the part of Wellington when he was scurvily used by all parties, and when it was dangerous to take his part, so he is not afraid to speak the naked truth about Wellington in these days, when it is dangerous to say anything about him but what is sycophantically laudatory. He said in '32, that as to vice, Wellington was not worse than his neighbours; but he is not going to say, in '54, that Wellington was a noble-hearted fellow; for he believes that a more cold-hearted individual never existed. His conduct to Warner, the poor Vaudois, and Marshal Ney, showed that. He said, in '32, that he was a good general and a brave man; but he is not going, in '54, to say that he was the best general, or the bravest man the world ever saw. England has produced a better general--France two or three--both countries many braver men. The son of the Norfolk clergyman was a brave man; Marshal Ney was a braver man. Oh, that battle of Copenhagen! Oh, that covering the retreat of the Grand Army! And though he said in '32 that he could write, he is not going to say in '54 that he is the best of all military writers. On the contrary, he does not hesitate to say that any Commentary of Julius Caesar, or any chapter in Justinus, more especially the one about the Parthians, is worth the ten volumes of Wellington's Despatches; though he has no doubt that, by saying so, he shall especially rouse the indignation of a certain newspaper, at present one of the most genteel journals imaginable--with a slight tendency to Liberalism, it is true, but perfectly genteel--which is nevertheless the very one which, in '32, swore bodily that Wellington could neither read nor write, and devised an ingenious plan for teaching him how to read. Now, after the above statement, no one will venture to say, if the writer should be disposed to bear hard upon Radicals, that he would be influenced by a desire to pay court to princes, or to curry favour with Tories, or from being a blind admirer of the Duke of Wellington; but the writer is not going to declaim against Radicals, that is, real Republicans, or their principles; upon the whole, he is something of an admirer of both. The writer has always had as much admiration for everything that is real and honest as he has had contempt for the opposite. Now real Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, a much finer thing than Toryism, a system of common robbery, which is nevertheless far better than Whiggism {7}--a compound of petty larceny, popular instruction, and receiving of stolen goods. Yes, real Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, and your real Radicals and Republicans are certainly very fine fellows, or rather were fine fellows, for the Lord only knows where to find them at the present day--the writer does not. If he did, he would at any time go five miles to invite one of them to dinner, even supposing that he had to go to a workhouse in order to find the person he wished to invite. Amongst the real Radicals of England, those who flourished from the year '16 to '20, there were certainly extraordinary characters, men partially insane, perhaps, but honest and brave--they did not make a market of the principles which they professed, and never intended to do so; they believed in them, and were willing to risk their lives in endeavouring to carry them out. The writer wishes to speak in particular of two of these men, both of whom perished on the scaffold--their names were Thistlewood and Ings. Thistlewood, the best known of them, was a brave soldier, and had served with distinction as an officer in the French service; he was one of the excellent swordsmen of Europe; had fought several duels in France, where it is no child's play to fight a duel; but had never unsheathed his sword for single combat, but in defence of the feeble and insulted--he was kind and open-hearted, but of too great simplicity; he had once ten thousand pounds left him, all of which he lent to a friend, who disappeared and never returned a penny. Ings was an uneducated man, of very low stature, but amazing strength and resolution; he was a kind husband and father, and though a humble butcher, the name he bore was one of the royal names of the heathen Anglo-Saxons. These two men, along with five others, were executed, and their heads hacked off, for levying war against George the Fourth; the whole seven dying in a manner which extorted cheers from the populace; the most of then uttering philosophical or patriotic sayings. Thistlewood, who was, perhaps, the most calm and collected of all, just before he was turned off, said, "We are now going to discover the great secret." Ings, the moment before he was choked, was singing "Scots wha ha' wi' Wallace bled." Now there was no humbug about those men, nor about many more of the same time and of the same principles. They might be deluded about Republicanism, as Algernon Sidney was, and as Brutus was, but they were as honest and brave as either Brutus or Sidney; and as willing to die for their principles. But the Radicals who succeeded them were beings of a very different description; they jobbed and traded in Republicanism, and either parted with it, or at the present day are eager to part with it for a consideration. In order to get the Whigs into power, and themselves places, they brought the country by their inflammatory language to the verge of a revolution, and were the cause that many perished on the scaffold; by their incendiary harangues and newspaper articles they caused the Bristol conflagration, for which six poor creatures were executed; they encouraged the mob to pillage, pull down and burn, and then rushing into garrets looked on. Thistlewood tells the mob the Tower is a second Bastile; let it be pulled down. A mob tries to pull down the Tower; but Thistlewood is at the head of that mob; he is not peeping from a garret on Tower Hill like Gulliver at Lisbon. Thistlewood and Ings say to twenty ragged individuals, Liverpool and Castlereagh are two satellites of despotism; it would be highly desirable to put them out of the way. And a certain number of ragged individuals are surprised in a stable in Cato Street, making preparations to put Castlereagh and Liverpool out of the way, and are fired upon with muskets by Grenadiers, and are hacked at with cutlasses by Bow Street runners; but the twain who encouraged those ragged individuals to meet in Cato Street are not far off, they are not on the other side of the river, in the Borough, for example, in some garret or obscure cellar. The very first to confront the Guards and runners are Thistlewood and Ings; Thistlewood whips his long thin rapier through Smithers' lungs, and Ings makes a dash at Fitzclarence with his butcher's knife. Oh, there was something in those fellows! honesty and courage--but can as much be said for the inciters of the troubles of '32? No; they egged on poor ignorant mechanics and rustics, and got them hanged for pulling down and burning, whilst the highest pitch to which their own daring ever mounted was to mob Wellington as he passed in the streets. Now, these people were humbugs, which Thistlewood and Ings were not. They raved and foamed against kings, queens, Wellington, the aristocracy, and what not, till they had got the Whigs into power, with whom they were in secret alliance, and with whom they afterwards openly joined in a system of robbery and corruption, more flagitious than the old Tory one, because there was more cant about it; for themselves they got consulships, commissionerships, and in some instances governments; for their sons clerkships in public offices; and there you may see those sons with the never-failing badge of the low scoundrel-puppy, the gilt chain at the waistcoat pocket; and there you may hear and see them using the languishing tones, and employing the airs and graces which wenches use and employ, who, without being in the family way, wish to make their keepers believe that they are in the family way. Assuredly great is the cleverness of your Radicals of '32, in providing for themselves and their families. Yet, clever as they are, there is one thing they cannot do--they get governments for themselves, commissionerships for their brothers, clerkships for their sons, but there is one thing beyond their craft--they cannot get husbands for their daughters, who, too ugly for marriage, and with their heads filled with the nonsense they have imbibed from gentility-novels, go over from Socinus to the Pope, becoming sisters in fusty convents, or having heard a few sermons in Mr. Platitude's "chapelle," seek for admission at the establishment of mother S---, who, after employing them for a time in various menial offices, and making them pluck off their eyebrows hair by hair, generally dismisses them on the plea of sluttishness; whereupon they return to their papas to eat the bread of the country, with the comfortable prospect of eating it still in the shape of a pension after their sires are dead. Papa (ex uno disce omnes) living as quietly as he can; not exactly enviably, it is true, being now and then seen to cast an uneasy and furtive glance behind, even as an animal is wont, who has lost by some mischance a very slight appendage; as quietly however as he can, and as dignifiedly, a great admirer of every genteel thing and genteel personage, the Duke in particular, whose "Despatches," bound in red morocco, you will find on his table. A disliker of coarse expressions, and extremes of every kind, with a perfect horror for revolutions and attempts to revolutionize, exclaiming now and then, as a shriek escapes from whipped and bleeding Hungary, a groan from gasping Poland, and a half-stifled curse from down- trodden but scowling Italy, "Confound the revolutionary canaille, why can't it be quiet!" in a word, putting one in mind of the parvenu in the "Walpurgis Nacht." The writer is no admirer of Gothe, but the idea of that parvenu was certainly a good one. Yes, putting one in mind of the individual who says-- "Wir waren wahrlich auch nicht dumm, Und thaten oft was wir nicht sollten; Doch jetzo kehrt sich alles um und um, Und eben da wir's fest erhalten wollten." We were no fools, as every one discern'd, And stopp'd at nought our projects in fulfilling; But now the world seems topsy-turvy turn'd, To keep it quiet just when we were willing. Now, this class of individuals entertain a mortal hatred for Lavengro and its writer, and never lose an opportunity of vituperating both. It is true that such hatred is by no means surprising. There is certainly a great deal of difference between Lavengro and their own sons; the one thinking of independence and philology, whilst he is clinking away at kettles, and hammering horse-shoes in dingles; the others stuck up at public offices with gilt chains at their waistcoat-pockets, and giving themselves the airs and graces of females of a certain description. And there certainly is a great deal of difference between the author of Lavengro and themselves--he retaining his principles and his brush; they with scarlet breeches on, it is true, but without their Republicanism, and their tails. Oh, the writer can well afford to be vituperated by your pseudo-Radicals of '32! Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but the matter is too rich not to require a chapter to itself. CHAPTER XI--The Old Radical. "This very dirty man, with his very dirty face, Would do any dirty act, which would get him a place." Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but before he relates the manner in which they set upon him, it will be as well to enter upon a few particulars tending to elucidate their reasons for so doing. The writer had just entered into his eighteenth year, when he met at the table of a certain Anglo-Germanist an individual, apparently somewhat under thirty, of middle stature, a thin and weaselly figure, a sallow complexion, a certain obliquity of vision, and a large pair of spectacles. This person, who had lately come from abroad, and had published a volume of translations, had attracted some slight notice in the literary world, and was looked upon as a kind of lion in a small provincial capital. After dinner he argued a great deal, spoke vehemently against the church, and uttered the most desperate Radicalism that was perhaps ever heard, saying, he hoped that in a short time there would not be a king or queen in Europe, and inveighing bitterly against the English aristocracy, and against the Duke of Wellington in particular, whom he said, if he himself was ever president of an English republic--an event which he seemed to think by no means improbable--he would hang for certain infamous acts of profligacy and bloodshed which he had perpetrated in Spain. Being informed that the writer was something of a philologist, to which character the individual in question laid great pretensions, he came and sat down by him, and talked about languages and literature. The writer, who was only a boy, was a little frightened at first, but, not wishing to appear a child of absolute ignorance, he summoned what little learning he had, and began to blunder out something about the Celtic languages and literature, and asked the Lion who he conceived Finn-Ma-Coul to be? and whether he did not consider the "Ode to the Fox," by Red Rhys of Eryry, to be a masterpiece of pleasantry? Receiving no answer to these questions from the Lion, who, singular enough, would frequently, when the writer put a question to him, look across the table, and flatly contradict some one who was talking to some other person, the writer dropped the Celtic languages and literature, and asked him whether he did not think it a funny thing that Temugin, generally called Genghis Khan, should have married the daughter of Prester John? {8} The Lion, after giving a side-glance at the writer through his left spectacle glass, seemed about to reply, but was unfortunately prevented, being seized with an irresistible impulse to contradict a respectable doctor of medicine, who was engaged in conversation with the master of the house at the upper and farther end of the table, the writer being a poor ignorant lad, sitting of course at the bottom. The doctor, who had served in the Peninsula, having observed that Ferdinand the Seventh was not quite so bad as had been represented, the Lion vociferated that he was ten times worse, and that he hoped to see him and the Duke of Wellington hanged together. The doctor, who, being a Welshman, was somewhat of a warm temper, growing rather red, said that at any rate he had been informed that Ferdinand the Seventh knew sometimes how to behave himself like a gentleman--this brought on a long dispute, which terminated rather abruptly. The Lion having observed that the doctor must not talk about Spanish matters with one who had visited every part of Spain, the doctor bowed, and said he was right, for that he believed no people in general possessed such accurate information about countries as those who had travelled them as bagmen. On the Lion asking the doctor what he meant, the Welshman, whose under jaw began to move violently, replied, that he meant what he said. Here the matter ended, for the Lion, turning from him, looked at the writer. The writer, imagining that his own conversation hitherto had been too trivial and common-place for the Lion to consider worth his while to take much notice of it, determined to assume a little higher ground, and after repeating a few verses of the Koran, and gabbling a little Arabic, asked the Lion what he considered to be the difference between the Hegira and the Christian era, adding, that he thought the general computation was in error by about one year; and being a particularly modest person, chiefly, he believes, owing to his having been at school in Ireland, absolutely blushed at finding that the Lion returned not a word in answer. "What a wonderful individual I am seated by," thought he, "to whom Arabic seems a vulgar speech, and a question about the Hegira not worthy of an answer!" not reflecting that as lions come from the Sahara, they have quite enough of Arabic at home, and that the question about the Hegira was rather mal a propos to one used to prey on the flesh of hadjis. "Now I only wish he would vouchsafe me a little of his learning," thought the boy to himself, and in this wish he was at last gratified; for the Lion, after asking him whether he was acquainted at all with the Sclavonian languages, and being informed that he was not, absolutely dumb-foundered him by a display of Sclavonian erudition. Years rolled by--the writer was a good deal about, sometimes in London, sometimes in the country, sometimes abroad; in London he occasionally met the man of the spectacles, who was always very civil to him, and, indeed, cultivated his acquaintance. The writer thought it rather odd that, after he himself had become acquainted with the Sclavonian languages and literature, the man of the spectacles talked little or nothing about them. In a little time, however, the matter ceased to cause him the slightest surprise, for he had discovered a key to the mystery. In the mean time the man of spectacles was busy enough; he speculated in commerce, failed, and paid his creditors twenty pennies in the pound; published translations, of which the public at length became heartily tired; having, indeed, got an inkling of the manner in which those translations were got up. He managed, however, to ride out many a storm, having one trusty sheet-anchor--Radicalism. This he turned to the best advantage--writing pamphlets and articles in reviews, all in the Radical interest, and for which he was paid out of the Radical fund; which articles and pamphlets, when Toryism seemed to reel on its last legs, exhibited a slight tendency to Whiggism. Nevertheless, his abhorrence of desertion of principle was so great in the time of the Duke of Wellington's administration, that when S--- left the Whigs and went over, he told the writer, who was about that time engaged with him in a literary undertaking, that the said S--- was a fellow with a character so infamous, that any honest man would rather that you spit in his face than insult his ears with the mention of the name of S---. The literary project having come to nothing,--in which, by the bye, the writer was to have all the labour, and his friend all the credit, provided any credit should accrue from it,--the writer did not see the latter for some years, during which time considerable political changes took place; the Tories were driven from, and the Whigs placed in, office, both events being brought about by the Radicals coalescing with the Whigs, over whom they possessed great influence for the services which they had rendered. When the writer next visited his friend, he found him very much altered; his opinions were by no means so exalted as they had been--he was not disposed even to be rancorous against the Duke of Wellington, saying that there were worse men than he, and giving him some credit as a general; a hankering after gentility seeming to pervade the whole family, father and sons, wife and daughters, all of whom talked about genteel diversions--gentility novels, and even seemed to look with favour on High Churchism, having in former years, to all appearance, been bigoted Dissenters. In a little time the writer went abroad; as, indeed, did his friend; not, however, like the writer, at his own expense, but at that of the country--the Whigs having given him a travelling appointment, which he held for some years, during which he received upwards of twelve thousand pounds of the money of the country, for services which will, perhaps, be found inscribed on certain tablets, when another Astolfo shall visit the moon. This appointment, however, he lost on the Tories resuming power--when the writer found him almost as Radical and patriotic as ever, just engaged in trying to get into Parliament, into which he got by the assistance of his Radical friends, who, in conjunction with the Whigs, were just getting up a crusade against the Tories, which they intended should be a conclusive one. A little time after the publication of "The Bible in Spain," the Tories being still in power, this individual, full of the most disinterested friendship for the author, was particularly anxious that he should be presented with an official situation, in a certain region a great many miles off. "You are the only person for that appointment," said he; "you understand a great deal about the country, and are better acquainted with the two languages spoken there than any one in England. Now I love my country, and have, moreover, a great regard for you, and as I am in Parliament, and have frequent opportunities of speaking to the Ministry, I shall take care to tell them how desirable it would be to secure your services. It is true they are Tories, but I think that even Tories would give up their habitual love of jobbery in a case like yours, and for once show themselves disposed to be honest men and gentlemen; indeed, I have no doubt they will, for having so deservedly an infamous character, they would be glad to get themselves a little credit, by a presentation which could not possibly be traced to jobbery or favouritism." The writer begged his friend to give himself no trouble about the matter, as he was not desirous of the appointment, being in tolerably easy circumstances, and willing to take some rest after a life of labour. All, however, that he could say was of no use, his friend indignantly observing, that the matter ought to be taken entirely out of his hands, and the appointment thrust upon him for the credit of the country. "But may not many people be far more worthy of the appointment than myself?" said the writer. "Where?" said the friendly Radical. "If you don't get it, it will be made a job of, given to the son of some steward, or, perhaps, to some quack who has done dirty work; I tell you what, I shall ask it for you, in spite of you; I shall, indeed!" and his eyes flashed with friendly and patriotic fervour through the large pair of spectacles which he wore. And, in fact, it would appear that the honest and friendly patriot put his threat into execution. "I have spoken," said he, "more than once to this and that individual in Parliament, and everybody seems to think that the appointment should be given to you. Nay, that you should be forced to accept it. I intend next to speak to Lord A---" And so he did, at least it would appear so. On the writer calling upon him one evening, about a week afterwards, in order to take leave of him, as the writer was about to take a long journey for the sake of his health, his friend no sooner saw him than he started up in a violent fit of agitation, and glancing about the room, in which there were several people, amongst others two Whig members of Parliament, said, "I am glad you are come, I was just speaking about you. This," said he, addressing the two members, "is so and so, the author of so and so, the well-known philologist; as I was telling you, I spoke to Lord A--- this day about him, and said that he ought forthwith to have the head appointment in--and what did the fellow say? Why, that there was no necessity for such an appointment at all, and if there were, why--and then he hummed and ha'd. Yes," said he, looking at the writer, "he did indeed. What a scandal! what an infamy! But I see how it will be, it will be a job. The place will be given to some son of a steward or to some quack, as I said before. Oh, these Tories! Well, if this does not make one--" Here he stopped short, crunched his teeth, and looked the image of desperation. Seeing the poor man in this distressed condition, the writer begged him to be comforted, and not to take the matter so much to heart; but the indignant Radical took the matter very much to heart, and refused all comfort whatever, bouncing about the room, and, whilst his spectacles flashed in the light of four spermaceti candles, exclaiming, "It will be a job--a Tory job! I see it all, I see it all, I see it all!" And a job it proved, and a very pretty job, but no Tory job. Shortly afterwards the Tories were out, and the Whigs were in. From that time the writer heard not a word about the injustice done to the country in not presenting him with the appointment to ---; the Radical, however, was busy enough to obtain the appointment, not for the writer, but for himself, and eventually succeeded, partly through Radical influence, and partly through that of a certain Whig lord, for whom the Radical had done, on a particular occasion, work of a particular kind. So, though the place was given to a quack, and the whole affair a very pretty job, it was one in which the Tories had certainly no hand. In the meanwhile, however, the friendly Radical did not drop the writer. Oh, no! On various occasions he obtained from the writer all the information about the country in question, and was particularly anxious to obtain from the writer, and eventually did obtain, a copy of a work written in the court language of that country, edited by the writer, a language exceedingly difficult, which the writer, at the expense of a considerable portion of his eyesight, had acquired, at least as far as by the eyesight it could be acquired. What use the writer's friend made of the knowledge he had gained from him, and what use he made of the book, the writer can only guess; but he has little doubt that when the question of sending a person to --- was mooted in a Parliamentary Committee--which it was at the instigation of the writer's friend--the Radical on being examined about the country, gave the information which he had obtained from the writer as his own, and flashed the book and its singular characters in the eyes of the Committee; and then of course his Radical friends would instantly say, "This is the man! there is no one like him. See what information he possesses; and see that book written by himself in the court language of Serendib. This is the only man to send there. What a glory, what a triumph it would be to Britain, to send out a man so deeply versed in the mysterious lore of--as our illustrious countryman; a person who with his knowledge could beat with their own weapons the wise men of-- Is such an opportunity to be lost? Oh, no! surely not; if it is, it will be an eternal disgrace to England, and the world will see that Whigs are no better than Tories." Let no one think the writer uncharitable in these suppositions. The writer is only too well acquainted with the antecedents of the individual, to entertain much doubt that he would shrink from any such conduct, provided he thought that his temporal interest would be forwarded by it. The writer is aware of more than one instance in which he has passed off the literature of friendless young men for his own, after making them a slight pecuniary compensation and deforming what was originally excellent by interpolations of his own. This was his especial practice with regard to translation, of which he would fain be esteemed the king. This Radical literato is slightly acquainted with four or five of the easier dialects of Europe, on the strength of which knowledge he would fain pass for a universal linguist, publishing translations of pieces originally written in various difficult languages; which translations, however, were either made by himself from literal renderings done for him into French or German, or had been made from the originals into English, by friendless young men, and then deformed by his alterations. Well, the Radical got the appointment, and the writer certainly did not grudge it him. He, of course, was aware that his friend had behaved in a very base manner towards him, but he bore him no ill-will, and invariably when he heard him spoken against, which was frequently the case, took his part when no other person would; indeed, he could well afford to bear him no ill-will. He had never sought for the appointment, nor wished for it, nor, indeed, ever believed himself to be qualified for it. He was conscious, it is true, that he was not altogether unacquainted with the language and literature of the country with which the appointment was connected. He was likewise aware that he was not altogether deficient in courage and in propriety of behaviour. He knew that his appearance was not particularly against him; his face not being like that of a convicted pickpocket, nor his gait resembling that of a fox who has lost his tail; yet he never believed himself adapted for the appointment, being aware that he had no aptitude for the doing of dirty work, if called to do it, nor pliancy which would enable him to submit to scurvy treatment, whether he did dirty work or not--requisites, at the time of which he is speaking, indispensable in every British official; requisites, by the bye, which his friend the Radical possessed in a high degree; but though he bore no ill-will towards his friend, his friend bore anything but good- will towards him; for from the moment that he had obtained the appointment for himself, his mind was filled with the most bitter malignity against the writer, and naturally enough; for no one ever yet behaved in a base manner towards another, without forthwith conceiving a mortal hatred against him. You wrong another, know yourself to have acted basely, and are enraged, not against yourself--for no one hates himself--but against the innocent cause of your baseness; reasoning very plausibly, "But for that fellow, I should never have been base; for had he not existed I could not have been so, at any rate against him;" and this hatred is all the more bitter, when you reflect that you have been needlessly base. Whilst the Tories are in power the writer's friend, of his own accord, raves against the Tories because they do not give the writer a certain appointment, and makes, or says he makes, desperate exertions to make them do so; but no sooner are the Tories out, with whom he has no influence, and the Whigs in, with whom he, or rather his party, has influence, than he gets the place for himself, though, according to his own expressed opinion--an opinion with which the writer does not, and never did, concur--the writer was the only person competent to hold it. Now had he, without saying a word to the writer, or about the writer with respect to the employment, got the place for himself when he had an opportunity, knowing, as he very well knew, himself to be utterly unqualified for it, the transaction, though a piece of jobbery, would not have merited the title of a base transaction; as the matter stands, however, who can avoid calling the whole affair not only a piece of--come, come, out with the word--scoundrelism on the part of the writer's friend, but a most curious piece of uncalled-for scoundrelism? and who, with any knowledge of fallen human nature, can wonder at the writer's friend entertaining towards him a considerable portion of gall and malignity? This feeling on the part of the writer's friend was wonderfully increased by the appearance of Lavengro, many passages of which the Radical in his foreign appointment applied to himself and family--one or two of his children having gone over to Popery, the rest become members of Mr. Platitude's chapel, and the minds of all being filled with ultra notions of gentility. The writer, hearing that his old friend had returned to England, to apply, he believes, for an increase of salary, and for a title, called upon him, unwillingly, it is true, for he had no wish to see a person for whom, though he bore him no ill-will, he could not avoid feeling a considerable portion of contempt; the truth is, that his sole object in calling was to endeavour to get back a piece of literary property which his friend had obtained from him many years previously, and which, though he had frequently applied for it, he never could get back. Well, the writer called; he did not get his property, which, indeed, he had scarcely time to press for, being almost instantly attacked by his good friend and his wife--yes, it was then that the author was set upon by an old Radical and his wife--the wife, who looked the very image of shame and malignity, did not say much, it is true, but encouraged her husband in all he said. Both of their own accord introduced the subject of Lavengro. The Radical called the writer a grumbler, just as if there had ever been a greater grumbler than himself until, by the means above described, he had obtained a place: he said that the book contained a melancholy view of human nature--just as if anybody could look in his face without having a melancholy view of human nature. On the writer quietly observing that the book contained an exposition of his principles, the pseudo-Radical replied, that he cared nothing for his principles--which was probably true, it not being likely that he would care for another person's principles after having shown so thorough a disregard for his own. The writer said that the book, of course, would give offence to humbugs; the Radical then demanded whether he thought him a humbug?--the wretched wife was the Radical's protection, even as he knew she would be; it was on her account that the writer did not kick his good friend; as it was, he looked at him in the face and thought to himself, "How is it possible I should think you a humbug, when only last night I was taking your part in a company in which everybody called you a humbug?" The Radical, probably observing something in the writer's eye which he did not like, became all on a sudden abjectly submissive, and, professing the highest admiration for the writer, begged him to visit him in his government; this the writer promised faithfully to do, and he takes the present opportunity of performing his promise. This is one of the pseudo-Radical calumniators of Lavengro and its author; were the writer on his deathbed he would lay his hand on his heart and say, that he does not believe that there is one trait of exaggeration in the portrait which he has drawn. This is one of the pseudo-Radical calumniators of Lavengro and its author; and this is one of the genus, who, after having railed against jobbery for perhaps a quarter of a century, at present batten on large official salaries which they do not earn. England is a great country, and her interests require that she should have many a well-paid official both at home and abroad; but will England long continue a great country if the care of her interests, both at home and abroad, is in many instances intrusted to beings like him described above, whose only recommendation for an official appointment was that he was deeply versed in the secrets of his party and of the Whigs? Before he concludes, the writer will take the liberty of saying of Lavengro that it is a book written for the express purpose of inculcating virtue, love of country, learning, manly pursuits, and genuine religion, for example, that of the Church of England, and for awakening a contempt for nonsense of every kind, and a hatred for priestcraft, more especially that of Rome. And in conclusion, with respect to many passages of his book in which he has expressed himself in terms neither measured nor mealy, he will beg leave to observe, in the words of a great poet, who lived a profligate life, it is true, but who died a sincere penitent--thanks, after God, to good Bishop Burnet-- "All this with indignation I have hurl'd At the pretending part of this proud world, Who, swollen with selfish vanity, devise False freedoms, formal cheats, and holy lies, Over their fellow fools to tyrannize." ROCHESTER. Footnotes {1} Tipperary. {2} An obscene oath. {3} See "Muses' Library," pp. 86, 87. London, 1738. {4} Genteel with them seems to be synonymous with Gentile and Gentoo; if so, the manner in which it has been applied for ages ceases to surprise, for genteel is heathenish. Ideas of barbaric pearl and gold, glittering armour, plumes, tortures, blood-shedding, and lust, should always be connected with it. Wace, in his grand Norman poem, calls the Baron genteel:-- "La furent li gentil Baron," etc. And he certainly could not have applied the word better than to the strong Norman thief, armed cap-a-pie, without one particle of truth or generosity; for a person to be a pink of gentility, that is heathenism, should have no such feelings; and, indeed, the admirers of gentility seldom or never associate any such feelings with it. It was from the Norman, the worst of all robbers and miscreants, who built strong castles, garrisoned them with devils, and tore out poor wretches' eyes, as the Saxon Chronicle says, that the English got their detestable word genteel. What could ever have made the English such admirers of gentility, it would be difficult to say; for, during three hundred years, they suffered enough by it. Their genteel Norman landlords were their scourgers, their torturers, the plunderers of their homes, the dishonourers of their wives, and the deflourers of their daughters. Perhaps, after all, fear is at the root of the English veneration for gentility. {5} Gentle and gentlemanly may be derived from the same root as genteel; but nothing can be more distinct from the mere genteel, than the ideas which enlightened minds associate with these words. Gentle and gentlemanly mean something kind and genial; genteel, that which is glittering or gaudy. A person can be a gentleman in rags, but nobody can be genteel. {6} The writer has been checked in print by the Scotch with being a Norfolk man. Surely, surely, these latter times have not been exactly the ones in which it was expedient for Scotchmen to check the children of any county in England with the place of their birth, more especially those who have had the honour of being born in Norfolk--times in which British fleets, commanded by Scotchmen, have returned laden with anything but laurels from foreign shores. It would have been well for Britain had she had the old Norfolk man to dispatch to the Baltic or the Black sea, lately, instead of Scotch admirals. {7} As the present work will come out in the midst of a vehement political contest, people may be led to suppose that the above was written expressly for the time. The writer therefore begs to state that it was written in the year 1854. He cannot help adding that he is neither Whig, Tory, nor Radical, and cares not a straw what party governs England, provided it is governed well. But he has no hopes of good government from the Whigs. It is true that amongst them there is one very great man, Lord Palmerston, who is indeed the sword and buckler, the chariots and the horses of the party; but it is impossible for his lordship to govern well with such colleagues as he has--colleagues which have been forced upon him by family influence, and who are continually pestering him into measures anything but conducive to the country's honour and interest. If Palmerston would govern well, he must get rid of them; but from that step, with all his courage and all his greatness, he will shrink. Yet how proper and easy a step it would be! He could easily get better, but scarcely worse, associates. They appear to have one object in view, and only one--jobbery. It was chiefly owing to a most flagitious piece of jobbery, which one of his lordship's principal colleagues sanctioned and promoted, that his lordship experienced his late parliamentary disasters. {8} A fact. 
21206	----	Transcribed from the 1900 Ward, Lock and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org THE ROMANY RYE: A SEQUEL TO "LAVENGRO." BY GEORGE BORROW, AUTHOR OF "THE BIBLE IN SPAIN," "THE GYPSIES OF SPAIN," ETC. _WITH SPECIAL INTRODUCTION BY_ THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON "Fear God, and take your own part." LONDON WARD, LOCK AND CO. LIMITED WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE {Horncastle horse fair in the olden days. (From an old Water colour.): p0.jpg} ADVERTISEMENT. It having been frequently stated in print that the book called "Lavengro" was got up expressly against the popish agitation, in the years 1850-51, the author takes this opportunity of saying that the principal part of that book was written in the year '43, that the whole of it was completed before the termination of the year '46, and that it was in the hands of the publisher in the year '48. And here he cannot forbear observing, that it was the duty of that publisher to have rebutted a statement which he knew to be a calumny; and also to have set the public right on another point dealt with in the Appendix to the present work, more especially as he was the proprietor of a review enjoying, however undeservedly, a certain sale and reputation. "But take your own part, boy! For if you don't, no one will take it for you." With respect to "Lavengro," the author feels that he has no reason to be ashamed of it. In writing that book he did his duty, by pointing out to his country people the nonsense which, to the greater part of them, is as the breath of their nostrils, and which, if indulged in, as it probably will be, to the same extent as hitherto, will, within a very few years, bring the land which he most loves beneath a foreign yoke: he does not here allude to the yoke of Rome. Instead of being ashamed, has he not rather cause to be proud of a book which has had the honour of being rancorously abused and execrated by the very people of whom the country has least reason to be proud? One day Cogia Efendy went to a bridal festival. The masters of the feast, observing his old and coarse apparel, paid him no consideration whatever. The Cogia saw that he had no chance of notice; so going out, he hurried to his house, and, putting on a splendid pelisse, returned to the place of festival. No sooner did he enter the door than the masters advanced to meet him, and saying, "Welcome, Cogia Efendy," with all imaginable honour and reverence, placed him at the head of the table, and said, "Please to eat, Lord Cogia." Forthwith the Cogia, taking hold of one of the furs of his pelisse, said, "Welcome, my pelisse; please to eat, my lord." The masters looking at the Cogia with great surprise, said, "What are you about?" Whereupon the Cogia replied, "As it is quite evident that all the honour paid is paid to my pelisse, I think it ought to have some food too."--PLEASANTRIES OF THE COGIA NASR EDDIN EFENDI. IN DEFENCE OF BORROW. When the publishers of "The Minerva Library" invited me to write a few introductory words to this edition of Borrow's "Romany Rye," I hesitated at first about undertaking the task. For, notwithstanding the kind reception that my "Notes upon George Borrow" prefixed to their edition of "Lavengro" met with from the public and the Press, I shrank from associating again my own name with the name of a friend who is now an English classic. But no sooner had I determined not to say any more about my relations with Borrow than circumstances arose that impelled me, as a matter of duty, to do so. Ever since the publication of Dr. Knapp's memoirs of Borrow attacks upon his memory have been appearing--attacks which only those who knew him can repel. His has indeed been a fantastic fate! When the shortcomings of any illustrious man save Borrow are under discussion, "_les defauts de ses qualites_" is the criticism--wise as charitable--which they evoke. Yes, each one is allowed to have his angularities save Borrow. Each one is allowed to show his own pet unpleasant facets of character now and then--allowed to show them as inevitable foils to the pleasant ones--save Borrow. _His_ weaknesses no one ever condones. During his lifetime his faults were for ever chafing and irritating his acquaintances, and now that he and they are all dead these faults of his seem to be chafing and irritating people of another generation. A fantastic fate, I say, for him who was so interesting to some of us! One writer assails him on account of his own ill-judged and unwarrantable attacks upon a far greater man than himself--Sir Walter Scott; another on account of his "no-popery" diatribes; another on account of his amusing anger over "Charley o'er the Waterism." When Mr. Murray's new and admirable edition of "The Romany Rye" came out this year, a review of the book appeared in the _Daily Chronicle_, in which vitality was given--given by one of the most genial as well as brilliant and picturesque writers of our time--to all the old misrepresentations of Borrow and also to a good many new ones. The fact that this review came from so distinguished a writer as Dr. Jessopp lends it an importance and a permanency that cannot be ignored. To me it gave a twofold pain to read that review, for it was written by a man for whom I have a very special regard. I cannot claim Dr. Jessopp as a personal friend, but I have once or twice met him; and, assuredly, to spend any time in his society without being greatly attracted by him is impossible. I must say that I consider it quite lamentable that he who can hardly himself have seen much if anything of Borrow should have breathed the anti-Borrovian atmosphere of Norwich--should have been brought into contact with people there and in Norfolk generally who did know Borrow and who disliked, because they did not understand, him. Lest it should be supposed that in writing with such warmth I am unduly biassed in favour of Borrow I print here a letter I received concerning that same review of Dr. Jessopp's. It is written by one who has with me enjoyed many a delightful walk with Borrow in Richmond Park--one who knew Borrow many years ago--long before I did--Dr. Gordon Hake's son--Mr. Thomas St. E. Hake, the author of "Within Sound of the Weir," and other successful novels, and a well-known writer in _Chambers's Journal_. CRAIGMORE, BULSTRODE ROAD, HOUNSLOW, W. _May_ 15, 1900. My Dear Watts-Dunton,--You will remember that when I congratulated you upon the success of your two gypsy books I prophesied that now there would be a boom of the gypsies: and I was right it seems. For you will see by the enclosed newspaper cutting that in Surrey a regular trade is going on in caravans for gypsy gentlemen. And "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye" are going, I see, into lots of new editions. I know how this must gratify you. But I write to ask you whether you have seen the extremely bitter attack upon Borrow's memory which has appeared in the _Daily Chronicle_. The writer is a man I must surely have heard you mention with esteem--Dr. Jessopp. It is a review of Murray's new edition of "The Romany Rye." In case you have not seen it I send you a cutting from it for you to judge for yourself. {0a} Was there ever anything so unjust as this? As to what he says about Borrow's being without animal passion, I fancy that the writer must have misread certain printed words of yours in which you say, "Supposing Borrow to have been physically drawn towards any woman, could she possibly have been a Romany? would she not rather have been of the Scandinavian type?" But I am quite sure that, when you said this, you did not intend to suggest that he was "the Narses of Literature." As to his dislike of children, I have heard you say how interested he used to seem in the presence of gypsy children, and I especially remember one anecdote of yours about the interest he took in a child that he thought was being injured by the mother's smoking. And did you not get that lovely anecdote about the gypsy child weeping in the churchyard because the poor dead gorgios could not hear the church chimes from something he told you? But I can speak from personal experience about his feeling towards children that were not gypsies. When our family lived at Bury St. Edmunds, in the fifties, my father, as you know, was one of Borrow's most intimate friends, and he was frequently at our house, and Borrow and my father were a good deal in correspondence (as Dr. Knapp's book shows) and my impression of Borrow is exactly the contrary of that which it would be if he in the least resembled Dr. Jessopp's description of him. At that time George was in the nursery and I was a child. He took a wonderfully kind interest in us all; * * * * * * * * but the one he took most notice of was George, chiefly because he was a very big, massive child. It was then that he playfully christened him "Hales," because he said that the child would develop into a second "Norfolk giant." You will remember that he always addressed George by that pet name. But what do you think of Dr. Jessopp's saying that Borrow's voice was not that of a man? You yourself have spoken in some of your writings--I don't exactly remember where and when--of the "trumpet- like clearness" of Borrow's voice. As to his being beardless and therefore the "Narses of Literature" it is difficult to imagine that a man of intelligence, as I suppose Dr. Jessopp is, can really think virility depends upon the growth of a man's whiskers, as no doubt ignorant people often do. I should have thought that a man who knew Norfolk well would know that it is notable for its beardless giants of great power. I really think that, as Borrow's most intimate friend in his latest years (I mean after my father left Roehampton for Germany), it is your duty to write something and stand up for the dear old boy, and you are the one man now who can defend him and do him justice. I assure you that the last time that I ever saw him his talk was a good deal about yourself. I remember the occasion very well; it was just outside the Bank of England, when he was returning from one of those mysterious East-end expeditions that you wot of: he was just partially recovering from that sad accident which you have somewhere alluded to. As to Dr. Jessopp, it is clear from his remarks upon a friend of Borrow's--the Rev. Mr. John Gunn, of Norwich, that he never saw Borrow. Gunn, he says, was of colossal frame and must have been in his youth quite an inch taller than Borrow. And then he goes on to say that Gunn's arm was as big as an ordinary man's thigh. Now you and I and George, are specially competent to speak of Borrow's physical development, for we have been with Borrow when at seventy years of age he would bathe in a pond covered with thin ice. He then stood six feet four and his muscles were as fully developed as those of a young man in training. If Gunn was a more colossal man than Borrow he certainly ought to have been put into a show. But you should read the entire article, and I wish I had preserved it. Yours ever affectionately, THOMAS ST. E. HAKE. I consider this an interesting document to all Borrovians. There are only two things in it which I have to challenge. I infer that Mr. Hake shares the common mistake of supposing Borrow to have been an East Anglian. Not that this is surprising, seeing that Borrow himself shared the same mistake--a mistake upon which I have on a previous occasion remarked. I have said elsewhere that one might as well call Charlotte Bronte a Yorkshire woman as call Borrow an East Anglian. He was, of course, no more an East Anglian than an Irishman born in London is an Englishman. He had at bottom no East Anglian characteristics, and this explains the Norfolk prejudice against him. He inherited nothing from Norfolk save his accent--unless it were that love of "leg of mutton and turnips" which Mr. Hake and I have so often seen exemplified. The reason why Borrow was so misjudged in Norfolk was, as I have hinted above, that the racial characteristics of the Celt and the East Anglian clashed too severely. Yet he is a striking illustration of the way in which the locality that has given birth to a man influences his imagination throughout his life. His father, a Cornishman of a good middle-class family, had been obliged, owing to a youthful escapade, to leave his native place and enlist as a common soldier. Afterwards he became a recruiting officer, and moved about from one part of Great Britain and Ireland to another. It so chanced that while staying at East Dereham, in Norfolk, he met and fell in love with a lady of French extraction. Not one drop of East Anglian blood was in the veins of Borrow's father, and very little in the veins of his mother. Borrow's ancestry was pure Cornish on one side, and on the other mainly French. But such was the egotism of Borrow--perhaps I should have said, such is the egotism of human nature--that the fact of his having been born in East Anglia made him look upon that part of the world as the very hub of the universe. East Anglia, however, seems to have cherished a very different feeling towards Borrow. Another mistake of Mr. Hake's is in supposing that Borrow gave me the lovely incident of the gypsy child weeping in the churchyard because "the poor dead gorgios could not hear the church bells." As this mistake has been shared by others, and has appeared in print, I may as well say that it was a real incident in the life of a well-known Romany chi, from whom I have this very morning received a charming letter dated from "the van in the field," where she has settled for the winter. The anecdote about Borrow and the gypsy child who was, or seemed to be, suffering through the mother's excessive love of her pipe can very appropriately be introduced here, and I am glad that Mr. Hake has recalled it to my mind. It shows not only Borrow's relations to childhood, but also his susceptibility to those charms of womankind to which Dr. Jessopp thinks he was impervious. Borrow was fond of telling this story himself, in support of his anti-tobacco bias. Whenever he was told, as he sometimes was, that what brought on the "horrors" when he lived alone in the dingle, was the want of tobacco, this story was certain to come up. One lovely morning in the late summer, just before the trees were clothed with what is called "gypsy gold," and the bright green of the foliage showed scarcely a touch of bronze--at that very moment, indeed, when the spirits of all the wild flowers that have left the common and the hedgerow seem to come back for an hour and mingle their half-forgotten perfumes with the new breath of calamint, ground-ivy, and pimpernel, he and a friend were walking towards a certain camp of gryengroes well known to them both. They were bound upon a quaint expedition. Will the reader "be surprised to learn" that it was connected with Matthew Arnold and a race in which he took a good deal of interest, the gypsies? Borrow, whose attention had been only lately directed by his friend to "The Scholar Gypsy," had declared that there was scarcely any latter-day poetry worth reading, and also that whatever the merits of Matthew Arnold's poem might be from any supposed artistic point of view, it showed that Arnold had no conception of the Romany temper, and that no gypsy who ever lived could sympathise with it, or even understand its motive in the least degree. Borrow's friend had challenged this, contending that howsoever Arnold's classic language might soar above a gypsy's intelligence, the motive was so clearly developed that the most illiterate person could grasp it. This was why in company with Borrow he was now going (with a copy of Arnold's poems in his pocket) to try "The Scholar Gypsy" upon the first intelligent gypsy woman they should meet at the camp: as to gypsy men, "they were," said Borrow, "too prosaic to furnish a fair test." As they were walking along, Borrow's eyes, which were as long-sighted as a gypsy's, perceived a white speck in a twisted old hawthorn bush some distance off. He stopped and said: "At first I thought that white speck in the bush was a piece of paper, but it's a magpie," next to the water- wagtail the gypsies' most famous bird. On going up to the bush they discovered a magpie crouched among the leaves. As it did not stir at their approach, Borrow's friend said to him: "It is wounded--or else dying--or is it a tame bird escaped from a cage?" "Hawk!" said Borrow, laconically, and turned up his face and gazed into the sky. "The magpie is waiting till the hawk has caught his quarry and made his meal. I fancy he has himself been 'chivvied' by the hawk, as the gypsies would say." And there, sure enough, beneath one of the silver clouds that specked the dazzling blue a hawk--one of the kind which takes its prey in the open rather than in the thick woodlands--was wheeling up and up, and trying its best to get above a poor little lark in order to stoop at and devour it. That the magpie had seen the hawk and had been a witness of the opening of the tragedy of the lark was evident, for in its dread of the common foe of all well-intentioned and honest birds, it had forgotten its fear of all creatures except the hawk. Man it looked upon as a protecting friend. As Borrow and his friend were gazing at the bird a woman's voice at their elbows said-- "It's lucky to chivvy the hawk what chivvies a magpie. I shall stop here till the hawk's flew away." They turned round, and there stood a magnificent gypsy woman, carrying, gypsy fashion, a weakly child that, in spite of its sallow and wasted cheek, proclaimed itself to be hers. By her side stood a young gypsy girl of about seventeen years of age. She was beautiful--quite remarkably so--but her beauty was not of the typical Romany kind. It was, perhaps, more like the beauty of a Capri girl. She was bareheaded--there was not even a gypsy handkerchief on her head--her hair was not plaited, and was not smooth and glossy like a gypsy girl's hair, but flowed thick and heavy and rippling down the back of her neck and upon her shoulders. In the tumbled tresses glittered certain objects, which at first sight seemed to be jewels. They were small dead dragon-flies of the crimson kind called "sylphs." To Borrow and his friend these gypsies were well known. The woman with the child was one of the Boswells: I dare not say what was her connection, if any, with "Boswell the Great"--I mean Sylvester Boswell, the grammarian and "well-known and popalated gipsy of Codling Gap," who, on a memorable occasion, wrote so eloquently about the superiority of the gypsy mode of life to all others "on the accont of health, sweetness of air, and for enjoying the pleasure of Nature's life." But this I do remember--that it was the very same Perpinia Boswell whose remarkable Christian name has lately been made the subject of inquiry in _The Guardian_. The other gypsy, the girl of the dragon-flies, I prefer to leave nameless here. After greeting the two, Borrow looked at the weakling child with the deepest interest, and said, "This chavo ought not to look like that--with such a mother as you, Perpinia." "And with such a daddy, too," said she. "Mike's stronger for a man nor even I am for a woman"--a glow of wifely pride passing over her face; "and as to good looks, it's him as is got the good looks, not me. But none on us can't make it out about the chavo. He's so weak and sick he don't look as if he belonged to Boswells' breed at all." "How many pipes of tobacco do you smoke in a day?" said Borrow's friend, looking at the great black cutty pipe protruding from Perpinia's finely cut lips, and seeming strangely out of place there. "Can't say," said she, laughing. "About as many as she can afford to buy," interrupted her companion--"that's all. Mike don't like her a-smokin'. He says it makes her look like a old Londra Irish woman in Common Garding Market." "You must not smoke another pipe," said Borrow's friend to the mother--"not another pipe till the child leaves the breast." "What?" said Perpinia defiantly. "As if I could live without my pipe!" "Fancy Pep a-livin' without her baccy," laughed the girl of the dragon- flies. "Your child can't live with it," said Borrow's friend to Perpinia. "That pipe of yours is full of a poison called nicotine." "Nick what?" said the girl, laughing. "That's a new kind o' Nick. Why, you smoke yourself!" "Nicotine," said Borrow's friend; "and the first part of Pep's body that the poison gets into is her breast, and--" "Gets into my burk?" said Perpinia; "get along wi' ye." "Yes." "Do it pison Pep's milk?" said the girl. "Yes." "That ain't true," said Perpinia; "can't be true." "It _is_ true," said Borrow's friend. "If you don't give up that pipe for a time the child will die, or else be a rickety thing all his life. If you _do_ give it up, it will grow up to be as fine a Romany chal as Mike himself." "Chavo agin pipe, Pep," said the girl. "Lend me your pipe, Perpinia," said Borrow, in that hail-fellow-well-met tone of his which he reserved for the Romanies--a tone which no Romany could ever resist. And he took it gently from the woman's lips. "Don't smoke any more till I come to the camp and see the chavo again." The woman looked very angry at first. "He be's a good friend to the Romanies," said the girl in an appeasing tone. "That's true," said the woman, "but he's no business to take my pipe out o' my mouth for all that." She soon began to smile again, however, and let Borrow retain the pipe. Borrow and his friend then moved away towards the dusty high-road leading to the camp, and were joined by the young girl. Perpinia remained, keeping guard over the magpie that was to bring luck to the sinking child. It was determined now that the young girl was the very person to be used as the test-critic of the Romany mind upon Arnold's poem, for she was exceptionally intelligent. So instead of going to the camp the oddly assorted little party of three struck across the ferns, gorse, and heather towards "Kingfisher brook," and when they reached it they sat down on a fallen tree. Nothing delights a gypsy girl so much as to listen to a story either told or read to her, and when Borrow's friend pulled his book from his pocket the gypsy girl began to clap her hands. Her anticipation of enjoyment sent over her face a warm glow, and I can assure Dr. Jessopp that Borrow (notwithstanding that his admiration of women was confined as a rule to blondes of the Isopel Berners type) seemed as much struck by her beauty as ever the Doctor could be himself. To say the truth, he frequently talked of it afterwards. Her complexion, though darker than an English girl's, was rather lighter than any ordinary gypsy's. Her eyes were of an indescribable hue, but an artist who has since then painted her portrait for Borrow's friend described it as a mingling of pansy-purple and dark tawny. The pupils were so large that, being set in the somewhat almond-shaped and long-eyelashed lids of her race, they were partly curtained both above and below, and this had the peculiar effect of making the eyes seem always a little contracted and just about to smile. The great size and deep richness of the eyes made the straight little nose seem smaller than it really was, they also lessened the apparent size of the mouth, which, red as a rosebud, looked quite small until she laughed when the white teeth made quite a wide glitter. "The beauty of that girl," murmured Borrow, "is really quite--quite--" I don't know what the sentence would have been had it been finished. Before three lines of the poem had been read she jumped up and cried, "Look at the Devil's needles. They're come to sew my eyes up for killing their brothers." And surely enough a gigantic dragon-fly, whose body-armour of sky-blue and jet black, and great lace-woven wings, shining like a rainbow gauze, caught the sun as he swept dazzling by, did really seem to be attracted either by the wings of his dead brothers or by the lights shed from the girl's eyes. "I dussn't set here," said she. "Us Romanies call this 'Dragon-fly brook.' And that's the king o' the dragon-flies: he lives here." As she rose she seemed to be surrounded by dragon-flies of about a dozen different species of all sizes, some crimson, some bronze, some green and gold, whirling and dancing round her as if they meant to justify their Romany name and sew up the girl's eyes. "The Romanies call them the Devil's needles," said Borrow; "their business is to sew up pretty girl's eyes." In a second, however, they all vanished, and the girl after a while sat down again to listen to the "lil," as she called the story. Glanville's prose story, upon which Arnold's poem is based, was read first. In this the girl was much interested. She herself was in love with a Romany Rye. But when the reader went on to read to her Arnold's poem, though her eyes flashed now and then at the lovely bits of description--for the country about Oxford is quite remarkably like the country in which she was born--she looked sadly bewildered, and then asked to have it all read again. After a second reading she said in a meditative way, "Can't make out what the lil's all about--seems all about nothink! Seems to me that the pretty sights what makes a Romany fit to jump out o' her skin for joy makes this 'ere gorgio want to cry. What a rum lot gorgios is sure_ly_!" And then she sprang up and ran off towards the camp with the agility of a greyhound, turning round every few moments, pirouetting and laughing aloud. "The beauty of that girl," Borrow again murmured, "is quite--quite--" Again he did not finish his sentence, but after a while said-- "That was all true about the nicotine?" "Partly, I think," said his friend, "but not being a medical man I must not be too emphatic. If it _is_ true it ought to be a criminal offence for any woman to smoke in excess while she is suckling a child." "Say it ought to be a criminal offence for a woman to smoke at all," growled Borrow. "Fancy kissing a woman's mouth that smelt of stale tobacco--pheugh!" Now, so far from forgetting this incident, Borrow took quite as much interest in the case as though the child had been his own. He went at short intervals to the camp to see Perpinia, who had abandoned her pipe, for the time being. And when after a fortnight the child, either from Perpinia's temporary abstention from nicotine, or through the "good luck" sent by the magpie, or from some other cause began to recover from its illness, he reported progress with the greatest gusto to his friend. "Is not Perpinia very grateful to you and to me?" said the friend. "Yes," said Borrow, with a twinkle in his eye. "She manages to feel grateful to you and me for making her give up the pipe, and also to believe at the same time that her child was saved by the good luck that came to her because she guarded the magpie." If it were needful to furnish other instances of Borrow's interest in children, and also of his susceptibility to feminine charms, I could easily furnish them. As to the "rancorous hatred that smouldered in that sad heart of his," in spite of all his oddities, all his "cantankerousness," to use one of his own words, he was a singularly steadfast and loyal friend. Indeed, it was the very steadfastness of his friendship that drove him to perpetrate that outrage at Mr. Bevan's house, recorded in Dr. Gordon Hake's "Memoirs." I need only recall the way in which he used to speak of those who had been kind to him (such as his publisher, Mr. John Murray for instance) to show that no one could be more loyal or more grateful than he who has been depicted as the incarnation of all that is spiteful, fussy, and mean. There is no need for the world to be told here that the author of "Lavengro" is a delightful writer, and one who is more sure than most authors of his time to win that little span of life which writing men call "immortality." But if there is need for the world to be told further that George Borrow was a good man, that he was a most winsome and a most charming companion, that he was an English gentleman, straightforward, honest, and brave as the very best exemplars of that fine old type, the world is now told so--told so by two of the few living men who can speak of him with authority, the writer of the above letter and myself. THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON. CHAPTER I. THE MAKING OF THE LINCH-PIN--THE SOUND SLEEPER--BREAKFAST--THE POSTILLION'S DEPARTURE. I awoke at the first break of day, and, leaving the postillion fast asleep, stepped out of the tent. The dingle was dank and dripping. I lighted a fire of coals, and got my forge in readiness. I then ascended to the field, where the chaise was standing as we had left it on the previous evening. After looking at the cloud-stone near it, now cold, and split into three pieces, I set about prying narrowly into the condition of the wheel and axle-tree--the latter had sustained no damage of any consequence, and the wheel, as far as I was able to judge, was sound, being only slightly injured in the box. The only thing requisite to set the chaise in a travelling condition appeared to be a linch-pin, which I determined to make. Going to the companion wheel, I took out the linch-pin, which I carried down with me to the dingle, to serve me as a model. I found Belle by this time dressed, and seated near the forge: with a slight nod to her like that which a person gives who happens to see an acquaintance when his mind is occupied with important business, I forthwith set about my work. Selecting a piece of iron which I thought would serve my purpose, I placed it in the fire, and plying the bellows in a furious manner, soon made it hot; then seizing it with the tongs, I laid it on my anvil, and began to beat it with my hammer, according to the rules of my art. The dingle resounded with my strokes. Belle sat still, and occasionally smiled, but suddenly started up and retreated towards her encampment, on a spark which I purposely sent in her direction alighting on her knee. I found the making of a linch-pin no easy matter; it was, however, less difficult than the fabrication of a pony-shoe; my work, indeed, was much facilitated by my having another pin to look at. In about three-quarters of an hour I had succeeded tolerably well, and had produced a linch-pin which I thought would serve. During all this time, notwithstanding the noise which I was making, the postillion never showed his face. His non-appearance at first alarmed me: I was afraid he might be dead, but, on looking into the tent, I found him still buried in the soundest sleep. "He must surely be descended from one of the seven sleepers," said I, as I turned away and resumed my work. My work finished, I took a little oil, leather, and sand, and polished the pin as well as I could; then, summoning Belle, we both went to the chaise, where, with her assistance, I put on the wheel. The linch- pin which I had made fitted its place very well, and having replaced the other, I gazed at the chaise for some time with my heart full of that satisfaction which results from the consciousness of having achieved a great action; then, after looking at Belle in the hope of obtaining a compliment from her lips, which did not come, I returned to the dingle, without saying a word, followed by her. Belle set about making preparations for breakfast; and I, taking the kettle, went and filled it at the spring. Having hung it over the fire, I went to the tent in which the postillion was still sleeping, and called upon him to arise. He awoke with a start, and stared around him at first with the utmost surprise, not unmixed, I could observe, with a certain degree of fear. At last, looking in my face, he appeared to recollect himself. "I had quite forgot," said he, as he got up, "where I was, and all that happened yesterday. However, I remember now the whole affair, thunder-storm, thunder-bolt, frightened horses, and all your kindness. Come, I must see after my coach and horses; I hope we shall be able to repair the damage." "The damage is already quite repaired," said I, "as you will see, if you come to the field above." "You don't say so," said the postillion, coming out of the tent; "well, I am mightily beholden to you. Good morning, young gentlewoman," said he, addressing Belle, who, having finished her preparations, was seated near the fire. "Good morning, young man," said Belle: "I suppose you would be glad of some breakfast; however, you must wait a little, the kettle does not boil." "Come and look at your chaise," said I; "but tell me how it happened that the noise which I have been making did not awake you; for three-quarters of an hour at least I was hammering close at your ear." "I heard you all the time," said the postillion, "but your hammering made me sleep all the sounder; I am used to hear hammering in my morning sleep. There's a forge close by the room where I sleep when I'm at home, at my inn; for we have all kinds of conveniences at my inn--forge, carpenter's shop, and wheelwright's,--so that when I heard you hammering, I thought, no doubt, that it was the old noise, and that I was comfortable in my bed at my own inn." We now ascended to the field, where I showed the postillion his chaise. He looked at the pin attentively, rubbed his hands, and gave a loud laugh. "Is it not well done?" said I. "It will do till I get home," he replied. "And that is all you have to say?" I demanded. "And that's a good deal," said he, "considering who made it." "But don't be offended," he added, "I shall prize it all the more for its being made by a gentleman, and no blacksmith; and so will my governor, when I show it to him. I shan't let it remain where it is, but will keep it as a remembrance of you, as long as I live." He then again rubbed his hands with great glee, and said, "I will now go and see after my horses, and then to breakfast, partner, if you please." Suddenly, however, looking at his hands, he said, "Before sitting down to breakfast, I am in the habit of washing my hands and face: I suppose you could not furnish me with a little soap and water." "As much water as you please," said I, "but if you want soap, I must go and trouble the young gentlewoman for some." "By no means," said the postillion, "water will do at a pinch." "Follow me," said I; and leading him to the pond of the frogs and newts, I said, "This is my ewer; you are welcome to part of it--the water is so soft that it is scarcely necessary to add soap to it;" then lying down on the bank, I plunged my head into the water, then scrubbed my hands and face, and afterwards wiped them with some long grass which grew on the margin of the pond. "Bravo," said the postillion, "I see you know how to make a shift;" he then followed my example, declared he never felt more refreshed in his life, and, giving a bound, said "he would go and look after his horses." We then went to look after the horses, which we found not much the worse for having spent the night in the open air. My companion again inserted their heads in the corn-bags, and, leaving the animals to discuss their corn, returned with me to the dingle, where we found the kettle boiling. We sat down, and Belle made tea and did the honours of the meal. The postillion was in high spirits, ate heartily, and, to Belle's evident satisfaction, declared that he had never drank better tea in his life, or indeed any half so good. Breakfast over, he said that he must now go and harness his horses, as it was high time for him to return to his inn. Belle gave him her hand and wished him farewell: the postillion shook her hand warmly, and was advancing close up to her--for what purpose I cannot say--whereupon Belle, withdrawing her hand, drew herself up with an air which caused the postillion to retreat a step or two with an exceedingly sheepish look. Recovering himself, however, he made a low bow, and proceeded up the path. I attended him, and helped to harness his horses and put them to the vehicle; he then shook me by the hand, and taking the reins and whip mounted to his seat; ere he drove away he thus addressed me: "If ever I forget your kindness and that of the young woman below, dash my buttons. If ever either of you should enter my inn you may depend upon a warm welcome, the best that can be set before you, and no expense to either, for I will give both of you the best of characters to the governor, who is the very best fellow upon all the road. As for your linch-pin, I trust it will serve till I get home, when I will take it out and keep it in remembrance of you all the days of my life:" then giving the horses a jerk with his reins, he cracked his whip and drove off. I returned to the dingle, Belle had removed the breakfast things, and was busy in her own encampment: nothing occurred, worthy of being related, for two hours, at the end of which time Belle departed on a short expedition, and I again found myself alone in the dingle. CHAPTER II. THE MAN IN BLACK--THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY--NEPOTISM--DONNA OLYMPIA--OMNIPOTENCE--CAMILLO ASTALLI--THE FIVE PROPOSITIONS. In the evening I received another visit from the man in black. I had been taking a stroll in the neighbourhood, and was sitting in the dingle in rather a listless manner, scarcely knowing how to employ myself; his coming, therefore, was by no means disagreeable to me. I produced the hollands and glass from my tent, where Isopel Berners had requested me to deposit them, and also some lump sugar, then taking the gotch I fetched water from the spring, and, sitting down, begged the man in black to help himself; he was not slow in complying with my desire, and prepared for himself a glass of Hollands and water with a lump of sugar in it. After he had taken two or three sips with evident satisfaction, I, remembering his chuckling exclamation of "Go to Rome for money," when he last left the dingle, took the liberty, after a little conversation, of reminding him of it, whereupon, with a he! he! he! he replied, "Your idea was not quite so original as I supposed. After leaving you the other night I remembered having read of an emperor of Germany who conceived the idea of applying to Rome for money, and actually put it into practice. "Urban the Eighth then occupied the papal chair, of the family of the Barbarini, nicknamed the Mosche, or Flies, from the circumstance of bees being their armorial bearing. The Emperor having exhausted all his money in endeavouring to defend the church against Gustavus Adolphus, the great King of Sweden, who was bent on its destruction, applied in his necessity to the Pope for a loan of money. The Pope, however, and his relations, whose cellars were at that time full of the money of the church, which they had been plundering for years, refused to lend him a scudo; whereupon a pasquinade picture was stuck up at Rome, representing the church lying on a bed, gashed with dreadful wounds, and beset all over with flies, which were sucking her, whilst the Emperor of Germany was kneeling before her with a miserable face, requesting a little money towards carrying on the war against the heretics, to which the poor church was made to say: 'How can I assist you, O my champion, do you not see that the flies have sucked me to the very bones?' Which story," said he, "shows that the idea of going to Rome for money was not quite so original as I imagined the other night, though utterly preposterous. "This affair," said he, "occurred in what were called the days of nepotism. Certain popes, who wished to make themselves in some degree independent of the cardinals, surrounded themselves with their nephews, and the rest of their family, who sucked the church and Christendom as much as they could, none doing so more effectually than the relations of Urban the Eighth, at whose death, according to the book called the 'Nipotismo di Roma,' there were in the Barbarini family two hundred and twenty-seven governments, abbeys, and high dignities; and so much hard cash in their possession that threescore and ten mules were scarcely sufficient to convey the plunder of one of them to Palestrina." He added, however, that it was probable that Christendom fared better whilst the popes were thus independent, as it was less sucked, whereas before and after that period, it was sucked by hundreds instead of tens, by the cardinals and all their relations, instead of by the pope and his nephews only. Then, after drinking rather copiously of his hollands, he said that it was certainly no bad idea of the popes to surround themselves with nephews, on whom they bestowed great church dignities, as by so doing they were tolerably safe from poison, whereas a pope, if abandoned to the cardinals, might at any time be made away with by them, provided they thought that he lived too long, or that he seemed disposed to do anything which they disliked; adding, that Ganganelli would never have been poisoned provided he had had nephews about him to take care of his life, and to see that nothing unholy was put into his food, or a bustling stirring brother's wife like Donna Olympia. He then with a he! he! he! asked me if I had ever read the book called the "Nipotismo di Roma;" and on my replying in the negative, he told me that it was a very curious and entertaining book, which he occasionally looked at in an idle hour, and proceeded to relate to me anecdotes out of the "Nipotismo di Roma" about the successor of Urban, Innocent the Tenth, and Donna Olympia, showing how fond he was of her, and how she cooked his food, and kept the cardinals away from it, and how she and her creatures plundered Christendom, with the sanction of the Pope, until Christendom, becoming enraged, insisted that he should put her away, which he did for a time, putting a nephew--one Camillo Astalli--in her place, in which, however, he did not continue long; for the Pope conceiving a pique against him, banished him from his sight, and recalled Donna Olympia, who took care of his food, and plundered Christendom until Pope Innocent died. I said that I only wondered that between pope and cardinals the whole system of Rome had not long fallen to the ground, and was told in reply, that its not having fallen was the strongest proof of its vital power, and the absolute necessity for the existence of the system. That the system, notwithstanding its occasional disorders, went on. Popes and cardinals might prey upon its bowels, and sell its interests, but the system survived. The cutting off of this or that member was not able to cause Rome any vital loss; for, as soon as she lost a member, the loss was supplied by her own inherent vitality; though her popes had been poisoned by cardinals, and her cardinals by popes; and though priests occasionally poisoned popes, cardinals, and each other, after all that had been, and might be, she had still, and would ever have, her priests, cardinals, and pope. Finding the man in black so communicative and reasonable, I determined to make the best of my opportunity, and learn from him all I could with respect to the papal system, and told him that he would particularly oblige me by telling me who the Pope of Rome was; and received for answer, that he was an old man elected by a majority of cardinals to the papal chair; who, immediately after his election, became omnipotent and equal to God on earth. On my begging him not to talk such nonsense, and asking him how a person could be omnipotent who could not always preserve himself from poison, even when fenced round by nephews, or protected by a bustling woman, he, after taking a long sip of hollands and water, told me that I must not expect too much from omnipotence; for example, that as it would be unreasonable to expect that One above could annihilate the past--for instance, the Seven Years' War, or the French Revolution--though any one who believed in Him would acknowledge Him to be omnipotent, so would it be unreasonable for the faithful to expect that the Pope could always guard himself from poison. Then, after looking at me for a moment steadfastly, and taking another sip, he told me that popes had frequently done impossibilities; for example, Innocent the Tenth had created a nephew: for, not liking particularly any of his real nephews, he had created the said Camillo Astalli his nephew; asking me, with a he! he! "What but omnipotence could make a young man nephew to a person to whom he was not in the slightest degree related?" On my observing that of course no one believed that the young fellow was really the pope's nephew, though the pope might have adopted him as such, the man in black replied, "that the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli had hitherto never become a point of faith; let, however, the present pope, or any other pope, proclaim that it is necessary to believe in the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli, and see whether the faithful would not believe in it. Who can doubt that," he added, "seeing that they believe in the reality of the five propositions of Jansenius? The Jesuits, wishing to ruin the Jansenists, induced a pope to declare that such and such damnable opinions, which they called five propositions, were to be found in a book written by Jansen, though in reality no such propositions were to be found there; whereupon the existence of these propositions became forthwith a point of faith to the faithful. Do you then think," he demanded, "that there is one of the faithful who would not swallow, if called upon, the nephewship of Camillo Astalli as easily as the five propositions of Jansenius?" "Surely, then," said I, "the faithful must be a pretty pack of simpletons!" Whereupon the man in black exclaimed, "What! a Protestant, and an infringer of the rights of faith! Here's a fellow, who would feel himself insulted if any one were to ask him how he could believe in the miraculous conception, calling people simpletons who swallow the five propositions of Jansenius, and are disposed, if called upon, to swallow the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli." I was about to speak, when I was interrupted by the arrival of Belle. After unharnessing her donkey, and adjusting her person a little, she came and sat down by us. In the meantime I had helped my companion to some more hollands and water, and had plunged with him into yet deeper discourse. CHAPTER III. NECESSITY OF RELIGION--THE GREAT INDIAN ONE--IMAGE-WORSHIP--SHAKESPEAR--THE PAT ANSWER--KRISHNA--AMEN. Having told the man in black that I should like to know all the truth with regard to the Pope and his system, he assured me he should be delighted to give me all the information in his power; that he had come to the dingle, not so much for the sake of the good cheer which I was in the habit of giving him, as in the hope of inducing me to enlist under the banners of Rome, and to fight in her cause; and that he had no doubt that, by speaking out frankly to me, he ran the best chance of winning me over. He then proceeded to tell me that the experience of countless ages had proved the necessity of religion; the necessity, he would admit, was only for simpletons; but as nine-tenths of the dwellers upon this earth were simpletons, it would never do for sensible people to run counter to their folly, but, on the contrary, it was their wisest course to encourage them in it, always provided that, by so doing, sensible people could derive advantage; that the truly sensible people of this world were the priests, who, without caring a straw for religion for its own sake, made use of it as a cord by which to draw the simpletons after them; that there were many religions in this world, all of which had been turned to excellent account by the priesthood; but that the one the best adapted for the purposes of priestcraft was the popish, which, he said, was the oldest in the world and the best calculated to endure. On my inquiring what he meant by saying the popish religion was the oldest in the world, whereas there could be no doubt that the Greek and Roman religion had existed long before it, to say nothing of the old Indian religion still in existence and vigour; he said, with a nod, after taking a sip at his glass, that, between me and him, the popish religion, that of Greece and Rome, and the old Indian system were, in reality, one and the same. "You told me that you intended to be frank," said I; "but, however frank you may be, I think you are rather wild." "We priests of Rome," said the man in black, "even those amongst us who do not go much abroad, know a great deal about church matters, of which you heretics have very little idea. Those of our brethren of the Propaganda, on their return home from distant missions, not unfrequently tell us very strange things relating to our dear mother; for example, our first missionaries to the East were not slow in discovering and telling to their brethren that our religion and the great Indian one were identical, no more difference between them than between Ram and Rome. Priests, convents, beads, prayers, processions, fastings, penances, all the same, not forgetting anchorites and vermin, he! he! The pope they found under the title of the grand lama, a sucking child surrounded by an immense number of priests. Our good brethren, some two hundred years ago, had a hearty laugh, which their successors have often re-echoed; they said that helpless suckling and its priests put them so much in mind of their own old man, surrounded by his cardinals, he! he! Old age is second childhood." "Did they find Christ?" said I. "They found him too," said the man in black, "that is, they saw his image; he is considered in India as a pure kind of being, and on that account, perhaps, is kept there rather in the background, even as he is here." "All this is very mysterious to me," said I. "Very likely," said the man in black; "but of this I am tolerably sure, and so are most of those of Rome, that modern Rome had its religion from ancient Rome, which had its religion from the East." "But how?" I demanded. "It was brought about, I believe, by the wanderings of nations," said the man in black. "A brother of the Propaganda, a very learned man, once told me--I do not mean Mezzofanti, who has not five ideas--this brother once told me that all we of the Old World, from Calcutta to Dublin, are of the same stock, and were originally of the same language, and--" "All of one religion," I put in. "All of one religion," said the man in black; "and now follow different modifications of the same religion." "We Christians are not image-worshippers," said I. "You heretics are not, you mean," said the man in black; "but you will be put down, just as you have always been, though others may rise up after you; the true religion is image-worship; people may strive against it, but they will only work themselves to an oil; how did it fare with that Greek Emperor, the Iconoclast, what was his name, Leon the Isaurian? Did not his image-breaking cost him Italy, the fairest province of his empire, and did not ten fresh images start up at home for every one which he demolished? Oh! you little know the craving which the soul sometimes feels after a good bodily image." "I have indeed no conception of it," said I; "I have an abhorrence of idolatry--the idea of bowing before a graven figure." "The idea, indeed," said Belle, who had now joined us. "Did you never bow before that of Shakespear?" said the man in black, addressing himself to me, after a low bow to Belle. "I don't remember that I ever did," said I, "but even suppose I did?" "Suppose you did," said the man in black; "shame on you, Mr. Hater of Idolatry; why, the very supposition brings you to the ground; you must make figures of Shakespear, must you? then why not of St. Antonio, or Ignacio, or of a greater personage still? I know what you are going to say," he cried, interrupting me as I was about to speak. "You don't make his image in order to pay it divine honours, but only to look at it, and think of Shakespear; but this looking at a thing in order to think of a person is the very basis of idolatry. Shakespear's works are not sufficient for you; no more are the Bible or the legend of Saint Anthony or Saint Ignacio for us that is for those of us, who believe in them; I tell you, Zingaro, that no religion can exist long which rejects a good bodily image." "Do you think," said I, "that Shakespear's works would not exist without his image?" "I believe," said the man in black, "that Shakespear's image is looked at more than his works, and will be looked at, and perhaps adored, when they are forgotten. I am surprised that they have not been forgotten long ago; I am no admirer of them." "But I can't imagine," said I, "how you will put aside the authority of Moses. If Moses strove against image-worship, should not his doing so be conclusive as to the impropriety of the practice; what higher authority can you have than that of Moses?" "The practice of the great majority of the human race," said the man in black, "and the recurrence to image-worship, where image-worship has been abolished. Do you know that Moses is considered by the church as no better than a heretic, and though, for particular reasons, it has been obliged to adopt his writings, the adoption was merely a sham one, as it never paid the slightest attention to them? No, no, the church was never led by Moses, nor by one mightier than he, whose doctrine it has equally nullified--I allude to Krishna in his second avatar; the church, it is true, governs in his name, but not unfrequently gives him the lie, if he happens to have said anything which it dislikes. Did you never hear the reply which Padre Paolo Segani made to the French Protestant Jean Anthoine Guerin, who had asked him whether it was easier for Christ to have been mistaken in his Gospel, than for the Pope to be mistaken in his decrees?" "I never heard their names before," said I. "The answer was pat," said the man in black, "though he who made it was confessedly the most ignorant fellow of the very ignorant order to which he belonged, the Augustine. 'Christ might err as a man,' said he, 'but the Pope can never err, being God.' The whole story is related in the Nipotismo." "I wonder you should ever have troubled yourselves with Christ at all," said I. "What was to be done?" said the man in black; "the power of that name suddenly came over Europe, like the power of a mighty wind; it was said to have come from Judaea, and from Judaea it probably came when it first began to agitate minds in these parts; but it seems to have been known in the remote East, more or less, for thousands of years previously. It filled people's minds with madness; it was followed by books which were never much regarded, as they contained little of insanity; but the name! what fury that breathed into people! the books were about peace and gentleness, but the name was the most horrible of war-cries--those who wished to uphold old names at first strove to oppose it, but their efforts were feeble, and they had no good war-cry; what was Mars as a war- cry compared with the name of . . .? It was said that they persecuted terribly, but who said so? The Christians. The Christians could have given them a lesson in the art of persecution, and eventually did so. None but Christians have ever been good persecutors; well, the old religion succumbed, Christianity prevailed, for the ferocious is sure to prevail over the gentle." "I thought," said I, "you stated a little time ago that the Popish religion and the ancient Roman are the same?" "In every point but that name, that Krishna and the fury and love of persecution which it inspired," said the man in black. "A hot blast came from the East, sounding Krishna; it absolutely maddened people's minds, and the people would call themselves his children; we will not belong to Jupiter any longer, we will belong to Krishna; and they did belong to Krishna, that is in name, but in nothing else; for who ever cared for Krishna in the Christian world, or who ever regarded the words attributed to Him, or put them in practice?" "Why, we Protestants regard his words, and endeavour to practise what they enjoin as much as possible." "But you reject his image," said the man in black; "better reject his words than his image: no religion can exist long which rejects a good bodily image. Why, the very negro barbarians of High Barbary could give you a lesson on that point; they have their fetish images, to which they look for help in their afflictions; they have likewise a high priest, whom they call . . ." "Mumbo Jumbo," said I; "I know all about him already." "How came you to know anything about him?" said the man in black, with a look of some surprise. "Some of us poor Protestant tinkers," said I, "though we live in dingles, are also acquainted with a thing or two." "I really believe you are," said the man in black, staring at me; "but, in connection with this Mumbo Jumbo, I could relate to you a comical story about a fellow, an English servant, I once met at Rome." "It would be quite unnecessary," said I; "I would much sooner hear you talk about Krishna, his words and image." "Spoken like a true heretic," said the man in black; "one of the faithful would have placed his image before his words; for what are all the words in the world compared with a good bodily image?" "I believe you occasionally quote his words?" said I. "He! he!" said the man in black; "occasionally." "For example," said I, "upon this rock I will found my church." "He! he!" said the man in black; "you must really become one of us." "Yet you must have had some difficulty in getting the rock to Rome?" "None whatever," said the man in black; "faith can remove mountains, to say nothing of rocks--ho! ho!" "But I cannot imagine," said I, "what advantage you could derive from perverting those words of Scripture in which the Saviour talks about eating his body." "I do not know, indeed, why we troubled our heads about the matter at all," said the man in black; "but when you talk about perverting the meaning of the text, you speak ignorantly, Mr. Tinker; when he whom you call the Saviour gave his followers the sop, and bade them eat it, telling them it was his body, he delicately alluded to what it was incumbent upon them to do after his death, namely, to eat his body." "You do not mean to say that he intended they should actually eat his body?" "Then you suppose ignorantly," said the man in black; "eating the bodies of the dead was a heathenish custom, practised by the heirs and legatees of people who left property; and this custom is alluded to in the text." "But what has the New Testament to do with heathen customs," said I, "except to destroy them?" "More than you suppose," said the man in black. "We priests of Rome, who have long lived at Rome, know much better what the New Testament is made of than the heretics and their theologians, not forgetting their Tinkers; though I confess some of the latter have occasionally surprised us--for example, Bunyan. The New Testament is crowded with allusions to heathen customs, and with words connected with pagan sorcery. Now, with respect to words, I would fain have you, who pretend to be a philologist, tell me the meaning of Amen?" I made no answer. "We, of Rome," said the man in black, "know two or three things of which the heretics are quite ignorant; for example, there are those amongst us--those, too, who do not pretend to be philologists--who know what amen is, and, moreover, how we got it. We got it from our ancestors, the priests of ancient Rome; and they got the word from their ancestors of the East, the priests of Buddh and Brahma." "And what is the meaning of the word?" I demanded. "Amen," said the man in black, "is a modification of the old Hindoo formula, Omani batsikhom, by the almost ceaseless repetition of which the Indians hope to be received finally to the rest or state of forgetfulness of Buddh or Brahma; a foolish practice you will say, but are you heretics much wiser, who are continually sticking amen to the end of your prayers little knowing when you do so, that you are consigning yourselves to the repose of Buddh? Oh, what hearty laughs our missionaries have had when comparing the eternally sounding Eastern gibberish of Omani batsikhom, Omani batsikhom, and the Ave Maria and Amen Jesus of our own idiotical devotees." "I have nothing to say about the Ave Marias and Amens of your superstitious devotees," said I; "I dare say that they use them nonsensically enough, but in putting Amen to the end of a prayer, we merely intend to express, 'So let it be.'" "It means nothing of the kind," said the man in black; "and the Hindoos might just as well put your national oath at the end of their prayers, as perhaps they will after a great many thousand years, when English is forgotten, and only a few words of it remembered by dim tradition without being understood. How strange if, after the lapse of four thousand years, the Hindoos should damn themselves to the blindness so dear to their present masters, even as their masters at present consign themselves to the forgetfulness so dear to the Hindoos; but my glass has been empty for a considerable time; perhaps Bellissima Biondina," said he, addressing Belle, "you will deign to replenish it?" "I shall do no such thing," said Belle; "you have drank quite enough, and talked more than enough, and to tell you the truth I wish you would leave us alone." "Shame on you, Belle," said I, "consider the obligations of hospitality." "I am sick of that word," said Belle, "you are so frequently misusing it; were this place not Mumpers' Dingle, and consequently as free to the fellow as ourselves, I would lead him out of it." "Pray be quiet, Belle," said I. "You had better help yourself," said I, addressing myself to the man in black, "the lady is angry with you." "I am sorry for it," said the man in black; "if she is angry with me, I am not so with her, and shall always be proud to wait upon her; in the meantime I will wait upon myself." CHAPTER IV. THE PROPOSAL--THE SCOTCH NOVEL--LATITUDE--MIRACLES--PESTILENT HERETICS--OLD FRASER--WONDERFUL TEXTS--NO ARMENIAN. The man in black having helped himself to some more of his favourite beverage, and tasted it, I thus addressed him: "The evening is getting rather advanced, and I can see that this lady," pointing to Belle, "is anxious for her tea, which she prefers to take cosily and comfortably with me in the dingle. The place, it is true, is as free to you as to ourselves, nevertheless, as we are located here by necessity, whilst you merely come as a visitor, I must take the liberty of telling you that we shall be glad to be alone, as soon as you have said what you have to say, and have finished the glass of refreshment at present in your hand. I think you said some time ago that one of your motives for coming hither was to induce me to enlist under the banner of Rome. I wish to know whether that was really the case?" "Decidedly so," said the man in black; "I come here principally in the hope of enlisting you in our regiment, in which I have no doubt you could do us excellent service." "Would you enlist my companion as well?" I demanded. "We should be only too proud to have her among us, whether she comes with you or alone," said the man in black, with a polite bow to Belle. "Before we give you an answer," I replied, "I would fain know more about you; perhaps you will declare your name?" "That I will never do," said the man in black; "no one in England knows it but myself, and I will not declare it, even in a dingle; as for the rest, _Sono un Prete Cattolico Appostolico_--that is all that many a one of us can say for himself, and it assuredly means a great deal." "We will now proceed to business," said I. "You must be aware that we English are generally considered a self-interested people." "And with considerable justice," said the man in black, drinking. "Well, you are a person of acute perception, and I will presently make it evident to you that it would be to your interest to join with us. You are at present, evidently, in very needy circumstances, and are lost, not only to yourself, but the world; but should you enlist with us, I could find you an occupation not only agreeable, but one in which your talents would have free scope. I would introduce you in the various grand houses here in England, to which I have myself admission, as a surprising young gentleman of infinite learning, who by dint of study has discovered that the Roman is the only true faith. I tell you confidently that our popish females would make a saint, nay, a God of you; they are fools enough for anything. There is one person in particular with whom I should wish to make you acquainted, in the hope that you would be able to help me to perform good service to the holy see. He is a gouty old fellow, of some learning, residing in an old hall, near the great western seaport, and is one of the very few amongst the English Catholics possessing a grain of sense. I think you could help us to govern him, for he is not unfrequently disposed to be restive, asks us strange questions--occasionally threatens us with his crutch; and behaves so that we are often afraid that we shall lose him, or, rather, his property, which he has bequeathed to us, and which is enormous. I am sure that you could help us to deal with him; sometimes with your humour, sometimes with your learning, and perhaps occasionally with your fists." "And in what manner would you provide for my companion?" said I. "We would place her at once," said the man in black, "in the house of two highly respectable Catholic ladies in this neighbourhood, where she would be treated with every care and consideration till her conversion should be accomplished in a regular manner; we would then remove her to a female monastic establishment, where, after undergoing a year's probation, during which time she would be instructed in every elegant accomplishment, she should take the veil. Her advancement would speedily follow, for, with such a face and figure, she would make a capital lady abbess, especially in Italy, to which country she would probably be sent; ladies of her hair and complexion--to say nothing of her height--being a curiosity in the south. With a little care and management she could soon obtain a vast reputation for sanctity; and who knows but after her death she might become a glorified saint--he! he! Sister Maria Theresa, for that is the name I propose you should bear. Holy Mother Maria Theresa--glorified and celestial saint, I have the honour of drinking to your health," and the man in black drank. "Well, Belle," said I, "what have you to say to the gentleman's proposal?" "That if he goes on in this way I will break his glass against his mouth." "You have heard the lady's answer," said I. "I have," said the man in black, "and shall not press the matter. I can't help, however, repeating that she would make a capital lady abbess; she would keep the nuns in order, I warrant her; no easy matter! Break the glass against my mouth--he! he! How she would send the holy utensils flying at the nuns' heads occasionally, and just the person to wring the nose of Satan should he venture to appear one night in her cell in the shape of a handsome black man. No offence, madam, no offence, pray retain your seat," said he, observing that Belle had started up; "I mean no offence. Well, if you will not consent to be an abbess, perhaps you will consent to follow this young Zingaro, and to co-operate with him and us. I am a priest, madam, and can join you both in an instant, _connubio stabili_, as I suppose the knot has not been tied already." "Hold your mumping gibberish," said Belle, "and leave the dingle this moment, for though 'tis free to every one, you have no right to insult me in it." "Pray be pacified," said I to Belle, getting up, and placing myself between her and the man in black, "he will presently leave, take my word for it--there, sit down again," said I, as I led her to her seat; then, resuming my own, I said to the man in black: "I advise you to leave the dingle as soon as possible." "I should wish to have your answer to my proposal first," said he. "Well, then, here you shall have it: I will not entertain your proposal; I detest your schemes: they are both wicked and foolish." "Wicked," said the man in black, "have they not--he! he!--the furtherance of religion in view?" "A religion," said I, "in which you yourself do not believe, and which you contemn." "Whether I believe in it or not," said the man in black, "it is adapted for the generality of the human race; so I will forward it, and advise you to do the same. It was nearly extirpated in these regions, but it is springing up again, owing to circumstances. Radicalism is a good friend to us; all the liberals laud up our system out of hatred to the Established Church, though our system is ten times less liberal than the Church of England. Some of them have really come over to us. I myself confess a baronet who presided over the first radical meeting ever held in England--he was an atheist when he came over to us, in the hope of mortifying his own church--but he is now--ho! ho!--a real Catholic devotee--quite afraid of my threats; I make him frequently scourge himself before me. Well, Radicalism does us good service, especially amongst the lower classes, for Radicalism chiefly flourishes amongst them; for though a baronet or two may be found amongst the radicals, and perhaps as many lords--fellows who have been discarded by their own order for clownishness, or something they have done--it incontestably flourishes best among the lower orders. Then the love of what is foreign is a great friend to us; this love is chiefly confined to the middle and upper classes. Some admire the French, and imitate them; others must needs be Spaniards, dress themselves up in a zamarra, stick a cigar in their mouths, and say, 'Carajo.' Others would pass for Germans; he! he! the idea of any one wishing to pass for a German! but what has done us more service than anything else in these regions--I mean amidst the middle classes--has been the novel, the Scotch novel. The good folks, since they have read the novels, have become Jacobites; and, because all the Jacobs were Papists, the good folks must become Papists also, or, at least, papistically inclined. The very Scotch Presbyterians, since they have read the novels, are become all but Papists; I speak advisedly, having lately been amongst them. There's a trumpery bit of a half papist sect, called the Scotch Episcopalian Church, which lay dormant and nearly forgotten for upwards of a hundred years, which has of late got wonderfully into fashion in Scotland, because, forsooth, some of the long- haired gentry of the novels were said to belong to it, such as Montrose and Dundee; and to this the Presbyterians are going over in throngs, traducing and vilifying their own forefathers, or denying them altogether, and calling themselves descendants of--ho! ho! ho!--Scottish Cavaliers!!! I have heard them myself repeating snatches of Jacobite ditties about 'Bonnie Dundee,' and-- "'Come, fill up my cup, and fill up my can, And saddle my horse, and call up my man.' There's stuff for you! Not that I object to the first part of the ditty. It is natural enough that a Scotchman should cry, 'Come, fill up my cup!' more especially if he's drinking at another person's expense--all Scotchmen being fond of liquor at free cost: but 'Saddle his horse!!!'--for what purpose I would ask? Where is the use of saddling a horse, unless you can ride him? and where was there ever a Scotchman who could ride?" "Of course you have not a drop of Scotch blood in your veins," said I, "otherwise you would never have uttered that last sentence." "Don't be too sure of that," said the man in black; "you know little of Popery if you imagine that it cannot extinguish love of country, even in a Scotchman. A thorough-going Papist--and who more thorough-going than myself--cares nothing for his country; and why should he? he belongs to a system, and not to a country." "One thing," said I, "connected with you, I cannot understand; you call yourself a thorough-going Papist, yet are continually saying the most pungent things against Popery, and turning to unbounded ridicule those who show any inclination to embrace it." "Rome is a very sensible old body," said the man in black, "and little cares what her children say, provided they do her bidding. She knows several things, and amongst others, that no servants work so hard and faithfully as those who curse their masters at every stroke they do. She was not fool enough to be angry with the Miquelets of Alba, who renounced her, and called her 'puta' all the time they were cutting the throats of the Netherlanders. Now, if she allowed her faithful soldiers the latitude of renouncing her, and calling her 'puta' in the market-place, think not she is so unreasonable as to object to her faithful priests occasionally calling her 'puta' in the dingle." "But," said I, "suppose some one were to tell the world some of the disorderly things which her priests say in the dingle." "He would have the fate of Cassandra," said the man in black; "no one would believe him--yes, the priests would: but they would make no sign of belief. They believe in the Alcoran des Cordeliers--that is, those who have read it; but they make no sign." "A pretty system," said I, "which extinguishes love of country and of everything noble, and brings the minds of its ministers to a parity with those of devils, who delight in nothing but mischief." "The system," said the man in black, "is a grand one, with unbounded vitality. Compare it with your Protestantism, and you will see the difference. Popery is ever at work, whilst Protestantism is supine. A pretty church, indeed, the Protestant! Why, it can't even work a miracle." "Can your church work miracles?" I demanded. "That was the very question," said the man in black, "which the ancient British clergy asked of Austin Monk, after they had been fools enough to acknowledge their own inability. 'We don't pretend to work miracles; do you?' 'Oh! dear me, yes,' said Austin; 'we find no difficulty in the matter. We can raise the dead, we can make the blind see; and to convince you, I will give sight to the blind. Here is this blind Saxon, whom you cannot cure, but on whose eyes I will manifest my power, in order to show the difference between the true and the false church;' and forthwith, with the assistance of a handkerchief and a little hot water, he opened the eyes of the barbarian. So we manage matters! A pretty church, that old British church, which could not work miracles--quite as helpless as the modern one. The fools! was birdlime so scarce a thing amongst them?--and were the properties of warm water so unknown to them, that they could not close a pair of eyes and open them?" "It's a pity," said I, "that the British clergy at that interview with Austin, did not bring forward a blind Welshman, and ask the monk to operate upon him." "Clearly," said the man in black; "that's what they ought to have done; but they were fools without a single resource." Here he took a sip at his glass. "But they did not believe in the miracle?" said I. "And what did their not believing avail them?" said the man in black. "Austin remained master of the field, and they went away holding their heads down, and muttering to themselves. What a fine subject for a painting would be Austin's opening the eyes of the Saxon barbarian, and the discomfiture of the British clergy! I wonder it has not been painted!--he! he!" "I suppose your church still performs miracles occasionally?" said I. "It does," said the man in black. "The Rev. . . . has lately been performing miracles in Ireland, destroying devils that had got possession of people; he has been eminently successful. In two instances he not only destroyed the devils, but the lives of the people possessed--he! he! Oh! there is so much energy in our system; we are always at work, whilst Protestantism is supine." "You must not imagine," said I, "that all Protestants are supine; some of them appear to be filled with unbounded zeal. They deal, it is true, not in lying miracles, but they propagate God's Word. I remember only a few months ago, having occasion for a Bible, going to an establishment, the object of which was to send Bibles all over the world. The supporters of that establishment could have no self-interested views; for I was supplied by them with a noble-sized Bible at a price so small as to preclude the idea that it could bring any profit to the vendors." The countenance of the man in black slightly fell. "I know the people to whom you allude," said he; "indeed, unknown to them, I have frequently been to see them, and observed their ways. I tell you frankly that there is not a set of people in this kingdom who have caused our church so much trouble and uneasiness. I should rather say that they alone cause us any; for as for the rest, what with their drowsiness, their plethora, their folly, and their vanity, they are doing us anything but mischief. These fellows are a pestilent set of heretics, whom we would gladly see burnt; they are, with the most untiring perseverance, and in spite of divers minatory declarations of the holy father, scattering their books abroad through all Europe, and have caused many people in Catholic countries to think that hitherto their priesthood have endeavoured, as much as possible, to keep them blinded. There is one fellow amongst them for whom we entertain a particular aversion; a big, burly parson, with the face of a lion, the voice of a buffalo, and a fist like a sledge-hammer. The last time I was there, I observed that his eye was upon me, and I did not like the glance he gave me at all; I observed him clench his fist, and I took my departure as fast as I conveniently could. Whether he suspected who I was, I know not; but I did not like his look at all, and do not intend to go again." "Well, then," said I, "you confess that you have redoubtable enemies to your plans in these regions, and that even amongst the ecclesiastics there are some widely different from those of the plethoric and Platitude schools." "It is but too true," said the man in black; "and if the rest of your church were like them we should quickly bid adieu to all hope of converting these regions, but we are thankful to be able to say that such folks are not numerous; there are, moreover, causes at work quite sufficient to undermine even their zeal. Their sons return at the vacations, from Oxford and Cambridge, puppies, full of the nonsense which they have imbibed from Platitude professors; and this nonsense they retail at home, where it fails not to make some impression, whilst the daughters scream--I beg their pardons--warble about Scotland's Montrose, and Bonny Dundee, and all the Jacobs; so we have no doubt that their papas' zeal about the propagation of such a vulgar book as the Bible will in a very little time be terribly diminished. Old Rome will win, so you had better join her." And the man in black drained the last drop in his glass. "Never," said I, "will I become the slave of Rome." "She will allow you latitude," said the man in black; "do but serve her, and she will allow you to call her 'puta' at a decent time and place; her popes occasionally call her 'puta.' A pope has been known to start from his bed at midnight and rush out into the corridor, and call out 'puta' three times in a voice which pierced the Vatican; that pope was . . . " "Alexander the Sixth, I dare say," said I; "the greatest monster that ever existed, though the worthiest head which the popish system ever had--so his conscience was not always still. I thought it had been seared with a brand of iron." "I did not allude to him, but to a much more modern pope," said the man in black; "it is true he brought the word, which is Spanish, from Spain, his native country, to Rome. He was very fond of calling the church by that name, and other popes have taken it up. She will allow you to call her by it if you belong to her." "I shall call her so," said I, "without belonging to her, or asking her permission." "She will allow you to treat her as such if you belong to her," said the man in black. "There is a chapel in Rome, where there is a wondrously fair statue--the son of a cardinal--I mean his nephew--once . . . Well, she did not cut off his head, but slightly boxed his cheek and bade him go." "I have read all about that in 'Keysler's Travels,'" said I; "do you tell her that I would not touch her with a pair of tongs, unless to seize her nose." "She is fond of lucre," said the man in black; "but does not grudge a faithful priest a little private perquisite," and he took out a very handsome gold repeater. "Are you not afraid," said I, "to flash that watch before the eyes of a poor tinker in a dingle?" "Not before the eyes of one like you," said the man in black. "It is getting late," said I; "I care not for perquisites." "So you will not join us?" said the man in black. "You have had my answer," said I. "If I belong to Rome," said the man in black, "why should not you?" "I may be a poor tinker," said I; "but I may never have undergone what you have. You remember, perhaps, the fable of the fox who had lost his tail?" The man in black winced, but almost immediately recovering himself, he said, "Well, we can do without you, we are sure of winning." "It is not the part of wise people," said I, "to make sure of the battle before it is fought: there's the landlord of the public-house, who made sure that his cocks would win, yet the cocks lost the main, and the landlord is little better than a bankrupt." "People very different from the landlord," said the man in black, "both in intellect and station, think we shall surely win; there are clever machinators among us who have no doubt of our success." "Well," said I, "I will set the landlord aside, and will adduce one who was in every point a very different person from the landlord, both in understanding and station; he was very fond of laying schemes, and, indeed, many of them turned out successful. His last and darling one, however, miscarried, notwithstanding that by his calculations he had persuaded himself that there was no possibility of its failing--the person that I allude to was old Fraser . . ." "Who?" said the man in black, giving a start, and letting his glass fall. "Old Fraser, of Lovat," said I, "the prince of all conspirators and machinators; he made sure of placing the Pretender on the throne of these realms. 'I can bring into the field so many men,' said he; 'my son-in- law, Cluny, so many, and likewise my cousin, and my good friend;' then speaking of those on whom the government reckoned for support, he would say, 'So-and-so are lukewarm; this person is ruled by his wife, who is with us; the clergy are anything but hostile to us; and as for the soldiers and sailors, half are disaffected to King George, and the rest cowards.' Yet, when things came to a trial, this person whom he had calculated upon to join the Pretender did not stir from his home, another joined the hostile ranks, the presumed cowards turned out heroes, and those whom he thought heroes ran away like lusty fellows at Culloden; in a word, he found himself utterly mistaken, and in nothing more than himself; he thought he was a hero, and proved himself nothing more than an old fox; he got up a hollow tree, didn't he, just like a fox? "'L' opere sue non furon leonine, ma di volpe.'" The man in black sat silent for a considerable time, and at length answered, in rather a faltering voice, "I was not prepared for this; you have frequently surprised me by your knowledge of things which I should never have expected any person of your appearance to be acquainted with, but that you should be aware of my name is a circumstance utterly incomprehensible to me. I had imagined that no person in England was acquainted with it; indeed, I don't see how any person should be, I have revealed it to no one, not being particularly proud of it. Yes, I acknowledge that my name is Fraser, and that I am of the blood of that family or clan, of which the rector of our college once said that he was firmly of opinion that every individual member was either rogue or fool. I was born at Madrid, of pure, _oime_, Fraser blood. My parents at an early age took me to ---, where they shortly died, not, however, before they had placed me in the service of a cardinal with whom I continued some years, and who, when he had no further occasion for me, sent me to the college, in the left-hand cloister of which, as you enter, rest the bones of Sir John D. . .; there, in studying logic and humane letters, I lost whatever of humanity I had retained when discarded by the cardinal. Let me not, however, forget two points--I am a Fraser, it is true, but not a Flannagan; I may bear the vilest name of Britain, but not of Ireland; I was bred up at the English house, and there is at --- a house for the education of bog-trotters; I was not bred up at that; beneath the lowest gulf, there is one yet lower; whatever my blood may be, it is at least not Irish; whatever my education may have been, I was not bred at the Irish seminary--on those accounts I am thankful--yes, _per dio_! I am thankful. After some years at college--but why should I tell you my history, you know it already perfectly well, probably much better than myself. I am now a missionary priest labouring in heretic England, like Parsons and Garnet of old, save and except that, unlike them, I run no danger, for the times are changed. As I told you before, I shall cleave to Rome--I must; _no hay remedio_, as they say at Madrid, and I will do my best to further her holy plans--he! he!--but I confess I begin to doubt of their being successful here--you put me out; old Fraser, of Lovat! I have heard my father talk of him; he had a gold-headed cane, with which he once knocked my grandfather down--he was an astute one, but, as you say, mistaken, particularly in himself. I have read his life by Arbuthnot, it is in the library of our college. Farewell! I shall come no more to this dingle--to come would be of no utility; I shall go and labour elsewhere, though . . . how you came to know my name is a fact quite inexplicable--farewell! to you both." He then arose; and without further salutation departed from the dingle, in which I never saw him again. "How, in the name of wonder, came you to know that man's name?" said Belle, after he had been gone some time. "I, Belle? I knew nothing of the fellow's name, I assure you." "But you mentioned his name." "If I did, it was merely casually, by way of illustration. I was saying how frequently cunning people were mistaken in their calculations, and I adduced the case of old Fraser, of Lovat, as one in point; I brought forward his name, because I was well acquainted with his history, from having compiled and inserted it in a wonderful work, which I edited some months ago, entitled 'Newgate Lives and Trials,' but without the slightest idea that it was the name of him who was sitting with us; he, however, thought that I was aware of his name. Belle! Belle! for a long time I doubted in the truth of Scripture, owing to certain conceited discourses which I had heard from certain conceited individuals, but now I begin to believe firmly; what wonderful texts there are in Scripture, Belle! 'The wicked trembleth where--where . . .'" "'They were afraid where no fear was; thou hast put them to confusion, because God hath despised them,'" said Belle; "I have frequently read it before the clergyman in the great house of Long Melford. But if you did not know the man's name, why let him go away supposing that you did?" "Oh, if he was fool enough to make such a mistake, I was not going to undeceive him--no, no! Let the enemies of old England make the most of all their blunders and mistakes, they will have no help from me; but enough of the fellow, Belle, let us now have tea, and after that . . ." "No Armenian," said Belle; "but I want to ask a question: pray are all people of that man's name either rogues or fools?" "It is impossible for me to say, Belle, this person being the only one of the name I have ever personally known. I suppose there are good and bad, clever and foolish, amongst them, as amongst all large bodies of people; however, after the tribe had been governed for upwards of thirty years by such a person as old Fraser, it were no wonder if the greater part had become either rogues or fools: he was a ruthless tyrant, Belle, over his own people, and by his cruelty and rapaciousness must either have stunned them into an apathy approaching to idiocy, or made them artful knaves in their own defence. The qualities of parents are generally transmitted to their descendants--the progeny of trained pointers are almost sure to point, even without being taught: if, therefore, all Frasers are either rogues or fools, as this person seems to insinuate, it is little to be wondered at, their parents or grandparents having been in the training- school of old Fraser! but enough of the old tyrant and his slaves. Belle, prepare tea this moment, or dread my anger. I have not a gold-headed cane like old Fraser of Lovat, but I have, what some people would dread much more, an Armenian rune-stick." CHAPTER V. FRESH ARRIVALS--PITCHING THE TENT--CERTIFICATED WIFE--HIGH-FLYING NOTIONS. On the following morning, as I was about to leave my tent, I heard the voice of Belle at the door, exclaiming, "Sleepest thou, or wakest thou?" "I was never more awake in my life," said I, going out. "What is the matter?" "He of the horse-shoe," said she, "Jasper, of whom I have heard you talk, is above there on the field with all his people; I went about a quarter of an hour ago to fill the kettle at the spring, and saw them arriving." "It is well," said I; "have you any objection to asking him and his wife to breakfast?" "You can do as you please," said she; "I have cups enough, and have no objection to their company." "We are the first occupiers of the ground," said I, "and, being so, should consider ourselves in the light of hosts, and do our best to practise the duties of hospitality." "How fond you are of using that word!" said Belle: "if you wish to invite the man and his wife, do so, without more ado; remember, however, that I have not cups enough, nor indeed tea enough, for the whole company." Thereupon hurrying up the ascent, I presently found myself outside the dingle. It was as usual a brilliant morning, the dewy blades of the rye grass which covered the plain sparkled brightly in the beams of the sun, which had probably been about two hours above the horizon. A rather numerous body of my ancient friends and allies occupied the ground in the vicinity of the mouth of the dingle. About five yards on the right I perceived Mr. Petulengro busily employed in erecting his tent; he held in his hand an iron bar, sharp at the bottom, with a kind of arm projecting from the top for the purpose of supporting a kettle or cauldron over the fire, and which is called in the Romanian language "Kekauviskoe saster." With the sharp end of this Mr. Petulengro was making holes in the earth at about twenty inches' distance from each other, into which he inserted certain long rods with a considerable bend towards the top, which constituted no less than the timbers of the tent, and the supporters of the canvas. Mrs. Petulengro and a female with a crutch in her hand, whom I recognised as Mrs. Chikno, sat near him on the ground, whilst two or three children, from six to ten years old, who composed the young family of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro, were playing about. "Here we are, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, as he drove the sharp end of the bar into the ground; "here we are, and plenty of us--Bute dosta Romany chals." "I am glad to see you all," said I; "and particularly you, madam," said I, making a bow to Mrs. Petulengro; "and you also, madam," taking off my hat to Mrs. Chikno. "Good day to you, sir," said Mrs. Petulengro; "you look as usual, charmingly, and speak so, too; you have not forgot your manners." "It is not all gold that glitters," said Mrs. Chikno. "However, good- morrow to you, young rye." "I do not see Tawno," said I, looking around; "where is he?" "Where, indeed!" said Mrs. Chikno; "I don't know; he who countenances him in the roving line can best answer." "He will be here anon," said Mr. Petulengro; "he has merely ridden down a by-road to show a farmer a two-year-old colt; she heard me give him directions, but she can't be satisfied." "I can't, indeed," said Mrs. Chikno. "And why not, sister?" "Because I place no confidence in your words, brother; as I said before, you countenances him." "Well," said I, "I know nothing of your private concerns; I am come on an errand. Isopel Berners, down in the dell there, requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro's company at breakfast. She will be happy also to see you, madam," said I, addressing Mrs. Chikno. "Is that young female your wife, young man?" said Mrs. Chikno. "My wife?" said I. "Yes, young man, your wife, your lawful certificated wife." "No," said I, "she is not my wife." "Then I will not visit with her," said Mrs. Chikno; "I countenance nothing in the roving line." "What do you mean by the roving line?" I demanded. "What do I mean by the roving line? Why, by it I mean such conduct as is not tatcheno. When ryes and rawnies lives together in dingles, without being certificated, I calls such behaviour being tolerably deep in the roving line, everything savouring of which I am determined not to sanctify. I have suffered too much by my own certificated husband's outbreaks in that line to afford anything of the kind the slightest shadow of countenance." "It is hard that people may not live in dingles together without being suspected of doing wrong," said I. "So it is," said Mrs. Petulengro, interposing; "and, to tell you the truth, I am altogether surprised at the illiberality of my sister's remarks. I have often heard say, that is in good company--and I have kept good company in my time--that suspicion is king's evidence of a narrow and uncultivated mind; on which account I am suspicious of nobody, not even of my own husband, whom some people would think I have a right to be suspicious of, seeing that on his account I once refused a lord; but ask him whether I am suspicious of him, and whether I seeks to keep him close tied to my apron-string; he will tell you nothing of the kind; but that, on the contrary, I always allows him an agreeable latitude, permitting him to go where he pleases, and to converse with any one to whose manner of speaking he may take a fancy. But I have had the advantage of keeping good company, and therefore . . ." "Meklis," said Mrs. Chikno, "pray drop all that, sister; I believe I have kept as good company as yourself; and with respect to that offer with which you frequently fatigue those who keeps company with you, I believe, after all, it was something in the roving and uncertificated line." "In whatever line it was," said Mrs. Petulengro, "the offer was a good one. The young duke--for he was not only a lord, but a duke too--offered to keep me a fine carriage, and to make me his second wife; for it is true that he had another who was old and stout, though mighty rich, and highly good natured; so much so, indeed, that the young lord assured me that she would have no manner of objection to the arrangement; more especially if I would consent to live in the same house with her, being fond of young and cheerful society. So you see . . ." "Yes, yes," said Mrs. Chikno, "I see, what I before thought, that it was altogether in the uncertificated line." "Meklis," said Mrs. Petulengro, "I use your own word, madam, which is Romany; for my own part, I am not fond of using Romany words, unless I can hope to pass them off for French, which I cannot in the present company. I heartily wish that there was no such language, and do my best to keep it away from my children, lest the frequent use of it should altogether confirm them in low and vulgar habits. I have four children, madam, but . . ." "I suppose by talking of your four children you wish to check me for having none," said Mrs. Chikno, bursting into tears; "if I have no children, sister, it is no fault of mine, it is--but why do I call you sister," said she, angrily, "you are no sister of mine, you are a grasni, a regular mare--a pretty sister, indeed, ashamed of your own language. I remember well that by your high-flying notions you drove your own mother . . ." "We will drop it," said Mrs. Petulengro; "I do not wish to raise my voice, and to make myself ridiculous. Young gentleman," said she, "pray present my compliments to Miss Isopel Berners, and inform her that I am very sorry that I cannot accept her polite invitation. I am just arrived, and have some slight domestic matters to see to, amongst others, to wash my children's faces; but that in the course of the forenoon when I have attended to what I have to do, and have dressed myself, I hope to do myself the honour of paying her a regular visit; you will tell her that with my compliments. With respect to my husband he can answer for himself, as I, not being of a jealous disposition, never interferes with his matters." "And tell Miss Berners," said Mr. Petulengro, "that I shall be happy to wait upon her in company with my wife as soon as we are regularly settled: at present I have much on my hands, having not only to pitch my own tent, but this here jealous woman's, whose husband is absent on my business." Thereupon I returned to the dingle, and without saying anything about Mrs. Chikno's observations, communicated to Isopel the messages of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro; Isopel made no other reply than by replacing in her coffer two additional cups and saucers, which, in expectation of company, she had placed upon the board. The kettle was by this time boiling. We sat down, and as we breakfasted, I gave Isopel Berners another lesson in the Armenian language. CHAPTER VI. THE PROMISED VISIT--ROMAN FASHION--WIZARD AND WITCH--CATCHING AT WORDS--THE TWO FEMALES--DRESSING OF HAIR--THE NEW ROADS--BELLE'S ALTERED APPEARANCE--HERSELF AGAIN. About mid-day Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro came to the dingle to pay the promised visit. Belle, at the time of their arrival, was in her tent, but I was at the fireplace, engaged in hammering part of the outer-tire, or defence, which had come off from one of the wheels of my vehicle. On perceiving them I forthwith went to receive them. Mr. Petulengro was dressed in Roman fashion, with a somewhat smartly-cut sporting-coat, the buttons of which were half-crowns--and a waistcoat, scarlet and black, the buttons of which were spaded half-guineas; his breeches were of a stuff half velveteen, half corduroy, the cords exceedingly broad. He had leggings of buff cloth, furred at the bottom; and upon his feet were highlows. Under his left arm was a long black whalebone riding-whip, with a red lash, and an immense silver knob. Upon his head was a hat with a high peak, somewhat of the kind which the Spaniards call _calane_, so much in favour with the bravos of Seville and Madrid. Now when I have added that Mr. Petulengro had on a very fine white holland shirt, I think I have described his array. Mrs. Petulengro--I beg pardon for not having spoken of her first--was also arrayed very much in the Roman fashion. Her hair, which was exceedingly black and lustrous, fell in braids on either side of her head. In her ears were rings, with long drops of gold. Round her neck was a string of what seemed very much like very large pearls, somewhat tarnished, however, and apparently of considerable antiquity. "Here we are, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "here we are, come to see you--wizard and witch, witch and wizard:-- "'There's a chovahanee, and a chovahano, The nav se len is Petulengro.'" "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mrs. Petulengro; "you make me ashamed of you with your vulgar ditties. We are come a-visiting now, and everything low should be left behind." "True," said Mr. Petulengro; "why bring what's low to the dingle, which is low enough already?" "What, are you a catcher at words?" said I. "I thought that catching at words had been confined to the pothouse farmers and village witty bodies." "All fools," said Mrs. Petulengro, "catch at words, and very naturally, as by so doing they hope to prevent the possibility of rational conversation. Catching at words confined to pothouse farmers and village witty bodies! No, nor to Jasper Petulengro. Listen for an hour or two to the discourse of a set they call newspaper editors, and if you don't go out and eat grass, as a dog does when he is sick, I am no female woman. The young lord whose hand I refused when I took up with wise Jasper once brought two of them to my mother's tan, when hankering after my company; they did nothing but carp at each other's words, and a pretty hand they made of it. Ill-favoured dogs they were; and their attempts at what they called wit almost as unfortunate as their countenances." "Well," said I, "madam, we will drop all catchings and carpings for the present. Pray take your seat on this stool whilst I go and announce to Miss Isopel Berners your arrival." Thereupon I went to Belle's habitation, and informed her that Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro had paid us a visit of ceremony, and were awaiting her at the fire-place. "Pray go and tell them that I am busy," said Belle, who was engaged with her needle. "I do not feel disposed to take part in any such nonsense." "I shall do no such thing," said I, "and I insist upon your coming forthwith, and showing proper courtesy to your visitors. If you do not their feelings will be hurt, and you are aware that I cannot bear that people's feelings should be outraged. Come this moment, or" . . . "Or what?" said Belle, half smiling. "I was about to say something in Armenian," said I. "Well," said Belle, laying down her work, "I will come." "Stay," said I, "your hair is hanging about your ears, and your dress is in disorder; you had better stay a minute or two to prepare yourself to appear before your visitors, who have come in their very best attire." "No," said Belle, "I will make no alteration in my appearance; you told me to come this moment, and you shall be obeyed." So Belle and I advanced towards our guests. As we drew nigh Mr. Petulengro took off his hat and made a profound obeisance to Belle, whilst Mrs. Petulengro rose from the stool and made a profound curtsey. Belle, who had flung her hair back over her shoulders, returned their salutations by bending her head, and after slightly glancing at Mr. Petulengro, fixed her large blue eyes full upon his wife. Both these females were very handsome--but how unlike! Belle fair, with blue eyes and flaxen hair; Mrs. Petulengro with olive complexion, eyes black, and hair dark--as dark could be. Belle, in demeanour calm and proud; the gypsy graceful, but full of movement and agitation. And then how different were those two in stature! The head of the Romany rawnie scarcely ascended to the breast of Isopel Berners. I could see that Mrs. Petulengro gazed on Belle with unmixed admiration: so did her husband. "Well," said the latter, "one thing I will say, which is, that there is only one on earth worthy to stand up in front of this she, and that is the beauty of the world, as far as man flesh is concerned, Tawno Chikno; what a pity he did not come down!" "Tawno Chikno," said Mrs. Petulengro, flaring up; "a pretty fellow he to stand up in front of this gentlewoman, a pity he didn't come, quotha? not at all, the fellow is a sneak, afraid of his wife. He stand up against this rawnie! why the look she has given me would knock the fellow down." "It is easier to knock him down with a look than with a fist," said Mr. Petulengro; "that is, if the look comes from a woman: not that I am disposed to doubt that this female gentlewoman is able to knock him down either one way or the other. I have heard of her often enough, and have seen her once or twice, though not so near as now. Well, ma'am, my wife and I are come to pay our respects to you; we are both glad to find that you have left off keeping company with Flaming Bosville, and have taken up with my pal; he is not very handsome, but a better . . ." "I take up with your pal, as you call him; you had better mind what you say," said Isopel Berners, "I take up with nobody." "I merely mean taking up your quarters with him," said Mr. Petulengro; "and I was only about to say a better fellow-lodger you cannot have, or a more instructive, especially if you have a desire to be inoculated with tongues, as he calls them. I wonder whether you and he have had any tongue-work already." "Have you and your wife anything particular to say? If you have nothing but this kind of conversation I must leave you, as I am going to make a journey this afternoon, and should be getting ready." "You must excuse my husband, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro; "he is not overburdened with understanding, and has said but one word of sense since he has been here, which was that we came to pay our respects to you. We have dressed ourselves in our best Roman way, in order to do honour to you; perhaps you do not like it; if so, I am sorry. I have no French clothes, madam; if I had any, madam, I would have come in them in order to do you more honour." "I like to see you much better as you are," said Belle; "people should keep to their own fashions, and yours is very pretty." "I am glad you are pleased to think it so, madam; it has been admired in the great city, it created what they call a sensation, and some of the great ladies, the court ladies, imitated it, else I should not appear in it so often as I am accustomed; for I am not very fond of what is Roman, having an imagination that what is Roman is ungenteel; in fact, I once heard the wife of a rich citizen say that gypsies were vulgar creatures. I should have taken her saying very much to heart, but for her improper pronunciation; she could not pronounce her words, madam, which we gypsies, as they call us, usually can, so I thought she was no very high purchase. You are very beautiful, madam, though you are not dressed as I could wish to see you, and your hair is hanging down in sad confusion; allow me to assist you in arranging your hair, madam; I will dress it for you in our fashion; I would fain see how your hair would look in our poor gypsy fashion; pray allow me, madam?" and she took Belle by the hand. "I really can do no such thing," said Belle, withdrawing her hand; "I thank you for coming to see me, but . . ." "Do allow me to officiate upon your hair, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro; "I should esteem your allowing me a great mark of condescension. You are very beautiful, madam, and I think you doubly so, because you are so fair; I have a great esteem for persons with fair complexions and hair; I have a less regard for people with dark hair and complexions, madam." "Then why did you turn off the lord, and take up with me?" said Mr. Petulengro; "that same lord was fair enough all about him." "People do when they are young and silly what they sometimes repent of when they are of riper years and understandings. I sometimes think that had I not been something of a simpleton, I might at this time be a great court lady. Now, madam," said she, again taking Belle by the hand, "do oblige me by allowing me to plait your hair a little?" "I have really a good mind to be angry with you," said Belle, giving Mrs. Petulengro a peculiar glance. "Do allow her to arrange your hair," said I, "she means no harm, and wishes to do you honour; do oblige her and me too; for I should like to see how your hair would look dressed in her fashion." "You hear what the young rye says?" said Mrs. Petulengro. "I am sure you will oblige the young rye, if not myself. Many people would be willing to oblige the young rye, if he would but ask them; but he is not in the habit of asking favours. He has a nose of his own, which he keeps tolerably exalted; he does not think small-beer of himself, madam; and all the time I have been with him, I never heard him ask a favour before; therefore, madam, I am sure you will oblige him. My sister Ursula would be very willing to oblige him in many things, but he will not ask her for anything, except for such a favour as a word, which is a poor favour after all. I don't mean for her word; perhaps he will some day ask you for your word. If so . . ." "Why here you are, after railing at me for catching at words, catching at a word yourself," said Mr. Petulengro. "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mrs. Petulengro. "Don't interrupt me in my discourse; if I caught at a word now, I am not in the habit of doing so. I am no conceited body; no newspaper Neddy; no pothouse witty person. I was about to say, madam, that if the young rye asks you at any time for your word, you will do as you deem convenient; but I am sure you will oblige him by allowing me to braid your hair." "I shall not do it to oblige him," said Belle; "the young rye, as you call him, is nothing to me." "Well, then, to oblige me," said Mrs. Petulengro; "do allow me to become your poor tire-woman." "It is great nonsense," said Belle, reddening; "however, as you came to see me, and ask the matter as a particular favour to yourself . . ." "Thank you, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, leading Belle to the stool; "please to sit down here. Thank you; your hair is very beautiful, madam," she continued, as she proceeded to braid Belle's hair; "so is your countenance. Should you ever go to the great city, among the grand folks, you would make a sensation, madam. I have made one myself, who am dark; the chi she is kauley, which last word signifies black, which I am not, though rather dark. There's no colour like white, madam; it's so lasting, so genteel. Gentility will carry the day, madam, even with the young rye. He will ask words of the black lass, but beg the word of the fair." In the meantime Mr. Petulengro and myself entered into conversation. "Any news stirring, Mr. Petulengro?" said I. "Have you heard anything of the great religious movements?" "Plenty," said Mr. Petulengro; "all the religious people, more especially the Evangelicals--those that go about distributing tracts--are very angry about the fight between Gentleman Cooper and White-headed Bob, which they say ought not to have been permitted to take place; and then they are trying all they can to prevent the fight between the lion and the dogs, which they say is a disgrace to a Christian country. Now, I can't say that I have any quarrel with the religious party and the Evangelicals; they are always civil to me and mine, and frequently give us tracts, as they call them, which neither I nor mine can read; but I cannot say that I approve of any movements, religious or not, which have in aim to put down all life and manly sport in this here country." "Anything else?" said I. "People are becoming vastly sharp," said Mr. Petulengro; "and I am told that all the old-fashioned, good-tempered constables are going to be set aside, and a paid body of men to be established, who are not to permit a tramper or vagabond on the roads of England;--and talking of roads puts me in mind of a strange story I heard two nights ago, whilst drinking some beer at a public-house, in company with my cousin Sylvester. I had asked Tawno to go, but his wife would not let him. Just opposite me, smoking their pipes, were a couple of men, something like engineers, and they were talking of a wonderful invention which was to make a wonderful alteration in England; inasmuch as it would set aside all the old roads, which in a little time would be ploughed up, and sowed with corn, and cause all England to be laid down with iron roads, on which people would go thundering along in vehicles, pushed forward by fire and smoke. Now, brother, when I heard this, I did not feel very comfortable; for I thought to myself, what a queer place such a road would be to pitch one's tent upon, and how impossible it would be for one's cattle to find a bite of grass upon it; and I thought likewise of the danger to which one's family would be exposed of being run over and severely scorched by these same flying, fiery vehicles; so I made bold to say that I hoped such an invention would never be countenanced, because it was likely to do a great deal of harm. Whereupon, one of the men, giving me a glance, said, without taking the pipe out of his mouth, that for his part he sincerely hoped that it would take effect; and if it did no other good than stopping the rambles of gypsies, and other like scamps, it ought to be encouraged. Well, brother, feeling myself insulted, I put my hand into my pocket, in order to pull out money, intending to challenge him to fight for a five-shilling stake, but merely found sixpence, having left all my other money at the tent; which sixpence was just sufficient to pay for the beer which Sylvester and myself were drinking, of whom I couldn't hope to borrow anything--'poor as Sylvester' being a by-word amongst us. So, not being able to back myself, I held my peace, and let the Gorgio have it all his own way, who, after turning up his nose at me, went on discoursing about the said invention, saying what a fund of profit it would be to those who knew how to make use of it, and should have the laying down of the new roads, and the shoeing of England with iron. And after he had said this, and much more of the same kind, which I cannot remember, he and his companion got up and walked away; and presently I and Sylvester got up and walked to our camp; and there I lay down in my tent by the side of my wife, where I had an ugly dream of having camped upon an iron road; my tent being overturned by a flying vehicle; my wife's leg injured; and all my affairs put into great confusion." "Now, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, "I have braided your hair in our fashion: you look very beautiful, madam; more beautiful, if possible, than before." Belle now rose, and came forward with her tire-woman. Mr. Petulengro was loud in his applause, but I said nothing, for I did not think Belle was improved in appearance by having submitted to the ministry of Mrs. Petulengro's hand. Nature never intended Belle to appear as a gypsy; she had made her too proud and serious. A more proper part for her was that of a heroine, a queenly heroine,--that of Theresa of Hungary, for example; or, better still, that of Brynhilda the Valkyrie, the beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer, who incurred the curse of Odin, because, in the tumult of spears, she sided with the young king, and doomed the old warrior to die, to whom Odin had promised victory. Belle looked at me for a moment in silence; then turning to Mrs. Petulengro, she said, "You have had your will with me; are you satisfied?" "Quite so, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, "and I hope you will be so too, as soon as you have looked in the glass." "I have looked in one already," said Belle, "and the glass does not flatter." "You mean the face of the young rye," said Mrs. Petulengro, "never mind him, madam; the young rye, though he knows a thing or two, is not a university, nor a person of universal wisdom. I assure you that you never looked so well before; and I hope that, from this moment, you will wear your hair in this way." "And who is to braid it in this way?" said Belle, smiling. "I, madam," said Mrs. Petulengro, "I will braid it for you every morning, if you will but be pursuaded to join us. Do so, madam, and I think, if you did, the young rye would do so too." "The young rye is nothing to me, nor I to him," said Belle; "we have stayed some time together; but our paths will soon be apart. Now, farewell, for I am about to take a journey." "And you will go out with your hair as I have braided it," said Mrs. Petulengro; "if you do, everybody will be in love with you." "No," said Belle, "hitherto I have allowed you to do what you please, but henceforth I shall have my own way. Come, come," said she, observing that the gypsy was about to speak, "we have had enough of nonsense; whenever I leave this hollow, it will be wearing my hair in my own fashion." "Come, wife," said Mr. Petulengro, "we will no longer intrude upon the rye and rawnie, there is such a thing as being troublesome." Thereupon Mr. Petulengro and his wife took their leave, with many salutations. "Then you are going?" said I, when Belle and I were left alone. "Yes," said Belle, "I am going on a journey; my affairs compel me." "But you will return again?" said I. "Yes," said Belle, "I shall return once more." "Once more," said I; "what do you mean by once more? The Petulengros will soon be gone, and will you abandon me in this place?" "You were alone here," said Belle, "before I came, and, I suppose, found it agreeable, or you would not have stayed in it." "Yes," said I, "that was before I knew you; but having lived with you here, I should be very loth to live here without you." "Indeed," said Belle, "I did not know that I was of so much consequence to you. Well, the day is wearing away--I must go and harness Traveller to the cart." "I will do that," said I, "or anything else you may wish me. Go and prepare yourself; I will see after Traveller and the cart." Belle departed to her tent, and I set about performing the task I had undertaken. In about half-an-hour Belle again made her appearance--she was dressed neatly and plainly. Her hair was no longer in the Roman fashion, in which Pakomovna had plaited it, but was secured by a comb; she held a bonnet in her hand. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" I demanded. "There are two or three bundles by my tent, which you can put into the cart," said Belle. I put the bundles into the cart, and then led Traveller and the cart up the winding path, to the mouth of the dingle, near which was Mr. Petulengro's encampment. Belle followed. At the top, I delivered the reins into her hands; we looked at each other steadfastly for some time. Belle then departed and I returned to the dingle, where, seating myself on my stone, I remained for upwards of an hour in thought. CHAPTER VII. THE FESTIVAL--THE GYPSY SONG--PIRAMUS OF ROME--THE SCOTCHMAN--GYPSY NAMES. On the following day there was much feasting amongst the Romany chals of Mr. Petulengro's party. Throughout the forenoon the Romany chies did scarcely anything but cook flesh, and the flesh which they cooked was swine's flesh. About two o'clock, the chals and chies dividing themselves into various parties, sat down and partook of the fare, which was partly roasted, partly sodden. I dined that day with Mr. Petulengro and his wife and family, Ursula, Mr. and Mrs. Chikno, and Sylvester and his two children. Sylvester, it will be as well to say, was a widower, and had consequently no one to cook his victuals for him, supposing he had any, which was not always the case, Sylvester's affairs being seldom in a prosperous state. He was noted for his bad success in trafficking, notwithstanding the many hints which he received from Jasper, under whose protection he had placed himself, even as Tawno Chikno had done, who himself, as the reader has heard on a former occasion, was anything but a wealthy subject, though he was at all times better off than Sylvester, the Lazarus of the Romany tribe. All our party ate with a good appetite, except myself, who, feeling rather melancholy that day, had little desire to eat. I did not, like the others, partake of the pork, but got my dinner entirely off the body of a squirrel which had been shot the day before by a chal of the name of Piramus, who, besides being a good shot, was celebrated for his skill in playing on the fiddle. During the dinner a horn filled with ale passed frequently around, I drank of it more than once, and felt inspirited by the draughts. The repast concluded, Sylvester and his children departed to their tent, and Mr. Petulengro, Tawno, and myself getting up, went and lay down under a shady hedge, where Mr. Petulengro, lighting his pipe, began to smoke, and where Tawno presently fell asleep. I was about to fall asleep also, when I heard the sound of music and song. Piramus was playing on the fiddle, whilst Mrs. Chikno, who had a voice of her own, was singing in tones sharp enough, but of great power, a gypsy song:-- POISONING THE PORKER. BY MRS. CHIKNO. To mande shoon ye Romany chals Who besh in the pus about the yag, I'll pen how we drab the baulo, I'll pen how we drab the baulo. We jaws to the drab-engro ker, Trin horsworth there of drab we lels, And when to the swety back we wels We pens we'll drab the baulo, We'll have a drab at a baulo. And then we kairs the drab opre, And then we jaws to the farming ker To mang a beti habben, A beti poggado habben. A rinkeno baulo there we dick, And then we pens in Romano jib; Wust lis odoi opre ye chick, And the baulo he will lel lis, The baulo he will lel lis. Coliko, coliko saulo we Apopli to the farming ker Will wel and mang him mullo, Will wel and mang his truppo. And so we kairs, and so we kairs; The baulo in the rarde mers; We mang him on the saulo, And rig to the tan the baulo. And then we toves the wendror well Till sore the wendror iuziou se, Till kekkeno drab's adrey lis, Till drab there's kek adrey lis. And then his truppo well we hatch, Kin levinor at the kitchema, And have a kosko habben, A kosko Romano habben. The boshom engro kils, he kils, The tawnie juva gils, she gils A puro Romano gillie, Now shoon the Romano gillie. Which song I had translated in the following manner, in my younger days, for a lady's album. Listen to me ye Roman lads, who are seated in the straw about the fire, and I will tell how we poison the porker, I will tell how we poison the porker. We go to the house of the poison monger, {42} where we buy three pennies' worth of bane, and when we return to our people we say, we will poison the porker; we will try and poison the porker. We then make up the poison, and then we take our way to the house of the farmer, as if to beg a bit of victuals, a little broken victuals. We see a jolly porker, and then we say in Roman language, "Fling the bane yonder amongst the dirt, and the porker soon will find it, the porker soon will find it." Early on the morrow, we will return to the farm-house, and beg the dead porker, the body of the dead porker. And so we do, even so we do; the porker dieth during the night; on the morrow we beg the porker, and carry to the tent the porker. And then we wash the inside well, till all the inside is perfectly clean, till there's no bane within it, not a poison grain within it. And then we roast the body well, send for ale to the alehouse, and have a merry banquet, a merry Roman banquet. The fellow with the fiddle plays, he plays; the little lassie sings, she sings an ancient Roman ditty; now hear the Roman ditty. SONG OF THE BROKEN CHASTITY. BY URSULA. Penn'd the Romany chi ke laki dye "Miry dearie dye mi shom cambri!" "And savo kair'd tute cambri, Miry dearie chi, miry Romany chi?" "O miry dye a boro rye, A bovalo rye, a gorgiko rye, Sos kistur pre a pellengo grye, 'Twas yov sos kerdo man cambri." "Tu tawnie vassavie lubbeny, Tu chal from miry tan abri; Had a Romany chal kair'd tute cambri, Then I had penn'd ke tute chie, But tu shan a vassavie lubbeny With gorgikie rat to be cambri." "There's some kernel in those songs, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, when the songs and music were over. "Yes," said I, "they are certainly very remarkable songs. I say, Jasper, I hope you have not been drabbing baulor lately." "And suppose we have, brother, what then?" "Why, it is a very dangerous practice, to say nothing of the wickedness of it." "Necessity has no law, brother." "That is true," said I, "I have always said so, but you are not necessitous, and should not drab baulor." "And who told you we had been drabbing baulor?" "Why, you have had a banquet of pork, and after the banquet Mrs. Chikno sang a song about drabbing baulor, so I naturally thought you might have lately been engaged in such a thing." "Brother, you occasionally utter a word or two of common sense. It was natural for you to suppose, after seeing that dinner of pork, and hearing that song, that we had been drabbing baulor; I will now tell you that we have not been doing so. What have you to say to that?" "That I am very glad of it." "Had you tasted that pork, brother, you would have found that it was sweet and tasty, which balluva that is drabbed can hardly be expected to be. We have no reason to drab baulor at present, we have money and credit; but necessity has no law. Our forefathers occasionally drabbed baulor, some of our people may still do such a thing, but only from compulsion." "I see," said I; "and at your merry meetings you sing songs upon the compulsatory deeds of your people, alias their villainous actions; and, after all, what would the stirring poetry of any nation be, but for its compulsatory deeds? Look at the poetry of Scotland, the heroic part, founded almost entirely on the villainous deeds of the Scotch nation; cow- stealing, for example, which is very little better than drabbing baulor; whilst the softer part is mostly about the slips of its females among the broom, so that no upholder of Scotch poetry could censure Ursula's song as indelicate, even if he understood it. What do you think, Jasper?" "I think, brother, as I before said, that occasionally you utter a word of common sense; you were talking of the Scotch, brother; what do you think of a Scotchman finding fault with Romany?" "A Scotchman finding fault with Romany, Jasper! Oh dear, but you joke, the thing could never be." "Yes, and at Piramus's fiddle; what do you think of a Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus's fiddle?" "A Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus's fiddle! nonsense, Jasper." "Do you know what I most dislike, brother?" "I do not, unless it be the constable, Jasper." "It is not the constable, it's a beggar on horseback, brother." "What do you mean by a beggar on horseback?" "Why, a scamp, brother, raised above his proper place, who takes every opportunity of giving himself fine airs. About a week ago, my people and myself camped on a green by a plantation in the neighbourhood of a great house. In the evening we were making merry, the girls were dancing, while Piramus was playing on the fiddle a tune of his own composing, to which he has given his own name, Piramus of Rome, and which is much celebrated amongst our people, and from which I have been told that one of the grand gorgio composers, who once heard it, has taken several hints. So, as we were making merry, a great many grand people, lords and ladies, I believe, came from the great house and looked on, as the girls danced to the tune of Piramus of Rome, and seemed much pleased; and when the girls had left off dancing, and Piramus playing, the ladies wanted to have their fortunes told; so I bade Mikailia Chikno, who can tell a fortune when she pleases better than any one else, tell them a fortune, and she, being in a good mind, told them a fortune which pleased them very much. So, after they had heard their fortunes, one of them asked if any of our women could sing; and I told them several could, more particularly Leviathan--you know Leviathan, she is not here now, but some miles distant, she is our best singer, Ursula coming next. So the lady said she should like to hear Leviathan sing, whereupon Leviathan sang the Gudlo pesham, and Piramus played the tune of the same name, which, as you know, means the honeycomb, the song and the tune being well entitled to the name, being wonderfully sweet. Well, everybody present seemed mighty well pleased with the song and music, with the exception of one person, a carroty-haired Scotch body; how he came there I don't know, but there he was; and, coming forward, he began in Scotch as broad as a barn-door to find fault with the music and the song, saying that he had never heard viler stuff than either. Well, brother, out of consideration for the civil gentry with whom the fellow had come, I held my peace for a long time, and in order to get the subject changed, I said to Mikailia in Romany, you have told the ladies their fortunes, now tell the gentlemen theirs, quick, quick,--pen lende dukkerin. Well, brother, the Scotchman, I suppose, thinking I was speaking ill of him, fell into a greater passion than before, and catching hold of the word dukkerin--'Dukkerin,' said he, 'what's dukkerin?' 'Dukkerin,' said I, 'is fortune, a man or woman's destiny; don't you like the word?' 'Word! d'ye ca' that a word? a bonnie word,' said he. 'Perhaps you'll tell us what it is in Scotch,' said I, 'in order that we may improve our language by a Scotch word; a pal of mine has told me that we have taken a great many words from foreign lingos.' 'Why, then, if that be the case, fellow, I will tell you; it is e'en "spaeing,"' said he, very seriously. 'Well, then,' said I, 'I'll keep my own word, which is much the prettiest--spaeing! spaeing! why, I should be ashamed to make use of the word, it sounds so much like a certain other word;' and then I made a face as if I were unwell. 'Perhaps it's Scotch also for that?' 'What do you mean by speaking in that guise to a gentleman?' said he, 'you insolent vagabond without a name or a country.' 'There you are mistaken,' said I, 'my country is Egypt, but we 'Gyptians, like you Scotch, are rather fond of travelling; and as for name--my name is Jasper Petulengro, perhaps you have a better; what is it?' 'Sandy Macraw.' At that, brother, the gentlemen burst into a roar of laughter, and all the ladies tittered." "You were rather severe on the Scotchman, Jasper." "Not at all, brother, and suppose I were, he began first; I am the civilest man in the world, and never interfere with anybody who lets me and mine alone. He finds fault with Romany, forsooth! why, L---d A'mighty, what's Scotch? He doesn't like our songs; what are his own? I understand them as little as he mine; I have heard one or two of them, and pretty rubbish they seemed. But the best of the joke is the fellow's finding fault with Piramus's fiddle--a chap from the land of bagpipes finding fault with Piramus's fiddle! Why, I'll back that fiddle against all the bagpipes in Scotland, and Piramus against all the bagpipers; for though Piramus weighs but ten stone, he shall flog a Scotchman of twenty." "Scotchmen are never so fat as that," said I, "unless, indeed, they have been a long time pensioners of England. I say, Jasper, what remarkable names your people have!" "And what pretty names, brother; there's my own, for example, Jasper; then there's Ambrose and Sylvester; then there's Culvato, which signifies Claude; then there's Piramus, that's a nice name, brother." "Then there's your wife's name, Pakomovna; then there's Ursula and Morella." "Then, brother, there's Ercilla." "Ercilla! the name of the great poet of Spain, how wonderful; then Leviathan." "The name of a ship, brother; Leviathan was named after a ship, so don't make a wonder out of her. But there's Sanpriel and Synfye." "Ay, and Clementina and Lavinia, Camillia and Lydia, Curlanda and Orlanda; wherever did they get those names?" "Where did my wife get her necklace, brother?" "She knows best, Jasper. I hope . . ." "Come, no hoping! She got it from her grandmother, who died at the age of a hundred and three, and sleeps in Coggeshall churchyard. She got it from her mother, who also died very old, and who could give no other account of it than that it had been in the family time out of mind." "Whence could they have got it?" "Why, perhaps where they got their names, brother. A gentleman, who had travelled much, once told me that he had seen the sister of it about the neck of an Indian queen." "Some of your names, Jasper, appear to be church names; your own, for example, and Ambrose, and Sylvester; perhaps you got them from the Papists, in the times of Popery; but where did you get such a name as Piramus, a name of Grecian romance? Then some of them appear to be Slavonian; for example, Mikailia and Pakomovna. I don't know much of Slavonian; but . . ." "What is Slavonian, brother?" "The family name of certain nations, the principal of which is the Russian, and from which the word slave is originally derived. You have heard of the Russians, Jasper?" "Yes, brother; and seen some. I saw their crallis at the time of the peace; he was not a bad-looking man for a Russian." "By-the-bye, Jasper, I'm half inclined to think that crallis is a Slavish word. I saw something like it in a lil called 'Voltaire's Life of Charles.' How you should have come by such names and words is to me incomprehensible." "You seem posed, brother." "I really know very little about you, Jasper." "Very little indeed, brother. We know very little about ourselves; and you know nothing, save what we have told you; and we have now and then told you things about us which are not exactly true, simply to make a fool of you, brother. You will say that was wrong, perhaps it was. Well, Sunday will be here in a day or two, when we will go to church, where possibly we shall hear a sermon on the disastrous consequences of lying." CHAPTER VIII. THE CHURCH--THE ARISTOCRATICAL PEW--DAYS OF YORE--THE CLERGYMAN--"IN WHAT WOULD A MAN BE PROFITED?" When two days had passed, Sunday came; I breakfasted by myself in the solitary dingle; and then, having set things a little to rights, I ascended to Mr. Petulengro's encampment. I could hear church-bells ringing around in the distance, appearing to say, "Come to church, come to church," as clearly as it was possible for church-bells to say. I found Mr. Petulengro seated by the door of his tent, smoking his pipe, in rather an ungenteel undress. "Well, Jasper," said I, "are you ready to go to church; for if you are, I am ready to accompany you?" "I am not ready, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "nor is my wife; the church, too, to which we shall go is three miles off; so it is of no use to think of going there this morning, as the service would be three-quarters over before we got there; if, however, you are disposed to go in the afternoon, we are your people." Thereupon I returned to my dingle, where I passed several hours in conning the Welsh Bible, which the preacher, Peter Williams, had given me. At last I gave over reading, took a slight refreshment, and was about to emerge from the dingle, when I heard the voice of Mr. Petulengro calling me. I went up again to the encampment, where I found Mr. Petulengro, his wife, and Tawno Chikno, ready to proceed to church. Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro were dressed in Roman fashion, though not in the full-blown manner in which they had paid their visit to Isopel and myself. Tawno had on a clean white slop, with a nearly new black beaver, with very broad rims, and the nap exceedingly long. As for myself, I was dressed in much the same manner as that in which I departed from London, having on, in honour of the day, a shirt perfectly clean, having washed one on purpose for the occasion, with my own hands, the day before, in the pond of tepid water in which the newts and efts were in the habit of taking their pleasure. We proceeded for upwards of a mile, by footpaths through meadows and corn-fields; we crossed various stiles; at last, passing over one, we found ourselves in a road, wending along which for a considerable distance, we at last came in sight of a church, the bells of which had been tolling distinctly in our ears for some time; before, however, we reached the churchyard the bells had ceased their melody. It was surrounded by lofty beech trees of brilliant green foliage. We entered the gate, Mrs. Petulengro leading the way, and proceeded to a small door near the east end of the church. As we advanced, the sound of singing within the church rose upon our ears. Arrived at the small door, Mrs. Petulengro opened it and entered, followed by Tawno Chikno. I myself went last of all, following Mr. Petulengro, who, before I entered, turned round and, with a significant nod, advised me to take care how I behaved. The part of the church which we had entered was the chancel; on one side stood a number of venerable old men--probably the neighbouring poor--and on the other a number of poor girls belonging to the village school, dressed in white gowns and straw bonnets, whom two elegant but simply dressed young women were superintending. Every voice seemed to be united in singing a certain anthem, which, notwithstanding it was written neither by Tate nor Brady, contains some of the sublimest words which were ever put together, not the worst of which are those which burst on our ears as we entered. "Every eye shall now behold Him, Robed in dreadful majesty; Those who set at nought and sold Him, Pierced and nailed Him to the tree, Deeply wailing, Shall the true Messiah see." Still following Mrs. Petulengro, we proceeded down the chancel and along the aisle; notwithstanding the singing, I could distinctly hear as we passed many a voice whispering, "Here come the gypsies! here come the gypsies!" I felt rather embarrassed, with a somewhat awkward doubt as to where we were to sit; none of the occupiers of the pews, who appeared to consist almost entirely of farmers, with their wives, sons, and daughters, opened a door to admit us. Mrs. Petulengro, however, appeared to feel not the least embarrassment, but tripped along the aisle with the greatest nonchalance. We passed under the pulpit, in which stood the clergyman in his white surplice, and reached the middle of the church, where we were confronted by the sexton dressed in long blue coat, and holding in his hand a wand. This functionary motioned towards the lower end of the church where were certain benches, partly occupied by poor people and boys. Mrs. Petulengro, however, with a toss of her head, directed her course to a magnificent pew, which was unoccupied, which she opened and entered, followed closely by Tawno Chikno, Mr. Petulengro, and myself. The sexton did not appear by any means to approve of the arrangement, and as I stood next the door laid his finger on my arm, as if to intimate that myself and companions must quit our aristocratical location. I said nothing, but directed my eyes to the clergyman, who uttered a short and expressive cough; the sexton looked at him for a moment, and then, bowing his head, closed the door--in a moment more the music ceased. I took up a prayer-book, on which was engraved an earl's coronet. The clergyman uttered, "I will arise, and go to my father." England's sublime liturgy had commenced. Oh, what feelings came over me on finding myself again in an edifice devoted to the religion of my country! I had not been in such a place I cannot tell for how long--certainly not for years; and now I had found my way there again, it appeared as if I had fallen asleep in the pew of the old church of pretty D . . . I had occasionally done so when a child, and had suddenly woke up. Yes, surely I had been asleep and had woken up; but, no! alas, no! I had not been asleep--at least not in the old church--if I had been asleep I had been walking in my sleep, struggling, striving, learning, and unlearning in my sleep. Years had rolled away whilst I had been asleep--ripe fruit had fallen, green fruit had come on whilst I had been asleep--how circumstances had altered, and above all myself, whilst I had been asleep. No, I had not been asleep in the old church! I was in a pew it is true, but not the pew of black leather, in which I sometimes fell asleep in days of yore, but in a strange pew; and then my companions, they were no longer those of days of yore. I was no longer with my respectable father and mother, and my dear brother, but with the gypsy cral and his wife, and the gigantic Tawno, the Antinous of the dusky people. And what was I myself? No longer an innocent child, but a moody man, bearing in my face, as I knew well, the marks of my strivings and strugglings, of what I had learned and unlearned; nevertheless, the general aspect of things brought to my mind what I had felt and seen of yore. There was difference enough it is true, but still there was a similarity--at least I thought so,--the church, the clergyman, and the clerk differing in many respects from those of pretty D . . ., put me strangely in mind of them; and then the words!--by-the- bye, was it not the magic of the words which brought the dear enchanting past so powerfully before the mind of Lavengro? for the words were the same sonorous words of high import which had first made an impression on his childish ear in the old church of pretty D . . . The liturgy was now over, during the reading of which my companions behaved in a most unexceptional manner, sitting down and rising up when other people sat down and rose, and holding in their hands prayer-books which they found in the pew, into which they stared intently, though I observed that, with the exception of Mrs. Petulengro, who knew how to read a little, they held the books by the top, and not the bottom, as is the usual way. The clergyman now ascended the pulpit, arrayed in his black gown. The congregation composed themselves to attention, as did also my companions, who fixed their eyes upon the clergyman with a certain strange immovable stare, which I believe to be peculiar to their race. The clergyman gave out his text, and began to preach. He was a tall, gentlemanly man, seemingly between fifty and sixty, with greyish hair; his features were very handsome, but with a somewhat melancholy cast: the tones of his voice were rich and noble, but also with somewhat of melancholy in them. The text which he gave out was the following one, "In what would a man be profited, provided he gained the whole world, and lost his own soul?" And on this text the clergyman preached long and well: he did not read his sermon, but spoke it extempore; his doing so rather surprised and offended me at first; I was not used to such a style of preaching in a church devoted to the religion of my country. I compared it within my mind with the style of preaching used by the high-church rector in the old church of pretty D . . ., and I thought to myself it was very different, and being very different I did not like it, and I thought to myself how scandalised the people of D . . . would have been had they heard it, and I figured to myself how indignant the high-church clerk would have been had any clergyman got up in the church of D . . . and preached in such a manner. Did it not savour strongly of dissent, methodism, and similar low stuff? Surely it did; why, the Methodist I had heard preach on the heath above the old city, preached in the same manner--at least he preached extempore; ay, and something like the present clergyman, for the Methodist spoke very zealously and with great feeling, and so did the present clergyman; so I, of course, felt rather offended with the clergyman for speaking with zeal and feeling. However, long before the sermon was over I forgot the offence which I had taken, and listened to the sermon with much admiration, for the eloquence and powerful reasoning with which it abounded. Oh, how eloquent he was, when he talked of the inestimable value of a man's soul, which he said endured for ever, whilst his body, as every one knew, lasted at most for a very contemptible period of time; and how forcibly he reasoned on the folly of a man, who, for the sake of gaining the whole world--a thing, he said, which provided he gained he could only possess for a part of the time, during which his perishable body existed--should lose his soul, that is, cause that precious deathless portion of him to suffer indescribable misery time without end. There was one part of his sermon which struck me in a very particular manner: he said, "That there were some people who gained something in return for their souls; if they did not get the whole world, they got a part of it--lands, wealth, honour, or renown; mere trifles, he allowed, in comparison with the value of a man's soul, which is destined either to enjoy delight, or suffer tribulation time without end; but which, in the eyes of the worldly, had a certain value, and which afforded a certain pleasure and satisfaction. But there were also others who lost their souls, and got nothing for them--neither lands, wealth, renown, nor consideration, who were poor outcasts, and despised by everybody. My friends," he added, "if the man is a fool who barters his soul for the whole world, what a fool he must be who barters his soul for nothing." The eyes of the clergyman, as he uttered these words, wandered around the whole congregation; and when he had concluded them, the eyes of the whole congregation were turned upon my companions and myself. CHAPTER IX. RETURN FROM CHURCH--THE CUCKOO AND GYPSY--SPIRITUAL DISCOURSE. The service over, my companions and myself returned towards the encampment by the way we came. Some of the humble part of the congregation laughed and joked at us as we passed. Mr. Petulengro and his wife, however, returned their laughs and jokes with interest. As for Tawno and myself, we said nothing: Tawno, like most handsome fellows, having very little to say for himself at any time; and myself, though not handsome, not being particularly skilful at repartee. Some boys followed us for a considerable time, making all kinds of observations about gypsies; but as we walked at a great pace, we gradually left them behind, and at last lost sight of them. Mrs. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno walked together, even as they had come; whilst Mr. Petulengro and myself followed at a little distance. "That was a very fine preacher we heard," said I to Mr. Petulengro, after we had crossed the stile into the fields. "Very fine, indeed, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; "he is talked of far and wide, for his sermons; folks say that there is scarcely another like him in the whole of England." "He looks rather melancholy, Jasper." "He lost his wife several years ago, who, they say, was one of the most beautiful women ever seen. They say that it was grief for her loss that made him come out mighty strong as a preacher; for, though he was a clergyman, he was never heard of in the pulpit before he lost his wife; since then the whole country has rung with the preaching of the clergyman of M . . ., as they call him. Those two nice young gentlewomen, whom you saw with the female childer, are his daughters." "You seem to know all about him, Jasper. Did you ever hear him preach before?" "Never, brother; but he has frequently been to our tent, and his daughters too, and given us tracts; for he is one of the people they call Evangelicals, who give folks tracts which they cannot read." "You should learn to read, Jasper." "We have no time, brother." "Are you not frequently idle?" "Never, brother; when we are not engaged in our traffic, we are engaged in taking our relaxation: so we have no time to learn." "You really should make an effort. If you were disposed to learn to read, I would endeavour to assist you. You would be all the better for knowing how to read." "In what way, brother?" "Why, you could read the Scriptures, and, by so doing, learn your duty towards your fellow-creatures." "We know that already, brother; the constables and justices have contrived to knock that tolerably into our heads." "Yet you frequently break the laws." "So, I believe, do now and then those who know how to read, brother." "Very true, Jasper; but you really ought to learn to read, as, by so doing, you might learn your duty towards yourselves: and your chief duty is to take care of your own souls; did not the preacher say, 'In what is a man profited, provided he gain the whole world'?" "We have not much of the world, brother." "Very little indeed, Jasper. Did you not observe how the eyes of the whole congregation were turned towards our pew when the preacher said, 'There are some people who lose their souls, and get nothing in exchange; who are outcast, despised, and miserable'? Now, was not what he said quite applicable to the gypsies?" "We are not miserable, brother." "Well, then, you ought to be, Jasper. Have you an inch of ground of your own? Are you of the least use? Are you not spoken ill of by everybody? What's a gypsy?" "What's the bird noising yonder, brother?" "The bird! Oh, that's the cuckoo tolling; but what has the cuckoo to do with the matter?" "We'll see, brother; what's the cuckoo?" "What is it? you know as much about it as myself, Jasper." "Isn't it a kind of roguish, chaffing bird, brother?" "I believe it is, Jasper." "Nobody knows whence it comes, brother?" "I believe not, Jasper." "Very poor, brother, not a nest of its own?" "So they say, Jasper." "With every person's bad word, brother?" "Yes, Jasper, every person is mocking it." "Tolerably merry, brother?" "Yes, tolerably merry, Jasper." "Of no use at all, brother?" "None whatever, Jasper." "You would be glad to get rid of the cuckoos, brother?" "Why, not exactly, Jasper; the cuckoo is a pleasant, funny bird, and its presence and voice give a great charm to the green trees and fields; no, I can't say I wish exactly to get rid of the cuckoo." "Well, brother, what's a Romany chal?" "You must answer that question yourself, Jasper." "A roguish, chaffing fellow, a'n't he, brother?" "Ay, ay, Jasper." "Of no use at all, brother?" "Just so, Jasper; I see . . ." "Something very much like a cuckoo, brother?" "I see what you are after, Jasper." "You would like to get rid of us, wouldn't you?" "Why, no, not exactly." "We are no ornament to the green lanes in spring and summer time are we, brother? and the voices of our chies, with their cukkerin and dukkerin, don't help to make them pleasant?" "I see what you are at, Jasper." "You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, wouldn't you?" "Can't say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might wish." "And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory wenches, hey, brother?" "Can't say that I should, Jasper. You are certainly a picturesque people, and in many respects an ornament both to town and country; painting and lil writing too are under great obligations to you. What pretty pictures are made out of your campings and groupings, and what pretty books have been written in which gypsies, or at least creatures intended to represent gypsies, have been the principal figures! I think if we were without you, we should begin to miss you." "Just as you would the cuckoos, if they were all converted into barn-door fowls. I tell you what, brother, frequently as I have sat under a hedge in spring or summer time, and heard the cuckoo, I have thought that we chals and cuckoos are alike in many respects, but especially in character. Everybody speaks ill of us both, and everybody is glad to see both of us again." "Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and cuckoos; men have souls, Jasper!" "And why not cuckoos, brother?" "You should not talk so, Jasper; what you say is little short of blasphemy. How should a bird have a soul?" "And how should a man?" "Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul." "How do you know it?" "We know very well." "Would you take your oath of it, brother--your bodily oath?" "Why, I think I might, Jasper!" "Did you ever see the soul, brother?" "No, I never saw it." "Then how could you swear to it? A pretty figure you would make in a court of justice, to swear to a thing which you never saw. Hold up your head, fellow. When and where did you see it? Now upon your oath, fellow, do you mean to say that this Roman stole the donkey's foal? Oh, there's no one for cross-questioning like Counsellor P . . . Our people when they are in a hobble always like to employ him, though he is somewhat dear. Now, brother, how can you get over the 'upon your oath, fellow, will you say that you have a soul?'" "Well, we will take no oaths on the subject; but you yourself believe in the soul. I have heard you say that you believe in dukkerin; now what is dukkerin but the soul science?" "When did I say that I believed in it?" "Why, after that fight, when you pointed to the bloody mark in the cloud, whilst he you wot of was galloping in the barouche to the old town, amidst the rain-cataracts, the thunder, and flame of heaven." "I have some kind of remembrance of it, brother." "Then, again, I heard you say that the dook of Abershaw rode every night on horseback down the wooded hill." "I say, brother, what a wonderful memory you have!" "I wish I had not, Jasper, but I can't help it; it is my misfortune." "Misfortune! well, perhaps it is; at any rate it is very ungenteel to have such a memory. I have heard my wife say that to show you have a long memory looks very vulgar; and that you can't give a greater proof of gentility than by forgetting a thing as soon as possible--more especially a promise, or an acquaintance when he happens to be shabby. Well, brother, I don't deny that I may have said that I believe in dukkerin, and in Abershaw's dook, which you say is his soul; but what I believe one moment, or say I believe, don't be certain that I shall believe the next, or say I do." "Indeed, Jasper, I heard you say on a previous occasion, on quoting a piece of a song, that when a man dies he is cast into the earth, and there's an end of him." "I did, did I? Lor', what a memory you have, brother! But you are not sure that I hold that opinion now." "Certainly not, Jasper. Indeed, after such a sermon as we have been hearing, I should be very shocked if you held such an opinion." "However, brother, don't be sure I do not, however shocking such an opinion may be to you." "What an incomprehensible people you are, Jasper." "We are rather so, brother; indeed, we have posed wiser heads than yours before now." "You seem to care for so little, and yet you rove about a distinct race." "I say, brother!" "Yes, Jasper." "What do you think of our women?" "They have certainly very singular names, Jasper." "Names! Lavengro! But, brother, if you had been as fond of things as of names, you would never have been a pal of ours." "What do you mean, Jasper?" "A'n't they rum animals?" "They have tongues of their own, Jasper." "Did you ever feel their teeth and nails, brother?" "Never, Jasper, save Mrs. Herne's. I have always been very civil to them, so . . ." "They let you alone. I say, brother, some part of the secret is in them." "They seem rather flighty, Jasper." "Ay, ay, brother!" "Rather fond of loose discourse!" "Rather so, brother." "Can you always trust them, Jasper?" "We never watch them, brother." "Can they always trust you?" "Not quite so well as we can them. However, we get on very well together, except Mikailia and her husband; but Mikailia is a cripple, and is married to the beauty of the world, so she may be expected to be jealous--though he would not part with her for a duchess, no more than I would part with my rawnie, nor any other chal with his." "Ay, but would not the chi part with the chal for a duke, Jasper?" "My Pakomovna gave up the duke for me, brother." "But she occasionally talks of him, Jasper." "Yes, brother, but Pakomovna was born on a common not far from the sign of the gammon." "Gammon of bacon, I suppose." "Yes, brother; but gammon likewise means . . ." "I know it does, Jasper; it means fun, ridicule, jest; it is an ancient Norse word, and is found in the Edda." "Lor', brother! how learned in lils you are!" "Many words of Norse are to be found in our vulgar sayings, Jasper; for example--in that particularly vulgar saying of ours, 'Your mother is up,' there's a noble Norse word; mother, there, meaning not the female who bore us, but rage and choler, as I discovered by reading the Sagas, Jasper." "Lor', brother! how book-learned you be." "Indifferently so, Jasper. Then you think you might trust your wife with the duke?" "I think I could, brother, or even with yourself." "Myself, Jasper! Oh, I never troubled my head about your wife; but I suppose there have been love affairs between gorgios and Romany chies. Why, novels are stuffed with such matters; and then even one of your own songs says so--the song which Ursula was singing the other afternoon." "That is somewhat of an old song, brother, and is sung by the chies as a warning at our solemn festivals." "Well! but there's your sister-in-law, Ursula, herself, Jasper." "Ursula, herself, brother?" "You were talking of my having her, Jasper." "Well, brother, why didn't you have her?" "Would she have had me?" "Of course, brother. You are so much of a Roman, and speak Romany so remarkably well." "Poor thing! she looks very innocent!" "Remarkably so, brother! However, though not born on the same common with my wife, she knows a thing or two of Roman matters." "I should like to ask her a question or two, Jasper, in connection with that song." "You can do no better, brother. Here we are at the camp. After tea, take Ursula under a hedge, and ask her a question or two in connection with that song." CHAPTER X. SUNDAY EVENING--URSULA--ACTION AT LAW--MERIDIANA--MARRIED ALREADY. I took tea that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro and Ursula, outside of their tent. Tawno was not present, being engaged with his wife in his own tabernacle; Sylvester was there, however, lolling listlessly upon the ground. As I looked upon this man, I thought him one of the most disagreeable fellows I had ever seen. His features were ugly, and, moreover, as dark as pepper; and, besides being dark, his skin was dirty. As for his dress, it was torn and sordid. His chest was broad, and his arms seemed powerful; but, upon the whole, he looked a very caitiff. "I am sorry that man has lost his wife," thought I; "for I am sure he will never get another." What surprises me is, that he ever found a woman disposed to unite her lot with his! After tea I got up and strolled about the field. My thoughts were upon Isopel Berners. I wondered where she was, and how long she would stay away. At length becoming tired and listless, I determined to return to the dingle, and resume the reading of the Bible at the place where I had left off. "What better could I do," methought, "on a Sunday evening?" I was then near the wood which surrounded the dingle, but at that side which was farthest from the encampment, which stood near the entrance. Suddenly, on turning round the southern corner of the copse, which surrounded the dingle, I perceived Ursula seated under a thorn-bush. I thought I never saw her look prettier than then, dressed as she was, in her Sunday's best. "Good evening, Ursula," said I; "I little thought to have the pleasure of seeing you here." "Nor would you, brother," said Ursula, "had not Jasper told me that you had been talking about me, and wanted to speak to me under a hedge; so, hearing that, I watched your motions, and came here and sat down." "I was thinking of going to my quarters in the dingle, to read the Bible, Ursula, but . . ." "Oh, pray then, go to your quarters, brother, and read the Miduveleskoe lil; you can speak to me under a hedge some other time." "I think I will sit down with you, Ursula; for, after all, reading godly books in dingles at eve is rather sombre work. Yes, I think I will sit down with you;" and I sat down by her side. "Well, brother, now you have sat down with me under the hedge, what have you to say to me?" "Why, I hardly know, Ursula." "Not know, brother; a pretty fellow you to ask young women to come and sit with you under hedges, and, when they come, not know what to say to them." "Oh! ah! I remember; do you know, Ursula, that I take a great interest in you?" "Thank ye, brother; kind of you, at any rate." "You must be exposed to a great many temptations, Ursula." "A great many indeed, brother. It is hard to see fine things, such as shawls, gold watches, and chains in the shops, behind the big glasses, and to know that they are not intended for one. Many's the time I have been tempted to make a dash at them; but I bethought myself that by so doing I should cut my hands, besides being almost certain of being grabbed and sent across the gull's bath to the foreign country." "Then you think gold and fine things temptations, Ursula?" "Of course, brother, very great temptations; don't you think them so?" "Can't say I do, Ursula." "Then more fool you, brother; but have the kindness to tell me what you would call a temptation?" "Why, for example, the hope of honour and renown, Ursula." "The hope of honour and renown! very good, brother; but I tell you one thing, that unless you have money in your pocket, and good broadcloth on your back, you are not likely to obtain much honour and--what do you call it? amongst the gorgios, to say nothing of the Romany chals." "I should have thought, Ursula, that the Romany chals, roaming about the world as they do, free and independent, were above being led by such trifles." "Then you know nothing of the gypsies, brother; no people on earth are fonder of those trifles, as you call them, than the Romany chals, or more disposed to respect those who have them." "Then money and fine clothes would induce you to do anything, Ursula?" "Ay, ay, brother, anything." "To chore, Ursula?" "Like enough, brother; gypsies have been transported before now for choring." "To hokkawar?" "Ay, ay; I was telling dukkerin only yesterday, brother." "In fact, to break the law in everything?" "Who knows, brother, who knows? as I said before, gold and fine clothes are great temptations." "Well, Ursula, I am sorry for it, I should never have thought you so depraved." "Indeed, brother." "To think that I am seated by one who is willing to--to . . ." "Go on, brother." "To play the thief." "Go on, brother." "The liar." "Go on, brother." "The--the . . ." "Go on, brother." "The--the lubbeny." "The what, brother?" said Ursula, starting from her seat. "Why, the lubbeny; don't you . . ." "I tell you what, brother," said Ursula, looking somewhat pale, and speaking very low, "if I had only something in my hand, I would do you a mischief." "Why, what is the matter, Ursula?" said I; "how have I offended you?" "How have you offended me? Why, didn't you insinivate just now that I was ready to play the--the . . ." "Go on, Ursula." "The--the . . . I'll not say it; but I only wish I had something in my hand." "If I have offended, Ursula, I am very sorry for it; any offence I may have given you was from want of understanding you. Come, pray be seated, I have much to question you about--to talk to you about." "Seated, not I! It was only just now that you gave me to understand that you was ashamed to be seated by me, a thief, a liar." "Well, did you not almost give me to understand that you were both, Ursula?" "I don't much care being called a thief and a liar," said Ursula; "a person may be a liar and a thief, and yet a very honest woman, but . . ." "Well, Ursula." "I tell you what, brother, if you ever sinivate again that I could be the third thing, so help me duvel! I'll do you a mischief. By my God I will!" "Well, Ursula, I assure you that I shall sinivate, as you call it, nothing of the kind about you. I have no doubt, from what you have said, that you are a very paragon of virtue--a perfect Lucretia; but . . ." "My name is Ursula, brother, and not Lucretia: Lucretia is not of our family, but one of the Bucklands; she travels about Oxfordshire; yet I am as good as she any day." "Lucretia! how odd! Where could she have got that name? Well, I make no doubt, Ursula, that you are quite as good as she, and she as her namesake of ancient Rome; but there is a mystery in this same virtue, Ursula, which I cannot fathom; how a thief and a liar should be able, or indeed willing, to preserve her virtue is what I don't understand. You confess that you are very fond of gold. Now, how is it that you don't barter your virtue for gold sometimes? I am a philosopher, Ursula, and like to know everything. You must be every now and then exposed to great temptation, Ursula; for you are of a beauty calculated to captivate all hearts. Come, sit down and tell me how you are enabled to resist such a temptation as gold and fine clothes?" "Well, brother," said Ursula, "as you say you mean no harm, I will sit down beside you, and enter into discourse with you; but I will uphold that you are the coolest hand that I ever came nigh, and say the coolest things." And thereupon Ursula sat down by my side. "Well, Ursula, we will, if you please, discourse on the subject of your temptations. I suppose that you travel very much about, and show yourself in all kinds of places?" "In all kinds, brother; I travels, as you say, very much about, attends fairs and races, and enters booths and public-houses, where I tells fortunes, and sometimes dances and sings." "And do not people often address you in a very free manner?" "Frequently, brother; and I give them tolerably free answers." "Do people ever offer to make you presents? I mean presents of value, such as . . ." "Silk handkerchiefs, shawls, and trinkets; very frequently, brother." "And what do you do, Ursula?" "I take what people offers me, brother, and stows it away as soon as I can." "Well, but don't people expect something for their presents? I don't mean dukkerin, dancing, and the like; but such a moderate and innocent thing as a choomer, Ursula?" "Innocent thing, do you call it, brother?" "The world calls it so, Ursula. Well, do the people who give you the fine things never expect a choomer in return?" "Very frequently, brother." "And do you ever grant it?" "Never, brother." "How do you avoid it?" "I gets away as soon as possible, brother. If they follows me, I tries to baffle them, by means of jests and laughter; and if they persist, I uses bad and terrible language, of which I have plenty in store." "But if your terrible language has no effect?" "Then I screams for the constable, and if he comes not, I uses my teeth and nails." "And are they always sufficient?" "I have only had to use them twice, brother; but then I found them sufficient." "But suppose the person who followed you was highly agreeable, Ursula? A handsome young officer of local militia, for example, all dressed in Lincoln green, would you still refuse him the choomer?" "We makes no difference, brother; the daughters of the gypsy-father makes no difference; and, what's more, sees none." "Well, Ursula, the world will hardly give you credit for such indifference." "What cares we for the world, brother! we are not of the world." "But your fathers, brothers, and uncles give you credit I suppose, Ursula." "Ay, ay, brother, our fathers, brothers, and cokos gives us all manner of credit; for example, I am telling lies and dukkerin in a public-house where my batu or coko--perhaps both--are playing on the fiddle; well, my batu and my coko beholds me amongst the public-house crew, talking nonsense and hearing nonsense; but they are under no apprehension; and presently they sees the good-looking officer of militia, in his greens and Lincolns, get up and give me a wink, and I go out with him abroad, into the dark night perhaps; well, my batu and my coko goes on fiddling, just as if I were six miles off asleep in the tent, and not out in the dark street with the local officer, with his Lincolns and his greens." "They know they can trust you, Ursula?" "Ay, ay, brother; and, what's more, I knows I can trust myself." "So you would merely go out to make a fool of him, Ursula?" "Merely go out to make a fool of him, brother, I assure you." "But such proceedings really have an odd look, Ursula." "Amongst gorgios, very so, brother." "Well, it must be rather unpleasant to lose one's character even amongst gorgios, Ursula; and suppose the officer, out of revenge for being tricked and duped by you, were to say of you the thing that is not, were to meet you on the race-course the next day, and boast of receiving favours which he never had, amidst a knot of jeering militia-men, how would you proceed, Ursula? would you not be abashed?" "By no means, brother; I should bring my action of law against him." "Your action at law, Ursula?" "Yes, brother; I should give a whistle, whereupon all one's cokos and batus, and all my near and distant relations, would leave their fiddling, dukkerin, and horse-dealing, and come flocking about me. 'What's the matter, Ursula?' says my coko. 'Nothing at all,' I replies, 'save and except that gorgio, in his greens and his Lincolns, says that I have played the . . . with him.' 'Oho, he does, Ursula,' says my coko; 'try your action of law against him, my lamb,' and he puts something privily into my hands; whereupon I goes close up to the grinning gorgio, and staring him in the face, with my head pushed forward, I cries out: 'You say I did what was wrong with you last night when I was out with you abroad?' 'Yes,' says the local officer, 'I says you did,' looking down all the time. 'You are a liar,' says I, and forthwith I breaks his head with the stick which I holds behind me, and which my coko has conveyed privily into my hand." "And this is your action at law, Ursula?" "Yes, brother, this is my action at club-law." "And would your breaking the fellow's head quite clear you of all suspicion in the eyes of your batus, cokos, and what not?" "They would never suspect me at all, brother, because they would know that I would never condescend to be over intimate with a gorgio; the breaking the head would be merely intended to justify Ursula in the eyes of the gorgios." "And would it clear you in their eyes?" "Would it not, brother? When they saw the blood running down from the fellow's cracked poll on his greens and Lincolns, they would be quite satisfied; why, the fellow would not be able to show his face at fair or merry-making for a year and three quarters." "Did you ever try it, Ursula?" "Can't say I ever did, brother, but it would do." "And how did you ever learn such a method of proceeding?" "Why, 'tis advised by gypsy liri, brother. It's part of our way of settling difficulties amongst ourselves; for example, if a young Roman were to say the thing which is not respecting Ursula and himself, Ursula would call a great meeting of the people, who would all sit down in a ring, the young fellow amongst them; a coko would then put a stick in Ursula's hand, who would then get up and go to the young fellow, and say, 'Did I play the . . . with you?' and were he to say 'Yes,' she would crack his head before the eyes of all." "Well," said I, "Ursula, I was bred an apprentice to gorgio law, and of course ought to stand up for it, whenever I conscientiously can, but I must say the gypsy manner of bringing an action for defamation is much less tedious, and far more satisfactory, than the gorgiko one. I wish you now to clear up a certain point which is rather mysterious to me. You say that for a Romany chi to do what is unseemly with a gorgio is quite out of the question, yet only the other day I heard you singing a song in which a Romany chi confesses herself to be cambri by a grand gorgious gentleman." "A sad let down," said Ursula. "Well," said I, "sad or not, there's the song that speaks of the thing, which you give me to understand is not." "Well, if the thing ever was," said Ursula, "it was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, not true." "Then why do you sing the song?" "I'll tell you, brother: we sings the song now and then to be a warning to ourselves to have as little to do as possible in the way of acquaintance with the gorgios; and a warning it is. You see how the young woman in the song was driven out of her tent by her mother, with all kind of disgrace and bad language; but you don't know that she was afterwards buried alive by her cokos and pals, in an uninhabited place. The song doesn't say it, but the story says it; for there is a story about it, though, as I said before, it was a long time ago, and perhaps, after all, wasn't true." "But if such a thing were to happen at present, would the cokos and pals bury the girl alive?" "I can't say what they would do," said Ursula. "I suppose they are not so strict as they were long ago; at any rate she would be driven from the tan, and avoided by all her family and relations as a gorgio's acquaintance, so that, perhaps, at last, she would be glad if they would bury her alive." "Well, I can conceive that there would be an objection on the part of the cokos and batus that a Romany chi should form an improper acquaintance with a gorgio, but I should think that the batus and cokos could hardly object to the chi's entering into the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio." Ursula was silent. "Marriage is an honourable estate, Ursula." "Well, brother, suppose it be?" "I don't see why a Romany chi should object to enter into the honourable estate of wedlock with a gorgio." "You don't, brother; don't you?" "No," said I, "and, moreover, I am aware, notwithstanding your evasion, Ursula, that marriages and connections now and then occur between gorgios and Romany chies; the result of which is the mixed breed, called half-and- half, which is at present travelling about England, and to which the Flaming Tinman belongs, otherwise called Anselo Herne." "As for the half-and-halfs," said Ursula, "they are a bad set; and there is not a worse blackguard in England than Anselo Herne." "All what you say may be very true, Ursula, but you admit that there are half-and-halfs." "The more's the pity, brother." "Pity or not, you admit the fact; but how do you account for it?" "How do I account for it? why, I will tell you, by the break up of a Roman family, brother,--the father of a small family dies, and perhaps the mother; and the poor children are left behind; sometimes they are gathered up by their relations, and sometimes, if they have none, by charitable Romans, who bring them up in the observance of gypsy law; but sometimes they are not so lucky, and falls into the company of gorgios, trampers, and basket-makers, who live in caravans, with whom they take up, and so . . . I hate to talk of the matter, brother; but so comes this race of the half-and-halfs." "Then you mean to say, Ursula, that no Romany chi, unless compelled by hard necessity, would have anything to do with a gorgio." "We are not over fond of gorgios, brother, and we hates basket-makers and folks that live in caravans." "Well," said I, "suppose a gorgio, who is not a basket-maker, a fine handsome gorgious gentleman, who lives in a fine house . . ." "We are not fond of houses, brother. I never slept in a house in my life." "But would not plenty of money induce you?" "I hate houses, brother, and those who live in them." "Well, suppose such a person were willing to resign his fine house, and, for love of you, to adopt gypsy law, speak Romany, and live in a tan, would you have nothing to say to him?" "Bringing plenty of money with him, brother?" "Well, bringing plenty of money with him, Ursula." "Well, brother, suppose you produce your man; where is he?" "I was merely supposing such a person, Ursula." "Then you don't know of such a person, brother?" "Why, no, Ursula; why do you ask?" "Because, brother, I was almost beginning to think that you meant yourself." "Myself, Ursula! I have no fine house to resign; nor have I money. Moreover, Ursula, though I have a great regard for you, and though I consider you very handsome, quite as handsome, indeed, as Meridiana in . . ." "Meridiana! where did you meet with her?" said Ursula, with a toss of her head. "Why, in old Pulci's . . ." "At old Fulcher's! that's not true, brother. Meridiana is a Borzlam, and travels with her own people, and not with old Fulcher, who is a gorgio and a basket-maker." "I was not speaking of old Fulcher, but Pulci, a great Italian writer, who lived many hundred years ago, and who, in his poem called the 'Morgante Maggiore,' speaks of Meridiana, the daughter of . . ." "Old Carus Borzlam," said Ursula; "but if the fellow you mention lived so many hundred years ago, how, in the name of wonder, could he know anything of Meridiana?" "The wonder, Ursula, is, how your people could ever have got hold of that name, and similar ones. The Meridiana of Pulci was not the daughter of old Carus Borzlam, but of Caradoro, a great pagan king of the East, who, being besieged in his capital by Manfredonio, another mighty pagan king, who wished to obtain possession of his daughter, who had refused him, was relieved in his distress by certain paladins of Charlemagne, with one of whom, Oliver, his daughter Meridiana fell in love." "I see," said Ursula, "that it must have been altogether a different person, for I am sure that Meridiana Borzlam would never have fallen in love with Oliver. Oliver! why, that is the name of the curo-mengro who lost the fight near the chong gav, the day of the great tempest, when I got wet through. No, no! Meridiana Borzlam would never have so far forgot her blood as to take up with Tom Oliver." "I was not talking of that Oliver, Ursula, but of Oliver, peer of France, and paladin of Charlemagne, with whom Meridiana, daughter of Caradoro, fell in love, and for whose sake she renounced her religion and became a Christian, and finally ingravidata, or cambri, by him:-- 'E nacquene un figliuol, dice la storia, Che dette a Carlo-man poi gran vittoria:' which means . . ." "I don't want to know what it means," said Ursula; "no good, I'm sure. Well, if the Meridiana of Charles's wain's pal was no handsomer than Meridiana Borzlam, she was no great catch, brother; for though I am by no means given to vanity, I think myself better to look at than she, though I will say she is no lubbeny, and would scorn . . ." "I make no doubt she would, Ursula, and I make no doubt that you are much handsomer than she, or even the Meridiana of Oliver. What I was about to say, before you interrupted me, is this, that though I have a great regard for you, and highly admire you, it is only in a brotherly way, and . . ." "And you had nothing better to say to me," said Ursula, "when you wanted to talk to me beneath a hedge, than that you liked me in a brotherly way! well, I declare . . ." "You seem disappointed, Ursula." "Disappointed, brother! not I." "You were just now saying that you disliked gorgios, so, of course, could only wish that I, who am a gorgio, should like you in a brotherly way; I wished to have a conversation with you beneath a hedge, but only with the view of procuring from you some information respecting the song which you sung the other day, and the conduct of Roman females, which has always struck me as being highly unaccountable, so, if you thought anything else . . ." "What else should I expect from a picker-up of old words, brother? Bah! I dislike a picker-up of old words worse than a picker-up of old rags." "Don't be angry, Ursula, I feel a great interest in you; you are very handsome, and very clever; indeed, with your beauty and cleverness, I only wonder that you have not long since been married." "You do, do you, brother?" "Yes. However, keep up your spirits, Ursula, you are not much past the prime of youth, so . . ." "Not much past the prime of youth! Don't be uncivil, brother; I was only twenty-two last month." "Don't be offended, Ursula, but twenty-two is twenty-two, or I should rather say, that twenty-two in a woman is more than twenty-six in a man. You are still very beautiful, but I advise you to accept the first offer that's made to you." "Thank you, brother, but your advice comes rather late; I accepted the first offer that was made me five years ago." "You married five years ago, Ursula! is it possible?" "Quite possible, brother, I assure you." "And how came I to know nothing about it?" "How comes it that you don't know many thousand things about the Romans, brother? Do you think they tell you all their affairs?" "Married, Ursula, married! well, I declare!" "You seem disappointed, brother." "Disappointed! Oh, no! not at all; but Jasper, only a few weeks ago, told me that you were not married; and, indeed, almost gave me to understand that you would be very glad to get a husband." "And you believed him? I'll tell you, brother, for your instruction, that there is not in the whole world a greater liar than Jasper Petulengro." "I am sorry to hear it, Ursula; but with respect to him you married--who might he be? A gorgio, or a Romany chal?" "Gorgio, or Romany chal? Do you think I would ever condescend to a gorgio? It was a Camomescro, brother, a Lovell, a distant relation of my own." "And where is he; and what became of him? Have you any family?" "Don't think I am going to tell you all my history, brother; and, to tell you the truth, I am tired of sitting under hedges with you, talking nonsense. I shall go to my house." "Do sit a little longer, sister Ursula. I most heartily congratulate you on your marriage. But where is this same Lovell? I have never seen him: I should wish to congratulate him too. You are quite as handsome as the Meridiana of Pulci, Ursula, ay, or the Despina of Riciardetto. Riciardetto, Ursula, is a poem written by one Fortiguerra, about ninety years ago, in imitation of the Morgante of Pulci. It treats of the wars of Charlemagne and his Paladins with various barbarous nations, who came to besiege Paris. Despina was the daughter and heiress of Scricca, King of Cafria; she was the beloved of Riciardetto, and was beautiful as an angel; but I make no doubt you are quite as handsome as she." "Brother," said Ursula--but the reply of Ursula I reserve for another chapter, the present having attained to rather an uncommon length, for which, however, the importance of the matter discussed is a sufficient apology. CHAPTER XI. URSULA'S TALE--THE PATTERAN--THE DEEP WATER--SECOND HUSBAND. "Brother," said Ursula, plucking a dandelion which grew at her feet, "I have always said that a more civil and pleasant-spoken person than yourself can't be found. I have a great regard for you and your learning, and am willing to do you any pleasure in the way of words or conversation. Mine is not a very happy story, but as you wish to hear it, it is quite at your service. Launcelot Lovell made me an offer, as you call it, and we were married in Roman fashion; that is, we gave each other our right hands, and promised to be true to each other. We lived together two years, travelling sometimes by ourselves, sometimes with our relations; I bore him two children, both of which were still-born, partly, I believe, from the fatigue I underwent in running about the country telling dukkerin when I was not exactly in a state to do so, and partly from the kicks and blows which my husband Launcelot was in the habit of giving me every night, provided I came home with less than five shillings, which it is sometimes impossible to make in the country, provided no fair or merry-making is going on. At the end of two years my husband, Launcelot, whistled a horse from a farmer's field, and sold it for forty pounds; and for that horse he was taken, put in prison, tried, and condemned to be sent to the other country for life. Two days before he was to be sent away, I got leave to see him in the prison, and in the presence of the turnkey I gave him a thin cake of gingerbread, in which there was a dainty saw which could cut through iron. I then took on wonderfully, turned my eyes inside out, fell down in a seeming fit, and was carried out of the prison. That same night my husband sawed his irons off, cut through the bars of his window, and dropping down a height of fifty feet, lighted on his legs, and came and joined me on a heath where I was camped alone. We were just getting things ready to be off, when we heard people coming, and sure enough they were runners after my husband, Launcelot Lovell; for his escape had been discovered within a quarter of an hour after he had got away. My husband, without bidding me farewell, set off at full speed, and they after him, but they could not take him, and so they came back and took me, and shook me, and threatened me, and had me before the poknees, who shook his head at me, and threatened me in order to make me discover where my husband was, but I said I did not know, which was true enough; not that I would have told him if I had. So at last the poknees and the runners, not being able to make anything out of me, were obliged to let me go, and I went in search of my husband. I wandered about with my cart for several days in the direction in which I saw him run off, with my eyes bent on the ground, but could see no marks of him; at last, coming to four cross roads, I saw my husband's patteran." "You saw your husband's patteran?" "Yes, brother. Do you know what patteran means?" "Of course, Ursula; the gypsy trail, the handful of grass which the gypsies strew in the roads as they travel, to give information to any of their companions who may be behind, as to the route they have taken. The gypsy patteran has always had a strange interest for me, Ursula." "Like enough, brother; but what does patteran mean?" "Why, the gypsy trail, formed as I told you before." "And you know nothing more about patteran, brother?" "Nothing at all, Ursula; do you?" "What's the name for the leaf of a tree, brother?" "I don't know," said I; "it's odd enough that I have asked that question of a dozen Romany chals and chies, and they always told me that they did not know." "No more they did, brother; there's only one person in England that knows, and that's myself--the name for a leaf is patteran. Now there are two that knows it--the other is yourself." "Dear me, Ursula, how very strange! I am much obliged to you. I think I never saw you look so pretty as you do now; but who told you?" "My mother, Mrs. Herne, told it me one day, brother, when she was in a good humour, which she very seldom was, as no one has a better right to know than yourself, as she hated you mortally: it was one day when you had been asking our company what was the word for a leaf, and nobody could tell you, that she took me aside and told me, for she was in a good humour, and triumphed in seeing you balked. She told me the word for leaf was patteran, which our people use now for trail, having forgotten the true meaning. She said that the trail was called patteran, because the gypsies of old were in the habit of making the marks with the leaves and branches of trees, placed in a certain manner. She said that nobody knew it but herself, who was one of the old sort, and begged me never to tell the word to any one but him I should marry; and to be particularly cautious never to let you know it, whom she hated. Well, brother, perhaps I have done wrong to tell you; but, as I said before, I likes you, and am always ready to do your pleasure in words and conversation; my mother, moreover, is dead and gone, and, poor thing, will never know anything about the matter. So, when I married, I told my husband about the patteran, and we were in the habit of making our private trail with leaves and branches of trees, which none of the other gypsy people did; so, when I saw my husband's patteran, I knew it at once, and I followed it upwards of two hundred miles towards the north; and then I came to a deep, awful-looking water, with an overhanging bank, and on the bank I found the patteran, which directed me to proceed along the bank towards the east, and I followed my husband's patteran towards the east; and before I had gone half a mile, I came to a place where I saw the bank had given way, and fallen into the deep water. Without paying much heed, I passed on, and presently came to a public-house, not far from the water, and I entered the public-house to get a little beer, and perhaps to tell a dukkerin, for I saw a great many people about the door; and, when I entered, I found there was what they calls an inquest being held upon a body in that house, and the jury had just risen to go and look at the body; and being a woman, and having a curiosity, I thought I would go with them, and so I did; and no sooner did I see the body than I knew it to be my husband's; it was much swelled and altered, but I knew it partly by the clothes, and partly by a mark on the forehead, and I cried out, 'It is my husband's body,' and I fell down in a fit, and the fit that time, brother, was not a seeming one." "Dear me," said I, "how terrible! but tell me, Ursula, how did your husband come by his death?" "The bank, overhanging the deep water, gave way under him, brother, and he was drowned; for, like most of our people, he could not swim, or only a little. The body, after it had been in the water a long time, came up of itself, and was found floating. Well, brother, when the people of the neighbourhood found that I was the wife of the drowned man, they were very kind to me, and made a subscription for me, with which, after having seen my husband buried, I returned the way I had come, till I met Jasper and his people, and with them I have travelled ever since: I was very melancholy for a long time, I assure you, brother; for the death of my husband preyed very much upon my mind." "His death was certainly a very shocking one, Ursula; but, really, if he had died a natural one, you could scarcely have regretted it, for he appears to have treated you barbarously." "Women must bear, brother; and, barring that he kicked and beat me, and drove me out to tell dukkerin when I could scarcely stand, he was not a bad husband. A man, by gypsy law, brother, is allowed to kick and beat his wife, and to bury her alive, if he thinks proper. I am a gypsy, and have nothing to say against the law." "But what has Mikailia Chikno to say about it?" "She is a cripple, brother, the only cripple amongst the Roman people: so she is allowed to do and say as she pleases. Moreover, her husband does not think fit to kick or beat her, though it is my opinion she would like him all the better if he were occasionally to do so, and threaten to bury her alive; at any rate, she would treat him better, and respect him more." "Your sister does not seem to stand much in awe of Jasper Petulengro, Ursula." "Let the matters of my sister and Jasper Petulengro alone, brother; you must travel in their company some time before you can understand them; they are a strange two, up to all kind of chaffing: but two more regular Romans don't breathe, and I'll tell you, for your instruction, that there isn't a better mare-breaker in England than Jasper Petulengro, if you can manage Miss Isopel Berners as well as . . ." "Isopel Berners," said I, "how came you to think of her?" "How should I but think of her, brother, living as she does with you in Mumper's dingle, and travelling about with you; you will have, brother, more difficulty to manage her, than Jasper has to manage my sister Pakomovna. I should have mentioned her before, only I wanted to know what you had to say to me; and when we got into discourse, I forgot her. I say, brother, let me tell you your dukkerin, with respect to her, you will never, . ." "I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula." "Do let me tell you your dukkerin, brother, you will never manage . . ." "I want to hear no dukkerin, Ursula, in connection with Isopel Berners. Moreover, it is Sunday, we will change the subject; it is surprising to me that, after all you have undergone, you should still look so beautiful. I suppose you do not think of marrying again, Ursula?" "No, brother, one husband at a time is quite enough for any reasonable mort; especially such a good husband as I have got." "Such a good husband! why, I thought you told me your husband was drowned?" "Yes, brother, my first husband was." "And have you a second?" "To be sure, brother." "And who is he, in the name of wonder?" "Who is he? why Sylvester, to be sure." "I do assure you, Ursula, that I feel disposed to be angry with you; such a handsome young woman as yourself to take up with such a nasty pepper- faced good-for-nothing . . ." "I won't hear my husband abused, brother; so you had better say no more." "Why, is he not the Lazarus of the gypsies? has he a penny of his own, Ursula?" "Then the more his want, brother, of a clever chi like me to take care of him and his childer. I tell you what, brother, I will chore, if necessary, and tell dukkerin for Sylvester, if even so heavy as scarcely to be able to stand. You call him lazy; you would not think him lazy if you were in a ring with him; he is a proper man with his hands: Jasper is going to back him for twenty pounds against Slammocks of the Chong gav, the brother of Roarer and Bell-metal; he says he has no doubt that he will win." "Well, if you like him, I, of course, can have no objection. Have you been long married?" "About a fortnight, brother; that dinner, the other day, when I sang the song, was given in celebration of the wedding." "Were you married in a church, Ursula?" "We were not, brother; none but gorgios, cripples, and lubbenys are ever married in a church: we took each other's words. Brother, I have been with you near three hours beneath this hedge. I will go to my husband." "Does he know that you are here?" "He does, brother." "And is he satisfied?" "Satisfied! of course. Lor', you gorgios! Brother, I go to my husband and my house." And, thereupon, Ursula rose and departed. After waiting a little time I also arose; it was now dark, and I thought I could do no better than betake myself to the dingle; at the entrance of it I found Mr. Petulengro. "Well, brother," said he, "what kind of conversation have you and Ursula had beneath the hedge?" "If you wished to hear what we were talking about, you should have come and sat down beside us; you knew where we were." "Well, brother, I did much the same, for I went and sat down behind you." "Behind the hedge, Jasper?" "Behind the hedge, brother." "And heard all our conversation?" "Every word, brother; and a rum conversation it was." "'Tis an old saying, Jasper, that listeners never hear any good of themselves; perhaps you heard the epithet that Ursula bestowed upon you." "If, by epitaph, you mean that she called me a liar, I did, brother, and she was not much wrong, for I certainly do not always stick exactly to truth; you, however, have not much to complain of me." "You deceived me about Ursula, giving me to understand she was not married." "She was not married when I told you so, brother; that is, not to Sylvester; nor was I aware that she was going to marry him. I once thought you had a kind of regard for her, and I am sure she had as much for you as a Romany chi can have for a gorgio. I half expected to have heard you make love to her behind the hedge, but I begin to think you care for nothing in this world but old words and strange stories. Lor', to take a young woman under a hedge, and talk to her as you did to Ursula; and yet you got everything out of her that you wanted, with your gammon about old Fulcher and Meridiana. You are a cunning one, brother." "There you are mistaken, Jasper. I am not cunning. If people think I am, it is because, being made up of art themselves, simplicity of character is a puzzle to them. Your women are certainly extraordinary creatures, Jasper." "Didn't I say they were rum animals? Brother, we Romans shall always stick together as long as they stick fast to us." "Do you think they always will, Jasper?" "Can't say, brother; nothing lasts for ever. Romany chies are Romany chies still, though not exactly what they were sixty years ago. My wife, though a rum one, is not Mrs. Herne, brother. I think she is rather fond of Frenchmen and French discourse. I tell you what, brother, if ever gypsyism breaks up, it will be owing to our chies having been bitten by that mad puppy they calls gentility." CHAPTER XII. THE DINGLE AT NIGHT--THE TWO SIDES OF THE QUESTION--ROMAN FEMALES--FILLING THE KETTLE--THE DREAM--THE TALL FIGURE. I descended to the bottom of the dingle. It was nearly involved in obscurity. To dissipate the feeling of melancholy which came over my mind, I resolved to kindle a fire; and having heaped dry sticks upon my hearth, and added a billet or two, I struck a light, and soon produced a blaze. Sitting down, I fixed my eyes upon the blaze, and soon fell into a deep meditation. I thought of the events of the day, the scene at church, and what I had heard at church, the danger of losing one's soul, the doubts of Jasper Petulengro as to whether one had a soul. I thought over the various arguments which I had either heard, or which had come spontaneously to my mind, for or against the probability of a state of future existence. They appeared to me to be tolerably evenly balanced. I then thought that it was at all events taking the safest part to conclude that there was a soul. It would be a terrible thing, after having passed one's life in the disbelief of the existence of a soul, to wake up after death a soul, and to find one's self a lost soul. Yes, methought I would come to the conclusion that one has a soul. Choosing the safe side, however, appeared to me playing rather a dastardly part. I had never been an admirer of people who chose the safe side in everything; indeed I had always entertained a thorough contempt for them. Surely it would be showing more manhood to adopt the dangerous side, that of disbelief; I almost resolved to do so--but yet in a question of so much importance, I ought not to be guided by vanity. The question was not which was the safe, but the true side? yet how was I to know which was the true side? Then I thought of the Bible--which I had been reading in the morning--that spoke of the soul and a future state; but was the Bible true? I had heard learned and moral men say that it was true, but I had also heard learned and moral men say that it was not: how was I to decide? Still that balance of probabilities! If I could but see the way of truth, I would follow it, if necessary, upon hands and knees; on that I was determined; but I could not see it. Feeling my brain begin to turn round, I resolved to think of something else; and forthwith began to think of what had passed between Ursula and myself in our discourse beneath the hedge. I mused deeply on what she had told me as to the virtue of the females of her race. How singular that virtue must be which was kept pure and immaculate by the possessor, whilst indulging in habits of falsehood and dishonesty. I had always thought the gypsy females extraordinary beings. I had often wondered at them, their dress, their manner of speaking, and, not least, at their names; but, until the present day, I had been unacquainted with the most extraordinary point connected with them. How came they possessed of this extraordinary virtue? was it because they were thievish? I remembered that an ancient thief-taker, who had retired from his useful calling, and who frequently visited the office of my master at law, the respectable S . . ., who had the management of his property--I remembered to have heard this worthy, with whom I occasionally held discourse, philosophic and profound, when he and I chanced to be alone together in the office, say that all first-rate thieves were sober, and of well-regulated morals, their bodily passions being kept in abeyance by their love of gain; but this axiom could scarcely hold good with respect to these women--however thievish they might be, they did care for something besides gain: they cared for their husbands. If they did thieve, they merely thieved for their husbands; and though, perhaps, some of them were vain, they merely prized their beauty because it gave them favour in the eyes of their husbands. Whatever the husbands were--and Jasper had almost insinuated that the males occasionally allowed themselves some latitude--they appeared to be as faithful to their husbands as the ancient Roman matrons were to theirs. Roman matrons! and, after all, might not these be in reality Roman matrons? They called themselves Romans; might not they be the descendants of the old Roman matrons? Might not they be of the same blood as Lucretia? And were not many of their strange names--Lucretia amongst the rest--handed down to them from old Rome? It is true their language was not that of old Rome; it was not, however, altogether different from it. After all, the ancient Romans might be a tribe of these people, who settled down and founded a village with the tilts of carts, which by degrees, and the influx of other people, became the grand city of the world. I liked the idea of the grand city of the world owing its origin to a people who had been in the habit of carrying their houses in their carts. Why, after all, should not the Romans of history be a branch of these Romans? There were several points of similarity between them; if Roman matrons were chaste, both men and women were thieves. Old Rome was the thief of the world; yet still there were difficulties to be removed before I could persuade myself that the old Romans and my Romans were identical; and in trying to remove these difficulties, I felt my brain once more beginning to turn, and in haste took up another subject of meditation, and that was the patteran, and what Ursula had told me about it. I had always entertained a strange interest for that sign by which in their wanderings the Romanese gave to those of their people who came behind intimation as to the direction which they took; but it now inspired me with greater interest than ever,--now that I had learned that the proper meaning of it was the leaves of trees. I had, as I had said in my dialogue with Ursula, been very eager to learn the word for leaf in the Romanian language, but had never learned it till this day; so patteran signified leaf, the leaf of a tree; and no one at present knew that but myself and Ursula, who had learned it from Mrs. Herne, the last, it was said, of the old stock; and then I thought what strange people the gypsies must have been in the old time. They were sufficiently strange at present, but they must have been far stranger of old; they must have been a more peculiar people--their language must have been more perfect--and they must have had a greater stock of strange secrets. I almost wished that I had lived some two or three hundred years ago, that I might have observed these people when they were yet stranger than at present. I wondered whether I could have introduced myself to their company at that period, whether I should have been so fortunate as to meet such a strange, half-malicious, half good-humoured being as Jasper, who would have instructed me in the language, then more deserving of note than at present. What might I not have done with that language, had I known it in its purity? Why, I might have written books in it; yet those who spoke it would hardly have admitted me to their society at that period, when they kept more to themselves. Yet I thought that I might possibly have gained their confidence, and have wandered about with them, and learned their language, and all their strange ways, and then--and then--and a sigh rose from the depth of my breast; for I began to think, "Supposing I had accomplished all this, what would have been the profit of it? and in what would all this wild gypsy dream have terminated?" Then rose another sigh, yet more profound, for I began to think, "What was likely to be the profit of my present way of life; the living in dingles, making pony and donkey shoes, conversing with gypsy-women under hedges, and extracting from them their odd secrets?" What was likely to be the profit of such a kind of life, even should it continue for a length of time?--a supposition not very probable, for I was earning nothing to support me, and the funds with which I had entered upon this life were gradually disappearing. I was living, it is true, not unpleasantly, enjoying the healthy air of heaven; but, upon the whole, was I not sadly misspending my time? Surely I was; and, as I looked back, it appeared to me that I had always been doing so. What had been the profit of the tongues which I had learned? had they ever assisted me in the day of hunger? No, no! it appeared to me that I had always misspent my time, save in one instance, when by a desperate effort I had collected all the powers of my imagination, and written the "Life of Joseph Sell;" but even when I wrote the Life of Sell, was I not in a false position? Provided I had not misspent my time, would it have been necessary to make that effort, which, after all, had only enabled me to leave London, and wander about the country for a time? But could I, taking all circumstances into consideration, have done better than I had? With my peculiar temperament and ideas, could I have pursued with advantage the profession to which my respectable parents had endeavoured to bring me up? It appeared to me that I could not, and that the hand of necessity had guided me from my earliest years, until the present night in which I found myself seated in the dingle, staring on the brands of the fire. But ceasing to think of the past which, as irrecoverably gone, it was useless to regret, even were there cause to regret it, what should I do in future? Should I write another book like the Life of Joseph Sell; take it to London, and offer it to a publisher? But when I reflected on the grisly sufferings which I had undergone whilst engaged in writing the Life of Sell, I shrank from the idea of a similar attempt; moreover, I doubted whether I possessed the power to write a similar work--whether the materials for the life of another Sell lurked within the recesses of my brain? Had I not better become in reality what I had hitherto been merely playing at--a tinker or a gypsy? But I soon saw that I was not fitted to become either in reality. It was much more agreeable to play the gypsy or the tinker, than to become either in reality. I had seen enough of gypsying and tinkering to be convinced of that. All of a sudden the idea of tilling the soil came into my head; tilling the soil was a healthful and noble pursuit! but my idea of tilling the soil had no connection with Britain; for I could only expect to till the soil in Britain as a serf. I thought of tilling it in America, in which it was said there was plenty of wild, unclaimed land, of which any one, who chose to clear it of its trees, might take possession. I figured myself in America, in an immense forest, clearing the land destined, by my exertions, to become a fruitful and smiling plain. Methought I heard the crash of the huge trees as they fell beneath my axe; and then I bethought me that a man was intended to marry--I ought to marry; and if I married, where was I likely to be more happy as a husband and a father than in America, engaged in tilling the ground? I fancied myself in America, engaged in tilling the ground, assisted by an enormous progeny. Well, why not marry, and go and till the ground in America? I was young, and youth was the time to marry in, and to labour in. I had the use of all my faculties; my eyes, it is true, were rather dull from early study, and from writing the Life of Joseph Sell; but I could see tolerably well with them, and they were not bleared. I felt my arms, and thighs, and teeth--they were strong and sound enough; so now was the time to labour, to marry, eat strong flesh, and beget strong children--the power of doing all this would pass away with youth, which was terribly transitory. I bethought me that a time would come when my eyes would be bleared, and, perhaps, sightless; my arms and thighs strengthless and sapless; when my teeth would shake in my jaws, even supposing they did not drop out. No going a wooing then--no labouring--no eating strong flesh, and begetting lusty children then; and I bethought me how, when all this should be, I should bewail the days of my youth as misspent, provided I had not in them founded for myself a home, and begotten strong children to take care of me in the days when I could not take care of myself; and thinking of these things, I became sadder and sadder, and stared vacantly upon the fire till my eyes closed in a doze. I continued dozing over the fire, until rousing myself I perceived that the brands were nearly consumed, and I thought of retiring for the night. I arose, and was about to enter my tent, when a thought struck me. "Suppose," thought I, "that Isopel Berners should return in the midst of the night, how dark and dreary would the dingle appear without a fire! truly, I will keep up the fire, and I will do more; I have no board to spread for her, but I will fill the kettle, and heat it, so that if she comes, I may be able to welcome her with a cup of tea, for I know she loves tea." Thereupon, I piled more wood upon the fire, and soon succeeded in producing a better blaze than before; then, taking the kettle, I set out for the spring. On arriving at the mouth of the dingle, which fronted the east, I perceived that Charles's wain was nearly opposite to it, high above in the heavens, by which I knew that the night was tolerably well advanced. The gypsy encampment lay before me; all was hushed and still within it, and its inmates appeared to be locked in slumber; as I advanced, however, the dogs, which were fastened outside the tents, growled and barked; but presently recognising me, they were again silent, some of them wagging their tails. As I drew near a particular tent, I heard a female voice say--"Some one is coming!" and, as I was about to pass it, the cloth which formed the door was suddenly lifted up, and a black head and part of a huge naked body protruded. It was the head and upper part of the giant Tawno, who, according to the fashion of gypsy men, lay next the door, wrapped in his blanket; the blanket had, however, fallen off, and the starlight shone clear on his athletic tawny body, and was reflected from his large staring eyes. "It is only I, Tawno," said I, "going to fill the kettle, as it is possible that Miss Berners may arrive this night." "Kos-ko," drawled out Tawno, and replaced the curtain. "Good, do you call it?" said the sharp voice of his wife; "there is no good in the matter; if that young chap were not living with the rawnee in the illegal and uncertificated line, he would not be getting up in the middle of the night to fill her kettles." Passing on, I proceeded to the spring, where I filled the kettle, and then returned to the dingle. Placing the kettle upon the fire, I watched it till it began to boil; then removing it from the top of the brands, I placed it close beside the fire, and leaving it simmering, I retired to my tent; where, having taken off my shoes, and a few of my garments, I lay down on my palliasse, and was not long in falling asleep. I believe I slept soundly for some time, thinking and dreaming of nothing; suddenly, however, my sleep became disturbed, and the subject of the patterans began to occupy my brain. I imagined that I saw Ursula tracing her husband, Launcelot Lovell, by means of his patterans; I imagined that she had considerable difficulty in doing so; that she was occasionally interrupted by parish beadles and constables, who asked her whither she was travelling, to whom she gave various answers. Presently me thought that, as she was passing by a farm- yard, two fierce and savage dogs flew at her; I was in great trouble, I remember, and wished to assist her, but could not, for though I seemed to see her, I was still at a distance: and now it appeared that she had escaped from the dogs, and was proceeding with her cart along a gravelly path which traversed a wild moor; I could hear the wheels grating amidst sand and gravel. The next moment I was awake, and found myself sitting up in my tent; there was a glimmer of light through the canvas caused by the fire; a feeling of dread came over me, which was perhaps natural, on starting suddenly from one's sleep in that wild lone place; I half imagined that some one was nigh the tent; the idea made me rather uncomfortable, and to dissipate it I lifted up the canvas of the door and peeped out, and, lo! I had an indistinct view of a tall figure standing by the tent. "Who is that?" said I, whilst I felt my blood rush to my heart. "It is I," said the voice of Isopel Berners; "you little expected me, I dare say; well, sleep on, I do not wish to disturb you." "But I was expecting you," said I, recovering myself, "as you may see by the fire and the kettle. I will be with you in a moment." Putting on in haste the articles of dress which I had flung off, I came out of the tent, and addressing myself to Isopel, who was standing beside her cart, I said--"Just as I was about to retire to rest I thought it possible that you might come to-night, and got everything in readiness for you. Now, sit down by the fire whilst I lead the donkey and cart to the place where you stay; I will unharness the animal, and presently come and join you." "I need not trouble you," said Isopel; "I will go myself and see after my things." "We will go together," said I, "and then return and have some tea." Isopel made no objection, and in about half- an-hour we had arranged everything at her quarters, I then hastened and prepared tea. Presently Isopel rejoined me, bringing her stool; she had divested herself of her bonnet, and her hair fell over her shoulders; she sat down, and I poured out the beverage, handing her a cup. "Have you made a long journey to-night?" said I. "A very long one," replied Belle, "I have come nearly twenty miles since six o'clock." "I believe I heard you coming in my sleep," said I; "did the dogs above bark at you?" "Yes," said Isopel, "very violently; did you think of me in your sleep?" "No," said I, "I was thinking of Ursula and something she had told me." "When and where was that?" said Isopel. "Yesterday evening," said I, "beneath the dingle hedge." "Then you were talking with her beneath the hedge?" "I was," said I, "but only upon gypsy matters. Do you know, Belle, that she has just been married to Sylvester, so you need not think that she and I . . ." "She and you are quite at liberty to sit where you please," said Isopel. "However, young man," she continued, dropping her tone, which she had slightly raised, "I believe what you said, that you were merely talking about gypsy matters, and also what you were going to say, if it was, as I suppose, that she and you had no particular acquaintance." Isopel was now silent for some time. "What are you thinking of?" said I. "I was thinking," said Belle, "how exceedingly kind it was of you to get everything in readiness for me, though you did not know that I should come." "I had a presentiment that you would come," said I; "but you forget that I have prepared the kettle for you before, though it was true I was then certain that you would come." "I had not forgotten your doing so, young man," said Belle; "but I was beginning to think that you were utterly selfish, caring for nothing but the gratification of your own strange whims." "I am very fond of having my own way," said I, "but utterly selfish I am not, as I dare say I shall frequently prove to you. You will often find the kettle boiling when you come home." "Not heated by you," said Isopel, with a sigh. "By whom else?" said I; "surely you are not thinking of driving me away?" "You have as much right here as myself," said Isopel, "as I have told you before; but I must be going myself." "Well," said I, "we can go together; to tell you the truth, I am rather tired of this place." "Our paths must be separate," said Belle. "Separate," said I, "what do you mean? I shan't let you go alone, I shall go with you; and you know the road is as free to me as to you; besides, you can't think of parting company with me, considering how much you would lose by doing so; remember that you scarcely know anything of the Armenian language; now, to learn Armenian from me would take you twenty years." Belle faintly smiled. "Come," said I, "take another cup of tea." Belle took another cup of tea, and yet another; we had some indifferent conversation, after which I arose and gave her donkey a considerable feed of corn. Belle thanked me, shook me by the hand, and then went to her own tabernacle, and I returned to mine. CHAPTER XIII. VISIT TO THE LANDLORD--HIS MORTIFICATIONS--HUNTER AND HIS CLAN--RESOLUTION. On the following morning, after breakfasting with Belle, who was silent and melancholy, I left her in the dingle, and took a stroll among the neighbouring lanes. After some time I thought I would pay a visit to the landlord of the public-house, whom I had not seen since the day when he communicated to me his intention of changing his religion. I therefore directed my steps to the house, and on entering it found the landlord standing in the kitchen. Just then two mean-looking fellows, who had been drinking at one of the tables, and who appeared to be the only customers in the house, got up, brushed past the landlord, and saying in a surly tone "We shall pay you some time or other," took their departure. "That's the way they serve me now," said the landlord, with a sigh. "Do you know those fellows," I demanded, "since you let them go away in your debt?" "I know nothing about them," said the landlord, "save that they are a couple of scamps." "Then why did you let them go away without paying you?" said I. "I had not the heart to stop them," said the landlord; "and, to tell you the truth, everybody serves me so now, and I suppose they are right, for a child could flog me." "Nonsense," said I, "behave more like a man, and with respect to those two fellows run after them, I will go with you, and if they refuse to pay the reckoning I will help you to shake some money out of their clothes." "Thank you," said the landlord; "but as they are gone, let them go on. What they have drank is not of much consequence." "What is the matter with you?" said I, staring at the landlord, who appeared strangely altered; his features were wild and haggard, his formerly bluff cheeks were considerably sunken in, and his figure had lost much of its plumpness. "Have you changed your religion already, and has the fellow in black commanded you to fast?" "I have not changed my religion yet," said the landlord, with a kind of shudder; "I am to change it publicly this day fortnight, and the idea of doing so--I do not mind telling you--preys much upon my mind; moreover, the noise of the thing has got abroad, and everybody is laughing at me, and what's more, coming and drinking my beer, and going away without paying for it, whilst I feel myself like one bewitched, wishing but not daring to take my own part. Confound the fellow in black, I wish I had never seen him! yet what can I do without him? The brewer swears that unless I pay him fifty pounds within a fortnight he'll send a distress warrant into the house, and take all I have. My poor niece is crying in the room above; and I am thinking of going into the stable and hanging myself; and perhaps it's the best thing I can do, for it's better to hang myself before selling my soul than afterwards, as I'm sure I should, like Judas Iscariot, whom my poor niece, who is somewhat religiously inclined, has been talking to me about." "I wish I could assist you," said I, "with money, but that is quite out of my power. However, I can give you a piece of advice. Don't change your religion by any means; you can't hope to prosper if you do; and if the brewer chooses to deal hardly with you, let him. Everybody would respect you ten times more provided you allowed yourself to be turned into the roads rather than change your religion, than if you got fifty pounds for renouncing it." "I am half inclined to take your advice," said the landlord, "only, to tell you the truth, I feel quite low, without any heart in me." "Come into the bar," said I, "and let us have something together--you need not be afraid of my not paying for what I order." We went into the bar-room, where the landlord and I discussed between us two bottles of strong ale, which he said were part of the last six which he had in his possession. At first he wished to drink sherry, but I begged him to do no such thing, telling him that sherry would do him no good, under the present circumstances; nor, indeed, to the best of my belief under any, it being of all wines the one for which I entertained the most contempt. The landlord allowed himself to be dissuaded, and, after a glass or two of ale, confessed that sherry was a sickly disagreeable drink, and that he had merely been in the habit of taking it from an idea he had that it was genteel. Whilst quaffing our beverage, he gave me an account of the various mortifications to which he had of late been subject, dwelling with particular bitterness on the conduct of Hunter, who, he said, came every night and mouthed him, and afterwards went away without paying for what he had drank or smoked, in which conduct he was closely imitated by a clan of fellows who constantly attended him. After spending several hours at the public-house I departed, not forgetting to pay for the two bottles of ale. The landlord, before I went, shaking me by the hand, declared that he had now made up his mind to stick to his religion at all hazards, the more especially as he was convinced he should derive no good by giving it up. CHAPTER XIV. PREPARATIONS FOR THE FAIR--THE LAST LESSON--THE VERB SIRIEL. It might be about five in the evening when I reached the gypsy encampment. Here I found Mr. Petulengro, Tawno Chikno, Sylvester, and others, in a great bustle, clipping and trimming certain ponies and old horses which they had brought with them. On inquiring of Jasper the reason of their being so engaged, he informed me that they were getting the horses ready for a fair, which was to be held on the morrow, at a place some miles distant, at which they should endeavour to dispose of them, adding--"Perhaps, brother, you will go with us, provided you have nothing better to do?" Not having any particular engagement, I assured him that I should have great pleasure in being of the party. It was agreed that we should start early on the following morning. Thereupon I descended into the dingle. Belle was sitting before the fire, at which the kettle was boiling. "Were you waiting for me?" I inquired. "Yes," said Belle, "I thought that you would come, and I waited for you." "That was very kind," said I. "Not half so kind," said she, "as it was of you to get everything ready for me in the dead of last night, when there was scarcely a chance of my coming." The tea-things were brought forward, and we sat down. "Have you been far?" said Belle. "Merely to that public-house," said I, "to which you directed me on the second day of our acquaintance." "Young men should not make a habit of visiting public- houses," said Belle, "they are bad places." "They may be so to some people," said I, "but I do not think the worst public-house in England could do me any harm." "Perhaps you are so bad already," said Belle, with a smile, "that it would be impossible to spoil you." "How dare you catch at my words?" said I; "come, I will make you pay for doing so--you shall have this evening the longest lesson in Armenian which I have yet inflicted upon you." "You may well say inflicted," said Belle, "but pray spare me. I do not wish to hear anything about Armenian, especially this evening." "Why this evening?" said I. Belle made no answer. "I will not spare you," said I; "this evening I intend to make you conjugate an Armenian verb." "Well, be it so," said Belle; "for this evening you shall command." "To command is hramahyel," said I. "Ram her ill, indeed," said Belle; "I do not wish to begin with that." "No," said I, "as we have come to the verbs, we will begin regularly; hramahyel is a verb of the second conjugation. We will begin with the first." "First of all tell me," said Belle, "what a verb is?" "A part of speech," said I, "which, according to the dictionary, signifies some action or passion; for example, I command you, or I hate you." "I have given you no cause to hate me," said Belle, looking me sorrowfully in the face. "I was merely giving two examples," said I, "and neither was directed at you. In those examples, to command and hate are verbs. Belle, in Armenian there are four conjugations of verbs; the first end in al, the second in yel, the third in oul, and the fourth in il. Now, have you understood me?" "I am afraid, indeed, it will all end ill," said Belle. "Hold your tongue," said I, "or you will make me lose my patience." "You have already made me nearly lose mine," said Belle. "Let us have no unprofitable interruptions," said I. "The conjugations of the Armenian verbs are neither so numerous nor so difficult as the declensions of the nouns; hear that, and rejoice. Come, we will begin with the verb hntal, a verb of the first conjugation, which signifies to rejoice. Come along; hntam, I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest: why don't you follow, Belle?" "I am sure I don't rejoice, whatever you may do," said Belle. "The chief difficulty, Belle," said I, "that I find in teaching you the Armenian grammar, proceeds from your applying to yourself and me every example I give. Rejoice, in this instance, is merely an example of an Armenian verb of the first conjugation, and has no more to do with your rejoicing than lal, which is also a verb of the first conjugation, and which signifies to weep, would have to do with your weeping, provided I made you conjugate it. Come along; hntam, I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest; hnta, he rejoices; hntamk, we rejoice: now, repeat those words." "I can't," said Belle, "they sound more like the language of horses than of human beings. Do you take me for . . .?" "For what?" said I. Belle was silent. "Were you going to say mare?" said I. "Mare! mare! by-the- bye, do you know, Belle, that mare in old English stands for woman; and that when we call a female an evil mare, the strict meaning of the term is merely bad woman. So if I were to call you mare, without prefixing bad, you must not be offended." "But I should, though," said Belle. "I was merely attempting to make you acquainted with a philological fact," said I. "If mare, which in old English, and likewise in vulgar English, signifies a woman, sounds the same as mare, which in modern and polite English signifies a female horse, I can't help it. There is no such confusion of sounds in Armenian, not, at least, in the same instance. Belle, in Armenian, woman is ghin, the same word, by-the-bye, a sour queen, whereas mare is madagh tzi, which signifies a female horse; and perhaps you will permit me to add, that a hard-mouthed jade is, in Armenian, madagh tzi hsdierah." "I can't bear this much longer," said Belle. "Keep yourself quiet," said I; "I wish to be gentle with you; and to convince you, we will skip hntal, and also for the present verbs of the first conjugation, and proceed to the second. Belle, I will now select for you to conjugate the prettiest verb in Armenian; not only of the second, but also of all the four conjugations; that is siriel. Here is the present tense:--siriem, siries, sire, siriemk, sirek, sirien. You observe that it runs on just in the same manner as hntal, save and except that e is substituted for a; and it will be as well to tell you that almost the only difference between the second, third, and fourth conjugations, and the first, is the substituting in the present, preterite, and other tenses e, or ou, or i for a; so you see that the Armenian verbs are by no means difficult. Come on, Belle, and say siriem." Belle hesitated. "Pray oblige me, Belle, by saying siriem!" Belle still appeared to hesitate. "You must admit, Belle, that it is much softer than hntam." "It is so," said Belle; "and to oblige you, I will say siriem." "Very well indeed, Belle," said I. "No vartabied, or doctor, could have pronounced it better; and now, to show you how verbs act upon pronouns in Armenian, I will say siriem zkiez. Please to repeat siriem zkiez!" "Siriem zkiez!" said Belle; "that last word is very hard to say." "Sorry that you think so, Belle," said I. "Now please to say siria zis." Belle did so. "Exceedingly well," said I. "Now say yerani the sireir zis." "Yerani the sireir zis," said Belle. "Capital!" said I; "you have now said, I love you--love me--ah! would that you would love me!" "And I have said all these things?" said Belle. "Yes," said I; "you have said them in Armenian." "I would have said them in no language that I understood," said Belle; "and it was very wrong of you to take advantage of my ignorance, and make me say such things." "Why so?" said I; "if you said them, I said them too." "You did so," said Belle; "but I believe you were merely bantering and jeering." "As I told you before, Belle," said I, "the chief difficulty which I find in teaching you Armenian proceeds from your persisting in applying to yourself and me every example I give." "Then you meant nothing after all?" said Belle, raising her voice. "Let us proceed," said I; "sirietsi, I loved." "You never loved any one but yourself," said Belle; "and what's more . . ." "Sirietsits, I will love," said I; "sirietsies, thou wilt love." "Never one so thoroughly heartless," said Belle. "I tell you what, Belle, you are becoming intolerable, but we will change the verb; or rather I will now proceed to tell you here, that some of the Armenian conjugations have their anomalies; one species of these I wish to bring before your notice. As old Villotte says--from whose work I first contrived to pick up the rudiments of Armenian--'Est verborum transitivorum, quorum infinitivus . . .' but I forgot, you don't understand Latin. He says there are certain transitive verbs, whose infinitive is in outsaniel; the preterite in outsi; the imperative in oue; for example--parghatsoutsaniem, I irritate . . ." "You do, you do," said Belle; "and it will be better for both of us if you leave off doing so." "You would hardly believe, Belle," said I, "that the Armenian is in some respects closely connected with the Irish, but so it is; for example, that word parghatsoutsaniem is evidently derived from the same root as feargaim, which, in Irish, is as much as to say I vex." "You do, indeed," said Belle, sobbing. "But how do you account for it?" "O man, man!" said Belle, bursting into tears, "for what purpose do you ask a poor ignorant girl such a question, unless it be to vex and irritate her? If you wish to display your learning, do so to the wise and instructed, and not to me, who can scarcely read or write. Oh, leave off your nonsense; yet I know you will not do so, for it is the breath of your nostrils! I could have wished we should have parted in kindness, but you will not permit it. I have deserved better at your hands than such treatment. The whole time we have kept company together in this place, I have scarcely had one kind word from you, but the strangest" . . . and here the voice of Belle was drowned in her sobs. "I am sorry to see you take on so, dear Belle," said I. "I really have given you no cause to be so unhappy; surely teaching you a little Armenian was a very innocent kind of diversion." "Yes, but you went on so long, and in such a strange way, and made me repeat such strange examples, as you call them, that I could not bear it." "Why, to tell you the truth, Belle, it's my way; and I have dealt with you just as I would with . . ." "A hard-mouthed jade," said Belle, "and you practising your horse-witchery upon her. I have been of an unsubdued spirit, I acknowledge, but I was always kind to you; and if you have made me cry, it's a poor thing to boast of." "Boast of!" said I; "a pretty thing indeed to boast of; I had no idea of making you cry. Come, I beg your pardon; what more can I do? Come, cheer up, Belle. You were talking of parting; don't let us part, but depart, and that together." "Our ways lie different," said Belle. "I don't see why they should," said I. "Come, let us be off to America together!" "To America together?" said Belle, looking full at me. "Yes," said I; "where we will settle down in some forest, and conjugate the verb siriel conjugally." "Conjugally?" said Belle. "Yes," said I; "as man and wife in America, air yew ghin." "You are jesting, as usual," said Belle. "Not I, indeed. Come, Belle, make up your mind, and let us be off to America; and leave priests, humbug, learning, and languages behind us." "I don't think you are jesting," said Belle; "but I can hardly entertain your offers; however, young man, I thank you." "You had better make up your mind at once," said I, "and let us be off. I shan't make a bad husband, I assure you. Perhaps you think I am not worthy of you? To convince you, Belle, that I am, I am ready to try a fall with you this moment upon the grass. Brynhilda, the valkyrie, swore that no one should marry her who could not fling her down. Perhaps you have done the same. The man who eventually married her, got a friend of his, who was called Sygurd, the serpent-killer, to wrestle with her, disguising him in his own armour. Sygurd flung her down, and won her for his friend, though he loved her himself. I shall not use a similar deceit, nor employ Jasper Petulengro to personate me--so get up, Belle, and I will do my best to fling you down." "I require no such thing of you, or anybody," said Belle; "you are beginning to look rather wild." "I every now and then do," said I; "come, Belle, what do you say?" "I will say nothing at present on the subject," said Belle; "I must have time to consider." "Just as you please," said I; "to-morrow I go to a fair with Mr. Petulengro, perhaps you will consider whilst I am away. Come, Belle, let us have some more tea. I wonder whether we shall be able to procure tea as good as this in the American forest." CHAPTER XV. THE DAWN OF DAY--THE LAST FAREWELL--DEPARTURE FOR THE FAIR--THE FINE HORSE--RETURN TO THE DINGLE--NO ISOPEL. It was about the dawn of day when I was awakened by the voice of Mr. Petulengro shouting from the top of the dingle, and bidding me get up. I arose instantly, and dressed myself for the expedition to the fair. On leaving my tent, I was surprised to observe Belle, entirely dressed, standing close to her own little encampment. "Dear me," said I, "I little expected to find you up so early. I suppose Jasper's call awakened you, as it did me." "I merely lay down in my things," said Belle, "and have not slept during the night." "And why did you not take off your things and go to sleep?" said I. "I did not undress," said Belle, "because I wished to be in readiness to bid you farewell when you departed; and as for sleeping, I could not." "Well, God bless you!" said I, taking Belle by the hand. Belle made no answer, and I observed that her hand was very cold. "What is the matter with you?" said I, looking her in the face. Belle looked at me for a moment in the eyes, and then cast down her own--her features were very pale. "You are really unwell," said I; "I had better not go to the fair, but stay here, and take care of you." "No," said Belle, "pray go, I am not unwell." "Then go to your tent," said I, "and do not endanger your health by standing abroad in the raw morning air. God bless you, Belle; I shall be home to-night, by which time I expect you will have made up your mind; if not, another lesson in Armenian, however late the hour be." I then wrung Belle's hand, and ascended to the plain above. I found the Romany party waiting for me, and everything in readiness for departing. Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno were mounted on two old horses. The rest who intended to go to the fair, amongst whom were two or three women, were on foot. On arriving at the extremity of the plain, I looked towards the dingle. Isopel Berners stood at the mouth, the beams of the early morning sun shone full on her noble face and figure. I waved my hand towards her. She slowly lifted up her right arm. I turned away, and never saw Isopel Berners again. My companions and myself proceeded on our way. In about two hours we reached the place where the fair was to be held. After breakfasting on bread and cheese and ale behind a broken stone wall, we drove our animals to the fair. The fair was a common cattle and horse fair: there was little merriment going on, but there was no lack of business. By about two o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Petulengro and his people had disposed of their animals at what they conceived very fair prices--they were all in high spirits, and Jasper proposed to adjourn to a public-house. As we were proceeding to one, a very fine horse, led by a jockey, made its appearance on the ground. Mr. Petulengro stopped short, and looked at it steadfastly: "Fino covar dove odoy sas miro--a fine thing were that, if it were but mine!" he exclaimed. "If you covet it," said I, "why do you not purchase it?" "We low gyptians never buy animals of that description; if we did we could never sell them, and most likely should be had up as horse-stealers." "Then why did you say just now, 'It were a fine thing if it were but yours'?" said I. "We gyptians always say so when we see anything that we admire. An animal like that is not intended for a little hare like me, but for some grand gentleman like yourself. I say, brother, do you buy that horse!" "How should I buy the horse, you foolish person?" said I. "Buy the horse, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; "if you have not the money I can lend it you, though I be of lower Egypt." "You talk nonsense," said I; "however, I wish you would ask the man the price of it." Mr. Petulengro, going up to the jockey, inquired the price of the horse--the man, looking at him scornfully, made no reply. "Young man," said I, going up to the jockey, "do me the favour to tell me the price of that horse, as I suppose it is to sell." The jockey, who was a surly-looking man of about fifty, looked at me for a moment, then, after some hesitation, said laconically, "Seventy." "Thank you," said I, and turned away. "Buy that horse," said Mr. Petulengro, coming after me; "the dook tells me that in less than three months he will be sold for twice seventy." "I will have nothing to do with him," said I; "besides, Jasper, I don't like his tail. Did you observe what a mean scrubby tail he has?" "What a fool you are, brother!" said Mr. Petulengro; "that very tail of his shows his breeding. No good bred horse ever yet carried a fine tail--'tis your scrubby-tailed horses that are your out-and-outers. Did you ever hear of Syntax, brother? That tail of his puts me in mind of Syntax. Well, I say nothing more, have your own way--all I wonder at is, that a horse like him was ever brought to such a fair of dog cattle as this." We then made the best of our way to a public-house, where we had some refreshment. I then proposed returning to the encampment, but Mr. Petulengro declined, and remained drinking with his companions till about six o'clock in the evening, when various jockeys from the fair came in. After some conversation a jockey proposed a game of cards; and in a little time, Mr. Petulengro and another gypsy sat down to play a game of cards with two of the jockeys. Though not much acquainted with cards, I soon conceived a suspicion that the jockeys were cheating Mr. Petulengro and his companion, I therefore called Mr. Petulengro aside, and gave him a hint to that effect. Mr. Petulengro, however, instead of thanking me, told me to mind my own bread and butter, and forthwith returned to his game. I continued watching the players for some hours. The gypsies lost considerably, and I saw clearly that the jockeys were cheating them most confoundedly. I therefore once more called Mr. Petulengro aside, and told him that the jockeys were cheating him, conjuring him to return to the encampment. Mr. Petulengro, who was by this time somewhat the worse for liquor, now fell into a passion, swore several oaths, and asking me who had made me a Moses over him and his brethren, told me to return to the encampment by myself. Incensed at the unworthy return which my well-meant words had received, I forthwith left the house, and having purchased a few articles of provision, I set out for the dingle alone. It was dark night when I reached it, and descending I saw the glimmer of a fire from the depths of the dingle; my heart beat with fond anticipation of a welcome. "Isopel Berners is waiting for me," said I, "and the first word that I shall hear from her lips is that she has made up her mind. We shall go to America, and be so happy together." On reaching the bottom of the dingle, however, I saw seated near the fire, beside which stood the kettle simmering, not Isopel Berners, but a gypsy girl, who told me that Miss Berners when she went away had charged her to keep up the fire, and have the kettle boiling against my arrival. Startled at these words, I inquired at what hour Isopel had left, and whither she had gone, and was told that she had left the dingle, with her cart, about two hours after I departed; but where she was gone the girl did not know. I then asked whether she had left no message, and the girl replied that she had left none, but had merely given directions about the kettle and fire, putting, at the same time, sixpence into her hand. "Very strange," thought I; then dismissing the gypsy girl I sat down by the fire. I had no wish for tea, but sat looking on the embers, wondering what could be the motive of the sudden departure of Isopel. "Does she mean to return?" thought I to myself. "Surely she means to return," Hope replied, "or she would not have gone away without leaving any message"--"and yet she could scarcely mean to return," muttered Foreboding, "or she would assuredly have left some message with the girl." I then thought to myself what a hard thing it would be, if, after having made up my mind to assume the yoke of matrimony, I should be disappointed of the woman of my choice. "Well, after all," thought I, "I can scarcely be disappointed; if such an ugly scoundrel as Sylvester had no difficulty in getting such a nice wife as Ursula, surely I, who am not a tenth part so ugly, cannot fail to obtain the hand of Isopel Berners, uncommonly fine damsel though she be. Husbands do not grow upon hedge rows; she is merely gone after a little business and will return to-morrow." Comforted in some degree by these hopeful imaginings, I retired to my tent, and went to sleep. CHAPTER XVI. GLOOMY FOREBODINGS--THE POSTMAN'S MOTHER--THE LETTER--BEARS AND BARONS--THE BEST OF ADVICE. Nothing occurred to me of any particular moment during the following day. Isopel Berners did not return; but Mr. Petulengro and his companions came home from the fair early in the morning. When I saw him, which was about midday, I found him with his face bruised and swelled. It appeared that, some time after I had left him, he himself perceived that the jockeys with whom he was playing cards were cheating him and his companion; a quarrel ensued, which terminated in a fight between Mr. Petulengro and one of the jockeys, which lasted some time, and in which Mr. Petulengro, though he eventually came off victor, was considerably beaten. His bruises, in conjunction with his pecuniary loss, which amounted to about seven pounds, were the cause of his being much out of humour; before night, however, he had returned to his usual philosophic frame of mind, and, coming up to me as I was walking about, apologised for his behaviour on the preceding day, and assured me that he was determined, from that time forward, never to quarrel with a friend for giving him good advice. Two more days passed, and still Isopel Berners did not return. Gloomy thoughts and forebodings filled my mind. During the day I wandered about the neighbouring roads in the hopes of catching an early glimpse of her and her returning vehicle; and at night lay awake, tossing about on my hard couch, listening to the rustle of every leaf, and occasionally thinking that I heard the sound of her wheels upon the distant road. Once at midnight, just as I was about to fall into unconsciousness, I suddenly started up, for I was convinced that I heard the sound of wheels. I listened most anxiously, and the sound of wheels striking against stones was certainly plain enough. "She comes at last," thought I, and for a few moments I felt as if a mountain had been removed from my breast;--"here she comes at last, now, how shall I receive her? Oh," thought I, "I will receive her rather coolly, just as if I was not particularly anxious about her--that's the way to manage these women." The next moment the sound became very loud, rather too loud, I thought, to proceed from her wheels, and then by degrees became fainter. Rushing out of my tent, I hurried up the path to the top of the dingle, where I heard the sound distinctly enough, but it was going from me, and evidently proceeded from something much larger than the cart of Isopel. I could, moreover, hear the stamping of a horse's hoofs at a lumbering trot. Those only whose hopes have been wrought up to a high pitch, and then suddenly dashed down, can imagine what I felt at that moment; and yet when I returned to my lonely tent, and lay down on my hard pallet, the voice of conscience told me that the misery I was then undergoing, I had fully merited, from the unkind manner in which I had intended to receive her, when for a brief minute I supposed that she had returned. It was on the morning after this affair, and the fourth, if I forget not, from the time of Isopel's departure, that, as I was seated on my stone at the bottom of the dingle, getting my breakfast, I heard an unknown voice from the path above--apparently that of a person descending--exclaim, "Here's a strange place to bring a letter to;" and presently an old woman, with a belt round her middle, to which was attached a leathern bag, made her appearance, and stood before me. "Well, if I ever!" said she, as she looked about her. "My good gentlewoman," said I, "pray what may you please to want?" "Gentlewoman!" said the old dame, "please to want!--well, I call that speaking civilly, at any rate. It is true, civil words cost nothing; nevertheless, we do not always get them. What I please to want is to deliver a letter to a young man in this place; perhaps you be he?" "What's the name on the letter?" said I, getting up and going to her. "There is no name upon it," said she, taking a letter out of her scrip and looking at it. "It is directed to the young man in Mumper's Dingle." "Then it is for me, I make no doubt," said I, stretching out my hand to take it. "Please to pay me ninepence first," said the old woman. "However," said she, after a moment's thought, "civility is civility, and, being rather a scarce article, should meet with some return. Here's the letter, young man, and I hope you will pay for it; for if you do not, I must pay the postage myself." "You are the postwoman, I suppose," said I, as I took the letter. "I am the postman's mother," said the old woman; "but as he has a wide beat, I help him as much as I can, and I generally carry letters to places like this, to which he is afraid to come himself." "You say the postage is ninepence," said I, "here's a shilling." "Well, I call that honourable," said the old woman, taking the shilling and putting it into her pocket--"here's your change, young man," said she, offering me threepence. "Pray keep that for yourself," said I; "you deserve it for your trouble." "Well, I call that genteel," said the old woman; "and as one good turn deserves another, since you look as if you couldn't read, I will read your letter for you. Let's see it; it's from some young woman or other, I dare say." "Thank you," said I, "but I can read." "All the better for you," said the old woman; "your being able to read will frequently save you a penny, for that's the charge I generally make for reading letters; though, as you behaved so genteelly to me, I should have charged you nothing. Well, if you can read, why don't you open the letter, instead of keeping it hanging between your finger and thumb?" "I am in no hurry to open it," said I, with a sigh. The old woman looked at me for a moment--"Well, young man," said she, "there are some--especially those who can read--who don't like to open their letters when anybody is by, more especially when they come from young women. Well, I won't intrude upon you, but leave you alone with your letter. I wish it may contain something pleasant. God bless you," and with these words she departed. I sat down on my stone, with my letter in my hand. I knew perfectly well that it could have come from no other person than Isopel Berners; but what did the letter contain? I guessed tolerably well what its purport was--an eternal farewell! yet I was afraid to open the letter, lest my expectation should be confirmed. There I sat with the letter, putting off the evil moment as long as possible. At length I glanced at the direction, which was written in a fine bold hand, and was directed, as the old woman had said, to the young man in "Mumper's Dingle," with the addition, "near . . ., in the county of . . ." Suddenly the idea occurred to me, that, after all, the letter might not contain an eternal farewell; and that Isopel might have written, requesting me to join her. Could it be so? "Alas! no," presently said Foreboding. At last I became ashamed of my weakness. The letter must be opened sooner or later. Why not at once? So as the bather who, for a considerable time has stood shivering on the bank, afraid to take the decisive plunge, suddenly takes it, I tore open the letter almost before I was aware. I had no sooner done so than a paper fell out. I examined it; it contained a lock of bright flaxen hair. "This is no good sign," said I, as I thrust the lock and paper into my bosom, and proceeded to read the letter, which ran as follows:-- "TO THE YOUNG MAN IN MUMPER'S DINGLE. "Sir,--I send these lines, with the hope and trust that they will find you well, even as I am myself at this moment, and in much better spirits, for my own are not such as I could wish they were, being sometimes rather hysterical and vapourish, and at other times, and most often, very low. I am at a sea-port, and am just going on shipboard; and when you get these I shall be on the salt waters, on my way to a distant country, and leaving my own behind me, which I do not expect ever to see again. "And now, young man, I will, in the first place, say something about the manner in which I quitted you. It must have seemed somewhat singular to you that I went away without taking any leave, or giving you the slightest hint that I was going; but I did not do so without considerable reflection. I was afraid that I should not be able to support a leave-taking; and as you had said that you were determined to go wherever I did, I thought it best not to tell you at all; for I did not think it advisable that you should go with me, and I wished to have no dispute. "In the second place, I wish to say something about an offer of wedlock which you made me; perhaps, young man, had you made it at the first period of our acquaintance, I should have accepted it, but you did not, and kept putting off and putting off, and behaving in a very strange manner, till I could stand your conduct no longer, but determined upon leaving you and Old England, which last step I had been long thinking about; so when you made your offer at last, everything was arranged--my cart and donkey engaged to be sold--and the greater part of my things disposed of. However, young man, when you did make it, I frankly tell you that I had half a mind to accept it; at last, however, after very much consideration, I thought it best to leave you for ever, because, for some time past, I had become almost convinced, that though with a wonderful deal of learning, and exceedingly shrewd in some things, you were--pray don't be offended--at the root mad! and though mad people, I have been told, sometimes make very good husbands, I was unwilling that your friends, if you had any, should say that Belle Berners, the workhouse girl, took advantage of your infirmity; for there is no concealing that I was born and bred up in a workhouse; notwithstanding that, my blood is better than your own, and as good as the best; you having yourself told me that my name is a noble name, and once, if I mistake not, that it was the same word as baron, which is the same thing as bear; and that to be called in old times a bear was considered as a great compliment--the bear being a mighty strong animal, on which account our forefathers called all their great fighting-men barons, which is the same as bears. "However, setting matters of blood and family entirely aside, many thanks to you, young man, from poor Belle, for the honour you did her in making that same offer; for, after all, it is an honour to receive an honourable offer, which she could see clearly yours was, with no floriness nor chaff in it; but, on the contrary, entire sincerity. She assures you that she shall always bear it and yourself in mind, whether on land or water; and as a proof of the good-will she bears to you, she has sent you a lock of the hair which she wears on her head, which you were often looking at, and were pleased to call flax, which word she supposes you meant as a compliment, even as the old people meant to pass a compliment to their great folks when they called them bears; though she cannot help thinking that they might have found an animal as strong as a bear, and somewhat less uncouth, to call their great folks after: even as she thinks yourself, amongst your great store of words, might have found something a little more genteel to call her hair after than flax, which, though strong and useful, is rather a coarse and common kind of article. "And as another proof of the goodwill she bears to you, she sends you, along with the lock, a piece of advice, which is worth all the hair in the world, to say nothing of the flax. "_Fear God_, and take your own part. There's Bible in that, young man; see how Moses feared God, and how he took his own part against everybody who meddled with him. And see how David feared God, and took his own part against all the bloody enemies which surrounded him--so fear God, young man, and never give in! The world can bully, and is fond, provided it sees a man in a kind of difficulty, of getting about him, calling him coarse names, and even going so far as to hustle him; but the world, like all bullies, carries a white feather in its tail, and no sooner sees the man taking off his coat, and offering to fight its best, than it scatters here and there, and is always civil to him afterwards. So when folks are disposed to ill- treat you, young man, say 'Lord, have mercy upon me!' and then tip them Long Melford, to which, as the saying goes, there is nothing comparable for shortness all the world over; and these last words, young man, are the last you will ever have from her who is, nevertheless, "Your affectionate female servant, "ISOPEL BERNERS." After reading the letter I sat for some time motionless, holding it in my hand. The day-dream in which I had been a little time before indulging, of marrying Isopel Berners, of going with her to America, and having by her a large progeny, who were to assist me in felling trees, cultivating the soil, and who would take care of me when I was old, was now thoroughly dispelled. Isopel had deserted me, and was gone to America by herself, where, perhaps, she would marry some other person, and would bear him a progeny, who would do for him what in my dream I had hoped my progeny by her would do for me. Then the thought came into my head that though she was gone I might follow her to America, but then I thought that if I did I might not find her; America was a very large place, and I did not know the port to which she was bound; but I could follow her to the port from which she had sailed, and there possibly discover the port to which she was bound; but then I did not even know the port from which she had set out, for Isopel had not dated her letter from any place. Suddenly it occurred to me that the post-mark on the letter would tell me from whence it came, so I forthwith looked at the back of the letter, and in the post-mark read the name of a well-known and not very distant sea port. I then knew with tolerable certainty the port where she had embarked, and I almost determined to follow her, but I almost instantly determined to do no such thing. Isopel Berners had abandoned me, and I would not follow her; "perhaps," whispered Pride, "if I overtook her, she would only despise me for running after her;" and it also told me pretty roundly that, provided I ran after her, whether I overtook her or not, I should heartily despise myself. So I determined not to follow Isopel Berners; I took her lock of hair, and looked at it, then put it in her letter, which I folded up and carefully stowed away, resolved to keep both for ever, but I determined not to follow her. Two or three times, however, during the day I wavered in my determination, and was again and again almost tempted to follow her, but every succeeding time the temptation was fainter. In the evening I left the dingle, and sat down with Mr. Petulengro and his family by the door of his tent; Mr. Petulengro soon began talking of the letter which I had received in the morning. "Is it not from Miss Berners, brother?" said he. I told him it was. "Is she coming back, brother?" "Never," said I; "she is gone to America, and has deserted me." "I always knew that you two were never destined for each other," said he. "How did you know that?" I inquired. "The dook told me so, brother; you are born to be a great traveller." "Well," said I, "if I had gone with her to America, as I was thinking of doing, I should have been a great traveller." "You are to travel in another direction, brother," said he. "I wish you would tell me all about my future wanderings," said I. "I can't, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "there's a power of clouds before my eye." "You are a poor seer, after all," said I, and getting up, I retired to my dingle and my tent, where I betook myself to my bed, and there, knowing the worst, and being no longer agitated by apprehension, nor agonised by expectation, I was soon buried in a deep slumber, the first which I had fallen into for several nights. CHAPTER XVII. THE PUBLIC-HOUSE--LANDLORD ON HIS LEGS AGAIN--A BLOW IN SEASON--THE WAY OF THE WORLD--THE GRATEFUL MIND--THE HORSE'S NEIGH. It was rather late on the following morning when I awoke. At first I was almost unconscious of what had occurred on the preceding day; recollection, however, by degrees returned, and I felt a deep melancholy coming over me, but perfectly aware that no advantage could be derived from the indulgence of such a feeling, I sprang up, prepared my breakfast, which I ate with a tolerable appetite, and then left the dingle, and betook myself to the gypsy encampment, where I entered into discourse with various Romanies, both male and female. After some time, feeling myself in better spirits, I determined to pay another visit to the landlord of the public-house. From the position of his affairs when I had last visited him, I entertained rather gloomy ideas with respect to his present circumstances. I imagined that I should either find him alone in his kitchen smoking a wretched pipe, or in company with some surly bailiff or his follower, whom his friend the brewer had sent into the house in order to take possession of his effects. Nothing more entirely differing from either of these anticipations could have presented itself to my view than what I saw about one o'clock in the afternoon, when I entered the house. I had come, though somewhat in want of consolation myself, to offer any consolation which was at my command to my acquaintance Catchpole, and perhaps like many other people who go to a house with "drops of compassion trembling on their eyelids," I felt rather disappointed at finding that no compassion was necessary. The house was thronged with company, the cries for ale and porter, hot brandy and water, cold gin and water, were numerous; moreover, no desire to receive and not to pay for the landlord's liquids was manifested--on the contrary, everybody seemed disposed to play the most honourable part: "Landlord, here's the money for this glass of brandy and water--do me the favour to take it; all right, remember I have paid you." "Landlord, here's the money for the pint of half-and-half--fourpence halfpenny, a'n't it?--here's sixpence; keep the change--confound the change!" The landlord, assisted by his niece, bustled about; his brow erect, his cheeks plumped out, and all his features exhibiting a kind of surly satisfaction. Wherever he moved, marks of the most cordial amity were shown him, hands were thrust out to grasp his, nor were looks of respect, admiration, nay almost of adoration, wanting. I observed one fellow, as the landlord advanced, take the pipe out of his mouth, and gaze upon him with a kind of grin of wonder, probably much the same as his ancestor, the Saxon lout of old, put on when he saw his idol Thur dressed in a new kirtle. To avoid the press, I got into a corner, where, on a couple of chairs, sat two respectable-looking individuals, whether farmers or sow- gelders, I know not, but highly respectable-looking, who were discoursing about the landlord. "Such another," said one, "you will not find in a summer's day." "No, nor in the whole of England," said the other. "Tom of Hopton," said the first: "ah! Tom of Hopton," echoed the other; "the man who could beat Tom of Hopton could beat the world." "I glory in him," said the first. "So do I," said the second; "I'll back him against the world. Let me hear any one say anything against him, and if I don't . . ." then, looking at me, he added, "have you anything to say against him, young man?" "Not a word," said I, "save that he regularly puts me out." "He'll put any one out," said the man, "any one out of conceit with himself;" then, lifting a mug to his mouth, he added, with a hiccough, "I drink his health." Presently the landlord, as he moved about, observing me, stopped short: "Ah!" said he, "are you here? I am glad to see you, come this way." "Stand back," said he to his company, as I followed him to the bar, "stand back for me and his gentleman." Two or three young fellows were in the bar, seemingly sporting yokels, drinking sherry and smoking. "Come, gentlemen," said the landlord, "clear the bar, I must have a clear bar for me and my friend here." "Landlord, what will you take," said one, "a glass of sherry? I know you like it." ". . . sherry and you too," said the landlord, "I want neither sherry nor yourself; didn't you hear what I told you?" "All right, old fellow," said the other, shaking the landlord by the hand, "all right, don't wish to intrude--but I suppose when you and your friend have done, I may come in again;" then, with "a sarvant, sir," to me, he took himself into the kitchen, followed by the rest of the sporting yokels. Thereupon the landlord, taking a bottle of ale from a basket, uncorked it, and pouring the contents into two large glasses, handed me one, and motioning me to sit down, placed himself by me; then, emptying his own glass at a draught, he gave a kind of grunt of satisfaction, and fixing his eyes upon the opposite side of the bar, remained motionless, without saying a word, buried apparently in important cogitations. With respect to myself, I swallowed my ale more leisurely, and was about to address my friend, when his niece, coming into the bar, said that more and more customers were arriving, and how she should supply their wants she did not know, unless her uncle would get up and help her. "The customers!" said the landlord, "let the scoundrels wait till you have time to serve them, or till I have leisure to see after them." "The kitchen won't contain half of them," said his niece. "Then let them sit out abroad," said the landlord. "But there are not benches enough, uncle," said the niece. "Then let them stand or sit on the ground," said the uncle, "what care I? I'll let them know that the man who beat Tom of Hopton stands as well again on his legs as ever." Then opening a side door which led from the bar into the back yard, he beckoned me to follow him. "You treat your customers in rather a cavalier manner," said I, when we were alone together in the yard. "Don't I?" said the landlord; "and I'll treat them more so yet; now I have got the whip-hand of the rascals I intend to keep it. I dare say you are a bit surprised with regard to the change which has come over things since you were last here. I'll tell you how it happened. You remember in what a desperate condition you found me, thinking of changing my religion, selling my soul to the man in black, and then going and hanging myself like Pontius Pilate; and I dare say you can't have forgotten how you gave me good advice, made me drink ale, and give up sherry. Well, after you were gone, I felt all the better for your talk, and what you had made me drink, and it was a mercy that I did feel better; for my niece was gone out, poor thing, and I was left alone in the house, without a soul to look at, or to keep me from doing myself a mischief in case I was so inclined. Well, things wore on in this way till it grew dusk, when in came that blackguard Hunter with his train to drink at my expense, and to insult me as usual; there were more than a dozen of them, and a pretty set they looked. Well, they ordered about in a very free and easy manner for upwards of an hour and a half, occasionally sneering and jeering at me, as they had been in the habit of doing for some time past; so, as I said before, things wore on, and other customers came in, who, though they did not belong to Hunter's gang, also passed off their jokes upon me; for, as you perhaps know, we English are a set of low hounds, who will always take part with the many by way of making ourselves safe, and currying favour with the stronger side. I said little or nothing, for my spirits had again become very low, and I was verily scared and afraid. All of a sudden I thought of the ale which I had drank in the morning, and of the good it did me then, so I went into the bar, opened another bottle, took a glass, and felt better; so I took another, and feeling better still, I went back into the kitchen just as Hunter and his crew were about leaving. 'Mr. Hunter,' said I, 'you and your people will please to pay me for what you have had?' 'What do you mean by my people?' said he, with an oath. 'Ah! what do you mean by calling us his people?' said the clan. 'We are nobody's people;' and then there was a pretty load of abuse, and threatening to serve me out. 'Well,' said I, 'I was perhaps wrong to call them your people, and beg your pardon and theirs. And now you will please to pay me for what you have had yourself, and afterwards I can settle with them.' 'I shall pay you when I think fit,' said Hunter. 'Yes,' said the rest, 'and so shall we. We shall pay you when we think fit.' 'I tell you what,' said Hunter, 'I conceives I do such an old fool as you an honour when I comes into his house and drinks his beer, and goes away without paying for it;' and then there was a roar of laughter from everybody, and almost all said the same thing. 'Now do you please to pay me Mr. Hunter?' said I. 'Pay you!' said Hunter; 'pay you! Yes, here's the pay;' and thereupon he held out his thumb, twirling it round till it just touched my nose. I can't tell you what I felt that moment; a kind of madhouse thrill came upon me, and all I know is, that I bent back as far as I could, then lunging out, struck him under the ear, sending him reeling two or three yards, when he fell on the floor. I wish you had but seen how my company looked at me and at each other. One or two of the clan went to raise Hunter, and get him to fight, but it was no go; though he was not killed, he had had enough for that evening. Oh, I wish you had seen my customers; those who did not belong to the clan, but had taken part with them, and helped to jeer and flout me, now came and shook me by the hand, wishing me joy, and saying as how 'I was a brave fellow, and had served the bully right!' As for the clan, they all said Hunter was bound to do me justice; so they made him pay me what he owed for himself, and the reckoning of those among them who said they had no money. Two or three of them then led him away, while the rest stayed behind, and flattered me, and worshipped me, and called Hunter all kinds of dogs' names. What do you think of that?" "Why," said I, "it makes good what I read in a letter which I received yesterday. It is just the way of the world." "A'n't it!" said the landlord. "Well, that a'n't all; let me go on. Good fortune never yet came alone. In about an hour comes home my poor niece, almost in high sterricks with joy, smiling and sobbing. She had been to the clergyman of M. . ., the great preacher, to whose church she was in the habit of going, and to whose daughters she was well known; and to him she told a lamentable tale about my distresses, and about the snares which had been laid for my soul; and so well did she plead my cause, and so strong did the young ladies back all she said, that the good clergyman promised to stand my friend, and to lend me sufficient money to satisfy the brewer, and to get my soul out of the snares of the man in black; and sure enough the next morning the two young ladies brought me the fifty pounds, which I forthwith carried to the brewer, who was monstrously civil, saying that he hoped any little understanding we had had would not prevent our being good friends in future. That a'n't all; the people of the neighbouring country hearing as if by art witchcraft that I had licked Hunter, and was on good terms with the brewer, forthwith began to come in crowds to look at me, pay me homage, and be my customers. Moreover, fifty scoundrels who owed me money, and who would have seen me starve rather than help me as long as they considered me a down pin, remembered their debts, and came and paid me more than they owed. That a'n't all: the brewer, being about to establish a stage-coach and three, to run across the country, says it shall stop and change horses at my house, and the passengers breakfast and sup as it goes and returns. He wishes me--whom he calls the best man in England--to give his son lessons in boxing, which he says he considers a fine manly English art, and a great defence against Popery--notwithstanding that only a month ago, when he considered me a down pin, he was in the habit of railing against it as a blackguard practice, and against me as a blackguard for following it: so I am going to commence with young hopeful to-morrow." "I really cannot help congratulating you on your good fortune," said I. "That a'n't all," said the landlord. "This very morning the folks of our parish made me churchwarden, which they would no more have done a month ago, when they considered me a down pin, than they . . ." "Mercy upon us!" said I, "if fortune pours in upon you in this manner, who knows but that within a year they may make you justice of the peace." "Who knows, indeed!" said the landlord. "Well, I will prove myself worthy of my good luck by showing the grateful mind--not to those who would be kind to me now, but to those who were, when the days were rather gloomy. My customers shall have abundance of rough language, but I'll knock any one down who says anything against the clergyman who lent me the fifty pounds, or against the Church of England, of which he is parson and I am churchwarden. I am also ready to do anything in reason for him who paid me for the ale he drank, when I shouldn't have had the heart to collar him for the money had he refused to pay; who never jeered or flouted me like the rest of my customers when I was a down pin--and though he refused to fight cross _for_ me, was never cross _with_ me, but listened to all I had to say, and gave me all kinds of good advice. Now who do you think I mean by this last? why, who but yourself--who on earth but yourself? The parson is a good man and a great preacher, and I'll knock anybody down who says to the contrary; and I mention him first, because why? he's a gentleman, and you a tinker. But I am by no means sure you are not the best friend of the two; for I doubt, do you see, whether I should have had the fifty pounds but for you. You persuaded me to give up that silly drink they call sherry, and drink ale; and what was it but drinking ale which gave me courage to knock down that fellow Hunter--and knocking him down was, I verily believe, the turning point of my disorder. God don't love those who won't strike out for themselves; and as far as I can calculate with respect to time, it was just the moment after I had knocked down Hunter, that the parson consented to lend me the money, and everything began to grow civil to me. So, dash my buttons if I show the ungrateful mind to you! I don't offer to knock anybody down for you, because why--I dare say you can knock a body down yourself; but I'll offer something more to the purpose. As my business is wonderfully on the increase, I shall want somebody to help me in serving my customers, and keeping them in order. If you choose to come and serve for your board, and what they'll give you, give me your fist; or if you like ten shillings a week better than their sixpences and ha'pence, only say so--though, to be open with you, I believe you would make twice ten shillings out of them--the sneaking, fawning, curry-favouring humbugs!" "I am much obliged to you," said I, "for your handsome offer, which, however, I am obliged to decline." "Why so?" said the landlord. "I am not fit for service," said I; "moreover, I am about to leave this part of the country." As I spoke, a horse neighed in the stable. "What horse is that?" said I. "It belongs to a cousin of mine, who put it into my hands yesterday, in hopes that I might get rid of it for him, though he would no more have done so a week ago, when he considered me a down pin, than he would have given the horse away. Are you fond of horses?" "Very much," said I. "Then come and look at it." He led me into the stable, where, in a stall, stood a noble-looking animal. "Dear me," said I, "I saw this horse at . . . fair." "Like enough," said the landlord; "he was there, and was offered for seventy pounds, but didn't find a bidder at any price. What do you think of him?" "He's a splendid creature." "I am no judge of horses," said the landlord; "but I am told he's a first- rate trotter, good leaper, and has some of the blood of Syntax. What does all that signify?--the game is against his master, who is a down pin, is thinking of emigrating, and wants money confoundedly. He asked seventy pounds at the fair; but, between ourselves, he would be glad to take fifty here." "I almost wish," said I, "that I were a rich squire." "You would buy him then," said the landlord. Here he mused for some time, with a very profound look. "It would be a rum thing," said he, "if, some time or other, that horse should come into your hands. Didn't you hear how he neighed when you talked about leaving the country. My granny was a wise woman, and was up to all kind of signs and wonders, sounds and noises, the interpretation of the language of birds and animals, crowing and lowing, neighing and braying. If she had been here, she would have said at once that that horse was fated to carry you away. On that point, however, I can say nothing, for under fifty pounds no one can have him. Are you taking that money out of your pocket to pay me for the ale? That won't do; nothing to pay; I invited you this time. Now if you are going, you had best get into the road through the yard-gate. I won't trouble you to make your way through the kitchen and my fine-weather company--confound them!" CHAPTER XVIII. MR. PETULENGRO'S DEVICE--THE LEATHERN PURSE--CONSENT TO PURCHASE A HORSE. As I returned along the road I met Mr. Petulengro and one of his companions, who told me that they were bound for the public-house; whereupon I informed Jasper how I had seen in the stable the horse which we had admired at the fair. "I shouldn't wonder if you buy that horse after all, brother," said Mr. Petulengro. With a smile at the absurdity of such a supposition, I left him and his companion, and betook myself to the dingle. In the evening I received a visit from Mr. Petulengro, who forthwith commenced talking about the horse, which he had again seen, the landlord having shown it to him on learning that he was a friend of mine. He told me that the horse pleased him more than ever, he having examined his points with more accuracy than he had an opportunity of doing on the first occasion, concluding by pressing me to buy him. I begged him to desist from such foolish importunity, assuring him that I had never so much money in all my life as would enable me to purchase the horse. Whilst this discourse was going on, Mr. Petulengro and myself were standing together in the midst of the dingle. Suddenly he began to move round me in a very singular manner, making strange motions with his hands, and frightful contortions with his features, till I became alarmed, and asked him whether he had not lost his senses? Whereupon, ceasing his movements and contortions, he assured me that he had not, but had merely been seized with a slight dizziness, and then once more returned to the subject of the horse. Feeling myself very angry, I told him that if he continued persecuting me in this manner, I should be obliged to quarrel with him; adding, that I believed his only motive for asking me to buy the animal was to insult my poverty. "Pretty poverty," said he, "with fifty pounds in your pocket; however, I have heard say that it is always the custom of your rich people to talk of their poverty, more especially when they wish to avoid laying out money." Surprised at his saying that I had fifty pounds in my pocket, I asked him what he meant; whereupon he told me that he was very sure that I had fifty pounds in my pocket, offering to lay me five shillings to that effect. "Done!" said I; "I have scarcely more than the fifth part of what you say." "I know better, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; "and if you only pull out what you have in the pocket of your slop, I am sure you will have lost your wager." Putting my hand into the pocket, I felt something which I had never felt there before, and pulling it out, perceived that it was a clumsy leathern purse, which I found on opening contained four ten-pound notes and several pieces of gold. "Didn't I tell you so, brother?" said Mr Petulengro. "Now, in the first place, please to pay me the five shillings you have lost." "This is only a foolish piece of pleasantry," said I; "you put it into my pocket whilst you were moving about me, making faces like a distracted person. Here take your purse back." "I?" said Mr. Petulengro, "not I, indeed! don't think I am such a fool. I have won my wager, so pay me the five shillings, brother." "Do drop this folly," said I, "and take your purse;" and I flung it on the ground. "Brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "you were talking of quarrelling with me just now. I tell you now one thing, which is, that if you do not take back the purse, I will quarrel with you; and it shall be for good and all. I'll drop your acquaintance, no longer call you my pal, and not even say sarshan to you when I meet you by the road-side. Hir mi diblis I never will." I saw by Jasper's look and tone that he was in earnest, and, as I had really a regard for the strange being, I scarcely knew what to do. "Now, be persuaded, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, taking up the purse and handing it to me; "be persuaded; put the purse into your pocket, and buy the horse." "Well," said I, "if I did so, would you acknowledge the horse to be yours, and receive the money again as soon as I should be able to repay you?" "I would, brother, I would," said he; "return me the money as soon as you please, provided you buy the horse." "What motive have you for wishing me to buy that horse?" said I. "He's to be sold for fifty pounds," said Jasper, "and is worth four times that sum; though, like many a splendid bargain, he is now going a begging; buy him, and I'm confident that in a little time a grand gentleman of your appearance may have anything he asks for him, and found a fortune by his means. Moreover, brother, I want to dispose of this fifty pounds in a safe manner. If you don't take it, I shall fool it away in no time, perhaps at card-playing, for you saw how I was cheated by those blackguard jockeys the other day--we gyptians don't know how to take care of money: our best plan when we have got a handful of guineas is to make buttons with them; but I have plenty of golden buttons, and don't wish to be troubled with more, so you can do me no greater favour than vesting the money in this speculation, by which my mind will be relieved of considerable care and trouble for some time at least." Perceiving that I still hesitated, he said, "Perhaps, brother, you think that I did not come honestly by the money: by the honestest manner in the world, brother, for it is the money I earned by fighting in the ring: I did not steal it, brother, nor did I get it by disposing of spavined donkeys, or glandered ponies--nor is it, brother, the profits of my wife's witchcraft and dukkerin." "But," said I, "you had better employ it in your traffic." "I have plenty of money for my traffic, independent of this capital," said Mr. Petulengro; "ay, brother, and enough besides to back the husband of my wife's sister, Sylvester, against Slammocks of the Chong gav for twenty pounds, which I am thinking of doing." "But," said I, "after all, the horse may have found another purchaser by this time." "Not he," said Mr. Petulengro, "there is nobody in this neighbourhood to purchase a horse like that, unless it be your lordship--so take the money, brother," and he thrust the purse into my hand. Allowing myself to be persuaded, I kept possession of the purse. "Are you satisfied now?" said I. "By no means, brother," said Mr. Petulengro, "you will please to pay me the five shillings which you lost to me." "Why," said I, "the fifty pounds which I found in my pocket were not mine, but put in by yourself." "That's nothing to do with the matter, brother," said Mr. Petulengro; "I betted you five shillings that you had fifty pounds in your pocket, which sum you had: I did not say that they were your own, but merely that you had fifty pounds; you will therefore pay me, brother, or I shall not consider you an honourable man." Not wishing to have any dispute about such a matter, I took five shillings out of my under pocket and gave them to him. Mr. Petulengro took the money with great glee, observing--"These five shillings I will take to the public-house forthwith, and spend in drinking with four of my brethren, and doing so will give me an opportunity of telling the landlord that I have found a customer for his horse, and that you are the man. It will be as well to secure the horse as soon as possible; for though the dook tells me that the horse is intended for you, I have now and then found that the dook is, like myself, somewhat given to lying." He then departed, and I remained alone in the dingle. I thought at first that I had committed a great piece of folly in consenting to purchase this horse; I might find no desirable purchaser for him until the money in my possession should be totally exhausted, and then I might be compelled to sell him for half the price I had given for him, or be even glad to find a person who would receive him at a gift; I should then remain sans horse, and indebted to Mr. Petulengro. Nevertheless, it was possible that I might sell the horse very advantageously, and by so doing, obtain a fund sufficient to enable me to execute some grand enterprise or other. My present way of life afforded no prospect of support, whereas the purchase of the horse did afford a possibility of bettering my condition, so, after all, had I not done right in consenting to purchase the horse? The purchase was to be made with another person's property it is true, and I did not exactly like the idea of speculating with another person's property, but Mr. Petulengro had thrust his money upon me, and if I lost his money, he could have no one but himself to blame; so I persuaded myself that I had upon the whole done right, and having come to that persuasion I soon began to enjoy the idea of finding myself on horseback again, and figured to myself all kinds of strange adventures which I should meet with on the roads before the horse and I should part company. CHAPTER XIX. TRYING THE HORSE--THE FEATS OF TAWNO--MAN WITH THE RED WAISTCOAT--DISPOSAL OF PROPERTY. I saw nothing more of Mr. Petulengro that evening--on the morrow, however, he came and informed me that he had secured the horse for me, and that I was to go and pay for it at noon. At the hour appointed, therefore, I went with Mr. Petulengro and Tawno to the public, where, as before, there was a crowd of company. The landlord received us in the bar with marks of much satisfaction and esteem, made us sit down, and treated us with some excellent mild draught ale. "Who do you think has been here this morning?" he said to me, "why that fellow in black, who came to carry me off to a house of Popish devotion, where I was to pass seven days and nights in meditation, as I think he called it, before I publicly renounced the religion of my country. I read him a pretty lecture, calling him several unhandsome names, and asking him what he meant by attempting to seduce a churchwarden of the Church of England. I tell you what, he ran some danger; for some of my customers, learning his errand, laid hold on him, and were about to toss him in a blanket, and then duck him in the horse-pond. I, however, interfered, and said 'that what he came about was between me and him, and that it was no business of theirs.' To tell you the truth, I felt pity for the poor devil, more especially when I considered that they merely sided against him because they thought him the weakest, and that they would have wanted to serve me in the same manner had they considered me a down pin; so I rescued him from their hands, told him not to be afraid, for that nobody should touch him, and offered to treat him to some cold gin and water with a lump of sugar in it; and, on his refusing, told him that he had better make himself scarce, which he did, and I hope I shall never see him again. So I suppose you are come for the horse; mercy upon us! who would have thought you would have become the purchaser? The horse, however, seemed to know it by his neighing. How did you ever come by the money? however, that's no matter of mine. I suppose you are strongly backed by certain friends you have." I informed the landlord that he was right in supposing that I came for the horse, but that, before I paid for him, I should wish to prove his capabilities. "With all my heart," said the landlord. "You shall mount him this moment." Then going into the stable he saddled and bridled the horse, and presently brought him out before the door. I mounted him, Mr. Petulengro putting a heavy whip into my hand, and saying a few words to me in his own mysterious language. "The horse wants no whip," said the landlord. "Hold your tongue, daddy," said Mr. Petulengro. "My pal knows quite well what to do with the whip, he's not going to beat the horse with it." About four hundred yards from the house there was a hill, to the foot of which the road ran almost on a perfect level; towards the foot of this hill I trotted the horse, who set off at a long, swift pace, seemingly at the rate of about sixteen miles an hour. On reaching the foot of the hill, I wheeled the animal round, and trotted him towards the house--the horse sped faster than before. Ere he had advanced a hundred yards, I took off my hat, in obedience to the advice which Mr. Petulengro had given me in his own language, and holding it over the horse's head, commenced drumming on the crown with the knob of the whip; the horse gave a slight start, but instantly recovering himself, continued his trot till he arrived at the door of the public-house, amidst the acclamations of the company, who had all rushed out of the house to be spectators of what was going on. "I see now what you wanted the whip for," said the landlord, "and sure enough, that drumming on your hat was no bad way of learning whether the horse was quiet or not. Well, did you ever see a more quiet horse, or a better trotter?" "My cob shall trot against him," said a fellow dressed in velveteen, mounted on a low powerful-looking animal. "My cob shall trot against him to the hill and back again--come on!" We both started; the cob kept up gallantly against the horse for about half the way to the hill, when he began to lose ground; at the foot of the hill he was about fifteen yards behind. Whereupon, I turned slowly and waited for him. We then set off towards the house, but now the cob had no chance, being at least twenty yards behind when I reached the door. This running of horses, the wild uncouth forms around me, and the ale and beer which were being guzzled from pots and flagons, put me wonderfully in mind of the ancient horse-races of the heathen north. I almost imagined myself Gunnar of Hlitharend at the race of . . . "Are you satisfied?" said the landlord. "Didn't you tell me that he could leap?" I demanded. "I am told he can," said the landlord; "but I can't consent that he should be tried in that way, as he might be damaged." "That's right!" said Mr. Petulengro, "don't trust my pal to leap that horse, he'll merely fling him down, and break his neck and his own. There's a better man than he close by; let him get on his back and leap him." "You mean yourself, I suppose," said the landlord. "Well, I call that talking modestly, and nothing becomes a young man more than modesty." "It a'n't I, daddy," said Mr. Petulengro. "Here's the man," said he, pointing to Tawno. "Here's the horse-leaper of the world!" "You mean the horseback breaker," said the landlord. "That big fellow would break down my cousin's horse." "Why, he weighs only sixteen stone," said Mr. Petulengro. "And his sixteen stone, with his way of handling a horse, does not press so much as any other one's thirteen. Only let him get on the horse's back, and you'll see what he can do!" "No," said the landlord, "it won't do." Whereupon Mr. Petulengro became very much excited; and pulling out a handful of money, said, "I'll tell you what, I'll forfeit these guineas if my black pal there does the horse any kind of damage; duck me in the horse-pond if I don't." "Well," said the landlord "for the sport of the thing I consent, so let your white pal get down and your black pal mount as soon as he pleases." I felt rather mortified at Mr. Petulengro's interference; and showed no disposition to quit my seat; whereupon he came up to me and said, "Now, brother, do get out of the saddle--you are no bad hand at trotting, I am willing to acknowledge that; but at leaping a horse there is no one like Tawno. Let every dog be praised for his own gift. You have been showing off in your line for the last half-hour; now do give Tawno a chance of exhibiting a little; poor fellow, he hasn't often a chance of exhibiting, as his wife keeps him so much in sight." Not wishing to appear desirous of engrossing the public attention, and feeling rather desirous to see how Tawno, of whose exploits in leaping horses I had frequently heard, would acquit himself in the affair, I at length dismounted, and Tawno, at a bound, leaped into the saddle, where he really looked like Gunnar of Hlitharend, save and except that the complexion of Gunnar was florid, whereas that of Tawno was of nearly Mulatto darkness; and that all Tawno's features were cast in the Grecian model, whereas Gunnar had a snub nose. "There's a leaping-bar behind the house," said the landlord. "Leaping-bar!" said Mr. Petulengro, scornfully. "Do you think my black pal ever rides at a leaping-bar? No more than at a windle-straw. Leap over that meadow wall, Tawno." Just past the house, in the direction in which I had been trotting, was a wall about four feet high, beyond which was a small meadow. Tawno rode the horse gently up to the wall, permitted him to look over, then backed him for about ten yards, and pressing his calves against the horse's sides, he loosed the rein, and the horse launching forward, took the leap in gallant style. "Well done, man and horse!" said Mr. Petulengro; "now come back, Tawno." The leap from the side of the meadow was, however, somewhat higher; and the horse, when pushed at it, at first turned away; whereupon Tawno backed him to a greater distance, pushed the horse to a full gallop, giving a wild cry; whereupon the horse again took the wall, slightly grazing one of his legs against it. "A near thing," said the landlord, "but a good leap. Now no more leaping, so long as I have control over the animal." The horse was then led back to the stable; and the landlord, myself, and companions going into the bar, I paid down the money for the horse. Scarcely was the bargain concluded, when two or three of the company began to envy me the possession of the horse, and forcing their way into the bar, with much noise and clamour, said that the horse had been sold too cheap. One fellow, in particular, with a red waistcoat, the son of a wealthy farmer, said that if he had but known that the horse had been so good a one, he would have bought it at the first price asked for it, which he was now willing to pay, that is to-morrow, supposing--"supposing your father will let you have the money," said the landlord, "which, after all, might not be the case; but, however that may be, it is too late now. I think myself the horse has been sold for too little money, but if so, all the better for the young man who came forward when no other body did with his money in his hand. There, take yourselves out of my bar," said he to the fellows; "and a pretty scoundrel you," said he to the man of the red waistcoat, "to say the horse has been sold too cheap, why, it was only yesterday you said he was good for nothing, and were passing all kinds of jokes at him. Take yourself out of my bar, I say, you and all of you," and he turned the fellows out. I then asked the landlord whether he would permit the horse to remain in the stable for a short time, provided I paid for his entertainment; and on his willingly consenting, I treated my friends with ale, and then returned with them to the encampment. That evening I informed Mr. Petulengro and his party that on the morrow I intended to mount my horse and leave that part of the country in quest of adventures; inquiring of Jasper where, in the event of my selling the horse advantageously, I might meet with him, and repay the money I had borrowed of him; whereupon Mr. Petulengro informed me that in about ten weeks I might find him at a certain place at the Chong gav. I then stated that as I could not well carry with me the property which I possessed in the dingle, which after all was of no considerable value, I had resolved to bestow the said property, namely, the pony, tent, tinker- tools, &c., on Ursula and her husband, partly because they were poor, and partly on account of the great kindness which I bore to Ursula, from whom I had, on various occasions, experienced all manner of civility, particularly in regard to crabbed words. On hearing this intelligence, Ursula returned many thanks to her gentle brother, as she called me, and Sylvester was so overjoyed that casting aside his usual phlegm, he said I was the best friend he had ever had in the world, and in testimony of his gratitude swore that he would permit me to give his wife a choomer in the presence of the whole company, which offer, however, met with a very mortifying reception; the company frowning disapprobation, Ursula protesting against anything of the kind, and I myself showing no forwardness to avail myself of it, having inherited from nature a considerable fund of modesty, to which was added no slight store acquired in the course of my Irish education. I passed that night alone in the dingle in a very melancholy manner, with little or no sleep, thinking of Isopel Berners; and in the morning when I quitted it I shed several tears, as I reflected that I should probably never again see the spot where I had passed so many hours in her company. CHAPTER XX. FAREWELL TO THE ROMANS--THE LANDLORD AND HIS NIECE--SET OUT AS A TRAVELLER. On reaching the plain above, I found my Romany friends breakfasting, and on being asked by Mr. Petulengro to join them, I accepted the invitation. No sooner was breakfast over than I informed Ursula and her husband that they would find the property which I had promised them below in the dingle, commending the little pony Ambrol to their best care. I took leave of the whole company, which was itself about to break up camp and to depart in the direction of London, and made the best of my way to the public-house. I had a small bundle in my hand, and was dressed in the same manner as when I departed from London, having left my waggoner's slop with the other effects in the dingle. On arriving at the public- house, I informed the landlord that I was come for my horse, inquiring at the same time whether he could not accommodate me with a bridle and saddle. He told me that the bridle and saddle with which I had ridden the horse on the preceding day were at my service for a trifle; that he had received them some time since in payment for a debt, and that he had himself no use for them. The leathers of the bridle were rather shabby, and the bit rusty, and the saddle was old-fashioned; but I was happy to purchase them for seven shillings, more especially as the landlord added a small valise, which he said could be strapped to the saddle, and which I should find very convenient for carrying my things in. I then proceeded to the stable, told the horse we were bound on an expedition, and giving him a feed of corn, left him to discuss it, and returned to the bar-room to have a little farewell chat with the landlord, and at the same time to drink with him a farewell glass of ale. Whilst we were talking and drinking, the niece came and joined us: she was a decent, sensible, young woman, who appeared to take a great interest in her uncle, whom she regarded with a singular mixture of pride and disapprobation--pride for the renown which he had acquired by his feats of old, and disapprobation for his late imprudences. She said that she hoped that his misfortunes would be a warning to him to turn more to his God than he had hitherto done, and to give up cock-fighting and other low- life practices. To which the landlord replied, that with respect to cock- fighting he intended to give it up entirely, being determined no longer to risk his capital upon birds, and with respect to his religious duties he should attend the church of which he was churchwarden at least once a quarter, adding, however, that he did not intend to become either canter or driveller, neither of which characters would befit a publican surrounded by such customers as he was, and that to the last day of his life he hoped to be able to make use of his fists. After a stay of about two hours I settled accounts; and having bridled and saddled my horse, and strapped on the valise, I mounted, shook hands with the landlord and his niece, and departed, notwithstanding that they both entreated me to tarry until the evening, it being then the heat of the day. CHAPTER XXI. AN ADVENTURE ON THE ROADS--THE SIX FLINT STONES--A RURAL SCENE--MEAD--THE OLD MAN AND HIS BEES. I bent my course in the direction of the north, more induced by chance than any particular motive; all quarters of the world having about equal attractions for me. I was in high spirits at finding myself once more on horseback, and trotted gaily on, until the heat of the weather induced me to slacken my pace, more out of pity for my horse than because I felt any particular inconvenience from it--heat and cold being then, and still, matters of great indifference to me. What I thought of I scarcely know, save and except that I have a glimmering recollection that I felt some desire to meet with one of those adventures which upon the roads of England are generally as plentiful as blackberries in autumn; and Fortune, who has generally been ready to gratify my inclinations, provided it cost her very little by so doing, was not slow in furnishing me with an adventure, perhaps as characteristic of the English roads as anything which could have happened. I might have travelled about six miles, amongst cross-roads and lanes, when suddenly I found myself upon a broad and very dusty road, which seemed to lead due north. As I wended along this, I saw a man upon a donkey, riding towards me. The man was commonly dressed, with a broad felt hat on his head, and a kind of satchel on his back; he seemed to be in a mighty hurry, and was every now and then belabouring the donkey with a cudgel. The donkey, however, which was a fine large creature of the silver-grey species, did not appear to sympathise at all with its rider in his desire to get on, but kept its head turned back as much as possible, moving from one side of the road to the other, and not making much forward way. As I passed, being naturally of a very polite disposition, I gave the man the sele of the day, asking him at the same time why he beat the donkey; whereupon the fellow, eyeing me askance, told me to mind my own business, with the addition of something which I need not repeat. I had not proceeded a furlong before I saw seated on the dust by the wayside, close by a heap of stones, and with several flints before him, a respectable-looking old man, with a straw hat and a white smock, who was weeping bitterly. "What are you crying for, father?" said I. "Have you come to any hurt?" "Hurt enough," sobbed the old man; "I have been just tricked out of the best ass in England by a villain who gave me nothing but these trash in return," pointing to the stones before him. "I really scarcely understand you," said I, "I wish you would explain yourself more clearly." "I was riding on my ass from market," said the old man, "when I met here a fellow with a sack on his back, who, after staring at the ass and me a moment or two, asked me if I would sell her. I told him that I could not think of selling her, as she was very useful to me, and though an animal, my true companion, whom I loved as much as if she were my wife and daughter. I then attempted to pass on, but the fellow stood before me, begging me to sell her, saying that he would give me anything for her; well, seeing that he persisted, I said at last that if I sold her, I must have six pounds for her, and I said so to get rid of him, for I saw that he was a shabby fellow, who had probably not six shillings in the world; but I had better have held my tongue," said the old man, crying more bitterly than before, "for the words were scarcely out of my mouth, when he said he would give me what I asked, and taking the sack from his back, he pulled out a steelyard, and going to the heap of stones there, he took up several of them and weighed them, then flinging them down before me, he said, 'There are six pounds, neighbour; now, get off the ass, and hand her over to me.' Well, I sat like one dumbfoundered for a time, till at last I asked him what he meant? 'What do I mean,' said he, 'you old rascal, why, I mean to claim my purchase,' and then he swore so awfully, that scarcely knowing what I did I got down, and he jumped on the animal and rode off as fast as he could." "I suppose he was the fellow," said I, "whom I just now met upon a fine grey ass, which he was beating with a cudgel." "I daresay he was," said the old man, "I saw him beating her as he rode away, and I thought I should have died." "I never heard such a story," said I; "well, do you mean to submit to such a piece of roguery quietly?" "Oh dear," said the old man, "what can I do? I am seventy-nine years of age; I am bad on my feet, and dar'n't go after him." "Shall I go?" said I; "the fellow is a thief, and any one has a right to stop him." "Oh, if you could but bring her again to me," said the old man, "I would bless you to my dying day; but have a care; I don't know but after all the law may say that she is his lawful purchase. I asked six pounds for her, and he gave me six pounds." "Six flints you mean," said I; "no, no, the law is not quite so bad as that either; I know something about her, and am sure that she will never sanction such a quibble. At all events, I'll ride after the fellow." Thereupon turning the horse round, I put him to his very best trot; I rode nearly a mile without obtaining a glimpse of the fellow, and was becoming apprehensive that he had escaped me by turning down some by-path, two or three of which I had passed. Suddenly, however, on the road making a slight turning, I perceived him right before me, moving at a tolerably swift pace, having by this time probably overcome the resistance of the animal. Putting my horse to a full gallop, I shouted at the top of my voice "Get off that donkey, you rascal, and give her up to me, or I'll ride you down." The fellow hearing the thunder of the horse's hoofs behind him, drew up on one side of the road. "What do you want?" said he, as I stopped my charger, now almost covered with sweat and foam, close beside him. "Do you want to rob me?" "To rob you?" said I. "No! but to take from you that ass, of which you have just robbed its owner." "I have robbed no man," said the fellow; "I just now purchased it fairly of its master, and the law will give it to me; he asked six pounds for it, and I gave him six pounds." "Six stones, you mean, you rascal," said I; "get down, or my horse shall be upon you in a moment;" then with a motion of my reins, I caused the horse to rear, pressing his sides with my heels as if I intended to make him leap. "Stop," said the man, "I'll get down, and then try if I can't serve you out." He then got down, and confronted me with his cudgel; he was a horrible-looking fellow, and seemed prepared for anything. Scarcely, however, had he dismounted, when the donkey jerked the bridle out of his hand, and probably in revenge for the usage she had received, gave him a pair of tremendous kicks on the hip with her hinder legs, which overturned him, and then scampered down the road the way she had come. "Pretty treatment this," said the fellow, getting up without his cudgel, and holding his hand to his side, "I wish I may not be lamed for life." "And if you be," said I, "it would merely serve you right, you rascal, for trying to cheat a poor old man out of his property by quibbling at words." "Rascal!" said the fellow, "you lie, I am no rascal; and as for quibbling with words--suppose I did! What then? All the first people does it! The newspapers does it! The gentlefolks that calls themselves the guides of the popular mind does it! I'm no ignoramus. I reads the newspapers, and knows what's what." "You read them to some purpose," said I. "Well, if you are lamed for life, and unfitted for any active line--turn newspaper editor; I should say you are perfectly qualified, and this day's adventure may be the foundation of your fortune;" thereupon I turned round and rode off. The fellow followed me with a torrent of abuse. "Confound you," said he--yet that was not the expression either--"I know you; you are one of the horse-patrol, come down into the country on leave to see your relations. Confound you, you and the like of you have knocked my business on the head near Lunnon, and I suppose we shall have you shortly in the country." "To the newspaper office," said I, "and fabricate falsehoods out of flint stones;" then touching the horse with my heels, I trotted off, and coming to the place where I had seen the old man, I found him there, risen from the ground, and embracing his ass. I told him that I was travelling down the road, and said that if his way lay in the same direction as mine, he could do no better than accompany me for some distance, lest the fellow, who, for aught I knew, might be hovering nigh, might catch him alone, and again get his ass from him. After thanking me for my offer, which he said he would accept, he got upon his ass, and we proceeded together down the road. My new acquaintance said very little of his own accord; and when I asked him a question, answered rather incoherently. I heard him every now and then say, "Villain!" to himself, after which he would pat the donkey's neck, from which circumstance I concluded that his mind was occupied with his late adventure. After travelling about two miles, we reached a place where a drift-way on the right led from the great road; here my companion stopped, and on my asking him whether he was going any farther, he told me that the path to the right was the way to his home. I was bidding him farewell, when he hemmed once or twice, and said that as he did not live far off, he hoped that I would go with him and taste some of his mead. As I had never tasted mead, of which I had frequently read in the compositions of the Welsh bards, and, moreover, felt rather thirsty from the heat of the day, I told him that I should have great pleasure in attending him. Whereupon, turning off together, we proceeded about half a mile, sometimes between stone walls, and at other times hedges, till we reached a small hamlet, through which we passed, and presently came to a very pretty cottage, delightfully situated within a garden, surrounded by a hedge of woodbines. Opening a gate at one corner of the garden, he led the way to a large shed which stood partly behind the cottage, which he said was his stable; thereupon he dismounted and led his donkey into the shed, which was without stalls, but had a long rack and manger. On one side he tied his donkey, after taking off her caparisons, and I followed his example, tying my horse at the other side with a rope halter which he gave me; he then asked me to come in and taste his mead, but I told him that I must attend to the comfort of my horse first, and forthwith, taking a wisp of straw, rubbed him carefully down. Then taking a pailful of clear water which stood in the shed, I allowed the horse to drink about half a pint; and then turning to the old man, who all the time had stood by looking at my proceedings, I asked him whether he had any oats? "I have all kinds of grain," he replied; and, going out, he presently returned with two measures, one a large and the other a small one, both filled with oats, mixed with a few beans, and handing the large one to me for the horse, he emptied the other before the donkey, who, before she began to despatch it, turned her nose to her master's face and fairly kissed him. Having given my horse his portion, I told the old man that I was ready to taste his mead as soon as he pleased, whereupon he ushered me into his cottage, where, making me sit down by a deal table in a neatly-sanded kitchen, he produced from an old- fashioned closet a bottle, holding about a quart, and a couple of cups, which might each contain about half a pint, then opening the bottle and filling the cups with a brown-coloured liquor, he handed one to me, and taking a seat opposite to me, he lifted the other, nodded, and saying to me--"Health and welcome," placed it to his lips and drank. "Health and thanks," I replied; and being very thirsty, emptied my cup at a draught; I had scarcely done so, however, when I half repented. The mead was deliciously sweet and mellow, but appeared strong as brandy; my eyes reeled in my head, and my brain became slightly dizzy. "Mead is a strong drink," said the old man, as he looked at me, with a half smile on his countenance. "This is, at any rate," said I, "so strong, indeed, that I would not drink another cup for any consideration." "And I would not ask you," said the old man; "for, if you did, you would most probably be stupid all day, and wake next morning with a headache. Mead is a good drink, but woundily strong, especially to those who be not used to it, as I suppose you are not." "Where do you get it?" said I. "I make it myself," said the old man, "from the honey which my bees make." "Have you many bees?" I inquired. "A great many," said the old man. "And do you keep them," said I, "for the sake of making mead with their honey?" "I keep them," he replied, "partly because I am fond of them, and partly for what they bring me in; they make me a great deal of honey, some of which I sell, and with a little I make me some mead to warm my poor heart with, or occasionally to treat a friend with like yourself." "And do you support yourself entirely by means of your bees?" "No," said the old man; "I have a little bit of ground behind my house, which is my principal means of support." "And do you live alone?" "Yes," said he; "with the exception of the bees and the donkey, I live quite alone." "And have you always lived alone?" The old man emptied his cup, and his heart being warmed with the mead, he told me his history, which was simplicity itself. His father was a small yeoman, who, at his death, had left him, his only child, the cottage, with a small piece of ground behind it, and on this little property he had lived ever since. About the age of twenty- five he had married an industrious young woman, by whom he had one daughter, who died before reaching years of womanhood. His wife, however, had survived her daughter many years, and had been a great comfort to him, assisting him in his rural occupations; but, about four years before the present period, he had lost her, since which time he had lived alone, making himself as comfortable as he could; cultivating his ground, with the help of a lad from the neighbouring village, attending to his bees, and occasionally riding his donkey to market, and hearing the word of God, which he said he was sorry he could not read, twice a week regularly at the parish church. Such was the old man's tale. When he had finished speaking, he led me behind his house, and showed me his little domain. It consisted of about two acres in admirable cultivation; a small portion of it formed a kitchen garden, while the rest was sown with four kinds of grain, wheat, barley, pease, and beans. The air was full of ambrosial sweets, resembling those proceeding from an orange grove; a place, which though I had never seen at that time, I since have. In the garden was the habitation of the bees, a long box, supported upon three oaken stumps. It was full of small round glass windows, and appeared to be divided into a great many compartments, much resembling drawers placed sideways. He told me that, as one compartment was filled, the bees left it for another; so that, whenever he wanted honey, he could procure some without injuring the insects. Through the little round windows I could see several of the bees at work; hundreds were going in and out of the doors; hundreds were buzzing about on the flowers, the woodbines, and beans. As I looked around on the well-cultivated field, the garden, and the bees, I thought I had never before seen so rural and peaceful a scene. When we returned to the cottage we again sat down, and I asked the old man whether he was not afraid to live alone. He told me that he was not, for that, upon the whole, his neighbours were very kind to him. I mentioned the fellow who had swindled him of his donkey upon the road. "That was no neighbour of mine," said the old man, "and perhaps I shall never see him again, or his like." "It's a dreadful thing," said I, "to have no other resource, when injured, than to shed tears on the road." "It is so," said the old man; "but God saw the tears of the old, and sent a helper." "Why did you not help yourself?" said I. "Instead of getting off your ass, why did you not punch at the fellow, or at any rate use dreadful language, call him villain, and shout robbery?" "Punch!" said the old man, "shout! what, with these hands, and this voice--Lord, how you run on! I am old, young chap, I am old!" "Well," said I, "it is a shameful thing to cry even when old." "You think so now," said the old man, "because you are young and strong; perhaps when you are as old as I, you will not be ashamed to cry." Upon the whole I was rather pleased with the old man, and much with all about him. As evening drew nigh, I told him that I must proceed on my journey; whereupon he invited me to tarry with him during the night, telling me that he had a nice room and bed above at my service. I, however, declined; and bidding him farewell, mounted my horse, and departed. Regaining the road, I proceeded once more in the direction of the north; and, after a few hours, coming to a comfortable public house, I stopped and put up for the night. CHAPTER XXII. THE SINGULAR NOISE--SLEEPING IN A MEADOW--THE BOOK--CURE FOR WAKEFULNESS--LITERARY TEA PARTY--POOR BYRON. I did not wake till rather late the next morning; and when I did, I felt considerable drowsiness, with a slight headache, which I was uncharitable enough to attribute to the mead which I had drank on the preceding day. After feeding my horse, and breakfasting, I proceeded on my wanderings. Nothing occurred worthy of relating till midday was considerably past, when I came to a pleasant valley, between two gentle hills. I had dismounted, in order to ease my horse, and was leading him along by the bridle, when, on my right, behind a bank in which some umbrageous ashes were growing, I heard a singular noise. I stopped short and listened, and presently said to myself, "Surely this is snoring, perhaps that of a hedgehog." On further consideration, however, I was convinced that the noise which I heard, and which certainly seemed to be snoring, could not possibly proceed from the nostrils of so small an animal, but must rather come from those of a giant, so loud and sonorous was it. About two or three yards farther was a gate, partly open, to which I went, and peeping into the field, saw a man lying on some rich grass, under the shade of one of the ashes; he was snoring away at a great rate. Impelled by curiosity, I fastened the bridle of my horse to the gate, and went up to the man. He was a genteelly-dressed individual; rather corpulent, with dark features, and seemingly about forty-five. He lay on his back, his hat slightly over his brow, and at his right hand lay an open book. So strenuously did he snore that the wind from his nostrils agitated, perceptibly, a fine cambric frill which he wore at his bosom. I gazed upon him for some time, expecting that he might awake; but he did not, but kept on snoring, his breast heaving convulsively. At last, the noise he made became so terrible, that I felt alarmed for his safety, imagining that a fit might seize him, and he lose his life whilst asleep. I therefore exclaimed, "Sir, sir, awake! you sleep overmuch." But my voice failed to rouse him, and he continued snoring as before; whereupon I touched him slightly with my riding wand, but failing to wake him I touched him again more vigorously; whereupon he opened his eyes, and, probably imagining himself in a dream, closed them again. But I was determined to arouse him, and cried as loud as I could, "Sir, sir, pray sleep no more!" He heard what I said, opened his eyes again, stared at me with a look of some consciousness, and, half raising himself upon his elbows, asked me what was the matter. "I beg your pardon," said I, "but I took the liberty of awaking you, because you appeared to be much disturbed in your sleep--I was fearful, too, that you might catch a fever from sleeping under a tree." "I run no risk," said the man, "I often come and sleep here; and as for being disturbed in my sleep, I felt very comfortable; I wish you had not awoken me." "Well," said I, "I beg your pardon once more. I assure you that what I did was with the best intention." "Oh! pray make no further apology," said the individual, "I make no doubt that what you did was done kindly; but there's an old proverb to the effect 'that you should let sleeping dogs lie,'" he added, with a smile. Then, getting up, and stretching himself with a yawn, he took up his book and said, "I have slept quite long enough, and it's quite time for me to be going home." "Excuse my curiosity," said I, "if I inquire what may induce you to come and sleep in this meadow?" "To tell you the truth," answered he, "I am a bad sleeper." "Pray pardon me," said I, "if I tell you that I never saw one sleep more heartily." "If I did so," said the individual, "I am beholden to this meadow and this book; but I am talking riddles, and will explain myself. I am the owner of a very pretty property, of which this valley forms part. Some years ago, however, up started a person who said the property was his; a lawsuit ensued, and I was on the brink of losing my all, when, most unexpectedly, the suit was determined in my favour. Owing, however, to the anxiety to which my mind had been subjected for years, my nerves had become terribly shaken; and no sooner was the trial terminated than sleep forsook my pillow. I sometimes passed nights without closing an eye; I took opiates, but they rather increased than alleviated my malady. About three weeks ago a friend of mine put this book into my hand, and advised me to take it every day to some pleasant part of my estate, and try and read a page or two, assuring me, if I did, that I should infallibly fall asleep. I took his advice, and selecting this place, which I considered the pleasantest part of my property, I came, and lying down, commenced reading the book, and before finishing a page was in a dead slumber. Every day since then I have repeated the experiment, and every time with equal success. I am a single man, without any children; and yesterday I made my will, in which, in the event of my friend's surviving me, I have left him all my fortune, in gratitude for his having procured for me the most invaluable of all blessings--sleep." "Dear me," said I, "how very extraordinary! Do you think that your going to sleep is caused by the meadow or the book?" "I suppose by both," said my new acquaintance, "acting in co-operation." "It may be so," said I; "the magic influence does certainly not proceed from the meadow alone; for since I have been here, I have not felt the slightest inclination to sleep. Does the book consist of prose or poetry?" "It consists of poetry," said the individual. "Not Byron's?" said I. "Byron's!" repeated the individual, with a smile of contempt; "no, no; there is nothing narcotic in Byron's poetry. I don't like it. I used to read it, but it thrilled, agitated, and kept me awake. No, this is not Byron's poetry, but the inimitable . . .'s"--mentioning a name which I had never heard till then. "Will you permit me to look at it?" said I. "With pleasure," he answered, politely handing me the book. I took the volume, and glanced over the contents. It was written in blank verse, and appeared to abound in descriptions of scenery; there was much mention of mountains, valleys, streams and waterfalls, harebells, and daffodils. These descriptions were interspersed with dialogues, which, though they proceeded from the mouths of pedlars and rustics, were of the most edifying description; mostly on subjects moral or metaphysical, and couched in the most gentlemanly and unexceptionable language, without the slightest mixture of vulgarity, coarseness, or piebald grammar. Such appeared to me to be the contents of the book; but before I could form a very clear idea of them, I found myself nodding, and a surprising desire to sleep coming over me. Rousing myself, however, by a strong effort, I closed the book, and, returning it to the owner, inquired of him, "Whether he had any motive in coming and lying down in the meadow, besides the wish of enjoying sleep?" "None whatever," he replied; "indeed, I should be very glad not to be compelled to do so, always provided I could enjoy the blessing of sleep; for by lying down under trees, I may possibly catch the rheumatism, or be stung by serpents; and, moreover, in the rainy season and winter the thing will be impossible, unless I erect a tent, which will possibly destroy the charm." "Well," said I, "you need give yourself no further trouble about coming here, as I am fully convinced that with this book in your hand, you may go to sleep anywhere, as your friend was doubtless aware, though he wished to interest your imagination for a time by persuading you to lie abroad; therefore, in future, whenever you feel disposed to sleep, try to read the book, and you will be sound asleep in a minute; the narcotic influence lies in the book, and not in the field." "I will follow your advice," said the individual, "and this very night take it with me to bed; though I hope in time to be able to sleep without it, my nerves being already much quieted from the slumbers I have enjoyed in this field." He then moved towards the gate, where we parted; he going one way, and I and my horse the other. More than twenty years subsequent to this period, after much wandering about the world, returning to my native country, I was invited to a literary tea-party, where, the discourse turning upon poetry, I, in order to show that I was not more ignorant than my neighbours, began to talk about Byron, for whose writings I really entertained a considerable admiration, though I had no particular esteem for the man himself. At first I received no answer to what I said--the company merely surveying me with a kind of sleepy stare. At length a lady, about the age of forty, with a large wart on her face, observed in a drawling tone, "That she had not read Byron--at least since her girlhood--and then only a few passages; but that the impression on her mind was, that his writings were of a highly objectionable character." "I also read a little of him in my boyhood," said a gentleman, about sixty, but who evidently, from his dress and demeanour, wished to appear about thirty, "but I highly disapproved of him; for, notwithstanding he was a nobleman, he is frequently very coarse, and very fond of raising emotion. Now emotion is what I dislike;" drawling out the last syllable of the word dislike. "There is only one poet for me--the divine . . ."--and then he mentioned a name which I had only once heard, and afterwards quite forgotten; the name mentioned by the snorer in the field. "Ah! there is no one like him!" murmured some more of the company; "the poet of nature--of nature without its vulgarity." I wished very much to ask these people whether they were ever bad sleepers, and whether they had read the poet, so called, from a desire of being set to sleep. Within a few days, however, I learned that it had of late become very fashionable and genteel to appear half asleep, and that one could exhibit no better mark of superfine breeding than by occasionally in company setting one's ronchal organ in action. I then ceased to wonder at the popularity, which I found nearly universal, of . . .'s poetry; for, certainly in order to make one's self appear sleepy in company, or occasionally to induce sleep, nothing could be more efficacious than a slight pre-lection of his poems. So, poor Byron, with his fire and emotion--to say nothing of his mouthings and coxcombry--was dethroned, as I had prophesied he would be more than twenty years before, on the day of his funeral, though I had little idea that his humiliation would have been brought about by one whose sole strength consists in setting people to sleep. Well, all things are doomed to terminate in sleep. Before that termination, however, I will venture to prophesy that people will become a little more awake--snoring and yawning be a little less in fashion--and poor Byron be once more reinstated on his throne, though his rival will always stand a good chance of being worshipped by those whose ruined nerves are insensible to the narcotic powers of opium and morphine. CHAPTER XXIII. DRIVERS AND FRONT OUTSIDE PASSENGERS--FATIGUE OF BODY AND MIND--UNEXPECTED GREETING--MY INN--THE GOVERNOR--ENGAGEMENT. I continued my journey, passing through one or two villages. The day was exceedingly hot, and the roads dusty. In order to cause my horse as little fatigue as possible, and not to chafe his back, I led him by the bridle, my doing which brought upon me a shower of remarks, jests, and would-be witticisms from the drivers and front outside passengers of sundry stagecoaches, which passed me in one direction or the other. In this way I proceeded till considerably past noon, when I felt myself very fatigued, and my horse appeared no less so; and it is probable that the lazy and listless manner in which we were moving on tired us both much more effectually than hurrying along at a swift trot would have done, for I have observed that when the energies of the body are not exerted a languor frequently comes over it. At length, arriving at a very large building with an archway, near the entrance of a town, I sat down on what appeared to be a stepping-block, and presently experienced a great depression of spirits. I began to ask myself whither I was going, and what I should do with myself and the horse which I held by the bridle? It appeared to me that I was alone in the world with the poor animal, who looked for support to me, who knew not how to support myself. Then the image of Isopel Berners came into my mind, and when I bethought me how I had lost her for ever, and how happy I might have been with her in the New World had she not deserted me, I became yet more miserable. As I sat in this frame of mind, I suddenly felt some one clap me on the shoulder, and heard a voice say, "Ha! comrade of the dingle, what chance has brought you into these parts?" I turned round, and beheld a man in the dress of a postillion, whom I instantly recognised as he to whom I had rendered assistance on the night of the storm. "Ah!" said I, "is it you? I am glad to see you, for I was feeling very lonely and melancholy." "Lonely and melancholy," he replied, "how is that? how can any one be lonely and melancholy with such a noble horse as that you hold by the bridle?" "The horse," said I, "is one cause of my melancholy, for I know not in the world what to do with it." "Is it your own?" "Yes," said I, "I may call it my own, though I borrowed the money to purchase it." "Well, why don't you sell it?" "It is not always easy to find a purchaser for a horse like this," said I; "can you recommend me one?" "I? Why, no, not exactly; but you'll find a purchaser shortly--pooh! if you have no other cause for disquiet than that horse, cheer up, man, don't be cast down. Have you nothing else on your mind? By-the-bye, what's become of the young women you were keeping company with in that queer lodging-place of yours?" "She has left me," said I. "You quarrelled, I suppose?" "No," said I, "we did not exactly quarrel, but we are parted." "Well," replied he, "but you will soon come together again." "No," said I, "we are parted for ever." "Forever! Pooh! you little know how people sometimes come together again who think they are parted for ever. Here's something on that point relating to myself. You remember, when I told you my story in that dingle of yours, that I mentioned a young woman, my fellow-servant when I lived with the English family in Mumbo Jumbo's town, and how she and I, when our foolish governors were thinking of changing their religion, agreed to stand by each other, and be true to old Church of England, and to give our governors warning, provided they tried to make us renegades. Well, she and I parted soon after that, and never thought to meet again, yet we met the other day in the fields, for she lately came to live with a great family not far from here, and we have since agreed to marry, to take a little farm, for we have both a trifle of money, and live together till 'death us do part.' So much for parting for ever! But what do I mean by keeping you broiling in the sun with your horse's bridle in your hand, and you on my own ground? Do you know where you are? Why, that great house is my inn, that is, it's my master's, the best fellow in . . . Come along, you and your horse both will find a welcome at my inn." Thereupon he led the way into a large court in which there were coaches, chaises, and a great many people; taking my horse from me, he led it into a nice cool stall, and fastened it to the rack--he then conducted me into a postillion's keeping-room, which at that time chanced to be empty, and he then fetched a pot of beer and sat down by me. After a little conversation he asked me what I intended to do, and I told him frankly that I did not know; whereupon he observed that, provided I had no objection, he had little doubt that I could be accommodated for some time at his inn. "Our upper ostler," said he, "died about a week ago; he was a clever fellow, and, besides his trade, understood reading and accounts." "Dear me," said I, interrupting him, "I am not fitted for the place of ostler--moreover, I refused the place of ostler at a public-house, which was offered to me only a few days ago." The postillion burst into a laugh. "Ostler at a public-house, indeed! why, you would not compare a berth at a place like that with the situation of ostler at my inn, the first road-house in England! However, I was not thinking of the place of ostler for you; you are, as you say, not fitted for it, at any rate not at a house like this. We have, moreover, the best under-ostler in all England--old Bill, with the drawback that he is rather fond of drink. We could make shift with him very well, provided we could fall in with a man of writing and figures, who could give an account of the hay and corn which comes in and goes out, and wouldn't object to give a look occasionally at the yard. Now it appears to me that you are just such a kind of man, and if you will allow me to speak to the governor, I don't doubt that he will gladly take you, as he feels kindly disposed towards you from what he has heard me say concerning you." "And what should I do with my horse?" said I. "The horse need give you no uneasiness," said the postillion; "I know he will be welcome here both for bed and manger, and perhaps in a little time you may find a purchaser, as a vast number of sporting people frequent this house." I offered two or three more objections, which the postillion overcame with great force of argument, and the pot being nearly empty, he drained it to the bottom drop, and then starting up, left me alone. In about twenty minutes he returned, accompanied by a highly intelligent- looking individual dressed in blue and black, with a particularly white cravat, and without a hat on his head; this individual, whom I should have mistaken for a gentleman but for the intelligence depicted in his face, he introduced to me as the master of the inn. The master of the inn shook me warmly by the hand, told me that he was happy to see me in his house, and thanked me in the handsomest terms for the kindness I had shown to his servant in the affair of the thunder-storm. Then saying that he was informed I was out of employ, he assured me that he should be most happy to engage me to keep his hay and corn account, and as general superintendent of the yard, and that with respect to the horse which he was told I had, he begged to inform me that I was perfectly at liberty to keep it at the inn upon the very best, until I could find a purchaser,--that with regard to wages--but he had no sooner mentioned wages than I cut him short, saying, that provided I stayed I should be most happy to serve him for bed and board, and requested that he would allow me until the next morning to consider of his offer; he willingly consented to my request, and, begging that I would call for anything I pleased, left me alone with the postillion. I passed that night until about ten o'clock with the postillion, when he left me, having to drive a family about ten miles across the country; before his departure, however, I told him that I had determined to accept the offer of his governor, as he called him. At the bottom of my heart I was most happy that an offer had been made, which secured to myself and the animal a comfortable retreat at a moment when I knew not whither in the world to take myself and him. CHAPTER XXIV. AN INN OF TIMES GONE BY--A FIRST-RATE PUBLICAN--HAY AND CORN--OLD-FASHIONED OSTLER--HIGHWAYMEN--MOUNTED POLICE--GROOMING. The inn, of which I had become an inhabitant, was a place of infinite life and bustle. Travellers of all descriptions, from all the cardinal points, were continually stopping at it; and to attend to their wants, and minister to their convenience, an army of servants, of one description or other, was kept: waiters, chambermaids, grooms, postillions, shoe-blacks, cooks, scullions, and what not, for there was a barber and hair-dresser, who had been at Paris, and talked French with a cockney accent; the French sounding all the better, as no accent is so melodious as the cockney. Jacks creaked in the kitchens turning round spits, on which large joints of meat piped and smoked before the great big fires. There was running up and down stairs, and along galleries, slamming of doors, cries of "Coming, sir," and "Please to step this way, ma'am," during eighteen hours of the four-and-twenty. Truly a very great place for life and bustle was this inn. And often in after life, when lonely and melancholy, I have called up the time I spent there, and never failed to become cheerful from the recollection. I found the master of the house a very kind and civil person. Before being an inn-keeper he had been in some other line of business, but on the death of the former proprietor of the inn had married his widow, who was still alive, but being somewhat infirm, lived in a retired part of the house. I have said that he was kind and civil; he was, however, not one of those people who suffer themselves to be made fools of by anybody; he knew his customers, and had a calm clear eye, which would look through a man without seeming to do so. The accommodation of his house was of the very best description; his wines were good, his viands equally so, and his charges not immoderate; though he very properly took care of himself. He was no vulgar inn-keeper, had a host of friends, and deserved them all. During the time I lived with him, he was presented, by a large assemblage of his friends and customers, with a dinner at his own house, which was very costly, and at which the best of wines were sported, and after the dinner with a piece of plate, estimated at fifty guineas. He received the plate, made a neat speech of thanks, and when the bill was called for, made another neat speech, in which he refused to receive one farthing for the entertainment, ordering in at the same time two dozen more of the best champagne, and sitting down amidst uproarious applause, and cries of "You shall be no loser by it!" Nothing very wonderful in such conduct, some people will say; I don't say there is, nor have I any intention to endeavour to persuade the reader that the landlord was a Carlo Borromeo; he merely gave a quid pro quo; but it is not every person who will give you a quid pro quo. Had he been a vulgar publican, he would have sent in a swinging bill after receiving the plate; "but then no vulgar publican would have been presented with plate;" perhaps not, but many a vulgar public character has been presented with plate, whose admirers never received a quid pro quo, except in the shape of a swinging bill. I found my duties of distributing hay and corn, and keeping an account thereof, anything but disagreeable, particularly after I had acquired the good-will of the old ostler, who at first looked upon me with rather an evil eye, considering me somewhat in the light of one who had usurped an office which belonged to himself by the right of succession; but there was little gall in the old fellow, and by speaking kindly to him, never giving myself any airs of assumption, but, above all, by frequently reading the newspapers to him--for, though passionately fond of news and politics, he was unable to read--I soon succeeded in placing myself on excellent terms with him. A regular character was that old ostler; he was a Yorkshireman by birth, but had seen a great deal of life in the vicinity of London, to which, on the death of his parents, who were very poor people, he went at a very early age. Amongst other places where he had served as ostler was a small inn at Hounslow, much frequented by highwaymen, whose exploits he was fond of narrating, especially those of Jerry Abershaw, who, he said, was a capital rider; and on hearing his accounts of that worthy I half regretted that the old fellow had not been in London, and I had not formed his acquaintance about the time I was thinking of writing the life of the said Abershaw, not doubting that with his assistance I could have produced a book at least as remarkable as the life and adventures of that entirely imaginary personage, Joseph Sell; perhaps, however, I was mistaken; and whenever Abershaw's life shall appear before the public--and my publisher credibly informs me that it has not yet appeared--I beg and entreat the public to state which it likes best, the life of Abershaw, or that of Sell, for which latter work I am informed that during the last few months there has been a prodigious demand. My old friend, however, after talking of Abershaw, would frequently add that, good rider as Abershaw certainly was, he was decidedly inferior to Richard Ferguson, generally called Galloping Dick, who was a pal of Abershaw's, and had enjoyed a career as long, and nearly as remarkable, as his own. I learned from him that both were capital customers at the Hounslow inn, and that he had frequently drank with them in the corn-room. He said that no man could desire more jolly or entertaining companions over a glass of "summut," but that upon the road it was anything but desirable to meet them; there they were terrible, cursing and swearing, and thrusting the muzzles of their pistols into people's mouths; and at this part of his locution the old man winked, and said, in a somewhat lower voice, that upon the whole they were right in doing so, and that when a person had once made up his mind to become a highwayman, his best policy was to go the whole hog, fearing nothing, but making everybody afraid of him; that people never thought of resisting a savage-faced, foul-mouthed highwayman, and if he were taken, were afraid to bear witness against him, lest he should get off and cut their throats some time or other upon the roads; whereas people would resist being robbed by a sneaking, pale-visaged rascal, and would swear bodily against him on the first opportunity,--adding, that Abershaw and Ferguson, two most awful fellows, had enjoyed a long career, whereas two disbanded officers of the army, who wished to rob a coach like gentlemen, had begged the passengers' pardon, and talked of hard necessity, had been set upon by the passengers themselves, amongst whom were three women, pulled from their horses, conducted to Maidstone, and hanged with as little pity as such contemptible fellows deserved. "There is nothing like going the whole hog," he repeated, "and if ever I had been a highwayman, I would have done so; I should have thought myself all the more safe; and, moreover, shouldn't have despised myself. To curry favour with those you are robbing, sometimes at the expense of your own comrades, as I have known fellows do, why, it is the greatest . . ." "So it is," interposed my friend the postillion, who chanced to be present at a considerable part of the old ostler's discourse; "it is, as you say, the greatest of humbug, and merely, after all, gets a fellow into trouble; but no regular bred highwayman would do it. I say, George, catch the Pope of Rome trying to curry favour with anybody he robs; catch old Mumbo Jumbo currying favour with the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Dean and Chapter, should he meet them in a stage-coach; it would be with him, Bricconi Abbasso, as he knocked their teeth out with the butt of his trombone; and the old regular-built ruffian would be all the safer for it, as Bill would say, as ten to one the Archbishop and Chapter, after such a spice of his quality, would be afraid to swear against him, and to hang him, even if he were in their power, though that would be the proper way; for, if it is the greatest of all humbug for a highwayman to curry favour with those he robs, the next greatest is to try to curry favour with a highwayman when you have got him, by letting him off." Finding the old man so well acquainted with the history of highwaymen, and taking considerable interest in the subject, having myself edited a book containing the lives of many remarkable people who had figured on the highway, I forthwith asked him how it was that the trade of highwayman had become extinct in England, as at present we never heard of any one following it. Whereupon he told me that many causes had contributed to bring about that result; the principal of which were the following:--the refusal to license houses which were known to afford shelter to highwaymen, which amongst many others, had caused the inn at Hounslow to be closed; the inclosure of many a wild heath in the country, on which they were in the habit of lurking, and particularly the establishing in the neighbourhood of London of a well-armed mounted patrol, who rode the highwaymen down, and delivered them up to justice, which hanged them without ceremony. "And that would be the way to deal with Mumbo Jumbo and his gang," said the postillion, "should they show their visages in these realms; and I hear by the newspapers that they are becoming every day more desperate. Take away the licence from their public-houses, cut down the rookeries and shadowy old avenues in which they are fond of lying in wait, in order to sally out upon people as they pass in the roads; but, above all, establish a good mounted police to ride after the ruffians and drag them by the scruff of the neck to the next clink, where they might lie till they could be properly dealt with by law; instead of which, the Government are repealing the wise old laws enacted against such characters, giving fresh licences every day to their public-houses, and saying that it would be a pity to cut down their rookeries and thickets, because they look so very picturesque; and, in fact, giving them all kind of encouragement; why, if such behaviour is not enough to drive an honest man mad, I know not what is. It is of no use talking, I only wish the power were in my hands, and if I did not make short work of them, might I be a mere jackass postillion all the remainder of my life." Besides acquiring from the ancient ostler a great deal of curious information respecting the ways and habits of the heroes of the road, with whom he had come in contact in the early portion of his life, I picked up from him many excellent hints relating to the art of grooming horses. Whilst at the inn, I frequently groomed the stage and post-horses, and those driven up by travellers in their gigs: I was not compelled, nor indeed expected, to do so; but I took pleasure in the occupation; and I remember at that period one of the principal objects of my ambition was to be a first-rate groom, and to make the skins of the creatures I took in hand look sleek and glossy like those of moles. I have said that I derived valuable hints from the old man, and, indeed, became a very tolerable groom, but there was a certain finishing touch which I could never learn from him, though he possessed it himself, and which I could never attain to by my own endeavours; though my want of success certainly did not proceed from want of application, for I have rubbed the horses down, purring and buzzing all the time, after the genuine ostler fashion, until the perspiration fell in heavy drops upon my shoes, and when I had done my best, and asked the old fellow what he thought of my work, I could never extract from him more than a kind of grunt, which might be translated, "Not so very bad, but I have seen a horse groomed much better," which leads me to suppose that a person, in order to be a first-rate groom, must have something in him when he is born which I had not, and, indeed, which many other people have not who pretend to be grooms. What does the reader think? CHAPTER XXV. STABLE HARTSHORN--HOW TO MANAGE A HORSE ON A JOURNEY--YOUR BEST FRIEND. Of one thing I am certain, that the reader must be much delighted with the wholesome smell of the stable, with which many of these pages are redolent; what a contrast to the sickly odours exhaled from those of some of my contemporaries, especially of those who pretend to be of the highly fashionable class, and who treat of reception-rooms, well may they be styled so, in which dukes, duchesses, earls, countesses, archbishops, bishops, mayors, mayoresses--not forgetting the writers themselves, both male and female--congregate and press upon one another; how cheering, how refreshing, after having been nearly knocked down with such an atmosphere, to come in contact with genuine stable hartshorn. Oh! the reader shall have yet more of the stable, and of that old ostler, for which he or she will doubtless exclaim, "Much obliged!"--and lest I should forget to perform my promise, the reader shall have it now. I shall never forget a harangue from the mouth of the old man, which I listened to one warm evening as he and I sat on the threshold of the stable, after having attended to some of the wants of a batch of coach- horses. It related to the manner in which a gentleman should take care of his horse and self whilst engaged in a journey on horseback, and was addressed to myself on the supposition of my one day coming to an estate, and of course becoming a gentleman. "When you are a gentleman," said he, "should you ever wish to take a journey on a horse of your own, and you could not have a much better than the one you have here eating its fill in the box yonder--I wonder, by-the- bye, how you ever came by it--you can't do better than follow the advice I am about to give you, both with respect to your animal and yourself. Before you start, merely give your horse a couple of handfuls of corn and a little water, somewhat under a quart, and if you drink a pint of water yourself out of the pail, you will feel all the better during the whole day; then you may walk and trot your animal for about ten miles, till you come to some nice inn, where you may get down and see your horse led into a nice stall, telling the ostler not to feed him till you come. If the ostler happens to be a dog-fancier, and has an English terrier dog like that of mine there, say what a nice dog it is, and praise its black and tawn; and if he does not happen to be a dog-fancier, ask him how he's getting on, and whether he ever knew worse times; that kind of thing will please the ostler, and he will let you do just what you please with your own horse, and when your back is turned, he'll say to his comrades what a nice gentleman you are, and how he thinks he has seen you before; then go and sit down to breakfast, and before you have finished breakfast, get up and go and give your horse a feed of corn; chat with the ostler two or three minutes till your horse has taken the shine out of his corn, which will prevent the ostler taking any of it away when your back is turned, for such things are sometimes done--not that I ever did such a thing myself when I was at the inn at Hounslow. Oh, dear me, no! Then go and finish your breakfast, and when you have finished your breakfast and called for the newspaper, go and water your horse, letting him have about one pailful, then give him another feed of corn, and enter into discourse with the ostler about bull-baiting, the prime minister, and the like; and when your horse has once more taken the shine out of his corn, go back to your room and your newspaper--and I hope for your sake it may be the _Globe_, for that's the best paper going,--then pull the bell-rope and order in your bill, which you will pay without counting it up--supposing you to be a gentleman. Give the waiter sixpence, and order out your horse, and when your horse is out, pay for the corn, and give the ostler a shilling, then mount your horse and walk him gently for five miles; and whilst you are walking him in this manner, it may be as well to tell you to take care that you do not let him down and smash his knees, more especially if the road be a particularly good one, for it is not at a desperate hiverman pace, and over very bad roads, that a horse tumbles and smashes his knees, but on your particularly nice road, when the horse is going gently and lazily, and is half asleep, like the gemman on his back; well, at the end of the five miles, when the horse has digested his food, and is all right, you may begin to push your horse on, trotting him a mile at a heat, and then walking him a quarter of a one, that his wind may be not distressed; and you may go on in that manner for thirty miles, never galloping of course, for none but fools or hivermen ever gallop horses on roads; and at the end of that distance you may stop at some other nice inn for dinner. I say, when your horse is led into the stable, after that same thirty miles trotting and walking, don't let the saddle be whisked off at once, for if you do your horse will have such a sore back as will frighten you, but let your saddle remain on your horse's back, with the girths loosened, till after his next feed of corn, and be sure that he has no corn, much less water, till after a long hour and more; after he is fed he may be watered to the tune of half a pail, and then the ostler can give him a regular rub down; you may then sit down to dinner, and when you have dined get up and see to your horse as you did after breakfast, in fact you must do much after the same fashion you did at t'other inn; see to your horse, and by no means disoblige the ostler. So when you have seen to your horse a second time, you will sit down to your bottle of wine--supposing you to be a gentleman--and after you have finished it, and your argument about the corn laws with any commercial gentleman who happens to be in the room, you may mount your horse again--not forgetting to do the proper thing to the waiter and ostler; you may mount your horse again and ride him, as you did before, for about five-and-twenty miles, at the end of which you may put up for the night after a very fair day's journey, for no gentleman--supposing he weighs sixteen stone, as I suppose you will by the time you become a gentleman--ought to ride a horse more than sixty-five miles in one day, provided he has any regard for his horse's back, or his own either. See to your horse at night, and have him well rubbed down. The next day you may ride your horse forty miles just as you please, but never foolishly, and those forty miles will bring you to your journey's end, unless your journey be a plaguy long one, and if so, never ride your horse more than five-and-thirty miles a day, always however, seeing him well fed, and taking more care of him than yourself; which is but right and reasonable, seeing as how the horse is the best animal of the two. "When you are a gentleman," said he, after a pause, "the first thing you must think about is to provide yourself with a good horse for your own particular riding; you will, perhaps, keep a coach and pair, but they will be less your own than your lady's, should you have one, and your young gentry, should you have any; or, if you have neither, for madam, your housekeeper, and the upper female servants; so you need trouble your head less about them, though, of course, you would not like to pay away your money for screws; but be sure you get a good horse for your own riding; and that you may have a good chance of having a good one, buy one that's young and has plenty of belly--a little more than the one has which you now have, though you are not yet a gentleman; you will, of course, look to his head, his withers, legs, and other points, but never buy a horse at any price that has not plenty of belly--no horse that has not belly is ever a good feeder, and a horse that a'n't a good feeder can't be a good horse; never buy a horse that is drawn up in the belly behind, a horse of that description can't feed, and can never carry sixteen stone. "So when you have got such a horse be proud of it--as I dare say you are of the one you have now--and wherever you go swear there a'n't another to match it in the country, and if anybody gives you the lie, take him by the nose and tweak it off, just as you would do if anybody were to speak ill of your lady, or, for want of her, of your housekeeper. Take care of your horse, as you would of the apple of your eye--I am sure I would, if I were a gentleman, which I don't ever expect to be, and hardly wish, seeing as how I am sixty-nine, and am rather too old to ride--yes, cherish and take care of your horse as perhaps the best friend you have in the world; for, after all, who will carry you through thick and thin as your horse will? not your gentlemen friends I warrant, nor your housekeeper, nor your upper servants, male or female; perhaps your lady would, that is, if she is a wopper, and one of the right sort; the others would be more likely to take up mud and pelt you with it, provided they saw you in trouble, than to help you. So take care of your horse, and feed him every day with your own hands; give him three-quarters of a peck of corn each day, mixed up with a little hay-chaff, and allow him besides one hundred-weight of hay in the course of the week; some say that the hay should be hardland hay, because it is wholesomest, but I say, let it be clover hay, because the horse likes it best; give him through summer and winter, once a week, a pailful of bran mash, cold in summer and in winter hot; ride him gently about the neighbourhood every day, by which means you will give exercise to yourself and horse, and, moreover, have the satisfaction of exhibiting yourself and your horse to advantage, and hearing, perhaps, the men say what a fine horse, and the ladies saying what a fine man: never let your groom mount your horse, as it is ten to one, if you do, your groom will be wishing to show off before company, and will fling your horse down. I was groom to a gemman before I went to the inn at Hounslow, and flung him a horse down worth ninety guineas, by endeavouring to show off before some ladies that I met on the road. Turn your horse out to grass throughout May and the first part of June, for then the grass is sweetest, and the flies don't sting so bad as they do later in summer: afterwards merely turn him out occasionally in the swale of the morn and the evening; after September the grass is good for little, lash and sour at best: every horse should go out to grass, if not, his blood becomes full of greasy humours, and his wind is apt to become affected, but he ought to be kept as much as possible from the heat and flies, always got up at night, and never turned out late in the year--Lord! if I had always such a nice attentive person to listen to me as you are, I could go on talking about 'orses to the end of time." CHAPTER XXVI. THE STAGE-COACHMEN OF ENGLAND--A BULLY SERVED OUT--BROUGHTON'S GUARD--THE BRAZEN HEAD. I lived on very good terms, not only with the master and the old ostler, but with all the domestics and hangers-on at the inn; waiters, chambermaids, cooks, and scullions, not forgetting the "boots," of which there were three. As for the postillions, I was sworn brother with them all, and some of them went so far as to swear that I was the best fellow in the world; for which high opinion entertained by them of me, I believe I was principally indebted to the good account their comrade gave of me, whom I had so hospitably received in the dingle. I repeat that I lived on good terms with all the people connected with the inn, and was noticed and spoken kindly to by some of the guests--especially by that class termed commercial travellers--all of whom were great friends and patronisers of the landlord, and were the principal promoters of the dinner, and subscribers to the gift of plate, which I have already spoken of, the whole fraternity striking me as the jolliest set of fellows imaginable, the best customers to an inn, and the most liberal to servants; there was one description of persons, however, frequenting the inn which I did not like at all, and which I did not get on well with, and these people were the stage-coachmen. The stage-coachmen of England, at the time of which I am speaking, considered themselves mighty fine gentry, nay, I verily believe the most important personages of the realm, and their entertaining this high opinion of themselves can scarcely be wondered at; they were low fellows, but masters of driving; driving was in fashion, and sprigs of nobility used to dress as coachmen and imitate the slang and behaviour of coachmen, from whom occasionally they would take lessons in driving as they sat beside them on the box, which post of honour any sprig of nobility who happened to take a place on a coach claimed as his unquestionable right; and then these sprigs would smoke cigars and drink sherry with the coachmen in bar-rooms, and on the road; and, when bidding them farewell, would give them a guinea or a half-guinea, and shake them by the hand, so that these fellows, being low fellows, very naturally thought no small liquor of themselves, but would talk familiarly of their friends lords so and so, the honourable misters so and so, and Sir Harry and Sir Charles, and be wonderfully saucy to any one who was not a lord, or something of the kind; and this high opinion of themselves received daily augmentation from the servile homage paid them by the generality of the untitled male passengers, especially those on the fore part of the coach, who used to contend for the honour of sitting on the box with the coachman when no sprig was nigh to put in his claim. Oh! what servile homage these craven creatures did pay these same coach fellows, more especially after witnessing this or t'other act of brutality practised upon the weak and unoffending--upon some poor friendless woman travelling with but little money, and perhaps a brace of hungry children with her, or upon some thin and half-starved man travelling on the hind part of the coach from London to Liverpool, with only eighteen pence in his pocket after his fare was paid, to defray his expenses on the road; for as the insolence of these knights was vast, so was their rapacity enormous; they had been so long accustomed to have crowns and half-crowns rained upon them by their admirers and flatterers, that they would look at a shilling, for which many an honest labourer was happy to toil for ten hours under a broiling sun, with the utmost contempt; would blow upon it derisively, or fillip it into the air before they pocketed it; but when nothing was given them, as would occasionally happen--for how could they receive from those who had nothing? and nobody was bound to give them anything, as they had certain wages from their employers--then what a scene would ensue! Truly the brutality and rapacious insolence of English coachmen had reached a climax; it was time that these fellows should be disenchanted, and the time--thank Heaven!--was not far distant. Let the craven dastards who used to curry favour with them, and applaud their brutality, lament their loss now that they and their vehicles have disappeared from the roads; I, who have ever been an enemy to insolence, cruelty, and tyranny, loathe their memory, and, what is more, am not afraid to say so, well aware of the storm of vituperation, partly learned from them, which I may expect from those who used to fall down and worship them. Amongst the coachmen who frequented the inn was one who was called "the bang-up coachman." He drove to our inn, in the fore part of every day, one of what were called the fast coaches, and afterwards took back the corresponding vehicle. He stayed at our house about twenty minutes, during which time the passengers of the coach which he was to return with dined; those at least who were inclined for dinner, and could pay for it. He derived his sobriquet of "the bang-up coachman" partly from his being dressed in the extremity of coach dandyism, and partly from the peculiar insolence of his manner, and the unmerciful fashion in which he was in the habit of lashing on the poor horses committed to his charge. He was a large tall fellow, of about thirty, with a face which, had it not been bloated by excess, and insolence and cruelty stamped most visibly upon it, might have been called good-looking. His insolence indeed was so great that he was hated by all the minor fry connected with coaches along the road upon which he drove, especially the ostlers, whom he was continually abusing or finding fault with. Many was the hearty curse which he received when his back was turned; but the generality of people were much afraid of him, for he was a swinging strong fellow, and had the reputation of being a fighter, and in one or two instances had beaten in a barbarous manner individuals who had quarrelled with him. I was nearly having a fracas with this worthy. One day, after he had been drinking sherry with a sprig, he swaggered into the yard where I happened to be standing; just then a waiter came by carrying upon a tray part of a splendid Cheshire cheese, with a knife, plate, and napkin. Stopping the waiter, the coachman cut with the knife a tolerably large lump out of the very middle of the cheese, stuck it on the end of the knife, and putting it to his mouth nibbled a slight piece off it, and then, tossing the rest away with disdain, flung the knife down upon the tray, motioning the waiter to proceed: "I wish," said I, "you may not want before you die what you have just flung away," whereupon the fellow turned furiously towards me; just then, however, his coach being standing at the door, there was a cry for coachman, so that he was forced to depart, contenting himself for the present with shaking his fist at me, and threatening to serve me out on the first opportunity; before, however, the opportunity occurred he himself got served out in a most unexpected manner. The day after this incident he drove his coach to the inn, and after having dismounted and received the contributions of the generality of the passengers, he strutted up, with a cigar in his mouth, to an individual who had come with him, and who had just asked me a question with respect to the direction of a village about three miles off, to which he was going. "Remember the coachman," said the knight of the box to this individual, who was a thin person of about sixty, with a white hat, rather shabby black coat, and buff-coloured trousers, and who held an umbrella and a small bundle in his hand. "If you expect me to give you anything," said he to the coachman, "you are mistaken; I will give you nothing. You have been very insolent to me as I rode behind you on the coach, and have encouraged two or three trumpery fellows, who rode along with you, to cut scurvy jokes at my expense, and now you come to me for money: I am not so poor but I could have given you a shilling had you been civil; as it is I will give you nothing." "Oh! you won't, won't you?" said the coachman; "dear me! I hope I shan't starve because you won't give me anything--a shilling! why, I could afford to give you twenty if I thought fit, you pauper! civil to you, indeed! things are come to a fine pass if I need be civil to you! Do you know who you are speaking to? why, the best lords in the country are proud to speak to me. Why, it was only the other day that the Marquis of . . . said to me . . .," and then he went on to say what the Marquis said to him; after which, flinging down his cigar, he strutted up the road, swearing to himself about paupers. "You say it is three miles to . . .," said the individual to me; "I think I shall light my pipe, and smoke it as I go along." Thereupon he took out from a side-pocket a tobacco-box and short meerschaum pipe, and implements for striking a light, filled his pipe, lighted it, and commenced smoking. Presently the coachman drew near, I saw at once that there was mischief in his eye; the man smoking was standing with his back towards him, and he came _so_ nigh to him, seemingly purposely, that as he passed a puff of smoke came of necessity against his face. "What do you mean by smoking in my face?" said he, striking the pipe of the elderly individual out of his mouth. The other, without manifesting much surprise, said, "I thank you; and if you will wait a minute, I will give you a receipt for that favour;" then gathering up his pipe, and taking off his coat and hat, he laid them on a stepping-block which stood near, and rubbing his hands together, he advanced towards the coachman in an attitude of offence, holding his hands crossed very near to his face. The coachman, who probably expected anything but such a movement from a person of the age and appearance of the individual whom he had insulted, stood for a moment motionless with surprise; but recollecting himself, he pointed at him derisively with his finger; the next moment, however, the other was close upon him, had struck aside the extended hand with his left fist, and given him a severe blow on the nose with his right, which he immediately followed by a left-hand blow in the eye; then drawing his body slightly backward, with the velocity of lightning he struck the coachman full in the mouth, and the last blow was the severest of all, for it cut the coachman's lips nearly through; blows so quickly and sharply dealt I had never seen. The coachman reeled like a fir-tree in a gale, and seemed nearly unsensed. "Ho! what's this? a fight! a fight!" sounded from a dozen voices, and people came running from all directions to see what was going on. The coachman, coming somewhat to himself, disencumbered himself of his coat and hat; and, encouraged by two or three of his brothers of the whip, showed some symptoms of fighting, endeavouring to close with his foe, but the attempt was vain, his foe was not to be closed with; he did not shift or dodge about, but warded off the blows of his opponent with the greatest sang-froid, always using the guard which I have already described, and putting in, in return, short chopping blows with the swiftness of lightning. In a very few minutes the countenance of the coachman was literally cut to pieces, and several of his teeth were dislodged; at length he gave in; stung with mortification, however, he repented, and asked for another round; it was granted, to his own complete demolition. The coachman did not drive his coach back that day, he did not appear on the box again for a week; but he never held up his head afterwards. Before I quitted the inn, he had disappeared from the road, going no one knew where. The coachman, as I have said before, was very much disliked upon the road, but there was an _esprit de corps_ amongst the coachmen, and those who stood by did not like to see their brother chastised in such tremendous fashion. "I never saw such a fight before," said one. "Fight! why, I don't call it a fight at all, this chap here ha'n't got a scratch, whereas Tom is cut to pieces; it is all along of that guard of his; if Tom could have got within his guard he would have soon served the old chap out." "So he would," said another, "it was all owing to that guard. However, I think I see into it, and if I had not to drive this afternoon, I would have a turn with the old fellow and soon serve him out." "I will fight him now for a guinea," said the other coachman, half taking off his coat; observing, however, that the elderly individual made a motion towards him, he hitched it upon his shoulder again, and added, "that is, if he had not been fighting already, but as it is, I am above taking an advantage, especially of such a poor old creature as that." And when he had said this, he looked around him, and there was a feeble titter of approbation from two or three of the craven crew, who were in the habit of currying favour with the coachmen. The elderly individual looked for a moment at these last, and then said, "To such fellows as you I have nothing to say;" then turning to the coachmen, "and as for you," he said, "ye cowardly bullies, I have but one word, which is, that your reign upon the roads is nearly over, and that a time is coming when ye will be no longer wanted or employed in your present capacity, when ye will either have to drive dung-carts, assist as ostlers at village ale-houses, or rot in the workhouse." Then putting on his coat and hat, and taking up his bundle, not forgetting his meerschaum and the rest of his smoking apparatus, he departed on his way. Filled with curiosity, I followed him. "I am quite astonished that you should be able to use your hands in the way you have done," said I, as I walked with this individual in the direction in which he was bound. "I will tell you how I became able to do so," said the elderly individual, proceeding to fill and light his pipe as he walked along. "My father was a journeyman engraver, who lived in a very riotous neighbourhood in the outskirts of London. Wishing to give me something of an education, he sent me to a day-school, two or three streets distant from where we lived, and there, being rather a puny boy, I suffered much persecution from my school-fellows, who were a very blackguard set. One day, as I was running home, with one of my tormentors pursuing me, old Sergeant Broughton, the retired fighting-man, seized me by the arm . . ." "Dear me," said I, "has it ever been your luck to be acquainted with Sergeant Broughton?" "You may well call it luck," said the elderly individual; "but for him I should never have been able to make my way through the world. He lived only four doors from our house; so, as I was running along the street, with my tyrant behind me, Sergeant Broughton seized me by the arm. 'Stop my boy,' said he; 'I have frequently seen that scamp ill-treating you; now I will teach you how to send him home with a bloody nose; down with your bag of books; and now, my game chick,' whispered he to me, placing himself between me and my adversary, so that he could not observe his motions, 'clench your fist in this manner, and hold your arms in this, and when he strikes at you, move them as I now show you, and he can't hurt you; now, don't be afraid, but go at him.' I confess that I was somewhat afraid, but I considered myself in some degree under the protection of the famous Sergeant, and, clenching my fist, I went at my foe, using the guard which my ally recommended. The result corresponded to a certain degree with the predictions of the Sergeant; I gave my foe a bloody nose and a black eye, though, notwithstanding my recent lesson in the art of self-defence, he contrived to give me two or three clumsy blows. From that moment I was the especial favourite of the Sergeant, who gave me further lessons, so that in a little time I became a very fair boxer, beating everybody of my own size who attacked me. The old gentleman, however, made me promise never to be quarrelsome, nor to turn his instructions to account, except in self-defence. I have always borne in mind my promise, and have made it a point of conscience never to fight unless absolutely compelled. Folks may rail against boxing if they please, but being able to box may sometimes stand a quiet man in good stead. How should I have fared to-day, but for the instructions of Sergeant Broughton? But for them, the brutal ruffian who insulted me must have passed unpunished. He will not soon forget the lesson which I have just given him--the only lesson he could understand. What would have been the use of reasoning with a fellow of that description? Brave old Broughton! I owe him much." "And your manner of fighting," said I, "was the manner employed by Sergeant Broughton?" "Yes," said my new acquaintance; "it was the manner in which he beat every one who attempted to contend with him, till, in an evil hour he entered the ring with Slack, without any training or preparation, and by a chance blow lost the battle to a man who had been beaten with ease by those who, in the hands of Broughton, appeared like so many children. It was the way of fighting of him who first taught Englishmen to box scientifically, who was the head and father of the fighters of what is now called the old school, the last of which were Johnson and Big Ben." "A wonderful man that Big Ben," said I. "He was so," said the elderly individual; "but had it not been for Broughton, I question whether Ben would have ever been the fighter he was. Oh! there is no one like old Broughton; but for him I should at the present moment be sneaking along the road, pursued by the hissings and hootings of the dirty flatterers of that blackguard coachman." "What did you mean," said I, "by those words of yours, that the coachmen would speedily disappear from the roads?" "I meant," said he, "that a new method of travelling is about to be established, which will supersede the old. I am a poor engraver, as my father was before me; but engraving is an intellectual trade, and by following it, I have been brought in contact with some of the cleverest men in England. It has even made me acquainted with the projector of the scheme, which he has told me many of the wisest heads of England have been dreaming of during a period of six hundred years, and which it seems was alluded to by a certain Brazen Head in the story-book of Friar Bacon, who is generally supposed to have been a wizard, but in reality was a great philosopher. Young man, in less than twenty years, by which time I shall be dead and gone, England will be surrounded with roads of metal, on which armies may travel with mighty velocity, and of which the walls of brass and iron by which the friar proposed to defend his native land are types." He then, shaking me by the hand, proceeded on his way, whilst I returned to the inn. CHAPTER XXVII. FRANCIS ARDRY--HIS MISFORTUNES--DOG AND LION FIGHT--GREAT MEN OF THE WORLD. A few days after the circumstance which I have last commemorated, it chanced that, as I was standing at the door of the inn, one of the numerous stage-coaches which were in the habit of stopping there drove up, and several passengers got down. I had assisted a woman with a couple of children to dismount and had just delivered to her a bandbox, which appeared to be her only property, and which she had begged me to fetch down from the roof, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder and heard a voice exclaim, "Is it possible, old fellow that I find you in this place?" I turned round, and wrapped in a large blue cloak, I beheld my good friend Francis Ardry. I shook him most warmly by the hand, and said, "If you are surprised to see me, I am no less so to see you; where are you bound to?" "I am bound for L . . .; at any rate I am booked for that sea-port," said my friend in reply. "I am sorry for it," said I, "for in that case we shall have to part in a quarter of an hour, the coach by which you came stopping no longer." "And whither are you bound?" demanded my friend. "I am stopping at present in this house, quite undetermined as to what to do." "Then come along with me," said Francis Ardry. "That I can scarcely do," said I; "I have a horse in the stall which I cannot afford to ruin by racing to L . . . by the side of your coach." My friend mused for a moment: "I have no particular business at L . . .," said he; "I was merely going thither to pass a day or two, till an affair, in which I am deeply interested, at C . . . shall come off. I think I shall stay with you for four-and-twenty hours at least; I have been rather melancholy of late, and cannot afford to part with a friend like you at the present moment: it is an unexpected piece of good fortune to have met you; and I have not been very fortunate of late," he added, sighing. "Well," said I, "I am glad to see you once more, whether fortunate or not; where is your baggage?" "Yon trunk is mine," said Francis, pointing to a trunk of black Russian leather upon the coach. "We will soon have it down," said I, and at a word which I gave to one of the hangers-on of the inn, the trunk was taken from the top of the coach. "Now," said I to Francis Ardry, "follow me, I am a person of some authority in this house;" thereupon I led Francis Ardry into the house, and a word which I said to a waiter forthwith installed Francis Ardry in a comfortable private sitting-room, and his trunk in the very best sleeping-room of our extensive establishment. It was now about one o'clock: Francis Ardry ordered dinner for two, to be ready at four, and a pint of sherry to be brought forthwith, which I requested my friend the waiter might be the very best, and which in effect turned out as I requested; we sat down, and when we had drank to each other's health, Frank requested me to make known to him how I had contrived to free myself from my embarrassments in London, what I had been about since I quitted that city, and the present posture of my affairs. I related to Francis Ardry how I had composed the Life of Joseph Sell, and how the sale of it to the bookseller had enabled me to quit London with money in my pocket, which had supported me during a long course of ramble in the country, into the particulars of which I, however, did not enter with any considerable degree of fulness. I summed up my account by saying that "I was at present a kind of overlooker in the stables of the inn, had still some pounds in my purse, and, moreover, a capital horse in the stall." "No very agreeable posture of affairs," said Francis Ardry, looking rather seriously at me. "I make no complaints," said I; "my prospects are not very bright, it is true, but sometimes I have visions, both waking and sleeping, which, though always strange, are invariably agreeable. Last night, in my chamber near the hayloft, I dreamt that I had passed over an almost interminable wilderness--an enormous wall rose before me, the wall, methought, was the great wall of China:--strange figures appeared to be beckoning to me from the top of the wall; such visions are not exactly to be sneered at. Not that such phantasmagoria," said I, raising my voice, "are to be compared for a moment with such desirable things as fashion, fine clothes, cheques from uncles, parliamentary interest, the love of splendid females. Ah! woman's love," said I, and sighed. "What's the matter with the fellow?" said Francis Ardry. "There is nothing like it," said I. "Like what?" "Love, divine love," said I. "Confound love," said Francis Ardry, "I hate the very name; I have made myself a pretty fool by it, but trust me for ever being caught at such folly again. In an evil hour I abandoned my former pursuits and amusements for it; in one morning spent at Joey's there was more real pleasure than in . . ." "Surely," said I, "you are not hankering after dog-fighting again, a sport which none but the gross and unrefined care anything for? No, one's thoughts should be occupied by something higher and more rational than dog-fighting; and what better than love--divine love? Oh, there's nothing like it!" "Pray, don't talk nonsense," said Francis Ardry. "Nonsense," said I; "why, I was repeating, to the best of my recollection, what I heard you say on a former occasion." "If ever I talked such stuff," said Francis Ardry, "I was a fool; and indeed I cannot deny that I have been one: no, there is no denying that I have been a fool. What do you think? that false Annette has cruelly abandoned me." "Well," said I, "perhaps you have yourself to thank for her having done so; did you never treat her with coldness, and repay her marks of affectionate interest with strange fits of eccentric humour?" "Lord! how little you know of women," said Francis Ardry; "had I done as you suppose, I should probably have possessed her at the present moment. I treated her in a manner diametrically opposite to that. I loaded her with presents, was always most assiduous to her, always at her feet, as I may say, yet she nevertheless abandoned me--and for whom? I am almost ashamed to say--for a fiddler." I took a glass of wine, Francis Ardry followed my example, and then proceeded to detail to me the treatment which he had experienced from Annette, and from what he said, it appeared that her conduct to him had been in the highest degree reprehensible; notwithstanding he had indulged her in everything, she was never civil to him, but loaded him continually with taunts and insults, and had finally, on his being unable to supply her with a sum of money which she had demanded, decamped from the lodgings which he had taken for her, carrying with her all the presents which at various times he had bestowed upon her, and had put herself under the protection of a gentleman who played the bassoon at the Italian Opera, at which place it appeared that her sister had lately been engaged as a danseuse. My friend informed me that at first he had experienced great agony at the ingratitude of Annette, but at last had made up his mind to forget her, and in order more effectually to do so, had left London with the intention of witnessing a fight, which was shortly coming off at a town in these parts, between some dogs and a lion; which combat, he informed me, had for some time past been looked forward to with intense eagerness by the gentlemen of the sporting world. I commended him for his resolution, at the same time advising him not to give up his mind entirely to dog-fighting, as he had formerly done, but, when the present combat should be over, to return to his rhetorical studies, and above all to marry some rich and handsome lady on the first opportunity, as, with his person and expectations, he had only to sue for the hand of the daughter of a marquis to be successful, telling him with a sigh, that all women were not Annettes, and that upon the whole there was nothing like them. To which advice he answered, that he intended to return to rhetoric as soon as the lion-fight should be over, but that he never intended to marry, having had enough of women; adding, that he was glad he had no sister, as, with the feelings which he entertained with respect to her sex, he should be unable to treat her with common affection, and concluded by repeating a proverb which he had learned from an Arab whom he had met at Venice, to the effect that "one who has been stung by a snake, shivers at the sight of a string." After a little more conversation, we strolled to the stable, where my horse was standing; my friend, who was a Connoisseur in horse-flesh, surveyed the animal with attention, and after inquiring where and how I had obtained him, asked what I intended to do with him; on my telling him that I was undetermined, and that I was afraid the horse was likely to prove a burden to me, he said, "It is a noble animal, and if you mind what you are about, you may make a small fortune by him. I do not want such an animal myself, nor do I know any one who does; but a great horse fair will be held shortly at a place where, it is true, I have never been, but of which I have heard a great deal from my acquaintances, where it is said a first-rate horse is always sure to fetch its value; that place is Horncastle, in Lincolnshire; you should take him thither." Francis Ardry and myself dined together, and after dinner partook of a bottle of the best port which the inn afforded. After a few glasses, we had a great deal of conversation: I again brought the subject of marriage and love, divine love, upon the carpet, but Francis almost immediately begged me to drop it; and on my having the delicacy to comply, he reverted to dog-fighting, on which he talked well and learnedly; amongst other things, he said that it was a princely sport of great antiquity, and quoted from Quintus Curtius to prove that the princes of India must have been of the fancy, they having, according to that author, treated Alexander to a fight between certain dogs and a lion. Becoming, notwithstanding my friend's eloquence and learning, somewhat tired of the subject, I began to talk about Alexander. Francis Ardry said he was one of the two great men whom the world has produced, the other being Napoleon: I replied that I believed Tamerlane was a greater man than either; but Francis Ardry knew nothing of Tamerlane, save what he had gathered from the play of Timour the Tartar. "No," said he; "Alexander and Napoleon are the great men of the world, their names are known everywhere. Alexander has been dead upwards of two thousand years, but the very English bumpkins sometimes christen their boys by the name of Alexander--can there be a greater evidence of his greatness? As for Napoleon, there are some parts of India in which his bust is worshipped." Wishing to make up a triumvirate, I mentioned the name of Wellington, to which Francis Ardry merely said, "Bah!" and resumed the subject of dog- fighting. Francis Ardry remained at the inn during that day and the next, and then departed to the dog and lion fight; I never saw him afterwards, and merely heard of him once after a lapse of some years, and what I then heard was not exactly what I could have wished to hear. He did not make much of the advantages which he possessed, a pity, for how great were those advantages,--person, intellect, eloquence, connection, riches! yet, with all these advantages, one thing highly needful seems to have been wanting in Francis. A desire, a craving, to perform something great and good. Oh! what a vast deal may be done with intellect, courage, riches, accompanied by the desire of doing something great and good! Why, a person may carry the blessings of civilisation and religion to barbarous, yet at the same time beautiful and romantic lands; and what a triumph there is for him who does so! what a crown of glory! of far greater value than those surrounding the brows of your mere conquerors. Yet who has done so in these times? Not many; not three, not two, something seems to have been always wanting; there is, however, one instance, in which the various requisites have been united, and the crown, the most desirable in the world--at least which I consider to be the most desirable--achieved, and only one, that of Brooke of Borneo. CHAPTER XXVIII. MR. PLATITUDE AND THE MAN IN BLACK--THE POSTILLION'S ADVENTURES--THE LONE HOUSE--A GOODLY ASSEMBLAGE. It never rains, but it pours. I was destined to see at this inn more acquaintances than one. On the day of Francis Ardry's departure, shortly after he had taken leave of me, as I was standing in the corn-chamber at a kind of writing-table or desk, fastened to the wall, with a book before me, in which I was making out an account of the corn and hay lately received and distributed, my friend the postillion came running in out of breath. "Here they both are," he gasped out; "pray do come and look at them!" "Whom do you mean?" said I. "Why, that red-haired Jack Priest, and that idiotic parson, Platitude; they have just been set down by one of the coaches, and want a post-chaise to go across the country in; and what do you think? I am to have the driving of them. I have no time to lose, for I must get myself ready; so do come and look at them." I hastened into the yard of the inn; two or three of the helpers of our establishment were employed in drawing forward a post-chaise out of the chaise-house, which occupied one side of the yard, and which was spacious enough to contain nearly twenty of these vehicles, though it was never full, several of them being always out upon the roads, as the demand upon us for post-chaises across the country was very great. "There they are," said the postillion, softly, nodding towards two individuals, in one of whom I recognized the man in black, and in the other Mr. Platitude; "there they are; have a good look at them, while I go and get ready." The man in black and Mr. Platitude were walking up and down the yard, Mr. Platitude was doing his best to make himself appear ridiculous, talking very loudly in exceedingly bad Italian, evidently for the purpose of attracting the notice of the bystanders, in which he succeeded, all the stable-boys and bystanders, in which he attracted by his vociferation, grinning at his ridiculous figure as he limped up and down. The man in black said little or nothing, but from the glances which he cast sideways appeared to be thoroughly ashamed of his companion; the worthy couple presently arrived close to where I was standing, and the man in black, who was nearest to me, perceiving me, stood still as if hesitating, but recovering himself in a moment, he moved on without taking any further notice; Mr. Platitude exclaimed as they passed, in broken lingo, "I hope we shall find the holy doctors all assembled," and as they returned, "I make no doubt that they will all be rejoiced to see me." Not wishing to be standing an idle gazer, I went to the chaise and assisted in attaching the horses, which had now been brought out, to the pole. The postillion presently arrived, and finding all ready took the reins and mounted the box, whilst I very politely opened the door for the two travellers; Mr. Platitude got in first, and, without taking any notice of me, seated himself on the farther side. In got the man in black, and seated himself nearest to me. "All is right," said I, as I shut the door, whereupon the postillion cracked his whip, and the chaise drove out of the yard. Just as I shut the door, however, and just as Mr. Platitude had recommenced talking in jergo, at the top of his voice, the man in black turned his face partly towards me, and gave me a wink with his left eye. I did not see my friend the postillion till the next morning, when he gave me an account of the adventures he had met with on his expedition. It appeared that he had driven the man in black and the Reverend Platitude across the country by roads and lanes which he had some difficulty in threading. At length, when he had reached a part of the country where he had never been before, the man in black pointed out to him a house near the corner of a wood, to which he informed him they were bound. The postillion said it was a strange-looking house, with a wall round it; and, upon the whole, bore something of the look of a madhouse. There was already a post-chaise at the gate, from which three individuals had alighted--one of them the postillion said was a mean-looking scoundrel, with a regular petty-larceny expression in his countenance. He was dressed very much like the man in black, and the postillion said that he could almost have taken his bible oath that they were both of the same profession. The other two he said were parsons, he could swear that, though he had never seen them before; there could be no mistake about them. Church of England parsons the postillion swore they were, with their black coats, white cravats, and airs, in which clumsiness and conceit were most funnily blended--Church of England parsons of the Platitude description, who had been in Italy, and seen the Pope, and kissed his toe, and picked up a little broken Italian, and come home greater fools than they went forth. It appeared that they were all acquaintances of Mr. Platitude, for when the postillion had alighted and let Mr. Platitude and his companion out of the chaise, Mr. Platitude shook the whole three by the hand, conversed with his two brothers in a little broken jergo, and addressed the petty-larceny looking individual by the title of Reverend Doctor. In the midst of these greetings, however, the postillion said the man in black came up to him and proceeded to settle with him for the chaise; he had shaken hands with nobody, and had merely nodded to the others; "and now," said the postillion, "he evidently wished to get rid of me, fearing, probably, that I should see too much of the nonsense that was going on. It was whilst settling with me that he seemed to recognise me for the first time, for he stared hard at me, and at last asked whether I had not been in Italy; to which question, with a nod and a laugh, I replied that I had. I was then going to ask him about the health of the image of Holy Mary, and to say that I hoped it had recovered from its horsewhipping; but he interrupted me, paid me the money for the fare, and gave me a crown for myself, saying he would not detain me any longer. I say, partner, I am a poor postillion, but when he gave me the crown I had a good mind to fling it in his face. I reflected, however, that it was not mere gift-money, but coin which I had earned, and hardly too, so I put it in my pocket, and I bethought me, moreover, that, knave as I knew him to be, he had always treated me with civility; so I nodded to him, and he said something which perhaps he meant for Latin, but which sounded very much like 'vails,' and by which he doubtless alluded to the money which he had given me. He then went into the house with the rest, the coach drove away which had brought the others, and I was about to get on the box and follow; observing, however, two more chaises driving up, I thought I would be in no hurry, so I just led my horses and chaise a little out of the way, and pretending to be occupied about the harness, I kept a tolerably sharp look-out at the new arrivals. Well, partner, the next vehicle that drove up was a gentleman's carriage which I knew very well, as well as those within it, who were a father and son, the father a good kind of old gentleman, and a justice of the peace, therefore not very wise, as you may suppose; the son a puppy who has been abroad, where he contrived to forget his own language, though only nine months absent, and now rules the roast over his father and mother, whose only child he is, and by whom he is thought wondrous clever. So this foreigneering chap brings his poor old father to this out-of-the-way house to meet these Platitudes and petty-larceny villains, and perhaps would have brought his mother too, only, simple thing, by good fortune she happens to be laid up with the rheumatiz. Well, the father and son, I beg pardon I mean the son and father, got down and went in, and then after their carriage was gone, the chaise behind drove up, in which was a huge fat fellow, weighing twenty stone at least, but with something of a foreign look, and with him--who do you think? Why, a rascally Unitarian minister, that is, a fellow who had been such a minister, but who some years ago leaving his own people, who had bred him up and sent him to their college at York, went over to the High Church, and is now, I suppose, going over to some other church, for he was talking, as he got down, wondrous fast in Latin, or what sounded something like Latin, to the fat fellow, who appeared to take things wonderfully easy, and merely grunted to the dog Latin which the scoundrel had learned at the expense of the poor Unitarians at York. So they went into the house, and presently arrived another chaise, but ere I could make any further observations, the porter of the out-of-the-way house came up to me, asking what I was stopping there for? bidding me go away, and not pry into other people's business. 'Pretty business,' said I to him, 'that is being transacted in a place like this,' and then I was going to say something uncivil, but he went to attend to the new-comers, and I took myself away on my own business as he bade me, not, however, before observing that these two last were a couple of blackcoats." The postillion then proceeded to relate how he made the best of his way to a small public-house, about a mile off, where he had intended to bait, and how he met on the way a landau and pair belonging to a Scotch coxcomb whom he had known in London, about whom he related some curious particulars, and then continued: "Well, after I had passed him and his turn-out, I drove straight to the public-house, where I baited my horses, and where I found some of the chaises and drivers who had driven the folks to the lunatic-looking mansion, and were now waiting to take them up again. Whilst my horses were eating their bait, I sat me down, as the weather was warm, at a table outside, and smoked a pipe, and drank some ale in company with the coachman of the old gentleman who had gone to the house with his son, and the coachman then told me that the house was a Papist house, and that the present was a grand meeting of all the fools and rascals in the country, who came to bow down to images, and to concert schemes--pretty schemes, no doubt--for overturning the religion of the country, and that for his part he did not approve of being concerned with such doings, and that he was going to give his master warning next day. So, as we were drinking and discoursing, up drove the chariot of the Scotchman, and down got his valet and the driver, and whilst the driver was seeing after the horses, the valet came and sat down at the table where the gentleman's coachman and I were drinking. I knew the fellow well, a Scotchman like his master, and just of the same kidney, with white kid gloves, red hair frizzled, a patch of paint on his face, and his hands covered with rings. This very fellow, I must tell you, was one of those most busy in endeavouring to get me turned out of the servants' club in Park Lane, because I happened to serve a literary man; so he sat down, and in a kind of affected tone cried out, 'Landlord, bring me a glass of cold negus.' The landlord, however, told him that there was no negus, but that, if he pleased, he could have a jug of as good beer as any in the country. 'Confound the beer,' said the valet, 'do you think I am accustomed to such vulgar beverage?' However, as he found there was nothing better to be had, he let the man bring him some beer, and when he had got it, soon showed that he could drink it easily enough; so, when he had drank two or three draughts, he turned his eyes in a contemptuous manner, first on the coachman, and then on me: I saw the scamp recollected me, for after staring at me and my dress for about half a minute, he put on a broad grin, and flinging his head back, he uttered a loud laugh. Well, I did not like this, as you may well believe, and taking the pipe out of my mouth, I asked him if he meant anything personal, to which he answered, that he had said nothing to me, and that he had a right to look where he pleased, and laugh when he pleased. Well, as to a certain extent he was right, as to looking and laughing; and as I have occasionally looked at a fool and laughed, though I was not the fool in this instance, I put my pipe into my mouth and said no more. This quiet and well-regulated behaviour of mine, however, the fellow interpreted into fear; so, after drinking a little more, he suddenly started up, and striding once or twice before the table, he asked me what I meant by that impertinent question of mine, saying that he had a good mind to wring my nose for my presumption. 'You have?' said I, getting up and laying down my pipe, 'well, I'll now give you an opportunity.' So I put myself in an attitude, and went up to him, saying, 'I have an old score to settle with you, you scamp; you wanted to get me turned out of the club, didn't you?' And thereupon, remembering that he had threatened to wring my nose, I gave him a snorter upon his own. I wish you could have seen the fellow when he felt the smart; so far from trying to defend himself, he turned round, and with his hand to his face, attempted to run away, but I was now in a regular passion, and following him up, got before him, and was going to pummel away at him, when he burst into tears, and begged me not to hurt him, saying that he was sorry if he had offended me, and that, if I pleased, he would go down on his knees, or do anything else I wanted. Well, when I heard him talk in this manner, I of course let him be; I could hardly help laughing at the figure he cut; his face all blubbered with tears and blood and paint; but I did not laugh at the poor creature either, but went to the table and took up my pipe, and smoked and drank as if nothing had happened; and the fellow, after having been to the pump, came and sat down, crying, and trying to curry favour with me and the coachman; presently, however, putting on a confidential look, he began to talk of the Popish house, and of the doings there, and said he supposed as how we were of the party, and that it was all right; and then he began to talk of the Pope of Rome, and what a nice man he was, and what a fine thing it was to be of his religion, especially if folks went over to him; and how it advanced them in the world, and gave them consideration; and how his master, who had been abroad and seen the Pope, and kissed his toe, was going over to the Popish religion, and had persuaded him to consent to do so, and to forsake his own, which I think the scoundrel called the 'Piscopal Church of Scotland, and how many others of that church were going over, thinking to better their condition in life by so doing, and to be more thought on; and how many of the English church were thinking of going over too--and that he had no doubt that it would all end right and comfortably. Well, as he was going on in this way, the old coachman began to spit, and getting up, flung all the beer that was in his jug upon the ground, and going away, ordered another jug of beer, and sat down at another table, saying that he would not drink in such company; and I too got up, and flung what beer remained in my jug, there wasn't more than a drop, in the fellow's face, saying I would scorn to drink any more in such company; and then I went to my horses, put them to, paid my reckoning, and drove home." The postillion having related his story, to which I listened with all due attention, mused for a moment, and then said, "I dare say you remember how, some time since, when old Bill had been telling us how the Government, a long time ago, had done away with robbing on the highway, by putting down the public-houses and places which the highwaymen frequented, and by sending out a good mounted police to hunt them down, I said that it was a shame that the present Government did not employ somewhat the same means in order to stop the proceedings of Mumbo Jumbo and his gang nowadays in England. Howsomever, since I have driven a fare to a Popish rendezvous, and seen something of what is going on there, I should conceive that the Government are justified in allowing the gang the free exercise of their calling. Anybody is welcome to stoop and pick up nothing, or worse than nothing, and if Mumbo Jumbo's people, after their expeditions, return to their haunts with no better plunder in the shape of converts than what I saw going into yonder place of call, I should say they are welcome to what they get; for if that's the kind of rubbish they steal out of the Church of England, or any other church, who in his senses but would say a good riddance, and many thanks for your trouble: at any rate that is my opinion of the matter." CHAPTER XXIX. DELIBERATIONS WITH SELF--RESOLUTION--INVITATION TO DINNER--THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER--THE LANDLORD'S OFFER--THE COMET WINE. It was now that I had frequent deliberations with myself. Should I continue at the inn in my present position? I was not very much captivated with it; there was little poetry in keeping an account of the corn, hay, and straw which came in, and was given out, and I was fond of poetry; moreover, there was no glory at all to be expected in doing so, and I was fond of glory. Should I give up that situation, and remaining at the inn, become ostler under old Bill? There was more poetry in rubbing down horses than in keeping an account of straw, hay, and corn; there was also some prospect of glory attached to the situation of ostler, for the grooms and stable-boys occasionally talked of an ostler, a great way down the road, who had been presented by some sporting people, not with a silver vase, as our governor had been, but with a silver currycomb, in testimony of their admiration for his skill; but I confess that the poetry of rubbing down had become, as all other poetry becomes, rather prosy by frequent repetition, and with respect to the chance of deriving glory from the employment, I entertained, in the event of my determining to stay, very slight hope of ever attaining skill in the ostler art sufficient to induce sporting people to bestow upon me a silver currycomb. I was not half so good an ostler as old Bill, who had never been presented with a silver currycomb, and I never expected to become so, therefore what chance had I? It was true, there was a prospect of some pecuniary emolument to be derived by remaining in either situation. It was very probable that, provided I continued to keep an account of the hay and corn coming in and expended, the landlord would consent to allow me a pound a week, which at the end of a dozen years, provided I kept myself sober, would amount to a considerable sum. I might, on the retirement of old Bill, by taking his place, save up a decent sum of money, provided, unlike him, I kept myself sober, and laid by all the shillings and sixpences I got; but the prospect of laying up a decent sum of money was not of sufficient importance to induce me to continue either at my wooden desk or in the inn-yard. The reader will remember what difficulty I had to make up my mind to become a merchant under the Armenian's auspices, even with the prospect of making two or three hundred thousand pounds by following the Armenian way of doing business, so it was not probable that I should feel disposed to be book- keeper or ostler all my life with no other prospect than being able to make a tidy sum of money. If indeed, besides the prospect of making a tidy sum at the end of perhaps forty years ostlering, I had been certain of being presented with a silver currycomb with my name engraved upon it, which I might have left to my descendants, or, in default thereof, to the parish church destined to contain my bones, with directions that it might be soldered into the wall above the arch leading from the body of the church into the chancel--I will not say that with such a certainty of immortality, combined with such a prospect of moderate pecuniary advantage, I might not have thought it worth my while to stay, but I entertained no such certainty, and taking everything into consideration, I determined to mount my horse and leave the inn. This horse had caused me for some time past no little perplexity; I had frequently repented of having purchased him, more especially as the purchase had been made with another person's money, and had more than once shown him to people who, I imagined, were likely to purchase him; but, though they were profuse in his praise, as people generally are in the praise of what they don't intend to purchase, they never made me an offer, and now that I had determined to mount on his back and ride away, what was I to do with him in the sequel? I could not maintain him long. Suddenly I bethought me of Horncastle, which Francis Ardry had mentioned as a place where the horse was likely to find a purchaser, and not having determined upon any particular place to which to repair, I thought that I could do no better than betake myself to Horncastle in the first instance, and there endeavour to dispose of my horse. On making inquiries with respect to the situation of Horncastle, and the time when the fair would be held, I learned that the town was situated in Lincolnshire, about a hundred and fifty miles from the inn at which I was at present sojourning, and that the fair would be held nominally within about a month, but that it was always requisite to be on the spot some days before the nominal day of the fair, as all the best horses were generally sold before that time, and the people who came to purchase gone away with what they had bought. The people of the inn were very sorry on being informed of my determination to depart. Old Bill told me that he had hoped as how I had intended to settle down there, and to take his place as ostler when he was fit for no more work, adding, that though I did not know much of the business, yet he had no doubt but that I might improve. My friend the postillion was particularly sorry, and taking me with him to the tap-room called for two pints of beer, to one of which he treated me; and whilst we were drinking told me how particularly sorry he was at the thought of my going, but that he hoped I should think better of the matter. On my telling him that I must go, he said that he trusted I should put off my departure for three weeks, in order that I might be present at his marriage, the banns of which were just about to be published. He said that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me dance a minuet with his wife after the marriage dinner; but I told him it was impossible that I should stay, my affairs imperatively calling me elsewhere; and that with respect to my dancing a minuet, such a thing was out of the question, as I had never learned to dance. At which he said that he was exceedingly sorry, and finding me determined to go, wished me success in all my undertakings. The master of the house, to whom, as in duty bound, I communicated my intention before I spoke of it to the servants, was, I make no doubt, very sorry, though he did not exactly tell me so. What he said was, that he had never expected that I should remain long there, as such a situation never appeared to him quite suitable to me, though I had been very diligent, and had given him perfect satisfaction. On his inquiring when I intended to depart, I informed him next day, whereupon he begged that I would defer my departure till the next day but one, and do him the favour of dining with him on the morrow. I informed him that I should be only too happy. On the following day at four o'clock I dined with the landlord, in company with a commercial traveller. The dinner was good, though plain, consisting of boiled mackerel--rather a rarity in those parts at that time--with fennel sauce, a prime baron of roast beef after the mackerel, then a tart and noble Cheshire cheese; we had prime sherry at dinner, and whilst eating the cheese prime porter, that of Barclay, the only good porter in the world. After the cloth was removed we had a bottle of very good port; and whilst partaking of the port I had an argument with the commercial traveller on the subject of the corn-laws. The commercial traveller, having worsted me in the argument on the subject of the corn-laws, got up in great glee, saying that he must order his gig, as business must be attended to. Before leaving the room, however, he shook me patronisingly by the hand, and said something to the master of the house, but in so low a tone that it escaped my ear. No sooner had he departed than the master of the house told me that his friend the traveller had just said that I was a confounded sensible young fellow, and not at all opinionated, a sentiment in which he himself perfectly agreed--then hemming once or twice, he said that as I was going on a journey he hoped I was tolerably well provided with money, adding that travelling was rather expensive, especially on horseback, the manner in which he supposed, as I had a horse in the stable, I intended to travel. I told him that though I was not particularly well supplied with money, I had sufficient for the expenses of my journey, at the end of which I hoped to procure more. He then hemmed again, and said that since I had been at the inn I had rendered him a great deal of service in more ways than one, and that he could not think of permitting me to depart without making me some remuneration; then putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket he handed me a cheque for ten pounds, which he had prepared beforehand, the value of which he said I could receive at the next town, or that, if I wished it, any waiter in the house would cash it for me. I thanked him for his generosity in the best terms I could select, but, handing him back his cheque, I told him that I could not accept it, saying that, so far from his being my debtor, I believed myself to be indebted to him, as not only myself but my horse had been living at his house for several weeks. He replied, that as for my board at a house like his it amounted to nothing, and as for the little corn and hay which the horse had consumed it was of no consequence, and that he must insist upon my taking the cheque. But I again declined, telling him that doing so would be a violation of a rule which I had determined to follow, and which nothing but the greatest necessity would ever compel me to break through--never to incur obligations. "But," said he, "receiving this money will not be incurring an obligation, it is your due." "I do not think so," said I; "I did not engage to serve you for money, nor will I take any from you." "Perhaps you will take it as a loan?" said he. "No," I replied, "I never borrow." "Well," said the landlord, smiling, "you are different from all others that I am acquainted with. I never yet knew any one else who scrupled to borrow and receive obligations; why, there are two baronets in this neighbourhood who have borrowed money of me, ay, and who have never repaid what they borrowed; and there are a dozen squires who are under considerable obligations to me, who I dare say will never return them. Come, you need not be more scrupulous than your superiors--I mean in station." "Every vessel must stand on its own bottom," said I; "they take pleasure in receiving obligations, I take pleasure in being independent. Perhaps they are wise, and I am a fool, I know not, but one thing I am certain of, which is, that were I not independent I should be very unhappy: I should have no visions then." "Have you any relations?" said the landlord, looking at me compassionately; "excuse me, but I don't think you are exactly fit to take care of yourself." "There you are mistaken," said I, "I can take precious good care of myself; ay, and can drive a precious hard bargain when I have occasion, but driving bargains is a widely different thing from receiving gifts. I am going to take my horse to Horncastle, and when there I shall endeavour to obtain his full value--ay, to the last penny." "Horncastle!" said the landlord, "I have heard of that place; you mustn't be dreaming visions when you get there, or they'll steal the horse from under you. Well," said he, rising, "I shall not press you further on the subject of the cheque. I intend, however, to put you under an obligation to me." He then rang the bell, and having ordered two fresh glasses to be brought, he went out and presently returned with a small pint bottle, which he uncorked with his own hand; then sitting down, he said, "The wine that I bring here is port of eighteen hundred and eleven, the year of the comet, the best vintage on record; the wine which we have been drinking," he added, "is good, but not to be compared with this, which I never sell, and which I am chary of. When you have drunk some of it, I think you will own that I have conferred an obligation upon you;" he then filled the glasses, the wine which he poured out diffusing an aroma through the room; then motioning me to drink, he raised his own glass to his lips, saying, "Come, friend, I drink to your success at Horncastle." CHAPTER XXX. TRIUMPHAL DEPARTURE--NO SEASON LIKE YOUTH--EXTREME OLD AGE--BEAUTIFUL ENGLAND--THE RATCATCHER--A MISADVENTURE. I departed from the inn much in the same fashion as I had come to it, mounted on a splendid horse indifferently well caparisoned, with the small valise attached to my crupper, in which, besides the few things I had brought with me, was a small book of roads with a map, which had been presented to me by the landlord. I must not forget to state that I did not ride out of the yard, but that my horse was brought to me at the front door by old Bill, who insisted upon doing so, and who refused a five-shilling piece which I offered him; and it will be as well to let the reader know that the landlord shook me by the hand as I mounted, and that the people attached to the inn, male and female--my friend the postillion at the head--assembled before the house to see me off, and gave me three cheers as I rode away. Perhaps no person ever departed from an inn with more _eclat_ or better wishes; nobody looked at me askance, except two stage-coachmen who were loitering about, one of whom said to his companion, "I say, Jim! twig his portmanteau! a regular Newmarket turn-out, by . . .!" It was in the cool of the evening of a bright day--all the days of that summer were bright--that I departed. I felt at first rather melancholy at finding myself again launched into the wide world, and leaving the friends whom I had lately made behind me; but by occasionally trotting the horse, and occasionally singing a song of Romanvile, I had dispelled the feeling of melancholy by the time I had proceeded three miles down the main road. It was at the end of these three miles, just opposite a milestone, that I struck into a cross road. After riding about seven miles, threading what are called, in postillion parlance, cross-country roads, I reached another high road, tending to the east, along which I proceeded for a mile or two, when coming to a small inn, about nine o'clock, I halted and put up for the night. Early on the following morning I proceeded on my journey, but fearing to gall the horse, I no longer rode him, but led him by the bridle, until I came to a town at the distance of about ten miles from the place where I had passed the night. Here I stayed during the heat of the day, more on the horse's account than my own, and towards evening resumed my journey, leading the animal by the bridle as before; and in this manner I proceeded for several days, travelling on an average from twenty to twenty-five miles a day, always leading the animal, except perhaps now and then of an evening, when, if I saw a good piece of road before me, I would mount and put the horse into a trot, which the creature seemed to enjoy as much as myself, showing his satisfaction by snorting and neighing, whilst I gave utterance to my own exhilaration by shouts, or by "the chi she is kaulo she soves pre lakie dumo," or by something else of the same kind in Romanvile. On the whole, I journeyed along very pleasantly, certainly quite as pleasantly as I do at present, now that I am become a gentleman, and weigh sixteen stone, though some people would say that my present manner of travelling is much the most preferable, riding as I now do, instead of leading my horse; receiving the homage of ostlers instead of their familiar nods; sitting down to dinner in the parlour of the best inn I can find, instead of passing the brightest part of the day in the kitchen of a village alehouse; carrying on my argument after dinner on the subject of the corn-laws with the best commercial gentlemen on the road, instead of being glad, whilst sipping a pint of beer, to get into conversation with blind trampers, or maimed Abraham sailors, regaling themselves on half-pints at the said village hostelries. Many people will doubtless say that things have altered wonderfully with me for the better, and they would say right, provided I possessed now what I then carried about with me in my journeys--the spirit of youth. Youth is the only season for enjoyment, and the first twenty-five years of one's life are worth all the rest of the longest life of man, even though those five- and-twenty be spent in penury and contempt, and the rest in the possession of wealth, honours, respectability, ay, and many of them in strength and health, such as will enable one to ride forty miles before dinner, and over one's pint of port--for the best gentleman in the land should not drink a bottle--carry on one's argument, with gravity and decorum, with any commercial gentleman who, responsive to one's challenge, takes the part of common sense and humanity against "protection" and the lord of land. Ah! there is nothing like youth--not that after-life is valueless. Even in extreme old age one may get on very well, provided we will but accept of the bounties of God. I met the other day an old man, who asked me to drink. "I am not thirsty," said I, "and will not drink with you." "Yes, you will," said the old man, "for I am this day one hundred years old; and you will never again have an opportunity of drinking the health of a man on his hundredth birthday." So I broke my word, and drank. "Yours is a wonderful age," said I. "It is a long time to look back to the beginning of it," said the old man; "yet, upon the whole, I am not sorry to have lived it all." "How have you passed your time?" said I. "As well as I could," said the old man; "always enjoying a good thing when it came honestly within my reach; not forgetting to praise God for putting it there." "I suppose you were fond of a glass of good ale when you were young?" "Yes," said the old man, "I was; and so, thank God, I am still." And he drank off a glass of ale. On I went in my journey, traversing England from west to east--ascending and descending hills--crossing rivers by bridge and ferry--and passing over extensive plains. What a beautiful country is England! People run abroad to see beautiful countries, and leave their own behind unknown, unnoticed--their own the most beautiful! And then, again, what a country for adventures! especially to those who travel it on foot, or on horseback. People run abroad in quest of adventures, and traverse Spain and Portugal on mule or on horseback; whereas there are ten times more adventures to be met with in England than in Spain, Portugal, or stupid Germany to boot. Witness the number of adventures narrated in the present book--a book entirely devoted to England. Why, there is not a chapter in the present book which is not full of adventures, with the exception of the present one, and this is not yet terminated. After traversing two or three counties, I reached the confines of Lincolnshire. During one particularly hot day I put up at a public-house, to which in the evening came a party of harvesters to make merry, who, finding me wandering about the house a stranger, invited me to partake of their ale; so I drank with the harvesters, who sang me songs about rural life, such as-- "Sitting in the swale; and listening to the swindle of the flail, as it sounds dub-a-dub on the corn, from the neighbouring barn." In requital for which I treated them with a song, not of Romanvile, but the song of "Sivord and the horse Grayman." I remained with them till it was dark, having, after sunset, entered into deep discourse with a celebrated ratcatcher, who communicated to me the secrets of his trade, saying, amongst other things, "When you see the rats pouring out of their holes, and running up my hands and arms, it's not after me they comes, but after the oils I carries about me they comes;" and who subsequently spoke in the most enthusiastic manner of his trade, saying that it was the best trade in the world, and most diverting, and that it was likely to last for ever; for whereas all other kinds of vermin were fast disappearing from England, rats were every day becoming more abundant. I had quitted this good company, and having mounted my horse, was making my way towards a town at about six miles' distance, at a swinging trot, my thoughts deeply engaged on what I had gathered from the ratcatcher, when all on a sudden a light glared upon the horse's face, who purled round in great terror, and flung me out of the saddle, as from a sling, or with as much violence as the horse Grayman, in the ballad, flings Sivord the Snareswayne. I fell upon the ground--felt a kind of crashing about my neck--and forthwith became senseless. CHAPTER XXXI. NOVEL SITUATION--THE ELDERLY INDIVIDUAL--THE SURGEON--A KIND OFFER--CHIMERICAL IDEAS--STRANGE DREAM. How long I remained senseless I cannot say, for a considerable time I believe; at length, opening my eyes, I found myself lying on a bed in a middle-sized chamber, lighted by a candle, which stood on a table--an elderly man stood near me, and a yet more elderly female was holding a phial of very pungent salts to my olfactory organ. I attempted to move, but felt very stiff--my right arm appeared nearly paralysed, and there was a strange dull sensation in my head. "You had better remain still, young man," said the elderly individual, "the surgeon will be here presently; I have sent a message for him to the neighbouring village." "Where am I?" said I, "and what has happened?" "You are in my house," said the old man, "and you have been flung from a horse. I am sorry to say that I was the cause. As I was driving home, the lights in my gig frightened the animal." "Where is the horse?" said I. "Below, in my stable," said the elderly individual. "I saw you fall, but knowing that on account of my age I could be of little use to you, I instantly hurried home, the accident did not occur more than a furlong off, and procuring the assistance of my lad, and two or three neighbouring cottagers, I returned to the spot where you were lying senseless. We raised you up, and brought you here. My lad then went in quest of the horse, who had run away as we drew nigh. When we saw him first, he was standing near you; he caught him with some difficulty, and brought him home." "What are you about?" said the old man, as I strove to get off the bed. "I want to see the horse," said I. "I entreat you to be still," said the old man; "the horse is safe, I assure you." "I am thinking about his knees," said I. "Instead of thinking about your horse's knees," said the old man, "be thankful that you have not broke your own neck." "You do not talk wisely," said I; "when a man's neck is broke he is provided for; but when his horse's knees are broke he is a lost jockey, that is, if he has nothing but his horse to depend upon. A pretty figure I should cut at Horncastle, mounted on a horse blood-raw at the knees." "Oh, you are going to Horncastle," said the old man, seriously, "then I can sympathise with you in your anxiety about your horse, being a Lincolnshire man, and the son of one who bred horses. I will myself go down into the stable, and examine into the condition of your horse, so pray remain quiet till I return; it would certainly be a terrible thing to appear at Horncastle on a broken-kneed horse." He left the room, and returned at the end of about ten minutes, followed by another person. "Your horse is safe," said he, "and his knees are unblemished; not a hair ruffled. He is a fine animal, and will do credit to Horncastle; but here is the surgeon come to examine into your own condition." The surgeon was a man about thirty-five, thin, and rather tall; his face was long and pale, and his hair, which was light, was carefully combed back as much as possible from his forehead. He was dressed very neatly, and spoke in a very precise tone. "Allow me to feel your pulse, friend?" said he, taking me by the right wrist. I uttered a cry, for at the motion which he caused a thrill of agony darted through my arm. "I hope your arm is not broke, my friend," said the surgeon, "allow me to see; first of all, we must divest you of this cumbrous frock." The frock was removed with some difficulty, and then the upper vestments of my frame, with more difficulty still. The surgeon felt my arm, moving it up and down, causing me unspeakable pain. "There is no fracture," said he, at last, "but a contusion--a violent contusion. I am told you were going to Horncastle; I am afraid you will be hardly able to ride your horse thither in time to dispose of him; however, we shall see--your arm must be bandaged, friend; after which I will bleed you, and administer a composing draught." To be short, the surgeon did as he proposed, and when he had administered the composing draught, he said, "Be of good cheer; I should not be surprised if you are yet in time for Horncastle." He then departed with the master of the house, and the woman, leaving me to my repose, I soon began to feel drowsy, and was just composing myself to slumber, lying on my back, as the surgeon had advised me, when I heard steps ascending the stairs, and in a moment more the surgeon entered again, followed by the master of the house. "I hope we don't disturb you," said the former; "my reason for returning is to relieve your mind from any anxiety with respect to your horse. I am by no means sure that you will be able, owing to your accident, to reach Horncastle in time: to quiet you, however, I will buy your horse for any reasonable sum. I have been down to the stable, and approve of his figure. What do you want for him?" "This is a strange time of night," said I, "to come to me about purchasing my horse, and I am hardly in a fitting situation to be applied to about such a matter. What do you want him for?" "For my own use," said the surgeon; "I am a professional man, and am obliged to be continually driving about; I cover at least one hundred and fifty miles every week." "He will never answer your purpose," said I, "he is not a driving horse, and was never between the shafts in his life; he is for riding, more especially for trotting, at which he has few equals." "It matters not to me whether he is for riding or driving," said the surgeon, "sometimes I ride, sometimes drive; so if we can come to terms, I will buy him, though remember it is chiefly to remove any anxiety from your mind about him." "This is no time for bargaining," said I, "if you wish to have the horse for a hundred guineas, you may; if not . . ." "A hundred guineas," said the surgeon, "my good friend, you must surely be light-headed; allow me to feel your pulse," and he attempted to feel my left wrist. "I am not light-headed," said I, "and I require no one to feel my pulse; but I should be light-headed if I were to sell my horse for less than I have demanded; but I have a curiosity to know what you would be willing to offer." "Thirty pounds," said the surgeon, "is all I can afford to give; and that is a great deal for a country surgeon to offer for a horse." "Thirty pounds," said I, "why he cost me nearly double that sum. To tell you the truth, I am afraid you want to take advantage of my situation." "Not in the least, friend," said the surgeon, "not in the least; I only wished to set your mind at rest about your horse; but as you think he is worth more than I can afford to offer, take him to Horncastle by all means; I will do my best to cure you in time. Good-night, I will see you again on the morrow." Thereupon he once more departed with the master of the house. "A sharp one," I heard him say, with a laugh, as the door closed upon him. Left to myself, I again essayed to compose myself to rest, but for some time in vain. I had been terribly shaken by my fall, and had subsequently, owing to the incision of the surgeon's lancet, been deprived of much of the vital fluid; it is when the body is in such a state that the merest trifles affect and agitate the mind; no wonder, then, that the return of the surgeon and the master of the house for the purpose of inquiring whether I would sell my horse struck me as being highly extraordinary, considering the hour of the night, and the situation in which they knew me to be. What could they mean by such conduct--did they wish to cheat me of the animal? "Well, well," said I, "if they did, what matters, they found their match; yes, yes," said I, "but I am in their power, perhaps"--but I instantly dismissed the apprehension which came into my mind with a pooh, nonsense! In a little time, however, a far more foolish and chimerical idea began to disturb me--the idea of being flung from my horse; was I not disgraced for ever as a horseman by being flung from my horse? Assuredly, I thought; and the idea of being disgraced as a horseman, operating on my nervous system, caused me very acute misery. "After all," said I to myself, "it was perhaps the contemptible opinion which the surgeon must have formed of my equestrian powers, which induced him to offer to take my horse off my hands; he perhaps thought I was unable to manage a horse, and therefore in pity returned in the dead of night to offer to purchase the animal which had flung me;" and then the thought that the surgeon had conceived a contemptible opinion of my equestrian powers caused me the acutest misery, and continued tormenting me until some other idea (I have forgot what it was, but doubtless equally foolish) took possession of my mind. At length, brought on by the agitation of my spirits, there came over me the same feeling of horror that I had experienced of old when I was a boy, and likewise of late within the dingle; it was, however, not so violent as it had been on those occasions, and I struggled manfully against it, until by degrees it passed away, and then I fell asleep; and in my sleep I had an ugly dream. I dreamt that I had died of the injuries I had received from my fall, and that no sooner had my soul departed from my body than it entered that of a quadruped, even my own horse in the stable--in a word, I was, to all intents and purposes, my own steed; and as I stood in the stable chewing hay (and I remember that the hay was exceedingly tough), the door opened, and the surgeon who had attended me came in. "My good animal," said he, "as your late master has scarcely left enough to pay for the expenses of his funeral, and nothing to remunerate me for my trouble, I shall make bold to take possession of you. If your paces are good, I shall keep you for my own riding; if not, I shall take you to Horncastle, your original destination." He then bridled and saddled me, and, leading me out, mounted, and then trotted me up and down before the house, at the door of which the old man, who now appeared to be dressed in regular jockey fashion, was standing. "I like his paces well," said the surgeon; "I think I shall take him for my own use." "And what am I to have for all the trouble his master caused me?" said my late entertainer, on whose countenance I now observed, for the first time, a diabolical squint. "The consciousness of having done your duty to a fellow-creature in succouring him in a time of distress, must be your reward," said the surgeon. "Pretty gammon, truly," said my late entertainer; "what would you say if I were to talk in that way to you? Come, unless you choose to behave jonnock, I shall take the bridle and lead the horse back into the stable." "Well," said the surgeon, "we are old friends, and I don't wish to dispute with you, so I'll tell you what I will do: I will ride the animal to Horncastle, and we will share what he fetches like brothers." "Good," said the old man, "but if you say that you have sold him for less than a hundred, I shan't consider you jonnock; remember what the young fellow said--that young fellow . . ." I heard no more, for the next moment I found myself on a broad road leading, as I supposed, in the direction of Horncastle, the surgeon still in the saddle, and my legs moving at a rapid trot. "Get on," said the surgeon, jerking my mouth with the bit; whereupon, full of rage, I instantly set off at a full gallop, determined, if possible, to dash my rider to the earth. The surgeon, however, kept his seat, and, so far from attempting to abate my speed, urged me on to greater efforts with a stout stick, which methought he held in his hand. In vain did I rear and kick, attempting to get rid of my foe; but the surgeon remained as saddle- fast as ever the Maugrabin sorcerer in the Arabian tale what time he rode the young prince transformed into a steed to his enchanted palace in the wilderness. At last, as I was still madly dashing on, panting and blowing, and had almost given up all hope, I saw at a distance before me a heap of stones by the side of the road, probably placed there for the purpose of repairing it; a thought appeared to strike me--I will shy at those stones, and if I can't get rid of him so, resign myself to my fate. So I increased my speed till arriving within about ten yards of the heap, I made a desperate start, turning half round with nearly the velocity of a mill-stone. Oh, the joy I experienced when I felt my enemy canted over my neck, and saw him lying senseless in the road. "I have you now in my power," I said, or rather neighed, as, going up to my prostrate foe, I stood over him. "Suppose I were to rear now, and let my fore feet fall upon you, what would your life be worth? that is, supposing you are not killed already, but lie there, I will do you no further harm, but trot to Horncastle without a rider, and when there . . ." and without further reflection off I trotted in the direction of Horncastle, but had not gone far before my bridle, falling from my neck, got entangled with my off fore foot. I felt myself falling, a thrill of agony shot through me--my knees would be broken, and what should I do at Horncastle with a pair of broken knees? I struggled, but I could not disengage my off fore foot, and downward I fell, but before I had reached the ground I awoke, and found myself half out of bed, my bandaged arm in considerable pain, and my left hand just touching the floor. With some difficulty I readjusted myself in bed. It was now early morning, and the first rays of the sun were beginning to penetrate the white curtains of a window on my left, which probably looked into a garden, as I caught a glimpse or two of the leaves of trees through a small uncovered part at the side. For some time I felt uneasy and anxious, my spirits being in a strange fluttering state. At last my eyes fell upon a small row of tea-cups, seemingly of china, which stood on a mantelpiece exactly fronting the bottom of the bed. The sight of these objects, I know not why, soothed and pacified me; I kept my eyes fixed upon them, as I lay on my back on the bed, with my head upon the pillow, till at last I fell into a calm and refreshing sleep. CHAPTER XXXII. THE MORNING AFTER A FALL--THE TEAPOT--UNPRETENDING HOSPITALITY--THE CHINESE STUDENT. It might be about eight o'clock in the morning when I was awakened by the entrance of the old man. "How have you rested?" said he, coming up to the bedside and looking me in the face. "Well," said I, "and I feel much better, but I am still very sore." I surveyed him now for the first time with attention. He was dressed in a sober-coloured suit, and was apparently between sixty and seventy. In stature he was rather above the middle height, but with a slight stoop, his features were placid, and expressive of much benevolence, but, as it appeared to me, with rather a melancholy cast--as I gazed upon them, I felt ashamed that I should ever have conceived in my brain a vision like that of the preceding night, in which he appeared in so disadvantageous a light. At length he said, "It is now time for you to take some refreshment. I hear my old servant coming up with your breakfast." In a moment the elderly female entered with a tray, on which was some bread and butter, a teapot and cup. The cup was of common blue earthenware, but the pot was of china, curiously fashioned, and seemingly of great antiquity. The old man poured me out a cupful of tea, and then, with the assistance of the woman, raised me higher, and propped me up with pillows. I ate and drank; when the pot was emptied of its liquid (it did not contain much), I raised it up with my left hand to inspect it. The sides were covered with curious characters, seemingly hieroglyphics. After surveying them for some time, I replaced it upon the tray. "You seem fond of china," said I to the old man, after the servant had retired with the breakfast things, and I had returned to my former posture; "you have china on the mantelpiece, and that was a remarkable teapot out of which I have just been drinking." The old man fixed his eyes intently on me, and methought the expression of his countenance became yet more melancholy. "Yes," said he, at last, "I am fond of china--I have reason to be fond of china--but for china I should . . ." and here he sighed again. "You value it for the quaintness and singularity of its form," said I; "it appears to be less adapted for real use than our own pottery." "I care little about its form," said the old man; "I care for it simply on account of . . . however, why talk to you on a subject which can have no possible interest for you? I expect the surgeon here presently." "I do not like that surgeon at all," said I; "how strangely he behaved last night, coming back, when I was just falling asleep, to ask me if I would sell my horse." The old man smiled. "He has but one failing," said he, "an itch for horse-dealing; but for that he might be a much richer man than he is; he is continually buying and exchanging horses, and generally finds himself a loser by his bargains: but he is a worthy creature, and skilful in his profession--it is well for you that you are under his care." The old man then left me, and in about an hour returned with the surgeon, who examined me and reported favourably as to my case. He spoke to me with kindness and feeling, and did not introduce the subject of the horse. I asked him whether he thought I should be in time for the fair. "I saw some people making their way thither to-day," said he; "the fair lasts three weeks, and it has just commenced. Yes, I think I may promise you that you will be in time for the very heat of it. In a few days you will be able to mount your saddle with your arm in a sling, but you must by no means appear with your arm in a sling at Horncastle, as people would think that your horse had flung you, and that you wanted to dispose of him because he was a vicious brute. You must, by all means, drop the sling before you get to Horncastle." For three days I kept my apartment by the advice of the surgeon. I passed my time as I best could. Stretched on my bed, I either abandoned myself to reflection, or listened to the voices of the birds in the neighbouring garden. Sometimes, as I lay awake at night, I would endeavour to catch the tick of a clock, which methought sounded from some distant part of the house. The old man visited me twice or thrice every day to inquire into my state. His words were few on these occasions, and he did not stay long. Yet his voice and his words were kind. What surprised me most in connection with this individual was the delicacy of conduct which he exhibited in not letting a word proceed from his lips which could testify curiosity respecting who I was, or whence I came. All he knew of me was, that I had been flung from my horse on my way to a fair for the purpose of disposing of the animal; and that I was now his guest. I might be a common horse-dealer for what he knew, yet I was treated by him with all the attention which I could have expected had I been an alderman of Boston's heir, and known to him as such. The county in which I am now, thought I at last, must be either extraordinarily devoted to hospitality, or this old host of mine must be an extraordinary individual. On the evening of the fourth day, feeling tired of my confinement, I put my clothes on in the best manner I could, and left the chamber. Descending a flight of stairs, I reached a kind of quadrangle, from which branched two or three passages; one of these I entered, which had a door at the farther end, and one on each side; the one to the left standing partly open, I entered it, and found myself in a middle-sized room with a large window, or rather glass-door, which looked into a garden, and which stood open. There was nothing remarkable in this room, except a large quantity of china. There was china on the mantelpiece--china on two tables, and a small beaufet, which stood opposite the glass-door, was covered with china--there were cups, teapots, and vases of various forms, and on all of them I observed characters--not a teapot, not a tea-cup, not a vase of whatever form or size, but appeared to possess hieroglyphics on some part or other. After surveying these articles for some time with no little interest, I passed into the garden, in which there were small parterres of flowers, and two or three trees, and which, where the house did not abut, was bounded by a wall; turning to the right by a walk by the side of the house, I passed by a door--probably the one I had seen at the end of the passage--and arrived at another window similar to that through which I had come, and which also stood open; I was about to pass by it, when I heard the voice of my entertainer exclaiming, "Is that you? pray come in." I entered the room, which seemed to be a counterpart of the one which I had just left. It was of the same size, had the same kind of furniture, and appeared to be equally well stocked with china; one prominent article it possessed, however, which the other room did not exhibit--namely, a clock, which, with its pendulum moving tick-a-tick, hung against the wall opposite to the door, the sight of which made me conclude that the sound which methought I had heard in the stillness of the night was not an imaginary one. There it hung on the wall, with its pendulum moving tick- a-tick. The old gentleman was seated in an easy-chair a little way into the room, having the glass-door on his right hand. On a table before him lay a large open volume, in which I observed Roman letters as well as characters. A few inches beyond the book on the table, covered all over with hieroglyphics, stood a china vase. The eyes of the old man were fixed upon it. "Sit down," said he, motioning me with his hand to a stool close by, but without taking his eyes from the vase. "I can't make it out," said he, at last, removing his eyes from the vase, and leaning back on the chair; "I can't make it out." "I wish I could assist you," said I. "Assist me," said the old man, looking at me, with a half smile. "Yes," said I, "but I don't understand Chinese." "I suppose not," said the old man, with another slight smile; "but--but . . ." "Pray proceed," said I. "I wished to ask you," said the old man, "how you knew that the characters on yon piece of crockery were Chinese; or, indeed, that there was such a language?" "I knew the crockery was china," said I, "and naturally enough supposed what was written upon it to be Chinese; as for there being such a language--the English have a language, the French have a language, and why not the Chinese?" "May I ask you a question?" "As many as you like." "Do you know any language besides English?" "Yes," said I, "I know a little of two or three." "May I ask their names?" "Why not?" said I. "I know a little French." "Anything else?" "Yes, a little Welsh, and a little Haik." "What is Haik?" "Armenian." "I am glad to see you in my house," said the old man, shaking me by the hand; "how singular that one coming as you did should know Armenian!" "Not more singular," said I, "than that one living in such a place as this should know Chinese. How came you to acquire it?" The old man looked at me, and sighed. "I beg pardon," said I, "for asking what is, perhaps, an impertinent question; I have not imitated your own delicacy; you have never asked me a question without first desiring permission, and here I have been days and nights in your house an intruder on your hospitality, and you have never so much as asked me who I am." "In forbearing to do that," said the old man, "I merely obeyed the Chinese precept, 'Ask no questions of a guest;' it is written on both sides of the teapot out of which you have had your tea." "I wish I knew Chinese," said I. "Is it a difficult language to acquire?" "I have reason to think so," said the old man. "I have been occupied upon it five-and-thirty years, and I am still very imperfectly acquainted with it; at least, I frequently find upon my crockery sentences the meaning of which to me is very dark, though it is true these sentences are mostly verses, which are, of course, more difficult to understand than mere prose." "Are your Chinese studies," said I, "confined to crockery literature?" "Entirely," said the old man; "I read nothing else." "I have heard," said I, "that the Chinese have no letters, but that for every word they have a separate character--is it so?" "For every word they have a particular character," said the old man; "though, to prevent confusion, they have arranged their words under two hundred and fourteen what we should call radicals, but which they call keys. As we arrange all our words in a dictionary under twenty-four letters, so do they arrange all their words, or characters, under two hundred and fourteen radical signs; the simplest radicals being the first, and the more complex the last." "Does the Chinese resemble any of the European languages in words?" said I. "I am scarcely competent to inform you," said the old man; "but I believe not." "What does that character represent?" said I, pointing to one on the vase. "A knife," said the old man; "that character is one of the simplest radicals or keys." "And what is the sound of it?" said I. "Tau," said the old man. "Tau!" said I; "tau!" "A strange word for a knife! is it not?" said the old man. "Tawse!" said I; "tawse!" "What is tawse?" said the old man. "You were never at school at Edinburgh, I suppose?" "Never," said the old man. "That accounts for your not knowing the meaning of tawse," said I; "had you received the rudiments of a classical education at the High School, you would have known the meaning of tawse full well. It is a leathern thong, with which refractory urchins are recalled to a sense of their duty by the dominie, Tau--tause--how singular!" "I cannot see what the two words have in common, except a slight agreement in sound." "You will see the connection," said I, "when I inform you that the thong, from the middle to the bottom, is cut or slit into two or three parts, from which slits or cuts, unless I am very much mistaken, it derives its name--tawse, a thong with slits or cuts, used for chastising disorderly urchins at the High School, from the French tailler, to cut; evidently connected with the Chinese tau, a knife--how very extraordinary!" CHAPTER XXXIII. CONVALESCENCE--THE SURGEON'S BILL--LETTER OF RECOMMENDATION--COMMENCEMENT OF THE OLD MAN'S HISTORY. Two days--three days passed away--and I still remained at the house of my hospitable entertainer; my bruised limb rapidly recovering the power of performing its functions. I passed my time agreeably enough, sometimes in my chamber, communing with my own thoughts; sometimes in the stable, attending to, and not unfrequently conversing with, my horse; and at meal- time--for I seldom saw him at any other--discoursing with the old gentleman, sometimes on the Chinese vocabulary, sometimes on Chinese syntax, and once or twice on English horseflesh; though on this latter subject, notwithstanding his descent from a race of horse-traders, he did not enter with much alacrity. As a small requital for his kindness, I gave him one day, after dinner, unasked, a brief account of my history and pursuits. He listened with attention; and when it was concluded, thanked me for the confidence which I had reposed in him. "Such conduct," said he, "deserves a return. I will tell you my own history; it is brief, but may perhaps not prove uninteresting to you--though the relation of it will give me some pain." "Pray, then, do not recite it," said I. "Yes," said the old man, "I will tell you, for I wish you to know it." He was about to begin, when he was interrupted by the arrival of the surgeon. The surgeon examined into the state of my bruised limb, and told me, what indeed I already well knew, that it was rapidly improving. "You will not even require a sling," said he, "to ride to Horncastle. When do you propose going?" he demanded. "When do you think I may venture?" I replied. "I think, if you are a tolerably good horseman, you may mount the day after to-morrow," answered the medical man. "By-the-bye, are you acquainted with anybody at Horncastle?" "With no living soul," I answered. "Then you would scarcely find stable-room for your horse. But I am happy to be able to assist you. I have a friend there who keeps a small inn, and who, during the time of the fair, keeps a stall vacant for any quadruped I may bring, until he knows whether I am coming or not. I will give you a letter to him, and he will see after the accommodation of your horse. To-morrow I will pay you a farewell visit, and bring you the letter." "Thank you," said I; "and do not forget to bring your bill." The surgeon looked at the old man, who gave him a peculiar nod. "Oh!" said he, in reply to me, "for the little service I have rendered you, I require no remuneration. You are in my friend's house, and he and I understand each other." "I never receive such favours," said I, "as you have rendered me, without remunerating them; therefore I shall expect your bill." "Oh! just as you please," said the surgeon; and shaking me by the hand more warmly than he had hitherto done, he took his leave. On the evening of the next day, the last which I spent with my kind entertainer, I sat at tea with him in a little summer-house in his garden, partially shaded by the boughs of a large fig-tree. The surgeon had shortly before paid me his farewell visit, and had brought me the letter of introduction to his friend at Horncastle, and also his bill, which I found anything but extravagant. After we had each respectively drank the contents of two cups--and it may not be amiss here to inform the reader that though I took cream with my tea, as I always do when I can procure that addition, the old man, like most people bred up in the country, drank his without it--he thus addressed me:--"I am, as I told you on the night of your accident, the son of a breeder of horses, a respectable and honest man. When I was about twenty he died, leaving me, his only child, a comfortable property, consisting of about two hundred acres of land and some fifteen hundred pounds in money. My mother had died about three years previously. I felt the death of my mother keenly, but that of my father less than was my duty; indeed, truth compels me to acknowledge that I scarcely regretted his death. The cause of this want of proper filial feeling was the opposition which I had experienced from him in an affair which deeply concerned me. I had formed an attachment for a young female in the neighbourhood, who, though poor, was of highly respectable birth, her father having been a curate of the Established Church. She was, at the time of which I am speaking, an orphan, having lost both her parents, and supported herself by keeping a small school. My attachment was returned, and we had pledged our vows, but my father, who could not reconcile himself to her lack of fortune, forbade our marriage in the most positive terms. He was wrong, for she was a fortune in herself--amiable and accomplished. Oh! I cannot tell you all she was"--and here the old man drew his hand across his eyes. "By the death of my father, the only obstacle to our happiness appeared to be removed. We agreed, therefore, that our marriage should take place within the course of a year; and I forthwith commenced enlarging my house and getting my affairs in order. Having been left in the easy circumstances which I have described, I determined to follow no business, but to pass my life in a strictly domestic manner, and to be very, very happy. Amongst other property derived from my father were several horses, which I disposed of in this neighbourhood, with the exception of two remarkably fine ones, which I determined to take to the next fair at Horncastle, the only place where I expected to be able to obtain what I considered to be their full value. At length the time arrived for the commencement of the fair, which was within three months of the period which my beloved and myself had fixed upon for the celebration of our nuptials. To the fair I went, a couple of trusty men following me with the horses. I soon found a purchaser for the animals, a portly, plausible person, of about forty, dressed in a blue riding coat, brown top boots, and leather breeches. There was a strange-looking urchin with him, attired in nearly similar fashion, with a beam in one of his eyes, who called him father. The man paid me for the purchase in bank-notes--three fifty-pound notes for the two horses. As we were about to take leave of each other, he suddenly produced another fifty-pound note, inquiring whether I could change it, complaining, at the same time, of the difficulty of procuring change in the fair. As I happened to have plenty of small money in my possession, and as I felt obliged to him for having purchased my horses at what I considered to be a good price, I informed him that I should be very happy to accommodate him; so I changed him the note, and he, having taken possession of the horses, went his way, and I myself returned home. "A month passed; during this time I paid away two of the notes which I had received at Horncastle from the dealer--one of them in my immediate neighbourhood, and the other at a town about fifteen miles distant, to which I had repaired for the purpose of purchasing some furniture. All things seemed to be going on most prosperously, and I felt quite happy, when one morning, as I was overlooking some workmen who were employed about my house, I was accosted by a constable, who informed me that he was sent to request my immediate appearance before a neighbouring bench of magistrates. Concluding that I was merely summoned on some unimportant business connected with the neighbourhood, I felt no surprise, and forthwith departed in company with the officer. The demeanour of the man upon the way struck me as somewhat singular. I had frequently spoken to him before, and had always found him civil and respectful, but he was now reserved and sullen, and replied to two or three questions which I put to him in anything but a courteous manner. On arriving at the place where the magistrates were sitting--an inn at a small town about two miles distant--I found a more than usual number of people assembled, who appeared to be conversing with considerable eagerness. At sight of me they became silent, but crowded after me as I followed the man into the magistrates' room. There I found the tradesman to whom I had paid the note for the furniture, at the town fifteen miles off, in attendance, accompanied by an agent of the Bank of England; the former, it seems, had paid the note into a provincial bank, the proprietors of which, discovering it to be a forgery, had forthwith written up to the Bank of England, who had sent down their agent to investigate the matter. A third individual stood beside them--the person in my own immediate neighbourhood to whom I had paid the second note; this, by some means or other, before the coming down of the agent, had found its way to the same provincial bank, and also being pronounced a forgery, it had speedily been traced to the person to whom I had paid it. It was owing to the apparition of this second note that the agent had determined, without further inquiry, to cause me to be summoned before the rural tribunal. "In a few words the magistrates' clerk gave me to understand the state of the case. I was filled with surprise and consternation. I knew myself to be perfectly innocent of any fraudulent intention, but at the time of which I am speaking it was a matter fraught with the greatest danger to be mixed up, how ever innocently, with the passing of false money. The law with respect to forgery was terribly severe, and the innocent as well as the guilty occasionally suffered. Of this I was not altogether ignorant; unfortunately, however, in my transactions with the stranger, the idea of false notes being offered to me, and my being brought into trouble by means of them, never entered my mind. Recovering myself a little, I stated that the notes in question were two of three notes which I had received at Horncastle for a pair of horses, which it was well known I had carried thither. "Thereupon I produced from my pocket-book the third note, which was forthwith pronounced a forgery. I had scarcely produced the third note when I remembered the one which I had changed for the Horncastle dealer, and with the remembrance came the almost certain conviction that it was also a forgery; I was tempted for a moment to produce it, and to explain the circumstance--would to God I had done so!--but shame at the idea of having been so wretchedly duped prevented me, and the opportunity was lost. I must confess that the agent of the bank behaved, upon the whole, in a very handsome manner; he said that as it was quite evident that I had disposed of certain horses at the fair, it was very possible that I might have received the notes in question in exchange for them, and that he was willing, as he had received a very excellent account of my general conduct, to press the matter no farther, that is, provided . . . And here he stopped. Thereupon one of the three magistrates who were present asked me whether I chanced to have any more of these spurious notes in my possession. He had certainly a right to ask the question, but there was something peculiar in his tone--insinuating suspicion. It is certainly difficult to judge of the motives which rule a person's conduct, but I cannot help imagining that he was somewhat influenced in his behaviour on that occasion, which was anything but friendly, by my having refused to sell him the horses at a price less than that which I expected to get at the fair; be this as it may, the question filled me with embarrassment, and I bitterly repented not having at first been more explicit. Thereupon the magistrate, in the same kind of tone, demanded to see my pocket-book. I knew that to demur would be useless, and produced it, and forthwith amongst two or three country notes, appeared the fourth which I had received from the Horncastle dealer. The agent took it up and examined it with attention. 'Well, is it a genuine note?' said the magistrate. 'I am sorry to say that it is not,' said the agent; 'it is a forgery, like the other three.' The magistrate shrugged his shoulders, as indeed did several people in the room. 'A regular dealer in forged notes,' said a person close behind me; 'who would have thought it?' "Seeing matters begin to look so serious, I aroused myself and endeavoured to speak in my own behalf, giving a candid account of the manner in which I became possessed of the notes; but my explanation did not appear to meet much credit: the magistrate, to whom I have in particular alluded, asked why I had not at once stated the fact of my having received a fourth note; and the agent, though in a very quiet tone observed that he could not help thinking it somewhat strange that I should have changed a note of so much value for a perfect stranger, even supposing that he had purchased my horses, and had paid me their value in hard cash; and I noticed that he laid a particular emphasis on the last words. I might have observed that I was an inexperienced young man who meaning no harm myself, suspected none in others, but I was confused, stunned, and my tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of my mouth. The men who had taken my horses to Horncastle, and for whom I had sent, as they lived close at hand, now arrived, but the evidence which they could give was anything but conclusive in my favour; they had seen me in company with an individual at Horncastle, to whom by my orders they had delivered certain horses, but they had seen no part of the money transaction; the fellow, whether from design or not, having taken me aside into a retired place, where he had paid me the three spurious notes, and induced me to change the fourth, which throughout the affair was what bore most materially against me. How matters might have terminated I do not know; I might have been committed to prison, and I might have been . . . Just then, when I most needed a friend, and least expected to find one, for though amongst those present there were several who were my neighbours, and who had professed friendship for me, none of them when they saw that I needed support and encouragement came forward to yield me any, but, on the contrary, appeared by their looks to enjoy my terror and confusion--just then a friend entered the room in the person of the surgeon of the neighbourhood, the father of him who has attended you; he was not on very intimate terms with me, but he had occasionally spoken to me, and had attended my father in his dying illness, and chancing to hear that I was in trouble, he now hastened to assist me. After a short preamble, in which he apologised to the bench for interfering, he begged to be informed of the state of the case, whereupon the matter was laid before him in all its details. He was not slow in taking a fair view of it, and spoke well and eloquently in my behalf--insisting on the improbability that a person of my habits and position would be wilfully mixed up with a transaction like that of which it appeared I was suspected--adding, that as he was fully convinced of my innocence, he was ready to enter into any surety with respect to my appearance at any time to answer anything which might be laid to my charge. This last observation had particular effect, and as he was a person universally respected, both for his skill in his profession and his general demeanour, people began to think that a person in whom he took an interest could scarcely be concerned in anything criminal, and though my friend the magistrate--I call him so ironically--made two or three demurs, it was at last agreed between him and his brethren of the bench, that, for the present, I should be merely called upon to enter into my own recognisance for the sum of two hundred pounds, to appear whenever it should be deemed requisite to enter into any farther investigation of the matter. "So I was permitted to depart from the tribunal of petty justice without handcuffs, and uncollared by a constable; but people looked coldly and suspiciously upon me. The first thing I did was to hasten to the house of my beloved, in order to inform her of every circumstance attending the transaction. I found her, but how? A malicious female individual had hurried to her with a distorted tale, to the effect that I had been taken up as an utterer of forged notes; that an immense number had been found in my possession; that I was already committed, and that probably I should be executed. My affianced one tenderly loved me, and her constitution was delicate; fit succeeded fit; she broke a blood-vessel, and I found her deluged in blood; the surgeon had just been sent for; he came and afforded her every possible relief. I was distracted; he bade me have hope, but I observed he looked very grave. "By the skill of the surgeon, the poor girl was saved in the first instance from the arms of death, and for a few weeks she appeared to be rapidly recovering; by degrees, however, she became melancholy; a worm preyed upon her spirit; a slow fever took possession of her frame. I subsequently learned that the same malicious female who had first carried to her an exaggerated account of the affair, and who was a distant relative of her own, frequently visited her, and did all in her power to excite her fears with respect to its eventual termination. Time passed on in a very wretched manner. Our friend the surgeon showing to us both every mark of kindness and attention. "It was owing to this excellent man that my innocence was eventually established. Having been called to a town on the borders of Yorkshire to a medical consultation, he chanced to be taking a glass of wine with the landlord of the inn at which he stopped, when the waiter brought in a note to be changed, saying 'that the Quaker gentleman who had been for some days in the house, and was about to depart, had sent it to be changed, in order that he might pay his bill.' The landlord took the note, and looked at it. 'A fifty-pound bill,' said he; 'I don't like changing bills of that amount, lest they should prove bad ones; however, as it comes from a Quaker gentleman, I suppose it is all right.' The mention of a fifty-pound note aroused the attention of my friend, and he requested to be permitted to look at it; he had scarcely seen it, when he was convinced that it was one of the same description as those which had brought me into trouble, as it corresponded with them in two particular features, which the agent of the bank had pointed out to him and others as evidence of their spuriousness. My friend, without a moment's hesitation, informed the landlord that the note was a bad one, expressing at the time a great wish to see the Quaker gentleman who wanted to have it changed. 'That you can easily do,' said the landlord, and forthwith conducted him into the common room, where he saw a respectable-looking man, dressed like a Quaker, and seemingly about sixty years of age. "My friend, after a short apology, showed him the note which he held in his hand, stating that he had no doubt it was a spurious one, and begged to be informed where he had taken it, adding, that a particular friend of his was at present in trouble, owing to his having taken similar notes from a stranger at Horncastle; but that he hoped that he, the Quaker, could give information by means of which the guilty party or parties, could be arrested. At the mention of Horncastle, it appeared to my friend that the Quaker gave a slight start. At the conclusion of this speech, however, he answered, with great tranquillity, that he had received it in the way of business at . . .--naming one of the principal towns in Yorkshire--from a very respectable person, whose name he was perfectly willing to communicate, and likewise his own, which he said was James, and that he was a merchant residing at Liverpool; that he would write to his friend at . . ., requesting him to make inquiries on the subject; that just at that moment he was in a hurry to depart, having some particular business at a town about ten miles off, to go to which he had bespoken a post-chaise of the landlord; that with respect to the note, it was doubtless a very disagreeable thing to have a suspicious one in his possession, but that it would make little difference to him, as he had plenty of other money, and thereupon he pulled out a purse containing various other notes and some gold, observing 'that his only motive for wishing to change the other note was a desire to be well provided with change;' and finally, that if they had any suspicion with respect to him, he was perfectly willing to leave the note in their possession till he should return, which he intended to do in about a fortnight. There was so much plausibility in the speech of the Quaker, and his appearance and behaviour were so perfectly respectable, that my friend felt almost ashamed of the suspicion which at first he had entertained of him, though, at the same time, he felt an unaccountable unwillingness to let the man depart without some further interrogation. The landlord, however, who did not wish to disoblige one who had been, and might probably be again, a profitable customer, declared that he was perfectly satisfied; that he had no wish to detain the note, which he made no doubt the gentleman had received in the way of business, and that as the matter concerned him alone, he would leave it to him to make the necessary inquiries. 'Just as you please, friend,' said the Quaker, pocketing the suspicious note; 'I will now pay my bill.' Thereupon he discharged the bill with a five-pound note, which he begged the landlord to inspect carefully, and with two pieces of gold. "The landlord had just taken the money, receipted the bill, and was bowing to his customer, when the door opened, and a lad, dressed in a kind of grey livery, appeared, and informed the Quaker that the chaise was ready. 'Is that boy your servant?' said the surgeon. 'He is, friend,' said the Quaker. 'Hast thou any reason for asking me that question?' 'And has he been long in your service?' 'Several years,' replied the Quaker. 'I took him into my house out of compassion, he being an orphan; but as the chaise is waiting, I will bid thee farewell.' 'I am afraid I must stop your journey for the present,' said the surgeon; 'that boy has exactly the same blemish in the eye which a boy had who was in company with the man at Horncastle, from whom my friend received the forged notes, and who there passed for his son.' 'I know nothing about that,' said the Quaker, 'but I am determined to be detained here no longer, after the satisfactory account which I have given as to the note's coming into my possession.' He then attempted to leave the room, but my friend detained him, a struggle ensued, during which a wig which the Quaker wore fell off, whereupon he instantly appeared to lose some twenty years of his age. 'Knock the fellow down, father,' said the boy, 'I'll help you.' "And, forsooth, the pretended Quaker took the boy's advice, and knocked my friend down in a twinkling. The landlord, however, and waiter, seeing how matters stood, instantly laid hold of him; but there can be no doubt that he would have escaped from the whole three, had not certain guests who were in the house, hearing the noise, rushed in, and helped to secure him. The boy was true to his word, assisting him to the best of his ability, flinging himself between the legs of his father's assailants, causing several of them to stumble and fall. At length the fellow was secured, and led before a magistrate; the boy, to whom he was heard to say something which nobody understood, and to whom, after the man's capture, no one paid much attention, was no more seen. "The rest, as far as this man was concerned, may be told in a few words; nothing to criminate him was found on his person, but on his baggage being examined, a quantity of spurious notes were discovered. Much of his hardihood now forsook him, and in the hope of saving his life he made some very important disclosures; amongst other things, he confessed that it was he who had given me the notes in exchange for the horses, and also the note to be changed. He was subsequently tried on two indictments, in the second of which I appeared against him. He was condemned to die; but, in consideration of the disclosures he had made, his sentence was commuted to perpetual transportation. "My innocence was thus perfectly established before the eyes of the world, and all my friends hastened to congratulate me. There was one who congratulated me more than all the rest--it was my beloved one, but--but--she was dying . . ." Here the old man drew his hand before his eyes, and remained for some time without speaking; at length he removed his hand, and commenced again with a broken voice: "You will pardon me if I hurry over this part of my story, I am unable to dwell upon it. How dwell upon a period when I saw my only earthly treasure pine away gradually day by day, and knew that nothing could save her! She saw my agony, and did all she could to console me, saying that she was herself quite resigned. A little time before her death she expressed a wish that we should be united. I was too happy to comply with her request. We were united, I brought her to this house, where, in less than a week, she expired in my arms." CHAPTER XXXIV. THE OLD MAN'S STORY CONTINUED--MISERY IN THE HEAD--THE STRANGE MARKS--TEA- DEALER FROM LONDON--DIFFICULTIES OF THE CHINESE LANGUAGE. After another pause the old man once more resumed his narration:--"If ever there was a man perfectly miserable it was myself, after the loss of that cherished woman. I sat solitary in the house, in which I had hoped in her company to realise the choicest earthly happiness, a prey to the bitterest reflections; many people visited and endeavoured to console me--amongst them was the clergyman of the parish, who begged me to be resigned, and told me that it was good to be afflicted. I bowed my head, but I could not help thinking how easy it must be for those who feel no affliction, to bid others to be resigned, and to talk of the benefit resulting from sorrow; perhaps I should have paid more attention to his discourse than I did, provided he had been a person for whom it was possible to entertain much respect, but his own heart was known to be set on the things of this world. "Within a little time he had an opportunity, in his own case, of practising resignation, and of realising the benefit of being afflicted. A merchant, to whom he had entrusted all his fortune, in the hope of a large interest, became suddenly a bankrupt, with scarcely any assets. I will not say that it was owing to this misfortune that the divine died within less than a month after its occurrence, but such was the fact. Amongst those who most frequently visited me was my friend the surgeon; he did not confine himself to the common topics of consolation, but endeavoured to impress upon me the necessity of rousing myself, advising me to occupy my mind with some pursuit, particularly recommending agriculture; but agriculture possessed no interest for me, nor, indeed, any pursuit within my reach; my hopes of happiness had been blighted, and what cared I for anything; so at last he thought it best to leave me to myself, hoping that time would bring with it consolation; and I remained solitary in my house, waited upon by a male and a female servant. Oh, what dreary moments I passed! My only amusement--and it was a sad one--was to look at the things which once belonged to my beloved, and which were now in my possession. Oh, how fondly would I dwell upon them! There were some books; I cared not for books, but these had belonged to my beloved. Oh, how fondly did I dwell on them! Then there was her hat and bonnet--oh, me, how fondly did I gaze upon them! and after looking at her things for hours, I would sit and ruminate on the happiness I had lost. How I execrated the moment I had gone to the fair to sell horses! 'Would that I had never been at Horncastle to sell horses!' I would say; 'I might at this moment have been enjoying the company of my beloved, leading a happy, quiet, easy life, but for that fatal expedition;' that thought worked on my brain, till my brain seemed to turn round. "One day I sat at the breakfast table gazing vacantly around me, my mind was in a state of inexpressible misery; there was a whirl in my brain, probably like that which people feel who are rapidly going mad; this increased to such a degree that I felt giddiness coming upon me. To abate this feeling I no longer permitted my eyes to wander about, but fixed them upon an object on the table, and continued gazing at it for several minutes without knowing what it was; at length, the misery in my head was somewhat stilled, my lips moved, and I heard myself saying, 'What odd marks!' I had fastened my eyes on the side of a teapot, and by keeping them fixed upon it, had become aware of a fact that had escaped my notice before--namely, that there were marks upon it. I kept my eyes fixed upon them, and repeated at intervals, 'What strange marks!'--for I thought that looking upon the marks tended to abate the whirl in my head: I kept tracing the marks one after the other, and I observed that though they all bore a general resemblance to each other, they were all to a certain extent different. The smallest portion possible of curious interest had been awakened within me, and, at last, I asked myself, within my own mind, 'What motive could induce people to put such odd marks on their crockery? they were not pictures, they were not letters; what motive could people have for putting them there?' At last I removed my eyes from the teapot, and thought for a few moments about the marks; presently, however, I felt the whirl returning; the marks became almost effaced from my mind, and I was beginning to revert to my miserable ruminations, when suddenly methought I heard a voice say, 'The marks! the marks! cling to the marks! or . . .' So I fixed my eyes again upon the marks, inspecting them more attentively, if possible, than I had done before, and, at last, I came to the conclusion that they were not capricious or fanciful marks, but were arranged systematically; when I had gazed at them for a considerable time I turned the teapot round, and on the other side I observed marks of a similar kind, which I soon discovered were identical with the ones I had been observing. All the marks were something alike, but all somewhat different, and on comparing them with each other, I was struck with the frequent occurrence of a mark crossing an upright line, or projecting from it, now on the right, now on the left side; and I said to myself, 'Why does this mark sometimes cross the upright line, and sometimes project?' and the more I thought on the matter, the less did I feel of the misery in my head. "The things were at length removed, and I sat, as I had for some time past been wont to sit after my meals, silent and motionless; but in the present instance my mind was not entirely abandoned to the one mournful idea which had so long distressed it. It was, to a certain extent, occupied with the marks on the teapot; it is true that the mournful idea strove hard with the marks on the teapot for the mastery in my mind, and at last the painful idea drove the marks of the teapot out; they, however, would occasionally return and flit across my mind for a moment or two, and their coming was like a momentary relief from intense pain. I thought once or twice that I would have the teapot placed before me that I might examine the marks at leisure, but I considered that it would be as well to defer the re-examination of the marks till the next morning; at that time I did not take tea of an evening. By deferring the examination thus, I had something to look forward to on the next morning. The day was a melancholy one, but it certainly was more tolerable to me than any of the others had been since the death of my beloved. As I lay awake that night I occasionally thought of the marks, and in my sleep methought I saw them upon the teapot vividly before me. On the morrow, I examined the marks again; how singular they looked! Surely they must mean something, and if so, what could they mean? and at last I thought within myself whether it would be possible for me to make out what they meant: that day I felt more relief than on the preceding one, and towards night I walked a little about. "In about a week's time I received a visit from my friend the surgeon; after a little discourse, he told me that he perceived I was better than when he had last seen me, and asked me what I had been about; I told him that I had been principally occupied in considering certain marks which I had found on a teapot, and wondering what they could mean; he smiled at first, but instantly assuming a serious look, he asked to see the teapot. I produced it, and after having surveyed the marks with attention, he observed that they were highly curious, and also wondered what they meant. 'I strongly advise you,' said he, 'to attempt to make them out, and also to take moderate exercise, and to see after your concerns.' I followed his advice; every morning I studied the marks on the teapot, and in the course of the day took moderate exercise, and attended to little domestic matters as became the master of a house. "I subsequently learned that the surgeon, in advising me to study the marks and endeavour to make out their meaning, merely hoped that by means of them my mind might by degrees be diverted from the mournful idea on which it had so long brooded. He was a man well skilled in his profession, but had read and thought very little on matters unconnected with it. He had no idea that the marks had any particular signification, or were anything else but common and fortuitous one. That I became at all acquainted with their nature was owing to a ludicrous circumstance which I will now relate. "One day, chancing to be at a neighbouring town, I was struck with the appearance of a shop recently established. It had an immense bow-window, and every part of it to which a brush could be applied was painted in a gaudy flaming style. Large bowls of green and black tea were placed upon certain chests, which stood at the window. I stopped to look at them, such a display, whatever it may be at the present time, being, at the period of which I am speaking, quite uncommon in a country town. The tea, whether black or green, was very shining and inviting, and the bowls, of which there were three, standing on as many chests, were very grand and foreign-looking. Two of these were white, with figures and trees painted upon them in blue; the other, which was the middlemost, had neither trees nor figures upon it, but, as I looked through the window, appeared to have on its sides the very same kind of marks which I had observed on the teapot at home; there were also marks on the tea-chests, somewhat similar, but much larger, and, apparently, not executed with so much care. 'Best teas direct from China,' said a voice close to my side; and looking round I saw a youngish man with a frizzled head, flat face, and an immensely wide mouth, standing in his shirt-sleeves by the door. 'Direct from China,' said he; 'perhaps you will do me the favour to walk in and scent them?' 'I do not want any tea,' said I; 'I was only standing at the window examining those marks on the bowl and the chests. I have observed similar ones on a teapot at home.' 'Pray walk in, sir,' said the young fellow, extending his mouth till it reached nearly from ear to ear; 'pray walk in, and I shall be happy to give you any information respecting the manners and customs of the Chinese in my power.' Thereupon I followed him into his shop, where he began to harangue on the manners, customs, and peculiarities of the Chinese, especially their manner of preparing tea, not forgetting to tell me that the only genuine Chinese tea ever imported into England was to be found in his shop. 'With respect to those marks,' said he, 'on the bowl and the chests, they are nothing more nor less than Chinese writing expressing something, though what I can't exactly tell you. Allow me to sell you this pound of tea,' he added, showing me a paper parcel. 'On the envelope there is a printed account of the Chinese system of writing, extracted from authors of the most established reputation. These things I print, principally with the hope of, in some degree, removing the worse than Gothic ignorance prevalent amongst the natives of these parts. I am from London myself. With respect to all that relates to the Chinese real imperial tea, I assure you, sir that . . . ' Well to make short of what you doubtless consider a very tiresome story, I purchased the tea and carried it home. The tea proved imperially bad, but the paper envelope really contained some information on the Chinese language and writing, amounting to about as much as you gained from me the other day. On learning that the marks on the teapot expressed words, I felt my interest with respect to them considerably increased, and returned to the task of inspecting them with greater zeal than before, hoping, by continually looking at them, to be able eventually to understand their meaning, in which hope you may easily believe I was disappointed, though my desire to understand what they represented continued on the increase. In this dilemma I determined to apply again to the shopkeeper from whom I bought the tea. I found him in rather low spirits, his shirt-sleeves were soiled, and his hair was out of curl. On my inquiring how he got on, he informed me that he intended speedily to leave, having received little or no encouragement, the people, in their Gothic ignorance, preferring to deal with an old-fashioned shopkeeper over the way, who, so far from possessing any acquaintance with the polity and institutions of the Chinese, did not, he firmly believed, know that tea came from China. 'You are come for some more, I suppose?' said he. On receiving an answer in the negative he looked somewhat blank, but when I added that I came to consult with him as to the means which I must take in order to acquire the Chinese language he brightened up. 'You must get a grammar,' said he, rubbing his hands. 'Have you not one?' said I. 'No,' he replied, 'but any bookseller can procure you one.' As I was taking my departure, he told me that as he was about to leave the neighbourhood, the bowl at the window, which bore the inscription, besides some other pieces of porcelain of a similar description, were at my service provided I chose to purchase them. I consented, and two or three days afterwards took from off his hands all the china in his possession which bore inscriptions, paying what he demanded. Had I waited till the sale of his effects, which occurred within a few weeks, I could probably have procured it for a fifth part of the sum which I paid, the other pieces realising very little. I did not, however, grudge the poor fellow what he got from me, as I considered myself to be somewhat in his debt for the information he had afforded me. "As for the rest of my story, it may be briefly told. I followed the advice of the shopkeeper, and applied to a bookseller, who wrote to his correspondent in London. After a long interval, I was informed that if I wished to learn Chinese, I must do so through the medium of French; there being neither Chinese grammar nor dictionary in our language. I was at first very much disheartened. I determined, however, at last to gratify my desire of learning Chinese, even at the expense of learning French. I procured the books, and in order to qualify myself to turn them to account, took lessons in French from a little Swiss, the usher of a neighbouring boarding-school. I was very stupid in acquiring French; perseverance, however, enabled me to acquire a knowledge sufficient for the object I had in view. In about two years I began to study Chinese by myself, through the medium of the French." "Well," said I, "and how did you get on with the study of Chinese?" And then the old man proceeded to inform me how he got on with the study of Chinese, enumerating all the difficulties he had had to encounter; dilating upon his frequent despondency of mind, and occasionally his utter despair of ever mastering Chinese. He told me that more than once he had determined upon giving up the study, but then the misery in his head forthwith returned, to escape from which he had as often resumed it. It appeared, however, that ten years elapsed before he was able to use ten of the two hundred and fourteen keys which serve to undo the locks of Chinese writing. "And are you able at present to use the entire number?" I demanded. "Yes," said the old man; "I can at present use the whole number. I know the key for every particular lock, though I frequently find the wards unwilling to give way." "Has nothing particular occurred to you," said I, "during the time that you have been prosecuting your studies?" "During the whole time in which I have been engaged in these studies," said the old man, "only one circumstance has occurred which requires any particular mention--the death of my old friend the surgeon--who was carried off suddenly by a fit of apoplexy. His death was a great shock to me, and for a time interrupted my studies. His son, however, who succeeded him, was very kind to me, and, in some degree, supplied his father's place; and I gradually returned to my Chinese locks and keys." "And in applying keys to the Chinese locks you employ your time?" "Yes," said the old man, "in making out the inscriptions on the various pieces of porcelain, which I have at different times procured, I pass my time. The first inscription which I translated was that on the teapot of my beloved." "And how many other pieces of porcelain may you have at present in your possession?" "About fifteen hundred." "And how did you obtain them?" I demanded. "Without much labour," said the old man, "in the neighbouring towns and villages--chiefly at auctions--of which, about twenty years ago, there were many in these parts." "And may I ask your reasons for confining your studies entirely to the crockery literature of China, when you have all the rest at your disposal?" "The inscriptions enable me to pass my time," said the old man; "what more would the whole literature of China do?" "And from those inscriptions," said I, "what a book it is in your power to make, whenever so disposed. 'Translations from the crockery literature of China.' Such a book would be sure to take; even glorious John himself would not disdain to publish it." The old man smiled. "I have no desire for literary distinction," said he; "no ambition. My original wish was to pass my life in easy, quiet obscurity, with her whom I loved. I was disappointed in my wish; she was removed, who constituted my only felicity in this life; desolation came to my heart, and misery to my head. To escape from the latter I had recourse to Chinese. By degrees the misery left my head, but the desolation of heart yet remains." "Be of good cheer," said I; "through the instrumentality of this affliction you have learnt Chinese, and, in so doing, learnt to practise the duties of hospitality. Who but a man who could read Runes on a teapot, would have received an unfortunate wayfarer as you have received me?" "Well," said the old man, "let us hope that all is for the best. I am by nature indolent, and, but for this affliction, should perhaps have hardly taken the trouble to do my duty to my fellow-creatures. I am very, very indolent," said he, slightly glancing towards the clock; "therefore let us hope that all is for the best; but, oh! these trials, they are very hard to bear." CHAPTER XXXV. THE LEAVE-TAKING--SPIRIT OF THE HEARTH--WHAT'S O'CLOCK. The next morning, having breakfasted with my old friend, I went into the stable to make the necessary preparations for my departure; there, with the assistance of a stable lad, I cleaned and caparisoned my horse, and then, returning into the house, I made the old female attendant such a present as I deemed would be of some compensation for the trouble I had caused. Hearing that the old gentleman was in his study, I repaired to him. "I am come to take leave of you," said I, "and to thank you for all the hospitality which I have received at your hands." The eyes of the old man were fixed steadfastly on the inscription which I had found him studying on a former occasion. "At length," he murmured to himself, "I have it--I think I have it;" and then, looking at me, he said, "So you are about to depart?" "Yes," said I, "my horse will be at the front door in a few minutes; I am glad, however, before I go, to find that you have mastered the inscription." "Yes," said the old man, "I believe I have mastered it; it seems to consist of some verses relating to the worship of the Spirit of the Hearth." "What is the Spirit of the Hearth?" said I. "One of the many demons which the Chinese worship," said the old man; "they do not worship one God, but many." And then the old man told me a great many highly-interesting particulars respecting the demon worship of the Chinese. After the lapse of at least half-an-hour I said, "I must not linger here any longer, however willing. Horncastle is distant, and I wish to be there to-night. Pray can you inform me what's o'clock?" The old man, rising, looked towards the clock which hung on the side of the room at his left hand, on the farther side of the table at which he was seated. "I am rather short-sighted," said I, "and cannot distinguish the numbers at that distance." "It is ten o'clock," said the old man; "I believe somewhat past." "A quarter, perhaps?" "Yes," said the old man, "a quarter, or--" "Or?" "Seven minutes, or ten minutes past ten." "I do not understand you." "Why, to tell you the truth," said the old man, with a smile, "there is one thing to the knowledge of which I could never exactly attain." "Do you mean to say," said I, "that you do not know what's o'clock?" "I can give a guess," said the old man, "to within a few minutes." "But you cannot tell the exact moment?" "No," said the old man. "In the name of wonder," said I, "with that thing there on the wall continually ticking in your ear, how comes it that you do not know what's o'clock?" "Why," said the old man, "I have contented myself with giving a tolerably good guess; to do more would have been too great trouble." "But you have learnt Chinese," said I. "Yes," said the old man, "I have learnt Chinese." "Well," said I, "I really would counsel you to learn to know what's o'clock as soon as possible. Consider what a sad thing it would be to go out of the world not knowing what's o'clock. A millionth part of the trouble required to learn Chinese would, if employed, infallibly teach you to know what's o'clock." "I had a motive for learning Chinese," said the old man, "the hope of appeasing the misery in my head. With respect to not knowing what's o'clock, I cannot see anything particularly sad in the matter. A man may get through the world very creditably without knowing what's o'clock. Yet, upon the whole, it is no bad thing to know what's o'clock--you of course, do? It would be too good a joke if two people were to be together, one knowing Armenian and the other Chinese, and neither knowing what's o'clock. I'll now see you off." CHAPTER XXXVI. ARRIVAL AT HORNCASTLE--THE INN AND OSTLERS--THE GARRET--FIGURE OF A MAN WITH A CANDLE. Leaving the house of the old man who knew Chinese, but could not tell what was o'clock, I wended my way to Horncastle, which I reached in the evening of the same day, without having met any adventure on the way worthy of being marked down in this very remarkable history. The town was a small one, seemingly ancient, and was crowded with people and horses. I proceeded, without delay, to the inn to which my friend the surgeon had directed me. "It is of no use coming here," said two or three ostlers, as I entered the yard--"all full--no room whatever;" whilst one added, in an undertone, "That 'ere a'n't a bad-looking horse." "I want to see the master of this inn," said I, as I dismounted from the horse. "See the master," said an ostler--the same who had paid the negative kind of compliment to the horse--"a likely thing, truly; my master is drinking wine with some of the grand gentry, and can't be disturbed for the sake of the like of you." "I bring a letter to him," said I, pulling out the surgeon's epistle. "I wish you would deliver it to him," I added, offering a half-crown. "Oh, it's you, is it?" said the ostler, taking the letter and the half crown; "my master will be right glad to see you; why, you ha'n't been here for many a year; I'll carry the note to him at once." And with these words he hurried into the house. "That's a nice horse, young man," said another ostler, "what will you take for it?" to which interrogation I made no answer. "If you wish to sell him," said the ostler, coming up to me, and winking knowingly, "I think I and my partners might offer you a summut under seventy pounds;" to which kind of half-insinuated offer I made no reply, save by winking in the same kind of knowing manner in which I had observed him wink. "Rather leary!" said a third ostler. "Well, young man, perhaps you will drink to-night with me and my partners, when we can talk the matter over." Before I had time to answer, the landlord, a well-dressed, good- looking man, made his appearance with the ostler; he bore the letter in his hand. Without glancing at me he betook himself at once to consider the horse, going round him, and observing every point with the utmost minuteness. At last, after having gone round the horse three times, he stopped beside me, and keeping his eyes on the horse, bent his head towards his right shoulder. "That horse is worth some money," said he, turning towards me suddenly, and slightly touching me on the arm with the letter which he held in his hand; to which observation I made no reply, save by bending my head towards the right shoulder as I had seen him do. "The young man is going to talk to me and my partners about it to-night," said the ostler who had expressed an opinion that he and his friends might offer me somewhat under seventy pounds for the animal. "Pooh!" said the landlord, "the young man knows what he is about; in the meantime lead the horse to the reserved stall, and see well after him. My friend," said he, taking me aside after the ostler had led the animal away, "recommends you to me in the strongest manner, on which account alone I take you and your horse in. I need not advise you not to be taken in, as I should say, by your look, that you are tolerably awake; but there are queer hands at Horncastle at this time, and those fellows of mine, you understand me . . .; but I have a great deal to do at present, so you must excuse me." And thereupon went into the house. That same evening I was engaged at least two hours in the stable, in rubbing the horse down, and preparing him for the exhibition which I intended he should make in the fair on the following day. The ostler, to whom I had given the half-crown, occasionally assisted me, though he was too much occupied by the horses of other guests to devote any length of time to the service of mine; he more than once repeated to me his firm conviction that himself and partners could afford to offer me summut for the horse; and at a later hour when, in compliance with his invitation, I took a glass of summut with himself and partners, in a little room surrounded with corn-chests, on which we sat, both himself and partners endeavoured to impress upon me, chiefly by means of nods and winks, their conviction that they could afford to give me summut for the horse, provided I were disposed to sell him; in return for which intimation, with as many nods and winks as they had all collectively used, I endeavoured to impress upon them my conviction that I could get summut handsomer in the fair than they might be disposed to offer me, seeing as how--which how I followed by a wink and a nod, which they seemed perfectly to understand, one or two of them declaring that if the case was so, it made a great deal of difference, and that they did not wish to be any hindrance to me, more particularly as it was quite clear I had been an ostler like themselves. It was late at night when I began to think of retiring to rest. On inquiring if there was any place in which I could sleep, I was informed that there was a bed at my service, provided I chose to sleep in a two- bedded room, one of the beds of which was engaged by another gentleman. I expressed my satisfaction at this arrangement, and was conducted by a maid-servant up many pairs of stairs to a garret, in which were two small beds, in one of which she gave me to understand another gentleman slept; he had, however, not yet retired to rest; I asked who he was, but the maid-servant could give me no information about him, save that he was a highly respectable gentleman, and a friend of her master's. Presently, bidding me good-night, she left me with a candle; and I, having undressed myself and extinguished the light, went to bed. Notwithstanding the noises which sounded from every part of the house, I was not slow in falling asleep, being thoroughly tired. I know not how long I might have been in bed, perhaps two hours, when I was partially awakened by a light shining upon my face, whereupon, unclosing my eyes, I perceived the figure of a man, with a candle in one hand, staring at my face, whilst with the other hand he held back the curtain of the bed. As I have said before, I was only partially awakened, my power of perception was consequently very confused; it appeared to me, however, that the man was dressed in a green coat; that he had curly brown or black hair, and that there was something peculiar in his look. Just as I was beginning to recollect myself, the curtain dropped, and I heard, or thought I heard, a voice say, "Don't know the cove." Then there was a rustling like a person undressing, whereupon being satisfied that it was my fellow-lodger, I dropped asleep, but was awakened again by a kind of heavy plunge upon the other bed, which caused it to rock and creak, when I observed that the light had been extinguished, probably blown out, if I might judge from a rather disagreeable smell of burnt wick which remained in the room, and which kept me awake till I heard my companion breathing hard, when, turning on the other side, I was again once more speedily in the arms of slumber. CHAPTER XXXVII. HORNCASTLE FAIR. It had been my intention to be up and doing early on the following morning, but my slumbers proved so profound, that I did not wake until about eight; on arising, I again found myself the sole occupant of the apartment, my more alert companion having probably risen at a much earlier hour. Having dressed myself, I descended, and going to the stable, found my horse under the hands of my friend the ostler, who was carefully rubbing him down. "There a'n't a better horse in the fair," said he to me, "and as you are one of us, and appear to be all right, I'll give you a piece of advice--don't take less than a hundred and fifty for him; if you mind your hits, you may get it, for I have known two hundred given in this fair for one no better, if so good." "Well," said I, "thank you for your advice, which I will take, and, if successful, will give you 'summut' handsome." "Thank you," said the ostler; "and now let me ask whether you are up to all the ways of this here place?" "I have never been here before," said I, "but I have a pair of tolerably sharp eyes in my head." "That I see you have," said the ostler, "but many a body, with as sharp a pair of eyes as yourn, has lost his horse in this fair, for want of having been here before, therefore," said he, "I'll give you a caution or two." Thereupon the ostler proceeded to give me at least half-a-dozen cautions, only two of which I shall relate to the reader:--the first, not to stop to listen to what any chance customer might have to say; and the last--the one on which he appeared to lay most stress--by no manner of means to permit a Yorkshireman to get up into the saddle, "for," said he, "if you do, it is three to one he rides off with the horse; he can't help it; trust a cat amongst cream, but never trust a Yorkshireman on the saddle of a good horse. By-the-bye," he continued, "that saddle of yours is not a particularly good one, no more is the bridle. A shabby saddle and bridle have more than once spoiled the sale of a good horse. I tell you what, as you seem a decent kind of a young chap, I'll lend you a saddle and bridle of my master's, almost bran new; he won't object I know, as you are a friend of his, only you must not forget your promise to come down with summut handsome after you have sold the animal." After a slight breakfast I mounted the horse, which, decked out in his borrowed finery, really looked better by a large sum of money than on any former occasion. Making my way out of the yard of the inn, I was instantly in the principal street of the town, up and down which an immense number of horses were being exhibited, some led, and others with riders. "A wonderful small quantity of good horses in the fair this time!" I heard a stout jockey-looking individual say, who was staring up the street with his side towards me. "Halloo, young fellow!" said he, a few moments after I had passed, "whose horse is that? Stop! I want to look at him!" Though confident that he was addressing himself to me, I took no notice, remembering the advice of the ostler, and proceeded up the street. My horse possessed a good walking step; but walking, as the reader knows, was not his best pace, which was the long trot, at which I could not well exercise him in the street, on account of the crowd of men and animals; however, as he walked along, I could easily perceive that he attracted no slight attention amongst those who, by their jockey dress and general appearance, I imagined to be connoisseurs; I heard various calls to stop, to none of which I paid the slightest attention. In a few minutes I found myself out of the town, when, turning round for the purpose of returning, I found I had been followed by several of the connoisseur-looking individuals, whom I had observed in the fair. "Now would be the time for a display," thought I; and looking around me I observed two five-barred gates, one on each side of the road, and fronting each other. Turning my horse's head to one, I pressed my heels to his sides, loosened the reins, and gave an encouraging cry, whereupon the animal cleared the gate in a twinkling. Before he had advanced ten yards in the field to which the gate opened, I had turned him round, and again giving him cry and rein, I caused him to leap back again into the road, and still allowing him head, I made him leap the other gate; and forthwith turning him round, I caused him to leap once more into the road, where he stood proudly tossing his head, as much as to say, "What more?" "A fine horse! a capital horse!" said several of the connoisseurs. "What do you ask for him?" "Too much for any of you to pay," said I. "A horse like this is intended for other kind of customers than any of you." "How do you know that?" said one; the very same person whom I had heard complaining in the street of the paucity of good horses in the fair. "Come, let us know what you ask for him?" "A hundred and fifty pounds!" said I; "neither more nor less." "Do you call that a great price?" said the man. "Why, I thought you would have asked double that amount! You do yourself injustice, young man." "Perhaps I do," said I, "but that's my affair; I do not choose to take more." "I wish you would let me get into the saddle," said the man; "the horse knows you, and therefore shows to more advantage; but I should like to see how he would move under me, who am a stranger. Will you let me get into the saddle, young man?" "No," said I, "I will not let you get into the saddle." "Why not?" said the man. "Lest you should be a Yorkshireman," said I, "and should run away with the horse." "Yorkshire?" said the man; "I am from Suffolk; silly Suffolk--so you need not be afraid of my running away with the horse." "Oh! if that's the case," said I, "I should be afraid that the horse would run away with you; so I will by no means let you mount." "Will you let me look in his mouth?" said the man. "If you please," said I; "but I tell you, he's apt to bite." "He can scarcely be a worse bite than his master," said the man, looking into the horse's mouth; "he's four off. I say, young man, will you warrant this horse?" "No," said I; "I never warrant horses; the horses that I ride can always warrant themselves." "I wish you would let me speak a word to you," said he. "Just come aside. It's a nice horse," said he, in a half whisper, after I had ridden a few paces aside with him. "It's a nice horse," said he, placing his hand upon the pommel of the saddle and looking up in my face, "and I think I can find you a customer. If you would take a hundred, I think my lord would purchase it, for he has sent me about the fair to look him up a horse, by which he could hope to make an honest penny." "Well," said I, "and could he not make an honest penny and yet give me the price I ask?" "Why," said the go-between, "a hundred and fifty pounds is as much as the animal is worth, or nearly so; and my lord, do you see . . ." "I see no reason at all," said I, "why I should sell the animal for less than he is worth, in order that his lordship may be benefited by him; so that if his lordship wants to make an honest penny, he must find some person who would consider the disadvantage of selling him a horse for less than it is worth, as counterbalanced by the honour of dealing with a lord, which I should never do; but I can't be wasting my time here. I am going back to the . . ., where if you, or any person, are desirous of purchasing the horse, you must come within the next half-hour, or I shall probably not feel disposed to sell him at all." "Another word, young man," said the jockey; but without staying to hear what he had to say, I put the horse to his best trot, and re-entering the town, and threading my way as well as I could through the press, I returned to the yard of the inn, where, dismounting, I stood still, holding the horse by the bridle. {Horncastle horse fair: scene by the canal. (From a photography by Carlton & Sons, Horncastle.): p212.jpg} I had been standing in this manner about five minutes, when I saw the jockey enter the yard, accompanied by another individual. They advanced directly towards me. "Here is my lord come to look at the horse, young man," said the jockey. My lord, as the jockey called him, was a tall figure, of about five-and-thirty. He had on his head a hat somewhat rusty, and on his back a surtout of blue rather the worse for wear. His forehead, if not high, was exceedingly narrow; his eyes were brown, with a rat-like glare in them; the nose was rather long, and the mouth very wide; the cheekbones high, and the cheeks, as to hue and consistency, exhibiting very much the appearance of a withered red apple; there was a gaunt expression of hunger in the whole countenance. He had scarcely glanced at the horse, when, drawing in his cheeks, he thrust out his lips very much after the manner of a baboon when he sees a piece of sugar held out towards him. "Is this horse yours?" said he, suddenly turning towards me, with a kind of smirk. "It's my horse," said I; "are you the person who wishes to make an honest penny by it?" "How?" said he, drawing up his head with a very consequential look, and speaking with a very haughty tone; "what do you mean?" We looked at each other full in the face; after a few moments, the muscles of the mouth of him of the hungry look began to move violently, the face was puckered into innumerable wrinkles, and the eyes became half closed. "Well," said I, "have you ever seen me before? I suppose you are asking yourself that question." "Excuse me, sir," said he, dropping his lofty look, and speaking in a very subdued and civil tone, "I have never had the honour of seeing you before, that is"--said he, slightly glancing at me again, and again moving the muscles of his mouth, "no, I have never seen you before," he added, making me a bow, "I have never had that pleasure; my business with you at present, is to inquire the lowest price you are willing to take for this horse. My agent here informs me that you ask one hundred and fifty pounds, which I cannot think of giving--the horse is a showy horse, but look, my dear sir, he has a defect here, and there in his near fore leg I observe something which looks very like a splint--yes, upon my credit," said he, touching the animal, "he has a splint, or something which will end in one. A hundred and fifty pounds, sir! what could have induced you ever to ask anything like that for this animal? I protest that, in my time, I have frequently bought a better for . . . Who are you, sir? I am in treaty for this horse," said he to a man who had come up whilst he was talking, and was now looking into the horse's mouth. "Who am I?" said the man, still looking into the horse's mouth; "who am I? his lordship asks me. Ah, I see, close on five," said he, releasing the horse's jaws, and looking at me. This new-comer was a thin, wiry-made individual, with wiry curling brown hair; his face was dark, and wore an arch and somewhat roguish expression; upon one of his eyes was a kind of speck or beam; he might be about forty, wore a green jockey coat, and held in his hand a black riding whip, with a knob of silver wire. As I gazed upon his countenance, it brought powerfully to my mind the face which, by the light of the candle, I had seen staring over me on the preceding night, when lying in bed and half asleep. Close behind him, and seemingly in his company, stood an exceedingly tall figure, that of a youth seemingly about one-and-twenty, dressed in a handsome riding dress, and wearing on his head a singular hat, green in colour, and with a very high peak. "What do you ask for this horse?" said he of the green coat, winking at me with the eye which had a beam in it, whilst the other shone and sparkled like Mrs. Colonel W . . .'s Golconda diamond. "Who are you, sir, I demand once more?" said he of the hungry look. "Who am I? why, who should I be but Jack Dale, who buys horses for himself and other folk; I want one at present for this short young gentleman," said he, motioning with his finger to the gigantic youth. "Well, sir," said the other, "and what business have you to interfere between me and any purchase I may be disposed to make?" "Well, then," said the other, "be quick and purchase the horse, or perhaps I may." "Do you think I am to be dictated to by a fellow of your description?" said his lordship; "begone, or . . ." "What do you ask for this horse?" said the other to me, very coolly. "A hundred and fifty," said I. "I shouldn't mind giving it you," said he. "You will do no such thing," said his lordship, speaking so fast that he almost stuttered. "Sir," said he to me, "I must give you what you ask; Symmonds, take possession of the animal for me," said he to the other jockey, who attended him. "You will please to do no such thing without my consent," said I; "I have not sold him." "I have this moment told you that I will give you the price you demand," said his lordship; "is not that sufficient?" "No," said I, "there is a proper manner of doing everything--had you come forward in a manly and gentlemanly manner to purchase the horse, I should have been happy to sell him to you, but after all the fault you have found with him, I would not sell him to you at any price, so send your friend to find up another." "You behave in this manner, I suppose," said his lordship, "because this fellow has expressed a willingness to come to your terms. I would advise you to be cautious how you trust the animal in his hands; I think I have seen him before, and could tell you . . ." "What can you tell of me?" said the other, going up to him, "except that I have been a poor dicky-boy, and that now I am a dealer in horses, and that my father was lagged; that is all you could tell of me, and that I don't mind telling myself: but there are two things they can't say of me, they can't say that I am either a coward, or a screw either, except so far as one who gets his bread by horses may be expected to be; and they can't say of me that I ever ate up an ice which a young woman was waiting for, or that I ever backed out of a fight. Horse!" said he, motioning with his finger tauntingly to the other; "what do you want with a horse, except to take the bread out of the mouth of a poor man--to-morrow is not the battle of Waterloo, so that you don't want to back out of danger, by pretending to have hurt yourself by falling from the creature's back, my lord of the white feather--come, none of your fierce looks--I am not afraid of you." In fact, the other had assumed an expression of the deadliest malice, his teeth were clenched, his lips quivered, and were quite pale; the rat-like eyes sparkled, and he made a half spring, _a la_ rat, towards his adversary, who only laughed. Restraining himself, however, he suddenly turned to his understrapper, saying, "Symmonds, will you see me thus insulted? go and trounce this scoundrel; you can, I know." "Symmonds trounce me!" said the other, going up to the person addressed, and drawing his hand contemptuously over his face; "why, I beat Symmonds in this very yard in one round three years ago; didn't I, Symmonds?" said he to the understrapper, who held down his head, muttering in a surly tone, "I didn't come here to fight; let every one take his own part." "That's right, Symmonds," said the other, "especially every one from whom there is nothing to be got. I would give you half-a-crown for all the trouble you have had, provided I were not afraid that my Lord Plume there would get it from you as soon as you leave the yard together. Come, take yourselves both off; there's nothing to be made here." Indeed, his lordship seemed to be of the same opinion, for after a further glance at the horse, a contemptuous look at me, and a scowl at the jockey, he turned on his heel, muttering something which sounded like fellows, and stalked out of the yard, followed by Symmonds. "And now, young man," said the jockey, or whatever he was, turning to me with an arch leer, "I suppose I may consider myself as the purchaser of this here animal, for the use and behoof of this young gentleman," making a sign with his head towards the tall young man by his side. "By no means," said I; "I am utterly unacquainted with either of you, and before parting with the horse I must be satisfied as to the respectability of the purchaser." "Oh! as to that matter," said he, "I have plenty of vouchers for my respectability about me;" and, thrusting his hand into his bosom below his waistcoat, he drew out a large bundle of notes. "These are the kind of things," said he, "which vouch best for a man's respectability." "Not always," said I; "indeed, sometimes these kind of things need vouchers for themselves." The man looked at me with a peculiar look. "Do you mean to say that these notes are not sufficient notes?" said he, "because if you do I shall take the liberty of thinking that you are not over civil, and when I thinks a person is not over and above civil I sometimes takes off my coat; and when my coat is off . . ." "You sometimes knock people down," I added; "well, whether you knock me down or not, I beg leave to tell you that I am a stranger in this fair, and that I shall part with the horse to nobody who has no better guarantee for his respectability than a roll of bank-notes, which may be good or not for what I know, who am not a judge of such things." "Oh! if you are a stranger here," said the man, "as I believe you are, never having seen you here before except last night, when I think I saw you above stairs by the glimmer of a candle--I say, if you are a stranger, you are quite right to be cautious; queer things being done in this fair, as nobody knows better than myself," he added, with a leer; "but I suppose if the landlord of the house vouches for me and my notes, you will have no objection to part with the horse to me?" "None whatever," said I, "and in the meantime the horse can return to the stable." Thereupon I delivered the horse to my friend the ostler. The landlord of the house, on being questioned by me as to the character and condition of my new acquaintance, informed me that he was a respectable horse-dealer, and an intimate friend of his, whereupon the purchase was soon brought to a satisfactory conclusion. CHAPTER XXXVIII. HIGH DUTCH. It was evening: and myself and the two acquaintances I had made in the fair--namely, the jockey and the tall foreigner--sat in a large upstairs room, which looked into a court; we had dined with several people connected with the fair at a long table d'hote; they had now departed, and we sat at a small side-table with wine and a candle before us; both my companions had pipes in their mouths--the jockey a common pipe, and the foreigner, one, the syphon of which, made of some kind of wood, was at least six feet long, and the bowl of which, made of a white kind of substance like porcelain, and capable of holding nearly an ounce of tobacco, rested on the ground. The jockey frequently emptied and replenished his glass; the foreigner sometimes raised his to his lips, for no other purpose seemingly than to moisten them, as he never drained his glass. As for myself, though I did not smoke, I had a glass before me, from which I sometimes took a sip. The room, notwithstanding the window was flung open, was in general so filled with smoke, chiefly that which was drawn from the huge bowl of the foreigner, that my companions and I were frequently concealed from each other's eyes. The conversation, which related entirely to the events of the fair, was carried on by the jockey and myself, the foreigner, who appeared to understand the greater part of what we said, occasionally putting in a few observations in broken English. At length the jockey, after the other had made some ineffectual attempts to express something intelligibly which he wished to say, observed, "Isn't it a pity that so fine a fellow as meinheer, and so clever a fellow too, as I believe him to be, is not a little better master of our language?" "Is the gentleman a German?" said I; "if so, I can interpret for him anything he wishes to say." "The deuce you can!" said the jockey, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and staring at me through the smoke. "Ha! you speak German," vociferated the foreigner in that language. "By Isten, I am glad of it! I wanted to say . . ." And here he said in German what he wished to say, and which was of no great importance, and which I translated into English. "Well, if you don't put me out," said the jockey; "what language is that--Dutch?" "High Dutch," said I. "High Dutch, and you speak High Dutch,--why, I had booked you for as great an ignoramus as myself, who can't write--no, nor distinguish in a book a great A from a bull's foot." "A person may be a very clever man," said I--"no, not a clever man, for clever signifies clerkly, and a clever man one who is able to read and write, and entitled to the benefit of his clergy or clerkship; but a person may be a very acute person without being able to read or write. I never saw a more acute countenance than your own." "No soft soap," said the jockey, "for I never uses any. However, thank you for your information; I have hitherto thought myself a 'nition clever fellow, but from henceforth shall consider myself just the contrary, and only--what's the word?--confounded 'cute." "Just so," said I. "Well," said the jockey, "as you say you can speak High Dutch, I should like to hear you and master six foot six fire away at each other." "I cannot speak German," said I, "but I can understand tolerably well what others say in it." "Come, no backing out," said the jockey, "let's hear you fire away for the glory of Old England." "Then you are a German?" said I, in German, to the foreigner. "That will do," said the jockey; "keep it up." "A German!" said the tall foreigner. "No, I thank God that I do not belong to the stupid sluggish Germanic race, but to a braver, taller, and handsomer people;" here taking the pipe out of his mouth, he stood up proudly erect, so that his head nearly touched the ceiling of the room, then reseating himself, and again putting the syphon to his lips, he added, "I am a Magyar." "What is that?" said I. The foreigner looked at me for a moment, somewhat contemptuously, through the smoke, then said, in a voice of thunder, "A Hungarian!" "What a voice the chap has when he pleases!" interposed the jockey; "what is he saying?" "Merely that he is a Hungarian," said I; "but," I added, "the conversation of this gentleman and myself in a language which you can't understand must be very tedious to you, we had better give it up." "Keep on with it," said the jockey; "I shall go on listening very contentedly till I fall asleep, no bad thing to do at most times." CHAPTER XXXIX. THE HUNGARIAN. "Then you are a countryman of Tekeli, and of the queen who made the celebrated water," said I, speaking to the Hungarian in German, which I was able to do tolerably well, owing to my having translated the Publisher's philosophy into that language, always provided I did not attempt to say much at a time. _Hungarian_. Ah! you have heard of Tekeli, and of L'eau de la Reine d'Hongrie. How is that? _Myself_. I have seen a play acted, founded on the exploits of Tekeli, and have read Pigault Le Brun's beautiful romance, entitled "The Barons of Felsheim," in which he is mentioned. As for the water, I have heard a lady, the wife of a master of mine, speak of it. _Hungarian_. Was she handsome? _Myself_. Very. _Hungarian_. Did she possess the water? _Myself_. I should say not; for I have heard her express a great curiosity about it. _Hungarian_. Was she growing old? _Myself_. Of course not; but why do you put all these questions? _Hungarian_. Because the water is said to make people handsome, and, above all, to restore to the aged the beauty of their youth. Well! Tekeli was my countryman, and I have the honour of having some of the blood of the Tekelis in my veins; but with respect to the queen, pardon me if I tell you that she was not a Hungarian; she was a Pole--Ersebet by name, daughter of Wladislaus Locticus, King of Poland; she was the fourth spouse of Caroly the Second, King of the Magyar country, who married her in the year 1320. She was a great woman and celebrated politician, though at present chiefly known by her water. _Myself_. How came she to invent it? _Hungarian_. If her own account may be believed, she did not invent it. After her death, as I have read in Florentius of Buda, there was found a statement of the manner in which she came by it, written in her own hand, on a fly-leaf of her breviary, to the following effect:--Being afflicted with a grievous disorder at the age of seventy-two, she received the medicine which was called her water, from an old hermit whom she never saw before or afterwards; it not only cured her, but restored to her all her former beauty, so that the king of Poland fell in love with her, and made her an offer of marriage which she refused for the glory of God, from whose holy angel she believed she had received the water. The receipt for making it and directions for using it were also found on the fly-leaf. The principal component parts were burnt wine and rosemary, passed through an alembic; a drachm of it was to be taken once a week, "etelbenn vagy italbann," in the food or the drink, early in the morning, and the cheeks were to be moistened with it every day. The effects, according to the statement, were wonderful--and perhaps they were upon the queen; but whether the water has been equally efficacious on other people, is a point which I cannot determine. I should wish to see some old woman who has been restored to youthful beauty by the use of L'eau de la Reine d'Hongrie. _Myself_. Perhaps, if you did, the old gentlewoman would hardly be so ingenuous as the queen. But who are the Hungarians--descendants of Attila and his people? The Hungarian shook his head, and gave me to understand that he did not believe that his nation were the descendants of Attila and his people, though he acknowledged that they were probably of the same race. Attila and his armies, he said, came and disappeared in a very mysterious manner, and that nothing could be said with positiveness about them; that the people now known as Magyars first made their appearance in Muscovy in the year 884, under the leadership of Almus, called so from Alom, which, in the Hungarian language, signifies a dream; his mother, before his birth, having dreamt that the child with which she was _enceinte_ would be the father of a long succession of kings, which, in fact, was the case; that after beating the Russians he entered Hungary, and coming to a place called Ungvar, from which many people believe that modern Hungary derived its name, he captured it, and held in it a grand festival, which lasted four days, at the end of which time he resigned the leadership of the Magyars to his son Arpad. This Arpad and his Magyars utterly subdued Pannonia--that is, Hungary and Transylvania, wresting the government of it from the Sclavonian tribes who inhabited it, and settling down amongst them as conquerors! After giving me this information, the Hungarian exclaimed with much animation, "A goodly country that which they had entered on, consisting of a plain surrounded by mountains, some of which intersect it here and there, with noble rapid rivers, the grandest of which is the mighty Donau; a country with tiny volcanoes, casting up puffs of smoke and steam, and from which hot springs arise, good for the sick; with many fountains, some of which are so pleasant to the taste as to be preferred to wine; with a generous soil which, warmed by a beautiful sun, is able to produce corn, grapes, and even the Indian weed; in fact, one of the finest countries in the world, which even a Spaniard would pronounce to be nearly equal to Spain. Here they rested--meditating, however, fresh conquests. Oh, the Magyars soon showed themselves a mighty people. Besides Hungary and Transylvania, they subdued Bulgaria and Bosnia, and the land of Tot, now called Sclavonia. The generals of Zoltan, the son of Arpad, led troops of horsemen to the banks of the Rhine. One of them, at the head of a host, besieged Constantinople. It was then that Botond engaged in combat with a Greek of gigantic stature, who came out of the city and challenged the two best men in the Magyar army. 'I am the feeblest of the Magyars,' said Botond, 'but I will kill thee;' and he performed his word, having previously given a proof of the feebleness of his arm by striking his battle-axe through the brazen gate, making a hole so big that a child of five years old could walk through it." _Myself_. Of what religion were the old Hungarians? _Hungarian_. They had some idea of a Supreme Being, whom they called Isten, which word is still used by the Magyars for God; but their chief devotion was directed to sorcerers and soothsayers, something like the Schamans of the Siberian steppes. They were converted to Christianity chiefly through the instrumentality of Istvan or Stephen, called after his death St. Istvan, who ascended the throne in the year one thousand. He was born in heathenesse, and his original name was Vojk: he was the first kiraly, or king of the Magyars. Their former leaders had been called fejedelmek, or dukes. The Magyar language has properly no term either for king or house. Kiraly is a word derived from the Sclaves; haz, or house, from the Germans, who first taught them to build houses, their original dwellings having been tilted waggons. _Myself_. Many thanks for your account of the great men of your country. _Hungarian_. The great men of my country! I have only told you of the . . . Well, I acknowledge that Almus and Arpad were great men, but Hungary has produced many greater; I will not trouble you by recapitulating all, but there is one name I cannot forbear mentioning--but you have heard of it--even at Horncastle the name of Hunyadi must be familiar. _Myself_. It may be so, though I rather doubt it; but, however that may be, I confess my ignorance. I have never, until this moment, heard of the name of Hunyadi. _Hungarian_. Not of Hunyadi Janos, not of Hunyadi John--for the genius of our language compels us to put a man's Christian name after his other; perhaps you have heard of the name of Corvinus? _Myself_. Yes, I have heard of the name of Corvinus. _Hungarian_. By my God, I am glad of it; I thought our hammer of destruction, our thunderbolt, whom the Greeks called Achilles, must be known to the people of Horncastle. Well, Hunyadi and Corvinus are the same. _Myself_. Corvinus means the man of the crow, or raven. I suppose that your John, when a boy, climbed up to a crow or raven's nest, and stole the young; a bold feat, well befitting a young hero. _Hungarian_. By Isten, you are an acute guesser; a robbery there was, but it was not Hunyadi who robbed the raven, but the raven who robbed Hunyadi. _Myself_. How was that? _Hungarian_. In this manner: Hunyadi, according to tradition, was the son of King Sigmond, by a peasant's daughter. The king saw and fell in love with her, whilst marching against the vaivode of Wallachia. He had some difficulty in persuading her to consent to his wishes, and she only yielded at last on the king making her a solemn promise that, in the event of her becoming with child by him, he would handsomely provide for her and the infant. The king proceeded on his expedition; and on his returning in triumph from Wallachia, again saw the girl, who informed him that she was _enceinte_ by him; the king was delighted with the intelligence, gave the girl money, and at the same time a ring, requesting her, if she brought forth a son, to bring the ring to Buda with the child, and present it to him. When her time was up, the peasant's daughter brought forth a fair son, who was baptised by the name of John. After some time the young woman communicated the whole affair to her elder brother, whose name was Gaspar, and begged him to convey her and the child to the king at Buda. The brother consented, and both set out, taking the child with them. On their way, the woman, wanting to wash her clothes, laid the child down, giving it the king's ring to play with. A raven, who saw the glittering ring, came flying, and plucking it out of the child's hand, carried it up into a tree; the child suddenly began to cry, and the mother, hearing it, left her washing, and running to the child, forthwith missed the ring, but hearing the raven croak in the tree she lifted up her eyes, and saw it with the ring in its beak. The woman, in great terror, called her brother, and told him what had happened, adding that she durst not approach the king if the raven took away the ring. Gaspar, seizing his cross-bow and quiver, ran to the tree, where the raven was yet with the ring, and discharged an arrow at it, but, being in a great hurry, he missed it; with his second shot he was more lucky, for he hit the raven in the breast, which, together with the ring, fell to the ground. Taking up the ring, they went their way, and shortly arrived at Buda. One day, as the king was walking after dinner in his outer hall, the woman appeared before him with the child, and, showing him the ring, said, "Mighty lord! behold this token! and take pity upon me and your own son." King Sigmond took the child and kissed it, and, after a pause, said to the mother, "You have done right in bringing me the boy; I will take care of you, and make him a nobleman." The king was as good as his word; he provided for the mother, caused the boy to be instructed in knightly exercises, and made him a present of the town of Hunyad, in Transylvania, on which account he was afterwards called Hunyadi, and gave him, as an armorial sign, a raven bearing a ring in his beak. Such, O young man of Horncastle! is the popular account of the birth of the great captain of Hungary, as related by Florentius of Buda. There are other accounts of his birth, which is, indeed, involved in much mystery, and of the reason of his being called Corvinus, but as this is the most pleasing, and is, upon the whole, founded on quite as good evidence as the others, I have selected it for recitation. _Myself_. I heartily thank you, but you must tell me something more of Hunyadi. You call him your great captain; what did he do? _Hungarian_. Do! what no other man of his day could have done. He broke the power of the Turk when he was coming to overwhelm Europe. From the blows inflicted by Hunyadi the Turk never thoroughly recovered; he has been frequently worsted in latter times, but none but Hunyadi could have routed the armies of Amurath and Mahomed the Second. _Myself_. How was it that he had an opportunity of displaying his military genius? _Hungarian_. I can hardly tell you, but his valour soon made him famous; King Albert made him Ban of Szorenyi. He became eventually vaivode of Transylvania, and governor of Hungary. His first grand action was the defeat of the Bashaw Isack; and though himself surprised and routed at St. Imre, he speedily regained his prestige by defeating the Turks, with enormous slaughter, killing their leader, Mezerbeg; and subsequently, at the battle of the Iron Gates, he destroyed ninety thousand Turks, sent by Amurath to avenge the late disgrace. It was then that the Greeks called him Achilles. _Myself_. He was not always successful. _Hungarian_. Who could be always successful against the early Turk? He was defeated in the battle in which King Vladislaus lost his life, but his victories outnumbered his defeats three-fold. His grandest victory--perhaps the grandest ever achieved by man--was over the terrible Mahomed the Second; who, after the taking of Constantinople in 1453, said, "One God in Heaven--one king on earth;" and marched to besiege Belgrade at the head of one hundred and fifty thousand men; swearing, by the beard of the prophet, "that he would sup within it ere two months were elapsed." He brought with him dogs, to eat the bodies of the Christians whom he should take or slay; so says Florentius; hear what he also says: The Turk sat down before the town towards the end of June 1454, covering the Donau and Szava with ships; and on the 4th of July he began to cannonade Belgrade with cannons twenty-five feet long, whose roar could be heard at Szeged, a distance of twenty-four leagues, at which place Hunyadi had assembled his forces. Hunyadi had been able to raise only fifteen thousand of well-armed and disciplined men, though he had with him vast bands of people, who called themselves Soldiers of the Cross, but who consisted of inexperienced lads from school, peasants, and hermits, armed with swords, slings, and clubs. Hunyadi, undismayed by the great disparity between his forces and those of the Turk, advanced to relieve Belgrade, and encamped at Szalankemen with his army. There he saw at once that his first step must be to attack the flotilla; he therefore privately informed Szilagy, his wife's brother, who at that time defended Belgrade, that it was his intention to attack the ships of the Turks on the 14th day of July in front, and requested his co-operation in the rear. On the 14th came on the commencement of the great battle of Belgrade, between Hunyadi and the Turk. Many days it lasted. _Myself_. Describe it. _Hungarian_. I cannot. One has described it well--Florentius of Buda. I can only repeat a few of his words:--"On the appointed day, Hunyadi, with two hundred vessels, attacked the Turkish flotilla in front, whilst Szilagy, with forty vessels, filled with the men of Belgrade, assailed it in the rear; striving for the same object, they sunk many of the Turkish vessels, captured seventy-four, burnt many, and utterly annihilated the whole fleet. After this victory, Hunyadi, with his army, entered Belgrade, to the great joy of the Magyars. But though the force of Mahomed upon the water was destroyed, that upon the land remained entire; and with this, during six days and nights, he attacked the city without intermission, destroying its walls in many parts. His last and most desperate assault was made on the 21st day of July. Twice did the Turks gain possession of the outer town, and twice was it retaken with indescribable slaughter. The next day the combat raged without ceasing till mid-day, when the Turks were again beaten out of the town, and pursued by the Magyars to their camp. There the combat was renewed, both sides displaying the greatest obstinacy, until Mahomed received a great wound over his left eye. The Turks then, turning their faces, fled, leaving behind them three hundred cannon in the hands of the Christians, and more than twenty-four thousand slain on the field of battle." _Myself_. After that battle, I suppose Hunyadi enjoyed his triumphs in peace? _Hungarian_. In the deepest, for he shortly died. His great soul quitted his body, which was exhausted by almost superhuman exertions, on the 11th of August 1456. Shortly before he died, according to Florentius, a comet appeared, sent, as it would seem, to announce his coming end. The whole Christian world mourned his loss. The Pope ordered the cardinals to perform a funeral ceremony at Rome in his honour. His great enemy himself grieved for him, and pronounced his finest eulogium. When Mahomed the Second heard of his death, he struck his head for some time against the ground without speaking. Suddenly he broke silence with these words, "Notwithstanding he was my enemy, yet do I bewail his loss; since the sun has shone in heaven, no Prince had ever yet such a man." _Myself_. What was the name of his Prince? _Hungarian_. Laszlo the Fifth; who, though under infinite obligations to Hunyadi, was anything but grateful to him; for he once consented to a plan which was laid to assassinate him, contrived by his mortal enemy Ulrik, Count of Cilejia; and after Hunyadi's death, caused his eldest son, Hunyadi Laszlo, to be executed on a false accusation, and imprisoned his younger son, Matyas, who, on the death of Laszlo, was elected by the Magyars to be their king, on the 24th of January 1458. _Myself_. Was this Matyas a good king? _Hungarian_. Was Matyas Corvinus a good king? O young man of Horncastle! he was the best and greatest that Hungary ever possessed, and, after his father, the most renowned warrior,--some of our best laws were framed by him. It was he who organised the Hussar force, and it was he who took Vienna. Why does your Government always send fools to represent it at Vienna? _Myself_. I really cannot say; but with respect to the Hussar force, is it of Hungarian origin? _Hungarian_. Its name shows its origin. Huz, in Hungarian, is twenty, and the Hussar force is so called because it is formed of twentieths. A law was issued, by which it was ordered that every Hungarian nobleman, out of every twenty dependants, should produce a well-equipped horseman, and with him proceed to the field of battle. _Myself_. Why did Matyas capture Vienna? _Hungarian_. Because the Emperor Frederick took part against him with the King of Poland, who claimed the kingdom of Hungary for his son, and had also assisted the Turk. He captured it in the year 1487, but did not survive his triumph long, expiring there in the year 1490. He was so veracious a man, that it was said of him, after his death, "Truth died with Matyas." It might be added, that the glory of Hungary departed with him. I wish to say nothing more connected with Hungarian history. _Myself_. Another word. Did Matyas leave a son? _Hungarian_. A natural son, Hunyadi John, called so after the great man. He would have been universally acknowledged as King of Hungary but for the illegitimacy of his birth. As it was, Ulaszlo, the son of the King of Poland, afterwards called Ulaszlo the Second, who claimed Hungary as being descended from Albert, was nominated king by a great majority of the Magyar electors. Hunyadi John for some time disputed the throne with him; there was some bloodshed, but Hunyadi John eventually submitted, and became the faithful captain of Ulaszlo, notwithstanding that the Turk offered to assist him with an army of two hundred thousand men. _Myself_. Go on. _Hungarian_. To what? Tche Drak, to the Mohacs Veszedelem. Ulaszlo left a son, Lajos the Second, born without skin, as it is said, certainly without a head. He, contrary to the advice of all his wise counsellors--and amongst them was Batory Stephen, who became eventually King of Poland--engaged, with twenty five thousand men, at Mohacs, Soliman the Turk, who had an army of two hundred thousand. Drak! the Magyars were annihilated, King Lajos disappeared with his heavy horse and armour in a bog. We call that battle, which was fought on the 29th of August 1526, the destruction of Mohacs, but it was the destruction of Hungary. _Myself_. You have twice used the word drak; what is the meaning of it? Is it Hungarian? _Hungarian_. No! it belongs to the mad Wallacks. They are a nation of madmen on the other side of Transylvania. Their country was formerly a fief of Hungary, like Moldavia, which is inhabited by the same race, who speak the same language, and are equally mad. _Myself_. What language do they speak? _Hungarian_. A strange mixture of Latin and Sclavonian--they themselves being a mixed race of Romans and Sclavonians. Trajan sent certain legions to form military colonies in Dacia; and the present Wallacks and Moldavians are, to a certain extent, the descendants of the Roman soldiers, who married the women of the country. I say to a certain extent, for the Sclavonian element, both in blood and language, seems to prevail. _Myself_. And what is drak? _Hungarian_. Dragon; which the Wallacks use for devil. The term is curious, as it shows that the old Romans looked upon the dragon as an infernal being. _Myself_. You have been in Wallachia? _Hungarian_. I have, and glad I was to get out of it. I hate the mad Wallacks. _Myself_. Why do you call them mad? _Hungarian_. They are always drinking or talking. I never saw a Wallachian eating or silent. They talk like madmen, and drink like madmen. In drinking they use small phials, the contents of which they pour down their throats. When I first went amongst them I thought the whole nation was under a course of physic, but the terrible jabber of their tongues soon undeceived me. Drak was the first word I heard on entering Dacia, and the last when I left it. The Moldaves, if possible, drink more, and talk more than the Wallachians. _Myself_. It is singular enough that the only Moldavian I have known could not speak. I suppose he was born dumb. _Hungarian_. A Moldavian born dumb! Excuse me, the thing is impossible,--all Moldavians are born talking! I have known a Moldavian who could not speak, but he was not born dumb. His master, an Armenian, snipped off part of his tongue at Adrianople. He drove him mad with his jabber. He is now in London, where his master has a house. I have letters of credit on the house: the clerk paid me money in London, the master was absent; the money which you received for the horse belonged to that house. _Myself_. Another word with respect to Hungarian history. _Hungarian_. Drak! I wish to say nothing more about Hungarian history. _Myself_. The Turk, I suppose, after Mohacs, got possession of Hungary? _Hungarian_. Not exactly. The Turk, upon the whole, showed great moderation; not so the Austrian. Ferdinand the First claimed the crown of Hungary as being the cousin of Maria, widow of Lajos; he found too many disposed to support him. His claim, however, was resisted by Zapolya John, a Hungarian magnate, who caused himself to be elected king. Hungary was for a long time devastated by the wars between the partisans of Zapolya and Ferdinand. At last Zapolya called in the Turk. Soliman behaved generously to him, and after his death befriended his young son, and Isabella his queen; eventually the Turks became masters of Transylvania and the greater part of Hungary. They were not bad masters, and had many friends in Hungary, especially amongst those of the reformed faith, to which I have myself the honour of belonging; those of the reformed faith found the Mufti more tolerant than the Pope. Many Hungarians went with the Turks to the siege of Vienna, whilst Tekeli and his horsemen guarded Hungary for them. A gallant enterprise that siege of Vienna; the last great effort of the Turk; it failed, and he speedily lost Hungary, but he did not sneak from Hungary like a frightened hound. His defence of Buda will not be soon forgotten, where Apty Basha, the governor, died fighting like a lion in the breach. There's many a Hungarian would prefer Stamboul to Vienna. Why does your Government always send fools to represent it at Vienna? _Myself_. I have already told you that I cannot say. What became of Tekeli? _Hungarian_. When Hungary was lost he retired with the Turks into Turkey. Count Renoncourt, in his Memoirs, mentions having seen him at Adrianople. The Sultan, in consideration of the services which he had rendered to the Moslem in Hungary, made over the revenues of certain towns and districts for his subsistence. The Count says that he always went armed to the teeth, and was always attended by a young female dressed in male attire, who had followed him in his wars, and had more than once saved his life. His end is wrapped in mystery, I--whose greatest boast, next to being a Hungarian, is to be of his blood--know nothing of his end. _Myself_. Allow me to ask who you are? _Hungarian_. Egy szegeny Magyar Nemes ember, a poor Hungarian nobleman, son of one yet poorer. I was born in Transylvania, not far to the west of good Coloscvar. I served some time in the Austrian army as a noble Hussar, but am now equerry to a great nobleman, to whom I am distantly related. In his service I have travelled far and wide, buying horses. I have been in Russia and Turkey, and am now at Horncastle, where I have had the satisfaction to meet with you and to buy your horse, which is, in truth, a noble brute. _Myself_. For a soldier and equerry you seem to know a great deal of the history of your country. _Hungarian_. All I know is derived from Florentius of Buda, whom we call Budai Ferentz. He was Professor of Greek and Latin at the Reformed College of Debreczen, where I was educated; he wrote a work entitled "Magyar Polgari Lexicon," Lives of Great Hungarian Citizens. He was dead before I was born, but I found his book, when I was a child, in the solitary home of my father, which stood on the confines of a puszta, or wilderness, and that book I used to devour in winter nights when the winds were whistling around the house. Oh! how my blood used to glow at the descriptions of Magyar valour, and likewise of Turkish; for Florentius has always done justice to the Turk. Many a passage similar to this have I got by heart; it is connected with the battle on the plain of Rigo, which Hunyadi lost:--"The next day, which was Friday, as the two armies were drawn up in battle array, a Magyar hero riding forth, galloped up and down, challenging the Turks to single combat. Then came out to meet him the son of a renowned bashaw of Asia; rushing upon each other, both broke their lances, but the Magyar hero and his horse rolled over upon the ground, for the Turks had always the best horses." O young man of Horncastle! if ever you learn Hungarian--and learn it assuredly you will after what I have told you--read the book of Florentius of Buda, even if you go to Hungary to get it, for you will scarcely find it elsewhere, and even there with difficulty, for the book has been long out of print. It describes the actions of the great men of Hungary down to the middle of the sixteenth century, and besides being written in the purest Hungarian, has the merit of having for its author a professor of the Reformed College at Debreczen. _Myself_. I will go to Hungary rather than not read it. I am glad that the Turk beat the Magyar. When I used to read the ballads of Spain I always sided with the Moor against the Christian. _Hungarian_. It was a drawn fight after all, for the terrible horse of the Turk presently flung his own master, whereupon the two champions returned to their respective armies; but in the grand conflict which ensued, the Turks beat the Magyars, pursuing them till night, and striking them on the necks with their scymetars. The Turk is a noble fellow; I should wish to be a Turk, were I not a Magyar. _Myself_. The Turk always keeps his word, I am told. _Hungarian_. Which the Christian very seldom does, and even the Hungarian does not always. In 1444 Ulaszlo made, at Szeged, peace with Amurath for ten years, which he swore with an oath to keep, but at the instigation of the Pope Julian he broke it, and induced his great captain, Hunyadi John, to share in the perjury. The consequence was the battle of Varna, of the 10th of November, in which Hunyadi was routed, and Ulaszlo slain. Did you ever hear his epitaph? it is both solemn and edifying:-- "Romulidae Cannas ego Varnam clade notavi; Discite mortales non temerare fidem: Me nisi Pontifices jussissent rumpere foedus Non ferret Scythicum Pannonis ora jugum." '"Halloo!" said the jockey, starting up from a doze in which he had been indulging for the last hour, his head leaning upon his breast, "what is that? That's not High Dutch; I bargained for High Dutch, and I left you speaking what I believed to be High Dutch, as it sounded very much like the language of horses, as I have been told High Dutch does; but as for what you are speaking now, whatever you may call it, it sounds more like the language of another kind of animal. I suppose you want to insult me, because I was once a dicky-boy." "Nothing of the kind," said I, "the gentleman was making a quotation in Latin." "Latin, was it?" said the jockey; "that alters the case. Latin is genteel, and I have sent my eldest boy to an academy to learn it. Come, let us hear you fire away in Latin," he continued, proceeding to re-light his pipe, which, before going to sleep, he had laid on the table. "If you wish to follow the discourse in Latin," said the Hungarian, in very bad English, "I can oblige you; I learned to speak very good Latin in the college of Debreczen." "That's more," said I, "than I have done in the colleges where I have been; in any little conversation which we may yet have, I wish you would use German." "Well," said the jockey, taking a whiff, "make your conversation as short as possible, whether in Latin or Dutch, for, to tell you the truth, I am rather tired of merely playing listener." "You were saying you had been in Russia," said I; "I believe the Russians are part of the Sclavonian race." _Hungarian_. Yes, part of the great Sclavonian family; one of the most numerous races in the world. The Russians themselves are very numerous: would that the Magyars could boast of the fifth part of their number! _Myself_. What is the number of the Magyars? _Hungarian_. Barely four millions. We came a tribe of Tartars into Europe, and settled down amongst Sclavonians, whom we conquered, but who never coalesced with us. The Austrian at present plays in Pannonia the Sclavonian against us, and us against the Sclavonian; but the downfall of the Austrian is at hand; they, like us, are not a numerous people. _Myself_. Who will bring about his downfall? _Hungarian_. The Russian. The Rysckie Tsar will lead his people forth, all the Sclavonians will join him, he will conquer all before him. _Myself_. Are the Russians good soldiers? _Hungarian_. They are stubborn and unflinching to an astonishing degree, and their fidelity to their Tsar is quite admirable. See how the Russians behaved at Plescova, in Livonia, in the old time, against our great Batory Stephen; they defended the place till it was a heap of rubbish; and mark how they behaved after they had been made prisoners. Stephen offered them two alternatives:--to enter into his service, in which they would have good pay, clothing, and fair treatment; or to be allowed to return to Russia. Without the slightest hesitation they, to a man, chose the latter, though well aware that their beloved Tsar, the cruel Ivan Basilowits, would put them all to death, amidst tortures the most horrible, for not doing what was impossible--preserving the town. _Myself_. You speak Russian? _Hungarian_. A little. I was born in the vicinity of a Sclavonian tribe; the servants of our house were Sclavonians, and I early acquired something of their language, which differs not much from that of Russia; when in that country I quickly understood what was said. _Myself_. Have the Russians any literature? _Hungarian_. Doubtless; but I am not acquainted with it, as I do not read their language; but I know something of their popular tales, to which I used to listen in their izbushkas; a principal personage in these is a creation quite original--called Baba Yaga. _Myself_. Who is Baba Yaga? _Hungarian_. A female phantom, who is described as hurrying along the puszta, or steppe, in a mortar, pounding with a pestle at a tremendous rate, and leaving a long trace on the ground behind her with her tongue, which is three yards long, and with which she seizes any men and horses coming in her way, swallowing them down into her capacious belly. She has several daughters, very handsome, and with plenty of money; happy the young Mujik who catches and marries one of them, for they make excellent wives. "Many thanks," said I, "for the information you have afforded me: this is rather poor wine," I observed, as I poured out a glass--"I suppose you have better wine in Hungary?" "Yes, we have better wine in Hungary. First of all there is Tokay, the most celebrated in the world, though I confess I prefer the wine of Eger--Tokay is too sweet." "Have you ever been at Tokay?" "I have," said the Hungarian. "What kind of place is Tokay?" "A small town situated on the Tyzza, a rapid river descending from the north; the Tokay Mountain is just behind the town, which stands on the right bank. The top of the mountain is called Kopacs Teto, or the bald tip; the hill is so steep that during thunderstorms pieces of it frequently fall down upon the roofs of the houses. It was planted with vines by King Lajos, who ascended the throne in the year 1342. The best wine called Tokay is, however, not made at Tokay, but at Kassau, two leagues farther into the Carpathians, of which Tokay is a spur. If you wish to drink the best Tokay, you must go to Vienna, to which place all the prime is sent. For the third time I ask you, O young man of Horncastle! why does your Government always send fools to represent it at Vienna?" "And for the third time I tell you, O son of Almus! that I cannot say; perhaps, however, to drink the sweet Tokay wine; fools, you know, always like sweet things." "Good," said the Hungarian; "it must be so, and when I return to Hungary, I will state to my countrymen your explanation of a circumstance which has frequently caused them great perplexity. Oh! the English are a clever people, and have a deep meaning in all they do. What a vision of deep policy opens itself to my view: they do not send their fool to Vienna in order to gape at processions, and to bow and scrape at a base Papist court, but to drink at the great dinners the celebrated Tokay of Hungary, which the Hungarians, though they do not drink it, are very proud of, and by doing so to intimate the sympathy which the English entertain for their fellow religionists of Hungary. Oh! the English are a deep people." CHAPTER XL. THE HORNCASTLE WELCOME--TZERNEBOCK AND BIELEBOCK. The pipe of the Hungarian had, for some time past, exhibited considerable symptoms of exhaustion, little or no ruttling having been heard in the tube, and scarcely a particle of smoke, drawn through the syphon, having been emitted from the lips of the tall possessor. He now rose from his seat, and going to a corner of the room, placed his pipe against the wall, then striding up and down the room, he cracked his fingers several times, exclaiming, in a half-musing manner, "Oh, the deep nation, which, in order to display its sympathy for Hungary, sends its fool to Vienna to drink the sweet wine of Tokay!" The jockey, having looked for some time at the tall figure with evident approbation, winked at me with that brilliant eye of his on which there was no speck, saying, "Did you ever see a taller fellow?" "Never," said I. "Or a finer?" "That's another question," said I, "which I am not so willing to answer; however, as I am fond of truth, and scorn to flatter, I will take the liberty of saying that I think I have seen a finer." "A finer! where?" said the jockey; whilst the Hungarian, who appeared to understand what we said, stood still, and looked full at me. "Amongst a strange set of people," said I, "whom if I were to name, you would, I dare say, only laugh at me." "Who be they?" said the jockey. "Come, don't be ashamed; I have occasionally kept queerish company myself." "The people whom we call gypsies," said I; "whom the Germans call Zigeuner, and who call themselves Romany chals.' "Zigeuner!" said the Hungarian; "by Isten! I do know those people." "Romany chals!" said the jockey; "whew! I begin to smell a rat." "What do you mean by smelling a rat?" said I. "I'll bet a crown," said the jockey, "that you be the young chap what certain folks call 'The Romany Rye.'" "Ah!" said I, "how came you to know that name?" "Be not you he?" said the jockey. "Why, I certainly have been called by that name." "I could have sworn it," said the jockey; then rising from his chair, he laid his pipe on the table, took a large hand-bell which stood on a sideboard, and going to the door, opened it, and commenced ringing in a most tremendous manner on the staircase. The noise presently brought up a waiter, to whom the jockey vociferated, "Go to your master, and tell him to send immediately three bottles of champagne, of the pink kind, mind you, which is twelve guineas a dozen." The waiter hurried away, and the jockey resumed his seat and his pipe. I sat in silent astonishment till the waiter returned with a basket containing the wine, which, with three long glasses, he placed on the table. The jockey then got up, and going to a large bow-window at the end of the room, which looked into a courtyard, peeped out; then saying, "The coast is clear," he shut down the principal sash, which was open for the sake of the air, and taking up a bottle of the champagne, he placed another in the hands of the Hungarian, to whom he said something in private. The latter, who seemed to understand him, answered by a nod. The two then going to the end of the table fronting the window, and about eight paces from it, stood before it holding the bottles by their necks; suddenly the jockey lifted up his arm. "Surely," said I, "you are not mad enough to fling that bottle through the window?" "Here's to the Romany Rye; here's to the sweet master," said the jockey, dashing the bottle through a pane in so neat a manner that scarcely a particle of glass fell into the room. "Eljen edes csigany ur--eljen gul eray!" said the Hungarian, swinging round his bottle and discharging it at the window; but, either not possessing the jockey's accuracy of aim, or reckless of consequences, he flung his bottle so that it struck against part of the wooden setting of the panes, breaking along with the wood and itself three or four panes to pieces. The crash was horrid, and wine and particles of glass flew back into the room, to the no small danger of its inmates. "What do you think of that?" said the jockey; "were you ever so honoured before?" "Honoured!" said I. "God preserve me in future from such honour;" and I put my finger to my cheek, which was slightly hurt by a particle of the glass. "That's the way we of the cofrady honour great men at Horncastle," said the jockey. "What, you are hurt! never mind; all the better; your scratch shows that you are the body the compliment was paid to." "And what are you going to do with the other bottle?" said I. "Do with it!" said the jockey, "why, drink it, cosily and comfortably, whilst holding a little quiet talk. The Romany Rye at Horncastle, what an idea!" "And what will the master of the house say to all this damage which you have caused him?" "What will your master say, William?" said the jockey to the waiter, who had witnessed the singular scene just described without exhibiting the slightest mark of surprise. William smiled, and slightly shrugging his shoulders, replied, "Very little, I dare say, sir; this a'n't the first time your honour has done a thing of this kind." "Nor will it be the first time that I shall have paid for it," said the jockey; "well, I shall have never paid for a certain item in the bill with more pleasure than I shall pay for it now. Come, William, draw the cork, and let us taste the pink champagne." The waiter drew the cork, and filled the glasses with a pinky liquor, which bubbled, hissed, and foamed. "How do you like it?" said the jockey, after I had imitated the example of my companions by despatching my portion at a draught. "It is wonderful wine," said I; "I have never tasted champagne before, though I have frequently heard it praised; it more than answers my expectations; but, I confess, I should not wish to be obliged to drink it every day." "Nor I," said the jockey; "for everyday drinking give me a glass of old port, or . . ." "Of hard old ale," I interposed, "which, according to my mind, is better than all the wine in the world." "Well said, Romany Rye," said the jockey, "just my own opinion; now, William, make yourself scarce." The waiter withdrew, and I said to the jockey, "How did you become acquainted with the Romany chals?" "I first became acquainted with them," said the jockey, "when I lived with old Fulcher the basket-maker, who took me up when I was adrift upon the world; I do not mean the present Fulcher, who is likewise called old Fulcher, but his father, who has been dead this many a year; while living with him in the caravan, I frequently met them in the green lanes, and of latter years I have had occasional dealings with them in the horse line." "And the gypsies have mentioned me to you?" said I. "Frequently," said the jockey, "and not only those of these parts; why, there's scarcely a part of England in which I have not heard the name of the Romany Rye mentioned by these people. The power you have over them is wonderful; that is, I should have thought it wonderful, had they not more than once told me the cause." "And what is the cause?" said I, "for I am sure I do not know." "The cause is this," said the jockey, "they never heard a bad word proceed from your mouth, and never knew you do a bad thing." "They are a singular people," said I. "And what a singular language they have got," said the jockey. "Do you know it?" said I. "Only a few words," said the jockey; "they were always chary in teaching me any." "They were vary sherry to me too," said the Hungarian, speaking in broken English; "I only could learn from them half-a-dozen words, for example, gul eray, which, in the czigany of my country, means sweet gentleman; or edes ur in my own Magyar." "Gudlo Rye, in the Romany of mine, means a sugar'd gentleman," said I; "then there are gypsies in your country?" "Plenty," said the Hungarian, speaking German, "and in Russia and Turkey too; and wherever they are found, they are alike in their ways and language. Oh, they are a strange race, and how little known. I know little of them, but enough to say that one horse-load of nonsense has been written about them; there is one Valter Scott . . ." "Mind what you say about him," said I; "he is our grand authority in matters of philology and history." "A pretty philologist," said the Hungarian, "who makes the gypsies speak Roth-Welsch, the dialect of thieves; a pretty historian, who couples together Thor and Tzernebock." "Where does he do that?" said I. "In his conceited romance of Ivanhoe, he couples Thor and Tzernebock together, and calls them gods of the heathen Saxons." "Well," said I, "Thur or Thor was certainly a god of the heathen Saxons." "True," said the Hungarian; "but why couple him with Tzernebock? Tzernebock was a word which your Valter had picked up somewhere without knowing the meaning. Tzernebock was no god of the Saxons, but one of the gods of the Sclaves, on the southern side of the Baltic. The Sclaves had two grand gods to whom they sacrificed, Tzernebock and Bielebock: that is, the black and white gods, who represented the powers of dark and light. They were overturned by Waldemar the Dane, the great enemy of the Sclaves; the account of whose wars you will find in one fine old book, written by Saxo Gramaticus, which I read in the library of the college of Debreczen. The Sclaves at one time were masters of all the southern shore of the Baltic, where their descendants are still to be found, though they have lost their language, and call themselves Germans; but the word Zernevitz, near Dantzic, still attests that the Sclavic language was once common in those parts. Zernevitz means the thing of blackness, as Tzernebock means the god of blackness. Prussia itself merely means, in Sclavish, Lower Russia. There is scarcely a race or language in the world more extended than the Sclavic. On the other side of the Donau you will find the Sclaves and their language. Czernavoda is Sclavic, and means black water; in Turkish, kara su; even as Tzernebock means black god; and Belgrade, or Belograd, means the white town; even as Bielebock, or Bielebog, means the white god. Oh! he is one great ignorant, that Valter. He is going, they say, to write one history about Napoleon. I do hope that in his history he will couple his Thor and Tzernebock together. By my God! it would be good diversion that." "Walter Scott appears to be no particular favourite of yours," said I. "He is not," said the Hungarian; "I hate him for his slavish principles. He wishes to see absolute power restored in this country, and Popery also; and I hate him because . . . what do you think? In one of his novels, published a few months ago, he has the insolence to insult Hungary in the person of one of her sons. He makes his great braggart, Coeur de Lion, fling a Magyar over his head. Ha! it was well for Richard that he never felt the gripe of a Hungarian. I wish the braggart could have felt the gripe of me, who am 'a' Magyarok kozt legkissebb,' the least among the Magyars. I do hate that Scott, and all his vile gang of Lowlanders and Highlanders. The black corps, the fekete regiment of Matyjas Hunyadi, was worth all the Scots, high or low, that ever pretended to be soldiers; and would have sent them all headlong into the Black Sea, had they dared to confront it on its shores; but why be angry with an ignorant, who couples together Thor and Tzernebock? Ha! ha!" "You have read his novels?" said I. "Yes, I read them now and then. I do not speak much English, but I can read it well, and I have read some of his romances, and mean to read his Napoleon, in the hope of finding Thor and Tzernebock coupled together in it, as in his high-flying Ivanhoe." "Come," said the jockey, "no more Dutch, whether high or low. I am tired of it; unless we can have some English, I am off to bed." "I should be very glad to hear some English," said I; "especially from your mouth. Several things which you have mentioned have awakened my curiosity. Suppose you give us your history?" "My history?" said the jockey. "A rum idea! however, lest conversation should lag, I'll give it you. First of all, however, a glass of champagne to each." After we had each taken a glass of champagne, the jockey commenced his history. CHAPTER XLI. THE JOCKEY'S TALE--THIEVES' LATIN--LIBERTIES WITH COIN--THE SMASHER IN PRISON--OLD FULCHER--EVERY ONE HAS HIS GIFT--FASHION OF THE ENGLISH. "My grandfather was a shorter, and my father was a smasher; the one was scragg'd, and the other lagg'd." I here interrupted the jockey by observing that his discourse was, for the greater part, unintelligible to me. "I do not understand much English," said the Hungarian, who, having replenished and resumed his mighty pipe, was now smoking away; "but, by Isten, I believe it is the gibberish which that great ignorant Valter Scott puts into the mouth of the folks he calls gypsies." "Something like it, I confess," said I, "though this sounds more genuine than his dialect, which he picked up out of the canting vocabulary at the end of the 'English Rogue,' a book which, however despised, was written by a remarkable genius. What do you call the speech you were using?" said I, addressing myself to the jockey. "Latin," said the jockey, very coolly; "that is, that dialect of it which is used by the light-fingered gentry." "He is right," said the Hungarian; "it is what the Germans call Roth-Welsch: they call it so because there are a great many Latin words in it, introduced by the priests, who, at the time of the Reformation, being too lazy to work, and too stupid to preach, joined the bands of thieves and robbers who prowled about the country. Italy, as you are aware, is called by the Germans Welschland, or the land of the Welschers; and I may add that Wallachia derives its name from a colony of Welschers which Trajan sent there. Welsch and Wallack being one and the same word, and tantamount to Latin." "I dare say you are right," said I; "but why was Italy termed Welschland?" "I do not know," said the Hungarian. "Then I think I can tell you," said I; "it was called so because the original inhabitants were a Cimbric tribe, who were called Gwyltiad, that is, a race of wild people, living in coverts, who were of the same blood, and spoke the same language as the present inhabitants of Wales. Welsh seems merely a modification of Gwyltiad. Pray continue your history," said I to the jockey, "only please to do so in a language which we can understand, and first of all interpret the sentence with which you began it." "I told you that my grandfather was a shorter," said the jockey, "by which is meant a gentleman who shortens or reduces the current coin of these realms, for which practice he was scragg'd, that is, hung by the scrag of the neck. And when I said that my father was a smasher, I meant one who passes forged notes, thereby doing his best to smash the Bank of England; by being lagg'd, I meant he was laid fast, that is, had a chain put round his leg and then transported." "Your explanations are perfectly satisfactory," said I; "the three first words are metaphorical, and the fourth, lagg'd, is the old genuine Norse term, lagda, which signifies laid, whether in durance, or in bed, has nothing to do with the matter. What you have told me confirms me in an opinion which I have long entertained, that thieves' Latin is a strange, mysterious speech, formed of metaphorical terms, and words derived from various ancient languages. Pray tell me, now, how the gentleman, your grandfather, contrived to shorten the coin of these realms?" "You shall hear," said the jockey; "but I have one thing to beg of you, which is, that when I have once begun my history you will not interrupt me with questions; I don't like them, they stops one, and puts one out of one's tale, and are not wanted; for anything which I think can't be understood, I should myself explain, without being asked. My grandfather reduced or shortened the coin of this country by three processes. By aquafortis, by clipping, and by filing. Filing and clipping he employed in reducing all kinds of coin, whether gold or silver; but aquafortis he used merely in reducing gold coin, whether guineas, jacobuses, or Portugal pieces, otherwise called moidores, which were at one time as current as guineas. By laying a guinea in aquafortis for twelve hours he could filch from it to the value of ninepence, and by letting it remain there for twenty-four, to the value of eighteenpence, the aquafortis eating the gold away, and leaving it like a sediment in the vessel. He was generally satisfied with taking the value of ninepence from a guinea, of eighteenpence from a jacobus or moidore, or half-a-crown from a broad Spanish piece, whether he reduced them by aquafortis, filing, or clipping. From a five-shilling piece, which is called a bull in Latin, because it is round like a bull's head, he would file or clip to the value of fivepence, and from lesser coin in proportion. He was connected with a numerous gang, or set, of people, who had given up their minds and talents entirely to shortening." Here I interrupted the jockey. "How singular," said I, "is the fall and debasement of words! You talk of a gang, or set, of shorters: you are, perhaps, not aware that gang and set were, a thousand years ago, only connected with the great and Divine; they are ancient Norse words, which may be found in the heroic poems of the north, and in the Edda, a collection of mythologic and heroic songs. In these poems we read that such and such a king invaded Norway with a gang of heroes; or so and so, for example, Erik Bloodaxe was admitted to the set of gods; but at present gang and set are merely applied to the vilest of the vile, and the lowest of the low--we say a gang of thieves and shorters, or a set of authors. How touching is this debasement of words in the course of time! it puts me in mind of the decay of old houses and names. I have known a Mortimer who was a hedger and ditcher, a Berners who was born in a workhouse, and a descendant of the De Burghs who bore the falcon, mending old kettles, and making horse and pony shoes in a dingle." "Odd enough," said the jockey; "but you were saying you knew one Berners--man or woman? I would ask." "A woman," said I. "What might her Christian name be?" said the jockey. "It is not to be mentioned lightly," said I, with a sigh. "I shouldn't wonder if it were Isopel," said the jockey, with an arch glance of his one brilliant eye. "It was Isopel," said I; "did you know Isopel Berners?" "Ay, and have reason to know her," said the jockey, putting his hand into his left waistcoat-pocket, as if to feel for something, "for she gave me what I believe few men could do--a most confounded wapping. But now, Mr. Romany Rye, I have again to tell you that I don't like to be interrupted when I'm speaking, and to add that if you break in upon me a third time, you and I shall quarrel." "Pray proceed with your story," said I; "I will not interrupt you again." "Good!" said the jockey. "Where was I? Oh, with a set of people who had given up their minds to shortening! Reducing the coin, though rather a lucrative, was a very dangerous trade. Coin filed felt rough to the touch; coin clipped could be easily detected by the eye; and as for coin reduced by aquafortis, it was generally so discoloured that, unless a great deal of pains was used to polish it, people were apt to stare at it in a strange manner, and to say, 'What have they been doing to this here gold?' My grandfather, as I said before, was connected with a gang of shorters, and sometimes shortened money, and at other times passed off what had been shortened by other gentry. "Passing off what had been shortened by others was his ruin; for once, in trying to pass off a broad piece which had been laid in aquafortis for four-and-twenty hours, and was very black, not having been properly rectified, he was stopped and searched, and other reduced coins being found about him, and in his lodgings, he was committed to prison, tried, and executed. He was offered his life, provided he would betray his comrades; but he told the big-wigs who wanted him to do so, that he would see them farther first, and died at Tyburn, amidst the cheers of the populace, leaving my grandmother and father, to whom he had always been a kind husband and parent--for, setting aside the crime for which he suffered, he was a moral man; leaving them, I say, to bewail his irreparable loss. "'Tis said that misfortune never comes alone; this is, however, not always the case. Shortly after my grandfather's misfortune, as my grandmother and her son were living in great misery in Spitalfields, her only relation--a brother from whom she had been estranged some years, on account of her marriage with my grandfather, who had been in an inferior station to herself--died, leaving all his property to her and the child. This property consisted of a farm of about a hundred acres, with its stock, and some money besides. My grandmother, who knew something of business, instantly went into the country, where she farmed the property for her own benefit and that of her son, to whom she gave an education suitable to a person in his condition, till he was old enough to manage the farm himself. Shortly after the young man came of age, my grandmother died, and my father, in about a year, married the daughter of a farmer, from whom he expected some little fortune, but who very much deceived him, becoming a bankrupt almost immediately after the marriage of his daughter, and himself and family going to the workhouse. "My mother, however, made my father an excellent wife; and if my father in the long run did not do well, it was no fault of hers. My father was not a bad man by nature; he was of an easy, generous temper, the most unfortunate temper, by-the-bye, for success in this life that any person can be possessed of, as those who have it are almost sure to be made dupes of by the designing. But, though easy and generous, he was anything but a fool; he had a quick and witty tongue of his own when he chose to exert it, and woe be to those who insulted him openly, for there was not a better boxer in the whole country round. My parents were married several years before I came into the world, who was their first and only child. I may be called an unfortunate creature; I was born with this beam or scale on my left eye, which does not allow me to see with it; and though I can see tolerably sharply with the other, indeed more than most people can with both of theirs, it is a great misfortune not to have two eyes like other people. Moreover, setting aside the affair of my eye, I had a very ugly countenance; my mouth being slightly wrung aside, and my complexion rather swarthy. In fact, I looked so queer that the gossips and neighbours, when they first saw me, swore I was a changeling--perhaps it would have been well if I had never been born; for my poor father, who had been particularly anxious to have a son, no sooner saw me than he turned away, went to the neighbouring town, and did not return for two days. I am by no means certain that I was not the cause of his ruin, for till I came into the world he was fond of his home, and attended much to business, but afterwards he went frequently into company, and did not seem to care much about his affairs: he was, however, a kind man, and when his wife gave him advice never struck her, nor do I ever remember that he kicked me when I came in his way, or so much as cursed my ugly face, though it was easy to see that he didn't over-like me. When I was six years old I was sent to the village school, where I was soon booked for a dunce, because the master found it impossible to teach me either to read or write. Before I had been at school two years, however, I had beaten boys four years older than myself, and could fling a stone with my left hand (for if I am right-eyed I am left-handed) higher and farther than any one in the parish. Moreover, no boy could equal me at riding, and no people ride so well or desperately as boys. I could ride a donkey--a thing far more difficult to ride than a horse--at full gallop over hedges and ditches, seated or rather floating upon his hinder part,--so though anything but clever, as this here Romany Rye would say, I was yet able to do things which few other people could do. By the time I was ten my father's affairs had got into a very desperate condition, for he had taken to gambling and horse- racing, and, being unsuccessful, had sold his stock, mortgaged his estate, and incurred very serious debts. The upshot was, that within a little time all he had was seized, himself imprisoned, and my mother and myself put into a cottage belonging to the parish, which, being very cold and damp, was the cause of her catching a fever, which speedily carried her off. I was then bound apprentice to a farmer, in whose service I underwent much coarse treatment, cold, and hunger. "After lying in prison near two years, my father was liberated by an Act for the benefit of insolvent debtors; he was then lost sight of for some time; at last, however, he made his appearance in the neighbourhood dressed like a gentleman, and seemingly possessed of plenty of money. He came to see me, took me into a field, and asked me how I was getting on. I told him I was dreadfully used, and begged him to take me away with him; he refused, and told me to be satisfied with my condition, for that he could do nothing for me. I had a great love for my father, and likewise a great admiration for him on account of his character as a boxer, the only character which boys in general regard, so I wished much to be with him, independently of the dog's life I was leading where I was; I therefore said if he would not take me with him, I would follow him; he replied that I must do no such thing, for that if I did it would be my ruin. I asked him what he meant, but he made no reply, only saying that he would go and speak to the farmer. Then taking me with him, he went to the farmer, and in a very civil manner said that he understood I had not been very kindly treated by him, but he hoped that in future I should be used better. The farmer answered in a surly tone, that I had been only too well treated, for that I was a worthless young scoundrel; high words ensued, and the farmer, forgetting the kind of man he had to deal with, checked him with my grandsire's misfortune, and said he deserved to be hanged like his father. In a moment my father knocked him down, and on his getting up, gave him a terrible beating, then taking me by the hand he hastened away; as we were going down a lane he said we were now both done for: 'I don't care a straw for that, father,' said I, 'provided I be with you.' My father took me to the neighbouring town, and going into the yard of a small inn, he ordered out a pony and light cart which belonged to him, then paying his bill, he told me to mount upon the seat, and getting up, drove away like lightning; we drove for at least six hours without stopping, till we came to a cottage by the side of a heath; we put the pony and cart into a shed, and went into the cottage, my father unlocking the door with a key which he took out of his pocket; there was nobody in the cottage when we arrived, but shortly after there came a man and woman, and then some more people, and by ten o'clock at night there were a dozen of us in the cottage. The people were companions of my father. My father began talking to them in Latin, but I did not understand much of the discourse, though I believe it was about myself, as their eyes were frequently turned to me. Some objections appeared to be made to what he said; however, all at last seemed to be settled, and we all sat down to some food. After that all the people got up and went away, with the exception of the woman, who remained with my father and me. The next day my father also departed, leaving me with the woman, telling me before he went that she would teach me some things which it behoved me to know. I remained with her in the cottage upwards of a week; several of those who had been there coming and going. The woman, after making me take an oath to be faithful, told me that the people whom I had seen were a gang who got their livelihood by passing forged notes, and that my father was a principal man amongst them, adding, that I must do my best to assist them. I was a poor ignorant child at that time, and I made no objection, thinking that whatever my father did must be right; the woman then gave me some instructions in the smasher's dialect of the Latin language. I made great progress, because, for the first time in my life, I paid great attention to my lessons. At last my father returned, and, after some conversation with the woman, took me away in his cart. I shall be very short about what happened to my father and myself during two years. My father did his best to smash the Bank of England by passing forged notes, and I did my best to assist him. We attended races and fairs in all kinds of disguises; my father was a first-rate hand at a disguise, and could appear of all ages, from twenty to fourscore; he was, however, grabbed at last. He had said, as I have told you, that he should be my ruin, but I was the cause of his, and all owing to the misfortune of this here eye of mine. We came to this very place of Horncastle, where my father purchased two horses of a young man, paying for them with three forged notes, purporting to be Bank of Englanders, of fifty pounds each, and got the young man to change another of the like amount; he at that time appeared as a respectable dealer, and I as his son, as I really was. "As soon as we had got the horses, we conveyed them to one of the places of call belonging to our gang, of which there were several. There they were delivered into the hands of one of our companions, who speedily sold them in a distant part of the country. The sum which they fetched--for the gang kept very regular accounts--formed an important item on the next day of sharing, of which there were twelve in the year. The young man whom my father had paid for the horses with his smashing notes, was soon in trouble about them, and ran some risk, as I have heard, of being executed; but he bore a good character, told a plain story, and, above all, had friends, and was admitted to bail; to one of his friends he described my father and myself. This person happened to be at an inn in Yorkshire, where my father, disguised as a Quaker, attempted to pass a forged note. The note was shown to this individual, who pronounced it a forgery, it being exactly similar to those for which the young man had been in trouble, and which he had seen. My father, however, being supposed a respectable man, because he was dressed as a Quaker--the very reason, by the-bye, why anybody who knew aught of the Quakers would have suspected him to be a rogue--would have been let go, had I not made my appearance, dressed as his footboy. The friend of the young man looked at my eye, and seized hold of my father, who made a desperate resistance, I assisting him, as in duty bound. Being, however, overpowered by numbers, he bade me by a look, and a word or two in Latin, to make myself scarce. Though my heart was fit to break, I obeyed my father, who was speedily committed. I followed him to the county town in which he was lodged, where shortly after I saw him tried, convicted, and condemned. I then, having made friends with the jailor's wife, visited him in his cell, where I found him very much cast down. He said that my mother had appeared to him in a dream, and talked to him about a resurrection and Christ Jesus; there was a Bible before him, and he told me the chaplain had just been praying with him. He reproached himself much, saying, he was afraid he had been my ruin, by teaching me bad habits. I told him not to say any such thing, for that I had been the cause of his, owing to the misfortune of my eye. He begged me to give over all unlawful pursuits, saying, that if persisted in, they were sure of bringing a person to destruction. I advised him to try and make his escape: proposing, that when the turnkey came to let me out, he should knock him down, and fight his way out, offering to assist him; showing him a small saw, with which one of our companions, who was in the neighbourhood, had provided me, and with which he could have cut through his fetters in five minutes; but he told me he had no wish to escape, and was quite willing to die. I was rather hard at that time; I am not very soft now; and I felt rather ashamed of my father's want of what I called spirit. He was not executed after all; for the chaplain, who was connected with a great family, stood his friend, and got his sentence commuted, as they call it, to transportation; and in order to make the matter easy, he induced my father to make some valuable disclosures with respect to the smashers' system. I confess that I would have been hanged before I would have done so, after having reaped the profit of it; that is, I think so now, seated comfortably in my inn, with my bottle of champagne before me. He, however, did not show himself carrion; he would not betray his companions, who had behaved very handsomely to him, having given the son of a lord, a great barrister, not a hundred-pound forged bill, but a hundred hard guineas, to plead his cause, and another ten, to induce him, after pleading, to put his hand to his breast, and say that, upon his honour, he believed the prisoner at the bar to be an honest and injured man. No; I am glad to be able to say that my father did not show himself exactly carrion, though I could almost have wished he had let himself . . . However, I am here with my bottle of champagne and the Romany Rye, and he was in his cell, with bread and water and the prison chaplain. He took an affectionate leave of me before he was sent away, giving me three out of five guineas, all the money he had left. He was a kind man, but not exactly fitted to fill my grandfather's shoes. I afterwards learned that he died of fever as he was being carried across the sea. "During the 'sizes I had made acquaintance with old Fulcher. I was in the town on my father's account, and he was there on his son's, who, having committed a small larceny, was in trouble. Young Fulcher, however, unlike my father, got off, though he did not give the son of a lord a hundred guineas to speak for him, and ten more to pledge his sacred honour for his honesty, but gave Counsellor P . . . one-and-twenty shillings to defend him, who so frightened the principal evidence, a plain honest farming man, that he flatly contradicted what he had first said, and at last acknowledged himself to be all the rogues in the world, and, amongst other things, a perjured villain. Old Fulcher, before he left the town with his son,--and here it will be well to say that he and his son left it in a kind of triumph, the base drummer of a militia regiment, to whom they had given half-a-crown, beating his drum before them--Old Fulcher, I say, asked me to go and visit him, telling me where, at such a time, I might find him and his caravan and family; offering, if I thought fit, to teach me basket-making: so, after my father had been sent off, I went and found up old Fulcher, and became his apprentice in the basket-making line. I stayed with him till the time of his death, which happened in about three months, travelling about with him and his family, and living in green lanes, where we saw gypsies and trampers, and all kinds of strange characters. Old Fulcher, besides being an industrious basket-maker was an out and out thief, as was also his son, and indeed every member of his family. They used to make baskets during the day, and thieve during a great part of the night. I had not been with them twelve hours before old Fulcher told me that I must thieve as well as the rest. I demurred at first, for I remembered the fate of my father, and what he had told me about leaving off bad courses, but soon allowed myself to be over-persuaded; more especially as the first robbery I was asked to do was a fruit robbery. I was to go with young Fulcher and steal some fine Morell cherries, which grew against a wall in a gentleman's garden; so young Fulcher and I went and stole the cherries, one half of which we ate, and gave the rest to the old man, who sold them to a fruiterer ten miles off from the place where we had stolen them. The next night old Fulcher took me out with himself. He was a great thief, though in a small way. He used to say that they were fools who did not always manage to keep the rope below their shoulders, by which he meant, that it was not advisable to commit a robbery, or do anything which could bring you to the gallows. He was all for petty larceny, and knew where to put his hand upon any little thing in England, which it was possible to steal. I submit it to the better judgment of the Romany Rye, who I see is a great hand for words and names, whether he ought not to have been called old Filcher, instead of Fulcher. I shan't give a regular account of the larcenies which he committed during the short time I knew him, either alone by himself, or with me and his son. I shall merely relate the last. "A melancholy gentleman, who lived a very solitary life, had a large carp in a shady pond in a meadow close to his house; he was exceedingly fond of it, and used to feed it with his own hand, the creature being so tame that it would put its snout out of the water to be fed when it was whistled to; feeding and looking at his carp were the only pleasures the poor melancholy gentleman possessed. Old Fulcher--being in the neighbourhood, and having an order from a fishmonger for a large fish, which was wanted at a great city dinner, at which His Majesty was to be present--swore he would steal the carp, and asked me to go with him. I had heard of the gentleman's fondness for his creature, and begged him to let it be, advising him to go and steal some other fish; but old Fulcher swore, and said he would have the carp, although its master should hang himself; I told him he might go by himself, but he took his son and stole the carp, which weighed seventeen pounds. Old Fulcher got thirty shillings for the carp, which I afterwards heard was much admired and relished by His Majesty. The master, however, of the carp, on losing his favourite, became more melancholy than ever, and in a little time hanged himself. 'What's sport for one, is death to another,' I once heard at the village school read out of a copy-book. "This was the last larceny old Fulcher ever committed. He could keep his neck always out of the noose, but he could not always keep his leg out of the trap. A few nights after, having removed to a distance, he went to an osier car in order to steal some osiers for his basket-making, for he never bought any. I followed a little way behind. Old Fulcher had frequently stolen osiers out of the car whilst in the neighbourhood, but during his absence the property, of which the car was part, had been let to a young gentleman, a great hand for preserving game. Old Fulcher had not got far into the car before he put his foot into a man-trap. Hearing old Fulcher shriek, I ran up, and found him in a dreadful condition. Putting a large stick which I carried into the jaws of the trap, I contrived to prize them open, and get old Fulcher's leg out, but the leg was broken. So I ran to the caravan and told young Fulcher of what had happened, and he and I went and helped his father home. A doctor was sent for, who said that it was necessary to take the leg off, but old Fulcher, being very much afraid of pain, said it should not be taken off, and the doctor went away; but after some days, old Fulcher becoming worse, ordered the doctor to be sent for, who came and took off his leg, but it was then too late, mortification had come on, and in a little time old Fulcher died. "Thus perished old Fulcher: he was succeeded in his business by his son, young Fulcher, who, immediately after the death of his father, was called old Fulcher, it being our English custom to call everybody old as soon as their fathers are buried; young Fulcher--I mean he who had been called young, but was now old Fulcher--wanted me to go out and commit larcenies with him; but I told him that I would have nothing more to do with thieving, having seen the ill effects of it, and that I should leave them in the morning. Old Fulcher begged me to think better of it, and his mother joined with him. They offered, if I would stay, to give me Mary Fulcher as a mort, till she and I were old enough to be regularly married, she being the daughter of the one and the sister of the other. I liked the girl very well, for she had been always civil to me, and had a fair complexion and nice red hair, both of which I like, being a bit of a black myself; but I refused, being determined to see something more of the world than I could hope to do with the Fulchers, and, moreover, to live honestly, which I could never do along with them. So the next morning I left them: I was, as I said before, quite determined upon an honest livelihood, and I soon found one. He is a great fool who is ever dishonest in England. Any person who has any natural gift, and everybody has some natural gift, is sure of finding encouragement in this noble country of ours, provided he will but exhibit it. I had not walked more than three miles before I came to a wonderfully high church steeple, which stood close by the road; I looked at the steeple, and going to a heap of smooth pebbles which lay by the roadside, I took up some, and then went into the churchyard, and placing myself just below the tower, my right foot resting on a ledge about two foot from the ground, I, with my left hand--being a left-handed person, do you see--flung or chucked up a stone, which lighting on the top of the steeple, which was at least a hundred and fifty feet high, did there remain. After repeating this feat two or three times, I 'hulled' up a stone, which went clean over the tower, and then one--my right foot still on the ledge--which, rising at least five yards above the steeple, did fall down just at my feet. Without knowing it, I was showing off my gift to others besides myself, doing what, perhaps, not five men in England could do. Two men, who were passing by, stopped and looked at my proceedings, and when I had done flinging came into the churchyard, and, after paying me a compliment on what they had seen me do, proposed that I should join company with them; I asked them who they were, and they told me. The one was Hopping Ned and the other Biting Giles. Both had their gifts, by which they got their livelihood; Ned could hop a hundred yards with any man in England, and Giles could lift up with his teeth any dresser or kitchen table in the country, and standing erect hold it dangling in his jaws. There's many a big oak table and dresser, in certain districts of England, which bear the marks of Giles's teeth; and I make no doubt that, a hundred or two years hence, there'll be strange stories about those marks, and that people will point them out as a proof that there were giants in bygone time, and that many a dentist will moralise on the decays which human teeth have undergone. "They wanted me to go about with them, and exhibit my gift occasionally, as they did theirs, promising that the money that was got by the exhibitions should be honestly divided. I consented, and we set off together, and that evening coming to a village, and putting up at the ale- house, all the grand folks of the village being there smoking their pipes, we contrived to introduce the subject of hopping--the upshot being that Ned hopped against the schoolmaster for a pound, and beat him hollow; shortly after, Giles, for a wager, took up the kitchen table in his jaws, though he had to pay a shilling to the landlady for the marks he left, whose grandchildren will perhaps get money by exhibiting them. As for myself, I did nothing that day, but the next, on which my companions did nothing, I showed off at hulling stones against a cripple, the crack man for stone-throwing of a small town a few miles farther on. Bets were made to the tune of some pounds; I contrived to beat the cripple, and just contrived; for to do him justice I must acknowledge he was a first-rate hand at stones, though he had a game hip, and went sideways; his head, when he walked--if his movements could be called walking--not being above three feet above the ground. So we travelled, I and my companions, showing off our gifts, Giles and I occasionally for a gathering, but Ned never hopping unless against somebody for a wager. We lived honestly and comfortably, making no little money by our natural endowments, and were known over a great part of England as 'Hopping Ned,' 'Biting Giles,' and 'Hull over the head Jack,' which was my name, it being the blackguard fashion of the English, do you see, to . . ." Here I interrupted the jockey. "You may call it a blackguard fashion," said I, "and I dare say it is, or it would scarcely be English; but it is an immensely ancient one, and is handed down to us from our northern ancestry, especially the Danes, who were in the habit of giving people surnames, or rather nicknames, from some quality of body or mind, but generally from some disadvantageous peculiarity of feature; for there is no denying that the English, Norse, or whatever we may please to call them, are an envious, depreciatory set of people, who not only give their poor comrades contemptuous surnames, but their great people also. They didn't call you the matchless Hurler, because by doing so they would have paid you a compliment, but Hull over the head Jack, as much as to say that after all you were a scrub: so, in ancient time, instead of calling Regner the great conqueror, the Nation Tamer, they surnamed him Lodbrog, which signifies Rough or Hairy Breeks--lod or loddin signifying rough or hairy; and instead of complimenting Halgerdr, the wife of Gunnar of Hlitharend, the great champion of Iceland, upon her majestic presence, by calling her Halgerdr, the stately or tall; what must they do but term her Ha-brokr, or High-breeks, it being the fashion in old times for Northern ladies to wear breeks, or breeches, which English ladies of the present day never think of doing; and just, as of old, they called Halgerdr Long- breeks, so this very day a fellow of Horncastle called, in my hearing, our noble-looking Hungarian friend here, Long-stockings. Oh, I could give you a hundred instances, both ancient and modern, of this unseemly propensity of our illustrious race, though I will only trouble you with a few more ancient ones. They not only nicknamed Regner, but his sons also, who were all kings, and distinguished men: one, whose name was Biorn, they nicknamed Ironsides; another, Sigurd, Snake in the Eye; another, White Sark, or White Shirt--I wonder they did not call him Dirty Shirt; and Ivarr, another, who was king of Northumberland, they called Beinlausi, or the Legless, because he was spindle-shanked, had no sap in his bones, and consequently no children. He was a great king, it is true, and very wise, nevertheless his blackguard countrymen, always averse, as their descendants are, to give credit to anybody for any valuable quality or possession, must needs lay hold, do you see . . ." But before I could say any more, the jockey, having laid down his pipe, rose, and having taken off his coat, advanced towards me. CHAPTER XLII. A SHORT-TEMPERED PERSON--GRAVITATION--THE BEST ENDOWMENT--MARY FULCHER--FAIR DEALING--HORSE-WITCHERY--DARIUS AND HIS GROOM--THE JOCKEY'S TRICKS--THE TWO CHARACTERS--THE JOCKEY'S SONG. The jockey, having taken off his coat and advanced towards me, as I have stated in the preceding chapter, exclaimed, in an angry tone, "This is the third time you have interrupted me in my tale, Mr. Rye; I passed over the two first times with a simple warning, but you will now please to get up and give me the satisfaction of a man." "I am really sorry," said I, "if I have given you offence, but you were talking of our English habit of bestowing nicknames, and I could not refrain from giving a few examples tending to prove what a very ancient habit it is." "But you interrupted me," said the jockey, "and put me out of my tale, which you had no right to do; and as for your examples, how do you know that I wasn't going to give some as old or older than yourn? Now stand up, and I'll make an example of you." "Well," said I, "I confess it was wrong in me to interrupt you, and I ask your pardon." "That won't do," said the jockey, "asking pardon won't do." "Oh," said I, getting up, "if asking pardon does not satisfy you, you are a different man from what I considered you." But here the Hungarian, also getting up, interposed his tall form and pipe between us, saying in English, scarcely intelligible, "Let there be no dispute! As for myself, I am very much obliged to the young man of Horncastle for his interruption, though he has told me that one of his dirty townsmen called me 'Long-stockings.' By Isten! there is more learning in what he has just said, than in all the verdammt English histories of Thor and Tzernebock I ever read." "I care nothing for his learning," said the jockey. "I consider myself as good a man as he, for all his learning; so stand out of the way, Mr. Sixfoot-eleven, or . . ." "I shall do no such thing," said the Hungarian. "I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself. You ask young man to drink champagne with you, you make him dronk, he interrupt you with very good sense; he ask your pardon, yet you not . . ." "Well," said the jockey, "I am satisfied. I am rather a short-tempered person, but I bear no malice. He is, as you say, drinking my wine, and has perhaps taken a drop too much, not being used to such high liquor; but one doesn't like to be put out of one's tale, more especially when one was about to moralise, do you see, oneself, and to show off what little learning one has. However, I bears no malice. Here is a hand to each of you; we'll take another glass each, and think no more about it." The jockey having shaken both of our hands, and filled our glasses and his own with what champagne remained in the bottle, put on his coat, sat down, and resumed his pipe and story. "Where was I? Oh, roaming about the country with Hopping Ned and Biting Giles. Those were happy days, and a merry and prosperous life we led. However, nothing continues under the sun in the same state in which it begins, and our firm was soon destined to undergo a change. We came to a village where there was a very high church steeple, and in a little time my comrades induced a crowd of people to go and see me display my gift by flinging stones above the heads of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, who stood at the four corners on the top, carved in stone. The parson, seeing the crowd, came waddling out of his rectory to see what was going on. After I had flung up the stones, letting them fall just where I liked--and one, I remember, fell on the head of Mark, where I dare say it remains to the present day--the parson, who was one of the description of people called philosophers, held up his hand, and asked me to let the next stone I flung up fall into it. He wished, do you see, to know with what weight the stone would fall down, and talked something about gravitation--a word which I could never understand to the present day, save that it turned out a grave matter to me. I, like a silly fellow myself, must needs consent, and, flinging the stone up to a vast height, contrived so that it fell into the parson's hand, which it cut dreadfully. The parson flew into a great rage, more particularly as everybody laughed at him, and, being a magistrate, ordered his clerk, who was likewise constable, to conduct me to prison as a rogue and a vagabond, telling my comrades that if they did not take themselves off, he would serve them in the same manner. So Ned hopped off, and Giles ran after him, without making any gathering, and I was led to Bridewell, my mittimus following at the end of a week, the parson's hand not permitting him to write before that time. In the Bridewell I remained a month, when, being dismissed, I went in quest of my companions, whom, after some time, I found up, but they refused to keep my company any longer; telling me that I was a dangerous character, likely to bring them more trouble than profit; they had, moreover, filled up my place. Going into a cottage to ask for a drink of water, they saw a country fellow making faces to amuse his children; the faces were so wonderful that Hopping Ned and Biting Giles at once proposed taking him into partnership, and the man--who was a fellow not very fond of work--after a little entreaty, went away with them. I saw him exhibit his gift, and couldn't blame the others for preferring him to me; he was a proper ugly fellow at all times, but when he made faces his countenance was like nothing human. He was called Ugly Moses. I was so amazed at his faces, that though poor myself I gave him sixpence, which I have never grudged to this day, for I never saw anything like them. The firm throve wonderfully after he had been admitted into it. He died some little time ago, keeper of a public- house, which he had been enabled to take from the profits of his faces. A son of his, one of the children he was making faces to when my comrades entered his door, is at present a barrister, and a very rising one. He has his gift--he has not, it is true, the gift of the gab, but he has something better, he was born with a grin on his face, a quiet grin; he would not have done to grin through a collar like his father, and would never have been taken up by Hopping Ned and Biting Giles, but that grin of his caused him to be noticed by a much greater person than either; an attorney observing it took a liking to the lad, and prophesied that he would some day be heard of in the world; and in order to give him the first lift, took him into his office, at first to light fires and do such kind of work, and after a little time taught him to write, then promoted him to a desk, articled him afterwards, and being unmarried and without children, left him what he had when he died. The young fellow, after practising at the law some time, went to the bar, where, in a few years, helped on by his grin, for he had nothing else to recommend him, he became, as I said before, a rising barrister. He comes our circuit, and I occasionally employ him, when I am obliged to go to law about such a thing as an unsound horse. He generally brings me through--or rather that grin of his does--and yet I don't like the fellow, confound him, but I'm an oddity--no, the one I like, and whom I generally employ, is a fellow quite different, a bluff sturdy dog, with no grin on his face, but with a look which seems to say I am an honest man, and what cares I for any one. And an honest man he is, and something more. I have known coves with a better gift of the gab, though not many, but he always speaks to the purpose, and understands law thoroughly; and that's not all. When at college, for he has been at college, he carried off everything before him as a Latiner, and was first-rate at a game they call matthew mattocks. I don't know exactly what it is, but I have heard that he who is first-rate at matthew mattocks is thought more of than if he were first-rate Latiner. "Well, the chap that I'm talking about, not only came out first-rate Latiner, but first-rate at matthew mattocks too; doing, in fact--as I am told by those who knows, for I was never at college myself--what no one had ever done before. Well, he makes his appearance at our circuit, does very well, of course, but he has a somewhat high front, as becomes an honest man, and one who has beat every one at Latin and matthew mattocks; and who can speak first-rate law and sense;--but see now, the cove with the grin, who has like myself never been at college, knows nothing of Latin, or matthew mattocks, and has no particular gift of the gab, has two briefs for his one, and I suppose very properly, for that grin of his curries favour with the juries; and mark me, that grin of his will enable him to beat the other in the long run. We all know what all barrister coves looks forward to--a seat on the hop sack. Well, I'll bet a bull to fivepence, that the grinner gets upon it, and the snarler doesn't; at any rate, that he gets there first. I calls my cove--for he is my cove--a snarler; because your first-rates at matthew mattocks are called snarlers, and for no other reason; for the chap, though with a high front, is a good chap, and once drank a glass of ale with me, after buying an animal out of my stable. I have often thought it a pity that he wasn't born with a grin on his face, like the son of Ugly _Moses_. It is true he would scarcely then have been an out and outer at Latin and matthew mattocks, but what need of either to a chap born with a grin? Talk of being born with a silver spoon in one's mouth! give me a cove born with a grin on his face--a much better endowment. "I will now shorten my history as much as I can, for we have talked as much as folks do during a whole night in the Commons' House, though, of course, not with so much learning, or so much to the purpose, because--why? They are in the House of Commons, and we in a public room of an inn at Horncastle. The goodness of the ale, do ye see, never depending on what it is made of, oh, no! but on the fashion and appearance of the jug in which it is served up. After being turned out of the firm, I got my living in two or three honest ways, which I shall not trouble you with describing. I did not like any of them, however, as they did not exactly suit my humour; at last I found one which did. One Saturday forenoon, I chanced to be in the cattle-market of a place about eighty miles from here; there I won the favour of an old gentleman who sold dickeys. He had a very shabby squad of animals, without soul or spirit; nobody would buy them, till I leaped upon their hinder ends, and by merely wriggling in a particular manner, made them caper and bound so to people's liking, that in a few hours every one of them was sold at very sufficient prices. The old gentleman was so pleased with my skill, that he took me home with him, and in a very little time into partnership. It's a good thing to have a gift, but yet better to have two. I might have got a very decent livelihood by throwing stones, but I much question whether I should ever have attained to the position in society which I now occupy, but for my knowledge of animals. I lived very comfortably with the old gentleman till he died, which he did about a fortnight after he had laid his old lady in the ground. Having no children, he left me what should remain after he had been buried decently, and the remainder was six dickeys and thirty shillings in silver. I remained in the dickey trade ten years, during which time I saved a hundred pounds. I then embarked in the horse line. One day, being in the . . . market on a Saturday, I saw Mary Fulcher with a halter round her neck, led about by a man, who offered to sell her for eighteen- pence. I took out the money forthwith and bought her; the man was her husband, a basket-maker, with whom she had lived several years without having any children; he was a drunken, quarrelsome fellow, and having had a dispute with her the day before, he determined to get rid of her by putting a halter round her neck and leading her to the cattle-market, as if she were a mare, which he had, it seems, a right to do; all women being considered mares by old English law, and, indeed, still called mares in certain counties, where genuine old English is still preserved. That same afternoon, the man who had been her husband, having got drunk in a public-house with the money which he had received for her, quarrelled with another man, and receiving a blow under the ear, fell upon the floor, and died of artiflex; and in less than three weeks I was married to Mary Fulcher, by virtue of regular bans. I am told she was legally my property by virtue of my having bought her with a halter round her neck; but, to tell you the truth, I think everybody should live by his trade, and I didn't wish to act shabbily towards our parson, who is a good fellow, and has certainly a right to his fees. A better wife than Mary Fulcher--I mean Mary Dale--no one ever had; she has borne me several children, and has at all times shown a willingness to oblige me, and to be my faithful wife. Amongst other things, I begged her to have done with her family, and I believe she has never spoken to them since. "I have thriven very well in business, and my name is up as being a person who can be depended on, when folks treats me handsomely. I always make a point when a gentleman comes to me and says, 'Mr. Dale,' or 'John'--for I have no objection to be called John by a gentleman--'I wants a good horse, and I am ready to pay a good price'--I always makes a point, I say, to furnish him with an animal worth the money; but when I sees a fellow, whether he calls himself gentleman or not, wishing to circumvent me, what does I do? I doesn't quarrel with him; not I; but, letting him imagine he is taking me in, I contrives to sell him a screw for thirty pounds, not worth forty shillings. All honest respectable people have at present great confidence in me, and frequently commissions me to buy them horses at great fairs like this. "This short young gentleman was recommended to me by a great landed proprietor, to whom he bore letters of recommendation from some great prince in his own country, who had a long time ago been entertained at the house of the landed proprietor, and the consequence is, that I brings young six foot six to Horncastle, and purchases for him the horse of the Romany Rye. I don't do these kind things for nothing, it is true; that can't be expected; for every one must live by his trade; but, as I said before, when I am treated handsomely, I treat folks so. Honesty, I have discovered, as perhaps some other people have, is by far the best policy; though, as I also said before, when I'm along with thieves, I can beat them at their own game. If I am obliged to do it, I can pass off the veriest screw as a flying drummedary, for even when I was a child I had found out by various means what may be done with animals. I wish now to ask a civil question, Mr. Romany Rye. Certain folks have told me that you are a horse witch; are you one, or are you not?" "I, like yourself," said I, "know, to a certain extent, what may be done with animals." "Then how would you, Mr. Romany Rye, pass off the veriest screw in the world for a flying drummedary?" "By putting a small live eel down his throat; as long as the eel remained in his stomach, the horse would appear brisk and lively in a surprising degree." "And how would you contrive to make a regular kicker and biter appear so tame and gentle, that any respectable fat old gentleman of sixty, who wanted an easy goer, would be glad to purchase him for fifty pounds?" "By pouring down his throat four pints of generous old ale, which would make him so happy and comfortable, that he would not have the heart to kick or bite anybody, for a season at least." "And where did you learn all this?" said the jockey. "I have read about the eel in an old English book, and about the making drunk in a Spanish novel, and, singularly enough, I was told the same things by a wild blacksmith in Ireland. Now tell me, do you bewitch horses in this way?" "I?" said the jockey; "mercy upon us! I wouldn't do such things for a hatful of money. No, no, preserve me from live eels and hocussing! And now let me ask you how you would spirit a horse out of a field?" "How would I spirit a horse out of a field?" "Yes! supposing you were down in the world, and had determined on taking up the horse-stealing line of business." "Why, I should . . . But I tell you what, friend, I see you are trying to pump me, and I tell you plainly that I will hear something from you with respect to your art, before I tell you anything more. Now, how would you whisper a horse out of a field, provided you were down in the world, and so forth?" "Ah, ah, I see you are up to game, Mr. Romany: however, I am a gentleman in mind, if not by birth, and I scorn to do the unhandsome thing to anybody who has dealt fairly towards me. Now you told me something I didn't know, and I'll tell you something which perhaps you do know. I whispers a horse out of a field in this way: I have a mare in my stable; well, in the early season of the year I goes into my stable . . . Well, I puts the sponge into a small bottle which I keeps corked. I takes my bottle in my hand, and goes into a field, suppose by night, where there is a very fine stag horse. I manage with great difficulty to get within ten yards of the horse, who stands staring at me just ready to run away. I then uncorks my bottle, presses, my fore-finger to the sponge, and holds it out to the horse; the horse gives a sniff, then a start, and comes nearer. I corks up my bottle and puts it into my pocket. My business is done, for the next two hours the horse would follow me anywhere--the difficulty, indeed, would be to get rid of him. Now is that your way of doing business?" "My way of doing business? Mercy upon us! I wouldn't steal a horse in that way, or, indeed, in any way, for all the money in the world: however, let me tell you, for your comfort, that a trick somewhat similar is described in the history of Herodotus." "In the history of Herod's ass!" said the jockey; "well, if I did write a book it should be about something more genteel than a dickey." "I did not say Herod's ass," said I, "but Herodotus, a very genteel writer, I assure you, who wrote a history about very genteel people, in a language no less genteel than Greek, more than two thousand years ago. There was a dispute as to who should be king amongst certain imperious chieftains. At last they agreed to obey him whose horse should neigh first on a certain day, in front of the royal palace, before the rising of the sun; for you must know that they did not worship the person who made the sun as we do, but the sun itself. So one of these chieftains, talking over the matter to his groom, and saying he wondered who would be king, the fellow said, 'Why you, master, or I don't know much about horses.' So the day before the day of trial, what does the groom do, but take his master's horse before the palace and introduce him to a mare in the stable, and then lead him forth again. Well, early the next day all the chieftains on their horses appeared in front of the palace before the dawn of day. Not a horse neighed but one, and that was the horse of him who had consulted with his groom, who, thinking of the animal within the stable, gave such a neigh that all the buildings rang. His rider was forthwith elected king, and a brave king he was. So this shows what seemingly wonderful things may be brought about by a little preparation." "It doth," said the jockey; "what was the chap's name?" "His name--his name--Darius Hystaspes." "And the groom's?" "I don't know." "And he made a good king?" "First-rate." "Only think! well, if he made a good king, what a wonderful king the groom would have made, through whose knowledge of 'orses he was put on the throne. And now another question, Mr. Romany Rye: have you particular words which have power to soothe or aggravate horses?" "You should ask me," said I, "whether I have horses that can be aggravated or soothed by particular words. No words have any particular power over horses or other animals who have never heard them before--how should they? But certain animals connect ideas of misery or enjoyment with particular words which they are acquainted with. I'll give you an example. I knew a cob in Ireland that could be driven to a state of kicking madness by a particular word, used by a particular person, in a particular tone; but that word was connected with a very painful operation which had been performed upon him by that individual, who had frequently employed it at a certain period whilst the animal had been under his treatment. The same cob could be soothed in a moment by another word, used by the same individual in a very different kind of tone--the word was deaghblasda, or sweet tasted. Some time after the operation, whilst the cob was yet under his hands, the fellow--who was what the Irish call a fairy smith--had done all he could to soothe the creature, and had at last succeeded by giving it gingerbread-buttons, of which the cob became passionately fond. Invariably, however, before giving it a button, he said, 'Deaghblasda,' with which word the cob by degrees associated an idea of unmixed enjoyment: so if he could rouse the cob to madness by the word which recalled the torture to its remembrance, he could as easily soothe it by the other word, which the cob knew would be instantly followed by the button, which the smith never failed to give him after using the word deaghblasda." "There is nothing wonderful to be done," said the jockey, "without a good deal of preparation, as I know myself. Folks stare and wonder at certain things which they would only laugh at if they knew how they were done; and to prove what I say is true, I will give you one or two examples. Can either of you lend me a handkerchief? That won't do," said he, as I presented him with a silk one. "I wish for a delicate white handkerchief. That's just the kind of thing," said he, as the Hungarian offered him a fine white cambric handkerchief, beautifully worked with gold at the hems; "now you shall see me set this handkerchief on fire." "Don't let him do so by any means," said the Hungarian, speaking to me in German; "it is the gift of a lady whom I highly admire, and I would not have it burnt for the world." "He has no occasion to be under any apprehension," said the jockey, after I had interpreted to him what the Hungarian had said; "I will restore it to him uninjured, or my name is not Jack Dale." Then sticking the handkerchief carelessly into the left side of his bosom, he took the candle, which by this time had burnt very low, and holding his head back, he applied the flame to the handkerchief, which instantly seemed to catch fire. "What do you think of that?" said he to the Hungarian. "Why, that you have ruined me," said the latter. "No harm done, I assure you," said the jockey, who presently, clapping his hand on his bosom, extinguished the fire, and returned the handkerchief to the Hungarian, asking him if it was burnt. "I see no burn upon it," said the Hungarian; "but in the name of Gott how could you set it on fire without burning it?" "I never set it on fire at all," said the jockey; "I set this on fire," showing us a piece of half-burnt calico. "I placed this calico above it, and lighted not the handkerchief, but the rag. Now I will show you something else. I have a magic shilling in my pocket, which I can make run up along my arm. But, first of all, I would gladly know whether either of you can do the like." Thereupon the Hungarian and myself, putting our hands into our pockets, took out shillings, and endeavoured to make them run up our arms, but utterly failed; both shillings, after we had made two or three attempts, falling to the ground. "What noncomposses you both are," said the jockey; and placing a shilling on the end of the fingers of his right hand he made strange faces to it, drawing back his head, whereupon the shilling instantly began to run up his arm, occasionally hopping and jumping as if it were bewitched, always endeavouring to make towards the head of the jockey. "How do I do that?" said he, addressing himself to me. "I really do not know," said I, "unless it is by the motion of your arm." "The motion of my nonsense," said the jockey, and, making a dreadful grimace, the shilling hopped upon his knee, and began to run up his thigh and to climb his breast. "How is that done?" said he again. "By witchcraft, I suppose," said I. "There you are right," said the jockey; "by the witchcraft of one of Miss Berners' hairs; the end of one of her long hairs is tied to that shilling by means of a hole in it, and the other end goes round my neck by means of a loop; so that, when I draw back my head, the shilling follows it. I suppose you wish to know how I got the hair," said he, grinning at me. "I will tell you. I once, in the course of my ridings, saw Miss Berners beneath a hedge, combing out her long hair, and, being rather a modest kind of person, what must I do but get off my horse, tie him to a gate, go up to her, and endeavour to enter into conversation with her. After giving her the sele of the day, and complimenting her on her hair, I asked her to give me one of the threads; whereupon she gave me such a look, and, calling me fellow, told me to take myself off. 'I must have a hair first,' said I, making a snatch at one. I believe I hurt her; but, whether I did or not, up she started, and, though her hair was unbound, gave me the only drubbing I ever had in my life. Lor! how, with her right hand, she fibbed me whilst she held me round the neck with her left arm; I was soon glad to beg her pardon on my knees, which she gave me in a moment when she saw me in that condition, being the most placable creature in the world, and not only her pardon, but one of the hairs which I longed for, which I put through a shilling, with which I have on evenings after fairs, like this, frequently worked what seemed to those who looked on downright witchcraft, but which is nothing more than pleasant deception. And now, Mr. Romany Rye, to testify my regard for you, I give you the shilling and the hair. I think you have a kind of respect for Miss Berners; but whether you have or not, keep them as long as you can, and whenever you look at them think of the finest woman in England, and of John Dale, the jockey of Horncastle. I believe I have told you my history," said he--"no, not quite; there is one circumstance I had passed over. I told you that I have thriven very well in business, and so I have upon the whole: at any rate, I find myself comfortably off now. I have horses, money, and owe nobody a groat; at any rate, nothing but what I could pay to-morrow. Yet I have had my dreary day, ay, after I had obtained what I call a station in the world. All of a sudden, about five years ago, everything seemed to go wrong with me--horses became sick or died, people who owed me money broke or ran away, my house caught fire, in fact, everything went against me; and not from any mismanagement of my own. I looked round for help, but--what do you think? nobody would help me. Somehow or other it had got abroad that I was in difficulties, and everybody seemed disposed to avoid me, as if I had got the plague. Those who were always offering me help when I wanted none, now, when they thought me in trouble, talked of arresting me. Yes, two particular friends of mine, who had always been offering me their purses when my own was stuffed full, now talked of arresting me, though I only owed the scoundrels a hundred pounds each; and they would have done so, provided I had not paid them what I owed them; and how did I do that? Why, I was able to do it because I found a friend--and who was that friend? Why, a man who has since been hung, of whom everybody has heard, and of whom everybody for the next hundred years will occasionally talk. "One day, whilst in trouble, I was visited by a person I had occasionally met at sporting-dinners. He came to look after a Suffolk Punch, the best horse, by-the-bye, that anybody can purchase to drive, it being the only animal of the horse kind in England that will pull twice at a dead weight. I told him that I had none at that time that I could recommend; in fact, that every horse in my stable was sick. He then invited me to dine with him at an inn close by, and I was glad to go with him, in the hope of getting rid of unpleasant thoughts. After dinner, during which he talked nothing but slang, observing I looked very melancholy, he asked me what was the matter with me, and I, my heart being opened by the wine he had made me drink, told him my circumstances without reserve. With an oath or two for not having treated him at first like a friend, he said he would soon set me all right; and pulling out two hundred pounds, told me to pay him when I could. I felt as I never felt before; however, I took his notes, paid my sneaks, and in less than three months was right again, and had returned him his money. On paying it to him, I said that I had now a Punch which would just suit him, saying that I would give it to him--a free gift--for nothing. He swore at me; telling me to keep my Punch, for that he was suited already. I begged him to tell me how I could requite him for his kindness, whereupon, with the most dreadful oath I ever heard, he bade me come and see him hanged when his time was come. I wrung his hand, and told him I would, and I kept my word. The night before the day he was hanged at H . . ., I harnessed a Suffolk Punch to my light gig, the same Punch which I had offered to him, which I have ever since kept, and which brought me and this short young man to Horncastle, and in eleven hours I drove that Punch one hundred and ten miles. I arrived at H . . . just in the nick of time. There was the ugly jail--the scaffold--and there upon it stood the only friend I ever had in the world. Driving my Punch, which was all in a foam, into the midst of the crowd, which made way for me as if it knew what I came for, I stood up in my gig, took off my hat, and shouted, 'God Almighty bless you, Jack!' The dying man turned his pale grim face towards me--for his face was always somewhat grim, do you see--nodded and said, or I thought I heard him say, 'All right, old chap.' The next moment . . . my eyes water. He had a high heart, got into a scrape whilst in the marines, lost his half-pay, took to the turf, ring, gambling, and at last cut the throat of a villain who had robbed him of nearly all he had. But he had good qualities, and I know for certain that he never did half the bad things laid to his charge; for example, he never bribed Tom Oliver to fight cross, as it was said he did, on the day of the awful thunder-storm. Ned Flatnose fairly beat Tom Oliver, for though Ned was not what's called a good fighter, he had a particular blow, which if he could put in he was sure to win. His right shoulder, do you see, was two inches farther back than it ought to have been, and consequently his right fist generally fell short; but if he could swing himself round, and put in a blow with that right arm, he could kill or take away the senses of anybody in the world. It was by putting in that blow in his second fight with Spring that he beat noble Tom. Spring beat him like a sack in the first battle, but in the second Ned Painter--for that was his real name--contrived to put in his blow, and took the senses out of Spring; and in like manner he took the senses out of Tom Oliver. "Well, some are born to be hanged, and some are not; and many of those who are not hanged are much worse than those who are. Jack, with many a good quality, is hanged, whilst that fellow of a lord, who wanted to get the horse from you at about two-thirds of his value, without a single good quality in the world, is not hanged, and probably will remain so. You ask the reason why, perhaps. I'll tell you: the lack of a certain quality called courage, which Jack possessed in abundance, will preserve him; from the love which he bears his own neck he will do nothing that can bring him to the gallows. In my rough way I'll draw their characters from their childhood, and then ask whether Jack was not the best character of the two. Jack was a rough, audacious boy, fond of fighting, going a birds'-nesting, but I never heard he did anything particularly cruel save once, I believe, tying a canister to a butcher's dog's tail; whilst this fellow of a lord was by nature a savage beast, and when a boy would in winter pluck poor fowls naked, and set them running on the ice and in the snow, and was particularly fond of burning cats alive in the fire. Jack, when a lad, gets a commission on board a ship as an officer of horse marines, and in two or three engagements behaves quite up to the mark--at least of a marine; the marines having no particular character for courage, you know--never having run to the guns and fired them like madmen after the blue jackets had had more than enough. Oh, dear me, no! My lord gets into the valorous British army, where cowardice--oh, dear me!--is a thing almost entirely unknown; and being on the field of Waterloo the day before the battle, falls off his horse, and, pretending to be hurt in the back, gets himself put on the sick list--a pretty excuse--hurting his back--for not being present at such a fight. Old Benbow, after part of both his legs had been shot away in a sea-fight, made the carpenter make him a cradle to hold his bloody stumps, and continued on deck cheering his men till he died. Jack returns home, and gets into trouble, and having nothing to subsist by but his wits, gets his living by the ring, and the turf, and gambling, doing many an odd kind of thing, I dare say, but not half those laid to his charge. My lord does much the same without the excuse for doing so which Jack had, for he had plenty of means, is a leg, and a black, only in a more polished way, and with more cunning, and I may say success, having done many a rascally thing never laid to his charge. Jack at last cuts the throat of a villain who had cheated him of all he had in the world, and who, I am told, was in many points the counterpart of this screw and white feather, is taken up, tried, and executed; and certainly taking away a man's life is a dreadful thing; but is there nothing as bad? Whitefeather will cut no person's throat--I will not say who has cheated him, for, being a cheat himself, he will take good care that nobody cheats him, but he'll do something quite as bad; out of envy to a person who never injured him, and whom he hates for being more clever and respected than himself, he will do all he possibly can, by backbiting and every unfair means, to do that person a mortal injury. But Jack is hanged, and my lord is not. Is that right? My wife, Mary Fulcher--I beg her pardon, Mary Dale--who is a Methodist, and has heard the mighty preacher, Peter Williams, says some people are preserved from hanging by the grace of God. With her I differs, and says it is from want of courage. This Whitefeather, with one particle of Jack's courage, and with one tithe of his good qualities, would have been hanged long ago, for he has ten times Jack's malignity. Jack was hanged because, along with his bad qualities, he had courage and generosity; this fellow is not, because with all Jack's bad qualities, and many more, amongst which is cunning, he has neither courage nor generosity. Think of a fellow like that putting down two hundred pounds to relieve a distressed fellow- creature; why, he would rob, but for the law and the fear it fills him with, a workhouse child of its breakfast, as the saying is--and has been heard to say that he would not trust his own father for sixpence, and he can't imagine why such a thing as credit should be ever given. I never heard a person give him a good word--stay, stay, yes! I once heard an old parson, to whom I sold a Punch, say that he had the art of receiving company gracefully, and dismissing them without refreshment. I don't wish to be too hard with him, and so let him make the most of that compliment. Well, he manages to get on, whilst Jack is hanged; not quite enviably, however; he has had his rubs, and pretty hard ones--everybody knows he slunk from Waterloo, and occasionally checks him with so doing; whilst he has been rejected by a woman--what a mortification to the low pride of which the scoundrel has plenty! There's a song about both circumstances, which may, perhaps, ring in his ears on a dying bed. It's a funny kind of song, set to the old tune of the Lord-Lieutenant or Deputy, and with it I will conclude my discourse, for I really think it's past one." The jockey then, with a very tolerable voice, sung the following song:-- THE JOCKEY'S SONG. Now list to a ditty both funny and true!-- Merrily moves the dance along-- A ditty that tells of a coward and screw, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. Sir Plume, though not liking a bullet at all,-- Merrily moves the dance along-- Had yet resolution to go to a _ball_, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. "Woulez wous danser, mademoiselle?"-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- Said she, "Sir, to dance I should like very well," My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. They danc'd to the left, and they danc'd to the right,-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- And her troth the fair damsel bestow'd on the knight, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. "Now what shall I fetch you, mademoiselle?"-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- Said she, "Sir, an ice I should like very well," My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. But the ice, when he'd got it, he instantly ate,-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- Although his poor partner was all in a fret, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. He ate up the ice like a prudent young lord,-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- For he saw 'twas the very last ice on the board, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. "Now, when shall we marry?" the gentleman cried;-- Merrily moves the dance along;-- "Sir, get you to Jordan," the damsel replied, My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. "I never will wed with the pitiful elf"-- Merrily moves the dance along-- "Who ate up the ice which I wanted myself," My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young. "I'd pardon your backing from red Waterloo,"-- Merrily moves the dance along-- "But I never will wed with a coward and screw," My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young, CHAPTER XLIII. THE CHURCH. The next morning I began to think of departing; I had sewed up the money which I had received for the horse in a portion of my clothing, where I entertained no fears for its safety, with the exception of a small sum in notes, gold, and silver, which I carried in my pocket. Ere departing, however, I determined to stroll about and examine the town, and observe more particularly the humours of the fair than I had hitherto an opportunity of doing. The town, when I examined it, offered no object worthy of attention but its church--an edifice of some antiquity; under the guidance of an old man, who officiated as sexton, I inspected its interior attentively, occasionally conversing with my guide, who, however, seemed much more disposed to talk about horses than the church. "No good horses in the fair this time, measter," said he; "none but one brought hither by a chap whom nobody knows, and bought by a foreigneering man, who came here with Jack Dale. The horse fetched a good swinging price, which is said, however, to be much less than its worth; for the horse is a regular clipper; not such a one, 'tis said, has been seen in the fair for several summers. Lord Whitefeather says that he believes the fellow who brought him to be a highwayman, and talks of having him taken up; but Lord Whitefeather is only in a rage because he could not get him for himself. The chap would not sell it to un; Lord Screw wanted to beat him down, and the chap took huff, said he wouldn't sell it to him at no price, and accepted the offer of the foreigneering man, or of Jack, who was his 'terpreter, and who scorned to higgle about such an hanimal, because Jack is a gentleman, though bred a dickey-boy, whilst 'tother, though bred a lord, is a screw, and a whitefeather. Every one says the cove was right, and I says so too; I likes spirit, and if the cove were here, and in your place, measter, I would invite him to drink a pint of beer. Good horses are scarce now, measter, ay, and so are good men, quite a different set from what there were when I was young; that was the time for men and horses. Lord bless you, I know all the breeders about here; they are not a bad set, and they breed a very fairish set of horses, but they are not like what their fathers were, nor are their horses like their fathers' horses. Now, there is Mr. . . . , the great breeder, a very fairish man, with very fairish horses; but, Lord bless you, he's nothing to what his father was, nor his steeds to his father's; I ought to know, for I was at the school here with his father, and afterwards for many a year helped him to get up his horses; that was when I was young, measter those were the days. You look at that monument, measter," said he, as I stopped and looked attentively at a monument on the southern side of the church, near the altar; "that was put up for a rector of this church, who lived a long time ago, in Oliver's time, and was ill-treated and imprisoned by Oliver and his men; you will see all about it on the monument. There was a grand battle fought nigh this place, between Oliver's men and the Royal party, and the Royal party had the worst of it, as I'm told they generally had; and Oliver's men came into the town, and did a great deal of damage, and ill-treated people. I can't remember anything about the matter myself, for it happened just one hundred years before I was born, but my father was acquainted with an old countryman, who lived not many miles from here, who said he remembered perfectly well the day of the battle; that he was a boy at the time, and was working in a field near the place where the battle was fought: and he heard shouting, and noise of firearms, and also the sound of several balls, which fell in the field near him. Come this way, measter, and I will show you some remains of that day's field." Leaving the monument, on which was inscribed an account of the life and sufferings of the Royalist Rector of Horncastle, I followed the sexton to the western end of the church, where, hanging against the wall, were a number of scythes stuck in the ends of poles. "Those are the weapons, measter," said the sexton, "which the great people put into the hands of a number of the country folks, in order that they might use them against Oliver's men; ugly weapons enough; however, Oliver's men won, and Sir Jacob Ashley and his party were beat. And a rare time Oliver and his men had of it, till Oliver died, when the other party got the better, not by fighting, 'tis said, but through a General Monk, who turned sides. Ah, the old fellow that my father knew said he well remembered the time when General Monk went over and proclaimed Charles the Second. Bonfires were lighted everywhere, oxen roasted, and beer drunk by pailfuls; the country folks were drunk with joy, and something else; sung scurvy songs about Oliver to the tune of Barney Banks, and pelted his men, wherever they found them, with stones and dirt." "The more ungrateful scoundrels they," said I. "Oliver and his men fought the battle of English independence against a wretched king and corrupt lords. Had I been living at the time, I should have been proud to be a trooper of Oliver." "You would, measter, would you? Well, I never quarrels with the opinions of people who come to look at the church, and certainly independence is a fine thing. I like to see a chap of an independent spirit, and if I were now to see the cove who refused to sell his horse to my Lord Screw and Whitefeather, and let Jack Dale have him, I would offer to treat him to a pint of beer--e'es I would, verily. Well, measter, you have now seen the church, and all there's in it worth seeing--so I'll just lock up, and go and finish digging the grave I was about when you came, after which I must go into the fair to see how matters are going on. Thank ye, measter," said he, as I put something into his hand; "thank ye kindly; 'tis not every one gives me a shilling nowadays who comes to see the church, but times are very different from what they were when I was young; I was not sexton then, but something better; helped Mr. . . . with his horses, and got many a broad crown. Those were the days, measter, both for men and horses--and I say, measter, if men and horses were so much better when I was young than they are now, what, I wonder, must they have been in the time of Oliver and his men?" CHAPTER XLIV. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. Leaving the church, I strolled through the fair, looking at the horses, listening to the chaffering of the buyers and sellers, and occasionally putting in a word of my own, which was not always received with much deference; suddenly, however, on a whisper arising that I was the young cove who had brought the wonderful horse to the fair which Jack Dale had bought for the foreigneering man, I found myself an object of the greatest attention; those who had before replied with stuff! and nonsense! to what I said, now listened with the greatest eagerness to any nonsense which I chose to utter, and I did not fail to utter a great deal. Presently, however, becoming disgusted with the beings about me, I forced my way, not very civilly, through my crowd of admirers; and passing through an alley and a back street, at last reached an outskirt of the fair, where no person appeared to know me. Here I stood, looking vacantly on what was going on, musing on the strange infatuation of my species, who judge of a person's words, not from their intrinsic merit, but from the opinion--generally an erroneous one--which they have formed of the person. From this reverie I was roused by certain words which sounded near me, uttered in a strange tone, and in a strange cadence--the words were, "Them that finds, wins; and them that can't finds, loses." Turning my eyes in the direction from which the words proceeded, I saw six or seven people, apparently all countrymen, gathered round a person standing behind a tall white table of very small compass. "What!" said I, "the thimble-engro of . . . Fair here at Horncastle." Advancing nearer, however, I perceived that though the present person was a thimble- engro, he was a very different one from my old acquaintance of . . . Fair. The present one was a fellow about half-a-foot taller than the other. He had a long, haggard, wild face, and was dressed in a kind of jacket, something like that of a soldier, with dirty hempen trousers, and with a foreign-looking peaked hat on his head. He spoke with an accent evidently Irish, and occasionally changed the usual thimble formula into "them that finds, wins; and them that can't--och, sure!--they loses;" saying also frequently "your honour," instead of "my lord." I observed, on drawing nearer, that he handled the pea and thimble with some awkwardness, like that which might be expected from a novice in the trade. He contrived, however, to win several shillings--for he did not seem to play for gold--from "their honours." Awkward as he was, he evidently did his best, and never flung a chance away by permitting any one to win. He had just won three shillings from a farmer, who, incensed at his loss, was calling him a confounded cheat, and saying that he would play no more, when up came my friend of the preceding day, Jack the jockey. This worthy, after looking at the thimble man a moment or two, with a peculiarly crafty glance, cried out, as he clapped down a shilling on the table, "I will stand you, old fellow!" "Them that finds, wins; and them that can't--och, sure!--they loses," said the thimble man. The game commenced, and Jack took up the thimble without finding the pea; another shilling was produced, and lost in the same manner. "This is slow work," said Jack, banging down a guinea on the table; "can you cover that, old fellow?" The man of the thimble looked at the gold, and then at him who produced it, and scratched his head. "Come, cover that, or I shall be off," said the jockey. "Och, shure, my lord!--no, I mean your honour--no, shure, your lordship," said the other, "if I covers it at all, it must be with silver, for divil a bit of gold have I by me." "Well, then, produce the value in silver," said the jockey, "and do it quickly, for I can't be staying here all day." The thimble man hesitated, looked at Jack with a dubious look, then at the gold, and then scratched his head. There was now a laugh amongst the surrounders, which evidently nettled the fellow, who forthwith thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulling out all his silver treasure, just contrived to place the value of the guinea on the table. "Them that finds, wins; and them that can't finds--_loses_," interrupted Jack, lifting up a thimble, out of which rolled a pea. "There, Paddy, what do you think of that?" said he, seizing the heap of silver with one hand, whilst he pocketed the guinea with the other. The thimble-engro stood for some time like one transfixed, his eyes glaring wildly, now at the table, and now at his successful customer; at last he said, "Arrah, sure, master!--no, I manes my lord--you are not going to ruin a poor boy!" "Ruin you!" said the other; "what! by winning a guinea's change? a pretty small dodger you--if you have not sufficient capital, why do you engage in so deep a trade as thimbling? come, will you stand another game?" "Och, sure, master, no! the twenty shillings and one which you have cheated me of were all I had in the world." "Cheated you!" said Jack; "say that again, and I will knock you down." "Arrah! sure, master, you knows that the pea under the thimble was not mine; here is mine, master; now give me back my money." "A likely thing," said Jack; "no, no, I know a trick worth two or three of that; whether the pea was yours or mine, you will never have your twenty shillings and one again; and if I have ruined you, all the better; I'd gladly ruin all such villains as you, who ruin poor men with your dirty tricks, whom you would knock down and rob on the road if you had but courage: not that I mean to keep your shillings, with the exception of the two you cheated from me, which I'll keep. A scramble, boys! a scramble!" said he, flinging up all the silver into the air, with the exception of the two shillings; and a scramble there instantly was, between the rustics who had lost their money and the urchins who came running up; the poor thimble-engro tried likewise to have his share; but though he flung himself down, in order to join more effectually in the scramble, he was unable to obtain a single sixpence; and having in his rage given some of his fellow-scramblers a cuff or two, he was set upon by the boys and country-fellows, and compelled to make an inglorious retreat with his table, which had been flung down in the scuffle, and had one of its legs broken. As he retired, the rabble hooted, and Jack, holding up in derision the pea with which he had out-manoeuvred him, exclaimed, "I always carry this in my pocket in order to be a match for vagabonds like you." The tumult over, Jack gone, and the rabble dispersed, I followed the discomfited adventurer at a distance, who, leaving the town, went slowly on, carrying his dilapidated piece of furniture; till, coming to an old wall by the roadside, he placed it on the ground, and sat down, seemingly in deep despondency, holding his thumb to his mouth. Going nearly up to him, I stood still, whereupon he looked up, and perceiving I was looking steadfastly at him, he said, in an angry tone, "Arrah! what for are you staring at me so? By my shoul, I think you are one of the thaives who are after robbing me. I think I saw you among them, and if I were only sure of it, I would take the liberty of trying to give you a big bating." "You have had enough of trying to give people a beating," said I; "you had better be taking your table to some skilful carpenter to get it repaired. He will do it for sixpence." "Divil a sixpence did you and your thaives leave me," said he; "and if you do not take yourself off, joy, I will be breaking your ugly head with the foot of it." "Arrah, Murtagh!" said I, "would ye be breaking the head of your old friend and scholar, to whom you taught the blessed tongue of Oilien nan Naomha, in exchange for a pack of cards?" Murtagh, for he it was, gazed at me for a moment with a bewildered look; then, with a gleam of intelligence in his eye, he said, "Shorsha! no, it can't be--yes, by my faith it is!" Then, springing up, and seizing me by the hand, he said, "Yes, by the powers, sure enough it is Shorsha agra! Arrah, Shorsha! where have you been this many a day? Sure, you are not one of the spalpeens who are after robbing me?" "Not I," I replied, "but I saw all that happened. Come, you must not take matters so to heart; cheer up; such things will happen in connection with the trade you have taken up." "Sorrow befall the trade, and the thief who taught it me," said Murtagh; "and yet the trade is not a bad one, if I only knew more of it, and had some one to help and back me. Och! the idea of being cheated and bamboozled by that one-eyed thief in the horseman's dress." "Let bygones be bygones, Murtagh," said I; "it is no use grieving for the past; sit down, and let us have a little pleasant gossip. Arrah, Murtagh! when I saw you sitting under the wall, with your thumb to your mouth, it brought to my mind tales which you used to tell me all about Finn ma-Coul. You have not forgotten Finn-ma-Coul, Murtagh, and how he sucked wisdom out of his thumb." "Sorrow a bit have I forgot about him, Shorsha," said Murtagh, as we sat down together, "nor what you yourself told me about the snake. Arrah, Shorsha! what ye told me about the snake bates anything I ever told you about Finn. Ochone, Shorsha! perhaps you will be telling me about the snake once more? I think the tale would do me good, and I have need of comfort, God knows, Ochone!" Seeing Murtagh in such a distressed plight, I forthwith told him over again the tale of the snake, in precisely the same words as I have related it in the first part of this history. After which I said, "Now, Murtagh, tit for tat; ye will be telling me one of the old stories of Finn-ma-Coul." "Och, Shorsha. I haven't heart enough," said Murtagh. "Thank you for your tale, but it makes me weep; it brings to mind Dungarvon times of old--I mean the times we were at school together." "Cheer up, man," said I, "and let's have the story, and let it be about Ma-Coul and the salmon, and his thumb." "Arrah, Shorsha! I can't. Well, to oblige you, I'll give it you. Well, you know Ma-Coul was an exposed child, and came floating over the salt sea in a chest which was cast ashore at Veintry Bay. In the corner of that bay was a castle, where dwelt a giant and his wife, very respectable and dacent people, and this giant, taking his morning walk along the bay, came to the place where the child had been cast ashore in his box. Well, the giant looked at the child, and being filled with compassion for his exposed state, took the child up in his box, and carried him home to his castle, where he and his wife, being dacent, respectable people, as I telled ye before, fostered the child and took care of him, till he became old enough to go out to service and gain his livelihood, when they bound him out apprentice to another giant, who lived in a castle up the country, at some distance from the bay. {The Old Parish Church, Horncastle. (Reproduced from Weir's "Horncastle."): p276.jpg} "This giant, whose name was Darmod David Odeen, was not a respectable person at all, but a big ould vagabond. He was twice the size of the other giant, who, though bigger than any man, was not a big giant; for, as there are great and small men, so there are great and small giants--I mean some are small when compared with the others. Well, Finn served this giant a considerable time, doing all kinds of hard and unreasonable service for him, and receiving all kinds of hard words, and many a hard knock and kick to boot--sorrow befall the ould vagabond who could thus ill-treat a helpless foundling. It chanced that one day the giant caught a salmon, near a salmon-leap upon his estate--for, though a big ould blackguard, he was a person of considerable landed property, and high sheriff for the county Cork. Well, the giant brings home the salmon by the gills, and delivers it to Finn, telling him to roast it for the giant's dinner; 'but take care, ye young blackguard,' he added, 'that in roasting it--and I expect ye to roast it well--you do not let a blister come upon its nice satin skin, for if ye do, I will cut the head off your shoulders.' 'Well,' thinks Finn, 'this is a hard task; however, as I have done many hard tasks for him, I will try and do this too, though I was never set to do anything yet half so difficult.' So he prepared his fire, and put his gridiron upon it, and lays the salmon fairly and softly upon the gridiron, and then he roasts it, turning it from one side to the other just in the nick of time, before the soft satin skin could be blistered. However, on turning it over the eleventh time--and twelve would have settled the business--he found he had delayed a little bit of time too long in turning it over, and there was a small, tiny blister on the soft outer skin. Well, Finn was in a mighty panic, remembering the threats of the ould giant; however, he did not lose heart, but clapped his thumb upon the blister in order to smooth it down. Now the salmon, Shorsha, was nearly done, and the flesh thoroughly hot, so Finn's thumb was scalt, and he, clapping it to his mouth, sucked it, in order to draw out the pain, and in a moment--hubbuboo!--became imbued with all the wisdom of the world." _Myself_. Stop, Murtagh! stop! _Murtagh_. All the witchcraft, Shorsha. _Myself_. How wonderful! _Murtagh_. Was it not, Shorsha? The salmon, do you see, was a fairy salmon. _Myself_. What a strange coincidence! _Murtagh_. A what, Shorsha? _Myself_. Why, that the very same tale should be told of Finn-ma-Coul, which is related of Sigurd Fafnisbane. "What thief was that, Shorsha?" "Thief! 'Tis true, he took the treasure of Fafnir. Sigurd was the hero of the North, Murtagh, even as Finn is the great hero of Ireland. He, too, according to one account, was an exposed child, and came floating in a casket to a wild shore, where he was suckled by a hind, and afterwards found and fostered by Mimir, a fairy blacksmith; he, too, sucked wisdom from a burn. According to the Edda, he burnt his finger whilst feeling of the heart of Fafnir, which he was roasting, and putting it into his mouth in order to suck out the pain, became imbued with all the wisdom of the world, the knowledge of the language of birds, and what not. I have heard you tell the tale of Finn a dozen times in the blessed days of old, but its identity with the tale of Sigurd never occurred to me till now. It is true, when I knew you of old I had never read the tale of Sigurd, and have since almost dismissed matters of Ireland from my mind; but as soon as you told me again about Finn's burning his finger, the coincidence struck me. I say, Murtagh, the Irish owe much to the Danes . . ." "Devil a bit, Shorsha, do they owe to the thaives, except many a bloody bating and plundering, which they never paid them back. Och, Shorsha! you, edicated in ould Ireland, to say that the Irish owes anything good to the plundering villains--the Siol Loughlin." "They owe them half their traditions, Murtagh, and amongst others Finn-ma- Coul and the burnt finger; and if ever I publish the Loughlin songs, I'll tell the world so." "But, Shorsha, the world will never believe ye--to say nothing of the Irish part of it." "Then the world, Murtagh--to say nothing of the Irish part of it--will be a fool, even as I have often thought it; the grand thing, Murtagh, is to be able to believe oneself, and respect oneself. How few whom the world believes, believe and respect themselves." "Och, Shorsha! shall I go on with the tale of Finn?" "I'd rather you should not, Murtagh; I know all about it already." "Then why did you bother me to tell it at first, Shorsha? Och, it was doing my ownself good, and making me forget my own sorrowful state, when ye interrupted me with your thaives of Danes! Och, Shorsha! let me tell you how Finn, by means of sucking his thumb, and the witchcraft he imbibed from it, contrived to pull off the arm of the ould wagabone, Darmod David Odeen, whilst shaking hands with him--for Finn could do no feat of strength without sucking his thumb, Shorsha, as Conan the Bald told the son of Oisin in the song which I used to sing ye in Dungarvon times of old;" and here Murtagh repeated certain Irish words to the following effect:-- "O little the foolish words I heed, O Oisin's son, from thy lips which come; No strength were in Finn for valorous deed, Unless to the gristle he suck'd his thumb." "Enough is as good as a feast, Murtagh, I am no longer in the cue for Finn. I would rather hear your own history. Now, tell us, man, all that has happened to ye since Dungarvon times of old?" "Och, Shorsha, it would be merely bringing all my sorrows back upon me!" "Well, if I know all your sorrows, perhaps I shall be able to find a help for them. I owe you much, Murtagh; you taught me Irish, and I will do all I can to help you." "Why, then, Shorsha, I'll tell ye my history. Here goes!" CHAPTER XLV. MURTAGH'S TALE. "Well, Shorsha, about a year and a half after you left us--and a sorrowful hour for us it was when ye left us, losing, as we did, your funny stories of your snake--and the battles of your military--they sent me to Paris and Salamanca, in order to make a saggart of me." "Pray excuse me," said I, "for interrupting you, but what kind of place is Salamanca?" "Divil a bit did I ever see of it, Shorsha!" "Then why did you say you were sent there? Well, what kind of place is Paris? Not that I care much about Paris." "Sorrow a bit did I ever see of either of them, Shorsha, for no one sent me to either. When we says at home a person is going to Paris and Salamanca, it manes that he is going abroad to study to be a saggart, whether he goes to them places or not. No, I never saw either--bad luck to them--I was shipped away from Cork up the straits to a place called Leghorn, from which I was sent to . . . to a religious house, where I was to be instructed in saggarting till they had made me fit to cut a decent figure in Ireland. We had a long and tedious voyage, Shorsha; not so tedious, however, as it would have been had I been fool enough to lave your pack of cards behind me, as the thaif, my brother Denis, wanted to persuade me to do, in order that he might play with them himself. With the cards I managed to have many a nice game with the sailors, winning from them ha'pennies and sixpences until the captain said that I was ruining his men, and keeping them from their duty; and, being a heretic and a Dutchman, swore that unless I gave over he would tie me up to the mast and give me a round dozen. This threat obliged me to be more on my guard, though I occasionally contrived to get a game at night, and to win sixpences and ha'pennies. "We reached Leghorn at last, and glad I was to leave the ship and the master, who gave me a kick as I was getting over the side, bad luck to the dirty heretic for kicking a son of the Church, for I have always been a true son of the Church, Shorsha, and never quarrelled with it unless it interfered with me in my playing at cards. I left Leghorn with certain muleteers with whom I played at cards at the baiting-houses, and who speedily won from me all the ha'pennies and sixpences I had won from the sailors. I got my money's worth, however, for I learnt from the muleteers all kind of quaint tricks upon the cards, which I knew nothing of before; so I did not grudge them what they chated me of, and when we parted we did so in kindness on both sides. On getting to . . . I was received into the religious house for Irishes. It was the Irish house, Shorsha, into which I was taken, for I do not wish ye to suppose that I was in the English religious house which there is in that city, in which a purty set are educated, and in which purty doings are going on, if all tales be true. "In this Irish house I commenced my studies, learning to sing and to read the Latin prayers of the church. 'Faith, Shorsha, many's the sorrowful day I passed in that house learning the prayers and litanies, being half- starved, with no earthly diversion at all, at all; until I took the cards out of my chest and began instructing in card-playing the chum which I had with me in the cell; then I had plenty of diversion along with him during the times when I was not engaged in singing, and chanting, and saying the prayers of the church; there was, however, some drawback in playing with my chum, for though he was very clever in learning, divil a sixpence had he to play with, in which respect he was like myself, the master who taught him, who had lost all my money to the muleteers who taught me the tricks upon the cards; by degrees, however, it began to be noised about the religious house that Murtagh, from Hibrodary, {281} had a pack of cards with which he played with his chum in the cell; whereupon other scholars of the religious house came to me, some to be taught and others to play, so with some I played, and others I taught, but neither to those who could play, or to those who could not, did I teach the elegant tricks which I learnt from the muleteers. Well, the scholars came to me for the sake of the cards, and the porter and the cook of the religious house, who could both play very well, came also; at last I became tired of playing for nothing, so I borrowed a few bits of silver from the cook, and played against the porter, and by means of my tricks I won money from the porter, and then I paid the cook the bits of silver which I had borrowed of him; and played with him, and won a little of his money, which I let him win back again, as I had lived long enough in a religious house to know that it is dangerous to take money from the cook. In a little time, Shorsha, there was scarcely anything going on in the house but card-playing; the almoner played with me, and so did the sub- rector, and I won money from both; not too much, however, lest they should tell the rector, who had the character of a very austere man, and of being a bit of a saint; however, the thief of a porter, whose money I had won, informed the rector of what was going on, and one day the rector sent for me into his private apartment, and gave me so long and pious a lecture upon the heinous sin of card-playing, that I thought I should sink into the ground; after about half-an-hour's inveighing against card- playing, he began to soften his tone, and with a long sigh told me that at one time of his life he had been a young man himself, and had occasionally used the cards; he then began to ask me some questions about card-playing, which questions I afterwards found were to pump from me what I knew about the science. After a time he asked me whether I had got my cards with me, and on my telling him I had, he expressed a wish to see them, whereupon I took the pack out of my pocket, and showed it to him; he looked at it very attentively, and at last, giving another deep sigh, he said, that though he was nearly weaned from the vanities of the world, he had still an inclination to see whether he had entirely lost the little skill which at one time he possessed. When I heard him speak in this manner, I told him that if his reverence was inclined for a game of cards, I should be very happy to play one with him; scarcely had I uttered these words than he gave a third sigh, and looked so very much like a saint that I was afraid he was going to excommunicate me. Nothing of the kind, however, for presently he gets up and locks the door, then sitting down at the table, he motioned me to do the same, which I did, and in five minutes there we were playing at cards, his reverence and myself. "I soon found that his reverence knew quite as much about card-playing as I did. Divil a trick was there connected with cards that his reverence did not seem awake to. As, however, we were not playing for money, this circumstance did not give me much uneasiness; so we played game after game for two hours, when his reverence, having business, told me I might go, so I took up my cards, made my obedience, and left him. The next day I had other games with him, and so on for a very long time, still playing for nothing. At last his reverence grew tired of playing for nothing, and proposed that we should play for money. Now, I had no desire to play with his reverence for money, as I knew that doing so would bring on a quarrel. As long as we were playing for nothing, I could afford to let his reverence use what tricks he pleased; but if we played for money, I couldn't do so. If he played his tricks, I must play mine, and use every advantage to save my money; and there was one I possessed which his reverence did not. The cards being my own, I had put some delicate little marks on the trump cards, just at the edges, so that when I dealt, by means of a little sleight of hand I could deal myself any trump card I pleased. But I wished, as I said before, to have no dealings for money with his reverence, knowing that he was master in the house, and that he could lead me a dog of a life if I offended him, either by winning his money, or not letting him win mine. So I told him I had no money to play with, but the ould thief knew better; he knew that I was every day winning money from the scholars, and the sub-rector, and the other people of the house, and the ould thief had determined to let me go on in that way winning money, and then by means of his tricks, which he thought I dare not resent, to win from me all my earnings--in a word, Shorsha, to let me fill myself like a sponge, and then squeeze me for his own advantage. So he made me play with him, and in less than three days came on the quarrel; his reverence chated me, and I chated his reverence; the ould thaif knew every trick that I knew, and one or two more; but in daling out the cards I nicked his reverence; scarcely a trump did I ever give him, Shorsha, and won his money purty freely. Och, it was a purty quarrel! All the delicate names in the 'Newgate Calendar,' if ye ever heard of such a book; all the hang-dog names in the Newgate histories, and the lives of Irish rogues, did we call each other--his reverence and I! Suddenly, however, putting out his hand, he seized the cards, saying, 'I will examine these cards, ye cheating scoundrel! for I believe there are dirty marks on them, which ye have made in order to know the winning cards.' 'Give me back my pack,' said I, 'or m'anam on Dioul if I be not the death of ye!' His reverence, however, clapped the cards into his pocket, and made the best of his way to the door, I hanging upon him. He was a gross, fat man, but like most fat men, deadly strong, so he forced his way to the door, and, opening it, flung himself out, with me still holding on him like a terrier dog on a big fat pig; then he shouts for help, and in a little time I was secured and thrust into a lock-up room, where I was left to myself. Here was a purty alteration. Yesterday I was the idol of the religious house, thought more on than his reverence, every one paying me court and wurtship, and wanting to play cards with me, and to learn my tricks, and fed, moreover, on the tidbits of the table; and to-day I was in a cell, nobody coming to look at me but the blackguard porter who had charge of me, my cards taken from me, and with nothing but bread and water to live upon. Time passed dreary enough for a month, at the end of which time his reverence came to me, leaving the porter just outside the door in order to come to his help should I be violent; and then he read me a very purty lecture on my conduct, saying I had turned the religious house topsy-turvy, and corrupted the scholars, and that I was the cheat of the world, for that, on inspecting the pack, he had discovered the dirty marks which I had made upon the trump cards for to know them by. He said a great deal more to me, which is not worth relating, and ended by telling me that he intended to let me out of confinement next day, but that if ever I misconducted myself any more, he would clap me in again for the rest of my life. I had a good mind to call him an ould thaif, but the hope of getting out made me hold my tongue, and the next day I was let out; and need enough I had to be let out, for what with being alone, and living on the bread and water, I was becoming frighted, or, as the doctors call it, narvous. But when I was out--oh, what a change I found in the religious house! no card-playing, for it had been forbidden to the scholars, and there was now nothing going on but reading and singing; divil a merry visage to be seen, but plenty of prim airs and graces; but the case of the scholars, though bad enough, was not half so bad as mine, for they could spake to each other, whereas I could not have a word of conversation, for the ould thaif of a rector had ordered them to send me to 'Coventry,' telling them that I was a gambling cheat, with morals bad enough to corrupt a horse regiment; and whereas they were allowed to divert themselves with going out, I was kept reading and singing from morn till night. The only soul who was willing to exchange a word with me was the cook, and sometimes he and I had a little bit of discourse in a corner, and we condoled with each other, for he liked the change in the religious house almost as little as myself; but he told me that, for all the change below stairs, there was still card-playing going on above, for that the ould thaif of a rector, and the sub-rector, and the almoner played at cards together, and that the rector won money from the others--the almoner had told him so--and, moreover, that the rector was the thaif of the world, and had been a gambler in his youth, and had once been kicked out of a club-house at Dublin for cheating at cards, and after that circumstance had apparently reformed and lived decently till the time when I came to the religious house with my pack, but that the sight of that had brought him back to his ould gambling. He told the cook, moreover, that the rector frequently went out at night to the houses of the great clergy and cheated at cards. "In this melancholy state, with respect to myself, things continued a long time, when suddenly there was a report that his Holiness the Pope intended to pay a visit to the religious house in order to examine into its state of discipline. When I heard this I was glad, for I determined, after the Pope had done what he had come to do, to fall upon my knees before him, and make a regular complaint of the treatment I had received, to tell him of the cheatings at cards of the rector, and to beg him to make the ould thaif give me back my pack again. So the day of the visit came, and his Holiness made his appearance with his attendants, and, having looked over the religious house, he went into the rector's room with the rector, the sub-rector, and the almoner. I intended to have waited until his Holiness came out, but finding he stayed a long time, I thought I would e'en go in to him, so I went up to the door without anybody observing me--his attendants being walking about the corridor--and opening it I slipped in, and there what do you think I saw? Why, his Holiness the Pope, and his reverence the rector, and the sub-rector, and the almoner seated at cards; and the ould thaif of a rector was dealing out the cards which ye had given me, Shorsha, to his Holiness the Pope, the sub-rector, the almoner, and himself." In this part of his history I interrupted Murtagh, saying that I was afraid he was telling untruths, and that it was highly improbable that the Pope would leave the Vatican to play cards with Irish at their religious house, and that I was sure if on his, Murtagh's authority, I were to tell the world so, the world would never believe it. "Then the world, Shorsha, would be a fool, even as you were just now saying you had frequently believed it to be; the grand thing, Shorsha, is to be able to believe oneself; if ye can do that, it matters very little whether the world believes ye or no. But a purty thing for you and the world to stickle at the Pope's playing at cards at a religious house of Irish; och! if I were to tell you, and the world, what the Pope has been sometimes at, at the religious house of English thaives, I would excuse you and the world for turning up your eyes. However, I wish to say nothing against the Pope. I am a son of the Church, and if the Pope don't interfere with my cards, divil a bit will I have to say against him; but I saw the Pope playing, or about to play, with the pack which had been taken from me, and when I told the Pope, the Pope did not . . . ye had better let me go on with my history, Shorsha; whither you or the world believe it or not, I am sure it is quite as true as your tale of the snake, or saying that Finn got his burnt finger from the thaives of Loughlin; and whatever you may say, I am sure the world will think so too." I apologised to Murtagh for interrupting him, and telling him that his history, whether true or not, was infinitely diverting, begged him to continue it. CHAPTER XLVI. MURTAGH'S STORY CONTINUED--THE PRIEST, EXORCIST, AND THIMBLE-ENGRO--HOW TO CHECK A REBELLION. "I was telling ye, Shorsha, when ye interrupted me, that I found the Pope, the rector, the sub-rector, and the almoner seated at the table, the rector, with my pack of cards in his hand, about to deal out to the Pope and the rest, not forgetting himself, for whom he intended all the trump-cards no doubt. No sooner did they perceive me than they seemed taken all aback; but the rector, suddenly starting up with the cards in his hand, asked me what I did there, threatening to have me well disciplined if I did not go about my business; 'I am come for my pack,' said I, 'ye ould thaif, and to tell his Holiness how I have been treated by ye;' then, going down on my knees before his Holiness, I said, 'Arrah, now, your Holiness! will ye not see justice done to a poor boy who has been sadly misused? The pack of cards which that old ruffian has in his hand are my cards, which he has taken from me, in order to chate with. Arrah! don't play with him, your Holiness, for he'll only chate ye--there are dirty marks upon the cards which bear the trumps, put there in order to know them by; and the ould thaif in daling out will give himself all the good cards, and chate ye of the last farthing in your pocket; so let them be taken from him, your Holiness, and given back to me; and order him to lave the room, and then, if your Holiness be for an honest game, don't think I'm the boy to baulk ye. I'll take the ould ruffian's place, and play with ye till evening, and all night besides, and divil an advantage will I take of the dirty marks, though I know them all, having placed them on the cards myself.' I was going on in this way when the ould thaif of a rector, flinging down the cards, made at me as if to kick me out of the room, whereupon I started up, and said, 'If ye are for kicking, sure two can play at that;' and then I kicked at his reverence, and his reverence at me, and there was a regular scrimmage between us, which frightened the Pope, who, getting up, said some words which I did not understand, but which the cook afterwards told me were, 'English extravagance, and this is the second edition;' for it seems that, a little time before, his Holiness had been frightened in St. Peter's Church by the servant of an English family, which those thaives of the English religious house had been endeavouring to bring over to the Catholic faith, and who didn't approve of their being converted. Och! his Holiness did us all sore injustice to call us English, and to confound our house with the other; for however dirty our house might be, our house was a clane house compared with the English house, and we honest people compared with those English thaives. Well, his Holiness was frighted, and the almoner ran out and brought in his Holiness's attendants, and they laid hold of me, but I struggled hard, and said, 'I will not go without my pack; arrah, your Holiness! make them give me back my pack, which Shorsha gave me in Dungarvon times of old;' but my struggles were of no use. I was pulled away and put in the ould dungeon, and his Holiness went away sore frighted, crossing himself much, and never returned again. "In the ould dungeon I was fastened to the wall by a chain and there I was disciplined once every other day for the first three weeks, and then I was left to myself, and my chain, and hunger; and there I sat in the dungeon, sometimes screeching, sometimes holloaing, for I soon became frighted, having nothing in the cell to divert me. At last the cook found his way to me by stealth, and comforted me a little, bringing me tidbits out of the kitchen; and he visited me again and again--not often, however, for he dare only come when he could steal away the key from the custody of the thief of a porter. I was three years in the dungeon, and should have gone mad but for the cook, and his words of comfort, and his tidbits, and nice books which he brought me out of the library, which were the 'Calendars of Newgate,' and the 'Lives of Irish Rogues and Raparees,' the only English books in the library. However, at the end of three years, the ould thaif of a rector, wishing to look at them books, missed them from the library, and made a perquisition about them, and the thaif of a porter said that he shouldn't wonder if I had them; saying that he had once seen me reading; and then the rector came with others to my cell, and took my books from me, from under my straw, and asked me how I came by them; and on my refusal to tell, they disciplined me again till the blood ran down my back; and making more perquisition, they at last accused the cook of having carried the books to me, and the cook not denying, he was given warning to leave next day, but he left that night, and took me away with him; for he stole the key, and came to me and cut my chain through, and then he and I escaped from the religious house through a window--the cook with a bundle, containing what things he had. No sooner had we got out than the honest cook gave me a little bit of money and a loaf, and told me to follow a way which he pointed out, which he said would lead to the sea; and then, having embraced me after the Italian way, he left me, and I never saw him again. So I followed the way which the cook pointed out, and in two days reached a sea-port called Chiviter Vik, terribly foot-foundered, and there I met a sailor who spoke Irish, and who belonged to a vessel just ready to sail for France; and the sailor took me on board his vessel, and said I was his brother, and the captain gave me a passage to a place in France called Marseilles; and when I got there, the captain and sailor got a little money for me and a passport, and I travelled across the country towards a place they directed me to called Bayonne, from which they said I might, perhaps, get to Ireland. Coming however, to a place called Pau, all my money being gone, I enlisted into a regiment called the Army of the Faith, which was going into Spain, for the King of Spain had been dethroned and imprisoned by his own subjects, as perhaps you may have heard; and the King of France, who was his cousin, was sending an army to help him, under the command of his own son, whom the English called Prince Hilt, because when he was told that he was appointed to the command, he clapped his hand on the hilt of his sword. So I enlisted into the regiment of the Faith, which was made up of Spaniards, many of them priests who had run out of Spain, and broken Germans, and foot-foundered Irish, like myself. It was said to be a blackguard regiment, that same regiment of the Faith; but, 'faith, I saw nothing blackguardly going on in it, for ye would hardly reckon card-playing and dominoes, and pitch and toss blackguardly, and I saw nothing else going on in it. There was one thing in it which I disliked--the priests drawing their Spanish knives occasionally, when they lost their money. After we had been some time at Pau, the Army of the Faith was sent across the mountains into Spain, as the vanguard of the French; and no sooner did the Spaniards see the Faith than they made a dash at it, and the Faith ran away, myself along with it, and got behind the French army, which told it to keep there, and the Faith did so, and followed the French army, which soon scattered the Spaniards, and in the end placed the king on his throne again. When the war was over the Faith was disbanded; some of the foreigners, however, amongst whom I was one, were put into a Guard regiment, and there I continued for more than a year. "One day, being at a place called the Escurial, I took stock, as the tradesmen say, and found I possessed the sum of eighty dollars, won by playing at cards; for though I could not play so well with the foreign cards as with the pack ye gave me, Shorsha, I had yet contrived to win money from the priests and soldiers of the Faith. Finding myself possessed of such a capital I determined to leave the service, and to make the best of my way to Ireland; so I deserted, but coming in an evil hour to a place they calls Torre Lodones, I found the priest playing at cards with his parishioners. The sight of the cards made me stop, and then, fool like, notwithstanding the treasure I had about me, I must wish to play, so not being able to speak their language I made signs to them to let me play, and the priest and his thaives consented willingly; so I sat down to cards with the priest and two of his parishioners, and in a little time had won plenty of their money, but I had better never have done any such a thing, for suddenly the priest and all his parishioners set upon me and bate me, and took from me all I had, and cast me out of the village more dead than alive. Och! it's a bad village that, and if I had known what it was I would have avoided it, or run straight through it, though I saw all the card-playing in the world going on in it. There is a proverb about it, as I was afterwards told, old as the time of the Moors, which holds good to the present day--it is, that in Torre Lodones there are twenty-four housekeepers, and twenty-five thieves, maning that all the people are thaives, and the clergyman to boot, who is not reckoned a housekeeper; and troth I found the clergyman the greatest thaif of the lot. After being cast out of that village I travelled for nearly a month, subsisting by begging tolerably well, for though most of the Spaniards are thaives, they are rather charitable; but though charitable thaives they do not like their own being taken from them without leave being asked, as I found to my cost; for on my entering a garden near Seville, without leave, to take an orange, the labourer came running up and struck me to the ground with a hatchet, giving me a big wound in the arm. I fainted with loss of blood, and on my reviving I found myself in a hospital at Seville, to which the labourer and the people of the village had taken me. I should have died of starvation in that hospital had not some English people heard of me and come to see me; they tended me with food till I was cured, and then paid my passage on board a ship to London, to which place the ship carried me. "And now I was in London with five shillings in my pocket--all I had in the world--and that did not last for long; and when it was gone I begged in the streets, but I did not get much by that, except a month's hard labour in the correction-house; and when I came out I knew not what to do, but thought I would take a walk in the country, for it was springtime, and the weather was fine, so I took a walk about seven miles from London, and came to a place where a great fair was being held; and there I begged, but got nothing but a half-penny, and was thinking of going farther, when I saw a man with a table, like that of mine, playing with thimbles, as you saw me. I looked at the play, and saw him win money and run away, and hunted by constables more than once. I kept following the man, and at last entered into conversation with him; and learning from him that he was in want of a companion to help him, I offered to help him if he would pay me; he looked at me from top to toe, and did not wish at first to have anything to do with me, as he said my appearance was against me. 'Faith, Shorsha, he had better have looked at home, for his appearance was not much in his favour: he looked very much like a Jew, Shorsha. However, he at last agreed to take me to be his companion, or bonnet as he called it; and I was to keep a look-out, and let him know when constables were coming, and to spake a good word for him occasionally, whilst he was chating folks with his thimbles and his pea. So I became his bonnet, and assisted him in the fair, and in many other fairs beside; but I did not like my occupation much, or rather my master, who, though not a big man, was a big thaif, and an unkind one, for do all I could I could never give him pleasure; and he was continually calling me fool and bogtrotter, and twitting me because I could not learn his thaives' Latin, and discourse with him in it, and comparing me with another acquaintance, or bit of a pal of his, whom he said he had parted with in the fair, and of whom he was fond of saying all kinds of wonderful things, amongst others, that he knew the grammar of all tongues. At last, wearied with being twitted by him with not being able to learn his thaives' Greek, I proposed that I should teach him Irish, that we should spake it together when we had anything to say in sacret. To that he consented willingly; but, och! a purty hand he made with Irish, 'faith, not much better than did I with his thaives' Hebrew. Then my turn came, and I twitted him nicely with dulness, and compared him with a pal that I had in ould Ireland, in Dungarvon times of yore, to whom I teached Irish, telling him that he was the broth of a boy, and not only knew the grammar of all human tongues, but the dialects of the snakes besides; in fact, I tould him all about your own sweet self, Shorsha, and many a dispute and quarrel had we together about our pals, which was the cleverest fellow, his or mine. "Well, after having been wid him about two months, I quitted him without noise, taking away one of his tables, and some peas and thimbles; and that I did with a safe conscience, for he paid me nothing, and was not over free with the meat and the drink, though I must say of him that he was a clever fellow, and perfect master of his trade, by which he made a power of money, and bating his not being able to learn Irish, and a certain Jewish lisp which he had, a great master of his tongue, of which he was very proud; so much so, that he once told me that when he had saved a certain sum of money he meant to leave off the thimbling business, and enter Parliament; into which, he said, he could get at any time, through the interest of a friend of his, a Tory Peer--my Lord Whitefeather, with whom, he said, he had occasionally done business. With the table, and other things which I had taken, I commenced trade on my own account, having contrived to learn a few of his tricks. My only capital was the change for half-a-guinea, which he had once let fall, and which I picked up, which was all I could ever get from him: for it was impossible to stale any money from him, he was so awake, being up to all the tricks of thaives, having followed the diving trade, as he called it, for a considerable time. My wish was to make enough by my table to enable me to return with credit to ould Ireland, where I had no doubt of being able to get myself ordained as priest; and, in troth, notwithstanding I was a beginner, and without any companion to help me, I did tolerably well, getting my meat and drink, and increasing my small capital, till I came to this unlucky place of Horncastle, where I was utterly ruined by the thaif in the rider's dress. And now, Shorsha, I am after telling you my history; perhaps you will now be telling me something about yourself?" I told Murtagh all about myself that I deemed necessary to relate, and then asked him what he intended to do; he repeated that he was utterly ruined, and that he had no prospect before him but starving, or making away with himself. I inquired "How much would take him to Ireland, and establish him there with credit." "Five pounds," he answered, adding, "but who in the world would be fool enough to lend me five pounds, unless it be yourself, Shorsha, who, may be, have not got it; for when you told me about yourself, you made no boast of the state of your affairs." "I am not very rich," I replied, "but I think I can accommodate you with what you want. I consider myself under great obligations to you, Murtagh; it was you who instructed me in the language of Oilein nan Naomha, which has been the foundation of all my acquisitions in philology; without you I should not be what I am--Lavengro! which signifies a philologist. Here is the money, Murtagh," said I, putting my hand into my pocket and taking out five pounds; "much good may it do you." He took the money, stared at it, and then at me--"And you mane to give me this, Shorsha?" "It is no longer mine to give," said I; "it is yours." "And you give it me for the gratitude you bear me?" "Yes," said I, "and for Dungarvon times of old." "Well, Shorsha," said he, "you are a broth of a boy, and I'll take your benefaction--five pounds! och, Jasus!" He then put the money in his pocket, and springing up, waved his hat three times, uttering some old Irish cry; then, sitting down, he took my hand and said, "Sure, Shorsha, I'll be going thither; and when I get there, it is turning over another leaf I will be; I have learnt a thing or two abroad; I will become a priest; that's the trade, Shorsha! and I will cry out for repale; that's the cry, Shorsha! and I'll be a fool no longer." "And what will you do with your table?" said I. "'Faith, I'll be taking it with me, Shorsha; and when I gets to Ireland, I'll get it mended, and I will keep it in the house which I shall have; and when I looks upon it, I will be thinking of all I have undergone." "You had better leave it behind you," said I; "if you take it with you, you will perhaps take up the thimble trade again before you get to Ireland, and lose the money I am after giving you." "No fear of that, Shorsha; never will I play on that table again, Shorsha, till I get it mended, which shall not be till I am a priest, and have a house in which to place it." Murtagh and I then went into the town, where we had some refreshment together, and then parted on our several ways. I heard nothing of him for nearly a quarter of a century, when a person who knew him well, coming from Ireland, and staying at my humble house, told me a great deal about him. He reached Ireland in safety, soon reconciled himself with his Church, and was ordained a priest; in the priestly office he acquitted himself in a way very satisfactory, upon the whole, to his superiors, having, as he frequently said, learned wisdom abroad. The Popish Church never fails to turn to account any particular gift which its servants may possess; and discovering soon that Murtagh was endowed with considerable manual dexterity--proof of which he frequently gave at cards, and at a singular game which he occasionally played with thimbles--it selected him as a very fit person to play the part of exorcist; and accordingly he travelled through a great part of Ireland, casting out devils from people possessed, which he afterwards exhibited, sometimes in the shape of rabbits, and occasionally birds and fish. There is a holy island in a lake in Ireland, to which the people resort at a particular season of the year. Here Murtagh frequently attended, and it was here that he performed a cure which will cause his name long to be remembered in Ireland, delivering a possessed woman of two demons, which he brandished aloft in his hands, in the shape of two large eels, and subsequently hurled into the lake, amidst the shouts of an enthusiastic multitude. Besides playing the part of an exorcist, he acted that of a politician with considerable success; he attached himself to the party of the sire of agitation--"the man of paunch," and preached and hallooed for repeal with the loudest and best, as long as repeal was the cry; as soon, however, as the Whigs attained the helm of Government, and the greater part of the loaves and fishes--more politely termed the patronage of Ireland--was placed at the disposition of the priesthood, the tone of Murtagh, like that of the rest of his brother saggarts, was considerably softened; he even went so far as to declare that politics were not altogether consistent with sacerdotal duty; and resuming his exorcisms, which he had for some time abandoned, he went to the Isle of Holiness, and delivered a possessed woman of six demons in the shape of white mice. He, however, again resumed the political mantle in the year 1848, during the short period of the rebellion of the so-called Young Irelanders. The priests, though they apparently sided with this party, did not approve of it, as it was chiefly formed of ardent young men, fond of what they termed liberty, and by no means admirers of priestly domination, being mostly Protestants. Just before the outbreak of this rebellion, it was determined between the priests and the . . ., that this party should be rendered comparatively innocuous by being deprived of the sinews of war--in other words, certain sums of money which they had raised for their enterprise. Murtagh was deemed the best qualified person in Ireland to be entrusted with the delicate office of getting their money from them. Having received his instructions, he invited the leaders to his parsonage amongst the mountains, under pretence of deliberating with them about what was to be done. They arrived there just before nightfall, dressed in red, yellow, and green, the colours so dear to enthusiastic Irishmen; Murtagh received them with great apparent cordiality, and entered into a long discourse with them, promising them the assistance of himself and order, and received from them a profusion of thanks. After a time Murtagh, observing in a jocular tone that consulting was dull work, proposed a game of cards, and the leaders, though somewhat surprised, assenting, he went to a closet, and taking out a pack of cards, laid it upon the table; it was a strange dirty pack, and exhibited every mark of having seen very long service. On one of his guests making some remarks on the "ancientness" of its appearance, Murtagh observed that there was a very wonderful history attached to that pack; it had been presented to him, he said, by a young gentleman, a disciple of his, to whom, in Dungarvon times of yore, he had taught the Irish language, and of whom he related some very extraordinary things; he added that he, Murtagh, had taken it to . . ., where it had once the happiness of being in the hands of the Holy Father; by a great misfortune, he did not say what, he had lost possession of it, and had returned without it, but had some time since recovered it; a nephew of his, who was being educated at . . . for a priest, having found it in a nook of the college, and sent it to him. Murtagh and the leaders then played various games with this pack, more especially one called by the initiated "blind hookey," the result being that at the end of about two hours the leaders found they had lost one- half of their funds; they now looked serious, and talked of leaving the house, but Murtagh begging them to stay to supper, they consented. After supper, at which the guests drank rather freely, Murtagh said that, as he had not the least wish to win their money, he intended to give them their revenge; he would not play at cards with them, he added, but at a funny game of thimbles, at which they would be sure of winning back their own; then going out, he brought in a table, tall and narrow, on which placing certain thimbles and a pea, he proposed that they should stake whatever they pleased on the almost certainty of finding the pea under the thimbles. The leaders, after some hesitation, consented, and were at first eminently successful, winning back the greater part of what they had lost; after some time, however, Fortune, or rather Murtagh, turned against them, and then instead of leaving off, they doubled and trebled their stakes, and continued doing so until they had lost nearly the whole of their funds. Quite furious, they now swore that Murtagh had cheated them, and insisted on having their property restored to them. Murtagh, without a word of reply, went to the door, and shouting into the passage something in Irish, the room was instantly filled with bogtrotters, each at least six feet high, with a stout shillealah in his hand. Murtagh then, turning to his guests, asked them what they meant by insulting an anointed priest; telling them that it was not for the likes of them to avenge the wrongs of Ireland. "I have been clane mistaken in the whole of ye," said he; "I supposed ye Irish, but have found, to my sorrow, that ye are nothing of the kind; purty fellows to pretend to be Irish, when there is not a word of Irish on the tongue of any of ye, divil a ha'porth; the illigant young gentleman to whom I taught Irish, in Dungarvon times of old, though not born in Ireland, has more Irish in him than any ten of ye. He is the boy to avenge the wrongs of Ireland, if ever foreigner is to do it." Then saying something to the bogtrotters, they instantly cleared the room of the young Irelanders, who retired sadly disconcerted; nevertheless, being very silly young fellows, they hoisted the standard of rebellion; few, however, joining them, partly because they had no money, and partly because the priests abused them with might and main, their rebellion ended in a lamentable manner; themselves being seized and tried, and though convicted, not deemed of sufficient importance to be sent to the scaffold, where they might have had the satisfaction of saying-- "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." My visitor, after saying that of the money won, Murtagh retained a considerable portion, that a part went to the hierarchy for what were called church purposes, and that the . . . took the remainder, which it employed in establishing a newspaper, in which the private characters of the worthiest and most loyal Protestants in Ireland were traduced and vilified, concluded his account by observing, that it was the common belief that Murtagh, having by his services, ecclesiastical and political, acquired the confidence of the priesthood and favour of the Government, would, on the first vacancy, be appointed to the high office of Popish Primate of Ireland. CHAPTER XLVII. DEPARTURE FROM HORNCASTLE--RECRUITING SERGEANT--KAULOES AND LOLLOES. Leaving Horncastle, I bent my steps in the direction of the east. I walked at a brisk rate, and late in the evening reached a large town, situate at the entrance of an extensive firth, or arm of the sea, which prevented my farther progress eastward. Sleeping that night in the suburbs of the town, I departed early next morning in the direction of the south. A walk of about twenty miles brought me to another large town, situated on a river, where I again turned towards the east. At the end of the town I was accosted by a fiery-faced individual, somewhat under the middle size, dressed as a recruiting sergeant. "Young man," said the recruiting sergeant, "you are just the kind of person to serve the Honourable East India Company." "I had rather the Honourable Company should serve me," said I. "Of course, young man. Well, the Honourable East India Company shall serve you--that's reasonable. Here, take this shilling; 'tis service- money. The Honourable Company engages to serve you, and you the Honourable Company; both parties shall be thus served; that's just and reasonable." "And what must I do for the Company?" "Only go to India; that's all." "And what should I do in India?" "Fight, my brave boy! fight, my youthful hero!" "What kind of country is India?" "The finest country in the world! Rivers, bigger than the Ouse. Hills, higher than anything near Spalding! Trees--you never saw such trees! Fruits--you never saw such fruits!" "And the people--what kind of folk are they?" "Pah! Kauloes--blacks--a set of rascals not worth regarding." "Kauloes!" said I; "blacks!" "Yes," said the recruiting sergeant; "and they call us lolloes, which, in their beastly gibberish, means reds." "Lolloes!" said I; "reds!" "Yes," said the recruiting sergeant, "kauloes and lolloes; and all the lolloes have to do is to kick and cut down the kauloes, and take from them their rupees, which mean silver money. Why do you stare so?" "Why," said I, "this is the very language of Mr. Petulengro." "Mr. Pet . . .?" "Yes," said I, "and Tawno Chikno." "Tawno Chik . . .? I say, young fellow, I don't like your way of speaking; no, nor your way of looking. You are mad, sir; you are mad; and what's this? Why, your hair is grey! You won't do for the Honourable Company--they like red. I'm glad I didn't give you the shilling. Good day to you." "I shouldn't wonder," said I, as I proceeded rapidly along a broad causeway, in the direction of the east, "if Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno came originally from India. I think I'll go there." APPENDIX. CHAPTER I. A WORD FOR LAVENGRO. Lavengro is the history up to a certain period of one of rather a peculiar mind and system of nerves, with an exterior shy and cold, under which lurk much curiosity, especially with regard to what is wild and extraordinary, a considerable quantity of energy and industry, and an unconquerable love of independence. It narrates his earliest dreams and feelings, dwells with minuteness on the ways, words, and characters of his father, mother, and brother, lingers on the occasional resting-places of his wandering, half-military childhood, describes the gradual hardening of his bodily frame by robust exercises, his successive struggles, after his family and himself have settled down in a small local capital, to obtain knowledge of every kind, but more particularly philological lore; his visits to the tent of the Romany chal, and the parlour of the Anglo-German philosopher; the effect produced upon his character by his flinging himself into contact with people all widely differing from each other, but all extraordinary; his reluctance to settle down to the ordinary pursuits of life; his struggles after moral truth; his glimpses of God and the obscuration of the Divine Being to his mind's eye; and his being cast upon the world of London by the death of his father, at the age of nineteen. In the world within a world, the world of London, it shows him playing his part for some time as he best can, in the capacity of a writer for reviews and magazines, and describes what he saw and underwent whilst labouring in that capacity; it represents him, however, as never forgetting that he is the son of a brave but poor gentleman, and that if he is a hack author, he is likewise a scholar. It shows him doing no dishonourable jobs, and proves that if he occasionally associates with low characters, he does so chiefly to gratify the curiosity of a scholar. In his conversations with the apple-woman of London Bridge, the scholar is ever apparent, so again in his acquaintance with the man of the table, for the book is no raker up of the uncleanness of London, and if it gives what at first sight appears refuse, it invariably shows that a pearl of some kind, generally a philological one, is contained amongst it; it shows its hero always accompanied by his love of independence, scorning in the greatest poverty to receive favours from anybody, and describes him finally rescuing himself from peculiarly miserable circumstances by writing a book, an original book, within a week, even as Johnson is said to have written his "Rasselas," and Beckford his "Vathek," and tells how, leaving London, he betakes himself to the roads and fields. In the country it shows him leading a life of roving adventure, becoming tinker, gypsy, postillion, ostler; associating with various kinds of people, chiefly of the lower classes, whose ways and habits are described; but, though leading this erratic life, we gather from the book that his habits are neither vulgar nor vicious, that he still follows to a certain extent his favourite pursuits, hunting after strange characters, or analysing strange words and names. At the conclusion of Chapter XLVII., which terminates the first part of the history, it hints that he is about to quit his native land on a grand philological expedition. Those who read this book with attention--and the author begs to observe that it would be of little utility to read it hurriedly--may derive much information with respect to matters of philology and literature; it will be found treating of most of the principal languages from Ireland to China, and of the literature which they contain; and it is particularly minute with regard to the ways, manners, and speech of the English section of the most extraordinary and mysterious clan or tribe of people to be found in the whole world--the children of Roma. But it contains matters of much more importance than anything in connection with philology, and the literature and manners of nations. Perhaps no work was ever offered to the public in which the kindness and providence of God have been set forth by more striking examples, or the machinations of priestcraft been more truly and lucidly exposed, or the dangers which result to a nation when it abandons itself to effeminacy, and a rage for what is novel and fashionable, than the present. With respect to the kindness and providence of God, are they not exemplified in the case of the old apple-woman and her son. These are beings in many points bad, but with warm affections, who, after an agonising separation, are restored to each other, but not until the hearts of both are changed and purified by the influence of affliction. Are they not exemplified in the case of the rich gentleman, who touches objects in order to avert the evil chance? This being has great gifts and many amiable qualities, but does not everybody see that his besetting sin is selfishness. He fixes his mind on certain objects, and takes inordinate interest in them, because they are his own, and those very objects, through the providence of God, which is kindness in disguise, become snakes and scorpions to whip him. Tired of various pursuits, he at last becomes an author, and publishes a book, which is very much admired, and which he loves with his usual inordinate affection; the book, consequently, becomes a viper to him, and at last he flings it aside and begins another; the book, however, is not flung aside by the world, who are benefited by it, deriving pleasure and knowledge from it; so the man who merely wrote to gratify self, has already done good to others, and got himself an honourable name. But God will not allow that man to put that book under his head and use it as a pillow: the book has become a viper to him, he has banished it, and is about another, which he finishes and gives to the world; it is a better book than the first, and every one is delighted with it; but it proves to the writer a scorpion, because he loves it with inordinate affection; but it was good for the world that he produced this book, which stung him as a scorpion. Yes; and good for himself, for the labour of writing it amused him, and perhaps prevented him from dying of apoplexy; but the book is banished, and another is begun, and herein, again, is the providence of God manifested; the man has the power of producing still, and God determines that he shall give to the world what remains in his brain, which he would not do, had he been satisfied with the second work; he would have gone to sleep upon that as he would upon the first, for the man is selfish and lazy. In his account of what he suffered during the composition of this work, his besetting sin of selfishness is manifest enough; the work on which he is engaged occupies his every thought, it is his idol, his deity, it shall be all his own, he won't borrow a thought from any one else; and he is so afraid lest, when he publishes it, that it should be thought that he had borrowed from any one, that he is continually touching objects, his nervous system, owing to his extreme selfishness, having become partly deranged. He is left touching, in order to banish the evil chance from his book, his deity. No more of his history is given; but does the reader think that God will permit that man to go to sleep on his third book, however extraordinary it may be? Assuredly not. God will not permit that man to rest till he has cured him to a certain extent of his selfishness, which has, however, hitherto been very useful to the world. Then, again, in the tale of Peter Williams, is not the hand of Providence to be seen? This person commits a sin in his childhood, utters words of blasphemy, the remembrance of which, in after life, preying upon his imagination, unfits him for quiet pursuits, to which he seems to have been naturally inclined; but for the remembrance of that sin, he would have been Peter Williams the quiet, respectable Welsh farmer, somewhat fond of reading the ancient literature of his country in winter evenings, after his work was done. God, however, was aware that there was something in Peter Williams to entitle him to assume a higher calling; he therefore permits this sin, which, though a childish affair, was yet a sin and committed deliberately, to prey upon his mind till he becomes at last an instrument in the hand of God, a humble Paul, the great preacher, Peter Williams, who, though he considers himself a reprobate and a castaway, instead of having recourse to drinking in mad desperation, as many do who consider themselves reprobates, goes about Wales and England preaching the word of God, dilating on His power and majesty, and visiting the sick and afflicted, until God sees fit to restore to him his peace of mind; which He does not do, however, until that mind is in a proper condition to receive peace, till it has been purified by the pain of the one idea which has so long been permitted to riot in his brain; which pain, however, an angel, in the shape of a gentle, faithful wife, had occasionally alleviated; for God is merciful even in the blows which He bestoweth, and will not permit any one to be tempted beyond the measure which he can support. And here it will be as well for the reader to ponder upon the means by which the Welsh preacher is relieved from his mental misery: he is not relieved by a text from the Bible, by the words of consolation and wisdom addressed to him by his angel-minded wife, nor by the preaching of one yet more eloquent than himself; but by a quotation made by Lavengro from the life of Mary Flanders, cut-purse and prostitute, which life Lavengro had been in the habit of reading at the stall of his old friend the apple-woman, on London Bridge, who had herself been very much addicted to the perusal of it, though without any profit whatever. Should the reader be dissatisfied with the manner in which Peter Williams is made to find relief, the author would wish to answer, that the Almighty frequently accomplishes His purposes by means which appear very singular to the eyes of men, and at the same time to observe that the manner in which that relief is obtained, is calculated to read a lesson to the proud, fanciful, and squeamish, who are ever in a fidget lest they should be thought to mix in low society, or to bestow a moment's attention on publications which are not what is called of a perfectly unobjectionable character. Had not Lavengro formed the acquaintance of the old apple-woman on London Bridge, he would not have had an opportunity of reading the life of Mary Flanders; and, consequently, of storing in a memory which never forgets anything, a passage which contained a balm for the agonised mind of poor Peter Williams. The best medicines are not always found in the finest shops. Suppose, for example, if, instead of going to London Bridge to read, he had gone to Albemarle Street, and had received from the proprietors of the literary establishment in that very fashionable street permission to read the publications on the tables of the saloons there, does the reader think he would have met any balm in those publications for the case of Peter Williams? does the reader suppose that he would have found Mary Flanders there? He would certainly have found that highly unobjectionable publication, "Rasselas," and the "Spectator," or "Lives of Royal and Illustrious Personages," but, of a surety, no Mary Flanders; so when Lavengro met with Peter Williams, he would have been unprovided with a balm to cure his ulcerated mind, and have parted from him in a way not quite so satisfactory as the manner in which he took his leave of him; for it is certain that he might have read "Rasselas," and all the other unexceptionable works to be found in the library of Albemarle Street, over and over again, before he would have found any cure in them for the case of Peter Williams. Therefore the author requests the reader to drop any squeamish nonsense he may wish to utter about Mary Flanders, and the manner in which Peter Williams was cured. And now with respect to the old man who knew Chinese, but could not tell what was o'clock. This individual was a man whose natural powers would have been utterly buried and lost beneath a mountain of sloth and laziness, had not God determined otherwise. He had in his early years chalked out for himself a plan of life in which he had his own ease and self-indulgence solely in view; he had no particular bad passions to gratify, he only wished to lead an easy, quiet life, just as if the business of this mighty world could be carried on by innocent people fond of ease and quiet, or that Providence would permit innocent, quiet drones to occupy any portion of the earth and to cumber it. God had at any rate decreed that this man should not cumber it as a drone. He brings a certain affliction upon him, the agony of which produces that terrible whirling of the brain which, unless it is stopped in time, produces madness; he suffers indescribable misery for a period, until one morning his attention is arrested, and his curiosity is aroused, by certain Chinese letters on a teapot; his curiosity increases more and more, and, of course, in proportion as his curiosity is increased with respect to the Chinese marks, the misery in his brain, produced by his mental affliction, decreases. He sets about learning Chinese, and after the lapse of many years, during which his mind subsides into a certain state of tranquillity, he acquires sufficient knowledge of Chinese to be able to translate with ease the inscriptions to be found on its singular crockery. Yes, the laziest of human beings, through the providence of God, a being too of rather inferior capacity, acquires the written part of a language so difficult that, as Lavengro said on a former occasion, none but the cleverest people in Europe, the French, are able to acquire it. But God did not intend that man should merely acquire Chinese. He intended that he should be of use to his species, and by the instrumentality of the first Chinese inscription which he translates, the one which first arrested his curiosity, he is taught the duties of hospitality; yes, by means of an inscription in the language of a people who have scarcely an idea of hospitality themselves, God causes the slothful man to play a useful and beneficent part in the world, relieving distressed wanderers, and, amongst others, Lavengro himself. But a striking indication of the man's surprising sloth is still apparent in what he omits to do; he has learnt Chinese, the most difficult of languages, and he practises acts of hospitality, because he believes himself enjoined to do so by the Chinese inscription, but he cannot tell the hour of the day by the clock within his house; he can get on, he thinks, very well without being able to do so; therefore, from this one omission, it is easy to come to a conclusion as to what a sluggard's part the man would have played in life, but for the dispensation of Providence; nothing but extreme agony could have induced such a man to do anything useful. He still continues, with all he has acquired, with all his usefulness, and with all his innocence of character, without any proper sense of religion, though he has attained a rather advanced age. If it be observed that this want of religion is a great defect in the story, the author begs leave to observe that he cannot help it. Lavengro relates the lives of people so far as they were placed before him, but no farther. It was certainly a great defect in so good a man to be without religion; it was likewise a great defect in so learned a man not to be able to tell what was o'clock. It is probable that God, in his loving kindness, will not permit that man to go out of the world without religion; who knows but some powerful minister of the Church, full of zeal for the glory of God, will illume that man's dark mind; perhaps some clergyman will come to the parish who will visit him and teach him his duty to his God. Yes, it is very probable that such a man, before he dies, will have been made to love his God; whether he will ever learn to know what's o'clock, is another matter. It is probable that he will go out of the world without knowing what's o'clock. It is not so necessary to be able to tell the time of day by the clock as to know one's God through his inspired word; a man cannot get to heaven without religion, but a man can get there very comfortably without knowing what's o'clock. But, above all, the care and providence of God are manifested in the case of Lavengro himself, by the manner in which he is enabled to make his way in the world up to a certain period, without falling a prey either to vice or poverty. In his history there is a wonderful illustration of part of the text quoted by his mother, "I have been young, and now am old, yet never saw I the righteous forsaken, or his seed begging bread." He is the son of good and honourable parents, but at the critical period of life, that of entering into the world, he finds himself without any earthly friend to help him, yet he manages to make his way; he does not become a Captain in the Life Guards, it is true, nor does he get into Parliament, nor does the last chapter conclude in the most satisfactory and unobjectionable manner, by his marrying a dowager countess, as that wise man Addison did, or by his settling down as a great country gentleman, perfectly happy and contented, like the very moral Roderick Random, or the equally estimable Peregrine Pickle; he is hack author, gypsy, tinker, and postillion, yet, upon the whole, he seems to be quite as happy as the younger sons of most earls, to have as high feelings of honour; and when the reader loses sight of him, he has money in his pocket honestly acquired, to enable him to commence a journey quite as laudable as those which the younger sons of earls generally undertake. Surely all this is a manifestation of the kindness and providence of God: and yet he is not a religious person; up to the time when the reader loses sight of him, he is decidedly not a religious person; he has glimpses, it is true, of that God who does not forsake him, but he prays very seldom, is not fond of going to church; and, though he admires Tate and Brady's version of the Psalms, his admiration is rather caused by the beautiful poetry which that version contains than the religion; yet his tale is not finished--like the tale of the gentleman who touched objects, and that of the old man who knew Chinese without knowing what was o'clock; perhaps, like them, he is destined to become religious, and to have, instead of occasional glimpses, frequent and distinct views of his God; yet, though he may become religious, it is hardly to be expected that he will become a very precise and strait-laced person; it is probable that he will retain, with his scholarship, something of his gypsyism, his predilection for the hammer and tongs, and perhaps some inclination to put on certain gloves, not white kid, with any friend who may be inclined for a little old English diversion, and a readiness to take a glass of ale, with plenty of malt in it, and as little hop as may well be--ale at least two years old--with the aforesaid friend, when the diversion is over; for, as it is the belief of the writer that a person may get to heaven very comfortably without knowing what's o'clock, so it is his belief that he will not be refused admission there because to the last he has been fond of healthy and invigorating exercises, and felt a willingness to partake of any of the good things which it pleases the Almighty to put within the reach of His children during their sojourn upon earth. CHAPTER II. ON PRIESTCRAFT. The writer will now say a few words about priestcraft, and the machinations of Rome, and will afterwards say something about himself, and his motives for writing against them. With respect to Rome and her machinations, much valuable information can be obtained from particular parts of Lavengro and its sequel. Shortly before the time when the hero of the book is launched into the world, the Popish agitation in England had commenced. The Popish propaganda had determined to make a grand attempt on England; Popish priests were scattered over the land, doing the best they could to make converts to the old superstition. With the plans of Rome, and her hopes, and the reasons on which those hopes are grounded, the hero of the book becomes acquainted during an expedition which he makes into the country, from certain conversations which he holds with a priest in a dingle, in which the hero had taken up his residence; he likewise learns from the same person much of the secret history of the Roman See, and many matters connected with the origin and progress of the Popish superstition. The individual with whom he holds these conversations is a learned, intelligent, but highly-unprincipled person, of a character however very common amongst the priests of Rome, who in general are people void of all religion, and who, notwithstanding they are tied to Rome by a band which they have neither the power nor wish to break, turn her and her practices, over their cups with their confidential associates, to a ridicule only exceeded by that to which they turn those who become the dupes of their mistress and themselves. It is now necessary that the writer should say something with respect to himself, and his motives for waging war against Rome. First of all, with respect to himself, he wishes to state, that to the very last moment of his life, he will do and say all that in his power may be to hold up to contempt and execration the priestcraft and practices of Rome; there is, perhaps, no person better acquainted than himself, not even among the choicest spirits of the priesthood, with the origin and history of Popery. From what he saw and heard of Popery in England, at a very early period of his life, his curiosity was aroused, and he spared himself no trouble, either by travel or study, to make himself well acquainted with it in all its phases, the result being a hatred of it, which he hopes and trusts he shall retain till the moment when his spirit quits the body. Popery is the great lie of the world; a source from which more misery and social degradation have flowed upon the human race, than from all the other sources from which those evils come. It is the oldest of all superstitions; and though in Europe it assumes the name of Christianity, it existed and flourished amidst the Himalayan hills at least two thousand years before the real Christ was born in Bethlehem of Judaea; in a word, it is Buddhism; and let those who may be disposed to doubt this assertion, compare the Popery of Rome, and the superstitious practices of its followers, with the doings of the priests who surround the grand Lama; and the mouthings, bellowing, turnings round, and, above all, the penances of the followers of Buddh with those of Roman devotees. But he is not going to dwell here on this point; it is dwelt upon at tolerable length in the text, and has likewise been handled with extraordinary power by the pen of the gifted but irreligious Volney; moreover, the _elite_ of the Roman priesthood are perfectly well aware that their system is nothing but Buddhism under a slight disguise, and the European world in general has entertained for some time past an inkling of the fact. And now a few words with respect to the motives of the writer for expressing a hatred for Rome. This expressed abhorrence of the author for Rome might be entitled to little regard, provided it were possible to attribute it to any self-interested motive. There have been professed enemies of Rome, or of this or that system; but their professed enmity may frequently be traced to some cause which does them little credit; but the writer of these lines has no motive, and can have no motive, for his enmity to Rome, save the abhorrence of an honest heart for what is false, base, and cruel. A certain clergyman wrote with much heat against the Papists in the time of . . ., who was known to favour the Papists, but was not expected to continue long in office, and whose supposed successor, the person, indeed, who did succeed him, was thought to be hostile to the Papists. This divine, who obtained a rich benefice from the successor of . . ., who during . . .'s time had always opposed him in everything he proposed to do, and who, of course, during that time, affected to be very inimical to Popery--this divine might well be suspected of having a motive equally creditable for writing against the Papists, as that which induced him to write for them, as soon as his patron, who eventually did something more for him, had espoused their cause; but what motive, save an honest one, can the present writer have for expressing an abhorrence of Popery? He is no clergyman, and consequently can expect neither benefices nor bishoprics, supposing it were the fashion of the present, or likely to be the fashion of any future administration, to reward clergymen with benefices or bishoprics, who, in the defence of the religion of their country, write, or shall write, against Popery, and not to reward those who write, or shall write, in favour of it and all its nonsense and abominations. "But if not a clergyman, he is the servant of a certain society, which has the overthrow of Popery in view, and therefore," etc. This assertion, which has been frequently made, is incorrect, even as those who have made it probably knew it to be. He is the servant of no society whatever. He eats his own bread, and is one of the very few men in England who are independent in every sense of the word. It is true he went to Spain with the colours of that society on his hat--oh! the blood glows in his veins! oh! the marrow awakes in his old bones when he thinks of what he accomplished in Spain in the cause of religion and civilisation with the colours of that society on his hat, and its weapon in his hand, even the sword of the word of God; how with that weapon he hewed left and right, making the priests fly before him, and run away squeaking: "Vaya! que demonio es este!" Ay, and when he thinks of the plenty of bible swords which he left behind him, destined to prove, and which have already proved, pretty calthrops in the heels of Popery. "Halloo! Batuschca," he exclaimed the other night, on reading an article in a newspaper; "what do you think of the present doings in Spain? Your old friend the zingaro, the gitano who rode about Spain, to say nothing of Galicia, with the Greek Buchini behind him as his squire, had a hand in bringing them about; there are many brave Spaniards connected with the present movement who took bibles from his hands, and read them and profited by them, learning from the inspired page the duties of one man towards another, and the real value of a priesthood and their head, who set at nought the word of God, and think only of their own temporal interests; ay, and who learned Gitano--their own Gitano--from the lips of the London Caloro, and also songs in the said Gitano, very fit to dumbfounder your semi-Buddhist priests when they attempt to bewilder people's minds with their school-logic and pseudo-ecclesiastical nonsense, songs such as-- "Un Erajai Sinaba chibando un sermon . . ." --But with that society he has long since ceased to have any connection; he bade it adieu with feelings of love and admiration more than fourteen years ago; so, in continuing to assault Popery, no hopes of interest founded on that society can sway his mind--interest! who, with worldly interest in view, would ever have anything to do with that society? It is poor, and supported, like its founder Christ, by poor people; and so far from having political influence, it is in such disfavour, and has ever been, with the dastardly great, to whom the government of England has for many years past been confided, that the having borne its colours only for a month would be sufficient to exclude any man, whatever his talents, his learning, or his courage may be, from the slightest chance of being permitted to serve his country either for fee or without. A fellow who unites in himself the bankrupt trader, the broken author, or rather book-maker, and the laughed-down single speech spouter of the House of Commons, may look forward, always supposing that at one time he has been a foaming radical, to the government of an important colony. Ay, an ancient fox who has lost his tail may, provided he has a score of radical friends, who will swear that he can bark Chinese, though Chinese is not barked but sung, be forced upon a Chinese colony, though it is well known that to have lost one's tail is considered by the Chinese in general as an irreparable infamy, whilst to have been once connected with a certain society, to which, to its honour be it said, all the radical party are vehemently hostile, would be quite sufficient to keep any one not only from a government, but something much less, even though he could translate the rhymed "Sessions of Hariri," and were versed, still retaining his tail, in the two languages in which Kien-Loung wrote his Eulogium on Moukden, that piece which, translated by Amyot, the learned Jesuit, won the applause of the celebrated Voltaire. No! were the author influenced by hopes of fee or reward, he would, instead of writing against Popery, write for it; all the trumpery titled--he will not call them great again--would then be for him, and their masters the radicals, with their hosts of newspapers, would be for him, more especially if he would commence maligning the society whose colours he had once on his hat--a society which, as the priest says in the text, is one of the very few Protestant institutions for which the Popish Church entertains any fear, and consequently respect, as it respects nothing which it does not fear. The writer said that certain "rulers" would never forgive him for having been connected with that society; he went perhaps too far in saying "never." It is probable that they would take him into favour on one condition, which is, that he should turn his pen and his voice against that society; such a mark "of a better way of thinking" would perhaps induce them to give him a government, nearly as good as that which they gave to a certain ancient radical fox at the intercession of his radical friends (who were bound to keep him from the pauper's kennel), after he had promised to foam, bark, and snarl at corruption no more; he might even entertain hopes of succeeding, nay of superseding, the ancient creature in his government; but even were he as badly off as he is well off he would do no such thing. He would rather exist on crusts and water; he has often done so and been happy; nay, he would rather starve than be a rogue--for even the feeling of starvation is happiness compared with what he feels who knows himself to be a rogue, provided he has any feeling at all. What is the use of a mitre or a knighthood to a man who has betrayed his principles? What is the use of a gilt collar, nay, even of a pair of scarlet breeches, to a fox who has lost his tail? Oh! the horror which haunts the mind of the fox who has lost his tail; and with reason, for his very mate loathes him, and more especially if, like himself, she has lost her brush. Oh! the horror which haunts the mind of the two-legged rogue who has parted with his principles, or those which he professed--for what? We'll suppose a government. What's the use of a government, if, the next day after you have received it, you are obliged for very shame to scurry off to it with the hoot of every honest man sounding in your ears? "Lightly liar leaped and away ran." --PIERS PLOWMAN. But bigotry, it has been said, makes the author write against Popery; and thorough-going bigotry, indeed, will make a person say or do anything. But the writer is a very pretty bigot truly! Where will the public find traces of bigotry in anything he has written? He has written against Rome with all his heart, with all his mind, with all his soul, and with all his strength; but as a person may be quite honest and speak and write against Rome in like manner he may speak and write against her and be quite free from bigotry; though it is impossible for any one but a bigot or a bad man to write or speak in her praise; her doctrines, actions, and machinations being what they are. Bigotry! The author was born, and has always continued, in the wrong church for bigotry, the quiet, unpretending Church of England; a church which, had it been a bigoted church, and not long-suffering almost to a fault, might with its opportunities, as the priest says in the text, have stood in a very different position from that which it occupies at present. No! let those who are in search of bigotry seek for it in a church very different from the inoffensive Church of England, which never encourages cruelty or calumny. Let them seek for it amongst the members of the Church of Rome, and more especially amongst those who have renegaded to it. There is nothing, however false and horrible, which a pervert to Rome will not say for his church, and which his priests will not encourage him in saying; and there is nothing, however horrible--the more horrible indeed and revolting to human nature, the more eager he would be to do it--which he will not do for it, and which his priests will not encourage him in doing. Of the readiness which converts to Popery exhibit to sacrifice all the ties of blood and affection on the shrine of their newly-adopted religion there is a curious illustration in the work of Luigi Pulci. This man, who was born at Florence in the year 1432, and who was deeply versed in the Bible, composed a poem, called the "Morgante Maggiore," which he recited at the table of Lorenzo de Medici, the great patron of Italian genius. It is a mock-heroic and religious poem, in which the legends of knight-errantry, and of the Popish Church, are turned to unbounded ridicule. The pretended hero of it is a converted giant, called Morgante; though his adventures do not occupy the twentieth part of the poem, the principal personages being Charlemagne, Orlando, and his cousin Rinaldo of Montalban. Morgante has two brothers, both of them giants, and, in the first canto of the poem, Morgante is represented with his brothers as carrying on a feud with the abbot and monks of a certain convent, built upon the confines of heathenesse; the giants being in the habit of flinging down stones, or rather huge rocks, on the convent. Orlando, however, who is banished from the court of Charlemagne, arriving at the convent, undertakes to destroy them, and accordingly kills Passamonte and Alabastro, and converts Morgante, whose mind has been previously softened by a vision, in which the "Blessed Virgin" figures. No sooner is he converted than, as a sign of his penitence, what does he do, but hastens and cuts off the hands of his two brothers, saying-- "Io vo' tagliar le mani a tutti quanti E porterolle a que' monaci santi." And he does cut off the hands of his brethren, and carries them to the abbot, who blesses him for so doing. Pulci here is holding up to ridicule and execration the horrid butchery or betrayal of friends by Popish converts, and the encouragement they receive from the priest. No sooner is a person converted to Popery than his principal thought is how he can bring the hands and feet of his brethren, however harmless they may be, and different from the giants, to the "holy priests," who, if he manages to do so, never fail to praise him, saying to the miserable wretch, as the abbot said to Morgante:-- "Tu sarai or perfetto e vero amico A Cristo, quanto tu gli eri nemico." Can the English public deny the justice of Pulci's illustration, after something which it has lately witnessed? {311} Has it not seen equivalents for the hands and feet of brothers carried by Popish perverts to the "holy priests," and has it not seen the manner in which the offering has been received? Let those who are in quest of bigotry seek for it amongst the perverts to Rome, and not amongst those who, born in the pale of the Church of England, have always continued in it. CHAPTER III. ON FOREIGN NONSENSE. With respect to the third point, various lessons which the book reads to the nation at large, and which it would be well for the nation to ponder and profit by. There are many species of nonsense to which the nation is much addicted, and of which the perusal of Lavengro ought to give them a wholesome shame. First of all, with respect to the foreign nonsense so prevalent now in England. The hero is a scholar; but, though possessed of a great many tongues, he affects to be neither Frenchman nor German, nor this or that foreigner; he is one who loves his country, and the language and literature of his country, and speaks up for each and all when there is occasion to do so. Now what is the case with nine out of ten amongst those of the English who study foreign languages? No sooner have they picked up a smattering of this or that speech than they begin to abuse their own country and everything connected with it, more especially its language. This is particularly the case with those who call themselves German students. It is said, and the writer believes with truth, that when a woman falls in love with a particularly ugly fellow, she squeezes him with ten times more zest than she would a handsome one if captivated by him. So it is with these German students; no sooner have they taken German in hand than there is nothing like German. Oh, the dear, delightful German! How proud am I that it is now my own, and that its divine literature is within my reach! And all this whilst mumbling the most uncouth speech, and crunching the most crabbed literature in Europe. The writer is not an exclusive admirer of everything English; he does not advise his country-people never to go abroad, never to study foreign languages, and he does not wish to persuade them that there is nothing beautiful or valuable in foreign literature; he only wishes that they would not make themselves fools with respect to foreign people, foreign languages or reading; that if they chance to have been in Spain, and have picked up a little Spanish, they would not affect the airs of Spaniards; that if males they would not make Tom-fools of themselves by sticking cigars into their mouths, dressing themselves in zamarras, and saying, carajo! {312} and if females that they would not make zanies of themselves by sticking cigars into their mouths, flinging mantillas over their heads, and by saying carai, and perhaps carajo too; or if they have been in France or Italy, and have picked up a little French or Italian, they would not affect to be French or Italians; and particularly, after having been a month or two in Germany, or picked up a little German in England, they would not make themselves foolish about everything German, as the Anglo-German in the book does--a real character, the founder of the Anglo-German school in England, and the cleverest Englishman who ever talked or wrote encomiastic nonsense about Germany and the Germans. Of all infatuations connected with what is foreign, the infatuation about everything that is German, to a certain extent prevalent in England, is assuredly the most ridiculous. One can find something like a palliation for people making themselves somewhat foolish about particular languages, literatures, and people. The Spanish certainly is a noble language, and there is something wild and captivating in the Spanish character, and its literature contains the grand book of the world. French is a manly language. The French are the most martial people in the world; and French literature is admirable in many respects. Italian is a sweet language, and of beautiful simplicity--its literature perhaps the first in the world. The Italians!--wonderful men have sprung up in Italy. Italy is not merely famous for painters, poets, musicians, singers, and linguists--the greatest linguist the world ever saw, the late Cardinal Mezzofanti, was an Italian; but it is celebrated for men--men emphatically speaking: Columbus was an Italian, Alexander Farnese was an Italian, so was the mightiest of the mighty, Napoleon Bonaparte;--but the German language, German literature, and the Germans! The writer has already stated his opinion with respect to German; he does not speak from ignorance or prejudice; he has heard German spoken, and many other languages. German literature! he does not speak from ignorance; he has read that and many a literature, and he repeats . . . however, he acknowledges that there is one fine poem in the German language, that poem is the "Oberon"; a poem, by-the-bye, ignored by the Germans--a speaking fact--and of course by the Anglo-Germanists. The Germans! he has been amongst them, and amongst many other nations, and confesses that his opinion of the Germans, as men, is a very low one. Germany, it is true, has produced one very great man, the monk who fought the pope, and nearly knocked him down; but this man his countrymen--a telling fact--affect to despise, and of course the Anglo-Germanists: the father of Anglo-Germanism was very fond of inveighing against Luther. The madness, or rather foolery, of the English for foreign customs, dresses, and languages, is not an affair of to-day or yesterday--it is of very ancient date, and was very properly exposed nearly three centuries ago by one Andrew Borde, who, under the picture of a "Naked man with a pair of shears in one hand, and a roll of cloth in the other," {313} inserted the following lines along with others:-- "I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here, Musing in my mind what garment I shall weare; For now I will weare this, and now I will weare that, Now I will weare, I cannot tell what. All new fashions be pleasant to mee, I will have them, whether I thrive or thee; What do I care if all the world me fail? I will have a garment reach to my taile; Then am I a minion, for I weare the new guise. The next yeare after I hope to be wise, Not only in wearing my gorgeous array, For I will go to learning a whole summer's day; I will learn Latine, Hebrew, Greek, and French, And I will learn Dutch, sitting on my bench. I had no peere if to myself I were true, Because I am not so, divers times do I rue. Yet I lacke nothing, I have all things at will If I were wise and would hold myself still, And meddle with no matters but to me pertaining, But ever to be true to God and my king. But I have such matters rowling in my pate, That I will and do . . . I cannot tell what," etc. CHAPTER IV. ON GENTILITY NONSENSE--ILLUSTRATIONS OF GENTILITY. What is gentility? People in different stations in England entertain different ideas of what is genteel, {314} but it must be something gorgeous, glittering, or tawdry, to be considered genteel by any of them. The beau-ideal of the English aristocracy, of course with some exceptions, is some young fellow with an imperial title, a military personage of course, for what is military is so particularly genteel, with flaming epaulets, a cocked hat and a plume, a prancing charger, and a band of fellows called generals and colonels, with flaming epaulets, cocked hats and plumes, and prancing chargers, vapouring behind him. It was but lately that the daughter of an English marquis was heard to say, that the sole remaining wish of her heart--she had known misfortunes, and was not far from fifty--was to be introduced to--whom? The Emperor of Austria! The sole remaining wish of the heart of one who ought to have been thinking of the grave and judgment, was to be introduced to the miscreant who had caused the blood of noble Hungarian females to be whipped out of their shoulders, for no other crime than devotion to their country, and its tall and heroic sons. The middle classes--of course there are some exceptions--admire the aristocracy, and consider them pinks, the aristocracy who admire the Emperor of Austria, and adored the Emperor of Russia, till he became old, ugly, and unfortunate, when their adoration instantly terminated; for what is more ungenteel than age, ugliness, and misfortune! The beau-ideal with those of the lower classes, with peasants and mechanics, is some flourishing railroad contractor: look, for example, how they worship Mr. Flamson. This person makes his grand _debut_ in the year thirty-nine, at a public meeting in the principal room of a country inn. He has come into the neighbourhood with the character of a man worth a million pounds, who is to make everybody's fortune; at this time, however, he is not worth a shilling of his own, though he flashes about dexterously three or four thousand pounds, part of which sum he has obtained by specious pretences, and part from certain individuals who are his confederates. But in the year forty- nine, he is really in possession of the fortune which he and his agents pretended he was worth ten years before--he is worth a million pounds. By what means has he come by them? By railroad contracts, for which he takes care to be paid in hard cash before he attempts to perform them, and to carry out which he makes use of the sweat and blood of wretches who, since their organisation, have introduced crimes and language into England to which it was previously almost a stranger--by purchasing, with paper, shares by hundreds in the schemes to execute which he contracts, and which are of his own devising; which shares he sells as soon as they are at a high premium, to which they are speedily forced by means of paragraphs, inserted by himself and agents, in newspapers devoted to his interest, utterly reckless of the terrible depreciation to which they are almost instantly subjected. But he is worth a million pounds, there can be no doubt of the fact--he has not made people's fortunes, at least those whose fortunes it was said he would make; he has made them away: but his own he has made, emphatically made it; he is worth a million pounds. Hurrah for the millionaire! The clown who views the pandemonium of red brick which he has built on the estate which he has purchased in the neighbourhood of the place of his grand _debut_, in which every species of architecture, Greek, Indian, and Chinese, is employed in caricature--who hears of the grand entertainment he gives at Christmas in the principal dining-room, the hundred wax-candles, the waggon-load of plate, and the oceans of wine which form parts of it, and above all the two ostrich poults, one at the head, and the other at the foot of the table, exclaims, "Well! if he a'n't bang up, I don't know who be; why, he beats my lord hollow!" The mechanic of the borough town, who sees him dashing through the streets in an open landau, drawn by four milk-white horses, amidst its attendant outriders; his wife, a monster of a woman, by his side, stout as the wife of Tamerlane, who weighed twenty stone, and bedizened out like her whose person shone with the jewels of plundered Persia, stares with silent wonder, and at last exclaims, "That's the man for my vote!" You tell the clown that the man of the mansion has contributed enormously to corrupt the rural innocence of England; you point to an incipient branch railroad, from around which the accents of Gomorrah are sounding, and beg him to listen for a moment, and then close his ears. Hodge scratches his head and says, "Well, I have nothing to say to that; all I know is, that he is bang up, and I wish I were he;" perhaps he will add--a Hodge has been known to add--"He has been kind enough to put my son on that very railroad; 'tis true the company is somewhat queer and the work rather killing, but he gets there half-a-crown a day, whereas from the farmers he would only get eighteen- pence." You remind the mechanic that the man in the landau has been the ruin of thousands, and you mention people whom he himself knows, people in various grades of life, widows and orphans amongst them, whose little all he has dissipated, and whom he has reduced to beggary by inducing them to become sharers in his delusive schemes. But the mechanic says, "Well, the more fools they to let themselves be robbed. But I don't call that kind of thing robbery, I merely call it outwitting; and everybody in this free country has a right to outwit others if he can. What a turn- out he has!" One was once heard to add, "I never saw a more genteel-looking man in all my life except one, and that was a gentleman's walley, who was much like him. It is true he is rather undersized, but then madam, you know, makes up for all." CHAPTER V. SUBJECT OF GENTILITY CONTINUED. In the last chapter have been exhibited specimens of gentility, so considered by different classes; by one class, power, youth, and epaulets are considered the _ne plus ultra_ of gentility; by another class, pride, stateliness, and title; by another, wealth and flaming tawdriness. But what constitutes a gentleman? It is easy to say at once what constitutes a gentleman, and there are no distinctions in what is gentlemanly, {316} as there are in what is genteel. The characteristics of a gentleman are high feeling--a determination never to take a cowardly advantage of another--a liberal education--absence of narrow views--generosity and courage, propriety of behaviour. Now a person may be genteel according to one or another of the three standards described above, and not possess one of the characteristics of a gentleman. Is the emperor a gentleman, with spatters of blood on his clothes, scourged from the backs of noble Hungarian women? Are the aristocracy gentlefolks, who admire him? Is Mr. Flamson a gentleman, although he has a million pounds? No! cowardly miscreants, admirers of cowardly miscreants, and people who make a million pounds by means compared with which those employed to make fortunes by the getters up of the South Sea Bubble might be called honest dealing, are decidedly not gentlefolks. Now as it is clearly demonstrable that a person may be perfectly genteel according to some standard or other, and yet be no gentleman, so is it demonstrable that a person may have no pretensions to gentility, and yet be a gentleman. For example, there is Lavengro! Would the admirers of the emperor, or the admirers of those who admire the emperor, or the admirers of Mr. Flamson, call him genteel? and gentility with them is everything! Assuredly they would not; and assuredly they would consider him respectively as a being to be shunned, despised, or hooted. Genteel! Why, at one time he is a hack author--writes reviewals for eighteen-pence a page--edits a Newgate chronicle. At another he wanders the country with a face grimy from occasionally mending kettles; and there is no evidence that his clothes are not seedy and torn, and his shoes down at the heel; but by what process of reasoning will they prove that he is no gentleman? Is he not learned? Has he not generosity and courage? Whilst a hack author, does he pawn the books entrusted to him to review? Does he break his word to his publisher? Does he write begging letters? Does he get clothes or lodgings without paying for them? Again, whilst a wanderer, does he insult helpless women on the road with loose proposals or ribald discourse? Does he take what is not his own from the hedges? Does he play on the fiddle, or make faces in public-houses, in order to obtain pence or beer? or does he call for liquor, swallow it, and then say to a widowed landlady, "Mistress, I have no brass"? In a word, what vice and crime does he perpetrate--what low acts does he commit? Therefore, with his endowments, who will venture to say that he is no gentleman?--unless it be an admirer of Mr. Flamson--a clown--who will, perhaps, shout--"I say he is no gentleman; for who can be a gentleman who keeps no gig?" The indifference exhibited by Lavengro for what is merely genteel, compared with his solicitude never to infringe the strict laws of honour, should read a salutary lesson. The generality of his countrymen are far more careful not to transgress the customs of what they call gentility, than to violate the laws of honour or morality. They will shrink from carrying their own carpet-bag, and from speaking to a person in seedy raiment, whilst to matters of much higher importance they are shamelessly indifferent. Not so Lavengro; he will do anything that he deems convenient, or which strikes his fancy, provided it does not outrage decency or is unallied to profligacy; is not ashamed to speak to a beggar in rags, and will associate with anybody, provided he can gratify a laudable curiosity. He has no abstract love for what is low, or what the world calls low. He sees that many things which the world looks down upon are valuable, so he prizes much which the world contemns; he sees that many things which the world admires are contemptible, so he despises much which the world does not; but when the world prizes what is really excellent, he does not contemn it, because the world regards it. If he learns Irish, which all the world scoffs at, he likewise learns Italian, which all the world melts at. If he learns Gypsy, the language of the tattered tent, he likewise learns Greek, the language of the college hall. If he learns smithery, he also learns . . . ah! what does he learn to set against smithery?--the law? No; he does not learn the law, which, by the way, is not very genteel. Swimming? Yes, he learns to swim. Swimming, however, is not genteel; and the world--at least the genteel part of it--acts very wisely in setting its face against it; for to swim you must be naked, and how would many a genteel person look without his clothes? Come! he learns horsemanship; a very genteel accomplishment, which every genteel person would gladly possess, though not all genteel people do. Again as to associates: if he holds communion when a boy with Murtagh, the scarecrow of an Irish academy, he associates in after life with Francis Ardry, a rich and talented young Irish gentleman about town. If he accepts an invitation from Mr. Petulengro to his tent, he has no objection to go home with a rich genius to dinner; who then will say that he prizes a thing or a person because they are ungenteel? That he is not ready to take up with everything that is ungenteel he gives a proof, when he refuses, though on the brink of starvation, to become bonnet to the thimble-man, an office which, though profitable, is positively ungenteel. Ah! but some sticker-up for gentility will exclaim, "The hero did not refuse this office from an insurmountable dislike to its ungentility, but merely from a feeling of principle." Well! the writer is not fond of argument, and he will admit that such was the case; he admits that it was a love of principle, rather than an over-regard for gentility, which prevented the hero from accepting, when on the brink of starvation, an ungenteel though lucrative office, an office which, the writer begs leave to observe, many a person with a great regard for gentility, and no particular regard for principle, would in a similar strait have accepted; for when did a mere love for gentility keep a person from being a dirty scoundrel, when the alternatives apparently were "either to be a dirty scoundrel or starve"? One thing, however, is certain, which is, that Lavengro did not accept the office, which if a love for what is low had been his ruling passion he certainly would have done; consequently, he refuses to do one thing which no genteel person would willingly do, even as he does many things which every genteel person would gladly do, for example speaks Italian, rides on horseback, associates with a fashionable young man, dines with a rich genius, et cetera. Yet--and it cannot be minced--he and gentility with regard to many things are at strange divergency; he shrinks from many things at which gentility placidly hums a tune, or approvingly simpers, and does some things at which gentility positively sinks. He will not run into debt for clothes or lodgings, which he might do without any scandal to gentility; he will not receive money from Francis Ardry, and go to Brighton with the sister of Annette Le Noir, though there is nothing ungenteel in borrowing money from a friend, even when you never intend to repay him, and something poignantly genteel in going to a watering-place with a gay young Frenchwoman; but he has no objection, after raising twenty pounds by the sale of that extraordinary work "Joseph Sell," to set off into the country, mend kettles under hedge-rows, and make pony and donkey shoes in a dingle. Here, perhaps, some plain, well-meaning person will cry--and with much apparent justice--how can the writer justify him in this act? What motive, save a love for what is low, could induce him to do such things? Would the writer have everybody who is in need of recreation go into the country, mend kettles under hedges, and make pony shoes in dingles? To such an observation the writer would answer, that Lavengro had an excellent motive in doing what he did, but that the writer is not so unreasonable as to wish everybody to do the same. It is not everybody who can mend kettles. It is not everybody who is in similar circumstances to those in which Lavengro was. Lavengro flies from London and hack authorship, and takes to the roads from fear of consumption; it is expensive to put up at inns, and even at public-houses, and Lavengro has not much money; so he buys a tinker's cart and apparatus, and sets up as tinker, and subsequently as blacksmith; a person living in a tent, or in anything else, must do something or go mad; Lavengro had a mind, as he himself well knew, with some slight tendency to madness, and had he not employed himself, he must have gone wild; so to employ himself he drew upon one of his resources, the only one available at the time. Authorship had nearly killed him, he was sick of reading, and had besides no books; but he possessed the rudiments of an art akin to tinkering; he knew something of smithery, having served a kind of apprenticeship in Ireland to a fairy smith; so he draws upon his smithery to enable him to acquire tinkering, and through the help which it affords him, owing to its connection with tinkering, he speedily acquires that craft, even as he had speedily acquired Welsh, owing to its connection with Irish, which language he possessed; and with tinkering he amuses himself until he lays it aside to resume smithery. A man who has any innocent resource, has quite as much right to draw upon it in need, as he has, upon a banker in whose hands he has placed a sum; Lavengro turns to advantage, under particular circumstances, a certain resource which he has but people who are not so forlorn as Lavengro, and have not served the same apprenticeship which he had, are not advised to follow his example. Surely he was better employed in plying the trades of tinker and smith than in having recourse to vice, in running after milk-maids for example. Running after milk-maids is by no means an ungenteel rural diversion; but let any one ask some respectable casuist (the Bishop of London for example), whether Lavengro was not far better employed, when in the country, at tinkering and smithery than he would have been in running after all the milkmaids in Cheshire, though tinkering is in general considered a very ungenteel employment, and smithery little better, notwithstanding that an Orcadian poet, who wrote in Norse about eight hundred years ago, reckons the latter amongst nine noble arts which he possessed, naming it along with playing at chess, on the harp, and ravelling runes, or as the original has it, "treading runes"--that is, compressing them into a small compass by mingling one letter with another, even as the Turkish caligraphists ravel the Arabic letters, more especially those who write talismans. "Nine arts have I, all noble; I play at chess so free, At ravelling runes I'm ready, At books and smithery; I'm skill'd o'er ice at skimming On skates, I shoot and row, And few at harping match me, Or minstrelsy, I trow." But though Lavengro takes up smithery, which, though the Orcadian ranks it with chess-playing and harping, is certainly somewhat of a grimy art, there can be no doubt that, had he been wealthy and not so forlorn as he was, he would have turned to many things, honourable, of course, in preference. He has no objection to ride a fine horse when he has the opportunity: he has his day-dream of making a fortune of two hundred thousand pounds by becoming a merchant and doing business after the Armenian fashion; and there can be no doubt that he would have been glad to wear fine clothes, provided he had had sufficient funds to authorise him in wearing them. For the sake of wandering the country and plying the hammer and tongs he would not have refused a commission in the service of that illustrious monarch George the Fourth, provided he had thought that he could live on his pay, and not be forced to run in debt to tradesmen, without any hope of paying them, for clothes and luxuries, as many highly genteel officers in that honourable service were in the habit of doing. For the sake of tinkering he would certainly not have refused a secretaryship of an embassy to Persia, in which he might have turned his acquaintance with Persian, Arabic, and the Lord only knows what other languages, to account. He took to tinkering and smithery, because no better employments were at his command. No war is waged in the book against rank, wealth, fine clothes, or dignified employments; it is shown, however, that a person may be a gentleman and a scholar without them. Rank, wealth, fine clothes, and dignified employments are no doubt very fine things, but they are merely externals, they do not make a gentleman, they add external grace and dignity to the gentleman and scholar, but they make neither; and is it not better to be a gentleman without them than not a gentleman with them? Is not Lavengro, when he leaves London on foot with twenty pounds in his pocket, entitled to more respect than Mr. Flamson flaming in his coach with a million? And is not even the honest jockey at Horncastle, who offers a fair price to Lavengro for his horse, entitled to more than the scoundrel lord, who attempts to cheat him of one-fourth of its value? Millions, however, seem to think otherwise, by their servile adoration of people whom without rank, wealth, and fine clothes they would consider infamous, but whom possessed of rank, wealth, and glittering habiliments they seem to admire all the more for their profligacy and crimes. Does not a blood-spot, or a lust-spot, on the clothes of a blooming emperor, give a kind of zest to the genteel young god? Do not the pride, superciliousness, and selfishness of a certain aristocracy make it all the more regarded by its worshippers? and do not the clownish and gutter- blood admirers of Mr. Flamson like him all the more because they are conscious that he is a knave? If such is the case--and alas! is it not the case?--they cannot be too frequently told that fine clothes, wealth, and titles adorn a person in proportion as he adorns them; that if worn by the magnanimous and good they are ornaments indeed, but if by the vile and profligate they are merely _san benitos_, and only serve to make their infamy doubly apparent; and that a person in seedy raiment and tattered hat, possessed of courage, kindness, and virtue, is entitled to more respect from those to whom his virtues are manifested than any cruel, profligate emperor, selfish aristocrat, or knavish millionaire in the world. The writer has no intention of saying that all in England are affected with the absurd mania for gentility; nor is such a statement made in the book; it is shown therein that individuals of various classes can prize a gentleman, notwithstanding seedy raiment, dusty shoes, or tattered hat,--for example, the young Irishman, the rich genius, the postillion, and his employer. Again, when the life of the hero is given to the world, amidst the howl about its lowness and vulgarity, raised by the servile crew whom its independence of sentiment has stung, more than one powerful voice has been heard testifying approbation of its learning and the purity of its morality. That there is some salt in England, minds not swayed by mere externals, he is fully convinced; if he were not, he would spare himself the trouble of writing; but to the fact that the generality of his countrymen are basely grovelling before the shrine of what they are pleased to call gentility, he cannot shut his eyes. Oh! what a clever person that Cockney was, who, travelling in the Aberdeen railroad carriage, after edifying the company with his remarks on various subjects, gave it as his opinion that Lieutenant P . . . would, in future, be shunned by all respectable society! And what a simple person that elderly gentleman was, who, abruptly starting, asked, in rather an authoritative voice, "And why should Lieutenant P . . . be shunned by respectable society?" and who after entering into what was said to be a masterly analysis of the entire evidence of the case, concluded by stating, "that having been accustomed to all kinds of evidence all his life, he had never known a case in which the accused had obtained a more complete and triumphant justification than Lieutenant P . . . had done in the late trial." Now the Cockney, who is said to have been a very foppish Cockney, was perfectly right in what he said, and therein manifested a knowledge of the English mind and character, and likewise of the modern English language, to which his catechist, who, it seems, was a distinguished member of the Scottish bar, could lay no pretensions. The Cockney knew what the Lord of Session knew not, that the British public is gentility crazy, and he knew, moreover, that gentility and respectability are synonymous. No one in England is genteel or respectable that is "looked at," who is the victim of oppression; he may be pitied for a time, but when did not pity terminate in contempt? A poor, harmless young officer--but why enter into the details of the infamous case? they are but too well known, and if ever cruelty, pride, and cowardice, and things much worse than even cruelty, cowardice, and pride, were brought to light, and at the same time countenanced, they were in that case. What availed the triumphant justification of the poor victim? There was at first a roar of indignation against his oppressors, but how long did it last? He had been turned out of the service, they remained in it with their red coats and epaulets; he was merely the son of a man who had rendered good service to his country, they were, for the most part, highly connected--they were in the extremest degree genteel, he quite the reverse; so the nation wavered, considered, thought the genteel side was the safest after all, and then with the cry of, "Oh! there is nothing like gentility," ratted bodily. Newspaper and public turned against the victim, scouted him, apologised for the--what should they be called?--who were not only admitted into the most respectable society, but courted to come, the spots not merely of wine on their military clothes giving them a kind of poignancy. But there is a God in heaven; the British glories are tarnished--Providence has never smiled on British arms since that case--oh! Balaklava! thy name interpreted is net of fishes, and well dost thou deserve that name. How many a scarlet golden fish has of late perished in the mud amidst thee, cursing the genteel service, and the genteel leader which brought him to such a doom. Whether the rage for gentility is most prevalent amongst the upper, middle, or lower classes it is difficult to say; the priest in the text seems to think that it is exhibited in the most decided manner in the middle class; it is the writer's opinion, however, that in no class is it more strongly developed than in the lower: what they call being well born goes a great way amongst them, but the possession of money much farther, whence Mr. Flamson's influence over them. Their rage against, and scorn for, any person who by his courage and talents has advanced himself in life, and still remains poor, are indescribable; "he is no better than ourselves," they say, "why should he be above us?"--for they have no conception that anybody has a right to ascendency over themselves except by birth or money. This feeling amongst the vulgar has been, to a certain extent, the bane of the two services, naval and military. The writer does not make this assertion rashly; he observed this feeling at work in the army when a child, and he has good reason for believing that it was as strongly at work in the navy at the same time, and is still as prevalent in both. Why are not brave men raised from the ranks? is frequently the cry; why are not brave sailors promoted? The Lord help brave soldiers and sailors who are promoted; they have less to undergo from the high airs of their brother officers, and those are hard enough to endure, than from the insolence of the men. Soldiers and sailors promoted to command are said to be in general tyrants; in nine cases out of ten, when they are tyrants, they have been obliged to have recourse to extreme severity in order to protect themselves from the insolence and mutinous spirit of the men,--"He is no better than ourselves: shoot him, bayonet him, or fling him overboard!" they say of some obnoxious individual raised above them by his merit. Soldiers and sailors, in general, will bear any amount of tyranny from a lordly sot, or the son of a man who has "plenty of brass"--their own term--but will mutiny against the just orders of a skilful and brave officer who "is no better than themselves." There was the affair of the "Bounty," for example: Bligh was one of the best seamen that ever trod deck, and one of the bravest of men; proofs of his seamanship he gave by steering, amidst dreadful weather, a deeply-laden boat for nearly four thousand miles over an almost unknown ocean--of his bravery, at the fight of Copenhagen, one of the most desperate ever fought, of which after Nelson he was the hero: he was, moreover, not an unkind man; but the crew of the "Bounty" mutinied against him, and set him half naked in an open boat, with certain of his men who remained faithful to him, and ran away with the ship. Their principal motive for doing so was an idea, whether true or groundless the writer cannot say, that Bligh was "no better than themselves;" he was certainly neither a lord's illegitimate, nor possessed of twenty thousand pounds. The writer knows what he is writing about, having been acquainted in his early years with an individual who was turned adrift with Bligh, and who died about the year '22, a lieutenant in the navy, in a provincial town in which the writer was brought up. The ring-leaders in the mutiny were two scoundrels, Christian and Young, who had great influence with the crew, because they were genteelly connected. Bligh, after leaving the "Bounty," had considerable difficulty in managing the men who had shared his fate, because they considered themselves "as good men as he," notwithstanding that to his conduct and seamanship they had alone to look, under Heaven, for salvation from the ghastly perils that surrounded them. Bligh himself, in his journal, alludes to this feeling. Once, when he and his companions landed on a desert island, one of them said, with a mutinous look, that he considered himself "as good a man as he;" Bligh, seizing a cutlass, called upon him to take another and defend himself, whereupon the man said that Bligh was going to kill him, and made all manner of concessions; now why did this fellow consider himself as good a man as Bligh? Was he as good a seaman? no, nor a tenth part as good. As brave a man? no, nor a tenth part as brave; and of these facts he was perfectly well aware, but bravery and seamanship stood for nothing with him, as they still stand with thousands of his class; Bligh was not genteel by birth or money, therefore Bligh was no better than himself. Had Bligh, before he sailed, got a twenty-thousand pound prize in the lottery, he would have experienced no insolence from this fellow, for there would have been no mutiny in the "Bounty." "He is our betters," the crew would have said, "and it is our duty to obey him." The wonderful power of gentility in England is exemplified in nothing more than in what it is producing amongst Jews, Gypsies, and Quakers. It is breaking up their venerable communities. All the better, some one will say. Alas! alas! It is making the wealthy Jews forsake the synagogue for the opera-house, or the gentility chapel, in which a disciple of Mr. Platitude, in a white surplice, preaches a sermon at noon- day from a desk, on each side of which is a flaming taper. It is making them abandon their ancient literature, their "Mischna," their "Gemara," their "Zohar," for gentility novels, "The Young Duke," the most unexceptionably genteel book ever written, being the principal favourite. It makes the young Jew ashamed of the young Jewess, it makes her ashamed of the young Jew. The young Jew marries an opera dancer, or if the dancer will not have him, as is frequently the case, the cast-off Miss of the Honourable Spencer So-and-so. It makes the young Jewess accept the honourable offer of a cashiered lieutenant of the Bengal Native Infantry; or if such a person does not come forward, the dishonourable offer of a cornet of a regiment of crack hussars. It makes poor Jews, male and female, forsake the synagogue for the sixpenny theatre or penny hop; the Jew to take up with an Irish female of loose character, and the Jewess with a musician of the Guards, or the Tipperary servant of Captain Mulligan. With respect to the gypsies, it is making the women what they never were before--harlots; and the men what they never were before--careless fathers and husbands. It has made the daughter of Ursula the chaste take up with the base-drummer of a wild-beast show. It makes Gorgiko Brown, the gypsy man, leave his tent and his old wife, of an evening, and thrust himself into society which could well dispense with him. "Brother," said Mr. Petulengro the other day to the Romany Rye, after telling him many things connected with the decadence of gypsyism, "there is one Gorgiko Brown, who, with a face as black as a teakettle, wishes to be mistaken for a Christian tradesman; he goes into the parlour of a third-rate inn of an evening, calls for rum and water, and attempts to enter into conversation with the company about politics and business; the company flout him or give him the cold shoulder, or perhaps complain to the landlord, who comes and asks him what business he has in the parlour, telling him if he wants to drink to go into the tap- room, and perhaps collars him and kicks him out, provided he refuses to move." With respect to the Quakers, it makes the young people, like the young Jews, crazy after gentility diversions, worship, marriages, or connections, and makes old Pease do what it makes Gorgiko Brown do, thrust himself into society which could well dispense with him, and out of which he is not kicked, because unlike the gypsy he is not poor. The writer would say much more on these points, but want of room prevents him; he must therefore request the reader to have patience until he can lay before the world a pamphlet, which he has been long meditating, to be entitled "Remarks on the strikingly similar Effects which a Love for Gentility has produced, and is producing, amongst Jews, Gypsies, and Quakers." The Priest in the book has much to say on the subject of this gentility nonsense; no person can possibly despise it more thoroughly than that very remarkable individual seems to do, yet he hails its prevalence with pleasure, knowing the benefits which will result from it to the church of which he is the sneering slave. "The English are mad after gentility," says he; "well, all the better for us; their religion for a long time past has been a plain and simple one, and consequently by no means genteel; they'll quit it for ours, which is the perfection of what they admire; with which Templars, Hospitalers, mitred abbots, Gothic abbeys, long-drawn aisles, golden censers, incense, et cetera, are connected; nothing, or next to nothing, of Christ, it is true, but weighed in the balance against gentility, where will Christianity be? why, kicking against the beam--ho! ho!" And in connection with the gentility nonsense, he expatiates largely, and with much contempt, on a species of literature by which the interests of his church in England have been very much advanced--all genuine priests have a thorough contempt for everything which tends to advance the interests of their church--this literature is made up of pseudo-Jacobitism, Charlie o'er the waterism, or nonsense about Charlie o'er the water. And the writer will now take the liberty of saying a few words about it on his own account. CHAPTER VI. ON SCOTCH GENTILITY NONSENSE--CHARLIE O'ER THE WATERISM. Of the literature just alluded to Scott was the inventor. It is founded on the fortunes and misfortunes of the Stuart family, of which Scott was the zealous defender and apologist, doing all that in his power lay to represent the members of it as noble, chivalrous, high-minded, unfortunate princes; though, perhaps, of all the royal families that ever existed upon earth, this family was the worst. It was unfortunate enough, it is true; but it owed its misfortunes entirely to its crimes, viciousness, bad faith, and cowardice. Nothing will be said of it here until it made its appearance in England to occupy the English throne. The first of the family which we have to do with, James, was a dirty, cowardly miscreant, of whom the less said the better. His son, Charles the First, was a tyrant--exceedingly cruel and revengeful, but weak and dastardly; he caused a poor fellow to be hanged in London, who was not his subject, because he had heard that the unfortunate creature had once bit his own glove at Cadiz, in Spain, at the mention of his name; and he permitted his own bull-dog, Strafford, to be executed by his own enemies, though the only crime of Strafford was, that he had barked furiously at those enemies, and had worried two or three of them, when Charles shouted, "Fetch 'em." He was a bitter, but yet a despicable enemy, and the coldest and most worthless of friends; for though he always hoped to be able some time or other to hang his enemies, he was always ready to curry favour with them, more especially if he could do so at the expense of his friends. He was the haughtiest, yet meanest of mankind. He once caned a young nobleman for appearing before him in the drawing-room not dressed exactly according to the court etiquette; yet he condescended to flatter and compliment him who, from principle, was his bitterest enemy, namely, Harrison, when the republican colonel was conducting him as a prisoner to London. His bad faith was notorious; it was from abhorrence of the first public instance which he gave of his bad faith, his breaking his word to the Infanta of Spain, that the poor Hiberno-Spaniard bit his glove at Cadiz; and it was his notorious bad faith which eventually cost him his head; for the Republicans would gladly have spared him, provided they could have put the slightest confidence in any promise, however solemn, which he might have made to them. Of them, it would be difficult to say whether they most hated or despised him. Religion he had none. One day he favoured Popery; the next, on hearing certain clamours of the people, he sent his wife's domestics back packing to France, because they were Papists. Papists, however, should make him a saint, for he was certainly the cause of the taking of Rochelle. His son, Charles the Second, though he passed his youth in the school of adversity, learned no other lesson from it than the following one--take care of yourself, and never do an action, either good or bad, which is likely to bring you into any great difficulty; and this maxim he acted up to as soon as he came to the throne. He was a Papist, but took especial care not to acknowledge his religion, at which he frequently scoffed, till just before his last gasp, when he knew that he could lose nothing, and hoped to gain everything by it. He was always in want of money, but took care not to tax the country beyond all endurable bounds; preferring, to such a bold and dangerous course, to become the secret pensioner of Louis, to whom, in return for his gold, he sacrificed the honour and interests of Britain. He was too lazy and sensual to delight in playing the part of a tyrant himself; but he never checked tyranny in others, save in one instance. He permitted beastly butchers to commit unmentionable horrors on the feeble, unarmed, and disunited Covenanters of Scotland, but checked them when they would fain have endeavoured to play the same game on the numerous, united, dogged, and warlike Independents of England. To show his filial piety, he bade the hangman dishonour the corpses of some of his father's judges, before whom, when alive, he ran like a screaming hare; but permitted those who had lost their all in supporting his father's cause, to pine in misery and want. He would give to a painted harlot a thousand pounds for a loathsome embrace, and to a player or buffoon a hundred for a trumpery pun, but would refuse a penny to the widow or orphan of an old Royalist soldier. He was the personification of selfishness; and as he loved and cared for no one, so did no one love or care for him. So little had he gained the respect or affection of those who surrounded him, that after his body had undergone an after-death examination, parts of it were thrown down the sinks of the palace, to become eventually the prey of the swine and ducks of Westminster. His brother, who succeeded him, James the Second, was a Papist, but sufficiently honest to acknowledge his Popery, but, upon the whole, he was a poor creature; though a tyrant, he was cowardly, had he not been a coward he would never have lost his throne. There were plenty of lovers of tyranny in England who would have stood by him, provided he would have stood by them, and would, though not Papists, have encouraged him in his attempt to bring back England beneath the sway of Rome, and perhaps would eventually have become Papists themselves; but the nation raising a cry against him, and his son-in-law, the Prince of Orange invading the country, he forsook his friends, of whom he had a host, but for whom he cared little--left his throne, for which he cared a great deal--and Popery in England, for which he cared yet more, to their fate, and escaped to France, from whence, after taking a little heart, he repaired to Ireland, where he was speedily joined by a gallant army of Papists whom he basely abandoned at the Boyne, running away in a most lamentable condition, at the time when by showing a little courage he might have enabled them to conquer. This worthy, in his last will, bequeathed his heart to England--his right arm to Scotland--and his bowels to Ireland. What the English and Scotch said to their respective bequests is not known, but it is certain that an old Irish priest, supposed to have been a great grand-uncle of the present Reverend Father Murtagh, on hearing of the bequest to Ireland, fell into a great passion, and having been brought up at "Paris and Salamanca," expressed his indignation in the following strain:--"Malditas sean tus tripas! teniamos bastante del olor de tus tripas al tiempo de tu nuida dela batalla del Boyne!" His son, generally called the Old Pretender, though born in England, was carried in his infancy to France, where he was brought up in the strictest principles of Popery, which principles, however, did not prevent him becoming (when did they ever prevent any one?) a worthless and profligate scoundrel; there are some doubts as to the reality of his being a son of James, which doubts are probably unfounded, the grand proof of his legitimacy being the thorough baseness of his character. It was said of his father that he could speak well, and it may be said of him that he could write well, the only thing he could do which was worth doing, always supposing that there is any merit in being able to write. He was of a mean appearance, and, like his father, pusillanimous to a degree. The meanness of his appearance disgusted, and his pusillanimity discouraged the Scotch when he made his appearance amongst them in the year 1715, some time after the standard of rebellion had been hoisted by Mar. He only stayed a short time in Scotland, and then, seized with panic, retreated to France, leaving his friends to shift for themselves as they best could. He died a pensioner of the Pope. The son of this man, Charles Edward, of whom so much in latter years has been said and written, was a worthless, ignorant youth, and a profligate and illiterate old man. When young, the best that can be said of him is, that he had occasionally springs of courage, invariably at the wrong time and place, which merely served to lead his friends into inextricable difficulties. When old, he was loathsome and contemptible to both friend and foe. His wife loathed him, and for the most terrible of reasons; she did not pollute his couch, for to do that was impossible--he had made it so vile; but she betrayed it, inviting to it not only Alfieri the Filthy, but the coarsest grooms. Dr. King, the warmest and almost last adherent of his family, said that there was not a vice or crime of which he was not guilty; as for his foes, they scorned to harm him even when in their power. In the year 1745 he came down from the Highlands of Scotland, which had long been a focus of rebellion. He was attended by certain clans of the Highlands, desperadoes used to freebootery from their infancy, and consequently to the use of arms, and possessed of a certain species of discipline; with these he defeated at Prestonpans a body of men called soldiers, but who were in reality peasants and artisans, levied about a month before, without discipline or confidence in each other, and who were miserably massacred by the Highland army; he subsequently invaded England, nearly destitute of regular soldiers, and penetrated as far as Derby, from which place he retreated on learning that regular forces which had been hastily recalled from Flanders were coming against him, with the Duke of Cumberland at their head; he was pursued, and his rear guard overtaken and defeated by the dragoons of the duke at Clifton, from which place the rebels retreated in great confusion across the Eden into Scotland, where they commenced dancing Highland reels and strathspeys on the bank of the river, for joy at their escape, whilst a number of wretched girls, paramours of some of them, were perishing in the waters of the swollen river in an attempt to follow them; they themselves passed over by eighties and by hundreds, arm in arm, for mutual safety, without the loss of a man, but they left the poor paramours to shift for themselves, nor did any of these canny people after passing the stream dash back to rescue a single female life,--no, they were too well employed upon the bank in dancing strathspeys to the tune of "Charlie o'er the water." It was, indeed, Charlie o'er the water, and canny Highlanders o'er the water, but where were the poor prostitutes meantime? _In the water_. The Jacobite farce, or tragedy, was speedily brought to a close by the battle of Culloden; there did Charlie wish himself back again o'er the water, exhibiting the most unmistakable signs of pusillanimity; there were the clans cut to pieces, at least those who could be brought to the charge, and there fell Giles Mac Bean, or as he was called in Gaelic, Giliosa Mac Beathan, a kind of giant, six feet four inches and a quarter high, "than whom," as his wife said in a coronach she made upon him, "no man who stood at Cuiloitr was taller"--Giles Mac Bean the Major of the clan Cattan--a great drinker--a great fisher--a great shooter, and the champion of the Highland host. The last of the Stuarts was a cardinal. Such were the Stuarts, such their miserable history. They were dead and buried in every sense of the word until Scott resuscitated them--how? by the power of fine writing, and by calling to his aid that strange divinity, gentility. He wrote splendid novels about the Stuarts, in which he represents them as unlike what they really were as the graceful and beautiful papillon is unlike the hideous and filthy worm. In a word, he made them genteel, and that was enough to give them paramount sway over the minds of the British people. The public became Stuart-mad, and everybody, especially the women, said, "What a pity it was that we hadn't a Stuart to govern." All parties, Whig, Tory, or Radical, became Jacobite at heart, and admirers of absolute power. The Whigs talked about the liberty of the subject, and the Radicals about the rights of man still, but neither party cared a straw for what it talked about, and mentally swore that, as soon as by means of such stuff they could get places, and fill their pockets, they would be as Jacobite as the Jacobs themselves. As for the Tories, no great change in them was necessary; everything favouring absolutism and slavery being congenial to them. So the whole nation, that is, the reading part of the nation, with some exceptions, for thank God there has always been some salt in England, went over the water to Charlie. But going over to Charlie was not enough, they must, or at least a considerable part of them, go over to Rome too, or have a hankering to do so. As the Priest sarcastically observes in the text, "As all the Jacobs were Papists, so the good folks who through Scott's novels admire the Jacobs must be Papists too." An idea got about that the religion of such genteel people as the Stuarts must be the climax of gentility, and that idea was quite sufficient. Only let a thing, whether temporal or spiritual, be considered genteel in England, and if it be not followed it is strange indeed; so Scott's writings not only made the greater part of the nation Jacobite, but Popish. Here some people will exclaim--whose opinions remain sound and uncontaminated--what you say is perhaps true with respect to the Jacobite nonsense at present so prevalent being derived from Scott's novels, but the Popish nonsense, which people of the genteeler class are so fond of, is derived from Oxford. We sent our sons to Oxford nice honest lads, educated in the principles of the Church of England, and at the end of the first term they came home puppies, talking Popish nonsense, which they had learned from the pedants to whose care we had entrusted them; ay, not only Popery, but Jacobitism, which they hardly carried with them from home, for we never heard them talking Jacobitism before they had been at Oxford; but now their conversation is a farrago of Popish and Jacobite stuff--"Complines and Claverse." Now, what these honest folks say is, to a certain extent, founded on fact; the Popery which has overflowed the land during the last fourteen or fifteen years, has come immediately from Oxford, and likewise some of the Jacobitism, Popish and Jacobite nonsense, and little or nothing else, having been taught at Oxford for about that number of years. But whence did the pedants get the Popish nonsense with which they have corrupted youth? Why, from the same quarter from which they got the Jacobite nonsense with which they have inoculated those lads who were not inoculated with it before--Scott's novels. Jacobitism and Laudism, a kind of half Popery, had at one time been very prevalent at Oxford, but both had been long consigned to oblivion there, and people at Oxford cared as little about Laud as they did about the Pretender. Both were dead and buried there, as everywhere else, till Scott called them out of their graves, when the pedants of Oxford hailed both--ay, and the Pope, too, as soon as Scott had made the old fellow fascinating, through particular novels, more especially the "Monastery" and "Abbot." Then the quiet, respectable, honourable Church of England would no longer do for the pedants of Oxford; they must belong to a more genteel Church--they were ashamed at first to be downright Romans--so they would be Lauds. The pale-looking, but exceedingly genteel non-juring clergyman in "Waverley" was a Laud; but they soon became tired of being Lauds, for Laud's Church, gewgawish and idolatrous as it was, was not sufficiently tinselly and idolatrous for them, so they must be Popes, but in a sneaking way, still calling themselves Church of England men, in order to batten on the bounty of the Church which they were betraying, and likewise have opportunities of corrupting such lads as might still resort to Oxford with principles uncontaminated. So the respectable people, whose opinions are still sound, are, to a certain extent, right when they say that the tide of Popery, which has flowed over the land, has come from Oxford. It did come immediately from Oxford, but how did it get to Oxford? Why, from Scott's novels. Oh! that sermon which was the first manifestation of Oxford feeling, preached at Oxford some time in the year '38 by a divine of a weak and confused intellect, in which Popery was mixed up with Jacobitism? The present writer remembers perfectly well, on reading some extracts from it at the time in a newspaper, on the top of a coach, exclaiming--"Why, the simpleton has been pilfering from Walter Scott's novels!" O Oxford pedants! Oxford pedants! ye whose politics and religion are both derived from Scott's novels! what a pity it is that some lad of honest parents, whose mind ye are endeavouring to stultify with your nonsense about "Complines and Claverse," has not the spirit to start up and cry, "Confound your gibberish! I'll have none of it. Hurrah for the Church, and the principles of my _father_!" CHAPTER VII. SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. Now what could have induced Scott to write novels tending to make people Papists and Jacobites, and in love with arbitrary power? Did he think that Christianity was a gaudy mummery? He did not, he could not, for he had read the Bible; yet was he fond of gaudy mummeries, fond of talking about them. Did he believe that the Stuarts were a good family, and fit to govern a country like Britain? He knew that they were a vicious, worthless crew, and that Britain was a degraded country as long as they swayed the sceptre; but for those facts he cared nothing, they governed in a way which he liked, for he had an abstract love of despotism, and an abhorrence of everything savouring of freedom and the rights of man in general. His favourite political picture was a joking, profligate, careless king, nominally absolute--the heads of great houses paying court to, but in reality governing, that king, whilst revelling with him on the plunder of a nation, and a set of crouching, grovelling vassals (the literal meaning of vassal is a wretch), who, after allowing themselves to be horsewhipped, would take a bone if flung to them, and be grateful; so that in love with mummery, though he knew what Christianity was, no wonder he admired such a church as that of Rome, and that which Laud set up; and by nature formed to be the holder of the candle to ancient worm- eaten and profligate families, no wonder that all his sympathies were with the Stuarts and their dissipated insolent party, and all his hatred directed against those who endeavoured to check them in their proceedings, and to raise the generality of mankind something above a state of vassalage that is wretchedness. Those who were born great, were, if he could have had his will, always to remain great, however worthless their characters. Those who were born low, were always to remain so, however great their talents--though if that rule were carried out, where would he have been himself? In the book which he called the "History of Napoleon Bonaparte," in which he plays the sycophant to all the legitimate crowned heads in Europe, whatever their crimes, vices, or miserable imbecilities, he, in his abhorrence of everything low which by its own vigour makes itself illustrious, calls Murat of the sabre the son of a pastry-cook, of a Marseilleise pastry-cook. It is a pity that people who give themselves hoity-toity airs--and the Scotch in general are wonderfully addicted to giving themselves hoity-toity airs, and checking people better than themselves with their birth {332} and their country--it is a great pity that such people do not look at home--son of a pastry-cook, of a Marseilleise pastry-cook! Well, and what was Scott himself? Why, son of a pettifogger, of an Edinburgh pettifogger. "Oh, but Scott was descended from the old cow-stealers of Buccleuch, and therefore . . ." Descended from old cow-stealers, was he? Well, had he had nothing to boast of beyond such a pedigree, he would have lived and died the son of a pettifogger, and been forgotten, and deservedly so; but he possessed talents, and by his talents rose like Murat, and like him will be remembered for his talents alone, and deservedly so. "Yes, but Murat was still the son of a pastry-cook, and though he was certainly good at the sabre, and cut his way to a throne, still . . ." Lord! what fools there are in the world; but as no one can be thought anything of in this world without a pedigree, the writer will now give a pedigree for Murat, of a very different character from the cow-stealing one of Scott, but such a one as the proudest he might not disdain to claim. Scott was descended from the old cow-stealers of Buccleuch--was he? Good! and Murat was descended from the old Moors of Spain, from the Abencerages (sons of the saddle) of Granada. The name Murat is Arabic, and is the same as Murad (Le Desire, or the wished-for one). Scott, in his genteel life of Bonaparte, says that "when Murat was in Egypt, the similarity between the name of the celebrated Mameluke Mourad and that of Bonaparte's Meilleur Sabreur was remarked, and became the subject of jest amongst the comrades of the gallant Frenchman." But the writer of the novel of Bonaparte did not know that the names were one and the same. Now which was the best pedigree, that of the son of the pastry-cook, or that of the son of the pettifogger? Which was the best blood? Let us observe the workings of the two bloods. He who had the blood of the "sons of the saddle" in him became the wonderful cavalier of the most wonderful host that ever went forth to conquest, won for himself a crown, and died the death of a soldier, leaving behind him a son, only inferior to himself in strength, in prowess, and in horsemanship. The descendant of the cow-stealer became a poet, a novel writer, the panegyrist of great folks and genteel people; became insolvent because, though an author, he deemed it ungenteel to be mixed up with the business part of authorship; died paralytic and broken-hearted because he could no longer give entertainments to great folks; leaving behind him, amongst other children, who were never heard of, a son, who through his father's interest, had become lieutenant-colonel in a genteel cavalry regiment. A son who was ashamed of his father because his father was an author; a son who--paugh--why ask which was the best blood! So, owing to his rage for gentility, Scott must needs become the apologist of the Stuarts and their party; but God made this man pay dearly for taking the part of the wicked against the good; for lauding up to the skies miscreants and robbers, and calumniating the noble spirits of Britain, the salt of England, and his own country. As God had driven the Stuarts from their throne, and their followers from their estates, making them vagabonds and beggars on the face of the earth, taking from them all they cared for, so did that same God, who knows perfectly well how and where to strike, deprive the apologist of that wretched crew of all that rendered life pleasant in his eyes, the lack of which paralysed him in body and mind, rendered him pitiable to others, loathsome to himself,--so much so, that he once said, "Where is the beggar who would change places with me, notwithstanding all my fame?" Ah! God knows perfectly well how to strike. He permitted him to retain all his literary fame to the very last--his literary fame for which he cared nothing; but what became of the sweetnesses of life, his fine house, his grand company, and his entertainments? The grand house ceased to be his; he was only permitted to live in it on sufferance, and whatever grandeur it might still retain, it soon became as desolate a looking house as any misanthrope could wish to see--where were the grand entertainments and the grand company? there are no grand entertainments where there is no money; no lords and ladies where there are no entertainments--and there lay the poor lodger in the desolate house, groaning on a bed no longer his, smitten by the hand of God in the part where he was most vulnerable. Of what use telling such a man to take comfort, for he had written the "Minstrel" and "Rob Roy,"--telling him to think of his literary fame? Literary fame, indeed! he wanted back his lost gentility:-- "Retain my altar, I care nothing for it--but, oh! touch not my _beard_." PORNY'S _War of the Gods_. He dies, his children die too, and then comes the crowning judgment of God on what remained of his race, and the house which he had built. He was not a Papist himself, nor did he wish any one belonging to him to be Popish, for he had read enough of the Bible to know that no one can be saved through Popery, yet had he a sneaking affection for it, and would at all times, in an underhand manner, give it a good word both in writing and discourse, because it was a gaudy kind of worship, and ignorance and vassalage prevailed so long as it flourished--but he certainly did not wish any of his people to become Papists, nor the house which he had built to become a Popish house, though the very name he gave it savoured of Popery; but Popery becomes fashionable through his novels and poems--the only one that remains of his race, a female grandchild, marries a person who, following the fashion, becomes a Papist, and makes her a Papist too. Money abounds with the husband, who buys the house, and then the house becomes the rankest Popish house in Britain. A superstitious person might almost imagine that one of the old Scottish Covenanters, whilst the grand house was being built from the profits resulting from the sale of writings favouring Popery and persecution, and calumniatory of Scotland's saints and martyrs, had risen from the grave, and banned Scott, his race, and his house, by reading a certain psalm. In saying what he has said about Scott, the author has not been influenced by any feeling of malice or ill-will, but simply by a regard for truth, and a desire to point out to his countrymen the harm which has resulted from the perusal of his works;--he is not one of those who would depreciate the talents of Scott--he admires his talents, both as a prose writer and a poet; as a poet especially he admires him, and believes him to have been by far the greatest, with perhaps the exception of Mickiewicz, who only wrote for unfortunate Poland, that Europe has given birth to during the last hundred years. As a prose writer he admires him less, it is true, but his admiration for him in that capacity is very high, and he only laments that he prostituted his talents to the cause of the Stuarts and gentility. What book of fiction of the present century can you read twice, with the exception of "Waverley" and "Rob Roy"? There is "Pelham," it is true, which the writer of these lines has seen a Jewess reading in the steppe of Debreczin, and which a young Prussian Baron, a great traveller, whom he met at Constantinople in '44, told him he always carried in his valise. And, in conclusion, he will say, in order to show the opinion which he entertains of the power of Scott as a writer, that he did for the spectre of the wretched Pretender what all the kings of Europe could not do for his body--placed it on the throne of these realms; and for Popery, what Popes and Cardinals strove in vain to do for three centuries--brought back its mummeries and nonsense into the temples of the British Isles. Scott during his lifetime had a crowd of imitators, who, whether they wrote history so called--poetry so called--or novels--nobody would call a book a novel if he could call it anything else--wrote Charlie o'er the water nonsense; and now that he has been dead a quarter of a century, there are others daily springing up who are striving to imitate Scott in his Charlie o'er the water nonsense--for nonsense it is, even when flowing from his pen. They, too, must write Jacobite histories, Jacobite songs, and Jacobite novels, and much the same figure as the scoundrel menials in the comedy cut when personating their masters, and retailing their masters' conversation, do they cut as Walter Scotts. In their histories, they too talk about the Prince and Glenfinnan, and the pibroch; and in their songs about "Claverse" and "Bonny Dundee." But though they may be Scots, they are not Walter Scotts. But it is perhaps chiefly in the novel that you see the veritable hog in armour; the time of the novel is of course the '15 or '45; the hero a Jacobite, and connected with one or other of the enterprises of those periods; and the author, to show how unprejudiced he is, and what _original_ views he takes of subjects, must needs speak up for Popery, whenever he has occasion to mention it; though, with all his originality, when he brings his hero and the vagabonds with which he is concerned before a barricadoed house, belonging to the Whigs, he can make them get into it by no other method than that which Scott makes his rioters employ to get into the Tolbooth, _burning down_ the door. To express the more than utter foolishness of this latter Charlie o'er the water nonsense, whether in rhyme or prose, there is but one word, and that word a Scotch word. Scotch, the sorriest of jargons, compared with which even Roth Welsch is dignified and expressive, has yet one word to express what would be inexpressible by any word or combination of words in any language, or in any other jargon in the world; and very properly; for as the nonsense is properly Scotch, so should the word be Scotch which expresses it--that word is "fushionless," pronounced _fooshionless_; and when the writer has called the nonsense fooshionless--and he does call it fooshionless--he has nothing more to say, but leaves the nonsense to its fate. CHAPTER VIII. ON CANTING NONSENSE. The writer now wishes to say something on the subject of canting nonsense, of which there is a great deal in England. There are various cants in England, amongst which is the religious cant. He is not going to discuss the subject of religious cant: lest, however, he should be misunderstood, he begs leave to repeat that he is a sincere member of the old-fashioned Church of England, in which he believes there is more religion, and consequently less cant, than in any other church in the world; nor is he going to discuss many other cants; he shall content himself with saying something about two--the temperance cant and the unmanly cant. Temperance canters say that "it is unlawful to drink a glass of ale." Unmanly canters say that "it is unlawful to use one's fists." The writer begs leave to tell both these species of canters that they do not speak the words of truth. It is very lawful to take a cup of ale, or wine, for the purpose of cheering or invigorating yourself when you are faint and downhearted; and likewise to give a cup of ale or wine to others when they are in a similar condition. The Holy Scripture sayeth nothing to the contrary, but rather encourageth people in so doing by the text, "Wine maketh glad the heart of man." But it is not lawful to intoxicate yourself with frequent cups of ale or wine, nor to make others intoxicated, nor does the Holy Scripture say that it is. The Holy Scripture no more says that it is lawful to intoxicate yourself or others, than it says that it is unlawful to take a cup of ale or wine yourself, or to give one to others. Noah is not commended in the Scripture for making himself drunken on the wine he brewed. Nor is it said that the Saviour, when He supplied the guests with first-rate wine at the marriage feast, told them to make themselves drunk upon it. He is said to have supplied them with first- rate wine, but He doubtless left the quantity which each should drink to each party's reason and discretion. When you set a good dinner before your guests, you do not expect that they should gorge themselves with the victuals you set before them. Wine may be abused, and so may a leg of mutton. Second. It is lawful for any one to use his fists in his own defence, or in the defence of others, provided they can't help themselves; but it is not lawful to use them for purposes of tyranny or brutality. If you are attacked by a ruffian, as the elderly individual in Lavengro is in the inn-yard, it is quite lawful, if you can, to give him as good a thrashing as the elderly individual gave the brutal coachman; and if you see a helpless woman--perhaps your own sister--set upon by a drunken lord, a drunken coachman, or a drunken coalheaver, or a brute of any description, either drunk or sober, it is not only lawful, but laudable, to give them, if you can, a good drubbing: but it is not lawful, because you have a strong pair of fists, and know how to use them, to go swaggering through a fair, jostling against unoffending individuals; should you do so, you would be served quite right if you were to get a drubbing, more particularly if you were served out by some one less strong, but more skilful than yourself--even as the coachman was served out by a pupil of the immortal Broughton--sixty years old, it is true, but possessed of Broughton's guard and chop. Moses is not blamed in the Scripture for taking part with the oppressed, and killing an Egyptian persecutor. We are not told how Moses killed the Egyptian; but it is quite as creditable to Moses to suppose that he killed the Egyptian by giving him a buffet under the left ear, as by stabbing him with a knife. It is true, that the Saviour in the New Testament tells his disciples to turn the left cheek to be smitten, after they had received a blow on the right; but He was speaking to people divinely inspired, or whom He intended divinely to inspire--people selected by God for a particular purpose. He likewise tells these people to part with various articles of raiment when asked for them, and to go a-travelling without money, and to take no thought of the morrow. Are those exhortations carried out by very good people in the present day? Do Quakers, when smitten on the right cheek, turn the left to the smiter? When asked for their coat, do they say, "Friend, take my shirt also"? Has the Dean of Salisbury no purse? Does the Archbishop of Canterbury go to an inn, run up a reckoning, and then say to his landlady, "Mistress, I have no coin"? Assuredly the Dean has a purse, and a tolerably well-filled one; and, assuredly, the Archbishop, on departing from an inn, not only settles his reckoning, but leaves something handsome for the servants, and does not say that he is forbidden by the gospel to pay for what he has eaten, or the trouble he has given, as a certain Spanish cavalier said he was forbidden by the statutes of chivalry. Now, to take the part of yourself, or the part of the oppressed, with your fists, is quite as lawful in the present day as it is to refuse your coat and your shirt also to any vagabond who may ask for them, and not to refuse to pay for supper, bed, and breakfast, at the Feathers, or any other inn, after you have had the benefit of all three. The conduct of Lavengro with respect to drink may, upon the whole, serve as a model. He is no drunkard, nor is he fond of intoxicating other people; yet when the horrors are upon him he has no objection to go to a public-house and call for a pint of ale, nor does he shrink from recommending ale to others when they are faint and downcast. In one instance, it is true, he does what cannot be exactly justified; he encourages the Priest in the dingle, in more instances than one, in drinking more hollands and water than is consistent with decorum. He has a motive indeed in doing so; a desire to learn from the knave in his cups the plans and hopes of the Propaganda of Rome. Such conduct, however, was inconsistent with strict fair dealing and openness; and the author advises all those whose consciences never reproach them for a single unfair or covert act committed by them, to abuse him heartily for administering hollands and water to the Priest of Rome. In that instance the hero is certainly wrong; yet in all other cases with regard to drink, he is manifestly right. To tell people that they are never to drink a glass of ale or wine themselves, or to give one to others, is cant; and the writer has no toleration for cant of any description. Some cants are not dangerous; but the writer believes that a more dangerous cant than the temperance cant, or as it is generally called, teetotalism, is scarcely to be found. The writer is willing to believe that it originated with well-meaning, though weak people; but there can be no doubt that it was quickly turned to account by people who were neither well meaning nor weak. Let the reader note particularly the purpose to which this cry has been turned in America; the land, indeed, _par excellence_, of humbug and humbug cries. It is there continually in the mouth of the most violent political party, and is made an instrument of almost unexampled persecution. The writer would say more on the temperance cant, both in England and America, but want of space prevents him. There is one point on which he cannot avoid making a few brief remarks--that is the inconsistent conduct of its apostles in general. The teetotal apostle says, it is a dreadful thing to be drunk. So it is, teetotaller; but if so, why do you get drunk? I get drunk? Yes, unhappy man, why do you get drunk on smoke and passion? Why are your garments impregnated with the odour of the Indian weed? Why is there a pipe or a cigar always in your mouth? Why is your language more dreadful than that of a Poissarde? Tobacco-smoke is more deleterious than ale, teetotaller; bile more potent than brandy. You are fond of telling your hearers what an awful thing it is to die drunken. So it is, teetotaller. Then take good care that you do not die with smoke and passion, drunken, and with temperance language on your lips; that is, abuse and calumny against all those who differ from you. One word of sense you have been heard to say, which is, that spirits may be taken as a medicine. Now you are in a fever of passion, teetotaller; so, pray take this tumbler of brandy; take it on the homoeopathic principle, that heat is to be expelled by heat. You are in a temperance fury, so swallow the contents of this tumbler, and it will, perhaps, cure you. You look at the glass wistfully--you say you occasionally take a glass medicinally--and it is probable you do. Take one now. Consider what a dreadful thing it would be to die passion drunk; to appear before your Maker with _in_temperate language on your lips. That's right! You don't seem to wince at the brandy. That's right!--well done! All down in two pulls. Now you look like a reasonable being! If the conduct of Lavengro with regard to drink is open to little censure, assuredly the use which he makes of his fists is entitled to none at all. Because he has a pair of tolerably strong fists, and knows to a certain extent how to use them, is he a swaggerer or oppressor? To what ill account does he turn them? Who more quiet, gentle, and inoffensive than he? He beats off a ruffian who attacks him in a dingle; has a kind of friendly tussle with Mr. Petulengro, and behold the extent of his fistic exploits. Ay, but he associates with prize-fighters; and that very fellow, Petulengro, is a prize-fighter, and has fought for a stake in a ring. Well, and if he had not associated with prize-fighters, how could he have used his fists? Oh, anybody can use his fists in his own defence, without being taught by prize-fighters. Can they? Then why does not the Italian, or Spaniard, or Affghan use his fists when insulted or outraged, instead of having recourse to the weapons which he has recourse to? Nobody can use his fists without being taught the use of them by those who have themselves been taught, no more than any one can "whiffle" without being taught by a master of the art. Now let any man of the present day try to whiffle. Would not any one who wished to whiffle have to go to a master of the art. Assuredly! but where would he find one at the present day? The last of the whifflers hanged himself about a fortnight ago on a bell-rope in a church steeple of "the old town," from pure grief that there was no further demand for the exhibition of his art, there being no demand for whiffling since the discontinuation of Guildhall banquets. Whiffling is lost. The old chap left his sword behind him; let any one take up the old chap's sword and try to whiffle. Now much the same hand as he would make who should take up the whiffler's sword and try to whiffle, would he who should try to use his fists who had never had the advantage of a master. Let no one think that men use their fists naturally in their own disputes--men have naturally recourse to any other thing to defend themselves or to offend others; they fly to the stick, to the stone, to the murderous and cowardly knife, or to abuse as cowardly as the knife, and occasionally more murderous. Now which is best when you hate a person, or have a pique against a person, to clench your fist and say "Come on," or to have recourse to the stone, the knife, or murderous calumny? The use of the fist is almost lost in England. Yet are the people better than they were when they knew how to use their fists? The writer believes not. A fisty combat is at present a great rarity, but the use of the knife, the noose, and of poison, to say nothing of calumny, are of more frequent occurrence in England than perhaps in any country in Europe. Is polite taste better than when it could bear the details of a fight? The writer believes not. Two men cannot meet in a ring to settle a dispute in a manly manner without some trumpery local newspaper letting loose a volley of abuse against "the disgraceful exhibition," in which abuse it is sure to be sanctioned by its dainty readers; whereas some murderous horror, the discovery, for example, of the mangled remains of a woman in some obscure den, is greedily seized hold on by the moral journal, and dressed up for its readers, who luxuriate and gloat upon the ghastly dish. Now, the writer of Lavengro has no sympathy with those who would shrink from striking a blow, but would not shrink from the use of poison or calumny; and his taste has little in common with that which cannot tolerate the hardy details of a prize-fight, but which luxuriates on descriptions of the murder dens of modern England. But prize-fighters and pugilists are blackguards, a reviewer has said; and blackguards they would be provided they employed their skill and their prowess for purposes of brutality and oppression; but prize-fighters and pugilists are seldom friends to brutality and oppression; and which is the blackguard, the writer would ask, he who uses his fists to take his own part, or instructs others to use theirs for the same purpose, or the being who from envy and malice, or at the bidding of a malicious scoundrel, endeavours by calumny, falsehood, and misrepresentation to impede the efforts of lonely and unprotected genius? One word more about the race, all but extinct, of the people opprobriously called prize-fighters. Some of them have been as noble, kindly men as the world ever produced. Can the rolls of the English aristocracy exhibit names belonging to more noble, more heroic men than those who were called respectively Pearce, Cribb, and Spring? Did ever one of the English aristocracy contract the seeds of fatal consumption by rushing up the stairs of a burning edifice, even to the topmost garret, and rescuing a woman from seemingly inevitable destruction? The writer says No. A woman was rescued from the top of a burning house; but the man who rescued her was no aristocrat; it was Pearce, not Percy, who ran up the burning stairs. Did ever one of those glittering ones save a fainting female from the libidinous rage of six ruffians? The writer believes not. A woman was rescued from the libidinous fury of six monsters on . . . Down; but the man who rescued her was no aristocrat; it was Pearce, not Paulet, who rescued the woman, and thrashed my lord's six gamekeepers--Pearce, whose equal never was, and probably never will be, found in sturdy combat. Are there any of the aristocracy of whom it can be said that they never did a cowardly, cruel, or mean action, and that they invariably took the part of the unfortunate and weak against cruelty and oppression? As much can be said of Cribb, of Spring, and the other; but where is the aristocrat of whom as much can be said? Wellington? Wellington, indeed! a skilful general, and a good man of valour, it is true, but with that cant word of "duty" continually on his lips, did he rescue Ney from his butchers? Did he lend a helping hand to Warner? In conclusion, the writer would strongly advise those of his country-folks who may read his book to have nothing to do with the two kinds of canting nonsense described above, but in their progress through life to enjoy as well as they can, but always with moderation, the good things of this world, to put confidence in God, to be as independent as possible, and to take their own parts. If they are low-spirited, let them not make themselves foolish by putting on sackcloth, drinking water, or chewing ashes, but let them take wholesome exercise, and eat the most generous food they can get, taking up and reading occasionally, not the lives of Ignatius Loyola and Francis Spira, but something more agreeable; for example, the life and adventures of Mr. Duncan Campbell, the deaf and dumb gentleman; the travels of Captain Falconer in America, and the Journal of John Randall, who went to Virginia and married an Indian wife; not forgetting, amidst their eating and drinking, their walks over heaths, and by the sea-side, and their agreeable literature, to be charitable to the poor, to read the Psalms, and to go to church twice on a Sunday. In their dealings with people, to be courteous to everybody, as Lavengro was, but always independent like him; and if people meddle with them, to give them as good as they bring, even as he and Isopel Berners were in the habit of doing; and it will be as well for him to observe that he by no means advises women to be too womanly, but bearing the conduct of Isopel Berners in mind, to take their own parts, and if anybody strikes them, to strike again. Beating of women by the lords of the creation has become very prevalent in England since pugilism has been discountenanced. Now the writer strongly advises any woman who is struck by a ruffian to strike him again; or if she cannot clench her fists, and he advises all women in these singular times to learn to clench their fists, to go at him with tooth and nail, and not to be afraid of the result, for any fellow who is dastard enough to strike a woman, would allow himself to be beaten by a woman, were she to make at him in self-defence, even if, instead of possessing the stately height and athletic proportions of the aforesaid Isopel, she were as diminutive in stature, and had a hand as delicate, and a foot as small, as a certain royal lady, who was some time ago assaulted by a fellow upwards of six feet high, whom the writer has no doubt she could have beaten had she thought proper to go at him. Such is the deliberate advice of the author to his countrymen and women--advice in which he believes there is nothing unscriptural or repugnant to common sense. The writer is perfectly well aware that, by the plain language which he has used in speaking of the various kinds of nonsense prevalent in England, he shall make himself a multitude of enemies; but he is not going to conceal the truth, or to tamper with nonsense, from the fear of provoking hostility. He has a duty to perform, and he will perform it resolutely; he is the person who carried the Bible to Spain; and as resolutely as he spoke in Spain against the superstitions of Spain, will he speak in England against the nonsense of his own native land. He is not one of those who, before they sit down to write a book, say to themselves, what cry shall we take up? what principles shall we advocate? what principles shall we abuse? before we put pen to paper we must find out what cry is the loudest, what principle has the most advocates, otherwise, after having written our book, we may find ourselves on the weaker side. A sailor of the "Bounty," waked from his sleep by the noise of the mutiny, lay still in his hammock for some time, quite undecided whether to take part with the captain, or to join the mutineers. "I must mind what I do," said he to himself, "lest, in the end, I find myself on the weaker side;" finally, on hearing that the mutineers were successful, he went on deck, and seeing Bligh pinioned to the mast, he put his fist to his nose, and otherwise insulted him. Now, there are many writers of the present day whose conduct is very similar to that of the sailor. They lie listening in their corners till they have ascertained which principle has most advocates; then, presently, they make their appearance on the deck of the world with their book; if truth has been victorious, then has truth their hurrah! but if truth is pinioned against the mast, then is their fist thrust against the nose of truth, and their gibe and their insult spirted in her face. The strongest party had the sailor, and the strongest party has almost invariably the writer of the present day. CHAPTER IX. PSEUDO-CRITICS. A certain set of individuals calling themselves critics have attacked Lavengro with much virulence and malice. If what they call criticism had been founded on truth, the author would have had nothing to say. The book contains plenty of blemishes, some of them, by-the-bye, wilful ones, as the writer will presently show; not one of these, however, has been detected and pointed out; but the best passages in the book, indeed whatever was calculated to make the book valuable, have been assailed with abuse and misrepresentation. The duty of the true critic is to play the part of a leech, and not of a viper. Upon true and upon malignant criticism there is an excellent fable by the Spaniard Iriarte. The viper says to the leech, "Why do people invite your bite, and flee from mine?" "Because," says the leech, "people receive health from my bite, and poison from yours." "There is as much difference," says the clever Spaniard, "between true and malignant criticism, as between poison and medicine." Certainly a great many meritorious writers have allowed themselves to be poisoned by malignant criticism; the writer, however, is not one of those who allow themselves to be poisoned by pseudo-critics; no! no! he will rather hold them up by their tails, and show the creatures wriggling, blood and foam streaming from their broken jaws. First of all, however, he will notice one of their objections. "The book isn't true," say they. Now one of the principal reasons with those that have attacked Lavengro for their abuse of it is, that it is particularly true in one instance, namely, that it exposes their own nonsense, their love of humbug, their slavishness, their dressings, their goings out, their scraping and bowing to great people; it is the showing up of "gentility nonsense" in Lavengro that has been one principal reason for the raising of the above cry; for in Lavengro is denounced the besetting folly of the English people, a folly which those who call themselves guardians of the public taste are far from being above. "We can't abide anything that isn't true!" they exclaim. Can't they? Then why are they so enraptured with any fiction that is adapted to purposes of humbug, which tends to make them satisfied with their own proceedings, with their own nonsense, which does not tell them to reform, to become more alive to their own failings, and less sensitive about the tyrannical goings on of the masters, and the degraded condition, the sufferings, and the trials of the serfs in the star Jupiter? Had Lavengro, instead of being the work of an independent mind, been written in order to further any of the thousand and one cants, and species of nonsense prevalent in England, the author would have heard much less about its not being true, both from public detractors and private censurers. "But Lavengro pretends to be an autobiography," say the critics; and here the writer begs leave to observe, that it would be well for people who profess to have a regard for truth, not to exhibit in every assertion which they make a most profligate disregard of it; this assertion of theirs is a falsehood, and they know it to be a falsehood. In the preface Lavengro is stated to be a dream; and the writer takes this opportunity of stating that he never said it was an autobiography; never authorised any person to say that it was one; and that he has in innumerable instances declared in public and private, both before and after the work was published, that it was not what is generally termed an autobiography: but a set of people who pretend to write criticisms on books, hating the author for various reasons,--amongst others, because, having the proper pride of a gentleman and a scholar, he did not, in the year '43, choose to permit himself to be exhibited and made a zany of in London, and especially because he will neither associate with, nor curry favour with, them who are neither gentlemen nor scholars,--attack his book with abuse and calumny. He is, perhaps, condescending too much when he takes any notice of such people; as, however, the English public is wonderfully led by cries and shouts, and generally ready to take part against any person who is either unwilling or unable to defend himself, he deems it advisable not to be altogether quiet with those who assail him. The best way to deal with vipers is to tear out their teeth; and the best way to deal with pseudo-critics is to deprive them of their poison-bag, which is easily done by exposing their ignorance. The writer knew perfectly well the description of people with whom he would have to do, he therefore very quietly prepared a stratagem, by means of which he could at any time exhibit them, powerless and helpless, in his hand. Critics, when they review books, ought to have a competent knowledge of the subjects which those books discuss. Lavengro is a philological book, a poem if you choose to call it so. Now, what a fine triumph it would have been for those who wished to vilify the book and its author, provided they could have detected the latter tripping in his philology--they might have instantly said that he was an ignorant pretender to philology--they laughed at the idea of his taking up a viper by its tail, a trick which hundreds of country urchins do every September, but they were silent about the really wonderful part of the book, the philological matter--they thought philology was his stronghold, and that it would be useless to attack him there; they of course would give him no credit as a philologist, for anything like fair treatment towards him was not to be expected at their hands, but they were afraid to attack his philology--yet that was the point, and the only point, in which they might have attacked him successfully; he was vulnerable there. How was this? Why, in order to have an opportunity of holding up pseudo-critics by the tails, he wilfully spelt various foreign words wrong--Welsh words, and even Italian words--did they detect these misspellings? not one of them, even as he knew they would not, and he now taunts them with ignorance; and the power of taunting them with ignorance is the punishment which he designed for them--a power which they might but for their ignorance have used against him. The writer, besides knowing something of Italian and Welsh, knows a little of Armenian language and literature, but who knowing anything of the Armenian language, unless he had an end in view, would say that the word for sea in Armenian is anything like the word tide in English? The word for sea in Armenian is dzow, a word connected with the Tebetian word for water, and the Chinese shuy, and the Turkish su, signifying the same thing; but where is the resemblance between dzow and tide? Again, the word for bread in ancient Armenian is hats; yet the Armenian on London Bridge is made to say zhats, which is not the nominative of the Armenian noun for bread, but the accusative: now, critics, ravening against a man because he is a gentleman and a scholar, and has not only the power but also the courage to write original works, why did not you discover that weak point? Why, because you were ignorant, so here ye are held up! Moreover, who with a name commencing with Z, ever wrote fables in Armenian? There are two writers of fables in Armenian--Varthan and Koscht, and illustrious writers they are, one in the simple, and the other in the ornate style of Armenian composition, but neither of their names begins with a Z. Oh, what a precious opportunity ye lost, ye ravening crew, of convicting the poor, half-starved, friendless boy of the book, of ignorance or misrepresentation, by asking who with a name beginning with Z ever wrote fables in Armenian; but ye couldn't help yourselves, ye are duncie. We duncie! Ay, duncie. So here ye are held up by the tails, blood and foam streaming from your jaws. The writer wishes to ask here, what do you think of all this, Messieurs les Critiques? Were ye ever served so before? But don't you richly deserve it? Haven't you been for years past bullying and insulting everybody whom you deemed weak, and currying favour with everybody whom ye thought strong? "_We_ approve of this. We disapprove of that. Oh, this will never do. These are fine lines!" The lines perhaps some horrid sycophantic rubbish addressed to Wellington, or Lord So-and-so. To have your ignorance thus exposed, to be shown up in this manner, and by whom? A gypsy! Ay, a gypsy was the very right person to do it. But is it not galling after all? Ah, but _we_ don't understand Armenian, it cannot be expected that _we_ should understand Armenian, or Welsh, or . . . Hey, what's this? The mighty _we_ not understand Armenian or Welsh, or . . . Then why does the mighty _we_ pretend to review a book like Lavengro? From the arrogance with which it continually delivers itself, one would think that the mighty _we_ is omniscient; that it understands every language; is versed in every literature; yet the mighty _we_ does not even know the word for bread in Armenian. It knows bread well enough by name in English, and frequently bread in England only by its name, but the truth is, that the mighty _we_, with all its pretension, is in general a very sorry creature, who, instead of saying nous disons, should rather say nous dis: Porny in his "Guerre des Dieux," very profanely makes the three in one say, Je faisons; now, Lavengro, who is anything but profane, would suggest that critics, especially magazine and Sunday newspaper critics, should commence with nous dis, as the first word would be significant of the conceit and assumption of the critic, and the second of the extent of the critic's information. The _we_ says its say, but when fawning sycophancy or vulgar abuse are taken from that say, what remains? Why a blank, a void like Ginnungagap. As the writer, of his own accord, has exposed some of the blemishes of his book--a task which a competent critic ought to have done--he will now point out two or three of its merits, which any critic, not altogether blinded with ignorance, might have done, or not replete with gall and envy would have been glad to do. The book has the merit of communicating a fact connected with physiology, which in all the pages of the multitude of books was never previously mentioned--the mysterious practice of touching objects to baffle the evil chance. The miserable detractor will, of course, instantly begin to rave about such a habit being common: well and good; but was it ever before described in print, or all connected with it dissected? He may then vociferate something about Johnson having touched:--the writer cares not whether Johnson--who, by- the-bye, during the last twenty or thirty years, owing to people having become ultra Tory mad from reading Scott's novels and the "Quarterly Review," has been a mighty favourite, especially with some who were in the habit of calling him a half crazy old fool--touched, or whether he did not; but he asks where did Johnson ever describe the feelings which induced him to perform the magic touch, even supposing that he did perform it? Again, the history gives an account of a certain book called the "Sleeping Bard," the most remarkable prose work of the most difficult language but one, of modern Europe,--a book, for a notice of which, he believes, one might turn over in vain the pages of any review printed in England, or, indeed, elsewhere.--So here are two facts, one literary and the other physiological, for which any candid critic was bound to thank the author, even as in the Romany Rye there is a fact connected with Iro Norman Myth, for the disclosing of which any person who pretends to have a regard for literature is bound to thank him, namely, that the mysterious Finn or Fingal of "Ossian's Poems" is one and the same person as the Sigurd Fofnisbane of the Edda and the Wilkina, and the Siegfried Horn of the Lay of the Niebelungs. The writer might here conclude, and, he believes, most triumphantly; as, however, he is in the cue for writing, which he seldom is, he will for his own gratification, and for the sake of others, dropping metaphors about vipers and serpents, show up in particular two or three sets or cliques of people, who, he is happy to say, have been particularly virulent against him and his work, for nothing indeed could have given him greater mortification than their praise. In the first place, he wishes to dispose of certain individuals who call themselves men of wit and fashion--about town--who he is told have abused his book "vaustly"--their own word. These people paint their cheeks, wear white kid gloves, and dabble in literature, or what they conceive to be literature. For abuse from such people, the writer was prepared. Does any one imagine that the writer was not well aware, before he published his book, that, whenever he gave it to the world, he should be attacked by every literary coxcomb in England who had influence enough to procure the insertion of a scurrilous article in a magazine or newspaper! He has been in Spain, and has seen how invariably the mule attacks the horse; now why does the mule attack the horse? Why, because the latter carries about with him that which the envious hermaphrodite does not possess. They consider, forsooth, that his book is low--but he is not going to waste words about them--one or two of whom, he is told, have written very duncie books about Spain, and are highly enraged with him, because certain books which he wrote about Spain were not considered duncie. No, he is not going to waste words upon them, for verily he dislikes their company, and so he'll pass them by, and proceed to others. The Scotch Charlie o'er the water people have been very loud in the abuse of Lavengro--this again might be expected; the sarcasms of the Priest about the Charlie o'er the water nonsense of course stung them. Oh! it is one of the claims which Lavengro has to respect, that it is the first, if not the only work, in which that nonsense is, to a certain extent, exposed. Two or three of their remarks on passages of Lavengro, he will reproduce and laugh at. Of course your Charlie o'er the water people are genteel exceedingly, and cannot abide anything low. Gypsyism they think is particularly low, and the use of gypsy words in literature beneath its gentility; so they object to gypsy words being used in Lavengro where gypsies are introduced speaking--"What is Romany forsooth?" say they. Very good! And what is Scotch? has not the public been nauseated with Scotch for the last thirty years? "Ay, but Scotch is not"--the writer believes he knows much better than the Scotch what Scotch is and what it is not; he has told them before what it is, a very sorry jargon. He will now tell them what it is not--a sister or an immediate daughter of the Sanscrit, which Romany is. "Ay, but the Scotch are"--foxes, foxes, nothing else than foxes, even like the gypsies--the difference between the gypsy and Scotch fox being that the first is wild, with a mighty brush, the other a sneak with a gilt collar and without a tail. A Charlie o'er the water person attempts to be witty, because the writer has said that perhaps a certain old Edinburgh High School porter, of the name of Boee, was perhaps of the same blood as a certain Bui, a Northern Kemp who distinguished himself at the battle of Horinger Bay. A pretty matter, forsooth, to excite the ridicule of a Scotchman! Why, is there a beggar or trumpery fellow in Scotland who does not pretend to be somebody, or related to somebody? Is not every Scotchman descended from some king, kemp, or cow-stealer of old, by his own account at least? Why, the writer would even go so far as to bet a trifle that the poor creature who ridicules Boee's supposed ancestry, has one of his own, at least as grand and as apocryphal as old Boee's of the High School. The same Charlie o'er the water person is mightily indignant that Lavengro should have spoken disrespectfully of William Wallace; Lavengro, when he speaks of that personage, being a child of about ten years old, and repeating merely what he had heard. All the Scotch, by-the-bye, for a great many years past, have been great admirers of William Wallace, particularly the Charlie o'er the water people, who in their nonsense- verses about Charlie generally contrive to bring in the name of William, Willie, or Wullie Wallace. The writer begs leave to say that he by no means wishes to bear hard against William Wallace, but he cannot help asking why, if William, Willie, or Wullie Wallace was such a particularly nice person, did his brother Scots betray him to a certain renowned southern warrior, called Edward Longshanks, who caused him to be hanged and cut into four in London, and his quarters to be placed over the gates of certain towns? They got gold, it is true, and titles, very nice things no doubt; but, surely, the life of a patriot is better than all the gold and titles in the world--at least Lavengro thinks so,--but Lavengro has lived more with gypsies than Scotchmen, and gypsies do not betray their brothers. It would be some time before a gypsy would hand over his brother to the harum-beck, even supposing you would not only make him a king, but a justice of the peace, and not only give him the world, but the best farm on the Holkham estate; but gypsies are wild foxes, and there is certainly a wonderful difference between the way of thinking of the wild fox who retains his brush, and that of the scurvy kennel creature who has lost his tail. Ah! but thousands of Scotch, and particularly the Charlie o'er the water people, will say, "We didn't sell Willie Wallace, it was our forbears who sold Willie Wallace . . . If Edward Longshanks had asked us to sell Wullie Wallace, we would soon have shown him that" . . . Lord better ye, ye poor trumpery set of creatures, ye would not have acted a bit better than your forefathers; remember how ye have ever treated the few amongst ye who, though born in the kennel, have shown something of the spirit of the wood. Many of ye are still alive who delivered over men, quite as honest and patriotic as William Wallace, into the hands of an English minister, to be chained and transported for merely venturing to speak and write in the cause of humanity, at the time when Europe was beginning to fling off the chains imposed by kings and priests. And it is not so very long since Burns, to whom ye are now building up obelisks rather higher than he deserves, was permitted by his countrymen to die in poverty and misery, because he would not join with them in songs of adulation to kings and the trumpery great. So say not that ye would have acted with respect to William Wallace one whit better than your fathers--and you in particular, ye children of Charlie, whom do ye write nonsense-verses about? A family of dastard despots, who did their best, during a century and more, to tread out the few sparks of independent feeling still glowing in Scotland--but enough has been said about ye. Amongst those who have been prodigal in abuse and defamation of Lavengro, have been your modern Radicals, and particularly a set of people who filled the country with noise against the King and Queen, Wellington and the Tories, in '32. About these people the writer will presently have occasion to say a good deal, and also of real Radicals. As, however, it may be supposed that he is one of those who delight to play the sycophant to kings and queens, to curry favour with Tories, and to bepraise Wellington, he begs leave to state that such is not the case. About kings and queens he has nothing to say; about Tories, simply that he believes them to be a bad set; about Wellington, however, it will be necessary for him to say a good deal, of mixed import, as he will subsequently frequently have occasion to mention him in connection with what he has to say about pseudo-Radicals. CHAPTER X. PSEUDO-RADICALS. About Wellington, then, he says, that he believes him at the present day to be infinitely overrated. But there certainly was a time when he was shamefully underrated. Now what time was that? Why, the time of pseudo- radicalism, _par excellence_, from '20 to '32. Oh, the abuse that was heaped on Wellington by those who traded in radical cant--your newspaper editors and review writers! and how he was sneered at then by your Whigs, and how faintly supported he was by your Tories, who were half ashamed of him; for your Tories, though capital fellows as followers, when you want nobody to back you, are the faintest creatures in the world when you cry in your agony, "Come and help me!" Oh, assuredly Wellington was infamously used at that time, especially by your traders in Radicalism, who howled at and hooted him; said he had every vice--was no general--was beaten at Waterloo--was a poltroon--moreover, a poor illiterate creature, who could scarcely read or write; nay, a principal Radical paper said bodily he could not read, and devised an ingenious plan for teaching Wellington how to read. Now this was too bad; and the writer, being a lover of justice, frequently spoke up for Wellington, saying that as for vice, he was not worse than his neighbours; that he was brave; that he won the fight at Waterloo, from a half-dead man, it is true, but that he did win it. Also, that he believed he had read "Rules for the Manual and Platoon Exercises" to some purpose; moreover, that he was sure he could write, for that he, the writer, had once written to Wellington, and had received an answer from him; nay, the writer once went so far as to strike a blow for Wellington; for the last time he used his fists was upon a Radical sub-editor, who was mobbing Wellington in the street, from behind a rank of grimy fellows; but though the writer spoke up for Wellington to a certain extent when he was shamefully underrated, and once struck a blow for him when he was about being hustled, he is not going to join in the loathsome sycophantic nonsense which it has been the fashion to use with respect to Wellington these last twenty years. Now what have those years been to England? Why, the years of ultra-gentility, everybody in England having gone gentility mad during the last twenty years, and no people more so than your pseudo-Radicals. Wellington was turned out, and your Whigs and Radicals got in, and then commenced the period of ultra-gentility in England. The Whigs and Radicals only hated Wellington as long as the patronage of the country was in his hands, none of which they were tolerably sure he would bestow on them; but no sooner did they get it into their own, than they forthwith became admirers of Wellington. And why? Because he was a duke, petted at Windsor and by foreign princes, and a very genteel personage. Formerly many of your Whigs and Radicals had scarcely a decent coat on their backs; but now the plunder of the country was at their disposal, and they had as good a chance of being genteel as any people. So they were willing to worship Wellington because he was very genteel, and could not keep the plunder of the country out of their hands. And Wellington has been worshipped, and prettily so, during the last fifteen or twenty years. He is now a noble, fine-hearted creature; the greatest general the world ever produced; the bravest of men; and--and--mercy upon us! the greatest of military writers! Now the present writer will not join in such sycophancy. As he was not afraid to take the part of Wellington when he was scurvily used by all parties, and when it was dangerous to take his part, so he is not afraid to speak the naked truth about Wellington in these days, when it is dangerous to say anything about him but what is sycophantically laudatory. He said, in '32, that as to vice, Wellington was not worse than his neighbours; but he is not going to say, in '54, that Wellington was a noble-hearted fellow; for he believes that a more cold-hearted individual never existed. His conduct to Warner, the poor Vaudois, and Marshal Ney, showed that. He said, in '32, that he was a good general and a brave man; but he is not going, in '54, to say that he was the best general, or the bravest man the world ever saw. England has produced a better general--France two or three--both countries many braver men. The son of the Norfolk clergyman was a braver man; Marshal Ney was a braver man. Oh, that battle of Copenhagen! Oh, that covering the retreat of the Grand Army! And though he said in '32 that he could write, he is not going to say in '54 that he is the best of all military writers. On the contrary, he does not hesitate to say that any Commentary of Julius Caesar, or any chapter in Justinus, more especially the one about the Parthians, is worth the ten volumes of Wellington's Despatches; though he has no doubt that, by saying so, he shall especially rouse the indignation of a certain newspaper, at present one of the most genteel journals imaginable--with a slight tendency to liberalism, it is true, but perfectly genteel--which is nevertheless the very one which, in '32, swore bodily that Wellington could neither read nor write, and devised an ingenious plan for teaching him how to read. Now, after the above statement, no one will venture to say, if the writer should be disposed to bear hard upon Radicals, that he would be influenced by a desire to pay court to princes, or to curry favour with Tories, or from being a blind admirer of the Duke of Wellington; but the writer is not going to declaim against Radicals, that is, real Republicans, or their principles; upon the whole, he is something of an admirer of both. The writer has always had as much admiration for everything that is real and honest as he has had contempt for the opposite. Now real Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, a much finer thing than Toryism, a system of common robbery, which is nevertheless far better than Whiggism {351}--a compound of petty larceny, popular instruction, and receiving of stolen goods. Yes, real Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, and your real Radicals and Republicans are certainly very fine fellows, or rather were fine fellows, for the Lord only knows where to find them at the present day--the writer does not. If he did, he would at any time go five miles to invite one of them to dinner, even supposing that he had to go to a workhouse in order to find the person he wished to invite. Amongst the real Radicals of England, those who flourished from the year '16 to '20, there were certainly extraordinary characters, men partially insane, perhaps, but honest and brave--they did not make a market of the principles which they professed, and never intended to do so; they believed in them, and were willing to risk their lives in endeavouring to carry them out. The writer wishes to speak in particular of two of these men, both of whom perished on the scaffold--their names were Thistlewood and Ings. Thistlewood, the best known of them, was a brave soldier, and had served with distinction as an officer in the French service: he was one of the excellent swordsmen of Europe; had fought several duels in France, where it is no child's play to fight a duel; but had never unsheathed his sword for single combat, but in defence of the feeble and insulted--he was kind and open-hearted, but of too great simplicity; he had once ten thousand pounds left him, all of which he lent to a friend, who disappeared and never returned him a penny. Ings was an uneducated man, of very low stature, but amazing strength and resolution, he was a kind husband and father, and though a humble butcher, the name he bore was one of the royal names of the heathen Anglo-Saxons. These two men, along with five others, were executed, and their heads hacked off, for levying war against George the Fourth; the whole seven dying in a manner which extorted cheers from the populace; the most of them uttering philosophical or patriotic sayings. Thistlewood, who was, perhaps, the most calm and collected of all, just before he was turned off, said, "We are now going to discover the great secret." Ings, the moment before he was choked, was singing "Scots wha ha' wi' Wallace bled." Now there was no humbug about those men, nor about many more of the same time and of the same principles. They might be deluded about Republicanism, as Algernon Sidney was, and as Brutus was, but they were as honest and brave as either Brutus or Sidney; and as willing to die for their principles. But the Radicals who succeeded them were beings of a very different description; they jobbed and traded in Republicanism, and either parted with it, or at the present day are eager to part with it for a consideration. In order to get the Whigs into power, and themselves places, they brought the country by their inflammatory language to the verge of a revolution, and were the cause that many perished on the scaffold; by their incendiary harangues and newspaper articles they caused the Bristol conflagration, for which six poor creatures were executed; they encouraged the mob to pillage, pull down and burn, and then rushing into garrets looked on. Thistlewood tells the mob the Tower is a second Bastile; let it be pulled down. A mob tries to pull down the Tower; but Thistlewood is at the head of that mob; he is not peeping from a garret on Tower Hill like Gulliver at Lisbon. Thistlewood and Ings say to twenty ragged individuals, Liverpool and Castlereagh are two satellites of despotism; it would be highly desirable to put them out of the way. And a certain number of ragged individuals are surprised in a stable in Cato Street, making preparations to put Castlereagh and Liverpool out of the way, and are fired upon with muskets by Grenadiers, and are hacked at with cutlasses by Bow Street runners; but the twain who encouraged those ragged individuals to meet in Cato Street are not far off, they are not on the other side of the river, in the Borough, for example, in some garret or obscure cellar. The very first to confront the Guards and runners are Thistlewood and Ings; Thistlewood whips his long thin rapier through Smithers' lungs, and Ings makes a dash at Fitzclarence with his butcher's knife. Oh, there was something in those fellows! honesty and courage--but can as much be said for the inciters of the troubles of '32. No; they egged on poor ignorant mechanics and rustics, and got them hanged for pulling down and burning, whilst the highest pitch to which their own daring ever mounted was to mob Wellington as he passed in the streets. Now, these people were humbugs, which Thistlewood and Ings were not. They raved and foamed against kings, queens, Wellington, the aristocracy, and what not, till they had got the Whigs into power, with whom they were in secret alliance, and with whom they afterwards openly joined in a system of robbery and corruption, more flagitious than the old Tory one, because there was more cant about it; for themselves they got consulships, commissionerships, and in some instances governments; for their sons clerkships in public offices; and there you may see those sons with the never-failing badge of the low scoundrel-puppy, the gilt chain at the waistcoat pocket; and there you may hear and see them using the languishing tones, and employing the airs and graces which wenches use and employ, who, without being in the family way, wish to make their keepers believe that they are in the family way. Assuredly great is the cleverness of your Radicals of '32, in providing for themselves and their families. Yet, clever as they are, there is one thing they cannot do--they get governments for themselves, commissionerships for their brothers, clerkships for their sons, but there is one thing beyond their craft--they cannot get husbands for their daughters, who, too ugly for marriage, and with their heads filled with the nonsense they have imbibed from gentility novels, go over from Socinus to the Pope, becoming sisters in fusty convents, or having heard a few sermons in Mr. Platitude's "chapelle," seek for admission at the establishment of mother S . . ., who, after employing them for a time in various menial offices, and making them pluck off their eyebrows hair by hair, generally dismisses them on the plea of sluttishness; whereupon they return to their papas to eat the bread of the country, with the comfortable prospect of eating it still in the shape of a pension after their sires are dead. Papa (_ex uno disce omnes_) living as quietly as he can; not exactly enviably it is true, being now and then seen to cast an uneasy and furtive glance behind, even as an animal is wont, who has lost by some mischance a very sightly appendage; as quietly however as he can, and as dignifiedly, a great admirer of every genteel thing and genteel personage, the Duke in particular, whose "Despatches," bound in red morocco, you will find on his table. A disliker of coarse expressions, and extremes of every kind, with a perfect horror for revolutions and attempts to revolutionise, exclaiming now and then, as a shriek escapes from whipped and bleeding Hungary, a groan from gasping Poland, and a half-stifled curse from downtrodden but scowling Italy, "Confound the revolutionary canaille, why can't it be quiet!" in a word, putting one in mind of the parvenu in the "Walpurgis Nacht." The writer is no admirer of Gothe, but the idea of that parvenu was certainly a good one. Yes, putting one in mind of the individual who says-- "Wir waren wahrlich auch nicht dumm, Und thaten oft was wir nicht sollten; Doch jetzo kehrt sich alles um und um, Und eben da wir's fest erhalten wollten." We were no fools, as every one discern'd, And stopp'd at nought our projects in fulfilling; But now the world seems topsy-turvy turn'd, To keep it quiet just when we were willing. Now, this class of individuals entertain a mortal hatred for Lavengro and its writer, and never lose an opportunity of vituperating both. It is true that such hatred is by no means surprising. There is certainly a great deal of difference between Lavengro and their own sons; the one thinking of independence, and philology, whilst he is clinking away at kettles, and hammering horse-shoes in dingles; the others stuck up at public offices with gilt chains at their waistcoat-pockets, and giving themselves the airs and graces of females of a certain description. And there certainly _is_ a great deal of difference between the author of Lavengro and themselves--he retaining his principles and his brush; they with scarlet breeches on, it is true, but without their republicanism and their tails. Oh, the writer can well afford to be vituperated by your pseudo-Radicals of '32! Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but the matter is too rich not to require a chapter to itself. CHAPTER XI. THE OLD RADICAL. "This very dirty man, with his very dirty face, Would do any dirty act, which would get him a place." Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but before he relates the manner in which they set upon him, it will be as well to enter upon a few particulars tending to elucidate their reasons for doing so. The writer had just entered into his eighteenth year, when he met at the table of a certain Anglo-Germanist, an individual, apparently somewhat under thirty, of middle stature, a thin and weaselly figure, a sallow complexion, a certain obliquity of vision, and a large pair of spectacles. This person, who had lately come from abroad, and had published a volume of translations, had attracted some slight notice in the literary world, and was looked upon as a kind of lion in a small provincial capital. After dinner he argued a great deal, spoke vehemently against the Church, and uttered the most desperate Radicalism that was perhaps ever heard, saying, he hoped that in a short time there would not be a king or queen in Europe, and enveighing bitterly against the English aristocracy, and against the Duke of Wellington in particular, whom, he said, if he himself was ever president of an English republic--an event which he seemed to think by no means improbable--he would hang for certain infamous acts of profligacy and bloodshed which he had perpetrated in Spain. Being informed that the writer was something of a philologist, to which character the individual in question laid great pretensions, he came and sat down by him, and talked about languages and literature. The writer, who was only a boy, was a little frightened at first, but, not wishing to appear a child of absolute ignorance, he summoned what little learning he had, and began to blunder out something about the Celtic languages and their literature, and asked the Lion who he conceived Finn Ma Coul to be? and whether he did not consider the "Ode to the Fox," by Red Rhys of Eryry, to be a masterpiece of pleasantry? Receiving no answer to these questions from the Lion, who, singular enough, would frequently, when the writer put a question to him, look across the table, and flatly contradict some one who was talking to some other person, the writer dropped the Celtic languages and literature, and asked him whether he did not think it a funny thing that Temugin, generally called Genghis Khan, should have married the daughter of Prester John? {356} The Lion, after giving a side-glance at the writer through his left spectacle glass, seemed about to reply, but was unfortunately prevented, being seized with an irresistible impulse to contradict a respectable doctor of medicine, who was engaged in conversation with the master of the house at the upper and farther end of the table, the writer, being a poor ignorant lad, sitting of course at the bottom. The doctor, who had served in the Peninsula, having observed that Ferdinand the Seventh was not quite so bad as had been represented, the Lion vociferated that he was ten times worse, and that he hoped to see him and the Duke of Wellington hanged together. The doctor, who, being a Welshman, was somewhat of a warm temper, growing rather red, said that at any rate he had been informed that Ferdinand the Seventh knew sometimes how to behave himself like a gentleman--this brought on a long dispute, which terminated rather abruptly. The Lion having observed that the doctor must not talk about Spanish matters with one who had visited every part of Spain, the doctor bowed and said he was right, for that he believed no people in general possessed such accurate information about countries as those who had travelled them as bagmen. On the Lion asking the doctor what he meant, the Welshman, whose under jaw began to move violently, replied that he meant what he said. Here the matter ended, for the Lion, turning from him, looked at the writer. The writer, imagining that his own conversation hitherto had been too trivial and commonplace for the Lion to consider it worth his while to take much notice of it, determined to assume a little higher ground, and after repeating a few verses of the Koran, and gabbling a little Arabic, asked the Lion what he considered to be the difference between the Hegira and the Christian era, adding that he thought the general computation was in error by about one year; and being a particularly modest person, chiefly, he believes, owing to his having been at school in Ireland, absolutely blushed at finding that the Lion returned not a word in answer. "What a wonderful individual I am seated by," thought he, "to whom Arabic seems a vulgar speech, and a question about the Hegira not worthy of an answer!" not reflecting that as lions come from the Saharra, they have quite enough of Arabic at home, and that the question about the Hegira was rather mal a propos to one used to prey on the flesh of hadjis. "Now I only wish he would vouchsafe me a little of his learning," thought the boy to himself, and in this wish he was at last gratified; for the Lion, after asking him whether he was acquainted at all with the Sclavonian languages, and being informed that he was not, absolutely dumbfoundered him by a display of Sclavonian erudition. Years rolled by--the writer was a good deal about, sometimes in London, sometimes in the country, sometimes abroad; in London he occasionally met the man of the spectacles, who was always very civil to him, and indeed cultivated his acquaintance. The writer thought it rather odd that, after he himself had become acquainted with the Sclavonian languages and literature, the man of the spectacles talked little or nothing about them. In a little time, however, the matter ceased to cause him the slightest surprise, for he had discovered a key to the mystery. In the meantime, the man of the spectacles was busy enough; he speculated in commerce, failed, and paid his creditors twenty pennies in the pound; published translations, of which the public at length became heartily tired; having, indeed, got an inkling of the manner in which those translations were got up. He managed, however, to ride out many a storm, having one trusty sheet-anchor--Radicalism. This he turned to the best advantage--writing pamphlets and articles in reviews, all in the Radical interest, and for which he was paid out of the Radical fund; which articles and pamphlets, when Toryism seemed to reel on its last legs, exhibited a slight tendency to Whiggism. Nevertheless, his abhorrence of desertion of principle was so great in the time of the Duke of Wellington's administration, that when S . . . left the Whigs and went over, he told the writer, who was about that time engaged with him in a literary undertaking, that the said S . . . was a fellow with a character so infamous, that any honest man would rather that you should spit in his face, than insult his ears with the mention of the name of S . . . The literary project having come to nothing,--in which, by-the-bye, the writer was to have all the labour, and his friend all the credit, provided any credit should accrue from it,--the writer did not see the latter for some years, during which time considerable political changes took place; the Tories were driven from, and the Whigs placed in, office, both events being brought about by the Radicals coalescing with the Whigs, over whom they possessed great influence for the services which they had rendered. When the writer next visited his friend, he found him very much altered; his opinions were by no means so exalted as they had been--he was not disposed even to be rancorous against the Duke of Wellington, saying that there were worse men than he, and giving him some credit as a general; a hankering after gentility seeming to pervade the whole family, father and sons, wife and daughters, all of whom talked about genteel diversions--gentility novels, and even seemed to look with favour on high Churchism, having in former years, to all appearance, been bigoted Dissenters. In a little time the writer went abroad; as, indeed, did his friend; not, however, like the writer, at his own expense, but at that of the country--the Whigs having given him a travelling appointment, which he held for some years, during which he is said to have received upwards of twelve thousand pounds of the money of the country, for services which will, perhaps, be found inscribed on certain tablets, when another Astolfo shall visit the moon. This appointment, however, he lost on the Tories resuming power--when the writer found him almost as radical and patriotic as ever, just engaged in trying to get into Parliament, into which he got by the assistance of his Radical friends, who, in conjunction with the Whigs, were just getting up a crusade against the Tories, which they intended should be a conclusive one. A little time after the publication of "The Bible in Spain," the Tories being still in power, this individual, full of the most disinterested friendship for the author, was particularly anxious that he should be presented with an official situation, in a certain region a great many miles off. "You are the only person for that appointment," said he; "you understand a great deal about the country, and are better acquainted with the two languages spoken there than any one in England. Now I love my country, and have, moreover, a great regard for you, and as I am in Parliament, and have frequent opportunities of speaking to the Ministry, I shall take care to tell them how desirable it would be to secure your services. It is true they are Tories, but I think that even Tories would give up their habitual love of jobbery in a case like yours, and for once show themselves disposed to be honest men and gentlemen; indeed, I have no doubt they will, for having so deservedly an infamous character, they would be glad to get themselves a little credit, by a presentation which could not possibly be traced to jobbery or favouritism." The writer begged his friend to give himself no trouble about the matter, as he was not desirous of the appointment, being in tolerably easy circumstances, and willing to take some rest after a life of labour. All, however, that he could say was of no use, his friend indignantly observing that the matter ought to be taken entirely out of his hands, and the appointment thrust upon him for the credit of the country. "But may not many people be far more worthy of the appointment than myself?" said the writer. "Where?" said the friendly Radical. "If you don't get it, it will be made a job of, given to the son of some steward, or perhaps to some quack who has done dirty work; I tell you what, I shall ask it for you, in spite of you; I shall, indeed!" and his eyes flashed with friendly and patriotic fervour through the large pair of spectacles which he wore. And, in fact, it would appear that the honest and friendly patriot put his threat into execution. "I have spoken," said he, "more than once to this and that individual in Parliament, and everybody seems to think that the appointment should be given to you. Nay, that you should be forced to accept it. I intend next to speak to Lord A . . ." And so he did, at least it would appear so. On the writer calling upon him one evening, about a week afterwards, in order to take leave of him, as the writer was about to take a long journey for the sake of his health, his friend no sooner saw him than he started up in a violent fit of agitation, and glancing about the room, in which there were several people, amongst others two Whig members of Parliament, said, "I am glad you are come; I was just speaking about you. This," said he, addressing the two members, "is so and so, the author of so and so, the well-known philologist; as I was telling you, I spoke to Lord A . . . this day about him, and said that he ought forthwith to have the head appointment in . . .; and what did the fellow say? Why, that there was no necessity for such an appointment at all, and if there were, why . . . and then he hummed and ha'd. Yes," said he, looking at the writer, "he did indeed. What a scandal! what an infamy! But I see how it will be, it will be a job. The place will be given to some son of a steward or to some quack, as I said before. Oh, these Tories! Well, if this does not make one . . ." Here he stopped short, crunched his teeth, and looked the image of desperation. Seeing the poor man in this distressed condition, the writer begged him to be comforted, and not to take the matter so much to heart; but the indignant Radical took the matter very much to heart, and refused all comfort whatever, bouncing about the room, and, whilst his spectacles flashed in the light of four spermaceti candles, exclaiming, "It will be a job--a Tory job! I see it all, I see it all, I see it all!" And a job it proved, and a very pretty job, but no Tory job; shortly afterwards the Tories were out, and the Whigs were in. From that time the writer heard not a word about the injustice done to the country in not presenting him with the appointment to . . .; the Radical, however, was busy enough to obtain the appointment, not for the writer, but for himself, and eventually succeeded, partly through Radical influence, and partly through that of a certain Whig lord, for whom the Radical had done, on a particular occasion, work of a particular kind. So, though the place was given to a quack, and the whole affair a very pretty job, it was one in which the Tories had certainly no hand. In the meanwhile, however, the friendly Radical did not drop the writer. Oh, no! On various occasions he obtained from the writer all the information he could about the country in question, and was particularly anxious to obtain from the writer, and eventually did obtain, a copy of a work written in the court language of that country, edited by the writer. A language exceedingly difficult, which the writer, at the expense of a considerable portion of his eyesight, had acquired, at least as far as by the eyesight it could be acquired. What use the writer's friend made of the knowledge he had gained from him, and what use he made of the book, the writer can only guess; but he has little doubt that when the question of sending a person to . . . was mooted in a Parliamentary Committee--which it was at the instigation of the Radical supporters of the writer's friend--the Radical, on being examined about the country, gave the information which he had obtained from the writer as his own, and flashed the book and its singular characters in the eyes of the Committee; and then of course his Radical friends would instantly say, "This is the man! there is no one like him. See what information he possesses; and see that book written by himself in the court language of Serendib. This is the only man to send there. What a glory, what a triumph it would be to Britain, to send out a man so deeply versed in the mysterious lore of . . ., as our illustrious countryman; a person who with his knowledge could beat with their own weapons the wise men of . . . Is such an opportunity to be lost? Oh, no! surely not; if it is, it will be an eternal disgrace to England, and the world will see that Whigs are no better than Tories." Let no one think the writer uncharitable in these suppositions. The writer is only too well acquainted with the antecedents of the individual to entertain much doubt that he would shrink from any such conduct, provided he thought that his temporal interest would be forwarded by it. The writer is aware of more than one instance in which he has passed off the literature of friendless young men for his own, after making them a slight pecuniary compensation, and deforming what was originally excellent by interpolations of his own. This was his especial practice with regard to translation, of which he would fain be esteemed the king. This Radical literato is slightly acquainted with four or five of the easier dialects of Europe, on the strength of which knowledge he would fain pass for a universal linguist, publishing translations of pieces originally written in various difficult languages; which translations, however, were either made by himself from literal renderings done for him into French or German, or had been made from the originals into English, by friendless young men, and then deformed by his alterations. Well, the Radical got the appointment, and the writer certainly did not grudge it him. He, of course, was aware that his friend had behaved in a very base manner towards him, but he bore him no ill-will, and invariably when he heard him spoken against, which was frequently the case, took his part when no other person would; indeed, he could well afford to bear him no ill-will. He had never sought for the appointment, nor wished for it, nor, indeed, ever believed himself qualified for it. He was conscious, it is true, that he was not altogether unacquainted with the language and literature of the country with which the appointment was connected. He was likewise aware that he was not altogether deficient in courage and in propriety of behaviour. He knew that his appearance was not particularly against him; his face not being like that of a convicted pickpocket, nor his gait resembling that of a fox who has lost his tail; yet he never believed himself adapted for the appointment, being aware that he had no aptitude for the doing of dirty work, if called to do it, nor pliancy which would enable him to submit to scurvy treatment, whether he did dirty work or not--requisites, at the time of which he is speaking, indispensable in every British official; requisites, by-the-bye, which his friend, the Radical, possessed in a high degree; but though he bore no ill-will towards his friend, his friend bore anything but good-will towards him; for from the moment that he had obtained the appointment for himself, his mind was filled with the most bitter malignity against the writer, and naturally enough; for no one ever yet behaved in a base manner towards another without forthwith conceiving a mortal hatred against him. You wrong another, know yourself to have acted basely, and are enraged, not against yourself--for no one hates himself--but against the innocent cause of your baseness; reasoning very plausibly, "But for that fellow, I should never have been base; for had he not existed I could not have been so, at any rate against him;" and this hatred is all the more bitter when you reflect that you have been needlessly base. Whilst the Tories are in power the writer's friend, of his own accord, raves against the Tories because they do not give the writer a certain appointment, and makes, or says he makes, desperate exertions to make them do so; but no sooner are the Tories out, with whom he has no influence, and the Whigs in, with whom he, or rather his party, has influence, than he gets the place for himself, though, according to his own expressed opinion--an opinion with which the writer does not, and never did, concur--the writer was the only person competent to hold it. Now had he, without saying a word to the writer, or about the writer with respect to the employment, got the place for himself when he had an opportunity, knowing, as he very well knew, himself to be utterly unqualified for it, the transaction, though a piece of jobbery, would not have merited the title of a base transaction; as the matter stands, however, who can avoid calling the whole affair not only a piece of--come, come, out with the word--scoundrelism on the part of the writer's friend, but a most curious piece of uncalled-for scoundrelism? and who, with any knowledge of fallen human nature, can wonder at the writer's friend entertaining towards him a considerable portion of gall and malignity? This feeling on the part of the writer's friend was wonderfully increased by the appearance of Lavengro, many passages of which the Radical in his foreign appointment applied to himself and family--one or two of his children having gone over to Popery, the rest become members of Mr. Platitude's chapel, and the minds of all being filled with ultra notions of gentility. The writer, hearing that his old friend had returned to England, to apply, he believes, for an increase of salary and for a title, called upon him, unwillingly, it is true, for he had no wish to see a person for whom, though he bore him no ill-will, he could not avoid feeling a considerable portion of contempt; the truth is, that his sole object in calling was to endeavour to get back a piece of literary property which his friend had obtained from him many years previously, and which, though he had frequently applied for it, he never could get back. Well, the writer called; he did not get his property, which, indeed, he had scarcely time to press for, being almost instantly attacked by his good friend and his wife--yes, it was then that the author was set upon by an old Radical and his wife--the wife, who looked the very image of shame and malignity, did not say much, it is true, but encouraged her husband in all he said. Both of their own accord introduced the subject of Lavengro. The Radical called the writer a grumbler, just as if there had ever been a greater grumbler than himself until, by the means above described, he had obtained a place: he said that the book contained a melancholy view of human nature--just as if anybody could look in his face without having a melancholy view of human nature. On the writer quietly observing that the book contained an exposition of his principles, the pseudo-Radical replied that he cared nothing for his principles--which was probably true, it not being likely that he would care for another person's principles after having shown so thorough a disregard for his own. The writer said that the book, of course, would give offence to humbugs; the Radical then demanded whether he thought him a humbug?--the wretched wife was the Radical's protection, even as he knew she would be; it was on her account that the writer did not kick his good friend; as it was, he looked at him in the face and thought to himself, "How is it possible I should think you a humbug, when only last night I was taking your part in a company in which everybody called you a humbug?" The Radical, probably observing something in the writer's eye which he did not like, became all on a sudden abjectly submissive, and, professing the highest admiration for the writer, begged him to visit him in his government; this the writer promised faithfully to do, and he takes the present opportunity of performing his promise. This is one of the pseudo-Radical calumniators of Lavengro and its author; were the writer on his death-bed he would lay his hand on his heart and say, that he does not believe that there is one trait of exaggeration in the portrait which he has drawn. This is one of the pseudo-Radical calumniators of Lavengro and its author; and this is one of the genus who, after having railed against jobbery for perhaps a quarter of a century, at present batten on large official salaries which they do not earn. England is a great country, and her interests require that she should have many a well-paid official both at home and abroad; but will England long continue a great country if the care of her interests, both at home and abroad, is in many instances intrusted to beings like him described above, whose only recommendation for an official appointment was that he was deeply versed in the secrets of his party and of the Whigs? Before he concludes, the writer will take the liberty of saying of Lavengro that it is a book written for the express purpose of inculcating virtue, love of country, learning, manly pursuits, and genuine religion, for example, that of the Church of England, and for awakening a contempt for nonsense of every kind, and a hatred for priestcraft, more especially that of Rome. And in conclusion, with respect to many passages of his book in which he has expressed himself in terms neither measured nor mealy, he will beg leave to observe, in the words of a great poet, who lived a profligate life it is true, but who died a sincere penitent--thanks, after God, to good Bishop Burnet-- "All this with indignation I have hurl'd At the pretending part of this proud world, Who, swollen with selfish vanity, devise False freedoms, formal cheats, and holy lies, Over their fellow fools to tyrannise." --ROCHESTER. THE END. Footnotes: {0a} "Of anything like animal passion there is not a trace in all his many volumes. Not a hint that he ever kissed a woman or ever took a little child upon his knee. He was beardless: his voice was not the voice of a man. His outbursts of wrath never translated themselves into uncontrollable acts of violence; they showed themselves in all the rancorous hatred that could be put into words--the fire smouldered in that sad heart of his. Those big bones and huge muscles and the strong brain were never to be reproduced in an offspring to be proud of. How if he were the Narses of Literature--one who could be only what he was, though we are always inclined to lament that he was not something more?"--_Daily Chronicle_, _April_ 30, 1900. {42} The apothecary. {281} Tipperary. {311} This was written in 1854. {312} An obscene oath. {313} See "Muses' Library," pp. 86, 87. London, 1738. {314} Genteel with them seems to be synonymous with Gentile and Gentoo; if so, the manner in which it has been applied for ages ceases to surprise, for genteel is heathenish. Ideas of barbaric pearl and gold, glittering armour, plumes, tortures, blood-shedding, and lust, should always be connected with it, Wace, in his grand Norman poem, calls the Baron genteel:-- "La furent li gentil Baron," etc. And he certainly could not have applied the word better than to the strong Norman thief, armed cap-a-pie, without one particle of ruth or generosity; for a person to be a pink of gentility, that is heathenism, should have no such feelings; and, indeed, the admirers of gentility seldom or never associate any such feelings with it. It was from the Norman, the worst of all robbers and miscreants, who built strong castles, garrisoned them with devils, and tore out poor wretches' eyes, as the Saxon Chronicle says, that the English got their detestable word genteel. What could ever have made the English such admirers of gentility, it would be difficult to say, for, during three hundred years, they suffered enough by it. Their genteel Norman landlords were their scourgers, their torturers, the plunderers of their homes, the dishonourers of their wives, and the deflowerers of their daughters. Perhaps, after all, fear is at the root of the English veneration for gentility. {316} Gentle and gentlemanly may be derived from the same root as genteel; but nothing can be more distinct from the mere genteel, than the ideas which enlightened minds associate with these words. Gentle and gentlemanly mean something kind and genial; genteel, that which is glittering or gaudy. A person can be a gentleman in rags, but nobody can be genteel. {332} The writer has been checked in print by the Scotch with being a Norfolk man. Surely, surely, these latter times have not been exactly the ones in which it was expedient for Scotchmen to check the children of any county in England with the place of their birth, more especially those who have had the honour of being born in Norfolk--times in which British fleets, commanded by Scotchmen, have returned laden with anything but laurels from foreign shores. It would have been well for Britain had she had the old Norfolk man to despatch to the Baltic or the Black Sea lately, instead of Scotch admirals. {351} As the present work will come out in the midst of a vehement political contest, people may be led to suppose that the above was written expressly for the time. The writer therefore begs to state that it was written in the year 1854. He cannot help adding that he is neither Whig, Tory, nor Radical, and cares not a straw what party governs England, provided it is governed well. But he has no hopes of good government from the Whigs. It is true that amongst them there is one very great man, Lord Palmerston, who is indeed the sword and buckler, the chariots and the horses of the party; but it is impossible for his lordship to govern well with such colleagues as he has--colleagues which have been forced upon him by family influence, and who are continually pestering him into measures anything but conducive to the country's honour and interest. If Palmerston would govern well, he must get rid of them; but from that step, with all his courage and all his greatness, he will shrink. Yet how proper and easy a step it would be! He could easily get better, but scarcely worse, associates. They appear to have one object in view, and only one--jobbery. It was chiefly owing to a most flagitious piece of jobbery, which one of his lordship's principal colleagues sanctioned and promoted, that his lordship experienced his late parliamentary disasters. {356} A fact. 
452	----	Transcribed from the 1900 Macmillian and Co. Edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org LAVENGRO THE SCHOLAR, THE GYPSY, THE PRIEST BY GEORGE BORROW ILLUSTRATED BY E. J. SULLIVAN WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY AUGUSTINE BIRRELL, Q.C., M.P. London MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1900 _All rights reserved_ _First published in_ "_Macmillan's Illustrated Standard Novel_," 1896 _Reprinted_ 1900 {picture:George Borrow: page0.jpg} INTRODUCTION The author of _Lavengro_, _the Scholar_, _the Gypsy_, _and the Priest_ has after his fitful hour come into his own, and there abides securely. Borrow's books,--carelessly written, impatient, petulant, in parts repellant,--have been found so full of the elixir of life, of the charm of existence, of the glory of motion, so instinct with character, and mood, and wayward fancy, that their very names are sounds of enchantment, whilst the fleeting scenes they depict and the deeds they describe have become the properties and the pastimes for all the years that are still to be of a considerable fraction of the English-speaking race. And yet I suppose it would be considered ridiculous in these fine days to call Borrow a great artist. His fascination, his hold upon his reader, is not the fascination or the hold of the lords of human smiles and tears. They enthrall us; Borrow only bewitches. Isopel Berners, hastily limned though she be, need fear comparison with no damsel that ever lent sweetness to the stage, relish to rhyme, or life to novel. She can hold up her head and take her own part amidst all the Rosalinds, Beatrices, and Lucys that genius has created and memory can muster. But how she came into existence puzzles us not a little. Was she summoned out of nothingness by the creative fancy of Lavengro, or did he really first set eyes upon her in the dingle whither she came with the Flaming Tinman, whose look Lavengro did not like at all? Reality and romance, though Borrow made them wear double harness, are not meant to be driven together. It is hard to weep aright over Isopel Berners. The reader is tortured by a sense of duty towards her. This distraction prevents our giving ourselves away to Borrow. Perhaps after all he did meet the tall girl in the dingle, in which case he was a fool for all his pains, losing a gift the gods could not restore. Quite apart from this particular doubt, the reader of Borrow feels that good luck, happy chance, plays a larger part in the charm of the composition than is quite befitting were Borrow to be reckoned an artist. But nobody surely will quarrel with this ingredient. It can turn no stomach. Happy are the lucky writers! Write as they will, they are almost certain to please. There is such a thing as 'sweet unreasonableness.' But no sooner is this said than the necessity for instant and substantial qualification becomes urgent, for though Borrow's personal vanity would have been wounded had he been ranked with the literary gentlemen who do business in words, his anger would have been justly aroused had he been told he did not know how to write. He did know how to write, and he acquired the art in the usual way, by taking pains. He might with advantage have taken more pains, and then he would have done better; but take pains he did. In all his books he aims at producing a certain impression on the minds of his readers, and in order to produce that impression he was content to make sacrifices; hence his whimsicality, his out-of-the-wayness, at once his charm and his snare, never grows into wantonness and seldom into gross improbability. He studied effects, as his frequent and impressive liturgical repetitions pleasingly demonstrate. He had theories about most things, and may, for all I know, have had a theory of cadences. For words he had no great feeling except as a philologist, and is capable of strange abominations. 'Individual' pursues one through all his pages, where too are 'equine species,' 'finny tribe'; but finding them where we do even these vile phrases, and others nearly as bad, have a certain humour. This chance remark brings me to the real point. Borrow's charm is that he has behind his books a character of his own, which belongs to his books as much as to himself; something which bears you up and along as does the mystery of the salt sea the swimmer. And this something lives and stirs in almost every page of Borrow, whose restless, puzzling, teasing personality pervades and animates the whole. He is the true adventurer who leads his life, not on the Stock Exchange amidst the bulls and bears, or in the House of Commons waiting to clutch the golden keys, or in South Africa with the pioneers and promoters, but with himself and his own vagrant moods and fancies. There was no need for Borrow to travel far afield in search of adventures. Mumpers' Dell was for him as good an environment as Mexico; a village in Spain or Portugal served his turn as well as both the Indies; he was as likely to meet adventures in Pall Mall as in the far Soudan. Strange things happen to him wherever he goes; odd figures step from out the hedgerow and engage him in wild converse; beggar-women read _Moll Flanders_ on London Bridge; Armenian merchants cuff deaf and dumb clerks in London counting- houses; prize-fighters, dog-fanciers, Methodist preachers, Romany ryes and their rawnees move on and off. Why should not strange things happen to Lavengro? Why should not strange folk suddenly make their appearance before him and as suddenly take their departure? Is he not strange himself? Did he not puzzle Mr. Petulengro, excite the admiration of Mrs. Petulengro, the murderous hate of Mrs. Herne, and drive Isopel Berners half distracted? Nobody has, so far, attempted to write the life of George Borrow. Nor can we wonder. How could any one dare to follow in the phosphorescent track of _Lavengro_ and _The Romany Rye_, or add a line or a hue to the portraits there contained of Borrow's father and mother--the gallant soldier who had no chance, and whose most famous engagement took place, not in Flanders, or in Egypt, or on the banks of the Indus or Oxus, but in Hyde Park, his foe being Big Ben Brain; and the dame of the oval face, olive complexion, and Grecian forehead, sitting in the dusky parlour in the solitary house at the end of the retired court shaded by lofty poplars? I pity 'the individual' whose task it should be to travel along the enchanted wake either of Lavengro in England or Don Jorge in Spain. Poor would be his part; no better than that of Arthur in 'The Bothie':-- And it was told, the Piper narrating and Arthur correcting, Colouring he, dilating, magniloquent, glorying in picture, He to a matter-of-fact still softening, paring, abating, He to the great might-have-been upsoaring, sublime and ideal, He to the merest it-was restricting, diminishing, dwarfing, River to streamlet reducing, and fall to slope subduing: So it was told, the Piper narrating, corrected of Arthur. George Borrow, like many another great man, was born in Norfolk, at East Dereham, in 1803, and at an early age began those rambles he has made famous, being carried about by his father, Captain Borrow, who was chiefly employed as a recruiting officer. The reader of _Lavengro_ may safely be left to make out his own itinerary. Whilst in Edinburgh Borrow attended the High School, and acquired the Scottish accent. It is not too much to say that he has managed to make even Edinburgh more romantic simply by abiding there for a season. From Scotland he went to Ireland, and learnt to ride, as well as to talk the Irish tongue, and to seek etymologies wherever they were or were not to be found. But for a famous Irish cob, whose hoofs still sound in our ears, Borrow, so he says, might have become a mere philologist. From Ireland he returned with his parents to Norwich, and resumed studies, which must have been, from a schoolmaster's point of view, grievously interrupted, under the Rev. Edward Valpy at King Edward's School. Here he seems to have been for two or three years. Dr. Jessopp has told us the story of Borrow's dyeing his face with walnut juice, and Valpy gravely inquiring of him, 'Borrow, are you suffering from jaundice, or is it only dirt?' The Rajah of Sarawak, Sir Archdale Wilson, and the Rev. James Martineau were at school with 'Lavengro.' Dr. Jessopp, who in 1859 became headmaster of King Edward's School, and who has been a Borrovian from the beginning, found the school tradition to be that Borrow, who never reached the sixth form, was indolent and even stupid. In 1819,--the reader will be glad of a date,--Borrow left school, and was articled to a solicitor in Norwich, and sat for some eight hours every day behind a lofty deal desk copying deeds and, it may be presumed, making abstracts of title,--a harmless pursuit which a year or two later entirely failed to engage the attention of young Mr. Benjamin Disraeli in Montague Place. Neither of these distinguished men can honestly be said ever to have acquired what is called the legal mind, a mental equipment which the younger of them had once the effrontery to define as a talent for explaining the self-evident, illustrating the obvious and expatiating on the commonplace. 'By adopting the law,' says Borrow, 'I had not ceased to be Lavengro.' He learnt Welsh when he should have been reading Blackstone. He studied German under the direction of the once famous William Taylor of Norwich, who in 1821 wrote to Southey: 'A Norwich young man is construing with me Schiller's _William Tell_, with a view of translating it for the press. His name is George Henry Borrow, and he has learnt German with extraordinary rapidity. Indeed, he has the gift of tongues, and though not yet eighteen, understands twelve languages--English, Welsh, Erse, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, German, Danish, French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese. He would like to get into the office for Foreign Affairs, but does not know how.' It only takes five years to make an attorney, and Borrow ought therefore, had he served out his time, to have become a gentleman by Act of Parliament in 1824 or 1825. He did not do so, though he appears to have remained in Norwich until after 1826. In that year appeared his _Romantic Ballads from the Danish_, printed by Simon Wilkins of Norwich by subscription. Dr. Jessopp opines that the _Romantic Ballads_ must have brought their translator 'a very respectable sum after paying all the expenses of publication.' I hope it was so, but, as Dr. Johnson once said about the immortality of the soul, I should like more evidence of it. When Borrow left Norwich for London, it is hard to say. It was after the death of his father, and was not likely to have been later than 1828. His only introduction appears to have been one from William Taylor to Sir Richard Phillips, 'the publisher' known to all readers of _Lavengro_. Sir Richard was one of the sheriffs of London and Middlesex, and in addition to sundry treatises on the duties of juries, was the author of two lucubrations, respectively entitled _The Phaenomena called by the name of Gravitation proved to be Proximate Effects of the Orbicular and Rotary Motions of the Earth and On the New Theory of the System of the Universe_. In Watt's _Bibliotheca Britannica_, 1824, Sir Richard is thus contemptuously referred to: 'This personage is the editor of _The Monthly Magazine_, in which many of his effusions may be found with the signature of "Common Sense."' It is not too much to say that but for Borrow this nefarious man would be utterly forgotten; as it is, he lives for ever in the pages of _Lavengro_, a hissing and a reproach. Authors have an ugly trick of getting the better of their publishers in the long run. After leaving London Borrow began the wanderings described in _Lavengro_ and _The Romany Rye_. Those concluded, probably in 1829 or 1830, he crossed the British Channel, and like another Goldsmith, wandered on foot over the Continent of Europe, visiting France, Italy, Austria, and Russia. Of his adventures in these countries there is unhappily no record. In St. Petersburg he must have made a long stay, for there he superintended the translation of the Bible into Mandschu- Tartar, and published in 1835 his _Targum_; _or Metrical Translations from Thirty Languages and Dialects_. In 1835 Borrow returned to London, and being already known to the Bible Society for his biblical labours in Russia, was offered, and accepted, the task of circulating the Scriptures in the Spanish Peninsula. As for his labours in this field, which occupied him so agreeably for four or five years, are they not narrated in _The Bible in Spain_, a book first published by 'Glorious John Murray' in three volumes in 1843? This is the book which made Borrow famous, though his earlier work, _The Zincali_; _or an Account of the Gypsies of Spain_ (two vols. 1841), had attracted a good deal of notice. But _The Bible in Spain_ took readers by storm, and no wonder! Sir Robert Peel named it in the House of Commons; its perusal imparted a new sensation, the sensation of literature, to many a pious subscriber to the Bible Society. The book, wherever it went,--and it went where such like books do not often go,--carried joy and rapture with it. Young people hailed it tumultuously and cherished it tenderly. There were four editions in three volumes in the year of publication. What was thought of the book by the Bible Society I do not know. Perhaps 'he of the countenance of a lion,' of whom we read in the forty-fifth chapter of _Lavengro_, scarcely knew what to say about it; but the precise-looking man with the ill-natured countenance, no doubt, forbade his family to read _The Bible in Spain_. In 1840 Borrow married the widow of a naval officer and settled in Norfolk, where his aged mother was still living. His house was in Oulton Broad; and here he became a notable, the hero of many stories, and the friend of man, provided he was neither literary nor genteel. Here also he finished _Lavengro_ (1851), and wrote _The Romany Rye_ (1857), _Wild Wales_ (1862), and _Romano Lavo-Lil_: _the Word-Book of the Romany_ (1874). For a time Borrow had a house in London in Hereford Square, where his wife died in 1869. He died himself at Oulton in August 1881, leaving behind him, so it is frequently asserted, many manuscript volumes, including treatises on Celtic poetry, on Welsh and Cornish and Manx literature, as well as translations from the Norse and Russ and the jest-books of Turkey. Some, at all events, of these works were advertised as 'ready for the press' in 1858. _The Bible in Spain_ was a popular book, and in 1843, the year of its publication, its author, a man of striking appearance, was much feted and regarded by the lion-hunters of the period. Borrow did not take kindly to the den. He was full of inbred suspicions and, perhaps, of unreasonable demands. He resented the confinement of the dinner-table, the impalement of the ball-room, the imprisonment of the pew. Like the lion in Browning's poem, 'The Glove'-- You saw by the flash on his forehead, By the hope in those eyes wide and steady, He was leagues in the desert already, Driving the flocks up the mountain. He began to write _Lavengro_ in London in 1843. His thoughts went back to his old friend Petulengro, who pronounced life to be sweet: 'There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things. There's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?' Yes, or to live cribbed, cabined, and confined in a London square! No wonder 'Lavengro' felt cross and uncomfortable. Nor did he take much pleasure in the society of the other lions of the hour, least of all of such a lion as Sir John Bowring, M.P. Was not Bowring 'Lavengro' as much as Borrow himself? Had he not--for there was no end to his impudence--travelled in Spain, and actually published a pamphlet in the vernacular? Was he not meditating translations from a score of languages he said he knew? Was he not, furthermore, an old Radical and Republican turned genteel? Were not his wife and daughters more than half suspected of being Jacobites, followers of the Reverend Mr. Platitude, and addicted to 'Charley o'er the Waterism'? Borrow did not get on with Bowring. When Borrow shook the dust of London off his feet, and returned into Norfolk with _Lavengro_ barely begun on his hands, he carried away with him into his retreat the antipathies and prejudices, the whimsical dislikes and the half-real, half-sham disappointments and chagrins which London, that fertile mother of megrims, had bred in him, and dropped them all into the ink with which he wrote his famous book. Gentility he forswore. Whatever else Lavengro might turn out, genteel he was not to be; and sure enough, when Lavengro made his appearance in 1851 genteel he most certainly was not. There was not the same public to welcome the Gypsy as had hailed the Colporteur. The pious phrases which had garnished so plentifully the earlier book had now almost wholly disappeared. There is no evidence that Lavengro ever offered Petulengro a Bible. Even the denunciations of Popery have a dubious sound. What is sometimes called 'the religious world' were no longer buyers of Borrow. Nor was 'the polite world' much better pleased. The polite reader was both puzzled and annoyed. First of all: Was the book true--autobiography or romance? A polite reader objects to be made a fool of. One De Foe in a couple of centuries is enough for a polite reader. Then the glorification of ale and of gypsies and prize-fighters--would it not be better at once to dub the book vulgar, and so have done with it for ever? An ill-regulated book, a strange book, a mad book, a book which condemns the world's way. If I may judge from the reviews, this is how _Lavengro_ struck many, but by no means all. The book had its passionate admirers, its lovers from the first. Men, women, and boys took it to their hearts. Happy day when _Lavengro_ first fell into boyish hands. It brought adventure and the spirit of adventure to your doorstep. No need painfully to walk to Hull, and there take shipping with Robinson Crusoe; no need to sail round the world with Captain Cook, or even to shoot lions in Bechuanaland with that prince of missionaries, Mr. Robert Moffat; for were there not gypsies on the common half a mile from one's homestead, and a dingle at the end of the lane? But the general verdict was, '"Lavengro" has gone too far.' Borrow was not the man to whistle and let the world go by. His advice to his country men and women was: 'To be courteous to everybody as Lavengro was, but always independent like him, and if people meddle with them, to give them as good as they bring, even as he and Isopel Berners were in the habit of doing; and it will be as well for him to observe that he by no means advises women to be too womanly, but, bearing the conduct of Isopel Berners in mind, to take their own parts, and if anybody strikes them to strike again.' This is not the spirit which is patient under reproof. Borrow was not going to be sentenced by the gentility party. He would fulfil his dukkeripen. _Lavengro_ having ended abruptly enough, Borrow took .up the tale where he had left it off; and though he kept his admirers on the tenter-hooks for six years, did at last in 1857 give to the world _The Romany Rye_, to which he added an Appendix. Ah! that Appendix! It is Borrow's Apologia, and therefore must be read. It is interesting and amusing, and is therefore easily read. But it is a cruel and outrageous bit of writing all the same, proving, were proof needed, that it is every whit as easy to be spiteful and envious in dells as in drawing-rooms, and as vain and egotistical on a Norfolk Broad as in Grosvenor Square. In this Appendix Borrow defends 'Lavengro,' both the book and the man, at some length, and with enormous spirit. At gentility in all its manifestations he runs amuck. The Stuarts have a chapter to themselves. Jacobites, old and new; Papists, old and new; and, alas! Sir Walter Scott as the father of 'Charley o'er the Waterism,' all fall by turn under the lash of Lavengro. The attack on the memory of Sir Walter is brutal. Not so, we may be sure, did Pearce, and Cribb, and Spring, and Big Ben Brain, and Broughton, heroes of renown, win name and fame in the brave days of old. They never struck a man when he was down, or gloated over a rival's fall. However, it will not do to get angry with George Borrow. One could never keep it up. Still, the Appendix is a pity. Next to Borrow's vagabondage, which, though I tremble to say it, has a decidedly literary flavour, and his delightful _camaraderie_ or willingness to hob-a-nob with everybody, I rank his eloquence. Great is plot, though Borrow has but little, and that little mechanical; delightful is incident, and Borrow is full of incident--e.g. the poisoning scene in Chapter LXXI., where will you match it, unless it be the very differently-treated scene of the robbers' cave in _The Heart of Midlothian_? and glorious, too, is motion, and Borrow never stagnates, never gathers moss or mould. But great also is eloquence. 'If a book be eloquent,' says Mr. Stevenson, that most distinguished writer, 'its words run thenceforward in our ears like the noise of breakers.' Eloquence is a little unfashionable just now. We are not allowed very much of it in our romances and travels. What are called 'situations' grow stronger every day, and language is strong too, but outbursts, apostrophes, rhapsodies no longer abound. Perhaps they are forbidden by Art. Nobody is ever eloquent in real life. A man's friends would not put up with it. But a really eloquent book is a great possession. Plots explode, and incidents, however varied and delightful, unless lit up by the occasional lightning-flash of true eloquence, must after a while lose their freshness. Borrow was not afraid to be eloquent, nor were other writers of his time. The first Lord Lytton is now a somewhat disparaged author, nor had Borrow any affection for him, considering him to belong to the kid-glove school; but Lytton's eloquence, though often playing him shabby tricks, now dashing his head against the rocks of bathos, now casting him to sprawl unbecomingly amongst the oozy weeds of sentiment, will keep him alive for many a long day. As I write, a passage in _The Caxtons_ comes to my mind, and as it illustrates my meaning, I will take down _The Caxtons_ and transcribe the passage, and let those laugh who may. I will likewise christen it 'By the Fireside':-- O young reader, whoever thou art, or reader at least who has been young, canst thou not remember some time when, with thy wild troubles and sorrows as yet borne in secret, thou hast come back from that hard, stern world, which opens on thee when thou puttest thy foot out of the threshold of home, come back to the four quiet walls, wherein thine elders sit in peace, and seen with a sort of sad amaze how calm and undisturbed all is there? That generation which has gone before thee in the path of passion, the generation of thy parents (not so many years, perchance, remote from thine own), how immovably far off, in its still repose, it seems from thy turbulent youth. It has in it a stillness as of a classic age, antique as the statues of the Greeks, that tranquil monotony of routine into which those lives that preceded thee have merged, the occupations that they have found sufficing for their happiness by the fireside--in the arm-chair and corner appropriated to each--how strangely they contrast thy own feverish excitement! And they make room for thee, and bid thee welcome, and then resettle to their hushed pursuits as if nothing had happened! Nothing had happened! while in thy heart, perhaps, the whole world seems to have shot from its axis, all the elements to be at war! And you sit down, crushed by that quiet happiness which you can share no more, and smile mechanically, and look into the fire; and, ten to one, you say nothing till the time comes for bed, and you take up your candle, and creep miserably to your lonely room. This is not the eloquence of Borrow, though the thought might have been his; it may not be in that grand style of which we hear so much and read so little, but--and this is the substance of the matter--it is interesting, it is moving, and worth pages of choppy dialogue. You read it, first of all, it may be in your youth, when your heart burnt within you as you wondered what was going to happen, but you can return to it in sober age and read it over again with a smile it has taken a lifetime to manufacture. And then Miss Bronte's books! what rhetoric is there! And _Eothen_! Why has not _Eothen_ gone the way of all other traces of Eastern travel? It has humour--delightful humour, no doubt, but it is its eloquence, that picture of the burning, beating sun following the traveller by day, which keeps _Eothen_ alive. Borrow's eloquence is splendid, manly, and desperately courageous. What an apostrophe is that to old Crome at the end of the twenty-first chapter! _Lavengro_ is full of riches. As for his courage, who else could begin a passage 'O England,' and emerge triumphantly a page and a half lower down as Borrow does in _The Bible in Spain_? O England! long, long may it be ere the sun of thy glory sink beneath the wave of darkness! Though gloomy and portentous clouds are now gathering rapidly round thee, still, still may it please the Almighty to disperse them, and to grant thee a futurity longer in duration and still brighter in renown than thy past! Or if thy doom be at hand, may that doom be a noble one, and worthy of her who has been styled the Old Queen of the water! May thou sink, if thou dost sink, amidst blood and flame, with a mighty noise, causing more than one nation to participate in thy downfall! Of all fates, may it please the Lord to preserve thee from a disgraceful and a slow decay; becoming ere extinct a scorn and a mockery for those self-same foes who now, though they envy and abhor thee, still fear thee, nay, even against their will, honour and respect thee! Arouse thee, whilst yet there is time, and prepare thee for the combat of life and death! Cast from thee the foul scurf which now encrusts thy robust limbs, which deadens their force, and makes them heavy and powerless! Cast from thee thy false philosophers, who would fain decry what, next to the love of God, has hitherto been deemed most sacred, the love of the mother land! Cast from thee thy false patriots, who, under the pretext of redressing the wrongs of the poor and weak, seek to promote internal discord, so that thou mayest become only terrible to thyself! And remove from thee the false prophets who have seen vanity and divined lies; who have daubed thy wall with untempered mortar, that it may fall; who have strengthened the hands of the wicked, and made the hearts of the righteous sad. O, do this, and fear not the result, for either shall thy end be a majestic and an enviable one, or God shall perpetuate thy reign upon the waters, thou old Queen! George Borrow,--and this is the last of his virtues with which I shall weary you,--had a true English heart. He could make friends with anybody and be at home anywhere, but though he had a mighty thirst he had never, in the words of the elder Pitt, 'drunk of the potion described in poetic fictions which makes men forget their country.' I have the permission of the Rev. A. W. Upcher to reprint the following letter addressed by him some time ago to the Athenaeum .-- One summer day during the Crimean War we had a call from George Borrow, who had not enjoyed a visit to Anna Gurney so much as he had expected. In a walking tour round Norfolk he had given her a short notice of his intended call, and she was ready to receive him. When, according to his account, he had been but a very short time in her presence, she wheeled her chair round and reached her hand to one of her bookshelves and took down an Arabic grammar, and put it into his hand, asking for explanation of some difficult point, which he tried to decipher; but meanwhile she talked to him continuously; when, said he, 'I could not study the Arabic grammar and listen to her at the same time, so I threw down the book and ran out of the room.' He seems not to have stopped running till he reached Old Tucker's Inn at Cromer, where he renewed his strength, or calmed his temper, with five excellent sausages, and then came on to Sheringham. He told us there were three personages in the world whom he always had a desire to see; two of these had slipped through his fingers, so he was determined to see the third. 'Pray, Mr. Borrow, who were they?' He held up three fingers of his left hand and pointed them off with the forefinger of the right: the first, Daniel O'Connell; the second, Lamplighter (the sire of Phosphorus, Lord Berners's winner of the Derby); the third, Anna Gurney. The first two were dead and he had not seen them; now he had come to see Anna Gurney, and this was the end of his visit. I took him up to the Hall, he talking of many persons and occasionally doubling his fist, and giving a sort of warning like that of his Isopel Berners (in _Lavengro_) to give the Flaming Tinman 'Long Melford' with his right hand. As soon as we reached the Hall a battle- piece by Wouvermans was the first thing that caught his eye and greatly interested him. He told me of a descendant of Wouvermans--an officer in the Austrian army--whom he knew. Then entering the drawing- room and looking out of the bay-window through the oak wood on the deep blue sea beyond, he seemed for some time quite entranced by the lovely, peaceful view, till at last I felt I must arouse him, and said, 'A charming view, Mr. Borrow!' With a deep sigh he slowly answered, 'Yes!--please God the Russians don't come here.' PREFACE In the following pages I have endeavoured to describe a dream, partly of study, partly of adventure, in which will be found copious notices of books, and many descriptions of life and manners, some in a very unusual form. The scenes of action lie in the British Islands;--pray be not displeased, gentle reader, if perchance thou hast imagined that I was about to conduct thee to distant lands, and didst promise thyself much instruction and entertainment from what I might tell thee of them. I do assure thee that thou hast no reason to be displeased, inasmuch as there are no countries in the world less known by the British than these selfsame British Islands, or where more strange things are every day occurring, whether in road or street, house or dingle. The time embraces nearly the first quarter of the present century: this information again may, perhaps, be anything but agreeable to thee; it is a long time to revert to, but fret not thyself, many matters which at present much occupy the public mind originated in some degree towards the latter end of that period, and some of them will be treated of. The principal actors in this dream, or drama, are, as you will have gathered from the title-page, a Scholar, a Gypsy, and a Priest. Should you imagine that these three form one, permit me to assure you that you are very much mistaken. Should there be something of the Gypsy manifest in the Scholar, there is certainly nothing of the Priest. With respect to the Gypsy--decidedly the most entertaining character of the three--there is certainly nothing of the Scholar or the Priest in him; and as for the Priest, though there may be something in him both of scholarship and gypsyism, neither the Scholar nor the Gypsy would feel at all flattered by being confounded with him. Many characters which may be called subordinate will be found, and it is probable that some of these characters will afford much more interest to the reader than those styled the principal. The favourites with the writer are a brave old soldier and his helpmate, an ancient gentlewoman who sold apples, and a strange kind of wandering man and his wife. Amongst the many things attempted in this book is the encouragement of charity, and free and genial manners, and the exposure of humbug, of which there are various kinds, but of which the most perfidious, the most debasing, and the most cruel, is the humbug of the Priest. Yet let no one think that irreligion is advocated in this book. With respect to religious tenets I wish to observe that I am a member of the Church of England, into whose communion I was baptized, and to which my forefathers belonged. Its being the religion in which I was baptized, and of my forefathers, would be a strong inducement to me to cling to it; for I do not happen to be one of those choice spirits 'who turn from their banner when the battle bears strongly against it, and go over to the enemy,' and who receive at first a hug and a 'viva,' and in the sequel contempt and spittle in the face; but my chief reason for belonging to it is, because, of all churches calling themselves Christian ones, I believe there is none so good, so well founded upon Scripture, or whose ministers are, upon the whole, so exemplary in their lives and conversation, so well read in the book from which they preach, or so versed in general learning, so useful in their immediate neighbourhoods, or so unwilling to persecute people of other denominations for matters of doctrine. In the communion of this Church, and with the religious consolation of its ministers, I wish and hope to live and die, and in its and their defence will at all times be ready, if required, to speak, though humbly, and to fight, though feebly, against enemies, whether carnal or spiritual. And is there no priestcraft in the Church of England? There is certainly, or rather there was, a modicum of priestcraft in the Church of England, but I have generally found that those who are most vehement against the Church of England are chiefly dissatisfied with her because there is only a modicum of that article in her--were she stuffed to the very cupola with it, like a certain other Church, they would have much less to say against the Church of England. By the other Church, I mean Rome. Its system was once prevalent in England, and, during the period that it prevailed there, was more prolific of debasement and crime than all other causes united. The people and the government at last becoming enlightened by means of the Scripture spurned it from the island with disgust and horror, the land instantly after its disappearance becoming a fair field, in which arts, sciences, and all the amiable virtues flourished, instead of being a pestilent marsh where swine-like ignorance wallowed, and artful hypocrites, like so many Wills-o'-the-wisp, played antic gambols about, around, and above debased humanity. But Popery still wished to play her old part, to regain her lost dominion, to reconvert the smiling land into the pestilential morass, where she could play again her old antics. From the period of the Reformation in England up to the present time, she has kept her emissaries here, individuals contemptible in intellect, it is true, but cat-like and gliding, who, at her bidding, have endeavoured, as much as in their power has lain, to damp and stifle every genial, honest, loyal, and independent thought, and to reduce minds to such a state of dotage as would enable their old Popish mother to do what she pleased with them. And in every country, however enlightened, there are always minds inclined to grovelling superstition--minds fond of eating dust and swallowing clay--minds never at rest, save when prostrate before some fellow in a surplice; and these Popish emissaries found always some weak enough to bow down before them, astounded by their dreadful denunciations of eternal woe and damnation to any who should refuse to believe their Romania; but they played a poor game--the law protected the servants of Scripture, and the priest with his beads seldom ventured to approach any but the remnant of those of the eikonolatry--representatives of worm-eaten houses, their debased dependants, and a few poor crazy creatures amongst the middle classes--he played a poor game, and the labour was about to prove almost entirely in vain, when the English legislature, in compassion or contempt, or, yet more probably, influenced by that spirit of toleration and kindness which is so mixed up with Protestantism, removed almost entirely the disabilities under which Popery laboured, and enabled it to raise its head and to speak out almost without fear. And it did raise its head, and, though it spoke with some little fear at first, soon discarded every relic of it; went about the land uttering its damnation cry, gathering around it--and for doing so many thanks to it--the favourers of priestcraft who lurked within the walls of the Church of England; frightening with the loudness of its voice the weak, the timid, and the ailing; perpetrating, whenever it had an opportunity, that species of crime to which it has ever been most partial--_Deathbed robbery_; for as it is cruel, so is it dastardly. Yes, it went on enlisting, plundering, and uttering its terrible threats till--till it became, as it always does when left to itself, a fool, a very fool. Its plunderings might have been overlooked, and so might its insolence, had it been common insolence, but it--, and then the roar of indignation which arose from outraged England against the viper, the frozen viper, which it had permitted to warm itself upon its bosom. But thanks, Popery, you have done all that the friends of enlightenment and religious liberty could wish; but if ever there were a set of foolish ones to be found under heaven, surely it is the priestly rabble who came over from Rome to direct the grand movement--so long in its getting up. But now again the damnation cry is withdrawn, there is a subdued meekness in your demeanour, you are now once more harmless as a lamb. Well, we shall see how the trick--'the old trick'--will serve you. CHAPTER I Birth--My father--Tamerlane--Ben Brain--French Protestants--East Anglia--Sorrow and troubles--True peace--A beautiful child--Foreign grave--Mirrors--Alpine country--Emblems--Slow of speech--The Jew--Strange gestures. On an evening of July, in the year 18--, at East D---, a beautiful little town in a certain district of East Anglia, I first saw the light. My father was a Cornish man, the youngest, as I have heard him say, of seven brothers. He sprang from a family of gentlemen, or, as some people would call them, gentillatres, for they were not very wealthy; they had a coat of arms, however, and lived on their own property at a place called Tredinnock, which being interpreted means _the house on the hill_, which house and the neighbouring acres had been from time immemorial in their possession. I mention these particulars that the reader may see at once that I am not altogether of low and plebeian origin; the present age is highly aristocratic, and I am convinced that the public will read my pages with more zest from being told that I am a gentillatre by birth with Cornish blood {5} in my veins, of a family who lived on their own property at a place bearing a Celtic name, signifying the house on the hill, or more strictly the house on the _hillock_. My father was what is generally termed a posthumous child--in other words, the gentillatre who begot him never had the satisfaction of invoking the blessing of the Father of All upon his head; having departed this life some months before the birth of his youngest son. The boy, therefore, never knew a father's care; he was, however, well tended by his mother, whose favourite he was; so much so, indeed, that his brethren, the youngest of whom was considerably older than himself, were rather jealous of him. I never heard, however, that they treated him with any marked unkindness, and it will be as well to observe here that I am by no means well acquainted with his early history, of which, indeed, as I am not writing his life, it is not necessary to say much. Shortly after his mother's death, which occurred when he was eighteen, he adopted the profession of arms, which he followed during the remainder of his life, and in which, had circumstances permitted, he would probably have shone amongst the best. By nature he was cool and collected, slow to anger, though perfectly fearless, patient of control, of great strength; and, to crown all, a proper man with his hands. With far inferior qualifications many a man has become a field-marshal or general; similar ones made Tamerlane, who was not a gentillatre, but the son of a blacksmith, emperor of one-third of the world; but the race is not always for the swift, nor the battle for the strong, indeed I ought rather to say very seldom; certain it is, that my father, with all his high military qualifications, never became emperor, field-marshal, or even general: indeed, he had never an opportunity of distinguishing himself save in one battle, and that took place neither in Flanders, Egypt, nor on the banks of the Indus or Oxus, but in Hyde Park. Smile not, gentle reader, many a battle has been fought in Hyde Park, in which as much skill, science, and bravery have been displayed as ever achieved a victory in Flanders or by the Indus. In such a combat as that to which I allude, I opine that even Wellington or Napoleon would have been heartily glad to cry for quarter ere the lapse of five minutes, and even the Blacksmith Tartar would, perhaps, have shrunk from the opponent with whom, after having had a dispute with him, my father engaged in single combat for one hour, at the end of which time the champions shook hands and retired, each having experienced quite enough of the other's prowess. The name of my father's antagonist was Brain. What! still a smile? did you never hear that name before? I cannot help it! Honour to Brain, who four months after the event which I have now narrated was champion of England, having conquered the heroic Johnson. Honour to Brain, who, at the end of other four months, worn out by the dreadful blows which he had received in his manly combats, expired in the arms of my father, who read the Bible to him in his latter moments--Big Ben Brain. You no longer smile, even _you_ have heard of Big Ben. I have already hinted that my father never rose to any very exalted rank in his profession, notwithstanding his prowess and other qualifications. After serving for many years in the line, he at last entered as captain in the militia regiment of the Earl of ---, at that period just raised, and to which he was sent by the Duke of York to instruct the young levies in military manoeuvres and discipline; and in this mission I believe he perfectly succeeded, competent judges having assured me that the regiment in question soon came by his means to be considered as one of the most brilliant in the service, and inferior to no regiment of the line in appearance or discipline. As the headquarters of this corps were at D--- the duties of my father not unfrequently carried him to that place, and it was on one of these occasions that he became acquainted with a young person of the neighbourhood, for whom he formed an attachment, which was returned; and this young person was my mother. She was descended from a family of French Protestants, natives of Caen, who were obliged to leave their native country when old Louis, at the instigation of the Pope, thought fit to revoke the Edict of Nantes: their name was Petrement, and I have reason for believing that they were people of some consideration; that they were noble hearts, and good Christians, they gave sufficient proof in scorning to bow the knee to the tyranny of Rome. So they left beautiful Normandy for their faith's sake, and with a few louis d'ors in their purse, a Bible in the vulgar tongue, and a couple of old swords, which, if report be true, had done service in the Huguenot wars, they crossed the sea to the isle of civil peace and religious liberty, and established themselves in East Anglia. And many other Huguenot families bent their steps thither, and devoted themselves to agriculture or the mechanical arts; and in the venerable old city, the capital of the province, in the northern shadow of the Castle of De Burgh, the exiles built for themselves a church where they praised God in the French tongue, and to which, at particular seasons of the year, they were in the habit of flocking from country and from town to sing-- 'Thou hast provided for us a goodly earth; thou waterest her furrows, thou sendest rain into the little valleys thereof, thou makest it soft with the drops of rain, and blessest the increase of it.' I have been told that in her younger days my mother was strikingly handsome; this I can easily believe: I never knew her in her youth, for though she was very young when she married my father (who was her senior by many years), she had attained the middle age before I was born, no children having been vouchsafed to my parents in the early stages of their union. Yet even at the present day, now that years threescore and ten have passed over her head, attended with sorrow and troubles manifold, poorly chequered with scanty joys, can I look on that countenance and doubt that at one time beauty decked it as with a glorious garment? Hail to thee, my parent! as thou sittest there, in thy widow's weeds, in the dusky parlour in the house overgrown with the lustrous ivy of the sister isle, the solitary house at the end of the retired court shaded by lofty poplars. Hail to thee, dame of the oval face, olive complexion, and Grecian forehead; by thy table seated with the mighty volume of the good Bishop Hopkins spread out before thee; there is peace in thy countenance, my mother; it is not worldly peace, however, not the deceitful peace which lulls to bewitching slumbers, and from which, let us pray, humbly pray, that every sinner may be roused in time to implore mercy not in vain! Thine is the peace of the righteous, my mother, of those to whom no sin can be imputed, the score of whose misdeeds has been long since washed away by the blood of atonement, which imputeth righteousness to those who trust in it. It was not always thus, my mother; a time was, when the cares, pomps, and vanities of this world agitated thee too much; but that time is gone by, another and a better has succeeded; there is peace now on thy countenance, the true peace; peace around thee, too, in thy solitary dwelling, sounds of peace, the cheerful hum of the kettle and the purring of the immense angola, which stares up at thee from its settle with its almost human eyes. No more earthly cares and affections now, my mother! Yes, one. Why dost thou suddenly raise thy dark and still brilliant eye from the volume with a somewhat startled glance? What noise is that in the distant street? Merely the noise of a hoof; a sound common enough: it draws nearer, nearer, and now it stops before thy gate. Singular! And now there is a pause, a long pause. Ha! thou hearest something--a footstep; a swift but heavy footstep! thou risest, thou tremblest, there is a hand on the pin of the outer door, there is some one in the vestibule, and now the door of thy apartment opens, there is a reflection on the mirror behind thee, a travelling hat, a gray head and sunburnt face. My dearest Son!--My darling Mother! Yes, mother, thou didst recognise in the distant street the hoof-tramp of the wanderer's horse. I was not the only child of my parents; I had a brother some three years older than myself. He was a beautiful child; one of those occasionally seen in England, and in England alone; a rosy, angelic face, blue eyes, and light chestnut hair; it was not exactly an Anglo-Saxon countenance, in which, by the bye, there is generally a cast of loutishness and stupidity; it partook, to a certain extent, of the Celtic character, particularly in the fire and vivacity which illumined it; his face was the mirror of his mind; perhaps no disposition more amiable was ever found amongst the children of Adam, united, however, with no inconsiderable portion of high and dauntless spirit. So great was his beauty in infancy, that people, especially those of the poorer classes, would follow the nurse who carried him about in order to look at and bless his lovely face. At the age of three months an attempt was made to snatch him from his mother's arms in the streets of London, at the moment she was about to enter a coach; indeed, his appearance seemed to operate so powerfully upon every person who beheld him, that my parents were under continual apprehension of losing him; his beauty, however, was perhaps surpassed by the quickness of his parts. He mastered his letters in a few hours, and in a day or two could decipher the names of people on the doors of houses and over the shop-windows. As he grew up, his personal appearance became less prepossessing, his quickness and cleverness, however, rather increased; and I may say of him, that with respect to everything which he took in hand he did it better and more speedily than any other person. Perhaps it will be asked here, what became of him? Alas! alas! his was an early and a foreign grave. As I have said before, the race is not always for the swift, nor the battle for the strong. And now, doubtless, after the above portrait of my brother, painted in the very best style of Rubens, the reader will conceive himself justified in expecting a full-length one of myself, as a child, for as to my present appearance, I suppose he will be tolerably content with that flitting glimpse in the mirror. But he must excuse me; I have no intention of drawing a portrait of myself in childhood; indeed it would be difficult, for at that time I never looked into mirrors. No attempts, however, were ever made to steal me in my infancy, and I never heard that my parents entertained the slightest apprehension of losing me by the hands of kidnappers, though I remember perfectly well that people were in the habit of standing still to look at me, ay, more than at my brother; from which premisses the reader may form any conclusion with respect to my appearance which seemeth good unto him and reasonable. Should he, being a good-natured person, and always inclined to adopt the charitable side in any doubtful point, be willing to suppose that I, too, was eminently endowed by nature with personal graces, I tell him frankly that I have no objection whatever to his entertaining that idea; moreover, that I heartily thank him, and shall at all times be disposed, under similar circumstances, to exercise the same species of charity towards himself. With respect to my mind and its qualities I shall be more explicit; for, were I to maintain much reserve on this point, many things which appear in these memoirs would be highly mysterious to the reader, indeed incomprehensible. Perhaps no two individuals were ever more unlike in mind and disposition than my brother and myself: as light is opposed to darkness, so was that happy, brilliant, cheerful child to the sad and melancholy being who sprang from the same stock as himself, and was nurtured by the same milk. Once, when travelling in an Alpine country, I arrived at a considerable elevation; I saw in the distance, far below, a beautiful stream hastening to the ocean, its rapid waters here sparkling in the sunshine, and there tumbling merrily in cascades. On its banks were vineyards and cheerful villages; close to where I stood, in a granite basin with steep and precipitous sides, slumbered a deep, dark lagoon, shaded by black pines, cypresses, and yews. It was a wild, savage spot, strange and singular; ravens hovered above the pines, filling the air with their uncouth notes, pies chattered, and I heard the cry of an eagle from a neighbouring peak; there lay the lake, the dark, solitary, and almost inaccessible lake; gloomy shadows were upon it, which, strangely modified, as gusts of wind agitated the surface, occasionally assumed the shape of monsters. So I stood on the Alpine elevation, and looked now on the gay distant river, and now at the dark granite-encircled lake close beside me in the lone solitude, and I thought of my brother and myself. I am no moraliser; but the gay and rapid river, and the dark and silent lake, were, of a verity, no bad emblems of us two. So far from being quick and clever like my brother, and able to rival the literary feat which I have recorded of him, many years elapsed before I was able to understand the nature of letters, or to connect them. A lover of nooks and retired corners, I was as a child in the habit of fleeing from society, and of sitting for hours together with my head on my breast. What I was thinking about, it would be difficult to say at this distance of time; I remember perfectly well, however, being ever conscious of a peculiar heaviness within me, and at times of a strange sensation of fear, which occasionally amounted to horror, and for which I could assign no real cause whatever. By nature slow of speech, I took no pleasure in conversation, nor in hearing the voices of my fellow-creatures. When people addressed me, I not unfrequently, especially if they were strangers, turned away my head from them, and if they persisted in their notice burst into tears, which singularity of behaviour by no means tended to dispose people in my favour. I was as much disliked as my brother was deservedly beloved and admired. My parents, it is true, were always kind to me; and my brother, who was good nature itself, was continually lavishing upon me every mark of affection. There was, however, one individual who, in the days of my childhood, was disposed to form a favourable opinion of me. One day, a Jew--I have quite forgotten the circumstance, but I was long subsequently informed of it--one day a travelling Jew knocked at the door of a farmhouse in which we had taken apartments; I was near at hand sitting in the bright sunshine, drawing strange lines on the dust with my fingers, an ape and dog were my companions; the Jew looked at me and asked me some questions, to which, though I was quite able to speak, I returned no answer. On the door being opened, the Jew, after a few words, probably relating to pedlery, demanded who the child was, sitting in the sun; the maid replied that I was her mistress's youngest son, a child weak _here_, pointing to her forehead. The Jew looked at me again, and then said: ''Pon my conscience, my dear, I believe that you must be troubled there yourself to tell me any such thing. It is not my habit to speak to children, inasmuch as I hate them, because they often follow me and fling stones after me; but I no sooner looked at that child than I was forced to speak to it--his not answering me shows his sense, for it has never been the custom of the wise to fling away their words in indifferent talk and conversation; the child is a sweet child, and has all the look of one of our people's children. Fool, indeed! did I not see his eyes sparkle just now when the monkey seized the dog by the ear?--they shone like my own diamonds--does your good lady want any--real and fine? Were it not for what you tell me, I should say it was a prophet's child. Fool, indeed! he can write already, or I'll forfeit the box which I carry on my back, and for which I should be loth to take two hundred pounds!' He then leaned forward to inspect the lines which I had traced. All of a sudden he started back, and grew white as a sheet; then, taking off his hat, he made some strange gestures to me, cringing, chattering, and showing his teeth, and shortly departed, muttering something about 'holy letters,' and talking to himself in a strange tongue. The words of the Jew were in due course of time reported to my mother, who treasured them in her heart, and from that moment began to entertain brighter hopes of her youngest born than she had ever before ventured to foster. {picture:All of a sudden he started back, and grew white as a sheet: page13.jpg} CHAPTER II Barracks and lodgings--A camp--The viper--A delicate child--Blackberry time--_Meun_ and _tuum_--Hythe--The Golgotha--Daneman's skull--Superhuman stature--Stirring times--The sea-bord. I have been a wanderer the greater part of my life; indeed I remember only two periods, and these by no means lengthy, when I was, strictly speaking, stationary. I was a soldier's son, and as the means of my father were by no means sufficient to support two establishments, his family invariably attended him wherever he went, so that from my infancy I was accustomed to travelling and wandering, and looked upon a monthly change of scene and residence as a matter of course. Sometimes we lived in barracks, sometimes in lodgings, but generally in the former, always eschewing the latter from motives of economy, save when the barracks were inconvenient and uncomfortable; and they must have been highly so indeed, to have discouraged us from entering them; for though we were gentry (pray bear that in mind, gentle reader), gentry by birth, and incontestably so by my father's bearing the commission of good old George the Third, we were not _fine gentry_, but people who could put up with as much as any genteel Scotch family who find it convenient to live on a third floor in London, or on a sixth at Edinburgh or Glasgow. It was not a little that could discourage us: we once lived within the canvas walls of a camp, at a place called Pett, in Sussex; and I believe it was at this place that occurred the first circumstance, or adventure, call it which you will, that I can remember in connection with myself: it was a strange one, and I will relate it. It happened that my brother and myself were playing one evening in a sandy lane, in the neighbourhood of this Pett camp; our mother was at a slight distance. All of a sudden, a bright yellow, and, to my infantine eye, beautiful and glorious, object made its appearance at the top of the bank from between the thick quickset, and, gliding down, began to move across the lane to the other side, like a line of golden light. Uttering a cry of pleasure, I sprang forward, and seized it nearly by the middle. A strange sensation of numbing coldness seemed to pervade my whole arm, which surprised me the more, as the object to the eye appeared so warm and sunlike. I did not drop it, however, but, holding it up, looked at it intently, as its head dangled about a foot from my hand. It made no resistance; I felt not even the slightest struggle; but now my brother began to scream and shriek like one possessed. 'O mother, mother!' said he, 'the viper!--my brother has a viper in his hand!' He then, like one frantic, made an effort to snatch the creature away from me. The viper now hissed amain, and raised its head, in which were eyes like hot coals, menacing, not myself, but my brother. I dropped my captive, for I saw my mother running towards me; and the reptile, after standing for a moment nearly erect, and still hissing furiously, made off, and disappeared. The whole scene is now before me, as vividly as if it occurred yesterday--the gorgeous viper, my poor dear frantic brother, my agitated parent, and a frightened hen clucking under the bushes--and yet I was not three years old. It is my firm belief that certain individuals possess an inherent power, or fascination, over certain creatures, otherwise I should be unable to account for many feats which I have witnessed, and, indeed, borne a share in, connected with the taming of brutes and reptiles. I have known a savage and vicious mare, whose stall it was dangerous to approach, even when bearing provender, welcome, nevertheless, with every appearance of pleasure, an uncouth, wiry-headed man, with a frightfully seamed face, and an iron hook supplying the place of his right hand, one whom the animal had never seen before, playfully bite his hair, and cover his face with gentle and endearing kisses; and I have already stated how a viper would permit, without resentment, one child to take it up in his hand, whilst it showed its dislike to the approach of another by the fiercest hissings. Philosophy can explain many strange things, but there are some which are a far pitch above her, and this is one. I should scarcely relate another circumstance which occurred about this time but for a singular effect which it produced upon my constitution. Up to this period I had been rather a delicate child; whereas, almost immediately after the occurrence to which I allude, I became both hale and vigorous, to the great astonishment of my parents, who naturally enough expected that it would produce quite a contrary effect. It happened that my brother and myself were disporting ourselves in certain fields near the good town of Canterbury. A female servant had attended us, in order to take care that we came to no mischief: she, however, it seems, had matters of her own to attend to, and, allowing us to go where we listed, remained in one corner of a field, in earnest conversation with a red-coated dragoon. Now it chanced to be blackberry time, and the two children wandered under the hedges, peering anxiously among them in quest of that trash so grateful to urchins of their degree. We did not find much of it, however, and were soon separated in the pursuit. All at once I stood still, and could scarcely believe my eyes. I had come to a spot where, almost covering the hedge, hung clusters of what seemed fruit--deliciously-tempting fruit--something resembling grapes of various colours, green, red, and purple. Dear me, thought I, how fortunate! yet have I a right to gather it? is it mine? for the observance of the law of _meum_ and _tuum_ had early been impressed upon my mind, and I entertained, even at that tender age, the utmost horror for theft; so I stood staring at the variegated clusters, in doubt as to what I should do. I know not how I argued the matter in my mind; the temptation, however, was at last too strong for me, so I stretched forth my hand and ate. I remember, perfectly well, that the taste of this strange fruit was by no means so pleasant as the appearance; but the idea of eating fruit was sufficient for a child, and, after all, the flavour was much superior to that of sour apples, so I ate voraciously. How long I continued eating I scarcely know. One thing is certain, that I never left the field as I entered it, being carried home in the arms of the dragoon in strong convulsions, in which I continued for several hours. About midnight I awoke, as if from a troubled sleep, and beheld my parents bending over my couch, whilst the regimental surgeon, with a candle in his hand, stood nigh, the light feebly reflected on the whitewashed walls of the barrack-room. Another circumstance connected with my infancy, and I have done. I need offer no apology for relating it, as it subsequently exercised considerable influence over my pursuits. We were, if I remember right, in the vicinity of a place called Hythe, in Kent. One sweet evening, in the latter part of summer, our mother took her two little boys by the hand, for a wander about the fields. In the course of our stroll we came to the village church; an old, gray-headed sexton stood in the porch, who, perceiving that we were strangers, invited us to enter. We were presently in the interior, wandering about the aisles, looking on the walls, and inspecting the monuments of the notable dead. I can scarcely state what we saw; how should I? I was a child not yet four years old, and yet I think I remember the evening sun streaming in through a stained window upon the dingy mahogany pulpit, and flinging a rich lustre upon the faded tints of an ancient banner. And now once more we were outside the building, where, against the wall, stood a low-eaved pent-house, into which we looked. It was half filled with substances of some kind, which at first looked like large gray stones. The greater part were lying in layers; some, however, were seen in confused and mouldering heaps, and two or three, which had perhaps rolled down from the rest, lay separately on the floor. 'Skulls, madam,' said the sexton; 'skulls of the old Danes! Long ago they came pirating into these parts; and then there chanced a mighty shipwreck, for God was angry with them, and He sunk them; and their skulls, as they came ashore, were placed here as a memorial. There were many more when I was young, but now they are fast disappearing. Some of them must have belonged to strange fellows, madam. Only see that one; why, the two young gentry can scarcely lift it!' And, indeed, my brother and myself had entered the Golgotha, and commenced handling these grim relics of mortality. One enormous skull, lying in a corner, had fixed our attention, and we had drawn it forth. Spirit of eld, what a skull was yon! {picture:'Skulls, madam,' said the sexton; 'skulls of the old Danes.': page18.jpg} I still seem to see it, the huge grim thing; many of the others were large, strikingly so, and appeared fully to justify the old man's conclusion that their owners must have been strange fellows; but, compared with this mighty mass of bone, they looked small and diminutive like those of pigmies; it must have belonged to a giant, one of those red- haired warriors of whose strength and stature such wondrous tales are told in the ancient chronicles of the north, and whose grave-hills, when ransacked, occasionally reveal secrets which fill the minds of puny moderns with astonishment and awe. Reader, have you ever pored days and nights over the pages of Snorro?--probably not, for he wrote in a language which few of the present day understand, and few would be tempted to read him tamed down by Latin dragomans. A brave old book is that of Snorro, containing the histories and adventures of old northern kings and champions, who seemed to have been quite different men, if we may judge from the feats which they performed, from those of these days; one of the best of his histories is that which describes the life of Harald Haardraade, who, after manifold adventures by land and sea, now a pirate, now a mercenary of the Greek emperor, became king of Norway, and eventually perished at the battle of Stamford Bridge, whilst engaged in a gallant onslaught upon England. Now, I have often thought that the old Kemp, whose mouldering skull in the Golgotha of Hythe my brother and myself could scarcely lift, must have resembled in one respect at least this Harald, whom Snorro describes as a great and wise ruler and a determined leader, dangerous in battle, of fair presence and measuring in height just _five ells_, {19} neither more nor less. I never forgot the Daneman's skull; like the apparition of the viper in the sandy lane, it dwelt in the mind of the boy, affording copious food for the exercise of imagination. From that moment with the name of Dane were associated strange ideas of strength, daring, and superhuman stature; and an undefinable curiosity for all that is connected with the Danish race began to pervade me; and if, long after, when I became a student I devoted myself with peculiar zest to Danish lore and the acquirement of the old Norse tongue and its dialects, I can only explain the matter by the early impression received at Hythe from the tale of the old sexton, beneath the pent-house, and the sight of the Danish skull. And thus we went on straying from place to place, at Hythe to-day, and perhaps within a week looking out from our hostel-window upon the streets of old Winchester, our motions ever in accordance with the 'route' of the regiment, so habituated to change of scene that it had become almost necessary to our existence. Pleasant were these days of my early boyhood; and a melancholy pleasure steals over me as I recall them. Those were stirring times of which I am speaking, and there was much passing around me calculated to captivate the imagination. The dreadful struggle which so long convulsed Europe, and in which England bore so prominent a part, was then at its hottest; we were at war, and determination and enthusiasm shone in every face; man, woman, and child were eager to fight the Frank, the hereditary, but, thank God, never dreaded enemy of the Anglo-Saxon race. 'Love your country and beat the French, and then never mind what happens,' was the cry of entire England. Oh, those were days of power, gallant days, bustling days, worth the bravest days of chivalry at least; tall battalions of native warriors were marching through the land; there was the glitter of the bayonet and the gleam of the sabre; the shrill squeak of the fife and loud rattling of the drum were heard in the streets of country towns, and the loyal shouts of the inhabitants greeted the soldiery on their arrival, or cheered them at their departure. And now let us leave the upland, and descend to the sea-bord; there is a sight for you upon the billows! A dozen men-of-war are gliding majestically out of port, their long buntings streaming from the top-gallant masts, calling on the skulking Frenchman to come forth from his bights and bays; and what looms upon us yonder from the fog-bank in the east? a gallant frigate towing behind her the long low hull of a crippled privateer, which but three short days ago had left Dieppe to skim the sea, and whose crew of ferocious hearts are now cursing their imprudence in an English hold. Stirring times those, which I love to recall, for they were days of gallantry and enthusiasm, and were moreover the days of my boyhood. CHAPTER III Pretty D-----The venerable church--The stricken heart--Dormant energies--The small packet--Nerves--The books--A picture--Mountain-like billows--The footprint--Spirit of De Foe--Reasoning powers--Terrors of God--Heads of the dragons--High-Church clerk--A journey--The drowned country. And when I was between six and seven years of age we were once more at D---, the place of my birth, whither my father had been despatched on the recruiting service. I have already said that it was a beautiful little town--at least it was at the time of which I am speaking--what it is at present I know not, for thirty years and more have elapsed since I last trod its streets. It will scarcely have improved, for how could it be better than it then was? I love to think on thee, pretty quiet D---, thou pattern of an English country town, with thy clean but narrow streets branching out from thy modest market-place, with thine old-fashioned houses, with here and there a roof of venerable thatch, with thy one half-aristocratic mansion, where resided thy Lady Bountiful--she, the generous and kind, who loved to visit the sick, leaning on her gold-headed cane, whilst the sleek old footman walked at a respectful distance behind. Pretty quiet D---, with thy venerable church, in which moulder the mortal remains of England's sweetest and most pious bard. Yes, pretty D---, I could always love thee, were it but for the sake of him who sleeps beneath the marble slab in yonder quiet chancel. It was within thee that the long-oppressed bosom heaved its last sigh, and the crushed and gentle spirit escaped from a world in which it had known nought but sorrow. Sorrow! do I say? How faint a word to express the misery of that bruised reed; misery so dark that a blind worm like myself is occasionally tempted to exclaim, Better had the world never been created than that one so kind, so harmless, and so mild, should have undergone such intolerable woe! But it is over now, for, as there is an end of joy, so has affliction its termination. Doubtless the All-wise did not afflict him without a cause: who knows but within that unhappy frame lurked vicious seeds which the sunbeams of joy and prosperity might have called into life and vigour? Perhaps the withering blasts of misery nipped that which otherwise might have terminated in fruit noxious and lamentable. But peace to the unhappy one, he is gone to his rest; the death-like face is no longer occasionally seen timidly and mournfully looking for a moment through the window-pane upon thy market-place, quiet and pretty D-; the hind in thy neighbourhood no longer at evening-fall views, and starts as he views, the dark lathy figure moving beneath the hazels and alders of shadowy lanes, or by the side of murmuring trout streams, and no longer at early dawn does the sexton of the old church reverently doff his hat, as, supported by some kind friend, the death- stricken creature totters along the church-path to that mouldering edifice with the low roof, inclosing a spring of sanatory waters, built and devoted to some saint, if the legend over the door be true, by the daughter of an East Anglian king. But to return to my own history. I had now attained the age of six: shall I state what intellectual progress I had been making up to this period? Alas! upon this point I have little to say calculated to afford either pleasure or edification; I had increased rapidly in size and in strength: the growth of the mind, however, had by no means corresponded with that of the body. It is true, I had acquired my letters, and was by this time able to read imperfectly; but this was all: and even this poor triumph over absolute ignorance would never have been effected but for the unremitting attention of my parents, who, sometimes by threats, sometimes by entreaties, endeavoured to rouse the dormant energies of my nature, and to bend my wishes to the acquisition of the rudiments of knowledge; but in influencing the wish lay the difficulty. Let but the will of a human being be turned to any particular object, and it is ten to one that sooner or later he achieves it. At this time I may safely say that I harboured neither wishes nor hopes; I had as yet seen no object calculated to call them forth, and yet I took pleasure in many things which perhaps unfortunately were all within my sphere of enjoyment. I loved to look upon the heavens, and to bask in the rays of the sun, or to sit beneath hedgerows and listen to the chirping of the birds, indulging the while in musing and meditation as far as my very limited circle of ideas would permit; but, unlike my brother, who was at this time at school, and whose rapid progress in every branch of instruction astonished and delighted his preceptors, I took no pleasure in books, whose use, indeed, I could scarcely comprehend, and bade fair to be as arrant a dunce as ever brought the blush of shame into the cheeks of anxious and affectionate parents. But the time was now at hand when the ice which had hitherto bound the mind of the child with its benumbing power was to be thawed, and a world of sensations and ideas awakened to which it had hitherto been an entire stranger. One day a young lady, an intimate acquaintance of our family, and godmother to my brother, drove up to the house in which we dwelt; she stayed some time conversing with my mother, and on rising to depart, she put down on the table a small packet, exclaiming, 'I have brought a little present for each of the boys: the one is a History of England, which I intend for my godson when he returns from school, the other is . . .'--and here she said something which escaped my ear, as I sat at some distance, moping in a corner,--'I intend it for the youngster yonder,' pointing to myself; she then departed, and, my mother going out shortly after, I was left alone. I remember for some time sitting motionless in my corner, with my eyes bent upon the ground; at last I lifted my head and looked upon the packet as it lay on the table. All at once a strange sensation came over me, such as I had never experienced before--a singular blending of curiosity, awe, and pleasure, the remembrance of which, even at this distance of time, produces a remarkable effect upon my nervous system. What strange things are the nerves--I mean those more secret and mysterious ones in which I have some notion that the mind or soul, call it which you will, has its habitation; how they occasionally tingle and vibrate before any coming event closely connected with the future weal or woe of the human being. Such a feeling was now within me, certainly independent of what the eye had seen or the ear had heard. A book of some description had been brought for me, a present by no means calculated to interest me; what cared I for books? I had already many into which I never looked but from compulsion; friends, moreover, had presented me with similar things before, which I had entirely disregarded, and what was there in this particular book, whose very title I did not know, calculated to attract me more than the rest? yet something within told me that my fate was connected with the book which had been last brought; so, after looking on the packet from my corner for a considerable time, I got up and went to the table. The packet was lying where it had been left--I took it up; had the envelope, which consisted of whitish brown paper, been secured by a string or a seal, I should not have opened it, as I should have considered such an act almost in the light of a crime; the books, however, had been merely folded up, and I therefore considered that there could be no possible harm in inspecting them, more especially as I had received no injunction to the contrary. Perhaps there was something unsound in this reasoning, something sophistical; but a child is sometimes as ready as a grown-up person in finding excuses for doing that which he is inclined to. But whether the action was right or wrong, and I am afraid it was not altogether right, I undid the packet: it contained three books; two from their similarity seemed to be separate parts of one and the same work; they were handsomely bound, and to them I first turned my attention. I opened them successively, and endeavoured to make out their meaning; their contents, however, as far as I was able to understand them, were by no means interesting: whoever pleases may read these books for me, and keep them, too, into the bargain, said I to myself. I now took up the third book: it did not resemble the others, being longer and considerably thicker; the binding was of dingy calf-skin. I opened it, and as I did so another strange thrill of pleasure shot through my frame. The first object on which my eyes rested was a picture; it was exceedingly well executed, at least the scene which it represented made a vivid impression upon me, which would hardly have been the case had the artist not been faithful to nature. A wild scene it was--a heavy sea and rocky shore, with mountains in the background, above which the moon was peering. Not far from the shore, upon the water, was a boat with two figures in it, one of which stood at the bow, pointing with what I knew to be a gun at a dreadful shape in the water; fire was flashing from the muzzle of the gun, and the monster appeared to be transfixed. I almost thought I heard its cry. I remained motionless, gazing upon the picture, scarcely daring to draw my breath, lest the new and wondrous world should vanish of which I had now obtained a glimpse. 'Who are those people, and what could have brought them into that strange situation?' I asked of myself; and now the seed of curiosity, which had so long lain dormant, began to expand, and I vowed to myself to become speedily acquainted with the whole history of the people in the boat. After looking on the picture till every mark and line in it were familiar to me, I turned over various leaves till I came to another engraving; a new source of wonder--a low sandy beach on which the furious sea was breaking in mountain-like billows; cloud and rack deformed the firmament, which wore a dull and leaden-like hue; gulls and other aquatic fowls were toppling upon the blast, or skimming over the tops of the maddening waves--'Mercy upon him! he must be drowned!' I exclaimed, as my eyes fell upon a poor wretch who appeared to be striving to reach the shore; he was upon his legs, but was evidently half smothered with the brine; high above his head curled a horrible billow, as if to engulf him for ever. 'He must be drowned! he must be drowned!' I almost shrieked, and dropped the book. I soon snatched it up again, and now my eye lighted on a third picture: again a shore, but what a sweet and lovely one, and how I wished to be treading it; there were beautiful shells lying on the smooth white sand, some were empty like those I had occasionally seen on marble mantelpieces, but out of others peered the heads and bodies of wondrous crayfish, a wood of thick green trees skirted the beach and partly shaded it from the rays of the sun, which shone hot above, while blue waves slightly crested with foam were gently curling against it; there was a human figure upon the beach, wild and uncouth, clad in the skins of animals, with a huge cap on his head, a hatchet at his girdle, and in his hand a gun; his feet and legs were bare; he stood in an attitude of horror and surprise; his body was bent far back, and his eyes, which seemed starting out of his head, were fixed upon a mark on the sand--a large distinct mark--a human footprint. . . . Reader, is it necessary to name the book which now stood open in my hand, and whose very prints, feeble expounders of its wondrous lines, had produced within me emotions strange and novel? Scarcely--for it was a book which has exerted over the minds of Englishmen an influence certainly greater than any other of modern times--which has been in most people's hands, and with the contents of which even those who cannot read are to a certain extent acquainted--a book from which the most luxuriant and fertile of our modern prose writers have drunk inspiration--a book, moreover, to which, from the hardy deeds which it narrates, and the spirit of strange and romantic enterprise which it tends to awaken, England owes many of her astonishing discoveries both by sea and land, and no inconsiderable part of her naval glory. Hail to thee, spirit of De Foe! What does not my own poor self owe to thee? England has better bards than either Greece or Rome, yet I could spare them easier far than De Foe, 'unabashed De Foe,' as the hunchbacked rhymer styled him. The true chord had now been touched; a raging curiosity with respect to the contents of the volume, whose engravings had fascinated my eye, burned within me, and I never rested until I had fully satisfied it; weeks succeeded weeks, months followed months, and the wondrous volume was my only study and principal source of amusement. For hours together I would sit poring over a page till I had become acquainted with the import of every line. My progress, slow enough at first, became by degrees more rapid, till at last, under 'a shoulder of mutton sail,' I found myself cantering before a steady breeze over an ocean of enchantment, so well pleased with my voyage that I cared not how long it might be ere it reached its termination. And it was in this manner that I first took to the paths of knowledge. About this time I began to be somewhat impressed with religious feelings. My parents were, to a certain extent, religious people; but, though they had done their best to afford me instruction on religious points, I had either paid no attention to what they endeavoured to communicate, or had listened with an ear far too obtuse to derive any benefit. But my mind had now become awakened from the drowsy torpor in which it had lain so long, and the reasoning powers which I possessed were no longer inactive. Hitherto I had entertained no conception whatever of the nature and properties of God, and with the most perfect indifference had heard the divine name proceeding from the mouths of people--frequently, alas! on occasions when it ought not to be employed; but I now never heard it without a tremor, for I now knew that God was an awful and inscrutable Being, the Maker of all things; that we were His children, and that we, by our sins, had justly offended Him; that we were in very great peril from His anger, not so much in this life as in another and far stranger state of being yet to come; that we had a Saviour withal to whom it was necessary to look for help: upon this point, however, I was yet very much in the dark, as, indeed, were most of those with whom I was connected. The power and terrors of God were uppermost in my thoughts; they fascinated though they astounded me. Twice every Sunday I was regularly taken to the church, where, from a corner of the large spacious pew, lined with black leather, I would fix my eyes on the dignified High-Church rector, and the dignified High-Church clerk, and watch the movement of their lips, from which, as they read their respective portions of the venerable liturgy, would roll many a portentous word descriptive of the wondrous works of the Most High. _Rector_. Thou didst divide the sea, through thy power: thou brakest the heads of the dragons in the waters. _Philoh_. Thou smotest the heads of Leviathan in pieces: and gavest him to be meat for the people in the wilderness. _Rector_. Thou broughtest out fountains, and waters out of the hard rocks: thou driedst up mighty waters. _Philoh_. The day is thine, and the night is thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun. Peace to your memories, dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk!--by this time ye are probably gone to your long homes, and your voices are no longer heard sounding down the aisles of the venerable church--nay, doubtless, this has already long since been the fate of him of the sonorous 'Amen!'--the one of the two who, with all due respect to the rector, principally engrossed my boyish admiration--he, at least, is scarcely now among the living! Living! why, I have heard say that he blew a fife--for he was a musical as well as a Christian professor--a bold fife, to cheer the Guards and the brave Marines, as they marched with measured step, obeying an insane command, up Bunker's height, whilst the rifles of the sturdy Yankees were sending the leaden hail sharp and thick amidst the red-coated ranks; for Philoh had not always been a man of peace, nor an exhorter to turn the other cheek to the smiter, but had even arrived at the dignity of a halberd in his country's service before his six-foot form required rest, and the gray-haired veteran retired, after a long peregrination, to his native town, to enjoy ease and respectability on a pension of 'eighteenpence a day'; and well did his fellow-townsmen act, when, to increase that ease and respectability, and with a thoughtful regard for the dignity of the good church service, they made him clerk and precentor--the man of the tall form and of the audible voice, which sounded loud and clear as his own Bunker fife. Well, peace to thee, thou fine old chap, despiser of dissenters, and hater of papists, as became a dignified and High-Church clerk; if thou art in thy grave, the better for thee; thou wert fitted to adorn a bygone time, when loyalty was in vogue, and smiling content lay like a sunbeam upon the land, but thou wouldst be sadly out of place in these days of cold philosophic latitudinarian doctrine, universal tolerism, and half-concealed rebellion--rare times, no doubt, for papists and dissenters, but which would assuredly have broken the heart of the loyal soldier of George the Third, and the dignified High-Church clerk of pretty D---. We passed many months at this place: nothing, however, occurred requiring any particular notice, relating to myself, beyond what I have already stated, and I am not writing the history of others. At length my father was recalled to his regiment, which at that time was stationed at a place called Norman Cross, in Lincolnshire, or rather Huntingdonshire, at some distance from the old town of Peterborough. For this place he departed, leaving my mother and myself to follow in a few days. Our journey was a singular one. On the second day we reached a marshy and fenny country, which, owing to immense quantities of rain which had lately fallen, was completely submerged. At a large town we got on board a kind of passage- boat, crowded with people; it had neither sails nor oars, and those were not the days of steam-vessels; it was a treck-schuyt, and was drawn by horses. Young as I was, there was much connected with this journey which highly surprised me, and which brought to my remembrance particular scenes described in the book which I now generally carried in my bosom. The country was, as I have already said, submerged--entirely drowned--no land was visible; the trees were growing bolt upright in the flood, whilst farmhouses and cottages were standing insulated; the horses which drew us were up to the knees in water, and, on coming to blind pools and 'greedy depths,' were not unfrequently swimming, in which case, the boys or urchins who mounted them sometimes stood, sometimes knelt, upon the saddle and pillions. No accident, however, occurred either to the quadrupeds or bipeds, who appeared respectively to be quite _au fait_ in their business, and extricated themselves with the greatest ease from places in which Pharaoh and all his host would have gone to the bottom. Nightfall brought us to Peterborough, and from thence we were not slow in reaching the place of our destination. CHAPTER IV Norman Cross--Wide expanse--_Vive l'Empereur_--Unpruned woods--Man with the bag--Froth and conceit--I beg your pardon--Growing timid--About three o'clock--Taking one's ease--Cheek on the ground--King of the vipers--French king--Frenchmen and water. And a strange place it was, this Norman Cross, and, at the time of which I am speaking, a sad cross to many a Norman, being what was then styled a French prison, that is, a receptacle for captives made in the French war. It consisted, if I remember right, of some five or six casernes, very long, and immensely high; each standing isolated from the rest, upon a spot of ground which might average ten acres, and which was fenced round with lofty palisades, the whole being compassed about by a towering wall, beneath which, at intervals, on both sides, sentinels were stationed, whilst outside, upon the field, stood commodious wooden barracks, capable of containing two regiments of infantry, intended to serve as guards upon the captives. Such was the station or prison at Norman Cross, where some six thousand French and other foreigners, followers of the grand Corsican, were now immured. What a strange appearance had those mighty casernes, with their blank blind walls, without windows or grating, and their slanting roofs, out of which, through orifices where the tiles had been removed, would be protruded dozens of grim heads, feasting their prison-sick eyes on the wide expanse of country unfolded from that airy height. Ah! there was much misery in those casernes; and from those roofs, doubtless, many a wistful look was turned in the direction of lovely France. Much had the poor inmates to endure, and much to complain of, to the disgrace of England be it said--of England, in general so kind and bountiful. Rations of carrion meat, and bread from which I have seen the very hounds occasionally turn away, were unworthy entertainment even for the most ruffian enemy, when helpless and a captive; and such, alas! was the fare in those casernes. And then, those visits, or rather ruthless inroads, called in the slang of the place 'strawplait-hunts,' when in pursuit of a contraband article, which the prisoners, in order to procure themselves a few of the necessaries and comforts of existence, were in the habit of making, red-coated battalions were marched into the prisons, who, with the bayonet's point, carried havoc and ruin into every poor convenience which ingenious wretchedness had been endeavouring to raise around it; and then the triumphant exit with the miserable booty; and, worst of all, the accursed bonfire, on the barrack parade, of the plait contraband, beneath the view of the glaring eyeballs from those lofty roofs, amidst the hurrahs of the troops, frequently drowned in the curses poured down from above like a tempest-shower or in the terrific warw-hoop of '_Vive l'Empereur_!' It was midsummer when we arrived at this place, and the weather, which had for a long time been wet and gloomy, now became bright and glorious; I was subjected to but little control, and passed my time pleasantly enough, principally in wandering about the neighbouring country. It was flat and somewhat fenny, a district more of pasture than agriculture, and not very thickly inhabited. I soon became well acquainted with it. At the distance of two miles from the station was a large lake, styled in the dialect of the country 'a mere,' about whose borders tall reeds were growing in abundance, this was a frequent haunt of mine; but my favourite place of resort was a wild sequestered spot at a somewhat greater distance. Here, surrounded with woods and thick groves, was the seat of some ancient family, deserted by the proprietor, and only inhabited by a rustic servant or two. A place more solitary and wild could scarcely be imagined; the garden and walks were overgrown with weeds and briers, and the unpruned woods were so tangled as to be almost impervious. About this domain I would wander till overtaken by fatigue, and then I would sit down with my back against some beech, elm, or stately alder tree, and, taking out my book, would pass hours in a state of unmixed enjoyment, my eyes now fixed on the wondrous pages, now glancing at the sylvan scene around; and sometimes I would drop the book and listen to the voice of the rooks and wild pigeons, and not unfrequently to the croaking of multitudes of frogs from the neighbouring swamps and fens. {picture:I frequently passed a tall elderly individual, dressed in rather a quaint fashion: page31.jpg} In going to and from this place I frequently passed a tall elderly individual, dressed in rather a quaint fashion, with a skin cap on his head and stout gaiters on his legs; on his shoulders hung a moderate sized leathern sack; he seemed fond of loitering near sunny banks, and of groping amidst furze and low scrubby bramble bushes, of which there were plenty in the neighbourhood of Norman Cross. Once I saw him standing in the middle of a dusty road, looking intently at a large mark which seemed to have been drawn across it, as if by a walking stick. 'He must have been a large one,' the old man muttered half to himself, 'or he would not have left such a trail, I wonder if he is near; he seems to have moved this way.' He then went behind some bushes which grew on the right side of the road, and appeared to be in quest of something, moving behind the bushes with his head downwards, and occasionally striking their roots with his foot: at length he exclaimed, 'Here he is!' and forthwith I saw him dart amongst the bushes. There was a kind of scuffling noise, the rustling of branches, and the crackling of dry sticks. 'I have him!' said the man at last; 'I have got him!' and presently he made his appearance about twenty yards down the road, holding a large viper in his hand. 'What do you think of that, my boy?' said he, as I went up to him--'what do you think of catching such a thing as that with the naked hand?' 'What do I think?' said I. 'Why, that I could do as much myself.' 'You do,' said the man, 'do you? Lord! how the young people in these days are given to conceit; it did not use to be so in my time: when I was a child, childer knew how to behave themselves; but the childer of these days are full of conceit, full of froth, like the mouth of this viper'; and with his forefinger and thumb he squeezed a considerable quantity of foam from the jaws of the viper down upon the road. 'The childer of these days are a generation of--God forgive me, what was I about to say?' said the old man; and opening his bag he thrust the reptile into it, which appeared far from empty. I passed on. As I was returning, towards the evening, I overtook the old man, who was wending in the same direction. 'Good evening to you, sir,' said I, taking off a cap which I wore on my head. 'Good evening,' said the old man; and then, looking at me, 'How's this?' said he, 'you aren't, sure, the child I met in the morning?' 'Yes,' said I, 'I am; what makes you doubt it?' 'Why, you were then all froth and conceit,' said the old man, 'and now you take off your cap to me.' 'I beg your pardon,' said I, 'if I was frothy and conceited; it ill becomes a child like me to be so.' 'That's true, dear,' said the old man; 'well, as you have begged my pardon, I truly forgive you.' 'Thank you,' said I; 'have you caught any more of those things?' 'Only four or five,' said the old man; 'they are getting scarce, though this used to be a great neighbourhood for them.' 'And what do you do with them?' said I; 'do you carry them home and play with them?' 'I sometimes play with one or two that I tame,' said the old man; 'but I hunt them mostly for the fat which they contain, out of which I make unguents which are good for various sore troubles, especially for the rheumatism.' 'And do you get your living by hunting these creatures?' I demanded. 'Not altogether,' said the old man; 'besides being a viper-hunter, I am what they call a herbalist, one who knows the virtue of particular herbs; I gather them at the proper season, to make medicines with for the sick.' 'And do you live in the neighbourhood?' I demanded. 'You seem very fond of asking questions, child. No, I do not live in this neighbourhood in particular, I travel about; I have not been in this neighbourhood till lately for some years.' From this time the old man and myself formed an acquaintance; I often accompanied him in his wanderings about the neighbourhood, and, on two or three occasions, assisted him in catching the reptiles which he hunted. He generally carried a viper with him which he had made quite tame, and from which he had extracted the poisonous fangs; it would dance and perform various kinds of tricks. He was fond of telling me anecdotes connected with his adventures with the reptile species. 'But,' said he one day, sighing, 'I must shortly give up this business, I am no longer the man I was, I am become timid, and when a person is timid in viper- hunting, he had better leave off, as it is quite clear his virtue is leaving him. I got a fright some years ago, which I am quite sure I shall never get the better of; my hand has been shaky more or less ever since.' 'What frightened you?' said I. 'I had better not tell you,' said the old man, 'or you may be frightened too, lose your virtue, and be no longer good for the business.' 'I don't care,' said I; 'I don't intend to follow the business: I daresay I shall be an officer, like my father.' 'Well,' said the old man, 'I once saw the king of the vipers, and since then--' 'The king of the vipers!' said I, interrupting him; 'have the vipers a king?' 'As sure as we have,' said the old man--'as sure as we have King George to rule over us, have these reptiles a king to rule over them.' 'And where did you see him?' said I. 'I will tell you,' said the old man, 'though I don't like talking about the matter. It may be about seven years ago that I happened to be far down yonder to the west, on the other side of England, nearly two hundred miles from here, following my business. It was a very sultry day, I remember, and I had been out several hours catching creatures. It might be about three o'clock in the afternoon, when I found myself on some heathy land near the sea, on the ridge of a hill, the side of which, nearly as far down as the sea, was heath; but on the top there was arable ground, which had been planted, and from which the harvest had been gathered--oats or barley, I know not which--but I remember that the ground was covered with stubble. Well, about three o'clock, as I told you before, what with the heat of the day and from having walked about for hours in a lazy way, I felt very tired; so I determined to have a sleep, and I laid myself down, my head just on the ridge of the hill, towards the field, and my body over the side down amongst the heath; my bag, which was nearly filled with creatures, lay at a little distance from my face; the creatures were struggling in it, I remember, and I thought to myself, how much more comfortably off I was than they; I was taking my ease on the nice open hill, cooled with the breezes, whilst they were in the nasty close bag, coiling about one another, and breaking their very hearts, all to no purpose: and I felt quite comfortable and happy in the thought, and little by little closed my eyes, and fell into the sweetest snooze that ever I was in in all my life; and there I lay over the hill's side, with my head half in the field, I don't know how long, all dead asleep. At last it seemed to me that I heard a noise in my sleep, something like a thing moving, very faint, however, far away; then it died, and then it came again upon my ear as I slept, and now it appeared almost as if I heard crackle, crackle; then it died again, or I became yet more dead asleep than before, I know not which, but I certainly lay some time without hearing it. All of a sudden I became awake, and there was I, on the ridge of the hill, with my cheek on the ground towards the stubble, with a noise in my ear like that of something moving towards me amongst the stubble of the field; well, I lay a moment or two listening to the noise, and then I became frightened, for I did not like the noise at all, it sounded so odd; so I rolled myself on my belly, and looked towards the stubble. Mercy upon us! there was a huge snake, or rather a dreadful viper, for it was all yellow and gold, moving towards me, bearing its head about a foot and a half above the ground, the dry stubble crackling beneath its outrageous belly. It might be about five yards off when I first saw it, making straight towards me, child, as if it would devour me. I lay quite still, for I was stupefied with horror, whilst the creature came still nearer; and now it was nearly upon me, when it suddenly drew back a little, and then--what do you think?--it lifted its head and chest high in the air, and high over my face as I looked up, flickering at me with its tongue as if it would fly at my face. Child, what I felt at that moment I can scarcely say, but it was a sufficient punishment for all the sins I ever committed; and there we two were, I looking up at the viper, and the viper looking down upon me, flickering at me with its tongue. It was only the kindness of God that saved me: all at once there was a loud noise, the report of a gun, for a fowler was shooting at a covey of birds, a little way off in the stubble. Whereupon the viper sunk its head, and immediately made off over the ridge of the hill, down in the direction of the sea. As it passed by me, however--and it passed close by me--it hesitated a moment, as if it was doubtful whether it should not seize me; it did not, however, but made off down the hill. It has often struck me that he was angry with me, and came upon me unawares for presuming to meddle with his people, as I have always been in the habit of doing.' 'But,' said I, 'how do you know that it was the king of the vipers?' 'How do I know!' said the old man, 'who else should it be? There was as much difference between it and other reptiles as between King George and other people.' 'Is King George, then, different from other people?' I demanded. 'Of course,' said the old man; 'I have never seen him myself, but I have heard people say that he is a ten times greater man than other folks; indeed, it stands to reason that he must be different from the rest, else people would not be so eager to see him. Do you think, child, that people would be fools enough to run a matter of twenty or thirty miles to see the king, provided King George--' 'Haven't the French a king?' I demanded. 'Yes,' said the old man, 'or something much the same, and a queer one he is; not quite so big as King George, they say, but quite as terrible a fellow. What of him?' 'Suppose he should come to Norman Cross!' 'What should he do at Norman Cross, child?' 'Why, you were talking about the vipers in your bag breaking their hearts, and so on, and their king coming to help them. Now, suppose the French king should hear of his people being in trouble at Norman Cross, and--' 'He can't come, child,' said the old man, rubbing his hands, 'the water lies between. The French don't like the water; neither vipers nor Frenchmen take kindly to the water, child.' {picture:'There we two were, I looking up at the viper, and the viper looking down upon me, flickering at me with its tongue.': page36.jpg} When the old man left the country, which he did a few days after the conversation which I have just related, he left me the reptile which he had tamed and rendered quite harmless by removing the fangs. I was in the habit of feeding it with milk, and frequently carried it abroad with me in my walks. CHAPTER V The tent--Man and woman--Dark and swarthy--Manner of speaking--Bad money--Transfixed--Faltering tone--Little basket--High opinion--Plenty of good--Keeping guard--Tilted cart--Rubricals--Jasper--The right sort--The horseman of the lane--John Newton--The alarm--Gentle brothers. One day it happened that, being on my rambles, I entered a green lane which I had never seen before; at first it was rather narrow, but as I advanced it became considerably wider; in the middle was a driftway with deep ruts, but right and left was a space carpeted with a sward of trefoil and clover; there was no lack of trees, chiefly ancient oaks, which, flinging out their arms from either side, nearly formed a canopy, and afforded a pleasing shelter from the rays of the sun, which was burning fiercely above. Suddenly a group of objects attracted my attention. Beneath one of the largest of the trees, upon the grass, was a kind of low tent or booth, from the top of which a thin smoke was curling; beside it stood a couple of light carts, whilst two or three lean horses or ponies were cropping the herbage which was growing nigh. Wondering to whom this odd tent could belong, I advanced till I was close before it, when I found that it consisted of two tilts, like those of waggons, placed upon the ground and fronting each other, connected behind by a sail or large piece of canvas which was but partially drawn across the top; upon the ground, in the intervening space, was a fire, over which, supported by a kind of iron crowbar, hung a caldron; my advance had been so noiseless as not to alarm the inmates, who consisted of a man and woman, who sat apart, one on each side of the fire; they were both busily employed--the man was carding plaited straw, whilst the woman seemed to be rubbing something with a white powder, some of which lay on a plate beside her; suddenly the man looked up, and, perceiving me, uttered a strange kind of cry, and the next moment both the woman and himself were on their feet and rushing out upon me. I retreated a few steps, yet without turning to flee. I was not, however, without apprehension, which, indeed, the appearance of these two people was well calculated to inspire: the woman was a stout figure, seemingly between thirty and forty; she wore no cap, and her long hair fell on either side of her head like horse-tails half-way down her waist; her skin was dark and swarthy, like that of a toad, and the expression of her countenance was particularly evil; her arms were bare, and her bosom was but half concealed by a slight bodice, below which she wore a coarse petticoat, her only other article of dress. The man was somewhat younger, but of a figure equally wild; his frame was long and lathy, but his arms were remarkably short, his neck was rather bent, he squinted slightly, and his mouth was much awry; his complexion was dark, but, unlike that of the woman, was more ruddy than livid; there was a deep scar on his cheek, something like the impression of a halfpenny. The dress was quite in keeping with the figure: in his hat, which was slightly peaked, was stuck a peacock's feather; over a waistcoat of hide, untanned and with the hair upon it, he wore a rough jerkin of russet hue; smallclothes of leather, which had probably once belonged to a soldier, but with which pipeclay did not seem to have come in contact for many a year, protected his lower man as far as the knee; his legs were cased in long stockings of blue worsted, and on his shoes he wore immense old-fashioned buckles. Such were the two beings who now came rushing upon me; the man was rather in advance, brandishing a ladle in his hand. 'So I have caught you at last,' said he; 'I'll teach ye, you young highwayman, to come skulking about my properties!' Young as I was, I remarked that his manner of speaking was different from that of any people with whom I had been in the habit of associating. It was quite as strange as his appearance, and yet it nothing resembled the foreign English which I had been in the habit of hearing through the palisades of the prison; he could scarcely be a foreigner. 'Your properties!' said I; 'I am in the King's Lane. Why did you put them there, if you did not wish them to be seen?' 'On the spy,' said the woman, 'hey? I'll drown him in the sludge in the toad-pond over the hedge.' 'So we will,' said the man, 'drown him anon in the mud!' 'Drown me, will you?' said I; 'I should like to see you! What's all this about? Was it because I saw you with your hands full of straw plait, and my mother there--' 'Yes,' said the woman; 'what was I about?' _Myself_. How should I know? Making bad money, perhaps! And it will be as well here to observe, that at this time there was much bad money in circulation in the neighbourhood, generally supposed to be fabricated by the prisoners, so that this false coin and straw plait formed the standard subjects of conversation at Norman Cross. 'I'll strangle thee,' said the beldame, dashing at me. 'Bad money, is it?' 'Leave him to me, wifelkin,' said the man, interposing; 'you shall now see how I'll baste him down the lane.' _Myself_. I tell you what, my chap, you had better put down that thing of yours; my father lies concealed within my tepid breast, and if to me you offer any harm or wrong, I'll call him forth to help me with his forked tongue. _Man_. What do you mean, ye Bengui's bantling? I never heard such discourse in all my life: playman's speech or Frenchman's talk--which, I wonder? Your father! Tell the mumping villain that if he comes near my fire I'll serve him out as I will you. Take that-- Tiny Jesus! what have we got here? Oh, delicate Jesus! what is the matter with the child? {picture:'Tiny Jesus! what have we got here? Oh, delicate Jesus! what is the matter with the child?': page40.jpg} I had made a motion which the viper understood; and now, partly disengaging itself from my bosom, where it had lain perdu, it raised its head to a level with my face, and stared upon my enemy with its glittering eyes. The man stood like one transfixed, and the ladle, with which he had aimed a blow at me, now hung in the air like the hand which held it; his mouth was extended, and his cheeks became of a pale yellow, save alone that place which bore the mark which I have already described, and this shone now portentously, like fire. He stood in this manner for some time; at last the ladle fell from his hand, and its falling appeared to rouse him from his stupor. 'I say, wifelkin,' said he, in a faltering tone, 'did you ever see the like of this here?' But the woman had retreated to the tent, from the entrance of which her loathly face was now thrust, with an expression partly of terror and partly of curiosity. After gazing some time longer at the viper and myself, the man stooped down and took up the ladle; then, as if somewhat more assured, he moved to the tent, where he entered into conversation with the beldame in a low voice. Of their discourse, though I could hear the greater part of it, I understood not a single word; and I wondered what it could be, for I knew by the sound that it was not French. At last the man, in a somewhat louder tone, appeared to put a question to the woman, who nodded her head affirmatively, and in a moment or two produced a small stool, which she delivered to him. He placed it on the ground, close by the door of the tent, first rubbing it with his sleeve, as if for the purpose of polishing its surface. _Man_. Now, my precious little gentleman, do sit down here by the poor people's tent; we wish to be civil in our slight way. Don't be angry, and say no; but look kindly upon us, and satisfied, my precious little God Almighty. _Woman_. Yes, my gorgeous angel, sit down by the poor bodies' fire, and eat a sweetmeat. We want to ask you a question or two; only first put that serpent away. _Myself_. I can sit down, and bid the serpent go to sleep, that's easy enough; but as for eating a sweetmeat, how can I do that? I have not got one, and where am I to get it? _Woman_. Never fear, my tiny tawny, we can give you one, such as you never ate, I daresay, however far you may have come from. The serpent sank into its usual resting-place, and I sat down on the stool. The woman opened a box, and took out a strange little basket or hamper, not much larger than a man's fist, and formed of a delicate kind of matting. It was sewed at the top; but, ripping it open with a knife, she held it to me, and I saw, to my surprise, that it contained candied fruits of a dark green hue, tempting enough to one of my age. 'There, my tiny,' said she; 'taste, and tell me how you like them.' 'Very much,' said I; 'where did you get them?' The beldame leered upon me for a moment, then, nodding her head thrice, with a knowing look, said, 'Who knows better than yourself, my tawny?' Now, I knew nothing about the matter; but I saw that these strange people had conceived a very high opinion of the abilities of their visitor, which I was nothing loth to encourage. I therefore answered boldly, 'Ah! who indeed!' 'Certainly,' said the man; 'who should know better than yourself, or so well? And now, my tiny one, let me ask you one thing--you didn't come to do us any harm?' 'No,' said I, 'I had no dislike to you; though, if you were to meddle with me--' _Man_. Of course, my gorgeous, of course you would; and quite right too. Meddle with you!--what right have we? I should say, it would not be quite safe. I see how it is; you are one of them there;--and he bent his head towards his left shoulder. _Myself_. Yes, I am one of them--for I thought he was alluding to the soldiers,--you had best mind what you are about, I can tell you. _Man_. Don't doubt we will for our own sake; Lord bless you, wifelkin, only think that we should see one of them there when we least thought about it. Well, I have heard of such things, though I never thought to see one; however, seeing is believing. Well! now you are come, and are not going to do us any mischief, I hope you will stay; you can do us plenty of good if you will. _Myself_. What good could I do you? _Man_. What good? plenty! Would you not bring us luck? I have heard say that one of them there always does, if it will but settle down. Stay with us, you shall have a tilted cart all to yourself if you like. We'll make you our little God Almighty, and say our prayers to you every morning! _Myself_. That would be nice; and, if you were to give me plenty of these things, I should have no objection. But what would my father say? I think he would hardly let me. _Man_. Why not? he would be with you; and kindly would we treat him. Indeed, without your father you would be nothing at all. _Myself_. That's true; but I do not think he could be spared from his regiment. I have heard him say that they could do nothing without him. _Man_. His regiment! What are you talking about?--what does the child mean? _Myself_. What do I mean!--why, that my father is an officer-man at the barracks yonder, keeping guard over the French prisoners. _Man_. Oh! then that sap is not your father? _Myself_. What, the snake? Why, no! Did you think he was? _Man_. To be sure we did. Didn't you tell me so? _Myself_. Why, yes; but who would have thought you would have believed it? It is a tame one. I hunt vipers, and tame them. _Man_. O-h! 'O-h!' grunted the woman, 'that's it, is it?' The man and woman, who during this conversation had resumed their former positions within the tent, looked at each other with a queer look of surprise, as if somewhat disconcerted at what they now heard. They then entered into discourse with each other in the same strange tongue which had already puzzled me. At length the man looked me in the face, and said, somewhat hesitatingly, 'So you are not one of them there after all?' _Myself_. One of them there? I don't know what you mean. _Man_. Why, we have been thinking you were a goblin--a devilkin! However, I see how it is: you are a sap-engro, a chap who catches snakes, and plays tricks with them! Well, it comes very nearly to the same thing; and if you please to list with us, and bear us pleasant company, we shall be glad of you. I'd take my oath upon it, that we might make a mort of money by you and that sap, and the tricks it could do; and, as you seem fly to everything, I shouldn't wonder if you would make a prime hand at telling fortunes. 'I shouldn't wonder,' said I. _Man_. Of course. And you might still be our God Almighty, or at any rate our clergyman, so you should live in a tilted cart by yourself, and say prayers to us night and morning--to wifelkin here, and all our family; there's plenty of us when we are all together: as I said before, you seem fly, I shouldn't wonder if you could read? 'Oh yes!' said I, 'I can read'; and, eager to display my accomplishments, I took my book out of my pocket, and, opening it at random, proceeded to read how a certain man, whilst wandering about a certain solitary island, entered a cave, the mouth of which was overgrown with brushwood, and how he was nearly frightened to death in that cave by something which he saw. 'That will do,' said the man; 'that's the kind of prayers for me and my family, aren't they, wifelkin? I never heard more delicate prayers in all my life! Why, they beat the rubricals hollow!--and here comes my son Jasper. I say, Jasper, here's a young sap-engro that can read, and is more fly than yourself. Shake hands with him; I wish ye to be two brothers.' With a swift but stealthy pace Jasper came towards us from the farther part of the lane; on reaching the tent he stood still, and looked fixedly upon me as I sat upon the stool; I looked fixedly upon him. A queer look had Jasper; he was a lad of some twelve or thirteen years, with long arms, unlike the singular being who called himself his father; his complexion was ruddy, but his face was seamed, though it did not bear the peculiar scar which disfigured the countenance of the other; nor, though roguish enough, a certain evil expression which that of the other bore, and which the face of the woman possessed in a yet more remarkable degree. For the rest, he wore drab breeches, with certain strings at the knee, a rather gay waistcoat, and tolerably white shirt; under his arm he bore a mighty whip of whalebone with a brass knob, and upon his head was a hat without either top or brim. 'There, Jasper! shake hands with the sap-engro.' 'Can he box, father?' said Jasper, surveying me rather contemptuously. 'I should think not, he looks so puny and small.' 'Hold your peace, fool!' said the man; 'he can do more than that--I tell you he's fly: he carries a sap about, which would sting a ninny like you to dead.' 'What, a sap-engro!' said the boy, with a singular whine, and, stooping down, he leered curiously in my face, kindly, however, and then patted me on the head. 'A sap-engro,' he ejaculated; 'lor!' 'Yes, and one of the right sort,' said the man; 'I am glad we have met with him, he is going to list with us, and be our clergyman and God Almighty, ain't you, my tawny?' 'I don't know,' said I; 'I must see what my father will say.' 'Your father; bah!'--but here he stopped, for a sound was heard like the rapid galloping of a horse, not loud and distinct as on a road, but dull and heavy as if upon a grass sward; nearer and nearer it came, and the man, starting up, rushed out of the tent, and looked around anxiously. I arose from the stool upon which I had been seated, and just at that moment, amidst a crashing of boughs and sticks, a man on horseback bounded over the hedge into the lane at a few yards' distance from where we were: from the impetus of the leap the horse was nearly down on his knees; the rider, however, by dint of vigorous handling of the reins, prevented him from falling, and then rode up to the tent. ''Tis Nat,' said the man; 'what brings him here?' The new-comer was a stout burly fellow, about the middle age; he had a savage determined look, and his face was nearly covered over with carbuncles; he wore a broad slouching hat, and was dressed in a gray coat, cut in a fashion which I afterwards learnt to be the genuine Newmarket cut, the skirts being exceedingly short; his waistcoat was of red plush, and he wore broad corduroy breeches and white top-boots. The steed which carried him was of iron gray, spirited and powerful, but covered with sweat and foam. The fellow glanced fiercely and suspiciously around, and said something to the man of the tent in a harsh and rapid voice. A short and hurried conversation ensued in the strange tongue. I could not take my eyes off this new-comer. Oh, that half-jockey, half-bruiser countenance, I never forgot it! More than fifteen years afterwards I found myself amidst a crowd before Newgate; a gallows was erected, and beneath it stood a criminal, a notorious malefactor. I recognised him at once; the horseman of the lane is now beneath the fatal tree, but nothing altered; still the same man; jerking his head to the right and left with the same fierce and under glance, just as if the affairs of this world had the same kind of interest to the last; gray coat of Newmarket cut, plush waistcoat, corduroys, and boots, nothing altered; but the head, alas! is bare, and so is the neck. Oh, crime and virtue, virtue and crime!--it was old John Newton, I think, who, when he saw a man going to be hanged, said, 'There goes John Newton, but for the grace of God!' But the lane, the lane, all was now in confusion in the lane; the man and woman were employed in striking the tents and in making hurried preparations for departure; the boy Jasper was putting the harness upon the ponies and attaching them to the carts; and, to increase the singularity of the scene, two or three wild-looking women and girls, in red cloaks and immense black beaver bonnets, came from I know not what direction, and, after exchanging a few words with the others, commenced with fierce and agitated gestures to assist them in their occupation. The rider meanwhile sat upon his horse, but evidently in a state of great impatience; he muttered curses between his teeth, spurred the animal furiously, and then reined it in, causing it to rear itself up nearly perpendicular. At last he said, 'Curse ye for Romans, how slow ye are! well, it is no business of mine, stay here all day if you like; I have given ye warning, I am off to the big north road. However, before I go, you had better give me all you have of that.' 'Truly spoken, Nat, my pal,' said the man; 'give it him, mother. There it is; now be off as soon as you please, and rid us of evil company.' The woman had handed him two bags formed of stocking, half full of something heavy, which looked through them for all the world like money of some kind. The fellow, on receiving them, thrust them without ceremony into the pockets of his coat, and then, without a word of farewell salutation, departed at a tremendous rate, the hoofs of his horse thundering for a long time on the hard soil of the neighbouring road, till the sound finally died away in the distance. The strange people were not slow in completing their preparations, and then, flogging their animals terrifically, hurried away seemingly in the same direction. The boy Jasper was last of the band. As he was following the rest, he stopped suddenly, and looked on the ground appearing to muse; then, turning round, he came up to me where I was standing, leered in my face, and then, thrusting out his hand, he said, 'Good-bye, Sap, I daresay we shall meet again, remember we are brothers; two gentle brothers.' Then whining forth, 'What a sap-engro, lor!' he gave me a parting leer, and hastened away. I remained standing in the lane gazing after the retreating company. 'A strange set of people,' said I at last; 'wonder who they can be?' {picture:Then whining forth, 'What a sap-engro, lor!' he gave me a parting leer, and hastened away: page47.jpg} CHAPTER VI Three years--Lilly's grammar--Proficiency--Ignorant of figures--The school bell--Order of succession--Persecution--What are we to do?--Northward--A goodly scene--Haunted ground--Feats of chivalry--Rivers--Over the brig. Years passed on, even three years; during this period I had increased considerably in stature and in strength, and, let us hope, improved in mind; for I had entered on the study of the Latin language. The very first person to whose care I was intrusted for the acquisition of Latin was an old friend of my fathers, a clergyman who kept a seminary at a town the very next we visited after our departure from 'the Cross.' Under his instruction, however, I continued only a few weeks, as we speedily left the place. 'Captain,' said this divine, when my father came to take leave of him on the eve of our departure, 'I have a friendship for you, and therefore wish to give you a piece of advice concerning this son of yours. You are now removing him from my care; you do wrong, but we will let that pass. Listen to me: there is but one good school-book in the world--the one I use in my seminary--Lilly's Latin grammar, in which your son has already made some progress. If you are anxious for the success of your son in life, for the correctness of his conduct and the soundness of his principles, keep him to Lilly's grammar. If you can by any means, either fair or foul, induce him to get by heart Lilly's Latin grammar, you may set your heart at rest with respect to him; I, myself, will be his warrant. I never yet knew a boy that was induced, either by fair means or foul, to learn Lilly's Latin grammar by heart, who did not turn out a man, provided he lived long enough.' My father, who did not understand the classical languages, received with respect the advice of his old friend, and from that moment conceived the highest opinion of Lilly's Latin grammar. During three years I studied Lilly's Latin grammar under the tuition of various schoolmasters, for I travelled with the regiment, and in every town in which we were stationary I was invariably (God bless my father!) sent to the classical academy of the place. It chanced, by good fortune, that in the generality of these schools the grammar of Lilly was in use; when, however, that was not the case, it made no difference in my educational course, my father always stipulating with the masters that I should be daily examined in Lilly. At the end of the three years I had the whole by heart; you had only to repeat the first two or three words of any sentence in any part of the book, and forthwith I would open cry, commencing without blundering and hesitation, and continue till you were glad to beg me to leave off, with many expressions of admiration at my proficiency in the Latin language. Sometimes, however, to convince you how well I merited these encomiums, I would follow you to the bottom of the stair, and even into the street, repeating in a kind of sing-song measure the sonorous lines of the golden schoolmaster. If I am here asked whether I understood anything of what I had got by heart, I reply--'Never mind, I understand it all now, and believe that no one ever yet got Lilly's Latin grammar by heart when young, who repented of the feat at a mature age.' And, when my father saw that I had accomplished my task, he opened his mouth, and said, 'Truly, this is more than I expected. I did not think that there had been so much in you, either of application or capacity; you have now learnt all that is necessary, if my friend Dr. B---'s opinion was sterling, as I have no doubt it was. You are still a child, however, and must yet go to school, in order that you may be kept out of evil company. Perhaps you may still contrive, now you have exhausted the barn, to pick up a grain or two in the barn-yard. You are still ignorant of figures, I believe, not that I would mention figures in the same day with Lilly's grammar.' These words were uttered in a place called ---, in the north, or in the road to the north, to which, for some time past, our corps had been slowly advancing. I was sent to the school of the place, which chanced to be a day school. It was a somewhat extraordinary one, and a somewhat extraordinary event occurred to me within its walls. It occupied part of the farther end of a small plain, or square, at the outskirts of the town, close to some extensive bleaching fields. It was a long low building of one room, with no upper story; on the top was a kind of wooden box, or sconce, which I at first mistook for a pigeon-house, but which in reality contained a bell, to which was attached a rope, which, passing through the ceiling, hung dangling in the middle of the school-room. I am the more particular in mentioning this appurtenance, as I had soon occasion to scrape acquaintance with it in a manner not very agreeable to my feelings. The master was very proud of his bell, if I might judge from the fact of his eyes being frequently turned to that part of the ceiling from which the rope depended. Twice every day, namely, after the morning and evening tasks had been gone through, were the boys rung out of school by the monotonous jingle of this bell. This ringing out was rather a lengthy affair, for, as the master was a man of order and method, the boys were only permitted to go out of the room one by one; and as they were rather numerous, amounting, at least, to one hundred, and were taught to move at a pace of suitable decorum, at least a quarter of an hour elapsed from the commencement of the march before the last boy could make his exit. The office of bell- ringer was performed by every boy successively; and it so happened that, the very first day of my attendance at the school, the turn to ring the bell had, by order of succession, arrived at the place which had been allotted to me; for the master, as I have already observed, was a man of method and order, and every boy had a particular seat, to which he became a fixture as long as he continued at the school. So, upon this day, when the tasks were done and completed, and the boys sat with their hats and caps in their hands, anxiously expecting the moment of dismissal, it was suddenly notified to me, by the urchins who sat nearest to me, that I must get up and ring the bell. Now, as this was the first time that I had been at the school, I was totally unacquainted with the process, which I had never seen, and, indeed, had never heard of till that moment. I therefore sat still, not imagining it possible that any such duty could be required of me. But now, with not a little confusion, I perceived that the eyes of all the boys in the school were fixed upon me. Presently there were nods and winks in the direction of the bell-rope; and, as these produced no effect, uncouth visages were made, like those of monkeys when enraged; teeth were gnashed, tongues thrust out, and even fists were bent at me. The master, who stood at the end of the room, with a huge ferule under his arm, bent full upon me a look of stern appeal; and the ushers, of whom there were four, glared upon me, each from his own particular corner, as I vainly turned, in one direction and another, in search of one reassuring look. But now, probably in obedience to a sign from the master, the boys in my immediate neighbourhood began to maltreat me. Some pinched me with their fingers, some buffeted me, whilst others pricked me with pins, or the points of compasses. These arguments were not without effect. I sprang from my seat, and endeavoured to escape along a double line of benches, thronged with boys of all ages, from the urchin of six or seven to the nondescript of sixteen or seventeen. It was like running the gauntlet; every one, great or small, pinching, kicking, or otherwise maltreating me, as I passed by. Goaded on in this manner, I at length reached the middle of the room, where dangled the bell-rope, the cause of all my sufferings. I should have passed it--for my confusion was so great that I was quite at a loss to comprehend what all this could mean, and almost believed myself under the influence of an ugly dream--but now the boys, who were seated in advance in the row, arose with one accord, and barred my farther progress; and one, doubtless more sensible than the rest, seizing the rope, thrust it into my hand. I now began to perceive that the dismissal of the school, and my own release from torment, depended upon this selfsame rope. I therefore, in a fit of desperation, pulled it once or twice, and then left off, naturally supposing that I had done quite enough. The boys who sat next the door no sooner heard the bell, than, rising from their seats, they moved out at the door. The bell, however, had no sooner ceased to jingle, than they stopped short, and, turning round, stared at the master, as much as to say, 'What are we to do now?' This was too much for the patience of the man of method, which my previous stupidity had already nearly exhausted. Dashing forward into the middle of the room, he struck me violently on the shoulders with his ferule, and, snatching the rope out of my hand, exclaimed, with a stentorian voice, and genuine Yorkshire accent, 'Prodigy of ignorance! dost not even know how to ring a bell? Must I myself instruct thee?' He then commenced pulling at the bell with such violence that long before half the school was dismissed the rope broke, and the rest of the boys had to depart without their accustomed music. But I must not linger here, though I could say much about the school and the pedagogue highly amusing and diverting, which, however, I suppress, in order to make way for matters of yet greater interest. On we went, northward, northward! and, as we advanced, I saw that the country was becoming widely different from those parts of merry England in which we had previously travelled. It was wilder, and less cultivated, and more broken with hills and hillocks. The people, too, of these regions appeared to partake of something of the character of their country. They were coarsely dressed; tall and sturdy of frame; their voices were deep and guttural; and the half of the dialect which they spoke was unintelligible to my ears. I often wondered where we could be going, for I was at this time about as ignorant of geography as I was of most other things. However, I held my peace, asked no questions, and patiently awaited the issue. Northward, northward, still! And it came to pass that, one morning, I found myself extended on the bank of a river. It was a beautiful morning of early spring; small white clouds were floating in the heaven, occasionally veiling the countenance of the sun, whose light, as they retired, would again burst forth, coursing like a race-horse over the scene--and a goodly scene it was! Before me, across the water, on an eminence, stood a white old city, surrounded with lofty walls, above which rose the tops of tall houses, with here and there a church or steeple. To my right hand was a long and massive bridge, with many arches, and of antique architecture, which traversed the river. The river was a noble one; the broadest that I had hitherto seen. Its waters, of a greenish tinge, poured with impetuosity beneath the narrow arches to meet the sea, close at hand, as the boom of the billows breaking distinctly upon a beach declared. There were songs upon the river from the fisher-barks; and occasionally a chorus, plaintive and wild, such as I had never heard before, the words of which I did not understand, but which, at the present time, down the long avenue of years, seem in memory's ear to sound like 'Horam, coram, dago.' Several robust fellows were near me, some knee-deep in water, employed in hauling the seine upon the strand. Huge fish were struggling amidst the meshes--princely salmon,--their brilliant mail of blue and silver flashing in the morning beam; so goodly and gay a scene, in truth, had never greeted my boyish eye. And, as I gazed upon the prospect, my bosom began to heave, and my tears to trickle. Was it the beauty of the scene which gave rise to these emotions? Possibly; for though a poor ignorant child--a half-wild creature--I was not insensible to the loveliness of nature, and took pleasure in the happiness and handiworks of my fellow-creatures. Yet, perhaps, in something more deep and mysterious the feelings which then pervaded me might originate. Who can lie down on Elvir Hill without experiencing something of the sorcery of the place? Flee from Elvir Hill, young swain, or the maids of Elle will have power over you, and you will go elf-wild!--so say the Danes. I had unconsciously laid myself down upon haunted ground; and I am willing to imagine that what I then experienced was rather connected with the world of spirits and dreams than with what I actually saw and heard around me. Surely the elves and genii of the place were conversing, by some inscrutable means, with the principle of intelligence lurking within the poor uncultivated clod! Perhaps to that ethereal principle the wonders of the past, as connected with that stream, the glories of the present, and even the history of the future, were at that moment being revealed! Of how many feats of chivalry had those old walls been witness, when hostile kings contended for their possession!--how many an army from the south and from the north had trod that old bridge!--what red and noble blood had crimsoned those rushing waters!-what strains had been sung, ay, were yet being sung, on its banks!--some soft as Doric reed; some fierce and sharp as those of Norwegian Skaldaglam; some as replete with wild and wizard force as Finland's runes, singing of Kalevala's moors, and the deeds of Woinomoinen! Honour to thee, thou island stream! Onward may thou ever roll, fresh and green, rejoicing in thy bright past, thy glorious present, and in vivid hope of a triumphant future! Flow on, beautiful one!--which of the world's streams canst thou envy, with thy beauty and renown? Stately is the Danube, rolling in its might through lands romantic with the wild exploits of Turk, Polak, and Magyar! Lovely is the Rhine! on its shelvy banks grows the racy grape; and strange old keeps of robber-knights of yore are reflected in its waters, from picturesque crags and airy headlands!--yet neither the stately Danube nor the beauteous Rhine, with all their fame, though abundant, needst thou envy, thou pure island stream!--and far less yon turbid river of old, not modern renown, gurgling beneath the walls of what was once proud Rome, towering Rome, Jupiter's town, but now vile Rome, crumbling Rome, Batuscha's town, far less needst thou envy the turbid Tiber of bygone fame, creeping sadly to the sea, surcharged with the abominations of modern Rome--how unlike to thee, thou pure island stream! And, as I lay on the bank and wept, there drew nigh to me a man in the habiliments of a fisher. He was bare-legged, of a weather-beaten countenance, and of stature approaching to the gigantic. 'What is the callant greeting for?' said he, as he stopped and surveyed me. 'Has onybody wrought ye ony harm?' 'Not that I know of,' I replied, rather guessing at than understanding his question; 'I was crying because I could not help it! I say, old one, what is the name of this river?' 'Hout! I now see what you was greeting at--at your ain ignorance, nae doubt--'tis very great! Weel, I will na fash you with reproaches, but even enlighten ye, since you seem a decent man's bairn, and you speir a civil question. Yon river is called the Tweed; and yonder, over the brig, is Scotland. Did ye never hear of the Tweed, my bonny man?' 'No,' said I, as I rose from the grass, and proceeded to cross the bridge to the town at which we had arrived the preceding night; 'I never heard of it; but now I have seen it, I shall not soon forget it!' CHAPTER VII The Castle--A father's inquiries--Scotch language--A determination--Bui hin Digri--Good Scotchman--Difference of races--Ne'er a haggis--Pugnacious people--Wha are ye, man?--The Nor Loch--Gestures wild--The bicker--New Town champion--Wild-looking figure--Headlong. It was not long before we found ourselves at Edinburgh, or rather in the Castle, into which the regiment marched with drums beating, colours flying, and a long train of baggage-waggons behind. The Castle was, as I suppose it is now, a garrison for soldiers. Two other regiments were already there; the one an Irish, if I remember right, the other a small Highland corps. It is hardly necessary to say much about this Castle, which everybody has seen; on which account, doubtless, nobody has ever yet thought fit to describe it--at least that I am aware. Be this as it may, I have no intention of describing it, and shall content myself with observing that we took up our abode in that immense building, or caserne, of modern erection, which occupies the entire eastern side of the bold rock on which the Castle stands. A gallant caserne it was--the best and roomiest that I had hitherto seen--rather cold and windy, it is true, especially in the winter, but commanding a noble prospect of a range of distant hills, which I was told were 'the hieland hills,' and of a broad arm of the sea, which I heard somebody say was the Firth of Forth. My brother, who, for some years past, had been receiving his education in a certain celebrated school in England, was now with us; and it came to pass, that one day my father, as he sat at table, looked steadfastly on my brother and myself, and then addressed my mother:--'During my journey down hither, I have lost no opportunity of making inquiries about these people, the Scotch, amongst whom we now are, and since I have been here I have observed them attentively. From what I have heard and seen, I should say that upon the whole they are a very decent set of people; they seem acute and intelligent, and I am told that their system of education is so excellent that every person is learned--more or less acquainted with Greek and Latin. There is one thing, however, connected with them, which is a great drawback--the horrid jargon which they speak. However learned they may be in Greek and Latin, their English is execrable; and yet I'm told it is not so bad as it was. I was in company, the other day, with an Englishman who has resided here many years. We were talking about the country and the people. "I should like both very well," said I, "were it not for the language. I wish sincerely our Parliament, which is passing so many foolish acts every year, would pass one to force these Scotch to speak English." "I wish so, too," said he. "The language is a disgrace to the British Government; but, if you had heard it twenty years ago, captain!--if you had heard it as it was spoken when I first came to Edinburgh!"' 'Only custom,' said my mother. 'I daresay the language is now what it was then.' 'I don't know,' said my father; 'though I daresay you are right; it could never have been worse than it is at present. But now to the point. Were it not for the language, which, if the boys were to pick it up, might ruin their prospects in life,--were it not for that, I should very much like to send them to a school there is in this place, which everybody talks about--the High School I think they call it. 'Tis said to be the best school in the whole island; but the idea of one's children speaking Scotch--broad Scotch! I must think the matter over.' And he did think the matter over; and the result of his deliberation was a determination to send us to the school. Let me call thee up before my mind's eye, High School, to which, every morning, the two English brothers took their way from the proud old Castle through the lofty streets of the Old Town. High School!--called so, I scarcely know why; neither lofty in thyself nor by position, being situated in a flat bottom; oblong structure of tawny stone, with many windows fenced with iron netting--with thy long hall below, and thy five chambers above, for the reception of the five classes, into which the eight hundred urchins who styled thee instructress were divided. Thy learned rector and his four subordinate dominies; thy strange old porter of the tall form and grizzled hair, hight Boee, and doubtless of Norse ancestry, as his name declares; perhaps of the blood of Bui hin Digri, the hero of northern song--the Jomsborg Viking who clove Thorsteinn Midlangr asunder in the dread sea battle of Horunga Vog, and who, when the fight was lost and his own two hands smitten off, seized two chests of gold with his bloody stumps, and, springing with them into the sea, cried to the scanty relics of his crew, 'Overboard now, all Bui's lads!' Yes, I remember all about thee, and how at eight of every morn we were all gathered together with one accord in the long hall, from which, after the litanies had been read (for so I will call them, being an Episcopalian), the five classes from the five sets of benches trotted off in long files, one boy after the other, up the five spiral staircases of stone, each class to its destination; and well do I remember how we of the third sat hushed and still, watched by the eye of the dux, until the door opened, and in walked that model of a good Scotchman, the shrewd, intelligent, but warm- hearted and kind dominie, the respectable Carson. And in this school I began to construe the Latin language, which I had never done before, notwithstanding my long and diligent study of Lilly, which illustrious grammar was not used at Edinburgh, nor indeed known. Greek was only taught in the fifth or highest class, in which my brother was; as for myself, I never got beyond the third during the two years that I remained at this seminary. I certainly acquired here a considerable insight in the Latin tongue; and, to the scandal of my father and horror of my mother, a thorough proficiency in the Scotch, which, in less than two months, usurped the place of the English, and so obstinately maintained its ground, that I still can occasionally detect its lingering remains. I did not spend my time unpleasantly at this school, though, first of all, I had to pass through an ordeal. 'Scotland is a better country than England,' said an ugly, blear-eyed lad, about a head and shoulders taller than myself, the leader of a gang of varlets who surrounded me in the playground, on the first day, as soon as the morning lesson was over. 'Scotland is a far better country than England, in every respect.' 'Is it?' said I. 'Then you ought to be very thankful for not having been born in England.' 'That's just what I am, ye loon; and every morning, when I say my prayers, I thank God for not being an Englishman. The Scotch are a much better and braver people than the English.' 'It may be so,' said I, 'for what I know--indeed, till I came here, I never heard a word either about the Scotch or their country.' 'Are ye making fun of us, ye English puppy?' said the blear-eyed lad; 'take that!' and I was presently beaten black and blue. And thus did I first become aware of the difference of races and their antipathy to each other. 'Bow to the storm, and it shall pass over you.' I held my peace, and silently submitted to the superiority of the Scotch--_in numbers_. This was enough; from an object of persecution I soon became one of patronage, especially amongst the champions of the class. 'The English,' said the blear-eyed lad, 'though a wee bit behind the Scotch in strength and fortitude, are nae to be sneezed at, being far ahead of the Irish, to say nothing of the French, a pack of cowardly scoundrels. And with regard to the English country, it is na Scotland, it is true, but it has its gude properties; and, though there is ne'er a haggis in a' the land, there's an unco deal o' gowd and siller. I respect England, for I have an auntie married there.' The Scotch are certainly a most pugnacious people; their whole history proves it. Witness their incessant wars with the English in the olden time, and their internal feuds, highland and lowland, clan with clan, family with family, Saxon with Gael. In my time, the schoolboys, for want, perhaps, of English urchins to contend with, were continually fighting with each other; every noon there was at least one pugilistic encounter, and sometimes three. In one month I witnessed more of these encounters than I had ever previously seen under similar circumstances in England. After all, there was not much harm done. Harm! what harm could result from short chopping blows, a hug, and a tumble? I was witness to many a sounding whack, some blood shed, 'a blue ee' now and then, but nothing more. In England, on the contrary, where the lads were comparatively mild, gentle, and pacific, I had been present at more than one death caused by blows in boyish combats, in which the oldest of the victors had scarcely reached thirteen years; but these blows were in the jugular, given with the full force of the arm shot out horizontally from the shoulder. But the Scotch--though by no means proficients in boxing (and how should they box, seeing that they have never had a teacher?)--are, I repeat, a most pugnacious people; at least they were in my time. Anything served them, that is, the urchins, as a pretence for a fray, or, Dorically speaking, a _bicker_; every street and close was at feud with its neighbour; the lads of the school were at feud with the young men of the college, whom they pelted in winter with snow, and in summer with stones; and then the feud between the old and new town! One day I was standing on the ramparts of the Castle on the south-western side which overhangs the green brae, where it slopes down into what was in those days the green swamp or morass, called by the natives of Auld Reekie the Nor Loch; it was a dark gloomy day, and a thin veil of mist was beginning to settle down upon the brae and the morass. I could perceive, however, that there was a skirmish taking place in the latter spot. I had an indistinct view of two parties--apparently of urchins--and I heard whoops and shrill cries: eager to know the cause of this disturbance, I left the Castle, and descending the brae reached the borders of the morass, where were a runnel of water and the remains of an old wall, on the other side of which a narrow path led across the swamp: upon this path at a little distance before me there was 'a bicker.' I pushed forward, but had scarcely crossed the ruined wall and runnel, when the party nearest to me gave way, and in great confusion came running in my direction. As they drew nigh, one of them shouted to me, 'Wha are ye, man? are ye o' the Auld Toon?' I made no answer. 'Ha! ye are o' the New Toon; De'il tak ye, we'll moorder ye'; and the next moment a huge stone sung past my head. 'Let me be, ye fule bodies,' said I, 'I'm no of either of ye, I live yonder aboon in the Castle.' 'Ah! ye live in the Castle; then ye're an auld tooner; come gie us your help, man, and dinna stand there staring like a dunnot, we want help sair eneugh. Here are stanes.' For my own part I wished for nothing better, and, rushing forward, I placed myself at the head of my new associates, and commenced flinging stones fast and desperately. The other party now gave way in their turn, closely followed by ourselves; I was in the van, and about to stretch out my hand to seize the hindermost boy of the enemy, when, not being acquainted with the miry and difficult paths of the Nor Loch, and in my eagerness taking no heed of my footing, I plunged into a quagmire, into which I sank as far as my shoulders. Our adversaries no sooner perceived this disaster, than, setting up a shout, they wheeled round and attacked us most vehemently. Had my comrades now deserted me, my life had not been worth a straw's purchase, I should either have been smothered in the quag, or, what is more probable, had my brains beaten out with stones; but they behaved like true Scots, and fought stoutly around their comrade, until I was extricated, whereupon both parties retired, the night being near at hand. 'Ye are na a bad hand at flinging stanes,' said the lad who first addressed me, as we now returned up the brae; 'your aim is right dangerous, mon, I saw how ye skelpit them, ye maun help us agin thae New Toon blackguards at our next bicker.' So to the next bicker I went, and to many more, which speedily followed as the summer advanced; the party to which I had given my help on the first occasion consisted merely of outlyers, posted about half-way up the hill, for the purpose of overlooking the movements of the enemy. Did the latter draw nigh in any considerable force, messengers were forthwith despatched to the 'Auld Toon,' especially to the filthy alleys and closes of the High Street, which forthwith would disgorge swarms of bare-headed and bare-footed 'callants,' who, with gestures wild and 'eldrich screech and hollo,' might frequently be seen pouring down the sides of the hill. I have seen upwards of a thousand engaged on either side in these frays, which I have no doubt were full as desperate as the fights described in the _Iliad_, and which were certainly much more bloody than the combats of modern Greece in the war of independence: the callants not only employed their hands in hurling stones, but not unfrequently slings; at the use of which they were very expert, and which occasionally dislodged teeth, shattered jaws, or knocked out an eye. Our opponents certainly laboured under considerable disadvantage, being compelled not only to wade across a deceitful bog, but likewise to clamber up part of a steep hill, before they could attack us; nevertheless, their determination was such, and such their impetuosity, that we had sometimes difficulty enough to maintain our own. I shall never forget one bicker, the last indeed which occurred at that time, as the authorities of the town, alarmed by the desperation of its character, stationed forthwith a body of police on the hill-side, to prevent, in future, any such breaches of the peace. It was a beautiful Sunday evening, the rays of the descending sun were reflected redly from the gray walls of the Castle, and from the black rocks on which it was founded. The bicker had long since commenced, stones from sling and hand were flying; but the callants of the New Town were now carrying everything before them. A full-grown baker's apprentice was at their head; he was foaming with rage, and had taken the field, as I was told, in order to avenge his brother, whose eye had been knocked out in one of the late bickers. He was no slinger or flinger, but brandished in his right hand the spoke of a cart-wheel, like my countryman Tom Hickathrift of old in his encounter with the giant of the Lincolnshire fen. Protected by a piece of wicker- work attached to his left arm, he rushed on to the fray, disregarding the stones which were showered against him, and was ably seconded by his followers. Our own party was chased half-way up the hill, where I was struck to the ground by the baker, after having been foiled in an attempt which I had made to fling a handful of earth into his eyes. All now appeared lost, the Auld Toon was in full retreat. I myself lay at the baker's feet, who had just raised his spoke, probably to give me the _coup de grace_,--it was an awful moment. Just then I heard a shout and a rushing sound; a wild-looking figure is descending the hill with terrible bounds; it is a lad of some fifteen years; he is bare-headed, and his red uncombed hair stands on end like hedgehogs' bristles: his frame is lithy, like that of an antelope, but he has prodigious breadth of chest; he wears a military undress, that of the regiment, even of a drummer, for it is wild Davy, whom a month before I had seen enlisted on Leith Links to serve King George with drum and drumstick as long as his services might be required, and who, ere a week had elapsed, had smitten with his fist Drum-Major Elzigood, who, incensed at his inaptitude, had threatened him with his cane; he has been in confinement for weeks, this is the first day of his liberation, and he is now descending the hill with horrid bounds and shoutings; he is now about five yards distant, and the baker, who apprehends that something dangerous is at hand, prepares himself for the encounter; but what avails the strength of a baker, even full grown?--what avails the defence of a wicker shield?--what avails the wheel-spoke, should there be an opportunity of using it, against the impetus of an avalanche or a cannon-ball?--for to either of these might that wild figure be compared, which, at the distance of five yards, sprang at once with head, hands, feet and body, all together, upon the champion of the New Town, tumbling him to the earth amain. And now it was the turn of the Old Town to triumph. Our late discomfited host, returning on its steps, overwhelmed the fallen champion with blows of every kind, and then, led on by his vanquisher, who had assumed his arms, namely, the wheel-spoke and wicker shield, fairly cleared the brae of their adversaries, whom they drove down headlong into the morass. CHAPTER VIII Expert climbers--The crags--Something red--The horrible edge--David Haggart--Fine materials--The greatest victory--Extraordinary robber--The ruling passion. Meanwhile I had become a daring cragsman, a character to which an English lad has seldom opportunities of aspiring; for in England there are neither crags nor mountains. Of these, however, as is well known, there is no lack in Scotland, and the habits of individuals are invariably in harmony with the country in which they dwell. The Scotch are expert climbers, and I was now a Scot in most things, particularly in language. The Castle in which I dwelt stood upon a rock, a bold and craggy one, which, at first sight, would seem to bid defiance to any feet save those of goats and chamois; but patience and perseverance generally enable mankind to overcome things which, at first sight, appear impossible. Indeed, what is there above man's exertions? Unwearied determination will enable him to run with the horse, to swim with the fish, and assuredly to compete with the chamois and the goat in agility and sureness of foot. To scale the rock was merely child's play for the Edinbro' callants. It was my own favourite diversion. I soon found that the rock contained all manner of strange crypts, crannies, and recesses, where owls nestled, and the weasel brought forth her young; here and there were small natural platforms, overgrown with long grass and various kinds of plants, where the climber, if so disposed, could stretch himself, and either give his eyes to sleep or his mind to thought; for capital places were these same platforms either for repose or meditation. The boldest features of the rock are descried on the northern side, where, after shelving down gently from the wall for some distance, it terminates abruptly in a precipice, black and horrible, of some three hundred feet at least, as if the axe of nature had been here employed cutting sheer down, and leaving behind neither excrescence nor spur--a dizzy precipice it is, assimilating much to those so frequent in the flinty hills of Northern Africa, and exhibiting some distant resemblance to that of Gibraltar, towering in its horridness above the Neutral Ground. It was now holiday time, and having nothing particular wherewith to occupy myself, I not unfrequently passed the greater part of the day upon the rocks. Once, after scaling the western crags, and creeping round a sharp angle of the wall, overhung by a kind of watch-tower, I found myself on the northern side. Still keeping close to the wall, I was proceeding onward, for I was bent upon a long excursion which should embrace half the circuit of the Castle, when suddenly my eye was attracted by the appearance of something red, far below me; I stopped short, and, looking fixedly upon it, perceived that it was a human being in a kind of red jacket, seated on the extreme verge of the precipice which I have already made a faint attempt to describe. Wondering who it could be, I shouted; but it took not the slightest notice, remaining as immovable as the rock on which it sat. 'I should never have thought of going near that edge,' said I to myself; 'however, as you have done it, why should not I? And I should like to know who you are.' So I commenced the descent of the rock, but with great care, for I had as yet never been in a situation so dangerous; a slight moisture exuded from the palms of my hands, my nerves were tingling, and my brain was somewhat dizzy--and now I had arrived within a few yards of the figure, and had recognised it: it was the wild drummer who had turned the tide of battle in the bicker on the Castle Brae. A small stone which I dislodged now rolled down the rock, and tumbled into the abyss close beside him. He turned his head, and after looking at me for a moment somewhat vacantly, he resumed his former attitude. I drew yet nearer to the horrible edge not close, however, for fear was on me. 'What are you thinking of, David?' said I, as I sat behind him and trembled, for I repeat that I was afraid. _David Haggart_. I was thinking of Willie Wallace. _Myself_. You had better be thinking of yourself, man. A strange place this to come to and think of William Wallace. _David Haggart_. Why so? Is not his tower just beneath our feet? _Myself_. You mean the auld ruin by the side of the Nor Loch--the ugly stane bulk, from the foot of which flows the spring into the dyke where the watercresses grow? _David Haggart_. Just sae, Geordie. _Myself_. And why were ye thinking of him? The English hanged him long since, as I have heard say. _David Haggart_. I was thinking that I should wish to be like him. _Myself_. Do ye mean that ye would wish to be hanged? _David Haggart_. I wadna flinch from that, Geordie, if I might be a great man first. _Myself_. And wha kens, Davie, how great you may be, even without hanging? Are ye not in the high road of preferment? Are ye not a bauld drummer already? Wha kens how high ye may rise? perhaps to be general, or drum-major. _David Haggart_. I hae nae wish to be drum-major; it were nae great things to be like the doited carle, Else-than-gude, as they call him; and, troth, he has nae his name for naething. But I should have nae objection to be a general, and to fight the French and Americans, and win myself a name and a fame like Willie Wallace, and do brave deeds, such as I have been reading about in his story book. _Myself_. Ye are a fule, Davie; the story book is full of lies. Wallace, indeed! the wuddie rebel! I have heard my father say that the Duke of Cumberland was worth twenty of Willie Wallace. _David Haggart_. Ye had better sae naething agin Willie Wallace, Geordie, for, if ye do, De'il hae me, if I dinna tumble ye doon the craig. Fine materials in that lad for a hero, you will say. Yes, indeed, for a hero, or for what he afterwards became. In other times, and under other circumstances, he might have made what is generally termed a great man, a patriot, or a conqueror. As it was, the very qualities which might then have pushed him on to fortune and renown were the cause of his ruin. The war over, he fell into evil courses; for his wild heart and ambitious spirit could not brook the sober and quiet pursuits of honest industry. 'Can an Arabian steed submit to be a vile drudge?' I cries the fatalist. Nonsense! A man is not an irrational creature, but a reasoning being, and has something within him beyond mere brutal instinct. The greatest victory which a man can achieve is over himself, by which is meant those unruly passions which are not convenient to the time and place. David did not do this; he gave the reins to his wild heart, instead of curbing it, and became a robber, and, alas! alas! he shed blood--under peculiar circumstances, it is true, and without _malice prepense_--and for that blood he eventually died, and justly; for it was that of the warden of a prison from which he was escaping, and whom he slew with one blow of his stalwart arm. Tamerlane and Haggart! Haggart and Tamerlane! Both these men were robbers, and of low birth, yet one perished on an ignoble scaffold, and the other died emperor of the world. Is this justice? The ends of the two men were widely dissimilar--yet what is the intrinsic difference between them? Very great indeed; the one acted according to his lights and his country, not so the other. Tamerlane was a heathen, and acted according to his lights; he was a robber where all around were robbers, but he became the avenger of God--God's scourge on unjust kings, on the cruel Bajazet, who had plucked out his own brothers' eyes; he became to a certain extent the purifier of the East, its regenerator; his equal never was before, nor has it since been seen. Here the wild heart was profitably employed, the wild strength, the teeming brain. Onward, Lame one! Onward, Tamur--lank! Haggart . . . . But peace to thee, poor David! why should a mortal worm be sitting in judgment over thee? The Mighty and Just One has already judged thee, and perhaps above thou hast received pardon for thy crimes, which could not be pardoned here below; and now that thy feverish existence has closed, and thy once active form become inanimate dust, thy very memory all but forgotten, I will say a few words about thee, a few words soon also to be forgotten. Thou wast the most extraordinary robber that ever lived within the belt of Britain; Scotland rang with thy exploits, and England, too, north of the Humber; strange deeds also didst thou achieve when, fleeing from justice, thou didst find thyself in the Sister Isle; busy wast thou there in town and on curragh, at fair and race-course, and also in the solitary place. Ireland thought thee her child, for who spoke her brogue better than thyself?--she felt proud of thee, and said, 'Sure, O'Hanlon is come again.' What might not have been thy fate in the far west in America, whither thou hadst turned thine eye, saying, 'I will go there, and become an honest man!' But thou wast not to go there, David--the blood which thou hadst shed in Scotland was to be required of thee; the avenger was at hand, the avenger of blood. Seized, manacled, brought back to thy native land, condemned to die, thou wast left in thy narrow cell, and told to make the most of thy time, for it was short: and there, in thy narrow cell, and thy time so short, thou didst put the crowning stone to thy strange deeds, by that strange history of thyself, penned by thy own hand in the robber tongue. Thou mightest have been better employed, David!--but the ruling passion was strong with thee, even in the jaws of death. Thou mightest have been better employed!--but peace be with thee, I repeat, and the Almighty's grace and pardon. CHAPTER IX Napoleon--The storm--The cove--Up the country--The trembling hand--Irish--Tough battle--Tipperary hills--Elegant lodgings--A speech--Fair specimen--Orangemen. Onward, onward! and after we had sojourned in Scotland nearly two years, the long continental war had been brought to an end, Napoleon was humbled for a time, and the Bourbons restored to a land which could well have dispensed with them; we returned to England, where the corps was disbanded, and my parents with their family retired to private life. I shall pass over in silence the events of a year, which offer little of interest as far as connected with me and mine. Suddenly, however, the sound of war was heard again, Napoleon had broken forth from Elba, and everything was in confusion. Vast military preparations were again made, our own corps was levied anew, and my brother became an officer in it; but the danger was soon over, Napoleon was once more quelled, and chained for ever, like Prometheus, to his rock. As the corps, however, though so recently levied, had already become a very fine one, thanks to my father's energetic drilling, the Government very properly determined to turn it to some account, and, as disturbances were apprehended in Ireland about this period, it occurred to them that they could do no better than despatch it to that country. In the autumn of the year 1815 we set sail from a port in Essex; we were some eight hundred strong, and were embarked in two ships, very large, but old and crazy; a storm overtook us when off Beachy Head, in which we had nearly foundered. I was awakened early in the morning by the howling of the wind and the uproar on deck. I kept myself close, however, as is still my constant practice on similar occasions, and waited the result with that apathy and indifference which violent sea-sickness is sure to produce. We shipped several seas, and once the vessel missing stays--which, to do it justice, it generally did at every third or fourth tack--we escaped almost by a miracle from being dashed upon the foreland. On the eighth day of our voyage we were in sight of Ireland. The weather was now calm and serene, the sun shone brightly on the sea and on certain green hills in the distance, on which I descried what at first sight I believed to be two ladies gathering flowers, which, however, on our nearer approach, proved to be two tall white towers, doubtless built for some purpose or other, though I did not learn for what. We entered a kind of bay, or cove, by a narrow inlet; it was a beautiful and romantic place this cove, very spacious, and, being nearly land-locked, was sheltered from every wind. A small island, every inch of which was covered with fortifications, appeared to swim upon the waters, whose dark blue denoted their immense depth; tall green hills, which ascended gradually from the shore, formed the background to the west; they were carpeted to the top with turf of the most vivid green, and studded here and there with woods, seemingly of oak; there was a strange old castle half-way up the ascent, a village on a crag--but the mists of morning were half veiling the scene when I surveyed it, and the mists of time are now hanging densely between it and my no longer youthful eye; I may not describe it;--nor will I try. Leaving the ship in the cove, we passed up a wide river in boats till we came to a city, where we disembarked. It was a large city, as large as Edinburgh to my eyes; there were plenty of fine houses, but little neatness; the streets were full of impurities; handsome equipages rolled along, but the greater part of the population were in rags; beggars abounded; there was no lack of merriment, however; boisterous shouts of laughter were heard on every side. It appeared a city of contradictions. After a few days' rest we marched from this place in two divisions. My father commanded the second, I walked by his side. Our route lay up the country; the country at first offered no very remarkable feature, it was pretty, but tame. On the second day, however, its appearance had altered, it had become more wild; a range of distant mountains bounded the horizon. We passed through several villages, as I suppose I may term them, of low huts, the walls formed of rough stones without mortar, the roof of flags laid over wattles and wicker-work; they seemed to be inhabited solely by women and children; the latter were naked, the former, in general, blear-eyed beldames, who sat beside the doors on low stools, spinning. We saw, however, both men and women working at a distance in the fields. I was thirsty; and going up to an ancient crone, employed in the manner which I have described, I asked her for water; she looked me in the face, appeared to consider a moment, then tottering into her hut, presently reappeared with a small pipkin of milk, which she offered to me with a trembling hand. I drank the milk; it was sour, but I found it highly refreshing. I then took out a penny and offered it to her, whereupon she shook her head, smiled, and, patting my face with her skinny hand, murmured some words in a tongue which I had never heard before. I walked on by my father's side, holding the stirrup-leather of his horse; presently several low uncouth cars passed by, drawn by starved cattle: the drivers were tall fellows, with dark features and athletic frames--they wore long loose blue cloaks with sleeves, which last, however, dangled unoccupied: these cloaks appeared in tolerably good condition, not so their under garments. On their heads were broad slouching hats: the generality of them were bare-footed. As they passed, the soldiers jested with them in the patois of East Anglia, whereupon the fellows laughed, and appeared to jest with the soldiers; but what they said who knows, it being in a rough guttural language, strange and wild. The soldiers stared at each other, and were silent. 'A strange language that!' said a young officer to my father, 'I don't understand a word of it; what can it be?' 'Irish!' said my father, with a loud voice, 'and a bad language it is, I have known it of old, that is, I have often heard it spoken when I was a guardsman in London. There's one part of London where all the Irish live--at least all the worst of them--and there they hatch their villainies and speak this tongue; it is that which keeps them together and makes them dangerous: I was once sent there to seize a couple of deserters--Irish--who had taken refuge amongst their companions; we found them in what was in my time called a ken, that is a house where only thieves and desperadoes are to be found. Knowing on what kind of business I was bound, I had taken with me a sergeant's party; it was well I did so. We found the deserters in a large room, with at least thirty ruffians, horrid-looking fellows, seated about a long table, drinking, swearing, and talking Irish. Ah! we had a tough battle, I remember; the two fellows did nothing, but sat still, thinking it best to be quiet; but the rest, with an ubbubboo like the blowing up of a powder-magazine, sprang up, brandishing their sticks; for these fellows always carry sticks with them even to bed, and not unfrequently spring up in their sleep, striking left and right.' 'And did you take the deserters?' said the officer. 'Yes,' said my father; 'for we formed at the end of the room, and charged with fixed bayonets, which compelled the others to yield notwithstanding their numbers; but the worst was when we got out into the street; the whole district had become alarmed, and hundreds came pouring down upon us--men, women, and children. Women, did I say!--they looked fiends, half naked, with their hair hanging down over their bosoms; they tore up the very pavement to hurl at us, sticks rang about our ears, stones, and Irish--I liked the Irish worst of all, it sounded so horrid, especially as I did not understand it. It's a bad language.' 'A queer tongue,' said I; 'I wonder if I could learn it.' 'Learn it!' said my father; 'what should you learn it for?--however, I am not afraid of that. It is not like Scotch, no person can learn it, save those who are born to it, and even in Ireland the respectable people do not speak it, only the wilder sort, like those we have passed.' Within a day or two we had reached a tall range of mountains running north and south, which I was told were those of Tipperary; along the skirts of these we proceeded till we came to a town, the principal one of these regions. It was on the bank of a beautiful river, which separated it from the mountains. It was rather an ancient place, and might contain some ten thousand inhabitants--I found that it was our destination; there were extensive barracks at the farther end, in which the corps took up its quarters; with respect to ourselves, we took lodgings in a house which stood in the principal street. 'You never saw more elegant lodgings than these, captain,' said the master of the house, a tall, handsome, and athletic man, who came up whilst our little family were seated at dinner late in the afternoon of the day of our arrival; 'they beat anything in this town of Clonmel. I do not let them for the sake of interest, and to none but gentlemen in the army, in order that myself and my wife, who is from Londonderry, may have the advantage of pleasant company, genteel company; ay, and Protestant company, captain. It did my heart good when I saw your honour ride in at the head of all those fine fellows, real Protestants, I'll engage, not a Papist among them, they are too good-looking and honest- looking for that. So I no sooner saw your honour at the head of your army, with that handsome young gentleman holding by your stirrup, than I said to my wife, Mistress Hyne, who is from Londonderry, "God bless me," said I, "what a truly Protestant countenance, what a noble bearing, and what a sweet young gentleman. By the silver hairs of his honour"--and sure enough I never saw hairs more regally silver than those of your honour--"by his honour's gray silver hairs, and by my own soul, which is not worthy to be mentioned in the same day with one of them--it would be no more than decent and civil to run out and welcome such a father and son coming in at the head of such a Protestant military." And then my wife, who is from Londonderry, Mistress Hyne, looking me in the face like a fairy as she is, "You may say that," says she. "It would be but decent and civil, honey." And your honour knows how I ran out of my own door and welcomed your honour riding in company with your son, who was walking; how I welcomed ye both at the head of your royal regiment, and how I shook your honour by the hand, saying, I am glad to see your honour, and your honour's son, and your honour's royal military Protestant regiment. And now I have you in the house, and right proud I am to have ye one and all; one, two, three, four, true Protestants every one, no Papists here; and I have made bold to bring up a bottle of claret which is now waiting behind the door; and, when your honour and your family have dined, I will make bold too to bring up Mistress Hyne, from Londonderry, to introduce to your honour's lady, and then we'll drink to the health of King George, God bless him; to the "glorious and immortal"--to Boyne water--to your honour's speedy promotion to be Lord Lieutenant, and to the speedy downfall of the Pope and Saint Anthony of Padua.' Such was the speech of the Irish Protestant addressed to my father in the long lofty dining-room with three windows, looking upon the high street of the good town of Clonmel, as he sat at meat with his family, after saying grace like a true-hearted respectable soldier as he was. 'A bigot and an Orangeman!' Oh yes! It is easier to apply epithets of opprobrium to people than to make yourself acquainted with their history and position. He was a specimen, and a fair specimen, of a most remarkable body of men, who during two centuries have fought a good fight in Ireland in the cause of civilisation and religious truth; they were sent as colonists, few in number, into a barbarous and unhappy country, where ever since, though surrounded with difficulties of every kind, they have maintained their ground; theirs has been no easy life, nor have their lines fallen upon very pleasant places; amidst darkness they have held up a lamp, and it would be well for Ireland were all her children like these her adopted ones. 'But they are fierce and sanguinary,' it is said. Ay, ay! they have not unfrequently opposed the keen sword to the savage pike. 'But they are bigoted and narrow-minded.' Ay, ay! they do not like idolatry, and will not bow the knee before a stone! 'But their language is frequently indecorous.' Go to, my dainty one, did ye ever listen to the voice of Papist cursing? The Irish Protestants have faults, numerous ones; but the greater number of these may be traced to the peculiar circumstances of their position: but they have virtues, numerous ones; and their virtues are their own, their industry, their energy, and their undaunted resolution are their own. They have been vilified and traduced--but what would Ireland be without them? I repeat, that it would be well for her were all her sons no worse than these much-calumniated children of her adoption. CHAPTER X Protestant young gentlemen--The Greek letters--Open chimney--Murtagh--Paris and Salamanca--Nothing to do--To whit, to whoo!--The pack of cards--Before Christmas. We continued at this place for some months, during which time the soldiers performed their duties, whatever they were; and I, having no duties to perform, was sent to school. I had been to English schools, and to the celebrated one of Edinburgh; but my education, at the present day, would not be what it is--perfect, had I never had the honour of being _alumnus_ in an Irish seminary. 'Captain,' said our kind host, 'you would, no doubt, wish that the young gentleman should enjoy every advantage which the town may afford towards helping him on in the path of genteel learning. It's a great pity that he should waste his time in idleness--doing nothing else than what he says he has been doing for the last fortnight--fishing in the river for trouts which he never catches; and wandering up the glen in the mountain, in search of the hips that grow there. Now, we have a school here, where he can learn the most elegant Latin, and get an insight into the Greek letters, which is desirable; and where, moreover, he will have an opportunity of making acquaintance with all the Protestant young gentlemen of the place, the handsome well-dressed young persons whom your honour sees in the church on the Sundays, when your honour goes there in the morning, with the rest of the Protestant military; for it is no Papist school, though there may be a Papist or two there--a few poor farmers' sons from the country, with whom there is no necessity for your honour's child to form any acquaintance at all, at all!' And to the school I went, where I read the Latin tongue and the Greek letters, with a nice old clergyman, who sat behind a black oaken desk, with a huge Elzevir Flaccus before him, in a long gloomy kind of hall, with a broken stone floor, the roof festooned with cobwebs, the walls considerably dilapidated, and covered over with strange figures and hieroglyphics, evidently produced by the application of burnt stick; and there I made acquaintance with the Protestant young gentlemen of the place, who, with whatever _eclat_ they might appear at church on a Sunday, did assuredly not exhibit to much advantage in the schoolroom on the week days, either with respect to clothes or looks. And there I was in the habit of sitting on a large stone, before the roaring fire in the huge open chimney, and entertaining certain of the Protestant young gentlemen of my own age, seated on similar stones, with extraordinary accounts of my own adventures, and those of the corps, with an occasional anecdote extracted from the story-books of Hickathrift and Wight Wallace, pretending to be conning the lesson all the while. And there I made acquaintance, notwithstanding the hint of the landlord, with the Papist 'gossoons,' as they were called, the farmers' sons from the country; and of these gossoons, of whom there were three, two might be reckoned as nothing at all; in the third, however, I soon discovered that there was something extraordinary. He was about sixteen years old, and above six feet high, dressed in a gray suit; the coat, from its size, appeared to have been made for him some ten years before. He was remarkably narrow-chested and round-shouldered, owing, perhaps as much to the tightness of his garment as to the hand of nature. His face was long, and his complexion swarthy, relieved, however, by certain freckles, with which the skin was plentifully studded. He had strange wandering eyes, gray, and somewhat unequal in size; they seldom rested on the book, but were generally wandering about the room, from one object to another. Sometimes he would fix them intently on the wall, and then suddenly starting, as if from a reverie, he would commence making certain mysterious movements with his thumbs and forefingers, as if he were shuffling something from him. One morning, as he sat by himself on a bench, engaged in this manner, I went up to him, and said, 'Good-day, Murtagh; you do not seem to have much to do?' 'Faith, you may say that, Shorsha dear!--it is seldom much to do that I have.' 'And what are you doing with your hands?' 'Faith, then, if I must tell you, I was e'en dealing with the cards.' 'Do you play much at cards?' 'Sorra a game, Shorsha, have I played with the cards since my uncle Phelim, the thief, stole away the ould pack, when he went to settle in the county Waterford!' 'But you have other things to do?' 'Sorra anything else has Murtagh to do that he cares about and that makes me dread so going home at nights.' 'I should like to know all about you; where do you live, joy?' 'Faith, then, ye shall know all about me, and where I live. It is at a place called the Wilderness that I live, and they call it so, because it is a fearful wild place, without any house near it but my father's own; and that's where I live when at home.' 'And your father is a farmer, I suppose?' 'You may say that; and it is a farmer I should have been, like my brother Denis, had not my uncle Phelim, the thief, tould my father to send me to school, to learn Greek letters, that I might be made a saggart of, and sent to Paris and Salamanca.' 'And you would rather be a farmer than a priest?' 'You may say that!--for, were I a farmer, like the rest, I should have something to do, like the rest--something that I cared for--and I should come home tired at night, and fall asleep, as the rest do, before the fire; but when I comes home at night I am not tired, for I have been doing nothing all day that I care for; and then I sits down and stares about me, and at the fire, till I become frighted; and then I shouts to my brother Denis, or to the gossoons, "Get up, I say, and let's be doing something; tell us the tale of Finn-ma-Coul, and how he lay down in the Shannon's bed, and let the river flow down his jaws!" Arrah, Shorsha! I wish you would come and stay with us, and tell us some o' your sweet stories of your own self and the snake ye carried about wid ye. Faith, Shorsha dear! that snake bates anything about Finn-ma-Coul or Brian Boroo, the thieves two, bad luck to them!' 'And do they get up and tell you stories?' 'Sometimes they does, but oftenmost they curses me, and bids me be quiet! But I can't be quiet, either before the fire or abed; so I runs out of the house, and stares at the rocks, at the trees, and sometimes at the clouds, as they run a race across the bright moon; and, the more I stares, the more frighted I grows, till I screeches and holloas. And last night I went into the barn, and hid my face in the straw; and there, as I lay and shivered in the straw, I heard a voice above my head singing out "To whit, to whoo!" and then up I starts, and runs into the house, and falls over my brother Denis, as he lies at the fire. "What's that for?" says he. "Get up, you thief!" says I, "and be helping me. I have been out into the barn, and an owl has crow'd at me!"' 'And what has this to do with playing cards?' 'Little enough, Shorsha dear!--If there were card-playing, I should not be frighted.' 'And why do you not play at cards?' 'Did I not tell you that the thief, my uncle Phelim, stole away the pack? If we had the pack, my brother Denis and the gossoons would be ready enough to get up from their sleep before the fire, and play cards with me for ha'pence, or eggs, or nothing at all; but the pack is gone--bad luck to the thief who took it!' 'And why don't you buy another?' 'Is it of buying you are speaking? And where am I to get the money?' 'Ah! that's another thing!' 'Faith it is, honey!--And now the Christmas holidays is coming, when I shall be at home by day as well as night, and then what am I to do? Since I have been a saggarting, I have been good for nothing at all--neither for work nor Greek--only to play cards! Faith, it's going mad I will be!' 'I say, Murtagh!' 'Yes, Shorsha dear!' 'I have a pack of cards.' 'You don't say so, Shorsha ma vourneen?--you don't say that you have cards fifty-two?' 'I do, though; and they are quite new--never been once used.' 'And you'll be lending them to me, I warrant?' 'Don't think it!--But I'll sell them to you, joy, if you like.' 'Hanam mon Dioul! am I not after telling you that I have no money at all!' 'But you have as good as money, to me, at least; and I'll take it in exchange.' 'What's that, Shorsha dear?' 'Irish!' 'Irish?' 'Yes, you speak Irish; I heard you talking it the other day to the cripple. You shall teach me Irish.' 'And is it a language-master you'd be making of me?' 'To be sure!--what better can you do?--it would help you to pass your time at school. You can't learn Greek, so you must teach Irish!' Before Christmas, Murtagh was playing at cards with his brother Denis, and I could speak a considerable quantity of broken Irish. CHAPTER XI Templemore--Devil's Mountain--No companion--Force of circumstance--Way of the world--Ruined castle--Grim and desolate--The donjon--Old woman--My own house. When Christmas was over, and the new year commenced, we broke up our quarters, and marched away to Templemore. This was a large military station, situated in a wild and thinly inhabited country. Extensive bogs were in the neighbourhood, connected with the huge bog of Allen, the Palus Maeotis of Ireland. Here and there was seen a ruined castle looming through the mists of winter; whilst, at the distance of seven miles, rose a singular mountain, exhibiting in its brow a chasm, or vacuum, just, for all the world, as if a piece had been bitten out; a feat which, according to the tradition of the country, had actually been performed by his Satanic majesty, who, after flying for some leagues with the morsel in his mouth, becoming weary, dropped it in the vicinity of Cashel, where it may now be seen in the shape of a bold bluff hill, crowned with the ruins of a stately edifice, probably built by some ancient Irish king. We had been here only a few days, when my brother, who, as I have before observed, had become one of his Majesty's officers, was sent on detachment to a village at about ten miles' distance. He was not sixteen, and, though three years older than myself, scarcely my equal in stature, for I had become tall and large-limbed for my age; but there was a spirit in him which would not have disgraced a general; and, nothing daunted at the considerable responsibility which he was about to incur, he marched sturdily out of the barrack-yard at the head of his party, consisting of twenty light-infantry men, and a tall grenadier sergeant, selected expressly by my father, for the soldier-like qualities which he possessed, to accompany his son on this his first expedition. So out of the barrack-yard, with something of an air, marched my dear brother, his single drum and fife playing the inspiring old melody, Marlbrouk is gone to the wars, He'll never return no more! I soon missed my brother, for I was now alone, with no being, at all assimilating in age, with whom I could exchange a word. Of late years, from being almost constantly at school, I had cast aside, in a great degree, my unsocial habits and natural reserve, but in the desolate region in which we now were there was no school; and I felt doubly the loss of my brother, whom, moreover, I tenderly loved for his own sake. Books I had none, at least such 'as I cared about'; and with respect to the old volume, the wonders of which had first beguiled me into common reading, I had so frequently pored over its pages, that I had almost got its contents by heart. I was therefore in danger of falling into the same predicament as Murtagh, becoming 'frighted' from having nothing to do! Nay, I had not even his resources; I cared not for cards, even if I possessed them and could find people disposed to play with them. However, I made the most of circumstances, and roamed about the desolate fields and bogs in the neighbourhood, sometimes entering the cabins of the peasantry, with a 'God's blessing upon you, good people!' where I would take my seat on the 'stranger's stone' at the corner of the hearth, and, looking them full in the face, would listen to the carles and carlines talking Irish. Ah, that Irish! How frequently do circumstances, at first sight the most trivial and unimportant, exercise a mighty and permanent influence on our habits and pursuits!--how frequently is a stream turned aside from its natural course by some little rock or knoll, causing it to make an abrupt turn! On a wild road in Ireland I had heard Irish spoken for the first time; and I was seized with a desire to learn Irish, the acquisition of which, in my case, became the stepping-stone to other languages. I had previously learnt Latin, or rather Lilly; but neither Latin nor Lilly made me a philologist. I had frequently heard French and other languages, but had felt little desire to become acquainted with them; and what, it may be asked, was there connected with the Irish calculated to recommend it to my attention? First of all, and principally, I believe, the strangeness and singularity of its tones; then there was something mysterious and uncommon associated with its use. It was not a school language, to acquire which was considered an imperative duty; no, no; nor was it a drawing-room language, drawled out occasionally, in shreds and patches, by the ladies of generals and other great dignitaries, to the ineffable dismay of poor officers' wives. Nothing of the kind; but a speech spoken in out-of-the- way desolate places, and in cut-throat kens, where thirty ruffians, at the sight of the king's minions, would spring up with brandished sticks and an 'ubbubboo like the blowing up of a powder-magazine.' Such were the points connected with the Irish, which first awakened in my mind the desire of acquiring it; and by acquiring it I became, as I have already said, enamoured of languages. Having learnt one by choice, I speedily, as the reader will perceive, learnt others, some of which were widely different from Irish. Ah, that Irish! I am much indebted to it in more ways than one. But I am afraid I have followed the way of the world, which is very much wont to neglect original friends and benefactors. I frequently find myself, at present, turning up my nose at Irish when I hear it in the street; yet I have still a kind of regard for it, the fine old language: A labhair Padruic n'insefail nan riogh. One of the most peculiar features of this part of Ireland is the ruined castles, which are so thick and numerous that the face of the country appears studded with them, it being difficult to choose any situation from which one, at least, may not be descried. They are of various ages and styles of architecture, some of great antiquity, like the stately remains which crown the Crag of Cashel; others built by the early English conquerors; others, and probably the greater part, erections of the times of Elizabeth and Cromwell. The whole speaking monuments of the troubled and insecure state of the country, from the most remote periods to a comparatively modern time. From the windows of the room where I slept I had a view of one of these old places--an indistinct one, it is true, the distance being too great to permit me to distinguish more than the general outline. I had an anxious desire to explore it. It stood to the south-east; in which direction, however, a black bog intervened, which had more than once baffled all my attempts to cross it. One morning, however, when the sun shone brightly upon the old building, it appeared so near, that I felt ashamed at not being able to accomplish a feat seemingly so easy; I determined, therefore, upon another trial. I reached the bog, and was about to venture upon its black surface, and to pick my way amongst its innumerable holes, yawning horribly, and half filled with water black as soot, when it suddenly occurred to me that there was a road to the south, by following which I might find a more convenient route to the object of my wishes. The event justified my expectations, for, after following the road for some three miles, seemingly in the direction of the Devil's Mountain, I suddenly beheld the castle on my left. I diverged from the road, and, crossing two or three fields, came to a small grassy plain, in the midst of which stood the castle. About a gun- shot to the south was a small village, which had, probably, in ancient days, sprung up beneath its protection. A kind of awe came over me as I approached the old building. The sun no longer shone upon it, and it looked so grim, so desolate and solitary; and here was I, in that wild country, alone with that grim building before me. The village was within sight, it is true; but it might be a village of the dead for what I knew; no sound issued from it, no smoke was rising from its roofs, neither man nor beast was visible, no life, no motion--it looked as desolate as the castle itself. Yet I was bent on the adventure, and moved on towards the castle across the green plain, occasionally casting a startled glance around me; and now I was close to it. It was surrounded by a quadrangular wall, about ten feet in height, with a square tower at each corner. At first I could discover no entrance; walking round, however, to the northern side, I found a wide and lofty gateway with a tower above it, similar to those at the angles of the wall; on this side the ground sloped gently down towards the bog, which was here skirted by an abundant growth of copse-wood and a few evergreen oaks. I passed through the gateway, and found myself within a square inclosure of about two acres. On one side rose a round and lofty keep, or donjon, with a conical roof, part of which had fallen down, strewing the square with its ruins. Close to the keep, on the other side, stood the remains of an oblong house, built something in the modern style, with various window-holes; nothing remained but the bare walls and a few projecting stumps of beams, which seemed to have been half burnt. The interior of the walls was blackened, as if by fire; fire also appeared at one time to have raged out of the window-holes, for the outside about them was black, portentously so. 'I wonder what has been going on here?' I exclaimed. There were echoes among the walls as I walked about the court. I entered the keep by a low and frowning doorway: the lower floor consisted of a large dungeon-like room, with a vaulted roof; on the left hand was a winding staircase in the thickness of the wall; it looked anything but inviting; yet I stole softly up, my heart beating. On the top of the first flight of stairs was an arched doorway, to the left was a dark passage, to the right, stairs leading still higher. I stepped under the arch and found myself in an apartment somewhat similar to the one below, but higher. There was an object at the farther end. An old woman, at least eighty, was seated on a stone, cowering over a few sticks burning feebly on what had once been a right noble and cheerful hearth; her side-glance was towards the doorway as I entered, for she had heard my foot-steps. I stood suddenly still, and her haggard glance rested on my face. 'Is this your house, mother?' I at length demanded, in the language which I thought she would best understand. 'Yes, my house, my own house; the house of the broken-hearted.' 'Any other person's house?' I demanded. 'My own house, the beggar's house--the accursed house of Cromwell!' CHAPTER XII A visit--Figure of a man--The dog of peace--The raw wound--The guardroom--Boy soldier--Person in authority--Never solitary--Clergyman and family--Still-hunting--Fairy man--Near sunset--Bagg--Left-handed hitter--Irish and supernatural--At Swanton Morley. One morning I set out, designing to pay a visit to my brother at the place where he was detached; the distance was rather considerable, yet I hoped to be back by evening fall, for I was now a shrewd walker, thanks to constant practice. I set out early, and, directing my course towards the north, I had in less than two hours accomplished considerably more than half of the journey. The weather had at first been propitious: a slight frost had rendered the ground firm to the tread, and the skies were clear; but now a change came over the scene, the skies darkened, and a heavy snowstorm came on; the road then lay straight through a bog, and was bounded by a deep trench on both sides; I was making the best of my way, keeping as nearly as I could in the middle of the road, lest, blinded by the snow which was frequently borne into my eyes by the wind, I might fall into the dyke, when all at once I heard a shout to windward, and turning my eyes I saw the figure of a man, and what appeared to be an animal of some kind, coming across the bog with great speed, in the direction of myself; the nature of the ground seemed to offer but little impediment to these beings, both clearing the holes and abysses which lay in their way with surprising agility; the animal was, however, some slight way in advance, and, bounding over the dyke, appeared on the road just before me. It was a dog, of what species I cannot tell, never having seen the like before or since; the head was large and round; the ears so tiny as scarcely to be discernible; the eyes of a fiery red: in size it was rather small than large; and the coat, which was remarkably smooth, as white as the falling flakes. It placed itself directly in my path, and showing its teeth, and bristling its coat, appeared determined to prevent my progress. I had an ashen stick in my hand, with which I threatened it; this, however, only served to increase its fury; it rushed upon me, and I had the utmost difficulty to preserve myself from its fangs. 'What are you doing with the dog, the fairy dog?' said a man, who at this time likewise cleared the dyke at a bound. He was a very tall man, rather well dressed as it should seem; his garments, however, were, like my own, so covered with snow that I could scarcely discern their quality. 'What are ye doing with the dog of peace?' 'I wish he would show himself one,' said I; 'I said nothing to him, but he placed himself in my road, and would not let me pass.' 'Of course he would not be letting you till he knew where ye were going.' 'He's not much of a fairy,' said I, 'or he would know that without asking; tell him that I am going to see my brother.' 'And who is your brother, little Sas?' 'What my father is, a royal soldier.' 'Oh, ye are going then to the detachment at--; by my shoul, I have a good mind to be spoiling your journey.' 'You are doing that already,' said I, 'keeping me here talking about dogs and fairies; you had better go home and get some salve to cure that place over your eye; it's catching cold you'll be, in so much snow.' On one side of the man's forehead there was a raw and staring wound, as if from a recent and terrible blow. 'Faith, then I'll be going, but it's taking you wid me I will be.' 'And where will you take me?' 'Why, then, to Ryan's Castle, little Sas.' 'You do not speak the language very correctly,' said I; 'it is not Sas you should call me--'tis Sassannach,' and forthwith I accompanied the word with a speech full of flowers of Irish rhetoric. The man looked upon me for a moment, fixedly, then, bending his head towards his breast, he appeared to be undergoing a kind of convulsion, which was accompanied by a sound something resembling laughter; presently he looked at me, and there was a broad grin on his features. 'By my shoul, it's a thing of peace I'm thinking ye.' But now with a whisking sound came running down the road a hare; it was nearly upon us before it perceived us; suddenly stopping short, however, it sprang into the bog on the right-hand side; after it amain bounded the dog of peace, followed by the man, but not until he had nodded to me a farewell salutation. In a few moments I lost sight of him amidst the snowflakes. The weather was again clear and fine before I reached the place of detachment. It was a little wooden barrack, surrounded by a wall of the same material; a sentinel stood at the gate, I passed by him, and, entering the building, found myself in a rude kind of guardroom; several soldiers were lying asleep on a wooden couch at one end, others lounged on benches by the side of a turf fire. The tall sergeant stood before the fire, holding a cooking utensil in his left hand; on seeing me, he made the military salutation. 'Is my brother here?' said I, rather timidly, dreading to hear that he was out, perhaps for the day. 'The ensign is in his room, sir,' said Bagg, 'I am now preparing his meal, which will presently be ready; you will find the ensign above stairs,' and he pointed to a broken ladder which led to some place above. And there I found him--the boy soldier--in a kind of upper loft, so low that I could touch with my hands the sooty rafters; the floor was of rough boards, through the joints of which you could see the gleam of the soldiers' fire, and occasionally discern their figures as they moved about; in one corner was a camp bedstead, by the side of which hung the child's sword, gorget, and sash; a deal table stood in the proximity of the rusty grate, where smoked and smouldered a pile of black turf from the bog,--a deal table without a piece of baize to cover it, yet fraught with things not devoid of interest: a Bible, given by a mother; the _Odyssey_, the Greek _Odyssey_; a flute, with broad silver keys; crayons, moreover, and water-colours; and a sketch of a wild prospect near, which, though but half finished, afforded ample proof of the excellence and skill of the boyish hand now occupied upon it. Ah! he was a sweet being, that boy soldier, a plant of early promise, bidding fair to become in after time all that is great, good, and admirable. I have read of a remarkable Welshman, of whom it was said, when the grave closed over him, that he could frame a harp, and play it; build a ship, and sail it; compose an ode, and set it to music. A brave fellow that son of Wales--but I had once a brother who could do more and better than this, but the grave has closed over him, as over the gallant Welshman of yore; there are now but two that remember him--the one who bore him, and the being who was nurtured at the same breast. He was taken, and I was left!--Truly, the ways of Providence are inscrutable. 'You seem to be very comfortable, John,' said I, looking around the room and at the various objects which I have described above: 'you have a good roof over your head, and have all your things about you.' 'Yes, I am very comfortable, George, in many respects; I am, moreover, independent, and feel myself a man for the first time in my life--independent did I say?--that's not the word, I am something much higher than that; here am I, not sixteen yet, a person in authority, like the centurion in the book there, with twenty Englishmen under me, worth a whole legion of his men, and that fine fellow Bagg to wait upon me, and take my orders. Oh! these last six weeks have passed like hours of heaven.' 'But your time must frequently hang heavy on your hands; this is a strange wild place, and you must be very solitary?' 'I am never solitary; I have, as you see, all my things about me, and there is plenty of company below stairs. Not that I mix with the soldiers; if I did, good-bye to my authority; but when I am alone I can hear all their discourse through the planks, and I often laugh to myself at the funny things they say.' 'And have you any acquaintance here?' 'The very best; much better than the Colonel and the rest, at their grand Templemore; I had never so many in my whole life before. One has just left me, a gentleman who lives at a distance across the bog; he comes to talk with me about Greek, and the _Odyssey_, for he is a very learned man, and understands the old Irish, and various other strange languages. He has had a dispute with Bagg. On hearing his name, he called him to him, and, after looking at him for some time with great curiosity, said that he was sure he was a Dane. Bagg, however, took the compliment in dudgeon, and said that he was no more a Dane than himself, but a true- born Englishman, and a sergeant of six years' standing.' 'And what other acquaintance have you?' 'All kinds; the whole neighbourhood can't make enough of me. Amongst others there's the clergyman of the parish and his family; such a venerable old man, such fine sons and daughters! I am treated by them like a son and a brother--I might be always with them if I pleased; there's one drawback, however, in going to see them; there's a horrible creature in the house, a kind of tutor, whom they keep more from charity than anything else; he is a Papist and, they say, a priest; you should see him scowl sometimes at my red coat, for he hates the king, and not unfrequently, when the king's health is drunk, curses him between his teeth. I once got up to strike him; but the youngest of the sisters, who is the handsomest, caught my arm and pointed to her forehead.' 'And what does your duty consist of? Have you nothing else to do than pay visits and receive them?' 'We do what is required of us, we guard this edifice, perform our evolutions, and help the excise; I am frequently called up in the dead of night to go to some wild place or other in quest of an illicit still; this last part of our duty is poor mean work, I don't like it, nor more does Bagg; though without it we should not see much active service, for the neighbourhood is quiet; save the poor creatures with their stills, not a soul is stirring. 'Tis true there's Jerry Grant.' 'And who is Jerry Grant?' 'Did you never hear of him? that's strange, the whole country is talking about him; he is a kind of outlaw, rebel, or robber, all three I daresay; there's a hundred pounds offered for his head.' 'And where does he live?' 'His proper home, they say, is in the Queen's County, where he has a band, but he is a strange fellow, fond of wandering about by himself amidst the bogs and mountains, and living in the old castles; occasionally he quarters himself in the peasants' houses, who let him do just what he pleases; he is free of his money, and often does them good turns, and can be good-humoured enough, so they don't dislike him. Then he is what they call a fairy man, a person in league with fairies and spirits, and able to work much harm by supernatural means, on which account they hold him in great awe; he is, moreover, a mighty strong and tall fellow. Bagg has seen him.' 'Has he?' 'Yes! and felt him; he too is a strange one. A few days ago he was told that Grant had been seen hovering about an old castle some two miles off in the bog; so one afternoon what does he do but, without saying a word to me--for which, by the bye, I ought to put him under arrest, though what I should do without Bagg I have no idea whatever--what does he do but walk off to the castle, intending, as I suppose, to pay a visit to Jerry. He had some difficulty in getting there on account of the turf- holes in the bog, which he was not accustomed to; however, thither at last he got and went in. It was a strange lonesome place, he says, and he did not much like the look of it; however, in he went, and searched about from the bottom to the top and down again, but could find no one; he shouted and hallooed, but nobody answered, save the rooks and choughs, which started up in great numbers. "I have lost my trouble," said Bagg, and left the castle. It was now late in the afternoon, near sunset, when about half-way over the bog he met a man--' 'And that man was--' 'Jerry Grant! there's no doubt of it. Bagg says it was the most sudden thing in the world. He was moving along, making the best of his way, thinking of nothing at all save a public-house at Swanton Morley, which he intends to take when he gets home, and the regiment is disbanded--though I hope that will not be for some time yet: he had just leaped a turf-hole, and was moving on, when, at the distance of about six yards before him, he saw a fellow coming straight towards him. Bagg says that he stopped short, as suddenly as if he had heard the word halt, when marching at double quick time. It was quite a surprise, he says, and he can't imagine how the fellow was so close upon him before he was aware. He was an immense tall fellow--Bagg thinks at least two inches taller than himself--very well dressed in a blue coat and buff breeches, for all the world like a squire when going out hunting. Bagg, however, saw at once that he had a roguish air, and he was on his guard in a moment. "Good-evening to ye, sodger," says the fellow, stepping close up to Bagg, and staring him in the face. "Good-evening to you, sir! I hope you are well," says Bagg. "You are looking after some one?" says the fellow. "Just so, sir," says Bagg, and forthwith seized him by the collar; the man laughed, Bagg says it was such a strange awkward laugh. "Do you know whom you have got hold of, sodger?" said he. "I believe I do, sir," said Bagg, "and in that belief will hold you fast in the name of King George and the quarter sessions"; the next moment he was sprawling with his heels in the air. Bagg says there was nothing remarkable in that; he was only flung by a kind of wrestling trick, which he could easily have baffled had he been aware of it. "You will not do that again, sir," said he, as he got up and put himself on his guard. The fellow laughed again more strangely and awkwardly than before; then, bending his body and moving his head from one side to the other as a cat does before she springs, and crying out, "Here's for ye, sodger!" he made a dart at Bagg, rushing in with his head foremost. "That will do, sir," says Bagg, and, drawing himself back, he put in a left-handed blow with all the force of his body and arm, just over the fellow's right eye--Bagg is a left-handed hitter, you must know--and it was a blow of that kind which won him his famous battle at Edinburgh with the big Highland sergeant. Bagg says that he was quite satisfied with the blow, more especially when he saw the fellow reel, fling out his arms, and fall to the ground. "And now, sir," said he, "I'll make bold to hand you over to the quarter sessions, and, if there is a hundred pounds for taking you, who has more right to it than myself?" So he went forward, but ere he could lay hold of his man the other was again on his legs, and was prepared to renew the combat. They grappled each other--Bagg says he had not much fear of the result, as he now felt himself the best man, the other seeming half-stunned with the blow--but just then there came on a blast, a horrible roaring wind bearing night upon its wings, snow, and sleet, and hail. Bagg says he had the fellow by the throat quite fast, as he thought, but suddenly he became bewildered, and knew not where he was; and the man seemed to melt away from his grasp, and the wind howled more and more, and the night poured down darker and darker; the snow and the sleet thicker and more blinding. "Lord have mercy upon us!" said Bagg.' _Myself_. A strange adventure that; it is well that Bagg got home alive. _John_. He says that the fight was a fair fight, and that the fling he got was a fair fling, the result of a common enough wrestling trick. But with respect to the storm, which rose up just in time to save the fellow, he is of opinion that it was not fair, but something Irish and supernatural. _Myself_. I daresay he's right. I have read of witchcraft in the Bible. _John_. He wishes much to have one more encounter with the fellow; he says that on fair ground, and in fine weather, he has no doubt that he could master him, and hand him over to the quarter sessions. He says that a hundred pounds would be no bad thing to be disbanded upon; for he wishes to take an inn at Swanton Morley, keep a cock-pit, and live respectably. _Myself_. He is quite right; and now kiss me, my darling brother, for I must go back through the bog to Templemore. CHAPTER XIII Groom and cob--Strength and symmetry--Where's the saddle?--The first ride--No more fatigue--Love for horses--Pursuit of words--Philologist and Pegasus--The smith--What more, agrah?--Sassannach tenpence. And it came to pass that, as I was standing by the door of the barrack stable, one of the grooms came out to me, saying, 'I say, young gentleman, I wish you would give the cob a breathing this fine morning.' 'Why do you wish me to mount him?' said I; 'you know he is dangerous. I saw him fling you off his back only a few days ago.' 'Why, that's the very thing, master. I'd rather see anybody on his back than myself; he does not like me; but, to them he does, he can be as gentle as a lamb.' 'But suppose,' said I, 'that he should not like me?' 'We shall soon see that, master,' said the groom; 'and, if so be he shows temper, I will be the first to tell you to get down. But there's no fear of that; you have never angered or insulted him, and to such as you, I say again, he'll be as gentle as a lamb.' 'And how came you to insult him,' said I, 'knowing his temper as you do?' 'Merely through forgetfulness, master: I was riding him about a month ago, and having a stick in my hand, I struck him, thinking I was on another horse, or rather thinking of nothing at all. He has never forgiven me, though before that time he was the only friend I had in the world; I should like to see you on him, master.' 'I should soon be off him; I can't ride.' 'Then you are all right, master; there's no fear. Trust him for not hurting a young gentleman, an officer's son, who can't ride. If you were a blackguard dragoon, indeed, with long spurs, 'twere another thing; as it is, he'll treat you as if he were the elder brother that loves you. Ride! He'll soon teach you to ride if you leave the matter with him. He's the best riding-master in all Ireland, and the gentlest.' The cob was led forth; what a tremendous creature! I had frequently seen him before, and wondered at him; he was barely fifteen hands, but he had the girth of a metropolitan dray-horse; his head was small in comparison with his immense neck, which curved down nobly to his wide back: his chest was broad and fine, and his shoulders models of symmetry and strength; he stood well and powerfully upon his legs, which were somewhat short. In a word, he was a gallant specimen of the genuine Irish cob, a species at one time not uncommon, but at the present day nearly extinct. 'There!' said the groom, as he looked at him, half admiringly, half sorrowfully, 'with sixteen stone on his back, he'll trot fourteen miles in one hour, with your nine stone, some two and a half more ay, and clear a six-foot wall at the end of it.' 'I'm half afraid,' said I; 'I had rather you would ride him.' 'I'd rather so, too, if he would let me; but he remembers the blow. Now, don't be afraid, young master, he's longing to go out himself. He's been trampling with his feet these three days, and I know what that means; he'll let anybody ride him but myself, and thank them; but to me he says, "No! you struck me."' 'But,' said I, 'where's the saddle?' 'Never mind the saddle; if you are ever to be a frank rider, you must begin without a saddle; besides, if he felt a saddle, he would think you don't trust him, and leave you to yourself. Now, before you mount, make his acquaintance--see there, how he kisses you and licks your face, and see how he lifts his foot, that's to shake hands. You may trust him--now you are on his back at last; mind how you hold the bridle--gently, gently! It's not four pair of hands like yours can hold him if he wishes to be off. Mind what I tell you--leave it all to him.' Off went the cob at a slow and gentle trot, too fast and rough, however, for so inexperienced a rider. I soon felt myself sliding off, the animal perceived it too, and instantly stood stone still till I had righted myself; and now the groom came up: 'When you feel yourself going,' said he, 'don't lay hold of the mane, that's no use; mane never yet saved man from falling, no more than straw from drowning; it's his sides you must cling to with your calves and feet, till you learn to balance yourself. That's it, now abroad with you; I'll bet my comrade a pot of beer that you'll be a regular rough-rider by the time you come back.' And so it proved; I followed the directions of the groom, and the cob gave me every assistance. How easy is riding, after the first timidity is got over, to supple and youthful limbs; and there is no second fear. The creature soon found that the nerves of his rider were in proper tone. Turning his head half round, he made a kind of whining noise, flung out a little foam, and set off. In less than two hours I had made the circuit of the Devil's Mountain, and was returning along the road, bathed with perspiration, but screaming with delight; the cob laughing in his equine way, scattering foam and pebbles to the left and right, and trotting at the rate of sixteen miles an hour. Oh, that ride! that first ride!--most truly it was an epoch in my existence; and I still look back to it with feelings of longing and regret. People may talk of first love--it is a very agreeable event, I daresay--but give me the flush, and triumph, and glorious sweat of a first ride, like mine on the mighty cob! My whole frame was shaken, it is true; and during one long week I could hardly move foot or hand; but what of that? By that one trial I had become free, as I may say, of the whole equine species. No more fatigue, no more stiffness of joints, after that first ride round the Devil's Hill on the cob. Oh, that cob! that Irish cob!--may the sod lie lightly over the bones of the strongest, speediest, and most gallant of its kind! Oh! the days when, issuing from the barrack-gate of Templemore, we commenced our hurry- skurry just as inclination led--now across the fields--direct over stone walls and running brooks--mere pastime for the cob!--sometimes along the road to Thurles and Holy Cross, even to distant Cahir!--what was distance to the cob? It was thus that the passion for the equine race was first awakened within me--a passion which, up to the present time, has been rather on the increase than diminishing. It is no blind passion; the horse being a noble and generous creature, intended by the All-Wise to be the helper and friend of man, to whom he stands next in the order of creation. On many occasions of my life I have been much indebted to the horse, and have found in him a friend and coadjutor, when human help and sympathy were not to be obtained. It is therefore natural enough that I should love the horse; but the love which I entertain for him has always been blended with respect; for I soon perceived that, though disposed to be the friend and helper of man, he is by no means inclined to be his slave; in which respect he differs from the dog, who will crouch when beaten; whereas the horse spurns, for he is aware of his own worth and that he carries death within the horn of his heel. If, therefore, I found it easy to love the horse, I found it equally natural to respect him. I much question whether philology, or the passion for languages, requires so little of an apology as the love for horses. It has been said, I believe, that the more languages a man speaks, the more a man is he; which is very true, provided he acquires languages as a medium for becoming acquainted with the thoughts and feelings of the various sections into which the human race is divided; but, in that case, he should rather be termed a philosopher than a philologist--between which two the difference is wide indeed! An individual may speak and read a dozen languages, and yet be an exceedingly poor creature, scarcely half a man; and the pursuit of tongues for their own sake, and the mere satisfaction of acquiring them, surely argues an intellect of a very low order; a mind disposed to be satisfied with mean and grovelling things; taking more pleasure in the trumpery casket than in the precious treasure which it contains; in the pursuit of words, than in the acquisition of ideas. I cannot help thinking that it was fortunate for myself, who am, to a certain extent, a philologist, that with me the pursuit of languages has been always modified by the love of horses; for scarcely had I turned my mind to the former, when I also mounted the wild cob, and hurried forth in the direction of the Devil's Hill, scattering dust and flint-stones on every side; that ride, amongst other things, taught me that a lad with thews and sinews was intended by nature for something better than mere word-culling; and if I have accomplished anything in after life worthy of mentioning, I believe it may partly be attributed to the ideas which that ride, by setting my blood in a glow, infused into my brain. I might, otherwise, have become a mere philologist; one of those beings who toil night and day in culling useless words for some _opus magnum_ which Murray will never publish, and nobody ever read; beings without enthusiasm, who, having never mounted a generous steed, cannot detect a good point in Pegasus himself; like a certain philologist, who, though acquainted with the exact value of every word in the Greek and Latin languages, could observe no particular beauty in one of the most glorious of Homer's rhapsodies. What knew he of Pegasus? he had never mounted a generous steed; the merest jockey, had the strain been interpreted to him, would have called it a brave song!--I return to the brave cob. On a certain day I had been out on an excursion. In a cross-road, at some distance from the Satanic hill, the animal which I rode cast a shoe. By good luck a small village was at hand, at the entrance of which was a large shed, from which proceeded a most furious noise of hammering. Leading the cob by the bridle, I entered boldly. 'Shoe this horse, and do it quickly, a gough,' said I to a wild grimy figure of a man, whom I found alone, fashioning a piece of iron. 'Arrigod yuit?' said the fellow, desisting from his work, and staring at me. 'Oh yes, I have money,' said I, 'and of the best'; and I pulled out an English shilling. 'Tabhair chugam?' said the smith, stretching out his grimy hand. 'No, I shan't,' said I; 'some people are glad to get their money when their work is done.' The fellow hammered a little longer, and then proceeded to shoe the cob, after having first surveyed it with attention. He performed his job rather roughly, and more than once appeared to give the animal unnecessary pain, frequently making use of loud and boisterous words. By the time the work was done, the creature was in a state of high excitement, and plunged and tore. The smith stood at a short distance, seeming to enjoy the irritation of the animal, and showing, in a remarkable manner, a huge fang, which projected from the under jaw of a very wry mouth. 'You deserve better handling,' said I, as I went up to the cob and fondled it; whereupon it whinnied, and attempted to touch my face with its nose. {picture:'Arrigod yuit?' said the fellow, desisting from his work, and staring at me: page94.jpg} 'Are ye not afraid of that beast?' said the smith, showing his fang. 'Arrah, it's vicious that he looks!' 'It's at you, then!--I don't fear him'; and thereupon I passed under the horse, between its hind legs. 'And is that all you can do, agrah?' said the smith. 'No,' said I, 'I can ride him.' 'Ye can ride him, and what else, agrah?' 'I can leap him over a six-foot wall,' said I. 'Over a wall, and what more, agrah?' 'Nothing more,' said I; 'what more would you have?' 'Can you do this, agrah?' said the smith; and he uttered a word which I had never heard before, in a sharp pungent tone. The effect upon myself was somewhat extraordinary, a strange thrill ran through me; but with regard to the cob it was terrible; the animal forthwith became like one mad, and reared and kicked with the utmost desperation. 'Can you do that, agrah?' said the smith. 'What is it?' said I, retreating, 'I never saw the horse so before.' 'Go between his legs, agrah,' said the smith, 'his hinder legs'; and he again showed his fang. 'I dare not,' said I, 'he would kill me.' 'He would kill ye! and how do ye know that, agrah?' 'I feel he would,' said I, 'something tells me so.' 'And it tells ye truth, agrah; but it's a fine beast, and it's a pity to see him in such a state: Is agam an't leigeas'--and here he uttered another word in a voice singularly modified, but sweet and almost plaintive; the effect of it was as instantaneous as that of the other, but how different!--the animal lost all its fury, and became at once calm and gentle. The smith went up to it, coaxed and patted it, making use of various sounds of equine endearment; then turning to me, and holding out once more the grimy hand, he said, 'And now ye will be giving me the Sassannach tenpence, agrah?' CHAPTER XIV A fine old city--Norman master-work--Lollards' Hole--Good blood--The Spaniard's sword--Old retired officer--Writing to a duke--God help the child--Nothing like Jacob--Irish brigades--Old Sergeant Meredith--I have been young--Idleness--Only course open--The bookstall--A portrait--A banished priest. From the wild scenes which I have attempted to describe in the latter pages I must now transport the reader to others of a widely different character. He must suppose himself no longer in Ireland, but in the eastern corner of merry England. Bogs, ruins, and mountains have disappeared amidst the vapours of the west: I have nothing more to say of them; the region in which we are now is not famous for objects of that kind: perhaps it flatters itself that it can produce fairer and better things, of some of which let me speak; there is a fine old city before us, and first of that let me speak. A fine old city, truly, is that, view it from whatever side you will; but it shows best from the east, where the ground, bold and elevated, overlooks the fair and fertile valley in which it stands. Gazing from those heights, the eye beholds a scene which cannot fail to awaken, even in the least sensitive bosom, feelings of pleasure and admiration. At the foot of the heights flows a narrow and deep river, with an antique bridge communicating with a long and narrow suburb, flanked on either side by rich meadows of the brightest green, beyond which spreads the city; the fine old city, perhaps the most curious specimen at present extant of the genuine old English town. Yes, there it spreads from north to south, with its venerable houses, its numerous gardens, its thrice twelve churches, its mighty mound, which, if tradition speaks true, was raised by human hands to serve as the grave-heap of an old heathen king, who sits deep within it, with his sword in his hand, and his gold and silver treasures about him. There is a gray old castle upon the top of that mighty mound; and yonder, rising three hundred feet above the soil, from among those noble forest trees, behold that old Norman master-work, that cloud-encircled cathedral spire, around which a garrulous army of rooks and choughs continually wheel their flight. Now, who can wonder that the children of that fine old city are proud of her, and offer up prayers for her prosperity? I, myself, who was not born within her walls, offer up prayers for her prosperity, that want may never visit her cottages, vice her palaces, and that the abomination of idolatry may never pollute her temples. Ha, idolatry! the reign of idolatry has been over there for many a long year, never more, let us hope, to return; brave hearts in that old town have borne witness against it, and sealed their testimony with their hearts' blood--most precious to the Lord is the blood of His saints! we are not far from hallowed ground. Observe ye not yon chalky precipice, to the right of the Norman bridge? On this side of the stream, upon its brow, is a piece of ruined wall, the last relic of what was of old a stately pile, whilst at its foot is a place called the Lollards' Hole; and with good reason, for many a saint of God has breathed his last beneath that white precipice, bearing witness against popish idolatry, midst flame and pitch; many a grisly procession has advanced along that suburb, across the old bridge, towards the Lollards' Hole: furious priests in front, a calm pale martyr in the midst, a pitying multitude behind. It has had its martyrs, the venerable old town! Ah! there is good blood in that old city, and in the whole circumjacent region of which it is the capital. The Angles possessed the land at an early period, which, however, they were eventually compelled to share with hordes of Danes and Northmen, who flocked thither across the sea to found hearthsteads on its fertile soil. The present race, a mixture of Angles and Danes, still preserve much which speaks strongly of their northern ancestry; amongst them ye will find the light-brown hair of the north, the strong and burly forms of the north, many a wild superstition, ay, and many a wild name connected with the ancient history of the north and its sublime mythology; the warm heart and the strong heart of the old Danes and Saxons still beats in those regions, and there ye will find, if anywhere, old northern hospitality and kindness of manner, united with energy, perseverance, and dauntless intrepidity; better soldiers or mariners never bled in their country's battles than those nurtured in those regions, and within those old walls. It was yonder, to the west, that the great naval hero of Britain first saw the light; he who annihilated the sea pride of Spain, and dragged the humbled banner of France in triumph at his stem. He was born yonder, towards the west, and of him there is a glorious relic in that old town; in its dark flint guildhouse, the roof of which you can just descry rising above that maze of buildings, in the upper hall of justice, is a species of glass shrine, in which the relic is to be seen; a sword of curious workmanship, the blade is of keen Toledan steel, the heft of ivory and mother-of-pearl. 'Tis the sword of Cordova, won in bloodiest fray off Saint Vincent's promontory, and presented by Nelson to the old capital of the much-loved land of his birth. Yes, the proud Spaniard's sword is to be seen in yonder guildhouse, in the glass case affixed to the wall: many other relics has the good old town, but none prouder than the Spaniard's sword. Such was the place to which, when the war was over, my father retired: it was here that the old tired soldier set himself down with his little family. He had passed the greater part of his life in meritorious exertion, in the service of his country, and his chief wish now was to spend the remainder of his days in quiet and respectability; his means, it is true, were not very ample; fortunate it was that his desires corresponded with them; with a small fortune of his own, and with his half-pay as a royal soldier, he had no fears for himself or for his faithful partner and helpmate; but then his children! how was he to provide for them? how launch them upon the wide ocean of the world? This was, perhaps, the only thought which gave him uneasiness, and I believe that many an old retired officer at that time, and under similar circumstances, experienced similar anxiety; had the war continued, their children would have been, of course, provided for in the army, but peace now reigned, and the military career was closed to all save the scions of the aristocracy, or those who were in some degree connected with that privileged order, an advantage which few of these old officers could boast of; they had slight influence with the great, who gave themselves very little trouble either about them or their families. 'I have been writing to the Duke,' said my father one day to my excellent mother, after we had been at home somewhat better than a year. 'I have been writing to the Duke of York about a commission for that eldest boy of ours. He, however, affords me no hopes; he says that his list is crammed with names, and that the greater number of the candidates have better claims than my son.' 'I do not see how that can be,' said my mother. 'Nor do I,' replied my father. 'I see the sons of bankers and merchants gazetted every month, and I do not see what claims they have to urge, unless they be golden ones. However, I have not served my king fifty years to turn grumbler at this time of life. I suppose that the people at the head of affairs know what is most proper and convenient; perhaps when the lad sees how difficult, nay, how impossible it is that he should enter the army, he will turn his mind to some other profession; I wish he may!' 'I think he has already,' said my mother; 'you see how fond he is of the arts, of drawing and painting, and, as far as I can judge, what he has already done is very respectable; his mind seems quite turned that way, and I heard him say the other day that he would sooner be a Michael Angelo than a general officer. But you are always talking of him; what do you think of doing with the other child?' 'What, indeed!' said my father; 'that is a consideration which gives me no little uneasiness. I am afraid it will be much more difficult to settle him in life than his brother. What is he fitted for, even were it in my power to provide for him? God help the child! I bear him no ill will, on the contrary, all love and affection; but I cannot shut my eyes; there is something so strange about him! How he behaved in Ireland! I sent him to school to learn Greek, and he picked up Irish!' 'And Greek as well,' said my mother. 'I heard him say the other day that he could read St. John in the original tongue.' 'You will find excuses for him, I know,' said my father. 'You tell me I am always talking of my first-born; I might retort by saying you are always thinking of the other: but it is the way of women always to side with the second-born. There's what's her name in the Bible, by whose wiles the old blind man was induced to give to his second son the blessing which was the birthright of the other. I wish I had been in his place! I should not have been so easily deceived! no disguise would ever have caused me to mistake an impostor for my first-born. Though I must say for this boy that he is nothing like Jacob; he is neither smooth nor sleek, and, though my second-born, is already taller and larger than his brother.' 'Just so,' said my mother; 'his brother would make a far better Jacob than he.' 'I will hear nothing against my first-born,' said my father, 'even in the way of insinuation: he is my joy and pride; the very image of myself in my youthful days, long before I fought Big Ben; though perhaps not quite so tall or strong built. As for the other, God bless the child! I love him, I'm sure; but I must be blind not to see the difference between him and his brother. Why, he has neither my hair nor my eyes; and then his countenance! why, 'tis absolutely swarthy, God forgive me! I had almost said like that of a gypsy, but I have nothing to say against that; the boy is not to be blamed for the colour of his face, nor for his hair and eyes; but, then, his ways and manners!--I confess I do not like them, and that they give me no little uneasiness--I know that he kept very strange company when he was in Ireland; people of evil report, of whom terrible things were said--horse-witches and the like. I questioned him once or twice upon the matter, and even threatened him, but it was of no use; he put on a look as if he did not understand me, a regular Irish look, just such a one as those rascals assume when they wish to appear all innocence and simplicity, and they full of malice and deceit all the time. I don't like them; they are no friends to old England, or its old king, God bless him! They are not good subjects, and never were; always in league with foreign enemies. When I was in the Coldstream, long before the Revolution, I used to hear enough about the Irish brigades kept by the French kings, to be a thorn in the side of the English whenever opportunity served. Old Sergeant Meredith once told me that in the time of the Pretender there were always, in London alone, a dozen of fellows connected with these brigades, with the view of seducing the king's soldiers from their allegiance, and persuading them to desert to France to join the honest Irish, as they were called. One of these traitors once accosted him and proposed the matter to him, offering handfuls of gold if he could induce any of his comrades to go over. Meredith appeared to consent, but secretly gave information to his colonel; the fellow was seized, and certain traitorous papers found upon him; he was hanged before Newgate, and died exulting in his treason. His name was Michael Nowlan. That ever son of mine should have been intimate with the Papist Irish, and have learnt their language!' 'But he thinks of other things now,' said my mother. 'Other languages, you mean,' said my father. 'It is strange that he has conceived such a zest for the study of languages; no sooner did he come home than he persuaded me to send him to that old priest to learn French and Italian, and, if I remember right, you abetted him; but, as I said before, it is in the nature of women invariably to take the part of the second-born. Well, there is no harm in learning French and Italian, perhaps much good in his case, as they may drive the other tongue out of his head. Irish! why, he might go to the university but for that; but how would he look when, on being examined with respect to his attainments, it was discovered that he understood Irish? How did you learn it? they would ask him; how did you become acquainted with the language of Papists and rebels? The boy would be sent away in disgrace.' 'Be under no apprehension, I have no doubt that he has long since forgotten it.' 'I am glad to hear it,' said my father; 'for, between ourselves, I love the poor child; ay, quite as well as my first-born. I trust they will do well, and that God will be their shield and guide; I have no doubt He will, for I have read something in the Bible to that effect. What is that text about the young ravens being fed?' 'I know a better than that,' said my mother; 'one of David's own words, "I have been young and now am grown old, yet never have I seen the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread."' I have heard talk of the pleasures of idleness, yet it is my own firm belief that no one ever yet took pleasure in it. Mere idleness is the most disagreeable state of existence, and both mind and body are continually making efforts to escape from it. It has been said that idleness is the parent of mischief, which is very true; but mischief itself is merely an attempt to escape from the dreary vacuum of idleness. There are many tasks and occupations which a man is unwilling to perform, but let no one think that he is therefore in love with idleness; he turns to something which is more agreeable to his inclination, and doubtless more suited to his nature; but he is not in love with idleness. A boy may play the truant from school because he dislikes books and study; but, depend upon it, he intends doing something the while--to go fishing, or perhaps to take a walk; and who knows but that from such excursions both his mind and body may derive more benefit than from books and school? Many people go to sleep to escape from idleness; the Spaniards do; and, according to the French account, John Bull, the 'squire, hangs himself in the month of November; but the French, who are a very sensible people, attribute the action _a une grande envie de se desennuyer_; he wishes to be doing something, say they, and having nothing better to do, he has recourse to the cord. It was for want of something better to do that, shortly after my return home, I applied myself to the study of languages. By the acquisition of Irish, with the first elements of which I had become acquainted under the tuition of Murtagh, I had contracted a certain zest and inclination for the pursuit. Yet it is probable that had I been launched about this time into some agreeable career, that of arms for example, for which, being the son of a soldier, I had, as was natural, a sort of penchant, I might have thought nothing more of the acquisition of tongues of any kind; but, having nothing to do, I followed the only course suited to my genius which appeared open to me. So it came to pass that one day, whilst wandering listlessly about the streets of the old town, I came to a small book-stall, and stopping, commenced turning over the books; I took up at least a dozen, and almost instantly flung them down. What were they to me? At last, coming to a thick volume, I opened it, and after inspecting its contents for a few minutes, I paid for it what was demanded, and forthwith carried it home. It was a tessaraglot grammar; a strange old book, printed somewhere in Holland, which pretended to be an easy guide to the acquirement of the French, Italian, Low Dutch, and English tongues, by means of which any one conversant in any one of these languages could make himself master of the other three. I turned my attention to the French and Italian. The old book was not of much value; I derived some benefit from it, however, and, conning it intensely, at the end of a few weeks obtained some insight into the structure of these two languages. At length I had learnt all that the book was capable of informing me, yet was still far from the goal to which it had promised to conduct me. 'I wish I had a master!' I exclaimed; and the master was at hand. In an old court of the old town lived a certain elderly personage, perhaps sixty, or thereabouts; he was rather tall, and something of a robust make, with a countenance in which bluffness was singularly blended with vivacity and grimace; and with a complexion which would have been ruddy, but for a yellow hue which rather predominated. His dress consisted of a snuff- coloured coat and drab pantaloons, the former evidently seldom subjected to the annoyance of a brush, and the latter exhibiting here and there spots of something which, if not grease, bore a strong resemblance to it; add to these articles an immense frill, seldom of the purest white, but invariably of the finest French cambric, and you have some idea of his dress. He had rather a remarkable stoop, but his step was rapid and vigorous, and as he hurried along the streets, he would glance to the right and left with a pair of big eyes like plums, and on recognising any one would exalt a pair of grizzled eyebrows, and slightly kiss a tawny and ungloved hand. At certain hours of the day be might be seen entering the doors of female boarding-schools, generally with a book in his hand, and perhaps another just peering from the orifice of a capacious back pocket; and at a certain season of the year he might be seen, dressed in white, before the altar of a certain small popish chapel, chanting from the breviary in very intelligible Latin, or perhaps reading from the desk in utterly unintelligible English. Such was my preceptor in the French and Italian tongues. 'Exul sacerdos; vone banished priest. I came into England twenty-five year ago, "my dear."' CHAPTER XV Monsieur Dante--Condemned musket--Sporting--Sweet rivulet--The Earl's Home--The pool--The sonorous voice--What dost thou read?--Man of peace--Zohar and Mishna--Money-changers. So I studied French and Italian under the tuition of the banished priest, to whose house I went regularly every evening to receive instruction. I made considerable progress in the acquisition of the two languages. I found the French by far the most difficult, chiefly on account of the accent, which my master himself possessed in no great purity, being a Norman by birth. The Italian was my favourite. 'Vous serez un jour un grand philologue, mon cher,' said the old man, on our arriving at the conclusion of Dante's Hell. 'I hope I shall be something better,' said I, 'before I die, or I shall have lived to little purpose.' 'That's true, my dear! philologist--one small poor dog. What would you wish to be?' 'Many things sooner than that; for example, I would rather be like him who wrote this book.' 'Quoi, Monsieur Dante? He was a vagabond, my dear, forced to fly from his country. No, my dear, if you would be like one poet, be like Monsieur Boileau; he is the poet.' 'I don't think so.' 'How, not think so? He wrote very respectable verses; lived and died much respected by everybody. T'other, one bad dog, forced to fly from his country--died with not enough to pay his undertaker.' 'Were you not forced to flee from your country?' 'That very true; but there is much difference between me and this Dante. He fled from country because he had one bad tongue which he shook at his betters. I fly because benefice gone, and head going; not on account of the badness of my tongue.' 'Well,' said I, 'you can return now; the Bourbons are restored.' 'I find myself very well here; not bad country. Il est vrai que la France sera toujours la France; but all are dead there who knew me. I find myself very well here. Preach in popish chapel, teach schismatic, that is Protestant, child tongues and literature. I find myself very well; and why? Because I know how to govern my tongue; never call people hard names. Ma foi, il y a beaucoup de difference entre moi et ce sacre de Dante.' Under this old man, who was well versed in the southern languages, besides studying French and Italian, I acquired some knowledge of Spanish. But I did not devote my time entirely to philology; I had other pursuits. I had not forgotten the roving life I had led in former days, nor its delights; neither was I formed by Nature to be a pallid indoor student. No, no! I was fond of other and, I say it boldly, better things than study. I had an attachment to the angle, ay, and to the gun likewise. In our house was a condemned musket, bearing somewhere on its lock, in rather antique characters, 'Tower, 1746'; with this weapon I had already, in Ireland, performed some execution among the rooks and choughs, and it was now again destined to be a source of solace and amusement to me, in the winter season, especially on occasions of severe frost when birds abounded. Sallying forth with it at these times, far into the country, I seldom returned at night without a string of bullfinches, blackbirds, and linnets hanging in triumph round my neck. When I reflect on the immense quantity of powder and shot which I crammed down the muzzle of my uncouth fowling-piece, I am less surprised at the number of birds which I slaughtered than that I never blew my hands, face, and old honeycombed gun, at one and the same time, to pieces. But the winter, alas! (I speak as a fowler) seldom lasts in England more than three or four months; so, during the rest of the year, when not occupied with my philological studies, I had to seek for other diversions. I have already given a hint that I was also addicted to the angle. Of course there is no comparison between the two pursuits, the rod and line seeming but very poor trumpery to one who has had the honour of carrying a noble firelock. There is a time, however, for all things; and we return to any favourite amusement with the greater zest, from being compelled to relinquish it for a season. So, if I shot birds in winter with my firelock, I caught fish in summer, or attempted so to do, with my angle. I was not quite so successful, it is true, with the latter as with the former; possibly because it afforded me less pleasure. It was, indeed, too much of a listless pastime to inspire me with any great interest. I not unfrequently fell into a doze, whilst sitting on the bank, and more than once let my rod drop from my hands into the water. At some distance from the city, behind a range of hilly ground which rises towards the south-west, is a small river, the waters of which, after many meanderings, eventually enter the principal river of the district, and assist to swell the tide which it rolls down to the ocean. It is a sweet rivulet, and pleasant is it to trace its course from its spring-head, high up in the remote regions of Eastern Anglia, till it arrives in the valley behind yon rising ground; and pleasant is that valley, truly a goodly spot, but most lovely where yonder bridge crosses the little stream. Beneath its arch the waters rush garrulously into a blue pool, and are there stilled, for a time, for the pool is deep, and they appear to have sunk to sleep. Farther on, however, you hear their voice again, where they ripple gaily over yon gravelly shallow. On the left, the hill slopes gently down to the margin of the stream. On the right is a green level, a smiling meadow, grass of the richest decks the side of the slope; mighty trees also adorn it, giant elms, the nearest of which, when the sun is nigh its meridian, fling a broad shadow upon the face of the pool; through yon vista you catch a glimpse of the ancient brick of an old English hall. It has a stately look, that old building, indistinctly seen, as it is, among those umbrageous trees; you might almost suppose it an earl's home; and such it was, or rather upon its site stood an earl's home, in days of old, for there some old Kemp, some Sigurd or Thorkild, roaming in quest of a hearthstead, settled down in the gray old time, when Thor and Freya were yet gods, and Odin was a portentous name. Yon old hall is still called the Earl's Home, though the hearth of Sigurd is now no more, and the bones of the old Kemp, and of Sigrith his dame, have been mouldering for a thousand years in some neighbouring knoll; perhaps yonder, where those tall Norwegian pines shoot up so boldly into the air. It is said that the old earl's galley was once moored where is now that blue pool, for the waters of that valley were not always sweet; yon valley was once an arm of the sea, a salt lagoon, to which the war-barks of 'Sigurd, in search of a home,' found their way. I was in the habit of spending many an hour on the banks of that rivulet, with my rod in my hand, and, when tired with angling, would stretch myself on the grass, and gaze upon the waters as they glided past, and not unfrequently, divesting myself of my dress, I would plunge into the deep pool which I have already mentioned, for I had long since learned to swim. And it came to pass that on one hot summer's day, after bathing in the pool, I passed along the meadow till I came to a shallow part, and, wading over to the opposite side, I adjusted my dress, and commenced fishing in another pool, beside which was a small clump of hazels. And there I sat upon the bank, at the bottom of the hill which slopes down from 'the Earl's home'; my float was on the waters, and my back was towards the old hall. I drew up many fish, small and great, which I took from off the hook mechanically, and flung upon the bank, for I was almost unconscious of what I was about, for my mind was not with my fish. I was thinking of my earlier years--of the Scottish crags and the heaths of Ireland--and sometimes my mind would dwell on my studies--on the sonorous stanzas of Dante, rising and falling like the waves of the sea--or would strive to remember a couplet or two of poor Monsieur Boileau. 'Canst thou answer to thy conscience for pulling all those fish out of the water, and leaving them to gasp in the sun?' said a voice, clear and sonorous as a bell. I started, and looked round. Close behind me stood the tall figure of a man, dressed in raiment of quaint and singular fashion, but of goodly materials. He was in the prime and vigour of manhood; his features handsome and noble, but full of calmness and benevolence; at least I thought so, though they were somewhat shaded by a hat of finest beaver, with broad drooping eaves. 'Surely that is a very cruel diversion in which thou indulgest, my young friend?' he continued. 'I am sorry for it, if it be, sir,' said I, rising; 'but I do not think it cruel to fish.' 'What are thy reasons for not thinking so?' 'Fishing is mentioned frequently in Scripture. Simon Peter was a fisherman.' 'True; and Andrew and his brother. But thou forgettest: they did not follow fishing as a diversion, as I fear thou doest.--Thou readest the Scriptures?' 'Sometimes.' 'Sometimes?--not daily?--that is to be regretted. What profession dost thou make?--I mean to what religious denomination dost thou belong, my young friend.' 'Church?' 'It is a very good profession--there is much of Scripture contained in its liturgy. Dost thou read aught besides the Scriptures?' 'Sometimes.' 'What dost thou read besides?' 'Greek, and Dante.' 'Indeed! then thou hast the advantage over myself; I can only read the former. Well, I am rejoiced to find that thou hast other pursuits beside thy fishing. Dost thou know Hebrew?' 'No.' 'Thou shouldst study it. Why dost thou not undertake the study?' 'I have no books.' 'I will lend thee books, if thou wish to undertake the study. I live yonder at the hall, as perhaps thou knowest. I have a library there, in which are many curious books, both in Greek and Hebrew, which I will show to thee, whenever thou mayest find it convenient to come and see me. Farewell! I am glad to find that thou hast pursuits more satisfactory than thy cruel fishing.' And the man of peace departed, and left me on the bank of the stream. Whether from the effect of his words, or from want of inclination to the sport, I know not, but from that day I became less and less a practitioner of that 'cruel fishing.' I rarely flung line and angle into the water, but I not unfrequently wandered by the banks of the pleasant rivulet. It seems singular to me, on reflection, that I never availed myself of his kind invitation. I say singular, for the extraordinary, under whatever form, had long had no slight interest for me; and I had discernment enough to perceive that yon was no common man. Yet I went not near him, certainly not from bashfulness or timidity, feelings to which I had long been an entire stranger. Am I to regret this? perhaps, for I might have learned both wisdom and righteousness from those calm, quiet lips, and my after-course might have been widely different. As it was, I fell in with other guess companions, from whom I received widely different impressions than those I might have derived from him. When many years had rolled on, long after I had attained manhood, and had seen and suffered much, and when our first interview had long since been effaced from the mind of the man of peace, I visited him in his venerable hall, and partook of the hospitality of his hearth. And there I saw his gentle partner and his fair children, and on the morrow he showed me the books of which he had spoken years before by the side of the stream. In the low quiet chamber, whose one window, shaded by a gigantic elm, looks down the slope towards the pleasant stream, he took from the shelf his learned books, Zohar and Mishna, Toldoth Jesu and Abarbenel. 'I am fond of these studies,' said he, 'which, perhaps, is not to be wondered at, seeing that our people have been compared to the Jews. In one respect I confess we are similar to them; we are fond of getting money. I do not like this last author, this Abarbenel, the worse for having been a money- changer. I am a banker myself, as thou knowest.' And would there were many like him, amidst the money-changers of princes! The hall of many an earl lacks the bounty, the palace of many a prelate the piety and learning, which adorn the quiet quaker's home! CHAPTER XVI Fair of horses--Looks of respect--The fast trotter--Pair of eyes--Strange men--Jasper, your pal--Force of blood--Young lady with diamonds--Not quite so beautiful. I was standing on the castle hill in the midst of a fair of horses. I have already had occasion to mention this castle. It is the remains of what was once a Norman stronghold, and is perched upon a round mound or monticle, in the midst of the old city. Steep is this mound and scarped, evidently by the hand of man; a deep gorge over which is flung a bridge, separates it, on the south, from a broad swell of open ground called 'the hill'; of old the scene of many a tournament and feat of Norman chivalry, but now much used as a show-place for cattle, where those who buy and sell beeves and other beasts resort at stated periods. So it came to pass that I stood upon this hill, observing a fair of horses. The reader is already aware that I had long since conceived a passion for the equine race; a passion in which circumstances had of late not permitted me to indulge. I had no horses to ride, but I took pleasure in looking at them; and I had already attended more than one of these fairs: the present was lively enough, indeed horse fairs are seldom dull. There was shouting and whooping, neighing and braying; there was galloping and trotting; fellows with highlows and white stockings, and with many a string dangling from the knees of their tight breeches, were running desperately, holding horses by the halter, and in some cases dragging them along; there were long-tailed steeds and dock-tailed steeds of every degree and breed; there were droves of wild ponies, and long rows of sober cart horses; there were donkeys, and even mules: the last rare things to be seen in damp, misty England, for the mule pines in mud and rain, and thrives best with a hot sun above and a burning sand below. There were--oh, the gallant creatures! I hear their neigh upon the wind; there were--goodliest sight of all--certain enormous quadrupeds only seen to perfection in our native isle, led about by dapper grooms, their manes ribanded and their tails curiously clubbed and balled. Ha! ha!--how distinctly do they say, ha! ha! An old man draws nigh, he is mounted on a lean pony, and he leads by the bridle one of these animals; nothing very remarkable about that creature, unless in being smaller than the rest and gentle, which they are not; he is not of the sightliest look; he is almost dun, and over one eye a thick film has gathered. But stay! there _is_ something remarkable about that horse, there is something in his action in which he differs from all the rest: as he advances, the clamour is hushed! all eyes are turned upon him--what looks of interest--of respect--and, what is this? people are taking off their hats--surely not to that steed! Yes, verily! men, especially old men, are taking off their hats to that one-eyed steed, and I hear more than one deep-drawn ah! 'What horse is that?' said I to a very old fellow, the counterpart of the old man on the pony, save that the last wore a faded suit of velveteen, and this one was dressed in a white frock. 'The best in mother England,' said the very old man, taking a knobbed stick from his mouth, and looking me in the face, at first carelessly, but presently with something like interest; 'he is old like myself, but can still trot his twenty miles an hour. You won't live long, my swain; tall and over-grown ones like thee never does; yet, if you should chance to reach my years, you may boast to thy great-grand-boys thou hast seen Marshland Shales.' Amain I did for the horse what I would neither do for earl nor baron, doffed my hat; yes! I doffed my hat to the wondrous horse, the fast trotter, the best in mother England; and I too drew a deep ah! and repeated the words of the old fellows around. 'Such a horse as this we shall never see again; a pity that he is so old.' Now during all this time I had a kind of consciousness that I had been the object of some person's observation; that eyes were fastened upon me from somewhere in the crowd. Sometimes I thought myself watched from before, sometimes from behind; and occasionally methought that, if I just turned my head to the right or left, I should meet a peering and inquiring glance; and indeed once or twice I did turn, expecting to see somebody whom I knew, yet always without success; though it appeared to me that I was but a moment too late, and that some one had just slipped away from the direction to which I turned, like the figure in a magic lanthorn. Once I was quite sure that there were a pair of eyes glaring over my right shoulder; my attention, however, was so fully occupied with the objects which I have attempted to describe, that I thought very little of this coming and going, this flitting and dodging of I knew not whom or what. It was, after all, a matter of sheer indifference to me who was looking at me. I could only wish whomsoever it might be to be more profitably employed; so I continued enjoying what I saw; and now there was a change in the scene, the wondrous old horse departed with his aged guardian; other objects of interest are at hand; two or three men on horseback are hurrying through the crowd, they are widely different in their appearance from the other people of the fair; not so much in dress, for they are clad something after the fashion of rustic jockeys, but in their look--no light-brown hair have they, no ruddy cheeks, no blue quiet glances belong to them; their features are dark, their locks long, black, and shining, and their eyes are wild; they are admirable horsemen, but they do not sit the saddle in the manner of common jockeys, they seem to float or hover upon it, like gulls upon the waves; two of them are mere striplings, but the third is a very tall man with a countenance heroically beautiful, but wild, wild, wild. As they rush along, the crowd give way on all sides, and now a kind of ring or circus is formed, within which the strange men exhibit their horsemanship, rushing past each other, in and out, after the manner of a reel, the tall man occasionally balancing himself upon the saddle, and standing erect on one foot. He had just regained his seat after the latter feat, and was about to push his horse to a gallop, when a figure started forward close from beside me, and laying his hand on his neck, and pulling him gently downward, appeared to whisper something into his ear; presently the tall man raised his head, and, scanning the crowd for a moment in the direction in which I was standing, fixed his eyes full upon me, and anon the countenance of the whisperer was turned, but only in part, and the side-glance of another pair of wild eyes was directed towards my face, but the entire visage of the big black man, half stooping as he was, was turned full upon mine. {picture:A kind of ring or circus is formed, within which the strange men exhibit their horsemanship: page112.jpg} But now, with a nod to the figure who had stopped him, and with another inquiring glance at myself, the big man once more put his steed into motion, and, after riding round the ring a few more times, darted through a lane in the crowd, and followed by his two companions disappeared, whereupon the figure who had whispered to him, and had subsequently remained in the middle of the space, came towards me, and, cracking a whip which he held in his hand so loudly that the report was nearly equal to that of a pocket pistol, he cried in a strange tone: 'What! the sap-engro? Lor! the sap-engro upon the hill!' 'I remember that word,' said I, 'and I almost think I remember you. You can't be--' 'Jasper, your pal! Truth, and no lie, brother.' 'It is strange that you should have known me,' said I. 'I am certain, but for the word you used, I should never have recognised you.' 'Not so strange as you may think, brother; there is something in your face which would prevent people from forgetting you, even though they might wish it; and your face is not much altered since the time you wot of, though you are so much grown. I thought it was you, but to make sure I dodged about, inspecting you. I believe you felt me, though I never touched you; a sign, brother, that we are akin, that we are dui palor--two relations. Your blood beat when mine was near, as mine always does at the coming of a brother; and we became brothers in that lane.' 'And where are you staying?' said I; 'in this town?' 'Not in the town; the like of us don't find it exactly wholesome to stay in towns, we keep abroad. But I have little to do here--come with me, and I'll show you where we stay.' We descended the hill in the direction of the north, and passing along the suburb reached the old Norman bridge, which we crossed; the chalk precipice, with the ruin on its top, was now before us; but turning to the left we walked swiftly along, and presently came to some rising ground, which ascending, we found ourselves upon a wild moor or heath. 'You are one of them,' said I, 'whom people call--' 'Just so,' said Jasper; 'but never mind what people call us.' 'And that tall handsome man on the hill, whom you whispered? I suppose he's one of ye. What is his name?' 'Tawno Chikno,' said Jasper, 'which means the small one; we call him such because he is the biggest man of all our nation. You say he is handsome, that is not the word, brother; he's the beauty of the world. Women run wild at the sight of Tawno. An earl's daughter, near London--a fine young lady with diamonds round her neck--fell in love with Tawno. I have seen that lass on a heath, as this may be, kneel down to Tawno, clasp his feet, begging to be his wife--or anything else--if she might go with him. But Tawno would have nothing to do with her: "I have a wife of my own," said he, "a lawful rommany wife, whom I love better than the whole world, jealous though she sometimes be."' 'And is she very beautiful?' said I. 'Why, you know, brother, beauty is frequently a matter of taste; however, as you ask my opinion, I should say not quite so beautiful as himself.' {picture:'There 'ere woman is Tawno Chikno's wife!': page115.jpg} We had now arrived at a small valley between two hills, or downs, the sides of which were covered with furze; in the midst of this valley were various carts and low tents forming a rude kind of encampment; several dark children were playing about, who took no manner of notice of us. As we passed one of the tents, however, a canvas screen was lifted up, and a woman supported upon a crutch hobbled out. She was about the middle age, and, besides being lame, was bitterly ugly; she was very slovenly dressed, and on her swarthy features ill nature was most visibly stamped. She did not deign me a look, but, addressing Jasper in a tongue which I did not understand, appeared to put some eager questions to him. 'He's coming,' said Jasper, and passed on. 'Poor fellow,' said he to me, 'he has scarcely been gone an hour, and she's jealous already. Well,' he continued, 'what do you think of her? you have seen her now, and can judge for yourself--that 'ere woman is Tawno Chikno's wife!' CHAPTER XVII The tent--Pleasant discourse--I am Pharaoh--Shifting for one's self --Horse-shoes--This is wonderful--Bless your wisdom--A pretty manoeuvre--Ill day to the Romans--My name is Herne--Singular people--An original speech--Word-master--Speaking Romanly. We went to the farthest of the tents, which stood at a slight distance from the rest, and which exactly resembled the one which I have described on a former occasion; we went in and sat down one on each side of a small fire, which was smouldering on the ground, there was no one else in the tent but a tall tawny woman of middle age, who was busily knitting. 'Brother,' said Jasper, 'I wish to hold some pleasant discourse with you.' 'As much as you please,' said I, 'provided you can find anything pleasant to talk about.' 'Never fear,' said Jasper; 'and first of all we will talk of yourself. Where have you been all this long time?' 'Here and there,' said I, 'and far and near, going about with the soldiers; but there is no soldiering now, so we have sat down, father and family, in the town there.' 'And do you still hunt snakes?' said Jasper. 'No,' said I, 'I have given up that long ago; I do better now: read books and learn languages.' 'Well, I am sorry you have given up your snake-hunting, many's the strange talk I have had with our people about your snake and yourself, and how you frightened my father and mother in the lane.' 'And where are your father and mother?' 'Where I shall never see them, brother; at least, I hope so.' 'Not dead?' 'No, not dead; they are bitchadey pawdel.' 'What's that?' 'Sent across--banished.' 'Ah! I understand; I am sorry for them. And so you are here alone?' 'Not quite alone, brother.' 'No, not alone; but with the rest--Tawno Chikno takes care of you.' 'Takes care of me, brother!' 'Yes, stands to you in the place of a father--keeps you out of harm's way.' 'What do you take me for, brother?' 'For about three years older than myself.' 'Perhaps; but you are of the Gorgios, and I am a Rommany Chal. Tawno Chikno take care of Jasper Petulengro!' 'Is that your name?' 'Don't you like it?' 'Very much, I never heard a sweeter; it is something like what you call me.' 'The horse-shoe master and the snake-fellow, I am the first.' 'Who gave you that name?' 'Ask Pharaoh.' 'I would, if he were here, but I do not see him.' 'I am Pharaoh.' 'Then you are a king.' 'Chachipen Pal.' 'I do not understand you.' 'Where are your languages? You want two things, brother: mother sense, and gentle Rommany.' 'What makes you think that I want sense?' 'That, being so old, you can't yet guide yourself!' 'I can read Dante, Jasper.' 'Anan, brother.' 'I can charm snakes, Jasper.' 'I know you can, brother.' 'Yes, and horses too; bring me the most vicious in the land, if I whisper he'll be tame.' 'Then the more shame for you--a snake-fellow--a horse-witch--and a lil- reader--yet you can't shift for yourself. I laugh at you, brother!' 'Then you can shift for yourself?' 'For myself and for others, brother.' 'And what does Chikno?' 'Sells me horses, when I bid him. Those horses on the chong were mine.' 'And has he none of his own?' 'Sometimes he has; but he is not so well off as myself. When my father and mother were bitchadey pawdel, which, to tell you the truth, they were for chiving wafodo dloovu, they left me all they had, which was not a little, and I became the head of our family, which was not a small one. I was not older than you when that happened; yet our people said they had never a better krallis to contrive and plan for them, and to keep them in order. And this is so well known that many Rommany Chals, not of our family, come and join themselves to us, living with us for a time, in order to better themselves, more especially those of the poorer sort, who have little of their own. Tawno is one of these.' 'Is that fine fellow poor?' 'One of the poorest, brother. Handsome as he is, he has not a horse of his own to ride on. Perhaps we may put it down to his wife, who cannot move about, being a cripple, as you saw.' 'And you are what is called a Gypsy King?' 'Ay, ay; a Rommany Kral.' 'Are there other kings?' 'Those who call themselves so; but the true Pharaoh is Petulengro.' 'Did Pharaoh make horse-shoes?' 'The first who ever did, brother.' 'Pharaoh lived in Egypt.' 'So did we once, brother.' 'And you left it?' 'My fathers did, brother.' 'And why did they come here?' 'They had their reasons, brother.' 'And you are not English?' 'We are not gorgios.' 'And you have a language of your own?' 'Avali.' 'This is wonderful.' 'Ha, ha!' cried the woman, who had hitherto sat knitting, at the farther end of the tent, without saying a word, though not inattentive to our conversation, as I could perceive by certain glances which she occasionally cast upon us both. 'Ha, ha!' she screamed, fixing upon me two eyes, which shone like burning coals, and which were filled with an expression both of scorn and malignity, 'It is wonderful, is it, that we should have a language of our own? What, you grudge the poor people the speech they talk among themselves? That's just like you gorgios; you would have everybody stupid, single-tongued idiots, like yourselves. We are taken before the Poknees of the gav, myself and sister, to give an account of ourselves. So I says to my sister's little boy, speaking Rommany, I says to the little boy who is with us, Run to my son Jasper, and the rest, and tell them to be off, there are hawks abroad. So the Poknees questions us, and lets us go, not being able to make anything of us; but, as we are going, he calls us back. "Good woman," says the Poknees, "what was that I heard you say just now to the little boy?" "I was telling him, your worship, to go and see the time of day, and to save trouble, I said it in our language." "Where did you get that language?" says the Poknees. "'Tis our own language, sir," I tells him, "we did not steal it." "Shall I tell you what it is, my good woman?" says the Poknees. "I would thank you, sir," says I, "for 'tis often we are asked about it." "Well, then," says the Poknees, "it is no language at all, merely a made-up gibberish." "Oh, bless your wisdom," says I, with a curtsey, "you can tell us what our language is, without understanding it!" Another time we meet a parson. "Good woman," says he, "what's that you are talking? Is it broken language?" "Of course, your reverence," says I, "we are broken people; give a shilling, your reverence, to the poor broken woman." Oh, these gorgios! they grudge us our very language!' 'She called you her son, Jasper?' 'I am her son, brother.' 'I thought you said your parents were--' 'Bitchadey pawdel; you thought right, brother. This is my wife's mother.' 'Then you are married, Jasper?' 'Ay, truly; I am husband and father. You will see wife and chabo anon.' 'Where are they now?' 'In the gav, penning dukkerin.' 'We were talking of language, Jasper?' 'True, brother.' 'Yours must be a rum one?' ''Tis called Rommany.' 'I would gladly know it.' 'You need it sorely.' 'Would you teach it me?' 'None sooner.' 'Suppose we begin now?' 'Suppose we do, brother.' 'Not whilst I am here,' said the woman, flinging her knitting down, and starting upon her feet; 'not whilst I am here shall this gorgio learn Rommany. A pretty manoeuvre, truly; and what would be the end of it? I goes to the farming ker with my sister, to tell a fortune, and earn a few sixpences for the chabes. I sees a jolly pig in the yard, and I says to my sister, speaking Rommany, "Do so and so," says I; which the farming man hearing, asks what we are talking about. "Nothing at all, master," says I; "something about the weather"; when who should start up from behind a pale, where he has been listening, but this ugly gorgio, crying out, "They are after poisoning your pigs, neighbour!" so that we are glad to run, I and my sister, with perhaps the farm-engro shouting after us. Says my sister to me, when we have got fairly off, "How came that ugly one to know what you said to me?" Whereupon I answers, "It all comes of my son Jasper, who brings the gorgio to our fire, and must needs be teaching him." "Who was fool there?" says my sister. "Who, indeed, but my son Jasper," I answers. And here should I be a greater fool to sit still and suffer it; which I will not do. I do not like the look of him; he looks over-gorgeous. An ill day to the Romans when he masters Rommany; and, when I says that, I pens a true dukkerin.' 'What do you call God, Jasper?' 'You had better be jawing,' said the woman, raising her voice to a terrible scream; 'you had better be moving off, my gorgio; hang you for a keen one, sitting there by the fire, and stealing my language before my face. Do you know whom you have to deal with? Do you know that I am dangerous? My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!' And a hairy one she looked! She wore her hair clubbed upon her head, fastened with many strings and ligatures; but now, tearing these off, her locks, originally jet black, but now partially grizzled with age, fell down on every side of her, covering her face and back as far down as her knees. No she-bear of Lapland ever looked more fierce and hairy than did that woman, as standing in the open part of the tent, with her head bent down, and her shoulders drawn up, seemingly about to precipitate herself upon me, she repeated, again and again,-- 'My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!--' 'I call God Duvel, brother.' 'It sounds very like Devil.' 'It doth, brother, it doth.' 'And what do you call divine, I mean godly?' 'Oh! I call that duvelskoe.' 'I am thinking of something, Jasper.' 'What are you thinking of, brother?' 'Would it not be a rum thing if divine and devilish were originally one and the same word?' 'It would, brother, it would--' . . . From this time I had frequent interviews with Jasper, sometimes in his tent, sometimes on the heath, about which we would roam for hours, discoursing on various matters. Sometimes, mounted on one of his horses, of which he had several, I would accompany him to various fairs and markets in the neighbourhood, to which he went on his own affairs, or those of his tribe. I soon found that I had become acquainted with a most singular people, whose habits and pursuits awakened within me the highest interest. Of all connected with them, however, their language was doubtless that which exercised the greatest influence over my imagination. I had at first some suspicion that it would prove a mere made-up gibberish; but I was soon undeceived. Broken, corrupted, and half in ruins as it was, it was not long before I found that it was an original speech, far more so, indeed, than one or two others of high name and celebrity, which, up to that time, I had been in the habit of regarding with respect and veneration. Indeed many obscure points connected with the vocabulary of these languages, and to which neither classic nor modern lore afforded any clue, I thought I could now clear up by means of this strange broken tongue, spoken by people who dwelt amongst thickets and furze bushes, in tents as tawny as their faces, and whom the generality of mankind designated, and with much semblance of justice, as thieves and vagabonds. But where did this speech come from, and who were they who spoke it? These were questions which I could not solve, and which Jasper himself, when pressed, confessed his inability to answer. 'But, whoever we be, brother,' said he, 'we are an old people, and not what folks in general imagine, broken gorgios; and, if we are not Egyptians, we are at any rate Rommany Chals!' {picture:'My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones!': page122.jpg} 'Rommany Chals! I should not wonder after all,' said I, 'that these people had something to do with the founding of Rome. Rome, it is said, was built by vagabonds, who knows but that some tribe of the kind settled down thereabouts, and called the town which they built after their name; but whence did they come originally? ah! there is the difficulty.' But abandoning these questions, which at that time were far too profound for me, I went on studying the language, and at the same time the characters and manners of these strange people. My rapid progress in the former astonished, while it delighted, Jasper. 'We'll no longer call you Sap-engro, brother,' said he; but rather Lav-engro, which in the language of the gorgios meaneth Word-master.' 'Nay, brother,' said Tawno Chikno, with whom I had become very intimate, 'you had better call him Cooro-mengro, I have put on _the gloves_ with him, and find him a pure fist-master; I like him for that, for I am a Cooro-mengro myself, and was born at Brummagem.' 'I likes him for his modesty,' said Mrs. Chikno; 'I never hears any ill words come from his mouth, but, on the contrary, much sweet language. His talk is golden, and he has taught my eldest to say his prayers in Rommany, which my rover had never the grace to do.' 'He is the pal of my rom,' said Mrs. Petulengro, who was a very handsome woman, 'and therefore I likes him, and not the less for his being a rye; folks calls me high- minded, and perhaps I have reason to be so; before I married Pharaoh I had an offer from a lord--I likes the young rye, and, if he chooses to follow us, he shall have my sister. What say you, mother? should not the young rye have my sister Ursula?' {picture:'To gain a bad brother, ye have lost a good mother.': page124.jpg} 'I am going to my people,' said Mrs. Herne, placing a bundle upon a donkey, which was her own peculiar property; 'I am going to Yorkshire, for I can stand this no longer. You say you like him: in that we differs; I hates the gorgio, and would like, speaking Romanly, to mix a little poison with his waters. And now go to Lundra, my children, I goes to Yorkshire. Take my blessing with ye, and a little bit of a gillie to cheer your hearts with when ye are weary. In all kinds of weather have we lived together; but now we are parted. I goes broken-hearted--I can't keep you company; ye are no longer Rommany. To gain a bad brother, ye have lost a good mother.' CHAPTER XVIII What profession?--Not fitted for a Churchman--Erratic course--The bitter draught--Principle of woe--Thou wouldst be joyous--What ails you?--Poor child of clay. So the gypsies departed; Mrs. Herne to Yorkshire, and the rest to London: as for myself, I continued in the house of my parents, passing my time in much the same manner as I have already described, principally in philological pursuits; but I was now sixteen, and it was highly necessary that I should adopt some profession, unless I intended to fritter away my existence, and to be a useless burden to those who had given me birth; but what profession was I to choose? there being none in the wide world perhaps for which I was suited; nor was there any one for which I felt any decided inclination, though perhaps there existed within me a lurking penchant for the profession of arms, which was natural enough, as, from my earliest infancy, I had been accustomed to military sights and sounds; but this profession was then closed, as I have already hinted, and, as I believe, it has since continued, to those who, like myself, had no better claims to urge than the services of a father. My father, who, for certain reasons of his own, had no very high opinion of the advantages resulting from this career, would have gladly seen me enter the Church. His desire was, however, considerably abated by one or two passages of my life, which occurred to his recollection. He particularly dwelt on the unheard-of manner in which I had picked up the Irish language, and drew from thence the conclusion that I was not fitted by nature to cut a respectable figure at an English university. 'He will fly off in a tangent,' said he, 'and, when called upon to exhibit his skill in Greek, will be found proficient in Irish; I have observed the poor lad attentively, and really do not know what to make of him; but I am afraid he will never make a churchman!' And I have no doubt that my excellent father was right, both in his premisses and the conclusion at which he arrived. I had undoubtedly, at one period of my life, forsaken Greek for Irish, and the instructions of a learned Protestant divine for those of a Papist gossoon, the card-fancying Murtagh; and of late, though I kept it a strict secret, I had abandoned in a great measure the study of the beautiful Italian, and the recitation of the sonorous terzets of the Divine Comedy, in which at one time I took the greatest delight, in order to become acquainted with the broken speech, and yet more broken songs, of certain houseless wanderers whom I had met at a horse fair. Such an erratic course was certainly by no means in consonance with the sober and unvarying routine of college study. And my father, who was a man of excellent common sense, displayed it in not pressing me to adopt a profession which required qualities of mind which he saw I did not possess. Other professions were talked of, amongst which the law; but now an event occurred which had nearly stopped my career, and merged all minor points of solicitude in anxiety for my life. My strength and appetite suddenly deserted me, and I began to pine and droop. Some said that I had overgrown myself, and that these were the symptoms of a rapid decline; I grew worse and worse, and was soon stretched upon my bed, from which it seemed scarcely probable that I should ever more rise, the physicians themselves giving but slight hopes of my recovery: as for myself, I made up my mind to die, and felt quite resigned. I was sadly ignorant at that time, and, when I thought of death, it appeared to me little else than a pleasant sleep, and I wished for sleep, of which I got but little. It was well that I did not die that time, for I repeat that I was sadly ignorant of many important things. I did not die, for somebody coming gave me a strange, bitter draught; a decoction, I believe, of a bitter root which grows on commons and desolate places: and the person who gave it me was an ancient female, a kind of doctress, who had been my nurse in my infancy, and who, hearing of my state, had come to see me; so I drank the draught, and became a little better, and I continued taking draughts made from the bitter root till I manifested symptoms of convalescence. But how much more quickly does strength desert the human frame than return to it! I had become convalescent, it is true, but my state of feebleness was truly pitiable. I believe it is in that state that the most remarkable feature of human physiology frequently exhibits itself. Oh, how dare I mention the dark feeling of mysterious dread which comes over the mind, and which the lamp of reason, though burning bright the while, is unable to dispel! Art thou, as leeches say, the concomitant of disease--the result of shattered nerves? Nay, rather the principle of woe itself, the fountain-head of all sorrow coexistent with man, whose influence he feels when yet unborn, and whose workings he testifies with his earliest cries, when, 'drowned in tears,' he first beholds the light; for, as the sparks fly upward, so is man born to trouble, and woe doth he bring with him into the world, even thyself, dark one, terrible one, causeless, unbegotten, without a father. Oh, how unfrequently dost thou break down the barriers which divide thee from the poor soul of man, and overcast its sunshine with thy gloomy shadow. In the brightest days of prosperity--in the midst of health and wealth--how sentient is the poor human creature of thy neighbourhood! how instinctively aware that the flood-gates of horror may be cast open, and the dark stream engulf him for ever and ever! Then is it not lawful for man to exclaim, 'Better that I had never been born!' Fool, for thyself thou wast not born, but to fulfil the inscrutable decrees of thy Creator; and how dost thou know that this dark principle is not, after all, thy best friend; that it is not that which tempers the whole mass of thy corruption? It may be, for what thou knowest, the mother of wisdom, and of great works: it is the dread of the horror of the night that makes the pilgrim hasten on his way. When thou feelest it nigh, let thy safety word be 'Onward'; if thou tarry, thou art overwhelmed. Courage! build great works--'tis urging thee--it is ever nearest the favourites of God--the fool knows little of it. Thou wouldst be joyous, wouldst thou? then be a fool. What great work was ever the result of joy, the puny one? Who have been the wise ones, the mighty ones, the conquering ones of this earth? the joyous? I believe not. The fool is happy, or comparatively so--certainly the least sorrowful, but he is still a fool: and whose notes are sweetest, those of the nightingale, or of the silly lark? 'What ails you, my child?' said a mother to her son, as he lay on a couch under the influence of the dreadful one; 'what ails you? you seem afraid!' _Boy_. And so I am; a dreadful fear is upon me. _Mother_. But of what? There is no one can harm you; of what are you apprehensive? _Boy_. Of nothing that I can express; I know not what I am afraid of, but afraid I am. _Mother_. Perhaps you see sights and visions; I knew a lady once who was continually thinking that she saw an armed man threaten her, but it was only an imagination, a phantom of the brain. _Boy_. No armed man threatens me; and 'tis not a thing like that would cause me any fear. Did an armed man threaten me, I would get up and fight him; weak as I am, I would wish for nothing better, for then, perhaps, I should lose this fear; mine is a dread of I know not what, and there the horror lies. _Mother_. Your forehead is cool, and your speech collected. Do you know where you are? _Boy_. I know where I am, and I see things just as they are; you are beside me, and upon the table there is a book which was written by a Florentine; all this I see, and that there is no ground for being afraid. I am, moreover, quite cool, and feel no pain--but, but-- And then there was a burst of 'gemiti, sospiri ed alti guai.' Alas, alas, poor child of clay! as the sparks fly upward, so wast thou born to sorrow--Onward! CHAPTER XIX Agreeable delusions--Youth--A profession--Ab Gwilym--Glorious English law--There they pass--My dear old master--The deal desk--Language of the tents--Where is Morfydd?--Go to--only once. It has been said by this or that writer, I scarcely know by whom, that, in proportion as we grow old, and our time becomes short, the swifter does it pass, until at last, as we approach the borders of the grave, it assumes all the speed and impetuosity of a river about to precipitate itself into an abyss; this is doubtless the case, provided we can carry to the grave those pleasant thoughts and delusions, which alone render life agreeable, and to which even to the very last we would gladly cling; but what becomes of the swiftness of time, when the mind sees the vanity of human pursuits? which is sure to be the case when its fondest, dearest hopes have been blighted at the very moment when the harvest was deemed secure. What becomes from that moment, I repeat, of the shortness of time? I put not the question to those who have never known that trial, they are satisfied with themselves and all around them, with what they have done, and yet hope to do; some carry their delusions with them to the borders of the grave, ay, to the very moment when they fall into it; a beautiful golden cloud surrounds them to the last, and such talk of the shortness of time: through the medium of that cloud the world has ever been a pleasant world to them; their only regret is that they are so soon to quit it; but oh, ye dear deluded hearts, it is not every one who is so fortunate! To the generality of mankind there is no period like youth. The generality are far from fortunate; but the period of youth, even to the least so, offers moments of considerable happiness, for they are not only disposed but able to enjoy most things within their reach. With what trifles at that period are we content; the things from which in after- life we should turn away in disdain please us then, for we are in the midst of a golden cloud, and everything seems decked with a golden hue. Never during any portion of my life did time flow on more speedily than during the two or three years immediately succeeding the period to which we arrived in the preceding chapter: since then it has flagged often enough; sometimes it has seemed to stand entirely still; and the reader may easily judge how it fares at the present, from the circumstance of my taking pen in hand, and endeavouring to write down the passages of my life--a last resource with most people. But at the period to which I allude I was just, as I may say, entering upon life; I had adopted a profession, and, to keep up my character, simultaneously with that profession--the study of a new language. I speedily became a proficient in the one, but ever remained a novice in the other: a novice in the law, but a perfect master in the Welsh tongue. Yes; very pleasant times were those, when within the womb of a lofty deal desk, behind which I sat for some eight hours every day, transcribing (when I imagined eyes were upon me) documents of every description in every possible hand. Blackstone kept company with Ab Gwilym--the polished English lawyer of the last century, who wrote long and prosy chapters on the rights of things--with a certain wild Welshman, who some four hundred years before that time indited immortal cowydds and odes to the wives of Cambrian chieftains--more particularly to one Morfydd, the wife of a certain hunchbacked dignitary called by the poet facetiously Bwa Bach--generally terminating with the modest request of a little private parlance beneath the greenwood bough, with no other witness than the eos, or nightingale, a request which, if the poet himself may be believed, rather a doubtful point, was seldom, very seldom, denied. And by what strange chance had Ab Gwilym and Blackstone, two personages so exceedingly different, been thus brought together? From what the reader already knows of me, he may be quite prepared to find me reading the former; but what could have induced me to take up Blackstone, or rather the law? I have ever loved to be as explicit as possible; on which account, perhaps, I never attained to any proficiency in the law, the essence of which is said to be ambiguity; most questions may be answered in a few words, and this among the rest, though connected with the law. My parents deemed it necessary that I should adopt some profession, they named the law; the law was as agreeable to me as any other profession within my reach, so I adopted the law, and the consequence was, that Blackstone, probably for the first time, found himself in company with Ab Gwilym. By adopting the law I had not ceased to be Lavengro. So I sat behind a desk many hours in the day, ostensibly engaged in transcribing documents of various kinds; the scene of my labours was a strange old house, occupying one side of a long and narrow court, into which, however, the greater number of the windows looked not, but into an extensive garden, filled with fruit trees, in the rear of a large, handsome house, belonging to a highly respectable gentleman, who, moyennant un douceur considerable, had consented to instruct my father's youngest son in the mysteries of glorious English law. Ah! would that I could describe the good gentleman in the manner which he deserves; he has long since sunk to his place in a respectable vault, in the aisle of a very respectable church, whilst an exceedingly respectable marble slab against the neighbouring wall tells on a Sunday some eye wandering from its prayer-book that his dust lies below; to secure such respectabilities in death, he passed a most respectable life. Let no one sneer, he accomplished much; his life was peaceful, so was his death. Are these trifles? I wish I could describe him, for I loved the man, and with reason, for he was ever kind to me, to whom kindness has not always been shown; and he was, moreover, a choice specimen of a class which no longer exists--a gentleman lawyer of the old school. I would fain describe him, but figures with which he has nought to do press forward and keep him from my mind's eye; there they pass, Spaniard and Moor, Gypsy, Turk, and livid Jew. But who is that? what that thick pursy man in the loose, snuff-coloured greatcoat, with the white stockings, drab breeches, and silver buckles on his shoes; that man with the bull neck, and singular head, immense in the lower part, especially about the jaws, but tapering upward like a pear; the man with the bushy brows, small gray eyes replete with catlike expression, whose grizzled hair is cut close, and whose ear- lobes are pierced with small golden rings? Oh! that is not my dear old master, but a widely different personage. Bon jour, Monsieur Vidocq! expressions de ma part a Monsieur Le Baron Taylor. But here he comes at last, my veritable old master! A more respectable-looking individual was never seen; he really looked what he was, a gentleman of the law--there was nothing of the pettifogger about him: somewhat under the middle size, and somewhat rotund in person, he was always dressed in a full suit of black, never worn long enough to become threadbare. His face was rubicund, and not without keenness; but the most remarkable thing about him was the crown of his head, which was bald, and shone like polished ivory, nothing more white, smooth, and lustrous. Some people have said that he wore false calves, probably because his black silk stockings never exhibited a wrinkle; they might just as well have said that he waddled, because his shoes creaked; for these last, which were always without a speck, and polished as his crown, though of a different hue, did creak, as he walked rather slowly. I cannot say that I ever saw him walk fast. He had a handsome practice, and might have died a very rich man, much richer than he did, had he not been in the habit of giving rather expensive dinners to certain great people, who gave him nothing in return except their company; I could never discover his reasons for doing so, as he always appeared to me a remarkably quiet man, by nature averse to noise and bustle; but in all dispositions there are anomalies: I have already said that he lived in a handsome house, and I may as well here add that he had a very handsome wife, who both dressed and talked exceedingly well. So I sat behind the deal desk, engaged in copying documents of various kinds; and in the apartment in which I sat, and in the adjoining ones, there were others, some of whom likewise copied documents, while some were engaged in the yet more difficult task of drawing them up; and some of these, sons of nobody, were paid for the work they did, whilst others, like myself, sons of somebody, paid for being permitted to work, which, as our principal observed, was but reasonable, forasmuch as we not unfrequently utterly spoiled the greater part of the work intrusted to our hands. There was one part of the day when I generally found myself quite alone, I mean at the hour when the rest went home to their principal meal; I, being the youngest, was left to take care of the premises, to answer the bell, and so forth, till relieved, which was seldom before the expiration of an hour and a half, when I myself went home; this period, however, was anything but disagreeable to me, for it was then that I did what best pleased me, and, leaving off copying the documents, I sometimes indulged in a fit of musing, my chin resting on both my hands, and my elbows planted on the desk; or, opening the desk aforesaid, I would take out one of the books contained within it, and the book which I took out was almost invariably, not Blackstone, but Ab Gwilym. Ah, that Ab Gwilym! I am much indebted to him, and it were ungrateful on my part not to devote a few lines to him and his songs in this my history. Start not, reader, I am not going to trouble you with a poetical dissertation; no, no; I know my duty too well to introduce anything of the kind; but I, who imagine I know several things, and amongst others the workings of your mind at this moment, have an idea that you are anxious to learn a little, a very little, more about Ab Gwilym than I have hitherto told you, the two or three words that I have dropped having awakened within you a languid kind of curiosity. I have no hesitation in saying that he makes one of the some half-dozen really great poets whose verses, in whatever language they wrote, exist at the present day, and are more or less known. It matters little how I first became acquainted with the writings of this man, and how the short thick volume, stuffed full with his immortal imaginings, first came into my hands. I was studying Welsh, and I fell in with Ab Gwilym by no very strange chance. But, before I say more about Ab Gwilym, I must be permitted--I really must--to say a word or two about the language in which he wrote, that same 'Sweet Welsh.' If I remember right, I found the language a difficult one; in mastering it, however, I derived unexpected assistance from what of Irish remained in my head, and I soon found that they were cognate dialects, springing from some old tongue which itself, perhaps, had sprung from one much older. And here I cannot help observing cursorily that I every now and then, whilst studying this Welsh, generally supposed to be the original tongue of Britain, encountered words which, according to the lexicographers, were venerable words highly expressive, showing the wonderful power and originality of the Welsh, in which, however, they were no longer used in common discourse, but were relics, precious relics, of the first speech of Britain, perhaps of the world; with which words, however, I was already well acquainted, and which I had picked up, not in learned books, classic books, and in tongues of old renown, but whilst listening to Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno talking over their everyday affairs in the language of the tents; which circumstance did not fail to give rise to deep reflection in those moments when, planting my elbows on the deal desk, I rested my chin upon my hands. But it is probable that I should have abandoned the pursuit of the Welsh language, after obtaining a very superficial acquaintance with it, had it not been for Ab Gwilym. A strange songster was that who, pretending to be captivated by every woman he saw, was, in reality, in love with nature alone--wild, beautiful, solitary nature--her mountains and cascades, her forests and streams, her birds, fishes, and wild animals. Go to, Ab Gwilym, with thy pseudo-amatory odes, to Morfydd, or this or that other lady, fair or ugly; little didst thou care for any of them, Dame Nature was thy love, however thou mayest seek to disguise the truth. Yes, yes, send thy love- message to Morfydd, the fair wanton. By whom dost thou send it, I would know? by the salmon forsooth, which haunts the rushing stream! the glorious salmon which bounds and gambols in the flashing water, and whose ways and circumstances thou so well describest--see, there he hurries upwards through the flashing water. Halloo! what a glimpse of glory--but where is Morfydd the while? What, another message to the wife of Bwa Bach? Ay, truly; and by whom?--the wind! the swift wind, the rider of the world, whose course is not to be stayed; who gallops o'er the mountain, and, when he comes to broadest river, asks neither for boat nor ferry; who has described the wind so well--his speed and power? But where is Morfydd? And now thou art awaiting Morfydd, the wanton, the wife of the Bwa Bach; thou art awaiting her beneath the tall trees, amidst the underwood; but she comes not; no Morfydd is there. Quite right, Ab Gwilym; what wantest thou with Morfydd? But another form is nigh at hand, that of red Reynard, who, seated upon his chine at the mouth of his cave, looks very composedly at thee; thou startest, bendest thy bow, thy cross-bow, intending to hit Reynard with the bolt just about the jaw; but the bow breaks, Reynard barks and disappears into his cave, which by thine own account reaches hell--and then thou ravest at the misfortune of thy bow, and the non-appearance of Morfydd, and abusest Reynard. Go to, thou carest neither for thy bow nor for Morfydd, thou merely seekest an opportunity to speak of Reynard; and who has described him like thee? the brute with the sharp shrill cry, the black reverse of melody, whose face sometimes wears a smile like the devil's in the Evangile. But now thou art actually with Morfydd; yes, she has stolen from the dwelling of the Bwa Bach and has met thee beneath those rocks--she is actually with thee, Ab Gwilym; but she is not long with thee, for a storm comes on, and thunder shatters the rocks--Morfydd flees! Quite right, Ab Gwilym; thou hadst no need of her, a better theme for song is the voice of the Lord--the rock-shatterer--than the frail wife of the Bwa Bach. Go to, Ab Gwilym, thou wast a wiser and a better man than thou wouldst fain have had people believe. But enough of thee and thy songs! Those times passed rapidly; with Ab Gwilym in my hand, I was in the midst of enchanted ground, in which I experienced sensations akin to those I had felt of yore whilst spelling my way through the wonderful book--the delight of my childhood. I say akin, for perhaps only once in our lives do we experience unmixed wonder and delight; and these I had already known. CHAPTER XX Silver gray--Good word for everybody--A remarkable youth--Clients--Grades in society--The archdeacon--Reading the Bible. 'I am afraid that I have not acted very wisely in putting this boy of ours to the law,' said my father to my mother, as they sat together one summer evening in their little garden, beneath the shade of some tall poplars. Yes, there sat my father in the garden chair which leaned against the wall of his quiet home, the haven in which he had sought rest, and, praise be to God, found it, after many a year of poorly-requited toil; there he sat, with locks of silver gray which set off so nobly his fine bold but benevolent face, his faithful consort at his side, and his trusty dog at his feet--an eccentric animal of the genuine regimental breed, who, born amongst red coats, had not yet become reconciled to those of any other hue, barking and tearing at them when they drew near the door, but testifying his fond reminiscence of the former by hospitable waggings of the tail whenever a uniform made its appearance--at present a very unfrequent occurrence. 'I am afraid I have not done right in putting him to the law,' said my father, resting his chin upon his gold-headed bamboo cane. 'Why, what makes you think so?' said my mother. 'I have been taking my usual evening walk up the road, with the animal here,' said my father; 'and, as I walked along, I overtook the boy's master, Mr. S---. We shook hands, and, after walking a little way farther, we turned back together, talking about this and that; the state of the country, the weather, and the dog, which he greatly admired; for he is a good-natured man, and has a good word for everybody, though the dog all but bit him when he attempted to coax his head; after the dog, we began talking about the boy; it was myself who introduced that subject: I thought it was a good opportunity to learn how he was getting on, so I asked what he thought of my son; he hesitated at first, seeming scarcely to know what to say; at length he came out with "Oh, a very extraordinary youth, a most remarkable youth indeed, captain!" "Indeed," said I, "I am glad to hear it, but I hope you find him steady?" "Steady, steady," said he, "why, yes, he's steady, I cannot say that he is not steady." "Come, come," said I, beginning to be rather uneasy, "I see plainly that you are not altogether satisfied with him; I was afraid you would not be, for, though he is my own son, I am anything but blind to his imperfections; but do tell me what particular fault you have to find with him; and I will do my best to make him alter his conduct." "No fault to find with him, captain, I assure you, no fault whatever; the youth is a remarkable youth, an extraordinary youth, only--" As I told you before, Mr. S--- is the best-natured man in the world, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I could get him to say a single word to the disadvantage of the boy, for whom he seems to entertain a very great regard. At last I forced the truth from him, and grieved I was to hear it; though I must confess that I was somewhat prepared for it. It appears that the lad has a total want of discrimination.' 'I don't understand you,' said my mother. 'You can understand nothing that would seem for a moment to impugn the conduct of that child. I am not, however, so blind; want of discrimination was the word, and it both sounds well, and is expressive. It appears that, since he has been placed where is, he has been guilty of the grossest blunders; only the other day, Mr. S--- told me, as he was engaged in close conversation with one of his principal clients, the boy came to tell him that a person wanted particularly to speak with him; and, on going out, he found a lamentable figure with one eye, who came to ask for charity; whom, nevertheless, the lad had ushered into a private room, and installed in an arm-chair, like a justice of the peace, instead of telling him to go about his business--now what did that show, but a total want of discrimination?' 'I wish we may never have anything worse to reproach him with,' said my mother. 'I don't know what worse we could reproach him with,' said my father; 'I mean of course as far as his profession is concerned; discrimination is the very keystone; if he treated all people alike, he would soon become a beggar himself; there are grades in society as well as in the army; and according to those grades we should fashion our behaviour, else there would instantly be an end of all order and discipline. I am afraid that the child is too condescending to his inferiors, whilst to his superiors he is apt to be unbending enough; I don't believe that would do in the world; I am sure it would not in the army. He told me another anecdote with respect to his behaviour, which shocked me more than the other had done. It appears that his wife, who by the bye, is a very fine woman, and highly fashionable, gave him permission to ask the boy to tea one evening, for she is herself rather partial to the lad; there had been a great dinner party there that day, and there were a great many fashionable people, so the boy went and behaved very well and modestly for some time, and was rather noticed, till, unluckily, a very great gentleman, an archdeacon I think, put some questions to him, and, finding that he understood the languages, began talking to him about the classics. What do you think? the boy had the impertinence to say that the classics were much overvalued, and amongst other things that some horrid fellow or other, some Welshman I think (thank God it was not an Irishman), was a better poet than Ovid; the company were of course horrified; the archdeacon, who is seventy years of age, and has seven thousand a year, took snuff and turned away. Mrs. S--- turned up her eyes, Mr. S---, however, told me with his usual good-nature (I suppose to spare my feelings) that he rather enjoyed the thing, and thought it a capital joke.' 'I think so too,' said my mother. 'I do not,' said my father; 'that a boy of his years should entertain an opinion of his own--I mean one which militates against all established authority--is astounding; as well might a raw recruit pretend to offer an unfavourable opinion on the manual and platoon exercise; the idea is preposterous; the lad is too independent by half. I never yet knew one of an independent spirit get on in the army, the secret of success in the army is the spirit of subordination.' 'Which is a poor spirit after all,' said my mother; 'but the child is not in the army.' 'And it is well for him that he is not,' said my father; 'but you do not talk wisely, the world is a field of battle, and he who leaves the ranks, what can he expect but to be cut down? I call his present behaviour leaving the ranks, and going vapouring about without orders; his only chance lies in falling in again as quick as possible; does he think he can carry the day by himself? an opinion of his own at these years--I confess I am exceedingly uneasy about the lad.' 'You make me uneasy too,' said my mother; 'but I really think you are too hard upon the child; he is not a bad child, after all, though not, perhaps, all you could wish him; he is always ready to read the Bible. Let us go in; he is in the room above us; at least he was two hours ago, I left him there bending over his books; I wonder what he has been doing all this time, it is now getting late; let us go in, and he shall read to us.' 'I am getting old,' said my father; 'and I love to hear the Bible read to me, for my own sight is something dim; yet I do not wish the child to read to me this night, I cannot so soon forget what I have heard; but I hear my eldest son's voice, he is now entering the gate; he shall read the Bible to us this night. What say you?' CHAPTER XXI The eldest son--Saying of wild Finland--The critical time--Vaunting polls--One thing wanted--A father's blessing--Miracle of art--The Pope's house--Young enthusiast--Pictures of England--Persist and wrestle--The little dark man. The eldest son! The regard and affection which my father entertained for his first-born were natural enough, and appeared to none more so than myself, who cherished the same feelings towards him. What he was as a boy the reader already knows, for the reader has seen him as a boy; fain would I describe him at the time of which I am now speaking, when he had attained the verge of manhood, but the pen fails me, and I attempt not the task; and yet it ought to be an easy one, for how frequently does his form visit my mind's eye in slumber and in wakefulness, in the light of day and in the night watches; but last night I saw him in his beauty and his strength; he was about to speak, and my ear was on the stretch, when at once I awoke, and there was I alone, and the night storm was howling amidst the branches of the pines which surround my lonely dwelling: 'Listen to the moaning of the pine, at whose root thy hut is fastened,'--a saying that, of wild Finland, in which there is wisdom; I listened and thought of life and death. . . . Of all human beings that I have ever known, that elder brother was the most frank and generous, ay, and the quickest and readiest, and the best adapted to do a great thing needful at the critical time, when the delay of a moment would be fatal. I have known him dash from a steep bank into a stream in his full dress, and pull out a man who was drowning; yet there were twenty others bathing in the water, who might have saved him by putting out a hand, without inconvenience to themselves, which, however, they did not do, but stared with stupid surprise at the drowning one's struggles. Yes, whilst some shouted from the bank to those in the water to save the drowning one, and those in the water did nothing, my brother neither shouted nor stood still, but dashed from the bank and did the one thing needful, which, under such circumstances, not one man in a million would have done. Now, who can wonder that a brave old man should love a son like this, and prefer him to any other? 'My boy, my own boy, you are the very image of myself, the day I took off my coat in the park to fight Big Ben,' said my father, on meeting his son wet and dripping, immediately after his bold feat. And who cannot excuse the honest pride of the old man--the stout old man? Ay, old man, that son was worthy of thee, and thou wast worthy of such a son; a noble specimen wast thou of those strong single-minded Englishmen, who, without making a parade either of religion or loyalty, feared God and honoured their king, and were not particularly friendly to the French, whose vaunting polls they occasionally broke, as at Minden and at Malplaquet, to the confusion vast of the eternal foes of the English land. I, who was so little like thee that thou understoodst me not, and in whom with justice thou didst feel so little pride, had yet perception enough to see all thy worth, and to feel it an honour to be able to call myself thy son; and if at some no distant time, when the foreign enemy ventures to insult our shore, I be permitted to break some vaunting poll, it will be a triumph to me to think that, if thou hadst lived, thou wouldst have hailed the deed, and mightest yet discover some distant resemblance to thyself, the day when thou didst all but vanquish the mighty Brain. I have already spoken of my brother's taste for painting, and the progress he had made in that beautiful art. It is probable that, if circumstances had not eventually diverted his mind from the pursuit, he would have attained excellence, and left behind him some enduring monument of his powers, for he had an imagination to conceive, and that yet rarer endowment, a hand capable of giving life, body, and reality to the conceptions of his mind; perhaps he wanted one thing, the want of which is but too often fatal to the sons of genius, and without which genius is little more than a splendid toy in the hands of the possessor--perseverance, dogged perseverance, in his proper calling; otherwise, though the grave had closed over him, he might still be living in the admiration of his fellow-creatures. O ye gifted ones, follow your calling, for, however various your talents may be, ye can have but one calling capable of leading ye to eminence and renown; follow resolutely the one straight path before you, it is that of your good angel, let neither obstacles nor temptations induce ye to leave it; bound along if you can; if not, on hands and knees follow it, perish in it, if needful; but ye need not fear that; no one ever yet died in the true path of his calling before he had attained the pinnacle. Turn into other paths, and for a momentary advantage or gratification ye have sold your inheritance, your immortality. Ye will never be heard of after death. 'My father has given me a hundred and fifty pounds,' said my brother to me one morning, 'and something which is better--his blessing. I am going to leave you.' 'And where are you going?' 'Where? to the great city; to London, to be sure.' 'I should like to go with you.' 'Pooh,' said my brother, 'what should you do there? But don't be discouraged, I daresay a time will come when you too will go to London.' And, sure enough, so it did, and all but too soon. 'And what do you purpose doing there?' I demanded. 'Oh, I go to improve myself in art, to place myself under some master of high name, at least I hope to do so eventually. I have, however, a plan in my head, which I should wish first to execute; indeed, I do not think I can rest till I have done so; every one talks so much about Italy, and the wondrous artists which it has produced, and the wondrous pictures which are to be found there; now I wish to see Italy, or rather Rome, the great city, for I am told that in a certain room there is contained the grand miracle of art.' 'And what do you call it?' 'The Transfiguration, painted by one Rafael, and it is said to be the greatest work of the greatest painter whom the world has ever known. I suppose it is because everybody says so, that I have such a strange desire to see it. I have already made myself well acquainted with its locality, and think that I could almost find my way to it blindfold. When I have crossed the Tiber, which, as you are aware, runs through Rome, I must presently turn to the right, up a rather shabby street, which communicates with a large square, the farther end of which is entirely occupied by the front of an immense church, with a dome which ascends almost to the clouds, and this church they call St. Peter's.' 'Ay, ay,' said I, 'I have read about that in Keysler's Travels.' 'Before the church, in the square, are two fountains, one on either side, casting up water in showers; between them, in the midst, is an obelisk, brought from Egypt, and covered with mysterious writing; on your right rises an edifice, not beautiful nor grand, but huge and bulky, where lives a strange kind of priest whom men call the Pope, a very horrible old individual, who would fain keep Christ in leading strings, calls the Virgin Mary the Queen of Heaven, and himself God's Lieutenant-General upon earth.' 'Ay, ay,' said I, 'I have read of him in Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_.' 'Well, I do not go straight forward up the flight of steps conducting into the church, but I turn to the right, and, passing under the piazza, find myself in a court of the huge bulky house; and then ascend various staircases, and pass along various corridors and galleries, all of which I could describe to you, though I have never seen them; at last a door is unlocked, and we enter a room rather high, but not particularly large, communicating with another room, into which, however, I do not go, though there are noble things in that second room--immortal things, by immortal artists; amongst others, a grand piece of Correggio; I do not enter it, for the grand picture of the world is not there; but I stand still immediately on entering the first room, and I look straight before me, neither to the right nor left, though there are noble things both on the right and left, for immediately before me at the farther end, hanging against the wall, is a picture which arrests me, and I can see nothing else, for that picture at the farther end hanging against the wall is the picture of the world. . . .' Yes, go thy way, young enthusiast, and, whether to London town or to old Rome, may success attend thee; yet strange fears assail me and misgivings on thy account. Thou canst not rest, thou say'st, till thou hast seen the picture in the chamber at old Rome hanging over against the wall; ay, and thus thou dust exemplify thy weakness--thy strength too, it may be--for the one idea, fantastic yet lovely, which now possesses thee, could only have originated in a genial and fervent brain. Well, go, if thou must go; yet it perhaps were better for thee to bide in thy native land, and there, with fear and trembling, with groanings, with straining eyeballs, toil, drudge, slave, till thou hast made excellence thine own; thou wilt scarcely acquire it by staring at the picture over against the door in the high chamber of old Rome. Seekest thou inspiration? thou needest it not, thou hast it already; and it was never yet found by crossing the sea. What hast thou to do with old Rome, and thou an Englishman? 'Did thy blood never glow at the mention of thy native land?' as an artist merely? Yes, I trow, and with reason, for thy native land need not grudge old Rome her 'pictures of the world'; she has pictures of her own, 'pictures of England'; and is it a new thing to toss up caps and shout--England against the world? Yes, against the world in all, in all; in science and in arms, in minstrel strain, and not less in the art 'which enables the hand to deceive the intoxicated soul by means of pictures.' {143} Seek'st models? to Gainsborough and Hogarth turn, not names of the world, maybe, but English names--and England against the world! A living master? why, there he comes! thou hast had him long, he has long guided thy young hand towards the excellence which is yet far from thee, but which thou canst attain if thou shouldst persist and wrestle, even as he has done, 'midst gloom and despondency--ay, and even contempt; he who now comes up the creaking stair to thy little studio in the second floor to inspect thy last effort before thou departest, the little stout man whose face is very dark, and whose eye is vivacious; that man has attained excellence, destined some day to be acknowledged, though not till he is cold, and his mortal part returned to its kindred clay. He has painted, not pictures of the world, but English pictures, such as Gainsborough himself might have done; beautiful rural pieces, with trees which might well tempt the wild birds to perch upon them, thou needest not run to Rome, brother, where lives the old Mariolater, after pictures of the world, whilst at home there are pictures of England; nor needest thou even go to London, the big city, in search of a master, for thou hast one at home in the old East Anglian town who can instruct thee whilst thou needest instruction: better stay at home, brother, at least for a season, and toil and strive 'midst groanings and despondency till thou hast attained excellence even as he has done--the little dark man with the brown coat and the top-boots, whose name will one day be considered the chief ornament of the old town, and whose works will at no distant period rank amongst the proudest pictures of England--and England against the world!--thy master, my brother, thy, at present, all too little considered master--Crome. CHAPTER XXII Desire for novelty--Lives of the lawless--Countenances--Old yeoman and dame--We live near the sea--Uncouth-looking volume--The other condition--Draoitheac--A dilemma--The Antinomian--Lodowick Muggleton--Almost blind--Anders Vedel. But to proceed with my own story: I now ceased all at once to take much pleasure in the pursuits which formerly interested me, I yawned over Ab Gwilym, even as I now in my mind's eye perceive the reader yawning over the present pages. What was the cause of this? Constitutional lassitude, or a desire for novelty? Both it is probable had some influence in the matter, but I rather think that the latter feeling was predominant. The parting words of my brother had sunk into my mind. He had talked of travelling in strange regions and seeing strange and wonderful objects, and my imagination fell to work, and drew pictures of adventures wild and fantastic, and I thought what a fine thing it must be to travel, and I wished that my father would give me his blessing, and the same sum that he had given my brother, and bid me go forth into the world; always forgetting that I had neither talents nor energies at this period which would enable me to make any successful figure on its stage. And then I again sought up the book which had so captivated me in my infancy, and I read it through; and I sought up others of a similar character, and in seeking for them I met books also of adventure, but by no means of a harmless description, lives of wicked and lawless men, Murray and Latroon--books of singular power, but of coarse and prurient imagination--books at one time highly in vogue; now deservedly forgotten, and most difficult to be found. And when I had gone through these books, what was my state of mind? I had derived entertainment from their perusal, but they left me more listless and unsettled than before, and really knew not what to do to pass my time. My philological studies had become distasteful, and I had never taken any pleasure in the duties of my profession. I sat behind my desk in a state of torpor, my mind almost as blank as the paper before me, on which I rarely traced a line. It was always a relief to hear the bell ring, as it afforded me an opportunity of doing something which I was yet capable of doing, to rise and open the door and stare in the countenances of the visitors. All of a sudden I fell to studying countenances, and soon flattered myself that I had made considerable progress in the science. 'There is no faith in countenances,' said some Roman of old; 'trust anything but a person's countenance.' 'Not trust a man's countenance?' say some moderns, 'why, it is the only thing in many people that we can trust; on which account they keep it most assiduously out of the way. Trust not a man's words if you please, or you may come to very erroneous conclusions; but at all times place implicit confidence in a man's countenance, in which there is no deceit; and of necessity there can be none. If people would but look each other more in the face, we should have less cause to complain of the deception of the world; nothing so easy as physiognomy nor so useful.' Somewhat in this latter strain I thought at the time of which I am speaking. I am now older, and, let us hope, less presumptuous. It is true that in the course of my life I have scarcely ever had occasion to repent placing confidence in individuals whose countenances have prepossessed me in their favour; though to how many I may have been unjust, from whose countenances I may have drawn unfavourable conclusions, is another matter. But it had been decreed by that Fate which governs our every action that I was soon to return to my old pursuits. It was written that I should not yet cease to be Lav-engro, though I had become, in my own opinion, a kind of Lavater. It is singular enough that my renewed ardour for philology seems to have been brought about indirectly by my physiognomical researches, in which had I not indulged, the event which I am about to relate, as far as connected with myself, might never have occurred. Amongst the various countenances which I admitted during the period of my answering the bell, there were two which particularly pleased me, and which belonged to an elderly yeoman and his wife, whom some little business had brought to our law sanctuary. I believe they experienced from me some kindness and attention, which won the old people's hearts. So, one day, when their little business had been brought to a conclusion, and they chanced to be alone with me, who was seated as usual behind the deal desk in the outer room, the old man with some confusion began to tell me how grateful himself and dame felt for the many attentions I had shown them, and how desirous they were to make me some remuneration. 'Of course,' said the old man, 'we must be cautious what we offer to so fine a young gentleman as yourself; we have, however, something we think will just suit the occasion, a strange kind of thing which people say is a book, though no one that my dame or myself have shown it to can make anything out of it; so as we are told that you are a fine young gentleman, who can read all the tongues of the earth and stars, as the Bible says, we thought, I and my dame, that it would be just the thing you would like and my dame has it now at the bottom of her basket.' 'A book!' said I, 'how did you come by it?' 'We live near the sea,' said the old man; 'so near that sometimes our thatch is wet with the spray; and it may now be a year ago that there was a fearful storm, and a ship was driven ashore during the night, and ere the morn was a complete wreck. When we got up at daylight, there were the poor shivering crew at our door; they were foreigners, red-haired men, whose speech we did not understand; but we took them in, and warmed them, and they remained with us three days; and when they went away they left behind them this thing, here it is, part of the contents of a box which was washed ashore.' 'And did you learn who they were?' 'Why, yes; they made us understand that they were Danes.' Danes! thought I, Danes! and instantaneously, huge and grisly, appeared to rise up before my vision the skull of the old pirate Dane, even as I had seen it of yore in the pent-house of the ancient church to which, with my mother and my brother, I had wandered on the memorable summer eve. And now the old man handed me the book; a strange and uncouth-looking volume enough. It was not very large, but instead of the usual covering was bound in wood, and was compressed with strong iron clasps. It was a printed book, but the pages were not of paper, but vellum, and the characters were black, and resembled those generally termed Gothic. 'It is certainly a curious book,' said I; 'and I should like to have it, but I can't think of taking it as a gift, I must give you an equivalent, I never take presents from anybody.' The old man whispered with his dame and chuckled, and then turned his face to me, and said, with another chuckle, 'Well, we have agreed about the price, but, maybe, you will not consent.' 'I don't know,' said I; 'what do you demand?' 'Why, that you shake me by the hand, and hold out your cheek to my old dame, she has taken an affection to you.' 'I shall be very glad to shake you by the hand,' said I, 'but as for the other condition, it requires consideration.' 'No consideration at all,' said the old man, with something like a sigh; 'she thinks you like her son, our only child, that was lost twenty years ago in the waves of the North Sea.' 'Oh, that alters the case altogether,' said I, 'and of course I can have no objection.' And now at once I shook off my listlessness, to enable me to do which nothing could have happened more opportune than the above event. The Danes, the Danes! And was I at last to become acquainted, and in so singular a manner, with the speech of a people which had as far back as I could remember exercised the strongest influence over my imagination, as how should they not!--in infancy there was the summer-eve adventure, to which I often looked back, and always with a kind of strange interest with respect to those to whom such gigantic and wondrous bones could belong as I had seen on that occasion; and, more than this, I had been in Ireland, and there, under peculiar circumstances, this same interest was increased tenfold. I had mingled much whilst there with the genuine Irish--a wild but kind-hearted race, whose conversation was deeply imbued with traditionary lore, connected with the early history of their own romantic land, and from them I heard enough of the Danes, but nothing commonplace, for they never mentioned them but in terms which tallied well with my own preconceived ideas. For at an early period the Danes had invaded Ireland, and had subdued it, and, though eventually driven out, had left behind them an enduring remembrance in the minds of the people, who loved to speak of their strength and their stature, in evidence of which they would point to the ancient raths or mounds where the old Danes were buried, and where bones of extraordinary size were occasionally exhumed. And as the Danes surpassed other people in strength, so, according to my narrators, they also excelled all others in wisdom, or rather in Draoitheac, or magic, for they were powerful sorcerers, they said, compared with whom the fairy men of the present day knew nothing at all, at all; and, amongst other wonderful things, they knew how to make strong beer from the heather that grows upon the bogs. Little wonder if the interest, the mysterious interest, which I had early felt about the Danes, was increased tenfold by my sojourn in Ireland. And now I had in my possession a Danish book, which, from its appearance, might be supposed to have belonged to the very old Danes indeed; but how was I to turn it to any account? I had the book, it is true, but I did not understand the language, and how was I to overcome that difficulty? hardly by poring over the book; yet I did pore over the book, daily and nightly, till my eyes were dim, and it appeared to me that every now and then I encountered words which I understood--English words, though strangely disguised; and I said to myself, Courage! English and Danish are cognate dialects, a time will come when I shall understand this Danish; and then I pored over the book again, but with all my poring I could not understand it; and then I became angry, and I bit my lips till the blood came; and I occasionally tore a handful from my hair, and flung it upon the floor, but that did not mend the matter, for still I did not understand the book, which, however, I began to see was written in rhyme--a circumstance rather difficult to discover at first, the arrangement of the lines not differing from that which is employed in prose; and its being written in rhyme made me only the more eager to understand it. But I toiled in vain, for I had neither grammar nor dictionary of the language; and when I sought for them could procure neither; and I was much dispirited, till suddenly a bright thought came into my head, and I said, although I cannot obtain a dictionary or grammar, I can perhaps obtain a Bible in this language, and if I can procure a Bible, I can learn the language, for the Bible in every tongue contains the same thing, and I have only to compare the words of the Danish Bible with those of the English, and, if I persevere, I shall in time acquire the language of the Danes; and I was pleased with the thought, which I considered to be a bright one, and I no longer bit my lips, or tore my hair, but I took my hat, and, going forth, I flung my hat into the air. And when my hat came down, I put it on my head and commenced running, directing my course to the house of the Antinomian preacher, who sold books, and whom I knew to have Bibles in various tongues amongst the number, and I arrived out of breath, and I found the Antinomian in his little library, dusting his books; and the Antinomian clergyman was a tall man of about seventy, who wore a hat with a broad brim and a shallow crown, and whose manner of speaking was exceedingly nasal; and when I saw him, I cried, out of breath, 'Have you a Danish Bible?' and he replied, 'What do you want it for, friend?' and I answered, 'To learn Danish by'; 'And maybe to learn thy duty,' replied the Antinomian preacher. 'Truly, I have it not, but, as you are a customer of mine, I will endeavour to procure you one, and I will write to that laudable society which men call the Bible Society, an unworthy member of which I am, and I hope by next week to procure what you desire.' And when I heard these words of the old man, I was very glad, and my heart yearned towards him, and I would fain enter into conversation with him; and I said, 'Why are you an Antinomian? For my part I would rather be a dog than belong to such a religion.' 'Nay, friend,' said the Antinomian, 'thou forejudgest us; know that those who call us Antinomians call us so despitefully, we do not acknowledge the designation.' 'Then you do not set all law at nought?' said I. 'Far be it from us,' said the old man, 'we only hope that, being sanctified by the Spirit from above, we have no need of the law to keep us in order. Did you ever hear tell of Lodowick Muggleton?' 'Not I.' 'That is strange; know then that he was the founder of our poor society, and after him we are frequently, though opprobriously, termed Muggletonians, for we are Christians. Here is his book, which, perhaps, you can do no better than purchase, you are fond of rare books, and this is both curious and rare; I will sell it cheap. Thank you, and now be gone, I will do all I can to procure the Bible.' And in this manner I procured the Danish Bible, and I commenced my task; first of all, however, I locked up in a closet the volume which had excited my curiosity, saying, 'Out of this closet thou comest not till I deem myself competent to read thee,' and then I sat down in right earnest, comparing every line in the one version with the corresponding one in the other; and I passed entire nights in this manner, till I was almost blind, and the task was tedious enough at first, but I quailed not, and soon began to make progress: and at first I had a misgiving that the old book might not prove a Danish book, but was soon reassured by reading many words in the Bible which I remembered to have seen in the book; and then I went on right merrily, and I found that the language which I was studying was by no means a difficult one, and in less than a month I deemed myself able to read the book. Anon, I took the book from the closet, and proceeded to make myself master of its contents; I had some difficulty, for the language of the book, though in the main the same as the language of the Bible, differed from it in some points, being apparently a more ancient dialect; by degrees, however, I overcame this difficulty, and I understood the contents of the book, and well did they correspond with all those ideas in which I had indulged connected with the Danes. For the book was a book of ballads, about the deeds of knights and champions, and men of huge stature; ballads which from time immemorial had been sung in the North, and which some two centuries before the time of which I am speaking had been collected by one Anders Vedel, who lived with a certain Tycho Brahe, and assisted him in making observations upon the heavenly bodies, at a place called Uranias Castle, on the little island of Hveen, in the Cattegat. CHAPTER XXIII The two individuals--The long pipe--The Germans--Werther--The female Quaker--Suicide--Gibbon--Jesus of Bethlehem--Fill your glass--Shakespeare--English at Minden--Melancholy Swayne Vonved--The fifth dinner--Strange doctrines--Are you happy?--Improve yourself in German. It might be some six months after the events last recorded, that two individuals were seated together in a certain room, in a certain street of the old town which I have so frequently had occasion to mention in the preceding pages; one of them was an elderly, and the other a very young man, and they sat on either side of a fireplace, beside a table on which were fruit and wine; the room was a small one, and in its furniture exhibited nothing remarkable. Over the mantelpiece, however, hung a small picture with naked figures in the foreground, and with much foliage behind. It might not have struck every beholder, for it looked old and smoke-dried; but a connoisseur, on inspecting it closely, would have pronounced it to be a judgment of Paris, and a masterpiece of the Flemish school. The forehead of the elder individual was high, and perhaps appeared more so than it really was, from the hair being carefully brushed back, as if for the purpose of displaying to the best advantage that part of the cranium; his eyes were large and full, and of a light brown, and might have been called heavy and dull, had they not been occasionally lighted up by a sudden gleam--not so brilliant however as that which at every inhalation shone from the bowl of the long clay pipe which he was smoking, but which, from a certain sucking sound which about this time began to be heard from the bottom, appeared to be giving notice that it would soon require replenishment from a certain canister, which, together with a lighted taper, stood upon the table beside him. 'You do not smoke?' said he, at length, laying down his pipe, and directing his glance to his companion. Now there was at least one thing singular connected with this last, namely, the colour of his hair, which, notwithstanding his extreme youth, appeared to be rapidly becoming gray. He had very long limbs, and was apparently tall of stature, in which he differed from his elderly companion, who must have been somewhat below the usual height. 'No, I can't smoke,' said the youth, in reply to the observation of the other; 'I have often tried, but could never succeed to my satisfaction.' 'Is it possible to become a good German without smoking?' said the senior, half speaking to himself. 'I daresay not,' said the youth; 'but I shan't break my heart on that account.' 'As for breaking your heart, of course you would never think of such a thing; he is a fool who breaks his heart on any account; but it is good to be a German, the Germans are the most philosophic people in the world, and the greatest smokers: now I trace their philosophy to their smoking.' 'I have heard say their philosophy is all smoke--is that your opinion?' 'Why, no; but smoking has a sedative effect upon the nerves, and enables a man to bear the sorrows of this life (of which every one has his share) not only decently, but dignifiedly. Suicide is not a national habit in Germany as it is in England.' 'But that poor creature, Werther, who committed suicide, was a German.' 'Werther is a fictitious character, and by no means a felicitous one; I am no admirer either of Werther or his author. But I should say that, if there ever was a Werther in Germany, he did not smoke. Werther, as you very justly observe, was a poor creature.' 'And a very sinful one; I have heard my parents say that suicide is a great crime.' 'Broadly, and without qualification, to say that suicide is a crime, is speaking somewhat unphilosophically. No doubt suicide, under many circumstances, is a crime, a very heinous one. When the father of a family, for example, to escape from certain difficulties, commits suicide, he commits a crime; there are those around him who look to him for support, by the law of nature, and he has no right to withdraw himself from those who have a claim upon his exertions; he is a person who decamps with other people's goods as well as his own. Indeed, there can be no crime which is not founded upon the depriving others of something which belongs to them. A man is hanged for setting fire to his house in a crowded city, for he burns at the same time or damages those of other people; but if a man who has a house on a heath sets fire to it, he is not hanged, for he has not damaged or endangered any other individual's property, and the principle of revenge, upon which all punishment is founded, has not been aroused. Similar to such a case is that of the man who, without any family ties, commits suicide; for example, were I to do the thing this evening, who would have a right to call me to account? I am alone in the world, have no family to support, and, so far from damaging any one, should even benefit my heir by my accelerated death. However, I am no advocate for suicide under any circumstances; there is something undignified in it, unheroic, un-Germanic. But if you must commit suicide--and there is no knowing to what people may be brought--always contrive to do it as decorously as possible; the decencies, whether of life or of death, should never be lost sight of. I remember a female Quaker who committed suicide by cutting her throat, but she did it decorously and decently: kneeling down over a pail, so that not one drop fell upon the floor; thus exhibiting in her last act that nice sense of neatness for which Quakers are distinguished. I have always had a respect for that woman's memory.' And here, filling his pipe from the canister, and lighting it at the taper, he recommenced smoking calmly and sedately. 'But is not suicide forbidden in the Bible?' the youth demanded. 'Why, no; but what though it were!--the Bible is a respectable book, but I should hardly call it one whose philosophy is of the soundest. I have said that it is a respectable book; I mean respectable from its antiquity, and from containing, as Herder says, "the earliest records of the human race," though those records are far from being dispassionately written, on which account they are of less value than they otherwise might have been. There is too much passion in the Bible, too much violence; now, to come to all truth, especially historic truth, requires cool dispassionate investigation, for which the Jews do not appear to have ever been famous. We are ourselves not famous for it, for we are a passionate people; the Germans are not--they are not a passionate people--a people celebrated for their oaths; we are. The Germans have many excellent historic writers, we . . . 'tis true we have Gibbon . . . You have been reading Gibbon--what do you think of him?' 'I think him a very wonderful writer.' 'He is a wonderful writer--one _sui generis_--uniting the perspicuity of the English--for we are perspicuous--with the cool dispassionate reasoning of the Germans. Gibbon sought after the truth, found it, and made it clear.' 'Then you think Gibbon a truthful writer?' 'Why, yes; who shall convict Gibbon of falsehood? Many people have endeavoured to convict Gibbon of falsehood; they have followed him in his researches, and have never found him once tripping. Oh, he is a wonderful writer! his power of condensation is admirable; the lore of the whole world is to be found in his pages. Sometimes in a single note he has given us the result of the study of years; or, to speak metaphorically, "he has ransacked a thousand Gulistans, and has condensed all his fragrant booty into a single drop of otto."' 'But was not Gibbon an enemy to the Christian faith?' 'Why, no; he was rather an enemy to priestcraft, so am I; and when I say the philosophy of the Bible is in many respects unsound, I always wish to make an exception in favour of that part of it which contains the life and sayings of Jesus of Bethlehem, to which I must always concede my unqualified admiration--of Jesus, mind you; for with his followers and their dogmas I have nothing to do. Of all historic characters Jesus is the most beautiful and the most heroic. I have always been a friend to hero-worship, it is the only rational one, and has always been in use amongst civilised people--the worship of spirits is synonymous with barbarism--it is mere fetish; the savages of West Africa are all spirit- worshippers. But there is something philosophic in the worship of the heroes of the human race, and the true hero is the benefactor. Brahma, Jupiter, Bacchus, were all benefactors, and, therefore, entitled to the worship of their respective peoples. The Celts worshipped Hesus, who taught them to plough, a highly useful art. We, who have attained a much higher state of civilisation than the Celts ever did, worship Jesus, the first who endeavoured to teach men to behave decently and decorously under all circumstances; who was the foe of vengeance, in which there is something highly indecorous; who had first the courage to lift his voice against that violent dogma, "an eye for an eye"; who shouted conquer, but conquer with kindness; who said put up the sword, a violent unphilosophic weapon; and who finally died calmly and decorously in defence of his philosophy. He must be a savage who denies worship to the hero of Golgotha.' 'But he was something more than a hero; he was the Son of God, wasn't he?' The elderly individual made no immediate answer; but, after a few more whiffs from his pipe, exclaimed, 'Come, fill your glass! How do you advance with your translation of _Tell_'? 'It is nearly finished; but I do not think I shall proceed with it; I begin to think the original somewhat dull.' 'There you are wrong; it is the masterpiece of Schiller, the first of German poets.' 'It may be so,' said the youth. 'But, pray excuse me, I do not think very highly of German poetry. I have lately been reading Shakespeare; and, when I turn from him to the Germans--even the best of them--they appear mere pigmies. You will pardon the liberty I perhaps take in saying so.' 'I like that every one should have an opinion of his own,' said the elderly individual; 'and, what is more, declare it. Nothing displeases me more than to see people assenting to everything that they hear said; I at once come to the conclusion that they are either hypocrites, or there is nothing in them. But, with respect to Shakespeare, whom I have not read for thirty years, is he not rather given to bombast, "crackling bombast," as I think I have said in one of my essays?' 'I daresay he is,' said the youth; 'but I can't help thinking him the greatest of all poets, not even excepting Homer. I would sooner have written that series of plays, founded on the fortunes of the House of Lancaster, than the _Iliad_ itself. The events described are as lofty as those sung by Homer in his great work, and the characters brought upon the stage still more interesting. I think Hotspur as much of a hero as Hector, and young Henry more of a man than Achilles; and then there is the fat knight, the quintessence of fun, wit, and rascality. Falstaff is a creation beyond the genius even of Homer.' 'You almost tempt me to read Shakespeare again--but the Germans?' 'I don't admire the Germans,' said the youth, somewhat excited. 'I don't admire them in any point of view. I have heard my father say that, though good sharpshooters, they can't be much depended upon as soldiers; and that old Sergeant Meredith told him that Minden would never have been won but for the two English regiments, who charged the French with fixed bayonets, and sent them to the right-about in double-quick time. With respect to poetry, setting Shakespeare and the English altogether aside, I think there is another Gothic nation, at least, entitled to dispute with them the palm. Indeed, to my mind, there is more genuine poetry contained in the old Danish book which I came so strangely by, than has been produced in Germany from the period of the Niebelungen lay to the present.' 'Ah, the Koempe Viser?' said the elderly individual, breathing forth an immense volume of smoke, which he had been collecting during the declamation of his young companion. 'There are singular things in that book, I must confess; and I thank you for showing it to me, or rather your attempt at translation. I was struck with that ballad of Orm Ungarswayne, who goes by night to the grave-hill of his father to seek for counsel. And then, again, that strange melancholy Swayne Vonved, who roams about the world propounding people riddles; slaying those who cannot answer, and rewarding those who can with golden bracelets. Were it not for the violence, I should say that ballad has a philosophic tendency. I thank you for making me acquainted with the book, and I thank the Jew Mousha for making me acquainted with you.' 'That Mousha was a strange customer,' said the youth, collecting himself. 'He _was_ a strange customer,' said the elder individual, breathing forth a gentle cloud. 'I love to exercise hospitality to wandering strangers, especially foreigners; and when he came to this place, pretending to teach German and Hebrew, I asked him to dinner. After the first dinner, he asked me to lend him five pounds; I _did_ lend him five pounds. After the fifth dinner, he asked me to lend him fifty pounds; I did _not_ lend him the fifty pounds.' 'He was as ignorant of German as of Hebrew,' said the youth; 'on which account he was soon glad, I suppose, to transfer his pupil to some one else.' 'He told me,' said the elder individual, 'that he intended to leave a town where he did not find sufficient encouragement; and, at the same time, expressed regret at being obliged to abandon a certain extraordinary pupil, for whom he had a particular regard. Now I, who have taught many people German from the love which I bear to it, and the desire which I feel that it should be generally diffused, instantly said that I should be happy to take his pupil off his hands, and afford him what instruction I could in German, for, as to Hebrew, I have never taken much interest in it. Such was the origin of our acquaintance. You have been an apt scholar. Of late, however, I have seen little of you--what is the reason?' The youth made no answer. 'You think, probably, that you have learned all I can teach you? Well, perhaps you are right.' 'Not so, not so,' said the young man eagerly; 'before I knew you I knew nothing, and am still very ignorant; but of late my father's health has been very much broken, and he requires attention; his spirits also have become low, which, to tell you the truth, he attributes to my misconduct. He says that I have imbibed all kinds of strange notions and doctrines, which will, in all probability, prove my ruin, both here and hereafter; which--which--' 'Ah! I understand,' said the elder, with another calm whiff. 'I have always had a kind of respect for your father, for there is something remarkable in his appearance, something heroic, and I would fain have cultivated his acquaintance; the feeling, however, has not been reciprocated. I met him, the other day, up the road, with his cane and dog, and saluted him; he did not return my salutation.' 'He has certain opinions of his own,' said the youth, 'which are widely different from those which he has heard that you profess.' 'I respect a man for entertaining an opinion of his own,' said the elderly individual. 'I hold certain opinions; but I should not respect an individual the more for adopting them. All I wish for is tolerance, which I myself endeavour to practise. I have always loved the truth, and sought it; if I have not found it, the greater my misfortune.' 'Are you happy?' said the young man. 'Why, no! And, between ourselves, it is that which induces me to doubt sometimes the truth of my opinions. My life, upon the whole, I consider a failure; on which account, I would not counsel you, or any one, to follow my example too closely. It is getting late, and you had better be going, especially as your father, you say, is anxious about you. But, as we may never meet again, I think there are three things which I may safely venture to press upon you. The first is, that the decencies and gentlenesses should never be lost sight of, as the practice of the decencies and gentlenesses is at all times compatible with independence of thought and action. The second thing which I would wish to impress upon you is, that there is always some eye upon us; and that it is impossible to keep anything we do from the world, as it will assuredly be divulged by somebody as soon as it is his interest to do so. The third thing which I would wish to press upon you--' 'Yes,' said the youth, eagerly bending forward. 'Is--' and here the elderly individual laid down his pipe upon the table--'that it will be as well to go on improving yourself in German!' CHAPTER XXIV The alehouse-keeper--Compassion for the rich--Old English gentleman--How is this?--Madeira--The Greek Parr--Twenty languages--Whiter's health--About the fight--A sporting gentleman--The flattened nose--Lend us that pightle--The surly nod. 'Holloa, master! can you tell us where the fight is likely to be?' Such were the words shouted out to me by a short thick fellow, in brown top-boots, and bareheaded, who stood, with his hands in his pockets, at the door of a country alehouse as I was passing by. Now, as I knew nothing about the fight, and as the appearance of the man did not tempt me greatly to enter into conversation with him, I merely answered in the negative, and continued my way. It was a fine lovely morning in May, the sun shone bright above, and the birds were carolling in the hedgerows. I was wont to be cheerful at such seasons, for, from my earliest recollection, sunshine and the song of birds have been dear to me; yet, about that period, I was not cheerful, my mind was not at rest; I was debating within myself, and the debate was dreary and unsatisfactory enough. I sighed, and turning my eyes upward, I ejaculated, 'What is truth?' But suddenly, by a violent effort breaking away from my meditations, I hastened forward; one mile, two miles, three miles were speedily left behind; and now I came to a grove of birch and other trees, and opening a gate I passed up a kind of avenue, and soon arriving before a large brick house, of rather antique appearance, knocked at the door. In this house there lived a gentleman with whom I had business. He was said to be a genuine old English gentleman, and a man of considerable property; at this time, however, he wanted a thousand pounds, as gentlemen of considerable property every now and then do. I had brought him a thousand pounds in my pocket, for it is astonishing how many eager helpers the rich find, and with what compassion people look upon their distresses. He was said to have good wine in his cellar. 'Is your master at home?' said I, to a servant who appeared at the door. 'His worship is at home, young man,' said the servant, as he looked at my shoes, which bore evidence that I had come walking. 'I beg your pardon, sir,' he added, as he looked me in the face. 'Ay, ay, servants,' thought I, as I followed the man into the house, 'always look people in the face when you open the door, and do so before you look at their shoes, or you may mistake the heir of a Prime Minister for a shopkeeper's son.' I found his worship a jolly, red-faced gentleman, of about fifty-five; he was dressed in a green coat, white corduroy breeches, and drab gaiters, and sat on an old-fashioned leather sofa, with two small, thoroughbred, black English terriers, one on each side of him. He had all the appearance of a genuine old English gentleman who kept good wine in his cellar. 'Sir,' said I, 'I have brought you a thousand pounds'; and I said this after the servant had retired, and the two terriers had ceased the barking which is natural to all such dogs at the sight of a stranger. And when the magistrate had received the money, and signed and returned a certain paper which I handed to him, he rubbed his hands, and looking very benignantly at me, exclaimed-- 'And now, young gentleman, that our business is over, perhaps you can tell me where the fight is to take place?' 'I am sorry, sir,' said I, 'that I can't inform you, but everybody seems to be anxious about it'; and then I told him what had occurred to me on the road with the alehouse-keeper. 'I know him,' said his worship; 'he's a tenant of mine, and a good fellow, somewhat too much in my debt though. But how is this, young gentleman, you look as if you had been walking; you did not come on foot?' 'Yes, sir, I came on foot.' 'On foot! why it is sixteen miles.' 'I shan't be tired when I have walked back.' 'You can't ride, I suppose?' 'Better than I can walk.' 'Then why do you walk?' 'I have frequently to make journeys connected with my profession; sometimes I walk, sometimes I ride, just as the whim takes me.' 'Will you take a glass of wine?' 'Yes.' 'That's right; what shall it be?' 'Madeira!' The magistrate gave a violent slap on his knee; 'I like your taste,' said he, 'I am fond of a glass of Madeira myself, and can give you such a one as you will not drink every day; sit down, young gentleman, you shall have a glass of Madeira, and the best I have.' Thereupon he got up, and, followed by his two terriers, walked slowly out of the room. I looked round the room, and, seeing nothing which promised me much amusement, I sat down, and fell again into my former train of thought. 'What is truth?' said I. 'Here it is,' said the magistrate, returning at the end of a quarter of an hour, followed by the servant with a tray; 'here's the true thing, or I am no judge, far less a justice. It has been thirty years in my cellar last Christmas. There,' said he to the servant, 'put it down, and leave my young friend and me to ourselves. Now, what do you think of it?' 'It is very good,' said I. 'Did you ever taste better Madeira?' 'I never before tasted Madeira.' 'Then you ask for a wine without knowing what it is?' 'I ask for it, sir, that I may know what it is.' 'Well, there is logic in that, as Parr would say; you have heard of Parr?' 'Old Parr?' 'Yes, old Parr, but not that Parr; you mean the English, I the Greek Parr, as people call him.' 'I don't know him.' 'Perhaps not--rather too young for that, but were you of my age, you might have cause to know him, coming from where you do. He kept school there, I was his first scholar; he flogged Greek into me till I loved him--and he loved me: he came to see me last year, and sat in that chair; I honour Parr--he knows much, and is a sound man.' 'Does he know the truth?' 'Know the truth! he knows what's good, from an oyster to an ostrich--he's not only sound, but round.' 'Suppose we drink his health?' 'Thank you, boy: here's Parr's health, and Whiter's.' 'Who is Whiter?' 'Don't you know Whiter? I thought everybody knew Reverend Whiter the philologist, though I suppose you scarcely know what that means. A man fond of tongues and languages, quite out of your way--he understands some twenty; what do you say to that?' 'Is he a sound man?' 'Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say: he has got queer notions in his head--wrote a book to prove that all words came originally from the earth--who knows? Words have roots, and roots live in the earth; but, upon the whole, I should not call him altogether a sound man, though he can talk Greek nearly as fast as Parr.' 'Is he a round man?' 'Ay, boy, rounder than Parr; I'll sing you a song, if you like, which will let you into his character:-- 'Give me the haunch of a buck to eat, and to drink Madeira old, And a gentle wife to rest with, and in my arms to fold, An Arabic book to study, a Norfolk cob to ride, And a house to live in shaded with trees, and near to a river side; With such good things around me, and blessed with good health withal, Though I should live for a hundred years, for death I would not call. Here's to Whiter's health--so you know nothing about the fight?' 'No, sir; the truth is, that of late I have been very much occupied with various matters, otherwise I should, perhaps, have been able to afford you some information--boxing is a noble art.' 'Can you box?' 'A little.' 'I tell you what, my boy; I honour you, and provided your education had been a little less limited, I should have been glad to see you here in company with Parr and Whiter; both can box. Boxing is, as you say, a noble art--a truly English art; may I never see the day when Englishmen shall feel ashamed of it, or blacklegs and blackguards bring it into disgrace. I am a magistrate, and, of course, cannot patronise the thing very openly, yet I sometimes see a prize fight: I saw the Game Chicken beat Gulley.' 'Did you ever see Big Ben?' 'No; why do you ask?' But here we heard a noise, like that of a gig driving up to the door, which was immediately succeeded by a violent knocking and ringing, and after a little time the servant who had admitted me made his appearance in the room. 'Sir,' said he, with a certain eagerness of manner, 'here are two gentlemen waiting to speak to you.' 'Gentlemen waiting to speak to me! who are they?' 'I don't know, sir,' said the servant; 'but they look like sporting gentlemen, and--and'--here he hesitated; 'from a word or two they dropped, I almost think that they come about the fight.' 'About the fight!' said the magistrate. 'No; that can hardly be; however, you had better show them in.' Heavy steps were now heard ascending the stairs, and the servant ushered two men into the apartment. Again there was a barking, but louder than that which had been directed against myself, for here were two intruders; both of them were remarkable-looking men, but to the foremost of them the most particular notice may well be accorded: he was a man somewhat under thirty, and nearly six feet in height. He was dressed in a blue coat, white corduroy breeches, fastened below the knee with small golden buttons; on his legs he wore white lamb's-wool stockings, and on his feet shoes reaching to the ankles; round his neck was a handkerchief of the blue and bird's eye pattern; he wore neither whiskers nor moustaches, and appeared not to delight in hair, that of his head, which was of a light brown, being closely cropped; the forehead was rather high, but somewhat narrow; the face neither broad nor sharp, perhaps rather sharp than broad; the nose was almost delicate; the eyes were gray, with an expression in which there was sternness blended with something approaching to feline; his complexion was exceedingly pale, relieved, however, by certain pock-marks, which here and there studded his countenance; his form was athletic, but lean; his arms long. In the whole appearance of the man there was a blending of the bluff and the sharp. You might have supposed him a bruiser; his dress was that of one in all its minutiae; something was wanting, however, in his manner--the quietness of the professional man; he rather looked like one performing the part--well--very well--but still performing a part. His companion!--there, indeed, was the bruiser--no mistake about him: a tall massive man, with a broad countenance and a flattened nose; dressed like a bruiser, but not like a bruiser going into the ring; he wore white-topped boots, and a loose brown jockey coat. As the first advanced towards the table, behind which the magistrate sat, he doffed a white castor from his head, and made rather a genteel bow; looking at me, who sat somewhat on one side, he gave a kind of nod of recognition. 'May I request to know who you are, gentlemen?' said the magistrate. 'Sir,' said the man in a deep, but not unpleasant voice, 'allow me to introduce to you my friend, Mr. ---, the celebrated pugilist'; and he motioned with his hand towards the massive man with the flattened nose. 'And your own name, sir?' said the magistrate. 'My name is no matter,' said the man; 'were I to mention it to you, it would awaken within you no feeling of interest. It is neither Kean nor Belcher, and I have as yet done nothing to distinguish myself like either of those individuals, or even like my friend here. However, a time may come--we are not yet buried; and whensoever my hour arrives, I hope I shall prove myself equal to my destiny, however high-- 'Like bird that's bred amongst the Helicons.' And here a smile half theatrical passed over his features. 'In what can I oblige you, sir?' said the magistrate. 'Well, sir; the soul of wit is brevity; we want a place for an approaching combat between my friend here and a brave from town. Passing by your broad acres this fine morning we saw a pightle, which we deemed would suit. Lend us that pightle, and receive our thanks; 'twould be a favour, though not much to grant: we neither ask for Stonehenge nor for Tempe.' My friend looked somewhat perplexed; after a moment, however, he said, with a firm but gentlemanly air, 'Sir, I am sorry that I cannot comply with your request.' 'Not comply!' said the man, his brow becoming dark as midnight; and with a hoarse and savage tone, 'Not comply! why not?' 'It is impossible, sir; utterly impossible!' 'Why so?' 'I am not compelled to give my reasons to you, sir, nor to any man.' 'Let me beg of you to alter your decision,' said the man, in a tone of profound respect. 'Utterly impossible, sir; I am a magistrate.' 'Magistrate! then fare ye well, for a green-coated buffer and a Harmanbeck.' 'Sir!' said the magistrate, springing up with a face fiery with wrath. But, with a surly nod to me, the man left the apartment; and in a moment more the heavy footsteps of himself and his companion were heard descending the staircase. 'Who is that man?' said my friend, turning towards me. 'A sporting gentleman, well known in the place from which I come.' 'He appeared to know you.' 'I have occasionally put on the gloves with him.' 'What is his name?' CHAPTER XXV Doubts--Wise king of Jerusalem--Let me see--A thousand years--Nothing new--The crowd--The hymn--Faith--Charles Wesley--There he stood--Farewell, brother--Death--Sun, moon, and stars--Wind on the heath. There was one question which I was continually asking myself at this period, and which has more than once met the eyes of the reader who has followed me through the last chapter: 'What is truth?' I had involved myself imperceptibly in a dreary labyrinth of doubt, and, whichever way I turned, no reasonable prospect of extricating myself appeared. The means by which I had brought myself into this situation may be very briefly told; I had inquired into many matters, in order that I might become wise, and I had read and pondered over the words of the wise, so called, till I had made myself master of the sum of human wisdom; namely, that everything is enigmatical and that man is an enigma to himself; thence the cry of 'What is truth?' I had ceased to believe in the truth of that in which I had hitherto trusted, and yet could find nothing in which I could put any fixed or deliberate belief--I was, indeed, in a labyrinth! In what did I not doubt? With respect to crime and virtue I was in doubt; I doubted that the one was blamable and the other praiseworthy. Are not all things subjected to the law of necessity? Assuredly time and chance govern all things: Yet how can this be? alas! Then there was myself; for what was I born? Are not all things born to be forgotten? That's incomprehensible: yet is it not so? Those butterflies fall and are forgotten. In what is man better than a butterfly? All then is born to be forgotten. Ah! that was a pang indeed; 'tis at such a moment that a man wishes to die. The wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his shady arbours beside his sunny fish-pools, saying so many fine things, wished to die, when he saw that not only all was vanity, but that he himself was vanity. Will a time come when all will be forgotten that now is beneath the sun? If so, of what profit is life? In truth it was a sore vexation of spirit to me when I saw, as the wise man saw of old, that whatever I could hope to perform must necessarily be of very temporary duration; and if so, why do it? I said to myself, whatever name I can acquire, will it endure for eternity? scarcely so. A thousand years? Let me see! what have I done already? I have learnt Welsh, and have translated the songs of Ab Gwilym, some ten thousand lines, into English rhyme; I have also learnt Danish, and have rendered the old book of ballads cast by the tempest upon the beach into corresponding English metre. Good! have I done enough already to secure myself a reputation of a thousand years? No, no! certainly not; I have not the slightest ground for hoping that my translations from the Welsh and Danish will be read at the end of a thousand years. Well, but I am only eighteen, and I have not stated all that I have done; I have learnt many other tongues, and have acquired some knowledge even of Hebrew and Arabic. Should I go on in this way till I am forty, I must then be very learned; and perhaps, among other things, may have translated the Talmud, and some of the great works of the Arabians. Pooh! all this is mere learning and translation, and such will never secure immortality. Translation is at best an echo, and it must be a wonderful echo to be heard after the lapse of a thousand years. No! all I have already done, and all I may yet do in the same way, I may reckon as nothing--mere pastime; something else must be done. I must either write some grand original work, or conquer an empire; the one just as easy as the other. But am I competent to do either? Yes, I think I am, under favourable circumstances. Yes, I think I may promise myself a reputation of a thousand years, if I do but give myself the necessary trouble. Well! but what's a thousand years after all, or twice a thousand years? Woe is me! I may just as well sit still. 'Would I had never been born!' I said to myself; and a thought would occasionally intrude: But was I ever born? Is not all that I see a lie--a deceitful phantom? Is there a world, and earth, and sky? Berkeley's doctrine--Spinoza's doctrine! Dear reader, I had at that time never read either Berkeley or Spinoza. I have still never read them; who are they, men of yesterday? 'All is a lie--all a deceitful phantom,' are old cries; they come naturally from the mouths of those who, casting aside that choicest shield against madness, simplicity, would fain be wise as God, and can only know that they are naked. This doubting in the 'universal all' is almost coeval with the human race: wisdom, so called, was early sought after. All is a lie--a deceitful phantom--was said when the world was yet young; its surface, save a scanty portion, yet untrodden by human foot, and when the great tortoise yet crawled about. All is a lie, was the doctrine of Buddh; and Buddh lived thirty centuries before the wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his arbours, beside his sunny fish-pools, saying many fine things, and, amongst others, 'There is nothing new under the sun!' * * * * * One day, whilst I bent my way to the heath of which I have spoken on a former occasion, at the foot of the hills which formed it I came to a place where a wagon was standing, but without horses, the shafts resting on the ground; there was a crowd about it, which extended half-way up the side of the neighbouring hill. The wagon was occupied by some half a dozen men; some sitting, others standing--they were dressed in sober-coloured habiliments of black or brown, cut in a plain and rather uncouth fashion, and partially white with dust; their hair was short, and seemed to have been smoothed down by the application of the hand; all were bareheaded--sitting or standing, all were bareheaded. One of them, a tall man, was speaking as I arrived; ere, however, I could distinguish what he was saying, he left off, and then there was a cry for a hymn 'to the glory of God'--that was the word. It was a strange-sounding hymn, as well it might be, for everybody joined in it: there were voices of all kinds, of men, of women, and of children--of those who could sing and of those who could not--a thousand voices all joined, and all joined heartily; no voice of all the multitude was silent save mine. The crowd consisted entirely of the lower classes, labourers and mechanics, and their wives and children--dusty people, unwashed people, people of no account whatever, and yet they did not look a mob. And when that hymn was over--and here let me observe that, strange as it sounded, I have recalled that hymn to mind, and it has seemed to tingle in my ears on occasions when all that pomp and art could do to enhance religious solemnity was being done--in the Sistine Chapel, what time the papal band was in full play, and the choicest choristers of Italy poured forth their mellowest tones in presence of Batuschca and his cardinals--on the ice of the Neva, what time the long train of stately priests, with their noble beards and their flowing robes of crimson and gold, with their ebony and ivory staves, stalked along, chanting their Sclavonian litanies in advance of the mighty Emperor of the North and his Priberjensky guard of giants, towards the orifice through which the river, running below in its swiftness, is to receive the baptismal lymph:--when the hymn was over, another man in the wagon proceeded to address the people; he was a much younger man than the last speaker; somewhat square built and about the middle height; his face was rather broad, but expressive of much intelligence, and with a peculiar calm and serious look; the accent in which he spoke indicated that he was not of these parts, but from some distant district. The subject of his address was faith, and how it could remove mountains. It was a plain address, without any attempt at ornament, and delivered in a tone which was neither loud nor vehement. The speaker was evidently not a practised one--once or twice he hesitated as if for words to express his meaning, but still he held on, talking of faith, and how it could remove mountains: 'It is the only thing we want, brethren, in this world; if we have that, we are indeed rich, as it will enable us to do our duty under all circumstances, and to bear our lot, however hard it may be--and the lot of all mankind is hard--the lot of the poor is hard, brethren--and who knows more of the poor than I?--a poor man myself, and the son of a poor man: but are the rich better off? not so, brethren, for God is just. The rich have their trials too: I am not rich myself, but I have seen the rich with careworn countenances; I have also seen them in madhouses; from which you may learn, brethren, that the lot of all mankind is hard; that is, till we lay hold of faith, which makes us comfortable under all circumstances; whether we ride in gilded chariots or walk barefooted in quest of bread; whether we be ignorant, whether we be wise--for riches and poverty, ignorance and wisdom, brethren, each brings with it its peculiar temptations. Well, under all these troubles, the thing which I would recommend you to seek is one and the same--faith; faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, who made us and allotted to each his station. Each has something to do, brethren. Do it, therefore, but always in faith; without faith we shall find ourselves sometimes at fault; but with faith never--for faith can remove the difficulty. It will teach us to love life, brethren, when life is becoming bitter, and to prize the blessings around us; for as every man has his cares, brethren, so has each man his blessings. It will likewise teach us not to love life over much, seeing that we must one day part with it. It will teach us to face death with resignation, and will preserve us from sinking amidst the swelling of the river Jordan.' And when he had concluded his address, he said, 'Let us sing a hymn, one composed by Master Charles Wesley--he was my countryman, brethren. 'Jesus, I cast my soul on Thee, Mighty and merciful to save; Thou shalt to death go down with me, And lay me gently in the grave. This body then shall rest in hope, This body which the worms destroy; For Thou shalt surely raise me up To glorious life and endless joy.' Farewell, preacher with the plain coat and the calm serious look! I saw thee once again, and that was lately--only the other day. It was near a fishing hamlet, by the sea-side, that I saw the preacher again. He stood on the top of a steep monticle, used by pilots as a look-out for vessels approaching that coast, a dangerous one, abounding in rocks and quick- sands. There he stood on the monticle, preaching to weather-worn fishermen and mariners gathered below upon the sand. 'Who is he?' said I to an old fisherman who stood beside me with a book of hymns in his hand; but the old man put his hand to his lips, and that was the only answer I received. Not a sound was heard but the voice of the preacher and the roaring of the waves; but the voice was heard loud above the roaring of the sea, for the preacher now spoke with power, and his voice was not that of one who hesitates. There he stood--no longer a young man, for his black locks were become gray, even like my own; but there was the intelligent face, and the calm serious look which had struck me of yore. There stood the preacher, one of those men--and, thank God, their number is not few--who, animated by the spirit of Christ, amidst much poverty, and, alas! much contempt, persist in carrying the light of the Gospel amidst the dark parishes of what, but for their instrumentality, would scarcely be Christian England. I would have waited till he had concluded, in order that I might speak to him, and endeavour to bring back the ancient scene to his recollection, but suddenly a man came hurrying towards the monticle, mounted on a speedy horse, and holding by the bridle one yet more speedy, and he whispered to me, 'Why loiterest thou here?--knowest thou not all that is to be done before midnight?' and he flung me the bridle; and I mounted on the horse of great speed, and I followed the other, who had already galloped off. And as I departed, I waved my hand to him on the monticle, and I shouted, 'Farewell, brother! the seed came up at last, after a long period!' and then I gave the speedy horse his way, and leaning over the shoulder of the galloping horse, I said, 'Would that my life had been like his--even like that man's!' I now wandered along the heath, till I came to a place where, beside a thick furze, sat a man, his eyes fixed intently on the red ball of the setting sun. 'That's not you, Jasper?' 'Indeed, brother!' 'I've not seen you for years.' 'How should you, brother?' 'What brings you here?' 'The fight, brother.' 'Where are the tents?' 'On the old spot, brother.' 'Any news since we parted?' 'Two deaths, brother.' 'Who are dead, Jasper?' 'Father and mother, brother.' 'Where did they die?' 'Where they were sent, brother.' 'And Mrs. Herne?' 'She's alive, brother.' 'Where is she now?' 'In Yorkshire, brother.' 'What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?' said I, as I sat down beside him. 'My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in the old song of Pharaoh, which I have heard my grandam sing-- Cana marel o manus chivios ande puv, Ta rovel pa leste o chavo ta romi. When a man dies, he is cast into the earth, and his wife and child sorrow over him. If he has neither wife nor child, then his father and mother, I suppose; and if he is quite alone in the world, why, then, he is cast into the earth, and there is an end of the matter.' {picture:'There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that, I would gladly live for ever.': page171.jpg} 'And do you think that is the end of a man?' 'There's an end of him, brother, more's the pity.' 'Why do you say so?' 'Life is sweet, brother.' 'Do you think so?' 'Think so!--There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?' 'I would wish to die--' 'You talk like a gorgio--which is the same as talking like a fool--were you a Rommany Chal you would talk wiser. Wish to die, indeed!--A Rommany Chal would wish to live for ever!' 'In sickness, Jasper?' 'There's the sun and stars, brother.' 'In blindness, Jasper?' 'There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that, I would gladly live for ever. Dosta, we'll now go to the tents and put on the gloves; and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother!' CHAPTER XXVI The flower of the grass--Days of pugilism--The rendezvous--Jews--Bruisers of England--Winter, spring--Well-earned bays--The fight--Huge black cloud--Frame of adamant--The storm--Dukkeripens--The barouche--The rain- gushes. How for everything there is a time and a season, and then how does the glory of a thing pass from it, even like the flower of the grass. This is a truism, but it is one of those which are continually forcing themselves upon the mind. Many years have not passed over my head, yet, during those which I can recall to remembrance, how many things have I seen flourish, pass away, and become forgotten, except by myself, who, in spite of all my endeavours, never can forget anything. I have known the time when a pugilistic encounter between two noted champions was almost considered in the light of a national affair; when tens of thousands of individuals, high and low, meditated and brooded upon it, the first thing in the morning and the last at night, until the great event was decided. But the time is past, and many people will say, thank God that it is; all I have to say is, that the French still live on the other side of the water, and are still casting their eyes hitherward--and that in the days of pugilism it was no vain blast to say that one Englishman was a match for two of t'other race; at present it would be a vain boast to say so, for these are not the days of pugilism. But those to which the course of my narrative has carried me were the days of pugilism; it was then at its height, and consequently near its decline, for corruption had crept into the ring; and how many things, states and sects among the rest, owe their decline to this cause! But what a bold and vigorous aspect pugilism wore at that time! and the great battle was just then coming off: the day had been decided upon, and the spot--a convenient distance from the old town; and to the old town were now flocking the bruisers of England, men of tremendous renown. Let no one sneer at the bruisers of England--what were the gladiators of Rome, or the bull-fighters of Spain, in its palmiest days, compared to England's bruisers? Pity that ever corruption should have crept in amongst them--but of that I wish not to talk; let us still hope that a spark of the old religion, of which they were the priests, still lingers in the breasts of Englishmen. There they come, the bruisers, from far London, or from wherever else they might chance to be at the time, to the great rendezvous in the old city; some came one way, some another: some of tip-top reputation came with peers in their chariots, for glory and fame are such fair things that even peers are proud to have those invested therewith by their sides; others came in their own gigs, driving their own bits of blood, and I heard one say: 'I have driven through at a heat the whole hundred and eleven miles, and only stopped to bait twice.' Oh, the blood-horses of old England! but they, too, have had their day--for everything beneath the sun there is a season and a time. But the greater number come just as they can contrive; on the tops of coaches, for example; and amongst these there are fellows with dark sallow faces and sharp shining eyes; and it is these that have planted rottenness in the core of pugilism, for they are Jews, and, true to their kind, have only base lucre in view. It was fierce old Cobbett, I think, who first said that the Jews first introduced bad faith amongst pugilists. He did not always speak the truth, but at any rate he spoke it when he made that observation. Strange people the Jews--endowed with every gift but one, and that the highest, genius divine--genius which can alone make of men demigods, and elevate them above earth and what is earthy and grovelling; without which a clever nation--and, who more clever than the Jews?--may have Rambams in plenty, but never a Fielding nor a Shakespeare. A Rothschild and a Mendoza, yes--but never a Kean nor a Belcher. So the bruisers of England are come to be present at the grand fight speedily coming off; there they are met in the precincts of the old town, near the field of the chapel, planted with tender saplings at the restoration of sporting Charles, which are now become venerable elms, as high as many a steeple; there they are met at a fitting rendezvous, where a retired coachman, with one leg, keeps an hotel and a bowling-green. I think I now see them upon the bowling-green, the men of renown, amidst hundreds of people with no renown at all, who gaze upon them with timid wonder. Fame, after all, is a glorious thing, though it lasts only for a day. There's Cribb, the champion of England, and perhaps the best man in England; there he is, with his huge massive figure, and face wonderfully like that of a lion. There is Belcher, the younger, not the mighty one, who is gone to his place, but the Teucer Belcher, the most scientific pugilist that ever entered a ring, only wanting strength to be, I won't say what. He appears to walk before me now, as he did that evening, with his white hat, white greatcoat, thin genteel figure, springy step, and keen, determined eye. Crosses him, what a contrast! grim, savage Shelton, who has a civil word for nobody, and a hard blow for anybody--hard! one blow, given with the proper play of his athletic arm, will unsense a giant. Yonder individual, who strolls about with his hands behind him, supporting his brown coat lappets, under-sized, and who looks anything but what he is, is the king of the light weights, so called--Randall! the terrible Randall, who has Irish blood in his veins; not the better for that, nor the worse; and not far from him is his last antagonist, Ned Turner, who, though beaten by him, still thinks himself as good a man, in which he is, perhaps, right, for it was a near thing; and 'a better shentleman,' in which he is quite right, for he is a Welshman. But how shall I name them all? they were there by dozens, and all tremendous in their way. There was Bulldog Hudson, and fearless Scroggins, who beat the conqueror of Sam the Jew. There was Black Richmond--no, he was not there, but I knew him well; he was the most dangerous of blacks, even with a broken thigh. There was Purcell, who could never conquer till all seemed over with him. There was--what! shall I name thee last? ay, why not? I believe that thou art the last of all that strong family still above the sod, where mayst thou long continue--true piece of English stuff, Tom of Bedford--sharp as Winter, kind as Spring. Hail to thee, Tom of Bedford, or by whatever name it may please thee to be called, Spring or Winter. Hail to thee, six-foot Englishman of the brown eye, worthy to have carried a six-foot bow at Flodden, where England's yeomen triumphed over Scotland's king, his clans and chivalry. Hail to thee, last of England's bruisers, after all the many victories which thou hast achieved--true English victories, unbought by yellow gold; need I recount them? nay, nay! they are already well known to fame--sufficient to say that Bristol's Bull and Ireland's Champion were vanquished by thee, and one mightier still, gold itself, thou didst overcome; for gold itself strove in vain to deaden the power of thy arm; and thus thou didst proceed till men left off challenging thee, the unvanquishable, the incorruptible. 'Tis a treat to see thee, Tom of Bedford, in thy 'public' in Holborn way, whither thou hast retired with thy well-earned bays. 'Tis Friday night, and nine by Holborn clock. There sits the yeoman at the end of his long room, surrounded by his friends; glasses are filled, and a song is the cry, and a song is sung well suited to the place; it finds an echo in every heart--fists are clenched, arms are waved, and the portraits of the mighty fighting men of yore, Broughton, and Slack, and Ben, which adorn the walls, appear to smile grim approbation, whilst many a manly voice joins in the bold chorus: Here's a health to old honest John Bull, When he's gone we shan't find such another, And with hearts and with glasses brim full, We will drink to old England, his mother. But the fight! with respect to the fight, what shall I say? Little can be said about it--it was soon over; some said that the brave from town, who was reputed the best man of the two, and whose form was a perfect model of athletic beauty, allowed himself, for lucre vile, to be vanquished by the massive champion with the flattened nose. One thing is certain, that the former was suddenly seen to sink to the earth before a blow of by no means extraordinary power. Time, time! was called; but there he lay upon the ground apparently senseless, and from thence he did not lift his head till several seconds after the umpires had declared his adversary victor. There were shouts; indeed there's never a lack of shouts to celebrate a victory, however acquired; but there was also much grinding of teeth, especially amongst the fighting men from town. 'Tom has sold us,' said they, 'sold us to the yokels; who would have thought it?' Then there was fresh grinding of teeth, and scowling brows were turned to the heaven; but what is this? is it possible, does the heaven scowl too? why, only a quarter of an hour ago . . . but what may not happen in a quarter of an hour? For many weeks the weather had been of the most glorious description, the eventful day, too, had dawned gloriously, and so it had continued till some two hours after noon; the fight was then over; and about that time I looked up--what a glorious sky of deep blue, and what a big fierce sun swimming high above in the midst of that blue; not a cloud--there had not been one for weeks--not a cloud to be seen, only in the far west, just on the horizon, something like the extremity of a black wing; that was only a quarter of an hour ago, and now the whole northern side of the heaven is occupied by a huge black cloud, and the sun is only occasionally seen amidst masses of driving vapour; what a change! but another fight is at hand, and the pugilists are clearing the outer ring;--how their huge whips come crashing upon the heads of the yokels; blood flows, more blood than in the fight; those blows are given with right good-will, those are not sham blows, whether of whip or fist; it is with fist that grim Shelton strikes down the big yokel; he is always dangerous, grim Shelton, but now particularly so, for he has lost ten pounds betted on the brave who sold himself to the yokels; but the outer ring is cleared: and now the second fight commences; it is between two champions of less renown than the others, but is perhaps not the worse on that account. A tall thin boy is fighting in the ring with a man somewhat under the middle size, with a frame of adamant; that's a gallant boy! he's a yokel, but he comes from Brummagem, and he does credit to his extraction; but his adversary has a frame of adamant: in what a strange light they fight, but who can wonder, on looking at that frightful cloud usurping now one-half of heaven, and at the sun struggling with sulphurous vapour; the face of the boy, which is turned towards me, looks horrible in that light, but he is a brave boy, he strikes his foe on the forehead, and the report of the blow is like the sound of a hammer against a rock; but there is a rush and a roar overhead, a wild commotion, the tempest is beginning to break loose; there's wind and dust, a crash, rain and hail; is it possible to fight amidst such a commotion? yes! the fight goes on; again the boy strikes the man full on the brow, but it is of no use striking that man, his frame is of adamant. 'Boy, thy strength is beginning to give way, and thou art becoming confused'; the man now goes to work, amidst rain and hail. 'Boy, thou wilt not hold out ten minutes longer against rain, hail, and the blows of such an antagonist.' And now the storm was at its height; the black thunder-cloud had broken into many, which assumed the wildest shapes and the strangest colours, some of them unspeakably glorious; the rain poured in a deluge, and more than one waterspout was seen at no great distance: an immense rabble is hurrying in one direction; a multitude of men of all ranks, peers and yokels, prize-fighters and Jews, and the last came to plunder, and are now plundering amidst that wild confusion of hail and rain, men and horses, carts and carriages. But all hurry in one direction, through mud and mire; there's a town only three miles distant, which is soon reached, and soon filled, it will not contain one-third of that mighty rabble; but there's another town farther on--the good old city is farther on, only twelve miles; what's that! who will stay here? onward to the old town. Hurry-skurry, a mixed multitude of men and horses, carts and carriages, all in the direction of the old town; and, in the midst of all that mad throng, at a moment when the rain-gushes were coming down with particular fury, and the artillery of the sky was pealing as I had never heard it peal before, I felt some one seize me by the arm--I turned round, and beheld Mr. Petulengro. 'I can't hear you, Mr. Petulengro,' said I; for the thunder drowned the words which he appeared to be uttering. 'Dearginni,' I heard Mr. Petulengro say, 'it thundreth. I was asking, brother, whether you believe in dukkeripens?' 'I do not, Mr. Petulengro; but this is strange weather to be asking me whether I believe in fortunes.' 'Grondinni,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'it haileth. I believe in dukkeripens, brother.' 'And who has more right,' said I; 'seeing that you live by them? But this tempest is truly horrible.' 'Dearginni, grondinni ta villaminni! It thundreth, it haileth, and also flameth,' said Mr. Petulengro. 'Look up there, brother!' I looked up. Connected with this tempest there was one feature to which I have already alluded--the wonderful colours of the clouds. Some were of vivid green; others of the brightest orange; others as black as pitch. The gypsy's finger was pointed to a particular part of the sky. 'What do you see there, brother?' 'A strange kind of cloud.' 'What does it look like, brother?' 'Something like a stream of blood.' 'That cloud foreshoweth a bloody dukkeripen.' 'A bloody fortune!' said I. 'And whom may it betide?' 'Who knows!' said the gypsy. Down the way, dashing and splashing, and scattering man, horse, and cart to the left and right, came an open barouche, drawn by four smoking steeds, with postilions in scarlet jackets and leather skull-caps. Two forms were conspicuous in it; that of the successful bruiser, and of his friend and backer, the sporting gentleman of my acquaintance. 'His!' said the gypsy, pointing to the latter, whose stern features wore a smile of triumph, as, probably recognising me in the crowd, he nodded in the direction of where I stood, as the barouche hurried by. There went the barouche, dashing through the rain-gushes, and in it one whose boast it was that he was equal to 'either fortune.' Many have heard of that man--many may be desirous of knowing yet more of him. I have nothing to do with that man's after life--he fulfilled his dukkeripen. 'A bad, violent man!' Softly, friend; when thou wouldst speak harshly of the dead, remember that thou hast not yet fulfilled thy own dukkeripen! {picture:'That cloud foreshoweth a bloody dukkeripen.': page179.jpg} CHAPTER XXVII My father--Premature decay--The easy-chair--A few questions--So you told me--A difficult language--They can it Haik--Misused opportunities--Saul--Want of candour--Don't weep--Heaven forgive me--Dated from Paris--I wish he were here--A father's reminiscences--Farewell to vanities. My father, as I have already informed the reader, had been endowed by nature with great corporeal strength; indeed, I have been assured that, at the period of his prime, his figure had denoted the possession of almost Herculean powers. The strongest forms, however, do not always endure the longest, the very excess of the noble and generous juices which they contain being the cause of their premature decay. But, be that as it may, the health of my father, some few years after his retirement from the service to the quiet of domestic life, underwent a considerable change; his constitution appeared to be breaking up; and he was subject to severe attacks from various disorders, with which, till then, he had been utterly unacquainted. He was, however, wont to rally, more or less, after his illnesses, and might still occasionally be seen taking his walk, with his cane in his hand, and accompanied by his dog, who sympathised entirely with him, pining as he pined, improving as he improved, and never leaving the house save in his company; and in this manner matters went on for a considerable time, no very great apprehension with respect to my father's state being raised either in my mother's breast or my own. But, about six months after the period at which I have arrived in my last chapter, it came to pass that my father experienced a severer attack than on any previous occasion. He had the best medical advice; but it was easy to see, from the looks of his doctors, that they entertained but slight hopes of his recovery. His sufferings were great, yet he invariably bore them with unshaken fortitude. There was one thing remarkable connected with his illness; notwithstanding its severity, it never confined him to his bed. He was wont to sit in his little parlour, in his easy-chair, dressed in a faded regimental coat, his dog at his feet, who would occasionally lift his head from the hearth-rug on which he lay, and look his master wistfully in the face. And thus my father spent the greater part of his time, sometimes in prayer, sometimes in meditation, and sometimes in reading the Scriptures. I frequently sat with him, though, as I entertained a great awe for my father, I used to feel rather ill at ease, when, as sometimes happened, I found myself alone with him. 'I wish to ask you a few questions,' said he to me one day, after my mother had left the room. 'I will answer anything you may please to ask me, my dear father.' 'What have you been about lately?' 'I have been occupied as usual, attending at the office at the appointed hours.' 'And what do you there?' 'Whatever I am ordered.' 'And nothing else?' 'Oh yes! sometimes I read a book.' 'Connected with your profession?' 'Not always; I have been lately reading Armenian--' 'What's that?' 'The language of a people whose country is a region on the other side of Asia Minor.' 'Well!' 'A region abounding with mountains.' 'Well!' 'Amongst which is Mount Ararat.' 'Well!' 'Upon which, as the Bible informs us, the ark rested.' 'Well!' 'It is the language of the people of those regions--' 'So you told me.' 'And I have been reading the Bible in their language.' 'Well!' 'Or rather, I should say, in the ancient language of these people; from which I am told the modem Armenian differs considerably.' 'Well!' 'As much as the Italian from the Latin.' 'Well!' 'So I have been reading the Bible in ancient Armenian.' 'You told me so before.' 'I found it a highly difficult language.' 'Yes.' 'Differing widely from the languages in general with which I am acquainted.' 'Yes.' 'Exhibiting, however, some features in common with them.' 'Yes.' 'And sometimes agreeing remarkably in words with a certain strange wild speech with which I became acquainted--' 'Irish?' 'No, father, not Irish--with which I became acquainted by the greatest chance in the world.' 'Yes.' 'But of which I need say nothing farther at present, and which I should not have mentioned but for that fact.' 'Well!' 'Which I consider remarkable.' 'Yes.' 'The Armenian is copious.' 'Is it?' 'With an alphabet of thirty-nine letters, but it is harsh and guttural.' 'Yes.' 'Like the language of most mountainous people--the Armenians call it Haik.' 'Do they?' 'And themselves, Haik, also; they are a remarkable people, and, though their original habitation is the Mountain of Ararat, they are to be found, like the Jews, all over the world.' 'Well!' 'Well, father, that's all I can tell you about the Haiks, or Armenians.' 'And what does it all amount to?' 'Very little, father; indeed, there is very little known about the Armenians; their early history, in particular, is involved in considerable mystery.' 'And, if you knew all that it was possible to know about them, to what would it amount? to what earthly purpose could you turn it? have you acquired any knowledge of your profession?' 'Very little, father.' 'Very little! Have you acquired all in your power?' 'I can't say that I have, father.' 'And yet it was your duty to have done so. But I see how it is, you have shamefully misused your opportunities; you are like one who, sent into the field to labour, passes his time in flinging stones at the birds of heaven.' 'I would scorn to fling a stone at a bird, father.' 'You know what I mean, and all too well, and this attempt to evade deserved reproof by feigned simplicity is quite in character with your general behaviour. I have ever observed about you a want of frankness, which has distressed me; you never speak of what you are about, your hopes, or your projects, but cover yourself with mystery. I never knew till the present moment that you were acquainted with Armenian.' 'Because you never asked me, father; there's nothing to conceal in the matter--I will tell you in a moment how I came to learn Armenian. A lady whom I met at one of Mrs. ---'s parties took a fancy to me, and has done me the honour to allow me to go and see her sometimes. She is the widow of a rich clergyman, and on her husband's death came to this place to live, bringing her husband's library with her: I soon found my way to it, and examined every book. Her husband must have been a learned man, for amongst much Greek and Hebrew I found several volumes in Armenian, or relating to the language.' 'And why did you not tell me of this before?' 'Because you never questioned me; but, I repeat, there is nothing to conceal in the matter. The lady took a fancy to me, and, being fond of the arts, drew my portrait; she said the expression of my countenance put her in mind of Alfieri's Saul.' 'And do you still visit her?' 'No, she soon grew tired of me, and told people that she found me very stupid; she gave me the Armenian books, however.' 'Saul,' said my father, musingly, 'Saul. I am afraid she was only too right there; he disobeyed the commands of his master, and brought down on his head the vengeance of Heaven--he became a maniac, prophesied, and flung weapons about him.' 'He was, indeed, an awful character--I hope I shan't turn out like him.' 'God forbid!' said my father, solemnly; 'but in many respects you are headstrong and disobedient like him. I placed you in a profession, and besought you to make yourself master of it by giving it your undivided attention. This, however, you did not do, you know nothing of it, but tell me that you are acquainted with Armenian; but what I dislike most is your want of candour--you are my son, but I know little of your real history, you may know fifty things for what I am aware: you may know how to shoe a horse for what I am aware.' 'Not only to shoe a horse, father, but to make horse-shoes.' 'Perhaps so,' said my father; 'and it only serves to prove what I was just saying, that I know little about you.' 'But you easily may, my dear father; I will tell you anything that you may wish to know--shall I inform you how I learnt to make horse-shoes?' 'No,' said my father; 'as you kept it a secret so long, it may as well continue so still. Had you been a frank, open-hearted boy, like one I could name, you would have told me all about it of your own accord. But I now wish to ask you a serious question--what do you propose to do?' 'To do, father?' 'Yes! the time for which you were articled to your profession will soon be expired, and I shall be no more.' 'Do not talk so, my dear father; I have no doubt that you will soon be better.' 'Do not flatter yourself; I feel that my days are numbered, I am soon going to my rest, and I have need of rest, for I am weary. There, there, don't weep! Tears will help me as little as they will you; you have not yet answered my question. Tell me what you intend to do?' 'I really do not know what I shall do.' 'The military pension which I enjoy will cease with my life. The property which I shall leave behind me will be barely sufficient for the maintenance of your mother respectably. I again ask you what you intend to do. Do you think you can support yourself by your Armenian or your other acquirements?' 'Alas! I think little at all about it; but I suppose I must push into the world, and make a good fight, as becomes the son of him who fought Big Ben; if I can't succeed, and am driven to the worst, it is but dying--' 'What do you mean by dying?' 'Leaving the world; my loss would scarcely be felt. I have never held life in much value, and every one has a right to dispose as he thinks best of that which is his own.' 'Ah! now I understand you; and well I know how and where you imbibed that horrible doctrine, and many similar ones which I have heard from your mouth; but I wish not to reproach you--I view in your conduct a punishment for my own sins, and I bow to the will of God. Few and evil have been my days upon the earth; little have I done to which I can look back with satisfaction. It is true I have served my king fifty years, and I have fought with--Heaven forgive me, what was I about to say!--but you mentioned the man's name, and our minds willingly recall our ancient follies. Few and evil have been my days upon earth, I may say with Jacob of old, though I do not mean to say that my case is so hard as his; he had many undutiful children, whilst I have only ---; but I will not reproach you. I have also like him a son to whom I can look with hope, who may yet preserve my name when I am gone, so let me be thankful; perhaps, after all, I have not lived in vain. Boy, when I am gone, look up to your brother, and may God bless you both! There, don't weep; but take the Bible, and read me something about the old man and his children.' My brother had now been absent for the space of three years. At first his letters had been frequent, and from them it appeared that he was following his profession in London with industry; they then became rather rare, and my father did not always communicate their contents. His last letter, however, had filled him and our whole little family with joy; it was dated from Paris, and the writer was evidently in high spirits. After describing in eloquent terms the beauties and gaieties of the French capital, he informed us how he had plenty of money, having copied a celebrated picture of one of the Italian masters for a Hungarian nobleman, for which he had received a large sum. 'He wishes me to go with him to Italy,' added he, 'but I am fond of independence; and, if ever I visit old Rome, I will have no patrons near me to distract my attention.' But six months had now elapsed from the date of this letter, and we had heard no further intelligence of my brother. My father's complaint increased; the gout, his principal enemy, occasionally mounted high up in his system, and we had considerable difficulty in keeping it from the stomach, where it generally proves fatal. I now devoted almost the whole of my time to my father, on whom his faithful partner also lavished every attention and care. I read the Bible to him, which was his chief delight; and also occasionally such other books as I thought might prove entertaining to him. His spirits were generally rather depressed. The absence of my brother appeared to prey upon his mind. 'I wish he were here,' he would frequently exclaim; 'I can't imagine what can have become of him; I trust, however, he will arrive in time.' He still sometimes rallied, and I took advantage of those moments of comparative ease to question him upon the events of his early life. My attentions to him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly, and unreserved. I had never known my father so entertaining as at these moments, when his life was but too evidently drawing to a close. I had no idea that he knew and had seen so much; my respect for him increased, and I looked upon him almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in general highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with some of the brightest glories of our native land. He had frequently conversed--almost on terms of familiarity--with good old George. He had known the conqueror of Tippoo Saib; and was the friend of Townshend, who, when Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of Montcalm. 'Pity,' he added, 'that when old--old as I am now--he should have driven his own son mad by robbing him of his plighted bride; but so it was; he married his son's bride. I saw him lead her to the altar; if ever there was an angelic countenance, it was that girl's; she was almost too fair to be one of the daughters of women. Is there anything, boy, that you would wish to ask me? now is the time.' 'Yes, father; there is one about whom I would fain question you.' 'Who is it? shall I tell you about Elliot?' 'No, father, not about Elliot; but pray don't be angry; I should like to know something about Big Ben.' 'You are a strange lad,' said my father; 'and, though of late I have begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is still much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that name? Don't you know that it is one of my temptations: you wish to know something about him. Well! I will oblige you this once, and then farewell to such vanities--something about him. I will tell you--his--skin when he flung off his clothes--and he had a particular knack in doing so--his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for combat; and when he fought he stood, so . . . . if I remember right--his skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my elder son was here.' CHAPTER XXVIII My brother's arrival--The interview--Night--A dying father--Christ. At last my brother arrived; he looked pale and unwell; I met him at the door. 'You have been long absent,' said I. 'Yes,' said he, 'perhaps too long; but how is my father?' 'Very poorly,' said I, 'he has had a fresh attack; but where have you been of late?' 'Far and wide,' said my brother; 'but I can't tell you anything now, I must go to my father. It was only by chance that I heard of his illness.' 'Stay a moment,' said I. 'Is the world such a fine place as you supposed it to be before you went away?' 'Not quite,' said my brother, 'not quite; indeed I wish--but ask me no questions now, I must hasten to my father.' There was another question on my tongue, but I forbore; for the eyes of the young man were full of tears. I pointed with my finger, and the young man hastened past me to the arms of his father. I forbore to ask my brother whether he had been to old Rome. What passed between my father and brother I do not know; the interview, no doubt, was tender enough, for they tenderly loved each other; but my brother's arrival did not produce the beneficial effect upon my father which I at first hoped it would; it did not even appear to have raised his spirits. He was composed enough, however: 'I ought to be grateful,' said he; 'I wished to see my son, and God has granted me my wish; what more have I to do now than to bless my little family and go?' My father's end was evidently at hand. And did I shed no tears? did I breathe no sighs? did I never wring my hands at this period? the reader will perhaps be asking. Whatever I did and thought is best known to God and myself; but it will be as well to observe, that it is possible to feel deeply, and yet make no outward sign. And now for the closing scene. At the dead hour of night, it might be about two, I was awakened from sleep by a cry which sounded from the room immediately below that in which I slept. I knew the cry, it was the cry of my mother; and I also knew its import, yet I made no effort to rise, for I was for the moment paralysed. Again the cry sounded, yet still I lay motionless--the stupidity of horror was upon me. A third time, and it was then that, by a violent effort, bursting the spell which appeared to bind me, I sprang from the bed and rushed downstairs. My mother was running wildly about the room; she had awoke, and found my father senseless in the bed by her side. I essayed to raise him, and after a few efforts supported him in the bed in a sitting posture. My brother now rushed in, and, snatching up a light that was burning, he held it to my father's face. 'The surgeon, the surgeon!' he cried; then, dropping the light, he ran out of the room followed by my mother; I remained alone, supporting the senseless form of my father; the light had been extinguished by the fall, and an almost total darkness reigned in the room. The form pressed heavily against my bosom--at last methought it moved. Yes, I was right, there was a heaving of the breast, and then a gasping. Were those words which I heard? Yes, they were words, low and indistinct at first, and then audible. The mind of the dying man was reverting to former scenes. I heard him mention names which I had often heard him mention before. It was an awful moment; I felt stupefied, but I still contrived to support my dying father. There was a pause, again my father spoke: I heard him speak of Minden, and of Meredith, the old Minden sergeant, and then he uttered another name, which at one period of his life was much in his lips, the name of . . . but this is a solemn moment! There was a deep gasp: I shook, and thought all was over; but I was mistaken--my father moved, and revived for a moment; he supported himself in bed without my assistance. I make no doubt that for a moment he was perfectly sensible, and it was then that, clasping his hands, he uttered another name clearly, distinctly--it was the name of Christ. With that name upon his lips, the brave old soldier sank back upon my bosom, and, with his hands still clasped, yielded up his soul. CHAPTER XXIX The greeting--Queer figure--Cheer up--The cheerful fire--It will do--The sally forth--Trepidation--Let him come in. 'One-and-ninepence, sir, or the things which you have brought with you will be taken away from you!' Such were the first words which greeted my ears, one damp misty morning in March, as I dismounted from the top of a coach in the yard of a London inn. I turned round, for I felt that the words were addressed to myself. Plenty of people were in the yard--porters, passengers, coachmen, hostlers, and others, who appeared to be intent on anything but myself, with the exception of one individual, whose business appeared to lie with me, and who now confronted me at the distance of about two yards. I looked hard at the man--and a queer kind of individual he was to look at--a rakish figure, about thirty, and of the middle size, dressed in a coat smartly cut, but threadbare, very tight pantaloons of blue stuff, tied at the ankles, dirty white stockings and thin shoes, like those of a dancing-master; his features were not ugly, but rather haggard, and he appeared to owe his complexion less to nature than carmine; in fact, in every respect, a very queer figure. 'One-and-ninepence, sir, or your things will be taken away from you!' he said, in a kind of lisping tone, coming yet nearer to me. I still remained staring fixedly at him, but never a word answered. Our eyes met; whereupon he suddenly lost the easy impudent air which he before wore. He glanced, for a moment, at my fist, which I had by this time clenched, and his features became yet more haggard; he faltered; a fresh 'one-and-ninepence,' which he was about to utter, died on his lips; he shrank back, disappeared behind a coach, and I saw no more of him. 'One-and-ninepence, or my things will be taken away from me!' said I to myself, musingly, as I followed the porter to whom I had delivered my scanty baggage; 'am I to expect many of these greetings in the big world? Well, never mind! I think I know the counter-sign!' And I clenched my fist yet harder than before. So I followed the porter, through the streets of London, to a lodging which had been prepared for me by an acquaintance. The morning, as I have before said, was gloomy, and the streets through which I passed were dank and filthy; the people, also, looked dank and filthy; and so, probably, did I, for the night had been rainy, and I had come upwards of a hundred miles on the top of a coach; my heart had sunk within me, by the time we reached a dark narrow street, in which was the lodging. 'Cheer up, young man,' said the porter, 'we shall have a fine afternoon!' And presently I found myself in the lodging which had been prepared for me. It consisted of a small room, up two pair of stairs, in which I was to sit, and another still smaller above it, in which I was to sleep. I remember that I sat down, and looked disconsolate about me--everything seemed so cold and dingy. Yet how little is required to make a situation--however cheerless at first sight--cheerful and comfortable. The people of the house, who looked kindly upon me, lighted a fire in the dingy grate; and, then, what a change!--the dingy room seemed dingy no more! Oh the luxury of a cheerful fire after a chill night's journey! I drew near to the blazing grate, rubbed my hands, and felt glad. And, when I had warmed myself, I turned to the table, on which, by this time, the people of the house had placed my breakfast; and I ate and I drank; and, as I ate and drank, I mused within myself, and my eyes were frequently directed to a small green box, which constituted part of my luggage, and which, with the rest of my things, stood in one corner of the room, till at last, leaving my breakfast unfinished, I rose, and, going to the box, unlocked it, and took out two or three bundles of papers tied with red tape, and, placing them on the table, I resumed my seat and my breakfast, my eyes intently fixed upon the bundles of papers all the time. And when I had drained the last cup of tea out of a dingy teapot, and ate the last slice of the dingy loaf, I untied one of the bundles, and proceeded to look over the papers, which were closely written over in a singular hand, and I read for some time, till at last I said to myself, 'It will do.' And then I looked at the other bundle for some time without untying it; and at last I said, 'It will do also.' And then I turned to the fire, and, putting my feet against the sides of the grate, I leaned back on my chair, and, with my eyes upon the fire, fell into deep thought. And there I continued in thought before the fire, until my eyes closed, and I fell asleep; which was not to be wondered at, after the fatigue and cold which I had lately undergone on the coach-top; and, in my sleep, I imagined myself still there, amidst darkness and rain, hurrying now over wild heaths, and now along roads overhung with thick and umbrageous trees, and sometimes methought I heard the horn of the guard, and sometimes the voice of the coachman, now chiding, now encouraging his horses, as they toiled through the deep and miry ways. At length a tremendous crack of a whip saluted the tympanum of my ear, and I started up broad awake, nearly oversetting the chair on which I reclined--and lo! I was in the dingy room before the fire, which was by this time half extinguished. In my dream I had confounded the noise of the street with those of my night journey; the crack which had aroused me I soon found proceeded from the whip of a carter, who, with many oaths, was flogging his team below the window. Looking at a clock which stood upon the mantelpiece, I perceived that it was past eleven; whereupon I said to myself, 'I am wasting my time foolishly and unprofitably, forgetting that I am now in the big world, without anything to depend upon save my own exertions'; and then I adjusted my dress, and, locking up the bundle of papers which I had not read, I tied up the other, and, taking it under my arm, I went downstairs; and, after asking a question or two of the people of the house, I sallied forth into the street with a determined look, though at heart I felt somewhat timorous at the idea of venturing out alone into the mazes of the mighty city, of which I had heard much, but of which, of my own knowledge, I knew nothing. {picture:I sprang up the steps, and gave a loud rap: page192.jpg} I had, however, no great cause for anxiety in the present instance; I easily found my way to the place which I was in quest of--one of the many new squares on the northern side of the metropolis, and which was scarcely ten minutes' walk from the street in which I had taken up my abode. Arriving before the door of a tolerably large house which bore a certain number, I stood still for a moment in a kind of trepidation, looking anxiously at the door; I then slowly passed on till I came to the end of the square, where I stood still, and pondered for a while. Suddenly, however, like one who has formed a resolution, I clenched my right hand, flinging my hat somewhat on one side, and, turning back with haste to the door before which I had stopped, I sprang up the steps, and gave a loud rap, ringing at the same time the bell of the area. After the lapse of a minute the door was opened by a maid-servant of no very cleanly or prepossessing appearance, of whom I demanded, in a tone of some hauteur, whether the master of the house was at home. Glancing for a moment at the white paper bundle beneath my arm, the handmaid made no reply in words, but, with a kind of toss of her head, flung the door open, standing on one side as if to let me enter. I did enter; and the hand-maid, having opened another door on the right hand, went in, and said something which I could not hear: after a considerable pause, however, I heard the voice of a man say, 'Let him come in'; whereupon the handmaid, coming out, motioned me to enter, and, on my obeying, instantly closed the door behind me. CHAPTER XXX The sinister glance--Excellent correspondent--Quite original--My system--A losing trade--Merit--Starting a Review--What have you got?--Stop!--_Dairyman's Daughter_--Oxford principles--More conversation--How is this? There were two individuals in the room in which I now found myself; it was a small study, surrounded with bookcases, the window looking out upon the square. Of these individuals he who appeared to be the principal stood with his back to the fireplace. He was a tall stout man, about sixty, dressed in a loose morning gown. The expression of his countenance would have been bluff but for a certain sinister glance, and his complexion might have been called rubicund but for a considerable tinge of bilious yellow. He eyed me askance as I entered. The other, a pale, shrivelled-looking person, sat at a table apparently engaged with an account-book; he took no manner of notice of me, never once lifting his eyes from the page before him. 'Well, sir, what is your pleasure?' said the big man, in a rough tone, as I stood there, looking at him wistfully--as well I might--for upon that man, at the time of which I am speaking, my principal, I may say my only, hopes rested. 'Sir,' said I, 'my name is so-and-so, and I am the bearer of a letter to you from Mr. so-and-so, an old friend and correspondent of yours.' The countenance of the big man instantly lost the suspicious and lowering expression which it had hitherto exhibited; he strode forward, and, seizing me by the hand, gave me a violent squeeze. 'My dear sir,' said he, 'I am rejoiced to see you in London. I have been long anxious for the pleasure--we are old friends, though we have never before met. Taggart,' said he to the man who sat at the desk, 'this is our excellent correspondent, the friend and pupil of our other excellent correspondent.' The pale, shrivelled-looking man slowly and deliberately raised his head from the account-book, and surveyed me for a moment or two; not the slightest emotion was observable in his countenance. It appeared to me, however, that I could detect a droll twinkle in his eye: his curiosity, if he had any, was soon gratified; he made me a kind of bow, pulled out a snuff-box, took a pinch of snuff, and again bent his head over the page. 'And now, my dear sir,' said the big man, 'pray sit down, and tell me the cause of your visit. I hope you intend to remain here a day or two.' 'More than that,' said I, 'I am come to take up my abode in London.' 'Glad to hear it; and what have you been about of late? got anything which will suit me? Sir, I admire your style of writing, and your manner of thinking; and I am much obliged to my good friend and correspondent for sending me some of your productions. I inserted them all, and wished there had been more of them--quite original, sir, quite: took with the public, especially the essay about the non-existence of anything. I don't exactly agree with you though; I have my own peculiar ideas about matter--as you know, of course, from the book I have published. Nevertheless, a very pretty piece of speculative philosophy--no such thing as matter--impossible that there should be--_ex nihilo_--what is the Greek? I have forgot--very pretty indeed; very original.' 'I am afraid, sir, it was very wrong to write such trash, and yet more to allow it to be published.' 'Trash! not at all; a very pretty piece of speculative philosophy; of course you were wrong in saying there is no world. The world must exist, to have the shape of a pear; and that the world is shaped like a pear, and not like an apple, as the fools of Oxford say, I have satisfactorily proved in my book. Now, if there were no world, what would become of my system? But what do you propose to do in London?' 'Here is the letter, sir,' said I, 'of our good friend, which I have not yet given to you; I believe it will explain to you the circumstances under which I come.' He took the letter, and perused it with attention. 'Hem!' said he, with a somewhat altered manner, 'my friend tells me that you are come up to London with the view of turning your literary talents to account, and desires me to assist you in my capacity of publisher in bringing forth two or three works which you have prepared. My good friend is perhaps not aware that for some time past I have given up publishing--was obliged to do so--had many severe losses--do nothing at present in that line, save sending out the Magazine once a month; and, between ourselves, am thinking of disposing of that--wish to retire--high time at my age--so you see--' 'I am very sorry, sir, to hear that you cannot assist me' (and I remember that I felt very nervous); 'I had hoped--' 'A losing trade, I assure you, sir; literature is a drug. Taggart, what o'clock is?' 'Well, sir!' said I, rising, 'as you cannot assist me, I will now take my leave; I thank you sincerely for your kind reception, and will trouble you no longer.' 'Oh, don't go. I wish to have some further conversation with you; and perhaps I may hit upon some plan to benefit you. I honour merit, and always make a point to encourage it when I can; but--Taggart, go to the bank, and tell them to dishonour the bill twelve months after date for thirty pounds which becomes due to-morrow. I am dissatisfied with that fellow who wrote the fairy tales, and intend to give him all the trouble in my power. Make haste.' Taggart did not appear to be in any particular haste. First of all, he took a pinch of snuff, then, rising from his chair, slowly and deliberately drew his wig, for he wore a wig of a brown colour, rather more over his forehead than it had previously been, buttoned his coat, and, taking his hat, and an umbrella which stood in a corner, made me a low bow, and quitted the room. 'Well, sir, where were we? Oh, I remember, we were talking about merit. Sir, I always wish to encourage merit, especially when it comes so highly recommended as in the present instance. Sir, my good friend and correspondent speaks of you in the highest terms. Sir, I honour my good friend, and have the highest respect for his opinion in all matters connected with literature--rather eccentric though. Sir, my good friend has done my periodical more good and more harm than all the rest of my correspondents. Sir, I shall never forget the sensation caused by the appearance of his article about a certain personage whom he proved--and I think satisfactorily--to have been a legionary soldier--rather startling, was it not? The S--- of the world a common soldier, in a marching regiment--original, but startling; sir, I honour my good friend.' 'So you have renounced publishing, sir,' said I, 'with the exception of the Magazine?' 'Why, yes; except now and then, under the rose; the old coachman, you know, likes to hear the whip. Indeed, at the present moment, I am thinking of starting a Review on an entirely new and original principle; and it just struck me that you might be of high utility in the undertaking--what do you think of the matter?' 'I should be happy, sir, to render you any assistance, but I am afraid the employment you propose requires other qualifications than I possess; however, I can make the essay. My chief intention in coming to London was to lay before the world what I had prepared; and I had hoped by your assistance--' 'Ah! I see, ambition! Ambition is a very pretty thing; but, sir, we must walk before we run, according to the old saying--what is that you have got under your arm?' 'One of the works to which I was alluding; the one, indeed, which I am most anxious to lay before the world, as I hope to derive from it both profit and reputation.' 'Indeed! what do you call it?' 'Ancient songs of Denmark, heroic and romantic, translated by myself; with notes philological, critical, and historical.' 'Then, sir, I assure you that your time and labour have been entirely flung away; nobody would read your ballads, if you were to give them to the world to-morrow.' 'I am sure, sir, that you would say otherwise if you would permit me to read one to you'; and, without waiting for the answer of the big man, nor indeed so much as looking at him, to see whether he was inclined or not to hear me, I undid my manuscript, and, with a voice trembling with eagerness, I read to the following effect:-- Buckshank bold and Elfinstone, And more than I can mention here, They caused to be built so stout a ship, And unto Iceland they would steer. They launched the ship upon the main, Which bellowed like a wrathful bear; Down to the bottom the vessel sank, A laidly Trold has dragged it there. Down to the bottom sank young Roland, And round about he groped awhile; Until he found the path which led Unto the bower of Ellenlyle. 'Stop!' said the publisher; 'very pretty indeed, and very original; beats Scott hollow, and Percy too: but, sir, the day for these things is gone by; nobody at present cares for Percy, nor for Scott either, save as a novelist; sorry to discourage merit, sir, but what can I do! What else have you got?' 'The songs of Ab Gwilym, the Welsh bard, also translated by myself, with notes critical, philological, and historical.' 'Pass on--what else?' 'Nothing else,' said I, folding up my manuscript with a sigh, 'unless it be a romance in the German style; on which, I confess, I set very little value.' 'Wild?' 'Yes, sir, very wild.' 'Like the Miller of the Black Valley?' 'Yes, sir, very much like the Miller of the Black Valley.' 'Well, that's better,' said the publisher; 'and yet, I don't know, I question whether any one at present cares for the miller himself. No, sir, the time for those things is also gone by; German, at present, is a drug; and, between ourselves, nobody has contributed to make it so more than my good friend and correspondent;--but, sir, I see you are a young gentleman of infinite merit, and I always wish to encourage merit. Don't you think you could write a series of evangelical tales?' 'Evangelical tales, sir?' 'Yes, sir, evangelical novels.' 'Something in the style of Herder?' 'Herder is a drug, sir; nobody cares for Herder--thanks to my good friend. Sir, I have in yon drawer a hundred pages about Herder, which I dare not insert in my periodical; it would sink it, sir. No, sir, something in the style of the _Dairyman's Daughter_.' 'I never heard of the work till the present moment.' 'Then, sir, procure it by all means. Sir, I could afford as much as ten pounds for a well-written tale in the style of the _Dairyman's Daughter_; that is the kind of literature, sir, that sells at the present day! It is not the Miller of the Black Valley--no, sir, nor Herder either, that will suit the present taste; the evangelical body is becoming very strong, sir; the canting scoundrels--' 'But, sir, surely you would not pander to a scoundrelly taste?' 'Then, sir, I must give up business altogether. Sir, I have a great respect for the goddess Reason--an infinite respect, sir; indeed, in my time, I have made a great many sacrifices for her; but, sir, I cannot altogether ruin myself for the goddess Reason. Sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as is well known; but I must also be a friend to my own family. It is with the view of providing for a son of mine that I am about to start the Review of which I was speaking. He has taken into his head to marry, sir, and I must do something for him, for he can do but little for himself. Well, sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as I said before, and likewise a friend to Reason; but I tell you frankly that the Review which I intend to get up under the rose, and present him with when it is established, will be conducted on Oxford principles.' 'Orthodox principles, I suppose you mean, sir?' 'I do, sir; I am no linguist, but I believe the words are synonymous.' Much more conversation passed between us, and it was agreed that I should become a contributor to the Oxford Review. I stipulated, however, that, as I knew little of politics, and cared less, no other articles should be required from me than such as were connected with belles-lettres and philology; to this the big man readily assented. 'Nothing will be required from you,' said he, 'but what you mention; and now and then, perhaps, a paper on metaphysics. You understand German, and perhaps it would be desirable that you should review Kant; and in a review of Kant, sir, you could introduce to advantage your peculiar notions about _ex nihilo_.' He then reverted to the subject of the _Dairyman's Daughter_, which I promised to take into consideration. As I was going away, he invited me to dine with him on the ensuing Sunday. 'That's a strange man!' said I to myself, after I had left the house; 'he is evidently very clever; but I cannot say that I like him much, with his Oxford Reviews and Dairyman's Daughters. But what can I do? I am almost without a friend in the world. I wish I could find some one who would publish my ballads, or my songs of Ab Gwilym. In spite of what the big man says, I am convinced that, once published, they would bring me much fame and profit. But how is this?--what a beautiful sun!--the porter was right in saying that the day would clear up--I will now go to my dingy lodging, lock up my manuscripts, and then take a stroll about the big city.' CHAPTER XXXI The walk--London's Cheape--Street of the Lombards--Strange bridge--Main arch--The roaring gulf--The boat--Cly-faking--A comfort--The book--The blessed woman--No trap. So I set out on my walk to see the wonders of the big city, and, as chance would have it, I directed my course to the east. The day, as I have already said, had become very fine, so that I saw the great city to advantage, and the wonders thereof: and much I admired all I saw; and, amongst other things, the huge cathedral, standing so proudly on the most commanding ground in the big city; and I looked up to the mighty dome, surmounted by a golden cross, and I said within myself, 'That dome must needs be the finest in the world'; and I gazed upon it till my eyes reeled, and my brain became dizzy, and I thought that the dome would fall and crush me; and I shrank within myself, and struck yet deeper into the heart of the big city. 'O Cheapside! Cheapside!' said I, as I advanced up that mighty thoroughfare, 'truly thou art a wonderful place for hurry, noise, and riches! Men talk of the bazaars of the East--I have never seen them--but I daresay that, compared with thee, they are poor places, silent places, abounding with empty boxes, O thou pride of London's east!--mighty mart of old renown!--for thou art not a place of yesterday:--long before the Roses red and white battled in fair England, thou didst exist--a place of throng and bustle--place of gold and silver, perfumes and fine linen. Centuries ago thou couldst extort the praises even of the fiercest foes of England. Fierce bards of Wales, sworn foes of England, sang thy praises centuries ago; and even the fiercest of them all, Red Julius himself, wild Glendower's bard, had a word of praise for London's 'Cheape,' for so the bards of Wales styled thee in their flowing odes. Then, if those who were not English, and hated England, and all connected therewith, had yet much to say in thy praise, when thou wast far inferior to what thou art now, why should true-born Englishmen, or those who call themselves so, turn up their noses at thee, and scoff thee at the present day, as I believe they do? But, let others do as they will, I, at least, who am not only an Englishman, but an East Englishman, will not turn up my nose at thee, but will praise and extol thee, calling thee mart of the world--a place of wonder and astonishment!--and, were it right and fitting to wish that anything should endure for ever, I would say prosperity to Cheapside, throughout all ages--may it be the world's resort for merchandise, world without end. And when I had passed through the Cheape I entered another street, which led up a kind of ascent, and which proved to be the street of the Lombards, called so from the name of its first founders; and I walked rapidly up the street of the Lombards, neither looking to the right nor left, for it had no interest for me, though I had a kind of consciousness that mighty things were being transacted behind its walls: but it wanted the throng, bustle, and outward magnificence of the Cheape, and it had never been spoken of by 'ruddy bards'! And, when I had got to the end of the street of the Lombards, I stood still for some time, deliberating within myself whether I should turn to the right or the left, or go straight forward, and at last I turned to the right, down a street of rapid descent, and presently found myself upon a bridge which traversed the river which runs by the big city. A strange kind of bridge it was; huge and massive, and seemingly of great antiquity. It had an arched back, like that of a hog, a high balustrade, and at either side, at intervals, were stone bowers bulking over the river, but open on the other side, and furnished with a semicircular bench. Though the bridge was wide--very wide--it was all too narrow for the concourse upon it. Thousands of human beings were pouring over the bridge. But what chiefly struck my attention was a double row of carts and wagons, the generality drawn by horses as large as elephants, each row striving hard in a different direction, and not unfrequently brought to a stand-still. Oh the cracking of whips, the shouts and oaths of the carters, and the grating of wheels upon the enormous stones that formed the pavement! In fact, there was a wild hurly-burly upon the bridge, which nearly deafened me. But, if upon the bridge there was a confusion, below it there was a confusion ten times confounded. The tide, which was fast ebbing, obstructed by the immense piers of the old bridge, poured beneath the arches with a fall of several feet, forming in the river below as many whirlpools as there were arches. Truly tremendous was the roar of the descending waters, and the bellow of the tremendous gulfs, which swallowed them for a time, and then cast them forth, foaming and frothing from their horrid wombs. Slowly advancing along the bridge, I came to the highest point, and there I stood still, close beside one of the stone bowers, in which, beside a fruit-stall, sat an old woman, with a pan of charcoal at her feet, and a book in her hand, in which she appeared to be reading intently. There I stood, just above the principal arch, looking through the balustrade at the scene that presented itself--and such a scene! Towards the left bank of the river, a forest of masts, thick and close, as far as the eye could reach; spacious wharfs, surmounted with gigantic edifices; and, far away, Caesar's Castle, with its White Tower. To the right, another forest of masts, and a maze of buildings, from which, here and there, shot up to the sky chimneys taller than Cleopatra's Needle, vomiting forth huge wreaths of that black smoke which forms the canopy--occasionally a gorgeous one--of the more than Babel city. Stretching before me, the troubled breast of the mighty river, and, immediately below, the main whirlpool of the Thames--the Maelstrom of the bulwarks of the middle arch--a grisly pool, which, with its superabundance of horror, fascinated me. Who knows but I should have leapt into its depths?--I have heard of such things--but for a rather startling occurrence which broke the spell. As I stood upon the bridge, gazing into the jaws of the pool, a small boat shot suddenly through the arch beneath my feet. There were three persons in it; an oarsman in the middle, whilst a man and woman sat at the stern. I shall never forget the thrill of horror which went through me at this sudden apparition. What!--a boat--a small boat--passing beneath that arch into yonder roaring gulf! Yes, yes, down through that awful water-way, with more than the swiftness of an arrow, shot the boat, or skiff, right into the jaws of the pool. A monstrous breaker curls over the prow--there is no hope; the boat is swamped, and all drowned in that strangling vortex. No! the boat, which appeared to have the buoyancy of a feather, skipped over the threatening horror, and, the next moment, was out of danger, the boatman--a true boatman of Cockaigne that--elevating one of his sculls in sign of triumph, the man hallooing, and the woman, a true Englishwoman that--of a certain class--waving her shawl. Whether any one observed them save myself, or whether the feat was a common one, I know not; but nobody appeared to take any notice of them. As for myself, I was so excited that I strove to clamber up the balustrade of the bridge, in order to obtain a better view of the daring adventurers. Before I could accomplish my design, however, I felt myself seized by the body, and, turning my head, perceived the old fruit-woman, who was clinging to me. {picture:Beside a fruit-stall sat an old woman, with a pan of charcoal at her feet, and a book in her hand: page203.jpg} 'Nay, dear! don't--don't!' said she. 'Don't fling yourself over--perhaps you may have better luck next time!' 'I was not going to fling myself over,' said I, dropping from the balustrade; 'how came you to think of such a thing?' 'Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you might have had ill luck, and that you wished to make away with yourself.' 'Ill luck,' said I, going into the stone bower, and sitting down. 'What do you mean? ill luck in what?' 'Why, no great harm, dear! cly-faking perhaps.' 'Are you coming over me with dialects,' said I, 'speaking unto me in fashions I wot nothing of?' 'Nay, dear! don't look so strange with those eyes of your'n, nor talk so strangely; I don't understand you.' 'Nor I you; what do you mean by cly-faking?' 'Lor, dear! no harm; only taking a handkerchief now and then.' 'Do you take me for a thief? 'Nay, dear! don't make use of bad language; we never calls them thieves here, but prigs and fakers: to tell you the truth, dear, seeing you spring at that railing put me in mind of my own dear son, who is now at Bot'ny: when he had bad luck, he always used to talk of flinging himself over the bridge; and, sure enough, when the traps were after him, he did fling himself into the river, but that was off the bank; nevertheless, the traps pulled him out, and he is now suffering his sentence; so you see you may speak out, if you have done anything in the harmless line, for I am my son's own mother, I assure you.' 'So you think there's no harm in stealing?' 'No harm in the world, dear! Do you think my own child would have been transported for it, if there had been any harm in it? and, what's more, would the blessed woman in the book here have written her life as she has done, and given it to the world, if there had been any harm in faking? She, too, was what they call a thief and a cut-purse; ay, and was transported for it, like my dear son; and do you think she would have told the world so, if there had been any harm in the thing? Oh, it is a comfort to me that the blessed woman was transported, and came back--for come back she did, and rich too--for it is an assurance to me that my dear son, who was transported too, will come back like her.' 'What was her name?' 'Her name, blessed Mary Flanders.' 'Will you let me look at the book?' 'Yes, dear, that I will, if you promise me not to run away with it.' I took the book from her hand; a short thick volume, at least a century old, bound with greasy black leather. I turned the yellow and dog's-eared pages, reading here and there a sentence. Yes, and no mistake! _His_ pen, his style, his spirit might be observed in every line of the uncouth-looking old volume--the air, the style, the spirit of the writer of the book which first taught me to read. I covered my face with my hand, and thought of my childhood. . . . 'This is a singular book,' said I at last; 'but it does not appear to have been written to prove that thieving is no harm, but rather to show the terrible consequences of crime: it contains a deep moral.' 'A deep what, dear?' 'A--but no matter, I will give you a crown for this volume.' 'No, dear, I will not sell the volume for a crown.' 'I am poor,' said I; 'but I will give you two silver crowns for your volume.' 'No, dear, I will not sell my volume for two silver crowns; no, nor for the golden one in the king's tower down there; without my book I should mope and pine, and perhaps fling myself into the river; but I am glad you like it, which shows that I was right about you, after all; you are one of our party, and you have a flash about that eye of yours which puts me just in mind of my dear son. No, dear, I won't sell you my book; but, if you like, you may have a peep into it whenever you come this way. I shall be glad to see you; you are one of the right sort, for, if you had been a common one, you would have run away with the thing; but you scorn such behaviour, and, as you are so flash of your money, though you say you are poor, you may give me a tanner to buy a little baccy with; I love baccy, dear, more by token that it comes from the plantations to which the blessed woman was sent.' 'What's a tanner?' said I. 'Lor! don't you know, dear? Why, a tanner is sixpence; and, as you were talking just now about crowns, it will be as well to tell you that those of our trade never calls them crowns, but bulls; but I am talking nonsense, just as if you did not know all that already, as well as myself; you are only shamming--I'm no trap, dear, nor more was the blessed woman in the book. Thank you, dear--thank you for the tanner; if I don't spend it, I'll keep it in remembrance of your sweet face. What, you are going?--well, first let me whisper a word to you. If you have any clies to sell at any time, I'll buy them of you; all safe with me; I never peach, and scorns a trap; so now, dear, God bless you! and give you good luck. Thank you for your pleasant company, and thank you for the tanner.' CHAPTER XXXII The tanner--The hotel--Drinking claret--London journal--New field--Commonplaceness--The three individuals--Botheration--Frank and ardent. 'Tanner!' said I musingly, as I left the bridge; 'Tanner! what can the man who cures raw skins by means of a preparation of oak bark and other materials have to do with the name which these fakers, as they call themselves, bestow on the smallest silver coin in these dominions? Tanner! I can't trace the connection between the man of bark and the silver coin, unless journeymen tanners are in the habit of working for sixpence a day. But I have it,' I continued, flourishing my hat over my head, 'tanner, in this instance, is not an English word.' Is it not surprising that the language of Mr. Petulengro and of Tawno Chikno is continually coming to my assistance whenever I appear to be at a nonplus with respect to the derivation of crabbed words? I have made out crabbed words in AEschylus by means of the speech of Chikno and Petulengro, and even in my Biblical researches I have derived no slight assistance from it. It appears to be a kind of picklock, an open sesame, Tanner--Tawno! the one is but a modification of the other; they were originally identical, and have still much the same signification. Tanner, in the language of the apple-woman, meaneth the smallest of English silver coins; and Tawno, in the language of the Petulengres, though bestowed upon the biggest of the Romans, according to strict interpretation signifieth a little child. So I left the bridge, retracing my steps for a considerable way, as I thought I had seen enough in the direction in which I had hitherto been wandering; I should say that I scarcely walked less than thirty miles about the big city on the day of my first arrival. Night came on, but still I was walking about, my eyes wide open, and admiring everything that presented itself to them. Everything was new to me, for everything is different in London from what it is elsewhere--the people, their language, the horses, the _tout ensemble_--even the stones of London are different from others--at least it appeared to me that I had never walked with the same ease and facility on the flagstones of a country town as on those of London; so I continued roving about till night came on, and then the splendour of some of the shops particularly struck me. 'A regular Arabian Nights entertainment!' said I, as I looked into one on Cornhill, gorgeous with precious merchandise, and lighted up with lustres, the rays of which were reflected from a hundred mirrors. But, notwithstanding the excellence of the London pavement, I began about nine o'clock to feel myself thoroughly tired; painfully and slowly did I drag my feet along. I also felt very much in want of some refreshment, and I remembered that since breakfast I had taken nothing. I was now in the Strand, and, glancing about, I perceived that I was close by an hotel, which bore over the door the somewhat remarkable name of Holy Lands. Without a moment's hesitation I entered a well-lighted passage, and, turning to the left, I found myself in a well-lighted coffee-room, with a well-dressed and frizzled waiter before me, 'Bring me some claret,' said I, for I was rather faint than hungry, and I felt ashamed to give a humbler order to so well-dressed an individual. The waiter looked at me for a moment; then, making a low bow, he bustled off, and I sat myself down in the box nearest to the window. Presently the waiter returned, bearing beneath his left arm a long bottle, and between the fingers of his right hand two large purple glasses; placing the latter on the table, he produced a corkscrew, drew the cork in a twinkling, set the bottle down before me with a bang, and then, standing still, appeared to watch my movements. You think I don't know how to drink a glass of claret, thought I to myself. I'll soon show you how we drink claret where I come from; and, filling one of the glasses to the brim, I flickered it for a moment between my eyes and the lustre, and then held it to my nose; having given that organ full time to test the bouquet of the wine, I applied the glass to my lips, taking a large mouthful of the wine, which I swallowed slowly and by degrees, that the palate might likewise have an opportunity of performing its functions. A second mouthful I disposed of more summarily; then, placing the empty glass upon the table, I fixed my eyes upon the bottle, and said--nothing; whereupon the waiter, who had been observing the whole process with considerable attention, made me a bow yet more low than before, and, turning on his heel, retired with a smart chuck of his head, as much as to say, It is all right: the young man is used to claret. {picture:The young man is used to claret: page209.jpg} And when the waiter had retired I took a second glass of the wine, which I found excellent; and, observing a newspaper lying near me, I took it up and began perusing it. It has been observed somewhere that people who are in the habit of reading newspapers every day are not unfrequently struck with the excellence of style and general talent which they display. Now, if that be the case, how must I have been surprised, who was reading a newspaper for the first time, and that one of the best of the London journals! Yes, strange as it may seem, it was nevertheless true that, up to the moment of which I am speaking, I had never read a newspaper of any description. I of course had frequently seen journals, and even handled them; but, as for reading them, what were they to me? I cared not for news. But here I was now with my claret before me, perusing, perhaps, the best of all the London journals; it was not the --- , and I was astonished: an entirely new field of literature appeared to be opened to my view. It was a discovery, but I confess rather an unpleasant one; for I said to myself, If literary talent is so very common in London, that the journals, things which, as their very name denotes, are ephemeral, are written in a style like the article I have been perusing, how can I hope to distinguish myself in this big town, when, for the life of me, I don't think I could write anything half so clever as what I have been reading? And then I laid down the paper, and fell into deep musing; rousing myself from which, I took a glass of wine, and, pouring out another, began musing again. What I have been reading, thought I, is certainly very clever and very talented; but talent and cleverness I think I have heard some one say are very commonplace things, only fitted for everyday occasions. I question whether the man who wrote the book I saw this day on the bridge was a clever man; but, after all, was he not something much better? I don't think he could have written this article, but then he wrote the book which I saw on the bridge. Then, if he could not have written the article on which I now hold my forefinger--and I do not believe he could--why should I feel discouraged at the consciousness that I, too, could not write it? I certainly could no more have written the article than he could; but then, like him, though I would not compare myself to the man who wrote the book I saw upon the bridge, I think I could--and here I emptied the glass of claret--write something better. Thereupon I resumed the newspaper; and, as I was before struck with the fluency of style and the general talent which it displayed, I was now equally so with its commonplaceness and want of originality on every subject; and it was evident to me that, whatever advantage these newspaper-writers might have over me in some points, they had never studied the Welsh bards, translated Kaempe Viser, or been under the pupilage of Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno. And as I sat conning the newspaper three individuals entered the room, and seated themselves in the box at the farther end of which I was. They were all three very well dressed; two of them elderly gentlemen, the third a young man about my own age, or perhaps a year or two older: they called for coffee; and, after two or three observations, the two eldest commenced a conversation in French, which, however, though they spoke it fluently enough, I perceived at once was not their native language; the young man, however, took no part in their conversation, and when they addressed a portion to him, which indeed was but rarely, merely replied by a monosyllable. I have never been a listener, and I paid but little heed to their discourse, nor indeed to themselves; as I occasionally looked up, however, I could perceive that the features of the young man, who chanced to be seated exactly opposite to me, wore an air of constraint and vexation. This circumstance caused me to observe him more particularly than I otherwise should have done: his features were handsome and prepossessing; he had dark brown hair and a high-arched forehead. After the lapse of half an hour, the two elder individuals, having finished their coffee, called for the waiter, and then rose as if to depart, the young man, however, still remaining seated in the box. The others, having reached the door, turned round, and, finding that the youth did not follow them, one of them called to him with a tone of some authority; whereupon the young man rose, and, pronouncing half audibly the word 'botheration,' rose and followed them. I now observed that he was remarkably tall. All three left the house. In about ten minutes, finding nothing more worth reading in the newspaper, I laid it down, and though the claret was not yet exhausted, I was thinking of betaking myself to my lodgings, and was about to call the waiter, when I heard a step in the passage, and in another moment the tall young man entered the room, advanced to the same box, and, sitting down nearly opposite to me, again pronounced to himself, but more audibly than before, the same word. 'A troublesome world this, sir,' said I, looking at him. 'Yes,' said the young man, looking fixedly at me; 'but I am afraid we bring most of our troubles on our own heads--at least I can say so of myself,' he added, laughing. Then, after a pause, 'I beg pardon,' he said, 'but am I not addressing one of my own country?' 'Of what country are you?' said I. 'Ireland.' 'I am not of your country, sir; but I have an infinite veneration for your country, as Strap said to the French soldier. Will you take a glass of wine?' 'Ah, de tout mon coeur, as the parasite said to Gil Blas,' cried the young man, laughing. 'Here's to our better acquaintance!' And better acquainted we soon became; and I found that, in making the acquaintance of the young man, I had indeed made a valuable acquisition; he was accomplished, highly connected, and bore the name of Francis Ardry. Frank and ardent he was, and in a very little time had told me much that related to himself, and in return I communicated a general outline of my own history; he listened with profound attention, but laughed heartily when I told him some particulars of my visit in the morning to the publisher, whom he had frequently heard of. We left the house together. 'We shall soon see each other again,' said he, as we separated at the door of my lodging. CHAPTER XXXIII Dine with the publisher--Religions--No animal food--Unprofitable discussions--Principles of criticism--The book market--Newgate lives--Goethe a drug--German acquirements--Moral dignity. On the Sunday I was punctual to my appointment to dine with the publisher. As I hurried along the square in which his house stood, my thoughts were fixed so intently on the great man, that I passed by him without seeing him. He had observed me, however, and joined me just as I was about to knock at the door. 'Let us take a turn in the square,' said he, 'we shall not dine for half an hour.' 'Well,' said he, as we were walking in the square, 'what have you been doing since I last saw you?' 'I have been looking about London,' said I, 'and I have bought the _Dairyman's Daughter_; here it is.' 'Pray put it up,' said the publisher; 'I don't want to look at such trash. Well, do you think you could write anything like it?' 'I do not,' said I. 'How is that?' said the publisher, looking at me. 'Because,' said I, 'the man who wrote it seems to be perfectly well acquainted with his subject; and, moreover, to write from the heart.' 'By the subject you mean--' 'Religion.' 'And ain't you acquainted with religion?' 'Very little.' 'I am sorry for that,' said the publisher seriously, 'for he who sets up for an author ought to be acquainted not only with religion, but religions, and indeed with all subjects, like my good friend in the country. It is well that I have changed my mind about the _Dairyman's Daughter_, or I really don't know whom I could apply to on the subject at the present moment, unless to himself; and after all I question whether his style is exactly suited for an evangelical novel.' 'Then you do not wish for an imitation of the _Dairyman's Daughter_?' 'I do not, sir; I have changed my mind, as I told you before; I wish to employ you in another line, but will communicate to you my intentions after dinner.' At dinner, beside the publisher and myself, were present his wife and son with his newly-married bride; the wife appeared a quiet respectable woman, and the young people looked very happy and good-natured; not so the publisher, who occasionally eyed both with contempt and dislike. Connected with this dinner there was one thing remarkable; the publisher took no animal food, but contented himself with feeding voraciously on rice and vegetables prepared in various ways. 'You eat no animal food, sir?' said I. 'I do not, sir,' said he; 'I have forsworn it upwards of twenty years. In one respect, sir, I am a Brahmin. I abhor taking away life--the brutes have as much right to live as ourselves.' 'But,' said I, 'if the brutes were not killed, there would be such a superabundance of them, that the land would be overrun with them.' 'I do not think so, sir; few are killed in India, and yet there is plenty of room.' 'But,' said I, 'Nature intended that they should be destroyed, and the brutes themselves prey upon one another, and it is well for themselves and the world that they do so. What would be the state of things if every insect, bird, and worm were left to perish of old age?' 'We will change the subject,' said the publisher; 'I have never been a friend of unprofitable discussions.' I looked at the publisher with some surprise, I had not been accustomed to be spoken to so magisterially; his countenance was dressed in a portentous frown, and his eye looked more sinister than ever; at that moment he put me in mind of some of those despots of whom I had read in the history of Morocco, whose word was law. He merely wants power, thought I to myself, to be a regular Muley Mehemet; and then I sighed, for I remembered how very much I was in the power of that man. The dinner over, the publisher nodded to his wife, who departed, followed by her daughter-in-law. The son looked as if he would willingly have attended them; he, however, remained seated; and, a small decanter of wine being placed on the table, the publisher filled two glasses, one of which he handed to myself, and the other to his son; saying, 'Suppose you two drink to the success of the Review. I would join you,' said he, addressing himself to me, 'but I drink no wine; if I am a Brahmin with respect to meat, I am a Mahometan with respect to wine.' So the son and I drank success to the Review, and then the young man asked me various questions; for example--How I liked London?--Whether I did not think it a very fine place?--Whether I was at the play the night before?--and whether I was in the park that afternoon? He seemed preparing to ask me some more questions; but, receiving a furious look from his father, he became silent, filled himself a glass of wine, drank it off, looked at the table for about a minute, then got up, pushed back his chair, made me a bow, and left the room. 'Is that young gentleman, sir,' said I, 'well versed in the principles of criticism?' 'He is not, sir,' said the publisher; 'and, if I place him at the head of the Review ostensibly, I do it merely in the hope of procuring him a maintenance; of the principle of a thing he knows nothing, except that the principle of bread is wheat, and that the principle of that wine is grape. Will you take another glass?' I looked at the decanter; but, not feeling altogether so sure as the publisher's son with respect to the principle of what it contained, I declined taking any more. 'No, sir,' said the publisher, adjusting himself in his chair, 'he knows nothing about criticism, and will have nothing more to do with the reviewals than carrying about the books to those who have to review them; the real conductor of the Review will be a widely different person, to whom I will, when convenient, introduce you. And now we will talk of the matter which we touched upon before dinner: I told you then that I had changed my mind with respect to you; I have been considering the state of the market, sir, the book market, and I have come to the conclusion that, though you might be profitably employed upon evangelical novels, you could earn more money for me, sir, and consequently for yourself, by a compilation of Newgate lives and trials.' 'Newgate lives and trials!' 'Yes, sir,' said the publisher, 'Newgate lives and trials; and now, sir, I will briefly state to you the services which I expect you to perform, and the terms which I am willing to grant. I expect you, sir, to compile six volumes of Newgate lives and trials, each volume to contain by no manner of means less than one thousand pages; the remuneration which you will receive when the work is completed will be fifty pounds, which is likewise intended to cover any expenses you may incur in procuring books, papers, and manuscripts necessary for the compilation. Such will be one of your employments, sir,--such the terms. In the second place, you will be expected to make yourself useful in the Review--generally useful, sir--doing whatever is required of you; for it is not customary, at least with me, to permit writers, especially young writers, to choose their subjects. In these two departments, sir, namely compilation and reviewing, I had yesterday, after due consideration, determined upon employing you. I had intended to employ you no farther, sir--at least for the present; but, sir, this morning I received a letter from my valued friend in the country, in which he speaks in terms of strong admiration (I don't overstate) of your German acquirements. Sir, he says that it would be a thousand pities if your knowledge of the German language should be lost to the world, or even permitted to sleep, and he entreats me to think of some plan by which it may be turned to account. Sir, I am at all times willing, if possible, to oblige my worthy friend, and likewise to encourage merit and talent; I have, therefore, determined to employ you in German.' 'Sir,' said I, rubbing my hands, 'you are very kind, and so is our mutual friend; I shall be happy to make myself useful in German; and if you think a good translation from Goethe--his _Sorrows_ for example, or more particularly his _Faust_--' 'Sir,' said the publisher, 'Goethe is a drug; his _Sorrows_ are a drug, so is his _Faustus_, more especially the last, since that fool--rendered him into English. No, sir, I do not want you to translate Goethe or anything belonging to him; nor do I want you to translate anything from the German; what I want you to do, is to translate into German. I am willing to encourage merit, sir; and, as my good friend in his last letter has spoken very highly of your German acquirements, I have determined that you shall translate my book of philosophy into German.' 'Your book of philosophy into German, sir?' 'Yes, sir; my book of philosophy into German. I am not a drug, sir, in Germany as Goethe is here, no more is my book. I intend to print the translation at Leipzig, sir; and if it turns out a profitable speculation, as I make no doubt it will, provided the translation be well executed, I will make you some remuneration. Sir, your remuneration will be determined by the success of your translation.' 'But, sir--' 'Sir,' said the publisher, interrupting me, 'you have heard my intentions; I consider that you ought to feel yourself highly gratified by my intentions towards you; it is not frequently that I deal with a writer, especially a young writer, as I have done with you. And now, sir, permit me to inform you that I wish to be alone. This is Sunday afternoon, sir; I never go to church, but I am in the habit of spending part of every Sunday afternoon alone--profitably I hope, sir--in musing on the magnificence of nature and the moral dignity of man.' {picture:'I am in the habit of spending part of every Sunday afternoon alone, in musing on the magnificence of nature and the moral dignity of man.': page217.jpg} CHAPTER XXXIV The two volumes--A young author--Intended editor--Quintilian--Loose money. 'What can't be cured must be endured,' and 'it is hard to kick against the pricks.' At the period to which I have brought my history, I bethought me of the proverbs with which I have headed this chapter, and determined to act up to their spirit. I determined not to fly in the face of the publisher, and to bear--what I could not cure--his arrogance and vanity. At present, at the conclusion of nearly a quarter of a century, I am glad that I came to that determination, which I did my best to carry into effect. Two or three days after our last interview, the publisher made his appearance in my apartment; he bore two tattered volumes under his arm, which he placed on the table. 'I have brought you two volumes of lives, sir,' said he, 'which I yesterday found in my garret; you will find them of service for your compilation. As I always wish to behave liberally and encourage talent, especially youthful talent, I shall make no charge for them, though I should be justified in so doing, as you are aware that, by our agreement, you are to provide any books and materials which may be necessary. Have you been in quest of any?' 'No,' said I, 'not yet.' 'Then, sir, I would advise you to lose no time in doing so; you must visit all the bookstalls, sir, especially those in the by-streets and blind alleys. It is in such places that you will find the description of literature you are in want of. You must be up and doing, sir; it will not do for an author, especially a young author, to be idle in this town. To-night you will receive my book of philosophy, and likewise books for the Review. And, by the bye, sir, it will be as well for you to review my book of philosophy for the Review; the other reviews not having noticed it. Sir, before translating it, I wish you to review my book of philosophy for the Review.' 'I shall be happy to do my best, sir.' 'Very good, sir; I should be unreasonable to expect anything beyond a person's best. And now, sir, if you please, I will conduct you to the future editor of the Review. As you are to co-operate, sir, I deem it right to make you acquainted.' The intended editor was a little old man, who sat in a kind of wooden pavilion in a small garden behind a house in one of the purlieus of the city, composing tunes upon a piano. The walls of the pavilion were covered with fiddles of various sizes and appearances, and a considerable portion of the floor occupied by a pile of books all of one size. The publisher introduced him to me as a gentleman scarcely less eminent in literature than in music, and me to him as an aspirant critic--a young gentleman scarcely less eminent in philosophy than in philology. The conversation consisted entirely of compliments till just before we separated, when the future editor inquired of me whether I had ever read Quintilian; and, on my replying in the negative, expressed his surprise that any gentleman should aspire to become a critic who had never read Quintilian, with the comfortable information, however, that he could supply me with a Quintilian at half-price, that is, a translation made by himself some years previously, of which he had, pointing to the heap on the floor, still a few copies remaining unsold. For some reason or other, perhaps a poor one, I did not purchase the editor's translation of Quintilian. 'Sir,' said the publisher, as we were returning from our visit to the editor, 'you did right in not purchasing a drug. I am not prepared, sir, to say that Quintilian is a drug, never having seen him; but I am prepared to say that man's translation is a drug, judging from the heap of rubbish on the floor; besides, sir, you will want any loose money you may have to purchase the description of literature which is required for your compilation.' The publisher presently paused before the entrance of a very forlorn-looking street. 'Sir,' said he, after looking down it with attention, 'I should not wonder if in that street you find works connected with the description of literature which is required for your compilation. It is in streets of this description, sir, and blind alleys, where such works are to be found. You had better search that street, sir, whilst I continue my way.' I searched the street to which the publisher had pointed, and, in the course of the three succeeding days, many others of a similar kind. I did not find the description of literature alluded to by the publisher to be a drug, but, on the contrary, both scarce and dear. I had expended much more than my loose money long before I could procure materials even for the first volume of my compilation. CHAPTER XXXV Francis Ardry--Certain sharpers--Brave and eloquent--Opposites--Flinging the bones--Strange places--Dog-fighting--Learning and letters--Batch of dogs--Redoubled application. One evening I was visited by the tall young gentleman, Francis Ardry, whose acquaintance I had formed at the coffee-house. As it is necessary that the reader should know something more about this young man, who will frequently appear in the course of these pages, I will state in a few words who and what he was. He was born of an ancient Roman Catholic family in Ireland; his parents, whose only child he was, had long been dead. His father, who had survived his mother several years, had been a spendthrift, and at his death had left the family property considerably embarrassed. Happily, however, the son and the estate fell into the hands of careful guardians, near relations of the family, by whom the property was managed to the best advantage, and every means taken to educate the young man in a manner suitable to his expectations. At the age of sixteen he was taken from a celebrated school in England at which he had been placed, and sent to a small French university, in order that he might form an intimate and accurate acquaintance with the grand language of the continent. There he continued three years, at the end of which he went under the care of a French abbe to Germany and Italy. It was in this latter country that he first began to cause his guardians serious uneasiness. He was in the heyday of youth when he visited Italy, and he entered wildly into the various delights of that fascinating region, and, what was worse, falling into the hands of certain sharpers, not Italian, but English, he was fleeced of considerable sums of money. The abbe, who, it seems, was an excellent individual of the old French school, remonstrated with his pupil on his dissipation and extravagance; but, finding his remonstrances vain, very properly informed the guardians of the manner of life of his charge. They were not slow in commanding Francis Ardry home; and, as he was entirely in their power, he was forced to comply. He had been about three months in London when I met him in the coffee-room, and the two elderly gentlemen in his company were his guardians. At this time they were very solicitous that he should choose for himself a profession, offering to his choice either the army or law--he was calculated to shine in either of these professions--for, like many others of his countrymen, he was brave and eloquent; but he did not wish to shackle himself with a profession. As, however, his minority did not terminate till he was three-and-twenty, of which age he wanted nearly two years, during which he would be entirely dependent on his guardians, he deemed it expedient to conceal, to a certain degree, his sentiments, temporising with the old gentlemen, with whom, notwithstanding his many irregularities, he was a great favourite, and at whose death he expected to come into a yet greater property than that which he inherited from his parents. Such is a brief account of Francis Ardry--of my friend Francis Ardry; for the acquaintance, commenced in the singular manner with which the reader is acquainted, speedily ripened into a friendship which endured through many long years of separation, and which still endures certainly on my part, and on his--if he lives; but it is many years since I have heard from Francis Ardry. And yet many people would have thought it impossible for our friendship to have lasted a week--for in many respects no two people could be more dissimilar. He was an Irishman--I, an Englishman;--he, fiery, enthusiastic, and open-hearted; I, neither fiery, enthusiastic, nor open- hearted;--he, fond of pleasure and dissipation; I, of study and reflection. Yet it is of such dissimilar elements that the most lasting friendships are formed: we do not like counterparts of ourselves. 'Two great talkers will not travel far together,' is a Spanish saying; I will add, 'Nor two silent people'; we naturally love our opposites. So Francis Ardry came to see me, and right glad I was to see him, for I had just flung my books and papers aside, and was wishing for a little social converse; and when we had conversed for some little time together, Francis Ardry proposed that we should go to the play to see Kean; so we went to the play, and saw--not Kean, who at that time was ashamed to show himself, but--a man who was not ashamed to show himself, and who people said was a much better man than Kean--as I have no doubt he was--though whether he was a better actor I cannot say, for I never saw Kean. Two or three evenings after Francis Ardry came to see me again, and again we went out together, and Francis Ardry took me to--shall I say?--why not?--a gaming-house, where I saw people playing, and where I saw Francis Ardry play and lose five guineas, and where I lost nothing, because I did not play, though I felt somewhat inclined; for a man with a white hat and a sparkling eye held up a box which contained something which rattled, and asked me to fling the bones. 'There is nothing like flinging the bones!' said he, and then I thought I should like to know what kind of thing flinging the bones was; I, however, restrained myself. 'There is nothing like flinging the bones!' shouted the man, as my friend and myself left the room. Long life and prosperity to Francis Ardry! but for him I should not have obtained knowledge which I did of the strange and eccentric places of London. Some of the places to which he took me were very strange places indeed; but, however strange the places were, I observed that the inhabitants thought there were no places like their several places, and no occupations like their several occupations; and among other strange places to which Francis Ardry conducted me was a place not far from the abbey church of Westminster. {picture:'There is nothing like flinging the bones!': page223.jpg} Before we entered this place our ears were greeted by a confused hubbub of human voices, squealing of rats, barking of dogs, and the cries of various other animals. Here we beheld a kind of cock-pit, around which a great many people, seeming of all ranks, but chiefly of the lower, were gathered, and in it we saw a dog destroy a great many rats in a very small period; and when the dog had destroyed the rats, we saw a fight between a dog and a bear, then a fight between two dogs, then . . . . After the diversions of the day were over, my friend introduced me to the genius of the place, a small man of about five feet high, with a very sharp countenance, and dressed in a brown jockey coat and top boots. 'Joey,' said he, 'this is a friend of mine.' Joey nodded to me with a patronising air. 'Glad to see you, sir!--want a dog?' 'No,' said I. 'You have got one, then--want to match him?' 'We have a dog at home,' said I, 'in the country; but I can't say I should like to match him. Indeed, I do not like dog-fighting.' 'Not like dog-fighting!' said the man, staring. 'The truth is, Joe, that he is just come to town.' 'So I should think; he looks rather green--not like dog-fighting!' 'Nothing like it, is there, Joey?' 'I should think not; what is like it? A time will come, and that speedily, when folks will give up everything else, and follow dog-fighting.' 'Do you think so?' said I. 'Think so? Let me ask what there is that a man wouldn't give up for it?' 'Why,' said I, modestly, 'there's religion.' 'Religion! How you talk. Why, there's myself bred and born an Independent, and intended to be a preacher, didn't I give up religion for dog-fighting? Religion, indeed! If it were not for the rascally law, my pit would fill better on Sundays than any other time. Who would go to church when they could come to my pit? Religion! why, the parsons themselves come to my pit; and I have now a letter in my pocket from one of them, asking me to send him a dog.' 'Well, then, politics,' said I. 'Politics! Why, the gemmen in the House would leave Pitt himself, if he were alive, to come to my pit. There were three of the best of them here to-night, all great horators.--Get on with you, what comes next?' 'Why, there's learning and letters.' 'Pretty things, truly, to keep people from dog-fighting. Why, there's the young gentlemen from the Abbey School comes here in shoals, leaving books, and letters, and masters too. To tell you the truth, I rather wish they would mind their letters, for a more precious set of young blackguards I never seed. It was only the other day I was thinking of calling in a constable for my own protection, for I thought my pit would have been torn down by them.' Scarcely knowing what to say, I made an observation at random. 'You show, by your own conduct,' said I, 'that there are other things worth following besides dog-fighting. You practise rat-catching and badger- baiting as well.' The dog-fancier eyed me with supreme contempt. 'Your friend here,' said he, 'might well call you a new one. When I talks of dog-fighting, I of course means rat-catching, and badger-baiting, ay, and bull-baiting too, just as when I speaks religiously, when I says one I means not one but three. And talking of religion puts me in mind that I have something else to do besides chaffing here, having a batch of dogs to send off by this night's packet to the Pope of Rome.' But at last I had seen enough of what London had to show, whether strange or commonplace, so at least I thought, and I ceased to accompany my friend in his rambles about town, and to partake of his adventures. Our friendship, however, still continued unabated, though I saw, in consequence, less of him. I reflected that time was passing on--that the little money I had brought to town was fast consuming, and that I had nothing to depend upon but my own exertions for a fresh supply; and I returned with redoubled application to my pursuits. CHAPTER XXXVI Occupations--Traduttore traditore--Ode to the Mist--Apple and pear--Reviewing--Current literature--Oxford-like manner--A plain story--Ill-regulated mind--Unsnuffed candle--Strange dreams. I compiled the Chronicles of Newgate; I reviewed books for the Review established on an entirely new principle; and I occasionally tried my best to translate into German portions of the publisher's philosophy. In this last task I experienced more than one difficulty. I was a tolerable German scholar, it is true, and I had long been able to translate from German into English with considerable facility; but to translate from a foreign language into your own is a widely different thing from translating from your own into a foreign language; and, in my first attempt to render the publisher into German, I was conscious of making miserable failures, from pure ignorance of German grammar; however, by the assistance of grammars and dictionaries, and by extreme perseverance, I at length overcame all the difficulties connected with the German language. But, alas! another difficulty remained, far greater than any connected with German--a difficulty connected with the language of the publisher--the language which the great man employed in his writings was very hard to understand; I say in his writings--for his colloquial English was plain enough. Though not professing to be a scholar, he was much addicted, when writing, to the use of Greek and Latin terms, not as other people used them, but in a manner of his own, which set the authority of dictionaries at defiance; the consequence was that I was sometimes utterly at a loss to understand the meaning of the publisher. Many a quarter of an hour did I pass at this period, staring at periods of the publisher, and wondering what he could mean, but in vain, till at last, with a shake of the head, I would snatch up the pen, and render the publisher literally into German. Sometimes I was almost tempted to substitute something of my own for what the publisher had written, but my conscience interposed; the awful words, Traduttore traditore, commenced ringing in my ears, and I asked myself whether I should be acting honourably towards the publisher, who had committed to me the delicate task of translating him into German; should I be acting honourably towards him, in making him speak in German in a manner different from that in which he expressed himself in English? No, I could not reconcile such conduct with any principle of honour; by substituting something of my own in lieu of these mysterious passages of the publisher, I might be giving a fatal blow to his whole system of philosophy. Besides, when translating into English, had I treated foreign authors in this manner? Had I treated the minstrels of the Kaempe Viser in this manner?--No. Had I treated Ab Gwilym in this manner? Even when translating his Ode to the Mist, in which he is misty enough, had I attempted to make Ab Gwilym less misty? No; on referring to my translation, I found that Ab Gwilym in my hands was quite as misty as in his own. Then, seeing that I had not ventured to take liberties with people who had never put themselves into my hands for the purpose of being rendered, how could I venture to substitute my own thoughts and ideas for the publisher's, who had put himself into my hands for that purpose? Forbid it every proper feeling!--so I told the Germans, in the publisher's own way, the publisher's tale of an apple and a pear. I at first felt much inclined to be of the publisher's opinion with respect to the theory of the pear. After all, why should the earth be shaped like an apple, and not like a pear?--it would certainly gain in appearance by being shaped like a pear. A pear being a handsomer fruit than an apple, the publisher is probably right, thought I, and I will say that he is right on this point in the notice which I am about to write of his publication for the Review. And yet I don't know--said I, after a long fit of musing--I don't know but what there is more to be said for the Oxford theory. The world may be shaped like a pear, but I don't know that it is; but one thing I know, which is, that it does not taste like a pear; I have always liked pears, but I don't like the world. The world to me tastes much more like an apple, and I have never liked apples. I will uphold the Oxford theory--besides, I am writing in an Oxford Review, and am in duty bound to uphold the Oxford theory. So in my notice I asserted that the world was round; I quoted Scripture, and endeavoured to prove that the world was typified by the apple in Scripture, both as to shape and properties. 'An apple is round,' said I, 'and the world is round--the apple is a sour, disagreeable fruit; and who has tasted much of the world without having his teeth set on edge?' I, however, treated the publisher, upon the whole, in the most urbane and Oxford-like manner; complimenting him upon his style, acknowledging the general soundness of his views, and only differing with him in the affair of the apple and pear. {picture:I did not like reviewing at all--it was not to my taste: page228.jpg} I did not like reviewing at all--it was not to my taste; it was not in my way; I liked it far less than translating the publisher's philosophy, for that was something in the line of one whom a competent judge had surnamed Lavengro. I never could understand why reviews were instituted; works of merit do not require to be reviewed, they can speak for themselves, and require no praising; works of no merit at all will die of themselves, they require no killing. The Review to which I was attached was, as has been already intimated, established on an entirely new plan; it professed to review all new publications, which certainly no Review had ever professed to do before, other Reviews never pretending to review more than one-tenth of the current literature of the day. When I say it professed to review all new publications, I should add, which should be sent to it; for, of course, the Review would not acknowledge the existence of publications, the authors of which did not acknowledge the existence of the Review. I don't think, however, that the Review had much cause to complain of being neglected; I have reason to believe that at least nine-tenths of the publications of the day were sent to the Review, and in due time reviewed. I had good opportunity of judging--I was connected with several departments of the Review, though more particularly with the poetical and philosophic ones. An English translation of Kant's philosophy made its appearance on my table the day before its publication. In my notice of this work I said that the English shortly hoped to give the Germans a _quid pro quo_. I believe at that time authors were much in the habit of publishing at their own expense. All the poetry which I reviewed appeared to be published at the expense of the authors. If I am asked how I comported myself, under all circumstances, as a reviewer--I answer,--I did not forget that I was connected with a Review established on Oxford principles, the editor of which had translated Quintilian. All the publications which fell under my notice I treated in a gentlemanly and Oxford-like manner, no personalities--no vituperation--no shabby insinuations; decorum, decorum was the order of the day. Occasionally a word of admonition, but gently expressed, as an Oxford undergraduate might have expressed it, or master of arts. How the authors whose publications were consigned to my colleagues were treated by them I know not; I suppose they were treated in an urbane and Oxford-like manner, but I cannot say; I did not read the reviewals of my colleagues, I did not read my own after they were printed. I did not like reviewing. Of all my occupations at this period I am free to confess I liked that of compiling the _Newgate Lives and Trials_ the best; that is, after I had surmounted a kind of prejudice which I originally entertained. The trials were entertaining enough; but the lives--how full were they of wild and racy adventures, and in what racy, genuine language were they told! What struck me most with respect to these lives was the art which the writers, whoever they were, possessed of telling a plain story. It is no easy thing to tell a story plainly and distinctly by mouth; but to tell one on paper is difficult indeed, so many snares lie in the way. People are afraid to put down what is common on paper, they seek to embellish their narratives, as they think, by philosophic speculations and reflections; they are anxious to shine, and people who are anxious to shine can never tell a plain story. 'So I went with them to a music booth, where they made me almost drunk with gin, and began to talk their flash language, which I did not understand,' says, or is made to say, Henry Simms, executed at Tyburn some seventy years before the time of which I am speaking. I have always looked upon this sentence as a masterpiece of the narrative style, it is so concise and yet so very clear. As I gazed on passages like this, and there were many nearly as good in the Newgate lives, I often sighed that it was not my fortune to have to render these lives into German rather than the publisher's philosophy--his tale of an apple and pear. Mine was an ill-regulated mind at this period. As I read over the lives of these robbers and pickpockets, strange doubts began to arise in my mind about virtue and crime. Years before, when quite a boy, as in one of the early chapters I have hinted, I had been a necessitarian; I had even written an essay on crime (I have it now before me, penned in a round boyish hand), in which I attempted to prove that there is no such thing as crime or virtue, all our actions being the result of circumstances or necessity. These doubts were now again reviving in my mind; I could not, for the life of me, imagine how, taking all circumstances into consideration, these highwaymen, these pickpockets, should have been anything else than highwaymen and pickpockets; any more than how, taking all circumstances into consideration, Bishop Latimer (the reader is aware that I had read Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_) should have been anything else than Bishop Latimer. I had a very ill-regulated mind at that period. My own peculiar ideas with respect to everything being a lying dream began also to revive. Sometimes at midnight, after having toiled for hours at my occupations, I would fling myself back on my chair, look about the poor apartment, dimly lighted by an unsnuffed candle, or upon the heaps of books and papers before me, and exclaim,--'Do I exist? Do these things, which I think I see about me, exist, or do they not? Is not everything a dream--a deceitful dream? Is not this apartment a dream--the furniture a dream? The publisher a dream--his philosophy a dream? Am I not myself a dream--dreaming about translating a dream? I can't see why all should not be a dream; what's the use of the reality?' And then I would pinch myself, and snuff the burdened smoky light. 'I can't see, for the life of me, the use of all this; therefore why should I think that it exists? If there was a chance, a probability, of all this tending to anything, I might believe; but--' and then I would stare and think, and after some time shake my head and return again to my occupations for an hour or two; and then I would perhaps shake, and shiver, and yawn, and look wistfully in the direction of my sleeping apartment; and then, but not wistfully, at the papers and books before me; and sometimes I would return to my papers and books; but oftener I would arise, and, after another yawn and shiver, take my light, and proceed to my sleeping chamber. They say that light fare begets light dreams; my fare at that time was light enough; but I had anything but light dreams, for at that period I had all kind of strange and extravagant dreams, and amongst other things I dreamt that the whole world had taken to dog-fighting; and that I, myself, had taken to dog-fighting, and that in a vast circus I backed an English bulldog against the bloodhound of the Pope of Rome. CHAPTER XXXVII My brother--Fits of crying--Mayor-elect--The committee--The Norman arch--A word of Greek--Church and State--At my own expense--If you please. One morning I arose somewhat later than usual, having been occupied during the greater part of the night with my literary toil. On descending from my chamber into the sitting-room I found a person seated by the fire, whose glance was directed sideways to the table, on which were the usual preparations for my morning's meal. Forthwith I gave a cry, and sprang forward to embrace the person; for the person by the fire, whose glance was directed to the table, was no one else than my brother. 'And how are things going on at home?' said I to my brother, after we had kissed and embraced. 'How is my mother, and how is the dog?' 'My mother, thank God, is tolerably well,' said my brother, 'but very much given to fits of crying. As for the dog, he is not so well; but we will talk more of these matters anon,' said my brother, again glancing at the breakfast things: 'I am very hungry, as you may suppose, after having travelled all night.' Thereupon I exerted myself to the best of my ability to perform the duties of hospitality, and I made my brother welcome--I may say more than welcome; and, when the rage of my brother's hunger was somewhat abated, we recommenced talking about the matters of our little family, and my brother told me much about my mother; he spoke of her fits of crying, but said that of late the said fits of crying had much diminished, and she appeared to be taking comfort; and, if I am not much mistaken, my brother told me that my mother had of late the Prayer-book frequently in her hand, and yet oftener the Bible. We were silent for a time--at last I opened my mouth and mentioned the dog. 'The dog,' said my brother, 'is, I am afraid, in a very poor way; ever since the death he has done nothing but pine and take on. A few months ago, you remember, he was as plump and fine as any dog in the town; but at present he is little more than skin and bone. Once we lost him for two days, and never expected to see him again, imagining that some mischance had befallen him; at length I found him--where do you think? Chancing to pass by the churchyard, I found him seated on the grave!' 'Very strange,' said I; 'but let us talk of something else. It was very kind of you to come and see me.' 'Oh, as for that matter, I did not come up to see you, though of course I am very glad to see you, having been rather anxious about you, like my mother, who has received only one letter from you since your departure. No, I did not come up on purpose to see you; but on quite a different account. You must know that the corporation of our town have lately elected a new mayor, a person of many qualifications--big and portly, with a voice like Boanerges; a religious man, the possessor of an immense pew; loyal, so much so that I once heard him say that he would at any time go three miles to hear any one sing "God save the King"; moreover, a giver of excellent dinners. Such is our present mayor; who, owing to his loyalty, his religion, and a little, perhaps, to his dinners, is a mighty favourite; so much so that the town is anxious to have his portrait painted in a superior style, so that remote posterity may know what kind of man he was, the colour of his hair, his air and gait. So a committee was formed some time ago, which is still sitting; that is, they dine with the mayor every day to talk over the subject. A few days since, to my great surprise, they made their appearance in my poor studio, and desired to be favoured with a sight of some of my paintings; well, I showed them some, and, after looking at them with great attention, they went aside and whispered. "He'll do," I heard one say; "Yes, he'll do," said another; and then they came to me, and one of them, a little man with a hump on his back, who is a watchmaker, assumed the office of spokesman, and made a long speech--(the old town has been always celebrated for orators)--in which he told me how much they had been pleased with my productions--(the old town has been always celebrated for its artistic taste)--and, what do you think? offered me the painting of the mayor's portrait, and a hundred pounds for my trouble. Well, of course I was much surprised, and for a minute or two could scarcely speak; recovering myself, however, I made a speech, not so eloquent as that of the watchmaker of course, being not so accustomed to speaking; but not so bad either, taking everything into consideration, telling them how flattered I felt by the honour which they had conferred in proposing to me such an undertaking; expressing, however, my fears that I was not competent to the task, and concluding by saying what a pity it was that Crome was dead. "Crome," said the little man, "Crome; yes, he was a clever man, a very clever man in his way; he was good at painting landscapes and farm- houses, but he would not do in the present instance were he alive. He had no conception of the heroic, sir. We want some person capable of representing our mayor striding under the Norman arch out of the cathedral." At the mention of the heroic an idea came at once into my head. "Oh," said I, "if you are in quest of the heroic, I am glad that you came to me; don't mistake me," I continued, "I do not mean to say that I could do justice to your subject, though I am fond of the heroic; but I can introduce you to a great master of the heroic, fully competent to do justice to your mayor. Not to me, therefore, be the painting of the picture given, but to a friend of mine, the great master of the heroic, to the best, the strongest, [Greek text]" I added, for, being amongst orators, I thought a word of Greek would tell.' 'Well,' said I, 'and what did the orators say?' 'They gazed dubiously at me and at one another,' said my brother; 'at last the watchmaker asked me who this Mr. Christo was; adding, that he had never heard of such a person; that, from my recommendation of him, he had no doubt that he was a very clever man; but that they should like to know something more about him before giving the commission to him. That he had heard of Christie the great auctioneer, who was considered to be an excellent judge of pictures; but he supposed that I scarcely--Whereupon, interrupting the watchmaker, I told him that I alluded neither to Christo nor to Christie; but to the painter of Lazarus rising from the grave, a painter under whom I had myself studied during some months that I had spent in London, and to whom I was indebted for much connected with the heroic. '"I have heard of him," said the watchmaker, "and his paintings too; but I am afraid that he is not exactly the gentleman by whom our mayor would wish to be painted. I have heard say that he is not a very good friend to Church and State. Come, young man," he added, "it appears to me that you are too modest; I like your style of painting, so do we all, and--why should I mince the matter?--the money is to be collected in the town, why should it go into a stranger's pocket, and be spent in London?" 'Thereupon I made them a speech, in which I said that art had nothing to do with Church and State, at least with English Church and State, which had never encouraged it; and that, though Church and State were doubtless very fine things, a man might be a very good artist who cared not a straw for either. I then made use of some more Greek words, and told them how painting was one of the Nine Muses, and one of the most independent creatures alive, inspiring whom she pleased, and asking leave of nobody; that I should be quite unworthy of the favours of the Muse if, on the present occasion, I did not recommend them a man whom I considered to be a much greater master of the heroic than myself; and that, with regard to the money being spent in the city, I had no doubt that they would not weigh for a moment such a consideration against the chance of getting a true heroic picture for the city. I never talked so well in my life, and said so many flattering things to the hunchback and his friends, that at last they said that I should have my own way; and that if I pleased to go up to London, and bring down the painter of Lazarus to paint the mayor, I might; so they then bade me farewell, and I have come up to London.' 'To put a hundred pounds into the hands of--' 'A better man than myself,' said my brother, 'of course.' 'And have you come up at your own expense?' 'Yes,' said my brother, 'I have come up at my own expense.' I made no answer, but looked in my brother's face. We then returned to the former subjects of conversation, talking of the dead, my mother, and the dog. After some time my brother said, 'I will now go to the painter, and communicate to him the business which has brought me to town; and, if you please, I will take you with me and introduce you to him.' Having expressed my willingness, we descended into the street. CHAPTER XXXVIII Painter of the heroic--I'll go!--A modest peep--Who is this?--A capital Pharaoh--Disproportionably short--Imaginary picture--English figures. The painter of the heroic resided a great way off, at the western end of the town. We had some difficulty in obtaining admission to him; a maid- servant, who opened the door, eyeing us somewhat suspiciously: it was not until my brother had said that he was a friend of the painter that we were permitted to pass the threshold. At length we were shown into the studio, where we found the painter, with an easel and brush, standing before a huge piece of canvas, on which he had lately commenced painting a heroic picture. The painter might be about thirty-five years old; he had a clever, intelligent countenance, with a sharp gray eye--his hair was dark brown, and cut a-la-Rafael, as I was subsequently told, that is, there was little before and much behind--he did not wear a neck-cloth; but, in its stead, a black riband, so that his neck, which was rather fine, was somewhat exposed--he had a broad, muscular breast, and I make no doubt that he would have been a very fine figure, but unfortunately his legs and thighs were somewhat short. He recognised my brother, and appeared glad to see him. 'What brings you to London?' said he. Whereupon my brother gave him a brief account of his commission. At the mention of the hundred pounds, I observed the eyes of the painter glisten. 'Really,' said he, when my brother had concluded, 'it was very kind to think of me. I am not very fond of painting portraits; but a mayor is a mayor, and there is something grand in that idea of the Norman arch. I'll go; moreover, I am just at this moment confoundedly in need of money, and when you knocked at the door, I don't mind telling you, I thought it was some dun. I don't know how it is, but in the capital they have no taste for the heroic, they will scarce look at a heroic picture; I am glad to hear that they have better taste in the provinces. I'll go; when shall we set off?' Thereupon it was arranged between the painter and my brother that they should depart the next day but one; they then began to talk of art. 'I'll stick to the heroic,' said the painter; 'I now and then dabble in the comic, but what I do gives me no pleasure, the comic is so low; there is nothing like the heroic. I am engaged here on a heroic picture,' said he, pointing to the canvas; 'the subject is "Pharaoh dismissing Moses from Egypt," after the last plague--the death of the first-born; it is not far advanced--that finished figure is Moses': they both looked at the canvas, and I, standing behind, took a modest peep. The picture, as the painter said, was not far advanced, the Pharaoh was merely in outline; my eye was, of course, attracted by the finished figure, or rather what the painter had called the finished figure; but, as I gazed upon it, it appeared to me that there was something defective--something unsatisfactory in the figure. I concluded, however, that the painter, notwithstanding what he had said, had omitted to give it the finishing touch. 'I intend this to be my best picture,' said the painter; 'what I want now is a face for Pharaoh; I have long been meditating on a face for Pharaoh.' Here, chancing to cast his eye upon my countenance, of whom he had scarcely taken any manner of notice, he remained with his mouth open for some time. 'Who is this?' said he at last. 'Oh, this is my brother, I forgot to introduce him.' . . . We presently afterwards departed; my brother talked much about the painter. 'He is a noble fellow,' said my brother; 'but, like many other noble fellows, has a great many enemies; he is hated by his brethren of the brush--all the land and water scape painters hate him--but, above all, the race of portrait-painters, who are ten times more numerous than the other two sorts, detest him for his heroic tendencies. It will be a kind of triumph to the last, I fear, when they hear he has condescended to paint a portrait; however, that Norman arch will enable him to escape from their malice--that is a capital idea of the watchmaker, that Norman arch.' I spent a happy day with my brother. On the morrow he went again to the painter, with whom he dined; I did not go with him. On his return he said, 'The painter has been asking a great many questions about you, and expressed a wish that you would sit to him as Pharaoh; he thinks you would make a capital Pharaoh.' 'I have no wish to appear on canvas,' said I; 'moreover he can find much better Pharaohs than myself; and, if he wants a real Pharaoh, there is a certain Mr. Petulengro.' 'Petulengro?' said my brother; 'a strange kind of fellow came up to me some time ago in our town, and asked me about you; when I inquired his name, he told me Petulengro. No, he will not do, he is too short; by the bye, do you not think that figure of Moses is somewhat short?' And then it appeared to me that I had thought the figure of Moses somewhat short, and I told my brother so. 'Ah!' said my brother. On the morrow my brother departed with the painter for the old town, and there the painter painted the mayor. I did not see the picture for a great many years, when, chancing to be at the old town, I beheld it. The original mayor was a mighty, portly man, with a bull's head, black hair, body like that of a dray horse, and legs and thighs corresponding; a man six foot high at the least. To his bull's head, black hair, and body the painter had done justice; there was one point, however, in which the portrait did not correspond with the original--the legs were disproportionably short, the painter having substituted his own legs for those of the mayor, which when I perceived I rejoiced that I had not consented to be painted as Pharaoh, for, if I had, the chances are that he would have served me in exactly a similar way as he had served Moses and the mayor. Short legs in a heroic picture will never do; and, upon the whole, I think the painter's attempt at the heroic in painting the mayor of the old town a decided failure. If I am now asked whether the picture would have been a heroic one provided the painter had not substituted his own legs for those of the mayor--I must say, I am afraid not. I have no idea of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, even with the assistance of Norman arches; yet I am sure that capital pictures might be made out of English mayors, not issuing from Norman arches, but rather from the door of the 'Checquers' or the 'Brewers Three.' The painter in question had great comic power, which he scarcely ever cultivated; he would fain be a Rafael, which he never could be, when he might have been something quite as good--another Hogarth; the only comic piece which he ever presented to the world being something little inferior to the best of that illustrious master. I have often thought what a capital picture might have been made by my brother's friend, if, instead of making the mayor issue out of the Norman arch, he had painted him moving under the sign of the 'Checquers,' or the 'Three Brewers,' with mace--yes, with mace,--the mace appears in the picture issuing out of the Norman arch behind the mayor,--but likewise with Snap, and with whiffler, quart pot, and frying-pan, Billy Blind and Owlenglass, Mr. Petulengro and Pakomovna;--then, had he clapped his own legs upon the mayor, or any one else in the concourse, what matter? But I repeat that I have no hope of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, or, indeed, out of English figures in general. England may be a land of heroic hearts, but it is not, properly, a land of heroic figures, or heroic posture-making. Italy . . . what was I going to say about Italy? CHAPTER XXXIX No authority whatever--Interference--Wondrous farrago--Brandt and Struensee--What a life!--The hearse--Mortal relics--Great poet--Fashion and fame--What a difference--Oh, beautiful--Good for nothing. And now once more to my pursuits, to my Lives and Trials. However partial at first I might be to these lives and trials, it was not long before they became regular trials to me, owing to the whims and caprices of the publisher. I had not been long connected with him before I discovered that he was wonderfully fond of interfering with other people's business--at least with the business of those who were under his control. What a life did his unfortunate authors lead! He had many in his employ toiling at all kinds of subjects--I call them authors because there is something respectable in the term author, though they had little authorship in, and no authority whatever over the works on which they were engaged. It is true the publisher interfered with some colour of reason, the plan of all and every of the works alluded to having originated with himself; and, be it observed, many of his plans were highly clever and promising, for, as I have already had occasion to say, the publisher in many points was a highly clever and sagacious person; but he ought to have been contented with planning the works originally, and have left to other people the task of executing them, instead of which he marred everything by his rage for interference. If a book of fairy tales was being compiled, he was sure to introduce some of his philosophy, explaining the fairy tale by some theory of his own. Was a book of anecdotes on hand, it was sure to be half filled with sayings and doings of himself during the time that he was common councilman of the City of London. Now, however fond the public might be of fairy tales, it by no means relished them in conjunction with the publisher's philosophy; and however fond of anecdotes in general, or even of the publisher in particular--for indeed there were a great many anecdotes in circulation about him which the public both read and listened to very readily--it took no pleasure in such anecdotes as he was disposed to relate about himself. In the compilation of my Lives and Trials I was exposed to incredible mortification, and ceaseless trouble, from this same rage for interference. It is true he could not introduce his philosophy into the work, nor was it possible for him to introduce anecdotes of himself, having never had the good or evil fortune to be tried at the bar; but he was continually introducing--what, under a less apathetic government than the one then being, would have infallibly subjected him, and perhaps myself, to a trial,--his politics; not his Oxford or pseudo politics, but the politics which he really entertained, and which were of the most republican and violent kind. But this was not all; when about a moiety of the first volume had been printed, he materially altered the plan of the work; it was no longer to be a collection of mere Newgate lives and trials, but of lives and trials of criminals in general, foreign as well as domestic. In a little time the work became a wondrous farrago, in which Konigsmark the robber figured by the side of Sam Lynn, and the Marchioness de Brinvilliers was placed in contact with a Chinese outlaw. What gave me the most trouble and annoyance was the publisher's remembering some life or trial, foreign or domestic, which he wished to be inserted, and which I was forthwith to go in quest of and purchase at my own expense: some of those lives and trials were by no means easy to find. 'Where is Brandt and Struensee?' cries the publisher; 'I am sure I don't know,' I replied; whereupon the publisher falls to squealing like one of Joey's rats. 'Find me up Brandt and Struensee by next morning, or--' 'Have you found Brandt and Struensee?' cried the publisher, on my appearing before him next morning. 'No,' I reply, 'I can hear nothing about them'; whereupon the publisher falls to bellowing like Joey's bull. By dint of incredible diligence, I at length discover the dingy volume containing the lives and trials of the celebrated two who had brooded treason dangerous to the state of Denmark. I purchase the dingy volume, and bring it in triumph to the publisher, the perspiration running down my brow. The publisher takes the dingy volume in his hand, he examines it attentively, then puts it down; his countenance is calm for a moment, almost benign. Another moment and there is a gleam in the publisher's sinister eye; he snatches up the paper containing the names of the worthies which I have intended shall figure in the forthcoming volumes--he glances rapidly over it, and his countenance once more assumes a terrific expression. 'How is this?' he exclaims; 'I can scarcely believe my eyes--the most important life and trial omitted to be found in the whole criminal record--what gross, what utter negligence! Where's the life of Farmer Patch? where's the trial of Yeoman Patch?' 'What a life! what a dog's life!' I would frequently exclaim, after escaping from the presence of the publisher. One day, after a scene with the publisher similar to that which I have described above, I found myself about noon at the bottom of Oxford Street, where it forms a right angle with the road which leads or did lead to Tottenham Court. Happening to cast my eyes around, it suddenly occurred to me that something uncommon was expected; people were standing in groups on the pavement--the upstair windows of the houses were thronged with faces, especially those of women, and many of the shops were partly, and not a few entirely, closed. What could be the reason of all this? All at once I bethought me that this street of Oxford was no other than the far-famed Tyburn way. Oh, oh, thought I, an execution; some handsome young robber is about to be executed at the farther end; just so, see how earnestly the women are peering; perhaps another Harry Simms--Gentleman Harry as they called him--is about to be carted along this street to Tyburn tree; but then I remembered that Tyburn tree had long since been cut down, and that criminals, whether young or old, good- looking or ugly, were executed before the big stone gaol, which I had looked at with a kind of shudder during my short rambles in the City. What could be the matter? just then I heard various voices cry, 'There it comes!' and all heads were turned up Oxford Street, down which a hearse was slowly coming: nearer and nearer it drew; presently it was just opposite the place where I was standing, when, turning to the left, it proceeded slowly along Tottenham Road; immediately behind the hearse were three or four mourning coaches, full of people, some of whom, from the partial glimpse which I caught of them, appeared to be foreigners; behind these came a very long train of splendid carriages, all of which, without one exception, were empty. 'Whose body is in that hearse?' said I to a dapper-looking individual, seemingly a shopkeeper, who stood beside me on the pavement, looking at the procession. 'The mortal relics of Lord Byron,' said the dapper-looking individual, mouthing his words and smirking--'the illustrious poet, which have been just brought from Greece, and are being conveyed to the family vault in ---shire.' 'An illustrious poet, was he?' said I. 'Beyond all criticism,' said the dapper man; 'all we of the rising generation are under incalculable obligation to Byron; I myself, in particular, have reason to say so; in all my correspondence my style is formed on the Byronic model.' I looked at the individual for a moment, who smiled and smirked to himself applause, and then I turned my eyes upon the hearse proceeding slowly up the almost endless street. This man, this Byron, had for many years past been the demigod of England, and his verses the daily food of those who read, from the peer to the draper's assistant; all were admirers, or rather worshippers, of Byron, and all doated on his verses; and then I thought of those who, with genius as high as his, or higher, had lived and died neglected. I thought of Milton abandoned to poverty and blindness; of witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs; and starving Otway: they had lived neglected and despised, and, when they died, a few poor mourners only had followed them to the grave; but this Byron had been made a half god of when living, and now that he was dead he was followed by worshipping crowds, and the very sun seemed to come out on purpose to grace his funeral. And, indeed, the sun, which for many days past had hidden its face in clouds, shone out that morn with wonderful brilliancy, flaming upon the black hearse and its tall ostrich plumes, the mourning coaches, and the long train of aristocratic carriages which followed behind. 'Great poet, sir,' said the dapper-looking man, 'great poet, but unhappy.' Unhappy? yes, I had heard that he had been unhappy; that he had roamed about a fevered, distempered man, taking pleasure in nothing--that I had heard; but was it true? was he really unhappy? was not this unhappiness assumed, with the view of increasing the interest which the world took in him? and yet who could say? He might be unhappy, and with reason. Was he a real poet after all? might he not doubt himself? might he not have a lurking consciousness that he was undeserving of the homage which he was receiving? that it could not last? that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame? He was a lordling, a glittering, gorgeous lordling: and he might have had a consciousness that he owed much of his celebrity to being so; he might have felt that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame. Fashion soon changes, thought I, eagerly to myself--a time will come, and that speedily, when he will be no longer in the fashion; when this idiotic admirer of his, who is still grinning at my side, shall have ceased to mould his style on Byron's; and this aristocracy, squirearchy, and what not, who now send their empty carriages to pay respect to the fashionable corpse, shall have transferred their empty worship to some other animate or inanimate thing. Well, perhaps after all it was better to have been mighty Milton in his poverty and blindness--witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs, and starving Otway; they might enjoy more real pleasure than this lordling; they must have been aware that the world would one day do them justice--fame after death is better than the top of fashion in life. They have left a fame behind them which shall never die, whilst this lordling--a time will come when he will be out of fashion and forgotten. And yet I don't know; didn't he write Childe Harold and that ode? Yes, he wrote Childe Harold and that ode. Then a time will scarcely come when he will be forgotten. Lords, squires, and cockneys may pass away, but a time will scarcely come when Childe Harold and that ode will be forgotten. He was a poet, after all, and he must have known it; a real poet, equal to--to--what a destiny! Rank, beauty, fashion, immortality,--he could not be unhappy; what a difference in the fate of men--I wish I could think he was unhappy . . . . I turned away. 'Great poet, sir,' said the dapper man, turning away too, 'but unhappy--fate of genius, sir; I, too, am frequently unhappy.' Hurrying down a street to the right, I encountered Francis Ardry. 'What means the multitude yonder?' he demanded. 'They are looking after the hearse which is carrying the remains of Byron up Tottenham Road.' 'I have seen the man,' said my friend, as he turned back the way he had come, 'so I can dispense with seeing the hearse--I saw the living man at Venice--ah, a great poet.' 'Yes,' said I, 'a great poet, it must be so, everybody says so--what a destiny! What a difference in the fate of men; but 'tis said he was unhappy; you have seen him, how did he look?' 'Oh, beautiful!' 'But did he look happy?' 'Why, I can't say he looked very unhappy; I saw him with two . . . very fair ladies; but what is it to you whether the man was unhappy or not? Come, where shall we go--to Joey's? His hugest bear--' 'Oh, I have had enough of bears, I have just been worried by one.' 'The publisher?' 'Yes.' 'Then come to Joey's, three dogs are to be launched at his bear: as they pin him, imagine him to be the publisher.' 'No,' said I, 'I am good for nothing; I think I shall stroll to London Bridge.' 'That's too far for me--farewell.' CHAPTER XL London Bridge--Why not?--Every heart has its bitters--Wicked boys--Give me my book--Such a fright--Honour bright. So I went to London Bridge, and again took my station on the spot by the booth where I had stood on the former occasion. The booth, however, was empty; neither the apple-woman nor her stall was to be seen. I looked over the balustrade upon the river; the tide was now, as before, rolling beneath the arch with frightful impetuosity. As I gazed upon the eddies of the whirlpool, I thought within myself how soon human life would become extinct there; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be over. When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse--a fascination; I had resisted it--I did not plunge into it. At present I felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was of a different kind; it proceeded from a loathing of life, I looked wistfully at the eddies--what had I to live for?--what, indeed! I thought of Brandt and Struensee, and Yeoman Patch--should I yield to the impulse--why not? My eyes were fixed on the eddies. All of a sudden I shuddered; I thought I saw heads in the pool; human bodies wallowing confusedly; eyes turned up to heaven with hopeless horror; was that water or--? Where was the impulse now? I raised my eyes from the pool, I looked no more upon it--I looked forward, far down the stream in the far distance. 'Ha! what is that? I thought I saw a kind of Fata Morgana, green meadows, waving groves, a rustic home; but in the far distance--I stared--I stared--a Fata Morgana--it was gone. . . . ' I left the balustrade and walked to the farther end of the bridge, where I stood for some time contemplating the crowd; I then passed over to the other side with an intention of returning home; just half-way over the bridge, in a booth immediately opposite to the one in which I had formerly beheld her, sat my friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up behind her stall. 'Well, mother,' said I, 'how are you?' The old woman lifted her head with a startled look. 'Don't you know me?' said I. 'Yes, I think I do. Ah, yes,' said she, as her features beamed with recollection, 'I know you, dear; you are the young lad that gave me the tanner. Well, child, got anything to sell?' 'Nothing at all,' said I. 'Bad luck?' 'Yes,' said I, 'bad enough, and ill usage.' 'Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next time; I am glad to see you.' 'Thank you,' said I, sitting down on the stone bench; 'I thought you had left the bridge--why have you changed your side?' The old woman shook. 'What is the matter with you,' said I; 'are you ill?' 'No, child, no; only--' 'Only what? Any bad news of your son?' 'No, child, no; nothing about my son. Only low, child--every heart has its bitters.' 'That's true,' said I; 'well, I don't want to know your sorrows; come, where's the book?' The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than before. 'Book, child, what book?' 'Why, blessed Mary, to be sure.' 'Oh, that; I ha'n't got it, child--I have lost it, have left it at home.' 'Lost it,' said I; 'left it at home--what do you mean? Come, let me have it.' 'I ha'n't got it, child.' 'I believe you have got it under your cloak.' 'Don't tell any one, dear; don't--don't,' and the apple-woman burst into tears. 'What's the matter with you?' said I, staring at her. 'You want to take my book from me?' 'Not I, I care nothing about it; keep it, if you like, only tell me what's the matter?' 'Why, all about that book.' 'The book?' 'Yes, they wanted to take it from me.' 'Who did?' 'Why, some wicked boys. I'll tell you all about it. Eight or ten days ago, I sat behind my stall, reading my book; all of a sudden I felt it snatched from my hand, up I started, and see three rascals of boys grinning at me; one of them held the book in his hand. "What book is this?" said he, grinning at it. "What do you want with my book?" said I, clutching at it over my stall; "give me my book." "What do you want a book for?" said he, holding it back; "I have a good mind to fling it into the Thames." "Give me my book," I shrieked; and, snatching at it, I fell over my stall, and all my fruit was scattered about. Off ran the boys--off ran the rascal with my book. Oh dear, I thought I should have died; up I got, however, and ran after them as well as I could; I thought of my fruit, but I thought more of my book. I left my fruit and ran after my book. "My book! my book!" I shrieked, "murder! theft! robbery!" I was near being crushed under the wheels of a cart; but I didn't care--I followed the rascals. "Stop them! stop them!" I ran nearly as fast as they--they couldn't run very fast on account of the crowd. At last some one stopped the rascal, whereupon he turned round, and flinging the book at me, it fell into the mud; well, I picked it up and kissed it, all muddy as it was. "Has he robbed you?" said the man. "Robbed me, indeed; why he had got my book." "Oh, your book," said the man, and laughed, and let the rascal go. Ah, he might laugh, but--' 'Well, go on.' 'My heart beats so. Well, I went back to my booth and picked up my stall and my fruits, what I could find of them. I couldn't keep my stall for two days I got such a fright, and when I got round I couldn't bide the booth where the thing had happened, so I came over to the other side. Oh, the rascals, if I could but see them hanged.' 'For what?' 'Why, for stealing my book.' 'I thought you didn't dislike stealing,--that you were ready to buy things--there was your son, you know--' 'Yes, to be sure.' 'He took things.' 'To be sure he did.' 'But you don't like a thing of yours to be taken.' 'No, that's quite a different thing; what's stealing handkerchiefs, and that kind of thing, to do with taking my book? there's a wide difference--don't you see?' 'Yes, I see.' 'Do you, dear? well, bless your heart, I'm glad you do. Would you like to look at the book?' 'Well, I think I should.' 'Honour bright?' said the apple-woman, looking me in the eyes. 'Honour bright,' said I, looking the apple-woman in the eyes. 'Well then, dear, here it is,' said she, taking it from under her cloak; 'read it as long as you like, only get a little farther into the booth-- Don't sit so near the edge--you might--' I went deep into the booth, and the apple-woman, bringing her chair round, almost confronted me. I commenced reading the book, and was soon engrossed by it; hours passed away, once or twice I lifted up my eyes, the apple-woman was still confronting me: at last my eyes began to ache, whereupon I returned the book to the apple-woman, and, giving her another tanner, walked away. CHAPTER XLI Decease of the Review--Homer himself--Bread and cheese--Finger and thumb--Impossible to find--Something grand--Universal mixture--Some other publisher. Time passed away, and with it the Review, which, contrary to the publisher's expectation, did not prove a successful speculation. About four months after the period of its birth it expired, as all Reviews must for which there is no demand. Authors had ceased to send their publications to it, and, consequently, to purchase it; for I have already hinted that it was almost entirely supported by authors of a particular class, who expected to see their publications foredoomed to immortality in its pages. The behaviour of these authors towards this unfortunate publication I can attribute to no other cause than to a report which was industriously circulated, namely, that the Review was low, and that to be reviewed in it was an infallible sign that one was a low person, who could be reviewed nowhere else. So authors took fright; and no wonder, for it will never do for an author to be considered low. Homer himself has never yet entirely recovered from the injury he received by Lord Chesterfield's remark that the speeches of his heroes were frequently exceedingly low. So the Review ceased, and the reviewing corps no longer existed as such; they forthwith returned to their proper avocations--the editor to compose tunes on his piano, and to the task of disposing of the remaining copies of his Quintilian--the inferior members to working for the publisher, being to a man dependants of his; one, to composing fairy tales; another, to collecting miracles of Popish saints; and a third, Newgate lives and trials. Owing to the bad success of the Review, the publisher became more furious than ever. My money was growing short, and I one day asked him to pay me for my labours in the deceased publication. 'Sir,' said the publisher, 'what do you want the money for?' 'Merely to live on,' I replied; 'it is very difficult to live in this town without money.' 'How much money did you bring with you to town?' demanded the publisher. 'Some twenty or thirty pounds,' I replied. 'And you have spent it already?' 'No,' said I, 'not entirely; but it is fast disappearing.' 'Sir,' said the publisher, 'I believe you to be extravagant; yes, sir, extravagant!' 'On what grounds do you suppose me to be so?' 'Sir,' said the publisher, 'you eat meat.' 'Yes,' said I, 'I eat meat sometimes; what should I eat?' 'Bread, sir,' said the publisher; 'bread and cheese.' 'So I do, sir, when I am disposed to indulge; but I cannot often afford it--it is very expensive to dine on bread and cheese, especially when one is fond of cheese, as I am. My last bread and cheese dinner cost me fourteenpence. There is drink, sir; with bread and cheese one must drink porter, sir.' 'Then, sir, eat bread--bread alone. As good men as yourself have eaten bread alone; they have been glad to get it, sir. If with bread and cheese you must drink porter, sir, with bread alone you can, perhaps, drink water, sir.' However, I got paid at last for my writings in the Review, not, it is true, in the current coin of the realm, but in certain bills; there were two of them, one payable at twelve, and the other at eighteen months after date. It was a long time before I could turn these bills to any account; at last I found a person who, at a discount of only thirty per cent, consented to cash them; not, however, without sundry grimaces, and, what was still more galling, holding, more than once, the unfortunate papers high in air between his forefinger and thumb. So ill, indeed, did I like this last action, that I felt much inclined to snatch them away. I restrained myself, however, for I remembered that it was very difficult to live without money, and that, if the present person did not discount the bills, I should probably find no one else that would. But if the treatment which I had experienced from the publisher, previous to making this demand upon him, was difficult to bear, that which I subsequently underwent was far more so: his great delight seemed to consist in causing me misery and mortification; if, on former occasions, he was continually sending me in quest of lives and trials difficult to find, he now was continually demanding lives and trials which it was impossible to find; the personages whom he mentioned never having lived, nor consequently been tried. Moreover, some of my best lives and trials which I had corrected and edited with particular care, and on which I prided myself no little, he caused to be cancelled after they had passed through the press. Amongst these was the life of 'Gentleman Harry.' 'They are drugs, sir,' said the publisher, 'drugs; that life of Harry Simms has long been the greatest drug in the calendar--has it not, Taggart?' Taggart made no answer save by taking a pinch of snuff. The reader, has, I hope, not forgotten Taggart, whom I mentioned whilst giving an account of my first morning's visit to the publisher. I beg Taggart's pardon for having been so long silent about him; but he was a very silent man--yet there was much in Taggart--and Taggart had always been civil and kind to me in his peculiar way. 'Well, young gentleman,' said Taggart to me one morning, when we chanced to be alone a few days after the affair of the cancelling, 'how do you like authorship?' 'I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I am engaged in,' said I. 'What do you call authorship?' said Taggart. 'I scarcely know,' said I; 'that is, I can scarcely express what I think it.' 'Shall I help you out?' said Taggart, turning round his chair, and looking at me. 'If you like,' said I. 'To write something grand,' said Taggart, taking snuff; 'to be stared at--lifted on people's shoulders--' 'Well,' said I, 'that is something like it.' Taggart took snuff. 'Well,' said he, 'why don't you write something grand?' 'I have,' said I. 'What?' said Taggart. 'Why,' said I, 'there are those ballads.' Taggart took snuff. 'And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym.' Taggart took snuff again. 'You seem to be very fond of snuff,' said I, looking at him angrily. Taggart tapped his box. 'Have you taken it long?' 'Three-and-twenty years.' 'What snuff do you take?' 'Universal mixture.' 'And you find it of use? Taggart tapped his box. 'In what respect?' said I. 'In many--there is nothing like it to get a man through; but for snuff I should scarcely be where I am now.' 'Have you been long here?' 'Three-and-twenty years.' 'Dear me,' said I; 'and snuff brought you through? Give me a pinch--pah, I don't like it,' and I sneezed. 'Take another pinch,' said Taggart. 'No,' said I, 'I don't like snuff.' 'Then you will never do for authorship; at least for this kind.' 'So I begin to think--what shall I do?' Taggart took snuff. 'You were talking of a great work--what shall it be?' Taggart took snuff. 'Do you think I could write one?' Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap, he did not however. 'It would require time,' said I, with a half sigh. Taggart tapped his box. 'A great deal of time; I really think that my ballads--' Taggart took snuff. 'If published, would do me credit. I'll make an effort, and offer them to some other publisher.' Taggart took a double quantity of snuff. CHAPTER XLII Francis Ardry--That won't do, sir--Observe my gestures--I think you improve--Better than politics--Delightful young Frenchwoman--A burning shame--Magnificent impudence--Paunch--Voltaire--Lump of sugar. Occasionally I called on Francis Ardry. This young gentleman resided in handsome apartments in the neighbourhood of a fashionable square, kept a livery servant, and, upon the whole, lived in very good style. Going to see him one day, between one and two, I was informed by the servant that his master was engaged for the moment, but that, if I pleased to wait a few minutes, I should find him at liberty. Having told the man that I had no objection, he conducted me into a small apartment which served as antechamber to a drawing-room; the door of this last being half open, I could see Francis Ardry at the farther end, speechifying and gesticulating in a very impressive manner. The servant, in some confusion, was hastening to close the door; but, ere he could effect his purpose, Francis Ardry, who had caught a glimpse of me, exclaimed, 'Come in--come in by all means'; and then proceeded, as before, speechifying and gesticulating. Filled with some surprise, I obeyed his summons. On entering the room I perceived another individual, to whom Francis Ardry appeared to be addressing himself; this other was a short spare man of about sixty; his hair was of badger gray, and his face was covered with wrinkles--without vouchsafing me a look, he kept his eye, which was black and lustrous, fixed full on Francis Ardry, as if paying the deepest attention to his discourse. All of a sudden, however, he cried with a sharp, cracked voice, 'That won't do, sir; that won't do--more vehemence--your argument is at present particularly weak; therefore, more vehemence--you must confuse them, stun them, stultify them, sir'; and, at each of these injunctions, he struck the back of his right hand sharply against the palm of the left. 'Good, sir--good!' he occasionally uttered, in the same sharp, cracked tone, as the voice of Francis Ardry became more and more vehement. 'Infinitely good!' he exclaimed, as Francis Ardry raised his voice to the highest pitch; 'and now, sir, abate; let the tempest of vehemence decline--gradually, sir; not too fast. Good, sir--very good!' as the voice of Francis Ardry declined gradually in vehemence. 'And now a little pathos, sir--try them with a little pathos. That won't do, sir--that won't do,'--as Francis Ardry made an attempt to become pathetic,--'that will never pass for pathos--with tones and gesture of that description you will never redress the wrongs of your country. Now, sir, observe my gestures, and pay attention to the tone of my voice, sir.' Thereupon, making use of nearly the same terms which Francis Ardry had employed, the individual in black uttered several sentences in tones and with gestures which were intended to express a considerable degree of pathos, though it is possible that some people would have thought both the one and the other highly ludicrous. After a pause, Francis Ardry recommenced imitating the tones and the gestures of his monitor in the most admirable manner. Before he had proceeded far, however, he burst into a fit of laughter, in which I should, perhaps, have joined, provided it were ever my wont to laugh. 'Ha, ha!' said the other, good-humouredly, 'you are laughing at me. Well, well, I merely wished to give you a hint; but you saw very well what I meant; upon the whole I think you improve. But I must now go, having two other pupils to visit before four.' Then taking from the table a kind of three-cornered hat, and a cane headed with amber, he shook Francis Ardry by the hand; and, after glancing at me for a moment, made me a half bow, attended with a strange grimace, and departed. 'Who is that gentleman?' said I to Francis Ardry, as soon as were alone. 'Oh, that is--' said Frank, smiling, 'the gentleman who gives me lessons in elocution.' 'And what need have you of elocution?' 'Oh, I merely obey the commands of my guardians,' said Francis, 'who insist that I should, with the assistance of ---, qualify myself for Parliament; for which they do me the honour to suppose that I have some natural talent. I dare not disobey them; for, at the present moment, I have particular reasons for wishing to keep on good terms with them.' 'But,' said I, 'you are a Roman Catholic; and I thought that persons of your religion were excluded from Parliament?' 'Why, upon that very thing the whole matter hinges; people of our religion are determined to be no longer excluded from Parliament, but to have a share in the government of the nation. Not that I care anything about the matter; I merely obey the will of my guardians; my thoughts are fixed on something better than politics.' 'I understand you,' said I; 'dog-fighting--well, I can easily conceive that to some minds dog-fighting--' 'I was not thinking of dog-fighting,' said Francis Ardry, interrupting me. 'Not thinking of dog-fighting!' I ejaculated. 'No,' said Francis Ardry, 'something higher and much more rational than dog-fighting at present occupies my thoughts.' 'Dear me,' said I, 'I thought I had heard you say that there was nothing like it!' 'Like what?' said Francis Ardry. 'Dog-fighting, to be sure,' said I. 'Pooh,' said Francis Ardry; 'who but the gross and unrefined care anything for dog-fighting? That which at present engages my waking and sleeping thoughts is love--divine love--there is nothing like _that_. Listen to me, I have a secret to confide to you.' And then Francis Ardry proceeded to make me his confidant. It appeared that he had had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of the most delightful young Frenchwoman imaginable, Annette La Noire by name, who had just arrived from her native country with the intention of obtaining the situation of governess in some English family; a position which, on account of her many accomplishments, she was eminently qualified to fill. Francis Ardry had, however, persuaded her to relinquish her intention for the present, on the ground that, until she had become acclimated in England, her health would probably suffer from the confinement inseparable from the occupation in which she was desirous of engaging; he had, moreover--for it appeared that she was the most frank and confiding creature in the world--succeeded in persuading her to permit him to hire for her a very handsome first floor in his own neighbourhood, and to accept a few inconsiderable presents in money and jewellery. 'I am looking out for a handsome gig and horse,' said Francis Ardry, at the conclusion of his narration; 'it were a burning shame that so divine a creature should have to go about a place like London on foot, or in a paltry hackney coach.' 'But,' said I, 'will not the pursuit of politics prevent your devoting much time to this fair lady?' 'It will prevent me devoting all my time,' said Francis Ardry, 'as I gladly would; but what can I do? My guardians wish me to qualify myself for a political orator, and I dare not offend them by a refusal. If I offend my guardians, I should find it impossible--unless I have recourse to Jews and money-lenders--to support Annette; present her with articles of dress and jewellery, and purchase a horse and cabriolet worthy of conveying her angelic person through the streets of London.' After a pause, in which Francis Ardry appeared lost in thought, his mind being probably occupied with the subject of Annette, I broke silence by observing, 'So your fellow-religionists are really going to make a serious attempt to procure their emancipation?' 'Yes,' said Francis Ardry, starting from his reverie; 'everything has been arranged; even a leader has been chosen, at least for us of Ireland, upon the whole the most suitable man in the world for the occasion--a barrister of considerable talent, mighty voice, and magnificent impudence. With emancipation, liberty, and redress for the wrongs of Ireland in his mouth, he is to force his way into the British House of Commons, dragging myself and others behind him--he will succeed, and when he is in he will cut a figure; I have heard ---- himself, who has heard him speak, say that he will cut a figure.' 'And is ---- competent to judge?' I demanded. 'Who but he?' said Francis Ardry; 'no one questions his judgment concerning what relates to elocution. His fame on that point is so well established, that the greatest orators do not disdain occasionally to consult him; C--- himself, as I have been told, when anxious to produce any particular effect in the House, is in the habit of calling in ---- for a consultation.' 'As to matter, or manner?' said I. 'Chiefly the latter,' said Francis Ardry, 'though he is competent to give advice as to both, for he has been an orator in his day, and a leader of the people; though he confessed to me that he was not exactly qualified to play the latter part--"I want paunch," said he.' 'It is not always indispensable,' said I; 'there is an orator in my town, a hunchback and watchmaker, without it, who not only leads the people, but the mayor too; perhaps he has a succedaneum in his hunch: but, tell me, is the leader of your movement in possession of that which ---- wants?' 'No more deficient in it than in brass,' said Francis Ardry. 'Well,' said I, 'whatever his qualifications may be, I wish him success in the cause which he has taken up--I love religious liberty.' 'We shall succeed,' said Francis Ardry; 'John Bull upon the whole is rather indifferent on the subject, and then we are sure to be backed by the Radical party, who, to gratify their political prejudices, would join with Satan himself.' 'There is one thing,' said I, 'connected with this matter which surprises me--your own lukewarmness. Yes, making every allowance for your natural predilection for dog-fighting, and your present enamoured state of mind, your apathy at the commencement of such a movement is to me unaccountable.' 'You would not have cause to complain of my indifference,' said Frank, 'provided I thought my country would be benefited by this movement; but I happen to know the origin of it. The priests are the originators, 'and what country was ever benefited by a movement which owed its origin to them?' so says Voltaire, a page of whom I occasionally read. By the present move they hope to increase their influence, and to further certain designs which they entertain both with regard to this country and Ireland. I do not speak rashly or unadvisedly. A strange fellow--a half- Italian, half-English priest,--who was recommended to me by my guardians, partly as a spiritual, partly as a temporal guide, has let me into a secret or two; he is fond of a glass of gin and water--and over a glass of gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it, he has been more communicative, perhaps, than was altogether prudent. Were I my own master, I would kick him, politics, and religious movements, to a considerable distance. And now, if you are going away, do so quickly; I have an appointment with Annette, and must make myself fit to appear before her.' CHAPTER XLIII Progress--Glorious John--Utterly unintelligible--What a difference. By the month of October I had, in spite of all difficulties and obstacles, accomplished about two-thirds of the principal task which I had undertaken, the compiling of the Newgate lives; I had also made some progress in translating the publisher's philosophy into German. But about this time I began to see very clearly that it was impossible that our connection should prove of long duration; yet, in the event of my leaving the big man, what other resource had I--another publisher? But what had I to offer? There were my ballads, my Ab Gwilym, but then I thought of Taggart and his snuff, his pinch of snuff. However, I determined to see what could be done, so I took my ballads under my arm, and went to various publishers; some took snuff, others did not, but none took my ballads or Ab Gwilym, they would not even look at them. One asked me if I had anything else--he was a snuff-taker--I said yes; and going home, returned with my translation of the German novel, to which I have before alluded. After keeping it for a fortnight, he returned it to me on my visiting him, and, taking a pinch of snuff, told me it would not do. There were marks of snuff on the outside of the manuscript, which was a roll of paper bound with red tape, but there were no marks of snuff on the interior of the manuscript, from which I concluded that he had never opened it. I had often heard of one Glorious John, who lived at the western end of the town; on consulting Taggart, he told me that it was possible that Glorious John would publish my ballads and Ab Gwilym, that is, said he, taking a pinch of snuff, provided you can see him; so I went to the house where Glorious John resided, and a glorious house it was, but I could not see Glorious John--I called a dozen times, but I never could see Glorious John. Twenty years after, by the greatest chance in the world, I saw Glorious John, and sure enough Glorious John published my books, but they were different books from the first; I never offered my ballads or Ab Gwilym to Glorious John. Glorious John was no snuff-taker. He asked me to dinner, and treated me with superb Rhenish wine. Glorious John is now gone to his rest, but I--what was I going to say?--the world will never forget Glorious John. So I returned to my last resource for the time then being--to the publisher, persevering doggedly in my labour. One day, on visiting the publisher, I found him stamping with fury upon certain fragments of paper. 'Sir,' said he, 'you know nothing of German; I have shown your translation of the first chapter of my Philosophy to several Germans: it is utterly unintelligible to them.' 'Did they see the Philosophy?' I replied. 'They did, sir, but they did not profess to understand English.' 'No more do I,' I replied, 'if that Philosophy be English.' The publisher was furious--I was silent. For want of a pinch of snuff, I had recourse to something which is no bad substitute for a pinch of snuff, to those who can't take it, silent contempt; at first it made the publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of snuff would; it, however, eventually calmed him, and he ordered me back to my occupations, in other words, the compilation. To be brief, the compilation was completed, I got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him. He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men! CHAPTER XLIV The old spot--A long history--Thou shalt not steal--No harm--Education--Necessity--Foam on your lip--Apples and pears--What will you read?--Metaphor--The fur cap--I don't know him. It was past midwinter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company with the old apple-woman: she had just returned to the other side of the bridge, to her place in the booth where I had originally found her. This she had done after frequent conversations with me; 'she liked the old place best,' she said, which she would never have left but for the terror which she experienced when the boys ran away with her book. So I sat with her at the old spot, one afternoon past midwinter, reading the book, of which I had by this time come to the last pages. I had observed that the old woman for some time past had shown much less anxiety about the book than she had been in the habit of doing. I was, however, not quite prepared for her offering to make me a present of it, which she did that afternoon; when, having finished it, I returned it to her, with many thanks for the pleasure and instruction I had derived from its perusal. 'You may keep it, dear,' said the old woman, with a sigh; 'you may carry it to your lodging, and keep it for your own.' Looking at the old woman with surprise, I exclaimed, 'Is it possible that you are willing to part with the book which has been your source of comfort so long?' Whereupon the old woman entered into a long history, from which I gathered that the book had become distasteful to her; she hardly ever opened it of late, she said, or if she did, it was only to shut it again; also, that other things which she had been fond of, though of a widely different kind, were now distasteful to her. Porter and beef-steaks were no longer grateful to her palate, her present diet chiefly consisting of tea, and bread and butter. 'Ah,' said I, 'you have been ill, and when people are ill, they seldom like the things which give them pleasure when they are in health.' I learned, moreover, that she slept little at night, and had all kinds of strange thoughts; that as she lay awake many things connected with her youth, which she had quite forgotten, came into her mind. There were certain words that came into her mind the night before the last, which were continually humming in her ears: I found that the words were, 'Thou shalt not steal.' On inquiring where she had first heard these words, I learned that she had read them at school, in a book called the primer; to this school she had been sent by her mother, who was a poor widow, and followed the trade of apple-selling in the very spot where her daughter followed it now. It seems that the mother was a very good kind of woman, but quite ignorant of letters, the benefit of which she was willing to procure for her child; and at the school the daughter learned to read, and subsequently experienced the pleasure and benefit of letters, in being able to read the book which she found in an obscure closet of her mother's house, and which had been her principal companion and comfort for many years of her life. But, as I have said before, she was now dissatisfied with the book, and with most other things in which she had taken pleasure; she dwelt much on the words, 'Thou shalt not steal'; she had never stolen things herself, but then she had bought things which other people had stolen, and which she knew had been stolen; and her dear son had been a thief, which he perhaps would not have been but for the example which she set him in buying things from characters, as she called them, who associated with her. On inquiring how she had become acquainted with these characters, I learned that times had gone hard with her; that she had married, but her husband had died after a long sickness, which had reduced them to great distress; that her fruit trade was not a profitable one, and that she had bought and sold things which had been stolen to support herself and her son. That for a long time she supposed there was no harm in doing so, as her book was full of entertaining tales of stealing; but she now thought that the book was a bad book, and that learning to read was a bad thing; her mother had never been able to read, but had died in peace, though poor. So here was a woman who attributed the vices and follies of her life to being able to read; her mother, she said, who could not read, lived respectably, and died in peace; and what was the essential difference between the mother and daughter, save that the latter could read? But for her literature she might in all probability have lived respectably and honestly, like her mother, and might eventually have died in peace, which at present she could scarcely hope to do. Education had failed to produce any good in this poor woman; on the contrary, there could be little doubt that she had been injured by it. Then was education a bad thing? Rousseau was of opinion that it was; but Rousseau was a Frenchman, at least wrote in French, and I cared not the snap of my fingers for Rousseau. But education has certainly been of benefit in some instances; well, what did that prove, but that partiality existed in the management of the affairs of the world--if education was a benefit to some, why was it not a benefit to others? Could some avoid abusing it, any more than others could avoid turning it to a profitable account? I did not see how they could; this poor simple woman found a book in her mother's closet; a book, which was a capital book for those who could turn it to the account for which it was intended; a book, from the perusal of which I felt myself wiser and better, but which was by no means suited to the intellect of this poor simple woman, who thought that it was written in praise of thieving; yet she found it, she read it, and--and--I felt myself getting into a maze; what is right, thought I? what is wrong? Do I exist? Does the world exist? if it does, every action is bound up with necessity. 'Necessity!' I exclaimed, and cracked my finger-joints. 'Ah, it is a bad thing,' said the old woman. 'What is a bad thing?' said I. 'Why to be poor, dear.' 'You talk like a fool,' said I, 'riches and poverty are only different forms of necessity.' 'You should not call me a fool, dear; you should not call your own mother a fool.' 'You are not my mother,' said I. 'Not your mother, dear?--no, no more I am; but your calling me fool put me in mind of my dear son, who often used to call me fool--and you just now looked as he sometimes did, with a blob of foam on your lip.' 'After all, I don't know that you are not my mother.' 'Don't you, dear? I'm glad of it; I wish you would make it out.' 'How should I make it out? who can speak from his own knowledge as to the circumstances of his birth? Besides, before attempting to establish our relationship, it would be necessary to prove that such people exist.' 'What people, dear?' 'You and I.' 'Lord, child, you are mad; that book has made you so.' 'Don't abuse it,' said I; 'the book is an excellent one, that is, provided it exists.' 'I wish it did not,' said the old woman; 'but it shan't long; I'll burn it, or fling it into the river--the voices at night tell me to do so.' 'Tell the voices,' said I, 'that they talk nonsense; the book, if it exists, is a good book, it contains a deep moral; have you read it all?' 'All the funny parts, dear; all about taking things, and the manner it was done; as for the rest, I could not exactly make it out.' 'Then the book is not to blame; I repeat that the book is a good book, and contains deep morality, always supposing that there is such a thing as morality, which is the same thing as supposing that there is anything at all.' 'Anything at all! Why ain't we here on this bridge, in my booth, with my stall and my--' 'Apples and pears, baked hot, you would say--I don't know; all is a mystery, a deep question. It is a question, and probably always will be, whether there is a world, and consequently apples and pears; and, provided there be a world, whether that world be like an apple or a pear.' 'Don't talk so, dear.' 'I won't; we will suppose that we all exist--world, ourselves, apples, and pears: so you wish to get rid of the book?' 'Yes, dear, I wish you would take it.' 'I have read it, and have no farther use for it; I do not need books: in a little time, perhaps, I shall not have a place wherein to deposit myself, far less books.' 'Then I will fling it into the river.' 'Don't do that; here, give it me. Now what shall I do with it? you were so fond of it.' 'I am so no longer.' 'But how will you pass your time; what will you read?' 'I wish I had never learned to read, or, if I had, that I had only read the books I saw at school: the primer or the other.' 'What was the other?' 'I think they called it the Bible: all about God, and Job, and Jesus.' 'Ah, I know it.' 'You have read it; is it a nice book--all true?' 'True, true--I don't know what to say; but if the world be true, and not all a lie, a fiction, I don't see why the Bible, as they call it, should not be true. By the bye, what do you call Bible in your tongue, or, indeed, book of any kind? as Bible merely means a book.' 'What do I call the Bible in my language, dear?' 'Yes, the language of those who bring you things.' 'The language of those who _did_, dear; they bring them now no longer. They call me fool, as you did, dear, just now; they call kissing the Bible, which means taking a false oath, smacking calf-skin.' 'That's metaphor,' said I; 'English, but metaphorical; what an odd language! So you would like to have a Bible,--shall I buy you one?' 'I am poor, dear--no money since I left off the other trade.' 'Well, then, I'll buy you one.' 'No, dear, no; you are poor, and may soon want the money; but if you can take me one conveniently on the sly, you know--I think you may, for, as it is a good book, I suppose there can be no harm in taking it.' 'That will never do,' said I, 'more especially as I should be sure to be caught, not having made taking of things my trade; but I'll tell you what I'll do--try and exchange this book of yours for a Bible; who knows for what great things this same book of yours may serve?' 'Well, dear,' said the old woman, 'do as you please; I should like to see the--what do you call it?--Bible, and to read it, as you seem to think it true.' 'Yes,' said I, 'seem; that is the way to express yourself in this maze of doubt--I seem to think--these apples and pears seem to be--and here seems to be a gentleman who wants to purchase either one or the other.' A person had stopped before the apple-woman's stall, and was glancing now at the fruit, now at the old woman and myself; he wore a blue mantle, and had a kind of fur cap on his head; he was somewhat above the middle stature; his features were keen, but rather hard; there was a slight obliquity in his vision. Selecting a small apple, he gave the old woman a penny; then, after looking at me scrutinisingly for a moment, he moved from the booth in the direction of Southwark. 'Do you know who that man is?' said I to the old woman. 'No,' said she, 'except that he is one of my best customers: he frequently stops, takes an apple, and gives me a penny; his is the only piece of money I have taken this blessed day. I don't know him, but he has once or twice sat down in the booth with two strange-looking men--Mulattos, or Lascars, I think they call them.' CHAPTER XLV Bought and exchanged--Quite empty--A new firm--Bibles--Countenance of a lion--Clap of thunder--A truce with this--I have lost it--Clearly a right--Goddess of the Mint. In pursuance of my promise to the old woman, I set about procuring her a Bible with all convenient speed, placing the book which she had intrusted to me for the purpose of exchange in my pocket. I went to several shops, and asked if Bibles were to be had: I found that there were plenty. When, however, I informed the people that I came to barter, they looked blank, and declined treating with me; saying that they did not do business in that way. At last I went into a shop over the window of which I saw written, 'Books bought and exchanged': there was a smartish young fellow in the shop, with black hair and whiskers; 'You exchange?' said I. 'Yes,' said he, 'sometimes, but we prefer selling; what book do you want?' 'A Bible,' said I. 'Ah,' said he, 'there's a great demand for Bibles just now; all kinds of people are become very pious of late,' he added, grinning at me; 'I am afraid I can't do business with you, more especially as the master is not at home. What book have you brought?' Taking the book out of my pocket, I placed it on the counter: the young fellow opened the book, and inspecting the title-page, burst into a loud laugh. 'What do you laugh for?' said I, angrily, and half clenching my fist. 'Laugh!' said the young fellow; 'laugh! who could help laughing?' 'I could,' said I; 'I see nothing to laugh at; I want to exchange this book for a Bible.' 'You do?' said the young fellow; 'well, I daresay there are plenty who would be willing to exchange, that is, if they dared. I wish master were at home; but that would never do, either. Master's a family man, the Bibles are not mine, and master being a family man, is sharp, and knows all his stock; I'd buy it of you, but, to tell you the truth, I am quite empty here,' said he, pointing to his pocket, 'so I am afraid we can't deal.' Whereupon, looking anxiously at the young man, 'What am I to do?' said I; 'I really want a Bible.' 'Can't you buy one?' said the young man; 'have you no money?' 'Yes,' said I, 'I have some, but I am merely the agent of another; I came to exchange, not to buy; what am I to do?' 'I don't know,' said the young man, thoughtfully laying down the book on the counter; 'I don't know what you can do; I think you will find some difficulty in this bartering job, the trade are rather precise.' All at once he laughed louder than before; suddenly stopping, however, he put on a very grave look. 'Take my advice,' said he; 'there is a firm established in this neighbourhood which scarcely sells any books but Bibles; they are very rich, and pride themselves on selling their books at the lowest possible price; apply to them, who knows but what they will exchange with you?' Thereupon I demanded with some eagerness of the young man the direction to the place where he thought it possible that I might effect the exchange--which direction the young fellow cheerfully gave me, and, as I turned away, had the civility to wish me success. I had no difficulty in finding the house to which the young fellow directed me; it was a very large house, situated in a square; and upon the side of the house was written in large letters, 'Bibles, and other religious books.' At the door of the house were two or three tumbrils, in the act of being loaded with chests, very much resembling tea-chests; one of the chests falling down, burst, and out flew, not tea, but various books, in a neat, small size, and in neat leather covers; Bibles, said I,--Bibles, doubtless. I was not quite right, nor quite wrong; picking up one of the books, I looked at it for a moment, and found it to be the New Testament. 'Come, young lad,' said a man who stood by, in the dress of a porter, 'put that book down, it is none of yours; if you want a book, go in and deal for one.' Deal, thought I, deal,--the man seems to know what I am coming about,--and going in, I presently found myself in a very large room. Behind a counter two men stood with their backs to a splendid fire, warming themselves, for the weather was cold. Of these men one was dressed in brown, and the other was dressed in black; both were tall men--he who was dressed in brown was thin, and had a particularly ill-natured countenance; the man dressed in black was bulky, his features were noble, but they were those of a lion. 'What is your business, young man?' said the precise personage, as I stood staring at him and his companion. 'I want a Bible,' said I. 'What price, what size?' said the precise-looking man. 'As to size,' said I, 'I should like to have a large one--that is, if you can afford me one--I do not come to buy.' 'Oh, friend,' said the precise-looking man, 'if you come here expecting to have a Bible for nothing, you are mistaken--we--' 'I would scorn to have a Bible for nothing,' said I, 'or anything else; I came not to beg, but to barter; there is no shame in that, especially in a country like this, where all folks barter.' 'Oh, we don't barter,' said the precise man, 'at least Bibles; you had better depart.' 'Stay, brother,' said the man with the countenance of a lion, 'let us ask a few questions; this may be a very important case; perhaps the young man has had convictions.' 'Not I,' I exclaimed, 'I am convinced of nothing, and with regard to the Bible--I don't believe--' 'Hey!' said the man with the lion countenance, and there he stopped. But with that 'Hey' the walls of the house seemed to shake, the windows rattled, and the porter whom I had seen in front of the house came running up the steps, and looked into the apartment through the glass of the door. There was silence for about a minute--the same kind of silence which succeeds a clap of thunder. At last the man with the lion countenance, who had kept his eyes fixed upon me, said calmly, 'Were you about to say that you don't believe in the Bible, young man?' 'No more than in anything else,' said I; 'you were talking of convictions--I have no convictions. It is not easy to believe in the Bible till one is convinced that there is a Bible.' 'He seems to be insane,' said the prim-looking man; 'we had better order the porter to turn him out.' 'I am by no means certain,' said I, 'that the porter could turn me out; always provided there is a porter, and this system of ours be not a lie, and a dream.' 'Come,' said the lion-looking man, impatiently, 'a truce with this nonsense. If the porter cannot turn you out, perhaps some other person can; but to the point--you want a Bible?' 'I do,' said I, 'but not for myself; I was sent by another person to offer something in exchange for one.' 'And who is that person?' 'A poor old woman, who has had what you call convictions,--heard voices, or thought she heard them--I forgot to ask her whether they were loud ones.' 'What has she sent to offer in exchange?' said the man, without taking any notice of the concluding part of my speech. 'A book,' said I. 'Let me see it.' 'Nay, brother,' said the precise man, 'this will never do; if we once adopt the system of barter, we shall have all the holders of useless rubbish in the town applying to us.' 'I wish to see what he has brought,' said the other; 'perhaps Baxter, or Jewell's _Apology_, either of which would make a valuable addition to our collection. Well, young man, what's the matter with you?' I stood like one petrified; I had put my hand into my pocket--the book was gone. 'What's the matter?' repeated the man with the lion countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder. 'I have it not--I have lost it!' 'A pretty story, truly,' said the precise-looking man, 'lost it! You had better retire,' said the other. 'How shall I appear before the party who intrusted me with the book? She will certainly think that I have purloined it, notwithstanding all I can say; nor, indeed, can I blame her,--appearances are certainly against me.' 'They are so--you had better retire.' I moved towards the door. 'Stay, young man, one word more; there is only one way of proceeding which would induce me to believe that you are sincere.' 'What is that?' said I, stopping and looking at him anxiously. 'The purchase of a Bible.' 'Purchase!' said I, 'purchase! I came not to purchase, but to barter; such was my instruction, and how can I barter if I have lost the book?' The other made no answer, and turning away I made for the door; all of a sudden I started, and turning round, 'Dear me,' said I, 'it has just come into my head, that if the book was lost by my negligence, as it must have been, I have clearly a right to make it good.' No answer. 'Yes,' I repeated, 'I have clearly a right to make it good; how glad I am! see the effect of a little reflection. I will purchase a Bible instantly, that is, if I have not lost--' and with considerable agitation I felt in my pocket. The prim-looking man smiled: 'I suppose,' said he, 'that he has lost his money as well as book.' 'No,' said I, 'I have not'; and pulling out my hand I displayed no less a sum than three half-crowns. 'Oh, noble goddess of the Mint!' as Dame Charlotta Nordenflycht, the Swede, said a hundred and fifty years ago, 'great is thy power; how energetically the possession of thee speaks in favour of man's character!' 'Only half-a-crown for this Bible?' said I, putting down the money, 'it is worth three'; and bowing to the man of the noble features, I departed with my purchase. 'Queer customer,' said the prim-looking man, as I was about to close the door--'don't like him.' 'Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say,' said he of the countenance of a lion. CHAPTER XLVI The pickpocket--Strange rencounter--Drag him along--A great service--Things of importance--Philological matters--Mother of languages--Zhats! A few days after the occurrence of what is recorded in the last chapter, as I was wandering in the City, chance directed my footsteps to an alley leading from one narrow street to another in the neighbourhood of Cheapside. Just before I reached the mouth of the alley, a man in a greatcoat, closely followed by another, passed it; and, at the moment in which they were passing, I observed the man behind snatch something from the pocket of the other; whereupon, darting into the street, I seized the hindermost man by the collar, crying at the same time to the other, 'My good friend, this person has just picked your pocket.' The individual whom I addressed, turning round with a start, glanced at me, and then at the person whom I held. London is the place for strange rencounters. It appeared to me that I recognised both individuals--the man whose pocket had been picked and the other; the latter now began to struggle violently; 'I have picked no one's pocket,' said he. 'Rascal,' said the other, 'you have got my pocket-book in your bosom.' 'No, I have not,' said the other; and, struggling more violently than before, the pocket-book dropped from his bosom upon the ground. The other was now about to lay hands upon the fellow, who was still struggling. 'You had better take up your book,' said I; 'I can hold him.' He followed my advice; and, taking up his pocket-book, surveyed my prisoner with a ferocious look, occasionally glaring at me. Yes, I had seen him before--it was the stranger whom I had observed on London Bridge, by the stall of the old apple-woman, with the cap and cloak; but, instead of these, he now wore a hat and greatcoat. 'Well,' said I, at last, 'what am I to do with this gentleman of ours?' nodding to the prisoner, who had now left off struggling. 'Shall I let him go?' 'Go!' said the other; 'go! The knave--the rascal; let him go, indeed! Not so, he shall go before the Lord Mayor. Bring him along.' 'Oh, let me go,' said the other: 'let me go; this is the first offence, I assure ye--the first time I ever thought to do anything wrong.' 'Hold your tongue,' said I, 'or I shall be angry with you. If I am not very much mistaken, you once attempted to cheat me.' 'I never saw you before in all my life,' said the fellow, though his countenance seemed to belie his words. 'That is not true,' said I; 'you are the man who attempted to cheat me of one-and-ninepence in the coach-yard, on the first morning of my arrival in London.' 'I don't doubt it,' said the other; 'a confirmed thief'; and here his tones became peculiarly sharp; 'I would fain see him hanged--crucified. Drag him along.' 'I am no constable,' said I; 'you have got your pocket-book,--I would rather you would bid me let him go.' 'Bid you let him go!' said the other almost furiously, 'I command--stay, what was I going to say? I was forgetting myself,' he observed more gently; 'but he stole my pocket-book;--if you did but know what it contained.' 'Well,' said I, 'if it contains anything valuable, be the more thankful that you have recovered it; as for the man, I will help you to take him where you please; but I wish you would let him go.' The stranger hesitated, and there was an extraordinary play of emotion in his features: he looked ferociously at the pickpocket, and, more than once, somewhat suspiciously at myself; at last his countenance cleared, and, with a good grace, he said, 'Well, you have done me a great service, and you have my consent to let him go; but the rascal shall not escape with impunity,' he exclaimed suddenly, as I let the man go, and starting forward, before the fellow could escape, he struck him a violent blow on the face. The man staggered, and had nearly fallen; recovering himself, however, he said, 'I tell you what, my fellow; if I ever meet you in this street in a dark night, and I have a knife about me, it shall be the worse for you; as for you, young man,' said he to me; but, observing that the other was making towards him, he left whatever he was about to say unfinished, and, taking to his heels, was out of sight in a moment. The stranger and myself walked in the direction of Cheapside, the way in which he had been originally proceeding; he was silent for a few moments, at length he said, 'You have really done me a great service, and I should be ungrateful not to acknowledge it. I am a merchant; and a merchant's pocket-book, as you perhaps know, contains many things of importance; but, young man,' he exclaimed, 'I think I have seen you before; I thought so at first, but where I cannot exactly say: where was it?' I mentioned London Bridge and the old apple-woman. 'Oh,' said he, and smiled, and there was something peculiar in his smile, 'I remember now. Do you frequently sit on London Bridge?' 'Occasionally,' said I; 'that old woman is an old friend of mine.' 'Friend?' said the stranger, 'I am glad of it, for I shall know where to find you. At present I am going to 'Change; time, you know, is precious to a merchant.' We were by this time close to Cheapside. 'Farewell,' said he, 'I shall not forget this service. I trust we shall soon meet again.' He then shook me by the hand and went his way. The next day, as I was seated beside the old woman in the booth, the stranger again made his appearance, and, after a word or two, sat down beside me; the old woman was sometimes reading the Bible, which she had already had two or three days in her possession, and sometimes discoursing with me. Our discourse rolled chiefly on philological matters. 'What do you call bread in your language?' said I. 'You mean the language of those who bring me things to buy, or who did; for, as I told you before, I shan't buy any more; it's no language of mine, dear--they call bread pannam in their language.' 'Pannam!' said I, 'pannam! evidently connected with, if not derived from, the Latin panis; even as the word tanner, which signifieth a sixpence, is connected with, if not derived from, the Latin tener, which is itself connected with, if not derived from, tawno or tawner, which, in the language of Mr. Petulengro, signifieth a sucking child. Let me see, what is the term for bread in the language of Mr. Petulengro? Morro, or manro, as I have sometimes heard it called; is there not some connection between these words and panis? Yes, I think there is; and I should not wonder if morro, manro, and panis were connected, perhaps derived from, the same root; but what is that root? I don't know--I wish I did; though, perhaps, I should not be the happier. Morro--manro! I rather think morro is the oldest form; it is easier to say morro than manro. Morro! Irish, aran; Welsh, bara; English, bread. I can see a resemblance between all the words, and pannam too; and I rather think that the Petulengrian word is the elder. How odd it would be if the language of Mr. Petulengro should eventually turn out to be the mother of all the languages in the world; yet it is certain that there are some languages in which the terms for bread have no connection with the word used by Mr. Petulengro, notwithstanding that those languages, in many other points, exhibit a close affinity to the language of the horse-shoe master: for example, bread, in Hebrew, is Laham, which assuredly exhibits little similitude to the word used by the aforesaid Petulengro. In Armenian it is--' 'Zhats!' said the stranger, starting up. 'By the Patriarch and the Three Holy Churches, this is wonderful! How came you to know aught of Armenian?' CHAPTER XLVII New acquaintance--Wired cases--Bread and wine--Armenian colonies--Learning without money--What a language--The tide--Your foible--Learning of the Haiks--Old proverb--Pressing invitation. Just as I was about to reply to the interrogation of my new-formed acquaintance, a man with a dusky countenance, probably one of the Lascars, or Mulattos, of whom the old woman had spoken, came up and whispered to him, and with this man he presently departed, not however before he had told me the place of his abode, and requested me to visit him. After the lapse of a few days, I called at the house which he had indicated. It was situated in a dark and narrow street, in the heart of the City, at no great distance from the Bank. I entered a counting-room, in which a solitary clerk, with a foreign look, was writing. The stranger was not at home; returning the next day, however, I met him at the door as he was about to enter; he shook me warmly by the hand. 'I am glad to see you,' said he, 'follow me, I was just thinking of you.' He led me through the counting-room, to an apartment up a flight of stairs; before ascending, however, he looked into the book in which the foreign- visaged clerk was writing, and, seemingly not satisfied with the manner in which he was executing his task, he gave him two or three cuffs, telling him at the same time that he deserved crucifixion. The apartment above stairs, to which he led me, was large, with three windows, which opened upon the street. The walls were hung with wired cases, apparently containing books. There was a table and two or three chairs; but the principal article of furniture was a long sofa, extending from the door by which we entered to the farther end of the apartment. Seating himself upon the sofa, my new acquaintance motioned to me to sit beside him, and then, looking me full in the face, repeated his former inquiry. 'In the name of all that is wonderful, how came you to know aught of my language?' 'There is nothing wonderful in that,' said I; 'we are at the commencement of a philological age, every one studies languages; that is, every one who is fit for nothing else; philology being the last resource of dulness and ennui, I have got a little in advance of the throng, by mastering the Armenian alphabet; but I foresee the time when every unmarriageable miss, and desperate blockhead, will likewise have acquired the letters of Mesroub, and will know the term for bread, in Armenian, and perhaps that for wine.' 'Kini,' said my companion; and that and the other word put me in mind of the duties of hospitality. 'Will you eat bread and drink wine with me?' 'Willingly,' said I. Whereupon my companion, unlocking a closet, produced, on a silver salver, a loaf of bread, with a silver-handled knife, and wine in a silver flask, with cups of the same metal. ' I hope you like my fare,' said he, after we had both eaten and drunk. 'I like your bread,' said I, 'for it is stale; I like not your wine, it is sweet, and I hate sweet wine.' 'It is wine of Cyprus,' said my entertainer; and, when I found that it was wine of Cyprus, I tasted it again, and the second taste pleased me much better than the first, notwithstanding that I still thought it somewhat sweet. 'So,' said I, after a pause, looking at my companion, 'you are an Armenian.' 'Yes,' said he, 'an Armenian born in London, but not less an Armenian on that account. My father was a native of Ispahan, one of the celebrated Armenian colony which was established there shortly after the time of the dreadful hunger, which drove the children of Haik in swarms from their original country, and scattered them over most parts of the eastern and western world. In Ispahan he passed the greater portion of his life, following mercantile pursuits with considerable success. Certain enemies, however, having accused him to the despot of the place, of using seditious language, he was compelled to flee, leaving most of his property behind. Travelling in the direction of the west, he came at last to London, where he established himself, and where he eventually died, leaving behind a large property and myself, his only child, the fruit of a marriage with an Armenian Englishwoman, who did not survive my birth more than three months.' The Armenian then proceeded to tell me that he had carried on the business of his father, which seemed to embrace most matters, from buying silks of Lascars, to speculating in the funds, and that he had considerably increased the property which his father had left him. He candidly confessed that he was wonderfully fond of gold, and said there was nothing like it for giving a person respectability and consideration in the world: to which assertion I made no answer, being not exactly prepared to contradict it. And, when he had related to me his history, he expressed a desire to know something more of myself, whereupon I gave him the outline of my history, concluding with saying, 'I am now a poor author, or rather philologist, upon the streets of London, possessed of many tongues, which I find of no use in the world.' 'Learning without money is anything but desirable,' said the Armenian, 'as it unfits a man for humble occupations. It is true that it may occasionally beget him friends; I confess to you that your understanding something of my language weighs more with me than the service you rendered me in rescuing my pocket-book the other day from the claws of that scoundrel whom I yet hope to see hanged, if not crucified, notwithstanding there were in that pocket-book papers and documents of considerable value. Yes, that circumstance makes my heart warm towards you, for I am proud of my language--as I indeed well may be--what a language, noble and energetic! quite original, differing from all others both in words and structure.' 'You are mistaken,' said I; 'many languages resemble the Armenian both in structure and words.' 'For example?' said the Armenian. 'For example,' said I, 'the English.' 'The English!' said the Armenian; 'show me one word in which the English resembles the Armenian.' 'You walk on London Bridge,' said I. 'Yes,' said the Armenian. 'I saw you look over the balustrade the other morning.' 'True,' said the Armenian. 'Well, what did you see rushing up through the arches with noise and foam?' 'What was it?' said the Armenian. 'What was it?--you don't mean the _tide_?' 'Do I not?' said I. 'Well, what has the tide to do with the matter?' 'Much,' said I; 'what is the tide?' 'The ebb and flow of the sea,' said the Armenian. 'The sea itself; what is the Haik word for sea?' The Armenian gave a strong gasp; then, nodding his head thrice, 'You are right,' said he, 'the English word tide is the Armenian for sea; and now I begin to perceive that there are many English words which are Armenian; there is --- and ---; and there again in French, there is --- and --- derived from the Armenian. How strange, how singular--I thank you. It is a proud thing to see that the language of my race has had so much influence over the languages of the world.' I saw that all that related to his race was the weak point of the Armenian. I did not flatter the Armenian with respect to his race or language. 'An inconsiderable people,' said I, 'shrewd and industrious, but still an inconsiderable people. A language bold and expressive, and of some antiquity, derived, though perhaps not immediately, from some much older tongue. I do not think that the Armenian has had any influence over the formation of the languages of the world, I am not much indebted to the Armenian for the solution of any doubts; whereas to the language of Mr. Petulengro--' 'I have heard you mention that name before,' said the Armenian; 'who is Mr. Petulengro?' And then I told the Armenian who Mr. Petulengro was. The Armenian spoke contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro and his race. 'Don't speak contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro,' said I, 'nor of anything belonging to him. He is a dark mysterious personage; all connected with him is a mystery, especially his language; but I believe that his language is doomed to solve a great philological problem--Mr. Petulengo--' 'You appear agitated,' said the Armenian; 'take another glass of wine; you possess a great deal of philological knowledge, but it appears to me that the language of this Petulengro is your foible: but let us change the subject; I feel much interested in you, and would fain be of service to you. Can you cast accounts?' I shook my head. 'Keep books?' 'I have an idea that I could write books,' said I; 'but, as to keeping them--' and here again I shook my head. The Armenian was silent some time; all at once, glancing at one of the wire cases, with which, as I have already said, the walls of the room were hung, he asked me if I was well acquainted with the learning of the Haiks. 'The books in these cases,' said he, 'contain the masterpieces of Haik learning.' 'No,' said I; 'all I know of the learning of the Haiks is their translation of the Bible.' 'You have never read Z---?' 'No,' said I, 'I have never read Z---.' 'I have a plan,' said the Armenian; 'I think I can employ you agreeably and profitably; I should like to see Z--- in an English dress; you shall translate Z---. If you can read the Scriptures in Armenian, you can translate Z---. He is our Esop, the most acute and clever of all our moral writers--his philosophy--' 'I will have nothing to do with him,' said I. 'Wherefore?' said the Armenian. 'There is an old proverb,' said I, '"that a burnt child avoids the fire." I have burnt my hands sufficiently with attempting to translate philosophy, to make me cautious of venturing upon it again'; and then I told the Armenian how I had been persuaded by the publisher to translate his philosophy into German, and what sorry thanks I had received; 'And who knows,' said I, 'but the attempt to translate Armenian philosophy into English might he attended with yet more disagreeable consequences?' The Armenian smiled. 'You would find me very different from the publisher.' 'In many points I have no doubt I should,' I replied; 'but at the present moment I feel like a bird which has escaped from a cage, and, though hungry, feels no disposition to return. Of what nation is the dark man below stairs, whom I saw writing at the desk?' 'He is a Moldave,' said the Armenian; 'the dog (and here his eyes sparkled) deserves to be crucified, he is continually making mistakes.' The Armenian again renewed his proposition about Z---, which I again refused, as I felt but little inclination to place myself beneath the jurisdiction of a person who was in the habit of cuffing those whom he employed, when they made mistakes. I presently took my departure; not, however, before I had received from the Armenian a pressing invitation to call upon him whenever I should feel disposed. CHAPTER XLVIII What to do--Strong enough--Fame and profit--Alliterative euphony--Excellent fellow--Listen to me--A plan--Bagnigge Wells. Anxious thoughts frequently disturbed me at this time with respect to what I was to do, and how support myself in the Great City. My future prospects were gloomy enough, and I looked forward and feared; sometimes I felt half disposed to accept the offer of the Armenian, and to commence forthwith, under his superintendence, the translation of the Haik Esop; but the remembrance of the cuffs which I had seen him bestow upon the Moldavian, when glancing over his shoulder into the ledger or whatever it was on which he was employed, immediately drove the inclination from my mind. I could not support the idea of the possibility of his staring over my shoulder upon my translation of the Haik Esop, and, dissatisfied with my attempts, treating me as he had treated the Moldavian clerk; placing myself in a position which exposed me to such treatment would indeed be plunging into the fire after escaping from the frying-pan. The publisher, insolent and overbearing as he was, whatever he might have wished or thought, had never lifted his hand against me, or told me that I merited crucifixion. What was I to do? turn porter? I was strong; but there was something besides strength required to ply the trade of a porter--a mind of a particularly phlegmatic temperament, which I did not possess. What should I do? enlist as a soldier? I was tall enough; but something besides height is required to make a man play with credit the part of soldier, I mean a private one--a spirit, if spirit it can be called, which will not only enable a man to submit with patience to insolence and abuse, and even to cuffs and kicks, but occasionally to the lash. I felt that I was not qualified to be a soldier, at least a private one; far better be a drudge to the most ferocious of publishers, editing Newgate lives, and writing in eighteenpenny reviews--better to translate the Haik Esop, under the superintendence of ten Armenians, than be a private soldier in the English service; I did not decide rashly--I knew something of soldiering. What should I do? I thought that I would make a last and desperate attempt to dispose of the ballads and of Ab Gwilym. I had still an idea that, provided I could persuade any spirited publisher to give these translations to the world, I should acquire both considerable fame and profit; not, perhaps, a world-embracing fame such as Byron's; but a fame not to be sneered at, which would last me a considerable time, and would keep my heart from breaking;--profit, not equal to that which Scott had made by his wondrous novels, but which would prevent me from starving, and enable me to achieve some other literary enterprise. I read and re-read my ballads, and the more I read them the more I was convinced that the public, in the event of their being published, would freely purchase, and hail them with the merited applause. Were not the deeds and adventures wonderful and heart-stirring--from which it is true I could claim no merit, being but the translator; but had I not rendered them into English, with all their original fire? Yes, I was confident I had; and I had no doubt that the public would say so. And then, with respect to Ab Gwilym, had I not done as much justice to him as to the Danish ballads; not only rendering faithfully his thoughts, imagery, and phraseology, but even preserving in my translation the alliterative euphony which constitutes one of the most remarkable features of Welsh prosody? Yes, I had accomplished all this; and I doubted not that the public would receive my translations from Ab Gwilym with quite as much eagerness as my version of the Danish ballads. But I found the publishers as intractable as ever, and to this day the public has never had an opportunity of doing justice to the glowing fire of my ballad versification, and the alliterative euphony of my imitations of Ab Gwilym. I had not seen Francis Ardry since the day I had seen him taking lessons in elocution. One afternoon as I was seated at my table, my head resting on my hands, he entered my apartment; sitting down, he inquired of me why I had not been to see him. 'I might ask the same question of you,' I replied. 'Wherefore have you not been to see me?' Whereupon Francis Ardry told me that he had been much engaged in his oratorical exercises, also in escorting the young Frenchwoman about to places of public amusement; he then again questioned me as to the reason of my not having been to see him. I returned an evasive answer. The truth was, that for some time past my appearance, owing to the state of my finances, had been rather shabby; and I did not wish to expose a fashionable young man like Francis Ardry, who lived in a fashionable neighbourhood, to the imputation of having a shabby acquaintance. I was aware that Francis Ardry was an excellent fellow; but, on that very account, I felt, under existing circumstances, a delicacy in visiting him. It is very possible that he had an inkling of how matters stood, as he presently began to talk of my affairs and prospects. I told him of my late ill success with the booksellers, and inveighed against their blindness to their own interest in refusing to publish my translations. 'The last that I addressed myself to,' said I, 'told me not to trouble him again unless I could bring him a decent novel or a tale.' 'Well,' said Frank, 'and why did you not carry him a decent novel or a tale?' 'Because I have neither,' said I; 'and to write them is, I believe, above my capacity. At present I feel divested of all energy--heartless, and almost hopeless.' 'I see how it is,' said Francis Ardry, 'you have overworked yourself, and, worst of all, to no purpose. Take my advice; cast all care aside, and only think of diverting yourself for a month at least.' 'Divert myself!' said I; 'and where am I to find the means?' 'Be that care on my shoulders,' said Francis Ardry. 'Listen to me--my uncles have been so delighted with the favourable accounts which they have lately received from T--- of my progress in oratory, that, in the warmth of their hearts, they made me a present yesterday of two hundred pounds. This is more money than I want, at least for the present; do me the favour to take half of it as a loan--hear me,' said he, observing that I was about to interrupt him; 'I have a plan in my head--one of the prettiest in the world. The sister of my charmer is just arrived from France; she cannot speak a word of English; and, as Annette and myself are much engaged in our own matters, we cannot pay her the attention which we should wish, and which she deserves, for she is a truly fascinating creature, although somewhat differing from my charmer, having blue eyes and flaxen hair; whilst, Annette, on the contrary--But I hope you will shortly see Annette. Now, my plan is this--Take the money, dress yourself fashionably, and conduct Annette's sister to Bagnigge Wells.' 'And what should we do at Bagnigge Wells?' 'Do!' said Francis Ardry. 'Dance!' 'But,' said I, 'I scarcely know anything of dancing.' 'Then here's an excellent opportunity of improving yourself. Like most Frenchwomen, she dances divinely; however, if you object to Bagnigge Wells and dancing, go to Brighton, and remain there a month or two, at the end of which time you can return with your mind refreshed and invigorated, and materials, perhaps, for a tale or novel.' 'I never heard a more foolish, plan,' said I, 'or one less likely to terminate profitably or satisfactorily. I thank you, however, for your offer, which is, I daresay, well meant. If I am to escape from my cares and troubles, and find my mind refreshed and invigorated, I must adopt other means than conducting a French demoiselle to Brighton or Bagnigge Wells, defraying the expense by borrowing from a friend.' CHAPTER XLIX Singular personage--A large sum--Papa of Rome--We are Christians--Degenerate Armenians--Roots of Ararat--Regular features. The Armenian! I frequently saw this individual, availing myself of the permission which he had given me to call upon him. A truly singular personage was he, with his love of amassing money, and his nationality so strong as to be akin to poetry. Many an Armenian I have subsequently known fond of money-getting, and not destitute of national spirit; but never another, who, in the midst of his schemes of lucre, was at all times willing to enter into a conversation on the structure of the Haik language, or who ever offered me money to render into English the fables of Z--- in the hope of astonishing the stock-jobbers of the Exchange with the wisdom of the Haik Esop. But he was fond of money, very fond. Within a little time I had won his confidence to such a degree that he informed me that the grand wish of his heart was to be possessed of two hundred thousand pounds. 'I think you might satisfy yourself with the half,' said I. 'One hundred thousand pounds is a large sum.' 'You are mistaken,' said the Armenian, 'a hundred thousand pounds is nothing. My father left me that or more at his death. No, I shall never be satisfied with less than two.' 'And what will you do with your riches,' said I, 'when you have obtained them? Will you sit down and muse upon them, or will you deposit them in a cellar, and go down once a day to stare at them? I have heard say that the fulfilment of one's wishes is invariably the precursor of extreme misery, and forsooth I can scarcely conceive a more horrible state of existence than to be without a hope or wish.' 'It is bad enough, I daresay,' said the Armenian; 'it will, however, be time enough to think of disposing of the money when I have procured it. I still fall short by a vast sum of the two hundred thousand pounds.' I had occasionally much conversation with him on the state and prospects of his nation, especially of that part of it which still continued in the original country of the Haiks--Ararat and its confines, which, it appeared, he had frequently visited. He informed me that since the death of the last Haik monarch, which occurred in the eleventh century, Armenia had been governed both temporally and spiritually by certain personages called patriarchs; their temporal authority, however, was much circumscribed by the Persian and Turk, especially the former, of whom the Armenian spoke with much hatred, whilst their spiritual authority had at various times been considerably undermined by the emissaries of the Papa of Rome, as the Armenian called him. 'The Papa of Rome sent his emissaries at an early period amongst us,' said the Armenian, 'seducing the minds of weak-headed people, persuading them that the hillocks of Rome are higher than the ridges of Ararat; that the Roman Papa has more to say in heaven than the Armenian patriarch, and that puny Latin is a better language than nervous and sonorous Haik.' 'They are both dialects,' said I, 'of the language of Mr. Petulengro, one of whose race I believe to have been the original founder of Rome; but, with respect to religion, what are the chief points of your faith? you are Christians, I believe.' 'Yes,' said the Armenian, 'we are Christians in our way; we believe in God, the Holy Spirit, and Saviour, though we are not prepared to admit that the last personage is not only himself, but the other two. We believe . . .' and then the Armenian told me of several things which the Haiks believed or disbelieved. 'But what we find most hard of all to believe,' said he, 'is that the man of the mole-hills is entitled to our allegiance, he not being a Haik, or understanding the Haik language.' 'But, by your own confession,' said I, 'he has introduced a schism in your nation, and has amongst you many that believe in him.' 'It is true,' said the Armenian, I that even on the confines of Ararat there are a great number who consider that mountain to be lower than the hillocks of Rome; but the greater number of degenerate Armenians are to be found amongst those who have wandered to the west; most of the Haik churches of the west consider Rome to be higher than Ararat--most of the Armenians of this place hold that dogma; I, however, have always stood firm in the contrary opinion. 'Ha! ha!'--here the Armenian laughed in his peculiar manner--'talking of this matter puts me in mind of an adventure which lately befell me, with one of the emissaries of the Papa of Rome, for the Papa of Rome has at present many emissaries in this country, in order to seduce the people from their own quiet religion to the savage heresy of Rome; this fellow came to me partly in the hope of converting me, but principally to extort money for the purpose of furthering the designs of Rome in this country. I humoured the fellow at first, keeping him in play for nearly a month, deceiving and laughing at him. At last he discovered that he could make nothing of me, and departed with the scowl of Caiaphas, whilst I cried after him, 'The roots of Ararat are _deeper_ than those of Rome.' The Armenian had occasionally reverted to the subject of the translation of the Haik Esop, which he had still a lurking desire that I should execute; but I had invariably declined the undertaking, without, however, stating my reasons. On one occasion, when we had been conversing on the subject, the Armenian, who had been observing my countenance for some time with much attention, remarked, 'Perhaps, after all, you are right, and you might employ your time to better advantage. Literature is a fine thing, especially Haik literature, but neither that nor any other would be likely to serve as a foundation to a man's fortune: and to make a fortune should be the principal aim of every one's life; therefore listen to me. Accept a seat at the desk opposite to my Moldavian clerk, and receive the rudiments of a merchant's education. You shall be instructed in the Armenian way of doing business--I think you would make an excellent merchant.' 'Why do you think so?' 'Because you have something of the Armenian look.' 'I understand you,' said I; 'you mean to say that I squint!' 'Not exactly,' said the Armenian, 'but there is certainly a kind of irregularity in your features. One eye appears to me larger than the other--never mind, but rather rejoice; in that irregularity consists your strength. All people with regular features are fools; it is very hard for them, you'll say, but there is no help: all we can do, who are not in such a predicament, is to pity those who are. Well! will you accept my offer? No! you are a singular individual; but I must not forget my own concerns. I must now go forth, having an appointment by which I hope to make money.' CHAPTER L Wish fulfilled--Extraordinary figure--Bueno--Noah--The two faces--I don't blame him--Too fond of money--Were I an Armenian. The fulfilment of the Armenian's grand wish was nearer at hand than either he or I had anticipated. Partly owing to the success of a bold speculation, in which he had some time previously engaged, and partly owing to the bequest of a large sum of money by one of his nation who died at this period in Paris, he found himself in the possession of a fortune somewhat exceeding two hundred thousand pounds; this fact he communicated to me one evening about an hour after the close of 'Change; the hour at which I generally called, and at which I mostly found him at home. 'Well,' said I, 'and what do you intend to do next?' 'I scarcely know,' said the Armenian. 'I was thinking of that when you came in. I don't see anything that I can do, save going on in my former course. After all, I was perhaps too moderate in making the possession of two hundred thousand pounds the summit of my ambition; there are many individuals in this town who possess three times that sum, and are not yet satisfied. No, I think I can do no better than pursue the old career; who knows but I may make the two hundred thousand three or four?--there is already a surplus, which is an encouragement; however, we will consider the matter over a goblet of wine; I have observed of late that you have become partial to my Cyprus.' And it came to pass that, as we were seated over the Cyprus wine, we heard a knock at the door. 'Adelante!' cried the Armenian; whereupon the door opened, and in walked a somewhat extraordinary figure--a man in a long loose tunic of a stuff striped with black and yellow; breeches of plush velvet, silk stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. On his head he wore a high-peaked hat; he was tall, had a hooked nose, and in age was about fifty. 'Welcome, Rabbi Manasseh,' said the Armenian. 'I know your knock--you are welcome; sit down.' 'I am welcome,' said Manasseh, sitting down; 'he--he--he! you know my knock--I bring you money--_bueno_!' There was something very peculiar in the sound of that bueno--I never forgot it. Thereupon a conversation ensued between Rabbi Manasseh and the Armenian, in a language which I knew to be Spanish, though a peculiar dialect. It related to a mercantile transaction. The Rabbi sighed heavily as he delivered to the other a considerable sum of money. 'It is right,' said the Armenian, handing a receipt. 'It is right; and I am quite satisfied.' 'You are satisfied--you have taken money. _Bueno_, I have nothing to say against your being satisfied.' 'Come, Rabbi,' said the Armenian, 'do not despond; it may be your turn next to take money; in the meantime, can't you be persuaded to taste my Cyprus?' 'He--he--he! senor, you know I do not love wine. I love Noah when he is himself; but, as Janus, I love him not. But you are merry; _bueno_, you have a right to be so.' 'Excuse me,' said I; 'but does Noah ever appear as Janus?' 'He--he--he!' said the Rabbi, 'he only appeared as Janus once--una vez quando estuvo borracho; which means--' 'I understand,' said I; 'when he was . . .' and I drew the side of my right hand sharply across my left wrist. 'Are you one of our people?' said the Rabbi. 'No,' said I, 'I am one of the Goyim; but I am only half enlightened. Why should Noah be Janus when he was in that state?' 'He--he--he! you must know that in Lasan akhades wine is janin.' 'In Armenian, kini,' said I; 'in Welsh, gwin; Latin, vinum; but do you think that Janus and janin are one?' 'Do I think? Don't the commentators say so? Does not Master Leo Abarbenel say so in his _Dialogues of Divine Love_'? 'But,' said I, 'I always thought that Janus was a god of the ancient Romans, who stood in a temple open in time of war, and shut in time of peace; he was represented with two faces, which--which--' 'He--he--he!' said the Rabbi, rising from his seat; 'he had two faces, had he? And what did those two faces typify? You do not know; no, nor did the Romans who carved him with two faces know why they did so; for they were only half enlightened, like you and the rest of the Goyim. Yet they were right in carving him with two faces looking from each other--they were right, though they knew not why; there was a tradition among them that the Janinoso had two faces, but they knew not that one was for the world which was gone and the other for the world before him--for the drowned world and for the present, as Master Leo Abarbenel says in his _Dialogues of Divine Love_. He--he--he!' continued the Rabbi, who had by this time advanced to the door, and, turning round, waved the two forefingers of his right hand in our faces; 'the Goyims and Epicouraiyim are clever men, they know how to make money better than we of Israel. My good friend there is a clever man, I bring him money, he never brought me any; _bueno_, I do not blame him, he knows much, very much; but one thing there is my friend does not know, nor any of the Epicureans, he does not know the sacred thing--he has never received the gift of interpretation which God alone gives to the seed--he has his gift, I have mine--he is satisfied, I don't blame him, _bueno_.' And, with this last word in his mouth, he departed. 'Is that man a native of Spain?' I demanded. 'Not a native of Spain,' said the Armenian, 'though he is one of those who call themselves Spanish Jews, and who are to be found scattered throughout Europe, speaking the Spanish language transmitted to them by their ancestors, who were expelled from Spain in the time of Ferdinand and Isabella.' 'The Jews are a singular people,' said I. 'A race of cowards and dastards,' said the Armenian, 'without a home or country; servants to servants; persecuted and despised by all.' 'And what are the Haiks?' I demanded. 'Very different from the Jews,' replied the Armenian; 'the Haiks have a home--a country, and can occasionally use a good sword; though it is true they are not what they might be.' 'Then it is a shame that they do not become so,' said I; 'but they are too fond of money. There is yourself, with two hundred thousand pounds in your pocket, craving for more, whilst you might be turning your wealth to the service of your country.' 'In what manner?' said the Armenian. 'I have heard you say that the grand oppressor of your country is the Persian; why not attempt to free your country from his oppression--you have two hundred thousand pounds, and money is the sinew of war?' 'Would you, then, have me attack the Persian?' 'I scarcely know what to say; fighting is a rough trade, and I am by no means certain that you are calculated for the scratch. It is not every one who has been brought up in the school of Mr. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno. All I can say is, that if I were an Armenian, and had two hundred thousand pounds to back me, I would attack the Persian.' 'Hem!' said the Armenian. CHAPTER LI The one half-crown--Merit in patience--Cementer of friendship--Dreadful perplexity--The usual guttural--Armenian letters--Much indebted to you--Pure helplessness--Dumb people. One morning on getting up I discovered that my whole worldly wealth was reduced to one half-crown--throughout that day I walked about in considerable distress of mind; it was now requisite that I should come to a speedy decision with respect to what I was to do; I had not many alternatives, and, before I had retired to rest on the night of the day in question, I had determined that I could do no better than accept the first proposal of the Armenian, and translate under his superintendence the Haik Esop into English. I reflected, for I made a virtue of necessity, that, after all, such an employment would be an honest and honourable one; honest, inasmuch as by engaging in it I should do harm to nobody; honourable, inasmuch as it was a literary task, which not every one was capable of executing. it was not every one of the booksellers' writers of London who was competent to translate the Haik Esop. I determined to accept the offer of the Armenian. Once or twice the thought of what I might have to undergo in the translation from certain peculiarities of the Armenian's temper almost unsettled me; but a mechanical diving of my hand into my pocket, and the feeling of the solitary half-crown, confirmed me; after all, this was a life of trial and tribulation, and I had read somewhere or other that there was much merit in patience, so I determined to hold fast in my resolution of accepting the offer of the Armenian. But all of a sudden I remembered that the Armenian appeared to have altered his intentions towards me: he appeared no longer desirous that I should render the Haik Esop into English for the benefit of the stock- jobbers on Exchange, but rather that I should acquire the rudiments of doing business in the Armenian fashion, and accumulate a fortune, which would enable me to make a figure upon 'Change with the best of the stock- jobbers. 'Well,' thought I, withdrawing my hand from my pocket, whither it had again mechanically dived, 'after all, what would the world, what would this city, be without commerce? I believe the world, and particularly this city, would cut a very poor figure without commerce; and then there is something poetical in the idea of doing business after the Armenian fashion, dealing with dark-faced Lascars and Rabbins of the Sephardim. Yes, should the Armenian insist upon it, I will accept a seat at the desk, opposite the Moldavian clerk. I do not like the idea of cuffs similar to those the Armenian bestowed upon the Moldavian clerk; whatever merit there may be in patience, I do not think that my estimation of the merit of patience would be sufficient to induce me to remain quietly sitting under the infliction of cuffs. I think I should, in the event of his cuffing me, knock the Armenian down. Well, I think I have heard it said somewhere, that a knock-down blow is a great cementer of friendship; I think I have heard of two people being better friends than ever after the one had received from the other a knock-down blow.' That night I dreamed I had acquired a colossal fortune, some four hundred thousand pounds, by the Armenian way of doing business, but suddenly awoke in dreadful perplexity as to how I should dispose of it. About nine o'clock next morning I set off to the house of the Armenian; I had never called upon him so early before, and certainly never with a heart beating with so much eagerness; but the situation of my affairs had become very critical, and I thought that I ought to lose no time in informing the Armenian that I was at length perfectly willing either to translate the Haik Esop under his superintendence, or to accept a seat at the desk opposite to the Moldavian clerk, and acquire the secrets of Armenian commerce. With a quick step I entered the counting-room, where, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, I found the clerk, busied as usual at his desk. He had always appeared to me a singular being, this same Moldavian clerk. A person of fewer words could scarcely be conceived: provided his master were at home, he would, on my inquiring, nod his head; and, provided he were not, he would invariably reply with the monosyllable No, delivered in a strange guttural tone. On the present occasion, being full of eagerness and impatience, I was about to pass by him to the apartment above, without my usual inquiry, when he lifted his head from the ledger in which he was writing, and, laying down his pen, motioned to me with his forefinger, as if to arrest my progress; whereupon I stopped, and, with a palpitating heart, demanded whether the master of the house was at home. The Moldavian clerk replied with his usual guttural, and, opening his desk, ensconced his head therein. 'It does not much matter,' said I; 'I suppose I shall find him at home after 'Change; it does not much matter, I can return.' I was turning away with the intention of leaving the room; at this moment, however, the head of the Moldavian clerk became visible, and I observed a letter in his hand, which he had inserted in the desk at the same time with his head; this he extended towards me, making at the same time a sidelong motion with his head, as much as to say that it contained something which interested me. I took the letter, and the Moldavian clerk forthwith resumed his occupation. The back of the letter bore my name, written in Armenian characters; with a trembling hand I broke the seal, and, unfolding the letter, I beheld several lines also written in the letters of Mesroub, the Cadmus of the Armenians. I stared at the lines, and at first could not make out a syllable of their meaning; at last, however, by continued staring, I discovered that, though the letters were Armenian, the words were English; in about ten minutes I had contrived to decipher the sense of the letter; it ran somewhat in this style:-- 'MY DEAR FRIEND--The words which you uttered in our last conversation have made a profound impression upon me; I have thought them over day and night, and have come to the conclusion that it is my bounden duty to attack the Persians. When these lines are delivered to you, I shall be on the route to Ararat. A mercantile speculation will be to the world the ostensible motive of my journey, and it is singular enough that one which offers considerable prospect of advantage has just presented itself on the confines of Persia. Think not, however, that motives of lucre would have been sufficiently powerful to tempt me to the East at the present moment. I may speculate, it is true, but I should scarcely have undertaken the journey but for your pungent words inciting me to attack the Persians. Doubt not that I will attack them on the first opportunity. I thank you heartily for putting me in mind of my duty. I have hitherto, to use your own words, been too fond of money-getting, like all my countrymen. I am much indebted to you; farewell! and may every prosperity await you.' For some time after I had deciphered the epistle, I stood as if rooted to the floor. I felt stunned--my last hope was gone; presently a feeling arose in my mind--a feeling of self-reproach. Whom had I to blame but myself for the departure of the Armenian? Would he have ever thought of attacking the Persians had I not put the idea into his head? he had told me in his epistle that he was indebted to me for the idea. But for that, he might at the present moment have been in London, increasing his fortune by his usual methods, and I might be commencing under his auspices the translation of the Haik Esop, with the promise, no doubt, of a considerable remuneration for my trouble; or I might be taking a seat opposite the Moldavian clerk, and imbibing the first rudiments of doing business after the Armenian fashion, with the comfortable hope of realising, in a short time, a fortune of three or four hundred thousand pounds; but the Armenian was now gone, and farewell to the fine hopes I had founded upon him the day before. What was I to do? I looked wildly around, till my eyes rested on the Moldavian clerk, who was writing away in his ledger with particular vehemence. Not knowing well what to do or to say, I thought I might as well ask the Moldavian clerk when the Armenian had departed, and when he thought that he would return. It is true it mattered little to me when he departed, seeing that he was gone, and it was evident that he would not be back soon; but I knew not what to do, and in pure helplessness thought I might as well ask; so I went up to the Moldavian clerk, and asked him when the Armenian had departed, and whether he had been gone two days or three. Whereupon the Moldavian clerk, looking up from his ledger, made certain signs, which I could by no means understand. I stood astonished, but, presently recovering myself, inquired when he considered it probable that the master would return, and whether he thought it would be two months or--my tongue faltered--two years; whereupon the Moldavian clerk made more signs than before, and yet more unintelligible; as I persisted, however, he flung down his pen, and, putting his thumb into his mouth, moved it rapidly, causing the nail to sound against the lower jaw; whereupon I saw that he was dumb, and hurried away, for I had always entertained a horror of dumb people, having once heard my another say, when I was a child, that dumb people were half demoniacs, or little better. CHAPTER LII Kind of stupor--Peace of God--Divine hand--Farewell, child--The fair--Massive edifice--Battered tars--Lost! lost!--Good-day, gentlemen. Leaving the house of the Armenian, I strolled about for some time; almost mechanically my feet conducted me to London Bridge, to the booth in which stood the stall of the old apple-woman; the sound of her voice aroused me, as I sat in a kind of stupor on the stone bench beside her; she was inquiring what was the matter with me. At first, I believe, I answered her very incoherently, for I observed alarm beginning to depict itself upon her countenance. Rousing myself, however, I in my turn put a few questions to her upon her present condition and prospects. The old woman's countenance cleared up instantly; she informed me that she had never been more comfortable in her life; that her trade, her _honest_ trade--laying an emphasis on the word honest--had increased of late wonderfully; that her health was better, and, above all, that she felt no fear and horror 'here,' laying her hand on her breast. On my asking her whether she still heard voices in the night, she told me that she frequently did; but that the present were mild voices, sweet voices, encouraging voices, very different from the former ones; that a voice, only the night previous, had cried out about 'the peace of God,' in particularly sweet accents; a sentence which she remembered to have read in her early youth in the primer, but which she had clean forgotten till the voice the night before brought it to her recollection. After a pause, the old woman said to me, 'I believe, dear, that it is the blessed book you brought me which has wrought this goodly change. How glad I am now that I can read; but oh what a difference between the book you brought to me and the one you took away! I believe the one you brought is written by the finger of God, and the other by--' 'Don't abuse the book,' said I, 'it is an excellent book for those who can understand it; it was not exactly suited to you, and perhaps it had been better that you had never read it--and yet, who knows? Peradventure, if you had not read that book, you would not have been fitted for the perusal of the one which you say is written by the finger of God'; and, pressing my hand to my head, I fell into a deep fit of musing. 'What, after all,' thought I, 'if there should be more order and system in the working of the moral world than I have thought? Does there not seem in the present instance to be something like the working of a Divine hand? I could not conceive why this woman, better educated than her mother, should have been, as she certainly was, a worse character than her mother. Yet perhaps this woman may be better and happier than her mother ever was; perhaps she is so already--perhaps this world is not a wild, lying dream, as I have occasionally supposed it to be.' But the thought of my own situation did not permit me to abandon myself much longer to these musings. I started up. 'Where are you going, child?' said the woman, anxiously. 'I scarcely know,' said I; 'anywhere.' 'Then stay here, child,' said she; 'I have much to say to you.' 'No,' said I, 'I shall be better moving about'; and I was moving away, when it suddenly occurred to me that I might never see this woman again; and turning round I offered her my hand, and bade her good-bye. 'Farewell, child,' said the old woman, 'and God bless you!' I then moved along the bridge until I reached the Southwark side, and, still holding on my course, my mind again became quickly abstracted from all surrounding objects. At length I found myself in a street or road, with terraces on either side, and seemingly of interminable length, leading, as it would appear, to the south-east. I was walking at a great rate--there were likewise a great number of people, also walking at a great rate; also carts and carriages driving at a great rate; and all--men, carts, and carriages--going in the selfsame direction, namely to the south-east. I stopped for a moment and deliberated whether or not I should proceed. What business had I in that direction? I could not say that I had any particular business in that direction, but what could I do were I to turn back? only walk about well-known streets; and, if I must walk, why not continue in the direction in which I was to see whither the road and its terraces led? I was here in a _terra incognita_, and an unknown place had always some interest for me; moreover, I had a desire to know whither all this crowd was going, and for what purpose. I thought they could not be going far, as crowds seldom go far, especially at such a rate; so I walked on more lustily than before, passing group after group of the crowd, and almost vying in speed with some of the carriages, especially the hackney-coaches; and, by dint of walking at this rate, the terraces and houses becoming somewhat less frequent as I advanced, I reached in about three-quarters of an hour a kind of low dingy town, in the neighbourhood of the river; the streets were swarming with people, and I concluded, from the number of wild-beast shows, caravans, gingerbread stalls, and the like, that a fair was being held. Now, as I had always been partial to fairs, I felt glad that I had fallen in with the crowd which had conducted me to the present one, and, casting away as much as I was able all gloomy thoughts, I did my best to enter into the diversions of the fair; staring at the wonderful representations of animals on canvas hung up before the shows of wild beasts, which, by the bye, are frequently found much more worthy of admiration than the real beasts themselves; listening to the jokes of the merry-andrews from the platforms in front of the temporary theatres, or admiring the splendid tinsel dresses of the performers who thronged the stages in the intervals of the entertainments; and in this manner, occasionally gazing and occasionally listening, I passed through the town till I came in front of a large edifice looking full upon the majestic bosom of the Thames. It was a massive stone edifice, built in an antique style, and black with age, with a broad esplanade between it and the river, on which, mixed with a few people from the fair, I observed moving about a great many individuals in quaint dresses of blue, with strange three-cornered hats on their heads; most of them were mutilated; this had a wooden leg--this wanted an arm; some had but one eye; and as I gazed upon the edifice, and the singular-looking individuals who moved before it, I guessed where I was. 'I am at ----' said I; 'these individuals are battered tars of Old England, and this edifice, once the favourite abode of Glorious Elizabeth, is the refuge which a grateful country has allotted to them. Here they can rest their weary bodies; at their ease talk over the actions in which they have been injured; and, with the tear of enthusiasm flowing from their eyes, boast how they have trod the deck of fame with Rodney, or Nelson, or others whose names stand emblazoned in the naval annals of their country.' Turning to the right, I entered a park or wood consisting of enormous trees, occupying the foot, sides, and top of a hill which rose behind the town; there were multitudes of people among the trees, diverting themselves in various ways. Coming to the top of the hill, I was presently stopped by a lofty wall, along which I walked, till, coming to a small gate, I passed through, and found myself on an extensive green plain, on one side bounded in part by the wall of the park, and on the others, in the distance, by extensive ranges of houses; to the south-east was a lofty eminence, partially clothed with wood. The plain exhibited an animated scene, a kind of continuation of the fair below; there were multitudes of people upon it, many tents, and shows; there was also horse- racing, and much noise and shouting, the sun shining brightly overhead. After gazing at the horse-racing for a little time, feeling myself somewhat tired, I went up to one of the tents, and laid myself down on the grass. There was much noise in the tent. 'Who will stand me?' said a voice with a slight tendency to lisp. 'Will you, my lord?' 'Yes,' said another voice. Then there was a sound as of a piece of money banging on a table. 'Lost! lost! lost!' cried several voices; and then the banging down of the money, and the 'lost! lost! lost!' were frequently repeated; at last the second voice exclaimed, 'I will try no more; you have cheated me.' 'Never cheated any one in my life, my lord--all fair--all chance. Them that finds, wins--them that can't finds, loses. Anyone else try? Who'll try? Will you, my lord?' and then it appeared that some other lord tried, for I heard more money flung down. Then again the cry of 'lost! lost!'--then again the sound of money, and so on. Once or twice, but not more, I heard 'Won! won!' but the predominant cry was 'Lost! lost!' At last there was a considerable hubbub, and the words 'Cheat!' 'Rogue!' and 'You filched away the pea!' were used freely by more voices than one, to which the voice with the tendency to lisp replied, 'Never filched a pea in my life; would scorn it. Always glad when folks wins; but, as those here don't appear to be civil, not to wish to play any more, I shall take myself off with my table; so, good-day, gentlemen.' CHAPTER LIII Singular table--No money--Out of employ--My bonnet--We of the thimble--Good wages--Wisely resolved--Strangest way in the world--Fat gentleman--Not such another--First edition--Not very easy--Won't close--Avella gorgio--Alarmed look. Presently a man emerged from the tent, bearing before him a rather singular table; it appeared to be of white deal, was exceedingly small at the top, and with very long legs. At a few yards from the entrance he paused, and looked round, as if to decide on the direction which he should take; presently, his eye glancing on me as I lay upon the ground, he started, and appeared for a moment inclined to make off as quick as possible, table and all. In a moment, however, he seemed to recover assurance, and, coming up to the place where I was, the long legs of the table projecting before him, he cried, 'Glad to see you here, my lord.' 'Thank you,' said I, 'it's a fine day.' 'Very fine, my lord; will your lordship play? Them that finds, wins--them that don't finds, loses.' 'Play at what?' said I. 'Only at the thimble and pea, my lord.' 'I never heard of such a game.' 'Didn't you? Well, I'll soon teach you,' said he, placing the table down. 'All you have to do is to put a sovereign down on my table, and to find the pea, which I put under one of my thimbles. If you find it,--and it is easy enough to find it,--I give you a sovereign besides your own: for them that finds, wins.' 'And them that don't finds, loses,' said I; 'no, I don't wish to play.' 'Why not, my lord?' 'Why, in the first place, I have no money.' 'Oh, you have no money, that of course alters the case. If you have no money, you can't play. Well, I suppose I must be seeing after my customers,' said he, glancing over the plain. 'Good-day,' said I. 'Good-day,' said the man slowly, but without moving, and as if in reflection. After a moment or two, looking at me inquiringly, he added, 'Out of employ?' 'Yes,' said I, 'out of employ.' The man measured me with his eye as I lay on the ground. At length he said, 'May I speak a word or two to you, my lord?' 'As many as you please,' said I. 'Then just come a little out of hearing, a little farther on the grass, if you please, my lord.' 'Why do you call me my lord?' said I, as I arose and followed him. 'We of the thimble always calls our customers lords,' said the man; 'but I won't call you such a foolish name any more; come along.' The man walked along the plain till he came to the side of a dry pit, when, looking round to see that no one was nigh, he laid his table on the grass, and, sitting down with his legs over the side of the pit, he motioned me to do the same. 'So you are in want of employ?' said he, after I had sat down beside him. 'Yes,' said I, 'I am very much in want of employ.' 'I think I can find you some.' 'What kind?' said I. 'Why,' said the man, 'I think you would do to be my bonnet.' 'Bonnet!' said I, 'what is that?' 'Don't you know? However, no wonder, as you had never heard of the thimble and pea game, but I will tell you. We of the game are very much exposed; folks when they have lost their money, as those who play with us mostly do, sometimes uses rough language, calls us cheats, and sometimes knocks our hats over our eyes; and what's more, with a kick under our table, cause the top deals to fly off; this is the third table I have used this day, the other two being broken by uncivil customers: so we of the game generally like to have gentlemen go about with us to take our part, and encourage us, though pretending to know nothing about us; for example, when the customer says, "I'm cheated," the bonnet must say, "No, you ain't, it is all right"; or, when my hat is knocked over my eyes, the bonnet must square, and say, "I never saw the man before in all my life, but I won't see him ill-used"; and so, when they kicks at the table, the bonnet must say, "I won't see the table ill-used, such a nice table, too; besides, I want to play myself"; and then I would say to the bonnet, "Thank you, my lord, them that finds, wins"; and then the bonnet plays, and I lets the bonnet win.' 'In a word,' said I, 'the bonnet means the man who covers you, even as the real bonnet covers the head.' 'Just so,' said the man; 'I see you are awake, and would soon make a first-rate bonnet.' 'Bonnet,' said I, musingly; 'bonnet; it is metaphorical.' 'Is it?' said the man. 'Yes,' said I, 'like the cant words--' 'Bonnet is cant,' said the man; 'we of the thimble, as well as all cly- fakers and the like, understand cant, as, of course, must every bonnet; so, if you are employed by me, you had better learn it as soon as you can, that we may discourse together without being understood by every one. Besides covering his principal, a bonnet must have his eyes about him, for the trade of the pea, though a strictly honest one, is not altogether lawful; so it is the duty of the bonnet, if he sees the constable coming, to say, The gorgio's welling.' 'That is not cant,' said I, 'that is the language of the Rommany Chals.' 'Do you know those people?' said the man. 'Perfectly,' said I, 'and their language too.' 'I wish I did,' said the man; 'I would give ten pounds and more to know the language of the Rommany Chals. There's some of it in the language of the pea and thimble; how it came there I don't know, but so it is. I wish I knew it, but it is difficult. You'll make a capital bonnet; shall we close?' 'What would the wages be?' I demanded. 'Why, to a first-rate bonnet, as I think you would prove, I could afford to give from forty to fifty shillings a week.' 'Is it possible?' said I. 'Good wages, ain't they?' said the man. 'First-rate,' said I; 'bonneting is more profitable than reviewing.' 'Anan?' said the man. 'Or translating; I don't think the Armenian would have paid me at that rate for translating his Esop.' 'Who is he?' said the man. 'Esop?' 'No, I know what that is, Esop's cant for a hunchback; but t'other?' 'You should know,' said I. 'Never saw the man in all my life.' 'Yes, you have,' said I, 'and felt him too; don't you remember the individual from whom you took the pocket-book?' 'Oh, that was he; well, the less said about that matter the better; I have left off that trade, and taken to this, which is a much better. Between ourselves, I am not sorry that I did not carry off that pocket- book; if I had, it might have encouraged me in the trade, in which had I remained, I might have been lagged, sent abroad, as I had been already imprisoned; so I determined to leave it off at all hazards, though I was hard up, not having a penny in the world.' 'And wisely resolved,' said I; 'it was a bad and dangerous trade, I wonder you should ever have embraced it.' 'It is all very well talking,' said the man, 'but there is a reason for everything; I am the son of a Jewess, by a military officer'--and then the man told me his story. I shall not repeat the man's story, it was a poor one, a vile one; at last he observed, 'So that affair which you know of determined me to leave the filching trade, and take up with a more honest and safe one; so at last I thought of the pea and thimble, but I wanted funds, especially to pay for lessons at the hands of a master, for I knew little about it.' 'Well,' said I, 'how did you get over that difficulty?' 'Why,' said the man, 'I thought I should never have got over it. What funds could I raise? I had nothing to sell; the few clothes I had I wanted, for we of the thimble must always appear decent, or nobody would come near us. I was at my wits' ends; at last I got over my difficulty in the strangest way in the world.' 'What was that?' 'By an old thing which I had picked up some time before--a book.' 'A book?' said I. 'Yes, which I had taken out of your lordship's pocket one day as you were walking the streets in a great hurry. I thought it was a pocket-book at first, full of bank-notes, perhaps,' continued he, laughing. 'It was well for me, however, that it was not, for I should have soon spent the notes; as it was, I had flung the old thing down with an oath, as soon as I brought it home. When I was so hard up, however, after the affair with that friend of yours, I took it up one day, and thought I might make something by it to support myself a day with. Chance or something else led me into a grand shop; there was a man there who seemed to be the master, talking to a jolly, portly old gentleman, who seemed to be a country squire. Well, I went up to the first, and offered it for sale; he took the book, opened it at the title-page, and then all of a sudden his eyes glistened, and he showed it to the fat, jolly gentleman, and his eyes glistened too, and I heard him say "How singular!" and then the two talked together in a speech I didn't understand--I rather thought it was French, at any rate it wasn't cant; and presently the first asked me what I would take for the book. Now I am not altogether a fool, nor am I blind, and I had narrowly marked all that passed, and it came into my head that now was the time for making a man of myself, at any rate I could lose nothing by a little confidence; so I looked the man boldly in the face, and said, "I will have five guineas for that book, there ain't such another in the whole world." "Nonsense," said the first man, "there are plenty of them, there have been nearly fifty editions, to my knowledge; I will give you five shillings." "No," said I, "I'll not take it, for I don't like to be cheated, so give me my book again"; and I attempted to take it away from the fat gentleman's hand. "Stop," said the younger man; "are you sure that you won't take less?" "Not a farthing," said I; which was not altogether true, but I said so. "Well," said the fat gentleman, "I will give you what you ask"; and sure enough he presently gave me the money; so I made a bow, and was leaving the shop, when it came into my head that there was something odd in all this, and, as I had the money in my pocket, I turned back, and, making another bow, said, "May I be so bold as to ask why you gave me all this money for that 'ere dirty book? When I came into the shop, I should have been glad to get a shilling for it; but I saw you wanted it, and asked five guineas." Then they looked at one another, and smiled, and shrugged up their shoulders. Then the first man, looking at me, said, "Friend, you have been a little too sharp for us; however, we can afford to forgive you, as my friend here has long been in quest of this particular book; there are plenty of editions, as I told you, and a common copy is not worth five shillings; but this is a first edition, and a copy of the first edition is worth its weight in gold."' 'So, after all, they outwitted you,' I observed. 'Clearly,' said the man; 'I might have got double the price, had I known the value; but I don't care, much good may it do them, it has done me plenty. By means of it I have got into an honest, respectable trade, in which there's little danger and plenty of profit, and got out of one which would have got me lagged, sooner or later.' 'But,' said I, 'you ought to remember that the thing was not yours; you took it from me, who had been requested by a poor old apple-woman to exchange it for a Bible.' 'Well,' said the man, 'did she ever get her Bible?' 'Yes,' said I, 'she got her Bible.' 'Then she has no cause to complain; and, as for you, chance or something else has sent you to me, that I may make you reasonable amends for any loss you may have had. Here am I ready to make you my bonnet, with forty or fifty shillings a week, which you say yourself are capital wages.' 'I find no fault with the wages,' said I, 'but I don't like the employ.' 'Not like bonneting,' said the man; 'ah, I see, you would like to be principal; well, a time may come--those long white fingers of yours would just serve for the business.' 'Is it a difficult one?' I demanded. 'Why, it is not very easy: two things are needful--natural talent, and constant practice; but I'll show you a point or two connected with the game'; and, placing his table between his knees as he sat over the side of the pit, he produced three thimbles, and a small brown pellet, something resembling a pea. He moved the thimble and pellet about, now placing it to all appearance under one, and now under another; 'Under which is it now?' he said at last. 'Under that,' said I, pointing to the lowermost of the thimbles, which, as they stood, formed a kind of triangle. 'No,' said he, 'it is not, but lift it up'; and, when I lifted up the thimble, the pellet, in truth, was not under it. 'It was under none of them,' said he, 'it was pressed by my little finger against my palm'; and then he showed me how he did the trick, and asked me if the game was not a funny one; and, on my answering in the affirmative, he said, 'I am glad you like it; come along and let us win some money.' Thereupon, getting up, he placed the table before him, and was moving away; observing, however, that I did not stir, he asked me what I was staying for. 'Merely for my own pleasure,' said I; 'I like sitting here very well.' 'Then you won't close?' said the man. 'By no means,' I replied; 'your proposal does not suit me.' 'You may be principal in time,' said the man. 'That makes no difference,' said I; and, sitting with my legs over the pit, I forthwith began to decline an Armenian noun. 'That ain't cant,' said the man; 'no, nor gypsy either. Well, if you won't close, another will, I can't lose any more time,' and forthwith he departed. And after I had declined four Armenian nouns, of different declensions, I rose from the side of the pit, and wandered about amongst the various groups of people scattered over the green. Presently I came to where the man of the thimbles was standing, with the table before him, and many people about him. 'Them who finds, wins, and them who can't find, loses,' he cried. Various individuals tried to find the pellet, but all were unsuccessful, till at last considerable dissatisfaction was expressed, and the terms rogue and cheat were lavished upon him. 'Never cheated anybody in all my life,' he cried; and, observing me at hand, 'didn't I play fair, my lord?' he inquired. But I made no answer. Presently some more played, and he permitted one or two to win, and the eagerness to play with him became greater. After I had looked on for some time, I was moving away: just then I perceived a short, thick personage, with a staff in his hand, advancing in a great hurry; whereupon, with a sudden impulse, I exclaimed-- Shoon thimble-engro; Avella gorgio. The man, who was in the midst of his pea-and-thimble process, no sooner heard the last word of the distich than he turned an alarmed look in the direction of where I stood; then, glancing around, and perceiving the constable, he slipped forthwith his pellet and thimbles into his pocket, and, lifting up his table, he cried to the people about him, 'Make way!' and with a motion with his head to me, as if to follow him, he darted off with a swiftness which the short, pursy constable could by no means rival; and whither he went, or what became of him, I know not, inasmuch as I turned away in another direction. CHAPTER LIV Mr. Petulengro--Rommany Rye--Lil-writers--One's own horn--Lawfully-earnt money--The wooded hill--A great favourite--The shop window--Much wanted. And, as I wandered along the green, I drew near to a place where several men, with a cask beside them, sat carousing in the neighbourhood of a small tent. 'Here he comes,' said one of them, as I advanced, and standing up he raised his voice and sang:-- 'Here the Gypsy gemman see, With his Roman jib and his rome and dree-- Rome and dree, rum and dry Rally round the Rommany Rye.' It was Mr. Petulengro, who was here diverting himself with several of his comrades; they all received me with considerable frankness. 'Sit down, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'and take a cup of good ale.' I sat down. 'Your health, gentlemen,' said I, as I took the cup which Mr. Petulengro handed to me. 'Aukko tu pios adrey Rommanis. Here is your health in Rommany, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro; who, having refilled the cup, now emptied it at a draught. 'Your health in Rommany, brother,' said Tawno Chikno, to whom the cup came next. 'The Rommany Rye,' said a third. 'The Gypsy gentleman,' exclaimed a fourth, drinking. And then they all sang in chorus:-- 'Here the Gypsy gemman see, With his Roman jib and his rome and dree-- Rome and dree, rum and dry Rally round the Rommany Rye.' {picture:'Here the Gipsy gemman see.': page304.jpg} 'And now, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'seeing that you have drunk and been drunken, you will perhaps tell us where you have been, and what about?' 'I have been in the Big City,' said I, 'writing lils.' 'How much money have you got in your pocket, brother?' said Mr. Petulengro. 'Eighteenpence,' said I; 'all I have in the world.' 'I have been in the Big City, too,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'but I have not written lils--I have fought in the ring--I have fifty pounds in my pocket--I have much more in the world. Brother, there is considerable difference between us. 'I would rather be the lil-writer, after all,' said the tall, handsome, black man; 'indeed, I would wish for nothing better.' 'Why so?' said Mr. Petulengro. 'Because they have so much to say for themselves,' said the black man, 'even when dead and gone. When they are laid in the churchyard, it is their own fault if people ain't talking of them. Who will know, after I am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was once the beauty of the world, or that you Jasper were--' 'The best man in England of my inches. That's true, Tawno--however, here's our brother will perhaps let the world know something about us.' 'Not he,' said the other, with a sigh; 'he'll have quite enough to do in writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and clever he was; and who can blame him? Not I. If I could write lils, every word should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis--my own lawful wedded wife, which is the same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a wise man say in Brummagem, that "there is nothing like blowing one's own horn," which I conceive to be much the same thing as writing one's own lil.' After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and motioned me to follow him. 'Only eighteenpence in the world, brother?' said he, as we walked together. 'Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me how much money I had?' 'Because there was something in your look, brother, something very much resembling that which a person showeth who does not carry much money in his pocket. I was looking at my own face this morning in my wife's looking-glass--I did not look as you do, brother.' 'I believe your sole motive for inquiring,' said I, 'was to have an opportunity of venting a foolish boast, and to let me know that you were in possession of fifty pounds.' 'What is the use of having money unless you let people know you have it?' said Mr. Petulengro. 'It is not every one can read faces, brother; and, unless you knew I had money, how could you ask me to lend you any?' 'I am not going to ask you to lend me any.' 'Then you may have it without asking; as I said before, I have fifty pounds, all lawfully-earnt money, got by fighting in the ring--I will lend you that, brother.' 'You are very kind,' said I; 'but I will not take it.' 'Then the half of it?' 'Nor the half of it; but it is getting towards evening, I must go back to the Great City.' 'And what will you do in the Boro Foros?' 'I know not,' said I. 'Earn money? 'If I can.' 'And if you can't?' 'Starve!' 'You look ill, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro. 'I do not feel well; the Great City does not agree with me. Should I be so fortunate as to earn some money, I would leave the Big City, and take to the woods and fields.' 'You may do that, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'whether you have money or not. Our tents and horses are on the other side of yonder wooded hill, come and stay with us; we shall all be glad of your company, but more especially myself and my wife Pakomovna.' 'What hill is that?' I demanded. And then Mr. Petulengro told me the name of the hill. 'We shall stay on t'other side of the hill a fortnight,' he continued; 'and, as you are fond of lil-writing, you may employ yourself profitably whilst there. You can write the lil of him whose dock gallops down that hill every night, even as the living man was wont to do long ago.' 'Who was he?' I demanded. 'Jemmy Abershaw,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'one of those whom we call Boro drom engroes, and the gorgios highway-men. I once heard a rye say that the life of that man would fetch much money; so come to the other side of the hill, and write the lil in the tent of Jasper and his wife Pakomovna.' {picture:'Even as the living man was wont to do long ago.': page307.jpg} At first I felt inclined to accept the invitation of Mr. Petulengro; a little consideration, however, determined me to decline it. I had always been on excellent terms with Mr. Petulengro, but I reflected that people might be excellent friends when they met occasionally in the street, or on the heath, or in the wood; but that these very people when living together in a house, to say nothing of a tent, might quarrel. I reflected, moreover, that Mr. Petulengro had a wife. I had always, it is true, been a great favourite with Mrs. Petulengro, who had frequently been loud in her commendation of the young rye, as she called me, and his turn of conversation; but this was at a time when I stood in need of nothing, lived under my parents' roof, and only visited at the tents to divert and to be diverted. The times were altered, and I was by no means certain that Mrs. Petulengro, when she should discover that I was in need both of shelter and subsistence, might not alter her opinion both with respect to the individual and what he said--stigmatising my conversation as saucy discourse, and myself as a scurvy companion; and that she might bring over her husband to her own way of thinking, provided, indeed, he should need any conducting. I therefore, though without declaring my reasons, declined the offer of Mr. Petulengro, and presently, after shaking him by the hand, bent again my course towards the Great City. I crossed the river at a bridge considerably above that hight of London; for, not being acquainted with the way, I missed the turning which should have brought me to the latter. Suddenly I found myself in a street of which I had some recollection, and mechanically stopped before the window of a shop at which various publications were exposed; it was that of the bookseller to whom I had last applied in the hope of selling my ballads or Ab Gwilym, and who had given me hopes that, in the event of my writing a decent novel, or a tale, he would prove a purchaser. As I stood listlessly looking at the window, and the publications which it contained, I observed a paper affixed to the glass by wafers with something written upon it. I drew yet nearer for the purpose of inspecting it; the writing was in a fair round hand--'A Novel or Tale is much wanted,' was what was written. CHAPTER LV Bread and water--Pair play--Fashion--Colonel B-----Joseph Sell--The kindly glow--Easiest manner imaginable. 'I must do something,' said I, as I sat that night in my lonely apartment, with some bread and a pitcher of water before me. Thereupon taking some of the bread, and eating it, I considered what I was to do. 'I have no idea what I am to do,' said I, as I stretched my hand towards the pitcher, 'unless (and here I took a considerable draught) I write a tale or a novel--That bookseller,' I continued, speaking to myself, 'is certainly much in need of a tale or a novel, otherwise he would not advertise for one. Suppose I write one, I appear to have no other chance of extricating myself from my present difficulties; surely it was Fate that conducted me to his window. 'I will do it,' said I, as I struck my hand against the table; 'I will do it.' Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came over me. Could I do it? Had I the imagination requisite to write a tale or a novel? 'Yes, yes,' said I, as I struck my hand again against the table, 'I can manage it; give me fair play, and I can accomplish anything.' But should I have fair play? I must have something to maintain myself with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but eighteenpence in the world. Would that maintain me whilst I wrote my tale? Yes, I thought it would, provided I ate bread, which did not cost much, and drank water, which cost nothing; it was poor diet, it was true, but better men than myself had written on bread and water; had not the big man told me so? or something to that effect, months before? It was true there was my lodging to pay for; but up to the present time I owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time that the people of the house asked me for money, I should have written a tale or a novel, which would bring me in money; I had paper, pens, and ink, and, let me not forget them, I had candles in my closet, all paid for, to light me during my night work. Enough, I would go doggedly to work upon my tale or novel. But what was the tale or novel to be about? Was it to be a tale of fashionable life, about Sir Harry Somebody, and the Countess something? But I knew nothing about fashionable people, and cared less; therefore how should I attempt to describe fashionable life? What should the tale consist of? The life and adventures of some one. Good--but of whom? Did not Mr. Petulengro mention one Jemmy Abershaw? Yes. Did he not tell me that the life and adventures of Jemmy Abershaw would bring in much money to the writer? Yes, but I knew nothing of that worthy. I heard, it is true, from Mr. Petulengro, that when alive he committed robberies on the hill, on the side of which Mr. Petulengro had pitched his tents, and that his ghost still haunted the hill at midnight; but those were scant materials out of which to write the man's life. It is probable indeed, that Mr. Petulengro would be able to supply me with further materials if I should apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could not afford the time which it would be necessary to spend in passing to and from Mr. Petulengro, and consulting him. Moreover, my pride revolted at the idea of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials of the history. No, I would not write the history of Abershaw. Whose then--Harry Simms? Alas, the life of Harry Simms had been already much better written by himself than I could hope to do it; and, after all, Harry Simms, like Jemmy Abershaw, was merely a robber. Both, though bold and extraordinary men, were merely highwaymen. I questioned whether I could compose a tale likely to excite any particular interest out of the exploits of a mere robber. I want a character for my hero, thought I, something higher than a mere robber; some one like--like Colonel B---. By the way, why should I not write the life and adventures of Colonel B---, of Londonderry in Ireland? A truly singular man was this same Colonel B---, of Londonderry in Ireland; a personage of most strange and incredible feats and daring, who had been a partizan soldier, a bravo--who, assisted by certain discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the crown and regalia from the Tower of London; who attempted to hang the Duke of Ormond at Tyburn; and whose strange, eventful career did not terminate even with his life, his dead body, on the circulation of an unfounded report that he did not come to his death by fair means, having been exhumed by the mob of his native place, where he had retired to die, and carried in the coffin through the streets. Of his life I had inserted an account in the _Newgate Lives and Trials_; it was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff, awkward style of the seventeenth century; it had, however, strongly captivated my imagination, and I now thought that out of it something better could be made; that, if I added to the adventures, and purified the style, I might fashion out of it a very decent tale or novel. On a sudden, however, the proverb of mending old garments with new cloth occurred to me. 'I am afraid,' said I, 'any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with the old tale; one will but spoil the other.' I had better have nothing to do with Colonel B---, thought I, but boldly and independently sit down and write the life of Joseph Sell. This Joseph Sell, dear reader, was a fictitious personage who had just come into my head. I had never even heard of the name, but just at that moment it happened to come into my head; I would write an entirely fictitious narrative, called the _Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell_, the great traveller. I had better begin at once, thought I; and removing the bread and the jug, which latter was now empty, I seized pen and paper, and forthwith essayed to write the life of Joseph Sell, but soon discovered that it is much easier to resolve upon a thing than to achieve it, or even to commence it; for the life of me I did not know how to begin, and, after trying in vain to write a line, I thought it would be as well to go to bed, and defer my projected undertaking till the morrow. So I went to bed, but not to sleep. During the greater part of the night I lay awake, musing upon the work which I had determined to execute. For a long time my brain was dry and unproductive; I could form no plan which appeared feasible. At length I felt within my brain a kindly glow; it was the commencement of inspiration; in a few minutes I had formed my plan; I then began to imagine the scenes and the incidents. Scenes and incidents flitted before my mind's eye so plentifully, that I knew not how to dispose of them; I was in a regular embarrassment. At length I got out of the difficulty in the easiest manner imaginable, namely, by consigning to the depths of oblivion all the feebler and less stimulant scenes and incidents, and retaining the better and more impressive ones. Before morning I had sketched the whole work on the tablets of my mind, and then resigned myself to sleep in the pleasing conviction that the most difficult part of my undertaking was achieved. CHAPTER LVI Considerably sobered--Power of writing--The tempter--Hungry talent--Work concluded. Rather late in the morning I awoke; for a few minutes I lay still, perfectly still; my imagination was considerably sobered; the scenes and situations which had pleased me so much over night appeared to me in a far less captivating guise that morning. I felt languid and almost hopeless--the thought, however, of my situation soon roused me--I must make an effort to improve the posture of my affairs; there was no time to be lost; so I sprang out of bed, breakfasted on bread and water, and then sat down doggedly to write the life of Joseph Sell. It was a great thing to have formed my plan, and to have arranged the scenes in my head, as I had done on the preceding night. The chief thing requisite at present was the mere mechanical act of committing them to paper. This I did not find at first so easy as I could wish--I wanted mechanical skill; but I persevered, and before evening I had written ten pages. I partook of some bread and water; and before I went to bed that night, I had completed fifteen pages of my life of Joseph Sell. The next day I resumed my task--I found my power of writing considerably increased; my pen hurried rapidly over the paper--my brain was in a wonderfully teeming state; many scenes and visions which I had not thought of before were evolved, and, as fast as evolved, written down; they seemed to be more pat to my purpose, and more natural to my history, than many others which I had imagined before, and which I made now give place to these newer creations: by about midnight I had added thirty fresh pages to my _Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell_. The third day arose--it was dark and dreary out of doors, and I passed it drearily enough within; my brain appeared to have lost much of its former glow, and my pen much of its power; I, however, toiled on, but at midnight had only added seven pages to my history of Joseph Sell. On the fourth day the sun shone brightly--I arose, and, having breakfasted as usual, I fell to work. My brain was this day wonderfully prolific, and my pen never before or since glided so rapidly over the paper; towards night I began to feel strangely about the back part of my head, and my whole system was extraordinarily affected. I likewise occasionally saw double--a tempter now seemed to be at work within me. 'You had better leave off now for a short space,' said the tempter, 'and go out and drink a pint of beer; you have still one shilling left--if you go on at this rate, you will go mad--go out and spend sixpence, you can afford it, more than half your work is done.' I was about to obey the suggestion of the tempter, when the idea struck me that, if I did not complete the work whilst the fit was on me, I should never complete it; so I held on. I am almost afraid to state how many pages I wrote that day of the life of Joseph Sell. From this time I proceeded in a somewhat more leisurely manner; but, as I drew nearer and nearer to the completion of my task, dreadful fears and despondencies came over me.--It will be too late, thought I; by the time I have finished the work, the bookseller will have been supplied with a tale or a novel. Is it probable that, in a town like this, where talent is so abundant--hungry talent too--a bookseller can advertise for a tale or a novel, without being supplied with half a dozen in twenty-four hours? I may as well fling down my pen--I am writing to no purpose. And these thoughts came over my mind so often, that at last, in utter despair, I flung down the pen. Whereupon the tempter within me said--'And, now you have flung down the pen, you may as well fling yourself out of the window; what remains for you to do?' Why, to take it up again, thought I to myself, for I did not like the latter suggestion at all--and then forthwith I resumed the pen, and wrote with greater vigour than before, from about six o'clock in the evening until I could hardly see, when I rested for a while, when the tempter within me again said, or appeared to say--'All you have been writing is stuff, it will never do--a drug--a mere drug'; and methought these last words were uttered in the gruff tones of the big publisher. 'A thing merely to be sneezed at,' a voice like that of Taggart added; and then I seemed to hear a sternutation,--as I probably did, for, recovering from a kind of swoon, I found myself shivering with cold. The next day I brought my work to a conclusion. But the task of revision still remained; for an hour or two I shrank from it, and remained gazing stupidly at the pile of paper which I had written over. I was all but exhausted, and I dreaded, on inspecting the sheets, to find them full of absurdities which I had paid no regard to in the furor of composition. But the task, however trying to my nerves, must be got over; at last, in a kind of desperation, I entered upon it. It was far from an easy one; there were, however, fewer errors and absurdities than I had anticipated. About twelve o'clock at night I had got over the task of revision. 'To-morrow for the bookseller,' said I, as my head sank on the pillow. 'Oh me!' CHAPTER LVII Nervous look--The bookseller's wife--The last stake--Terms--God forbid!--Will you come to tea?--A light heart. On arriving at the bookseller's shop, I cast a nervous look at the window, for the purpose of observing whether the paper had been removed or not. To my great delight the paper was in its place; with a beating heart I entered, there was nobody in the shop; as I stood at the counter, however, deliberating whether or not I should call out, the door of what seemed to be a back-parlour opened, and out came a well-dressed lady-like female, of about thirty, with a good-looking and intelligent countenance. 'What is your business, young man?' said she to me, after I had made her a polite bow. 'I wish to speak to the gentleman of the house,' said I. 'My husband is not within at present,' she replied; 'what is your business?' 'I have merely brought something to show him,' said I, 'but I will call again.' 'If you are the young gentleman who has been here before,' said the lady, 'with poems and ballads, as, indeed, I know you are,' she added, smiling, 'for I have seen you through the glass door, I am afraid it will be useless; that is,' she added with another smile, 'if you bring us nothing else.' 'I have not brought you poems and ballads now,' said I, 'but something widely different; I saw your advertisement for a tale or a novel, and have written something which I think will suit; and here it is,' I added, showing the roll of paper which I held in my hand. 'Well,' said the bookseller's wife, 'you may leave it, though I cannot promise you much chance of its being accepted. My husband has already had several offered to him; however, you may leave it; give it me. Are you afraid to intrust it to me?' she demanded somewhat hastily, observing that I hesitated. 'Excuse me,' said I, 'but it is all I have to depend upon in the world; I am chiefly apprehensive that it will not be read.' 'On that point I can reassure you,' said the good lady, smiling, and there was now something sweet in her smile. 'I give you my word that it shall be read; come again to-morrow morning at eleven, when, if not approved, it shall be returned to you.' I returned to my lodging, and forthwith betook myself to bed, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour. I felt tolerably tranquil; I had now cast my last stake, and was prepared to abide by the result. Whatever that result might be, I could have nothing to reproach myself with; I had strained all the energies which nature had given me in order to rescue myself from the difficulties which surrounded me. I presently sank into a sleep, which endured during the remainder of the day, and the whole of the succeeding night. I awoke about nine on the morrow, and spent my last threepence on a breakfast somewhat more luxurious than the immediately preceding ones, for one penny of the sum was expended on the purchase of milk. At the appointed hour I repaired to the house of the bookseller; the bookseller was in his shop. 'Ah,' said he, as soon as I entered, 'I am glad to see you.' There was an unwonted heartiness in the bookseller's tones, an unwonted benignity in his face. 'So,' said he, after a pause, 'you have taken my advice, written a book of adventure; nothing like taking the advice, young man, of your superiors in age. Well, I think your book will do, and so does my wife, for whose judgment I have a great regard; as well I may, as she is the daughter of a first-rate novelist, deceased. I think I shall venture on sending your book to the press.' 'But,' said I, 'we have not yet agreed upon terms.' 'Terms, terms,' said the bookseller; 'ahem! well, there is nothing like coming to terms at once. I will print the book, and give you half the profit when the edition is sold.' 'That will not do,' said I; 'I intend shortly to leave London: I must have something at once.' 'Ah, I see,' said the bookseller, 'in distress; frequently the case with authors, especially young ones. Well, I don't care if I purchase it of you, but you must be moderate; the public are very fastidious, and the speculation may prove a losing one after all. Let me see, will five--hem--' he stopped. I looked the bookseller in the face; there was something peculiar in it. Suddenly it appeared to me as if the voice of him of the thimble sounded in my ear, 'Now is your time, ask enough, never such another chance of establishing yourself; respectable trade, pea and thimble.' 'Well,' said I at last, 'I have no objection to take the offer which you were about to make, though I really think five-and-twenty guineas to be scarcely enough, everything considered.' 'Five-and-twenty guineas!' said the bookseller; 'are you--what was I going to say--I never meant to offer half as much--I mean a quarter; I was going to say five guineas--I mean pounds; I will, however, make it up guineas.' 'That will not do,' said I; 'but, as I find we shall not deal, return me my manuscript, that I may carry it to some one else.' The bookseller looked blank. 'Dear me,' said he, 'I should never have supposed that you would have made any objection to such an offer; I am quite sure that you would have been glad to take five pounds for either of the two huge manuscripts of songs and ballads that you brought me on a former occasion.' 'Well,' said I, 'if you will engage to publish either of those two manuscripts, you shall have the present one for five pounds.' 'God forbid that I should make any such bargain!' said the bookseller; 'I would publish neither on any account; but, with respect to this last book, I have really an inclination to print it, both for your sake and mine; suppose we say ten pounds.' 'No,' said I, 'ten pounds will not do; pray restore me my manuscript.' 'Stay,' said the bookseller, 'my wife is in the next room, I will go and consult her.' Thereupon he went into his back room, where I heard him conversing with his wife in a low tone; in about ten minutes he returned. 'Young gentleman,' said he, 'perhaps you will take tea with us this evening, when we will talk further over the matter.' That evening I went and took tea with the bookseller and his wife, both of whom, particularly the latter, overwhelmed me with civility. It was not long before I learned that the work had been already sent to the press, and was intended to stand at the head of a series of entertaining narratives, from which my friends promised themselves considerable profit. The subject of terms was again brought forward. I stood firm to my first demand for a long time; when, however, the bookseller's wife complimented me on my production in the highest terms, and said that she discovered therein the germs of genius, which she made no doubt would some day prove ornamental to my native land, I consented to drop my demand to twenty pounds, stipulating, however, that I should not be troubled with the correction of the work. Before I departed, I received the twenty pounds, and departed with a light heart to my lodgings. Reader, amidst the difficulties and dangers of this life, should you ever be tempted to despair, call to mind these latter chapters of the life of Lavengro. There are few positions, however difficult, from which dogged resolution and perseverance may not liberate you. CHAPTER LVIII Indisposition--A resolution--Poor equivalents--The piece of gold--Flashing eyes--How beautiful--Bon jour, Monsieur. I had long ago determined to leave London as soon as the means should be in my power, and, now that they were, I determined to leave the Great City; yet I felt some reluctance to go. I would fain have pursued the career of original authorship which had just opened itself to me, and have written other tales of adventure. The bookseller had given me encouragement enough to do so; he had assured me that he should be always happy to deal with me for an article (that was the word) similar to the one I had brought him, provided my terms were moderate; and the bookseller's wife, by her complimentary language, had given me yet more encouragement. But for some months past I had been far from well, and my original indisposition, brought on partly by the peculiar atmosphere of the Big City, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased by the exertions which I had been compelled to make during the last few days. I felt that, were I to remain where I was, I should die, or become a confirmed valetudinarian. I would go forth into the country, travelling on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure air, endeavour to recover my health, leaving my subsequent movements to be determined by Providence. But whither should I bend my course? Once or twice I thought of walking home to the old town, stay some time with my mother and my brother, and enjoy the pleasant walks in the neighbourhood; but, though I wished very much to see my mother and my brother, and felt much disposed to enjoy the said pleasant walks, the old town was not exactly the place to which I wished to go at this present juncture. I was afraid that people would ask, Where are your Northern Ballads? Where are your alliterative translations from Ab Gwilym--of which you were always talking, and with which you promised to astonish the world? Now, in the event of such interrogations, what could I answer? It is true I had compiled _Newgate Lives and Trials_, and had written the life of Joseph Sell, but I was afraid that the people of the old town would scarcely consider these as equivalents for the Northern Ballads and the songs of Ab Gwilym. I would go forth and wander in any direction but that of the old town. But how one's sensibility on any particular point diminishes with time; at present I enter the old town perfectly indifferent as to what the people may be thinking on the subject of the songs and ballads. With respect to the people themselves, whether, like my sensibility, their curiosity has altogether evaporated, whether, which is at least equally probable, they never entertained any, one thing is certain, that never in a single instance have they troubled me with any remarks on the subject of the songs and ballads. As it was my intention to travel on foot, with a bundle and a stick, I despatched my trunk containing some few clothes and books to the old town. My preparations were soon made; in about three days I was in readiness to start. Before departing, however, I bethought me of my old friend the apple-woman of London Bridge. Apprehensive that she might be labouring under the difficulties of poverty, I sent her a piece of gold by the hands of a young maiden in the house in which I lived. The latter punctually executed her commission, but brought me back the piece of gold. The old woman would not take it; she did not want it, she said. 'Tell the poor thin lad,' she added, 'to keep it for himself, he wants it more than I.' Rather late one afternoon I departed from my lodging, with my stick in one hand and a small bundle in the other, shaping my course to the south- west: when I first arrived, somewhat more than a year before, I had entered the city by the north-east. As I was not going home, I determined to take my departure in the direction the very opposite to home. Just as I was about to cross the street called the Haymarket, at the lower part, a cabriolet, drawn by a magnificent animal, came dashing along at a furious rate; it stopped close by the curb-stone where I was, a sudden pull of the reins nearly bringing the spirited animal upon its haunches. The Jehu who had accomplished this feat was Francis Ardry. A small beautiful female, with flashing eyes, dressed in the extremity of fashion, sat beside him. 'Holloa, friend,' said Francis Ardry, 'whither bound?' 'I do not know,' said I; 'all I can say is, that I am about to leave London.' 'And the means?' said Francis Ardry. 'I have them,' said I, with a cheerful smile. 'Qui est celui-ci?' demanded the small female, impatiently. 'C'est--mon ami le plus intime; so you were about to leave London, without telling me a word,' said Francis Ardry, somewhat angrily. 'I intended to have written to you,' said I: 'what a splendid mare that is.' 'Is she not?' said Francis Ardry, who was holding in the mare with difficulty; 'she cost a hundred guineas.' 'Qu'est ce qu'il dit?' demanded his companion. 'Il dit que le jument est bien beau.' 'Allons, mon ami, il est tard,' said the beauty, with a scornful toss of her head; 'allons!' 'Encore un moment,' said Francis Ardry; 'and when shall I see you again?' 'I scarcely know,' I replied: 'I never saw a more splendid turn out.' 'Qu'est ce qu'il dit?' I said the lady again. 'Il dit que tout l'equipage est en assez bon gout.' 'Allons, c'est un ours,' said the lady; 'le cheval meme en a peur,' added she, as the mare reared up on high. 'Can you find nothing else to admire but the mare and the equipage?' said Francis Ardry, reproachfully, after he had with some difficulty brought the mare to order. Lifting my hand, in which I held my stick, I took off my hat. 'How beautiful!' said I, looking the lady full in the face. 'Comment?' said the lady, inquiringly. 'Il dit que vous etes belle comme un ange,' said Francis Ardry, emphatically. 'Mais, a la bonne heure! arretez, mon ami,' said the lady to Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off; 'je voudrais bien causer un moment avec lui; arretez, il est delicieux.--Est-ce bien ainsi que vous traitez vos amis?' said she passionately, as Francis Ardry lifted up his whip. 'Bon jour, Monsieur, bon jour,' said she, thrusting her head from the side and looking back, as Francis Ardry drove off at the rate of thirteen miles an hour. CHAPTER LIX The milestone--The meditation--Want to get up?--The off-hand leader--Sixteen shillings--The near-hand wheeler--All right. In about two hours I had cleared the Great City, and got beyond the suburban villages, or rather towns, in the direction in which I was travelling; I was in a broad and excellent road, leading I knew not whither. I now slackened my pace, which had hitherto been great. Presently, coming to a milestone on which was graven nine miles, I rested against it, and looking round towards the vast city, which had long ceased to be visible, I fell into a train of meditation. {picture:Presently, coming to a milestone, I rested against it, and, looking round towards the vast city, I fell into a train of meditation: page321.jpg} I thought of all my ways and doings since the day of my first arrival in that vast city--I had worked and toiled, and, though I had accomplished nothing at all commensurate with the hopes which I had entertained previous to my arrival, I had achieved my own living, preserved my independence, and become indebted to no one. I was now quitting it, poor in purse, it is true, but not wholly empty; rather ailing it may be, but not broken in health; and, with hope within my bosom, had I not cause upon the whole to be thankful? Perhaps there were some who, arriving at the same time under not more favourable circumstances, had accomplished much more, and whose future was far more hopeful--Good! But there might be others who, in spite of all their efforts, had been either trodden down in the press, never more to be heard of, or were quitting that mighty town broken in purse, broken in health, and, oh! with not one dear hope to cheer them. Had I not, upon the whole, abundant cause to be grateful? Truly, yes! My meditation over, I left the milestone and proceeded on my way in the same direction as before until the night began to close in. I had always been a good pedestrian; but now, whether owing to indisposition or to not having for some time past been much in the habit of taking such lengthy walks, I began to feel not a little weary. Just as I was thinking of putting up for the night at the next inn or public-house I should arrive at, I heard what sounded like a coach coming up rapidly behind me. Induced, perhaps, by the weariness which I felt, I stopped and looked wistfully in the direction of the sound; presently up came a coach, seemingly a mail, drawn by four bounding horses--there was no one upon it but the coachman and the guard; when nearly parallel with me it stopped. 'Want to get up?' sounded a voice, in the true coachman-like tone--half querulous, half authoritative. I hesitated; I was tired, it is true, but I had left London bound on a pedestrian excursion, and I did not much like the idea of having recourse to a coach after accomplishing so very inconsiderable a distance. 'Come, we can't be staying here all night,' said the voice, more sharply than before. 'I can ride a little way, and get down whenever I like,' thought I; and springing forward I clambered up the coach, and was going to sit down upon the box, next the coachman. 'No, no,' said the coachman, who was a man about thirty, with a hooked nose and red face, dressed in a fashionably-cut greatcoat, with a fashionable black castor on his head. 'No, no, keep behind--the box ain't for the like of you,' said he, as he drove off; 'the box is for lords, or gentlemen at least.' I made no answer. 'D--- that off-hand leader,' said the coachman, as the right-hand front horse made a desperate start at something he saw in the road; and, half rising, he with great dexterity hit with his long whip the off-hand leader a cut on the off cheek. 'These seem to be fine horses,' said I. The coachman made no answer. 'Nearly thoroughbred,' I continued; the coachman drew his breath, with a kind of hissing sound, through his teeth. 'Come, young fellow, none of your chaff. Don't you think, because you ride on my mail, I'm going to talk to you about 'orses. I talk to nobody about 'orses except lords.' 'Well,' said I, 'I have been called a lord in my time.' 'It must have been by a thimble-rigger, then,' said the coachman, bending back, and half turning his face round with a broad leer. 'You have hit the mark wonderfully,' said I. 'You coachmen, whatever else you may be, are certainly no fools.' 'We ain't, ain't we?' said the coachman. 'There you are right; and, to show you that you are, I'll now trouble you for your fare. If you have been amongst the thimble-riggers you must be tolerably well cleared out. Where are you going?--to--? I think I have seen you there. The fare is sixteen shillings. Come, tip us the blunt; them that has no money can't ride on my mail.' Sixteen shillings was a large sum, and to pay it would make a considerable inroad on my slender finances; I thought, at first, that I would say I did not want to go so far; but then the fellow would ask at once where I wanted to go, and I was ashamed to acknowledge my utter ignorance of the road. I determined, therefore, to pay the fare, with a tacit determination not to mount a coach in future without knowing whither I was going. So I paid the man the money, who, turning round, shouted to the guard--'All right, Jem; got fare to--'; and forthwith whipped on his horses, especially the off hand leader, for whom he seemed to entertain a particular spite, to greater speed than before--the horses flew. A young moon gave a feeble light, partially illuminating a line of road which, appearing by no means interesting, I the less regretted having paid my money for the privilege of being hurried along it in the flying vehicle. We frequently changed horses; and at last my friend the coachman was replaced by another, the very image of himself--hawk nose, red face, with narrow-rimmed hat and fashionable benjamin. After he had driven about fifty yards, the new coachman fell to whipping one of the horses. 'D--- this near-hand wheeler,' said he, 'the brute has got a corn.' 'Whipping him won't cure him of his corn,' said I. 'Who told you to speak?' said the driver, with an oath; 'mind your own business; 'tisn't from the like of you I am to learn to drive 'orses.' Presently I fell into a broken kind of slumber. In an hour or two I was aroused by a rough voice--'Got to ---, young man; get down if you please.' I opened my eyes--there was a dim and indistinct light, like that which precedes dawn; the coach was standing still in something like a street; just below me stood the guard. 'Do you mean to get down,' said he, 'or will you keep us here till morning? other fares want to get up.' Scarcely knowing what I did, I took my bundle and stick and descended, whilst two people mounted. 'All right, John,' said the guard to the coachman, springing up behind; whereupon off whisked the coach, one or two individuals who were standing by disappeared, and I was left alone. CHAPTER LX The still hour--A thrill--The wondrous circle--The shepherd--Heaps and barrows--What do you mean?--Milk of the plains--Hengist spared it--No presents. After standing still a minute or two, considering what I should do, I moved down what appeared to be the street of a small straggling town; presently I passed by a church, which rose indistinctly on my right hand; anon there was the rustling of foliage and the rushing of waters. I reached a bridge, beneath which a small stream was running in the direction of the south. I stopped and leaned over the parapet, for I have always loved to look upon streams, especially at the still hours. 'What stream is this, I wonder?' said I, as I looked down from the parapet into the water, which whirled and gurgled below. Leaving the bridge, I ascended a gentle acclivity, and presently reached what appeared to be a tract of moory undulating ground. It was now tolerably light, but there was a mist or haze abroad which prevented my seeing objects with much precision. I felt chill in the damp air of the early morn, and walked rapidly forward. In about half an hour I arrived where the road divided into two, at an angle or tongue of dark green sward. 'To the right or the left?' said I, and forthwith took, without knowing why, the left-hand road, along which I proceeded about a hundred yards, when, in the midst of the tongue of sward formed by the two roads, collaterally with myself, I perceived what I at first conceived to be a small grove of blighted trunks of oaks, barked and gray. I stood still for a moment, and then, turning off the road, advanced slowly towards it over the sward; as I drew nearer, I perceived that the objects which had attracted my curiosity, and which formed a kind of circle, were not trees, but immense upright stones. A thrill pervaded my system; just before me were two, the mightiest of the whole, tall as the stems of proud oaks, supporting on their tops a huge transverse stone, and forming a wonderful doorway. I knew now where I was, and, laying down my stick and bundle, and taking off my hat, I advanced slowly, and cast myself--it was folly, perhaps, but I could not help what I did--cast myself, with my face on the dewy earth, in the middle of the portal of giants, beneath the transverse stone. {picture:I cast myself with my face on the dewy earth. The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me!: page326.jpg} The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me! And after I had remained with my face on the ground for some time, I arose, placed my hat on my head, and, taking up my stick and bundle, wandered round the wondrous circle, examining each individual stone, from the greatest to the least; and then, entering by the great door, seated myself upon an immense broad stone, one side of which was supported by several small ones, and the other slanted upon the earth; and there, in deep meditation, I sat for an hour or two, till the sun shone in my face above the tall stones of the eastern side. And as I still sat there, I heard the noise of bells, and presently a large number of sheep came browsing past the circle of stones; two or three entered, and grazed upon what they could find, and soon a man also entered the circle at the northern side. 'Early here, sir,' said the man, who was tall, and dressed in a dark green slop, and had all the appearance of a shepherd; 'a traveller, I suppose?' 'Yes,' said I, 'I am a traveller; are these sheep yours?' 'They are, sir; that is, they are my master's. A strange place this, sir,' said he, looking at the stones; 'ever here before?' 'Never in body, frequently in mind.' 'Heard of the stones, I suppose; no wonder--all the people of the plain talk of them.' 'What do the people of the plain say of them?' 'Why, they say--How did they ever come here?' 'Do they not suppose them to have been brought?' 'Who should have brought them?' 'I have read that they were brought by many thousand men.' 'Where from?' 'Ireland.' 'How did they bring them?' 'I don't know.' 'And what did they bring them for?' 'To form a temple, perhaps.' 'What is that?' 'A place to worship God in.' 'A strange place to worship God in.' 'Why?' 'It has no roof.' 'Yes, it has.' 'Where?' said the man, looking up. 'What do you see above you?' 'The sky.' 'Well?' 'Well!' 'Have you anything to say?' 'How did these stones come here?' 'Are there other stones like these on the plains?' said I. 'None; and yet there are plenty of strange things on these downs.' 'What are they?' 'Strange heaps, and barrows, and great walls of earth built on the tops of hills.' 'Do the people of the plain wonder how they came there?' 'They do not.' 'Why?' 'They were raised by hands.' 'And these stones?' 'How did they ever come here?' 'I wonder whether they are here?' said I. 'These stones?' 'Yes.' 'So sure as the world,' said the man; 'and, as the world, they will stand as long.' 'I wonder whether there is a world.' 'What do you mean?' 'An earth, and sea, moon and stars, sheep and men.' 'Do you doubt it?' 'Sometimes.' 'I never heard it doubted before.' 'It is impossible there should be a world.' 'It ain't possible there shouldn't be a world.' 'Just so.' At this moment a fine ewe, attended by a lamb, rushed into the circle and fondled the knees of the shepherd. 'I suppose you would not care to have some milk,' said the man. 'Why do you suppose so?' 'Because, so be there be no sheep, no milk, you know; and what there ben't is not worth having.' 'You could not have argued better,' said I; 'that is, supposing you have argued; with respect to the milk you may do as you please.' 'Be still, Nanny,' said the man; and producing a tin vessel from his scrip, he milked the ewe into it. 'Here is milk of the plains, master,' said the man, as he handed the vessel to me. 'Where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were speaking of?' said I, after I had drunk some of the milk; 'are there any near where we are?' 'Not within many miles; the nearest is yonder away,' said the shepherd, pointing to the south-east. 'It's a grand place, that, but not like this; quite different, and from it you have a sight of the finest spire in the world.' {picture:'The nearest is yonder away,' said the shepherd, pointing to the south-east: page329.jpg} 'I must go to it,' said I, and I drank the remainder of the milk; 'yonder, you say.' 'Yes, yonder; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the river lies between.' 'What river?' 'The Avon.' 'Avon is British,' said I. 'Yes,' said the man, 'we are all British here.' 'No, we are not,' said I. 'What are we then?' 'English.' 'Ain't they one?' 'No.' 'Who were the British?' 'The men who are supposed to have worshipped God in this place, and who raised these stones.' 'Where are they now?' 'Our forefathers slaughtered them, spilled their blood all about, especially in this neighbourhood, destroyed their pleasant places, and left not, to use their own words, one stone upon another.' 'Yes, they did,' said the shepherd, looking aloft at the transverse stone. 'And it is well for them they did; whenever that stone, which English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown down, woe, woe, woe to the English race; spare it, English! Hengist spared it!--Here is sixpence.' 'I won't have it,' said the man. 'Why not?' 'You talk so prettily about these stones; you seem to know all about them.' 'I never receive presents; with respect to the stones, I say with yourself, How did they ever come here?' 'How did they ever come here?' said the shepherd. CHAPTER LXI The river--Arid downs--A prospect. Leaving the shepherd, I bent my way in the direction pointed out by him as that in which the most remarkable of the strange remains of which he had spoken lay. I proceeded rapidly, making my way over the downs covered with coarse grass and fern; with respect to the river of which he had spoken, I reflected that, either by wading or swimming, I could easily transfer myself and what I bore to the opposite side. On arriving at its banks, I found it a beautiful stream, but shallow, with here and there a deep place where the water ran dark and still. Always fond of the pure lymph, I undressed, and plunged into one of these gulfs, from which I emerged, my whole frame in a glow, and tingling with delicious sensations. After conveying my clothes and scanty baggage to the farther side, I dressed, and then with hurried steps bent my course in the direction of some lofty ground; I at length found myself on a high- road, leading over wide and arid downs; following the road for some miles without seeing anything remarkable, I supposed at length that I had taken the wrong path, and wended on slowly and disconsolately for some time, till, having nearly surmounted a steep hill, I knew at once, from certain appearances, that I was near the object of my search. Turning to the right near the brow of the hill, I proceeded along a path which brought me to a causeway leading over a deep ravine, and connecting the hill with another which had once formed part of it, for the ravine was evidently the work of art. I passed over the causeway, and found myself in a kind of gateway which admitted me into a square space of many acres, surrounded on all sides by mounds or ramparts of earth. Though I had never been in such a place before, I knew that I stood within the precincts of what had been a Roman encampment, and one probably of the largest size, for many thousand warriors might have found room to perform their evolutions in that space, in which corn was now growing, the green ears waving in the morning wind. After I had gazed about the space for a time, standing in the gateway formed by the mounds, I clambered up the mound to the left hand, and on the top of that mound I found myself at a great altitude; beneath, at the distance of a mile, was a fair old city, situated amongst verdant meadows, watered with streams, and from the heart of that old city, from amidst mighty trees, I beheld towering to the sky the finest spire in the world. And after I had looked from the Roman rampart for a long time, I hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the cause-way, regained the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended to the city of the spire. CHAPTER LXII The hostelry--Life uncertain--Open countenance--The grand point--Thank you, master--A hard mother--Poor dear!--Considerable odds--The better country--English fashion--Landlord-looking person. And in the old city I remained two days, passing my time as I best could--inspecting the curiosities of the place, eating and drinking when I felt so disposed, which I frequently did, the digestive organs having assumed a tone to which for many months they had been strangers--enjoying at night balmy sleep in a large bed in a dusky room, at the end of a corridor, in a certain hostelry in which I had taken up my quarters--receiving from the people of the hostelry such civility and condescension as people who travel on foot with bundle and stick, but who nevertheless are perceived to be not altogether destitute of coin, are in the habit of receiving. On the third day, on a fine sunny afternoon, I departed from the city of the spire. As I was passing through one of the suburbs, I saw, all on a sudden, a respectable-looking female fall down in a fit; several persons hastened to her assistance. 'She is dead,' said one. 'No, she is not,' said another. 'I am afraid she is,' said a third. 'Life is very uncertain,' said a fourth. 'It is Mrs. ---,' said a fifth; 'let us carry her to her own house.' Not being able to render any assistance, I left the poor female in the hands of her townsfolk, and proceeded on my way. I had chosen a road in the direction of the north-west, it led over downs where corn was growing, but where neither tree nor hedge was to be seen; two or three hours' walking brought me to a beautiful valley, abounding with trees of various kinds, with a delightful village at its farthest extremity; passing through it, I ascended a lofty acclivity, on the top of which I sat down on a bank, and, taking off my hat, permitted a breeze, which swept coolly and refreshingly over the downs, to dry my hair, dripping from the effects of exercise and the heat of the day. And as I sat there, gazing now at the blue heavens, now at the downs before me, a man came along the road in the direction in which I had hitherto been proceeding: just opposite to me he stopped, and, looking at me, cried--'Am I right for London, master?' He was dressed like a sailor, and appeared to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age--he had an open manly countenance, and there was a bold and fearless expression in his eye. 'Yes,' said I, in reply to his question; 'this is one of the ways to London. Do you come from far?' 'From ---,' said the man, naming a well-known seaport. 'Is this the direct road to London from that place?' I demanded. 'No,' said the man; 'but I had to visit two or three other places on certain commissions I was intrusted with; amongst others to ---, where I had to take a small sum of money. I am rather tired, master; and, if you please, I will sit down beside you.' 'You have as much right to sit down here as I have,' said I; 'the road is free for every one; as for sitting down beside me, you have the look of an honest man, and I have no objection to your company.' 'Why, as for being honest, master,' said the man, laughing and sitting down by me, 'I haven't much to say--many is the wild thing I have done when I was younger; however, what is done, is done. To learn, one must live, master; and I have lived long enough to learn the grand point of wisdom.' 'What is that?' said I. 'That honesty is the best policy, master.' 'You appear to be a sailor,' said I, looking at his dress. 'I was not bred a sailor,' said the man, 'though, when my foot is on the salt water, I can play the part--and play it well too. I am now from a long voyage.' 'From America?' said I. 'Farther than that,' said the man. 'Have you any objection to tell me?' said I. 'From New South Wales,' said the man, looking me full in the face. 'Dear me,' said I. 'Why do you say "Dear me"?' said the man. 'It is a very long way off,' said I. 'Was that your reason for saying so?' said the man. 'Not exactly,' said I. 'No,' said the man, with something of a bitter smile; 'it was something else that made you say so; you were thinking of the convicts.' 'Well,' said I, 'what then--you are no convict.' 'How do you know?' 'You do not look like one.' 'Thank you, master,' said the man cheerfully; 'and, to a certain extent, you are right--bygones are bygones--I am no longer what I was, nor ever will be again; the truth, however, is the truth--a convict I have been--a convict at Sydney Cove.' 'And you have served out the period for which you were sentenced, and are now returned?' 'As to serving out my sentence,' replied the man, 'I can't say that I did; I was sentenced for fourteen years, and I was in Sydney Cove little more than half that time. The truth is that I did the Government a service. There was a conspiracy amongst some of the convicts to murder and destroy--I overheard and informed the Government; mind one thing, however, I was not concerned in it; those who got it up were no comrades of mine, but a bloody gang of villains. Well, the Government, in consideration of the service I had done them, remitted the remainder of my sentence; and some kind gentlemen interested themselves about me, gave me good books and good advice, and, being satisfied with my conduct, procured me employ in an exploring expedition, by which I earned money. In fact, the being sent to Sydney was the best thing that ever happened to me in all my life.' 'And you have now returned to your native country. Longing to see home brought you from New South Wales.' 'There you are mistaken,' said the man. 'Wish to see England again would never have brought me so far; for, to tell you the truth, master, England was a hard mother to me, as she has proved to many. No, a wish to see another kind of mother--a poor old woman, whose son I am--has brought me back.' 'You have a mother, then?' said I. 'Does she reside in London?' 'She used to live in London,' said the man; 'but I am afraid she is long since dead.' 'How did she support herself?' said I. 'Support herself! with difficulty enough; she used to keep a small stall on London Bridge, where she sold fruit; I am afraid she is dead, and that she died perhaps in misery. She was a poor sinful creature; but I loved her, and she loved me. I came all the way back merely for the chance of seeing her.' 'Did you ever write to her,' said I, 'or cause others to write to her?' 'I wrote to her myself,' said the man, 'about two years ago; but I never received an answer. I learned to write very tolerably over there, by the assistance of the good people I spoke of. As for reading, I could do that very well before I went--my poor mother taught me to read, out of a book that she was very fond of; a strange book it was, I remember. Poor dear!--what I would give only to know that she is alive.' 'Life is very uncertain,' said I. 'That is true,' said the man, with a sigh. 'We are here one moment, and gone the next,' I continued. 'As I passed through the streets of a neighbouring town, I saw a respectable woman drop down, and people said she was dead. Who knows but that she too had a son coming to see her from a distance, at that very time?' 'Who knows, indeed?' said the man. 'Ah, I am afraid my mother is dead. Well, God's will be done.' 'However,' said I, 'I should not wonder at your finding your mother alive.' 'You wouldn't?' said the man, looking at me wistfully. 'I should not wonder at all,' said I; 'indeed, something within me seems to tell me you will; I should not much mind betting five shillings to fivepence that you will see your mother within a week. Now, friend, five shillings to fivepence--' 'Is very considerable odds,' said the man, rubbing his hands; 'sure you must have good reason to hope, when you are willing to give such odds.' 'After all,' said I, 'it not unfrequently happens that those who lay the long odds lose. Let us hope, however. What do you mean to do in the event of finding your mother alive?' 'I scarcely know,' said the man; 'I have frequently thought that if I found my mother alive I would attempt to persuade her to accompany me to the country which I have left--it is a better country for a man--that is, a free man--to live in than this; however, let me first find my mother--if I could only find my mother--' 'Farewell,' said I, rising. 'Go your way, and God go with you--I will go mine.' 'I have but one thing to ask you,' said the man. 'What is that?' I inquired. 'That you would drink with me before we part--you have done me so much good.' 'How should we drink?' said I; 'we are on the top of a hill where there is nothing to drink.' 'But there is a village below,' said the man; 'do let us drink before we part.' 'I have been through that village already,' said I, 'and I do not like turning back.' 'Ah,' said the man, sorrowfully, 'you will not drink with me because I told you I was--' 'You are quite mistaken,' said I, 'I would as soon drink with a convict as with a judge. I am by no means certain that, under the same circumstances, the judge would be one whit better than the convict. Come along! I will go back to oblige you. I have an odd sixpence in my pocket, which I will change that I may drink with you.' So we went down the hill together to the village through which I had already passed, where, finding a public-house, we drank together in true English fashion, after which we parted, the sailor-looking man going his way and I mine. After walking about a dozen miles, I came to a town, where I rested for the night. The next morning I set out again in the direction of the north-west. I continued journeying for four days, my daily journeys varying from twenty to twenty-five miles. During this time nothing occurred to me worthy of any especial notice. The weather was brilliant, and I rapidly improved both in strength and spirits. On the fifth day, about two o'clock, I arrived at a small town. Feeling hungry, I entered a decent-looking inn--within a kind of bar I saw a huge, fat, landlord- looking person, with a very pretty, smartly-dressed maiden. Addressing myself to the fat man, 'House!' said I, 'house! Can I have dinner, house?' CHAPTER LXIII Primitive habits--Rosy-faced damsel--A pleasant moment--Suit of black--The furtive glance--The mighty round--Degenerate times--The newspaper--The evil chance--I congratulate you. 'Young gentleman,' said the huge fat landlord, 'you are come at the right time; dinner will be taken up in a few minutes, and such a dinner,' he continued, rubbing his hands, 'as you will not see every day in these times.' 'I am hot and dusty,' said I, 'and should wish to cool my hands and face.' 'Jenny!' said the huge landlord, with the utmost gravity, 'show the gentleman into number seven, that he may wash his hands and face.' 'By no means,' said I, 'I am a person of primitive habits, and there is nothing like the pump in weather like this.' 'Jenny,' said the landlord, with the same gravity as before, 'go with the young gentleman to the pump in the back kitchen, and take a clean towel along with you.' Thereupon the rosy-faced clean-looking damsel went to a drawer, and producing a large, thick, but snowy white towel, she nodded to me to follow her; whereupon I followed Jenny through a long passage into the back kitchen. And at the end of the back kitchen there stood a pump; and going to it I placed my hands beneath the spout, and said, 'Pump, Jenny'; and Jenny incontinently, without laying down the towel, pumped with one hand, and I washed and cooled my heated hands. And, when my hands were washed and cooled, I took off my neckcloth, and, unbuttoning my shirt collar, I placed my head beneath the spout of the pump, and I said unto Jenny, 'Now, Jenny, lay down the towel, and pump for your life.' {picture:'Now, Jenny, lay down the towel and pump for your life.': page338.jpg} Thereupon Jenny, placing the towel on a linen-horse, took the handle of the pump with both hands and pumped over my head as handmaid had never pumped before; so that the water poured in torrents from my head, my face, and my hair down upon the brick floor. And, after the lapse of somewhat more than a minute, I called out with a half-strangled voice, 'Hold, Jenny!' and Jenny desisted. I stood for a few moments to recover my breath, then taking the towel which Jenny proffered, I dried composedly my hands and head, my face and hair; then, returning the towel to Jenny, I gave a deep sigh and said, 'Surely this is one of the pleasant moments of life.' Then, having set my dress to rights, and combed my hair with a pocket comb, I followed Jenny, who conducted me back through the long passage, and showed me into a neat sanded parlour on the ground-floor. I sat down by a window which looked out upon the dusty street; presently in came the handmaid, and commenced laying the table-cloth. 'Shall I spread the table for one, sir,' said she, 'or do you expect anybody to dine with you?' 'I can't say that I expect anybody,' said I, laughing inwardly to myself; 'however, if you please you can lay for two, so that if any acquaintance of mine should chance to step in, he may find a knife and fork ready for him.' So I sat by the window, sometimes looking out upon the dusty street, and now glancing at certain old-fashioned prints which adorned the wall over against me. I fell into a kind of doze, from which I was almost instantly awakened by the opening of the door. Dinner, thought I; and I sat upright in my chair. No; a man of the middle age, and rather above the middle height, dressed in a plain suit of black, made his appearance, and sat down in a chair at some distance from me, but near to the table, and appeared to be lost in thought. 'The weather is very warm, sir,' said I. 'Very,' said the stranger, laconically, looking at me for the first time. 'Would you like to see the newspaper?' said I, taking up one which lay upon the window seat. 'I never read newspapers,' said the stranger, 'nor, indeed,--' Whatever it might be that he had intended to say he left unfinished. Suddenly he walked to the mantelpiece at the farther end of the room, before which he placed himself with his back towards me. There he remained motionless for some time; at length, raising his hand, he touched the corner of the mantelpiece with his finger, advanced towards the chair which he had left, and again seated himself. 'Have you come far?' said he, suddenly looking towards me, and speaking in a frank and open manner, which denoted a wish to enter into conversation. 'You do not seem to be of this place.' 'I come from some distance,' said I; 'indeed, I am walking for exercise, which I find as necessary to the mind as the body. I believe that by exercise people would escape much mental misery.' Scarcely had I uttered these words when the stranger laid his hand, with seeming carelessness, upon the table, near one of the glasses; after a moment or two he touched the glass with his finger as if inadvertently, then, glancing furtively at me, he withdrew his hand and looked towards the window. 'Are you from these parts?' said I at last, with apparent carelessness. 'From this vicinity,' replied the stranger. 'You think, then, that it is as easy to walk off the bad humours of the mind as of the body?' 'I, at least, am walking in that hope,' said I. 'I wish you may be successful,' said the stranger; and here he touched one of the forks which lay on the table near him. Here the door, which was slightly ajar, was suddenly pushed open with some fracas, and in came the stout landlord, supporting with some difficulty an immense dish, in which was a mighty round mass of smoking meat garnished all round with vegetables; so high was the mass that it probably obstructed his view, for it was not until he had placed it upon the table that he appeared to observe the stranger; he almost started, and quite out of breath exclaimed, 'God bless me, your honour; is your honour the acquaintance that the young gentleman was expecting?' 'Is the young gentleman expecting an acquaintance?' said the stranger. There is nothing like putting a good face upon these matters, thought I to myself; and, getting up, I bowed to the unknown. 'Sir,' said I, 'when I told Jenny that she might lay the table-cloth for two, so that in the event of any acquaintance dropping in he might find a knife and fork ready for him, I was merely jocular, being an entire stranger in these parts, and expecting no one. Fortune, however, it would seem, has been unexpectedly kind to me; I flatter myself, sir, that since you have been in this room I have had the honour of making your acquaintance; and in the strength of that hope I humbly entreat you to honour me with your company to dinner, provided you have not already dined.' The stranger laughed outright. 'Sir,' I continued, 'the round of beef is a noble one, and seems exceedingly well boiled, and the landlord was just right when he said I should have such a dinner as is not seen every day. A round of beef, at any rate such a round of beef as this, is seldom seen smoking upon the table in these degenerate times. Allow me, sir,' said I, observing that the stranger was about to speak, 'allow me another remark. I think I saw you just now touch the fork; I venture to hail it as an omen that you will presently seize it, and apply it to its proper purpose, and its companion the knife also.' The stranger changed colour, and gazed upon me in silence. 'Do, sir,' here put in the landlord; 'do, sir, accept the young gentleman's invitation. Your honour has of late been looking poorly, and the young gentleman is a funny young gentleman, and a clever young gentleman; and I think it will do your honour good to have a dinner's chat with the young gentleman.' 'It is not my dinner hour,' said the stranger; 'I dine considerably later; taking anything now would only discompose me; I shall, however, be most happy to sit down with the young gentleman; reach me that paper, and, when the young gentleman has satisfied his appetite, we may perhaps have a little chat together.' The landlord handed the stranger the newspaper, and, bowing, retired with his maid Jenny. I helped myself to a portion of the smoking round, and commenced eating with no little appetite. The stranger appeared to be soon engrossed with the newspaper. We continued thus a considerable time--the one reading and the other dining. Chancing suddenly to cast my eyes upon the stranger, I saw his brow contract; he gave a slight stamp with his foot, and flung the newspaper to the ground, then stooping down he picked it up, first moving his forefinger along the floor, seemingly slightly scratching it with his nail. 'Do you hope, sir,' said I, 'by that ceremony with the finger to preserve yourself from the evil chance?' The stranger started; then, after looking at me for some time in silence, he said, 'Is it possible that you--?' 'Ay, ay,' said I, helping myself to some more of the round; 'I have touched myself in my younger days, both for the evil chance and the good. Can't say, though, that I ever trusted much in the ceremony.' The stranger made no reply, but appeared to be in deep thought; nothing farther passed between us until I had concluded the dinner, when I said to him, 'I shall now be most happy, sir, to have the pleasure of your conversation over a pint of wine.' The stranger rose; 'No, my young friend,' said he, smiling, 'that would scarce be fair. It is my turn now--pray do me the favour to go home with me, and accept what hospitality my poor roof can offer; to tell you the truth, I wish to have some particular discourse with you which would hardly be possible in this place. As for wine, I can give you some much better than you can get here: the landlord is an excellent fellow, but he is an innkeeper after all. I am going out for a moment, and will send him in, so that you may settle your account; I trust you will not refuse me, I only live about two miles from here.' I looked in the face of the stranger--it was a fine intelligent face, with a cast of melancholy in it. 'Sir,' said I, 'I would go with you though you lived four miles instead of two.' 'Who is that gentleman?' said I to the landlord, after I had settled his bill; 'I am going home with him.' 'I wish I were going too,' said the fat landlord, laying his hand upon his stomach. 'Young gentleman, I shall be a loser by his honour's taking you away; but, after all, the truth is the truth--there are few gentlemen in these parts like his honour, either for learning or welcoming his friends. Young gentleman, I congratulate you.' CHAPTER LXIV New acquaintance--Old French style--The portrait--Taciturnity--The evergreen tree--The dark hour--The flash--Ancestors--A fortunate man--A posthumous child--Antagonist ideas--The hawks--Flaws--The pony--Irresistible impulse--Favourable crisis--The topmost branch--Twenty feet--Heartily ashamed. I found the stranger awaiting me at the door of the inn. 'Like yourself, I am fond of walking,' said he, 'and when any little business calls me to this place I generally come on foot.' We were soon out of the town, and in a very beautiful country. After proceeding some distance on the high-road, we turned off, and were presently in one of those mazes of lanes for which England is famous; the stranger at first seemed inclined to be taciturn; a few observations, however, which I made appeared to rouse him, and he soon exhibited not only considerable powers of conversation, but stores of information which surprised me. So pleased did I become with my new acquaintance that I soon ceased to pay the slightest attention either to place or distance. At length the stranger was silent, and I perceived that we had arrived at a handsome iron gate and a lodge; the stranger having rung a bell, the gate was opened by an old man, and we proceeded along a gravel path, which in about five minutes brought us to a large brick house, built something in the old French style, having a spacious lawn before it, and immediately in front a pond in which were golden fish, and in the middle a stone swan discharging quantities of water from its bill. We ascended a spacious flight of steps to the door, which was at once flung open, and two servants with powdered hair and in livery of blue plush came out and stood one on either side as we passed the threshold. We entered a large hall, and the stranger, taking me by the hand, welcomed me to his poor home, as he called it, and then gave orders to another servant, but out of livery, to show me to an apartment, and give me whatever assistance I might require in my toilet. Notwithstanding the plea as to primitive habits which I had lately made to my other host in the town, I offered no objection to this arrangement, but followed the bowing domestic to a spacious and airy chamber, where he rendered me all those little nameless offices which the somewhat neglected state of my dress required. When everything had been completed to my perfect satisfaction, he told me that if I pleased he would conduct me to the library, where dinner would be speedily served. In the library I found a table laid for two; my host was not there, having as I supposed not been quite so speedy with his toilet as his guest. Left alone, I looked round the apartment with inquiring eyes; it was long and tolerably lofty, the walls from the top to the bottom were lined with cases containing books of all sizes and bindings; there was a globe or two, a couch, and an easy-chair. Statues and busts there were none, and only one painting, a portrait, that of my host, but not him of the mansion. Over the mantelpiece, the features staringly like, but so ridiculously exaggerated that they scarcely resembled those of a human being, daubed evidently by the hand of the commonest sign-artist, hung a half-length portrait of him of round of beef celebrity--my sturdy host of the town. I had been in the library about ten minutes, amusing myself as I best could, when my friend entered; he seemed to have resumed his taciturnity--scarce a word escaped his lips till dinner was served, when he said, smiling, 'I suppose it would be merely a compliment to ask you to partake?' 'I don't know,' said I, seating myself; 'your first course consists of troutlets, I am fond of troutlets, and I always like to be companionable.' The dinner was excellent, though I did but little justice to it from the circumstance of having already dined; the stranger also, though without my excuse, partook but slightly of the good cheer; he still continued taciturn, and appeared lost in thought, and every attempt which I made to induce him to converse was signally unsuccessful. And now dinner was removed, and we sat over our wine, and I remember that the wine was good, and fully justified the encomiums of my host of the town. Over the wine I made sure that my entertainer would have loosened the chain which seemed to tie his tongue--but no! I endeavoured to tempt him by various topics, and talked of geometry and the use of the globes, of the heavenly sphere, and the star Jupiter, which I said I had heard was a very large star, also of the evergreen tree, which, according to Olaus, stood of old before the heathen temple of Upsal, and which I affirmed was a yew--but no, nothing that I said could induce my entertainer to relax his taciturnity. It grew dark, and I became uncomfortable. 'I must presently be going,' I at last exclaimed. At these words he gave a sudden start; 'Going,' said he, 'are you not my guest, and an honoured one?' 'You know best,' said I; 'but I was apprehensive I was an intruder; to several of my questions you have returned no answer.' 'Ten thousand pardons!' he exclaimed, seizing me by the hand; 'but you cannot go now, I have much to talk to you about--there is one thing in particular--' 'If it be the evergreen tree at Upsal,' said I, interrupting him, 'I hold it to have been a yew--what else? The evergreens of the south, as the old bishop observes, will not grow in the north, and a pine was unfitted for such a locality, being a vulgar tree. What else could it have been but the yew--the sacred yew which our ancestors were in the habit of planting in their churchyards? Moreover, I affirm it to have been the yew for the honour of the tree; for I love the yew, and had I home and land, I would have one growing before my front windows.' 'You would do right, the yew is indeed a venerable tree, but it is not about the yew.' 'The star Jupiter, perhaps?' 'Nor the star Jupiter, nor its moons; an observation which escaped you at the inn has made a considerable impression upon me.' 'But I really must take my departure,' said I; 'the dark hour is at hand.' And as I uttered these latter words the stranger touched rapidly something which lay near him--I forget what it was. It was the first action of the kind which I had observed on his part since we sat down to table. 'You allude to the evil chance,' said I; 'but it is getting both dark and late.' 'I believe we are going to have a storm,' said my friend, 'but I really hope that you will give me your company for a day or two; I have, as I said before, much to talk to you about.' 'Well,' said I, 'I shall be most happy to be your guest for this night; I am ignorant of the country, and it is not pleasant to travel unknown paths by night--dear me, what a flash of lightning.' It had become very dark; suddenly a blaze of sheet lightning illumed the room. By the momentary light I distinctly saw my host touch another object upon the table. 'Will you allow me to ask you a question or two?' said he at last. 'As many as you please,' said I; 'but shall we not have lights?' 'Not unless you particularly wish it,' said my entertainer; 'I rather like the dark, and though a storm is evidently at hand, neither thunder nor lightning has any terrors for me. It is other things I quake at--I should rather say ideas. Now permit me to ask you--' And then my entertainer asked me various questions, to all of which I answered unreservedly; he was then silent for some time, at last he exclaimed, 'I should wish to tell you the history of my life--though not an adventurous one, I think it contains some things which will interest you.' Without waiting for my reply he began. Amidst darkness and gloom, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning, the stranger related to me, as we sat at table in the library, his truly touching history. 'Before proceeding to relate the events of my life, it will not be amiss to give you some account of my ancestors. My great-grandfather on the male side was a silk mercer, in Cheapside, who, when he died, left his son, who was his only child, a fortune of one hundred thousand pounds and a splendid business; the son, however, had no inclination for trade, the summit of his ambition was to be a country gentleman, to found a family, and to pass the remainder of his days in rural ease and dignity, and all this he managed to accomplish; he disposed of his business, purchased a beautiful and extensive estate for fourscore thousand pounds, built upon it the mansion to which I had the honour of welcoming you to-day, married the daughter of a neighbouring squire, who brought him a fortune of five thousand pounds, became a magistrate, and only wanted a son and heir to make him completely happy; this blessing, it is true, was for a long time denied him; it came, however, at last, as is usual, when least expected. His lady was brought to bed of my father, and then who so happy a man as my grandsire; he gave away two thousand pounds in charities, and in the joy of his heart made a speech at the next quarter sessions; the rest of his life was spent in ease, tranquillity, and rural dignity; he died of apoplexy on the day that my father came of age; perhaps it would be difficult to mention a man who in all respects was so fortunate as my grandfather: his death was sudden it is true, but I am not one of those who pray to be delivered from a sudden death. 'I should not call my father a fortunate man; it is true that he had the advantage of a first-rate education; that he made the grand tour with a private tutor, as was the fashion at that time; that he came to a splendid fortune on the very day that he came of age; that for many years he tasted all the diversions of the capital that, at last determined to settle, he married the sister of a baronet, an amiable and accomplished lady, with a large fortune; that he had the best stud of hunters in the county, on which, during the season, he followed the fox gallantly; had he been a fortunate man he would never have cursed his fate, as he was frequently known to do; ten months after his marriage his horse fell upon him, and so injured him, that he expired in a few days in great agony. My grandfather was, indeed, a fortunate man; when he died he was followed to the grave by the tears of the poor--my father was not. 'Two remarkable circumstances are connected with my birth--I am a posthumous child, and came into the world some weeks before the usual time, the shock which my mother experienced at my father's death having brought on the pangs of premature labour; both my mother's life and my own were at first despaired of; we both, however, survived the crisis. My mother loved me with the most passionate fondness, and I was brought up in this house under her own eye--I was never sent to school. 'I have already told you that mine is not a tale of adventure; my life has not been one of action, but of wild imaginings and strange sensations; I was born with excessive sensibility, and that has been my bane. I have not been a fortunate man. 'No one is fortunate unless he is happy, and it is impossible for a being constructed like myself to be happy for an hour, or even enjoy peace and tranquillity; most of our pleasures and pains are the effects of imagination, and wherever the sensibility is great, the imagination is great also. No sooner has my imagination raised up an image of pleasure, than it is sure to conjure up one of distress and gloom; these two antagonist ideas instantly commence a struggle in my mind, and the gloomy one generally, I may say invariably, prevails. How is it possible that I should be a happy man? 'It has invariably been so with me from the earliest period that I can remember; the first playthings that were given me caused me for a few minutes excessive pleasure: they were pretty and glittering; presently, however, I became anxious and perplexed, I wished to know their history, how they were made, and what of--were the materials precious? I was not satisfied with their outward appearance. In less than an hour I had broken the playthings in an attempt to discover what they were made of. 'When I was eight years of age my uncle the baronet, who was also my godfather, sent me a pair of Norway hawks, with directions for managing them; he was a great fowler. Oh, how rejoiced was I with the present which had been made me, my joy lasted for at least five minutes; I would let them breed, I would have a house of hawks; yes, that I would--but--and here came the unpleasant idea--suppose they were to fly away, how very annoying! Ah, but, said hope, there's little fear of that; feed them well and they will never fly away, or if they do they will come back, my uncle says so; so sunshine triumphed for a little time. Then the strangest of all doubts came into my head; I doubted the legality of my tenure of these hawks; how did I come by them? why, my uncle gave them to me, but how did they come into his possession? what right had he to them? after all, they might not be his to give. I passed a sleepless night. The next morning I found that the man who brought the hawks had not departed. "How came my uncle by these hawks?" I anxiously inquired. "They were sent to him from Norway, master, with another pair." "And who sent them?" "That I don't know, master, but I suppose his honour can tell you." I was even thinking of scrawling a letter to my uncle to make inquiry on this point, but shame restrained me, and I likewise reflected that it would be impossible for him to give my mind entire satisfaction; it is true he could tell who sent him the hawks, but how was he to know how the hawks came into the possession of those who sent them to him, and by what right they possessed them or the parents of the hawks? In a word, I wanted a clear valid title, as lawyers would say, to my hawks, and I believe no title would have satisfied me that did not extend up to the time of the first hawk, that is, prior to Adam; and, could I have obtained such a title, I make no doubt that, young as I was, I should have suspected that it was full of flaws. 'I was now disgusted with the hawks, and no wonder, seeing all the disquietude they had caused me; I soon totally neglected the poor birds, and they would have starved had not some of the servants taken compassion upon them and fed them. My uncle, soon hearing of my neglect, was angry, and took the birds away; he was a very good-natured man, however, and soon sent me a fine pony; at first I was charmed with the pony, soon, however, the same kind of thoughts arose which had disgusted me on a former occasion. How did my uncle become possessed of the pony? This question I asked him the first time I saw him. Oh, he had bought it of a gypsy, that I might learn to ride upon it. A gypsy; I had heard that gypsies were great thieves, and I instantly began to fear that the gypsy had stolen the pony, and it is probable that for this apprehension I had better grounds than for many others. I instantly ceased to set any value upon the pony, but for that reason, perhaps, I turned it to some account; I mounted it and rode it about, which I don't think I should have done had I looked upon it as a secure possession. Had I looked upon my title as secure, I should have prized it so much, that I should scarcely have mounted it for fear of injuring the animal; but now, caring not a straw for it, I rode it most unmercifully, and soon became a capital rider. This was very selfish in me, and I tell the fact with shame. I was punished, however, as I deserved; the pony had a spirit of its own, and, moreover, it had belonged to gypsies; once, as I was riding it furiously over the lawn, applying both whip and spur, it suddenly lifted up its heels, and flung me at least five yards over its head. I received some desperate contusions, and was taken up for dead; it was many months before I perfectly recovered. 'But it is time for me to come to the touching part of my story. There was one thing that I loved better than the choicest gift which could be bestowed upon me, better than life itself--my mother;--at length she became unwell, and the thought that I might possibly lose her now rushed into my mind for the first time; it was terrible, and caused me unspeakable misery, I may say horror. My mother became worse, and I was not allowed to enter her apartment, lest by my frantic exclamations of grief I might aggravate her disorder. I rested neither day nor night, but roamed about the house like one distracted. Suddenly I found myself doing that which even at the time struck me as being highly singular; I found myself touching particular objects that were near me, and to which my fingers seemed to be attracted by an irresistible impulse. It was now the table or the chair that I was compelled to touch; now the bell-rope; now the handle of the door; now I would touch the wall, and the next moment, stooping down, I would place the point of my finger upon the floor: and so I continued to do day after day; frequently I would struggle to resist the impulse, but invariably in vain. I have even rushed away from the object, but I was sure to return, the impulse was too strong to be resisted: I quickly hurried back, compelled by the feeling within me to touch the object. Now I need not tell you that what impelled me to these actions was the desire to prevent my mother's death; whenever I touched any particular object, it was with the view of baffling the evil chance, as you would call it--in this instance my mother's death. 'A favourable crisis occurred in my mother's complaint, and she recovered; this crisis took place about six o'clock in the morning; almost simultaneously with it there happened to myself a rather remarkable circumstance connected with the nervous feeling which was rioting in my system. I was lying in bed in a kind of uneasy doze, the only kind of rest which my anxiety on account of my mother permitted me at this time to take, when all at once I sprang up as if electrified; the mysterious impulse was upon me, and it urged me to go without delay, and climb a stately elm behind the house, and touch the topmost branch; otherwise--you know the rest--the evil chance would prevail. Accustomed for some time as I had been, under this impulse, to perform extravagant actions, I confess to you that the difficulty and peril of such a feat startled me; I reasoned against the feeling, and strove more strenuously than I had ever done before; I even made a solemn vow not to give way to the temptation, but I believe nothing less than chains, and those strong ones, could have restrained me. The demoniac influence, for I can call it nothing else, at length prevailed; it compelled me to rise, to dress myself, to descend the stairs, to unbolt the door, and to go forth; it drove me to the foot of the tree, and it compelled me to climb the trunk; this was a tremendous task, and I only accomplished it after repeated falls and trials. When I had got amongst the branches, I rested for a time, and then set about accomplishing the remainder of the ascent; this for some time was not so difficult, for I was now amongst the branches; as I approached the top, however, the difficulty became greater, and likewise the danger; but I was a light boy, and almost as nimble as a squirrel, and, moreover, the nervous feeling was within me, impelling me upward. It was only by means of a spring, however, that I was enabled to touch the top of the tree; I sprang, touched the top of the tree, and fell a distance of at least twenty feet, amongst the branches; had I fallen to the bottom I must have been killed, but I fell into the middle of the tree, and presently found myself astride upon one of the boughs; scratched and bruised all over, I reached the ground, and regained my chamber unobserved; I flung myself on my bed quite exhausted; presently they came to tell me that my mother was better--they found me in the state which I have described, and in a fever besides. The favourable crisis must have occurred just about the time that I performed the magic touch; it certainly was a curious coincidence, yet I was not weak enough, even though a child, to suppose that I had baffled the evil chance by my daring feat. 'Indeed, all the time that I was performing these strange feats, I knew them to be highly absurd, yet the impulse to perform them was irresistible--a mysterious dread hanging over me till I had given way to it; even at that early period I frequently used to reason within myself as to what could be the cause of my propensity to touch, but of course I could come to no satisfactory conclusion respecting it; being heartily ashamed of the practice, I never spoke of it to any one, and was at all times highly solicitous that no one should observe my weakness.' CHAPTER LXV Maternal anxiety--The baronet--Little zest--Country life--Mr. Speaker!--The craving--Spirited address--An author. After a short pause my host resumed his narration. 'Though I was never sent to school, my education was not neglected on that account; I had tutors in various branches of knowledge, under whom I made a tolerable progress; by the time I was eighteen I was able to read most of the Greek and Latin authors with facility; I was likewise, to a certain degree, a mathematician. I cannot say that I took much pleasure in my studies; my chief aim in endeavouring to accomplish my tasks was to give pleasure to my beloved parent, who watched my progress with anxiety truly maternal. My life at this period may be summed up in a few words: I pursued my studies, roamed about the woods, walked the green lanes occasionally, cast my fly in a trout stream, and sometimes, but not often, rode a-hunting with my uncle. A considerable part of my time was devoted to my mother, conversing with her and reading to her; youthful companions I had none, and as to my mother, she lived in the greatest retirement, devoting herself to the superintendence of my education, and the practice of acts of charity; nothing could be more innocent than this mode of life, and some people say that in innocence there is happiness, yet I can't say that I was happy. A continual dread overshadowed my mind, it was the dread of my mother's death. Her constitution had never been strong, and it had been considerably shaken by her last illness; this I knew, and this I saw--for the eyes of fear are marvellously keen. Well, things went on in this way till I had come of age; my tutors were then dismissed, and my uncle the baronet took me in hand, telling my mother that it was high time for him to exert his authority; that I must see something of the world, for that, if I remained much longer with her, I should be ruined. "You must consign him to me," said he, "and I will introduce him to the world." My mother sighed and consented; so my uncle the baronet introduced me to the world, took me to horse-races and to London, and endeavoured to make a man of me according to his idea of the term, and in part succeeded. I became moderately dissipated--I say moderately, for dissipation had but little zest for me. 'In this manner four years passed over. It happened that I was in London in the height of the season with my uncle, at his house; one morning he summoned me into the parlour, he was standing before the fire, and looked very serious. "I have had a letter," said he; "your mother is very ill." I staggered, and touched the nearest object to me; nothing was said for two or three minutes, and then my uncle put his lips to my ear and whispered something. I fell down senseless. My mother was . . . I remember nothing for a long time--for two years I was out of my mind; at the end of this time I recovered, or partly so. My uncle the baronet was very kind to me; he advised me to travel, he offered to go with me. I told him he was very kind, but I would rather go by myself. So I went abroad, and saw, amongst other things, Rome and the Pyramids. By frequent change of scene my mind became not happy, but tolerably tranquil. I continued abroad some years, when, becoming tired of travelling, I came home, found my uncle the baronet alive, hearty, and unmarried, as he still is. He received me very kindly, took me to Newmarket, and said that he hoped by this time I was become quite a man of the world; by his advice I took a house in town, in which I lived during the season. In summer I strolled from one watering-place to another; and, in order to pass the time, I became very dissipated. 'At last I became as tired of dissipation as I had previously been of travelling, and I determined to retire to the country, and live on my paternal estate; this resolution I was not slow in putting into effect; I sold my house in town, repaired and refurnished my country house, and, for at least ten years, lived a regular country life; I gave dinner parties, prosecuted poachers, was charitable to the poor, and now and then went into my library; during this time I was seldom or never visited by the magic impulse, the reason being that there was nothing in the wide world for which I cared sufficiently to move a finger to preserve it. When the ten years, however, were nearly ended, I started out of bed one morning in a fit of horror, exclaiming, "Mercy, mercy! what will become of me? I am afraid I shall go mad. I have lived thirty-five years and upwards without doing anything; shall I pass through life in this manner? Horror!" And then in rapid succession I touched three different objects. 'I dressed myself and went down, determining to set about something; but what was I to do?--there was the difficulty. I ate no breakfast, but walked about the room in a state of distraction; at last I thought that the easiest way to do something was to get into Parliament, there would be no difficulty in that. I had plenty of money, and could buy a seat; but what was I to do in Parliament? Speak, of course--but could I speak? "I'll try at once," said I, and forthwith I rushed into the largest dining-room, and, locking the door, I commenced speaking: "Mr. Speaker," said I, and then I went on speaking for about ten minutes as I best could, and then I left off, for I was talking nonsense. No, I was not formed for Parliament; I could do nothing there. What--what was I to do? 'Many, many times I thought this question over, but was unable to solve it; a fear now stole over me that I was unfit for anything in the world, save the lazy life of vegetation which I had for many years been leading; yet, if that were the case, thought I, why the craving within me to distinguish myself? Surely it does not occur fortuitously, but is intended to rouse and call into exercise certain latent powers that I possess? and then with infinite eagerness I set about attempting to discover these latent powers. I tried an infinity of pursuits, botany and geology amongst the rest, but in vain; I was fitted for none of them. I became very sorrowful and despondent, and at one time I had almost resolved to plunge again into the whirlpool of dissipation; it was a dreadful resource, it was true, but what better could I do? 'But I was not doomed to return to the dissipation of the world. One morning a young nobleman, who had for some time past showed a wish to cultivate my acquaintance, came to me in a considerable hurry. "I am come to beg an important favour of you," said he; "one of the county memberships is vacant--I intend to become a candidate; what I want immediately is a spirited address to the electors. I have been endeavouring to frame one all the morning, but in vain; I have, therefore, recourse to you as a person of infinite genius; pray, my dear friend, concoct me one by the morning!" "What you require of me," I replied, "is impossible; I have not the gift of words; did I possess it I would stand for the county myself, but I can't speak. Only the other day I attempted to make a speech, but left off suddenly, utterly ashamed, although I was quite alone, of the nonsense I was uttering." "It is not a speech that I want," said my friend; "I can talk for three hours without hesitating, but I want an address to circulate through the county, and I find myself utterly incompetent to put one together; do oblige me by writing one for me, I know you can; and, if at any time you want a person to speak for you, you may command me not for three but for six hours. Good-morning; to-morrow I will breakfast with you." In the morning he came again. "Well," said he, "what success?" "Very poor," said I; "but judge for yourself"; and I put into his hand a manuscript of several pages. My friend read it through with considerable attention. "I congratulate you," said he, "and likewise myself; I was not mistaken in my opinion of you; the address is too long by at least two-thirds, or I should rather say, that it is longer by two-thirds than addresses generally are; but it will do--I will not curtail it of a word. I shall win my election." And in truth he did win his election; and it was not only his own but the general opinion that he owed it to the address. 'But, however that might be, I had, by writing the address, at last discovered what had so long eluded my search--what I was able to do. I, who had neither the nerve nor the command of speech necessary to constitute the orator--who had not the power of patient research required by those who would investigate the secrets of nature, had, nevertheless, a ready pen and teeming imagination. This discovery decided my fate--from that moment I became an author.' CHAPTER LXVI Trepidations--Subtle principle--Perverse imagination--Are they mine?--Another book--How hard!--Agricultural dinner--Incomprehensible actions--Inmost bosom--Give it up--Chance resemblance--Rascally newspaper. 'An author,' said I, addressing my host; 'is it possible that I am under the roof of an author?' 'Yes,' said my host, sighing, 'my name is so and so, and I am the author of so and so; it is more than probable that you have heard both of my name and works. I will not detain you much longer with my history; the night is advancing, and the storm appears to be upon the increase. My life since the period of my becoming an author may be summed briefly as an almost uninterrupted series of doubts, anxieties, and trepidations. I see clearly that it is not good to love anything immoderately in this world, but it has been my misfortune to love immoderately everything on which I have set my heart. This is not good, I repeat--but where is the remedy? The ancients were always in the habit of saying, "Practise moderation," but the ancients appear to have considered only one portion of the subject. It is very possible to practise moderation in some things, in drink and the like--to restrain the appetites--but can a man restrain the affections of his mind, and tell them, so far you shall go, and no farther? Alas, no! for the mind is a subtle principle, and cannot be confined. The winds may be imprisoned; Homer says that Odysseus carried certain winds in his ship, confined in leathern bags, but Homer never speaks of confining the affections. It were but right that those who exhort us against inordinate affections, and setting our hearts too much upon the world and its vanities, would tell us how to avoid doing so. 'I need scarcely tell you that no sooner did I become an author than I gave myself up immoderately to my vocation. It became my idol, and, as a necessary consequence, it has proved a source of misery and disquietude to me, instead of pleasure and blessing. I had trouble enough in writing my first work, and I was not long in discovering that it was one thing to write a stirring and spirited address to a set of county electors, and another widely different to produce a work at all calculated to make an impression upon the great world. I felt, however, that I was in my proper sphere, and by dint of unwearied diligence and exertion I succeeded in evolving from the depths of my agitated breast a work which, though it did not exactly please me, I thought would serve to make an experiment upon the public; so I laid it before the public, and the reception which it met with was far beyond my wildest expectations. The public were delighted with it, but what were my feelings? Anything, alas! but those of delight. No sooner did the public express its satisfaction at the result of my endeavours, than my perverse imagination began to conceive a thousand chimerical doubts; forthwith I sat down to analyse it; and my worst enemy, and all people have their enemies, especially authors--my worst enemy could not have discovered or sought to discover a tenth part of the faults which I, the author and creator of the unfortunate production, found or sought to find in it. It has been said that love makes us blind to the faults of the loved object--common love does, perhaps--the love of a father to his child, or that of a lover to his mistress, but not the inordinate love of an author to his works, at least not the love which one like myself bears to his works: to be brief, I discovered a thousand faults in my work, which neither public nor critics discovered. However, I was beginning to get over this misery, and to forgive my work all its imperfections, when--and I shake when I mention it--the same kind of idea which perplexed me with regard to the hawks and the gypsy pony rushed into my mind, and I forthwith commenced touching the objects around me, in order to baffle the evil chance, as you call it; it was neither more nor less than a doubt of the legality of my claim to the thoughts, expressions, and situations contained in the book; that is, to all that constituted the book. How did I get them? How did they come into my mind? Did I invent them? Did they originate with myself? Are they my own, or are they some other body's? You see into what difficulty I had got; I won't trouble you by relating all that I endured at that time, but will merely say that after eating my own heart, as the Italians say, and touching every object that came in my way for six months, I at length flung my book, I mean the copy of it which I possessed, into the fire, and began another. 'But it was all in vain; I laboured at this other, finished it, and gave it to the world; and no sooner had I done so, than the same thought was busy in my brain, poisoning all the pleasure which I should otherwise have derived from my work. How did I get all the matter which composed it? Out of my own mind, unquestionably; but how did it come there--was it the indigenous growth of the mind? And then I would sit down and ponder over the various scenes and adventures in my book, endeavouring to ascertain how I came originally to devise them, and by dint of reflecting I remembered that to a single word in conversation, or some simple accident in a street or on a road, I was indebted for some of the happiest portions of my work; they were but tiny seeds, it is true, which in the soil of my imagination had subsequently become stately trees, but I reflected that without them no stately trees would have been produced, and that, consequently, only a part in the merit of these compositions which charmed the world--for the did charm the world--was due to myself. Thus, a dead fly was in my phial, poisoning all the pleasure which I should otherwise have derived from the result of my brain-sweat. "How hard!" I would exclaim, looking up to the sky, "how hard! I am like Virgil's sheep, bearing fleeces not for themselves." But, not to tire you, it fared with my second work as it did with my first; I flung it aside, and, in order to forget it, I began a third, on which I am now occupied; but the difficulty of writing it is immense, my extreme desire to be original sadly cramping the powers of my mind; my fastidiousness being so great that I invariably reject whatever ideas I do not think to be legitimately my own. But there is one circumstance to which I cannot help alluding here, as it serves to show what miseries this love of originality must needs bring upon an author. I am constantly discovering that, however original I may wish to be, I am continually producing the same things which other people say or write. Whenever, after producing something which gives me perfect satisfaction, and which has cost me perhaps days and nights of brooding, I chance to take up a book for the sake of a little relaxation, a book which I never saw before, I am sure to find in it something more or less resembling some part of what I have been just composing. You will easily conceive the distress which then comes over me; 'tis then that I am almost tempted to execrate the chance which, by discovering my latent powers, induced me to adopt a profession of such anxiety and misery. 'For some time past I have given up reading almost entirely, owing to the dread which I entertain of lighting upon something similar to what I myself have written. I scarcely ever transgress without having almost instant reason to repent. To-day, when I took up the newspaper, I saw in a speech of the Duke of Rhododendron, at an agricultural dinner, the very same ideas, and almost the same expressions which I had put into the mouth of an imaginary personage of mine, on a widely different occasion; you saw how I dashed the newspaper down--you saw how I touched the floor; the touch was to baffle the evil chance, to prevent the critics detecting any similarity between the speech of the Duke of Rhododendron at the agricultural dinner and the speech of my personage. My sensibility on the subject of my writings is so great that sometimes a chance word is sufficient to unman me, I apply it to them in a superstitious sense; for example, when you said some time ago that the dark hour was coming on, I applied it to my works--it appeared to bode them evil fortune; you saw how I touched, it was to baffle the evil chance; but I do not confine myself to touching when the fear of the evil chance is upon me. To baffle it I occasionally perform actions which must appear highly incomprehensible; I have been known, when riding in company with other people, to leave the direct road, and make a long circuit by a miry lane to the place to which we were going. I have also been seen attempting to ride across a morass, where I had no business whatever, and in which my horse finally sank up to its saddle-girths, and was only extricated by the help of a multitude of hands. I have, of course, frequently been asked the reason of such conduct, to which I have invariably returned no answer, for I scorn duplicity; whereupon people have looked mysteriously, and sometimes put their fingers to their foreheads. "And yet it can't be," I once heard an old gentleman say; "don't we know what he is capable of?" and the old man was right; I merely did these things to avoid the evil chance, impelled by the strange feeling within me; and this evil chance is invariably connected with my writings, the only things at present which render life valuable to me. If I touch various objects, and ride into miry places, it is to baffle any mischance befalling me as an author, to prevent my books getting into disrepute; in nine cases out of ten to prevent any expressions, thoughts, or situations in any work which I am writing from resembling the thoughts, expressions, and situations of other authors, for my great wish, as I told you before, is to be original. 'I have now related my history, and have revealed to you the secrets of my inmost bosom. I should certainly not have spoken so unreservedly as I have done, had I not discovered in you a kindred spirit. I have long wished for an opportunity of discoursing on the point which forms the peculiar feature of my history with a being who could understand me; and truly it was a lucky chance which brought you to these parts; you who seem to be acquainted with all things strange and singular, and who are as well acquainted with the subject of the magic touch as with all that relates to the star Jupiter or the mysterious tree at Upsal.' Such was the story which my host related to me in the library, amidst the darkness, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning. Both of us remained silent for some time after it was concluded. 'It is a singular story,' said I, at last, 'though I confess that I was prepared for some part of it. Will you permit me to ask you a question?' 'Certainly,' said my host. 'Did you never speak in public?' said I. 'Never.' 'And when you made this speech of yours in the dining-room, commencing with Mr. Speaker, no one was present?' 'None in the world, I double-locked the door; what do you mean?' 'An idea came into my head--dear me how the rain is pouring--but, with respect to your present troubles and anxieties, would it not be wise, seeing that authorship causes you so much trouble and anxiety, to give it up altogether?' 'Were you an author yourself,' replied my host, 'you would not talk in this manner; once an author, ever an author--besides, what could I do? return to my former state of vegetation? no, much as I endure, I do not wish that; besides, every now and then my reason tells me that these troubles and anxieties of mine are utterly without foundation that whatever I write is the legitimate growth of my own mind, and that it is the height of folly to afflict myself at any chance resemblance between my own thoughts and those of other writers, such resemblance being inevitable from the fact of our common human origin. In short--' 'I understand you,' said I; 'notwithstanding your troubles and anxieties you find life very tolerable; has your originality ever been called in question?' 'On the contrary, every one declares that originality constitutes the most remarkable feature of my writings; the man has some faults, they say, but want of originality is certainly not one of them. He is quite different from others--a certain newspaper, it is true, the ---- I think, once insinuated that in a certain work of mine I had taken a hint or two from the writings of a couple of authors which it mentioned; it happened, however, that I had never even read one syllable of the writings of either, and of one of them had never even heard the name; so much for the discrimination of the ---. By the bye, what a rascally newspaper that is!' 'A very rascally newspaper,' said I. CHAPTER LXVII Disturbed slumbers--The bed-post--Two wizards--What can I do?--Real library--The Rev. Mr. Platitude--Toleration to Dissenters--Paradox--Sword of St. Peter--Enemy to humbug--High principles--False concord--The damsel--What religion?--Further conversation--That would never do!--May you prosper. During the greater part of that night my slumbers were disturbed by strange dreams. Amongst other things, I fancied that I was my host; my head appeared to be teeming with wild thoughts and imaginations, out of which I was endeavouring to frame a book. And now the book was finished and given to the world, and the world shouted; and all eyes were turned upon me, and I shrank from the eyes of the world. And, when I got into retired places, I touched various objects in order to baffle the evil chance. In short, during the whole night, I was acting over the story which I had heard before I went to bed. At about eight o'clock I awoke. The storm had long since passed away, and the morning was bright and shining; my couch was so soft and luxurious that I felt loth to quit it, so I lay some time, my eyes wandering about the magnificent room to which fortune had conducted me in so singular a manner; at last I heaved a sigh; I was thinking of my own homeless condition, and imagining where I should find myself on the following morning. Unwilling, however, to indulge in melancholy thoughts, I sprang out of bed and proceeded to dress myself, and, whilst dressing, I felt an irresistible inclination to touch the bed-post. I finished dressing and left the room, feeling compelled, however, as I left it, to touch the lintel of the door. Is it possible, thought I, that from what I have lately heard the long-forgotten influence should have possessed me again? but I will not give way to it; so I hurried downstairs, resisting as I went a certain inclination which I occasionally felt to touch the rail of the banister. I was presently upon the gravel walk before the house: it was indeed a glorious morning. I stood for some time observing the golden fish disporting in the waters of the pond, and then strolled about amongst the noble trees of the park; the beauty and freshness of the morning--for the air had been considerably cooled by the late storm--soon enabled me to cast away the gloomy ideas which had previously taken possession of my mind, and, after a stroll of about half an hour, I returned towards the house in high spirits. It is true that once I felt very much inclined to go and touch the leaves of a flowery shrub which I saw at some distance, and had even moved two or three paces towards it; but, bethinking myself, I manfully resisted the temptation. 'Begone!' I exclaimed, 'ye sorceries, in which I formerly trusted--begone for ever vagaries which I had almost forgotten; good luck is not to be obtained, or bad averted, by magic touches; besides, two wizards in one parish would be too much, in all conscience.' I returned to the house, and entered the library; breakfast was laid on the table, and my friend was standing before the portrait which I have already said hung above the mantelpiece; so intently was he occupied in gazing at it that he did not hear me enter, nor was aware of my presence till I advanced close to him and spoke, when he turned round and shook me by the hand. 'What can possibly have induced you to hang up that portrait in your library? it is a staring likeness, it is true, but it appears to me a wretched daub.' 'Daub as you call it,' said my friend, smiling, 'I would not part with it for the best piece of Rafael. For many a happy thought I am indebted to that picture--it is my principal source of inspiration; when my imagination flags, as of course it occasionally does, I stare upon those features, and forthwith strange ideas of fun and drollery begin to flow into my mind; these I round, amplify, or combine into goodly creations, and bring forth as I find an opportunity. It is true that I am occasionally tormented by the thought that, by doing this, I am committing plagiarism; though, in that case, all thoughts must be plagiarisms, all that we think being the result of what we hear, see, or feel. What can I do? I must derive my thoughts from some source or other; and, after all, it is better to plagiarise from the features of my landlord than from the works of Butler and Cervantes. My works, as you are aware, are of a serio-comic character. My neighbours are of opinion that I am a great reader, and so I am, but only of those features--my real library is that picture.' 'But how did you obtain it?' said I. 'Some years ago a travelling painter came into this neighbourhood, and my jolly host, at the request of his wife, consented to sit for his portrait; she highly admired the picture, but she soon died, and then my fat friend, who is of an affectionate disposition, said he could not bear the sight of it, as it put him in mind of his poor wife. I purchased it of him for five pounds--I would not take five thousand for it; when you called that picture a daub, you did not see all the poetry of it.' We sat down to breakfast; my entertainer appeared to be in much better spirits than on the preceding day; I did not observe him touch once; ere breakfast was over a servant entered--'The Reverend Mr. Platitude, sir,' said he. A shade of dissatisfaction came over the countenance of my host. 'What does the silly pestilent fellow mean by coming here?' said he, half to himself; 'let him come in,' said he to the servant. The servant went out, and in a moment reappeared, introducing the Reverend Mr. Platitude. The Reverend Mr. Platitude, having what is vulgarly called a game leg, came shambling into the room; he was about thirty years of age, and about five feet three inches high; his face was of the colour of pepper, and nearly as rugged as a nutmeg-grater; his hair was black; with his eyes he squinted, and grinned with his lips, which were very much apart, disclosing two very irregular rows of teeth; he was dressed in the true Levitical fashion, in a suit of spotless black, and a neckerchief of spotless white. The Reverend Mr. Platitude advanced winking and grinning to my entertainer, who received him politely but with evident coldness; nothing daunted, however, the Reverend Mr. Platitude took a seat by the table, and, being asked to take a cup of coffee, winked, grinned, and consented. In company I am occasionally subject to fits of what is generally called absence; my mind takes flight and returns to former scenes, or presses forward into the future. One of these fits of absence came over me at this time--I looked at the Reverend Mr. Platitude for a moment, heard a word or two that proceeded from his mouth, and saying to myself, 'You are no man for me,' fell into a fit of musing--into the same train of thought as in the morning, no very pleasant one--I was thinking of the future. I continued in my reverie for some time, and probably should have continued longer, had I not been suddenly aroused by the voice of Mr. Platitude raised to a very high key. 'Yes, my dear sir,' said he, 'it is but too true; I have it on good authority--a gone church--a lost church--a ruined church--a demolished church is the Church of England. Toleration to Dissenters!--oh, monstrous!' 'I suppose,' said my host, 'that the repeal of the Test Acts will be merely a precursor of the emancipation of the Papists?' 'Of the Catholics,' said the Reverend Mr. Platitude. 'Ahem. There was a time, as I believe you are aware, my dear sir, when I was as much opposed to the emancipation of the Catholics as it was possible for any one to be; but I was prejudiced, my dear sir, labouring under a cloud of most unfortunate prejudice; but I thank my Maker I am so no longer. I have travelled, as you are aware. It is only by travelling that one can rub off prejudices; I think you will agree with me there. I am speaking to a traveller. I left behind all my prejudices in Italy. The Catholics are at least our fellow-Christians. I thank Heaven that I am no longer an enemy to Catholic emancipation.' 'And yet you would not tolerate Dissenters?' 'Dissenters, my dear sir; I hope you would not class such a set as the Dissenters with Catholics?' 'Perhaps it would be unjust,' said my host, 'though to which of the two parties is another thing; but permit me to ask you a question: Does it not smack somewhat of paradox to talk of Catholics, whilst you admit there are Dissenters? If there are Dissenters, how should there be Catholics?' 'It is not my fault that there are Dissenters,' said the Reverend Mr. Platitude; 'if I had my will I would neither admit there were any, nor permit any to be.' 'Of course you would admit there were such as long as they existed; but how would you get rid of them?' 'I would have the Church exert its authority.' 'What do you mean by exerting its authority?' 'I would not have the Church bear the sword in vain.' 'What, the sword of St. Peter? You remember what the founder of the religion which you profess said about the sword, "He who striketh with it . . . " I think those who have called themselves the Church have had enough of the sword. Two can play with the sword, Mr. Platitude. The Church of Rome tried the sword with the Lutherans: how did it fare with the Church of Rome? The Church of England tried the sword, Mr. Platitude, with the Puritans: how did it fare with Laud and Charles?' 'Oh, as for the Church of England,' said Mr. Platitude, 'I have little to say. Thank God, I left all my Church of England prejudices in Italy. Had the Church of England known its true interests, it would long ago have sought a reconciliation with its illustrious mother. If the Church of England had not been in some degree a schismatic church, it would not have fared so ill at the time of which you are speaking; the rest of the Church would have come to its assistance. The Irish would have helped it, so would the French, so would the Portuguese. Disunion has always been the bane of the Church.' Once more I fell into a reverie. My mind now reverted to the past; methought I was in a small comfortable room wainscoted with oak; I was seated on one side of a fireplace, close by a table on which were wine and fruit; on the other side of the fire sat a man in a plain suit of brown, with the hair combed back from his somewhat high forehead; he had a pipe in his mouth, which for some time he smoked gravely and placidly, without saying a word; at length, after drawing at the pipe for some time rather vigorously, he removed it from his mouth, and, emitting an accumulated cloud of smoke, he exclaimed in a slow and measured tone, 'As I was telling you just now, my good chap, I have always been an enemy to humbug.' When I awoke from my reverie the Reverend Mr. Platitude was quitting the apartment. 'Who is that person?' said I to my entertainer, as the door closed behind him. 'Who is he?' said my host; 'why, the Reverend Mr. Platitude.' 'Does he reside in this neighbourhood?' 'He holds a living about three miles from here; his history, as far as I am acquainted with it, is as follows. His father was a respectable tanner in the neighbouring town, who, wishing to make his son a gentleman, sent him to college. Having never been at college myself, I cannot say whether he took the wisest course; I believe it is more easy to unmake than to make a gentleman; I have known many gentlemanly youths go to college, and return anything but what they went. Young Mr. Platitude did not go to college a gentleman, but neither did he return one: he went to college an ass, and returned a prig; to his original folly was superadded a vast quantity of conceit. He told his father that he had adopted high principles, and was determined to discountenance everything low and mean; advised him to eschew trade, and to purchase him a living. The old man retired from business, purchased his son a living, and shortly after died, leaving him what remained of his fortune. The first thing the Reverend Mr. Platitude did, after his father's decease, was to send his mother and sister into Wales to live upon a small annuity, assigning as a reason that he was averse to anything low, and that they talked ungrammatically. Wishing to shine in the pulpit, he now preached high sermons, as he called them, interspersed with scraps of learning. His sermons did not, however, procure him much popularity; on the contrary, his church soon became nearly deserted, the greater part of his flock going over to certain dissenting preachers, who had shortly before made their appearance in the neighbourhood. Mr. Platitude was filled with wrath, and abused Dissenters in most unmeasured terms. Coming in contact with some of the preachers at a public meeting, he was rash enough to enter into argument with them. Poor Platitude! he had better have been quiet, he appeared like a child, a very infant, in their grasp; he attempted to take shelter under his college learning, but found, to his dismay, that his opponents knew more Greek and Latin than himself. These illiterate boors, as he had supposed them, caught him at once in a false concord, and Mr. Platitude had to slink home overwhelmed with shame. To avenge himself he applied to the ecclesiastical court, but was told that the Dissenters could not be put down by the present ecclesiastical law. He found the Church of England, to use his own expression, a poor, powerless, restricted Church. He now thought to improve his consequence by marriage, and made up to a rich and beautiful young lady in the neighbourhood; the damsel measured him from head to foot with a pair of very sharp eyes, dropped a curtsey, and refused him. Mr. Platitude, finding England a very stupid place, determined to travel; he went to Italy; how he passed his time there he knows best, to other people it is a matter of little importance. At the end of two years he returned with a real or assumed contempt for everything English, and especially for the Church to which he belongs, and out of which he is supported. He forthwith gave out that he had left behind him all his Church of England prejudices, and, as a proof thereof, spoke against sacerdotal wedlock and the toleration of schismatics. In an evil hour for myself he was introduced to me by a clergyman of my acquaintance, and from that time I have been pestered, as I was this morning, at least once a week. I seldom enter into any discussion with him, but fix my eyes on the portrait over the mantelpiece, and endeavour to conjure up some comic idea or situation, whilst he goes on talking tomfoolery by the hour about Church authority, schismatics, and the unlawfulness of sacerdotal wedlock; occasionally he brings with him a strange kind of being, whose acquaintance he says he made in Italy; I believe he is some sharking priest who has come over to proselytise and plunder. This being has some powers of conversation and some learning, but carries the countenance of an arch villain; Platitude is evidently his tool.' 'Of what religion are you?' said I to my host. 'That of the Vicar of Wakefield--good, quiet, Church of England, which would live and let live, practises charity, and rails at no one; where the priest is the husband of one wife, takes care of his family and his parish--such is the religion for me, though I confess I have hitherto thought too little of religious matters. When, however, I have completed this plaguy work on which I am engaged, I hope to be able to devote more attention to them.' After some further conversation, the subjects being, if I remember right, college education, priggism, church authority, tomfoolery, and the like, I rose and said to my host, 'I must now leave you.' 'Whither are you going?' 'I do not know.' 'Stay here, then--you shall be welcome as many days, months, and years as you please to stay.' 'Do you think I would hang upon another man? No, not if he were Emperor of all the Chinas. I will now make my preparations, and then bid you farewell.' I retired to my apartment and collected the handful of things which I carried with me on my travels. 'I will walk a little way with you,' said my friend on my return. He walked with me to the park gate; neither of us said anything by the way. When we had come upon the road, I said, 'Farewell now; I will not permit you to give yourself any further trouble on my account. Receive my best thanks for your kindness; before we part, however, I should wish to ask you a question. Do you think you shall ever grow tired of authorship?' 'I have my fears,' said my friend, advancing his hand to one of the iron bars of the gate. 'Don't touch,' said I, 'it is a bad habit. I have but one word to add: should you ever grow tired of authorship follow your first idea of getting into Parliament; you have words enough at command; perhaps you want manner and method; but, in that case, you must apply to a teacher, you must take lessons of a master of elocution.' 'That would never do!' said my host; 'I know myself too well to think of applying for assistance to any one. Were I to become a parliamentary orator, I should wish to be an original one, even if not above mediocrity. What pleasure should I take in any speech I might make, however original as to thought, provided the gestures I employed and the very modulation of my voice were not my own? Take lessons, indeed! why, the fellow who taught me, the professor, might be standing in the gallery whilst I spoke; and, at the best parts of my speech, might say to himself, "That gesture is mine--that modulation is mine." I could not bear the thought of such a thing.' 'Farewell,' said I, 'and may you prosper. I have nothing more to say.' I departed. At the distance of twenty yards I turned round suddenly; my friend was just withdrawing his finger from the bar of the gate. {picture:My friend was just withdrawing his finger from the bar of the gate: page369.jpg} 'He has been touching,' said I, as I proceeded on my way; 'I wonder what was the evil chance he wished to baffle.' CHAPTER LXVIII Elastic step--Disconsolate party--Not the season--Mend your draught--Good ale--Crotchet--Hammer and tongs--Schoolmaster--True Eden life--Flaming Tinman--Twice my size--Hard at work--My poor wife--Grey Moll--A Bible--Half-and-half--What to do--Half inclined--In no time--On one condition--Don't stare--Like the wind. After walking some time, I found myself on the great road, at the same spot where I had turned aside the day before with my new-made acquaintance, in the direction of his house. I now continued my journey as before, towards the north. The weather, though beautiful, was much cooler than it had been for some time past; I walked at a great rate, with a springing and elastic step. In about two hours I came to where a kind of cottage stood a little way back from the road, with a huge oak before it, under the shade of which stood a little pony and a cart, which seemed to contain various articles. I was going past--when I saw scrawled over the door of the cottage, 'Good beer sold here'; upon which, feeling myself all of a sudden very thirsty, I determined to go in and taste the beverage. {picture:I was going past--when I saw scrawled over the door of the cottage, 'Good beer sold here.': page371.jpg} I entered a well-sanded kitchen, and seated myself on a bench, on one side of a long white table; the other side, which was nearest to the wall, was occupied by a party, or rather family, consisting of a grimy- looking man, somewhat under the middle size, dressed in faded velveteens, and wearing a leather apron--a rather pretty-looking woman, but sun-burnt, and meanly dressed, and two ragged children, a boy and girl, about four or five years old. The man sat with his eyes fixed upon the table, supporting his chin with both his hands; the woman, who was next him, sat quite still, save that occasionally she turned a glance upon her husband with eyes that appeared to have been lately crying. The children had none of the vivacity so general at their age. A more disconsolate family I had never seen; a mug, which, when filled, might contain half a pint, stood empty before them; a very disconsolate party indeed. 'House!' said I; 'House!' and then, as nobody appeared, I cried again as loud as I could, 'House! do you hear me, House!' 'What's your pleasure, young man?' said an elderly woman, who now made her appearance from a side apartment. 'To taste your ale,' said I. 'How much?' said the woman, stretching out her hand towards the empty mug upon the table. 'The largest measure-full in your house,' said I, putting back her hand gently. 'This is not the season for half-pint mugs.' 'As you will, young man,' said the landlady; and presently brought in an earthen pitcher which might contain about three pints, and which foamed and frothed withal. 'Will this pay for it?' said I, putting down sixpence. {picture:'Will this pay for it?' said I, putting down sixpence: page373.jpg} 'I have to return you a penny,' said the landlady, putting her hand into her pocket. 'I want no change,' said I, flourishing my hand with an air. 'As you please, young gentleman,' said the landlady, and then, making a kind of curtsey, she again retired to the side apartment. 'Here is your health, sir,' said I to the grimy-looking man, as I raised the pitcher to my lips. The tinker, for such I supposed him to be, without altering his posture, raised his eyes, looked at me for a moment, gave a slight nod, and then once more fixed his eyes upon the table. I took a draught of the ale, which I found excellent; 'Won't you drink?' said I, holding the pitcher to the tinker. The man again lifted up his eyes, looked at me, and then at the pitcher, and then at me again. I thought at one time that he was about to shake his head in sign of refusal; but no, he looked once more at the pitcher, and the temptation was too strong. Slowly removing his head from his arms, he took the pitcher, sighed, nodded, and drank a tolerable quantity, and then set the pitcher down before me upon the table. 'You had better mend your draught,' said I to the tinker; 'it is a sad heart that never rejoices.' 'That's true,' said the tinker, and again raising the pitcher to his lips, he mended his draught as I had bidden him, drinking a larger quantity than before. 'Pass it to your wife,' said I. The poor woman took the pitcher from the man's hand; before, however, raising it to her lips, she looked at the children. True mother's heart, thought I to myself, and taking the half-pint mug, I made her fill it, and then held it to the children, causing each to take a draught. The woman wiped her eyes with the corner of her gown, before she raised the pitcher and drank to my health. In about five minutes none of the family looked half so disconsolate as before, and the tinker and I were in deep discourse. Oh, genial and gladdening is the power of good ale, the true and proper drink of Englishmen. He is not deserving of the name of Englishman who speaketh against ale, that is good ale, like that which has just made merry the hearts of this poor family; and yet there are beings, calling themselves Englishmen, who say that it is a sin to drink a cup of ale, and who, on coming to this passage will be tempted to fling down the book and exclaim, 'The man is evidently a bad man, for behold, by his own confession, he is not only fond of ale himself, but is in the habit of tempting other people with it.' Alas! alas! what a number of silly individuals there are in this world; I wonder what they would have had me do in this instance--given the afflicted family a cup of cold water? go to! They could have found water in the road, for there was a pellucid spring only a few yards distant from the house, as they were well aware--but they wanted not water; what should I have given them? meat and bread? go to! They were not hungry; there was stifled sobbing in their bosoms, and the first mouthful of strong meat would have choked them. What should I have given them? Money! what right had I to insult them by offering them money? Advice! words, words, words; friends, there is a time for everything; there is a time for a cup of cold water; there is a time for strong meat and bread; there is a time for advice, and there is a time for ale; and I have generally found that the time for advice is after a cup of ale. I do not say many cups; the tongue then speaketh more smoothly, and the ear listeneth more benignantly; but why do I attempt to reason with you? do I not know you for conceited creatures, with one idea--and that a foolish one;--a crotchet, for the sake of which ye would sacrifice anything, religion if required--country? There, fling down my book, I do not wish ye to walk any farther in my company, unless you cast your nonsense away, which ye will never do, for it is the breath of your nostrils; fling down my book, it was not written to support a crotchet, for know one thing, my good people, I have invariably been an enemy to humbug. 'Well,' said the tinker, after we had discoursed some time, 'little thought, when I first saw you, that you were of my own trade.' _Myself_. Nor am I, at least not exactly. There is not much difference, 'tis true, between a tinker and a smith. _Tinker_. You are a whitesmith then? _Myself_. Not I, I'd scorn to be anything so mean; no, friend, black's the colour; I am a brother of the horse-shoe. Success to the hammer and tongs. _Tinker_. Well, I shouldn't have thought you had been a blacksmith by your hands. _Myself_. I have seen them, however, as black as yours. The truth is, I have not worked for many a day. _Tinker_. Where did you serve first? _Myself_. In Ireland. _Tinker_. That's a good way off, isn't it? _Myself_. Not very far; over those mountains to the left, and the run of salt water that lies behind them, there's Ireland. _Tinker_. It's a fine thing to be a scholar. _Myself_. Not half so fine as to be a tinker. _Tinker_. How you talk! _Myself_. Nothing but the truth; what can be better than to be one's own master? Now a tinker is his own master, a scholar is not. Let us suppose the best of scholars, a schoolmaster for example, for I suppose you will admit that no one can be higher in scholarship than a schoolmaster; do you call his a pleasant life? I don't; we should call him a school-slave, rather than a schoolmaster. Only conceive him in blessed weather like this, in his close school, teaching children to write in copy-books, 'Evil communication corrupts good manners,' or 'You cannot touch pitch without defilement,' or to spell out of Abedariums, or to read out of Jack Smith, or Sandford and Merton. Only conceive him, I say, drudging in such guise from morning till night, without any rational enjoyment but to beat the children. Would you compare such a dog's life as that with your own--the happiest under heaven--true Eden life, as the Germans would say,--pitching your tent under the pleasant hedgerows, listening to the song of the feathered tribes, collecting all the leaky kettles in the neighbourhood, soldering and joining, earning your honest bread by the wholesome sweat of your brow--making ten holes--hey, what's this? what's the man crying for? Suddenly the tinker had covered his face with his hands, and begun to sob and moan like a man in the deepest distress; the breast of his wife was heaved with emotion; even the children were agitated, the youngest began to roar. _Myself_. What's the matter with you; what are you all crying about? _Tinker_ (uncovering his face). Lord, why to hear you talk; isn't that enough to make anybody cry--even the poor babes? Yes, you said right, 'tis life in the garden of Eden--the tinker's; I see so now that I'm about to give it up. _Myself_. Give it up! you must not think of such a thing. _Tinker_. No, I can't bear to think of it, and yet I must; what's to be done? How hard to be frightened to death, to be driven off the roads. _Myself_. Who has driven you off the roads? _Tinker_. Who! the Flaming Tinman. _Myself_. Who is he? _Tinker_. The biggest rogue in England, and the cruellest, or he wouldn't have served me as he has done--I'll tell you all about it. I was born upon the roads, and so was my father before me, and my mother too; and I worked with them as long as they lived, as a dutiful child, for I have nothing to reproach myself with on their account; and when my father died I took up the business, and went his beat, and supported my mother for the little time she lived; and when she died I married this young woman, who was not born upon the roads, but was a small tradesman's daughter, at Gloster. She had a kindness for me, and, notwithstanding her friends were against the match, she married the poor tinker, and came to live with him upon the roads. Well, young man, for six or seven years I--as the happiest fellow breathing, living just the life you described just now--respected by everybody in this beat; when in an evil hour comes this Black Jack, this flaming tinman, into these parts, driven as they say out of Yorkshire--for no good you may be sure. Now there is no beat will support two tinkers, as you doubtless know; mine was a good one, but it would not support the flying tinker and myself, though if it would have supported twenty it would have been all the same to the flying villain, who'll brook no one but himself; so he presently finds me out, and offers to fight me for the beat. Now, being bred upon the roads, I can fight a little, that is with anything like my match, but I was not going to fight him, who happens to be twice my size, and so I told him; whereupon he knocks me down, and would have done me farther mischief had not some men been nigh and prevented him; so he threatened to cut my throat, and went his way. Well, I did not like such usage at all, and was woundily frightened, and tried to keep as much out of his way as possible, going anywhere but where I thought I was likely to meet him; and sure enough for several months I contrived to keep out of his way. At last somebody told me that he was gone back to Yorkshire, whereupon I was glad at heart, and ventured to show myself, going here and there as I did before. Well, young man, it was yesterday that I and mine set ourselves down in a lane, about five miles from here, and lighted our fire, and had our dinner, and after dinner I sat down to mend three kettles and a frying pan which the people in the neighbourhood had given me to mend--for, as I told you before, I have a good connection, owing to my honesty. Well, as I sat there hard at work, happy as the day's long, and thinking of anything but what was to happen, who should come up but this Black Jack, this king of the tinkers, rattling along in his cart, with his wife, that they call Grey Moll, by his side--for the villain has got a wife, and a maid-servant too; the last I never saw, but they that has, says that she is as big as a house, and young, and well to look at, which can't be all said of Moll, who, though she's big enough in all conscience, is neither young nor handsome. Well, no sooner does he see me and mine, than, giving the reins to Grey Moll, he springs out of his cart, and comes straight at me; not a word did he say, but on he comes straight at me like a wild bull. I am a quiet man, young fellow, but I saw now that quietness would be of no use, so I sprang up upon my legs, and being bred upon the roads, and able to fight a little, I squared as he came running in upon me, and had a round or two with him. Lord bless you, young man, it was like a fly fighting with an elephant--one of those big beasts the show-folks carry about. I had not a chance with the fellow, he knocked me here, he knocked me there, knocked me into the hedge, and knocked me out again. I was at my last shifts, and my poor wife saw it. Now my poor wife, though she is as gentle as a pigeon, has yet a spirit of her own, and though she wasn't bred upon the roads, can scratch a little; so when she saw me at my last shifts, she flew at the villain--she couldn't bear to see her partner murdered--and scratched the villain's face. Lord bless you, young man, she had better have been quiet: Grey Moll no sooner saw what she was about, than, springing out of the cart, where she had sat all along perfectly quiet, save a little whooping and screeching to encourage her blade:--Grey Moll, I say (my flesh creeps when I think of it--for I am a kind husband, and love my poor wife) . . . _Myself_. Take another draught of the ale; you look frightened, and it will do you good. Stout liquor makes stout heart, as the man says in the play. _Tinker_. That's true, young man; here's to you--where was I? Grey Moll no sooner saw what my wife was about, than, springing out of the cart, she flew at my poor wife, clawed off her bonnet in a moment, and seized hold of her hair. Lord bless you, young man, my poor wife, in the hands of Grey Moll, was nothing better than a pigeon in the claws of a buzzard hawk, or I in the hands of the Flaming Tinman, which when I saw, my heart was fit to burst, and I determined to give up everything--everything to save my poor wife out of Grey Moll's claws. 'Hold!' I shouted. 'Hold, both of you--Jack, Moll. Hold, both of you, for God's sake, and I'll do what you will: give up trade, and business, connection, bread, and everything, never more travel the roads, and go down on my knees to you in the bargain.' Well, this had some effect; Moll let go my wife, and the Blazing Tinman stopped for a moment; it was only for a moment, however, that he left off--all of a sudden he hit me a blow which sent me against a tree; and what did the villain then? why the flying villain seized me by the throat, and almost throttled me, roaring--what do you think, young man, that the flaming villain roared out? _Myself_. I really don't know--something horrible, I suppose. _Tinker_. Horrible, indeed; you may well say horrible, young man; neither more nor less than the Bible--'A Bible, a Bible!' roared the Blazing Tinman; and he pressed my throat so hard against the tree that my senses began to dwaul away--a Bible, a Bible, still ringing in my ears. Now, young man, my poor wife is a Christian woman, and, though she travels the roads, carries a Bible with her at the bottom of her sack, with which sometimes she teaches the children to read--it was the only thing she brought with her from the place of her kith and kin, save her own body and the clothes on her back; so my poor wife, half distracted, runs to her sack, pulls out the Bible, and puts it into the hand of the Blazing Tinman, who then thrusts the end of it into my mouth with such fury that it made my lips bleed, and broke short one of my teeth which happened to be decayed. 'Swear,' said he, 'swear, you mumping villain, take your Bible oath that you will quit and give up the beat altogether, or I'll--and then the hard-hearted villain made me swear by the Bible, and my own damnation, half-throttled as I was, to--to--I can't go on-- _Myself_. Take another draught--stout liquor-- _Tinker_. I can't, young man, my heart's too full, and what's more, the pitcher is empty. _Myself_. And so he swore you, I suppose, on the Bible, to quit the roads? _Tinker_. You are right, he did so, the gypsy villain. _Myself_. Gypsy! Is he a gypsy? _Tinker_. Not exactly; what they call a half-and-half. His father was a gypsy, and his mother, like mine, one who walked the roads. _Myself_. Is he of the Smiths--the Petulengres? _Tinker_. I say, young man, you know a thing or two; one would think, to hear you talk, you had been bred upon the roads. I thought none but those bred upon the roads knew anything of that name--Petulengres! No, not he, he fights the Petulengres whenever he meets them; he likes nobody but himself, and wants to be king of the roads. I believe he is a Boss, or a--at any rate he's a bad one, as I know to my cost. _Myself_. And what are you going to do? _Tinker_. Do! you may well ask that; I don't know what to do. My poor wife and I have been talking of that all the morning, over that half-pint mug of beer; we can't determine on what's to be done. All we know is, that we must quit the roads. The villain swore that the next time he saw us on the roads he'd cut all our throats, and seize our horse and bit of a cart that are now standing out there under the tree. _Myself_. And what do you mean to do with your horse and cart? _Tinker_. Another question! What shall we do with our cart and pony? they are of no use to us now. Stay on the roads I will not, both for my oath's sake and my own. If we had a trifle of money, we were thinking of going to Bristol, where I might get up a little business, but we have none; our last three farthings we spent about the mug of beer. _Myself_. But why don't you sell your horse and cart? _Tinker_. Sell them! and who would buy them, unless some one who wished to set up in my line; but there's no beat, and what's the use of the horse and cart and the few tools without the beat? _Myself_. I'm half inclined to buy your cart and pony, and your beat too. _Tinker_. You! How came you to think of such a thing? _Myself_. Why, like yourself, I hardly know what to do. I want a home and work. As for a home, I suppose I can contrive to make a home out of your tent and cart; and as for work, I must learn to be a tinker, it would not be hard for one of my trade to learn to tinker; what better can I do? Would you have me go to Chester and work there now? I don't like the thoughts of it. If I go to Chester and work there, I can't be my own man; I must work under a master, and perhaps he and I should quarrel, and when I quarrel I am apt to hit folks, and those that hit folks are sometimes sent to prison; I don't like the thought either of going to Chester or to Chester prison. What do you think I could earn at Chester? _Tinker_. A matter of eleven shillings a week, if anybody would employ you, which I don't think they would with those hands of yours. But whether they would or not, if you are of a quarrelsome nature you must not go to Chester; you would be in the castle in no time. I don't know how to advise you. As for selling you my stock, I'd see you farther first, for your own sake. _Myself_. Why? _Tinker_. Why! you would get your head knocked off. Suppose you were to meet him? _Myself_. Pooh, don't be afraid on my account; if I were to meet him I could easily manage him one way or other. I know all kinds of strange words and names, and, as I told you before, I sometimes hit people when they put me out. Here the tinker's wife, who for some minutes past had been listening attentively to our discourse, interposed, saying, in a low soft tone: 'I really don't see, John, why you shouldn't sell the young man the things, seeing that he wishes for them, and is so confident; you have told him plainly how matters stand, and if anything ill should befall him, people couldn't lay the blame on you; but I don't think any ill will befall him, and who knows but God has sent him to our assistance in time of need?' 'I'll hear of no such thing,' said the tinker; 'I have drunk at the young man's expense, and though he says he's quarrelsome, I would not wish to sit in pleasanter company. A pretty fellow I should be, now, if I were to let him follow his own will. If he once sets up on my beat, he's a lost man, his ribs will be stove in, and his head knocked off his shoulders. There, you are crying, but you shan't have your will though; I won't be the young man's destruction . . . If, indeed, I thought he could manage the tinker--but he never can; he says he can hit, but it's no use hitting the tinker,--crying still! you are enough to drive one mad. I say, young man, I believe you understand a thing or two, just now you were talking of knowing hard words and names--I don't wish to send you to your mischief--you say you know hard words and names; let us see. Only on one condition I'll sell you the pony and things; as for the beat it's gone, isn't mine--sworn away by my own mouth. Tell me what's my name; if you can't, may I--' _Myself_. Don't swear, it's a bad habit, neither pleasant nor profitable. Your name is Slingsby--Jack Slingsby. There, don't stare, there's nothing in my telling you your name: I've been in these parts before, at least not very far from here. Ten years ago, when I was little more than a child, I was about twenty miles from here in a post- chaise, at the door of an inn, and as I looked from the window of the chaise, I saw you standing by a gutter, with a big tin ladle in your hand, and somebody called you Jack Slingsby. I never forget anything I hear or see; I can't, I wish I could. So there's nothing strange in my knowing your name; indeed, there's nothing strange in anything, provided you examine it to the bottom. Now what am I to give you for the things? I paid Slingsby five pounds ten shillings for his stock in trade, cart, and pony--purchased sundry provisions of the landlady, also a wagoner's frock, which had belonged to a certain son of hers, deceased, gave my little animal a feed of corn, and prepared to depart. 'God bless you, young man,' said Slingsby, shaking me by the hand; 'you are the best friend I've had for many a day: I have but one thing to tell you, Don't cross that fellow's path if you can help it; and stay--should the pony refuse to go, just touch him so, and he'll fly like the wind.' CHAPTER LXIX Effects of corn--One night longer--The hoofs--A stumble--Are you hurt?--What a difference--Drowsy--Maze of bushes--Housekeeping--Sticks and furze--The driftway--Account of stock--Anvil and bellows--Twenty years. It was two or three hours past noon when I took my departure from the place of the last adventure, walking by the side of my little cart; the pony, invigorated by the corn, to which he was probably not much accustomed, proceeded right gallantly; so far from having to hasten him forward by the particular application which the tinker had pointed out to me, I had rather to repress his eagerness, being, though an excellent pedestrian, not unfrequently left behind. The country through which I passed was beautiful and interesting, but solitary; few habitations appeared. As it was quite a matter of indifference to me in what direction I went, the whole world being before me, I allowed the pony to decide upon the matter; it was not long before he left the high-road, being probably no friend to public places. I followed him I knew not whither, but, from subsequent observation, have reason to suppose that our course was in a north-west direction. At length night came upon us, and a cold wind sprang up, which was succeeded by a drizzling rain. I had originally intended to pass the night in the cart, or to pitch my little tent on some convenient spot by the road's side; but, owing to the alteration in the weather, I thought that it would be advisable to take up my quarters in any hedge alehouse at which I might arrive. To tell the truth, I was not very sorry to have an excuse to pass the night once more beneath a roof. I had determined to live quite independent, but I had never before passed a night by myself abroad, and felt a little apprehensive at the idea; I hoped, however, on the morrow, to be a little more prepared for the step, so I determined for one night--only for one night longer--to sleep like a Christian; but human determinations are not always put into effect, such a thing as opportunity is frequently wanting, such was the case here. I went on for a considerable time, in expectation of coming to some rustic hostelry, but nothing of the kind presented itself to my eyes; the country in which I now was seemed almost uninhabited, not a house of any kind was to be seen--at least I saw none--though it is true houses might be near without my seeing them, owing to the darkness of the night, for neither moon nor star was abroad. I heard, occasionally, the bark of dogs; but the sound appeared to come from an immense distance. The rain still fell, and the ground beneath my feet was wet and miry; in short, it was a night in which even a tramper by profession would feel more comfortable in being housed than abroad. I followed in the rear of the cart, the pony still proceeding at a sturdy pace, till methought I heard other hoofs than those of my own nag; I listened for a moment, and distinctly heard the sound of hoofs approaching at a great rate, and evidently from the quarter towards which I and my little caravan were moving. We were in a dark lane--so dark that it was impossible for me to see my own hand. Apprehensive that some accident might occur, I ran forward, and, seizing the pony by the bridle, drew him as near as I could to the hedge. On came the hoofs--trot, trot, trot; and evidently more than those of one horse; their speed as they advanced appeared to slacken--it was only, however, for a moment. I heard a voice cry, 'Push on,--this is a desperate robbing place,--never mind the dark'; and the hoofs came on quicker than before. 'Stop!' said I, at the top of my voice; 'stop! or--' Before I could finish what I was about to say there was a stumble, a heavy fall, a cry, and a groan, and putting out my foot I felt what I conjectured to be the head of a horse stretched upon the road. 'Lord have mercy upon us! what's the matter?' exclaimed a voice. 'Spare my life,' cried another voice, apparently from the ground; 'only spare my life, and take all I have.' 'Where are you, Master Wise?' cried the other voice. 'Help! here, Master Bat,' cried the voice from the ground; 'help me up or I shall be murdered.' 'Why, what's the matter?' said Bat. 'Some one has knocked me down, and is robbing me,' said the voice from the ground. 'Help! murder!' cried Bat; and, regardless of the entreaties of the man on the ground that he would stay and help him up, he urged his horse forward and galloped away as fast as he could. I remained for some time quiet, listening to various groans and exclamations uttered by the person on the ground; at length I said, 'Holloa! are you hurt?' 'Spare my life, and take all I have!' said the voice from the ground. 'Have they not done robbing you yet?' said I; 'when they have finished let me know, and I will come and help you.' 'Who is that?' said the voice; 'pray come and help me, and do me no mischief.' 'You were saying that some one was robbing you,' said I; 'don't think I shall come till he is gone away.' 'Then you ben't he?' said the voice. 'Aren't you robbed?' said I. 'Can't say I be,' said the voice; 'not yet at any rate; but who are you? I don't know you.' 'A traveller whom you and your partner were going to run over in this dark lane; you almost frightened me out of my senses.' 'Frightened!' said the voice, in a louder tone; 'frightened! oh!' and thereupon I heard somebody getting upon his legs. This accomplished, the individual proceeded to attend to his horse, and with a little difficulty raised him upon his legs also. 'Aren't you hurt?' said I. 'Hurt!' said the voice; 'not I; don't think it, whatever the horse may be. I tell you what, my fellow, I thought you were a robber, and now I find you are not; I have a good mind--' 'To do what?' 'To serve you out; aren't you ashamed--?' 'At what?' said I; 'not to have robbed you? Shall I set about it now?' 'Ha, ha!' said the man, dropping the bullying tone which he had assumed; 'you are joking--robbing! who talks of robbing? I wonder how my horse's knees are; not much hurt, I think--only mired.' The man, whoever he was, then got upon his horse; and, after moving him about a little, said, 'Good night, friend; where are you?' 'Here I am,' said I, 'just behind you.' 'You are, are you? Take that.' I know not what he did, but probably pricking his horse with the spur the animal kicked out violently; one of his heels struck me on the shoulder, but luckily missed my face; I fell back with the violence of the blow, whilst the fellow scampered off at a great rate. Stopping at some distance, he loaded me with abuse, and then, continuing his way at a rapid trot, I heard no more of him. 'What a difference!' said I, getting up; 'last night I was feted in the hall of a rich genius, and to-night I am knocked down and mired in a dark lane by the heel of Master Wise's horse--I wonder who gave him that name? And yet he was wise enough to wreak his revenge upon me, and I was not wise enough to keep out of his way. Well, I am not much hurt, so it is of little consequence.' I now bethought me that, as I had a carriage of my own, I might as well make use of it; I therefore got into the cart, and, taking the reins in my hand, gave an encouraging cry to the pony, whereupon the sturdy little animal started again at as brisk a pace as if he had not already come many a long mile. I lay half reclining in the cart, holding the reins lazily, and allowing the animal to go just where he pleased, often wondering where he would conduct me. At length I felt drowsy, and my head sank upon my breast; I soon aroused myself, but it was only to doze again; this occurred several times. Opening my eyes after a doze somewhat longer than the others, I found that the drizzling rain had ceased, a corner of the moon was apparent in the heavens, casting a faint light; I looked around for a moment or two, but my eyes and brain were heavy with slumber, and I could scarcely distinguish where we were. I had a kind of dim consciousness that we were traversing an uninclosed country--perhaps a heath; I thought, however, that I saw certain large black objects looming in the distance, which I had a confused idea might be woods or plantations; the pony still moved at his usual pace. I did not find the jolting of the cart at all disagreeable, on the contrary, it had quite a somniferous effect upon me. Again my eyes closed; I opened them once more, but with less perception in them than before, looked forward, and, muttering something about woodlands, I placed myself in an easier posture than I had hitherto done, and fairly fell asleep. How long I continued in that state I am unable to say, but I believe for a considerable time; I was suddenly awakened by the ceasing of the jolting to which I had become accustomed, and of which I was perfectly sensible in my sleep. I started up and looked around me, the moon was still shining, and the face of the heaven was studded with stars; I found myself amidst a maze of bushes of various kinds, but principally hazel and holly, through which was a path or driftway with grass growing on either side, upon which the pony was already diligently browsing. I conjectured that this place had been one of the haunts of his former master, and, on dismounting and looking about, was strengthened in that opinion by finding a spot under an ash tree which, from its burnt and blackened appearance, seemed to have been frequently used as a fireplace. I will take up my quarters here, thought I; it is an excellent spot for me to commence my new profession in; I was quite right to trust myself to the guidance of the pony. Unharnessing the animal without delay, I permitted him to browse at free will on the grass, convinced that he would not wander far from a place to which he was so much attached; I then pitched the little tent close beside the ash tree to which I have alluded, and conveyed two or three articles into it, and instantly felt that I had commenced housekeeping for the first time in my life. Housekeeping, however, without a fire is a very sorry affair, something like the housekeeping of children in their toy houses; of this I was the more sensible from feeling very cold and shivering, owing to my late exposure to the rain, and sleeping in the night air. Collecting, therefore, all the dry sticks and furze I could find, I placed them upon the fireplace, adding certain chips and a billet which I found in the cart, it having apparently been the habit of Slingsby to carry with him a small store of fuel. Having then struck a spark in a tinder-box and lighted a match, I set fire to the combustible heap, and was not slow in raising a cheerful blaze; I then drew my cart near the fire, and, seating myself on one of the shafts, hung over the warmth with feelings of intense pleasure and satisfaction. Having continued in this posture for a considerable time, I turned my eyes to the heaven in the direction of a particular star; I, however, could not find the star, nor indeed many of the starry train, the greater number having fled, from which circumstance, and from the appearance of the sky, I concluded that morning was nigh. About this time I again began to feel drowsy; I therefore arose, and having prepared for myself a kind of couch in the tent, I flung myself upon it and went to sleep. I will not say that I was awakened in the morning by the carolling of birds, as I perhaps might if I were writing a novel; I awoke because, to use vulgar language, I had slept my sleep out, not because the birds were carolling around me in numbers, as they had probably been for hours without my hearing them. I got up and left my tent; the morning was yet more bright than that of the preceding day. Impelled by curiosity, I walked about endeavouring to ascertain to what place chance, or rather the pony, had brought me; following the driftway for some time, amidst bushes and stunted trees, I came to a grove of dark pines, through which it appeared to lead; I tracked it a few hundred yards, but seeing nothing but trees, and the way being wet and sloughy, owing to the recent rain, I returned on my steps, and, pursuing the path in another direction, came to a sandy road leading over a common, doubtless the one I had traversed the preceding night. My curiosity satisfied, I returned to my little encampment, and on the way beheld a small footpath on the left winding through the bushes, which had before escaped my observation. Having reached my tent and cart, I breakfasted on some of the provisions which I had procured the day before, and then proceeded to take a regular account of the stock formerly possessed by Slingsby the tinker, but now become my own by right of lawful purchase. Besides the pony, the cart, and the tent, I found I was possessed of a mattress stuffed with straw on which to lie, and a blanket to cover me, the last quite clean and nearly new; then there was a frying-pan and a kettle, the first for cooking any food which required cooking, and the second for heating any water which I might wish to heat. I likewise found an earthen teapot and two or three cups; of the first I should rather say I found the remains, it being broken in three parts, no doubt since it came into my possession, which would have precluded the possibility of my asking anybody to tea for the present, should anybody visit me, even supposing I had tea and sugar, which was not the case. I then overhauled what might more strictly be called the stock in trade; this consisted of various tools, an iron ladle, a chafing-pan and small bellows, sundry pans and kettles, the latter being of tin, with the exception of one which was of copper, all in a state of considerable dilapidation--if I may use the term; of these first Slingsby had spoken in particular, advising me to mend them as soon as possible, and to endeavour to sell them, in order that I might have the satisfaction of receiving some return upon the outlay which I had made. There was likewise a small quantity of block tin, sheet tin, and solder. 'This Slingsby,' said I, 'is certainly a very honest man, he has sold me more than my money's worth; I believe, however, there is something more in the cart.' Thereupon I rummaged the farther end of the cart, and, amidst a quantity of straw, I found a small anvil and bellows of that kind which are used in forges, and two hammers such as smiths use, one great, and the other small. The sight of these last articles caused me no little surprise, as no word which had escaped from the mouth of Slingsby had given me reason to suppose that he had ever followed the occupation of a smith; yet, if he had not, how did he come by them? I sat down upon the shaft, and pondered the question deliberately in my mind; at length I concluded that he had come by them by one of those numerous casualties which occur upon the roads, of which I, being a young hand upon the roads, must have a very imperfect conception; honestly, of course--for I scouted the idea that Slingsby would have stolen this blacksmith's gear--for I had the highest opinion of his honesty, which opinion I still retain at the present day, which is upwards of twenty years from the time of which I am speaking, during the whole of which period I have neither seen the poor fellow nor received any intelligence of him. CHAPTER LXX New profession--Beautiful night--Jupiter--Sharp and shrill--The Rommany chi--All alone--Three-and-sixpence--What is Rommany? Be civil--Parraco tute--Slight start--She will be grateful--The rustling. I passed the greater part of the day in endeavouring to teach myself the mysteries of my new profession. I cannot say that I was very successful, but the time passed agreeably, and was therefore not ill spent. Towards evening I flung my work aside, took some refreshment, and afterwards a walk. This time I turned up the small footpath of which I have already spoken. It led in a zigzag manner through thickets of hazel, elder, and sweet- brier; after following its windings for somewhat better than a furlong, I heard a gentle sound of water, and presently came to a small rill, which ran directly across the path. I was rejoiced at the sight, for I had already experienced the want of water, which I yet knew must be nigh at hand, as I was in a place to all appearance occasionally frequented by wandering people, who I was aware never take up their quarters in places where water is difficult to be obtained. Forthwith I stretched myself on the ground, and took a long and delicious draught of the crystal stream, and then, seating myself in a bush, I continued for some time gazing on the water as it purled tinkling away in its channel through an opening in the hazels, and should have probably continued much longer had not the thought that I had left my property unprotected compelled me to rise and return to my encampment. Night came on, and a beautiful night it was; up rose the moon, and innumerable stars decked the firmament of heaven. I sat on the shaft, my eyes turned upwards. I had found it: there it was twinkling millions of miles above me, mightiest star of the system to which we belong: of all stars the one which has most interest for me--the star Jupiter. Why have I always taken an interest in thee, O Jupiter? I know nothing about thee, save what every child knows, that thou art a big star, whose only light is derived from moons. And is not that knowledge enough to make me feel an interest in thee? Ay, truly; I never look at thee without wondering what is going on in thee; what is life in Jupiter? That there is life in Jupiter who can doubt? There is life in our own little star, therefore there must be life in Jupiter, which is not a little star. But how different must life be in Jupiter from what it is in our own little star! Life here is life beneath the dear sun--life in Jupiter is life beneath moons--four moons--no single moon is able to illumine that vast bulk. All know what life is in our own little star; it is anything but a routine of happiness here, where the dear sun rises to us every day: then how sad and moping must life be in mighty Jupiter, on which no sun ever shines, and which is never lighted save by pale moonbeams! The thought that there is more sadness and melancholy in Jupiter than in this world of ours, where, alas! there is but too much, has always made me take a melancholy interest in that huge distant star. Two or three days passed by in much the same manner as the first. During the morning I worked upon my kettles, and employed the remaining part of the day as I best could. The whole of this time I only saw two individuals, rustics, who passed by my encampment without vouchsafing me a glance; they probably considered themselves my superiors, as perhaps they were. One very brilliant morning, as I sat at work in very good spirits, for by this time I had actually mended in a very creditable way, as I imagined, two kettles and a frying-pan, I heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the path leading to the rivulet; at first it sounded from a considerable distance, but drew nearer by degrees. I soon remarked that the tones were exceedingly sharp and shrill, with yet something of childhood in them. Once or twice I distinguished certain words in the song which the voice was singing; the words were--but no, I thought again I was probably mistaken--and then the voice ceased for a time; presently I heard it again, close to the entrance of the footpath; in another moment I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard the very words which I at first thought I had distinguished. I turned my head; at the entrance of the footpath, which might be about thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, I perceived the figure of a young girl; her face was turned towards me, and she appeared to be scanning me and my encampment; after a little time she looked in the other direction, only for a moment, however; probably observing nothing in that quarter, she again looked towards me, and almost immediately stepped forward; and, as she advanced, sang the song which I had heard in the wood, the first words of which were those which I have already alluded to. 'The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal Shall jaw tasaulor To drab the bawlor, And dook the gry Of the farming rye.' {picture:'The Rommany chi.': page393.jpg} A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon my kettle; a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let them look to their cattle. 'All alone here, brother?' said a voice close by me, in sharp but not disagreeable tones. I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with the gravity which became one of my profession. I allowed at least half a minute to elapse before I even lifted up my eyes. A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were very pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders. She was rather scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare; round her neck, however, was a handsome string of corals, with ornaments of gold; in her hand she held a bulrush. 'All alone here, brother?' said the girl, as I looked up; 'all alone here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?' 'Why do you call me brother?' said I; 'I am no brother of yours. Do you take me for one of your people? I am no gypsy; not I, indeed!' 'Don't be afraid, brother, you are no Roman--Roman indeed, you are not handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though you be. If I called you brother, it was because I didn't know what else to call you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be sorry to have you for a brother.' 'Then you don't like me?' 'Neither like you nor dislike you, brother; what will you have for that kekaubi?' 'What's the use of talking to me in that unchristian way; what do you mean, young gentlewoman?' 'Lord, brother, what a fool you are; every tinker knows what a kekaubi is. I was asking you what you would have for that kettle.' 'Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman; isn't it well mended?' 'Well mended! I could have done it better myself; three-and-sixpence! it's only fit to be played at football with.' 'I will take no less for it, young gentlewoman; it has caused me a world of trouble.' 'I never saw a worse mended kettle. I say, brother, your hair is white.' ''Tis nature; your hair is black; nature, nothing but nature.' 'I am young, brother; my hair is black--that's nature: you are young, brother; your hair is white--that's not nature.' 'I can't help it if it be not, but it is nature after all; did you never see gray hair on the young?' 'Never! I have heard it is true of a gray lad, and a bad one he was. Oh, so bad.' 'Sit down on the grass, and tell me all about it, sister; do, to oblige me, pretty sister.' 'Hey, brother, you don't speak as you did--you don't speak like a gorgio, you speak like one of us, you call me sister.' 'As you call me brother; I am not an uncivil person after all, sister.' 'I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look me in the face--there--do you speak Rommany?' 'Rommany! Rommany! what is Rommany?' 'What is Rommany? our language to be sure; tell me, brother, only one thing, you don't speak Rommany?' 'You say it.' 'I don't say it, I wish to know. Do you speak Rommany?' 'Do you mean thieves' slang--cant? no, I don't speak cant, don't like it, I only know a few words; they call a sixpence a tanner, don't they?' 'I don't know,' said the girl, sitting down on the ground, 'I was almost thinking--well, never mind, you don't know Rommany. I say, brother, I think I should like to have the kekaubi.' 'I thought you said it was badly mended?' 'Yes, yes, brother, but--' 'I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football with?' 'Yes, yes, brother, but--' 'What will you give for it?' 'Brother, I am the poor person's child, I will give you sixpence for the kekaubi.' 'Poor person's child; how came you by that necklace?' 'Be civil, brother; am I to have the kekaubi?' 'Not for sixpence; isn't the kettle nicely mended?' 'I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have the kekaubi, brother?' 'You like me then?' 'I don't dislike you--I dislike no one; there's only one, and him I don't dislike, him I hate.' 'Who is he?' 'I scarcely know, I never saw him, but 'tis no affair of yours, you don't speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?' 'You may have it, but not for sixpence; I'll give it to you.' 'Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni kekaubi is now mine. O, rare! I thank you kindly, brother.' Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in her hand, and, seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the while, and singing-- 'The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal Shall jaw tasaulor To drab the bawlor, And dook the gry Of the farming rye. Good-bye, brother, I must be going.' 'Good-bye, sister; why do you sing that wicked song?' 'Wicked song, hey, brother! you don't understand the song!' 'Ha, ha! gypsy daughter,' said I, starting up and clapping my hands, 'I don't understand Rommany, don't I? You shall see; here's the answer to your gillie-- 'The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal, Love Luripen And dukkeripen, And hokkeripen, And every pen But Lachipen And tatchipen.' The girl, who had given a slight start when I began, remained for some time after I had concluded the song standing motionless as a statue, with the kettle in her hand. At length she came towards me, and stared me full in the face. 'Gray, tall, and talks Rommany,' said she to herself. In her countenance there was an expression which I had not seen before--an expression which struck me as being composed of fear, curiosity, and the deepest hate. It was momentary, however, and was succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open. 'Ha, ha, brother,' said she, 'well, I like you all the better for talking Rommany; it is a sweet language, isn't it? especially as you sing it. How did you pick it up? But you picked it up upon the roads, no doubt? Ha, it was funny in you to pretend not to know it, and you so flush with it all the time; it was not kind in you, however, to frighten the poor person's child so by screaming out, but it was kind in you to give the rikkeni kekaubi to the child of the poor person. She will be grateful to you; she will bring you her little dog to show you, her pretty juggal; the poor person's child will come and see you again; you are not going away to-day, I hope, or to-morrow, pretty brother, gray-haired brother--you are not going away to-morrow, I hope?' 'Nor the next day,' said I, 'only to take a stroll to see if I can sell a kettle; good-bye, little sister, Rommany sister, dingy sister.' 'Good-bye, tall brother,' said the girl, as she departed, singing 'The Rommany chi,' etc. 'There's something about that girl that I don't understand,' said I to myself; 'something mysterious. However, it is nothing to me, she knows not who I am, and if she did, what then?' Late that evening as I sat on the shaft of my cart in deep meditation, with my arms folded, I thought I heard a rustling in the bushes over against me. I turned my eyes in that direction, but saw nothing. 'Some bird,' said I; 'an owl, perhaps'; and once more I fell into meditation; my mind wandered from one thing to another--musing now on the structure of the Roman tongue--now on the rise and fall of the Persian power--and now on the powers vested in recorders at quarter-sessions. I was thinking what a fine thing it must be to be a recorder of the peace, when, lifting up my eyes, I saw right opposite, not a culprit at the bar, but, staring at me through a gap in the bush, a face wild and strange, half covered with gray hair; I only saw it a moment, the next it had disappeared. {picture:I saw, staring at me through a gap in the bush, a face wild and strange, half covered with gray hair: page396.jpg} CHAPTER LXXI Friend of Slingsby--All quiet--Danger--The two cakes--Children in the wood--Don't be angry--In deep thought--Temples throbbing--Deadly sick--Another blow--No answer--How old are you?--Play and sacrament--Heavy heart--Song of poison--Drow of gypsies--The dog--Ely's church--Get up, bebee--The vehicle--Can you speak?--The oil. The next day, at an early hour, I harnessed my little pony, and, putting my things in my cart, I went on my projected stroll. Crossing the moor, I arrived in about an hour at a small village, from which, after a short stay, I proceeded to another, and from thence to a third. I found that the name of Slingsby was well known in these parts. 'If you are a friend of Slingsby you must be an honest lad,' said an ancient crone; 'you shall never want for work whilst I can give it you. Here, take my kettle, the bottom came out this morning, and lend me that of yours till you bring it back. I'm not afraid to trust you--not I. Don't hurry yourself, young man, if you don't come back for a fortnight I shan't have the worse opinion of you.' I returned to my quarters at evening, tired, but rejoiced at heart; I had work before me for several days, having collected various kekaubies which required mending, in place of those which I left behind--those which I had been employed upon during the last few days. I found all quiet in the lane or glade, and, unharnessing my little horse, I once more pitched my tent in the old spot beneath the ash, lighted my fire, ate my frugal meal, and then, after looking for some time at the heavenly bodies, and more particularly at the star Jupiter, I entered my tent, lay down upon my pallet, and went to sleep. Nothing occurred on the following day which requires any particular notice, nor indeed on the one succeeding that. It was about noon on the third day that I sat beneath the shade of the ash tree; I was not at work, for the weather was particularly hot, and I felt but little inclination to make any exertion. Leaning my back against the tree, I was not long in falling into a slumber; I particularly remember that slumber of mine beneath the ash tree, for it was about the sweetest slumber that I ever enjoyed; how long I continued in it I do not know; I could almost have wished that it had lasted to the present time. All of a sudden it appeared to me that a voice cried in my ear, 'Danger! danger! danger!' Nothing seemingly could be more distinct than the words which I heard; then an uneasy sensation came over me, which I strove to get rid of, and at last succeeded, for I awoke. The gypsy girl was standing just opposite to me, with her eyes fixed upon my countenance; a singular kind of little dog stood beside her. 'Ha!' said I, 'was it you that cried danger? What danger is there?' 'Danger, brother, there is no danger; what danger should there be? I called to my little dog, but that was in the wood; my little dog's name is not danger, but Stranger; what danger should there be, brother?' 'What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is that you have got in your hand?' 'Something for you,' said the girl, sitting down and proceeding to untie a white napkin; 'a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I went home to my people I told my grandbebee how kind you had been to the poor person's child, and when my grandbebee saw the kekaubi, she said, "Hir mi devlis, it won't do for the poor people to be ungrateful; by my God, I will bake a cake for the young harko mescro."' 'But there are two cakes.' 'Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my grandbebee meant them both for you--but list, brother, I will have one of them for bringing them. I know you will give me one, pretty brother, gray-haired brother--which shall I have, brother?' In the napkin were two round cakes, seemingly made of rich and costly compounds, and precisely similar in form, each weighing about half a pound. 'Which shall I have, brother?' said the gypsy girl. 'Whichever you please.' 'No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine. It is for you to say.' 'Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the other.' 'Yes, brother, yes,' said the girl; and taking the cakes, she flung them into the air two or three times, catching them as they fell, and singing the while. 'Pretty brother, gray-haired brother--here, brother,' said she, 'here is your cake, this other is mine.' 'Are you sure,' said I, taking the cake, 'that this is the one I chose?' 'Quite sure, brother; but if you like you can have mine; there's no difference, however--shall I eat?' 'Yes, sister, eat.' 'See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty brother, gray-haired brother.' 'I am not hungry.' 'Not hungry! well, what then--what has being hungry to do with the matter? It is my grandbebee's cake which was sent because you were kind to the poor person's child; eat, brother, eat, and we shall be like the children in the wood that the gorgios speak of.' 'The children in the wood had nothing to eat.' 'Yes, they had hips and haws; we have better. Eat, brother.' 'See, sister, I do,' and I ate a piece of the cake. 'Well, brother, how do you like it?' said the girl, looking fixedly at me. 'It is very rich and sweet, and yet there is something strange about it; I don't think I shall eat any more.' 'Fie, brother, fie, to find fault with the poor person's cake; see, I have nearly eaten mine.' 'That's a pretty little dog.' 'Is it not, brother? that's my juggal, my little sister, as I call her.' 'Come here, juggal,' said I to the animal. 'What do you want with my juggal?' said the girl. 'Only to give her a piece of cake,' said I, offering the dog a piece which I had just broken off. 'What do you mean?' said the girl, snatching the dog away; 'my grandbebee's cake is not for dogs.' 'Why, I just now saw you give the animal a piece of yours.' 'You lie, brother, you saw no such thing; but I see how it is, you wish to affront the poor person's child. I shall go to my house.' 'Keep still, and don't be angry; see, I have eaten the piece which I offered the dog. I meant no offence. It is a sweet cake after all.' 'Isn't it, brother? I am glad you like it. Offence, brother, no offence at all! I am so glad you like my grandbebee's cake, but she will be wanting me at home. Eat one piece more of grandbebee's cake, and I will go.' 'I am not hungry, I will put the rest by.' 'One piece more before I go, handsome brother, gray-haired brother.' 'I will not eat any more, I have already eaten more than I wished to oblige you; if you must go, good-day to you.' The girl rose upon her feet, looked hard at me, then at the remainder of the cake which I held in my hand, and then at me again, and then stood for a moment or two, as if in deep thought; presently an air of satisfaction came over her countenance, she smiled and said, 'Well, brother, well, do as you please, I merely wished you to eat because you have been so kind to the poor person's child. She loves you so, that she could have wished to have seen you eat it all; good-bye, brother, I daresay when I am gone you will eat some more of it, and if you don't, I daresay you have eaten enough to--to--show your love for us. After all it was a poor person's cake, a Rommany manricli, and all you gorgios are somewhat gorgious. Farewell, brother, pretty brother, gray-haired brother. Come, juggal.' I remained under the ash tree seated on the grass for a minute or two, and endeavoured to resume the occupation in which I had been engaged before I fell asleep, but I felt no inclination for labour. I then thought I would sleep again, and once more reclined against the tree, and slumbered for some little time, but my sleep was more agitated than before. Something appeared to bear heavy on my breast, I struggled in my sleep, fell on the grass, and awoke; my temples were throbbing, there was a burning in my eyes, and my mouth felt parched; the oppression about the chest which I had felt in my sleep still continued. 'I must shake off these feelings,' said I, 'and get upon my legs.' I walked rapidly up and down upon the green sward; at length, feeling my thirst increase, I directed my steps down the narrow path to the spring which ran amidst the bushes; arriving there, I knelt down and drank of the water, but on lifting up my head I felt thirstier than before; again I drank, but with the like result; I was about to drink for the third time, when I felt a dreadful qualm which instantly robbed me of nearly all my strength. What can be the matter with me? thought I; but I suppose I have made myself ill by drinking cold water. I got up and made the best of my way back to my tent; before I reached it the qualm had seized me again, and I was deadly sick. I flung myself on my pallet, qualm succeeded qualm, but in the intervals my mouth was dry and burning, and I felt a frantic desire to drink, but no water was at hand, and to reach the spring once more was impossible; the qualms continued, deadly pains shot through my whole frame; I could bear my agonies no longer, and I fell into a trance or swoon. How long I continued therein I know not; on recovering, however, I felt somewhat better, and attempted to lift my head off my couch; the next moment, however, the qualms and pains returned, if possible, with greater violence than before. I am dying, thought I, like a dog, without any help; and then methought I heard a sound at a distance like people singing, and then once more I relapsed into my swoon. I revived just as a heavy blow sounded upon the canvas of the tent. I started, but my condition did not permit me to rise; again the same kind of blow sounded upon the canvas; I thought for a moment of crying out and requesting assistance, but an inexplicable something chained my tongue, and now I heard a whisper on the outside of the tent. 'He does not move, bebee,' said a voice which I knew. 'I should not wonder if it has done for him already; however, strike again with your ran'; and then there was another blow, after which another voice cried aloud in a strange tone, 'Is the gentleman of the house asleep, or is he taking his dinner?' I remained quite silent and motionless, and in another moment the voice continued, 'What, no answer? what can the gentleman of the house be about that he makes no answer? perhaps the gentleman of the house may be darning his stockings?' Thereupon a face peered into the door of the tent, at the farther extremity of which I was stretched. It was that of a woman, but owing to the posture in which she stood, with her back to the light, and partly owing to a large straw bonnet, I could distinguish but very little of the features of her countenance. I had, however, recognised her voice; it was that of my old acquaintance, Mrs. Herne. 'Ho, ho, sir!' said she, 'here you are. Come here, Leonora,' said she to the gypsy girl, who pressed in at the other side of the door; 'here is the gentleman, not asleep, but only stretched out after dinner. Sit down on your ham, child, at the door, I shall do the same. There--you have seen me before, sir, have you not?' 'The gentleman makes no answer, bebee; perhaps he does not know you.' 'I have known him of old, Leonora,' said Mrs. Herne; 'and, to tell you the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I expected no answer.' 'It's a way he has, bebee, I suppose?' 'Yes, child, it's a way he has.' 'Take off your bonnet, bebee, perhaps he cannot see your face.' 'I do not think that will be of much use, child; however, I will take off my bonnet--there--and shake out my hair--there--you have seen this hair before, sir, and this face--' 'No answer, bebee.' 'Though the one was not quite so gray, nor the other so wrinkled.' 'How came they so, bebee?' 'All along of this gorgio, child.' 'The gentleman in the house, you mean, bebee?' 'Yes, child, the gentleman in the house. God grant that I may preserve my temper. Do you know, sir, my name? My name is Herne, which signifies a hairy individual, though neither gray-haired nor wrinkled. It is not the nature of the Hernes to be gray or wrinkled, even when they are old, and I am not old.' 'How old are you, bebee?' 'Sixty-five years, child--an inconsiderable number. My mother was a hundred and one--a considerable age--when she died, yet she had not one gray hair, and not more than six wrinkles--an inconsiderable number.' 'She had no griefs, bebee?' 'Plenty, child, but not like mine.' 'Not quite so hard to bear, bebee?' 'No, child; my head wanders when I think of them. After the death of my husband, who came to his end untimeously, I went to live with a daughter of mine, married out among certain Romans who walk about the eastern counties, and with whom for some time I found a home and pleasant society, for they lived right Romanly, which gave my heart considerable satisfaction, who am a Roman born, and hope to die so. When I say right Romanly, I mean that they kept to themselves, and were not much given to blabbing about their private matters in promiscuous company. Well, things went on in this way for some time, when one day my son-in-law brings home a young gorgio of singular and outrageous ugliness, and, without much preamble, says to me and mine, "This is my pal, ain't he a beauty? fall down and worship him." "Hold," said I, "I for one will never consent to such foolishness."' 'That was right, bebee, I think I should have done the same.' 'I think you would, child; but what was the profit of it? The whole party makes an almighty of this gorgio, lets him into their ways, says prayers of his making, till things come to such a pass that my own daughter says to me, "I shall buy myself a veil and fan, and treat myself to a play and sacrament." "Don't," says I; says she, "I should like for once in my life to be courtesied to as a Christian gentlewoman."' 'Very foolish of her, bebee.' 'Wasn't it, child? Where was I? At the fan and sacrament; with a heavy heart I put seven score miles between us, came back to the hairy ones, and found them over-given to gorgious companions; said I, "Foolish manners is catching; all this comes of that there gorgio." Answers the child Leonora, "Take comfort, bebee; I hate the gorgios as much as you do."' 'And I say so again, bebee, as much or more.' 'Time flows on, I engage in many matters, in most miscarry. Am sent to prison; says I to myself, I am become foolish. Am turned out of prison, and go back to the hairy ones, who receive me not over courteously; says I, for their unkindness, and my own foolishness, all the thanks to that gorgio. Answers to me the child, "I wish I could set eyes upon him, bebee."' 'I did so, bebee; go on.' '"How shall I know him, bebee?" says the child. "Young and gray, tall, and speaks Romanly." Runs to me the child, and says, "I've found him, bebee." "Where, child?" says I. "Come with me, bebee," says the child. "That's he," says I, as I looked at my gentleman through the hedge.' 'Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog.' 'You have taken drows, sir,' said Mrs. Herne; 'do you hear, sir? drows; tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison.' And thereupon the girl clapped her hands, and sang-- 'The Rommany churl And the Rommany girl To-morrow shall hie To poison the sty, And bewitch on the mead The farmer's steed.' 'Do you hear that, sir?' said Mrs. Herne; 'the child has tipped you a stave of the song of poison: that is, she has sung it Christianly, though perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly; you were always fond of what was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child.' 'He has heard it Romanly already, bebee; 'twas by that I found him out, as I told you.' 'Halloo, sir, are you sleeping? you have taken drows; the gentleman makes no answer. God give me patience!' 'And what if he doesn't, bebee; isn't he poisoned like a hog? Gentleman, indeed! why call him gentleman? if he ever was one he's broke, and is now a tinker, a worker of blue metal.' 'That's his way, child, to-day a tinker, to-morrow something else; and as for being drabbed, I don't know what to say about it.' 'Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee? but look there, bebee; ha, ha, look at the gentleman's motions.' 'He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho! sir, you have taken drows; what, another throe! writhe, sir, writhe; the hog died by the drow of gypsies; I saw him stretched at evening. That's yourself, sir. There is no hope, sir, no help, you have taken drow; shall I tell you your fortune, sir, your dukkerin? God bless you, pretty gentleman, much trouble will you have to suffer, and much water to cross; but never mind, pretty gentleman, you shall be fortunate at the end, and those who hate shall take off their hats to you.' 'Hey, bebee!' cried the girl; 'what is this? what do you mean? you have blessed the gorgio!' 'Blessed him! no, sure; what did I say? Oh, I remember, I'm mad; well, I can't help it, I said what the dukkerin dook told me; woe's me, he'll get up yet.' 'Nonsense, bebee! Look at his motions, he's drabbed, spite of dukkerin.' 'Don't say so, child; he's sick, 'tis true, but don't laugh at dukkerin, only folks do that that know no better. I, for one, will never laugh at the dukkerin dook. Sick again; I wish he was gone.' 'He'll soon be gone, bebee; let's leave him. He's as good as gone; look there, he's dead.' 'No, he's not, he'll get up--I feel it; can't we hasten him?' 'Hasten him! yes, to be sure; set the dog upon him. Here, juggal, look in there, my dog.' The dog made its appearance at the door of the tent, and began to bark and tear up the ground. 'At him, juggal, at him; he wished to poison, to drab you. Halloo!' The dog barked violently, and seemed about to spring at my face, but retreated. 'The dog won't fly at him, child; he flashed at the dog with his eye, and scared him. He'll get up.' 'Nonsense, bebee! you make me angry; how should he get up?' 'The dook tells me so, and, what's more, I had a dream. I thought I was at York, standing amidst a crowd to see a man hung, and the crowd shouted, "There he comes!" and I looked, and, lo! it was the tinker; before I could cry with joy I was whisked away, and I found myself in Ely's big church, which was chock full of people to hear the dean preach, and all eyes were turned to the big pulpit; and presently I heard them say, "There he mounts!" and I looked up to the big pulpit, and, lo! the tinker was in the pulpit, and he raised his arm and began to preach. Anon, I found myself at York again, just as the drop fell, and I looked up, and I saw not the tinker, but my own self hanging in the air.' 'You are going mad, bebee; if you want to hasten him, take your stick and poke him in the eye.' 'That will be of no use, child, the dukkerin tells me so; but I will try what I can do. Halloo, tinker! you must introduce yourself into a quiet family, and raise confusion--must you? You must steal its language, and, what was never done before, write it down Christianly--must you? Take that--and that'; and she stabbed violently with her stick towards the end of the tent. 'That's right, bebee, you struck his face; now once more, and let it be in the eye. Stay, what's that? get up, bebee.' 'What's the matter, child?' 'Some one is coming, come away.' 'Let me make sure of him, child; he'll be up yet.' And thereupon Mrs. Herne, rising, leaned forward into the tent, and, supporting herself against the pole, took aim in the direction of the farther end. 'I will thrust out his eye,' said she; and, lunging with her stick, she would probably have accomplished her purpose had not at that moment the pole of the tent given way, whereupon she fell to the ground, the canvas falling upon her and her intended victim. 'Here's a pretty affair, bebee,' screamed the girl. 'He'll get up, yet,' said Mrs. Herne, from beneath the canvas. 'Get up!--get up yourself; where are you? where is your--Here, there, bebee, here's the door; there, make haste, they are coming.' 'He'll get up yet,' said Mrs. Herne, recovering her breath; 'the dock tells me so.' 'Never mind him or the dook; he is drabbed; come away, or we shall be grabbed--both of us.' 'One more blow, I know where his head lies.' 'You are mad, bebee; leave the fellow--gorgio avella.' And thereupon the females hurried away. A vehicle of some kind was evidently drawing nigh; in a little time it came alongside of the place where lay the fallen tent, and stopped suddenly. There was a silence for a moment, and then a parley ensued between two voices, one of which was that of a woman. It was not in English, but in a deep guttural tongue. 'Peth yw hono sydd yn gorwedd yna ar y ddaear?' said a masculine voice. 'Yn wirionedd--I do not know what it can be,' said the female voice, in the same tongue. 'Here is a cart, and there are tools; but what is that on the ground?' 'Something moves beneath it; and what was that--a groan?' 'Shall I get down?' 'Of course, Peter, some one may want your help? 'Then I will get down, though I do not like this place; it is frequented by Egyptians, and I do not like their yellow faces, nor their clibberty clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn says. Now I am down. It is a tent, Winifred, and see, here is a boy beneath it. Merciful father! what a face.' A middle-aged man, with a strongly marked and serious countenance, dressed in sober-coloured habiliments, had lifted up the stifling folds of the tent, and was bending over me. 'Can you speak, my lad?' said he in English; 'what is the matter with you? if you could but tell me, I could perhaps help you--' 'What is that you say? I can't hear you. I will kneel down'; and he flung himself on the ground, and placed his ear close to my mouth. 'Now speak if you can. Hey! what! no, sure, God forbid!' then starting up, he cried to a female who sat in the cart, anxiously looking on--'Gwenwyn! gwenwyn! yw y gwas wedi ei gwenwynaw. The oil! Winifred, the oil!' CHAPTER LXXII Desired effect--The three oaks--Winifred--Things of time--With God's will--The preacher--Creature comforts--Croesaw--Welsh and English--Mayor of Chester. The oil, which the strangers compelled me to take, produced the desired effect, though, during at least two hours, it was very doubtful whether or not my life would be saved. At the end of that period the man said that with the blessing of God he would answer for my life. He then demanded whether I thought I could bear to be removed from the place in which we were; 'for I like it not,' he continued, 'as something within me tells me that it is not good for any of us to be here.' I told him, as well as I was able, that I, too, should be glad to leave the place; whereupon, after collecting my things, he harnessed my pony, and, with the assistance of the woman, he contrived to place me in the cart; he then gave me a draught out of a small phial, and we set forward at a slow pace, the man walking by the side of the cart in which I lay. It is probable that the draught consisted of a strong opiate, for after swallowing it I fell into a deep slumber; on my awaking, I found that the shadows of night had enveloped the earth--we were still moving on. Shortly, however, after descending a declivity, we turned into a lane, at the entrance of which was a gate. This lane conducted to a meadow, through the middle of which ran a small brook; it stood between two rising grounds; that on the left, which was on the farther side of the water, was covered with wood, whilst the one on the right, which was not so high, was crowned with the white walls of what appeared to be a farmhouse. Advancing along the meadow, we presently came to a place where grew three immense oaks, almost on the side of the brook, over which they flung their arms, so as to shade it as with a canopy; the ground beneath was bare of grass, and nearly as hard and smooth as the floor of a barn. Having led his own cart on one side of the midmost tree, and my own on the other, the stranger said to me, 'This is the spot where my wife and myself generally tarry in the summer season, when we come into these parts. We are about to pass the night here. I suppose you will have no objection to do the same? Indeed, I do not see what else you could do under present circumstances.' After receiving my answer, in which I, of course, expressed my readiness to assent to his proposal, he proceeded to unharness his horse, and, feeling myself much better, I got down, and began to make the necessary preparations for passing the night beneath the oak. Whilst thus engaged, I felt myself touched on the shoulder, and, looking round, perceived the woman, whom the stranger called Winifred, standing close to me. The moon was shining brightly upon her, and I observed that she was very good-looking, with a composed yet cheerful expression of countenance; her dress was plain and primitive, very much resembling that of a Quaker. She held a straw bonnet in her hand. 'I am glad to see thee moving about, young man,' said she, in a soft, placid tone; 'I could scarcely have expected it. Thou must be wondrous strong; many, after what thou hast suffered, would not have stood on their feet for weeks and months. What do I say?--Peter, my husband, who is skilled in medicine, just now told me that not one in five hundred would have survived what thou hast this day undergone; but allow me to ask thee one thing, Hast thou returned thanks to God for thy deliverance?' I made no answer, and the woman, after a pause, said, 'Excuse me, young man, but do you know anything of God?' 'Very little,' I replied, 'but I should say He must be a wondrous strong person, if He made all those big bright things up above there, to say nothing of the ground on which we stand, which bears beings like these oaks, each of which is fifty times as strong as myself, and will live twenty times as long.' The woman was silent for some moments, and then said, 'I scarcely know in what spirit thy words are uttered. If thou art serious, however, I would caution thee against supposing that the power of God is more manifested in these trees, or even in those bright stars above us, than in thyself--they are things of time, but thou art a being destined to an eternity; it depends upon thyself whether thy eternity shall be one of joy or sorrow.' Here she was interrupted by the man, who exclaimed from the other side of the tree, 'Winifred, it is getting late, you had better go up to the house on the hill to inform our friends of our arrival, or they will have retired for the night.' 'True,' said Winifred, and forthwith wended her way to the house in question, returning shortly with another woman, whom the man, speaking in the same language which I had heard him first use, greeted by the name of Mary; the woman replied in the same tongue, but almost immediately said, in English, 'We hoped to have heard you speak to- night, Peter, but we cannot expect that now, seeing that it is so late, owing to your having been detained by the way, as Winifred tells me; nothing remains for you to do now but to sup--to-morrow, with God's will, we shall hear you.' 'And to-night, also, with God's will, provided you be so disposed. Let those of your family come hither.' 'They will be hither presently,' said Mary, 'for knowing that thou art arrived, they will, of course, come and bid thee welcome.' And scarcely had she spoke, when I beheld a party of people descending the moonlit side of the hill. They soon arrived at the place where we were; they might amount in all to twelve individuals. The principal person was a tall, athletic man, of about forty, dressed like a plain country farmer; this was, I soon found, the husband of Mary; the rest of the group consisted of the children of these two, and their domestic servants. One after another they all shook Peter by the hand, men and women, boys and girls, and expressed their joy at seeing him. After which he said, 'Now, friends, if you please, I will speak a few words to you.' A stool was then brought him from the cart, which he stepped on, and the people arranging themselves round him, some standing, some seated on the ground, he forthwith began to address them in a clear, distinct voice; and the subject of his discourse was the necessity, in all human beings, of a change of heart. The preacher was better than his promise, for, instead of speaking a few words, he preached for at least three-quarters of an hour; none of the audience, however, showed the slightest symptom of weariness; on the contrary, the hope of each individual appeared to hang upon the words which proceeded from his mouth. At the conclusion of the sermon or discourse the whole assembly again shook Peter by the hand, and returned to their house, the mistress of the family saying, as she departed, 'I shall soon be back, Peter; I go but to make arrangements for the supper of thyself and company'; and, in effect, she presently returned, attended by a young woman, who bore a tray in her hands. 'Set it down, Jessy,' said the mistress to the girl, 'and then betake thyself to thy rest, I shall remain here for a little time to talk with my friends.' The girl departed, and the preacher and the two females placed themselves on the ground about the tray. The man gave thanks, and himself and his wife appeared to be about to eat, when the latter suddenly placed her hand upon his arm, and said something to him in a low voice, whereupon he exclaimed, 'Ay, truly, we were both forgetful'; and then getting up, he came towards me, who stood a little way off, leaning against the wheel of my cart; and, taking me by the hand, he said, 'Pardon us, young man, we were both so engaged in our own creature-comforts, that we forgot thee, but it is not too late to repair our fault; wilt thou not join us, and taste our bread and milk?' 'I cannot eat,' I replied, 'but I think I could drink a little milk'; whereupon he led me to the rest, and seating me by his side, he poured some milk into a horn cup, saying, '"Croesaw." That,' added he, with a smile, 'is Welsh for welcome.' The fare upon the tray was of the simplest description, consisting of bread, cheese, milk, and curds. My two friends partook with a good appetite. 'Mary,' said the preacher, addressing himself to the woman of the house, 'every time I come to visit thee, I find thee less inclined to speak Welsh. I suppose, in a little time, thou wilt entirely have forgotten it; hast thou taught it to any of thy children?' 'The two eldest understand a few words,' said the woman, 'but my husband does not wish them to learn it; he says sometimes, jocularly, that though it pleased him to marry a Welsh wife, it does not please him to have Welsh children. Who, I have heard him say, would be a Welshman, if he could be an Englishman?' 'I for one,' said the preacher, somewhat hastily; 'not to be king of all England would I give up my birthright as a Welshman. Your husband is an excellent person, Mary, but I am afraid he is somewhat prejudiced.' 'You do him justice, Peter, in saying that he is an excellent person,' sail the woman; 'as to being prejudiced, I scarcely know what to say, but he thinks that two languages in the same kingdom are almost as bad as two kings.' 'That's no bad observation,' said the preacher, 'and it is generally the case; yet, thank God, the Welsh and English go on very well, side by side, and I hope will do so till the Almighty calls all men to their long account.' 'They jog on very well now,' said the woman; 'but I have heard my husband say that it was not always so, and that the Welsh, in old times, were a violent and ferocious people, for that once they hanged the mayor of Chester.' 'Ha, ha!' said the preacher, and his eyes flashed in the moonlight; 'he told you that, did he?' 'Yes,' said Mary; 'once, when the mayor of Chester, with some of his people, was present at one of the fairs over the border, a quarrel arose between the Welsh and the English, and the Welsh beat the English, and hanged the mayor.' 'Your husband is a clever man,' said Peter, 'and knows a great deal; did he tell you the name of the leader of the Welsh? No! then I will: the leader of the Welsh on that occasion was ---. He was a powerful chieftain, and there was an old feud between him and the men of Chester. Afterwards, when two hundred of the men of Chester invaded his country to take revenge for their mayor, he enticed them into a tower, set fire to it, and burnt them all. That--was a very fine, noble--God forgive me, what was I about to say--a very bad, violent man; but, Mary, this is very carnal and unprofitable conversation, and in holding it we set a very bad example to the young man here--let us change the subject.' They then began to talk on religious matters. At length Mary departed to her abode, and the preacher and his wife retired to their tilted cart. 'Poor fellow, he seems to be almost brutally ignorant,' said Peter, addressing his wife in their native language, after they had bidden me farewell for the night. 'I am afraid he is,' said Winifred, 'yet my heart warms to the poor lad, he seems so forlorn.' CHAPTER LXXIII Morning hymn--Much alone--John Bunyan--Beholden to nobody--Sixty-five--Sober greeting--Early Sabbaths--Finny brood--The porch--No fortune-telling--The master's niece--Doing good--Two or three things--Groans and voices--Pechod Ysprydd Glan. I slept soundly during that night, partly owing to the influence of the opiate. Early in the morning I was awakened by the voices of Peter and his wife, who were singing a morning hymn in their own language. Both subsequently prayed long and fervently. I lay still till their devotions were completed, and then left my tent. 'Good morning,' said Peter, 'how dost thou feel?' 'Much better,' said I, 'than I could have expected.' 'I am glad of it,' said Peter. 'Art thou hungry? yonder comes our breakfast,' pointing to the same young woman I had seen the preceding night, who was again descending the hill bearing the tray upon her head. 'What dust thou intend to do, young man, this day?' said Peter, when we had about half finished breakfast. 'Do,' said I; 'as I do other days, what I can.' 'And dost thou pass this day as thou dost other days?' said Peter. 'Why not?' said I; 'what is there in this day different from the rest? it seems to be of the same colour as yesterday.' 'Art thou aware,' said the wife, interposing, 'what day it is? that it is Sabbath? that it is Sunday?' 'No,' said I, 'I did not know that it was Sunday.' 'And how did that happen?' said Winifred, with a sigh. 'To tell you the truth,' said I, 'I live very much alone, and pay very little heed to the passing of time.' 'And yet of what infinite importance is time,' said Winifred. 'Art thou not aware that every year brings thee nearer to thy end?' 'I do not think,' said I, 'that I am so near my end as I was yesterday.' 'Yes, thou art,' said the woman; 'thou wast not doomed to die yesterday; an invisible hand was watching over thee yesterday; but thy day will come, therefore improve the time; be grateful that thou wast saved yesterday; and, oh! reflect on one thing; if thou hadst died yesterday, where wouldst thou have been now?' 'Cast into the earth, perhaps,' said I. 'I have heard Mr. Petulengro say that to be cast into the earth is the natural end of man.' 'Who is Mr. Petulengro?' said Peter, interrupting his wife, as she was about to speak. 'Master of the horse- shoe,' said I; 'and, according to his own account, king of Egypt.' 'I understand,' said Peter, 'head of some family of wandering Egyptians--they are a race utterly godless. Art thou of them?--but no, thou art not, thou hast not their yellow blood. I suppose thou belongest to the family of wandering artisans called ---. I do not like you the worse for belonging to them. A mighty speaker of old sprang up from amidst that family.' 'Who was he?' said I. 'John Bunyan,' replied Peter, reverently, 'and the mention of his name reminds me that I have to preach this day; wilt thou go and hear? the distance is not great, only half a mile.' 'No,' said I, 'I will not go and hear.' 'Wherefore?' said Peter. 'I belong to the church,' said I, 'and not to the congregations.' 'Oh! the pride of that church,' said Peter, addressing his wife in their own tongue, 'exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant of its members. Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to church,' said Peter, again addressing me; 'there is a church on the other side of that wooded hill.' 'No,' said I, 'I do not mean to go to church.' 'May I ask thee wherefore?' said Peter. 'Because,' said I, 'I prefer remaining beneath the shade of these trees, listening to the sound of the leaves and the tinkling of the waters.' 'Then thou intendest to remain here?' said Peter, looking fixedly at me. 'If I do not intrude,' said I; 'but if I do, I will wander away; I wish to be beholden to nobody--perhaps you wish me to go?' 'On the contrary,' said Peter, 'I wish you to stay. I begin to see something in thee which has much interest for me; but we must now bid thee farewell for the rest of the day, the time is drawing nigh for us to repair to the place of preaching; before we leave thee alone, however, I should wish to ask thee a question--Didst thou seek thy own destruction yesterday, and didst thou wilfully take that poison?' 'No,' said I; 'had I known there had been poison in the cake I certainly should not have taken it.' 'And who gave it thee?' said Peter. 'An enemy of mine,' I replied. 'Who is thy enemy?' 'An Egyptian sorceress and poison-monger.' 'Thy enemy is a female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate thee--of what did she complain?' 'That I had stolen the tongue out of her head.' 'I do not understand thee--is she young?' 'About sixty-five.' Here Winifred interposed. 'Thou didst call her just now by hard names, young man,' said she; 'I trust thou dost bear no malice against her.' 'No,' said I, 'I bear no malice against her.' 'Thou art not wishing to deliver her into the hand of what is called justice?' 'By no means,' said I; 'I have lived long enough upon the roads not to cry out for the constable when my finger is broken. I consider this poisoning as an accident of the roads; one of those to which those who travel are occasionally subject.' 'In short, thou forgivest thine adversary?' 'Both now and for ever,' said I. 'Truly,' said Winifred, 'the spirit which the young man displayeth pleases me much; I should be loth that he left us yet. I have no doubt that, with the blessing of God, and a little of thy exhortation, he will turn out a true Christian before he leaveth us.' 'My exhortation!' said Peter, and a dark shade passed over his countenance; 'thou forgettest what I am--I--I--but I am forgetting myself; the Lord's will be done; and now put away the things, for I perceive that our friends are coming to attend us to the place of meeting.' Again the family which I had seen the night before descended the hill from their abode. They were now dressed in their Sunday's best. The master of the house led the way. They presently joined us, when a quiet sober greeting ensued on each side. After a little time Peter shook me by the hand and bade me farewell till the evening; Winifred did the same, adding that she hoped I should be visited by sweet and holy thoughts. The whole party then moved off in the direction by which we had come the preceding night, Peter and the master leading the way, followed by Winifred and the mistress of the family. As I gazed on their departing forms, I felt almost inclined to follow them to their place of worship. I did not stir, however, but remained leaning against my oak with my hands behind me. And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with my face turned towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell into deep meditation. I thought on the early Sabbaths of my life, and the manner in which I was wont to pass them. How carefully I said my prayers when I got up on the Sabbath morn, and how carefully I combed my hair and brushed my clothes in order that I might do credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of the old church at pretty D---, the dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk. I though of England's grand Liturgy, and Tate and Brady's sonorous minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy Book, portions of which I was in the habit of reading between service. I thought, too, of the evening walk which I sometimes took in fine weather like the present, with my mother and brother--a quiet sober walk, during which I would not break into a run, even to chase a butterfly, or yet more a honey-bee, being fully convinced of the dread importance of the day which God had hallowed. And how glad I was when I had got over the Sabbath day without having done anything to profane it. And how soundly I slept on the Sabbath night after the toil of being very good throughout the day. And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed and said to myself, I am much altered since then; am I altered for the better? And then I looked at my hands and my apparel, and sighed again. I was not wont of yore to appear thus on the Sabbath day. For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, till at last I lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during that glorious summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and then I lowered them to the sparkling water, in which hundreds of the finny brood were disporting themselves, and then I thought what a fine thing it was to be a fish on such a fine summer day, and I wished myself a fish, or at least amongst the fishes; and then I looked at my hands again, and then, bending over the water, I looked at my face in the crystal mirror, and started when I saw it, for it looked squalid and miserable. Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to bathe and cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late hard life and by Mrs. Herne's drow. I wonder if there is any harm in bathing on the Sabbath day. I will ask Winifred when she comes home; in the meantime I will bathe, provided I can find a fitting place. But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to disport in, was shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so large a being as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor heard a single human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook, I left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came to a place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and dark, and there I bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame. Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my vehicle beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something better to do, I strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the farm-house; it was a large and commodious building built principally of stone, and seeming of some antiquity, with a porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench. On the right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same who had brought the tray to my friends and myself. 'Good-day,' said I, 'pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch.' 'Good-day,' said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then fixing her eyes on her book. 'That's a nice book you are reading,' said I. The girl looked at me with surprise. 'How do you know what book it is?' said she. 'How do I know--never mind; but a nice book it is--no love, no fortune- telling in it.' The girl looked at me half offended. 'Fortune-telling!' said she, 'I should think not. But you know nothing about it'; and she bent her head once more over the book. 'I tell you what, young person,' said I, 'I know all about that book; what will you wager that I do not?' 'I never wager,' said the girl. 'Shall I tell you the name of it,' said I, 'O daughter of the dairy? ' The girl half started. 'I should never have thought,' said she, half timidly, 'that you could have guessed it.' 'I did not guess it,' said I, 'I knew it; and meet and proper it is that you should read it.' 'Why so?' said the girl. 'Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the _Dairyman's Daughter_?' 'Where do you come from?' said the girl. 'Out of the water,' said I. 'Don't start, I have been bathing; are you fond of the water?' 'No,' said the girl, heaving a sigh; 'I am not fond of the water, that is, of the sea'; and here she sighed again. 'The sea is a wide gulf,' said I, 'and frequently separates hearts.' The girl sobbed. 'Why are you alone here?' said I. 'I take my turn with the rest,' said the girl, 'to keep at home on Sunday.' 'And you are--' said I. 'The master's niece!' said the girl. 'How came you to know it? But why did you not go with the rest and with your friends?' 'Who are those you call my friends?' said I. 'Peter and his wife.' 'And who are they?' said I. 'Do you not know?' said the girl; 'you came with them.' 'They found me ill by the way,' said I; 'and they relieved me: I know nothing about them.' 'I thought you knew everything,' said the girl. 'There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one of them. Who are they?' 'Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?' 'Never,' said I. 'Well,' said the girl, 'this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a nice person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a preacher as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, having never heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine, and doing all the good they can. They frequently come here, for the mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old friend of both, and then they take up their abode in the cart beneath the old oaks down there by the stream.' 'And what is their reason for doing so?' said I; 'would it not be more comfortable to sleep beneath a roof?' 'I know not their reasons,' said the girl, 'but so it is; they never sleep beneath a roof unless the weather is very severe. I once heard the mistress say that Peter had something heavy upon his mind; perhaps that is the cause. If he is unhappy, all I can say is, that I wish him otherwise, for he is a good man and a kind--' 'Thank you,' said I, 'I will now depart.' 'Hem!' said the girl, 'I was wishing--' 'What? to ask me a question?' 'Not exactly; but you seem to know everything; you mentioned, I think, fortune-telling.' 'Do you wish me to tell your fortune?' 'By no means; but I have a friend at a distance at sea, and I should wish to know--' 'When he will come back? I have told you already there are two or three things which I do not know--this is another of them. However, I should not be surprised if he were to come back some of these days; I would if I were in his place. In the meantime be patient, attend to the dairy, and read the _Dairyman's Daughter_ when you have nothing better to do.' It was late in the evening when the party of the morning returned. The farmer and his family repaired at once to their abode, and my two friends joined me beneath the tree. Peter sat down at the foot of the oak, and said nothing. Supper was brought by a servant, not the damsel of the porch. We sat round the tray, Peter said grace, but scarcely anything else; he appeared sad and dejected, his wife looked anxiously upon him. I was as silent as my friends; after a little time we retired to our separate places of rest. About midnight I was awakened by a noise; I started up and listened; it appeared to me that I heard voices and groans. In a moment I had issued from my tent--all was silent--but the next moment I again heard groans and voices; they proceeded from the tilted cart where Peter and his wife lay; I drew near, again there was a pause, and then I heard the voice of Peter, in an accent of extreme anguish, exclaim, 'Pechod Ysprydd Glan--O pechod Ysprydd Glan!' and then he uttered a deep groan. Anon, I heard the voice of Winifred, and never shall I forget the sweetness and gentleness of the tones of her voice in the stillness of that night. I did not understand all she said--she spoke in her native language, and I was some way apart; she appeared to endeavour to console her husband, but he seemed to refuse all comfort, and, with many groans, repeated--'Pechod Ysprydd Glan--O pechod Ysprydd Glan!' I felt I had no right to pry into their afflictions, and retired. Now 'pechod Ysprydd Glan,' interpreted, is the sin against the Holy Ghost. CHAPTER LXXIV The following day--Pride--Thriving trade--Tylwyth Teg--Ellis Wyn--Sleeping hard--Incalculable good--Fearful agony--The tale. Peter and his wife did not proceed on any expedition during the following day. The former strolled gloomily about the fields, and the latter passed many hours in the farmhouse. Towards evening, without saying a word to either, I departed with my vehicle, and finding my way to a small town at some distance, I laid in a store of various articles, with which I returned. It was night, and my two friends were seated beneath the oak; they had just completed their frugal supper. 'We waited for thee some time,' said Winifred, 'but, finding that thou didst not come, we began without thee; but sit down, I pray thee, there is still enough for thee.' 'I will sit down,' said I, 'but I require no supper, for I have eaten where I have been': nothing more particular occurred at the time. Next morning the kind pair invited me to share their breakfast. 'I will not share your breakfast,' said I. 'Wherefore not?' said Winifred, anxiously. 'Because,' said I, 'it is not proper that I be beholden to you for meat and drink.' 'But we are beholden to other people,' said Winifred. 'Yes,' said I, 'but you preach to them, and give them ghostly advice, which considerably alters the matter; not that I would receive anything from them, if I preached to them six times a day.' 'Thou art not fond of receiving favours, then, young man,' said Winifred. 'I am not,' said I. 'And of conferring favours?' 'Nothing affords me greater pleasure,' said I, 'than to confer favours.' 'What a disposition,' said Winifred, holding up her hands; 'and this is pride, genuine pride--that feeling which the world agrees to call so noble. Oh, how mean a thing is pride! never before did I see all the meanness of what is called pride!' 'But how wilt thou live, friend,' said Peter; 'dost thou not intend to eat?' 'When I went out last night,' said I, 'I laid in a provision.' 'Thou hast laid in a provision!' said Peter, 'pray let us see it. Really, friend,' said he, after I had produced it, 'thou must drive a thriving trade; here are provisions enough to last three people for several days. Here are butter and eggs, here is tea, here is sugar, and there is a flitch. I hope thou wilt let us partake of some of thy fare.' 'I should be very happy if you would,' said I. 'Doubt not but we shall,' said Peter; 'Winifred shall have some of thy flitch cooked for dinner. In the meantime, sit down, young man, and breakfast at our expense--we will dine at thine.' On the evening of that day, Peter and myself sat alone beneath the oak. We fell into conversation; Peter was at first melancholy, but he soon became more cheerful, fluent, and entertaining. I spoke but little; but I observed that sometimes what I said surprised the good Methodist. We had been silent some time. At length, lifting up my eyes to the broad and leafy canopy of the trees, I said, having nothing better to remark, 'What a noble tree! I wonder if the fairies ever dance beneath it.' 'Fairies!' said Peter, 'fairies! how came you, young man, to know anything about the fair family?' 'I am an Englishman,' said I, 'and of course know something about fairies; England was once a famous place for them.' 'Was once, I grant you,' said Peter, 'but is so no longer. I have travelled for years about England, and never heard them mentioned before; the belief in them has died away, and even their name seems to be forgotten. If you had said you were a Welshman, I should not have been surprised. The Welsh have much to say of the Tylwyth Teg, or fair family, and many believe in them.' 'And do you believe in them?' said I. 'I scarcely know what to say. Wise and good men have been of opinion that they are nothing but devils, who, under the form of pretty and amiable spirits, would fain allure poor human beings; I see nothing irrational in the supposition.' 'Do you believe in devils, then?' 'Do I believe in devils, young man?' said Peter, and his frame was shaken as if by convulsions. 'If I do not believe in devils, why am I here at the present moment?' 'You know best,' said I; 'but I don't believe that fairies are devils, and I don't wish to hear them insulted. What learned men have said they are devils?' 'Many have said it, young man, and, amongst others, Master Ellis Wyn, in that wonderful book of his, the _Bardd Cwsg_.' 'The _Bardd Cwsg_,' said I; 'what kind of book is that? I have never heard of that book before.' 'Heard of it before; I suppose not; how should you have heard of it before? By the bye, can you read?' 'Very tolerably,' said I; 'so there are fairies in this book. What do you call it--the _Bardd Cwsg_?' 'Yes, the _Bardd Cwsg_. You pronounce Welsh very fairly; have you ever been in Wales?' 'Never,' said I. 'Not been in Wales; then, of course, you don't understand Welsh; but we were talking of the _Bardd Cwsg_--yes, there are fairies in the _Bardd Cwsg_,--the author of it, Master Ellis Wyn, was carried away in his sleep by them over mountains and valleys, rivers and great waters, incurring mighty perils at their hands, till he was rescued from them by an angel of the Most High, who subsequently showed him many wonderful things.' 'I beg your pardon,' said I, 'but what were those wonderful things?' 'I see, young man,' said Peter, smiling, 'that you are not without curiosity; but I can easily pardon any one for being curious about the wonders contained in the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The angel showed him the course of this world, its pomps and vanities, its cruelty and its pride, its crimes and deceits. On another occasion, the angel showed him Death in his nether palace, surrounded by his grisly ministers, and by those who are continually falling victims to his power. And, on a third occasion, the state of the condemned in their place of everlasting torment.' 'But this was all in his sleep,' said I, 'was it not?' 'Yes,' said Peter, 'in his sleep; and on that account the book is called _Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg_, or, _Visions of the Sleeping Bard_.' 'I do not care for wonders which occur in sleep,' said I. 'I prefer real ones; and perhaps, notwithstanding what he says, the man had no visions at all--they are probably of his own invention.' 'They are substantially true, young man,' said Peter; 'like the dreams of Bunyan, they are founded on three tremendous facts, Sin, Death, and Hell; and like his they have done incalculable good, at least in my own country, in the language of which they are written. Many a guilty conscience has the _Bardd Cwsg_ aroused with its dreadful sights, its strong sighs, its puffs of smoke from the pit, and its showers of sparks from the mouth of the yet lower gulf of--Unknown--were it not for the _Bardd Cwsg_ perhaps I might not be here.' 'I would sooner hear your own tale,' said I, 'than all the visions of the _Bardd Cwsg_.' Peter shook, bent his form nearly double, and covered his face with his hands. I sat still and motionless, with my eyes fixed upon him. Presently Winifred descended the hill, and joined us. 'What is the matter?' said she, looking at her husband, who still remained in the posture I have described. He made no answer; whereupon, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, she said, in the peculiar soft and tender tone which I had heard her use on a former occasion, 'Take comfort, Peter; what has happened now to afflict thee?' Peter removed his hand from his face. 'The old pain, the old pain,' said he; 'I was talking with this young man, and he would fain know what brought me here, he would fain hear my tale, Winifred--my sin: O pechod Ysprydd Glan! O pechod Ysprydd Glan!' and the poor man fell into a more fearful agony than before. Tears trickled down Winifred's face, I saw them trickling by the moonlight, as she gazed upon the writhing form of her afflicted husband. I arose from my seat. 'I am the cause of all this,' said I, 'by my folly and imprudence, and it is thus I have returned your kindness and hospitality; I will depart from you and wander my way.' I was retiring, but Peter sprang up and detained me. 'Go not,' said he, 'you were not in fault; if there be any fault in the case it was mine; if I suffer, I am but paying the penalty of my own iniquity'; he then paused, and appeared to be considering: at length he said, 'Many things which thou hast seen and heard connected with me require explanation; thou wishest to know my tale, I will tell it thee, but not now, not to-night; I am too much shaken.' Two evenings later, when we were again seated beneath the oak, Peter took the hand of his wife in his own, and then, in tones broken and almost inarticulate, commenced telling me his tale--the tale of the Pechod Ysprydd Glan. CHAPTER LXXV Taking a cup--Getting to heaven--After breakfast-- Wooden gallery--Mechanical habit--Reserved and gloomy--Last words--A long time--From the clouds--Ray of hope--Momentary chill--Pleasing anticipation. 'I was born in the heart of North Wales, the son of a respectable farmer, and am the youngest of seven brothers. 'My father was a member of the Church of England, and was what is generally called a serious man. He went to church regularly, and read the Bible every Sunday evening; in his moments of leisure he was fond of holding religious discourse both with his family and his neighbours. 'One autumn afternoon, on a week day, my father sat with one of his neighbours taking a cup of ale by the oak table in our stone kitchen. I sat near them, and listened to their discourse. I was at that time seven years of age. They were talking of religious matters. "It is a hard matter to get to heaven," said my father. "Exceedingly so," said the other. "However, I don't despond; none need despair of getting to heaven, save those who have committed the sin against the Holy Ghost." '"Ah!" said my father, "thank God I never committed that--how awful must be the state of a person who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. I can scarcely think of it without my hair standing on end"; and then my father and his friend began talking of the nature of the sin against the Holy Ghost, and I heard them say what it was, as I sat with greedy ears listening to their discourse. 'I lay awake the greater part of the night musing upon what I had heard. I kept wondering to myself what must be the state of a person who had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, and how he must feel. Once or twice I felt a strong inclination to commit it, a strange kind of fear, however, prevented me; at last I determined not to commit it, and, having said my prayers, I fell asleep. 'When I awoke in the morning the first thing I thought of was the mysterious sin, and a voice within me seemed to say, "Commit it"; and I felt a strong temptation to do so, even stronger than in the night. I was just about to yield, when the same dread, of which I have already spoken, came over me, and, springing out of bed, I went down on my knees. I slept in a small room alone, to which I ascended by a wooden stair, open to the sky. I have often thought since that it is not a good thing for children to sleep alone. 'After breakfast I went to school, and endeavoured to employ myself upon my tasks, but all in vain; I could think of nothing but the sin against the Holy Ghost; my eyes, instead of being fixed upon my book, wandered in vacancy. My master observed my inattention, and chid me. The time came for saying my task, and I had not acquired it. My master reproached me, and, yet more, he beat me; I felt shame and anger, and I went home with a full determination to commit the sin against the Holy Ghost. 'But when I got home my father ordered me to do something connected with the farm, so that I was compelled to exert myself; I was occupied till night, and was so busy that I almost forgot the sin and my late resolution. My work completed, I took my supper, and went to my room; I began my prayers, and, when they were ended, I thought of the sin, but the temptation was slight, I felt very tired, and was presently asleep. 'Thus, you see, I had plenty of time allotted me by a gracious and kind God to reflect on what I was about to do. He did not permit the enemy of souls to take me by surprise, and to hurry me at once into the commission of that which was to be my ruin here and hereafter. Whatever I did was of my own free will, after I had had time to reflect. Thus God is justified; He had no hand in my destruction, but, on the contrary, He did all that was compatible with justice to prevent it. I hasten to the fatal moment. Awaking in the night, I determined that nothing should prevent my committing the sin. Arising from my bed, I went out upon the wooden gallery; and having stood for a few moments looking at the stars, with which the heavens were thickly strewn, I laid myself down, and supporting my face with my hand, I murmured out words of horror, words not to be repeated, and in this manner I committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. 'When the words were uttered I sat up upon the topmost step of the gallery; for some time I felt stunned in somewhat the same manner as I once subsequently felt after being stung by an adder. I soon arose, however, and retired to my bed, where, notwithstanding what I had done, I was not slow in falling asleep. 'I awoke several times during the night, each time with the dim idea that something strange and monstrous had occurred, but I presently fell asleep again; in the morning I awoke with the same vague feeling, but presently recollection returned, and I remembered that I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. I lay musing for some time on what I had done, and I felt rather stunned, as before; at last I arose and got out of bed, dressed myself, and then went down on my knees, and was about to pray from the force of mechanical habit; before I said a word, however, I recollected myself, and got up again. What was the use of praying? I thought; I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. 'I went to school, but sat stupefied. I was again chidden, again beaten, by my master. I felt no anger this time, and scarcely heeded the strokes. I looked, however, at my master's face, and thought to myself, you are beating me for being idle, as you suppose; poor man, what would you do if you knew I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost? 'Days and weeks passed by. I had once been cheerful, and fond of the society of children of my own age; but I was now reserved and gloomy. It seemed to me that a gulf separated me from all my fellow-creatures. I used to look at my brothers and schoolfellows, and think how different I was from them; they had not done what I had. I seemed, in my own eyes, a lone monstrous being, and yet, strange to say, I felt a kind of pride in being so. I was unhappy, but I frequently thought to myself, I have done what no one else would dare to do; there was something grand in the idea; I had yet to learn the horror of my condition. 'Time passed on, and I began to think less of what I had done; I began once more to take pleasure in my childish sports; I was active, and excelled at football and the like all the lads of my age. I likewise began, what I had never done before, to take pleasure in the exercises of the school. I made great progress in Welsh and English grammar, and learnt to construe Latin. My master no longer chid or beat me, but one day told my father that he had no doubt that one day I should be an honour to Wales. 'Shortly after this my father fell sick; the progress of the disorder was rapid; feeling his end approaching, he called his children before him. After tenderly embracing us, he said "God bless you, my children, I am going from you, but take comfort, I trust that we shall all meet again in heaven." 'As he uttered these last words, horror took entire possession of me. Meet my father in heaven,--how could I ever hope to meet him there? I looked wildly at my brethren and at my mother; they were all bathed in tears, but how I envied them. They might hope to meet my father in heaven, but how different were they from me, they had never committed the unpardonable sin. 'In a few days my father died; he left his family in comfortable circumstances, at least such as would be considered so in Wales, where the wants of the people are few. My elder brother carried on the farm for the benefit of my mother and us all. In course of time my brothers were put out to various trades. I still remained at school, but without being a source of expense to my relations, as I was by this time able to assist my master in the business of the school. 'I was diligent both in self-improvement and in the instruction of others; nevertheless, a horrible weight pressed upon my breast; I knew I was a lost being; that for me there was no hope; that, though all others might be saved, I must of necessity be lost; I had committed the unpardonable sin, for which I was doomed to eternal punishment, in the flaming gulf, as soon as life was over!--and how long could I hope to live? perhaps fifty years; at the end of which I must go to my place; and then I would count the months and the days, nay, even the hours, which yet intervened between me and my doom. Sometimes I would comfort myself with the idea that a long time would elapse before my time would be out; but then again I thought that, however long the term might be, it must be out at last; and then I would fall into an agony, during which I would almost wish that the term were out, and that I were in my place; the horrors of which I thought could scarcely be worse than what I then endured. 'There was one thought about this time which caused me unutterable grief and shame, perhaps more shame than grief. It was that my father, who was gone to heaven, and was there daily holding communion with his God, was by this time aware of my crime. I imagined him looking down from the clouds upon his wretched son, with a countenance of inexpressible horror. When this idea was upon me, I would often rush to some secret place to hide myself; to some thicket, where I would cast myself on the ground, and thrust my head into a thick bush, in order to escape from the horror- struck glance of my father above in the clouds; and there I would continue groaning till the agony had, in some degree, passed away. 'The wretchedness of my state increasing daily, it at last became apparent to the master of the school, who questioned me earnestly and affectionately. I, however, gave him no satisfactory answer, being apprehensive that, if I unbosomed myself, I should become as much an object of horror to him as I had long been to myself. At length he suspected that I was unsettled in my intellects; and, fearing probably the ill effect of my presence upon his scholars, he advised me to go home; which I was glad to do, as I felt myself every day becoming less qualified for the duties of the office which I had undertaken. 'So I returned home to my mother and my brother, who received me with the greatest kindness and affection. I now determined to devote myself to husbandry, and assist my brother in the business of the farm. I was still, however, very much distressed. One fine morning, however, as I was at work in the field, and the birds were carolling around me, a ray of hope began to break upon my poor dark soul. I looked at the earth and looked at the sky, and felt as I had not done for many a year; presently a delicious feeling stole over me. I was beginning to enjoy existence. I shall never forget that hour. I flung myself on the soil, and kissed it; then, springing up with a sudden impulse, I rushed into the depths of a neighbouring wood, and, falling upon my knees, did what I had not done for a long, long time--prayed to God. 'A change, an entire change, seemed to have come over me. I was no longer gloomy and despairing, but gay and happy. My slumbers were light and easy; not disturbed, as before, by frightful dreams. I arose with the lark, and like him uttered a cheerful song of praise to God, frequently and earnestly, and was particularly cautious not to do anything which I considered might cause His displeasure. 'At church I was constant, and when there listened with deepest attention to every word which proceeded from the mouth of the minister. In a little time it appeared to me that I had become a good, very good, young man. At times the recollection of the sin would return, and I would feel a momentary chill; but the thought quickly vanished, and I again felt happy and secure. 'One Sunday morning, after I had said my prayers, I felt particularly joyous. I thought of the innocent and virtuous life I was leading; and when the recollection of the sin intruded for a moment, said, "I am sure God will never utterly cast away so good a creature as myself." I went to church, and was as usual attentive. The subject of the sermon was on the duty of searching the Scriptures: all I knew of them was from the liturgy. I now, however, determined to read them, and perfect the good work which I had begun. My father's Bible was upon the shelf, and on that evening I took it with me to my chamber. I placed it on the table, and sat down. My heart was filled with pleasing anticipation. I opened the book at random, and began to read; the first passage on which my eyes lighted was the following:-- '"He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven, either in this world or the next."' Here Peter was seized with convulsive tremors. Winifred sobbed violently. I got up, and went away. Returning in about a quarter of an hour, I found him more calm; he motioned me to sit down; and, after a short pause, continued his narration. CHAPTER LXXVI Hasty farewell--Lofty rock--Wrestlings of Jacob--No rest--Ways of Providence--Two females--Foot of the Cross--Enemy of souls--Perplexed--Lucky hour--Valetudinarian--Methodists--Fervent in prayer--You Saxons--Weak creatures--Very agreeable--Almost happy--Kindness and solicitude. 'Where was I, young man? Oh, I remember, at the fatal passage which removed all hope. I will not dwell on what I felt. I closed my eyes, and wished that I might be dreaming; but it was no dream, but a terrific reality: I will not dwell on that period, I should only shock you. I could not bear my feelings; so, bidding my friends a hasty farewell, I abandoned myself to horror and despair, and ran wild through Wales, climbing mountains and wading streams. 'Climbing mountains and wading streams, I ran wild about, I was burnt by the sun, drenched by the rain, and had frequently at night no other covering than the sky, or the humid roof of some cave; but nothing seemed to affect my constitution; probably the fire which burned within me counteracted what I suffered from without. During the space of three years I scarcely knew what befell me; my life was a dream--a wild, horrible dream; more than once I believe I was in the hands of robbers, and once in the hands of gypsies. I liked the last description of people least of all; I could not abide their yellow faces, or their ceaseless clabber. Escaping from these beings, whose countenances and godless discourse brought to my mind the demons of the deep Unknown, I still ran wild through Wales, I know not how long. On one occasion, coming in some degree to my recollection, I felt myself quite unable to bear the horrors of my situation; looking round I found myself near the sea; instantly the idea came into my head that I would cast myself into it, and thus anticipate my final doom. I hesitated a moment, but a voice within me seemed to tell me that I could do no better; the sea was near, and I could not swim, so I determined to fling myself into the sea. As I was running along at great speed, in the direction of a lofty rock, which beetled over the waters, I suddenly felt myself seized by the coat. I strove to tear myself away, but in vain; looking round, I perceived a venerable hale old man, who had hold of me. "Let me go!" said I, fiercely. "I will not let thee go," said the old man, and now, instead of with one, he grappled me with both hands. "In whose name dost thou detain me?" said I, scarcely knowing what I said. "In the name of my Master, who made thee and yonder sea; and has said to the sea, So far shalt thou come, and no farther, and to thee, Thou shalt do no murder." "Has not a man a right to do what he pleases with his own?" said I. "He has," said the old man, "but thy life is not thy own; thou art accountable for it to thy God. Nay, I will not let thee go," he continued, as I again struggled; "if thou struggle with me the whole day I will not let thee go, as Charles Wesley says, in his 'Wrestlings of Jacob'; and see, it is of no use struggling, for I am, in the strength of my Master, stronger than thou"; and indeed, all of a sudden I had become very weak and exhausted; whereupon the old man, beholding my situation, took me by the arm and led me gently to a neighbouring town, which stood behind a hill, and which I had not before observed; presently he opened the door of a respectable-looking house, which stood beside a large building having the appearance of a chapel, and conducted me into a small room, with a great many books in it. Having caused me to sit down, he stood looking at me for some time, occasionally heaving a sigh. I was, indeed, haggard and forlorn. "Who art thou?" he said at last. "A miserable man," I replied. "What makes thee miserable?" said the old man. "A hideous crime," I replied. "I can find no rest; like Cain I wander here and there." The old man turned pale. "Hast thou taken another's life?" said he; "if so, I advise thee to surrender thyself to the magistrate; thou canst do no better; thy doing so will be the best proof of thy repentance; and though there be no hope for thee in this world there may be much in the next." "No," said I, "I have never taken another's life." "What then, another's goods? If so, restore them sevenfold, if possible: or, if it be not in thy power, and thy conscience accuse thee, surrender thyself to the magistrate, and make the only satisfaction thou art able." "I have taken no one's goods," said I. "Of what art thou guilty, then?" said he. "Art thou a drunkard? a profligate?" "Alas, no," said I; "I am neither of these; would that I were no worse." 'Thereupon the old man looked steadfastly at me for some time; then, after appearing to reflect, he said, "Young man, I have a great desire to know your name." "What matters it to you what is my name?" said I; "you know nothing of me." "Perhaps you are mistaken," said the old man, looking kindly at me; "but at all events tell me your name." I hesitated a moment, and then told him who I was, whereupon he exclaimed with much emotion, "I thought so; how wonderful are the ways of Providence. I have heard of thee, young man, and know thy mother well. Only a month ago, when upon a journey, I experienced much kindness from her. She was speaking to me of her lost child, with tears; she told me that you were one of the best of sons, but that some strange idea appeared to have occupied your mind. Despair not, my son. If thou hast been afflicted, I doubt not but that thy affliction will eventually turn out to thy benefit; I doubt not but that thou wilt be preserved, as an example of the great mercy of God. I will now kneel down and pray for thee, my son." 'He knelt down, and prayed long and fervently. I remained standing for some time; at length I knelt down likewise. I scarcely knew what he was saying, but when he concluded I said "Amen." 'And when we had risen from our knees, the old man left me for a short time, and on his return led me into another room, where were two females; one was an elderly person, the wife of the old man,--the other was a young woman of very prepossessing appearance (hang not down thy head, Winifred), who I soon found was a distant relation of the old man,--both received me with great kindness, the old man having doubtless previously told them who I was. 'I stayed several days in the good man's house. I had still the greater portion of a small sum which I happened to have about me when I departed on my dolorous wandering, and with this I purchased clothes, and altered my appearance considerably. On the evening of the second day my friend said, "I am going to preach, perhaps you will come and hear me." I consented, and we all went, not to a church, but to the large building next the house; for the old man, though a clergyman, was not of the established persuasion, and there the old man mounted a pulpit, and began to preach. "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden," etc. etc., was his text. His sermon was long, but I still bear the greater portion of it in my mind. 'The substance of it was that Jesus was at all times ready to take upon Himself the burden of our sins, provided we came to Him with a humble and contrite spirit, and begged His help. This doctrine was new to me; I had often been at church, but had never heard it preached before, at least so distinctly. When he said that all men might be saved, I shook, for I expected he would add, all except those who had committed the mysterious sin; but no, all men were to be saved who with a humble and contrite spirit would come to Jesus, cast themselves at the foot of His cross, and accept pardon through the merits of His blood-shedding alone. "Therefore, my friends," said he, in conclusion, "despair not--however guilty you may be, despair not--however desperate your condition may seem," said he, fixing his eyes upon me, "despair not. There is nothing more foolish and more wicked than despair; over-weening confidence is not more foolish than despair; both are the favourite weapons of the enemy of souls." 'This discourse gave rise in my mind to no slight perplexity. I had read in the Scriptures that he who committeth a certain sin shall never be forgiven, and that there is no hope for him either in this world or the next. And here was a man, a good man certainly, and one who, of necessity, was thoroughly acquainted with the Scriptures, who told me that any one might be forgiven, however wicked, who would only trust in Christ and in the merits of His blood-shedding. Did I believe in Christ? Ay, truly. Was I willing to be saved by Christ? Ay, truly. Did I trust in Christ? I trusted that Christ would save every one but myself. And why not myself? simply because the Scriptures had told me that he who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost can never be saved, and I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost,--perhaps the only one who ever had committed it. How could I hope? The Scriptures could not lie, and yet here was this good old man, profoundly versed in the Scriptures, who bade me hope; would he lie? No. But did the old man know my case? Ah, no, he did not know my case! but yet he had bid me hope, whatever I had done, provided I would go to Jesus. But how could I think of going to Jesus, when the Scriptures told me plainly that all would be useless? I was perplexed, and yet a ray of hope began to dawn in my soul. I thought of consulting the good man, but I was afraid he would drive away the small glimmer. I was afraid he would say, "Oh yes, every one is to be saved, except a wretch like you; I was not aware before that there was anything so horrible,--begone!" Once or twice the old man questioned me on the subject of my misery, but I evaded him; once, indeed, when he looked particularly benevolent, I think I should have unbosomed myself to him, but we were interrupted. He never pressed me much; perhaps he was delicate in probing my mind, as we were then of different persuasions. Hence he advised me to seek the advice of some powerful minister in my own church; there were many such in it, he said. 'I stayed several days in the family, during which time I more than once heard my venerable friend preach; each time he preached, he exhorted his hearers not to despair. The whole family were kind to me; his wife frequently discoursed with me, and also the young person to whom I have already alluded. It appeared to me that the latter took a peculiar interest in my fate. 'At last my friend said to me, "It is now time thou shouldest return to thy mother and thy brother." So I arose, and departed to my mother and my brother; and at my departure my old friend gave me his blessing, and his wife and the young person shed tears, the last especially. And when my mother saw me, she shed tears, and fell on my neck and kissed me, and my brother took me by the hand and bade me welcome; and when our first emotions were subsided, my mother said, "I trust thou art come in a lucky hour. A few weeks ago my cousin (whose favourite thou always wast) died and left thee his heir--left thee the goodly farm in which he lived. I trust, my son, that thou wilt now settle, and be a comfort to me in my old days." And I answered, "I will, if so please the Lord"; and I said to myself, "God grant that this bequest be a token of the Lord's favour." 'And in a few days I departed to take possession of my farm; it was about twenty miles from my mother's house, in a beautiful but rather wild district; I arrived at the fall of the leaf. All day long I busied myself with my farm, and thus kept my mind employed. At night, however, I felt rather solitary, and I frequently wished for a companion. Each night and morning I prayed fervently unto the Lord; for His hand had been very heavy upon me, and I feared Him. 'There was one thing connected with my new abode which gave me considerable uneasiness--the want of spiritual instruction. There was a church, indeed, close at hand, in which service was occasionally performed, but in so hurried and heartless a manner that I derived little benefit from it. The clergyman to whom the benefice belonged was a valetudinarian, who passed his time in London, or at some watering-place, entrusting the care of his flock to the curate of a distant parish, who gave himself very little trouble about the matter. Now I wanted every Sunday to hear from the pulpit words of consolation and encouragement, similar to those which I had heard uttered from the pulpit by my good and venerable friend, but I was debarred from this privilege. At length, one day being in conversation with one of my labourers, a staid and serious man, I spoke to him of the matter which lay heavy upon my mind; whereupon, looking me wistfully in the face, he said, "Master, the want of religious instruction in my church was what drove me to the Methodists." "The Methodists," said I, "are there any in these parts?" "There is a chapel," said he, "only half a mile distant, at which there are two services every Sunday, and other two during the week." Now it happened that my venerable friend was of the Methodist persuasion, and when I heard the poor man talk in this manner, I said to him, "May I go with you next Sunday?" "Why not?" said he; so I went with the labourer on the ensuing Sabbath to the meeting of the Methodists. 'I liked the preaching which I heard at the chapel very well, though it was not quite so comfortable as that of my old friend, the preacher being in some respects a different kind of man. It, however, did me good, and I went again, and continued to do so, though I did not become a regular member of the body at that time. 'I had now the benefit of religious instruction, and also to a certain extent of religious fellowship, for the preacher and various members of his flock frequently came to see me. They were honest plain men, not exactly of the description which I wished for, but still good sort of people, and I was glad to see them. Once on a time, when some of them were with me, one of them inquired whether I was fervent in prayer. "Very fervent," said I. "And do you read the Scriptures often?" said he. "No," said I. "Why not?" said he. "Because I am afraid to see there my own condemnation." They looked at each other, and said nothing at the time. On leaving me, however, they all advised me to read the Scriptures with fervency and prayer. 'As I had told these honest people, I shrank from searching the Scriptures; the remembrance of the fatal passage was still too vivid in my mind to permit me. I did not wish to see my condemnation repeated, but I was very fervent in prayer, and almost hoped that God would yet forgive me by virtue of the blood-shedding of the Lamb. Time passed on, my affairs prospered, and I enjoyed a certain portion of tranquillity. Occasionally, when I had nothing else to do, I renewed my studies. Many is the book I read, especially in my native language, for I was always fond of my native language, and proud of being a Welshman. Amongst the books I read were the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, whom thou, friend, hast never heard of; no, nor any of thy countrymen, for you are an ignorant race, you Saxons, at least with respect to all that relates to Wales and Welshmen. I likewise read the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The latter work possessed a singular fascination for me, on account of its wonderful delineations of the torments of the nether world. 'But man does not love to be alone; indeed, the Scripture says that it is not good for man to be alone. I occupied my body with the pursuits of husbandry, and I improved my mind with the perusal of good and wise books; but, as I have already said, I frequently sighed for a companion with whom I could exchange ideas, and who could take an interest in my pursuits; the want of such a one I more particularly felt in the long winter evenings. It was then that the image of the young person whom I had seen in the house of the preacher frequently rose up distinctly before my mind's eye, decked with quiet graces--hang not down your head, Winifred--and I thought that of all the women in the world I should wish her to be my partner, and then I considered whether it would be possible to obtain her. I am ready to acknowledge, friend, that it was both selfish and wicked in me to wish to fetter any human being to a lost creature like myself, conscious of having committed a crime for which the Scriptures told me there is no pardon. I had, indeed, a long struggle as to whether I should make the attempt or not--selfishness however prevailed. I will not detain your attention with relating all that occurred at this period--suffice it to say that I made my suit and was successful; it is true that the old man, who was her guardian, hesitated, and asked several questions respecting my state of mind. I am afraid that I partly deceived him, perhaps he partly deceived himself; he was pleased that I had adopted his profession--we are all weak creatures. With respect to the young person, she did not ask many questions; and I soon found that I had won her heart. To be brief, I married her; and here she is, the truest wife that ever man had, and the kindest. Kind I may well call her, seeing that she shrinks not from me, who so cruelly deceived her, in not telling her at first what I was. I married her, friend; and brought her home to my little possession, where we passed our time very agreeably. Our affairs prospered, our garners were full, and there was coin in our purse. I worked in the field; Winifred busied herself with the dairy. At night I frequently read books to her, books of my own country, friend; I likewise read to her songs of my own, holy songs and carols which she admired, and which yourself would perhaps admire, could you understand them; but I repeat, you Saxons are an ignorant people with respect to us, and a perverse, inasmuch as you despise Welsh without understanding it. Every night I prayed fervently, and my wife admired my gift of prayer. 'One night, after I had been reading to my wife a portion of Ellis Wyn, my wife said, "This is a wonderful book, and containing much true and pleasant doctrine; but how is it that you, who are so fond of good books, and good things in general, never read the Bible? You read me the book of Master Ellis Wyn, you read me sweet songs of your own composition, you edify me with your gift of prayer, but yet you never read the Bible." And when I heard her mention the Bible I shook, for I thought of my own condemnation. However, I dearly loved my wife, and as she pressed me, I commenced on that very night reading the Bible. All went on smoothly for a long time; for months and months I did not find the fatal passage, so that I almost thought that I had imagined it. My affairs prospered much the while, so that I was almost happy,--taking pleasure in everything around me,--in my wife, in my farm, my books and compositions, and the Welsh language; till one night, as I was reading the Bible, feeling particularly comfortable, a thought having just come into my head that I would print some of my compositions, and purchase a particular field of a neighbour--O God--God! I came to the fatal passage. 'Friend, friend, what shall I say? I rushed out. My wife followed me, asking me what was the matter. I could only answer with groans--for three days and three nights I did little else than groan. Oh the kindness and solicitude of my wife! "What is the matter husband, dear husband?" she was continually saying. I became at last more calm. My wife still persisted in asking me the cause of my late paroxysm. It is hard to keep a secret from a wife, especially such a wife as mine, so I told my wife the tale, as we sat one night--it was a mid-winter night--over the dying brands of our hearth, after the family had retired to rest, her hand locked in mine, even as it is now. 'I thought she would have shrunk from me with horror; but she did not; her hand, it is true, trembled once or twice; but that was all. At last she gave mine a gentle pressure; and, looking up in my face, she said--what do you think my wife said, young man?' 'It is impossible for me to guess,' said I. "Let us go to rest, my love; your fears are all groundless."' CHAPTER LXXVII Getting late--Seven years old--Chastening--Go forth--London Bridge--Same eyes--Common occurrence--Very sleepy. 'And so I still say,' said Winifred, sobbing. 'Let us retire to rest, dear husband; your fears are groundless. I had hoped long since that your affliction would have passed away, and I still hope that it eventually will; so take heart, Peter, and let us retire to rest, for it is getting late.' 'Rest!' said Peter; 'there is no rest for the wicked!' 'We are all wicked,' said Winifred; 'but you are afraid of a shadow. How often have I told you that the sin of your heart is not the sin against the Holy Ghost: the sin of your heart is its natural pride, of which you are scarcely aware, to keep down which God in His mercy permitted you to be terrified with the idea of having committed a sin which you never committed.' 'Then you will still maintain,' said Peter, 'that I never committed the sin against the Holy Spirit?' 'I will,' said Winifred; 'you never committed it. How should a child seven years old commit a sin like that?' 'Have I not read my own condemnation?' said Peter. 'Did not the first words which I read in the Holy Scripture condemn me? "He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall never enter into the kingdom of God."' 'You never committed it,' said Winifred. 'But the words! the words! the words!' said Peter. 'The words are true words,' said Winifred, sobbing; 'but they were not meant for you, but for those who have broken their profession, who, having embraced the cross, have receded from their Master.' 'And what sayst thou to the effect which the words produced upon me?' said Peter. 'Did they not cause me to run wild through Wales for years, like Merddin Wyllt of yore; thinkest thou that I opened the book at that particular passage by chance?' 'No,' said Winifred, 'not by chance; it was the hand of God directed you, doubtless for some wise purpose. You had become satisfied with yourself. The Lord wished to rouse thee from thy state of carnal security, and therefore directed your eyes to that fearful passage.' 'Does the Lord then carry out His designs by means of guile?' said Peter with a groan. 'Is not the Lord true? Would the Lord impress upon me that I had committed a sin of which I am guiltless? Hush, Winifred! hush! thou knowest that I have committed the sin.' 'Thou hast not committed it,' said Winifred, sobbing yet more violently. 'Were they my last words, I would persist that thou hast not committed it, though, perhaps, thou wouldst, but for this chastening; it was not to convince thee that thou hast committed the sin, but rather to prevent thee from committing it, that the Lord brought that passage before thy eyes. He is not to blame, if thou art wilfully blind to the truth and wisdom of His ways.' 'I see thou wouldst comfort me,' said Peter, 'as thou hast often before attempted to do. I would fain ask the young man his opinion.' 'I have not yet heard the whole of your history,' said I. 'My story is nearly told,' said Peter; 'a few words will complete it. My wife endeavoured to console and reassure me, using the arguments which you have just heard her use, and many others, but in vain. Peace nor comfort came to my breast. I was rapidly falling into the depths of despair; when one day Winifred said to me, "I see thou wilt be lost, if we remain here. One resource only remains. Thou must go forth, my husband, into the wide world, and to comfort thee I will go with thee." "And what can I do in the wide world?" said I, despondingly. "Much," replied Winifred, "if you will but exert yourself; much good canst thou do with the blessing of God." Many things of the same kind she said to me; and at last I arose from the earth to which God had smitten me, and disposed of my property in the best way I could, and went into the world. We did all the good we were able, visiting the sick, ministering to the sick, and praying with the sick. At last I became celebrated as the possessor of a great gift of prayer. And people urged me to preach, and Winifred urged me too, and at last I consented, and I preached. I--I--outcast Peter, became the preacher Peter Williams. I, the lost one, attempted to show others the right road. And in this way I have gone on for thirteen years, preaching and teaching, visiting the sick, and ministering to them, with Winifred by my side heartening me on. Occasionally I am visited with fits of indescribable agony, generally on the night before the Sabbath; for I then ask myself, how dare I, the outcast, attempt to preach the word of God? Young man, my tale is told; you seem in thought!' 'I am thinking of London Bridge,' said I. 'Of London Bridge!' said Peter and his wife. 'Yes,' said I, 'of London Bridge. I am indebted for much wisdom to London Bridge; it was there that I completed my studies. But to the point. I was once reading on London Bridge a book which an ancient gentlewoman, who kept the bridge, was in the habit of lending me; and there I found written, "Each one carries in his breast the recollection of some sin which presses heavy upon him. Oh, if men could but look into each other's hearts, what blackness would they find there!"' 'That's true,' said Peter. 'What is the name of the book?' '_The Life of Blessed Mary Flanders_.' 'Some popish saint, I suppose,' said Peter. 'As much of a saint, I daresay,' said I, 'as most popish ones; but you interrupted me. One part of your narrative brought the passage which I have quoted into my mind. You said that after you had committed this same sin of yours you were in the habit, at school, of looking upon your schoolfellows with a kind of gloomy superiority, considering yourself a lone monstrous being who had committed a sin far above the daring of any of them. Are you sure that many others of your schoolfellows were not looking upon you and the others with much the same eyes with which you were looking upon them?' 'How!' said Peter, 'dost thou think that they had divined my secret?' 'Not they,' said I, 'they were, I daresay, thinking too much of themselves and of their own concerns to have divined any secrets of yours. All I mean to say is, they had probably secrets of their own, and who knows that the secret sin of more than one of them was not the very sin which caused you so much misery?' 'Dost thou then imagine,' said Peter, 'the sin against the Holy Ghost to be so common an occurrence?' 'As you have described it,' said I, 'of very common occurrence, especially amongst children, who are, indeed, the only beings likely to commit it.' 'Truly,' said Winifred, 'the young man talks wisely.' Peter was silent for some moments, and appeared to be reflecting; at last, suddenly raising his head, he looked me full in the face, and, grasping my hand with vehemence, he said, 'Tell me, young man, only one thing, hast thou, too, committed the sin against the Holy Ghost?' 'I am neither Papist nor Methodist,' said I, 'but of the Church, and, being so, confess myself to no one, but keep my own counsel; I will tell thee, however, had I committed, at the same age, twenty such sins as that which you committed, I should feel no uneasiness at these years--but I am sleepy, and must go to rest.' 'God bless thee, young man,' said Winifred. CHAPTER LXXVIII Low and calm--Much better--Blessed effect--No answer--Such a sermon. Before I sank to rest I heard Winifred and her husband conversing in the place where I had left them; both their voices were low and calm. I soon fell asleep, and slumbered for some time. On my awakening I again heard them conversing, but they were now in their cart; still the voices of both were calm. I heard no passionate bursts of wild despair on the part of the man. Methought I occasionally heard the word Pechod proceeding from the lips of each, but with no particular emphasis. I supposed they were talking of the innate sin of both their hearts. 'I wish that man were happy,' said I to myself, 'were it only for his wife's sake, and yet he deserves to be happy for his own.' The next day Peter was very cheerful, more cheerful than I had ever seen him. At breakfast his conversation was animated, and he smiled repeatedly. I looked at him with the greatest interest, and the eyes of his wife were almost constantly fixed upon him. A shade of gloom would occasionally come over his countenance, but it almost instantly disappeared; perhaps it proceeded more from habit than anything else. After breakfast he took his Welsh Bible and sat down beneath a tree. His eyes were soon fixed intently on the volume; now and then he would call his wife, show her some passage, and appeared to consult with her. The day passed quickly and comfortably. 'Your husband seems much better,' said I, at evening fall, to Winifred, as we chanced to be alone. 'He does,' said Winifred; 'and that on the day of the week when he was wont to appear most melancholy, for to-morrow is the Sabbath. He now no longer looks forward to the Sabbath with dread, but appears to reckon on it. What a happy change! and to think that this change should have been produced by a few words, seemingly careless ones, proceeding from the mouth of one who is almost a stranger to him. Truly, it is wonderful.' 'To whom do you allude,' said I; 'and to what words?' 'To yourself, and to the words which came from your lips last night, after you had heard my poor husband's history. Those strange words, drawn out with so much seeming indifference, have produced in my husband the blessed effect which you have observed. They have altered the current of his ideas. He no longer thinks himself the only being in the world doomed to destruction,--the only being capable of committing the never-to-be-forgiven sin. Your supposition that that which harrowed his soul is of frequent occurrence amongst children has tranquillised him; the mist which hung over his mind has cleared away, and he begins to see the groundlessness of his apprehensions. The Lord has permitted him to be chastened for a season, but his lamp will only burn the brighter for what he has undergone.' Sunday came, fine and glorious as the last. Again my friends and myself breakfasted together--again the good family of the house on the hill above, headed by the respectable master, descended to the meadow. Peter and his wife were ready to receive them. Again Peter placed himself at the side of the honest farmer, and Winifred by the side of her friend. 'Wilt thou not come?' said Peter, looking towards me with a face in which there was much emotion. 'Wilt thou not come?' said Winifred, with a face beaming with kindness. But I made no answer, and presently the party moved away, in the same manner in which it had moved on the preceding Sabbath, and I was again left alone. The hours of the Sabbath passed slowly away. I sat gazing at the sky, the trees, and the water. At last I strolled up to the house and sat down in the porch. It was empty; there was no modest maiden there, as on the preceding Sabbath. The damsel of the book had accompanied the rest. I had seen her in the procession, and the house appeared quite deserted. The owners had probably left it to my custody, so I sat down in the porch, quite alone. The hours of the Sabbath passed heavily away. At last evening came, and with it the party of the morning. I was now at my place beneath the oak. I went forward to meet them. Peter and his wife received me with a calm and quiet greeting, and passed forward. The rest of the party had broken into groups. There was a kind of excitement amongst them, and much eager whispering. I went to one of the groups; the young girl of whom I have spoken more than once was speaking: 'Such a sermon,' said she, 'it has never been our lot to hear; Peter never before spoke as he has done this day--he was always a powerful preacher, but oh, the unction of the discourse of this morning, and yet more of that of the afternoon, which was the continuation of it!' 'What was the subject?' said I, interrupting her. 'Ah! you should have been there, young man, to have heard it; it would have made a lasting impression upon you. I was bathed in tears all the time; those who heard it will never forget the preaching of the good Peter Williams on the Power, Providence, and Goodness of God.' CHAPTER LXXIX Deep interest--Goodly country--Two mansions--Welshman's Candle--Beautiful universe--Godly discourse--Fine church--Points of doctrine--Strange adventures--Paltry cause--Roman pontiff--Evil spirit. On the morrow I said to my friends, 'I am about to depart; farewell!' 'Depart!' said Peter and his wife, simultaneously; 'whither wouldst thou go?' 'I can't stay here all my days,' I replied. 'Of course not,' said Peter; 'but we had no idea of losing thee so soon: we had almost hoped that thou wouldst join us, become one of us. We are under infinite obligations to thee.' 'You mean I am under infinite obligations to you,' said I. 'Did you not save my life?' 'Perhaps so, under God,' said Peter; 'and what hast thou not done for me? Art thou aware that, under God, thou hast preserved my soul from despair? But, independent of that, we like thy company, and feel a deep interest in thee, and would fain teach thee the way that is right. Hearken, to-morrow we go into Wales; go with us.' 'I have no wish to go into Wales,' said I. 'Why not?' said Peter, with animation. 'Wales is a goodly country; as the Scripture says--a land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths, that spring out of valleys and hills, a land whose stones are iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig lead.' 'I daresay it is a very fine country,' said I, 'but I have no wish to go there just now; my destiny seems to point in another direction, to say nothing of my trade.' 'Thou dost right to say nothing of thy trade,' said Peter, smiling, 'for thou seemest to care nothing about it; which has led Winifred and myself to suspect that thou art not altogether what thou seemest; but, setting that aside, we should be most happy if thou wouldst go with us into Wales.' 'I cannot promise to go with you into Wales,' said I; 'but, as you depart to-morrow, I will stay with you through the day, and on the morrow accompany you part of the way.' 'Do,' said Peter: 'I have many people to see to-day, and so has Winifred; but we will both endeavour to have some serious discourse with thee, which, perhaps, will turn to thy profit in the end.' In the course of the day the good Peter came to me, as I was seated beneath the oak, and, placing himself by me, commenced addressing me in the following manner:-- 'I have no doubt, my young friend, that you are willing to admit that the most important thing which a human being possesses is his soul; it is of infinitely more importance than the body, which is a frail substance, and cannot last for many years; but not so the soul, which, by its nature, is imperishable. To one of two mansions the soul is destined to depart, after its separation from the body, to heaven or hell; to the halls of eternal bliss, where God and His holy angels dwell, or to the place of endless misery, inhabited by Satan and his grisly companions. My friend, if the joys of heaven are great, unutterably great, so are the torments of hell unutterably so. I wish not to speak of them, I wish not to terrify your imagination with the torments of hell: indeed, I like not to think of them; but it is necessary to speak of them sometimes, and to think of them sometimes, lest you should sink into a state of carnal security. Authors, friend, and learned men, are not altogether agreed as to the particulars of hell. They all agree, however, in considering it a place of exceeding horror. Master Ellis Wyn, who by the bye was a churchman, calls it, amongst other things, a place of strong sighs, and of flaming sparks. Master Rees Pritchard, who was not only a churchman, but Vicar of Llandovery, and flourished about two hundred years ago--I wish many like him flourished now--speaking of hell, in his collection of sweet hymns called the "Welshman's Candle," observes, '"The pool is continually blazing; it is very deep, without any known bottom, and the walls are so high, that there is neither hope nor possibility of escaping over them." 'But, as I told you just now, I have no great pleasure in talking of hell. No, friend, no; I would sooner talk of the other place, and of the goodness and hospitality of God amongst His saints above.' And then the excellent man began to dilate upon the joys of heaven, and the goodness and hospitality of God in the mansions above; explaining to me, in the clearest way, how I might get there. And when he had finished what he had to say, he left me, whereupon Winifred drew nigh, and sitting down by me began to address me. 'I do not think,' said she, 'from what I have observed of thee, that thou wouldst wish to be ungrateful, and yet, is not thy whole life a series of ingratitude, and to whom?--to thy Maker. Has He not endowed thee with a goodly and healthy form; and senses which enable thee to enjoy the delights of His beautiful universe--the work of His hands? Canst thou not enjoy, even to rapture, the brightness of the sun, the perfume of the meads, and the song of the dear birds which inhabit among the trees? Yes, thou canst; for I have seen thee, and observed thee doing so. Yet, during the whole time that I have known thee, I have not heard proceed from thy lips one single word of praise or thanksgiving to . . .' And in this manner the admirable woman proceeded for a considerable time, and to all her discourse I listened with attention; and when she had concluded, I took her hand and said, 'I thank you,' and that was all. On the next day everything was ready for our departure. The good family of the house came to bid us farewell. There were shaking of hands, and kisses, as on the night of our arrival. And as I stood somewhat apart, the young girl of whom I have spoken so often came up to me, and holding out her hand, said, 'Farewell, young man, wherever thou goest.' Then, after looking around her, she said, 'It was all true you told me. Yesterday I received a letter from him thou wottest of; he is coming soon. God bless you, young man; who would have thought thou knewest so much!' So, after we had taken our farewell of the good family, we departed, proceeding in the direction of Wales. Peter was very cheerful, and enlivened the way with godly discourse and spiritual hymns, some of which were in the Welsh language. At length I said, 'It is a pity that you did not continue in the Church; you have a turn for Psalmody, and I have heard of a man becoming a bishop by means of a less qualification.' 'Very probably,' said Peter; 'more the pity. But I have told you the reason of my forsaking it. Frequently, when I went to the church door, I found it barred, and the priest absent; what was I to do? My heart was bursting for want of some religious help and comfort; what could I do? as good Master Rees Pritchard observes in his "Candle for Welshmen":-- '"It is a doleful thing to see little children burning on the hot coals for want of help; but yet more doleful to see a flock of souls falling into the burning lake for want of a priest."' 'The Church of England is a fine church,' said I; 'I would not advise any one to speak ill of the Church of England before me.' 'I have nothing to say against the church,' said Peter; 'all I wish is that it would fling itself a little more open, and that its priests would a little more bestir themselves; in a word, that it would shoulder the cross and become a missionary church.' 'It is too proud for that,' said Winifred. 'You are much more of a Methodist,' said I, 'than your husband. But tell me,' said I, addressing myself to Peter, 'do you not differ from the church in some points of doctrine? I, of course, as a true member of the church, am quite ignorant of the peculiar opinions of wandering sectaries.' 'Oh the pride of that church!' said Winifred, half to herself; 'wandering sectaries!' 'We differ in no points of doctrine,' said Peter; 'we believe all the church believes, though we are not so fond of vain and superfluous ceremonies, snow-white neckcloths and surplices, as the church is. We likewise think that there is no harm in a sermon by the road-side, or in holding free discourse with a beggar beneath a hedge, or a tinker,' he added, smiling; 'it was those superfluous ceremonies, those surplices and white neckcloths, and, above all, the necessity of strictly regulating his words and conversation, which drove John Wesley out of the church, and sent him wandering up and down as you see me, poor Welsh Peter, do.' Nothing farther passed for some time; we were now drawing near the hills: at last I said, 'You must have met with a great many strange adventures since you took up this course of life?' 'Many,' said Peter, 'it has been my lot to meet with; but none more strange than one which occurred to me only a few weeks ago. You were asking me, not long since, whether I believed in devils? Ay, truly, young man; and I believe that the abyss and the yet deeper unknown do not contain them all; some walk about upon the green earth. So it happened, some weeks ago, that I was exercising my ministry about forty miles from here. I was alone, Winifred being slightly indisposed, staying for a few days at the house of an acquaintance; I had finished afternoon's worship--the people had dispersed, and I was sitting solitary by my cart under some green trees in a quiet retired place; suddenly a voice said to me, "Good-evening, Pastor"; I looked up, and before me stood a man, at least the appearance of a man, dressed in a black suit of rather a singular fashion. He was about my own age, or somewhat older. As I looked upon him, it appeared to me that I had seen him twice before whilst preaching. I replied to his salutation, and perceiving that he looked somewhat fatigued, I took out a stool from the cart, and asked him to sit down. We began to discourse; I at first supposed that he might be one of ourselves, some wandering minister; but I was soon undeceived. Neither his language nor his ideas were those of any one of our body. He spoke on all kinds of matters with much fluency; till at last he mentioned my preaching, complimenting me on my powers. I replied, as well I might, that I could claim no merit of my own, and that if I spoke with any effect, it was only by the grace of God. As I uttered these last words, a horrible kind of sneer came over his countenance, which made me shudder, for there was something diabolical in it. I said little more, but listened attentively to his discourse. At last he said that I was engaged in a paltry cause, quite unworthy of one of my powers. "How can that be," said I, "even if I possessed all the powers in the world, seeing that I am engaged in the cause of our Lord Jesus?" 'The same kind of sneer again came on his countenance, but he almost instantly observed, that if I chose to forsake this same miserable cause, from which nothing but contempt and privation was to be expected, he would enlist me into another, from which I might expect both profit and renown. An idea now came into my head, and I told him firmly that if he wished me to forsake my present profession and become a member of the Church of England, I must absolutely decline; that I had no ill-will against that church, but I thought I could do most good in my present position, which I would not forsake to be Archbishop of Canterbury. Thereupon he burst into a strange laughter, and went away, repeating to himself, "Church of England! Archbishop of Canterbury!" A few days after, when I was once more in a solitary place, he again appeared before me, and asked me whether I had thought over his words, and whether I was willing to enlist under the banners of his master, adding that he was eager to secure me, as he conceived that I might be highly useful to the cause. I then asked him who his master was; he hesitated for a moment, and then answered, "The Roman Pontiff." "If it be he," said I, "I can have nothing to do with him; I will serve no one who is an enemy of Christ." Thereupon he drew near to me, and told me not to talk so much like a simpleton; that as for Christ, it was probable that no such person ever existed, but that if He ever did, He was the greatest impostor the world ever saw. How long he continued in this way I know not, for I now considered that an evil spirit was before me, and shrank within myself, shivering in every limb; when I recovered myself and looked about me, he was gone. Two days after, he again stood before me, in the same place, and about the same hour, renewing his propositions, and speaking more horribly than before. I made him no answer; whereupon he continued; but suddenly hearing a noise behind him, he looked round and beheld Winifred, who had returned to me on the morning of that day. "Who are you?" said he, fiercely. "This man's wife," said she, calmly fixing her eyes upon him. "Begone from him, unhappy one, thou temptest him in vain." He made no answer, but stood as if transfixed: at length, recovering himself, he departed, muttering "Wife! wife! If the fool has a wife, he will never do for us."' CHAPTER LXXX The border--Thank you both--Pipe and fiddle--Taliesin. We were now drawing very near the hills, and Peter said, 'If you are to go into Wales, you must presently decide, for we are close upon the border.' 'Which is the border?' said I. 'Yon small brook,' said Peter, 'into which the man on horseback who is coming towards us is now entering.' 'I see it,' said I, 'and the man; he stops in the middle of it, as if to water his steed.' We proceeded till we had nearly reached the brook. 'Well,' said Peter, 'will you go into Wales?' 'What should I do in Wales?' I demanded. 'Do!' said Peter, smiling, 'learn Welsh.' I stopped my little pony. 'Then I need not go into Wales; I already know Welsh.' 'Know Welsh!' said Peter, staring at me. 'Know Welsh!' said Winifred, stopping her cart. 'How and when did you learn it?' said Peter. 'From books, in my boyhood.' 'Read Welsh!' said Peter; 'is it possible?' 'Read Welsh!' said Winifred; 'is it possible?' 'Well, I hope you will come with us,' said Peter. 'Come with us, young man,' said Winifred; 'let me, on the other side of the brook, welcome you into Wales.' 'Thank you both,' said I, 'but I will not come.' 'Wherefore?' exclaimed both, simultaneously. 'Because it is neither fit nor proper that I cross into Wales at this time, and in this manner. When I go into Wales, I should wish to go in a new suit of superfine black, with hat and beaver, mounted on a powerful steed, black and glossy, like that which bore Greduv to the fight of Catraeth. I should wish, moreover, to see the Welshmen assembled on the border ready to welcome me with pipe and fiddle, and much whooping and shouting, and to attend me to Wrexham, or even as far as Machynllaith, where I should wish to be invited to a dinner at which all the bards should be present, and to be seated at the right hand of the president, who, when the cloth was removed, should arise, and, amidst cries of silence, exclaim--"Brethren and Welshmen, allow me to propose the health of my most respectable friend the translator of the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, the pride and glory of Wales."' 'How!' said Peter, 'hast thou translated the works of the mighty Dafydd?' 'With notes critical, historical, and explanatory.' 'Come with us, friend,' said Peter. 'I cannot promise such a dinner as thou wishest, but neither pipe nor fiddle shall be wanting.' 'Come with us, young man,' said Winifred, 'even as thou art, and the daughters of Wales shall bid thee welcome.' 'I will not go with you,' said I. 'Dost thou see that man in the ford?' 'Who is staring at us so, and whose horse has not yet done drinking? Of course I see him.' 'I shall turn back with him. God bless you.' 'Go back with him not,' said Peter; 'he is one of those whom I like not, one of the clibberty-clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn observes--turn not with that man.' 'Go not back with him,' said Winifred. 'If thou goest with that man, thou wilt soon forget all our profitable counsels; come with us.' 'I cannot; I have much to say to him. Kosko Divvus, Mr. Petulengro.' 'Kosko Divvus, Pal,' said Mr. Petulengro, riding through the water; 'are you turning back?' I turned back with Mr. Petulengro. Peter came running after me: 'One moment, young man,--who and what are you?' 'I must answer in the words of Taliesin,' said I: 'none can say with positiveness whether I be fish or flesh, least of all myself. God bless you both!' 'Take this,' said Peter, and he thrust his Welsh Bible into my hand. CHAPTER LXXXI At a funeral--Two days ago--Very coolly--Roman woman--Well and hearty--Somewhat dreary--Plum pudding--Roman fashion--Quite different--The dark lane--Beyond the time--Fine fellow--Such a struggle--Like a wild cat--Fair Play--Pleasant enough spot--No gloves. So I turned back with Mr. Petulengro. We travelled for some time in silence; at last we fell into discourse. 'You have been in Wales, Mr. Petulengro?' 'Ay, truly, brother.' 'What have you been doing there?' 'Assisting at a funeral.' 'At whose funeral?' 'Mrs. Herne's, brother.' 'Is she dead, then?' 'As a nail, brother.' 'How did she die?' 'By hanging, brother.' 'I am lost in astonishment,' said I; whereupon Mr. Petulengro, lifting his sinister leg over the neck of his steed, and adjusting himself sideways in the saddle, replied, with great deliberation, 'Two days ago I happened to be at a fair not very far from here; I was all alone by myself, for our party were upwards of forty miles off, when who should come up but a chap that I knew, a relation, or rather a connection, of mine--one of those Hernes. "Aren't you going to the funeral?" said he; and then, brother, there passed between him and me, in the way of questioning and answering, much the same as has just now passed between me and you; but when he mentioned hanging, I thought I could do no less than ask who hanged her, which you forgot to do. "Who hanged her?" said I; and then the man told me that she had done it herself; been her own hinjiri; and then I thought to myself what a sin and shame it would be if I did not go to the funeral, seeing that she was my own mother-in-law. I would have brought my wife, and, indeed, the whole of our party, but there was no time for that; they were too far off, and the dead was to be buried early the next morning; so I went with the man, and he led me into Wales, where his party had lately retired, and when there, through many wild and desolate places to their encampment, and there I found the Hernes, and the dead body--the last laid out on a mattress, in a tent, dressed Romaneskoenaes in a red cloak, and big bonnet of black beaver. I must say for the Hernes that they took the matter very coolly; some were eating, others drinking, and some were talking about their small affairs; there was one, however, who did not take the matter so coolly, but took on enough for the whole family, sitting beside the dead woman, tearing her hair, and refusing to take either meat or drink; it was the child Leonora. I arrived at night-fall, and the burying was not to take place till the morning, which I was rather sorry for, as I am not very fond of them Hernes, who are not very fond of anybody. They never asked me to eat or drink, notwithstanding I had married into the family; one of them, however, came up and offered to fight me for five shillings; had it not been for them I should have come back as empty as I went--he didn't stand up five minutes. Brother, I passed the night as well as I could, beneath a tree, for the tents were full, and not over clean; I slept little, and had my eyes about me, for I knew the kind of people I was among. 'Early in the morning the funeral took place. The body was placed not in a coffin but on a bier, and carried not to a churchyard but to a deep dell close by; and there it was buried beneath a rock, dressed just as I have told you; and this was done by the bidding of Leonora, who had heard her bebee say that she wished to be buried, not in gorgious fashion, but like a Roman woman of the old blood, the kosko puro rati, brother. When it was over, and we had got back to the encampment, I prepared to be going. Before mounting my gry, however, I bethought me to ask what could have induced the dead woman to make away with herself--a thing so uncommon amongst Romanies; whereupon one squinted with his eyes, a second spirted saliver into the air, and a third said that he neither knew nor cared; she was a good riddance, having more than once been nearly the ruin of them all, from the quantity of brimstone she carried about her. One, however, I suppose rather ashamed of the way in which they had treated me, said at last that if I wanted to know all about the matter none could tell me better than the child, who was in all her secrets, and was not a little like her; so I looked about for the child, but could find her nowhere. At last the same man told me that he shouldn't wonder if I found her at the grave; so I went back to the grave, and sure enough there I found the child Leonora, seated on the ground above the body, crying and taking on; so I spoke kindly to her, and said, "How came all this, Leonora? tell me all about it." It was a long time before I could get any answer; at last she opened her mouth and spoke, and these were the words she said, "It was all along of your Pal"; and then she told me all about the matter--how Mrs. Herne could not abide you, which I knew before; and that she had sworn your destruction, which I did not know before. And then she told me how she found you living in the wood by yourself, and how you were enticed to eat a poisoned cake; and she told me many other things that you wot of, and she told me what perhaps you don't wot, namely, that finding you had been removed, she, the child, had tracked you a long way, and found you at last well and hearty, and no ways affected by the poison, and heard you, as she stood concealed, disputing about religion with a Welsh Methody. Well, brother, she told me all this; and, moreover, that when Mrs. Herne heard of it, she said that a dream of hers had come to pass. I don't know what it was, but something about herself, a tinker, and a dean; and then she added that it was all up with her, and that she must take a long journey. Well, brother, that same night Leonora, waking from her sleep in the tent where Mrs. Herne and she were wont to sleep, missed her bebee, and, becoming alarmed, went in search of her, and at last found her hanging from a branch; and when the child had got so far, she took on violently, and I could not get another word from her; so I left her, and here I am.' {picture:'Sure enough there I found the child Leonora, seated on the ground above the body, crying and taking on.': page454.jpg} 'And I am glad to see you, Mr. Petulengro; but this is sad news which you tell me about Mrs. Herne.' {picture:'Leonora, waking from her sleep, missed her bebee, and, becoming alarmed, went in search of her, and at last found her hanging from a branch.': page456.jpg} 'Somewhat dreary, brother; yet, perhaps, after all, it is a good thing that she is removed; she carried so much Devil's tinder about with her, as the man said.' 'I am sorry for her,' said I; 'more especially as I am the cause of her death--though the innocent one.' 'She could not bide you, brother, that's certain; but that is no reason'--said Mr. Petulengro, balancing himself upon the saddle--'that is no reason why she should prepare drow to take away your essence of life; and, when disappointed, to hang herself upon a tree: if she was dissatisfied with you, she might have flown at you, and scratched your face; or, if she did not judge herself your match, she might have put down five shillings for a turn-up between you and some one she thought could beat you--myself, for example--and so the matter might have ended comfortably; but she was always too fond of covert ways, drows, and brimstones. This is not the first poisoning affair she has been engaged in.' 'You allude to drabbing bawlor.' 'Bah!' said Mr. Petulengro; 'there's no harm in that. No, no! she has cast drows in her time for other guess things than bawlor; both Gorgios and Romans have tasted of them, and died. Did you never hear of the poisoned plum pudding?' 'Never.' 'Then I will tell you about it. It happened about six years ago, a few months after she had quitted us--she had gone first amongst her own people, as she called them; but there was another small party of Romans, with whom she soon became very intimate. It so happened that this small party got into trouble; whether it was about a horse or an ass, or passing bad money, no matter to you and me, who had no hand in the business; three or four of them were taken and lodged in--Castle, and amongst them was a woman; but the sherengro, or principal man of the party, and who it seems had most hand in the affair, was still at large. All of a sudden a rumour was spread abroad that the woman was about to play false, and to 'peach the rest. Said the principal man, when he heard it, "If she does, I am nashkado." Mrs. Herne was then on a visit to the party, and when she heard the principal man take on so, she said, "But I suppose you know what to do?" "I do not," said he. "Then hir mi devlis," said she, "you are a fool. But leave the matter to me, I know how to dispose of her in Roman fashion." Why she wanted to interfere in the matter, brother, I don't know, unless it was from pure brimstoneness of disposition--she had no hand in the matter which had brought the party into trouble--she was only on a visit, and it had happened before she came; but she was always ready to give dangerous advice. Well, brother, the principal man listened to what she had to say, and let her do what she would; and she made a pudding, a very nice one, no doubt--for, besides plums, she put in drows and all the Roman condiments that she knew of; and she gave it to the principal man, and the principal put it into a basket and directed it to the woman in--Castle, and the woman in the castle took it and--' 'Ate of it,' said I; 'just like my case!' 'Quite different, brother; she took it, it is true, but instead of giving way to her appetite, as you might have done, she put it before the rest whom she was going to impeach; perhaps she wished to see how they liked it before she tasted it herself; and all the rest were poisoned, and one died, and there was a precious outcry, and the woman cried loudest of all; and she said, "It was my death was sought for; I know the man, and I'll be revenged." And then the Poknees spoke to her and said, "Where can we find him?" and she said, "I am awake to his motions; three weeks from hence, the night before the full moon, at such and such an hour, he will pass down such a lane with such a man."' 'Well,' said I, 'and what did the Poknees do?' 'Do, brother! sent for a plastramengro from Bow Street, quite secretly, and told him what the woman had said; and the night before the full moon, the plastramengro went to the place which the juwa had pointed out, all alone, brother; and in order that he might not be too late, he went two hours before his time. I know the place well, brother, where the plastramengro placed himself behind a thick holly tree, at the end of a lane, where a gate leads into various fields, through which there is a path for carts and horses. The lane is called the dark lane by the Gorgios, being much shaded by trees. So the plastramengro placed himself in the dark lane behind the holly tree; it was a cold February night, dreary though; the wind blew in gusts, and the moon had not yet risen, and the plastramengro waited behind the tree till he was tired, and thought he might as well sit down; so he sat down, and was not long in falling to sleep, and there he slept for some hours; and when he awoke the moon had risen, and was shining bright, so that there was a kind of moonlight even in the dark lane; and the plastramengro pulled out his watch, and contrived to make out that it was just two hours beyond the time when the men should have passed by. Brother, I do not know what the plastramengro thought of himself, but I know, brother, what I should have thought of myself in his situation. I should have thought, brother, that I was a drowsy scoppelo, and that I had let the fellow pass by whilst I was sleeping behind a bush. As it turned out, however, his going to sleep did no harm, but quite the contrary: just as he was going away, he heard a gate slam in the direction of the fields, and then he heard the low stumping of horses, as if on soft ground, for the path in those fields is generally soft, and at that time it had been lately ploughed up. Well, brother, presently he saw two men on horseback coming towards the lane through the field behind the gate; the man who rode foremost was a tall big fellow, the very man he was in quest of; the other was a smaller chap, not so small either, but a light, wiry fellow, and a proper master of his hands when he sees occasion for using them. Well, brother, the foremost man came to the gate, reached at the hank, undid it, and rode through, holding it open for the other. Before, however, the other could follow into the lane, out bolted the plastramengro from behind the tree, kicked the gate to with his foot, and, seizing the big man on horse- back, "You are my prisoner," said he. I am of opinion, brother, that the plastramengro, notwithstanding he went to sleep, must have been a regular fine fellow.' 'I am entirely of your opinion,' said I; 'but what happened then?' 'Why, brother, the Rommany chal, after he had somewhat recovered from his surprise, for it is rather uncomfortable to be laid hold of at night-time, and told you are a prisoner; more especially when you happen to have two or three things on your mind which, if proved against you, would carry you to the nashky,--the Rommany chal, I say, clubbed his whip, and aimed a blow at the plastramengro, which, if it had hit him on the skull, as was intended, would very likely have cracked it. The plastramengro, however, received it partly on his staff, so that it did him no particular damage. Whereupon, seeing what kind of customer he had to deal with, he dropped his staff and seized the chal with both his hands, who forthwith spurred his horse, hoping, by doing so, either to break away from him or fling him down; but it would not do--the plastramengro held on like a bull-dog, so that the Rommany chal, to escape being hauled to the ground, suddenly flung himself off the saddle, and then happened in that lane, close by the gate, such a struggle between those two--the chal and the runner--as I suppose will never happen again. But you must have heard of it; every one has heard of it; every one has heard of the fight between the Bow Street engro and the Rommany chal.' 'I never heard of it till now.' 'All England rung of it, brother. There never was a better match than between those two. The runner was somewhat the stronger of the two--all those engroes are strong fellows--and a great deal cooler, for all of that sort are wondrous cool people--he had, however, to do with one who knew full well how to take his own part. The chal fought the engro, brother, in the old Roman fashion. He bit, he kicked, and screamed like a wild cat of Benygant; casting foam from his mouth and fire from his eyes. Sometimes he was beneath the engro's legs, and sometimes he was upon his shoulders. What the engro found the most difficult was to get a firm hold of the chal, for no sooner did he seize the chal by any part of his wearing apparel, than the chal either tore himself away, or contrived to slip out of it; so that in a little time the chal was three parts naked; and as for holding him by the body, it was out of the question, for he was as slippery as an eel. At last the engro seized the chal by the Belcher's handkerchief, which he wore in a knot round his neck, and do whatever the chal could, he could not free himself; and when the engro saw that, it gave him fresh heart, no doubt: "It's of no use," said he; "you had better give in; hold out your hands for the darbies, or I will throttle you." 'And what did the other fellow do, who came with the chal?' said I. 'I sat still on my horse, brother.' 'You!' said I. 'Were you the man?' 'I was he, brother.' 'And why did you not help your comrade?' 'I have fought in the ring, brother.' 'And what had fighting in the ring to do with fighting in the lane?' 'You mean not fighting. A great deal, brother; it taught me to prize fair play. When I fought Staffordshire Dick, t'other side of London, I was alone, brother. Not a Rommany chal to back me, and he had all his brother pals about him; but they gave me fair play, brother; and I beat Staffordshire Dick, which I couldn't have done had they put one finger on his side the scale; for he was as good a man as myself, or nearly so. Now, brother, had I but bent a finger in favour of the Rommany chal, the plastramengro would never have come alive out of the lane; but I did not, for I thought to myself fair play is a precious stone; so you see, brother--' 'That you are quite right, Mr. Petulengro, I see that clearly; and now, pray proceed with your narration; it is both moral and entertaining.' But Mr. Petulengro did not proceed with his narration, neither did he proceed upon his way; he had stopped his horse, and his eyes were intently fixed on a broad strip of grass beneath some lofty trees, on the left side of the road. It was a pleasant enough spot, and seemed to invite wayfaring people, such as we were, to rest from the fatigues of the road, and the heat and vehemence of the sun. After examining it for a considerable time, Mr. Petulengro said, 'I say, brother, that would be a nice place for a tussle!' 'I daresay it would,' said I, 'if two people were inclined to fight.' 'The ground is smooth,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'without holes or ruts, and the trees cast much shade. I don't think, brother, that we could find a better place,' said Mr. Petulengro, springing from his horse. 'But you and I don't want to fight!' 'Speak for yourself, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro. 'However, I will tell you how the matter stands. There is a point at present between us. There can be no doubt that you are the cause of Mrs. Herne's death, innocently, you will say, but still the cause. Now, I shouldn't like it to be known that I went up and down the country with a pal who was the cause of my mother-in-law's death, that's to say, unless he gave me satisfaction. Now, if I and my pal have a tussle, he gives me satisfaction; and, if he knocks my eyes out, which I know you can't do, it makes no difference at all, he gives me satisfaction; and he who says to the contrary knows nothing of gypsy law, and is a dinelo into the bargain.' 'But we have no gloves!' 'Gloves!' said Mr. Petulengro, contemptuously, 'gloves! I tell you what, brother, I always thought you were a better hand at the gloves than the naked fist; and, to tell you the truth, besides taking satisfaction for Mrs. Herne's death, I wish to see what you can do with your mawleys; so now is your time, brother, and this is your place, grass and shade, no ruts or holes; come on, brother, or I shall think you what I should not like to call you.' CHAPTER LXXXII Offence and defence--I'm satisfied--Fond of solitude--Possession of property--Chal Devlehi--Winding path. And when I heard Mr. Petulengro talk in this manner, which I had never heard him do before, and which I can only account for by his being fasting and ill-tempered, I had of course no other alternative than to accept his challenge; so I put myself into a posture which I deemed the best both for offence and defence, and the tussle commenced; and when it had endured for about half an hour, Mr. Petulengro said, 'Brother, there is much blood on your face; you had better wipe it off'; and when I had wiped it off, and again resumed my former attitude, Mr. Petulengro said, 'I think enough has been done, brother, in the affair of the old woman; I have, moreover, tried what you are able to do, and find you, as I thought, less apt with the naked mawleys than the stuffed gloves; nay, brother, put your hands down, I'm satisfied; blood has been shed, which is all that can be reasonably expected for an old woman who carried so much brimstone about her as Mrs. Herne.' So the struggle ended, and we resumed our route, Mr. Petulengro sitting sideways upon his horse as before, and I driving my little pony-cart; and when we had proceeded about three miles, we came to a small public-house, which bore the sign of the Silent Woman, where we stopped to refresh our cattle and ourselves; and as we sat over our bread and ale, it came to pass that Mr. Petulengro asked me various questions, and amongst others, how I intended to dispose of myself; I told him that I did not know; whereupon, with considerable frankness, he invited me to his camp, and told me that if I chose to settle down amongst them, and become a Rommany chal, I should have his wife's sister Ursula, who was still unmarried, and occasionally talked of me. {picture:We came to a small public-house, which bore the sign of the Silent Woman, where we stopped to refresh our cattle and ourselves: page463.jpg} I declined his offer, assigning as a reason the recent death of Mrs. Herne, of which I was the cause, although innocent. 'A pretty life I should lead with those two,' said I, 'when they came to know it.' 'Pooh,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'they will never know it. I shan't blab, and as for Leonora, that girl has a head on her shoulders.' 'Unlike the woman in the sign,' said I, 'whose head is cut off. You speak nonsense, Mr. Petulengro; as long as a woman has a head on her shoulders she'll talk,--but, leaving women out of the case, it is impossible to keep anything a secret; an old master of mine told me so long ago. I have moreover another reason for declining your offer. I am at present not disposed for society. I am become fond of solitude. I wish I could find some quiet place to which I could retire to hold communion with my own thoughts, and practise, if I thought fit, either of my trades.' 'What trades?' said Mr. Petulengro. 'Why, the one which I have lately been engaged in, or my original one, which I confess I should like better, that of a kaulo-mescro.' 'Ah, I have frequently heard you talk of making horse-shoes,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'I, however, never saw you make one, and no one else that I am aware; I don't believe--come, brother, don't be angry, it's quite possible that you may have done things which neither I nor any one else has seen you do, and that such things may some day or other come to light, as you say nothing can be kept secret. Be that, however, as it may, pay the reckoning and let us be going; I think I can advise you to just such a kind of place as you seem to want.' 'And how do you know that I have got wherewithal to pay the reckoning?' I demanded. 'Brother,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'I was just now looking in your face, which exhibited the very look of a person conscious of the possession of property; there was nothing hungry or sneaking in it. Pay the reckoning, brother.' And when we were once more upon the road, Mr. Petulengro began to talk of the place which he conceived would serve me as a retreat under present circumstances. 'I tell you frankly, brother, that it is a queer kind of place, and I am not very fond of pitching my tent in it, it is so surprisingly dreary. It is a deep dingle in the midst of a large field, on an estate about which there has been a lawsuit for some years past. I daresay you will be quiet enough, for the nearest town is five miles distant, and there are only a few huts and hedge public-houses in the neighbourhood. Brother, I am fond of solitude myself, but not that kind of solitude; I like a quiet heath, where I can pitch my house, but I always like to have a gay stirring place not far off, where the women can pen dukkerin, and I myself can sell or buy a horse, if needful--such a place as the Chong Gav. I never feel so merry as when there, brother, or on the heath above it, where I taught you Rommany.' Shortly after this discourse we reached a milestone, and a few yards from the milestone, on the left hand, was a crossroad. Thereupon Mr. Petulengro said, 'Brother, my path lies to the left if you choose to go with me to my camp, good; if not, Chal Devlehi.' But I again refused Mr. Petulengro's invitation, and, shaking him by the hand, proceeded forward alone; and about ten miles farther on I reached the town of which he had spoken, and, following certain directions which he had given, discovered, though not without some difficulty, the dingle which he had mentioned. It was a deep hollow in the midst of a wide field; the shelving sides were overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt of sallows surrounded it on the top, a steep winding path led down into the depths, practicable, however, for a light cart, like mine; at the bottom was an open space, and there I pitched my tent, and there I contrived to put up my forge. 'I will here ply the trade of kaulomescro,' said I. CHAPTER LXXXIII Highly poetical--Volundr--Grecian mythology--Making a petul--Tongues of flame--Hammering--Spite of dukkerin--Heaviness. It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical about a forge. I am not singular in this opinion: various individuals have assured me that they can never pass by one, even in the midst of a crowded town, without experiencing sensations which they can scarcely define, but which are highly pleasurable. I have a decided penchant for forges, especially rural ones, placed in some quaint quiet spot--a dingle, for example, which is a poetical place, or at a meeting of four roads, which is still more so; for how many a superstition--and superstition is the soul of poetry--is connected with these cross roads! I love to light upon such a one, especially after nightfall, as everything about a forge tells to most advantage at night; the hammer sounds more solemnly in the stillness; the glowing particles scattered by the strokes sparkle with more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty visage of the sastramescro, half in shadow and half illumed by the red and partial blaze of the forge, looks more mysterious and strange. On such occasions I draw in my horse's rein, and, seated in the saddle, endeavour to associate with the picture before me--in itself a picture of romance--whatever of the wild and wonderful I have read of in books, or have seen with my own eyes in connection with forges. I believe the life of any blacksmith, especially a rural one, would afford materials for a highly poetical history. I do not speak unadvisedly, having the honour to be free of the forge, and therefore fully competent to give an opinion as to what might be made out of the forge by some dexterous hand. Certainly, the strangest and most entertaining life ever written is that of a blacksmith of the olden north, a certain Volundr, or Velint, who lived in woods and thickets, made keen swords--so keen, indeed, that if placed in a running stream they would fairly divide an object, however slight, which was borne against them by the water, and who eventually married a king's daughter, by whom he had a son, who was as bold a knight as his father was a cunning blacksmith. I never see a forge at night, when seated on the back of my horse, at the bottom of a dark lane, but I somehow or other associate it with the exploits of this extraordinary fellow, with many other extraordinary things, amongst which, as I have hinted before, are particular passages of my own life, one or two of which I shall perhaps relate to the reader. I never associate Vulcan and his Cyclops with the idea of a forge. These gentry would be the very last people in the world to flit across my mind whilst gazing at the forge from the bottom of the dark lane. The truth is, they are highly unpoetical fellows, as well they may be, connected as they are with the Grecian mythology. At the very mention of their names the forge burns dull and dim, as if snowballs had been suddenly flung into it; the only remedy is to ply the bellows, an operation which I now hasten to perform. I am in the dingle making a horse-shoe. Having no other horses on whose hoofs I could exercise my art, I made my first essay on those of my own horse, if that could be called horse which horse was none, being only a pony. Perhaps, if I had sought all England, I should scarcely have found an animal more in need of the kind offices of the smith. On three of his feet there were no shoes at all, and on the fourth only a remnant of one, on which account his hoofs were sadly broken and lacerated by his late journeys over the hard and flinty roads. 'You belonged to a tinker before,' said I, addressing the animal, 'but now you belong to a smith. It is said that the household of the shoemaker invariably go worse shod than that of any other craft. That may be the case of those who make shoes of leather, but it shan't be said of the household of him who makes shoes of iron; at any rate it shan't be said of mine. I tell you what, my gry, whilst you continue with me, you shall both be better shod and better fed than you were with your last master.' I am in the dingle making a petul; and I must here observe that whilst I am making a horse-shoe the reader need not be surprised if I speak occasionally in the language of the lord of the horse-shoe--Mr. Petulengro. I have for some time past been plying the peshota, or bellows, endeavouring to raise up the yag, or fire, in my primitive forge. The angar, or coals, are now burning fiercely, casting forth sparks and long vagescoe chipes, or tongues of flame; a small bar of sastra, or iron, is lying in the fire, to the length of ten or twelve inches, and so far it is hot, very hot, exceeding hot, brother. And now you see me prala, snatch the bar of iron, and place the heated end of it upon the covantza, or anvil, and forthwith I commence cooring the sastra as hard as if I had been just engaged by a master at the rate of dui caulor, or two shillings, a day, brother; and when I have beaten the iron till it is nearly cool, and my arm tired, I place it again in the angar, and begin again to rouse the fire with the pudamengro, which signifies the blowing thing, and is another and more common word for bellows; and whilst thus employed I sing a gypsy song, the sound of which is wonderfully in unison with the hoarse moaning of the pudamengro, and ere the song is finished, the iron is again hot and malleable. Behold, I place it once more on the covantza, and recommence hammering; and now I am somewhat at fault; I am in want of assistance; I want you, brother, or some one else, to take the bar out of my hand and support it upon the covantza, whilst I, applying a chinomescro, or kind of chisel, to the heated iron, cut off with a lusty stroke or two of the shukaro baro, or big hammer, as much as is required for the petul. But having no one to help me, I go on hammering till I have fairly knocked off as much as I want, and then I place the piece in the fire, and again apply the bellows, and take up the song where I left it off; and when I have finished the song, I take out the iron, but this time with my plaistra, or pincers, and then I recommence hammering, turning the iron round and round with my pincers: and now I bend the iron and, lo and behold! it has assumed something of the outline of a petul. I am not going to enter into farther details with respect to the process--it was rather a wearisome one. I had to contend with various disadvantages; my forge was a rude one, my tools might have been better; I was in want of one or two highly necessary implements, but, above all, manual dexterity. Though free of the forge, I had not practised the albeytarian art for very many years, never since--but stay, it is not my intention to tell the reader, at least in this place, how and when I became a blacksmith. There was one thing, however, which stood me in good stead in my labour, the same thing which through life has ever been of incalculable utility to me, and has not unfrequently supplied the place of friends, money, and many other things of almost equal importance--iron perseverance, without which all the advantages of time and circumstance are of very little avail in any undertaking. I was determined to make a horse-shoe, and a good one, in spite of every obstacle--ay, in spite of dukkerin. At the end of four days, during which I had fashioned and refashioned the thing at least fifty times, I had made a petul such as no master of the craft need have been ashamed of; with the second shoe I had less difficulty, and, by the time I had made the fourth, I would have scorned to take off my hat to the best smith in Cheshire. But I had not yet shod my little gry: this I proceeded now to do. After having first well pared the hoofs with my churi, I applied each petul hot, glowing hot, to the pindro. Oh, how the hoofs hissed! and, oh, the pleasant pungent odour which diffused itself through the dingle!--an odour good for an ailing spirit. I shod the little horse bravely--merely pricked him once, slightly, with a cafi, for doing which, I remember, he kicked me down; I was not disconcerted, however, but, getting up, promised to be more cautious in future; and having finished the operation, I filed the hoof well with the rin baro, then dismissed him to graze amongst the trees, and, putting my smaller tools into the muchtar, I sat down on my stone, and, supporting my arm upon my knee, leaned my head upon my hand. Heaviness had come over me. CHAPTER LXXXIV Several causes--Frogs and eftes--Gloom and twilight--What should I do?--'Our Father'--Fellow-men--What a mercy!--Almost calm--Fresh store--History of Saul--Pitch dark. Heaviness had suddenly come over me, heaviness of heart, and of body also. I had accomplished the task which I had imposed upon myself, and now that nothing more remained to do, my energies suddenly deserted me, and I felt without strength, and without hope. Several causes, perhaps, co-operated to bring about the state in which I then felt myself. It is not improbable that my energies had been overstrained during the work the progress of which I have attempted to describe; and every one is aware that the results of overstrained energies are feebleness and lassitude--want of nourishment might likewise have something to do with it. During my sojourn in the dingle, my food had been of the simplest and most unsatisfying description, by no means calculated to support the exertion which the labour I had been engaged upon required; it had consisted of coarse oaten cakes and hard cheese, and for beverage I had been indebted to a neighbouring pit, in which, in the heat of the day, I frequently saw, not golden or silver fish, but frogs and eftes swimming about. I am, however, inclined to believe that Mrs. Herne's cake had quite as much to do with the matter as insufficient nourishment. I had never entirely recovered from the effects of its poison, but had occasionally, especially at night, been visited by a grinding pain in the stomach, and my whole body had been suffused with cold sweat; and indeed these memorials of the drow have never entirely disappeared--even at the present time they display themselves in my system, especially after much fatigue of body and excitement of mind. So there I sat in the dingle upon my stone, nerveless and hopeless, by whatever cause or causes that state had been produced--there I sat with my head leaning upon my hand, and so I continued a long, long time. At last I lifted my head from my hand, and began to cast anxious, unquiet looks about the dingle--the entire hollow was now enveloped in deep shade--I cast my eyes up; there was a golden gleam on the tops of the trees which grew towards the upper parts of the dingle; but lower down all was gloom and twilight--yet, when I first sat down on my stone, the sun was right above the dingle, illuminating all its depths by the rays which it cast perpendicularly down--so I must have sat a long, long time upon my stone. And now, once more, I rested my head upon my hand, but almost instantly lifted it again in a kind of fear, and began looking at the objects before me--the forge, the tools, the branches of the trees, endeavouring to follow their rows, till they were lost in the darkness of the dingle; and now I found my right hand grasping convulsively the three fore-fingers of the left, first collectively, and then successively, wringing them till the joints cracked; then I became quiet, but not for long. Suddenly I started up, and could scarcely repress the shriek which was rising to my lips. Was it possible? Yes, all too certain; the evil one was upon me; the inscrutable horror which I had felt in my boyhood had once more taken possession of me. I had thought that it had forsaken me--that it would never visit me again; that I had outgrown it; that I might almost bid defiance to it; and I had even begun to think of it without horror, as we are in the habit of doing of horrors of which we conceive we run no danger; and lo! when least thought of, it had seized me again. Every moment I felt it gathering force, and making me more wholly its own. What should I do?--resist, of course; and I did resist. I grasped, I tore, and strove to fling it from me; but of what avail were my efforts? I could only have got rid of it by getting rid of myself: it was a part of myself, or rather it was all myself. I rushed amongst the trees, and struck at them with my bare fists, and dashed my head against them, but I felt no pain. How could I feel pain with that horror upon me? And then I flung myself on the ground, gnawed the earth, and swallowed it; and then I looked round; it was almost total darkness in the dingle, and the darkness added to my horror. I could no longer stay there; up I rose from the ground, and attempted to escape. At the bottom of the winding path which led up the acclivity I fell over something which was lying on the ground; the something moved, and gave a kind of whine. It was my little horse, which had made that place its lair; my little horse; my only companion and friend in that now awful solitude. I reached the mouth of the dingle; the sun was just sinking in the far west behind me, the fields were flooded with his last gleams. How beautiful everything looked in the last gleams of the sun! I felt relieved for a moment; I was no longer in the horrid dingle. In another minute the sun was gone, and a big cloud occupied the place where he had been: in a little time it was almost as dark as it had previously been in the open part of the dingle. My horror increased; what was I to do?--it was of no use fighting against the horror--that I saw; the more I fought against it, the stronger it became. What should I do: say my prayers? Ah! why not? So I knelt down under the hedge, and said, 'Our Father'; but that was of no use; and now I could no longer repress cries--the horror was too great to be borne. What should I do? run to the nearest town or village, and request the assistance of my fellow-men? No! that I was ashamed to do; notwithstanding the horror was upon me, I was ashamed to do that. I knew they would consider me a maniac, if I went screaming amongst them; and I did not wish to be considered a maniac. Moreover, I knew that I was not a maniac, for I possessed all my reasoning powers, only the horror was upon me--the screaming horror! But how were indifferent people to distinguish between madness and the screaming horror? So I thought and reasoned; and at last I determined not to go amongst my fellow-men, whatever the result might be. I went to the mouth of the dingle, and there, placing myself on my knees, I again said the Lord's Prayer; but it was of no use--praying seemed to have no effect over the horror; the unutterable fear appeared rather to increase than diminish, and I again uttered wild cries, so loud that I was apprehensive they would be heard by some chance passenger on the neighbouring road; I therefore went deeper into the dingle. I sat down with my back against a thorn bush; the thorns entered my flesh, and when I felt them, I pressed harder against the bush; I thought the pain of the flesh might in some degree counteract the mental agony; presently I felt them no longer--the power of the mental horror was so great that it was impossible, with that upon me, to feel any pain from the thorns. I continued in this posture a long time, undergoing what I cannot describe, and would not attempt if I were able. Several times I was on the point of starting up and rushing anywhere; but I restrained myself, for I knew I could not escape from myself, so why should I not remain in the dingle? So I thought and said to myself, for my reasoning powers were still uninjured. At last it appeared to me that the horror was not so strong, not quite so strong, upon me. Was it possible that it was relaxing its grasp, releasing its prey? Oh what a mercy! but it could not be; and yet--I looked up to heaven, and clasped my hands, and said, 'Our Father.' I said no more--I was too agitated; and now I was almost sure that the horror had done its worst. {picture:I knelt down under the hedge and said, 'Our Father'; but that was of no use: page472.jpg} After a little time I arose, and staggered down yet farther into the dingle. I again found my little horse on the same spot as before. I put my hand to his mouth--he licked my hand. I flung myself down by him, and put my arms round his neck; the creature whinnied, and appeared to sympathise with me. What a comfort to have any one, even a dumb brute, to sympathise with me at such a moment! I clung to my little horse, as if for safety and protection. I laid my head on his neck, and felt almost calm. Presently the fear returned, but not so wild as before; it subsided, came again, again subsided; then drowsiness came over me, and at last I fell asleep, my head supported on the neck of the little horse. I awoke; it was dark, dark night--not a star was to be seen--but I felt no fear, the horror had left me. I arose from the side of the little horse, and went into my tent, lay down, and again went to sleep. I awoke in the morning weak and sore, and shuddering at the remembrance of what I had gone through on the preceding day; the sun was shining brightly, but it had not yet risen high enough to show its head above the trees which fenced the eastern side of the dingle, on which account the dingle was wet and dank from the dews of the night. I kindled my fire, and, after sitting by it for some time to warm my frame, I took some of the coarse food which I have already mentioned; notwithstanding my late struggle, and the coarseness of the fare, I ate with appetite. My provisions had by this time been very much diminished, and I saw that it would be speedily necessary, in the event of my continuing to reside in the dingle, to lay in a fresh store. After my meal, I went to the pit and filled a can with water, which I brought to the dingle, and then again sat down on my stone. I considered what I should next do: it was necessary to do something, or my life in this solitude would be insupportable. What should I do? rouse up my forge and fashion a horse- shoe? But I wanted nerve and heart for such an employment; moreover, I had no motive for fatiguing myself in this manner; my own horse was shod, no other was at hand, and it is hard to work for the sake of working. What should I do? read? Yes, but I had no other book than the Bible which the Welsh Methodist had given me. Well, why not read the Bible? I was once fond of reading the Bible; ay, but those days were long gone by. However, I did not see what else I could well do on the present occasion--so I determined to read the Bible--it was in Welsh; at any rate it might amuse me. So I took the Bible out of the sack, in which it was lying in the cart, and began to read at the place where I chanced to open it. I opened it at that part where the history of Saul commences. At first I read with indifference, but after some time my attention was riveted, and no wonder, I had come to the visitations of Saul--those dark moments of his, when he did and said such unaccountable things; it almost appeared to me that I was reading of myself; I, too, had my visitations, dark as ever his were. Oh, how I sympathised with Saul, the tall dark man! I had read his life before, but it had made no impression on me; it had never occurred to me that I was like him; but I now sympathised with Saul, for my own dark hour was but recently passed, and, perhaps, would soon return again; the dark hour came frequently on Saul. Time wore away; I finished the book of Saul, and, closing the volume, returned it to its place. I then returned to my seat on the stone, and thought of what I had read, and what I had lately undergone. All at once I thought I felt well-known sensations, a cramping of the breast, and a tingling of the soles of the feet; they were what I had felt on the preceding day--they were the forerunners of the fear. I sat motionless on my stone, the sensations passed away, and the fear came not. Darkness was now coming again over the earth; the dingle was again in deep shade; I roused the fire with the breath of the bellows, and sat looking at the cheerful glow; it was cheering and comforting. My little horse came now and lay down on the ground beside the forge; I was not quite deserted. I again ate some of the coarse food, and drank plentifully of the water which I had fetched in the morning. I then put fresh fuel on the fire, and sat for a long time looking on the blaze; I then went into my tent. I awoke, on my own calculation, about midnight--it was pitch dark, and there was much fear upon me. CHAPTER LXXXV Free and independent--I don't see why--Oats--A noise--Unwelcome visitors--What's the matter?--Good-day to ye--The tall girl--Dovrefeld--Blow on the face--Civil enough--What's this?--Vulgar woman--Hands off--Gasping for breath--Long Melford--A pretty manoeuvre--A long draught--Signs of animation--It won't do--No malice--Bad people. Two mornings after the period to which I have brought the reader in the preceding chapter, I sat by my fire at the bottom of the dingle; I had just breakfasted, and had finished the last morsel of food which I had brought with me to that solitude. 'What shall I now do?' said I to myself; 'shall I continue here, or decamp?--this is a sad lonely spot--perhaps I had better quit it; but whither shall I go? the wide world is before me, but what can I do therein? I have been in the world already without much success. No, I had better remain here; the place is lonely, it is true, but here I am free and independent, and can do what I please; but I can't remain here without food. Well, I will find my way to the nearest town, lay in a fresh supply of provision, and come back, turning my back upon the world, which has turned its back upon me. I don't see why I should not write a little sometimes; I have pens and an ink-horn, and for a writing-desk I can place the Bible on my knee. I shouldn't wonder if I could write a capital satire on the world on the back of that Bible; but, first of all, I must think of supplying myself with food.' I rose up from the stone on which I was seated, determining to go to the nearest town, with my little horse and cart, and procure what I wanted. The nearest town, according to my best calculation, lay about five miles distant; I had no doubt, however, that, by using ordinary diligence, I should be back before evening. In order to go lighter, I determined to leave my tent standing as it was, and all the things which I had purchased of the tinker, just as they were. 'I need not be apprehensive on their account,' said I to myself; 'nobody will come here to meddle with them--the great recommendation of this place is its perfect solitude--I daresay that I could live here six months without seeing a single human visage. I will now harness my little gry and be off to the town.' At a whistle which I gave, the little gry, which was feeding on the bank near the uppermost part of the dingle, came running to me, for by this time he had become so accustomed to me that he would obey my call, for all the world as if he had been one of the canine species. 'Now,' said I to him, 'we are going to the town to buy bread for myself and oats for you--I am in a hurry to be back; therefore I pray you to do your best, and to draw me and the cart to the town with all possible speed, and to bring us back; if you do your best, I promise you oats on your return. You know the meaning of oats, Ambrol?' Ambrol whinnied as if to let me know that he understood me perfectly well, as indeed he well might, as I had never once fed him during the time that he had been in my possession without saying the word in question to him. Now, Ambrol, in the gypsy tongue, signifieth a pear. So I caparisoned Ambrol, and then, going to the cart, I removed two or three things from it into the tent; I then lifted up the shafts, and was just going to call to the pony to come and be fastened to them, when I thought I heard a noise. I stood stock still, supporting the shaft of the little cart in my hand, and bending the right side of my face slightly towards the ground, but I could hear nothing; the noise which I thought I had heard was not one of those sounds which I was accustomed to hear in that solitude--the note of a bird, or the rustling of a bough; it was--there I heard it again, a sound very much resembling the grating of a wheel amongst gravel. Could it proceed from the road? Oh no, the road was too far distant for me to hear the noise of anything moving along it. Again I listened, and now I distinctly heard the sound of wheels, which seemed to be approaching the dingle; nearer and nearer they drew, and presently the sound of wheels was blended with the murmur of voices. Anon I heard a boisterous shout, which seemed to proceed from the entrance of the dingle. 'Here are folks at hand,' said I, letting the shaft of the cart fall to the ground; 'is it possible that they can be coming here?' My doubts on that point, if I entertained any, were soon dispelled; the wheels, which had ceased moving for a moment or two, were once again in motion, and were now evidently moving down the winding path which led to my retreat. Leaving my cart, I came forward and placed myself near the entrance of the open space, with my eyes fixed on the path down which my unexpected, and I may say unwelcome, visitors were coming. Presently I heard a stamping or sliding, as if of a horse in some difficulty; then a loud curse, and the next moment appeared a man and a horse and cart; the former holding the head of the horse up to prevent him from falling, of which he was in danger, owing to the precipitous nature of the path. Whilst thus occupied, the head of the man was averted from me. When, however, he had reached the bottom of the descent, he turned his head, and perceiving me, as I stood bareheaded, without either coat or waistcoat, about two yards from him, he gave a sudden start, so violent that the backward motion of his hand had nearly flung the horse upon his haunches. 'Why don't you move forward?' said a voice from behind, apparently that of a female; 'you are stopping up the way, and we shall be all down upon one another'; and I saw the head of another horse overtopping the back of the cart. 'Why don't you move forward, Jack?' said another voice, also a female, yet higher up the path. The man stirred not, but remained staring at me in the posture which he had assumed on first perceiving me, his body very much drawn back, his left foot far in advance of his right, and with his right hand still grasping the halter of the horse, which gave way more and more, till it was clean down on its haunches. 'What's the matter?' said the voice which I had last heard. 'Get back with you, Belle, Moll,' said the man, still staring at me; 'here's something not over canny or comfortable.' 'What is it?' said the same voice; 'let me pass, Moll, and I'll soon clear the way'; and I heard a kind of rushing down the path. 'You need not be afraid,' said I, addressing myself to the man, 'I mean you no harm; I am a wanderer like yourself--come here to seek for shelter--you need not be afraid; I am a Roman chabo by matriculation--one of the right sort, and no mistake--Good-day to ye, brother; I bid ye welcome.' The man eyed me suspiciously for a moment--then, turning to his horse with a loud curse, he pulled him up from his haunches, and led him and the cart farther down to one side of the dingle, muttering, as he passed me, 'Afraid! Hm!' I do not remember ever to have seen a more ruffianly-looking fellow; he was about six feet high, with an immensely athletic frame; his face was black and bluff, and sported an immense pair of whiskers, but with here and there a gray hair, for his age could not be much under fifty. He wore a faded blue frock-coat, corduroys, and highlows; on his black head was a kind of red nightcap, round his bull neck a Barcelona handkerchief--I did not like the look of the man at all. 'Afraid!' growled the fellow, proceeding to unharness his horse; 'that was the word, I think.' But other figures were now already upon the scene. Dashing past the other horse and cart, which by this time had reached the bottom of the pass, appeared an exceedingly tall woman, or rather girl, for she could scarcely have been above eighteen; she was dressed in a tight bodice and a blue stuff gown; hat, bonnet, or cap she had none, and her hair, which was flaxen, hung down on her shoulders unconfined; her complexion was fair, and her features handsome, with a determined but open expression--she was followed by another female, about forty, stout and vulgar-looking, at whom I scarcely glanced, my whole attention being absorbed by the tall girl. 'What's the matter, Jack?' said the latter, looking at the man. 'Only afraid, that's all,' said the man, still proceeding with his work. 'Afraid at what--at that lad? why, he looks like a ghost--I would engage to thrash him with one hand.' 'You might beat me with no hands at all,' said I, 'fair damsel, only by looking at me--I never saw such a face and figure, both regal--why, you look like Ingeborg, Queen of Norway; she had twelve brothers, you know, and could lick them all, though they were heroes:-- On Dovrefeld in Norway Were once together seen The twelve heroic brothers Of Ingeborg the queen.' 'None of your chaffing, young fellow,' said the tall girl, 'or I will give you what shall make you wipe your face; be civil, or you will rue it.' 'Well, perhaps I was a peg too high,' said I; 'I ask your pardon--here's something a bit lower:-- As I was jawing to the gav yeck divvus I met on the drom miro Rommany chi--' None of your Rommany chies, young fellow,' said the tall girl, looking more menacingly than before, and clenching her fist; 'you had better be civil, I am none of your chies; and though I keep company with gypsies, or, to speak more proper, half-and-halfs, I would have you to know that I come of Christian blood and parents, and was born in the great house of Long Melford.' 'I have no doubt,' said I, 'that it was a great house; judging from your size I shouldn't wonder if you were born in a church.' 'Stay, Belle,' said the man, putting himself before the young virago, who was about to rush upon me, 'my turn is first'--then, advancing to me in a menacing attitude, he said, with a look of deep malignity, '"Afraid," was the word, wasn't it?' 'It was,' said I, 'but I think I wronged you; I should have said, aghast; you exhibited every symptom of one labouring under uncontrollable fear.' The fellow stared at me with a look of stupid ferocity, and appeared to be hesitating whether to strike or not: ere he could make up his mind, the tall girl started forward, crying, 'He's chaffing; let me at him'; and before I could put myself on my guard, she struck me a blow on the face which had nearly brought me to the ground. {picture:The fellow stared at me with a look of stupid ferocity, and appeared to be hesitating whether to strike or not: page480.jpg} 'Enough,' said I, putting my hand to my cheek; 'you have now performed your promise, and made me wipe my face: now be pacified, and tell me fairly the grounds of this quarrel.' 'Grounds!' said the fellow; 'didn't you say I was afraid; and if you hadn't, who gave you leave to camp on my ground?' 'Is it your ground?' said I. 'A pretty question,' said the fellow; 'as if all the world didn't know that. Do you know who I am?' 'I guess I do,' said I; 'unless I am much mistaken, you are he whom folks call the "Flaming Tinman." To tell you the truth, I'm glad we have met, for I wished to see you. These are your two wives, I suppose; I greet them. There's no harm done--there's room enough here for all of us--we shall soon be good friends, I daresay; and when we are a little better acquainted, I'll tell you my history.' 'Well, if that doesn't beat all!' said the fellow. 'I don't think he's chaffing now,' said the girl, whose anger seemed to have subsided on a sudden; 'the young man speaks civil enough.' 'Civil!' said the fellow, with an oath; 'but that's just like you; with you it is a blow, and all over. Civil! I suppose you would have him stay here, and get into all my secrets, and hear all I may have to say to my two morts.' 'Two morts!' said the girl, kindling up, 'where are they? Speak for one, and no more. I am no mort of yours, whatever some one else may be. I tell you one thing, Black John, or Anselo,--for t'other ain't your name,--the same thing I told the young man here, be civil, or you will rue it.' The fellow looked at the girl furiously, but his glance soon quailed before hers; he withdrew his eyes, and cast them on my little horse, which was feeding amongst the trees. 'What's this?' said he, rushing forward and seizing the animal. 'Why, as I am alive, this is the horse of that mumping villain Slingsby.' 'It's his no longer; I bought it and paid for it.' 'It's mine now,' said the fellow; 'I swore I would seize it the next time I found it on my beat; ay, and beat the master too.' 'I am not Slingsby.' 'All's one for that.' 'You don't say you will beat me?' 'Afraid was the word.' 'I'm sick and feeble.' 'Hold up your fists.' 'Won't the horse satisfy you?' 'Horse nor bellows either.' 'No mercy, then?' 'Here's at you.' 'Mind your eyes, Jack. There, you've got it. I thought so,' shouted the girl, as the fellow staggered back from a sharp blow in the eye; 'I thought he was chaffing at you all along.' 'Never mind, Anselo. You know what to do--go in,' said the vulgar woman, who had hitherto not spoken a word, but who now came forward with all the look of a fury; 'go inapopli; you'll smash ten like he.' The Flaming Tinman took her advice, and came in bent on smashing, but stopped short on receiving a left-handed blow on the nose. 'You'll never beat the Flaming Tinman in that way,' said the girl, looking at me doubtfully. And so I began to think myself, when, in the twinkling of an eye, the Flaming Tinman, disengaging himself of his frock-coat, and dashing off his red night-cap, came rushing in more desperately than ever. To a flush hit which he received in the mouth he paid as little attention as a wild bull would have done; in a moment his arms were around me, and in another he had hurled me down, falling heavily upon me. The fellow's strength appeared to be tremendous. 'Pay him off now,' said the vulgar woman. The Flaming Tinman made no reply, but, planting his knee on my breast, seized my throat with two huge horny hands. I gave myself up for dead, and probably should have been so in another minute but for the tall girl, who caught hold of the handkerchief which the fellow wore round his neck, with a grasp nearly as powerful us that with which he pressed my throat. 'Do you call that fair play?' said she. 'Hands off, Belle,' said the other woman; 'do you call it fair play to interfere? hands off, or I'll be down upon you myself.' But Belle paid no heed to the injunction, and tugged so hard at the handkerchief that the Flaming Tinman was nearly throttled; suddenly relinquishing his hold of me, he started on his feet, and aimed a blow at my fair preserver, who avoided it, but said coolly:-- 'Finish t'other business first, and then I'm your woman whenever you like; but finish it fairly--no foul play when I'm by--I'll be the boy's second, and Moll can pick up you when he happens to knock you down.' The battle during the next ten minutes raged with considerable fury, but it so happened that during this time I was never able to knock the Flaming Tinman down, but on the contrary received six knock-down blows myself. 'I can never stand this,' said I, as I sat on the knee of Belle, 'I am afraid I must give in; the Flaming Tinman hits very hard,' and I spat out a mouthful of blood. 'Sure enough you'll never beat the Flaming Tinman in the way you fight--it's of no use flipping at the Flaming Tinman with your left hand; why don't you use your right?' 'Because I'm not handy with it,' said I; and then getting up, I once more confronted the Flaming Tinman, and struck him six blows for his one, but they were all left-handed blows, and the blow which the Flaming Tinman gave me knocked me off my legs. 'Now, will you use Long Melford?' said Belle, picking me up. 'I don't know what you mean by Long Melford,' said I, gasping for breath. 'Why, this long right of yours,' said Belle, feeling my right arm; 'if you do, I shouldn't wonder if you yet stand a chance.' And now the Flaming Tinman was once more ready, much more ready than myself. I, however, rose from my second's knee as well as my weakness would permit me. On he came, striking left and right, appearing almost as fresh as to wind and spirit as when he first commenced the combat, though his eyes were considerably swelled, and his nether lip was cut in two; on he came, striking left and right, and I did not like his blows at all, or even the wind of them, which was anything but agreeable, and I gave way before him. At last he aimed a blow which, had it taken full effect, would doubtless have ended the battle, but owing to his slipping, the fist only grazed my left shoulder, and came with terrific force against a tree, close to which I had been driven; before the Tinman could recover himself, I collected all my strength, and struck him beneath the ear, and then fell to the ground completely exhausted; and it so happened that the blow which I struck the Tinker beneath the ear was a right-handed blow. {picture:His eyes were considerably swelled, and his nether lip was cut in two: page483.jpg} 'Hurrah for Long Melford!' I heard Belle exclaim; 'there is nothing like Long Melford for shortness, all the world over.' At these words I turned round my head as I lay, and perceived the Flaming Tinman stretched upon the ground apparently senseless. 'He is dead,' said the vulgar woman, as she vainly endeavoured to raise him up; 'he is dead; the best man in all the north country, killed in this fashion, by a boy!' Alarmed at these words, I made shift to get on my feet; and, with the assistance of the woman, placed my fallen adversary in a sitting posture. I put my hand to his heart, and felt a slight pulsation--'He's not dead,' said I, 'only stunned; if he were let blood, he would recover presently.' I produced a penknife which I had in my pocket, and, baring the arm of the Tinman, was about to make the necessary incision, when the woman gave me a violent blow, and, pushing me aside, exclaimed, 'I'll tear the eyes out of your head if you offer to touch him. Do you want to complete your work, and murder him outright, now he's asleep? you have had enough of his blood already.' 'You are mad,' said I, 'I only seek to do him service. Well, if you won't let him be blooded, fetch some water and fling it in his face, you know where the pit is.' {picture:It so happened that the blow which I struck the Tinker beneath the ear was a right-handed blow: page485.jpg} 'A pretty manoeuvre!' said the woman; 'leave my husband in the hands of you and that limmer, who has never been true to us--I should find him strangled or his throat cut when I came back.' 'Do you go,' said I to the tall girl; 'take the can and fetch some water from the pit.' 'You had better go yourself,' said the girl, wiping a tear as she looked on the yet senseless form of the Tinker; 'you had better go yourself, if you think water will do him good.' I had by this time somewhat recovered my exhausted powers, and, taking the can, I bent my steps as fast as I could to the pit; arriving there, I lay down on the brink, took a long draught, and then plunged my head into the water; after which I filled the can, and bent my way back to the dingle. Before I could reach the path which led down into its depths, I had to pass some way along its side; I had arrived at a part immediately over the scene of the last encounter, where the bank, overgrown with trees, sloped precipitously down. Here I heard a loud sound of voices in the dingle; I stopped, and laying hold of a tree, leaned over the bank and listened. The two women appeared to be in hot dispute in the dingle. 'It was all owing to you, you limmer,' said the vulgar woman to the other; 'had you not interfered, the old man would soon have settled the boy.' 'I'm for fair play and Long Melford,' said the other. 'If your old man, as you call him, could have settled the boy fairly, he might for all I should have cared, but no foul work for me, and as for sticking the boy with our gulleys when he comes back, as you proposed, I am not so fond of your old man or you that I should oblige you in it, to my soul's destruction.' 'Hold your tongue, or I'll--' I listened no farther, but hastened as fast as I could to the dingle. My adversary had just begun to show signs of animation; the vulgar woman was still supporting him, and occasionally cast glances of anger at the tall girl, who was walking slowly up and down. I lost no time in dashing the greater part of the water into the Tinman's face, whereupon he sneezed, moved his hands, and presently looked round him. At first his looks were dull and heavy, and without any intelligence at all; he soon, however, began to recollect himself, and to be conscious of his situation; he cast a scowling glance at me, then one of the deepest malignity at the tall girl, who was still walking about without taking much notice of what was going forward. At last he looked at his right hand, which had evidently suffered from the blow against the tree, and a half-stifled curse escaped his lips. The vulgar woman now said something to him in a low tone, whereupon he looked at her for a moment, and then got upon his legs. Again the vulgar woman said something to him; her looks were furious, and she appeared to be urging him on to attempt something. I observed that she had a clasped knife in her hand. The fellow remained standing for some time as if hesitating what to do; at last he looked at his hand, and, shaking his head, said something to the woman which I did not understand. The tall girl, however, appeared to overhear him, and, probably repeating his words, said, 'No, it won't do; you are right there; and now hear what I have to say,--let bygones be bygones, and let us all shake hands, and camp here, as the young man was saying just now.' The man looked at her, and then, without any reply, went to his horse, which was lying down among the trees, and kicking it up, led it to the cart, to which he forthwith began to harness it. The other cart and horse had remained standing motionless during the whole affair which I have been recounting, at the bottom of the pass. The woman now took the horse by the head, and leading it with the cart into the open part of the dingle, turned both round, and then led them back, till the horse and cart had mounted a little way up the ascent; she then stood still and appeared to be expecting the man. During this proceeding Belle had stood looking on without saying anything; at last, perceiving that the man had harnessed his horse to the other cart, and that both he and the woman were about to take their departure, she said, 'You are not going, are you?' Receiving no answer, she continued: 'I tell you what, both of you, Black John, and you Moll, his mort, this is not treating me over civilly,--however, I am ready to put up with it, and to go with you if you like, for I bear no malice. I'm sorry for what has happened, but you have only yourselves to thank for it. Now, shall I go with you, only tell me?' The man made no manner of reply, but flogged his horse. The woman, however, whose passions were probably under less control, replied, with a screeching tone, 'Stay where you are, you jade, and may the curse of Judas cling to you,--stay with the bit of a mullo whom you helped, and my only hope is that he may gulley you before he comes to be . . . . Have you with us, indeed! after what's past! no, nor nothing belonging to you. Fetch down your mailia go-cart and live here with your chabo.' She then whipped on the horse, and ascended the pass, followed by the man. The carts were light, and they were not long in ascending the winding path. I followed to see that they took their departure. Arriving at the top, I found near the entrance a small donkey-cart, which I concluded belonged to the girl. The tinker and his mort were already at some distance; I stood looking after them for a little time, then taking the donkey by the reins I led it with the cart to the bottom of the dingle. Arrived there, I found Belle seated on the stone by the fireplace. Her hair was all dishevelled, and she was in tears. 'They were bad people,' said she, 'and I did not like them, but they were my only acquaintance in the wide world.' {picture:The tinker and his mort were already at some distance; I stood looking after them for a little time: page488.jpg} CHAPTER LXXXVI At tea--Vapours--Isopel Berners--Softly and kindly--Sweet pretty creature--Bread and water--Two sailors--Truth and constancy--Very strangely. In the evening of that same day the tall girl and I sat at tea by the fire, at the bottom of the dingle; the girl on a small stool, and myself, as usual, upon my stone. The water which served for the tea had been taken from a spring of pellucid water in the neighbourhood, which I had not had the good fortune to discover, though it was well known to my companion, and to the wandering people who frequented the dingle. 'This tea is very good,' said I, 'but I cannot enjoy it as much as if I were well: I feel very sadly.' 'How else should you feel,' said the girl, 'after fighting with the Flaming Tinman? All I wonder at is that you can feel at all! As for the tea, it ought to be good, seeing that it cost me ten shillings a pound.' 'That's a great deal for a person in your station to pay.' 'In my station! I'd have you to know, young man--however, I haven't the heart to quarrel with you, you look so ill; and after all, it is a good sum for one to pay who travels the roads; but if I must have tea, I like to have the best; and tea I must have, for I am used to it, though I can't help thinking that it sometimes fills my head with strange fancies--what some folks call vapours, making me weep and cry.' 'Dear me,' said I, 'I should never have thought that one of your size and fierceness would weep and cry!' 'My size and fierceness! I tell you what, young man, you are not over civil this evening; but you are ill, as I said before, and I shan't take much notice of your language, at least for the present; as for my size, I am not so much bigger than yourself; and as for being fierce, you should be the last one to fling that at me. It is well for you that I can be fierce sometimes. If I hadn't taken your part against Blazing Bosville, you wouldn't be now taking tea with me.' 'It is true that you struck me in the face first; but we'll let that pass. So that man's name is Bosville; what's your own?' 'Isopel Berners.' {picture:Isopel Berners: page491.jpg} 'How did you get that name?' 'I say, young man, you seem fond of asking questions: will you have another cup of tea?' 'I was just going to ask for another.' 'Well, then, here it is, and much good may it do you; as for my name, I got it from my mother.' 'Your mother's name, then, was Isopel!' 'Isopel Berners.' 'But had you never a father?' 'Yes, I had a father,' said the girl, sighing, 'but I don't bear his name.' 'Is it the fashion, then, in your country for children to bear their mother's name?' 'If you ask such questions, young man, I shall be angry with you. I have told you my name, and, whether my father's or mother's, I am not ashamed of it.' 'It is a noble name.' 'There you are right, young man. The chaplain in the great house where I was born told me it was a noble name; it was odd enough, he said, that the only three noble names in the county were to be found in the great house; mine was one; the other two were Devereux and Bohun.' 'What do you mean by the great house?' 'The workhouse.' 'Is it possible that you were born there?' 'Yes, young man; and as you now speak softly and kindly, I will tell you my whole tale. My father was an officer of the sea, and was killed at sea as he was coming home to marry my mother, Isopel Berners. He had been acquainted with her, and had left her; but after a few months he wrote her a letter, to say that he had no rest, and that he repented, and that as soon as his ship came to port he would do her all the reparation in his power. Well, young man, the very day before they reached port they met the enemy, and there was a fight, and my father was killed, after he had struck down six of the enemy's crew on their own deck; for my father was a big man, as I have heard, and knew tolerably well how to use his hands, And when my mother heard the news, she became half distracted, and ran away into the fields and forests, totally neglecting her business, for she was a small milliner; and so she ran demented about the meads and forests for a long time, now sitting under a tree, and now by the side of a river--at last she flung herself into some water, and would have been drowned, had not some one been at hand and rescued her, whereupon she was conveyed to the great house, lest she should attempt to do herself farther mischief, for she had neither friends nor parents--and there she died three months after, having first brought me into the world. She was a sweet pretty creature, I'm told, but hardly fit for this world, being neither large, nor fierce, nor able to take her own part. So I was born and bred in the great house, where I learnt to read and sew, to fear God, and to take my own part. When I was fourteen I was put out to service to a small farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not stay long, for I was half-starved, and otherwise ill treated, especially by my mistress, who one day attempting to knock me down with a besom, I knocked her down with my fist, and went back to the great house.' 'And how did they receive you in the great house?' 'Not very kindly, young man--on the contrary, I was put into a dark room, where I was kept a fortnight on bread and water; I did not much care, however, being glad to have got back to the great house at any rate--the place where I was born, and where my poor mother died; and in the great house I continued two years longer, reading and sewing, fearing God, and taking my own part when necessary. At the end of the two years I was again put out to service, but this time to a rich farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not live long, less time, I believe, than with the poor ones, being obliged to leave for--' 'Knocking your mistress down?' 'No, young man, knocking my master down, who conducted himself improperly towards me. This time I did not go back to the great house, having a misgiving that they would not receive me; so I turned my back to the great house where I was born, and where my poor mother died, and wandered for several days I know not whither, supporting myself on a few halfpence which I chanced to have in my pocket. It happened one day, as I sat under a hedge crying, having spent my last farthing, that a comfortable- looking elderly woman came up in a cart, and seeing the state in which I was, she stopped and asked what was the matter with me; I told her some part of my story, whereupon she said, 'Cheer up, my dear; if you like, you shall go with me, and wait upon me.' Of course I wanted little persuasion, so I got into the cart and went with her. She took me to London and various other places, and I soon found that she was a travelling woman, who went about the country with silks and linen. I was of great use to her, more especially in those places where we met evil company. Once, as we were coming from Dover, we were met by two sailors, who stopped our cart, and would have robbed and stripped us. 'Let me get down,' said I; so I got down, and fought with them both, till they turned round and ran away. Two years I lived with the old gentlewoman, who was very kind to me, almost as kind as a mother; at last she fell sick at a place in Lincolnshire, and after a few days died, leaving me her cart and stock in trade, praying me only to see her decently buried--which I did, giving her a funeral fit for a gentlewoman. After which I travelled the country--melancholy enough for want of company, but so far fortunate, that I could take my own part when anybody was uncivil to me. At last, passing through the valley of Todmorden, I formed the acquaintance of Blazing Bosville and his wife, with whom I occasionally took journeys for company's sake, for it is melancholy to travel about alone, even when one can take one's own part. I soon found they were evil people; but, upon the whole, they treated me civilly, and I sometimes lent them a little money, so that we got on tolerably well together. He and I, it is true, had once a dispute, and nearly came to blows; for once, when we were alone, he wanted me to marry him, promising, if I would, to turn off Grey Moll, or, if I liked it better, to make her wait upon me as a maid-servant; I never liked him much, but from that hour less than ever. Of the two, I believe Grey Moll to be the best, for she is at any rate true and faithful to him, and I like truth and constancy--don't you, young man?' 'Yes,' said I, 'they are very nice things. I feel very strangely.' 'How do you feel, young man? 'Very much afraid.' 'Afraid, at what? At the Flaming Tinman? Don't be afraid of him. He won't come back, and if he did, he shouldn't touch you in this state, I'd fight him for you; but he won't come back, so you needn't be afraid of him.' 'I'm not afraid of the Flaming Tinman.' 'What, then, are you afraid of?' 'The evil one.' 'The evil one!' said the girl, 'where is he?' 'Coming upon me.' 'Never heed,' said the girl, 'I'll stand by you.' CHAPTER LXXXVII Hubbub of voices--No offence--Nodding--The guests. The kitchen of the public-house was a large one, and many people were drinking in it; there was a confused hubbub of voices. I sat down on a bench behind a deal table, of which there were three or four in the kitchen; presently a bulky man, in a green coat of the Newmarket cut, and without a hat, entered, and observing me, came up, and in rather a gruff tone cried, 'Want anything, young fellow?' 'Bring me a jug of ale,' said I, 'if you are the master, as I suppose you are, by that same coat of yours, and your having no hat on your head.' 'Don't be saucy, young fellow,' said the landlord, for such he was; 'don't be saucy, or--' Whatever he intended to say he left unsaid, for fixing his eyes upon one of my hands, which I had placed by chance upon the table, he became suddenly still. This was my left hand, which was raw and swollen, from the blows dealt on a certain hard skull in a recent combat. 'What do you mean by staring at my hand so?' said I, withdrawing it from the table. 'No offence, young man, no offence,' said the landlord, in a quite altered tone; 'but the sight of your hand--' then observing that our conversation began to attract the notice of the guests in the kitchen, he interrupted himself, saying in an undertone, 'But mum's the word for the present, I will go and fetch the ale.' In about a minute he returned, with a jug of ale foaming high. 'Here's your health,' said he, blowing off the foam, and drinking; but perceiving that I looked rather dissatisfied, he murmured, 'All's right, I glory in you; but mum's the word.' Then, placing the jug on the table, he gave me a confidential nod, and swaggered out of the room. What can the silly impertinent fellow mean? thought I; but the ale was now before me, and I hastened to drink, for my weakness was great, and my mind was full of dark thoughts, the remains of the indescribable horror of the preceding night. It may kill me, thought I, as I drank deep--but who cares? anything is better than what I have suffered. I drank deep, and then leaned back against the wall: it appeared as if a vapour was stealing up into my brain, gentle and benign, soothing and stifling the horror and the fear; higher and higher it mounted, and I felt nearly overcome; but the sensation was delicious, compared with that I had lately experienced, and now I felt myself nodding; and, bending down, I laid my head on the table on my folded hands. And in that attitude I remained some time, perfectly unconscious. At length, by degrees, perception returned, and I lifted up my head. I felt somewhat dizzy and bewildered, but the dark shadow had withdrawn itself from me. And now once more I drank of the jug; this second draught did not produce an overpowering effect upon me--it revived and strengthened me--I felt a new man. I looked around me; the kitchen had been deserted by the greater part of the guests; besides myself, only four remained; these were seated at the farther end. One was haranguing fiercely and eagerly; he was abusing England, and praising America. At last he exclaimed, 'So when I gets to New York, I will toss up my hat, and damn the King.' That man must be a Radical, thought I. CHAPTER LXXXVIII A Radical--Simple-looking man--Church of England--The President--Aristocracy--Gin and water--Mending the roads--Persecuting Church--Simon de Montfort--Broken bells--Get up--Not for the Pope--Quay of New York--Mumpers' Dingle--No wish to fight--First draught--A poor pipe--Half-a-crown broke. The individual whom I supposed to be a Radical, after a short pause, again uplifted his voice; he was rather a strong-built fellow of about thirty, with an ill-favoured countenance, a white hat on his head, a snuff-coloured coat on his back, and when he was not speaking, a pipe in his mouth. 'Who would live in such a country as England?' he shouted. 'There is no country like America,' said his nearest neighbour, a man also in a white hat, and of a very ill-favoured countenance--'there is no country like America,' said he, withdrawing a pipe from his mouth; 'I think I shall--' and here he took a draught from a jug, the contents of which he appeared to have in common with the other,--'go to America one of these days myself.' 'Poor old England is not such a bad country, after all,' said a third, a simple-looking man in a labouring dress, who sat smoking a pipe without anything before him. 'If there was but a little more work to be got, I should have nothing to say against her; I hope, however--' 'You hope! who cares what you hope?' interrupted the first, in a savage tone; 'you are one of those sneaking hounds who are satisfied with dogs' wages--a bit of bread and a kick. Work, indeed! who, with the spirit of a man, would work for a country where there is neither liberty of speech nor of action? a land full of beggarly aristocracy, hungry borough-mongers, insolent parsons, and "their . . . wives and daughters," as William Cobbett says, in his "Register."' 'Ah, the Church of England has been a source of incalculable mischief to these realms,' said another. The person who uttered these words sat rather aloof from the rest; he was dressed in a long black surtout. I could not see much of his face, partly owing to his keeping it very much directed to the ground, and partly owing to a large slouched hat which he wore; I observed, however, that his hair was of a reddish tinge. On the table near him was a glass and spoon. 'You are quite right,' said the first, alluding to what this last had said, 'the Church of England has done incalculable mischief here. I value no religion three halfpence, for I believe in none; but the one that I hate most is the Church of England; so when I get to New York, after I have shown the fine fellows on the quay a spice of me, by . . . the King, I'll toss up my hat again, and . . . the Church of England too.' 'And suppose the people of New York should clap you in the stocks?' said I. These words drew upon me the attention of the whole four. The Radical and his companion stared at me ferociously; the man in black gave me a peculiar glance from under his slouched hat; the simple-looking man in the labouring dress laughed. 'What are you laughing at, you fool?' said the Radical, turning and looking at the other, who appeared to be afraid of him; 'hold your noise; and a pretty fellow, you,' said he, looking at me, 'to come here, and speak against the great American nation.' 'I speak against the great American nation!' said I; 'I rather paid them a compliment.' 'By supposing they would put me in the stocks. Well, I call it abusing them, to suppose they would do any such thing--stocks, indeed!--there are no stocks in all the land. Put me in the stocks! why, the President will come down to the quay, and ask me to dinner, as soon as he hears what I have said about the King and Church.' 'I shouldn't wonder,' said I, 'if you go to America you will say of the President and country what now you say of the King and Church, and cry out for somebody to send you back to England.' The Radical dashed his pipe to pieces against the table. 'I tell you what, young fellow, you are a spy of the aristocracy, sent here to kick up a disturbance.' 'Kicking up a disturbance,' said I, 'is rather inconsistent with the office of spy. If I were a spy, I should hold my head down, and say nothing.' The man in black partially raised his head, and gave me another peculiar glance. 'Well, if you aren't sent to spy, you are sent to bully, to prevent people speaking, and to run down the great American nation; but you shan't bully me. I say, down with the aristocracy, the beggarly British aristocracy. Come, what have you to say to that?' 'Nothing,' said I. 'Nothing!' repeated the Radical. 'No,' said I, 'down with them as soon as you can.' 'As soon as I can! I wish I could. But I can down with a bully of theirs. Come, will you fight for them?' 'No,' said I. 'You won't? 'No,' said I; 'though, from what I have seen of them, I should say they are tolerably able to fight for themselves.' 'You won't fight for them,' said the Radical triumphantly; 'I thought so; all bullies, especially those of the aristocracy, are cowards. Here, landlord,' said he, raising his voice, and striking against the table with the jug, 'some more ale--he won't fight for his friends.' 'A white feather,' said his companion. 'He! he!' tittered the man in black. 'Landlord, landlord,' shouted the Radical, striking the table with the jug louder than before. 'Who called?' said the landlord, coming in at last. 'Fill this jug again,' said the other, 'and be quick about it.' 'Does any one else want anything?' said the landlord. 'Yes,' said the man in black; 'you may bring me another glass of gin and water.' 'Cold?' said the landlord. 'Yes,' said the man in black, 'with a lump of sugar in it.' 'Gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it,' said I, and struck the table with my fist. 'Take some?' said the landlord, inquiringly. 'No,' said I, 'only something came into my head.' 'He's mad,' said the man in black. 'Not he,' said the Radical. 'He's only shamming; he knows his master is here, and therefore has recourse to these manoeuvres, but it won't do. Come, landlord, what are you staring at? Why don't you obey your orders? Keeping your customers waiting in this manner is not the way to increase your business.' The landlord looked at the Radical, and then at me. At last, taking the jug and glass, he left the apartment, and presently returned with each filled with its respective liquor. He placed the jug with beer before the Radical, and the glass with the gin and water before the man in black, and then, with a wink to me, he sauntered out. 'Here is your health, sir,' said the man of the snuff-coloured coat, addressing himself to the one in black; 'I honour you for what you said about the Church of England. Every one who speaks against the Church of England has my warm heart. Down with it, I say, and may the stones of it be used for mending the roads, as my friend William says in his Register.' The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank to the man in the snuff-coloured coat. 'With respect to the steeples,' said he, 'I am not altogether of your opinion; they might be turned to better account than to serve to mend the roads; they might still be used as places of worship, but not for the worship of the Church of England. I have no fault to find with the steeples, it is the Church itself which I am compelled to arraign; but it will not stand long, the respectable part of its ministers are already leaving it. It is a bad Church, a persecuting Church.' 'Whom does it persecute?' said I. The man in black glanced at me slightly, and then replied slowly, 'The Catholics.' 'And do those whom you call Catholics never persecute?' said I. 'Never,' said the man in black. 'Did you ever read Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_?' said I. 'He! he!' tittered the man in black; 'there is not a word of truth in Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_.' 'Ten times more than in the _Flos Sanctorum_,' said I. The man in black looked at me, but made no answer. 'And what say you to the Massacre of the Albigenses and the Vaudois, "whose bones lie scattered on the cold Alp," or the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes?' The man in black made no answer. 'Go to,' said I; 'it is because the Church of England is not a persecuting church, that those whom you call the respectable part are leaving her; it is because they can't do with the poor Dissenters what Simon de Montfort did with the Albigenses, and the cruel Piedmontese with the Vaudois, that they turn to bloody Rome; the Pope will no doubt welcome them, for the Pope, do you see, being very much in want, will welcome--' 'Hollo!' said the Radical, interfering, 'what are you saying about the Pope? I say, hurrah for the Pope; I value no religion three halfpence, as I said before, but if I were to adopt any, it should be the Popish as it's called, because I conceives the Popish to be the grand enemy of the Church of England, of the beggarly aristocracy, and the borough-monger system, so I won't hear the Pope abused while I am by. Come, don't look fierce. You won't fight, you know, I have proved it; but I will give you another chance--I will fight for the Pope, will you fight against him?' 'Oh dear me, yes,' said I, getting up and stepping forward. 'I am a quiet peaceable young man, and, being so, am always ready to fight against the Pope--the enemy of all peace and quiet; to refuse fighting for the aristocracy is a widely different thing from refusing to fight against the Pope; so come on, if you are disposed to fight for him. To the Pope broken bells, to Saint James broken shells. No Popish vile oppression, but the Protestant succession. Confusion to the Groyne, hurrah for the Boyne, for the army at Clonmel, and the Protestant young gentlemen who live there as well.' 'An Orangeman,' said the man in black. 'Not a Platitude,' said I. The man in black gave a slight start. 'Amongst that family,' said I, 'no doubt, something may be done, but amongst the Methodist preachers I should conceive that the success would not be great.' The man in black sat quite still. 'Especially amongst those who have wives,' I added. The man in black stretched his hand towards his gin and water. 'However,' said I, 'we shall see what the grand movement will bring about, and the results of the lessons in elocution.' The man in black lifted the glass up to his mouth, and, in doing so, let the spoon fall. 'But what has this to do with the main question?' said I; 'I am waiting here to fight against the Pope.' 'Come, Hunter,' said the companion of the man in the snuff coloured coat, 'get up, and fight for the Pope.' 'I don't care for the young fellow,' said the man in the snuff-coloured coat. 'I know you don't,' said the other, 'so get up, and serve him out.' 'I could serve out three like him,' said the man in the snuff-coloured coat. 'So much the better for you,' said the other, 'the present work will be all the easier for you, get up, and serve him out at once.' The man in the snuff-coloured coat did not stir. 'Who shows the white feather now?' said the simple-looking man. 'He! he! he!' tittered the man in black. 'Who told you to interfere?' said the Radical, turning ferociously towards the simple-looking man; 'say another word and I'll--' 'And you!' said he, addressing himself to the man in black, 'a pretty fellow you to turn against me, after I had taken your part. I tell you what, you may fight for yourself. I'll see you and your Pope in the pit of Eldon before I fight for either of you, so make the most of it.' 'Then you won't fight?' said I. 'Not for the Pope,' said the Radical; 'I'll see the Pope--' 'Dear me!' said I, 'not fight for the Pope, whose religion you would turn to, if you were inclined for any. I see how it is, you are not fond of fighting; but I'll give you another chance--you were abusing the Church of England just now: I'll fight for it--will you fight against it?' 'Come, Hunter,' said the other, 'get up, and fight against the Church of England.' 'I have no particular quarrel against the Church of England,' said the man in the snuff-coloured coat, 'my quarrel is with the aristocracy. If I said anything against the Church, it was merely for a bit of corollary, as Master William Cobbett would say; the quarrel with the Church belongs to this fellow in black, so let him carry it on. However,' he continued suddenly, 'I won't slink from the matter either; it shall never be said by the fine fellows on the quay of New York that I wouldn't fight against the Church of England. So down with the beggarly aristocracy, the Church, and the Pope to the bottom of the pit of Eldon, and may the Pope fall first, and the others upon him.' Thereupon, dashing his hat on the table, he placed himself in an attitude of offence and rushed forward. He was, as I have said before, a powerful fellow, and might have proved a dangerous antagonist, more especially to myself, who, after my recent encounter with the Flaming Tinman, and my wrestlings with the evil one, was in anything but fighting order. Any collision, however, was prevented by the landlord, who, suddenly appearing, thrust himself between us. 'There shall be no fighting here,' said he; 'no one shall fight in this house, except it be with myself; so if you two have anything to say to each other, you had better go into the field behind the house. But, you fool,' said he, pushing Hunter violently on the breast, 'do you know whom you are going to tackle with?--this is the young chap that beat Blazing Bosville, only as late as yesterday, in Mumpers' Dingle. Grey Moll told me all about it last night, when she came for some brandy for her husband, who, she said, had been half killed; and she described the young man to me so closely that I knew him at once, that is, as soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, for she told me he was a left-hand hitter. Aren't it all true, young man? Aren't you he that beat Flaming Bosville, in Mumpers' Dingle?' 'I never beat Flaming Bosville,' said I, 'he beat himself. Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn't be here at the present moment.' 'Hear, hear!' said the landlord, 'now that's just as it should be; I like a modest man, for, as the parson says, nothing sits better upon a young man than modesty. I remember, when I was young, fighting with Tom of Hopton, the best man that ever pulled off coat in England. I remember, too, that I won the battle; for I happened to hit Tom of Hopton in the mark, as he was coming in, so that he lost his wind, and falling squelch on the ground, do ye see, he lost the battle, though I am free to confess that he was a better man than myself; indeed, the best man that ever fought in England; yet still, I won the battle, as every customer of mine, and everybody within twelve miles round, has heard over and over again. Now, Mr. Hunter, I have one thing to say, if you choose to go into the field behind the house, and fight the young man, you can. I'll back him for ten pounds; but no fighting in my kitchen--because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment.' 'I have no wish to fight the young man,' said Hunter; 'more especially as he has nothing to say for the aristocracy. If he chose to fight for them, indeed--but he won't, I know; for I see he's a decent, respectable young man; and, after all, fighting is a blackguard way of settling a dispute; so I have no wish to fight; however, there is one thing I'll do,' said he, uplifting his fist, 'I'll fight this fellow in black here for half a crown, or for nothing, if he pleases; it was he that got up the last dispute between me and the young man, with his Pope and his nonsense; so I will fight him for anything he pleases, and perhaps the young man will be my second; whilst you--' 'Come, Doctor,' said the landlord, 'or whatsoever you be, will you go into the field with Hunter? I'll second you, only you must back yourself. I'll lay five pounds on Hunter, if you are inclined to back yourself; and will help you to win it as far, do you see, as a second can; because why? I always likes to do the fair thing.' 'Oh, I have no wish to fight,' said the man in black, hastily; 'fighting is not my trade. If I have given any offence, I beg anybody's pardon.' 'Landlord,' said I, 'what have I to pay? 'Nothing at all,' said the landlord; 'glad to see you. This is the first time that you have been at my house, and I never charge new customers, at least customers such as you, anything for the first draught. You'll come again, I daresay; shall always be glad to see you. I won't take it,' said he, as I put sixpence on the table; 'I won't take it.' 'Yes, you shall,' said I; 'but not in payment for anything I have had myself: it shall serve to pay for a jug of ale for that gentleman,' said I, pointing to the simple-looking individual; 'he is smoking a poor pipe. I do not mean to say that a pipe is a bad thing; but a pipe without ale, do you see--' 'Bravo!' said the landlord, 'that's just the conduct I like.' 'Bravo!' said Hunter. 'I shall be happy to drink with the young man whenever I meet him at New York, where, do you see, things are better managed than here.' 'If I have given offence to anybody,' said the man in black, 'I repeat that I ask pardon,--more especially to the young gentleman, who was perfectly right to stand up for his religion, just as I--not that I am of any particular religion, no more than this honest gentleman here,' bowing to Hunter; 'but I happen to know something of the Catholics--several excellent friends of mine are Catholics--and of a surety the Catholic religion is an ancient religion, and a widely-extended religion, though it certainly is not a universal religion, but it has of late made considerable progress, even amongst those nations who have been particularly opposed to it--amongst the Prussians and the Dutch, for example, to say nothing of the English; and then, in the East, amongst the Persians, amongst the Armenians.' 'The Armenians,' said I; 'oh dear me, the Armenians--' 'Have you anything to say about those people, sir?' said the man in black, lifting up his glass to his mouth. 'I have nothing further to say,' said I, 'than that the roots of Ararat are occasionally found to be deeper than those of Rome.' 'There's half-a-crown broke,' said the landlord, as the man in black let fall the glass, which was broken to pieces on the floor. 'You will pay me the damage, friend, before you leave this kitchen. I like to see people drink freely in my kitchen, but not too freely, and I hate breakages; because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment.' CHAPTER LXXXIX The dingle--Give them ale--Not over complimentary--America--Many people--Washington--Promiscuous company--Language of the roads--The old women--Numerals--The man in black. The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to describe in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance of about two miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the west by the time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle seated by a fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During my absence she had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpaulins, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. 'I am glad you are returned,' said she, as soon as she perceived me; 'I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice?' 'Yes,' said I; 'I went to the public-house and drank ale, as you advised me; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away the horror from my mind--I am much beholden to you.' 'I knew it would do you good,' said Belle; 'I remembered that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics, and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good kind man, used to say, "Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong."' 'He was no advocate for tea, then?' said I. 'He had no objection to tea; but he used to say, "Everything in its season." Shall we take ours now?--I have waited for you.' 'I have no objection,' said I; 'I feel rather heated, and at present should prefer tea to ale--"Everything in its season," as the surgeon said.' Thereupon Belle prepared tea, and, as we were taking it, she said--'What did you see and hear at the public-house?' 'Really,' said I, 'you appear to have your full portion of curiosity; what matters it to you what I saw and heard at the public-house?' 'It matters very little to me,' said Belle; 'I merely inquired of you, for the sake of a little conversation--you were silent, and it is uncomfortable for two people to sit together without opening their lips--at least I think so.' 'One only feels uncomfortable,' said I, 'in being silent, when one happens to be thinking of the individual with whom one is in company. To tell you the truth, I was not thinking of my companion, but of certain company with whom I had been at the public-house.' 'Really, young man,' said Belle, 'you are not over complimentary; but who may this wonderful company have been--some young--?' and here Belle stopped. 'No,' said I, 'there was no young person--if person you were going to say. There was a big portly landlord, whom I daresay you have seen; a noisy savage Radical, who wanted at first to fasten upon me a quarrel about America, but who subsequently drew in his horns; then there was a strange fellow, a prowling priest, I believe, whom I have frequently heard of, who at first seemed disposed to side with the Radical against me, and afterwards with me against the Radical. There, you know my company, and what took place.' 'Was there no one else?' said Belle. 'You are mighty curious,' said I. 'No, none else, except a poor simple mechanic, and some common company, who soon went away.' Belle looked at me for a moment, and then appeared to be lost in thought--'America!' said she, musingly--'America!' 'What of America?' said I. 'I have heard that it is a mighty country.' 'I daresay it is,' said I; 'I have heard my father say that the Americans are first-rate marksmen.' 'I heard nothing about that,' said Belle; 'what I heard was, that it is a great and goodly land, where people can walk about without jostling, and where the industrious can always find bread; I have frequently thought of going thither.' 'Well,' said I, 'the Radical in the public-house will perhaps be glad of your company thither; he is as great an admirer of America as yourself, though I believe on different grounds.' 'I shall go by myself,' said Belle, 'unless--unless that should happen which is not likely--I am not fond of Radicals no more than I am of scoffers and mockers.' 'Do you mean to say that I am a scoffer and mocker?' 'I don't wish to say you are,' said Belle; 'but some of your words sound strangely like scoffing and mocking. I have now one thing to beg, which is, that if you have anything to say against America, you would speak it out boldly.' 'What should I have to say against America? I never was there.' 'Many people speak against America who never were there.' 'Many people speak in praise of America who never were there; but with respect to myself, I have not spoken for or against America.' 'If you liked America you would speak in its praise.' 'By the same rule, if I disliked America I should speak against it.' 'I can't speak with you,' said Belle; 'but I see you dislike the country.' 'The country!' 'Well, the people--don't you?' 'I do.' 'Why do you dislike them?' 'Why, I have heard my father say that the American marksmen, led on by a chap of the name of Washington, sent the English to the right-about in double-quick time.' 'And that is your reason for disliking the Americans?' 'Yes,' said I, 'that is my reason for disliking them.' 'Will you take another cup of tea?' said Belle. I took another cup; we were again silent. 'It is rather uncomfortable,' said I, at last, 'for people to sit together without having anything to say.' 'Were you thinking of your company?' said Belle. 'What company?' said I. 'The present company.' 'The present company! oh, ah--I remember that I said one only feels uncomfortable in being silent with a companion, when one happens to be thinking of the companion. Well, I had been thinking of you the last two or three minutes, and had just come to the conclusion that, to prevent us both feeling occasionally uncomfortably towards each other, having nothing to say, it would be as well to have a standing subject on which to employ our tongues. Belle, I have determined to give you lessons in Armenian.' 'What is Armenian?' 'Did you ever hear of Ararat?' 'Yes, that was the place where the ark rested; I have heard the chaplain in the great house talk of it; besides, I have read of it in the Bible.' 'Well, Armenian is the speech of people of that place, and I should like to teach it you.' 'To prevent--' 'Ay, ay, to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Your acquiring it besides might prove of ulterior advantage to us both; for example, suppose you and I were in promiscuous company, at Court, for example, and you had something to communicate to me which you did not wish any one else to be acquainted with, how safely you might communicate it to me in Armenian.' 'Would not the language of the roads do as well?' said Belle. 'In some places it would,' said I, 'but not at Court, owing to its resemblance to thieves' slang. There is Hebrew, again, which I was thinking of teaching you, till the idea of being presented at Court made me abandon it, from the probability of our being understood, in the event of our speaking it, by at least half a dozen people in our vicinity. There is Latin, it is true, or Greek, which we might speak aloud at Court with perfect confidence of safety, but upon the whole I should prefer teaching you Armenian, not because it would be a safer language to hold communication with at Court, but because, not being very well grounded in it myself, I am apprehensive that its words and forms may escape from my recollection, unless I have sometimes occasion to call them forth.' 'I am afraid we shall have to part company before I have learnt it,' said Belle; 'in the meantime, if I wish to say anything to you in private, somebody being by, shall I speak in the language of the roads?' 'If no roadster is nigh you may,' said I, 'and I will do my best to understand you. Belle, I will now give you a lesson in Armenian.' 'I suppose you mean no harm,' said Belle. 'Not in the least; I merely propose the thing to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Let us begin.' 'Stop till I have removed the tea things,' said Belle; and, getting up, she removed them to her own encampment. 'I am ready,' said Belle, returning, and taking her former seat, 'to join with you in anything which will serve to pass away the time agreeably, provided there is no harm in it.' 'Belle,' said I, 'I have determined to commence the course of Armenian lessons by teaching you the numerals; but, before I do that, it will be as well to tell you that the Armenian language is called Haik.' 'I am sure that word will hang upon my memory,' said Belle. 'Why hang upon it?' said I. 'Because the old women in the great house used to call so the chimney- hook, on which they hung the kettle; in like manner, on the hake of my memory I will hang your hake.' 'Good!' said I, 'you will make an apt scholar; but mind that I did not say hake, but haik; the words are, however, very much alike; and, as you observe, upon your hake you may hang my haik. We will now proceed to the numerals.' 'What are numerals?' said Belle. 'Numbers. I will say the Haikan numbers up to ten. There--have you heard them?' 'Yes.' 'Well, try and repeat them.' 'I only remember number one,' said Belle, 'and that because it is me.' ' I will repeat them again,' said I, 'and pay greater attention. Now, try again.' 'Me, jergo, earache.' 'I neither said jergo nor earache. I said yergou and yerek. Belle, I am afraid I shall have some difficulty with you as a scholar.' Belle made no answer. Her eyes were turned in the direction of the winding path which led from the bottom of the hollow, where we were seated, to the plain above. 'Gorgio shunella,' she said at length, in a low voice. 'Pure Rommany,' said I; 'where?' I added, in a whisper. 'Dovey odoi,' said Belle, nodding with her head towards the path. 'I will soon see who it is,' said I; and starting up, I rushed towards the pathway, intending to lay violent hands on any one I might find lurking in its windings. Before, however, I had reached its commencement, a man, somewhat above the middle height, advanced from it into the dingle, in whom I recognised the man in black whom I had seen in the public-house. CHAPTER XC Buona sera--Rather apprehensive--The steep bank--Lovely virgin--Hospitality--Tory minister--Custom of the country--Sneering smile--Wandering Zigan--Gypsies' cloaks--Certain faculty--Acute answer--Various ways--Addio--Best Hollands. The man in black and myself stood opposite to each other for a minute or two in silence; I will not say that we confronted each other that time, for the man in black, after a furtive glance, did not look me in the face, but kept his eyes fixed apparently on the leaves of a bunch of ground-nuts which were growing at my feet. At length, looking around the dingle, he exclaimed, 'Buona sera, I hope I don't intrude.' 'You have as much right here,' said I, 'as I or my companion; but you had no right to stand listening to our conversation.' 'I was not listening,' said the man, 'I was hesitating whether to advance or retire; and if I heard some of your conversation, the fault was not mine.' 'I do not see why you should have hesitated if your intentions were good,' said I. 'I think the kind of place in which I found myself might excuse some hesitation,' said the man in black, looking around; 'moreover, from what I had seen of your demeanour at the public-house, I was rather apprehensive that the reception I might experience at your hands might be more rough than agreeable.' 'And what may have been your motive for coming to this place?' said I. 'Per far visita a sua signoria, ecco il motivo.' 'Why do you speak to me in that gibberish,' said I; 'do you think I understand it?' 'It is not Armenian,' said the man in black; 'but it might serve, in a place like this, for the breathing of a little secret communication, were any common roadster near at hand. It would not do at Court, it is true, being the language of singing women, and the like; but we are not at Court--when we are, I can perhaps summon up a little indifferent Latin, if I have anything private to communicate to the learned Professor.' And at the conclusion of this speech the man in black lifted up his head, and, for some moments, looked me in the face. The muscles of his own seemed to be slightly convulsed, and his mouth opened in a singular manner 'I see,' said I, 'that for some time you were standing near me and my companion, in the mean act of listening.' 'Not at all,' said the man in black; 'I heard from the steep bank above, that to which I have now alluded, whilst I was puzzling myself to find the path which leads to your retreat. I made, indeed, nearly the compass of the whole thicket before I found it.' 'And how did you know that I was here?' I demanded. 'The landlord of the public-house, with whom I had some conversation concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt I should find you in this place, to which he gave me instructions not very clear. But, now I am here, I crave permission to remain a little time, in order that I may hold some communion with you.' 'Well,' said I, 'since you are come, you are welcome; please to step this way.' Thereupon I conducted the man in black to the fireplace, where Belle was standing, who had risen from her stool on my springing up to go in quest of the stranger. The man in black looked at her with evident curiosity, then making her rather a graceful bow, 'Lovely virgin,' said he, stretching out his hand, 'allow me to salute your fingers.' 'I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers,' said Belle. 'I did not presume to request to shake hands with you,' said the man in black, 'I merely wished to be permitted to salute with my lips the extremity of your two forefingers.' 'I never permit anything of the kind,' said Belle; ' I do not approve of such unmanly ways, they are only befitting those who lurk in corners or behind trees, listening to the conversation of people who would fain be private.' 'Do you take me for a listener then?' said the man in black. 'Ay, indeed I do,' said Belle; 'the young man may receive your excuses, and put confidence in them, if he please, but for my part I neither admit them nor believe them;' and thereupon flinging her long hair back, which was hanging over her cheeks, she seated herself on her stool. 'Come, Belle,' said I, 'I have bidden the gentleman welcome, I beseech you, therefore, to make him welcome; he is a stranger, where we are at home, therefore, even did we wish him away, we are bound to treat him kindly.' 'That's not English doctrine,' said the man in black. 'I thought the English prided themselves on their hospitality,' said I. 'They do so,' said the man in black; 'they are proud of showing hospitality to people above them, that is, to those who do not want it, but of the hospitality which you were now describing, and which is Arabian, they know nothing. No Englishman will tolerate another in his house, from whom he does not expect advantage of some kind, and to those from whom he does he can be civil enough. An Englishman thinks that, because he is in his own house, he has a right to be boorish and brutal to any one who is disagreeable to him, as all those are who are really in want of assistance. Should a hunted fugitive rush into an Englishman's house, beseeching protection, and appealing to the master's feelings of hospitality, the Englishman would knock him down in the passage.' 'You are too general,' said I, 'in your strictures. Lord ---, the unpopular Tory minister, was once chased through the streets of London by a mob, and, being in danger of his life, took shelter in the shop of a Whig linen-draper, declaring his own unpopular name, and appealing to the linen-draper's feelings of hospitality; whereupon the linen-draper, utterly forgetful of all party rancour, nobly responded to the appeal, and telling his wife to conduct his lordship upstairs, jumped over the counter, with his ell in his hand, and placing himself with half-a-dozen of his assistants at the door of his boutique, manfully confronted the mob, telling them that he would allow himself to be torn to a thousand pieces ere he would permit them to injure a hair of his lordship's head: what do you think of that?' 'He! he! he!' tittered the man in black. 'Well,' said I, 'I am afraid your own practice is not very different from that which you have been just now describing; you sided with the Radical in the public-house against me, as long as you thought him the most powerful, and then turned against him when you saw he was cowed. What have you to say to that?' 'Oh, when one is in Rome, I mean England, one must do as they do in England; I was merely conforming to the custom of the country, he! he! but I beg your pardon here, as I did in the public-house. I made a mistake.' 'Well,' said I, 'we will drop the matter, but pray seat yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you.' The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for occupying what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the stone, and I squatted down, gypsy-fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool at a slight distance on my right. After a time I addressed him thus: 'Am I to reckon this a mere visit of ceremony? should it prove so, it will be, I believe, the first visit of the kind ever paid me.' 'Will you permit me to ask,' said the man in black--'the weather is very warm,' said he, interrupting himself, and taking off his hat. I now observed that he was partly bald, his red hair having died away from the fore part of his crown--his forehead was high, his eyebrows scanty, his eyes gray and sly, with a downward tendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth rather large--a kind of sneering smile played continually on his lips, his complexion was somewhat rubicund. 'A bad countenance,' said Belle, in the language of the roads, observing that my eyes were fixed on his face. 'Does not my countenance please you, fair damsel?' said the man in black, resuming his hat, and speaking in a peculiarly gentle voice. 'How,' said I, 'do you understand the language of the roads?' 'As little as I do Armenian,' said the man in black; 'but I understand look and tone.' 'So do I, perhaps,' retorted Belle; 'and, to tell you the truth, I like your tone as little as your face.' 'For shame,' said I; 'have you forgot what I was saying just now about the duties of hospitality? You have not yet answered my question,' said I, addressing myself to the man, 'with respect to your visit.' 'Will you permit me to ask who you are?' 'Do you see the place where I live?' said I. 'I do,' said the man in black, looking around. 'Do you know the name of this place?' 'I was told it was Mumpers' or Gypsies' Dingle,' said the man in black. 'Good,' said I; 'and this forge and tent, what do they look like?' 'Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy.' 'Good,' said I; 'they belong to me.' 'Are you, then, a gypsy?' said the man in black. 'What else should I be?' 'But you seem to have been acquainted with various individuals with whom I have likewise had acquaintance; and you have even alluded to matters, and even words, which have passed between me and them.' 'Do you know how gypsies live?' said I. 'By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes.' 'Well,' said I, 'there's my forge, and yonder is some iron, though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer.' 'But how did you come by your knowledge?' 'Oh,' said I, 'if you want me to reveal the secrets of my trade, I have, of course, nothing further to say. Go to the scarlet dyer, and ask him how he dyes cloth.' 'Why scarlet?' said the man in black. 'Is it because gypsies blush like scarlet?' 'Gypsies never blush,' said I; 'but gypsies' cloaks are scarlet.' 'I should almost take you for a gypsy,' said the man in black, 'but for--' 'For what?' said I. 'But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing,' said the man in black, with a titter. 'And why should not a gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?' said I. 'Because the gypsy race is perfectly illiterate,' said the man in black; 'they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness, and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers--and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing che io non credo afatto.' 'What do you take me for?' said I. 'Why,' said the man in black, 'I should consider you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a gypsy life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for a philologist.' 'And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions acutely?' said I. 'Because the philological race is the most stupid under heaven,' said the man in black; 'they are possessed, it is true, of a certain faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them; but that any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, to say nothing of an acute one, on any subject--even though the subject were philology--is a thing of which I have no idea.' 'But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this handmaid?' 'I believe I did,' said the man in black. 'And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute answers to the questions you asked me?' 'I believe I did,' said the man in black. 'And would any one but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle? 'I should think not,' said the man in black. 'Well, then, don't you see that it is possible for a philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?' 'I really don't know,' said the man in black. 'What's the matter with you?' said I. 'Merely puzzled,' said the man in black. 'Puzzled? 'Yes.' 'Really puzzled?' 'Yes.' 'Remain so.' 'Well,' said the man in black, rising, 'puzzled or not, I will no longer trespass upon your and this young lady's retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion.' 'No apology is necessary,' said I; 'will you please to take anything before you go? I think this young lady, at my request, would contrive to make you a cup of tea.' 'Tea!' said the man in black; 'he! he! I don't drink tea; I don't like it--if, indeed, you had,' and here he stopped. 'There's nothing like gin and water, is there?' said I, 'but I am sorry to say I have none.' 'Gin and water,' said the man in black, 'how do you know that I am fond of gin and water?' 'Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house?' 'You did,' said the man in black, 'and I remember that, when I called for some you repeated my words--permit me to ask, is gin and water an unusual drink in England?' 'It is not usually drunk cold, and with a lump of sugar,' said I. 'And did you know who I was by my calling for it so?' 'Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information,' said I. 'With all your knowledge,' said the man in black, 'you do not appear to have known that I was coming to visit you?' 'Gypsies do not pretend to know anything which relates to themselves,' said I; 'but I advise you, if you ever come again, to come openly.' 'Have I your permission to come again?' said the man in black. 'Come when you please; this dingle is as free for you as me.' 'I will visit you again,' said the man in black--'till then, addio.' 'Belle,' said I, after the man in black had departed, 'we did not treat that man very hospitably; he left us without having eaten or drunk at our expense.' 'You offered him some tea,' said Belle, 'which, as it is mine, I should have grudged him, for I like him not.' 'Our liking or disliking him had nothing to do with the matter, he was our visitor, and ought not to have been permitted to depart dry; living as we do in this desert, we ought always to be prepared to administer to the wants of our visitors. Belle, do you know where to procure any good Hollands?' 'I think I do,' said Belle, 'but--' 'I will have no buts. Belle, I expect that with as little delay as possible you procure, at my expense, the best Hollands you can find.' CHAPTER XCI Excursions--Adventurous English--Opaque forests--The greatest patience. Time passed on, and Belle and I lived in the dingle; when I say lived, the reader must not imagine that we were always there. She went out upon her pursuits, and I went out where inclination led me; but my excursions were very short ones, and hers occasionally occupied whole days and nights. If I am asked how we passed the time when we were together in the dingle, I would answer that we passed the time very tolerably, all things considered; we conversed together, and when tired of conversing I would sometimes give Belle a lesson in Armenian; her progress was not particularly brilliant, but upon the whole satisfactory; in about a fortnight she had hung up one hundred Haikan numerals upon the hake of her memory. I found her conversation highly entertaining; she had seen much of England and Wales, and had been acquainted with some of the most remarkable characters who travelled the roads at that period; and let me be permitted to say that many remarkable characters have travelled the roads of England, of whom fame has never said a word. I loved to hear her anecdotes of these people; some of whom I found had occasionally attempted to lay violent hands either upon her person or effects, and had invariably been humbled by her without the assistance of either justice or constable. I could clearly see, however, that she was rather tired of England, and wished for a change of scene; she was particularly fond of talking of America, to which country her aspirations chiefly tended. She had heard much of America, which had excited her imagination; for at that time America was much talked of, on roads and in homesteads--at least, so said Belle, who had good opportunities of knowing--and most people allowed that it was a good country for adventurous English. The people who chiefly spoke against it, as she informed me, were soldiers disbanded upon pensions, the sextons of village churches, and excisemen. Belle had a craving desire to visit that country, and to wander with cart and little animal amongst its forests; when I would occasionally object that she would be exposed to danger from strange and perverse customers, she said that she had not wandered the roads of England so long and alone, to be afraid of anything which might befall in America; and that she hoped, with God's favour, to be able to take her own part, and to give to perverse customers as good as they might bring. She had a dauntless heart, that same Belle. Such was the staple of Belle's conversation. As for mine, I would endeavour to entertain her with strange dreams of adventure, in which I figured in opaque forests, strangling wild beasts, or discovering and plundering the hoards of dragons; and sometimes I would narrate to her other things far more genuine--how I had tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and had dealings with ferocious publishers. Belle had a kind heart, and would weep at the accounts I gave her of my early wrestlings with the dark Monarch. She would sigh, too, as I recounted the many slights and degradations I had received at the hands of ferocious publishers; but she had the curiosity of a woman; and once, when I talked to her of the triumphs which I had achieved over unbroken mares, she lifted up her head and questioned me as to the secret of the virtue which I possessed over the aforesaid animals; whereupon I sternly reprimanded, and forthwith commanded her to repeat the Armenian numerals; and, on her demurring, I made use of words, to escape which she was glad to comply, saying the Armenian numerals from one to a hundred, which numerals, as a punishment for her curiosity, I made her repeat three times, loading her with the bitterest reproaches whenever she committed the slightest error, either in accent or pronunciation, which reproaches she appeared to bear with the greatest patience. And now I have given a very fair account of the manner in which Isopel Berners and myself passed our time in the dingle. CHAPTER XCII The landlord--Rather too old--Without a shilling--Reputation--A fortnight ago--Liquids--The main chance--Respectability--Irrational beings--Parliament cove--My brewer. Amongst other excursions, I went several times to the public-house to which I introduced the reader in a former chapter. I had experienced such beneficial effects from the ale I had drunk on that occasion, that I wished to put its virtue to a frequent test; nor did the ale on subsequent trials belie the good opinion which I had at first formed of it. After each visit which I made to the public-house, I found my frame stronger and my mind more cheerful than they had previously been. The landlord appeared at all times glad to see me, and insisted that I should sit within the bar, where, leaving his other guests to be attended to by a niece of his, who officiated as his housekeeper, he would sit beside me and talk of matters concerning 'the ring,' indulging himself with a cigar and a glass of sherry, which he told me was his favourite wine, whilst I drank my ale. 'I loves the conversation of all you coves of the ring,' said he once, 'which is natural, seeing as how I have fought in a ring myself. Ah, there is nothing like the ring; I wish I was not rather too old to go again into it. I often think I should like to have another rally--one more rally, and then--but there's a time for all things--youth will be served, every dog has his day, and mine has been a fine one--let me be content. After beating Tom of Hopton, there was not much more to be done in the way of reputation; I have long sat in my bar the wonder and glory of this here neighbourhood. I'm content, as far as reputation goes; I only wish money would come in a little faster; however, the next main of cocks will bring me in something handsome--comes off next Wednesday, at ---; have ventured ten five-pound notes--shouldn't say ventured either--run no risk at all, because why? I knows my birds.' About ten days after this harangue I called again, at about three o'clock one afternoon. The landlord was seated on a bench by a table in the common room, which was entirely empty; he was neither smoking nor drinking, but sat with his arms folded, and his head hanging down over his breast. At the sound of my step he looked up; 'Ah,' said he, 'I am glad you are come, I was just thinking about you.' 'Thank you,' said I; 'it was very kind of you, especially at a time like this, when your mind must be full of your good fortune. Allow me to congratulate you on the sums of money you won by the main of cocks at ---. I hope you brought it all safe home.' 'Safe home!' said the landlord; 'I brought myself safe home, and that was all; came home without a shilling, regularly done, cleaned out.' 'I am sorry for that,' said I; 'but after you had won the money, you ought to have been satisfied, and not risked it again--how did you lose it? I hope not by the pea and thimble.' 'Pea and thimble,' said the landlord--'not I; those confounded cocks left me nothing to lose by the pea and thimble.' 'Dear me,' said I; 'I thought that you knew your birds.' 'Well, so I did,' said the landlord; 'I knew the birds to be good birds, and so they proved, and would have won if better birds had not been brought against them, of which I knew nothing, and so do you see I am done, regularly done.' 'Well,' said I, 'don't be cast down; there is one thing of which the cocks by their misfortune cannot deprive you--your reputation; make the most of that, give up cock-fighting, and be content with the custom of your house, of which you will always have plenty, as long as you are the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood.' The landlord struck the table before him violently with his fist. 'Confound my reputation!' said he. 'No reputation that I have will be satisfaction to my brewer for the seventy pounds I owe him. Reputation won't pass for the current coin of this here realm; and let me tell you, that if it ain't backed by some of it, it ain't a bit better than rotten cabbage, as I have found. Only three weeks since I was, as I told you, the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood; and people used to come to look at me, and worship me; but as soon as it began to be whispered about that I owed money to the brewer, they presently left off all that kind of thing; and now, during the last three days, since the tale of my misfortune with the cocks has got wind, almost everybody has left off coming to the house, and the few who does, merely comes to insult and flout me. It was only last night that fellow, Hunter, called me an old fool in my own kitchen here. He wouldn't have called me a fool a fortnight ago; 'twas I called him fool then, and last night he called me old fool; what do you think of that?--the man that beat Tom of Hopton, to be called, not only a fool, but an old fool; and I hadn't heart, with one blow of this here fist into his face, to send his head ringing against the wall; for when a man's pocket is low, do you see, his heart ain't much higher; but it is of no use talking, something must be done. I was thinking of you just as you came in, for you are just the person that can help me.' 'If you mean,' said I, 'to ask me to lend you the money which you want, it will be to no purpose, as I have very little of my own, just enough for my own occasions; it is true, if you desired it, I would be your intercessor with the person to whom you owe the money, though I should hardly imagine that anything I could say--' 'You are right there,' said the landlord; 'much the brewer would care for anything you could say on my behalf--your going would be the very way to do me up entirely. A pretty opinion he would have of the state of my affairs if I were to send him such a 'cessor as you; and as for your lending me money, don't think I was ever fool enough to suppose either that you had any, or if you had that you would be fool enough to lend me any. No, no, the coves of the ring knows better; I have been in the ring myself, and knows what a fighting cove is, and though I was fool enough to back those birds, I was never quite fool enough to lend anybody money. What I am about to propose is something very different from going to my landlord, or lending any capital; something which, though it will put money into my pocket, will likewise put something handsome into your own. I want to get up a fight in this here neighbourhood, which would be sure to bring plenty of people to my house, for a week before and after it takes place; and as people can't come without drinking, I think I could, during one fortnight, get off for the brewer all the sour and unsaleable liquids he now has, which people wouldn't drink at any other time, and by that means, do you see, liquidate my debt; then, by means of betting, making first all right, do you see, I have no doubt that I could put something handsome into my pocket and yours, for I should wish you to be the fighting man, as I think I can depend upon you.' 'You really must excuse me,' said I; 'I have no wish to figure as a pugilist; besides, there is such a difference in our ages; you may be the stronger man of the two, and perhaps the hardest hitter, but I am in much better condition, am more active on my legs, so that I am almost sure I should have the advantage, for, as you very properly observed, "Youth will be served."' 'Oh, I didn't mean to fight,' said the landlord; 'I think I could beat you if I were to train a little; but in the fight I propose I looks more to the main chance than anything else. I question whether half so many people could be brought together if you were to fight with me as the person I have in view, or whether there would be half such opportunities for betting, for I am a man, do you see; the person I wants you to fight with is not a man, but the young woman you keeps company with.' 'The young woman I keep company with,' said I; 'pray what do you mean?' 'We will go into the bar, and have something,' said the landlord, getting up. 'My niece is out, and there is no one in the house, so we can talk the matter over quietly.' Thereupon I followed him into the bar, where, having drawn me a jug of ale, helped himself as usual to a glass of sherry, and lighted a cigar, he proceeded to explain himself further. 'What I wants is to get up a fight between a man and a woman; there never has yet been such a thing in the ring, and the mere noise of the matter would bring thousands of people together, quite enough to drink out, for the thing should be close to my house, all the brewer's stock of liquids, both good and bad.' 'But,' said I, 'you were the other day boasting of the respectability of your house; do you think that a fight between a man and a woman close to your establishment would add to its respectability?' 'Confound the respectability of my house,' said the landlord; 'will the respectability of my house pay the brewer, or keep the roof over my head? No, no! when respectability won't keep a man, do you see, the best thing is to let it go and wander. Only let me have my own way, and both the brewer, myself, and every one of us, will be satisfied. And then the betting--what a deal we may make by the betting--and that we shall have all to ourselves, you, I, and the young woman; the brewer will have no hand in that. I can manage to raise ten pounds, and if by flashing that about I don't manage to make a hundred, call me horse.' 'But suppose,' said I, 'the party should lose, on whom you sport your money, even as the birds did?' 'We must first make all right,' said the landlord, 'as I told you before; the birds were irrational beings, and therefore couldn't come to an understanding with the others, as you and the young woman can. The birds fought fair; but I intend that you and the young woman should fight cross.' 'What do you mean by cross?' said I. 'Come, come,' said the landlord, 'don't attempt to gammon me; you in the ring, and pretend not to know what fighting cross is! That won't do, my fine fellow; but as no one is near us, I will speak out. I intend that you and the young woman should understand one another, and agree beforehand which should be beat; and if you take my advice, you will determine between you that the young woman shall be beat, as I am sure that the odds will run high upon her, her character as a fist-woman being spread far and wide, so that all the flats who think it will be all right will back her, as I myself would, if I thought it would be a fair thing.' 'Then,' said I, 'you would not have us fight fair?' 'By no means,' said the landlord, 'because why?--I conceives that a cross is a certainty to those who are in it, whereas by the fair thing one may lose all he has.' 'But,' said I, 'you said the other day that you liked the fair thing.' 'That was by way of gammon,' said the landlord; 'just, do you see, as a Parliament cove might say, speechifying from a barrel to a set of flats, whom he means to sell. Come, what do you think of the plan?' 'It is a very ingenious one,' said I. 'Ain't it?' said the landlord. 'The folks in this neighbourhood are beginning to call me old fool; but if they don't call me something else, when they sees me friends with the brewer, and money in my pocket, my name is not Catchpole. Come, drink your ale, and go home to the young gentlewoman.' 'I am going,' said I, rising from my seat, after finishing the remainder of the ale. 'Do you think she'll have any objection?' said the landlord. 'To do what?' said I. 'Why, to fight cross.' 'Yes, I do,' said I. 'But you will do your best to persuade her?' 'No, I will not,' said I. 'Are you fool enough to wish to fight fair?' 'No,' said I, 'I am wise enough to wish not to fight at all.' 'And how's my brewer to be paid?' said the landlord. 'I really don't know,' said I. 'I'll change my religion,' said the landlord. CHAPTER XCIII Another visit--A la Margutte--Clever man--Napoleon's estimate--Another statue. One evening Belle and myself received another visit from the man in black. After a little conversation of not much importance, I asked him whether he would not take some refreshment, assuring him that I was now in possession of some very excellent Hollands, which, with a glass, a jug of water, and a lump of sugar, was heartily at his service; he accepted my offer, and Belle going with a jug to the spring, from which she was in the habit of procuring water for tea, speedily returned with it full of the clear, delicious water of which I have already spoken. Having placed the jug by the side of the man in black, she brought him a glass and spoon, and a tea-cup, the latter containing various lumps of snowy-white sugar: in the meantime I had produced a bottle of the stronger liquid. The man in black helped himself to some water, and likewise to some Hollands, the proportion of water being about two-thirds; then adding a lump of sugar, he stirred the whole up, tasted it, and said that it was good. 'This is one of the good things of life,' he added, after a short pause. 'What are the others?' I demanded. 'There is Malvoisia sack,' said the man in black, 'and partridge, and beccafico.' 'And what do you say to high mass?' said I. 'High mass!' said the man in black; 'however,' he continued, after a pause, 'I will be frank with you; I came to be so; I may have heard high mass on a time, and said it too; but as for any predilection for it, I assure you I have no more than for a long High Church sermon.' 'You speak a la Margutte,' said I. 'Margutte!' said the man in black, musingly, 'Margutte!' 'You have read Pulci, I suppose?' said I. 'Yes, yes,' said the man in black, laughing; 'I remember.' 'He might be rendered into English,' said I, 'something in this style: 'To which Margutte answered with a sneer, I like the blue no better than the black, My faith consists alone in savoury cheer, In roasted capons, and in potent sack; But above all, in famous gin and clear, Which often lays the Briton on his back; With lump of sugar, and with lymph from well, I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell.' 'He! he! he!' said the man in black; 'that is more than Mezzofante could have done for a stanza of Byron.' 'A clever man,' said I. 'Who?' said the man in black. 'Mezzofante di Bologna.' 'He! he! he!' said the man in black; 'now I know that you are not a gypsy, at least a soothsayer; no soothsayer would have said that--' 'Why,' said I, 'does he not understand five-and-twenty tongues?' 'Oh yes,' said the man in black; 'and five-and-twenty added to them; but, he! he! he! it was principally from him, who is certainly the greatest of Philologists, that I formed my opinion of the sect.' 'You ought to speak of him with more respect,' said I; 'I have heard say that he has done good service to your See.' 'Oh yes,' said the man in black; 'he has done good service to our See, that is, in his way; when the neophytes of the Propaganda are to be examined in the several tongues in which they are destined to preach, he is appointed to question them, the questions being first written down for him, or else, he! he! he!--Of course you know Napoleon's estimate of Mezzofante; he sent for the linguist from motives of curiosity, and after some discourse with him, told him that he might depart; then turning to some of his generals he observed, "Nous avons eu ici un exemple qu'un homme peut avoir beaucoup de paroles avec bien pen d'esprit."' 'You are ungrateful to him,' said I; 'well, perhaps, when he is dead and gone you will do him justice.' 'True,' said the man in black; 'when he is dead and gone, we intend to erect him a statue of wood, on the left-hand side of the door of the Vatican library.' 'Of wood?' said I. 'He was the son of a carpenter, you know,' said the man in black; 'the figure will be of wood for no other reason, I assure you; he! he!' 'You should place another statue on the right.' 'Perhaps we shall,' said the man in black; 'but we know of no one amongst the philologists of Italy, nor, indeed, of the other countries inhabited by the faithful, worthy to sit parallel in effigy with our illustrissimo; when, indeed, we have conquered these regions of the perfidious by bringing the inhabitants thereof to the true faith, I have no doubt that we shall be able to select one worthy to bear him company--one whose statue shall be placed on the right hand of the library, in testimony of our joy at his conversion; for, as you know, "There is more joy," etc.' 'Wood?' said I. 'I hope not,' said the man in black; 'no, if I be consulted as to the material for the statue, I should strongly recommend bronze.' And when the man in black had said this, he emptied his second tumbler of its contents, and prepared himself another. CHAPTER XCIV Prerogative--Feeling of gratitude--A long history--Alliterative style--Advantageous specimen--Jesuit benefice--Not sufficient--Queen Stork's tragedy--Good sense--Grandeur and gentility--Ironmonger's daughter--Clan Mac-Sycophant--Lickspittles--A curiosity--Newspaper editors--Charles the Simple--High-flying ditty--Dissenters--Lower classes--Priestley's house--Saxon ancestors--Austin--Renovating glass--Money--Quite original. 'So you hope to bring these regions again beneath the banner of the Roman See?' said I, after the man in black had prepared the beverage, and tasted it. 'Hope!' said the man in black; 'how can we fail? Is not the Church of these regions going to lose its prerogative?' 'Its prerogative?' 'Yes; those who should be the guardians of the religion of England are about to grant Papists emancipation, and to remove the disabilities from Dissenters, which will allow the Holy Father to play his own game in England.' On my inquiring how the Holy Father intended to play his game, the man in black gave me to understand that he intended for the present to cover the land with temples, in which the religion of Protestants would be continually scoffed at and reviled. On my observing that such behaviour would savour strongly of ingratitude, the man in black gave me to understand that if I entertained the idea that the See of Rome was ever influenced in its actions by any feeling of gratitude I was much mistaken, assuring me that if the See of Rome in any encounter should chance to be disarmed, and its adversary, from a feeling of magnanimity, should restore the sword which had been knocked out of its hand, the See of Rome always endeavoured on the first opportunity to plunge the said sword into its adversary's bosom; conduct which the man in black seemed to think was very wise, and which he assured me had already enabled it to get rid of a great many troublesome adversaries, and would, he had no doubt, enable it to get rid of a great many more. On my attempting to argue against the propriety of such behaviour, the man in black cut the matter short by saying that if one party was a fool he saw no reason why the other should imitate it in its folly. After musing a little while, I told him that emancipation had not yet passed through the legislature, and that perhaps it never would; reminding him that there was often many a slip between the cup and the lip; to which observation the man in black agreed, assuring me, however, that there was no doubt that emancipation would be carried, inasmuch as there was a very loud cry at present in the land--a cry of 'tolerance,' which had almost frightened the Government out of its wits; who, to get rid of the cry, was going to grant all that was asked in the way of toleration, instead of telling the people to 'hold their nonsense,' and cutting them down provided they continued bawling longer. I questioned the man in black with respect to the origin of this cry; but he said, to trace it to its origin would require a long history; that, at any rate, such a cry was in existence, the chief raisers of it being certain of the nobility, called Whigs, who hoped by means of it to get into power, and to turn out certain ancient adversaries of theirs called Tories, who were for letting things remain _in statu quo_; that these Whigs were backed by a party amongst the people called Radicals, a specimen of whom I had seen in the public-house; a set of fellows who were always in the habit of bawling against those in place; 'and so,' he added, 'by means of these parties, and the hubbub which the Papists and other smaller sects are making, a general emancipation will be carried, and the Church of England humbled, which is the principal thing which the See of Rome cares for.' On my telling the man in black that I believed that, even among the high dignitaries of the English Church, there were many who wished to grant perfect freedom to religions of all descriptions, he said he was aware that such was the fact, and that such a wish was anything but wise, inasmuch as, if they had any regard for the religion they professed, they ought to stand by it through thick and thin, proclaiming it to be the only true one, and denouncing all others, in an alliterative style, as dangerous and damnable; whereas, by their present conduct, they were bringing their religion into contempt with the people at large, who would never continue long attached to a Church the ministers of which did not stand up for it, and likewise cause their own brethren, who had a clearer notion of things, to be ashamed of belonging to it. 'I speak advisedly,' said he, in continuation; 'there is one Platitude.' 'And I hope there is only one,' said I; 'you surely would not adduce the likes and dislikes of that poor silly fellow as the criterions of the opinions of any party?' 'You know him,' said the man in black, 'nay, I heard you mention him in the public-house; the fellow is not very wise, I admit, but he has sense enough to know that, unless a Church can make people hold their tongues when it thinks fit, it is scarcely deserving the name of a Church; no, I think that the fellow is not such a very bad stick, and that upon the whole he is, or rather was, an advantageous specimen of the High Church English clergy, who, for the most part, so far from troubling their heads about persecuting people, only think of securing their tithes, eating their heavy dinners, puffing out their cheeks with importance on country justice benches, and occasionally exhibiting their conceited wives, hoyden daughters, and gawky sons at country balls, whereas Platitude--' 'Stop,' said I; 'you said in the public-house that the Church of England was a persecuting Church, and here in the dingle you have confessed that one section of it is willing to grant perfect freedom to the exercise of all religions, and the other only thinks of leading an easy life.' 'Saying a thing in the public-house is a widely different thing from saying it in the dingle,' said the man in black; 'had the Church of England been a persecuting Church, it would not stand in the position in which it stands at present; it might, with its opportunities, have spread itself over the greater part of the world. I was about to observe that, instead of practising the indolent habits of his High Church brethren, Platitude would be working for his money, preaching the proper use of fire and faggot, or rather of the halter and the whipping-post, encouraging mobs to attack the houses of Dissenters, employing spies to collect the scandal of neighbourhoods, in order that he might use it for sacerdotal purposes, and, in fact, endeavouring to turn an English parish into something like a Jesuit benefice in the south of France.' 'He tried that game,' said I, 'and the parish said "Pooh, pooh," and, for the most part, went over to the Dissenters.' 'Very true,' said the man in black, taking a sip at his glass, 'but why were the Dissenters allowed to preach? why were they not beaten on the lips till they spat out blood, with a dislodged tooth or two? Why, but because the authority of the Church of England has, by its own fault, become so circumscribed that Mr. Platitude was not able to send a host of beadles and sbirri to their chapel to bring them to reason, on which account Mr. Platitude is very properly ashamed of his Church, and is thinking of uniting himself with one which possesses more vigour and authority.' 'It may have vigour and authority,' said I, 'in foreign lands, but in these kingdoms the day for practising its atrocities is gone by. It is at present almost below contempt, and is obliged to sue for grace _in forma pauperis_.' 'Very true,' said the man in black; 'but let it once obtain emancipation, and it will cast its slough, put on its fine clothes, and make converts by thousands. 'What a fine Church!' they'll say; 'with what authority it speaks! no doubts, no hesitation, no sticking at trifles. What a contrast to the sleepy English Church! They'll go over to it by millions, till it preponderates here over every other, when it will of course be voted the dominant one; and then--and then--' and here the man in black drank a considerable quantity of gin and water. 'What then?' said I. 'What then?' said the man in black, 'why she will be true to herself. Let Dissenters, whether they be Church of England, as perhaps they may still call themselves, Methodist, or Presbyterian, presume to grumble, and there shall be bruising of lips in pulpits, tying up to whipping-posts, cutting off ears and noses--he! he! the farce of King Log has been acted long enough; the time for Queen Stork's tragedy is drawing nigh'; and the man in black sipped his gin and water in a very exulting manner. 'And this is the Church which, according to your assertion in the public- house, never persecutes?' 'I have already given you an answer,' said the man in black. 'With respect to the matter of the public-house, it is one of the happy privileges of those who belong to my Church to deny in the public-house what they admit in the dingle; we have high warranty for such double speaking. Did not the foundation stone of our Church, Saint Peter, deny in the public-house what he had previously professed in the valley?' 'And do you think,' said I, 'that the people of England, who have shown aversion to anything in the shape of intolerance, will permit such barbarities as you have described?' 'Let them become Papists,' said the man in black; 'only let the majority become Papists, and you will see.' 'They will never become so,' said I; 'the good sense of the people of England will never permit them to commit such an absurdity.' 'The good sense of the people of England!' said the man in black, filling himself another glass. 'Yes,' said I, 'the good sense of not only the upper, but the middle and lower classes.' 'And of what description of people are the upper class?' said the man in black, putting a lump of sugar into his gin and water. 'Very fine people,' said I, 'monstrously fine people; so, at least, they are generally believed to be.' 'He! he!' said the man in black; 'only those think them so who don't know them. The male part of the upper class are in youth a set of heartless profligates; in old age, a parcel of poor, shaking, nervous paillards. The female part, worthy to be the sisters and wives of such wretches--unmarried, full of cold vice, kept under by vanity and ambition, but which, after marriage, they seek not to restrain; in old age, abandoned to vapours and horrors; do you think that such beings will afford any obstacle to the progress of the Church in these regions, as soon as her movements are unfettered?' 'I cannot give an opinion; I know nothing of them, except from a distance. But what think you of the middle classes?' 'Their chief characteristic,' said the man in black, 'is a rage for grandeur and gentility; and that same rage makes us quite sure of them in the long run. Everything that's lofty meets their unqualified approbation; whilst everything humble, or, as they call it, "low," is scouted by them. They begin to have a vague idea that the religion which they have hitherto professed is low; at any rate, that it is not the religion of the mighty ones of the earth, of the great kings and emperors whose shoes they have a vast inclination to kiss, nor was used by the grand personages of whom they have read in their novels and romances, their Ivanhoes, their Marmions, and their Ladies of the Lake.' 'Do you think that the writings of Scott have had any influence in modifying their religious opinions?' 'Most certainly I do,' said the man in black. 'The writings of that man have made them greater fools than they were before. All their conversation now is about gallant knights, princesses, and cavaliers, with which his pages are stuffed--all of whom were Papists, or very High Church, which is nearly the same thing; and they are beginning to think that the religion of such nice sweet-scented gentry must be something very superfine. Why, I know at Birmingham the daughter of an ironmonger, who screeches to the piano the Lady of the Lake's hymn to the Virgin Mary, always weeps when Mary Queen of Scots is mentioned, and fasts on the anniversary of the death of that very wise martyr, Charles the First. Why, I would engage to convert such an idiot to popery in a week, were it worth my trouble. O Cavaliere Gualtiero, avete fatto molto in favore della Santa Sede!' 'If he has,' said I, 'he has done it unwittingly; I never heard before that he was a favourer of the popish delusion.' 'Only in theory,' said the man in black. 'Trust any of the clan Mac-Sycophant for interfering openly and boldly in favour of any cause on which the sun does not shine benignantly. Popery is at present, as you say, suing for grace in these regions _in forma pauperis_; but let royalty once take it up, let old gouty George once patronise it, and I would consent to drink puddle-water if, the very next time the canny Scot was admitted to the royal symposium, he did not say, "By my faith, yere Majesty, I have always thought, at the bottom of my heart, that popery, as ill-scrapit tongues ca' it, was a very grand religion; I shall be proud to follow your Majesty's example in adopting it."' 'I doubt not,' said I, 'that both gouty George and his devoted servant will be mouldering in their tombs long before Royalty in England thinks about adopting popery.' 'We can wait,' said the man in black; 'in these days of rampant gentility, there will be no want of kings nor of Scots about them.' 'But not Walters,' said I. 'Our work has been already tolerably well done by one,' said the man in black; 'but if we wanted literature, we should never lack in these regions hosts of literary men of some kind or other to eulogise us, provided our religion were in the fashion, and our popish nobles chose--and they always do our bidding--to admit the canaille to their tables--their kitchen tables. As for literature in general,' said he, 'the Santa Sede is not particularly partial to it, it may be employed both ways. In Italy, in particular, it has discovered that literary men are not always disposed to be lickspittles.' 'For example, Dante,' said I. 'Yes,' said the man in black, 'a dangerous personage; that poem of his cuts both ways; and then there was Pulci, that _Morgante_ of his cuts both ways, or rather one way, and that sheer against us; and then there was Aretino, who dealt so hard with the _poveri frati_; all writers, at least Italian ones, are not lickspittles. And then in Spain,--'tis true, Lope de Vega and Calderon were most inordinate lickspittles; the _Principe Constante_ of the last is a curiosity in its way; and then the _Mary Stuart_ of Lope; I think I shall recommend the perusal of that work to the Birmingham ironmonger's daughter--she has been lately thinking of adding "a slight knowledge of the magneeficent language of the Peninsula" to the rest of her accomplishments, he! he! he! But then there was Cervantes, starving, but straight; he deals us some hard knocks in that second part of his _Quixote_. Then there were some of the writers of the picaresque novels. No, all literary men are not lickspittles, whether in Italy or Spain, or, indeed, upon the Continent; it is only in England that all--' 'Come,' said I, 'Mind what you are about to say of English literary men.' 'Why should I mind?' said the man in black, 'there are no literary men here. I have heard of literary men living in garrets, but not in dingles, whatever philologists may do; I may, therefore, speak out freely. It is only in England that literary men are invariably lickspittles; on which account, perhaps, they are so despised, even by those who benefit by their dirty services. Look at your fashionable novel-writers, he! he!--and, above all, at your newspaper editors, ho! ho!' 'You will, of course, except the editors of the--from your censure of the last class?' said I. 'Them!' said the man in black; 'why, they might serve as models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it. See how they bepraise their patrons, the grand Whig nobility, who hope, by raising the cry of liberalism and by putting themselves at the head of the populace, to come into power shortly. I don't wish to be hard, at present, upon those Whigs,' he continued, 'for they are playing our game; but a time will come when, not wanting them, we will kick them to a considerable distance: and then, when toleration is no longer the cry, and the Whigs are no longer backed by the populace, see whether the editors of the--will stand by them; they will prove themselves as expert lickspittles of despotism as of liberalism. Don't think they will always bespatter the Tories and Austria.' 'Well,' said I, 'I am sorry to find that you entertain so low an opinion of the spirit of English literary men; we will now return, if you please, to the subject of the middle classes; I think your strictures upon them in general are rather too sweeping--they are not altogether the foolish people which you have described. Look, for example, at that very powerful and numerous body the Dissenters, the descendants of those sturdy Patriots who hurled Charles the Simple from his throne.' 'There are some sturdy fellows amongst them, I do not deny,' said the man in black, 'especially amongst the preachers, clever withal--two or three of that class nearly drove Mr. Platitude mad, as perhaps you are aware, but they are not very numerous; and the old sturdy sort of preachers are fast dropping off, and, as we observe with pleasure, are generally succeeded by frothy coxcombs, whom it would not be very difficult to gain over. But what we most rely upon as an instrument to bring the Dissenters over to us is the mania for gentility, which amongst them has of late become as great, and more ridiculous than amongst the middle classes belonging to the Church of England. All the plain and simple fashions of their forefathers they are either about to abandon, or have already done so. Look at the most part of their chapels--no longer modest brick edifices, situated in quiet and retired streets, but lunatic- looking erections, in what the simpletons call the modern Gothic taste, of Portland stone, with a cross upon the top, and the site generally the most conspicuous that can be found. And look at the manner in which they educate their children--I mean those that are wealthy. They do not even wish them to be Dissenters--"the sweet dears shall enjoy the advantages of good society, of which their parents were debarred." So the girls are sent to tip-top boarding-schools, where amongst other trash they read _Rokeby_, and are taught to sing snatches from that high-flying ditty, the "Cavalier"-- 'Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown, With the barons of England, who fight for the crown?-- he! he! their own names. Whilst the lads are sent to those hotbeds of pride and folly--colleges, whence they return with a greater contempt for everything "low," and especially for their own pedigree, than they went with. I tell you, friend, the children of Dissenters, if not their parents, are going over to the Church, as you call it, and the Church is going over to Rome.' 'I do not see the justice of that latter assertion at all,' said I; 'some of the Dissenters' children may be coming over to the Church of England, and yet the Church of England be very far from going over to Rome.' 'In the high road for it, I assure you,' said the man in black; 'part of it is going to abandon, the rest to lose their prerogative, and when a Church no longer retains its prerogative, it speedily loses its own respect, and that of others.' 'Well,' said I, 'if the higher classes have all the vices and follies which you represent, on which point I can say nothing, as I have never mixed with them; and even supposing the middle classes are the foolish beings you would fain make them, and which I do not believe them as a body to be, you would still find some resistance amongst the lower classes: I have a considerable respect for their good sense and independence of character; but pray let me hear your opinion of them.' 'As for the lower classes,' said the man in black, 'I believe them to be the most brutal wretches in the world, the most addicted to foul feeding, foul language, and foul vices of every kind; wretches who have neither love for country, religion, nor anything save their own vile selves. You surely do not think that they would oppose a change of religion! why, there is not one of them but would hurrah for the Pope, or Mahomet, for the sake of a hearty gorge and a drunken bout, like those which they are treated with at election contests.' 'Has your church any followers amongst them?' said I. 'Wherever there happens to be a Romish family of considerable possessions,' said the man in black, 'our church is sure to have followers of the lower class, who have come over in the hope of getting something in the shape of dole or donation. As, however, the Romish is not yet the dominant religion, and the clergy of the English establishment have some patronage to bestow, the churches are not quite deserted by the lower classes; yet, were the Romish to become the established religion, they would, to a certainty, all go over to it; you can scarcely imagine what a self-interested set they are--for example, the landlord of that public-house in which I first met you, having lost a sum of money upon a cock-fight, and his affairs in consequence being in a bad condition, is on the eve of coming over to us, in the hope that two old Popish females of property, whom I confess, will advance a sum of money to set him up again in the world.' 'And what could have put such an idea into the poor fellow's head?' said I. 'Oh, he and I have had some conversation upon the state of his affairs,' said the man in black; 'I think he might make a rather useful convert in these parts, provided things take a certain turn, as they doubtless will. It is no bad thing to have a fighting fellow, who keeps a public-house, belonging to one's religion. He has been occasionally employed as a bully at elections by the Tory party, and he may serve us in the same capacity. The fellow comes of a good stock; I heard him say that his father headed the High Church mob who sacked and burnt Priestley's house at Birmingham, towards the end of the last century.' 'A disgraceful affair,' said I. 'What do you mean by a disgraceful affair?' said the man in black. 'I assure you that nothing has occurred for the last fifty years which has given the High Church party so much credit in the eyes of Rome as that,--we did not imagine that the fellows had so much energy. Had they followed up that affair by twenty others of a similar kind, they would by this time have had everything in their own power; but they did not, and, as a necessary consequence, they are reduced to almost nothing.' 'I suppose,' said I, 'that your Church would have acted very differently in its place.' 'It has always done so,' said the man in black, coolly sipping. 'Our Church has always armed the brute population against the genius and intellect of a country, provided that same intellect and genius were not willing to become its instruments and eulogists; and provided we once obtain a firm hold here again, we would not fail to do so. We would occasionally stuff the beastly rabble with horseflesh and bitter ale, and then halloo them on against all those who were obnoxious to us.' 'Horseflesh and bitter ale!' I replied. 'Yes,' said the man in black; 'horseflesh and bitter ale--the favourite delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always ready to do our bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. There is a tradition in our Church, that before the Northumbrian rabble, at the instigation of Austin, attacked and massacred the presbyterian monks of Bangor, they had been allowed a good gorge of horseflesh and bitter ale. He! he! he!' continued the man in black, 'what a fine spectacle to see such a mob, headed by a fellow like our friend the landlord, sack the house of another Priestley!' 'Then you don't deny that we have had a Priestley,' said I, 'and admit the possibility of our having another? You were lately observing that all English literary men were sycophants?' 'Lickspittles,' said the man in black; 'yes, I admit that you have had a Priestley, but he was a Dissenter of the old class; you have had him, and perhaps may have another.' 'Perhaps we may,' said I. 'But with respect to the lower classes, have you mixed much with them?' 'I have mixed with all classes,' said the man in black, 'and with the lower not less than the upper and middle; they are much as I have described them; and of the three, the lower are the worst. I never knew one of them that possessed the slightest principle, no, not ---. It is true, there was one fellow whom I once met, who--; but it is a long story, and the affair happened abroad.--I ought to know something of the English people,' he continued, after a moment's pause; 'I have been many years amongst them, labouring in the cause of the Church.' 'Your See must have had great confidence in your powers when it selected you to labour for it in these parts,' said I. 'They chose me,' said the man in black, 'principally because, being of British extraction and education, I could speak the English language and bear a glass of something strong. It is the opinion of my See that it would hardly do to send a missionary into a country like this who is not well versed in English--a country where, they think, so far from understanding any language besides his own, scarcely one individual in ten speaks his own intelligibly; or an ascetic person where, as they say, high and low, male and female, are, at some period of their lives, fond of a renovating glass, as it is styled--in other words, of tippling.' 'Your See appears to entertain a very strange opinion of the English,' said I. 'Not altogether an unjust one,' said the man in black, lifting the glass to his mouth. 'Well,' said I, 'it is certainly very kind on its part to wish to bring back such a set of beings beneath its wing.' 'Why, as to the kindness of my See,' said the man in black, 'I have not much to say; my See has generally in what it does a tolerably good motive; these heretics possess in plenty what my See has a great hankering for, and can turn to a good account--money!' 'The Founder of the Christian religion cared nothing for money,' said I. 'What have we to do with what the Founder of the Christian religion cared for?' said the man in black. 'How could our temples be built and our priests supported without money? But you are unwise to reproach us with a desire of obtaining money; you forget that your own Church, if the Church of England be your own Church, as I suppose it is from the willingness which you displayed in the public-house to fight for it, is equally avaricious; look at your greedy Bishops and your corpulent Rectors--do they imitate Christ in His disregard for money? You might as well tell me that they imitate Christ in His meekness and humility.' 'Well,' said I, 'whatever their faults may be, you can't say that they go to Rome for money.' The man in black made no direct answer, but appeared by the motion of his lips to be repeating something to himself. 'I see your glass is again empty,' said I; 'perhaps you will replenish it.' The man in black arose from his seat, adjusted his habiliments, which were rather in disorder, and placed upon his head his hat, which he had laid aside; then, looking at me, who was still lying on the ground, he said--'I might, perhaps, take another glass, though I believe I have had quite as much as I can well bear; but I do not wish to hear you utter anything more this evening, after that last observation of yours--it is quite original; I will meditate upon it on my pillow this night, after having said an ave and a pater--go to Rome for money!' He then made Belle a low bow, slightly motioned to me with his hand as if bidding farewell, and then left the dingle with rather uneven steps. 'Go to Rome for money,' I heard him say as he ascended the winding path, 'he! he! he! Go to Rome for money, ho! ho! ho!' {picture:'Go to Rome for money,' I heard him say as he ascended the winding path, 'he! he! he! Go to Rome for money, ho! ho! ho!': page538.jpg} CHAPTER XCV Wooded retreat--Fresh shoes--Wood fire--Ash, when green--Queen of China--Cleverest people--Declensions--Armenian--Thunder--Deep olive--What do you mean?--Koul Adonai--The thick bushes--Wood pigeon--Old Gothe. Nearly three days elapsed without anything of particular moment occurring. Belle drove the little cart containing her merchandise about the neighbourhood, returning to the dingle towards the evening. As for myself, I kept within my wooded retreat, working during the periods of her absence leisurely at my forge. Having observed that the quadruped which my companion drove was as much in need of shoes as my own had been some time previously, I had determined to provide it with a set, and during the aforesaid periods occupied myself in preparing them. As I was employed three mornings and afternoons about them, I am sure that the reader will agree that I worked leisurely, or rather, lazily. On the third day Belle arrived somewhat later than usual; I was lying on my back at the bottom of the dingle, employed in tossing up the shoes which I had produced, and catching them as they fell--some being always in the air mounting or descending, somewhat after the fashion of the waters of a fountain. {picture:I was lying on my back at the bottom of the dingle, employed in tossing up the shoes, and catching them as they fell: page540.jpg} 'Why have you been absent so long?' said I to Belle; 'it must be long past four by the day.' 'I have been almost killed by the heat,' said Belle; 'I was never out in a more sultry day--the poor donkey, too, could scarcely move along.' 'He shall have fresh shoes,' said I, continuing my exercise; 'here they are quite ready; to-morrow I will tack them on.' 'And why are you playing with them in that manner?' said Belle. 'Partly in triumph at having made them, and partly to show that I can do something besides making them; it is not every one who, after having made a set of horse-shoes, can keep them going up and down in the air, without letting one fall--' 'One has now fallen on your chin,' said Belle. 'And another on my cheek,' said I, getting up; 'it is time to discontinue the game, for the last shoe drew blood.' Belle went to her own little encampment; and as for myself, after having flung the donkey's shoes into my tent, I put some fresh wood on the fire, which was nearly out, and hung the kettle over it. I then issued forth from the dingle, and strolled round the wood that surrounded it; for a long time I was busied in meditation, looking at the ground, striking with my foot, half unconsciously, the tufts of grass and thistles that I met in my way. After some time, I lifted up my eyes to the sky, at first vacantly, and then with more attention, turning my head in all directions for a minute or two; after which I returned to the dingle. Isopel was seated near the fire, over which the kettle was now hung; she had changed her dress--no signs of the dust and fatigue of her late excursion remained; she had just added to the fire a small billet of wood, two or three of which I had left beside it; the fire cracked, and a sweet odour filled the dingle. 'I am fond of sitting by a wood fire,' said Belle, 'when abroad, whether it be hot or cold; I love to see the flames dart out of the wood; but what kind is this, and where did you get it?' 'It is ash,' said I, 'green ash. Somewhat less than a week ago, whilst I was wandering along the road by the side of a wood, I came to a place where some peasants were engaged in cutting up and clearing away a confused mass of fallen timber: a mighty aged oak had given way the night before, and in its fall had shivered some smaller trees; the upper part of the oak, and the fragments of the rest, lay across the road. I purchased, for a trifle, a bundle or two, and the wood on the fire is part of it--ash, green ash.' 'That makes good the old rhyme,' said Belle, 'which I have heard sung by the old women in the great house:-- 'Ash, when green, Is fire for a queen.' {picture:'Ash, when green, Is fire for a queen.': page543.jpg} 'And on fairer form of queen ash fire never shone,' said I, 'than on thine, O beauteous queen of the dingle.' 'I am half disposed to be angry with you, young man,' said Belle. 'And why not entirely?' said I. Belle made no reply. 'Shall I tell you?' I demanded. 'You had no objection to the first part of the speech, but you did not like being called queen of the dingle. Well, if I had the power, I would make you queen of something better than the dingle--Queen of China. Come, let us have tea.' 'Something less would content me,' said Belle, sighing, as she rose to prepare our evening meal. So we took tea together, Belle and I. 'How delicious tea is after a hot summer's day and a long walk,' said she. 'I daresay it is most refreshing then,' said I; 'but I have heard people say that they most enjoy it on a cold winter's night, when the kettle is hissing on the fire, and their children playing on the hearth.' Belle sighed. 'Where does tea come from?' she presently demanded. 'From China,' said I; 'I just now mentioned it, and the mention of it put me in mind of tea.' 'What kind of country is China?' 'I know very little about it; all I know is, that it is a very large country far to the East, but scarcely large enough to contain its inhabitants, who are so numerous, that though China does not cover one- ninth part of the world, its inhabitants amount to one-third of the population of the world.' 'And do they talk as we do?' 'Oh no! I know nothing of their language; but I have heard that it is quite different from all others, and so difficult that none but the cleverest people amongst foreigners can master it, on which account, perhaps, only the French pretend to know anything about it.' 'Are the French so very clever, then?' said Belle. 'They say there are no people like them, at least in Europe. But talking of Chinese reminds me that I have not for some time past given you a lesson in Armenian. The word for tea in Armenian is--by the bye what is the Armenian word for tea?' 'That's your affair, not mine,' said Belle; 'it seems hard that the master should ask the scholar.' 'Well,' said I, 'whatever the word may be in Armenian, it is a noun; and as we have never yet declined an Armenian noun together, we may as well take this opportunity of declining one. Belle, there are ten declensions in Armenian! 'What's a declension?' 'The way of declining a noun.' 'Then, in the civilest way imaginable, I decline the noun. Is that a declension?' 'You should never play on words; to do so is low, vulgar, smelling of the pothouse, the workhouse. Belle, I insist on your declining an Armenian noun.' 'I have done so already,' said Belle. 'If you go on in this way,' said I, 'I shall decline taking any more tea with you. Will you decline an Armenian noun?' 'I don't like the language,' said Belle. 'If you must teach me languages, why not teach me French or Chinese?' 'I know nothing of Chinese; and as for French, none but a Frenchman is clever enough to speak it--to say nothing of teaching; no, we will stick to Armenian, unless, indeed, you would prefer Welsh!' 'Welsh, I have heard, is vulgar,' said Belle; 'so, if I must learn one of the two, I will prefer Armenian, which I never heard of till you mentioned it to me; though, of the two, I really think Welsh sounds best.' 'The Armenian noun,' said I, 'which I propose for your declension this night, is ---, which signifieth Master.' 'I neither like the word nor the sound,' said Belle. 'I can't help that,' said I; 'it is the word I choose: Master, with all its variations, being the first noun the sound of which I would have you learn from my lips. Come, let us begin-- 'A master. Of a master, etc. Repeat--' 'I am not much used to say the word,' said Belle, 'but to oblige you I will decline it as you wish'; and thereupon Belle declined Master in Armenian. 'You have declined the noun very well,' said I; 'that is in the singular number; we will now go to the plural.' 'What is the plural?' said Belle. 'That which implies more than one, for example, Masters; you shall now go through masters in Armenian.' 'Never,' said Belle, 'never; it is bad to have one master, but more I would never bear, whether in Armenian or English.' 'You do not understand,' said I; 'I merely want you to decline Masters in Armenian.' 'I do decline them; I will have nothing to do with them, nor with master either; I was wrong to--What sound is that?' 'I did not hear it, but I daresay it is thunder; in Armenian--' 'Never mind what it is in Armenian; but why do you think it is thunder?' 'Ere I returned from my stroll, I looked up into the heavens, and by their appearance I judged that a storm was nigh at hand.' 'And why did you not tell me so?' 'You never asked me about the state of the atmosphere, and I am not in the habit of giving my opinion to people on any subject, unless questioned. But, setting that aside, can you blame me for not troubling you with forebodings about storm and tempest, which might have prevented the pleasure you promised yourself in drinking tea, or perhaps a lesson in Armenian, though you pretend to dislike the latter?' 'My dislike is not pretended,' said Belle; 'I hate the sound of it, but I love my tea, and it was kind of you not to wish to cast a cloud over my little pleasures; the thunder came quite time enough to interrupt it without being anticipated--there is another peal--I will clear away, and see that my tent is in a condition to resist the storm; and I think you had better bestir yourself.' Isopel departed, and I remained seated on my stone, as nothing belonging to myself required any particular attention; in about a quarter of an hour she returned, and seated herself upon her stool. 'How dark the place is become since I left you,' said she; 'just as if night were just at hand.' 'Look up at the sky,' said I; 'and you will not wonder; it is all of a deep olive. The wind is beginning to rise; hark how it moans among the branches, and see how their tops are bending; it brings dust on its wings--I felt some fall on my face; and what is this, a drop of rain?' 'We shall have plenty anon,' said Belle; 'do you hear? it already begins to hiss upon the embers; that fire of ours will soon be extinguished.' 'It is not probable that we shall want it,' said I, 'but we had better seek shelter: let us go into my tent.' 'Go in,' said Belle, 'but you go in alone; as for me, I will seek my own.' 'You are right,' said I, 'to be afraid of me; I have taught you to decline master in Armenian.' 'You almost tempt me,' said Belle, 'to make you decline mistress in English.' 'To make matters short,' said I, 'I decline a mistress.' 'What do you mean?' said Belle, angrily. 'I have merely done what you wished me,' said I, 'and in your own style; there is no other way of declining anything in English, for in English there are no declensions.' 'The rain is increasing,' said Belle. 'It is so,' said I; 'I shall go to my tent; you may come if you please; I do assure you I am not afraid of you.' 'Nor I of you,' said Belle; 'so I will come. Why should I be afraid? I can take my own part; that is--' We went into the tent and sat down, and now the rain began to pour with vehemence. 'I hope we shall not be flooded in this hollow,' said I to Belle. 'There is no fear of that,' said Belle; 'the wandering people, amongst other names, call it the dry hollow. I believe there is a passage somewhere or other by which the wet is carried off. There must be a cloud right above us, it is so dark. Oh! what a flash!' 'And what a peal!' said I; 'that is what the Hebrews call Koul Adonai--the voice of the Lord. Are you afraid?' 'No,' said Belle, 'I rather like to hear it.' 'You are right,' said I, 'I am fond of the sound of thunder myself. There is nothing like it; Koul Adonai behadar: the voice of the Lord is a glorious voice, as the prayer-book version hath it.' 'There is something awful in it,' said Belle; 'and then the lightning--the whole dingle is now in a blaze.' '"The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and discovereth the thick bushes." As you say, there is something awful in thunder.' 'There are all kinds of noises above us,' said Belle; 'surely I heard the crashing of a tree?' '"The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedar trees,"' said I, 'but what you hear is caused by a convulsion of the air; during a thunder-storm there are occasionally all kinds of aerial noises. Ab Gwilym, who, next to King David, has best described a thunderstorm, speaks of these aerial noises in the following manner:-- 'Astonied now I stand at strains, As of ten thousand clanking chains; And once, methought that, overthrown, The welkin's oaks came whelming down; Upon my head up starts my hair: Why hunt abroad the hounds of air? What cursed hag is screeching high, Whilst crash goes all her crockery?' You would hardly believe, Belle, that though I offered at least ten thousand lines nearly as good as those to the booksellers in London, the simpletons were so blind to their interest, as to refuse purchasing them!' 'I don't wonder at it,' said Belle, 'especially if such dreadful expressions frequently occur as that towards the end;--surely that was the crash of a tree?' 'Ah!' said I, 'there falls the cedar tree--I mean the sallow; one of the tall trees on the outside of the dingle has been snapped short.' 'What a pity,' said Belle, 'that the fine old oak, which you saw the peasants cutting up, gave way the other night, when scarcely a breath of air was stirring; how much better to have fallen in a storm like this, the fiercest I remember.' 'I don't think so,' said I; 'after braving a thousand tempests, it was meeter for it to fall of itself than to be vanquished at last. But to return to Ab Gwilym's poetry: he was above culling dainty words, and spoke boldly his mind on all subjects. Enraged with the thunder for parting him and Morfydd, he says, at the conclusion of his ode, 'My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee, For parting my dear pearl and me!' 'You and I shall part, that is, I shall go to my tent, if you persist in repeating from him. The man must have been a savage. A poor wood-pigeon has fallen dead.' 'Yes,' said I, 'there he lies, just outside the tent; often have I listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. So you do not like Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Gothe?-- 'Mist shrouds the night, and rack; Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack! Wildly the owls are flitting, Hark to the pillars splitting Of palaces verdant ever, The branches quiver and sever, The mighty stems are creaking, The poor roots breaking and shrieking, In wild mixt ruin down dashing, O'er one another they're crashing; Whilst 'midst the rocks so hoary Whirlwinds hurry and worry. Hear'st not, sister--' 'Hark!' said Belle, 'hark!' 'Hear'st not, sister, a chorus Of voices--?' 'No,' said Belle, 'but I hear a voice.' CHAPTER XCVI A shout--A fireball--See to the horses--Passing away--Gap in the hedge--On three wheels--Why do you stop?--No craven heart--The cordial--Across the country--Small bags. I listened attentively, but I could hear nothing but the loud clashing of branches, the pattering of rain, and the muttered growl of thunder. I was about to tell Belle that she must have been mistaken, when I heard a shout--indistinct, it is true, owing to the noises aforesaid--from some part of the field above the dingle. 'I will soon see what's the matter,' said I to Belle, starting up. 'I will go too;' said the girl. 'Stay where you are,' said I; 'if I need you, I will call'; and, without waiting for any answer, I hurried to the mouth of the dingle. I was about a few yards only from the top of the ascent, when I beheld a blaze of light, from whence I knew not; the next moment there was a loud crash, and I appeared involved in a cloud of sulphurous smoke. 'Lord have mercy upon us!' I heard a voice say, and methought I heard the plunging and struggling of horses. I had stopped short on hearing the crash, for I was half stunned; but I now hurried forward, and in a moment stood upon the plain. Here I was instantly aware of the cause of the crash and the smoke. One of those balls, generally called fireballs, had fallen from the clouds, and was burning on the plain at a short distance; and the voice which I had heard, and the plunging, were as easily accounted for. Near the left-hand corner of the grove which surrounded the dingle, and about ten yards from the fireball, I perceived a chaise, with a postilion on the box, who was making efforts, apparently useless, to control his horses, which were kicking and plunging in the highest degree of excitement. I instantly ran towards the chaise, in order to offer what help was in my power. 'Help me,' said the poor fellow, as I drew nigh; but before I could reach the horses, they had turned rapidly round, one of the fore-wheels flew from its axle-tree, the chaise was overset, and the postilion flung violently from his seat upon the field. The horses now became more furious than before, kicking desperately, and endeavouring to disengage themselves from the fallen chaise. As I was hesitating whether to run to the assistance of the postilion or endeavour to disengage the animals, I heard the voice of Belle exclaiming, 'See to the horses, I will look after the man.' She had, it seems, been alarmed by the crash which accompanied the firebolt, and had hurried up to learn the cause. I forthwith seized the horses by the heads, and used all the means I possessed to soothe and pacify them, employing every gentle modulation of which my voice was capable. Belle, in the meantime, had raised up the man, who was much stunned by his fall; but, presently recovering his recollection to a certain degree, he came limping to me, holding his hand to his right thigh. 'The first thing that must now be done,' said I, 'is to free these horses from the traces; can you undertake to do so?' ' I think I can,' said the man, looking at me somewhat stupidly. 'I will help,' said Belle, and without loss of time laid hold of one of the traces. The man, after a short pause, also set to work, and in a few minutes the horses were extricated. 'Now,' said I to the man, 'what is next to be done?' 'I don't know,' said he; 'indeed, I scarcely know anything; I have been so frightened by this horrible storm, and so shaken by my fall.' 'I think,' said I, 'that the storm is passing away, so cast your fears away too; and as for your fall, you must bear it as lightly as you can. I will tie the horses amongst those trees, and then we will all betake us to the hollow below.' 'And what's to become of my chaise?' said the postilion, looking ruefully on the fallen vehicle. 'Let us leave the chaise for the present,' said I; 'we can be of no use to it.' 'I don't like to leave my chaise lying on the ground in this weather,' said the man; 'I love my chaise, and him whom it belongs to.' 'You are quite right to be fond of yourself,' said I, 'on which account I advise you to seek shelter from the rain as soon as possible.' 'I was not talking of myself,' said the man, 'but my master, to whom the chaise belongs.' 'I thought you called the chaise yours,' said I. 'That's my way of speaking,' said the man; 'but the chaise is my master's, and a better master does not live. Don't you think we could manage to raise up the chaise?' 'And what is to become of the horses?' said I. 'I love my horses well enough,' said the man; 'but they will take less harm than the chaise. We two can never lift up that chaise.' 'But we three can,' said Belle; 'at least, I think so; and I know where to find two poles which will assist us.' 'You had better go to the tent,' said I, 'you will be wet through.' 'I care not for a little wetting,' said Belle; 'moreover, I have more gowns than one--see you after the horses.' Thereupon, I led the horses past the mouth of the dingle, to a place where a gap in the hedge afforded admission to the copse or plantation on the southern side. Forcing them through the gap, I led them to a spot amidst the trees which I deemed would afford them the most convenient place for standing; then, darting down into the dingle, I brought up a rope, and also the halter of my own nag, and with these fastened them each to a separate tree in the best manner I could. This done, I returned to the chaise and the postilion. In a minute or two Belle arrived with two poles which, it seems, had long been lying, overgrown with brushwood, in a ditch or hollow behind the plantation. With these both she and I set to work in endeavouring to raise the fallen chaise from the ground. We experienced considerable difficulty in this undertaking; at length, with the assistance of the postilion, we saw our efforts crowned with success--the chaise was lifted up, and stood upright on three wheels. {picture:At length, with the assistance of the postilion, we saw our efforts crowned with success--the chaise was lifted up, and stood upright on three wheels: page552.jpg} 'We may leave it here in safety,' said I, 'for it will hardly move away on three wheels, even supposing it could run by itself; I am afraid there is work here for a wheelwright, in which case I cannot assist you; if you were in need of a blacksmith it would be otherwise.' 'I don't think either the wheel or the axle is hurt,' said the postilion, who had been handling both; 'it is only the linch-pin having dropped out that caused the wheel to fly off; if I could but find the linch-pin!--though, perhaps, it fell out a mile away.' 'Very likely,' said I; 'but never mind the linch-pin, I can make you one, or something that will serve: but I can't stay here any longer, I am going to my place below with this young gentlewoman, and you had better follow us.' 'I am ready,' said the man; and after lifting up the wheel and propping it against the chaise, he went with us, slightly limping, and with his hand pressed to his thigh. As we were descending the narrow path, Belle leading the way, and myself the last of the party, the postilion suddenly stopped short, and looked about him. 'Why do you stop?' said I. 'I don't wish to offend you,' said the man, 'but this seems to be a strange place you are leading me into; I hope you and the young gentlewoman, as you call her, don't mean me any harm--you seemed in a great hurry to bring me here.' 'We wished to get you out of the rain,' said I, 'and ourselves too; that is, if we can, which I rather doubt, for the canvas of a tent is slight shelter in such a rain; but what harm should we wish to do you?' 'You may think I have money,' said the man, 'and I have some, but only thirty shillings, and for a sum like that it would be hardly worth while to--' 'Would it not?' said I; 'thirty shillings, after all, are thirty shillings, and for what I know, half a dozen throats may have been cut in this place for that sum at the rate of five shillings each; moreover, there are the horses, which would serve to establish this young gentlewoman and myself in housekeeping, provided we were thinking of such a thing.' 'Then I suppose I have fallen into pretty hands,' said the man, putting himself in a posture of defence; 'but I'll show no craven heart; and if you attempt to lay hands on me, I'll try to pay you in your own coin. I'm rather lamed in the leg, but I can still use my fists; so come on, both of you, man and woman, if woman this be, though she looks more like a grenadier.' 'Let me hear no more of this nonsense,' said Belle; 'if you are afraid, you can go back to your chaise--we only seek to do you a kindness.' 'Why, he was just now talking of cutting throats,' said the man. 'You brought it on yourself,' said Belle; 'you suspected us, and he wished to pass a joke upon you; he would not hurt a hair of your head, were your coach laden with gold, nor would I.' 'Well,' said the man, 'I was wrong--here's my hand to both of you,' shaking us by the hands; 'I'll go with you where you please, but I thought this a strange lonesome place, though I ought not much to mind strange lonesome places, having been in plenty of such when I was a servant in Italy, without coming to any harm--come, let us move on, for 'tis a shame to keep you two in the rain.' So we descended the path which led into the depths of the dingle; at the bottom I conducted the postilion to my tent, which, though the rain dripped and trickled through it, afforded some shelter; there I bade him sit down on the log of wood, whilst I placed myself as usual on my stone. Belle in the meantime had repaired to her own place of abode. After a little time, I produced a bottle of the cordial of which I have previously had occasion to speak, and made my guest take a considerable draught. I then offered him some, bread and cheese, which he accepted with thanks. In about an hour the rain had much abated: 'What do you now propose to do?' said I. 'I scarcely know,' said the man; 'I suppose I must endeavour to put on the wheel with your help.' 'How far are you from your home?' I demanded. 'Upwards of thirty miles,' said the man; 'my master keeps an inn on the great north road, and from thence I started early this morning with a family, which I conveyed across the country to a hall at some distance from here. On my return I was beset by the thunderstorm, which frightened the horses, who dragged the chaise off the road to the field above, and overset it as you saw. I had proposed to pass the night at an inn about twelve miles from here on my way back, though how I am to get there to-night I scarcely know, even if we can put on the wheel, for, to tell you the truth, I am shaken by my fall, and the smoulder and smoke of that fireball have rather bewildered my head; I am, moreover, not much acquainted with the way. 'The best thing you can do,' said I, 'is to pass the night here; I will presently light a fire, and endeavour to make you comfortable--in the morning we will see to your wheel.' 'Well,' said the man, 'I shall be glad to pass the night here, provided I do not intrude, but I must see to the horses.' Thereupon I conducted the man to the place where the horses were tied. 'The trees drip very much upon them,' said the man, 'and it will not do for them to remain here all night; they will be better out on the field picking the grass; but first of all they must have a good feed of corn.' Thereupon he went to his chaise, from which he presently brought two small bags, partly filled with corn--into them he inserted the mouths of the horses, tying them over their heads. 'Here we will leave them for a time,' said the man; 'when I think they have had enough, I will come back, tie their fore-legs, and let them pick about.' CHAPTER XCVII Fire of charcoal--The new-comer--No wonder!--Not a blacksmith--A love affair--Gretna Green--A cool thousand--Family estates--Borough interest--Grand education--Let us hear--Already quarrelling--Honourable parents--Most heroically--Not common people--Fresh charcoal. It might be about ten o'clock at night. Belle, the postilion, and myself, sat just within the tent, by a fire of charcoal which I had kindled in the chafing-pan. The man had removed the harness from his horses, and, after tethering their legs, had left them for the night in the field above to regale themselves on what grass they could find. The rain had long since entirely ceased, and the moon and stars shone bright in the firmament, up to which, putting aside the canvas, I occasionally looked from the depths of the dingle. Large drops of water, however, falling now and then upon the tent from the neighbouring trees, would have served, could we have forgotten it, to remind us of the recent storm, and also a certain chilliness in the atmosphere, unusual to the season, proceeding from the moisture with which the ground was saturated; yet these circumstances only served to make our party enjoy the charcoal fire the more. There we sat bending over it: Belle, with her long beautiful hair streaming over her magnificent shoulders; the postilion smoking his pipe, in his shirt-sleeves and waistcoat, having flung aside his greatcoat, which had sustained a thorough wetting; and I without my wagoner's slop, of which, it being in the same plight, I had also divested myself. The new-comer was a well-made fellow of about thirty, with an open and agreeable countenance. I found him very well informed for a man in his station, and with some pretensions to humour. After we had discoursed for some time on indifferent subjects, the postilion, who had exhausted his pipe, took it from his mouth, and, knocking out the ashes upon the ground, exclaimed, 'I little thought, when I got up in the morning, that I should spend the night in such agreeable company, and after such a fright.' 'Well,' said I, 'I am glad that your opinion of us has improved; it is not long since you seemed to hold us in rather a suspicious light.' 'And no wonder,' said the man, 'seeing the place you were taking me to! I was not a little, but very much afraid of ye both; and so I continued for some time, though, not to show a craven heart, I pretended to be quite satisfied; but I see I was altogether mistaken about ye. I thought you vagrant gypsy folks and trampers; but now--' 'Vagrant gypsy folks and trampers,' said I; 'and what are we but people of that stamp?' 'Oh,' said the postilion, 'if you wish to be thought such, I am far too civil a person to contradict you, especially after your kindness to me, but--' 'But!' said I; 'what do you mean by but? I would have you to know that I am proud of being a travelling blacksmith; look at these donkey-shoes, I finished them this day.' The postilion took the shoes and examined them. 'So you made these shoes?' he cried at last. {picture:The postilion took the shoes and examined them. 'So you made these shoes?' he cried at last: page557.jpg} 'To be sure I did; do you doubt it?' 'Not in the least,' said the man. 'Ah! ah!' said I, 'I thought I should bring you back to your original opinion. I am, then, a vagrant gypsy body, a tramper, a wandering blacksmith.' 'Not a blacksmith, whatever else you may be,' said the postilion, laughing. 'Then how do you account for my making those shoes?' 'By your not being a blacksmith,' said the postilion; 'no blacksmith would have made shoes in that manner. Besides, what did you mean just now by saying you had finished these shoes to-day? A real blacksmith would have flung off three or four sets of donkey-shoes in one morning, but you, I will be sworn, have been hammering at these for days, and they do you credit--but why?--because you are no blacksmith; no, friend, your shoes may do for this young gentlewoman's animal, but I shouldn't like to have my horses shod by you, unless at a great pinch indeed.' 'Then,' said I, 'for what do you take me?' 'Why, for some runaway young gentleman,' said the postilion. 'No offence, I hope?' 'None at all; no one is offended at being taken or mistaken for a young gentleman, whether runaway or not; but from whence do you suppose I have run away?' 'Why, from college,' said the man: 'no offence?' 'None whatever; and what induced me to run away from college?' 'A love affair, I'll be sworn,' said the postilion. 'You had become acquainted with this young gentlewoman, so she and you--' 'Mind how you get on, friend,' said Belle, in a deep serious tone. 'Pray proceed,' said I; 'I daresay you mean no offence.' 'None in the world,' said the postilion; 'all I was going to say was, that you agreed to run away together, you from college, and she from boarding-school. Well, there's nothing to be ashamed of in a matter like that, such things are done every day by young folks in high life.' 'Are you offended?' said I to Belle. Belle made no answer; but, placing her elbows on her knees, buried her face in her hands. 'So we ran away together?' said I. 'Ay, ay,' said the postilion, 'to Gretna Green, though I can't say that I drove ye, though I have driven many a pair.' 'And from Gretna Green we came here?' 'I'll be bound you did,' said the man, 'till you could arrange matters at home.' 'And the horse-shoes?' said I. 'The donkey-shoes you mean,' answered the postilion; 'why, I suppose you persuaded the blacksmith who married you to give you, before you left, a few lessons in his trade.' 'And we intend to stay here till we have arranged matters at home?' 'Ay, ay,' said the postilion, 'till the old people are pacified, and they send you letters directed to the next post town, to be left till called for, beginning with "Dear children," and enclosing you each a cheque for one hundred pounds, when you will leave this place, and go home in a coach like gentlefolks, to visit your governors; I should like nothing better than to have the driving of you: and then there will be a grand meeting of the two families, and after a few reproaches, the old people will agree to do something handsome for the poor thoughtless things; so you will have a genteel house taken for you, and an annuity allowed you. You won't get much the first year, five hundred at the most, in order that the old folks may let you feel that they are not altogether satisfied with you, and that you are yet entirely in their power; but the second, if you don't get a cool thousand, may I catch cold, especially should young madam here present a son and heir for the old people to fondle, destined one day to become sole heir of the two illustrious houses; and then all the grand folks in the neighbourhood, who have--bless their prudent hearts!--kept rather aloof from you till then, for fear you should want anything from them--I say all the carriage people in the neighbourhood, when they see how swimmingly matters are going on, will come in shoals to visit you.' 'Really,' said I, 'you are getting on swimmingly.' 'Oh,' said the postilion, 'I was not a gentleman's servant nine years without learning the ways of gentry, and being able to know gentry when I see them.' 'And what do you say to all this?' I demanded of Belle. 'Stop a moment,' interposed the postilion, 'I have one more word to say:--and when you are surrounded by your comforts, keeping your nice little barouche and pair, your coachman and livery servant, and visited by all the carriage people in the neighbourhood--to say nothing of the time when you come to the family estates on the death of the old people--I shouldn't wonder if now and then you look back with longing and regret to the days when you lived in the damp dripping dingle, had no better equipage than a pony or donkey cart, and saw no better company than a tramper or gypsy, except once, when a poor postilion was glad to seat himself at your charcoal fire.' 'Pray,' said I, 'did you ever take lessons in elocution?' 'Not directly,' said the postilion; 'but my old master, who was in Parliament, did, and so did his son, who was intended to be an orator. A great professor used to come and give them lessons, and I used to stand and listen, by which means I picked up a considerable quantity of what is called rhetoric. In what I last said, I was aiming at what I have heard him frequently endeavouring to teach my governors as a thing indispensably necessary in all oratory, a graceful pere--pere--peregrination.' 'Peroration, perhaps?' 'Just so,' said the postilion; 'and now I'm sure I am not mistaken about you; you have taken lessons yourself, at first hand, in the college vacations, and a promising pupil you were, I make no doubt. Well, your friends will be all the happier to get you back. Has your governor much borough interest?' 'I ask you once more,' said I, addressing myself to Belle, 'what you think of the history which this good man has made for us?' 'What should I think of it,' said Belle, still keeping her face buried in her hands, 'but that it is mere nonsense?' 'Nonsense!' said the postilion. 'Yes,' said the girl, 'and you know it.' 'May my leg always ache, if I do,' said the postilion, patting his leg with his hand; 'will you persuade me that this young man has never been at college?' 'I have never been at college, but--' 'Ay, ay,' said the postilion, 'but--' 'I have been to the best schools in Britain, to say nothing of a celebrated one in Ireland.' 'Well, then, it comes to the same thing,' said the postilion, 'or perhaps you know more than if you had been at college--and your governor--' 'My governor, as you call him,' said I, 'is dead.' 'And his borough interest?' 'My father had no borough interest,' said I; 'had he possessed any, he would perhaps not have died, as he did, honourably poor.' 'No, no,' said the postilion, 'if he had had borough interest, he wouldn't have been poor, nor honourable, though perhaps a right honourable. However, with your grand education and genteel manners, you made all right at last by persuading this noble young gentlewoman to run away from boarding-school with you.' 'I was never at boarding-school,' said Belle, 'unless you call--' 'Ay, ay,' said the postilion, 'boarding-school is vulgar, I know: I beg your pardon, I ought to have called it academy, or by some other much finer name--you were in something much greater than a boarding-school.' 'There you are right,' said Belle, lifting up her head and looking the postilion full in the face by the light of the charcoal fire, 'for I was bred in the workhouse.' 'Wooh!' said the postilion. 'It is true that I am of good--' 'Ay, ay,' said the postilion, 'let us hear--' 'Of good blood,' continued Belle; 'my name is Berners, Isopel Berners, though my parents were unfortunate. Indeed, with respect to blood, I believe I am of better blood than the young man.' 'There you are mistaken,' said I; 'by my father's side I am of Cornish blood, and by my mother's of brave French Protestant extraction. Now, with respect to the blood of my father--and to be descended well on the father's side is the principal thing--it is the best blood in the world, for the Cornish blood, as the proverb says--' 'I don't care what the proverb says,' said Belle; 'I say my blood is the best--my name is Berners, Isopel Berners--it was my mother's name, and is better, I am sure, than any you bear, whatever that may be; and though you say that the descent on the fathers side is the principal thing--and I know why you say so,' she added with some excitement--'I say that descent on the mother's side is of most account, because the mother--' 'Just come from Gretna Green, and already quarrelling!' said the postilion. 'We do not come from Gretna Green,' said Belle. 'Ah, I had forgot,' said the postilion; 'none but great people go to Gretna Green. Well, then, from church, and already quarrelling about family, just like two great people.' 'We have never been to church,' said Belle; 'and to prevent any more guessing on your part, it will be as well for me to tell you, friend, that I am nothing to the young man, and he, of course, nothing to me. I am a poor travelling girl, born in a workhouse: journeying on my occasions with certain companions, I came to this hollow, where my company quarrelled with the young man, who had settled down here, as he had a right to do if he pleased; and not being able to drive him out, they went away after quarrelling with me, too, for not choosing to side with them; so I stayed here along with the young man, there being room for us both, and the place being as free to me as to him.' 'And in order that you may be no longer puzzled with respect to myself,' said I; 'I will give you a brief outline of my history. I am the son of honourable parents, who gave me a first-rate education, as far as literature and languages went, with which education I endeavoured, on the death of my father, to advance myself to wealth and reputation in the big city; but failing in the attempt, I conceived a disgust for the busy world, and determined to retire from it. After wandering about for some time, and meeting with various adventures, in one of which I contrived to obtain a pony, cart, and certain tools used by smiths and tinkers, I came to this place, where I amused myself with making horse-shoes, or rather pony-shoes, having acquired the art of wielding the hammer and tongs from a strange kind of smith--not him of Gretna Green--whom I knew in my childhood. And here I lived, doing harm to no one, quite lonely and solitary, till one fine morning the premises were visited by this young gentlewoman and her companions. She did herself anything but justice when she said that her companions quarrelled with her because she would not side with them against me; they quarrelled with her because she came most heroically to my assistance as I was on the point of being murdered; and she forgot to tell you that, after they had abandoned her, she stood by me in the--dark hour, comforting and cheering me, when unspeakable dread, to which I am occasionally subject, took possession of my mind. She says she is nothing to me, even as I am nothing to her. I am of course nothing to her, but she is mistaken in thinking she is nothing to me. I entertain the highest regard and admiration for her, being convinced that I might search the whole world in vain for a nature more heroic and devoted.' 'And for my part,' said Belle, with a sob, 'a more quiet agreeable partner in a place like this I would not wish to have; it is true he has strange ways, and frequently puts words into my mouth very difficult to utter, but--but--' and here she buried her face once more in her hands. 'Well,' said the postilion, 'I have been mistaken about you; that is, not altogether, but in part. You are not rich folks, it seems, but you are not common people, and that I could have sworn. What I call a shame is, that some people I have known are not in your place and you in theirs, you with their estates and borough interest, they in this dingle with these carts and animals; but there is no help for these things. Were I the great Mumbo Jumbo above, I would endeavour to manage matters better; but being a simple postilion, glad to earn three shillings a day, I can't be expected to do much.' 'Who is Mumbo Jumbo?' said I. 'Ah!' said the postilion, 'I see there may be a thing or two I know better than yourself. Mumbo Jumbo is a god of the black coast, to which people go for ivory and gold.' 'Were you ever there?' I demanded. 'No,' said the postilion, 'but I heard plenty of Mumbo Jumbo when I was a boy.' 'I wish you would tell us something about yourself. I believe that your own real history would prove quite as entertaining, if not more, than that which you imagined about us.' 'I am rather tired,' said the postilion, 'and my leg is rather troublesome. I should be glad to try to sleep upon one of your blankets. However, as you wish to hear something about me, I shall be happy to oblige you; but your fire is rather low, and this place is chilly.' Thereupon I arose, and put fresh charcoal on the pan; then taking it outside the tent, with a kind of fan which I had fashioned, I fanned the coals into a red glow, and continued doing so until the greater part of the noxious gas, which the coals are in the habit of exhaling, was exhausted. I then brought it into the tent and reseated myself, scattering over the coals a small portion of sugar. 'No bad smell,' said the postilion; 'but upon the whole I think I like the smell of tobacco better; and with your permission I will once more light my pipe.' Thereupon he relighted his pipe; and, after taking two or three whiffs, began in the following manner. CHAPTER XCVIII An exordium--Fine ships--High Barbary captains--Free-born Englishmen--Monstrous figure--Swashbuckler--The grand coaches--The footmen--A travelling expedition--Black Jack--Nelson's cannon--Pharaoh's butler--A diligence--Two passengers--Sharking priest--Virgilio--Lessons in Italian--Two opinions--Holy Mary--Priestly confederates--Methodist chapel--Veturini--Some of our party--Like a sepulchre--All for themselves. 'I am a poor postilion, as you see; yet, as I have seen a thing or two and heard a thing or two of what is going on in the world, perhaps what I have to tell you connected with myself may not prove altogether uninteresting. Now, my friends, this manner of opening a story is what the man who taught rhetoric would call a hex--hex--' 'Exordium,' said I. 'Just so,' said the postilion; 'I treated you to a per--per--peroration some time ago, so that I have contrived to put the cart before the horse, as the Irish orators frequently do in the honourable House, in whose speeches, especially those who have taken lessons in rhetoric, the per--per--what's the word?--frequently goes before the exordium. 'I was born in the neighbouring county; my father was land-steward to a squire of about a thousand a year. My father had two sons, of whom I am the youngest by some years. My elder brother was of a spirited roving disposition, and for fear that he should turn out what is generally termed ungain, my father determined to send him to sea: so once upon a time, when my brother was about fifteen, he took him to the great seaport of the county, where he apprenticed him to a captain of one of the ships which trade to the high Barbary coast. Fine ships they were, I have heard say, more than thirty in number, and all belonging to a wonderful great gentleman, who had once been a parish boy, but had contrived to make an immense fortune by trading to that coast for gold-dust, ivory, and other strange articles; and for doing so, I mean for making a fortune, had been made a knight baronet. So my brother went to the high Barbary shore, on board the fine vessel, and in about a year returned and came to visit us; he repeated the voyage several times, always coming to see his parents on his return. Strange stories he used to tell us of what he had been witness to on the high Barbary coast, both off shore and on. He said that the fine vessel in which he sailed was nothing better than a painted hell; that the captain was a veritable fiend, whose grand delight was in tormenting his men, especially when they were sick, as they frequently were, there being always fever on the high Barbary coast; and that though the captain was occasionally sick himself, his being so made no difference, or rather it did make a difference, though for the worse, he being when sick always more inveterate and malignant than at other times. He said that once, when he himself was sick, his captain had pitched his face all over, which exploit was much applauded by the other high Barbary captains--all of whom, from what my brother said, appeared to be of much the same disposition as my brother's captain, taking wonderful delight in tormenting the crews, and doing all manner of terrible things. My brother frequently said that nothing whatever prevented him from running away from his ship, and never returning, but the hope he entertained of one day being captain himself, and able to torment people in his turn, which he solemnly vowed he would do, as a kind of compensation for what he himself had undergone. And if things were going on in a strange way off the high Barbary shore amongst those who came there to trade, they were going on in a way yet stranger with the people who lived upon it. 'Oh the strange ways of the black men who lived on that shore, of which my brother used to tell us at home--selling their sons, daughters, and servants for slaves, and the prisoners taken in battle, to the Spanish captains, to be carried to Havannah, and when there, sold at a profit, the idea of which, my brother said, went to the hearts of our own captains, who used to say what a hard thing it was that free-born Englishmen could not have a hand in the traffic, seeing that it was forbidden by the laws of their country; talking fondly of the good old times when their forefathers used to carry slaves to Jamaica and Barbadoes, realising immense profit, besides the pleasure of hearing their shrieks on the voyage; and then the superstitions of the blacks, which my brother used to talk of; their sharks' teeth, their wisps of fowls' feathers, their half-baked pots full of burnt bones, of which they used to make what they called fetish, and bow down to, and ask favours of, and then, perhaps, abuse and strike, provided the senseless rubbish did not give them what they asked for; and then, above all, Mumbo Jumbo, the grand fetish master, who lived somewhere in the woods, and who used to come out every now and then with his fetish companions; a monstrous figure, all wound round with leaves and branches, so as to be quite indistinguishable, and, seating himself on the high seat in the villages, receive homage from the people, and also gifts and offerings, the most valuable of which were pretty damsels, and then betake himself back again, with his followers, into the woods. Oh the tales that my brother used to tell us of the high Barbary shore! Poor fellow! what became of him I can't say; the last time he came back from a voyage, he told us that his captain, as soon as he had brought his vessel to port and settled with his owner, drowned himself off the quay, in a fit of the horrors, which it seems high Barbary captains, after a certain number of years, are much subject to. After staying about a month with us, he went to sea again, with another captain; and, bad as the old one had been, it appears the new one was worse, for, unable to bear his treatment, my brother left his ship off the high Barbary shore, and ran away up the country. Some of his comrades, whom we afterwards saw, said that there were various reports about him on the shore; one that he had taken on with Mumbo Jumbo, and was serving him in his house in the woods, in the capacity of swashbuckler, or life-guardsman; another, that he was gone in quest of a mighty city in the heart of the negro country; another, that in swimming a stream he had been devoured by an alligator. Now, these two last reports were bad enough; the idea of their flesh and blood being bit asunder by a ravenous fish was sad enough to my poor parents; and not very comfortable was the thought of his sweltering over the hot sands in quest of the negro city; but the idea of their son, their eldest child, serving Mumbo Jumbo as swashbuckler was worst of all, and caused my poor parents to shed many a scalding tear. 'I stayed at home with my parents until I was about eighteen, assisting my father in various ways. I then went to live at the Squire's, partly as groom, partly as footman. After living in the country some time, I attended the family in a trip of six weeks which they made to London. Whilst there, happening to have some words with an old ill-tempered coachman, who had been for a great many years in the family, my master advised me to leave, offering to recommend me to a family of his acquaintance who were in need of a footman. I was glad to accept his offer, and in a few days went to my new place. My new master was one of the great gentry, a baronet in Parliament, and possessed of an estate of about twenty thousand a year; his family consisted of his lady, a son, a fine young man just coming of age, and two very sweet amiable daughters. I liked this place much better than my first, there was so much more pleasant noise and bustle--so much more grand company, and so many more opportunities of improving myself. Oh, how I liked to see the grand coaches drive up to the door, with the grand company; and though, amidst that company, there were some who did not look very grand, there were others, and not a few, who did. Some of the ladies quite captivated me; there was the Marchioness of--in particular. This young lady puts me much in mind of her; it is true, the Marchioness, as I saw her then, was about fifteen years older than this young gentlewoman is now, and not so tall by some inches, but she had the very same hair, and much the same neck and shoulders--no offence, I hope? And then some of the young gentlemen, with their cool, haughty, care-for-nothing looks, struck me as being very fine fellows. There was one in particular, whom I frequently used to stare at, not altogether unlike some one I have seen hereabouts--he had a slight cast in his eye, and . . . but I won't enter into every particular. And then the footmen! Oh, how those footmen helped to improve me with their conversation. Many of them could converse much more glibly than their masters, and appeared to have much better taste. At any rate, they seldom approved of what their masters did. I remember being once with one in the gallery of the play-house, when something of Shakspeare's was being performed: some one in the first tier of boxes was applauding very loudly. "That's my fool of a governor," said he; "he is weak enough to like Shakspeare--I don't;--he's so confoundedly low, but he won't last long--going down. Shakspeare culminated"--I think that was the word--"culminated some time ago." 'And then the professor of elocution, of whom my governors used to take lessons, and of which lessons I had my share, by listening behind the door; but for that professor of elocution I should not be able to round my periods--an expression of his--in the manner I do. 'After I had been three years at this place my mistress died. Her death, however, made no great alteration in my way of living, the family spending their winters in London, and their summers at their old seat in S--- as before. At last, the young ladies, who had not yet got husbands, which was strange enough, seeing, as I told you before, they were very amiable, proposed to our governor a travelling expedition abroad. The old baronet consented, though young master was much against it, saying they would all be much better at home. As the girls persisted, however, he at last withdrew his opposition, and even promised to follow them as soon as his parliamentary duties would permit; for he was just got into Parliament, and, like most other young members, thought that nothing could be done in the House without him. So the old gentleman and the two young ladies set off, taking me with them, and a couple of ladies' maids to wait upon them. First of all, we went to Paris, where we continued three months, the old baronet and the ladies going to see the various sights of the city and the neighbourhood, and I attending them. They soon got tired of sight-seeing, and of Paris too; and so did I. However, they still continued there, in order, I believe, that the young ladies might lay in a store of French finery. I should have passed my idle time at Paris, of which I had plenty after the sight-seeing was over, very unpleasantly, but for Black Jack. Eh! did you never hear of Black Jack? Ah! if you had ever been an English servant in Paris, you would have known Black Jack; not an English gentleman's servant who has been at Paris for this last ten years but knows Black Jack and his ordinary. A strange fellow he was--of what country no one could exactly say--for as for judging from speech, that was impossible, Jack speaking all languages equally ill. Some said he came direct from Satan's kitchen, and that when he gives up keeping ordinary, he will return there again, though the generally-received opinion at Paris was, that he was at one time butler to King Pharaoh; and that, after lying asleep for four thousand years in a place called the Kattycombs, he was awaked by the sound of Nelson's cannon at the battle of the Nile, and going to the shore, took on with the admiral, and became, in course of time, ship steward; and that after Nelson's death he was captured by the French, on board one of whose vessels he served in a somewhat similar capacity till the peace, when he came to Paris, and set up an ordinary for servants, sticking the name of Katcomb over the door, in allusion to the place where he had his long sleep. But, whatever his origin was, Jack kept his own counsel, and appeared to care nothing for what people said about him, or called him. Yes, I forgot, there was one name he would not be called, and that was "Portuguese." I once saw Black Jack knock down a coachman, six foot high, who called him black-faced Portuguese. "Any name but dat, you shab," said Black Jack, who was a little round fellow, of about five feet two; "I would not stand to be called Portuguese by Nelson himself." Jack was rather fond of talking about Nelson, and hearing people talk about him, so that it is not improbable that he may have sailed with him; and with respect to his having been King Pharaoh's butler, all I have to say is, I am not disposed to give the downright lie to the report. Jack was always ready to do a kind turn to a poor servant out of place, and has often been known to assist such as were in prison, which charitable disposition he perhaps acquired from having lost a good place himself, having seen the inside of a prison, and known the want of a meal's victuals, all which trials King Pharaoh's butler underwent, so he may have been that butler; at any rate, I have known positive conclusions come to on no better premisses, if indeed as good. As for the story of his coming direct from Satan's kitchen, I place no confidence in it at all, as Black Jack had nothing of Satan about him but blackness, on which account he was called Black Jack. Nor am I disposed to give credit to a report that his hatred of the Portuguese arose from some ill treatment which he had once experienced when on shore, at Lisbon, from certain gentlewomen of the place, but rather conclude that it arose from an opinion he entertained that the Portuguese never paid their debts, one of the ambassadors of that nation, whose house he had served, having left Paris several thousand francs in his debt. This is all that I have to say about Black Jack, without whose funny jokes and good ordinary I should have passed my time in Paris in a very disconsolate manner. 'After we had been at Paris between two and three months, we left it in the direction of Italy, which country the family had a great desire to see. After travelling a great many days in a thing which, though called a diligence, did not exhibit much diligence, we came to a great big town, seated around a nasty salt-water bason, connected by a narrow passage with the sea. Here we were to embark; and so we did as soon as possible, glad enough to get away--at least I was, and so I make no doubt were the rest, for such a place for bad smells I never was in. It seems all the drains and sewers of the place run into that same salt bason, voiding into it all their impurities, which, not being able to escape into the sea in any considerable quantity, owing to the narrowness of the entrance, there accumulate, filling the whole atmosphere with these same outrageous scents, on which account the town is a famous lodging-house of the plague. The ship in which we embarked was bound for a place in Italy called Naples, where we were to stay some time. The voyage was rather a lazy one, the ship not being moved by steam; for at the time of which I am speaking, some five years ago, steam-ships were not so plentiful as now. There were only two passengers in the grand cabin, where my governor and his daughters were, an Italian lady and a priest. Of the lady I have not much to say; she appeared to be a quiet respectable person enough, and after our arrival at Naples I neither saw nor heard anything more of her; but of the priest I shall have a good deal to say in the sequel (that, by the bye, is a word I learnt from the professor of rhetoric), and it would have been well for our family had they never met him. 'On the third day of the voyage the priest came to me, who was rather unwell with sea-sickness, which he, of course, felt nothing of--that kind of people being never affected like others. He was a finish-looking man of about forty-five, but had something strange in his eyes, which I have since thought denoted that all was not right in a certain place called the heart. After a few words of condolence, in a broken kind of English, he asked me various questions about our family; and I, won by his seeming kindness, told him all I knew about them--of which communicativeness I afterwards very much repented. As soon as he had got out of me all he desired, he left me; and I observed that during the rest of the voyage he was wonderfully attentive to our governor, and yet more to the young ladies. Both, however, kept him rather at a distance; the young ladies were reserved, and once or twice I heard our governor cursing him between his teeth for a sharking priest. The priest, however, was not disconcerted, and continued his attentions, which in a little time produced an effect, so that, by the time we landed at Naples, our great folks had conceived a kind of liking for the man, and when they took their leave invited him to visit them, which he promised to do. We hired a grand house or palace at Naples; it belonged to a poor kind of prince, who was glad enough to let it to our governor, and also his servants and carriages; and glad enough were the poor servants, for they got from us what they never got from the prince--plenty of meat and money; and glad enough, I make no doubt, were the horses for the provender we gave them; and I daresay the coaches were not sorry to be cleaned and furbished up. Well, we went out and came in; going to see the sights, and returning. Amongst other things we saw was the burning mountain, and the tomb of a certain sorcerer called Virgilio, who made witch rhymes, by which he could raise the dead. Plenty of people came to see us, both English and Italians, and amongst the rest the priest. He did not come amongst the first, but allowed us to settle and become a little quiet before he showed himself; and after a day or two he paid us another visit, then another, till at last his visits were daily. 'I did not like that Jack Priest; so I kept my eye upon all his motions. Lord! how that Jack Priest did curry favour with our governor and the two young ladies; and he curried, and curried, till he had got himself into favour with the governor, and more especially with the two young ladies, of whom their father was doatingly fond. At last the ladies took lessons in Italian of the priest, a language in which he was said to be a grand proficient, and of which they had hitherto known but very little; and from that time his influence over them, and consequently over the old governor, increased, till the tables were turned, and he no longer curried favour with them, but they with him--yes, as true as my leg aches, the young ladies curried, and the old governor curried favour with that same priest; when he was with them, they seemed almost to hang on his lips, that is, the young ladies; and as for the old governor, he never contradicted him, and when the fellow was absent, which, by the bye, was not often, it was, "Father so-and-so said this," and "Father so- and-so said that"; "Father so-and-so thinks we should do so-and-so, or that we should not do so-and-so." I at first thought that he must have given them something, some philtre or the like, but one of the English maid-servants, who had a kind of respect for me, and who saw much more behind the scenes than I did, informed me that he was continually instilling strange notions into their heads, striving, by every possible method, to make them despise the religion of their own land, and take up that of the foreign country in which they were. And sure enough, in a little time, the girls had altogether left off going to an English chapel, and were continually visiting places of Italian worship. The old governor, it is true, still went to his church, but he appeared to be hesitating between two opinions; and once, when he was at dinner, he said to two or three English friends that, since he had become better acquainted with it, he had conceived a much more favourable opinion of the Catholic religion than he had previously entertained. In a word, the priest ruled the house, and everything was done according to his will and pleasure; by degrees he persuaded the young ladies to drop their English acquaintances, whose place he supplied with Italians, chiefly females. My poor old governor would not have had a person to speak to--for he never could learn the language--but for two or three Englishmen who used to come occasionally and take a bottle with him in a summer-house, whose company he could not be persuaded to resign, notwithstanding the entreaties of his daughters, instigated by the priest, whose grand endeavour seemed to be to render the minds of all three foolish, for his own ends. And if he was busy above stairs with the governor, there was another busy below with us poor English servants, a kind of subordinate priest, a low Italian; as he could speak no language but his own, he was continually jabbering to us in that, and by hearing him the maids and myself contrived to pick up a good deal of the language, so that we understood most that was said, and could speak it very fairly; and the themes of his jabber were the beauty and virtues of one whom he called Holy Mary, and the power and grandeur of one whom he called the Holy Father; and he told us that we should shortly have an opportunity of seeing the Holy Father, who could do anything he liked with Holy Mary: in the meantime we had plenty of opportunities of seeing Holy Mary, for in every church, chapel, and convent to which we were taken, there was an image of Holy Mary, who, if the images were dressed at all in her fashion, must have been very fond of short petticoats and tinsel, and who, if those said figures at all resembled her in face, could scarcely have been half as handsome as either of my two fellow-servants, not to speak of the young ladies. 'Now it happened that one of the female servants was much taken with what she saw and heard, and gave herself up entirely to the will of the subordinate, who had quite as much dominion over her as his superior had over the ladies; the other maid, however, the one who had a kind of respect for me, was not so easily besotted; she used to laugh at what she saw, and at what the fellow told her, and from her I learnt that amongst other things intended by these priestly confederates was robbery; she said that the poor old governor had already been persuaded by his daughters to put more than a thousand pounds into the superior priest's hands for purposes of charity and religion, as was said, and that the subordinate one had already inveigled her fellow-servant out of every penny which she had saved from her wages, and had endeavoured likewise to obtain what money she herself had, but in vain. With respect to myself, the fellow shortly after made an attempt towards obtaining a hundred crowns, of which, by some means, he knew me to be in possession, telling me what a meritorious thing it was to give one's superfluities for the purposes of religion. "That is true," said I, "and if, after my return to my native country, I find I have anything which I don't want myself, I will employ it in helping to build a Methodist chapel." 'By the time that the three months were expired for which we had hired the palace of the needy Prince, the old governor began to talk of returning to England, at least of leaving Italy. I believe he had become frightened at the calls which were continually being made upon him for money; for after all, you know, if there is a sensitive part of a man's wearing apparel, it is his breeches pocket; but the young ladies could not think of leaving dear Italy and the dear priest; and then they had seen nothing of the country, they had only seen Naples; before leaving dear Italia they must see more of the country and the cities; above all, they must see a place which they called the Eternal City, or some similar nonsensical name; and they persisted so that the poor governor permitted them, as usual, to have their way; and it was decided what route they should take--that is, the priest was kind enough to decide for them, and was also kind enough to promise to go with them part of the route, as far as a place where there was a wonderful figure of Holy Mary, which the priest said it was highly necessary for them to see before visiting the Eternal City: so we left Naples in hired carriages, driven by fellows they call veturini, cheating, drunken dogs, I remember they were. Besides our own family there was the priest and his subordinate, and a couple of hired lackeys. We were several days upon the journey, travelling through a very wild country, which the ladies pretended to be delighted with, and which the governor cursed on account of the badness of the roads; and when we came to any particularly wild spot we used to stop, in order to enjoy the scenery, as the ladies said; and then we would spread a horse- cloth on the ground, and eat bread and cheese, and drink wine of the country. And some of the holes and corners in which we bivouacked, as the ladies called it, were something like this place where we are now, so that when I came down here it put me in mind of them. At last we arrived at the place where was the holy image. 'We went to the house or chapel in which the holy image was kept--a frightful, ugly black figure of Holy Mary, dressed in her usual way; and after we had stared at the figure, and some of our party had bowed down to it, we were shown a great many things which were called holy relics, which consisted of thumb-nails, and fore-nails, and toe-nails, and hair, and teeth, and a feather or two, and a mighty thigh-bone, but whether of a man or a camel I can't say; all of which things, I was told, if properly touched and handled, had mighty power to cure all kinds of disorders. And as we went from the holy house we saw a man in a state of great excitement: he was foaming at the mouth, and cursing the holy image and all its household, because, after he had worshipped it and made offerings to it, and besought it to assist him in a game of chance which he was about to play, it had left him in the lurch, allowing him to lose all his money. And when I thought of all the rubbish I had seen, and the purposes which it was applied to, in conjunction with the rage of the losing gamester at the deaf and dumb image, I could not help comparing the whole with what my poor brother used to tell me of the superstitious practices of the blacks on the high Barbary shore, and their occasional rage and fury at the things they worshipped; and I said to myself, If all this here doesn't smell of fetish, may I smell fetid. 'At this place the priest left us, returning to Naples with his subordinate, on some particular business I suppose. It was, however, agreed that he should visit us at the Holy City. We did not go direct to the Holy City, but bent our course to two or three other cities which the family were desirous of seeing; but as nothing occurred to us in these places of any particular interest, I shall take the liberty of passing them by in silence. At length we arrived at the Eternal City: an immense city it was, looking as if it had stood for a long time, and would stand for a long time still; compared with it, London would look like a mere assemblage of bee-skeps; however, give me the bee-skeps with their merry hum and bustle, and life and honey, rather than that huge town, which looked like a sepulchre, where there was no life, no busy hum, no bees, but a scanty sallow population, intermixed with black priests, white priests, gray priests; and though I don't say there was no honey in the place, for I believe there was, I am ready to take my Bible oath that it was not made there, and that the priests kept it all for themselves. CHAPTER XCIX A cloister--Half English--New acquaintance--Mixed liquors--Turning Papist--Purposes of charity--Foreign religion--Melancholy--Elbowing and pushing--Outlandish sight--The figure--I don't care for you--Merry-andrews--One good--Religion of my country--Fellow of spirit--A dispute--The next morning--Female doll--Proper dignity--Fetish country. 'The day after our arrival,' continued the postilion, 'I was sent, under the guidance of a lackey of the place, with a letter, which the priest, when he left, had given us for a friend of his in the Eternal City. We went to a large house, and on ringing were admitted by a porter into a cloister, where I saw some ill-looking, shabby young fellows walking about, who spoke English to one another. To one of these the porter delivered the letter, and the young fellow, going away, presently returned and told me to follow him; he led me into a large room where, behind a table on which were various papers and a thing which they call, in that country, a crucifix, sat a man in a kind of priestly dress. The lad having opened the door for me, shut it behind me, and went away. The man behind the table was so engaged in reading the letter which I had brought, that at first he took no notice of me; he had red hair, a kind of half-English countenance, and was seemingly about five-and-thirty. After a little time he laid the letter down, appeared to consider a moment, and then opened his mouth with a strange laugh, not a loud laugh, for I heard nothing but a kind of hissing deep down the throat; all of a sudden, however, perceiving me, he gave a slight start, but, instantly recovering himself, he inquired in English concerning the health of the family, and where we lived: on my delivering him a card, he bade me inform my master and the ladies that in the course of the day he would do himself the honour of waiting upon them. He then arose and opened the door for me to depart. The man was perfectly civil and courteous, but I did not like that strange laugh of his after having read the letter. He was as good as his word, and that same day paid us a visit. It was now arranged that we should pass the winter in Rome--to my great annoyance, for I wished to return to my native land, being heartily tired of everything connected with Italy. I was not, however, without hope that our young master would shortly arrive, when I trusted that matters, as far as the family were concerned, would be put on a better footing. In a few days our new acquaintance, who, it seems, was a mongrel Englishman, had procured a house for our accommodation; it was large enough, but not near so pleasant as that we had at Naples, which was light and airy, with a large garden. This was a dark gloomy structure in a narrow street, with a frowning church beside it; it was not far from the place where our new friend lived, and its being so was probably the reason why he selected it. It was furnished partly with articles which we bought, and partly with those which we hired. We lived something in the same way as at Naples; but though I did not much like Naples, I yet liked it better than this place, which was so gloomy. Our new acquaintance made himself as agreeable as he could, conducting the ladies to churches and convents, and frequently passing the afternoon drinking with the governor, who was fond of a glass of brandy and water and a cigar, as the new acquaintance also was--no, I remember, he was fond of gin and water, and did not smoke. I don't think he had so much influence over the young ladies as the other priest, which was, perhaps, owing to his not being so good-looking; but I am sure he had more influence with the governor, owing, doubtless, to his bearing him company in drinking mixed liquors, which the other priest did not do. 'He was a strange fellow, that same new acquaintance of ours, and unlike all the priests I saw in that country, and I saw plenty of various nations; they were always upon their guard, and had their features and voice modulated; but this man was subject to fits of absence, during which he would frequently mutter to himself, then, though he was perfectly civil to everybody, as far as words went, I observed that he entertained a thorough contempt for most people, especially for those whom he was making dupes. I have observed him whilst drinking with our governor, when the old man's head was turned, look at him with an air which seemed to say, "What a thundering old fool you are"; and at our young ladies, when their backs were turned, with a glance which said distinctly enough, "You precious pair of ninnyhammers"; and then his laugh--he had two kinds of laughs--one which you could hear, and another which you could only see. I have seen him laugh at our governor and the young ladies, when their heads were turned away, but I heard no sound. My mother had a sandy cat, which sometimes used to open its mouth wide with a mew which nobody could hear, and the silent laugh of that red-haired priest used to put me wonderfully in mind of the silent mew of my mother's sandy-red cat. And then the other laugh, which you could hear; what a strange laugh that was, never loud, yes, I have heard it tolerably loud. He once passed near me, after having taken leave of a silly English fellow--a limping parson of the name of Platitude, who, they said, was thinking of turning Papist, and was much in his company; I was standing behind the pillar of a piazza, and as he passed he was laughing heartily. O he was a strange fellow, that same red-haired acquaintance of ours! 'After we had been at Rome about six weeks our old friend the priest of Naples arrived, but without his subordinate, for whose services he now perhaps thought that he had no occasion. I believe he found matters in our family wearing almost as favourable an aspect as he could desire: with what he had previously taught them and shown them at Naples and elsewhere, and with what the red-haired confederate had taught them and shown them at Rome, the poor young ladies had become quite handmaids of superstition, so that they, especially the youngest, were prepared to bow down to anything, and kiss anything, however vile and ugly, provided a priest commanded them; and as for the old governor, what with the influence which his daughters exerted, and what with the ascendency which the red-haired man had obtained over him, he dared not say his purse, far less his soul, was his own. Only think of an Englishman not being master of his own purse! My acquaintance, the lady's maid, assured me that, to her certain knowledge, he had disbursed to the red-haired man, for purposes of charity, as it was said, at least one thousand pounds during the five weeks we had been at Rome. She also told me that things would shortly be brought to a conclusion--and so indeed they were, though in a different manner from what she and I and some other people imagined; that there was to be a grand festival, and a mass, at which we were to be present, after which the family were to be presented to the Holy Father, for so those two priestly sharks had managed it; and then . . . she said she was certain that the two ladies, and perhaps the old governor, would forsake the religion of their native land, taking up with that of these foreign regions, for so my fellow-servant expressed it, and that perhaps attempts might be made to induce us poor English servants to take up with the foreign religion, that is herself and me, for as for our fellow-servant, the other maid, she wanted no inducing, being disposed body and soul to go over to it. Whereupon I swore with an oath that nothing should induce me to take up with the foreign religion; and the poor maid, my fellow-servant, bursting into tears, said that for her part she would die sooner than have anything to do with it; thereupon we shook hands and agreed to stand by and countenance one another: and moreover, provided our governors were fools enough to go over to the religion of these here foreigners, we would not wait to be asked to do the like, but leave them at once, and make the best of our way home, even if we were forced to beg on the road. 'At last the day of the grand festival came, and we were all to go to the big church to hear the mass. Now it happened that for some time past I had been much afflicted with melancholy, especially when I got up of a morning, produced by the strange manner in which I saw things going on in our family; and to dispel it in some degree, I had been in the habit of taking a dram before breakfast. On the morning in question, feeling particularly low spirited when I thought of the foolish step our governor would probably take before evening, I took two drams before breakfast; and after breakfast, feeling my melancholy still continuing, I took another, which produced a slight effect upon my head, though I am convinced nobody observed it. 'Away we drove to the big church; it was a dark misty day, I remember, and very cold, so that if anybody had noticed my being slightly in liquor, I could have excused myself by saying that I had merely taken a glass to fortify my constitution against the weather; and of one thing I am certain, which is, that such an excuse would have stood me in stead with our governor, who looked, I thought, as if he had taken one too; but I may be mistaken, and why should I notice him, seeing that he took no notice of me? so away we drove to the big church, to which all the population of the place appeared to be moving. 'On arriving there we dismounted, and the two priests, who were with us, led the family in, whilst I followed at a little distance, but quickly lost them amidst the throng of people. I made my way, however, though in what direction I knew not, except it was one in which everybody seemed striving, and by dint of elbowing and pushing I at last got to a place which looked like the aisle of a cathedral, where the people stood in two rows, a space between being kept open by certain strangely-dressed men who moved up and down with rods in their hands; all were looking to the upper end of this place or aisle; and at the upper end, separated from the people by palings like those of an altar, sat in magnificent-looking stalls, on the right and the left, various wonderful-looking individuals in scarlet dresses. At the farther end was what appeared to be an altar, on the left hand was a pulpit, and on the right a stall higher than any of the rest, where was a figure whom I could scarcely see. 'I can't pretend to describe what I saw exactly, for my head, which was at first rather flurried, had become more so from the efforts which I had made to get through the crowd; also from certain singing, which proceeded from I know not where; and, above all, from the bursts of an organ, which were occasionally so loud that I thought the roof, which was painted with wondrous colours, would come toppling down on those below. So there stood I--a poor English servant--in that outlandish place, in the midst of that foreign crowd, looking at that outlandish sight, hearing those outlandish sounds, and occasionally glancing at our party, which, by this time, I distinguished at the opposite side to where I stood, but much nearer the place where the red figures sat. Yes, there stood our poor governor and the sweet young ladies, and I thought they never looked so handsome before; and close by them were the sharking priests, and not far from them was that idiotical parson Platitude, winking and grinning, and occasionally lifting up his hands as if in ecstasy at what he saw and heard, so that he drew upon himself the notice of the congregation. 'And now an individual mounted the pulpit, and began to preach in a language which I did not understand, but which I believe to be Latin, addressing himself seemingly to the figure in the stall; and when he had ceased, there was more singing, more organ-playing, and then two men in robes brought forth two things which they held up; and then the people bowed their heads, and our poor governor bowed his head, and the sweet young ladies bowed their heads, and the sharking priests, whilst the idiotical parson Platitude tried to fling himself down; and then there were various evolutions withinside the pale, and the scarlet figures got up and sat down; and this kind of thing continued for some time. At length the figure which I had seen in the principal stall came forth and advanced towards the people; an awful figure he was, a huge old man with a sugar-loaf hat, with a sulphur-coloured dress, and holding a crook in his hand like that of a shepherd; and as he advanced the people fell on their knees, our poor old governor amongst them; the sweet young ladies, the sharking priests, the idiotical parson Platitude, all fell on their knees, and somebody or other tried to pull me on my knees; but by this time I had become outrageous; all that my poor brother used to tell me of the superstitions of the high Barbary shore rushed into my mind, and I thought they were acting them over here; above all, the idea that the sweet young ladies, to say nothing of my poor old governor, were, after the conclusion of all this mummery, going to deliver themselves up body and soul into the power of that horrid-looking old man, maddened me, and, rushing forward into the open space, I confronted the horrible-looking old figure with the sugar-loaf hat, the sulphur-coloured garments, and shepherd's crook, and shaking my fist at his nose, I bellowed out in English-- '"I don't care for you, old Mumbo Jumbo, though you have fetish!" 'I can scarcely tell you what occurred for some time. I have a dim recollection that hands were laid upon me, and that I struck out violently left and right. On coming to myself, I was seated on a stone bench in a large room, something like a guard-room, in the custody of certain fellows dressed like Merry-andrews; they were bluff, good-looking, wholesome fellows, very different from the sallow Italians: they were looking at me attentively, and occasionally talking to each other in a language which sounded very like the cracking of walnuts in the mouth, very different from cooing Italian. At last one of them asked me in Italian what had ailed me, to which I replied, in an incoherent manner, something about Mumbo Jumbo; whereupon the fellow, one of the bluffest of the lot, a jovial rosy-faced rascal, lifted up his right hand, placing it in such a manner that the lips were between the fore- finger and thumb, then lifting up his right foot and drawing back his head, he sucked in his breath with a hissing sound, as if to imitate one drinking a hearty draught, and then slapped me on the shoulder, saying something which sounded like goot wine, goot companion, whereupon they all laughed, exclaiming, ya, ya, goot companion. And now hurried into the room our poor old governor, with the red-haired priest. The first asked what could have induced me to behave in such a manner in such a place, to which I replied that I was not going to bow down to Mumbo Jumbo, whatever other people might do. Whereupon my master said he believed I was mad, and the priest said he believed I was drunk; to which I answered that I was neither so mad nor drunk but I could distinguish how the wind lay. Whereupon they left me, and in a little time I was told by the bluff-looking Merry-andrews I was at liberty to depart. I believe the priest, in order to please my governor, interceded for me in high quarters. 'But one good resulted from this affair; there was no presentation of our family to the Holy Father, for old Mumbo was so frightened by my outrageous looks that he was laid up for a week, as I was afterwards informed. 'I went home, and had scarcely been there half an hour when I was sent for by the governor, who again referred to the scene in church, said that he could not tolerate such scandalous behaviour, and that unless I promised to be more circumspect in future, he should be compelled to discharge me. I said that if he was scandalised at my behaviour in the church, I was more scandalised at all I saw going on in the family, which was governed by two rascally priests, who, not content with plundering him, appeared bent on hurrying the souls of us all to destruction; and that with respect to discharging me, he could do so that moment, as I wished to go. I believe his own reason told him that I was right, for he made no direct answer, but, after looking on the ground for some time, he told me to leave him. As he did not tell me to leave the house, I went to my room, intending to lie down for an hour or two; but scarcely was I there when the door opened, and in came the red-haired priest. He showed himself, as he always did, perfectly civil, asked me how I was, took a chair and sat down. After a hem or two he entered into a long conversation on the excellence of what he called the Catholic religion; told me that he hoped I would not set myself against the light, and likewise against my interest; for that the family were about to embrace the Catholic religion, and would make it worth my while to follow their example. I told him that the family might do what they pleased, but that I would never forsake the religion of my country for any consideration whatever; that I was nothing but a poor servant, but I was not to be bought by base gold. "I admire your honourable feelings," said he, "you shall have no gold; and as I see you are a fellow of spirit, and do not like being a servant, for which I commend you, I can promise you something better. I have a good deal of influence in this place, and if you will not set your face against the light, but embrace the Catholic religion, I will undertake to make your fortune. You remember those fine fellows to-day who took you into custody, they are the guards of his Holiness. I have no doubt that I have interest enough to procure your enrolment amongst them." "What," said I, "become swashbuckler to Mumbo Jumbo up here! May I . . ."--and here I swore--"if I do. The mere possibility of one of their children being swashbuckler to Mumbo Jumbo on the high Barbary shore has always been a source of heart-breaking to my poor parents. What, then, would they not undergo, if they knew for certain that their other child was swashbuckler to Mumbo Jumbo up here?" Thereupon he asked me, even as you did some time ago, what I meant by Mumbo Jumbo. And I told him all I had heard about the Mumbo Jumbo of the high Barbary shore; telling him that I had no doubt that the old fellow up here was his brother, or nearly related to him. The man with the red hair listened with the greatest attention to all I said, and when I had concluded, he got up, nodded to me, and moved to the door; ere he reached the door I saw his shoulders shaking, and as he closed it behind him I heard him distinctly laughing, to the tune of--he! he! he! 'But now matters began to mend. That same evening my young master unexpectedly arrived. I believe he soon perceived that something extraordinary had been going on in the family. He was for some time closeted with the governor, with whom, I believe, he had a dispute; for my fellow-servant, the lady's maid, informed me that she heard high words. 'Rather late at night the young gentleman sent for me into his room, and asked me various questions with respect to what had been going on, and my behaviour in the church, of which he had heard something. I told him all I knew with respect to the intrigues of the two priests in the family, and gave him a circumstantial account of all that had occurred in the church; adding that, under similar circumstances, I was ready to play the same part over again. Instead of blaming me, he commended my behaviour, told me I was a fine fellow, and said he hoped that, if he wanted my assistance, I would stand by him: this I promised to do. Before I left him, he entreated me to inform him the very next time I saw the priests entering the house. 'The next morning, as I was in the courtyard, where I had placed myself to watch, I saw the two enter and make their way up a private stair to the young ladies' apartment; they were attended by a man dressed something like a priest, who bore a large box; I instantly ran to relate what I had seen to my young master. I found him shaving. "I will just finish what I am about," said he, "and then wait upon these gentlemen." He finished what he was about with great deliberation; then taking a horsewhip, and bidding me follow him, he proceeded at once to the door of his sisters' apartment: finding it fastened, he burst it open at once with his foot and entered, followed by myself. There we beheld the two unfortunate young ladies down on their knees before a large female doll, dressed up, as usual, in rags and tinsel; the two priests were standing near, one on either side, with their hands uplifted, whilst the fellow who brought the trumpery stood a little way down the private stair, the door of which stood open; without a moment's hesitation, my young master rushed forward, gave the image a cut or two with his horsewhip--then flying at the priests, he gave them a sound flogging, kicked them down the private stair, and spurned the man, box and image after them--then locking the door, he gave his sisters a fine sermon, in which he represented to them their folly in worshipping a silly wooden graven image, which, though it had eyes, could see not; though it had ears, could hear not; though it had hands, could not help itself; and though it had feet, could not move about unless it were carried. Oh, it was a fine sermon that my young master preached, and sorry I am that the Father of the Fetish, old Mumbo, did not hear it. The elder sister looked ashamed, but the youngest, who was very weak, did nothing but wring her hands, weep and bewail the injury which had been done to the dear image. The young man, however, without paying much regard to either of them, went to his father, with whom he had a long conversation, which terminated in the old governor giving orders for preparations to be made for the family's leaving Rome and returning to England. I believe that the old governor was glad of his son's arrival, and rejoiced at the idea of getting away from Italy, where he had been so plundered and imposed upon. The priests, however, made another attempt upon the poor young ladies. By the connivance of the female servant who was in their interest they found their way once more into their apartment, bringing with them the fetish image, whose body they partly stripped, exhibiting upon it certain sanguine marks which they had daubed upon it with red paint, but which they said were the result of the lashes which it had received from the horsewhip. The youngest girl believed all they said, and kissed and embraced the dear image; but the eldest, whose eyes had been opened by her brother, to whom she was much attached, behaved with proper dignity; for, going to the door, she called the female servant who had a respect for me, and in her presence reproached the two deceivers for their various impudent cheats, and especially for this their last attempt at imposition; adding that if they did not forthwith withdraw and rid her sister and herself of their presence, she would send word by her maid to her brother, who would presently take effectual means to expel them. They took the hint and departed, and we saw no more of them. 'At the end of three days we departed from Rome, but the maid whom the priests had cajoled remained behind, and it is probable that the youngest of our ladies would have done the same thing if she could have had her own will, for she was continually raving about her image, and saying she should wish to live with it in a convent; but we watched the poor thing, and got her on board ship. Oh, glad was I to leave that fetish country and old Mumbo behind me! CHAPTER C Nothing but gloom--Sporting character--Gouty Tory--Servants' Club--Politics--Reformado footman--Peroration--Good-night. 'We arrived in England, and went to our country seat, but the peace and tranquillity of the family had been marred, and I no longer found my place the pleasant one which it had formerly been; there was nothing but gloom in the house, for the youngest daughter exhibited signs of lunacy, and was obliged to be kept under confinement. The next season I attended my master, his son, and eldest daughter to London, as I had previously done. There I left them, for hearing that a young baronet, an acquaintance of the family, wanted a servant, I applied for the place, with the consent of my masters, both of whom gave me a strong recommendation; and, being approved of, I went to live with him. 'My new master was what is called a sporting character, very fond of the turf, upon which he was not very fortunate. He was frequently very much in want of money, and my wages were anything but regularly paid; nevertheless, I liked him very much, for he treated me more like a friend than a domestic, continually consulting me as to his affairs. At length he was brought nearly to his last shifts, by backing the favourite at the Derby, which favourite turned out a regular brute, being found nowhere at the rush. Whereupon, he and I had a solemn consultation over fourteen glasses of brandy and water, and as many cigars--I mean, between us--as to what was to be done. He wished to start a coach, in which event he was to be driver, and I guard. He was quite competent to drive a coach, being a first-rate whip, and I daresay I should have made a first-rate guard; but, to start a coach requires money, and we neither of us believed that anybody would trust us with vehicles and horses, so that idea was laid aside. We then debated as to whether or not he should go into the Church; but to go into the Church--at any rate to become a dean or bishop, which would have been our aim--it is necessary for a man to possess some education; and my master, although he had been at the best school in England, that is, the most expensive, and also at College, was almost totally illiterate, so we let the Church scheme follow that of the coach. At last, bethinking me that he was tolerably glib at the tongue, as most people are who are addicted to the turf, also a great master of slang; remembering also that he had a crabbed old uncle, who had some borough interest, I proposed that he should get into the House, promising in one fortnight to qualify him to make a figure in it, by certain lessons which I would give him. He consented; and during the next fortnight I did little else than give him lessons in elocution, following to a tittle the method of the great professor, which I had picked up, listening behind the door. At the end of that period we paid a visit to his relation, an old gouty Tory, who at first received us very coolly. My master, however, by flattering a predilection of his for Billy Pitt, soon won his affections so much that he promised to bring him into Parliament; and in less than a month was as good as his word. My master, partly by his own qualifications, and partly by the assistance which he had derived, and still occasionally derived, from me, cut a wonderful figure in the House, and was speedily considered one of the most promising speakers; he was always a good hand at promising--he is at present, I believe, a Cabinet minister. 'But as he got up in the world he began to look down on me. I believe he was ashamed of the obligation under which he lay to me; and at last, requiring no further hints as to oratory from a poor servant like me, he took an opportunity of quarrelling with me and discharging me. However, as he had still some grace, he recommended me to a gentleman with whom, since he had attached himself to politics, he had formed an acquaintance, the editor of a grand Tory Review. I lost caste terribly amongst the servants for entering the service of a person connected with a profession so mean as literature; and it was proposed at the Servants' Club, in Park Lane, to eject me from that society. The proposition, however, was not carried into effect, and I was permitted to show myself among them, though few condescended to take much notice of me. My master was one of the best men in the world, but also one of the most sensitive. On his veracity being impugned by the editor of a newspaper, he called him out, and shot him through the arm. Though servants are seldom admirers of their masters, I was a great admirer of mine, and eager to follow his example. The day after the encounter, on my veracity being impugned by the servant of Lord C--- in something I said in praise of my master, I determined to call him out; so I went into another room and wrote a challenge. But whom should I send it by? Several servants to whom I applied refused to be the bearers of it; they said I had lost caste, and they could not think of going out with me. At length the servant of the Duke of B--- consented to take it; but he made me to understand that, though he went out with me, he did so merely because he despised the Whiggish principles of Lord C---'s servant, and that if I thought he intended to associate with me I should be mistaken. Politics, I must tell you, at that time ran as high amongst the servants as the gentlemen, the servants, however, being almost invariably opposed to the politics of their respective masters, though both parties agreed in one point, the scouting of everything low and literary, though I think, of the two, the liberal or reform party were the most inveterate. So he took my challenge, which was accepted; we went out, Lord C---'s servant being seconded by a reformado footman from the palace. We fired three times without effect; but this affair lost me my place; my master on hearing it forthwith discharged me; he was, as I have said before, very sensitive, and he said this duel of mine was a parody of his own. Being, however, one of the best men in the world, on his discharging me he made me a donation of twenty pounds. 'And it was well that he made me this present, for without it I should have been penniless, having contracted rather expensive habits during the time that I lived with the young baronet. I now determined to visit my parents, whom I had not seen for years. I found them in good health, and, after staying with them for two months, I returned again in the direction of town, walking, in order to see the country. On the second day of my journey, not being used to such fatigue, I fell ill at a great inn on the north road, and there I continued for some weeks till I recovered, but by that time my money was entirely spent. By living at the inn I had contracted an acquaintance with the master and the people, and become accustomed to inn life. As I thought that I might find some difficulty in procuring any desirable situation in London, owing to my late connection with literature, I determined to remain where I was, provided my services would be accepted. I offered them to the master, who, finding I knew something of horses, engaged me as a postilion. I have remained there since. You have now heard my story. 'Stay, you shan't say that I told my tale without a per--peroration. What shall it be? Oh, I remember something which will serve for one. As I was driving my chaise some weeks ago, I saw standing at the gate of an avenue, which led up to an old mansion, a figure which I thought I recognised. I looked at it attentively, and the figure, as I passed, looked at me; whether it remembered me I do not know, but I recognised the face it showed me full well. 'If it was not the identical face of the red-haired priest whom I had seen at Rome, may I catch cold! 'Young gentleman, I will now take a spell on your blanket--young lady, good-night.' Footnotes: {5} 'In Cornwall are the best gentlemen.'--_Corn. Prov_. {19} Norwegian ells--about eight feet. {143} Klopstock. 
39665	----	Proofreaders Team at pgdp.net +-------------------------------------------------------------------+ | TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES | | | | Typographical transcriptions: | | italics in the original work are transcribed between underscores, | | as in _text_; | | small capitals in the original work have been transcribed in ALL | | CAPITALS; | | breves and macrons are represented as [)x] and [=x], respectively,| | in which the x can represent any letter; | | the oe-ligature is transcribed as [oe]. | | | | Footnotes have been moved to underneath the paragraph they belong | | to, and indented to distinguish them from the main body of the | | text. | | | | The tables have been split or otherwise re-arranged to fit the | | limited width. | | | | More transcriber's notes may be found at the end of this text. | +-------------------------------------------------------------------+ A HISTORY OF THE GIPSIES: WITH Specimens of the Gipsy Language. BY WALTER SIMSON. EDITED, WITH PREFACE, INTRODUCTION, AND NOTES, AND A DISQUISITION ON THE PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE OF GIPSYDOM, BY JAMES SIMSON. "Hast thou not noted on the bye way-side, Where aged saughs lean o'er the lazy tide, A vagrant crew, far straggled through the glade, With trifles busied, or in slumber laid; Their children lolling round them on the grass, Or pestering with their sports the patient ass! The wrinkled beldame there you may espy, And ripe young maiden with the glossy eye; Men in their prime, and striplings dark and dun, Scathed by the storm and freckled with the sun; Their swarthy hue and mantle's flowing fold, Bespeak the remnant of a race of old. Strange are their annals--list! and mark them well-- For thou hast much to hear and I to tell."--HOGG. NEW YORK: M. DOOLADY, 448 BROOME STREET. LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, SON & MARSTON. 1866. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, BY JAMES SIMSON, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. CONTENTS.[1] PAGE EDITOR'S PREFACE 5 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 27 INTRODUCTION 55 CHAPTER. I. CONTINENTAL GIPSIES 69 II. ENGLISH GIPSIES 90 III. SCOTTISH GIPSIES, DOWN TO THE YEAR 1715 98 IV. LINLITHGOWSHIRE GIPSIES 123 V. FIFE AND STIRLINGSHIRE GIPSIES 140 VI. TWEED-DALE AND CLYDESDALE GIPSIES 185 VII. BORDER GIPSIES 236 VIII. MARRIAGE AND DIVORCE CEREMONIES 257 IX. LANGUAGE 281 X. PRESENT CONDITION AND NUMBER OF THE GIPSIES IN SCOTLAND 341 DISQUISITION ON THE PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE OF GIPSYDOM 371 INDEX 543 [1] The Contents of these Chapters will be found detailed in the Index, forming an epitome of the work, for reference, or studying the subject of the Gipsies. Ever since entering Great Britain, about the year 1506, the Gipsies have been drawing into their body the blood of the ordinary inhabitants and conforming to their ways; and so prolific has the race been, that there cannot be less than 250,000 Gipsies of all castes, colours, characters, occupations, degrees of education, culture, and position in life, in the British Isles alone, and possibly double that number. There are many of the same race in the United States of America. Indeed, there have been Gipsies in America from nearly the first day of its settlement; for many of the race were banished to the plantations, often for very trifling offences, and sometimes merely for being by "habit and repute Egyptians." But as the Gipsy race leaves the tent, and rises to civilization, it hides its nationality from the rest of the world, so great is the prejudice against the name of Gipsy. In Europe and America together, there cannot be less than 4,000,000 Gipsies in existence. John Bunyan, the author of the celebrated _Pilgrim's Progress_, was one of this singular people, as will be conclusively shown in the present work. The philosophy of the existence of the Jews, since the dispersion, will also be discussed and established in it. When the "wonderful story" of the Gipsies is told, as it ought to be told, it constitutes a work of interest to many classes of readers, being a subject unique, distinct from, and unknown to, the rest of the human family. In the present work, the race has been treated of so fully and elaborately, in all its aspects, as in a great measure to fill and satisfy the mind, instead of being, as heretofore, little better than a myth to the understanding of the most intelligent person. The history of the Gipsies, when thus comprehensively treated, forms a study for the most advanced and cultivated mind, as well as for the youth whose intellectual and literary character is still to be formed; and furnishes, among other things, a system of science not too abstract in its nature, and having for its subject-matter the strongest of human feelings and sympathies. The work also seeks to raise the name of Gipsy out of the dust, where it now lies; while it has a very important bearing on the conversion of the Jews, the advancement of Christianity generally, and the development of historical and moral science. NEW YORK, _May 1st, 1866_. EDITOR'S PREFACE. This work should have been introduced to the world long ere now. The proper time to have brought it forward would have been about twenty years ago,[2] when the subject was nearly altogether new, and when popular feeling, in Scotland especially, ran strongly toward the body it treats of, owing to the celebrity of the writings of the great Scottish novelist, in which were depicted, with great truthfulness, some real characters of this wayward race. The inducements then to hazard a publication of it were great; for by bringing it out at that time, the author would have enjoyed, in some measure, the sunshine which the fame of that great luminary cast around all who, in any way, illustrated a subject on which he had written. But for Sir Walter Scott's advice--an advice that can only be appreciated by those who are acquainted with the vindictive disposition which the Gipsies entertain toward those whom they imagine to have injured them--our author would have published a few magazine articles on the subject, when the tribe would have taken alarm, and an end would have been made to the investigation. The dread of personal danger, there is no doubt, formed a considerable reason for the work being so long withheld from the public: at the same time, our author, being a timid and nervous man, not a little dreaded the spleen of the party opposed to the literary society with which he identified himself, and the idea of being made the subject of one of the slashing criticisms so characteristic of the times. But now he has descended into the tomb, with most of his generation, where the abuse of a reviewer or the ire of a wandering Egyptian cannot reach him. [2] It has been brought down, however, to the present time. Since this work was written there has appeared one by Mr. Borrow, on the _Gitanos_ or Spanish Gipsies. In the year 1838, a society was formed in Scotland, under the patronage of the Scottish Church, for the reformation of the wandering portion of the body in that country, with some eminent men as a committee of management, among whom was a reverend gentleman of learning, piety, and worth, who said that he himself was a Gipsy, and whose fine swarthy features strongly marked the stock from which he was descended. There are others in that country of a like origin, ornaments to the same profession, and many in other respectable walks of life, of whom I will speak in my Disquisition on the Gipsies, at the end of the work. Although a few years have elapsed since the principal details of this work were collected, the subject cannot be considered as old. The body in Scotland has become more numerous since the downfall of Napoleon; but the improved system of internal order that has obtained since that period, has so very much suppressed their acts of depredation and violence toward the community, and their savage outbursts of passion toward those of their own race who had offended them, that much which would have met with only a slight punishment before, or in some instances been passed over, as a mere Gipsy scuffle, would now be visited with the utmost penalty the law could inflict. Hence the wild spirit, but not the number, of the body has been very much crushed. Many of them have betaken themselves to regular callings of industry, or otherwise withdrawn from public observation; but, in respect to race, are as much, at heart, Gipsies as before. Many of the Scottish wandering class have given way before an invasion of swarms of Gipsies from Ireland. It is almost unnecessary to give a reason why this work has been introduced here, instead of the country in which it was written, and of which, for the most part, it treats. Suffice it to say, that, having come to this country, I have been led to bring it out here, where it may receive, sooner or later, more attention from those at a distance from the place and people it treats of, than from those accustomed to see and hear of them daily, to many of whom they appear as mere vagabonds; it being a common feature in the human mind, that that which comes frequently under our observation is but little thought of, while that at a distance, and unknown to us, forms the subject of our investigations and desires.[3] In taking this view of the subject, the language of Dr. Bright may be used, when he says: "The condition and circumstances of the Gipsy nation throughout the whole of Europe, may truly be considered amongst the most curious phenomena in the history of man." And although this work, for the most part, treats of Scottish Gipsies, it illustrates the history of the people all over Europe, and, it may be said, pretty much over the world; and affords materials for reflection on so singular a subject connected with the history of our common family, and so little known to mankind in general. To the American reader generally, the work will illustrate a phase of life and history with which it may be reasonably assumed he is not much conversant; for, although he must have some knowledge of the Gipsy race generally, there is no work, that I am aware of, that treats of the body like the present. To all kinds of readers the words of the celebrated Christopher North, as quoted in the author's Introduction, may be addressed: "Few things more sweetly vary civil life Than a barbarian, savage Tinkler[4] tale." [3] "Men of letters, while eagerly investigating the customs of Otaheite or Kamschatka, and losing their tempers in endless disputes about Gothic and Celtic antiquities, have witnessed, with apathy and contempt, the striking spectacle of a Gipsy camp--pitched, perhaps, amidst the mouldering entrenchments of their favourite Picts and Romans. The rest of the community, familiar from infancy with the general character and appearance of these vagrant hordes, have probably never regarded them with any deeper interest than what springs from the recollected terrors of a nursery tale, or the finer associations of poetical and picturesque description."--_Blackwood's Magazine._ [4] _Tinkler_ is the name generally applied to the Scottish Gipsies. The wandering, tented class prefer it to the term Gipsy. The settled and better classes detest the word: they would much rather be called Gipsies; but the term Egyptian is the most agreeable to their feelings. Tinkler has a peculiar meaning that can be understood only by a Scotchman. In its radical sense it means Tinker. The verb tink, according to Jamieson's Scottish Dictionary, means to "rivet, including the idea of the noise made in the operation of riveting; a Gipsy word." It is a singular circumstance that, until comparatively lately, little was known of this body in Scotland, beyond their mere existence, and the depredations which they committed on their neighbours; no further proof of which need be given than a reference to the letters of Sir Walter Scott and others, in the Introduction to the work, and the avidity with which the few articles of our author in Blackwood's Magazine were read. The higher we may rise in the scale of general information and philosophic culture, the greater the attractions will this moral puzzle have for our contemplation--the phenomenon of a barbarous race of men, free as the air, with little but the cold earth for a bed, and the canopy of heaven for a covering, obtruding itself upon a civilized community, and living so long in the midst of it, without any material impression being made on the habits of the representative part of it; the only instance of the kind in the modern history of the world. In this solitary case, having nothing from which to reason analogously as to the result, observation alone must be had recourse to for the solution of the experiment. It is from this circumstance that the subject, in all its bearings, has been found to have such charms for the curious and learned; being, as it were, a study in history of the most interesting kind. It may be remarked that Professor Wilson, the Christopher North of Blackwood, is said to have accompanied some of the tribe in their peregrinations over parts of England and Wales. Without proceeding to the same length, our author, in his own peculiar way, prosecuted his researches with much indefatigability, assiduity, and patience. He kept an open house for them at all times, and presented such allurements as the skillful trapper of vermin will sometimes use in attracting the whole in a neighbourhood; when if one Gipsy entered, many would follow; although he would generally find them so shy in their communications as sometimes to require years of such baiting to ensure them for the elucidation of a single point of their history. In this way he made himself appear, in his associations with them, as very odd, and perhaps not of very sound mind, in the estimation of the wise ones around him. The popular idea of a Gipsy, at the present day, is very erroneous as to its extent and meaning. The nomadic Gipsies constitute but a portion of the race, and a very small portion of it. A gradual change has come over their outward condition, all over Europe, from about the commencement of the first American war, but from what time previous to that, we have no certain data from which to form an opinion. In the whole of Great Britain they have been very much mixed with the native blood of the country, but nowhere, I believe, so much so as in Scotland. There is every reason to suppose that the same mixture has taken place in Europe generally, although its effects are not so observable in the southern countries--from the circumstance of the people there being, for the most part, of dark hair and complexion--as in those lying further toward the north. But this circumstance would, to a certain extent, prevent the mixture which has taken place in countries the inhabitants of which have fair hair and complexions. The causes leading to this mixture are various. The persecutions to which the Gipsies were exposed, merely for being Gipsies, which their appearance would readily indicate, seem to have induced the body to intermarry with our race, so as to disguise theirs. That would be done by receiving and adopting males of our race, whom they would marry to females of theirs, who would bring up the children of such unions as members of their fraternity. They also adopted the practice to give their race stamina, as well as numbers, to contend with the people among whom they lived. The desire of having servants, (for Gipsies, generally, have been too proud to do menial work for each other,) led to many children being kidnapped, and reared among them; many of whom, as is customary with Oriental people, rose to as high a position in the tribe as any of themselves.[5] [5] Mr. Borrow labours under a very serious mistake when he asserts that "The unfounded idea, that Gipsies steal children, to bring them up as Gipsies, has been the besetting sin of authors, who have attempted to found works of fiction on the way of life of this most singular people." The only argument which he advances to refute this belief in regard to Gipsies, which is universal, is the following: "They have plenty of children of their own, whom they can scarcely support; and they would smile at the idea of encumbering themselves with the children of others." This is rather inconsistent with his own words, when he says, "I have dealt more in facts than in theories, of which I am, in general, no friend." As a matter of fact, children have been stolen and brought up as Gipsies, and incorporated with the tribe. Then again, it was very necessary to have people of fair complexion among them, to enable them the more easily to carry on their operations upon the community, as well as to contribute to their support during times of persecution. Owing to these causes, and the occasional occurrence of white people being, by more legitimate means, received into their body, which would be more often the case in their palmy days, the half, at least, of the Scottish Gipsies are of fair hair and blue eyes. Some would naturally think that these would not be Gipsies, but the fact is otherwise; for, owing to the dreadful prejudice which has always attached to the name of Gipsy, these white and parti-coloured Gipsies, imagining themselves, as it were, banished from society, on account of their descent, cling to their Gipsy connection; as the other part of their blood, they imagine, will not own them. They are Gipsies, and, with the public, they think that is quite enough. They take a pride in being descended from a race so mysterious, so ancient, so universal, and cherish their language the more from its being the principal badge of membership that entitles them to belong to it. The nearer they approach the whites as regards blood, the more acutely do they feel the antipathy which is entertained for their race, and the more bitter does the propinquity become to them. The more enlightened they become, the stronger becomes their attachment to the sept in the abstract, although they will despise many of its members. The sense of such an ancient descent, and the possession of such an ancient and secret language, in the minds of men of comparatively limited education and indifferent rearing, brought up in humble life, and following various callings, from a tinker upward, and even of men of education and intelligence, occupying the position of lawyers, medical doctors, and clergymen, possess for them a charm that is at once fascinating and enchanting. If men of enlightened minds and high social standing will go to such lengths as they have done, in their endeavours to but look into their language, how much more will they not cling to it, such as it is, in whose hearts it is? Gipsies compounded for the most part of white blood, but with Gipsy feelings, are, as a general thing, much superior to those who more nearly approach what may be called the original stock; and, singularly enough, speak the language better than the others, if their opportunities have been in any way favourable for its acquisition. The primitive, original state of the Gipsies is the tent and tilted cart. But as any country can support only a limited number in that way, and as the increase of the body is very large, it follows that they must cast about to make a living in some other way, however bitter the pill may be which they have to swallow. The nomadic Gipsy portion resembles, in that respect, a water trough; for the water which runs into it, there must be a corresponding quantity running over it. The Gipsies who leave the tent resemble the youth of our small seaports and villages; for there, society is so limited as to compel such youth to take to the sea or cities, or go abroad, to gain that livelihood which the neighbourhood in which they have been reared denies to them. In the same manner do these Gipsies look back to the tent from which they, or their fathers, have sprung. They carry the language, the associations, and the sympathies of their race, and their peculiar feelings toward the community, with them; and, as residents of towns, have generally greater facilities, from others of their race residing near them, for perpetuating their language, than when strolling over the country. The prejudice of their fellow creatures, which clings to the race to which they belong, almost overwhelms some of them at times; but it is only momentary; for such is the independence and elasticity of their nature, that they rise from under it, as self-complacent and proud as ever. They in such cases resort to the _tu quoque_--the _tit for tat_ argument as regards their enemies, and ask, "What is this white race, after all? What were their forefathers a few generations ago? the Highlands a nest of marauding thieves, and the Borders little better. Or society at the present day--what is it but a compound of deceit and hypocrisy? People say that the Gipsies steal. True; some of them steal chickens, vegetables, and such things; but what is that compared to the robbery of widows and orphans, the lying and cheating of traders, the swindling, the robberies, the murders, the ignorance, the squalor, and the debaucheries of so many of the white race? What are all these compared to the simple vices of the Gipsies? What is the ancestry they boast of, compared, in point of antiquity, to ours? People may despise the Gipsies, but they certainly despise all others not of their own race: the veriest beggar Gipsy, without shoes to his feet, considers himself better than the queen that sits upon the throne. People say that Gipsies are blackguards. Well, if some of them are blackguards, they are at least illustrious blackguards as regards descent, and so in fact; for they never rob each other, and far less do they rob or ruin those of their own family." And they conclude that the odium which clings to the race is but a prejudice. Still, they will deny that they are Gipsies, and will rather almost perish than let any one, not of their own race, know that they speak their language in their own households and among their own kindred. They will even deny or at least hide it from many of their own race. For all these reasons, the most appropriate word to apply to modern Gipsyism, and especially British Gipsyism, and more especially Scottish Gipsyism, is to call it a caste, and a kind of masonic society, rather than any particular mode of life. And it is necessary that this distinction should be kept in mind, otherwise the subject will appear contradictory. The most of these Gipsies are unknown to the public as Gipsies. The feeling in question is, for the most part, on the side of the Gipsies themselves; they think that more of them is known than actually is. In that respect a kind of nightmare continually clings to them; while their peculiarly distant, clannish, and odd habits create a kind of separation between them and the other inhabitants, which the Gipsy is naturally apt to construe as proceeding from a different cause. Frequently, all that is said about them amounts only to a whisper among some of the families in the community in which they live, and which is confidentially passed around among themselves, from a dread of personal consequences. Sometimes the native families say among themselves, "Why should we make allusion to their kith and kin? They seem decent people, and attend church like ourselves; and it would be cruel to cast up their descent to them, and damage them in the estimation of the world. Their cousins, (or second cousins, as it may be,) travel the country in the old Tinkler fashion, no doubt; but what has that to do with them?" The estimate of such people never, or hardly ever, goes beyond the simple idea of their being "descended from Tinklers;" few have the most distant idea that they are Gipsies, and speak the Gipsy language among themselves. It is certain that a Gipsy can be a good man, as the world goes, nay, a very good man, and glory in being a Gipsy, but not to the public. He will adhere to his ancient language, and talk it in his own family; and he has as much right to do so, as, for example, a Highlander has to speak Gaelic in the Lowlands, or when he goes abroad, and teach it to his children. And he takes a greater pride in doing it, for thus he reasons: "What is English, French, Gaelic, or any other living language, compared to mine? Mine will carry me through every part of the known world: wherever a man is to be found, there is my language spoken. I will find a brother in every part of the world on which I may set my foot; I will be welcomed and passed along wherever I may go. Freemasonry indeed! what is masonry compared to the brotherhood of the Gipsies? A language--a whole language--is its pass-word. I almost worship the idea of being a member of a society into which I am initiated by my blood and language. I would not be a man if I did not love my kindred, and cherish in my heart that peculiarity of my race (its language) which casts a halo of glory around it, and makes it the wonder of the world!" The feeling alluded to induces some of these Gipsies to change their residences or go abroad. I heard of one family in Canada, of whom a Scotchman spoke somewhat in the following way: "I know them to be Gipsies. They remind me of a brood of wild turkeys, hatched under a tame bird; it will take the second or third descent to bring them to resemble, in some of their ways, the ordinary barn-door fowl. They are very restless and queer creatures, and move about as if they were afraid that every one was going to tramp on their corns." But it is in large towns they feel more at home. They then form little communities among themselves; and by closely associating, and sometimes huddling together, they can more easily perpetuate their language, as I have already said, than by straggling, twos or threes, through the country. But their quarrelsome disposition frequently throws an obstacle in the way of such associations. Secret as they have been in keeping their language from even being heard by the public while wanderers, they are much more so since they have settled in towns. The origin of the Gipsies has given rise, in recent times, to many speculations. The most plausible one, however, seems to be that they are from Hindostan; an opinion our author supports so well, that we are almost bound to acquiesce in it. In these controversies regarding the origin of the Gipsies, very little regard seems to have been had to what they say of themselves. It is curious that in every part of Europe they have been called, and are now called, Egyptians. No trace can now be found of any enquiry made as to their origin, if such there was made, when they first appeared in Europe. They seem then to have been taken at their word, and to have passed current as Egyptians. But in modern times their country has been denied them, owing to a total dissimilarity between their language and any of the dialects of modern Egypt. A very intelligent Gipsy informed me that his race sprung from a body of men--a cross between the Arabs and Egyptians--that left Egypt in the train of the Jews.[6] In consulting the record of Moses, I find it said, in Ex. xii. 38, "and a mixed multitude went up also with them" (the Jews, out of Egypt). Very little is said of this mixed multitude. In Lev. xxiv. 10, mention is made of the son of an Israelitish woman, by an Egyptian, being stoned to death for blasphemy, which would almost imply that a marriage had taken place previous to leaving Egypt. After this occurrence, it is said in Num. xi. 4, "and the mixed multitude that was among them fell a lusting" for flesh. That would imply that they had not amalgamated with the Jews, but were only among them. The Scriptures say nothing of what became of this mixed multitude after the Jews separated from them (Neh. xiii. 3), and leave us only to form a conjecture relative to their destiny. [6] The intelligent reader will not differ with me as to the weight to be attached to the Gipsy's remark on this point. We naturally ask, what could have induced this mixed multitude to leave Egypt? and the natural reply is, that their motive was the same that led to the exodus of the Jews--a desire to escape from slavery. No commentator that I have read gives a plausible reason for the mixed multitude leaving Egypt with the Jews. Scott, besides venturing four suppositions, advances a fifth, that "some left because they were distressed or discontented." But that seems to fall infinitely short of the true reason. Adam Clark says, "Probably they were refugees who came to sojourn in Egypt, because of the dearth which had obliged them to emigrate from their own countries." But that dearth occurred centuries before the time of the exodus; so that those refugees, if such there were, who settled in Egypt during the famine, could have returned to their own countries generations before the time of that event. Scott says, "It is probable some left Egypt because it was desolate;" and Henry, "Because their country was laid waste by the plagues." But the desolation was only partial; for we are told that "He that feared the word of the Lord among the servants of Pharaoh, made his servants and his cattle flee into the houses;" by which means they escaped destruction from the hail, which affected only those remaining in the field. We are likewise told that, although the barley and flax were smitten by the same hail-storm, the wheat and rye, not being grown up, were left untouched. These two latter (besides fish, roots and vegetables) would form the staples of the food of the Egyptians; to say nothing of the immense quantities in the granaries of the country. If the Egyptians could not find bread in their own country, how were they to obtain it by accompanying the Jews into a land of which they knew nothing, and which had to be conquered before it could be possessed? Where were they to procure bread to support them on the journey, if it was not to be had at home? The other reasons given by these commentators for the departure of the mixed multitude from Egypt are hardly worth controverting, when we consider the social manners and religious belief of the Egyptians. We are told that, for being shepherds, the Israelites were an abomination unto the Egyptians (Gen. xlvi. 34); and that the Egyptians considered it an abomination to eat bread with a Hebrew, (Gen. xliii. 32,) so supreme was the reign of caste and of nationality at that period in Egypt. The sacrifices of the Jews were also an abomination to the Egyptians (Ex. viii. 26). The Hebrews were likewise influenced by feelings peculiar to themselves, which would render any alliances or even associations between them and their oppressors extremely improbable; but if such there should have been, the issue would be incorporated with the Hebrews. There could thus be no personal motive for any of the Egyptians to accompany the Hebrews; and as little could there be of that which pertains to the religious; for, as a people, they had become so "vain in their imaginations," and had "their foolish hearts so darkened," as to worship almost every created thing--bulls, birds, serpents, leeks, onions and garlic. Such a people were almost as well nigh devoid of a motive springing from a sense of elevated religion, as were the beasts, the reptiles and the vegetables which they worshipped. A miracle performed before the eyes of such a people would have no more salutary or lasting influence than would a flash of lightning before the eyes of many a man in every day life; it might prostrate them for a moment, but its effects would be as transitory. Like the Jews themselves, at a subsequent time, they might credit the miracle to Beelzebub, the prince of devils; and, like the Gergesenes, rise up in a body and beseech Moses and his people to "depart out of their coasts." Indeed, after the slaying of the first-born of the Egyptians, we are told that "the Egyptians were urgent upon the people that they might send them out of the land in haste; for, they said, We be all dead men." Considering how hard a matter it was for Moses to urge the Jews to undertake the exodus; considering their stiff-necked and perverse grumbling at all that befell them; notwithstanding that to them "pertained the fathers, the adoption, the glory and the covenant;" the commands and the bones of Joseph; the grievous bondage they were enduring, and the almost daily recourse to which Moses had for a miracle to strengthen their faith and resolution to proceed; and we will perceive the impossibility of the "mixed multitude" leaving Egypt on any ground of religion. This principle might even be urged further. If we consider the reception which was given to the miracles of Christ as "a son over his own house, and therefore worthy of more glory than Moses, who was but a servant," we will conclude that the miracles wrought by Moses, although personally felt by the Egyptians, would have as little lasting effect upon them as had those of the former upon the Jews themselves; they would naturally lead to the Hebrews being allowed to depart, but would serve no purpose of inducing the Egyptians to go with them. For if a veil was mysteriously drawn over the eyes of the Jews at the advent of Christ, which, in a negative sense, hid the Messiah from them (Mark iv. 11, 12; Matt. xi. 25, 26; and John xii. 39, 40), how much more might it not be said, "He hath blinded their eyes, and hardened their hearts, that they should not see with their eyes, nor understand with their hearts," and let the people of Israel go, "till they would thrust them out hence altogether;" and particularly so when the object of Moses' mission was to redeem the Israelites from the bondage of Egypt, and spoil and smite the Egyptians. The only reasonable conclusion to which we can come, as regards a motive for the "mixed multitude" leaving Egypt along with the Jews, is, that being slaves like themselves, they took advantage of the opportunity, and slipped out with them.[7] [7] Since the above was written, I have read Hengstenberg on the Pentateuch, who supposes that the "mixed multitude" were an inferior order of workmen, employed, like the Jews, as slaves, in the building of the pyramids. The Jews, on being reduced to a state of bondage, were employed by Pharaoh to "build treasure cities, and work in mortar and brick, and do all manner of service in the field," besides being "scattered abroad through all the land of Egypt, to gather stubble in place of straw," wherewith to make their tale of bricks. In this way they would come much in contact with the other slaves of the country; and, as "adversity makes strange bed-fellows," they would naturally prove communicative to their fellow-sufferers, and expatiate on the history of their people, from the days of Abraham downward, were it only from a feeling of vanity to make themselves appear superior to what they would consider the ordinary dross around them. They would also naturally allude to their future prospects, and the positive promise, or at least general idea, which they had of their God effecting their deliverance, and leading them into a country (Gen. 1. 24, 25) where all the miseries they were then enduring would be forgotten. They would do that more especially after Moses had returned from his father-in-law in Midian, to bring them out of Egypt; for we are told, in Ex. iv. 29-31, that the elders of the children of Israel were called together and informed of the intended redemption, and that all the people believed. By such means as these would the minds of some of the other slaves of Egypt be inflamed at the very idea of freedom being perhaps in immediate prospect for so many of their fellow-bondsmen. Thereafter happened the many plagues; the causes of which must have been more or less known to the Egyptians generally, from the public manner in which Moses would make his demands (Ex. x. 7); and consequently to their slaves; for many of the slaves would be men of intelligence, as is common in oriental countries. Some of these slaves would, in all probability, watch, with fear and trembling, the dreadful drama played out (Ex. ix. 20). Others would, perhaps, give little heed to the various sayings of the Hebrews at the time they were uttered; the plagues would, perhaps, have little effect in reminding them of them. As they experienced their effects, they might even feel exasperated toward the Hebrews for being the cause of them; still it is more probable that they sympathized with them, as fellow-bondsmen, and murmured against Pharaoh for their existence and greater manifestation. But the positive order, nay the entreaty, for the departure of the Israelites, and the passage before their eyes of so large a body of slaves to obtain their freedom, would induce many of them to follow them; for they would, in all likelihood, form no higher estimate of the movement than that of merely gaining that liberty which slaves, in all nations, and under all circumstances, do continually sigh after. The character of Moses alone was a sufficient guarantee to the slaves of Egypt that they might trust themselves to his leadership and protection (not to speak of the miraculous powers which he displayed in his mission); for we are told that, besides being the adopted son of Pharaoh's daughter, he was learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, and mighty in word and deed. Having been, according to Josephus, a great commander in the armies of Egypt, he must have been the means of reducing to bondage many of the slaves, or the parents of the slaves, then living in Egypt. At the time of the exodus we are told that he was "very great in the land of Egypt, in the sight of Pharaoh's servants, and in the sight of the people" (Ex. xi. 3). The burying of the "first-born" was not a circumstance likely to prevent a slave gaining his freedom amid the dismay, the moaning, and groaning, and howling throughout the land of Egypt. The circumstance was even the more favourable for his escape, owing to the Hebrews being allowed to go, till it pleased God again to harden and stir up Pharaoh to pursue them (Ex. xiv. 2-5 and 8), in order that his host might be overthrown in the Red Sea. The Jews, while in Egypt, seem to have been reduced to a state of serfdom only--crown slaves, not chattels personal; which would give them a certain degree of respect in the eyes of the ordinary slaves of the country, and lead them, owing to the dignity of their descent, to look down with disdain upon the "mixed multitude" which followed them. While it is said that they were "scattered over the land of Egypt," we are told, in Ex. ix. 4, that the murrain touched not the cattle of Israel; and in the 26th verse, that "in the land of Goshen, where the people of Israel were, there was no hail." And Moses said to Pharaoh, "Our cattle also shall go with us; there shall not an hoof be left behind; for thereof we must take to serve the Lord our God" (Ex. x. 26). From this we would naturally conclude, that such of the Jews only as were capable of work, were scattered over the land of Egypt to do the work of Pharaoh, while the rest were left in the land of Goshen. By both the Egyptians and their slaves, the Hebrews would be looked upon as a mysterious people, which the former would be glad to send out of the land, owing to the many plagues which they had been the cause of being sent upon them; and while they got quit of them, as they did, there would be no earthly motive for the Egyptians to follow them, through a wilderness, into a country of which the Hebrews themselves knew nothing. But it would be different with their slaves; they had everything to hope from a change of condition, and would readily avail themselves of the chance to effect it. The very term "mixed multitude" implies slaves; for the Hebrew word _hasaphsuph_, as translated by Bochartus, means _populi colluvies undecunque collecta_--"the dregs or scum of the people gathered together from all parts." But this interpretation is most likely the literal meaning of a figurative expression, which was intended to describe a body of men such as the slaves of Egypt must have been, that is, a mixture that was compounded of men from almost every part of the world known to the Egyptians; the two principal ingredients of which must have been what may be called the Egyptian and Semitic. Moses seems to have used the word in question in consequence of the vexation and snare which the mixed multitude proved to him, by bringing upon the camp of his people the plague, inflicted, in consequence of their sins, in the midst of them. At the same time the Hebrews were very apt to term "dregs and scum" all who did not proceed from the loins of their father, Abraham. But I am inclined to believe that the bulk or nucleus of the mixed multitude would consist of slaves who were located in Goshen, or its neighbourhood, when the Jews were settled there by Pharaoh. These would be a mixture of the shepherd kings and native Egyptians, held by the former as slaves, who would naturally fall into the hands of the Egyptian monarch during his gradual reconquest of the country; and they would be held by the pure Egyptians in as little esteem as the Jews themselves, both being, in a measure, of the shepherd race. In this way it may be claimed that the Gipsies are even descendants of the shepherd kings. After leaving Egypt, the Hebrews and the "mixed multitude," in their exuberance of feeling at having gained their freedom, and witnessed the overthrow of their common oppressor in the Red Sea, would naturally have everything in common, till they regained their powers of reflection, and began to think of their destiny, and the means of supporting so many individuals, in a country in which provisions could hardly be collected for the company of an ordinary caravan. Then their difficulties would begin. It was enough for Moses to have to guide the Hebrews, whose were the promises, without being burdened and harassed by those who followed them. Then we may reasonably assume that the mixed multitude began to clamour for flesh, and lead the Hebrews to join with them; in return for which a plague was sent upon the people. They were unlikely to submit to be led by the hand of God, and be fed on angels' food, and, like the Hebrews, leave their carcasses in the wilderness; for their religious sentiments, if, as slaves of Egypt, they had religious sentiments, would be very low indeed, and would lead them to depend upon themselves, and leave the deserts of Arabia, for some other country more likely to support them and their children. Undoubtedly the two people then separated, as Abraham and Lot parted when they came out of Egypt. How to shake off this mixed multitude must have caused Moses many an anxious thought. Possibly his father-in-law, Jethro, from the knowledge and sagacity which he displayed in forming the government of Moses himself, may have assisted him in arriving at the conclusion which he must have so devoutly wished. To take them into the promised land with him was impossible; for the command of God, given in regard to Ishmael, the son of Abraham, by Hagar the Egyptian, and which was far more applicable to the mixed multitude, must have rung in his ears: "Cast out this bondwoman and her son, for the son of this bondwoman shall not be heir with my son, Isaac;" "for in Isaac shall thy seed be called." As slaves of Egypt they would not return to that country; they would not go north, for that was the heritage of the people of Israel, which had to be wrested from the fierce tribes of Palestine; they would not go north-east, for there lay the powerful empire of Assyria, or the germs out of which it sprung; they could not go south, for the ocean hemmed them in, in that direction; and their only alternative was to proceed east, through Arabia Petrea, along the gulf of Persia, through the Persian desert, into northern Hindostan, where they formed the Gipsy caste, and whence they issued, after the lapse of so many centuries, in possession of the language of Hindostan, and spread themselves over the earth. What a strange sensation passes through the mind, when such a subject is contemplated! Jews and Gipsies having, in a sense, the same origin, and, after such vicissitudes, meeting each other, face to face, under circumstances so greatly alike, in almost every part of the world, upward of 3000 years after they parted company. What destiny awaited the Jews themselves on escaping from Egypt? They had either to subdue and take the place of some other tribe, or be reduced to a state of slavery by it and perhaps others combined; or they might possibly have been befriended by some great empire as tributaries; or failing these three, what remained for them was the destiny that befell the Gipsies. On leaving Egypt, the Gipsies would possess a common language, which would hold them together as a body; as slaves under the society of an Egyptian monarchy, they would have few, if any, opinions of a religious nature; and they would have but little idea of the laws of _meum_ and _tuum_. The position in which they would find themselves placed, and the circumstances surrounding them, would necessitate them to rob, steal, or appropriate whatever they found to be necessary to their existence; for whether they turned to the right hand or to the left, they would always find territory previously occupied, and property claimed by some one; so that their presence would always be unwelcome, their persons an intrusion everywhere; and having once started on their weary pilgrimage, as long as they maintained their personal independence, they would never attain, as a body, to any other position than they have done, in popular estimation, for the last four hundred and fifty years in Europe. In entering Hindostan they would meet with a civilized people, governed by rigid caste, where they would have no alternative but to remain aloof from the other inhabitants. Then, as now, that country had many wandering tribes within its borders, and for which it is peculiarly favourable. Whatever might have been the amount of civilization which some of the Gipsies brought with them from Egypt, it could not be otherwise than of that _quasi_ nature which generally characterizes that of slaves, and which would rapidly degenerate into a kind of barbarism, under the change of circumstances in which they found themselves placed. As runaway slaves, they would naturally be shy and suspicious, and be very apt to betake themselves to mountains, forests and swamps, and hold as little intercourse with the people of the country in which they were, as possible. Still, having been reared within a settled and civilized state, they would naturally hang around some other one, and nestle within it, if the face of the country, and the character and ways of the people, admitted of it. Having been bondsmen, they would naturally become lazy after gaining their freedom, and revel in the wild liberty of nature. They would do almost anything for a living rather than work; and whatever they could lay their hands on would be fairly come by, in their imagination. But to carry out this mode of life, they would naturally have recourse to some ostensible employment, to enable them to travel through the country, and secure the toleration of its inhabitants. Here their Egyptian origin would come to their assistance; for as slaves of that country, they must have had many among them who would be familiar with horses, and working in metals, for which ancient Egypt was famous; not to speak of some of the occult sciences which they would carry with them from that country. In the first generation their new habits and modes of life would become chronic; in the second generation they would become hereditary; and from this strange phenomenon would spring a race that is unique in the history of the human family. What origin could be more worthy of the Gipsies? What origin more philosophical? Arriving in India a foreign caste, the Gipsies would naturally cling to their common origin, and speak their common language, which, in course of ages, would be forgotten, except occasional words, which would be used by them as catch-words. At the present day my Gipsy acquaintances inform me that, in Great Britain, five out of every ten of their words are nothing but common Hindostanee. How strange would it be if some of the other words of their language were those used by the people of Egypt under the Pharaohs. Mr. Borrow says: "Is it not surprising that the language of _Petulengro_, (an English Gipsy,) is continually coming to my assistance whenever I appear to be at a loss with respect to the derivation of crabbed words. I have made out crabbed words in �schylus by means of his speech; and even in my Biblical researches I have derived no slight assistance from it." "Broken, corrupted and half in ruins as it is, it was not long before I found that it was an original speech, far more so, indeed, than one or two others of high name and celebrity, which, up to that time, I had been in the habit of regarding with respect and veneration. Indeed, many obscure points connected with the vocabulary of these languages, and to which neither classic nor modern lore afforded any clue, I thought I could now clear up by means of this strange, broken tongue, spoken by people who dwell among thickets and furze bushes, in tents as tawny as their faces, and whom the generality of mankind designate, and with much semblance of justice, as thieves and vagabonds." A difficulty somewhat similar to the origin of the Gipsies has been started in reference to their language; whether it is a speech distinct from any other surrounding it, or a few slang words or expressions connected together by the usual languages of the countries in which the race is to be found. The slightest consideration will remove the doubt, and lead us to the former conclusion. It is true there must needs be some native words mixed up with it; for what language, in ancient or modern times, has come down free of a mixture with others? If that be the case with languages classified, written, and spoken in a community, with no disturbing element near it to corrupt it, is it to be expected that the speech of a people like the Gipsies can be free of similar additions or substitutions, when it possesses none of these advantages for the preservation of its entirety and purity? From the length of time the people have been in Europe, and the frequency of intercourse which they have been forced by circumstances, in modern times especially, to have with its natives, it would appear beyond measure surprising that even a word of their language is spoken at all. And this fact adds great weight to Sir Walter Scott's remark, when he says that "their language is a great mystery;" and to that of Dr. Bright, when he speaks of its existence as being "little short of the miraculous." But when we consider, on strictly philosophical principles, the phenomenon of the perpetuation of the Gipsy language, we will find that there is nothing so very wonderful about it after all. The race have always associated closely and exclusively together; and their language has become to them like the worship of a household god--hereditary, and is spoken among themselves under the severest of discipline. It is certain that it is spoken at the present day, by some of the race, nearly as well as the Gaelic of many of the immediate descendants of the emigrants in some of the small Highland settlements in America, when it has not been learned by book, even to the extent of conversing on any subject of ordinary life, without apparently using English words. But, as is common with people possessing two languages, the Gipsies often use them interchangeably in expressing the smallest idea. Besides the way mentioned by which the Gipsy language has been corrupted, there is another one peculiar to all speeches, and which is, that few tongues are so copious as not to stand in need of foreign words, either to give names to things or wants unknown in the place where the language originated, or greater meaning or elucidation to a thing than it is capable of; and preëminently so in the case of a barbarous people, with few ideas beyond the commonest wants of daily life, entering states so far advanced toward that point of civilization which they have now reached. But the question as to the extent of the Gipsy language never can be conclusively settled, until some able philologist has the unrestricted opportunity of daily intercourse with the race; or, as a thing more to be wished than obtained, some Gipsy take to suitable learning, and confer a rarity of information upon the reader of history everywhere: for the attempt at getting a single word of the language from the Gipsies, is, in almost every case, impracticable. Sir Walter Scott seems to have had an intention of writing an account of the Gipsies himself; for, in a letter to Murray, as given by Lockhart, he writes: "I have been over head and ears in work this summer, or I would have sent the Gipsies; indeed I was partly stopped by finding it impossible to procure a few words of their language." For this reason, the words furnished in this work, although few, are yet numerous, when the difficulties in the way of getting them are considered. Under the chapter of Language will be found some curious anecdotes of the manner in which these were collected. Of the production itself little need be said. Whatever may be the opinion of the public in regard to it, this may be borne in mind, that the collecting of the materials out of which it is formed was attended with much trouble, and no little expense, but with a singular degree of pleasure, to the author; and that but for the urgent and latest request of him whom, when alive or dead, Scotchmen have always delighted to honour, it might never have assumed its present form. It is what it professes to be--a history, in which the subject has been stripped of everything pertaining to fiction or even colouring; so that the reader will see depicted, in their true character, this singular people, in the description of whom, owing to the suspicion and secrecy of their nature, writers generally have indulged in so much that is trifling and even fabulous. Such as the work is, it is offered as a contribution toward the filling up of that void in literature to which Dr. Bright alludes, in the introduction to his travels in Hungary, when, in reference to Hoyland's Survey, and some scattered notices of the Gipsies in periodicals, he says: "We may hope at some time to collect, satisfactorily, the history of this extraordinary race." It is likewise intended as a response to the call of a writer in Blackwood, in which he says: "_Our_ duty is rather to collect and store up the _raw materials_ of literature--to gather into our repository scattered facts, hints and observations--which more elaborate and learned authors may afterwards work up into the dignified tissue of history or science." I deem it proper to remark that, in editing the work, I have taken some liberties with the manuscript. I have, for example, recast the Introduction, re-arranged some of the materials, and drawn more fully, in some instances, upon the author's authorities; but I have carefully preserved the facts and sentiments of the original. I may have used some expressions a little familiar and perhaps not over-refined in their nature; but my excuse for that is, that they are illustrative of a subject that allows the use of them. EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION The discovery and history of barbarous races of men, besides affording exquisite gratification to the general mind of civilized society, have always been looked upon as important means toward a right understanding of the history of our species, and the relation in which it stands to natural and revealed theology; and in their prosecution have produced, in latter times, many instances of the most indefatigable disinterestedness and greatest efforts of true courage of which our nature is capable; many, in the person of the traveller, philanthropist and missionary, cheerfully renouncing in their pursuit every comfort of civilized life, braving death itself in every variety of form, and leaving their bones on the distant shore, or far away in the unknown interior of the dreary continent, without a trace of their fate to console those most dearly attached to them. The result of the discoveries hitherto made has invariably confirmed the conclusions of a few superior minds, formed without the assistance drawn from such a source, that under whatever circumstances man is placed, and whatever advantages he may enjoy, there is very little real difference between the characters, intrinsically considered, of the savage and man in what is considered a civilized community. There is this difference between what may be called barbarism, not unfrequently to be met with in a civilized community, springing from the depravity natural to man, and what obtains in a barbarous tribe or nation as such, that, in the former, it forms the exception; the brother, the father, or the son of the person of it often exhibiting the most opposite nature and conduct; while, in the latter, it forms the rule, and what the individual cannot, in a sense, avoid. But, in making this distinction, is there nothing to be found within the former sphere somewhat anomalous to the position thus presented? The subject of the following enquiry forms the exception, and from its being the only instance to be met with in the history of Europe, it may be said to merit the greatest consideration of the statesman, the historian, the philosopher, and the Christian. It does not appear possible, from the peculiar mould in which the European mind has been cast, for it to have remained in that state of immobility which, from the remotest antiquity, seems to have characterized that of Asia; in which continent society has remained torpid and inactive, contented with what it has inherited, without making any effort at change or advancement. This peculiarity of character, in connexion with the influences of the Christian religion, seems to have had the effect of bringing about that thorough amalgamation of races and ideas in the various countries of Europe in which more than one people happened to occupy the same territory, or come under the jurisdiction of the same government, when no material difference in religion existed. In no country has such an amalgamation been more happily consummated than in our own; if not altogether as to blood, at least as to feeling, the more important thing of the two; the physical differences, in occasional instances, appearing in some localities, on the closest observation of those curious individuals who make such a subject the object of their learned researches. Notwithstanding what has been said, how does it happen that in Europe, but especially in our own country, there exists, and has for four hundred years existed, a pretty numerous body of men distinct in their feelings from the general population, and some of them in a state of barbarism nearly as great as when they made their appearance amongst us? Such a thing would appear to us in no way remarkable in the stationary condition so long prevalent in Asia; where, in the case of India, for example, are to be found, inhabiting the same territory, a heterogeneous population, made up of the remnants of many nations; where so many languages are spoken, and religions or superstitions professed, and the people divided into so many castes, which are separated from each other on the most trivial, and, to Europeans, ridiculous and generally incomprehensible points; some eating together, and others not; some eating mutton, and others not; some beef and fowls, others vegetables, milk, butter and eggs, but no flesh or fish; those going to sea not associating with those remaining at home; some not following the occupation of others; and all showing the most determined antipathy to associate with each other;--where, from the numerous facilities so essential toward the perpetuation of peculiar modes of life, and the want of the powerful elements of assimilation and amalgamation so prominent in our division of the human race, a people may continue in a stereotyped state of mind and habits for an indefinite length of time. But in a country that is generally looked upon as the bulwark of the Reformation, and the stronghold of European civilization, how does it happen that we find a people, resembling in their nature, though not in the degree, the all but fabulous tribe that was lately to be found in the dreary wastes of Newfoundland, flying from the approach, and crossing the imagination of the fishermen like a spectre? Or like the wild men of the jungle, in some of the oceanic parts of Asia, having no homes, roaming during the dry season in the forests, and sleeping under or on the branches of trees, and in the rainy season betaking themselves to caves or sheltering beneath rocks, making their beds of leaves, and living on what they can precariously find, such as roots and wild honey; yet, under the influence of the missionary, many of them now raising crops, building dwellings, erecting schoolhouses, keeping the Sabbath, and praising God? But some of the Gipsies with us may be said to do few of these things. They live among us, yet are not of us; they come in daily contact with us, yet keep such distance from the community as a wild fowl, that occasionally finds its way into the farm-yard, does in shrinking from the close scrutiny of the husbandman. They cling like bats to ruined houses, caves, and old lime-kilns; and pitch their tents in dry water-courses, quarry-holes, or other sequestered places, by the way-side, or on the open moor, and even on dung-heaps for the warmth to be derived from them during the winter season, and live under the bare boughs of the forest during the summer;--yet amid all this apparent misery, through fair means or foul, they fare well, and lead what some call a happy life; while everything connected with them is most solicitously wrapt up in inscrutable mystery. These Gipsies exhibit to the European mind the most inexplicable moral problem on record; in so far as such phenomena are naturally expected to be found among a people whom the rays of civilization have never reached; while, in the case of the Gipsies, the first principles of nature would seem to be set at defiance. "And thus 'tis ever; what's within our ken, Owl-like, we blink at, and direct our search To fartherest Inde, in quest of novelties; Whilst here at home, upon our very thresholds, Ten thousand objects hurtle into view, Of interest wonderful." But to give a fair description of the tented Gipsy life, I cannot employ more appropriate language than that of Doctor Bright, when, in reference to the English Gipsies, he says: "I am confident that we are apt to appreciate much too lightly the actual happiness enjoyed by this class of people, who, beneath their ragged tents, in the pure air of the heath, may well excite the envy of many of the poor, though better provided with domestic accommodation, in the unwholesome haunts of the town. At the approach of night, they draw around their humble but often abundant board, and then retiring to their tent, leave a faithful dog to guard its entrance. With the first rays of morning, they again meet the day, pursue their various occupations, or, rolling up their tents and packing all their property on an ass, set forward to seek the delights of some fresh heath, or the protection of some shaded copse. I leave it to those who have visited the habitations of the poor, to draw a comparison between the activity, the free condition, and the pure air enjoyed by the Gipsy, and the idleness, the debauchery, and the filth in which the majority of the poorer classes are enveloped."--"No sooner does a stranger approach their fire on the heath, than a certain reserve spreads itself through the little family. The women talk to him in mystic language; they endeavour to amuse him with secrets of futurity; they suspect him to be a spy upon their actions; and he generally departs as little acquainted with their true character as he came. Let this, however, wear away; let him gain their confidence, and he will find them conversable, amusing, sensible and shrewd; civil, but without servility; proud of their independence; and able to assign reasons for preferring their present condition to any other in civilized society. He will find them strongly attached to each other, and free from many cares which too often render the married life a source of discontent." In what direction may we look for the causes of such an anomaly in the history of our common civilization? This question, however, will be discussed by and by: in the meantime let us consider the fact itself. In the early part of the fifteenth century there first appeared in Europe large hordes of a people of singular complexion and hair, and mode of life--apparently an Asiatic race--which, in spite of the sanguinary efforts of the governments of the countries through which they passed, continued to spread over the continent, and have existed in large numbers to this day; many of them in the same condition, and following the same modes of life, now as then; and preserving their language, if not in its original purity, yet without its having lost its character. This circumstance has given rise in recent times to several researches, with no certain result, as to the country which they left on entering Europe, and still less as to the place or the circumstances of their origin. The latter is not to be wondered at, when it is considered that, in the instances of even the most polished nations of antiquity, nothing is to be found as to their origin beyond what is contained in the myths and fables of their earliest poets and historians. But considering the traces that have been left of the origin and early history of the people and kingdoms of Europe, subsequent to the fall of the Roman Empire, amid the barbarism and confusion attending their establishment, and, in many respects, the darkness immediately and for a long time following it, we would naturally think that, for an event happening so recently as the fifteenth century, some reliable traces would have been discovered and bequeathed to us on a subject that has baffled the antiquarians of modern times. If, however, there is any doubt as to the country which they left on entering Europe, and their place of origin, there remains for us to consider the people generally, and in an especial manner those who have located themselves in Scotland; and give an account of their subsequent history in its various aspects, and their present condition. But before doing that, it would be well to take a general but cursory view of the political as well as social condition of Europe at the time they made their appearance in it, so as, in some measure, to account for the circumstance of no trace being left of their previous history; form an estimate of the relative position in which they have stood to its general population since; and attempt to realize the feeling with which they have always been regarded by our own people, so as to account for that singular degree of dread and awe which have always been associated with the mention of their name; the foundation of which has been laid in infancy. That which most forcibly strikes the mind of the student, in reading the history of the age in which the Gipsies entered Europe, is the political turmoil in which nearly the whole of the continent seems to have been embroiled for the greater part of a century. The desperate wars waged by England against what has been termed her natural enemy, for the recovery and retention of her ancient continental possessions, and the struggle of the other for her bare existence; the long and bloody civil wars of England, and the distracted state of France, torn with dissensions within, and menaced at various points from without; the long and fanatical struggle of religion and race, between the Spaniards and their invaders, for the possession of the peninsula; the brave stand made by the Swiss for that independence so much theirs by nature; the religious wars of the Hussites, and the commotions throughout central Europe; the perpetual internal feuds of the corrupt and turbulent southern republics; the approaching dissolution of the dissolute Byzantine empire; the appalling progress of that terrible power that had emerged from the wilds of Asia, subdued the empire, and threatened Europe from its vulnerable point; all these seem to have been enough to have engrossed the mental energies of the various countries of Europe, and prevented any notice being taken of the appearance of the race in question. But over and above these convulsions, sufficient as they were to exclusively engage the attention of the small amount of cultivated intellect then in the world, there was one that was calculated even to paralyze the clergy, to whom, in that age, fell the business of recording passing events, and which seems to have prevented their even taking notice of important matters in the history of that time. I mean the schism that for so long rent the church into fragments, the greatest schism, indeed, that the world ever saw, when, for so many years, two and even three Popes reigned at once, each anathematizing and excommunicating the other, for a schism which, after an infinity of intrigues, was ultimately so happily patched up to the comfort of the church. On the death of Urban V, Gregory XI became Pope, but soon after died, and was succeeded by Urban VI; but the Cardinals, who were in the French interest, after treating him as Pope for a short time, annulled the whole proceedings, on the plea of having been constrained in the election by the turbulence of the Roman populace, but really on account of the extraordinary harshness with which he began his reign, and chose one of themselves in his stead, under the name of Clement VII. The former remained at Rome, and was supported by Italy, the Empire, England and the North; while Clement proceeded to Avignon, and was acknowledged by France, Spain, Scotland, and Sicily. Urban was respectively succeeded by Boniface IX, Innocent VI, and Gregory XII; and Clement, at his death, in 1394, by Benedict XIII, the most implacable spirit in prolonging the schism, from whose authority France for a time withdrew, without acknowledging any other head, but afterwards returned, at the same time urging his resignation of the chair. At last the Cardinals, disgusted with the unprincipled dissimulation of both, and at their wits' end in devising a way to stay the scandal, and build up the influence of the whole church, then so rapidly sinking in the estimation of the world, amidst such unheard of calamities, deserted both, and summoned a council, which met at Pisa, and in which both were deposed, and another, in the person of Alexander V, elected to fill the chair. But in place of proving a remedy, the step rendered the schism still more furious. After that, John XXIII, successor to Alexander V, was reluctantly prevailed on to call a council, which accordingly met at Constance, in 1414, but in which he himself was deposed. Martin V being chosen, was succeeded by Eugenius IV. But the Fathers of Basle elected Felix V, thus renewing the schism, and dividing the church for some years, from France and the Empire observing a neutrality, while England adhered to Eugenius, Aragon and the smaller states to Felix; but the partisans of Felix gradually losing their influence, Nicholas V, the successor of Eugenius, after much cajolery, prevailed on him to resign his claim, and thus restored peace to the world. At that time the kinds of learning taught were, in the greater part of Europe, confined to few, being almost entirely monopolised by the clergy and a few laymen; by the former for the dogmatism of the schools and the study of the canon law, and by the latter for civil jurisprudence and medicine. Even the sons of nobles were generally wholly illiterate, one of them, only, being educated, to act as the clerk of the family. We are even told of a noble, when a conspiracy was detected, with the name of his son attached to it, saying, "Thank God, none of my children were ever taught to write." The great mass of the people, and especially those of the lower classes, were as ignorant of direct educational training as a tribe of semi-barbarians at the present day. Many of the nobility, although as scantily educated as the lowest of our own people, and having as much difficulty in inditing an epistle as some of these would now have, would still admirably maintain their position in such a state of society, by the influence which their high birth and breeding, elevated bearing, superiority of character, and possession of domain, gave them; and by the traditionary feudal awe that had sunk so deeply into the feelings of their comparatively, and often absolutely, abject dependents and followers, extending itself, when unaccompanied by overt acts of oppression, to the inhabitants of the smaller towns, where so many restraints surrounded their personal independence, from their precarious modes of living, owing to all so much depending on each other for a subsistence, and the endless jealousies prevailing among them. At the same time all classes, although frequently possessing a sufficiency, if not an abundance, of the rough necessaries of life, enjoyed nothing of the comfort and elegancies of subsequent times. The house of many a noble presented such a plainness in furnishing as a person, in very moderate circumstances, would now be almost ashamed to possess. The circumstances of the middle classes were much more lowly; plain boards and wooden trenchers, few beds but many _shake-downs_, rough stools and no chairs, with wonderfully few apartments relative to the size of the family, and much sleeping on straw-heaps in the _cock-loft_, marked the style of living of a class now deemed very respectable. The huts of the poorest class were as often composed of "sticks and dirt" as any other material, with _plenishing_ to correspond. There was a marked exception to this state of comparative barbarism to be found, however, in some of the cities of Italy, and other parts of the Mediterranean, the seats of the flourishing republics of the middle ages; arising not only from the affluence which follows in the wake of extended commerce and manufactures, but also from the feelings with which the wreck of a highly polished antiquity inspired a people in whom the seeds of the former civilization had not died out; heightened, as it must have been, by the influence of the once celebrated, but then decaying, splendour which the court of the long line of eastern emperors shed over the countries lying contiguous to it. The inhabitants of the cities of the north, on the other hand, were marked by a degree of substantial wealth and comfort, sense and ease, civility and liberality, which were apt to distinguish a people situated as they were, without the traditions and objects, meeting the eye at every step in the south, of the greatest degree of culture in the polite arts of life unto which a people can attain. But, with the exception of the inhabitants of these cities, and some of those in a few of the cities of western Europe, the clergy and some of the laity, the people, as such, were sunk in deep ignorance and superstition, living in a state of which, in our favoured times, we can form no adequate conception. Then, life and property were held in little respect, and law trampled upon, even if it existed under more than the shadow of its present form; and no roads existed but such as were for the greater part of the year impassable, and lay through forests, swamps and other uncultivated wastes, the resorts of numerous banditti. Then, almost no intercourse existed between the people of one part of a country and another, when all were exceedingly sanguinary and rude. What wonder, then, that, under such circumstances, the race in question should have stolen into Europe unobserved, without leaving a trace of the circumstances connected with the movement? The way by which they are supposed to have entered Western Europe was by Transylvania, a supposition which, if not true, is at least most likely. Although, when first publicly taken notice of in Europe, they were found to move about in large bands, it is unlikely that they would do that while entering, but only after having experienced the degree of toleration and hospitality which the representation of their condition called forth; at least if we judge from the cunning which they have displayed in moving about after their true character became known. Asia having been so long their home, where from time immemorial they are supposed to have wandered, they would have no misgiving, from their knowledge of its inhabitants, in passing through any part of it. But in contemplating an entry into Europe they must have paused, as one, without any experience of his own or of others, would in entering on the discovery of an unknown continent, and anxiously examined the merchants and travellers visiting Europe, on the various particulars of the country most essential to their prospects, and especially as to the characteristics of the people. There seems no reason for thinking that they were expelled from Asia against their will; and as little for supposing that they fled rather than submit to a particular creed, if we judge from the great readiness with which, in form, they have submitted to such in Europe, when it would serve their purpose. The only conclusion, in regard to their motive or migration, to which we can come, is, that having, in the course of time, gradually found their way to the confines of Western Asia, and most likely into parts of Northern Africa, and there heard of the growing riches of modern Europe, they, with the restlessness and unsettledness of their race, longed to reach the Eldorado of their hopes--a country teeming with what they were in quest of, where they would meet with no rivals of their own race to cross their path. The step must have been long and earnestly debated, possibly for generations, ere it was taken; spies after spies may have surveyed and reported on the country, and the movement been made the subject of many deliberations, till at last the influence, address, or resolution of some chief may have precipitated them upon it, possibly at a time when some accidental or unavoidable cause urged them to it. Nor would it be long ere their example was followed by others of the tribe; some from motives of friendship; others from jealousy at the idea of all the imagined advantages being reaped by those going before them; and others from the desire of revenging unsettled injuries, and jealousy combined. After the die had been cast, their first step would be to choose leaders to proceed before the horde, spy out the richness of the land, and organize stations for those to follow; and then continue the migration till all the horde had passed over. Considering that the representative part of the Gipsies have retained their peculiarities almost uncontaminated, it is in the highest degree probable, it may even be assumed as certain, that this was the manner in which they entered Europe: at first stragglers, with systematic relays of stations and couriers, followed up by such small, yet numerous and closely following, companies, as almost to escape the notice of the authorities of the countries through which they passed; a mode of travelling which they still pursue in Great Britain. But when any special obstacle was to be encountered in their journey--such, for example, as the hostility of the inhabitants of any particular place--they would concentrate their strength, so as to force their way through. Their next step would be to arrange among themselves the district of country each tribe was to occupy. After their arrival, they seem to have appeared publicly in large bands, growing emboldened by the generous reception which they met with for some time after their appearance; and they seem to have had the sagacity to know, that if they secured the favour of the great, that of the small would necessarily follow. But if the first appearance of the Gipsies in Europe had a different complexion from what I have conjectured, there are other causes to which may be attributed the fact of its not being known. Among these is to be found the distracted state of the Eastern Empire in its struggles with the Turks, which led to the capture of its capital, and the subversion of the Greek rule in the East. The literary and other men of note, scattered over the provinces, likely to chronicle such an event as the appearance of the Gipsies, must necessarily have betaken themselves to the capital, as each district submitted to the conquerors, and so lost the opportunity of witnessing the migration, under such circumstances as would have made it observable, assuming that the Gipsies travelled in large companies, which, under all the circumstances of the case, was not, on all occasions, likely. The surrounding countries having been the theatre of so many changes in the history of the human family, and the inhabitants having undergone so many changes of masters, leading to so many distinct races, from the intellectual and cultivated Greek to the barbarous Arab and dusky Moor, of so various hues and habits, many of whom would be found in such a city as Constantinople, what peculiarity was there about the Gipsies to attract the notice of the haughty Greek, characterized as he was by all the feelings of disdain which his ancestors displayed in not even naming the Jews and early Christians? Then, if we consider the peculiar turn which the new-born literary pursuits of learned men assumed during that age--how it was exclusively confined to the restoration of the classics, and followed in Europe by the influx of the Greeks during the troubles of their country, we will find another reason for the manner of the first appearance of the Gipsies not being known. Nor is it to be expected that any light would be thrown on the subject by the memoirs of any of our own countrymen, visiting the East at a time when so little intercourse existed between the West and that part of the world; nothing perhaps beyond a commercial or maritime adventurer, under the flag of another nation, or one whose whole acquirements consisted in laying lance in rest and mounting the breach in an assault; it being a rare thing even to see an English ship in the Mediterranean during the whole of the fifteenth century. That the Gipsies were a tribe of Hindoo _Sudras_, driven, by the cruelty of Timour, to leave Hindostan, is not for a moment to be entertained; for why should that conqueror have specially troubled himself with the _lowest_ class of Hindoos? or why should they, in particular, have left Hindostan? It would have been the _ruling_, or at least the _higher_, classes of Hindoo society against which Timour would have exercised any acts of cruelty; the _lowest_ would be pretty much beneath his notice. Not only do we not read of such a people as the Hindoos ever having left their country on any such account--for it is contrary to their genius and feelings of caste to do so--but the opinion that the Gipsies left India on Timour's account rests on no evidence whatever, beyond the simple circumstance that they were first taken notice of in Europe _about_ the time of his overrunning India. Mr. Borrow very justly remarks: "It appears singular that if they left their native land to escape from Timour, they should never have mentioned, in the western world, the name of that scourge of the human race, nor detailed the history of their flight and sufferings, which assuredly would have procured them sympathy; the ravages of Timour being already but too well known in Europe." Still, Mr. Borrow does not venture to give reasons for the trustworthiness or untrustworthiness of a passage in Arabschah's life of Timour, in which it is said that Gipsies were found in Samarcand at a time before that conqueror had even directed his thoughts to the invasion of India. The description given of these Zingari or Gipsies of Samarcand is as applicable to the Gipsies as possibly can be; for in it it is said, "Some were wrestlers, others gladiators, others pugilists. These people were much at variance, so that hostilities and battling were continually arising amongst them. Each band had its chief and subordinate officers." How applicable this description is to the Scottish Gipsies, down to so late a period as the end of last century! If there is little reason for thinking that the Gipsies left India owing to the cruelties of Timour, there is less for supposing, as Mr. Borrow supposes, that their being called Egyptians originated, not with themselves, but with others; for he says that the tale of their being Egyptians "probably originated amongst the priests and learned men of the east of Europe, who, startled by the sudden apparition of bands of people foreign in appearance and language, skilled in divination and the occult arts, endeavoured to find in Scripture a clue to such a phenomenon; the result of which was that the Romas (Gipsies) of Hindostan were suddenly transformed into Egyptian penitents, a title which they have ever since borne in various parts of Europe." Why should the priests and learned men of the east of Europe go to the Bible to find the origin of such a people as the Gipsies? What did priests and learned men know of the Bible at the beginning of the fifteenth century? Did every priest, at that time, know there even was such a book as the Bible in existence? The priests and learned men of the east of Europe were more likely to turn to the eastern nations for the origin of the Gipsies, than to Egypt, were the mere matter of the skill of the Gipsies in divination and the occult arts to lead them to make any enquiry into their history. But what could have induced the priests and learned men to take any such particular interest in the Gipsies? When the Gipsies entered Europe, they would feel under the necessity of saying who they were. Having committed themselves to that point, how could they afterwards call themselves by that name which Mr. Borrow supposes the priests and learned men to have given them? Or, I should rather say, how could the priests and learned men think of giving them a name after they themselves had said who they were? And did the priests and learned men invent the idea of the Gipsies being pilgrims, or bestow upon their leaders the titles of dukes, earls, lords, counts and knights of Little Egypt? Assuredly not; all these matters must have originated with the Gipsies themselves. The truth is, Mr. Borrow has evidently had no opportunities of learning, or, at least, has not duly appreciated, the real mental acquirements of the early Gipsies, an idea of which will be found in the history of the race on their first general arrival in Scotland, about a hundred years after they were first taken notice of in Europe, during which time they are not supposed to have made any great progress in mental condition. I may venture to say that the prophecy of Ezekiel,[8] in regard to the scattering of the Egyptians, does not apply to the Gipsies, for this reason, that such of these Egyptians as were _carried away captive_ would become lost among other nations, while the "mixed multitude" which left Egypt with the Jews, travelled East, _their own masters_, and became the origin of the Gipsy nation throughout the world. If we could but find traces of an Egyptian origin among the Gipsies of Asia, say Central and Western Asia, the question would be beyond dispute. But that might be a matter of some trouble. I am inclined to believe that the people in India corresponding to the Gipsies in Europe, will be found among those tented tribes who perform certain services to the British armies; at all events there is such a tribe in India, who are called Gipsies by the Europeans who come in contact with them. A short time ago, one of these people, who followed the occupation of a camel driver in India, found his way to England, and "pulled up" with some English Gipsies, whom he recognized as his own people; at least he found that they had the ways and ceremonies of them. But it would be unreasonable to suppose that such a tribe in India did not follow various occupations. Bishop Heber, on several occasions, speaks of certain tents of people whom he met in India, as Gipsies. But I can conceive nothing more difficult than an attempt to elucidate the history of any of the infinity of sects, castes, or tribes to be met with in India.[9] What evidently leads Mr. Borrow and others astray, in the matter of the origin of the Gipsies, is, that they conclude that, because the language spoken by the Gipsies is apparently, or for the most part, Hindostanee, therefore the people speaking it originated in Hindostan; as just a conclusion as it would be to maintain that the Negroes in Liberia originated in England because they speak the English language! [8] Ezek. xxix. 12,-14, and xxx. 10, 23, and 26.--The scattering of the Egyptians, here foretold, is a subject about which very little is known. Scott, in commenting on it, says: "History informs us that Nebuchadnezzar conquered Egypt, and carrying multitudes of prisoners hence, dispersed them in different parts of his dominions: and doubtless great numbers perished, or took shelter in other nations at the same time. But we are not sufficiently informed of the transactions of those ages, to show the exact fulfilment of this part of the prophecy, as has been done in other instances." The bulk of the Egyptians were doubtless restored to their country, as promised in Ezek. xxix. 13, 14, and it is not impossible that the Gipsies are the descendants of such as did not return to Egypt. The language which they now speak proves nothing to the contrary, as, since the time in question, they have had opportunities to learn and unlearn many languages. [9] Abbé Dubois says: "In every country of the Peninsula, great numbers of foreign families are to be found, whose ancestors had been obliged to emigrate thither, in times of trouble or famine, from their native land, and to establish themselves amongst strangers. This species of emigration is very common in all the countries of India; but what is most remarkable is, _that in a foreign land, these emigrants preserve, from generation to generation, their own language and national peculiarities_. Many instances might be pointed out of such foreign families, settled four or five hundred years in the district they now inhabit, without approximating in the least to the manners, fashions, or even to the language, of the nation where they have been for so many generations naturalized. They still preserve the remembrance of their origin, and keep up the ceremonies and usages of the land where their ancestors were born, without ever receiving any tincture of the particular habits of the countries where they live."--Preface xvii. At page 470, he gives an instance of a wandering tribe in the Mysore and Telinga country, originally employed in agriculture, who, a hundred and fifty years previously, took up their vagrant and wandering life, in consequence of the severe treatment which the governor of the province was going to inflict upon some of their favourite chiefs. To this kind of life they have grown so much accustomed, that it would be impossible to reclaim them to any fixed or sedentary habits; and they have never entertained a thought of resuming their ancient manners. They sojourn in the open fields, under small tents of bamboo, and wander from place to place as humour dictates. They amount to seven or eight thousand individuals, are divided into tribes, and are under the government of chiefs, and maintain a great respect for the property of others. The leaders of the Gipsies, on the arrival of the body in Europe, and for a long time afterwards, seem to have been a superior class to those known as Gipsies to-day; although, if the more intelligent of the race were observable to the general eye, they would, in many respects, compare most favourably with many of our middle classes. If the leaders of the Gipsies, at that time, fell behind some of even the nobility, in the pittance of the education of letters which the latter possessed, they made up for it in that practical sagacity, the acquisition of which is almost unavoidable in the school in which, from infancy, they had been educated--that of providing for the shifts and exigencies of which their lives, as a whole, consisted; besides showing that superior aptitude for many of the things of every-day life, so inseparable from the success to which a special pursuit will lead. A Gipsy leader stood, then, somewhat in the position towards a gentleman that a swell does to-day; with this difference, that he was not apt to commit himself by the display of that ignorance which unmasks the swell; an ignorance which the gentleman, in spite of his little learning, no less shared in. If the latter happened to be well educated, the Gipsy could still pass muster, from being as well, or rather as ill, informed as many with whom the gentleman associated. The Gipsy being alert, capable of playing many characters, often a good musician, an excellent player at games of hazard, famous at tale and repartee, clever at sleight of hand tricks, ready with his weapon, at least in the boast of it, apt at field and athletic sports, suspicious of everything and everybody around him, the whole energies of his mind given to, and his life spent in, circumventing and plundering those around him, while, in appearance, "living in peaceable and catholic manner," and "doing a lawful business," and having that thorough knowledge of men acquired by mixing with all classes, in every part of the country--he became even more than a match for the other, whose life was spent in occasional forays, field sports and revellings, with so little to engage his intellectual nature, from his limited education, the non-existence of books, and the forms of government and social institutions, with those beautifully complicated bearings and interests towards general society which the present age displays. At such a time, conversation must have been confined to the ordinary affairs of common life, the journal of much of which, beyond one's own immediate neighbourhood, would be found in the conversation of the accomplished Gipsy, who had the tact of ingratiating himself, in a manner peculiar to himself, with all kinds of society, even sometimes the very best. And it is remarkable that, when the Gipsies were persecuted, it was seldom, if ever, at the instance of private individuals, but almost always by those acting under authority. If they were persecuted by a private individual, they would naturally leave for another district, and place themselves, for a time, in the nominal position of a clansman to such barons as would be always ready to receive them. The people at large generally courted their friendship, for the amusement which they afforded them, and the various services which they rendered them, the most important of which was the safety of property which followed from such an acquaintance. That being the case even with people of influence, it may be judged what position the Gipsies occupied towards the various classes downwards; the lowest of which they have always despised, and delighted to tyrannize over. In coming among them, the Gipsies, from the first, exhibited ways of life and habits so dissimilar to those of the natives, and such tricks of legerdemain so peculiar to Eastern nations, and such claims of seeing into the future, as to cause many to believe them in league with the evil one; a conclusion very easily arrived at, in the darkness in which all were wrapped. Although the rabble of the Gipsies is said to have presented, in point of accoutrements, a most lamentable appearance, that could much more have been said of the same class of the natives, then, and long after, if we judge of a Highland "tail," of a little more than a century ago, as described by the author of Waverly; or even of the most unwashed of what has been termed the "unwashed multitude" of to-day. In point of adaptability to their respective modes of life, the poorest of the Gipsies far excelled the others. To carry out the character of pilgrims, the bulk of the Gipsies would go very poorly dressed; it would only be the chiefs who would be well accoutred. But the Gipsies that appear to the general eye have fallen much from what they were. The superior class of Scottish Gipsies, possessing the talents and policy necessary to accommodate themselves to the change of circumstances around them, have adopted the modes of ordinary life to such an extent, and so far given up their wandering habits, as to baffle any chance of discovery by any one unacquainted with their history, and who will not, like a bloodhound, follow them into the retreats in which they and their descendants are now to be found. Such Gipsies are still a restless race, and nourish that inveterate attachment to their blood and language which is peculiar to all of them. When we consider the change that has come over the face of society during the last hundred years, or even during a much shorter time, we will find many causes that have contributed to that which has come over the Gipsy character in its more atrocious aspect. All classes of our own people, from the highest to the lowest, have experienced the change; and nowhere to a greater extent than in the Highlands, where, in little more than a hundred years, a greater reformation has been effected, than took almost any other part of the world perhaps three centuries to accomplish; and where the people, as a body, have emerged, from a state of sanguinary barbarism, into the most lawful and the most moral and religious subjects of the British Empire. The Gipsies have likewise felt the change. Even the wildest of them have had the more outrageous features of their character subdued; but it is sometimes as an animal of prey, sans teeth, sans claws, sans everything. Officials, in the zeal of their callings, often greatly distress those that go about--compelling them, in their wanderings, to "move on;" and look after them so closely, that when they become obnoxious to the inhabitants, the offence has hardly occurred, ere, to use an expression, they are snapped up before they have had time to squeak. Amid such a state of things, it is difficult for Gipsies to flourish in their glory; still, such of them as go about in the olden form are deemed very annoying. The dread which has always been entertained toward the Gipsies has been carefully fostered by them, and has become the principal means contributing to their toleration. They have always been combined in a brotherhood of sentiment and interest, even when deadly feuds existed among them; an injury toward one being generally taken up by others; and have presented that union of sympathy, and lawless violence toward the community, which show what a few audacious and desperate men, under such circumstances, will sometimes do in a well regulated society. Sir Walter Scott, relative to the original of one of his heroines, says: "She was wont to say that she could bring, from the remotest parts of the island friends, to revenge her quarrel, while she sat motionless in her cottage; and frequently boasted that there was a time when she was of still more considerable importance, when there were at her wedding fifty saddled asses, and unsaddled asses without number." But of their various crimes, none have had such terrors for the grown-up person as those of fire-raising and child-stealing. The Gipsy could easily steal into a well guarded but scattered premises, by night, and, in an instant, spread devastation around him, and irretrievable ruin to the rural inhabitant. But that which has, perhaps, contributed most to the feeling in question, has been their habit of child-stealing, the terrors of which have grown up with the people from infancy. This trait in the Gipsy character has certainly not been so common, in latter times, as some others; still, it has taken place. As an instance, it may be mentioned that Adam Smith, the author of the great work called "An Enquiry into the Causes of the Wealth of Nations," was actually carried off by the Gipsies, when a child, and was some hours in their possession before recovery. It is curious to think what might have been the political state of so many nations, and of Great Britain in particular, at the present time, if the father of political economy and free-trade, as he is generally called, had had to pass his life in a Gipsy encampment, and, like a white transferred to an Indian wigwam, under similar circumstances, acquired all their habits, and become more incorrigibly attached to them than the people themselves; tinkering kettles, pots, pans and old metal, in place of separating the ore of a beautiful science from the débris which had been for generations accumulating around it, and working it up into one of the noblest monuments of modern times. When a child will become unruly, the father will often say, in the most serious manner, "Mother, that canna be our bairn--the Tinklers must have taken ours, and left theirs--are you sure that this is ours? Gie him back to the Gipsies again, and get our ain." The other children will look as bewildered, while the subject of remark will instantly stop crying, and look around for sympathy; but meeting nothing but suspicion in the faces of all, will instinctively flee to its mother, who as instinctively clasps it to her bosom, quieting its terrors, as a mother only can, with the lullaby, "Hush nae, hush nae, dinna fret ye; The black Tinkler winna get ye."[10] [10] The Gipsies frighten their children in the same manner, by saying that they will give them to the _Gorgio_. And the result is, that it will remain a "good bairn" for a long time after. This feeling, drawn into the juvenile mind, as food enters into the growth of the body, acts like the influence of the stories of ghosts and hobgoblins, often so inconsiderately told to children, but differs from it in this respect, that what causes it is true, while its effects are always more or less permanent. It has had this effect upon our youth--in connection with the other habits of the people, so outlandish when compared with the ways of our own--that should they happen to go a little distance from home, on such expeditions as boys are given to, and fall in with a Gipsy camp, a strange sensation of fear takes possession of them. The camp is generally found to be pitched in some little dell or nook, and so hidden from view as not to be noticed till the stranger is almost precipitated into its midst ere he is aware of it. What with the traditionary feeling toward the Gipsies, and the motley assemblage of wild looking men, and perhaps still wilder looking women, ragged little urchins, ferocious looking dogs, prepared for an assault with an instinct drawn from the character of their masters, and the droll appearance of so many _cuddies_ (asses,) startled in their browsing--animals that generally appear singly, but, when driven by Gipsies, come in battalions;--the boys, at first rivetted to the spot with terror, will slip away as quietly as possible till a little way off, and then run till they have either arrived at home, or come within the reach of a neighbourhood or people likely to protect them, although, it might be, the Gipsies had not even noticed them.[11] Curiosity is so strong in our youth, in such cases, as often to induce them to return to the spot, after being satisfied that the Gipsies have decamped for another district. They will then examine the débris of the encampment with a great degree of minuteness, wreaking their vengeance on what is left, by turning up with their feet the refuse of almost everything edible, particularly as regards the bones and feathers of fowl and game, and, if it happened to be near the sea, crab, limpet, and whelk shells, and heaps of tin clippings and horn scrapings. In after life, they will often think of and visit the scenes of such adventures. At other times, our youth, when rambling, will often make a detour of several miles, to avoid falling in with the dreaded Gipsies. The report of Gipsies being about acts as a salutary check upon the depredatory habits of the youth of our country towns on neighbouring crops; for, as the farmers make up their minds to lose something by the Gipsies, at any rate, the wholesome dread they inspire, even in grown-up lads, is such as, by night especially, to scare away the thieves from those villages, whose plunderings are much greater, and more unwillingly submitted to, from the closeness of residence of the offenders; so that the arrival of the Gipsies, in some places, is welcomed, at certain times of the year, as the lesser of two evils; and, to that extent, they have been termed the "farmers' friends." And if a little encouragement is given them--such as the matter of "dogs' payment," that is, what they can eat and drink, and a mouthful of something for the _cuddy_, for the first day after their arrival--the farmer can always enlist an admirable police, who will guard his property against others, with a degree of faithfulness that can hardly be surpassed. I heard of a Scottish farmer, very lately, getting the Gipsies to take up their quarters every year on the corner of a potato or turnip field, with the express purpose of using them, as half constables half scare-crows, against the common rogues of the neighbourhood. "Now," said he to the principal Gipsy, "I put you in charge of this property. If you want anything for yourselves, come to the barn." Whatever might have been the experience of farmers near by, this farmer never missed anything while the Gipsies were on his premises. [11] As children, have we not, at some time, run affrighted from a Gipsy?--_Grellmann on the Hungarian Gipsies._ But a greater degree of awe is inspired by the females than the males of the Gipsies. In their periodical wanderings, they will generally, with their fortune-telling, turn the heads of the country girls in matters of matrimony--setting them all agog on husbands; and render them, for the time, of but little use to their employers. In teaching them the "art of love," they will professedly so instruct them as to have as many lovers at once as their hearts can desire. But if a country girl, with her many admirers, has one to get quit of, who is "no' very weel faured, but a clever fellow," or another, who is "no' very bright in the upper story, but strapping enough to become the dish-clout," she will call in the assistance of the strolling Gipsy; who, after carefully weighing the circumstances of the case, will sometimes, after ordinary means have failed, collect, unknown to her, a bucket full of everything odious about a dwelling, wait at the back door the return of the rustic Adonis, and, ere he is aware, dash it full in his face; then fold her arms akimbo, and quietly remark, "That will cool your ears, and your courting too, my man!" Such Gipsy women are peculiarly dreaded by the males of our own people, who will much sooner encounter those of the other sex; for, however much some of them may be satisfied, in their cooler moments, that these Gipsy women will not attempt what they will sometimes threaten, they generally deem them "unco uncanny," at any time, and will flee when swearing that they will _gut_ or _skin alive_ all who may have anything to say to them. To people unacquainted with the peculiarities of the Gipsies, it may appear that this picture is overdrawn. But Sir Walter Scott, who is universally allowed to be a true depicter of Scottish life, in every form, says, in reference to the original of Meg Merrilies, in Guy Mannering: "I remember to have seen one of her grand-daughters; that is, as Dr. Johnson had a shadowy recollection of Queen Anne--a stately lady in black, adorned with diamonds; so my memory is haunted by a solemn remembrance of a woman, of more than female height, dressed in a long, red cloak, who commenced acquaintance by giving me an apple, but whom, nevertheless, I looked on with as much awe as the future Doctor could look upon the Queen." And he approvingly quotes another writer, as to her daughter, as follows: "Every week, she paid my father a visit for her _awmons_, when I was a little boy, and I looked on her with no common degree of awe and terror." The same feeling, somewhat modified, I have heard expressed by Germans, Spaniards, and Italians. In England, the people do not like to trouble the Gipsies, owing to their being so "spiteful," as they express it. The feeling in question cannot well be realized by people reared in towns, who have, perhaps, never seen Gipsies, or heard much about them; but it is different with youths brought up in the country. When the Gipsies, in their peregrinations, will make their appearance at a farmer's house, especially if it is in the pastoral districts, and the farmer be a man of information and reflection, he will often treat them kindly, from the interest with which their singular history inspires him; and others, not unkindly, from other motives. The farmer's sons, who are young and hasty, probably but recently returned from a town, where they have been jeered at for their cowardice in being afraid to meddle with the Gipsies, will show a disposition to use them roughly, on the cry arising in the house, that "the Tinklers are coming." But the old father, cautious with the teachings of years gone by, will become alarmed at such symptoms, and, before the Gipsies have approached the premises, will urge his children to treat them kindly. "Be canny now, bairns--be canny; for any sake dinna anger them; gie them a' they want, and something more." With this, a good fat sheep will sometimes be killed, and the band regaled with _kail_, and its accompaniments; or, if they are very _nice gabbit_, it will be served up to them in a roasted form. Thereafter, they will retire to the barn, and start in the morning on something better than an empty stomach. And yet it is singular that, if the Gipsies are met in the streets of a town, or any considerably frequented place, people will, in passing them, edge off a little to the side, and look at them with a degree of interest, which, on ordinary occasions, the Gipsies will but little notice. But if a person of respectable appearance will scrutinize them in an ominous way, they will observe it instantly; and, as a swell-mobsman, on being stared at by a detective, on the mere suspicion of his being such, generally turns the first cross street, and, in turning, anxiously looks after his enemy, who, after calculating the distance, has also turned to watch his movements, so the Gipsy will become excited, soon turning round to watch the movements of the object of his dread; a fear that will be heightened if any of his band has been spoken to. And such is the masonic secrecy with which they keep their language, that should they at the time have rested on the road-side, and the stranger assume the most impressive tone, and say: "_Sallah, jaw drom_"--(curse you, take the road), the effects upon them are at first bewildering, and followed by a feeling of some dire calamity that is about to befall them. When any of the poorest kind can be prevailed upon to express a candid sentiment, and be asked how they really do get on, they will reply, "It's only day and way we want, ye ken--what a farmer body ne'er can miss; foreby selling a spoon, and tinkering a kettle now and then." In viewing the effects of civilization upon a barbarous race, we are naturally led to confine our reflections to some of the instances in which the civilized race has carried its influence abroad to those beyond its pale, to the exclusion of those instances, from their infrequency of occurrence, in which the barbarous race, of its own accord or otherwise, has come within its circle. There are but two instances, in modern times, in which the latter has happened, and they are well worthy of our notice. The one is, the existence of the Gipsies, in the very heart of civilization; the other, that of the Africans in the various European settlements in the New World; and between these a short comparison may be instituted, although at the risk of it being deemed a digression. The forcible introduction of barbarous men into the colonies of civilized nations, in spite of the cruelties which many of them have undergone, has greatly improved their condition--their moral and intellectual nature--at the expense of the melancholy fact of it being advanced as a reason of justification for that sad anomaly in the history of our times. The African, it is admitted, was forcibly brought under the influence of the refinement, religion, and morals of the whites, whether as a domestic under the same roof, a field labourer, in the immediate vicinity of the master, or in some other way under his direct control and example. Not only was he, as it were, forced to become what he is, but his obedient, light-hearted, and imitative nature, even under many bodily sufferings, instinctively led him to enter immediately into the spirit of a new life, presenting to his barbarous imagination, so destitute of everything above the grossest of animal wants and propensities, those wonderfully incessant and complicated employments of a being, appearing to him as almost a god, when compared with his own savage and unsophisticated nature. The importations comprised Negroes of many dialects, which were distributed on arrival in every direction. A large proportion would live singly with the poorer classes of the colonists, as domestics; two or three would be the limited number with many others, and the remainder would be disposed of, in larger or smaller numbers, for the various services necessary in civilized life. Single domestics would be under the necessity of learning the language of the master; and, having none speaking their own dialect to commune with, or only occasionally meeting such, momentarily, they would soon forget it. When several of different dialects lived together, they would naturally follow the same course, to communicate with each other. All these circumstances, with the frequent changes of masters and companions, and the general influence which the whites exercised so supremely over them, have had the effect of almost erasing every trace of the language, customs, and superstitions of Africa, in parts of the United States of America, in little more than one generation. The same may especially be said of what pertains to the religious; for a race of men, in a state of nature, or but slightly civilized, depending for such instruction on the adjunct of a superior grade, in the person of a priest, would, on being deprived of such, soon lose recollection of what had been taught them. Such an instance as to language, and, I understand, to a great extent as to religion, is to be found in St. Domingo; French and Spanish being spoken in the parts of that island which belonged to these countries respectively. Still, such traces are to be found in Cuba; but, were importations of Africans into that island to cease, the same result would, in course of time, follow. From such causes as those stated, the Negroes in the United States have, to a very great extent, nay, as far as their advantages and opportunities have gone, altogether, acquired the ways of civilized life, and adopted the morals and religion of the white race; and their history compares favourably with that of a portion of the Gipsy race, which, being unique, and apparently incomprehensible, I will institute a short enquiry into some of the causes of it. While the language and common origin of the Gipsies hold them together as a body, their mode of life has taken such a hold on the innate nature of the representative part of them, as to render it difficult to wean them from it. Like the North American Indians, they have been incapable of being reduced to a state of servitude;[12] and, in their own peculiar way, have been as much attached to a life of unrestricted freedom of movement. Being an Oriental people, they have displayed the uniformity of attachment to habit, that has characterized the people of that part of the world. Like the maidens of Syria, wearing to-day the identical kind of veil with which Rebecca covered herself when she met Isaac, they have, with few exceptions, adhered to all that originally distinguished them from those among whom they are found. In entering Europe, they would meet with few customs which they would willingly adopt in preference to their own. Their chiefs, being men of ambition, and fond of a distinguished position in the tribe, would influence the body to remain aloof from the people at large; and society being divided between the nobles and their various grades of dependents, and the restrained inhabitants of towns, with what part of the population could the Gipsies have been incorporated? With the lowest classes only, and become little better than serfs--a state to which it was almost impossible for a Gipsy to submit. His habits rendered him unfit to till the soil; the close and arbitrary laws of municipalities would debar him from exercising almost any mechanical trade, in a way suitable to his disposition; and, no matter what might have been his natural propensities, he had almost no alternative left him but to wander, peddle, tinker, tell fortunes, and "find things that nobody ever lost." His natural disposition was to rove, and partake of whatever he took a liking to; nothing coming so acceptably and so sweetly to him, as when it required an exercise of ingenuity, and sometimes a degree of danger, in its acquisition, and caused a corresponding chagrin to him from whom it was taken, without affording him any trace of the purloiner. He must also enjoy the sports of the river and lake, the field, hill and forest, and the pleasure of his meal, cooked after his own fashion, in some quiet spot, where he would pitch his tent, and quench his thirst at his favourite springs. Then followed the persecution of his race; both by law and society it was declared outcast, although, by a large part of the latter, it was, from selfish motives, tolerated, and, in a measure, courted. The Gipsy's mode of life; his predatory habits; his vindictive disposition toward his enemies; his presumptuous bearing toward the lower classes, who had purchased his friendship and protection; his astuteness in doubling upon and escaping his pursuers; his audacity, under various disguises and pretences, in bearding justice, and the triumphant manner in which he would generally escape its toils; his utter destitution of religious opinions, or sentiments; his being a foreigner of such strongly marked appearance, under the legal and social ban of proscription; and the hereditary name which has, in consequence, attached to his race, have created those broad and deep-drawn lines of isolation, fear and antipathy, which, in the popular mind, have separated him from other men. To escape from the dreadful prejudice that is, in consequence, entertained toward his race, the Gipsy will, if it be possible, hide the fact of his being a Gipsy; and more especially when he enters upon settled life, and mixes with his fellow-men in the world. [12] There is an exception, however, to this rule in the Danubian Principalities, to which I will again refer. In the general history of Europe, we can find nothing to illustrate that of the Gipsies. But if we take a glance at the history of the New World, we will find, in a mild and harmless form, something that bears a slight resemblance to it. In various parts of the eastern division of North America are to be found remnants of tribes of Indians, living in the hearts of the settlements, on reserves of lands granted to them for their support; a race bearing somewhat the same resemblance to the European settlers that the Gipsies, with their dark complexion, and long, coarse, black hair, seem to have borne to the natives of Europe. Few of these Indians, although in a manner civilized, and professing the Christian religion, and possessing houses, schools and churches, have betaken, or, if they support their numbers, will ever betake, themselves to the ways of the other inhabitants. They will engage in many things to make a living, and a bare living; in that respect very much resembling some of the Gipsies. They will often leave their home, and build their wigwams whenever and wherever they have a mind, and indulge in the pleasures of hunting and laziness; and often make numerous small wares for sale, with the proceeds of which, and of the timber growing on their lots of land, they will manage to pass their lives in little better than sloth, often accompanied by drunkenness. If it prove otherwise, it is generally from the Indian, or rather half or quarter breed, having been wholly or partly reared with whites, or otherwise brought up under their immediate influence; or from the ambition of their chiefs to raise themselves in the estimation of the white race, leading, from the influence which they possess, to some of the lower grades of the tribes following their example. It may be that the "poor Indian" has voluntarily exiled himself, in a fit of melancholy, from the wreck of his patrimony, to make a miserable shift for himself elsewhere, as he best may. In this respect the resemblance fails: that the Indian in America is aboriginal, the Gipsy in Europe foreign, to the soil; but both are characterized by a nature that renders them almost impervious to voluntary change. In this they resemble each other: that they are left to live by themselves, and transmit to their descendants their respective languages, and such of their habits as the change in their outward circumstances will permit. But in this they differ: that these Indians really do die out, while the Gipsies are very prolific, and become invigorated by a mixture of the white blood; under the cover of which they gradually leave the tent, and become scattered over and through society, enter into the various pursuits common to the ordinary natives, and become lost to the observation of the rest of the population. The peculiar feeling that is entertained for what is popularly understood to be a Gipsy, differs from that which is displayed toward the Negro, in that it attaches to his traditional character and mode of life alone. The general prejudice against the Negro is, to a certain extent, natural, and what any one can realize. If the European has a difficulty in appreciating the feeling which is exhibited by Americans against the African, in their general intercourse of daily life, few Americans can realize the feeling which is entertained toward the tented Gipsy. Should such a Gipsy be permitted to enter the dwelling of a native, the most he will let him come in contact with will be the chair he will give him to sit on, and the dish and spoon out of which he will feed him, all of which can again be cleaned. His guest will never weary his patience, owing to the embodiment of restlessness which characterizes his race; nor will his feelings ever be tried by his asking him for a bed, for what the herb commonly called catnip is to the animal somewhat corresponding to that word, a bundle of straw in an out-house is to the tented Gipsy. INTRODUCTION. The new era which the series of splendid works, called the Waverly Novels, created in literature, produced, among other effects, that of directing attention to that singular anomaly in civilization--the existence of a race of men scattered over the world, and known, wherever the English language is spoken, as Gipsies; a class as distinct, in some respects, from the people among whom they live, as the Jews at the present day. The first of the series in which their singular characters, habits, and modes of life were illustrated, was that of Guy Mannering; proving one of the few happy instances in which a work of fiction has been found to serve the end of specially stirring up the feelings of the human mind, in its various phases, toward a subject with which it has a common sympathy. The peasant and the farmer at once felt attracted by it, from the dread of personal danger which they had always entertained for the race, and the uncertainty under which they had lived, for the safety of their property from fire and robbery, and the desire which they had invariably shown to propitiate them by the payment of a species of blackmail, under the form of kind treatment, and a manner of hospitality when occasion called for it. The work at the same time struck a chord in the religious and humane sentiments of others, and the result, but a very tardily manifested one, was the springing up of associations for their reformation; with comparatively little success, however, for it was found, as a general thing, that while some of the race allowed their children, very indifferently, even precariously, to attend school, yet to cure them of their naturally wandering and other peculiar dispositions, was nearly as hopeless as the converting of the American Indians to some of the ways of civilized life. That general class was also interested, which consist of the more or less educated, moral, or refined, to whom anything exciting comes with relish. To the historical student, the subject was fraught with matter for curious investigation, owing to the race having been ignored, for a length of time, as being in no respect different from a class to be found in all countries; and, whatever their origin, as having had their nationality extinguished in that general process which has been found to level every distinction of race in our country. The antiquary and philologist, in their respective pursuits, found also a sphere which they were unlikely to leave unexplored, considering that they are often so untiring in their researches in such matters as sometimes to draw upon themselves a smile from the rest of mankind: and while the latter was thinking that he had exhausted the languages of his native land, and was contemplating others elsewhere, he struck accidentally upon a mine under his feet, and at once turned up a specimen of virgin ore; coming all the more acceptably to him, from those in possession of it keeping it as secret as if their existence depended on its being concealed from others around them. All, indeed, but especially those brought up in rural places, knew from childhood more or less of the Gipsies, and dreaded them by day or night, in frequented or in lonely places, knowing well that, if insulted, they would threaten vengeance, if they could not execute it then; which they in no way doubted, with the terror of doomed men. Among others, I felt interested in the subject, from having been brought up in the pastoral district of Tweed-dale, the resort of many Gipsies, who were treated with great favour by the inhabitants, for many reasons, the most important of which were the desire of securing their good-will, for their own benefit, and the use which they were to them in selling them articles in request, and the various mechanical turns which they possessed; and often from the natural generosity of people so circumstanced. My curiosity was excited, and having various sources of information at command, I proceeded to write a few short articles for Blackwood's Magazine, which were well received, as the following letters from Mr. William Blackwood will show: "I now send a proof of No. 2 Gipsy article. I hope you are pleased, and will return it with your corrections on Monday or Tuesday. We shall be glad to hear you are going on with the continuation, for I assure you your former article has been as popular as anything almost we ever had in the magazine." Again, "Your magazine was sent this morning by the coach, but I had not time to write you last night. Mr. Walter Scott is quite delighted with the Gipsies." Again, "I am this moment favoured with your interesting packet. Your Gipsies, from the slight glance I have given them, seem to be as amusing as ever." And again, "It was not in my power to get your number sent off. It is a very interesting one. You will be much pleased with Mr. Scott's little article on Buckhaven, in which he pays you some very just compliments."[13] [13] The following is the article alluded to: "The following enquiries are addressed to the author of the Gipsies in Fife, being suggested by the research and industry which he has displayed in collecting memorials of that vagrant race. They relate to a class of persons who, distinguished for honest industry in a laborious and dangerous calling, have only this in common with the Egyptian tribes, that they are not originally native of the country which they inhabit, and are supposed still to exhibit traces of a foreign origin. . . . . I mean the colony of fishermen in the village of Buckhaven, in Fife. . . . . . "I make no apology to your respectable correspondent for engaging him in so troublesome a research. The local antiquary, of all others, ought, in the zeal of his calling, to feel the force of what Spencer wrote and Burke quoted: 'Love esteems no office mean.'--'Entire affection scorneth nicer hands.' The curious collector who seeks for ancient reliques among the ruins of ancient Rome, often pays for permission to trench or dig over some particular piece of ground, in hopes to discover some remnant of antiquity. Sometimes he gets only his labour, and the ridicule of having wasted it, to pay for his pains; sometimes he finds but old bricks and shattered pot-sherds; but sometimes also his toil is rewarded by a valuable medal, cameo, bronze, or statue. And upon the same principle it is, by investigating and comparing popular customs, often trivial and foolish in themselves, that we often arrive at the means of establishing curious and material facts in history." This extract is given for the benefit of the latter part of it, which applies admirably to the present subject; yet falls as much short of it as the interest in the history of an Egyptian mummy falls short of that of a living and universally scattered race, that appears a riddle to our comprehension. At the same time I was much encouraged, by the author of Guy Mannering, to prosecute my enquiries, by receiving several communications from him, and conversing with him at Abbotsford, on the subject. I received a letter from Sir Walter, in which he says: "This letter has been by me many weeks, waiting for a frank, and besides, our mutual friend, Mr. Laidlaw, under whose charge my agricultural operations are now proceeding in great style, gave me some hope of seeing you in this part of the country. I should like much to have asked you some questions about the Gipsies, and particularly that great mystery--their language. I cannot determine, in my own mind, whether it is likely to prove really a corrupt eastern dialect, or whether it has degenerated into mere jargon." About the same time I received the following letter from Mr. William Laidlaw, the particular friend of Sir Walter Scott, and manager of his estate at Abbotsford, as mentioned in the foregoing letter; the author of "Lucy's Flittin," and a contributor to Blackwood: "I was very seriously disappointed at not seeing you when you were in this (part of the) country, and so was no less a person than the mighty minstrel himself. He charged me to let him know whenever you arrived, for he was very anxious to see you. What would it be to you to take the coach, and three days before you, and again see your father and mother, come here on an evening, and call on Mr. Scott next day? We would then get you full information upon the science of defence in all its departments. Quarterstaff is now little practised; but it was a sort of legerdemain way of fighting that I never had _muckle broo of_, although I know somewhat of the method. It was a most unfortunate and stupid trick of the man to blow you up with your kittle acquaintances. I hope they will forgive and forget. I am very much interested about the language (Gipsy). Mr. Scott has repeatedly said, that whatever you hear or see, you should _never let on to naebody_, no doubt excepting himself. Be sure and come well provided with specimens of the vocables, as he says he might perhaps have it in his power to assist you in your enquiries." Shortly after this, Sir Walter wrote me as follows: "The inclosed letter has long been written. I only now send it to show that I have not been ungrateful, though late in expressing my thanks. The progress you have been able to make in the Gipsy language is most extremely interesting. My acquaintance with most European languages, and with slang words and expressions, enables me to say positively, that the Gipsy words you have collected have no reference to either, with the exception of three or four.[14] I have little doubt, from the sound and appearance, that they are Oriental, probably Hindostanee. When I go to Edinburgh, I shall endeavour to find a copy of Grellmann, to compare the language of the German Gipsies with that of the Scottish tribes. As you have already done so much, I pray you to proceed in your enquiries, but by no means to make anything public, as it might spread a premature alarm, and obstruct your future enquiries. It would be important to get the same words from different individuals; and in order to verify the collection, I would recommend you to set down the names of the persons by whom they were communicated. It would be important to know whether they have a real language, with the usual parts of speech, or whether they have a collection of nouns, combined by our own language. I suspect the former to be the case, from the specimens I have had. I should like much to see the article you proposed for the magazine. I am not squeamish about delicacies, where knowledge is to be sifted out and acquired. I like Ebony's[15] idea of a history of the Gipsies very much, and I wish you would undertake it. I gave all my scraps to the magazine at its commencement, but I think myself entitled to say that you are welcome to the use of them, should you choose to incorporate them into such a work. Do not be in too great a hurry, but get as many materials as you can."[16] [14] I sent him a specimen of forty-six words. [Many words used in Scotland, in every day life, are evidently derived from the Gipsy, owing, doubtless, to the singularity of the people who have used them, or the happy peculiarity of circumstances under which they have been uttered; the original cause of such passing current in a language, no less than that degree of personal authority which sometimes occasions them to be adopted. _Randy_, a disreputable word for a bold, scolding, and not over nicely worded woman, is evidently derived from the Gipsy _raunie_, the chief of a tribe of viragos; so that the exceptions spoken of are as likely to have been derived from the Gipsy as _vice versa_.--ED.] [15] The name by which Mr. Blackwood was known in the celebrated Chaldee manuscript, published in his magazine. [16] Previous to this, Mr. Blackwood wrote me as follows: "I received your packet some days ago, and immediately gave it to the editor. He desires me to say that your No. 5, though very curious, would not answer, from the nature of the details, to be printed in the magazine. In a regular history of the Gipsies, they would, of course, find a place." This was what suggested the idea of the present work. And again as follows: "An authentic list of Gipsy words, as used in Scotland, especially if in such numbers as may afford any reasonable or probable conjecture as to the structure of the language, is a desideratum in Scottish literature which would be very acceptable to the philologist, as well as an addition to general history. I am not aware that any such exists, though there is a German publication on the subject, which it would be very necessary to consult.[17] That the language exists, I have no doubt, though I should rather think the number to which it is known is somewhat exaggerated. I need not point out to you the difference between the _cant_ language, or _slang_, used by thieves or flash men in general, and the peculiar dialect said to be spoken by the Gipsies.[18] The difference ought to be very carefully noticed, to ascertain what sort of language they exactly talk; whether it is an original tongue, having its own mode of construction, or a speech made up of cant expressions, having an English or Scotch ground-work, and only patched up so as to be unintelligible to the common hearer. There is nothing else occurs to me by which I can be of service to your enquiry. My own opinion leads me to think that the Gipsies have a distinct and proper language, but I do not consider it is extensive enough to form any settled conclusion. If there occur any facts which I can be supposed to know, on which you desire information, I will be willing to give them, in illustration of so curious an enquiry. I have found them, in general, civil and amenable to reason; I must, nevertheless, add that they are vindictive, and that, as the knowledge of their language is the secret which their habits and ignorance make them tenacious of, I think your researches, unless conducted with great prudence, may possibly expose you to personal danger. For the same reason, you ought to complete all the information you can collect, before alarming them by a premature publication, as, after you have published, there will be great obstructions to future communications on the subject." [17] Grellmann. I am not aware that he ever compared the words I sent him with those in this publication, as he wrote he would do, in the previous letter quoted. [18] Throughout the whole of his works there does not appear, I believe, a single word of the proper Scottish Gipsy; although slang and cant expressions are to be found in considerable numbers. [Some of these are of Gipsy extraction.--ED.] From what has been said, it will be seen that the following investigation has had quite a different object than a description of the manners and habits of the common vagrants of the country; for no possible entertainment could have been derived from such an undignified undertaking. And yet many of our youth, although otherwise well informed, have never made this distinction; owing, no doubt, to the encreased attention which those in power have, in late years, bestowed on the internal affairs of the country, and the unseen, but no less surely felt, pressure of the advancement of the general mass, and especially of the lower classes of the community, forcing many of these people into positions beyond the observation of those unacquainted with their language and traits of character. When it is, therefore, considered, that the body treated of, is originally an exotic, comprising, I am satisfied, no less than five thousand souls in Scotland,[19] speaking an original and peculiar language, which is mysteriously used among themselves with great secrecy, and differing so widely from the ordinary natives of the soil, it may well claim some little portion of public attention. A further importance attaches to the subject, when it is considered that a proportionate number is to be found in the other divisions of the British Isles, and large hordes in all parts of Europe, and more or less in every other part of the world; in all places speaking the same language, with only a slight difference in dialect, and manifesting the same peculiarities. In using the language of Dr. Bright, it may be said, that the circumstance is the most singular phenomenon in the history of man; much more striking, indeed, than that of the Jews. For the Jews have been favoured with the most splendid antecedents; a common parentage; a common history; a special and exclusive revelation; a deeply rooted religious prejudice, and antipathy; a common persecution; and whatever might appear necessary to preserve their identity in the world, excepting an isolated territorial and political existence.[20] The Gipsies, on the other hand, have had none of these advantages. But it is certain that the leaders of their bands, in addition to their piteous representations, must have had something striking about them, to recommend them to the favourable notice which they seem to have met with, at the hands of some of the sovereigns of Europe, when they made their appearance there, and spread over its surface. Still, their assumptions might, and in all probability did, rest merely upon an amount of general superiority of character, of a particular kind, without even the first elements of education, which in that age would amount to something; a leading feature of character which their chiefs have ever since maintained; and yet, although everything has been left by them to tradition, the Gipsies speak their language much better than the Jews. [19] There cannot be less then 100,000 Gipsies in Scotland. See Disquisition on the Gipsies.--ED. [20] The following is a description of the Jews, throughout the world, as given by them, in their letters to Voltaire: "A Jew in London bears as little resemblance to a Jew at Constantinople, as this last resembles a Chinese Mandarin! A Portuguese Jew, of Bordeaux, and a German Jew, of Metz, appear two beings of a different nature! It is, therefore, impossible to speak of the manners of the Jews in general, without entering into a very long detail, and into particular distinctions. The Jew is a chamelion, that assumes all the colours of the different climates he inhabits, of the different people he frequents, and of the different governments under which he lives." These words are much more applicable to the Gipsy tribe, in consequence of their drawing into their body the blood of other people.--ED. Gipsies and Jews have many things in common. They are both strangers and sojourners, in a sense, wherever they are to be found; "dwelling in tents," the one literally, the other figuratively. They have each undergone many bloody persecutions; the one for his stubborn blindness to the advent of the Messiah, the other for being a heathen, and worse than a heathen--for being nothing at all, but linked with the evil one, in all manner of witchcraft and sin. Each race has had many crimes brought against it; the Gipsy, those of a positive, and the Jew, those of a constructive and arbitrary nature. But in these respects they differ: the Jew has been known and famed for doing almost anything for money; and the Gipsy for the mere gratification of his most innate nature--that of appropriating to himself, when he needs it, that which is claimed by any out of the circle of his consanguinity. The one's soul is given to accumulating, and, if it is in his power, he becomes rich; the other more commonly aims at securing what meets his ordinary wants, and, perhaps, some little thing additional; or, if he prove otherwise, he liberally spends what he acquires. The Gipsy is humane to a stranger, when he has been rightly appealed to; but when that circumstance is wanting, he will never hesitate to rob him, unless when he stands indebted to him, or, it may be, his immediate relations, for previous acts of kindness. To indulge his hatred towards an enemy, a Jew will oppress him, if he is his debtor, "exacting his bond;" or if he is not his debtor, he will often endeavour to get him to become such, with the same motive; or it may be, if his enemy stands in need of accommodation, he will not supply his wants; at other times, if he is poor, he will ostentatiously make a display of his wealth, to spite him; and, in carrying out his vengeance, will sometimes display the malignity, barring, perhaps, the shedding of blood, of almost every other race combined. In such a case, a Gipsy will rob, burn, maltreat, maim, carry off a child, and sometimes murder, but not often the two last at the present day.[21] The two races are to be found side by side, in countries characterized by almost every degree of climate and stage of civilization, each displaying its peculiar type of feature, but differing in this respect, that the Gipsies readily adopt others into their tribe, at such a tender age as to secure an infallible attachment to their race and habits. This circumstance has produced, in many instances, a change in the colour of the hair and eyes of the descendants of those adopted. In some such cases, it requires an intimate knowledge of the body, to detect the peculiarity common to all, and especially in those who have conformed to the ways of the other inhabitants. In this they agree--that they despise and hate, and are despised and hated by, those among whom they live. But in this they differ--that the Jew entered Europe, as it were, singly and by stealth, pursuing pretty much the avocations he yet follows; but the Gipsies, in bands, and openly, although they were forced to betake themselves to places of retreat, and break up into smaller bands. It is true that the Jew was driven from his home eighteen centuries ago, and that it is not yet five since the Gipsy appeared in Europe. We know who the Jew is, and something of the providence and circumstances under which he suffers, and what future awaits him; but who is this singular and unfortunate exile, whose origin and cause of banishment none can comprehend--who is this wandering Gipsy? [21] This, I need hardly say, is a description of what may be called a _wild_ Gipsy.--ED. After the receipt of the second of Sir Walter Scott's letters, already alluded to, I discontinued the few short articles I had written for Blackwood, on the Fifeshire Gipsies; but I have incorporated the most interesting part of them into the work, forming, however, only a small part of the whole. Since it was written, I have seen Mr. Borrow on the Gipsies in Spain, and the short report of the Rev. Mr. Baird, to the Scottish Church Society; the latter printed in 1840, and the former in 1841. The _Gitanos_ in Spain and the _Tinklers_ in Scotland are, in almost every particular, the same people, while the Yetholm Gipsy words in Mr. Baird's report and those collected by me, for the most part, between the years 1817 and 1831, are word for word the same. In submitting this work to the public, I deem it necessary to say a word or two as to the authorities upon which the facts contained in it rest. My authorities for those under the heads of Fife and Linlithgowshire Gipsies, were aged and creditable persons, who had been eye-witnesses to the greater part of the transactions; in some cases, the particulars were quite current in their time. The details under the head of Gipsies who frequented Tweed-dale, Ettrick Forest, Annandale, and the upper ward of Lanarkshire, were chiefly derived from the memories of some of my relatives, and other individuals of credit, who had many opportunities of observing the manners of these wanderers, in the South of Scotland, the greater number being confirmed by the Gipsies, on being interrogated. The particulars under the head of the ceremonies of marriage and divorce, and the sacrifice of horses, were related by Gipsies, and confirmed by other undoubted testimony, as will appear in detail. Almost every recent occurrence and matter relative to the present condition, employment, and number of the body, is the result of my own personal enquiries and observations, while the whole specimens of the language, and the facts immediately connected therewith, were written down, with my own hand, from the mouths of the Gipsies themselves, and confirmed, at intervals, by others. Indeed, my chief object has been to produce facts from an original source, in Scotland, as far as respects manners, customs, and language, for the purpose of ascertaining the origin of this mysterious race, and the country from which they have migrated; and the result, to my mind, is a complete confirmation of Grellmann, Hoyland, and Bright, that they are from Hindostan. In writing the history of any barbarous race, if history it can be called, the field for our observation must necessarily be very limited. This may especially be said of a people like the Gipsies; for, having, as a people, neither literature, records, nor education,[22] all that can be drawn together of their history, from themselves, must be confined to that of the present, or of such time as the freshness of their tradition may suffice to illustrate; unless it be a few precarious notices of them, that may have been elicited from their having come, it may be, in violent contact with their civilized neighbours around them. In attempting such a work, in connection with so singular a people, the difficulties in the way of succeeding in it are extraordinarily great, as the reader may have perceived, from what has already been written, and as the "blowing up," alluded to in Mr. Laidlaw's letter, will illustrate, and which was as follows: [22] There are, comparatively speaking, few Gipsies in Scotland that have not some education, in common with the ordinary natives of the soil; but the same cannot be said of England.--ED. I had obtained some of the Gipsy language from a principal family of the tribe, on condition of not publishing names, or place of residence; and, at many miles' distance, I had also obtained some particulars relative to the customs and manners of the race, from a highly respectable farmer, in the south of Scotland. At his farm, the family alluded to always took up their quarters, in their periodical journeys through the country. The farmer, without ever thinking of the consequences, told them that I was collecting materials for a publication on the Tinklers, in Scotland, and that everything relative to their tribe would be given to the world. The aged chief of the family was thrown into the greatest distress, at the idea of the name and residence of himself and family being made public. I received a letter from the family, deeply lamenting that they had ever communicated a word to me relative to their language, and stating that the old man was like to break his heart, at his own imprudence, being in agony at the thought of his language being published to the world. I assured them, however, that they had no cause for fear, as I had never so much as mentioned their names to their friend, the farmer, and that I would strictly adhere to the promise I had given them. This was one of the many instances in which I was obstructed in my labours, for, however cautious I might personally be, others, who became in some way or other acquainted with my object, were, from inconsiderate meddling, the cause of many difficulties being thrown in my way, and the consequent loss of much interesting information. But for this unfortunate circumstance, I am sanguine, from the method I took in managing the Gipsies, I would have been able to collect songs, and sentences of their language, and much more information than what has been procured, at whatever value the reader may estimate that; for the Gipsies are always more or less in communication with each other, in their various divisions of the country, especially when threatened with anything deemed dangerous, which they circulate among themselves with astonishing celerity. Professor Wilson, in a poetical notice of Blackwood's Magazine, writes: "Few things more sweetly vary civil life Than a barbarian, savage Tinkler tale; Our friend, who on the Gipsies writes in Fife, We verily believe promotes our sale." And, in revising his works, in 1831, Sir Walter Scott, in a note to Quentin Durward, says, relative to the present work: "It is natural to suppose, the band, (Gipsy), as it now exists, is much mingled with Europeans; but most of these have been brought up from childhood among them, and learned all their practices. . . . When they are in closest contact with the ordinary peasants around them, they still keep their language a mystery. There is little doubt, however, that it is a dialect of the Hindostanee, from the specimens produced by Grellmann, Hoyland, and others who have written on the subject. But the author, (continues Sir Walter,) has, besides their authority, personal occasion to know, that an individual, out of mere curiosity, and availing himself, with patience and assiduity, of such opportunities as offered, has made himself capable of conversing with any Gipsy whom he meets, or can, like the royal Hal, drink with any tinker, in his own language.[23] The astonishment excited among these vagrants, on finding a stranger participant of their mystery, occasions very ludicrous scenes. It is to be hoped this gentleman will publish the knowledge he possesses on so singular a topic. There are prudential reasons for postponing this disclosure at present, for, although much more reconciled to society since they have been less the objects of legal persecution, the Gipsies are still a ferocious and vindictive people."[24] [23] Allowance must be made for the enthusiasm of the novelist. [24] Abbotsford, 1st Dec., 1831. CHAPTER I. CONTINENTAL GIPSIES. Before giving an account of the Gipsies in Scotland, I shall, by way of introduction, briefly notice the periods of time at which they were observed in the different states on the continent of Europe, and point out the different periods at which their governments found it necessary to expel them from their respective territories. I shall also add a few facts illustrative of the manners of the continental tribes, for the purpose of showing that those in Scotland, England, and Ireland, are all branches of the same stock. I shall, likewise, add a few facts illustrative of the tribe who found their way into England. I am indebted for my information on the early history of the continental Gipsies, chiefly to the works of Grellmann, Hoyland and Bright. It appears that none of these wanderers had been seen in Christendom before the year 1400.[25] But, in the beginning of the fifteenth century, this people first attracted notice, and, within a few years after their arrival, had spread themselves over the whole continent. The earliest mention which is made of them, was in the years 1414 and 1417, when they were observed in Germany. In 1418, they were found in Switzerland; in 1422, in Italy; in 1427, they are mentioned as being in the neighbourhood of Paris; and about the same time, in Spain.[26] [25] Sir Thomas Brown's vulgar errors. [26] Bright's travels in Hungary. They seem to have received various appellations. In France, they were called _Bohemians_; in Holland, _Heydens_--heathens; in some parts of Germany, and in Sweden and Denmark, they were thought to be _Tartars_; but over Germany, in general, they were called _Zigeuners_, a word which means wanderers up and down. In Portugal, they received the name of _Siganos_; in Spain, _Gitanos_; and in Italy, _Cingari_. They were also called in Italy, Hungary, and Germany, _Tziganys_; and in Transylvania, _Cyganis_. Among the Turks, and other eastern nations, they were denominated _Tschingenes_; but the Moors and Arabians applied to them, perhaps, the most just appellation of any--_Charami_, robbers.[27] [27] Hoyland's historical survey of the Gipsies. "When they arrived at Paris, 17th August, 1427, nearly all of them had their ears bored, with one or two silver rings in each, which, they said, were esteemed ornaments in their country. The men were black, their hair curled; the women remarkably black, and all their faces scarred."[28] Dr. Hurd, in his account of the different religions of the world, says, that the hair of these men was "frizzled," and that some of the women were witches, and "had hair like a horse's tail." It is, I think, to be inferred from this passage, that the men had designedly curled their hair, and that the hair of the females was long and coarse--not the short, woolly hair of the African. I have, myself, seen English female Gipsies with hair as long, coarse, and thick as a black horse's tail. [28] Ibid. "At the time of the first appearance of the Gipsies, no certain information seems to have been obtained as to the country from which they came. It is, however, supposed that they entered Europe in the south-east, probably through Transylvania. At first, they represented themselves as Egyptian pilgrims, and, under that character, obtained considerable respect during half a century; being favoured by different potentates with passports, and letters of security. Gradually, however, they really became, or were fancied, troublesome, and Italy, Sweden, Denmark and Germany, successively attempted their expulsion, in the sixteenth century."[29] [29] Bright. With the exception of Hungary and Transylvania, it is believed that every state in Europe attempted either their expulsion or extermination; but, notwithstanding the dreadful severity of the numerous laws and edicts promulgated against them, they remained in every part of Europe, in defiance of every effort made by their respective governments to get rid of their unwelcome guests. "German writers say that King Ferdinand of Spain, who esteemed it a good work to expatriate useful and profitable subjects--Jews, and even Moorish families--could much less be guilty of an impropriety, in laying hands on the mischievous progeny of Gipsies. The edict for their extermination was published in the year 1492. But, instead of passing the boundaries, they only slunk into hiding places, and shortly after appeared in as great numbers as before. The Emperor, Charles V, persecuted them afresh; as did Philip II. Since that time, they nestled in again, and were threatened with another storm, but it blew over without taking effect. "In France, Francis I passed an edict for their expulsion, and at the assembly of the states of Orleans, in 1561, all governors of cities received orders to drive them out with fire and sword. Nevertheless, in process of time, they collected again, and encreased to such a degree that, in 1612, a new order came out for their extermination. In the year 1572, they were compelled to retire from the territories of Milan and Parma; and, at a period somewhat earlier, they were chased beyond the Venetian jurisdiction. "They were not allowed the privilege of remaining in Denmark, as the code of Danish law specifies: 'The Tartar Gipsies, who wander about everywhere, doing great damage to the people, by their lies, thefts and witchcraft, shall be taken into custody by every magistrate.' Sweden was not more favourable, having attacked them at three different times. A very sharp order for their expulsion came out in 1662. The diet of 1723 published a second; and that of 1727 repeated the foregoing, with additional severity. "They were excluded from the Netherlands, under the pain of death, by Charles V, and afterwards, by the United States, in 1582. But the greatest number of sentences of exile have been pronounced against them in Germany. The beginning was made under Maximilian I, at the Augsburg Diet, in 1500; and the same business occupied the attention of the Diet in 1530, 1544, 1548, and 1551; and was also again enforced, in the improved police regulations of Frankfort, in 1577."[30] The Germans entertained the notion that the Gipsies were spies for the Turks. They were not allowed to pass through, remain, or trade within the Empire. They were ordered to quit entirely the German dominions, by a certain day, and whoever injured them, after that period, was considered to have committed no crime. [30] Hoyland. "But a general extermination never did happen, for the law banishing them passed in one state before it was thought of in the next, or when a like order had long become obsolete, and sunk into oblivion. These undesirable guests were, therefore, merely compelled to shift their quarters to an adjoining state, where they remained till the government began to clear them away, upon which the fugitives either retired whence they came, or went on progressively to a third place--thus making a continual circle."[31] [31] Grellmann. That almost the whole of Christendom had been so provoked by the conduct of the Gipsies as to have attempted their expulsion, or rather their extermination, merely because they were jugglers, fortune-tellers, astrologers, warlocks, witches and impostors, is a thing not for a moment to be supposed. I am inclined to believe that the true cause of the promulgation of the excessively sanguinary laws and edicts, for the extermination of the whole Gipsy nation in Europe, must be looked for in much more serious crimes than those mentioned; and that these greater offences can be no other than theft and robbery, and living upon the inhabitants of the countries through which they travelled, at free quarters, or what we, in Scotland, call sorning.[32] But, on the other hand, I am convinced that the Gipsies have committed few murders on individuals _out_ of their own tribe. As far as our authorities go, the general character of these people seems to have been the same, wherever they have made their appearance on the face of the earth; and the chief and leading feature of that extraordinary character appears to me to have been, in general, an hereditary propensity to theft and robbery, in men, women and children. [32] Dr. Hurd says, at page 785, "Our over credulous ancestors vainly imagined that those Gipsies or Bohemians were so many spies for the Turks; and that, in order to expiate the crimes which they had committed in their own country, they were condemned to steal from and rob the Christians." [Living at free quarters by force, or masterful begging, or "sorning," is surely a trifling, though troublesome, offence for the original condition of a wandering tribe, which has so progressed as, at the present day, to fill some of the first positions in Scotland.--ED.] In whatever country we find the Gipsies, their manners, habits, and cast of features are uniformly the same. Their occupations are in every respect the same. They were, on the continent, horse-dealers, innkeepers, workers in iron, musicians, astrologers, jugglers, and fortune-tellers by palmistry. They are also accused of cheating, lying, and witchcraft, and, in general, charged with being thieves and robbers. They roam up and down the country, without any fixed habitations, living in tents, and hawking small trifles of merchandise for the use of the people among whom they travel. The whole race were great frequenters of fairs. They seldom formed matrimonial alliances out of their own tribe.[33] It will be seen, in another part of this work, that the language of the continental Gipsies is the same as that of those in Scotland, England and Ireland. As to the religious opinions of the continental Gipsies, they appear to have had none at all. It is said they were "worse than heathens." "It is, in reality," says Twiss, "almost absurd to talk of the religion of this set of people, whose moral characters are so depraved as to make it evident they believe in nothing capable of being a check to their passions." "Indeed," adds Hoyland, "it is asserted that no Gipsy has any idea of submission to any fixed profession of faith." It appears to me that, to secure to themselves protection from the different governments, they only conformed outwardly to the customs and religion of the country in which they happened to reside at the time. [33] Hoyland. Cantemir, according to Grellmann, says that the Gipsies are dispersed all over Moldavia, where every baron has several families subject to him. In Wallachia and the Sclavonian countries they are quite as numerous. In Wallachia and Moldavia they are divided into two classes--the princely and boyardish. The former, according to Sulzer, amount to many thousands; but that is trifling in comparison with the latter, as there is not a single Boyard in Wallachia who has not at least three or four of them for slaves; the rich have often some hundreds under their command,[34] Grellmann divides those in Transylvania into four classes: 1st. city Gipsies, who are the most civilized of all, and maintain themselves by music, smith-work, selling old clothes, horse-dealing, &c.; 2d. gold-washers; 3d. tent Gipsies; and 4th. Egyptian Gipsies. These last are more filthy, and more addicted to stealing than any of the others. Those who are gold-washers, in Transylvania and the Banat, have no intercourse with others of their nation; nor do they like to be called Gipsies. They sift gold sand in summer, and in winter make trays and troughs, which they sell in an honest way. They seldom beg, and more rarely steal. Dr. Clarke says of the Wallachian Gipsies, that they are not an idle race; they ought rather to be described as a laborious race; and the majority honestly endeavour to earn a livelihood. [34] In the narrative of the Scottish Church Mission of Enquiry to the Jews, in 1839, are to be found the following remarks relative to the Gipsies of Wallachia: "They are almost all slaves, bought and sold at pleasure. One was lately sold for 200 piastres, but the general price is 500. Perhaps £3 is the average price, and the female Gipsies are sold much cheaper. The sale is generally carried on by private bargain. The men are the best mechanics in the country; so that smiths and masons are taken from this class. The women are considered the best cooks, and therefore almost every wealthy family has a Gipsy cook. Their appearance is similar to that of the Gipsies in other countries; being all dark, with fine black eyes, and long black hair. They have a language peculiar to themselves, and though they seem to have no system of religion, yet are very superstitious in observing lucky and unlucky days. They are all fond of music, both vocal and instrumental, and excel in it. There is a class of them called the Turkish Gipsies, who have purchased their freedom from government; but these are few in number, and all from Turkey. Of these latter, there are twelve families in Galatz. The men are employed as horse-dealers, and the women in making bags, sacks, and such articles. In winter, they live in town, almost under ground; but in summer, they pitch their tents in the open air, for, though still within the bounds of the town, they would not live in their winter houses during summer." That these Gipsies should be in a state of slavery is, perhaps, a more marked exception to their race than the Indians in Spanish America were to those found in the territories colonised by the Anglo-Saxons. The Empress Maria Theresa could make nothing of the Gipsies in Hungary, where they are said to be almost as little looked after as the wolves of the forest; so that the slavery of the Gipsies in Wallachia must be of a very nominal or mild nature, or the subjects of it must be far in excess of the demand, if £3 is the average price of a good smith or mason, and less for a good female cook. These Wallachian Gipsies evidently prefer a master whose property they will consider as their own, and whose protection will relieve them from the interference and oppression of others. A slavery that is not absolute or oppressive must gratify the vanity of the owner, and be easily borne by a race that is semi-civilized and despised by others around it. Since the conclusion of the Russian war, the manumission of the Gipsies of the Principalities was debated and carried by a majority of something like thirteen against eleven; but I am not aware of its having been put in force. They are said to have been greatly attached to the late Sultan--calling him the "good father," for the interest he took in them. As spies, they rendered his generals efficient services, while contending with the Russians on the Danube.--ED. "Bessarabia, all Turkey, Bulgaria, Greece, and Romania swarm with Gipsies; even in Constantinople they are innumerable. In Romania, a large tract of Mount Hæmus, which they inhabit, has acquired from them the name of _Tschenghe Valken_--Gipsy Mountain. This district extends from the city of Aydos quite to Phillippopolis, and contains more Gipsies than any other province in the Turkish empire. "They were universally to be found in Italy, insomuch that even Sicily and Sardinia were not free. But they were most numerous in the dominions of the Church; probably because there was the worst police, with much superstition. By the former, they were left undisturbed; and the latter enticed them to deceive the ignorant, as it afforded them an opportunity of obtaining a plentiful contribution by their fortune-telling and enchanted amulets. There was a general law throughout Italy, that no Gipsy should remain more than two nights in any one place. By this regulation, it is true, no place retained its guests long; but no sooner was one gone than another came in his room: it was a continual circle, and quite as convenient to them as a perfect toleration would have been. Italy rather suffered than benefited by this law; as, by keeping these people in constant motion, they would do more mischief there, than in places where they were permitted to remain stationary. "In Poland and Lithuania, as well as in Courland, there are an amazing number of Gipsies. A person may live many years in Upper Saxony, or in the districts of Hanover and Brunswick, without seeing a single Gipsy. When one happens to stray into a village or town, he occasions as much disturbance as if the black gentleman with his cloven foot appeared; he frightens children from their play, and draws the attention of the older people, till the police get hold of him, and make him again invisible. In some of the provinces of the Rhine, a Gipsy is a very common sight. Some years ago, there were such numbers of them in the Duchy of Wurtemberg, that they were seen lying about everywhere; but the government ordered departments of soldiers to drive them from their holes and lurking-places throughout the country, and then transported the congregated swarm, in the same manner as they were treated by the Duke of Deuxponts. In France, before the Revolution, there were but few Gipsies, for the obvious reason that every Gipsy who could be apprehended fell a sacrifice to the police."[35] [35] Grellmann.--I would suppose that these severe edicts of the French would drive the Gipsies to adopt the costume and manners of the other inhabitants. In this way they would disappear from the public eye. The officers of justice would of course direct their attention to what would be understood to be Gipsies--that is tented Gipsies, or those who professed the ways of Gipsies, such as fortune telling. I have met with a French Gipsy in the streets of New York, engaged as a dealer in candy.--ED. As regards the Gipsies of Spain, Dr. Bright remarks: That the disposition of the Gitano is more inclined to a fixed residence than that of the Gipsy of other countries, is beyond doubt. The generality are the settled inhabitants of considerable towns, and, although the occupations of some necessarily lead them to a more vagrant life, the proportion is small who do not consider some hovel in a suburb as a home. 'Money is in the city--not in the country,' is a saying frequently in their mouths. In the vilest quarters of every large town of the southern provinces, there are Gitanos living together, sometimes occupying whole barriers. But Seville is, perhaps, the spot in which the largest proportion is found. Their principal occupation is the manufacture and sale of articles of iron. Their quarters may always be traced by the ring of the hammer and anvil, and many amass considerable wealth. An inferior class have the exclusive trade in second-hand articles, which they sell at the doors of their dwellings, or at benches at the entrance of towns, or by the sides of frequented walks. A still inferior order wander about, mending pots, and selling tongs and other trifling articles. In Cadiz, they monopolize the trade of butchering, and frequently amass wealth. Others, again, exclusively fill the office of Matador of the Bull Plaza, while the Toreros are for the most part of the same race. Others are employed as dressers of mules and asses; some as figure-dancers, and many as performers in the theatre. Some gain a livelihood by their musical talents. Dancing, singing, music and fortune-telling are the only objects of general pursuit for the females. Sometimes they dance in the inferior theatres, and sing and dance in the streets. Palmistry is one of their most productive avocations. In Seville, a few make and sell an inferior kind of mat. Besides these, there is a class of Gipsies in Spain who lead a vagrant life throughout--residing chiefly in the woods and mountains, and known as mountaineers. These rarely visit towns, and live by fraud and pillage. There are also others who wander about the country--such as tinkers, dancers, singers, and jobbers in asses and mules. Bishop Pocoke, prior to 1745, mentions having met with Gipsies in the northern part of Syria, where he found them in great numbers, passing for Mahommedans, living in tents or caravans, dealing in milch cows, when near towns, manufacturing coarse carpets, and having a much better character than their relations in Hungary or England. By the census of the Crimea, in 1793, the population was set down at 157,125, of which 3,225 were Gipsies. Bishop Heber states that the Persian Gipsies are of much better caste, and much richer than those of India, Russia or England. In India, he says, the Gipsies are the same tall, fine-limbed, bony, slender people, with the same large, black, brilliant eyes, lowering forehead, and long hair, curled at the extremities, which are to be met with on a common in England. He mentions, in his journal of travels through Bengal, having met with a Gipsy camp on the Ganges. The women and children followed him, begging, and had no clothes on them, except a coarse kind of veil, thrown back from the shoulders, and a ragged cloth, wrapped round their waists, like a petticoat. One of the women was very pretty, and the forms of all the three were such as a sculptor would have been glad to take as his models. Besides those in Europe, it is stated by Grellmann that the Gipsies are also scattered over Asia, and are to be found in the centre of Africa. In Europe alone, he supposes (in 1782), their number will amount to between seven and eight hundred thousand. So numerous did they become in France, that the king, in 1545, sixteen years before they were expelled from that kingdom, entertained an idea of embodying four thousand of them, to act as pioneers in taking Boulogne, then in possession of England. It is impossible to ascertain, at the present day, how many Gipsies might be even in a parish; but, taking in the whole world, there must be an immense number in existence. About the time the Gipsies first appeared in Europe, their chiefs, under the titles of dukes, earls, lords, counts, and knights of Little Egypt, rode up and down the country on horseback, dressed in gay apparel, and attended by a train of ragged and miserable inferiors, having, also, hawks and hounds in their retinue. It appears to me, that the excessive vanity of these chiefs had induced them, in imitation of the customs of civilized society, to assume these high-sounding European titles of honour. I have not observed, on record, any form of government, laws or customs, by which the internal affairs of the tribe, on the Continent, were regulated. On these important points, if I am not mistaken, all the authors, with the exception of Grellmann, who have written on the Gipsies, are silent. Grellmann says of the Hungarian Gipsies: "They still continue the custom among themselves of dignifying certain persons, whom they make heads over them, and call by the exalted Sclavonian title of Waywode. To choose their Waywode, the Gipsies take the opportunity, when a great number of them are assembled in one place, commonly in the open field. The elected person is lifted up three times, amidst the loudest acclamation, and confirmed in his dignity by presents. His wife undergoes the same ceremony. When this solemnity is performed, they separate with great conceit, imagining themselves people of more consequence than electors returning from the choice of an emperor. Every one who is of a family descended from a former Waywode is eligible; but those who are best clothed, not very poor, of large stature, and about the middle age, have generally the preference. The particular distinguishing mark of dignity is a large whip, hanging over the shoulder. His outward deportment, his walk and air, also plainly show his head to be filled with notions of authority." According to the same authority, the Waywode of the Gipsies in Courland is distinguished from the principals of the hordes in other countries, being not only much respected by his own people, but even by the Courland nobility. He is esteemed a man of high rank, and is frequently to be met with at entertainments, and card parties, in the first families, where he is always a welcome guest. His dress is uncommonly rich, in comparison with others of his tribe; generally silk in summer, and constantly velvet in winter. As a specimen of the manners and ferocious disposition of the German Gipsies, so late as the year 1726, I shall here transcribe a few extracts from an article published in Blackwood's Magazine, for January, 1818. This interesting article is partly an abridged translation, or rather the substance, of a German work on the Gipsies, entitled "A Circumstantial Account of the Famous Egyptian Band of Thieves, and Robbers, and Murderers, whose Leaders were executed at Giessen, by Cord, and Sword, and Wheel, on the 14th and 15th November, 1726, &c." It is edited by Dr. John Benjamin Wiessenburch, an assessor of the criminal tribunal by which these malefactors were condemned, and published at Frankfort and Leipsic, in the year 1727. The translator of this work is Sir Walter Scott, who obligingly offered me the use of his "scraps" on this subject. The following are the details in his own words. "A curious preliminary dissertation records some facts respecting the German Gipsies, which are not uninteresting. "From the authorities collected by Wiessenburch, it appears that these wanderers first appeared in Germany during the reign of Sigismund. The exact year has been disputed; but it is generally placed betwixt 1416 and 1420. They appeared in various bands, under chiefs, to whom they acknowledged obedience, and who assumed the titles of dukes and earls. These leaders originally affected a certain degree of consequence, travelling well equipped, and on horseback, and bringing hawks and hounds in their retinue. Like John Faw, 'Lord of Little Egypt,' they sometimes succeeded in imposing upon the Germans the belief in their very apocryphal dignity, which they assumed during their lives, and recorded upon their tombs, as appears from three epitaphs, quoted by Dr. Wiessenburch. One is in a convent at Steinbach, and records that on St. Sebastians' eve, 1445, 'died the Lord Pannel, Duke of Little Egypt, and Baron of Hirschhorn, in the same land.' A monumental inscription at Bautmer, records the death of the 'Noble Earl Peter, of Lesser Egypt, in 1453;' and a third, at Pferz, as late as 1498, announces the death of the 'high-born, Lord John, Earl of Little Egypt, to whose soul God be gracious and merciful.' "In describing the state of the German Gipsies, in 1726, the author whom we are quoting gives the leading features proper to those in other countries. Their disposition to wandering, to idleness, to theft, to polygamy, or rather promiscuous licence, are all commemorated; nor are the women's pretentions to fortune-telling, and their practice of stealing children, omitted. Instead of travelling in very large bands, as at their first arrival, they are described as forming small parties, in which the females are far more numerous than the men, and which are each under command of a leader, chosen rather from reputation than by right of birth. The men, unless when engaged in robbery or theft, lead a life of absolute idleness, and are supported by what the women can procure by begging, stealing or telling fortunes. These resources are so scanty that they often suffer the most severe extremities of hunger and cold. Some of the Gipsies executed at Giessen pretended that they had not eaten a morsel of bread for four days before they were apprehended; yet are they so much attached to freedom, and licence of this wandering life, that, notwithstanding its miseries, it has not only been found impossible to reclaim the native Gipsies, who claim it by inheritance, but even those who, not born in that state, have associated themselves with their bands, and become so wedded to it, as to prefer it to all others.[36] [36] The natives here alluded to were evidently Germans, married to Gipsy women, or Germans brought up from infancy with the Gipsies, or mixed Gipsies, taking after Germans in point of appearance.--ED. "As an exception, Wiessenburch mentions some gangs, where the men, as in Scotland, exercise the profession of travelling smiths, or tinkers, or deal in pottery, or practise as musicians. Finally, he notices that in Hungary the gangs assumed their names from the countries which they chiefly traversed, as the band of Upper Saxony, of Brandenburg, and so forth. They resented, to extremity, any attempt on the part of other Gipsies to intrude on their province; and such interference often led to battles, in which they shot each other with as little remorse as they would have done to dogs.[37] By these acts of cruelty to each other, they became gradually familiarized with blood, as well as with arms, to which another cause contributed, in the beginning of the 18th century. [37] This is the only continental writer, that I am aware of, who mentions the circumstance of the Gipsies having districts to themselves, from which others of their race were excluded. This author also speaks of the German Gipsies stealing children. John Bunyan admits the same practice in England, when he compares his feelings, as a sinner, to those of a child carried off by Gipsies. He gives the Gipsy _women_ credit for this practice.--ED. "In former times, these outcasts were not permitted to bear arms in the service of any Christian power, but the long wars of Louis XIV had abolished this point of delicacy; and both in the French army, and those of the confederates, the stoutest and boldest of the Gipsies were occasionally enlisted, by choice or compulsion. These men generally tired soon of the rigour of military discipline, and escaping from their regiments on the first opportunity, went back to their forests, with some knowledge of arms, and habits bolder and more ferocious than those of their predecessors. Such deserters soon become leaders among the tribes, whose enterprises became, in proportion, more audacious and desperate. "In Germany, as in most other kingdoms of Europe, severe laws had been directed against this vagabond people, and the Landgraves of Hesse had not been behind-hand in such denunciations. They were, on their arrest, branded as vagabonds, punished with stripes, and banished from the circle; and, in case of their return, were put to death without mercy. These measures only served to make them desperate. Their bands became more strong and more open in their depredations. They often marched as strong as fifty or a hundred armed men; bade defiance to the ordinary police, and plundered the villages in open day; wounded and slew the peasants, who endeavoured to protect their property; and skirmished, in some instances successfully, with parties of soldiers and militia, dispatched against them. Their chiefs, on these occasions, were John La Fortune, a determined villain, otherwise named Hemperla; another called the Great Gallant; his brother, Antony Alexander, called the Little Gallant; and others, entitled Lorries, Lampert, Gabriel, &c. Their ferocity may be judged of from the following instances: "On the 10th October, 1724, a land-lieutenant, or officer of police, named Emerander, set off with two assistants to disperse a band of Gipsies who had appeared near Hirzenhayn, in the territory of Stolberg. He seized on two or three stragglers whom he found in the village, and whom, females as well as males, he seems to have treated with much severity. Some, however, escaped to a large band which lay in an adjacent forest, who, under command of the Great Gallant, Hemperla, Antony Alexander, and others, immediately put themselves in motion to rescue their comrades, and avenge themselves of Emerander. The land-lieutenant had the courage to ride out to meet them, with his two attendants, at the passage of a bridge, where he fired his pistol at the advancing gang, and called out 'charge,' as if he had been at the head of a party of cavalry. The Gipsies, however, aware, from the report of the fugitives, how weakly the officer was accompanied, continued to advance to the end of the bridge, and ten or twelve, dropping each on one knee, gave fire on Emerander, who was then obliged to turn his horse and ride off, leaving his two assistants to the mercy of the banditti. One of these men, called Hempel, was instantly beaten down, and suffered, especially at the hands of the Gipsy women, much cruel and abominable outrage. After stripping him of every rag of his clothes, they were about to murder the wretch outright; but at the earnest instance of the landlord of the inn, they contented themselves with beating him dreadfully, and imposing on him an oath that he never more would persecute any Gipsy, or save any _fleshman_, (dealer in human flesh,) for so they called the officers of justice or police.[38] [38] Great allowance ought to be made for the conduct of these Gipsies. Even at the present day, a Gipsy, in many parts of Germany, is not allowed to enter a town; nor will the inhabitants permit him to live in the street in which they dwell. He has therefore to go somewhere, and live in some way or other. In speaking of the Gipsies, people never take these circumstances into account. The Gipsies alluded to in the text seem to have been very cruelly treated, in the first place, by the authorities.--ED. "The other assistant of Emerander made his escape. But the principal was not so fortunate. When the Gipsies had wrought their wicked pleasure on Hempel, they compelled the landlord of the little inn to bring them a flagon of brandy, in which they mingled a charge of gunpowder and three pinches of salt; and each, partaking of this singular beverage, took a solemn oath that they would stand by each other until they had cut thongs, as they expressed it, out of the fleshman's hide. The Great Gallant at the same time distributed to them, out of a little box, billets, which each was directed to swallow, and which were supposed to render them invulnerable. "Thus inflamed and encouraged, the whole route, amounting to fifty well armed men, besides women armed with clubs and axes, set off with horrid screams to a neighbouring hamlet, called Glazhutte, in which the object of their resentment sought refuge. They took military possession of the streets, posting sentinels to prevent interruption or attack from the alarmed inhabitants. Their leaders then presented themselves before the inn, and demanded that Emerander should be delivered up to them. When the innkeeper endeavoured to elude their demand, they forced their way into the house, and finding the unhappy object of pursuit concealed in a garret, Hemperla and others fired their muskets at him, then tore his clothes from his body, and precipitated him down the staircase, where he was dispatched with many wounds. "Meanwhile, the inhabitants of the village began to take to arms; and one of them attempted to ring the alarm-bell, but was prevented by an armed Gipsy, stationed for that purpose. At length their bloody work being ended, the Gipsies assembled and retreated out of the town, with shouts of triumph, exclaiming that the fleshman was slain, displaying their spoils and hands stained with blood, and headed by the Great Gallant, riding on the horse of the murdered officer. "I shall select from the volume another instance of this people's cruelty still more detestable, since even vengeance or hostility could not be alleged for its stimulating cause, as in the foregoing narrative. A country clergyman, named Heinsius, the pastor of a village called Dorsdorff, who had the misfortune to be accounted a man of some wealth, was the subject of this tragedy. "Hemperla, already mentioned, with a band of ten Gipsies, and a villain named Essper George, who had joined himself with them, though not of their nation by birth, beset the house of the unfortunate minister, with a resolution to break in and possess themselves of his money; and if interrupted by the peasants, to fire upon them, and repel force by force. With this desperate intention, they surrounded the parsonage-house at midnight; and their leader, Hemperla, having cut a hole through the cover of the sink or gutter, endeavoured to creep into the house through that passage, holding in his hand a lighted torch made of straw. The daughter of the parson chanced, however, to be up, and in the kitchen, at this late hour, by which fortunate circumstance she escaped the fate of her father and mother. When the Gipsy saw there was a person in the kitchen, he drew himself back out of the gutter, and ordered his gang to force the door, regarding the noise which accompanied this violence as little as if the place had been situated in a wilderness, instead of a populous hamlet. Others of the gang were posted at the windows of the house, to prevent the escape of the inmates. Nevertheless, the young woman, already mentioned, let herself down from a window which had escaped their notice, and ran to seek assistance for her parents. "In the meanwhile the Gipsies had burst open the outward door of the house, with a beam of wood which chanced to be lying in the court-yard. They next forced the door of the sitting apartment, and were met by the poor clergyman, who prayed them at least to spare his life and that of his wife. But he spoke to men who knew no mercy; Hemperla struck him on the breast with a torch; and receiving the blow as a signal for death, the poor man staggered back to the table, and sinking in a chair, leaned his head on his hand, and expected the mortal blow. In this posture Hemperla shot him dead with a pistol. The wife of the clergyman endeavoured to fly, on witnessing the murder of her husband, but was dragged back, and slain by a pistol-shot, fired either by Essper George, or by a Gipsy called Christian. By a crime so dreadful those murderers only gained four silver cups, fourteen silver spoons, some trifling articles of apparel, and about twenty-two florins in money. They might have made more important booty, but the sentinel, whom they left on the outside, now intimated to them that the hamlet was alarmed, and that it was time to retire, which they did accordingly, undisturbed and in safety. "The Gipsies committed many enormities similar to those above detailed, and arrived at such a pitch of audacity as even to threaten the person of the Landgrave himself; an enormity at which Dr. Wiessenburch, who never introduces the name or titles of that prince without printing them in letters of at least an inch long, expresses becoming horror. This was too much to be endured. Strong detachments of troops and militia scoured the country in different directions, and searched the woods and caverns which served the banditti for places of retreat. These measures were for some time attended with little effect. The Gipsies had the advantages of a perfect knowledge of the country, and excellent intelligence. They baffled the efforts of the officers detached against them, and, on one or two occasions, even engaged them with advantage. And when some females, unable to follow the retreat of the men, were made prisoners on such an occasion, the leaders caused it to be intimated to the authorities at Giessen that if their women were not set at liberty, they would murder and rob on the high roads, and plunder and burn the country. This state of warfare lasted from 1718 until 1726, during which period the subjects of the Landgrave suffered the utmost hardships, as no man was secure against nocturnal surprise of his property and person. "At length, in the end of 1725, a heavy and continued storm of snow compelled the Gipsy hordes to abandon the woods which had long served them as a refuge, and to approach more near to the dwellings of men. As their movements could be traced and observed, the land-lieutenant, Krocker, who had been an assistant to the murdered Emerander, received intelligence of a band of Gipsies having appeared in the district of Sohnsassenheim, at a village called Fauerbach. Being aided by a party of soldiers and volunteers, he had the luck to secure the whole gang, being twelve men and women. Among these was the notorious Hemperla, who was dragged by the heels from an oven in which he was attempting to conceal himself. Others were taken in the same manner, and imprisoned at Giessen, with a view to their trial. "Numerous acts of theft, and robbery, and murder were laid to the charge of these unfortunate wretches; and, according to the existing laws of the empire, they were interrogated under torture. They were first tormented by means of thumb-screws, which they did not seem greatly to regard; the Spanish boots, or 'leg-vices,' were next applied, and seldom failed to extort confession. Hemperla alone set both means at defiance, which induced the judges to believe he was possessed of some spell against these agonies. Having in vain searched his body for the supposed charm, they caused his hair to be cut off; on which he himself observed that, had they not done so, he could have stood the torture for some time longer. As it was, his resolution gave way, and he made, under the second application of the Spanish boots, a full confession, not only of the murders of which he was accused, but of various other crimes. While he was in this agony, the judges had the cruelty to introduce his mother, a noted Gipsy woman, called the crone, into the torture-chamber; who shrieked fearfully, and tore her face with her nails, on perceiving the condition of her son, and still more on hearing him acknowledge his guilt. "Evidence of the guilt of the other prisoners was also obtained from their confessions, with or without torture, and from the testimony of witnesses examined by the fiscal. Sentence was finally passed on them, condemning four Gipsies, among whom were Hemperla and the Little Gallant, to be broken on the wheel, nine others to be hanged, and thirteen, of whom the greater part were women, to be beheaded. They underwent their doom with great firmness, upon the 14th and 15th November, 1726. "The volume contains . . . . . . . some rude prints, representing the murders committed by the Gipsies, and the manner of their execution. There are also two prints representing the portraits of the principal criminals, in which, though the execution be indifferent, the Gipsy features may be clearly traced." Leaving this view of the character of the continental Gipsies, we may take the following as illustrative of one of its brighter aspects. So late as the time of the celebrated Baron Trenck, it would appear that Germany was still infested with prodigiously large bands of Gipsies. In a forest near Ginnen, to which he had fled, to conceal himself from the pursuit of his persecutors, the Baron says: "Here we fell in with a gang of Gipsies, (or rather banditti,) amounting to four hundred men, who dragged me to their camp. They were mostly French and Prussian deserters, and, thinking me their equal, would force me to become one of their band. But venturing to tell my story to their leader, he presented me with a crown, gave us a small portion of bread and meat, and suffered us to depart in peace, after having been four-and-twenty hours in their company."[39] [39] Life of Baron Trenck, translated by Thomas Holcroft, Vol. I, page 138. I shall conclude the notices of the continental Gipsies by some extracts from an article published in a French periodical work, for September, 1802, on the Gipsies of the Pyrenees; who resemble, in many points, the inferior class of our Scottish Tinklers, about the beginning of the French war, more, perhaps, than those of any other country in Europe. "There exists, in the department of the Eastern Pyrenees, a people distinct from the rest of the inhabitants, of a foreign origin, and without any settled habits. It seems to have fixed its residence there for a considerable time. It changes its situation, multiplies there, and never connects itself by marriage with the other inhabitants. This people are called Gitanos, a Spanish word which signifies Egyptians. There are many Gitanos in Catalonia, who have similar habits to the above-mentioned, but who are very strictly watched. They have all the vices of those Egyptians, or Bohemians, who formerly used to wander over the world, telling fortunes, and living at the expense of superstition and credulity. These Gitanos, less idle and less wanderers than their predecessors, are afraid of publicly professing the art of fortune-tellers; but their manner of life is scarcely different. "They scatter themselves among villages, and lonesome farms, where they steal fruit, poultry, and often even cattle; in short, everything that is portable. They are almost always abroad, incessantly watching an opportunity to practise their thievery; they hide themselves with much dexterity from the search of the police. Their women, in particular, have an uncommon dexterity in pilfering. When they enter a shop, they are watched with the utmost care; but with every precaution they are not free from their rapines. They excel, above all, in hiding the pieces of silver which are given in exchange for gold, which they never fail to offer in payment, and they are so well hidden that they are often obliged to be undressed before restitution can be obtained. "The Gitanos affect, externally, a great attachment to the Catholic religion; and if one was to judge from the number of reliques they carry about with them, one would believe them exceedingly devout; but all who have well observed them assure us they are as ignorant as hypocritical, and that they practise secretly a religion of their own. It is not rare to see their women, who have been lately brought to bed, have their children baptized several times, in different places, in order to obtain money from persons at their ease, whom they choose for godfathers. Everything announces among them that moral degradation which must necessarily attach to a miserable, insulated caste, as strangers to society, which only suffers it through an excess of contempt. "The Gitanos are disgustingly filthy, and almost all covered with rags. They have neither tables, chairs, nor beds, but sit and eat on the ground. They are crowded in huts, pell-mell, in straw; and their neglect of the decorum of society, so dangerous to morals, must have the most melancholy consequences on wretched vagabonds, abandoned to themselves. They consequently are accused of giving themselves up to every disorder of the most infamous debauchery, and to respect neither the ties of blood nor the protecting laws of the virtues of families. "They feed on rotten poultry and fish, dogs and stinking cats, which they seek for with avidity; and when this resource fails them, they live on the entrails of animals, or other aliments of the lowest price. They leave their meat but a very few minutes on the fire, and the place where they cook it exhales an infectious smell. "They speak the Catalonian dialect, but they have, besides, a language to themselves, unintelligible to the natives of the country, from whom they are very careful to hide the knowledge of it. "The Gitanos are tanned like the mulattoes, of a size above mediocrity, well formed, active, robust, supporting all the changes of seasons, and sleeping in the open fields, whenever their interest requires it. Their features are irregular, and show them to belong to a transplanted race. They have the mouth very wide, thick lips, and high cheek-bones. "As the distrust they inspire causes them to be carefully watched, it is not always possible for them to live by stealing: they then have recourse to industry, and a trifling trade, which seems to have been abandoned to them; they show animals, and attend the fairs and markets, to sell or exchange mules and asses, which they know how to procure at a cheap rate. They are commonly cast-off animals, which they have the art to dress up, and they are satisfied, in appearance, with a moderate profit, which, however, is always more than is supposed, because they feed these animals at the expense of the farmers. They ramble all night, in order to steal fodder; and whatever precautions may have been taken against them, it is not possible to be always guarded against their address. "Happily the Gitanos are not murderers. It would, without doubt, be important to examine if it is to the natural goodness of their disposition, to their frugality, and the few wants they feel in their state of half savage, that is to be attributed the sentiment that repels them from great crimes, or if this disposition arises from their habitual state of alarm, or from that want of courage which must be a necessary consequence of the infamy in which they are plunged."[40] [40] _Annales de Statistique, No. III, page 31-37._--What the writer of this article says of the aversion which the Gipsies have to the shedding of human blood, _not of their own fraternity_, appears to have been universal among the tribe; but, on the other hand, they seem to have had little or no hesitation in putting to death _those of their own tribe_. This writer also says, that the Gipsies of the Pyrenees have a religion of their own, which they practise _secretly_, without mentioning what this secret religion is. It is probable that his remark is applicable to the sacrifice of horses, as described in chapter viii. CHAPTER II. ENGLISH GIPSIES. The first arrival of the Gipsies in England appears to have been about the year 1512,[41] but this does not seem to be quite certain. It is probable they may have arrived there at an earlier period. The author from which the fact is derived published his work in 1612, and states, generally, that "this kind of people, about a hundred years ago, began to gather an head, about the southern parts. And this, I am informed and can gather, was their beginning: Certain Egyptians, banished their country, (belike not for their good condition,) arrived here in England; who, for quaint tricks and devices, not known here at that time among us, were esteemed, and held in great admiration; insomuch that many of our English loiterers joined with them, and in time learned their crafty cozening. [41] Hoyland. "The speech which they used was the right Egyptian language, with whom our Englishmen conversing at least learned their language. These people, continuing about the country, and practising their cozening art, purchased themselves great credit among the country people, and got much by palmistry and telling of fortunes; insomuch that they pitifully cozened poor country girls both of money, silver spoons, and the best of their apparel, or any goods they could make."[42] [42] A quarto work by S. R., published to detect and expose the art of juggling and legerdemain, in 1612. From this author it is collected they had a leader of the name of Giles Hather, who was termed their king; and a woman of the name of Calot was called queen. These, riding through the country on horseback, and in strange attire, had a pretty train after them.[43] [43] Hoyland. It appears, from this account, that the Gipsies had been observed on the continent about a hundred years before they visited England. According to Dr. Bright, they seemed to have roamed up and down the continent of Europe, without molestation, for about half a century, before their true character was perfectly known. If 1512 was really the year in which these people first set foot in England, it would seem that the English government had not been so easily nor so long imposed on as the kings of Scotland, and the authorities of Europe generally. For we find that, within about the space of ten years from this period, they are, by the 10th chapter of the 22d Henry VIII, denominated "an outlandish people, calling themselves Egyptians, using no craft nor feat of merchandise, who have come into this realm, and gone from shire to shire, and place to place, in great company; and used great subtlety and crafty means to deceive the people--bearing them in hand that they, by palmistry, could tell men's and women's fortunes; and so, many times, by craft and subtlety, have deceived the people for their money; and also have committed many heinous felonies and robberies." As far back as the year 1549, they had become very troublesome in England, for, on the 22d June of that year, according to Burnet's History of the Reformation, "there was privy search made through all Sussex for all vagabonds, Gipsies, conspirators, prophesiers, players, and such like." The Gipsies in England still continued to commit numberless thefts and robberies, in defiance of the existing statutes; so that each succeeding law enacted against them became severer than the one which preceded it. The following is an extract from the 27th Henry VIII: "Whereas, certain outlandish people, who do not profess any craft or trade whereby to maintain themselves, but go about in great numbers, from place to place, using insidious means to impose on his majesty's subjects, making them believe that they understand the art of foretelling to men and women their good and evil fortunes, by looking in their hands, whereby they frequently defraud people of their money; likewise are guilty of thefts and highway robberies: It is hereby ordered that the said vagrants, commonly called Egyptians, in case as thieves and rascals . . . . and on the importation of any such Egyptians, he, the importer, shall forfeit forty pounds for every trespass." So much had the conduct of the Gipsies exasperated the government of Queen Elizabeth, that it was enacted, during her reign, that "If any person, being fourteen years, whether natural born subject or stranger, who had been seen in the fellowship of such persons, or disguised like them, and remain with them one month at once, or at several times, it should be felony without benefit of clergy."[44] It would thus appear that, when the Gipsies first arrived in England, they had not kept their language a secret, as is now the case; for some of the Englishmen of that period had acquired it by associating with them.[45] [44] English acts of Parliament. [45] This does not appear to be necessarily the case. These Englishmen may have married Gipsies, become Gipsies by adoption, and so learned the language, as happens at the present day.--ED. In carrying out the foregoing extraordinary enactments, the public was at the expense of exporting the Gipsies to the continent; and it may reasonably be assumed that great numbers of these unhappy people were executed under these sanguinary laws. A few years before the restoration of Charles II, thirteen Gipsies were executed "at one Suffolk assize." This appears to have been the last instance of inflicting the penalty of death on these unfortunate people in England, merely because they were Gipsies.[46] But although these laws of blood are now repealed, the English Gipsies are liable, at the present day, to be proceeded against under the Vagrant Act; as these statutes declare all those persons "pretending to be Gipsies, or wandering in the habit and form of Egyptians, shall be deemed rogues and vagabonds." [46] Hoyland. In the reign of Queen Elizabeth it was thought England contained above 10,000 Gipsies; and Mr. Hoyland, in his historical survey of these people, supposes that there are 18,000 of the race in Britain at the present day. A member of Parliament, it is reported, stated, in the House of Commons, that there were not less than 36,000 Gipsies in Great Britain. I am inclined to believe that the statement of the latter will be nearest the truth; as I am convinced that the greater part of all those persons who traverse England with earthenware, in carts and waggons, are a superior class of Gipsies. Indeed, a Scottish Gipsy informed me, that almost all those people are actually Gipsies. Now Mr. Hoyland takes none of these potters into his account, when he estimates the Gipsy population at only 18,000 souls. Besides, Gipsies have informed me that Ireland contains a great many of the tribe; many of whom are now finding their way into Scotland.[47] [47] The number of the British Gipsies mentioned here is greatly understated. See Disquisition on the Gipsies.--ED. I am inclined to think that the greater part of the English Gipsies live more apart from the other inhabitants of the country, reside more in tents, and exhibit a great deal more of their pristine manners, than their brethren do in Scotland.[48] [48] In no part of the world is the Gipsy life more in accordance with the general idea that the Gipsy is like Cain--a wanderer on the face of the earth--than in England; for there, the covered cart and the little tent are the houses of the Gipsy; and he seldom remains more than three days in the same place. So conducive is the climate of England to beauty, that nowhere else is the appearance of the race so prepossessing as in that country. Their complexion is dark, but not disagreeably so; their faces are oval, their features regular, their foreheads rather low, and their hands and feet small. The men are taller than the English peasantry, and far more active. They all speak the English language with fluency, and in their gait and demeanour are easy and graceful; in both respects standing in striking contrast with the peasantry, who, in speech, are slow and uncouth, and, in manner, dogged and brutal.--_Borrow._--ED. The English Gipsies also travel in Scotland, with earthenware in carts and waggons. A body of them, to the number of six tents, with sixteen horses, encamped, on one occasion, on the farm of Kingledoors, near the source of the Tweed. They remained on the ground from Saturday night till about ten o'clock on Monday morning, before they struck their tents and waggons. At St Boswell's fair I once inspected a horde of English Gipsies, encamped at the side of a hedge, on the Jedburgh road as it enters St. Boswell's Green. Their name was Blewett, from the neighbourhood of Darlington. The chief possessed two tents, two large carts laden with earthenware, four horses and mules, and five large dogs. He was attended by two old females and ten young children. One of the women was the mother of fourteen, and the other the mother of fifteen, children. This chief and the two females were the most swarthy and barbarous looking people I ever saw. They had, however, two beautiful children with them, about five years of age, with light flaxen hair, and very fair complexions. The old Gipsy women said they were twins; but they might have been stolen from different parents, for all that, as there was nothing about them that had the slightest resemblance to any one of the horde that claimed them. Apparently much care was taken of them, as they were very cleanly and neatly kept.[49] [49] It does not follow, from what our author says about these two children, that they were stolen. I have seen some of the children of English Gipsies as fair as any Saxon. It sometimes happens that the flaxen hair of a Gipsy child will change into raven black before he reaches manhood.--ED. This Gipsy potter was a thick-set, stout man, above the middle size. He was dressed in an old dark-blue frock coat, with a profusion of black, greasy hair, which covered the upper part of his broad shoulders. He wore a high-crowned, narrow-brimmed, old hat, with a lock of his black hair hanging down before each ear, in the same manner as the Spanish Gipsies are described by Swinburn. He also wore a pair of old full-topped boots, pressed half way down his legs, and wrinkled about his ankles, like buskins. His visage was remarkably dark and gloomy. He walked up and down the market alone, without speaking to any one, with a peculiar air of independence about him, as he twirled in his hand, in the Gipsy manner, by way of amusement, a strong bludgeon, about three feet long, which he held by the centre. I happened to be speaking to a surgeon in the fair, at the time the Gipsy passed me, when I observed to him that that strange-looking man was a Gipsy; at which the surgeon only laughed, and said he did not believe any such thing. To satisfy him, I followed the Gipsy, at a little distance, till he led me straight to his tents at the Jedburgh road already mentioned. This Gipsy band had none of their wares unpacked, nor were they selling anything in the market. They were cooking a lamb's head and pluck, in a pan suspended from a triangle of rods of iron, while beside it lay an abundance of small potatoes, in a wooden dish. The females wore black Gipsy bonnets. The visage of the oldest one was remarkably long, her chin resting on her breast. These three old Gipsies were, altogether, so dark, grim, and outlandish-looking, that they had little or no appearance of being natives of Britain. On enquiring if they were Gipsies, and could speak the language, the oldest female gave me the following answer: "We are potters, and strangers in this land. The people are civil unto us. I say, God bless the people; God bless them all." She spoke these words in a decided, emphatic, and solemn tone, as if she believed herself possessed of the power to curse or bless at pleasure. On turning my back, to leave them, I observed them burst out a laughing; making merry, as I supposed, at the idea of having deceived me as to the tribe to which they belonged. The following anecdote will give some idea of the manner of life of the Gipsies in England. A man, whom I knew, happened to lose his way, one dark night, in Cambridgeshire. After wandering up and down for some time, he observed a light, at a considerable distance from him, within the skirts of a wood, and, being overjoyed at the discovery, he directed his course toward it; but, before reaching the fire, he was surprised at hearing a man, a little way in advance, call out to him, in a loud voice, "Peace or not peace?" The benighted traveller, glad at hearing the sound of a human voice, immediately answered, "Peace; I am a poor Scotchman, and have lost my way in the dark." "You can come forward then," rejoined the sentinel. When the Scotchman advanced, he found a family of Gipsies, with only one tent; but, on being conducted further into the wood, he was introduced to a great company of Gipsies. They were busily employed in roasting several whole sheep--turning their carcasses before large fires, on long wooden poles, instead of iron spits. The racks on which the spits turned were also made of wood, driven into the ground, cross-ways, like the letter X. The Gipsies were exceedingly kind to the stranger, causing him to partake of the victuals which they had prepared for their feast. He remained with them the whole night, eating and drinking, and dancing with his merry entertainers, as if he had been one of themselves. When day dawned, the Scotchman counted twelve tents within a short distance of each other. On examining his position, he found himself a long way out of his road; but a party of the Gipsies voluntarily offered their services, and went with him for several miles, and, with great kindness, conducted him to the road from which he had wandered. The crimes of some of the English Gipsies have greatly exceeded those of the Scottish, such as the latter have been. The following details of the history of an English Gipsy family are taken from a report on the prisons in Northumberland. The writer of this report does not appear to have been aware, however, of the family in question being Gipsies, speaking an Oriental language, and that, according to the custom of their tribe, a dexterous theft or robbery is one of the most meritorious actions they can perform. "_Crime in Families. William Winters' Family._ "William himself, and one of his sons, were hanged together for murder. Another son committed an offence for which he was sent to the hulks, and, soon after his release, was concerned in a murder, for which he was hanged. Three of the daughters were convicted of various offences, and the mother was a woman of notorious bad character. The family was a terror to the neighbourhood, and, according to report, had been so for generations. The father, with a woman with whom he cohabited, (himself a married man,) was hanged for house-breaking. His first wife was a woman of very bad character, and his second wife was transported. One of the sons, a notorious thief, and two of the daughters, were hanged for murder. Mr. Blake believes that the only member of the family that turned out well was a girl, who was taken from the father when he was in prison, previous to execution, and brought up apart from her brothers and sisters. The grandfather was once in a lunatic asylum, as a madman. The father had a quarrel with one of his sons, about the sale of some property, and shot him dead. The mother co-habited with another man, and was one morning found dead, with her throat cut. One of the sons, (not already spoken of,) had a bastard child by one of his cousins, herself of weak intellect, and, being under suspicion of having destroyed the child, was arrested. While in prison, however, and before the trial came on, he destroyed himself by cutting his throat." This family, I believe, are the Winters noticed by Sir Walter Scott, in Blackwood's Magazine, as follows: "A gang (of Gipsies), of the name of Winters, long inhabited the wastes of Northumberland, and committed many crimes; among others, a murder upon a poor woman, with singular atrocity, for which one of them was hung in chains near Tonpitt, in Reedsdale. The mortal reliques having decayed, the lord of the manor has replaced them by a wooden effigy, and still maintains the gibbet. The remnant of this gang came to Scotland, about fifteen years ago, and assumed the Roxburghshire name of Wintirip, as they found their own something odious. They settled at a cottage within about four miles of Earlston, and became great plagues to the country, until they were secured, after a tight battle, tried before the circuit court at Jedburgh, and banished back to their native country of England. The dalesmen of Reedwater showed great reluctance to receive these returned emigrants. After the Sunday service at a little chapel near Otterbourne, one of the squires rose, and, addressing the congregation, told them they would be accounted no longer Reedsdale men, but Reedsdale women, if they permitted this marked and atrocious family to enter their district. The people answered that they would not permit them to come that way; and the proscribed family, hearing of the unanimous resolution to oppose their passage, went more southernly, by the heads of the Tyne, and I never heard more of them, but I have little doubt they are all hanged."[50] [50] It is but just to say that this family of Winters is, or at least was, the worst kind of English Gipsies. Their name is a by-word among the race in England. When they say, "It's a winter morning," they wish to express something very bad. It is difficult to get them to admit that the Winters belong to the tribe--ED. CHAPTER III. SCOTTISH GIPSIES, DOWN TO THE YEAR 1715. That the Gipsies were in Scotland in the year 1506 is certain, as appears by a letter of James IV, of Scotland, to the King of Denmark, in favour of Anthonius Gawino, Earl of Little Egypt, a Gipsy chief. But there is a tradition, recorded in Crawford's Peerage, that a company of Gipsies, or Saracens, were committing depredations in Scotland before the death of James II, which took place in 1460, being forty-six years after the Gipsies were first observed on the continent of Europe, and it is, therefore, probable that these wanderers were encamped on Scottish ground before the year 1460, above mentioned. As I am not aware of Saracens ever having set foot in Scotland, England, or Ireland, I am disposed to think, if there is any truth in this tradition, it alludes to the Gipsies.[51] The story relates to the estate and family of McLellan of Bombie, in Galloway, and is as follows: [51] There is no reason to doubt that these were Gipsies. They were evidently a roving band, from some of the continental hordes, that had passed over into Scotland, to "prospect" and plunder. They would, very naturally, be called Saracens by the natives of Scotland, to whom any black people, at that time, would appear as Saracens. We may, therefore, assume that the Gipsies have been fully four hundred years in Scotland. I may mention, however, that Mediterranean corsairs occasionally landed and plundered on the British coast, to as late a period as the reign of Charles I.--ED. In the reign of James II, the Barony of Bombie was again recovered by the McLellans, (as the tradition goes,) after this manner: In the same reign, says our author of small credit, (Sir George McKenzie, in his baronage M.S.,) it happened that a company of Saracens or Gipsies, from Ireland,[52] infested the county of Galloway, whereupon the king intimated a proclamation, bearing, that whoever should disperse them, and bring in their captain, dead or alive, should have the Barony of Bombie for his reward. It chanced that a brave young gentleman, the laird of Bombie's son, fortunated to kill the person for which the reward was promised, and he brought his head on the point of his sword to the king, and thereupon he was immediately seized in the Barony of Bombie; and to perpetuate the memory of that brave and remarkable action, he took for his crest a Moor's head, and 'Think on' for his motto.[53] [52] Almost all the Scottish Gipsies assert that their ancestors came by way of Ireland into Scotland. [This is extremely likely. On the publication of the edict of Ferdinand of Spain, in 1492, some of the Spanish Gipsies would likely pass over to the south of Ireland, and thence find their way into Scotland, before 1506. Anthonius Gawino, above referred to, would almost seem to be a Spanish name. We may, therefore, very safely assume that the Gipsies of Scotland are of Spanish Gipsy descent.--ED.] [53] Crawford's Peerage, page 238. As armorial bearings were generally assumed to commemorate facts and deeds of arms, it is likely that the crest of the McLellans is the head of a _Gipsy_ chief. In the reign of James II, alluded to, we find "away putting of _sorners_, (forcible obtruders,) fancied fools, vagabonds, out-liers, masterful beggars, _bairds_, (strolling rhymers,) and such like runners about," is more than once enforced by acts of parliament.[54] [54] Glendook's Scots' acts of parliament. But the earliest authentic notice which has yet been discovered of the first appearance of the Gipsies in Scotland, is the letter of James IV, to the King of Denmark, in 1506. At this period these vagrants represented themselves as Egyptian pilgrims, and so far imposed on our religious and melancholy monarch, as to procure from him a favourable recommendation to his uncle of Denmark, in behalf of one of these "Earls," and his "lamentable retinue." The following is a translation of this curious epistle: "Most illustrious, &c.--Anthonius Gawino, Earl of Little Egypt, and the other afflicted and lamentable tribe of his retinue, whilst, through a desire of travelling, and, by command of the Pope,[55] (as he says,) pilgriming, over the Christian world, according to their custom, had lately arrived on the frontiers of our kingdom, and implored us that we, out of humanity, would allow him to approach our limits without damage, and freely carry about all things, and the company he now has. He easily obtains what the hard fortune wretched men require. Thus he has sojourned here, (as we have been informed,) for several months, in peaceable and catholic manner. King and uncle, he now proposes a voyage to Denmark to thee. But, being about to cross the ocean, he hath requested our letters, in which we would inform your Highness of these, and at the same time commend the calamity of this tribe to your royal munificence. But we believe that the fates, manners, and race of the wandering Egyptians are better known to thee than us, because Egypt is nearer thy kingdom, and a greater number of such men sojourn in thy kingdom.--Most illustrious, &c."[56] [55] Mr. Hoyland makes some very judicious remarks upon the capacity of the Gipsies, when they first appeared in Europe. He says: "The first of this people who came into Europe must have been persons of discernment and discrimination, to have adapted their deceptions so exactly to the genius and habits of the different people they visited, as to ensure success in all countries. The stratagem to which they had recourse, on entering France, evinces consummate artifice of plan, and not a little adroitness and dexterity in the execution. The specious appearance of submission to Papal authority, in the penance of wandering seven years, without lying in a bed, contained three distinct objects. They could not have devised an expedient more likely to recommend them to the favour of the ecclesiastics, or better concerted for taking advantage of the superstitious credulity of the people, and, at the same time, for securing to themselves the gratification of their own nomadic propensities. So complete was the deception they practised, that we find they wandered up and down France, under the eye of the magistracy, not for seven years only, but for more than a hundred years, without molestation." Mr. Hoyland's remarks cover only half of the question, for, being "pilgrims," their chiefs must also assume very high titles, to give them consideration with the rulers of Europe--such as dukes, earls, lords, counts and knights. To carry out the character of pilgrims, the body would go very poorly clad; it would only be the chiefs who would be flashily accoutred. It is, therefore, by no means wonderful that the Gipsies should have succeeded so well, and so long, in obtaining an entrance, and a toleration, in every country of Europe.--ED. [56] Illustrissime, &c.--Anthonius Gawino, ex Parva Egypto comes, et cætera ejus comitatus, gens afflicta et miseranda, dum Christianam orbem peregrinationes studio. Apostolicæ sedis, (ut refert) jussu, suorum more peregrinans, fines nostri regni dudum advenerat, atque in sortis suæ, et miseriarum hujus populi, refugium, nos pro humanitate imploraverat ut nostros limites sibi impune adire, res cunctas, et quam habet societatem libere circumagere liceret. Impetrat facile quæ postulat miserorum hominum dura fortuna. Ita aliquot menses bene et catholice, (sic accepimus,) hic versatus, ad te, Rex et avuncule, in Daciam transitum paret. Sed oceanum transmissurus nostras literas exoravit; quibus celsitudinem tuam horum certiorum redderemus, simul et calamitatem ejus gentis Regiæ tuæ munificentiæ commendaremus. Ceterum errabundæ Egypti fata, moresque, et genus, eo tibe quam nobis credimus notiora, quo Egyptus tuo regno vicinior, et major hujusmodi hominum frequentia tuo diversatur imperio. Illustrissime, &c. From 1506 to 1540, the 28th of the reign of James V, we find that the true character of the Gipsies had not reached the Scottish court; for, in 1540, the king of Scotland entered into a league or treaty with "John Faw, Lord and Earl of Little Egypt;" and a writ passed the Privy Seal, the same year, in favour of this Prince or _Rajah_ of the Gipsies. As the public edicts in favour of this race are extremely rare, I trust a copy of this curious document, in this place, may not be unacceptable to the reader.[57] [57] I have taken the liberty of translating the various extracts from the Scottish acts of parliament, quoted in this chapter, as the original language is not very intelligible to English or even Scottish readers. For doing this, I may be denounced as a Vandal by the ultra Scotch, for so treating such "rich old Doric," as the language of the period may be termed.--ED. "James, by the grace of God, King of Scots: To our sheriffs of Edinburgh, principal and within the constabulary of Haddington, Berwick, Roxburgh, &c., &c.; provosts, aldermen, and baillies of our burghs and cities of Edinburgh, &c., &c., greeting: Forasmuch as it is humbly meant and shown to us, by our loved John Faw, Lord and Earl of Little Egypt, that whereas he obtained our letter under our great seal, direct you all and sundry our said sheriffs, stewarts, baillies, provosts, aldermen, and baillies of burghs, and to all and sundry others having authority within our realm, to assist him in execution of justice upon his company and folk, conform to the laws of Egypt, and in punishing of all them that rebel against him: nevertheless, as we are informed, Sebastiane Lalow Egyptian, one of the said John's company, with his accomplices and partakers under written, that is to say, Anteane Donea, Satona Fingo, Nona Finco, Phillip Hatseyggaw, Towla Bailyow, Grasta Neyn, Geleyr Bailyow, Bernard Beige, Demeo Matskalla (or Macskalla), Notfaw Lawlowr, Martyn Femine, rebels and conspirators against the said John Faw, and have removed them all utterly out of his company, and taken from him divers sums of money, jewels, clothes and other goods, to the quantity of a great sum of money; and on nowise will pass home with him, howbeit he has bidden and remained of long time upon them, and is bound and obliged to bring home with him all them of his company that are alive, and a testimony of them that are dead: and as the said John has the said Sebastiane's obligation, made in Dunfermline before our master household, that he and his company should remain with him, and on nowise depart from him, as the same bears: In contrary to the tenor of which, the said Sebastiane, by sinister and wrong information, false relation, circumvention of us, has purchased our writings, discharging him and the remnant of the persons above written, his accomplices and partakers of the said John's company, and with his goods taken by them from him; causes certain our lieges assist them and their opinions, and to fortify and take their part against the said John, their lord and master; so that he on nowise can apprehend nor get them, to have them home again within their own country, after the tenor of his said bond, to his heavy damage and _skaith_ (hurt), and in great peril of losing his heritage, and expressly against justice: Our will is, therefore, and we charge you straightly and command that . . . . . . . . . . ye and every one of you within the bounds of your offices, command and charge all our lieges, that none of them take upon hand to reset, assist, fortify, supply, maintain, defend, or take part with the said Sebastiane and his accomplices above written, for no body's nor other way, against the said John Faw, their lord and master; but that they and ye, in likewise, take and lay hands upon them wherever they may be apprehended, and bring them to him, to be punished for their demerits, conform to his laws; and help and fortify him to punish and do justice upon them for their trespasses; and to that effect lend him your prisons, stocks, fetters, and all other things necessary thereto, as ye and each of you, and all other our lieges, will answer to us thereupon, and under all highest pain and charge that after may follow: So that the said John have no cause of complaint thereupon in time coming, nor to resort again to us to that effect, notwithstanding any our writings, sinisterly purchased or to be purchased, by the said Sebastiane on the contrary: And also charge all our lieges that none of them molest, vex, unquiet, or trouble the said John Faw and his company, in doing their lawful business, or otherwise, within our realm, and in their passing, remaining, or away-going forth of the same, under the pain above written: And such-like that ye command and charge all skippers, masters and mariners of all ships within our realm, at all ports and havens where the said John and his company shall happen to resort and come, to receive him and them therein, upon their expenses, for furthering of them forth of our realm to the parts beyond sea, as you and each of them such-like will answer to us thereupon, and under the pain aforesaid. Subscribed with our hand, and under our privy seal at Falkland, the fifteenth day of February, and of our reign the 28th year."[58] [58] Ex. Registro Secreti Sigilli, Vol. XIV, fol. 59. Blackwood. Appendix to McLaurin's Criminal Trials. This document may well be termed the most curious and important record of the early history of the Gipsy race in Europe; and it is well worthy of consideration. The meaning of it is simply this: John Faw had evidently been importuned by the Scottish Court, (at which he appears to have been a man of no small consequence,) to bring his so-called "pilgrimage," which he had undertaken "by command of the Pope," to an end, so far, at least, as remaining in Scotland was concerned. Being pressed upon the point, he evidently, as a last resource, formed a plan with Sebastiane Lalow, and the other "rebels," to leave him, and carry _off_, (as he said,) his property. To give the action an air of importance, and make it appear as a real rebellion, they brought the question into court. Then, John could turn round, and reply to the king: "May it please your majesty! I can't return to my own country. My company and folk have conspired, rebelled, robbed, and left me. I can't lay my hands upon them; I don't even know where to find them. I must take them home with me, or a testimony of them that are dead, under the great peril of losing my heritage, at the hands of my lord, the Duke of Egypt. However, if your majesty will help me to catch them, I will not be long in taking leave of _your_ kingdom, with all my company. In the meantime, your majesty will be pleased to issue your commands to all the shipowners and mariners in the kingdom, to be ready, _when I gather together my folk_(_!_) to further our passage to Egypt, for which I will pay them handsomely." The whole business may be termed a piece of "thimble-rigging," to prolong their stay--that is, enable them to remain permanently--in the country. Our author, I think, is quite in error in supposing this to have been a real quarrel among the Gipsies. If it had been a real quarrel, the Gipsies would soon have settled the question among themselves, by their own laws; it would have been the last thing, under all the circumstances of the case, they would have thought of, to have brought it before the Scottish court. The Gipsies, according to Grellmann, assigned the following reason for prolonging their stay in Europe: "They endeavoured to prolong the term (of their pilgrimage) by asserting that their return home was prevented by soldiers, stationed to intercept them; and by wishing to have it believed that new parties of pilgrims were to leave their country every year, otherwise their land would be rendered totally barren." The quarrel between the Faas and the Baillies, for the _Gipsy crown_, in after times, did not, in all probability, arise from this business, but most likely, as the English Gipsies believe, from some marriage between these families. The Scottish Gipsies, like the two Roses, have had, and for aught I know to the contrary, may have yet, two rival kings--Faa and Baillie, with their partisans--although the Faas, from the prominent position which they have always occupied in Scottish history, have been the only kings known to the Scottish public generally. In perusing this work, the reader will be pleased to take the above mentioned document as the starting point of the history of the Gipsies in Scotland; and consider the Gipsies of that time as the progenitors of all those at present in Scotland, including the great encrease of the body, by the mixture of the white blood that has been brought within their community. He will also be pleased to divest himself of the childish prejudices, acquired in the nursery and in general literature, against the name of Gipsy; and consider that there are people in Scotland, occupying some of the highest positions in life, who are Gipsies; not indeed Gipsies in point of purity of blood, but people who have Gipsy blood in their veins, and who hold themselves to be Gipsies, in the manner which I have, to a certain extent, explained in the Preface, and will more fully illustrate in my Disquisition on the Gipsies.--ED. This curious league of John Faw with the Scottish king, who acknowledges the laws and customs of the Gipsies within his kingdom, was of very short duration. Like that of many other favourites of princes, the credit which the "Earl of Little Egypt" possessed at court was, the succeeding year, completely annihilated, and that with a vengeance, as will appear by the following order in council. The Gipsies, quarrelling among themselves, and publicly bringing their matters of dispute before the government, had, perhaps, contributed to produce an enquiry into the real character and conduct of these foreigners; verifying the ancient adage, that a house divided against itself cannot stand. But the immediate cause assigned for the sudden change of mind in the king, so unfortunate for the Gipsies, is handed down to us in the following tradition, current in Fife: King James V, as he was travelling through part of his dominions, disguised under the character of the Gaberlunzie-man, or Guid-man of Ballangiegh, prosecuting, as was his custom, his low and vague amours, fell in with a band of Gipsies, in the midst of their carousals, in a cave, near Wemyss, in Fifeshire. His majesty heartily joined in their revels, but it was not long before a scuffle ensued, wherein the king was very roughly handled, being in danger of his life.[59] The Gipsies, perceiving at last that he was none of their people, and considering him a spy, treated him with great indignity. Among other humiliating insults, they compelled his royal majesty, as an humble servant of a Tinkler, to carry their budgets and wallets on his back, for several miles, until he was exhausted; and being unable to proceed a step further, he sank under his load. He was then dismissed with scorn and contempt by the merciless Gipsies. Being exasperated at their cruel and contemptuous treatment of his sacred person, and having seen a fair specimen of their licentious manner of life, the king caused an order in council immediately to be issued, declaring that, if _three_ Gipsies were found together, one of the three was instantly to be seized, and forthwith hanged or shot, by any one of his majesty's subjects that chose to put the order in execution. [59] The Gipsies assert that, on this occasion, the king attempted to take liberties with one of their women: and that one of the male Gipsies "came crack over his head with a bottle."--ED. This tradition is noticed by the Rev. Andrew Small, in his antiquities of Fife, in the following words. His book came into my hands after I had written down my account of the tradition. "But, surely, this would be the last tinker that ever he would dub (a knight). If we may judge from what happened, one might imagine he, (James V,) would be heartily sick of them, (tinkers,) being taken prisoner by three of them, and compelled to stay with them several days, so that his nobles lost all trace of him, and being also forced, not only to lead their ass, but likewise to assist it in carrying part of the panniers! At length he got an opportunity, when they were bousing in a house at the east end of the village of Milnathort, where there is now a new meeting-house built, when he was left on the green with the ass. He contrived to write, some way, on a slip of paper, and gave a boy half-a-crown to run with it to Falkland, and give it to his nobles, intimating that the guid-man of Ballangiegh was in a state of captivity. After they got it, and knew where he was, they were not long in being with him, although it was fully ten miles they had to ride. Whenever he got assistance, he caused two of the tinkers, that were most harsh and severe to him, to be hanged immediately, and let the third one, that was most favourable to him, go free. They were hanged a little south-west of the village, at a place which, from the circumstance, is called the Gallow-hill to this day. The two skeletons were lately found after the division of the commonty that recently took place. He also, after this time, made a law, that whenever three tinkers, or Gipsies, were found going together, two of them should be hanged, and the third set at liberty."[60] [60] Small's Roman Antiquities of Fife, pages 285 and 286. Small also records a song composed on James V dubbing a Tinker a knight. The following order in council is, perhaps, the one to which this tradition alludes: "Act of the lords of council respecting John Faw, &c., June 6, 1541. The which day anent the complaint given by John Faw and his brother, and Sebastiane Lalow, Egyptians, to the King's grace, ilk ane plenizeand . . . . upon other and divers faults and injuries; and that it is agreed among them to pass home, and have the same decided before the Duke of Egypt.[61] The lords of council, being advised with the points of the said complaints, and understanding perfectly the great thefts and _skaiths_ (hurts) done by the said Egyptians upon our sovereign lord's lieges, wherever they come or resort, ordain letters to be directed to the provosts and baillies of Edinburgh, St. Johnstown (Perth), Dundee, Montrose, Aberdeen, St. Andrews, Elgin, Forres, and Inverness; and to the sheriffs of Edinburgh, Fife, Perth, Forfar, Kincardine, Aberdeen, Elgin and Forres, Banff, Cromarty, Inverness, and all other sheriffs, stewarts, provosts and baillies, where it happens the said Egyptians to resort.[62] To command and charge them, by open proclamation, at the market crosses of the head burghs of the sheriffdoms, to depart forth of this realm, with their wives, children, and companies, within xxx days after they be charged thereto, under the pain of death; notwithstanding any other letters or privileges granted to them by the king's grace, because his grace, with the advice of the lords, has discharged the same for the causes aforesaid: with certification that if they be found in this realm, the said xxx days being past, they shall be taken and put to death."[63] [61] It would seem that John Faw had become frightened at the mishap of one of his folk "coming crack over the king's head with a bottle," and that, to pacify his majesty, he had at once gone before him, and informed him that he had prevailed on his "rebellious subjects" to _pass home_, and have the matter in dispute decided by the _Duke of Egypt_. This would, so far, satisfy the king; but to make sure of getting rid of his troublesome visitors, he issued his commands to the various authorities to see that they really did leave the country.--ED. [62] It would appear, from the mention that is made here of the authorities of so many towns and counties, "where it happens the said Egyptians to resort," that the race was scattered over all Scotland at this time, and that it must have been numerous.--ED. [63] M. S. Act. Dom. Con. vol 15, fol. 155.--_Blackwood's Magazine._ This sharp order in council seems to have been the first edict banishing the Gipsies as a whole people--men, women, and children--from Scotland. But the king, whom, according to tradition, they had personally so deeply offended, dying in the following year, (1542) a new reign brought new prospects to the denounced wanderers.[64] They seem to have had the address to recover their credit with the succeeding government; for, in 1553, the writ which passed the privy seal in 1540, forming a sort of league with "John Faw, Lord and Earl of Little Egypt," was renewed by Hamilton, Earl of Arran, then Regent during the minority of Queen Mary. McLaurin, in his criminal trials, when speaking of John Faw, gravely calls him "this peer." "There is a writ," says he, "of the same tenor in favour of this peer from Queen Mary, same record, 25 April, 1553; and 8 April, 1554, he gets remission for the slaughter of Ninian Small." In Blackwood's Magazine it is mentioned that "Andro Faw, Captain of the Egyptians,[65] and twelve of his gang specified by name, obtained a remission for the slaughter of Ninian Small, committed within the town of Linton, in the month of March last by past upon suddenly." This appears to be the slaughter to which McLaurin alludes. The following are the names of these thirteen Gipsies: "Andro Faw, captain of the Egyptians, George Faw, Robert Faw, and Anthony Faw, his sons, Johnne Faw, Andrew George Nichoah, George Sebastiane Colyne, George Colyne, Julie Colyne, Johnne Colyne, James Haw, Johnne Browne, and George Browne, Egyptians." [64] It is perfectly evident that the severe decree of James V against the Gipsies arose from the personal insult alluded to, owing to the circumstance of its falling to the ground after his death, and the Gipsies recovering their position with his successor. Apart from what the Gipsies themselves say on this subject, the ordinary tradition may be assumed to be well founded. If the Gipsies were spoken to on the subject of the insult offered to the king, they would naturally reply, that they did not know, from his having been dressed like a beggar, that it was the king; an excuse which the court, knowing his majesty's vagabond habits, would probably receive. But it is very likely that John Faw would declare that the guilty parties were those rebels whom he was desirous to catch, and take home with him to Egypt! This Gipsy king seems to have been a master of diplomacy.--ED. [65] The Gipsy chiefs were partial to the title of Captain; arising, I suppose, from their being leaders of large bands of young men employed in theft and robbery. [In Spain, such Gipsy chiefs, according to Mr. Borrow, assumed the name of Counts.--ED.] From the edict above mentioned, it is evident that the Gipsies in Scotland, at that time, were allowed to punish the criminal members of their own tribe, according to their own peculiar laws, customs and usages, without molestation. And it cannot be supposed that the ministers of three or four succeeding monarchs would have suffered their sovereigns to be so much imposed on, as to allow them to put their names to public documents, styling poor and miserable wretches, as we at the present day imagine them to have been, "Lords and Earls of Little Egypt." Judging from the accounts which tradition has handed down to us, of the gay and fashionable appearance of the principal Gipsies, as late as about the beginning of the eighteenth century, as will be seen in my account of the Tweed-dale bands, I am disposed to believe that Anthonius Gawino, in 1506, and John Faw, in 1540, would personally, as individuals, that is, as Gipsy Rajahs,[66] have a very respectable and imposing appearance in the eyes of the officers of the crown. And besides, John Faw appears to have been possessed of "divers sums of money, jewels, clothes and other goods, to the quantity of a great sum of money;" and it would seem that some of the officers of high rank in the household of our kings had fingered the cash of the Gipsy pilgrims. If there is any truth in the popular and uniform tradition that, in the seventeenth century, a Countess of Cassilis was seduced from her duty to her lord, and carried off by a Gipsy, of the name of John Faa, and his band, it cannot be imagined, that the seducer would be a poor, wretched, beggarly Tinkler, such as many of the tribe are at this day. If a handsome person, elegant apparel, a lively disposition, much mirth and glee, and a constant boasting of extraordinary prowess, would in any way contribute to make an impression on the heart of the frail countess, these qualities, I am disposed to think, would not be wanting in the "Gipsy Laddie." And, moreover, John Faw bore, on paper at least, as high a title as her husband, Lord Cassilis, from whom she absconded. It is said the individual who seduced the fair lady was a Sir John Faw, of Dunbar, her former sweetheart, and not a Gipsy; but tradition gives no account of a Sir John Faw, of Dunbar.[67] The Falls, merchants, at Dunbar, were descended from the Gipsy Faas of Yetholm. [66] _Rajah_--The Scottish Gipsy word for a chief, governor, or prince. [67] The author, (Mr. Finlay,) who claims a Sir John Faw, of Dunbar, to have been the person who carried off the Countess of Cassilis, gives no authority, as a writer in Blackwood says, in support of his assertion. Nor does he account for a person of that name being any other than a Gipsy. Indeed, this is but an instance of the ignorance and prejudice of people generally in regard to the Gipsies. The tradition of the hero being a Gipsy, I have met with among the English Gipsies, who even gave me the name of the lady. John Faw, in all probability the king of the Gipsies, who carried off the countess, might reasonably be assumed to have been, in point of education, on a par with her, who, in that respect, would not, in all probability, rise above the most humble Scotch cow-milker at the present day, whatever her personal bearing might have been.--ED. It is pretty clear that the Gipsies remained in Scotland, with little molestation, from 1506 till 1579--the year in which James VI took the government into his own hands, being a period of about seventy-three years, during which time these wanderers roamed up and down the kingdom, without receiving any check of consequence, excepting the short period--probably about one year--in which the severe order of James V remained in force, and which, in all probability, expired with the king.[68] [68] During these seventy-three years of peace, the Gipsies in Scotland must have multiplied prodigiously, and, in all probability, drawn much of the native blood into their body. Not being, at that time, a proscribed race, but, on the contrary, honoured by leagues and covenants with the king himself, the ignorant public generally would have few of those objections to intermarry with them, which they have had in subsequent times. The thieving habits of the Gipsies would prove no bar to such connections, as the Scottish people were accustomed to thieving of all kinds.--ED. The civil and religious contests in which the nation had been long engaged, particularly during the reign of Queen Mary, produced numerous swarms of banditti, who committed outrages in every part of the country. The slighter depredations of the Gipsy bands, in the midst of the fierce and bloody quarrels of the different factions that generally prevailed throughout the kingdom, would attract but little attention, and the Gipsies would thereby escape the punishment which their actions merited. But the government being more firmly established, by the union of the different parties who distracted the country, and the king assuming the supreme authority, which all acknowledged, vigorous measures were adopted for suppressing the excess of strolling vagabonds of every description. In the very year the king was placed at the head of affairs, a law was passed, "For punishment of strong and idle beggars, and relief of the poor and impotent." Against the Gipsies this sweeping statute is particularly directed, for they are named, and some of their practices pointed out, in the following passage: "And that it may be known what manner of persons are meant to be strong and idle beggars and vagabonds, and worthy of the punishment before specified, it is declared that all idle persons going about the country of this realm, using subtle, crafty and unlawful plays--as jugglery, fast-and-loose, and such others, the idle people calling themselves Egyptians, or any other that fancy themselves to have knowledge of prophecy, charming, or other abused sciences, whereby they persuade the people that they can tell their weirds, deaths, and fortunes, and such other fantastical imaginations."[69] And the following is the mode prescribed for punishing the Gipsies, and the other offenders associated with them in this act of parliament: "That such as make themselves fools and are _bairds_, (strolling rhymers,) or other such like runners about, being apprehended, shall be put in the king's ward, or irons, so long as they have any goods of their own to live on, and if they have not whereupon to live of their own, that their ears be nailed to the tron or other tree, and cut off, and (themselves) banished the country; and if thereafter they be found again, that they be hanged."[70] [69] In this act of parliament are denounced, along with the Gipsies, "all minstrels, songsters, and tale-tellers, not avowed by special licence of some of the lords of parliament or great barons, or by the high burghs and cities, for their common minstrels." "All _vagabond scholars_(_!_) of the universities of St Andrews, Glasgow, and Aberdeen, not licenced by the rector and dean of faculty to _ask alms_." It would seem, from this last extract, that the Scottish Universities granted diplomas to their students to beg! The Gipsies were associated or classed with good company at this time. But beggar students, or student-beggars, were common in other parts of Europe during that age.--ED. [70] Glendook's Scots Acts, James VI, 6th Par. cap. 74--20th Oct. 1579. This statute was ratified and confirmed in the 12th parliament of James VI, cap. 147, 5th June, 1592, wherein the incorrigible Gipsies are again referred to: "And for the better trial of common _sorners_ (forcible obtruders,) vagabonds, and masterful beggars, fancied fools, and counterfeit Egyptians, and to the effect that they may be still preserved till they be compelled to settle at some certain dwelling, or be expelled forth of the country, &c." The next law in which the Gipsies are mentioned, with other vagabonds, was passed in the 15th parliament of the same reign, 19th December, 1597, entitled, "Strong beggars, vagabonds, and Egyptians should be punished." The statute itself reads as follows: "Our sovereign lord and estates of parliament ratify and approve the acts of parliament made before, against strong and idle beggars, vagabonds, and Egyptians," with this addition: "That strong beggars and their children be employed in common works, and their service mentioned in the said act of parliament, in the year of God, 1579, to be prorogate in during their life times, &c."[71] [71] By the above, and subsequent statutes, in the reign of James VI, "Coal and salt-masters might apprehend, and put to labour, all vagabonds and sturdy beggars." The truth is, these kidnapped individuals and their children were made slaves of to these masters. The colliers were emancipated only within these fifty years. It has been stated to me that some of the colliers in the Lothians are of Gipsy extraction. [Our author might have said _Gipsies_; for being "of Gipsy extraction," and "Gipsies," are expressions quite synonymous, notwithstanding the application by the public of the latter term to the more original kind of Gipsies only.--ED.] All the foregoing laws were again ratified and enforced by another act, in the same reign, 15th November, 1600. The following extract will serve to give some explanation how these statutes were neglected, and seldom put in force: "And how the said acts have received little or no effect or execution, by the oversight and negligence of the persons who were nominated justices and commissioners, for putting of the said acts to full and due execution, so that the strong and idle beggars, being for the most part thieves, _bairds_, (strolling rhymers,) and counterfeit _limmers_, (scoundrels,) living most insolently and ungodly, without marriage or baptism, are suffered to _vaig_ and wander throughout the whole country."[72] "But," says Baron Hume, "all ordinary means having proved insufficient to restrain so numerous and so sturdy a crew, the privy council at length, in June, 1603, were induced to venture on the more effectual expedient, (recommended by the example of some other realm,) of at once ordering the whole race to leave the kingdom by a certain day, and never to return under the pain of death.[73] A few years after, this proclamation was converted into perpetual law, by statute 1609, cap. 13, with this farther convenient, but very severe, provision toward the more effectual execution of the order, that it should be lawful to condemn and execute them to the death, upon proof made of the single fact 'that they are called, known, repute and holden Egyptians'!" As this is the only statute exclusively relating to, and denouncing, the Gipsies, I shall give it at length. [72] If Fletcher of Saltoun be correct, when he states that, in his time, which was about the end of the 17th century, there were two hundred thousand people, (about one-fifth of the whole population,) begging from door to door in Scotland, it would be a task of no little difficulty, for those in power, to put in force the laws against the Gipsies, and vagabonds generally. The editor of Dr. Pennicuick's history of Tweed-dale, thinks Fletcher's is an over-charged picture. Some are of opinion that, when he made his statement, he included the greater part of the inhabitants of the Scottish Border, and also those in the north of Scotland; for, he said, the Highlands "was an inexhaustible source of beggars," and wished these banditti transplanted to the low country, and to people the Highlands from hence. [73] The records in which this order is contained are lost. "13. Act anent the Egyptians. Our sovereign lord and estates of parliament ratify, approve, and perpetually confirm the act of secret council, made in the month of June or thereby, 1603 years, and proclamation following thereupon, commanding the vagabonds, _sorners_ (forcible obtruders), and common thieves, commonly called Egyptians, to pass forth of this kingdom, and remain perpetually forth thereof, and never to return within the same, under pain of death; and that the same have force and execution after the first day of August next to come. After the which time, if any of the said vagabonds, called Egyptians, as well women as men, shall be found within this kingdom, or any part thereof, it shall be lawful to all his majesty's good subjects, or any one of them, to cause take, apprehend, imprison, and execute to death the said Egyptians, either men or women, as common, notorious, and condemned thieves, by one assize only to be tried, that they are called, known, repute and holden Egyptians: In the which cause, whosoever of the assize happen to _clenge_ (exculpate) any of the aforesaid Egyptians pannelled, as said is, shall be pursued, handled and censured as committers of wilful error: And whoever shall, any time thereafter, reset, receive, supply, or entertain any of the said Egyptians, either men or women, shall lose their escheat, and be warded at the judge's will: And that the sheriffs and magistrates, in whose bounds they shall publicly and avowedly resort and remain, be called before the lords of his highness' secret council, and severely censured and punished for their negligence in execution of this act: Discharging all letters, protections, and warrants whatsoever, purchased by the said Egyptians, or any of them, from his majesty or lords of secret council, for their remaining within this realm, as surreptitiously and deceitfully obtained by their knowledge: Annulling also all warrants purchased, or hereafter to be purchased, by any subject of whatsoever rank within this kingdom, for their reset, entertaining, or doing any manner of favour to the said Egyptians, at any time after the said first day of August next to come, for now and ever."[74] In a subsequent enactment, in 1617, appointing justices of the peace and constables, the destruction of the proscribed Egyptians is particularly enjoined, in defining the different duties of the magistrates and their peace officers.[75] [74] Glendook's Scots Act. [75] Ib. But so little respected was the authority of the government, that in 1612, three years after the passing of the Gipsy act, his majesty was under the humiliating necessity of entering into a contract with the clan Scott, and their friends, by which the clan bound themselves "to give up all bands of friendship, kindness, oversight, maintenance or assurance, if any we have, with common thieves and broken clans, &c." It is certain there would be many bonds of the same nature with other turbulent clans throughout the kingdom. That Scotchmen of respectability and influence protected the Gipsies, and afforded them shelter on their lands, after the promulgation of the cruel statute of 1609, is manifest from the following passages, which I extract from Blackwood's Magazine, for 1817; the conductor of which seems to have been careful in examining the public records for the documents quoted by him; having been guided in his researches, I believe, by Sir Walter Scott. "In February, 1615, we find a remission under the privy seal, granted to William Auchterlony, of Cayrine, for resetting of John Faw and his followers.[76] On the 14th July, 1616, the sheriff of Forfar is severely reprimanded for delaying to execute some Gipsies, who had been taken within his jurisdiction, and for troubling the council with petitions in their behalf. In November following appears a proclamation against Egyptians and their resetters. In December, 1619, we find another proclamation against resetters of them; in April, 1620, another proclamation of the same kind, and in July, 1620, a commission against resetters, all with very severe penalties. The nature of these acts will be better understood from the following extract from that of the 4th July, 1616, which also very well explains the way in which the Gipsies contrived to maintain their footing in the country, in defiance of all the efforts of the legislature to extirpate them." "It is of truth that the thieves and _limmers_ (scoundrels), aforesaid, having for some short space after the said act of parliament, (1609,) . . . dispersed themselves in certain secret and obscure places of the country . . . they were not known to wander abroad in troops and companies, according to their accustomed manner, yet, shortly thereafter, finding that the said act of parliament was neglected, and that no enquiry nor . . . was made for them, they began to take new breath and courage, and . . . unite themselves in infamous companies and societies, under . . . commanders, and continually since then have remained within the country, committing as well open and avowed _rieffis_ (robberies) in all parts . . . murders, . . . _pleine stouthe_ (common theft) and pickery, where they may not be mastered; and they do shamefully and mischievously abuse the simple and ignorant people, by telling fortunes, and using charms, and a number of juggling tricks and falseties, unworthy to be heard of in a country subject to religion, law, and justice; and they are encouraged to remain within the country, and to continue in their thievish and juggling tricks and falseties, not only through default of the execution of the said act of parliament, but, what is worse, that great numbers of his majesty's subjects, of whom some outwardly pretend to be famous and unspotted gentlemen, have given and give open and avowed protection, reset, supply and maintainance, upon their grounds and lands, to the said vagabonds, _sorners_, (forcible obtruders,) and condemned thieves and _limmers_, (scoundrels,) and suffer them to remain days, weeks, and months together thereupon, without controulment, and with connivance and oversight, &c." "So they do leave a foul, infamous, and ignominious spot upon them, their houses, and posterity, that they are patrons to thieves and _limmers_, (scoundrels,)" &c.[77] [76] The nature of this crime in Scotch law is fully explained in the following extract from the original, which also appears curious in other respects. The pardon is granted "pro receptione, supportatione, et detentione supra terra suas de Belmadie, et infra eius habitationis domium, aliaq. edificia eiusdem, _Joannis Fall_, _Ethiopis_, _lie Egiptian_, eiusq. uxoris, puerorum, servorum et associatorum; Necnon pro ministrando ipsis cibum, potum, pecunias, hospicium, aliaq. necessaria, quocunq. tempore vel occasione preterita, contra acta nostri Parliamenti vel secreti concilii, vel contra quecunq. leges, alia acta, aut constitutiones huius nostri regni Scotiæ in contrarium facta." Regist. secreti sigilli vol. lxxxiii, fol. 291, _Blackwood's Magazine_.--ED. [77] The same state of things existed in Spain. Charles II. passed a law on the 12th June, 1695, the 16th article of which, as given by Mr. Borrow, enacts: "And because we understand that the continuance of those who are called Gitanos has depended on the favour, protection, and assistance which they have experienced from persons of _different stations_, we do ordain that whosoever against whom shall be proved the fact of having, since the day of the publication hereof, favoured, received, or assisted the said Gitanos, in any manner whatever, whether _within their houses_ or without, _provided he is a noble_, shall be subjected to the fine of _six thousand ducats_, . . . . and _if a plebeian_, to a _punishment of ten years in the galleys_." Such an enactment would surely prove that the Gipsies in Spain were _greatly_ favoured by the Spanish people generally, even two centuries after they entered the country. The causes to which may be attributed this toleration, even encouragement, of the Gipsies, are various. Among these may be mentioned a fear of consequences to person and property, tinkering, trafficking and amusement, and corruption on the part of those in power. But in the character of the Gipsies itself may be found a general cause for their escaping the effects of the laws passed against them, viz., _wheedling_. The term Gitano has been variously modified in the Spanish language, thus: Gitano. _Gipsy_, _flatterer_; Gitanillo, _a little Gipsy_; Gitanismo, _the Gipsy tribe_; Gitanesco, _Gipsy-like_; Gitanear, _to flatter_, _entice_; Gitaneria, _wheedling_, _flattery_; Gitanamento, _in a sly, winning manner_; Gitanada, _blandishment_, _wheedling_, _flattery_.--ED. From their first arrival in the country till 1579, the Gipsies, as already mentioned, appear to have been treated as a separate people, observing their own laws and customs. In the year 1587, such was the state of society in Scotland, that laws were passed by James VI, compelling all the baronial proprietors of lands, chiefs and captains of clans, on the Borders and Highlands of Scotland, to find pledges and securities for the peaceable conduct of their retainers, tenants, clansmen, and other inhabitants of their respective estates and districts.[78] In the same parliament another act was passed, allowing vagabonds and broken and unpledged men to produce pledges and securities for their good conduct. The Gipsies, under these statutes, would remain unmolested, as they would readily find protection by becoming, nominally, clansmen, and assuming the surnames, of those chieftains and noblemen who were willing and able to afford them protection.[79] Indeed, the act allowing vagabonds to find sureties would include the Gipsy bands, for, about this period, they seem to have been only classed with our own native vagabonds, moss-troopers, Border and Highland thieves, broken clans and masterless men. It appears by the act of 1609, that the Gipsies had even purchased their protection from the government. The inhabitants of Scotland being at this period still divided into clans, would greatly facilitate the escape of the Gipsies from the laws passed against them. The clans on the Borders and Highlands were in a state of almost constant warfare with one another; and frequently several of the clans were united in opposition to the regular government of the country, to whose mandates they paid little or no regard. The Gipsies had no settled residence, but roamed from place to place over the whole country; and when they found themselves in danger in one place, they had no more to do but remove into the district inhabited by a hostile clan, where they would immediately find protection. Besides, the Borderers and Highlanders, themselves plunderers and thieves, would not be very active in apprehending their brother thieves, the Gipsies. Even, according to Holinshed, "the poison of theft and robbery pervaded almost all classes of the Scottish community about this period." [78] There were 17 clans on the Borders, and 34 clans in the Highlands, who appear to have had chiefs and captains over them. There were 22 baronial proprietors connected with the Borders, and 106 connected with the Highlands, named in a roll, who were likewise ordered to find pledges.--_Glendook's Scots Acts._ [79] It sometimes happened, when an internal quarrel took place in a clan, portions of the tribe left their chief, and united themselves to another, whose name they assumed and dropped their original one. The excessive severity of the sanguinary statute of 1609, and the unrelenting manner in which it was often carried into effect, were calculated to produce a great outward change on the Scottish Gipsies. Like stags selected from a herd of deer, and doomed to be hunted down by dogs, these wanderers were now singled out, and separated from the community, as objects to whom no mercy was to be shown.[80] The word Egyptian would never be allowed to escape their lips; not a syllable of their peculiar speech would be uttered, unless in the midst of their own tribe. It is also highly probable that every part of their dress by which their fraternity could be recognized, would be carefully discontinued. To deceive the public, they would also conform _externally_ to some of the religious rites, ceremonies, observances, and other customs of the natives of Scotland. I am further inclined to think that it would be about this period, and chiefly in consequence of these bloody enactments, the Gipsies would, in general, assume the ordinary christian and surnames common at that time in Scotland. And their usual sagacity pointed out to them the advantages arising from taking the cognomens of the most powerful families in the kingdom, whose influence would afford them ample protection, as adopted members of their respective clans. In support of my opinion of the origin of the surnames of the Gipsies of the present day, we find that the most prevailing names among them are those of the most influential of our noble families of Scotland; such as Stewart, Gordon, Douglas, Graham, Ruthven, Hamilton, Drummond, Kennedy, Cunningham, Montgomery, Kerr, Campbell, Maxwell, Johnstone, Ogilvie, McDonald, Robertson, Grant, Baillie, Shaw, Burnet, Brown, Keith, &c.[81] If, even at the present day, you enquire at the Gipsies respecting their descent, the greater part of them will tell you that they are sprung from a bastard son of this or that noble family, or other person of rank and influence, of their own surname.[82] This pretended connexion with families of high rank and power has saved some of the tribe from the gallows even in our own time. The names, however, of the two principal families, Faw, (now Faa,) and Bailyow, (now Baillie,) appear not to have been changed since the date of the order in council or league with James V, in the year 1540, as both of these names are inserted in that document. [80] The reader will see that the Gipsies, at this time, were not greater "vagabonds" than great numbers of native Scotch, if as great. But, being strangers in the country, sojourners according to their own account, the king would naturally enough banish them, as they seem always to have been saying that they were about leaving for "their own country." Their living in tents, a mode of life so different from that of the natives, would, of itself, make them obnoxious to the king personally.--ED. [81] The English Gipsies say that native names were assumed by their race in consequence of the proscription to which it was subjected. German Gipsies, on arrival in America, change, at least modify, their names. There are many of them who go under the names of Smith, Miller, and Waggoner. Jews frequently bear names common to the natives of the countries in which they are to be found, and sometimes, at the present day, assume Christian ones. I knew two German Jews, of the name of Cohen, who settled in Scotland. One of them, who was a priest, retained the original name; but the other, who was a watchmaker, assumed the name of Cowan, which, singularly enough, the priest said, was a corruption of Cohen.--ED. [82] It is stated by Paget, in his Travels in Hungary, that the Gipsies in that country have a profound regard for aristocracy; and that they invariably follow that class in the matter of religious opinions. Grellmann says as much in regard to the Gipsy's desire of getting hold of a distinguished old coat to put on his person.--ED. Baron Hume, on the criminal law of Scotland, gives the following account of some of the trials and executions of the Gipsies: "The statute (1609) annuls at the same time all protection and warrants purchased by the Egyptians from his majesty's privy council, for their remaining within the realm; as also all privileges purchased by any person to reset, entertain, or do them any favour. It appears, indeed, from a paper in the appendix to McLaurin's Cases, that even the king's servants and great officers had not kept their hands entirely pure of this sort of treaty with the Egyptian chiefs, from whom some supply of money might in this way be occasionally obtained. "The first Gipsies that were brought to trial on the statute, were four persons of the name of Faa, who, on the 31st July, 1611, were sentenced to be hanged. They had pleaded upon a special license from the privy council, to abide within the country; but this appearing to be clogged with a condition of finding surety for their appearance when called on, and their surety being actually at the horn, for failure to present themselves, they were held to have infringed the terms of their protection. "The next trial was on the 19th and 24th July, 1616, in the case of other two Faas and a Baillie, (which seem to have been noted names among the Gipsies;) and here was started that plea which has since been repeated in almost every case, but has always been overruled, viz: that the act and proclamation were temporary ordinances, and applicable only to such Egyptians as were in the country at their date. These pannels, upon conviction, were ordered by the privy council to find caution to the extent of 1,000 merks, to leave Scotland and never to return; and having failed to comply with this injunction, they were in consequence condemned to die. "In January, 1624, follows a still more severe example; no fewer than eight men, among whom Captain John Faa and other five of the name of Faa, being convicted, were doomed to death on the statute. Some days after, there were brought to trial Helen Faa, relict of Captain Faa, Lucretia Faa, and other women to the number of eleven; all of whom were in like manner convicted, and condemned to be drowned! But, in the end, their doom was commuted for banishment, (under pain of death,) to them and all their race. The sentence was, however, executed on the male convicts; and it appears that the terror of their fate had been of material service; as, for the space of more than 50 years from that time, there is no trial of an Egyptian." But notwithstanding this statement of Baron Hume, of the Gipsy trials having ceased for half a century, we find, twelve years after 1624, the date of the above trials, the following order of the privy council: "Anent some Egyptians. At Edinburgh, 10th November, 1636. Forasmuch as Sir Arthur Douglas of Quhittinghame having lately taken and apprehended some of the vagabond and counterfeit thieves and _limmers_, (scoundrels,) called the Egyptians, he presented and delivered them to the sheriff principal of the sheriffdom of Edinburgh, within the constabulary of Haddington, where they have remained this month or thereby: and whereas the keeping of them longer, within the said tolbooth, is troublesome and burdensome to the town of Haddington, and fosters the said thieves in an opinion of impunity, to the encouraging of the rest of that infamous _byke_ (hive) of lawless _limmers_ (scoundrels) to continue in their thievish trade: Therefore the lords of secret council ordain the sheriff of Haddington, or his deputies, to pronounce doom and sentence of death against so many of these counterfeit thieves as are men, and against so many of the women as want children; ordaining the men to be hanged, and the women to be drowned; and that such of the women as have children, to be scourged through the burgh of Haddington, and burned in the cheek; and ordain and command the provost and baillies of Haddington to cause this doom be executed upon the said persons accordingly."[83] [83] Blackwood's Magazine. "Towards the end of that century," continues Baron Hume, "the nuisance seems to have again become troublesome. On the 13th of December, 1698, John Baillie and six men more of the same name, along with the wife of one of them, were indicted as Egyptians, and also for sundry special misdeeds; and being convicted, (all but the woman,) they were ordered for execution. But in this case it is to be remarked, that the court had so far departed from the rigour of the statute as not to sustain a relevancy on the habit and repute of being an Egyptian of itself, but only 'along with one or other of the facts of picking and little thieving;' thus requiring some proof of actual guilt in aid of the fame. In the next trial, which was that of William Baillie, June 26th, 1699, a still further indulgence was introduced; for the interlocutor required a proof, not of _one_ only, but of _several_, of the facts of 'picking or little thieving, or of several acts of beating and striking with invasive weapons.' He was only convicted as an Egyptian, and of _one_ act of striking with an invasive weapon, and he escaped in consequence with his life. "This lenient course of dealing with the Gipsies was not taken, however, from any opinion of it as a necessary thing, nor was there any purpose of prescribing it as a rule for other times, or for further cases of the kind where such an indulgence might seem improper, as appears from the interlocutor of relevancy in the case of John Kerr, and Helen Yorkston, and William Baillie and other seven; in both of which the simple fame and character of being an Egyptian is again found _separatum_ relevant to infer the pain of death, (10th and 11th August, 1714.) Kerr and Yorkston had a verdict in their favour; Baillie and two of his associates were condemned to die; but as far as concerns Baillie, (for the others were executed,) his doom was afterwards mitigated into transportation, under pain of death in case of return. "As early as the month of August, 1715, the same man, (as I understand it,) was again indicted, not only for being found in Britain, but for continuing his former practices and course of life. Notwithstanding this aggravation, the interlocutor is again framed on the indulgent plan, and only infers the pain of death, from the fame and character of being an Egyptian, joined with various acts of violence and sorning, to the number of three, that are stated in the libel. Though convicted nearly to the extent of the interlocutor, he again escaped with transportation.[84] [84] This, and part of the preceding paragraph, will be quoted again, under the chapter of Tweed-dale and Clydesdale Gipsies. "Nor have I observed that the court, in any later case, have thought it necessary to proceed upon the repute alone, unavouched by evidence of, at least, one act of theft or violence; so that, upon the whole, according to the practice of later times, this sort of charge seems to be reduced nearly to the level of the charge of being habit and repute a thief at common law." It is noticed by Baron Hume that the Faas and the Baillies were noted names among the Gipsies. Indeed, the trials referred to by him are all of persons bearing these two surnames, except two individuals only. The truth is, the Faas and the Baillies were the two principal families among the Gipsies; giving, according to their customs, kings and queens to their countrymen in Scotland. They would be more bold, daring, and presumptuous in their conduct than the most part of their followers; and, being leaders of the banditti, government, in all probability, would fix upon them as the most proper objects for destruction, as the best and easiest method of overawing and dispersing the whole tribe in the country, by cutting off their chiefs. As I have already mentioned, these two principal clans of Faw and Bailyow appear to be the only Gipsy families in Scotland who have retained the original surnames of their ancestors, at least of those whose names are inserted in the treaty with James V, in 1540. It will be seen, under the head Tweed-dale and Clydesdale Gipsies, that tradition has represented William Baillie, who was tried in 1714 and 1715, as a bastard son of the ancient family of Lamington, (his mother being a Gipsy). It appears to me that the Gipsy policy of joining themselves to some family of rank was, in Baillie's case, of very important service, not only to himself but to the whole tribe in Scotland.[85] The extraordinary lenity shown to him by the court, after such repeated aggravation, cannot be accounted for in any other way than that great interest had been used in his behalf, in some quarter or other; and that, by creating a merciful precedent in his case, it was afterwards followed in the trial of all others of the race in Scotland. [85] From the time of arrival of the Gipsies in the country, in 1506, till 1611, the date of the first trials of the tribe, as given by Baron Hume, a period of 105 years had elapsed; during which time there had doubtless been five generations of Gipsies added to the population, as Scottish subjects; to put whom to death, on the mere ground of being Egyptians, was contrary to every principle of natural justice. The cruelty exercised upon them was quite in keeping with that of reducing to slavery the individuals, and their descendants, who constituted the colliers, coal-bearers, and salters referred to in the following interesting note, to be found in "My Schools and Schoolmasters," of Hugh Miller. "The act for manumitting our Scotch colliers was passed in the year 1775, forty-nine years prior to the date of my acquaintance with the class of Niddry. But though it was only such colliers of the village as were in their fiftieth year when I knew them, (with, of course, all the older ones,) who had been born slaves, even its men of thirty had actually, though not nominally, come into the world in a state of bondage, in consequence of certain penalties attached to the emancipation act, of which the poor ignorant workers under ground were both too improvident and too little ingenious to keep clear. They were set free, however, by a second act passed in 1799. The language of both these acts, regarded as British ones of the latter half of the last century, and as bearing reference to British subjects living within the limits of the island, strikes with startling effect. 'Whereas,' says the preamble of the older act--that of 1775--'by the statute law of Scotland, as explained by the judges of the courts of law there, many colliers, and coal-bearers, and salters, are in a state of _slavery or bondage_, bound to the collieries or salt works, where they work _for life, transferable with the collieries or salt works_; and whereas, the emancipation,' &c., &c. A passage in the preamble of the act of 1799 is scarcely less striking: it declares that, notwithstanding the former act, 'many colliers and coal-bearers _still continue in a state of bondage_' in Scotland. The history of our Scotch colliers would be found a curious and instructive one. Their slavery seems not to have been derived from the ancient time of general serfship, but to have originated in comparatively modern acts of the Scottish Parliament, and in decisions of the Court of Session--in acts of Parliament in which the poor ignorant subterranean men of the country were, of course, wholly unrepresented, and in decisions of a court in which no agent of theirs ever made appearance in their behalf." What is here said of a history of Scotch colliers being "curious and instructive," is applicable in an infinitely greater degree to that of the Gipsies.--ED. CHAPTER IV. LINLITHGOWSHIRE GIPSIES.[86] [86] This and the following three chapters are illustrative of the Gipsies, in their wild state, previous to their gradual settlement and civilization, and are applicable to the same class in every part of the world. Chapter VI, on the Gipsies of Tweed-dale and Clydesdale, might have been taken the first in order, as descriptive of the tribe in its more primitive condition, but I have allowed it to remain where it stands. A description of the habits peculiar to the race will be found, more or less, in all of these chapters, where they can be consulted, for the better identification of the facts given.--ED. The Gipsies who frequented the banks of the Forth, and the counties northward, appear to have been more daring than those who visited some other parts of Scotland. Within these sixty years, a large horde, of very desperate character, resided on the banks of the Avon, near the burgh of Linlithgow. At first, they quartered higher up on the Stirling side of the stream, at a place called Walkmilton; but latterly they took up their abode in some old houses, on the Linlithgow side of the river, at or near the bridge of Linlithgow. These Gipsies displayed much sagacity in carrying on their trade, by selecting the neighbourhood of Falkirk and Linlithgow for their headquarters, as this was, perhaps, the most advantageous position in all Scotland that a Gipsy band could occupy. The district was of itself very populous, and a very considerable trade and bustle then existed at the port of Bo'ness, in the vicinity. All the intercourse between Edinburgh and Glasgow passed a few miles to the south of their quarters. The traffic, by carts, between Glasgow and the west of Scotland, and the shipping at Carron-shore, Elphingston-Pow and Airth, on the Forth, before the canal was cut, was immense; all which traffic, as well as that between Fife and the western districts, passed a few miles north of their position. The road for travellers and cattle from the Highlands, by way of Stirling, crossed the above-mentioned roads, and led, through Falkirk and Linlithgow, to Edinburgh, the eastern and southern counties of Scotland, and England. The principal surnames of this Gipsy band were McDonald, Jamieson, Wilson, Gordon and Lundie. Frequently the number that would assemble together would amount to upwards of thirty souls, and it was often observed that a great many females and children were seen loitering about their common place of residence. No protection was given by them to our native vagrants, nor were any of our common plunderers, vagabonds, or outlaws suffered to remain among them. When at home, or traversing the country, the trade and occupation of this band were exactly the same as those of their friends in other parts of Scotland, viz: making wool-cards, cast-iron soles for ploughs, smoothing-irons, horn spoons, and repairing articles in the tinker line. The old females told fortunes, while the women in general assisted their husbands in their work, by blowing the bellows, scraping and polishing the spoons with glass and charred wood, and otherwise completing their articles for sale. Many of the males dealt in horses, with which they frequented fairs--that great resort of the Gipsies; and these wanderers, in general, were considered excellent judges of horses. Numbers of them were fiddlers and pipers, and the tribe often amused themselves with feasting and dancing.[87] [87] It appears that, at this period, James Wilson, town-piper, and John Livingston, hangman, of Linlithgow, were both Gipsies. [Formerly the Gipsies were exclusively employed in Hungary and Transylvania as hangmen and executioners. _Grellmann._--ED.] Like their race generally, these Gipsies were extremely civil and obliging to their immediate neighbours, and those who lived nearest to their quarters, and had the most intercourse with them, in the ordinary affairs of life, were the least afraid of them.[88] But the farmers and others at a distance, who frequented the markets at Falkirk, and other fairs in the neighbourhood, were always a plentiful harvest for the plundering Tinklers. Their plunderings on such occasions spread a general alarm over the country. But that good humour, mirth, and jocund disposition, peculiar to many of the males of the Gipsies, seldom failed to gain the good-will of those who deigned to converse with them with familiarity, or treated them with kindness. They even formed strong attachments to certain individuals of the community, and afforded them protection on all occasions, giving them tokens to present to others of their fraternity, while travelling under night. Notwithstanding the good disposition which they always showed under these circumstances, the fiery Tinklers often fell out among themselves, on dividing, at home, the booty which they had collected at fairs, and excited feelings of horror in the minds of their astonished neighbours, when they beheld the hurricanes of wrath and fury exhibited by both sexes, and all ages, in the heat of their battles. [88] This trait in the character of the Scottish Gipsies is well illustrated in the following anecdote, which appeared in Blackwood's Magazine. It was obtained by an individual who frequently heard the clergyman in question relate it. "The late Mr. Leek, minister of Yetholm, happened to be riding home one evening from a visit in Northumberland, when, finding himself likely to be benighted, for sake of a near cut, he struck into a wild, solitary track, or drove-road, across the fells, by a place called the Staw. In one of the derne places through which this path led him, there stood an old deserted shepherd's house, which, of course, was reputed to be haunted. The minister, though little apt to be alarmed by such reports, was, however, somewhat startled on observing, as he approached close to the cottage, a 'grim visage' staring out past a _window claith_, or sort of curtain, which had been fastened up to supply the place of a door, and also several 'dusky figures,' skulking among the bourtree-bushes that had once sheltered the shepherd's garden. Without leaving him any time for speculation, however, the knight of the curtain bolted forth upon him, and, seizing his horse by the bridle, demanded his money. Mr. Leek, though it was now dark, at once recognised the gruff voice, and the great, black, burly head of his next-door neighbour, _Gleid Neckit Will_, the Gipsy chief. 'Dear me, William,' said the minister, in his usual quiet manner,'can this be you? ye're surely no serious wi' me? ye wadna sae far wrang your character for a good neighbour, for the bit trifle I ha'e to gi'e, William?'--'Lord saif us, Mr. Leek!' said Will, quitting the rein, and lifting his hat, with great respect, 'Whae wad hae thought o' meeting you out owre here away? Ye needna gripe for ony siller to me--I wadna touch a plack o' your gear, nor a hair o' your head, for a' the gowd o' Tividale. I ken ye'll no do us an ill turn for this mistak--and I'll e'en see ye safe through the eirie Staw--it's no reckoned a very _canny bit_, mair ways nor ane; but I wat ye'll no be feared for the _dead_, and I'll tak care o' the _living_.' Will accordingly gave his reverend friend a safe convoy through the haunted pass, and, notwithstanding this ugly mistake, continued ever after an inoffensive and obliging neighbour to the minister, who, on his part, observed a prudent and inviolable secrecy on the subject of this rencounter, during the life time of _Gleid Nickit Will_." I understand this anecdote to apply to old Will Faa, mentioned in the Border Gipsies, under chapter VII.--ED. The children of these Gipsies attended the principal school at Linlithgow, and not an individual at the school dared to cast the slightest reflection on, or speak a disrespectful word of, either them or their parents, although their robberies were everywhere notorious, yet always conducted in so artful a manner that no direct evidence could ever be obtained of them. Such was the fear that the audacious conduct of these Gipsies inspired, that the magistrates of the royal burgh of Linlithgow stood in awe of them, and were deterred from discharging their magisterial duties, when any matter relative to their conduct came before their honours. The truth is, the magistrates would not interfere with them at all, but stood nearly on the same terms with them that a tribe of American Indians, who worshipped the devil--not from any respect which they had for his Satanic majesty, but from being in constant dread of his diabolical machinations. Not a justice of the peace gave the horde the least annoyance, but, on the contrary, allowed them to remain in peaceable possession of some old, uninhabited houses, to which they had no right whatever. Instead of endeavouring to repress the unlawful proceedings of the daring Tinklers, numbers of the most respectable individuals in Linlithgowshire deigned to play at golf and other games with the principal members of the body. The proficiency which the Gipsies displayed on such occasions was always a source of interest to the patrons and admirers of such games. At throwing the sledge-hammer, casting the putting-stone, and all other athletic exercises, not one was a match for these powerful Tinklers. They were also remarkably dexterous at handling the cudgel, at which they were constantly practising themselves. The honourable magistrates, indeed, frequently admitted the presumptuous Tinklers to share a social bowl with them at their entertainments and dinner parties. Yet these friends and companions of the magistrates and gentlemen of Linlithgowshire were no other than the occasional tenants of kilns, or temporary occupiers of the ground floor of some ruinous, half-roofed houses, without furniture, saving a few blankets and some straw, to prevent their persons from resting upon the cold earth. But, nevertheless, these Gipsies made themselves of considerable importance, and possessed an influence over the minds of the community to an extent hardly to be credited at the present day. It was well known that the provost of Linlithgow, who was much exposed by riding at all times through the country, in the way of his business as a brewer, had himself received from the Gipsies assurance that he would not be molested by the band, and that he was, therefore, at all times, and on all occasions, perfectly safe from being plundered. Having in this manner rendered the local authorities entirely passive, or rather neutral, from fear and interest, the audacious Gipsies prosecuted their system of plunder and robbery to an alarming extent. Notwithstanding the fear which these Gipsies inspired in the mind of the community, there were yet individuals of courage who would brave them, if circumstances rendered a meeting with them unavoidable. None, indeed, would dream of wantonly molesting them, but, if brought to the pinch, some would not shrink from encountering them, when acting under the influences of those feelings which call forth the latent courage of even the most timid and considerate of people. Such a rencounter resulted in the death of the chief of the Linlithgow band, of the name of McDonald, to whom the others of the tribe gave the title of captain. In a dark night, a gentleman of the name of H----, an officer in the army, and a man of courage, while travelling on the high road, from the eastward to Stirlingshire, to visit, as was said, his sweetheart, had occasion to stop, for refreshment, at a public-house near the bridge of Linlithgow. The landlord advised him to go no further that night, owing to the road being "foul," meaning that the Tinklers had been seen lurking in the direction in which he was travelling. Foul or not foul, he would proceed; his particular engagement with the lady making him reluctant to break his promise, and turn back. He called for a gill of brandy, which he shared with the landlord, and deliberately loaded, in his presence, a brace of pistols which he carried about his person. His courage rose with the occasion, and he declared that whoever dared to molest him should not go unpunished. He then mounted his horse and rode forward. On arriving at a place called Sandy-ford-burn, a man, in the dark, sprang out from the side of the road, and, laying hold of the bridle of his horse, demanded his money. The horseman being on the alert, and quite prepared for such a demand, with his spirits, moreover, elevated by his dram of brandy, instantly replied by firing one of his pistols at the robber, who fell to the ground. He, however, held fast the bridle reins in his convulsive death grasp, and the horse, being urged forward, dragged him a short distance along the ground. Hardly had the shot been fired, ere a voice, close by, was heard to exclaim, "There goes our captain," while a confused cry of vengeance was uttered on all sides, against him by whom he had fallen. But the rider, clapping his spurs to his horse, instantly galloped forward, yet made a narrow escape, for several shots were fired at him, which were heard by the landlord of the public-house which he had just left. The Gipsies, in this awkward predicament, carried the body of their chieftain home, and gave out to their neighbours, the country people, the following morning, (Sunday,) that he had died very suddenly of iliac passion. His lyke-wake was kept up in their usual manner, and great feastings and drinkings were held by them while his body lay uninterred. After several days of carousing, the remains of the robber were buried in the church-yard of Linlithgow.[89] His funeral was very respectable, having been attended by the magistrates of Linlithgow, and a number of the most genteel persons in the neighbourhood. The real cause of the sudden death of the Tinkler began to spread abroad, a short time after the burial, but no enquiry was made into the matter. The individual who had done the public a service, by taking off the chief of the banditti, mentioned the circumstance afterwards to his friends, and was afraid of the band for some time thereafter; although it was improbable that, in the dark, they were able to make out, or afterwards ascertain, the person who had made himself so obnoxious to them. [89] Some of the Gipsies only put a paper cap on the head, and paper round the feet, of their dead; leaving all the body bare, excepting that they place upon the breast, opposite the heart, a circle made of red and blue ribbons, in form something like the shape of the variegated cockade, worn in the hats of newly-enlisted recruits in the army. [In England it was customary with the Gipsies, at one time, to burn the dead, but now they only burn the clothes, and some of the effects of the deceased.--ED.] Notwithstanding this prompt and well-merited chastisement which the Gipsies received, in their leader being shot dead in his attempt at highway robbery, in the immediate vicinity of their ordinary place of rendezvous, they continued their depredations in their usual manner, but generally took care, as is their custom, to give no molestation to their nearest neighbours. The deceased captain was succeeded, in the chieftainship of the tribe, by his son, Alexander McDonald, who also assumed the title of captain. This man trod in the footsteps of his father in every respect, and exercised his hereditary profession of theft and robbery, with an activity and audacity unequalled by any among his tribe in that part of Scotland. The very name of McDonald and his gang appalled the boldest hearts of those who ventured to travel under night with money in their pockets, in certain parts of the country. His band appears to have been very numerous, as among them some held the subordinate rank of lieutenants, as if they had been organized like a regular military company. James Jamieson, his brother-in-law, was also styled captain in this notorious band of Gipsies, who were connected with similar bands in England and Ireland. McDonald and his brother-in-law, Jamieson, were considered remarkably stout, handsome, and fine-looking men. By constant training at all kinds of athletic exercises, they brought themselves to perform feats of bodily strength and agility which were almost incredible. They were often elegantly dressed in the finest clothes of the first fashion, with linen to correspond. At the same time they were perfect chameleons in respect to their appearance and apparel. McDonald was frequently observed in three or four different dresses in one market-day. At one time of the day, he was seen completely attired in the best of tartan, assuming the appearance and manners of a highland gentleman in full costume. At another time, he appeared ruffled at hands and breast, booted and spurred, on horseback, as if he had been a man of some consideration. He would again be seen in a ragged coat, with a budget and wallet on his back--a common travelling Tinkler. Both of these men often dealt in horses, and were themselves frequently mounted on the best of animals. The Arabians and Tartars are scarcely more partial to horses than the Gipsies. The pranks and tricks played by McDonald were numerous, and many a story is yet remembered of his extraordinary exploits. He took great pains in training and learning some of his horses various evolutions and tricks. He had, at one time, a piebald horse so efficiently trained, and so completely under his management, that it, in some respects, assisted him in his depredations. By certain signals and motions, he could, when he found it necessary, make it clap close to the ground, like a hare in its furrow. It would crouch down in a hollow piece of ground, in a ditch, or at the side of a hedge, so as to hide itself, when McDonald's situation was like to expose him to detection. With the assistance of one of these well trained-horses, this man, on one occasion, saved his wife, Ann Jamieson, from prison, and perhaps from the gallows. Ann was apprehended near Dunfermline for some of her unlawful practices. As the officers of the law were conducting her to prison, McDonald rode up to the party, and requested permission to speak with their prisoner, which was readily granted, as, from McDonald's appearance, the officers supposed he had something to say to the woman. He then drew her aside, under the pretence of conversing with her in private, when, in an instant, Ann, with his assistance, sprang upon the horse, behind him, and bade good-bye to the messengers, who were amazed at the sudden and unexpected escape of their prisoner. Ann was a little, handsome woman, and was considered one of the most expert of the Scottish Gipsies at conducting a plundering at a fair; and was, on that account, much respected by her tribe. McDonald and Jamieson, like others of the superior classes of Gipsies, gave tokens of protection to their particular friends of the community generally. The butchers of Linlithgow, when they went to the country, with money to buy cattle, frequently procured these assurances from the Gipsies. The shoemakers did likewise, when they had to go to distant markets with their shoes. Linlithgow appears even to have been under the special protection of these banditti. Mr. George Hart, and Mr. William Baird, two of the most respectable merchants of Bo'ness, who had been peddlers in their early years, scrupled not to say that, when travelling through the country, they were seldom without tokens from the Gipsies. But if the Gipsies were kind to those who kept on good terms with them, they, on the other hand, vindictively tormented their enemies. They would steal sheep, and put the blood and parts of the animal about the premises of those they hated, that they might be suspected of the theft, searched and affronted by the enquiries made about the stolen property. When McDonald and Jamieson attacked individuals on the highway, or elsewhere, and were satisfied that they had little or no money, they were just as ready to supply their wants as to rob them. The idea of plundering the wealthy, and giving the booty to the poor, gives the Gipsies great satisfaction. The standard by which this people's conduct can be measured, must be sought for among the robber tribes of Tartary, Afghanistan, or Arabia. Many of our Scottish Gipsies have, indeed, been as ready to give a purse as take one; and it cannot be said that they have lacked in the display of a certain degree of honour peculiar to themselves, as the following well-authenticated fact will illustrate.[90] [90] Instances have occurred in which an Afghan has received a stranger with all the rights of hospitality, and afterwards, meeting him in the open country, has robbed him. The same person, it is supposed, who would plunder a cloak from a traveller who had one, would give a cloak to one who had none.--_Hugh Murray's Asia, vol. 2, page 508._ A gentleman, whose name is not mentioned, while travelling, under night, between Falkirk and Linlithgow, fell in, on the road, with a man whom he did not know. During the conversation which ensued, he mentioned to the stranger that he was afraid of being attacked, for many a one, he observed, had been robbed on that road. He then urged that they should return, as the safest plan for them both. The stranger, however, replied that he had often travelled the road, yet had never been troubled by any one. After some further conversation, he put his hand into his pocket, and gave the traveller a knife, with which he was desired to proceed without fear.[91] The traveller now perfectly understood the relation that existed between them, and continued his journey with confidence; but he had not proceeded far ere he was accosted by a foot-pad, to whom he produced the knife. The pad looked at it carefully, said nothing, but passed on, without giving the traveller the slightest annoyance. It is needless to say that the mysterious stranger was no other than the notorious Captain McDonald. The traveller, by his fears and the nature of his conversation, had plainly informed McDonald of his being possessed of money--a considerable quantity of which he had, indeed, with him--and had the love of booty been the Gipsy's sole and constant object, how easily could he, in this instance, have possessed himself of it. But the stronger had put himself, in a measure, under the protection of the robber, who disdained to take advantage of the confidence reposed in him. [91] A pen-knife, a snuff-box, and a ring are some of the Gipsy pass-ports. It is what is marked upon them that protects the bearer from being disturbed by others of the tribe. Another instance of a Gipsy's honour, generosity, or caprice, or by whatever word the act may be expressed, occurred between McDonald and a farmer of the name of Campbell, and exhibits a singular cast of character, which has not been uncommon among the Scottish Gipsies. On this occasion, it would appear, the Gipsy had been influenced rather by a desire of enjoying the extraordinary surprise of the simple countryman, than of obtaining booty. The occurrence will also give some idea of the part which the cautious chiefs take in plundering at a fair. The particulars are derived from a Mr. David McRitchie, of whom I shall again make mention. While Campbell was on his way to a market in Perth, he fell in with Captain McDonald. Being unacquainted with the character of his fellow-traveller, the unsuspecting man told him, among other things, that he had just as much money in his pocket as would purchase one horse, for his four-horse plough, having other three at home. McDonald heard all this with patience till he came to a solitary part of the road, when, all at once, he turned upon the astonished farmer, and demanded his money. The poor man, having no alternative, immediately produced his purse. But in parting, the robber desired him to call next day at a certain house in Perth, where he would find a person who might be of some service to him. Campbell promised to do as desired, and called at the house appointed, and great was his surprise, when, on being ushered into a room, he found himself face to face with the late robber, sitting with a large bowl of smoking toddy before him. The Gipsy, in a frank and hearty manner, invited his visitor to sit down and share his toddy with him; a request which he readily complied with, although bewildered with the idea of the probable fate of his purse, and the result of his personal adventure. He had scarcely got time, however, to swallow one glass, before he was relieved of his suspense, by the Gipsy returning him every farthing of the money he had robbed him of the day before. Being now pleased with his good fortune, and the Gipsy pressing him to drink, Campbell was in no hurry to be gone, his spirits having become elevated with his good cheer, and the confidence with which his host's conduct had inspired him. But his suspicions returned upon him, as he saw pocket-book after pocket-book brought in to his entertainer, during the time he was enjoying his hospitality. The Gipsy chief was, in fact, but following a very important branch of his calling, and was, on that day, doing a considerable business, having a number of youths ferreting for him in the market, and coming in and going out constantly. But this crafty Gipsy, and his brother-in-law, Jamieson, were at last apprehended for house-breaking and robbery. Their trials took place at Edinburgh, on the 9th and 13th of August, 1770, and "the fame of being Egyptians" made part of the charge against them in the indictment; a charge well founded, as both of them spoke the "right Egyptian language." It was the last instance, I believe, that the fact of their being "called, known, repute, and holden Egyptians," made part of the indictment against any of the tribe in Scotland, under the sanguinary statute of James VI, chap. 13, passed in 1609. So cunning are the Gipsies, however, in committing crimes, that, in this instance, the criminals, it was understood, would have escaped justice, for want of sufficient proof, had not one of their own band, of the name of Jamieson, a youth of about twenty-two years of age, turned king's evidence against his associates. The two unhappy men were then found guilty by the jury, and condemned to die. They were ordered to be executed at Linlithgow bridge, near the very spot where their band had their principal rendezvous, with the apparent object of daunting their incorrigible race. Immediately after the trial, a report was spread, and generally believed, that the Gipsies would attempt a rescue of the criminals on the way to execution, or even from under the gallows itself; and it was particularly mentioned that thirty stout and desperate members of the race had undertaken to set their chieftains free. Every precaution was therefore taken, by the authorities, to prevent any such attempt being made. A large proportion of the gentlemen and farmers of the shire of Linlithgow were requested, with what arms they could procure, to attend, on foot or horseback, the execution of the desperate Tinklers. Indeed, every third man of all the fencible men of the county was called upon to appear on the occasion; while a company of pensioners, with a commissioned officer at their head, and a strong body of the military, completed the force deemed necessary for the due execution of justice. Besides guarding against the possibility of a rescue on the part of the Gipsies, it was generally understood that the steps taken by the authorities, in bringing together so large a body of men, had in view the object of exhibiting to the people the ignominious death of two men who had not only been allowed to remain among them, but, in many instances, countenanced by some of the most respectable inhabitants of the county; and that not only in out-door amusements, but even in some of the special hospitalities of daily life, while in fact they were nothing but the leaders of a band of notorious thieves and robbers. These precautions being completed, the condemned Gipsies were bound hand and foot, and conveyed, by the sheriff of Edinburgh and a company of the military, to the boat-house bridge, on the river Almond--the boundary of the two counties--and there handed over to the sheriff of Linlithgow; under whose guard they were carried to the jail of the town of Linlithgow, and securely bound in irons, to wait their execution on the morrow.[92] As night approached, fires were kindled at the door of the prison, and guards posted in the avenues leading to the building, while all the entrances to the town were guarded, and all ingress and egress prohibited, as if the burgh had been in a state of siege. So strictly were these orders put in force, that many of the inhabitants of Bo'ness, who had gone to Linlithgow, to view the bustle occasioned by the assemblage of so great a number of armed men, were forced to remain in the town over night; so alarmed were the authorities for the onset of the resolute Gipsies. It was soon perceived, by some sagacious individuals, that the fires would do more harm than good, as the light would show the prison, expose the sentinels, and guide the Gipsy bands. They were accordingly extinguished, and the guards placed in such positions as would enable them, with the most advantage, to repel any attack that might be attempted: yet the enemy that caused all this alarm and precaution was nowhere visible. [92] "This morning, a little after nine o'clock, McDonald and Jamieson were transported from the Tolbooth here, (Edinburgh,) escorted by a party of the military, and attended by the sheriff-depute on horseback, with the officers of court, armed with broad-swords, amidst an innumerable crowd of spectators. They were securely pinioned to a cart, and are to be received by the sheriff-depute of Linlithgow, on the confines of this county, whither they are to be conveyed, in order to their execution to-morrow, near Linlithgow-bridge, pursuant to their sentence."--_Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine_, vol 9, page 384. On the following morning, McDonald's wife requested permission to visit her husband before being led to execution, with what particular object can only be conjectured; a favour which was readily granted her, in the company of a magistrate. On beholding the object of her affection, she became overwhelmed with grief; she threw her arms around his neck, and embraced him most tenderly; and after giving vent to her sorrow in sobs and tears, she tore herself from him, and, turning to the magistrate, exclaimed, with a bursting heart, "Is he not a pretty man? What a pity it is to hang him!" Arrangements were then made to carry the prisoners to the place of execution, at the bridge of Linlithgow, which lay about a mile from the town. The armed force was drawn up at the town-cross, and those who carried muskets were ordered to load them with ball cartridge, and hold themselves ready, at the word of command, upon the least appearance of an attempt at rescue, to fire upon the aggressors. The whole scene presented such an alarming and war-like appearance, that the people of the town and surrounding country compared it to the bustle and military parade which took place, twenty-five years before, when the rebel army made its appearance in the neighbourhood. The judicious arrangements adopted by the officers of the crown had the desired effect; for not the slightest symptom of disturbance, not even a movement, was observed among the Gipsies, either on the night before, or on the morning of the execution. The formidable armed bands, ready to overwhelm the presumptuous Gipsies, clearly showed them that they had not the shadow of a chance for carrying out their intended rescue. All was peace and silence throughout the immense crowd surrounding the gallows, patiently waiting the appearance of the criminals. In due time the condemned made their appearance, in a cart, accompanied by Charles and James Jamieson, two youths, sitting beside their father and uncle, busily eating rolls, and, to all appearance, totally indifferent to the fate of their relatives, and the awful circumstances surrounding them. On ascending the platform, Jamieson's demeanour was suitable to the circumstances in which he found himself placed; but McDonald appeared quite unconcerned. He was observed frequently to turn a quid of tobacco in his mouth, and squirt the juice of it around him; it was even evident, from his manner, that he expected to be delivered from the gallows by his tribe; and more especially as he had been frequently heard to say that the hemp was not grown that would hang him. He then began to look frequently and wistfully around him for the expected aid, yet none made its appearance; and his heart began to sink within him. Indeed, the overwhelming force then surrounding him rendered a deliverance impossible. Every hope having failed him, and seeing his end at hand, McDonald resigned himself, with great firmness, to his fate, and exclaimed: "I have neither friends on my right hand nor on my left; I see I now must die." Jamieson, who appeared from the first never to indulge in vain expectations of being rescued, exclaimed to his fellow-sufferer: "Sandie, Sandie! it is all over with us, and I told you so long ago." McDonald then turned to the executioner, whose name was John Livingston, and dropping into his hand something, supposed to be money, undauntedly said to him: "Now, John, don't bungle your job." Both of the unhappy men were then launched into eternity. Ever afterwards, the inhabitants of Linlithgow pestered the hangman, by calling to him: "Now, John, don't bungle your job. What was it the Tinkler gave you, John?"[93] [93] "On Friday last, about three o'clock, McDonald and Jamieson were hanged, at the end of Linlithgow bridge. The latter appeared very penitent, but the former very little affected, and, as the saying is, _died hard_."--_Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine_, vol. 9, page 416. McDonald's wife had stood by, a quiet spectator, among the promiscuous crowd, of the melancholy scene displayed before her. But when she had witnessed the closing act of an eventful life--the heroism and fortitude which all she held as dear displayed in his last moments--and enjoyed the satisfaction which it had given her, nature, which the odium of her fellow-creatures, not of her blood, could not destroy, burst forth with genuine expression. The silence attending the awful tragedy was abruptly broken by the lamentable yells and heart-rending screams which she gave vent to, as she beheld her husband turned off the scaffold. Two gentlemen, who were present, informed me that she foamed at the mouth, and tore her hair out of her head, and was so completely frantic with grief and rage, that the spectators were afraid to go near her. On the bodies being taken down from the scaffold, an attempt was made to restore them to life, by opening a vein, but without effect. It is said they were buried in the moor near Linlithgow, by the Gipsies, and that the magistrates of the town ordered them to be taken up, and interred in the east end of the church-yard of Linlithgow. However that may be, the bodies were buried in the church-yard of Linlithgow; but the populace, delivered from the terror with which these daring Gipsies inspired them, treated with ignominy the remains of those whom they dared scarcely look in the face when alive. They dug them out of the place of Christian sepulture, and interred them in a solitary field in the neighbourhood. A clump of trees, I believe, marks the spot, and the gloomy pine now waves, in the winds of heaven, over the silent and peaceful graves of the restless and lawless Gipsies. McDonald, it would appear, was married, first of all, to a daughter of a Gipsy of the name of Eppie Lundie, with whom he lived unhappy, and was divorced from her over a horse sacrificed for the occasion, a ceremony which I will describe in another chapter.[94] He was more fortunate in his second matrimonial alliance, for, in Ann Jamieson, he found a wife after his own heart in every way. Previous to his own execution, she had witnessed the violent deaths of at least six of her own nearest relatives. But, if anything could have influenced, in the slightest degree, a reformation in her own character, it would have been the melancholy scene attending his miserable end; yet, we find it had not the slightest effect upon her after career, for she continued, to the last, to follow the practices of her race, as an anecdote told of her will show. [94] This Eppie Lundie lived to the advanced age of a hundred years, and was a terror wherever she travelled. Without the least hesitation or scruple, she frequently stripped defenceless individuals of their wearing apparel, leaving them sometimes naked in the open fields. At the North Queensferry was a very respectable inn, kept by a Mr. McRitchie, which was much frequented and patronized by the Gipsies. On such occasions they did not visit the house in whole families or hordes, fluttering in rags, but as well-dressed individuals, arriving from different directions, as if by chance. In this house they were always treated with consideration and kindness, for other reasons than that of the liberal custom which they brought to it, and, as a natural consequence, the landlord and his family became great favourites with them. One of the members of the family, David McRitchie, my informant, happened one day to purchase a horse, at a fair in Dunfermline, but in feeling for his pocket-book, to pay for the animal, he found, to his surprise and grief, that book and money were gone. The person from whom he bought the horse commenced at once to abuse him as an impostor, for he not only would not believe his tale, but would not trust him for a moment. Under these distressing circumstances, he sought out Ann Jamieson, or Annie McDonald, after her husband's name, for he knew well enough where his money had gone to, and the sovereign influence which Ann exercised over her tribe. Being well acquainted with her, from having often met her in his father's house, he went up to her, and putting his hand gently on her shoulder, in a kind and familiar manner, and with a long face, told her of his misfortune, and begged her friendly assistance to help him out of the difficulty, laying much stress on the horse-dealer charging him with an attempt to impose on him. "Some o' my laddies will hae seen it, Davie; I'll enquire," was her immediate reply. She then took him to a public-house, called for brandy, saw him seated, and desired him to drink. Taking the marks of the pocket-book, she entered the fair, and, after various doublings and windings among the crowd, proceeded to her temporary depot of stolen goods. In about half an hour she returned, with the book and all its contents. The cash, bills, and papers which it contained, were in the same parts of the book in which the owner had placed them. This affair was transacted in as cool and business-like a manner as if Annie and her "laddies" had been following any of the honest callings in ordinary life. Indeed, no example, however severe, no punishment, however awful, seems to have had any beneficial effect upon the minds of these Gipsies, or their friends who frequented the surrounding parts of the country, for they continued to follow the ways of their race, in spite of the sanguinary laws of the country. A continuation of their history, up to a period, is little better than a melancholy narrative of a series of imprisonments, banishments, and executions. Ann Jamieson's two nephews, Charles and James Jamieson, who rode alongside of their father and uncle to the place of their execution, eating rolls, as if nothing unusual was about to befall them, and who had witnessed their miserable end, in 1770, were themselves executed in 1786 for robbing the Kinross mail. It was their intention to have committed the deed upon the highway, for, the night before the robbery, their mother, Euphan Graham, to prevent detection, insisted upon the post-boy being put to death, to which bloody proposition her sons would not consent. It was then agreed that they should secure their prize in the stable yard of an inn in the town, where the post-boy usually stopped. The two highwaymen were traced to a small house near Stirling, in which they made a desperate resistance. One of them attempted to ascend the chimney, to effect his escape; but, failing in that, they attacked the officers, and tore at them with their teeth, after having struck furiously at them with a knife. But they were overpowered, and secured in irons. Two females were in their company at the time, on whom some of the money was found, most artfully concealed about their persons. So illiterate were these two men that, in crossing the Forth at Kincardine, they presented a twenty-pound note, to be changed, instead of a twenty-shilling one. According to Baron Hume, the trial of these two Gipsies took place on the 18th December, 1786. They were assisted in the robbery by other members of their band, including women and children. Their mother was said to have been transported for the part which she took in the affair; while another member of the gang was below the age at which criminals can be tried and punished in this country. The two brothers, before they committed the crime, measured themselves in a room in Kinross, kept by a Mary Barclay, and marked their heights on the wall. The one stood six feet two inches, and the other five feet four inches.[95] [95] Perhaps the author intended to say, six feet two inches, and six feet four inches. Still, it might have been as stated in the MS.; for with Gipsies of mixed blood, the individual, if he takes after the Gipsy, is apt to be short and thick-set. The mixture of the two people produces a strong race of men.--ED. CHAPTER V. FIFE AND STIRLINGSHIRE GIPSIES. In this account of the Gipsies in Fife, the horde which at one period resided at the village of Lochgellie are frequently referred to. But it is proper to premise that this noted band were not the only Gipsies in Fife. This populous county contained, at one time, a great number of nomadic Gipsies. The Falkland hills and the Falkland fairs were greatly frequented by them;[96] and, not far from St. Andrews, some of the tribe had, within these fifty years, a small farm, containing about twenty acres of waste land, on which they had a small foundry, which the country people, on that account, called "Little Carron." As my materials for this chapter are chiefly derived from the Lochgellie band, and their immediate connexions in other districts not far from Fife, their manners and customs are, on that account, brought more under review. [96] In Oliver and Boyd's Scottish Tourist, (1832), page 181, occurs the following passage: "A singular set of vagrants existed long in Falkland, called _Scrapies_, who had no other visible means of existence than a horse or a cow. Their ostensible employment was the carriage of commodities to the adjoining villages, and in the intervals of work they turned out their cattle to graze on the Lomond Hill. Their excursions at night were long and mysterious, for the pretended object of procuring coals, but they roamed with their little carts through the country-side, securing whatever they could lift, and plundering fields in autumn. Whenever any enquiry was addressed to a Falkland _Scrapie_ as to the support of his horse, the ready answer was, 'Ou, he gangs up the (Lomond) Hill, ye ken.' This is now prevented; the Lomond is enclosed, and the _Scrapies_ now manage their affairs on the road-sides." The people mentioned in this extract are doubtless those to whom our author alludes. The reader will notice some resemblance between them and the tribe in the Pyrenees, as described at page 87.--ED. The village of Lochgellie was, at one time, a favourite resort of the Gipsies. The grounds in its immediate vicinity are exactly of that character upon which they seem to have fixed their permanent, or rather winter's residence, in a great many parts of Scotland. By the statistical account of the parish of Auchterderran, Lochgellie was almost inaccessible for nearly six months in the year. The bleak and heathy morasses, and rushy wastes, with which the village is surrounded, have a gloomy and melancholy aspect. The scenery and face of the adjoining country are very similar to those in the neighbourhood of Biggar, in Lanarkshire, and Middleton, in Midlothian, which were also, at that time, Gipsy stations. A little to the south of the spot where the Linlithgow band, at one period, had their quarters, the country becomes moory, bleak, and barren. The village of Kirk-Yetholm, at present full of Gipsies, is also situated upon the confines of a wild, pastoral tract, among the Cheviot hills.[97] The Gipsies, in general, appear to have located themselves upon grounds of a flattish character, between the cultivated and uncultivated districts; having, on one side, a fertile and populous country, and, on the other, a heathy, boggy, and barren waste, into which they could retire in times of danger.[98] [97] Yetholm lies in a valley which, surrounded on all sides by lofty mountains, seems completely sequestered from the rest of the world--alike inaccessible from without, and not to be left from within. The valley has, however, more than one outlet.--_Chambers' Gazetteer of Scotland._--ED. [98] In Hungary, their houses, which are always small, and poor in appearance, are commonly situated in the outskirts of the village, and, if possible, in the neighbourhood of some thicket or rough land.--_Bright._--ED. In the statistical account of Auchterderran, just alluded to, is to be found the following notice of the Lochgellie Gipsies: "There are a few persons called _Tinkers_ and _Horners_, half resident and half itinerant, who are feared and suspected by the community. Two of them were banished within these six years." This horde, at one time, consisted of four or five families of the names of Graham, Brown, Robertson, &c. The Jamiesons and Wilsons were also often seen at Lochgellie; but such were the numbers that were coming and going about the village, that it was difficult to say who were residenters, and who were not. Some of them had fens from the proprietor of the estate of Lochgellie. They were dreaded for their depredations, and were well known to the country people, all over the shires of Fife, Kinross, Perth, Forfar, Kincardine and Aberdeen, by the name of the "Lochgellie band." The chiefs of this band were the Grahams, at the head of which was old Charles Graham, an uncommonly stout and fine-looking man. He was banished the kingdom for his many crimes. Charlie had been often in courts of justice, and on one occasion, when he appeared for some crime or other, the judge, in a surly manner, demanded of him, what had brought him there?--"The auld thing again, my lord, but nae proof," was the Tinkler's immediate reply. Ann Brown, one of his wives, and the chief female of the band, was also sentenced to banishment for fourteen years; seven of which, however, she spent in the prison of Aberdeen. She remained altogether nine years at Botany Bay, married a Gipsy abroad, returned to Scotland, with more than a hundred pounds in cash, and now sells earthenware at St. Andrews.[99] Being asked why she left Botany Bay, while making so much money there, she said, "It was to let them see I could come back again." [99] This woman is most probably dead, and the same may be said of some of the other characters mentioned in this and other chapters.--ED. Young Charlie Graham, son and successor, as chief, to old Charlie, was hanged at Perth, about thirty years ago, for horse-stealing. The anecdotes which are told of this singular man are numerous. When he was apprehended, a number of people assembled to look at him, as an object of wonder; it being considered a thing almost impossible to take him. His dog had discovered to the messengers the place of his concealment, having barked at them as they came near the spot. His feelings became irritated at the curiosity of the people, and he called out in great bitterness to the officers: "Let me free, and gie me a stick three feet lang, and I'll clear the knowe o' them." His feet and hands were so handsome and small, in proportion to the other parts of his athletic body, that neither irons nor hand-cuffs could be kept on his ankles or wrists; without injury to his person the gyves and manacles always slipped over his joints. He had a prepossessing countenance, an elegant figure, and much generosity of heart; and, notwithstanding all his tricks, was an extraordinary favourite with the public. Among the many tricks he played, it is related that he once, unobserved, in a grass park, converted a young colt into a gelding. He allowed the animal to remain for some time in the possession of the owner, and then stole it. He was immediately detected, and apprehended; but as the owner swore positively to the description of his horse, and Charlie's being a gelding, he got off clear. The man was amazed when he discovered the trick that had been played upon him, but when, where, and by whom done, he was entirely ignorant. Graham sold the animal to a third person, again stole it, and replaced it in the park of the original owner. He seemed to take great delight in stealing in this ingenious manner, trying how dexterously he could carry off the property of the astonished natives. He sometimes stole from wealthy individuals, and gave the booty to the indigent, although they were not Gipsies; and so accustomed were the people, in some places, to his bloodless robberies, that some only put their spurs to their horses, calling out, as they passed him: "Ah ha, Charlie lad, ye hae missed your mark to-night!" A widow, with a large family, at whose house he had frequently been quartered, was in great distress for want of money to pay her rent. Graham lent her the amount required; but as the factor was returning home with it in his pocket, Charlie robbed him, and, without loss of time, returned to the woman, and gave her a full discharge for the sum she had just borrowed from him. He was asked, immediately before his execution, if he had ever performed any good action during his life, to recommend him to the mercy of his offended God. That of giving the widow and fatherless the money of which he immediately afterwards robbed the factor, was the only instance he adduced in his favour; thinking that thereby he had performed a virtuous deed. In the morning of the day on which he was to suffer, he sent a messenger to one of the magistrates, requesting a razor to take off his beard; at the same time, in a calm manner, desiring the person to tell the magistrate that, "unless his beard was shaven, he could appear before neither God nor man." A short time before he was taken out to the gallows, he was observed reclining very pensively and thoughtfully on a seat. All at once he started up, exclaiming, in a mournful tone of voice, "Oh, can ony o' ye read, sirs; will some o' ye read a psalm to me?" at the same time regretting much that he had not been taught to read. The fifty-first psalm was accordingly read to him, by a gentleman present, which soothed his feelings exceedingly, and gave him much ease and comfort. He was greatly agitated after ascending the platform--his knees knocking against each other; but just before he was cast off, his inveterate Gipsy feelings returned upon him with redoubled violence. He kicked from his feet both of his shoes, in sight of the spectators--to set at nought, as was supposed, some prophecy that he would die with them on; and addressed the assembled crowd in the following words: "I am this day to be married to the gallows-tree, by suffering in the manner of many of my ancestors; and I am extremely glad to see such a number of respectable people at my wedding." A number of the band attended his execution, and, when his body was returned to them, they all kissed it with great affection, and held the usual lyke-wake over it. His sweetheart, or widow, I am uncertain which, of the name of Wilson, his own cousin, put his corpse into hot lime, then buried it, and sat on his grave, in a state of intoxication, till it was rendered unfit for the use of the medical gentlemen; it having been reported that he was to be taken out of his grave for the purpose of dissection. This man boasted greatly, while under sentence of death, of never having spilled human blood by committing murder. Hugh Graham, brother to Charlie, above-mentioned, was stabbed with a knife by his own cousin, John Young, in Aberdeenshire. These powerful Gipsies never fell in with each other but a wrestling bout took place. Young generally came off victorious, but Graham, although worsted, would neither quit Young nor acknowledge his inferiority of strength. Young frequently desired Graham to keep out of his way, as his obstinate disposition would prove fatal to one of them some time or other. They, however, met again, when a desperate struggle ensued. Graham was the aggressor; he drew his knife to stab Young, who wrested it out of his hand, and stabbing him in the upper part of the stomach, close to the breast, laid his opponent dead at his feet.[100] In this battle the Gipsy females, in their usual manner, took a conspicuous part, by assisting the combatants on either side. [100] Young was chased for nearly thirty miles, by Highlanders, on foot, and General Gordon of Cairnfield, and others, on horseback; and, as he was frequently in view, the affair much resembled a fox-hunt. The hounds were most of them game-keepers--an active race of men; and so exhausted were they, before the Gipsy was caught, that they were seen lying by the springs, lapping water with their tongues, like dogs.--_Blackwood's Magazine._--ED. Jenny Graham, sister of these Grahams, was kept by a gentleman as his mistress; but, although treated with affection, such was her attachment to her old wandering way of life, that she left her protector and his wealth, and rejoined her erratic associates in the gang. She was a remarkably handsome and good-looking woman, and, while she traversed the country, she frequently rode upon an ass, which was saddled and bridled. On these occasions, she was sometimes dressed in a blue riding-habit and a black beaver hat. It was generally supposed that the stolen articles of value belonging to the family were committed to the care of Jenny. Margaret Graham, another sister, is still living, and is a woman of uncommon bodily strength; so much so, that she is considered to be a good deal stronger than the generality of men. She was married to William Davidson, a Gipsy, at Wemyss. They have a large family, and sell earthenware through the country. John Young, who stabbed his cousin, Hugh Graham, was one of seven sons, and though above five feet ten inches in height, his mother used to call him "the dwarf o' a' my bairns." He was condemned and hanged at Aberdeen for the murder. He wrote a good hand, and the country-people were far from being displeased with his society, while he was employed in repairing their pots and pans in the way of his calling. Sarah Graham, his mother, was of the highest Tinkler mettle. She lost a forefinger in a Gipsy fray. Peter Young, another son of Sarah's, was also hanged at Edinburgh, after breaking a number of prisons in which he was confined. He is spoken of as a singular man. Such was his generosity of character, that he always exerted himself to the utmost to set his fellow-prisoners free, although they happened not to be in the same apartment of the prison. The life of this man was published about the time of his execution. When any one asked old John Young where his sons were, his reply was, "They are all hanged." They were seven in number, and it was certainly a fearful end of a whole family. The following is an extract of a letter addressed to Mr. Blackwood, from Aberdeen, relative to Peter Young: "It is said, in your far-famed magazine, that Peter Young, brother to John Young, the Gipsy, likewise suffered at _Aberdeen_. It is true that he received sentence to die there, but the prison and all the irons the persons were able to load him with, somehow or other, were found insufficient to prevent him from making his escape. After he had repeatedly broken loose, and had been as often retaken, the magistrates at last resolved that he should be effectually secured; and, for that purpose, ordered a great iron chain to be provided, and Peter to be fast bound in it. As the jailer was making everything, as he thought, most secure, Peter, with a sigh, gazed on him, and said, 'Ay, ay, I winna come out now till I come out at the door;' making him believe that he would not be able to make his escape again, nor come out till the day fixed for his execution. But the great iron chain, bolts and bars, were all alike unable to withstand his skill and strength: he came out, within a few nights, at the 'door,' along with such of his fellow-prisoners as were inclined to avail themselves of the 'catch;' but he was afterwards taken, and conveyed to Edinburgh, and there made to suffer the penalty which his crimes deserved.--D. C."[101] [101] Our author says that the Life of Peter Young was published. The following particulars, quoted in an account of the Gipsies, in the sixteenth volume of Chambers' Miscellany, are probably taken from that source: "Peter was Captain of a band well known in the north of Scotland, where his exploits are told to this day. Possessed of great strength of body, and very uncommon abilities, he was a fine specimen of his race, though he retained all their lawless propensities. He was proud, passionate, revengeful, a great poacher, and an absolute despot, although a tolerably just one, over his gang, maintaining his authority with an oak stick, the principal sufferers from which were his numerous wives."--"He esteemed himself to be a very honourable man, and the keepers of the different public-houses in the country seem to have thought that, to a certain extent, he was so. He never asked for trust as long as he had a half-penny in his pocket. At the different inns which he used to frequent, he was seldom or never denied anything. If he pledged his word that he would pay his bill the next time he came that way, he punctually performed his promise." "Peter's work was that of a very miscellaneous nature. It comprehended the profession of a blacksmith, in all its varieties, a tin-smith, and brazier. His original business was to mend pots, pans, kettles, &c., of every description, and this he did with great neatness and ingenuity. Having an uncommon turn for mechanics, he at last cleaned and repaired clocks and watches. He could also engrave on wood or metal; so also could his brother John; but where they learned any of these arts I never heard. Peter was very handy about all sorts of carpenter work, and occasionally amused himself, when the fancy seized him, in executing some pieces of curious cabinet work that required neatness of hand. He was particularly famous in making fishing-rods, and in the art of fishing he was surpassed by few." Immediately before _one_ of the days fixed for his execution, he seized the jailer, and, upon the threat of instant death, compelled him to lay on his back, as one dead, till he had set at liberty every one in the prison, himself being the last to leave the building. After travelling twenty-four miles, he went to sleep in the snow, and was apprehended by a company of sportsmen, whose dogs had made a dead set at him. On being taken to the gallows, one of the crowd cried: "Peter, deny you are the man!"--which he did, declaring that his name was John Anderson, and wondered what the people wanted with him. And there being none present who could identify him, although he was well known in Aberdeen, he managed to get off clear.--ED. Charles Brown, one of the principal members of the Lochgellie band, was killed in a desperate fight at Raploch, near Stirling. A number of Gipsy boys, belonging to several gangs in the south, obtained a considerable quantity of plunder, at a fair in Perth, and had, in the division of the spoil, somehow or another, imposed on the Lochgellie tribe, and their associates. Charles Graham, already mentioned, and Charles Brown, went south in pursuit of the young depredators, for the purpose of compelling them to give up their ill-gotten booty to those to whom, by the Gipsy regulations, it of right belonged. After an arduous chase, the boys were overtaken near Stirling, when a furious battle immediately commenced. Both parties were armed with bludgeons. After having fought for a considerable time, with equal success on both sides, Graham, from some unknown cause, fled, leaving his near relation, Brown, to contend alone with the youths, in the best way he could. The boys now became the assailants, and began to press hard upon Brown, who defended himself long and manfully with his bludgeon, displaying much art in the use of his weapon, in warding off the lighter blows of his opponents, which came in upon him from all quarters. At length he was forced to give way, although very few of the blows reached his person. On retreating, with his front to his assailants, his foot struck upon an old feal dyke, when he fell to the ground. The enraged youths now sprang in upon him, like tigers, and, without showing him the least mercy, dispatched him on the spot, by literally beating out his brains with their bludgeons. Brown's coat was brought home to Lochgellie, by some of his wife's friends, with the collar and shoulders besmeared all over with blood and brains, with quantities of his hair sticking in the gore. It was preserved for some time in this shocking condition by his wife, and exhibited as a proof that her husband had not fled, as well as to arouse the clan to vengeance. My informant, a man about fifty years of age, with others, saw this dreadful relique of Brown, in the very state in which it is now described. Alexander Brown, another member of the Lochgellie band, happened, on one occasion, to be in need of butcher meat, for his tribe. He had observed, grazing in a field, in the county of Linlithgow, a bullock that had, by some accident, lost about three-fourths of its tail. He procured a tail of a skin of the same colour as that of the animal, and, in an ingenious manner, made it fast to the remaining part of its tail. Disguised in this way, he drove off his booty; but after shipping the beast at the Queens-ferry, on his way to the north, a servant, who had been dispatched in quest of the depredator, overtook him as he was stepping into the boat. An altercation immediately commenced about the ox. The countryman said he could swear to the identity of the animal in Brown's possession, were it not for its long tail; and was proceeding to examine it narrowly, to satisfy himself on that particular, when the ready-witted Gipsy, ever fertile in expedients to extricate himself from difficulties, took his knife out of his pocket, and, in view of all present, cut off the tail above the juncture, drawing blood instantly; and, throwing it into the sea, called out to the pursuer, with some warmth: "Swear to the ox now, and be ---- to ye." The countryman said not another word, but returned home, while the Tinkler proceeded on his journey with his prize.[102] [102] Besides getting themselves out of scrapes in such an adroit manner, the Scotch Gipsies have been known to serve a friend, when innocently placed in a position of danger. It happened once that Billy Marshall, the Gipsy chief in Gallowayshire, attacked and robbed the laird of Bargally, and in the tussle lost his cap. A respectable farmer, passing by, some time afterwards, picked up the cap, and put it on his head. The laird, with his mind confused by the robbery and the darkness combined, accused the farmer of the crime; and it would have gone hard with him at the trial, had not Billy come to his rescue. He seized the cap, in the open court, and, putting it on his head, addressed the laird: "Look at me, sir, and tell me, by the oath you have sworn, am not I the man that robbed you?"--"By heaven! you are the very man."--"You see what sort of memory this gentleman has," exclaimed the Gipsy; "he swears to the bonnet, whatever features are under it. If you, yourself, my lord, will put it on your head, he will be willing to swear that your lordship was the person who robbed him." The farmer was unanimously acquitted. Notwithstanding Billy's courage in "taking care of the _living_," an anecdote is related of his having been frightened almost out of his wits, under very ludicrous circumstances. He and his gang had long held possession of a cavern in Gallowayshire, where they usually deposited their plunder, and sometimes resided, secure from the officers of the law. Two Highland pipers, strangers to the country, happened to enter it, to rest themselves during the night. They perceived, at once, the character of its absent inhabitants; and they were not long within it, before they were alarmed by the voices of a numerous band advancing to its entrance. The pipers, expecting nothing but death from the ruthless Gipsies, had the presence of mind to strike up a pibroch, with tremendous fury; at the terrific reception of which--the yelling of the bag-pipes issuing from the bowels of the earth--Billy and his gang precipitately fled, as before a blast from the infernal regions, and never afterwards dared to visit their favourite haunt. The pipers, as might naturally be expected, carried off, in the morning, the spoils of the redoubted Gipsies.--_Sir Walter Scott._--ED. But this Gipsy was not always so fortunate as he was on this occasion. Being once apprehended near Dumblane, it was the intention of the messengers to carry him direct to Perth, but they were under the necessity of lodging him in the nearest prison for the night. Brown was no sooner in custody than he began to meditate his escape. He requested, as a favour, that the officers would sit up all night with him, in a public-house, instead of a prison, promising them as much meat and drink, for their indulgence and trouble, as they should desire. His request having been granted, four or five officers were placed in and about the room in which he was confined, as a guard on his person, being aware of the desperate character they had to deal with. He took care to ply them well with the bottle; and early next morning, before setting out, he desired one of them to put up the window a little, to cool the apartment. After walking several times across the room, the Gipsy, all at once, threw himself out of the window, which was a considerable height from the ground. The hue and cry was at his heels in an instant; and as some of the messengers were gaining on him, he boldly faced about, drew forth, from below his coat, a dagger, which he brandished in the air, and threatened death to the first who should approach him. He was, on this occasion, suffered to make his escape, as none had the courage to advance upon him. When in full dress, Brown wore a hat richly ornamented and trimmed with beautiful gold lace, which was then fashionable among the first ranks in Scotland, particularly among the officers of the army. His coat was made of superfine cloth, of a light green colour, long in the tails, and having one row of buttons at the breast. His shirt, of the finest quality, was ruffled at hands and breast, with a black stock and buckle round the neck. He also wore a pair of handsome boots, with silver-plated spurs, all in the fashion of the day. Below his garments he carried a large knife, and in the shaft or butt-end of his large whip, a small spear, or dagger, was concealed. His brother-in-law, Wilson, was frequently dressed in a similar garb, and both rode the best horses in the country. Having the appearance of gentlemen in their habits, and assuming the manners of such, which they imitated to a wonderful degree, few persons took these men for Gipsies. Like many of their race, they are represented as having been very handsome, tall, and stout-made men, with agreeable and manly countenances. Among the numerous thefts and robberies which they committed in their day, they were never known to have taken a sixpence from people of an inferior class, but, on the contrary, rather to have assisted the poor classes in their pecuniary matters, with a generous liberality, not at all to be looked for from men of their singular habits and manner of life. The following particulars are descriptive of the manner and style in which some of the Gipsies of rank, at one time, traversed this country. Within these forty-five years, Mr. McRitchie, already alluded to, happened to be in a smithy, in the neighbourhood of Carlisle, getting the shoes of his riding-horse roughened on a frosty day, to enable him to proceed on his journey, when a gentleman called for a like purpose. The animal on which he was mounted was a handsome blood-horse, which was saddled and bridled in a superior manner. He was himself dressed in superfine clothes, with a riding-whip in his hand; was booted and spurred, with saddle-bags behind him; and had, altogether, man and horse, the equipment and appearance of a smart English mercantile traveller, riding in the way of his business. There being several horses in the smithy, he, in a haughty and consequential manner, enquired of the smith, very particularly, whose turn it was first: indicating a strong desire to be first served, although he was the last that had entered the smithy. This bold assurance made my acquaintance take a steady look at the intrusive stranger, whom he surveyed from head to foot. And what was his astonishment when he found the mighty gentleman to be no other than Sandie Brown, the Tinkler's son, from the neighbourhood of Crieff; whom he had often seen strolling through the country in a troop of Gipsies, and frequently in his father's house, at the North Queensferry. He could scarcely believe his eyes, so to prevent any disagreeable mistake, politely asked the "gentleman" if his name was not Brown; observing that he thought he had seen him somewhere before. The surprised Tinkler hesitated considerably at the unexpected question, and, after having put some queries on his part, answered that "he would not deny himself--his name was really Brown." He had, in all likelihood, been travelling under a borrowed name, a practice very common with the Gipsies. When he found himself detected, yet seeing no danger to be apprehended from the accidental meeting, he very shrewdly showed great marks of kindness to his acquaintance. Being now quite free from embarrassment, he, in a short time, began to display, as is the Gipsy custom, extraordinary feats of bodily strength, by twisting with his hands strong pieces of iron; taking bets regarding his power in these practices, with those who would wager with him. Before parting with my friend, Brown very kindly insisted upon treating him with a bottle of any kind of liquor he would choose to drink. At some sequestered station of his tribe, on his way home, the equestrian Tinkler would unmask himself--dispose of his horse, pack up his fine clothes, and assume his ragged coat, leathern apron, and budget--before he would venture among the people of the country, who were acquainted with his real character. Here we see a haughty, overbearing, highway robber, clothed in excellent apparel, and mounted on a good steed, metamorphose himself, in an instant, into a poor, wandering, beggarly, and pitiful Gipsy. This Alexander Brown, and his brother-in-law, Wilson, carried on conjointly a considerable trade in horse-stealing between Scotland and England. The horses which were stolen in the South were brought to Scotland, and sold there; those stolen in Scotland were, on the other hand, disposed of in the South by English Gipsies. The crime of horse-stealing has brought a great many of these wanderers to an untimely end on the gallows. Brown was at last hanged at Edinburgh, to expiate the many crimes he had, from time to time, committed. It is said that his brother-in-law, Wilson, was hanged along with him on the same day, having been also guilty of a number of crimes. Brown was taken in a wood in Rannach, having been surprised and overpowered by a party of Highlanders, raised for the purpose of apprehending him, and dispersing his band, who lay in the wood in which he was captured. He thought to evade them by clapping close to the ground, like a wild animal. Upon being seized, a furious scuffle ensued; and during the violent tossing and struggling which took place, while they were securing this sturdy wanderer, he took hold of the bare thigh of one of the Highlanders, and bit it most cruelly. Martha, the mother of Brown, and the mother-in-law of Wilson, was apprehended in the act of stealing a pair of sheets while attending their execution. Charles, by some called William, a brother of Alexander Brown, was run down by a party of the military and some messengers, near Dundee. He was carried to Perth, where he was tried, condemned and executed, to atone for the numerous crimes of which he was guilty. He was conveyed to Perth by water, in consequence of it being reported that the Gipsies of Fife, with the Grahams and Ogilvies at their head, were in motion to rescue him. He, also, was a man of great personal strength; and regretting, after being handcuffed, having allowed himself to be so easily taken, he, in wrath, drove the messengers before him with his feet, as if they had been children. While in the apartment of the prison called the condemned cell, or the cage, he freed himself from his irons, and by some means set on fire the damp straw on which he lay, with the design of making his escape in the confusion. Surprised at the building being on fire, and suspecting Brown to have been the cause of it, and that he was free from his chains, ramping like a lion in his den, no one, in the hurry, could be found with resolution enough to venture near him, till a sergeant of the forty-second regiment volunteered his services. Before he would face the Tinkler, however, he requested authority from the magistrates to defend himself with his broad-sword, and, in case the prisoner became desperate, to cut him down. This permission being obtained, the sergeant drew his sword, and, assisted by the jailer's daughter, unbarred the doors, till he came to the cage, whence the prison was being filled with smoke. As he advanced to the door, he asked with a loud voice, "Who is there?" "The devil," vociferated the Gipsy, through fire and smoke. "I am also a devil, and of the black-watch," thundered back the intrepid Highlander. The resolute reply of the soldier sounded like a death knell to the artful Tinkler--he knew his man--it daunted him completely; for, after some threats from the sergeant, he quietly allowed himself to be again loaded with irons, and thoroughly secured in his cell, whence he did not stir till the day of his execution. Lizzy Brown, by some called Snippy, a member of the same family, was a tall, stout woman, with features far from being disagreeable. She lost her nose in a battle, fought in the shire of Angus. In this rencounter, the Gipsies fought among themselves with highland dirks, exhibiting all the fury of hostile tribes of Bedouin Arabs of the desert. When this woman found that her nose was struck off, by the sweep of a dirk, she put her hand to the wound, and, as if little had befallen her, called out, in the heat of the scuffle, to those nearest her: "But, in the middle o' the meantime, where is my nose?" Poor Lizzy's tall figure was conspicuous among the tribe, owing to the want of that ornamental part of her face. The Grahams of Lochgellie, the Wilsons of Raploch, near Stirling, and the Jamiesons, noticed under the head of Linlithgowshire Gipsies, were all, by the female side, immediately descended from old Charles Stewart, a Gipsy chief, at one period of no small consequence, among these hordes.[103] When I enquired if the Robertsons, who lived, at one time, at Menstry, were related to the Lochgellie band, the answer which I received was: "The Tinklers are a' sib"--meaning that they are all connected with one another by the ties of blood, and considered as one family. This is a most powerful bond of union among these desperate clans, which almost bids defiance to the breaking up of their strongly cemented society. Old Charles Stewart was described to me as a stout, good-looking man, with a fair complexion; and I was informed that he lived to a great age. He affirmed, wherever he went, that he was a descendant of the royal Stewarts of Scotland. His descendants still assert that they are sprung from the royal race of Scotland. In support of this pretension, Stewart, in the year 1774, at a wedding, in the parish of Corstorphine, actually wore a large cocked hat, decorated with a beautiful plume of white feathers, in imitation of the white cockade of the Pretender. On this occasion, he wore a short coat, philabeg and purse, and tartan hose. He sometimes wore a piece of brass, as a star, on his left breast, with a cudgel in his hand. Such ridiculous attire corresponds exactly with the taste and ideas of a Gipsy.[104] These pretensions of Stewart are exactly of a piece with the usual Gipsy policy of making the people believe that they are descended from families of rank and influence in the country. At the same time, it cannot be denied that some of our Scottish kings, especially James V, the "Gaberlunzie-man,"[105] were far from being scrupulous or fastidious in their vague amours. As old Charles Stewart was, on one occasion, crossing the Forth, at Queensferry, chained to his son-in-law, Wilson, in charge of messengers, he, with considerable shame in his countenance, observed David McRitchie, whose father, as already mentioned, kept a first-rate inn at the north-side, and in which the Tinkler had frequently regaled himself with his merry companions. Stewart called McRitchie to him, and, taking five shillings out of his pocket, said to him, "Hae, Davie, there's five shillings to drink my health, man; I'll laugh at them a'." He did laugh at them all, for nothing could be proved against him and he was immediately set at liberty. It was, as Charles Graham said--"The auld thing again, but nae proof."[106] [103] It is interesting to notice that the three criminals who gave occasion to the Porteous mob, in 1736, were named Stewart, Wilson and Robertson. They were doubtless Gipsies of the above mentioned clans. Their crimes and modes of escape were quite in keeping with the character of the Gipsies.--ED. [104] Grellmann, in giving an account of the attire of the poorer kind of Hungarian Gipsies, says: We are not to suppose however that they are indifferent about dress; on the contrary, they love fine clothes to an extravagant degree. Whenever an opportunity offers of acquiring a good coat, either by gift, purchase, or theft, the Gipsy immediately bestirs himself to become master of it. Possessed of the prize, he puts it on directly, without considering in the least whether it suits the rest of his apparel. If his dirty shirt had holes in it as big as a barn door, or his breeches so out of condition that any one might, at the first glance, perceive their antiquity; were he unprovided with shoes and stockings, or a covering for his head; none of these defects would prevent his strutting about in a laced coat, feeling himself of still greater consequence in case it happened to be a red one. They are particularly fond of clothes which have been worn by people of distinction, and will hardly ever deign to put on a boor's coat. They will rather go half naked, or wrap themselves up in a sack, than condescend to wear a foreign garb. Green is a favourite colour with the Gipsies, but scarlet is held in great esteem among them. It is the same with the Hungarian female Gipsies. In Spain, they hang all sorts of trumpery in their ears, and baubles around their necks. Mr. Borrow says of the Spanish Gipsies, that there is nothing in the dress of either sex differing from that of the other inhabitants. The same may be said of the Scottish tribes, and even of those in England.--ED. [105] _Gaberlunzie-man_--The beggar-man with the ragged apparel. [106] The unabashed hardihood of the Gipsies, in the face of suspicion, or even of open conviction, is not less characteristic than the facility with which they commit crimes, or their address in concealing them. A Gipsy of note, (known by the title of the "Earl of Hell") was, about twenty years ago, tried for a theft of a considerable sum of money at a Dalkeith market. The proof seemed to the judge fully sufficient, but the jury rendered a verdict of "not proven." On dismissing the prisoner from the bar, the judge informed him, in his own characteristic language, "That he had rubbit shouthers wi' the gallows that morning;" and warned him not again to appear there with a similar body of proof against him as it seemed scarcely possible he should meet with another jury who would construe it as favourably. His counsel tendered him a similar advice. The Gipsy, however, replied, to the great entertainment of all around, "That he was proven an innocent man, and that naebody had ony right to use siccan language to him."--_Blackwood's Magazine._--ED. Another very singular Gipsy, of the name of Jamie Robertson, a near relation of the Lochgellie tribe, resided at Menstry, at the foot of the Ochil hills. James was an excellent musician, and was in great request at fairs and country weddings. Although characterized by a dissoluteness of manners, and professed roguery, this man, when trusted, was strictly honest. A decent man in the neighbourhood, of the name of Robert Gray, many a time lent him sums of money, to purchase large ox horns and other articles, in the east of Fife, which he always repaid on the very day he promised, with the greatest correctness and civility. The following anecdote will show the zeal with which he would resent an insult which he conceived to be offered to his friend: In one of his excursions through Fife, he happened to be lying on the ground, basking himself in the sun, while baiting his ass, on the roadside, when a countryman, an entire stranger to him, came past, singing, in lightness of heart, the song of "Auld Robin Gray," which, unfortunately for the man, Robertson had never heard before. On the unconscious stranger coming to the words "Auld Robin Gray was a kind man to me," the hot-blooded Gipsy started to his feet, and, with a volley of oaths, felled him with his bludgeon to the ground; repeating his blows in the most violent manner, and telling him, "Auld Robin Gray was a kind man to him indeed, but it was not for him to make a song on Robin for that." In short, he nearly put the innocent man to death, in the heat of his passion, for satirizing, as he thought, his friend in a scurrilous song. It was an invariable custom with Robertson, whenever he passed Robert Gray's house, even were it at the dead hour of night, to draw out his "bread winner," and give him a few of his best airs, in gratitude for his kindness. Robertson's wife, a daughter of Martha, whose son and son-in-law, Brown and Wilson, were executed, as already mentioned, was sentenced to transportation to Botany Bay; but, owing to her advanced years, it was not thought worth the expense and trouble of sending her over seas, and she was set at liberty. Her grandson, Joyce Robertson, would also have been transported, if not hanged, but for the assistance of some of his clan rescuing him from Stirling jail. So coolly and deliberately did he go about his operations, in breaking out of the prison, that he took along with him his oatmeal bag, and a favourite bird, in a cage, with which he had amused himself during his solitary confinement. The following anecdote of this audacious Gipsy, which was told to me by an inhabitant of Stirling, who was well acquainted with the parties, is, I believe, unequalled in the history of robberies: While Robertson was lying in jail, an old man, for what purpose is not mentioned, went to the prison window, to speak to him through the iron stauncheons. Joyce, putting forth his hand, took hold of the unsuspecting man by the breast of his coat, and drew him close up to the iron bars of the window; then thrusting out his other hand, and pointing a glittering knife at his heart, threatened him with instant death, if he did not deliver him the money he had on him. The poor man, completely intimidated, handed into the prison all the money he had; but had it returned, on the jailer being informed of the extraordinary transaction.[107] After escaping from confinement, this Gipsy stole a watch from a house at Alva, but had hardly got it into his possession before he was discovered, and had the inhabitants of the village in pursuit of him. A man, of the name of Dawson, met him in his flight, and, astonished at seeing the crowd at his heels, enquired, impatiently, what was the matter. "They are all running after me, and you will soon run too," replied the Tinkler, without shortening his step. He took to Tullibody plantations, but was apprehended, and had the watch taken from him. [107] The "game" of such a Gipsy may be fitly compared to that of a sparrow-hawk. This bird has been known, while held in the hand, after being wounded, to seize, when presented to it, a sparrow with each claw, and a third with its beak.--ED. I will notice another principal Gipsy, closely connected by blood with the Fife bands, and of that rank that entitled him to issue tokens to the members of his tribe. The name of this chief was Charles Wilson, and his place of residence, at one time, was Raploch, close by Stirling castle, where he possessed some heritable property in houses. He was a stout, athletic, good-looking man, fully six feet in stature, and of a fair complexion; and was, in general, handsomely dressed, frequently displaying a gold watch, with many seals attached to its chain. In his appearance he was respectable, very polite in his manners, and had, altogether, little or nothing about him which, at first sight, or to the general public, indicated him to be a Gipsy. But, nevertheless, I was assured by one of the tribe, who was well acquainted with him, that he spoke the language, and observed all the customs, and followed the practices of the Gipsies. He was a pretty extensive horse-dealer, having at times in his possession numbers of the best bred horses in the country. He most commonly bought and sold hunters, and such as were suitable for cavalry; and for some of his horses he received upwards of a hundred guineas apiece. In his dealings he always paid cash for his purchases, but accepted bills from his customers of respectability. Many a one purchased horses of him; and he was taken notice of by many respectable people in the neighbourhood; but the community in general looked upon him, and his people, with suspicion and fear, and were by no means fond of quarrelling with any of his vindictive fraternity. When any of his customers required a horse from him, and told him that the matter was left wholly to himself, as regards price, but to provide an animal suitable for the purpose required, no man in Scotland would act with greater honour than Charles Wilson. He would then fit his employer completely, and charge for the horse exactly what the price should be. To this manner of dealing he was very averse, and endeavoured to avoid it as much as possible. It is said he was never known to deceive any one in his transactions, when entire confidence was placed in him. But, on the other hand, when any tried to make a bargain with him, without any reference to himself, but trusting wholly to their own judgment, he would take three prices for his horses, if he could obtain them, and cheat them, if it was in his power. It is said his people stole horses in Ireland, and sent them to him, to dispose of in Scotland. On one occasion his gang stole and sold in Edinburgh, Stirling and Dumbarton a grey stallion, three different times in one week. Wilson himself was almost always mounted on a blood-horse of the highest mettle. At one time, Charles Wilson travelled the country with a horse and cart, vending articles which his gang plundered from shops in Glasgow and other places. He had an associate who kept a regular shop, and when Wilson happened to be questioned about his merchandise, he always had fictitious bills of particulars, invoices and receipts, ready to show that the goods were lawfully purchased from his merchant, who was no other than his friend and associate. As Charles was chief of his tribe, he received the title of captain, to distinguish him from the meaner sort of his race. Like others of his rank among the Gipsies, he generally had a numerous gang of youths in fairs, plundering for him in all directions, among the heedless and unthinking crowd. But he always managed matters with such art and address that, however much he might be suspected, no evidence could ever be found to show that he acted a part in such transactions. It was well understood, however, that Charlie, as he was commonly called, divided the contents of many a purse with his band; all the plundered articles being in fact brought to him for distribution. This chief, as I have already mentioned, issued tokens to the members of his own tribe; a part of the polity of the Gipsies which will be fully described in the following chapter. But, besides these regular Gipsy tokens, he, like many of his nation, gave tokens of protection to his particular friends of the community at large. The following is one instance, among many, of this curious practice among the Gipsies. I received the particulars from the individual himself who obtained the token or passport from Wilson. My informant, Mr. Buchanan, a retired officer of the Excise, chanced, in his youth, to be in a fair at Skirling, in Peebles-shire, when an acquaintance of his, of the name of John Smith, of Carnwath Mill, received, in a tent, fifty pounds for horses which he had sold in the market. Wilson, who was acquainted with both parties, was in the tent at the time, and saw the latter receive the money. On leaving the tent, Smith mentioned to his friend that he was afraid of being robbed in going home, as Wilson knew he had money in his possession. Mr. Buchanan, being well acquainted with Wilson, went to him in the fair, and told him the plain facts; that Smith and himself were to travel with money on their persons, and that they were apprehensive of being robbed of it, on their way home. The Gipsy, after hesitating for a moment, gave Buchanan a pen-knife, which he was to show to the first person who should offer to molest them; at the same time enjoining him to keep the affair quite private. After my informant and his friend had travelled a considerable distance on their way home, they observed, at a little distance before them, a number of Tinklers--men and women--fighting together on the side of the road. One of the females came forward to the travellers, and urged them vehemently to assist her husband, who, she said, was like to be murdered by others who had fallen upon him on the highway. My friend knew quite well that all the fighting was a farce, got up for the purpose of robbing him and his companion, the moment they interfered with the combatants in their feigned quarrel. Instead of giving the woman the assistance she asked, he privately and very quietly, as if he wished nobody to see it, showed her Wilson's knife in his hand, when she immediately exclaimed, "You are our friends," and called, at the same moment, to those engaged in the scuffle, in words to the same effect. Both the travellers now passed on, but, on looking behind them, they observed that the squabble had entirely ceased. The pen-knife was returned to Wilson the day following. I may give, in this place, another instance of these tokens being granted by the Gipsies to their particular favourites of the community. The particulars were given to me by the individual with whom the incident occurred; and the Gipsy mentioned I have myself seen and spoken to: A---- A----, a small farmer, who resided in the west of Fife, happened to be at one of the Falkland fairs, where, in the evening, he fell in with old Andrew Steedman, a Gipsy horse-dealer from Lochgellie, with whom he was well acquainted. They entered a public-house in Falkland to have a dram together, before leaving the fair, and after some conversation had passed, on various subjects, Steedman observed to his acquaintance that it would be late in the night before he could reach his home, and that he might be exposed to some danger on the road; but he would give him his snuff-box, to present and offer a snuff to the first person who should offer to molest him. My informant, possessed of the Gipsy's snuff-box, mounted his horse, and left his acquaintance and Falkland behind for his home. He had not proceeded far on his journey, before a man in the dark seized the bridle of his horse, and ordered him to stop; without, however, enforcing his command to surrender in that determined tone and manner common to highwaymen with those they intend to rob. The farmer at once recognized the robber to be no other than young Charles Graham, one of the Lochgellie Tinklers, whom he personally knew. Instead of delivering him his purse, he held out to him the snuff-box, as if nothing had happened, and, offering him a pinch, asked him if he was going to Lochgellie to-night. A sort of parley now ensued, the farmer feeling confident in the strength of his protection, and Graham confounded at being recognized by an acquaintance whom he was about to rob, and who, moreover, was in possession of a Gipsy token. At first a dry conversation ensued, similar to that between persons unacquainted with each other when they happen to meet; but Graham, recovering his self-possession, soon became very frank and kind, and insisted on the farmer accompanying him to a public-house on the road-side, where he would treat him to a dram. The farmer, a stout, athletic man, and no coward, complied with the Gipsy's invitation without hesitation. While drinking their liquor, Graham took up the snuff-box, and examined it all over very attentively, by the light of the candle, and returned it, without making a single remark, relative either to the untoward occurrence or the snuff-box itself. The farmer was equally silent as to what had taken place; but he could not help noticing the particular manner in which the Gipsy examined the token. They drank a hearty dram together, and parted the best of friends; the farmer for his home, and Graham, as he supposed, for the highway, to exercise his calling. Graham, about this period, resided in a house belonging to Steedman, in Lochgellie. Instances occurred of individuals, who happened to be plundered, applying to Charles Wilson for his assistance to recover their property. The particulars of the following case are in the words of a friend who gave me the anecdote: "A boy, having received his hard-earned fee, at the end of a term, set out for Stirling to purchase some clothes for himself. On the road he was accosted by two men, who conversed with and accompanied him to Stirling. The lad proceeded accordingly to fit himself in a shop with a new suit, but, to his utter disappointment and grief, his small penny-fee was gone. The merchant questioned him about the road he had come, and whether he had been in company with any one on the way or otherwise. Upon the appearance of his companions being described, the shop-keeper suspected they might have picked his pocket unobserved. As a last resource, the boy was advised to call upon Charlie Wilson, and relate to him the particulars of his misfortune; which he accordingly did. Charles heard his story to the end, and desired him to call next day, when he might be able to give him some information relative to his loss. The young lad kept the appointment, and, to his great joy, the Tinkler chief paid him down every farthing of his lost money; but at the same time told him to ask no questions." This Gipsy chief died within these thirty-five years in his own house, on the castle-hill at Stirling, whither he had removed from Raploch. It is stated that, for a considerable time before his death, he relinquished his former practices, and died in full communion with the church.[108] He was, about the latter end of his life, reduced to considerable poverty, and was under the necessity of betaking himself to his original occupation of making horn spoons for a subsistence. In the days of his prosperity, Charles was considered a very kind-hearted and generous man to the poor; and it seldom happened that poverty and distress were not relieved by him, when application was made to him by the needy. Although many of the more original kind of Gipsies have a respectable appearance, and may possess a little money, during the prime of life, yet the most of them, in their old age, are in a condition of poverty and misery. [108] In the "Monthly Visitor" for February, 1856, will be found an account of the conversion of one of this Gipsy clan, of the name of Jeanie Wilson. The tract is very appropriately headed, "A lily among thorns."--ED. Charles Wilson had a family of very handsome daughters, one of whom was considered a perfect beauty. She did not travel the country, like the rest of her family, but remained at home, and acted as her father's housekeeper; and, when any of the tribe visited him, they always addressed her by the title of "my lady," (_raunie_,) and otherwise treated her with great respect. This beautiful girl was, about the year 1795, kept as a mistress by an adjutant of a Scotch regiment of fencible cavalry. She was frequently seen as handsomely and fashionably attired as the first females in Stirling; and some of the troopers were not displeased to see their adjutant's mistress equal in appearance to the highest dames in the town. But Wilson's daughters were all frequently dressed in a very superior manner, and could not have been taken for Gipsies. To suit their purposes of deception, in practising their pilfering habits, the female Gipsies, as well as the males, often changed their wearing apparel. Some of them have been seen in four different dresses in one fair day, varying from the appearance of a sturdy female beggar to that of a young, flirting wench, fantastically dressed, and throwing herself, a perfect lure, in the way of the hearty, ranting, half-intoxicated, and merry young farmers, for the sole purpose of stripping them of their money.[109] The following is given as an instance of this sort of female deception:--On a fair-day, in the town of Kinross, a Brae-laird,[110] in the same county, fell in with a Gipsy harpy of the above character, of the name of Wilson, one of Charles' daughters, it was understood. She had a fine person, an agreeable and prepossessing countenance, was handsomely dressed, and was, altogether, what one would pronounce a pretty girl. Her charms made a very sudden and deep impression on the susceptible laird; and as it was an easy matter, in those times, to make up acquaintance at these large and promiscuous gatherings, the enamoured rustic soon found means to introduce himself to the stranger lady. He treated her in a gallant manner, and engaged to pay his respects to her at her place of residence. It happened, however, that a number of Tinklers were, that very evening, apprehended in the fair, for picking pockets, and a great many purses were found in their custody. Proclamation was made by the authorities, that all those who had lost their money should appear at a place named, and identify their property. The Brae-laird, among others, missed his pocket-book and purse, and accordingly went to enquire after them. His purse was produced to him; but greatly was he ashamed and mortified when the thief was also shown to him, lying in prison--the very person of his handsome and beautiful sweetheart, now metamorphosed into a common Tinkler wench. Whether he now provoked the ire of his dulcinea, by harsh treatment, is not mentioned; but the woman sent, as it were, a dagger to his heart, by calling out before all present: "Ay, laird, ye're no sae kind to me noo, lad, as when ye treated me wi' wine in the forenoon." The man, confounded at his exposure, was glad to get out of her presence, and, rather than bear the cutting taunts of the Gipsy, fled from the place of investigation, leaving his money behind him.[111] [109] An old woman, whom I found occupying the house of Charles Wilson, at Raploch, in 1845, informed me that she had seen his wife in _five_ different dresses, in one market-day. She was, at the time, a servant in a _blacksmith's_ family in Stirling, who were _great friends_ of Charles Wilson; and every time Mrs. Wilson came into the smith's house, from her plundering in the market, this servant girl, then nine years old, _cleaned her shoes_ for a fresh expedition in the crowd. When suspected, or even detected, in their practices, these female Gipsies, by such change of dress and character, easily escaped apprehension by the authorities. [110] There are a number of small landed proprietors in the hilly parts of Kinross-shire; hence the appellation of Brae-laird. [111] It is interesting to notice such rencounters between these pretty, genteel-looking Gipsies and the ordinary natives. The denouement, in this instance, might have been a marriage, and the plantation of a colony of Gipsies among the Braes of Kinross-shire. The same might have happened in the case of the other lady Wilson, with the adjutant at Stirling, or with one of his acquaintances.--ED. It is almost needless to mention that the Stirlingshire Gipsies contributed their full proportion to the list of victims to the offended laws of the country. Although Charles Wilson, the chieftain of the horde, dexterously eluded justice himself, two of his brothers were executed within the memory of people still living. Another of his relatives, of the name of Gordon, also underwent the last penalty of the law, at Glasgow, where an acquaintance of mine saw him hanged. Wilson had a son who carried a box of jewelry through the country, and was suspected of having been concerned in robbing a bank, at, I believe, Dunkeld. Some of the descendants of this Stirlingshire tribe still roam up and down the kingdom, nearly in the old Gipsy manner; and several of them have their residence, when not on the tramp, in the town of Stirling. The great distinguishing feature in the character of the Gipsies is an incurable propensity for theft and robbery, and taking openly and forcibly (sorning) whatever answers their purpose. A Gipsy, of about twenty-one years of age, stated to me that his forefathers considered it quite lawful, among themselves, to take from others, not of their own fraternity, any article they stood in need of. Casting his eyes around the inside of my house, he said: "For instance, were they to enter this room, they would carry off anything that could be of service to them, such as clothes, money, victuals, &c.:" "but," added he, "all this proceeded from ignorance; they are now quite changed in their manners." Another Gipsy, a man of about sixty years of age, informed me that the tribe have a complete and thorough hatred of the whole community, excepting those who shelter them, or treat them with kindness; and that a dexterous theft or robbery, committed on any of the natives among whom they travel, is looked upon as one of the most meritorious actions which a Gipsy can possibly perform. But the Gipsies are by no means the only nation in the world that have considered theft reputable. In Sparta, under the celebrated law-giver Lycurgus, theft was also reputable. In Hugh Murray's account of an embassy from Portugal to the Emperor of Abyssinia, in 1620, we find the following curious passage relative to thieves in that part of the world: "As the embassy left the palace, a band of thieves carried off a number of valuable articles, while a servant who attempted to defend them was wounded in the leg. The ambassadors, enquiring the mode of obtaining redress for this outrage, were assured that these thieves formed a regular part of the court establishment, and that officers were appointed who levied a proportion of the articles stolen, for behoof his imperial majesty."[112] In another part of Africa, there is a horde of Moors who go by the name of the tribe of thieves. This wandering, vagabond horde do not blush at adopting this odious denomination. Their chief is called chief of the tribe of thieves.[113] In Hugh Murray's Asia, we have the following passage relative to the professed thieves in India. [112] Vol. ii., page 17. [113] Golbery's Travels, translated by Francis Blagden. Vol. i, page 158. "Nothing tends more to call in question the mildness of the Hindoo disposition than the vast scale of the practice of decoity. This term, though essentially synonymous with robbery, suggests, however, very different ideas. With us, robbers are daring and desperate outlaws, who hide themselves in the obscure corners of great cities, shunned and detested by all society. In India, they are regular and reputable persons, who have not only houses and families, but often landed property, and have much influence in the villages where they reside. This profession, like all others, is hereditary; and a father has been heard, from the gallows, carefully admonishing his son not to be deterred, by his fate, from following the calling of his ancestors. They are very devout, and have placed themselves under the patronage of the goddess Kali, revered in Bengal above all other deities, and who is supposed to look with peculiar favour on achievements such as theirs. They are even recognized by the old Hindoo laws, which contain enactments for the protection of stolen goods, upon a due share being given to the magistrate. They seldom, however, commit depredations in their own village, or even in that immediately adjoining, but seek a distant one, where they have no tie to the inhabitants. They are formed into bands, with military organization, so that when a chief dies, there is always another ready to succeed him. They calculate that they have ten chances to one of never being brought to justice." The old Hindoo law alluded to in the above passage is, I presume, the following enactment in the Gentoo Code, translated by Nathaniel Brassey Halhed, page 146: "The mode of shares among robbers is this: If any thieves, by the command of the magistrate, and with his assistance, have committed depredations upon, and brought any booty from, another province, the magistrate shall receive a share of one-sixth of the whole; if they receive no command or assistance from the magistrate, they shall give the magistrate, in that case, one-tenth of his share; and of the remainder, their chief shall receive four shares: and whosoever among them is perfect master of his occupation, shall receive three shares; also whichever of them is remarkably strong and stout, shall receive two shares; and the rest shall receive each one share. If any one of the community of thieves happens to be taken, and should be released from the Cutchery, (court of justice), upon payment of a sum of money, all the thieves shall make good that sum by equal shares."--"In the Gentoo code containing this law, there are many severe enactments against theft and robbery of every description; but these laws refer to domestic disturbers of their own countrymen, or violators of the first principles of society. The law which regulates these shares of robbers, refers only to such bold and hardy adventurers as sally forth to levy contributions in a foreign province." Now our Gipsies are, in one point, exactly on a level with the adventurers here mentioned. They look upon themselves as being in a foreign land, and consider it fair game to rob, plunder, and cheat all and every one of the "strangers" among whom they travel. I am disposed to believe that there were also rules among the Gipsy bands for dividing their booty, something like the old Hindoo law alluded to.[114] [114] What is said here is, of course, applicable to a class, only, of the Gipsies. Our author need not have gone so very far away from home, for instances of theft and robbery being, under certain circumstances, deemed honourable. Both were, at one time, followed in Scotland, when all practised "The good old rule, the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can." See Disquisition on the Gipsies.--ED. We find the following curious particulars mentioned of a tribe among the mountains in India, who are supposed to be the aborigines of Hindostan. They are called Kookies or Lunctas. "Next to personal valour, the accomplishment most esteemed in a warrior is superior address in stealing; and if a thief can convey, undiscovered, to his own house, his neighbour's property, it cannot afterwards be reclaimed; nor, if detected in the act, is he otherwise punished than by exposure to the ridicule of the Porah, and being obliged to restore what he may have laid hold of." "It is a great recommendation in obtaining a wife, when a Kookie can say that his house is full of stolen articles."[115] There are several other tribes in the world among whom theft and robbery are considered meritorious actions. It appears that among the Coords "no one is allowed to marry a wife till he has committed some great act of robbery or murder." In an account of Kamtschatka, it is mentioned that "among all these barbarous nations, excepting the Kamtschadales, theft is reputable, provided they do not steal in their own tribe, or if done with such art as to prevent discovery: on the other hand, it is punished very severely if discovered; not for the theft, but for the want of address in the art of stealing. A Tschukotskoe girl cannot be married before she has shown her dexterity in this way."[116] [115] Asiatic Researches, vol. vii., pages 189 and 193. [116] Dr. James Grieve's translation of a Russian account of Kamtschatka, page 323. Halhed, in apologizing for the Hindoo magistrate participating in the plunder of banditti, which applies equally well to the Gipsies, remarks that, "unjust as this behaviour may appear in the eye of equity, it bears the most genuine stamp of antiquity, and corresponds entirely with the manners of the early Grecians, at or before the period of the Trojan war, and of the western nations before their emersion from barbarism; a practice still kept up among the piratic States of Barbary, to its fullest extent by sea, and probably among many hordes of Tartars and Arabian banditti by land." It is proper to mention that the Gipsies seldom or never steal from one another; at least, I never could find out an instance of a theft having been committed by a Gipsy on one of his own tribe. It will be seen, from the following details, that the sanguinary laws which have been, from time to time, promulgated all over Europe against the Gipsies, were not enacted to put down fanciful crimes, as an author of the present day seems, in his travels, to insinuate. To plunder the community with more safety to their persons, the Gipsies appear to have had a system of theft peculiar to themselves. Those of Lochgellie trained all their children to theft. Indeed, this has been the general practice with the tribe all over Scotland. Several individuals have mentioned to me that the Lochgellie band were exercised in the art of thieving under the most rigid discipline. They had various ways of making themselves expert thieves. They frequently practised themselves by picking the pockets of each other. Sometimes a pair of breeches were made fast to the end of a string, suspended from a high part of the tent, kiln, or outhouse in which they happened to be encamped. The children were set at work to try if they could, by sleight of hand, abstract money from the pockets of the breeches hanging in this position, without moving them. Sometimes they used bells in this discipline. The children who were most expert in abstracting the money in this manner, were rewarded with applause and presents; while, on the other hand, those who proved awkward, by ringing the bell, or moving the breeches, were severely chastised. After the youths were considered perfect in this branch of their profession, a purse, or other small object, was laid down in an exposed part of the tent or camp, in view of all the family. While the ordinary business of the Gipsies was going forward, the children again commenced their operations, by exerting their ingenuity and exercising their patience, in trying to carry off the purse without being perceived by any one present. If they were detected, they were again beaten; but if they succeeded unnoticed, they were caressed and liberally rewarded. As far as my information goes, this systematic training of the Gipsy youth was performed by the chief female of the bands. These women seem to have had great authority over their children. Ann Brown, of the Lochgellie tribe, could, by a single stamp of her foot, cause the children to crouch to the ground, like trembling dogs under the lash of an angry master. The Gipsies, from these constant trainings, became exceedingly dexterous at picking pockets. The following instance of their extraordinary address in these practices, will show the effects of their careful training, as well as exhibit the natural ingenuity which they will display in compassing their ends. A principal male Gipsy, of a very respectable appearance, whose name it is unnecessary to mention, happened, on a market day, to be drinking in a public-house, with several farmers with whom he was well acquainted. The party observed, from the window, a countryman purchase something at a stand in the market, and, after paying for it, thrust his purse into his watch-pocket, in the band of his breeches. One of the company remarked that it would be a very difficult matter to rob the cautious man of his purse, without being detected. The Gipsy immediately offered to bet two bottles of wine that he would rob the man of his purse, in the open and public market, without being perceived by him. The bet was taken, and the Gipsy proceeded about the difficult and delicate business. Going up to the unsuspecting man, he requested, as a particular favour, if he would ease the stock about his neck, which buckled behind--an article of dress at that time in fashion. The countryman most readily agreed to oblige the stranger gentleman--as he supposed him to be. The Gipsy, now stooping down, to allow his stock to be adjusted, placed his head against the countryman's stomach, and, pressing it forward a little, he reached down one hand, under the pretence of adjusting his shoe, while the other was employed in extracting the farmer's purse. The purse was immediately brought into the company, and the cautious, unsuspecting countryman did not know of his loss, till he was sent for, and had his property returned to him. The Gipsy youth, trained from infancy to plunder, in the manner described, were formed into companies or bands, with a captain at their head. These captains were generally the grown-up sons of the old chieftains, who, having been themselves leaders in their youth, endeavoured, in their old age, to support, outwardly, a pretty fair character, although under considerable suspicion. The captains were generally well dressed, and could not be taken for Gipsies. The youths varied in age from ten to thirty years. They travelled to fairs singly, or at least never above two together, while their captains almost always rode on horse-back, but never in company with any of their men.[117] The band consisted of a great number of individuals, and in a fair several of these companies would be present; each company acting independent of the others, for behoof of its own members and chief. Each chief, on such occasions, had his own headquarters, to which his men repaired with their booty, as fast as they obtained it. Some of the chiefs, handsomely dressed, pretended to be busily employed in buying and selling horses, but were always ready to attend to the operations of their tribe, employed in plundering in the market. The purses were brought to the horse-dealer by the members of his band, who, to prevent being discovered, pretended to be buying horses from him, while communicating with him relative to their peculiar vocation. When a detection was likely to take place, the chief mounted a good horse, and rode off to a distant part of the country, previously made known to his men, with the whole of the booty in his custody. To this place the band, when all was quiet, repaired, and received their share of the plunder. They could communicate information to one another by signs, to say nothing of their language, which frequently enabled them to get the start of their pursuers. Like the fox, the dog, and the _corbie_, they frequently concealed their stolen articles in the earth. Parties of them would frequently commence sham fights in markets, to facilitate the picking of the pockets of the people, while crowded together to witness the scuffles. [117] An old Gipsy told me that he had seen one of the principal chiefs, dressed like a gentleman, travelling in a post-chaise, for the purpose of attending fairs. [Vidocq, of the French secret police, thus writes of the Hungarian Gipsies, visiting the west of Europe: Raising my eyes towards a crowd in front of a menagerie, I perceived one of the _false jockeys_ taking the purse of a fat glazier, whom we saw the next moment seeking for it in his pocket; the _Bohemian_ then entered a jeweller's shop, where were already two of the _pretended Zealand peasants_, and my companion assured me that he would not come out until he had pilfered some of the jewels that were shown to him. In every part of the fair where there was a crowd, I met some of the lodgers of the Duchess, (the inn kept by a Gipsy woman in which he had spent the previous night.)--ED.] Many of the male Gipsies used a piece of strong leather, like a sailmaker's palm, having a short piece of sharp steel, like the point of a surgeon's lancet, where the sailmaker has his thimble. The long sleeves of their coats concealed the instrument, and when they wished to cut a purse out of an arm-pocket, they stretched out the arm, and ran it flatly and gently along the cloth of the coat, opposite the pocket of the individual they wished to plunder. The female Gipsies wore, upon their forefingers, rings of a peculiar construction, yet nothing unusual in their appearance, excepting their very large size. On closing the hand, the pressure upon a spring sent forth, through an aperture or slit in the ring, a piece of sharp steel, something like the manner in which a bee thrusts out and withdraws its sting. With these ingenious instruments the female Gipsies cut the outside of the pockets of their victims, exactly as a glazier runs his diamond over a sheet of glass. The opening once made by the back of the forefinger, the hand, following, was easily introduced into the pocket. In the midst of a crowded fair, the dexterous Gipsies, with their nimble fingers, armed with these invisible instruments, cut the pocket-books and purses of the honest farmers, as if they had been robbed by magic. So skillful were the wife and one of the sisters of Charles Wilson, in the art of thieving, that although the loss of the pocket-book was, in some instances, immediately discovered, nothing was ever found upon their persons by which their guilt could be established. No instrument appeared in their possession with which the clothes of the plundered individuals could have been cut, as no one dreamt that the rings on their fingers contained tools so admirably adapted for such purposes. The Gipsy chiefs in Scotland appear, at one time, to have received a share of the plundered articles in the same manner as those of the same rank received from their inferiors in Hungary. Grellmann says: "Whenever a complaint is made that any of their people have been guilty of theft, the Waywode (chief) not only orders a general search to be made in every tent or hut, and returns the stolen goods to the owner, if they can be found; but he punishes the thief, in presence of the complainant, with his whip. He does not, however, punish the aggressor from any regard to justice, but rather to quiet the plaintiff, and at the same time to make his people more wary in their thefts, as well as more dexterous in concealing their prey. These very materially concern him, since, by every discovery that is made, his income suffers, as the whole profit of his office arises from his share of the articles that are stolen. Every time any one brings in a booty, he is obliged to give information to the Arch-gipsy of his successful enterprise, then render a just account of what and how much he has stolen, in order that the proper division may be made. This is the situation in which a Gipsy looks on himself as bound to give a fair and true detail, though, in every other instance, he does not hesitate to perjure himself." A shrewd and active magistrate, in the west of Fife, knew our Scottish Gipsy depredators so well, that he caused them all to be apprehended as they entered the fairs held in the town in which he resided; and when the market, which lasted for several days, was over, the Gipsies were released from prison, with empty pockets and hungry bellies--most effectually baffled in their designs. Great numbers of these Gipsy plunderers, at one time, crossed the Forth at the Queensferry, for the purpose of stealing and robbing at the fairs in the north of Scotland. They all travelled singly or in pairs. Very few persons knew whence they came, or with whom they were connected. They were, in general, well dressed, and could not have been taken for Gipsies. Every one put up at a public-house, at North Queensferry, kept by a Mr. McRitchie, already mentioned, an inn well known in the neighbourhood for its good fare, and much frequented by all classes of society. In this house, on the morning after a fair in Dunfermline, when _their business_ was all over, and themselves not alarmed by detection, or other scaring incidents, no fewer than fourteen of these plunderers have frequently been seen sitting at breakfast, with Captain Gordon, their commander, at their head. The landlord's son informed me that they ate and drank of the best in the house, and paid most handsomely for everything they called for. I believe they were among the best customers the landlord had. Gipsies, however, are by no means habitual drinkers, or tiplers; but when they do sit down, it is, in the phraseology of the sea, a complete _blow-out_. About this public-house, these Gipsies were perfectly inoffensive, and remarkably civil to all connected with it. They troubled or stole from none of the people about the inn, nor from those who lodged in the house, while they were within doors, or in the immediate neighbourhood. Anything could have been trusted with them on these occasions. At these meetings, the landlord's son frequently heard them talking in the Gipsy language. Gordon, at times, paid the reckoning for the whole, and transacted any other business with the landlord; but, when the Gipsy company was intermixed with females, which was commonly the case, each individual paid his own share of the bill incurred. It was sometimes the practice with the young bands to leave their reckoning to be paid by their chiefs, who were not present, but who, perhaps next day, came riding up, and paid the expenses incurred by their men. I am informed that two chiefs, of the names of Wilson and Brown, often paid the expenses of their bands in this way. When any of these principal Gipsies happened to remain in the public-house all night, they behaved very genteelly. They paid the chamber-maid, boots, and waiter with more liberality than was the custom with mercantile travellers generally. Captain Gordon, just mentioned, assumed very considerable consequence at this place. Frequently he hired boats and visited the islands in the Forth, and adjacent coasts, like a gentleman of pleasure. On one occasion he paid no less than a guinea, with brandy and eatables _ad libitum_, to be rowed over to Inch-colm, a distance of four miles. The female Gipsies from the south, on visiting their friends at Lochgellie, in the depth of winter, often hired horses at the North Queensferry, and rode, with no small pomp and pride, to the village. Sometimes two females would ride upon one horse. A very decent old man, of the name of Thomas Chalmers, a small farmer, informed me that he himself had rode to Lochgellie, with a female Gipsy behind him, accompanied by other two, mounted on another of his horses, riding with much spirit and glee by his side. Chalmers said that these women not only paid more than the common hire, but treated the owners of the horses with as much meat and drink as they could take. The male Gipsies also hired horses at this Ferry, with which they rode to markets in the north. The young Gipsies, male and female, of whom I have spoken, appear to have been the flower of the different bands, collected and employed in a general plundering at the fairs in the north. So well did they pay their way at the village and passage alluded to, that the boatmen gave them the kindly name of "our frien's." These wanderers were all known at the village by the name of "Gillie Wheesels," or "Killie Wheesh," which, in the west of Fife, signified "the lads that take the purses." Old Thomas Chalmers informed me that he had frequently seen these sharks of boatmen shake these Gipsy thieves heartily by the hand, and, with a significant smile on their harsh, weather-beaten countenances, wish them a good market, as they landed them on the north side of the Forth, on their way to picking pockets at fairs. As an incident in the lives of these Gipsies, I will give the following, which was witnessed by Chalmers: A Gillie of a Gipsy horse-couper stole a black colt, in the east of Fife, and carried it direct to a fair in Perth, where he exchanged it for a white horse, belonging to a Highlander wearing a green kilt. The Highlander, however, had not long put the colt into the stable, before word was brought to him that it was gone. Suspecting the Gipsy of the theft, the sturdy Gael proceeded in search of him, and receiving positive information of the fact, he pursued him, like a staunch hound on the warm foot of reynard, till he overtook him in a house on the north side of Kinross. The Gipsy was taking some refreshment in the same room with Chalmers, when the Highlander, in a storm of broken English, burst into their presence. The astute and polished Gipsy instantly sprang to his feet, and, throwing his arms around the foaming Celt, embraced and hugged him in the eastern manner, overpowering him with expressions of joy at seeing him again. This quite exasperated the mountaineer: almost suffocated with rage, he shook the Gipsy from his person, with the utmost disdain, and demanded the colt he had stolen from him. Notwithstanding the deceitful embraces and forced entreaties of the Gipsy, he was, with the assistance of a messenger, at the back of the Highlander, safely lodged in the jail of Cupar. Considering the great aptitude which the Gipsies have always shown for working in metals, it is not surprising that they should have resorted to coining, among their many expedients for circumventing and plundering the "strangers" among whom they sojourn. The following instance will illustrate the singular audacity which they can display in this branch of their profession: As an honest countryman, of much simplicity of character, of the name of W---- O----, was journeying along the public road, a travelling Tinkler, whom he did not know, chanced to come up to him. After walking and conversing for some time, the courteous Gipsy, on arriving at a public-house, invited him to step in, and have a "tasting." They accordingly entered the house, and had no sooner finished one half _mutchken_, than the liberal wanderer called for another; but when the reckoning came to be thought of, the countryman was surprised when his friend the Tinkler declared that he had not a coin in his possession. Unfortunately, the honest man happened also to be without a farthing in his pocket, and how they were to get out of the house, without paying the landlord, whom neither of them knew, puzzled him not a little. While meditating over their dilemma, the Gipsy, with his eyes rolling about in every direction, as is their wont, espied a pewter basin under a bed in the room. This was all he required. Bolting the door of the apartment, he opened his budget, and, taking out a pair of large shears, cut a piece from the side of the basin, and, putting it into his crucible on the fire, in no time, with his coining instruments, threw off several half-crowns, resembling good, sterling money. If the simple countryman was troubled at not being able to pay his reckoning, he was now terrified at being locked up with a man busily engaged in coining base money from an article stolen in the very apartment in which he was confined. He expected, every moment, some one to burst the door open, and apprehend them, while the Tinkler had all his coining apparatus about him. His companion, however, was not in the least disturbed, but deliberately finished his coin in a superior manner, and cutting the remainder of the basin into pieces, packed it into his wallet. Unlocking the door, he rang the bell, and tendered one of his half-crowns to his host, to pay his score, which was accepted without a suspicion. The Tinkler then offered his fellow-traveller part of his remaining coin; but the unsophisticated man, far from touching one of them, was only too glad to rid himself of so dangerous an acquaintance. The Gipsy, on his part, marched off, with his spirits elevated with liquor, and his pockets replenished with money, smiling at the simplicity and terror of the countryman. However numerous the crimes which the Gipsies have committed, or the murders they have perpetrated in their own tribe, yet, in justice to them, I must say that only two instances have come to my knowledge of their having put to death natives of Scotland who were not of their own fraternity. One of these instances was that of a man of the name of Adam Thomson, whom they murdered because he had encroached, it was said, upon one of their supposed privileges--that of gathering rags through the country. Amongst other acts of cruelty, they placed the poor man on a fire, in his own house. Two Gipsies were tried for the murder, but whether they were both executed, I do not know. The following particulars connected with this deed will show how exactly the Gipsies know the different routes and halting-places of each band, as they travel through the country. Indeed, I have been informed that the track which each horde is to take, the different stages, and the number of days they are to remain at each place, are all marked out and fixed upon in the spring, before they leave their winter residence. One of the Gipsies concerned in the murder of Thomson lay in prison, in one of the towns in the south of Scotland, for nearly twelve months, without having had any communication with his tribe. There was not sufficient evidence against him to justify his being brought to trial; nor would he give any information regarding the transaction. At last he changed his mind, and told the authorities they would find the murderer at a certain spot in the Highlands, on a certain day and hour of that day; but if he could not be found there, they were to proceed to another place, at twenty miles' distance, where they would be sure to find him. The murderer was found at the place, and on the day, mentioned by the Gipsy. But, on entering the house, the constables could not discover him, although they knew he had been within its walls a few minutes before they approached it. A fire having been kindled in the house, a noise was heard in the chimney, which attracted the notice of the constables; and, on examination, they found the object of their search; the heat and smoke having caused him to become restless in his place of concealment. He was secured, and some of the country-people were called upon to assist in carrying him to Edinburgh. The prisoner was bound into a cart with ropes, to prevent him making his escape; the party in charge of him being aware of the desperate character of the man. Nothing particular occurred on the road, until after they had passed the town of Linlithgow, when, to their astonishment, they found a woman in the pangs of labour, in the open field. She called upon them either to bring her a midwife, or take her to one; a claim that could not be resisted. She was accordingly put into the cart, beside the prisoner, and driven with all speed to a place where a midwife could be procured. On arriving opposite a dell, full of trees and bushes, about the west-end of Kirkliston, the guards were confounded at seeing their prisoner, all at once, spring out of the cart, and, darting into the cover, vanish in an instant. Pursuit was immediately given, and, in the excitement, the unfortunate woman was left to her fate. In searching for the Gipsy, they met a gentleman shooting in the neighbourhood, who had observed a man hide himself among the bushes. On going to the spot, they found the criminal, lying like a fox in his hole. The sportsman, presenting his gun, threatened to blow out his brains, if he did not come out, and deliver himself up to the constables. On returning with him to the cart, his captors, to their astonishment, found that the woman in labour had also vanished. It is needless to add that she was a Gipsy, who had feigned being in travail, and, while in the cart, had cut the ropes with which the prisoner was bound, to enable him to make his escape. The female Gipsies have had recourse to many expedients in their impositions on the public. The following is an instance, of a singular nature, that took place a good many years ago. When it is considered that the Gipsies, in their native country,[118] would not be encumbered with much wearing-apparel, but would go about in a state little short of nudity, the extreme indecency of such an action will appear somewhat lessened. The inhabitants of Winchburgh and neighbourhood were one day greatly astonished at beholding a female, with a child in her arms, walking along the road, as naked as when she was born. She stated to the country-people that she had just been plundered, and stripped of every article of her wearing-apparel, by a band of Tinklers, to whom she pointed, lying in a field hard by. She submitted her piteous condition to the humanity of the inhabitants, and craved any sort of garment to cover her nakedness. The state in which she was found left not the slightest doubt on the minds of the spectators as to the truth of her representations. Almost every female in the neighbourhood ran with some description of clothing to the unfortunate woman; so that, in a short time, she was not only comfortably clad, but had many articles of dress to spare. Shortly after, she left the town, and proceeded on her journey. But some one, observing her motions more closely than the rest, was astonished at seeing her go straight to the very Tinklers who, she said, had stripped her. Her appearance among her band convulsed them all with laughter, at the dexterous trick she had played upon the simple inhabitants. [118] It is pretty certain that the Gipsies came from a warm country, for they have no words for frost or snow, as will be seen in my enquiry into the history of their language. The following anecdote, related to me of one of the well-attired female Gipsies, belonging to the Stirling horde, will illustrate the gratitude which the Scottish Gipsies have, on all occasions, shown to those who have rendered them acts of kindness and attention: A person, belonging to Stirling, had rendered himself obnoxious to the Gipsies, by giving information relative to one of the gang, of the name of Hamilton, whom he had observed picking a man's pocket of forty pounds in a fair at Doune. Hamilton was apprehended immediately after committing the theft, but none of the money was found upon him. The informer, however, was marked out for destruction by the band, for his officious conduct; and they only waited a convenient opportunity to put their resolution into execution. Some time afterwards, the proscribed individual had occasion to go to a market at no great distance from Stirling, and while on his way to it, he observed, on the road before him, a female, in the attire of a lady, riding on horseback. On coming to a pond at the road-side, the horse suddenly made for the water, and threw down its head to drink. Not being prepared for the movement, the rider was thrown from her seat, with considerable violence, to the ground. The proscribed individual, observing the accident, ran forward to her assistance; but, being only slightly stunned, she was, with his help, safely placed in her seat again. She now thanked him for his kind and timely assistance, and informed him of the conspiracy that had been formed against him. She said it was particularly fortunate for him that such an accident had befallen her under the circumstances; for, in consequence of the information he had given about the pocket-picking at Doune, he was to have been way-laid and murdered; that very night having been fixed upon for carrying the resolution into effect. But, as he had shown her this kindness, she would endeavour to procure, from her people, a pardon for him, for the past. She then directed him to follow slowly, while she would proceed on, at a quick pace, and overtake some of her people, to whom she would relate her accident, and the circumstances attending it. She then informed him that if she waved her _hand_, upon his coming in sight of herself and her people, he was to retrace his steps homeward, there being then no mercy for him; but if she waved her _handkerchief_, he might advance without fear. To his heart-felt delight, on coming near the party, the signal of peace was given, when he immediately hastened forward to the spot. The band, who had been in deliberation upon his fate, informed him that the lady's intercession had prevailed with them to spare his life; and that now he might consider himself safe, provided he would take an oath, there and then, never again to give evidence against any of their people, or speak to any one about their practices, should he discover them. The person in question deemed it prudent, under all the circumstances of the case, to take the oath; after which, nothing to his hurt, in either purse or person, ever followed.[119] The lady, thus equipped, and possessed of so much influence, was the chief female of the Gipsy band, to whom all the booty obtained at the fair was brought, at the house where she put up at for the day. It would seem that she was determined to save her friend at all events; for, had her band not complied with her wishes, the waving of her hand--the signal for him to make his escape--would have defeated their intentions for that time. [119] Such interference with the Gipsies causes them much greater offence than if the informer was a principal in the transaction. To such people, their advice has always been: "Follow your nose, and let sleeping dogs lie." The following anecdote will illustrate the way in which they have revenged themselves, under circumstances different from the above: Old Will, of Phaup, at the head of Ettrick, was wont to shelter them for many years. They asked nothing but house-room, and grass for their horses; and, though they sometimes remained for several days, he could have left every chest and press about the house open, with the certainty that nothing would be missing; for, he said, "he aye ken'd fu' weel that the toad wad keep his ain hole clean." But it happened that he found one of the gang, through the trick of a neighbouring farmer, feeding six horses on the best piece of grass on his farm, which he was keeping for winter fodder. A desperate combat followed, and the Gipsy was thrashed to his heart's content, and hunted out of the neighbourhood. A warfare of five years' duration ensued between Will and the Gipsies. They nearly ruined him, and, at the end of that period, he was glad to make up matters with his old friends, and shelter them as formerly. He said he could have held his own with them, had it not been for their warlockry; for nothing could he keep from them--they once found his purse, though he had made his wife bury it in the garden.--_Blackwood's Magazine._ It is the afterclap that keeps the people off the Gipsies, and secures for them a sort of toleration wherever they go.--ED. When occurrences of so grave and imposing a nature as the above are taken into consideration, the fear and awe with which the Gipsies have inspired the community are not to be wondered at. The Gipsies at Lochgellie had a dance peculiar to themselves, during the performance of which they sung a song, in the Gipsy language, which they called a "croon." A Gipsy informed me that it was exactly like the one old Charles Stewart, and other Gipsies, used to perform, and which I will describe. At the wedding near Corstorphine, which Charles Stewart attended, as already mentioned, there were five or six female Gipsies in his train. On such occasions he did not allow males to accompany him. At some distance from the people at the wedding, but within hearing of the music, the females formed themselves into a ring, with Charles in the centre. Here, in the midst of the circle, he danced and capered in the most antic and ludicrous manner, sweeping his cudgel around his body in all directions, and moving with much grace and agility. Sometimes he danced round the outside of the circle. The females danced and courtesied to him, as he faced about and bowed to them. When they happened to go wrong, he put them to rights by a movement of his cudgel; for it was by the cudgel that all the turns and figures of the dance were regulated. A twirl dismissed the females; a cut recalled them; a sweep made them squat on the ground; a twist again called them up, in an instant, to the dance. In short, Stewart distinctly spoke to his female dancers by means of his cudgel, commanding them to do whatever he pleased, without opening his mouth to one of them. George Drummond, a Gipsy chief of an inferior gang in Fife, danced with his seraglio of females, amounting sometimes to half a dozen, in the same manner as Stewart, without the slightest variation, excepting that his gestures were, on some occasions, extremely lascivious. He threw himself into almost every attitude in which the human body can be placed, while his cudgel was flying about his person with great violence. All the movements of the dance were regulated by the measures of an indecent song, at the chorus of which the circular movements of Drummond's cudgel ceased; when one of the females faced about to him, and joined him with her voice, the gestures of both being exceedingly obscene. Drummond's appearance, while dancing, has been described to me, by a gentleman who has often seen him performing, as exactly like what is called a "jumping-jack"--that is, a human figure, cut out of wood or paste-board, with which children often amuse themselves, by regulating its ludicrous movements by means of strings attached to various parts of it. Dr. Clark, in his account of his travels through Russia, gives a description of a Gipsy dance in Moscow, which is, in all respects, very similar to that performed by Stewart and Drummond. These travels came into my hands some time after I had taken notes of the Scottish Gipsy dance. Napkins appear to have been used by the Russian Gipsies, where sticks were employed by our Scottish tribes. No mention, however, is made, by Dr. Clark, whether the females, in the dance at Moscow, were guided by signs with the napkins, in the manner in which Stewart and Drummond, by their cudgels, directed their women in their dances. The eyes of the females were constantly fixed upon Stewart's cudgel. Dr. Clark is of opinion that the national dance in Russia, called the _barina_, is derived from the Gipsies; and thinks it probable that our common hornpipe is taken from these wanderers.[120] [120] If I am not mistaken, Col. Todd is of opinion that the Gipsies originally came from Cabool, in Afghanistan. I will here give a description of an Afghan dance, very like the Gipsy dance in Scotland. "The western Afghans are fond of a particular dance called _Attum_, or _Ghoomboor_, in which from fourteen to twenty people move, in strange attitudes, with shouting, clapping of hands, and snapping of fingers, in a circle, round a single person, who plays on an instrument in the centre."--_Fraser's Library._ George Drummond was, in rank, quite inferior to the Lochgellie band, who called him a "beggar Tinkler," and seemed to despise him. He always travelled with a number of females in his company. These he married after the custom of the Gipsies, and divorced some of them over the body of a horse, sacrificed for the occasion; a description of both of which ceremonies will be given in another chapter. He chastised his women with his cudgel, without mercy, causing the blood to flow at every blow, and frequently knocked them senseless to the ground; while he would call out to them, "What the deevil are ye fighting at--can ye no' 'gree? I'm sure there's no' sae mony o' ye!" although, perhaps, four would be engaged in the scuffle. Such was this man's impudence and audacity, that he sometimes carried off the flesh out of the kail-pots of the farmers; and so terrified were some of the inhabitants of Fife, at some of the Gipsy women who followed him, that, the moment they entered their doors, salt was thrown into the fire, to set at defiance the witchcraft which they believed they possessed. One female, called Dancing Tibby, was, in particular, an object of apprehension and suspicion. In Drummond's journeys through the country, when he came at night to a farmer's premises, where he intended to lodge, and found his place occupied by others of his gang, he, without hesitation, turned them out of their quarters, and took possession of their warm beds himself; letting them shift for themselves as they best might. This man lived till he was ninety years of age, and was, from his youth, impressed with a belief that he would die in the house in which he was born; although he had travelled a great part of the continent, and, while in the army, had been in various engagements. He fell sick when at some distance from the place of his nativity, but he hired a conveyance, and drove with haste to die on his favourite spot. To this house he was allowed admittance, where he closed his earthly career, in about forty-eight hours after his arrival. Like others of his tribe, Drummond, at times, gave tokens of protection to some of his particular friends, outside of the circle of his own fraternity. James Robertson, a Gipsy closely related to the Lochgellie band, of whom I have already made mention, frequently danced, with his wife and numerous sisters, in a particular fashion, changing and regulating the figures of the dance by means of a bonnet; being, I believe, the same dance which I have attempted to describe as performed by others of the tribe in Scotland. When his wife and sisters got intoxicated, which was often the case, it was a wild and extravagant scene to behold those light-footed damsels, with loose and flowing hair, dancing, with great spirit, on the grass, in the open field, while James was, with all his "might and main," like the devil playing to the witches, in "Tam o' Shanter," keeping the bacchanalians in fierce and animated music. When like to flag in his exertions to please them with his fiddle, they have been heard calling loudly to him, like Maggy Lawder to Rob the Ranter, "Play up, Jamie Robertson; if ever we do weel, it will be a wonder;" being totally regardless of all sense of decorum and decency. The Gipsies in Fife followed the same occupations, in all respects, as those in other parts of Scotland, and were also dexterous at all athletic exercises. They were exceedingly fond of cock-fighting, and, when the season came round for that amusement, many a good cock was missing from the farm-yards. The Lochgellie band considered begging a disgrace to their tribe. At times they were handsomely dressed, wearing silver buckles in their shoes, gold rings on their fingers, and gold and silver brooches in the bosoms of their ruffled shirts. They killed, at Martinmass, fat cattle for their winter's provisions, and lived on the best victuals the country could produce. It is, I believe, the common practice, among inferior Scotch traders, for those who receive money to treat the payer, or return a trifle of the payment, called a luck-penny: but, in opposition to this practice, the Lochgellie Gipsies always treated those to whom they paid money for what they purchased of them. They occasionally attended the church, and sometimes got their children baptized; but when the clergyman refused them that privilege, they baptized them themselves. At their baptisms, they had great feastings and drinkings. Their favourite beverage, on such occasions, was oatmeal and whiskey, mixed. When intoxicated, they were sometimes very fond of arguing and expostulating with clergymen on points of morality. With regard to the internal government of the Lochgellie Gipsies, I can only find that they held consultations among themselves, relative to their affairs, and that the females had votes as well as the males, but that old Charles Graham had the casting vote; while, in his absence, his wife, Ann Brown, managed their concerns. There is a strict division of property among the Gipsies; community of goods having no place among them. The heads of each family, although travelling in one band, manufacture and vend their own articles of merchandise, for the support of their own families. The following particulars are illustrative of this fact among the Gipsies:--A farmer in Fife, who would never allow them to kindle fires in his out-houses, had a band of them, of about twenty-five persons, quartered one night on his farm. Next morning, the chief female borrowed from the family a large copper caldron, used for the purposes of the dairy, with which she had requested permission to cook the breakfast of the horde upon the kitchen fire. This having been granted, each family produced a small linen bag, (not the beggar's wallet,) made of coarse materials, containing oatmeal; of which at least four were brought into the apartment. The female who prepared the repast went regularly over the bags, taking out the meal in proportion to the members of the families to which they respectively belonged, and repeated her visits in this manner till the porridge was ready to be served up. I shall conclude my account of the Gipsies in Fife by mentioning the curious fact that, within these sixty years, a gentleman of considerable landed property, between the Forth and the Tay, abandoned his relatives, and travelled over the kingdom in the society of the Gipsies. He married one of the tribe, of the name of Ogilvie, who had two daughters to him. Sometimes he quartered, it is said, upon his own estate, disguised, of course, among the gang, to the great annoyance of his relatives, who were horrified at the idea of his becoming a Tinkler, and alarmed at the claims which he occasionally made upon the estate. His daughters travel the country, at the present day, as common Gipsies. CHAPTER VI. TWEED-DALE AND CLYDESDALE GIPSIES. The county of Peebles, or Tweed-dale, appears to have been more frequented by the Gipsies than, perhaps, any other part of Scotland. So far back as the time of Henry Lord Darnley, when the Gipsies were countenanced by the government, we find, according to Buchanan, that this county was a favourite resort of banditti; so much so, that when Darnley took up his residence in Peebles, for the purpose of shunning the company of his wife, Queen Mary, he "found the place so cold, so infested with thieves, and so destitute of provisions, that he was driven from it, to avoid being fleeced and starved by rogues and beggars." In the poems of Dr. Pennecuik, as well as in his history of Peebles-shire, published in the year 1715, the Gipsy bands are frequently taken notice of. But, notwithstanding the attachment which the tribe had for the romantic glens of Tweed-dale, no evidence exists of their ever having had a permanent habitation within the shire. They appear to have resorted to that pastoral district during only the months of spring, summer and autumn. Their partiality for this part of Scotland may be attributed to three reasons. The first reason is, Tweed-dale was part of the district in which, if not the first, at least the second, Gipsy family in Scotland claimed, at one time, a right to travel, as its own peculiar privilege. The chief of this family was called Baillie, who claimed kindred, in the bastard line, to one of the most ancient families in the kingdom, of the name of Baillie, once Balliol.[121] In consequence of this alleged connexion, this Gipsy family also claimed, as its right, to travel in the upper ward of Lanarkshire, adjoining Tweed-dale, in which district the Scottish family alluded to possessed estates; and one of the principal places of the Gipsy rendezvous was an old ruin, among the hills, in the upper part of the parish of Lamington, or rather Wanel in those days. [121] This claim appears doubtful, for there were Gipsies of the name of Baillie (Bailyow) as far back as 1540, as already mentioned. However, the particulars of the laird's intrigue with the beautiful Gipsy girl, are imprinted on the minds of the Gipsies of that name at the present day. The second reason is, that the surface of Tweed-dale is much adapted to the wandering disposition of the Gipsies. It is mountainous, but everywhere intersected by foot-paths and bridle-roads, affording an easy passage to the Gipsies, on foot or horseback. On its many hills are plenty of game; and its infinite number of beautiful streams, including about thirty-five miles of the highest part of the Tweed, abound with trout of the finest quality. The Gipsies, being fond of game, and much addicted to poaching and fishing, flocked to Tweed-dale and the adjoining upland districts of a similar character, comprehending some of the most remote and least frequented parts in the south of Scotland. All these districts being covered with vast flocks of sheep, many of which were frequently dying of various diseases, the Gipsies never wanted a plentiful supply of that sort of food from the families of the store-masters.[122] [122] The Gipsies were not spared of _braxy_, of which they were fond. I have known natives of Tweed-dale and Ettrick Forest, who preferred _braxy_ to the best meat _killed by the hand of man_. It has a particular _sharp_ relish, which made them so fond of it. [Braxy is the flesh of sheep which have died of a certain disease. When the Gipsies are taunted with eating what some call carrion, they very wittily reply: "The flesh of a beast which God kills must be better than that of one killed by the hand of man." Such flesh, "killed by the hand of God," is often killed in this manner: They will administer to swine a drug affecting the brain only, which will cause speedy death; when they will call and obtain the carcass, without suspicion, and feast on the flesh, which has been in no way injured.--_Borrow._ They will also stuff wool down a sheep's throat, and direct the farmer's attention to it when near its last gasp, and obtain the carcass after being skinned.--ED.] And the third reason is, that, in the pastoral districts in the upper parts of the shires of Peebles, Selkirk, Dumfries, and Lanark, including all that mountainous tract of land in which the rivers Tweed, Annan and Clyde have their sources, the Gipsies were, in a great measure, secure from the officers of the law, and enjoyed their favourite amusements without molestation or hindrance. Before, and long after, the year 1745, the male branches of the Baillies traversed Scotland, mounted on the best horses to be found in the country; themselves dressed in long coats, made of the finest scarlet and green cloth, ruffled at hands and breast, booted and spurred; with cocked hats on their heads, pistols in their belts, and broad-swords by their sides: and at the heels of their horses followed greyhounds, and other dogs of the chase, for their amusement. Some of them assumed the manners and characters of gentlemen, which they supported with wonderful art and propriety. The females attended fairs in the attire of ladies, riding on ponies, with side-saddles, in the best style. On these occasions, the children were left in charge of their servants, perhaps in an old out-house or hut, in some wild, sequestered glen, in Tweed-dale or Clydesdale. The greater part of the tenantry were kind to the Gipsies, and many encouraged them to frequent their premises. Tweed-dale being the favourite resort of the principal horde, they generally abstained from injuring the property of the greater part of the inhabitants. Indeed, I have been informed, by eye-witnesses, that several of the farmers in Tweed-dale and Clydesdale, at so late a period as about the year 1770, accepted of entertainments from the principal Gipsies, dining with them in the open fields, or in some old, unoccupied out-house, or kiln. Their repast, on such occasions, was composed of the best viands the country could produce. On one occasion, a band dined on the green-sward, near Douglass-mill, when the Gipsies drank their wine, after dinner, as if they had been the best in the land. Some of the landed proprietors, however, introduced clauses in their leases prohibiting their tenants from harbouring the Gipsies; and the Laird of Dolphington is mentioned as one. The tribe, on hearing of the restriction, expressed great indignation at the Laird's conduct in adopting so effectual a method of banishing them from the district. But so strong were the attachments which some of the Gipsies displayed towards the inhabitants, that the chief of the Ruthvens actually wept like a child, whenever the misfortunes of the ancient family of Murray, of Philliphaugh, were mentioned to him. In giving an account of the Gipsies who frequented Tweed-dale, and the country adjacent, I have thought it proper to mention particularly the family of Baillie; for this family produced kings and queens, or, in their language, _baurie rajahs_ and _baurie raunies_, to the Scottish Gipsies. At one period they seem to have exercised a sort of sovereign authority in the tribe, over almost the whole of Scotland; and, according to the ordinary practice of writing history of a great deal more importance, they should, as the chief family of a tribe, be particularly noticed. The quarrels of the Gipsies frequently broke out in an instant, and almost without a visible cause. A farmer's wife, with whom I was acquainted, was one day sitting in the midst of a band of them, at work in an old out-house, enquiring the news of the country of them, when, in an instant, a shower of horns and hammers, open knives, files, and fiery peats, were flying through the house, at one another's heads. The good-wife took to her heels immediately, to get out of the fray. Some of their conflicts were terrible in the extreme. Dr. Pennecuik, in his history of Peebles-shire, already referred to, gives an account of a sanguinary struggle that took place on his estate of Romanno, in Tweed-dale. The following are the particulars in his own words: "Upon the 1st of October, 1677, there happened at Romanno, on the very spot where now the dove-cot is built, a remarkable polymachy betwixt two clans of Gipsies, the Fawes and the Shawes, who had come from Haddington fair, and were going to Harestanes, to meet two other clans of these rogues, the Baillies and Browns, with a resolution to fight them. They fell out, at Romanno, among themselves, about dividing the spoil they had got at Haddington, and fought it manfully. Of the Fawes, there were four brethren and a brother's son; of the Shawes, the father with three sons; and several women on both sides. Old Sandie Fawe, a bold and proper fellow,[123] with his wife, then with child, were both killed dead upon the place; and his brother George very dangerously wounded. In February, 1678, old Robin Shawe, the Gipsy, and his three sons, were hanged at the Grass-market, for the above-mentioned murder, committed at Romanno; and John Fawe was hanged, the Wednesday following, for another murder. Sir Archibald Primrose was justice general at the time, and Sir George McKenzie king's advocate." Contrasting the obstinate ferocity of the Gipsy with the harmless and innocent nature of the dove, Dr. Pennecuik erected on the spot a dove-cot; and, to commemorate the battle, placed upon the lintel of the door the following inscription: "A. D. 1683. The field of Gipsie blood, which here you see, A shelter for the harmless dove shall be." [123] It is interesting to notice that the Doctor calls this Gipsy a "bold and proper fellow." He was, in all probability, a fine specimen of physical manhood.--ED. This Gipsy battle is also noticed by Lord Fountainhall, in the following extract from his MS., now in the Advocate's Library:--"Sixth February, 1678.--Four Egyptians, of the name of Shaw, were this day hanged--the father and three sons--for the slaughter committed by them on the Faws, (another tribe of these vagabonds, worse than the mendicants validi, mentioned in the code,) in a drunken squabble, made by them in a rendezvous they had at Romanno, with a design to unite their forces against the clans of Browns and Bailezies (Baillies), that were come over from Ireland,[124] to chase them back again, that they might not share in their labours; but, in their ramble, they discovered and committed the foresaid murder; and sundry of them, of both sides, were apprehended."--"The four being thrown into a hole dug for them in the Greyfriars churchyard, with their clothes on, the next morning the body of the youngest of the three sons, (who was scarce sixteen,) was missed. Some thought that, being last thrown over the ladder, and first cut down, and in full vigour, and not much earth placed upon him, and lying uppermost, and so not so ready to smother, the fermentation of the blood, and heat of the bodies under him, might cause him to rebound, and throw off the earth, and recover ere the morning, and steal away. Which, if true, he deserved his life, though the magistrates deserved a reprimand. But others, more probably, thought his body was stolen away by some chirurgeon, or his servant, to make an anatomical dissection on." [124] The Scottish Gipsies, as I have already said, have a tradition that their ancestors came into Scotland by way of Ireland. [The allusion to that circumstance by the Gipsies, on this occasion, was evidently to throw dust into the eyes of the Scottish authorities, by whom the whole tribe in Scotland were proscribed.--ED.] About a century after this conflict, we find the nature of the Gipsies still unchanged. The following details of one of their general engagements will serve as a specimen of the obstinate and desperate manner in which, to a late period, they fought among themselves. The battle took place at the bridge of Hawick, in the spring of the year 1772, or 1773. The particulars are derived from the late Mr. Robert Laidlaw, Tenant of Fanash, a gentleman of respectability, who was an eye-witness to the scene of action. It was understood that this battle originated in some encroachments of the one tribe upon the district assigned to the other; a principal source of quarrels among these wanderers. And it was agreed to, by the contending parties, that they were to fight out their dispute the first time they should meet, which, as just said, happened at Hawick. On the one side, in this battle, was the celebrated Alexander Kennedy, a handsome and athletic man, and head of his tribe. Next to him, in consideration, was little Wull Ruthven, Kennedy's father-in-law. This man was known, all over the country, by the extraordinary title of the Earl of Hell;[125] and, although he was above five feet ten inches in height, he got the appellation of Little Wull, to distinguish him from Muckle William Ruthven, who was a man of uncommon stature and personal strength.[126] The earl's son was also in the fray. These were the chief men in Kennedy's band. Jean Ruthven, Kennedy's wife, was also present; with a great number of inferior members of the clan, males as well as females, of all ages, down to mere children. The opposite band consisted of old Rob Tait, the chieftain of his horde, Jacob Tait, young Rob Tait, and three of old Rob Tait's sons-in-law. These individuals, with Jean Gordon, old Tait's wife, and a numerous train, of youths of both sexes and various ages, composed the adherents of old Robert Tait. These adverse tribes were all closely connected with one another by the ties of blood. The Kennedys and Ruthvens were from the ancient burgh of Lochmaben. [125] This seems a favourite title among the Tinklers. One, of the name of Young, bears it at the present time. But the Gipsies are not singular in these terrible titles. In the late Burmese war, we find his Burmese majesty creating one of his generals "King of Hell, Prince of Darkness."--See _Constable's Miscellany_. [126] A friend, in writing me, says: "I still think I see him, (Muckle Wull,) bruising the charred peat over the flame of his furnace, with hands equal to two pair of hands of the modern day; while his withered and hairy shackle-bones were more like the postern joints of a sorrel cart-horse than anything else." The whole of the Gipsies in the field, females as well as males, were armed with bludgeons, excepting some of the Taits, who carried cutlasses, and pieces of iron hoops, notched and serrated on either side, like a saw, and fixed to the end of sticks. The boldest of the tribe were in front of their respective bands, with their children and the other members of their clan in the rear, forming a long train behind them. In this order both parties boldly advanced, with their weapons uplifted above their heads. Both sides fought with extraordinary fury and obstinacy. Sometimes the one band gave way, and sometimes the other; but both, again and again, returned to the combat with fresh ardour. Not a word was spoken during the struggle; nothing was heard but the rattling of the cudgels and the strokes of the cutlasses. After a long and doubtful contest, Jean Ruthven, big with child at the time, at last received, among many other blows, a dreadful wound with a cutlass. She was cut to the bone, above and below the breast, particularly on one side. It was said the slashes were so large and deep that one of her breasts was nearly severed from her body, and that the motions of her lungs, while she breathed, were observed through the aperture between her ribs. But, notwithstanding her dreadful condition, she would neither quit the field nor yield, but continued to assist her husband as long as she was able. Her father, the Earl of Hell, was also shockingly wounded; the flesh being literally cut from the bone of one of his legs, and, in the words of my informant, "hanging down over his ankles, like beef steaks." The earl left the field to get his wounds dressed; but observing his daughter, Kennedy's wife, so dangerously wounded, he lost heart, and, with others of his party, fled, leaving Kennedy alone, to defend himself against the whole of the clan of Tait. Having now all the Taits, young and old, male and female, to contend with, Kennedy, like an experienced warrior, took advantage of the local situation of the place. Posting himself on the narrow bridge of Hawick, he defended himself in the defile, with his bludgeon, against the whole of his infuriated enemies. His handsome person, his undaunted bravery, his extraordinary dexterity in handling his weapon, and his desperate situation, (for it was evident to all that the Taits thirsted for his blood, and were determined to despatch him on the spot,) excited a general and lively interest in his favour, among the inhabitants of the town, who were present, and had witnessed the conflict with amazement and horror. In one dash to the front, and with one powerful sweep of his cudgel, he disarmed two of the Taits, and cutting a third to the skull, felled him to the ground. He sometimes daringly advanced upon his assailants, and drove the whole band before him, pell-mell. When he broke one cudgel on his enemies, by his powerful arm, the town's people were ready to hand him another. Still, the vindictive Taits rallied, and renewed the charge with unabated vigour; and every one present expected that Kennedy would fall a sacrifice to their desperate fury. A party of messengers and constables at last arrived to his relief, when the Taits were all apprehended, and imprisoned; but, as none of the Gipsies were actually slain in the fray, they were soon set at liberty.[127] [127] This Gipsy battle is alluded to by Sir Walter Scott, in a postscript to a letter to Captain Adam Ferguson, 16th April, 1819. "By the by, old Kennedy the tinker swam for his life at Jedburgh, and was only, by the sophisticated and timed evidence of a seceding doctor, who differed from all his brethren, saved from a well-deserved gibbet. He goes to botanize for fourteen years. Pray tell this to the Duke (of Buccleuch,) for he was an old soldier of the Duke, and the Duke's old soldier. Six of his brethren were, I am told, in the court, and kith and kin without end. I am sorry so many of the clan are left. The cause of the quarrel with the murdered man, was an old feud between two Gipsy clans, the Kennedys and Irvings, which, about forty years since, gave rise to a desperate quarrel and battle at Hawick-green, in which the grandfather of both Kennedy and the man whom he murdered were engaged."--_Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott._ Alexander Kennedy was tried for murdering Irving, at Yarrowford. [This Gipsy fray at Hawick is known among the English Gipsies as "the Battle of the Bridge."--ED.] In this battle, it was said that every Gipsy, except Alexander Kennedy, the brave chief, was severely wounded; and that the ground on which they fought was wet with blood. Jean Gordon, however, stole, unobserved, from her band, and, taking a circuitous road, came behind Kennedy, and struck him on the head with her cudgel. What astonished the inhabitants of Hawick the most of all, was the fierce and stubborn disposition of the Gipsy females. It was remarked that, when they were knocked down senseless to the ground, they rose again, with redoubled vigour and energy, to the combat. This unconquerable obstinacy and courage of their females is held in high estimation by the tribe. I once heard a Gipsy sing a song, which celebrated one of their battles; and, in it, the brave and determined manner in which the girls bore the blows of the cudgel over their heads was particularly applauded. The battle at Hawick was not decisive to either party. The hostile bands, a short time afterwards, came in contact, in Ettrick Forest, at a place, on the water of Teema, called Deephope. They did not, however, engage here; but the females on both sides, at some distance from one another, with a stream between them, scolded and cursed, and, clapping their hands, urged the males again to fight. The men, however, more cautious, only observed a sullen and gloomy silence at this meeting. Probably both parties, from experience, were unwilling to renew the fight, being aware of the consequences which would follow, should they again close in battle. The two clans then separated, each taking different roads, but both keeping possession of the disputed district. In the course of a few days, they again met in Eskdale moor, when a second desperate conflict ensued. The Taits were here completely routed, and driven from the district, in which they had attempted to travel by force. The country-people were horrified at the sight of the wounded Tinklers, after these sanguinary engagements. Several of them, lame and exhausted, in consequence of the severity of their numerous wounds, were, by the assistance of their tribe, carried through the country on the backs of asses; so much were they cut up in their persons. Some of them, it was said, were slain outright, and never more heard of. Jean Ruthven, however, who was so dreadfully slashed, recovered from her wounds, to the surprise of all who had seen her mangled body, which was sewed in different parts by her clan. These battles were talked of for thirty miles around the country. I have heard old people speak of them, with fear and wonder at the fierce, unyielding disposition of the willful and vindictive Tinklers.[128] [128] Grellmann, on the Hungarian Gipsies, says: "They are loquacious and quarrelsome in the highest degree. In the public markets, and before ale-houses, where they are surrounded by spectators, they bawl, spit at each other, catch up sticks and cudgels, vapour and brandish them over their heads, throw dust and dirt; now run from each other, then back again, with furious gestures and threats. The women scream, drag their husbands by force from the scene of action; these break from them again, and return to it. The children, too, howl piteously." But I am at a loss to understand the object of such an affray, as given by this author, on any other theory than that of collecting crowds, in the places mentioned, to enable them the more easily to pick pockets. For Grellmann adds: "After a short time, without any persons interfering, when they have cried and make a noise till they are tired, and without either party having received any personal injury, the affair terminates, and they separate with as much ostentation as if they had performed the most heroic feat."--ED. We have already seen that the female Gipsies are nearly as expert at handling the cudgel, and fully as fierce and unyielding in their quarrels and conflicts, as the males of their race. The following particulars relative to a Gipsy scuffle, derived from an eye-witness, will illustrate how a Gipsy woman, of the name of Rebecca Keith, displayed no little dexterity in the effective use which she made of her bludgeon. Two gangs of Gipsies, of different tribes, had taken up their quarters, on a Saturday, the one at the town of Dumblane, the other at a farm-steading on the estate of Cromlix, in the neighbourhood. On the Sunday following, the Dumblane horde paid a visit to the others, at their country quarters. The place set apart for their accommodation was an old kiln, of which they had possession, where they were feasted with abundance of savoury viands, and regaled with mountain dew, in copious libations, of quality fit for a prince. The country squad were of the Keith fraternity, and their queen, or head personage, at the time, was Rebecca Keith, past the middle age, but of gigantic stature, and great muscular power. In the course of their carousal, a quarrel ensued between the two gangs, and a fierce battle followed. The Keiths were the weaker party, but Becca, as she was called by the country people, performed prodigies of valour, against fearful odds, with only the aid of her strong, hard-worn shoe, which she wielded with the dexterity and effect of an experienced cudgelist. She appeared, however, unable much longer to contend against her too numerous opponents. Being a great favourite with all, especially with the inmates of the farm which was the scene of encounter, two young boys--the informant and the herd-callant--who witnessed the engagement, and whose sympathy was altogether on the side of the valourous Becca, exchanged a hurried and whispering remark to each other that, "if she had the _soople_ of a flail, they thought she would do gude wark." No sooner said than done. The herd-boy went off at once to the barn, cut the thongs asunder, and returned, in a twinkling, with the soople below his jacket, concealing it from view, with the cunning of a thief. Edging up to Becca, and uncovering the end of the weapon, it was seized upon by her with avidity. She flourished it in the air, and plied it with such effect, about the ears of her adversaries, that they were speedily driven off the field, with "sarks full of sore bones." In this furious manner would the friendly meetings of the Gipsies frequently terminate.[129] [129] It is astonishing how trifling a circumstance will sometimes set such Gipsies by the ears. In England, they will frequently "cast up" the history of their respective families on such occasions. "What was your father, I would like to know? He hadn't even an ass to carry his traps, and was a rogue at that, you ---- Gipsy. _My_ father was an honest man." "_Honest_ man?"--"Yes, honest man, and that's more than you can say of your kin." The other, having more of "the blood," will taunt his acquaintance with some such expression as "Gorgio like," (like the white.)--"And what are you, you black trash? Will blood put money in your pocket? Blood, indeed! I'm a better Gipsy than you are, in spite of the black devil that every one sees in your face!" Then the fray commences. When Gipsies take up their quarters on the premises of country people, a very effectual way of sometimes getting rid of them is to stir up discord among them. For when it comes to "hammers and tongs," "tongs and hammers," they will scatter, uttering howls of vengeance, on some more appropriate occasion, against their most intimate friends, who have just incurred their wrath, yet who will be seen "cheek by jowl" with them, perhaps, the next day, or even before the sun has gone down upon them; so easily are they sometimes irritated, and so easily reconciled.--ED. So formidable were the numbers of the nomadic Gipsies, at one time, and so alarming their desperate and sanguinary battles, in the upper parts of Tweed-dale and Clydesdale, that the fencible men in their neighbourhood, (the _country-side_ was the expression,) had sometimes to turn out to quell and disperse them. A clergyman was, on one occasion, under the necessity of dismissing his congregation, in the middle of divine service, that they might quell one of these furious Gipsy tumults, in the immediate vicinity of the church.[130] [130] A writer in Blackwood's Magazine mentions that the Gipsies, late in the seventeenth century, broke into the house of Pennicuik, when the greater part of the family were at church. Sir John Clerk, the proprietor, barricaded himself in his own apartment, where he sustained a sort of siege--firing from the windows upon the robbers, who fired upon him in return. One of them, while straying through the house in quest of booty, happened to ascend the stairs of a very narrow turret, but, slipping his foot, caught hold of the rope of the alarm bell, the ringing of which startled the congregation assembled in the parish church. They instantly came to the rescue of the Laird, and succeeded, it is said, in apprehending some of the Gipsies, who were executed. There is a written account of this daring assault kept in the records of the family.--ED. About the year 1770, the mother of the Baillies received some personal injury, or rather insult, at a fair at Biggar, from a gardener of the name of John Cree. The insult was instantly resented by the Gipsies; but Cree was luckily protected by his friends. In contempt and defiance of the whole multitude in the market, four of the Baillies--Matthew, James, William, and John--all brothers, appeared on horse-back, dressed in scarlet, and armed with broad-swords, and, parading through the crowd, threatened to be avenged of the gardener, and those who had assisted him. Burning with revenge, they threw off their coats, rolled up the sleeves of their shirts to the shoulder, like butchers when at work, and, with their naked and brawny arms, and glittering swords in their clenched hands, furiously rode up and down the fair, threatening death to all who should oppose them. Their bare arms, naked weapons, and resolute looks, showed that they were prepared to slaughter their enemies without mercy. No one dared to interfere with them, till the minister of the parish appeased their rage, and persuaded them to deliver up their swords. It was found absolutely necessary, however, to keep a watch upon the gardener's house, for six months after the occurrence, to protect him and his family from the vengeance of the vindictive Gipsies. To bring into view and illustrate the character and practices of our Scottish Gipsies, I will transcribe the following details, in the original words, from a MS. which I received from the late Mr. Blackwood, as a contribution towards a history of the Gipsies. Mr. Blackwood did not say who the writer of the paper was, but some one mentioned to me that he was a clergyman. I am satisfied that the statements it contains are true, and that the William Baillie therein mentioned was, in his day and generation, well known, over the greater part of Scotland, as chief of his tribe within the kingdom. He was the grandfather of the four Gipsies who, as just mentioned, set at defiance the whole multitude at Biggar fair. It will be seen, by this MS., that while the principal Gipsies, with their subordinates, were plundering the public, in all directions, they sometimes performed acts of gratitude and great kindness to their favourites of the community among whom they travelled. In it will also be exhibited the cool and business-like manner in which they delivered back stolen purses, when circumstances rendered such restoration necessary. "There was formerly a gang of Gipsies, or pick-pockets, who used to frequent the fairs in Dumfries-shire, headed by a William Baillie, or Will Baillie, as the country-people were accustomed to call him, of whom the old men used to tell many stories. "Before any considerable fair, if the gang were at a distance from the place where it was to be held, whoever of them were appointed to go, went singly, or, at most, never above two travelled together. A day or so after, Mr. Baillie himself followed, mounted like a nobleman; and, as journeys, in those days, were almost all performed on horseback, he sometimes rode, for many miles, with gentlemen of the first respectability in the country. And, as he could discourse readily and fluently on almost any topic, he was often taken to be some country gentleman of property, as his dress and manners seemed to indicate. "Once, in a very crowded fair at Dumfries, an honest farmer, from the parish of Hatton, in Annandale, had his pocket picked of a considerable sum, in gold, with which he was going to buy cattle. On discovering his loss, he immediately went and got a purse like the one he had lost, into which he put a good number of small stones, and, going into a crowded part of the fair, he kept a watchful eye on his pocket, and, in a little while, he caught a fellow in the very act of picking it. The farmer, who was a stout, athletic man, did not wish to make any noise, as he knew a more ready way of recovering his money; but whispered to the fellow, while he still kept fast hold of him, to come out of the throng a little, as he wanted to speak to him. There he told him that he had lost his money, and that, if he would get it to him again, he would let him go; if not, he would have him put in jail immediately. The pick-pocket desired him to come along with him, and he would see what could be done, the farmer still keeping close to him, lest he should escape. They entered an obscure house, in an unfrequented close, where they found Mr. Baillie sitting. The farmer told his tale, concluding with a promise that, as the loss of the money would hurt him very much, he would, if he could get it back again, make no more ado about it. On which, Mr. Baillie went to a concealment in the wall, and brought out the very purse the farmer had lost, with the contents untouched, which he returned to the farmer, who received it with much gratitude. "The farmer, after doing his business in the fair, got a little intoxicated in the evening; on which he thought he would call on Mr. Baillie, and give him a treat, for his kindness in restoring his purse; but on entering the house, the woman who kept it, a poor widow, fell on him and abused him sadly, asking him what he had done to cause Mr. Stewart, by which name she knew Mr. Baillie, to leave her house; and saying she had lost the best friend that ever she had, for always when he stayed a day or two in her house, (which he used to do twice a year,) he gave her as much as paid her half-year's rent; but after he, (the farmer,) called that day, Mr. Stewart, she said, left her house, telling her he could not stay with her any longer; but before he went, she said, he had given her what was to pay her half-year's rent, a resource, she lamented, she would lose in future. About two years afterwards, the farmer again had the curiosity to call on her, and ask her if her lodger had ever returned. She said he never had, but that, ever since, a stranger had called regularly, and given her money to pay her rent. "In the parish of Kirkmichael, about eight miles from Dumfries, lived a widow who occupied a small farm. As she had a number of young children, and no man to assist her, she fell behind in paying her rent, and at last got a summons of removal. She had a kiln that stood at a considerable distance from the other houses, which was much frequented by Baillie's people, when they came that way; and she gave them, at all times, peaceable possession, as she had no person to contend with them, or put them away, and she herself did not wish to differ with them. They, on the other hand, never molested anything she had. One evening, a number of them arrived rather late, and went into the kiln, as usual; after which, one came into the house, to ask a few peats, to make a fire. She gave the peats, saying she believed they would soon have to shift their quarters, as she herself was warned to flit, and she did not know if the next tenant would allow them such quiet possession, and she did not know what would become of herself and her helpless family. Nothing more was said, but, after having put her children to bed, as she was sitting by the fire, in a disconsolate manner, she heard a gentle tap at the door. On opening it, a genteel, well-dressed man entered, who told her he just wished to speak with her for a few minutes, and, sitting down, said he had heard she was warned to remove, and asked how much she was behind. She told him exactly. On which, rising hastily, he slipt a purse into her hand, and went out before she could say a single word. "The widow, however, kept the farm, paid off all old debts, and brought up her family decently; but still, it grieved her that she did not know who was her benefactor. She never told any person till about ten years afterwards, when she told a friend who came to see her, when she was rather poorly in health. After hearing the story, he asked her what sort of a man he was who gave her the money. She said their interview was so short, and it was so long past, that she could recollect little of him, but only remembered well that he had the scar of a cut across his nose. On which, her friend immediately exclaimed, 'Then Will Baillie was the man.' "Before the year 1740, the roads were bad through all the country. Carts were not then in use, and all the merchants' goods were conveyed in packs, on horseback. Among others, the farmers on the water of Ae, in Dumfries-shire, were almost all pack-carriers. As there was little improvement of land then, they had little to do at home, and so they made their rents mostly by carrying. Among others, there was an uncle of my father, whose name was Robert McVitie, who used to be a great carrier. This man, once, in returning from Edinburgh, stopt at Broughton, and in coming out of the stable, he met a man, who asked him if he knew him. Robert, after looking at him for a little, said: 'I think you are Mr. Baillie.' He said, I am, and asked if Robert could lend him two guineas, and it should be faithfully repaid. As there were few people who wished to differ with Baillie, Robert told him he was welcome to two guineas, or more if he wanted it. He said that would just do; on which Robert gave them to him, and he put them into his pocket. Baillie then asked, if ever he was molested by any person, when he was travelling late with his packs. He said he never was, although he was sometimes a little afraid. Baillie then gave him a kind of brass token, about the size of a half-crown, with some marks upon it, which he desired him to carry in his purse, and it might be of use to him some time, as he was to show it, if any person offered to rob him. Baillie then mounted his horse and rode off. "Some considerable time after this, as Robert was one evening travelling with his packs, between Elvanfoot and Moffat, two men came up to him, whom he thought very suspicious-looking fellows. As he was a stout man himself, and carried a good cudgel, he kept on the alert for a considerable way, lest they should take him by surprise. At last, one of them asked him if he was not afraid to travel alone, so late at night. He said he was under a necessity to be out late, sometimes, on his lawful business. But recollecting his token, he said a gentleman had once given him a piece of brass, to show, if ever any person troubled him. They desired him to show it, as it was moonlight. He gave it to them. On seeing it, they looked at one another, and then, whispering a few words, told him it was well for him he had the token, which they returned; and they left him directly. "After a lapse of nearly two years, when he had almost forgotten his two guineas, as he was one morning loading his packs, at the door of a public-house, near Gretna-green, he felt some person touch him behind, and, on looking round, saw it was Mr. Baillie, who slipped something into his hand, wrapped in paper, and left him, without speaking a single word. On opening the paper, he found three guineas, which was his own money, and a guinea for interest. "There was another gang of Gipsies that stayed mostly in Annandale, headed by a Jock Johnstone, as he was called in the country. These were counted a kind of lower caste than Baillie's people, who would have thought themselves degraded if they had associated with any of the Johnstone gang. Johnstone confined his travels mostly to Dumfries-shire; while Baillie went over all Scotland, and even made long excursions into England. Johnstone kept a great many women about him,[131] several of whom had children to him; and, in kilns and in barns, Johnstone always slept in the middle of the whole gang. Baillie sometimes told his select friends that he had a wife, but never any of them could find out where she stayed; and as he used to disappear now and then, for a considerable time together, it was supposed he was with her. He never slept, in barn or kiln, with any of his people. Johnstone travelled all day in the midst of a crowd of women and children, mounted on asses. Baillie travelled always by himself, mounted on the best horse he could get for money. [131] A great many of the inferior Gipsy chiefs travelled with a number of women in their company; such as George Drummond, Doctor Duds, John Lundie, and others. "Some time in the year 1739, Johnstone, with a number of his women, came to the house of one Margaret Farish, an old woman who sold ale at Lonegate, six miles from Dumfries, on the Edinburgh road. After drinking for a long time, some of Jock's wives and the old woman quarrelled. On which he took up the pewter pint-stoup, with which she measured her ale, and, giving her two or three severe blows on the head, killed her on the spot. Next day he was apprehended near Lockerby, and brought into Dumfries' jail. He had a favourite tame jack-daw that he took with him in all his travels, and he desired it might be brought to stay with him in the jail, which was done. When the lords were coming into the circuit, as they passed the jail, the trumpeters gave a blast, on which the jack-daw gave a flutter against the iron bars of the window, and dropped down dead. When Jock saw that, he immediately exclaimed: 'Lord have mercy on me, for I am gone.' He was accordingly tried and condemned. When the day of execution came, he would not walk to the scaffold, and so they were forced to carry him. The executioner, being an old man, could not turn him over. Several of the constables refused to touch him. At last, one of the burgh officers turned him off; but the old people about Dumfries used to say that the officer never prospered any more after that day."[132] [132] Dr. Alexander Carlyle, in a note to his autobiography, mentions having seen this Jock Johnstone hanged. The date given by him (1738), differs, however, from that mentioned above. According to him, Johnstone was but twenty years of age, but bold, and a great ringleader, and was condemned for robbery, and being accessory to a murder. The usual place of execution was a moor, adjoining the town; but, as it was strongly reported that the "thieves" were collecting from all quarters, to rescue the criminal from the gallows, the magistrates erected the scaffold in front of the prison, with a platform connecting, and surrounded it with about a hundred of the stoutest burgesses, armed with Lochaber axes. Jock made his appearance, surrounded by six officers. He was curly-haired, and fierce-looking, about five feet eight inches in height, and very strong of his size. At first he appeared astonished, but, looking around awhile, proceeded with a bold step. Psalms and prayers being over, and the rope fastened about his neck, he was ordered to mount a short ladder, attached to the gallows, in order to be thrown off; when he immediately seized the rope, and pulled so violently at it as to be in danger of bringing down the gallows--causing much emotion among the crowd, and fear among the magistrates. Jock, becoming furious, like a wild beast, struggled and roared, and defied the six officers to bind him; and, recovering the use of his arms, became more formidable. The magistrates then with difficulty prevailed on by far the strongest man in Dumfries, for the honour of the town, to come on the scaffold. Putting aside the six officers, this man seized the criminal, with as little difficulty as a nurse handles her child, and in a few minutes bound him hand and foot; and quietly laying him down on his face, near the edge of the scaffold, retired. Jock, the moment he felt his grasp, found himself subdued, and, becoming calm, resigned himself to his fate.--_Carlyle's Autobiography._--ED. The extraordinary man Baillie, who is here so often mentioned, was well known in Tweed-dale and Clydesdale; and my great-grandfather, who knew him well, used to say that he was the handsomest, the best dressed, the best looking, and the best bred man he ever saw. As I have already mentioned, he generally rode one of the best horses the kingdom could produce; himself attired in the finest scarlet, with his greyhounds following him, as if he had been a man of the first rank. With the usual Gipsy policy, he represented himself as a bastard son of one of the Baillies of Lamington, his mother being a Gipsy. On this account, considerable attention was paid to him by the country-people; indeed, he was taken notice of by the first in the land. But, from his singular habits, his real character at last became well known. He acted the character of the gentleman, the robber, the sorner, and the tinker, whenever it answered his purpose. He was considered, in his time, the best swordsman in all Scotland. With this weapon in his hand, and his back at a wall, he set almost everything, saving fire-arms, at defiance. His sword is still preserved by his descendants, as a relic of their powerful ancestor. The stories that are told of this splendid Gipsy are numerous and interesting. I will relate only two well-authenticated anecdotes of this _baurie rajah_, this king of the Scottish Gipsies; who was, in all probability, a descendant of Towla Bailyow, who, with other Gipsies, rebelled against, and plundered, John Faw, "Lord and Earl of Little Egypt," in the reign of James V. The following transaction of his has some resemblance to a custom among the Arabians. William, with his numerous horde, happened to fall in with a travelling packman, on a wild spot between Hawkshaw and Menzion, near the source of the Tweed. The packman was immediately commanded to halt, and lay his packs upon the ground. Baillie then unsheathed his broadsword, with which he was always armed, and, with the point of the weapon, drew, on the ground, a circle around the trembling packman and his wares. Within this circle no one of the tribe was allowed by him to enter but himself.[133] The poor man was now ordered to unbuckle his packs, and exhibit his merchandise to the Gipsies. Baillie, without the least ceremony, helped himself to some of the most valuable things in the pack, and gave a great many to the members of his band. The unfortunate merchant, well aware of the character of his customers, concluded himself a ruined man; and, in place of making any resistance, handed away his property to the Gipsies. But when they were satisfied, he was most agreeably surprised by Baillie taking out his purse, and paying him, on the spot, a great deal more than the value of every article he had taken for himself and given to his band. The delighted packman failed not to extol, wherever he went, the gentlemanly conduct and extraordinary liberality of "Captain Baillie"--a title by which he was known all over the country. [133] Bruce, in his travels, when speaking of the protection afforded by the Arabs to shipwrecked Christians, on the coasts of the Red Sea, says:--"The Arabian, with his lance, draws a circle large enough to hold you and yours. He then strikes his lance in the sand, and bids you abide within the circle. You are thus as safe, on the desert coast of Arabia, as in a citadel; there is no example or exception to the contrary that has ever been known."--_Bruce's Travels in Abyssinia._ The perilous situations in which Baillie was often placed did not repress the merry jocularity and sarcastic wit which he, in common with many of his tribe, possessed. He sometimes almost bearded and insulted the judge while sitting on the bench. On one of these occasions, when he was in court, the judge, provoked at seeing him so often at the bar, observed to him that he would assuredly get his ears cut out of his head, if he did not mend his manners, and abandon his way of life. "That I defy you to do, my lord," replied the Tinkler. The judge, perceiving that his ears had already been "nailed to the tron, and cut off," and being displeased at the effrontery and levity of his conduct, told him that he was certainly a great villain. "I am not such a villain as your lordship," retorted Baillie. "What do you say?" rejoined the judge, in great surprise at the bold manner of the criminal. "I say," continued the Gipsy, "that I am not such a villain as your lordship ---- takes me to be." "William," quoth the judge, "put your words closer together, otherwise you shall have cause to repent of your insolence and audacity."[134] [134] It might be supposed that the pride of a Gipsy would have the good effect of rendering him cautious not to be guilty of such crimes as subject him to public shame. But here his levity of character is rendered conspicuous; for he never looks to the right or to the left in his transactions; and though his conceit and pride are somewhat humbled, during the time of punishment, and while the consequent pain lasts; these being over, he no longer remembers his disgrace, but entertains quite as good an opinion of himself as before.--_Grellmann on the Hungarian Gipsies._--ED. Tradition states that William Baillie's conduct involved him in numerous scrapes. He was brought before the Justiciary Court, and had "his ears nailed to the tron, or other tree, and cut off, and banished the country," for his many crimes of "sorning, pickery, and little thieving." It also appears, from popular tradition, that he is the same William Baillie who is repeatedly noticed by Hume and McLaurin, in their remarks on the criminal law of Scotland. In June, 1699, William Baillie, for being an Egyptian, and for forging and using a forged pass, was sentenced to be "hanged; but the privy council commuted his sentence to banishment, but under the express condition that, if ever he returned to this country, the former sentence should be executed against him." William entered into a bond with the privy council, under the penalty of 500 merks, to leave the kingdom, and to "suffer the pains of death, in case of contravention thereof." This Gipsy chief paid little regard to the terrible conditions of his bond, in case of failure; for, on the 10th and 11th August, 1714, "Baillie," says Hume, "and two of his associates, were convicted and condemned to die; but as far as concerned Baillie, (for the others were executed,) his doom was afterwards mitigated into transportation, under pain of death in case of return." "The jury," says McLaurin, "brought in a special verdict as to the sorning,[135] but said nothing at all as to any other points; all they found proved was, that William, in March, 1713, had taken possession of a barn, without consent of the owner, and that, during his abode in it, there was corn taken out of the barn, and he went away without paying anything for his quarters, or for any corn during his abode, which was for several days; and that he was habit and repute an Egyptian, and did wear a pistol[136] and shable," (a kind of sabre.) [135] _Sorn_, (Scottish and Irish:) an arbitrary exaction, by which a chieftain lived at pleasure, in free quarters, among his tenants: also one who obtrudes himself upon another, for bed and board, is said to sorn.--_Bailey._ [136] A great many of the Scottish Gipsies, in former times, carried arms. One of the Baillies once left his budget in a house, by mistake. A person, whom I knew, had the curiosity to examine it; and he found it to contain a pair of excellent pistols, loaded and ready for action. "As early as the month of August, 1715, the same man, as I understand it," says Baron Hume, "was again indicted, not only for being found in Britain, but for continuing his former practices and course of life. Notwithstanding this aggravation, the interlocutor is again framed on the indulgent plan; and only infers the pain of death from the fame and character of being an Egyptian, joined with various acts of violence and sorning, to the number of three that are stated in the libel. Though convicted nearly to the extent of the interlocutor, he again escaped with transportation." Baillie's policy in representing himself as a bastard son of an ancient and honourable family had, as I have already observed, been of great service to him; and in no way would it be more so than in his various trials. It is almost certain, as in cases of more recent times, that great interest would be used to save a bastard branch of an honourable house from an ignominious death upon the scaffold, when his crimes amounted only to "sorning, pickery, and little thieving, and habit and repute an Egyptian."[137] [137] What our author says of "the usual Gipsy policy of making the people believe that they are descended from families of rank and influence in the country," (page 154,) and that "the greater part of them will tell you that they are sprung from a bastard son of this or that noble family, or other person of rank and influence, of their own surname," (117,) is doubtless true as a rule; but there were as likely cases of what the Gipsies assert, and that Gipsy women, "in some instances, bore children to some of the 'unspotted gentlemen' mentioned by act of parliament as having so greatly protected and entertained the tribe," (114,) and that Baillie was one of them, (121 and 185.) If Baillie had been following the occupation, and bearing the reputation, of an ordinary native of Scotland, there would have been some chance "that great interest would be used to save a bastard branch of an honourable house from an ignominious death upon the scaffold," for almost any offence he had committed, but not for one who was guilty of "sorning, pickery, and little thieving, and habit and repute an Egyptian." There was doubtless a connexion, in _Gipsy_ blood, between Baillie and his influential friends who saved him and his relatives so often from the gallows.--_See Baillies of Lamington and McLaurin's Criminal Trials, in the Index._--ED. The descendants of William Baillie state that he was married to a woman of the name of Rachel Johnstone; and that he was killed, in a scuffle, by a Gipsy of the name of Pinkerton, in a quarrel among themselves. Baillie being quite superior in personal strength to Pinkerton, his wife took hold of him, for fear of his destroying his opponent, and, while he was in her arms, Pinkerton ran him through with his sword. Upon his death, his son, then a youth of thirteen years of age, took a solemn oath, on the spot, that he would never rest until the blood of his father should be avenged. And, true to his oath, his mother and himself followed the track of the murderer over Scotland, England, and Ireland, like staunch bloodhounds, and rested not, till Pinkerton was apprehended, tried, and executed. The following particulars, relative to the slaughter of William Baillie, were published in Blackwood's Magazine, but apparently without any knowledge, on the part of the writer, of that individual's history, further than that he was a Gipsy. "In a precognition, taken in March, 1725, by Sir James Stewart, of Coltness, and Captain Lockhart, of Kirkton, two of his majesty's justices of the peace for Lanarkshire, anent the murder of William Baillie, brazier,[138] commonly called Gipsy, the following evidence is adduced:--John Meikle, wright, declares, that, upon the twelfth of November last, he, being in the house of Thomas Riddle, in Newarthill, with some others, the deceased, William Baillie, James Kairns, and David Pinkerton, were in another room, drinking, where, after some high words, and a confused noise and squabble, the said three persons, above-named, went all out; and the declarant, knowing them to be three of those idle sorners that pass in the country under the name of Gipsies, in hopes they were gone off, rose, and went to the door, to take the air; where, to his surprise, he saw William Baillie standing, and Kairns and Pinkerton on horseback, with drawn swords in their hands, who both rushed upon the said William Baillie, and struck him with their swords; whereupon, the said William Baillie fell down, crying out he was gone; upon which, Kairns and Pinkerton rode off: That the declarant helped to carry the said William Baillie into the house, where, upon search, he was found to have a great cut or wound on his head, and a wound in his body, just below the slot of his breast: And declares, he, the said William Baillie, died some time after. [138] On some of the tombstones of the Gipsies, the word "brazier" is added to their names. [Brazier is a favourite name with the Gipsies, and sounds better than tinker. Southey, in his Life of Bunyan, says: "It is stated, in a history of Bedfordshire, that he was bred to the business of a brazier, and worked, as a journeyman, at Bedford."--ED.] "Thomas Riddle, tenant and change-keeper in Newarthill, &c., declares, that the deceased, William Baillie, James Kairns, and David Pinkerton, all idle sorners, that are known in the country by the name of Gipsies, came to the declarant's, about sun-setting, where, after some stay, _and talking a jargon the declarant did not well understand_, they fell a squabbling, when the declarant was in another room, with some other company; upon the noise of which, the declarant ran in to them, where he found the said James Kairns lying above the said William Baillie, whose nose the said James Kairns had bitten with his teeth till it bled; upon which, the declarant and his wife threatened to raise the town upon them, and get a constable to carry them to prison; but Kairns and Pinkerton called for their horses, William Baillie saying he would not go with them: Declares that, after the said Kairns and Pinkerton had got their horses, and mounted, they ordered the declarant to bring a chopin of ale to the door to them, where William Baillie was standing, talking to them: That, when the declarant had filled about the ale, and left them, thinking they were going off, the declarant's wife went to the door, where Kairns struck at her with a drawn sword, to fright her in; upon which she ran in; and thereupon the declarant went to the door, where he found the said William Baillie, lying with the wounds upon him, mentioned in John Meikle's declaration." By Hume's work on the criminal law, it appears that the trial of David Pinkerton, with others of his tribe, took place on the 22nd August, 1726, for "sorning and robbery;" but no mention is made of the murder of Baillie; yet it was Baillie's relatives that pursued Pinkerton to the gallows. Probably sufficient evidence could not then be adduced to substantiate the fact, being about twenty-one months after the murder was committed; and, besides, Baillie was himself dead in law, having either returned from banishment, or remained at large in the country, and so forfeited his life, when he was killed by Pinkerton, in 1724. The following is part of the interlocutor pronounced upon the indictment of the prisoners: "Find the said David Pinkerton, alias Maxwell, John Marshall, and Helen Baillie, alias Douglass, or any of them, their being habit and repute Egyptians, sorners or masterful beggars, in conjunction with said pannels, or any of them, their being, at the times and places libelled, guilty, art and part, of the fact of violence, theft, robbery, or attempts of robbery libelled, or any of the said facts relevant to infer the pain of death and confiscation of moveables." William Baillie was succeeded, in the chieftainship, by his son Matthew, who married the celebrated Mary Yowston or Yorkston, and became the leader of a powerful horde of Gipsies in the south of Scotland. He frequently visited the farms of my grandfather, about the year 1770. It appears that his courtship had been after the Tartar manner; for he used to say that the toughest battle he ever fought was that of taking, by force, his bride, then a very young girl, from her mother, at the hamlet of Drummelzier.[139] This Matthew Baillie had, by Mary Yorkston, a son, who was also named Matthew, and who married Margaret Campbell, and had by her a family of remarkably handsome and pretty daughters. Of this principal Gipsy family, I can trace, distinctly, six generations in descent, and have myself seen the great-great-great-grand-children of the celebrated William Baillie. Some of his descendants still travel the country, in the manner of their ancestors, and at this moment speak the Gipsy language with fluency. Some of them, however, are little better than common beggars. There were, at one period, a captain and a quarter-master in the army, belonging to the Baillie clan; and another was a country surgeon. [139] The English Gipsies say that the old mode of getting a wife among the tribe was to _steal_ her. The intended bride was nothing loth, still it was necessary to steal her, while the tribe were on the watch to detect and prevent it.--ED. Mary Yorkston, above mentioned, went under the appellations of "my lady," and "the duchess," and bore the title of queen, among her tribe. She presided at the celebration of their barbarous marriages, and assisted at their equally singular ceremonies of divorce. What the custom of this queen of the Gipsies was, when in full dress, in her youth, on gala days, cannot now be easily known; but the following is a description of her masculine figure, and _public_ travelling apparel, when advanced in years. It was taken from the mouth of an aged and very respectable gentleman, the late Mr. David Stoddart, at Bankhead, near Queensferry, who had often seen her in his youth: She was fully six feet in stature, stout made in her person, with very strongly-marked and harsh features; and had, altogether, a very imposing aspect and manner. She wore a large black beaver-hat, tied down over her ears with a handkerchief, knotted below her chin, in the Gipsy fashion. Her upper garment was a dark-blue short cloak, somewhat after the Spanish fashion, made of substantial woollen cloth, approaching to superfine in quality. The greater part of her other apparel was made of dark-blue camlet cloth, with petticoats so short that they scarcely reached to the calves of her well-set legs. [Indeed, all the females among the Baillies wore petticoats of the same length.] Her stockings were of dark-blue worsted, flowered and ornamented at the ankles with scarlet thread; and in her shoes she displayed large, massy, silver buckles. The whole of her habiliments were very substantial, with not a rag or rent to be seen about her person. [She was sometimes dressed in a green gown, trimmed with red ribbons.] Her outer petticoat was folded up round her haunches, for a lap, with a large pocket dangling at each side; and below her cloak she carried, between her shoulders, a small flat pack, or pad, which contained her most valuable articles. About her person she generally kept a large clasp-knife, with a long, broad blade, resembling a dagger or carving-knife; and carried in her hand a long pole or pike-staff, that reached about a foot above her head. It was a common practice, about the middle of last century, for old female Gipsies of authority to strip, without hesitation, defenceless individuals of their wearing-apparel when they met them in sequestered places. Mary Yorkston chanced, on one occasion, to meet a shepherd's wife, among the wild hills in the parish of Stobo, and stripped her of the whole of her clothes. The shepherd was horrified at beholding his wife approaching his house in a state of perfect nakedness. A Jean Gordon was once detected, by a shepherd, stripping a female of her wearing-apparel. He at once assisted the helpless woman; but Jean drew from below her garments a dagger, and threw it at him. Evading the blow, the shepherd closed in upon her, and struck her over the head with his staff, knocking her to the ground. Another Gipsy of the old fashion, of the name of Esther Grant, was also celebrated for the practice of stripping people of their clothing. The Arabian principle, expressed in these words, on meeting a stranger in the desert, "Undress thyself--my wife, (thy aunt,) is in want of a garment," is truly applicable to the disposition of the old female Gipsies. Nothing was more common, in the counties of Peebles and Lanark, when the country-people lost their purses at fairs, than to have recourse to the chief Gipsy females, to get their property returned to them. Mary Yorkston, having a sovereign influence and power among her tribe, was often applied to, in such cases of distress, of which the following is a good specimen:--On one of these occasions, in a market in the South of Scotland, a farmer lost his purse, containing a considerable sum of money, which greatly perplexed and distressed him. He immediately went to Mary Yorkston, to try if she would exert her wonderful influence to recover his property. Being a favourite of Mary's, she, without the least hesitation, took him along with her to the place in the fair where her husband kept his temporary depôt, or rather his office, in which he exercised his extraordinary calling during the continuance of the market. The presence of Mary was a sufficient assurance that all was right; and, upon the matter being explained, Matthew Baillie instantly produced, and spread out before the astonished farmer, from twenty to thirty purses, and desired him to pick out his own from amongst them. The countryman soon recognized his own, and grasped at it without ceremony. "Hold on," said Baillie, "let us count its contents first." The Gipsy chief, with the greatest coolness and deliberation, as if he had been an honest banker or money-changer, counted over the money in the purse, when not a farthing was found wanting. "There is your purse, sir," continued Baillie; "you see what it is, when honest people meet!" The following incident, that occurred one night after a fair, in a barn belonging to one of my relatives, will strikingly illustrate the character of the Gipsies in the matter of stealing purses:--A band of superior Gipsies were quartered in the barn, after several of them had attended the fair, in their usual manner. The principal female, whom I shall not name, had also been at the market; but the old chief had thought proper to remain at home, in the barn. My relative, as was sometimes his custom, chanced to take a turn about his premises that night, when it was pretty late. He heard the voice of a female weeping in the barn, and, being curious to know the cause of the disturbance among the Tinklers, stepped softly up, close to the back of the door, to listen to what they were doing, as the woman was crying bitterly. He was greatly astonished at hearing, and never could forget, the following expressions: "Oh, cruel man, to beat me in this way. I have had my hands in as good as twenty pockets, but the honest people had it not to themselves." The chieftain was, in fact, chastising his wife, in the presence of his family, for her want of diligence or success, in not obtaining enough of booty at the fair. And yet this individual bore, among the country-people, the character of an honest man. Another story is told of Mary Yorkston and the Goodman of Coulter-park. It differs in its nature from the above anecdote, yet is very characteristic of the Gipsies. Mary and her band were lurking one night at a place in Clydesdale, called Raggingill. As a man on horseback approached the spot where they were concealed, some of the tribe immediately laid hold of the horse, and, without ceremony, commenced to plunder the rider. But Mary, stepping forth to superintend the operation, was astonished to find that the horseman was her particular friend, the Goodman of Coulter-park. She instantly exclaimed, with all her might: "It's Mr. Lindsay, the Gudeman o' Couter-park--let him gang--let him gang--God bless him, honest man!" It is needless to add that Mr. Lindsay had always given Mary and her horde the use of an out-house when they required it. Mary Yorkston despised to ask what is properly understood to be alms. She sold horn spoons and other articles; and, when she made a bargain, she would take, almost by force, what she called her "boontith," which is a present of victuals, exclusive of the cash paid; a practice which I will explain further on in the chapter. Matthew Baillie had, by Mary Yorkston, among other children, a son, named James Baillie, who, along with his brothers, as we have seen, threatened with destruction the people assembled in Biggar fair, in consequence of an affront offered to his mother by a gardener of that town. He was condemned, in 1771, to be hung, for the murder of his wife, by beating her with a horse-whip, and tumbling her over a steep; but he "obtained a pardon from the king, on condition that he transported himself beyond seas within a limited time, otherwise the pardon was to have no effect." Baillie, paying little regard to the serious conditions of this pardon, did not "transport himself beyond seas," but continued his former practices, as appears by the following extract from the Weekly Magazine of the 8th October, 1772:--"James Baillie, who was last summer condemned for the murder of a woman, and afterwards obtained his majesty's pardon, on condition of transporting himself to America, for life, was lately apprehended at Falkirk, on suspicion of robbery. On the 1st October he was brought to town, and committed to the Tolbooth, by a warrant of Lord Auchinleck. This warrant was granted upon the petition of the procurator fiscal of Stirling, in which he set forth that, as Baillie was a very daring fellow, and suspected of being concerned with a gang equally so with himself, there was great reason to apprehend a rescue might be attempted, by breaking the prison; and therefore praying that he might be removed to Edinburgh, where a scheme of that nature could not so easily be effected." On the 18th December, 1773, and 27th February, 1774, the "Lords, in terms of the said former sentence, decree and adjudge the said James Baillie to be hanged on the 30th March then next." He thus appears to have remained in prison from October, 1772, till March, 1774. "Soon after this sentence, he got another pardon," and was again discharged from prison, in order to his transporting himself; but he remained at home, and again relapsed into his former way of life. He was, some time afterwards, committed to Newcastle gaol, but made his escape. A short time after that, he was committed to Carlisle gaol, on suspicion of having stolen some plate. On the 4th December, 1776, three sheriff-officers set out from Edinburgh, to bring him hither; but before they reached Carlisle, he had again broken prison and escaped.[140] [140] Scot's Magazine, vol xxxviii., page 675. During one of the periods of Baillie's imprisonment, he escaped from jail, attired as a female; having been assisted by some of his tribe, residing in the Grass-market of Edinburgh. Tradition states that the then Mistress Baillie, of Lamington, and her family, used all their interest in obtaining these pardons for James Baillie; who, like his fathers before him, pretended to be a bastard relative of the family of Lamington, and thereby escaped the punishment of death. McLaurin justly remarks that "few cases have occurred in which there has been such an expenditure of mercy."[141] [141] McLaurin's Trials, page 555. [See note at page 205.--ED.] I have already mentioned how handsomely the superior order of Gipsies dressed at the period of which we are speaking. The male head of the Ruthvens--a man six feet some inches in height--who, according to the newspapers of the day, lived to the advanced age of 115 years, when in full dress, in his youth, wore a white wig, a ruffled shirt, a blue Scottish bonnet, scarlet breeches and waistcoat, a long blue superfine coat, white stockings, with silver buckles in his shoes. Others wore silver brooches in their breasts, and gold rings on their fingers. The male Gipsies in Scotland were often dressed in green coats, black breeches, and leathern aprons. The females were very partial to green clothes. At the same time, the following anecdote will show how artful they were at all times, by means of dress and other equipments, to transform themselves, like actors on the stage, into various characters, whenever it suited their purposes.[142] [142] It appears, from Vidocq's memoirs, that the Gipsies on the continent changed their apparel, so as they could not again be recognized: "At break of day everybody was on foot, and the general toilet was made. But for their (the Gipsies') prominent features, their raven-black tresses, and oily and tanned skins, I should scarcely have recognized my companions of the preceding evening. The men, clad in rich jockey Holland vests, with leathern sashes like those worn by the men of Poirsy, and the women, covered with ornaments of gold and silver, assumed the costume of Zealand peasants; even the children, whom I had seen covered with rags, were neatly clothed, and had an entirely different appearance. All soon left the house, and took different directions, that they might not reach the market place together, where the country-people were assembled in crowds."--Vidocq had lodged all night in a ruinous house, with a band of Gipsies. My father, when a young lad, noticed a large band of Gipsies taking up their quarters one night in an old out-house on a farm occupied by his father. The band had never been observed on the farm before, and seemed all to be strangers, with, altogether, a very ragged and miserable appearance. Next morning, a little after breakfast, as the band began to pack up their baggage, and load their asses, preparatory to proceeding on their journey, the youth, out of curiosity, went forward to see the horde decamp. Among other articles of luggage, he observed a large and heavy sack put upon one of the asses; and, as the Gipsies were fastening it upon the back of the animal, the mouth of it burst open, and the greater part of its contents fell upon the ground. He was not a little surprised when he beheld a great many excellent cocked hats, suits of fine green clothes, great-coats, &c.; with several handsome saddles and bridles, tumble out of the bag. At this unexpected accident, the Gipsies were much disconcerted. By some strange expressions and odd man[oe]uvres, they endeavoured to drive the boy from their presence, and otherwise engage his attention, to prevent him observing the singular furniture contained in the unlucky sack. By thus carrying along with them these superior articles, so unlike their ordinary wretched habiliments, the ingenious Gipsies had it always in their power to disguise themselves, whenever circumstances called for it. The following anecdote will, in some measure, illustrate the "gallant guise" in which these wanderers, at one time, rode through Scotland: About the year 1768, early in the morning of the day of a fair, held annually at Peebles, in the month of May, two gentlemen were observed riding along the only road that led to my grandfather's farm. One of the servant girls was immediately told to put the parlour in order, to receive the strangers, as, from their respectable appearance, at a distance, it was supposed they were friends, coming to breakfast, before going to the market; a custom common enough in the country. This preparation, however, proved unnecessary, as the strangers rode rapidly past the dwelling-house, and alighted at the door of an old smearing-house, nearly roofless, situated near some alder trees, about three hundred yards further up a small mountain stream. In passing, they were observed to be neatly dressed in long green coats, cocked hats, riding-boots and spurs, armed with broad-swords, and mounted on handsome grey ponies, saddled and bridled; everything, in short, in style, and of the best quality. The people about the farm were extremely curious to know who these handsomely-attired gentlemen could be, who, without taking the least notice of any one, dismounted at the wretched hovel of a sheep-smearing house, where nothing but a band of Tinklers were quartered. Their curiosity, however, was soon satisfied, and not a little mirth was excited, on it being ascertained that the gallant horsemen were none other than James and William Baillie, sons of old Matthew Baillie, who, with part of his tribe, were, at the moment, in the old house, making horn spoons. But greater was their surprise, when several of the female Gipsies set out, immediately afterwards, for the fair, attired in very superior dresses, with the air of ladies in the middle ranks of society.[143] [143] The females of this tribe also rode to the fairs at Moffat and Biggar, on horses, with side-saddles and bridles, the ladies themselves being very gaily dressed. The males wore scarlet cloaks, reaching to their knees, and resembling exactly the Spanish fashion of the present day. Besides the large hordes that traversed the south of Scotland, parties of twos and threes also passed through the country, apparently not at all connected, nor in communication, at the time, with the large bands. When a single Gipsy and his wife, or other female, were observed to take up their quarters by themselves, it was supposed they had either fallen out with their clan, or had the officers of the law in pursuit of them. Sometimes the chiefs would enquire of the country people, if such and such a one of their tribe had passed by, this or that day, lately. Under any circumstances, the presence of a female does not excite so much suspicion as a single male. In following their profession, as tinkers, the Gipsies seldom, or never, travel without a female in their company, and, I believe, they sometimes hire them to accompany them, to hawk their wares through the country. The tinker keeps himself snug in an out-house, at his work, while the female vends his articles of sale, and forages for him, in the adjoining country. One of these straggling Gipsies, of the name of William Keith, was apprehended in an old smearing-house, on a farm occupied by my grandfather, in Tweed-dale. William had been concerned, with his brother Robert, in the murder of one of their clan, of the name of Charles Anderson, at a small public-house among the Lammermoor hills, called Lourie's Den. Robert Keith and Anderson had fallen out, and had followed each other for some time, for the purpose of fighting out their quarrel. They at last met at Lourie's Den, when a terrible combat ensued. The two antagonists were brothers-in-law; Anderson being married to Keith's sister. Anderson proved an over-match for Keith; and William Keith, to save his brother, laid hold of Anderson; but Mage Greig, Robert's wife, handed her husband a knife, and called on him to despatch him, while unable to defend himself. Robert repeatedly struck with the knife, but it rebounded from the ribs of the unhappy man, without much effect. Impatient at the delay, Mage called out to him, "strike laigh, strike laigh in;" and, following her directions, he stabbed Anderson to the heart. The only remark made by any of the gang was this exclamation from one of them: "Gude faith, Rob, ye have done for him noo!" But William Keith was astonished when he found that Anderson was stabbed in his arms, as his interference was only to save the life of his brother from the overwhelming strength of Anderson. Robert Keith instantly fled, but was immediately pursued by people armed with pitchforks and muskets. He was apprehended in a braken-bush, in which he had concealed himself, and was executed at Jedburgh, on the 24th November, 1772. Sir Walter Scott, and the Ettrick Shepherd, slightly notice this murder at Lourie's Den, in their communications to Blackwood's Magazine. One of the individuals who assisted at the apprehension of Keith was the father of Sir Walter Scott. The following notice of this bloody scene appeared in one of the periodical publications at the time it occurred: "By a letter from Lauder, we are informed of the following murder: On Wednesday se'night, three men, with a boy, supposed to be tinkers, put up at a little public-house near Soutra. From the after conduct of two of the men, it would appear that a difference had subsisted between them, before they came into the house, for they had drunk but very little when the quarrel was renewed with great vehemence, and, in the dispute, one of the fellows drew a knife, and stabbed the other in the body no less than seven different times, of which wounds he soon after expired. The gang then immediately made off; but upon the country-people being alarmed, the murderer himself and one of the women were apprehended."[144] [144] Weekly Magazine, 10th September, 1772, page 354. Long after this battle took place, James Bartram and Robert Brydon, messengers-at-arms in Peebles, were dispatched to apprehend William Keith, in the ruinous house already mentioned. As they entered the building, early in the morning, with cocked pistols in their hands, Keith, a powerful man, rose up, half naked, from his _shake-down_, and, holding out a pistol, dared them to advance. Bartram, the chief officer, with the utmost coolness and bravery, advanced close up to the muzzle of the Gipsy's pistol, and, clapping his own to the head of the desperate Tinkler, threatened him with instant death if he did not surrender. A Gipsy, who had informed against Keith, was with the officers, as their guide; but the moment he saw Keith's pistol, he artfully threw himself, upon his back, to the ground. He immediately rose to his feet, but, in great terror, sprang, like a greyhound, over a _fauld dyke_, to escape the shot which Keith threatened. The intrepid conduct of the officers completely daunted the Gipsy. He yielded, and allowed himself to be hand-cuffed, thinking that the messengers were strongly supported by the servants on the farm; for, on perceiving only the two officers, he became desperate, but he was now fast in irons. In great bitterness he exclaimed, "Had I not, on Saturday night, observed five stout men on Mr. Simson's turf-hill, ye wadna a' hae ta'en me." The five individuals were all remarkably strong men. It was on Monday morning the Gipsy was apprehended, and it would appear he had been reconnoitering on Saturday, before risking to take up his quarters, which he did without asking permission from any one. He imagined that the five turf-casters were ready to assist the officers in the execution of their duty, and that it would have been in vain for him to make any resistance. The frantic Gipsy now leaped and tossed about in the most violent manner imaginable. He struck with so much vigour, with his hands bound in irons, and kicked so powerfully with his feet, that it was with the greatest difficulty the officers could get him carried to the jail at Peebles. His wife came into the kitchen of the farm-house, weeping and wailing excessively; and on some of the servant-girls endeavouring to calm her grief, she, among other bitter expressions, exclaimed, "Had a decent, honest man, like the master, informed, I would not have cared; but for a blackguard like ourselves to inform, is unsufferable." Keith was tried, condemned, and banished to the plantations, for the part he acted at the slaughter at Lourie's Den. Here we have seen the melancholy fate of two, if not three, of the then _Gipsy constabulary force_ in Peebles-shire; one murdered, another hanged, and the third banished. However strange it may appear at the present day, it is nevertheless true, that the magistrates of this county, about this period, (1772,) actually appointed and employed a number of the principal Gipsies as peace officers, constables, or country-keepers, as they were called, of whom I will speak again in another place. The nomadic Gipsies in general, like the Baillies in particular, have gradually declined in appearance, till, at the present day, the greater part of them have become little better than beggars, when compared to what they were in former times. Among those who frequented the south of Scotland were to be found various grades of rank, as in all other communities of men. There were then wretched and ruffian-looking gangs, in whose company the superior Gipsies would not have been seen. The reader will have observed the complete protection which William Baillie's token afforded Robert McVitie, when two men were about to rob him, while travelling with his packs, between Elvanfoot and Moffat. This system of tokens made part of the general internal polity of the Gipsies. These curious people stated to me that Scotland was at one time divided into districts, and that each district was assigned to a particular tribe. The chieftains of these tribes issued tokens to the members of their respective hordes, "when they scattered themselves over the face of the country." The token of a local chieftain protected its bearer only while within his own district. If found without this token, or detected travelling in a district for which the token was not issued, the individual was liable to be plundered, beaten, and driven back into his own proper territory, by those Gipsies on whose rights and privileges he had infringed. These tokens were, at certain periods, called in and renewed, to prevent any one from forging them. They were generally made of tin, with certain characters impressed upon them; and the token of each tribe had its own particular mark, and was well known to all the Gipsies in Scotland. But while these passes of the provincial chieftains were issued only for particular districts, a token of the Baillie family protected its bearer throughout the kingdom of Scotland; a fact which clearly proves the superiority of that ancient clan. Several Gipsies have assured me that "a token from a Baillie was good over all Scotland, and that kings and queens had come of that family." And an old Gipsy also declared to me that the tribes would get into utter confusion, were the country not divided into districts, under the regulations of tokens. It sometimes happened, as in the case of Robert McVitie and others, that the Gipsies gave passes or tokens to some of their particular favourites who were not of their own race. This system of Gipsy polity establishes a curious fact, namely, the double division and occupation of the kingdom of Scotland; by ourselves as a civilized people, and by a barbarous community existing in our midst, each subject to its own customs, laws and government; and that, while the Gipsies were preying upon the vitals of the civilized society which harboured them, and were amenable to its laws, they were, at the same time, governed by the customs of their own fraternity. The surnames most common among the old Tweed-dale bands of Gipsies were Baillie, Ruthven, Kennedy, Wilson, Keith, Anderson, Robertson, Stewart, Tait, Geddes, Grey, Wilkie and Halliday. The three principal clans were the Baillies, Ruthvens and Kennedys; but, as I have already mentioned, the tribe of Baillie were superior to all others, in point of authority as well as in external appearance.[145] [145] According to Hoyland, the most common names among the English tented Gipsies are Smith, Cooper, Draper, Taylor, Boswell, Lee, Lovel, Loversedge, Allen, Mansfield, Glover, Williams, Carew, Martin, Stanley, Berkley, Plunket, and Corrie. Mr. Borrow says: "The clans Young and Smith, or Curraple, still haunt two of the eastern counties. The name Curraple is a favourite among the English Gipsies. It means a smith--a name very appropriate to a Gipsy. The root is _Curaw_, to strike, hammer, &c." Among the English and Scottish Gipsies in America, I have found a great variety of surnames.--ED. Besides the christian and surnames common to them in Scotland, the Gipsies have names in their own language;[146] and, while travelling through the country, assume new names every morning, before commencing the day's journey, and retain them till money is received, in one way or other, by each individual of the company; but if no money is received before twelve o'clock, they all, at noon-tide, resume their permanent Scottish names. They consider it unlucky to set out on a journey, in the morning, under their own proper names; and if they are, by any chance, called back, by any of their neighbours, they will not again stir from home for that day. The Gipsies also frequently change their British names when from home: in one part of the country they have one name, and in another part they appear under a different one, and so on. [146] In the "Gipsies in Spain," Mr. Borrow says: "Every family in England has two names; one by which they are known to the Gentiles, and another which they use among themselves."--ED. * * * * * I will now describe the appearance of the Gipsies in Tweed-dale during the generation immediately following the one in which we have considered them; and would make this remark, that this account applies to them of late years, with this exception, that the numbers in which the nomadic class are to be met with are greatly reduced, their condition greatly fallen, and the circumstances attending their reception, countenance and toleration, much modified, and in some instances totally changed. Within the memories of my father and grandfather, which take in about the last hundred years, none of the Gipsies who traversed Tweed-dale carried tents with them for their accommodation. The whole of them occupied the kilns and out-houses in the country; and so thoroughly did they know the country, and where these were to be found, and the disposition of the owners of them, that they were never at a loss for shelter in their wanderings. Some idea may be formed of the number of Gipsies who would sometimes be collected together, from the following extract from the Clydesdale Magazine, for May, 1818: "Mr. Steel, of Kilbucho Mill, bore a good name among 'tanderal gangerals.' His kiln was commodious, and some hardwood trees, which surrounded his house, bid defiance to the plough, and formed a fine pasture-sward for the cuddies, on a green of considerable extent. On a summer Saturday night, Mary came to the door, asking quarters, pretty late. She had only a single ass, and a little boy swung in the panniers. She got possession of the kiln, as usual, and the ass was sent to graze on the green; but Mary was only the avant-garde. Next morning, when the family rose, they counted no less than forty cuddies on the grass, and a man for each of them in the kiln, besides women and children." Considering the large families the Gipsies generally have, and allowing at this meeting two asses for carrying the infants and luggage of each family, there could not have been less than one hundred Gipsies on the spot. My parents recollect the Gipsies, about the year 1775, traversing the county of Tweed-dale, and parts of the surrounding shires, in bands varying in numbers from ten to upwards of thirty in each horde. Sometimes ten or twelve horses and asses were attached to one large horde, for the purpose of carrying the children, baggage, &c. In the summer of 1784, forty Gipsies, in one band, requested permission of my father to occupy one of his out-houses. It was good-humouredly observed to them that, when such numbers of them came in one body, they should send their quarter-master in advance, to mark out their camp. The Gipsies only smiled at the remark. One half of them got the house requested; the other half occupied an old, ruinous mill, a mile distant. There were above seven of these large bands which frequented the farms of my relatives in Tweed-dale down to about the year 1790. A few years after this period, when a boy, I assisted to count from twenty-four to thirty Gipsies who took up their quarters in an old smearing-house on one of these farms. The children, and the young folks generally, were running about the old house like bees flying about a hive. Their horses, asses, dogs, cats, poultry, and tamed birds were numerous. These bands did not repeat their visits above twice a year, but in many instances the principal families remained for three or four weeks at a time. From their manner and conduct generally, they seemed to think that they had a right to receive, from the family on whose grounds they halted, food gratis for twenty-four hours; for, at the end of that period, they almost always provided victuals for themselves, however long they might remain on the farm. The servants of my grandfather, when these large bands arrived, frequently put on the kitchen fire the large family _kail-pot_, of the capacity of thirty-two Scotch pints, or about sixteen gallons, to cook victuals for these wanderers. The first announcement of the approach of a Gipsy band was the chief female, with, perhaps, a child on her back, and another walking at her feet. The chieftain himself, with his asses and baggage, which he seldom quits, is, perhaps, a mile and a half in the rear, baiting his beasts of burden, near the side of the road, waiting the return and report of his quarter-mistress. This chief female requests permission for her _gude-man_ and _weary bairns_ to take up their quarters for the night, in an old out-house. Knowing perfectly the disposition of the individual from whom she asks lodgings, she is seldom refused. A farmer's wife, whom I knew, on granting this indulgence to a female in advance of her band, added, by way of caution, "but ye must not steal anything from me, then." "We'll no' play ony tricks on you, mistress; but others will pay for that," was the Gipsy's reply. Instead, however, of the chief couple and a child or two, the out-house, before nightfall, or next morning, will perhaps contain from twenty to thirty individuals of all ages and sexes. The different members of the horde are observed to arrive at head-quarters as single individuals, in twos, and in threes; some of the females with baskets on their arms, some of the males with fishing-rods in their hands, trout creels on their backs, and large dogs at their heels. The same rule is observed when the camp breaks up. The old chief and two or three of his family generally take the van. The other members of the band linger about the old house in which they have been quartered, for several days after the chiefs are gone; they, however, move off, in small parties of twos or as single individuals, on different days, till the whole horde gradually disappear. Above three grown-up Gipsies are seldom seen travelling together. In this manner have the Gipsies traversed the kingdom, concealing their numbers from public observation, and only appearing in large bands on the grounds of those individuals of the community who were not disposed to molest them. On such occasions, when the chief Gipsies continued encamped, they would be visited by small parties of their friends, arriving and departing almost daily. Excepting that of sometimes allowing their asses to go, under night, into the barn-yard, as if it were by accident, to draw the stacks of corn, it is but fair and just to state, that I am not aware of a single Gipsy ever having injured the property of any of my relatives in Tweed-dale, although their opportunities were many and tempting. My ancestor's extensive business required him, almost daily, to travel, on horseback, over the greater part of the south of Scotland; and he was often under the necessity of exposing himself, by riding at night, yet he never received the slightest molestation, to his knowledge, from the Gipsies. They were as inoffensive and harmless as lambs to him, and to every one connected with his family. Whenever they beheld him, every head was uncovered, while they would exclaim, "There is Mr. Simson; God bless him, honest man!" And woe would have been to that man who would have dared to treat him badly, had these determined wanderers been present. The Gipsies may be compared to the raven of the rock, as a complete emblem of their disposition. Allow the _corbie_ shelter, and to build her nest in your cliffs and wastes, and she will not touch your property; but harass her, and destroy her brood, and she will immediately avenge herself upon your young lambs, with terrible fury.[147] Washings of clothes, of great value, were often left out in the fields, under night, and were as safe as if they had been within the dwelling-house, under lock and key, when the Gipsies happened to be quartered on the premises. If any of their children had dared to lay its hands upon the most trifling article, its parents would have given it a severe beating. On one occasion, when a Gipsy was beating one of his children, for some trifling offence it had committed, my relative observed to him that the boy had done no harm. "If he has not been in fault just now, sir, it will not be long till he be in one; so the beating he has got will not be thrown away on him," was the Tinkler's reply. [147] It is known that the rock-raven, or _corbie_, seldom preys upon the flocks around her nest; but the moment she is deprived of her young, she will, to the utmost of her power, wreak her vengeance on the young lambs in her immediate neighborhood. I have known the corbie, when bereaved of her brood, tear, with her beak, the very foggage from the earth, and toss it about; and before twenty-four hours elapsed, several lambs would fall a sacrifice to her fury. I have also observed that grouse, where the ground suits their breeding, are generally very plentiful close around the eyrie of the relentless falcon. When the Gipsies took up their residence on the cold earthen floor of an old out-house, the males and females of the different families had always beds by themselves, made of straw and blankets, and called shake-downs. The younger branches also slept by themselves, in separate beds, the males apart from the females. When the band consisted of more families than one, each family occupied a separate part of the floor of the house, distinct from their neighbours; kindled a separate fire, at which they cooked their victuals; and made horn spoons and other articles for themselves, for sale in the way of their calling. They formed, as it were, a camp on the ground-floor of the ruinous house, in which would sometimes be observed five mothers of families, some of whom would be such before they were seventeen years of age. The principal Gipsies who, about this period, travelled Tweed-dale, were never known to have had more than one wife at a time, or to have put away their wives for trifling causes. On such occasions, the chief and the grown-up males of the band seldom or never set foot within the door of the farm-house, but generally kept themselves quite aloof and retired; exposing themselves to observation as little as possible. They employed themselves in repairing broken china, utensils made of copper, brass and pewter, pots, pans and kettles, and white-iron articles generally; and in making horn spoons, smoothing-irons, and sole-clouts for ploughs. But working in horn is considered by them as their favourite and most ancient occupation. It would certainly be one of the first employments of man, at a very early stage of human society--that of converting the horns of animals for the use of the human race: and such has been the regard which the Gipsies have had for it, that every clan knows the spoons which are made by another. The females also assisted in polishing, and otherwise finishing, the spoons. However early the farm-servants rose to their ordinary employments, they always found the Tinklers at work. A considerable portion of the time of the males was occupied in athletic amusements. They were constantly exercising themselves in leaping, cudgel-playing, throwing the hammer, casting the putting-stone, playing at golf, quoits, and other games; and while they were much given, on other occasions, to keep themselves from view, the extraordinary ambition which they all possessed, of beating every one they met with, at these exercises, brought them sometimes in contact with the men about the farm, master as well as servants. They were fond of getting the latter to engage with them, for the purpose of laughing at their inferiority in these healthy and manly amusements; but when any of the country-people chanced to beat them at these exercises, as was sometimes the case, they could not conceal their indignation at the affront. Their haughty scowl plainly told that they were ready to wipe out the insult in a different and more serious manner. Indeed, they were always much disposed to treat farm-servants with contempt, as quite their inferiors in the scale of society; and always boasted of their own high birth, and the antiquity of their family. They were extremely fond of the athletic amusement of "o'erending the tree," which was performed in this way: The end of a spar or beam, above six feet long, and of a considerable thickness and weight, is placed upon the upper part of the right foot, and held about the middle, in a perpendicular position, by the right hand. Standing upon the left foot, and raising the right a little from the ground, and drawing it as far back as possible, and then bringing the foot forward quickly to the front, the spar is thrown forward into the air, from off the foot, with great force. And he who "overends the tree" the greatest number of times in the air, before it reaches the ground, is considered the most expert, and the strongest man. A great many of these Gipsies had a saucy military gesture in their walk, and generally carried in their hands short, thick cudgels, about three feet in length. While they travelled, they generally unbuttoned the knees of their breeches, and rolled down the heads of their stockings, so as to leave the joints of their knees bare, and unincumbered by their clothes. During the periods they occupied the out-houses of the farms, the owners of which were kind to them, the Gipsies were very orderly in their deportment, and temperate in the use of spirituous liquors, being seldom seen intoxicated; and were very courteous and polite to all the members of the family. Their behaviour was altogether very orderly, peaceable, quiet, and inoffensive. In gratitude for their free-quarters, they frequently made, from old metal, smoothing-irons for the mistress, and sole-clouts for the ploughs of the master, and spoons for the family, from the horns of rams, or other horns that happened to be about the house; for all of which they would take nothing. They, however, did not attend the church, while encamped on the premises; at the same time, they took especial care to give no molestation, or cause of offence, to any about the farm, on Sunday; being, indeed, seldom seen on that day out-side of the door of the house in which they were quartered, saving an individual to look after their horses or asses, while grazing in the neighbouring fields. Their religious sentiments were confined entirely within their own breasts; and it was impossible to know what were their real opinions on the score of religion. However, within the last ten years, I enquired, very particularly, of an intelligent Gipsy, what religion his forefathers professed, and his answer was, that "the Gipsies had no religious sentiments at all; that they worshipped no sort of thing whatever." Many practised music; and the violin and bag-pipes were the instruments they commonly used. This musical talent of the Gipsies delighted the country-people; it operated like a charm upon their feelings, and contributed much to procure the wanderers a night's quarters. Many of the families of the farmers looked forward to the expected visits of the merry Gipsies with pleasure, and regretted their departure. Some of the old women sold salves and drugs, while some of the males had pretensions to a little surgery. One of them, of the name of Campbell, well known by the title of Dr. Duds, traversed the south of Scotland, accompanied by a number of women. He prescribed, and sold medicines to the inhabitants; and several odd stories are told of the very unusual, but successful, cures performed by him. As in arranging for, and taking up, their quarters, the principal female Gipsy almost always negotiates the transactions which the horde have with the farmer's family, during their abode on his premises. Indeed, the females are the most active, if not the principal, members of the tribe, in vending their articles of merchandise. The time at which, on such occasions, they present these for sale, is the day after their arrival on the farm, and immediately after the breakfast of the farmer's family is over. When there are more families than one in the band, but all of one horde, the chief female of the whole gets the first chance of selling her wares; but every head female of the respective families bargains for her own merchandise, for the behoof of her own family. When the farmer's family is in want of any of their articles, an extraordinary higgling and chaffering takes place in making the bargain. Besides money, the Gipsy woman insists upon having what she calls her "boontith"--that is, a present in victuals, as she is fond of bartering her articles for provisions. If the mistress of the house agrees, and goes to her larder or milk-house for the purpose of giving her this boontith, the Gipsy is sure to follow close at her heels. Admitted into the larder, the voracious Tinkler will have part of everything she sees--flesh, meal, butter, cheese, &c., &c. Her fiery and penetrating eye darts, with rapidity, from one object to another. She makes use of every argument she can think of to induce the farmer's wife to comply with her unreasonable demands. "I'm wi' bairn, mistress," she will say; "I'm greenin'; God bless ye, gie me a wee bit flesh to taste my mouth, if it should no' be the book o' a robin-red-breast."[148] If the farmer's wife still disregards her importunities, the Gipsy will, in the end, snatch up a piece of flesh, and put it into her lap, in a twinkling; for out of the larder she will not go, without something or other. The farmer's wife, ever on the alert, now takes hold of the _sorner_, to wrest the flesh from her clutches, when a serious personal struggle ensues. She will frequently be under the necessity of calling for the assistance of her servants, to thrust the intruder out of the apartment; but the cautious Gipsy takes care not to let matters go too far: she yields the contest, and, laughing heartily at the good-wife losing her temper, immediately assumes her ordinary polite manner. And notwithstanding all that has taken place, both parties generally part on good terms. [148] After recovery from child-birth, the Gipsy woman recommences her course of begging or stealing, with her child in her arms; and then she is more rapacious than at other times, taking whatever she can lay her hands upon. For she calculates upon escaping without a beating, by holding up her child to receive the blows aimed at her; which she knows will have the effect of making the aggrieved person desist, till she finds an opportunity of getting out of the way.--_Grellmann on the Hungarian Gipsies._--ED. On one of these bargain-making occasions, as the wife of the farmer of Glencotha, in Tweed-dale, went to give a boontith to Mary Yorkston, the harpy thrust, unobserved, about four pounds weight of tallow into her lap. On the return of the good-wife, the tallow was missed. She charged Mary with the theft, but Mary, with much gravity of countenance, exclaimed: "God bless ye, mistress, I wad steal from mony a one before I wad steal from you." The good-wife, however, took hold of Mary, to search her person. A struggle ensued, when the tallow fell out of Mary's lap, on the kitchen-floor. At this exposure, in the very act of stealing, the Gipsy burst into a fit of laughter, exclaiming: "The Lord hae a care o' me, mistress; ye hae surely little to spare, whan ye winna let a body take a bit tauch for a candle, to light her to bed." At another time, this Gipsy gravely told the good-wife of Rachan-mill, that she must give her a pound of butter for her boontith, that time, as it would be the last she would ever give her. Astonished at the extraordinary saying, the good-wife demanded, with impatience, what she meant. "You will," rejoined the Gipsy, "be in eternity (by a certain day, which she named,) and I will never see you again; and this will be the last boontith you will ever give me." The good-wife of Rachan-mill, however, survived the terrible prediction for several years.[149] [149] The following facts will show what a Scottish Tinkler, at the present day, will sometimes do in the way of "sorning," or masterful begging. One of the race paid a visit to the house of a country ale-wife, and, in a crowded shop, vaulted the counter, and applied his bottle to her whiskey-tap. Immediately a cry, with up-lifted hands, was raised for the police, but the prudent ale-wife treated the circumstance with indifference, and exclaimed: "Hout, tout, tout! _let_ the deil tak' a wee drappie." On another occasion, a Gipsy woman entered a country public-house, leaving her partner at a short distance from the door. Espying a drawn bottle of porter, standing on a table, in a room in which were two females sitting, she, without the least ceremony, filled a glass, and drank it off; but before she could decant another, the other Gipsy, feeling sure of the luck of his mate, from her being admitted into the premises, immediately proceeded to share it with her. But he had hardly drank off the remainder of the porter, ere a son of the mistress of the house made his appearance, and demanded what was wanted. "Want--_want?_" replied the Gipsy, with a leering eye towards the empty bottle; "we want nothing--we've got all that we want!" On being ordered to "walk out of that," they left, with a smile of satisfaction playing on their weather-beaten countenances. Such displays of Gipsy impudence sometimes call forth only a hearty laugh from the people affected by them.--ED. The female Gipsies also derived considerable profits from their trade of fortune-telling. The art of telling fortunes was not, however, general among the Gipsies; it was only certain old females who pretended to be inspired with the gift of prophecy. The method which they adopted to get at the information which often enabled them to tell, if not fortunes, at least the history, and condition of mind, of individuals, with great accuracy, was somewhat this: The inferior Gipsies generally attended our large country "penny-weddings", in former times, both as musicians and for the purpose of receiving the fragments of the entertainments. At the wedding in the parish of Corstorphine, to which I have alluded, under the chapter of Fife and Stirlingshire Gipsies, Charles Stewart entered into familiar conversation with individuals present; joking with them about their sweet-hearts, and love-matters generally; telling them he had noticed such a one at such a place; and observing to another that he had seen him at such a fair, and so on. He always enquired about their masters, and places of abode, with other particulars relative to their various connections and circumstances in life. Here, the Gipsy character displays itself; here, we see Stewart, while he seems a mere merry-andrew, to the heedless, merry-making people at these weddings, actually reading, with deep sagacity, their characters and dispositions; and ascertaining the places of residence, and connexions, of many of the individuals of the country through which he travelled. In this manner, by continually roaming up and down the kingdom, now as individuals in disguise, at other times in bands--not passing a house in their route--observing everything taking place in partial assemblies, at large weddings, and general gatherings of the people at fairs--scanning, with the eye of a hawk, both males and females, for the purpose of robbing them--did the Gipsies, with their great knowledge of human character, become thoroughly acquainted with particular incidents concerning many individuals of the population. Hence proceed, in a great measure, the warlockry and fortune-telling abilities of the shrewd and sagacious Gipsies. Or, suppose an old Gipsy female, who traverses the kingdom, has a relative a lady's maid in a family of rank, and another a musician in a band, playing to the first classes of society, in public or private assemblies, the travelling _spae-wife_ would not be without materials for carrying on her trade of fortune-telling. The observant handmaid, and the acute, penetrating fiddler would, of course, communicate to their wandering relative every incident and circumstance that came under their notice, which would, at an after and suitable period, enable the cunning fortune-teller to astonish some of the parties who had been at these meetings, when in another part of the country, remote in time, and distant in place, from the spot where the occurrences happened. In order that they might not lessen the importance and value of their art, these Gipsies pretended they could tell no one's fortune for anything less than silver, or articles of wearing-apparel, or other things of value. Besides telling fortunes by palmistry,[150] they foretold destinies by divination of the cup, their method of doing which appears to be nearly the same as that practised among the ancient Assyrians, Chaldeans, and Egyptians, perhaps, about the time of Joseph. The Gipsy method was, and I may say is, this: The divining cup, which is made of tin, or pewter, and about three inches in diameter, was filled with water, and sometimes with spirits. Into the cup a certain quantity of a melted substance, resembling tin, was dropped from a crucible, which immediately formed itself, in the liquid, into curious figures, resembling frost-work, seen on windows in winter. The compound was then emptied into a trencher, and from the arrangements or constructions of the figures, the destiny of the enquiring individual was predicted.[151] While performing the ceremony, the Gipsies muttered, in their own language, certain incantations, totally unintelligible to the spectator. The following fact, however, will, more particularly, show the manner in which these Gipsy sorceresses imposed on the credulous. [150] The Kamtachadales, says Dr. Grieve, in his translation of a Russian account of Kamtachatka, pretend to chiromancy, and tell a man's good or bad fortune by the lines of his hand; but the rules which they follow are kept a great secret. _Page 206._ [151] Julius Serenus, says Stackhouse, tells us, that the method among the Assyrians, Chaldeans, and Egyptians was to fill the cup with water, then throw into it thin plates of gold and silver, together with some precious stones, whereon were engraven certain characters, and, after that, the person who came to consult the oracle used certain forms of incantation, and, so calling upon the devil, were wont to receive their answer several ways: sometimes by particular sounds; sometimes by the characters which were in the cup rising upon the surface of the water, and by their arrangement forming the answer; and many times by the visible appearance of the persons themselves, about whom the oracle was consulted. Cornelius Agrippa (De Occult. Philos. LI, c. 57,) tells as, likewise, that the manner of some was to pour melted wax into the cup wherein was water; which wax would range itself in order, and so form answers, according to the questions proposed.--_Saurin's Dissertation, 38, and Heidegger's His. patriar. exercit. 20._ Fortune-telling is punishable by the 9th Geo. II, chap. 5th. In June, 1805, a woman, of the name of Maxwell, commonly called the Galloway sorceress, was tried for this offence, by a jury, before the Stewart of Kirkcudbright, and was sentenced to imprisonment and the pillory.--_Burnet on Criminal Law, page 178._ A relative of mine had several servant-girls who would, one day, have their fortunes told. The old Gipsy took them, one at a time, into an apartment of the house, and locked the door after her. My relative, feeling a curiosity in the matter, observed their operations, and overheard their conversation, through a chink in the partition of the room. A bottle of whiskey, and a wine glass, were produced by the girl, and the sorceress filled the glass, nearly full, with the spirits. Into the liquor she dropped part of the white of a raw egg, and taking out of her pocket something like chalk, scraped part of it into the mixture. Certain figures now appeared in the glass, and, muttering some jargon, unintelligible to the girl, she held it up between her eyes and the window. "There is your sweetheart now--look at him--do you not see him?" exclaimed the Gipsy to the trembling girl; and, after telling her a number of events which were to befall her, in her journey through life, she held out the glass, and told her to "cast that in her mouth"--"Me drink that? The Lord forbid that I should drink a drap o't." "E'ens ye like, my woman; I can tak' it mysel," quoth the Gipsy, and, suiting the action to the word, "cast" the whiskey, eggs and chalk[152] down her throat, in an instant. Knowing well that the idea of swallowing the glass in which their future husbands were seen, and their own fortunes told, in so mysterious a manner, would make the girls shudder, the cunning Gipsy gave each of them, in succession, the order to drink, and, the moment they refused, threw the contents of the "divining cup" into her own mouth. In this manner did the Gipsy procure, at one time, no less than four glasses of ardent spirits, and sixpence from each of the credulous girls. [152] It is not unlikely that the "something like chalk," here mentioned, was nothing but a nutmeg, with which, and the eggs and whiskey, the Gipsy would make, what is called, "egg-nogg."--ED. The country-girls, however, never could stand out the operations of telling fortunes by the method of turning a corn-riddle, with scissors attached, in a solitary out-house. Whenever the Gipsy commenced her work, and, with her mysterious mutterings, called out: "Turn riddle--turn--shears and all," the terrified girls fled to the house, impressed with the belief that the devil himself would appear to them, on the spot. The Gipsies in Tweed-dale were never in want of the best of provisions, having always an abundance of fish, flesh, and fowl. At the stages at which they halted, in their progress through the country, it was observed that the principal families, at one time, ate as good victuals, and drank as good liquors, as any of the inhabitants of the country. A lady of respectability informed me of her having seen, in her youth, a band dine on the green-sward, near Douglass-mill, in Lanarkshire, when, as I have already mentioned, the Gipsies handed about their wine, after dinner, as if they had been as good a family as any in the land. Those in Fifeshire, as we have already seen, were in the habit of purchasing and killing fat cattle, for their winter's provisions. In a communication to Blackwood's Magazine, to which I will again allude, the illustrious author of "Waverley" mentions that his grandfather was, in some respects, forced to accept a dinner from a party of Gipsies, carousing on a moor, on the Scottish Border. The feast consisted of "all the varieties of game, poultry, pigs, and so forth." And, according to the same communication, it would appear that they were in the practice of stewing game and all kinds of poultry into soup, which is considered very rich and savoury, and is now termed "Pottage a la Meg Merrilies de Derncleugh;" a name derived from the singular character in the celebrated novel of Guy Mannering. But the ancient method of cooking practised among the Scottish Gipsies, and which, in all probability, they brought with them, when they arrived in Europe, upwards of four hundred years ago, is, if I am not mistaken, new to the world, never having as yet, that I am aware of, been described.[153] It is very curious, and extremely primitive, and appears to be of the highest antiquity. It is admirably adapted to the wants of a rude and barbarous people, travelling over a wild and thinly-inhabited country, in which cooking utensils could not be procured, or conveniently carried with them. My facts are from the Gipsies themselves, and are corroborated by people, not of the tribe, who have witnessed some of their cooking operations. [153] I published the greater part of the Gipsy method of cooking, in the Fife Herald, of the 18th April, 1833. The Gipsies, on such occasions, make use of neither pot, pan, spit, nor oven, in cooking fowls. They twist a strong rope of straw, which they wind very tightly around the fowl, just as it is killed, with the whole of its feathers on, and its entrails untouched. It is then covered with hot peat ashes, and a slow fire is kept up around and about the ashes, till the fowl is sufficiently done. When taken out from beneath the fire, it is stripped of its hull, or shell, of half-burned straw-rope and feathers, and presents a very fine appearance. Those who have tasted poultry, cooked by the Gipsies, in this manner, say that it is very palatable and good. In this invisible way, these ingenious people could cook stolen poultry, at the very moment, and in the very place, that a search was going on for the pilfered article. The art of cooking butcher-meat among the Gipsies is similar to that of making ready fowls, except that linen and clay are substituted for feathers and straw. The piece of flesh to be cooked is first carefully wrapped up in a covering of cloth or linen rags, and covered over with well wrought clay, and either frequently turned before a strong fire, or covered over with hot ashes, till it is roasted, or rather stewed. The covering or crust, of the shape of the article enclosed, and hard with the fire, is broken, and the meat separated from its inner covering of burned rags, which, with the juice of the meat, are reduced to a thick sauce or gravy. Sometimes a little vinegar is poured upon the meat. The tribe are high in their praise of flesh cooked in this manner, declaring that it has a particularly fine flavour. These singular people, I am informed, also boiled the flesh of sheep in the skins of the animals, like the Scottish soldiers in their wars with the English nation, when their camp-kettles were nothing but the hides of the oxen, suspended from poles, driven into the ground. The only mode of cooking butcher-meat, bearing any resemblance to that of the Gipsies, is practised by some of the tribes of South America, who wrap flesh in _leaves_, and, covering it over with clay, cook it like the Gipsies. Some of the Indians of North America roast deer of a small size in their skins, among hot ashes. An individual of great respectability, who had tasted venison cooked in this fashion, said that it was extremely juicy, and finely flavoured. In the Sandwich Islands, pigs are baked on hot stones in pits, or in the leaves of the bread-fruit tree, on hot stones, covered over with earth, during the operation of cooking. It is probable that the Gipsy art of cooking would be amongst the first modes of making ready animal food, in the first stage of human society, in Asia--the cradle of the human race.[154] Substitute linen rags for the leaves of trees, and what method of cooking can be more primitive than that of our Scottish Gipsies? [154] Ponqueville considers the Gipsies contemporary of the first societies. _Paris_, 1830. The Gipsy method of smelting iron, for sole-clout for ploughs, and smoothing-irons, is also simple, rude, and primitive.[155] The tribe erect, on the open field, a small circle, built of stone, turf, and clay, for a furnace, of about three feet in height, and eighteen inches in diameter, and plastered, closely round on the outside, up to the top, with mortar made of clay. The circle is deepened by part of the earth being scooped out from the inside. It is then filled with coal or charred peat; and the iron to be smelted is placed in small pieces upon the top. Below the fuel an aperture is left open, on one side, for admitting a large iron ladle, lined inside with clay. The materials in the furnace are powerfully heated, by the blasts of a large hand-bellows, (generally wrought by females,) admitted at a small hole, a little from the ground. When the metal comes to a state of fusion, it finds its way down to the ladle, and, after being skimmed of its cinders, is poured into the different sand moulds ready to receive it. [155] According to Grellmann, working in iron is the most usual occupation of the Gipsies. In Hungary it is so common, as to have given rise to the proverb, "So many Gipsies, so many smiths." The same may be said of those in Transylvania, Wallachia, and Moldavia, and all Turkey in Europe; at least, Gipsies following that occupation are very numerous in those countries. This occupation seems to have been a favourite one with them, from the most distant period. Uladislaus, King of Hungary, in the year 1496, ordered: "That every officer and subject, of whatever rank or condition, do allow Thomas Polgar, leader of twenty-five tents of wandering Gipsies, free residence everywhere, and on no account to molest either him or his people, because they prepared musket balls and other military stores, for the Bishop Sigismund, at Fünf-kirchen." In the year 1565, when Mustapa, Turkish Regent of Bosnia, besieged Crupa, the Turks having expended their powder and cannon balls, the Gipsies were employed to make the latter, part of iron, the rest of stone, cased with lead. Observe the Gipsies at whatever employment you may, there always appear sparks of genius. We cannot, indeed, help wondering, when we consider the skill they display in preparing and bringing their work to perfection, from the scarcity of proper tools and materials.--_Grellmann on the Hungarian Gipsies._--ED. CHAPTER VII. BORDER GIPSIES. It would be an unpardonable omission were I to overlook the descendants of John Faw, "Lord and Earl of Little Egypt," in this history of the Gipsies in Scotland. But to enter into details relative to many of the members of this ancient clan, would be merely a repetition of actions, similar in character to those already related of some of the other bands in Scotland. It would appear that the district in which the Faw tribe commonly travelled, comprehended East Lothian, Berwickshire and Roxburghshire; and that Northumberland was also part of their walk. I can find no traces of Gipsies, of that surname, having, in families, traversed the midland or western parts of the south of Scotland, for nearly the last seventy years; and almost all the few ancient public documents relative to this clan seem to imply that they occupied the counties above mentioned. I am inclined to believe that the Faws and the Baillies, the two principal Gipsy clans in Scotland, had frequently lived in a state of hostility with one another. These two tribes quarrelled in the reign of James V, when they brought their dispute before the king in council; and from the renewal of the order in council, in the reign of Queen Mary, it appears their animosities had then existed. In the year 1677, the Faws and the Shaws, as already noticed, advanced into Tweed-dale, to fight the Baillies and the Browns, as mentioned by Dr. Pennecuik, in his history of Tweed-dale. At the present day, the Baillies consider themselves quite superior in rank to the Faas; and, on the other hand, the Faas and their friends speak with great bitterness and contempt of the Baillies, calling them "a parcel of thieves and vagabonds."[156] [156] This long standing feud between the Baillies and the Faas is notorious. In paying a visit to a family of English Gipsies in the United States, the head of the family said to me: "You must really excuse us to-day. It's the Faas and Baillies over again; it will be all I can do to keep them from coming to blows." The noise inside of the house was frightful. There had been a "difficulty" between two families in consequence of some gossip about one of the parties before marriage, which the families were sifting to the bottom. The Faas and their partisans, on reading this work, will not overwell relish the prominence given to the Baillie clan.--ED. In Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine, of the 4th August, 1774, the following notice is taken of this tribe, which shows the fear which persons of respectability entertained for them: "The descendants of this Lord of Little Egypt continued to travel about in Scotland till the beginning of this century, mostly about the southern Border; and I am most credibly informed that one, Henry Faa, was received, and ate at the tables of people in public office, and that men of considerable fortune paid him a gratuity, called blackmail, in order to have their goods protected from thieves." One of the Faas rose to great eminence in the mercantile world, and was connected by marriage with Scotch families of the rank of baronets. This family was the highly respectable one of Fall, now extinct, general merchants in Dunbar, who were originally members of the Gipsy family at Yetholm. So far back as about the year 1670, one of the baillies of Dunbar was of the surname of Faa, spelled exactly as the Gipsy name, as appears by the Rev. J. Blackadder's Memoirs. On the 18th of May, 1734, Captain James Fall, of Dunbar, was elected member of parliament for the Dunbar district of burghs. On the 28th of May, 1741, Captain Fall was again elected member for the same burghs; but, there being a double return, Sir Hew Dalrymple ousted him. The family of Fall gave Dunbar provosts and baillies, and ruled the political interests of that burgh for many years. When hearty over their cups, they often mentioned their origin; and, to perpetuate the memory of their descent from the family of Faa, at Yetholm, the late Mrs. Fall, of Dunbar, whose husband was provost of the town, had the whole family, with their asses, &c., &c., as they took their departure from Yetholm, represented, by herself, in needle-work, or tapestry.[157] The particulars, or details, of this family group were derived from her husband, who had the facts from his grandfather, one of the individuals represented in the piece. A respectable aged gentleman, yet living in Dunbar, has often seen this family piece of the Falls, and had its details pointed out and explained to him by Mrs. Fall herself.[158] [157] "He will be pleased to learn that there is, in the house of Provost Whyte, of Kirkaldy, a piece of needle-work, or tapestry, on which is depicted, by the hands of Mrs. Fall, the principal events in the life of the founder of her family, from the day the Gipsy child came to Dunbar in its mother's creel, until the same Gipsy child had become, by its own honourable exertions, the head of the first mercantile establishment then existing in Scotland." [This seems to be an extract from a letter. The authority has been omitted in the MS.--ED.] [158] "There are," says a correspondent, "several gentlemen in this town and neighbourhood who have heard declare, that the Falls themselves had often acknowledged to them their descent from the Gipsy Faas. I am told by an old Berwickshire gentlemen, who had the account from his mother, that the Falls, on their departure from Yetholm, stopped some little time at a country village-hamlet called Hume, in Berwickshire, where they had some female relations; and after a few days spent there, they set out for Dunbar, taking their female friends along with them. "Latterly, the late Robert and Charles Fall, who were cousins, kept separate establishments. Robert possessed the dwelling house now occupied by Lord Lauderdale; and Charles possessed one at the shore, (now the custom-house.) built on the spot where some old houses formerly stood, and was called 'Lousy Law.' It was in these old cot-houses that the Falls first took up their residence on coming to Dunbar. It appears the mother of the first of the Falls who came to Dunbar was a woman of much spirit and great activity. Old William Faa, the chief of the Gipsies at Yetholm, when in Lothian, never failed to visit the Dunbar family, as his relations. The Dunbar Falls were connected, by marriage, with the Anstruthers, Footies, of Balgonie, Coutts, now bankers, and with Collector Whyte, of the customs, at Kirkaldy, and Collector Melville, of the customs, at Dunbar." The mercantile house of the Falls, at Dunbar, was so extensive as to have many connexions in the ports of the Baltic and Mediterranean, and supported so high a character that several of the best families in Scotland sent their sons to it, to be initiated in the mysteries of commerce. Amongst others who were bred merchants by the Falls, were Sir Francis Kinloch, and two sons of Sir John Anstruther. It appears that the Falls were most honourable men in all their transactions; and that the cause of the ruin of their eminent firm was the failure of some considerable mercantile houses who were deeply indebted to them. One of the Misses Fall was married to Sir John Anstruther, of Elie, baronet. It appears that this alliance with the family of Fall was not relished by the friends of Sir John, of his own class in society. The consequence was that Lady Anstruther was not so much respected, and did not receive those attentions from her neighbours, to which her rank, as Sir John's wife, gave her a title. The tradition of her Gipsy descent was fresh in the memories of those in the vicinity of her residence; and she frequently got no other name, or title, when spoken of, than "Jenny Faa." She was, however, a woman of great spirit and activity. Her likeness was taken, and, I believe, is still preserved by the family of Anstruther.[159] [159] Speaking of a gentlemen in his autobiography, Dr. Alexander Carlyle, in 1744. says: "He had the celebrated Jenny Fall, (afterwards Lady Anstruther,) a coquette and a beauty, for months together in the house with him; and as his person and manners drew the marked attention of the ladies, he derived considerable improvement from the constant intercourse with this young lady and her companions, for she was lively and clever, no less than beautiful."--ED. At a contested election, for a member of parliament, for the burghs in the east of Fife, in which Sir John was a candidate, his opponents thought to annoy him, and his active lady, by reference to the Gipsy origin of the latter. Whenever Lady Anstruther entered the burghs, during the canvass, the streets resounded with the old song of the "Gipsy Laddie." A female stepped up to her ladyship, and expressed her sorrow at the rabble singing the song in her presence. "Oh, never mind them," replied Lady Anstruther; "they are only repeating what they hear from their parents."[160] The following is the song alluded to: JOHNNY FAA, THE GIPSY LADDIE. The Gipsies came to my Lord Cassilis' yett, And oh! but they sang bonnie; They sang sae sweet, and sae complete, That down came our fair ladie. She came tripping down the stair, And all her maids before her; As soon as they saw her weel-far'd face They coost their glamourie owre her. She gave to them the good wheat bread, And they gave her the ginger; But she gave them a far better thing, The gold ring off her finger. "Will ye go wi' me, my hinny and my heart, Will ye go wi' me, my dearie; And I will swear, by the staff of my spear, That thy lord shall nae mair come near thee." "Gar take from me my silk manteel, And bring to me a plaidie; For I will travel the world owre, Along with the Gipsy laddie. "I could sail the seas with my Jockie Faa, I could sail the seas with my dearie; I could sail the seas with my Jockie Faa, And with pleasure could drown with my dearie." They wandered high, they wandered low, They wandered late and early, Until they came to an old tenant's barn, And by this time she was weary. "Last night I lay in a weel-made bed, And my noble lord beside me; And now I must lie in an old tenant's barn, And the black crew glowring owre me." "O hold your tongue, my hinny and my heart, O hold your tongue, my dearie; For I will swear by the moon and the stars That thy lord shall nae mair come near thee." They wandered high, they wandered low, They wandered late and early, Until they came to that wan water, And by this time she was weary. "Aften I have rode that wan water, And my Lord Cassilis beside me; And now I must set in my white feet, and wade, And carry the Gipsy laddie." By-and-by came home this noble lord, And asking for his ladie; The one did cry, the other did reply, "She is gone with the Gipsy laddie." "Go, saddle me the black," he says, "The brown rides never so speedie; And I will neither eat nor drink Till I bring home my ladie." He wandered high, he wandered low, He wandered late and early, Until he came to that wan water, And there he spied his ladie. "O wilt thou go home, my hinny and my heart, O wilt thou go home, my dearie; And I will close thee in a close room Where no man shall come near thee." "I will not go home, my hinny and heart, I will not come, my dearie; If I have brewn good beer, I will drink of the same, And my lord shall nae mair come near me. "But I will swear by the moon and the stars, And the sun that shines sae clearly, That I am as free of the Gipsy gang As the hour my mother did bear me." They were fifteen valiant men, Black, but very bonny, And they all lost their lives for one, The Earl of Cassilis' ladie. [160] I beg the reader to take particular notice of this circumstance. A Scotch rabble is the lowest and meanest of all rabbles, at such work as this. In their eyes, it was unpardonable that Lady Anstruther, or "Jenny Faa," should have been of Gipsy origin; but it would have horrified them, had they known the meaning of her ladyship "being of Gipsy origin," and that she doubtless "chattered Gipsy," like others of her tribe.--ED. Tradition states that John Faa, the leader of a band of Gipsies, seizing the opportunity of the Earl of Cassilis' absence, on a deputation to the Assembly of divines at Westminster, in 1643, to ratify the solemn league and covenant, carried off the lady. The Earl was considered a sullen and ill-tempered man, and perhaps not a very agreeable companion to his lady.[161] [161] See page 108.--ED. Before proceeding to give an account of the modern Gipsies on the Scottish Border, I shall transcribe an interesting note which Sir Walter Scott gave to the public, in explaining the origin of that singular character Meg Merrilies, in the novel Guy Mannering. The illustrious author kindly offered me the "scraps" which he had already given to Blackwood's Magazine, to incorporate them, if I chose, in my history of the Gipsies; but I prefer giving them in his own words. "My father," says Sir Walter, "remembered Jean Gordon of Yetholm, who had a great sway among her tribe. She was quite a Meg Merrilies, and possessed the savage virtue of fidelity in the same perfection. Having been hospitably received at the farm-house of Lochside, near Yetholm, she had carefully abstained from committing any depredations on the farmer's property. But her sons, (nine in number,) had not, it seems, the same delicacy, and stole a brood-sow from their kind entertainer. Jean was so much mortified at this ungrateful conduct, and so much ashamed of it, that she absented herself from Lochside for several years. At length, in consequence of some temporary pecuniary necessity, the good-man of Lochside was obliged to go to Newcastle, to get some money to pay his rent. Returning through the mountains of Cheviot, he was benighted, and lost his way. A light, glimmering through the window of a large waste-barn, which had survived the farm-house to which it had once belonged, guided him to a place of shelter; and when he knocked at the door, it was opened by Jean Gordon. Her very remarkable figure, for she was nearly six feet high, and her equally remarkable features and dress, rendered it impossible to mistake her for a moment; and to meet with such a character, in so solitary a place, and probably at no great distance from her clan, was a terrible surprise to the poor man, whose rent, (to lose which would have been ruin to him,) was about his person. Jean set up a loud shout of joyful recognition. 'Eh, sirs! the winsome gude-man of Lochside! Light down, light down; for ye manna gang farther the night, and a friend's house sae near!' The farmer was obliged to dismount, and accept of the Gipsy's offer of supper and a bed. There was plenty of meat in the barn, however it might be come by, and preparations were going on for a plentiful supper, which the farmer, to the great encrease of his anxiety, observed was calculated for ten or twelve guests of the same description, no doubt, with his landlady. Jean left him in no doubt on the subject. She brought up the story of the stolen sow, and noticed how much pain and vexation it had given her. Like other philosophers, she remarked that the world grows worse daily, and, like other parents, that the bairns got out of her guiding, and neglected the old Gipsy regulations which commanded them to respect, in their depredations, the property of their benefactors. The end of all this was an enquiry what money the farmer had about him, and an urgent request that he would make her his purse-keeper, as the bairns, as she called her sons, would be soon home. The poor farmer made a virtue of necessity, told his story, and surrendered his gold to Jean's custody. She made him put a few shillings in his pocket; observing it would excite suspicion should he be found travelling altogether penniless. This arrangement being made, the farmer lay down on a sort of _shake-down_, as the Scotch call it, upon some straw; but, as is easily to be believed, slept not. About midnight the gang returned with various articles of plunder, and talked over their exploits, in language which made the farmer tremble. They were not long in discovering their guest, and demanded of Jean whom she had got there. 'E'en the winsome gude-man of Lochside, poor boy,' replied Jean; 'he's been at Newcastle, seeking siller to pay his rent, honest man, but deil-be-licket he's been able to gather in; and sae he's gaun e'en hame wi' a toom purse and a sair heart.' 'That may be, Jean,' replied one of the banditti, 'but we maun ripe his pouches a bit, and see if it be true or no.' Jean set up her throat in exclamation against this breach of hospitality, but without producing any change of their determination. The farmer soon heard their stifled whispers and light steps by his bed-side, and understood they were rummaging his clothes. When they found the money which the prudence of Jean Gordon had made him retain, they held a consultation if they should take it or not; but the smallness of the booty, and the vehemence of Jean's remonstrances, determined them on the negative. They caroused, and went to rest. So soon as day dawned, Jean roused her guest, produced his horse, which she had accommodated behind the _hallan_, and guided him for some miles, till he was on the high-road to Lochside. She then restored his whole property, nor could his earnest entreaties prevail on her to accept so much as a single guinea. "I have heard the old people at Jedburgh say that all Jean's sons were condemned to die there on the same day. It is said the jury were equally divided, but that a friend of justice, who had slept during the whole discussion, waked suddenly, and gave his vote for condemnation, in the emphatic words: 'Hang them a'.' Jean was present, and only said, 'The Lord help the innocent in a day like this.' Her own death was accompanied with circumstances of brutal outrage, of which poor Jean was, in many respects, wholly undeserving. Jean had, among other demerits, or merits, as you may choose to rank it, that of being a staunch Jacobite. She chanced to be at Carlisle, upon a fair or market day, soon after the year 1746, where she gave vent to her political partiality, to the great offence of the rabble in that city. Being zealous in their loyalty when there was no danger, in proportion to the tameness with which they had surrendered to the Highlanders, in 1745, they inflicted upon poor Jean Gordon no slighter penalty than that of ducking her to death in the Eden. It was an operation of some time, for Jean was a stout woman, and, struggling with her murderers, often got her head above water; and, while she had voice left, continued to exclaim, at such intervals, 'Charlie yet! Charlie yet!' "When a child, and among the scenes which she frequented, I have often heard these stories, and cried piteously for poor Jean Gordon. "Before quitting the Border Gipsies, I may mention that my grandfather, riding over Charter-house moor, then a very extensive common, fell suddenly among a large band of them, who were carousing in a hollow of the moor, surrounded by bushes. They instantly seized on his horse's bridle, with many shouts of welcome, exclaiming, (for he was well known to most of them,) that they had often dined at his expense, and he must now stay, and share their good-cheer. My ancestor was a little alarmed, for, like the good man of Lochside, he had more money about his person than he cared to venture with into such society. However, being a bold, lively man, he entered into the humour of the thing, and sate down to the feast, which consisted of all the different varieties of game, poultry, pigs, and so forth, that could be collected by a wide and indiscriminate system of plunder. The feast was a very merry one, but my relative got a hint, from some of the elder Gipsies, to retire just when 'The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;' and, mounting his horse, accordingly, he took French leave of his entertainers, but without experiencing the least breach of hospitality. I believe Jean Gordon was at this festival. "The principal settlements of the Gipsies, in my time, have been the two villages of Easter and Wester Gordon, and what is called Kirk-Yetholm, Making good the proverb odd, Near the church and far from God." In giving an account of the modern Gipsies on the Scottish Border, I shall transcribe, at full length, the faithful and interesting report of Baillie Smith, of Kelso, which was published in Hoyland's "Historical Survey of the Gipsies." "A considerable time," says Mr. Smith, "having elapsed since I had an opportunity or occasion to attend to the situation of the colony of Gipsies in our neighbourhood, I was obliged to delay my answer to your enquiries, until I could obtain more information respecting their present numbers. "The great bar to the benevolent intentions of improving their situation, will be the impossibility to convince them that there either is, or can be, a mode of life preferable, or even equal, to their own. "A strong spirit of independence, or what they would distinguish by the name of liberty, runs through the whole tribe. It is, no doubt, a very licentious liberty, but entirely to their taste. Some kind of honour peculiar to themselves seems to prevail in their community. They reckon it a disgrace to steal near their homes, or even at a distance, if detected. I must always except that petty theft of feeding their _shelties_ and asses, on the farmer's grass and corn, which they will do, whether at home or abroad. "When avowedly trusted, even in money matters, they never deceived me, nor forfeited their promise. I am sorry to say, however, that when checked in their licentious appropriations, &c., they are very much addicted both to threaten and to execute revenge. "Having so far premised with respect to their general conduct and character, I shall proceed to answer, as far as I am able, the four queries subjoined to the circular which you sent me; and then subjoin, in notes, some instances of their conduct in particular cases, which may perhaps elucidate their general disposition and character. "_Query 1st._ What number of Gipsies in the county? "_Answer._ I know of none except the colony of Yetholm, and one family who lately removed from that place to Kelso. Yetholm consists of two towns, or large villages, called Town-Yetholm and Kirk-Yetholm. The first is in the estate of Mr. Wauchope, of Niddry; the latter in that of the Marquis of Tweed-dale. The number of the Gipsy colony at present in Kirk-Yetholm amounts to, at least, 109 men, women and children; and perhaps two or three may have escaped notice. They marry early in life; in general have many children; and their number seems to be encreasing. "_Query 2d._ In what do the men and women mostly employ themselves? "_Answer._ I have known the colony between forty and fifty years. At my first remembrance of them, they were called the _Tinklers_ (Tinkers) of Yetholm, from the males being chiefly then employed in mending pots and other culinary utensils, especially in their peregrinations through the hilly and less frequented parts of the country. Sometimes they were called _Horners_, from their occupation in making and selling horn-spoons, called _cutties_. Now, their common appellation is that of _Muggers_, or, what pleases them better, _Potters_. They purchase, at a cheap rate, the cast or faulty articles from the different manufacturers of earthenware, which they carry for sale all over the country; consisting of groups of six, ten, and sometimes twelve or fourteen persons, male and female, young and old, provided with a horse and cart, to transport the pottery, besides shelties and asses, to carry the youngest of the children, and such baggage as they find necessary. A few of the colony also employ themselves, occasionally, in making besoms, foot-basses, &c., from heath, broom, and bent, and sell them at Kelso and the neighbouring towns. After all, their employment can be considered little better than an apology for idleness and vagrancy. I do not see that the women are otherwise employed than attending the young children, and assisting to sell the pottery when carried through the country. "They are, in general, great adepts in hunting, shooting and fishing; in which last they use the net and spear, as well as the rod; and often supply themselves with a hearty meal by their dexterity. They have no notion of being limited in their field sports, either in time, place, or mode of destruction. In the country, they sleep in barns and byres, or other out-houses; and when they cannot find that accommodation, they take the canvas covering from the pottery cart and squat below it, like a covey of partridges in the snow. "_Query 3d._ Have they any settled abode in winter, and where? "_Answer._ Their residence, with the exception of a single family, who, some years ago, came to Kelso, is at Kirk-Yetholm, and chiefly confined to one row of houses, or street, of that town, which goes by the name of the _Tinkler Row_. Most of them have leases of their possessions, granted for a term of nineteen times nineteen years, for payment of a small sum yearly, something of the nature of a quit-rent. There is no tradition in the neighbourhood concerning the time when the Gipsies first took up their residence at that place, nor whence they came. Most of their leases, I believe, were granted by the family of the Bennets, of Grubit, the last of whom was Sir David Bennet, who died about sixty years ago. The late Mr. Nisbet, of Dirlton, then succeeded to the estate, comprehending the baronies of Kirk-Yetholm and Grubit. He died about the year 1783; and long after, the property was acquired by the late Lord Tweed-dale's trustees. During the latter part of the life of the late Mr. Nisbet, he was less frequently at his estate in Roxburghshire than formerly. He was a great favourite of the Gipsies, and was in use to call them his body-guards, and often gave them money, &c. "On the other hand, both the late and present Mr. Wauchope were of opinion that the example of these people had a bad effect upon the morals and industry of the neighbourhood; and seeing no prospect of their removal, and as little of their reformation, considered it as a duty to the public to prevent the evil encreasing; and never would consent to any of the colony taking up their residence in _Town_ Yetholm. "They mostly remain at home during winter, but as soon as the weather becomes tolerably mild, in spring, most of them, men, women and children, set out on their peregrinations over the country; and live in a state of vagrancy, until driven into their habitations by the approach of winter. "Seeming to pride themselves as a separate tribe, they very seldom intermarry out of the colony; and, in rare instances, when that happens, the Gipsy, whether male or female, by influence and example, always induces the stranger husband, or wife, to adopt the manners of the colony; so that no improvement is ever obtained in that way. The progeny of such alliances have almost universally the tawny complexion, and fine black eyes, of the Gipsy parent, whether father or mother. So strongly remarkable is the Gipsy cast of countenance, that even a description of them to a stranger, who has had no opportunity of formerly seeing them, will enable him to know them whenever he meets them. Some individuals, but very rarely, separate from the colony altogether; and when they do so, early in life, and go to a distance, such as London, or even Edinburgh, their acquaintances in the country get favourable accounts of them. A few betake themselves to regular and constant employments at home, but soon tire, and return to their old way of life. "When any of them, especially a leader, or man of influence, dies, they have full meetings, not only of the colony, but of the Gipsies from a distance; and those meetings, or _late-wakes_, are by no means conducted with sobriety or decency. "_Query 4th._ Are any of their children taught to read, and what portion of them? With any anecdotes respecting their customs and conduct. "_Answer._ Education being obtained at a cheaper rate, the Gipsies, in general, give their male children as good a one as is bestowed on those of the labouring people, and farm servants, in the neighbourhood; such as reading, writing, and the first principles of arithmetic. They all apply to the clergyman of the parish for baptism to their children; and a strong, superstitious notion universally prevails with them, that it is unlucky to have an unchristened child in the house. Only a very few ever attend divine service, and those as seldom as they can, just to prevent being refused as sponsors at their children's baptism. "They are, in general, active and lively, particularly when engaged in field sports, or in such temporary pursuits as are agreeable to their habits and dispositions; but are destitute of the perseverance necessary for a settled occupation, or even for finishing what a moderate degree of continued labour would enable them to accomplish in a few weeks. "I remember that, about 45 years ago, being then apprenticed to a writer, who was in use to receive the rents and the small duties of Kirk-Yetholm, he sent me there with a list of names, and a statement of what was due, recommending me apply to the landlord of the public-house, in the village, for any information or assistance which I might need. "After waiting a long time, and receiving payment from most of the feuers, or rentalers, I observed to him, that none of the persons of the names of Faa, Young, Blythe, Fluckie, &c., who stood at the bottom of the list, for small sums, had come to meet me, according to the notice given by the baron-officer, and proposed sending to inform them that they were detaining me, and to request their immediate attendance. "The landlord, with a grave face, enquired whether my master had desired me to ask money from those men. I said, not particularly; but they stood on the list. 'So I see,' said the landlord; 'but had your master been here himself, he did not dare to ask money from them, either as rent or feu duty. He knows that it is as good as if it were in his pocket. They will pay when their own time comes, but do not like to pay at a set time, with the rest of the barony, and still less to be craved.' "I accordingly returned without their money, and reported progress. I found that the landlord was right: my master said, with a smile, that it was unnecessary to send to them, after the previous notice from the baron-officer; it was enough if I had received the money, if offered. Their rent and feu duty was brought to the office in a few weeks. I need scarcely add that those persons all belonged to the tribe. "Another instance of their licentious, independent spirit occurs to me. The family of Niddry always gave a decent annual remuneration to a baron-baillie, for the purpose of keeping good order within the barony of Town-Yetholm. The person whom I remember first in possession of that office was an old man, called Doctor Walker, from his being also the village surgeon; and from him I had the following anecdote: "Between Yetholm and the Border farms, in Northumberland, there were formerly, as in most Border situations, some uncultivated lands, called the Plea-lands, or Debatable-lands, the pasturage of which was generally eaten up by the sorners and vagabonds, on both sides of the marches. Many years ago, Lord Tankerville and some others of the English Borderers made their request to Sir David Bennet, and the late Mr. Wauchope, of Niddry, that they would accompany them at a riding of the Plea-lands, who readily complied with their request. They were induced to this, as they understood that the Gipsies had taken offence, on the supposition that they might be circumscribed in the pasturage for their shelties and asses, which they had held a long time, partly by stealth, and partly by violence. "Both threats and entreaties were employed to keep them away; and, at last, Sir David obtained a promise from some of the heads of the gang, that none of them should show their faces on the occasion. They, however, got upon the hills, at a little distance, whence they could see everything that passed. At first they were very quiet. But when they saw the English court-book spread out, on a cushion, before the clerk, and apparently him taking in a line of direction, interfering with what they considered to be their privileged ground, it was with great difficulty that the most moderate of them could restrain the rest from running down and taking vengeance, even in sight of their own lord of the manor. "They only abstained for a short time; and no sooner had Sir David and the other gentlemen taken leave of each other, in the most polite and friendly manner, as Border chiefs were wont to do, since Border feuds ceased, and had departed to a sufficient distance, than the clan, armed with bludgeons, pitchforks, and such other hostile weapons as they could find, rushed down in a body, and before the chiefs on either side had reached their home, there was neither English tenant, horse, cow nor sheep left upon the premises. "Meeting at Kelso, with Mr. Walter Scott, whose discriminating habits and just observations I had occasion to know, from his youth, and, at the same time, seeing one of my Yetholm friends in the horse-market, I said to Mr. Scott, 'Try to get before that man with the long drab coat, look at him on your return, and tell me whether you ever saw him, and what you think of him.' He was as good as to indulge me; and, rejoining me, he said, without hesitation: 'I never saw the man that I know of; but he is one of the Gipsies of Yetholm, that you told me of, several years ago.' I need scarcely say that he was perfectly correct. "When first I knew anything about the colony, old Will Faa was king, or leader; and had held the sovereignty for many years. The descendants of Faa now take the name of Fall, from the Messrs. Fall, of Dunbar, who, they pride themselves in saying, are of the same stock and lineage. When old Will Faa was upwards of eighty years of age, he called on me, at Kelso, on his way to Edinburgh, telling me that he was going to see the laird, the late Mr. Nisbet, of Dirlton, as he understood that he was very unwell; and he himself being now old, and not so stout as he had been, he wished to see him once more before he died. He set out by the nearest road, which was by no means his common practice. Next market-day, some of the farmers informed me that they had been in Edinburgh, and seen Will Faa, upon the bridge, (the south bridge was not then built;) that he was tossing about his old brown hat, and huzzaing, with great vociferation, that he had seen the laird before he died. Indeed, Will himself had no time to lose; for, having set his face homewards, by the way of the sea-coast, to vary his route, as is the general custom of the gang, he only got the length of Coldingham, when he was taken ill and died. "His death being notified to his friends at Yetholm, they and their acquaintances at Berwick, Spittal, Horncliff, &c., met to pay the last honours to their old leader. His obsequies were continued three successive days and nights, and afterwards repeated at Yetholm, whither he was brought. I cannot say that the funeral rites were celebrated with decency and sobriety, for that was by no means the case. This happened in the year 1783, or 1784, and the late Mr. Nisbet did not long survive."[162] [162] When Mr. Hoyland commenced making enquiries into the condition of the Gipsies, he addressed circulars to the sheriffs, for information. No less than thirteen Scotch sheriffs reported, "No Gipsies within the county." A report of this kind was nearly as good as would be that of a cockney, as to there being no _foxes_ in the country; because, while riding through it, on the stage, he did not _see_ any! Baillie Smith's report, although graphic, is superficial. He states that the Gipsies "marry early in life, and in general have many children;" yet "that their number _seems_ to be encreasing."--ED. In addition to the above graphic report of Baillie Smith, I will now give a few details from a MS., given to me by Mr. Blackwood, towards the elucidation of the history of the Gipsies. This MS. bears the initials of A. W., and appears to have been written by a gentleman who had ample opportunities of observing the manners of the Border Gipsies. "I am a native of Yetholm parish, and a residenter in it, with a little exception, for upwards of fifty years. I well remember Kirk-Yetholm, when the Faas and Youngs alone had a footing in it.[163] The Taits came next, and latterly, at various periods, the Douglasses, Blyths, Montgomerys, &c. Old William Faa, (with whom I was well acquainted, and saw him married to his third wife,[164]) constantly claimed kindred with the Falls of Dunbar; and persisted, to the last, that he himself was the male descendant, in a direct line, from the Earl of Little Egypt. For many years before his death, Mr. Nisbet of Dirlton, (the then laird of Kirk-Yetholm,) gave him the charge of his house, at Marlfield, and all its furniture, although he resided six miles distant from it. The key of the principal door was regularly delivered to him, at the laird's departure. I remember a sale of wood at Cherry-trees, belonging to the late Sheriff Murray. William Faa was a purchaser at the roup, and the sheriff proclaimed aloud to the clerk, that he would be Mr. Faa's cautioner. All the Tinklers in the village, and even strangers resorting thither, considered William Faa as the head and leader of the whole. His corpse was escorted betwixt Coldstream and Yetholm by above three hundred asses. [163] The tribe of Young have preserved the following tradition respecting their first settlement in Yetholm: At a siege of the city of Namur, (date unknown,) the laird of Kirk-Yetholm, of the ancient family of Bennets, of Grubit and Marlfield, in attempting to mount a breach, at the head of his company, was struck to the ground, and all his followers killed, or put to flight, except a Gipsy, the ancestor of the Youngs, who resolutely defended his master till he recovered his feet, and then, springing past him upon the rampart, seized a flag which he put into his leader's hand. The besieged were struck with panic--the assailants rushed again to the breach--Namur was taken, and Captain Bennet had the glory of the capture. On returning to Scotland, the laird, out of gratitude to his faithful follower, settled him and his family, (who had formerly been travelling tinkers and heckle-makers,) in Kirk-Yetholm; and conferred upon them, and the Faas, a fen of their cottages, for the space of nineteen times nineteen years; which they still hold from the Marquis of Tweed-dale, the present proprietor of the estate.--_Blackwood's Magazine._--ED. [164] On solemn occasions, Will Faa assumed, in his way, all the stately deportment of sovereignty. He had twenty-four children, and at each of their christenings he appeared, dressed in his original wedding-robes. These christenings were celebrated with no small parade. Twelve young handmaidens were always present, as part of the family retinue, and for the purpose of waiting on the numerous guests, who assembled to witness the ceremony, or partake of the subsequent festivities. Besides Will's Gipsy associates, several of the neighbouring farmers and lairds, with whom he was on terms of friendly intercourse, (among others, the Murrays, of Cherry-trees,) used to attend these christenings.--_Blackwood's Magazine._--ED. "He was succeeded by his eldest son William, one of the cleverest fellows upon the Border. For agility of person, and dexterity in every athletic exercise, he had rarely met with a competitor. He had a younger brother impressed, when almost a boy. He deserted from his ship, in India; enlisted as a soldier, and, by dint of merit, acquired a commission in a regular regiment of foot, and died a lieutenant, within these thirty years, at London. He was an officer under Governor Wall, at Goree, when he committed the crime for which he suffered, twenty years after, in England. "It was the present William Faa that the 'Earl of Hell' contended with; not for sovereignty, but to revenge some ancient animosity.[165] His lordship lives at New Coldstream, and was the only person in Berwickshire that durst encounter, in single combat, the renowned Bully-More. Young fought three successive battles with Faa, and one desperate engagement with More, midway between Dunse and Coldstream; and was defeated in all of them. He is a younger son of William Young, of Yetholm, the cotemporary chieftain of old William Faa. It was still a younger brother that migrated to Kelso, where he supported a good character till he died. Charles Young, the eldest brother, is still alive, and chief of the name. The following anecdote of him will serve to establish his activity. [165] This is in contradiction to the assertion, in Blackwood's Magazine, that, on the death of his father, a sort of civil war broke out among the Yetholm Gipsies; and that the usurper of the regal office was dispossessed, after a battle, by the subjects who adhered to the legitimate heir.--ED. "Mr. Walker, of Thirkstane, the only residing heritor in Yetholm parish, missed a valuable mare, upon a Sunday morning. After many fruitless enquiries, at the adjacent kirks and neighbourhood, he dispatched a servant for Charles, in the evening. He privately communicated to him his loss, and added, that he was fully persuaded he could be the means of recovering the mare. Charles boldly answered, 'If she was betwixt the Tyne and the Forth, she should be restored.' On the Thursday after, at sunrise, the mare was found standing at the stable door, much jaded, and very warm. "When the Kirk-Yetholm families differed among themselves, (and terrible conflicts at times they had,) this same Mr. Walker was often chosen sole arbitrator, to decide their differences. He has often been locked up in their houses for twenty-four hours together, but carefully concealed their secrets.[166] [166] There would appear to be something remarkable in the position which this Mr. Walker held with the Gipsies. I know, from the best of authority, that most of the people living in and about Yetholm are Gipsies, settled or unsettled, civilized or uncivilized, educated or uneducated; and of one in particular, who went under the title of "Lord Mayor of Yetholm." He is now dead. The above mentioned Mr. Walker was probably a relation of Dr. Walker, mentioned by Baillie Smith, as the baron-baillie of Yetholm. I notice in Blackwood's Magazine, that one William Walker, a Gipsy, in company with various Yetholm Gipsies, was indicted at Jedburgh, in 1714, for fire-raising, but was acquitted. The Walkers alluded to in the text are very probably of the same family, settled, and raised in the world. As I have just said, most of the people in and about Yetholm are Gipsies. Gipsydom has even eaten its way in among the population round about Yetholm. The Rev. Mr. Baird, in conducting the Scottish Church Mission among the _travelling_ Gipsies, hailing from Yetholm, doubtless encountered many of them incog. But all this will be better understood by the reader after he peruses the Disquisition on the Gipsies.--ED. "The Yetholm Tinklers keep up an intercourse with their friends at Horncliff, Spittal, Rothbury, Hexam, and Harbottle. They go frequently to Newcastle, and even to Staffordshire, for earthenware, and the whole family embark in every expedition. "I was at school with most of the present generation of Tinklers. I mean the males; for, to speak truth, I never heard of a female Gipsy being educated at all. "None of this colony have been either impeached or tried for a crime for fifty years past. Two Tinklers have been executed at Jedburgh, in my remembrance, named Keith and Clark, for murder and horse-stealing. They were strangers, from a distance." When I visited Yetholm, I fell in with a gentleman who resided at that time in Town-Yetholm. I chanced to mention to him that I was sure all the Gipsies had a method of their own in handling the cudgel, but he would not believe it. At my request, he took me into some of their houses, and, observing an old, rusty sword lying upon the joists of an apartment in which we were sitting, I took it down, and, under pretence of handling it, in their fashion, gave some of the guards of the Hungarian sword-exercise. An old Gipsy, of the name of Blyth, shook his head, and observed: "Ay, that is an art easily carried about with you; it may be of service to you some day." My friend was then convinced of his mistake. William Faa, when I was in his house, showed me the mark of a stroke of a sword on his right wrist, by which he had nearly lost his hand. With others of his clan, he had been engaged in a smuggling speculation, on the coast of Northumberland, when they were overtaken by a party of dragoons, one of whom singled out and attempted to take Faa prisoner. William was armed with a stick only, but, with his stick in his dexterous hand, he, for a long time, set the dragoon, with all his arms, at defiance. The horseman, now galloping round and round him, attempting to capture him, became exasperated at the resistance of a man on foot, armed with a cudgel only, and struck with such vigour that the cudgel became shattered, and cut in pieces, till nothing but a few inches of it remained. Still holding up the stump, to meet the stroke of his antagonist's sword, William was cut to the bone, and compelled to yield himself a prisoner. A person, present at the scuffle, informed me that the only remark the brave Tinkler made to the dragoon was, "Ye've spoiled a good fiddler." William Faa, the lineal descendant of John Faw, "Lord and Earl of Little Egypt," when I saw him, appeared about sixty years of age, and was tall and genteel-looking, with grey hair, and dark eyes. He is the individual who fought the three battles with Young, between Dunse and Coldstream. The following notice of his death I have extracted from the "Scotsman" newspaper, of the 20th October, 1847: "A LAMENT FOR WILL FAA, "The Deceased King of Little Egypt. "The daisy has faded, the yellow leaf drops; The cold sky looks grey o'er the shrivelled tree-tops; And many around us, since Summer's glad birth, Have dropt, like the old leaves, into the cold earth. And one worth remembering hath gone to the home Where the king and the kaiser must both at last come, The King of the Gipsies--the last of a name[167] Which in Scotland's old story is rung on by fame. The cold clod ne'er pressed down a manlier breast Than that of the old man now gone to his rest. "It is meet we remember him; never again Will such foot as old Will's kick a ball o'er the plain, Or such hand as his, warm with the warmth of the soul, Bid us welcome to Yetholm, to bicker and bowl. Oh, the voice that could make the air tremble and ring With the great-hearted gladness becoming a king, Is silent, is silent; oh, wail for the day When Death took the Border King, brave Willie Faa. "No dark Jeddart prison e'er closed upon him, The last lord of Egypt ne'er wore gyve on limb. Though his grey locks were crownless, the light of his eye Was kingly--his bearing majestic and high. Though his hand held no sceptre, the stranger can tell That the full bowl of welcome became it as well; The fisher or rambler, by river or brae, Ne'er from old Willie's hallan went empty away. "In the old house of Yetholm we've sat at the board, The guest, highly honoured, of Egypt's old lord, And mark'd his eye glisten as oft as he told Of his feats on the Border, his prowess of old. It is meet, when that dark eye in death hath grown dim, That we sing a last strain in remembrance of him. The fame of the Gipsy hath faded away With the breath from the brave heart of gallant Will Faa." [167] Will Faa had a brother, a house-carpenter, in New York, who survived him a few years. He was considered a fine old man by those who knew him. He left a family in an humble, but respectable, way of doing. The Scottish Gipsy throne was occupied by another family of Gipsies, in consequence of this family being "forth of Scotland." There are a great many Faas, under one name or other, scattered over the world.--ED. CHAPTER VIII. MARRIAGE AND DIVORCE CEREMONIES. The Gipsies in Scotland are all married at a very early age. I do not recollect ever having seen or heard of them, male or female, being unmarried, after they were twenty years old. There are few instances of bastard children among them; indeed, they declare that their children are all born in wedlock.[168] I know, however, of one instance to the contrary; and of the Gipsy being dreadfully punished for seducing a young girl of his own tribe. [168] There is one word in the Gipsy language to which is attached more importance than to any other thing whatever--_Lácha_--the corporeal chastity of woman; the loss of which she is, from childhood, taught to dread. To ensure its preservation, the mother will have occasion to the _Diclé_--a kind of drapery which she ties around the daughter; and which is never removed, but continually inspected, till the day of marriage; but not for fear of the "stranger" or the "white blood." A girl is generally betrothed at fourteen, and never married till two years afterward. Betrothal is invariable. But the parties are never permitted, previous to marriage, to have any intimate associations together.--_Borrow on the Spanish Gipsies._--ED. The brother of the female, who was pregnant, took upon himself the task of chastising the offender. With a knife in his hand, and at the dead hour of night, he went to the house of the seducer. The first thing he did was deliberately to sharpen his knife upon the stone posts of the door of the man's house; and then, in a gentle manner, tap at the door, to bring out his victim. The unsuspecting man came to the door, in his shirt, to see what was wanted; but the salutation he received was the knife thrust into his body, and the stabs repeated several times. The avenger of his sister's wrongs fled for a short while; the wounded Tinkler recovered, and, to repair the injury he had done, made the girl his wife. The occurrence took place in Mid-Lothian, about twenty years ago. The name of the woman was Baillie, and her husband, Tait. I have not been able to discover any peculiarity in the manner of Gipsy courtships, except that a man, above sixty years of age, affirmed to me that it was the universal custom, among the tribe, not to give away in marriage the younger daughter before the elder. In order to have this information confirmed, I enquired of a female, herself one of eleven sisters,[169] if this custom really existed among her people. She was, at first, averse, evidently from fear, to answer my question directly, and even wished to conceal her descent. But, at last, seeing nothing to apprehend from speaking more freely, she said such was once the custom; and that it had been the cause of many unhappy marriages. She said she had often heard the old people speaking about the law of not allowing the younger sister to be married before the elder. She, however, would not admit of the existence of the custom at the present day, but appeared quite well acquainted with it, and could have informed me fully of it, had she been disposed to speak on the subject. [169] A GIPSY MULTIPLICATION TABLE. +-------------+-------+----------+--+ | Births | Mar- | Births of| | |of Children. |riages.| Grand- | | | | | children.| 1| +-------------+-------+----------+--+--+ |1822, Oct. 1.| 1842 |1843, Jul.| 1| 2| | | | | +--+--+ |1824, Jan. 1.| 1844 |1844, Oct.| 1| 1| 3| | | | | | +--+--+ |1825, Apl. 1.| 1845 |1846, Jan.| 1| 1| 1| 4| | | | | | | +--+--+ |1826, Jul. 1.| 1846 |1847, Ap. | 1| 1| 1| 1| 5| | | | | | | | +--+--+ |1827, Oct. 1.| 1847 |1848, Jul | 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 6| | | | | | | | | +--+--+ |1829, Jan. 1.| 1849 |1849, Oct.| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 7| | | | | | | | | | +--+--+ |1830, Apl. 1.| 1850 |1851, Jan.| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 8| | | | | | | | | | | +--+--+ |1831, Jul. 1.| 1851 |1852, Ap. | 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 9| | | | | | | | | | | | +--+--+ |1832, Oct. 1.| 1852 |1853, Jul.| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1|10| | | | | | | | | | | | | +--+--+ |1834, Jan. 1.| 1854 |1854, Oct.| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1|11| | | | | | | | | | | | | | +--+--+ |1835, Apl. 1.| 1855 |1856, Jan.| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1| 1|12| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +--+ |1836, Jul. 1.| 1856 | | |..|..|..|..|..|..|..|..|..|..|..|Total. +-------------+-------+----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-----+ | 12| | |11|10| 9| 8| 7| 6| 5| 4| 3| 2| 1| 0| 78 | +-------------+-------+----------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-----+ The above table will give a general idea of the natural encrease of the Gipsies. The reader can make what allowances he pleases, for ages at time of marriage, intervals between births, twins, deaths, or numbers of children born. By this table, the Gipsy, by marrying at twenty years of age, would, when 54 years old, have a "following" of no less than 78 souls. "There is one of the divine laws," said I to a Gipsy, "which the Gipsies obey more than any other people." "What is that?" replied he, with great gravity. "The command to 'Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish (but not subdue) the earth.'" Even five generations can be obtained from the male, and six from the female Gipsy, in a century, counting from first-born to first-born. The reader will notice how large are the Gipsy families incidentally mentioned by our author.--ED. The exact parallel to this custom is to be found in the Gentoo code of laws, translated by Halhed; wherein it is made criminal for "a man to marry while his elder brother remains unmarried; or when a man marries his daughter to such a person; or where a man gives the younger sister in marriage while the elder sister remains unmarried."[170] The learned translator of the code considers this custom of the Gentoos of the remotest antiquity, and compares it with that passage in the Book of Genesis, where Laban excuses himself to Jacob for having substituted Leah for Rachel, in these words, "It must not be so done in our country, to give the younger before the first-born." [170] Major Archer says that this law is still in force. The nuptial ceremony of the Gipsies is undoubtedly of the highest antiquity, and would, probably, be one of the first marriage ceremonies observed by mankind, in the very first stages of human society. When we consider the extraordinary length of time the Gipsies have preserved their speech, as a secret among themselves, in the midst of civilized society, all over Europe, while their persons were proscribed and hunted down in every country, like beasts of the chase, we are not at all surprised at their retaining some of their ancient customs; for these, as distinguished from their language, are of easy preservation, under any circumstances in which they may have been placed. That may much more be said of this ceremony, as there would be an occasion for its almost daily observance. It was wrapped up with their very existence--the choice of their wives, and the love of their offspring--the most important and interesting transactions of their lives; and would, on that account, be one of the longest observed, the least easily forgotten, of their ancient usages. The nuptial rites of the Scottish Gipsies are, perhaps, unequalled in the history of marriages. At least, I have neither seen nor heard of any marriage ceremony that has the slightest resemblance to it, except the extraordinary benediction which our countryman, Mungo Park, received from the bride at the Moorish wedding in Ali's camp, at Benown; and that of a certain custom practised by the Mandingoes, at Kamalia, in Africa, also mentioned by Park.[171] This custom with the Mandingoes and the Gipsies is nearly the same as that observed by the ancient Hebrews, in the days of Moses, mentioned in the Book of Deuteronomy. When we have the manners and customs of every savage tribe hitherto discovered, including even the Hottentots and Abyssinians, described, in grave publications, by adventurous travellers, I can see no reason why there should not be preserved, and exhibited for the inspection of the public, the manners and customs of a barbarous race that have lived so long at our own doors--one more interesting, in some respects, than any yet discovered; and more particularly as marriage is a very important, indeed the most important, institution among the inhabitants of any country, whether civilized or in a state of barbarism. How much would not our antiquarians now value authenticated specimens of the language, manners, and customs of the ancient Pictish nation that once inhabited Scotland! [171] "I was soon tired," says Park, "and had retired into my tent. When I was sitting, almost asleep, an old woman entered with a wooden bowl in her hand, and signified that she had brought me a present from the bride. Before I could recover from the surprise which this message created, the woman discharged the contents of the bowl full in my face. Finding that it was the same sort of holy water with which, among the Hottentots, a priest is said to sprinkle a new-married couple, I began to suspect that the lady was actuated by mischief or malice; but she gave me seriously to understand that it was a nuptial benediction from the bride's own person; and which, on such occasions, is always received by the young unmarried Moors, as a mark of distinguished favour. This being the case, I wiped my face, and sent my acknowledgment to the lady."--_Park's Travels, pages 205 and 206._ In describing the marriage ceremony of the Scottish Gipsies, it is scarcely possible to clothe the curious facts in language fit to be perused by every reader. But I must adopt the sentiment of Sir Walter Scott, as given in the Introduction, and "not be squeamish about delicacies, where knowledge is to be sifted out and acquired."[172] [172] Whatever prudes and snobs may think of this chapter, I believe that the sensible and intelligent reader will agree with me in saying, that the marriage and divorce ceremonies of the Gipsies are historical gems of the most antique and purest water.--ED. A marriage cup, or bowl, made out of solid wood, and of a capacity to contain about two Scotch pints, or about one gallon, is made use of at the ceremony. After the wedding-party is assembled, and everything prepared for the occasion, the priest takes the bowl and gives it to the bride, who passes urine into it; it is then handed, for a similar purpose, to the bridegroom. After this, the priest takes a quantity of earth from the ground, and throws it into the bowl, adding sometimes a quantity of brandy to the mixture. He then stirs the whole together, with a spoon made of a ram's horn, and sometimes with a large ram's horn itself, which he wears suspended from his neck by a string. He then presents the bowl, with its contents, first to the bride, and then to the bridegroom; calling at the same time upon each to separate the mixture in the bowl, if they can. The young couple are then ordered to join hands over the bowl containing the earth, urine, and spirits; when the priest, in an audible voice, and in the Gipsy language, pronounces the parties to be husband and wife; and as none can separate the mixture in the bowl, so they, in their persons, cannot be separated till death dissolves their union. As soon as that part of the ceremony is performed, the couple undress, and repair to their nuptial couch. After remaining there for a considerable time, some of the most confidential relatives of the married couple are admitted to the apartment, as witnesses to the virginity of the bride; certain tokens being produced to the examining friends, at this stage of the ceremony. If all the parties concerned are satisfied, the bride receives a handsome present from the friends, as a mark of their respect for her remaining chaste till the hour of her marriage. This present is, in some instances, a box of a particular construction.[173] [173] On their return from church, the bride is seated at one extremity of a room, with the unmarried girls by her; the bridegroom on the right, and the father and mother, or those who perform their office, on the left. The male part of the company stand in the corners, singing, and playing on the guitar. About one o'clock, the oldest matron, accompanied by others advanced in years, conducts the bride into the bed-room, which, according to the custom of Spain, is usually a small chamber, without a window, opening into the general apartment. _Tune vetula, manu sud sponsæ naturalibus admota membranam, vulvæ ori oppositam unguibus scindit et cruorem à plagâ fusum linteolo excipit._ The Gitanos without make a loud noise with their whistles, and the girls, striking the door, sing the following couplets, or some other like them: "Abra viñd la puerta Snr. Joaquin Que le voy à viñd à poner un pañuelito En las manos que tienen que llorar Toditas las callis." The bride then returns from the chamber, accompanied by the matrons, and the new-married couple are placed upon a table, where the bride dances, _et coram astantibus linteolum, internerati pudoris indicium explicat_; whilst the company, throwing down their presents of sweetmeats, &c., dance and cry, "Viva la honra."--_Bright, on the Spanish Gipsy marriage._ Before the marriage festival begins, four matrons--relations of the contracting parties--are appointed to scrutinize the bride; in which a handkerchief, of the finest French cambric, takes a leading part. Should she prove frail, she will likely be made away with, in a way that will leave no trace behind. In carrying out some marriage festivals, a procession will take place, led by some vile-looking fellow, bearing, on the end of a long pole, the _diclé_ and unspotted handkerchief; followed by the betrothed and their nearest friends, and a rabble of Gipsies, shouting and firing, and barking of dogs. On arriving at the church, the pole, with its triumphant colours, is stuck into the ground, with a loud huzza; while the train defile, on either side, into the church. On returning home, the same takes place. Then follows the most ludicrous and wasteful kind of revelling, which often leaves the bridegroom a beggar for life.--_Borrow, on the Spanish Gipsy marriage._--ED. These matters being settled on the spot, the wedded pair rise from the marriage-bed, again dress themselves in their finest apparel, and again join the wedding-party. The joy and happiness on all sides is now excessive. There is nothing to be heard or seen but fiddling and piping, dancing, feasting and drinking, which are kept up, with the utmost spirit and hilarity imaginable, for many hours together.[174] /# [174] The part of the marriage ceremony of the Gipsies which relates to the chastity of the bride has a great resemblance to a part of the nuptial rites of the Russians, and the Christians of St. John, in Mesopotamia and Chaldea. Dr. Hurd says: "When a new-married couple in Russia retire to the nuptial bed, an old domestic servant stands sentinel at the chamber-door. Some travellers tell us that this old servant, as soon as it is proper, attends nearer the bedside, to be informed of what happens. Upon the husband's declaration of his success and satisfaction, the kettle-drums and trumpets proclaim the joyful news." Among the Christians of St. John, as soon as the marriage is consummated, "both parties wait upon the bishop, and the husband deposes before him that he found his wife a virgin; and then the bishop marries them, puts several rings on their fingers, and baptizes them again. . . . A marriage with one who is discovered to have lost her honour beforehand but very seldom, if ever, holds good." #/ When speaking of the marriages of the Mandingoes, at Kamalia, about 500 miles in the interior of Africa, Park says: "The new-married couple are always disturbed toward morning by the women, who assemble to inspect the nuptial sheet, (according to the manners of the ancient Hebrews, as recorded in Scripture,) and dance around it. This ceremony is thought indispensably necessary, nor is the marriage considered valid without it." _Park's Travels, page 399._ By the laws of Menu, the Hindoo could reject his bride, if he found her not a virgin.--_Sir William Jones._ [The reader will observe that the marriage ceremony of the Gipsies, though barbarous, is very figurative and emphatic, and certainly moral enough. To show that the Gipsies, as a people, have not been addicted to the most barbarous customs, in regard to marriage, I note the following very singular form of the Scottish Highlanders, which, according to Skene, continued in use _until a very late period_. "This custom was termed _hand-fasting_, and consisted in a species of contract between two chiefs, by which it was agreed that the heir of one should live with the daughter of the other, as her husband, for twelve months and a day. If, in that time, the lady became a mother, or proved to be with child, the marriage became good in law, even although no priest had performed the marriage in due form; but should there not have occurred any appearance of issue, the contract was considered at an end, and each party was at liberty to marry, or _hand-fast, with any other_." Which fact shows that Highland chiefs, at one time, would have annulled any, or all, of the laws of God, whenever it would have served their purposes.--ED.] The nuptial mixture is carefully bottled up, and the bottle marked with the Roman character, M. In this state, it is buried in the earth, or kept in their houses or tents, and is carefully preserved, as evidence of the marriage of the parties. When it is buried in the fields, the husband and wife to whom it belongs frequently repair to the spot, and look at it, for the purpose of keeping them in remembrance of their nuptial vows. Small quantities of the compound are also given to individuals of the tribe, to be used for certain rare purposes, such, perhaps, as pieces of the bride's cake are used for dreaming-bread, among the natives of Scotland, at the present day. What is meant by employing earth, water, spirits, and, of course, air, in this ceremony, cannot be conjectured; unless these ingredients may have some reference to the four elements of nature--fire, air, earth, and water. That of using a ram's horn, in performing the nuptial rites, has also its meaning, could information be obtained concerning that part of the ceremony. This marriage ceremony is observed by the Gipsies in Scotland at the present day. A man, of the name of James Robertson, and a girl, of the name of Margaret Graham, were married, at Lochgellie, exactly in the manner described. Besides the testimony of the Gipsies themselves, it is a popular tradition, wherever these people have resided in Scotland, that they were all married by mixing of earth and urine together in a wooden bowl. I know of a girl, of about sixteen years of age, having been married in the Gipsy fashion, in a kiln, at Appindull, in Perthshire. A Gipsy informed me that he was at a wedding of a couple on a moor near Lochgellie, and that they were married in the ancient Gipsy manner described. Shortly after this, a pair were married near Stirling, after the custom of their ancestors. In this instance, a screen, made of an old blanket, was put up in the open field, to prevent the parties seeing each other, while furnishing the bowl with what was necessary to lawfully constitute their marriage.[175] The last-named Gipsy further stated to me, that when two young folks of the tribe agree to be married, the father of the bridegroom sleeps with the bride's mother, for three or four nights immediately previous to the celebration of the marriage. [175] On reading the above ceremony to an intelligent native of Fife, he said he had himself heard a Gipsy, of the name of Thomas Ogilvie, say that the Tinklers were married in the way mentioned. On one occasion, when a couple of respectable individuals were married, in the usual Scottish Presbyterian manner, at Elie, in Fife, Ogilvie, Gipsy-like, laughed at such a wedding ceremony, as being, in his estimation, no way binding on the parties. He at the same time observed that, if they would come to him, he would marry them in the Tinkler manner, which would make it a difficult matter to separate them again. Having endeavoured to describe the ancient nuptial ceremony of the Scottish Gipsies, I have considered it proper to give some account of an individual who acted as priest on such occasions. The name of a famous celebrator of Gipsy marriages, in Fifeshire, was Peter Robertson, well known, towards the latter end of his days, by the name of Blind Pate. Peter was a tall, lean, dark man, and wore a large cocked hat, of the olden fashion, with a long staff in his hand. By all accounts, he must have been a hundred years of age when he died. He was frequently seen at the head of from twenty to forty Gipsies, and often travelled in the midst of a crowd of women. Whenever a marriage was determined on, among the Lochgellie horde, or their immediate connexions, Peter was immediately sent for, however far distant he happened to be at the time from the parties requiring his assistance, to join them in wedlock: for he was the oldest member of the tribe at the time, and head of the Tinklers in the district, and, as the oldest member, it was his prerogative to officiate, as priest, on such occasions. A friend, who obligingly sent me some anecdotes of this Gipsy priest, communicated to me the following facts regarding him: "At the wedding of a favourite Brae-laird, in the shire of Kinross, Peter Robertson appeared at the head of a numerous band of Tinklers, attended by twenty-four asses. He was always chief and spokesman for the band. At the wedding of a William Low, a multerer, at Kinross, Peter, for the last time, was seen, with upwards of twenty-three asses in his retinue. He had certain immunities and privileges allowed him by his tribe. For one thing, he had the sole profits arising from the sale of keel, used in marking sheep, in the neighbouring upland districts; and one of the asses belonging to the band was always laden with this article alone. Peter was also notorious as a physician, and administered to his favourites medicines of his own preparation, and numbers of extraordinary cures were ascribed to his superior skill. He was possessed of a number of wise sayings, a great many of which are still current in the country. Peter Robertson was, altogether, a very shrewd and sensible man, and no acts of theft were ever laid to his charge, that I know of. He had, however, in his band, several females who told fortunes. The ceremony of marriage which he performed was the same you mentioned to me. The whole contents of the bowl were stirred about with a large ram's horn, which was suspended from a string round his neck, as a badge, I suppose, of his priestly office.[176] He attended all the fairs and weddings for many miles round. The Braes of Kinross were his favourite haunt; so much so that, in making his settlement, and portioning his children, he allowed them all districts, in the country round about, to travel in; but he reserved the Braes of Kinross as his own pendicle, and hence our favourite toast in the shire of Kinross, 'The lasses of Blind Pate's Pendicle.' Besides the Braes of Kinross, this Gipsy, in his sweeping verbal testament, reserved the town of Dunfermline, also, to himself, 'because,' said he, 'Dunfermline was in cash, what Lochleven was in water--it never ran dry.'" A great deal of booty was obtained by the Tinklers, at the large and long-continued fairs which were frequently held in this populous manufacturing town, in the olden times. [176] Two ram's horns and two spoons, crossed, are sculptured on the tombstone of William Marshall, a Gipsy chief, who, according to a writer in Blackwood's Magazine, died at the age of 120 years, and whose remains are deposited in the church-yard of Kirkcudbright. A horn is the hieroglyphic of authority, power, and dignity, and is a metaphor often made use of in the Scriptures. The Jews held ram's horns in great veneration, on account, it is thought, of that animal having been caught in a bush by the horns, and used as a substitute, when Isaac was about to be sacrificed by his father; or, perhaps, on account of this animal being first used in sacrifice. So much were ram's horns esteemed by the Israelites, that their Priests and Levites used them as trumpets, particularly at the taking of Jericho. The modern Jews, when they confess their sins, in our month of September, announce the ceremony by blowing a ram's horn, the sound of which, they say, drives away the Devil. In ancient Egypt, and other parts of Africa, Jupiter Ammon was worshipped under the figure of a ram, and to this deity one of these animals was sacrificed annually. A ram seems to have been an emblem of power in the East, from the remotest ages. It would, therefore, appear that the practice of the Gipsy priest "wearing a ram's horn, suspended from a string, around his neck," must be derived from the highest antiquity. This Gipsy priest was uncommonly fond of a bottle of good ale. Like many other celebrators of marriages, he derived considerable emoluments from his office. A Gipsy informed me that Robertson, on these occasions, always received presents, such as a pair of candlesticks, or basins and platters, made of pewter, and such like articles. The disobedient and refractory members of his clan were chastised by him at all times, on the spot, by the blows of his cudgel, without regard to age or sex, or manner of striking. When any serious scuffle arose among his people, in which he was like to meet with resistance, he would, with vehemence, call to his particular friends, "Set my back to the wa';" and, being thus defended in the rear, he, with his cudgel, made his assailants in front smart for their rebellion. Although he could not see, his daughter would give him the word of command. She would call to him, "Strike down"--"Strike laigh" (low)--"Strike amawn" (athwart,)--"Strike haunch-ways,"--"Strike shoulder-ways," &c. In these, we see nearly all the cuts or strokes of the Hungarian sword-exercise. As I have frequently mentioned, all the Gipsies were regularly trained to a peculiar method of their own in handling the cudgel, in their battles. I am inclined to think that part of the Hungarian sword-exercise, at present practised in our cavalry, is founded upon the Gipsy manner of attack and defence, including even the direct thrust to the front, which the Gipsies perform with the cudgel. Notwithstanding all that has been said of the licentious manners of the Scottish Gipsies, I am convinced that the slightest infidelity, on the part of their wives, would be punished with the utmost severity. I am assured that nothing can put a Gipsy into so complete a rage as to impute incontinence to his wife. In India, the Gipsy men "are extremely jealous of their wives, who are kept in strict subservance, and are in danger of corporeal punishment, or absolute dismissal, if they happen to displease them."[177] The Gipsies are complete Tartars in matters of this kind.[178] [177] Edinburgh Encyclopædia, vol, x. [178] Mr. Borrow bears very positive testimony to the _personal_ virtue of Gipsy females. I have heard natives of Hungary speak lightly of them in that respect; but I conclude that they alluded to exceptions to the general rule among the race.--ED. But in the best-regulated society--in the most virtuous of families--the sundering of the marriage-tie is often unavoidable, even under the most heinous of circumstances. And it is not to be expected that the Gipsies should be exempted from the lot common to humanity, under whatever circumstances it may be placed. The separation of husband and wife is, with them, a very serious and melancholy affair--an event greatly to be lamented, while the ceremony is attended with much grief and mourning, blood having to be shed, and life taken, on the occasion. It would be a conclusion naturally to be drawn from the circumstance of the Gipsies having so singular a marriage ceremony, that they should have its concomitant in as singular a ceremony of divorce. The first recourse to which a savage would naturally resort, in giving vent to his indignation, and obtaining satisfaction for the infidelity of the female, (assuming that savages are always susceptible of such a feeling,) would be to despatch her on the spot. But the principle of expiation, in the person of a dumb creature, for offences committed against the Deity, has, from the very creation of the world, been so universal among mankind, that it would not be wondered at if it should have been applied for the atonement of offences committed against each other, and nowhere so much so as in the East--the land of figure and allegory. The practice obtains with the Gipsies in the matter of divorce, for they lay upon the head of that noble animal, the horse, the sins of their offending sister, and generally let her go free. But, it may be asked, how has this sacrifice of the horse never been mentioned in Scotland before? The same question applies equally well to their language, and marriage ceremony, yet we know that both of these exist at the present day. The fact is, the Gipsies have hitherto been so completely despised, and held in such thorough contempt, that few ever thought of, or would venture to make enquiries of them relative to, their ancient customs and manners; and that, when any of their ceremonies were actually observed by the people at large, they were looked upon as the mere frolics, the unmeaning and extravagant practices, of a race of beggarly thieves and vagabonds, unworthy of the slightest attention or credit.[179] In whatever country the Gipsies have appeared, they have always been remarkable for an extraordinary attachment to the horse. The use which they make of this animal, in sacrifice, will sufficiently account, in one way at least, for this peculiar feature in their character. Many of the horses which have been stolen by them, since their arrival in Europe, I am convinced, have been used in parting with their wives, an important religious ceremony--or at least a custom--which they would long remember and practise.[180] [179] What our author says, relative to the sacrifice of the horse, by the Gipsies, not being known to the people of Scotland at large, is equally applicable to the entire subject of the tribe. And we see here how admirably the passions--in this case, the prejudice and incredulity--of mankind are calculated to blind them to facts, perhaps to facts the most obvious and incontestible. What is stated of the Gipsies in this work, generally, should be no matter of wonder; the real wonder, if wonder there should be, is that it should not have been known to the world before.--ED. [180] Grellmann says, of the Hungarian Gipsies, "The greatest luxury to them is when they can procure a roast of cattle that have died of any distemper, whether it be sheep, pig, cow, or other beast, _a horse only excepted_."--ED. It is the general opinion, founded chiefly upon the affinity of language, that this singular people migrated from Hindostan. None of the authors on the Gipsies, however, that I am aware of, have, in their researches, been able to discover, among the tribe, any customs of a religious nature, by which their religious notions and ceremonies, at the time they entered Europe, could be ascertained. Indeed, the learned and industrious Grellmann expressly states that the Gipsies did not bring any particular religion with them, from their native country, by which they could be distinguished from other people. The Gipsy sacrifice of the horse, at parting with their wives, however, appears to be a remnant of the great Hindoo religious sacrifice of the _Aswamedha_, or _Assummeed Jugg_, observed by all the four principal castes in India, enumerated in the Gentoo code of laws, translated from the Persian copy, by Nathaniel Brassey Halhed, and is proof, besides the similarity of language, that the Gipsies are from Hindostan. Before the Gentoo code of laws came into my hands, I was inclined to believe that this ceremony of sacrificing horses might be a Tartar custom, as the ancient Pagan tribes of Tartary also sacrificed horses, on certain occasions; and my conjectures were countenanced by the Gipsy and Tartar ceremonies being somewhat similar in their details. Indeed, in Sweden and Denmark, and in some parts of Germany, the Gipsies, as I have already stated, obtained the name of Tartars. "They were not allowed the privilege of remaining unmolested in Denmark, as the code of Danish laws specifies: The Tartar Gipsies, who wander about everywhere, doing great damage to the people, by their lies, thefts, and witchcraft, shall be taken into custody by every magistrate." And it also appears, according to Grellmann, that the Gipsies sometimes called themselves Tartars. If it was observed, on the continent, that they sacrificed horses, a custom very common at one time among the Tartars, their supposed Tartar origin would appear to have had some foundation. The Tartar princes seem to have ratified and confirmed their military leagues by sacrificing horses and drinking of a running stream; and we find our Scottish Gipsies dissolving their matrimonial alliances by the solemn sacrifice of the same animal, while some Gipsies state that horses were also, at one time, sacrificed at their marriage ceremonies. At these sacrifices of the Scottish Gipsies, no Deity--no invisible agency--appears, as far as I am informed, to have been invoked by the sacrificers. I have alluded to this custom of the Tartars, more particularly, to show that the Gipsies are not the only people who have sacrificed horses. The ancient Hindoos, as already stated, sacrificed horses. The Greeks did the same to Neptune; the ancient Scandinavians to their god, Assa-Thor, the representative of the sun; and the Persians, likewise, to the sun.[181] But I am inclined to believe that the Gipsy sacrifice of the horse is the remains of the great _Assummeed Jugg_ of the Hindoos, observed by tribes of greater antiquity than the modern nations of India, as appears by the Gentoo code of laws already referred to. [181] It appears that the Jews, when they lapsed into the grossest idolatry, dedicated horses to the sun. "And he (Josiah) took away the horses that the kings of Judah had given to the sun, at the entering in of the house of the Lord, by the chamber of Nathan-melech, the chamberlain, which was in the suburbs, and burnt the chariots of the sun with fire." II Kings, xxiii. 11. The sacrificing of horses is a curious as well as a leading and important fact in the history of the Gipsies, and, as far as I know, is new to the world. I shall, in establishing its existence among the Scottish Gipsies, produce my authorities with my details. In the first place, it was, and I believe it still is, a general tradition, over almost all Scotland, that, when the Tinklers parted from their wives, the act of separation took place over the carcass of a dead horse. In respect to McDonald's case, alluded to under the head of Linlithgowshire Gipsies, my informant, Mr. Alexander Ramsay, late an officer of the Excise, a very respectable man, who died in 1819, at the age of 74 years, stated to me that he saw McDonald and his wife separated over the body of a dead horse, on a moor, at Shieldhill, near Falkirk, either in the year 1758 or 1760, he was uncertain which. The horse was laying stretched out on the heath. The parties took hold of each other by the hand, and, commencing at the head of the dead animal, walked--the husband on one side, and the wife on the other--till they came to the tail, when, without speaking a word to each other, they parted, in opposite directions, as if proceeding on a journey. Mr. Ramsay said he never could forget the violent swing which McDonald gave his wife at parting. The time of the day was a little after day-break. My informant, at the time, was going, with others, to Shieldhill for coals, and happened to be passing over a piece of rising ground, when they came close upon the Gipsies, in a hollow, quite unexpectedly to both parties. Another aged man of credibility, of the name of James Wilson, at North Queensferry, also informed me that it was within his own knowledge, that a Gipsy, of the name of John Lundie, divorced four wives over dead horses, in the manner described. Wilson further mentioned that, when Gipsies were once regularly separated over a dead horse, they could never again be united in wedlock; and that, unless they were divorced in this manner, all the children which the female might have, subsequently to any other mode of separation, the husband was obliged to support. In fact, the transaction was not legal, according to the Gipsy usages, without the horse. The facts of Lundie, and another Gipsy, of the name of Drummond, having divorced many wives over dead horses, have been confirmed to me by several aged individuals who knew them personally. One intelligent gentleman, Mr. Richard Baird, informed me that, in his youth, he actually saw John Lundie separated from one of his wives over a dead horse, in the parish of Carriden, near Bo'ness. My father, who died in 1837, at the age of nearly 83 years, also stated that it was quite current, in Tweed-dale, that Mary Yorkston, wife of Matthew Baillie, the Gipsy chief, parted married couples of her tribe over dead horses. About ten years after receiving the above information, Malcolm's Anecdotes of the Manners and Customs of London came into my hands; wherein I found the following quotations, from a work published in 1674, describing the different classes of impostors at that period in England: "Patricos," says this old author, "are strolling priests; every hedge is their parish, and every wandering rogue their parishioner. The service, he saith, is the marrying of couples, without the Gospels or Book of Common Prayer; the solemnity whereof is this: The parties to be married find out a dead horse, or other beast; standing, one on the one side, and the other on the other, the Patrico bids them live together till death part them; so, shaking hands, the wedding is ended." Now the parties here described seem to have been no other than Gipsies. But it also appears that the ceremony alluded to is that of dissolving a marriage, and not that of celebrating it. It is proper, however, to mention, as I have already done, that horses, at one time, were sacrificed at their marriages, as well as at their divorces. Feeling now quite satisfied that Gipsies were, at one time, actually separated over the bodies of dead horses, and horses only, (for I could find no other animal named but horses,) I proceeded to have the fact confirmed by the direct testimony of the people themselves. And whether these horses were sacrificed expressly for such purposes, or whether the rites were performed over horses accidentally found dead, I could not discover till the year 1828. It occurred to me that the using of dead horses, in separating man and wife, was a remnant of some ancient ceremony, which induced me to persevere in my enquiries, for the purpose of ascertaining, if not the origin, at least the particulars, of so extraordinary a custom. In the year mentioned, and in the year following, I examined a Gipsy on the subject; a man of about sixty years of age, who, a few years before, had given me a specimen of his language. He said that he himself had witnessed the sacrifices and ceremonies attending the separation of husband and wife. From this man I received the following curious particulars relative to the sacrifice of horses and ceremony of divorce; which I think may be depended on, as I was very careful in observing that his statements, taken down at four different times, agreed with each other. When the parties can no longer live together as husband and wife, and a separation for ever is finally determined on, a horse, without blemish, and in no manner of way lame, is led forth to the spot for performing the ceremony of divorce. The hour at which the rites must be performed is, if possible, twelve o'clock at noon, "when the sun is at his height."[182] The Gipsies present cast lots for the individual who is to sacrifice the animal, and whom they call the priest, for the time. The priest, with a long pole or staff in his hand,[183] walks round and round the animal several times; repeating the names of all the persons in whose possession it has been, and extolling and expatiating on the rare qualities of so useful an animal. It is now let loose, and driven from their presence, to do whatever it pleases. The horse, perfect and free, is put in the room of the woman who is to be divorced; and by its different movements is the degree of her guilt ascertained. Some of the Gipsies now set off in pursuit of it, and endeavour to catch it. If it is wild and intractable, kicks, leaps dykes and ditches, scampers about, and will not allow itself to be easily taken hold of, the crimes and guilt of the woman are looked upon as numerous and heinous. If the horse is tame and docile, when it is pursued, and suffers itself to be taken without much trouble, and without exhibiting many capers, the guilt of the woman is not considered so deep and aggravated; and it is then sacrificed in her stead. But if it is extremely wild and vicious, and cannot be taken without infinite trouble, her crimes are considered exceedingly wicked and atrocious; and my informant said instances occurred in which both horse and woman were sacrificed at the same time; the death of the horse, alone, being then considered insufficient to atone for her excessive guilt. The individuals who catch the horse bring it before the priest. They repeat to him all the faults and tricks it had committed; laying the whole of the crimes of which the woman is supposed to have been guilty to its charge; and upbraiding and scolding the dumb creature, in an angry manner, for its conduct. They bring, as it were, an accusation against it, and plead for its condemnation. When this part of the trial is finished, the priest takes a large knife and thrusts it into the heart of the horse; and its blood is allowed to flow upon the ground till life is extinct. The dead animal is now stretched out upon the ground. The husband then takes his stand on one side of it, and the wife on the other; and, holding each other by the hand, repeat certain appropriate sentences in the Gipsy language. They then quit hold of each other, and walk three times round the body of the horse, contrariwise, passing and crossing each other, at certain points, as they proceed in opposite directions. At certain parts of the animal, (the _corners_ of the horse, was the Gipsy's expression,) such as the hind and fore feet, the shoulders and haunches, the head and tail, the parties halt, and face each other; and again repeat sentences, in their own speech, at each time they halt. The two last stops they make, in their circuit round the sacrifice, are at the head and tail. At the head, they again face each other, and speak; and lastly, at the tail, they again confront each other, utter some more Gipsy expressions, shake hands, and finally part, the one going north, the other south, never again to be united in this life.[184] Immediately after the separation takes place, the woman receives a token, which is made of cast-iron, about an inch and a half square, with a mark upon it resembling the Roman character, T. After the marriage has been dissolved, and the woman dismissed from the sacrifice, the heart of the horse is taken out and roasted with fire, then sprinkled with vinegar, or brandy, and eaten by the husband and his friends then present; the female not being allowed to join in this part of the ceremony. The body of the horse, skin and everything about it, except the heart, is buried on the spot; and years after the ceremony has taken place, the husband and his friends visit the grave of the animal, to see whether it has been disturbed. At these visits, they walk round about the grave, with much grief and mourning. [182] This Gipsy mentioned one particular instance of having seen a couple separated in this way, on a wild moor, near Huntly, about the year 1805. He particularly stated that a horse found dead would not do for a separation, but that one must be killed for the express purpose; and that "the sun must be at his height" before the horse could be properly sacrificed. From the fact of Ramsay stumbling upon the Gipsies "a little after day-break," it would seem that circumstances had compelled them to change the time, or adjourn the completion, of the sacrifice; or that the extreme wildness of the victim had prevented its being caught, and so led to the "violent swing which McDonald gave his wife at parting." And it might be that Ramsay had come upon them when McDonald and his wife were performing the last part of the ceremony, or had caused them to finish it abruptly; as the old Gipsy stated that not only are none but Gipsies allowed to be present on such occasions, but that the greatest secrecy is observed, to prevent discovery by those who are not of the tribe. [183] It appears all the Gipsies, male as well as female, who perform ceremonies for their tribe, carry long staffs. In the Institutes of Menu, page 28, it is written: "The staff of a priest must be of such length as to reach his hair; that of a soldier to reach his forehead; and that of a merchant to reach the nose." [184] That I might distinctly understand the Gipsy, when he described the manner of crossing and wheeling round the corners of the horse, a common sitting-chair was placed on its side between us, which represented the animal lying on the ground. The husband may take another wife whenever he pleases, but the female is never permitted to marry again.[185] The token, or rather bill of divorce, which she receives, must never be from about her person. If she loses it, or attempts to pass herself off as a woman never before married, she becomes liable to the punishment of death. In the event of her breaking this law, a council of the chiefs is held upon her conduct, and her fate is decided by a majority of the members; and, if she is to suffer death, her sentence must be confirmed by the king, or principal leader. The culprit is then tied to a stake, with an iron chain, and there cudgelled to death. The executioners do not extinguish life at one beating, but leave the unhappy woman for a little while, and return to her, and at last complete their work by despatching her on the spot. [185] Bright, on the Spanish Gipsies, says: "Widows never marry again, are distinguished by mourning-veils, and black shoes made like those of a man; no slight mortification, in a country where the females are so remarkable for the beauty of their feet." It is most likely that _divorced female Gipsies_ are confounded here with _widows_.--ED. I have been informed of an instance of a Gipsy falling out with his wife, and, in the heat of his passion, shooting his own horse dead on the spot with his pistol, and forthwith performing the ceremony of divorce over the animal, without allowing himself a moment's time for reflection on the subject. Some of the country-people observed the transaction, and were horrified at so extraordinary a proceeding. It was considered by them as merely a mad frolic of an enraged Tinkler. It took place many years ago, in a wild, sequestered spot between Galloway and Ayrshire. This sacrifice of the horse is also observed by the Gipsies of the Russian Empire. In the year 1830, a Russian gentleman of observation and intelligence, proprietor of estates on the banks of the Don, stated to me that the Gipsies in the neighbourhood of Moscow, and on the Don, several hundred versts from the sea of Asoph, sacrificed horses, and ate part of their flesh, in the performance of some very ancient ceremony of idolatry. They sacrifice them under night, in the woods, as the practice is prohibited by the Russian Government. The police are often detecting the Gipsies in these sacrifices, and the ceremony is kept as secret as possible. My informant could not go into the particulars of the Gipsy sacrifice in Russia; but there is little doubt that it is the same which the tribe performed in Scotland. In Russia, the Gipsies, like those in this country, have a language peculiar to themselves, which they retain as a secret among their own fraternity. As regards the sacrificing of horses by the Gipsies of Scotland, at the present day, all that I can say is that I do not know of its taking place; nor has it been denied to me. The only conclusion to which I can come, in regard to the question, is that it is in the highest degree probable that, like their language and ceremony of marriage, it is still practised when it can be done. In carrying out this ceremony, there is an obstacle to be overcome which does not lay in the way of that of marriage, and it is this: Where are many of the Tinklers to find a horse, over which they can obtain a divorce? The difficulty with them is as great as it is with the people of England, who must, at a frightful expense, go to no less than the House of Lords to obtain an act to separate legally from their unfaithful partners.[186] The Gipsies, besides being generally unable or unwilling to bear the expense of what will procure them a release in their own way, find it a difficult matter, in these days, to steal, carry off, and dispose of such a bulky article as a horse, in the sacrifice of which they will find a new wife. I am not aware how they get quit of this solemn and serious difficulty, beyond this, that a Gipsy, a native of Yetholm, informed me that some of his brethren in that colony knock down their _asses_, for the purpose of parting with their wives, at the present day.[187] [186] This difficulty has been removed by recent legislation.--ED. [187] "An ass is sometimes sacrificed by religious mendicants, as an atonement for some fault by which they had forfeited their rank as devotees."--_Account of the Hindoos._ As the code of the ancient laws of Hindostan is not in the hands of every one, I shall here transcribe from the work the account of the Gentoo Institution of the _Aswamedha_ or the _Assummeed Jugg_,[188] that the reader may compare it with the Gipsy sacrifice of horses; for which, owing to its length, I must crave his indulgence. It is under the chapter of evidence, and is as follows: "An _Assummeed Jugg_ is when a person, having commenced a Jugg, writes various articles upon a scroll of paper on a horse's neck, and dismisses the horse, sending, along with the horse, a stout and valiant person, equipped with the best necessaries and accoutrements, to accompany the horse day and night, whithersoever he shall choose to go; and if any creature, either man, genius or dragon, should seize the horse, that man opposes such attempt, and, having gained the victory, upon a battle, again gives the horse his freedom. If any one in this world, or in heaven, or beneath the earth, would seize this horse, and the horse of himself comes to the house of the celebrator of the _Jugg_, upon killing that horse, he must throw the flesh of him upon the fire of the _Juk_, and utter the prayers of his Deity; such a _Jugg_ is called a _Jugg Assummeed_, and the merit of it, as a religious work, is infinite." _Page 127._ [188] Jugg, in Hindostanee, is a word which signifies a religious ceremony; hence the well-known temple Juggernaut. In another part of the same chapter of the Hindoo code of laws, are the following particulars relative to horses, which show the great respect in which these animals were held among the ancient natives of Hindostan. "In an affair concerning a horse: if any person gives false evidence, his guilt is as great as the guilt of murdering one hundred persons." _Page 128._ In the Asiatic Researches, the sacrifice of the horse is frequently noticed; and in Sir William Jones' Institutes of Menu, chapter viii., page 202, it is said: "A false witness, in the case of a horse, kills, or incurs the guilt of killing, one hundred kinsmen." "The _Aswamedha_, or sacrifice of the horse: Considerable difficulties usually attend that ceremony; for the consecrated horse was to be set at liberty for a certain time, and followed at a distance by the owner, or his champion, who was usually one of his near kinsmen; and if any person should attempt to stop it in its rambles, a battle must inevitably ensue; besides, as the performer of an hundred _Aswamedhas_ became equal to the god of the firmaments." (_Asiatic Researches, vol._ iii., _page 216_.) "The inauguration of _Indra_, (the Indian God of the firmaments,) it appears, was performed by sacrificing an hundred horses. It is imagined that this celebration becomes a cause of obtaining great power and universal monarchy; and many of the kings in ancient India performed this sacrifice at their inauguration, similar to that of Indra's." "These monarchs were consecrated by these great sacrifices, with a view to become universal conquerors." (_Asiatic Researches._) It appears, by the Hindoo mythology, that _Indra_ was at one time a mere mortal, but by sacrificing an hundred horses, he became sovereign of the firmament; and that should any Indian monarch succeed in immolating an hundred horses, he would displace _Indra_. The above are literal and simple facts, which took place in performing the sacrifice; but the following is the explanation of the mystic signification contained in the ceremony. "The _Assummeed Jugg_ does not merely consist in the performance of that ceremony which is open to the inspection of the world, namely, in bringing a horse, and sacrificing him; but _Assummeed_ is to be taken in a mystic signification, as implying that the sacrificer must look upon himself to be typified in that horse, such as he shall be described; because the religious duty of the _Assummeed Jugg_ comprehends all those other religious duties, to the performance of which all the wise and holy direct all their actions; and by which all the sincere professors of every different faith aim at perfection. The mystic signification thereof is as follows: The head of that unblemished horse is the symbol of the morning; his eyes are the sun; his breath the wind; his wide-opening mouth is the _Bishw[=a]ner_, or that innate warmth which invigorates all the world; his body typifies one entire year; his back, paradise; his belly, the plains; his hoof, this earth; his sides, the four quarters of the heavens; the bones thereof, the intermediate spaces between the four quarters; the rest of his limbs represent all distinct matter; the places where those limbs meet, or his joints, imply the months, and halves of the months, which are called _P[)e]ch[)e]_ (or fortnights); his feet signify night and day; and night and day are of four kinds; first, the night and day of Brihma; second, the night and day of angels; third, the night and day of the world of the spirits of deceased ancestors; fourth, the night and day of mortals. These four kinds are typified in his four feet. The rest of his bones are the constellations of the fixed stars, which are the twenty-eight stages of the moon's course, called the lunar year; his flesh is the clouds; his food the sand; his tendons the rivers; his spleen and liver the mountains; the hair of his body the vegetables, and his long hair the trees. The fore part of his body typifies the first half of the day, and the hinder part the latter half; his yawning is the flash of the lightning, and his turning himself is the thunder of the cloud; his urine represents the rain; and his mental reflection is his only speech. "The golden vessels, which are prepared before the horse is let loose, are the light of the day; and the place where these vessels are kept is a type of the ocean of the East; the silver vessels, which are prepared after the horse is let loose, are the light of the night; and the place where those vessels are kept is a type of the ocean of the West. These two sorts of vessels are always before and after the horse. The Arabian horse, which, on account of his swiftness, is called _Hy_, is the performer of the journeys of angels; the _T[=a]jee_, which is of the race of Persian horses, is the performer of the journeys of the _Kundherps_ (or the good spirits); the _W[=a]zb[=a]_, which is of the race of the deformed _T[=a]jee_ horses, is the performer of the journeys of _Jins_ (or demons); and the _Ashoo_, which is of the race of Turkish horses, is the performer of the journeys of mankind. This one horse which performs these several services, on account of his four different sorts of riders, obtains the four different appellations. The place where this horse remains is the great ocean, which signifies the great spirit of _Perm-atm[=a]_, or the universal soul, which proceeds also from that _Perm-atm[=a]_, and is comprehended in the same _Perm-atm[=a]_. "The intent of this sacrifice is, that a man should consider himself to be in the place of that horse, and look upon all these articles as typified in himself; and conceiving the _Atm[=a]_ (or divine soul) to be an ocean, should let all thought of self be absorbed in that _Atm[=a]_." _Page 19._ Mr. Halhed, the translator, justly observes: "This is the very acme and enthusiasm of allegory, and wonderfully displays the picturesque powers of fancy in an Asiatic genius; yet, unnatural as the account there stands, it is seriously credited by the Hindoos of all denominations." On the other hand, he thinks there is a great resemblance between this very ancient Hindoo ceremony and the sacrifice of the scape-goat, in the Bible, described in the 21st and 22d verses of the 16th chapter of Leviticus, viz.: "And Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat, and confess over him all the iniquities of the children of Israel, and all their transgressions, in all their sins, putting them upon the head of the goat; and shall send him away, by the hand of a fit man, into the wilderness: and the goat shall bear upon him all their iniquities into a land not inhabited; and he shall let go the goat into the wilderness." _Page 17._ In the same manner, all the iniquities of the sacrificer, in the Gentoo ceremony, are laid upon the horse, which is let loose, and attended by a stout and valiant person. The same is done in the Gipsy sacrifice, as typifying the woman to be divorced. The resemblance between the Gipsy and the Hindoo sacrifice is close and striking in their general bearings. The Hindoo sacrificer is typified in the horse, and his sins are ascertained and described by the motions or movements of the animal; for if the horse is very docile and tame, and of its own accord comes to the Hindoo celebrator of the sacrifice, his merits are then infinite, and extremely acceptable to the Deity worshipped. In the Gipsy sacrifice, if the horse is in like manner quiet, and easily caught, the woman, whom it represents, is then comparatively innocent. In India, part of the _flesh_ of the horse was eaten: among the Gipsies, the _heart_ is eaten. The Hindoos sacrificed their _enemies_, by substituting for them a _buffalo_, &c.: the Gipsies sacrifice their _unfaithful wives_, by the substitute of a _horse_. In the Hindoo sacrifice, particular parts of the horse allegorically represent certain parts of the earth: at certain parts of the horse, (the _corners_, as the Gipsies call them,) the Gipsies, in their circuit round the animal, halt, and utter particular sentences in their own language, as if these parts were of more importance, and had more influence, than the other parts. And it is probable that, in these sentences, some invisible agency was addressed and invoked by the Gipsies. As the _Aswamedha_, or sacrifice of the horse, was the most important of all the religious ceremonies of every caste of Hindoos, in ancient India, so it would be the last to be forgotten by the wandering Gipsies. And as both sacrificed at twelve o'clock, noon, I am inclined to believe that both offered their sacrifice to the sun, the animating soul of universal nature. As already stated, the Gipsies, while travelling, assume new names every morning before setting out; but when noon-tide arrives, they resume their permanent English ones. This custom is practised daily, and has undoubtedly also some reference to the sun. By the account of the Gipsy already mentioned, the horse must, if possible, be killed at noon. According to Southey, in his curse of Kehamah, the sacrifice of the horse in India was performed at the same time. Colonel Tod, in his history of India, says: "The sacrifice of the horse is the most imposing, and the earliest, heathenish rite on record, and was dedicated to the sun, anciently, in India." According to the same author, the horse in India must be milk-white, with particular marks upon it. The Gipsy's horse to be sacrificed must be sound, and without blemish; but no particular colour is mentioned. According to Halhed, the horse sacrificed in India was also without blemish. I have, perhaps, been too minute and tedious in describing these rites and ceremonies of the Gentoos; but the singular fact that our Scottish Tinklers yet--at least till very lately--retained the important fragments of the ancient mythology of the Pagan tribes of Hindostan, is offered as an apology to the curious reader for the trouble of perusing the details. I shall only add, that there appears to be nearly as great a resemblance between the sacrifices of the Gipsies and the ancient Hindoos, as there is affinity between modern Hindostanee and the language of the Gipsies in Scotland, at the present day, as will be seen in the following chapter. CHAPTER IX. LANGUAGE. The Scottish Gipsies appear to be extremely tenacious of retaining their language, as their principal secret, among themselves, and seem, from what I have read on the subject, to be much less communicative, on this and other matters relative to their history, than those of England and other countries. On speaking to them of their speech, they exhibit an extraordinary degree of fear, caution, reluctance, distrust, and suspicion; and, rather than give any information on the subject, will submit to any self-denial. It has been so well retained among themselves, that I believe it is scarcely credited, even by individuals of the greatest intelligence, that it exists at all, at the present day, but as slang, used by common thieves, house-breakers and beggars, and by those denominated flash and family men.[189] [189] Before considering this trait in the character of the Scottish Gipsies, it may interest the reader to know that the same peculiarity obtains among those on the continent. Of the Hungarian Gipsies, Grellmann writes: "It will be recollected, from the first, how great a secret they make of their language, and how suspicious they appear when any person wishes to learn a few words of it. Even if the Gipsy is not perverse, he is very inattentive, and is consequently likely to answer some other rather than the true Gipsy word." Of the Hungarian Gipsies, Bright says: "No one, who has not had experience, can conceive the difficulty of gaining intelligible information, from people so rude, upon the subject of their language. If you ask for a word, they give you a whole sentence; and on asking a second time, they give the sentence a totally different turn, or introduce some figure altogether new. Thus it was with our Gipsy, who, at length, tired of our questions, prayed most piteously to be released; which we granted him, only on condition of his returning in the evening." Of the Spanish Gipsies, Mr. Borrow writes: "It is only by listening attentively to the speech of the Gitanos, whilst discoursing among themselves, that an acquaintance with their dialect can be formed, and by seizing upon all unknown words, as they fall in succession from their lips. Nothing can be more useless and hopeless than the attempt to obtain possession of their vocabulary, by enquiring of them how particular objects and ideas are styled in the same; for, with the exception of the names of the most common things, they are totally incapable, as a Spanish writer has observed, of yielding the required information; owing to their great ignorance, the shortness of their memories, or, rather, the state of bewilderment to which their minds are brought by any question which tends to bring their reasoning faculties into action; though, not unfrequently, the very words which have been in vain required of them will, a minute subsequently, proceed inadvertently from their mouths." What has been said by the two last-named writers is very wide of the mark; Grellmann, however, hits it exactly. The Gipsies have excellent memories. It is all they have to depend on. If they had not good memories, how could they, at the present day, speak a word of their language at all? The difficulty in question is down-right shuffling, and not a want of memory on the part of the Gipsy. The present chapter will throw some light on the subject. Even Mr. Borrow himself gives an ample refutation to his sweeping account of the Spanish Gipsies, in regard to their language; for, in another part of his work, he says: "I recited the Apostles' Creed to the Gipsies, sentence by sentence, which they translated as I proceeded. They exhibited the greatest eagerness and interest in their unwonted occupation, and frequently broke into loud disputes as to the best rendering, many being offered at the same time. I then read the translation aloud, whereupon they raised a shout of exultation, and appeared not a little proud of the composition." On this occasion, Mr. Borrow evidently had the Gipsies in the right humour--that is, off their guard, excited, and much interested in the subject. He says, in another place: "The language they speak among themselves, and they are particularly anxious to keep others in ignorance of it." As a general thing, they seem to have been bored by people much above them in the scale of society; with whom, their natural politeness, and expectations of money or other benefits, would naturally lead them to do anything than give them that which it is inborn in their nature to keep to themselves.--ED. Among the causes contributing to this state of things among the Scottish Gipsies, and what are called Tinklers or Tinkers, for they are the same people, may be mentioned the following: The traditional accounts of the numerous imprisonments, banishments, and executions, which many of the race underwent, for merely being "by habit and repute Gipsies," under the severe laws passed against them, are still fresh in the memories of the present generation. They still entertain the idea that they are a persecuted race, and liable, if known to be Gipsies, to all the penalties of the statutes framed for the extirpation of the whole people. But, apart from this view of the question, it may be asked, how is it that the Gipsies in Scotland are more reserved, (they are generally altogether silent,) in respect to themselves, than their brethren in other countries seem to be? It may be answered, that our Scottish tribes are, in general, much more civilized, their bands more broken up, and the individuals more mixed with, and scattered through, the general population of the country, than the Gipsies of other nations; and it therefore appears to me that the more their blood gets mixed with that of the ordinary natives, and the more they approach to civilization, the more determinedly will they conceal every particular relative to their tribe, to prevent their neighbours ascertaining their origin and nationality. The slightest taunting allusion to the forefathers of half-civilized Scottish Tinklers kindles up in their breasts a storm of wrath and fury: for they are extremely sensitive to the feeling which is entertained toward their tribe by the other inhabitants of the country.[190] "I have," said one of them to me, "wrought all my life in a shop with fellow-tradesmen, and not one of them ever discovered that I knew a single Gipsy word." A Gipsy woman also informed me that herself and sister had nearly lost their lives, on account of their language. The following are the particulars: The two sisters chanced to be in a public-house near Alloa, when a number of colliers, belonging to the coal-works at Sauchie, were present. The one sister, in a low tone of voice, and in the Gipsy language, desired the other, among other things, to make ready some broth for their repast. The colliers took hold of the two Gipsy words, _shaucha_ and _blawkie_, which signify broth and pot; thinking the Tinkler women were calling them _Sauchie Blackies_, in derision and contempt of their dark, subterraneous calling. The consequence was, that the savage colliers attacked the innocent Tinklers, calling out that they would "grind them to powder," for calling them _Sauchie Blackies_. But the determined Gipsies would rather perish than explain the meaning of the words in English, to appease the enraged colliers; "for," said they, "it would have exposed our tribe, and made ourselves odious to the world." The two defenceless females might have been murdered by their brutal assailants, had not the master of the house fortunately come to their assistance. The poor Gipsies felt the effects of the beating they had received, for many months thereafter; and my informant had not recovered from her bruises at the time she mentioned the circumstances to me.[191] [190] This opinion is confirmed by the fact that the Gipsies whom the Rev. Mr. Crabbe has civilized will not now be seen among the others of the tribe, at his annual festival, at Southampton. We have already seen, under the head of Continental Gipsies, that "those who are gold-washers in Transylvania and the Banat have no intercourse with others of their nation; nor do they like to be called Gipsies." [191] On the whole, however, our Scottish peasantry, in some districts, do not greatly despise the Tinklers; at least not to the same extent as the inhabitants of some other countries seem to do. When not involved in quarrels with the Gipsies, our country people, with the exception of a considerable portion of the land-owners, were, and are even yet, rather fond of the _superior_ families of the _nomadic_ class of these people, than otherwise. They are also anxious to retain their language, as a secret among themselves, for the use which it is to them in conducting business in markets or other places of public resort. But they are very chary of the manner in which they employ it on such occasions. Besides this, they display all the pride and vanity in possessing the language which is common with linguists generally. The determined and uniform principle laid down by them, to avoid all communications with "strangers" on the subject, and their resolution to keep it a secret within their own tribe, will be strikingly illustrated by the following facts. For seven years, a woman, of the name of Baillie, about fifty years of age, and the mother of a family, called regularly at my house, twice a year, while on her peregrinations through the country, selling spoons and other articles made from horn. Every time I saw her, I endeavoured to prevail upon her to give me some of her secret speech, as I was certain she was acquainted with the Gipsy tongue. But, not to alarm her by calling it by that name, I always said to her, in a jocular manner, that it was the _mason_ word I wished her to teach me. She, however, as regularly and firmly declared that she knew of no such language among the Tinklers. I always treated her kindly, and desired her to continue her visits. I gave her, each time she called, a glass of spirits, a piece of flesh, and such articles; and generally purchased some trifle from her, for which I intentionally paid her more than its value. She so far yielded to my importunities, that, for the last three years she called, she went the length of saying that she would tell me "something" the next time she came back. But when she returned, she guardedly evaded all my questions, by constantly repeating nearly the same answer, such as, "I will speak to you the next time I come back, sir." After having been put off for _seven_ years in this manner, I was determined to put her to the usual test, should she never enter my door again, and, as she was walking out of the gate of my garden, I called to her, in the Gipsy language, "_Jaw vree, managie!_"--(go away, woman.) She immediately turned round, and, laughing, replied, "I will _jaw_ with you when I come back, _gaugie_"--(I will go or speak with you, when I come back, man.) She returned, as usual, in December following. I again requested her to give me some of her words, assuring her that she would be in no danger from me on that account. I further told her it was of no use to conceal her speech from me, having, the last time she was in my house, shown her that I was acquainted with it. After considerable hesitation and reluctance, she consented; but then, she said, she would not allow any one in the house to hear her speak to me but my wife. I took her at once into my parlour, and, on being desired, she, without the least hesitation or embarrassment, took the seat next the fire. Observing the door of the room a little open, she desired it to be shut, in case of her being overheard, again mentioning that she had no objections to my wife being present, and gravely observing that "husbands and wives were one, and should know all one another's secrets." She stated that the public would look upon her with horror and contempt, were it known she could speak the Gipsy language. She was extremely civil and intelligent, yet placed me upon a familiar equality with herself, when she found I knew of the existence of her speech, and could repeat some of the words of it. Her nature, to appearance, seemed changed. Her bold and fiery disposition was softened and subdued. She was very frank and polite; retained her self-possession, and spoke with great propriety.[192] The words which I got on this occasion will be found in another part of the chapter. [192] Their (the female's) speech is as fluent, and their eyes as unabashed, in the presence of royalty, as before those from whom they have nothing to hope or fear; the result of which is, that most minds quail before them.--_Borrow on the Spanish Gipsies._--ED. In corroboration of this principle of concealment observed by the Scottish Gipsies, relative to their language, I may give a fact which will show how artful they are in avoiding any allusion to it. One evening, as a band of _potters_, with a cart of earthenware, were travelling on the high-road, in a wild glen in the south of Scotland, a brother of mine overheard them, male and female, conversing in a language, a word of which he did not understand. As the road was very bad, and the night dark, one of the females of the band was a few yards in advance of the cart, acting as a guide to the horde. Every now and then, among other unintelligible expressions, she called out "_Shan drom_." My brother's curiosity was excited by hearing the potters conversing in this manner, and, next morning, he went to where they lodged, in an out-house on the farm, and enquired of the female what she was saying on the road, the night before, and what she meant by "_Shan drom_." The woman appeared confused at the unexpected question; but in a short time recovered her self-possession, and artfully replied that they were talking _Latin_(_!_) and that "_Shan drom_," in Latin, signified "bad road." But the truth is, "_Shan drom_" is the Gipsy expression for bad road, as will by and by be seen. Besides the difficulties mentioned in the way of getting any of their language from them, there is a general one that arises from the suspicious, unsettled, restless, fickle and volatile nature by which they are characterized. It is a rare thing to get them to speak consecutively for more than a few minutes on any subject, thus precluding the possibility, in most instances, of taking advantage of any favourable humour in which they may be found, in the matter of their general history--leaving alone the formal and serious procedure necessary to be followed in regard to their language. If this favourable turn in their disposition is allowed to pass, it is rarely anything of that nature can be got from them at that meeting; and it is extremely likely that, at any after interviews, they will entirely evade the matter so much desired. With these remarks, I will now proceed to state the method I adopted to get at the Gipsy language. Short vocabularies of the language of the _Tschengenes_ of Turkey, the _Cyganis_ of Hungary, the _Zigeuners_ of Germany, the _Gitanos_ of Spain, and the _Gipsies_ of England, have, at different periods, since 1783, issued from the press, in this country and in Germany; but I am not aware of any specimens of our Scottish _Tinkler_ or Gipsy language having as yet been submitted to the public. Some of the former I committed to memory, and used, intermixed with English words, in questions I would put to the Scottish Gipsies. In this way, one word would lead to another. I would address them in a confident and familiar manner, as if I were one of themselves, and knew exactly who they were, and all about them. I would, for instance, ask them: Have you a _grye_ (horse)? How many _chauvies_ (children) have you? Where is your _gaugie_ (husband)? Do you sell _roys_ (spoons)? Being taken completely by surprise, they would give me at once a true answer. For, being the first, as far as I know, to apply the language of the Gipsies of the continent to our own tribes, they could naturally have no hesitation in replying to my questions; although they would wonder what kind of a Gipsy I could possibly be--dressed, as I was, in black, with black neck-cloth, and no display of linen, save a ruffled breast, thick-soled shoes and gaiters. The consequence was, I became a character of interest to many of the Gipsies to be found in a circuit of many miles; and great wonder was excited in their untutored minds, leading to a desire to see, and know something of, the _Riah Nawken_, or the gentleman Gipsy. On such occasions, I would treat them as I would land a fish--give them hook and line enough. But the circumstance was to them something incomprehensible, for, although Gipsies are very ready-witted, and possess great natural resources, in thieving, and playing tricks of every kind, and great tact in getting out of difficulties of that nature--which, with them, are matters of instinct, training, and practice--their whole mind being bent, and exclusively employed, in that direction, it was almost impossible for them to form any intelligible opinion as to my true character, provided I was any way discreet in disguising my real position among them. As little chance was there of any of themselves informing the others of what assistance they had inadvertently been to me, in getting at their language. Some of them might have an idea that one of their race had, in their own way of thinking, peached, turned traitor to their blood, and let the cat out of the bag. At times, if they happened to see me approach them, so as to have an opportunity to scrutinize me--which they are much given to, with people generally--they would not be so easily disconcerted at any question put to them in their language; but the result would be either direct replies, or the most ludicrous scenes of surprise and terror imaginable, which, to be enjoyed, were only to be seen, but could not be described, although the sequel will in some measure illustrate them. At other times, if I addressed a Gipsy in his own language, and spoke to him in a kind and familiar manner, as if I had been soothing a wild and unmanageable horse, before mounting him, he would either very awkwardly pretend not to understand what I meant, or, with a downcast and guilty look, and subdued voice, immediately answer my Gipsy words in English. But if I put the words to him in an abrupt, hasty, or threatening manner, he would either take to his heels, or turn upon me, like a tiger, and pour out upon me a torrent of abusive language. The following instances will show the manner in which my use of their language was sometimes appreciated by the female Gipsies. When I spoke in a sharp manner to some of the old women, on the high-road, by way of testing them, they would quicken their paces, look over their shoulders, and call out, in much bitterness of spirit, "You are no gentleman, sir, otherwise you would not insult us in that way." On one occasion, I observed a woman with her son, who appeared about twelve years of age, lingering near a house at which they had no business, and I desired her, rather sharply, to leave the place, telling her that I was afraid her chauvie was a _chor_--(that her son was a thief). I used these two words merely to see what effect they would have upon her, as I did not really think she was a Gipsy. She instantly flew into a dreadful passion, telling me that I had been among thieves and robbers myself, otherwise I could not speak to her in such words as these. She threatened to go to Edinburgh, to inform the police that I was the head and captain of a band of thieves,[193] and that she would have me immediately apprehended as such. Four sailors who were present with me were astonished at the sudden wrath and insolence of the woman, as they could not perceive any provocation she had received from me--being ignorant of the meaning of the words _chauvie_ and _chor_, which I applied to her boy. [193] This woman evidently mistook our author for a Gipsy _gent_, such as he is described at page 169.--ED. One day I fell in by chance, on a lonely part of the old public road, on the hills within half a mile of the village of North Queensferry, with a woman of about twenty-seven years of age, and the mother, as she said, of seven children. She had light hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion. The youngest of her children appeared to be about nine months old, and the eldest about ten years. The mother was dressed in a brown cloak, and the group had altogether a very squalid appearance. In the most lamentable tone of voice, she informed me that her husband had set off with another woman, and left her and her seven children to starve; and that he had been lately employed at a paper-mill in Mid-Lothian. She sometimes appeared almost to choke with grief, but, nevertheless, I observed no tears in her eyes. She often repeated, in a sort of hypocritical and canting manner, "The Lord has been very kind to me, and will still protect me and my helpless babes. Last night we all slept in the open fields, and gathered peas and beans from the stubble for our suppers." She certainly seemed to be in very indigent circumstances; but that her husband had abandoned her, I did not credit. However, I gave her a few half-pence, for which she thanked me very civilly. From her extravagant behaviour, and a peculiar wildness in her looks, it occurred to me that she belonged to the lowest caste of Gipsies, although her appearance did not indicate it; that her grief was, for the most part, feigned, and that the story of her husband having abandoned her was got up merely to excite pity, for the purpose of procuring a little money for the subsistence of her band. I now put a number of questions to her, relative to many individuals whom I knew were Gipsies of a superior class, taking care not to call them by that name, in case of alarming her. I spoke to her as if I had been quite intimate with all the persons I was enquiring about. She gave me satisfactory answers to almost every question, and seemed well acquainted with every individual I named. She now appeared quite calm and collected, and answered me very gravely. But she said that some of the men I mentioned were rogues, and that their wives played many clever tricks. On mentioning the tricks of the wives, I noticed a smile come over her countenance. I observed to her that they were not faultless, but that they were often blamed for crimes of which they were not guilty. Upon perceiving that I took their part, which I did on purpose, to hear what she would say, she gradually changed her mind, and came over to my opinion. She said that they were exceedingly good-hearted people, and that some of them had frequently paid a night's lodging for herself and family. I now ventured to put a question to her, half in Gipsy and half in English. After a short pause and hesitation, she signified that she understood what I said. I then asked one or two questions in Gipsy words only. A Gipsy, with crockery-ware in a basket, happened to pass us at the very moment I was speaking to her; and to show her the knowledge I had of her speech and people, I said, "There is a _nawken_"--(there is a Gipsy.) She, in a very civil and polite manner, immediately replied, "Sir, I hope you will not take it ill, when I use the freedom of saying that you must have been among the people you are enquiring about, otherwise you could not speak to me in that way." To show her that I did not despise her for understanding my Gipsy words, I gave her a few pence more, and spoke kindly to her. She then became quite cheerful and frank, as if we had been old acquaintances. Instead of trying to impose upon me, by tales of grief and woe, and feigned piety, she appeared happy and contented, her whole conduct indicating that it was useless to play off her tricks upon me, as she was now sensible that I knew exactly what she was, and yet did not treat her contemptuously. She said her husband's name was Wilson, and her own Jackson, (the names of two Gipsy tribes;) that she could tell fortunes, and was acquainted with the _Irish_ words I spoke, being afraid to call them by their right name. She further stated that every one of the people I was enquiring about spoke in the same language. About half an hour after I parted with her, on the road, I met her in the village of North Queensferry, while I was walking with a friend. I then put a question to her in Gipsy words, in the presence of this third party, who knew not what she was, to see how she would conduct herself in public. She seemed surprised at my question, as if she did not understand a word of it--to prevent it being discovered to others of the community that she was a Gipsy. But she publicly praised me highly, for having given her something to help her poor children; and, with her trumped-up story at her tongue's end, proceeded on her travels. These poor people were much alarmed when I let them see that I knew they were Gipsies. They thought I was despising them, and treating them with contempt; or they were afraid of being apprehended under the old sanguinary laws, condemning the whole unfortunate race to death; for the Gipsies, as I have already said, still believe that these bloody statutes are in full force against them at the present day. I was advised by Sir Walter Scott, as mentioned in the Introduction, to "get the same words from different individuals; and, to verify the collection, to set down the names of the persons by whom they were communicated;" which I have done. For this reason, the words now furnished will appear as the confessions of so many individuals, rather than a vocabulary drawn up in the manner in which such is usually done; and which will be more satisfactory to the general reader, as well as the philologist, than if I had presented the words by themselves, without any positive or circumstantial evidence of their genuineness. To the general reader, as distinguished from the philologist, the anecdotes connected with the collection may prove interesting, if the words themselves have no attraction for him; while they will satisfy the latter, as far as they go, as to the existence of a language which has almost always been denied, yet which is known, at the present day, to a greater number of the population of the country than could at first have been imagined; this part of it having been drawn from a variety of individuals, at different and widely-separated times and places. On this account, I hope that the minuteness of the details of the present enquiry may not appear tedious, but, on the contrary, interesting, to my readers generally; inasmuch as the present collection is the first, as far as I know, of the Scottish Gipsy language that has ever been made; although the people themselves have lived amongst us for three hundred and fifty years, and talked it every hour of the day, but hardly ever in the hearing of the other inhabitants, excepting, occasionally, a word of it now and then, to disguise their discourse from those around them; which, on being questioned, they have always passed off for _cant_, to prevent the law taking hold of them, and punishing them for being Gipsies. These details will also show that our Scottish Tinklers, or Gipsies, are sprung from the common stock from which are descended those that are to be found in the other parts of Europe, as well as those that are scattered over the world generally; what secrecy they observe in all matters relative to their affairs; what an extraordinary degree of reluctance and fear they evince in answering questions tending to develop their history; and, consequently, how difficult it is to learn anything satisfactory about them.[194] [194] It would be well for the reader to consider what a _Gipsy is_, irrespective of the _language which he speaks_; for the _race_ comes _before_ the _speech_ which it uses. That will be done fully in my Disquisition on the Gipsies. The language, considered in itself, however interesting it may be, is a secondary consideration; it may ultimately disappear, while the people who now speak it will remain.--ED. I fell in one day, on the public road, with an old woman and her two daughters, of the name of Ross, selling horn spoons, made by Andrew Stewart, a Tinkler at Bo'ness. I repeated to the woman, in the shape of questions, some of the Gipsy words presented in these pages. She at first affected, though very awkwardly, not to understand what I said, but in a few minutes, with some embarrassment in her manner, acknowledged that she knew the speech, and gave me the English of the following words: _Gaugie_, man. _Managie_, woman. _Chauvies_, children. _Grye_, horse. _Grye-femler_, horse-dealer. _Roys_, spoons. I observed to this woman, that I saw no harm in speaking this language openly and publicly. "None in the least, sir," was her reply. Two girls, of the name of Jamieson, came one day begging to my door. They appeared to be sisters, of about eight and seventeen years of age, and were pretty decently clothed. Both had light-blue eyes, light-yellow, or rather flaxen, hair, and fair complexions. To ascertain whether they were Tinklers or not, I put some Gipsy words to the eldest girl. She immediately hung down her head, as if she had been detected in a crime, and, pretending not to understand what was said, left the house; but, after proceeding about twelve paces, she took courage, turned round, and, with a smile upon an agreeable countenance, called back, "There are eleven of us, sir." I had enquired of her how many children there were of her family. I called both the girls back to my house, and ordered them some victuals, for which they were extremely grateful, and seemed much pleased that they were kindly treated. After I had discovered they were Gipsies, I wormed out of them the following words: _Gaugie_, man. _Managie_, woman. _Chauvies_, children. _Grye_, horse. _Jucal_, dog. When I enquired of the eldest girl the English of _Jucal_, she did not, at first, catch the sound of the word; but her little sister looked up in her face, and said to her, "Don't you hear? That is dog. It is dog he means." The other then added, with a downcast look, and a melancholy tone of voice, "You gentlemen understand all languages now-a-days." At another time, four or five children were loitering about, and diverting themselves, before the door of a house, near Inverkeithing. The youngest appeared about five, and the eldest about thirteen years of age. One of the boys, of the name of McDonald, stepped forward, and asked some money from me in charity. From his importunate manner of begging, I suspected the children were Gipsies, although their appearance did not indicate them to be of that race. After some questions put to them about their parents and their occupations, they gave me the English of the following words: _Gaugie_, man. _Chauvies_, children. _Riah_, gentleman. _Grye_, horse. _Jucal_, dog. _Aizel_, ass. _Lowa_, silver. _Chor_, thief. _Staurdie_, prison. _Bing_, the devil. A gentleman, an acquaintance of mine, was in my presence while the children were answering my words; and as the subject of their language was new to him, I made some remarks to him in their hearing, relative to their tribe, which greatly displeased them. One of the boys called out to me, with much bitterness of expression, "You are a Gipsy yourself, sir, or you never could have got these words." Some years since, a female, of the name of Ruthven, was in the habit of calling at a farm occupied by one of my brothers. My mother, being interested about the Gipsies, began, on one occasion, to question this female Tinkler, relative to her tribe, and, among other things, asked if she was a Gipsy. "Yes," replied Ruthven, "I am a Gipsy, and a desperate, murdering race we are. I will let you hear me speak our language, but what the better will you be of that?" She accordingly uttered a few sentences, and then said, "Now, are you any the wiser of what you have heard? But that infant," pointing to her child of about five years of age, "understands every word I speak." "I know," continued the Tinkler, "that the public are trying to find out the secrets of the Gipsies, but it is in vain." This woman further stated that her tribe would be exceedingly displeased, were it known that any of their fraternity taught their language to "strangers."[195] She also mentioned that the Gipsies believe that the laws which were enacted for their extirpation were yet in full force against them. I may mention, however, that she could put confidence in the family in whose house she made these confessions. [195] The Gipsies are always afraid to say what they would do in such cases. Perhaps they don't know, but have only a general impression that the individual would "catch it;" or there may be some old law on the subject. What Ruthven said of her's being a desperate race is true enough, and murderous too, among themselves as distinguished from the inhabitants generally. Her remark was evidently part of that _frightening_ policy which keeps the natives from molesting the tribe. See page 44.--ED. On another occasion, a female, with three or four children, the eldest of whom was not above ten years of age, came up to me while speaking to an innkeeper, on a public pier on the banks of the Forth. She stated to us that her property had been burned to the ground, and her family reduced to beggary, and solicited charity of us both. After receiving a few half-pence from the innkeeper, she continued her importunities with an unusual impertinence, and hung upon me for a contribution. Her barefaced conduct displeased me. I thought I would put her to the test, and try if she was not a Gipsy. Deepening the tone of my voice, I called out to her, in an angry manner, "_Sallah, jaw drom_"--("Curse you, take the road.") The woman instantly wheeled about, uttered not another word, but set off, with precipitation; and so alarmed were her children, that they took hold of her clothes, to hasten and pull her out of my presence; calling to her, at the same time, "Mother, mother, come away." Mine host, the innkeeper, was amazed at the effectual manner in which I silenced and dismissed the importunate and troublesome beggars. He was anxious that I should teach him the unknown words that had so terrified the poor Gipsies; with the design, it appeared to me, of frightening others, should they molest him with their begging. Had I not proved this family by the language, it was impossible for any one to perceive that the group were Gipsies. In prosecuting my enquiries into the existence of the Gipsy language, I paid a visit to Lochgellie, once the residence of four or five families of Gipsies, as already mentioned, and procured an interview with young Andrew Steedman, a member of the tribe. At first, he appeared much alarmed, and seemed to think I had a design to do him harm. His fears, however, were in a short while calmed; and, after much reluctance, he gave me the following words and expressions, with the corresponding English significations. Like a true Gipsy, the first expression which he uttered, as if it came the readiest to him, was, "_Choar a chauvie_"--("rob that person") which he pronounced with a smile on his countenance. _Gaugie_, man. _Gourie_, man. _Managie_, woman. _Chauvie_, a person of either sex. _Chauvies_, children. _Been gaugie_, gentleman. _Been gourie_, gentleman. _Rajah_, a chief, governor. _Baurie rajah_, the king. _Greham_, horse. _Grye_, horse. _Seefer_, ass. _Jucal_, dog. _Mufler_, cat. _Sloof_, sheep. _Bashanie_, cock. _Caunie_, hen. _Borlan_, sun. _Mang_, moon. _Goff_, fire. _Garlan_, ship. _Heefie_, spoon. _Keechan_, knife. _Chowrie_, knife. _Seaf_, hat. _Mass_, flesh. _Mass_, hand. _Bar_, money. _Lowie_, coin or money. _Roug_, silver. _Neel_, shilling. _Deek_, to listen. _Chee_, tongue. _Chee chee_, hold your tongue. _Chor_, thief. _Choar_, to steal. _Quad_, prison. _Moolie_, death. _Moolie_, I'll kill you. _Bing_, the devil. _Bing feck_, devil take you. _Bing feck eelreelee_, devil take your soul. _Choar a chauvie_, rob that person. _Choar a gaugie_, steal from that man. _Cheeteromanie_, a dram of whiskey. _Glowie a lowa_, pay him the money. The first expression which the Gipsies use in saluting one another, when they first meet, anywhere, is "_Auteenie, auteenie_." Steedman, however, did not give me the English of this salutation. He stated to me that, at the present day, the Gipsies in Scotland, when by themselves, transact their business in their own language, and hold all their ordinary conversations in the same speech. In the course of a few minutes, Steedman's fears returned upon him. He appeared to regret what he had done. He now said he had forgotten the language, and referred me to his father, old Andrew Steedman, who, he said, would give me every information I might require. I imprudently sent him out, to bring the old man to me; for, when both returned, all further communication, with regard to their speech, was at an end. Both were now dead silent on the subject, denied all knowledge of the Gipsy language, and were evidently under great alarm. The old man would not face me at all; and when I went to him, he appeared to be shaking and trembling, while he stood at the head of his horses, in his own stable. Young Steedman entreated me to tell no one that he had given me any words, as the Tinklers, he said, would be exceedingly displeased with him for doing so. This man, however, by being kindly treated, and seeing no intention of doing him any harm, became, at an after period, communicative on various subjects relative to the Gipsies. The following are the words which I obtained during an hour's interrogation of the woman that baffled me for seven years, and of whom I have said something already: _Gaugie_, man. _Chauvie_, child. _Mort_, wife. _Shan mort_, bad wife. _Blawkie_, pot. _Roys_, spoons. _Snypers_, shears. _Fluff_, tobacco-pipe. _Baurie mort_, good wife. _Nais mort_, grandmother. _Nais gaugie_, grandfather. _Been riah_, gentleman. _Been raunie_, gentlewoman. _Dill_, servant-maid. _Loudnie_, whore. _Chor_, thief. _Gawvers_, pickpockets. _Nawkens_, Tinklers. _Rachlin_, hanged man. _Klistie_, soldier. _Paunie-col_, sailor. _Femmel_, hand. _Yak_, eye. _Sherro_, head. _Mooie_, mouth. _Chatters_, teeth. _Rat_, blood. _Rat_, night. _Moolie_, death, to die, kill. _Shucha_, coat. _Teeyakas_, shoes. _Gawd_, shirt. _Olivers_, stockings. _Wiper_, napkin. _Coories_, blankets. _Grye_, horse. _Aizel_, ass. _Jucal_, dog. _Routler_, cow. _Bakra_, sheep. _Kair_, house. _Blinker_, window. _Kep_, bed. _Fluffan_, tobacco. _Lowie_, money. _Roug_, silver. _Leel_, bank notes. _Casties_, trees. _Quad_, prison. _Harro_, sword. _Chourie_, bayonet-knife. _Mass_, meat, flesh. _Guffie_, swine's flesh. _Flatrins_, fish. _Habben_, bread. _Blaw_, meal. _Neddies_, potatoes. _Thood_, milk. _Smout_, butter. _Chizcazin_, cheese. _Bobies_, peas. _Pooklie_, pot-barley. _Shaucha_, broth. _Geeve_, corn, wheat, grain. _Faizim_, hay. _Stramel_, straw. _Paunie_, water. _Yak_, coal. _Mouds_, peats. _Shan drom_, bad road. _Beenlightment_, daylight. _Jaw vree_, go away. _Aucheer mangan_, hold your tongue. _Bing lee ma_, devil miss me. _Ruffie feck ma_, devil take me. _Ruffie lee ma_, devil miss me. I observed to this woman that her language would, in course of time, be lost. She replied, with great seriousness, "It will never be forgotten, sir; it is in our hearts, and as long as a single Tinkler exists, it will be remembered." I further enquired of her, how many of her tribe were in Scotland. Her answer was, "There are several thousand; and there are many respectable shop-keepers and house-holders in Scotland that are Gipsies." I requested of this woman the Gipsy word for God.[196] She said they had no corresponding word for God in their speech; adding, that she thought "it as well, as it prevented them having their Maker's name often unnecessarily and sinfully in their mouths." She acknowledged the justice, and highly approved of the punishment of death for murder; but she condemned, most bitterly, the law that took away the lives of human beings for stealing. She dwelt on the advantages which her secret speech gave her tribe in transacting business in markets. She said that she was descended from the first Gipsy family in Scotland. I was satisfied that she was sprung from the second, if not the first, family. I could make out, with tolerable certainty, the links of her descent for four generations of Gipsies. I have already described the splendid style in which her ancestors travelled in Tweed-dale. Her mother, above eighty years of age, also called at my house. Both were fortune-tellers. It was evident, from this woman's manner, that she knew much she would not communicate. Like the Gipsy chief, in presence of Dr. Bright, at Csurgo, in Hungary, she, in a short time, became impatient; and, apparently, when a certain hour arrived, she insisted upon being allowed to depart. She would not submit to be questioned any longer. [196] Ponqueville, in his travels, says that the Gipsies in the Levant have no words in their language to express either God or the soul. Of ten words of the Greek Gipsy, given by him, five of them are in use in Scotland.--_Paris_, 1820. [The Gipsy for God, according to Grellmann, is _Dewe_, _Dewel_, _Dewol_, _Dewla_.]--ED. Owing to the nature of my enquiries, and more particularly the fears of the tribe, I could seldom venture to question the Gipsies regarding their speech, or their ancient customs, with any hope of receiving satisfactory answers, when a third party was present. The following, however, is an instance to the contrary; and the facts witnessed by the gentleman who was with me at the time, are, besides the testimony of the Gipsies themselves, convincing proofs that these people, at the present day, in Scotland, can converse among themselves, on any ordinary subject, in their own language, without making use of a single word of the English tongue.[197] [197] Had a German listened a whole day to a Gipsy conversation, he would not have understood a single expression.--_Grellmann._ The dialect of the English Gipsies, though mixed with English, is tolerably pure, from the fact of its being intelligible to the race in the centre of Russia.--_Borrow._--ED. In May, 1829, while near the manse of Inverkeithing, my friend and I accidentally fell in, on the high road, with four children, the youngest of whom appeared to be about four, and the eldest about thirteen, years of age. They were accompanied by a woman, about twenty years old, who had the appearance of being married, but not the mother of any of the children with her. Not one of the whole party could have been taken for a Gipsy, but all had the exact appearance of being the family of some indigent tradesman or labourer. Excepting the woman, whose hair was dark, all of the company had hair of a light colour, some of them inclining to yellow, with fair complexions. In not one of their countenances could be seen those features by which many pretend the Gipsies can, at all times, be distinguished from the rest of the community. The manner, however, in which the woman, at first, addressed me, created in my mind a suspicion that she was one of the tribe. In order to ascertain the fact, I put a question to her in Gipsy, in such a manner that it might appear to her that I was quite certain she was one of the fraternity. She immediately smiled at my question, held down her head, cast her eyes to the ground, then appeared as if she had been detected in something wrong, and pretended not to understand what I said. One of the children, however, being thrown entirely off his guard, immediately said to her, "You know quite well what he says." The woman, recovering from her surprise and confusion, and being assured she had nothing to fear from me, now answered my question. She also replied to every other interrogation I put to her, without showing the least fear or hesitation. After I had repeated a few words more, and a sentence in the Gipsy tongue, one of the boys exclaimed, "He has good cant!" and then addressed me entirely in the Gipsy language. (All the Gipsies, as I have already mentioned, call their language _cant_, for the purpose of concealing their tribe.) The whole party seemed extremely happy that I was acquainted with their speech. The woman put several questions to me, in return, some of which were wholly in her own peculiar tongue. She asked my name, place of residence, and whether I was a _nawken_--that is a Gipsy. She further enquired whether my friend was also a _nawken_; adding, with a smile, that she was sure I was a _tramper_. The children sometimes conversed among themselves wholly in their own language; and, when I could not understand the woman, as she requested, in her own speech, to know my name, &c., one of them instantly interpreted the sentence into English for me. One of the oldest boys, however, thinking I was only pretending to be ignorant of their speech, observed, in English, to his companions, "I am sure he is a tramper, and can speak as good cant as any of us." To keep up the character, my friend told them that I had been a tramper in my youth, but that I had now nearly lost the language. On hearing this, the woman, with great earnestness, exclaimed, "God bless the gentleman!" In order to confirm their belief that I was one of their tribe, I bade the woman good-day in her own tongue, and parted with them. She informed me, on leaving, that she resided at Banff, but that her husband was then at Perth. During the short interview which I had with these Gipsies, I collected the following words: _Gaugie_, man. _Riah_, gentleman. _Raunie_, lady. _Vast_, hand. _Sonnakie_, gold. _Sonnakie vanister_, gold ring. _Roug_, silver. _Lowie_, money. _Grye_, horse. _Aizel_, ass. _Jucal_, dog. _Matchka_, cat. _Baurie_, great. _Vile_, village. _Baurie vile_, large village. _Nawken_, Gipsy. _Davies_, day. _Beenship davies_, _Nawken_, good-day, Gipsy. _Pen yer naam?_ what is your name? _Shucha_, coat. _Calshes_, breeches. _Gogle_, hat. _Coories_, blankets. _Roys_, spoons. _Skews_, platters. _Habben kairer_, baker of bread. The method I adopted with them, as I have already hinted, was to ask them the English of the words I gave them in Gipsy, so that the answers I got were confirmations of the same words collected from other individuals, and which I drew from memory for the occasion. Had I attempted to write down any of their sentences, it would have instantly shut the door to all further conversation on the subject, and, in all probability, the Gipsies would have taken to their heels, muttering imprecations against me for having insulted them. Of this I was satisfied, that had I really been acquainted with their speech, these Gipsy children could have kept up a regular and connected conversation with me, with the greatest fluency, and without their sentences being intermixed with any English or Scotch words whatever, a fact which has been repeatedly stated to me by the Gipsies. In confirmation of these facts, I shall transcribe a letter addressed to me by the gentleman who was present on the occasion.[198] [198] This letter is interesting to the extent that it illustrates the amount of knowledge possessed by the Scottish community, generally, regarding the subject of the Gipsies.--ED. INVERKEITHING, _25th May, 1829._ "MY DEAR SIR: "Agreeably to your desire, I have looked over that part of your manuscript of the Scottish Gipsies which details the particulars of a short and accidental interview which we had with a woman and four children, whom we met near Inverkeithing Manse, on the 22d inst., and who turned out to be Gipsies. I have no hesitation in averring that your statements, to my knowledge, are substantially correct--being present during the whole conversation which took place with the individuals mentioned. It was the first time I ever heard the Gipsy language spoken, and it appeared quite evident that those Gipsies could converse, in a regular and connected manner, on any subject, without making use of a single English word; and which particularly appeared from the questions which they put to you, as well as from the conversation which they had among themselves, in their own peculiar speech: and that, otherwise, the woman and children had not, in the colour of their hair, complexion, and general appearance, any resemblance to those people whom I always considered to be Gipsies. I am, &c., "JAMES H. COBBAN, _Deputy Compt. of Customs, Inverkeithing._ "MR. WALTER SIMSON, _Supt. of Quarantine, Inverkeithing_."[199] [199] Sir Walter Scott was disposed to think that our Gipsy population was rather exaggerated at five thousand souls; but when families such as the above mentioned are taken into account--leaving alone those who may be classed as settled Gipsies--I am convinced that their number is not over-estimated. [Not being in possession of sufficient information on the subject of the Gipsies, the opinion of Sir Walter Scott, on the point in question, amounted to nothing. See the Index, for Sir Walter Scott's ideas of the Scottish Gipsy population.--ED.] I have already mentioned having succeeded in obtaining a few words of Gipsy, from two sisters, of the name of Jamieson, who came begging to my door. I had reason to suppose they would acquaint their relatives of having been questioned in their own speech, and would greatly exaggerate my knowledge of it; for I always observed that the individuals with whom I conversed were at first impressed with a belief that I knew much more of it than I really did. During the following summer, a brother and a cousin of these girls called at my house, selling baskets. The one was about twenty-one, the other fifteen, years of age. I happened to be from home, but one of my family, suspecting them to be Gipsies, invited them into the house, and mentioned to them, (although very incorrectly,) that I understood every word of their speech. "So I saw," replied the eldest lad, "for when he passed us on the road, some time ago, I called, in our language, to my neighbour, to come out of the way, and he understood what I said, for he immediately turned round, and looked at us." I, however, knew nothing of the circumstance; I did not even recollect having seen them pass me. It is likely, however, I had been examining their appearance, and it is as likely they had been trying if I understood their speech. At all events, they appeared to have known me, while I was entirely ignorant of who they were, and to have had their curiosity excited, on account, as I imagined, of their relatives having told them I was acquainted with their language. This occurrence produced a wonderful effect upon the two lads, for they appeared pleased to think I could speak their language. At this moment, one of my daughters, about seven years of age, repeated, in their hearing, the Gipsy word for pot, having picked it up from hearing me mention it. The young Tinklers now thought they were in the midst of a Gipsy family, and seemed quite happy. "But are you really a _nawken_?" I asked the eldest of them. "Yes, sir," he replied; "and to show you I am no impostor, I will give you the names of everything in your house;" which, in the presence of my family, he did, to the extent I asked of him. "My speech," he continued, "is not the cant of packmen, nor the slang of common thieves." But Gipsy-hunting is like deer-stalking. In prosecuting it, it is necessary to know the animal, its habits, and the locality in which it is to be found. I saw the unfavourable turn approaching: the Gipsies' time was up; their patience was exhausted. I dropped the subject, and ordered them some refreshment. On their taking leave of me, I said to them, "Do you intend coming round this part of the country again?" (I need not have asked them such a question as that.) "That we do, sir; and we will not fail to come and see you again." They thus left me, with the strong impression on their minds, that I was a _nawken_, like themselves, but a _riah_--a gentleman Gipsy. I waited patiently for their return, which would happen in due season, on their half-yearly _tramp_. Everything looked so favourably, circumstances had contributed so fortunately, to the end which I had so much at heart, that I looked upon the information to be drawn from these poor Tinkler lads, with as much solicitude and avarice as one would who had discovered a treasure hid in his field. This species of Gipsy-hunting, I believe, I had exclusively to myself. I had none of the difficulties to contend with, which would be implied in the field of it having been gone over by others before me. That kind of Gipsy-hunting which implied imprisonment, banishment, and hanging, was a thing of which the Gipsies had had sad experience; if not in their own persons, at least in that which the traditions of their tribe had so carefully handed down to them. Besides this, the experience of the daily life of the members of their tribe afforded an excellent school of training, for acquiring a host of expedients for escaping every danger and difficulty to which their habits exposed them. But so thoroughly had they preserved their secrets, and especially the grand one--their language--that they came to their wits' end how to understand, and how to act in, the new sphere of danger into which they were now thrown, or even to comprehend its nature. Such was the advantage which education and enlightenment had given their civilized neighbour over them. How could _they_ imagine that the commencement of my knowledge of their language had been drawn from _books_? What did some of them know of _books_, beyond, perhaps, a youth sent to school, where, owing to his restless and unsettled good-for-nothingness, he would advance little beyond his alphabet?[200] For we know that some Gipsies are so intensely vain as to send a child to school, merely to brag before their civilized neighbours that their children have been educated. How could _they_ comprehend that _their_ language had found, or could find, its way into _books_? The thing to them was impossible; the idea of it could not, by any exertion of their own, even enter into their imagination. The danger to arise from such a quarter was altogether beyond their capacity of comprehension. Knowing, however, that there was danger of some singular nature surrounding them, yet being unable to comprehend it, they flickered about it, like moths about a candle; till at last they did come to comprehend, if not its origin, or extent, at least its tendency, and the consequences to which it would lead. [200] In speaking of the more original kind of Gipsy, Grellmann says: "No Gipsy has ever signalized himself in literature, notwithstanding many of them have partaken of the instruction to be obtained at public schools. Their volatile disposition and unsteadiness will not allow them to complete anything which requires perseverance or application. In the midst of his career of learning, the recollection of his origin seizes him; he desires to return to what he thinks a more happy manner of life; this solicitude encreases; he gives up all at once, turns back again, and consigns over his knowledge to oblivion." There are too many circumstances surrounding such a Gipsy to remind him of his origin, and arrest him in his career of learning: for his race never having been tolerated--that is, no position ever having been assigned it, he feels as if he were a vagabond, if known or openly avowed to the public as a member of the tribe. And this, in itself, is sufficient to discourage such a Gipsy in every effort towards improvement.--ED. According to promise, the eldest of the Gipsy boys called at my house, in about six months, accompanied by his sister. He was selling white-iron ware, for he was a tin-smith by occupation. Without entering into any preliminary conversation, for the purpose of smoothing the way for more direct questions, I took him into my parlour, and at once enquired if he _could_ speak the Tinkler language? He applied to my question the construction that I doubted if he could, and the consequences which that would imply, and answered firmly, "Yes, sir; I have been bred in that line all my life." "Will you allow me," said I, "to write down your words?" "O yes, sir; you are welcome to as many as you please." "Have you names for everything, and can you converse on any subject, in that language?" "Yes, sir; we can converse, and have a name for everything, in our own speech." I now commenced to "make hay while the sun shone," as the phrase runs; for I knew that I could have only about an hour with the Gipsy, at the most. The following, then, are the words and sentences which I took down, on this occasion: _Slaps_, tea. _Moozies_, porridge. _Mass_, flesh. _Shaucha_, broth. _Mumlie_, candle. _Stramel_, straw. _Parnie_, wheat. _Duff_, smoke. _Yak_, fire. _Wuther_, door. _Glue_, window. _Kair_, house. _Shucha_, coat. _Shuch-hamie_, waistcoat. _Castie_, stick. _Coories_, blankets. _Eegees_, bed-clothes. _Wautheriz_, bed. _Suchira_, sixpence. _Sye-boord_, sixpence. _Chinda_, shilling. _Chinda ochindies_, twelve shillings. _Trin chindies_, three shillings. _Baurie_, grand, great, good. _Shan_, bad. _Davies-pagrin_, daybreak. _Baurie davies_, good day. _Shan davies_, bad day. _Paunie davies_, wet day. _Sheelra davies_, frosty or cold day. _Sneepa davies_, snowy or white day. _Baurie forest_, the chief city. _Baurie paunie_, the sea, ocean, grand water. _Bing_, the devil. _Ruffie_, the devil. _Feck_, take. _Chauvies wautheriz_, the children's bed-clothes. _Sherro_, head. _Carlie_, neck. _Lears_, ears. _Chatters_, teeth. _Yak_, eye. _Nak_, nose. _Mooie_, mouth. _Vast_, hand. _Jaur_, leg. _Nek_, knee. _Peerie_, foot. _Bar_, stone. _Drom_, the earth. _Cang-geerie_, church. _Sonnakie_, gold. _Sonnakie vanister_, gold ring. _Callo_, black. _Callo gaugie_, black man. _Leehgh callo_, blue. _Sneepa_, white, snow. _Sheelra_, cold, frost. _Lon_, salt. _Lon paunie_, the sea, salt water. _Rat_, night. _Rat_, blood. _Habben kairer_, baker of bread. _Aizel_, ass. _Gournie_, cow. _Jucal_, dog. _Paupeenie_, goose. _Caunie_, hen. _Boord_, penny. _Curdie_, half-penny. _Lee_, miss. _Ruffie feck ma_, devil take me. _Ruffie lee ma_, devil miss me. _Feck a bar and mar the gaugie_, lift a stone and fell the man. _Chee, chee_, silence, hold your tongue. _Auvie_, come here. _Jaw vree_, go away. _Jaw wree wautheriz_, go away to your bed. _Baish doun_, sit down. _Baish doun bettiment_, sit down on the chair. _Howie been baishen?_ how are you? _Riah_, gentleman. _Raunie_, gentlewoman. _Baurie riah_, king. _Baurie raunie_, queen. _Praw_, son. _Prawl_, daughter. _Yaggers_, colliers. _Nawken_, Tinkler, Gipsy. _Cam_, the moon. _Quad_, prison. _Staurdie_, prison. _Yaik_, one. _Duie_, two. _Trin_, three. _Tor_, four. _Fo_, five. _Shaigh_, six. _Naivairn_, seven. _Naigh_, eight. _Line_, nine. _Nay_, ten. This young man sang part of two Gipsy songs to me, in English; and then, at my request, he turned one of them into the Gipsy language, intermingled a little, however, with English words; occasioned, perhaps, by the difficulty in translating it. The subject of one of the songs was that of celebrating a robbery, committed upon a Lord Shandos; and the subject of the other was a description of a Gipsy battle. The courage with which the females stood the rattle of the cudgels upon their heads was much lauded in the song. Like the Gipsy woman with whom I had no less than seven years' trouble ere getting any of her speech, this Gipsy lad became, in about an hour's time, very restless, and impatient to be gone. The true state of things, in this instance, dawned upon his mind. He now became much alarmed, and would neither allow me to write down his songs, nor stop to give me any more of his words and sentences. His terror was only exceeded by his mortification; and, on parting with me, he said that, had he, at first, been aware I was unacquainted with his speech, he would not have given me a word of it. As far as I can judge, from the few and short specimens which I have myself heard, and had reported to me, the subjects of the songs of the Scottish Gipsies, (I mean those composed by themselves,) are chiefly their plunderings, their robberies, and their sufferings. The numerous and deadly conflicts which they had among themselves, also, afforded them themes for the exercise of their muse. My father, in his youth, often heard them singing songs, wholly in their own language. They appear to have been very fond of our ancient Border marauding songs, which celebrate the daring exploits of the lawless freebooters on the frontiers of Scotland and England. They were constantly singing these compositions among themselves. The song composed on Hughie Græme, the horse-stealer, published in the second volume of Sir Walter Scott's Border Minstrelsy, was a great favourite with the Tinklers. As this song is completely to the taste of a Gipsy, I will insert it in this place, as affording a good specimen of that description of song in the singing of which they take great delight. It will also serve to show the peculiar cast of mind of the Gipsies. HUGHIE THE GR�ME. GUDE Lord Scroope's to the hunting gane, He has ridden o'er moss and muir; And he has grippit Hughie the Græme, For stealing o' the Bishop's mare. "Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be! Here hangs a broadsword by my side; And if that thou canst conquer me, The matter it may soon be tryed." "I ne'er was afraid of a traitor-thief; Although thy name be Hughie the Græme, I'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds, If God but grant me life and time." "Then do your worst now, good Lord Scroope, And deal your blows as hard as you can! It shall be tried, within an hour, Which of us two is the better man." But as they were dealing their blows so free, And both so bloody at the time, Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall, All for to take brave Hughie the Græme. Then they hae grippit Hughie the Græme, And brought him up through Carlisle town; The lasses and lads stood on the walls, Crying, "Hughie the Græme, thou'se ne'er gae down." Then hae they chosen a jury of men, The best that were in Carlisle town; And twelve of them cried out at once, "Hughie the Græme, thou must gae down." Then up bespak him gude Lord Hume, As he sat by the judge's knee,-- "Twenty white owsen, my gude lord, If you'll grant Hughie the Græme to me." "O no, O no, my gude Lord Hume! For sooth and sae it manna be; For, were there but three Græmes of the name, They suld be hanged a' for me." 'Twas up and spake the gude Lady Hume, As she sat by the judge's knee,-- "A peck of white pennies, my gude lord judge, If you'll grant Hughie the Græme to me." "O no, O no, my gude Lady Hume! For sooth and so it must na be; Were he but the one Græme of the name, He suld be hanged high for me." "If I be guilty," said Hughie the Græme, "Of me my friends shall have small talk;" And he has louped fifteen feet and three, Though his hands they were tied behind his back. He looked over his left shoulder, And for to see what he might see; There was he aware of his auld father, Came tearing his hair most piteouslie. "O! hald your tongue, my father," he says, "And see that ye dinna weep for me! For they may ravish me o' my life, But they canna banish me fro Heavin hie. "Fare ye weel, fair Maggie, my wife! The last time we came ower the muir, 'Twas thou bereft me of my life, And wi' the Bishop thou play'd the whore. "Here, Johnie Armstrang, take thou my sword, That is made o' the metal sae fine; And when thou comest to the English side, Remember the death of Hughie the Græme."[201] [201] On mentioning to Sir Walter Scott, when at Abbotsford, that the Gipsies were very partial to Hughie the Græme, he caused his eldest daughter, afterwards Mrs. Lockhart, to sing this ancient Border song, which she readily did, accompanying her voice with the harp. We were, at the time, in the room which contained his old armour and other antiquities; to which place he had asked me, after tea, to hear his daughter play on the harp. She sang Hughie the Græme, in a plain, simple, unaffected manner, exactly in the style in which I have heard the humble country-girls singing the same song, in the south of Scotland. Sir Walter was much interested about the Gipsies; and when I repeated to him a short sentence in their speech, he, with great feeling, exclaimed, "Poor things! do you hear that?" This was the first time, I believe, that he ever heard a Scottish Gipsy word pronounced. It appeared to me that the mind of the great magician was not wholly divested of the fear that the Gipsies might, in some way or other, injure his young plantations. I will now give the testimony of the Gipsy chief from whom I received the "blowing up" alluded to, by Mr. Laidlaw, in the Introduction to the work.[202] [202] See pages 58 and 65.--ED. One of the greatest fairs in Scotland is held, annually, on the 18th day of July, at St. Boswell's Green, in Roxburghshire. I paid a visit to this fair, for the purpose of taking a view of the Gipsies. An acquaintance, whom I met at the fair, observed to me, that he was sure if any one could give me information regarding the Tinklers, it would be old ----, the horner, at ----. To ensure a kind reception from the Gipsies, it was agreed upon, between us, that I should introduce myself by mentioning who my ancestors were, on whose numerous farms, (sixteen, rented by my grandfather, in 1781,[203]) their forefathers had received many a night's quarters, in their out-houses. We soon found out the old chieftain, sitting in a tent, in the midst of about a dozen of his tribe, all nearly related to him. The moment I made myself known to them, the whole of the old persons immediately expressed their gratitude for the humane treatment they, and their forefathers, had received at the farms of my relatives. They were extremely glad to see me; and "God bless you," was repeated by several of the old females. "Ay," said they, "those days are gone. Christian charity has now left the land. We know the people are growing more hard and uncharitable every year." I found the old man shrewd, sensible, and intelligent; far beyond what could have been expected from a person of his caste and station in life. He, besides, possessed all that merriness and jocularity which I have often observed among a number of the males of his race. After some conversation with this chief, who appeared about eighty years of age, I enquired if his people, who, in large bands, about sixty years ago, traversed the south of Scotland, had not an ancient language, peculiar to themselves. He hesitated a little, and then readily replied, that the Tinklers had no language of their own, except a few cant words. I observed to him that he knew better--that the Tinklers had, beyond dispute, a language of their own; and that I had some knowledge of its existence at the present day. He, however, declared that they had no such language, and that I was wrongly informed. In the hearing of all the Gipsies in the tent, I repeated to him four or five Gipsy words and expressions. At this he appeared amazed; and on my adding some particulars relative to some of the ancestors of the tribe then present, enumerating, I think, three generations of their clan, one of the old females exclaimed, "Preserve me, he kens a' about us!" The old chief immediately took hold of my right hand, below the table, with a grasp as if he were going to shake it: and, in a low and subdued tone of voice, so as none might near but myself, requested me to say not another word in the place where we were sitting, but to call on him, at the town of ----, and he would converse with me on that subject. I considered it imprudent to put any more questions to him relative to his speech, on this occasion, and agreed to meet him at the place he appointed. [203] These sixteen farms embraced about 25,000 acres of mountainous land, maintained 13,000 sheep, 100 goats, 250 cattle, 50 horses, 20 draught-oxen, and 60 dogs; 29 shepherds, 26 other servants, and 15 cotters, making, with their families, 228 souls, supported by my ancestor's property, as that of a Scotch gentleman-farmer. On the farms mentioned, which lay in Mid-Lothian, Tweed-dale, and Selkirkshire, the Gipsies were allowed to remain as long as they pleased; and no loss was ever sustained by the indulgence. Several persons in the tent, (it being one of the public booths in the market,) who were not Gipsies, were equally surprised, when they observed an understanding immediately take place between me and the Tinklers, by means of a few words, the meaning of which they could not comprehend. A farmer, from the south of Scotland, who was present in the tent, and had that morning given the Tinklers a lamb to eat, met me, some days after, on the banks of the Yarrow. He shook his head, and observed, with a smile, "Yon was queer-looking wark wi' the Tinklers." As I was anxious to penetrate to his secret speech, I resolved to keep the appointment with the Gipsy, whatever might be the result of our meeting, and I therefore proceeded to the town which he mentioned, eleven days after I had seen him at the fair. On enquiring of the landlord of the principal inn, at which I put up my horse, where the house of ----, the Tinkler, was situated in the town, he appeared surprised, and eyed me all over. He told me the street, but said he would not accompany me to the house, thinking that I wished him to go with me. It was evident that the landlord, whom I never saw before, considered himself in bad company, in spite of my black clothes, black neck-cloth, and ruffles aforesaid, and was determined not to be seen on the street, either with me or the Tinkler. I told him I by no means wished him to accompany me, but only to tell me in what part of the town the Tinkler's house was to be found. On entering the house, I found the old chief sitting, without his coat, with an old night-cap on his head, a leathern apron around his waist, and all covered with dust or soot, employed in making spoons from horn. After conversing with him for a short time, I reminded him of the ancient language with which he was acquainted. He assumed a grave countenance, and said the Tinklers had no such language, adding, at the same time, that I should not trouble myself about such matters. He stoutly denied all knowledge of the Tinkler language, and said no such tongue existed in Scotland, except a few cant words. I persisted in asserting that they were actually in possession of a secret language, and again tried him with a few of my words; but to no purpose. All my efforts produced no effect upon his obstinacy. At this stage of my interview, I durst not mention the word Gipsy, as they are exceedingly alarmed at being known as Gipsies. I now signified that he had forfeited his promise, given me at the fair, and rose to leave him. At this remark, I heard a man burst out a-laughing, behind a partition that ran across the apartment in which we were sitting. The old man likewise started to his feet, and, with both his sooty hands, took hold of the breast of my coat, on either side, and, in this attitude, examined me closely, scanning me all over from head to foot. After satisfying himself, he said, "Now, give me a hold of your hand--farewell--I will know you when I see you again." I bade him good-day, and left the house.[204] [204] I am convinced the Gipsies have a method of communicating with one another by their hands and fingers, and it is likely this man tried me, in that way, both at the fair and in his own house. I know a man who has seen the Gipsies communicating their thoughts to each other in this way. "Bargains among the Indians are conducted in the most profound silence, and by merely touching each other's hands. If the seller takes the whole hand, it implies a thousand rupees or pagodas; five fingers import five hundred; one finger, one hundred; half a finger, fifty; a single joint only ten. In this manner, they will often, in a crowded room, conclude the most important transactions, without the company suspecting that anything whatever was doing."--_Historical Account of Travels in Asia, by Hugh Murray._ "_Method of the English selling their cargoes, at Jedda, to the Turks_: Two Indian brokers come into the room to settle the price, one on the part of the Indian captain, the other on that of the buyer or Turk. They are neither Mahommedans nor Christians, but have credit with both. They sit down on the carpet, and take an Indian shawl, which they carry on their shoulders like a napkin, and spread it over their hands. They talk, in the meantime, indifferent conversation, of the arrival of ships from India, or of the news of the day, as if they were employed in no serious business whatever. After about twenty minutes spent in handling each other's fingers, below the shawl, the bargain is concluded, say for nine ships, without one word ever having been spoken on the subject, or pen or ink used in any shape whatever."--_Bruce's Travels._ I had now no hope of obtaining any information from this man, regarding his peculiar language. I had scarcely, however, proceeded a hundred yards down the street, from the house, when I was overtaken by a young female, who requested me to return, to speak with her father. I immediately complied. On reaching the door, with the girl, I met one of the old man's sons, who said that he had overheard what passed between his father and me, in the house. He assured me that his father _was ashamed to give me his language_; but that, if I would promise not to publish their names, or place of residence, he would himself give me some of their speech, if his father still persevered in his refusal. I accordingly agreed not to make public the names, and place of residence, of the family. I again entered the little factory of horn spoons. Matters were now, to all appearance, quite changed. The old man was very cheerful, and seemed full of mirth. "Come away," said he; "what is this you are asking after? I would advise you to go to Mr. Stewart, at Hawick, and he will tell you everything about our language." "Father," said the son, who had resumed his place behind the partition before mentioned, "you know that Mr. Stewart will give our speech to nobody." The old chief again hesitated and considered, but, being urged by his son and myself, he, at last, said, "Come away, then; I will tell you whatever you think proper to ask me. I gave you my oath, at the fair, to do so. Get out your paper, pen and ink, and begin." He gave me no other oath, at the fair, than his word, and taking me by the hand, that he would converse with me regarding the speech of the Tinklers. But, I believe, joining hands is considered an oath in some countries of the Eastern world. I was fully convinced, however, that he was _ashamed to give me his speech_, and that it was with the greatest reluctance he spoke one word on the subject. The following are the words and sentences which I collected from him:[205] [205] It is interesting to notice the reason for this old Gipsy chief being so backward in giving our author some of his language. "He was ashamed to do it." Pity it is that there should be a man in Scotland, who, independent of personal character, should be ashamed of such a thing. Then, see how the Gipsy woman, in our author's house, said that "the public would look upon her with horror and contempt, were it known she could speak the Gipsy language." And again, the two female Gipsies, who would rather allow themselves to be murdered, than give the meaning of two Gipsy words to Sauchie colliers, for the reason that "it would have exposed their tribe, and made themselves odious to the world." And all for knowing the Gipsy language!--which would be considered an accomplishment in another person! What frightful tyranny! Mr. Borrow, as we will by and by see, says a great deal about the law of Charles III, in regard to the prospects of the Spanish Gipsies. But there is a law above any legislative enactment--the law of society, of one's fellow-creatures--which bears so hard upon the Gipsies; the despotism of caste. If Gipsies, in such humble circumstances, are so afraid of being known to be Gipsies, we can form some idea of the morbid sensitiveness of those in a higher sphere of life. The innkeeper evidently thought himself in bad company, when our author asked him for the Tinkler's house, or that any intercourse with a Tinkler would contaminate and degrade him. In this light, read an anecdote in the history of John Bunyan, who was one of the same people, as I shall afterwards show. In applying for his release from Bedford jail, his wife said to Justice Hale, "Moreover, my lord, I have four small children that cannot help themselves, of which one is blind, and we have nothing to live upon but the charity of good people." Thereat, Justice Hale, looking very soberly on the matter, said, "Alas, poor woman!" "What is his calling?" continued the judge. And some of the company, that stood by, said, (evidently in interruption, and with a bitter sneer,) "A Tinker, my lord!" "Yes," replied Bunyan's wife, "and because he is a Tinker, and a poor man, therefore he is despised, and cannot have justice." Noble woman! wife of a noble Gipsy! If the world wishes to know who John Bunyan really was, it can find him depicted in our author's visit to this Scottish Gipsy family, where it can also learn the meaning of Bunyan, at a time when Jews were legally excluded from England, taking so much trouble to ascertain whether he was of that race, or not. From the present work generally, the world can learn the reason why Bunyan said nothing of his ancestry and nationality, when giving an account of his own history.--ED. _Pagrie_, to break. _Humf_, give me. _Mar_, to strike. _Mang_, to speak. _Kair_, house. _Drom_, street or road. _Vile_, village. _Gave_, village. _Jaw drom_, take the road, get off quickly. _Hatch here_, come here. _Bing_, the devil. _Bing lee_, devil miss me. _Moolie_, death. _Moolie_, I'll kill you. _Mooled_, murdered. _Moolie a gaugie_, kill the man. _Powiskie_, gun or pistol. _Harro_, sword. _Shammel_, sword. _Chourie_, knife. _Rachlin_, hanged. _Sallah_[206], to curse. _Klistie_, soldier. _Nash_, deserter. _Grye-femler_, horse-dealer. _Staurdie_, prison. _Nak_, nose. _Yak_, eye. _Yaka_, eyes. _Mooie_, mouth. _Vast_, hand. _Sherro_, head. _Femmel_, hand. _Lowie_, coin or money. _Lowa_, silver. _Curdie_, half-penny. _Bar_, five shillings. _Size_, six. _Grye_, horse. _Greham_, horse. _Prancie_, horse. _Aizel_, ass. _Jucal_, dog. _Routler_, cow. _Bakra_, sheep. _Matchka_, cat. _Bashanie_, cock. _Caunie_, hen. _Thood_, milk. _Molzie_, wine. _Bulliment_, loaf of bread. _Neddie_, potato. _Shaucha_, broth. _Mass_, flesh. _Habben_, bread. _Pauplers_, pottage. _Paunie_, water. _Paurie_, water. _Mumlie_, candle. _Blinkie_, candle. _Flatrin_, fish. _Chizcazin_, cheese. _Romanie_, whiskey. _Casties_, wood. _Filsh_, tree. _Lodlie_, quarters. _Choar_, to steal. _Chor_, a thief. _Bumie_, to drink. _Jaw vree_, go away. _Graunzie_, barn. _Graunagie_, barn. _Clack_, stone. _Yak_, fire. _Peerie_, pot. _Treepie_, pot-lid. _Roy_, spoon. _Skew_, platter. _Swag_, sack. _Ingrims_, pincers. _Yog-ingrims_, fire-irons. _Sauster_, iron. _Mashlam_, brass or metal. _Fizam_, grass. _Penam_, hay. _Geeve_, corn. _Greenam_, corn. _Beerie_, ship. _Outhrie_, window. _Nab_, horn. _Shucha_, coat. _Scaf_, hat. _Gogle_, hat. _Cockle_, hat. _Calshes_, breeches. _Teeyakas_, shoes. _Olivers_, stockings. _Beenship_, good. _Baurie_, good. _Shan_, bad. _Rauge_, mad. _Riah_, _Rajah_, chief, governor. _Been riah_, the king. _Been mort_, the queen. _Been gaugie_, gentleman. _Been riah_, gentleman. _Been mort_, lady. _Yagger_, collier. _Nawken_,[207] Tinkler, Gipsy. _Davies_, day. _Rat_, night. _Beenship mashlam_, good metal. _Beenship-rat_, good-night. _Beenlightment_, Sabbath-day. _Shan drom_, bad road. _Shan davies_, bad day. _Gaugie_, man. _Managie_, woman. _Mort_, wife. _Chavo_, son. _Chauvies_, children. _Praw_, son. _Prawl_, daughter. _Nais-gaugie_, grandfather. _Nais-mort_, grandmother. _Aukaman_, marriage. _Carie_, penis. _Bight_, pudenda. _Sjair_, to ease nature. _Jair dah_, a woman's apron. [206] _Sallah_, in the Scottish Gipsy speech, properly signifies accursed, or detested. It is one of the most abusive expressions that can be used towards your fellow creatures. Nothing terrifies a young Gipsy so much as to bawl out to him, "_Sallah, jaw drom_," which, in plain English, nearly means, "You accursed, take the road." It appears that, in Hindostanee, _Salla_ is a word of the highest reproach, and that nothing can provoke a Hindoo so much as the applying of it to him. When cursing and swearing, by what would appear to be the Deity, the Gipsies make use of the word _Sallahen_. [207] _Nawken_ has a number of significations, such as Tinkler, Gipsy, a wanderer, a worker in iron, a man who can do anything for himself in the mechanical arts, &c., &c. I was desirous to learn, from this Gipsy, if there were any traditions among the Scottish Gipsies, as to their origin, and the country from which they came. He stated that the language of which he had given me a specimen was an Ethiopian dialect, used by a tribe of thieves and robbers; and that the Gipsies were originally from Ethiopia, although now called Gipsies.[208] He now spoke of himself and his tribe by the name of Gipsies, without hesitation or alarm. "Our Gipsy language," added he, "is softer than your harsh Gaelic." He was at considerable pains to give me the proper sound of the words. The letter _a_ is pronounced broad in their language, like _aw_ in paw, or _a_ in water; and _ie_, or _ee_, in the last syllable of a great many words, are sounded short and quick; and _ch_ soft, as in church. Their speech appears to be copious, for, said he, they have a great many words and expressions for one thing. He further stated that the Gipsy language has no alphabet, or character, by which it can be learned, or its grammatical construction ascertained. He never saw any of it written. I observed to him that it would, in course of time, be lost. He replied, that "so long as there existed two Gipsies in Scotland, it would never be lost." He informed me that every one of the Yetholm Tinklers spoke the language; and that almost all those persons who were selling earthen-ware at St. Boswell's fair were Gipsies. I counted myself twenty-four families, with earthen-ware, and nine female heads of families, selling articles made of horn. These thirty-three families, together with a great many single Gipsies scattered through the fair, would amount to above three hundred Gipsies on the spot. He further mentioned that none of the Yetholm Gipsies were at the market. The old man also informed me that a great number of our horse-dealers are Gipsies. "Listen attentively," said he, "to our horse-coupers, in a market, and you will hear them speaking in the Gipsy tongue." I enquired how many there were in Scotland acquainted with the language. He answered, "There are several thousand." I further enquired, if he thought the Gipsy population would amount to five thousand souls. He replied he was sure there were fully five thousand of his tribe in Scotland. It was further stated to me, by this family, that the Gipsies are at great pains in teaching their children, from their very infancy, their own language; and that they embrace every opportunity, when by themselves, of conversing in it, about their ordinary affairs. They also pride themselves very much in being in possession of a speech peculiar to themselves--quite unknown to the public. [208] The tradition among the Scottish Gipsies of being Ethiopians, whatever weight the reader may attach to it, dates as far back, at least, as the year 1615; for it is mentioned in the remission under the privy seal, granted to William Auchterlony, of Cayrine, for resetting John Faa and his followers. _See page 113._--ED. I then sent for some spirits wherewith to treat the old chief; but I was cautioned, by one of the family, not to press him to drink much, as, from his advanced age and infirmities, little did him harm. The moment you speak to an intelligent Gipsy chief, in a familiar and kindly manner, putting yourself, as it were, on a level with him, you find him entirely free from all embarrassment in his manners. He speaks to you, at once, in a free, independent, confident, emphatic tone, without any rudeness in his way of addressing you. He never loses his self-possession. The old chieftain sang part of a Gipsy song, in his own language, but he would not allow me to write it down.[209] Indeed, by his manner, he seemed frequently to hesitate whether he would proceed any further in giving me information, and appeared to regret that he had gone so far as he had done. I now and then stopped him in his song, and asked him the meaning of some of the expressions. It was, however, intermixed with a few English words; perhaps every fifth word was English. The Gipsy words, _graunzie_ (barn), _caunies_ (chickens), _molzie_ (wine), _staurdie_ (prison), _mort_ and _chauvies_ (wife and children), were often repeated. In short, the subject of the song was that of a Gipsy, lying in chains in prison, lamenting that he could not support his wife and children by plunder and robbery. The Gipsy was represented as mourning over his hard fate, deprived of his liberty, confined in a dungeon, and expressing the happiness and delight which he had when free, and would have were he lying in a barn, or out-house, living upon poultry, and drinking wine with his tribe.[210] [209] The Scottish Gipsies have doubtless an oral literature, like their brethren in other countries. It would be strange indeed if they did not rank as high, in that respect, as many of the barbarous tribes in the world. People so situated, with no written language, are wonderfully apt at picking up, and retaining, any composition that contains poetry and music, to which oral literature is chiefly confined. In that respect, their faculties, like those of the blind, are sharpened by the wants which others do not experience in indulging a feeling common to all mankind. A striking instance of a people, unacquainted with the art of writing, possessing a literature, is said to have been found in Hawaii; and to such an extent, as to "possess a force and compass that, at the beginning of the study of it, would not have been credited."--ED. [210] A song which a female Gipsy sang to Mr. Borrow, at Moscow, commenced in this way, "Her head is aching with grief, as if she had tasted wine;" and ended thus, "That she may depart in quest of the lord of her bosom, and share his joys and pleasures."--ED. This family, like all their race, now became much alarmed at their communications; and it required considerable trouble on my part to allay their fears. The old man was in the greatest anguish of mind, at having committed himself at all, relative to his speech. I was very sorry for his distress, and renewed my promise not to publish his name, or place of residence, assuring him he had nothing to fear. It is now many years since he died. He was considered a very decent, honest man, and was a great favourite with those who were acquainted with him. But his wife, and some other members of his family, followed the practices of their ancestors. Publish their language! Give to the world that which they had kept to themselves, with so much solicitude, so much tenacity, so much fidelity, for three hundred and fifty years! A parallel to such a phenomenon cannot be found within the whole range of history.[211] What will the Tinklers, the "poor things," as Sir Walter Scott so feelingly called them--what will they think of me, after the publication of the present work?[212] [211] Smith, in his "Hebrew people," writes: "The Jews had almost lost, in the _seventy_ years' captivity, their original language; that was now become dead; and they spoke a jargon made up of their own language and that of the Chaldeans, and other nations with whom they had mingled. Formerly, preachers had only explained subjects; now, they were obliged to explain words; words which, in the sacred code, were become obsolete, equivocal, dead."--ED. [212] The Gipsies have been much annoyed, in late times, by people anxious to find out their secrets. The circumstance caused them, at first, much alarm as to what it meant; but when they came to learn the object of this modern Gipsy-hunting, they became, in a measure, reconciled to their troubles; for they were perfectly satisfied that the labours of these inquisitive people would, in the language of Ruthven, "be in vain." But the attempt of our author, with his "open sesame," caused not a few of them to travel through life with the weight of a millstone hanging about their necks, which the publication, now, is perhaps calculated to lighten. The "giving to the world everything relative to their tribe," was something they were more apt to over than under estimate. To be "put in the papers," judging from the horror with which such is regarded by our own humble people, was bad enough; still, the end of that would, in their peculiar way of thinking, be merely the "lighting of the candles, and curling the hair, of the gentle folk." But to have themselves put in a book--to see themselves, in their imaginations, "carried about in every bit herd-laddie's pouch," was something that aggravated them. The presumptuous pride, the overweening conceit of a high-mettled Scottish Gipsy; his boasted descent--a descent at once high, illustrious, and lost in antiquity; his unbounded contempt for the rabble of town and country--rendered him, under the circumstances, almost incapable of brooking the idea of seeing his race exposed to, what he would consider, the ridicule of the very herds. The very idea of it was to him mortifying and maddening. Well might our author, from having been so much mixed up with the Gipsies, show some hesitancy ere taking a step that would have brought such a nest of hornets about his ears. But, all things considered, my impression is, that the outdoor Gipsies, at the present day, will feel extremely proud of the present work; and that the same may be said of all classes of them, if one subject had been excluded from the volume, over which they will be very apt to growl a little in secret.--ED. While walking one day, with a friend, around the harbour of Grangemouth, I observed a man, who appeared above seventy years of age, carrying a small wooden box on his shoulder, a leathern apron tied around his waist, with a whitish coloured bull-dog following him. He was enquiring of the crews of the vessels in the port, whether they had any pots, kettles, or pans to repair. Just as my friend and I came up to him, on the quay, I said to him, in a familiar manner, as if I knew exactly what he was, "_Baurie jucal_," words which signify, in the Gipsy language, a "good dog." Being completely taken by surprise, the old man turned quickly round, and, looking down at his dog, said, without thinking what he was about, "Yes, the dog is not bad." But the words had scarcely escaped his lips ere he affected not to comprehend my question, after he had distinctly answered it. He looked exceedingly foolish, and afforded my friend a hearty laugh, at his attempt at recovering himself. He became agitated and angry, and called out, "What do you mean? I don't understand you--yes, the dog is _hairy_." I said not another word, nor took any further notice of him, but passed on, in case of provoking him to mischief. He stood stock-still upon the spot, and, keeping his eyes fixed upon me, as long as I was in sight, appeared to be considering with himself what I could be, or whether he might not have seen me before. He looked so surprised and alarmed, that he could scarcely trust himself in the place, since he found, to a certainty, that his grand secret was known. I saw him a short while afterwards, at a little distance, with his glasses on, sitting on the ground, in the manner of the East, with his hammers and files, tin and copper, about him, repairing cooking utensils belonging to a vessel in the basin; with his trusty _jucal_, sitting close at his back, like a sentinel, to defend him. The truth is, I was not very fond of having anything further to do with this member of the tribe, in case he had resented my interference with him and his speech. This old man wore a long great-coat, and externally looked exactly like a blacksmith. No one of ordinary observation could have perceived him to be a Gipsy; as there were no striking peculiarities of expression about his countenance, which indicated him as being one of that race. I was surprised at my own discovery. A Gipsy informed me that almost all our thimble-riggers, or "thimble-men," as they are sometimes called, are a superior class of Gipsies, and converse in the Gipsy language. In the summer of 1836, an opportunity presented itself to me to verify the truth of this information. On a by-road, between Edinburgh and Newhaven, I fell in with a band of these thimble-riggers, employed at their nefarious occupation. The band consisted of six individuals, all personating different characters of the community. Some had the appearance of mercantile clerks, and others represented young farmers, or dealers in cattle, of inferior appearance. The man in charge of the board and thimbles looked like a journeyman blacksmith or plumber. They all pretended to be strangers to each other. Some were betting and playing, and others looking on, and acting as decoys. None besides themselves were present, except myself, a young lad, and a respectable-looking elderly female. I stood and looked at the band for a little; but as nobody was playing but themselves, the man with the thimbles, to lead me on, urged me to bet with him, and try my fortune at his board. I said I did not intend to play, and was only looking at them. I took a steady look at the faces of each of the six villains; but, whenever their eyes caught mine, they looked away, or down to the ground, verifying the saying that a rogue cannot look you in the face. The man at the board again urged me to play, and, with much vapouring and insolence, took out a handful of notes, and said he had many hundreds a year; that I was a poor, shabby fellow, and had no money on me, and, therefore, could not bet with him. I desired him to let me alone, otherwise I would let them see I was not to be insulted, and that I knew more about them than they were aware of. "Who the devil are you, sir, to speak to us in that manner," was the answer I received. I again replied, that, if they continued their insolence, I would show them who I was. This only provoked them the more, and encreased their violent behaviour. High words then arose, and the female alluded to, thinking I was in danger, kindly entreated me to leave them. I now thought it time to try what effect my Gipsy words would produce upon them. In an authoritative tone of voice, I called out to them, "_Chee, chee!_" which, in the Scottish Gipsy language, signifies "Hold your tongue," "be silent," or "silence."[213] The surprised thimble-men were instantly silent. They spoke not a word, but looked at one another. Only, one of them whispered to his companions, "He is not to be meddled with." They immediately took up their board, thimbles and all, and left the place, apparently in considerable alarm, some taking one direction and some another. The female in question was also surprised at seeing their insolent conduct repressed, in a moment, by a single expression. "But, sir," said she, "what was that you said to them, for they seem afraid?" I was myself afraid to say another word to them, and took care they did not see me go to my dwelling-house.[214] [213] A lady, who had been seventeen years in India, told me that "_Chee_, _chee_" was, in Hindostanee, an expression of reproof, corresponding exactly with our "Fie, shame!" "Oh fie, shame!" [214] About four years after this occurrence, I was invited to dine at the house of a friend, with whose wife I was not acquainted. On being introduced to her, I was rather surprised at the repeated hard looks which she took at me. At last she said, "I think I have seen you before. Were you never engaged with a band of thimble-men, near Newhaven?" I said I was, some years ago. "Do you recollect," continued she, "of a female taking you by the arm, and urging you to leave them?" I said, "Perfectly." "Well, then, I am the female; and I yet recollect your words were _Chee, chee_." She mentioned the circumstance to her husband at the time; but he always said to her that I must have been only one of the blackguards themselves, deceiving her. He would not listen to her when she described me as not at all like a thimble-rigger, but always answered her, "I tell ye, woman, the man you spoke to was nothing but one of these villains." The thimble-riggers who molested Mr. Rose, ship-builder, so much, also answered my Gipsy words distinctly; and, ever afterwards, took off their hats to me, as I passed them playing at their game. [The thimble-men here alluded to took up their quarters immediately to the west of Leith Fort, where the road takes a turn, at a right angle, a little in front of Mr. Rose's house, and there takes a similar turn towards the west: the best position for carrying on the thimble game. So exasperated was this gentleman, when, by every means in his power, he failed to dislodge them, that he sent some of the men from his yard, to erect, on the spot, a pole, which he covered with sheet-iron, to prevent its being cut down; and placed on the top of it a board, having this upon it, "Beware of thimble-riggers and chain-droppers," with a hand pointing directly below. This had no effect, however, for the "knights of the thimble" pursued their game right under it. A gentleman, in passing one day, directed their attention to the board, but the only reply he got was, "Bah! that's nothing. Where can you find a shop without a sign? and where's the other person that gets a sign from the public for nothing?" Thimble-rigging is peculiarly a Gipsy game. In Great Britain, the Gipsies nearly monopolize it; and it would be singular if some of the American thimblers were not Gipsies.--ED.] One of the favourite, and permanent, fields of operation of these thimblers is on the Queensferry road, from where it is intersected by the street leading from the back of Leith Fort, on the east, to the new road leading from Granton pier, on the west. This part of the Queensferry road is intersected by about half-a-dozen cross-roads, all leading from the landing and shipping places at the piers of Granton, Trinity, and Newhaven. These cross-roads are cut by three roads running nearly parallel to each other, viz., the road along the sea-beach, Trinity road, and the Queensferry road. A great portion of the passengers, by the many steamboats, pass along all these different roads, to and from Edinburgh. On all of these roads, between the water of Leith and the Forth, the thimble-riggers station themselves, as single individuals, or in numbers, as it may answer their purpose. In fact, this part of the country between the sea and Edinburgh, is so much chequered by roads crossing each other, that it may be compared to the meshes of a spider's web, and the thimblers as so many spiders, watching to pounce upon their prey. The moment one of these sentinels observes a stranger appear, signals are made to his confederates, when their organized plan of operations for entrapping the unwary person is immediately put in execution. Strangers, unacquainted with the locality, are greatly bewildered among all the cross-roads mentioned, and have considerable difficulty in threading their way to the city. One of the gang will then step forward, and, pretending to be a stranger himself, will enquire of the others the road to such and such a place. Frequently the unsuspecting and bewildered individual will enquire of the thimbler for some street or place in Edinburgh. The decoy and the victim now walk in company, and converse familiarly together on various topics; the thimbler offers snuff to his friend, and makes himself as agreeable as he can; while one of the gang, at a distance in front, drops a watch, chain, or other piece of mock jewelry, or commences playing at the thimble-board. The decoy is sure to lead his dupe exactly to the spot where the trap is laid, and where he will probably be plundered. One or these entrapments terminated in the death of its subject. A working man, having risked his half-year's wages at the thimble-board, of course lost every farthing of the money; and took the loss so much to heart as, in a fit of despondency, to drown himself in the water of Leith. In the beginning of 1842, I fell in with six of these thimble-riggers and chain-droppers, on Newhaven road, on their way to Edinburgh. I was anxious to discover the nature of their conversation, and kept as close to them as I could, without exciting their suspicions. Like that of most people brought up in one particular line of life, their conversation related wholly to their own trade--that of swindling, theft, and robbery. I overheard them speaking of "bloody swells," and of dividing their booty. One of them was desired by the others to look after a certain steamboat, expected to arrive, and to get a bill to ascertain its movements exactly. He said he would "require three men to take care of that boat"; meaning, as I understood him, that all these men were necessary for laying his snares, and executing his designs upon the unsuspecting passengers, as they landed from the vessel, and were on their way to their destinations. The manager of the steamboat company could not have consulted with his subordinates, about their lawful affairs, with more care and deliberation, or in a more cool, business-like way, than were these villains in contriving plans for plundering the public. On their approach to Pilrig street, the band separated into pairs; some taking the north, and some the south, side of Leith walk, for Edinburgh, where they vanished in the crowd. Their language was fearful, every expression being accompanied by a terrible oath. On another occasion, I fell in with another band of these vagabond thimble-men, on the Dalkeith road, near Craigmiller Castle. I asked the fellow with the thimbles, "Is that _gaugie a nawken_?" pointing to one of the gang who had just left him. The question, in plain English, was, "Is that man a Gipsy?" The thimbler flew at once into a great passion, and bawled out, "Ask himself, sir." He then fell upon me, and a gentleman who was with me, in most abusive language, applying to us the most insulting epithets he could think of. It was evident to my friend that the thimble-man perfectly understood my Gipsy question. So enraged was he, that we were afraid he would follow us, and do us some harm. My friend did not consider himself safe till he was in the middle of Edinburgh, for many a look did he cast behind him, to see whether the Gipsy was not in pursuit of us.[215] [215] There is a Gipsy belonging to one of these bands, known by the soubriquet of the "winged duck," from having lost an arm, of whom I have often heard our author speak. He is what may be called the captain of the company. A description of him, and his way of life, may be interesting, inasmuch as it illustrates a class of Scottish Gipsies at the present day. About the year 1853, three young gentlemen, from the town of Leith, had occasion to take a stroll over Arthur's Seat, a hill that overhangs Edinburgh, on the east side of the city. In climbing the hill, they observed, a little way before them, a man toiling up the ascent, whom they did not notice till they came close upon him, and who had evidently been laying off on the side of the path, and entered it as they approached it. He appears about sixty years of age, is well dressed, and carries a fine cane, which he keeps pressing into the ground, to help him up the hill. Just as they make up to him, he abruptly stops, and turns round, so as almost to touch them. "Hech, how! I'm blown, I'm blown; I'm fairly done up. Young gentlemen, you have the advantage of me; I'm getting old, and it is hard for me to climb the hill." (Blown, done up, indeed! The fellow has stamina enough to outclimb any of them for years yet.) An agreeable conversation ensues, such as at once gains for him the confidence of the youths. He appears to them so mild, so bland, so fatherly, so worthy of respect, in short, a "nice old cove," who is evidently enjoying his _otium cum dignitate_ in his old age, in some cottage near by, upon a pension, an annuity, or a moderate competency of some sort. During the conversation, he manages to ascertain that his young friends have not been on the hill for some time--that one of them, indeed, has never been there before. All at once he exclaims, "Ah! what can this be? Let us go and see." Upon which they step forward to look at a person like a mechanic playing at the thimbles. Placing his arm around the neck of one of the young men, he begins to moralize: "Pray, young gentlemen, don't bet, (they had not shown the least symptoms of doing that;) it's wrong to bet; it's a thing I never do; I would advise you not to do it. This is a rascally thimbler; he'll cheat, he'll rob you." At this time there are three playing at the board, winning and losing money rapidly. The "old cove" becomes impatient to be gone, and motions so as to imply, "Boys, let us go, let us go." Moving a few steps forward, he halts to admire the scenery, (but casts a leering eye in the direction of the board.) "Ah! there's another goose gone to be plucked; let us see what luck he meets with." Now thimble rigging is the game, of all others, by which the uninitiated can be duped. They see the pea put under one of the thimbles, (nutshells they are, indeed;) there seems to be no doubt of that. The thimbles are then so gently moved, that any one can follow them. The pea is not afterwards tampered with--that is evident. All, then, that remains to be done, is to lift the thimble under which the pea is, and secure your prize. But the thimble man, with his long nail, and nimble finger, has secured the pea under his nail, or, with the crook of his little finger, thrust it into the palm of his hand, while he pretended to cover it with the thimble. An accomplice, to make doubly sure of the pea being under the thimble, lifts it, and shows a pea, which he, by sleight of hand, drops, and, while pretending to cover it, as nimbly takes it up again. Betting and playing go on as before. The player makes some fine hauls, but loses a game. He swears that foul play has been used. An altercation follows. The man at the board gets excited, and to show that he really is honourable in his playing, exclaims, "Well, sir, there's your money again; try another game if you have a mind." "Now that is really honest, and no mistake about it," remarks the "old cove." Then the thimbler averts his head, to speak to a person behind him, and the "old cove" slyly lifts a thimble and shows the pea, and whispers very confidentially to his friends, "Now, young gentlemen, you can safely bet a few shillings on that." They shake their heads, however, for they know too much about thimbling. The "old cove" now gets fidgety, and, managing to edge a little away from the board, commences, in a subdued tone, to speak, in a strange gibberish, to another bystander; but, forgetting himself, drops a word rather louder than the others, on which, as he turns round and catches the eyes of his young friends, he coughs and hems. On hearing the gibberish, a fear steals over the young men, on finding themselves surrounded by a band of desperadoes, in so solitary a place, and they make haste to be off. But the "old cove," to quiet their suspicions, accompanies them to a convenient spot, where he leaves them, to go to his home, by a side-path that soon leads him out of sight. On separating, he looks around him at the scenery, now lets fall his stick, now picks up something, that he may, with less suspicion, watch the movements of his escaped victims. They feel a singular relief in getting rid of his company, and, with tact, dog him over the hill, till they see him go back to the thimblers. They then think over their adventure, and the strange jargon they have heard, and unanimously exclaim, "Wasn't he a slippery old serpent, after all!" On this occasion, there were no less than fourteen of these fellows present, some of them stationed here, some there, while they kept artfully moving around and about the hill, so as not to appear connected, but frequently approached the board, to contribute to and watch their luck. They personated various characters. One of them played the country lout, whose dress, gait, gape, and stare were inimitable. On the slightest symptom of danger manifesting itself, they would, by the movement of a hat, scatter, and vanish in an instant. Among the people generally, a mystery attaches to these and other thimble-men. No one seems to know any thing about them--who they are or where they come from--and yet they are seen flitting everywhere through the country; but hardly ever two days together in one dress. But the mystery is solved by their being Gipsies. They are dangerous fellows to meddle with; yet they seem to prefer thimbling, chain-dropping, card-playing, pocket-picking, in fairs and thoroughfares, and pigeon-plucking in every form, to robbery on the high-way, after the manner of their ancestors. Thimble-rigging, according to Sir J. Gardner Wilkinson, was practised in ancient Egypt. He calls it "thimble-rig, or the game of cups, under which a ball was put, while the opposite party guessed under which of four it was concealed."--ED. The Gipsies in Scotland consider themselves to be of the same stock as those in England and Ireland, for they are all acquainted with the same speech. They afford assistance to one another, whenever they happen to meet. The following facts will at least show that the Scottish and Irish Gipsies are one and the same people. In the county of Fife, I once fell in with an Irish family, to appearance in great poverty and distress, resting themselves on the side of the public road. A shelty and an ass were grazing hard by. The ass they used in carrying a woman, who, they said, was a hundred and one years of age. She was shrunk and withered to a skeleton, or rather, I should say, to a bundle of bones; and her chin almost rested on her knees, and her body was nearly doubled by age. On interrogating the head of the family, I found that his name was Hugh White, and that he was an Irishman, and a son of the old woman who was with him. I put some Gipsy words to him, to ascertain whether or not he was one of the tribe. He pretended not to understand what I said; but his daughter, of about six years of age, replied, "But I understand what he says." I then called out sharply to him, "_Jaw vree_"--("Go away," or "get out of the way.") "As soon as I can," was his answer. On leaving him, I again called, "_Beenship-davies_"--("Good-day.") "Good-day, sir; God bless you," was his immediate reply. I happened, at another time, to be in the court-house of one of the burghs north of the Forth, when two Irishmen, of the names of O'Reilly and McEwan, were at the bar for having been found drunk, and fighting within the town. They were sentenced by the magistrates to three days' imprisonment, and to be "banished the town," for their riotous conduct. The men had the Irish accent, and had certainly been born and brought up in Ireland; but their habiliments and general appearance did not correspond exactly with the ordinary dress and manners of common Irish peasants, although their features were in all respects Hibernian. When the magistrates questioned them in respect to their conduct, the prisoners looked very grave, and said, "Sure, and it plase your honours, our quarrel was nothing but whiskey, and sure we are the best friends in the world;" and seemed very penitent. But when the magistrates were not looking at them, they were smiling to each other, and keeping up a communication in pantomime. Suspecting them to be Irish Gipsies, I addressed the wife of McEwan as follows: "For what is the _riah_ (magistrate) going to put your _gaugie_ (man) in _staurdie_, (prison)?" "Only for a little whiskey, sir," was her immediate reply. She gave me, on the spot, the English of the following words; adding, at the same time, that I had got the _Gipsy_ language, but that hers was only the _English cant_. She was afraid to acknowledge that she was a Gipsy, as such a confession might, in her opinion, have proved prejudicial to her husband, in the situation in which he was placed. _Gaugie_, man. _Managie_, woman. _Chauvies_, children. _Riah_, magistrate. _Chor_, thief. _Yaka_, eyes. _Grye_, horse. _Roys_, spoons. _Skews_, platters. _Mashlam_, metal. I observed the woman instantly communicate to her husband the conversation she had with me. She immediately returned to me, and, after questioning me as to my name, occupation, and place of residence, very earnestly entreated me to save her _gaugie_ from the _staurdie_. I asked her, how many _chauvies_ she had? "Twelve, sir." Were any of them _chors_? "None, sir." Two of her _chauvies_ were in her hand, weeping bitterly. The woman was in great distress, and when she heard the sound of her own language, she thought she saw a friend. I informed one of the magistrates, whom I knew, that the prisoners were Gipsies; and proposed to him to mitigate the punishment of the woman's husband, on condition of his giving me a specimen of his secret speech. But the reply of the man of authority was, "The scoundrel shall lie in prison till the last hour of his sentence." The "scoundrel" however, did not remain in durance so long. While the jailer was securing him in prison, the determined Tinkler, with the utmost coolness and indifference, asked him, which part of the jail would be the easiest for him to break through. The jailer told him that, if he attempted to escape, the watchman, stationed in the church-yard, close to the prison, would shoot him. On visiting the prison next morning, the turnkey found that the Gipsy had undone the locks of the doors, and fled during the night. O'Reilly, the other Gipsy, remained, in a separate cell, the whole period of his sentence. When the officers were completing the other part of his punishment--"banishing him from the town"--the regardless, light-hearted Irish Tinkler went capering along the streets, with his coat off, brandishing, and sweeping, and twirling his shillalah, in the Gipsy fashion. Meeting, in this excited state, his late judge, the Tinkler, with the utmost contempt and derision, called out to him, "Plase your honour! won't you now take a fight with me, for the sake of friendship?" This worthy Irish Gipsy represented himself as the head Tinkler in Perth, and the first of the second class of boxers. On another occasion, I observed a horde of Gipsies on the high street of Inverkeithing, employed in making spoons from horn. I spoke to one of the young married men, partly in Scottish Gipsy words, when he immediately answered me in English. He said they were all natives of Ireland. They had, male and female, the Irish accent completely. I invited this man to accompany me to a public-house, that I might obtain from him a specimen of his Irish Gipsy language. The town-clerk being in my company at the time, I asked him to go with me, to hear what passed; but he refused, evidently because he considered that the company of a Gipsy would contaminate and degrade him. I treated the Tinkler with a glass of spirits, and obtained from him the following words: _Yaik_, one. _Duie_, two. _Trin_, three. _Punch_, five. _Saus_, six. _Luften_, eight. _Sonnakie_, gold. _Roug_, silver. _Vanister_, ring. _Rat_, night. _Cham_, the moon. _Borlan_, the sun. _Yak_, fire. _Chowrie_, knife. _Bar_, stone. _Shuha_, coat. _Roy_, spoon. _Chauvie_, child. _Gaugie_, man. _Mort and kinshen_, wife and child. _Klistie_, soldier. _Ruffie lee ma_, devil miss me. _Nasher_, deserter. _Daw-douglars_, hand-cuffs. _Staurdie_, prison. _Lodie_, lodgings. _Vile_, town. _Yak_, eye. _Deekers_, eyes. _Shir_, head. _Test_, head. _Nak_, nose. _Mooie_, mouth. _Meffemel_, hand. _Grye_, horse. _Aizel_, ass. _Dugal_, dog. _Bakra_, sheep. _Ruffie_, devil. _Bing_, devil. _Feck_, take. _Ruffie feck ma_, devil take me. _Nawken_, Tinkler. _Baurie-dews, Nawken_, good-day, Tinkler. This man conducted himself very politely, his behaviour being very correct and becoming; and he seemed much pleased at being noticed, and kindly treated. At first, he spoke wholly in the Gipsy language, thinking that I was as well acquainted with it as himself. But when he found that I knew only a few words of it, he, like all his tribe, stopped in his communications, and, in this instance, began to quiz and laugh at my ignorance. On returning to the street, I repeated some of the words to one of the females. She laughed, and, with much good humour, said, "You will put me out, by speaking to me in that language." These facts prove that the Irish Gipsies have the same language as those in Scotland. The English Gipsy is substantially the same. There are a great many Irish Gipsies travelling in Scotland, of whom I will again speak, in the following chapter. They are not easily distinguished from common Irish peasants, except that they are generally employed in some sort of traffic, such as hawking earthen-ware, trinkets, and various other trifles, through the country. It may interest the reader to know how the idea originated that the Gipsies, at all events their speech, came, or was thought to have come, from Hindostan. According to Grellmann, it was in this way: "The following is an article to be found in the Vienna Gazette, from a Captain Szekely, who was thinking of searching for (the origin of) the Gipsies, and their language, in the East Indies: In the year 1763, on the 6th of November, a printer, whose name was Stephen Pap Szathmar Nemethi, came to see me. Talking upon various subjects, we at last fell upon that of the Gipsies; and my guest related to me the following anecdote, from the mouth of a preacher of the Reformed Church, Stephen Vali, at Almasch. When the said Vali studied at the University of Leyden, he was intimately acquainted with some young Malabars, of whom three are obliged constantly to study there; nor can they return home till relieved by three others. Having observed that their native language bore a great affinity to that spoken by the Gipsies, he availed himself of the opportunity to note down from themselves upwards of one thousand words, together with their significations. After Vali was returned from the University, he informed himself of the Raber Gipsies, concerning the meaning of his Malabar words, which they explained without trouble or hesitation."[216] [216] "The opinion, that the Gipsies came originally from India, seems to have been very early entertained, although it was again soon forgotten, or silently relinquished. Hieronymus Foroliviensis, in the nineteenth volume of Muratori, says, that on the 7th day of August, A. D. 1422, 200 of the Cingari came to his native town, and remained there two days, on their way to Rome, and that some of them said that they came from India, '_et ut audivi aliqui dicebant quod erant de Indiâ_;' and the account which Munster gives of what he gathered from one of the Cingari, in 1524, seems to prove that an impression existed amongst them of their having come from that country."--_Bright._--ED. None of the Scottish Gipsy words have as yet, I believe, been collated with the Hindostanee, the supposed mother tongue of the Gipsies.[217] I showed my list to a gentleman lately from India, who, at first sight, pointed out, from among several hundred words and sentences scattered through these pages, about thirty-nine which very closely resembled Hindostanee. But in ascertaining the origin of the Gipsies, the traveller, Dr. Bright, thinks it would be desirable to procure some of the speech of the lowest classes in India, and compare it with the Gipsy, as spoken in Europe; for the purpose of showing, more correctly, the affinity of the two languages. He supposes, as I understand him, that the terms used by the despised and unlettered Gipsies would probably resemble more closely the vulgar idiom of the lowest castes in India, than the Hindostanee spoken by the higher ranks, or that which is to be found in books. The following facts show that Dr. Bright's conjectures are not far from the truth. [217] Mr. Baird's Missionary Report contained a collation of the Scottish Gipsy with Hindostanee, but that appeared considerably after what our author has said was written.--ED. I had occasion at one time to be on board of a vessel lying in the harbour of Limekilns, Fifeshire, where I observed a black man, acting as cook, of the name of John Lobbs, about twenty-five years of age, and a native of Bombay, who could neither read nor write any language whatever. He stated that he was now a Christian, and had been baptized by the name of John. He had been absent from India three years, as cabin boy, in several British vessels, and spoke English well. He appeared to be of a low caste in his native land, but sharpened by his contact with Europeans. Recollecting Dr. Bright's hint, it occurred to me that this Hindoo's vulgar dialect might resemble the language of our Scottish Gipsies. I repeated to him about one hundred and eighty Gipsy words and expressions. The greater part were familiar to his ear, but many of them that meant one thing in Gipsy, had quite a different signification in his speech. I shall, however, give the following Gipsy words, with the corresponding words of Lobb's language, and the English opposite.[218] [218] Meeting a Bengalee at Peebles, begging money to pay his passage back to India, I repeated to him, from memory, a few of the Gipsy words I had collected a week before. After listening attentively, he answered that it was the Moor's language I had got, and gave me the English of _paunie_, water, and _davies_, day. I took the first opportunity of mentioning this interview to the Gipsies, observing it was the general opinion that their forefathers came from India. They, however, persisted in their own tradition, that they were a tribe of Ethiopians, which is believed by all the Scottish Gipsies. [See pages 113 and 315.--ED.] SCOTTISH GIPSY. JOHN LOBBS' ENGLISH. HINDOSTANEE. _Baurie_, great, grand, rich. _Bura_, Grand, good, great, rich. _Been_, great, grand, rich. _Beenie_, Grand, good, great, rich. _Callo_, _Kala_, Black. _Lon_, _Loon_, Salt. _Gourie_, a man. _Gowra_, White man. _Gaugie_, a man. _Gaugie_, or Rich man. _Fraugie_, _Mort_, a wife. _Murgia_, Dead wife. _Chavo_, _Chokna_, A boy, a son. _Praw_, _Praw_, Son. _Prawl_, _Prawl_, Daughter. _Nais-gaugie_, grand- father. _Nais gaugie_, Old man. _Nais-mort_, grand- mother. _Nais mort_, Old woman. _Riah_, _Riah_, A chief, a gentleman. _Rajah_, a chief, governor, _Rajah_, A chief, a lord. _Raunie_, lady, wife of a gentleman. _Raunie_, The wife of a prince. _Been riah_, _Beenie riah_, The king. _Been raunie_, _Beenie raunie_, The queen. _Been gourie_, _Beenie gourie_, A gentleman. _Bauree rajah_, _Bura rajah_, The king. _Baurie raunie_, _Bura raunie_, The queen. _Baurie forest_, _Bura frost_, _bura Great town. malook_, _Baurie paunie_, _Bura paunie_, The sea, the great water. _Lon paunie_, _Loon paunie_, Salt water, the ocean. _Grye_, _Ghora_, Horse. _Prancie_, a horse. _Prawncie_, A gentleman's carriage. _Gournie_, _Goroo_, A cow. _Backra_, _Buckra_, A sheep. _Sherro_, _Sir_, Head. _Yak_, _Aukh_, Eye. _Yaka_, _Aukha_, Eyes. _Nak_, _Nak_, Nose. _Mooie_, _Mooih_, Mouth. _Chee_, _Jeebh_, The tongue. _Chee chee_, _Choopra_, Hold your tongue. _Femmel_, hand. _Fingal_, Ends of the fingers. _Vast_, _Wast_, The hand. _Peerie_, _Peir_, The foot. _Gave_, _Gaw_, Village. _Kair_, _Gur_, A house. _Wautheriz_, _Waudrie_, A bed. _Outhrie_, a window. _Outrie_, _Durvaja_, A door. _Eegees_, bed clothes. _Eegees_, Bed curtains. _Shuch-hamie_, _Shuamie_, A waistcoat. _Jair-dah_, _Jairda_, Woman's apron. _Gawd_, _Dowglaw_, A man's shirt. _Teeyakas_, _Teeyaka_, Shoes. _Scaf_, a hat. _Scaf_, a small piece of cloth tied around the head, like a fillet. _Skews_, _Skows_, Platters, jugs. _Chowrie_, _Choree_, Knife. _Harro_, _Dhoro_, Sword. _Sauster_, iron. _Sauspoon_, Iron pot-lid, iron. _Mass_, _Mass_, Flesh. _Thood_, _Doodh_, Milk. _Chizcazin_, cheese. _Chizcaizim_, Cheese-knife. _Blaw_, meal. _Blaw_, Indian corn. _Flatrin_, _Flatrin_, Fish of any kind. _Shaucha_, broth _Shoorwa_, Soup. _Molzie_, _Mool_, Wine. _Romanie_, whiskey. _Rominie_, Spirits, liquor. _Mumlie_, a candle. _Membootie_, Candles. _Fluffan_, _Floofan_, Smoking tobacco. _Yak_, _Ag_, Fire. _Paunie_, _Paunie_, Water. _Casties_, _Cashtes_, Fruit trees. _Bar_, _Dunbar_, A stone. _Sonnakie_, _Sona_, Gold. _Roug_, _Roopa_, Silver. _Chinda_, silver. _Chindee_, Silver, tin. _Geeve_, _Guing_, Wheat. _Mang_, _Chan_, _Jung_, The moon. _Bumie_, _Boomie_, To drink. _Mar_, _Marna_, To strike. _Rauge_, _Rawd_, Mad. _Choar_, _Chorna_, To steal. _Chor_, _Chor_, Thief. _Humff_, _Huff_, Give me. _Moolie_, death, to die, dead. _Moola_, Dead. _Quad_, _Quid_, Prison. _Staurdie_, prison. _Staurdee_, A prison, to confine, hold. _Jaw vree_, _Jowa_, Go away. _Auvie_, _Aow_, Coming, come here. _Davies_, _Din_, Day. _Rat_, _Raut_, Night. _Pagrin_, _Pawgrin_, To break. _Davies-pagrin_, _Dawis-pawgrin_, Day-break, the morning. _Klistie_, a soldier. _Kleestie_, Black soldier, Sepoy. _Nash_, deserter. _Natch_, To run away. _Loudnie_, _Loonie_, A bad woman.[219] [219] A lady who resided seventeen years in India, already alluded to, mentioned to me that the pronunciation of the Hindoos is broad, like that of the Scotch, particularly where the letter a occurs; and that the Scotch learn Hindostanee sooner, and more correctly, than the natives of other countries. For this reason, I am inclined to think that the Scottish Gipsy will have a greater resemblance to Hindostanee than the Gipsy of some other countries. My informant understood, he said, two of the dialects of Hindostan, the one called the Hindoo, and the other the Moors' language. The former, he said, the English in India generally spoke, but understood little of the latter; and that he himself did not know a word of the language of the Brahmins. When he failed to produce, in the Moors' language, the word corresponding to the Gipsy one, he frequently found it in what he called the Hindoo speech. The greater part of the Gipsy words, as I have already mentioned, were familiar to his ear; but many of them that signified one thing in his speech, meant quite another in Gipsy. For example, the word _Graunagie_, in Gipsy, signifies a _barn_; with Lobbs, it meant an _old rich man_. _Coories_, bed clothes or blankets, signified, in Lobbs' dialect, _ornaments for the ears_. _Dill_, a servant maid, according to Lobbs, was a _church_. _Shan davies_, a bad day, was the Hindostanee for _holiday_. _Managie_, a woman, signifies the _name of a person_, such as John or James. _Chavo_, a son, meant a _female child_; and _Pooklie_, hulled barley, _anything fine_. The two Gipsy words _Callo_ and _Rat_ are black and night; but, according to Lobbs, _Callorat_ is simply anything dark.[220] [220] In the report of the Fourteenth Gipsies' Festival, held at Southampton, under the superintendence of the Rev. James Crabb, the Gipsies' friend, on the 25th December, 1841, is the following statement: "The above gentleman, (the Rev. J. West, one of the speakers at the festival,) with the Rev. Mr. Crabb, and two elderly Gipsies, who speak the Gipsy language, called, the following morning, on a lady who had long resided in India, and speaks the Hindostanee language; and it was clear that many of the Rommany (Gipsy) words were pure Hindostanee, and other words strongly resembled that language."--_Hampshire Advertiser, 1st January, 1842._ This statement, made some years subsequent to the period at which I took down the words from Lobbs and the Gipsies in Scotland, is nearly in my own words, and proves that my opinion, as to the close affinity between Hindostanee and the Scottish Gipsy language, is correct. To confirm my collection of Scottish Gipsy words, I will collate some of those which I sent to Sir Walter Scott, for examination but not for publication, with those to be found in Mr. Baird's report, a publication which I first saw in 1842. SCOTTISH GIPSY. YETHOLM GIPSY. ENGLISH. _Gaugie_, _Gadgé_, Man. _Managie_, _Manishee_, Woman. _Mort_, Wife. _Chavo_, (_chauvies_, _Shavies_, children,) children, Son. _Praw_, _Gouré_ a boy, Son. _Prawl_, _Racklé_, a girl, Daughter. _Riah_, _Rai_, a gentleman, A chief. _Rajah_, Governor. _Baurie_, _Baré_, Good. _Sherro_, _Shero_, Head. _Yak_, _Yack_, Eye. _Yaka_, Eyes. _Nak_, _Nak_, Nose. _Mooie_, _Moi_, Mouth. _Vast_, _Vastie_, Hand. _Grye_, _Gr[=a][=i]_, Horse. _Bashanie_, _Basné_, Cock. _Caunie_, _Kanné_, Hen. _Drom_, _Drone_, Road. _Gave_, _Gaave_, Village. _Graunagie_, Barn. _Graunzie_, _Gransé_, Barn. _Kair_, _Keir_, House. _Outhrie_, Window. _Yag_, _Yag_, Fire. _Thood_, _Thud_, Milk. _Mass_, _Mass_, Flesh. _Peerie_, (or _blawkie_,) _Blakie_, Pot. _Paunie_, _Pawné_, Water. _Paurie_, Water. _Molzie_, _Mul_, Wine. _Roy_, _Roy_, Spoon. _Nab_, Horn. _Chorie_, Knife. _Chowrie_, _Chouré_, Knife. _Shuha_, _Shohé_, Coat. _Scaf_, (or _gogle_,) _Gogel_, Hat. _Harro_, Sword. _Beerie_, Ship. _Bumie_, _Peevan_, drinking, To drink. _Choar_, To steal. _Chor_, _Tschor_, Thief. _Staurdie_, _Stardé_, a jail, Prison. _Moolie_, _Moulian_, dying, Death. _Moolie_, _Moulé_, to kill, I'll kill you. _Bing_, _Bing_, The devil. The following Scottish Gipsy words appear to have some relation to the Sanscrit: SCOTTISH GIPSY. SANSCRIT. ENGLISH. _Yag_, _Agnish_, Fire. _Paurie_, _Varni_, Water. _Casties_, _Cashth_, Wood. _Duff_, _Dhupah_, Smoke. _Sneepa_, _Sweta_, White. _Callo_, _Cala_, Black. _Sherro_, _Sira_, The head. _Rajah_, _Rajah_, Lord. _Vast_, _Hastah_, The hand. _Praw_, _Putra_, Son. _Gave_, or _Gan_, _Gramam_, A village. _Mar_, _Mar_, To strike. _Loudnie_, _Lodha_, loved, A whore. In order to show the relationship of the language of the Gipsies in Scotland, England, Germany, Hungary, Spain, and Turkey, and the affinity between it and the Persian, Hindostanee, Sanscrit, Pali, and Kawi, I append a table containing the first ten numerals in all these tongues: TABLE OF THE FIRST TEN NUMERALS IN VARIOUS GIPSY DIALECTS, COMPARED WITH THOSE IN OTHER ORIENTAL LANGUAGES. ++------++-----------+--------+------------+-------+--------+-------+ || || Scottish |English | German |Hunga- |Hunga- |Turkish| || || Gipsy. | Gipsy. | Gipsy. | rian | rian | Gipsy.| || Eng- || | | | Gipsy.| Gipsy. | | ||lish. ++-----------+--------+------------+-------+--------+-------+ || || W. S. |HOYLAND.|GRELLMANN. |BRIGHT.|BORROW. |HOYL'D.| || || | | | | | | ++------++-----------+--------+------------+-------+--------+-------+ ||One ||Yaik |Aick |Ick, Ek |Jeg |Jek |Yeck | ||Two ||Duie |Dooce |Duj, Doj |Dui |Dui |Duy | ||Three ||Trin |Trin |Trin, Tri |Tri |Trin |Trin | ||Four ||Tor |{Shtar, |Schtar, Star|Stah |Schtar |Shtiar | || || |{Staur | | | | | ||Five ||Punch, Fo |Panji | {Pantsch, |Paunch |Pansch |Panch | || || | | {Pansch | | | | ||Six ||Shaigh |Shove |{Tschowe, |Schof |Tschov |Shove | || || | |{Schow, Sof | | | | ||Seven ||Naivairn |Heftan |Efta |Epta |Efta |Efta | || ||[221] | | | | | | ||Eight ||{Naigh, |. . . |Ochto |Opto |Ochto |Okto | || ||{Luften | | | | | | ||Nine ||Line |Henya |Enja, Eija |Ennia |Enija |Enia | ||Ten ||Nay |Desh |Desch, Des |Desh |D[=o]sch|Desh | ++------++-----------+--------+------------+-------+--------+-------+ ++------++--------+--------+-------+---------+---------+-------+-------++ || ||Spanish |Persian.|Vulgar |Sanscrit.|Sanscrit.| Pali. | Kawi. || || || Gipsy. | | Hindo-| | | | || || Eng- || | |stanee.| | | | || ||lish. ++--------+--------+-------+---------+---------+-------+-------+| || ||BORROW. |BORROW. |JOHN |POLOCK. | BORROW. |POLOCK.|POLOCK.|| || || | |LOBBS. | | | | || ++------++--------+--------+-------+---------+---------+-------+-------++ ||One ||Yeque |Ek |Yek |Eka |Ega |Ekka |Eka || ||Two ||Dui |Du |Doh |Dui |Dvaya |Di |Dui || ||Three ||Trin |Se |Tin |Tri |Treya |Tri |Tri || ||Four ||Estar |Chehar |Char |Chater |Tschatvar|Chatwa |Chator || || || | | | | | | || ||Five ||Pansche |Pansch |Paunsh |Pancha |Pantscha |Pancha |Pancha || || || | | | | | | || ||Six ||Job, Zoi|Schesche|Shaiah |Shat |Schasda |Cho |Sat || || || | | | | | | || ||Seven ||Hefta |Heft |Saut |Sapta |Sapta |Sap |Sapta || || || | | | | | | || ||Eight ||Otor |Hescht |Aut |Ashta |Aschta |At-tha |Asta || || || | | | | | | || ||Nine ||Esnia |Nu |Nong |Nava |Nava |Nowa |Nawa || ||Ten ||Deque |De |Dest |Dasa |Dascha |Thotsa |Dasa || ++------++--------+--------+-------+---------+---------+-------+-------++ [221] The four last of these numerals, in the Scottish Gipsy language, differ very considerably from the corresponding ones in the Table. I leave the matter to be settled by philologists. That the Gipsy language, in Scotland, is intermixed with cant, or slang, and other words, is certain, as will appear by the specimens I have exhibited.[222] I am inclined to believe, however, that were the cant and slang used by our flash men and others carefully examined, much of it would turn out to be corrupted Hindostanee, picked up from the Gipsies. I have, after considerable trouble, produced, and, I may venture to say, faithfully recorded, the raw materials as I found them: to separate the other words from the original and genuine Gipsy, is a task I leave to the learned philologist. I shall only observe, that the way in which the Gipsy language has been corrupted is this: That whenever the Gipsies find words not understood by the people among whom they travel, they commit such to memory, and use them in their conversation, for the purpose of concealment. In the Lowlands of Scotland, for example, they make use of Gaelic,[223] Welsh, Irish, and French words. These picked-up words and terms have, in the end, become part of their own peculiar tongue; yet some of the Gipsies are able to point out a number of these foreign words, as distinguished from their own. In this manner do the Gipsies carry along with them part of the language of every country through which they pass.[224] [222] It is remarkable, considering how much the habits and occupations of the Gipsies bring them in contact with beggars, thieves, and other bad and disorderly characters, how few of the slang words used by such persons have been adopted by them.--_Rev. Mr. Baird's Missionary Report to the Scottish Church, 1840._--ED. [223] Of the Highland Gipsies, I had the following account from a person of observation, and highly worthy of credit: There are many settled in Kintyre, who travel through the Highlands and Lowlands annually. They certainly speak, among themselves, a language totally distinct from either Gaelic or Lowland Scotch.--_Blackwood's Magazine._--ED. [224] "There is reason for supposing that the Gipsies had been wandering in the remote regions of Sclavonia, for a considerable time previous to entering Bohemia--the first civilized country of Europe in which they made their appearance; as their language abounds with words of Sclavonic origin, which could not have been adopted in a hasty passage through a wild and half populated country."--_Borrow._ That the Gipsies were, in some way, drawn together, at a very remote age, and became amalgamated, so as to form a race, can hardly admit of a doubt. But it is an opinion that has no reasonable foundation which supposes that they suddenly took their departure from India, and travelled together, till they entered and spread over Europe. They may, as I have conjectured in the Introduction, have separated into bands, and passed into countries in Asia, as they have done in Europe; and existed in Asia, and Africa, long before they appeared in Europe. For this reason, their language ought to vary in different countries; and it would be enough to identify them as the same race, were the substance of their language and their customs, or even their cast of mind, the same. In speaking of the Hungarian Gipsies, Grellmann says, that their speech contains words from the Turkish, Sclavonian, Greek, Latin, Wallachian, Hungarian, and German; but that it would not be absurd to pronounce that there remain more, or at least different, Gipsy words among those residing in one country than another.--ED. In concluding my account of the Scottish Gipsy language, I may observe, that I think few who have perused my details will hesitate for a moment in pronouncing that the people have migrated from Hindostan. Many convincing proofs of the origin of the race have been adduced by Grellmann, Hoyland, and Bright; and I think that my researches, made in Scotland alone, have confirmed the statements of these respectable authors. The question which now remains to be solved is this: From what tribe or nation at present in, or originally from, Hindostan are the Gipsies descended? That they have been a robber or predatory nation, from principle as well as practice, I am convinced little doubt can be entertained. Even yet, the greater the art and address displayed in committing a dexterous theft or robbery, the higher is the merit of such an action esteemed among their fraternity. I am also convinced that this general, or national, propensity to plunder has been the chief cause of the Gipsies concealing their origin, language, customs, and religious observances, at the time they entered the territories of civilized nations, and up to this time. The intelligent old Gipsy, whose acquaintance I made at St. Boswell's, distinctly told me, that his tribe were originally a nation of thieves and robbers; and it is quite natural to suppose that, when they found theft and robbery punished with such severity, in civilized society, everything relating to them would be kept a profound secret. The tribe in India whose customs, manners, and habits have the greatest resemblance to those of the Gipsies, are the _Nuts_, or _Bazegurs_; an account of which is to be found in the 7th volume of the Asiatic Researches, page 451. In Blackwood's Magazine we find the following paragraph relative to these Nuts, or Bazegurs, which induces a belief that these people are a branch of the Gipsy nation, and a tribe of the highest antiquity. They are even supposed to be the wild, aboriginal inhabitants of India. "A lady of rank, who has resided some time in India, lately informed me that the Gipsies are to be found there, in the same way as in England, and practise the same arts of posture-making and tumbling, fortune-telling, stealing, and so forth. The Indian Gipsies are called Nuts, or Bazegurs, and they are believed by many to be the remains of an aboriginal race, prior even to the Hindoos, and who have never adopted the worship of Bramah. They are entirely different from the Parias, who are Hindoos that have lost caste, and so become degraded." The Nuts, or Bazegurs, under the name of Decoits or Dukyts, are, it seems, guilty of frequently sacrificing victims to the goddess Calie, under circumstances of horror and atrocity scarcely credible. Now the old Gipsy, who gave me the particulars relative to the Gipsy sacrifice of the horse, stated that sometimes both woman and horse were sacrificed, when the woman, by the action of the horse, was found to have greatly offended. In the ordinances of Menu, the Nuts, or Bazegurs, are called _Nata_. Now, our Scottish Gipsies, at this moment, call themselves _Nawkens_, a word not very dissimilar in sound to _Nata_. When I have spoken to them, in their own words, I have been asked, "Are you a _nawken_?" a word to which they attach the meaning of a _wanderer_, or _traveller_--one who can do any sort of work for himself that may be required in the world. CHAPTER X. PRESENT CONDITION AND NUMBER OF THE GIPSIES IN SCOTLAND. Every author who has written on the subject of the Gipsies has, I believe, represented them as all having remarkably dark hair, black eyes, and swarthy complexions. This notion has been carried to such an extent, that Hume, on the criminal laws of Scotland, thinks the black eyes should make part of the evidence in proving an individual to be of the Gipsy race. The Gipsies, in Scotland, of the last century, were of all complexions, varying from light flaxen hair, and blue eyes, and corresponding complexions, to hair of raven black, dark eyes, and swarthy countenances. Many of them had deep-red and light-yellow hair, with very fair complexions. I am convinced that one-half of the Gipsies in Scotland, at the present day, have blue eyes, instead of black ones. According to the statistical account of the parish of Borthwick, Mid-Lothian, (1839,) the Baillies, Wilsons, and Taits, at Middleton, the descendants of the old Tweed-dale Gipsies, are described as, "in general, of a colour rather cadaverous, or of a darkish pale; their cheek-bones high; their eyes small, and light coloured; their hair of a dingy white or red colour, and wiry; and their skin, drier and of a tougher texture than that of the people of this country." This question of colour has been illustrated in my enquiry into the history of the Gipsy language; for the language is the only satisfactory thing by which to test a Gipsy, let his colour be what it may. In other countries, besides Scotland, the Gipsies are not all of one uniform swarthy hue. A Russian gentleman stated to me that many of the Gipsies in Finland have light hair, and fair complexions. I am also informed there are Gipsies in Arabia with fair hair. Among many other mal-practices, the Gipsies have, in all countries, been accused of stealing children; but what became of these kidnapped infants, no one appears to have given any account, that I am aware of. To satisfy myself on this trait of their character, I enquired of a Gipsy the reasons which induced his tribe to steal children. He candidly acknowledged the practice, and said that the stolen children were adopted as members of the tribe, and instructed in the language, and all the mysteries of the body. They became, he said, equally hardy, clever, and expert in all the practices of the fraternity. The male Gipsies were very fond of marrying the stolen females. Some of the kidnapped children were made servants, or, rather, a sort of slaves, to the tribe. They considered that the occasional introduction of another race into their own, and mixing the Gipsy blood, in that manner, invigorated and strengthened their race. In this manner would the Gipsies alter the complexion of their race, by the introduction of foreign blood among them.[225] [225] An objection is perhaps started, that these incorporated individuals are not Gipsies. They have been brought into the body at such an age as to leave no trace of past recollections, leaving alone past associations. There was no occasion for such children being either "squalling infants," or of such an age as was likely to lead them to "betray the Gipsies," as Mr. Borrow supposes would be the case, when he says that Gipsies have never stolen children, to bring them up as Gipsies. How are they to discover their origin, when so many of the body around them have the same colour of hair and complexion? If the idea has ever entered into their imaginations, it has led to a greater antipathy towards their own race, and attachment to the tribe, from the special education which they have received to those ends. So far as the matter of blood is concerned, they are not what may be physiologically called Gipsies; and, by being married to Gipsies, they become doubly attached to the body. What has been said of children introduced among the Gipsies, in the way described, applies with infinitely greater force to those born of one of such parents. Suppose, for instance, that the Spanish race was originally of an exclusively _dark_ hair and complexion: should we therefore say that a _fair_ Spaniard, at the present day, was no Spaniard? Or that the Turks of Constantinople, on account of the mixture of their blood, were not Turks? In the same manner are Gipsies with white blood in their veins Gipsies. They may be half-breed, but it would be improper to call them half-caste, Gipsies. But what are full-blood Gipsies, to commence with? The idea itself is intangible; for, by adopting, more or less, wherever they have been, others into their body, during their singular history, a pure Gipsy, like the pure Gipsy language, is doubtless nowhere to be found. An English Gipsy acquaintance, of perfect European appearance, who, for love of race and language, may be termed "a Gipsy of the Gipsies," admitted that he was only one-eighth Gipsy; his father, a full-blood white, having married a quadroon Gipsy. He spoke Gipsy with great fluency. He married a seven-eighths Gipsy. Were his descendants to marry what are supposed to be pure Gipsies, the result would be as follows: the first generation, (his children,) would be one-half Gipsy; the second, three-fourths; the third, seven-eighths; the fourth, fifteen-sixteenths; the fifth, thirty-one thirty-seconds; and the sixth, sixty-three sixty-fourths. If this were to go on _ad infinitum_, the issue would always lack the one part to make the full blood. But the Gipsies do not calculate their vulgar fractions so closely as that; the division of the blood doubtless bothers them, so that they "lump" the question. What has been said, is breeding _up_. Sometimes they breed _down_, and sometimes _across_. Mixing the blood, in this way, is quite a peculiarity among the English Gipsies. I asked my friend, if he was sure his wife was a pure Gipsy. He said she was considered such, (I have put her down at seven-eighths,) but that one of her forefathers was a fair-haired French Gipsy. According to a well-admitted principle in physiology, a fair-haired Gipsy, of almost full blood, is by no means so _rara avis in terris_ as a white crow. Some of the children of my acquaintance took after himself, and had blue eyes; and others after the mother, and had black ones. But the English Gipsies, (the tented ones at least,) are much purer, in point of blood, than their brethren in Scotland. Many of the Irish Gipsies have very red hair--fiery and shaggy in the extreme. Indeed, they seem to be pretty much all of a fairish kind.--ED. Before going into details to show the condition in which the Gipsies are at the present day, I will consider, shortly, the causes which have contributed to the change that has come over their outward circumstances, and driven so many of them, as it were, "to cover," in consequence of the unfortunate times on which they had fallen; a state of things which, however unfortunate to them, in their peculiar way of thinking, has been of so much benefit to civilization, and society at large. About the commencement of the American war of independence, in 1775, the Gipsies, in Scotland, occupied a very singular position in society. Instead of being the proscribed, and, as they thought, persecuted, members of the community, many of them then became the _preservers_ of the peace and good order of the country. The country, as appears by the periodical publications of the day, was, about this time, greatly pestered by rogues and vagabonds. The Gipsies had art enough to get a number of their chiefs appointed constables, peace-officers, and _country-keepers_, in several counties in Scotland. These public officers were to clear the country of all idle vagrants, vagabonds, and disturbers of the peace. This was, sure enough, a very extraordinary employment for the Gipsies. The situation of country-keeper was, of all others, the office in society the most completely to their liking. It gave them authority over every rogue in the country, and they certainly followed out their instructions to the very letter. They hunted down, with the utmost vigilance, every delinquent who was not of their tribe; but, on the other hand, they took especial care to protect every individual of their own fraternity, excepting those that were obnoxious to themselves. When it agreed with their inclinations, these Gipsy country-keepers sometimes caused stolen property to be returned to the owners, as if it had been done by magic. It is needless to observe that they were themselves the very chiefs of the depredators, but had generally the dexterity never to be seen in the transactions.[226] [226] The following extract from the Fife Herald, for the 18th June, 1829, will give the reader an idea of a Scotch "country-keeper," at the time alluded to: "A Gipsy chief, of the name of Pat Gillespie, was keeper for the county of Fife. He rode on horse-back, armed with a sword and pistols attended by four men, on foot, carrying staves and batons. He appears to have been a sort of travelling justice of the peace. The practice seems to have been general. About the commencement of the late French war, a man, of the name of Robert Scott, (Rob the Laird,) was keeper for the counties of Peebles, Selkirk, and Roxburgh." A Gipsy country-keeper was at the height of his vanity and glory, when he got an unfortunate individual of the community into his clutches. In the presence of his captive, he would draw his sword, flourish it in the air, and swear a terrible oath, that he would, at a blow, cut the head from his body, if he made the least attempt at escape. The public services of the Gipsies were in a short time discontinued, as their conduct only made matters a great deal worse. A friend of mine[227] saw those Gipsy constables, for Peebles-shire, sworn into office, at the town of Peebles, when they were first appointed. He said he never saw such a set of gloomy, strange-looking fellows, in his life; and expressed his surprise at the conduct of the county magistrates, for employing such banditti as conservators of the public peace. The most extraordinary circumstance attending their appointment, he said, was, that not one of them had a permanent residence within the county. [227] The late Mr. Charles Alexander, tenant of Happrew. During the American war, however, the tide of fortune again completely turned against the Gipsies. The Government was in need of soldiers and sailors; the Gipsies were a proscribed race; their peculiar habits were continually involving them in serious scrapes and difficulties; the consequence was, that the Tinklers were apprehended all over the country, and forced into our fleets and armies then serving in America. All the aged persons of intelligence with whom I have conversed on this subject, agree in representing that the kidnapping system at that period was the means of greatly breaking up and dispersing the Gipsy bands in Scotland. From this blow these unruly vagrants have never recovered their former position in the country.[228] [228] We may very readily believe that almost all of the Gipsies would desert the army, on landing in America, and marry Gipsy women in the colonies, or bring others out from home, or marry with common natives, or return home. Indeed, native-born American Gipsies say that many of the British Gipsies voluntarily accepted the bounty, and a passage to the colonies, during the war of the Revolution, and deserted the army on landing. This would lead to a migration of the tribe generally to America.--ED. The war in America had been concluded only a few years before that with France broke out. Our army and navy were, of necessity, again augmented to an extent beyond precedent. It was not difficult to find pretences for renewing the chase of the Gipsies, and apprehending them, under the name of vagrants and disorderly persons. They were again compelled to enlist into our regiments, and embark on board our ships of war, as sailors and marines. An individual stated to me that, about the commencement of this war, he had seen English Gipsies sent, in scores at a time, on board of men-of-war, in the Downs. But, rather than be forced into a service so much against their inclinations, numerous instances occurred of Gipsies voluntarily mutilating themselves. In the very custody of press-gangs, and other hardened kidnappers, the determined Gipsies have, with hatchets, razors, and other sharp instruments, struck from their hands a thumb, or finger or two, to render them unfit for a military life. Several instances have come to my knowledge of these resolute acts of the Scottish Gipsies. I have myself seen several of the tribe without fingers; and, on enquiry, I found that they themselves had struck them from their hands, in consequence of their aversion to become soldiers and sailors. One man, of the name of Graham, during the last war, laid his hand upon a block of wood, and, in a twinkling, struck, with a hatchet, his thumb from one of his hands. Another, of the name of Gordon, struck two of his fingers from one of his hands with a razor. Such, indeed, was the aversion which the whole Gipsy race had to a military life, that even mothers sometimes mutilated their infants, by cutting off certain fingers, to render them, when they became men, entirely incapable of serving in either the army or navy.[229] [229] "When Paris was garrisoned by the allied troops, in the year 1815, I was walking with a British officer, near a post held by the Prussian troops. He happened, at the time, to smoke a cigar, and was about, while passing the sentinel, to take it out of his mouth, in compliance with a general regulation to that effect; when, greatly to the astonishment of the passengers, the soldier addressed him in these words; 'Rauchen Sie immer fort; verdamt sey der Preussische Dienst;' that is: 'Smoke away; may the Prussian service be d----d.' Upon looking closer at the man, he seemed plainly to be a _Zigeuner_, or Gipsy, who took this method of expressing his detestation of the duty imposed on him. When the risk he ran, by doing so, is considered, it will be found to argue a deep degree of dislike which could make him commit himself so unwarily. If he had been overheard by a sergeant or corporal, the _prugel_ would have been the slightest instrument of punishment employed."--_Sir Walter Scott: Note to Quentin Durward._ Mutilation was also very common among the English Gipsies, during the French war. Strange as it may appear, the same took place among them, at the commencement of the late Russian war; from which we may conclude, that they had suffered severely during the previous war, or they would not have resorted to so extreme a measure for escaping military duty, when a press-gang was not even thought of. An English Gipsy, at the latter time, laid two of his fingers on a block of wood, and, handing his broom-knife to his neighbour, said, "Now, take off these fingers, or I'll take off your head with this other hand!" During the French war, Gipsies again and again accepted the bounty for recruits, but took "French leave" of the service. The idea is finely illustrated in Burns' "Jolly Beggars:" "TUNE--_Clout the caudron_. "My bonny lass, I work in brass, A Tinkler is my station: I've travell'd round all Christian ground, In this my occupation. I've ta'en the gold, an' been enroll'd In many a noble squadron: But vain they searched when off I march'd To go and clout the caudron." Poosie Nancie and her reputed daughter, Racer Jess, were very probably Gipsies, who kept a poor "Tinkler Howff" at Mauchline. Gipsies sometimes voluntarily join the navy, as musicians. Here their vanity will have a field for conspicuous display; for a good fifer, on board of a man-of-war, in accompanying certain work with his music, is equal to the services of ten men. There were some Gipsy musicians in the fleet at Sebastopol. But, generally speaking, Gipsies are like cats--not very fond of the water.--ED. Such causes as these, taken in connection with the improved internal administration of the country, and the progression of the age, have cast a complexion over the outward aspect of the bulk of the Scottish Gipsy race, entirely different from what it was before they came into existence. Many of the Gipsies now keep shops of earthen-ware, china, and crystal. Some of them, I am informed on the best authority, have from one to eight thousand pounds invested in this line of business.[230] I am disposed to think that few of these shops were established prior to the commencement of the French war; as I find that several of their owners travelled the country in their early years. Perhaps the fear of being apprehended as vagrants, and compelled to enter the army or navy, forced some of the better sort to settle in towns.[231] Like their tribe in other countries, numbers of our Scottish Gipsies deal in horses; others keep public-houses; and some of them, as innkeepers, will, in heritable and moveable property, possess, perhaps, two or three thousand pounds. These innkeepers and stone-ware merchants are scarcely to be distinguished as Gipsies; yet they all retain the language, and converse in it, among themselves. The females, as is their custom, are particularly active in managing the affairs of their respective concerns. [230] Mr. Borrow mentions having observed, at a fair in Spain, a family of Gipsies, richly dressed, after the fashion of their nation. They had come a distance of upwards of a hundred leagues. Some merchants, to whom he was recommended, informed him, that they had a credit on their house, to the amount of twenty thousand dollars.--ED. [231] In his enquiry into the present condition of the Gipsies, our author has apparently confined his remarks exclusively to the body in its present wandering state, and such part of it as left the tent subsequently to the commencement of the French war. In the Disquisition on the Gipsies, the subject will be fully reviewed, from the date of arrival of the race in the country.--ED. Many of them have betaken themselves to some of the regular occupations of the country, such as coopers, shoemakers, and plumbers; some are masons--an occupation to which they seem to have a partiality. Some of them are members of masons' lodges. There are many of them itinerant bell-hangers, and umbrella-menders. Among them there are tin-smiths, braziers, and cutlers, in great numbers; and the tribe also furnish a proportion of chimney-sweeps. I recollect of a Gipsy, who travelled the country, selling earthen-ware, becoming, in the end, a master-sweep. Several were, and I believe are, constables; and I am inclined to think that the police establishments, in large as well as small towns, contain some of the fraternity.[232] Individuals of the female Gipsies are employed as servants, in the families of respectable persons, in town and country. Some of them have been ladies' maids, and even house-keepers to clergymen and farmers.[233] I heard of one, in a very respectable family, who was constantly boasting of her ancient and high descent; her father being a Baillie, and her mother a Faa--the two principal families in Scotland. Some of those persons who sell gingerbread at fairs, or what the country-people call _rowly-powly-men_, are also of the Gipsy race. Almost all these individuals hawking earthen-ware through the country, with carts, and a large proportion of those hawking japan and white-iron goods, are Gipsies. [232] This is quite common. An English mixed Gipsy spontaneously informed me that he had been a constable In L----, and that he had a cousin who was lately a _runner_ in the police establishment of M----. Among other motives for the Gipsies joining the police is the following: that such is their dislike for the people among whom they live, owing to the prejudice which is entertained against them, that nothing gives them greater satisfaction than being the instruments of affronting and punishing their hereditary enemies. Besides this, the lounging and idle kind of life, coupled with the activity, of a constable, is pretty much to their natural disposition. An intelligent mixed Gipsy is calculated to make a first-rate constable and thief-catcher. Of course, he will not be very hard on those of his own race who come in his way.--ED. [233] Our author frequently spoke of a dissenting Scottish clergyman having been married to a Gipsy, but was not aware, as far as I know, of the circumstances under which the marriage took place. The clergyman was not, in all probability, aware that he was taking a Gipsy to his bosom; and as little did the public generally; but it was well known to the initiated that both her father and mother had cut and divided many a purse. The unquestionable character and standing of the father, and the prudent conduct of the mother, protected the children. One of the daughters married another dissenting clergyman, which fairly disarmed those not of the Gipsy race of any prejudice towards the grand-children. The issue of these marriages would pass into Gipsydom, as explained in the Disquisition on the Gipsies.--ED. Some of the itinerant venders of inferior sorts of jewelry, part of which they also manufacture, and carry about in boxes on their shoulders, are of the tribe; and some of them even carry these articles in small, handsome, light-made carts. I had frequently observed, in my neighbourhood, a very smart-looking and well-dressed man, who, with his wife and family, and a servant to take care of his children, travelled the country, in a neat, light cart, selling jewelry. All the family were well dressed. I was curious to know the origin of this man, and, upon enquiring of one of the tribe, but of a different clan, I found that he was a Gipsy, of the name of Robertson, descended from the old _horners_ who traversed the kingdom, about half a century ago. He still retained the speech, peculiar dance, and manner of handling the cudgel, the practices and roguish tricks of his ancestors. I believe he also practised chain-dropping. To show the line of life which some of the descendants of the old style of Gipsies are now pursuing, in Scotland, I will give the following anecdote, which I witnessed, relative to this Gipsy jeweller. I happened to be conversing, about twenty years ago, with four or five individuals, on a public quay in Fifeshire, when a smart, well-dressed sailor, apparently of the rank of a mate, obtruded himself on our company. He said he was "a sailor, and had spent all his money in a frolic, as many thoughtless sailors had done;" and, pulling out a watch, he continued, "he would give his gold watch for a mere trifle, to supply his immediate wants." One of the company at once thought he was an impostor, and told him his watch was not gold at all, and worth very little money. "Not worth much money!" he exclaimed; "why, I paid not less than ten francs for it, in France, the other day!" At this assertion, all present burst out a laughing at the impostor's ignorance in exposing his own trick. "Why, friend," said a ship-master, who was one of the company, "a franc is only worth tenpence; so you have paid just eight and fourpence for this valuable watch of yours. Do not attempt to cheat us in this manner." At finding himself so completely exposed, the villain became furious, and stepping close up to the ship-master, with abusive language, _chucked_ him under the chin, to provoke him to fight. I at once perceived that the feigned sailor was a professional boxer and cudgelist, and entreated the ship-master not to touch him, notwithstanding his insolence. The "sailor," now disappointed on all hands, brandished his bludgeon, and retreated backwards, dancing in the Gipsy manner, and twirling his weapon before him, till he got his back to a wall. Here he set all at defiance, with a design that some one should strike at him, that he might avenge the affront he had received. But he was allowed to go away without interruption. This man was, in short, Robertson, the Gipsy travelling jeweller, disguised as a sailor, and a well-known prize-fighter. Almost all those cheats called thimble-riggers, who infest thoroughfares, highways and byways, are also Gipsies, of a superior class. I have tried them by the language, and found they understood it, as has been seen in my account of the Gipsy language. I need scarcely say, that all those females who travel the country in families, selling articles made from horn, while the males practise the mysteries of the tinker, are that portion of the Gipsies who adhere more strictly to their ancient customs and manner of life. Some of the principal families of these nomadic horner bands have yet districts on which none others of the tribe dare encroach. This division of the Gipsies are, by superficial observers, considered the only Gipsies in existence in Scotland; which is a great mistake. The author of Guy Mannering, himself, seems to have had this class of Gipsies, only, in view, when he says, "There are not now above five hundred of the tribe in Scotland." Those who deal in earthen-ware, and work at the tinsmith business, call these horners Gipsies; and nothing can give greater offence to these Gipsy potters and smiths than to ask them if they ever _made horn spoons_; for, by asking them this question, you indirectly call them Gipsies, an appellation that alarms them exceedingly.[234] [234] It is only within these forty years that spoon-making from horn became a regular trade. It would seem the Gipsies had a monopoly of the business; for I am informed that the first man in Scotland who served a regular apprenticeship to it was alive, in Glasgow, in 1836. [There is nothing in this remark to imply that the manufacturing of spoons, and other articles, from horn, may not be monopolized by the Gipsies yet, whatever the way in which it may be carried on.--ED.] Since the termination of the long-protracted French war, the Gipsies have, to some extent, resumed their ancient manners; and many of them are to be seen encamped in the open fields. There are six tents to be observed at present, for one during the war. To substantiate what I have said of the numbers and manners of the nomadic Gipsies since the peace, I will give the two following paragraphs, taken from the Caledonian Mercury newspaper: "_Tinklers and vagabonds_: The country has been much infested, of late years, by wandering hordes of vagabonds, who, under pretence of following the serviceable calling of tinkers, assume the name and appearance of such, merely to extort contributions of victuals, and other articles of value, from the country-people, particularly in lonely districts. The evil has encreased rapidly of late, and calls loudly for redress upon those in whose charge the police of the country districts is placed. They generally travel in bands, varying in number from ten to thirty; and wherever they pitch their camp, the neighbours are certain of suffering loss of cattle or poultry, unless they submit to pay a species of black-mail, to save themselves from heavier and more irregular contributions. These bands possess all the vices peculiar to the regular Gipsies, without any of the extenuating qualities which distinguish these foreign tribes. Unlike the latter, they do not settle in one place sufficiently long to attach themselves to the soil, or to particular families; and seem possessed of no industrious habits, but those of plunder, knavery, and riot. The chief headquarters of the hordes are at the caves of Auchmithie, on the east coast of Forfarshire; from which, to the wilds of Argyleshire, seems to be the usual route of their bands; small detachments being sent off, at intermediate places, to extend the scene of their plunder. Their numbers have been calculated by one who lives on the direct line of their passage, through the braes of Perthshire, and who has had frequent opportunities for observation; and he estimates them at several hundred."--_22d August, 1829._ "A horde of Gipsies and vagabonds encamped, last week, in a quarry, on the back of the hill opposite Cherry-bank. Their number amounted to about thirty. The inhabitants in that quarter became alarmed; and Provost Ross, whose mansion is in the vicinity of the new settlers, ordered out a strong posse of officers from Perth, to dislodge them; which they effected. The country is now kept in continual terror by these vagabonds, and it will really be imperative on the landed proprietors to adopt some decided measure for the suppression of this growing evil."--_3d October, 1829._[235] [235] From the numerous enquiries I have made, I am fully satisfied that the greater part of the vagrants mentioned in these notices are Gipsies; at least most of them speak the Gipsy language. [It matters not whether the people mentioned are wholly or only partly of Gipsy blood; it is sufficient if they have been reared as Gipsies. There are enough of the tribe in the country to follow the kind of life mentioned, to the extent the people can afford to submit to, without having their prerogatives infringed upon by ordinary natives. Where will we find any of the latter, who would betake themselves to the tent, and follow such a mode of life? Besides, the Gipsies, with their organization, would not tolerate it; and far less would they allow any common natives, of the lowest class, to travel in their company.--ED.] A gentleman informed me that, in the same year, he counted, in Aberdeenshire, thirty-five men, women, and children, in one band, with six asses and two carts, for carrying their luggage and articles of merchandise. Another individual stated to me, that upwards of three hundred of the Gipsies attended the funeral of one of their old females, who died near the bridge of Earn. So late as 1841, the sheriff of East Lothian addressed a representation to the justices of the peace of Mid-Lothian, recommending a new law for the suppression of the numerous Gipsy tents in the Lothians. I have, myself, during a walk of two hours, counted, in Edinburgh and its suburbs, upwards of fifty of these vagrants, strolling about.[236] [236] Owing to such causes as these, many of the Gipsies have been again driven into their holes. It is amusing to notice the tricks which some of them resort to, in evading the letter of the Vagrant Act. They generally encamp on the borders of two counties, which they will cross--passing over into the other--to avoid being taken up: for county officers have no jurisdiction over them, beyond the boundaries of their respective shires.--ED. When I visited St. Boswell's, I felt convinced, as mentioned in the last chapter, that there were upwards of three hundred Gipsies in the fair held at that place. Part of them formed their carts, laden with earthen-ware, into two lines, leaving a space between them, like a street. In the rear of the carts were a few small tents, in which were Gipsies, sleeping in the midst of the noise and bustle of the market; and numbers of children, horses, asses, and dogs, hanging around them. There were also kettles, suspended from triangles, in which victuals were cooking; and many of the Gipsies enjoyed a warm meal, while others at the market had to content themselves with a cold repast. In the midst of the throng of this large and crowded fair, I noticed, without the least discomposure on their part, some of the male Gipsies changing their dirty, greasy-looking shirts for clean ones, leaving no covering on their tawny persons, but their breeches; and some of the old females, with bare shoulders and breasts, combing their dark locks, like black horses' tails, mixed with grey. "Ae whow! look at that," exclaimed a countryman to his companion; and, without waiting for his friend's reply, he gravely added: "Everything after its kind." The Gipsies were, in short, dressing themselves for the fair, in the midst of the crowd, regardless of everything passing around them. On my return from the English Border, I passed over the field where the fair had been held, two days before, and found, to my surprise, the Gipsies occupying their original encampment. They, alone, were in possession of St. Boswell's Green. I counted twenty-four carts, thirty horses, twenty asses, and about thirty dogs; and I thought there were upwards of a hundred men, women, and children, on the spot. The horses were, in general, complete rosinantes--as lean, worn-out, wretched-looking animals, as possibly could be imagined. The field trampled almost to mortar, by the multitude of horses, cattle, and sheep, and human beings, at the fair; the lean, jaded and lame horses, braying asses, and surly-looking dogs; the groups of miserable furniture, ragged children, and gloomy-looking parents; a fire, here and there, smoking before as many miserable tents--when contrasted with the gaily-dressed multitude, of both sexes, on the spot, two days before--presented a scene unequalled for its wretched, squalid and desolate appearance. Any one desirous of viewing an Asiatic encampment, in Scotland, should visit St. Boswell's Green, a day or two after the fair.[237] [237] St. Boswell's fair "is the resort of many salesmen of goods, and, in particular, of _tinkers_. Bands of these very peculiar people, the direct descendants of the original Gipsies, who so much annoyed the country in the fifteenth century, haunt the fair, for the disposal of earthen-ware, horn spoons, and tin culinary utensils. They possess, in general, horses and carts, and they form their temporary camp by each _whomling_ his cart upside down, and forming a lodgement with straw and bedding beneath. Cooking is performed outside the _craal_, in Gipsy fashion. There could not, perhaps, be witnessed, at the present day, in Britain, a more amusing and interesting scene, illustrative of a rude period, than is here annually exhibited."--_Chambers' Gazetteer of Scotland._ [This writer is in error as to the Gipsies annoying the country in the _fifteenth_ century: that occurred during the three following centuries.--ED.] The following may be said to be about the condition in which the present race of Scottish _tinkering_ Gipsies are to be found: I visited, at one time, a horde of Gipsy tinsmiths, bivouacked by the side of a small streamlet, about half a mile from the town of Inverkeithing. It consisted of three married couples, the heads of as many families, one grown-up, unmarried female, and six half-clad children below six years of age. Including the more grown-up members, scattered about in the neighbourhood, begging victuals, there must have been above twenty souls belonging to this band. The tinsmiths had two horses and one ass, for carrying their luggage, and several dogs. They remained, during three cold and frosty nights, encamped in the open fields, with no tents or covering, for twenty individuals, but two pairs of old blankets.[238] Some of the youngest children, however, were pretty comfortably lodged at night. The band had several boxes, or rather old chests, each about four feet long, two broad, and two deep, in which they carried their white-iron plates, working tools, and some of their infants, on the backs of their horses. In these chests the children passed the night, the lids being raised a little, to prevent suffocation. The stock of working tools, for each family, consisted of two or three files, as many small hammers, a pair of bellows, a wooden mallet, a pair of pincers, a pair of large shears, a crucible, a soldering-iron or two, and a small anvil, of a long shape, which was stuck into the ground. [238] The Gipsies' supreme luxury is to lie, day and night, so near the fire as to be in danger of burning. At the same time, they can bear to travel in the severest cold, bare-headed, with no other covering than a torn shirt, or some old rags carelessly thrown over them, without fear of catching cold, cough, or any other disorder. They are a people blessed with an iron constitution. Neither wet nor dry weather, heat nor cold, let the extremes follow each other ever so close, seems to have any effect upon them.--_Grellmann on the Hungarian Gipsies._ Their power of resisting cold is truly wonderful, as it is not uncommon to find them encamped, in the midst of the snow, in light canvas tents, when the temperature is 25 or 30 degrees below freezing point, according to Raumer.--_Borrow on the Russian Gipsies._ It is no uncommon thing to see a poor Scottish Gipsy wrap himself and wife in a thin, torn blanket, and pass the night, in the cold of December, in the open air, by the wayside. On rising up in the morning, they will shake themselves in their rags, as birds of prey, in coming off their perch, do their feathers; make for the nearest public-house, with, perhaps, their last copper, for a gill; and, like the ravens, go in search of a breakfast, wherever and whenever Providence may send it to them.--ED. The females as well as the males of this horde of Gipsies were busily employed in manufacturing white-iron into household utensils, and the clink of their hammers was heard from daybreak till dark.[239] The males formed the plates into the shapes of the different utensils required, and the females soldered and otherwise completed them, while the younger branches of the families presented them for sale in the neighbourhood. The breakfast of the band consisted of potatoes and herrings, which the females and children had collected in the immediate neighbourhood by begging. I noticed that each family ate their meals by themselves, wrought at their calling by themselves, and sold their goods for themselves. The name of the chief of the gang was Williamson, who said he travelled in the counties of Fife and Perth. When I turned to leave them, they heaped upon me the most fulsome praises, and so loud, that I might distinctly hear them, exactly in the manner as those in Spain, mentioned by Dr. Bright. [239] Some of the itinerant Gipsies, doubtless, use their trades, in a great measure, as a cover for living by means such as society deems very objectionable. Many of them work hard while they are at it, as in the above instance, when "the clink of their hammers was heard from daybreak till dark;" and as has been said of those in Tweed-dale--"however early the farm servants rose to their ordinary employments, they always found the Tinklers at work."--ED. I have, for many months running, counted above twenty Gipsies depart out of the town of Inverkeithing, about ten o'clock in the forenoon, every day, on their way to various parts of the country; and I have been informed that from twenty to thirty vagrants lodged in this small burgh nightly. Some of the bakers declared that the persons who were the worst to please with hot rolls for breakfast, were the beggars, or rather Gipsies, who frequented the place. On one occasion, I observed twelve females, without a single male among them, decamp out of the town, all travelling in and around a cart, drawn by a shagged pony. The whole party were neatly attired, some of the young girls having trowsers, with frills about their ankles; and very few would have taken them for Gipsies. A large proportion of those miserable-looking females, who are accompanied by a number of ragged children, and scatter themselves through the streets, and beg from door to door, are Gipsies. I do not recollect, distressing as the times ever have been, of having seen reduced Scotch tradesmen _begging in families_. I remember once seeing a man with a white apron wrapped around his waist, his coat off, an infant in his arms, and two others at his feet, accompanied by a dark-looking fellow of about twenty, singing through the town mentioned. They represented themselves as broken-down tradesmen, and had the appearance of having just left their looms, to sing for bread; and many half-pence they received. Suspecting them to be impostors, I observed their motions, and soon saw them join other vagrants, outside of the town, among whom were females. The poor tradesmen were now dressed in very substantial drab surtouts. They were nothing but a family of Tinklers. They were proceeding, with great speed, to the next town, to practise their impositions on the inhabitants; and I learned that they had, in this manner, traversed several counties in Scotland. At a subsequent period, I fell in with another family, consisting of five children and their parents, driving an ass and its colt, near the South Queensferry. Upon the back of the ass were two stone-hammers, and two reaping-hooks, placed in such a manner as any one, in passing, might observe them. I enquired where they had been. "We have been in England, sir, seeking work, but could find none." Few would have taken them for anything but country labourers; but the truth was, they were a family of Gipsies, of the well-known name of Marshall, from about Stranraer. Their implements of industry, so conspicuously exhibited on the back of their ass, was all deception. It is only about twenty-five years since the Irish Gipsies, in bands, made their appearance in Scotland. Many severe conflicts they had with our Scottish tribes, before they obtained a footing in the country. But there is a new swarm of Irish Gipsies at present scattered, in bands, over Scotland, all acquainted with the Gipsy language. They are a set of the most wretched creatures on the face of the earth. A horde of them, consisting of several families, encamped, at one time, at Port Edgar, on the banks of the Forth, near South Queensferry. They had three small tents, two horses, and four asses, and trafficked in an inferior sort of earthen-ware. On the outside of one of the tents, in the open air, with nothing but the canopy of heaven above her, and the greensward beneath her, one of the females, like the deer in the forest, brought forth a child, without either the infant or mother receiving the slightest injury.[240] The woman, however, was attended by a midwife from Queensferry, who said that these Irish Gipsies were so completely covered with filth and vermin, that she durst not enter one of their tents, to assist the female in labour. Several individuals were attracted to the spot, by the novelty of such an occurrence, in so unusual a place as the open fields. Immediately after the child was born, it was handed about to every one of the band, that they might look at the "young donkey," as they called it. In about two days after the accouchement, the horde proceeded on their journey, as if nothing had happened.[241] [240] I know another instance of a Gipsy having a child in the open fields. It took place among the rushes on Stanhope-hangh, on the banks of the Tweed. In the forenoon, she was delivered of her child, without the assistance of a midwife, and in the afternoon the hardy Gipsy resumed her journey. The infant was a daughter, named Mary Baillie. [When a Gipsy woman is confined, it is either in a miserable hut or in the open air, but always easily and fortunately. True Gipsy-like, for want of some vessel, a hole is dug in the ground, which is filled with cold water, and the new-born child is washed in it--_Grellmann, on the Hungarian Gipsies._ We may readily believe that a child coming into the world under the circumstances mentioned, would have some of the peculiarities of a wild duck. Mr. Hoyland says that "on the first introduction of a Gipsy child to school, he flew like a bird against the sides of its cage; but by a steady care, and the influence of the example of the other children, he soon became settled, and fell into the ranks." It pleases the Gipsies to know that their ancestors came into the world "like the deer in the forest," and, when put to school, "flew like a bird against the sides of its cage."--ED.] [241] This invasion of Scotland by Irish Gipsies has, of late years, greatly altered the condition of the nomadic Scottish tribes; for this reason, that as Scotland, no less than any other country, can support only a certain number of such people who "live on the road," so many of the Scottish Gipsies have been forced to betake themselves to other modes of making a living. To such an extent has this been the case, that Gipsies, speaking the Scottish dialect, are in some districts comparatively rarely to be met with, where they were formerly numerous. The same cause may even lead to the extinction of the Scottish Gipsies as wanderers; but as the descendants of the Irish Gipsies will acquire the Scottish vernacular in the second generation, (a remarkably short period among the Gipsies,) what will then pass for Scottish Gipsies will be Irish by descent. The Irish Gipsies are allowed, by their English brethren, to speak good Gipsy, but with a broad and vulgar accent; so that the language in Scotland will have a still better chance of being preserved. England has likewise been invaded by these Irish swarms. The English Gipsies complain bitterly of them. "They have no law among them," they say; "they have fairly destroyed Scotland as a country to travel in; if they get a loan of anything from the country-people, to wrap themselves in, in the barn, at night, they will decamp with it in the morning. They have brought a disgrace upon the very name of Gipsy, in Scotland, and are heartily disliked by both English and Scotch." "There is a family of Irish Gipsies living across the road there, whom I would not be seen speaking to," said a superior English Gipsy; "I hate a Jew, and I dislike an Irish Gipsy." But English and Scottish Gipsies pull well together; and are on very friendly terms in America, and frequently visit each other. The English sympathise with the Scottish, under the wrongs they have experienced at the hands of the Irish, as well as on account of the persecutions they experienced in Scotland, so long after such had ceased in England. Twenty-five years ago, there were many Gipsies to be found between Londonderry and Belfast, following the style of life described under the chapter of Tweed-dale and Clydesdale Gipsies. Their names were Docherty, McCurdy, McCloskey, McGuire, McKay, Holmes, Dinsmore, Morrow, Allan, Stewart, Lindsay, Cochrane, and Williamson. Some of these seem to have migrated from Scotland and the North of England.--ED. But there are Irish Gipsies of a class much superior to the above, in Scotland. In 1836, a very respectable and wealthy master-tradesman informed me that the whole of the individuals employed in his manufactory, in Edinburgh, were Irish Gipsies.[242] [242] In England, some of the Irish Gipsies send their children to learn trades. There are many of such Irish mechanic Gipsies in America. A short time ago, a company of them landed in New York, and proceeded on to Chicago. Their occupations, among others, were those of hatters and tailors.--ED. The Gipsies do not appear to have been altogether free from the crime of destroying their offspring, when, by infirmities, they could not be carried along with them in their wanderings, and thereby became an encumbrance to them. It has, indeed, been often noticed that few, or no, deformed or sickly individuals are to be found among them.[243] The following appears to be an instance of something like the practice in question. A family of Gipsies were in the habit of calling periodically, in their peregrinations over the country, at the house of a lady in Argyleshire. They frequently brought with them a daughter, who was ailing of some lingering disorder. The lady noticed the sickly child, and often spoke kindly to her parents about her condition. On one occasion, when the family arrived on her premises, she missed the child, and enquired what had become of her, and whether she had recovered. The father said his daughter was "a poor sickly thing, not worth carrying about with them," and that he had "made away with her." Whether any notice was taken of this murder, by the authorities, is not mentioned. The Gipsies, however, are generally noted for a remarkable attachment to their children.[244] [243] They are neither overgrown giants nor diminutive dwarfs; and their limbs are formed in the justest proportions. Large bellies are as uncommon among them as humpbacks, blindness, or other corporeal defects.--_Grellmann on the Hungarian Gipsies._--ED. [244] The _Ross-shire Advertiser_, for April, 1842, says: "Gipsy Recklessness.--Last week, two Gipsy women, who were begging through the country, each with a child on her back, having got intoxicated, took up their lodgings, for the night, in an old sawpit, in the parish of Logie-Easter. It is supposed that they forgot to take the children off their backs, when going to rest; for, in the morning, they were found to be both dead, having been smothered by their miserable mothers lying upon them through the night. One of the women, upon awakening in the morning, called to the other, 'that her baby was dead,' to which the reply was, 'that it could not be helped.' Having dug a hole, they procured some straw, rolled up the children in it, put them in the hole, and then filled it up with the earth." Several authors have brought a general charge of cowardice against the Gipsies, in some of the countries of Europe; but I never saw or heard of any grounds for bringing such a charge against the Scottish Gipsies. On the contrary, I always considered our Tinklers the very reverse of cowards. Heron, in his journey through part of Scotland, before the year 1793, when speaking of the Gipsies in general, says: "They make excellent soldiers, whenever the habit of military discipline can be sufficiently impressed upon them." Several of our Scottish Gipsies have even enjoyed commissions, as has already been noticed.[245] But the military is not a life to their taste, as we have already seen; for, rather than enter it, they will submit to even personal mutilation. There is even danger in employing them in our regiments at the seat of war; as I am convinced that, if there are any Gipsies in the ranks of the enemy, an improper intercourse will exist between them in both armies. During the last rebellion in Ireland, the Gipsy soldiers in our regiments kept up an intimate and friendly correspondence with their brethren among the Irish rebels.[246] [245] Though Gipsies everywhere, they differ, in some respects, in the various countries which they inhabit. For example, an English Gipsy, of pugilistic tendencies, will, in a vapouring way, engage to _thrash_ a dozen of his Hungarian brethren. The following is the substance of what Grellmann says on this feature of their character: Sulzer says a Gipsy requires to have been a long time in the army before he can meet an enemy's balls with decent soldiers' resolution. They have often been employed in military expeditions, but never as regular soldiers. In the thirty years' war, the Swedes had a body of them in the army; and the Danes had three companies of them at the siege of Hamburg, in 1686. They were chiefly employed in flying parties, to burn, plunder, or lay waste the enemy's country. In two Hungarian regiments, nearly every eighth man is a Gipsy. In order to prevent either them(!) or any others from remembering their descent, it is ordered, by the Government, that as soon as a Gipsy joins the regiment, he is no longer to be called by that appellation. Here he is placed promiscuously with other men. But whether he would be adequate to a soldier's station--unmixed with strangers, in the company of his equals only--is very doubtful. He has every outward essential for a soldier, yet his innate properties, his levity, and want of foresight, render him incompatible for the services of one, as an instance may illustrate. Francis von Perenyi, who commanded at the siege of Nagy Ida, being short of men, was obliged to have recourse to the Gipsies, of whom he collected a thousand. These he stationed behind the entrenchments, while he reserved his own men to garrison the citadel. The Gipsies supported the attack with so much resolution, and returned the fire of the enemy with such alacrity, that the assailants--little suspecting who were the defendants--were compelled to retreat. But the Gipsies, elated with victory, immediately crept out of their holes, and cried after them, "Go, and be hanged, you rascals! and thank God that we had no more powder and shot, or we would have played the devil with you!" "What!" they exclaimed, bearing in mind the proverb, "You can drive fifty Gipsies before you with a wet rag," "What! are _you_ the heroes?" and, so saying, the besiegers immediately wheeled about, and, sword in hand, drove the black crew back to their works, entered them along with them, and in a few minutes totally routed them.--ED. [246] A Gipsy possesses all the properties requisite to render him a fit agent to be employed in traitorous undertakings. Being necessitous, he is easily corrupted; and his misconceived ambition and pride persuade him that he thus becomes a person of consequence. He is, at the same time, too inconsiderate to reflect on danger; and, artful to the greatest decree, he works his way under the most difficult circumstances. Gipsies have not only served much in the capacity of spies, but their garb and manner of life have been assumed by military and other men for the same purpose.--_Grellmann on the Hungarian Gipsies._ Mr. Borrow gives a very interesting description of a meeting of two Gipsies, in a battle between the French and Spaniards, in the Peninsula, in Bonaparte's time. In the midst of a desperate battle--when everything was in confusion--sword to sword and bayonet to bayonet--a French soldier singled out one of the enemy, and, after a severe personal contest, got his knee on his breast, and was about to run his bayonet through him. His cap at this moment fell off, when his intended victim, catching his eye, cried, "_Zincali, Zincali!_" at which the other shuddered, relaxed his grasp, smote his forehead, and wept. He produced his flask, and poured wine into his brother Gipsy's mouth; and they both sat down on a knoll, while all were fighting around. "Let the dogs fight, and tear each other's throats, till they are all destroyed: what matters it to us? They are not of our blood, and shall that be shed for them?" What our author says of there being danger in employing Gipsies in time of war has little or no foundation; for the associations between those in the opposite ranks would be merely those of interest, friendship, assistance, and scenes like the one depicted by Mr. Borrow. The objection to Gipsies, on such occasions, is as applicable to Jews and Freemasons.--ED. The Scottish Gipsies have ever been distinguished for their gratitude to those who treated them with civility and kindness, during their progress through the country. The particulars of the following instance of a Gipsy's gratitude are derived from a respectable farmer, to whom one of the tribe offered assistance in his pecuniary distress. I was well acquainted with both of them. The occurrence, which took place only about ten years ago, will show that gratitude is still a prominent feature in the character of the Scottish Gipsy. The farmer became embarrassed in his circumstances, in the spring of the year, when an ill-natured creditor, for a small sum, put him in jail, with a design to extort payment of the debt from his relatives. The farmer had always allowed a Gipsy chief, of the name of ----, with his family, to take up his quarters on his premises, whenever the horde came to the neighbourhood. The Gipsy's horse received the same provender as the farmer's horses, and himself and family the same victuals as the farmer's servants. So sure was the Gipsy of his lodgings, that he seldom needed to ask permission to stay all night on the farm, when he arrived. On learning that the farmer was in jail, he immediately went to see him. When he called, the jailer laughed at him, and, for long, would not intimate to the farmer that he wished to see him. With tears in his eyes, the Gipsy then told him he "would be into the jail, and see the honest man, whether he would or not." At last, an hour was fixed when he would be allowed to enter the prison. When the time arrived, the Gipsy made his appearance, with a quantity of liquor in his hand, for his friend the farmer. "Weel, man," said he to the turnkey, "is this your hour, now?" being displeased at the delay which had taken place. The jailer again said to him that he was surely joking, and still refused him admittance. "Joking, man?" exclaimed the Gipsy, with the tears again glistening in his dark eyes, "I am not joking, for into this prison I shall be; and if it is not by the door, it shall be by another way." Observing the determined Gipsy quite serious, the jailer at last allowed him to see the object of his search. The moment he saw the farmer, he took hold of both his hands, and, immediately throwing his arms around him, burst into tears, and was for some time so overcome by grief, that he could not give utterance to his feelings. Recovering himself, he enquired if it was the laird that had put him in prison; but on being told it was a writer, one of his creditors, the Gipsy exclaimed, "They are a d----d crew, thae writers,[247] and the lairds are little better." With much feeling, he now said to his friend, "Your father, honest man, was aye good to my horse, and your mother, poor body, was aye kind to me, when I came to the farm. I was aye treated like one of their own household, and I can never forget their kindness. Many a night's quarters I received from them, when others would not suffer me to approach their doors." The grateful Gipsy now offered the farmer fifty pounds, to relieve him from prison. "We are," said he, "not so poor as folk think we are;" and, putting his hand into his pocket, he added, "Here is part of the money, which you will accept; and if fifty pounds will not do, I will sell all that I have in the world, horses and all, to get you out of this place." "Oh, my bonnie man," continued the Gipsy, "had I you in my camp, at the back of the dyke, I would be a happy man. You would be far better there than in this hole." The farmer thanked him for his kind offer, but declined to accept it. "We are," resumed the Gipsy, "looked upon as savages, but we have our feelings, like other people, and never forget our friends and benefactors. Kind, indeed, have your relatives been to me, and all I have in this world is at your service." When the Gipsy found that his offer was not accepted, he insisted that the farmer would allow him to supply him, from time to time, with pocket money, in case he should, during his confinement, be in want of the necessaries of life. Before leaving the prison, the farmer asked the Gipsy to take a cup of tea with him; but long the Gipsy modestly refused to eat with him, saying, "I am a black thief-looking deevil, to sit down and eat in your company; but I will do it, this day, for your sake, since you ask it of me." The Gipsy's wife, with all her family, also insisted upon being allowed to see the farmer in prison.[248] [247] A _writer_ in Scotland corresponds with an _attorney_ in England. It is interesting to notice the opinion which the Gipsy entertained of the writers. Possibly he had been a good deal worried by them, in connection with the conduct of some of his folk.--ED. [248] There is something singularly inconsistent in the mind of the Gipsies. They pride themselves, to an extraordinary degree, in their race and language; at the same time, they are extremely sensitive to the prejudice that exists against them. "We feel," say they, "that every other creature despises us, and would crush us out of existence, if it could be done. No doubt, there are things which many of the Gipsies do not hold to be a shame, that others do; but, on the other hand, they hold some things to be a shame which others do not. They have many good points. They are kind to their own people, and will feed and clothe them, if it is in their power; and they will not molest others who treat them civilly. They are somewhat like the wild American Indians: they even go so far as to despise their own people who will willingly conform to the ways of the people among whom they live, even to putting their heads under a roof. But, alas! a hard necessity renders it unavoidable; a necessity of two kinds--that of making a living under the circumstances in which they find themselves placed, and the impossibility of enforcing their laws among themselves. Let them do what they may, live as they may, believe what they may, they are looked upon as everything that is bad. Yet they are a people, an ancient and mysterious people, that have been scattered by the will of Providence over the whole earth." It is to escape this dreadful prejudice that all Gipsies, excepting those who avowedly live and profess themselves Gipsies, will hide their race, if they can, and particularly so, in the case of those who fairly leave the tent, conform to the ordinary ways of society, and engage in any of its various callings. While being convoyed by the son of an English Gipsy, whose family I had been visiting, at their house, where I had heard them freely speak of themselves as Gipsies, and converse in Gipsy, I said, in quite a pleasant tone, "Ah, my little man, and you are a young Gipsy?--Eh, what's the matter?" "I don't wish to be known to the people as a Gipsy." His father, on another occasion, said, "We are not ashamed to say to a friend that we are Gipsies; but my children don't like people to be crying after them, 'Look at the Gipsies!'" And yet this family, like all Gipsies, were strongly attached to their race and language. It was pitiful to think that there was so much reason for them to make such a complaint. On one occasion, I was asked, "If you would not deem it presumptuous, might we ask you to take a bite with us?" "Eat with you? Why not?" I replied. "What will your people think, if they knew that you had been eating with us? You will lose caste." This was said in a serious manner, but slightly tinged with irony. Bless me, I thought, are all our Scottish Gipsies, of high and low degree, afraid that the ordinary natives would not even eat with them, if they knew them to be Gipsies?--ED. This interview took place in presence of several persons, who were surprised at the gratitude and manner of the determined Gipsy. It is proper to mention that he is considered a very honest man, and is a protection to the property of the country-people, wherever he is quartered. He sells earthen-ware, through the country, and has, sometimes, several horses in his possession, more for pleasure than profit, some of which the farmers graze for nothing, as he is a great favourite with those who are intimately acquainted with him. He is about fifty years of age, about six feet in height, is spare made, has small black eyes, and a swarthy complexion. He is styled King of the Gipsies, but the country-people call him "Terrible," for a by-name. It was said his mother was a witch, and many of the simple, ignorant people, in the country, actually believed she was one. That her son believed she possessed supernatural power, will appear from the following fact: As some one was lamenting the hard case of the farmer remaining in prison, the Gipsy gravely said, "Had my mother been able to go to the jail, to see the honest man, she possessed the power to set him free." That numbers of our Gipsies attend the church, and publicly profess Christianity, and get their children baptized, is certain; and that many of the male heads of principal families have the appearance and reputation of great honesty of character, is also certain. Yet their wives and other members of their families are, in general, little better than professed thieves; and are secretly countenanced and encouraged in their practices by many of those very chief males, who designedly keep up an outward show of integrity, for the purpose of deception, and of affording their plundering friends protection. When the head of the family is believed to be an honest man, it excites a feeling of sympathy for his tribe on his account, and it enables him to step forward, with more freedom, to protect his kindred, when they happen to get into scrapes. I am convinced, could the fact be ascertained, that many of the offenders who are daily brought before our courts of justice are Gipsies, though their external appearance does not indicate them to be of that race. With regard to the education of our Scottish Gipsies, I am convinced that very few of them receive any education at all; except some of those among the superior classes, who have property in houses, and permanent residences. A Gipsy, of some property, who gave one of her sons a good education, declared that the young man was entirely spoiled.[249] It appears, however, that the males of the Yetholm colony received such an education as is commonly given to the working classes; but it is supposed there is scarcely such a thing as a female Gipsy who has been educated. There are, however, instances to the contrary; and I know one female at least, who can handle her pen with some dexterity.[250] [249] It it well to notice the fact, that by giving a Gipsy child a good education, it became "entirely spoiled." It would be well if we could "spoil" all the Gipsies. A thoroughly spoiled Gipsy makes a very good man, but leaves him a Gipsy notwithstanding. A "thorough Gipsy" has two meanings; one strongly attached to the tribe, and its _original habits_, or one without these original habits. There are a good many "spoiled" Gipsies, male and female, in Scotland.--ED. [250] The education and acquirements of the Spanish Gipsies, according to Mr. Borrow, are, on the whole, not inferior to those of the lower classes of the Spaniards; some of the young _men_ being able to read and write in a manner by no means contemptible; but such never occurs among the females. Neglecting females, in the matter of education, is quite in keeping with the Oriental origin of the Gipsies. The same feature is observable among the Jews; and the Talmud bears heavily upon Jewish women. Every Jew says, in his morning prayer, "Blessed art thou, O Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who hast not made me a woman!" And the woman returns thanks for having been "created according to God's will."--ED. As to their religious sentiments, I am inclined to think that the greater part of the Scottish Gipsies are quite indifferent on the subject. Numbers of them certainly attend church, occasionally, when at home, in their winter quarters; but not one of them will enter its door when travelling through the country.[251] On Sundays, while resting themselves by the side of the public roads, the females employ themselves in washing and sewing their apparel, without any regard for that sacred day. It appears to me that a large proportion of them comply with our customs and forms of worship, more for the purpose of concealing their tribe and practices, than from any serious belief in the doctrines of Christianity. I recollect, however, of once conversing with an aged man who professed much apparent zeal in religious matters; and I mind well that he stoutly maintained, in opposition to Calvin's ideas on the subject of free grace, that everything depended upon our own works. "By my works in this life," said he, "I must stand, or fall, in the world to come." This very man acknowledged to me that the Gipsies were a tribe of thieves. But almost all the Gipsies, when the subject of religion is mentioned to them, affect to be very pious; speak of the goodness of God to them, with much apparent sincerity; lament the want of education; and reprobate, in strong terms, every act of immorality. This, I am sorry to say, is, in general, all hypocrisy and deception. There is not a better test, in a general way, for discovering who are Gipsies, than the expression of "God bless you," which is constantly in the mouth of every female.[252] [251] The ostensible reason which the Gipsy gives for not attending church, when travelling, is to prevent himself being ridiculed by the people. If he enters a place of worship, he makes the old people stare, and frightens the children. On returning from church, a child will exclaim, "Mother, mother, there was a Tinkler at the kirk, to-day."--"A what? a _Tinkler_ at the kirk? What could have possessed _him_ to go there?" Gipsies are extremely sensitive to the feeling in question. A short time ago, one of them entered ----, in the State of ----, with a "shears to grind," having a small bell attached. Some bar-room gentry assembled around him, and saluted him with, "Oh, oh, a Gipsy in a new rig!" So keenly did he feel the insult, that he at once left the village.--ED. [252] According to Grellmann, the Gipsies did not bring any particular religion with them from their own country, but have regulated it according to those of the countries in which they have lived. They suffer themselves to be baptized among Christians, and circumcised among Mahommedans. They are Greeks with Greeks, Catholics with Catholics, Protestants with Protestants, and as inconstant in their creed as their place of residence. They suffer their children to be several times baptised. To-day, they receive the sacrament as a Lutheran; next Sunday, as a Catholic; and, perhaps before the end of the week, in the Reformed Church. The greater part of them do not go so far as this, but live without any religion at all, and worse than heathens. So thoroughly indifferent are they in this respect, as to have given rise to the adage, "The Gipsy's church was built of bacon, and the dogs ate it." So perfectly convinced are the Turks of the insincerity of the Gipsy in matters of religion, that, although a Jew, by becoming a Mahommedan, is freed from the payment of the poll-tax, a Gipsy--at least in the neighbourhood of Constantinople--is not, even although his ancestors, for centuries, had been Mahommedans, or he himself should actually have made a pilgrimage to Mecca. His only privilege is to wear a white turban, which is denied to unbelieving Jews and Gipsies. Mr. Borrow says, that when the female Gipsies, who sing in the choirs of Moscow, were questioned, in their own language, about their externally professing the Greek religion, they laughed, and said it was only to please the Russians. The same author mentions an instance in which he preached to them; taking, for his text, the situation of the Hebrews in Egypt, and drawing a comparison between it and theirs in Spain. Warming with his subject, he spoke of the power of God in preserving both, as a distinct people, in the world to this day. On concluding, he looked around to see what impression he had made upon them, but the only response he got from them all was--a squint of the eye!--ED. With regard to the general politics of the Scottish Gipsies, if they entertain any political sentiments at all, I am convinced they are monarchical; and that, were any revolutionary convulsion to loosen the bonds of society, and separate the lower from the higher classes, they would take to the side of the superior portion of the community. They have, at all times, heartily despised the peasantry, and been disposed to treat menials with great contempt, though, at the very moment, they were begging at the doors of their masters. In the few instances which have come to my knowledge, of Scottish Gipsies forming matrimonial connexions with individuals of the community, those individuals were not of the working or lower classes of society.[253] [253] What our author says of the politics of the Gipsies is rather more applicable to their ideas of their social position. Being a small body in comparison with the general population of the country, they entertain a very exclusive and, consequently, a very aristocratic idea of themselves, whatever others may think of them; and therefore scorn the prejudice of the very lowest order of the common natives.--ED. I believe there are Gipsies, in more or less numbers, in almost every town in Scotland, permanent as well as periodical residenters. In many of the villages there are also Gipsy inhabitants. In Mid-Lothian there are great numbers of them, who have houses, in which they reside permanently, but a portion of them travel in other districts, during the summer season. I have been at no ordinary pains and trouble in making enquiries regarding the number of the Gipsies, and the result of my numerous investigations induces me to believe that there are about five thousand of them in Scotland, at the present day. Indeed, some of the Gipsies themselves entertain the same opinion, and they must certainly be allowed to have some idea of the number of their own fraternity.[254] [254] Before the reformation of our criminal law, many of the male Gipsies perished on the gallows, but now, the greatest punishment they meet with is banishment, or a short imprisonment, for "sorning, pickery, and little thieving." Few of them are now "married to the gallows tree," in the manner of Graham, as described under the head of Fifeshire Gipsies. Owing to their, (the more original kind especially,) all marrying very young, and having very large families, their number cannot fail to encrease, under the present laws, in a ratio far beyond that of our own population. Instead of there being only 5,000 Gipsies in Scotland, there are, as I have already said, nearer 100,000, for reasons to be given in my Disquisition on the Gipsies.--ED. It appears to me that the civilization and improvement of the body, generally, would be a work of great difficulty. I would be apt to give nearly the same answer which a Hungarian nobleman gave to Dr. Bright, when that traveller asked him if he could not devise a plan for bettering the condition of the race in Hungary. The nobleman said he knew of no manner of improving the Gipsies.[255] The best plan yet proposed for improving the race appears to be the one suggested by the Rev. James Crabb, of Southampton, and the Rev. John Baird, of Yetholm.[256] One of the first steps, however, should be a complete publicity to their language, if that was possible; and encouragement held out to them to speak it openly, without fear or reproach. Their secret speech is a strong bond of union among them, and forms, as it were, a wall of separation between them and the other inhabitants of the country. [255] Speaking of the attempted civilization of the Gipsies, by the Empress Maria Theresa, Grellmann says, "A boy, (for you must leave the old stock alone,) would frequently seem in the most promising train to civilization; on a sudden, his wild nature would appear, a relapse follow, and he become a perfect Gipsy again." "_Curate._--Could you not, by degrees, bring yourself to a more settled mode of life? "_Gipsy._--I would not tell you a lie, sir; I really think I could not, having been brought up to it from a child."--_Hoyland on the English Gipsies._ The restless desire which the more original kind of Gipsies, and those more recently from the tent, have for moving about, is generally gratified in some way or other. The poorer class will send their wives and young ones to the "grass," in company with the nomadic portion, or to the streets in towns. In either case, they have no great occasion to feel uneasy about their support; for she would be a poor wife indeed, if she could not forage for herself and "weary bairns." Among other things, she can hire herself to assist in disposing of the wares made by another Gipsy. Her husband will then work at his calling, or go on the _tramp_, like some of our ordinary mechanics. The feeling which mankind in general have for the sweets of the country, and the longing which so many of us have to end our days in the midst of them, amount almost to a mania with these Gipsies. Frequently will Gipsies, in England, after spending the best part of their lives in a settled occupation, again take to the tent; while others of them, on arrival in America, will buy themselves places, and live on them till seized with the travelling epidemic, communicated by a roving company of their tribe accidentally arriving in their neighbourhood. Some of the more recently settled class of Gipsies, whose occupations do not easily admit of their enjoying the pleasure of a country or travelling life, show a great partiality to their wandering brethren, however poor, with whom they are on terms of intimacy, and especially if they happen to be related. Their children, from hearing their parents speak of the "good old times"--the "golden age" of the Gipsies--when they could wander hither and thither, with little molestation, and live, in a measure, at free-quarters, wherever they went, grow impatient under the restraint which society has thrown around them; and vent their feelings in abusing that same society, and all the members thereof. They envy the lot of these "country cousins." Meetings of that kind render these Gipsies, (old as well as young,) irritable, discontented, and gloomy: they feel like "birds in a cage," as a Gipsy expressed it. Not unfrequently will a young town Gipsy travel in the company of these country relatives, dressed _a la Tinklaire_, as a relief to the discontentment which a restrained and pent-up life creates within him. At other times, his parents will know nothing of his movements, beyond his coming home to "roost" at night. The nomadic class take to winter-quarters in some village, towards the close of the year, and fret themselves all day long, till, on the return of spring, they can say, "To your tents, O Gipsies!" There is as little direct relation existing between the tent and the long-settled Gipsies, as there is between it and ordinary Scotch people. But there is that tribal or national association connected with it, that is inseparable from the feelings of a Gipsy, however high may be the position in life to which he may have risen.--ED. [256] The Fourteenth Annual Festival of the Rev. James Crabb's Association, for civilizing and teaching the principles of Christianity to the Gipsies in England, was held on the 25th December, 1841. At that time, twenty Gipsy youths were attending his school. He was very sanguine of ultimately ameliorating the condition of the British Gipsies. At Yetholm, in the same year, after the Rev. John Baird's school had been in existence about two years, there were about forty Gipsy children receiving instruction. When they were educated, they were hired as servants to families, or bound apprentices to different trades. [I will offer some remarks on the improvement of the Gipsies, in the Disquisition on the Gipsies.--ED.] Many of the Gipsies, following the various occupations enumerated, are not now to be distinguished from others of the community, except by the most minute observation; yet they appear a distinct and separate people; seldom contracting marriage out of their own tribe.[257] A tradesman of Gipsy blood will sooner give his hand to a lady's maid of his own race, than marry the highest female in the land; while the Gipsy lady's maid will take a Gipsy shoemaker, in preference to any one out of her tribe. A Gipsy woman will far rather prefer, in marriage, a man of her own blood who has escaped the gallows, to the most industrious and best-behaved tradesman in the kingdom. Like the Jews, almost all those in good circumstances marry among themselves, and, I believe, employ their poorer brethren as servants. I have known Gipsies most solemnly declare, that no consideration would induce them to marry out of their own tribe; and I am informed, and convinced, that almost every one of them marries in that way. One of them stated to me that, let them be in whatever situation of life they may, they all "stick to each other." [257] It is a difficult matter to tell some of the settled Scottish Gipsies. In searching for them, some regard must be had to the employment of the individual, his associations, and his isolation from the community generally, beyond what is necessary in following his calling and out-door relations, as contrasted with his hospitality to strangers from a distance; a close scrutiny of the habits of himself and his numerous motley visitors; the rough-and-tumble way in which he sometimes lives; his attachment to animals, such as horses, asses, dogs, cats, birds, or pets of any kind; these, and other relative circumstances, go a great way to enable one to pounce upon some of them. But the use of their language, and the effect it has upon them, (barring their responding to it,) is, at the present stage of their history, the only satisfactory test. Scottish Gipsy families will generally be found to be all dark in their appearance, or all very fair or reddish, or partly very fair, and partly very dark, and sometimes dark or fair nondescript. Many of the residentary class of mechanic Gipsies are difficult of detection; so are the better classes, generally, if it is long since their ancestors left the tent--ED. A DISQUISITION ON THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE OF GIPSYDOM. "There is nothing hid that shall not be revealed." In giving an account of the Gipsies, the subject would be very incomplete, were not something said about the manner in which they have drawn into their body the blood of other people, and the way in which the race is perpetuated; and a description given of their present condition, and future prospects, particularly as our author has overlooked some important points connected with their history, which I will endeavour to furnish. One of these important points is, that he has confined his description of the present generation of settled Gipsies to the descendants of those who left the tent subsequently to the commencement of the French war, to the exclusion of those who settled long anterior to that time. It is also necessary to treat the subject abstractly--to throw it into principles, to give the philosophy of it--to ensure the better understanding, and perpetuate the knowledge of it, amid the shifting objects that present themselves to the eye of the world, and even of the people described. Gipsydom may, in a word, be said to be literally a sealed book, a _terra incognita_, to mankind in general. The Gipsies arrived in Europe a strange race; strange in their origin, appearance, habits and disposition. Supposing that their habits had never led them to interfere with the property of others, or obtain money by any objectionable way, but that they had confined their calling to tinkering, making and selling wares, trading, and such like, they would, in all probability, still have remained a caste in the community, with a strong feeling of sympathy for those living in other countries, in consequence of the singularity of their origin and development, as distinguished from those of the other inhabitants, their language and that degree of prejudice which most nations have for foreigners settling among them and particularly so in the case of a people so different in their appearance and mode of life as were the Gipsies from those among whom they settled. That may especially be said of tented Gipsies, and even of those who, from time to time, would be forced to leave the tent, and settle in towns, or live as _tramps_, as distinguished from tented Gipsies. The simple idea of their origin and descent, tribe and language, transmitted from generation to generation, being so different from those of the people among whom they lived, was, in itself, perfectly sufficient to retain them members of Gipsydom, although, in cases of intermarriages with the natives, the mixed breeds might have gone over to the white race, and been lost to the general body. But in most of such cases that would hardly have taken place; for between the two races, the difference of feeling, were it only a slight jealousy, would have led the smaller and more exclusive and bigoted to bring the issue of such intermarriages within its influence. In Great Britain, the Gipsies are entitled, in one respect at least, to be called Englishmen, Scotchmen, or Irishmen; for their general ideas as men, as distinguished from their being Gipsies, and their language, indicate them, at once, to be such, nearly as much as the common natives of these countries. A half or mixed breed might more especially be termed or pass for a native; so that, by clinging to the Gipsies, and hiding his Gipsy descent and affiliation from the native race, he would lose nothing of the outward character of an ordinary inhabitant; while any benefit arising from his being a Gipsy would, at the same time, be enjoyed by him. But the subject assumes a totally different aspect when, instead of a slight jealousy existing between the two races, the difference in feeling is such as if a gulf had been placed between them. The effect of a marriage between a white and a Gipsy, especially if he or she is known to be a Gipsy, is such, that the white instinctively withdraws from any connexion with his own race, and casts his lot with the Gipsies. The children born of such unions become ultra Gipsies. A very fine illustration of this principle of half-breed ultra Gipsyism is given by Mr. Borrow, in his "Gipsies in Spain," in the case of an officer in the Spanish army adopting a young female Gipsy child, whose parents had been executed, and educating and marrying her. A son of this marriage, who rose to be a captain in the service of Donna Isabel, hated the white race so intensely, as, when a child, to tell his father that he wished he (his father) was dead. At whose door must the cause of such a feeling be laid? One would naturally suppose that the child would have left, perhaps despised, his mother's people, and clung to those whom the world deemed respectable. But the case was different. Suppose the mother had not been prompted by some of her own race, while growing up, and the son, in his turn, not prompted by the mother, all that was necessary to stir up his hatred toward the white race was simply to know who he was, as I will illustrate.[258] [258] This Spanish Gipsy is reported by Mr. Borrow to have said: "She, however, remembered her blood, and hated my father, and taught me to hate him likewise. When a boy, I used to stroll about the plain, that I might not see my father; and my father would follow me, and beg me to look upon him, and would ask me what I wanted; and I would reply, 'Father, the only thing I want is to see you dead!'" This is certainly an extreme instance of the result of the prejudice against the Gipsy race; and no opinion can be formed upon it, without knowing some of the circumstances connected with the feelings of the father, or his relations, toward the mother and the Gipsy race generally. This Gipsy woman seems to have been well brought up by her protector and husband; for she _taught her child Gipsy from a MS._, and procured a teacher to instruct him in Latin. There are many reflections to be drawn from the circumstances connected with this Spanish Gipsy family, but they do not seem to have occurred to Mr. Borrow. Suppose that a great iron-master should fancy a Cinderella, living by scraping pieces of iron from the refuse of his furnaces, educate her, and marry her, as great iron-masters have done. Being both of the same race, a complete amalgamation would take place at once: perhaps the wife was the best person of the two. Silly people might sneer at such a marriage; but if no objection attached to the personal character of the woman, she might be received into society at once, and admired by some, and envied by others, particularly if she had no "low relations" living near her. She might even boast of having been a Cinderella, if it happened to be well known; in which case she might be deemed free of pride, and consequently a very sensible, amiable woman, and worthy of every admiration. But who ever heard of such a thing taking place with a Gipsy? Suppose a Gipsy elevated to such a position as that spoken of; she would not, she dare not, mention her descent to any one not of her own race, and far less would she give an _exposé_ of Gipsydom; for she instinctively perceives, or at least believes, that, such is the prejudice against her race, people would avoid her as something horridly frightful, although she might be the finest woman in the world. Who ever heard of a civilized Gipsy, before Mr. Borrow mentioned those having attained to such an eminent position in society at Moscow? Are there none such elsewhere than in Moscow? There are many in Scotland. It is this unfortunate prejudice against the name that forces all our Gipsies, the moment they leave the tent, (which they almost invariably do with their blood diluted with the white,) to hide from the public their being Gipsies; for they are morbidly sensitive of the odium which attaches to the name and race being applied to them. It is quite time enough to discover the great secret of Nature, when it is unavoidable to enter "The undiscovered country from whose bourne No traveller returns." As little disposition is manifested by these Gipsies to "show their hands:" the uncertainty of such an experiment makes the very idea dreadful to them. Hence it is that the constant aim of settled Gipsies is to hide the fact of their being Gipsies from other people. It is a very common idea that Gipsies do not mix their blood with that of other people. Now, what is the fact? I may, indeed, venture to assert, that there is not a full-blooded Gipsy in Scotland;[259] and, most positively, that in England, where the race is held to be so pure, all that can be said of _some_ families is, that they have not been crossed, _as far as is known_; but that, with these exceptions, the body is much mixed: "dreadfully mixed" is the Gipsies' description, as, in many instances, my own eyes have witnessed. This brings me to an issue with a writer in the Edinburgh Review, who, in October, 1841, when reviewing the "Gipsies in Spain," by Mr. Borrow, says, "Their descent is purity itself; no mixture of European blood has contaminated theirs. . . . . . They, (the stranger and Gipsy,) may live together; the European vagrant is often to be found in the tents of the Gipsies; they may join in the fellowship of sport, the pursuit of plunder, the management of their low trades, but they can never fraternize." A writer in Blackwood's Magazine, on the same occasion, says, "Their care to preserve the purity of their race might, in itself, have confuted the unfounded charge, so often brought against them, of stealing children, and bringing them up as Gipsies." More unfounded ideas than those put forth by these two writers are scarcely possible to be imagined.[260] [259] It is claimed, by some Scottish Gipsies, that there are full-blood Gipsies at Yetholm, but I do not believe it. This, I may venture to say, that there can be no certainty, but, on the contrary, great doubt, on the subject. But, after all, what is a pure Gipsy? Was the race pure when it entered Scotland, or even Europe? The idea is perfectly arbitrary. [260] It would be interesting to know where these writers got such ideas about the purity of the Gipsy blood. It certainly was not from Mr. Borrow's account of the Gipsies in Spain, whatever they may have inferred from that work. This mixture of "the blood" is notorious. Many a full or nearly full-blood Gipsy will say that Gipsies do not mix their blood with that of the stranger. In such a case he only shuffles; for he whispers to himself two words, in his own language, which contradict what he says; which words I forget, but they mean "I belie it;" that is, he belies what he has just said. Besides, it lets the Gipsies down in their imagination, and, they think, in the imagination of others, to allow that the blood of their race is mixed. It is also a secret which they would rather hide from the world.[261] I am intimate with English Gipsy families, in none of whom is full blood; the most that can be said of them is, that they range from nearly full, say from seven-eighths, down to one-eighth, and perhaps less. Suppose that a fair-haired common native marries a full-blood Gipsy: the issue of such an union will show some of the children, in point of external appearance, perfectly European, like the father, and others, Gipsies, like the mother. If two such European-like Gipsies marry, some of their children will take after the Gipsy, and be pretty, even very, dark, and others after the white race. In crossing a second time with full white blood, the issue will take still more after the white race. Still, the Gipsy cannot be crossed altogether out; he will come up, but of course in a modified form. Should the white blood be of a dark complexion and hair, and have no tendency, from its ancestry, to turn to fair, in its descent, then the issue between it and the Gipsy will always be dusky. I have seen all this, and had it fully explained by the Gipsies themselves. [261] An instance of this kind of shuffling is given by Mr. Borrow, in the tenth chapter of the "Romany Rye," in the person of Ursula, a full or nearly full-blood Gipsy. She confines the crossing of the blood to such instances as when a Gipsy dies and leaves his children to be provided for by "_gorgios_, trampers, and basket-makers, who live in caravans;" but she says, "I hate to talk of the matter." When Mr. Borrow asked her, if a Gipsy woman, unless compelled by hard necessity, would have anything to do with a _gorgio_, she replied, "We are not over-fond of _gorgios_, and we hate basket-makers and folks that live in caravans." Here she makes a very important distinction between _gorgios_, (native English,) and _basket-makers and folks that live in caravans_, (mixed Gipsies.) She does not deny that a Gipsy woman will intermarry with a native under certain circumstances. A pretty-pure Gipsy, when angry, will very readily call a mixed Gipsy a _gorgio_, or, indeed, by any other name. The result of this mixture of the Gipsy and European blood is founded, not only on the ordinary principles of physiology, but on common sense itself; for why should not such issue take after the European, in preference to the Gipsy? If a residence in Europe of 450 years has had no effect upon the appearance of what may be termed pure Gipsies, (a point which, at least, is questionable,) the length of time, the effects of climate, and the influence of mind, should, at least, predispose it to merge, by mixture, into something bearing a resemblance to the ordinary European; which, by a continued crossing, it does. Indeed, it soon disappears to the common eye: to a stranger it is not observable, unless the mixture happens to be met with in a tent, or under such circumstances as one expects to meet with Gipsies. In paying a visit to an English Gipsy family, I was invited to call again, on such a day, when I would meet with some Welsh Gipsies. The principal Welsh Gipsy I found to be a very quiet man, with fair hair, and quite like an ordinary Englishman; who was admitted by his English brethren to "speak deep Gipsy." He had just arrived from Wales, where he had been employed in an iron work. Unless I am misinformed, the issue of a fair-haired European and an ordinary Hindoo woman, in India, sometimes shows the same result as I have stated of the Gipsies; but it ought to be much more so in the case of the Gipsy in Europe, on account of the race having been so long acclimated there. Indeed, it is generally believed, that the population of Europe contains a large part of Asiatic blood, from that continent having at one time been overrun by Asiatics, who mixed their blood with an indigenous race which they met with there. Of the mixed Spanish Gipsy, to whom I have alluded, Mr. Borrow says, that "he had _flaxen hair_; his eyes small, and, like ferrets, red and fiery; and his complexion like a brick, or dull red, chequered with spots of purple." This description, with, perhaps, the exception of the red eyes, and spots of purple, is quite in keeping with that of many of the mixed Gipsies. The race seems even to have given a preference to fair or red hair, in the case of such children and grown-up natives as they have adopted into their body. I have met with a young Spaniard from Corunna, who is so much acquainted with the Gipsies in Spain, that I took him to be a mixed Gipsy himself; and he says that mixtures among the Spanish Gipsies are very common; the white man, in such cases, always casting his lot with the Gipsies. None of the French, German, or Hungarian Gipsies whom I have met with in America are full blood, or anything like it; but I am told there are such, and very black too, as the English Gipsies assert. Indeed, considering how "dreadfully mixed" the Gipsies are in Great Britain and Ireland, I cannot but conclude that they are more or less so all over the world.[262] [262] Grellmann evidently alludes to Gipsies of mixed blood, when he writes in the following manner: "Experience shows that the dark colour of the Gipsies, which is continued from generation to generation, is more the effect of education and manner of life than descent. Among those who profess music in Hungary, or serve in the imperial army, where they have learned to pay more attention to order and cleanliness, there are many to be found whose extraction is not at all discernible in their colour." For my part, I cannot say that such language is applicable to full-blood Gipsies. Still, the change from tented to settled and tidy Gipsydom is apt to show its effects in modifying the complexion of such Gipsies, and to a much greater degree in their descendants. The blood once mixed, there is nothing to prevent a little more being added, and a little more, and so on. There are English Gipsy girls who have gone to work in factories in the Eastern States, and picked up husbands among the ordinary youths of these establishments. And what difference does it make? Is not the game in the Gipsy woman's own hands? Will she not bring up her children Gipsies, initiate them in all the mysteries of Gipsydom, and teach them the language? There is another married to an American farmer "down east." All that she has to do is simply to "tell her wonderful story," as the Gipsies express it. Jonathan must think that he has caged a queer kind of a bird in the English Gipsy woman. But will he say to his friends, or neighbours, that his wife is a Gipsy? Will the children tell that their mother, and, consequently, they themselves are Gipsies? No, indeed. Jonathan, however, will find her a very active, managing woman, who will always be a-stirring, and will not allow her "old man" to kindle the fires of a morning, milk his cows, or clean his boots, and, as far as she is concerned, will bring him lots of _chabos_. Gipsies, however, do not like such marriages; still they take place. They are more apt to occur when they have attained to that degree of security in a community where no one knows them to be Gipsies, or when they have settled in a neighbourhood to which they had come strangers. The parents exercise more constraint over their sons than daughters; they cannot bear the idea of a son taking a strange woman for a wife; for a strange woman is a snare unto the Gipsies. If a Scottish Gipsy lad shows a hankering after a stranger lass, the mother will soon "cut his comb," by asking him, "What would she say if she knew you to be a loon of a Gipsy? Take such or such a one (Gipsies) for a wife, if you want one." But it is different with the girls. If a Gipsy lass is determined to have the stranger for a husband, she has only to say, "Never mind, mother; it makes no earthly difference; I'll turn that fellow round my little finger; I'll take care of the children when I get them." I do not know how the settled Scottish Gipsies broach the subject of being Gipsies to the stranger son-in-law when he is introduced among them. I can imagine the girl, during the courtship, saying to herself, with reference to her intended, "I'll lead you captive, my pretty fellow!" And captive she does lead him, in more senses than one. Perhaps the subject is not broached to him till after she has borne him children; or, if he is any way soft, the mother, with a leering eye, will say to him at once, "Ah ha, lad, ye're among Gipsies now!" In such a case, the young man will be perfectly bewildered to know what it all means, so utterly ignorant is he about Gipsies; when, however, he comes to learn all about it, it will be _mum_ with him, as if his wife's friends had _burked_ him, or some "old Gipsy" had come along, and sworn him in on the point of a drawn dirk. It may be that the Gipsy never mentions the subject to her husband at all, for fear he should "take her life;" she can, at all events, trust her secret with her children. Why should there be any hard feelings towards a Gipsy for "taking in and burking" a native in this way? She does not propose--she only disposes of herself. She has no business to tell the other that she is a Gipsy. She does not consider herself a worse woman than he is a man, but, on the contrary, a better. She would rather prefer a _chabo_, but, somehow or other, she sacrifices her feelings, and takes the _gorgio_, "for better or worse." Or there may be considerable advantages to be derived from the connexion, so that she spreads her snares to secure them. Being a Gipsy, she has the whip-hand of the husband, for no consideration will induce him to divulge to any one the fact that his wife is a Gipsy--should she have told him; in which case she has such a hold upon him, as to have "turned him round her little finger" most effectually. "Married a Gipsy! it's no' possible!" "Ay, it is possible. There!" she will say, chattering her words, and, with her fingers, showing him the signs. He soon gets reconciled to the "better or worse" which _he_ has taken to his bosom, as well as to her "folk," and becomes strongly attached to them. The least thing that the Gipsy can then do is to tell her "wonderful story" to her children. It is not teaching them any damnable creed; it is only telling them who they are; so that they may acknowledge herself, her people, her blood, and the blood of the children themselves. And how does the Gipsy woman bring up her children in regard to her own race? She tells them her "wonderful story"--informs them who they are, and of the dreadful prejudice that exists against them, simply for being Gipsies. She then tells them about Pharaoh and Joseph in Egypt, terming her people, "Pharaoh's folk." In short, she dazzles the imagination of the children, from the moment they can comprehend the simplest idea. Then she teaches them her words, or language, as the "real Egyptian," and frightens and bewilders the youthful mind by telling them that they are subject to be hanged if they are known to be Gipsies, or to speak these words, or will be looked upon as wild beasts by those around them. She then informs the children how long the Gipsies have been in the country; how they lived in tents; how they were persecuted, banished, and hanged, merely for being Gipsies. She then tells them of her people being in every part of the world, whom they can recognize by the language and signs which she is teaching them; and that her race will everywhere be ready to shed their blood for them. She then dilates upon the benefits that arise from being a Gipsy--benefits negative as well as positive; for should they ever be set upon--garroted, for example--all that they will have to do will be to cry out some such expression as "_Biené raté, calo chabo_," (good-night, Gipsy, or black fellow,) when, if there is a Gipsy near them, he will protect them. The children will be fondled by her relatives, handed about and hugged as "little ducks of Gipsies." The granny, while sitting at the fireside, like a witch, performs no small part in the education of the children, making them fairly dance with excitement. In this manner do the children of Gipsies have the Gipsy soul literally breathed into them.[263] [263] Mr. Offor, editor of a late edition of Bunyan's works, writes, in "Notes and Queries," thus: "I have avoided much intercourse with this class, fearing the fate of Mr. Hoyland, who, being a Quaker, was shot by one of Cupid's darts from a black-eyed Gipsy girl; and _J. S. may do well to be cautious_." Mr. Offor is not far wrong. A Gipsy girl can sometimes fascinate a "white fellow," as a snake can a bird--make him flutter, and particularly so, should the "little Gipsy" be met with in some such dress as black silks and a white polka. This much can be said of Gipsy women, which cannot be said of all women, that they know their places, and are not apt to _usurp_ the rights of the _rajahs_; they will even "work the nails off their fingers" to make them feel comfortable. I should conclude, from what Mr. Offor says, that the Quaker married the Gipsy girl. If children were born of the union, they will be Gipsy-Quakers, or Quaker-Gipsies, whichever expression we choose to adopt. In such a way--what with the supreme influence which the mother has exercised over the mind of the child from its very infancy; the manner in which its imagination has been dazzled; and the dreadful prejudice towards the Gipsies, which they all apply, directly or indirectly, to themselves--does the Gipsy adhere to his race. When he comes to be a youth, he naturally enough endeavours to find his way to a tent, to have a look at the "old thing." He does not, however, think much of it as a reality; but it presents something very poetical and imaginative to his mind, when he contemplates it as the state from which his mysterious forefathers have sprung.[264] It makes very little difference, in the case to which I have alluded, whether the father be a Gipsy or not; the children all go with the mother, for they inherit the blood through her. What with the blood, the education, the words, and the signs, they are simply Gipsies, and will be such, as long as they retain a consciousness of who they are, and any peculiarities exclusively Gipsy. As it sometimes happens that the father, only, is a Gipsy, the attachment may not be so strong, on the part of the children, as if the blood had come through the mother; still, it likewise attaches them to the body. A great deal of jealousy is shown by the Gipsies, when a son marries a strange woman. A greater ado is not made by some Catholics, to bring up their children Catholics, under such circumstances, than is exhibited by Gipsies for their children knowing their secret--that is, the "wonderful story;" which has the effect of leading them, in their turn, to marry with Gipsies. The race is very jealous of "the blood" being lost; or that their "wonderful story" should become known to those who are not Gipsies. [264] I have picked up quite a number of Scottish Gipsies of respectable character, from their having gone in their youth, to look at the "old thing." It is the most natural thing in the world for them to do. What is it to look back to the time of James V., in 1540, when John Faw was lord-paramount over the Gipsies in Scotland? Imagine, then, the natural curiosity of a young Gipsy, brought up in a town, to look at something like the original condition of his ancestors. Such a Gipsy will leave Edinburgh, for example, and travel over the south of Scotland, "casting his sign," as he passes through the villages, in every one of which he will find Gipsies. Some of these villages are almost entirely occupied by Gipsies. James Hogg is reported, in Blackwood's Magazine, to say, that Lochmaben is "stocked" with them. There are people who cannot imagine how a man can be a Gipsy and have fair hair. They think that, from his having fair hair, he cannot have the same feelings of what they imagine to be a true Gipsy, that is, a black-haired one. One naturally asks, what effect can the matter of colour of _hair_ have upon the _mind_ of a member of any community or clan, whether the hair be black, brown, red, fair, or white, or the person have no hair at all? Let us imagine a Gipsy with fair hair. How long is it since the white blood was introduced among his ancestors? Perhaps three hundred and fifty years. The race of which he comes has been, more or less, mixing and crossing ever since, but always retaining the issue within its own community. Is he fair-haired? Then he may be half a Gipsy; he may be three-fourths Gipsy, and perhaps even more. At the present day, the "points" of such a Gipsy are altogether arbitrary; some profess to know their points, but it is a thing altogether uncertain. All that they know and adhere to is, that they are Gipsies, and nothing else. In this manner are the British Gipsies, (with the exception of some English families, about whom there is no certainty,) members of the Gipsy community, or nation, as such--each having some of the blood; and not Gipsies of an ideal purity of race. What they know is, that their parents and relatives are Gipsies; that Gipsies separate them from the eternity that is past; and, consequently, that they are Gipsies. They, indeed, accept their descent, blood, and nationality as instinctively as they accept the very sex which God has given them. Which of the two knows most of Gipsydom--the fair-haired or black? Almost invariably the fair.[265] [265] Among the English Gipsies, fair-haired ones are looked upon by the purer sort, or even by those taking after the Gipsy, as "small potatoes." The consequence is they have to make up for their want of blood, by smartness, knowledge of the language, or something that will go to balance the deficiency of blood. They generally lay claim to the _intellect_, while they yield the _blood_ to the others. A full or nearly full-blood young English Gipsy looks upon herself with all the pride of a little duchess, while in the company of young male mixed Gipsies. A mixed Gipsy may reasonably be assumed to be more intelligent than one of the old stock, were it only for this reason, that the mixture softens down the natural conceit and bigotry of the Gipsy; while, as regards his personal appearance, it puts him in a more improvable position. Still, a full-blood Gipsy looks up to a mixed Gipsy, if he is anything of a superior man, and freely acknowledges the blood. Indeed, the two kinds will readily marry, if circumstances bring them together. To a couple of such Gipsies I said: "What difference does it make, if the person _has the blood, and has his heart in the right place_?" "That's the idea; that's exactly the idea," they both replied. We naturally ask, what effect has this difference in appearance upon two such members of one family--the one with European, the other with Gipsy, features and colour? and the answer is this: The first will hide the fact of his being a Gipsy from strangers; indeed, he is ashamed to let it be known that he is a Gipsy; and he is afraid that people, not knowing how it came about, would laugh at him. "What!" they would ask, "_you_ a Gipsy? The idea is absurd." Besides, it facilitates his getting on in the world, to prevent it being known that he is a Gipsy. The other member cannot deny that he is a Gipsy, because any one can see it. Such are the Gipsies who are more apt to cling to the tent, or the more original ways of the old stock. They are very proud of their appearance; but it is a pride accompanied with disadvantages, and even pain. For, after all, the beauty and pleasure in being a Gipsy is to have the other cast of features and colour; he has as much of the blood and language as the other, while he can go into any kind of company--a sort of Jack-the-Giant-Killer in his invisible coat. The nearer the Gipsy comes to the original colour of his race, the less chance is there of improving him. He knows what he is like; and well does he know the feeling that people entertain for him. In fact, he feels that there is no use in being anything but what people call a Gipsy. But it is different with those of European countenance and colour, or when these have been modified or diluted by a mixture of white blood. They can, then, enter upon any sphere of employment to which they have a mind, and their personal advantages and outward circumstances will admit of.[266] [266] To thoroughly understand how a Gipsy, with fair hair and blue eyes, can be as much a Gipsy as one with black, may be termed "passing the _pons assinorum_ of the Gipsy question." Once over the bridge, and there are no difficulties to be encountered on the journey, unless it be to understand that a Gipsy can be a Gipsy without living in a tent or being a rogue. Let us now consider the destiny of such European-like Gipsies. Suppose a female of this description marries a native in settled life, which both of them follow. She brings the children up as Gipsies, in the way described. The children are apt to become ultra Gipsies. If they, in their turn, marry natives, they do the same with their children; so that, if the same system were always followed, they would continue Gipsies forever. For all that is necessary to perpetuate the tribe, is simply for the Gipsies to know who they are, and the prejudice that exists toward the race of which they are a part; to say nothing of the innate associations connected with their origin and descent. Such a phenomenon may be fitly compared to the action of an auger; with this difference, that the auger may lose its edge, but the Gipsy will drill his way through generations of the ordinary natives, and, at the end, come out as sharp as ever; all the circumstances attending the two races being exactly the same at the end as at the beginning. In this way, let their blood be mixed as it may, let even their blood-relationship outside of their body be what it may, the Gipsies still remain, in their private associations, a distinct people, into whatever sphere of human action they may enter; although, in point of blood, appearance, occupation, character, and religion, they may have drifted the breadth of a hemisphere from the stakes and tent of the original Gipsy. There can surely be no great difficulty in comprehending so simple an idea as this. Here we have a foreign race introduced amongst us, which has been proscribed, legally as well as socially. To escape the effects of this double proscription, the people have hidden the fact of their belonging to the race, although they have clung to it with an ardour worthy of universal admiration. The proscription is toward the name and race as such, that is, the blood; and is not general, but absolute; none having ever been received into society as Gipsies. For this reason, every Gipsy, every one who has Gipsy blood in his veins, applies the proscription to himself. On the other hand, he has his own descent--the Gipsy descent; and, as I have already said, he has naturally as little desire to wish a different descent, as he has to have a different sex. As Finns do not wish to have been born Englishmen, or Englishmen Finns, so Gipsies are perfectly satisfied with their descent, nay, extremely proud of it. They would not change it, if they could, for any consideration. When Gipsies, therefore, marry natives, they do not only willingly bring up their children as Gipsies, but by every moral influence they are forced to do it, and cling to each other. In this way has the race been absolutely cut off from that of the ordinary natives; all intercourse between the two, unless on the part of the _bush_ Gipsy, in the way of dealings, having been of a clandestine nature, on the side of the Gipsy, or, in other words, _incog._ How melancholy it is to think that such a state of things exists in the British Islands! The Gipsy, born of a Gipsy mother and a native father, does, therefore, most naturally, and, I may say, invariably, follow the Gipsy connexion; the simplest impulse of manhood compels him to do it. Being born, or becoming a member of settled society, he joins in the ordinary amusements or occupations of his fellow-creatures of both races; which he does the more readily when he feels conscious of the incognito which he bears. But he has been brought up from his mother's knee a Gipsy; he knows nothing else; his associations with his relatives have been Gipsy; and he has in his veins that which the white damns, and, he doubts not, would damn in him, were he to know of it. He has, moreover, the words and signs of the Gipsy race; he is brought in contact with the Gipsy race; he perceives that his feelings are reciprocated by them, and that both have the same reserve and timidity for "outsiders." He does not reason abstractly what he is _not_, but instinctively holds that he is "one of them;" that he has in his mind, his heart, and his blood, that which the common native has not, and which makes him a _chabo_, that is, a Gipsy. The mother, in the case mentioned, is certainly not a full-blood Gipsy, nor anything like it; she does not know her real "points;" all that she knows is, that she is a "Gipsy:" so that, if the youth's father is an ordinary native, the youth holds himself to be a half-and-half, nominally, though he does not know what he really is, as regards blood. Imagine, then, that he takes such a half-and-half Gipsy for a wife, and that both tell their children that they are "Gipsies:" the children, perhaps, knowing nothing of the real origin of their parents, take up the "wonderful story," and hand it down to their children, initiating them, in their turn, in the "mysteries." These children never doubt that _they_ are "Gipsies," although _their_ Gipsyism may, as I have already said, have "drifted the breadth of a hemisphere from the stakes and tent of the original Gipsy." In this manner is Gipsydom kept alive, by its turning round and round in a perpetual circle. And in this manner does it happen, that a native finds his own children Gipsies, from having, in seeking for a wife, stumbled upon an Egyptian woman. Gipsydom is, therefore, the aggregate of Gipsies, wherever, or under whatever circumstances, they are to be found. It is, in two respects, an absolute question; absolute as to blood, and absolute as to those teachings, feelings, and associations, that, by a moral necessity, accompany the possession of the blood. This brings me to an issue with Mr. Borrow. Speaking of the destination of the Spanish Gipsies, he says: "If the Gitanos are abandoned to themselves, by which we mean, no arbitrary laws are again enacted for their extinction, the sect will eventually cease to be, and its members become confounded with the residue of the population." I can well understand that such procedure, on the part of the Spanish Government, was calculated to soften the ferocious disposition of the Gipsies; but did it bring them a point nearer to an amalgamation with the people than before? Mr. Borrow continues: "The position which they occupy is the lowest. . . . . The outcast of the prison and the _presidio_, who calls himself Spaniard, would feel insulted by being termed Gitano, and would thank God that he is not." He continues: "It is, of course, by intermarriage, alone, that the two races will ever commingle; and before that event is brought about, much modification must take place amongst the Gitanos, in their manners, in their habits, in their affections and their dislikes, and perhaps _even in their physical peculiarities_, (yet 'no washing,' as Mr. Borrow approvingly quotes, 'will turn the Gipsy white;') much must be forgotten on both sides, and everything is forgotten in course of time." So great, indeed, was the prejudice against the Gipsies, that the law of Charles III, in 1783, forbade the people calling them Gitanos, under the penalty of being punished for _slander!_ because, his majesty said: "I declare that those who go by the name of Gitanos are not so by origin or nature; nor do they proceed from any infected root(!)" What regard would the native Spaniards pay to the injunction, that they would be punished for "slander," for calling the Gipsies _Gitanos_, in place of _Spaniards_? We may well believe that such a law would be a dead letter in Spain; where, according to Mr. Borrow, "justice has invariably been a mockery; a thing to be bought and sold, terrible only to the feeble and innocent, and an instrument of cruelty and avarice." Mr. Borrow leaves the question where he found it. Even remove the prejudice that exists against the Gipsies, as regards their colour, habits, and history; what then? Would they, as a people cease to be? Would they amalgamate with the natives, _so as to be lost_? Assuredly not. They may mix their blood, but they preserve their mental identity in the world; even although, in point of physical appearance, habits, manners, occupation, character, and creed, they might "become confounded with the residue of the population." In that respect, they are the most exclusive people of almost any to be found in the world. We have only to consider what Freemasonry is, and we can form an idea of what Gipsyism is, in one of its aspects. It rests upon the broadest of all bases--flesh and blood, a common and mysterious origin, a common language, a common history, a common persecution, and a common odium, in every part of the world. Remove the prejudice against the Gipsies, make it as respectable to be Gipsies, as the world, with its ignorance of many of the race, deem it desreputable; what then? Some of them might come out with their "tents and encampments," and banners and mottoes: the "cuddy and the creel, the hammer and tongs, the tent and the tin kettle" forever. People need not sneer at the "cuddy and the creel." The idea conveys a world of poetry to the mind of a Gipsy. Mrs. Fall, of Dunbar, thought it so poetical, that she had it, as we have seen, worked in tapestry; and it is doubtless carefully preserved, as an heir-loom, among her collateral descendants.[267] [267] There is a considerable resemblance between Gipsyism, in its harmless aspect, and Freemasonry; with this difference, that the former is a general, while the latter is a special, society; that is to say, the Gipsies have the language, or some of the words, and the signs, peculiar to the whole race, which each individual or class will use for different purposes. The race does not necessarily, and does not in fact, have intercourse with every other member of it; in that respect, they resemble any ordinary community of men. Masonry, as my reader may be aware, is a society of what may be termed "a mixed multitude of good fellows, who are all pledged to befriend and help each other." The radical elements of Masonry may be termed a "rope of sand," which the vows of the Order work into the most closely and strongly formed coil of any to be found in the world. But it is altogether of an artificial nature; while Gipsyism is natural--something that, when separated from objectionable habits, one might almost call divine; for it is founded upon a question of race--a question of blood. The cement of a creed is weak, in comparison with that which binds the Gipsies together; for a people, like an individual, may have one creed to-day, and another to-morrow; it may be continually travelling round the circle of every form of faith; but blood, under certain circumstances, is absolute and immutable. There are many Gipsies Freemasons; indeed, they are the very people to push their way into a Mason's lodge; for they have secrets of their own, and are naturally anxious to pry into those of others, by which they may be benefited. I was told of a Gipsy who died lately, the Master of a Masons' Lodge. A friend, a Mason, told me, the other day, of his having entered a house in Yetholm, where were five Gipsies, all of whom responded to his Masonic signs. Masons should therefore interest themselves in, and befriend, the Gipsies. Mr. Borrow speaks of the Gipsies "declining" in Spain. Ask a Scotchman about the Scottish Gipsies, and he will answer: "The Scotch Gipsies have pretty much died out." "Died out?" I ask; "that is impossible; for who are more prolific than Gipsies?" "Oh, then, they have become settled, and civilized." "And _ceased to be Gipsies_?" I continue. "Exactly so," he replies. What idea can be more ridiculous than that of saying, that if a Gipsy leaves the tent, settles in a town, and attends church, he ceases to be a Gipsy; and that, if he takes to the tent again, he becomes a Gipsy again? What has a man's occupation, habits, or character, to do with his clan, tribe, or nationality? Does education, does religion, remove from his mind a knowledge of who he is, or change his blood? Are not our own Borderers and Highlanders as much Borderers and Highlanders as ever they were? Are not Spanish Gipsies still Spanish Gipsies, although a change may have come over the characters and circumstances of some of them? It would be absurd to deny it.[268] [268] The principle, or rather fact, here involved, simple as it is in itself, is evidently very difficult of comprehension by the native Scottish mind. Any person understands perfectly well how a Highlander, at the present day, is still a Highlander, notwithstanding the great change that has come over the character of his race. But our Scottish _literati_ seem to have been altogether at sea, in comprehending the same principle as applicable to the Gipsies. They might naturally have asked themselves, whether _Gipsies_ could have procreated _Jews_; and, if not Jews, how they could have procreated _gorgios_, (as English Gipsies term natives.) A writer in Blackwood's Magazine says, in reference to Billy Marshall, a Gipsy chief, to whom allusion has already been made: "Who were his descendants I cannot tell; I am sure he could not do it himself, if he were living. It is known that they were prodigiously numerous; I dare say numberless." And yet this writer gravely says that "the _race_ is in some risk of becoming extinct(!)" Another writer in Blackwood says: "Their numbers may perhaps have since been diminished, in particular States, by _the progress of civilization_(_!_)" We would naturally pronounce any person crazy who would maintain that there were no Highlanders in Scotland, owing to their having "changed their habits." We could, with as much reason, say the same of those who will maintain this opinion in regard to the Gipsies. There has been a great deal of what is called genius expended upon the Gipsies, but wonderfully little common sense. As the Jews, during their pilgrimage in the Wilderness, were protected from their enemies by a cloud, so have the Gipsies, in their encrease and development, been shielded from theirs, by a mist of ignorance, which, it would seem, requires no little trouble to dispel. Mr. Borrow has not sufficiently examined into Spanish Gipsyism to pass a reliable opinion upon it. He says: "One thing is certain, in the history of the Gitanos; that the sect flourished and encreased, so long as the law recommended and enjoined measures the most harsh and severe for its suppression. . . . The caste of the Gitanos still exists, but is neither so extensive, nor so formidable, as a century ago, when the law, in denouncing Gitanismo, proposed to the Gitanos the alternatives of death for persisting in their profession, or slavery for abandoning it." These are very singular alternatives. The latter is certainly not to be found in any of the Spanish laws quoted by Mr. Borrow. I am at a loss to perceive the point of his reasoning. There can be no difficulty in believing that Gipsies would rather _encrease_ in a state of peace, than if they were hunted from place to place, like wild beasts; and consequently, having renounced their former mode or life, they would, in Mr. Borrow's own words, "cease to play a distinct part in the history of Spain, and the _law_ would no longer speak of them as a distinct people." And the same might, to a certain extent, be said of the Spanish _people_. Mr. Borrow again says: "That the Gitanos are not so numerous as in former times, witness those _barrios_, in various towns, still denominated _Gitanerias_, but from whence the Gitanos have disappeared, even like the Moors from the _Morerias_." But Mr. Borrow himself, in the same work, gives a good reason for the disappearance of the Gipsies from these _Gitanerias_; for he says: "The _Gitanerias_ were soon considered as public nuisances, on which account the Gitanos were forbidden to live together in particular parts of the town, to hold meetings, and even to intermarry with each other." If the disappearance of the Gipsies from Spain was like that of the Moors, it would appear that they had left, or been expelled from, the country; a theory which Mr. Borrow does not advance. The Gipsies, to a certain extent, may have left these barriers, or been expelled from them, and settled, as tradesmen, mechanics, and what not, in other parts of the same or other towns; so as to be in a position the more able to get on in the world. Still, many of them are in the colonies. In Cuba there are many, as soldiers and musicians, dealers in mules and red pepper, which businesses they almost monopolize, and jobbers and dealers in various wares; and doubtless there are some of them innkeepers, and others following other occupations. In Mexico there are not a few. I know of a Gitano who has a fine wholesale and retail cigar store in Virginia.[269] [269] In Olmstead's "Journey in the Seaboard Slave States" it is stated, that in Alexandria, Louisiana, when under the Spanish rule, there were "French and Spanish, _Egyptians_ and Indians, Mulattoes and Negroes." This author reports a conversation which he had with a planter, by which it appears that these Egyptians came from "some of the Northern Islands;" that they spoke a language among themselves, but could talk French and Spanish too; that they were black, but not very black, and as good citizens as any, and passed for white folk. The planter believed they married mostly with mulattoes, and that a good many of the mulattoes had Egyptian blood in them too. He believed these Egyptians had disappeared since the State became part of the Union. Mr. Olmstead remarks: "The Egyptians were probably Spanish Gipsies, though I have never heard of any of them being in America in any other way." Mr. Borrow concludes, in regard to the Spanish Gipsies, thus: "We have already expressed our belief that the caste has diminished of latter years; whether this diminution was the result of one or many causes combined; of a _partial change of habits_, of pestilence or sickness, of war or famine, or of a _freer intercourse with the Spanish population_, we have no means of determining, and shall abstain from offering conjectures on the subject." In this way does he leave the question just where he found it. Is there any reason to doubt that Gipsydom is essentially the same in Spain as in Great Britain; or that its future will be guided by any other principles than those which regulate that of the British Gipsies? Indeed, I am astonished that Mr. Borrow should advance the idea that Gipsies should _decrease_ by "changing their habits;" they might not _encrease so fast_, in a settled life, as when more exposed to the air, and not molested by the Spanish Government. I am no less astonished that he should think they would decrease by "a freer intercourse with the Spanish population;" when, in fact, such mixtures are well known to go with the Gipsies; the mixture being, in the estimation of the British Gipsies, calculated to strengthen and invigorate the race itself. Had Mr. Borrow kept in mind the case of the half-blood Gipsy captain, he could have had no difficulty in learning what became of mixed Gipsies.[270] [270] Mr. Borrow surely cannot mean that a Gipsy ceases to be a Gipsy, when he settles down, and "turns over a new leaf;" and that this "change of habits" changes his descent, blood, appearance, language and nationality! What, then, does he mean, when he says that the Spanish Gipsies have decreased by "a partial change of habits?" And does an infusion of Spanish blood, implied in a "freer intercourse with the Spanish population," lead to the Gipsy element being wiped out; or does it lead to the Spanish feeling being lost in Gipsydom? Which is the element to be operated upon--the Spanish or the Gipsy? Which is the _leaven_? The Spanish element is the _passive_, the Gipsy the _active_. As a question of philosophy, the most simple of comprehension, and, above all, as a matter of fact, the foreign element introduced, _in detail_, into the _body_ of Gipsydom, goes with that body, and, in feeling, becomes incorporated with it, although, in physical appearance, it changes the Gipsy race, so that it becomes "confounded with the residue of the population," but remains Gipsy, as before. A Spanish Gipsy is a Spaniard as he stands, and it would be hard to say what we should ask him to do, to become more a Spaniard than he is already. It doubtless holds in Spain, as in Great Britain, that as the Gipsy enters into settled life, and engages in a respectable calling, he hides his descent, and even mixes his blood with that of the country, and becomes ashamed of the name before the public; but is as much, at heart, a Gipsy, as any others of his race. And this theory is borne out by Mr. Borrow himself, when he speaks of "the unwillingness of the Spanish Gipsies to utter, when speaking of themselves, the detested expression Gitano; a word which seldom escapes their mouths." We might therefore conclude, that the Spanish Gipsies, with the exception of the more original and bigoted stock, would _hide their nationality_ from the common Spaniards, and so escape their notice. It is not at all likely that the half-pay Gipsy captain would mention to the public that he was a Gipsy, although he admitted it to Mr. Borrow, under the peculiar circumstances in which he met him. My Spanish acquaintance informs me that the Gitanos, generally, hide their nationality from the rest of the world. Such a case is evidently told by Mr. Borrow, in the vagabond Gipsy, Antonio, at Badajoz, who termed a rich Gipsy, living in the same town, a hog, because he evidently would not countenance him. Antonio may possibly have been kicked out of his house, in attempting to enter it. He accused him of having married a Spaniard, and of fain attempting to pass himself for a Spaniard. As regards the wife, she might have been a Gipsy with very little of "the blood" in her veins; or a Spaniard, reared by Gipsies; or an ordinary Spanish maiden, to whom the Gipsy would teach his language, as sometimes happens among the English Gipsies. His wishing to pass for a Spaniard had nothing to do with his being, but not wishing to be known as, a Gipsy. The same is done by almost all our Scottish Gipsies. In England, those who do not follow the tent--I mean the more mixed and better-class--are even afraid of each other. "Afraid of what?" said I, to such an English Gipsy; "ashamed of being Gipsies?" "No, sir," (with great emphasis;) "not ashamed of being Gipsies, but of being _known to other people as Gipsies_." "A world of difference," I replied. What does the world hold to be a _Gipsy_, and what does it hold to be the _feelings of a man_? If we consider these two questions, we can have little difficulty in understanding the wish of such Gipsies to disguise themselves. It is in this way, and in the mixing of the blood, that this so-called "dying out of the Gipsies" is to be accounted for.[271] [271] Mr. Borrow mentions, in the twenty-second chapter of the "Bible in Spain," having met several cavalry soldiers from Granada, Gipsies _incog._ who were surprised at being discovered to be Gipsies. They had been impressed, but carried on a trade in horses, in league with the captain of their company. They said: "We have been to the wars, but not to fight; we left that to the Busné. We have kept together, and like true Caloré, have stood back to back. We have made money in the wars." It is singular that Mr. Borrow should attribute the change which has come over the Spanish Gipsies, so much to the law passed by Charles III. in 1783; and that he should characterize it as an enlightened, wise, and liberal law; distinguished by justice and clemency; and as being calculated to exert considerable influence over the destiny of the race; nay, as being the principal, if not the only, cause for the "decline" of it in Spain. It was headed: "Rules for _repressing_ and _chastising_ the vagrant mode of life, and other excesses, of those who are called Gitanos." Article II. forbids, under penalties, the Gipsies "using their _language_, dress, or vagrant kind of life, which they had hitherto followed." Article XI. prohibits them from "wandering about the roads and uninhabited places, even with the pretext of _visiting markets and fairs_." Article IX. reads thus: "Those _who have abandoned the dress, name, language or jargon, associations and manners of Gitanos_, and shall have, moreover, chosen and established a domicile, but shall not have devoted themselves to any office or employment, though it be only that of day-labourer, shall be _proceeded against as common vagrants_." Articles XVI. and XVII. enact, that "the children, and young people of both sexes, who are not above sixteen years of age, shall be separated from their parents, _who wander about and have no employment_, [which was forbidden by the law itself,] and shall be destined to learn something, or shall be placed out in hospices or houses of instruction." Article XX. _dooms to death, without remission, Gipsies who, for the second time, relapse into their old habits_. I cannot agree with Mr. Borrow, when he says, that this law "differs in _character_" from any which had hitherto been enacted, in connection with the body in Spain, if I take those preceding it, as given by himself. The only difference between it and some of the previous laws is, that it allowed the Gipsy to be admitted to whatever office or employment _to which he might apply himself_, and likewise to any guilds or communities; but it prohibited him from settling in the capital, or any of the royal residences; and forbade him, _on pain of death_, to publicly profess what he was--that is, a Gipsy. With the trifling exceptions mentioned, the law of Charles III. was as foolish a one as ever was passed against the Gipsies. These very exceptions show what the letter, whatever the execution, of previous laws must have been. Nor can we form any opinion as to the effects the law in question had upon the Gipsies, unless we know how it was carried out. The law of the Empress Maria Theresa produced no effect upon the Gipsies in Hungary. "In Hungary," says Mr. Borrow, "two classes are free to do what they please--the nobility and the Gipsies--the one above the law, the other below it." And what did Mr. Borrow find the Gipsies in Hungary? In England, the last instances of condemnation, under the old sanguinary laws, happened a few years before the Restoration, although these were not repealed till 23d Geo. III., c. 54. The Gipsies in England can follow any employment, common to the ordinary natives, they please: and how has Mr. Borrow described them there? In Scotland, the tribe have been allowed to do nothing, not even acknowledge their existence, as Gipsies: and this work describes what they are in that country. Instead of the law of Charles III. exercising any great beneficial influence over the character of the Spanish Gipsies, I would attribute the change in question to what Mr. Borrow himself says: "It must be remembered that during the last seventy years, a revolution has been progressing in Spain, slowly it is true; and such a revolution may have affected the Gitanos." The Spanish Gipsy proverb, "Money is to be found in the town, not in the country," has had its influence on bringing the race to settle in towns. And by residing in towns, and not being persecuted, they have, in Mr. Borrow's own words, "insensibly become more civilized than their ancestors, and their habits and manners less ferocious." The only good which the law of Charles III. seems to have done to the Spanish Gipsies was, as already said, to permit them to follow any occupation, and be admitted to any guilds, or communities, (barring the capital, and royal residences,) they pleased; but only on the condition, and that _on the pain of death_, that they _renounced every imaginable thing connected with their tribe_; which, we may reasonably assume, no Gipsy submitted to, however much in appearance he might have done so. But it is doubtful if the law of Charles III. was anything but the one which it was customary for every Spanish monarch to issue against the tribe. Mr. Borrow says: "Perhaps there is no country in which more laws have been framed, having in view the suppression and extinction of the Gipsy name, race, and manner of life, than Spain. Every monarch, during a period of three hundred years, appears, at his accession to the throne, to have considered that one of his first and most imperative duties consisted in suppressing and checking the robberies, frauds, and other enormities of the Gitanos, with which the whole country seems to have resounded since the time of their first appearance." The fact of so many laws being passed against the Gipsies, is, to my mind, ample proof, as I shall afterwards explain, that few, if any, of them were put, to any extent, in force; and that the act in question, viewed in itself, as distinct from the laws previously in existence, was little more than a form. It contains a flourish of liberality, implied in the Gitanos being allowed to enter, if they pleased, any guilds, (which they were not likely to do,) or communities, (where they were doubtless already;) but it debars, (that is, expels,) them from the king's presence, at the capital or any of the royal residences. Moreover, it allowed the Gitano to be "admitted to whatever office or employment to which he might apply himself," (against which, there probably was, or should have been, no law in existence.) His majesty must also impose his pragmatical conceit upon his loyal subjects, by telling them, that "Gitanos are _not_ Gitanos"--that they "do _not_ proceed from any infected root;" and threaten them, that if they maintain the contrary, and call them Gitanos, he will have them punished for slander! The Gipsies, after a residence of 350 years in the country, would have comparatively little notice taken of them, under this law, except when they made themselves really obnoxious, or gave an official an occasion to display his authority, or his zeal for the public service.[272] Whatever may have been the treatment which the Gipsies experienced at the hands of the _civil_ authorities, the _church_ does not seem to have disturbed, and far less distressed, them. Mr. Borrow represents a priest of Cordova, formerly an Inquisitor, saying to him: "I am not aware of one case of a Gitano having been tried or punished by the Inquisition. The Inquisition always looked upon them with too much contempt, to give itself the slightest trouble concerning them; for, as no danger, either to the State or to the Church of Rome, could proceed from the Gitanos, it was a matter of perfect indifference to the holy office whether they lived without religion or not. The holy office has always reserved its anger for people very different; the Gitano having, at all times, been _Gente barrata y despreciable_." [272] It would seem that the law in Spain, in regard to the Gipsies, stands pretty much where it did--that is, the people are, in a sense, tolerated, but that the use of their language is prohibited, as may be gathered from an incident mentioned in the ninth chapter of the "Bible in Spain," by Mr. Borrow. Should the Spanish Gipsies not now assist each other, to the extent they did when banditti, under the special proscription of the Government, it would be absurd to say that they were therefore not as much Gipsies as ever they were. The change in this respect arose, to some extent, from the toleration extended to them, as a people and as individuals, whether by the law, or society in general. Such Gipsies as Mr. Borrow seems to have associated with, in Spain, were not likely to be very reliable authority on the questions at issue; for he has described them as "being endowed with a kind of instinct, (in lieu of reason,) which assists them to a very limited extent, and no further." Might it not be in Spain as in Great Britain? Even in England, those that pass for Gipsies are few in number, compared to the mixed Gipsies, following various occupations; for a large part of the Gipsy blood in England has, as it were, been spread over a large surface of the white. In Scotland it is almost altogether so. There seems considerable reason for believing that Gipsydom is, perhaps, as much mixed in Spain as in Great Britain, although Mr. Borrow has taken no notice of it. We have seen, (page 92.) how severe an enactment was passed by Queen Elizabeth, against "any person, whether natural born or _stranger_, to be seen in the fellowship of the Gipsies, or disguised like them." In the law of Ferdinand and Isabella, the first passed against the Gipsies, in Spain, a class of people is mentioned, in conjunction with them, but distinguished from them, by the name of "foreign tinkers." Philip III., at Belan, in Portugal, in 1619, commands all Gipsies to quit the kingdom within six months. "Those who should wish to remain are to establish themselves in cities, and are not to be allowed to use the dress, name, and language, in order, that forasmuch as they are not such by nation,(!) this name, and manner of life, may be for evermore confounded and forgotten(!)" Philip IV., on the 8th May, 1633, declares "that they are not Gipsies by origin or nature, but have adopted this form of life(!)" This idea of "Gitanos _not_ being Gitanos, and _not_ proceeding from any infected root," was not original with Charles III., in 1783; his proclamation having been in formal keeping with previous ones, whether of his own country, or, as in Scotland, in 1603, "recommended by the example of some other realm," (page 111.) There had evidently been a great curiosity to know who some of the "not Gipsies by origin and nature," (evidently judging from their appearance,) could be; for Philip IV. enacts, "that they shall, within two months, leave the quarters where now they _live with the denomination of Gitanos_, and that they shall _separate from each other_, and _mingle with the other inhabitants_: that the ministers of justice are to observe, _with particular diligence_, whether they _hold communication with each other_, or _marry among themselves_." The "foreign tinkers" mentioned in the Act of Ferdinand and Isabella, and the individuals distinguished from the Gipsies in that of Queen Elizabeth, were doubtless _mixed_ Gipsies; whose relationship with the Gipsies proper, and isolation from the common natives, are very distinctly pointed out in the above extract from the law of Philip IV. Mr. Borrow expresses a great difficulty to understand who these people could be, _if not Gipsies_. How easy it is to get quit of the difficulty, by concluding that they were Gipsies whose blood, perhaps for the most part, was native; and who had been brought into the body in the manner explained in the Preface to this work, and more fully illustrated in this Disquisition. If Mr. Borrow found in Spain a half-pay captain, in the service of Donna Isabel, with _flaxen_ hair, a _thorough Gipsy_, who spoke Gipsy and Latin, with great fluency, and his cousin, Jara, in all probability another Gipsy, what difficulty can there be in believing, that the "foreign tinkers," or tinkers of any kind, now to be met with in Spain, are, like the same class in Great Britain and Ireland, Gipsies of mixed blood? Indeed, the young Spaniard, to whom I have alluded, informs me that the Gipsies in Spain are very much mixed. Mr. Borrow himself admits that the Gipsy blood in Spain has been mixed; for, in speaking of the old Gipsy counts, he says: "It was the counts who determined what individuals were to be admitted into the fellowship and privileges of the Gitanos. . . . . They (the Gipsies) were not to teach the language to any but those who, by birth or _inauguration_, belonged to that sect." And he gives a case in point, in the bookseller of Logrono, who was married to the only daughter of a Gitano count; upon whose death, the daughter and son-in-law succeeded to the authority which he had exercised in the tribe. If the Gipsies in Spain were not mixed in point of blood, why should they have taken Mr. Borrow for a Gipsy, as he said they did? The persecutions to which the race in Spain were subjected were calculated to lead to a mixture of the blood, as in Scotland, for the reasons given in the Preface; but, perhaps, not to the same extent; as the Spanish Acts seem to have given the tribe an opportunity of escape, under the condition of settling, &c., &c., which would probably be complied with, nominally, for the time being; while the face of part of the country would afford a refuge till the storm had blown over. (See pages 71 and 114.) It is very likely that the following people, described by Paget, in his travels in Central Europe, are mixed Gipsies. He says: "In almost every part of the Austrian dominions are to be found a kind of wandering tinkers, wire-workers, and menders of crockery, whose language appears to be that of the Sclaves, who travel about, and, at certain seasons, return to their own settlements, where the women and children remain during their absence." The wandering Rothwelsh, perhaps the same mentioned by Paget, may be mixed Gipsies. In the Encyclopædia Britannica they are spoken of as "a vagabond people, in the south of Germany, who have sometimes been confounded with the Gipsies." The _appearance_ of such persons has nothing to do with their being, or not being, members of Gipsydom.[273] [273] Paget says these tinkers leave their women and children at home when on their travels. That is not customary with the tribe, although it may be their habit in the Austrian dominions. I will now consider the present condition of the Scottish Gipsies. But, to commence with, what is the native capacity of a Gipsy? It is good. Take a common tinkering Gipsy, without a particle of education, and compare him with a common native, without a particle of education, and the tinker, in point of smartness, is worth, perhaps, a dozen of the other. If not a learned, he is at least a travelled, Athenian, considerably rubbed up by his intercourse with the world. This is the proper way by which to judge of the capacity of a Gipsy. It will differ somewhat according to the countries and circumstances in which he is found. Grellmann, about the year 1780, says, of evidently the more original kind of Hungarian Gipsies: "Imagine a people of childish thoughts, whose minds are filled with raw, undigested conceptions, guided more by sense than reason, and using understanding and reflection only so far as they promote the gratification of any particular appetite; and you have a perfect sketch of the general character of the Gipsies." "They are lively, uncommonly loquacious, fickle to an extreme; consequently, inconstant in their pursuits." Bischoff, in speaking of the German Gipsies, in 1827, says: "They have a good understanding, an excellent memory, are quick of comprehension, lively and talkative." Mr. Borrow, in evident allusion to the very lowest, and most ignorant, class of the Spanish Gipsies, says: "They seem to hunt for their bread, as if they were not of the human, but rather of the animal, species, and, in lieu of reason, were endowed with a kind of instinct, which assists them to a very limited extent, and no further." I admit that this class of Gipsies may have as little intellect as there is in an ant-catcher's nose, but the remark can apply to them exclusively. Without taking into account any opinion expressed by other writers on the Gipsies, Mr. Borrow says: "Should it be urged that certain individuals have found them very different from what they are represented in these volumes, ('The Gipsies in Spain,') he would frankly say that he yields no credit to the presumed fact." And he refers his readers to his Spanish-Gipsy vocabulary for the words _hoax_ and _hocus_, as a reason for such an opinion! He himself gives descriptions of quite a different caste. For example, he speaks of a rich Gipsy appearing in a fair, at Leon, in Spain, with a twenty thousand dollar credit in his pocket. And of another Gipsy, a native of Constantinople, who had visited the most remote and remarkable portions of the world, "passing over it like a cloud;" and who spoke several dialects of the Malay, and understood the original language of Java. This Gipsy, he says, dealt in precious stones and poisons; and that there is scarcely a bey or satrap in Persia, or Turkey, whom he has not supplied with both. In Moscow, he says, "There are not a few who inhabit stately houses, go abroad in elegant equipages, and are behind the higher orders of the Russians, neither in appearance nor mental acquirements." From these specimens, one might naturally conclude that there was some room for discrimination among different classes of Gipsies, instead of rating them as having the intellect of ant-catchers. When the Gipsies appeared in Scotland, the natives themselves, as I have already said, were nearly wholly uneducated. Many of the Gipsies, then, and long afterwards, being smart, presumptuous, overbearing, audacious fellows, seem to have assumed great importance, and been looked upon as no small people by the authorities and the inhabitants of the country. In every country in which they have settled, they seem to have instinctively and very readily appreciated the ways and spirit of the people, while, at the same time, they preserved what belonged particularly to themselves--their Gipsyism. Gipsydom being, in its very essence, a "working in among other people," "a people within a people," it followed, that marriages between adopted Gipsies, and even Gipsies themselves, and the ordinary natives, would be encouraged, were it only to contribute to their existence in the country. The issue of such marriages, go where they might, would become centres of little Gipsy circles, which, in their turn, would throw off members that would become the centres of other little Gipsy circles; the leaven of Gipsydom leavening into a lump everything that proceeded out of itself. To such an extent has this been followed, that, at the present day, the Scottish Gipsies--at least the generality of them--have every outward characteristic of Scotchmen. But the secret of being Gipsies, which they carry in their bosoms, makes them appear a little queer to others; they have a something about them that makes them look somewhat odd to the other Scotchman, who is not "one of them," although he does not know the cause of it. Upon, or shortly after, their arrival, they seem to have divided the country among themselves; each tribe exercising its rights over its own territory, to the exclusion of others, just as a native lord would have done against other natives; with a system of passes, regulated by councils of local or provincial chieftains, and a king, over all. The Scottish Gipsies, from the very first, seem to have been thoroughly versed in their vocation, from having had about a hundred years' experience, in some other part of Europe, before they settled in Scotland; although stragglers of their race evidently had made their appearance in the country many years before. What might have been the number of Gipsies then in Scotland, it is impossible to conjecture; it must have been considerable, if we judge from what is said in Wraxall's History of France, vol. 2, page 32, when, in reference to the Act of Queen Elizabeth, in 1563, he states, that, in her reign, the Gipsies throughout England were supposed to exceed ten thousand. The employments of the original Gipsies, within their respective districts, seem to have been what is described under the head of Tweed-dale and Clydesdale Gipsies; that is, tinkering, making spoons and other wares, petty trading, telling fortunes, living as much as possible at free-quarters, dealing in horses, and visiting fairs. It is extremely likely that those who travelled Tweed-dale, for example, always averaged about the same number, down to the time of the American Revolution, (except in times of civil commotion, when they would have the country pretty much to themselves,) and were confined to such of the families of the respective tribes, or the members of these families, in whom the right was hereditary. The consequence seems to have been, that perhaps the younger members of the family had to betake themselves to towns and villages, and engage in whatever they could possibly turn their hands to. Some would, of course, take to the highway, and kindred fields of industry. Admitting that the circumstances attending the Gipsies in Scotland, at that time, and subsequently, were the same, as regards the manner of making a living, which attend those in England, at the present day, (with this difference, that they could more easily roam at large then than now,) and we can have no difficulty in coming to a conclusion how the surplus of the tented Gipsy population was disposed of. Among the English Gipsies of to-day, taking year with year, and tent with tent, there is, yearly, a continual moving out of the tent; a kind of Gipsy crop is annually gathered from tented Gipsydom; and some of these gradually find themselves drawn into almost every kind of mechanical or manual labour, even to working in coal-mines and iron-works; others become peddlers, itinerant auctioneers, and _tramps_ of almost every imaginable kind; not to speak of those who visit fairs, in various capacities, or engage in various settled traffic. Put a Gipsy to any occupation you like, and he shows a capability and handiness that is astonishing, if he can only muster up steadiness in his new vocation. But it is difficult to break him off the tent; he will return, and lounge, for weeks together, about that of his father, or some other relative. But get him fairly out of the tent, married, and, in a degree, settled to some occupation, in a town where there are not too many of his own race in close proximity to him, but where he gets mixed up, in his daily avocation, with the common natives, and he sooner or later falls into the ranks. Still, his intimate associations are always with Gipsies; for his ardent attachment to his people, and a corresponding resentment of the prejudice that exists against it, keep him aloof from any intimate intercourse with the ordinary inhabitants; his associations with them hardly ever extending beyond the commons or the public-house. If he experiences an attack from his old habits, he will take to the tramp, from town to town, working at his mechanical occupation; leaving his wife and children at home. But it is not long before he returns. His children, having been born and reared in a town, become habituated to a settled life, like other people. There is a vast amount of ambition about every Gipsy, which is displayed, among the humble classes, in all kinds of athletic exercises.[274] The same peculiarity is discernible among the educated Scottish Gipsies. Carrying about with them the secret of being Gipsies, which they assume would be a terrible imputation cast upon them by the ordinary natives, if they knew of it, they, as it were, fly up, like game-cocks, and show a disposition to surpass the others in one way or other; particularly as they consider themselves better than the common inhabitants. They must always be "cock of the company," master of ceremonies, or stand at the top of the tree, if possible. The reader may ask, how do they consider themselves better than the ordinary natives? And I answer, that, from having been so long in Scotland, they are Scotchmen, (as indeed they are, for the most part, in point of blood,) and consider themselves as good as the others--nay, smarter than others in the same sphere, which, generally speaking, they are; and, in addition to that, being Gipsies, a great deal better. They pique themselves on their descent, and on being in possession of secrets which are peculiarly and exclusively theirs, and which they imagine no other knows, or will ever know. They feel that they are part and parcel of those mysterious beings who are an enigma to others, no less than to themselves. Besides this vanity, which is peculiar to the Gipsy everywhere, the Scottish Gipsies have chimed in with all the native Scotch ideas of clanism, kith, kin, and consequence, as regards family, descent, and so forth; and applied them so peculiarly to themselves, as to render their opinion of their body as something of no small importance. Some of them, whose descent leads them more directly back to the tented stock, speak of their families having possessed this district or the other district of the country, as much, almost, as we would expect to hear from some native Scottish chieftain. [274] "I was one of these verminous ones, one of these great sin-breeders; I infected all the youth of the town where I was born with all manner of youthful vanities. The neighbours counted me so; my practice proved me so: wherefore Christ Jesus took me first, and taking me first, the contagion was much allayed all the town over."--_Bunyan._ As regards the various phases of history through which many of the Scottish Gipsies have passed, we can only form an estimate from what has been observed in recent times. The further back, however, we go, the greater were their facilities to rise to a position in society; for this reason, that a very little education, joined to good natural talents, were all that was necessary, in a mixed Gipsy, to raise himself in the world, at the time to which I allude. He could leave the district in which, when a youth, he had travelled, with his parents; settle in a town where he was not personally known; commence some traffic, and, by his industry, gradually raise himself up, and acquire wealth. He would not lack a proper degree of innate manners, or personal dignity, to deport himself with propriety in any ordinary company into which he might enter. Even at the present day, in Scotland, a poor Gipsy will commence life with a wheelbarrow, then get a donkey-cart, and, in a few years, have a very respectable crockery-shop. I am intimate with an English mixed Gipsy family, the father of which commenced life as a basket-maker, was afterwards a constable, and now occasionally travels with the tent. His son is an M. D., for I have seen his diploma; and is a smart, intelligent fellow, and quite an adept at chemistry. To illustrate the change that has taken place among some of the Scottish Gipsies, within the last fifty years, I may mention that the grand-children of a prominent Gipsy, mentioned in chapter V., follow, at the present day, the medical, the legal, and the mercantile professions. Such occurrences have been frequent in Scotland. There are the cases mentioned by our author; such as one of the Faas rising to such eminence in the mercantile world, at Dunbar; and another who rose to the rank of lieutenant in the East India Company's service; and the Baillie family, which furnished a captain and a quarter-master to the army, and a country surgeon. These are but instances of many others, if they were but known. Some may object, that these were not full-blood Gipsies. That, I readily admit. But the objection is more nominal than real. 'If a white were to proceed to the interior of the American continent, and cast his lot with a tribe of Indians, his children would, of course, be expected to be superior, in some respects, to the children of the native blood exclusively, owing to what the father might be supposed to teach them. But it is different in the case of a white marrying a Scottish Gipsy woman, born and reared in the same community with himself; for the white, in general cases, brings only his blood, which enables the children, if they take after himself, in appearance, to enter such places as the black Gipsies would not enter, or might not be allowed to enter. The white father, in such a case, might not even be so intelligent as the Gipsy mother. Be that as it may, the individuals to whom I have alluded were nothing but Gipsies; possibly they did not know when, or through whom, the white blood was introduced among them; they knew, at least, that they were Gipsies, and that the links which connected them with the past were substantially Gipsy links. Besides the Scottish Gipsies rising to respectable positions in life, by their own exertions, I can well believe that Gipsydom has been well brought up through the female line; especially at a time when females, and particularly country females, were rude and all but uneducated. Who more capable of doing that than the lady Baillies, of Tweed-dale, and the lady Wilsons, of Stirlingshire? Such Gipsy girls could "turn natives round their little fingers" and act, in a way, the lady at once; "turn over a new leaf," and "pin it down;" and conduct themselves with great propriety. Upon a superior Scottish Gipsy settling in a town, and especially a small town, and wishing to appear respectable, he would naturally take a pew in the church, and attend public worship, were it only, as our author asserts, to hide the fact of his being a Gipsy. Because, among the Scotch, there is that prying inquisitiveness into their neighbours' affairs, that compels a person to be very circumspect, in all his actions, movements, and expressions, if he wishes to be thought anything of, at all. The habit of attending church would then become as regular, in the Gipsy's family, as in the families of the ordinary natives, and, in a great measure, proceed from as legitimate a motive. The family would be very polite, indeed, extra polite, to their neighbours. After they had lulled to sleep every suspicion of what they were, or, by their really good conduct, had, according to the popular idea, "ceased to be Gipsies," they would naturally encourage a formal acquaintance with respectable (and nothing but respectable,) people in the place. The Gipsy himself, a really good fellow at heart, honourable in his dealings, but fond of a bargain, when he could drive a bargain, and, moreover, a jovial fellow, would naturally make plenty of business and out-door friends, at least. Rising in circumstances and the public esteem, he makes up his mind that his children ought to be something better than himself, at all events; in short, that they ought not to be behind those of his respectable neighbours. Some of them he, therefore, educates for a liberal profession. The Gipsy himself becomes more and more ambitious: besides attending church, he must become an elder of the church; or it may be that the grace of God takes hold of him, and brings him into the fold. He and his wife conduct themselves with much propriety; but some of the boys are rather wild; the girls, however, behave well. Altogether, the whole family is very much thought of. Such is a Scottish Gipsy family, (the parents of which are now dead,) that I have in my mind at the present moment. No suspicion existed in regard to the father, but there was a breath of suspicion in regard to the mother. But what difference did that make? What knowledge had the public of the nature of Gipsydom? Consider, then, that the process which I have attempted to describe has been going on, more or less, for at least the last three hundred and fifty years; and I may well ask, where might we _not_ expect to meet with Gipsies, in Scotland, at the present day? And I reply, that we will meet with them in every sphere of Scottish life, not excepting, perhaps, the very highest. There are Gipsies among the very best Edinburgh families. I am well acquainted with Scotchmen, youths and men of middle age, of education and character, and who follow very respectable occupations, that are Gipsies, and who admit that they are Gipsies. But, apart from my own knowledge, I ask, is it not a fact, that, a few years ago, a pillar of the Scottish church, at Edinburgh, upon the occasion of founding a society for the reformation of the poor class of Scottish Gipsies, and frequently thereafter, said that he himself was a Gipsy? I ask, again, is not that a fact? It is a fact. And such a man! Such prayers! Such deep-toned, sonorous piety! Such candour! Such judgment! Such amiability of manners! How much respected! How worthy of respect! The good, the godly, the saintly doctor! When will we meet his like again?[275] [275] "Grand was the repose of his lofty brow, dark eye, and aspect of soft and melancholy meaning. It was a face from which every evil and earthly passion seemed purged. A deep gravity lay upon his countenance, which had the solemnity, without the sternness, of one of our old reformers. You could almost fancy a halo completing its apostolic character." This leads me to speak of a high-class Scottish Gipsy family--the Falls, who settled at Dunbar, as merchants, alluded to under the chapter on Border Gipsies.[276] Who can doubt that they were Gipsies to the last? How could they avoid being Gipsies? The Gipsies were their people; their blood was Gipsy blood. How could they get rid of their blood and descent? Could they throw either off, as they would an old coat? Could medical science rid them of either? Assuredly not. They admitted their descent, _over their cups_. But being _descendants of Gipsies_, and yet _not Gipsies_, is a contradiction in terms. The principles which regulate the descent of other Gipsy families applied equally to theirs. The fact that Mrs. Fall had the history of her people, in the act of leaving Yetholm, represented in tapestry, may be taken as but a straw that indicated how the wind blew. Was not old Will Faa, the Gipsy king, down to his death, at the end of the first American war, admitted to their hospitality as a relative? And do not the Scottish Gipsies, at the present day, claim them to have been Gipsies? Why might not the Falls glory in being Egyptians among themselves, but not to others? Were not their ancestors _kings_? "Wee kings," no doubt, but still kings; one of them being the "loved John Faw," of James V., whom all the tribe consider as a great man, (which, doubtless, he was, in that barbarous age,) and the principal of the thirteen patriarchs of Scottish Gipsydom. Was not a Gipsy king, (themselves being Gipsies,) an ancestor of far more respect, in their eyes, than the founder of a native family, in their neighbourhood; who, in the reign of Charles II., was a common country _snip_, and most likely commenced life with "whipping the cat" around the country, for fivepence a day, and victuals and clippings?[277] [276] Burns alludes to this family, thus: "Passed through the most glorious corn country I ever saw, till I reached Dunbar, a neat little town. Dine with Provost Fall, an eminent merchant, and most respectable character, but indescribable, as he exhibits no marked traits. Mrs. Fall, a genius in painting; fully more clever in the fine arts and sciences than my friend Lady Wauchope, without her consummate assurance of her own abilities."--_Life of Burns, by Robert Chambers._ The crest of the Falls, of Dunbar, was _three_ boars' heads, couped; that of Baillie, of Lamington, is _one_ boar's head, couped. In the Statistical Account of Scotland, (1835,) appears the following notice of this family: "A family, of the name of Fall, established themselves at Dunbar, and became, during the last century, the most extensive merchants in Scotland. They were long the chief magistrates of the burgh, and preferred the public good to their own profit. They have left no one to bear their name, _not even a stone to tell where they lie_; but they will long be remembered for their enterprise and public spirit." There is apparently a reason for "not even a stone being left to tell where they lie;" for in Hoyland's "Survey of the Gipsies" appeared the account of Baillie Smith, in which it is said: "The descendants of Faa now take the name of Fall, from the Messrs. Fall, of Dunbar, who, they pride themselves in saying, _are of the same stock and lineage_;" which seems to have frightened their connexions at being known to be Gipsies. Let all that has been said of the Falls be considered as their monument and epitaph; so that their memories may be preserved as long as this work exists. It would be interesting to know who the Captain Fall was, who visited Dunbar, with an American ship-of-war, during the time of Paul Jones. He might have been a descendant of a Gipsy, sent to the plantations, in the olden times. There are, as I have said before, a great many scions of Gipsy Faas, under one name or other, scattered over the world. [277] _Whipping the cat_: Tailoring from house to house. The _cat_ is _whipped_ by females, as well as males, in America, in some parts of which the expression is current. The truth of the matter is, these Falls must have considered themselves a world better than other people, merely on account of their being Gipsies, as all Gipsies do, arising, in part, from that antagonistic spirit of opposition which the prejudice of their fellow-creatures is so much calculated to stir up in their minds. Saying, over their cups, that they were descended from the Faws, the historical Gipsy name in Scotland, did not divulge very much to the public. For what idea had the public of the _working of Gipsydom_--what idea of the Gipsy language? Did the public know of the existence of a Gipsy language in Scotland? In all probability, it generally did not. If the public heard a Tinkler use a strange word, all that it would think of it would be, that it was _cant_, confined to vagabonds strolling the country. Would it ever dream that what the vagabonds used was carefully preserved and spoken among the great Falls, of Dunbar, within the sanctity of their own dwellings, as it assuredly must have been? Would the public believe in such a thing, if even its own ears were made the witnesses to it? Was the love which the Falls had for their Yetholm connexion confined to a mere group of their ancestors worked in tapestry? Where was the Gipsy language, during all this time? Assuredly it was well preserved in their family. If it showed the least symptoms of falling off, how easily could the mothers bring into the family, as servants, other Gipsies, who would teach it to the children! For, besides the dazzling hold which the Gipsy language takes of the mind of a Gipsy, as the language of those black, mysterious heroes from whom he is descended, the keeping of it up forms the foundation of that self-respect which a Gipsy has for himself, amidst the prejudice of the world; from which, at the bottom of his heart, whatever his position in life, or character, or associations, may be, he considers himself separated. I am decidedly of opinion that all the domestics about this Fall family were Gipsies of one caste, colour, condition, or what not. Then, we are told that Miss Fall, who married Sir John Anstruther, of Elie, baronet, was looked down upon by her husband's friends, and received no other name than Jenny Faa; and that she was indirectly twitted with being a Gipsy, by the rabble, while attending an election in which Sir John was a candidate. What real satisfaction could Jenny, or any other Gipsy, have for ordinary natives of the country, when she was conscious of being what she was, and how she was spoken of, by her husband's relatives and the public generally? She would take comfort in telling her "wonderful story" to her children, (for I presume she would have children,) who would sympathize with her; and in conversing with such of her own race as were near her, were it only her trusty domestics. It is the Gipsy woman who feels the prejudice that exists towards her race the most acutely; for she has the rearing of the children, and broods more over the history of her people. As the needle turns to the pole, so does the mind of the Gipsy woman to Gipsydom. We are likewise told that this eminent Gipsy family were connected, by marriage, with the Footies, of Balgonie; the Coutts, afterwards bankers; Collector Whyte, of Kirkaldy, and Collector Melville, of Dunbar. We may assume, as a mathematical certainty, that Gipsydom, in a refined form, is in existence in the descendants of these families, particularly in such of them as were connected with this Gipsy family by the female side.[278] [278] Of the Gipsies at Moscow, the following is the substance of what Mr. Borrow says: "Those who have been accustomed to consider the Gipsy as a wandering outcast . . . . . . will be surprised to learn that, amongst the Gipsies of Moscow, there are not a few who inhabit stately houses, go abroad in elegant equipages, and are behind the higher order of Russians neither in appearance nor mental acquirements. . . . . The sums obtained by the Gipsy females, by the exercise of their art (singing in the choirs of Moscow,) enable them to support their relatives in affluence and luxury. Some are married to Russians; and no one who has visited Russia can but be aware that a lovely and accomplished countess, of the noble and numerous family of Tolstoy is, by birth, a Zigana, and was originally one of the principal attractions of a Romany choir at Moscow." This short notice appears unsatisfactory, considering, as Mr. Borrow says, that one of his principal motives for visiting Moscow was to hold communication with the Gipsies. It might have occurred to him to enquire what relation the children of such marriages would bear to Gipsydom generally; that is, would they be initiated in the mysteries, and taught the language, and hold themselves to be Gipsies? It is evident, however, that the Gipsy-drilling process is going on among the Russian nobility. A person who has never considered this subject, or any other cognate to it, may imagine that a Gipsy reproaches himself with his own blood. Pshaw! Where will you find a man, or a tribe of men, under the heavens, that will do that? It is not in human nature to do it. All men venerate their ancestors, whoever they have been. A Gipsy is, to an extraordinary degree, proud of his blood. "I have very little of the blood, myself," said one of them, "but just come and see my wife!" But people may say that the ancestors of the Falls were thieves. And were not all the Borderers, in their way, the worst kind of thieves? They might not have stolen from their nearest relatives; but, with that exception, did they not steal from each other? Now, Gipsies never, or hardly ever, steal from each other. Were not all the Elliots and Armstrongs thieves of the first water? Were not the Scotts and the Kers thieves, long after the Gipsies entered Scotland? When the servants of Scott of Harden drove out his last cow, and said, "There goes Harden's cow," did not the old cow-stealer say, "It will soon be Harden's _kye_"--meaning, that he would set out on a cow-stealing expedition? In fact, he lived upon spoil. Was it not his lady's custom, on the last bullock being killed, to place on the table a dish, which, on being uncovered, was found to contain a pair of clean spurs--a hint, to her husband and his followers, that they must shift for their next meal? The descendants of these Scotts, and the Scottish public generally, look, with the utmost complacency and pride, upon the history of such families; yet would be very apt to make a great ado, if the ancestress of a Gipsy should, in such a predicament, have hung out a cock's tail at the mouth of her tent, as a hint to her "laddies" to look after poultry. Common sense tells us, that, for one excuse to be offered for such conduct, on the part of the _landed-gentry_ of the country, a hundred can be found for the ancestor of a Gipsy--an unfortunate wanderer on the face of the earth, who was hunted about, like a wolf of the forest.[279] [279] On his return with his gallant prey, he passed a very large hay-stack. It occurred to the provident laird that this would be extremely convenient to fodder his new stock of cattle; but, as no means of transporting it were obvious, he was fain to take leave of it, with the apostrophe, now become proverbial, "_By my saul, had ye but four feet, ye should not stand lang there._" In short, as Froissart says of a similar class of feudal robbers. "Nothing came amiss to them that was not _too heavy_ or _too hot_." Sir Walter Scott speaks, in the most jocular manner, of an ancestress who had a _curious hand at pickling the beef which her husband stole_; and that there was not a stain upon his escutcheon, barring Border theft and high treason.--_Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott._ We should never forget that a "hawk's a hawk," whether it is a falcon or a mosquito hawk, which is the smallest of all hawks. And what shall we say of our Highland thieves? Highlanders may be more touchy on this point, for their ancestors were the last of the British race to give up that kind of life. Talk of the laws passed against the Gipsies! Various of our Scottish monarchs issued decrees against "the wicked thieves and limmers of the clans and surnames, inhabiting the Highlands and Isles," accusing "the chieftains principal of the branches worthy to be esteemed the very authors, fosterers, and maintainers, of the wicked deeds of the vagabonds of their clans and surnames." Indeed, the doweries of the chiefs' daughters were made up by a share of the booty collected on their expeditions. The Highlands were, at one time, little better than a nest of thieves; thieving from each other, and more particularly from their southern neighbours. It is notorious that robbery, in the Highlands, was "held to be a calling not merely innocent, but honourable;" and that a high-born Highland warrior was "much more becomingly employed, in plundering the lands of others, than in tilling his own." At stated times of the year, such as at Candlemas, regular bands of Highlanders, the sons of gentlemen and what not, proceeded south in quest of booty, as part of their winter's provisions. The Highlanders might even have been compared, at one time, to as many tribes of Afghans. Mr. Skene, the historian of the Highlands, and himself a Highlander, says that the Highlanders believed that they _had a right_ to plunder the people of the low country, _whenever it was in their power_. We naturally ask, how did the Highlanders _acquire_ this right of plunder? Were they ever proscribed? Were any of them hung, merely for being Highlanders? No. What plea, then, did the Highlanders set up, in justification of this wholesale robbery?--"They believed, _from tradition_, that the Lowlands, _in old times_, were the possessions of their ancestors." (_Skene._) But that was no excuse for their plundering each other.[280] [280] Sir Walter Scott makes Fitz-James, in the "Lady of the Lake," say to Roderick Dhu: "But then, thy chieftain's robber life!-- Winning mean prey by causeless strife, Wrenching from ruined Lowland swain His herds and harvests reared in vain-- Methinks a soul like thine should scorn The spoils from such foul foray borne. The Gael beheld him, grim the while, And answered with disdainful smile,-- * * * * * 'Where live the mountain chiefs, who hold That plundering Lowland field and fold Is aught but retribution true? Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Dhu!'" The Gipsy's ordinary pilfering was confined to such petty things as "hens and peats at pleasure," "cutting a bit lamb's throat," and "a mouthfu' o' grass and a pickle corn, for the cuddy"--"things that a farmer body ne'er could miss." But your Highlanders did not content themselves with such "needles and pins;" they must have "horned cattle." If the coast was clear, they would table their drawn dirks, and commence their _spulzie_, by making their victims furnish them with what was necessary to fill their bellies; upon the strength of which, they would "lift" whatever they could carry and drive, or take its equivalent in black-mail. What an effort is made by our McGregors, at the present day, to scrape up kin with this or the other bandit McGregor; and yet how apt the McGregor is to turn up his nose--just as Punch, only, could make him turn it up--if a Gipsy were to step out, and say, that he was a descendant, and could speak the language, of Will Baillie, mentioned under the head of Tweed-dale and Clydesdale Gipsies: a Gipsy, described by my ancestor, (and he could judge,) to have been "the handsomest, the best dressed, the best looking, and the best bred, man he ever saw; and the best swordsman in Scotland, for, with his weapon in his hand, and his back at a wall, he could set almost everything, saving fire-arms, at defiance; a man who could act the gentleman, the robber, the sorner, and the tinker, whenever it answered his purpose."[281] And yet, some of this man's descendants will doubtless be found among our medical doctors, and even the clergy. I recollect our author pointing out a clergyman of the Scottish Church, who, he was pretty sure, was "one of them." What name could have stood lower, at one time, than McGregor? Both by legal and social proscription, it was looked upon as vagabond; and doubtless the clan brought it, primarily and principally, upon themselves; but as for the rapine they practised upon their neighbours, and the helpless southerners, they were, at first, no worse, in that respect, than others of their nation. Are the McGregors sure that there are no Gipsies among them? There are plenty of Gipsies of, at least, the name of McGregor, known to both the Scottish and English Gipsies. What more likely than some of the McGregors, when "out," and leading their vagabond lives, getting mixed up with the better kind of mixed Gipsies? They were both leading a wild life, and it is not unlikely that some of the McGregors, of even no small consequence, might have been led captive by such Gipsy girls as the lady Baillies, of Tweed-dale. Let a Gipsy once be grafted upon a native family, and she rises with it; leavens the little circle of which she is the centre, and leaves it, and its descendants, for all time coming, Gipsies. [281] See page 202. I now come to ask, what constitutes a Gipsy at the present day? And common sense replies: the simple fact of knowing from whom he is descended, that is, who he is, in connection with having the Gipsy words and signs, although these are not absolutely necessary. It requires no argument to show that there is no tribe or nation but finds something that leads it to cling to its origin and descent, and not despise the blood that runs in its own veins, although it may despise the condition or conduct of some of its members. Where shall we find an exception to this rule? The Gipsy race is no exception to it. Civilize a Gipsy, and you make him a civilized Gipsy; educate him, and you make him an educated Gipsy; bring him up to any profession you like, Christianize him as much as you may, and he still remains a Gipsy; because he is of the Gipsy race, and all the influences of nature and revelation do not affect the questions of blood, tribe, and nationality. Take all the Gipsies that ever came out of the tent, or their descendants, including those brought into the body through the male and female line; and what are they now? Still Gipsies. They even pass into the other world Gipsies. "But they will forget that they are Gipsies," say, perhaps, some of my readers. Forget that they are Gipsies! Will we hear, some of these days, that Scotch people, themselves, will get up of a morning, toss about their night-caps, and forget that they are Scotch? We may then see the same happen with the Gipsies. What I have said, of the Gipsy always being a Gipsy, is self-evident; but it has a wide difference of meaning from that contained in the quotation given by Mr. Borrow, in which it is said: "For that which is unclean by nature thou canst entertain no hope; no washing will turn the Gipsy white."[282] But, taking the world all over, there will doubtless be Gipsies, in larger or smaller numbers, who will always be found following the original ways of their race. [282] In expatiating on the subject of the Gipsy race always being the Gipsy race, I have had it remarked to me: "Suppose Gipsies should not mention to their children the fact of their being Gipsies." In that case, I replied, the children, especially if, for the most part, of white blood, would simply not be Gipsies; they would, of course, have some of "the blood," but they would not be Gipsies if they had no knowledge of the fact. But to suppose that Gipsies should not learn that they are Gipsies, on account of their parents not telling them of it, is to presume that they had no other relatives. Their being Gipsies is constantly talked of among themselves; so that, if Gipsy children should not hear their "wonderful story" from their parents, they would readily enough hear it from their other relatives. This is assuming, however, that the Gipsy mind can act otherwise than the Gipsy mind; which it cannot. It sometimes happens, as the Gipsies separate into classes, like all other races or communities of men, that a great deal of jealousy is stirred up in the minds of the poorer members of the tribe, on account of their being shunned by the wealthier kind. They are then apt to say that the exclusive members have _left_ the tribe; which, with them, is an undefined and confused idea, at the best, principally on account of their limited powers of reflection, and the subject never being alluded to by the others. This jealousy sometimes leads them to dog these straggling sheep, so that, as far as lies in their power, they will not allow them to leave, as they imagine, the Gipsy fold. [See second note at page 532.] What were the Hungarians, at one time, and what are they now? Pritchard says of them: "The Hungarians laid aside the habits of rude and savage hunters, far below the condition of the nomadic hordes, for the manners of civilized life. In the course of a thousand years, they have become a handsome people, of fine stature, regular European features, and have the complexion prevalent in that tract of Europe where they dwell." Now the Gipsies have been in Scotland at least three hundred and fifty years; and what with the mixture of native blood, (which, at least, helped to remove the prejudice against the man's appearance, and, consequently, gave him a larger and freer scope of action;) the hard laws of necessity, and the being tossed about by society, like pebbles on the seashore; the influences of civilization, education, and the grace of God itself; by such means as these, some of the Scottish Gipsies have risen to a respectable, even eminent, position in life. But some people may say: "These are not Gipsies; they have little of the blood in them." That is nothing. Ask themselves what they are, and, if they are at all candid, they will reply that they are Gipsies. "No doubt," they say, "we have fair, or red, or black, hair, (as the case may be;) we know nothing about that; but we know that we _are_ Gipsies; that is all." There is as much difference between such a high-class Gipsy and a poor Gipsian, as there is between a Scottish judge and the judge's fourth cousin, who makes his living by clipping dogs' ears. The principle of progression, the passing through one phase of history into another, while the race maintains its identity, holds good with the Gipsies, as well as with any other people. Take a Gipsy in his original state, and we can find nothing really _vulgar_ about him. What is popularly understood to be Gipsy life may be considered low life, by people who do not overmuch discriminate in such matters; but view it after its kind, and it is not really low; for a Gipsy is naturally polite and well mannered. He does not consider himself as belonging to the same race as the native, and would rather be judged by a different standard. The life which he leads is not that of the lowest class of the country in which he dwells, but the primitive, original state of a people of great antiquity, proscribed by law and society; himself an enemy of, and an enemy to, all around him; with the population so prejudiced against him, that attempts to change his condition, consistently with his feelings as a man, are frequently rendered in vain: so that, on the ground of strict morals, or even administrative justice, the man can be said to be only half responsible. The subject, however, assumes quite a different aspect, when we consider a Gipsy of education and refinement, like the worthy clergyman mentioned, between whose condition and that of his tented ancestor an interval of, perhaps, two or three centuries has elapsed. We should then put him on the footing of any other race having a barbarous origin, and entertain no prejudice against him on account of the race to which he belongs. He is then to be judged as we judge Highland and Border Scots, for the whole three were at one time robbers; and all the three having welled up to respectable life together, they ought to be judged on their merits, individually, as men, and treated accordingly. And the Gipsy ought to be the most leniently dealt with, on the principle that the actions of his ancestors were far more excusable, and even less heinous, than those of the others. And as regards antiquity of descent, the Gipsy's infinitely surpasses the others, being probably no less than the shepherd kings, part of whose blood left Egypt, in the train of the Jews. I would place such a Gipsy on the footing of the Hungarian race; with this difference, that the Hungarians entered Europe in the ninth century, and became a people, occupying a territory; while the Gipsies appeared in the fifteenth century, and are now to be found, civilized and uncivilized, in almost every corner of the known world. The admission of the good man alluded to casts a flood of light upon the history of the Scottish Gipsy race, shrouded as it is from the eye of the general population; but the information given by him was apt to fall flat upon the ear of the ordinary native, unless it was accompanied by some such exposition of the subject as is given in this work. Still, we can gather from it, where Gipsies are to be found, what _a_ Scottish Gipsy is, and what the race is capable of; and what might be expected of it, if the prejudice of their fellow-creatures was withdrawn from the race, as distinguished from the various classes into which it may be divided, or, I should rather say, the personal conduct of each Gipsy individually. View the subject any way I may, I cannot resist coming to the conclusion that, under more favourable circumstances, it is difficult to say what the Gipsies might not attain to. But that would depend greatly upon the country in which they are to be found. Scotland has been peculiarly favourable for them, in some respects. As regards the Scottish Gipsy population, at the present day, I can only adopt the language of the immortal Dominie Sampson, and say, that it must be "prodigious." If we consider the number that appear to have settled in Scotland, the length of time they have been in Scotland, the great amount of white blood that has, by one means or other, been brought into, and mixed up with, the body, and its great natural encrease; the feelings that attach them to their descent--feelings that originate, more properly, within themselves, and feelings that press upon them from without--the various occupations and positions in life in which they are to be found; we cannot set any limit to their number. Gipsies are just like other people; they have their own sets or circles of associates, out of which, as a thing that is almost invariable, they will hide, if not deny, themselves to others of their race, for reasons which have already been given. So almost invariable is this, at the present day, amongst Gipsies that are not tented Gipsies, that, should an English Gipsy come across a settlement of them in America--German Gipsies, for example--and cast his sign, and address them in their own speech, they will pretend not to know what he means, although he sees the Gipsy in their faces and about their dwellings. But should he meet with them away from their homes, and where they are not known, they would answer, and be cheek-by-jowl with him, in a moment. I have found, by personal experience, that the same holds with the French and other continental Gipsies in America.[283] It is particularly so with the Scottish Gipsies. For these reasons, it seems to be beyond question that the number at which our author estimates them in Scotland, viz., 5,000, must be vastly below the real number. If I were to say 100,000, I do not think I would over-estimate them. The opinion of the Gipsies whom our author questioned was a guess, so far as it referred to the class to which they belonged, or with which they were acquainted; so that, if we take all kinds of Gipsies into account, it would be a very moderate estimate to set the Scottish Gipsies down at 100,000; and those in all the British Isles at 300,000. The number might be double what I have stated. The intelligent English Gipsies say that, in England, they are not only "dreadfully mixed," but extremely numerous. There is not a race of men on the face of the earth more prolific than tented Gipsies; in a word, tented Gipsydom, if I may hazard such an expression, is, comparatively speaking, like a rabbit warren. The rough and uncouth kind of settled Gipsies are likewise very prolific; but the higher classes, as a rule, are by no means so much so. To set down any specific number of Gipsies to be found in the British Isles, would be a thing too arbitrary to serve any purpose; I think sufficient data have been given to enable the intelligent reader to form an opinion for himself.[284] [283] I very abruptly addressed a French Gipsy, in the streets of New York, thus: "Vous êtes un _Romany chiel_." "Oui, monsieur," was the reply which he, as abruptly, gave me. But, ever afterwards, he got cross, when I alluded to the subject. On one occasion, I gave him the sign, which he repeated, while he asked, with much tartness of manner, "What is that--what does it mean?" This was a roguish Gipsy, and was afterwards lodged in jail. On one occasion, I met with a German cutler, in a place of business, in New York. I felt sure he was a Gipsy, although the world would not have taken him for one. Catching his eye, I commenced to look around the room, from those present to himself, as if there was to be something confidential between us, and then whispered to him, "_Callo chabo_," (Gipsy, or black fellow;) and the effect was instantaneous. I afterwards visited his family, on a Sabbath evening, and took tea with them. They were from Wurtemberg, and appeared very decent people. The mother, a tall, swarthy, fine looking intelligent young woman, said grace, which was repeated by the children, whom I found learning their Sabbath-school lessons. The family regularly attend church. A fair-haired German called, and went to church with the Gipsy himself. What with the appearance of everything about the house, and the fine, clean, and neatly-dressed family of children, I felt very much pleased with my visit. French and German Gipsies are very shy, owing to the severity of the laws against their race. [284] Fletcher, of Saltoun, speaks of there being constantly a hundred thousand people in Scotland, leading the life (as Sir Walter Scott describes it,) of "Gipsies, Jockies, or Cairds." Between the time alluded to and the date of John Faw's league with James V., a period of 140 years had elapsed; and 174 years from the date of arrival of the race in the country: so that, from the natural encrease of the body, and the large amount of white blood introduced into it, the greater part, if not the whole, of the people mentioned, were doubtless Gipsies. But these Gipsies, according to Sir Walter's opinion, "died out by a change of habits." How strange it is that the very first class Scottish minds should have so little understood the philosophy of origin, blood, and descent, and especially as they applied to the Gipsies! For Sir Walter says: "The progress of time, and encrease both of the means of life and the power of the laws, gradually reduced this dreadful evil within more narrow bounds. . . . . Their numbers are so greatly diminished, that, instead of one hundred thousand, as calculated by Fletcher, it would now, perhaps, be impossible to collect above five hundred throughout all Scotland(!)" It is perfectly evident that Sir Walter Scott, in common with many others, never realized the idea, in all its bearings, of what a Gipsy was; or he never could have imagined that those, only, were of the Gipsy race, who followed the tent. It is very doubtful if Anthonius Gawino, and his tribe, departed with their letter of introduction from James IV. to his uncle, the king of Denmark, in 1506. Having secured the favour of the king of Scots, by this recommendatory notice, he was more apt, by delaying his departure, to secure his position in the country. The circumstances attending the league with his successor, John Faw, show that the tribe had been long in the country; doubtless from as far back as 1506. From 1506 till 1579, with the exception of about one year, during the reign of James V., the tribe, as I have already said, (page 109,) must have encreased prodigiously. The persecutions against the body extended over the reign of James VI., and part of that of Charles I.; for, according to Baron Hume, such was the terror which the executions inspired in the tribe, that, "for the space of more than 50 years from that time, (1624,) there is no trial of an Egyptian;" although our author shows that an execution of a band of them took place in 1636. But "towards the end of that century," continues Baron Hume, "the nuisance seems to have again become troublesome;" in other words, that from the reign of Charles I. to the accession of William and Mary, the time to which Fletcher's remark applies, the attention of all being taken up with the troubles of the times, the Gipsies had things pretty much their own way; but when peace was restored, they would be called to strict account. For all these reasons, it may be said that the 100,000 people spoken of were doubtless Gipsies of various mixtures of blood; so that, at the present day, there ought to be a very large number of the tribe in Scotland. I admit that many of the Scottish Gipsies have been hanged, and many banished to the Plantations; but these would be in a small ratio to their number, and a still smaller to the natural encrease of the body. Suppose that such and such Gipsies were either hanged or banished; so young did they all marry, that, when they were hanged or banished, they might leave behind them families ranging from five to ten children. We may say, of the Scottish Gipsies generally, in days that are past, what a writer in Blackwood's Magazine, already alluded to, said of Billy Marshall: "Their descendants were prodigiously numerous; I dare say, numberless." Many of the Scottish Gipsies have migrated to England, as well as elsewhere. In Liverpool, there are many of them, following various mechanical occupations. That many Gipsies were banished to America, in colonial times, from England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, sometimes for merely being "by habit and repute Gipsies," is beyond dispute. "Your Welsh and Irish," said an English Gipsy, in the United States, "were so mean, when they banished a Gipsy to the Plantations, as to make him find his own passage; but the English always paid the Gipsy's passage for him." The Scotch seem also to have made the Gipsy find his own passage, and failing that, to have hanged him. It greatly interests the English Gipsies arriving in America, to know about the native American Gipsies. I have been frequently in the company of an English Gipsy, in America, whose great-grandfather was so banished; but he did not relish the subject being spoken of. Gipsies may be said to have been in America almost from the time of its settlement. We have already seen how many of them found their way there, during the Revolution, by being impressed as soldiers, and taken as volunteers, for the benefit of the bounty and passage; and how they deserted on landing. Tented Gipsies have been seen about Baltimore for the last seventy years. In New England, a colony is known which has existed for about a hundred years, and has always been looked upon with a singular feeling of distrust and mystery by the inhabitants, who are the descendants of the early emigrants, and who did not suspect their origin till lately. These Gipsies have never associated, in the common sense of the word, with the other settlers, and, judging from their exterior, seem poor and miserable, whatever their circumstances may be. They follow pretty much the employment and modes of life of the same class in Europe; the most striking feature being, that the bulk of them leave the homestead for a length of time, scatter in different directions, and reunite, periodically, at their quarters, which are left in charge of some of the feeble members of the band. It is not likely that many of the colonial Gipsies would take to the tent; for, arriving, for the most part, as individuals, separated from family relations, they were more apt to follow settled, semi-settled, or general itinerant occupations; and the more so, as the face of the country, and the thin and scattered settlements, would hardly admit of it. They were apt to squat on wild or unoccupied lands, in the neighbourhood of towns and settlements, like their brethren in Europe, when they took up their quarters on the borders of well-settled districts, with a wild country to fall back on, in times of danger or prosecution by the lawful authorities. Besides disposing of themselves, to some little extent, in this way, many of the Gipsies, banished, or going to the colonies of their own accord, would betake themselves to the various occupations common to the ordinary emigrants; the more especially as, when they arrived, they would find a field in which they were not known to be Gipsies; which would give them greater scope and confidence, and enable them to go anywhere, or enter upon any employment, where, not being known to be Gipsies, they would meet with no prejudice to contend with. Indeed, a new country, in which the people had, more or less, to be, in a sense, tinkers, that is, jacks-of-all-trades, and masters of none, was just the sphere of a handy Gipsy, who could "do a' most of things." They would turn to the tinkering, peddling, horse-dealing, tavern-keeping, and almost all the ordinary mechanical trades, and, among others, broom-making. Perhaps the foundation of the American broom manufacture was laid by the British Gipsies, by whom it may be partly carried on at the present day; a business they pretty much monopolize, in a rough way, in Great Britain. We will doubtless find, among the fraternity, some of those whittling, meddling Sam Slick peddlers, so often described: I have seen some of those itinerant venders of knife-sharpeners, and such "Yankee notions," with dark, glistening eyes, that would "pass for the article." Some of them would live by less legitimate business. I entertain no doubt, what from the general fitness of things, and the appearance of some of the men, that we will find some of the descendants of the old British mixed Gipsies members of the various establishments of Messrs. Peter Funks and Company,[285] of the city of New York, as well as elsewhere. And I entertain as little doubt that many of those American women who tell fortunes, and engage in those many curious bits of business that so often come up at trials, are descendants of the British plantation stock of Gipsies. But there are doubtless many of these Gipsies in respectable spheres of life. It would be extremely unreasonable to say that the descendants of the colonial Gipsies do not still exist as Gipsies, like their brethren in Great Britain, and other parts of the Old World. The English Gipsies in America entertain no doubt of it; the more especially as they have encountered such Gipsies, of at least two descents. I have myself met with such a Gipsy, following a decidedly respectable calling, whom I found as much one of the tribe, barring the original habits, as perhaps any one in Europe. [285] _Peter Funks & Co._: Mock auctioneers of mock jewelry, &c., &c. There are many Hungarian and German Gipsies in America; some of them long settled in Pennsylvania and Maryland, where they own farms. Some of them leave their farms in charge of hired hands, during the summer, and proceed South with their tents. In the State of Pennsylvania, there is a settlement of them, on the J---- river, a little way above H----, where they have saw-mills. About the Alleghany Mountains, there are many of the tribe, following somewhat the original ways of the race. In the United States generally, there are many Gipsy peddlers, British as well as continental. There are a good many Gipsies in New York--English, Irish, and continental--some of whom keep tin, crockery, and basket stores; but these are all mixed Gipsies, and many of them of fair complexion. The tin-ware which they make is generally of a plain, coarse kind; so much so, that a Gipsy tin store is easily known. They frequently exhibit their tin-ware and baskets on the streets, and carry them about the city. Almost all, if not all, of those itinerant cutlers and tinkers, to be met with in New York, and other American cities, are Gipsies, principally German, Hungarian, and French. There are a good many Gipsy musicians in America. "What!" said I, to an English Gipsy, "those organ-grinders?" "Nothing so low as that. Gipsies don't _grind_ their music, sir; they _make_ it." But I found in his house, when occupied by other Gipsies, a _hurdy-gurdy_ and tambourine; so that Gipsies sometimes _grind_ music, as well as _make_ it. I know of a Hungarian Gipsy who is leader of a Negro musical band, in the city of New York; his brother drives one of the Avenue cars. There are a number of Gipsy musicians in Baltimore, who play at parties, and on other occasions. Some of the fortune-telling Gipsy women about New York will make as much as forty dollars a week in that line of business. They generally live a little way out of the city, into which they ride, in the morning, to their places of business. I know of one, who resides in New Jersey, opposite New York, and who has a place in the city, to which ladies, that is, females of the highest classes, address their cards, for her to call upon them. When she gets a chance of a young fellow with his female friend, she "puts the screws on;" for she knows well that he dare not "back out;" so she frequently manages to squeeze five dollars out of him. Many hundred, perhaps several thousand, of English tented, and partly tented Gipsies, have arrived in America within the last ten years. They, for the most part, travel, and have travelled every State in the Union, east of the Rocky Mountains, as well as the British Provinces, as horse-dealers, peddlers, doctors, exhibitors, fortune-tellers, and _tramps_ generally. Such English Gipsies, above all men in America, may, with the greatest propriety, say, "No pent-up Utica contracts our powers, But the whole boundless continent is ours." The fortune-tellers, every time they set out on their peregrinations, choose a new route; for they say it is more difficult to go over the same ground in America, than it is in England. The horse-dealers say that Jonathan is a good judge of a horse; that sometimes they get the advantage of him, and sometimes he of them; but that his demand for a warranty sometimes bothers them a deal. "What then?" I asked. "Well, we give him a warranty; and should the beast _happen_ to turn out wrong, let him catch us if he can!" It is really astonishing how sensibly these English Gipsies talk of American affairs generally; they are very discriminating in their remarks, and wonderfully observant of places and localities. They do not like the Negroes. In their society they drop the name of king, and adopt that of president. "Cunning fellows," said I, "to eschew the name of king, and look down upon Negroes. That will do, in America!" I have found the above kind of Gipsies, in America, to be generally pretty well off; they all seem to flourish, and have plenty of money about them. The fortune-telling, horse-dealing, and peddling branches of them have a fine field for following their respective businesses. America, indeed, is a "great country" for the Gipsies; for it contains "no end" of chickens, to say nothing of ducks, geese, and turkeys, many of which are carried off by _varmint_, anyhow. There, they will find, for some time, many opportunities of gathering rich harvests, among what has been termed the shrewdest, but, in some things, the most gullible, of mortals, as an instance may illustrate. A Gipsy woman, known as such, drags, into the meshes of her necromancy, 'cute Jonathan; who, with an infinite reliance on his own smartness, to "try the skill of the critter," by her directions, ties up, in gold and paper, something like a thousand dollars, and, after she has passed her hands over it, and muttered a few cabalistic words, deposits it in his strong box. She sets a day, on which she calls, handles the "dimes," while muttering some more expressions, rather accidentally drops them, then returns them to the box, and sets another day when she will call, and add much to his wealth. She does not appear, however, on the day mentioned. Our simpleton gets first anxious, then excited, then suspicious, then examines his "pile," and finds it transformed into a lot of copper and old paper! For, in dropping the parcel, Meg does it adroitly about the folds of her dress, quickly substitutes another, exactly alike, and makes off with the fruits of her labour. Then come the hue and cry, telegraphing, and dispatching of warrants everywhere. But why need he trouble himself? So, after a harder day's work than, perhaps, he ever underwent in his life, he returns home: but knowing the sympathy he will find there, he puts on his best face, and, to have the first word of it, (for he is not to be laughed at,) wipes his forehead, twitches his mouth, winks his eyes, and remarks: "Waal, I reckon I've been most darnedly sold, anyhow!" Such occurrences are very common among almost all classes of rural Americans. Sometimes it is to discover treasure on the individual's lands, or in the neighbourhood; sometimes a mine, and sometimes an Indian, a trapper, a pirate, or a revolutionary deposit. When the Gipsy escapes with her spoil, she frequently makes for her home, but where that is, no one knows. On being molested, while there, she produces friends, in fair standing, who _prove_ an alibi; and, with the further assistance of a well-feed lawyer, defies all the requisitions, made by the governors of neighbouring States, for her delivery. At other times, she will _divide_ with the inferior authorities, or surrender the whole of the plunder; for, to go to jail she will not, if she can help it.[286] [286] If the real characters of those "lady fortune-tellers," who flourish so much in the large cities, and publicly profess to reveal all matters in "love and law, health and wealth, losses and crosses," were to be ascertained, many of them would, in all probability, be found to belong to a superior class of Gipsies. And this may much more be said of the more humble ones, who trust to the gossipping of a class--and that a respectable class of females, for the advertising of their calling. For a certainty, those are Gipsies who stroll about, telling fortunes for dimes, clothes, or old bottles. The advertising members form a very small part of the fraternity. The extent to which such business is patronized, by Americans, of both sexes, and of almost all positions in society is such, that it is doubtful if the English reader would credit it, if it were put on record. In Virginia, the more original kind of Gipsies are very frequently to be met with. It is in the Slave States they are more apt to flourish in the olden form. The planters need not trouble themselves about their tampering with the Negroes, for they have no sympathy with them. Were it otherwise, they would soon be _mum_, on finding what the results would be to them. I have given some of them some useful hints on that score. The general disposition of the people, the want of _learning_ among so many of them, the distances between dwellings, the small villages, the handy mechanical services of the Gipsies, the uncultivated tracts of land, the game of various kinds, and the climate, seem to point out some of the Slave States as an elysium for the Gipsies; unless the wealthier part of the inhabitants should use the poorer class as tools to drive them out of the country.[287] [287] When travelling on the stage, towards Lake Huron, in Canada, I was surprised at finding a Gipsy tent on the road-side, with a man sitting in front of it, engaged in the mysteries of the tinker. I met a camp of Gipsies on a vacant space, beside a clump of trees, in Hamilton, at the head of Lake Ontario, but I deferred visiting them till the following morning. When I returned to the spot, I found that the birds had flown. Feeling disappointed, I began to question a man who kept a toll-bar, immediately opposite to where their tents had been, as to their peculiarities generally; when he said: "They seemed droll kind o' folk--quite like ourselves--no way foreign; yet I could not understand a word they were saying among themselves." Shortly after this, a company of them entered a shop, in the same town, to buy tin, when I happened to be in it. I accosted one of the mothers of the company, in an abrupt but bland tone. "You're a' Nawkens (Gipsies) I see."--"Ou ay, we're Nawkens," was her immediate reply, accompanied by a smile on her weather-beaten countenance. "You'll aye speak the language?" I continued. "We'll ne'er forget that," she again replied. This seemed to be a company of Gipsies from the Scottish Border; for the woman spoke about the broadest Scotch I ever heard. They dressed well, and bore a good reputation in the neighbourhood. There are a good many very respectable Scottish Gipsies in the United States; but I do not wish to be too minute in describing them. In Canada, I know of a doctor, a lawyer, and an editor, Scottish Gipsies. The fact of the matter is, that, owing to the mixture of the blood, the improvement, and perpetuation, and secrecy, of the race, there may be many, very many, Gipsies, in almost every place in the world, and other people not know of it: and it is not likely that, at the present time, they will say that they are Gipsies. Indeed, the intelligent English travelling Gipsies say that there are an immense number of Gipsies, of all countries, colours, and occupations, in America. There is even some resemblance between the formation of Gipsydom and that of the United States. The children of emigrants, it is well known, frequently prove the most ultra Americans. Instead of the original colonists, at the Declaration of Independence, imagine the commencement of Gipsydom as proceeding from the original stock of Gipsies. The addition to their number, from without, differs from that which takes place among Americans, in this way: that all such additions to Gipsydom are made in such a manner, that the new blood gets innoculated, as it were, with the old, or part of the old; so that it may be said of the whole body, _One drop of blood makes all Gipsydom akin._ The simple fact of a person having Gipsy blood in his veins, in addition to the rearing of a Gipsy parent, acts upon him like a shock of electricity; it makes him spring to his feet, and--"snap his teeth at other dogs!" A very important circumstance contributing to this state of things is the antipathy which mankind have for the very name of Gipsy, which, as I have already said, they all take to themselves; insomuch that the better class will not face it. They imagine that, socially speaking, they are among the damned, and they naturally cast their lot with the damned. Still, the antagonistic spirit which would naturally arise towards society, in the minds of such Gipsies, remains, in a measure, latent; for they feel confident in their incognito, while moving among their fellow-creatures; which circumstance robs it of its sting. Let a Lowlander, in times that are past, but have cast up a Highlander's blood to him, and what would have been the consequences? "Her ainsel would have drawn her dirk, or whipped out her toasting-iron, and seen which _was_ the prettiest man." Let the same have been done to a Scottish Gipsy, in comparatively recent times, and he would have taken his own peculiar revenge. See how the Baillies, as mentioned under the chapter of Tweed-dale and Clydesdale Gipsies, mounted on horseback, and with drawn swords in their hands, threatened death to all who opposed them, for an affront offered to their mother. Twit a respectable Gipsy with his blood, at the present day, and he would suffer in silence; for, by getting into a passion, he would let himself out. For this reason, it would be unmanly to hint it to him, in any tone of disparagement. The difference of feeling between the two races, at the present day, proceeds from positive ignorance on the part of the native towards the other; an ignorance in which the Gipsy would rather allow him to remain; for, let him turn himself in whatever direction he may, he imagines he sees, and perhaps does see, nothing but a dark mountain of prejudice existing between him and every other of his fellow-creatures. He would rather retain his incognito, and allow his race to go down to posterity shrouded in its present mystery. The history of the Gipsy race in Scotland, more, perhaps, than in any other country, shows, to the eye of the world, as few traces of its existence as would a fox, in passing over a ploughed field. The farmer might see the foot-prints of reynard, but how is he to find reynard himself? He must bring out the dogs and have a hunt for him. As an Indian of the prairie, while on the "war path," cunningly arranges the long grass into its natural position, as he passes through it, to prevent his enemy following him, so has the Scottish Gipsy, as he entered upon a settled life, destroyed, to the eye of the ordinary native, every trace of his being a Gipsy. Still, I cannot doubt but that he has misgivings that, some day, he will be called up to judgment, and that all about him will be exposed to the world. What is it that troubles the educated Gipsies? Nothing but the word Gipsy; a word which, however sweet when used among themselves, conveys an ugly, blackguard, and vagabond meaning to other people. The poet asks, What is there in a name? and I reply, Everything, as regards the name Gipsy. For a respectable Scottish Gipsy to say to the public, that "his mother is a Gipsy," or, that "his wife is a Gipsy," or, that "he is a Gipsy;" such a Gipsy simply could not do it. These Gipsies will hardly ever use the word among themselves, except in very select circles; but they will say "he's one of us;" "he's from Yetholm;" "he's from the metropolis," (Yetholm being the metropolis of Scottish Gipsydom;) or, "he's a traveller." If the company is not over classical, they will say "he's from the black quarry," or, "he's been with the cuddies." Imagine a select party of educated Scottish Gipsies, all closely related. They will then chatter Gipsy over their tea; but if a person should drop in, one of the party, who is not acquainted with him, will nudge and whisper to another, "Is he one of the tribe?" or, "Is he one of us?" The better class of Scottish Gipsies are very exclusive in matters of this kind. All things considered, in what other position could the Gipsy race, in Scotland especially, be, at the present day, than that described? How can we imagine a race of people to act otherwise than hide themselves, if they could, from the odium that attaches to the name of Gipsy? And what estimate should we place on that charity which would lead a person to denounce a Gipsy, should he deny himself to be a Gipsy?[288] As a race, what can they offer to society at large to receive them within its circle? They can offer little, as a race; but, if we consider them as individuals, we will find many of them whose eduction, character, and position in life, would warrant their admission into any ordinary society, and some of them into any society. Notwithstanding all that, none will answer up to the name of Gipsy. It necessarily follows, that the race must remain shrouded in its present mystery, unless some one, not of the race, should become acquainted with its history, and speak for it. In Scotland, the prejudice towards the name of Gipsy might be safely allowed to drop, were it only for this reason: that the race has got so much mixed up with the native blood, and even with good families of the country, as to be, in plain language, a jumble--a pretty kettle of fish, indeed. One's uncle, in seeking for a wife, might have stumbled over an Egyptian woman, and, either known or unknown to himself, had his children brought up bitter Gipsies; so that one's cousins may be Gipsies, for anything one knows. A man may have a colony of Gipsies in his own house, and know nothing about it! The Gipsies _died_ out? Oh, no. They commenced in Scotland by wringing the necks of one's _chickens_, and now they sometimes . . . . . . ! But what is Gipsydom, after all, but a "working in among other people?" [288] Mixed Gipsies tell no lies, when they say that they are not Gipsies; for, physiologically speaking, they are not Gipsies, but only partly Gipsies, as regards blood. In every other way they are Gipsies, that is, _chabos_, _calos_, or _chals_. In seeking for Gipsies among Scotch people, I know where to begin, but it puzzles me where to leave off. I would pay no regard to colour of hair or eyes, character, employment, position, or, indeed, any outward thing. The reader may say: "It must be a difficult matter to detect such mixed and educated Gipsies as those spoken of." It is not only difficult, but outwardly impossible. Such Gipsies cannot even tell each other, from their personal appearance; but they have signs, which they can use, if the others choose to respond to them. If I go into a company which I have reason to believe is a Gipsy one, and it know nothing of me, so far as my pursuit is concerned, I will bring the subject of the Gipsies up, in a very roundabout way, and mark the effect which the conversation makes, or the turn it takes. What I know of the subject, and of the ignorance of mankind generally in regard to it, enables me to say, in almost every instance, who they are, let them make any remark they like, look as they like, pretend what they like, wriggle about as they like, or keep dead silent. As I gradually glide into the subject, and expatiate upon the "greatness of the society," one remarks, "I know it;" upon the "respectability of some of its members," and another emphatically exclaims, "That's a fact;" and upon "its universality," and another bawls out, "That's so." Indeed, by finding the Gipsies, under such circumstances, completely off their guard, (for they do not doubt their secret being confined to themselves,) I can generally draw forth, in one way or other, as much moral certainty, barring their direct admission, as to their being Gipsies, as a dog, by putting his nose into a hole, can tell whether a rat is there, or not. The principle of the transmutation of Gipsy blood into white, in appearance, is illustrated, in the ninth chapter of Mr. Borrow's "Bible in Spain," by its changing into almost pure black. A Gipsy soldier, in the Spanish army, killed his sergeant, for "calling him _calo_, (Gipsy,) and cursing him," and made his escape. His wife remained in the army, as a sutler, selling wine. Two years thereafter, a strange man came to her wine shop. "He was dressed like a Moor, (_corahano_,) and yet he did not look like one; he looked more like a black, and yet he was not a black, either, though he was almost black. And, as I looked upon him, I thought he looked something like the Errate, (Gipsies,) and he said to me, '_Zincali, chachipé_,' (the Gipsy salutation.) And then he whispered to me, in queer language, which I could scarcely understand,'Your husband is waiting; come with me, my little sister, and I will take you to him.' About a league from the town, beneath a hill, we found four people, men and women, all very black, like the strange man; and we joined ourselves with them, and they all saluted me, and called me 'little sister.' And away we marched, for many days, amidst deserts and small villages. The men would cheat with mules and asses, and the women told baji. I often asked him (her husband) about the black men, and he told me that he believed them to be of the Errate." Her husband, then a soldier in the Moorish army, having been killed, this Gipsy woman married the black man, with whom she followed real Gipsy life. She said to him: "Sure I am amongst the Errate; . . . . and I often said that they were of the Errate; and then they would laugh, and say that it might be so; and that they were not Moors, (_corahai_,) but they could give no account of themselves." From this it would seem that, while preserving their identity, wherever they go, there are Gipsies who may not be known to the world, or to the tribe, in other continents, by the same name.[289] [289] The people above-mentioned are doubtless Gipsies. According to Grellmann, the race is even to be found in the centre of Africa. Mollien, in his travels to the sources of the Senegal and Gambia, in 1818, says: "Scattered among the Joloffs, we find a people not unlike our Gipsies, and known by the name of Laaubés. Leading a roving life, and without fixed habitation, their only employment is the manufacture of wooden vessels, mortars, and bedsteads. They choose a well-wooded spot, fell some trees, form huts with the branches, and work up the trunks. For this privilege, they must pay a sort of tax to the prince in whose states they thus settle. In general, they are both ugly and slovenly. "The women, notwithstanding their almost frightful faces, are covered with amber and coral beads, presents heaped on them by the Joloffs, from a notion that the favours, alone, of these women will be followed by those of fortune. Ugly or handsome, all the young Laaubé females are in request among the Negroes. "The Laaubés have nothing of their own but their money, their tools, and their asses; the only animals on which they travel. In the woods, they make fires with the dung of the flocks. Ranged round the fires, the men and women pass their leisure time in smoking. The Laaubés have not those characteristic features and high stature which mark the Joloffs, and they seem to form a distinct race. They are exempted from all military service. Each family has its chief, but, over all, there is a superior chief, who commands a whole tribe or nation. He collects the tribute, and communicates with such delegates of the king as receive the imposts: this serves to protect them from all vexation. The Laaubés are idolaters, speak the Poula language, and pretend to tell fortunes." A word upon the universality of the Gipsies. English Gipsies, on arriving in America, feel quite taken aback, on coming across a tent or wigwam of Indians. "Didn't you feel," said I to some of them, "very like a dog when he comes across another dog, a stranger to him?" And, with a laugh, they said, "Exactly so." After looking awhile at the Indians, they will approach them, and "cast their sign, and salute them in Gipsy;" and if no response is made, they will pass on. They then come to learn who the Indians are. The same curiosity is excited among the Gipsies on meeting with the American farmer, on the banks of the Mississippi or Missouri; who, in travelling to market, in the summer, will, to save expenses, unyoke his horses, at mid-day or evening, at the edge of the forest, light his fire, and prepare his meal. What with the "kettle and tented wagon," the tall, lank, bony, and swarthy appearance of the farmer, the Gipsy will approach him, as he did the Indian; and pass on, when no response is made to his sign and salutation. Under such circumstances, the Gipsy would cast his sign, and give his salutation, whether on the banks of the Mississippi or the Ganges. Nay, a very respectable Scottish Gipsy boasted to me, that, by his signs alone, he could push his way to the wall of China, and even through China itself. And there are doubtless Gipsies in China. Mr. Borrow says, that when he visited the tribe at Moscow, they supposed him to be one of their brothers, who, they said, were wandering about in Turkey, _China_, and other parts. It is very likely that Russian Gipsies have visited China, by the route taken by Russian traders, and met with Gipsies there.[290] But it tickles the Gipsy most, when it is insinuated, that if Sir John Franklin had been fortunate in his expedition, he would have found a Gipsy tinkering a kettle at the North Pole. [290] Bell, in an account of his journey to Pekin, [1721.] says that upwards of sixty Gipsies had arrived at Tobolsky, on their way to China, but were stopped by the Vice-Governor, for want of passports. They had roamed, during the summer season, from Poland, in small parties, subsisting by selling trinkets, and telling fortunes. The particulars of a meeting between English and American Gipsies are interesting. Some English Gipsies were endeavouring to sell some horses, in Annapolis, in the State of Maryland, to what had the appearance of being respectable American farmers; who, however, spoke to each other in the Gipsy language, dropping a word now and then, such as "this is a good one," and so on. The English Gipsies felt amazed, and at last said: "What is that you are saying? Why, you are Gipsies!" Upon this, the Americans wheeled about, and left the spot as fast as they could. Had the English Gipsies taken after the Gipsy in their appearance, they would not have caused such a consternation to their American brethren, who showed much of "the blood" in their countenances; but as, from their blood being much mixed, they did not look like Gipsies, they gave the others a terrible fright, on their being found out. The English Gipsies said they felt disgusted at the others not owning themselves up. But I told them they ought rather to have felt proud of the Americans speaking Gipsy, as it was the prejudice of the world that led them to hide their nationality. On making enquiry in the neighbourhood, they found that these American Gipsies had been settled there since, at least, the time of their grandfather, and that they bore an English name. There are Scottish Gipsies in the United States, following respectable callings, who speak excellent Gipsy, according to the judgment of intelligent English Gipsies. The English Gipsies say the same of the Gipsy families in Scotland, with whom they are acquainted; but that some of their words vary from those spoken in England. There is, however, a rivalry between the English and Scottish Gipsies, as to whose pronunciation of the words is the correct one: in that respect, they somewhat resemble the English and Scottish Latinists. One intelligent Gipsy gave it as his opinion, that the word great, _baurie_, in Scotland, was softer than _boro_, in England, and preferable, indeed, the right pronunciation of the word. The German Gipsies are said, by their English brethren, to speak Gipsy backwards; from which I would conclude, that it follows the construction of the German language, which differs so materially, in that respect, from the English.[291] It is a thing well-nigh impossible, to get a respectable Scottish Gipsy to own up to even a word of the Gipsy language. On meeting with a respectable--Scotchman, I will call him--in a company, lately, I was asked by him: "Are ye a' Tinklers?" "We're travellers," I replied. "But who is he?" he continued, pointing to my acquaintance. Going up to him, I whispered "His _dade_ is a _baurie grye-femler_," (his father is a great horse-dealer;) and he made for the door, as if a bee had got into his ear. But he came back; oh, yes, he came back. There was a mysterious whispering of "pistols and coffee," at another time. [291] Mr. Borrow says, with reference to the Spanish Gipsy language: "Its grammatical peculiarities have disappeared, the entire language having been modified and subjected to the rules of Spanish grammar, with which it now coincides in syntax, in the conjugation of verbs, and in the declension of its nouns." We might have naturally expected that of the Gipsy language, in the course of four hundred years, from the people speaking it being so much scattered over the country, and coming so much in contact with the ordinary natives. But something different might be looked for, where the Gipsies have not been persecuted, but allowed to live together in a body, as in Hungary. Of the Hungarian Gipsy language, Mr. Borrow says, that in no part of the world is the Gipsy language better preserved than in Hungary; and that the roving bands of Gipsies from that country, who visit France and Italy, speak the pure Gipsy, with all its grammatical peculiarities. He estimates that the Spanish Gipsy language may consist of four or five thousand words; a sufficient number, one might suppose, to serve the purpose of everyday life. A late writer in the Dublin University Magazine estimates that five thousand words would serve the same purpose in the English language. Four thousand words is a very large language for the Gipsies of Spain to possess, in addition to the ordinary one of the country. It is beyond doubt that the Gipsy language in Great Britain is broken, but not so broken as to consist of words only; it consists, rather, of expressions, or pieces, which are tacked together by native words--generally small words--which are lost to the ordinary ear, when used in conversation. In that respect, the use of Gipsy may be compared to the revolutions of a wheel: we know that the wheel has spokes, but, in its velocity, we cannot distinguish the colour or material of each individual spoke; it is only when it stands still that that can be done. In the same manner, when we come to examine into the British Gipsy language, we perceive its broken nature. But it still serves the purpose of a speech. Let any one sit among English Gipsies, in America, and hear them converse, and he cannot pick up an idea, and hardly a word which they say. "I have always thought Dutch bad enough," said an Irishman, who has often heard English Gipsies, in the State of New Jersey, speak among themselves; "but Gipsy is perfect gibble-gabble, like ducks and geese, for anything I can make of it." Some Gipsies can, of course, speak Gipsy much better than others. It is most unlikely that the Scottish Gipsies, with the head, the pride, and the tenacity of native Scotch, would be the first to forget the Gipsy language. The sentiments of the people themselves are very emphatic on that head. "It will never be forgotten, sir; it is in our hearts, and, as long as a single Tinkler exists, it will be remembered," (page 297.) "So long as there existed two Gipsies in Scotland, it would never be lost," (page 316.) The English Gipsies admit that the language is more easily preserved in a settled life, but more useful to travelling and out-door Gipsies; and that it is carefully kept up by both classes of Gipsies. This information agrees with our author's, in regard to the settled Scottish Gipsies. There is one very strong motive, among many, for the Gipsies keeping up their language, and that is, as I have already said, their self-respect. The best of them believe that it is altogether problematical how they would be received in society, were they to make an avowal of their being Gipsies, and lay bare the history of their race to the world. The prejudice that exists against the race, and against them, they imagine, were they known to be Gipsies, drives them back on that language which belongs exclusively to themselves; to say nothing of the dazzling hold which it takes of their imagination, as they arrive at years of reflection, and consider that the people speaking it have been transplanted from some other clime. The more intelligent the Gipsy, the more he thinks of his speech, and the more care he takes of it. People often reprobate the dislike, I may say the hatred, which the more original Gipsy entertains for society; forgetting that society itself has had the greatest share in the origin of it. When the race entered Europe, they are not presumed to have had any hatred towards their fellow-creatures.[292] That hatred, doubtless, sprang from the severe reception, and universal persecution, which, owing to the singularity of their race and habits, they everywhere met with. The race then became born into that state of things. What would subsequent generations know of the origin of the feud? All that they knew was, that the law made them outlaws and outcasts; that they were subject, as Gipsies, to be hung, before they were born. Such a Gipsy might be compared to Pascal's man springing up out of an island: casting his eyes around him, he finds nothing but a legal and social proscription hanging over his head, in whatever direction he may turn. Whatever might be assumed to have been the original, innate disposition of a Gipsy, the circumstances attending him, from his birth to his death, were certainly not calculated to improve him, but to make him much worse than he might otherwise have been. The worst that can be said of the Scottish Gipsies, in times past, has been stated by our author. With all their faults, we find a vein of genuine nobility of character running through all their actions, which is the more worthy of notice, considering that they were at war with society, and society at war with them. Not the least important feature is that of gratitude for kind and hospitable treatment. In that respect, a true Scottish Gipsy has always been as true as steel; and that is saying a great deal in his favour. The instance given by our author, (pages 361-363,) is very touching, and to the point. I do not know how it may be, at the present day, in Scotland, where are to be found so many Irish Gipsies, of whom the Scottish and English Gipsies have not much good to say, notwithstanding the assistance they render each other when they meet, (page 324.) If the English farmers are questioned, I doubt not that a somewhat similar testimony will be borne to the English Gipsies, to this extent, at least, that, when civilly and hospitably treated, and personally acquainted, they will respect the farmers' property, and even keep others off it. Indeed, both Scottish and English Gipsies call this "Gipsy law." It is certainly not the Scottish Gipsies, or, I may venture to say, the English Gipsies, to whom Mr. Borrow's words may be applied, when he says: "I have not expatiated on their gratitude towards good people, who treat them kindly, and take an interest in their welfare; for I believe, that, of all beings in the world, they are the least susceptible of such a feeling." Such a character may apply to the Spanish Gipsies for anything I know to the contrary; and the causes to which it may be attributed must be the influences which the Spanish character, and general deportment towards the tribe, have exercised over them. In speaking of the bloody and wolfish disposition which especially characterizes the Gitanos, Mr. Borrow says: "The cause to which this must be attributed, must be their residence in a country, unsound in every branch of its civil polity, where right has ever been in less esteem, and wrong in less disrepute, than in any other part of the world." Grellmann bears as poor testimony to the character of the Hungarian Gipsies, in the matter of gratitude, as Mr. Borrow does to the Spanish Gipsies, to whom I apprehend his remarks are intended to apply. But both of these authors give an opinion, unaccompanied by facts. Their opinion may be correct, however, so far as it is applicable to the class of Gipsies, or the individuals, to whom they refer. Gratitude is even a characteristic of the lower animals. "For every kind of beasts, and of birds, and of serpents, and of things in the sea, is tamed and hath been tamed of mankind," saith St. James; the means of attaining to which is frequently kindness. I doubt not that the same can be said of Gipsies anywhere; for surely we can expect to find as much gratitude in them as can be called forth from things that creep, fly, or swim in the sea. It is unreasonable, however, to look for much gratitude from such Gipsies as the two authors in question have evidently alluded to; for this reason: that it is a virtue rarely to be met with from those "to whom much has been given;" and, consequently, very little should be required of those to whom _nothing_ has been given, in the estimation of their fellow-creatures. In doing a good turn to a Gipsy, it is not the act itself that calls forth, or perhaps merits, a return in gratitude; but it is the way in which it is done: for, while he is doubtless being benefited, he is, frequently if not generally, as little sympathized with, personally, as if he were some loathsome creature to which something had been thrown. [292] I cannot agree with Mr. Borrow, when he says, that the Gipsies "travelled three thousand miles into Europe, _with hatred in their hearts towards the people among whom they settled_." In none of the earliest laws passed against them, is anything said of their being other than thieves, cheats, &c, &c. They seem to have been too politic to commit murder; moreover, it appears to have been foreign to their disposition to do aught but obtain a living in the most cunning manner they could. There is no necessary connection between purloining one's property and hating one's person. As long as the Gipsies were not hardly dealt with, they could, naturally, have no actual hatred towards their fellow-creatures. Mr. Borrow attributes none of the spite and hatred of the race towards the community to the severity of the persecutions to which it was exposed, or to that hard feeling with which society has regarded it. These, and the example of the Spaniards, doubtless led the Gitanos to shed the blood of the ordinary natives. As regards the improvement of the Gipsies, I would make the following suggestions: The facts and principles of the present work should be thoroughly canvassed and imprinted upon the public mind, and an effort made to bring, if possible, our high-class Gipsies to own themselves up to be Gipsies. The fact of these Gipsies being received into society, and respected, as Gipsies, (as it is with them, at present, as men,) could not fail to have a wonderful effect upon many of the humble, ignorant, or wild ones. They would perceive, at once, that the objections which the community had to them, proceeded, not from their being Gipsies, but from their habits, only. What is the feeling which Gipsies, who are known to be Gipsies, have for the public at large? The white race, as a race, is simply odious to them, for they know well the dreadful prejudice which it bears towards them. But let some of their own race, however mixed the blood might be, be respected as Gipsies, and it would, in a great measure, break down, at least in feeling, the wall of caste that separates them from the community at large. This is the first, the most important, step to be taken to improve the Gipsies, whatever may be the class to which they belong. Let the prejudice be removed, and it is impossible to say what might not follow. Before attempting to reform the Gipsies, we ought to reform, or, at least, inform, mankind in regard to them; and endeavour to reconcile the world to them, before we attempt to reconcile them to the world; and treat them as men, before we try to make them Christians. The _poor_ Gipsies know well that there are many of their race occupying respectable positions in life; perhaps they do not know many, or even any, of them, personally, but they believe in it thoroughly. Still, they will deny it, at least hide it from strangers, for this reason, among others, that it is a state to which their children, or even they themselves, look forward, as ultimately awaiting them, in which they will manage to escape from the odium of their fellow-creatures, which clings to them in their present condition. The fact of the poor travelling Gipsies knowing of such respectable settled Gipsies, gives them a certain degree of respect in their own eyes, which leads them to repel any advance from the other race, let it come in almost whatever shape it may. The white race, as I have already said, is perfectly odious to them. This is exactly the position of the question. The more original kind of Gipsies feel that the prejudice which exists against the race to which they belong is such, that an intercourse cannot be maintained between them and the other inhabitants; or, if it does exist, it is of so clandestine a nature, that their appearance, and, it may be, their general habits, do not allow or lead them to indulge in it. I will make a few more remarks on this subject further on in this treatise. What are the respectable, well-disposed Scottish Gipsies but Scotch people, after all? They are to be met with in almost every, if not every, sphere in which the ordinary Scot is to be found. The only difference between the two is, that, however mixed the blood of these Gipsies may be, their associations of descent and tribe go back to those black, mysterious heroes who entered Scotland, upwards of three hundred and fifty years ago; and that, with this descent, they have the words and signs of Gipsies. The possession of all these, with the knowledge of the feelings which the ordinary natives have for the very name of Gipsy, makes the only distinction between them and other Scotchmen. I do not say that the world would have any prejudice against these Gipsies, as Gipsies, still, they are morbidly sensitive that it would have such a feeling. The light of reason, of civilization, of religion, and the genius of Britons, forbid such an idea. What object more worthy of civilization, and of the age in which we live, than that such Gipsies would come forward, and, by their positions in society, their talents and characters, dispel the mystery and gloom that hang over the history of the Gipsy race! But will these Gipsies do that? I have my misgivings. They may not do it now, but I am sanguine enough to think that it is an event that may take place at some future time. The subject must, in the meantime, be thoroughly investigated, and the mind of the public fully prepared for such a movement. The Gipsies themselves, to commence with, should furnish the public with information, anonymously, so far as they are personally concerned, or confidentially, through a person of standing, who can guarantee the trustworthiness of the Gipsy himself. I do not expect that they would give us any of the language; but they can furnish us with some idea of the position which the Gipsies occupy in the world, and throw a great deal of light upon the history of the race in Scotland, in, at least, comparatively recent times. In anticipation of such an occurrence, I would make this suggestion to them: that they must be very careful what they say, on account of the "court holding them interested witnesses;" and, whatever they may do, to deny nothing connected with the Gipsies. They certainly have kept their secret well; indeed, they have considered the subject, so far as the public is concerned, as dead and buried long ago. It is of no use, however, Gipsies; "murder will out;" the game is up; it is played out. I may say to you what the hunter said to the 'coon, or rather what the 'coon said to the hunter: "You may just as well come down the tree." Yes! come down the tree; you have been too long up; come down, and let us know all about you.[293] [293] I accidentally got into conversation with an Irishman, in the city of New York, about secret societies, when he mentioned that he was a member of a great many such, indeed, "all of them," as he expressed it. I said there was one society of which he was not a member, when he began to enumerate them, and at last came to the Zincali. "What," said I, "are you a member of this society?" "Yes," said he; "the Zincali, or Gipsy." He then told me that there are many members of this society in the city of New York; not all members of it, under that name, but of its outposts, if I may so express it. The principal or arch-Gipsy for the city, he said, was a merchant, in ---- street, who had in his possession a printed vocabulary, or dictionary, of the language, which was open only to the most thoroughly initiated. In the course of our conversation, it fell out that the native American Gipsy referred to at page 420 was one of the thoroughly initiated; which circumstance explained a question he had put to me, and which I evaded, by saying that I was not in the habit of telling tales out of school. In Spain, as we have seen, a Gipsy taught her language to her son from a MS. I doubt not there are MS. if not printed, vocabularies of the Gipsy language among the tribe in Scotland, as well as in other countries. Scottish Gipsies! I now appeal to you as men. Am I not right, in asserting, that there is nothing you hold more dear than your Egyptian descent, signs, and language? And nothing you more dread than such becoming known to your fellow-men around you? Do you not read, with the greatest interest, any and everything printed, which comes in your way, about the Gipsies, and say, that you thank God all that is a thousand miles away from you? Whence this inconsistency? Ah! I understand it well. Shall the prejudice of mankind towards the name of Gipsy drive you from the position which you occupy? Can it drive you from it? No, it cannot. The Gipsies, you know, are a people; a "mixed multitude," no doubt, but still a people. You know you are Gipsies, for your parents before you were Gipsies, and, consequently, that you cannot be anything but Gipsies. What effect, then, has the prejudice against the race upon you? Does it not sometimes appear to you as if, figuratively speaking, it would put a dagger into your hands against the rest of your species, should they discover that you belonged to the tribe? Or that it would lead you to immediately "take to your beds," or depart, bed and baggage, to parts unknown? But then, Gipsies, what can you do? The thought of it makes you feel as if you were sheep. Some of you may be bold enough to face a lion in the flesh; but who so bold as to own to the world that he is a Gipsy? There is just one of the higher class that I know of, and he was a noble specimen of a man, a credit to human nature itself. Although _you_ might shrink from such a step, would you not like, and cannot you induce, _some one_ to take it? Take my word for it, respectable Scottish Gipsies, the thing that frightens you is, after all, a bug-bear--a scare-crow. But, failing some of you "coming out," would you not rather that the world should now know that much of the history of the Gipsy race, as to show that it was no necessary disparagement in any of you to be a Gipsy? Would you not rather that a Gipsy _might_ pass, anywhere, for a _gentleman_, as he _does_ now, everywhere, for a _vagabond_; and that you and your children might, if they liked, show their true colours, than, as at present, go everywhere _incog_, and carry within them that secret which they are as afraid of being divulged to the world, as if you and all your kin were conspirators and murderers? The secret being out, the incognito of your race goes for nothing. Come then, Scottish Gipsy, make a clean breast of it, like a man. Which of you will exclaim, "Thus from the grave I'll rise, and save my love; Draw all your swords, and quick as lightning move! When I rush on, sure none will dare to stay; 'Tis love commands, and glory leads the way!" Will none of you move? Ah! Gipsies, you are "great hens," and no wonder. American Gipsies, descendants of the real old British stock! I make the same appeal to you. Let the world know how you are getting on, in this land of "liberty and equality;" and whether any of your race are senators, congressmen, and what not. I have heard of a Gipsy, a sheriff in the State of Pennsylvania; and I know of a Scottish Gipsy, who was lately returned a member of the Legislature of the State of New York. The reader may ask: Is it possible that there is a race of men, residing in the British Isles, to be counted by its hundreds of thousands, occupying such a position as that described? And I reply, Alas! it is too true. Exeter Hall may hobnob with Negroes, Hottentots, and Bosjesmen--always with something or other from a distance; but what has it ever done for the Gipsies? Nothing! It will rail at the American prejudice towards the Negro, and entirely pass over a much superior race at its own door! The prejudice against the Negro proceeds from two causes--his appearance and the servitude in which he is, or has been, held. But there can be no prejudice against the Gipsy, on such grounds. It will not do to say that the prejudice is against the tented Gipsies, only; it is against the race, root and branch, as far as it is known. What is it but that which compels the Gipsy, on entering upon a settled life, to hide himself from the unearthly prejudice of his fellow-creatures? The Englishman, the Scotchman, and the Irishman may rail at the American for his peculiar prejudices; but the latter, if he can but capitalize the idea, has, in all conscience, much to throw back upon society in the mother country. Instead of a class of the British public spending so much of their time in an agitation against an institution thousands of miles away from home, and over which they have, and can expect to have, no control, they might direct their attention to an evil laying at their own doors--that social prejudice which is so much calculated to have a blasting influence upon the condition of so many of their fellow-subjects. It is beyond doubt that there cannot be less than a quarter of a million of Gipsies in the British Isles, who are living under a grinding despotism of caste; a despotism so absolute and odious, that the people upon whom it bears cannot, as in Scotland, were it almost to save their lives, even say who they are! Let the time and talents spent on the agitation in question be transferred, for a time, into some such channel as would be implied in a "British Anti-Gipsy-prejudice Association," and a great moral evil may disappear from the face of British society. In such a movement, there would be none of that direct or indirect interest to be encountered, which lies on the very threshold of slavery, in whatever part of the world it exists; nor would there be any occasion to appeal to people's pockets.[294] After the work mentioned has been accomplished, the British public might turn their attention to wrongs perpetrated in other climes. Americans, however, must not attempt to seek, in the British Gipsy-prejudice, an excuse for their excessive antipathy towards Negroes. I freely admit that the dislike of white men, generally, for the Negro, lies in something that is irremovable--something that is irrespective of character, or present or previous social condition. But it is not so with the Gipsy, for his race is, physically, among the finest that are to be found on the face of the earth. Americans ought also to consider that there are plenty of Gipsies among themselves, towards whom, however, there are none of those prejudices that spring from local tradition or association, but only such as proceed from literature, and that towards the tented Gipsy. [294] Among the various means by which the name of Gipsy can be raised up, it may be mentioned, that beginning the word with a capital is one of no little importance. The almost invariable custom with writers, in that respect, has been as if they were describing rats and mice, instead of a race of men. What is to be the future of the Gipsy race? A reply to this question will be found in the history of it during the past, as described; for it resolves itself into two very simple matters of fact. In the first place, we have a foreign race, deemed, by itself, to be, as indeed it is, universal, introduced into Scotland, for example, taken root there, spread, and flourished; a race that rests upon a basis the strongest imaginable. On the other hand, there is the prejudice of caste towards the name, which those bearing it escape, only, by assuming an incognito among their fellow-creatures. These two principles, acting upon beings possessing the feelings of men, will, of themselves, produce that state of things which will constitute the history of the Gipsies during all time coming, whatever may be the changes that may come over their character and condition. They may, in course of time, lose their language, as some of them, to a great extent, have done already; but they will always retain a consciousness of being Gipsies. The language may be lost, but their signs will remain, as well as so much of their speech as will serve the purpose of pass-words. "There is something there," said an English Gipsy of intelligence, smiting his breast, "There is something there which a Gipsy cannot explain." And, said a Scottish Gipsy: "It will never be forgotten; as long as the world lasts, the Gipsies will be Gipsies." What idea can be more preposterous than that of saying, that a change of residence or occupation, or a little more or less of education or wealth, or a change of character or creed, can eradicate such feeling from the heart of a Gipsy; or that these circumstances can, by any human possibility, change his descent, his tribe, or the blood that is in his body? How can we imagine this race, arriving in Europe so lately as the fifteenth century, and in Scotland the century following, with an origin so distinct from the rest of the world, and so treated by the world, can possibly have lost a consciousness of nationality in its descent, in so short a time after arrival; or, that that can happen in the future, when there are so many circumstances surrounding it to keep alive a sense of its origin, and so much within it to preserve its identity in the history of the human family? Let the future history of the world be what it may, Gipsydom is immortal.[295] [295] This sensation, in the minds of the Gipsies, of the perpetuity of their race, creates, in a great measure, its immortality. Paradoxical as it may appear, the way to preserve the existence of a people is to scatter it, provided, however, that it is a race thoroughly distinct from others, to commence with. When, by the force of circumstances, it has fairly settled down into the idea that it is a people, those living in one country become conscious of its existence in others; and hence arises the principal cause of the perpetuity of its existence as a scattered people. In considering the question of the Gipsies being openly admitted, as a race, into the society of mankind, I ask, what possible reason could a British subject advance against such taking place with, at least, the better kind of Scottish Gipsies? Society, generally, would not be over-ready to lessen the distance between itself and the tented Gipsies, or those who live by means really objectionable; but it should have that much sense of justice, as to confine its peculiar feelings to the ways of life of these individuals, and not keep them up against their children, when they follow different habits. If, for example, I should have made the acquaintance of some Scottish Gipsies, associated with them, and acquired a respect for them, (as has happened with me,) how could I take exceptions to them, on account of it afterwards leaking out that they were Gipsies? A sense of ordinary justice would forbid me doing so. I can see nothing objectionable in their conduct, as distinguished from that of other people; and as for their appearance, any person, on being asked to point out the Gipsy, would, so far as colour of hair and eyes goes, pitch upon many a common native, in preference to them. A sense of ordinary justice, as I have said, would disarm me of any prejudice against them; nay, it would urge me to think the more of them, on account of their being Gipsies. To the ordinary eye, they are nothing but Scotch people, and pass, everywhere, for such. There is a Scottish Gipsy in the United States, with whom I am acquainted--a liberal-minded man, and good company--who carries on a wholesale trade, in a respectable article of merchandise, and he said to me: "I will not deny it, nor am I ashamed to say it--_I come from Yetholm_." And I replied: "Why should you be ashamed of it?" It is this hereditary prejudice of centuries towards the name, that constitutes the main difficulty in the way of recognition of these Gipsies by the world generally. How long it may be since they or their ancestors left the tent, is a thing of no importance; personal character, education, and position in life, are the only things that should be considered. The Gipsies to whom I allude do not require to be reformed, unless in that sense in which all men stand in need of reformation: what is wanted is, that the world should raise up the name of Gipsy. And why should not that be done by the people of Great Britain, and Scotland especially, in whose mouths are continually these words: "God hath made of one blood all nations of men, for to dwell on all the face of the earth?" Will the British public spend its hundreds of thousands, annually, on every other creature under heaven, and refuse to countenance the Gipsy race? Will it squander its tens of thousands to convert, perhaps, on an average, one Jew, and refuse a kind word, nay, grudge a smile, towards that body, a member of which may be an official of that Missionary Society, or, it may be, the very chairman of it? I can conceive no liberal-minded Scotchman, possessing a feeling of true self-respect, entertaining a prejudice against such Gipsies. The only people in Scotland in whose mind such a prejudice might be supposed to exist, are those miserable old women around the neighbourhood of Stirling, who, under the influence of the old Highland feud, will look with the greatest contempt upon a person, if he but come from the north of the Ochils. I would class, with such old women, all of our Scotch people who would object to the Gipsies to whom I have alluded. A Scotchman should even have that much love of country, as to take hold of his own Gipsies, and "back them up" against those of other countries: and particularly should he do that, when the "Gipsies" might be his cousins, nay, his own children, for anything that he might know to the contrary. Scotch people should consider that the "Tinklers," whom they see going about, at the present day, are, if not the very lowest kind of Gipsies, at least those who follow the original ways of their race; and are greatly inferior, not only relatively, but actually, to many of those who have gone before them. They should also consider that Gipsies are a race, however mixed the blood may be; subject, as a race, to be governed, in their descent, by those laws which regulate the descent of all races; and that a Gipsy is as much a Gipsy in a house as in a tent, in a "but and a ben" as in a palace. Wherever a Gipsy goes, he carries his inherent peculiarities with him; and the objection to him he considers to be to something inseparable from himself--that which he cannot escape; but the confidence which he has in his incognito neutralizes, as I have already said, the feelings which such a circumstance would naturally produce. But, to disarm him altogether of this feeling, all that is necessary is to state his case, and have it admitted by the "honourable of the earth;" so that his mind may be set at perfect rest on that point. He would, doubtless, still hide the fact of his being a Gipsy, but he would enjoy, in his retreat, that inward self-respect, among his fellow-creatures, which such an admission would give him; and which is so much calculated to raise the people, generally, in every moral attribute. It is, indeed, a melancholy thing, to contemplate this cloud which hangs over such a man, as he mixes with other people, in his daily calling; but to dispel it altogether, the Gipsy himself must, in the manner described, give us some information about his race. Apart from the sense of justice which is implied in admitting these Gipsies, as Gipsies, to a social equality with others, a motive of policy should lead us to take such a step; for it can augur no good to society to have the Gipsy race residing in its midst, under the cloud that hangs over it. Let us, by a liberal and enlightened policy, at least blunt the edge of that antipathy which many of the Gipsy race have, and most naturally have, to society at large. In receiving a Gipsy, as a Gipsy, into society, there should be no kind of officious sympathy shown him, for he is too proud to submit to be made the object of it. Should he say that he is a Gipsy, the remark ought to be received as a mere matter of course, and little notice taken of it; just as if it made no difference to the other party whether he was a Gipsy or not. A little surprise would be allowable; but anything like condolence would be out of the question. And let the Gipsy himself, rather, talk upon the subject, than a desire be shown to ask him questions, unless his remarks should allow them, in a natural way, to be put to him. As to the course to be pursued by the Gipsy, should he feel disposed to own himself up, I would advise him to do it in an off-handed, hearty manner; to show not the least appearance that he had any misgivings about any one taking exceptions to him on that account. Should he act otherwise, that is, hesitate, and take to himself shamefacedness, in making the admission, it would, perhaps, have been better for him not to have committed himself at all: for, in such a matter, it may be said, that "he that doubteth is damned." The simple fact of a man, in Scotland, saying, after the appearance of this work there, that he is a Gipsy, if he is conscious of having the esteem of his neighbours, would probably add to his popularity among them; especially if they were men of good sense, and had before their eyes the expression of good-will of the organs of society towards the Gipsy race. Such an admission, on the part of a Gipsy, would presumptively prove, that he was a really candid and upright person; for few Scottish Gipsies, beyond those about Yetholm, would make such a confession. Having mentioned the subject, the Gipsy should allude to it, on every appropriate occasion, and boast of being in possession of those words and signs which the other is entirely ignorant of. He could well say: "What was Borrow to him, or he to Borrow; that, for his part, he could traverse the world over, and, in the centre of any continent, be received and feasted, by Gipsies, as a king." If but one respectable Scottish Gipsy could be prevailed upon to act in this way, what an effect might it not have upon raising up the name of this singular race! But there is a very serious difficulty to be encountered in the outset of such a proceeding, and it is this, that if a Gipsy owns himself up, he necessarily "lets out," perhaps, all his kith and kin; a regard for whom would, in all probability, keep him back. But there would be no such difficulty to be met with in the way of the Gipsy giving us information by writing. Let us, then, Gipsy, have some writing upon the Gipsies. It will serve no good purpose to keep such information back; the keeping of it back will not cast a doubt upon the facts and principles of the present work; for rest assured, Gipsy, that, upon its own merits, your secret is exploded. I would say this to you, young Scottish Gipsy; pay no regard to what that old Gipsy says, when he tells you, that "he is too old a bird to be caught with chaff in that way." The history of the Gipsies is the history of a people (mixed, in point of blood, as it is,) which exists; not the history of a people, like the Aborigines of North America, which has ceased to exist, or is daily ceasing to exist.[296] It is the history of a people within a people, with whom we come in contact daily, although we may not be aware of it. Any person of ordinary intelligence can have little difficulty in comprehending the subject, shrouded as it is from the eye of the world. But should he have any such difficulty, it will be dispelled by his coming in contact with a Gipsy who has the courage to own himself up to be a Gipsy. It is no argument to maintain that the Gipsy race is not a race, because its blood is mixed with other people. That can be said of all the races of Western Europe, the English more especially; and, in a much greater degree, of that of the United States of America. Every Gipsy has part of the Gipsy blood, and more or less of the words and signs; which, taken in connection with the rearing of Gipsies, act upon his mind in such a manner, that he is penetrated with the simple idea that he is a Gipsy; and create that distinct feeling of nationality which the matters of territory, and sometimes dialect, government, and laws, do with most of other races. Take a Gipsy from any country in the world you may, and the feeling of his being a Gipsy comes as naturally to him as does the nationality of a Jew to a Jew; although we will naturally give him a more definite name, to distinguish him; such as an English, Welsh, Scotch, or Irish Gipsy, or by whatever country of which the Gipsy happens to be a native. [296] The fact of these Indians, and the aboriginal races found in the countries colonised by Europeans, disappearing so rapidly, prevents our regarding them with any great degree of interest. This circumstance detracts from that idea of dignity which the perpetuity and civilization of their race would inspire in the minds of others. But I am afraid that what has been said is not sufficiently explanatory to enable some people to understand this subject. These people know what a Gipsy, in the popular sense, means; they have either seen him, and observed his general mode of life, or had the same described to them in books. This idea of a Gipsy has been impressed upon their minds almost from infancy. But it puzzles most people to form any idea of a Gipsy of a higher order; such a Gipsy, for example, as preaches the gospel, or argues the law: that seems, hitherto, to have been almost incomprehensible to them. They know intuitively what is meant by any particular people who occupy a territory--any country, tract of land, or isle. They also know what is meant by the existence of the Jews. For the subject is familiar to them from infancy; it is wrapt up in their early reading; it is associated with the knowledge and practice of their religion, and the attendance, on the part of the Jews, at a place of worship. They have likewise seen and conversed with the Jews, or others who have done either or both; or they are acquainted with them by the current remarks of the world. But a people resembling, in so many respects, the Jews, without having any territory, or form of creed, peculiar to itself, or any history, or any peculiar outward associations or residences, or any material difference in appearance, character, or occupation, is something that the general mind of mankind would seem never to have dreamt of, or to be almost capable of realizing to itself. We have already seen how a writer in Blackwood's Magazine gravely asserts, that, although "Billy Marshall left descendants numberless, the race, of which he was one, was in danger of becoming extinct;" when, in fact, it had only passed from its first stage of existence--the tent, into its second--tramping, without the tent; and after that, into its ultimate stage--a settled life. We have likewise seen how Sir Walter Scott imagines that the Scottish Gipsies have decreased, since the time of Fletcher, of Saltoun, about the year 1680, from 100,000 to 500, by "the progress of time, and encrease of the means of life, and the power of the laws." Mr. Borrow has not gone one step ahead of these writers; and, although I naturally enough excuse them, I am not inclined to let him go scot-free, since he has set himself forward so prominently as an authority on the Gipsy question.[297] [297] A writer in the Penny Cyclopædia illustrates this absurd idea, in very plain terms, when he says: "In England, the Gipsies have much diminished, of late years, in consequence of the enclosure of lands, and the laws against vagrants." Sir Walter Scott's idea of the Gipsies has been followed in a pictorial history of Scotland, lately issued from the Scottish press. In explaining this subject, it is by no means necessary to "crack an egg" for the occasion. There is doubtless a "hitch," but it is a hitch so close under our very noses, that it has escaped the observation of the world. Still, the point can be readily enough realized by any one. Take, for example, the Walker family. Walker knows well enough who his father, grandfather, and so forth were; and holds himself to be a Walker. Is it not so with the Gipsies? What is it but a question of "folk?" A question more familiar to Scotch people than any other people. If one's ancestors were all Walkers, is not the present Walker still a Walker? If such or such a family was originally of the Gipsy race, is it not so still? How did Billy Marshall happen to be a Gipsy? Was he a Gipsy because he lived in a tent? or, did he live in a tent, like a Gipsy of the old stock? If Billy was a Gipsy, surely Billy's children must also have been Gipsies! The error committed by writers, with reference to the so-called "dying-out" of the Gipsy race, arises from their not distinguishing between the questions of race, blood, descent, and language, and a style of life, or character, or mode of making a living. Suppose that a native Scottish cobbler should leave his last, and take to peddling, as a packman, and ultimately settle again in a town, as a respectable tradesman. On quitting "the roads," he would cease to be a packman; nor could his children after him be called packmen, because the whole family were native Scotch from the first; following the pack having been only the occupation of the father, during part of his life. Should a company of American youths and maidens take to the swamp, cranberrying and gipsying, for a time, it could not be said that they had become Gipsies; for they were nothing but ordinary Americans. Should the society of Quakers dissolve into its original elements, it would just be English blood quakerized, returning to English blood before it was quakerized. But it is astonishing that intelligent men should conceive, and others retail, the ideas that have been expressed in regard to the destiny of the Gipsy race. What avails the lessons of history, or the daily experience of every family of the land, the common sense of mankind, or the instinct of a Hottentot, if no other idea of the fate of the Gipsy race can be given than that referred to? Upon the principle of the Gipsies "dying out," by settling, and changing their habits, it would appear that, when at home, in the winter, they were not Gipsies; but that they were Gipsies, when they resumed their habits, in the spring! On the same principle, it would appear, that, if every Gipsy in the world were to disappear from the roads and the fields, and drop his original habits, there would be no Gipsies in the world, at all! What idea can possibly be more ridiculous?[298] [298] The following singular remarks appeared in a very late number of Chambers' Journal, on the subject of the Gipsies of the Danube: "As the wild cat, the otter, and the wolf, generally disappear before the advance of civilization, the wild races of mankind are, in like manner and degree, gradually coming to an end, and from the same causes(!) The waste lands get enclosed, the woods are cut down, the police becomes yearly more efficient, and the Pariahs vanish with their means of subsistence. [Where do they go to?] In England, there are, at most, 1,500 Gipsies(!) Before the end of the present century, they will probably be extinct over Western Europe(!)" It is perfectly evident that the world, outside of Gipsydom, has to be initiated in the subject of the Gipsies, as in the first principles of a science, or as a child is instructed in its alphabet. And yet, the above-mentioned writer takes upon himself to chide Mr. Borrow, in the matter of the Gipsies. It is better, however, to compare the Gipsy tribe in Scotland, at the present day, to an ordinary clan in the olden time; although the comparison falls far short of the idea. We know perfectly well what it was to have been a member of this or that clan. Sir Walter Scott knew well that he was one of the Buccleuch clan, and a descendant of _Auld Beardie_; so that he could readily say that he was a Scott. Wherein, then, consists the difficulty in understanding what a Scottish Gipsy is? Is it not simply that he is "one of them;" a descendant of that foreign race of which we have such notice in the treaty of 1540, between James V. and John Faw, the then head of the Scottish Gipsy tribe? A Scottish Gipsy has the blood, the words, and the signs, of these men, and as naturally holds himself to be "one of them," as a native Scotchman holds himself to be one of his father's children. How, then, can a "change of habits" prevent a man from being his father's son? How could a "change of habits" make a McGregor anything but a McGregor? How could the effects of any just and liberal law towards the McGregors lead to the decrease, and final extinction, of the McGregors? Every man, every family, every clan, and every people, are continually "changing their habits," but still remain the same people. It would be a treat to have a treatise from Mr. Borrow upon the Gipsy race "dying out," by "changing its habits," or by the acts of any government, or by ideas of "gentility." I have already alluded to a resemblance between the position of the Gipsy race, at the present day, and that of the English and American races. Does any one say that the English race is not a race? Or that the American is not a race? And yet the latter is a compost of everything that migrates from the Old World. But take some families, and we will find that they are almost pure English, in descent, and hold themselves to be actually such. But ask them if they are English, and they will readily answer: "_English?_ No, siree!" The same principle holds still more with the Gipsy race. It is not a question of country against country, or government against government, separated by an ocean; but the difference proceeds from a prejudice, as broad and deep as the ocean, that exists between two races--the native, and that of such recent introduction--dwelling in the same community. I have explained the effect which the mixing of native blood with Gipsy has upon the Gipsy race, showing that it only modifies its appearance, and facilitates its passing into settled and respectable life. I will now substantiate the principle from what is daily observed among the native race itself. Take any native family--one of the Scotts, for example. Let us commence with a family, tracing its origin to a Scott, in the year 1600, and imagine that, in its descent, every representative of the name married a wife of another family, or clan, having no Scotts' blood in her veins. In the seventh descent, there would be only one one-hundred and twenty-eighth part of the original Scott in the last representative of the family. Would not the last Scott be a Scott? The world recognizes him to be a Scott; he holds himself to be a Scott--"every inch a Scott;" and doubtless he is a Scott, as much as his ancestor who existed in the year 1600. What difficulty can there, therefore, be, in understanding how a man can be a Gipsy, whose blood is mixed, even "dreadfully mixed," as the English Gipsies express it? Gipsies are Gipsies, let their blood be mixed as much as it may; whether the introduction of the native blood may have come into the family through the male or the female line. In the descent of a native family, in the instance given, the issue follows the name of the family. But, with the Gipsy race, the thing to be transmitted is not merely a question of family, but a race distinct from any particular family. If a Gipsy woman marries into a native family, the issue retains the family name of the husband, but passes into the Gipsy tribe; if a Gipsy man marries into a native family, the issue retains his name, in the general order of society, and likewise passes into the Gipsy tribe; so that such intermarriages, which almost invariably take place unknown to the native race, always leave the issue Gipsy. For the Gipsy element of society is like a troubled spirit, which has been despised, persecuted, and damned; cross it out, to appearance, as much as you may, it still retains its Gipsy identity. It then assumes the form of a disembodied spirit, that will enter into any kind of tabernacle, in the manner described, dispel every other kind of spirit, clean or unclean, as the case may be, and come up, under any garb, colour, character, occupation, or creed--Gipsy. It is perfectly possible, but not very probable, to find a Gipsy a Jew, in creed, and, for the most part, in point of blood, in the event of a Jew marrying a mixed Gipsy. He might follow the creed of the Jewish parent, and be admitted into the synagogue; but, although outwardly recognised as a Jew, and having Jewish features, he would still be a _chabo_; for there are Gipsies of all creeds, and, like other people in the world, of no creed at all. But it is extremely disagreeable to a Gipsy to have such a subject mentioned in his hearing; for he heartily dislikes a Jew, and says that no one has any "chance" in dealing with him. A Gipsy likewise says, that the two races ought not to be mentioned in the same breath, or put on the same footing, which is very true; for reason tells us, that, strip the Gipsy of every idea connected with "taking bits o' things," and leading a wild life, and there should be no points of enmity between him and the ordinary native; certainly not that of creed, which exists between the Jew and the rest of the world, to which question I will by and by refer. The subject of the Gipsies has hitherto been treated as a question of natural history, only, in the same manner as we would treat ant-bears. Writers have sat down beside them, and looked at them--little more than looked at them--described some of their habits, and reported their _chaff_. To get to the bottom of the subject, it is necessary to sound the mind of the Gipsy, lay open and dissect his heart, identify one's self with his feelings, and the bearings of his ideas, and construct, out of these, a system of mental science, based upon the mind of the Gipsy, and human nature generally. For it is the mind of the Gipsy that constitutes the Gipsy; that which, in reference to its singular origin and history, is, in itself, indestructible, imperishable and immortal. Consider, then, this race, which is of such recent introduction upon the stage of the European world, of such a singular origin and history, and of such universal existence, with such a prejudice existing against it, and the merest impulse of reflection, apart from the facts of the case, will lead us to conclude, that, as it has settled, it has remained true to itself, in the various associations of life. In whatever position, or under whatever circumstances, it is to be found, it may be compared, in reference to its past history, to a chain, and the early Gipsies, to those who have charged it with electricity. However mixed, or however polished, the metal of the links may have since become, they have always served to convey the Gipsy fluid to every generation of the race. It is even unnecessary to enquire, particularly, how that has been accomplished, for it is self-evident that the process which has linked other races to their ancestry, has doubly linked the Gipsy race to theirs. Indeed, the idea of being Gipsies never can leave the Gipsy race. A Gipsy's life is like a continual conspiracy towards the rest of the world; he has always a secret upon his mind, and, from his childhood to his old age, he is so placed as if he were, in a negative sense, engaged in some gunpowder plot, or as if he had committed a crime, let his character be as good as it possibly may. Into whatever company he may enter, he naturally remarks to himself: "I wonder if there are any of us here." That is the position which the mixed and better kind of Gipsy occupies, generally and passively. Of course, there are some of the race who are always actually hatching some plot or other against the rest of the world. Take a Gipsy of the popular kind, who appears as such to the world, and there are two ideas constantly before him--that of the _Gorgio_ and _Chabo_: they may slumber while he is in his house, or in his tent, or when he is asleep, or his mind is positively occupied with something; but let any one come near him, or him meet or accost any one, and he naturally remarks, to himself, that the person "is _not_ one of us," or that he "_is_ one of us." He knows well what the native may be thinking or saying of him, and he as naturally responds in his own mind. This circumstance of itself, this frightful prejudice against the individual, makes, or at least keeps, the Gipsy wild; it calls forth the passion of resentment, and produces a feeling of reckless abandon, that might otherwise leave him. To that is to be added the feeling, in the Gipsy's mind, of his race having been persecuted, for he knows little of the circumstances attending the origin of the laws passed against his tribe, and attributes them to persecution alone. He considers that he has a right to travel; that he has been deprived of rights to travel, which were granted to his tribe by the monarchs of past ages; and, moreover, that his ancestors--the "ancient wandering Egyptians"--always travelled. He feels perfectly independent of, and snaps his fingers at, everybody; and entertains a profound suspicion of any one who may approach him, inasmuch as he imagines that the stranger, however fair he may speak to him, has that feeling for him, as if he considered it pollution to touch him. But he is very civil and plausible when he is at home. It is from such material that all kinds of settled Gipsies, at one time or other, have sprung. Such is the prejudice against the race, that, if they did not hide the fact of their being Gipsies from the ordinary natives, they would hardly have the "life of a dog" among them, because of their having sprung from a race which, in its original state, has been persecuted, and so much despised. By settling in life, and conforming with the ways of the rest of the community, they "cease to be Gipsies," in the estimation of the world; for the world imagines that, when the Gipsy conforms to its ways, there is an end of his being a Gipsy. Barring the "habits," such a Gipsy is as much a Gipsy as before, although he is one _incog_. The wonder is not that he and his descendants should be Gipsies; but the real wonder is, that they should not be Gipsies. Neither he nor his descendants have any choice in the matter. Does the settled Gipsy keep a crockery or tin establishment, or an inn, or follow any other occupation? Then his children cannot all follow the same calling; they must betake themselves to the various employments open to the community at large, and, their blood being mixed, they become lost to the general eye, amid the rest of the population. While this process is gradually going on, the Gipsy population which always remains in the tent--the hive from which the tribe swarms--attracts the attention of the public, and prevents it from thinking anything about the matter. In England, alone, we may safely assume that the tented Gipsy population, about the commencement of this century, must have encreased at least four-fold by this time, while, to the eye of the public, it would appear that "the Gipsies are gradually decreasing, so that, by and by, they will become extinct." The world, generally, has never even thought about this subject. When I have spoken to people promiscuously in regard to it, they have replied: "We suppose that the Gipsies, as they have settled in life, have got lost among the general population:" than which nothing can be more unfounded, as a matter of fact, or ridiculous, as a matter of theory. Imagine a German family settling in Scotland. The feeling of being Germans becomes lost in the first generation, who do not, perhaps, speak a word of German. There is no prejudice entertained for the family, but, on the contrary, much good-will and respect are shown it by its neighbours. The parents identify themselves with those surrounding them; the children, born in the country, become, or rather are, Scotch altogether; so that all that remains is the sense of a German extraction, which, but for the name of the family, would very soon be lost, or become a mere matter of tradition. In every other respect, the family, sooner or later, becomes lost amid the general population. In America, we daily see Germans getting mixed with, and lost among, Americans; but where is the evidence of such a process going on, or ever having taken place, in Great Britain, between the Gipsy and the native races? The prejudice which the ordinary natives have for the very name of Gipsy is sufficient proof that the Gipsy tribe has not been lost in any such manner. Still, it has not only got mixed, but "dreadfully mixed," with the native blood; but it has worked up the additional blood within itself, having thoroughly gipsyfied it. The original Gipsy blood may be compared to liquid in a vessel, into which native liquid has been put: the mixture has, as a natural consequence, lost, in a very great measure, its original colour; but, inasmuch as the most important element in the amalgamation has been _mind_, the result is, that, in its descent, it has remained, as before, Gipsy. Instead, therefore, of the Gipsies having become lost among the native population, a certain part of the native blood has been lost among them, greatly adding to the number of the body. We cannot institute any comparison between the introduction of the Gipsies and the Huguenots, the last body of foreigners that entered Great Britain, relative to the destiny of the respective foreign elements. For the Huguenots were not a race, as distinguished from every other creature in the world, but a religious party, taking refuge among a people of cognate blood and language, and congenial religious feelings and faith; and were, to say the least of it, on a par, in every respect, with the ordinary natives, with nothing connected with them to prevent an amalgamation with the other inhabitants; but, on the contrary, having this characteristic, in common with the nations of Europe, that the place of birth constitutes the fact, and, taken in connection with the residence, creates the feelings of nationality and race. Many of my readers are, doubtless, conversant with the history of the Huguenots. Even in some parts of America, nothing is more common than for people to say that they are Huguenots, that is, of Huguenot descent, which is very commonly made the foundation of the connections and intimate associations of life. The peculiarity is frequently shown in the appearance of the individuals, and in such mental traits as spring from the contemplation of the Huguenots as an historical and religious party, even when the individual now follows the Catholic faith. But these people differ in no essential respect from the other inhabitants. But how different is the position always occupied by the Gipsies! Well may they consider themselves "strangers in the land;" for by whom have they ever been acknowledged? They entered Scotland, for example, and have encreased, progressed, and developed, with so great a prejudice against them, and so separated in their feelings from others around them, as if none had almost existed in the country but themselves, while they were "dwelling in the midst of their brethren;" the native blood that has been incorporated with them having the appearance as if it had come from abroad. They, a people distinct from any other in the world, have sprung from the most primitive stage of human existence--the tent, and their knowledge of their race goes no further back than when it existed in other parts of the world, in the same condition, more or less, as themselves. They have been a migratory tribe, wherever they have appeared or settled, and have never ceased to be the same peculiar race, notwithstanding the changes which they have undergone; and have been at home wherever they have found themselves placed. The mere place of birth, or the circumstance under which the individual has been reared, has had no effect upon their special nationality, although, as citizens of particular countries, they have assimilated, in their general ideas, with others around them. And not only have they had a language peculiar to themselves, but signs as exclusively theirs as are those of Freemasons. For Gipsies stand to Gipsies as Freemasons to Freemasons; with this difference--that Masons are bound to respond to and help each other, while such associations, among the Gipsies, are optional with the individual, who, however, is persuaded that the same people, with these exclusive peculiarities, are to be met with in every part of the world. A Gipsy is, in his way, a Mason born, and, from his infancy, is taught to hide everything connected with his race, from those around him. He is his own _tyler_, and _tyles_ his lips continually. Imagine, then, a person taught, from his infancy, to understand that he is a Gipsy; that his blood, (at least part of it,) is Gipsy; that he has been instructed in the language, and initiated in all the mysteries, of the Gipsies; that his relations and acquaintances in the tribe have undergone the same experience; that the utmost reserve towards those who are not Gipsies has been continually inculcated upon him, and as often practised before his eyes; and what must be the leading idea, in that person's mind, but that he is a Gipsy? His pedigree is Gipsy, his mind has been cast in a Gipsy mould, and he can no more "cease to be a Gipsy" than perform any other impossibility in nature. Thus it is that Gipsydom is not a work of man's hand, nor a creed, that is "revealed from faith to faith;" but a work which has been written by the hand of God upon the heart of a family of mankind, and is reflected from the mind of one generation to that of another. It enters into the feelings of the very existence of the man, and such is the prejudice against his race, on the part of the ordinary natives, that the better kind of Scottish Gipsy feels that he, and more particularly she, would almost be "torn in pieces," if the public really knew all about them. These facts will sufficiently illustrate how a people, "resembling, in so many respects, the Jews, without having any territory, or form of creed, peculiar to itself, or any history, or any peculiar outward associations or residences, or any material difference in appearance, character, or occupation," can be a people, living among other people, and yet be distinct from those among whom they live. The distinction consists in this people having _blood_, _language_, a _cast of mind_, and _signs_, peculiar to itself; the three first being the only elements which distinguish races; for religion is a secondary consideration; one religion being common to many distinct races. This principle, which is more commonly applied to people occupying different countries, is equally applicable to races, clans, families, or individuals, living within the boundary of a particular country, or dwelling in the same community. We can easily understand how two individuals can be two distinct individuals, notwithstanding their being members of the same family, and professing the same religion. We can still more easily understand the same of two families, and still more so of two septs or clans of the same general race. And, surely, there can be no difficulty in understanding that the Gipsy tribe, whatever may be its habits, is something different from any native tribe: for it has never yet found rest for the sole of its foot among the native race, although it has secured a shelter clandestinely; and of the extent, and especially of the nature, of its existence, the world may be said to be entirely ignorant. The position which the Gipsy race occupies in Scotland is that which it substantially occupies in every other country--unacknowledged, and, in a sense, damned, everywhere. There is, therefore, no wonder that it should remain a distinct family among mankind, cemented by its language and signs, and the knowledge of its universality. The phenomenon rests upon purely natural causes, and differs considerably from that of the existence of the Jews. For the Jews are, everywhere, acknowledged by the world, after a sort; they have neither language nor, as far as I know, signs peculiar to themselves, (although there are secret orders among them,) but possess the most ancient history, an original country, to which they, more or less, believe they will be restored, and a religion of divine origin, but utterly superseded by a new and better dispensation. Notwithstanding all that, the following remark, relative to the existence of the Jews, since the dispersion, may very safely be recalled: "The philosophical historian confesses that he has no place for it in all his generalizations, and refers it to the mysteries of Providence." For the history of the Gipsies bears a very great resemblance to it; and, inasmuch as that is not altogether "the device of men's hands," it must, also, be referred to Providence, for Providence has a hand in everything. It is very true that the "philosophical historian has no place, in all his generalizations, for the phenomenon of the existence of the Jews, since the dispersion," for he has never investigated the subject inductively, and on its own merits. It is poor logic to assert that, because the American Indians are, to a great extent, and will soon be, extinct, therefore the existence of the Jews, to-day, is a miracle. And it would be nearly as poor logic to maintain the same of the Jews in connection with any of the ancient and extinct nations. There is no analogy between the history of the Jews, since the dispersion, and that of any other people, (excepting the Gipsies;) and, consequently, no comparison can be instituted between them.[299] Before asking how it is that the Jews exist to-day, it would be well to enquire by what possible process they could cease to be Jews. And by what human means the Jews, as a people, or even as individuals, will receive Christ as their Messiah, and thereby become Christian Jews. This idea of the Jews existing by a miracle has been carried to a very great length, as the following quotation, from an excellent writer, on the Evidences of Christianity, will show: "What is this," says he, "but a miracle? connected with the prophecy which it fulfills, it is a double miracle. Whether testimony can ever establish the credibility of a miracle is of no importance here. This one is obvious to every man's senses. All nations are its eye-witnesses. . . . . The laws of nature have been suspended in their case." This writer, in a spirit of gambling, stakes the whole question of revelation upon his own dogma; and, according to his hypothesis, loses it. The laws of nature would, indeed, have been suspended, in their case, and a miracle would, indeed, have been wrought, if the Jews had ceased to be Jews, or had become anything else than what they are to-day. Writers on the Christian Evidences should content themselves with maintaining that the Jews have fulfilled the prophecies, and will yet fulfill them, and assert nothing further of them. [299] I leave out of view various scattered nations in Asia. The writer alluded to compares the history of the Jews, since the dispersion, to the following phenomenon: "A mighty river, having plunged, from a mountain height, into the depths of the ocean, and been separated into its component drops, and thus scattered to the ends of the world, and blown about, by all winds, during almost eighteen centuries, is still capable of being disunited from the waters of the ocean; its minutest drops, never having been assimilated to any other, are still distinct, unchanged, and ready to be gathered." Such language cannot be applied to the Jews; for the philosophy of their existence, to-day, is so very simple in its nature, as to have escaped the observation of mankind. I will give it further on in this Disquisition. The language in question is somewhat applicable to the Gipsies, for they have become _worked into_ all other nations, in regard to blood and language, and are "still distinct and unchanged," as to their being Gipsies, whatever their habits may be; and, although there is no occasion for them to be "gathered," they would yet, outwardly or inwardly, heartily respond to any call addressed to them.[300] [300] It is interesting to hear the Gipsies speak of their race "taking of" this or the other race. Said an English Gipsy, to me, with reference to some Gipsies of whom we were speaking: "They take of the Arabians." There is, as I have already said, no real outward difference between many settled and educated Scottish Gipsies and ordinary natives; for such Gipsies are as likely to have fair hair and blue eyes, as black. Their characters and occupations may be the same; they may have intimate associations together; may be engaged in business as partners; may even be cousins, nay, half-brothers. But let them, on separate occasions, enter a company of Gipsies, and the reception shown to them will mark the difference in the two individuals. The difference between two such Scotchmen, (for they really are both Scotch,) the reader may remark, makes the Gipsy only a Gipsy nominally, which, outwardly, he is; but he is still a Gipsy, although, in point of colour, character, or condition, not one of the old stock; for he has "the blood," and has been reared and instructed as a Gipsy. But such a Gipsy is not fond of entering a company of Gipsies, strangers to him, unless introduced by a friend in whom he has confidence, for he is afraid of being known to be a Gipsy. He is more apt to visit some of the more original kind of the race, where he is not known. On sitting down beside them, with a friendly air, they will be sure to treat him kindly, not knowing but that they may be entertaining a Gipsy unawares; for such original Gipsies, believing that "the blood" is to be found well up in life, feel very curious when they meet with such a person. If he "lets out" an idea in regard to the race, and expresses a kindly feeling towards "the blood," the suspicions of his friends are at once excited, so that, if he, in an equivocal manner, remarks that he is "_not_ one of them," hesitates, stammers, and protests that he really is not one of them, they will as readily swear that he _is_ one of them; for well does the blackguard Gipsy, (as the world calls him,) know the delicacy of such settled and educated Gipsies in owning the blood. There is less suspicion shown, on such occasions, when the settled Gipsy is Scotch, and the _bush_ Gipsy English; and particularly so should the occasion be in America; for, when they meet in America, away from the peculiar relations under which they have been reared, and where they can "breathe," as they express it, the respective classes are not so suspicious of each other. Besides the difference just drawn between the Gipsy and ordinary native--that of recognizing and being recognized by another Gipsy--I may mention the following general distinction between them. The ordinary Scot knows that he is a Scot, and nothing more, unless it be something about his ancestors of two or three generations. But the Gipsy's idea of Scotland goes back to a certain time, indefinite to him, as it may be, beyond which his race had no existence in the country. Where his ancestors sojourned, immediately, or at any time, before they entered Scotland, he cannot tell; but this much he knows of them, that they are neither Scottish nor European, but that they came from the East. The fact of his blood being mixed exercises little or no influence over his feelings relative to his tribe, for, mixed as it may be, he knows that he is one of the tribe, and that the origin of his tribe is his origin. In a word, he knows that he has sprung from the tent. Substitute the word Scotch for Moor, as related of the black African Gipsies, at page 429, and he may say of himself and tribe: "We are not Scotch, but can give no account of ourselves." It is a little different, if the mixture of his blood is of such recent date as to connect him with native families; in that case, he has "various bloods" to contend for, should they be assailed; but his Gipsy blood, as a matter of course, takes precedence. By marrying into the tribe, the connection with such native families gradually drops out of the memory of his descendants, and leaves the sensation of tribe exclusively Gipsy. Imagine, then, that the Gipsy has been reared a Gipsy, in the way so frequently described, and that he "knows all about the Gipsies," while the ordinary native knows really nothing about them; and we have a general idea of what a Scottish Gipsy is, as distinguished from an ordinary Scotchman. If we admit that every native Scot knows who he is, we may readily assume that every Scottish Gipsy knows who _he_ is. But, to place the point of difference in a more striking light, it may be remarked, that the native Scot will instinctively exclaim, that "the present work has no earthly relation either to him or his folk;" while the Scottish Gipsy will as instinctively exclaim: "It's us, there's no mistake about it;" and will doubtless accept it, in the main, with a high degree of satisfaction, as the history of his race, and give it to his children as such. A respectable, indeed, any kind of, Scottish Gipsy does not contemplate his ancestors--the "Pilgrim Fathers," and "Pilgrim Mothers," too--as robbers, although he could do that with as much grace as any Highland or Border Scot, but as a singular people, who doubtless came from the Pyramids; and their language, as something about which he really does not know what to think; whether it is Egyptian, Sanscrit, or what it is. Still, he has part of it; he loves it; and no human power can tear it out of his heart. He knows that every intelligent being sticks to his own, and clings to his descent; and he considers it his highest pride to be an Egyptian--a descendant of those swarthy kings and queens, princes and princesses, priests and priestesses, and, of course, thieves and thievesses, that, like an apparition, found their way into, and, after wandering about, settled down in, Scotland. Indeed, he never knew anything else than that he was an Egyptian; for it is in his blood; and, what is more, it is in his heart, so that he cannot forget it, unless he should lose his faculties and become an idiot; and then he would be an Egyptian idiot. How like a Gipsy it was for Mrs. Fall, of Dunbar, to "work in tapestry the principal events in the life of the founder of her family, from the day the Gipsy child came to Dunbar, in its mother's creel, until the same Gipsy child had become, by its own honourable exertions, the head of the first mercantile establishment then existing in Scotland." The Scottish Gipsies, when their appearance has been modified by a mixture of the white blood, have possessed, in common with the Highlanders, the faculty of "getting out" of the original ways of their race, and becoming superior in character, notwithstanding the excessive prejudice that exists against the nation of which they hold themselves members. Except his strong partiality for his blood and tribe, language, and signs, such a Gipsy becomes, in his general disposition and ways, like any ordinary native. It is impossible that it should be otherwise. Whenever a Gipsy, then, forsakes his original habits, and conforms with the ways of the other inhabitants, he becomes, for all practical purposes, an ordinary citizen of the Gipsy clan. If he is a man of good natural abilities, the original wild ambition of his race acquires a new turn; and his capacity fits him for any occupation. Priding himself on being an Egyptian, a member of this world-wide community, he acquires, as he gains information, a spirit of liberality of sentiment; he reads history, and perceives that every family of mankind has not only been barbarous, but very barbarous, at one time; and, from such reflections, he comes to consider his own origin, and very readily becomes confirmed in his early, but indistinct, ideas of his people, that they really are somebody. Indeed, he considers himself not only as good, but better than other people. His being forced to assume an incognito, and "keep as quiet as pussy," chafes his proud spirit, but it does not render him gloomy, for his natural disposition is too buoyant for that. How, then, does such a Scottish Gipsy feel in regard to his ancestors? He feels exactly as Highlanders do, in regard to theirs, or, as the Scottish Borderers do, with reference to the "Border Ruffians," as I have heard a Gipsy term them. Indeed, the gallows of Perth and Stirling, Carlisle and Jedburgh, could tell some fine tales of many respectable Scottish people, in times that are past. The children of such a Gipsy differ very much from those of the same race in their natural state, although they may have the same amount of blood, and the same eye. The eye of the former is subdued, for his passions, in regard to his race, have never been called forth; while the eye of the latter rolls about, as if he were conscious that every one he meets with is remarking of him, "There goes a vagabond of a Gipsy." Two fine specimens of the former kind of Gipsies attended the High School of Edinburgh, when I was at that institution. Hearing the family frequently spoken of at home, my attention was often taken up with the boys, without understanding what a Gipsy of _that_ kind could mean; although I had a pretty good idea of the common Gipsy, or Tinkler, as he is generally called in Scotland. These two young Gipsies were what might be called sweet youths; modest and shy, among the other boys, as young tamed wild turkeys; very dark in colour, with an eye that could be caught in whatever way I might look at them. They now occupy very honourable positions in life. There were other Gipsies at the High School, at this time, but they were of the "brown sort." I have met, in the United States, with a Scottish Gipsy, taking greatly after the Gipsy, in his appearance; a man very gentlemanly in his manner and bearing, and as neat and trim as if he had "come out of a box." It is natural, indeed, to suppose that there must be a great difference, in many respects, between a wild, original Gipsy, and one of the tame and educated kind, whose descent is several, perhaps many, generations from the tent. In the houses of the former, things are generally found lying about, here-away, there-away, as if they were just going to be taken out and placed in the waggon, or on the ass's back. It is certainly a singular position which is occupied, from generation to generation, and century to century, by our settled Scottish, as well as other, Gipsies, who are not known to the world as such, yet maintain a daily intercourse with others not of their own tribe. It resembles a state of semi-damnation, with a drawn sword hanging over their heads, ready to fall upon them at any moment. But the matter cannot be mended. They are Gipsies, by every physical and mental necessity, and they accommodate themselves to their circumstances as they best may. This much is certain, that they have the utmost confidence in their incognito, as regards their descent, personal feelings, and exclusively private associations. The word "Gipsy," to be applied to them by strangers, frightens them, in contemplation, far more than it does the children of the ordinary natives; for they imagine it a dreadful thing to be known to their neighbours as Gipsies. Still, they have never occupied any other position; they have been born in it, and reared in it; it has even been the nature of the race, from the very first, always to "work in the dark." In all probability, it has never occurred to them to imagine that it will ever be otherwise: nor do they evidently wish it; for they can see no possible way to have themselves acknowledged, by the world, as Gipsies. The very idea horrifies them. So far from letting the world know anything of them, as Gipsies, their constant care is to keep it in perpetual darkness on the subject. Of all men, these Gipsies may say: ". . . . . . rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others we know not of." Indeed, the only thing that worries such a Gipsy is the idea that the public should know all about _him_; otherwise, he feels a supreme satisfaction in being a Gipsy; as well as in having such a history of his race as I have informed him I proposed publishing, provided I do not in any way mix _him_ up with it, or "let _him_ out." By bringing up the body in the manner done in this work, by making a sweep of the whole tribe, the responsibility becomes spread over a large number of people; so that, should the Gipsy become, by any means, known, personally, to the world, he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had others to keep him company; men occupying respectable positions in life, and respected, by the world at large, as individuals. Here, then, we have one of the principal reasons for everything connected with the Gipsies being hidden from the rest of mankind. They have always been looked upon as arrant vagabonds, while they have looked upon their ancestors as illustrious and immortal heroes. How, then, are we to bridge over this gulf that separates them, in feeling, from the rest of the world? The natural reply is, that we should judge them, not by their condition and character in times that are past, but by what they are to-day. That the Gipsies were a barbarous race when they entered Europe, in the beginning of the fifteenth century, is just what could have been expected of any Asiatic, migratory, tented horde, at a time when the inhabitants of Europe were little better than barbarous, themselves, and many of them absolutely so. To speak of the Highland clans, at that time, as being better than barbarous, would be out of the question; as to the Irish people, it would be difficult to say what they really were, at the same time. Even the Lowland Scotch, a hundred years after the arrival of the Gipsies in Europe, were, with some exceptions, divided into two classes--"beggars and rascals," as history tells us. Is it, therefore, unreasonable to say, that, in treating of the Gipsies of to-day, we should apply to them the same principles of judgment that have been applied to the ordinary natives? If we refer to the treaty between John Faw and James V., in 1540, we will very readily conclude that, three centuries ago, the leaders of the Gipsies were very superior men, in their way; cunning, astute, and slippery Oriental barbarians, with the experience of upwards of a century in European society generally; well up to the ways of the world, and the general ways of Church and State; and, in a sense, at home with kings, popes, cardinals, nobility, and gentry. That was the character of a superior Gipsy, in 1540. In 1840, we find the race represented by as fine a man as ever graced the Church of Scotland. "Grand was the repose of his lofty brow, dark eye, and aspect of soft and melancholy meaning. It was a face from which every evil and earthly passion seemed purged. A deep gravity lay upon his countenance, which had the solemnity, without the sternness, of one of our old reformers. You could almost fancy a halo completing its apostolic character." Some of the Scottish Gipsies of to-day could very readily exclaim: "And, if thou said'st I am not peer To any _one_ in Scotland here, Highland or Lowland, far or near, _Oh, Donald_, thou hast lied!" But it is impossible for any one to give an account of the Gipsies in Scotland, from the year 1506, down to the present time. This much, however, can be said of them, that they are as much Gipsies now as ever they were; that is, the Gipsies of to-day are the representatives of the race as it appeared in Scotland three centuries and a half ago, and hold themselves to be Gipsies now, as, indeed, they always will do. Ever since the race entered Scotland, we may reasonably assume that it has been dropping out of the tent into settled life, in one form or other, and sometimes to a greater extent at one time than another. It never has been a nomadic race, in the proper sense of the word; for a nomad is one who possesses flocks and herds, with which he moves about from pasturage to pasturage, as he does in Asia to-day. Mr. Borrow says that there are Gipsies who follow this kind of life, in Russia; but that, doubtless, arises from the circumstances in which they have found themselves placed.[301] "I think," said an English Gipsy to me, "that we must take partly of the ancient Egyptians, and partly of the Arabs; from the Egyptians, owing to our settled ways, and from the Arabs, owing to our wandering habits." Upon entering Europe, they must have wandered about promiscuously, for some short time, before pitching upon territories, which they would divide among themselves, under their kings and chieftains. Here we find the proper sphere of the Gipsy, in his original state. In 1506, Anthonius Gawino is represented, by James IV., to his uncle, the king of Denmark, as having "sojourned in Scotland in peaceable and catholic manner:" and John Faw, by James V., in 1540, during his "pilgrimage," as "doing a lawful business;" which evidently had some meaning, as we find that seven pounds were paid to the Egyptians by the king's chamberlain. In 1496, the Gipsies made musket-balls for the king of Hungary; and, in 1565, cannon-balls for the Turks. In short, they were travelling smiths, or what has since been called tinkers, with a turn for any kind of ordinary mechanical employment, and particularly as regards working in metals; dealers in animals, petty traders, musicians, and fortune-tellers, with a wonderful knack for "transferring money from other people's pockets into their own;" living representatively, but apparently not wholly, in tents, and "helping themselves" to whatever they stood in need of.[302] [301] There is scarce a part of the habitable world where they are not to be found; their tents are alike pitched on the heaths of Brazil and the ridges of the Himalayan hills; and their language is heard at Moscow and Madrid, in the streets of London and Stamboul. They are found in all parts of Russia, with the exception of the Government of St. Petersburg, from which they have been banished. In most of the provincial towns, they are to be found in a state of half civilization, supporting themselves by trafficking in horses, or by curing the disorders incidental to those animals. But the vast majority reject this manner of life, and traverse the country in bands, like the ancient Hamaxobioi; the immense grassy plains of Russia affording pasturage for their herds of cattle, on which, and the produce of the chase, they chiefly depend for subsistence.--_Borrow._ [302] Considering what is popularly understood to be the natural disposition and capacity of the Gipsies, we would readily conclude that to turn innkeepers would be the most unlikely of all their employments; yet that is very common. Mahommed said, "If the mountain will not come to us, we will go to the mountain." The Gipsies say, "If we do not go to the people, the people must come to us;" and so they open their houses of entertainment. Speaking of the Gipsy chiefs mentioned in the act of James V., our author, as we have seen, very justly remarks: "It cannot be supposed that the ministers of three or four succeeding monarchs would have suffered their sovereigns to be so much imposed on, as to allow them to put their names to public documents styling poor and miserable wretches, as we at the present day imagine them to have been, 'Lords and Earls of Little Egypt.' . . . . . I am disposed to believe that Anthonius Gawino, in 1506, and John Faw, in 1540, would personally, as individuals, that is, as Gipsy rajahs, have a very respectable and imposing appearance, in the eyes of the officers of the crown." (Page 108.)[303] We have likewise seen how many laws were passed, by the Scots parliament, against "great numbers of his majesty's subjects, of whom some outwardly pretend to be famous and unspotted gentlemen," for encouraging and supporting the Gipsies; and, in the case of William Auchterlony, of Cayrine, for receiving into their houses, and feasting them, their wives, children, _servants_, and companies. All this took place more than a hundred years after the arrival of the Gipsies in Scotland, and seventy-six years after the date of the treaty between James V. and John Faw. We can very readily believe that the sagacity displayed by this chief and his folk, to evade the demand made upon them to leave the country, was likewise employed to secure their perpetual existence in it; for, from the first, their intention was evidently to possess it. Hence their original story of being pilgrims, which would prevent the authorities from disturbing them, but which had no effect upon Henry VIII., whom, of all the monarchs of Europe, they did not hoax. Grellmann mentions their having obtained passports from the Emperor Sigismund, and other princes, as well as from the king of France, and the Pope. [303] The following is a description of a superior Spanish Gipsy, in 1584, as quoted by Mr. Borrow, from the memoirs of a Spaniard, who had seen him: "At this time, they had a count, a fellow who spoke the Castilian idiom with as much purity as if he had been a native of Toledo. He was acquainted with all the ports of Spain, and all the difficult and broken ground of the provinces. He knew the exact strength of every city, and who were the principal people in each, and the exact amount of their property; there was nothing relative to the state, however secret, that he was not acquainted with; nor did he make a mystery of his knowledge, but publicly boasted of it." Entering Scotland with the firm determination to "possess" the country, the Gipsies would, from the very first, direct their attention towards its occupation, and draw into their body much of the native blood, in the way which I have already described. And there was certainly a large floating population in the country, from which to draw it. It would little consist with the feelings of Highland or Lowland outlaws to exist without female society; nor was that female society easily to be found, apart from some kind of settled life; hence, in seeking for a home, which is inseparable from the society of a female, our native outlaw would very naturally and readily "haul up" with the Gipsy woman; for, being herself quite "at home," in her tent, she would present just the desideratum which the other was in quest of. For, although "Gipsies marry with Gipsies," it is only as a rule, the exceptions being many, and, in all probability, much more common, in the early stage of their European history. The present "dreadfully mixed" state of Gipsydom is a sufficient proof of this fact. The aversion, on the part of the Gipsy, to intermarry with the ordinary natives, proceeds, in the first place, from the feelings which the natives entertain for her race. Remove those feelings, and the Gipsies, as a body, would still marry among themselves; for their pride in their peculiar sept, and a natural jealousy of those outside of their mystic circle, would, alone, keep the world from penetrating their secrets, without its being extended to him who, by intermarriage, became "one of them." There is no other obstacle in the way of marriages between the two races, excepting the general one, on the part of the Gipsies, and which is inherent in them, to preserve themselves as a branch of a people to be found in every country. Admitting the general aversion, on the part of the Gipsies, to _marry_ with natives, and we at once see the unlikelihood of their women _playing the wanton_ with them. Still, it is very probable that they, in some instances, bore children to some of the "unspotted gentlemen," mentioned, by act of parliament, as having so greatly protected and entertained the tribe. Such illegitimate children would be put to good service by the Gipsy chiefs. By one means or other, there is no doubt but the Gipsies made a dead-set upon certain native families of influence. The capacity that could devise such a scheme for remaining in the country, as is contained in the act of 1540, and influence the courts of the regency, and of Queen Mary, to reinstate them in their old position, after the severe order of 1541, proclaiming banishment within thirty days, and death thereafter, even when the "lords understood, perfectly, the great thefts and _skaiths_, (damages,) done by the said Egyptians," could easily execute plans to secure a hold upon private families. If to all this we add the very nature of Gipsydom; how it always remains true to itself, as it gets mixed with the native blood; how it works its way up in the world; and how its members "stick to each other;" we can readily understand how the tribe acquired important and influential friends in high places. Do not speak of the attachment of the Jewess to her people: that of the Gipsy is greater. A Jewess passes current, anywhere, as a Jewess; but the Gipsy, as she gets connected with a native circle, and moves about in the world, does so clandestinely, for, as a Gipsy, she is _incog._; so that her attachment remains, at heart, with her tribe, and is all the stronger, from the feelings that are peculiar to her singularly wild descent. I am very much inclined to think that Mrs. Baillie, of Lamington, mentioned under the head of Tweed-dale and Clydesdale Gipsies, was a Gipsy; and the more so, from having learned, from two different sources, that the present Baillie, of ----, is a Gipsy. Considering that courts of justice have always stretched a point, to convict, and _execute_, Gipsies, it looks like something very singular, that William Baillie, a Gipsy, who was condemned to death, in 1714, should have had his sentence commuted to banishment, _and been allowed to go at large_, while others, condemned with him, were executed. And three times did he escape in that manner, till, at last, he was slain by one of his tribe. It also seems very singular, that James Baillie, another Gipsy, in 1772, should have been condemned for the murder of his wife, and, also, had his sentence commuted to banishment, and been allowed to go at large: and that twice, at least. Well might McLaurin remark: "Few cases have occurred in which there has been such an expenditure of mercy." And tradition states that "the then Mistress Baillie, of Lamington, and her family, used all their interest in obtaining these pardons for James Baillie." No doubt of it. But the reason for all this was, doubtless, different from that of "James Baillie, like his fathers before him, _pretending_ that he was a bastard relative of the family of Lamington." A somewhat similar case of pardoning Gipsies is related by a writer in Blackwood's Magazine, as having occurred towards the end of last century; the individual procuring the pardon being the excitable Duchess of Gordon, the same, I presume, whom Burns' genius "fairly lifted off her feet." The following are the circumstances, as given by this writer: A Berwickshire farmer had been missing sheep, and lay in wait, one night, with a servant, for the depredators. They seized upon Tam Gordon, the captain of the Spittal Gipsies, and his son-in-law, Ananias Faa, in the very act of stealing the sheep; when the captain drew a knife, to defend himself. They were convicted and condemned for the crime; "but afterwards, to the great surprise of their Berwickshire neighbours, obtained a pardon, a piece of unmerited and ill-bestowed clemency, for which, it was generally understood, they were indebted to the interest of a noble northern family, of their own name. We recollect hearing a sort of ballad upon Tam's exploits, and his deliverance from the gallows, through the intercession of a celebrated duchess, but do not recollect any of the words."[304] [304] I should suppose that this was Captain Gordon who behaved himself like a prince, at the North Queensferry. _See page 172._ A transaction like this must strike the reader as something very remarkable. Sheep-stealing, at the time mentioned, was a capital offence, for which there was almost no pardon; and more especially in the case of people who were of notorious "habit and repute Gipsies," caught in the very act, which was aggravated by their drawing an "invasive weapon." Not only were they condemned, but we may readily assume that the "country-side" were crying, "Hang and bury the vagabonds;" and death seemed certain; when in steps the duchess, and snatches them both from the very teeth of the gallows. What guarantee have we that the duchess was not a Gipsy? It certainly was not likely that a Gipsy woman would step out of her tent, and seize a coronet; but what cannot we imagine to have taken place, in "the blood" working its way up, during the previous 250 years? What guarantee have we that Professor Wilson was not "taking a look at the old thing," when rambling with the Gipsies, in his youth? There are Gipsy families in Edinburgh, to-day, of as respectable standing, and of as good descent, as could be said of him, or many others who have distinguished themselves in the world. We must not forget that, when the Gipsies entered Scotland, it was for better or for worse, just for what was to "turn up." Very soon after their arrival, the country would become their country, as much as that of the ordinary natives; so that Scotland became their home, as much as if it had always been that of their race, except their retaining a tradition of their recent arrival from some part of the East, and a singular sense of being part and parcel of "the Egyptians that were scattered over the face of the earth;" neither of which the odious prejudice against "the blood" allowed them to forget; assuming that they were willing, and, moreover, that the cast of their minds allowed them, to do either. The idea which has been expressed by the world, generally, of the Gipsy tribe gradually assimilating with the native race, and ultimately "getting lost among it," applies to the principle at issue; for, as I have already said, it _has_ got greatly lost, in point of appearance, and general deportment, among the ordinary natives, but has remained, heart and soul, Gipsy, as before. Even with the native race, we will find that the blood of the lowly is always getting mixed with that in the higher circles of life. We have the case of a girl going to service with a London brewer, then becoming his wife, then his widow, then employing a lawyer to manage her affairs, and afterwards marrying him, who, in his turn, became Earl of Clarendon, and father, by her, of the queen of James II. Towards the end of last, or beginning of the present, century, we hear of a poor actress, who commenced life in a provincial theatre, marrying one of the Coutts, the bankers, and dying Duchess of St. Albans. Such events have been of much more common occurrence in less elevated spheres of life; and the Gipsy race has had its share of them. For this reason, it is really impossible to say, who, among the Scotch, are, and who are not, of the Gipsy tribe; such a thorough mess has the "mixing of the blood" made of the Scottish population. Notwithstanding all that, there is a certain definite number of "Gipsies" in Scotland, known to God only; while each Gipsy is known in his or her conscience to belong to the tribe. This much is certain, that we need not consult the census returns for the number of the tribe in Scotland. However easy, or however difficult, it may be, to define what a Gipsy, in regard to external or internal circumstances, is, this much is certain, that the feeling in his mind as to his being a Gipsy, is as genuine and emphatic as is the feeling in the mind of a Jew being a Jew. The circumstances connected with the perpetuation of the Gipsy and Jewish races greatly resemble each other. Both races are scattered over the face of the earth. The Jew has had a home; he has a strong attachment to it, and looks forward to enter it at some future day. The Gipsy may be said never to have had a home, but is at home everywhere. "What part of England did you come from?" said I to an English semi-tented Gipsy, in America. "What _part_ of England did I come from, did you say? I come from _all over England!_" The Scottish race, as a race, is confined to people born in Scotland; for the children of expatriated Scots are not Scotchmen. And so it is with people of other countries. The mere birth upon the soil constitutes their race or nationality, although subsequent events, in early life, may modify the feelings, or draw them into a new channel, by a change of domicile, in infancy. But the Jew's nationality is everywhere; 'tis in his family, and his associations with others of his race. Make the acquaintance of the Jews, and you will find that each generation of them tell _their_ "wonderful story" to the following generation, and the story is repeated to the following, and the following. The children of Jews are taught to know they are Jews, before they can even lisp. Soon do they know that much of the phenomenon of their race, as regards its origin, its history, and its universality, to draw the distinction between them and those around them who are not Jews. Soon do they learn how their race has been despised and persecuted, and imbibe the love which their parents have for it, and the resentment of the odium cast upon it by others. It has been so from the beginning of their history out of Palestine, and even while there. Were it only religion, considered in itself, that has kept the Jews together as a people, they might have got lost among the rest of mankind; for among the Jews there are to be found the rankest of infidels; even Jewish priests will say that, "it signifies not what a man's religion may be, if he is only sincere in it." Is it a feeling, or a knowledge, of religion that leads a Jewish child, almost the moment it can speak, to say that it is a Jew? It is simply the workings of the phenomena of race that account for this; the religion peculiar to Jews having been introduced among them centuries after their existence as a people. Being exclusively theirs in its very nature, they naturally follow it, as other people do theirs; but, although, from the nature of its origin, it presents infinitely greater claims upon their intelligent belief and obedience, they have yielded no greater submission to its spirit and morals, or even to its forms, than many other people have done to their religion, made up, as that has been, of the most fabulous superstition, on the principle, doubtless, that "The zealous crowds in ignorance adore, And still, the less they know, they fear the more." The Jews being a people before they received the religion by which they are distinguished, it follows that the religion, in itself, occupies a position of secondary importance, although the profession of it acts and reacts upon the people, in keeping them separate from others. The most, then, that can be said of the religion of the Jews is, that, following in the wake of their history as a people, it is only one of the pillars by which the building is supported.[305] If enquiry is made of Jewish converts to Christianity, we will find that, notwithstanding their having separated from their brethren, on points of creed, they hold themselves as much Jews as before. But the conversions of Jews are, "Like angels' visits, few and far between." [305] The only part of the religion of the Jews having an origin prior to the establishment of the Mosaic law was circumcision, which was termed the covenant made by God with Abraham and his seed. (Gen. xvii. 10-14.) The abolition of idols, and the worship of God alone, are presumed, although not expressed. The Jews lapsed into gross idolatry while in Egypt, but were not likely to neglect circumcision, as that was necessary to maintain a physical uniformity among the race, but did not enter into the wants, and hopes, and fears, inherent in the human breast, and stimulated by the daily exhibition of the phenomena of its existence. The second table of the moral law was, of course, written upon the hearts of the Jews, in common with those of the Gentiles. (Rom. ii. 14, 15.) In the case of individuals forsaking the Jewish, and joining the Christian, Church, that is, believing in the Messiah having come, instead of to come, it is natural, I may say inevitable, for them to hold themselves Jews. They have feelings which the world cannot understand. But beyond the nationality, physiognomy, and feelings of Jews, there are no points of difference, and there ought to be no grounds of offense, between them and the ordinary inhabitants. While the points of antipathy between the Jew and Christian rest, not upon race, considered in itself, but mainly upon religion, and the relations proceeding from it, it has to be seen what is to be the feeling, on the part of the world, towards the Gipsy race; such part of it, at least, whose habits are unexceptionable. This is one of the questions which it is the object of this Disquisition to bring to an issue. Substitute the language and signs of the Gipsies for the religion of the Jews, and we find that the rearing of the Gipsies is almost identical with that of the Jews; and in the same manner do they hold themselves to be Gipsies. But the one can be Gipsies, though ignorant of their language and signs, and the other, Jews, though ignorant of their religion; the mere sense of tribe and community being sufficient to constitute them members of their respective nationalities. The origin of the Gipsies is as distinct from that of the rest of the world, in three continents, at least, as is that of the Jews; and, laying aside the matter of religion, their history, so far as it is known to the world, is as different. If they have no religion peculiar to themselves, to assist in holding them together, like the Jews, they have that which is exclusively theirs--language and signs; about which there are no such occasions to quarrel, as in the affair of a religious creed. Indeed, the Gipsy race stands towards religions, as the Christian religion does towards races. People are very apt to speak of the blood of the Jews being "purity itself;" than which nothing is more unfounded. If a person were asked, What is a pure Jew? he would feel puzzled to give an intelligent answer to the question. We know that Abraham and Sarah were the original parents of the Jewish race, but that much blood has been added to it, from other sources, ever since. Even four of the patriarchs, the third in descent from Abraham, were the sons of concubines, who were, doubtless, bought with money, from the stranger, (Gen. xvii. 12 and 13,) or the descendants of such, and were, in all probability, of as different a race from their mistresses, Leah and Rachel, as was the bondmaid, Hagar, the Egyptian, from her mistress, Sarah. Joseph married a daughter of the Egyptian priest of On, and Moses, a daughter of an Ethiopian priest of Midian. From a circumstance mentioned in the Exodus, it would appear that Egyptian blood, perhaps much of it, had been incorporated with that of the Jews, while in Egypt.[306] And much foreign blood seems to have been added to the body, between the Exodus and the Babylonian captivity, through the means of proselytes and captives, strange women and bondmaids, concubines and harlots. We read of Rahab, of Jericho, an innkeeper, or harlot, or both, marrying Salmon, one of the chief men in the tribe of Judah, and becoming the mother of Boaz, who married Ruth, a Moabitish woman, the daughter-in-law of Naomi, and grandmother of David, from whom Christ was lineally descended. Indeed, the Jews have always been receiving foreign blood into their body. We read of Timothy having been a Greek by the father's side, and a Jew by the mother's; and of his having been brought up a Jew. Such events are of frequent occurrence. There is no real bar to marriages between Jews and Christians, although circumstances render them difficult. The children of such marriages sometimes resemble the Jew, and sometimes the Christian; sometimes they cast their lot with the Jews, in the matter of religion, and sometimes with the Christians; but they generally follow the mother in that matter. Such, however, is the conceit which the Jew displays in regard to his race, that he is very reserved in speaking about this "mixing of the blood." I once addressed a string of questions to a Christian-Jew preacher, on this subject, but he declined answering them. I am intimate with a family the parents of which are half-blood Jews, all of whom belong to the Jewish connexion, and I find that, notwithstanding the mixture of the blood, there is as little mental difference between them and the other Jews, as there is between Americans of six descents, by both sides of the house, and Americans whose descent, through one parent, goes as far back, while, through the other parent, it is from abroad. Purity of blood, as applicable to almost any race, and, among others, to the Jewish, is a figment. There are many Jews in the United States, and, doubtless, in other countries, who are not known to other people as Jews, either by their appearance or their attendance at the synagogue. As a general principle, no Jew will tell the world that he belongs to the race; he leaves that to be found out by other people. Sir J. Gardner Wilkinson says that the Jews of the East, to this day, often have red hair and blue eyes, and are quite unlike their brethren in Europe. He found the large nose at Jerusalem an invariable proof of mixture with a Western family. It is singular, however, how easy it is to detect the generality of Jews; the nose, the eyes, or the features, tell who they are, but not always so. What may be termed a "pure Jew," is when the person has no knowledge of any other blood being in his veins than Jewish blood; or when his feelings are entirely Jewish as to nationality, although his creed may not be very strongly Jewish. [306] It is an unnecessary stretch upon the belief in the Scriptures, to ask consent to the abstract proposition that the Jews, while in Egypt, encreased from seventy souls to "about six hundred thousand on foot that were men, besides children," at the time of the Exodus. Following a pastoral life, in a healthy and fertile country, and inspired with the prophecy delivered to Abraham, as to his numberless descendants, the whole bent of the mind of the Jews was to multiply their numbers; and polygamy and concubinage being characteristic of the people, there is no reason to doubt that the Jews encreased to the number stated. The original emigrants, doubtless, took with them large establishments of bondmen and bondwomen, and purchased others while in Egypt; and these being circumcised, according to the covenant made with Abraham, would sooner or later become, on that account alone, part of the nation; and much more so by such amalgamation as is set forth by Rachel and Leah giving their maids to Jacob to have children by them. Abraham was, at best, the representative head of the Jewish nation, composed, as that was originally, of elements drawn from the idolatrous tribes surrounding him and his descendants. I will now consider the relative positions which the Jews and Gipsies occupy towards the rest of mankind. I readily admit that, in their original and wild state, the Gipsies have not been of any use to the world, but, on the contrary, a great annoyance. Still, that cannot be said altogether; for the handy turn of the Gipsies in some of the primitive mechanical arts, and their dealing in various wares, have been, in a measure, useful to a certain part of the rural population; and themselves the sources of considerable amusement; but, taking everything into account, they have been decidedly annoying to the world generally. In their wild state, they have never been charged by any one with an outward contempt for religion, whatever their inward feelings may have been for it; but, on the contrary, as always having shown an apparent respect for it. No one has ever complained of the Gipsy scoffing at religion, or even for not yielding to its general truths; what has been said of him is, that he is, at heart, so heedless and volatile in his disposition, that everything in regard to religion passes in at the one ear, and goes out at the other. There are, doubtless, Gipsies who will be "unco godly," when they can make gain by it; but it more frequently happens that they will assume such an air, in the presence of a person of respectable appearance, to show him that they are really not the "horrible vagabonds" which, they never doubt, he holds them to be. They are then sure to overdo their part. As a general thing, they wish people to believe that "they are not savages, but have feelings like other people," as "Terrible" expressed it. This much is certain, that whenever the Gipsy settles, and acquires an incognito, we hear of little or nothing of the canting in question. As regards the question of religion, it is very fortunate for the Gipsy race that they brought no particular one with them; for, objectionable as they have been held to be, the feeling towards them would have been worse, if they had had a system of priestcraft and heathen idolatry among them. But this circumstance greatly worries a respectable Gipsy; he would much rather have it said that his ancestors had some sort of religion, than that they none. It is generally understood that the Gipsies did not bring any particular religion with them; still, the ceremony of sacrificing horses at divorces, and, at one time, at marriages, has a strange and unaccountable significance. Then, as regards the general ways of the Gipsies. If we consider them as those of a people who have emerged, or are emerging, from a state of barbarism, how trifling, how venial do they appear! Scotch people have suffered, in times past, far more at the hands of each other, than ever they knowingly did at the hands of the Gipsies. What was the nature of that system of black-mail which was levied by Highland gentlemen upon Southerners? Was it anything but robbery? So common, so unavoidable was the payment of black-mail, that the law had to wink at it, nay, regulate it. But after all, it was nothing but compounding for that which would otherwise have been stolen. It gave peace and security to the farmer, and a revenue to the Highland gentleman, whom it placed in the position of a nominal protector, but actually prevented from being a robber, in law or morals; for, let the payment of the black-mail but have been refused, and, perhaps the next day, the Southerner would have been ruined; so that the Highland gentleman would have obtained his rights, under any circumstances. For Highland people, by a process of reasoning peculiar to a people in a barbarous state, held, as we have seen, that they had a right to rob the Lowlanders, whenever it was in their power, and that two hundred years after the Gipsies entered Scotland. Scottish Gipsies are British subjects, as much as either Highland or Lowland Scots; their being of foreign origin does not alter the case; and they are entitled to have that justice meted out to them that has been accorded to the ordinary natives. They are not a heaven-born race, but they certainly found their way into the country, as if they had dropped into it out of the clouds. As a race, they have that much mystery, originality, and antiquity about them, and that inextinguishable sensation of being a branch of the same tribe everywhere, that ought to cover a multitude of failings connected with their past history. Indeed, what we do know of their earliest history is not nearly so barbarous as that of our own; for we must contemplate our own ancestors, at one time, as painted and skin-clad barbarians. What we do know, for certainty, of the earliest history of the Scottish Gipsies, is contained, more particularly, in the Act of 1540; and we would naturally say, that, for a people in a barbarous state, such is the dignity and majesty, with all the roguishness, displayed in the conduct of the Gipsies of that period, one could hardly have a better, certainly not a more romantic, descent; provided the person whose descent it is is to be found amid the ranks of Scots, with talents, a character, and a position equal to those of others around him. For this reason, it must be said of the race, that whenever it shakes itself clear of objectionable habits, and follows any kind of ordinary industry, the cause of every prejudice against it is gone, or ought to disappear; for then, as I have already said, the Gipsies became ordinary citizens, of the Gipsy clan. It then follows, that in passing a fair judgment upon the Gipsy race, we ought to establish a principle of progression, and set our minds upon the best specimens of it, as well as the worst, and not judge of it, solely, from the poorest, the most ignorant, or the most barbarous part of it.[307] [307] Tacitus gives the following glowing account of the destruction of the Druids, in the island of Anglesey: "On the opposite shore stood the Britons, closely embodied, and prepared for action. Women were seen rushing through the ranks in wild disorder; their apparel funereal; their hair loose to the wind, in their hands flaming torches, and their whole appearance resembling the frantic rage of the Furies. The Druids were ranged in order, with hands uplifted, invoking the gods, and pouring forth horrible imprecations. The novelty of the sight struck the Romans with awe and terror. They stood in stupid amazement, as if their limbs were benumbed, riveted to one spot, a mark for the enemy. The exhortation of the general diffused new vigour through the ranks, and the men, by mutual reproaches, inflamed each other to deeds of valour. They felt the disgrace of yielding to a troop of women, and a band of fanatic priests; they advanced their standards, and rushed on to the attack with impetuous fury. The Britons perished in the flames which they themselves had kindled. The island fell, and a garrison was established to retain it in subjection. _The religious groves, dedicated to superstition and barbarous rites, were levelled to the ground. In those recesses, the natives imbrued their altars with the blood of their prisoners, and, in the entrails of men, explored the will of the gods._"--_Murphy's Translation._ What shall we say further of the relative positions which the Jews and Gipsies occupy towards the rest of the world? In the first place, the Jews entered Europe a civilized, and the Gipsies a barbarous, people; so that, in instituting any comparison between them, we should select Gipsies occupying positions in life similar to those of the Jews. The settled Scottish Gipsy, we find, appears to the eye of the world as a Scotchman, and nothing more. It is the weak position which the Gipsy race occupies in the world, as it enters upon a settled life, and engages in steady pursuits, that compels it to assume an incognito; for it has nothing to appeal to, as regards the past; no history, except it be acts of legislation passed against the race. In looking into a Dictionary or a Cyclopædia, the Gipsy finds his race described as vagabonds, always as vagabonds; and he may be said never to have heard a good word spoken of it, during the whole of his life. Hence he and his descendants "keep as quiet as pussy," and pass from the observation of the world. Besides this, there is no prominent feature connected with his race, to bring it before the world, such as there is with the Jewish, viz., history, church, or literature. A history, the Gipsy, as we see, doubtless has; but anything connected with him, pertaining to the church or literature, he holds as a member of ordinary society. Still, it would not be incorrect to speak of Gipsy literature, as the work of a Gipsy, acquired from the sources common to other men; as we would say of the Jews, relative to the literature which they produce under similar circumstances. As to the Gipsy to whom I have alluded, it may be said that it is none of our business whether he is a Gipsy or not; there is certainly no prejudice against him as an individual, and there can be none as a Gipsy, except such as people may of their own accord conceive for him. Many of the Scottish Gipsies whom I have met with are civil enough, sensible enough, decent enough, and liberal and honourable enough in their conduct; decidedly well bred for their positions in life, and rather foolish and reckless with their means, than misers; and, generally speaking, what are called "good fellows." It is no business of mine to ask them, how long it is since their ancestors left the tent, or, indeed, if they even know when that occurred; and still less, if they know when any of them ever did anything that was contrary to law. Still, one feels a little irksome in such a Gipsy's company, until the Gipsy question has been fairly brought before the world, and the point settled, that a Gipsy may be a gentleman, and that no disparagement is necessarily connected with the name, considered in itself. Such Scottish Gipsies as I have mentioned are decidedly smart, and, Yankee-like, more adaptable in turning their hands to various employments, than the common natives; and are a fair credit to the country they come from, and absolutely a greater than many of the native Scotch that are to be met with in the New World. Let the name of Gipsy be as much respected, in Scotland, as it is now despised, and the community would stare to see the civilized Gipsies make their appearance; they would come buzzing out, like bees, emerging even from places where a person, not in the secret, never would have dreamt of. If we consider, in a fair and philosophical manner, the origin of these people, we will find many excuses for the position which their ancestors have occupied. They were a tribe of men wandering upon the face of the earth, over which they have spread, as one wave follows and urges on another. Those that appeared in Europe seem to have been impelled, in their migration, by the same irresistible impulse; to say nothing of the circumstances connected with their coming in contact with the people whose territories they had invaded. No one generation could be responsible for the position in which it found itself placed. In the case of John Faw and his company, we find that, being on the face of the earth, they had to go somewhere, and invent some sort of excuse, to secure a toleration; and the world was bound to yield them a subsistence, of some kind, and in some way obtained. As a wandering, barbarous, tented tribe, with habits peculiar to itself, and inseparable from its very nature, great allowance ought to be made for the time necessary for its gradual absorption into settled society. That could only be the result of generations, even if the race had not been treated so harshly as it has been, or had such a prejudice displayed against it. The difficulties which a Gipsy has to encounter in leaving the tent are great, for he has been born in that state, and been reared in it. To leave his tent forever, and settle in a town, is a greater trial to the innate feelings of his nature, than would be the change from highly polished metropolitan life to a state of solitude, in a society away from everything that had hitherto made existence bearable. But the Gipsy will very readily leave his tent, temporarily, to visit a town, if it is to make money. It is astonishing how strong the circumstances are which bind him to his tent; even his pride and prejudices in being a "wandering Egyptian," will, if it is possible to live by the tent, bind him to it. Then, there is the prejudice of the world--the objection to receive him into any community, and his children into any school--that commonly prevails, and which compels him to _steal_ into settled life. It has always been so with the Gipsy race. Gipsies brought up in the tent have the same difficulties to encounter in leaving it to-day, that others had centuries ago. But, notwithstanding all that, they are always keeping moving out of the tent, and becoming settled and civilized. Tented Gipsies will naturally "take bits o' things;" many of them would think one simple if he thought they would not do it; some of them would even be insulted if he said they did not do it. After they leave the tent, and commence "tramping," they (I do not say all of them) will still "take bits o' things." From this stage of their history, they keep gradually dropping into unexceptionable habits; and particularly so if they receive education. But we can very readily believe that, independent of every circumstance, there will be Gipsies who, in a great measure, always will be rogues. The law of necessity exercises a great influence over the destiny of the Gipsy race; their natural encrease is such, that, as they progress and develop, they are always pushing others out of the sphere which those further advanced occupy; so that it would not pay for all Gipsies to be rogues. There is, therefore, no alternative left to the Gipsy but to earn his bread like other men. If every Gipsy actually "helped himself" to whatever he stood in need of, it could hardly be said that the ordinary inhabitants would have anything that they could really call their own. Notwithstanding the manner how the Gipsies progress, or the origin from which they spring, it is quite sufficient for me to hold the race in respect, when I find them personally worthy of it. As a Scotchman, as a citizen of the world, whether should my sympathies lay more with the Gipsies than with the Jews? With the Gipsies, unquestionably. For, a race, emerging from a state of barbarism, and struggling upwards to civilization, surrounded by so many difficulties, as is the Gipsy, is entitled to a world of charity and encouragement. Of the Jews, who, though blessed with the most exalted privileges, yet allowed themselves to be reduced to their present fallen and degraded estate, it may be said: "Ephraim is joined to his idols; let him alone." The Gipsies are, and have always been, a rising people, although the world may be said to have known little of them hitherto. The Gipsy, as he emerges from his wild state, makes ample amends for his original offensiveness, by hiding everything relative to his being a Gipsy from his neighbours around him. In approaching one of this class, we should be careful not to express that prejudice for him as a Gipsy, which we might have for him as a man; for it is natural enough to feel a dislike for many people whom we meet with, and which, if the people were Gipsies, we might insensibly allow to fall upon them, on account of tribe alone; so difficult is it to shake one's self clear of the prejudice of caste towards the Gipsy name. The Gipsy has naturally a happy disposition, which circumstances cannot destroy, however much they may be calculated to sour it. In their original state, they are, what Grellmann says of them, "always merry and blithe;" not apt to be surly dogs, unless made such; and are capable of considerable attachment, when treated civilly and kindly, without any attempt being made to commiserate them, and after an acquaintance has been fairly established with them. But, what are properly called their affections must, in the position which they occupy, always remain with their tribe. As for the other part of the race--those whose habits are unexceptionable--it is for us to convince them that no prejudice is entertained for them on account of their being Gipsies; but that it would rather be pleasing and interesting for us to know something of them as Gipsies, that is, about their feelings as Gipsies, and hear them talk some of this language which they have, or are supposed to have. But how different is the position which the Jews occupy towards the rest of the world! They are, certainly, quiet and inoffensive enough as individuals, or as a community; whence, then, arises the dislike which most people have for them? The Gipsies may be said to be, in a sense, strangers amongst us, because they have never been acknowledged by us; but the Jews are, to a certain extent, strangers under any circumstances, and, more or less, look to entering Palestine at some day, it may be this year, or the following. If a Christian asks: "Who are the Jews, and what do they here?" the reply is very plain: "They are rebels against the Majesty of Heaven, and outcasts from His presence." They are certainly entitled to every privilege, social and political, which other citizens enjoy; they have a perfect right to follow their own religion; but other people have an equal right to express their opinion in regard to it and them. The Jew is an enigma to the world, unless looked at through the light of the Old and New Testaments. In studying the history of the Jews, we will find very little about them, as a nation, that is interesting, to the extent of securing our affections, whatever may be said of some of the members of it. What appears attractive, and, I may say, of personal importance, to the Christian, in their history, is, not what they have been or done, but what has been done for them by God. "What more could I have done for my vine than I have done?" And "Which of the prophets have they not persecuted?" "Wherefore, behold! I send unto you prophets, and wise men, and scribes; and some of them ye shall kill and crucify; and some of them shall ye scourge in your synagogues, and persecute from city to city." And thus it always was. "Elias saith of them, Lord, they have killed thy prophets, and digged down thine altars, and I am left alone, and they seek my life." Indeed, the whole history of the Jews has given to infidels such occasion to rail at revelation, as has caused no little annoyance to Christians. What concerns the Christian in the Jewish history is more particularly that which refers to the ways of God, in preserving to Himself, in every generation, a seed who did not bow the knee to Baal, till the appearance of Him in whom all the nations of mankind were to be blessed. Beyond this, we find that the Jews, as a nation, have been the most rebellious, stiff-necked, perverse, ungrateful, and factious, of any recorded in history. How different from what might have been expected of them! Viewing the history of the Jews in this aspect, the mind even finds a relief in turning to profane history; but viewing their writings as the records of the dispensations of God to mankind, and they are worthy of universal reverence; although the most interesting part of them is, perhaps, that which reaches to the settlement of the race in Palestine. And to sum up, to complete, and crown the history of this singularly privileged people, previous to the destruction of their city and temple, and their dispersion among the nations, we find that the prophet whom Moses foretold them would be raised up to them, they wickedly crucified and slew; "delivering up and denying him in the presence of Pilate, when he was determined to let him go. But they denied the Holy One and the Just, and desired a murderer to be granted unto them; and killed the Prince of Life, whom God hath raised from the dead." And Pilate "washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person: see ye to it. Then answered all the people, and said, His blood be on us and on our children." And his blood is on their children at the present day; for while he is acknowledged by three hundred millions of mankind as their Lord and Master, the Jew teaches his children to regard him as an impostor, and spit at the very mention of his name. How great must be the infatuation of the poor Jew, how dark the mind, how thick the veil that hangs over his heart, how terrible the curse that rests upon his head! But the Jew is to be pitied, not distressed; he should be personally treated, in ordinary life, as his conduct merits. The manner in which the Jew treats the claims of Jesus Christ disqualifies him for receiving the respect of the Christian. He knows well that Christianity is no production of any Gentile, but an emanation from people of his own nation. And so conceited is the Jew in this respect, that he will say: "Jesus Christ and his apostles were Jews: see what Jews have done!" He regards the existence of his race as a miracle, yet looks with indifference upon the history and results of Christianity. People have often wondered that Jews, as Jews, have written so little on the inspiration of the Old Testament; but what else could have been expected of them? How could they throw themselves prominently forward, in urging the claims of Moses, who was "faithful in all his house as a servant," and totally ignore those of Christ, who was "a son over his own house?" So far from even entertaining the claims of the latter, the Jew proper has the most bitter hatred for the very mention of his name; he would almost, if he dared, tear out part of his Scriptures, in which the Messiah is alluded to. Does he take the trouble to give the claims of Christianity the slightest consideration? He will spit at it, but it is into his handkerchief; so much does he feel tied up in the position which he occupies in the world. He cannot say that he respects, or can respect, Christianity, whatever he may think of its morals; for, as a Jew, he must, and does, regard it as an imposture, and blindly so regards it. But all Jews are not of this description; for there are many of them who believe little in Moses or any other, or give themselves the least trouble about such matters. The position which Jews occupy among Christians is that which they occupy among people of a different faith. They become obnoxious to people everywhere; for that which is so foreign in its origin, so exclusive in its habits and relations, and so conceited and antagonistic in its creed, will always be so, go where it may. Besides, they will not even eat what others have slain; and hold other people as impure. The very conservative nature of their creed is, to a certain extent, against them; were it aggressive, like the Christian's, with a genius to embrace _all_ within its fold, it would not stir up, or permanently retain, the same ill-will toward the people who profess it; for being of that nature which retires into the corner of selfish exclusiveness, people will naturally take a greater objection to them. Then, the keen, money-making, and accumulating habits of the Jews, make them appear selfish to those around them; while the greediness, and utter want of principle, that characterize some of them, have given a bad reputation to the whole body, however unjustly it is applied to them as a race. The circumstances attending the Jews' entry into any country, to-day, are substantially what they were before the advent of Christ; centuries before which era, they were scattered, in great numbers, over most part of the world; having synagogues, and visiting, or looking to, Jerusalem, as their home, as Catholics, in the matter of religion, have looked to Rome. In going abroad, Jews would as little contemplate forsaking their own religion, and worshipping the gods of the heathen, as do Christians, to-day, in Oriental countries; for they were as thoroughly persuaded that their religion was divine, and all others the inventions of man, as are Christians of theirs. Then, it was a religion exclusively Jewish, that is, the people following it were, with rare exceptions, exclusively Jews by nation. The ill-will which all these circumstances, and the very appearance of the people themselves, have raised against the Jews, and the persecutions, of various kinds, which have universally followed, have widened the separation between them and other people, which the genius of their religion made so imperative, and their feelings of nationality--nay, _family_--so exclusive. Before the dispersion, Palestine was their home; after the dispersion, the position and circumstances of those abroad at the time underwent no change; they would merely contemplate their nation in a new aspect--that of exiles, and consider themselves, for the time being, at home wherever they happened to be. Those that were scattered abroad, by the destruction of Jerusalem, would, in their persons, confirm the convictions of the others, and reconcile them to the idea that the Jewish nation, as such, was abroad on the face of the earth; and each generation of the race would entertain the same sentiments. After this, as before it, it can scarcely be said that the Jews have ever been tolerated; if not actually persecuted, they have, at least, always been disliked, or despised. The whole nation having been scattered abroad, with everything pertaining to them as a nation, excepting the temple, the high-priesthood, and the sacrifices, with such an ancient history, and so unequivocally divine a religion, so distinct from, and obnoxious to, those of other nations, it is no wonder that they, the common descendants of Abraham and Sarah, should have ever since remained a distinct people in the world; as all the circumstances surrounding them have universally remained the same till to-day. A Jew of to-day has a much greater aversion to forsake the Jewish community than any other man has to renounce his country; and his associations of nationality are manifested wherever a Jewish society is to be found, or wherever he can meet with another Jew. This is the view which he takes of his race, as something distinct from his religion; for he contemplates himself as being of that people--of the same blood, features, and feelings, all children of Abraham and Sarah--that are to be found everywhere; that part of it to which he has an aversion being only such as apostatize from his religion, and more particularly such as embrace the Christian faith. In speaking of Jews, we are too apt to confine our ideas exclusively to a creed, forgetting that Jews are a race; and that Christian Jews are Jews as well as Jewish Jews. Were it possible to bring about a reformation among the Jews, by which synagogues would embrace the Christian faith, we would see Jewish Christian churches; the only difference being, that they would believe in Him whom their fathers pierced, and lay aside only such of the ceremonies of Moses as the Gospel had abrogated. If a movement of that kind were once fairly afoot, by which was presented to the Jew, his people as a community, however small it might be, there would be a great chance of his becoming a Christian, in one sense or other: he could then assume the position of a protesting Jew, holding the rest of his countrymen in error; and his own Christian-Jewish community as representing his race, as it ought to exist. At present, the few Christian Jews find no others of their race with whom to form associations as a community; so that, to all intents and purposes, they feel as if they were a sort of outcasts, despised and hated by those of their own race, and separated from the other inhabitants by a natural law, over which neither have any control, however much they may associate with, and respect, each other. It requires a very powerful moral influence to constrain a Jew in embracing the Christian faith--almost nothing short of divine grace; and sometimes a very powerful immoral one in professing it--that which peculiarly characterizes Jews--the love of money. Were a community of Christian Jews firmly established, among whom were observed every tittle of the Jewish ceremonial, excepting such as the dispensation of Christ had positively abolished; or even observing most of that, (circumcision, for example,) as merely characteristic of a people, without attaching to it the meaning of a service recommending themselves, in any way, to the mercy of God; and many Jews would doubtless join such a society. They could believe in Christ as their Messiah--as their prophet, priest, and king; receive baptism in His name; and depend on Him for a place of happiness in a future state of existence. To such, the injunction, as declared by St. Paul, is: "If thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved." (Romans x. 9.) And when they contemplate death, they might lay their heads down in peace, with the further assurance, as also declared by St. Paul: "For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him." (I Thess. iv. 14.) This is the kind of Messiah which the Jew should contemplate, and seek after. He will find his conception and birth more particularly recorded in the two first, and his death, resurrection, and ascension, more fully detailed in the two last, chapters of the Gospel according to St. Luke. A person would naturally think that a Jew would have the natural curiosity to read this wonderful book called the "New Testament;" since, at its very lowest estimate, it is, with the exception of the writings of St. Luke, altogether a production of people of his own nation. Among the Jews, there are not a few who believe in Christ, yet, more or less, appear at the synagogue. They have no objections to become "spectacles to angels;" but they are not willing to make themselves such to men, by placing themselves in that isolated position which a public profession of Christianity would necessarily lead to. But, all things considered, one is rather apt to fall into Utopian ideas in speaking of the conversion of Jews, as a body, or even as individuals, unless the grace of God, in an especial degree, accompanies the means to that end. It is no elevated regard for the laws of Moses, or any exalted sense of the principles contained in the Old Testament, that leads a Jew to lend a deaf ear to the claims of Christianity; for his respect for them has always been indifferent, even contemptible, enough. Indeed, the Talmud, which is the Jew's gospel, may be characterized as being, in a very great part, a tissue of that which is silly and puerile, obscene and blasphemous. It is with the Jew now, as it was at the advent of Christ. "They have paid tithe of mint, and anise, and cummin, and omitted the weightier matters of the law--judgment, mercy, and faith." "Laying aside the commandment of God, they have held the tradition of men, as the washing of pots and cups, and many other such-like things;" "making the word of God of none effect through their traditions which they have delivered." "Full well have they rejected the commandments of God, that they might keep their own traditions." "In vain do they worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men." The main prop of a Jew for remaining a Jew, in regard to religion, rests much more upon the wonderful phenomena connected with the history of his nation--its antiquity, its associations, its universality, and the length of time which it has existed, since its dispersion, distinct from the rest of the world, and so unique, (as he imagines,) that he at once concludes it must have the special approbation of God for the position which it occupies; which is very true, although it proceeds from a different motive than that which the Jew so vainly imagines. The Jew imagines that God approves of his conduct, in his stubborn rebellion to the claims of Christianity, because he finds his race existing so distinct from the rest of the world; whereas, if he studies his own Scriptures, he will see that the condition of his race is the punishment due to its rebellion. Who knows but that the mark which is to be found upon the Jew answers, in a sense, the purpose of that which every one found upon Cain? Did not his ancestors call a solemn imprecation upon his head, when they compelled Pilate to crucify the "just person," when he was determined to let him go; with no other excuse than, "His blood be on us, and on our children?" Will any genuine Jew repudiate the conduct of his ancestors, and say that Christ was not an impostor, that he was not a blasphemer, and that, consequently, he did not deserve, by the law of his nation, to be put to death? The history of the Jews acts as a spell upon the unfortunate Jew, and proves the greatest bar to his conversion to Christianity. He vainly imagines that his race stands out from among all the races of mankind, by a miracle, wrought for that purpose, and with the special approbation of God upon it, for adhering to its religion; and that, therefore, Christianity is a delusion. But we must break this spell that enchants the Jew, and "provoke him to jealousy by them that are no people." And who are this people? The Gipsies? Yes, the Gipsies! For they are numerous, though not as numerous, and ancient, though not as ancient, as the Jews.[308] [308] It would almost seem that the Gipsies are the people mentioned in Deut. xxxii. 21, and Rom. x. 19, where it is said: "I will provoke you, (the Jews,) to jealousy, by them that are no people, and by a foolish nation I will anger you." For the history of the Gipsy nation thoroughly burlesques that of the Jews. But the Jews will be very apt to ignore the existence of the present work, should the rest of the world allow them to do it. Yet, excepting the Gipsies themselves, none are so capable of understanding this subject as the Jews, there being so much in it that is applicable to themselves. As to the Gipsy population, scattered over the world, I think that the intelligent reader will agree with me, after all that has been said, in estimating it as very large. There seems no reason for thinking that the Gipsies suffered so greatly, by the laws passed against them, as people have imagined; for the cunning of the Gipsy, and the wild, or partly uncultivated, face of all the countries of Europe would afford him many facilities to evade the laws passed against him. We have already seen what continental writers have said of the race, relative to the laws passed against it: "But, instead of passing the boundaries, they only slunk into hiding places, and, shortly after, appeared in as great numbers as before." And this seems to have been invariably the case over the whole of Europe. Mr. Borrow, as we have already seen, speaks of every Spanish monarch, on succeeding to the crown, passing laws against the Gipsies. If former laws were put in force, there would be no occasion for making so many new ones; the very fact of so many laws having been passed against the Gipsy race, in Spain, is sufficient proof of each individual law never having been put to much execution, but rather, as has already been said, (page 394,) of its having been customary for every king of Spain to issue such against them. It does not appear that any force was employed to hunt the Gipsies out of the country, but that matters were left to the ordinary local authorities, whom the tribe would, in many instances, manage to render passive, or beyond whose jurisdiction they would remove for the time being. The laws passed against the nobility and commonalty of Spain, for protecting the Gipsies, (page 114,) is a very instructive commentary on those for the extermination of the body itself. But the case most in point is in the Scottish laws passed against the Gipsies. Upon the passing of the Act of James VI., in 1609, we find that the Gipsies "dispersed themselves in certain secret and obscure places of the country"; and that, when the storm was blown over, they "began to take new breath and courage, and unite themselves in infamous companies and societies, under commanders" (page 114). The extreme bitterness displayed in Scots acts of parliament against the best classes of the population, for protecting and entertaining the tribe, and, consequently, rendering the other acts nugatory, has a very important bearing upon the subject. We find that the Gipsies wandered up and down France for a hundred years, unmolested; and that, so numerous had they become, that, in 1545, the King of France entertained the idea of embodying four thousand of them, to act as pioneers in taking Boulogne, then in possession of England. The last notice which we have of the French Gipsies was that made by Grellmann, when he says: "In France, before the Revolution, there were but few, for the obvious reason, that every Gipsy who could be apprehended, fell a sacrifice to the police." Grellmann, however, had not studied the subject sufficiently deep to account for the destiny of the race. If they were so very numerous in France, in 1545, the natural encrease, in whatever position in life it might be, must have been very great during the following 235 years. I have learned, from the best of authority, that there are many Gipsies in Flanders.[309] If the Gipsies in England were estimated at above ten thousand, during the early part of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, how many may they not be now, including those of every kind of mixture of blood, character, and position in life? If there is one Gipsy in the British Isles, there cannot be less than a quarter of a million, and, possibly, as many as six hundred thousand; and, instead of there being sixty thousand in Spain, and constantly _decreasing_, (_disappearing_ is the right word,) we may safely estimate them at three hundred thousand. The reader has already been informed of what becomes of all the Gipsies. As a case in point, I may ask, who would have imagined that there was such a thing in Edinburgh as a factory, filled, not merely with Gipsies, but with _Irish_ Gipsies? The owner of the establishment was doubtless a Gipsy; for how did so many Gipsies come to work in it, or how did he happen to know that his workmen were _all_ Gipsies, or that even _one_ of them was a Gipsy? [309] This information I obtained from some English Gipsies. Thereafter, the title of the following work came under my notice: "Historical Researches Respecting the Sojourn of the Heathens, or Egyptians, in the Northern Netherlands. By J. Dirks. Edited by the Provincial Utrecht Society of Arts and Sciences. Utrecht: 1850. pp. viii. and 160." Indeed, the Gipsies are scattered all over Europe, and are to be found in the condition described in the present work. Even to take Grellmann's estimate of the Gipsies in Europe, at from 700,000 to 800,000, and the race must be very numerous to-day. Since his time, the Negroes in the United States have encreased from 500,000 to 4,000,000, and this much is certain, that Gipsies are, to say the least of it, as prolific as Negroes. The encrease in both includes much white blood added to the respective bodies. Some of the Gipsies have, doubtless, been hanged; but, on the other hand, many of the Negroes have been worked to death. There is a great difference, however, between the wild, independent Gipsy race and the Negroes in the New World. I should not suppose that the Gipsy race in Europe and America can be less than 4,000,000. It embraces, for certainty, as in Scotland, men ranging in character and position from a pillar of the Church down to a common tinker.[310] [310] There are, probably, 12,000,000 of Jews in the world. I have seen them estimated at from ten to twelve millions. It is impossible to obtain anything like a correct number of the Jews, in almost _any_ country, leaving out of view the immense numbers scattered over the world, and living even in parts unexplored by Europeans. Christians not only flatter but delude the Jew, when they say that his race is "purity itself;" they greatly flatter and delude him, when they say that the phenomenon of its existence, since the dispersion, is miraculous. There is nothing miraculous about it. There is nothing miraculous about the perpetuation of Quakerdom; yet Quakerdom has existed for two centuries. Although Quakerdom is but an artificial thing, that proceeded out from among common English people, it has somewhat the appearance of being a distinct race, among those surrounding it. As such, it appears, at first sight, to inexperienced youth, or people who have never seen, or perhaps heard, much of Quakers. But how much greater is the difference between Jews and Christians, than between Quakers and ordinary Englishmen, and Americans! And how much greater the certainty that Jews will keep themselves distinct from Christians, and all others in the world! It must be self-evident to the most unreflecting person, that the natural causes which keep Jews separated from other people, during one generation, continue to keep them distinct during every other generation. A miracle, indeed! We must look into the Old and New Testaments for miracles. A Jew will naturally delude himself about the existence of his race, since the dispersion, being a miracle; yet not believe upon a person, if he were even to rise from the dead! A little consideration of the philosophy of the Jewish question will teach us that, perhaps, the best way for Providence to preserve the Jews, as they have existed since their dispersion, would have been merely to leave them alone--leave them to their impenitence and unbelief--and take that much care of them that is taken of ravens. The subject of the Gipsies is a mine which Christians should work, so as to countermine and explode the conceit of the Jew in the history of his people; for that, as I have already said, is the greatest bar to his conversion to Christianity. Still, it is possible that some people may oppose the idea that the Gipsies are the "mixed multitude" of the Exodus, from some such motive as that which induces others not merely to disbelieve, but revile, and even rave at some of the clear points of revelation.[311] What objection could any one advance against the Gipsies being the people that left Egypt, in the train of the Jews? Not, certainly, an objection as to race; for there must have been many captive people, or tribes, introduced into Egypt, from the many countries surrounding it. Pharaoh was a czar in his day, transplanting people at his pleasure. Of one of his cities it was said, "That spreads her conquests o'er a thousand states, And pours her heroes through a hundred gates: Two hundred horsemen, and two hundred cars, From each wide portal, issuing to the wars." [311] It is astonishing how superficially some passages of Scripture are interpreted. There is, for instance, the conduct of Gamaliel, before the Jewish council. (Acts v. 17-40.) The advice given by him, as a Pharisee, was nothing but a piece of specious party clap-trap, to discomfit a Sadducee. St. Paul, who was brought up at the feet of this Pharisee, and, doubtless, well versed in the factious tactics of his party, gives a beautiful commentary on the action of his old master, when, on being brought before the same tribunal, and perceiving that his enemies embraced both parties, he set them by the ears, by proclaiming himself a Pharisee, and raising the question, (the "hope and resurrection of the dead,") on which they so bitterly disagreed. (Acts xxiii. 6-10.) There was much adroitness displayed by the Apostle, in so turning the wrath of his enemies against themselves, after having inadvertently reviled the high priest, in their presence, and within one of the holy places, in such language as the following: "God shall smite thee, thou whited wall: for sittest thou to judge me after the law, and commandest me to be smitten, contrary to the law." As it was, he was only saved from being "pulled in pieces" by his blood-thirsty persecutors--the one sect attacking, and the other defending him--by a company of Roman soldiers, dispatched to take him by force from among them. Nothing could be more specious than Gamaliel's reasoning, for it could apply to almost anything, and was well suited to the feelings of a divided and excited assembly; or have less foundation, according to his theory, for the very steps which he advised the people against adopting, for the suppression of Christians, were used to destroy the false Messiahs to whom he referred. And yet people quote this recorded clap-trap of an old Pharisee, as an inspiration, for the guidance of private Christians, and Christian magistrates! That the "mixed multitude" travelled into India, acquired the language of that part of Asia, and, perhaps, modified its appearance there, and became the origin of the Gipsy race, we may very safely assume. This much is certain, that they are not Sudras, but a very ancient tribe, distinct from every other in the world. With the exception of the Jews, we have no certainty of the origin of any people; in every other case it is conjecture; even the Hungarians know nothing of their origin; and it is not wonderful that it should be the same with the Gipsies. Everything harmonizes so beautifully with the idea that the Gipsies are the "mixed multitude" of the Exodus, that it may be admitted by the world. Even in the matter of religion, we could imagine Egyptian captives losing a knowledge of their religion, as has happened with the Africans in the New World, and, not having had another taught them, leaving Egypt under Moses, without any religion at all.[312] After entering India, they would, in all probability, become a wandering people, and, for a certainty, live aloof from all others. [312] Tacitus makes Caius Cassius, in the time of Nero, say: "At present, we have in our service whole nations of slaves, the scum of mankind, collected from all quarters of the globe; a race of men who bring with them foreign rites, and the religion of their country, _or, probably, no religion at all_."--_Murphy's Translation._ While the history of the Jews, since the dispersion, greatly illustrates that of the Gipsies, so does the history of the Gipsies greatly illustrate that of the Jews. They greatly resemble each other. Jews shuffle, when they say that the only difference between an Englishman and an English Jew, is in the matter of creed; for there is a great difference between the two, whatever they may have in common, as men born and reared on the same soil. The very appearance of the two is palpable proof that they are not of the same race. The Jew invariably, and unavoidably, holds his "nation" to mean the Jewish people, scattered over the world; and is reared in the idea that he is, not only in creed, but in blood, distinct from other men; and that, in blood and creed, he is not to amalgamate with them, let him live where he may. Indeed, what England is to an Englishman, this universally scattered people is to the Jew; what the history of England is to an Englishman, the Bible is to the Jew; his nation being nowhere in particular, but everywhere, while its ultimate destiny he, more or less, believes to be Palestine. Now, an Englishman has not only been born an Englishman, but his mind has been cast in a mould that makes him an Englishman; so that, to persecute him, on the ground of his being an Englishman, is to persecute him for that which can never be changed. It is precisely so with the Jew. His creed does not amount to much, for it is only part of the history of his race, or the law of his nation, traced to, and emanating from, one God, and Him the true God, as distinguished from the gods and lords many of other nations: such is the nature of the Jewish theocracy. To persecute a Gipsy, for being a Gipsy, would likewise be to persecute him for that which he could not help; for to prevent a person being a Gipsy, in the most important sense of the word, it would be necessary to take him, when an infant, and rear him entirely apart from his own race, so that he should never hear the "wonderful story," nor have his mind filled with the Gipsy electric fluid. An English Gipsy went abroad, very young, as a soldier, and was many years from home, without having had a Gipsy companion, so that he had almost forgotten that he was a Gipsy; but, on his returning home, other Gipsies applied their magnetic battery to him, and gipsyfied him over again. A town Gipsy will occasionally send a child to a Gipsy hedge-schoolmaster, for the purpose of being extra gipsyfied. The being a Gipsy, or a Jew, or a Gentile, consists in birth and rearing. The three may be born and brought up under one general roof, members of their respective nationalities, yet all good Christians. But the Jew, by becoming a Christian, necessarily cuts himself off from associations with the representative part of his nation; for Jews do not tolerate those who forsake the synagogue, and believe in Christ, as the Messiah having come; however much they may respect their children, who, though born into the Christian Church, and believing in its doctrines, yet maintain the inherent affection for the associations connected with the race, and more especially if they also occupy distinguished positions in life. So intolerant, indeed, are Jews of each other, in the matter of each choosing his own religion, extending sometimes to assassination in some countries, and invariably to the crudest persecutions in families, that they are hardly justified in asking, and scarcely merit, toleration for themselves, as a people, from the nations among whom they live. The present Disraeli doubtless holds himself to be a Jew, let his creed or Christianity be what it may; if he looks at himself in his mirror, he cannot deny it. We have an instance in the Cappadoce family becoming, and remaining for several generations, Christians, then returning to the synagogue, and, in another generation, joining the Christian church. The same vicissitude may attend future generations of this family. There should be no great obstacle in the way of it being allowed to pass current in the world, like any other fact, that a person can be a Jew and, at the same time, a Christian; as we say that a man can be an Englishman and a Christian, a McGregor and a Christian, a Gipsy and a Christian, or a Jew and a Christian, even should he not know when his ancestors attended the synagogue. Christianity was not intended, nor is it capable, to destroy the nationality of Jews, as individuals, or as a nation, any more than that of other people. We may even assume that a person, having a Jew for one parent, and a Christian for another, and professing the Christian faith, and having the influences of the Jew exercised over him from his infancy, cannot fail, with his blood and, it may be, physiognomy, to have feelings peculiar to the Jews; although he may believe them as blind, in the matter of religion, as do other Christians. But separate him, after the death of the Jewish parent, from all associations with Jews, and he may gradually lose those peculiarly Jewish feelings that are inseparable from a Jewish community, however small it may be. There are, then, no circumstances, out of and independent of himself and the other members of his family, to constitute him a Jew; and still less can it be so with his children, when they marry with ordinary Christians, and never come in intimate contact with Jews. The Jewish feeling may be ultimately crossed out in this way; I say ultimately, for it does not take place in the first descent, (and that is as far as my personal knowledge goes,) even although the mother is an ordinary Christian, and the children have been brought up exclusively to follow her religion. Gipsydom, however, goes with the individual, and keeps itself alive in the family, and the private associations of life, let its creed be what it may; the original cast of mind, words, and signs, always remaining with itself. In this respect, the Gipsy differs from every other man. He cannot but know who he is to start life with, nor can he forget it; he has those words and signs within himself which, as he moves about in the world, he finds occasion to use. A Jew may boast of the peculiar cast of countenance by which his race is generally characterized, and how his nation is kept together by a common blood, history, and creed. But the phenomenon connected with the history of the Gipsy race is more wonderful than that which is connected with the Jewish; inasmuch as, let the blood of the Gipsy become as much mixed as it may, it always preserves its Gipsy identity; although it may not have the least outward resemblance to an original Gipsy. You cannot crush or cross out the Gipsy race; so thoroughly subtle, so thoroughly adaptable, so thoroughly capable, is it to evade every weapon that can be forged against it. The Gipsy soul, in whatever condition it may be found, or whatever may be the tabernacle which it may inhabit, is as independent, now, of those laws which regulate the disappearance of certain races among others, as when it existed in its wild state, roaming over the heath. The Gipsy race, in short, absorbs, but cannot be absorbed by, other races. In my associations with Gipsies and Jews, I find that both races rest upon the same basis, viz.: a question of people. The response of the one, as to who he is, is that he is a Gipsy; and of the other, that he is a Jew. Each of them has a peculiarly original soul, that is perfectly different from each other, and others around them; a soul that passes as naturally and unavoidably into each succeeding generation of the respective races, as does the soul of the English or any other race into each succeeding generation. For each considers his nation as abroad upon the face of the earth; which circumstance will preserve its existence amid all the revolutions to which ordinary nations are subject. As they now exist within, and independent of, the nations among whom they live, so will they endure, if these nations were to disappear under the subjection of other nations, or become incorporated with them under new names. Many of the Gipsies and Jews might perish amid such convulsions, but those that survived would constitute the stock of their respective nations; while others might migrate from other countries, and contribute to their numbers. In the case of the Gipsy nation, as it gets crossed with common blood, the issue shows the same result as does the shaking of the needle on the card--it always turns to the pole: that pole, among the Gipsies, being a sense of its blood, and a sympathy with the same people in every part of the world. For this reason, the Gipsy race, like the Jewish, may, with regard to its future, be said to be even eternal. The Gipsy soul is fresh and original, not only from its recent appearance in Europe, without any traditional knowledge of its existence anywhere else, but from having sprung from so singular an origin as a tent; so that the mystery that attaches to it, from those causes, and the contemplation of the Gipsy, in his original state, to-day, present to the Gipsy that fascination for his own history which the Jew finds in the antiquity of his race, and the exalted privileges with which it was at one time visited. The civilized Gipsy looks upon his ancestors, as they appeared in Europe generally, and Scotland especially, as great men, as heroes who scorned the company of anything below a gentleman. And he is not much out of the way; for John Faw, and Towla Bailyow, and the others mentioned in the act of 1540, were unquestionably heroes of the first water. He pictures to himself these men as so many swarthy, slashing heroes, dressed in scarlet and green, armed with pistols and broad-swords, mounted on blood-horses, with hawks and hounds in their train. True to nature, every Gipsy is delighted with his descent, no matter what other people, in their ignorance of the subject, may think of it, or what their prejudices may be in regard to it. One of the principal differences to be drawn between the history of the Gipsies and that of the Jews, is, as I have already stated, that the Jews left Palestine a civilized people, while the Gipsies entered Europe, in the beginning of the fifteenth century, in a barbarous state. But the difference is only of a relative nature; for when the Gipsies emerge from their original condition, they occupy as good positions in the world as the Jews; while they have about them none of those outward peculiarities of the Jews, that make them, in a manner, offensive to other people. In every sense but that of belonging to the Gipsy tribe, they are ordinary natives; for the circumstances that have formed the characters of the ordinary natives have formed theirs. Besides this, there is a degree of dignity about the general bearing of such people, rough as it sometimes is, that plainly shows that they are no common fellows, at least that they do not hold themselves to be such. For it is to be remarked, that such people do not directly apply to themselves the prejudice which exists towards what the world understands to be Gipsies; however much they may infer that such would be directed against them, should the world discover that they belonged to the tribe. In this respect, they differ from Jews, all of whom apply to themselves the prejudice of the rest of their species; which exercises so depressing an influence upon the character of a people. Indeed, one will naturally look for certain general superior points of character in a man who has fairly emerged from a wild and barbarous state, which he will not be so apt to find in another who has fallen from a higher position in the scale of nations, which the Jew has unquestionably done. A Jew, no matter what he thinks of the long-gone-by history of his race, looks upon it, now, as a fallen people; while the Gipsy has that subdued but, at heart, consequential, extravagance of ideas, springing from the wild independence and vanity of his ancestors, which frequently finds a vent in a lavish and foolish expenditure, so as not to be behind others in his liberality. A very good idea of such a cast of character may be formed from that of the superior class of Gipsies mentioned by our author, when the descendants of such have been brought up under more favourable circumstances, and enjoyed all the advantages of the ordinary natives of the country. In considering the phenomenon of the existence of the Jews since the dispersion, I am not inclined to place it on any other basis than I would that of the Gipsies; for, with both, it is substantially a question of people. They are a people, scattered over the world, like the Gipsies, and have a history--the Bible, which contains both their history and their laws; and these two contain their religion. It would, perhaps, be more correct to say, that the religion of the Jews is to be found in the Talmud, and the other human compositions, for which the race have such a superstitious reverence; and even these are taken as interpreted by the Rabbis. A Jew has, properly speaking, little of a creed. He believes in the existence of God, and in Moses, his prophet, and observes certain parts of the ceremonial law, and some holidays, commemorative of events in the history of his people. He is a Jew, in the first place, as a simple matter of fact, and, as he grows up, he is made acquainted with the history of his race, to which he becomes strongly attached. He then holds himself to be one of the "first-born of the Lord," one of the "chosen of the Eternal," one of the "Lord's aristocracy;" expressions of amazing import, in his worldly mind, that will lead him to almost die for his _faith_; while his _religion_ is of a very low natural order, "standing only in meats and drinks, and divers washings, and carnal ordinances," suitable for a people in a state of pupilage. The Jewish mind, in the matter of religion, is, in some respects, preëminently gross and material in its nature; its idea of a Messiah rising no higher than a conqueror of its own race, who will bring the whole world under his sway, and parcel out, among his fellow-Jews, a lion's share of the spoils, consisting of such things as the inferior part of human nature so much craves for. And his ideas of how this Messiah is to be connected with the original tribes, as mentioned in the prophecies, are childish and superstitious in the extreme. Writers do, therefore, greatly err, when they say, that it is only a thin partition that separates Judaism from Christianity. There is almost as great a difference between the two, as there is between that which is material, and that which is spiritual. A Jew is so thoroughly bound, heart and soul, by the spell which the phenomena of his race exert upon him, that, humanly speaking, it is impossible to make anything of him in the matter of Christianity. And herein, in his own way of thinking, consists his peculiar glory. Such being the case with Christianity, it is not to be supposed that the Jew would forsake his own religion, and, of course, his own people, and believe in any religion having an origin in the spontaneous and gradual growth of superstition and imposture, modified, systematized, adorned, or expanded, by ambitious and superior minds, or almost wholly in the conceptions of these minds; having, for a foundation, an instinct--an intellectual and emotional want--as common to man, as instinct is to the brute creation, for the ends which it has to serve. We cannot separate the questions of race and belief, when we consider the Jews as a people, however it might be with individuals among them. It was as unreasonable to persecute a Jew, for not giving up his feelings as a Jew, and his religion, for the superstitions and impostures of Rome, as it was to persecute a Gipsy, for not giving up his feelings of nationality, and his language, as was specially attempted by Charles III., of Spain: for such are inherent in the respective races. The worst that can be said of any Gipsy, in the matter of religion, is, when we meet with one who admits that all that he really cares for is, "to get a good belly-full, and to feel comfortable o' nights." Here, we have an original soil to be cultivated; a soil that can be cultivated, if we only go the right way about doing it. Out of such a man, there is no other spirit to be cast, but that of "the world, the flesh, and the devil," before another can take up its habitation in his mind. Bigoted as is the Jew against even entertaining the claims of Christ, as the Messiah, he is very indifferent to the practice, or even the knowledge, of his own religion, where he is tolerated and well-treated, as in the United States of America. Of the growing-up, or even the grown-up, Jews in that country, the ultra-Jewish organ, the "Jewish Messenger," of New York, under date the 19th October, 1860, says that, "with the exception of a very few, who are really taught their religion, the great majority, we regret to state, know no more of their faith than the veriest heathen:" and, I might add, practise less of it; for, as a people, they pay very little regard to it, in general, or to the Sabbath, in particular, but are characterized as worldly beyond measure; having more to answer for than the Gipsy, whose sole care is "a good meal, and a comfortable crib at night."[313] [313] The following extract from "Leaves from the Diary of a Jewish Minister," published in the above-mentioned journal, on the 4th April, 1862, may not be uninteresting to the Christian reader: "In our day, the conscience of Israel is seldom troubled; it is of so elastic a character, that, like gutta percha, it stretches and is compressed, according to the desire of its owner. We seldom hear of a troubled conscience. . . . . Not that we would assert that our people are without a conscience; we merely state that we seldom hear of its troubles. It is more than probable, that when the latent feeling is aroused on matters of religion, and for a moment they have an idea that 'their soul is not well,' they take a hom[oe]opathic dose of spiritual medicine, and then feel quite convalescent." Amid all the obloquy and contempt cast upon his race, amid all the persecutions to which it has been exposed, the Jew, with his inherent conceit in having Abraham for his father, falls back upon the history of his nation, with the utmost contempt for everything else that is human; forgetting that there is such a thing as the "first being last." He boasts that his race, and his only, is eternal, and that all other men get everything from _him_! He vainly imagines that the Majesty of Heaven should have made his dispensations to mankind conditional upon anything so unworthy as his race has so frequently shown itself to be. If he has been so favoured by God, what can he point to as the fruits of so much loving-kindness shown him? What is his nation now, however numerous it may be, but a ruin, and its members, but spectres that haunt it? And what has brought it to its present condition? "Its sins." Doubtless, its sins; but what particular sins? And how are these sins to be put away, seeing that the temple, the high-priesthood, and the sacrifices no longer exist? Or what effort, by such means as offer, has ever been made to mitigate the wrath of God, and prevail upon Him to restore the people to their exalted privileges? Or what could they even propose doing, to bring about that event? Questions like these involve the Jewish mind in a labyrinth of difficulties, from which it cannot extricate itself. The dispersion was not only foretold, but the cause of it given. The Scriptures declare that the Messiah was to have appeared before the destruction of the temple; and the time of his expected advent, according to Jewish traditions, coincided with that event. It is eighteen centuries since the destruction of the temple, before which the Messiah was to have come; and the Jew still "hopes against hope," and, if it is left to himself, will do so till the day of judgment, for such a Messiah as his earthly mind seems to be only capable of contemplating. Has he never read the New Testament, and reflected on the sufferings of him who was meek and lowly, or on those of his disciples, inflicted by his ancestors, for generations, when he has come complaining of the sufferings to which his race has been exposed? He is entitled to sympathy, for all the cruelties with which his race has been visited; but he could ask it with infinitely greater grace, were he to offer any for the sufferings of the early Christians and their divine master, or were he, even, to tolerate any of his race following him to-day. What has the Jew got to say to all this? He cannot now say that his main comfort and support, in his unbelief, consists in his contemplating what he vainly calls a miracle, wrapt up in the history of his people, since the dispersion. That prop and comfort are gone. No, O Jew! the true miracle, if miracle there is, is your impenitent unbelief. No one asks you to disbelieve in Moses, but, in addition to believing in Moses, to believe in him of whom Moses wrote. Do you really believe in Moses? You, doubtless, believe after a sort; you believe in Moses, as any other person believes in the history of his own country and people; but your belief in Moses goes little further. You glory in the antiquity of your race, and imagine that every other has perished. No, O Jew! the "mixed multitude" which left Egypt, under Moses, separated from him, and passed into India, has come up, in these latter times, again to vex you. Even it is entering, it may be, pressing, into the Kingdom of God, and leaving you out of it. Yes! the people from the "hedges and by-ways" are submitting to the authority of the true Messiah; while you, in your infatuated blindness, are denying him. What may be termed the philosophy of the Gipsies, is very simple in itself, when we have before us its main points, its principles, its bearings, its genius; and fully appreciated the circumstances with which the people are surrounded. The most remarkable thing about the subject is, that people never should have dreamt of its nature, but, on the contrary, believed that "the Gipsies are gradually disappearing, and will soon become extinct." The Gipsies have always been disappearing, but where do they go to? Look at any tent of Gipsies, when the family are all together, and see how prolific they are. What, then, becomes of this encrease? The present work answers the question. It is a subject, however, which I have found some difficulty in getting people to understand. One cannot see how a person can be a Gipsy, "because his father was a respectable man;" another, "because his father was an old soldier;" and another cannot see "how it necessarily follows that a person is a Gipsy, for the reason that his parents were Gipsies." The idea, as disconnected from the use of a tent, or following a certain kind of life, may be said to be strange to the world; and, on that account, is not very easily impressed on the human mind. It would be singular, however, if a Scotchman, after all that has been said, should not be able to understand what is meant by the Scottish Gipsy tribe, or that it should ever cease to be that tribe as it progresses in life. In considering the subject, he need not cast about for much to look at, for he should exercise his mind, rather than his eyes, when he approaches it. It is, principally, a mental phenomenon, and should, therefore, be judged of by the faculties of the mind: for a Gipsy may not differ a whit from an ordinary native, in external appearance or character, while, in his mind, he may be as thorough a Gipsy as one could well imagine. In contemplating the subject of the Gipsies, we should have a regard for the facts of the question, and not be led by what we might, or might not, imagine of it; for the latter course would be characteristic of people having the moral and intellectual traits of children. The race might, to a certain extent, be judged analogously, by what we know of other races; but that which is pre-eminently necessary, is to judge of it by facts: for facts, in a matter like this, take precedence of everything. Even in regard to the Gipsy language, broken as it is, people are very apt to say that it _cannot_ exist at the present day; yet the least reflection will convince us, that the language which the Gipsies use is the remains of that which they brought with them into Europe, and not a make-up, to serve their purposes. The very genius peculiar to them, as an Oriental people, is a sufficient guarantee of this fact; and the more so from their having been so thoroughly separated, by the prejudice of caste, from others around them; which would so naturally lead them to use, and retain, their peculiar speech. But the use of the Gipsy language is not the only, not even the principal, means of maintaining a knowledge of being Gipsies; perhaps it is altogether unnecessary; for the mere consciousness of the fact of being Gipsies, transmitted from generation to generation, and made the basis of marriages, and the intimate associations of life, is, in itself, perfectly sufficient. The subject of two distinct races, existing upon the same soil, is not very familiar to the mind of a British subject. To acquire a knowledge of such a phenomenon, he should visit certain parts of Europe, or Asia, or Africa, or the New World. Since all (I may say all) Gipsies hide the knowledge of their being Gipsies from the other inhabitants, as they leave the tent, it cannot be said that any of them really deny themselves, even should they hide themselves from those of their own race. The ultimate test of a person being a Gipsy would be for another to catch the internal response of his mind to the question put to him as to the fact; or observe the workings of his heart in his contemplations of himself. It can hardly be said that any Gipsy denies, at heart, the fact of his being a Gipsy, (which, indeed, is a contradiction in terms,) let him disguise it from others as much as he may. If I could find such a man, he would be the only one of his race whom I would feel inclined to despise as such. From all that has been said, the reader can have no difficulty in believing, with me, as a question beyond doubt, that the immortal John Bunyan was a Gipsy of mixed blood. He was a tinker. And who were the tinkers? Were there any itinerant tinkers in England, before the Gipsies settled there? It is doubtful. In all likelihood, articles requiring to be tinkered were carried to the nearest smithy. The Gipsies are all tinkers, either literally, figuratively, or representatively. Ask any English Gipsy, of a certain class, what he can do, and, after enumerating several occupations, he will add: "I can tinker, of course," although he may know little or nothing about it. Tinkering, or travelling-smith work, is the Gipsy's representative business, which he brought with him into Europe. Even the intelligent and respectable Scottish Gipsies speak of themselves as belonging to the "tinker tribe." The Gipsies in England, as in Scotland, divided the country among themselves, under representative chiefs, and did not allow any other Gipsies to enter upon their walks or beats. Considering that the Gipsies in England were estimated at above ten thousand during the early part of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, we can readily believe that they were much more numerous during the time of Bunyan. Was there, therefore, a pot or a kettle, in the rural parts of England, to be mended, for which there was not a Gipsy ready to attend to it? If a Gipsy would not tolerate any of his own race entering upon his district, was he likely to allow any native? If there were native tinkers in England before the Gipsies settled there, how soon would the latter, with their organization, drive every one from the trade by sheer force! What thing more like a Gipsy? Among the Scotch, we find, at a comparatively recent time, that the Gipsies actually murdered a native, for infringing upon what they considered one of their prerogatives--that of gathering rags through the country. Lord Macaulay says, with reference to Bunyan: "The tinkers then formed a hereditary caste, which was held in no high estimation. They were generally vagrants and pilferers, and were often confounded with the Gipsies, whom, in truth, they nearly resembled." I would like to know on what authority his lordship makes such an assertion; what he knows about the origin of this "_hereditary_ tinker caste," and if it still exists; and whether he holds to the purity-of-Gipsy-blood idea, advanced by the Edinburgh Review and Blackwood's Magazine, but especially the former. How would he account for the existence of a hereditary caste of any kind, in England, and that just one--the "tinker caste"? There was no calling at that time hereditary in England, that I know of; and yet Bunyan was born a tinker. In Scotland, the collier and salter castes were hereditary, for they were in a state of slavery to the owners of these works.[314] But who ever heard of any native occupation, so free as tinkering, being hereditary in England, in the seventeenth century? Was not this "tinker caste," at that time, exactly the same that it is now? If it was then hereditary, is it not so still? If not, by what means has it ceased to be hereditary? The tinkers existed in England, at that time, exactly as they do now. And who are they now but mixed Gipsies? It is questionable, very questionable indeed, if we will find, in all England, a tinker who is not a Gipsy. The class will deny it; the purer and more original kind of Gipsies will also deny it; still, they are Gipsies. They are all _chabos_, _calos_, or _chals_; but they will play upon the word Gipsy in its ideal, purity-of-blood sense, and deny that they are Gipsies. We will find in Lavengro two such Gipsies--the Flaming Tinman, and Jack Slingsby; the first, a half-blood, (which did not necessarily imply that either parent was white;) and the other, apparently, a very much mixed Gipsy. The tinman termed Slingsby a "mumping villain." Now, "mumper," among the English Gipsies, is an expression for a Gipsy whose blood is very much mixed. When Mr. Borrow used the word _Petulengro_,[315] Slingsby started, and exclaimed: "Young man, you know a thing or two." I have used the same word with English Gipsies, causing the same surprise; on one occasion, I was told: "You must be a Scotch Gipsy yourself." "Well," I replied, "I may be as good a Gipsy as any of you, for anything you may know." "That may be so," was the answer I got. Then Slingsby was very careful to mention to Lavengro that his _wife_ was a white, or Christian, woman; a thing not necessarily true because he asserted it, but it implied that _he_ was different. These are but instances of, I might say, all the English tinkers. Almost every old countrywoman about the Scottish Border knows that the Scottish tinkers are Gipsies.[316] [314] See pages 111 and 121. [315] _Petul_, according to Mr. Borrow, means a horse-shoe; and _Petulengro_, a lord of the horse-shoe. It is evidently a very high catch-word among the English Gipsies. [316] Various of the characters mentioned in Mr. Borrow's "Lavengro," and "Romany Rye," are, beyond doubt, Gipsies. Old Fulcher is termed, in a derisive manner, by Ursula, "a _gorgio_ and basket-maker." She is one of the Hernes; a family which _gorgio_ and basket-maker Gipsies describe as "an ignorant, conceited set, who think nothing of other Gipsies, owing to the quality and quantity of their own blood." This is the manner in which the more original and pure and the other kind of English Gipsies frequently talk of each other. The latter will deny that they are Gipsies, at least hide it from the world; and, like the same kind of Scottish Gipsies, speak of the others, exclusively, as Gipsies. I am acquainted with a fair-haired English Gipsy, whose wife, now dead, was a half-breed. "But I am not a Gipsy," said he to me, very abruptly, before I had said anything that could have induced him to think that I took him for one. He spoke Gipsy, like the others. I soon caught him tripping; for, in speaking of the size of Gipsy families, he slipped his foot, and said: "For example, there is our family; there were (so many) of us." There is another Gipsy, a neighbour, who passes his wife off to the public as an Irish woman, while she is a fair-haired Irish Gipsy. Both, in short, played upon the word Gipsy; for, as regards fullness of blood, they really were not Gipsies. The dialogue between the Romany Rye and the Horncastle jockey clearly shows the Gipsy in the latter, when his attention is directed to the figure of the Hungarian. The Romany Rye makes indirect reference to the Gipsies, and the jockey abruptly asks: "Who be they? Come, don't be ashamed. I have occasionally kept queerish company myself." "Romany _chals_! Whew! I begin to smell a rat." The remainder of the dialogue, and the _spree_ which follows, are perfectly Gipsy throughout, on the part of the jockey; but, like so many of his race, he is evidently ashamed to own himself up to be "one of them." He says, in a way as if he were a stranger to the language: "And what a singular language they have got!" "Do you know anything of it?" said the Romany Rye. "Only a very few words; they were always chary in teaching me any." He said he was brought up with the _gorgio_ and basket-maker Fulcher, who followed the caravan. He is described as dressed in a coat of green, (a favourite Gipsy colour,) and as having curly brown or black hair; and he says of Mary Fulcher, whom he married: "She had a fair complexion, and nice red hair, both of which I liked, being a bit of a black myself." How much this is in keeping with the Gipsies, who so frequently speak of each other, in a jocular way, as "brown and black rascals!" I likewise claim Isopel Berners, in Lavengro, to be a _thumping_ Gipsy lass, who travelled the country with her donkey-cart, taking her own part, and _wapping_ this one, and _wapping_ that one. It signifies not what her appearance was. I have frequently taken tea, at her house, with a young, blue-eyed, English Gipsy widow, perfectly English in her appearance, who spoke Gipsy freely enough. It did not signify what Isopel said of herself, or her relations. How did she come to speak Gipsy? Do Gipsies _teach_ their language to _strangers_, and, more especially, to strange women? Assuredly not. Suppose that Isopel was not a Gipsy, but had married a Gipsy, then I could understand how she might have known Gipsy, and yet not have been a Gipsy, except by initiation. But it is utterly improbable that she, a strange woman, should have been taught a word of it. In England are to be found Gipsies of many occupations; horse-dealers, livery stable-keepers, public-house keepers, sometimes grocers and linen-drapers; indeed, almost every occupation from these downwards. I can readily enough believe an English Gipsy, when he tells me, that he knows of an English squire a Gipsy. To have an English squire a Gipsy, might have come about even in this way: Imagine a rollicking or eccentric English squire taking up with, and marrying, say, a pretty mixed Gipsy bar or lady's maid, and the children would be brought up Gipsies, for certainty. There are two Gipsies, of the name of B----, farmers upon the estate of Lord Lister, near Massingham, in the county of Norfolk. They are described as good-sized, handsome men, and swarthy, with long black hair, combed over their shoulders. They dress in the old Gipsy stylish fashion, with a green cut-away, or Newmarket, coat, yellow leather breeches, buttoned to the knee, and top boots, with a Gipsy hat, ruffled breast, and turned-down collar. They occupy the position of any natives in society; attend church, take an interest in parish matters, dine with his lordship's other tenants, and compete for prizes at the agricultural shows. They are proud of being Gipsies. I have also been told that there are Gipsies in the county of Kent, who have hop farms and dairies. The prejudice against the name of Gipsy was apparently as great in Bunyan's time as in our own; and there was, evidently, as great a timidity, on the part of mixed, fair-haired Gipsies, to own the blood then, as now; and great danger, for then it was hangable to be a Gipsy, by the law of Queen Elizabeth, and "felony without benefit of clergy," for "any person, being fourteen years, whether natural born subject or stranger, who had been seen in the fellowship of such persons, or disguised like them, and remained with them one month, at once, or at several times." When the name of Gipsy, and every association connected with it, were so severely proscribed by law, what other name would the tribe go under but that of tinkers--their own proper occupation? Those only would be called Gipsies whose appearance indicated the pure, or nearly pure, Gipsy. Although there was no necessity, under any circumstances, for Bunyan to say that he was a Gipsy, and still less in the face of the law proscribing, so absolutely, the race, and every one countenancing it, he evidently wished the fact to be understood, or, I should rather say, took it for granted, that part of the public knew of it, when he said: "For my descent, it was, as is well known to many, of a low and inconsiderable generation; my father's house being of that rank that is meanest and most despised of all the families of the land." Of whom does Bunyan speak here, if not of the Gipsies? He says, of _all_ the families of the land. And he adds: "After I had been thus for some considerable time, another thought came into my mind, and that was, whether we, (his family and relatives,) were of the Israelites or no? For, finding in the Scriptures, that they were once the peculiar people of God, thought I, if I were one of this race, (how significant is the expression!) my soul must needs be happy. Now, again, I found within me a great longing to be resolved about this question, but could not tell how I should; at last, I asked my father of it, who told me, No, we, (his father included,) were not."[317] I have heard the same question put by Gipsy lads to their parent, (a very much mixed Gipsy,) and it was answered thus: "We must have been among the Jews, for some of our ceremonies are like theirs." The best commentary that can be passed on the above extracts from Bunyan's autobiography, will be found in our author's account of his visit to the old Gipsy chief, whose acquaintance he made at St. Boswell's fair, and to which the reader is referred, (pages 309-318.) When did we ever hear of an _ordinary Englishman_ taking so much trouble to ascertain whether he was a _Jew_, or not? No Englishman, it may be safely asserted, ever does that, or has ever done it; and no one in England could have done it, during Bunyan's time, but a Gipsy. Bunyan seems to have been more or less acquainted with the history of the Jews, and how they were scattered over the world, though not publicly known to be in England, from which country they had been for centuries banished. About the time in question, the re-admission of the Jews was much canvassed in ecclesiastical as well as political circles, and ultimately carried, by the exertions of Manasseh Ben Israel, of Amsterdam. Under these circumstances, it was very natural for Bunyan to ask himself whether he belonged to the Jewish race, since he had evidently never seen a Jew; and that the more especially, as the Scottish Gipsies have even believed themselves to be Ethiopians. Such a question is entertained, by the Gipsies, even at the present day; for they naturally think of the Jews, and wonder whether, after all, their race may not, at some time, have been connected with them. How trifling it is for any one to assert, that Bunyan--a common native of England--while in a state of spiritual excitement, imagined that he was a Jew, and that he should, at a mature age, have put anything so absurd in his autobiography, and in so grave a manner as he did! [317] Bunyan adds: "But, notwithstanding the meanness and inconsiderableness of my parents, it pleased God to put it into their hearts to put me to school, to learn me both to read and write; the which I also attained, according to the rate of other poor men's children." He does not say, "According to the rate of poor men's children," but of "_other_ poor men's children:" a form of expression always used by the Gipsies when speaking of themselves, as distinguished from others. The language used by Bunyan, in speaking of his family, was in harmony with that of the population at large; but he, doubtless, had the feelings peculiar to all the tribe, with reference to their origin and race. Southey, in his life of Bunyan, writes: "Wherefore this (tinkering) should have been so mean and despised a calling, is not, however, apparent, when it was not followed as a vagabond employment, but, as in this case, exercised by one who had a settled habitation, and who, mean as his condition was, was nevertheless able to put his son to school, in an age when very few of the poor were taught to read and write." The fact is, that Bunyan's father had, apparently, a town beat, which would give him a settled residence, prevent him using a tent, and lead him to conform with the ways of the ordinary inhabitants; but, doubtless, he had his pass from the chief of the Gipsies for the district. The same may be said of John Bunyan himself. How little does a late writer in the Dublin University Magazine know of the feelings of a mixed Gipsy, like Bunyan, when he says: "Did he belong to the Gipsies, we have little doubt that he would have dwelt on it, with a sort of spiritual exultation; and that of his having been called out of Egypt would have been to him one of the proofs of Divine favour. We cannot imagine him suppressing the fact, or disguising it." Where is the point in the reviewer's remarks? His remarks have no point. How could the fact of a man being a Gipsy be made the grounds of any kind of spiritual exultation? And how could the fact of the tribe originating in Egypt be a proof of Divine favour towards the individual? What occasion had Bunyan to mention he was a Gipsy? What purpose would it have served? How would it have advanced his mission as a minister? Considering the prejudice that has always existed against that unfortunate word Gipsy, it would have created a sensation among all parties, if Bunyan had said that he was a Gipsy. "What!" the people would have asked, "a _Gipsy_ turned priest? We'll have the devil turning priest next!" Considering the many enemies which the tinker-bishop had to contend with, some of whom even sought his life, he would have given them a pretty occasion of revenging themselves upon him, had he said he was a Gipsy. They would have put the law in force, and stretched his neck for him.[318] The same writer goes on to say: "In one passage at least--and we think there are more in Bunyan's works--the Gipsies are spoken of in such a way as would be most unlikely if Bunyan thought he belonged to that class of vagabonds." I am not aware as to what the reviewer alludes; but, should Bunyan even have denounced the conduct of the Gipsies, in the strongest terms imaginable, would that have been otherwise than what he did with sinners generally? Should a clergyman denounce the ways and morals of every man of his parish, does that make him think less of being a native of the parish himself? Should a man even denounce his children as vagabonds, does that prevent him being their father? This writer illustrates what I have said of people generally--that they are almost incapable of forming an opinion on the Gipsy question, unaided by facts, and the bearings of facts, laid before them; so thoroughly is the philosophy of race, as it progresses and develops, unknown to the public mind, and so absolute is the prejudice of caste against the Gipsy race.[319] [318] Justice Keeling threatened Bunyan with this fate, even for preaching; for said he: "If you do not submit to go to hear divine service, and leave your preaching, you must be banished the realm: And if, after such a day as shall be appointed you to be gone, you shall be found in this realm, or be found to come over again, without special license from the king, you must stretch by the neck for it. I tell you plainly." Sir Matthew Hale tells us that, on one occasion, at the Suffolk assizes, no less than thirteen Gipsies were executed, under the old Gipsy statutes, a few years before the Restoration. [319] Perhaps the following passage is the one alluded to by this writer: "I often, when these temptations had been with force upon me, did compare myself to the case of such a child, whom some Gipsy hath by force took up in her arms, and is carrying from friend and country." _Grace abounding._ The use of a simile like this confirms the fact that Bunyan belonged to the tribe, rather than that he did not; unless we can imagine that Gipsies, when candid, do not what every other race has done--admit the peculiarities of theirs, while in a previous and barbarous state of existence. His admission confirms a fact generally believed, but sometimes denied, as in the case of the writer in Blackwood's Magazine, mentioned at page 375. Bunyan, doubtless, "dwelt on it with a sort of spiritual exultation," that he should have been "called"--not "out of Egypt," but--"out of the tribe," when, possibly, no others of it, to his knowledge, had been so privileged; but it was, certainly, "most unlikely" he would say that "he belonged to that class of vagabonds." I need hardly say anything further to show that Bunyan was a Gipsy. The only circumstance that is wanting to complete the evidence, would be for him to have added to his account of his descent: "In other words, I am a Gipsy." But I have given reasons for such verbal admission being, in a measure, impossible. I do not ask for an argument in favour of Bunyan not being a Gipsy, but a common Englishman; for an argument of that kind, beyond such remarks as I have commented on, is impracticable; but what I ask for is, an exposition of the animus of the man who does not wish that he should have been a Gipsy; assuming that a man can be met with, who will so far forget what is due to the dignity of human nature, as to commit himself in any such way. That Bunyan was a Gipsy is beyond a doubt. That he is a Gipsy, now, in Abraham's bosom, the Christian may readily believe. To the genius of a Gipsy and the grace of God combined, the world is indebted for the noblest production that ever proceeded from an uninspired man. Impugn it whoso list. Of the Pilgrim's Progress, Lord Macaulay, in his happy manner, writes: "For magnificence, for pathos, for vehement exhortation, for subtle disquisition, for every purpose of the poet, the orator, and the divine, this homely dialect--the dialect of plain working men--was perfectly sufficient. There is no book in our literature on which we would so readily stake the fame of the old, unpolluted, English language," as the Pilgrim's Progress; "no book which shows, so well, how rich that language is in its own proper wealth, and how little it has been improved by all that it has borrowed." "Though there were many clever men in England, during the latter half of the seventeenth century, there were only two great creative minds. One of these minds produced the Paradise Lost; the other, the Pilgrim's Progress"--the work of an English tinkering Gipsy. It is very singular that religious writers should strive to make out that Bunyan was not a Gipsy. If these writers really have the glory of God at heart, they should rather attempt to prove that he was a member of this race, which has been so much despised. For, thereby, the grace of God would surely be the more magnified. Have they never heard that Jesus Christ came into the world to preach the Gospel to the poor, to break the chains of the oppressed, and raise up the bowed-down? Have they never heard that the poor publican who, standing afar off, would not so much as lift up his eyes to heaven, but smote his breast, and exclaimed: "God be merciful to me, a sinner," went down justified rather than him who gave thanks for his not being like other men, or even as that publican? Have they never heard that God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; and things which are despised, yea, and things which are not, to bring to naught things that are: that no flesh should glory in his presence? I shall wait, with considerable curiosity, to see whether the next editor, or biographer, of this illustrious Gipsy will take any notice of the present work; or whether he will dispose of it somewhat in this strain: "One of Bunyan's modern reviewers, by a strange mistake, construes his self-disparaging admissions to mean that he was the offspring of Gipsies!" Sir Walter Scott admits that Bunyan was most probably a "Gipsy reclaimed;" and Mr. Offor, that "his father must have been a Gipsy."[320] But, with these exceptions, I know not if any writer upon Bunyan has more than hinted at the possibility of even a connexion between him and the Gipsies. It is very easy to account for all this, by the ignorance of the world in regard to the Gipsy tribe, but, above all, by the extreme prejudice of caste which is entertained against it. Does caste exist nowhere but in India? Does an Englishman feel curious to know what caste can mean? In few parts of the world does caste reign so supreme, as it does in Great Britain, towards the Gipsy nation. What is it but the prejudice of caste that has prevented the world from acknowledging Bunyan to have been a Gipsy? The evidence of the fact of his having been a Gipsy is positive enough. Will any one say that he does not believe that Bunyan meant to convey to the world a knowledge of the fact of his being a Gipsy? Or that he does not believe that the tinkers are Gipsies? Has any writer on Bunyan ever taken the trouble to ascertain who the tinkers really are; and that, in consequence of his investigations, he has come to the conclusion that they are _not_ Gipsies? If no writer on the subject of the illustrious dreamer has ever taken that trouble, to what must we attribute the fact but the prejudice of caste? It is caste, and nothing but caste. What is it but the prejudice of caste that has led Lord Macaulay to invent his story about the tinkers? For what he says of the tinkers is a pure invention, or, at best, a delusion, on his part. What is it but the prejudice of caste that has prevented others from saying, plainly, that Bunyan was a Gipsy? It would be more manly if they were to leave Bunyan alone, than receive his works, and damn the man, that is, his blood. It places them on the level of boors, when they allow themselves to be swayed by the prejudices that govern boors. When they speak of, or write about, Bunyan, let them exercise common honesty, and receive both the man and the man's works: let them not be guilty of petit larceny, or rather, great robbery, in the matter. [320] It is interesting to notice what these two writers say. If Bunyan's father was a Gipsy, we may reasonably assume that his mother was one likewise; and, consequently, that Bunyan was one himself, or as Sir Walter Scott expresses it--a "Gipsy reclaimed." A Gipsy being a question of race, and not a matter of habits, it should be received as one of the simplest of elementary truths, that once a Gipsy, always a Gipsy. We naturally ask, Why has not the fact of Bunyan having been a Gipsy stood on record, for the last two centuries? and, echo answers, Why? Southey, in his life of Bunyan, writes: "John Bunyan has faithfully recorded his own spiritual history. Had he dreamed of being 'forever known,' and taking his place among those who may be called the immortals of the earth, he would probably have introduced more details of his temporal circumstances, and the events of his life. But, glorious dreamer as he was, this never entered into his imagination.[321] Less concerning him than might have been expected has been preserved by those of his own sect; and it is not likely that anything more should be recovered from oblivion." Remarks like these come with a singular grace from a man with so many prejudices as Southey. John Bunyan has told us as much of his history _as he dared to do_. It was a subject upon which, in some respects, he doubtless maintained a great reserve; for it cannot be supposed that a man occupying so prominent and popular a position, as a preacher and writer, and of so singular an origin, should have had no investigations made into his history, and that of his family; if not by his friends, at least, by his enemies, who seemed to have been capable of doing anything to injure and discredit him. But, very probably, his being a tinker was, with friends and enemies, a circumstance so altogether discreditable, as to render any investigation of the kind perfectly superfluous. In mentioning that much of himself which he did, Bunyan doubtless imagined that the world understood, or would have understood, what he meant, and would, sooner or later, acknowledge the race to which he belonged. And yet it has remained in this unacknowledged state for two centuries since his time. How unreasonable it is to imagine that Bunyan should have said, in as many words, that he was a Gipsy, when the world generally is so apt to become fired with indignation, should we _now_ say that he was one of the race. How applicable are the words of his wife, to Sir Matthew Hale, to the people of the present day: "Because he is a tinker, and a poor man, he is despised, and cannot have justice." [321] Although Bunyan probably never anticipated being held in high estimation by what are termed the "great ones" of the earth, yet what Southey has said cannot be predicated of him, if we consider the singularity of his origin and history, and the popularity which he enjoyed, as author of the Pilgrim's Progress; a work affecting the mind of man in every age of the world. Of this work Bunyan writes: "My Pilgrim's book has travelled sea and land, Yet could I never come to understand That it was slighted, or turned out of door, By any kingdom, were they rich or poor. In France and Flanders, where men kill each other, My Pilgrim is esteemed a friend, a brother. In Holland, too, 'tis said, as I am told, My Pilgrim is, with some, worth more than gold. Highlanders and Wild Irish can agree My Pilgrim should familiar with them be. 'Tis in New England under such advance, Receives there so much loving countenance, As to be trimmed, new clothed, and decked with gems, That it may show its features, and its limbs. Yet more, so public doth my Pilgrim walk, That of him thousands daily sing and talk." Had Southey exercised that common sense which is the inheritance of most of Englishmen, and divested himself of this prejudice of caste, which is likewise their inheritance, he never could have had any difficulty in forming a proper idea of Bunyan, and everything concerning him. And the same may be said of any person at the present day. John Bunyan was simply a Gipsy of mixed blood, who must have spoken the Gipsy language in great purity; for, considering the extent to which it is spoken in England, to-day, we can well believe that it was very pure two centuries ago, and that Bunyan might have written works even in that language. But such is the childish prejudice against the name of Gipsy, such the silly incredulity towards the subject, that, in Great Britain, and, I am sorry to say, with some people in America, one has nearly as much difficulty in persuading others to believe in it, as St. Paul had in inducing the Greeks to believe in the resurrection of the dead. Why seemeth it unto thee incredible that Bunyan was a Gipsy? or that Bunyan's race should now be found in every town, in every village, and, perhaps, in every hamlet, in Scotland, and in every sphere of life?[322] [322] Bunsen writes: "Sound judgment is displayed rather in an aptness for believing what is historical, than in a readiness at denying it. . . . . . Shallow minds have a decided propensity to fall into the latter error. Incapability of believing on evidence is the last form of the intellectual imbecility of an enervated age." A writer who contributes frequently to "Notes and Queries," after stating that he has read the works of Grellmann and Hoyland on the Gipsies, adds: "My conclusion is that the tribes have no more right to nationality, race, blood, or language, than the London thieves have--with their slang, some words of which may have their origin in the Hebrew, from their dealings with the lowest order of Jews." To a candid and unprejudiced person, it should afford a relief, in thinking of the immortal dreamer, that he should have been a member of this singular race, emerging from a state of comparative barbarism, and struggling upwards, amid so many difficulties, rather than he should have been of the very lowest of our own race; for in that case, there is an originality and dignity connected with him personally, that could not well attach to him, in the event of his having belonged to the dregs of the common natives. Beyond being a Gipsy, it is impossible to say what his pedigree really was. His grandfather might have been an ordinary native, even of fair birth, who, in a thoughtless moment, might have "gone off with the Gipsies;" or his ancestor, on the native side of the house, might have been one of the "many English loiterers" who joined the Gipsies on their arrival in England, when they were "esteemed and held in great admiration;" or he might have been a kidnapped infant; or such a "foreign tinker" as is alluded to in the Spanish Gipsy edicts, and in the Act of Queen Elizabeth, in which mention is made of "strangers," as distinguished from natural born subjects, being with the Gipsies. The last is most probable, as the name, _Bunyan_, would seem to be of foreign origin. It is, therefore, very likely, that there was not a drop of common English blood in Bunyan's veins. John Bunyan belongs to the world at large, and England is only entitled to the credit of the formation of his character. Be all that as it may, Bunyan's father seems to have been a superior, and therefore important, man in the tribe, from the feet, as Southey says, of his having "put his son to school in an age when very few of the poor were taught to read and write." The world never can do justice to Bunyan, unless it takes him up as a Gipsy; nor can the Christian, unless he considers him as being a Gipsy, in Abraham's bosom. His biographers have not, even in one instance, done justice to him; for, while it is altogether out of the question to call him the "wicked tinker," the "depraved Bunyan," it is unreasonable to style him a "blackguard," as Southey has done. He might have been a blackguard in that sense in which a youth, in a village, is termed a "young blackguard," for being the ringleader among the boys; or on account of his wearing a ragged coat, and carrying a hairy wallet on his shoulder, which, in a conventional sense, constitute any man, in Great Britain, a blackguard. Bunyan's sins were confined to swearing, cursing, blaspheming, and lying; and were rather intensely manifested by the impetuosity of his character, or vividly described by the sincerity of his piety, and the liveliness of his genius, than deeply rooted in his nature; for he shook off the habit of swearing, (and, doubtless, that of lying,) on being severely reproved for it, by a loose and ungodly woman. Three of the kindred vices mentioned, (and, we might add the fourth, lying,) more frequently proceed from the influence of bad example and habit, than from anything inherently vicious, in a youth with so many of the good points which characterized Bunyan. His youth was even marked by a tender conscience, and a strong moral feeling; for thus he speaks of himself in "Grace Abounding:" "But this I well remember, that though I could myself sin, with the greatest delight and ease, and also take pleasure in the vileness of my companions, yet, even then, if I had, at any time, seen wicked things in those who professed goodness, it would make my spirit tremble. As, once above all the rest, when I was in the height of vanity, yet hearing one swear that was reckoned for a religious man, it had so great a stroke upon my spirit, that it made my heart ache." He was the subject of these experiences before he was ten years of age. It is unnecessary to speak of his dancing, ringing bells, and playing at tip-cat and hockey. Now, let us see what was Bunyan's _moral_ character. He was not a drunkard; and he says: "I know not whether there be such a thing as a woman breathing, under the copes of heaven, but by their apparel, their children, or by common fame, except my wife." And he continues: "Had not a miracle of precious grace prevented, I had laid myself open even to the stroke of those laws which bring some to disgrace and open shame, before the face of the world." The meaning of this is, evidently, that he never stole anything; but that it was "by a miracle of precious grace" he was prevented from doing it. In what sense, then, was Bunyan a blackguard? There was never such occasion for him to say of himself, what John Newton said of himself, as a criminal passed him, on the way to the gallows: "There goes John Bunyan, but for the grace of God." But such was the depth of Bunyan's piety, that hardly any one thought and spoke more disparagingly of himself than he did; although he would defend himself, with indignation, against unjust charges brought against him; for, however peaceable and humble he might be, he would turn most manfully upon his enemies, when they baited or badgered him. "It began, therefore, to be rumoured, up and down among the people, that I was a witch, a Jesuit, a highwayman, and the like. . . . . I also call those fools and knaves that have thus made it anything of their business to affirm any of these things aforesaid of me, namely, that I have been naught with other women, or the like. . . . My foes have missed their mark in this their shooting at me. I am not the man. I wish that they themselves be guiltless. If all the fornicators and adulterers in England were hanged up by the neck till they be dead, John Bunyan, _the object of their envy_, would be still alive and well." The style of his language even indicated the Gipsy; for English Gipsies, as Mr. Borrow justly remarks, speak the English language much better than the natives of the lower classes; for this apparent reason, that they have not the dialect of any particular part of England, which would be, were they always to have resided in a particular place. It must have been more so before the middle of the seventeenth century, upwards of a hundred years after the arrival of the Gipsies in England; for, in acquiring the English language, they would keep clear of many of the rude dialects that so commonly prevail in that country. But Bunyan's language was, doubtless, drawn principally from the Scriptures. The illustrious pilgrim had many indignities cast upon him, by the lower and unthinking classes of the population, and by Quakers and strict Baptists. 'Twas a man like John Owen who knew how to appreciate and respect him; for, said he to Charles II.: "I would readily part with all my learning, could I but preach like the tinker." And what was it that supported Bunyan, amid all the abuse and obloquy to which he was exposed, as he obeyed the call of God, and preached the gospel, in season and out of season, to every creature around him? When they sneered at his origin, and the occupation from which he had risen, he said: "Such insults I freely bind unto me, as an ornament, among the rest of my reproaches, till the Lord shall wipe them off at his coming." And again: "The poor Christian hath something to answer them that reproach him for his ignoble pedigree, and shortness of the glory of the wisdom of this world. I fear God. This is the highest and most noble; he hath the honour, the life, and glory that is lasting."[323] [323] That the rabble, or "fellows of the baser sort," should have pelted Bunyan with all sorts of offensive articles, when he commenced to preach the gospel, is what could naturally have been expected; but it sounds strange to read what he has put on record of the abuse heaped upon him, by people professing to be the servants of Him "in whom there is neither Jew nor Greek, bond nor free, male nor female." See with what Christian humility he alludes to such treatment, as contrasted with the manly indignation which he displayed in repelling slanders. He speaks of "the Lord wiping off such insults at his coming;" when his enemies, with the utmost familiarity and assurance, may approach the judgment-seat, and demand their crowns. "Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? and in thy name have cast out devils? and in thy name done many wonderful works?" And it may be answered unto them: "I never knew you; depart from me, ye that work iniquity." In Great Britain, the off-scourings of the earth can say who they are, and no prejudices are entertained against them. Half-caste Hindoos, Malays, Hottentots, and Negroes, are "sent home," to be educated, and made pets of, and have the choice of white women given to them for wives; but the children of a Scottish Christian Gipsy gentleman, or of a Scottish Christian Gipsy gentlewoman, dare not say who they are, were it almost to save their lives. Scottish people will wonder at what caste in India can mean, deplore its existence, and pray to God to remove it, that "the gospel may have free course and be glorified;" yet scowl--silently and sullenly scowl--at the bare mention of John Bunyan having been a Gipsy! Scottish religious journals will not tolerate the idea to appear in their columns! To such people I would say, Offer up no more prayers to Almighty God, to remove caste from India, until they themselves have removed from the land this prejudice of caste, that hangs like an incubus upon so many of their fellow-subjects at home. It is quite time enough to carry such petitions to the Deity, when every Scottish Gipsy can make a return of himself in the census, or proclaim himself a Gipsy at the cross, or from the house-top, if need be; or, at least, after steps have been taken by the public to that end. But some of my countrymen may say: "What are we to do, under the circumstances?" And I reply: "Endeavour to be yourselves, and judge of this subject as it ought to be judged. You can, at least, try to guard against your children acquiring your own prejudices." To the rising town generation, I would look with more hope to see a better feeling entertained for the name of Gipsy. But I look with more confidence to the English than Scottish people; for this question of "folk" is very apt to rankle and fester in the Scottish mind. I wish, then, that the British, and more especially the Scottish, public should consider itself as cited before the bar of the world, and not only the bar of the world, but the bar of posterity, to plead on the Gipsy question, that it may be seen if this is the only instance in which justice is not to be done to a part of the British population. With the evidence furnished in the present work, I submit the name of Bunyan, as a case in point, to test the principle at issue. Let British people beware how they approach this subject, for there are great principles involved in it. The social emancipation of the Gipsies is a question which British people have to consider for the future. The day is gone by when it cannot be said who John Bunyan was. In Cowper's time, his _name_ dare not be mentioned, "lest it should move a sneer." Let us hope that we are living in happier times. Tinkering was Bunyan's _occupation_; his _race_ the Gipsy--a fact that cannot be questioned. His having been a Gipsy adds, by contrast, a lustre to his name, and reflects an immortality upon his character; and he stands out, from among all the men of the latter half of the seventeenth century, in all his solitary grandeur, a monument of the grace of God, and a prodigy of genius. Let us, then, enroll John Bunyan as the first (that is known to the world) of eminent Gipsies, the prince of allegorists, and one of the most remarkable of men and Christians. What others of this race there may be who have distinguished themselves among mankind, are known to God and, it may be, some of the Gipsies. The saintly Doctor to whom I have alluded was one of this singular people; and one beyond question, for his admission of the fact cannot be denied by any one. Any life of John Bunyan, or any edition of his works, that does not contain a record of the fact of his having been a Gipsy, lacks the most important feature connected with the man that makes everything relating to him personally interesting to mankind. It should even contain a short dissertation on the Gipsies, and have, as a frontispiece, a Gipsy's camp, with all its appurtenances. The reader may believe that such a thing may be seen, and that, perhaps, not before long. It strikes me as something very singular, that Mr. Borrow, "whose acquaintance with the Gipsy race, in general, dates from a very early period of his life;" who "has lived more with Gipsies than Scotchmen;" and than whom "no one ever enjoyed better opportunities for a close scrutiny of their ways and habits," should have told us so little about the Gipsies. In all his writings on the Gipsies, he alludes to two mixed Gipsies only--the Spanish half-pay captain, and the English flaming tinman--in a way as if these were the merest of accidents, and meant nothing. He has told us nothing of the Gipsies but what was known before, with the exception, as far as my memory serves me, of the custom of the Spanish Gipsy, dressing her daughter in such a way as to protect her virginity; the existence of the tribe, in a civilized state, in Moscow; and the habit of the members of the race possessing two names; all of which are, doubtless, interesting pieces of information. The Spanish Gipsy marriage ceremony was described, long before him, by Dr. Bright; and Twiss, as far back as 1723, bears testimony to the virtue of Gipsy females, inasmuch as they were not to be procured in any way. Twiss also bears very positive testimony on a point to which Mr. Borrow has not alluded, viz.: the honesty of Spanish Gipsy innkeepers, in one respect, at least, that, although he frequently left his linen, spoons, &c., at their mercy, he never lost an article belonging to him. He alludes, in his travels, to the subject of the Gipsies incidentally; and his testimony is, therefore, worthy of every credit, on the points on which he speaks. In Mr. Borrow's writings upon the Gipsies, we find only sketches of certain individuals of the race, whom he seems to have fallen in with, and not a proper account of the nation. These writings have done more injury to the tribe than, perhaps, anything that ever appeared on the subject. I have met with Gipsies--respectable young men--who complained bitterly of Mr. Borrow's account of their race; and they did that with good reason; for his attempt at generalization on the subject of the people, is as great a curiosity as ever I set my eyes upon. How unsatisfactory are Mr. Borrow's opinions on the Gipsy question, when he speaks of the "decadence" of the race, when it is only passing from its first stage of existence--the tent. This he does in his Appendix to the Romany Rye; and it is nearly all that can be drawn from his writings on the Gipsies, in regard to their future history. I do not expect to meet among American people, generally, with the prejudice against the name of Gipsy that prevails in Europe; for, in Europe, the prejudice is traditional--a question of the nursery--while, in America, it is derived, for the most part, from novels. American people will, of course, form their own opinion upon the tented or any other kind of Gipsies, as their behaviour warrants; but what prejudice can they have for the Gipsy race as such? As a race, it is, physically, as fine a one as ever came out of Asia; although, at the present day, it is so much mixed with the white blood, as hardly to be observable in many, and absolutely not so in others, who follow the ordinary vocations of other men. What prejudice can Americans have against Gipsy blood as such? What prejudice can they have to the Maryland farmers who have been settled, for at least two generations, near Annapolis, merely because they are Gipsies and speak Gipsy? If there is any people in the world who might be expected to view the subject of the Gipsies dispassionately, it ought to be the people of America; for surely they have prejudices enough in regard to race; prejudices, the object of which is independent of character or condition--something that stares them in the face, and cannot be got rid of. If they have the practical sagacity to perceive the bearings of the Gipsy question, they should at once take it up, and treat it in the manner which the age demands. They have certainly an opportunity of stealing a march upon English people in this matter. Part of what I have said in reference to Bunyan, I was desirous of having inserted in a respectable American religious journal, but I did not succeed in it. "It would take up too much room in the paper, and give rise to more discussion than they could afford to print."--"Perhaps you would not wish it to be said that John Bunyan was a Gipsy?"--"Oh, not at all," replied the editor, colouring up a little. I found that several of these papers devoted a pretty fair portion of their space to such articles as funny monkey stories, and descriptions of rat-trap and cow-tail-holder patents; but for anything of so very little importance as that which referred to John Bunyan, they could afford no room whatever. Who cared to know who John Bunyan was? What purpose could it serve? Who would be benefited by it? But funny monkey stories are pleasant reading; every housewife should know how to keep down her rats; and every farmer should be taught how to keep his cows' tails from whisking their milk in his face, while it is being drawn into the pail. Not succeeding with the religious papers, I found expression to my sentiments in one of the "ungodly weeklies," which devote their columns to rats, monkeys, and cows, and a little to mankind; and there I found a feeling of sympathy for Bunyan. Let it not be said, in after times, that the descendants of the Puritans allowed themselves to be frightened by a scare-crow, or put to flight by the shake of a rag. I am afraid that the native-born quarrelsomeness of disposition about "folk," and things in general, which characterizes Scottish people, will prove a bar to the Gipsies owning themselves up in Scotland. Go into any Scottish village you like, and ascertain the feelings which the inhabitants entertain for each other, and you will find that such a one is a "poor grocer body;" that another belongs to a "shoemaker pack," another to a "tailor pack," another to a "cadger pack," another to a "collier pack," and another to a "low Tinkler pack;" another to a "bad nest," and another to a "very bad nest." And it is pretty much the same with the better classes. Now, how could the Gipsy tribe live amid such elements, if it did not keep everything connected with itself hidden from all the other "packs" surrounding it? And is it consonant with reason to say, that a Scotchman should be rated as standing at the bottom of all the various "packs" and "nests," simply because he has Gipsy blood in his veins? Yet, I meet with Scotchmen in the New World, who express such a feeling towards the Gipsies. This quarrelling about "folk" reigns supreme in Scotland; and, what is worse, it is brought with the people to America. It is inherent in them to be personal and intolerant, among themselves, and to talk of, and sneer at, each other, and "cast up things." In that respect, a community of Scotch people presents a peculiarity of mental feeling that is hardly to be found in one of any other people. When they come together, in social intercourse, there is frequently, if not generally, a hearty, if not a boisterous, flow of feeling, and, if the bottle contributes to the entertainment, a foam upon the surface; but the under-tow and ground-swell are frequently long in subsiding. Even in America, where they are reputed to have the clanishness of Jews, we will find within their respective circles, more heart-burnings, jealousies, envyings, and quarrellings, (but little or no Irish fighting, for they are rather given to "taking care of their characters,") than is to be found among almost any other people. At the best, there may be said to be an armed truce always to be found existing among them. Still, all that is not known to people outside of these circles; for those within them are animated by a common national sentiment, which leads them to conceal such feelings from others, so as to "uphold the credit of their country," wherever they go. It will be a difficult matter to get the Gipsies heartily acknowledged among such elements as equals; for it makes many a native Scot wild, to tell him that there are Scottish Gipsies as good, if not better, men than he is, or any kith or kin that belongs to him. And yet, it is not the Scottish gentleman--the gentleman by birth, rearing, education, mind, or manners--who will be backward to assist in raising up, and dignifying, the name of Gipsy. No; it will be the low-minded and ignorant Scots; people who are always either fawning upon, or sneering at, those above them, or trampling, or attempting to trample, upon those below them. It is very apt to be that class which Lord Jeffrey describes as "having a double allowance of selfishness, with a top-dressing of pedantry and conceit," and some of the "but and ben" gentry, who will sneer most at the word Gipsy. It is the flunkey, who lives and brings up his family upon the cast-off clothes and broken victuals of others, and out for whom such things would find their way to the rag-basket and the pigs; 'tis he and his children who are too often the most difficult to please in the matter of descent, and the most likely to perpetuate the prejudice against the Gipsy tribe. I have taken some trouble to ascertain the feelings of Scotchmen in America towards the Scottish Gipsies, such as they are represented in these pages; and I find that, among the really educated and liberally brought up classes, there are not to be discovered those prejudices against them, that are expressed by the lower classes, and especially those from country places. It is natural for the former kind of people to take the most liberal view of a question like the present; for they are, in a measure, satisfied with their position in life; while, with the lower classes, it is a feeling of restless discontentment that leads them to strive to get some one under them. No one would seem to like to be at the bottom of any society; and nowhere less so than in Scotland. A good education and up-bringing, and a knowledge of the world, likewise give a person a more liberal cast of mind, wherewith to form an opinion upon the subject of the Gipsies; and it is upon such that I would mainly rely in an attempt to raise up the name of Gipsy. Among the lower classes of my own countrymen, I find individuals all that could be desired in the matter of esteeming the Gipsies, according to the characters they bear, and the positions they occupy in life; but they are exceptions to the classes to which they belong. Here is a specimen of the kind of Scot the most difficult to break in to entertaining a proper feeling upon the subject of the Gipsies: By birth, he is a child of that dependent class that gets a due share of the broken victuals and cast-off clothes of other people. His parents are decent and honest enough people, but very conceited and self-sufficient. Any person in the shape of a mechanic, a labourer, or a peasant, appears as nobody to them; although, in independence, and even circumstances, they are not to be compared to many a peasant. The "oldest bairn" takes his departure for the New World, "with the firm determination to show to the world that he is a man," and "teach the Yankees something." The first thing he does to "show the world that he is a man," is to sneer, behave rudely, and attempt to pick quarrels with a better class of his own countrymen, when he comes in contact with them. Providence has not been over-indulgent with him in the matters of perceptors or reflectors; for, what little he knows, he has acquired in the manner that chickens pick up their food, when it is placed before them. But he has been gifted with a wonderful amount of self-conceit, which nothing can break down in him, however much it may be abashed for the moment. No one boasts more of his "family," to those who do not know who his family are, although his family were brought up in a cage, and so small a cage, that some of them must have roosted on the spars overhead at night. No one is more independent, none more patriotic; no one boasts more of Wallace and Bruce, Burns and Scott, and all the worthies; to him there is no place in the world like "auld Scotland yet;" no one glories more in "the noble qualities of the Scot;" and none's face burns with more importance in upholding, unchallenged, what he claims to be his character; yet the individual is a compound of conceit and selfishness, meanness and sordidness, and is estimated, wherever he goes, as a "perfect sweep." Although no one is more given to toasting, "Brithers a' the world o'er," and, "A man's a man for a' that," yet speak of the Gipsies to him, and he exclaims: "Thank God! there's no a drap o' Gipsy blood in me; no one drap o't!" Not only is he unable to comprehend the subject, but he is unwilling to hear the word Gipsy mentioned. In short, he turns up his nose at the subject, and howls like a dog.[324] [324] It is interesting to compare this feeling with that of the lowest order of Spaniards, as described by Mr. Borrow. "The outcast of the prison and the _presidio_, who calls himself Spaniard, would feel insulted by being termed Gitano, and would thank God that he is not." _Page 386._ It is the better kind of Scottish people, in whatever sphere of life they are to be found, on whom the greatest reliance is to be placed in raising up and dignifying the word Gipsy. This peculiar family of mankind has been fully three centuries and a half in the country, and it is high time that it should be acknowledged, in some form or other; high time, certainly, that we should know something about it. To an intelligent people it must appear utterly ridiculous that a prejudice is to be entertained against any Scotchman, without knowing who that Scotchman is, merely on account of his blood. Nor will any intelligent Scotchman, after the appearance of this work, be apt to say that he does not understand the subject of the Gipsies; or that they cease to be Gipsies by leaving the tent, or by a change of character or habits, or by their blood getting mixed. It will not do for any one to snap at the heels of this question: he must look at it steadily, and approach it with a clear head, a firm hand, and a Christian heart, and remove this stigma that has been allowed to attach to his country. No one in particular can be blamed for the position which the Gipsies occupy in the country: let by-gones be by-gones; let us look to the future for that expression of opinion which the subject calls for. This much I feel satisfied of, that if the Gipsy subject is properly handled, it would result in the name becoming as much an object of respect and attachment in many of the race, as it is now considered a reproach in others. There is much that is interesting in the name, and nothing necessarily low or vulgar associated with it; although there is much that is wild and barbarous connected with the descent, which is peculiar to the descent of all original tribes. It is unnecessary to say, that in a part of the race, we still find much that is wild, and barbarous, and roguish. The latter part of the Gipsy nation, whether settled or itinerant, must be reached indirectly, for reasons which have already been given; for it does not serve much purpose to interfere too directly with them, as Gipsies. We should bring a reflective influence to bear upon them, by holding up to their observation, some of their own race in respectable positions in life, and respected by the world, as men, though not known to be Gipsies. I could propose no better plan to be adopted, with some of these people, than to give them a copy of the present work, along with the Pilgrim's Progress, containing a short account of the Gipsies, and a Gipsy's encampment for a frontispiece. The world may well believe that the Gipsies would read both of them, and be greatly benefited by the Pilgrim's Progress; for, as a race, they are exceedingly vain about anything connected with themselves. Said I to some English Gipsies: "You are the vainest people in the world; you think a vast deal of yourselves." "There is good reason for that," they replied; "if we do not think something of ourselves, there are no others to do it for us." Now since John Bunyan has become so famous throughout the world, and so honoured by all sects and parties, what an inimitable instrument Providence has placed in our hands wherewith to raise up the name of Gipsy! Through him we can touch the heart of Christendom! I am well aware that the Church of Scotland has, or at least had, a mission among the itinerant Scottish Gipsies. In addition to the means adopted by this mission, to improve these Gipsies, it would be well to take such steps as I have suggested, so as to raise up the name of Gipsy. For, in this way, the Gipsies, of all classes, would see that they are not outcasts; but that the prejudices which people entertain for them are applicable to their ways of life, only, and not to their blood or descent, tribe or language. Their hearts would then become more easily touched, their affections more readily secured; and the attempt made to improve them would have a much better chance of being successful. A little judgment is necessary in conducting an intercourse with the wild Gipsy, or, indeed, any kind of Gipsy; it is very advisable to speak well of "the blood," and never to confound the race with the conduct of part of it. There is hardly anything that can give a poor Gipsy greater pleasure than to tell him something about his people, and particularly should they be in a respectable position in life, and be attached to their nation. It serves no great purpose to appear too serious with such a person, for that soon tires him. It is much better to keep him a little buoyant and cheerful, with anecdotes and stories, for that is his natural character; and to take advantage of occasional opportunities, to slip in advices that are to be of use to him. What is called long-facedness is entirely thrown away upon a Gipsy of this kind. I am very much inclined to believe that a Gipsy, well up in the scale of Scottish society, experiences, in one respect, nearly the same feelings in coming in contact with a wild Gipsy, that are peculiar to any other person. These are of a very singular nature. At first, we feel as if we were going into the lair of a wild animal, or putting our finger into a snake's mouth; such is the result of the prejudice in which we have been reared from infancy; but these feelings become greatly modified as we get accustomed to the people. The world has never had the opportunity of fairly contemplating any other kind of Gipsy; hence the extreme prejudice against the name. But when we get accustomed to meet with other kinds of Gipsies, and have associations with them, the feeling of prejudice changes to that of decided interest and attachment. I have met with various Scottish Gipsies of the female sex, in America, and, among others, one who could sit any day for an ideal likeness of the mother of Burns. She takes little of the Gipsy in her appearance. There is another, taking greatly after the Gipsy, born in Scotland, and reared in America; a very fine motherly person, indeed. I cannot, at the present stage of matters, mention the word Gipsy to her, but I know very well that she is a Gipsy. It takes some time for the feeling of prejudice for the word Gipsy to wear off, when contemplating even a passable kind of Gipsy. That object would be much more easily attained, were the people to own "the blood," unreservedly and cheerfully; for the very reserve, to a great extent, creates, at least keeps alive, the prejudice. But that cannot well take place till the word "Gipsy" bears the signification of gentleman, in some of the race, as it does of vagabond, in others. Some of my readers may still ask: "What is a Gipsy, after all that has been said upon the subject? Since it is not necessarily a question of colour of face, or hair, or eyes, or of creed, or character, or of any outward thing by which a human being can be distinguished; what is it that constitutes a Gipsy?" And I reply: "Let them read this work through, and thoroughly digest all its principles, and they can _feel_ what a Gipsy is, should they stumble upon one, it may be, in their own sphere of life, and hear him, or her, admit the fact, and speak unreservedly of it. They will then feel their minds rubbing against the Gipsy mind, their spirits communing with the Gipsy spirit, and experience a peculiar mental galvanic shock, which they never felt before."[325] It is impossible to say where the Gipsy soul may not exist at the present day, for there is this peculiarity about the tribe, as I have said before, that it always remains Gipsy, cross it out to the last drop of the original blood; for where that drop goes, the Gipsy soul accompanies it.[326] [325] Let us suppose that a person, who has read all the works that have hitherto appeared on the Gipsies, and noticed the utter absence, in them, of everything of the nature of a philosophy of the subject, thoroughly masters all that is set forth in the present work. The knowledge which he _then_ possesses puts him in such a position, that he approximates to being one of the tribe, himself; that is, if all that is contained therein be known to him and the tribe, only, it would enable him to pass current, in certain circles of Gipsydom, as one of themselves. [326] There is a point which I have not explained so fully as I might have done, and it is this: "Is any of the blood _ever lost_? that is, does it _ever cease to be Gipsy_, in knowledge and feeling?" That is a question not easily answered in the affirmative, were it only for this reason: how can it ever be ascertained that the knowledge and feeling of being Gipsies become lost? Let us suppose that a couple of Gipsies leave England, and settle in America, and that they never come in contact with any of their race, and that their children never learn anything of the matter from any quarter. (Page 413.) In such an extreme, I may say, such an unnatural, case, the children would not be Gipsies, but, if born in America, ordinary Americans. The only way in which the Gipsy blood--that is, the Gipsy feeling--can possibly be lost, is by a Gipsy, (a man especially,) marrying an ordinary native, (page 381,) and the children never learning of the circumstance. But, as I have said before, how is that ever to be ascertained? The question might be settled in this way: Let the relatives of the Gipsy interrogate the issue, and if it answers, _truly_, that it knows nothing of the Gipsy connexion, and never has its curiosity in the matter excited, it holds, beyond dispute, that "the blood" has been lost to the tribe. For any loss the tribe may sustain, in that way, it gains, in an ample degree, by drawing upon the blood of the native race, and transmuting it into that of its own fraternity. It is the Christian who should be the most ready to take up and do justice to this subject; for he will find in it a very singular work of Providence--the most striking phenomenon in the history of man. In Europe, the race has existed, in an unacknowledged state, for a greater length of time than the Jews dwelt in Egypt. And it is time that it should be introduced to the family of mankind, in its aspect of historical development; embracing, as in Scotland, members ranging from what are popularly understood to be Gipsies, to those filling the first positions in Christian and social society. After perusing the present work, the reader will naturally pass on to reconsider the subject of the Jews; and he will perceive that, instead of its being a miracle by which the Jews have existed since the dispersion, it would have been a miracle had they been lost among the families of mankind. It is quite sufficient for the Christian to know that the Jews now exist, and that they have fulfilled, and will yet fulfill, the prophecies that have been delivered in regard to them, without holding that any miracle has been wrought for that end. A Christian ought to be more considerate in his estimate of what a miracle is: he ought to know that a miracle is something that is contrary to natural laws; and that the existence of the Jews, since the dispersion, is in exact harmony with every natural law. He should not maintain that it is a miracle, for nothing having the decent appearance of an argument can be advanced in support of any such theory; and far less should he, with his eyes open, do what the writer on the Christian Evidences, alluded to, (page 459,) did, with his shut--gamble away both law and gospel.[327] He might give his attention, however, to a prophecy of Moses, quoted by St. Paul, in Rom. x. 19, from Deut. xxxii. 21, wherein it is said of the Jews: "I will provoke you to jealousy by them that are no people, and by a foolish nation I will anger you;" and lend his assistance towards its fulfillment.[328] The subject of the Gipsies is certainly calculated to do all that the prophet said would happen to the Jews; if Christians will only do their duty to them, and, by playing them off against the Jews, _provoke_ and _anger_ Israel beyond measure. That the Jews have existed, since the dispersion, by the Providence of God, is what can be said of any other people, and more especially of the Gipsies for the last four centuries and a half in Europe. It is as natural for the Gipsies to exist in their scattered state, as for other nations by the laws that preserve their identity; and although their history may be termed remarkable, it is in no sense of the word miraculous, notwithstanding the superstitious ideas held by many of the Gipsies on that head, in common with the Jews regarding their history. A thousand years hence the Gipsies will be found existing in the world; for, as a people, they cannot die out; and the very want of a religion peculiar to themselves is one of the means that will contribute to that end.[329] It is the Christian who should endeavour to have the prejudice against the name of Gipsy removed, so that every one of the race should freely own his blood to the other, and make it the basis of a kindly feeling, and a bond of brotherhood, all around the world. [327] It was the nature of man, in ancient times, as it is with the heathen to-day, to _worship_ what could not be understood; while modern civilization seems to attribute such phenomena to _miracles_. It is even presumptuous to have recourse to such an alternative, for the enquirer may be deficient in the intellect necessary to prosecute such investigations, or he may not be in possession of sufficient data. If the European will, for example, ask himself, 1stly: what is the idea which he has of a Gipsy? 2ndly: what are the feelings which he entertains for him personally? And 3dly: what must be the response of the Gipsy to the sentiments of the other? he cannot avoid coming to the conclusion, that the race should "marry among themselves," and that, "let them be in whatever situation of life they may, they all" should "stick to each other." (_Page 369._) [328] Viewing the Gipsies as they are described in this work, and contrasting their history with that of the nations of the world in general, and the Jews in particular, and considering that they have no religion peculiar to themselves, yet are scattered among, and worked into, all nations, but not acknowledged by, or even known to, others, we may, with the utmost propriety, call them, in the language of the prophet, "no people," and a "foolish nation;" yet by no means a nation of fools, but rather more rogues than fools. Of all the ways in which the Gipsies have hoaxed other people, the manner in which they have managed to throw around themselves a sense of their non-existence to the minds of others, is the most remarkable. [329] The prejudice of their fellow-creatures is a sufficiently potent cause, in itself, to preserve the identity of the Gipsy tribe in the world. It has made it to resemble an essence, hermetically sealed. Keep it in that position, and it retains its inherent qualities undiminished; but uncork the vessel containing it, and it might (I do not say it _would_) evaporate among the surrounding elements. I may be allowed to say a word or two to the Gipsies, and more especially the Scottish Gipsies. I wish them to believe, (what they, indeed, believe already,) that their blood and descent are good enough; and that Providence may reasonably be assumed to look upon both with as much complacency and satisfaction, as He does on any other blood and descent. All that they have to do is to "behave themselves;" for, after all, it is behaviour that makes the man. By all means "stick to the ship," but sail her as an honourable merchantman. They need not be afraid at being discovered to be Gipsies; they should feel as much assured on the subject now, as before the publication of this work, and never entertain the least misgiving on that score. They will have an occasion to cultivate a proper degree of confidence in respect to themselves, and be so prepared as never to commit themselves, if they wish not to be known as Gipsies. I know there are few people who have nerve enough so to deport themselves, as to prevent moral detection, who have committed murder, when they are confronted with the objects of it; but if the individuals are perfectly satisfied of there being no evidence against them, they may confidently assume an appearance of innocence. It is so with the Gipsies in settled life, as to their being Gipsies. Generally speaking, their blood is so much mixed as almost to defy detection; although, for the future, some of them will be very apt to look at themselves in their mirrors, to see whether there is much of the "black deil" in their faces. But it rests with themselves to escape detection, and particularly so as regards the fair, brown, and red Gipsies. I may also be allowed to say a word or two to the Church, and people generally. It says little for them, that, although two centuries have elapsed since Bunyan's time, no one has acknowledged him. It surely might have occurred to them to ask, _1stly_: What was that particular family, or tribe, of which Bunyan said he was a member? _2ndly_: Who are the tinkers? _3dly_: What was the meaning of Bunyan entertaining so much solicitude, and undergoing so much trouble, to ascertain whether he, (a _common Englishman_, forsooth!) was a Jew, or not? _4thly_: Was John Bunyan a Gipsy? Let my reader reply to these questions, like a man of honour. Aye or nay, was John Bunyan a Gipsy? "He _was_ a Gipsy." In modern times people will preach the gospel "around about Illyricum," compass sea and land, and penetrate every continent, to bring home Christian trophies; while in Bunyan they have a trophy--a real case of "grace abounding;" and yet no one has acknowledged him, although his fame will be as lasting as the pyramids. John Bunyan was evidently a man who was raised up by God for some great purposes. One of these purposes he has served, and will yet serve; and it becomes us to enquire what further purpose he is destined to serve. It is showing a poor respect for Bunyan's memory, to deny him his nationality, to rob him of his birth-right, and attempt to make him out to have been that which he positively was not. To gratify their own prejudices, people would degrade the illustrious dreamer, from being this great original, into being the off-scourings of all England. People imagine that they would degrade Bunyan by saying that he was a Gipsy. They degrade themselves who do not believe he was a Gipsy; they doubly degrade themselves who deny it. Jews may well taunt Christians in the matter of evidences, and that on a simple matter of fact, affecting no one's interests, temporal or eternal, and as clear as the sun at mid-day; for by Bunyan's own showing he was a Gipsy; but if any further evidence was wanted, how easily could it not have been collected, any time during the last two hundred years! I have hitherto got the "cold shoulder" from the organs of most of the religious denominations on this subject: time will show whether it is always to be so. The Church should know what is its mission: it rests on evidence itself, and it should be the first to follow out its own principles. It should fight its own battles, and give the enemy no occasion to speak reproachfully of it. In approaching this subject, it would be well to do it cheerfully, and gracefully, and manfully, and not as if the person were dragged to it, with a rope around his neck. No one need imagine that by keeping quiet, this matter will blow over. For the Gipsy race cannot die out; nor is this work likely to die out soon; for unless it is superseded by some other, it will come up centuries hence, to judge the present generation on the Gipsy question. May such as have written on the great dreamer never lift up their heads, may his works turn to hot coals in their fingers, may their memories be outlawed, if they allow this unchristian, this unmanly, this silly, this childish, prejudice of caste to prevent them from doing justice to their hero. Nor need any one utter a murmur at the prospect of seeing the Pilgrim's Progress prefaced by a dissertation on the Gipsies, with a Gipsy's camp for a frontispiece. Such a feeling may be expressed by boors, snobs, and counterfeit religionists; but better things are to be expected from other people. Let the reader now pause, and reflect upon the prejudice of caste that exists against the name of Gipsy, and he will fully realize how it is that we should know so little about the Gipsies, and why it is that the Gipsies, as they leave the tent, should hide their nationality from the rest of the world, and "stick to each other." In bringing this Disquisition on the Gipsies to a close, I may be allowed to say a word or two to some of the critics. In the first place, I may venture to assert, that the _subject_ is worthy of a criticism the most disinterested and profound. I am well aware that the publication of the work places me in a position antagonistic alike to authors and critics who have written on the subject, as well as to the prejudices of mankind generally. If critics call in question any of the facts contained in the production, they must give their authorities; if they controvert any of the principles, they must give their reasons. It will not do to play the ostrich instead of the critic. For as the ostrich is said to hide its head in the sand, or in a bush, or, it may be, under its wing, and imagine that because it sees no one, so no one sees it; so there are people, sometimes to be met with, who will not only imagine, but assert, that because they know nothing of a thing, or because they do not understand it, therefore, the thing itself does not exist. This was the way in which Bruce's travels in Africa were received. But we are not living in those times. Procedure such as that described, is playing the ostrich, not the critic. I refer more particularly, however, to what is contained in this Disquisition. Taking the work all through, I think there are sufficient materials contained in it, to enable the critics to settle the various questions among themselves. To place myself in a position a little independent of publishers, (for I have had great difficulty in finding a publisher,) I had the Introduction, (pages 55-67), printed, and circulated among some acquaintances in Canada, for subscribers.[330] A copy of it fell into the hands of an intelligent Scottish newspaper editor, in a small community, where every one knows every other's business nearly as well as his own, and where all about the Prospectus was explained to those to whom it was given. It seems to have frightened and enraged the editor to such an extent, that I entertain little doubt he did not sleep comfortably, for nights in succession, on finding that subject brought to light at his own door, which has been considered, by some, as well-nigh dead and buried long ago. He imagines the circulation of the Prospectus to be confined pretty much to his own neighbourhood; and so he must crush the horrible thing out. But what can he say about it? How put it down? A capital idea occurs to him; he will father it upon Barnum! Let the reader glance again at the Introduction, and imagine how a Scotchman, well posted up on Scotch affairs, past and present, should credit Barnum with the production. He heads his criticism, "The science of humbug," and, in some long and bitter paragraphs, pitches into what he calls American literary quackery; the substance of which is, that the work represented by the Prospectus, is a rare tit-bit of genuine, Barnumized, American humbug! [330] The MS. of this work has undergone many vicissitudes. Among others, it may be mentioned that, in the state in which it was left by the author, it was twice lost, and once stolen; on which last occasion it was recovered, at an expense of one shilling! Then the original copy, in its present form, was stolen, and never recovered. In both instances did that happen under circumstances that such a fate was most unlikely to befall it. Then a copy of it was sent to Scotland, and never acknowledged, although I am in hopes it is now on its return, after a lapse of nearly three years; in which case, I will be more fortunate than the author, who gave the MS. to an individual and never got, and never could get, it back. He finds, however, that he has gone much too far in his description of the Prospectus; so he comes tumbling down a long way from the high position which he took at the start, and continues: "Now, we do not, at present, venture the assertion that the forthcoming 'Scottish Gipsies' is a Yankee get-up, a mere American humbug; but we say the Prospectus savours strongly of the Barnum school; and our reasons for so saying are the following: _Firstly_: It would be nothing less than a literary miracle, that a Scottish work of sufficient merit to command the highest commendations of Sir Walter Scott, and Blackwood's Magazine, should be published, first of all in America, thirty years afterwards--published, by subscription, at one dollar, in a book of 400 pages. We assert, positively, that of such a work William Blackwood, alone, could have disposed of five thousand copies, at double the proposed price. [He is well acquainted with the prices of books in the two countries.] _Secondly_: There is no evidence to connect Sir Walter Scott's note to Quentin Durward with Walter Simson, or any other particular individual; and the same may be said of the _jingle_ of Professor Wilson, and the other allusions in Blackwood's Magazine. _Thirdly_: There is neither danger nor difficulty in writing anything you please, and telling the public it is an extract of a private letter you had from some particular man of eminence, thirty years ago, provided your eminent friend has been many years in his grave. Such a fraud is not easily detected. And _Fourthly_: The reason assigned for publishing the 'Scottish Gipsies' . . . . . is totally upset by the simple fact, that _there are no such people in existence, in so far as Scotland is concerned_. [What an audacity he displays here! What a liberty he takes with the Scotch settlers in his neighbourhood! He is evidently afraid that he has gone too far; so he qualifies what he has said, by adding:] There are, it is true, a few families of itinerant tinkers, or _Tinklers_, according to our peculiar vernacular, who stroll the country, and subsist by making horn-spoons and sauce-pans, which they barter with the rural peasantry, for potatoes and other eatables. They are generally wild, reckless, and dishonest, and are a terror to children and old women. In nineteen cases out of twenty, they are natives of Ireland; and were any person idle enough to trace their genealogy, he would discover that their ancestors, not more than three generations back, were honest brogue-makers, pig-drovers, or, it may be, members of some more elevated occupation. [He has been 'idle enough' to give us a very odd account of the descent, in two senses of the word, of the Irish tinkering Gipsies now in Scotland.] The writer of these remarks is well acquainted with almost the whole Lowlands, and a portion of the West Highlands. He has been familiar with the shires of Fife and Linlithgow, with Annandale, the Upper Ward of Lanarkshire, and the other fabulously reputed haunts of the Gipsies [he seems to have done a little _tramping_ in his time]; and he never saw twenty Scottish _Tinklers_ in his whole life, nor _one single individual_ corresponding to the description we have received of the Gipsies. [He has told us who the _Irish Tinklers_ in Scotland were originally, but does not venture to say anything of the _Scottish_ ones. He will not admit that there is a _Gipsy_ in Scotland, or ever has been; and virtually denies that there are Gipsies in England; for he continues:] The nearest approach to the character is the hawkers from the Staffordshire potteries, who are found living in tents by the way-side, throughout the North Riding of Yorkshire, and the five northern counties of England. These are a kind of savages, who live in families, strolling the country, in large caravans, consisting frequently of half a dozen canvas-covered wagons and twice that number of horses. . . . . . These characters often cross the Border, at Langholm and Gretna Green, and infest Annandale, Roxburghshire, Dumfries-shire, and the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright. [He will not allude to the _tented Gipsies_ in England.] "These two classes of foreign vagrants [why does he call them _foreign_ vagrants? why not say _Gipsies_?] which we mention, are to be found, occasionally, in certain localities of Scotland, [still nothing said of the _Scottish Tinklers_,] and are to be found as a dreaded, dangerous nuisance. But the idea of a race of Scottish Tinklers, or Scottish Gipsies, existing as a distinct and separate people, possessing a native, independent language, and peculiar habits, rites, and ceremonies, and bearing, in many features of their barbarous customs, and outcast destiny, a resemblance to the vagabond Jews; such an idea, we say, has as little foundation in fact, as has Swift's story of the Lilliputians, or the romance of Guy Mannering itself! [It is astonishing what he would not attempt to palm upon the public. Still, he is evidently afraid that the subject will, somehow or other, bite him; and, after all that he has said, he concludes:] Still, we do not, _at present_, assert that the Prospectus we have received is another 'cute move of American humbug; but we do say, if there is a James Simson in existence, who possesses such a manuscript, and such commendations of it as are set forth in this Prospectus, he has already erred sufficiently far to ensure his identification with Yankee quackery. He has been Barnumized into an egregious blunder." [He is bound to discredit the whole affair, under any circumstances, even at the expense of the plainest consistency.] Well might a brother editor reply to the foregoing, thus: "The bile of our excellent friend has just been agitated after a pestilent fashion. . . . . . The announcement [of the intended publication] hath all the ungenial effects upon our gossip that the exhibition of a pair of scarlet decencies produces upon a cranky bull. . . . . . Now, just listen to us quietly for a little. More than two years ago, the manuscript of the above-mentioned treatise on the Scoto-Egyptians came under our ken. We perused the affair with special appetite, and were decidedly of opinion that its publication would be a grateful and important boon to the republic of letters. Mr. Simson is neither a myth nor a disciple of Barnum." Upon the back of this, the first editor writes: "We are pleased to be informed that the work is a _bona fide_ production, and that Mr. Simson is no Yankee fiction. [As if he did not know that from the first.] And albeit he, [the other editor,] furnisheth neither facts nor arguments to satisfy us that our notions of the Gipsies of Scotland are heretical, we willingly accept his recommend that the 'Scottish Gipsies' will be, at least, an entertaining book, and reserve all further remarks till we see it."[!] The foregoing is a very curious criticism; and although I could say a great deal more about it, I refrain from doing so. INDEX. PAGE AFRICANS. Comparison between Africans, in America, and Gipsies generally 50, 493 How they lost their language and superstitions in America 50 The prejudice against Africans in America 54, 441 AFRICAN GIPSIES 428, _n_429 AMERICAN GIPSIES. Many arrived during the Revolution, as impressed soldiers, and volunteers 345 English Gipsies married to native Americans 377 A Gitano has a cigar store in Virginia. Egyptians in Louisiana _n_389 _See Disquisition on the Gipsies_ 418-425 Meeting between English and American Gipsies, in Maryland 430 The Zincali Society in the city of New York, _n_438--Address to the American Gipsies 440 There should be no prejudices against Gipsies in America 441, 524 AMERICAN INDIANS. Comparison between them and the Gipsies generally 53, 55, 446 AMERICAN READER, to the 6, 7, 440, 524, 525 AMUSEMENTS OF GIPSIES 124, 126, 179, 182, 224 ANTIQUARIES. Prejudices of, against the Gipsies _n_7 The profession of, 56, zeal in the calling of _n_57 ARABS. English Gipsies say they are a cross between Arabs and Egyptians 14, 467 How Arabs protect shipwrecked Christians _n_203 They strip people of their clothes in the desert 210 BAILLIES OF LAMINGTON. Their influence of great service to the Scottish Gipsies 121, 205, 213, 470 The connexion between them and the Gipsy tribe of Baillie 185 BAIRD, REV. JOHN. His report on the Gipsy mission to the Church of Scotland 64 His collection of Gipsy words, collated with those of the author 334 On the absence of slang in the Gipsy language _n_338 His plan for improving the Gipsies 368, _n_369 BATTLES, GIPSY. At Stirling, 147, Romanno, 188, Hawick, 190, Eskdale moor, 193, Dumblane 194 BIGGAR. The face of the country about Biggar 141 Gipsy turbulence in Biggar fair 196 BIRTH OF THE ORIGINAL KIND OF GIPSIES 356, _n_357 BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. The author's articles in, 8, 56, 64--Poetical notice of them 66 Hints at a philosophical account of the Gipsies 25 Extracts of Scottish public records, taken from 113 Unintentional attempt of a Gipsy to rob his own clergyman _n_124 Chase after John Young, a Gipsy, resembling a fox hunt _n_144 The unabashed hardihood of Gipsies under suspicion _n_155 Old Will of Phaup's five years' warfare with the Gipsies _n_179 Assault of the Gipsies on Pennicuik House _n_195 The slaughter of William Baillie, a Gipsy chief 206 How the Gipsies acquired a foothold in Yetholm _n_252 Will Faa's twenty-four children, and pompous christenings _n_252 The language spoken by the Gipsies in the Highlands _n_338 The Nuts or Bazegurs of India supposed to be the parent stock of the Gipsies 339 The purity of Gipsy blood, and child stealing--Mr. Borrow's "Gipsies in Spain" 375 The numberless descendants of Billy Marshall, a Gipsy chief _n_388 The Duchess of Gordon saves two Gipsies from the gallows 470 BLACKWOOD, WILLIAM. His four letters to the author 56 He originates the idea of a history of the Gipsies _n_59 Letter to him, describing the escapes and execution of Peter Young, a Gipsy 145 His contribution on the Gipsies in Tweed-dale 196, on the Border 251 BORDER GIPSIES. The district in which the Faas travelled 236 The tribes of Faa and Baillie in a state of hostility 236 Quarrel in an English Gipsy family, in America: "the Faas and Baillies over again" _n_237 Henry Faa sits at the tables of people in public office, and receives blackmail from men of considerable fortune 237 The mercantile house of Fall, of Dunbar, founded by Gipsies 237 Captain Fall a member of parliament--the family rule the political interests of Dunbar 237 Mrs. Fall works, in tapestry, a group of the founders of the family, with their asses, &c. 237 Anecdotes of the Falls with reference to their tribe and origin _n_238 The extensive nature of the Fall firm, and the cause of its ruin 233 Miss Fall marries Sir John Anstruther, of Elie, baronet 238 The rabble insult her at an election, in which Sir John is a candidate 239 The song of "Johnny Faa, the Gipsy Laddie" 239 The Earl of Cassilis the husband of her who absconded with the "Gipsy Laddie" 241 Adventure of a relative of Sir Walter Scott among the Gipsies 241 The original of Meg Merrilies, 242--The execution of her sons, 243--She is drowned by the rabble, at Carlisle, for being a jacobite 244 The grandfather of Sir Walter Scott is feasted by the Gipsies, on Charter-house moor 244 Contribution of Baillie Smith, of Kelso, to Hoyland's "Survey of the Gipsies" 245 Attachment of the Yetholm Gipsies to their mode of life, their independence, peculiar points of honour, honesty when trusted, the number of the tribe in the county, 245--Their employment given to hunting and fishing, 246--The nature of their leases, the late proprietor calls them his body-guard, his successor grants no more leases to the tribe, they stay at home during the winter months only, they seldom marry out of the tribe, 247--Their physical peculiarities, occasional migrations, burials, education, church attendance and baptism, 248--un- steadiness of disposition, they will pay their rents only when it suits themselves, 248--They resent an interference with the Debatable Lands, 249--Sir Walter Scott points out a Gipsy, 250--Will Faa, the Gipsy king, claims kin with the Messrs. Fall, merchants, of Dunbar, Will's death and burial, 251-- Report on the Gipsies by the sheriffs _n_251 Contribution from Mr. Blackwood, towards a history of the Gipsies 251 Yetholm first occupied by the Faas and the Youngs, tradition of their first settlement, _n_252--Will Faa and the Falls of Dunbar, Will thrice married, his twenty-four children, and pompous christenings, has charge of Marlfield house, the sheriff becomes his security, his corpse escorted by 300 asses, 252--His son and successor, his brother a lieutenant in the East India Company's service, Gipsy fights, recovery of a stolen mare, quarrels among the tribe, 253--The Walker family, and civilized Gipsies about Yetholm, Gipsy connexions, education, no female Gipsy educated, the colony free of imputed crime for fifty years 254 The author's visit to Yetholm--Handling the cudgel 254 A smuggling adventure of Will Faa--His appearance--A lament on his death 255 His relations in New York--A great many of the tribe scattered over the world _n_255 BORROW, GEORGE. His publications on the Gipsies, since this work was written 6, 64 In error on the subject of Gipsies stealing children _n_9, _n_342 On the Gipsy language, 23, _n_281, _n_298, _n_338, _n_431--On Timour overrunning India 38 In error in saying that the Gipsies obtained the name of Egyptians from others 39 Description of English Gipsies, and the English dialect spoken by them _n_93 Spanish Gipsy counts, _n_107, 397, _n_468--Act of Charles II. against Spaniards, for protecting the Gipsies _n_114 Gipsies poison swine, and eat their flesh _n_186 English Gipsy surnames--Travelling Gipsies have two names _n_219 Chastity among young Spanish Gipsy females, _n_257--Spanish Gipsy marriage ceremony _n_262 The character of Spanish Gipsy women _n_285 On the Law of Charles III., ameliorating the condition of the Spanish Gipsies _n_313, 392 Song of a female Gipsy, at Moscow, _n_317--On the Sclavonic in the Gipsy language _n_338 He meets with a rich Gipsy in Spain, _n_347--How Gipsies resist cold weather _n_354 Meeting between a French and Spanish Gipsy, in the heat of a battle _n_360 On the education of the Spanish Gipsies _n_365 Religion among the Moscow Gipsies--He preaches to the tribe in Spain _n_366 A half-blood Spanish Gipsy captain, 372, _n_373, 377--Civilized Gipsies in Moscow 374, 399, _n_408 Shuffling of the Gipsies regarding marriage with ordinary natives _n_375 Characters in Lavengro and the Romany Rye _n_375, 508, _n_509 The Spanish Gipsies generally; _See Disquisition on the Gipsies_ 385-397 The natural capacity of Gipsies--different classes in Spain, Turkey, and Russia 398 No washing will turn the Gipsy white, 413--Moorish Gipsies in Africa 428 He is taken for a Gipsy in Spain, 397, and at Moscow 430 On the grammatical peculiarities of the Gipsy language _n_431 On the hatred entertained by the Gipsies for other people _n_433 On Gipsy ingratitude--lawlessness in Spain 435 Mr. Borrow as an authority on the Gipsies 448, 450, 523 On the Russian Gipsies owning flocks and herds 466 Description of a superior Spanish Gipsy, in 1584 _n_468 BRIGHT, DR. (TRAVELS IN HUNGARY.) The phenomenon of the existence of the Gipsies 7 The existence of the Gipsy language little short of the miraculous 24 He hopes to see a satisfactory account of the Gipsies 25 Description of Gipsy life in England 30 Description of Gipsy dwellings, and their locations, in Hungary _n_141 Spanish Gipsy marriage ceremony, _n_261--Spanish Gipsy widows _n_274 The difficulties in acquiring the Gipsy language _n_281 He suggests that the Gipsy language should be collated with vulgar Hindostanee 330 An Hungarian nobleman's opinion on the civilization of the Gipsies 367 BRUCE, JAMES, (TRAVELS IN AFRICA.) Account of the Arabs protecting shipwrecked Christians _n_203 Method of selling cargoes, at Jedda, to the Turks _n_312 His discoveries discredited 537 BUNSEN, CHEVALIER, ON SOUND JUDGMENT AND SHALLOW MINDS _n_518 BUNYAN, JOHN. He alludes to Gipsy women stealing children, _n_80--He is bred to the business of a brazier _n_206 His family history illustrated by the author's visit to a Gipsy, met with at St. Boswell's 309 His wife before Judge Hale, _n_313, 517--His description of his early habits, or "youthful vanities" _n_402 His nationality, and that of his tribe; _See Disquisition on the Gipsies._ 507-523 The name of Bunyan calculated to raise up that of the Gipsies 530 He is still unacknowledged, though his fame will be as lasting as the pyramids 535 Some people imagine it would degrade Bunyan, to say he was a Gipsy 536 BURNS, ROBERT. His "Jolly Beggars;" "My bonny lass, I work in brass" _n_346 He alludes to the Falls, of Dunbar, in his tour _n_406 CANADA. A Scottish Gipsy family in, 18--Gipsies in 424 A criticism on this work, while in prospect, by a Scotch editor in 537 CAPPADOCE FAMILY, VICISSITUDES IN THE RELIGIOUS HISTORY OF THE 497 CARLYLE, DR. ALEXANDER. Execution of Jock Johnstone, _n_201--Jenny Fall, afterwards Lady Anstruther _n_239 CASSILIS, THE COUNTESS OF. Elopes with John Faa, a Gipsy chief, 108--The song of "Johnny Faa, the Gipsy Laddie," composed thereon 239 CASTE. In India, 28--In Great Britain, 52, 54, 440, 443, 516, 522--In America 54, 441, 525 CHAMBERS' GAZETTEER. Description of Yetholm, _n_141--Gipsy scenes at St. Boswell's fair _n_353 CHAMBERS' JOURNAL--On the disappearance of the Gipsies _n_449 CHAMBERS' MISCELLANY--An account of Peter Young, a Gipsy _n_146 CHILD STEALING BY THE GIPSIES 9, 45, _n_80, 342, 375 CHURCH OF SCOTLAND. Mission among the Scottish Gipsies 6, 55, 64, _n_369 A Gipsy one of the committee of the missionary society 6 Gipsies clergymen in the Scottish Church 6, 412 Mission of enquiry to the Jews; the Gipsies of Wallachia _n_73 CHURCH, THE. Religious journals decline entertaining the question, "Was John Bunyan a Gipsy?", 522, 525--The Church should do its duty to the Gipsy race generally 440, 443, 533, 535, 536 CLARKE, DR., (TRAVELS IN RUSSIA, &c.) Characters or the Gipsies in Wallachia, 74--Gipsy dances in Moscow 180 COLLIERS, GIPSY--In the Lothians, _n_111--In the English mines 401 COLLIERS, SCOTCH, SLAVES _n_111, _n_121, 506 CONSTABLES. A Gipsy constable murdered, another hanged, and a third banished 215-218 Gipsies formerly employed as county constables--Their peculiarities 343 Gipsy constables at the present day 348 A mixed Gipsy makes a good constable and thief-catcher _n_348 CONTINENTAL GIPSIES. The times at which the tribe appeared in the different countries in Europe 69 The appellations given to them, in various countries 69 Notice of the Gipsies, as they appeared at Paris, in 1427 70 Their original country unknown--At first, they receive passports as pilgrims 70 Persecutions in Spain, France, and Italy, in Denmark, Sweden, the Netherlands, and Germany 71 A general extermination never took place 72 Theft and robbery, and "sorning," or masterful begging, the causes of these persecutions 72 The habits of the Gipsies everywhere the same, 72--They have no religion peculiar to themselves 73 The condition and classes of the Gipsies in the Danubian Principalities 73 Allusion to these Gipsies, in a mission of enquiry to the Jews, in 1839 _n_73 Remarks on the slavery of these Gipsies--Gipsies as spies, in the late Russian war _n_74 The Gipsies in the Turkish empire, in Italy, Poland, Lithuania, Germany, and France 75 Remarks on Grellmann's alleged disappearance of the Gipsies from France _n_76 The Gipsies in Spain, according to Dr. Bright 76 The Gipsies of Syria, the Crimea, Persia, and India 77 The population of the Gipsies in Europe, and the world generally 77 The imposing titles and equipage of the leaders of the Gipsies, on their arrival in Europe 77 The nature and form of government among the Continental Gipsies 78 An account of German Gipsy bands, translated by Sir Walter Scott, for Blackwood's Magazine 78 Baron Trenck, in his wanderings, falls in with a German Gipsy band 86 The Gipsies of the Pyrenees--Their resemblance to the inferior class of Scottish Gipsies 86 COOKING AMONG THE GIPSIES 88, 187, 232 COUNTERFEITING AMONG THE GIPSIES 174, 204 CRABB, REV. JAMES. The Gipsies, as they become civilized, avoid the barbarous part of the tribe _n_283 The Hindostanee and the Gipsy languages, _n_334--His plan for improving the Gipsies 368 CRITICS. A word or two to--A criticism on this work, while in prospect, by a Scotch editor in Canada 537 DANCING AMONG THE GIPSIES 179, 180, 182 DEAD, THE BURIAL OF THE, AMONG THE GIPSIES _n_128 DISGUISES OF THE GIPSIES 129, 150, 162, 169, 177, 213, 222, 320, _n_323, 349, 355 DISQUISITION ON THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE OF GIPSYDOM. Points omitted by the author--The philosophy of the Gipsy subject 371 Gipsydom a _terra incognita_--Its origin, language, and habits strange to other people 371 Natural perpetuation of the tribe--Mixed Gipsies hold by the connexion 372 The prejudice of caste--A half-blood Spanish Gipsy captain 372 An iron-master marries a Cinderella, 373--Civilized Gipsies in Moscow, and Scotland 374 The Gipsies mix their blood--No full-blood Gipsies in Scotland 374 The Edinburgh Review and Blackwood's Magazine on the purity of Gipsy blood 374 How Gipsies shuffle on the point--The case of Ursula, in the Romany Rye _n_375 The physical peculiarities of mixed Gipsies 375, and other mixed races 376 Appearance of the half-blood captain--The Gipsies partial to fair hair 377 Mixed Gipsies common everywhere--Grellmann on the colour of Gipsies _n_377 American mixed Gipsies, 377--The Gipsies receive males rather than females into their tribe 378 How female Gipsies "manage" natives, when they marry them 378 How Gipsies are brought up to adhere to their race 379 Remarks of Mr. George Offor on young female Gipsies generally _n_380 Little difference if the father is a native--Town Gipsies visit the tent in their youth _n_380 Fair-haired Gipsies, 381--They are superior to the others--the two kinds will readily marry _n_382 The peculiarities of black and fair Gipsies--The _pons assinorum_ of the Gipsy question 383 The destiny of European-like Gipsies, and of the tribe generally 383 The philosophy of the mixture of Gipsy blood--The issue always Gipsy 384 Mr. Borrow on the Spanish Gipsies generally. If no laws are passed against them 385 Their social position, intermarriages, the law of Charles III. on the prejudice against the tribe 386 Gipsyism like Freemasonry, _n_387--Mrs. Fall's ancestral group of Gipsies 387 A Scotchman on the destiny of the Gipsies, 387--Nothing interferes with the question of tribe 388 Scottish _literati_ on the destiny of the Gipsies--A cloud of ignorance protects the tribe _n_388 The Gipsies "declining," according to Mr. Borrow, 388--His singular inconsistencies 389 Change in the habits of Gitanos--They are to be found in Cuba, Mexico, and the United States 389 Mr. Borrow leaves the question of the Spanish Gipsies where he found it 390 The Gipsies "decreasing," by changing their habits, and intermarriages 390 Gipsies ashamed of the name before the world--Two kinds of Gipsies in Badajoz 391 The law of Charles III., 392--Its real meaning--Causes of Spanish Gipsy civilization 393 The law of Charles III. little more than nominal, 394--The Church did not annoy the Gitanos 395 Mr. Borrow's Spanish Gipsy authorities--The tribe the same in Spain as in Great Britain 395 "Strangers" among English Gipsies, "foreign tinkers" among those in Spain 396 Mixed Gipsies in Spain--Persecutions against the Spanish and Scottish Gipsies 397 The tinkers and Rothwelsh in the Austrian dominions 397 The natural capacity of Gipsies--Opinions of Grellmann, Bischoff, Borrow 398 Various classes of Gipsies, according to Mr. Borrow, Spanish, Turkish, and Russian 399 The original Scottish Gipsies, how they encreased, mixed their blood, and spread 399 Their internal polity and numbers, style of life, 400--How English Gipsies leave the tent 401 The natural vicissitudes of an English Gipsy, after leaving the tent 401 Gipsy ambition, 401--John Bunyan's early habits as described by himself _n_402 The character of Scottish Gipsies, and their opinion of themselves and tribe 402 Phases of history through which the Scottish Gipsies have passed 402 The vicissitudes in the history of a respectable Scottish Gipsy family, settling in a town 404 Gipsies among the best Edinburgh families--An eminent Scottish Gipsy clergyman 405 The Falls, of Dunbar, Gipsies--Burns visits them, _n_406, they are noticed in the Statistical Account of Scotland _n_406 They divulge their tribe, over their cups--Will Faa their relative--The Scottish Gipsies claim them 406 Their ancestors Gipsy kings--The Gipsy language in the family 407 Miss Fall, afterwards Lady Anstruther, her feelings--The other connexions of the Falls 408 Mr. Borrow's visit to, and description of, the Gipsies of Moscow _n_408 The Gipsies proud of their ancestors, though thieves and robbers 409 Border and Highland thieves and robbers, 409--Sir Walter Scott's ancestors _n_410 Gipsy and Highland thieving--The McGregors and the Gipsies 411 Fitz-James' address to Roderick Dhu, in the "Lady of the Lake" _n_411 A Gipsy is a Gipsy, whether barbarous, civilized, educated, or Christianized 412 Pritchard on the Hungarian race, past and present 413 Civilized Scottish Gipsies--What they say of themselves 414 The Gipsies should be judged by a standard different from that applicable to ordinary natives 414 The circumstances attending a wild Gipsy make him only half responsible 414 The race, in its development, should be more leniently treated than others 415 The antiquity of the Gipsies, they are probably the descendants of the shepherd kings 415 The confession of the Scotch clergyman unintelligible, unless fully explained 415 What might be expected of the Gipsy tribe, the Scottish Gipsies especially 415 Population of the Scottish Gipsies, and the British Gipsies generally 416 The Gipsies are afraid of strange Gipsies, when at home--A French and German Gipsy in New York _n_416 Scottish vagabonds, noticed by Fletcher of Saltoun, in 1680, were doubtless Gipsies _n_417 Scottish Gipsy encrease, since 1506, Sir Walter Scott's opinion on the destiny and number of the Scottish Gipsies, letter of James IV. to the king of Denmark in favour of Anthonius Gawino, Gipsy trials, Gipsies banished and hanged, the descendants of the Gipsies "prodigiously numerous" _n_418 America, Gipsies banished to, 418--A Gipsy colony in New England--Colonial Gipsies would not likely take to the tent--Their occupations 419 European Gipsies in America, 420--Arrival and modes of life of English Gipsies 421 Fortune-tellers: their mode of travelling, tricks, captures, and escapes 422 The Slave States naturally suitable to the Gipsies--Travelling Gipsies in Canada 424 Scottish Gipsies in the United States and Canada--Gipsies everywhere 424 Resemblance between the formation of Gipsydom and that of the United States 425 The peculiar feelings of Gipsies--Highland and Lowland feuds--Gipsy resentment 425 The prejudice against the Gipsies compels them to hide their nationality 426 What is it that frightens the educated Gipsies? The word Gipsy 426 In what other than a hidden state could we expect to find the Gipsies? 427 The difficulty in discovering who are, and who are not, Gipsies, at the present day 428 Gipsy blood changed into almost pure black, in Africa, as well as white, in Europe 428 Gipsies found near the sources of the Senegal and Gambia _n_429 The universality of the Gipsies--Meeting between English and American Gipsies 430 Language of the Gipsies in England and Scotland--Rivalry in its pronunciation 431 The construction of German and Spanish Gipsy, 431--The purity of Hungarian Gipsy _n_432 Respectable Scottish Gipsies, and the Gipsy language: "Are ye a' Tinklers?" 432 The Gipsy language in America--In Spain _n_432 The number of words sufficient for every-day use in any language _n_432 The Gipsy language in Great Britain mixed, but still serves the purposes of a speech 432 The Scottish Gipsies the last to forget the language--The causes of its perpetuation 433 Hatred of the Gipsies for other people--Mr. Borrow on that hatred _n_433 The treatment of the Gipsies made them worse than they might have been 434 Gipsy gratitude, 434--Gipsy law--Borrow and Grellmann on Gipsy ingratitude 435 Unreasonableness of expecting much gratitude from Gipsies 435 Gratitude among mankind generally--The nature of benefits conferred on Gipsies 435 Means of improving the Gipsies--The feeling between them and the ordinary natives 436 The name of Gipsy should be raised up, and the tribe respected according to merit 437 Respectable Scottish Gipsies are Scotch people, and should come forward, and own themselves up 437 The Zincali society in the city of New York _n_438 An appeal to the Scottish Gipsies, 438, and to those in America 440 The prejudices of British people against Gipsies, 440, and Americans against Negroes 441 What is to be the future of the Gipsy race?--Gipsydom immortal 441 The introduction of the Gipsies to the society of mankind, 442--The hereditary prejudice of centuries 443 Missions among heathen and Jews, 443--The Gipsies should, at least, be countenanced 444 The Gipsies are Gipsies everywhere, and under all circumstances 444 The way in which the Gipsies should be received into the society of other people 445 The Gipsies are a people that exist, and not such as disappear, like the American Indians 446 The popular idea of Gipsies and Jews--Gipsies that preach the gospel, and argue the law 447 Erroneous ideas of writers generally as to the Gipsies--Mr. Borrow 448 The Gipsies a question of people--Billy Marshall and his descendants 448 No distinction has been made between race and habits, 448--Chambers' Journal _n_449 The Gipsies compared to a clan, in the olden time--The McGregor clan 449 English, American, and Gipsy races mixed, 450--Mixed races illustrated by individual families, 451 The mixture of Gipsy blood always leaves the issue Gipsy--Jewish Gipsies possible 451 How the subject of the Gipsies has hitherto been treated--It is necessary to sound the mind of the Gipsy 452 The life of a superior Gipsy compared to a continual conspiracy against society 453 The position occupied by the popular kind of Gipsy--His ideas on the persecutions of his race 453 The condition from which all Gipsies have sprung--Popular prejudices and ideas 454 The introduction of German blood into Great Britain and America 454 How the Gipsies have encreased and spread--Native blood has been lost among them 455 The introduction of Huguenot blood into Great Britain and America 455 The Gipsies have hitherto been "strangers in the land," unacknowledged by others 456 The principles of Gipsy nationality--Gipsies like Free-masons 456 Gipsydom is not a creed, but a work stamped by Providence on the heart of the tribe 457 Blood, language, a cast of mind, and signs specially constitute the Gipsy nationality 457 The possession of a special religion not necessary to constitute a people distinct from others 457 The same principle illustrated in races, clans, families, or individuals, living in the same community 458 The existence of the Gipsies is natural, it resembles that of the Jews; neither is miraculous 458 Philosophical historians on the existence of the Jews since the dispersion 458 By what human means can Jews cease to be Jews, individually or nationally? 459 A writer on the Christian Evidences, in describing the existence of the Jews, gambles away revelation 459 His language on the subject of the Jews very applicable to the existence of the Gipsies 459 No outward difference between many Gipsy and native Scotch 460 How Scottish Gipsies deport themselves on meeting--Civilised and _bush_ Gipsies 460 The general difference between Gipsy and native Scotch people 461 A mixed Gipsy has sometimes "various bloods" to contend for 461 What Scottish Gipsies think of their ancestors and language 462 The Scottish Gipsies, as they acquire education, become superior in character 462 The children of civilised and barbarous Gipsies compared 463 The singular position of the Gipsies, from generation to generation, and century to century 464 How the gulf between the Gipsies and the native race is to be bridged 465 The Gipsies, on their arrival in Europe, were barbarous, like other races 465 A superior Scottish Gipsy in 1540, and 1840 466 The Gipsies never were a nomadic race, in the ordinary sense of the word 466 General description of the occupations and characters of the original Gipsies 467 The superior characters of the early Scottish Gipsy chiefs--Their treatment by the natives 467 The character of a superior Spanish Gipsy, in 1584, _n_468 Mixture of "the blood" on arrival, 468--Intermarriages under certain circumstances 469 The plans of the Gipsies to secure their position in the country--Illegitimate children 469 The attachment of Jewesses and Gipsies to their respective races 470 The protection of the Baillies, of Lamington, to the Gipsies of that name 470 Two Gipsies pardoned through the intercession of the Duchess of Gordon 470 Scotland became the home of the tribe, as much as that of the ordinary natives 471 Effects of the mixture of Gipsy blood--Intermarriages among natives of different ranks 472 The census need not be consulted for the number of the Gipsy population 472 How the Jewish race is perpetuated--Their religion of secondary importance 473 Christian Jews--Their feelings of nationality--No prejudices against them, or civilized Gipsies 474 The rearing of Gipsies and Jews, in what respect they resemble each other 475 The Gipsies stand towards religions, as Christianity does towards races 475 The purity of Jewish blood a figment, 475--What may be termed a "pure Jew" 477 The relative positions of Jews and Gipsies: Gipsies troublesome, but not scoffers at religion 477 The want of a religion among the Gipsies--Their feelings in regard thereto 478 The ways of Scottish Gipsies and Highland Scotch 478 Scottish Gipsies are British subjects--Their romantic descent 479 Tacitus' account of the destruction of the Druids, in the island of Anglesey _n_479 The weak position of the Gipsies--Jewish and Gipsy literature 480 The being a Gipsy, as distinguished from objectionable habits, immaterial to the world 481 The probable result of the word Gipsy being as much respected as it is now despised 481 The Gipsies originally a wandering, tented tribe, with habits peculiar to itself 481 The difficulties in the way of the tribe becoming settled and civilized 482 The manner in which the Gipsies gradually acquire honest habits 482 Public sympathy for the Gipsies, in preference to the Jews 483 No prejudice should be entertained for well-behaved Gipsies 484 The Jews are disliked, and are, to a certain extent, strangers everywhere 484 They are rebels against Heaven--"Which of the prophets have they not persecuted?" 484 The interest of the Christian in their history--Their crucifixion of the Messiah--How they treat his mission 485 Their antagonistic position towards every people and religion, 486--Their personal characters 487 The destruction of Jerusalem confirmed the Jews in the idea that theirs was a scattered people 487 The existence of the Jews, since the dispersion, not in itself wonderful 488 The Jew's nationality is everywhere--His aversion to forsake his own race or community 488 The Jews are a race--A Christian Jewish church possible--Its position and aspects 488 The present position of Christian Jews, 488--The relation of a Christian Jewish Church to the Mosaic law 489 The scriptural idea of a Messiah--Christian Jews _incog._--The conversion of Jews generally 489 It is no elevated regard for Moses that prevents Jews entertaining the claims of Jesus Christ 490 But rather the phenomena connected with the history of their race 490 The Jews exist under a spell--The prophecy of Moses regarding the Gipsies _n_491 The Jews are not apt to notice the present work _n_491 The population of the Gipsies scattered over the world 491 How the laws passed against the Gipsies were generally rendered nugatory 492 Grellmann's estimate--The probable number of Gipsies in Europe and America 493 The population of the Jews scattered over the world _n_493 Christians delude the Jews in regard to the existence of their race being a miracle 493 The Jew's idea of the existence of his race is the greatest bar to his conversion to Christianity 494 The "mixed multitude" of the Exodus was doubtless the origin of the Gipsies 494 The meaning of Gamaliel's advice--St. Paul before the Jewish council _n_494 The history of the Gipsies and the Jews greatly illustrate each other 496 The distinction between an Englishman and an English Jew 496 Persecutions of races generally--How to prevent a Gipsy being a Gipsy 496 Tacitus on the religion of slaves _n_496 Birth and rearing constitute Jews, Gipsies, and Gentiles 497 Christian Jews persecuted by their own race--The Disraeli and Cappadoce families 497 Christianity was not intended, nor is it capable, to destroy the nationality of Jews 498 The Jew may be crossed out by intermarriage--The Gipsy absorbs other races 498 Gipsies and Jews have each a peculiarly original and distinct soul of nationality 499 Each race maintains its identity in the world, and may be said to be even eternal 499 Comparison and contrast between Gipsies and Jews 499 The existence of the Jews, like that of the Gipsies, rests upon a question of people 501 The religion or the Jews, 501--Their idea of a Messiah 502 Difference between Judaism and Christianity 502 The position of Jews towards Christianity and other religions 502 The persecutions of Jews and Gipsies--The extent of a Gipsy's wants 502 The Jews show little regard for their religion, when tolerated and well treated 503 The prejudice against Jews--Their ideas of their race, as distinguished from others 503 The treatment of Christians by Jews 504 What has the Jew got to say to this subject generally? 504 The philosophy of the Gipsies--Popular ideas in regard to them--A mental phenomenon 505 A regard to facts--The Gipsy language--Two races living on the same soil 506 The Gipsies hide their race--The kind of them that should be despised 506 John Bunyan a Gipsy, whose blood was mixed 507 All the Gipsies tinkers, either literally, figuratively, or representatively 507 Lord Macaulay on Bunyan: "the tinkers a hereditary caste" 507 In what respect are the tinkers a _native_ "hereditary caste?" 507 Characters in Mr. Borrow's Lavengro and Romany Rye--English Gipsies 508, _n_509 Prejudice against Gipsies--The legal responsibility--the Act of Queen Elizabeth 510 Bunyan's tribe--His great desire to ascertain whether he was an Israelite 510 A Gipsy family (809-818) that illustrates that of Bunyan 511 The reason why Bunyan imagined he was a Jew 511 The Jews not then tolerated in England--The curiosity of the Gipsies regarding the Jews 511 Southey on tinkering and Bunyan's education--Bunyan had doubtless a Gipsy pass 512 The Dublin University Magazine on Bunyan's nationality 512 The philosophy of race, and the prejudice of caste against the Gipsies 513 Justice Keeling threatens to have Bunyan hanged for preaching _n_513 Bunyan a Gipsy beyond question--Lord Macaulay on the Pilgrim's Progress 514 Religious writers averse to it being said that Bunyan was a Gipsy 514 Sir Walter Scott and Mr. George Offor on Bunyan's tribe or nationality 515 Bunyan's nationality unacknowledged, owing to popular ignorance and prejudice 515 Southey on Bunyan's family and fame--The popularity of the Pilgrim's Progress 516 Bunyan's reserve--His friends and enemies--He cannot get justice done to him 517 Bunyan and the Gipsy language--He was perhaps capable of writing in it 517 The prejudice of the present day--Bunsen on sound judgment and shallow minds _n_518 The world should feel relieved by it being shown that Bunyan was a Gipsy 518 Bunyan's pedigree--He had very probably no English blood in his veins 518 The world claims Bunyan as a man; England, the formation of his character 519 Bunyan's biographers unjust to his memory--His general as well as moral character 519 Though pious and peaceable, he yet repelled slanders with indignation 520 The style of Bunyan's language indicates the Gipsy in some degree 520 The indignities cast upon Bunyan--The way in which he treated them 521 Remarks upon Bunyan's enemies, who professed themselves to be servants of Christ _n_521 The prejudice of caste in Great Britain exists against the Gipsies exclusively 521 The day is gone by when it cannot be said who John Bunyan was 523 Scantiness of information in Mr. Borrow's works on the subject of the Gipsies 523 American people are not expected to indulge in the popular prejudice against the Gipsies 524 American religious journals decline to entertain the question: "Was John Bunyan a Gipsy?" 525 The peculiarities of Scottish people unfavourable to the Gipsies owning themselves up in Scotland 525 The nature of Scottish quarrelsomeness, 526--The classes favourable and unfavourable to the Gipsies 527 A "model Scot," after his kind, 528--No one in particular to blame for the position occupied by the Gipsies 529 The Gipsy subject interesting, and not necessarily low or vulgar, though more or less barbarous 529 The wild Gipsies should be reached indirectly--Their high opinion of themselves 529 John Bunyan's celebrity--His name of great use in raising up that of the Gipsies 530 A little judgment is necessary in dealing with wild or any kind of Gipsies 530 The peculiar sensations felt in coming in contact with wild Gipsies 531 Gipsies are Gipsies to the last drop of the original blood 532 The history of the Gipsies a singular work of Providence 532 It would have been a miracle had the Jews been lost among mankind 533 What a miracle is--The existence of the Jews is in exact harmony with every natural law 533 A prophecy of Moses regarding a people who are to provoke and anger the Jews 533 A thousand years hence the Gipsies will be found existing in the world 534 A word or two to the Gipsies, and especially the Scottish Gipsies 534 A word or two to the Church, and people generally: "Was John Bunyan a Gipsy?" 535 The reason why we know so little about the Gipsies 536 A word or two to some of the critics 537 A criticism on the present work, while in prospect 537 DISRAELI, the present, a Jew, though a Christian 497 DIVORCE CEREMONIES OF THE GIPSIES, AND SACRIFICE OF HORSES. The Gipsies not licentious in their personal morals--They are strict with their wives, in the matter of chastity 266 Divorces among the Gipsies are attended with much grief and mourning 267 Natural that the Gipsies should have as singular a form of divorce as that of marriage 267 The nature of sacrifices--Their universality among mankind 267 Why was the Gipsy sacrifice of the horse not known in Scotland before? 267 The Gipsies have a great affection for the horse--They will not eat of that animal _n_268 Writers have made no discovery, among the Gipsies, of a religious nature 268 The Gipsy sacrifice of the horse a proof that the people come from Hindostan 268 The idea of Gipsies being Tartars strengthened by their sacrifice of the horse 269 Other nations who have sacrificed horses--The Jews in the time of Josiah _n_269 Popular tradition, among the natives, that Gipsies separated over dead horses 270 Instances accidentally and partially noticed by the natives 270 "Patricos" performed ceremonies over dead horses, in England, prior to 1674 271 Preliminary remarks on the sacrifice of horses--"The sun must be at its height" 271 A description of the ceremony of sacrifice and divorce 272 The horse considered in the place of the woman, 272--Sometimes both are sacrificed 273 The woman dismissed, with a bill of divorce--The husband and his friends then eat the heart of the horse 274 The husband may marry again, but the wife never 274 Her fate, if she loses her bill of divorce, or passes herself off as never having been married 274 Spanish Gipsy widows, according to Dr. Bright _n_274 A Gipsy, in a passion, shoots his horse, and performs the ceremony of divorce, forthwith 274 The sacrifice of the horse observed by the Gipsies in Russia 275 They do it in the woods, under night, for fear of the police 275 The Gipsies, of Yetholm, knock down their asses, when they separate from their wives 276 The sacrifice of the horse in ancient India, known as the _Assummeed Jugg_ 276 The explanation of the mystic meaning contained in that sacrifice 277 The very acme and enthusiasm of allegory in an Asiatic genius 279 The ancient Hindoo sacrifice of the horse and the scape-goat of the Jews compared 279 The Gipsy and ancient Hindoo sacrifice of the horse compared 279 Both offered to the sun--Travelling Gipsies change their names at noon 280 Robert Southey and Colonel Tod on the sacrifice of the horse in India 280 The sacrifice of the horse by the Gipsies, a proof that the people came from India 280 DRESS OF THE GIPSIES 43, 77, 79, 108, 116, 129, 145, 149, 154, 157, 162, 171, 177, 182, 186, 197, 202, 209, 213, 214 DRUIDS, destruction of the, in the Island of Anglesey _n_479 DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE. The number of words sufficient for every-day use, in any language _n_432 Bunyan's nationality: "Was John Bunyan a Gipsy?" 512 EDINBURGH REVIEW, The, on the purity of Gipsy blood--Mr. Borrow's "Gipsies in Spain" 374 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION. The discovery and history of barbarous races illustrate the history of man, and natural and revealed religion 27 Barbarism within, and barbarism without, the circle of civilization 27 The Gipsies an anomaly in the history of civilization, and merit great consideration 27 European civilization progressive, and homogeneous in its nature 28 Asiatic civilization stationary and, in some countries, divided into castes 28 The nature of caste in India 28 The natives of certain parts of Oceanic Asia 29 The condition of the most original kind of Gipsies, in Great Britain--Their secrecy 29 Description of Gipsy life in England, by Dr. Bright 30 The first appearance of the Gipsies in Europe--Attempts at elucidating their history 31 The political state of Europe at the beginning of the fifteenth century 31 The great schism in the church--Three Popes reigning at one time 32 The educational end social condition of Europe about that time 33 The manner in which the Gipsies stole into Europe 35 The influx of the Greeks into Europe--The literary pursuits of the age, 37--English travellers 38 The Gipsies not Sudras--Timour--The Gipsies at Samarcand previous to his invasion of India 39 The Gipsies did not obtain the name of Egyptians from others, as Mr. Borrow supposes 39 The Gipsies are not the Egyptians mentioned by the Prophet Ezekiel 40 What misleads writers in their ideas that the Gipsies are not Egyptians 41 The relative position borne by the early Gipsies to the various classes of society 41 The travelling Gipsies much fallen below those of the olden times 43 The dread always entertained for the tribe, 44--Fire-raising and child-stealing 45 The Gipsies frighten children, 46--And act as police, or scare- crows, for farmers 47 The ferocity of Gipsy women, 47--Sir Walter Scott's recollections of the original of Meg Merrilies 48 The intercourse between the tribe and the farmers, in pastoral districts 48 The timidity of the Gipsies, when accosted under certain circumstances 49 Comparison between Africans, in America, and the Gipsy race generally 50 Some of the causes of the isolation of the Gipsies from the rest of the world 51 The history of the Gipsies somewhat illustrated by that of the American Indians 53 The prejudice against Africans and Gipsies contrasted 54 EDITOR'S PREFACE. When this work should have been published--It has been brought down to the present time 5 Inducements to hazard a publication of it at one time 5 Sir Walter Scott's judicious advice regarding the publication of the work 5 The abuse of reviewers and the ire of wandering Egyptians deprecated 5 Mr. Borrow's publications since this work was written 6 Scottish Church Gipsy mission--Scottish Gipsy clergyman of eminence 6 The Gipsies have encreased since the peace of 1815, but have retired from observation 6 The reason for this work being published in America--Popular prejudice against the Gipsies 6 Scottish antiquaries--Their apathy and contempt for the subject of the Gipsies _n_7 The present work illustrates the Gipsies everywhere--The subject hardly known to the world 7 Tinkler the name generally applied to the Scottish Gipsies--tinker a Gipsy word _n_7 The subject interesting--Observation necessary to solve the problem 8 Professor Wilson travels with the Gipsies--The author's associations with them 8 The nomadic Gipsies only a part of the race, 8--The blood of the tribe much mixed--Causes thereof 8 Persecutions--Children stolen and incorporated with the tribe--Mr. Borrow's remarks thereon _n_9 Prejudices against the Gipsies--Their love of race and language 10 The primitive state of the tribe--Causes and manner of leaving the tent 10 Associations after leaving the tent, and feelings towards the community 11 Their resentment of the popular prejudice--Their boast of ancestry 11 Ideas and feelings of the natives, 12--The Gipsy's love of language--His associations 13 Speculations on the origin of the Gipsies, 13--They are the "mixed multitude" of the Exodus 14 Mode of escape from Egypt, 17--Entrance into India, and formation of their character as s people 21 Their present language acquired in India--Mr. Borrow's remarks on its antiquity 23 The philosophy of the preservation of the Gipsy language in Europe till now 23 Sir Walter Scott's intended account of the Gipsies--The difficulty as to their language 25 He urges the publication of the present work--Its character as a history of the tribe 25 It is a contribution towards the filling up of a void in literature 25 EDUCATION AMONG THE GIPSIES 65, 125, 248, 254, 303, 364, 369 EGYPT. The Gipsies originated in, 14, 39--They are the "mixed multitude" of the Exodus 14, 494 ENGLISH GIPSIES. Their arrival about the year 1512--A description of them in a work, published in 1612 90 Act of 22d Henry VIII.--Burnet's allusion to English Gipsies, in 1549, 91 Act of 27th Henry VIII.--A fine of forty pounds for every Gipsy imported 91 Act of Queen Elizabeth--Felony for strangers to associate with the Gipsies 92 Last of the executions under Charles II.--The Gipsies still liable under the Vagrant Act 92 Number of Gipsies in England during the time of Queen Elizabeth 92 Estimate of their present number, by Mr. Hoyland, and a member of parliament 92 Author's remarks, and editor's comments thereon _n_93 Mr. Borrow's description of the English Gipsies, and the English dialect spoken by them _n_93 English Gipsies travel in Scotland--A description of a camp of them 93 Adventure of a Scotchman among the Gipsies in England 95 Crime among the English Gipsies--Report on the prisons in Northumberland 96 Sketch of an English Gipsy family arriving in Scotland, by Sir Walter Scott 96 EXECUTIONS AMONG THE GIPSIES 85, 119, 133, 143, 201, 513 FALLS, Merchants, of Dunbar, Gipsies 108, 237-241, 251, 252, 406 Will Faa, the Gipsy king, claims them as his relatives _n_238, 251 FARMERS. Their property protected by the Gipsies 47, 363, 434 How they sometimes treat the Gipsies 48, 55, 56, 187, _n_179, 220, 221, 226, 242, 361 FIFE AND STIRLINGSHIRE GIPSIES. The county of Fife contained, at one time, a great many nomadic Gipsies 140 The tribe, at one time, possessed a foundry near St. Andrews, called "Little Carron" 140 Lochgellie Gipsies more particularly described 140 Description of Lochgellie and other places, illustrative of Gipsy quarters, in olden times 140 Description of Falkland "scrapies" _n_140 Principal names of Lochgellie Gipsies and their connexions 141 The tribe feared all over the shires of Fife, Kinross, Perth, Angus, and Aberdeen 141 Old Charles Graham--"The auld thing again, my lord, but nae proof" 142 His wife banished to Botany Bay--Marries a Gipsy there, and returns rich 142 Young Charles Graham apprehended--His irritation at the crowd staring at him--He steals a farmer's horse, sells it, steals it again, and returns it to the original owner, 142--Robs a factor, and gives the money to a needy widow--He is apparently penitent at the gallows, 143--But kicks off his shoes, and addresses the people 144 Hugh Graham stabbed by John Young, who is hunted like a fox, before he is apprehended 145 Jenny Graham leaves her protector, to follow the gang, and take care of its stolen articles 145 Margaret Graham, a woman of uncommon bodily strength 145 John Young, who stabbed Hugh Graham, although five feet ten inches in height, is called by his mother, "The dwarf o' a' my bairns" 145 Peter Young, a generous man--He breaks out of many prisons before he is hanged 145 Old John Young, on being asked where his sons were, replied, "They are all hanged" 145 Charles Brown, killed in a Gipsy battle at Raploch, near Stirling 147 Alexander Brown steals and carries off an ox in disguise 148 Billy Marshall robs the Laird of Bargally, and saves an innocent man from the gallows _n_148 He is nearly frightened out of his wits, under very ludicrous circumstances _n_148 Alexander Brown's capture and audacious escape--His style when in full dress, 149--His disguise as a mounted man of quality, 150--His capture by Highlanders, and desperate resistance, and execution 151 Martha, mother of Alexander Brown, steals sheets while attending his execution 152 William Brown is run down by the military--His threatened rescue by the tribe--He sets fire to the jail, but is put in irons by a soldier--His execution 152 Lizzie Brown, in a Gipsy fray--"In the middle o' the meantime, where's my nose?" 153 The connexions of the Gipsies, and the ramifications of their society 153 Charles Stewart--His royal blood, style of dress, and audacity of conduct 153 Grellmann's description of the attire of a Gipsy _n_154 The unabashed hardihood of Gipsies in the face of suspicion _n_155 Jamie Robertson, a great musician--He resents an imagined affront to an absent friend 155 His wife sentenced to Botany Bay, but, owing to her advanced age, set at liberty 156 Joyce Robertson's daring robbery while in prison--His deliberate escape--He steals a watch, and has the crowd at his heels 156 Charles Wilson, very respectable in his appearance and character, as a horse-dealer, 157--Received and vended stolen goods through the country--Was chief of his tribe, and, as such, issued passes, 158--He returns money stolen from a young countryman--Becomes reduced to poverty in his old age, and dies in full communion with the church 161 Charles Wilson's daughters--One of them kept by an Adjutant--Their disguises and pilferings--The Brae Laird of Kinross-shire 162 Stirlingshire Gipsies contributed their full share to the gallows 163 The Gipsies a predatory tribe originally--Two kinds of them at the present day 164 Other people robbers besides the Gipsies--Spartans, Abyssinians, Moors, East Indians, Coords, Kamtschadales, Scotch _n_164 Training of the Gipsies to theft by the women, 167--A Gipsy picks a countryman's pocket with great dexterity 168 Thieves formed into bands--Modes of operation, and division of the spoil 169 Vidocq on the pilfering habits of the Continental Gipsies _n_169 Male Gipsies cut purses with palms, the females with rings 170 Mode of thieving among the Gipsies in Hungary 171 A magistrate, in the West of Fife, locks up the Gipsies during the fair 171 Stylish habits of the Gipsies at the inn or the North Queensferry 171 Fashionable cavalcade of female Gipsies departing from the ferry 173 Intimacy between the boatmen and their friends--"The lads that take the purses" 173 Trick of a gillie of a Gipsy horse-dealer, played upon an Highlander 173 Counterfeiting--An audacious Gipsy counterfeiter 174 The Gipsies not murderers--They are accurate in their journeys and halting places 175 Pursuit, capture, escape, and recapture of a Gipsy murderer 176 Indecent trick of a Gipsy woman to obtain clothes from the natives 177 A handsomely dressed female Gipsy, from gratitude, saves a native from destruction 177 Old Will of Phaup's five years' war with the Gipsies _n_179 Gipsy Dances--Charles Stewart, 179--George Drummond--Gipsy dance at Moscow 180 Afghan dance _n_181--George Drummond a singular Gipsy 181 James Robertson, his wife, and sisters dance like bacchanalians 182 Occupations, amusements, cock-fighting, dress, and generous habits of the Gipsies 182 The Gipsies sometimes attend church, and baptize their own children 183 Their disputes with clergymen on points of morals--Government-- division of property 183 A landed gentleman went off with the Gipsies, 183--His daughters common Gipsies 184 FIGHTING AMONG THE GIPSIES--(_See also Battles._) 125, 144, 188, _n_193, _n_195, 206, 215, 253 FLETCHER OF SALTOUN on Scottish vagabonds, in 1680 _n_111, _n_417 FORTUNE-TELLING. Fortune-telling women frighten the natives of the other sex 47 _See Tweed-dale Gipsies_ 228-231 Fortune-telling in America--_See Disquisition on the Gipsies_ 422 FREEMASONRY AND THE GIPSIES 12, _n_360, _n_387, 456 GENTOO CODE OF LAWS IN ANCIENT INDIA. Division of plunder among thieves 165 The elder married before the younger, 259--Sacrifice of the horse, 268--The scape-goat among the Jews 279 GERMANS, how they become lost in the population of Great Britain and America 454 GERMANY, Gipsy bands in 79 GITANO, modification of the term _n_115 GORDON, THE DUCHESS OF, saves two Gipsies from the gallows 470 GOVERNMENT AMONG THE GIPSIES 78, _n_103, 183, 187, 216, 253, _n_256, 422 GRATITUDE OF THE GIPSIES FOR OTHER PEOPLE 68, 130, 138, 155, 164, 177, 187, 198, 211, 222, 225, 241, 360, 434, 483 GRELLMANN. Children frightened by the Gipsies _n_46, 75 On the destiny of the French Gipsies 76, 492 He divides the Gipsies in Transylvania into four classes, 74--The population of the Gipsies 77, 493 Gipsy government, 78--Attire, _n_154--Plundering, 171--Fighting _n_193 Gipsies under and after punishment _n_204 The habit of Gipsy women after childbirth _n_227 Gipsy working in iron--Gipsy smiths in Hungary _n_234 The Gipsies will eat of any animal but a horse _n_268 The secrecy of the Gipsies in the matter of their language _n_281 The Gipsy language unintelligible to the common natives _n_298 On the education of Hungarian Gipsies _n_303 The origin of the idea that the Gipsies came from India 329 On the variations in the Gipsy language in different countries _n_339 How the Gipsies resist the extremes of the weather _n_354 The circumstances under which Gipsy women are confined _n_357 The physical properties of the Gipsy race _n_358 Gipsies as soldiers, _n_359--As spies _n_360 The religion of the Gipsies, _n_366--Their civilization _n_367 On the colour and appearance of Gipsies who change their habits _n_377 The natural capacity of Gipsies, 398--Gipsy ingratitude 435 Gipsies "always merry and blithe" 483 HALE, SIR MATTHEW. His touching interview with Bunyan's wife _n_313 He mentions the execution of thirteen Gipsies, at the Suffolk assizes _n_513 HATRED OF THE GIPSIES FOR OTHER PEOPLE 63, 130, 164, 177 _See Disquisition_ 433-436 HEBER, BISHOP, notices the Gipsies in India, Persia, Russia, and England. 77 HINDOSTAN, the Gipsies supposed to originate in 18, 38, 40, 65, 268, 280, 329, 339 HOGG, JAMES. Motto--_Title page._ He notices a Gipsy scuffle and murder in Blackwood's Magazine 216 He says that Lochmaben is "stocked" with Gipsies _n_381 HOYLAND, JOHN. The religious character of the Gipsies 73 The capacity of the early Gipsies, _n_99--English Gipsy surnames _n_219 Baillie Smith, of Kelso--Report on the Yetholm Gipsies 245 The difficulty in Gipsies acquiring settled habits _n_368 Mr. George Offor says he was led captive by a Gipsy girl _n_380 HUGUENOTS introduced into England and America 455 HUME, BARON. Scots acts of 1608, and 1609, against the Gipsies 111 Executions among the Gipsies, under these sanguinary laws 117, _n_418 Trial of two Gipsies, in 1786, 189--Baillie, in 1714, 204--And Pinkerton, in 1726 207 He would make the black eyes evidence against the Gipsies 341 HUNGARIANS, past and present, 413--They know nothing of their origin 495 HURD, DR. The appearance of the Gipsies when they first arrived in Paris 70 The Gipsies called spies of the Turks _n_72 Marriage customs among the Russians, and Christians of Mesopotamia and Chaldea _n_262 IMPROVEMENT OF THE GIPSIES 364, 367, 415, 436, 440, 443, 445, 529, 534 INTRODUCTION. Attention directed towards the Gipsies by the publication of Guy Mannering 55 The classes interested--A mission founded by the Scottish Church among the Gipsies 55 Articles sent to Blackwood's Magazine--Letters from Mr. Blackwood 56 Article by Sir Walter Scott on the Buckhaven fishermen--The zeal of an antiquary _n_57 Letters from Sir Walter Scott, and William Laidlaw 58-61 The Scottish Gipsies a branch of the same tribe to be found in every country 61 Comparisons between the Gipsies and Jews--The Jews' letters to Voltaire 61 Discontinuation of articles in Blackwood's Magazine--The author's authorities 64 The difficulties in the way of a research into the subject of the Gipsies 65 A "Blowing up" from a Gipsy chief 65 Notice from Professor Wilson, in Blackwood's Magazine, and Sir Walter Scott, in Quentin Durward 66 INVERKEITHING, GIPSY SCENES AT 284, 288, 292, 293, 298, 302, 304, 326, 328, 348, 353, 355 IRISH GIPSIES IN SCOTLAND 6, 98, 324-329, 356, 493 JEWS, THE. The Gipsies the "mixed multitude" that left Egypt with the Jews 14, 494 Circumstances under which the Jews left Egypt 14-21 They were separated from the Egyptians by the prejudice of caste 15 They termed Jesus Christ "Beelzebub"--the prince of devils 16 Their reception of Christ as the Messiah 16 Their condition while in Egypt 17 Their contemptuous description of the "mixed multitude" that followed them 19 Their circumstances after leaving Egypt, 20--The destiny that awaited them 21 Comparisons between the Jews and the Gipsies 55, 61, 62 Letters of the Jews to Voltaire--The universality and differences in the Jews _n_61 They change their names in various countries _n_117 The elder sister married before the younger, 259--Jewish marriages 260 When they blow rams' horns in September, they imagine they drive away the devil _n_265 They dedicated horses to the sun, in the time of Josiah _n_269 Hindoo sacrifice of the horse and the scape-goat in Leviticus compared 279 The language of the Jews during the seventy years' captivity _n_318 The Gipsies dislike the Jews, _n_358, 459--Jews during time of war _n_360 Neglect of women among Jews--A Jew's morning prayer _n_365 Jews and Gipsies compared in a sermon by Mr. Borrow _n_366 They marry among themselves, like the Gipsies 369 The money that is squandered on the conversion of Jews 443 The subject of the Jews more or less familiar to people from infancy 447 The Gipsies, without any necessary outward peculiarities, have yet a nationality, like the Jews 447, 457 The mixture of Gipsy and Jewish blood--A Jewish Gipsy possible 451 In what respect the existence of the Gipsies differs from that of the Jews 458 Philosophical historians on the existence of the Jews since the dispersion 458 No analogy between the Jews and any other people but the Gipsies 459 A Christian writer on the existence of the Jews since the dispersion 459 His description thereof, though erroneous, very applicable to the Gipsies 460 The attachment of Jewesses and Gipsies to their respective races 470 How the Jewish race is perpetuated--Religion of secondary importance 473 Jewish Christians--Their feelings of nationality, and social position 474 The rearing of Gipsies resembles that of Jews--The purity of Jewish blood a figment 475 Half-blood Jews sometimes follow the synagogue, and sometimes the Christian church 476 Many Jews who are not known to the world as such 477 Jewish physiognomy--What may be termed a "pure Jew" 477 The relative position of Jews and Gipsies 477-480 The Jews have a church, a history, and a literature 480 Public sympathy for the Gipsies, in preference to the Jews 483 The philosophy of the existence of the Jews since the dispersion _See Disquisition on the Gipsies_ 484-505 John Bunyan asked himself whether he was of the Israelites 511 The Jews readmitted into England, under Cromwell--Manasseh Ben Israel 511 The natural curiosity of the Gipsies regarding the Jews 511 The Gipsies have existed, in Europe, a greater length of time than the Jews dwelt in Egypt 532 It would have been a miracle had the Jews been lost among mankind 533 A prophecy of Moses regarding a people who are to provoke and anger the Jews _n_491, 533 LAIDLAW, WILLIAM. His letter to the author, 58--A Gipsy "blowing up," alluded to by him 65, 309 LANGUAGE OF THE GIPSIES. The love of Gipsies for their language, 10, 13--They keep it a profound secret 12, 13, 25 It is for the most part Hindostanee--Mr. Borrow's remarks on its antiquity 23 The philosophy of the preservation of the Gipsy language 24, 406, 433 The Scottish Gipsies very reserved and tenacious in the matter of their language 281 Its existence, but as slang, scarcely credited by people of the greatest intelligence 281 Grellmann, Bright, and Borrow on the difficulties in acquiring the Gipsy language _n_281 The Gipsies have excellent memories, but shuffle when bored by people of whom they expect money _n_282 The causes of the reserve among the Scottish Gipsies: 1st. The sanguinary laws. 2d. The popular prejudice. 3d. Their natural secrecy 282 A Scottish Gipsy works all his life in a shop, and no one discovers him to be a Gipsy 283 Two Gipsy women nearly killed by colliers, for not explaining the meaning of two Gipsy words 283 As the Gipsies become civilized, they avoid intercourse with the barbarous part of the race _n_283 The Scottish peasantry, in some places, do not greatly despise the Gipsies _n_284 The use of the Gipsy language in markets--The pride of the people as linguists 284 Seven years' trouble in getting a Gipsy woman to own up to her language 284 She is afraid the public would treat her with horror and contempt, for knowing the language 285 The character of Spanish Gipsy women, according to Mr. Borrow _n_285 A Gipsy woman maintains she was speaking Latin, when discovered conversing in Gipsy 285 The general difficulties in the way of acquiring the Gipsy language 286 The way in which the author learned what he knew of the Gipsy language 286 How the use of Gipsy affected the tribe--Ludicrous scenes 287 How old Gipsy women were affected--"You are no gentleman, sir, otherwise you would not insult us in that way" 288 A woman, in a dreadful passion, threatens the author with apprehension, as the head of a band of thieves, for asking her, if her _chavo_ (son) was a _chor_ (thief) 288 A female Gipsy "blabs" with the author, but expresses great surprise, when addressed in Gipsy, before a third party 288 These people afraid of the sanguinary laws passed against the tribe 290 Sir Walter Scott's advice in prosecuting an enquiry into the Gipsy language 291 The Scottish Gipsies a branch of the tribe to be found everywhere 291 A Gipsy as distinguished from his language--The race comes before the speech _n_292 An old woman and her two daughters--"No harm in the least, sir, in speaking the Gipsy language" _specimens_ 292 Two girls, of the name of Jamieson--"You gentlemen understand all languages now-a-days" _specimens_ 292 Four or five children--"You are a Gipsy, yourself, sir, or you never could have got these words" _specimens_ 293 Ruthven addresses her child in Gipsy--"I know that the public are trying to find out the secrets of the Gipsies, but it is in vain" 293 The threats of the tribe against those teaching the language to "strangers" _n_294 A female Gipsy, with three or four children, begging--"Curse you, take the road"--"Mother, mother, come away"--An innkeeper anxious to learn the words that dismiss importunate beggars 294 Young Andrew Steedman, of Lochgellie, communicative--Old Andrew shakes and trembles in his stable--"Rob that person" _specimens_ 295 The woman who baffled the author for seven years--"It is in our hearts, and as long as a single Tinkler exists, it will be remembered" _specimens_ 296 A women and four children--"You know quite well what he says"--"I am sure he is a tramper, and can speak as good cant as any of us" _specimens_ 298 A brother and a cousin of the Jamieson girls--"So I saw, for he understood what I said"--"To show you I am no impostor, I will give you the names of everything in your house"--"My speech is not the cant of packmen, nor the slang of common thieves" 301 Gipsy-hunting like deer-stalking--Modern Gipsy-hunting 302 Jamieson returns--"I have been bred in that line all my life"-- "You are welcome to as many as you please"--"We can converse and have a word for everything in our speech"--He sings a song in English, and turns it into Gipsy--"Had I, at first, been aware you did not know my speech, I would not have given you a word of it" _specimens_ 304 The songs composed by the Gipsies illustrate their plunderings, robberies and sufferings, and quarrels among themselves 306 The Gipsies very fond of the Border marauding songs--"Hughie the Græme," as a specimen 308 Sophia Scott, afterwards Mrs. Lockhart, sings "Hughie the Græme" to the author, at Abbotsford _n_308 Sir Walter Scott interested in the Gipsies--He is afraid they might injure his plantations _n_309 The author visits St. Boswell's fair, and becomes acquainted with a Gipsy family there 309 He introduces himself by saying who his ancestors were--"God bless you! Ay, those days are gone; Christian charity has now left the land" 309 The head of the family a very superior man; merry and jocular, like many of his race 309 Their language--"The Tinklers have no language of their own, except a few cant words" 310 The author addresses them in Gipsy--"Preserve me, he kens a' about us!" 310 He enumerates their clan--"Say not another word, but call at ----" 310 The surprise among the natives--"Yon was queer looking wark wi' the Tinklers" 310 An innkeeper ashamed, or afraid, of a customer that is a gentleman 311 A little factory of horn-spoons--"No such language exists, except a few cant words" 311 Gipsy obstinacy--The word "Gipsy" a terror to the tribe--The Gipsy forfeits his promise 311 Laughter from another apartment--The Gipsy starts to his feet, and takes hold of the author--"Farewell, I will know you when I see you again" 311 Revisit to the factory of horn-spoons--The Gipsy ashamed to give his language 312 A promise or secrecy--The Gipsy cheerful, he hesitates, but at last fulfills his oath _specimens_ 312 Circumstances illustrative of the history of the family of John Bunyan _n_313 The Gipsies a tribe of Ethiopian thieves and robbers, 315--The pronunciation of their speech--It is copious, but not written-- "So long as there exist two Gipsies in Scotland, it will never be lost" 316 Gipsy horse-dealers--"Several thousand in Scotland acquainted with the Gipsy tongue" 316 The children of Gipsies instructed in Gipsy, from their infancy--Their pride in their language 316 The character of an intelligent Gipsy chief 316 The Gipsy sings a song in Gipsy--The Gipsies have doubtless an oral literature _n_317 A great alarm in the family, 317--"Give to the world what had been theirs for 350 years" 318 Smith on the language of the Jews during the captivity--How the Gipsy tribe will relish the present work _n_318 A tinker at Grangemouth--"Yes, the dog is not bad"--"What do you mean? I don't understand you--Yes, the dog is hairy" 319 Thimbling Gipsies--"_Chee, chee,_" (hold your tongue)--"But, sir, what was that you said to them, for they seem afraid?" 319 The author taken for a Thimbler--"I tell ye, woman, the man you spoke to was nothing but one of these villains" _n_321 A Thimbler's sign--"Where can you find a shop without a sign? and where's the other person that gets a sign from the public for nothing?" _n_321 Thimblers' traps, 321--A victim drowns himself 322 Thimblers' conversation--"Bloody swells"--"I will require three men to take care of that boat" 323 Is that man a Gipsy?--"Ask himself, sir" 323 An old thimbling Gipsy attempts to inveigle some youths on Arthur's Seat--"Wasn't he a slippery old serpent, after all?" _n_323 The science of thimbling, _n_324--Thimble-riggers, and their ancestry--Ancient Egyptian thimbling _n_325 English, Scottish, and Irish Gipsies speak the same language, and assist each other, when they meet 324 An Irish Gipsy family--An ass bearing a "bundle of bones"-- "Good-day, sir, God bless you" 326 Two Irish Gipsies in court--"Three days, and be banished the town" 326 A Gipsy wife a go-between--"The scoundrel shall lie in prison till the last hour of his sentence" 327 An escape, and a "banishing the town," 327--"A fight for the sake of friendship" _specimens_ 328 A horde of Irish Gipsies--The town-clerk ashamed of his company 328 A Gipsy quizzes his friend--"You will put me out, by speaking to me in that language" _specimens_ 329 Irish Gipsies in Scotland--Their number, appearance, and occupations 329 The origin of the idea that the Gipsies came from India 329 Scottish Gipsy words collated with vulgar Hindostanee 330 John Lobbs, a low caste native of Bombay, examined _specimens_ 330 Rev. Mr. Crabb's annual Gipsy festival--The Hindostanee and Gipsy languages _n_334 Gipsy words sent to Sir Walter Scott, collated with the Rev. Mr. Baird's collection 334 Scottish Gipsy words that bear a relation to Sanscrit 336 A comparison between Gipsy and various oriental languages 337 The language of the Gipsies mixed--How it has got corrupted 338 Rev. Mr. Baird's remarks thereon--The language of the Gipsies in the Scottish Highlands _n_338 The Sclavonic in the Gipsy language--Variations in the Gipsy of different countries _n_338 The Gipsies supposed to originate in India--The tribe originally thieves and robbers 339 The Nuts, or Bazegurs, supposed to be the parent stock of the Gipsies 339 _See Disquisition on the Gipsies_ 431-433 LINLITHGOWSHIRE GIPSIES. The Gipsies of this county more daring than the other bands in Scotland 123 They take up their quarters near the Bridge of Linlithgow 123 Their sagacity--The district populous--Much business passes through it 124 The names of the tribe--They have no connection with native vagrants 124 Their occupations--Horses, music, feasting, and dancing 124 The Gipsies very civil and honest with their neighbours, but plunder others at a distance 124 A Gipsy unintentionally attempts to rob his own clergyman _n_124 The tribe form strong attachments to individuals of the community 125 Terrific fighting among themselves, on dividing their spoil 125 Their children attend school--None dare taunt them, or their parents, though thieves and robbers 125 The magistrates of Linlithgow dare not interfere with the tribe 126 They play with them at golf, and admit them to social meetings and dinner parties 126 The authorities being passive, the Gipsies plunder at pleasure 127 The chief of the tribe taken off, when attempting highway robbery 127 His funeral attended by the magistrates, and other people of respectability 128 The Gipsy mode of burying the dead 128 The deceased chieftain succeeded by his son, who exceeds him in audacity and daring 129 The band very numerous, having lieutenants, like a military company 129 Appearance, acquirements, and habits of the new chieftain, and his brother-in-law 129 By means of trained horses, the chief plays many tricks 129 Description of his wife, and for what she was greatly respected 130, 137 The Gipsies protect their friends, but vindictively torment their enemies 130 Peculiarities of the Gipsies in the matter of robbing people-- Gipsy passports 131 The chief and his brother-in-law condemned to be hung 133 Threatened rescue by the tribe--Precautions taken, 133--Execution of the criminals 135 The chief's wife before, and after, the execution--Touching and terrible scenes 135, 136 Attempted resuscitation of the bodies--They are interred in the church-yard of Linlithgow 137 They are torn up by the populace, and buried in a moor, in the neighbourhood 137 The chief divorced from his first wife, over a horse, sacrificed for the occasion 137 Her character, and that of her successor, who continues her old practices 137 She returns to a friend a purse, stolen by the tribe in a fair 138 Her two nephews pursued, tried, and executed for robbing the mail 139 Sizes of these two Gipsies--Mixed Gipsies a strong race of men _n_139 LOCHGELLIE once the headquarters of Gipsies, 140--Description of the neighbourhood, 141--Scenes among the Lochgellie Gipsies 159, 167, 295 LOCHMABEN is said, by James Hogg, to be stocked with Gipsies _n_381 MACAULAY, LORD. John Bunyan's tribe and nationality, 507, 516--The Pilgrim's Progress 514 McLAURIN'S CRIMINAL TRIALS. He speaks of John Faw, "Earl of Little Egypt," as "this peer" 107 On the trial of William Baillie, in 1714, 204--On the mercy shown to James Baillie 213 MARRIAGE CEREMONIES OF THE GIPSIES. The Gipsies all marry young--Few or no illegitimate children among them 257 A Gipsy stabs another, for seducing his sister, who is afterwards married to him 257 The virtue of young Spanish Gipsy females--They are dressed in a kind of drapery _n_257 Gipsy courtships--The younger sister not married before the elder 258 The Gipsy multiplication table--The Gipsies obey one of the divine laws at least _n_258 A parallel between the ancient Hindoos and the Jews during the time of Laban 259 The nuptial ceremony of the Gipsies of great antiquity, and one the longest to be observed 259 Marriage customs generally--Those of the Gipsies should be made public 260 Sir Walter Scott not squeamish about delicacies, when knowledge is to be acquired 260 The ideas of prudes and snobs on this chapter _n_260 The Scottish Gipsy marriage ceremony described 260-263 The Spanish Gipsy marriage ceremony, according to Bright, _n_261--and Borrow _n_262 Singular marriage customs among other tribes--"Hand-fasting" among Scottish Highland chiefs _n_262 Recent instances of Scottish Gipsy marriages, 263--A Gipsy on the Presbyterian form of marriage _n_264 Description of Peter Robertson, a famous celebrator of Gipsy marriages 264 In his will, he gives away, during his life, more than a county, but reserves to himself a "pendicle," and the town of Dunfermline 265 Remarks on rams and rams' horns _n_265 The Gipsy priest given to good ale, and chastising his tribe without mercy 266 MILLER, HUGH, on the slavery of Scotch colliers and salters _n_121 MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. The Scott clan agree to give up all friendship with common thieves, &c. 113 Song of "Johnny Faa, the Gipsy Laddie,"[331] 289--Of "Hughie the Græme" 307 MIRACLES. There is no miracle in the existence of the Jews since the dispersion 458, 459, 494, 533 They are to be found in the Old and New Testaments only 494 They are things that are contrary to natural laws 533 It would have been a miracle had the Jews been lost among mankind 533 MIXTURE OF GIPSY BLOOD 9, _n_80, _n_92, 341, 342, 374, 377-379, 399, 468 MIXED GIPSIES, PECULIARITIES OF 10, _n_195, 372, 373, 375, 377, 381-385, 391, 395, 397, 403, 412, 414, 427, 451, 455, 460-462, 470, 472, 498, 499, 508, _n_509, 532 MOSES. His difficulties in inducing the Jews to undertake the Exodus 16 The difference between his rank and that of Jesus Christ 16, 486 The character of Moses, 18--His troubles after leaving Egypt 20 How he apparently got rid of the "mixed multitude" that followed him 20 OCCUPATIONS OF THE GIPSIES GENERALLY 124, 182, 215, 225, 226, 228, 234, 246, 347, 353, 401, 467 OFFOR, GEORGE, (Editor of Bunyan's works). He avoids the Gipsies--His advice to the editor--He says Mr. Hoyland was led captive by a Gipsy girl _n_380 What he says about John Bunyan 515 OWEN, JOHN, how he respected and appreciated John Bunyan 521 PARK, MUNGO, Marriage customs among the natives of Africa _n_260 PASSES. The system of Passes among the Gipsies 218 The use of passes granted to the friends of the Gipsies among the community 130, 131, 158, 159, 199 PENNECUIK, DR. ALEXANDER. He alludes to the Gipsies in his poems and history of Tweed-dale 185 He gives a description of a Gipsy battle, at Romanno 188 He erects a dove-cot on the spot, to commemorate the battle 189 PHILOLOGISTS AND THE GIPSY LANGUAGE 25, 56, 60, 291, 337, 338 PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, THE. What Lord Macaulay says of it, 514--What Bunyan himself wrote of it 517 PONS ASSINORUM, THE, OF THE GIPSY QUESTION _n_383 POPULATION OF THE GIPSIES 61, 77, 93, 297, 316, 367, 416, 493 PRESENT CONDITION AND NUMBER OF THE GIPSIES IN SCOTLAND. Every author represents the Gipsies as all remarkably dark in their appearance 341 The Scottish Gipsies of all colours--Fair-haired Gipsies in Finland and Arabia 341 Children stolen and incorporated with the tribe--How its appearance has been changed 342 Peculiarity of mixing "the blood" with native, in England _n_342 Gipsies formerly employed in Scotland as constables, peace- officers, and "country-keepers" 343 The peculiarities of the tribe in such capacities--They make matters a great deal worse 344 Impressments during the American and French wars greatly break up the Gipsy bands 344 The tribe desert the ranks on landing in America _n_345 The Gipsies prefer self-mutilation to impressment 345 Sir Walter Scott meets a Prussian Gipsy soldier, a sentinel in Paris _n_346 The Gipsies accept the bounty and desert--Burns' "Jolly Beggars:" "My bonny lass, I work in brass." _n_346 The Gipsies are now crockery-dealers, horse-dealers, and innkeepers; coopers, shoemakers, plumbers, and masons; tinsmiths, braziers, cutlers, bell-hangers, umbrella-menders, and chimney- sweeps, 347--constables in large and small towns, female servants, lady's maids and housekeepers; ginger-bread dealers, crockery, japan, and white-iron hawkers, &c., 348 English Gipsy constables--A Scottish clergyman married to a Gipsy _n_348 A travelling Gipsy jeweller, disguised as a sailor, offers for sale "a valuable gold watch, that cost him not less than ten francs."--"Do not attempt to cheat us in this manner"--The "sailor" makes his exit dancing, and twirling his bludgeon, in the manner of his tribe 348 Thimble-riggers, tinkers, dealers in horn spoons--"Did you ever make horn spoons?" 350 Popular ideas of Gipsies, and their numbers--Sir Walter Scott's opinion 350 "Tinklers and vagabonds," since the peace of 1815 350 The Gipsies at St. Boswell's, 352--An Asiatic camp to be seen after the fair 353 Description of the _tinkering_ Gipsies, at present in Scotland 353 The hardy constitution of the Gipsy race in resisting the elements _n_354 Itinerant Gipsies--difficulty in pleasing them with hot rolls-- Gipsy beggars in towns 355 Travelling singing Gipsy impostors, 355--Gipsy mock country labourers 356 Irish Gipsies in Scotland--A Gipsy woman gives birth to a child in the open fields 356 Irish Gipsies in England--They are disliked by their English and Scottish brethren _n_357 Irish Gipsy mechanics in Edinburgh, England, and the Untied States 358 Infanticide among the Gipsies--The tribe physically, _n_358-- Female Gipsy recklessness _n_359 The Gipsies charged with cowardice--The Scottish Gipsies make excellent soldiers 359 The Gipsies employed by European governments, as soldiers, _n_359,--and spies _n_360 An interesting meeting between a French and Spanish Gipsy, in the heat of a battle _n_360 Supposed danger from Gipsies in time of war equally applicable to Jews and Freemasons _n_360 Scottish Gipsies distinguished for gratitude, in return for civility and kindness 360 "Terrible," a Gipsy chief, offers to sell his all, to get a farmer out of prison 361 Terrible's opinion of "writers" and lairds, but especially of the writers 362 The feelings of the Gipsies in regard to the prejudice that exists against them _n_362 Terrible's character--His mother a witch--He believed she could have set the farmer free 363 The character of Gipsy chiefs generally--Education among the Scottish Gipsies 364 How a Gipsy child became "spoiled," 364--Education among the Spanish Gipsies, _n_365--Female Gipsies _n_365 Neglect of females among the Jews--A Jew's morning prayer _n_365 Religion among the Scottish Gipsies, 365--Their general political sentiments 366 Grellmann on the religion of the Gipsies--Mr. Borrow preaches to them in Spain _n_366 The number of the Gipsies in Scotland--Gipsies in all the towns, and many of the villages 367 Few Gipsies now hanged--Their present punishment--They cannot fail to encrease _n_367 The civilization and improvement of the Gipsies--An Hungarian nobleman's opinion 367 The restless nature of the Gipsies--How it is manifested _n_368 The language of the Gipsies should be published, and the tribe encouraged to speak it openly 369 The plan of the Rev. Mr. Crabb, _n_368, and the Rev. Mr. Baird for the civilization of the Gipsies _n_369 The difficulty in distinguishing some of the tribe from common natives _n_369 The Gipsies marry among themselves, like the Jews, and "stick to each other." 369 PRINCIPAL GIPSY FAMILIES IN SCOTLAND. Faw 101, _n_103, 106, 107, 108, _n_113, 118, 121, 188, 236, 250, 252, 255, 406 Baillie 101, _n_103, 118, 119, 120, 121, 185, 186, 188, 196, 197, 202-208, 212, 213, 215, 219, 236, 411 PRITCHARD on the Hungarian race, past and present 413 PROPHECIES. "Scattering of the Egyptians," Ezek. xxix. 12-14, and xxx. 10, 23 and 26 40 "A people that are to provoke and anger the Jews," Deut. xxxii. 21, and Rom. x. 19 _n_491, 533 PYRENEES, The Gipsies of the, resemble the inferior class of Scottish Gipsies 86 QUAKERS. Gipsy-Quakers, or Quaker-Gipsies _n_380 The result of their society being dissolved 448 The nature of the perpetuation of their existence 494 QUEENSFERRY, NORTH. Stylish habits of Gipsy plunderers at the inn at 171 Fashionable cavalcade of female Gipsies departing from 173 The boatmen and their friends--"the lads that take the purses" 173 Gipsy scenes at 288, 294 QUEENSFERRY, SOUTH. Adventure of a Gipsy with an ox at 148 Gipsy scenes at 356 RELIGION AMONG THE GIPSIES 52, 73, _n_74, 87, _n_89, 161, 183, 226, 248, 365, _n_366, 475, 477, 478, 502 ROME, THE CHURCH OF. The seventy years schism--Three Popes anathematizing each other 32 The Gipsies tolerated in the dominions of the Church, for the sake of gain 75 The Gipsies despised and tolerated by the Church, in Spain 395 The attempted conversion of the Jews to the superstitions and impostures of Rome 502 ST. BOSWELL'S, The author's visits to the fairs at--Gipsy scenes 93, 309, 352 ST. JAMES on the gratitude of wild animals 435 ST. PAUL before the Jewish Council--Gamaliel's advice on the persecution of Christians _n_494 "SCOTSMAN" NEWSPAPER, Lament on the death of Will Faa, king of the Scottish Gipsies, in October, 1847 255 SCOTT, SIR WALTER. His judicious advice to the author regarding this work 5, 59, 60, 67, 291 The Gipsy language a "great mystery," 24, 58--His intended publication on the Gipsies 25 He urges an enquiry into the subject of the Gipsies 25, 59 The original of Meg Merrilies, in Guy Mannering 44, 48, 242 An article on the Buckhaven fishermen--The zeal of an antiquary _n_57 His three letters to the author, 58-61--His opinion of the Gipsy language 58, 60 In a note to Quentin Durward, he urges a publication of the present work 66 His translated article, in Blackwood's Magazine, on the Gipsies in Germany 79 His article in Blackwood's Magazine--An English Gipsy family arriving in Scotland 96 Billy Marshall the Gallowayshire Gipsy chief _n_148 In a letter to Captain Adam Ferguson, he alludes to the trial of Kennedy, a tinker _n_192 He notices a scuffle and a murder among Gipsies 216 His description of a Gipsy feast 232 Adventure of a relative among Gipsies--The original of Meg Merrilies 242 His grandfather feasted by the Gipsies on Charter-house moor 244 He discovers a Gipsy, when in the company of Baillie Smith, of Kelso 250 He is not squeamish about delicacies when knowledge is to be acquired 59, 260 His idea of the Scottish Gipsy population greatly erroneous _n_301, 350, _n_417 He causes his eldest daughter to sing "Hughie the Græme" to the author _n_308 He is interested in the Gipsies, but afraid they might injure his plantations _n_309 A list of Gipsy words sent to him for inspection 59, 334 He meets a Prussian Gipsy soldier, in Paris _n_346 Feudal robbers--Extract from his life by Lockhart _n_410 Highland robbers--Fitz-James and Roderick Dhu, in the "Lady of the Lake," _n_411 On the disappearance of the Scottish Gipsies _n_417 What he says about John Bunyan 515 SCOTTISH GIPSIES, DOWN TO THE YEAR 1715. Gipsies supposed to be in Scotland before the year 1460 98 McLellan of Bombie kills a Gipsy chief, and recovers the Barony of Bombie 98 The Gipsies enter Scotland, from Spain, by way of Ireland _n_98 Armorial bearings--Act of James II. against vagabonds 99 Letter of James IV., in 1506, to the king of Denmark, in favour of Anthonius Gawino, Earl of Little Egypt 99 Capacity of the early Gipsies in passing for pilgrims and men of consequence _n_99 Treaty between James V. and John Faw, "Lord and Earl of Little Egypt," in 1540 101 Policy of the Gipsies--The act of James V. the starting point in the history of the Scoto-Egyptians _n_103 The Gipsies insult James V., and, for that reason, are ordered to leave Scotland, in 1541 104 Faw's diplomacy on the occasion _n_106 Death of James V.--The Gipsies recover their position with his successors 107 Remission of Gipsies for the slaughter of Ninian Small 107 Scottish Gipsy captains, and Spanish Gipsy counts _n_107 The Gipsies, at that time, men of importance, and allowed to live under their own laws 107 The Countess of Cassilis elopes with John Faa 108 The Gipsies tolerated from 1506 till 1579, when James VI. assumes the government 109 Act of James VI. against vagabonds in general, and the Gipsies in particular 109 Mode prescribed for punishing the Gipsies and the other vagabonds mentioned 110 Statute confirmed in 1592, when the Gipsies are again referred to 110 Act of 1597 against "strong beggars, vagabonds, and Egyptians" 110 Coal and salt masters might apprehend and put such to labour _n_111 Origin of the slavery in Scotland which was abolished during last century _n_111 Gipsies now colliers in the Lothians _n_111 Fletcher of Saltoun's estimate of the beggars and vagabonds in Scotland, in 1680 _n_111 Act of 1600 declares previous ones ineffectual 111 Acts of 1608 and 1609 banish the Gipsies forever, on pain of death 112 Act of 1617 directs the authorities how to proceed against the Gipsies 113 Condition of the Scottish people generally, at this time 113 Acts against "famous and unspotted gentlemen" for protecting the Gipsies 114 Similar acts passed against the nobility and commonalty in Spain _n_114 Gipsy policy and cunning--Modifications of the term Gitano _n_115 Great outward change in the Gipsies at that time--Surnames and general policy 116 English and German Gipsy and Jewish surnames _n_117 The Gipsies claim bastard kindred with the Scottish aristocracy and gentry 117 They have a profound regard for aristocracy _n_117 Trials and executions of the Gipsies in Scotland--Baron Hume's account 117 The Faas and Baillies the principal Gipsy tribes in Scotland 121 The influence of the Baillies, of Lamington, of great service to the Scottish Gipsies 121 Proscription of Gipsies, and enslavement of colliers and salters, in Scotland _n_121 SHEPHERD KINGS, Gipsies probably the descendants of the 20, 415 SHERIFFS OF SCOTLAND, their reports on the Gipsies in Scotland _n_251 SKENE, WM. F. "Hand-fasting," previous to marriage, practised among Scottish Highland chiefs _n_263 The plundering principles and habits of Scottish Highlanders 410 SLANG, in connexion with the Gipsy language 58, _n_59, 60, 281, 302, _n_338, 506 SLAVES, the religion of 20, 21, 51, 496, _n_496 SMITH, ADAM, author of the "Wealth of Nations," carried off by the Gipsies, when a child 45 SMITH, BAILLIE, OF KELSO. His contribution to Hoyland's "Survey of the Gipsies," 245 SMITH'S HEBREW PEOPLE. History of their language during the seventy years' captivity _n_318 SOLDIERS, Gipsies as 80, 182, 208, 253, 344, 345, _n_346, 359 SOUTHEY, ROBERT. He says Bunyan was bred to the business of a brazier _n_265 On tinkering and Bunyan's education 512 Bunyan's family history and fame 516 He is unreasonable in styling Bunyan a "blackguard," 519 SPIES, Gipsies as _n_74, _n_360 STATISTICAL ACCOUNT OF SCOTLAND. Description of Lochgellie, Fifeshire, and the Gipsies settled there 141 Description of the Gipsies at Middleton, Mid-Lothian 341 Allusion to the Falls, merchants, at Dunbar _n_406 STEALING AMONG THE GIPSIES 52, 63, 72, 148, _n_155, 163, 164, 166-174, 177, 197, 210, 211, 228, 315, 339, 364, 482 SURNAMES AMONG THE GIPSIES 99, 101, 107, 117, 121, 124, 141, 153, 219, 252, _n_358 TACITUS on the destruction of the Druids, _n_479--On the religion of slaves _n_496 THIMBLE-RIGGERS AND THIMBLE-RIGGING 319-325 TIMOUR'S CRUELTIES on over-running India 38 TITLES AMONG THE GIPSIES 77, 78, 79, 90, 99, 101, 107, _n_155, 169, 187, 190, 218, 253, _n_256 TRENCK, BARON. In his wanderings, comes in contact with a band of German Gipsies 86 TWISS, RICHARD, on the religious character of the Gipsies 73 On the virtue of Gipsy females, and honesty of Gipsy innkeepers, in Spain 524 TWEED-DALE AND CLYDESDALE GIPSIES. Description of Tweed-dale, in the time of Queen Mary 185 Dr. Pennecuik's works--The Gipsies never had a permanent habitation in the county 185 The tribe attached to the district for three reasons: 1st, the Baillies claimed it as their own, 185--2d, plenty of provisions-- 3d, freedom from the laws 186 Alleged relation of the Gipsies to the Baillies of Lamington _n_185 Braxy--Mr. Borrow on the Gipsies poisoning and eating swine _n_186 Fashionable appearance and mounting of the Baillie tribe--Their children left in huts 186 The Gipsies well treated by the tenantry, who accept dinners from them 187 The Baillies specially mentioned--They give kings and queens to the tribe 187 The quarrelsome disposition of the Gipsies--"A shower of horns, hammers, knives, files, and fiery peats," 188 Dr. Pennecuik's account of a Gipsy battle at Romanno 188 He erects a dove-cot on the spot, to illustrate, by contrast, the nature of the Gipsy 189 The same battle noticed by Lord Fountainhall, in his MS 189 A Gipsy battle at Hawick--Terrific wounds, but no slain 190 Sir Walter Scott's allusion to this battle _n_192 Another and decisive battle between the hostile tribes, at Eskdale moor 193 The country people horrified at the sight of the wounded Gipsies 193 Grellmann's description of Hungarian Gipsies fighting _n_193 Female Gipsies fight as well as males--'Becca Keith, the heroine of Dumblane 194 The trifling occasions of Gipsies fighting, and agreeing among themselves _n_195 The fencibles and the clergy called out to quell and disperse the Gipsies _n_195 Assault of the Gipsies on Pennicuik House _n_195 An insult offered to the mother of the Baillies resented, with drawn swords 196 Contribution from Mr. Blackwood towards a history of the Gipsies 196 Pickpockets at Dumfries, headed by Will Baillie--How he and his tribe travelled to fairs--He returns a farmer his purse, 197--The farmer, when intoxicated, goes to visit him--Baillie pays a widow's rent, and saves her from ruin, 198--He borrows money, and gives the lender a pass of protection, 199--The pass, after scrutiny by two of the tribe, protects its bearer --Baillie repays his loan with a large interest--The "Jock Johnstone" gang of Gipsies, 200--Jock, in a drunken squabble, kills a country ale-wife--His jack-daw proves a bird of bad omen to him, and he a bird of bad omen to his executioner 201 Jock's execution, as described by Dr. Alexander Carlyle _n_201 William Baillie, a handsome, well-dressed, good-looking, well- bred man, and an excellent swordsman 202 Like a wild Arab, he distributes the wares of a trembling packman, who extols, wherever he goes, "the extraordinary liberality of Captain Baillie," 203 Bruce on the protection given by Arabs to shipwrecked Christians _n_203 In indulging his sarcastic wit, Baillie insults the judge on the bench 203 The deportment of Hungarian Gipsies during and after punishment _n_204 Baillie's numerous crimes and sentences 204 The nature of "sorning," _n_204--Gipsies carried arms in the olden times _n_205 Baillie's policy in claiming kin with honourable families 205 He is slain by one of the tribe while in the arms of his wife 206 His murderer pursued by the tribe over the British Isles, till he is apprehended and executed 206 Legal enquiry regarding the slaughter of Baillie, 206--The trial of his murderers 208 William Baillie succeeded by Matthew Baillie--His descendants 208 Mary Yorkston, wife of Matthew Baillie, a Gipsy queen and priestess 208 Her appearance and costume, on gala days, when advanced in years 209 Old Gipsy women strip people of their clothes, like the Arabs of the desert 209 Mary Yorkston restores a stolen purse to a friend--Her husband first counts its contents--"There is your purse, sir; you see what it is, when honest people meet!" 210 A Gipsy chief chastises his wife for want of diligence or success at a fair 211 Mary Yorkston and her particular friend, the good-man of Coulter-park 211 She scorns alms, but demands and takes by force a "boontith," 211 Her son, James Baillie, condemned and pardoned again and again 212 The Baillies of Lamington's influence successful in his case 213 Stylish dress of the male head of the Ruthvens--The Gipsy costume generally 213 Disguises of the tribe when plundering in fairs 213 Vidocq on the disguises of the Continental Gipsies, on a similar occasion _n_213 A couple of mounted Gipsies taken for men almost of the first quality 214 Straggling Gipsies--Their suspicious characters--A tinker and a tinker's wife 215 A quarrel among three Gipsy constables, 216--A murder, a capture, and a lamentation 217 One Gipsy constable murdered, another hanged, and the third banished 218 Great falling off in the condition of the Scottish nomadic Gipsies 218 The internal polity of the Gipsies--Their general system of passes 218 The country divided into districts, under a king and provincial chieftains--The pass of a Baillie conducts its bearer over all Scotland 219 Surnames among the Tweed-dale Gipsies--Surnames among the English Gipsies _n_219 Travelling Gipsies possess two and sometimes several names-- Superstitious ideas when travelling 219 Present condition of the Tweed-dale Gipsies--They dispense with tents, but occupy kilns and outhouses 220 The number of the tribe sometimes collected together, 220--How they are sometimes treated 221 How the Gipsies approach the farmers' premises, 222--How they disguise their numbers 222 Their honesty, while on the farm--The resemblance between Gipsies and ravens _n_223 Personal habits of the tribe while in their encampment 224 The males remain aloof, tinkering and manufacturing--The women vend the goods 224 Athletic amusements of the Gipsies, 224--They despise the peasantry, but boast of their own tribe 225 Their peaceable behaviour, 225--They do not attend church, or worship any thing whatever 226 The musical talents of the Gipsies--Their pretensions to surgery --Dr. Duds 226 How Gipsy women vend their wares, 225--They sometimes take, by force, a "boontith," 227 Habits of the Hungarian Gipsy after child-birth _n_227 Mary Yorkston and her "boontith," 227--Her terrible prediction 228 Recent instances of "sorning," or masterful begging, among the Scottish Gipsies _n_228 Gipsy fortune-tellers, 228--How they frequently obtain important information 229 Travelling Gipsies--Gipsy fiddlers at parties--Gipsy lady's maids 229 Fortune-telling by palmistry and the divining cup, 230--By the corn riddle and scissors 231 Fortune-telling in Kamtachatka and the ancient Eastern nations _n_230 Fortune-telling punishable by Act of Parliament _n_230 Anecdote of a Gipsy woman telling fortunes by the divining cup 231 Gipsies' meals--Sir Walter Scott's description of a Gipsy feast 232 The Gipsy mode of cooking poultry and butcher-meat 233 The Gipsy mode of working in iron--Its antiquity--Hungarian Gipsy smiths _n_234 VIDOCQ. On the disguises and plundering habits of the Continental Gipsies _n_169, _n_213 WILKINSON, SIR J. GARDNER. Thimble-rigging among the ancient Egyptians _n_325 The appearance of the Jews in the East differs from that in Europe 477 WILSON, PROFESSOR. He strolls with the Gipsies in his youth, 8--Was he then looking at the "old thing?" 471 He notices the articles of the author in Blackwood's Magazine 66 YETHOLM. Description of its situation _n_141 The Gipsies of Yetholm--Baillie Smith's account, 245--Mr. Blackwood's contribution 251 Tradition of the first settlement of the Gipsies at Yetholm _n_252 The author's visit to Yetholm 254 The Gipsies at Yetholm knock down their asses, when they separate from their wives 276 Yetholm the metropolis of Scottish Gipsydom, 426--"I come from Yetholm" 443 [331] The song of "Johnny Faa, the Gipsy Laddie," appears in the Waverly anecdotes. It might have been included in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ | TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES | | | | The spelling, hyphenation and capitalisation of the original work | | have been maintained, including inconsistencies (also in the lists | | of words), except when mentioned below. | | Examples of such inconsistencies are o/ou (as in colour/color), | | 22d/22nd, clannish/clanishness/clanism, Couter-park/Coulter-park, | | Tschingenes/Tschengenes, depot/depôt, wagon/waggon, inconsistent | | use of periods after the name of monarchs (Charles II/Charles II.),| | (John) Lobbs'/Lobb's, etc. | | | | The lay-out of the index has not been changed. | | | | Doubtful issues have been verified with another scan of the same | | edition of the book. | | | | Textual remarks: the author uses "barrier" in several places where | | "barrio" might possibly be more appropriate. This has not been | | changed. The same applies to the author's use of "Pons Assinorum". | | | | Changes made to the original text: | | some minor obvious typographical errors (including punctuation) | | have been corrected silently; | | Footnote [9]: Abbè changed to Abbé; | | Page 76: Tereros changed to Toreros; | | Footnote [40]: Annals changed to Annales; | | Page 161: young laid changed to young lad; | | Footnote [148]: the Gipsy women changed to the Gipsy woman; | | Footnote [151]: Hudegger changed to Heidegger; | | Page 337 (table): Doooe changed to Dooce as in Hoyland's work; | | Index: | | Several page numbers inserted where they were lacking; | | references to footnotes standardised as _n_xxx (spaces deleted); | | spelling changed to conform to spelling in text: Graeme to Græme; | | Charterhouse moor to Charter-house moor; Esk-dale moor to Eskdale | | moor, Fitz James to Fitz-James; Free-masons to Freemasons; | | The philosophy of the preservation ...: page number 33 changed to | | 23; | | MIXED GIPSIES ...: page number 391 moved to proper place. | +--------------------------------------------------------------------+